The text of this epistle is given from Dr. Bentley’s
edition, except in some few places, of which
the reader is advertized in the notes. These, that
they might not break in too much on the thread of
the Commentary, are here printed by themselves.
For the rest, let me apologize with a great critic:
Nobis viri docti ignoscent, si hæc fusius: præsertim
si cogitent, veri critici esse, non literulam alibi
ejicere, alibi innocentem syllabam et quæ nunquàm
male merita de patria fuerit, per jocum et ludum
trucidare et configere; verùm recte de autoribus
et rebus judicare, quod et solidæ et absolutæ eruditionis
est. Heinsius.
1. Humano capiti, &c.] It is seen, in the
comment, with what elegance this first part [to v.
89] is made preparatory to the main subject, agreeably
to the genius of the Epistle. But elegance, in
good hands, always implies propriety; as is the
case here. For the critic’s rules must be taken
either, 1. from the general standing laws of composition;
or, 2. from the peculiar ones, appropriated
to the kind. Now the direction to be fetched from
the former of these sources will of course precede,
as well on account of its superior dignity, as that
the mind itself delights to descend from universals
to the consideration of particulars. Agreeably to
this rule of nature, the poet, having to correct, in
the Roman drama, these three points, 1. a misconduct
in the disposition; 2. an abuse of language;
and 3. a disregard of the peculiar characters and
colorings of its different species, hath chosen to
do this on principles of universal nature; which,
while they include the case of the drama, at the
same time extend to poetic composition at large.
These prefatory, universal observations being delivered,
he then proceeds, with advantage, to the
second source of his art, viz. the consideration of
the laws and rules peculiar to the kind.
9.—Pictoribus atque poetis—Quidlibet
audendi semper fuit aequa potestas.] The modern
painter and poet will observe that this aphorism
comes from the mouth of an objector.
14. Inceptis gravibus, &c.] These preparatory
observations concerning the laws of poetic
composition at large have been thought to glance
more particularly at the epic poetry: Which was
not improper: For, 1. The drama, which he was
about to criticize, had its rise and origin from the
epos. Thus we are told by the great critic, that
Homer was the first who invented dramatic imitations,
μόνος—ὅτι μιμήσεις δραματικὰς ἐποίησε.
And to the same purpose Plato: ἔοικε μὲν τῶν καλῶν
ἁπάντων τούτων τῶν τραγικῶν πρῶτος διδάσκαλος καὶ
ἡγεμὼν γενέσθαι [Ὅμηρος.] De Rep. l. x. Hence,
as our noble critic observes, “There was no more
left for tragedy to do after him, than to erect a
stage, and draw his dialogues and characters into
scenes; turning in the same manner upon one
principal action or event, with regard to place
and time, which was suitable to a real spectacle.”
[Characterist. vol. i. p. 198.] 2. The several censures,
here pointed at the epic, would bear still
more directly against the tragic poem; it being
more glaringly inconsistent with the genius of the
drama to admit of foreign and digressive ornaments,
than of the extended, episodical epopœia. For both
these reasons it was altogether pertinent to the poet’s
purpose, in a criticism on the drama, to expose the
vicious practice of the epic models. Though, to
preserve the unity of his piece, and for the reason
before given in note on v. 1. he hath artfully done
this under the cover of general criticism.
19. Sed nunc non erat his locus.] If one
was to apply this observation to our dramatic writings,
I know of none which would afford pleasanter
instances of the absurdity, here exposed, than the
famous Orphan of Otway. Which, notwithstanding
its real beauties, could hardly have taken so
prodigiously, as it hath done, on our stage, if there
were not somewhere a defect of good taste as well as
of good morals.
23. Denique sit quidvis: simplex duntaxat
et unum.] Is not it strange that he, who delivered
this rule in form, and, by his manner of delivering
it, appears to have laid the greatest stress upon it,
should be thought capable of paying no attention to
it himself, in the conduct of this epistle?
25-28. Brevis esse laboro, Obscurus fio:
sectantem lenia nervi Deficiunt animique:
professus grandia turget: Serpit humi tutus
nimium timidusque procellae.] If these characters
were to be exemplified in our own poets, of
reputation, the first, I suppose, might be justly
applied to Donne; the second, to Parnell; the
third, to Thomson; and the fourth, to Addison.
As to the two following lines;
Qui variare cupit rem prodigialiter unam,
Delphinum silvis adpingit, fluctibus aprum:
they are applicable to so many of our poets, that,
to keep the rest in countenance, I will but just
mention Shakespear himself; who, to enrich his
scene with that variety, which his exuberant genius
so largely supplied, hath deformed his best plays
with these prodigious incongruities.
29. Qui variare cupit rem prodigialiter
unam, &c.] Though I agree with M. Dacier that
prodigialiter is here used in a good sense, yet the
word is so happily chosen by our curious speaker
as to carry the mind to that fictitious monster,
under which he had before allusively shadowed out
the idea of absurd and inconsistent composition, in
v. 1. The application, however, differs in this, that,
whereas the monster, there painted, was intended
to expose the extravagance of putting together incongruous
parts, without any reference to a whole,
this prodigy is designed to characterize a whole,
but deformed by the ill-judged position of its parts.
The former is like a monster, whose several members,
as of right belonging to different animals,
could, by no disposition, be made to constitute one
consistent animal. The other, like a landskip,
which hath no objects absolutely irrelative, or irreducible
to a whole, but which a wrong position of
the parts only renders prodigious. Send the boar
to the woods; and the dolphin to the waves; and the
painter might shew them both on the same canvass.
Each is a violation of the law of unity, and a real
monster: the one, because it contains an assemblage
of naturally incoherent parts; the other, because
its parts, though in themselves coherent, are misplaced,
and disjointed.
34. Infelix operis summa: quia ponere totum
nesciet.] This observation is more particularly
applicable to dramatic poetry, than to any other,
an unity and integrity of action being of its very
essence.—The poet illustrates his observation very
happily in the case of statuary; but it holds of
every other art, that hath a whole for its object.
Nicias, the painter, used to say10, “That the subject
was to him, what the fable is to the poet.”
Which is just the sentiment of Horace, reversed.
For by the subject is meant the whole of the painter’s
plan, the totum, which it will be impossible
for those to express, who lay out their pains so solicitously
in finishing single parts. Thus, to take an
obvious example, the landskip-painter is to draw
together, and form into one entire view, certain
beautiful, or striking objects. This is his main
care. It is not even essential to the merit of his
piece, to labour, with extreme exactness, the principal
constituent parts. But for the rest, a shrub
or flower, a straggling goat or sheep, these may be
touched very negligently. We have a great modern
instance. Few painters have obliged us with finer
scenes, or have possessed the art of combining
woods, lakes, and rocks, into more agreeable pictures,
than G. Poussin: Yet his animals are observed
to be scarce worthy an ordinary artist. The
use of these is simply to decorate the scene; and so
their beauty depends, not on the truth and correctness
of the drawing, but on the elegance of their
disposition only. For, in a landskip, the eye carelessly
glances over the smaller parts, and regards
them only in reference to the surrounding objects.
The painter’s labour therefore is lost, or rather misemployed,
to the prejudice of the whole, when it
strives to finish, so minutely, particular objects.
If some great masters have shewn themselves ambitious
of this fame, the objects, they have laboured,
have been always such, as are most considerable in
themselves, and have, besides, an effect in illustrating
and setting off the entire scenery. It is chiefly
in this view, that Ruisdale’s waters, and Claude
Lorain’s skies are so admirable.
40.—CUI LECTA POTENTER ERIT RES.] Potenter
i. e. κατὰ δύναμιν, Lambin: which gives a pertinent
sense, but without justifying the expression. The
learned editor of Statius proposes to read pudenter,
a word used by Horace on other occasions, and
which suits the meaning of the place, as well. A
similar passage in the epistle to Augustus adds some
weight to this conjecture;
nec meus audet
Rem tentare PUDOR, quam vires ferre recusent.
45. Hoc amet, hoc spernat, promissi carminis
auctor—In verbis etiam tenuis cautusque serendis.]
Dr. Bentley hath inverted the order of
these two lines; not merely, as I conceive, without
sufficient reason, but in prejudice also to the scope
and tenor of the poet’s sense; in which case only I
allow myself to depart from his text. The whole
precept, on poetical distribution, is delivered, as of
importance:
[Ordinis haec virtus erit et venus, aut ego fallor.]
And such indeed it is: for, 1. It respects no less than
the constitution of a whole, i. e. the reduction of a
subject into one entire, consistent plan, the most
momentous and difficult of all the offices of invention,
and which is more immediately addressed, in
the high and sublime sense of the word, to the Poet.
2. ’Tis no trivial whole, which the Precept had in
view, but, as the context shews, and as is further
apparent from v. 150, where this topic is resumed
and treated more at large, the epos and the drama:
With what propriety then is a rule of such dignity
inforced by that strong emphatic conclusion,
Hoc amet, hoc spernat, promissi carminis auctor:
i. e. “Be this rule held sacred and inviolate by him,
who hath projected and engaged in a work, deserving
the appellation of a poem.” Were the
subject only the choice or invention of words,
the solemnity of such an application must be ridiculous.
As for the construction, the commonest reader
can find himself at no loss to defend it against the
force of the Doctor’s objections.
46. In verbis etiam tenuis, &c.] I have said,
that these preparatory observations concerning an
unity of design, the abuse of language, and the
different colourings of the several species of poetry,
whilst they extend to poetic composition at large,
more particularly respect the case of the drama.
The first of these articles has been illustrated in
note on v. 34. The last will be considered in note
v. 73. I will here shew the same of the second,
concerning the abuse of words. For 1. the style of
the drama representing real life, and demanding,
on that account, a peculiar ease and familiarity in
the language, the practice of coining new words
must be more insufferable in this, than in any other
species of poetry. The majesty of the epic will
even sometimes require to be supported by this
means, when the commonest ear would resent it, as
downright affectation upon the stage. Hence the
peculiar propriety of this rule to the dramatic writer,
In verbis etiam tenuis cautusque serendis.
2. Next, it is necessary to keep the tragic style,
though condescending, in some sort, to the familiar
cast of conversation, from sinking beneath the dignity
of the personages, and the solemnity of the representation.
Now no expedient can more happily
effect this, than what the poet prescribes concerning
the position and derivation of words. For thus,
the language, without incurring the odium of absolutely
invented terms, sustains itself in a becoming
stateliness and reserve, and, whilst it seems to stoop
to the level of conversation, artfully eludes the
meanness of a trite, prosaic style.—There are wonderful
instances of this management in the Samson
Agonistes of Milton; the most artificial and highly
finished, though for that reason, perhaps, the least
popular and most neglected, of all the great poet’s
works.
47. Dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum
Reddiderit junctura novum.—] This direction,
about disposing of old words in such a
manner as that they shall have the grace of new
ones, is among the finest in the whole poem. And
because Shakespear is he, of all our poets, who has
most successfully practised this secret, it may not
be amiss to illustrate the precept before us by examples
taken from his writings.
But first it will be proper to explain the precept
itself as given by Horace.
His critics seem not at all to have apprehended
the force of it. Dacier and Sanadon, the two best
of them, confine it merely to the formation of compound
words; which, though one way in which this
callida junctura shews itself, is by no means the
whole of what the poet intended by it.
Their mistake arose from interpreting the word
junctura too strictly. They suppose it to mean
only the putting together two words into one; this
being the most obvious idea we have of the joining
of words. As if the most literal construction of
terms, according to their etymology, were always
the most proper.
But Mr. Dacier has a reason of his own for confining
the precept to this meaning. “The question,
he says, is de verbis serendis; and therefore this
junctura must be explained of new words, properly
so called, as compound epithets are; and not of the
grace of novelty which single words seem to acquire
from the art of disposing of them.”
By which we understand, that the learned critic
did not perceive the scope of his author; which was
manifestly this. “The invention of new terms,
says he, being a matter of much nicety, I had
rather you would contrive to employ known words
in such a way as to give them the effect of new
ones. ’Tis true, new words may sometimes be
necessary: And if so,” &c. Whence we see that
the line,
In verbis etiam tenuis cautusque serendis
is not given here in form as the general rule, and
the following line as the example. On the other
hand, the rule is just mentioned carelessly and in
passing, while the poet is hastening to another consideration
of more importance, and which he even
opposes to the former. “Instead of making new
words, you will do well to confine yourself merely
to old ones.” Whatever then be the meaning of
junctura, it is clear we are not to explain it of such
words as exemplify the rule de verbis serendis.
But junctura will best be interpreted by the
usage of Horace together with the context; 1. The
word occurs only once more in this poet, and that
in this very Epistle. It is where he advises a conduct
with regard to the subject-matter of a poem,
analogous to this concerning the language of it.
Ex noto fictum carmen sequar—
——tantum series juncturaque pollet.
v. 242.
Does he mean the joining two subjects together and
combining them into one, so as that the compound
subject shall be a new one? No such thing; “The
subject, says he, shall be a known, an old one.
Yet the order, management, and contrivance shall
be such as to give it the air of an original fiction.”
Apply now this sense of junctura to words, and we
are only told, that expression may be so ordered as
to appear new, when the words, of which it is made
up, are all known and common.
We have then the authority of the poet himself
against the opinion of the French critic. But we
have also the authority of his great imitator, or
rather interpreter, Persius; who speaking of the
language of his satires says, in allusion to this passage
of Horace,
“Verba togæ sequeris, juncturâ callidus acri.
S. v. 14.
i. e. he took up with words of common and familiar
use, but contrived to bring them into his style in
such a manner as to give them the force, spirit, and
energy of satiric expression.”
2. Again: the context, as I observed, leads us to
this meaning. The poet in v. 42. had been giving
his opinion of the nature and effect of method, or
orderly disposition in the conduct of a fable. The
course of his ideas carries him to apply the observation
to words; which he immediately does, only
interposing v. 46. by way of introduction to it.
On the whole then junctura is a word of large
and general import, and the same in expression, as
order or disposition, in a subject. The poet would
say, “Instead of framing new words, I recommend
to you any kind of artful management by which
you may be able to give a new air and cast to old
ones.”
Having now got at the true meaning of the precept,
let us see how well it may be exemplified in
the practice of Shakespear.
1. The first example of this artful management,
if it were only in complaisance to former commentators,
shall be that of compound epithets; of
which sort are,
| High-sighted Tyranny |
J. C. A. II. S. 2. |
| A barren-spirited fellow |
A. IV. S. 1. |
| An arm-gaunt steed |
A. C. A. I. S. 6. |
| Flower-soft hands |
A. II. S. 3. |
| Lazy-pacing clouds |
R. J. A. II. S. 2. |
and a thousand instances more in this poet. But
this is a small part of his craft, as may be seen by
what follows. For this end is attained,
2. By another form of composition; by compound
verbs as well as compound adjectives.
To candy and limn are known words. The poet
would express the contrary ideas, and he does it
happily, by compounding them with our English
negative dis,
——“The hearts
That pantler’d me at heels, to whom I gave
Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets
On blossoming Cæsar—
A. C. A. IV. S. 9.
“That which is now a horse, ev’n with a thought
The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct
As water is in water—
A. C. A. IV. S. 10.
Though here we may observe, that for the readier
acceptation of these compounds, he artfully
subjoins the explanation.
3. By a liberty he takes of converting substantives
into verbs;
A glass that featur’d them.
Cymb. A. I. S. 1.
——Simon’s weeping
Did scandal many a holy tear—
A. III. S. 4.
Great griefs, I see, medicine the less.
A. IV. S. 5.
——that kiss
I carried from thee, Dear; and my true lip
Hath virgin’d it e’er since—
Cor. A. V. S. 3.
Or verbs into substantives;
——Then began
A stop i’ th’ chaser, a Retire—
Cymb. A. V. S. 2.
——take
No stricter render of me—
A. V. S. 3.
——handkerchief
Still waving, as the fits and stirs of’s mind
Could best express—
Cymb. A. I. S. 5.
——Sextus Pompeius
Hath giv’n the dare to Cæsar—
A. C. A. I. S. 3.
4. By using active verbs neutrally,
——He hath fought to-day
As if a god in hate of mankind had
Destroy’d, in such a shape—
A. C. A. IV. S. 6.
It is the bloody business, that informs
Thus to mine eyes—
Macb. A. II. S. 2.
And neutral verbs actively,
——never man
Sigh’d truer breath; but that I see thee here,
Thou noble thing! more dances my rapt heart
Than when I first my wedded mistress saw
Bestride my threshold—
Cor. A. IV. S. 4.
——like smiling Cupids,
With divers-colour’d fans, whose wind did seem
To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool—
A. C. A. II. S. 3.
5. By converting Adjectives into Substantives.
——I do not think
So fair an outward and such stuff within
Endows a man but him—
Cymb. A. I. S. 1.
6. By converting Participles into Substantives.
He would have well become this place, and grac’d
The thankings of a King—
Cymb. A. V. S. 5.
The herbs, that have in them cold dew o’ th’ night,
Are strewings fitt’st for Graves—
A. IV. S. 5.
——“Then was I as a tree
Whose boughs did bend with fruit. But, in one night,
A storm, or robbery, call it what you will,
Shook down my mellow hangings——
Cymb. A. III. S. 3.
——Comes in my father,
And like the tyrannous breathing of the North
Shakes all our Buds from blowing——
Cymb. A. I. S. 5.
Which last instance I the rather give for the sake of
proposing an emendation, which I think restores
this fine passage to its Integrity. Before the late
edition of Shakespear it stood thus,
And like the tyrannous breathing of the North
Shakes all our Buds from growing—
But the sagacious Editor saw that this reading was
corrupt, and therefore altered the last word, growing,
for unanswerable reasons, into blowing. See
Mr. W’s note upon the place. This slight change
gives propriety and beauty to the passage, which
before had no sort of meaning. Yet still all is not
quite right. For, as the great Critic himself observes,
“Breathing is not a very proper word to
express the rage and bluster of the north wind.”
Besides, one does not see how the shaking of these
Buds is properly assign’d as the cause of their not
blowing. The wind might shake off the blossoms of
a fruit tree, i. e. the Buds when they were full-blown;
but so long as the blossom lies folded up in
the Bud, it seems secure from shaking. At least
the shaking is not the immediate cause of the effect,
spoken of; it is simply the cold of the north-wind
that closes the Bud and keeps it from blowing. I
am therefore tempted to propose another alteration
of the text, and to read thus,
And like the tyrannous Breathing of the North
Shuts all our Buds from blowing—
If this correction be allowed, every thing is perfectly
right. It is properly the breathing, the cold breath
of the North, that shuts up the Buds when they
are on the point of blowing. Whence the epithet
tyrannous will be understood not as implying the
idea of blust’ring (an idea indeed necessary if we
retain the word shakes) but simply of cruel, the
tyranny of this wind consisting in imprisoning the
flower in its Bud and denying it the liberty of coming
out into Blossom. The application too of this
comparison, which required the change of growing
into blowing, seems also to require the present alteration
of shakes. For there was no manner of violence
in the father’s coming in upon the lovers. All
the effect was, that his presence restrained them
from that interchange of tender words, which was
going to take place between them.
Thus far I had written in the last edition of these
notes, and I, now, see no cause to doubt the general
truth and propriety of this emendation. Only
it occurs to me that, instead of SHUTS, the poet’s
own word might, perhaps, be CHECKS; as not only
being more like in sound to the word shakes, but as
coming nearer to the traces of the Letters. Besides,
CHECKS gives the precise idea we should naturally
look for, whether we regard the integrity of the
figure—tyrannous—checks—, or the thing illustrated
by it, viz. the abrupt coming in of the father,
which was properly a check upon the lovers. Lastly,
the expression is mended by this reading; for though
we may be allowed to say shuts from blowing, yet
checks from blowing, is easier and better English.
But to return to other Instances of the Poet’s artifice
in the management of known words. An apparent
Novelty is sometimes effected
7. By turning Participles into Adverbs—
——tremblingly she stood
And on the sudden dropt—
A. C. A. V. S. 5.
(One remembers the fine use Mr. Pope has made
of this word in,
Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o’er—)
——But his flaw’d heart,
Alack, too weak the conflict to support,
’Twixt two extremes of Passion, joy and grief,
Burst smilingly—
Lear, A. V. S. 8.
8. By figurative terms; i. e. by such terms as
though common in the plain, are unusual in the
figurative application.
——This common Body
Like to a vagabond flag, upon the stream,
Goes to, and back, lacquying the varying tide.
A. C. A. I. S. 5.
——When snow the Pasture sheets.
ib
To this head may be referred those innumerable
terms in Shakespear which surprize us by their novelty;
and which surprize us generally, on account
of his preferring the specific idea to the general in
the subjects of his Metaphors and the circumstances
of his Description; an excellence in poetical expression
which cannot be sufficiently studied. The
examples are too frequent, and the thing itself too
well understood, to make it necessary to enlarge on
this article.
9. By plain words, i. e. such as are common in
the figurative, uncommon in the literal acceptation.
Disasters vail’d the Sun—
Ham. A. I. S. 1.
See the note on the place.
Th’ extravagant and erring spirit hies
To his confine—
ib.
——Can’t such things be
And overcome us, like a Summer’s cloud,
Without our special wonder?—
Macb. A. III. S. 5.
10. By transposition of words—unauthoriz’d use
of terms—and ungrammatical construction. Instances
in all his plays, passim.
11. By foreign idioms. ’Tis true these are not
frequent in Shakespear. Yet some Latinisms and
e’en Grecisms we have. As
Quenched of hope—
Cymb. A. v. S. 5.
And the like. But, which is more remarkable
and served his purpose just as well, the writers of
that time had so latiniz’d the English language; that
the pure English Idiom, which Shakespear generally
follows, has all the air of novelty which other writers
are used to affect by a foreign phraseology.
The Reader sees, it were easy to extend this list
of Shakespear’s arts in the Callida junctura much
farther. But I intended only a specimen of them;
so much as might serve to illustrate the rule of
Horace.
It is enough, that we have now a perfect apprehension
of what is meant by Callida Junctura;
And that it is, in effect, but another word for Licentious
Expression: The use of which is, as Quintilian
well expresses it, “Ut quotidiani et semper
eodem modo formati sermonis Fastidium levet, et
nos à vulgari dicendi genere defendat.” In short,
the articles, here enumerated, are but so many ways
of departing from the usual and simpler forms of
speech, without neglecting too much the grace of
ease and perspicuity; In which well-tempered licence
one of the greatest charms of all poetry, but
especially of Shakespear’s poetry, consists. Not
that He was always and every where so happy, as in
the instances given above. His expression sometimes,
and by the very means, here exemplified,
becomes hard, obscure, and unnatural. This is
the extreme on the other side. But in general, we
may say, that He hath either followed the direction
of Horace very ably, or hath hit upon his Rule very
happily.
We are not perhaps to expect the same ability, or
good fortune from others. Novelty is a charm which
nothing can excuse the want of, in works of entertainment.
And the necessity of preventing the tedium
arising from hacknied expression is so instant,
that those, who are neither capable of prescribing
to themselves this Rule of the callida Junctura, or
of following it when prescribed by others, are yet
inclined to ape it by some spurious contrivance;
which being slight in itself will soon become liable
to excess, and ridiculous by its absurdity. I have a
remarkable instance in view, with which the reader
will not be displeased that I conclude this long note.
About the middle of the 17th century one of the
most common of these mimic efforts was the endless
multiplication of Epithets; which soon made their
poetry at once both stiff and nerveless. When frequent
and excessive use had made this expedient
ridiculous as well as cheap, they tried another, it’s
very opposite the rejection of all Epithets, and so
of languid poetry, made rigid Prose. This too had
it’s day. A dramatic Poet of that time has exposed
these opposite follies with much humour. A character
of sense and pleasantry is made to interrogate
a Poetaster in the following manner.
GOLDSWORTH.
Master Caperwit, before you read, pray tell me,
Have your verses any Adjectives?
CAPERWIT.
Adjectives! Would you have a poem without
Adjectives? They are the flow’rs, the grace of all our language;
A well-chosen Epithete doth give new Soule
To fainting Poesie; and makes everye verse
A Bribe. With Adjectives we baite our lines,
When we do fish for Gentlewomen’s loves,
And with their sweetness catch the nibbling ear
Of amorous Ladies: With the music of
These ravishing Nouns, we charm the silken tribe,
And make the Gallant melt with apprehension
Of the rare word: I will maintain ’t (against
A bundle of Grammarians) in Poetry
The Substantive itself cannot subsist
Without an Adjective.
GOLDSWORTH.
But for all that,
These words would sound more full, methinks, that are not
So larded; and, if I might counsel you,
You should compose a Sonnet, cleane without them.
A row of stately Substantives would march,
Like Switzers, and bear all the field before them;
Carry their weight, shew fair, like Deeds enroll’d;
Not Writs, that are first made, and after fill’d:
Thence first came up the title of Blank verse.
You know, Sir, what Blank signifies? When the Sense
First fram’d, is tied with Adjectives, like Points,
And could not hold together, without wedges.
Hang ’t, ’tis Pedanticke, vulgar Poetry.
Let children, when they versifye, sticke here
And there these pidling words, for want of matter;
Poets write masculine numbers.
CAPERWIT.
You have given me a pretty hint: ’Tis NEW.
I will bestow these verses on my footman;
They’ll serve a Chambermaid—
Shirley’s Chances, or Love in a Maze.
54. Cæcilio Plautoque dabit Romanus, ademptum
Virgilio Varioque?] The question is but reasonable.
Yet the answer will not be to the satisfaction
of him that puts it. This humour, we may observe,
holds here in England, as it did formerly at Rome;
and will, I suppose, hold every-where, under the same
circumstances. Cæcilius and Plautus were allowed
to coin, but not Virgil and Varius. The same indulgence
our authors had at the restoration of letters; but
it is denied to our present writers. The reason is
plainly this. While arts are refining or reviving,
the greater part are forced, and all are content to be
Learners. When they are grown to their usual
height, all affect to be Teachers. With this affectation,
a certain envy, as the poet observes,
——cur adquirere pauca,
Si possum, invideor—
insinuates itself; which is for restraining the privileges
of writers, to all of whom every reader is now become
a Rival. Whereas men, under the first character of
Learners, are glad to encourage every thing that
makes for their instruction.
But whatever offence may be taken at this practice,
good writers, as they safely may, should dare
to venture upon it. A perfect language is a chimæra.
In every state of it there will frequently be occasion,
sometimes a necessity, to hazard a new word. And
let not a great genius be discouraged, by the fastidious
delicacy of his age, from a sober use of this privilege.
Let him, as the poet directs,
Command old words, that long have slept, to wake,
Words, that wise Bacon, or brave Ralegh spake;
Or bid the new be English ages hence,
For Use will father what’s begot by Sense.
This too was the constant language of ancient
criticism. “Audendum tamen; namque, ut ait
Cicero, etiam quæ primò dura visa sunt, usu molliuntur,”
Quintil. l. i. c. v.
70. Multa renascentur, quae jam cecidere.]
This revival of old words is one of those niceties in
composition, not to be attempted by any but great
masters. It may be done two ways, 1. by restoring
such terms, as are grown entirely obsolete; or, 2. by
selecting out of those, which have still a currency,
and are not quite laid aside, such as are most forcible
and expressive. For so I understand a passage in
Cicero, who urges this double use of old words, as an
argument, to his orator, for the diligent study of the
old Latin writers. His words are these: Loquendi
elegantia, quamquam expolitur scientiâ literarum,
tamen augetur legendis oratoribus [veteribus] et
poetis: sunt enim illi veteres, qui ornare nondum
poterant ea, quae dicebant, omnes prope præclare
locuti—Neque tamen erit utendum verbis iis, quibus
jam consuetudo nostra non utitur, nisi quando ornandi
causâ, parcè, quod ostendam; sed usitatis ita
poterit uti, lectissimis ut utatur is, qui in veteribus
erit scriptis studiosè et multum volutatus. [De
Orat. l. iii. c. x.] These choice words amongst such
as are still in use, I take to be those which are employed
by the old writers in some peculiarly strong
and energetic sense, yet so as with advantage to be
copied by the moderns, without appearing barbarous
or affected. [See Hor. lib. ii. ep. ii. v. 115.] And
the reason, by the way, of our finding such words
in the old writers of every language, may be this.
When ideas are new to us, they strike us most forcibly;
and we endeavour to express, not our sense
only, but our sensations, in the terms we use to
explain them. The passion of wonder, which Philosophy
would cure us of, is of singular use in
raising the conception, and strengthening the expression
of poets. And such is always the condition
of old writers, when the arts are reviving, or but
beginning to refine. The other use of old terms,
i. e. when become obsolete, he says, must be made
parcè, more sparingly. The contrary would, in
oratory, be insufferable affectation. The rule holds
in poetry, but with greater latitude; for, as he
observes in another place, and the reason of the
thing speaks, hæc sunt Poetarum licentiæ liberiora.
[De Or. iii. 38.] But the elegance of the
style, we are told, is increased both ways. The
reason is, according to Quinctilian (who was perfectly
of Cicero’s mind in this matter. See l. x. c. i.)
Verba à vetustate repetita afferunt orationi majestatem
aliquam non sine delectatione; nam et auctoritatem
antiquitatis habent; et, quia intermissa
sunt, gratiam novitati similem parant. [Lib. i. c. vi.
sub fin.] But this is not all: The riches of a language
are actually increased by retaining its old
words; and besides, they have often a greater real
weight and dignity, than those of a more fashionable
cast, which succeed to them. This needs no
proof to such as are versed in the earlier writings in
any language. A very capable judge hath observed
it in regard of the most admired modern one: Nous
avons tellement laissé ce qui étoit au viel françois,
que nous avons laissé quant et quant la plus part de
ce qu’il avoit de bon. [Trait. préparatif à l’ Apol. pour
Herod. l. i. c. xxviii.] Or, if the reader requires a
more decisive testimony, let him take it in the words
of that curious speaker, Fenelon. Nôtre langue
manque d’un grand nombre de mots et de phrases.
Il me semble même qu’on l’a genée et appauvrie depuis
environ cent ans en voulant la purifier. Il est vrai
qu’elle étoit encore un peu informe et trop verbeuse.
Mais le vieux language se fait regretter, quand
nous le retrouvons dans Marot, dans Amiot, dans
le Cardinal d’Ossat, dans les ouvrages les plus enjoues,
et dans les plus serieux. Il y avoit je ne scai
quoi de court, de näif, de vif et de passioné. [Reflex.
sur la Rhetorique, Amst. 1733. p. 4.] From these
testimonies we learn the extreme value, which these
masters of composition set upon their old writers;
and as the reason of the thing justifies their opinions,
we may further see the important use of some late
attempts to restore a better knowledge of our own.
Which I observe with pleasure, as the growing
prevalency of a very different humour, first catched,
as it should seem, from our commerce with the
French models, and countenanced by the too scrupulous
delicacy of some good writers amongst ourselves,
had gone far towards unnerving the noblest
modern language, and effeminating the public taste.
This was not a little forwarded by, what generally
makes its appearance at the same time, a kind of
feminine curiosity in the choice of words; cautiously
avoiding and reprobating all such (which were not
seldom the most expressive) as had been prophaned
by a too vulgar use, or had suffered the touch of
some other accidental taint. This ran us into periphrases
and general expression; the peculiar bane
of every polished language. Whereas the rhetorician’s
judgment here again should direct us: Omnia
verba (exceptis paucis parum verecundis) sunt alicubi
optima; nam et humilibus interim et vulgaribus
est opus, et quæ cultiore in parte videntur
sordida, ubi res poscit, propriè dicuntur. Which
seems borrowed from Dionysius of Halicarnassus
[περ. συνθεσ. § xii.] οὐδὲν οὕτω ταπεινὸν, ἢ ῥυπαρὸν, ἢ
μιαρὸν, ἢ ἄλλην τινὰ δυσχέρειαν ἔχον ἔσεσθαί φημι λόγου
μόριον, ᾧ σημαίνεταί τι σῶμα ἢ πρᾶγμα, ὃ μηδεμίαν
ἕξει χῶραν ἐπιτηδείαν ἐν λόγοις. However those two
causes, “The rejection of old words, as barbarous,
and of many modern ones, as unpolite,” had so
exhausted the strength and stores of our language,
that, as I observed, it was high time for some master-hand
to interpose and send us for supplies to our
old poets; which, there is the highest authority for
saying, no one ever despised, but for a reason, not
very consistent with his credit to avow: rudem enim
esse omnino in nostris poëtis aut inertissimæ segnitiæ
est aut fastidii delicatissimi. [Cic. de fin.
l. i. c. ii.]
72.—SI VOLET USUS, &c.] Consuetudo certissima
loquendi magistra; utendumque planè sermone,
ut nummo, qui publica forma est. [Quinctil.
l. i. c. vi.] imitated from Horace. In Lucian
too, we find it one of the charges brought against
the Pedant, Lexiphanes, that he clipped the standard
Coin of the Greek language—σπουδὴν ποιούμενος
ὡς δή τι μέγα ὂν, εἴτι ξενίζοι καὶ τὸ καθεστηκὸς ΝΟΜΙΣΜΑ
τῆς φωνῆς παρακόπτοι (c. 20.)
73. Res gestae, etc.] The purport of these
lines [from v. 73 to 86] and their connexion with
what follows, hath not been fully seen. They
would express this general proposition, “That the
several kinds of poetry essentially differ from each
other, as may be gathered, not solely from their
different subjects, but their different measures;
which good sense, and an attention to the peculiar
natures of each, instructed the great inventors
and masters of them to employ.” The use made
of this proposition is to infer, “that therefore the
like attention should be had to the different species
of the same kind of poetry [v. 89, &c.] as in the
case of tragedy and comedy (to which the application
is made) whose peculiar differences and correspondencies,
as resulting from the natures of
each, should, in agreement to the universal law of
decorum, be exactly known and diligently observed
by the poet.”
Singula quæque locum teneant sortita decentem.
v. 92.
But, there is a further propriety in this enumeration
of the several kinds of poetry, as addressed to the
dramatic writer. He is not only to study, for the
purposes here explained, the characteristic differences
of either species of the drama: He must further
be knowing in the other kinds of poetry, so as
to be able, as the nature of his work shall demand,
to adopt the genius of each, in its turn, and to transfer
the graces of universal poetry into the drama.
Thus, to follow the division here laid down, there
will sometimes be occasion for the pomp and high
coloring of the EPIC narration; sometimes for the
plaintive softness and passionate inconnexion of the
ELEGY: and the chorus, if characterized in the ancient
manner, must catch the fiery, inraptured
spirit of the ODE.
Descriptas servare vices operumque colores,
Cur ego, si nequeo ignoroque, POETA salutor?
Hence is seen the truth of that remark, which there
hath been more than once occasion to make, “That,
however general these prefatory instructions may
appear, they more especially respect the case of
the drama.”
90. Indignatur item, etc.—coena Thyestae.]
Il met le souper de Thyeste pour toutes sortes de
tragedies, says M. Dacier; but why this subject
was singled out, as the representative of the rest,
is not explained by him. We may be sure, it was
not taken up at random. The reason was, that the
Thyestes of Ennius was peculiarly chargeable with
the fault, here censured: as is plain from a curious
passage in the Orator; where Cicero, speaking of
the loose numbers of certain poets, observes this,
in particular, of the tragedy of Thyestes, Similia
sunt quædam apud nostros: velut in Thyeste,
Quemnam te esse dicam? qui tardâ in senectute.
et quæ sequuntur: quæ nisi cùm tibicen accesserit,
ORATIONI SUNT SOLUTÆ SIMILLIMA: which character
exactly agrees to this of Horace, wherein the language
of that play is censured, as flat and prosaic, and
hardly rising above the level of ordinary conversation
in comedy. This allusion to a particular play,
written by one of their best poets, and frequently
exhibited on the Roman stage, gives great force and
spirit to the precept, at the same time that it exemplifies
it in the happiest manner. It seems further
probable to me, that the poet also designed an indirect
compliment to Varius, whose Thyestes, we
are told, [Quinctil. l. x. c. i.] was not inferior to
any tragedy of the Greeks. This double intention
of these lines well suited the poet’s general aim,
which is seen through all his critical works, of beating
down the excessive admiration of the old poets,
and of asserting the just honours of the modern. It
may further be observed that the critics have not
felt the force of the words exponi and narrari in
this precept. They are admirably chosen to express
the two faults condemned: the first implying
a kind of pomp and ostentation in the language,
which is therefore improper for the low subjects of
comedy: and the latter, as I have hinted, a flat,
prosaic expression, not above the cast of a common
narrative, and therefore equally unfit for tragedy.
Nothing can be more rambling than the
comment of Heinsius and Dacier on this last word.
94. Iratusque Chremes tumido dilitigat ore:
Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri.]
It may not be amiss to open a little more
particularly the grounds of this criticism: which
may best be done by a commentary on the following
lines of the poet:
Format enim natura priùs nos intùs ad omnem
Fortunarum habitum; juvat aut impellit ad iram;
Aut ad humum mærore gravi deducit et angit:
Pòst effert animi motus interprete linguâ:
To draw after the life, in any given conjuncture,
the poet must recollect (which may easily be done
by consulting with his own conscious experience)
that peculiar disposition of mind, into which the
speaker is, of necessity, carried by the circumstances
of his situation. And the sentiments, which give
the image of this peculiar disposition, are the
genuine lineaments of the character intended.
But the truth of sentiment may be hurt or effaced
by incongruous language, just as the exactest lineaments
of a portrait are often disguised or lost under
a vicious coloring. To paint then as well as draw
after the truth, it is requisite that a further regard
be had to the expression. Which again is no great
difficulty for the artist, the same common nature
holding the torch to him, as before. For in entering
into ourselves we find, that as the mind, in any
supposed situation, gives birth to a certain set of
conceptions and sentiments, correspondent to its
true state, and expressive of it: so by attending to
the language, in which those sentiments ordinarily
manifest themselves, we easily perceive they take
one style or manner of expression preferably to every
other. For expression, where false art is not employed
to distort it, gives the just image of our sentiments;
just as these, when nature is not suppressed
or counteracted, are ever the faithful representatives
of the manners. They result, like the
famous Simulacra of Epicurus, as by a secret destination,
from their original forms; and are, each,
the perfect copies of other. All which will be
clearly understood by applying these general observations
to the instances in view.
The passion of ANGER rouses all the native fire
and energy of the soul. In this disorder, and, as it
were, insurrection of the mental powers, our sentiments
are strong and vigorous; nature prompting us
to liberal and lofty conceptions of ourselves, and a
superior disdainful regard of others. This again determines
the genius of our language, which, to conform
to such sentiments, must be bold and animated;
breaking out into forcible imagery, and
swelling in all the pomp of sounding epithets and
violent figures. And this even amidst the humbler
concerns of private and inferior fortunes:
Iratusque Chremes TUMIDO DILITIGAT ORE.
In the passion of GRIEF, on the contrary, the
reverse of this takes place. For the mind, oppressed
and weighed down by its sorrows, sinks into a
weak and timorous despondency; inclining us to
submit, almost without resistance, to the incumbent
affliction; or if we struggle at all with it, it is
only to ease the labouring heart by putting forth
some fruitless sighs and ineffectual complainings.
Thus we find it represented by those perfect masters
of simple nature, the Greek tragedians. So far are
their sorrowing personages from entertaining any
vigorous thoughts or manly resolutions, that they
constantly languish into sad repinings at their present,
and trembling apprehensions of future, misery.
When these sentiments come to express themselves
in words, what can they be but the plainest
and simplest which the language of the complainant
furnishes? Such negligence, or more properly such
dejection, of sorrow disposes the speaker to take up
with terms as humble as his fortune. His feeble conception
is not only unapt or unable to look out for
fine words and painted phrases; but, if chance throw
them in his way, he even rejects them as trappings
of another condition, and which serves only to upbraid
his present wretchedness. The pomp of
numbers and pride of poetic expression are so little
his care, that it is well if he even trouble himself to
observe the ordinary exactness of mere prose11. And
this even where the height of rank and importance
of affairs conspire to elevate the mind to more state
and dignity.
Et tragicus plerumque DOLET SERMONE PEDESTRI.
Thus far the dramatic writer may inform himself
by entering into his own consciousness, and observing
the sure dictates of experience. For what concerns
the successful application of this rule in practice,
every thing, as is remarked below, [on v. 102.]
must depend on the constitution of his own mind;
which yet may be much assisted by the diligent
study of those writers, who excel most in this way:
in which class all agree to give the palm to Euripides.
But here it may not be improper to obviate a common
mistake that seems to have arisen from the too
strict interpretation of the poet’s Rule. Tragic characters,
he says, will generally express their sorrows
in a prosaic language. From this just observation,
hastily considered and compared with the
absurd practice of some writers, it hath been concluded,
That what we call pure Poetry, the essence
of which consists in bold figures and a lively imagery,
hath no place on the Stage. It may not be
sufficient to oppose to this notion the practice of the
best poets, ancient and modern; for the question
recurrs, how far that practice is to be justified on the
principles of good criticism and common sense. To
come then, to the Reason of the thing.
The capital rule in this matter is,
Reddere Personæ—convenientia cuique.
But to do this, the Situation of the persons, and the
various passions resulting from such situation, must
be well considered. Each of these has a character
or turn of thinking peculiar to itself. But all agree
in this property, that they occupy the whole attention
of the speaker, and are perpetually offering to
his mind a set of pictures or images, suitable to his
state, and expressive of it. In these the tragic character
of every denomination loves to indulge; as we
may see by looking no farther than on what passes
before us in common life, where persons, under the
influence of any passion, are more eloquent and
have a greater quickness at allusion and imagery,
than at other times. So that to take from the
speaker this privilege of representing such pictures
or images is so far from consulting Nature, that it is,
in effect, to overlook or reject one of her plainest
lessons.
’Tis true, if one character is busied in running
after the Images which Nature throws in the way
only of some other; or if, in representing such
images as are proper to the character, the Imagination
is taken up in tracing minute resemblances and
amusing itself with circumstances that have no relation
to the case in hand: then indeed the censure
of these critics is well applied. It may be fine poetry,
if you will, but very bad dramatic writing.
But let the imagery be ever so great or splendid, if
it be such only as the governing passion loves to
conceive and paint, and if it be no further dilated
on, and with no greater sollicitude and curiosity,
than the natural working of the passion demands,
the Drama is so far from rejecting such Poetry that
it glories in it, as what is most essential to its true
end and design.
Ille per extentum funem mihi posse videtur
Ire poeta, meum qui pectus inaniter angit,
Inritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus implet,
Ut magus——
An office, which the dramatic poet hath no means
of sustaining but by that strong painting and forcible
imagery, above described.
What seems to have given a colour to the opposite
opinion, is the faulty practice which good critics
have observed in the French tragedies, and in some
of our own that have been formed upon their model.
But the case is mistaken. It is not the Poetry of
the French or English drama that deserves their
censure, but its prolix and languid Declamation,
neglecting passion for sentiment, or expressing passion
in a calm circuit of words and without spirit.
Even Mr. Addison’s Cato, which from being immoderately
extolled has had the usual fate of being as immoderately
undervalued, is not to be censured for
its abundance of poetry, but for its application of it
in a way that hurts the passion. General sentiments,
uncharacteristic imagery, and both drawn
out in a spiritless, or, which comes to the same
thing, a too curious expression, are the proper faults
of this drama. What the critic of just taste demands
in this fine tragedy, is even more poetry, but better
applied and touched with more spirit.
Still, perhaps, we are but on the surface of this
matter. The true ground of this mistaken Criticism,
is, The Notion, that when the Hero is at the crisis
of his fate, he is not at liberty to use Poetical, that
is, highly figurative expression: but that the proper
season for these things is when he has nothing else to
do. Whereas the truth is just the contrary. The
figures, when he is greatly agitated, come of themselves;
and, suiting the grandeur and dignity of his
situation, are perfectly natural. To use them in his
cool and quiet moments, when he has no great interests
to prosecute or extricate himself from, is directly
against Nature. For, in this state of things,
he must seek them, if he will have them. And
when he has got them and made his best use of them,
what do they produce? Not sublimity, but Bombast.
For it is not the figures, but the suitableness to the
occasion, that produces either. Not that I am ignorant
that there are vices in the formation of figures,
as well as in their application. But these vices go
under various other names. The pure simple Bombast
(if I may be indulged so bold a catachresis) arises
from putting figurative expression to an improper use.
To give an instance of what I mean. Tacitus writes
under one continued resentment at the degeneracy
of his times, and speaking of some sumptuary Laws
proposed by the Senate, in 2 Ann. c. 33, he says
they decreed, Ne Vestis Serica viros FOEDARET.
This became the dignity of his historic character and
genius. But had his Contemporary, Suetonius, who
wrote Chronicles in the spirit of our Stow and Holinshed,
used the same language, it would have set
his readers a laughing.
Not but figurative expression, even when suitable
to the character, genius, and general subject of a
writer, may still be misplaced. Thus, had Tacitus,
speaking of the honours decreed to Tiberius on a certain
occasion, said with his translator Gordon—which
of these he meant to accept or which to reject, the
approaching issue of his days has BURIED in oblivion—the
figure, the reader sees, would have been
miserably out of place; the conceit of the burial of
his intentions, on the mention of his death, being
even ridiculous. But the ridicule, we may be sure,
falls on the translator only, and not on his great original,
who expresses himself on this occasion, not
only with propriety, but with the greatest simplicity—quos
omiserit receperitve IN INCERTO fuit ob propinquum
vitæ finem. Ann. l. vi. c. 45.
I have brought these instances to shew that figurative
expression is not improper even in a fervent
animated historian, on a fit subject, and in due place:
much less should the tragic poet, when his characters
are to be shewn in the conflict of the stronger
passions, be debarred the use of it.
The short of the matter is, in one word, this. Civil
Society first of all tames us to humanity, as Cicero expresses
it; and, in the course of its discipline, brings
us down to one dead level. Its effect is to make us
all the same pliant, mimic, obsequious things; not
unlike, in a word, (if our pride could overlook the
levity of the comparison) what we see of trained Apes.
But when the violent passions arise (as in the case of
these Apes when the apples were thrown before them)
this artificial discipline is all shaken off, and we return
again to the free and ferocious state of Nature.
And what is the expression of that state? It is (as we
understand by experience) a free and fiery expression,
all made up of bold metaphors and daring figures of
Speech.
The conclusion is, that Poetry, pure Poetry, is the
proper language of Passion, whether we chuse to
consider it as ennobling, or debasing the human
character.
There is, as I have said, an obvious distinction to
be made (and to that the poet’s rule, as explained in
this note, refers) between the soft and tender, and
the more vigorous passions. When the former prevail,
the mind is in a weak languid state; and though
all allusion and imagery be not improper here, yet
as that fire and energy of the soul is wanting, which
gives a facility of ranging over our ideas and of seizing
such as may be turned to any resemblance of our own
condition, it will for that reason be less frequent in
this state of the mind than any other. Such imagery,
too, will for the same reason be less striking,
because the same languid affections lead to, and
make us acquiesce in a simpler and plainer expression.
But universally in the stronger passions the
poetical character prevails, and rises only in proportion
to the force and activity of those passions.
To draw the whole then of what has been said on
this subject into a standing Rule for the observance
of the dramatic Poet.
“Man is so formed that whether he be in joy, or
grief; in confidence or despair; in pleasure or pain;
in prosperity or distress; in security or danger; or
torn and distracted by all the various modifications
of Love, Hate, and Fear: The Imagination is
incessantly presenting to the mind an infinite
variety of images or pictures, conformable to his
Situation: And these Pictures receive their various
coloring from the habits, which his birth and
condition, his education, profession and pursuits
have induced. The representation of these is the
Poetry, and a just representation, in a great measure,
the Art, of dramatic writing.”
95. Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone
pedestri.] Dr. Bentley connects this with the following
line:
[Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri
Telephus aut Peleus
for the sake, as he says, of preserving the opposition.
In comædiâ iratus Chremes tumido, in tragædiâ
Telephus pauper humili sermone utitur. This is
specious; but, if the reader attends, he will perceive,
that the opposition is better preserved without his
connection. For it will stand thus: The poet first
asserts of comedy at large, that it sometimes raises
its voice,
Interdum tamen et vocem comædia tollit.
Next, he confirms this general remark, by appealing
to a particular instance,
Iratusque Chremes tumido dilitigat ore.
Exactness of opposition will require the same method
to be observed in speaking of tragedy; which accordingly
is the case, if we follow the vulgar reading.
For, first, it is said of tragedy, that, when grief is to
be expressed, it generally condescends to an humbler
strain,
Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri.
And then the general truth, as before, is illustrated
by a particular instance,
Telephus aut Peleus, cum pauper et exul uterque,
Projicit ampullas, &c.
There is no absurdity, as the Doctor pretends, in
taking tragicus for tragædiarum scriptor. For the
poet, by a common figure, is made to do that, which
he represents his persons, as doing.
But this is not the whole, that will deserve the
reader’s regard in this place. A strict attention to
the scope and turn of the passage [from v. 96 to 114]
will lead him to conclude, 1. “That some real tragedy
of Telephus and Peleus was intended in v.
96, in which the characters were duly preserved
and set forth in proper language.” This the opposition
to the Chremes of Terence absolutely demands.
Let us inquire what this might be. Euripides,
we know, composed tragedies under these
names; but it is unlikely, the poet should contrast
the instance of a Greek tragedy to a Latin comedy.
Nor need it be supposed. The subject was familiar
to the Roman poets. For we find a Telephus
ascribed to no less than three of them, Ennius, Accius,
and Nævius12. One of these then I doubt not,
is here intended. But the Roman, in those times,
were little more than translations of the Greek plays.
Hence it is most likely, that the tragedy of Telephus
(and probably of Peleus, though we have not so direct
authority for this) was, in fact, the tragedy of
Euripides, translated into Latin, and accommodated
to the Roman stage, by one of these writers. It
remains only to enquire, if the Telephus itself of
Euripides answered to this character. Which, I
think, it manifestly did, from considering what
his enemy, the buffoon Aristophanes, hath said concerning
it. Every body knows, that the Batraxoi
of this poet contains a direct satyr, and Burlesque
upon Euripides. Some part of it is particularly
levelled against his Telephus: whence we may certainly
learn the objections, that were made to it.
Yet the amount of them is only this, “That he had
drawn the character of Telephus in too many circumstances
of distress and humiliation.” His fault
was, that he had represented him more like a beggar,
than an unfortunate prince. Which, in more candid
hands, would, I suppose, amount only to this,
“That the poet had painted his distress in the most
natural, and affecting manner.” He had stripped
him of his royalty, and, together with it of the pomp
and ostentation of the regal language, the very beauty,
which Horace applauds and admires in his Telephus.
2. Next, I think it as clear from what follows,
“That some real tragedy of Telephus, and Peleus,
was also glanced at, of a different stamp from the
other, and in which the characters were not supported
by such propriety of language.” Let the
reader judge. Having quoted a Telephus and Peleus,
as examples to the rule concerning the style
of tragedy, and afterwards enlarged [from v. 98 to
103] on the reasons of their excellence, he returns,
with an air of insult, to the same names, apostrophizing
them in the following manner:
Telephe, vel Peleu, male si mandata loquêris,
Aut dormitabo aut ridebo:
But why this address to characters, which he had
before alleged, as examples of true dramatical drawing?
Would any tolerable writer, after having applauded
Shakespear’s King Lear, as an instance of
the kingly character in distress, naturally painted,
apostrophize it, with such pointed vehemence, on
the contrary supposition? But let this pass. The
Poet, as though a notorious violation of the critic’s
rules was to be thoroughly exposed, goes on, in the
seven following lines, to search into the bottom of
this affair, laying open the source and ground of his
judgment; and concludes upon the whole,
Si dicentis erunt fortunis absona dicta,
Romani tollent equitesque patresque cachinnum.
Can any thing be plainer, than that this last line
points at some well-known instance of a Latin play,
which had provoked, upon this account, the contempt
and laughter of the best judges? It may further
be observed, that this way of understanding
the passage before us, as it is more conformable to
what is here shewn to be the general scope of the
epistle, so doth it, in its turn, likewise countenance,
or rather clearly shew, the truth and certainty of
this method of interpretation.
99. Non satis est pulchra, etc.] Dr. Bentley
objects to pulchra, because this, he says, is a general
term, including under it every species of beauty,
and therefore that of dulcis or the affecting. But
the great critic did not sufficiently attend to the connexion,
which, as F. Robortellus, in his paraphrase
on the epistle, well observes, stands thus: “It is
not enough, that tragedies have that kind of beauty,
which arises from a pomp and splendor of diction,
they must also be pathetic or affecting.”
Objiciat se mihi hoc loco aliquis et dicat, si id fiat
[i. e. si projiciantur ampullæ] corrumpi omnem venustatem
et gravitatem poëmatis tragici, quod nihil
nisi grande et elatum recipit. Huic ego ita respondendum
puto, non satis esse, ut poëmata venusta
sint et dignitatem suam servent: nam dulcedine
quoque et suavitate quâdam sunt conspergenda, ut
possint auditoris animum inflectere in quamcunque
voluerint partem.
But a very ingenious person, who knows how to
unite philosophy with criticism; and to all that is
elegant in taste, to add what is most just and accurate
in science, hath, in the following note, shewn
the very foundation of Dr. Bentley’s criticism to be
erroneous.
“There are a multitude of words in every language,
which are sometimes used in a wider, sometimes
in a more restrained sense. Of this kind are
καλὸν of the Greeks, the pulchrum of the Romans,
and the words by which they are translated in modern
languages. To whatever subjects these epithets
are applied, we always intend to signify that they
give us pleasure: and we seldom apply them to any
subjects, but those which please by means of impressions
made on the fancy: including under this
name the reception of images conveyed directly
by the sight itself. As Poetry therefore always
addresses itself to the imagination, every species of
poetical excellence obtains the name of Beauty:
and, among the rest, the power of pleasing us by
affecting the passions; an effect which intirely depends
on the various images presented to our view.
In this sense of the word beautiful, it cannot be opposed
to pathetic. Pulchrum enim quascunque
carminis virtutes, etiam ipsam dulcedinem, in se
continere meritò videatur.
But nothing, I think, can be plainer, than that
this epithet is often used more determinately. Visible
forms are not merely occasions of pleasure, in
common with other objects, but they produce a
pleasure of a singular kind. And the power they
have of producing it, is properly denominated by
the name of Beauty. Whether Regularity and Variety
have been rightly assigned, as the circumstances
on which it depends, is a question, which in
this place we need not consider. It cannot at least
be denied, that we make a distinction among the
objects of sight, when the things themselves are removed
from our view: and that we annex the names
of Beauty and Deformity to different objects and
different pictures, in consequence of these perceptions.
I ask then, what is meant, when the words
are thus applied? Is it only that we are pleased or
displeased? This surely cannot be said. For the
epithets would then be applied with equal propriety
to the objects of different senses: and the fragrance
of a flower, for instance, would be a species of beauty;
the bitterness of wormwood a species of deformity.—Do
we then mean, that we receive pleasure and
pain by means of the Imagination? We may indeed
mean this: but we certainly mean more than
this. For the same names are used and applied, in
a manner perfectly similar, by numbers of persons
who never once thought of this artificial method of
distinguishing their ideas. There is then some kind
of perception, common to them and us, which has
occasioned this uniformity in our ways of speaking:
and whether you will chuse to consider the perceptive
faculty as resulting only from habit, or allow it
the name of a Sense of Beauty; whether these perceptions
can, or cannot, be resolved into some
general principle, imagination of private advantage,
or sympathy with others, are, in the present case,
circumstances wholly indifferent.
If it be admitted that the epithets, of which we
are speaking, were originally used in this restrained
sense, it is easy to see that they would readily obtain
the more extended signification. For the species of
pleasure to which they were first confined, was
found always to arise from images impressed on the
fancy: what then more natural, than to apply the
same words to every species of pleasure resulting
from the imagination, and to every species of images
productive of pleasure? Thus the beauty of a human
person might originally signify such combinations
of figure and colour, as produced the peculiar
perception above-mentioned. Pulchritudo corporis
(says Cicero) aptâ compositione membrorum movet
oculos, et eo ipso delectat, &c.—But from this signification
to the other the transition was easy and
obvious. If every beautiful form gave pleasure,
every pleasing form might come to be called beautiful:
not because the same perceptions are excited
by all (the pleasures being apparently different) but
because they are all excited in the same manner.
And this is confirmed by a distinction which every
one understands between beauties of the regular and
irregular kind. When we would distinguish these
from each other, we call the latter agreeable, and
leave to the former only the name of beautiful:
that is, we confine the latter term to its proper and
original sense.—In much the same manner objects
not visible may sometimes obtain the name of beauty,
for no other reason than because the imagination
is agreeably employed about them; and we may
speak of a beautiful character, as well as a beautiful
person: by no means intending that we have the
same feeling from the one as the other, but that in
both cases we are pleased, and that in both the imagination
contributes to the pleasure.
Now as every representative art is capable of affording
us pleasure, and this pleasure is occasioned
by images impressed on the fancy; every pleasing
production of art, will of course obtain the name of
beautiful. Yet this hinders us not from considering
beauty as a distinct excellence in such productions.
For we may distinguish, either in a picture or poem,
between the pleasures we receive directly from the
imitation of visible forms, and those which principally
depend on other kinds of imitation: And we
may consider visible forms themselves either as occasions
of pleasure, in common with other objects; or
as yielding us that peculiar delight which they alone
are capable of yielding. If we use the word beautiful
in this limited sense, it is very intelligibly opposed
to pathetic. Images of Groves, Fields, Rocks
and Water, afford us a pleasure extremely different
from that which we find in the indulgence of our
tender affections: nor can there be any danger of
confounding the agreeable perception received from
a masterly statue of an Apollo or a Venus, with that
which arises from a representation of the terrors
men feel under a storm or a plague.
It is no objection to what has been said, that the
objects we call beautiful may also in some cases be
occasions of passion. The sight, for instance, of a
beautiful person may give birth to the passion of
Love: yet to perceive the beauty and to feel the
passion are two different things. For every beautiful
object does not produce love in every observer,
and the same passion is sometimes excited by objects
not beautiful; I mean not called beautiful by the
persons themselves who are affected by them. And
the distinction between these feelings, would receive
further confirmation (if indeed there could be any
doubt of it) from observing that people frequently
speak of beauty, and as far as appears intelligibly,
in persons of their own sex; who feel perhaps no
passion but that of envy: which will not surely be
thought the same with the perception of beauty.
There is then no room for an objection to the text
of Horace, as it stood before Dr. B.’s emendation:
unless it should be thought an impropriety to oppose
two epithets which are capable of being understood
in senses not opposite. But there is not the least
ground for this imagination. For when a word of
uncertain signification is opposed to another whose
signification is certain; the opposition itself determines
the sense. The word day in one of its senses
includes the whole space of twenty-four hours: yet
it is not surely an impropriety to oppose day to
night.—In like manner the words pulchra poëmata,
if we were not directed by the context, might signify
good poems in general: but when the beauty
of a poem is distinguished from other excellences,
this distinction will lead us to confine our idea to
beautiful imagery; and, we know it is agreeable to
the sentiments which Horace expresses in other
places, to declare that this kind of merit is insufficient
in dramatic writers, from whom we expect a
pleasure of very different kind. Indeed the most
exquisite painting, if it is not constantly subordinate
to this higher end, becomes not only insufficient,
but impertinent: serving only to divert the attention,
and interrupt the course of the passions.
It may seem perhaps that the force of a Latin expression
cannot be ascertained from reflections of
this sort, but must be gathered from citations of
particular passages. And this indeed is true with
regard to the peculiarities of the language. But the
question before us is of a different kind. It is a
question of Philosophy rather than Criticism: as
depending on those differences of ideas, which are
marked by similar forms of expression in all languages.”
102. Si vis me flere, dolendum est Primum
ipsi tibi:] Tragedy, as13 one said, who had a heart
to feel its tenderest emotions, shewed forth the ulcers
that are covered with tissue. In order to
awaken and call forth in the spectator all those sympathies,
which naturally await on the lively exhibition
of such a scene, the writer must have a soul
tuned to the most exquisite sensibility, and susceptible
of the same vibrations from his own created
images, which are known to shake the sufferer in
real life. This is so uncommon a pitch of humanity,
that ’tis no wonder, so few have succeeded in
this trying part of the drama. Euripides, of all
the ancients, had most of this sympathetic tenderness
in his nature, and accordingly we find him
without a rival in this praise. Τραγικώτατος τῶν
ποιητῶν, says Aristotle of him [Περὶ ποιητ. κ. ιγʹ.]
and to the same purpose another great critic, In
affectibus cum omnibus mirus, tum in iis, qui
MISERATIONE constant, facile præcipuus. [Quinct.
l. x. c. i.] They, who apply themselves to express
the pitiable ἐλεεινὸν in tragedy, would do well to
examine their own hearts by this rule, before they
presume to practise upon those of others. See, further,
this remark applied by Cicero to the subject of
oratory, and inforced with his usual elegance and
good sense. [l. ii. c. xlv. De oratore.]
103. Tunc tua me infortunia laedent.] This
is expressed with accuracy. Yet the truth is, The
more we are hurt with representations of this sort,
the more we are pleased with them. Whence arises
this strange Pleasure? The question hath been
frequently asked, and various answers have been
given to it.
But of all the solutions of this famous difficulty,
that which we have just now received from Mr.
Hume, is by far the most curious.
His account in short is, “That the force of imagination,
the energy of expression, the power of
numbers, the charms of imitation, are all naturally
of themselves delightful to the mind; that
these sentiments of beauty, being the predominant
emotions, seize the whole mind, and convert the
uneasy melancholy passions into themselves. In
a word, that the sentiments of beauty, excited by
a good tragedy, are the superior prevailing movements,
and transform the subordinate impressions
arising from grief, compassion, indignation, and terror,
into one uniform and strong enjoyment.” [See
four Dissertations by D. Hume, Esq. p. 185, &c.]
I have but two objections to this ingenious theory.
One is, that it supposes the impression of grief or
terror, excited by a well-written tragedy, to be
weaker than that which arises from our observation
of the faculties of the writer, the power of numbers,
and imitation. Which to me is much the same
thing as saying, That the sight of a precipice
hanging over our heads makes a fainter impression
on the eye, than the shrubs and wild flowers with
which it happens to be covered. The fact is so far
otherwise, that, if the tragedy be well-written, I
will venture to say, the faculties of the writer, the
charms of poetry, or even the thought of imitation,
never come into the spectator’s head. But he may
feel the effect of them, it will be said, for all that.
True: But unluckily the whole effect of these things
is (and that was my OTHER objection) to deepen the
impressions of grief and terror. They are out of
place, and altogether impertinent, if they contribute
to any other end. So that to say, The impression
of grief and terror from a tragic story, strong as it
is in itself, and made still stronger by the art of the
poet, is a weaker impression, than the mere pleasure
arising from that art, is methinks to account
for one mystery by another ten times greater, and
to make the poet a verier magician than Horace
ever intended to represent him.
This ingenious solution then, being so evidently
founded on the supposition of a false fact, deserves
no further notice. As to the difficulty itself, the
following hints may, perhaps, enable the reader, in
some measure, to account for it.
1. It is not to be doubted but that we love to have
our attention raised, and our curiosity gratified.
So far the Abbé du Bos’ system may be admitted.
2. The representation, however distressful, is
still seen to be a representation. We find our hearts
affected, and even pained, by a good tragedy. But
we instantly recollect that the scene is fictitious;
and the recollection not only abates our uneasiness,
but diffuses a secret joy upon the mind in the discovery
we make that the occasion of our uneasiness
is not real. Just as our awaking from a frightful
dream, and sometimes a secret consciousness of the
illusion during the dream itself, is attended with
pleasure. That so much of M. de Fontenelle’s
notion must be admitted, is clear, because children,
who take the sufferings on the stage for realities,
are so afflicted by them that they don’t care to repeat
the experiment.
But still, all this is by no means a full account
of the matter. For,
3. It should be considered, that ALL the uneasy
Passions, in the very time that we are distressed
by them, nay, though the occasions be instant and
real, have a secret complacency mixed with them.
It seems as if Providence, in compassion to human
feeling, had, together with our sorrows, infused a
kind of balm into the mind, to temper and qualify,
as it were, these bitter ingredients. But,
4. Besides this general provision, the nature of
the peculiar passions, excited by tragedy, is such as,
in a more eminent degree, must produce pleasure.
For what are these, but indignation at prosperous
vice, or the commiseration of suffering virtue? And
the agitation of these passions is even, in real life,
accompanied with a certain delight, which was, no
doubt, intended to quicken us in the exercise of
those social offices. Still further.
5. To the pleasure directly springing from these
passions we may add another which naturally, but
imperceptibly almost steals in upon us from reflexion.
We are conscious to our own humanity on
these tender occasions. We understand and feel
that it is right for us to be affected by the distresses
of others. Our pain is softened by a secret exultation
in the rectitude of these sympathies. ’Tis true,
this reflex act of the mind is prevented, or suspended
at least for a time, when the sufferings are real,
and concern those for whom we are most interested.
But the fictions of the stage do not press upon us so
closely.
Putting all these things together, the conclusion
is, That though the impressions of the theatre are,
in their immediate effect, painful to us, yet they
must, on the whole, afford an extreme pleasure,
and that in proportion to the degree of the first
painful impression. For not only our attention is
rouzed, but our moral instincts are gratified; we
reflect with joy that they are so, and we reflect too
that the sorrows which call them forth and give this
exercise to our humanity, are but fictitious. We
are occupied, in a word, by a great event; we are
melted into tears by a distressful one; the heart is
relieved by this burst of sorrow; is cheared and
animated by the finest moral feelings; exults in the
consciousness of its own sensibility; and finds, in
conclusion, that the whole is but an illusion.
The sum is, that we are not so properly delighted
by the Passions, as through them. They give occasion
to the most pleasing movements and gratulations.
The art of the poet indeed consists in giving
pain. But nature and reflexion fly to our relief;
and though they do not convert our pain into joy
(for that methinks would be little less than a new
kind of Transubstantiation) they have an equivalent
effect in producing an exquisite joy out of our preceding
sorrows.
119. Aut famam sequere, &c.] The connexion
lies thus: Language must agree with character;
character with fame, or at least with itself.
123. Sit medea ferox invictaque.] Horace
took this instance from Euripides, where the unconquered
fierceness of this character is preserved in
that due mediocrity, which nature and just writing
demand. The poet, in giving her character, is
content to say of her,
Βαρεῖα γὰρ φρὴν οὐδ’ ἀνέξεται κακῶς
Πάσχους’
And
Δεινὴ γάρ. οὖ τοι ῥᾳδίως γε συμβαλὼν
Ἐχθράν τις αὐτῇ, καλλίνικον οἴσεται.
And she herself, when opening to the chorus her
last horrid purpose, says, fiercely indeed, but not
frantically:
Μηδείς με φαύλην κᾀσθενῆ νομιζέτω
Μηδ’ ἡσυχαίαν.
And this is nature, which Seneca not perceiving,
and yet willing to write up to the critic’s rule, hath
outraged her character beyond all bounds, and, instead
of a resolute, revengeful woman, hath made
of her a downright fury. Hence her passion is
wrought up to a greater height in the very first
scene of the Latin play, than it ever reaches in the
Greek poet. The tenor of her language throughout
is,
invadam deos,
Et cuncta quatiam.
And hence, in particular, the third and fourth acts
expose to our view all the horrors of sorcery (and
those too imaged to an extravagance) which Euripides,
with so much better judgment, thought fit entirely
to conceal.
126. Servetur ad imum Qualis ab incepto
processerit, et sibi constet.] The rule is, as
appears from the reason of the thing, and from
Aristotle, “Let an uniformity of character be preserved,
or at least a consistency:” i. e. either let the
manners be exactly the same from the beginning to
the end of the play, as those of Medea, for instance,
and Orestes; or, if any change be necessary, let it
be such as may consist with, and be easily reconciled
to, the manners formerly attributed; as is seen
in the case of Electra and Iphigenia. We should
read then, it is plain,
servetur ad imum
Qualis ab incepto processerit, AUT sibi constet.
The mistake arose from imagining, that a character
could no other way consist with itself, but by being
uniform. A mistake however, which, as I said,
not the reason of the thing only, but Aristotle’s rule
might have set right. It is expressed thus: Τέταρτον
δὲ τὸ ὁμαλόν. Κᾂν γὰρ ἀνώμαλός τις ᾖ, ὁ τὴν
μίμησιν παρέχων καὶ τοιοῦτον ἦθος ὑποτιθεὶς, ὅμως
ὁμαλῶς ἀνώμαλον δεῖ εἶναι. Ποιητ. κ. ιεʹ. which last
words, having been not at all understood, have kept
his interpreters from seeing the true sense and scope
of the precept. For they have been explained of
such characters, as that of Tigellius in Horace;
which, however proper for satyr, or for farcical comedy,
are of too fantastic and whimsical a nature to
be admitted into tragedy; of which Aristotle must
there be chiefly understood to speak, and to which
Horace, in this place, alone confines himself.
“’Tis true, indeed, it may be said, that though a
whimsical or fantastic character be improper for
tragedy, an irresolute one is not. Nothing is
finer than a struggle between different passions;
and it is perfectly natural, that in such a circumstance,
each should prevail by turns.” But then
there is the widest difference between the two cases.
Tigellius, with all his fantastic irresolution, is as
uniform a character as that of Mitio. If the expression
may be allowed, its very inconsistency is of
the essence of its uniformity. On the other hand,
Electra, torn with sundry conflicting passions, is
most apparently, and in the properest notion of the
word, ununiform. One of the strongest touches in
her character is that of a high, heroic spirit, sensible
to her own, and her family’s injuries, and determined,
at any rate, to revenge them. Yet no
sooner is this revenge perpetrated, than she softens,
relents, and pities. Here is a manifest ununiformity,
which can, in no proper sense of the expression
lay claim to the critic’s ὁμαλὸν, but may be so
managed, by the poet’s skill, as to become consistent
with the basis or foundation of her character,
that is, to be ὁμαλῶς ἀνώμαλον. And that this, in
fact, was the meaning of the critic, is plain from
the similar example to his own rule, given in the
case of Iphigenia: which he specifies (how justly
will be considered hereafter) as an instance of the
ἀνωμάλου, irregular, or ununiform, character, ill-expressed,
or made inconsistent. So that the genuine
sense of the precept is, “Let the manners be
uniform; or, if ununiform, yet consistently so,
or uniformly ununiform:” exactly copied, according
to the reading, here given by Horace. Whereas
in the other way, it stands thus: “Let your
characters be uniform, or unchanged; or, if you
paint an ununiform character (such as Tigellius)
let it be ununiform all the way; i. e. such an irregular
character to the end of the play, as it was
at the beginning; which is, in effect, to say, let
it be uniform:” which apparently destroys the
latter part of the precept, and makes it an unmeaning
tautology with the former.
127. Aut sibi constet.] The Electra and Iphigenia
of Euripides have been quoted, in the preceding
note, as instances of ununiform characters,
justly sustained, or what Aristotle calls, uniformly
ununiform: And this, though the general opinion
condemns the one, and the great critic himself, the
other; the reader will expect some account to be
given of this singularity.
1. The objection to Electra, is, that her character
is drawn with such heightenings of implacability and
resentment, as make it utterly incredible, she should,
immediately on the murder of Clytæmnestra, fall
into the same excess of grief and regret, as Orestes.
In confutation of this censure I observe, 1. That the
objection proceeds on a mistaken presumption, that
the distress of Electra is equally violent with that of
Orestes. On the contrary, it is discriminated from it
by two plain marks. 1. Orestes’s grief is expressed
in stronger and more emphatic terms—he accuses
the Gods—he reproaches his sister—he dwells upon
every horrid circumstance, that can inhance the
guilt of the murder. Electra, in the mean time,
confesses the scene to be mournful—is apprehensive
of bad consequences—calmly submits to the just
reproaches of her brother. 2. He labours as much
as possible, to clear himself from the imputation of
the act. She takes it wholly on herself, but, regarding
it rather as her fate, than her fault, comforts
herself in reflecting on the justice of it.
πατρὸς δ’ ἔτισας φόνον δικαίως.
Act v.
This last circumstance puts the widest difference
between the two cases. The one shews a perfect
distraction of mind, which cannot even bear the consciousness
of its crimes: the other, a firm and steddy
spirit, sensible indeed to its misery, but not oppressed
or astonished by it.
2. But this measure of grief, so delicately marked,
and, with such truth of character, ascribed to Electra,
ought not, it is further insisted, to have shewn
itself, immediately, on the murder of Clytæmnestra.
But why not? There is nothing in the character of
Electra, the maxims of those times, or in the disposition
of the drama itself, to render this change
improper or incredible. On the contrary, there is
much under each of these heads, to lead one to expect
it.
1. Electra’s character is indeed that of a fierce,
and determined, but withal of a generous and virtuous
woman. Her motives to revenge were, principally,
a strong sense of justice, and superior affection
for a father; not a rooted, unnatural aversion
to a mother. She acted, as appears, not from the
perturbation of a tumultuous revenge (in that case
indeed the objection had been of weight) but from
a fixed abhorrence of wrong, and a virtuous sense of
duty. And what should hinder a person of this
character from being instantly touched with the distress
of such a spectacle?
2. The maxims of those times also favour this conduct.
For, 1. The notions of strict remunerative
justice were then carried very high. This appears
from the Lex talionis, which, we know, was in great
credit in elder Greece; from whence it was afterwards
transferred into the Law of the XII Tables. Hence
blood for blood [αἷμα δ’ αἵματος δανεισμὸς,—as the
messenger, in his account of the death of Ægysthus,
expresses it, Act iv.] was the command and rule of
justice. This the Chorus, as well as the parricides,
frequently insist upon, as the ground and justification
of the murder. 2. This severe vengeance on enormous
offenders was believed, not only consonant
to the rules of human, but to be the object,
and to make the especial care of the divine, justice.
And thus the ancients conceived of this very case.
Juvenal, speaking of Orestes,
Quippe ille Deis auctoribus ultor
Patris erat cæsi media inter pocula.
Sat. viii.
And to this opinion agrees that tradition, or rather
fiction, of the poets, who, though they represent the
judges of the Areopagus as divided in their sentiments
of this matter, yet make no scruple of bringing in
Minerva herself to pronounce his absolution. Hoc
etiam fictis fabulis doctissimi homines memoriæ
prodiderunt, eum, qui patris ulciscendi causâ matrem
necavisset, variatis hominum sententiis, non
solum divinâ, sed etiam sapientissimæ Deæ sententiâ
absolutum [Cic. pro Milon.] The venerable council
of Areopagus, when judging by the severe rules
of written justice, it seems, did not condemn the criminal;
and the unwritten law of equity, which the
fable calls the wisdom of Pallas, formally acquitted
him. The murder then was not against human, and
directly agreeable to the determinations of divine, justice.
Of this too the Chorus takes care to inform us:
Νέμει τοι δίκαν θεὸς ὅταν τύχῃ.
Act. iv.
This explains the reason of Electra’s question to
Orestes, who had pleaded the impiety of murdering
a mother,
Καὶ μὲν ἀμύνων πατρὶ, δυσσεβὴς ἔσῃ;
the force of which lies in this, that a father’s death
revenged upon the guilty mother, was equally pious
as just. 3. This vengeance was, of course, to be
executed by the nearest relations of the deceased.
This the law prescribed in judicial prosecutions.
Who then so fit instruments of fate, when that justice
was precluded to them? This is expressed, in
answer to the plea of Orestes, that he should suffer
the vengeance of the Gods for the murder of his
mother; Electra replies,
Τῷ δαὶ πατρῴαν διαμεθῇς τιμωρίαν;
i. e. Who then shall repay vengeance to our father?
She owns the consequence, yet insists on the duty of
incurring it. There was no other, to whom the
right of vengeance properly belonged.
4. Further the pagan doctrine of fate was such,
that, in order to discharge duty in one respect, it
was unavoidable to incur guilt, in another. This
was the case here, Phœbus commanded and fate had
decreed: yet obedience was a crime, to be expiated
by future punishment. This may seem strange to
us, who have other notions of these matters, but was
perfectly according to the pagan system. The result
is, that they knowingly exposed themselves to vengeance,
in order to fulfil their fate. All that remained
was to lament their destiny, and revere the awful and
mysterious providence of their Gods. And this is,
exactly, what Orestes pleads, in vindication of himself,
elsewhere:
Ἀλλ’ ὡς μὲν οὐκ εὖ, μὴ λεγ’, εἴργασται τάδε,
Ἡμῖν δὲ τοῖς δράσασιν οὐκ εὐδαιμόνως.
Orest. Act. ii.
5. Lastly, it should be remembered, how heinous
a crime adultery was esteemed in the old world;
when, as well as murder, we find it punished with
death. The law of the XII Tables expressly says,
ADVLTERII CONVICTAM VIR ET COGNATI, VTI VELINT,
NECANTO. Now, all these considerations put together,
Electra might assist at the assassination of her
mother, consistently with the strongest feelings of
piety and affection. That these then should instantly
break forth, so soon as the debt to justice, to duty,
and to fate was paid, is nothing wonderful. And
this, by the way, vindicates the Chorus from the inconsistency,
by some charged upon it, in condemning
the act, when done, which before they had laboured to
justify. The common answer, “That the Chorus
follows the character of the people,” is insufficient.
For (besides that the Chorus always sustains a moral
character) whence that inconsistency in the
people themselves? The reason was, the popular
creed of those times. It had been an omission of
duty to have declined, it was criminal to execute,
the murder.
3. The disposition of the drama (whether the most
judicious, or not, is not the question) was calculated
to introduce this change with the greatest probability.
Electra’s principal resentment was to Ægysthus.
From him chiefly proceeded her ill treatment,
and from him was apprehended the main danger of
the enterprize. Now, Ægysthus being taken off
in the beginning of the preceding act, there was time
to indulge all the movements and gratulations of revenge,
which the objection supposes should precede,
and for a while suspend the horrors of remorse, before
they come to the murder of Clytæmnestra.
This is rendered the more likely by the long parley,
that goes before it; which rather tends to soften, than
exasperate, her resentments, and seems artfully contrived
to prepare the change, that follows.
On the whole, Electra’s concern, as managed by
the poet, is agreeable to the tenor of her character,
and the circumstances of her situation. To have
drawn her otherwise, had been perhaps in the taste
of modern tragedy, but had certainly been beside
the line of nature, and practice of the ancients.
II. The case of Iphigenia, though a greater authority
stand in the way, is still easier. Aristotle’s
words are, τοῦ δὲ ἀνωμάλου [παράδειγμα] ἡ ἐν Αὐλίδι
Ἰφιγένεια. Οὐδὲν γὰρ ἔοικεν ἡ ἱκετεύουσα τῇ ὑστέρᾳ,
i. e. “Iphigenia is an instance of the inconsistent
character: for there is no probable conformity betwixt
her fears and supplications at first, and her
firmness and resolution afterwards.” But how
doth this appear, independently of the name of this
great critic? Iphigenia is drawn indeed, at first,
fearful and suppliant: and surely with the greatest
observance of nature. The account of her destination
to the altar was sudden, and without the least
preparation; and, as Lucretius well observes, in
commenting her case, NUBENDI TEMPORE IN IPSO;
when her thoughts were all employed, and, according
to the simplicity of those times, confessed to be
so, on her promised nuptials. The cause of such
destination too, as appeared at first, was the private
family interest of Menelaus. All this justifies, or
rather demands, the strongest expression of female
fear and weakness. “But she afterwards recants
and voluntarily devotes herself to the altar.” And
this, with the same strict attention to probability.
She had now informed herself of the importance of
the case. Her devotement was the demand of Apollo,
and the joint petition of all Greece. The glory
of her country, the dignity and interest of her family,
the life of the generous Achilles, and her own
future fame, were, all, nearly concerned in it. All
this considered, together with the high, heroic sentiments
of those times, and the superior merit, as
was believed, of voluntary devotement, Iphigenia’s
character must have been very unfit for the distress
of a whole tragedy to turn upon, if she had not, in
the end, discovered the readiest submission to her
appointment. But, to shew with what wonderful
propriety the poet knew to sustain his characters,
we find her, after all, and notwithstanding the heroism
of the change, in a strong and passionate
apostrophe to her native Mycenæ, confessing some
involuntary apprehensions and regrets, the remains
of that instinctive abhorrence of death, which had
before so strongly possessed her.
Ἔθρεψας Ἑλλάδι μέγα φάος—
θανοῦσα δ’ οὐκ ἀναίνομαι.
Once the bright star of Greece—
But I submit to die.
This, I take to be not only a full vindication of the
consistency of Iphigenia’s character, but as delicate
a stroke of nature, as is, perhaps, to be found in
any writer.
After the writing of this note, I was pleased to
find, that so sensible a critic, as P. Brumoi, had
been before me in these sentiments concerning the
character of Iphigenia. The reasons he employs,
are nearly the same. Only he confirms them all by
shewing, that the Iphigenia of Racine, which is modelled,
not according to the practice of Euripides,
but the Comment of Aristotle, is, in all respects, so
much the worse for it. In justice to this ingenious
writer, it should be owned, that he is almost the
only one of his nation, who hath perfectly seen
through the foppery, or, as some affect to esteem
it, the refinement of French manners. This hath
enabled him to give us, in his Théatre des Grecs,
a masterly and very useful view of the Greek stage;
set forth in all its genuine simplicity, and defended
on the sure principles of nature and common sense.
128. Difficile est proprie communia dicere:
Lambin’s Comment is Communia hoc loco appellat
Horatius argumenta fabularum à nullo adhuc tractata:
et ita, quæ cuivis exposita sunt et in medio
quodammodo posita, quasi vacua et à nemine occupata.
And that this is the true meaning of communia
is evidently fixed by the words ignota indictaque,
which are explanatory of it: so that the sense,
given it in the commentary, is unquestionably the
right one. Yet, notwithstanding the clearness of
the case, a late critic hath this strange passage: Difficile
quidem esse proprie communia dicere, hoc est,
materiam vulgarem, notam, et è medio petitam ita
immutare atque exornare, ut nova et scriptori propria
videatur, ultro concedimus; et maximi proculdubio
ponderis ista est observatio. Sed omnibus
utrinque collatis, et tum difficilis, tum venusti,
tam judicii quam ingenii ratione habita, major videtur
esse gloria fabulam formare penitus novam,
quam veterem, utcunque mutatam, de novo exhibere.
[Poet. Præl. v. ii. p. 164.] Where having first,
put a wrong construction on the word communia,
he imploys it to introduce an impertinent criticism.
For where does the poet prefer the glory of refitting
old subjects, to that of inventing new ones? The
contrary is implied in what he urges about the superior
difficulty of the latter; from which he dissuades
his countrymen, only in respect of their abilities
and inexperience in these matters; and in
order to cultivate in them, which is the main view of
the Epistle, a spirit of correctness, by sending them
to the old subjects, treated by the Greek writers.
131. Publica materies privati Juris erit, &c.]
Publica materies is just the reverse of what the poet
had before stiled communia; the latter meaning
such subjects or characters, as, though by their nature
left in common to all, had yet, in fact, not
been occupied by any writer—the former those,
which had already been made public by occupation.
In order to acquire a property in subjects of this
sort, the poet directs us to observe the three following
cautions: 1. Not to follow the trite, obvious
round of the original work, i. e. not servilely and
scrupulously to adhere to its plan or method. 2.
Not to be translators, instead of imitators, i. e. if
it shall be thought fit to imitate more expressly any
part of the original, to do it with freedom and spirit,
and without a slavish attachment to the mode of expression.
3. Not to adopt any particular incident,
that may occur in the proposed model, which either
decency or the nature of the work would reject.
M. Dacier illustrates these rules, which have been
conceived to contain no small difficulty, from the
Iliad; to which the poet himself refers, and probably
not without an eye to particular instances of the
errors, here condemned, in the Latin tragedies.
For want of these, it may be of use to fetch an illustration
from some examples in our own. And we
need not look far for them. Almost every modern
play affords an instance of one or other of these
faults. The single one of Catiline by B. Jonson
is, itself, a specimen of them all. This tragedy,
which hath otherwise great merit, and on which its
author appears to have placed no small value, is, in
fact, the Catilinarian war of Sallust, put into poetical
dialogue, and so offends against the first rule of
the poet, in following too servilely the plain beaten
round of the Chronicle. 2. Next, the speeches of
Cicero and Catiline, of Cato and Cæsar are, all of
them, direct and literal translations of the historian
and orator, in violation of the second rule, which
forbids a too close attachment to the mode, or form
of expression. 3. There are several transgressions of
that rule, which injoins a strict regard to the nature
and genius of the work. One is obvious and
striking. In the history, which had, for its subject,
the whole Catilinarian war, the fates of the conspirators
were distinctly to be recorded, and the preceding
debates, concerning the manner of their punishment,
afforded an occasion, too inviting to be
overlooked by an historian, and above all a republican
historian, of embellishing his narration by set
harangues. Hence the long speeches of Cæsar and
Cato in the senate have great propriety, and are
justly esteemed among the leading beauties of that
work. But the case was totally different in the
drama; which, taking for its subject the single fate
of Catiline, had no concern with the other conspirators,
whose fates at most should only have been
hinted at, not debated with all the circumstance and
pomp of rhetoric on the stage. Nothing can be
more flat and disgusting, than this calm, impertinent
pleading; especially in the very heat and
winding up of the plot. But the poet was misled
by the beauty it appeared to have in the original
composition, without attending to the peculiar laws
of the drama, and the indecorum it must needs have
in so very different a work.
136. Nec sic incipies, ut scriptor cyclicus
olim:] All this [to v. 153] is a continuation of the
poet’s advice, given above,
Rectius Iliacum carmen deducis in actus
Quam si proferres ignota indictaque primus.
For, having first shewn in what respects a close observance
of the epic form would be vicious in tragedy,
he now prescribes how far it may be usefully
admitted. And this is, 1. [from 136 to 146] in
the simplicity and modesty of the exordium; and,
2. [to v. 153] in the artificial method and contexture
of the piece. 1. The reason of the former rule
is founded on the impropriety of raising a greater
expectation, at setting out, than can afterwards be
answered by the sequel of the poem. But, because
the epic writers themselves, from whom this conduct
was to be drawn, had sometimes transgressed
this rule, and as the example of such an error would
be likely to infect, and, in all probability, actually
did infect, the tragic poets of that time, he takes
occasion, 1. to criticize an absurd instance of it;
and, 2. to oppose to it the wiser practice of Homer.
2. The like conduct he observes under the second
article. For, being to recommend to the tragic
writer such an artificial disposition of his subject, as
hastens rapidly to the event, and rejects, as impertinent,
all particulars in the round of the story,
which would unnecessarily obstruct his course to it—a
plan essentially necessary to the legitimate
epic—he first glances at the injudicious violation of
this method in a certain poem on the return of Diomed,
and then illustrates and lays open the superior
art and beauty of the Iliad. And all this, as appears,
for the sole purpose of explaining and enforcing
the precept about forming the plots of tragedies
from epic poems. Whence we see, how properly
the examples of the errors, here condemned, are
taken, not from the drama, as the less attentive
reader might expect, but solely from the epos; for,
this being made the object of imitation to the dramatic
poet, as the tenor of the place shews, it became
necessary to guard against the influence of bad
models. Which I observe for the sake of those,
who, from not apprehending the connection of this
and such like passages in the epistle, hastily conclude
it to be a confused medley of precepts concerning
the art of poetry, in general; and not a regular
well-conducted piece, uniformly tending to lay
open the state, and to remedy the defects, of the
Roman stage.
148. Semper ad eventum festinat; &c.] The
disposition, here recommended to the poet, might
be shewn universally right from the clearest principles.
But the propriety and beauty of it will, perhaps,
be best apprehended by such, as are unused
to the more abstract criticism, from attending to a
particular instance. Let us conceive an objector
then to put the following query: “Supposing the
author of the Æneis to have related, in the natural
order, the destruction of Troy, would not the
subject have been, to all intents and purposes, as
much one, as it is under its present form; in
which that event is told, in the second book, by
way of episode?” I answer by no means. The
reason is taken from the nature of the work, and
from the state and expectations of the reader.
1. The nature of an epic or narrative poem is
this, that it lays the author under an obligation of
shewing any event, which he formally undertakes in
his own person, at full length, and with all its material
circumstances. Every figure must be drawn
in full proportion, and exhibited in strong, glowing
colours. Now had the subject of the second book
of the Æneis been related, in this extent, it must
not only have taken up one, but many books. By
this faithful and animated drawing, and the time it
would necessarily have to play upon the imagination,
the event had grown into such importance,
that the remainder could only have passed for a kind
of Appendix to it.
2. The same conclusion is drawn from considering
the state of the reader. For, hurried away by
an instinctive impatience, he pursues the proposed
event with eagerness and rapidity. So circumstantial
a detail, as was supposed, of an intermediate
action not necessarily connected with it, breaks the
course of his expectations, and throws forward the
point of view to an immoderate distance. In the
mean time the action, thus interposed and presented
to his thoughts, acquires by degrees, and at length
ingrosses his whole attention. It becomes the important
theme of the piece; or, at least, what follows
sets out with the disadvantage of appearing to
him, as a new and distinct subject.
But now being related by way of episode, that is,
as a succinct, summary narration, not made by the
poet himself, but coming from the mouth of a person,
necessarily ingaged in the progress of the action,
it serves for a short time to interrupt, and, by
that interruption to sharpen, the eager expectation
of the reader. It holds the attention, for a while,
from the main point of view; yet not long enough
to destroy that impatient curiosity, which looks forward
to it. And thus it contributes to the same end,
as a piece of miniature, properly introduced into a
large picture. It amuses the eye with something
relative to the painter’s design, yet not so, as to
with-hold its principal observation from falling on
the greater subject. The parallel will not hold very
exactly, because the painter is, of necessity, confined
to the same instant of time; but it may serve
for an illustration of my meaning. Suppose the
painter to take, for his subject, that part of Æneas’s
story, where, with his penates, his father, and his
son, he is preparing to set sail for Italy. To draw
Troy in flames, as a constituent part of this picture,
would be manifestly absurd. It would be painting
two subjects, instead of one. And perhaps Troja
incensa might seize the attention before
Ascanium Anchisenque patrem Teucrosque penates.
But a distant perspective of burning Troy might be
thrown into a corner of the piece, that is, episodically,
with good advantage; where, instead of distracting
the attention, and breaking the unity of the
subject, it would concenter, as it were, with the
great design, and have an effect in augmenting the
distress of it.
153. Tu, quid ego et populus, &c.] The connexion
is this. “But though the strict observance
of these rules will enable the poet to conduct his
plot to the best advantage, yet this is not all which
is required to a perfect tragedy. If he would
seize the attention, and secure the applause, of
the audience, something further must be attempted.
He must (to return to the point, from
which I digressed, v. 127) be particularly studious
to express the manners. Besides the peculiarities
of office, temper, condition, country, &c. before
considered, all which require to be drawn with
the utmost fidelity, a singular attention must be
had to the characteristic differences of age.”
Ætatis cujusque notandi sunt tibi mores.
The reason of this conduct is given in the commentary.
It further serves to adorn this part of the
epistle [which is wholly preceptive from v. 89 to
202] with those beautiful pourtraitures of human
life, in its several successive stages, which nature
and Aristotle had instructed him so well to paint.
157. Mobilibusque decor naturis dandus et
annis.] Mobilibus] non levibus aut inconstantibus,
sed quæ variatis ætatibus immutantur. Lambin.
Naturis] By this word is not meant, simply,
that instinctive natural biass, implanted in every
man, to this or that character, but, in general, nature,
as it appears diversified in the different periods
of life. The sense will be: A certain decorum or
propriety must be observed in painting the natures
or dispositions of men varying with their years.
There is then no occasion for changing the text,
with Dr. Bentley, into
Mobilibusque decor, maturis dandus et annis.
179. Aut agitur res in scenis, aut acta refertur:
&c.] The connexion is this. The misapplication,
just now mentioned, destroys the credibility.
This puts the poet in mind of another
misconduct, which hath the same effect, viz. intus
digna geri promere in scenam. But, before he
makes this observation, it was proper to premise a
concession to prevent mistakes, viz.
Segnius irritant animos, &c.
182. Non tamen intus Digna geri promes in
scenam:] I know not a more striking example of
the transgression of this rule, than in Seneca’s Hippolytus;
where Theseus is made to weep over the
mangled members of his son, which he attempts to
put together on the stage. This, which has so
horrid an appearance in the action, might have
been so contrived, as to have an infinite beauty in
the narration; as may be seen from a similar instance
in Xenophon’s Cyropædia, where Panthea
is represented putting together the torn limbs of
Abradates.
185. Ne pueros coram populo, &c.] Seneca,
whom we before [v. 123] saw so sollicitous to keep up
to one rule of Horace, here makes no scruple to
transgress another. For, in violation of the very
letter of this precept, and of all the laws of decency
and common sense, he represents Medea butchering
her children in the face of the people; and, as if this
too faintly painted the fury of her character, he further
aggravates the cruelty of the execution, with all the
horrors of a lingering act. This, seemingly inconsistent,
conduct of the poet was, in truth, owing to
one and the same cause, namely, “The endeavour
to sustain Medea’s character.” For, wanting true
taste to discern the exact boundaries, which nature
had prescribed to the human character, or true
genius to support him in a due preservation of it, he,
as all bad writers use, for fear of doing too little,
unfortunately does too much; and so, as Shakespear
well expresses it, o’ersteps the modesty of nature,
inflating her sentiments with extravagant passion,
and blackening her acts with circumstances of unnatural
horror. Though some of these faults I suspect
he only copied. For, to say nothing of that of
Ennius, Ovid’s Medea was, at this time, very famous,
and as, I think, may be collected from the judgment
passed upon it by Quinctilian, had some of the vices,
here charged upon Seneca. Ovidii Medea, says he,
videtur mihi ostendere, quantum vir ille præstare
potuerit, si ingenio suo temperare, quàm indulgere,
maluisset. It is not possible indeed to say exactly,
wherein this intemperance consisted; but it is not
unlikely, that, amongst other things, it might shew
itself in the sorceries and incantations; a subject,
intirely suited to the wildness of Ovid’s genius; and
which, as appears from his relation of this story in
the metamorphosis, he knew not how to treat without
running into some excess and luxuriance in that part.
But whether this were the cause, or no, the very
treating a subject, which had gone through such
hands, as Euripides, Ennius, and Ovid, was enough
to expose a writer of better judgment, than Seneca,
to some hazard. For, in attempting to outdo originals,
founded on the plan of simple nature, a writer
is in the utmost danger of running into affectation
and bombast. And indeed, without this temptation,
our writers have generally found means to incur these
excesses; the very best of them being too apt to fill
their plots with unnatural incidents, and to heighten
their characters into caracatures. Though it may be
doubted, whether this hath been owing so much to
their own ill taste, as to a vicious compliance with
that of the public; for, as one says, who well knew
the expediency of this craft, and practised accordingly,
to write unnatural things is the most probable
way of pleasing them who understand not
nature. [Dryd. Pref. to Mock Astrol.]
193. Actoris partes chorus, &c.] See also
Aristotle [περ. ποιητ. κ. ιηʹ.] The judgment of two
such critics, and the practice of wise antiquity concurring
to establish this precept concerning the
Chorus, it should thenceforth, one would think,
have become a fundamental rule and maxim of
the stage. And so indeed it appeared to some few
writers. The most admired of the French tragic
poets ventured to introduce it into two of his latter
plays, and with such success, that, as one observes,
It should, in all reason, have disabused his countrymen
on this head: l’essai heureux de M. Racine,
qui les [chœurs] a fait revivre dans Athalie et dans
Esther, devroit, ce semble, nous avoir detrompez
sur cet article. [P. Brumoi, vol. i. p. 105.] And,
before him, our Milton, who, with his other great talents,
possessed a supreme knowledge of antiquity,
was so struck with its use and beauty, as to attempt
to bring it into our language. His Sampson
Agonistes was, as might be expected, a master-piece.
But even his credit hath not been sufficient to restore
the Chorus. Hear a late Professor of the art declaring,
De choro nihil disserui, quia non est essentialis
dramati, atque à neotericis penitus, ET, ME JUDICE,
MERITO, REPUDIATUR. [Præl. Poet. vol. ii. p. 188.]
Whence it hath come to pass, that the chorus hath
been thus neglected, is not now the inquiry. But
that this critic, and all such are greatly out in their
judgments when they presume to censure it in the
ancients, must appear (if we look no further) from
the double use, insisted on by the poet. For, 1. A chorus
interposing, and bearing a part in the progress of
the action, gives the representation that probability14,
and striking resemblance of real life, which every
man of sense perceives and feels the want of upon
our stage; a want, which nothing but such an expedient
as the chorus can possibly relieve. And, 2.
The importance of its other office [v. 196] to the
utility of the representation, is so great, that, in a
moral view, nothing can compensate for this deficiency.
For it is necessary to the truth and decorum
of characters, that the manners, bad as well as good,
be drawn in strong, vivid colours, and to that end that
immoral sentiments, forcibly expressed and speciously
maintained, be sometimes imputed to the speakers.
Hence the sound philosophy of the chorus will be
constantly wanting to rectify the wrong conclusions
of the audience, and prevent the ill impressions that
might otherwise be made upon it. Nor let any one
say, that the audience is well able to do this for itself:
Euripides did not find even an Athenian theatre so
quick-sighted. The story is well known [Sen. Ep.
115.] that when this painter of the manners was
obliged, by the rules of his art, and the character to
be sustained, to put a run of bold sentiments in the
mouth of one of his persons, the people instantly took
fire, charging the poet with the imputed villany, as
though it had been his own. Now if such an audience
could so easily misinterpret an attention to the truth
of character into the real doctrine of the poet, and
this too, when a chorus was at hand to correct and
disabuse their judgments, what must be the case,
when the whole is left to the sagacity and penetration
of the people? The wiser sort, ’tis true, have little
need of this information. Yet the reflexions of sober
sense on the course and occurrences of the representation,
clothed in the noblest dress of poetry, and
inforced by the joint powers of harmony and action
(which is the true character of the chorus) might
make it, even to such, a not unpleasant or unprofitable
entertainment. But these two are a small part of the
uses of the chorus: which in every light is seen so
important to the truth, decorum, and dignity of the
tragic scene, that the modern stage, which hath not
thought proper to adopt it, is even, with the advantage
of, sometimes, the justest moral painting and
sublimest imagery, but a very faint shadow of the
old; as must needs appear to those, who have looked
into the ancient models, or, divesting themselves of
modern prejudices, are disposed to consult the dictates
of plain sense. For the use of such I once designed
to have drawn into one view the several important
benefits, arising to the drama from the observance
of this rule, but have the pleasure to find
myself prevented by a sensible dissertation of a good
French writer, which the reader will find in the VIII
Tom. of the history of the Academy of Inscriptions
and Belles Lettres.—Or, it may be sufficient to
refer the English Reader to the late tragedies of
Elfrida and Caractacus; which do honour to
modern poetry, and are a better apology, than any
I could make, for the ancient chorus.
193. Officiumque virile] Heinsius takes virile
adverbially for viriliter. But this is thought harsh.
What hinders, but that it may be taken adjectively?
And then, agreeably to his interpretation, officium
virile will mean a strenuous, diligent office, such as
becomes a person interested in the progress of the
action. The precept is leveled against the practice
of those poets, who, though they allot the part of a
persona dramatis to the chorus, yet for the most
part make it so idle and insignificant an one, as is
of little consequence in the representation: by which
means the advantage of probability, intended to be
drawn from this use of the chorus, is, in great
measure, lost.
194. Neu quid medios intercinat actus, Quod
non proposito conducat et haereat apte.] How
necessary this advice might be to the writers of the
Augustan age cannot certainly appear; but, if the
practice of Seneca may give room for any suspicion,
it should seem to have been much wanted; in whom
I scarcely believe there is one single instance of the
chorus being employed in a manner, consonant to its
true end and character. To support this general censure,
which may seem to bear hard on the poet, let us
examine, in this view, one of the best of his plays,
I mean, the Hippolytus; whose chorus, throughout,
bears a very idle and uninteresting part—hath no
share in the action—and sings impertinently.
At the end of the first act, when Phædra had
avowed her passion for Hippolytus, instead of declaiming
against her horrid purpose, enlarging on the
danger and impiety of giving way to unnatural lusts,
or something of this nature, which was surely the
office of the chorus, it expatiates wantonly, and with
a poetic luxuriance, on the sovereign, wide-extended
powers of love.
In the close of the second act, instead of applauding
the virtuous obstinacy of Hippolytus, and execrating
the mad attempt of Phædra, it coolly sings the danger
of beauty.
The third act contains the false accusation of
Hippolytus, and the too easy deception of Theseus.
What had the chorus to do here, but to warn against
a too great credulity, and to commiserate the case
of the deluded father? Yet it declaims, in general,
on the unequal distribution of good and ill.
After the fourth act, the chorus should naturally
have bewailed the fate of Hippolytus, and reverenced
the mysterious conduct of Providence in suffering the
cruel destiny of the innocent. This, or something
like it, would have been to the purpose. But, as if
the poet had never heard of this rule of coherence,
he harangues, in defiance of common sense, on the
instability of an high fortune, and the security of a
low.
It will further justify this censure of Seneca, and
be some amusement to the critical reader, to observe,
how the several blunders, here charged upon him,
arose from an injudicious imitation of Euripides.
I. There are two places in the Greek Hippolytus,
which Seneca seems to have had in view in his first
chorus. We will consider them both.
1. When the unhappy Phædra at length suffers
the fatal secret of her passion to be extorted from her,
she falls, as was natural, into all the horrors of self-detestation,
and determines not to survive the confession
of so black a crime. In this conjuncture, the
nutrix, who is not drawn, as in modern tragedy, an
unmeaning confidante, the mere depositary of the
poet’s secrets, but has real manners assigned to her,
endeavours, with the highest beauty of character, to
divert these horrid intentions, and mitigate in some
sort the guilt of her passion, by representing to her
the resistless and all-subduing force of love. “Venus,
says this virtuous monitrix, is not to be withstood,
when she rushes upon us with all her power. Nor
is any part of creation vacant from her influence.
She pervades the air, and glides through the deeps.
We, the inhabitants of the earth, are all subject
to her dominion. Nay, ask of the ancient bards,
and they will tell you, that the Gods themselves are
under her controul.” And so goes on, enumerating
particular examples, from all which she infers at last
the necessity of Phædra’s yielding to her fate. Again,
2. Towards the close of the Greek play, when,
upon receiving the tragical story of his son’s sufferings,
Theseus began to feel his resentments give way
to the workings of paternal affection, and, on that
account, though he was willing to conceal the true
motive, even from himself, had given orders for the
dying Hippolytus to be brought before him, the
chorus very properly flings out into that fine address
to Venus,
Σὺ τὰν θεῶν ἄκαμπτον φρένα, &c.
the substance of which is, “That Venus, with her
swift-winged boy, who traverses the earth and
ocean, subdues the stubborn hearts of Gods and
men: inspiring into all, on whom her influence
rests, whether inhabitants of the land or deep, and
more especially the race of man, a soft and sympathizing
tenderness; demonstrating hereby, that
she alone extends her all-controuling dominion over
universal nature.” This song, as thus connected
with the occasion, is apparently very proper, and,
when reduced from the pomp of lyric eloquence to
plain prose, is only an address of congratulation to
the powers of love; confessing and celebrating their
influence, in thus softening the rigors of a father’s
hate, and awakening in his breast the soft touches of
returning pity and affection.
Now these two places, taken together, are plainly
the ground-work of that song,
Diva, non miti generata ponto, &c.
but how improperly applied, has appeared, in respect
of the latter of them, from what has been observed
concerning the occasion; and must be acknowledged
of the other, from the different character of the person
to whom it is given; and also from hence, that the
chorus in the Greek poet expressly condemns the impiety
of such suggestions in the nurse, and admonishes
Phædra not to lend an ear to them. The chorus,
when it comes to sing in him, is far otherwise employed;
not in celebrating the triumphs, but deprecating
the pernicious fury of this passion, and in
lamenting the fatal miscarriages of Hymeneal love.
II. The second song, on the graces of the prince’s
person, and the danger of beauty, which follows on
the abrupt departure of Hippolytus, rejecting, with
a virtuous disdain, the mad attempts of Phædra and
her confidante, is so glaringly improper, as not to
admit an excuse from any example. And yet, I am
afraid, the single authority, it has to lean on, is a very
short hint, slightly dropped by the chorus in the
Greek poet on a very different occasion. It is in the
entrance of that scene, where the mangled body of
Hippolytus is brought upon the stage; on the
sight of which the chorus very naturally breaks
out,
Καὶ μὲν ὁ τάλας ὅδε δὴ στείχει
Σάρκας νεαρὰς
Ξανθόν τε κάρα διαλυμανθείς.
and yet, as the reader of just taste perceives, nothing
beyond a single reflexion could have been endured
even here.
III. The next song of the chorus may seem directly
copied from Euripides. Yet the two occasions
will be found extremely different. In Seneca, Theseus,
under the conviction of his son’s guilt, inveighs
bitterly against him, and at last supplicates the power
of Neptune to avenge his crimes. The chorus, as
anticipating the effects of this imprecation, arraigns
the justice of the Gods. In the Greek poet, the father,
under the like circumstances, invokes the same avenging
power, and, as some immediate relief to his rage,
pronounces the sentence of banishment, and urges
the instant execution of it, against him. Hippolytus,
unable to contend any longer with his father’s fury,
breaks out into that most tender complaint (than
which nothing was ever more affecting in tragedy)
Ἄρηρεν, ὡς ἔοικεν, ὦ τάλας ἐγώ. &c.
containing his last adieu to his country, companions,
and friends. The chorus, touched with the pathos
of this apostrophe, and commiserating his sad reverse
of fortune, enters with him into the same excess
of lamentation, and, as the first expression of
it, lets fall this natural sentiment, “That though
from coolly contemplating the divine superintendency
of human affairs, there results abundant
confidence and security against the ills of life, yet
when we look abroad into the lives and fortunes of
men, that confidence is apt to fail us, and we
find ourselves discouraged and confounded by the
promiscuous and undistinguishing appointments
of good and ill.” This is the thought, which Seneca
hath imitated, and, as his manner is, outraged
in his chorus of the third act:
O magna parens, Natura, Deûm, &c.
But the great difference lies here. That, whereas
in Euripides this sentiment is proper and agreeable
to the state and circumstances of the chorus, which
is ever attentive to the progress of the action, and is
most affected by what immediately presents itself to
observation; in Seneca it is quite foreign and impertinent;
the attention of the chorus naturally
turning, not on the distresses of Hippolytus, which
had not yet commenced, but on the rashness and
unhappy delusion of Theseus, as being that, which
had made the whole subject of the preceding scene.
But the consequence of that delusion, it will be said,
was obvious. It may be so. But the chorus, as
any sensible spectator, is most agitated by such reflexions,
as occur to the mind from those scenes of
the drama, which are actually passing before it, and
not from those which have not yet taken place.
IV. What was remarked of the second song of the
chorus will be applicable to the fourth, which is
absurdly founded on a single reflexion in the Greek
poet, but just touched in a couple of lines, though
much more naturally introduced. Theseus, plunged
in the deepest affliction by the immature death of
Phædra, and not enduring the sight of the supposed
guilty author of it, commands him into banishment,
“Lest, as he goes on, his former triumphs and
successes against the disturbers of mankind,
should in consequence of the impunity of such
unprecedented crimes, henceforth do him no honour.”
The chorus, struck with the distressful
situation of the old king, and recollecting with him
the sum of his former glories, is made to exclaim,
Οὐκ οἶδ’ ὅπως εἴποιμ’ ἂν εὐτυχεῖν τινα
Θνητῶν· τὰ γὰρ δὴ πρῶτ’ ἀνέστραπται πάλιν.
i. e. there is henceforth no such thing, as human
happiness, when the first examples of it are thus
sadly reversed. Which casual remark Seneca
seizes and extends through a whole chorus; where
it visibly serves to no other end, but to usurp a
place, destined for far more natural and affecting
sentiments.
If I have been rather long upon this head, it is
because I conceive this critique on the Hippolytus
will let the reader, at once, into the true character
of Seneca; which, he now sees, is that of a mere
declamatory moralist. So little deserving is he of
the reputation of a just dramatic poet.
196. Ille bonis faveatque, &c.] The chorus,
says the poet, is to take the side of the good and
virtuous, i. e. is always to sustain a moral character.
But this will need some explanation and restriction.
To conceive aright of its office, we must suppose
the chorus to be a number of persons, by some probable
cause assembled together, as witnesses and
spectators of the great action of the drama. Such
persons, as they cannot be wholly uninterested in
what passes before them, will very naturally bear
some share in the representation. This will principally
consist in declaring their sentiments, and indulging
their reflexions freely on the several events
and distresses as they shall arise. Thus we see the
moral, attributed to the chorus, will be no other
than the dictates of plain sense; such as must be
obvious to every thinking observer of the action,
who is under the influence of no peculiar partialities
from affection or interest. Though even these may
be supposed in cases, where the character, towards
which they draw, is represented as virtuous.
A chorus, thus constituted, must always, it is
evident, take the part of virtue; because this is the
natural and almost necessary determination of mankind,
in all ages and nations, when acting freely
and unconstrained. But then it is to be observed,
1. That this moral character, or approbation of
virtue, must also be considerably influenced by the
common and established notions of right and wrong;
which, though in essential points, for the most part,
uniformly the same under all circumstances, yet
will, in some particular instances, be much distorted
by the corrupt principles and practices of different
countries and times. Hence the moral of the stage
will not be always strictly philosophical; as reflecting
to us the image not of the sage’s speculation, but,
of the obvious sense of common, untutor’d minds.
The reader will find this observation applied to the
case of the chorus in the Medea, in note on v. 200,
and it might further, perhaps, be extended to the
vindication of some others, to which the ignorant
temerity of modern criticism hath taken occasion to
object. But,
2. The moral character of the chorus will not
only depend very much on the several mistaken
notions and usages, which may happen, under different
circumstances, to corrupt and defile morality;
but allowance is also to be made for the false policies,
which may prevail in different countries; and
especially if they constitute any part of the subject,
which the drama would represent. If the chorus be
made up of free citizens, whether of a republic, or
the milder and more equal royalties, they can be
under little or no temptation to suppress or disguise
their real sentiments on the several events, presented
to their observation; but will be at liberty to pursue
their natural inclination of speaking the truth. But
should this venerable assembly, instead of sustaining
the dignity of free subjects, be, in fact, a company
of slaves, devoted by long use to the service
and interests of a master, or awed, by the dread of
tyrannical power, into an implicit compliance with
his will, the baleful effect, which this very different
situation must have on their moral character, is evident.
Their opinions of persons and things will
cease to be oracular; and the interposition of the
chorus will be more likely to injure the cause of virtue,
than to assist and promote it. Nor can any
objection be made, on this account, to the conduct
of the poet; who keeps to nature and probability in
drawing the chorus with this imperfectly moral character;
and is only answerable for his ill choice of
a subject, in which such a pernicious representation
is required. An instance will explane my meaning
more perfectly. The chorus in the Antigone, contrary
to the rule of Horace, takes the side of the
wicked. It consists of a number of old Thebans,
assembled by the order of Creon to assist, or rather
to be present, at a kind of mock council; in which he
meant to issue his cruel interdict of the rites of sepulture
to the body of Polynices; a matter of the
highest consequence in those days, and upon which
the whole distress of the play turns. This veteran
troop of vassals enter at once into the horrid views
of the tyrant, and obsequiously go along with him
in the projects of his cruelty; calmly, and without
the appearance of any virtuous emotion, consenting
to them all. The consequence is that the interludes
of the chorus are, for the most part, impertinent,
or something worse; cautiously avoiding such useful
reflexions, as the nature of the case must suggest,
or indulging, by their flatteries, the impotent tyranny
of their prince. And yet no blame can be
fairly charged upon the great poet, who hath surely
represented, in the most striking colours, the pernicious
character, which a chorus, under such circumstances,
would naturally sustain. The fault
must therefore fall, where the poet manifestly intended
to throw it, on the accursed spirit of despotism;
which extinguishes, or over-rules, the suggestions
of common sense; kills the very seeds of
virtue, and perverts the most sacred and important
offices, such as is that of the chorus, into the means
and instruments of vice. The glory, which he designed,
by this representation, to reflect upon the
government and policy of his own state, is too glaring
to be overlooked. And he hath artfully contrived
to counter-act any ill impressions on the
minds of the people, from the prostituted authority
of the chorus, by charging them, in the persons of
Hæmon and Antigone, with their real motives and
views. In all indifferent things, in which the passions
or interests of their master were not concerned,
even this chorus would of course preserve a moral
character. But we are to look for it no further.
This is the utmost verge and boundary of a slave’s
virtue. An important truth, which, among many
greater and more momentous instructions, furnishes
this to the dramatic poet, “That, if he would apply
the chorus to the uses of a sound and useful moral,
he must take his subjects, not from the annals of
despotic tyranny, but from the great events, which
occur in the records of free and equal commonwealths.”
200. Ille tegat commissa] This important
advice is not always easy to be followed. Much
indeed will depend on the choice of the subject, and
the artful constitution of the fable. Yet, with all
his care, the ablest writer will sometimes find himself
embarrassed by the chorus. I would here be
understood to speak chiefly of the moderns. For
the ancients, though it has not been attended to,
had some peculiar advantages over us in this respect,
resulting from the principles and practices of those
times. For, as it hath been observed of the ancient
epic muse, that she borrowed much of her state and
dignity from the false theology of the pagan world, so,
I think, it may be justly said of the ancient tragic, that
she has derived great advantages of probability from
its mistaken moral. If there be truth in this reflexion,
it will help to justify some of the ancient
choirs, that have been most objected to by the moderns.
To give an instance or two, and leave the
curious reader to extend the observation at his
leisure.
I. In the Hippolytus of Euripides, the chorus,
which is let into Phædra’s design of killing herself,
suffers this rash attempt to take effect, rather than
divulge the intrusted secret. This, to a modern
reader, seems strange; and we are ready to arraign
the poet of having allotted a very unfit and unbecoming
part to his chorus, which, in order to observe
a critical, is thus made to violate a moral
precept, or at least to sacrifice the more essential
part of its character to a punctilio of honour. But
the case was quite otherwise. This suicide of Phædra,
which, on our stricter moral plan, is repugnant
to the plain rules of duty, was, in the circumstances
supposed, fully justified on the pagan system.
Phædra had confessed the secret of her criminal
passion. By the forward zeal of her confident,
her disgrace is made known to Hippolytus; and
thereby, as she conceives, rendered notorious to
the public. In this distress she had only one way
to vindicate her honour, and that was at the expence
of her life. Rather than bear the insupportable
load of public infamy, she kills herself. That
this was a justifiable cause of self-murder in the
eye of the chorus is clear from the reason, there
assigned, of her conduct, manifestly in approbation
of it. “Phædra, says the chorus, oppressed and
borne down by her afflictions, has recourse to this
expedient of suicide,
τάν τ’ εὔδοξον ἀνθαιρουμένα
Φάμαν, ἀπαλλάσσουσά
Τ’ ἀλγεινὸν φρενῶν ἔρωτα.
for the sake of her good fame, and in order to free
herself from the tortures of a cruel passion.” And
how agreeable this was to the pagan system, in general,
let the reader collect from the following testimonies
in Cicero: Si omnia fugiendæ turpitudinis
adipiscendæque honestatis causâ faciemus, non
modo stimulos doloris, sed etiam fulmina fortunæ
contemnamus licebit: præsertim cum paratum sit
illud ex hesternâ disputatione perfugium. Ut
enim, si, cui naviganti prædones insequantur,
Deus quis dixerit, Ejice te navi; præsto est, qui
excipiat, &c. omnem omittas timorem; sic, urgentibus
asperis et odiosis doloribus, si tanti non sint
ut ferendi sint, quo sit confugiendum vides. [Tusc.
Disp. l. ii. 26.] And, again, in the close of the Vth
disputation, Mihi quidem in vita servanda videtur
illa lex, quæ in Græcorum conviviis obtinet: Aut
bibat, inquit, aut abeat. Et recte. Aut enim
fruatur aliquis pariter cum aliis voluptate potandi;
aut, ne sobrius in violentiam vinolentorum incidat,
ante discedat: sic INJURIAS FORTUNÆ, QUAS FERRE
NEQUEAS, DEFUGIENDO RELINQUAS.
II. Another example may, I think, be fetched
from the Medea. Scarcely any thing has been more
the subject of modern censure, than the part, which
the chorus is made to act in this tragedy. Whence
comes it, says M. Dacier, that the chorus, which
consists of Corinthian women, is faithful to a
stranger against their sovereign15? This good
Frenchman, it seems, thought it a kind of treason,
even on the stage, and where a moral character
was to be sustained, to take part against a tyrant.
But he will further say, that the moral character
of the chorus was forfeited in thus concealing,
and, in effect, abetting the impious cruelties of
Medea. The laws of nature and of God were transgressed
in rendering this service to her. All which
is very true, supposing the reader to judge of this
matter by the purer christian moral. But how will
he prove this to be the case on the received notions
and practices of paganism? It appears, this critic
did not apprehend, what a moderate attention to
ancient history and manners might have taught him,
that the violation of conjugal fidelity was a crime of
that high nature, as to deserve in the public opinion,
and to excuse, the severest vengeance of retaliation.
This the laws expresly allowed to the injuries of the
husband. And, it is probable, the wife might incline
to think the reason of the case extended also to
her. What is certain is, that we find some of the
deepest scenes of horror, which ancient history
furnishes, or ancient fiction could paint, wrought
up from the occasion of this neglect of conjugal faith.
And it is well observed by one, in speaking of the
difference between the ancient and modern stage,
that what is now held the fit subject of comic mirth
and ridicule in christian theatres, was never employed
but to stir up the utmost horror and commiseration,
on the heathen. “We do not find, says this agreeable
writer, any comedy in so polite an author, as
Terence, raised upon the violations of the marriage-bed.
The falsehood of the wife or husband has
given occasion to noble tragedies; but a Scipio and
Lælius would have looked upon incest or murder,
to have been as proper subjects for comedy.” This
is strictly and precisely the truth. And, therefore, as
the crimes of incest or murder were believed deserving
of the highest punishment by the Pagans, and
every good man was ready to interest himself in seeing
it inflicted16; so, in the case of the open violation of
the marriage-compact, the fiercest acts of revenge
were justified in the public opinion, and passed only
for acts of strict justice. And for this, if we wanted
further authority, we have the express word of the
chorus. The Corinthian women do not barely consent
to secrecy, in virtue of an extorted oath or
promise (though more might have been said for this,
than every reader is aware of) but in consequence of
their entire and full approbation of her intentions.
For thus, in answer to Medea’s petition to them,
without the least reserve or hesitation, they are made
to reply,
Δράσω τάδ’· ἐνδίκως γὰρ ἐκτίσῃ πόσιν
Μήδεια.
I will do it; for this revenge on a husband is just.
We see then the chorus, in keeping the secret of
Medea’s murders, was employed in its great office of
countenancing and supporting salubrem justitiam,
wholesome justice. And, therefore, the scholiast,
with M. Dacier’s leave, gave a fit and proper account
of the matter (so far was it from being impious and
ridiculous) in saying, that the Corinthian women
being free, i. e. not devoted to the service of Creon,
by the special duties of any personal attachment,
take the side of justice, as the chorus is wont to do
on other occasions. The circumstance of their freedom
is properly mentioned. For this distinguishes
their case from that of the nutrix, who upon receiving
the account of Jason’s cruelties, cries out,
Ὄλοιτο μὲν μὴ, δεσπότης γάρ ἐστ’ ἐμὸς,
Ἀτὰρ κακός γ’ ὢν εἰς φίλους ἁλίσκεται.
And that the chorus enter’d into Medea’s designs
against her husband, the tyrant Creon, and her
rival, on reasons of justice and equity only, and not
(as is hastily believed by some, who have not enough
attended to the decorum of the ancient tragedy) for
the sake of forwarding the poet’s plot, may be certainly
shewn. For when, in the fury of her resentments,
and as the full completion of her revenge,
the mother comes to propose the murder of her innocent
children, the chorus starts with horror at the
thought, dissuades her from it in the most earnest
and affecting manner17, and seems to have concealed
the dreadful secret only from the persuasion, that
it was too horrid and unnatural to be perpetrated.
The reader will collect this with pleasure, by turning
to the fine song, which follows. It may be
further observed, that Medea herself, in opening
this last purpose of her rage to the chorus, exacts
fidelity of them only, as they wished well to an injured
queen, and were women;
Εἴπερ φρονεῖς εὖ δεσπόταις, γυνή τ’ ἔφυς.
which is beautifully contrived by the poet, to discriminate
the two cases, and to intimate to us, that
reasons of justice were now no longer to be pleaded.
In sum, though these acts of severe avenging justice
might not be according to the express letter of
the laws, or the more refined conclusions of the
Porch or Academy; yet there is no doubt, that
they were, in the general account, esteemed fit and
reasonable. And, it is to be observed, in order to
pass a right judgment on the ancient chorus, that,
though in virtue of their office, they were obliged
universally to sustain a moral character; yet this
moral was rather political and popular, than strictly
legal or philosophic. Which is also founded on
good reason. The scope and end of the ancient
theatre being to serve the interests of virtue and
society, on the principles and sentiments, already
spread and admitted amongst the people, and not
to correct old errors, and instruct them in philosophic
truth.
202. Tibia non, ut nunc, orichalco, &c.]
[from v. 202 to v. 220.] This is one of those
many passages in the epistle, about which the critics
have said a great deal, without explaining any
thing. In support of what I mean to offer, as the
true interpretation, I observe,
That the poet’s intention certainly was, not to
censure the false refinements of their stage-music;
but, in a short digressive history (such as the didactic
form will sometimes require) to describe the rise
and progress of the true. This I collect, 1. From
the expression itself; which cannot, without violence,
be understood in any other way. For, as to the
words licentia and præceps, which have occasioned
much of the difficulty, the first means a freer use,
not a licentiousness, properly so called; and the
other only expresses a vehemence and rapidity of
language, naturally productive of a quicker elocution,
such as must of course attend the more numerous
harmony of the lyre:—not, as M. Dacier
translates it, une eloquence temeraire et outrée, an
extravagant straining and affectation of style. 2.
From the reason of the thing; which makes it incredible,
that the music of the theatre should then
be most complete, when the times were barbarous,
and entertainments of this kind little encouraged or
understood. 3. From the character of that music
itself; for the rudeness of which, Horace, in effect,
apologizes in defending it only on the score of the
imperfect state of the stage, and the simplicity of its
judges. But what shall we say then to those lines,
Indoctus quid enim saperet liberque laborum,
Rusticus urbano confusus, turpis honesto?
which seem to imply a censure on these Improvements,
as unworthy the approbation of wise men;
contrary to what I have just now supposed to be the
scope of this whole passage.
On the strictest attention, I believe we are to understand
them as a Sneer, in passing, on what grave
and philosophic men have observed of these refinements,
which they constantly treat, as Corruptions.
See note on v. 218. But the mixed auditories of
these days, says the poet with his usual badinage,
were not so wise. ’Tis, as if he had said, “What
I mention here as an improvement in dramatic music
is, in the ideas and language of some grave men,
an abuse and perversion of it to immoral purposes.
It may be so: but consider, for what sorts of people
these theatrical entertainments were designed: for
the ignorant clown and citizen, the plebeian and
gentleman, huddled together into one confused
mass, and crowding to the theatre, on a holyday,
for some relief from their ordinary toils and occupations.
And alas, what do these men know, or consider
of this austere wisdom?
But the cast of the whole passage is, besides,
such as favours the supposition of an intended Irony.
Hence the Tibia non, ut nunc, orichalco vincta,
&c. delivered in the usual tone of declaimers against
modern manners. Hence the epithets, frugi castusque
verecundusque, to denote the quality of those
who assisted, of old, at these virtuous entertainments.
And hence the enormity of that state of
things, when the people were afterwards permitted
to regale on holy days, impune. This intention too
accounts for the terms licentia, luxuries, facundia,
præceps, and others, which being of ambiguous interpretation,
the poet purposely chose, to mimic,
and humour, as it were, the objectors in their favourite
language on this occasion. Till at last, impatient
to continue the raillery any further, he concludes
at once with an air of solemnity very proper
to confound the impertinence of such criticism.
Utiliumque sagax rerum, et divina futuri
Sortilegis non discrepuit sententia Delphis.
All this the reader sees is agreeable to the poet’s
prescription elsewhere,
—Sermone opus est tristi, sæpe jocoso.
and indeed to his own practice on an hundred occasions.
So that on the whole there is little doubt of
his intention in the lines,
Indoctus quid enim saperet, &c.
At least, in this view the poet, I am apt to think,
will be found intelligible and even elegant. Whereas,
on any other supposition of his numerous commentators,
I cannot see that the verses before us (as
they here stand) have either propriety or common
sense.”
The interpretation then of this whole passage,
from v. 202 to 220, will stand thus. “The Tibia,
says the poet, was at first low and simple. The
first, as best agreeing to the state of the stage,
which required only a soft music to go along with,
and assist the chorus; there being no large and
crowded theatres to fill in those days. And the
latter, as suiting best to the state of the times;
whose simplicity and frugal manners exacted the
severest temperance, as in every thing else, so,
in their dramatic ornaments and decorations. But,
when conquest had enlarged the territory, and
widened the walls of Rome; and, in consequence
thereof, a social spirit had dispelled that severity
of manners, by the introduction of frequent festival
solemnities; then, as was natural to expect, a
freer and more varied harmony took place. Nor let
it be objected that this freer harmony was itself an
abuse, a corruption of the severe and moral music of
ancient times. Alas! we were not as yet so wise,
to see the inconveniencies of this improvement.
And how should we, considering the nature and
end of these theatrical entertainments, and the
sort of men of which our theatres were made up?
But, leaving the Philosopher to speculate at his
ease, on this matter, thus, in fact, it was, “that
the Tibicen, the musician, who played to the declamation
in the acts, instead of the rude and simpler
strain of the old times, gave a richness and
variety of tone; and, instead of the old inactive
posture, added the grace of motion to his art.
Just in the same manner, continues he, it happened
to the Lyre, i. e. the music in the chorus,
which originally, as that of the Tibia, was severe
and simple; but, by degrees, acquired a quicker
and more expressive modulation, such as corresponded
to the more elevated and passionate turn
of the poet’s style, and the diviner enthusiasm of
his sentiment.” All that is further wanting to
support and justify this interpretation, will be found
in the notes on particular passages.
203. Tenuis simplexque, &c.] It may here
be observed of the manner, in which the poet hath
chosen to deliver this whole part [from v. 202 to
295] that, besides its other uses, it tends directly
to convey to his readers, and impress upon them in
the strongest manner, the principal instruction, he
has in view, and with which the epistle more expresly
concludes, viz. The uses and importance of
a spirit of critical application. For, in speaking
of the stage music, of the satyrs, and the Greek
tragedy (all which come naturally in his way, and
are very artfully connected) he chuses to deduce the
account of each from its ruder and less polished
original; tracing it through its several successive
stages, and marking out to us the gradual polish
and refinement, which it acquired from increasing
diligence and correctness. The Tibia at first was
simple and rude—The satyrs naked and barbarous—and
the Greek tragedy itself deformed and shapeless
in the cart of Thespis. Care and attention reformed
each. It follows,
Nil intentatum nostri liquere poetæ, &c.
i. e. our poets have not been wanting in their attempts
to excel in these several particulars. What
is necessary to their success is, limæ labor et mora.
If the reader bear this in mind, it will help him to
see the order and scope of this part more distinctly.
204. Aspirare et adesse choris, &c.] Chorus
here means the whole dramatic performance, which
was originally nothing else.
206. Utpote parvus, et frugi castusque verecundusque,
&c.] M. Dacier finds here four
causes of the little regard the ancients had for
plays [he should have said, of their being satisfied
with the Tibia, all rude and simple as is here described]
la premiere, que le peuple Romain étoit
encore alors en petit nombre: la seconde, qu’il
étoit sage: la troisiéme, qu’il étoit chaste, c’est à
dire pieux: et la quatriéme, qu’il étoit modeste. But
the three last epithets are synonymous, all of them
expressing what, though he took three guesses for
it, he had the ill fortune to miss at last, that plainness
and simplicity of character, that frugal reserve
and moderation in the use of any thing, which
so essentially belongs to rude minds, uninstructed
in the arts of life. His four causes are, in fact,
then but two; which have been fully considered in
note on v. 202.
211. Accessit numerisque modisque licentia
major.] M. Dacier takes licentia major in a bad
sense, as implying lasciveté, a culpable and licentious
refinement. But the licence, here spoken of,
with regard to numbers and sounds, like that in
another place, which respects words [l. 51.] is one
of those, which is allowed, when sumpta pudenter.
The comparative major, which is a palliative, shews
this; and is further justified by a like passage in
Cicero, De Oratore [l. iii. c. 48.] where speaking of
this very licence in poetry, he observes, that out
of the Heroic and Iambic measure, which were at
first strictly observed, there arose by degrees the
Anapæst, procerior quidam numerus, et ille licentior
et divitior Dithyrambus; evidently not condemning
this change, but opposing it to the rigorous
and confined measure of the elder poets. But
the expression itself occurs in the piece entitled
Orator, in which, comparing the freedoms of the
poetical and oratorial style, in ea [i. e. poetica]
says he, licentiam statuo majorem esse, quam in
nobis, faciendorum jungendorumque verborum.
The poet says, this licence extended numeris modisque,
the former of which words will express that
licence of metre, spoken of by Cicero, and which is
further explained v. 256, &c. where an account is
given of the improvement of the Iambic verse.
| 214. |
Sic priscae, — — — Arti |
| Tibicen,&c. |
| Sic etiam Fidibus, &c.]
|
This is the application of what hath been said, in
general, concerning the refinement of theatrical
music to the case of tragedy. Some commentators
say, and to comedy. But in this they mistake, as
will appear presently. M. Dacier hath, I know
not what conceit about a comparison betwixt the
Roman and Greek stage. His reason is, that the
lyre was used in the Greek chorus, as appears, he
says, from Sophocles playing upon this instrument
himself in one of his tragedies. And was it not
used too in the Roman chorus, as appears from
Nero’s playing upon it in several tragedies? But
the learned critic did not apprehend this matter.
Indeed from the caution, with which his guides,
the dealers in antiquities, always touch this point,
it should seem, that they too had no very clear conceptions
of it. The case I take to have been this:
The Tibia, as being most proper to accompany the
declamation of the acts, cantanti succinere, was
constantly employed, as well in the Roman tragedy
as comedy. This appears from many authorities.
I mention only two from Cicero. Quam multa
[Acad. l. ii. 7.] quæ nos fugiunt in cantu, exaudiunt
in eo genere exercitati: Qui, primo inflatu
Tibicinis, Antiopam esse aiunt aut Andromacham,
cum nos ne suspicemur quidem. The other is still
more express. In his piece, entitled Orator,
speaking of the negligence of the Roman writers, in
respect of numbers, he observes, that there were
even many passages in their tragedies, which, unless
the Tibia played to them, could not be distinguished
from mere prose: quæ, nisi cum Tibicen
accesserit, orationi sint solutæ simillima. One of
these passages is expresly quoted from Thyestes, a
tragedy of Ennius; and, as appears from the measure,
taken out of one of the acts. It is clear then,
that the Tibia was certainly used in the declamation
of tragedy. But now the song of the tragic chorus,
being of the nature of the ode, of course required
Fides, the lyre, the peculiar and appropriated instrument
of the lyric Muse. And this is clearly
collected, if not from express testimonies; yet from
some occasional hints dropt by the ancients. For,
1. the lyre, we are told, [Cic. De Leg. ii. 9. & 15.]
and is agreed on all hands, was an instrument of
the Roman theatre; but it was not employed in comedy.
This we certainly know from the short accounts
of the music prefixed to Terence’s plays. 2.
Further, the Tibicen, as we saw, accompanied the
declamation of the acts in tragedy. It remains
then, that the proper place of the lyre was, where
one should naturally look for it, in the songs of the
chorus; but we need not go further than this very
passage for a proof. It is unquestionable, that the
poet is here speaking of the chorus only; the following
lines not admitting any other possible interpretation.
By Fidibus then is necessarily understood
the instrument peculiarly used in it. Not that it
need be said that the Tibia was never used in the
chorus. The contrary seems expressed in a passage
of Seneca, [Ep. lxxxiv.] and in Julius Pollux [l. iv.
15. § 107.] ’Tis sufficient, if the lyre was used
solely, or principally in it, at this time. In this
view, the whole digression is more pertinent and
connects better. The poet had before been speaking
of tragedy. All his directions, from l. 100. respect
this species of the drama only. The application
of what he had said concerning music, is then
most naturally made, 1. to the Tibia, the music of
the acts; and, 2. to Fides, that of the choir: thus
confining himself, as the tenor of this part required,
to tragedy only. Hence is seen the mistake, not
only of M. Dacier, whose comment is in every view
insupportable; but, as was hinted, of Heinsius,
Lambin, and others, who, with more probability,
explained this of the Roman comedy and tragedy.
For though Tibia might be allowed to stand for comedy,
as opposed to Tragœdia, [as in fact, we find
it in l. ii. Ep. 1. 98.] that being the only instrument
employed in it; yet, in speaking expresly of the
music of the stage, Fides could not determinately
enough, and in contradistinction to Tibia, denote
that of tragedy, it being an instrument used solely,
or principally in the chorus; of which, the context
shews, he alone speaks. It is further to be observed,
that, in the application here made, besides the music,
the poet takes in the other improvements of the
tragic chorus, these happening, as from the nature
of the thing they would do, at the same time.
214. Sic priscae motumque et luxuriem.]
These two words are employed to express that
quicker movement, and richer modulation of the
new music; the peculiar defects of the old being,
1. That it moved too slowly, and, 2. That it had no
compass or variety of notes. It was that movement,
that velocity and vehemence of the music, which
Roscius required to have slackened in his old age.
215. Traxitque vagus per pulpita vestem.]
This expresses not only the improvement arising
from the ornament of proper dresses, but from the
grace of motion: not only the actor, whose peculiar
office it was, but the minstrel himself, as appears
from hence, conforming his gesture in some sort to
the music.
Of the use and propriety of these gestures, or
dances, it will not be easy for us, who see no such
things attempted on the modern stage, to form any
very clear or exact notions. What we cannot doubt
of is, 1. That the several theatrical dances of the ancients
were strictly conformable to the genius of the
different species of composition, to which they were
applied. 2. That, therefore, the tragic dance,
which more especially accompanied the chorus,
must have been expressive of the highest gravity and
decorum, tending to inspire ideas of what is becoming,
graceful, and majestic; in which view we
cannot but perceive the important assistance it must
needs lend to virtue, and how greatly it must contribute
to set all her graces and attractions in the
fairest light. 3. This idea of the ancient tragic
dance, is not solely formed upon our knowledge of
the conformity, beforementioned; but is further collected
from the name, usually given to it, which was
Ἐμμέλεια. This word cannot well be translated into
our language; but expresses all that grace and concinnity
of motion, which the dignity of the choral
song required. 4. Lastly, it must give us a very
high notion of the moral effect of this dance, when
we find the severe Plato admitting it into his commonwealth.
216. Sic etiam fidibus voces, &c.] He is here
speaking of the great improvement in the tragic
chorus, after the Roman conquests, when the Latin
writers began to enquire
Quid Sophocles et Thespis et Æschylus utile ferrent.
This improvement consisted, 1. In a more instructive
moral sentiment: 2. In a more sublime and
animated expression; which of course produced, 3.
A greater vehemence in the declamation: to which
conformed, 4. A more numerous and rapid music.
All these particulars are here expressed, but, as the
reason of the thing required, in an inverted order.
The music of the lyre (that being his subject, and
introducing the rest) being placed first; the declamation,
as attending that, next; the language, facundia,
that is, the subject of the declamation, next;
and the sentiment, sententia, the ground and basis
of the language, last.
Et tulit eloquium insolitum facundia præceps.
literally, “A vehemence and rapidity of language
produced an unusual vehemence and rapidity of
elocution in the declaimer!” This “rapidity of language,”
is exactly the same, as that Cicero speaks
of in Democritus and Plato, [Orat. 638. Elz.]
which, because of its quick and rapid movement,
quod incitatius feratur, some critics thought to be
poetical. Unaccustomed, we may observe, is indifferently
a censure or encomium, according as the
preceding state of the thing spoken of was wrong, or
right. Much the same may be concluded of præceps;
its literal sense is a degree of motion in any
thing above what it had before. This may be excessive,
or otherwise, as it chances: When applied
to the bleak East wind, dispersing a flight of bees,
and dashing them on the stream,
si forte morantes
Sparserit, aut præceps Neptuno immerserit Eurus.
Virg. Georg. iv. 29.
the epithet implies excess; but when spoken of the
gentle South, whose strongest gale is but sufficient
to drive the willing ship to port, [Æn. vii. 410.]
Præcipiti delata Noto, it then only expresses due
measure.
As for the criticism from Quintilian, who opposes
præcipitia to sublimibus, it is doubly impertinent:
1. As the sense is necessarily fixed by its opposition
to sublimibus: and 2. As the word is here used,
not as implying motion, but height, in which view
its sense is absolute, and always denotes excess.
218. Utiliumque sagax rerum, et divina futuri,
Sortilegis non discrepuit sententia Delphis.]
It is amazing that these two lines should
ever have been misunderstood as a censure, the import
of them being highly encomiastic, yet with
great exactness declaring the specific boast and excellence
of the chorus; which lay, as Heinsius hath
well observed, 1. In inculcating important moral
lessons; and 2. In delivering useful presages and
monitions concerning future conduct, with an almost
oracular prudence and authority.
Sic priscae — — — — Arti.
What hath chiefly misled the Critics in their explanation
of this place, I suspect to have been the
frequent encomiums on the severity of the ancient
music, by the Greek and Latin writers. Though
here they seem to have overlooked two very material
considerations: 1. That the former have chiefly
treated the subject in a moral or political view, and
therefore preferred the ancient music only as it was
conceived to influence the public manners. For this
reason Plato, one of the chief of those encomiasts,
applauds, as we find, the practice of Ægypt, in
suffering no change of her poetry, but continuing,
to his time, her fondness for the Songs of Isis [De
Leg. l. ii. sub. init.] which just as much infers the
perfection of those songs, considered in a critical
view, as Rome’s sticking to her Saliar verses would
have shewn those poor, obscure orisons to have exceeded
the regular odes and artificial compositions of
Horace. And it was this kind of criticism which,
as I suppose, the poet intended to expose in the
famous verses, which I explain in note on v. 202.
2. That the latter, the principal of them at least,
who talk in the same strain, lived under the Emperors;
in whose time, indeed, music had undergone
a miserable prostitution, being broken, as one of
the best of those writers complains, into an effeminate
and impure delicacy—In scenis effeminata et
impudicis modis fracta, [Quint. I. l. x.] As to the
times in question, I know but of one passage, which
clearly and expresly condemns the music then in
vogue; and that will admit of some alleviation from
its being found in a treatise concerning laws. The
passage I mean is in Cicero, [De Leg. l. ii. 15.]
who, following Plato in his high-flown principles of
legislation, exclames, Illa quæ solebant quondam
compleri severitate jucunda Livianis et Nævianis
modis; nunc ut eadem exultent, cervices oculosque
pariter eum Modorum flexionibus torqueant!
For the severitas jucunda of the music, to which
Livius’s plays were set, it may be tolerably guessed
from hence, that he was the first who brought a
written Play upon the stage; i. e. the first writer
whose plays were acted to a regular and precomposed
music. And it is not, we know, very usual for the
first essays in any art to be perfect. It should seem
then, that the flexiones modorum, as opposed to
the plainness of the old music, are here condemned,
not so much in the view of a critic, estimating the
true state of the stage; but, as was hinted, of a legislator,
treading in the steps of Plato. Though indeed
I have no doubt, that the music in those times
was much changed, and had even suffered some degree
of corruption. This I infer, not so much from
any express authorities that have occurred, as from
the general state of those times, which were degenerating
apace into the worst morals, the sure fore-runners
of a corrupt and vitiated music; for, though
it may indeed, in its turn, and doubtless does, when
established, contribute much to help on the public
depravity, yet that depravity itself is originally not
the effect, but the cause of a bad music; as is more
than hinted to be Cicero’s real opinion in the place
referred to, where, observing that the manners of
many Greek states had kept pace with their music,
he adds, that they had undergone this change, Aut
hac dulcedine corruptelaque depravati, ut quidam
putant; aut cum severitas eorum ob alia vitia cecidisset,
tum fuit in auribus animisque mutatis etiam
huic mutationi locus. [Leg. ii. 15.] But be this as
it will, Horace, as we have seen, is no way concerned
in the dispute about the ancient music.
219. Sententia Delphis.] Sententia is properly
an aphorism taken from life, briefly representing
either what is, or what ought to be the conduct of it:
Oratio sumpta de vita, quæ aut quid sit, aut quid
esse oporteat, in vita, breviter ostendit. [Ad Herenn.
Rhet. l. iv.] These aphorisms are here mentioned,
as constituting the peculiar praise and beauty of the
chorus. This is finely observed, and was intended
to convey an oblique censure on the practice of those
poets, who stuff out every part of the drama alike
with moral sentences, not considering, that the only
proper receptacle of them is the chorus, where indeed
they have an extreme propriety; it being the peculiar
office and character of the chorus to moralize. In
the course of the action they should rarely be used;
and that for the plain reason assigned by the author,
just quoted, [for the rule holds on the stage, as well
as at the bar] Ut rei actores, non vivendi præceptores,
esse videamur. That there was some ground
for this reproof of the Roman drama, is collected
from the few remaining fragments of the old Latin
plays, which have much of this sententious cast, and
from what Quintilian expresly tells us of the old
Latin poets, whose fame, it seems, was principally
raised upon this merit. Tragœdiæ scriptores,
Accius et Pacuvius, clarissimi gravitate sententiarum,
&c. [l. x. c. 1.] To how intolerable an
extreme this humour of moralizing in plays was
afterwards carried, Seneca has given us an example.
But here a question will be started, “Why then
did the Greeks moralize so much, or, if we condemn
Accius and Seneca, how shall we defend
Sophocles and Euripides?” An ingenious18 modern
hath taken some pains to satisfy this difficulty,
and in part, I think, hath succeeded. His
solution, in brief, is, “That the moral and political
aphorisms of the Greek stage generally contained
some apt and interesting allusion to the state of
public affairs, which was easily catched by a quick,
intelligent auditory; and not a dry, affected moral,
without further meaning, as for the most part was
that of the Latins.” This account is not a little
confirmed by particular instances of such acknowledged
allusions, as well as from reflexions on the
genius and government of the Athenians, at large.
But this, though it goes some way, does not fully
extricate the matter. The truth is, these sentences
are too thick sown in the Greek writers, to be fully
accounted for from the single consideration of their
democratical views. Not to observe, that the very
choice of this medium for the conveyance of their
political applications, presupposes the prior acknowledged
use and authority of it. I would then account
for it in the following manner.
I. In the virtuous simplicity of less polished times,
this spirit of moralizing is very prevalent; the good
sense of such people always delighting to shew itself
in sententious or proverbial γνῶμαι, or observations.
Their character, like that of the clown in Shakespear,
is to be very swift and sententious. [As you like it,
Act v. sc. 1.] This is obvious to common experience,
and was long since observed by the philosopher,
οἱ ἄγροικοι μάλιστα γνωμοτύποι εἰσὶ, καὶ ῥᾳδίως
ἀποφάινονται, [Arist. Rhet. l. ii. c. 21.] an observation,
which of itself accounts for the practice
of the elder poets in Greece, as in all other nations.
A custom, thus introduced, is not easily laid aside,
especially when the oracular cast of these sentences,
so fitted to strike, and the moral views of writers
themselves (which was more particularly true of the
old dramatists) concurred to favour this taste. But,
2. there was added to this, more especially in the age
of Sophocles and Euripides, a general prevailing
fondness for moral wisdom, which seems to have
made the fashionable study of men of all ranks in
those days; when schools of philosophy were resorted
to for recreation as well as instruction, and a knowledge
in morals was the supreme accomplishment
in vogue: The fruit of these philosophical conferences
would naturally shew itself in certain brief,
sententious conclusions, which would neither contradict
the fashion, nor, it seems, offend against the
ease and gaiety of conversation in those times.
Schools and pedantry, morals and austerity, were
not so essentially connected, in their combinations
of ideas, as they have been since; and a sensible
moral truth might have fallen from any mouth, without
disgracing it. Nay, which is very remarkable,
the very scholia, as they were called, or drinking
catches of the Greeks, were seasoned with this moral
turn; the sallies of pleasantry, which escaped them
in their freest hours, being tempered for the most
part, by some strokes of this national sobriety.
“During the course of their entertainments, says
Athenæus, [l. xv. c. 14.] they loved to hear, from
some wise and prudent person, an agreeable song:
and those songs were held by them most agreeable,
which contained exhortations to virtue, or other
instructions relative to their conduct in life.”
And to give the reader a taste of these moral
songs, I will take leave to present him with a very
fine one, written by no less a person than Aristotle
himself; and the rather, as I have it in my power
to present him, at the same time, with an elegant
translation of it. But its best recommendation will
be that it comes from the same hand which has so
agreeably entertained us of late with some spirited
imitations of Horace19.
Ἀρετὰ πολύμοχθε γένει βροτείῳ,
Θήραμα κάλλιστον βίῳ.
Σᾶς πέρι, Παρθένε, μορφᾶς
Καὶ θανεῖν ζηλωτὸς ἐν Ἑλλάδι πότμος,
Καὶ πόνους τλῆναι μαλεροὺς ἀκάμαντας.
Τοῖον ἐπὶ φρένα βάλλεις καρπὸν εἰς ἀθάνατον,
Χρυσοῦ τε κρέσσω καὶ γονέων,
Μαλακαυγητοῖό θ’ ὕπνου.
Σοῦ δ’ ἕνεκ’ ἐκ Διὸς Ἡρακλέης
Λήδας τε κοῦροι πόλλ’ ἀνέτλασαν,
Ἔργοις σὰν ἀγορεύοντες δύναμιν.
Σοῖς τε πόθοις Ἀχιλλεὺς
Αἴας τ’ αἴδαο δόμους ἦλθον·
Σᾶς δ’ ἕνεκα φιλίου μορφᾶς
Ἀταρνέως ἔντροφος
Ἀελίου χήρωσεν αὐγάς.
Τοίγαρ ἀοίδιμον ἔργοις,
Ἀθάνατόν τε μιν αὐξήσουσι μοῦσαι,
Μναμοσύνας θύγατρες,
Διὸς ξενίου σέβας αὔξουσαι
Φιλίας τε γέρας βεβαίου20.
I.
Hail, Virtue! Goddess! sov’reign Good,
By man’s bold race with pain pursu’d!
Where’er thou dart’st thy radiant eye,
Greece sees her sons with transport fly;
Danger before thee disappears,
And death’s dark frown no terror wears.
II.
So full into the breast of man descends
Thy rich ambrosial show’r;
A show’r, that gold, that parents far transcends,
Or, sleep’s soft-soothing pow’r.
III.
By thee Alcides soar’d to fame,
Thy influence Leda’s twins proclaim;
Heroes for thee have dauntless trod
The dreary paths of hell’s abode;
Fir’d by thy form, all beamy bright,
Atarneus’ nursling left the light.
IV.
His deeds, his social love (so will the nine,
Proud to spread wide the praise
Of friendship and of friendly Jove) shall shine
With ever-living rays.
This moralizing humour, so prevalent in those
times, is, I dare be confident, the true source of
the sententious cast of the Greek dramatic writers,
as well as of that sober air of moral, which, to the
no small disgust of modern writers, is spread over all
their poets. Not but there would be some difference
in those poets themselves, and in proportion as they
had been more or less conversant in the Academy,
would be their relish of this moral mode; as is
clearly seen in the case of Euripides, that philosopher
of the stage, as the Athenians called him, and
who is characterized by Quinctilian, as sententiis
densus, et in iis, quæ a sapientibus tradita sunt,
pæne ipsis par. [L. x. c. 1.] Yet still the fashion
was so general, that no commerce of the world
could avoid, or wholly get clear of it; and therefore
Sophocles, though his engagements in the state kept
him at a greater distance from the schools, had yet
his share of this philosophical humour. Now this
apology for the practice of the Greek poets doth by
no means extend to the Roman; Philosophy having
been very late, and never generally, the taste of
Rome.
Cicero says, Philosophia quidem tantum abest ut
proinde, ac de hominum est vitâ merita, laudetur,
ut a plerisque neglecta, a multis etiam vituperetur.
In another place he tells us, that in his time Aristotle
was not much known, or read, even by the philosophers
themselves. [Cic. Top. sub init.]
And, though in the age of Seneca, Sentences,
we know, were much in use, yet the cast and turn
of them evidently shew them to have been the affectation
of the lettered few, and not the general
mode and practice of the time. For the quaintness,
in which Seneca’s aphorisms are dressed, manifestly
speaks the labour and artifice of the closet, and is
just the reverse of that easy, simple expression,
which cloaths them in the Greek poets, thus demonstrating
their familiar currency in common life.
Under any other circumstances than these, the
practice, as was observed, must be unquestionably
faulty; except only in the chorus, where for the
reason before given, it may always, with good advantage,
be employed.
220. Carmine qui tragico, &c.] The connexion
with v. 201, from whence the poet had digressed,
is worth observing. The digression had
been taken up in describing the improved state of
dramatic music; the application of which to the
case of tragedy, brings him round again to his subject,
the tragic chorus; to which alone, as hath
been observed, the two last lines refer. This too is
the finest preparation of what follows. For to have
passed on directly from the tibia to the satyrs, had
been abrupt and inartificial; but from tragedy, the
transition is easy, the satyrs being a species of the
tragic drama. That it was so accounted may be
seen from the following passage in Ovid,
Est et in obscænos deflexa tragædia risus,
Multaque præteriti verba pudoris habet.
Trist. l. ii. v. 409.
For the tragedy, here referred to, cannot be the regular
Roman tragedy. That he had distinctly considered
before, and, besides, it in no age admitted,
much less in this, of which we are speaking, so intolerable
a mixture. As little can it be understood of
the proper Atellane fable, for besides that Ovid is here
considering the Greek drama only, the Atellane was
ever regarded as a species, not of tragedy, but comedy:
The authority of Donatus is very express; “Comædiarum
formæ sunt tres: Palliatæ, Togatæ, Atellanæ,
salibus et jocis compositæ, quæ in se non habent
nisi vetustam elegantiam.” [Prol. in Terent.]
And Athenæus [l. vi.] speaking of some pieces of this
sort, which L. Sylla had composed, calls them σατυρικὰς
κωμῳδίας, satyric comedies; comedies, because,
ss Donatus says, “salibus et jocis compositæ:” and satyric,
not that satyrs were introduced in them, but,
according to Diomedes, from their being “argumentis
dictisque similes satyricis fabulis Græcis.” Of
what then can Ovid be understood to speak, but the
true satyric piece, which was always esteemed, and,
as appears from the Cyclops, in fact is, what Demetrius
[περὶ ἑρμηνείας] elegantly calls it, τραγῳδία
παιζούση, a lighter kind of tragedy; the very name,
which Horace, as well as Ovid in this place, gives
to it? But this is further clear from the instance
quoted by Ovid, of this loose tragedy; for he proceeds:
Nec nocet autori, mollem qui fecit Achillem,
Infregisse suis fortia facta modis.
which well agrees to the idea of a satyric piece, and,
as Vossius takes notice, seems to be the very same
subject, which Athenæus and others tell us, Sophocles
had work’d into a satyric tragedy, under the
title of Ἀχιλλέως ἐρασταί.
221. Mox etiam, &c.] It is not the intention
of these notes to retail the accounts of others. I
must therefore refer the reader, for whatever concerns
the history of the satyric, as I have hitherto done,
of the tragic, and comic drama, to the numerous
dissertators on the ancient stage; and above all, in
the case before us, to the learned Casaubon; from
whom all that hath been said to any purpose, by
modern writers, hath been taken. Only it will be
proper to observe one or two particulars, which have
been greatly misunderstood, and without which it
will be impossible, in any tolerable manner, to explane
what follows.
I. The design of the poet, in these lines, is not to
fix the origin of the satyric piece, in ascribing the
invention of it to Thespis. This hath been concluded,
without the least warrant from his own
words, which barely tell us, “that the Representation
of tragedy was in elder Greece, followed by
the satyrs;” and indeed the nature of the thing,
as well as the testimony of all antiquity, shews it to
be impossible. For the satyr here spoken of, is,
in all respects, a regular drama, and therefore could
not be of earlier date, than the times of Æschylus,
when the constitution of the drama was first formed.
’Tis true indeed, there was a kind of entertainment
of much greater antiquity, which by the ancients
is sometimes called satyric, out of which (as Aristotle
assures us) tragedy itself arose, ἡ δὲ τραγῳδία,
διὰ τὸ ἐκ σατυρικοῦ μεταβαλεῖν, ὀψὲ ἀπεσεμνώθη,
[περ. ποιητ. κ. δ.] But then this was nothing but
a chorus of satyrs [Athenæus, l. xiv.] celebrating
the festivals of Bacchus, with rude songs, and uncouth
dances; and had little resemblance to that,
which was afterwards called satyric; which, except
that it retained the chorus of satyrs, and turned
upon some subject relative to Bacchus, was of a
quite different structure, and, in every respect, as
regular a composition, as tragedy itself.
II. There is no doubt but the poem, here distinguished
by the name of Satyri, was in actual use on
the Roman stage. This appears from the turn of the
poet’s whole criticism upon it. Particularly, his
address to the Pisos, v. 235. and his observation of
the offence which a loose dialogue in this drama
would give to a Roman auditory, v. 248. make it
evident that he had, in fact, the practice of his own
stage in view. It hath, however, been questioned,
whether by Satyri we are to understand the proper
Greek Satyrs, or the Latin Atellane fable, which,
in the main of its character, very much resembled
that drama. If the authority of Diomedes be any
thing, the former must be the truth, for he expresly
asserts, “that the Satyric and Atellane pieces, though
similar in the general cast of their composition,
differed in this essential point, that the persons in
the former were satyrs, in the other, not.” [L. iii.
c. De poëm. gen.] Now the poet expresly tells us,
the Persons in the drama he is here describing,
were Satyrs, and accordingly delivers rules for the
regulation of their characters. As to the Atellane,
according to the way in which Vossius reads the
words of Diomedes, the characters were Oscan,
personæ Oscæ, which is very probable, not so
much for the reasons assign’d by this Critic (for
they are indeed very frivolous) but because, as it
should seem from a passage in Strabo, [Lib. v. 233.]
the language of the Osci was used in these Atellanes,
and therefore common sense would require, that
the persons also introduced should be Oscan. The
difficulty is to know how it happened that, in a
work written purposely to reform the Roman stage,
the poet should say nothing of one species, the Atellane,
which was of great authority and constant use
at Rome, and yet say so much of another, the Satyrs,
which was properly a Greek entertainment and
certainly much less cultivated by the Roman poets.
The plain solution of the matter, is, that, when
now the Romans were become acquainted with the
Greek models, and had applied themselves to the
imitation of them, these Oscan characters were exchanged
for the Greek satyrs, which they before resembled
in the main parts of their character; and
which appear, on other occasions, to have been no
strangers at Rome; as we collect from the Sileni
and Satyrs making a part (as Dionysius relates it) in
their triumphal processions. So that this change of
the Oscan persons for Satyrs is to be considered
only as an improvement of the old Atellane, and
not the introduction of an intirely new drama. In
every other respect the precepts here given for the
regulation of the Satyrs are such as would equally
serve to improve the Atellane. The probable reason
why the poet chose to insist so much on this
alteration, or rather why he laboured so strenuously
to support it, will be given in its place. In the
mean time supposing his view to have been this of
countenancing the introduction of satyric persons
into the Atellane (and that they were, in fact, introduced,
we learn from an express authority21) every
thing said on the subject will not only be pertinent
and agreeable to what is here taught to be the general
tenor of the epistle, but will be seen to have an address
and contrivance, which will very much illustrate
this whole part, and recommend it to the
exact reader.
But before I quit this subject of the Atellane fable
it will be proper to observe, That when I every
where speak of it, as of early original, and ancient
use on the Roman stage, I am not unmindful that
Velleius Paterculus speaks of Pomponius as the Inventor
of this Poem; which, if taken in the strict
sense, will bring the date of it very low. “Sane
non ignoremus eâdem ætate fuisse Pomponium,
sensibus celebrem, verbis rudem, et novitate inventi
a se operis commendabilem.” L. ii. c. ix.
For the age he is speaking of is that of Sylla. But
the authorities for the high antiquity of the Atellane
fable are so express, that, when Pomponius is called
the Inventor of it, it is but as Horace calls Lucilius
the Inventor of the Roman Satire. That is, he
made so considerable a change in the form and
conduct of this poem, as to run away with all the
honour of it. The improvements made by Lucilius
in Satire have been taken notice of in the Introduction.
And it happens that a curious passage in
Athenæus will let us into the Improvements made
by Pomponius in the Atellanes.
But first we are to understand that this sort of
entertainment, as the name speaks, was imported
to Rome from Atella, a town of the Osci in Campania;
and that the Dialect of that people was constantly
and only used in it, even when the Osci
themselves had ceased to be a people. This we
learn from Strabo. ΟΣΚΩΝ ἐκλελοιπότων, ἡ διάλεκτος
μένει παρὰ τοῖς Ρωμαίοις· ὧστε καὶ ποιήματα
σκηνοβατεῖσθαι κατά τινα ἀγῶνα πάτριον καὶ μιμολογεῖσθαι. L. v. 233.
The Oscan language, we see, was made use of in
the Atellane plays, just as the Welsh, or some
Provincial Dialect, is often employed in our Comedies.
But now we learn from Athenæus that L. Sylla
writ some of these Atellanes in the Roman language.
ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ γραφεῖσαι σατυρικαὶ κωμῳδίαι ΤΗΙ
ΠΑΤΡΩΩΙ ΦΩΝΗΙ. [L. vi. p. 261. Ed. Casaub.]
The difficulty then clears up. For the Pomponius
whom Velleius speaks of was contemporary with L.
Sylla. So that to give any propriety to the term of
Inventor, as applied to Pomponius, we must conclude
that he was the first person who set this example
of composing Atellane plays in the vulgar
dialect: which took so much that he was even followed
in this practice by the Roman General. This
account of the matter perfectly suits with the encomium
given to Pomponius. He would naturally,
on such an alteration, endeavour to give this buffoon
sort of Comedy a more rational cast: And this reform
of itself would entitle him to great honour.
Hence the SENSIBUS CELEBRIS of Paterculus22. But
to preserve some sort of resemblance (which the
people would look for) to the old Atellane, and not
to strip it of all the pleasantry arising from the barbarous
dialect, he affected, it seems, the antique in
the turn of his expression. Hence the other part of
his character (which in the politer age of Paterculus
grew offensive to nice judges) VERBIS RUDIS.
The conclusion is, That the Atellane Fable was
in its first rude form and Oscan Dialect of ancient
use at Rome, where it was admitted, as Strabo
speaks, ΚΑΤΑ ΤΙΝΑ ΑΓΩΝΑ ΠΑΤΡΙΟΝ: That
Pomponius afterwards reformed its barbarities, and
brought it on the Stage in a Roman dress; which
together were thought so great improvements, that
later writers speak of him as the Inventor of this
Poem. But to return to our proper subject, the
Greek Satyrs.
III. For the absolute merit of these satyrs, the
reader will judge of it himself by comparing the Cyclops,
the only piece of this kind remaining to us
from antiquity, with the rules here delivered by
Horace. Only it may be observed, in addition to
what the reader will find elsewhere [n. v. 223.] apologized
in its favour, that the double character of
the satyrs admirably fitted it, as well for a sensible
entertainment to the wise, as for the sport and diversion
of the vulgar. For while the grotesque appearance,
and jesting vein of these fantastic personages
amused the one; the other saw much further;
and considered them, at the same time, as replete
with science, and informed by a spirit of the most
abstruse wisdom. Hence important lessons of civil
prudence, interesting allusions to public affairs, or
a high, refined moral, might, with the highest probability,
be insinuated, under the slight cover of a
rustic simplicity. And from this instructive cast,
which from its nature must be very obscure, if not
impenetrable, to us at this day, was, I doubt not,
derived the principal pleasure which the ancients
found in this species of the drama. If the modern
reader would conceive any thing of the nature and
degree of this pleasure, he may in part guess at it,
from reflecting on the entertainment he himself receives
from the characters of the clowns in Shakespear;
who, as the poet himself hath characterized
them, use their folly, like a stalking horse, and,
under the presentation of that, shoot their wit.
[As you like it.]
221. Agrestis satyros, &c.] It hath been
shewn, that the poet could not intend, in these
lines, to fix the origin of the satyric drama. But,
though this be certain, and the dispute concerning
that point be thereby determined, yet is it to be
noted, that he purposely describes the satyr in its
ruder and less polished form; glancing even at some
barbarities, which deform the Bacchic chorus; which
was properly the satyric piece, before Æschylus had,
by his regular constitution of the drama, introduced
it, under a very different form on the stage. The
reason of this conduct is given in n. on v. 203.
Hence the propriety of the word nudavit, which
Lambin rightly interprets, nudos introduxit Satyros,
the poet hereby expressing the monstrous indecorum
of this entertainment in its first unimproved state.
Alluding also to this ancient character of the Satyr,
he calls him asper, i. e. rude and petulant; and
even adds, that his jests were intemperate, and
without the least mixture of gravity. For thus,
upon the authority of a very ingenious and learned
critic, I explane incolumi gravitate, i. e. rejecting
every thing serious, bidding farewell, as we say,
to all gravity. Thus [L. iii. O. 5.]
Incolumi Jove et urbe Roma;
i. e. bidding farewell to Jupiter [Capitolinus] and
Rome; agreeably to what is said just before,
Anciliorum et nominis et togæ
Oblitus, æternæque Vestæ.
or, as SALVUS is used still more remarkably in Martial
[10. l. v.]
Ennius est lectus SALVO tibi, Roma, Marone:
Et sua riserunt secula Mæonidem.
Farewell, all gravity, is as remote from the original
sense of the words fare well, as incolumi gravitate
from that of incolumis, or salvo Marone from
that of salvus.
223. Inlecebris erat et grata novitate morandus
Spectator—] The poet gives us in these
words the reason, why such gross Ribaldry, as we
know the Atellanes consisted of, was endured by the
politest age of Rome. Scenical representations,
being then intended, not, as in our days, for the
entertainment of the better sort, but on certain
great solemnities, indifferently for the diversion of
the whole city, it became necessary to consult the
taste of the multitude, as well as of those, quibus
est equus, et pater et res.
And this reason is surely sufficient to vindicate
the poet from the censure of a late critic, who has
fallen upon this part of the epistle with no mercy.
“The poet, says he, spends a great number of
verses about these satyrs; but the subject itself is
unworthy his pen. He, who could not bear the
elegant mimes of Laberius, that he should think
this farcical and obscene trash, worth his peculiar
notice, is somewhat strange.” I doubt not, it appeared
so to this writer, who neither considered the
peculiar necessity of the satyric piece, nor attended
to the poet’s purpose and drift in this epistle. The
former is the more extraordinary, because he hath
told us, and rightly too, “that, to content the
people, the satyric was superadded to the tragic
drama.” And he quotes a passage from Diomedes,
which gives the same account, Satyros induxerunt
ludendi causa jocandique, simul ut spectator inter
res tragicas seriasque satyrorum quoque jocis et
ludis delectaretur. Should not this have taught
him, that what was so requisite to content the people,
might deserve some notice from the poet?
This farcical trash was chiefly calculated for those,
who without the enticement of so agreeable a change
in the entertainment of the day, would not have
had patience to sit out the tragedy; which being
intended for the gratification of the better sort,
urbani et honesti, they, in their turn, required to be
diverted in the only way, which was to the level of
their taste, that of farce and pleasantry. And this
I dare be confident, so great a patron of liberty, as
this writer, will agree with me in thinking to be but
reasonable in a free state; which ought to make some
provision for the few, that may chance, even under
such advantages, to want a truly critical spirit.
I hold then, that Horace acted, not only in the
character of a good critic, but of a prudent man, and
good citizen, in attempting to refine, what it had
not been equitable, or was not in his power, wholly
to remove. But 2. the learned critic as little attended
to the drift of the epistle, as to the important use
and necessity of the satyric drama. He must otherwise
have seen, that, in an essay to improve and regulate
the Roman theatre (which is the sole purpose
of it) the poet’s business was to take it, as it then
stood, and to confine himself to such defects and
abuses, as he found most likely to admit a correction,
and not, as visionary projectors use, to propose
a thorough reform of the public taste in every
instance. The Atellanes had actual possession
of the stage, and, from their antiquity, and other
prejudices in their favour, as well as from the very
design and end of their theatrical entertainments,
would be sure to keep it. What had the poet then,
in these circumstances, to do but, in pursuance
of his main design, to encourage a reformation of
that entertainment, which he was not at liberty absolutely,
and under every shape, to reject. This he
judged might most conveniently be done by adopting
the Greek Satyrs instead of their own Oscan characters.
With this change, though the Atellanes might
not, perhaps, be altogether to his own taste, yet he
hoped to render it a tolerable entertainment to the
better sort. And this, in fact, it might have been
by following the directions here given; part of which
were intended to free it from that obscene and farcical
trash, which appears to have been no less offensive
to the poet, than to this critic.
As for the so much applauded mimes, they had
not, it is probable, at this time gained a footing on
the stage, sufficient to entitle them to so much consideration.
This was a new upstart species of the
drama, which, though it had the common good-fortune
of absurd novelties, to take with the great;
yet was generally disapproved by men of better taste,
and better morals. Cicero had passed a severe censure
upon it in one of his epistles, [Ad famil. ix. 16.]
which intimates, that it was of a more buffoon and
ridiculous composition, than their Atellanes; whose
place it began to be the fashion to supply with this
ribaldry. And we collect the same thing from what
Ovid observes of it in apology for the looseness of
his own verses,
Quid si scripsissem MIMOS obscœna jocantes,
Qui semper vetiti crimen amoris habent?
Nec satis incestis temerari vocibus aures,
Assuescunt oculi multa pudenda pati.
Trist. l. ii. v. 497.
Horace, with this writer’s leave, might therefore
judge it better to retain the Atellanes under some
restrictions, than adopt what was much worse. But
the mimes of Laberius were quite another thing.
They were all elegance. So J. Scaliger [Comment,
de Comœd. et Tragœd. c. vi.] and, after him, this
writer, tells us; but on no better grounds, than that
he wrote good Latin (though not always that, as
may be seen in A. Gellius, l. xvi. c. 7.) and hath left a
few elegant, moral scraps behind him. But what then?
the kind of composition was ridiculous and absurd,
and, in every view, far less tolerable, than the satyrs
under the regulation of Horace. The latter was a
regular drama, consisting of an intire fable, conducted
according to the rules of probability and good sense,
only dashed with a little extravagance for the sake
of the mob. The character of the former hath been
given above from unquestionable authorities. Accordingly
Diomedes [iii. p. 488. ed. Putsch.] defines
it to be an irreverent and lascivious imitation of obscene
acts—mimus est sermonis cujuslibet motus sine
reverentia, vel factorum et turpium cum lascivia
imitatio. And Scaliger himself owns veri mimi
proprium esse quædam sordida ut affectet, loc. cit.
It seems, in short, to have been a confused medley
of comic drollery on a variety of subjects, without
any consistent order or design; delivered by one
actor, and heightened with all the licence of obscene
gesticulation. Its best character, as practised by its
greatest master, Laberius, was that of being witty
in a very bad way [Sen. Controv. l. iii. c. 18.] and its
sole end and boast, risu diducere rictum [Hor. i. S.
x. 7.] which, whatever virtue it may be, is not always
a proof of much elegance. But I have spent too
many words on a criticism, which the ingenious
author, I am persuaded, let fall unawares, and did
not mean to give us as the result of a mature and well-weighed
deliberation on this subject.
225. Verum ita risores, &c.] The connecting
particle, verum, expresses the opposition intended
between the original satyr and that which
the poet approves. For having insinuated the propriety
of the satyric shews, as well from the practice
of Greece, as the nature of festival solemnities, the
poet goes on to animadvert on their defects, and to
prescribe such rules, in the conduct of them, as
might render them a tolerable diversion, even to
the better sort. This introduction of the subject
hath no small art. For, there being at this time
(as hath been shewn) an attempt to bring in the
Greek satyrs, while the Atellane plays (as was likely)
still held the affections of the people, the poet was
not openly to reproach and discredit these; but, by
a tacit preference, to support and justify the other.
This is done with address. For, instead of criticising
the Atellanes, which came directly in his way,
after having closed his account of the Roman tragedy,
he relates, as it were, incidentally, the practice
of ancient Greece in exhibiting satyrs, and
thence immediately passes on, without so much
as touching on the other favourite entertainment,
to offer some directions concerning the satyric
drama.
227. Ne quicunque Deus, quicunque adhibebitur
heros, &c.] Gods and Heroes were introduced
as well into the satyric as tragic drama, and
often the very same Gods and Heroes, which had born
a part in the preceding tragedy: a practice, which
Horace, I suppose, intended, by this hint, to recommend
as most regular. This gave the serious, tragic
air to the satyr. The comic arose from the risor
and dicax, who was either a satyr himself, or some
character of an extravagant, ridiculous cast, like a
satyr. Of this kind, says Diomedes, from whom I
take this account, are Autolychus and Burris:
which last particular I mention for the sake of justifying
a correction of the learned Casaubon. This
great critic conjectured, that, instead of Burris, in
this place, it should be read Busiris. His reason
is “nam Burris iste ex Græcorum poetis mihi non
notus:” which reason hath more force, than appears
at first sight. For the very nature of this diversion
required, that the principal character of it
should be well known, which it was scarce likely to
be, if not taken from a common story in their poets.
But Vossius objects, “sed non ea fuerit persona
ridicula:” contrary to what the grammarian represents
it. But how so? Busiris was a savage, inhospitable
tyrant, who sacrificed strangers. And what
should hinder this character from being made ridiculous,
as well as Polypheme in the Cyclops?
Their characters were not unlike. And, as is seen
in that case, the ancients knew to set forth such
monsters of cruelty in a light, that rendered them
equally absurd and detestable. This was agreeable
to their humanity, which, by such representations,
loved to cultivate a spirit of benevolence in the spectators;
and shews the moral tendency of even the
absurdest of the ancient dramatic shews. The objection
of Vossius is then of no weight. But what
further confirms the emendation of the excellent
Casaubon, is a manuscript note on the margin of a
printed copy of this book23, which I have now by me,
as it should seem, from his own hand, “lectionem
vero quam restituimus etiam in optimo codice
Puteano postea invenimus.” The learned reader
will therefore, henceforth, look upon the text of
Diomedes, in this place, as fully settled.
229. Migret in obscuras &c.—Aut, dum vitat
&c.] The two faults, cautioned against, are 1.
a too low, or vulgar expression, in the comic parts;
and 2. a too sublime one, in the tragic. The former
of these faults would almost naturally adhere to the
first essays of the Roman satyrs, from the buffoon
genius of the old Atellane: and the latter, from not
apprehending the true measure and degree of the
tragic mixture. To correct both these, the poet
gives the exactest idea of the satyrs, in the image of
a Roman matron, sharing in the mirth of a religious
festival. The occasion obliged to some freedoms:
and yet the dignity of her character demanded a decent
reserve.
234. Non ego inornata &c.] The scope of
these lines may be to regulate the satyric style, by
the idea of its character, before given, in the allusion
to a Roman matron. Conformably to that idea,
a plain, unornamented expression [from v. 234 to
236.] must not always be used. The three following
lines inforce this general application by example.
If the exact reader find himself dissatisfied with
this gloss, which seems the only one, the words, as
they now stand, will bear, he may, perhaps, incline
to admit the following conjecture, which
proposes to read, instead of inornata, honorata.
I. The context, I think, requires this change. For
the two faults observed above [v. 229, 30.] were, 1.
a too low expression, and, 2. a too lofty. Corresponding
to this double charge, the poet having
fixed the idea of this species of composition [v. 231,
2, 3.] should naturally be led to apply it to both
points in questions: 1. to the comic part, in prescribing
the true measure of its condescension, and,
2. to the tragic, in settling the true bounds of its
elevation. And this, according to the reading here
offered, the poet doth, only in an inverted order.
The sense of the whole would be this,
1. Non ego Honorata et dominantia nomina solum
Verbaque, Pisones, satyrorum scriptor amabo:
i. e. in the tragic scenes, I would not confine myself
to such words only, as are in honour, and bear rule
in tragic, and the most serious subjects; this stateliness
not agreeing to the condescending levity of
the satyr.
2. Nec sic enitar tragico differre colori,
Ut nihil intersit Davusne loquatur, et audax
Pythias, emuncto lucrata Simone talentum,
An custos famulusque Dei Silenus alumni.
i. e. nor, on the contrary, in the comic scenes,
would I incur the other extreme of a too plain, and
vulgar expression, this as little suiting its inherent
matronlike dignity. But, II. this correction improves
the expression as well as the sense. For besides
the opposition, implied in the disjunctive, nec,
which is this way restored, dominantia hath now
its genuine sense, and not that strange and foreign
one forced upon it out of the Greek language. As
connected with honorata, it becomes a metaphor,
elegantly pursued; and hath too a singular propriety,
the poet here speaking of figurative terms.
And then, for honorata itself, it seems to have been
a familiar mode of expression with Horace. Thus
[2 Ep. ii. 112.] honore indigna vocabula are such
words as have parum splendoris and are sine pondere.
And “quæ sunt in honore vocabula” is
spoken of the contrary ones, such as are fit to
enter into a serious tragic composition, in this
very epistle, v. 71.
240. Ex noto fictum &c.] This precept [from
v. 240 to 244] is analogous to that, before given
[v. 129] concerning tragedy. It directs to form
the satyrs out of a known subject. The reasons are,
in general, the same for both. Only one seems peculiar
to the satyrs. For the cast of them being
necessarily romantic, and the persons, those fantastic
beings, called satyrs, the τὸ ὅμοιον, or probable,
will require the subject to have gained a popular
belief, without which the representation must appear
unnatural. Now these subjects, which have
gained a popular belief, in consequence of old tradition,
and their frequent celebration in the poets,
are what Horace calls nota; just as newly invented
subjects, or, which comes to the same thing, such
as had not been employed by other writers, indicta,
he, on a like occasion, terms ignota. The connexion
lies thus. Having mentioned Silenus in v.
239, one of the commonest characters in this drama,
an objection immediately offers itself; “but what
good poet will engage in subjects and characters
so trite and hackney’d?” The answer is, ex noto
fictum carmen sequar, i. e. however trite and well
known this and some other characters, essential to
the satyr, are, and must be; yet will there be still
room for fiction and genius to shew itself. The
conduct and disposition of the play may be wholly
new, and above the ability of common writers, tantum
series juncturaque pollet.
244. Sylvis deducti caveant &c.] Having
before [v. 232] settled the true idea of the satyric
style in general, he now treats of the peculiar language
of the satyrs themselves. This common
sense demands to be in conformity with their sylvan
character, neither affectedly tender and gallant, on
the one hand; nor grossly and offensively obscene,
on the other. The first of these cautions seems leveled
at a false improvement, which, on the introduction
of the Roman satyr, was probably attempted
on the simple, rude plan of the Greek,
without considering the rustic extraction and manners
of the fauns and satyrs. The latter, obliquely
glances at the impurities of the Atellane, whose
licentious ribaldry, as hath been observed, would, of
course, infect the first essays of the Roman satyr.
But these rules so necessary to be followed in the
satyric, are (to observe it by the way) still more essential
to the PASTORAL poem: the fortunes and
character of which (though numberless volumes
have been written upon it) may be given in few
words.
The prodigious number of writings, called Pastoral,
which have been current in all times, and in all
languages, shews there is something very taking in
this poem. And no wonder, since it addresses itself
to THREE leading principles in human nature,
THE LOVE OF EASE, THE LOVE OF BEAUTY, and THE
MORAL SENSE: such pieces as these being employed
in representing to us the TRANQUILLITY, the INNOCENCE,
and the SCENERY, of the rural life. But
though these ideas are of themselves agreeable,
good sense will not be satisfied unless they appear to
have some foundation in truth and nature. And
even, then, their impression will be but faint, if
they are not, further, employed to convey instruction,
or interest the heart.
Hence the different forms, under which this
poem hath appeared. Theocritus thought it sufficient
to give a reality to his pictures of the rural
manners. But in so doing it was too apparent that
his draught would often be coarse and unpleasing.
And, in fact, we find that his shepherds, contrary
to the poet’s rule,
——immunda crepent ignominiosaque dicta.
Virgil avoided this extreme. Without departing
very widely from the simplicity of rustic nature,
his shepherds are more decent, their lives more serene,
and, in general, the scene more inviting.
But the refinements of his age not well agreeing to
these simple delineations, and his views in writing
not being merely to entertain, he saw fit to allegorize
these agreeable fancies, and make them the vehicles
of historical, and sometimes even of philosophic,
information.
Our Spenser wanted to engross all the beauties
of his masters: and so, to the artless and too natural
drawing of the Greek, added the deep allegoric
design of the Latin, poet.
One easily sees that this ænigmatic cast of the
pastoral was meant to give it an air of instruction,
and to make it a reasonable entertainment to such
as would nauseate a sort of writing,
“Where pure description held the place of sense.”
But this refinement was out of place, as not only
inconsistent with the simplicity of the pastoral character,
but as tending to rob us in a good degree of
the pleasure, which these amusing and picturesque
poems are intended to give.
Others therefore took another route. The famous
Tasso, by an effort of genius which hath done
him more honour than even his epic talents, produced
a new kind of pastoral, by engrafting it on
the drama. And under this form, pastoral poetry
became all the vogue. The charming Amintas was
even commented by the greatest scholars and critics.
It was read, admired, and imitated by all the world.
There is no need to depreciate the fine copies
that were taken of it, in Italy. But those by our
own poets were, by far, the best. Shakespeare
had, indeed, set the example of something like pastoral
dramas, in our language; and in his Winter’s
Tale, As ye like it, and some other of his pieces,
has enchanted every body with his natural sylvan
manners, and sylvan scenes. But Fletcher set
himself, in earnest, to emulate the Italian, yet still
with an eye of reverence towards the English, poet.
In his faithful shepherdess he surpasses the former,
in the variety of his paintings and the beauty of his
scene; and only falls short of the latter, in the
truth of manners, and a certain original grace of invention
which no imitation can reach. The fashion
was now so far established, that every poet of the
time would try his hand at a pastoral. Even surly
Ben, though he found no precedent for it among
his ancients, was caught with the beauty of this
novel drama, and, it must be owned, has written
above himself in the fragment of his sad shepherd.—The
scene, at length, was closed with the Comus
of Milton, who, in his rural paintings, almost
equalled the simplicity and nature of Shakespeare
and Fletcher, and, in the purity and splendor of
his expression, outdid Tasso.
In this new form of the pastoral, what was childish
before, is readily admitted and excused. A simple
moral tale being the groundwork of the piece,
the charms of description and all the embellishments
of the scene are only subservient to the higher purpose
of picturing the manners, or touching the
heart.
But the good sense of Shakespeare, or perhaps the
felicity of his genius, was admirable. Instead of
the deep tragic air of Tasso (which has been generally
followed) and his continuance of the pastoral
strain, even to satiety, through five acts, he only
made use of these playful images to enrich his comic
scenes. He saw, I suppose, that pastoral subjects
were unfit to bear a tragic distress. And besides,
when the distress rises to any height, the wantonness
of pastoral imagery grows distasteful. Where
as the genius of comedy admits of humbler distresses;
and leaves us at leisure to recreate ourselves
with these images, as no way interfering with the
draught of characters, or the management of a
comic tale. But to make up in surprize what was
wanting in passion, Shakespeare hath, with great
judgment, adopted the popular system of Faeries;
which, while it so naturally supplies the place of
the old sylvan theology, gives a wildness to this sort
of pastoral painting which is perfectly inimitable.
In a word; if Tasso had the honour of inventing
the pastoral drama, properly so called, Shakespeare
has shewn us the just application of pastoral poetry;
which, however amusing to the imagination, good
sense will hardly endure, except in a short dialogue,
or in some occasional dramatic scenes; and in these
only, as it serves to the display of characters and the
conduct of the poet’s plot.
And to confirm these observations on pastoral
poetry, which may be thought too severe, one may
observe that such, in effect, was the judgment
passed upon it by that great critic, as well as wit,
Cervantes. He concludes his famous adventures,
with a kind of project for his knight and squire to
turn shepherds: an evident ridicule on the turn of
that time for pastoral poems and romances, that
were beginning to succeed to their books of heroic
knight-errantry. Not, but it contains, also, a fine
stroke of moral criticism, as implying, what is seen
from experience to be too true, that men capable of
running into one enthusiasm are seldom cured of it
but by some sudden diversion of the imagination,
which drives them into another.
In conclusion, the reader will scarcely ask me,
why, in this deduction of the history and genius of
pastoral poetry, I have taken no notice of what has
been written of this kind, in France; which, if it
be not the most unpoetical nation in Europe, is at
least the most unpastoral. Nor is their criticism of
this poem much better than their execution. A late
writer24 indeed pronounces M. de Fontenelle’s discourse
on pastoral poetry to be one of the finest
pieces of criticism in the world. For my part, I can
only say it is rather more tolerable than his pastorals.
248. Offendentur enim quibus est equus et
pater et res.] The poet, in his endeavour to reclaim
his countrymen from the taste obscene, very
politely, by a common figure, represents that as
being the fact, which he wished to be so. For
what reception the rankest obscenities met with on
the Roman stage we learn from Ovid’s account of the
success of the Mimi:
Nobilis hos virgo matronaque, virque puerque,
Spectat: et è magnâ parte senatus adest.
Trist. ii. v. 501.
This, indeed, was not till some time after the
date of this epistle. But we may guess from hence
what must have been the tendency of the general
disposition, and may see to how little effect the poet
had laboured to divert the public attention from the
Mimes to his reformed Atellanes.
251. Syllaba longa brevi, &c.] This whole
critique on the satyrs concludes with some directions
about the Iambic verse. When the commentary
asserts, that this metre was common to tragedy and
the satyrs, this is not to be taken strictly; the satyrs,
in this respect, as in every other, sustaining a
sort of intermediate character betwixt tragedy and
comedy. For, accurately speaking, their proper
measure, as the Grammarians teach, was the Iambic
enlivened with the tribrachys. “Gaudent [Victor.
l. ii. c. met. Iamb.] trisyllabo pede et maxime
tribrache.” Yet there was likeness enough to
consider this whole affair of the metre under the
same head. The Roman dramatic writers were very
careless in their versification, which arose, as is
hinted, v. 259, from an immoderate and undistinguishing
veneration of their old poets.
In conclusion of all that has been delivered on
the subject of these satyrs, it may be amusing to
the learned reader to hear a celebrated French critic
express himself in the following manner: “Les
Romains donnoient encore le nom de Satyre à
une espece de Piece Pastorale; qui tenoit, dit on
le milieu entre la Tragedie et la Comedie. C’est
tout ce que nous en sçavons.” [Mem. de l’Hist.
des Belles Lett. tom. xvii. p. 211.]
264. Et data Romanis venia est indigna poetis.]
It appears certainly, that what is said here
concerning the metre of dramatic poems, was peculiarly
calculated for the correction of the Roman
negligence, and inaccuracy in this respect. This,
if it had not been so expresly told us, would have
been seen from the few remaining fragments of the
old Latin plays, in which a remarkable carelessness
of numbers is observed. This gives a presumption,
that, with the like advantage of consulting them, it
would also appear, that the rest of the poet’s rules
were directed to the same end, and that even such,
as are delivered in the most absolute and general
form, had a peculiar reference, agreeably to what
is here taught of the plan of this poem, to the corresponding
defects in the state of the Roman stage.
270. At vestri proavi Plautinos et numeros
et Laudavere sales; nimium patienter utrumque,
Ne dicam stulte, mirati;] It hath been
thought strange, that Horace should pass so severe
a censure on the wit of Plautus, which yet appeared
to Cicero so admirable, that he speaks of it as elegans,
urbanum, ingeniosum, facetum. [De Off. i. 29.]
Nor can it be said, that this difference of judgment
was owing to the improved delicacy of taste for wit,
in the Augustan age, since it doth not appear, that
Horace’s own jokes, when he attempts to divert us
in this way, are at all better than Cicero’s.
The common answer, so far as it respects the poet,
is, I believe, the true one: “that endeavouring to
beat down the excessive veneration of the elder
Roman poets, and, among the rest (as appears
from 2 Ep. i. and A. P. 54.) of Plautus, he censures,
without reserve, every the least defect in
his writings; though, in general, he agreed with
Cicero in admiring him.” But then this was all.
For that he was not so over-nice as to dislike Plautus’
wit in the main, and, but in this view, probably
had not criticized him at all, I collect from his express
approbation of the wit of the old comedy;
which certainly was not more delicate, than that of
Plautus.
ridiculum acri
Fortius et melius magnas plerumque secat res.
Illi, scripta quibus comœdia prisca viris est,
Hoc stabant, HOC SUNT IMITANDI.
I S. x. 15.
I know, it hath been thought, that, even in this
very place, where he censures the wit of Plautus,
he directs us ad Græca exemplaria, i. e. as his critics
understand him, to Aristophanes, and the other
writers of the old Comedy; but such a direction in
this place, were altogether improper, and the supposition
is, besides, a palpable mistake. For the
Græca exemplaria are referred to only, as models
in exact versification, as the tenor of the place
fully shews. And what Horace afterwards remarks
on the wit of Plautus, in addition to the observations
on metre, is a new and distinct criticism, and hath
no kind of reference to the preceding direction.
But still, as I said, Horace appears no such enemy
to the old comic wit, as, without the particular
reason assigned, to have so severely condemned it.
The difficulty is to account for Cicero’s so peculiar
admiration of it, and that a taste, otherwise so exact,
as his, should delight in the coarse humour of Plautus,
and the old comedy. The case, I believe, was
this:
Cicero had imbibed a strong relish of the frank
and libertine wit of the old comedy, as best suited
to the genius of popular eloquence; which, though
it demands to be tempered with some urbanity, yet
never attains its end so effectually, as when let down
and accommodated, in some certain degree, to the
general taste and manners of the people. This Cicero
in effect owns, when he tells us, the main end
of jesting at the bar [De Orat. ccxl.] is, not to acquire
the credit of consummate humour, but to
carry the cause, ut proficiamus aliquid: that is, to
make an impression on the people; which is generally,
we know, better done by a coarser joke, than
by the elegance of refined raillery. And that this
was the real ground of Cicero’s preference of the old
comedy to the new, may be concluded, not only
from the nature of the thing, and his own example
(for he was ever reckoned intemperate in his jests,
which by no means answer to the elegance of his
character) but is certainly collected from what Quintilian,
in his account of it, expresly observes of the
old comedy, Nescio an ulla poesis (post Homerum)
aut similior sit oratoribus, aut ad oratores faciendos
aptior. The reason, doubtless, was, that
strength, and prompt and eloquent freedom, Vires
et facundissima libertas, which he had before observed,
so peculiarly belonged to it.
And this, I think, will go some way towards
clearing an embarrassing circumstance in the history
of the Roman learning, which I know not, if any
writer hath yet taken notice of. It is, that though
Menander and the authors of the new comedy were
afterwards admired, as the only masters of the
comic drama, yet this does not appear to have been
seen, or, at least, so fully acknowledged, by the
Roman writers, till after the Augustan age; notwithstanding
that the Roman taste was, from that
time, visibly declining. The reason, I doubt not,
was, that the popular eloquence, which continued,
in a good degree of vigour, to that time, participating
more of the freedom of the old comic banter,
and rejecting, as improper to its end, the refinements
of the new, insensibly depraved the public
taste; which, by degrees only, and not till a studied
and cautious declamation had, by the necessary influence
of absolute power, succeeded to the liberty
of their old oratory, was fully reconciled to the delicacy
and strict decorum of Menander’s wit. Even
the case of Terence, which, at first sight, might
seem to bear hard against it, confirms this account.
This poet, struck with the supreme elegance of
Menander’s manner, and attempting too soon, before
the public taste was sufficiently formed for it,
to bring it on the stage, had occasion for all the
credit, his noble patrons could give him, to support
himself against the popular clamour. What was
the object of that clamour, we learn from a curious
passage in one of his prologues, where his adversary
is made to object,
Quas—fecit—fabulas
Tenui esse oratione et scriptura levi.
Prol. ad Phorm.
The sense of which is not, as his commentators
have idly thought, that his style was low and
trifling, for this could never be pretended, but that
his dialogue was insipid, and his characters, and,
in general, his whole composition, without that
comic heightening, which their vitiated tastes required.
This further appears from those common
verses of Cæsar, where, characterizing the genius of
Terence’s plays, as devoid of this comic spirit, he
calls them lenia scripta:
Lenibus atque utinam SCRIPTIS adjuncta foret vis
Comica:
words, which are the clearest comment on the lines
in question.
But this famous judgment of Cæsar deserves to
be scrutinized more narrowly. For it may be said
“that by vis comica I suppose him to mean the
comic drollery of the old and middle comedy;
whereas it is more probable he meant the elegant
but high humour of the best writers of the new,
particularly of Menander; why else doth he call
Terence, “Dimidiate Menander?” There is the
more force in this objection, because the elegant but
high humour, here mentioned, is of the truest merit
in comedy; and because Menander, of whom the
ancients speak so honourably, and whom we only
know by their encomiums, may be reasonably
thought to have excelled in it. What occurs in answer
to it, is this.
1. The Ancients are generally allowed to have
had very little of what we now understand by comic
humour. Lucian is the first, indeed the only one,
who hath properly left us any considerable specimens
of it. And he is almost modern with regard to the
writers under consideration. But,
2. That Menander and the writers of the new
comedy did not excel in it, is probable for these
reasons.
1. The most judicious critic of antiquity, when
he is purposely considering the excellencies of
the Greek comedians, and, what is more, exposing
the comparative deficiencies of the Roman,
says not a word of it. He thinks, indeed, that
Terence’s, which yet he pronounces to be most
elegant, is but the faintest shadow of the Greek,
comedy. But then his reason is, quod sermo ipse
Romanus non recipere videatur illam solis concessam
Atticis venerem. [L. x. 1.] It seems then as
if the main defect, which this critic observed in Terence’s
comedy, was a want of that inexplicable
grace of language, which so peculiarly belonged to
the Greeks; a grace of so subtle a nature that even
they could only catch it in one dialect—quando
eam ne Græci quidem in alio genere linguæ non
obtinuerint. [Ib.]”
2. Some of Terence’s plays may be almost said
to be direct translations from Menander. And the
comic humour, supposed in the objection, being of
the truest taste, no reason can be imagined why the
poet should so industriously avoid to transfuse this
last and highest grace into his comedy. Especially
since the popular cry against him proceeded from
hence, that he was wanting in comic pleasantry; a
want, which by a stricter attention to this virtue of
his great original, supposing Menander to have been
possessed of it, he might so easily have supplied.
And lest it should be thought he omitted to do this,
as not conceiving any thing of this virtue, or as not
approving it, we find in him, but rarely indeed,
some delicate touches, which approach as nearly as
any thing in antiquity to this genuine comic humour.
Of which kind is that in the Hecyra:
Tum tu igitur nihil adtulisti huc plus unâ sententiâ?
For these reasons I should suppose that Menander
and the writers of the new comedy, from whom
Terence copied, had little of this beauty.
But what shall we say then to Cæsar’s dimidiate
Menander? It refers, I believe, solely to what
Quintilian, as we have seen, observed, that, with
all his emulation of Attic elegance, he was unable,
through the native stubbornness of the Latin tongue,
to come up to the Greek comedy. The very text
of Cæsar leads to this meaning.
Tu quoque, tu in summis, ô dimidiate Menander,
Poneris, et merito, PURI SERMONIS AMATOR.
His excellence consisted in the purity and urbanity
of his expression, in which praise if he still fell
short of his master, the fault was not in him, but
the intractability of his language. And in this view
Cæsar’s address carries with it the highest compliment.
Quintilian had said in relation to this point,
Vix levem consequimur umbram. But Cæsar, in a
fond admiration of his merit, cries out,
Tu quoque, TU in summis, ô dimidiate Menander.
His censure of him is delivered in the following
lines:
Lenibus atque utinam scriptis adjuncta foret vis
Comica, ut æquato virtus polleret honore
Cum Græcis, neque in hâc despectus parte jaceres;
Unum hoc maceror et doleo tibi deesse, Terenti.
Which, again, gives no countenance to the supposition
of Menander’s excelling in comic humour.
For he does not say, that with the addition of this
talent he had equalled Menander, but in general,
the Greeks—æquato virtus polleret honore cum
Græcis. And this was what occasioned Cæsar’s
regret. He wished to see him unite all the merits of
the Greek comedy. As far as the Latin tongue would
permit, he had shewn himself a master of the elegance
of the new. What he further required in him was the
strong wit and satyr of the old. His favourite had
then rivalled, in every praise, the Greek writers.
And, if this be admitted, nothing hinders but
that by vis comica Cæsar may be understood to
mean (how consistently with the admired urbanity
of Terence is not the question) the comic pleasantry
of the middle or old comedy.
The thing indeed could hardly be otherwise.
For Plautus, who chiefly copied, from the middle
comedy, had, by the drollery of his wit, and the
buffoon pleasantry of his scenes, so enchanted the
people as to continue the reigning favourite of the
stage, even long after Afranius and Terence had appeared
on it. Nay the humour continued through
the Augustan age25, when, as we learn from Horace,
in many parts of his writings, the public applause
still followed Plautus; in whom though himself
could see many faults, yet he does not appear to
have gone so far, as, upon the whole, to give the
preference to Terence. Afterwards indeed the case
altered. Paterculus admires; and Plutarch and
Quintilian are perfectly charmed: ita omnem vitæ
imaginem expressit, ita est omnibus rebus, personis,
affectibus accommodatus. This character, one would
think, should have fitted him also for a complete
model to the orator. And this, as might be expected,
was Quintilian’s opinion. For, though he
saw, as appears from the passage already quoted,
that the writers of the old comedy were, in fact, the
likest to orators, and the most proper to form them
to the practice of the Forum, yet, in admiration of
the absolute perfection of Menander’s manner, and
criticising him by the rules of a just and accurate
rhetoric, and not at all in the views of a practical
orator, he pronounces him to be a complete pattern
of oratorial excellence: vel unus, diligenter lectus,
ad cuncta efficienda sufficiat, l. x. c. 1. Yet Cicero,
it seems, thought otherwise; for he scarcely,
as I remember, mentions the name of Menander in
his rhetorical books, though he is very large in
commending the authors of the old Greek comedy.
The reason was unquestionably that we have been
explaining: The delicate observance of decorum,
for which this poet was so famous, in omnibus mire
custoditur ab hoc poeta decorum, rendered him an
unfit model for a popular speaker, especially in
Rome, where an orator was much more likely to
carry his point by the vis comica, the broader mirth
of Aristophanes, or Plautus, than by the delicate
railleries, and exquisite paintings of Menander, or
Terence.
273. Si modo ego et vos Scimus inurbanum
lepido seponere dicto.] It was very late ere the
ancients became acquainted with this distinction.
Indeed it does not appear, they ever possessed it in
that supreme degree, which might have been expected
from their exquisite discernment in other
instances. Even Horace himself, though his pictures
of life are commonly the most delicate, and
wrought up in the highest beauty of humour, yet,
when he affects the plaisant, and purposely aims at
the comic style and manner, is observed to sink
beneath himself extremely. The truth is, there is
something low, and what the French call grossier,
in the whole cast of ancient wit; which is rather a
kind of rude, illiberal satire, than a just and temperate
ridicule, restrained by the exact rules of
civility and good sense. This a celebrated writer,
who seems willing to think the most favourably of
the ancient wits, in effect owns, when, after quoting
certain instances of their raillery, he says, Ces exemples,
quoique vifs et bons en leur genre, ont
quëlque chose de trop dur, qui ne s’accommoderoit
pas à nôtre maniere de vivre; et ce seroit ce que
nous appellons rompre en visiers, que de dire en face
des veritez aussi forts que celles-là. [Rec. de bons
Contes et de bons Mots, p. 89.] This rudeness,
complained of, appears in nothing more evident, than
in their perpetual banter on corporal infirmities,
which runs through all the wits both of Greece and
Rome. And to shew us, that this was not a practice,
they allowed themselves in against rule, Cicero mentions
corporal infirmities [De Or. l. ii. c. 59.] as one
of the most legitimate sources of the RIDICULOUS.
Est deformitatis et corporis vitiorum satis bella
materies. And in another place, Valde ridentur
etiam imagines, quæ fere in deformitatem, aut in
aliquod vitium corporis ducuntur cum similitudine
turpioris, &c. [ib. c. 66.] And this, which is very
remarkable, though they saw the absurdity of it, as
appears from the answer of Lamia, recorded by
Cicero, to a joke of this kind, Non potui mihi formam
ipse fingere, [ib. c. 65.] The universal prevalence
of a practice so absurd in itself, and seen by
themselves to be so, in the two politest states of the
old world, must needs have sprung from some very
general, and powerful cause; which, because it hath
not, that I know of, been considered by any writer,
I shall here attempt to open and explane. The
subject is curious, and would require a volume to do
it justice. I can only hint at the principal reasons,
which appear to me to have been these.
I. The free and popular government of those
states. This, preserving an equality of condition, and
thereby spreading a fearlessness and independency
through all ranks and orders of men, of course produced
and indulged the utmost freedom of expression,
uninfluenced by hopes of favour, and unawed by fear
of personal offence; the two sources, from whence
the civility of a more cautious ridicule is derived.
Now of all the species of raillery, the most natural
and obvious to a people unrestrained by these causes,
is ever the coarsest, such as that on corporal deformities;
as appears from its prevailing every where,
in all forms of government, among the lowest of the
people, betwixt whom those causes never subsist.
But this reason involves in it some particulars, which
deserve to be considered. 1. The orators, who
catched it from the constitution themselves, contributed
in their turn to forward and help on this disposition
to uncivilized mirth. For, the form of their
government requiring immediate, and almost continual,
applications to the people; and the nature of
such applications giving frequent exercise to their
wit, it was natural for them to suit it to the capacities
of their auditory; if indeed they had seen better
themselves. Thus we find the orators in the Forum,
even in the later times of the Roman republic, exposing
their adversary to the broad mirth of the populace,
by enlarging on his low stature, ugly face,
or distorted chin. Instances of which may be met
with in Cicero’s treatise De oratore; and even, as
hath been observed, in some orations and other pieces
of Cicero himself. 2. From the Forum the humour
insensibly spread amongst all orders, and particularly,
amongst the writers for the stage, where it was
kept up in its full vigour, or rather heightened to a
further extravagance, the laughter of the people
being its more immediate and direct aim. But, the
stage not only conformed, as of course it would, to
the spirit of the times (which, for the reason already
given, were none of the most observant of decorum)
but, as we shall also find, it had perhaps the greatest
influence in producing and forming that spirit
itself. This will appear, if we recollect, in few
words, the rise, progress, and character of the ancient
stage.
The Greek drama, we know, had its origin from
the loose, licentious raillery of the rout of Bacchus,
indulging to themselves the freest sallies of taunt and
invective, as would best suit to lawless natures,
inspirited by festal mirth, and made extravagant by
wine. Hence arose, and with a character answering
to this original, the satyric drama; the spirit of
which was afterwards, in good measure, revived and
continued in the old comedy, and itself preserved,
though with considerable alteration in the form,
through all the several periods of the Greek stage;
even when tragedy, which arose out of it, was brought
to its last perfection. Much the same may be observed
of the Roman drama, which, we are told,
had its rise in the unrestrained festivity of the rustic
youth. This gave occasion to their Satyræ, that is,
medleys of an irregular form, acted for the diversion
of the people. And, when afterwards Livius Andronicus
had, by a further reform, reduced these Satyræ
into regular tragedies, another species of buffoon
ridicule was cultivated, under the name of Atellanæ
fabulæ; which, according to Diomedes’ character
of them, were replete with jocular witticisms, and
very much resembled the Greek satyrs. Dictis jocularibus
refertæ, similes fere sunt satyricis fabulis
Græcorum. These were ever after retained, and
annexed to their most regular dramatic entertainments
in Rome, just as the satyrs were in Greece;
and this (as was seen in its place) though much pains
was taken to reform, if not wholly remove, them.
But to shew how strong the passion of the Romans
was for this rude illiberal banter, even the licentious
character of the Atellanes did not fully satisfy them;
but, as if they were determined to stick to their
genuine rusticity, they continued the Satyræ themselves,
under the name of Exodia, that is farces of
the grossest and most absurd composition; which,
to heighten the mirth of the day, were commonly
interwoven with the Atellane pieces. The reason of
the continuance of such ribaldry in the politest ages
of Greece and Rome hath been inquired into. At
present it appears, what effect it must necessarily
have upon the public taste.
II. Another cause connected with the foregoing,
and rising out of it, seems to have been the festal
licence of particular seasons, such as the Dionysia
and Panathenæa, amongst the Greeks; and the
Bacchanalia and Saturnalia, at Rome. These
latter, it is observable, were continued to the latest
period of the Roman empire, preserving in them an
image, as well of the frank and libertine wit of their
old stage, as of the original equality and independency
of their old times. Quintilian thinks, that,
with some regulation, good use might have been
made of these seasons of licence, for the cultivating
a just spirit of raillery in the orators of his time.
As it was, there is no doubt, they helped much to
vitiate and deprave it. His words are these: Quin
illæ ipsæ, quæ DICTA sunt ac vocantur, quas certis
diebus festæ licentiæ dicere solebamus, si paulum
adhibita ratione fingerentur, aut aliquid in his serium
quoque esset admixtum, plurimum poterunt
utilitatis afferre: quæ nunc juvenum, aut sibi ludentium
exercitatio est. [Quint. l. iv. c. 3.] Besides,
in Greece, the jester was a character by profession,
necessary to the pleasantry of private feasts, and, as
we learn from the fine satyr in Xenophon’s Symposium,
even in that polite age, welcome to all companies26.
From these reasons I think it not difficult to
account for the coarseness of ancient wit. The free
genius of the Greek and Roman constitution was
unquestionably its main spring and support. But,
when this character of their government was seconded
by the freedom of their demagogues, the petulance
of the stage, and the uncontrouled licence of recurring
festival solemnities, it was no wonder, the
illiberal manner so thoroughly infected all ranks and
degrees of the people, as by no after diligence and
refinement wholly to be removed. And this theory
is indeed confirmed by fact. For, when now the
tyranny of one man had ingrossed the power, and
oppressed the liberties, of Greece, their stage refined,
their wit polished, and Menander wrote. And
though a thorough reform was never made in the
Roman stage, partly, as Quintilian thinks, from the
intractability of their language, but chiefly, it may
be, as to the point in question, from the long continuance
of their rude farcical shews, yet something
like this appears to have followed upon the loss of their
freedom; as is plain from the improved delicacy of
their later critics; who, as Quintilian and Plutarch,
are very profuse in their encomiums on Menander,
and the new comedy; whereas we find little said of
it by the Augustan writers, who seem generally to
have preferred the coarser wit and pleasantry of the
old. The state of modern wit too confirms this
account. For it has grown up, for the most part,
under limited monarchies, in which their scenical
entertainments were more moderate, or for plain reasons
must less affect the public taste. Whenever
therefore a turn for letters has prevailed, a poignant,
but liberal kind of wit hath generally sprung up with
it. Where it is worth observing, the growing
tyranny in some states hath either extinguished it
intirely, or refined it into an effeminate and timid
delicacy, as the growing licentiousness in others
hath sunk it into a rude and brutal coarseness; whilst
by a due mixture of liberty and letters, we have seen
it acquire a proper temperament at home, and, as
managed by our best writers, exhibit a specimen
of that strong, yet elegant ridicule, which hath
never yet been equalled by any other nation in the
world.
275. Ignotum tragicae genus invenisse camenae, &c.]
The poet, having just remarked the
negligence of the Roman writers, in two or three
instances, and, at the same time recommended to
them the superior care and accuracy of the Greeks
(all which is elegantly preparatory to the last division
of the epistle) proceeds in a short view of the
Greek drama, to insinuate, as well the successful
pains of the Greek writers, as the real state of the
Roman stage; the complete glory of which could
only be expected, as immediately follows, from a
spirit of diligence and correctness. As this whole
connexion is clear and easy, so is the peculiar method,
in which it is conducted, extremely proper.
1. To shew, how great the advantage of their situation
was over that of the Greeks, he observes, that
the latter had the whole constitution of the drama to
invent and regulate; which yet, by the application and
growing experience of their poets, was soon effected;
their tragedy, all rude and shapeless, as it was, in the
cart of Thespis, appearing in its just form and proportion
on the stage of Æschylus; and their comedy
also (which, from that time, began to be cultivated)
asserting its proper character, and, but for the culpable
omission of a chorus, reaching the full extent and
perfection of its kind.
2. To shew, what still remained to them, he brings
down the history of tragedy no lower than Æschylus;
under whom it received its due form and all the essentials
of its nature, yet still wanted, to its absolute perfection,
the further accuracy and correctness of a Sophocles.
And, for their comedy, he hints the principal
defect of that; its omission, after the manner of
the new comedy, of the chorus. There is great address
in this conduct. The censure also implied in it,
is perfectly just. For, 1. the character of the Roman
tragedy, in the times of Horace, was exactly that
of Æschylus. Æschylus, says Quintilian, was the
first, “qui protulit tragœdias,” i. e. who composed
true legitimate tragedies, sublimis et gravis et grandiloquus
sæpe usque ad vitium; sed rudis in plerisque
et incompositus [L. x. c. i.] the very description,
which Horace gives [2 Ep. i. 165.] of the
Roman tragedy.
natura sublimis et acer,
Nam spirat tragicum satis et feliciter audet;
Sed turpem putat inscitus metuitque lituram.
2. The state of their comedy, as managed by
their best writers, Afranius and Terence, was, indeed,
much more complete; yet wanted the chorus,
which, in the judgment of the poet, it seems, was
equally necessary to the perfection of this, as of the
other drama.
3. But the application is made in express terms.
Nil intentatum nostri liquere poetæ, &c.
i. e. our poets, as well as the Greek, have, in some
degree, applied themselves to improve and regulate
the stage. In particular, a late innovation, in taking
their subjects, both of tragedy and comedy, from
domestic facts, is highly to be applauded. Their sole
disadvantage is, a neglect or contempt of that labour
and accuracy, which gave the last perfection to the
Greek scene.
After this clear and natural exposition of the connexion
of these lines, all the difficulties, that have
been found in them by certain great critics, vanish
of themselves. And the reader now sees (what the
sagacious Heinsius thought impossible to be shewn)
an ἀκολουθίαν, or consistent, natural order in this part
of the epistle; which was in imminent danger of
losing all its grace and beauty, by the wild transpositions
of that critic.
278. Post hunc personae pallaeque, &c.] M.
Dacier hath here puzzled himself with a difficulty
of his own raising. He wonders, that Horace should
omit, in this history, the other improvements of Æschylus,
mentioned by Aristotle, and that Aristotle,
in his turn, should omit those, mentioned by Horace.
The truth is, neither of them intended a complete
account of the improvements of the Greek stage; but
only so much of them, as was necessary to the views
of each. Aristotle, treating of the internal constitution
of the drama, speaks of such changes, made in it
by Æschylus, as respected that end. Horace, treating
in general of its form, as perfected by the pains
and application of the same poet, selects those improvements
only, which contrast best to the rude essays of
Thespis, and, while they imply the rest, exhibit tragedy,
as it were, in her proper person, on the stage.
The reader feels the effect of this in the poetry.
288. Vel qui praetextas, vel qui docuere
togatas.] There hath been much difficulty here
in settling a very plain point. The question is,
whether prætextas means tragedy, or a species of
comedy? The answer is very clear from Diomedes,
whose account is, in short, this. “1Togatæ is a
general term for all sorts of Latin plays, adopting
the Roman customs and dresses; as Palliatæ is,
for all, adopting the Græcian. Of the Togatæ, the
several 2species are, 1. Prætexta, or Prætextata,
in which Roman kings and generals were introduced,
and is so called, because the prætexta was
the distinguishing habit of such persons. 2. Tabernaria,
frequently called 3Togata, though that
word, as we have seen, had properly a larger
sense. 3. Atellana. 4. Planipedis.” He next
marks the difference of these several sorts of Togatæ,
from the similar, corresponding ones of the Palliatæ,
which are these: “1. 4Tragœdia, absolutely
so styled. 2. 5Comœdia, 3. 6Satyri.
4. 7Μῖμος.” [These four sorts of the palliatæ
were also probably in use at Rome; certainly, at
least, the two former.] It appears then from hence,
that prætextata was properly the Roman tragedy.
But he adds, “Togata prætextata à tragœdia
differt, and it is also said, to be only like tragedy,
tragœdiæ similis.” What is this difference
and this likeness? The explanation follows. “8Heroes
are introduced in tragedy, such as Orestes,
Chryses, and the like. In the prætextata, Brutus,
Decius, or Marcellus.” So then we see, when
Græcian characters were introduced, it was called
simply tragœdia; when Roman, prætextata; yet
both, tragedies. The sole difference lay in the persons
being foreign or domestic. The correspondence
in every other respect was exact. The same is observed
of the Roman comedy; when it adopted
9Greek characters, it was called comœdia: when
Roman, 20Togata Tabernaria, or 3Togata, simply.
That the reader may assure himself of the
fidelity of this account, let him take it at large, in
the Grammarian’s own words. “1Togatæ fabulæ
dicuntur, quæ scriptæ sunt secundum ritus et
habitus hominum togatorum, id est, Romanorum
(Toga namque Romana est), sicut Græcas fabulas
ab habitu æque palliatas Varro ait nominari.
3Togatas autem cum sit generale nomen, specialiter
tamen pro tabernariis, non modo communis
error usurpat, sed et poetæ.—Togatarum fabularum
2species tot fere sunt, quot et palliatarum.
Nam prima species est togatarum, quæ prætextatæ
dicuntur, in quibus imperatorum negotia
agebantur et publica, et reges Romani vel duces
inducuntur, personarum et argumentorum sublimitate4
tragœdiis similes: Prætextatæ autem
dicuntur, quia fere regum vel magistratuum,
qui prætexta utuntur, in hujusmodi fabulis acta
comprehenduntur. Secunda species togatarum,
quæ tabernariæ dicuntur, humilitate personarum
et argumentorum similitudine 5comœdiis pares—Tertia
species est fabularum latinarum, quæ—Atellanæ
dictæ sunt, similes 6satyricis fabulis,
Græcis. Quarta species est planipedis, Græce
dicitur 7Μῖμος.—Togata prætextata, à 4tragœdia
differt. In tragœdia 8heroes introducuntur. Pacuvius
tragœdias nominibus heroicis scripsit Oresten,
Chrysen, et his similia. Item Accius.
In prætextata autem scribitur, Brutus, vel
Decius, vel Marcellus. 19Togata tabernaria à
5comœdia differt, quod in 9comœdia Græci ritus
inducuntur, personæque Græcæ, Laches, Sostrata.
In illa vero Latinæ.” [L. iii. c. de Com. et Trag.
diff.] With this account of Diomedes agrees perfectly
that of Festus; from which, however, M.
Dacier draws a very different conclusion. “Togatarum
duplex est genus: prætextarum—et tabernariarum.”
His inference is, that prætextatæ,
as being a species of the togatæ, must needs be comedies;
not considering that togata is here a generic
term, comprehending under it all the several
species both of the Roman tragedy and comedy.
After what hath been said, and especially, after the
full and decisive testimony of Diomedes, there can
no longer be any doubt about the meaning of prætextas;
and one must be surprized to find M. Dacier
prefacing his long note on this place in the following
important manner: C’est un des plus difficiles
passages d’Horace, et peutêtre celui qu’il est
le plus mal aisé d’eclaircir à cause du peu de lumiere
que nous donnent les auteurs Latins sur tout
ce qui regarde leurs pieces de theatre.
281. Successit vetus his Comoedia, &c.] i. e.
Comedy began to be cultivated and improved from
the time that tragedy had obtained its end, ἔσχε
τὴν ἑαυτῆς φύσιν, under Æschylus. There is no
reason to suppose, with some critics, that Horace
meant to date its origin from hence. The supposition
is, in truth, contradicted by experience and
the order of things. For, as a celebrated French
writer observes, “Le talent d’imiter, qui nous est
naturel, nous porte plutôt à la comedie qui roule
sur des choses de nôtre connoissance qu’à la Tragedie,
qui prend des sujets plus èloignés de l’usage
commun; et en effet, en Gréce aussi bien qu’en
France, la Comedie est l’aînée de la tragedie.”
[Hist. du Theat. Franc. par M. de Fontenelle.]
The latter part of this assertion is clear from the
piece referred to; and the other, which respects
Greece, seems countenanced by Aristotle himself
[περ. ποιητ. κ. ε.] ’Tis true, Comedy, though its
rise be every where, at least, as early as that of
tragedy, is perfected much later. Menander, we
know, appeared long after Æschylus. And, though
the French tragedy, to speak with Aristotle, ἔσχε
τὴν ἑαυτῆς φύσιν in the hands of Corneille, this cannot
be said of their comedy, which was forced to
wait for a Moliere, before it arrived at that pitch of
perfection. But then this is owing to the superior
difficulty of the comic drama. Nor is it any objection
that the contrary of this happened at Rome.
For the Romans, when they applied themselves in
earnest to the stage, had not to invent, but to imitate
or rather translate, the perfect models of
Greece. And it chanced, for reasons which I shall
not stay to deduce, that their poets had better success
in copying their comedy, than tragedy.
284. Turpiter obticuit—] Evidently because,
though the jus nocendi was taken away, yet that
was no good reason, why the chorus should entirely
cease. M. Dacier mistakes the matter. Le chœur
se tût ignominieusement, parceque la loi reprima
sa licence, et que ce fut, à proprement parler, la
loi qui le bannit; ce qu’ Horace regarde comme une
espece de flétrissure. Properly speaking, the law
only abolished the abuse of the chorus. The ignominy
lay in dropping the entire use of it, on account
of this restraint. Horace was of opinion,
that the chorus ought to have been retained, though
the state had abridged it of the licence, it so much
delighted in, of an illimited, and intemperate satyr.
Sublatus chorus fuit, says Scaliger, cujus illæ videntur
esse præcipuæ partes, ut potissimum quos
liberet, læderent.
286. Nec minimum meruere decus vestigia
Græca Ausi deserere et celebrare domestica
facta.] This judgment of the poet, recommending
domestic subjects, as fittest for the stage, may be
inforced from many obvious reasons. As I. that it
renders the drama infinitely more affecting: and
this on many accounts. 1. As a subject, taken from
our own annals, must of course carry with it an air
of greater probability, at least to the generality of
the people, than one borrowed from those of any
other nation. 2. As we all find a personal interest
in the subject. 3. As it of course affords the best
and easiest opportunities of catching our minds, by
frequent references to our manners, prejudices, and
customs. And of how great importance this is,
may be learned from hence, that, even in the exhibition
of foreign characters, dramatic writers have
found themselves obliged to sacrifice truth and probability
to the humour of the people, and to dress
up their personages, contrary to their own better
judgment, in some degree according to the mode
and manners of their respective countries27. And
4. as the writer himself, from an intimate acquaintance
with the character and genius of his own nation,
will be more likely to draw the manners with
life and spirit.
II. Next, which should ever be one great point
in view, it renders the drama more generally useful
in its moral destination. For, it being conversant
about domestic acts, the great instruction of the
fable more sensibly affects us; and the characters
exhibited, from the part we take in their good or ill
qualities, will more probably influence our conduct.
III. Lastly, this judgment will deserve the
greater regard, as the conduct recommended was,
in fact, the practice of our great models, the Greek
writers; in whose plays, it is observable, there is
scarcely a single scene, which lies out of the confines
of Greece.
But, notwithstanding these reasons, the practice
hath, in all times, been but little followed. The
Romans, after some few attempts in this way (from
whence the poet took the occasion of delivering it
as a dramatic precept), soon relapsed into their old
use; as appears from Seneca’s, and the titles of
other plays, written in, or after the Augustan age.
Succeeding times continued the same attachment to
Grecian, with the addition of an equal fondness for
Roman, subjects. The reason in both instances
hath been ever the same: that strong and early
prejudice, approaching somewhat to adoration, in
favour of the illustrious names of those two great
states. The account of this matter is very easy; for
their writings, as they furnish the business of our
younger, and the amusement of our riper, years,
and more especially make the study of all those,
who devote themselves to poetry and the stage, insensibly
infix in us an excessive veneration for all
affairs in which they were concerned; insomuch
that no other subjects or events seem considerable
enough, or rise, in any proportion, to our ideas of the
dignity of the tragic scene, but such as time and long
admiration have consecrated in the annals of their
story. Our Shakespeare was, I think, the first that
broke through this bondage of classical superstition.
And he owed this felicity, as he did some others,
to his want of what is called the advantage of a
learned education. Thus uninfluenced by the
weight of early prepossession, he struck at once into
the road of nature and common sense: and without
designing, without knowing it, hath left us in his
historical plays, with all their anomalies, an exacter
resemblance of the Athenian stage, than is any
where to be found in its most professed admirers and
copyists.
I will only add, that, for the more successful
execution of this rule of celebrating domestic acts,
much will depend on the æra, from whence the
subject is taken. Times too remote have almost
the same inconveniences, and none of the advantages,
which attend the ages of Greece and Rome.
And, for those of later date, they are too much
familiarized to us, and have not as yet acquired that
venerable cast and air, which tragedy demands, and
age only can give. There is no fixing this point
with precision. In the general, that æra is the fittest
for the poet’s purpose, which, though fresh
enough in our minds to warm and interest us in the
event of the action, is yet at so great a distance
from the present times, as to have lost all those
mean and disparaging circumstances, which unavoidably
adhere to recent deeds, and, in some measure,
sink the noblest modern transactions to the
level of ordinary life.
295. Ingenium misera, &c.] Sæpe audivi poetam
bonum neminem (id quod à Democrito et Platone
in scriptis relictum esse dicunt) sine inflammatione
animorum existere posse et sine quodam
afflatu quasi furoris. [Cic. De orat. l. ii. c. xlvi.]
And so Petronius, præcipitandus liber spiritus,
ut furentis animi vaticinatio appareat. [c. cxviii.]
And to the same purpose every good critic, ancient
or modern. But who can endure the grimace of
those minute genii, who, because the truly inspired,
in the ravings of the fit, are touched with
the flame and fury of enthusiasm, must, therefore,
with a tame, frigid fancy, be laying claim to the
same fervent and fiery raptures? The fate of these
aspirants to divinity is that ἐνθουσιᾷν ἑαυτοῖς δοκοῦντες,
οὐ βακχεύουσιν, ἀλλὰ παίζουσιν [Longin. περ. ὕψ.
τμημ. χ.] And Quintilian opens the mystery of
the whole matter: Quo quisque ingenio minus valet,
hoc se magis attollere et dilatare conatur: ut statura
breves in digitos eriguntur et plura infirmi
minantur. Nam tumidos et corruptos et tinnulos
et quocunque alio cacozeliæ genere peccantes, certum
habeo, non virium, sed infirmitatis vitio laborare:
ut corpora non robore, sed valetudine inflantur:
et recto itinere lapsi plerumque divertunt.
[L. ii. c. 3.]
298. Bona pars non ungues, &c.] The constant
and pitiful affectation of the race before spoken
of, who, with the modesty of laying claim to
the thing, will be sure not to omit the sign, and
so, from fancying an inspiration, they have not
come to adopt every foppery, that has ever disgraced
it in those who have.
308. Quid deceat, quid non:] Nihil est difficilius
quam, quid deceat, videre. Πρέπον appellant
hoc Græci: nos dicamus sane Decorum. De
quo præclare et multa præcipiuntur, et res est
cognitione dignissima. Hujus ignoratione non
modo in vitâ, sed sæpissime in Poematis et in oratione
peccatur. [Orator. xxi.]
309. Scribendi recte, sapere est et principium
et fons.] The Orator was of the same mind,
when he sent his pupil to the academy for instruction.
Quis nescit maximam vim existere oratoris
in hominum mentibus vel ad iram, aut dolorem incitandis,
vel ab hisce iisdem permotionibus ad lenitatem
misericordiamque revocandis? quæ, nisi qui
naturas hominum, vimque omnem humanitatis, causasque
eas quibus mentes aut incitantur aut reflectuntur,
penitus perspexerit, dicendo, quod volet,
perficere non poterit. Atqui TOTUS HIC LOCUS PHILOSOPHORUM
PROPRIUS VIDETUR. [De Orat. l. i.
c. xii.] And he spoke, we know, from his own
experience, having acquired his oratorial skill not
in the schools of the rhetoricians, but the walks of
the academy: fateor me oratorem, si modo sim, aut
etiam quicunque sim, non ex rhetorum officinis, sed
ex Academiæ spatiis extitisse. [Orat. p. 622. Elz.
ed.] But the reason he gives for this advice, though
common to the poet; whose character, as well as
the orator’s, it is, posse voluntates impellere, quo
velis, unde velis, deducere, is yet, not the only one,
which respects the poet. For his business is to
paint, and that not only, as the orator does, in
order to move, but for the sole end of pleasing: solam
petit voluptatem. [Quinct. l. x. c. i.] The boast of
his art is to catch every different aspect of nature,
and more especially to exhibit the human character
in every varying light and form, under which it
presents itself. But this is not to be done without
an exquisite study, and philosophical knowledge of
man; to which end, as is remarked in n. on v. 317.
the Socratic philosophy is more peculiarly adapted.
Add to this, that it is the genius of true poetry,
not only to animate, but to personalize every thing,
omnia debent esse morata. Hence the indispensable
necessity of moral science: all poetry being, in effect,
what Mr. Dryden somewhere calls comedy,
THE THEFT OF POETS FROM MANKIND.
310. Socraticae chartae.] An admired writer,
in many respects deservedly so, thus comments
on these words: “The philosophical writings, to
which our poet refers, were in themselves a kind of
poetry, like the mimes, or personated pieces of early
times, before philosophy was in vogue, and when
as yet Dramatical imitation was scarce formed: or
at least, in many parts, not brought to due perfection.
They were pieces, which, besides their force
of style, and hidden numbers, carried a sort of
action and imitation, the same as the Epic and
Dramatic kinds. They were either real dialogues,
or recitals of such personated discourses; where the
persons themselves had their characters preserved
throughout; their manners, humours, and distinct
turns of temper and understanding maintained, according
to the most exact poetical truth. ’Twas not
enough, that these pieces treated fundamentally of
morals, and, in consequence, pointed out real characters
and manners: They exhibited them alive,
and set the countenances and complexions of men
plainly in view. And by this means they not only
taught us to know others; but, what was principal
and of highest virtue in them, they taught us to
know ourselves.” Thus far then these models are
of unquestioned use to writers of every denomination.
I forbear to mention, what this noble author finds
occasion frequently to insinuate, and, by his own practice,
labours to recommend, the superior excellency
of the manner, as well as matter, of these highly-rated
originals. Not that I presume to think it unworthy
of imitation. But the public taste, as appears,
is running full fast that way, insomuch that some
may even doubt, if the state of literary composition
be more endangered by the neglect, or vicious imitation,
of the Platonic manner. Its graces, when
sparingly employed by a real genius, for the embellishment
of strong sense, have, it must be owned,
great beauty. But when this humour of platonizing
seizes on some minuter spirit, bent on ennobling
a trivial matter, and all over-run with academic
delicacy and affectation, nothing, to a just and manly
relish, can be more disgusting. One must wink hard
not to see frequent examples of this, in the master
Platonist himself. But his mimics, of late, have gone
much farther. There is no need, in such a croud of
instances, to point to particulars. What I would
rather observe is, that this folly, offensive as it is, may
perhaps admit of some excuse from the present state
of our literature, and the character of the great
original himself, whom these writers aspire to imitate.
When a language, as ours at this time, hath
been much polished and enriched with perfect models
of style in almost every way, it is in the order of
things, that the next step should be to a vicious affectation.
For the simplicity of true taste, under these
circumstances, grows insipid. Something better
than the best must be aimed at; and the reader’s languid
appetite raised by the provocatives of an ambitious
refinement. And this in sentiment, as well as
language. Whence we see how it happened, that
even in Greece itself, where composition was studied
with a more than common accuracy, Philosophy,
when it passed out of the hands of its great masters,
degenerated by degrees into the subtilties of sophistry,
as did Eloquence, likewise, into the tricks of
rhetoric.
But there was something, as I hinted, too, in the
character of the writer imitated, of a very ticklish
and dangerous nature; and of which our tribe of imitators
were not sufficiently aware. A very exact critic
of antiquity hath told us what it was. It lay in Plato’s
bringing the tumor of poetic composition into
discourses of philosophy, ΟΤΙ ΤΟΝ ΟΓΚΟΝ ΤΗΣ
ΠΟΙΗΤΙΚΗΣ ΚΑΤΑΣΚΕΥΗΣ ΕΠΙ ΛΟΓΟΥΣ
ΗΓΑΓΕ ΦΙΛΟΣΟΦΟΥΣ28. And though the experiment,
for the most part, succeeded not amiss (as
what contradiction is there which superior genius
cannot reconcile?) yet it sometimes failed even in
his hands. And as a French writer well expresses
it, Le DIVIN Plato, pour avoir voulu s’elever trop au
dessus des hommes, est souvent tombè dans un GALIMATIAS
pompeux que quelques uns confondent avec
le SUBLIME. The Phaedrus, though the most remarkable,
is not the only example of such mischance
in the writings of this great man.
317. Veras hinc ducere voces.] Truth, in
poetry, means such an expression, as conforms to
the general nature of things; falsehood, that, which,
however suitable to the particular instance in view
doth yet not correspond to such general nature.
To attain to this truth of expression in dramatic
poetry two things are prescribed: 1. A diligent
study of the Socratic philosophy; and 2. A masterly
knowledge and comprehension of human life. The
first, because it is the peculiar distinction of this
school ad veritatem vitæ propius accedere. [Cic. de
Or. i. 51.] And the latter, as rendering the imitation
more universally striking. This will be understood
by reflecting that truth may be followed too
closely in works of imitation, as is evident in two
respects. For, 1. the artist, when he would give a
Copy of nature, may confine himself too scrupulously
to the exhibition of particulars, and so fail
of representing the general idea of the kind. Or, 2.
in applying himself to give the general idea, he may
collect it from an enlarged view of real life, whereas
it were still better taken from the nobler conception
of it as subsisting only in the mind. This last is the
kind of censure we pass upon the Flemish school of
painting, which takes its model from real nature,
and not, as the Italian, from the contemplative
idea of beauty29. The former corresponds to that
other fault objected also to the Flemish masters, which
consists in their copying from particular odd and
grotesque nature in contradistinction to general and
graceful nature.
We see then that in deviating from particular and
partial, the poet more faithfully imitates universal,
truth. And thus an answer occurs to that refined
argument, which Plato invented and urged, with
much seeming complacency, against poetry. It is,
that poetical imitation is at a great distance from
truth. “Poetical expression, says the Philosopher,
is the copy of the poet’s own conceptions; the poet’s
conception, of things, and things, of the standing
archetype, as existing in the divine mind. Thus
the poet’s expression, is a copy at third hand, from
the primary, original truth.” [Plat. De rep. l. x.]
Now the diligent study of this rule of the poet obviates
this reasoning at once. For, by abstracting
from existences all that peculiarly respects and discriminates
the individual, the poet’s conception, as
it were neglecting the intermediate particular objects,
catches, as far as may be, and reflects the divine
archetypal idea, and so becomes itself the copy or
image of truth. Hence too we are taught the force
of that unusual encomium on poetry by the great
critic, that it is something more severe and philosophical
than history, φιλοσοφώτερον καὶ σπουδαιότερον
ποίησις ἱστορίας ἐστίν. The reason follows, which is
now very intelligible; ἡ μὲν γὰρ ποίησις μᾶλλον τὰ
καθόλου, ἡ δ’ ἱστορία τὰ καθ’ ἕκαστον λέγει. [Περ.
ποιητ. κ. θ.] And this will further explain an essential
difference, as we are told, between the two
great rivals of the Greek stage. Sophocles, in return
to such as objected a want of truth in his characters,
used to plead, that he drew men such as
they ought to be, Euripides such as they were.
Σοφοκλῆς ἔφη, αὐτὸς μὲν οἷοί δεῖ ποιεῖν, Εὐριπίδης δὲ
οἷοί εἰσι. [Περ. ποιητ. κ. κε.] The meaning of
which is, Sophocles, from his more extended commerce
with mankind, had enlarged and widened the
narrow, partial conception, arising from the contemplation
of particular characters, into a complete
comprehension of the kind. Whereas the philosophic
Euripides, having been mostly conversant in
the academy, when he came to look into life, keeping
his eye too intent on single, really existing personages,
sunk the kind in the individual; and so
painted his characters naturally indeed, and truly,
with regard to the objects in view, but sometimes
without that general and universally striking likeness,
which is demanded to the full exhibition of
poetical truth.
But here an objection meets us, which must not
be overlooked. It will be said, “that philosophic
speculations are more likely to render men’s views
abstract and general than to confine them to individuals.
This latter is a fault arising from the
small number of objects men happen to contemplate:
and may be removed not only by taking a view of
many particulars, which is knowledge of the world;
but also by reflecting on the general nature of men,
as it appears in good books of morality. For the
writers of such books form their general notion of
human nature from an extensive experience (either
their own, or that of others) without which their
writings are of no value.” The answer, I think, is
this. By reflecting on the general nature of man
the philosopher learns, what is the tenor of action
arising from the predominancy of certain qualities
or properties; i. e. in general, what that conduct is,
which the imputed character requires. But to perceive
clearly and certainly, how far, and with what
degree of strength this or that character will, on
particular occasions, most probably shew itself, this
is the fruit only of a knowledge of the world. Instances
of a want of this knowledge cannot be supposed
frequent in such a writer, as Euripides; nor,
when they occur, so glaring as to strike a common
reader. They are niceties, which can only be
discerned by the true critic; and even to him, at
this distance of time, from an ignorance of the
Greek manners, that may possibly appear a fault,
which is a real beauty. It would therefore be dangerous
to think of pointing out the places, which
Aristotle might believe liable to this censure in Euripides.
I will however presume to mention one,
which, if not justly criticized, will, at least, serve to
illustrate my meaning.
The story of his Electra is well known. The
poet had to paint, in the character of this princess,
a virtuous, but fierce, resentful woman; stung by a
sense of personal ill treatment; and instigated to
the revenge of a father’s death, by still stronger
motives. A disposition of this warm temperament,
it might be concluded by the philosopher in his
closet, would be prompt to shew itself. Electra
would, on any proper occasion, be ready to avow
her resentment, as well as to forward the execution
of her purpose. But to what lengths would this
resentment go? i. e. what degree of fierceness might
Electra express, without affording occasion to a
person widely skilled in mankind, and the operation
of the passions, to say, “this is improbable?”
Here abstract theories will be of little service. Even
a moderate acquaintance with real life will be unable
to direct us. Many individuals may have fallen
under observation, that will justify the poet in carrying
the expression of such a resentment to any
extreme. History would, perhaps, furnish examples,
in which a virtuous resentment hath been
carried even farther than is here represented by the
poet. What way then of determining the precise
bounds and limits of it? Only by observing in
numerous instances, i. e. from a large extensive
knowledge of practical life, how far it usually, in
such characters, and under such circumstances,
prevails. Hence a difference of representation will
arise in proportion to the extent of that knowledge.
Let us now see, how the character before us, hath,
in fact, been managed by Euripides.
In that fine scene, which passes between Electra
and Orestes, whom as yet she suspects not to be
her brother, the conversation very naturally turns
upon Electra’s distresses, and the author of them,
Clytæmnestra, as well as on her hopes of deliverance
from them by the means of Orestes. The
dialogue upon this proceeds:
Or. What then of Orestes, were he to return to
this Argos?
El. Ah! wherefore that question, when there is
no prospect of his return at all?
Or. But supposing he should return, how would
he go about to revenge the death of his father?
El. In the same way, in which that father suffered
from the daring attempts of his enemies.
Or. And could you then dare to undertake with
him the murder of your mother?
El. Yes, with that very steel, with which she
murdered my father.
Or. And am I at liberty to relate this to your
brother, as your fixed resolution?
El. I desire only to live, till I have murdered my
mother. The Greek is still stronger:
May I die, as soon as I have murdered my mother!
Now that this last sentence is absolutely unnatural,
will not be pretended. There have been doubtless
many examples, under the like circumstances, of an
expression of revenge carried thus far. Yet, I think,
we can hardly help being a little shocked at the
fierceness of this expression. At least Sophocles has
not thought fit to carry it to that extreme. In him,
Electra contents herself with saying to Orestes,
on a similar occasion:
“The conduct of this affair now rests upon you.
Only let me observe this to you, that, had I been
left alone, I would not have failed in one of these
two purposes, either to deliver myself gloriously,
or to perish gloriously.”
Whether this representation of Sophocles be not
more agreeable to truth, as collected from wide observation,
i. e. from human nature at large, than
that of Euripides, the capable reader will judge. If
it be, the reason I suppose to have been, that Sophocles
painted his characters, such, as, from attending
to numerous instances of the same kind, he
would conclude they ought to be; Euripides, such,
as a narrower sphere of observation had persuaded
him they were.
319. Interdum speciosa locis, &c.] The
poet’s science in ethics will principally shew itself in
these two ways, 1. in furnishing proper matter for
general reflexion on human life and conduct; and,
2. in a due adjustment of the manners. By the
former of these two applications of moral knowledge
a play becomes, what the poet calls, speciosa locis,
i. e. (for the term is borrowed from the rhetoricians)
striking in its moral topics: a merit of the highest
importance on the ancient stage, and which, if prudently
employed in subserviency to the latter more
essential requisite of the drama, a just expression of
the manners, will deserve to be so reputed at all
times and on every theatre. The danger is, lest a
studied, declamatory moral, affectedly introduced,
or indulged to excess, should prejudice the natural
exhibition of the characters, and so convert the
image of human life into an unaffecting, philosophical
dialogue.
319. Morataque recte Fabula, &c.] This
judgment of the poet, in regard of the superior efficacy
of manners, is generally thought to be contradicted
by Aristotle; who in treating this subject,
observes, “that let a piece be never so perfect in the
manners, sentiments, and style, it will not so
well answer the end and purpose of tragedy, as if
defective in these, and finished only in the fable
and composition.” Ἐάν τις ἐφεξῆς θῇ ῥήσεις
ἠθικὰς καὶ λέξεις καὶ διανοίας εὖ πεποιημένας, οὐ ποιήσει
ὃ ἦν τῆς τραγῳδίας ἔργον, ἀλλὰ πολὺ μᾶλλον ἡ καταδεεστέροις
τούτοις κεχρημένη τραγῳδία, ἔχουσα δὲ μῦθον
καὶ σύστασιν πραγμάτων. Κεφ. ϛʹ. M. Dacier thinks
to clear this matter by saying, “that what Aristotle
remarks holds true of tragedy, but not of comedy,
of which alone Horace is here speaking.” But
granting that the artificial contexture of the fable is
less necessary to the perfection of comedy, than of
tragedy (as it certainly is), yet the tenor of this
whole division, exhorting to correctness in general,
makes it unquestionable, that Horace must intend
to include both. The case, as it seems to me, is
this. The poet is not comparing the respective importance
of the fable and manners, but of the manners
and diction, under this word including also
numbers. He gives them the preference not to a
good plot, nor even to fine sentiments, but to versus
inopes rerum nugæque canoræ. The art he speaks
of, is the art of expressing the thoughts properly,
gracefully, and harmoniously: the pondus is the
force and energy of good versification. Venus is a
general term including both kinds of beauty. Fabula
does not mean the fable (in distinction from the rest)
but simply a play.
323. Graiis ingenium, &c.] The Greeks being
eminent for philosophy, especially morals; the last
observation naturally gives rise to this. For the
transition is easy from their superiority, as philosophers,
to their superiority as poets; and the more
easy, as the latter is shewn to be, in part, the effect
of the former. Now this superiority of the Greeks
in genius and eloquence (which would immediately
occur, on mentioning the Socraticæ chartæ) being
seen and confessed, we are led to ask, “whence this
arises.” The answer is, from their making glory,
not gain, the object of their wishes.
330. Aerugo et cura peculi Cum semel imbuerit,
&c.] This love of gain, to which Horace
imputes the imperfect state of the Roman poetry,
hath been uniformly assigned, by the wisdom of ancient
times, as the specific bane of arts and letters.
Longinus and Quintilian account, from hence, for
the decay of eloquence, Galen of physic, Petronius
of painting, and Pliny, of the whole circle of the
liberal arts. An ingenious modern is indeed for
carrying his views much further. He, it seems,
would account [Refl. sur la Poes. et sur la Peint.
v. ii. § xiv.] for this public degeneracy of taste and
literature, not from the malignity of the selfish passions,
but the baleful influences of the air, emulating,
I suppose, herein, the wisdom of that philosophy,
which teaches to lay the private degeneracy of
individuals on the stars. Thus much however may
be true, that other causes have generally co-operated
with it. Some of these, as might be shewn, did
not escape the attention of these wise ancients. Yet
they did right to insist chiefly on this, which is
every way equal to the effect ascribed to it. It is so
in its nature: For being, as Longinus calls it, νόσημα
μικροποιὸν, a disease which narrows and contracts
the soul, it must, of course, restrain the generous
efforts and expansions of genius; cramp the
free powers and energies of the mind, and render it
unapt to open itself to wide views, and to the projection
of great, extensive designs. It is so in its
consequences. For, as one says elegantly, when
the passion of avarice grows general in a country,
the temples of Honour are soon pulled down, and
all men’s sacrifices are made to Fortune30. Thus
extinguishing the sense of honour, that divinest
movement in our frame, and the only one, which
can invigorate the mind under the long labours of
invention, it must needs be, that the fire and high
spirit of genius go out with it; and dragging in its
train the love of pleasure, that unmanliest of all the
passions, it diffuses such a languor and impotency
over the mind, as must leave it at length a prey to a
supine wasting indolence; till, as Longinus observes
of his own age (and let every friend to letters deprecate
the omen), Πάντες ἐγκαταβιοῦμεν, οὐκ ἄλλως
πονοῦντες, ἢ ἀναλαμβάνοντες, εἰ μὴ ἐπαίνου καὶ ἡδονῆς
ἕνεκα, ἀλλὰ μὴ τῆς ζήλου καὶ τιμῆς ἀξίας ποτὲ
ὠφελείας.
333. Aut prodesse volunt, aut delectare
poetae, &c.] Though these lines have the appearance
of general criticism, yet do they more especially
respect the dramatic poesy. This will be evident
from attending to the context. The full boast and
glory of the drama is to delight and instruct mankind.
1. The latter praise was more especially due
to the ancient tragic muse, who did not think it
sufficient to paint lovely pourtraitures of public and
social virtue, and to call in the moralizing chorus to
her assistance, but, which was one of her discriminating
characters, she was perpetually inculcating
every branch of true moral in those brief sententious
precepts, which inform and solemnize her page.
To these precepts then the poet manifestly refers in
those lines,
Quicquid præcipies, esto brevis; ut cito dicta
Percipiant animi dociles, teneantque fideles.
But what follows is still clearer, [2.] The other end
of the drama is to entertain, and this by the means
of probable fiction.
Ficta, voluptatis causa, sint proxima veris.
And the poet applies this to the case of the drama
in express words:
Ne quodcunque volet, poscat sibi fabula credi:
Neu pransæ Lamiæ vivum puerum extrahat alvo.
The instance of Lamia, as Mr. Dacier observes, is
certainly taken from some poet of that time, who
had been guilty of this misconduct. The reader
may learn from hence, how intently Horace pursues
his design of criticizing the Roman stage, when, in
treating a subject, from its nature, the most general
of any in the epistle, viz. critical correctness, we
yet find him so industriously recurring to this point.
343. Miscuit utile dulci.] The unnatural separation
of the DULCE ET UTILE hath done almost as
much hurt in letters as that of the HONESTUM ET
UTILE, which Tully somewhere complains of, hath
done in morals. For while the polite writer, as he
is called, contents himself with the former of these
qualities, and the man of erudition with the latter,
it comes to pass, as the same writer expresses it,
that ET DOCTIS ELOQUENTIA POPULARIS, ET DISERTIS
ELEGANS DOCTRINA DESIT [Orat. iii.]
363. Haec amat obscurum, volet haec sub
luce videri.] Cicero hath given the same precept
in relation to oratory, habeat illa in dicendo
admiratio ac summa laus umbram aliquam et recessum,
quo magis id, quod erit illuminatum, extare
atque eminere videatur. [De orat. l. iii.
c. xxvi.]
373. Mediocribus esse poetis Non homines,
&c.] This judgment, however severe it may seem,
is according to the practice of the best critics. We
have a remarkable instance in the case of Apollonius
Rhodius, who, though, in the judgment of Quintilian,
the author of no contemptible poem, yet on
account of that equal mediocrity, which every
where prevails in him, was struck out of the list of
good writers by such sovereign judges of poetical
merit, as Aristophanes and Aristarchus. [Quint.
l. x. c. i.]
403. Dictae per carmina sortes,] The oracles
here spoken of, are such as respect not private persons
(whom a natural curiosity, quickened by
anxious superstition, has ever prompted to pry into
their future fortunes) but entire communities; and
for these there was little place, till Ambition had
inspired great and eventful designs, and by involving
the fate of nations, had rendered the knowledge
of futurity important. Hence, in marking the
progress of ancient poesy, Horace judiciously postpones
oracles, to the celebration of martial prowess,
as being that, which gave the principal eclat to
them. This species of poetry then is rightly placed,
though it be true, as the commentators have objected,
that oracles were much ancienter than Homer,
and the Trojan war.
404. Et vitae monstrata via est;] Meaning
the writings of Theognis, Phocylides, Hesiod, and
others, which, consisting wholly of moral precepts,
are elegantly said to lay open, or discover the road
of life. Mr. Dacier’s interpretation, which makes
the poet mean physics by viam vitæ, is supported
by no reason. Il ne faut pas, says he, entendre
ceci de la philosophie et des mœurs; CAR Horace se
contrediroit, puisque il a dit que ce fut le premier
soin de la poesie. The learned critic did not consider,
that the first care of poesy, as explained above,
and as employed by Orpheus and Amphion, was to
inculcate policy, not moral.
404. Et gratia regum, Pieriis tentata modis,
ludusque repertus, Et longorum operum finis:
ne forte pudori Sit tibi musa lyrae solers, et
cantor Apollo.] This is one of those master-strokes,
which make the sovereign charm of this
poet. But the way in which it hath been understood,
extinguishes all its grace and beauty. On les
vers employa, says an interpreter, who speaks the
sense of the rest, à gagner la faveur des rois, et on
les mit de tous les jeux et de tous les spectacles,
qu’on inventa pour se delasser de ses longs travaux
et de toutes ses fatigues. Je vous dis cela afin que
vous n’ayez point de honte de faire la cour aux
Muses et à Apollon. And, lest this should not
seem explicit enough, he adds in a couple of notes,
that by ludus repertus, &c. il [le poete] veut parler
des tragedies et des comedies que l’on faisoit jour
dans les fêtes solemnelles. And then, as to the ne
forte pudori, Cela prouve qu’ Horace ne fait cet
eloge de la poesie que pour empecher que Pison n’en
fût degouté. Can any thing be more insipid? For
could the poet think so meanly of his art, as to believe
it wanted an apology? Or had the courtier so
little address, as to direct that apology immediately
to the Pisos? Besides, what species of poesy is it
that he labours to excuse? Why, according to this
interpretation, the dramatic: the supreme boast of
his art, and the main subject of the epistle. And
in what manner does he excuse it? Why, in recommending
it, as an agreeable amusement. But his
master, Aristotle, would have furnished him with
a nobler plea: and ’tis certain, the ancients talked
at another rate of the use and end of the drama.
Let us see then, if the sense, given in the commentary,
will bring any relief to the poet. In fact,
this whole passage [from et vitæ, &c. to cantor
Apollo] obliquely glances at the two sorts of poetry
peculiarly cultivated by himself, and is an indirect
apology for his own choice of them. For 1. vitæ
monstrata via est is the character of his sermones.
And 2. all the rest, of his Odes. These are recommended,
agreeably to their nature, 1. as of use to
conciliate the favour of princes; hereby glancing
at the success of his own odes, and, with the happiest
address, insinuating the regard, which Augustus
paid to letters. 2. As contributing to the
mirth and entertainment of feasts, and especially as
holding a principal place in the celebration of those
more sacred, secular festivities (longorum operum
finem) which could not be duly solemnized, without
the ministration of the lyric muse.
Castis cum pueris ignara puella mariti,
Disceret unde preces, vatem ni musa dedisset?
2 Ep. i. 132.
And again:
ego Diis amicum,
Sæculo festas referente luces,
Reddidi carmen docilis modorum
Vatis Horatî.
Carm. Sec.
In another place both ends are expressed:
testudo
Divitum MENSIS et amica TEMPLIS.
3 Od. xi.
Where it may be observed, this double character of
lyric poetry exactly corresponds to that, which the
poet had before expressly given of it in this very
epistle: the gratia regum being the same as
Musa dedit fidibus Divos puerosque Deorum
Et pugilem victorem et equum certamine primum.
v. 83.
And ludusque repertus, describing its other office,
Et juvenum curas et libera vina referre.
ib.
In this view the following line, which apologizes,
not for poesy in general, or its noblest species, the
drama, but for his own lyrics only, hath, as the
reader perceives, infinite grace; and is peculiarly
marked with that vein of exquisite humour, so
suited to the genius of the epistle, and which makes
one of the distinguishing beauties of the poet. It
hath also an extreme propriety; the levity of the
ode admitting, or rather requiring some apology to
the Pisos; who would be naturally led to think but
meanly of it, in comparison of the sublimer dramatic
poetry. I must add, the very terms of the
apology so expresly define and characterize lyric
poetry, that it is something strange, it should have
escaped vulgar notice: musa lyræ solers being evidently
explained by Romanæ fidicen lyræ [4 Od. iii.
23.] and the epithet cantor, describing Apollo, as
clearly as words can do it, in the peculiar character
of Lyric.
407. Cantor Apollo. Natura fieret, &c.]
The transition is delicate, and a fine instance of that
kind of method, which the Epistle demands. The
poet had just been speaking of the ode, and its inspirer,
cantor Apollo; and this, in the natural train
of his ideas, suggested that enthusiasm, and stretch
of genius, which is at once the characteristic and
glory of the lyric composition. And this was
ground enough, in an Epistle, to pass on to say
something concerning the power and influence of
genius in poetry in general. It was for want of attending
to so plain a reflexion as this, that the excellent
Heinsius trifled so egregiously, in his transpositions
of the Epistles, and in particular of this
very place. And the hasty censures, which M.
Dacier passed on the poet’s method, are apparently
owing to no other cause. [See his introduct. remarks.]
But to declare my sense at parting, of the latter of
these critics, I would say, as he himself does of the
former, C’est assez parlé contre M. Dacier, dont
j’estime et admire autant la profonde érudition, que
je condamne la mauvais usage qu’il en a fait en
quelques rencontres.
410. Alterius sic Altera poscit opem res, et
conjurat amice.] This conclusion, “that art
and nature must conspire to the production of a
perfect piece,” is, in the general, unquestionably
just. If we would know the distinct powers and
provinces of each, a fine passage in Longinus will
inform us. For, of the five sources of the sublime,
enumerated by that critic, two only, “a grandeur of
conception, and the pathetic,” come from nature:
the rest, “a just arrangement of figures,” “a splendid
diction,” and “dignity of composition,” are
of the province of art. Yet, though their powers
are thus distinct, each, in order to attain its due
perfection, must conspire, and be consociated, with
the other. For that “sublime of conception” and
“pathetic enthusiasm” never make a more sure and
lasting impression, than when cloathed in the graces,
and moderated by the sober sense of art: as, on
the contrary, the milder beauties of “language” and
“artificial composition” are never so secure of seizing
the attention, as when raised and inspirited by
the pathos, or sublime. So that the nature of the
union, here recommended, is such, as makes it not
only necessary to the completion of that great end,
viz. the glory of perfect composition; but that
either part, in the alliance, may fully effect its own.
All which is but the larger explication of another
passage in Longinus, who teaches, that ΤΟΤΕ Η
ΤΕΧΝΗ ΤΕΛΕΙΟΣ, ΗΝΙΚ’ ΑΝ ΦΥΣΙΣ ΕΙΝΑΙ
ΔΟΚΗΙ· Η Δ’ ΑΥ ΦΥΣΙΣ ΕΠΙΤΥΧΗΣ, ΟΤΑΝ
ΛΑΝΘΑΝΟΥΣΑ ΠΕΡΙΕΧΗΙ ΤΗΝ ΤΕΧΝΗΝ.
[περ. ὑψ. τμη. κβʹ.]
But here, in parting, it will be amusing, perhaps,
to the curious reader to observe, what perpetual
matter of debate this question hath furnished to
the ancient learned.
It seems first to have taken its rise from the high
pretension of poets to inspiration [see Pind. Od. iii.
Nem.], which was afterwards understood in too
literal a sense, and in time extended to all works of
genius or imitation. The orator, who, as Cicero
tells us, is near a-kin to the poet, set up the same
claim; principally, as it should seem, on the authority
of Socrates, who, taking occasion from the ill
use that had been made of rhetoric, to decry it as
an art, was herein followed by the most illustrious of
his scholars; amongst whom was Aristotle, [Quinct.
l. ii. c. 17.] who had written a set treatise professedly
with this view, though his books of rhetoric proceed
on very different principles. The question afterwards
appeared of so much moment to Cicero, that he discussed
it in form, in one of his dialogues De Oratore.
And Quinctilian, in still later times, found himself
obliged to resume the same debate, and hath accordingly
considered it in an entire chapter.
The long continuance of so frivolous a dispute, and
which admits so easy a decision, would go near to
persuade one, if, as Shakespeare speaks, they had
not the privilege of antiquity upon them, that the
pens of the ancient literati were not always more
wisely employed, than those of modern controversialists.
If we ask the reason, it would seem to be
owing to that ambitious spirit of subtlety and refinement,
which, as Quintilian observes, puts men upon
teaching not what they believe to be true, but what,
from the falsehood or apparent strangeness of the
matter, they expect the praise of ingenuity from
being able to maintain. This, I say, might seem
to be the cause of so much perversity, on the first
view, and unquestionably it had its influence. But
the truth is, the real cause was something more
general and extensive. It was, in fact, that natural
proneness, so Longinus terms it, in mankind, to
censure and degrade things present, ἴδιον ἀνθρώπου
καταμέμφεσθαι τὰ παρόντα. This in nothing holds
truer, than in what concerns the state of literature;
as may be seen from that unwearied industry of the
learned to decry whatever appears to be the prevailing
taste of the times; whether it be in suggesting some
defect to be made good by future improvements; or,
as is more common, because the easier and less invidious
task, in setting up, and magnifying some
former examples of a different cast and merit. Thus,
in the case before us, exquisite art and commanding
genius, being the two only means of rising to
superior literary excellence, in proportion as any age
became noted for the one, it was constantly defamed,
and the preference given to the other. So, during
the growth of letters in any state, when a sublimity
of sentiment and strength of expression make, as
under those circumstances they always will, the
characteristic of the times, the critic, disgusted with
the rude workings of nature, affects to admire only the
nicer finishings and proportions of art. When, let
but the growing experience of a few years refine and
perfect the public taste, and what was before traduced
as roughness and barbarity, becomes at once nerves,
dignity, and force. Then art is effeminacy; and
judgment want of spirit. All now is rapture and
inspiration. The exactest modern compositions
are unmanly and unnatural, et solos veteres legendos
putant, neque in ullis aliis esse naturalem
eloquentiam et robur viris dignum arbitrantur.
[Quinct. l. x. c. i.] The truth of this observation
might he justified from many examples. The learning
and art of Pacuvius (for so I understand the
epithet doctus) carried it before the sublime of
Accius; just as in elder Greece the smooth and
correct Simonides, tenuis Simonides, as Quinctilian
characterizes him, bore away the prize from the lofty
and high-spirited Æschylus. Afterwards indeed
the case was altered. The Athenians, grown exact
in the rules of good writing, became so enamoured
of the bold flights of Æschylus, as with a little correction
to admit him on the stage, who, by this
means, frequently gained the prize from a polite and
knowing people, for what had certainly lost it him
in the simpler, and less informed theatre of his own
times. Thus too it fared with the elder Latin poets,
who, though admired indeed in their own age, but
with considerable abatement from the reason before
assigned, were perfectly idolized in that of Augustus;
so as to require the sharpest satire of our poet, to
correct the malevolent principle from whence the
affectation arose. But the observation holds of our
own writers. There was a time, when the art of
Jonson was set above the divinest raptures of
Shakespeare. The present age is well convinced
of the mistake. And now the genius of Shakespeare
is idolized in its turn. Happily for the public taste,
it can scarcely be too much so. Yet, should any,
in the rage of erecting trophies to the genius of
ancient poesy, presume to violate the recent honours
of more correct poets, the cause of such critical perversity
will be ever the same. For all admiration of
past times, when excessive, is still to be accounted
for the same way,
Ingeniis non ille favet plauditque sepultis,
Nostra sed impugnat, nos nostraque lividus odit.
TO THE REVEREND MR. WARBURTON.
REVEREND SIR,
Give me leave to present to you the following
Essay on the Epistle to Augustus; which, whatever
other merit it may want, is secure of this, that
it hath been planned upon the best model. For I
know not what should hinder me from declaring to
you in this public manner, that it was the early
pleasure I received from what you had written of
this sort, which first engaged me in the province of
criticism. And, if I have taken upon me to illustrate
another of the finest pieces of antiquity after
the same method, it is because I find myself encouraged
to do so by higher considerations, than even
the Authority of your example.
Criticism, considered in its ancient and noblest
office of doing justice to the merits of great writers,
more especially in works of poetry and invention,
demands, to its perfect execution, these two qualities:
a philosophic spirit, capable of penetrating
the fundamental reasons of excellence in every different
species of composition; and a strong imagination,
the parent of what we call true taste, enabling
the critic to feel the full force of his author’s
excellence himself, and to impress a lively sense of
it upon others. Each of these abilities is necessary.
For by means of philosophy, criticism, which were
otherwise a vague and superficial thing, acquires
the soundness and solidity of science. And from
the power of fancy, it derives that light and energy
and spirit, which are wanting to provoke the public
emulation and carry the general conclusions of reason
into practice.
Of these talents (to regard them in their separate
state) that of a strong imagination, as being the
commoner of the two, one would naturally suppose
should be the first to exert itself in the service of
criticism. And thus it seems, in fact, to have
happened. For there were very early in Greece a
sort of men, who, under the name of Rhapsodists,
made it their business to illustrate the beauties of
their favourite writers. Though their art, indeed,
was very simple; for it consisted only in acting the
finest passages of their works, and in repeating
them, with a rapturous kind of vehemence, to an
ecstatic auditory. Whence it appears, that criticism,
as being yet in its infancy, was wholly turned
to admiration; a passion which true judgment as
little indulges in the schools of Art, as sound philosophy
in those of Nature. Accordingly these enraptured
declaimers, though they travelled down to
the politer ages, could not subsist in them. The
fine ridicule of Plato, in one of his Dialogues31, and
the growing taste for just thinking, seem perfectly
to have discredited this folly. And it was presently
seen and acknowledged even by the Rhapsodist
himself, that, how divinely soever he might feel
himself affected by the magnetic virtue of the muse,
yet, as he could give no intelligible account of its
subtle operations, he was assuredly no Artist;
ΘΕΙΟΝ εἶναι καὶ μὴ ΤΕΧΝΙΚΟΝ ἐπαινέτην.
From this time they, who took upon themselves
the office of commenting and recommending the
great writers of Greece, discharged it in a very different
manner. Their researches grew severe, inquisitive,
and rational. And no wonder; for the
person, who now took the lead in these studies, and
set the fashion of them, was a philosopher, and,
which was happy for the advancement of this art,
the justest philosopher of antiquity. Hence scientific
or speculative criticism attained to perfection,
at once; and appeared in all that severity of reason
and accuracy of method, which Aristotle himself
could bestow upon it.
But now this might almost seem as violent an extreme
as the other. For though to understand be
better than to admire, yet the generality of readers
cannot, or will not, understand, where there is
nothing for them to admire. So that reason, for
her own sake, is obliged to borrow something of the
dress, and to mimic the airs, of fancy: And Aristotle’s
reason was too proud to submit to this management.
Hence, the critical plan, which the Stagirite
had formed with such rigour of science, however
it might satisfy the curious speculatist, wanted to
be relieved and set off to the common eye by the
heightenings of eloquence. This, I observed, was
the easier task of the two; and yet it was very long
before it was successfully attempted. Amongst
other reasons of this delay, the principal, as you
observe, might be the fall of the public freedom of
Greece, which soon after followed. For then, instead
of the free and manly efforts of genius, which
alone could accomplish such a reformation, the
trifling spirit of the times declined into mere verbal
amusements: “whence,” as you say, “so great a
cloud of scholiasts and grammarians so soon over-spread
the learning of Greece, when once that
famous community had lost its liberty32.”
And what Greece was thus unable, of a long time,
to furnish, we shall in vain seek in another great
community, which soon after flourished, in all liberal
studies. The genius of Rome was bold and elevated
enough for this task. But Criticism, of any
kind, was little cultivated, never professed as an
art, by this people. The specimens we have of
their ability in this way (of which the most elegant,
beyond dispute, are the two epistles to Augustus,
and the Pisos) are slight occasional attempts; made
in the negligence of common sense, and adapted to
the peculiar exigencies of their own taste and learning:
and not by any means the regular productions
of art, professedly bending itself to this work, and
ambitious to give the last finishing to the critical
system.
For so great an effort as this we are to look back
to the confines of Greece. And there at length,
and even from beneath the depression of slavery
(but with a spirit that might have done honour to
its age of greatest liberty) a CRITIC arose, singularly
qualified for so generous an undertaking. His profession,
which was that of a rhetorical sophist, required
him to be fully instructed in the graces and
embellishments of eloquence; and these, the vigour
of his genius enabled him to comprehend in their
utmost force and beauty. In a word, Longinus
was the person, whom, of all the critics of antiquity,
nature seems to have formed with the proper talents
to give the last honour to his profession, and penetrate
the very soul of fine writing.
Yet so bounded is human wit, and with such
difficulty is human art compleated, that even here
the advantage, which had been so fortunately gained
on the one hand, was, in great measure, lost and
forfeited on the other. He had softened indeed the
severity of Aristotle’s plan; but, in doing this, had
gone back again too far into the manner of the
admiring Rhapsodist. In short, with the brightest
views of nature and true beauty, which the finest
imagination could afford to the best critic, he now
wanted, in a good degree, that precision, and depth
of thought, which had so eminently distinguished
his predecessor. For, as Plotinus long ago observed
of him, though he had approved himself a master
of polite literature, he was NO Philosopher; ΦΙΛΟΛΟΓΟΣ
ΜΕΝ, ΦΙΛΟΣΟΦΟΣ ΔΕ ΟΥΔΑΜΩΣ.
Thus the art had been shifting reciprocally into
two extremes. And in one or other of these extremes,
it was likely to continue. For the fame
and eminent ability of their great founders had
made them considered as models, in their different
ways, of perfect criticism. Only it was easy to
foresee which of them the humour of succeeding
times would be most disposed to emulate. The
catching enthusiasm and picturesque fancy of the
one would be sure to prevail over the coolness and
austerity of the other. Accordingly in the last and
present century, when now the diligence of learned
men had, by restoring the purity, opened an easy
way to the study, of the old classics, a numberless
tribe of commentators have attempted, after the
manner of Longinus, to flourish on the excellencies
of their composition. And some of them, indeed,
succeeded so well in this method, that one is not to
wonder it soon became the popular and only authorized
form of what was reputed just Criticism.
Yet, as nothing but superior genius could make it
tolerable even in the best of these, it was to be expected
(what experience hath now fully shewn),
that it would at length, and in ordinary hands, degenerate
into the most unmeaning, frivolous, and
disgustful jargon, that ever discredited polite letters.
This, Sir, was the state in which you received
modern Criticism: a state, which could only shew
you, that, of the two models, antiquity had furnished
to our use, we had learned, by an awkward
imitation of it, to abuse the worst. But it did not
content your zeal for the service of letters barely
to remedy this abuse. It was not enough, in your
enlarged view of things, to restore either of these
models to its ancient splendour. They were both
to be revived; or rather a new original plan of criticism
was to be struck out, which should unite
the virtues of each of them. The experiment was
made on the TWO greatest of our own poets; and,
by reflecting all the lights of the imagination on
the severest reason, every thing was effected, which
the warmest admirer of ancient art could promise to
himself from such an union. But you went farther.
By joining to these powers a perfect insight into
human nature, and so ennobling the exercise of literary,
by the addition of the justest moral, censure,
you have now, at length, advanced CRITICISM to its
full glory.
Not but, considering the inveterate foible of mankind,
which the poet so justly satirizes in the following
work, I mean that, which disposes them to
malign and depreciate all the efforts of wit and
virtue,
—nisi quae terris semota suisque
Temporibus defuncta videt—
Considering, I say, this temper of mankind,
you may sooner, perhaps, expect the censures of
the dull and envious of all denominations, than the
candid applause of the public, even for this service.
I apprehend this consequence the rather, because
criticism, though it be the last fruit of literary
experience, is more exposed to the cavils of ignorance
and vanity, than, perhaps, any other species
of learned application: all men being forward to
judge, and few men giving themselves leave to doubt
of their being able to judge, of the merits of well-known
and popular writers.
Nor is this all: When writers of a certain rank
condescend to this work of criticism, the innovation
excites a very natural ferment in the men of the
profession.
Their JEALOUSY is alarmed, as if there was a
design to strip them of the only honour they can
reasonably pretend to, that of sitting in judgment
on the inventions of their betters. But to JUDGE,
he well as to INVENT, is thought a violent encroachment
in the republic of Letters; not unlike the
ambition of the Roman emperors, who would be
consuls, and censors too, that is, would have the
privilege of excluding from the senate, as well as of
presiding in it.
But if jealousy were out of the case, their MALIGNITY
would be much inflamed by this intrusion.
For who can bear to see his own weak endeavours in
any art, disgraced by a consummate model?
Besides, to say the truth, the conceptions of
such writers, as I before spoke of, lie so remote
from vulgar apprehension, that, without either
jealousy or malignity, DULLNESS itself will be sure
to create them many peevish detractors. For an
ordinary critic can scarce help finding fault with
what he does not understand, or being angry
where he has no ideas.
On all these accounts it may possibly happen, as
I said, that your critical labours will draw upon you
much popular resentment and invective.
But if such should be the present effect of your
endeavours to cultivate and complete this elegant
part of literature, you, who know the temper of the
learned world, and, by your eminent merits, have
so oft provoked its injustice, will not be disturbed or
surprized at it: much less should it discourage
those who are disposed to do you more right, from
celebrating, and, as they find themselves able,
from copying your example;
For USE will father what’s begot by SENSE,
as well in this, as in other instances.
You see, Sir, what there is of encomium in the
turn of this Letter, was intended not so much for
your sake, as my own. Had my purpose been any
other, I must have chosen very ill among the various
parts of your character to take this for the
subject of an address to you. For, after all I have
said and think of your critical abilities, it might
seem almost as strange in a panegyrist on Mr. Warburton
to tell of his admirable criticisms on Pope
and Shakespear, as it would be in him, who
should design an encomium on Socrates, to insist
on his excellent sculpture of MERCURY and the
GRACES. Yet there is a time, when it may be
allowed to lay a stress on the amusements of such
men. It is, when an adventurer in either art
would do an honour to his profession.
I am, with the truest esteem,
Reverend Sir,
Your most obedient
and most humble servant,
R. Hurd.
Cambridge,
March 29, 1753.
Q. HORATII FLACCI EPISTOLA AD AUGUSTUM. — COMMENTARY.
Cum tot sustineas et tanta negotia solus,
Res Italas armis tuteris, moribus ornes,
Legibus emendes; in publica commoda peccem,
Si longo sermone morer tua tempora, Caesar.
Romulus, et Liber pater, et cum Castore Pollux, 5
Post ingentia fata, Deorum in templa recepti,
Dum terras hominumque colunt genus, aspera bella
Conponunt, agros adsignant, oppida condunt;
Ploravere suis non respondere favorem
Speratum meritis. diram qui contudit Hydram, 10
Notaque fatali portenta labore subegit,
Comperit invidiam supremo fine domari.
Urit enim fulgore suo, qui praegravat artis
Infra se positas: extinctus amabitur idem.
Praesenti tibi maturos largimur honores, 15
Jurandasque tuum per numen ponimus aras,
Nil oriturum alias, nil ortum tale fatentes.
Sed tuus hoc populus sapiens et justus in uno,
Te nostris ducibus, te Graiis anteferendo,
Cetera nequaquam simili ratione modoque 20
Aestimat; et, nisi quae terris semota suisque
Temporibus defuncta videt, fastidit et odit:
Sic fautor veterum, ut Tabulas peccare vetantis,
Quas bis quinque viri sanxerunt, Foedera regum
Vel Gabiis vel cum rigidis aequata Sabinis, 25
Pontificum libros, annosa volumina Vatum,
Dictitet Albano Musas in monte locutas.
Si, quia Graiorum sunt antiquissima quaeque
Scripta vel optima, Romani pensantur eadem
Scriptores trutina; non est quod multa loquamur: 30
Nil intra est olea, nil extra est in nuce duri:
Venimus ad summum fortunae: pingimus, atque
Psallimus, et luctamur Achivis doctius unctis.
Si meliora dies, ut vina, poemata reddit;
Scire velim, chartis pretium quotus arroget annus, 35
Scriptor ab hinc annos centum qui decidit, inter
Perfectos veteresque referri debet, an inter
Vilis atque novos? excludat jurgia finis.
Est vetus atque probus centum qui perficit annos.
Quid? qui deperiit minor uno mense vel anno, 40
Inter quos referendus erit? veteresne poetas,
An quos et praesens et postera respuat aetas?
Iste quidem veteres inter ponetur honeste,
Qui vel mense brevi, vel toto est junior anno.
Utor permisso, caudaeque pilos ut equinae 45
Paullatim vello; et demo unum, demo et item unum;
Dum cadat elusus ratione ruentis acervi,
Qui redit in fastos, et virtutem aestimat annis,
Miraturque nihil, nisi quod Libitina sacravit.
Ennius et sapiens, et fortis, et alter Homerus, 50
Ut critici dicunt, leviter curare videtur
Quo promissa cadant, et somnia Pythagorea.
Naevius in manibus non est, et mentibus haeret
Pene recens? adeo sanctum est vetus omne poema.
Ambigitur quotiens, uter utro sit prior; aufert 55
Pacuvius docti famam senis, Accius alti:
Dicitur Afranî toga convenisse Menandro:
Plautus ad exemplar Siculi properare Epicharmi;
Vincere Caecilius gravitate, Terentius arte.
Hos ediscit, et hos arto stipata theatro 60
Spectat Roma potens; habet hos numeratque poetas
Ad nostrum tempus, Livî Scriptoris ab aevo.
Interdum volgus rectum videt: est ubi peccat.
Si veteres ita miratur laudatque poetas,
Ut nihil anteferat, nihil illis comparet; errat: 65
Si quaedam nimis antique, si pleraque dure
Dicere cedit eos, ignave multa fatetur;
Et sapit, et mecum facit, et Jove judicat aequo.
Non equidem insector, delendave carmina Laevî
Esse reor, memini quae plagosum mihi parvo 70
Orbilium dictare; sed emendata videri
Pulchraque, et exactis minimum distantia, miror:
Inter quae verbum emicuit si forte decorum,
Si versus paulo concinnior unus et alter;
Injuste totum ducit venitque poema. 75
Indignor quicquam reprehendi, non quia crasse
Compositum, inlepideve putetur, sed quia nuper:
Nec veniam antiquis, sed honorem et praemia posci.
Recte necne crocum floresque perambulet Attae
Fabula, si dubitem; clament periisse pudorem 80
Cuncti pene patres: ea cum reprehendere coner,
Quae gravis Aesopus, quae doctus Roscius egit.
Vel quia nil rectum, nisi quod placuit sibi, ducunt;
Vel quia turpe putant parere minoribus, et, quae
Inberbi didicere, senes perdenda fateri. 85
Jam Saliare Numae carmen qui laudat, et illud
Quod mecum ignorat, solus volt scire videri;
Ingeniis non ille favet plauditque sepultis,
Nostra sed inpugnat, nos nostraque lividus odit.
Quod si tam Graiis novitas invisa fuisset, 90
Quam nobis; quid nunc esset vetus? aut quid haberet,
Quod legeret tereretque viritim publicus usus?
Ut primum positis nugari Graecia bellis
Coepit, et in vitium fortuna labier aequa;
Nunc athletarum studiis, nunc arsit equorum: 95
Marmoris, aut eboris fabros, aut aeris amavit;
Suspendit picta vultum mentemque tabella;
Nunc tibicinibus, nunc est gavisa tragoedis:
Sub nutrice puella velut si luderet infans,
Quod cupide petiit, mature plena reliquit. 100
Quid placet, aut odio est, quod non mutabile credas?
Hoc paces habuere bonae, ventique secundi.
Romae dulce diu fuit et sollenne, reclusa
Mane domo vigilare, clienti promere jura:
Scriptos nominibus rectis expendere nummos: 105
Majores audire, minori dicere, per quae
Crescere res posset, minui damnosa libido.
Mutavit mentem populus levis, et calet uno
Scribendi studio: puerique patresque severi
Fronde comas vincti coenant, et carmina dictant. 110
Ipse ego, qui nullos me adfirmo scribere versus,
Invenior Parthis mendacior; et prius orto
Sole vigil, calamum et chartas et scrinia posco.
Navem agere ignarus navis timet: abrotonum aegro
Non audet, nisi qui didicit, dare: quod medicorum est, 115
Promittunt medici: tractant fabrilia fabri:
Scribimus indocti doctique poemata passim.
Hic error tamen et levis haec insania quantas
Virtutes habeat, sic collige: vatis avarus
Non temere est animus: versus amat, hoc studet unum; 120
Detrimenta, fugas servorum, incendia ridet:
Non fraudem socio, puerove incogitat ullam
Pupillo: vivit siliquis, et pane secundo:
Militiae quanquam piger et malus, utilis urbi;
Si das hoc, parvis quoque rebus magna juvari; 125
Os tenerum pueri balbumque poëta figurat:
Torquet ab obscoenis jam nunc sermonibus aurem;
Mox etiam pectus praeceptis format amicis,
Asperitatis et invidiae corrector et irae:
Recte facta refert; orientia tempora notis 130
Instruit exemplis; inopem solatur et aegrum.
Castis cum pueris ignara puella mariti
Disceret unde preces, vatem ni Musa dedisset?
Poscit opem chorus, et praesentia numina sentit;
Coelestis implorat aquas, docta prece blandus; 135
Avertit morbos, metuenda pericula pellit;
Inpetrat et pacem, et locupletem frugibus annum:
Carmine Dî superi placantur, carmine Manes.
Agricolae prisci, fortes, parvoque beati,
Condita post frumenta, levantes tempore festo 140
Corpus et ipsum animum spe finis dura ferentem,
Cum sociis operum pueris et conjuge fida,
Tellurem porco, Silvanum lacte piabant,
Floribus et vino Genium memorem brevis aevi.
Fescennina per hunc invecta licentia morem 145
Versibus alternis opprobria rustica fudit;
Libertasque recurrentis accepta per annos
Lusit amabiliter: donec jam saevus apertam
In rabiem coepit verti jocus, et per honestas
Ire domos impune minax. doluere cruento 150
Dente lacessiti: fuit intactis quoque cura
Conditione super communi: quin etiam lex
Poenaque lata, malo quae nollet carmine quemquam
Describi. vertere modum, formidine fustis
Ad bene dicendum delectandumque redacti. 155
Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit, et artis
Intulit agresti Latio. sic horridus ille
Defluxit numerus Saturnius, et grave virus
Munditiae pepulere: sed in longum tamen aevum
Manserunt, hodieque manent, vestigia ruris. 160
Serus enim Graecis admovit acumina chartis;
Et post Punica bella quietus quaerere coepit,
Quid Sophocles et Thespis et Aeschylos utile ferrent:
Tentavit quoque rem, si digne vertere posset:
Et placuit sibi, natura sublimis et acer. 165
Nam spirat tragicum satis, et feliciter audet;
Sed turpem putat inscitus metuitque lituram.
Creditur, ex medio quia res arcessit, habere
Sudoris minimum; sed habet Comoedia tanto
Plus oneris, quanto veniae minus. aspice, Plautus 170
Quo pacto partis tutetur amantis ephebi;
Ut patris attenti, lenonis ut insidiosi:
Quantus sit Dossennus edacibus in parasitis:
Quam non adstricto percurrat pulpita socco.
Gestit enim nummum in loculos demittere; post hoc 175
Securus, cadat an recto stet fabula talo.
Quem tulit ad scenam ventoso gloria curru,
Exanimat lentus spectator, sedulus inflat.
Sic leve, sic parvum est, animum quod laudis avarum
Subruit ac reficit. valeat res ludicra, si me 180
Palma negata macrum, donata reducit opimum.
Saepe, etiam audacem, fugat hoc terretque poetam;
Quod numero plures, virtute et honore minores,
Indocti, stolidique, et depugnare parati
Si discordet eques, media inter carmina poscunt 185
Aut ursum aut pugiles: his nam plebecula gaudet.
Verum equiti quoque jam migravit ab aure voluptas
Omnis, ad ingratos oculos, et gaudia vana.
Quatuor aut pluris aulaea premuntur in horas;
Dum fugiunt equitum turmae, peditumque catervae: 190
Mox trahitur manibus regum fortuna retortis:
Esseda festinant, pilenta, petorrita, naves:
Captivum portatur ebur, captiva Corinthus.
Si foret in terris, rideret Democritus; seu
Diversum confusa genus panthera camelo, 195
Sive elephas albus volgi converterit ora:
Spectaret populum ludis attentius ipsis,
Ut sibi praebentem mimo spectacula plura:
Scriptores autem narrare putaret asello
Fabellam surdo. nam quae pervincere voces 200
Evaluere sonum, referunt quem nostra theatra?
Garganum mugire putes nemus, aut mare Tuscum.
Tanto cum strepitu ludi spectantur, et artes,
Divitiaeque peregrinae: quibus oblitus actor
Cum stetit in scena, concurrit dextera laevae: 205
Dixit adhuc aliquid? nil sane. quid placet ergo?
Lana Tarentino violas imitata veneno.
Ac ne forte putes me, quae facere ipse recusem,
Cum recte tractent alii, laudare maligne:
Ille per extentum funem mihi posse videtur 210
Ire poeta; meum qui pectus inaniter angit,
Inritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus inplet,
Ut magus; et modo me Thebis, modo ponit Athenis.
Verum age, et his, qui se lectori credere malunt,
Quam spectatoris fastidia ferre superbi, 215
Curam impende brevem: si munus Apolline dignum
Vis complere libris; et vatibus addere calcar,
Ut studio majore petant Helicona virentem.
Multa quidem nobis facimus mala saepe poëtae,
(Ut vineta egomet caedam mea) cum tibi librum 220
Sollicito damus, aut fesso: cum laedimur, unum
Si quis amicorum est ausus reprendere versum:
Cum loca jam recitata revolvimus inrevocati:
Cum lamentamur non adparere labores
Nostros, et tenui deducta poemata filo: 225
Cum speramus eo rem venturam, ut, simul atque
Carmina rescieris nos fingere, commodus ultro
Arcessas, et egere vetes, et scribere cogas.
Sed tamen est operae pretium cognoscere, qualis
Aedituos habeat belli spectata domique 230
Virtus, indigno non committenda poetae.
Gratus Alexandro regi Magno fuit ille
Choerilos, incultis qui versibus et male natis
Rettulit acceptos, regale nomisma, Philippos.
Sed veluti tractata notam labemque remittunt 235
Atramenta, fere scriptores carmine foedo
Splendida facta linunt. idem rex ille, poëma
Qui tam ridiculum tam care prodigus emit,
Edicto vetuit; ne quis se, praeter Apellen
Pingeret, aut alius Lysippo cuderet aera 240
Fortis Alexandri voltum simulantia. quod si
Judicium subtile videndis artibus illud
Ad libros et ad haec Musarum dona vocares;
Boeotum in crasso jurares aëre natum.
At neque dedecorant tua de se judicia, atque 245
Munera, quae multa dantis cum laude tulerunt,
Dilecti tibi Virgilius Variusque poetae:
Nec magis expressi voltus per aënea signa,
Quam per vatis opus mores animique virorum
Clarorum adparent. nec sermones ego mallem 250
Repentis per humum, quam res componere gestas,
Terrarumque situs, et flumina dicere, et arcis
Montibus impositas, et barbara regna, tuisque
Auspiciis totum confecta duella per orbem,
Claustraque custodem pacis cohibentia Janum, 255
Et formidatam Parthis, te principe, Romam:
Si quantum cuperem, possem quoque. sed neque parvum
Carmen majestas recipit tua; nec meus audet
Rem tentare pudor, quam vires ferre recusent.
Sedulitas autem stulte, quem diligit, urguet; 260
Praecipue cum se numeris commendat et arte.
Discit enim citius, meminitque libentius illud
Quod quis deridet, quam quod probat et veneratur.
Nil moror officium, quod me gravat: ac neque ficto
In pejus voltu proponi cereus usquam, 265
Nec prave factis decorari versibus opto:
Ne rubeam pingui donatus munere, et una
Cum scriptore meo capsa porrectus operta,
Deferar in vicum vendentem tus et odores,
Et piper, et quicquid chartis amicitur ineptis. 270
Epistola ad Augustum.] In conducting this work,
which is an apology for the poets of his own time, the method
of the writer is no other, than that which plain sense,
and the subject itself, required of him. For, as the main
dislike to the Augustan poets had arisen from an excessive
reverence paid to their elder brethren, the first part of
the epistle [from v. 1 to 118] is very naturally laid out
in the ridicule and confutation of so absurd a prejudice.
And having, by this preparation, obtained a candid
hearing for his defence, he then proceeds [in what follows,
to the end] to vindicate their real merits; setting
in view the excellencies of the Latin poetry, as cultivated
by the great modern masters; and throwing the blame
of their ill success, and of the contempt in which they
had lain, not so much on themselves, or their profession
(the dignity of which, in particular, he insists highly
upon, and asserts with spirit) as on the vicious taste of
the age, and certain unfavouring circumstances, which
had accidentally concurred to dishonour both.
This idea of the general plan being comprehended, the
reader will find it no difficulty to perceive the order and
arrangement of particular parts, which the natural transition
of the poet’s thought insensibly drew along with it.
5-118. Romulus, et Liber pater, &c.] The subject
commences from v. 5, where, by a contrivance of
great beauty, a pertinent illustration of the poet’s argument
becomes an offering of the happiest address to the
emperor. Its double purpose may be seen thus. His
primary intention was to take off the force of prejudice
against modern poets, arising from the superior veneration
of the ancients. To this end the first thing wanting
was to demonstrate by some striking instance, that it
was, indeed, nothing but prejudice; which he does
effectually in taking that instance from the heroic, that
is, the most revered, ages. For if such, whose acknowledged
virtues and eminent services had raised them to
the rank of heroes, that is, in the pagan conception of
things, to the honours of divinity, could not secure their
fame, in their own times, against the malevolence of
slander, what wonder that the race of wits, whose obscurer
merit is less likely to dazzle the public eye, and
yet, by a peculiar fatality, is more apt to awaken its
jealousy, should find themselves oppressed by its rudest
censure? In the former case the honours, which equal
posterity paid to excelling worth, declare all such censure
to have been the calumny of malice only. What
reason then to conclude, it had any other original in
the latter? This is the poet’s argument.
But now, of these worthies themselves, whom the
justice of grateful posterity had snatched out of the hands
of detraction, there were some, it seems, whose illustrious
services the virtue or vain-glory of the emperor
most affected to emulate; and these, therefore, the
poet, by an ingenious flattery, selects for examples to
his general observation,
Romulus, et Liber pater, et cum Castore Pollux
Post ingentia fata, &c.
Further, as the good fortune of Augustus, though
adorned with the same enviable qualities, had exempted
him from the injuries which had constantly befallen
those admired characters, this peculiar circumstance in
the history of his prince affords him the happiest occasion,
flattery could desire, of paying distinguished honours
to his glory.
Praesenti tibi maturos largimur honores.
And this constitutes the fine address and compliment of
his Application.
But this justice, which Augustus had exacted, as it
were, by the very authority of his virtue, from his applauding
people, was but ill discharged in other instances.
Sed tuus hoc populus sapiens et justus in uno,
Te nostris ducibus, te Graiis anteferendo,
Cetera nequaquam simili ratione modoque
Aestimat, &c.
And thus the very exception to the general rule, which
forms the encomium, leads him with advantage into his
argument; which was to observe and expose “the malignant
influence of prepossession in obstructing the
proper glories of living merit.” So that, as good
sense demands in every reasonable panegyric, the praise
results from the nature and foundation of the subject-matter,
and is not violently and reluctantly dragged
into it.
His general charge against his countrymen “of their
bigotted attachment to those, dignified by the name
of ancients, in prejudice to the just deserts of the moderns,”
being thus delivered; and the folly of such
conduct, with some agreeable exaggeration, exposed;
he sets himself with a happy mixture of irony and argument,
as well becomes the genius and character of the
epistle, to confute the pretences, and overturn the very
foundations, on which it rested.
One main support of their folly was taken from an
allowed fact, viz. “That the oldest Greek writers were
incontestably superior to the modern ones.” From
whence they inferred, that it was but according to nature
and the course of experience, to give the like preference
to the oldest Roman masters.
His confutation of this sophism consists of two parts.
First, [from v. 28 to 32] he insists on the evident absurdity
of the opinion he is confuting. There was no
reasoning with persons, capable of such extravagant positions.
But, secondly, the pretended fact itself, with
regard to the Greek learning, was grossly misunderstood,
or perversely applied. For [from v. 32 to 34] it was not
true, nor could it be admitted, that the very oldest of
the Greek writers were the best, but those only, which
were old, in comparison of the mere modern Greeks.
The so much applauded models of Grecian antiquity
were themselves modern, in respect of the still older and
ruder essays of their first writers. It was long discipline
and cultivation, the same which had given the Greek
artists in the Augustan reign a superiority over the Roman,
that by degrees established the good taste, and
fixed the authority of the Greek poets; from which
point it was natural and even necessary for succeeding,
i. e. the modern Greeks to decline. But no consequence
lay from hence to the advantage of the Latin poets, in
question; who were wholly unfurnished with any previous
study of the arts of verse; and whose works could
only be compared with the very oldest, that is, the rude
forgotten essays of the Greek poetry. So that the fine
sense, so closely shut up in this concise couplet, comes
out thus: “The modern Greek masters of the fine arts
are confessedly superior to the modern Roman. The
reason is, they have practised them longer, and with
more diligence. Just so, the modern Roman writers
must needs have the advantage of their old ones: who
had no knowledge of writing, as an art, or, if they
had, took but small care to put it in practice.”
Further, this plea of antiquity is as uncertain in its
application, as it was destitute of all truth and reason in
its original foundation. For if age only must bear away
the palm, what way is there of determining, which writers
are modern, and which ancient? The impossibility of
fixing this to the satisfaction of an objector, which is
pursued [to v. 50] with much agreeable raillery, makes
it evident, that the circumstance of antiquity is absolutely
nothing; and that in estimating the merit of writers,
the real, intrinsic excellence of their writings themselves
is alone to be regarded.
Thus far the poet’s intent was to combat the general
prejudice of the critic,
Qui redit in fastos et virtutem aestimat annis.
Taking the fact for granted “of his strong prepossession
for antiquity, as such” he would discredit, both by raillery
and argument, so absurd a conduct. What he
gains, by this disposition, is to come to the particulars
of his charge with more advantage. For the popular
contempt of modern composition, sheltering itself under
a shew of learned admiration of the ancients, whose age
and reputation had made them truly venerable, and
whose genuine merits, in the main, could not be disputed,
a direct attack upon their fame, at setting out,
without any softening, had disgusted the most moderate;
whereas this prefatory appeal to common sense, under
the cover of general criticism, would even dispose bigotry
itself to afford the poet a candid hearing. His
accusation then of the public taste comes in, here, very
pertinently; and is delivered, with address [from v. 50
to 63] in a particular detail of the judgements passed
upon the most celebrated of the old Roman poets, by
the generality of the modern critics; where, to win upon
their prejudices still further by his generosity and good
faith, he scruples not to recount such of their determinations
on the merit of ancient writers, as were reasonable
and well founded, as well as others, that he
deemed less just, and as such intended more immediately
to expose.
We see then with what art the poet conducts himself
in this attack on the ancients, and how it served his purpose,
by turns, to soften and aggravate the charge. First,
“he wanted to lower the reputation of the old poets.”
This was not to be done by general invective or an
affected dissimulation of their just praise. He admits
then [from v. 63 to 66] their reasonable pretensions to
admiration. ’Tis the degree of it alone, to which he
objects.
Si veteres ITA miratur laudatque, &c.
Secondly, “he wanted to draw off their applauses from
“the ancient to the modern poets.” This required the
advantages of those moderns to be distinctly shewn, or,
which comes to the same, the comparative deficiencies
of the ancients to be pointed out. These were not to be
dissembled, and are, as he openly insists [to v. 69]
obsolete language, rude and barbarous construction, and
slovenly composition,
Si quaedam nimis antique, si pleraque dure,
Dicere cedit eos, ignave multa.
But what then? an objector replies, these were venial faults,
surely; the deficiencies of the times, and not of the men;
who, with such incorrectnesses as are here noted, might
still possess the greatest talents, and produce the noblest
designs. This [from v. 69 to 79] is readily admitted.
But, in the mean time, one thing was clear, that they
were not finished models—exactis minimum distantia.
Which was the main point in dispute. For the bigot’s
absurdity lay in this,
Non veniam antiquis, sed honorem et praemia posci.
Nay, his folly is shewn to have gone still greater lengths.
These boasted models of antiquity, with all their imperfections,
had occasionally [v. 73, 74] though the instances
were indeed rare and thinly scattered, striking
beauties. These, under the recommendation of age,
which, of course, commands our reverence, might well impose
on the judgements of the generality, and standing forth
with advantage, as from a shaded and dark ground,
would naturally catch the eye and admiration of the more
learned. Thus much the poet candidly insinuates in
excuse of the bigot’s ill judgment. But, unluckily, he had
cut himself off from the benefit of this plea, by avowedly
grounding his admiration, not merely on the intrinsic
excellence, so far as it went, of the ancient poetry itself;
but on the advantage of any extraneous circumstance,
which but casually stuck to it. The accident of a play’s
having passed though the mouth, and been graced by the
action, of a just speaker, was sufficient [from v. 79 to 83]
(so inexcusable were his prejudices) to attract his wonder,
and justify his esteem. In so much that it became an
insolence, generally cried out upon, for any one to
censure such pieces of the theatre,
Quae gravis Æsopus, quae doctus Roscius egit.
This being the case, it was no longer a doubt, whether
the affected admiration of antiquity proceeded from a deluded
judgment only, or a much worse cause. It could
plainly be resolved into no other, than the willful agency
of the malignant affections; which, wherever they prevail,
corrupt the simple and ingenuous sense of the mind,
either 1. [v. 83] in engendring high conceits of self, and
referring all degrees of excellence to the supposed
infallible standard of every man’s own judgment; or 2.
[to v. 86] in creating a false shame, and reluctancy in us
to be directed by the judgments of others, though seen to
be more equitable, whenever they are found in opposition
to our own rooted and preconceived opinions. The
bigotry of old Men is, especially, for this reason, invincible.
They hold themselves upbraided by the
sharper sight of their juniors; and regard the adoption of
new sentiments, at their years, as so much absolute loss
on the side of the dead stock of their old literary possessions.
These considerations are generally of such prevalency
in great veteran critics, that [from v. 86 to 90]
whenever, as in the case before us, they pretend an uncommon
zeal for antiquity, and their sagacity piques itself
on detecting the superior value of obscure rhapsodists
whom no body else reads, or is able to understand, we
may be sure the secret view of such, is, not the generous
defence and patronage of ancient wit, but a low malevolent
pleasure in decrying the just pretensions of the
modern.
Ingeniis non ille favet plauditque sepultis,
Nostra sed impugnat, nos nostraque lividus odit.
The poet had, now, made appear the unreasonable
attachment of his countrymen to the fame of their old
writers. He had thoroughly unravelled the sophistical
pretences, on which it affected to justify itself; and had
even dared to unveil the secret iniquitous principle, from
which it arose. It was now time to look forward to the
effects of it; which were, in truth, very baleful; its
poisonous influences being of force to corrupt and wither,
as it were, in the bud, every rising species of excellence,
and fatally to check the very hopes and tendencies of true
genius. Nothing can be truer, than this remark; which
he further enforces, and brings home to his adversaries, by
asking a pertinent question, to which it concerned them to
make a serious reply. They had magnified v. 28 the perfection
of the Greek models. But what [to v. 93] if the
Greeks had conceived the same aversion to novelties, as
the Romans? How then could those models have ever
been furnished to the public use? The question, we see,
insinuates what was before affirmed to be the truth of the
case; that the unrivalled excellence of the Greek poets
proceeded only from long and vigorous exercise, and a
painful uninterrupted application to the arts of verse.
The liberal spirit of that people led them to countenance
every new attempt towards superior literary excellence;
and so, by the public favour, their writings, from rude
essays, became at length the standard and admiration of
succeeding wits. The Romans had treated their adventurers
quite otherwise, and the effect was answerable.
This is the purport of what to a common eye may look
like a digression [from v. 93 to 108], in which is delineated
the very different genius and practice of the two
nations. For the Greeks [to v. 102] had applied themselves,
in the intervals of their leisure from the toils of war,
to the cultivation of every species of elegance, whether
in arts, or letters; and loved to cherish the public emulation,
by affording a free indulgence to the various and
volatile disposition of the times. The activity of these
restless spirits, was incessantly attempting some new and
untryed form of composition; and, when that was brought
to a due degree of perfection, it turned, in good time, to
the cultivation of some other.
Quod cupide petiit, mature plena reliquit.
So that the very caprice of humour [v. 101] assisted,
in this libertine country, to advance and help forward the
public taste. Such was the effect of peace and opportunity
with them.
Hoc paces habuere bonae ventique secundi.
Whereas the Romans [to v. 108] by a more composed
temperament and saturnine complexion had devoted their
pains to the pursuit of domestic utilities, and a more
dexterous management of the arts of gain. The consequence
of which was, that when [to v. 117] by the
decay of the old frugal spirit, the necessary effect of
overflowing plenty and ease, they began, at length, to
seek out for the elegancies of life; and a fit of versifying,
the first of all liberal amusements, that usually seizes an
idle people, had come upon them; their ignorance of
rules, and want of exercise in the art of writing, rendered
them wholly unfit to succeed in it. So that their
awkward attempts in poetry were now as disgraceful to
their taste, as their total disregard of it, before, had
been to their civility. The root of this mischief was the
idolatrous regard paid to their ancient poets: which unluckily,
when the public emulation was set a going, not only
checked its progress, but gave it a wrong bias; and,
instead of helping true genius to outstrip the lame and
tardy endeavours of ancient wit, drew it aside into a vicious
and unprofitable mimicry of its very imperfections.
Whence it had come to pass, that, whereas in other arts,
the previous knowledge of rules is required to the
practice of them, in this of versifying, no such qualification
was deemed necessary.
Scribimus indocti doctique poemata passim.
This mischance was doubly fatal to the Latin poetry.
For the ill success of these blind adventurers had increased
the original mischief, by confirming, as it needs must,
the superstitious reverence of the old writers; and insensibly
brought, as well the art itself, as the modern professors
of it, into disrepute with the discerning public.
The vindication of both, then, at this critical juncture,
was become highly seasonable; and to this, which was
the poet’s main purpose, he addresses himself through
the remainder of the epistle.
118 to the end. Hic error tamen, &c.] Having
sufficiently obviated the popular and reigning prejudices
against the modern poets, his office of advocate for their
fame, which he had undertaken, and was now to discharge,
in form, required him to set their real merits
and pretensions in a just light. He enters therefore
immediately on this task. And, in drawing the character
of the true poet, endeavours to impress the Emperor
with as advantageous an idea as possible, of the worth
and dignity of his calling. And this, not in the fierce
insulting tone of a zealot for the honour of his order,
which to the great is always disgusting, and where the
occasion is, confessedly, not of the last importance,
plainly absurd; but with that unpretending air of insinuation,
which good sense, improved by a thorough knowledge
of the world, teaches: with that seeming indifference
which disarms prejudice: in a word, with that
gracious smile in his aspect, which his strong admirer
and faint copyer, Persius, so justly noted in him, and
which convinces almost without the help of argument;
or to say it more truly, persuades where it doth not properly
convince. In this disposition he sets out on his
defence; and yet omits no particular, which could any
way serve to the real recommendation of poets, or which
indeed, the gravest or warmest of their friends have ever
pleaded in their behalf. This defence consists [from
v. 118 to 139] in bringing into view their many civil,
moral, and religious virtues. For the muse, as the poet
contends (and nothing could be more likely to conciliate
the esteem of the politic emperor) administers,
in this threefold capacity, to the service of the state.
But Religion, which was its noblest end, was, besides, the
first object of poetry. The dramatic muse, in particular,
had her birth, and derived her very character, from it.
This circumstance then leads him with advantage, to
give an historical deduction of the rise and progress of the
Latin poesy, from its first rude workings in the days of
barbarous superstition, through every successive period
of its improvement, down to his own times. Such a view
of its descent and gradual reformation was directly to the
poet’s purpose. For having magnified the virtues of his
order, as of such importance to society, the question
naturally occurred, by what unhappy means it had fallen
out, that it was, nevertheless, in such low estimation with
the public. The answer is, that the state of the Latin
poetry, as yet, was very rude and imperfect: and so the
public disregard was occasioned, only, by its not having
attained to that degree of perfection, of which its nature
was capable. Many reasons had concurred to keep the
Latin poetry in this state, which he proceeds to enumerate.
The first and principal was [from v. 139 to 164]
the little attention paid to critical learning, and the cultivation
of a correct and just spirit of composition. Which,
again, had arisen from the coarse illiberal disposition of
the Latin muse, who had been nurtured and brought up
under the roof of rural superstition; and this, by an impure
mixture of licentious jollity, had so corrupted her
very nature, that it was only by slow degrees, and not till
the conquest of Greece had imported arts and learning
into Italy, that she began to chastise her manners, and
assume a juster and more becoming deportment. And
still she was but in the condition of a rustic beauty, when,
practising her aukward airs, and making her first ungracious
essays towards a manner.
in longum tamen aevum
Manserunt, hodieque manent vestigia ruris.
Her late acquaintance with the Greek models had, indeed,
improved her air, and inspired an inclination to emulate
their noblest graces. But how successfully, we are given
to understand from her unequal attempts in the two sublimer
species of their poetry, the TRAGIC, AND COMIC
DRAMAS.
1. [from v. 160 to 168] The study of the Greek tragedians
had very naturally, and to good purpose, in the infancy
of their taste, disposed the Latin writers to translation.
Here they stuck long; for their tragedy, even in the
Augustan age, was little else; and yet they succeeded
but indifferently in it. The bold and animated genius of
Rome was, it is readily owned, well suited to this work.
And for force of colouring, and a truly tragic elevation,
the Roman poets came not behind their great originals.
But unfortunately their judgment was unformed, and
they were too soon satisfied with their own productions.
Strength and fire was all they endeavoured after. And
with this praise they sate down perfectly contented.
The discipline of correction, the curious polishing of art,
which had given such a lustre to the Greek tragedians,
they knew nothing of; or, to speak their case more truly,
they held disgraceful to the high spirit and energy of the
Roman genius:
TURPEM PUTAT IN SCRIPTIS METUITQUE LITURAM.
2. It did not fare better with them [from v. 168 to 175]
in their attempts to rival the Greek comedy. They preposterously
set out with the notion of its being easier to
execute this drama than the tragic: whereas to hit its
genuine character with exactness was, in truth, a point
of much more difficulty. As the subject of comedy was
taken from common life, they supposed an ordinary
degree of care might suffice, to do it justice. No
wonder then, they overlooked or never came up to that
nice adjustment of the manners, that truth and decorum
of character, wherein the glory of comic painting consists,
and which none but the quickest eye can discern, and the
steadiest hand execute; and, in the room, amused us
with high colouring, and false drawing; with extravagant,
aggravated portraitures; which, neglecting the modest
proportion of real life, are the certain arguments of an
unpractised pencil, or vicious taste.
What contributed to this prostitution of the comic muse,
was [to v. 177] the seducement of that corruptress of all
virtue, the love of money; which had thoroughly infected
the Roman wits, and was, in fact, the sole object of their
pains. Hence, provided they could but catch the applauses
of the people, to which the pleasantry of the
comic scene more especially aspires, and so secure a
good round price from the magistrates, whose office it was
to furnish this kind of entertainment, they became indifferent
to every nobler view and honester purpose. In
particular [to v. 182] they so little considered fame and
the praise of good writing, that they made it the ordinary
topic of their ridicule; representing it as the mere
illusion of vanity, and the pitiable infirmity of lean-witted
minds, to be catched by the lure of so empty and unsubstantial
a benefit.
Though, were any one, in defiance of public ridicule,
so daring (as there is no occasion in life, which calls for,
or demonstrates a greater firmness), as frankly to avow
and submit himself to this generous motive, the surest
inspirer of every virtuous excellence, yet one thing remained
to check and weaken the vigour of his emulation.
This [from v. 182 to 187] was the folly and ill taste of
the undiscerning multitude; who, in all countries, have
a great share in determining the fate and character of
scenical representations, but, from the popular constitution
of the government, were, at Rome, of the first consequence.
These, by their rude clamours, and the authority
of their numbers, were enough to dishearten the
most intrepid genius; when, after all his endeavours to
reap the glory of an absolute work, the action was almost
sure to be mangled and broken in upon by the
shews of wild beasts and gladiators; those dear delights,
which the Romans, it seems, prized much above the
highest pleasures of the drama.
Nay, the poet’s case was still more desperate. For it
was not the untutored rabble, as in other countries, that
gave a countenance to these illiberal sports: even rank
and quality, at Rome, debased itself in shewing the
fiercest passion for these shews, and was as ready, as
abject commonalty itself, to prefer the uninstructing
pleasures of the eye to those of the ear.
Equiti quoque jam migravit ab aure voluptas
Omnis ad ingratos oculos et gaudia vana.
And, because this barbarity of taste had contributed
more than any thing else to deprave the poetry of the
stage, and discourage its best masters from studying its
perfection, what follows [from v. 189 to 207] is intended,
in all the keenness of raillery, to satyrize this madness.
It afforded an ample field for the poet’s ridicule. For,
besides the riotous disorders of their theatre, the senseless
admiration of pomp and spectacle in their plays had so
inchanted his countrymen, that the very decorations of
the scene, the tricks and trappings of the comedians,
were surer to catch the applauses of the gaping multitude,
than any regard to the justness of the poet’s design, or
the beauty of his execution.
Here the poet should naturally have concluded his defence
of the dramatic writers; having alledged every thing
in their favour, that could be urged, plausibly, from the
state of the Roman stage: the genius of the people: and the
several prevailing practices of ill taste, which had brought
them into disrepute with the best judges. But finding
himself obliged, in the course of this vindication of the
modern stage-poets, to censure as sharply, as their very
enemies, the vices and defects of their poetry; and fearing
lest this severity on a sort of writing, to which himself
had never pretended, might be misinterpreted as the
effect of envy only, and a malignant disposition towards
the art itself, under cover of pleading for its professors,
he therefore frankly avows [from v. 208 to 214] his preference
of the dramatic, to every other species of poetry;
declaring the sovereignty of its pathos over the affections,
and the magic of its illusive scenery on the Imagination,
to be the highest argument of poetic excellence, the last
and noblest exercise of the human genius.
One thing still remained. He had taken upon himself
to apologize for the Roman poets, in general; as may be
seen from the large terms, in which he proposes his
subject.
Hic error tamen et levis haec insania quantas
Virtutes habeat, sic collige.
But, after a general encomium on the office itself, he
confines his defence to the writers for the stage only. In
conclusion then, he was constrained, by the very purpose
of his address, to say a word or two in behalf of the
remainder of this neglected family; of those, who, as
the poet expresses it, had rather trust to the equity of the
closet, than subject themselves to the caprice and insolence
of the theatre.
Now, as before, in asserting the honour of the stage-poets
he every where supposes the emperor’s disgust to
have sprung from the wrong conduct of the poets themselves,
and then extenuates the blame of such conduct,
by considering, still further, the causes which gave rise
to it; so he prudently observes the like method here.
The politeness of his address concedes to Augustus, the
just offence he had taken to his brother poets; whose honour,
however, he contrives to save by softening the occasions
of it. This is the drift of what follows [from v.
214 to 229] where he pleasantly recounts the several
foibles and indiscretions of the muse; but in a way, that
could only dispose the emperor to smile at, or at most,
to pity her infirmities, not provoke his serious censure
and disesteem. They amount, on the whole, but to
certain idlenesses of vanity, the almost inseparable attendant
of wit, as well as beauty; and may be forgiven in
each, as implying a strong desire of pleasing, or rather as
qualifying both to please. One of the most exceptionable
of these vanities was a fond persuasion, too readily
taken up by men of parts and genius, that preferment is
the constant pay of merit; and that, from the moment
their talents become known to the public, distinction and
advancement are sure to follow. They believed, in short,
they had only to convince the world of their superior
abilities, to deserve the favour and countenance of their
prince. But fond and presumptuous as these hopes are
(continues the poet [from v. 229 to 244] with all the insinuation
of a courtier, and yet with a becoming sense of
the dignity of his own character) it may deserve a serious
consideration, what poets are fit to be entrusted with
the glory of princes; what ministers are worth retaining
in the service of an illustrious Virtue, whose honours
demand to be solemnized with a religious reverence, and
should not be left to the profanation of vile, unhallowed
hands. And, to support the authority of this remonstrance,
he alledges the example of a great Monarch,
who had dishonoured himself by a neglect of this care;
of Alexander the great, who, when master of the
world, as Augustus now was, perceived, indeed, the
importance of gaining a poet to his service; but unluckily
chose so ill, that his encomiums (as must ever be
the case with a vile panegyrist) but tarnished the native
splendor of those virtues, which his office required him
to present, in their fullest and fairest glory, to the admiration
of the world. In his appointment of artists,
whose skill is, also, highly serviceable to the fame of princes,
he shewed a truer judgment. For he suffered none
but an Apelles and a Lysippus to counterfeit the form
and fashion of his person. But his taste, which was thus
exact and even subtile in what concerned the mechanic
execution of the fine arts, took up with a Choerilus, to
transmit an image of his mind to future ages; so grosly
undiscerning was he in works of poetry, and the liberal
offerings of the muse!
And thus the poet makes a double use of the illjudgment
of this imperial critic. For nothing could better demonstrate
the importance of poetry to the honour of greatness,
than that this illustrious conqueror, without any particular
knowledge or discernment in the art itself, should think
himself concerned to court its assistance. And, then,
what could be more likely to engage the emperor’s further
protection and love of poetry, than the insinuation
(which is made with infinite address) that, as he honoured
it equally, so he understood its merits much better? For
[from v. 245 to 248, where, by a beautiful concurrence,
the flattery of his prince falls in with the honester purpose
of doing justice to the memory of his friends] it was
not the same unintelligent liberality, which had cherished
Choerilus, that poured the full stream of Caesar’s bounty
on such persons, as Varius and Virgil. And, as if the
spirit of these inimitable poets had, at once, seized him,
he breaks away in a bolder run of verse [from v. 248 to
250] to sing the triumphs of an art, which expressed the
manners and the mind in fuller and more durable relief,
than painting or even sculpture had ever been able to
give to the external figure: And [from v. 250 to the end]
apologizes for himself in adopting the humbler epistolary
species, when a warmth of inclination and the unrivaled
glories of his prince were continually urging him on to
the nobler, encomiastic poetry. His excuse, in brief, is
taken from the conscious inferiority of his genius, and a
tenderness for the fame of the emperor, which is never
more disserved than by the officious sedulity of bad poets
to do it honour. And with this apology, one while condescending
to the unfeigned humility of a person, sensible
of the kind and measure of his abilities, and then,
again, sustaining itself by a freedom and even familiarity,
which real merit knows, on certain occasions, to take
without offence, the epistle concludes.
If the general opinion may be trusted, this, which
was one of the last, is also among the noblest, of the great
poet’s compositions. Perhaps, the reader, who considers
it in the plain and simple order, to which the foregoing
analysis hath reduced it, may satisfy himself, that
this praise hath not been undeservedly bestowed.
NOTES ON THE EPISTLE TO AUGUSTUS. — CONCLUSION. — The End of the Notes on the Epistle to Augustus . — THE END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
Epistola ad Augustum.] The epistle to Augustus
is an apology for the Roman poets. The
epistle to the Pisos, a criticism on their poetry.
This to Augustus may be therefore considered as a
sequel of that to the Pisos; and which could not
well be omitted; for the author’s design of forwarding
the study and improvement of the art of poetry
required him to bespeak the public favour to its
professors.
But as, there, in correcting the abuses of their
poetry, he mixes, occasionally, some encomiums
on poets; so, here, in pleading the cause of the
poets, we find him interweaving instructions on
poetry. Which was but according to the writer’s
occasions in each work. For the freedom of his
censure on the art of poetry was to be softened by
some expressions of his good-will towards the poets;
and this apology for their fame had been too direct
and unmanaged, but for the qualifying appearance
of its intending the further benefit of the art. The
coincidence, then, of the same general method, as
well as design, in the two epistles, made it not improper
to give them together, and on the same footing,
to the public. Though both the subject and
method of this last are so clear as to make a continued
commentary upon it much less wanted.
4. Si longo sermone morer tua tempora,
Caesar.] The poet is thought to begin with apologizing
for the shortness of this epistle. And yet
’tis one of the longest he ever wrote. How is this
inconsistency to be reconciled? “Horace parle
pêutêtre ainsi pour ne pas rebuter Auguste, et
pour lui faire connôitre, qu’il auroit fait une lettre,
beaucoup plus longue, s’il avoit suivi son inclination.”
This is the best account of the matter we
have, hitherto, been able to come at. But the familiar
civility of such a compliment, as M. Dacier
supposes, though it might be well enough to an
equal, or, if dressed up in spruce phrases, might
make a figure in the lettres familieres et galantes
of his own nation; yet is surely of a cast, entirely
foreign to the Roman gravity, more especially in an
address to the emperor of the world. Mr. Pope,
perceiving the absurdity of the common interpretation,
seems to have read the lines interrogatively;
which though it saves the sense, and suits the purpose
of the English poet very well, yet neither
agrees with the language nor serious air of the original.
The case, I believe, was this. The genius
of epistolary writing demands, that the subject-matter
be not abruptly delivered, or hastily obtruded
on the person addressed; but, as the law of decorum
prescribes (for the rule holds in writing, as in conversation)
be gradually and respectfully introduced
to him. This obtains more particularly in applications
to the great, and on important subjects. But,
now, the poet, being to address his prince on a
point of no small delicacy, and on which he foresaw
he should have occasion to hold him pretty long,
prudently contrives to get, as soon as possible, into
his subject; and, to that end, hath the art to convert
the very transgression of this rule into the justest
and most beautiful compliment.
That cautious preparation, which is ordinarily
requisite in our approaches to greatness, had been,
the poet observes, in the present case, highly unseasonable,
as the business and interests of the empire
must, in the mean time, have stood still and
been suspended. By sermone then we are to understand,
not the body of the epistle, but the proeme
or introduction only. The body, as of public concern,
might be allowed to engage, at full length,
the emperor’s attention. But the introduction,
consisting of ceremonial only, the common good
required him to shorten as much as possible. It
was no time for using an insignificant preamble, or,
in our English phrase, of making long speeches.
The reason, too, is founded, not merely in the
elevated rank of the emperor, but in the peculiar
diligence and sollicitude, with which, history tells
us, he endeavoured to promote, by various ways,
the interests of his country. So that the compliment
is as just, as it is polite. It may be further
observed, that sermo is used in Horace, to signify
the ordinary style of conversation [See Sat. i. 3, 65,
and iv. 42.] and therefore not improperly denotes
the familiarity of the epistolary address, which, in
its easy expression, so nearly approaches to it.
13. Urit enim fulgore suo, qui praegravat
artes Infra se positas: extinctus amabitur
idem.] The poet, we may suppose, spoke this
from experience. And so might another of later
date when he complained:
Unhappy Wit, like most mistaken things,
Attones not for that envy which it brings.
Essay on Crit. v. 494.
Unless it be thought, that, as this was said by him
very early in life, it might rather pass for a prediction
of his future fortunes. Be this as it will, the
sufferings, which unhappy wit is conceived to bring
on itself from the envy it excites, are, I am apt to
think, somewhat aggravated; at least if one may
judge from the effects it had on this Complainant.
That which would be likely to afflict him most, was
the envy of his friends. But the generosity of these
deserves to be recorded. The wits took no offence
at his fame, till they found it eclipse their own:
And his Philosopher and Guide, ’tis well known,
stuck close to him, till another and brighter star
had gotten the ascendant. Or supposing there
might be some malice in the case, it is plain there
was little mischief. And for this little the poet’s
creed provides an ample recompence. Extinctus
amabitur idem: not, we may be sure, by those
he most improved, enlightened, and obliged; but
by late impartial posterity; and by ONE at least of
his surviving friends; who generously took upon
him the patronage of his fame, and who inherits his
genius and his virtues.
14. Extinctus amabitur idem.] Envy, says a
discerning ancient, is the vice of those, who are too
weak to contend, and too proud to submit: vitium
eorum, qui nec cedere volunt, nec possunt contendere33.
Which, while it sufficiently exposes the
folly and malignity of this hateful passion, secures
the honour of human nature; as implying at the
same time, that its worst corruptions are not without
a mixture of generosity in them. For this false
pride in refusing to submit, though absurd and mischievous
enough, when unsupported by all ability
to contend, yet discovers such a sense of superior
excellence, as shews, how difficult it is for human
nature to divest itself of all virtue. Accordingly,
when the too powerful splendor is withdrawn, our
natural veneration of it takes place: Extinctus amabitur
idem. This is the true exposition of the poet’s
sentiment; which therefore appears just the reverse
of what his French interpreter would fix upon him.
“La justice, que nous rendons aux grands hommes
après leur mort, ne vient pas de l’AMOUR, que
nous avons pour leur vertu, mais de la HAINE,
dont notre cœur est rempli pour ceux, qui ont
pris leur PLACE.” An observation, which only
becomes the misanthropy of an old cynic virtue, or
the selfishness of a modern system of ethics.
15. Praesenti tibi maturos, &c. to v. 18.]
We are not to wonder at this and the like extravagances
of adulation in the Augustan poets. They had
ample authority for what they did of this sort. We
know, that altars were erected to the Emperor by
the command of the Senate; and that he was publicly
invoked, as an established, tutelary divinity.
But the seeds of the corruption had been sown much
earlier. For we find it sprung up, or rather (as of
all the ill weeds, which the teeming soil of human
depravity throws forth, none is more thriving and
grows faster than this of flattery) flourishing at its
height, in the tyranny of J. Caesar. Balbus, in
a letter to Cicero [Ep. ad Att. l. ix.] Swears by the
health and safety of Caesar: ità, incolumi Caesare,
moriar. And Dio tells us [L. xliv.] that it was,
by the express injunction of the Senate, decreed,
even in Caesar’s life-time, that the Romans should
bind themselves by this oath. The Senate also,
as we learn from the same writer, [L. xliii.]
upon receiving the news of his defeat of Pompey’s
sons, caused his statue to be set up, in the temple of
Romulus, with this inscription, DEO INVICTO34.
’Tis true, these and still greater honours had been
long paid to the Roman governors in their provinces,
by the abject, slavish Asiatics. And this, no
doubt, facilitated the admission of such idolatries
into the capital35. But that a people, from the
highest notions of an independent republican equality,
could so soon be brought to this prostrate
adoration of their first Lord, is perfectly amazing!
In this, they shewed themselves ripe for servitude.
Nothing could keep them out of the hands of a
master. And one can scarcely read such accounts,
as these, without condemning the vain efforts of
dying patriotism, which laboured so fruitlesly, may
one not almost say, so weakly? to protract the liberty
of such a people, Who can, after this, wonder
at the incense, offered up by a few court-poets?
The adulation of Virgil, which has given so much
offence, and of Horace, who kept pace with him,
was, we see, but the authorized language of the
times; presented indeed with address, but without
the heightenings and privileged licence of their profession.
For, to their credit, it must be owned,
that, though in the office of poets, they were to
comply with the popular voice, and echo it back to
the ears of sovereignty; yet, as men, they had too
much good sense, and too scrupulous a regard to the
dignity of their characters, to exaggerate and go
beyond it.
It should, in all reason, surprize and disgust us
still more, that modern writers have not always
shewn themselves so discrete. The grave and learned
Lipsius was not ashamed, even without the convenient
pretext of popular flattery, or poetic coloring,
in so many words, to make a God of his patron:
who though neither King, nor Pope, was yet the
next best material for this manufacture, an Archbishop.
For, though the critic knew, that it was
not every wood, that will make a Mercury, yet no
body would dispute the fitness of that, which grew
so near the altar. In plain words, I am speaking of
an Archbishop of Mechlin, whom, after a deal of
fulsome compliment (which was the vice of the man)
he exalts at last, with a pagan complaisance, into the
order of Deities. “Ad haec, says he, erga omnes
humanitas et facilitas me faciunt, ut omnes te
non tanquàm hominem aliquem de nostro coetu,
sed tanquam Deum quendam de coelo delapsum
intueantur et admirentur.”
16. Jurandasque tuum per numen ponimus
aras.] On this idea of the APOTHEOSIS, which was
the usual mode of flattery in the Augustan age, but,
as having the countenance of public authority,
sometimes inartificially enough employed, Virgil
hath projected one of the noblest allegories in ancient
poetry, and at the same time hath given to it all the
force of just compliment, the occasion itself allowed.
Each of these excellencies was to be expected from
his talents. For, as his genius led him to the sublime;
to his exquisite judgment would instruct him to
palliate this bold fiction, and qualify, as much as
possible, the shocking adulation, implied in it. So
singular a beauty deserves to be shewn at large.
The third Georgic sets out with an apology for
the low and simple argument of that work, which,
yet, the poet esteemed, for its novelty, preferable
to the sublimer, but trite, themes of the Greek
writers. Not but he intended, on some future occasion,
to adorn a nobler subject. This was the great
plan of the Aeneïs, which he now prefigures and
unfolds at large. For, taking advantage of the
noblest privilege of his art, he breaks away, in a fit
of prophetic enthusiasm, to foretel his successes in
this projected enterprize, and, under the imagery
of the ancient triumph, which comprehends, or
suggests to the imagination, whatever is most august
in human affairs, to delineate the future glories of
this ambitious design. The whole conception, as
we shall see, is of the utmost grandeur and magnificence;
though, according to the usual management
of the poet (which, as not being apprehended by
his critics, hath furnished occasion, even to the best
of them, to charge him with a want of the sublime)
he hath contrived to soften and familiarize its
appearance to the reader, by the artful manner, in
which it is introduced. It stands thus:
tentanda via est, qua me quoque possim
Tollere humo, VICTORQUE virûm volitare per ora.
This idea of victory, thus casually dropped, he
makes the basis of his imagery; which, by means
of this gradual preparation, offers itself easily to the
apprehension, though it thereby loses, as the poet
designed it should, much of that broad glare, in
which writers of less judgment love to shew their
ideas, as tending to set the common reader to a gaze.
The allegory then proceeds:
Primus ego patriam mecum (modo vita supersit)
Aonio rediens deducam vertice Musas.
The projected conquest was no less than that of all
the Grecian Muses at once; whom, to carry on the
decorum of the allegory, he threatens, 1. to force
from their high and advantageous situation on the
summit of the Aonian mount; and, 2. bring captive
with him into Italy: the former circumstance
intimating to us the difficulty and danger of the enterprize;
and the latter, his complete execution
of it.
The palmy, triumphal entry, which was usual
to victors on their return from foreign successes,
follows:
Primus Idumaeas referam tibi, Mantua, palmas.
But ancient conquerors did not hold it sufficient to
reap this transient fruit of their labours. They were
ambitious to consecrate their glory to immortality,
by a temple, or other public monument, which was
to be built out of the spoils of the conquered cities or
countries. This the reader sees is suitable to the
idea of the great work proposed; which was, out of
the old remains of Grecian art, to compose a new one,
that should comprize the virtues of them all: as, in
fact, the Aeneïd is known to unite in itself whatever
is most excellent, not in Homer only, but, universally,
in the wits of Greece. The everlasting monument
of the marble temple is then reared:
Et viridi in campo templum de MARMORE ponam.
And, because ancient superstition usually preferred,
for these purposes, the banks of rivers to other situations,
therefore the poet, in beautiful allusion to the
site of some of the most celebrated pagan temples,
builds his on the Mincius. We see with what a
scrupulous propriety the allusion is carried on.
Propter aquam, tardis ingens ubi flexibus errat
Mincius, et tenera praetexit arundine ripas.
Next, this temple was to be dedicated, as a monument
of the victor’s piety, as well as glory, to some
propitious, tutelary deity, under whose auspices the
great adventure had been atchieved. The dedication
is then made to the poet’s divinity, Augustus:
In medio mihi Caesar erit, templumque tenebit.
Templum tenebit. The expression is emphatical;
as intimating to us, and prefiguring the secret purpose
of the Aeneïs, which was, in the person of
Aeneas, to shadow forth and consecrate the character
of Augustus. His divinity was to fill and
occupy that great work. And the ample circuit of
the epic plan was projected only, as a more awful
enclosure of that august presence, which was to
inhabit and solemnize the vast round of this poetic
building.
And now the wonderful address of the poet’s artifice
appears. The mad servility of his country had
deified the emperor in good earnest; and his brother
poets made no scruple to worship in his temples,
and to come before him with handfuls of real incense,
smoking from the altars. But the sobriety of
Virgil’s adoration was of another cast. He seizes
this circumstance only to embody a poetical fiction;
which, on the supposition of an actual deification,
hath all the force of compliment, which the fact
implies, and yet, as presented through the chast veil
of allegory, eludes the offence, which the naked recital
must needs have given to sober and reasonable
men. Had the emperor’s popular divinity been
flatly acknowledged, and adored, the praise, even
under Virgil’s management, had been insufferable for
its extravagance; and, without some support for his
poetical numen to rest upon, the figure had been
more forced and strained, than the rules of just writing
allow. As it is, the historical truth of his apotheosis
authorizes and supports the fiction, and the fiction,
in its turn, serves to refine and palliate the history.
The Aeneïs being, by the poet’s improvement of
this circumstance, thus naturally predicted under
the image of a temple, we may expect to find a close
and studied analogy betwixt them. The great, component
parts of the one will, no doubt, be made,
very faithfully, to represent and adumbrate those of
the other. This hath been executed with great art
and diligence.
1. The temple, we observed, was erected on the
banks of a river. This site was not only proper, for
the reason already mentioned, but also, for the further
convenience of instituting public games, the ordinary
attendants of the consecration of temples.
These were generally, as in the case of the Olympic
and others, celebrated on the banks of rivers.
Illi victor ego, et Tyrio conspectus in ostro,
Centum quadrijugos agitabo ad flumina currus.
Cuncta mihi, Alpheum linquens lucosque Molorchi,
Cursibus et crudo decernet Graecia caestu.
To see the propriety of the figure in this place, the
reader needs only be reminded of the book of games
in the Aeneïd, which was purposely introduced in
honour of the Emperor, and not, as is commonly
thought, for a mere trial of skill between the poet
and his master. The emperor was passionately fond
of these sports, and was even the author, or restorer,
of one of them. It is not to be doubted, that he alludes
also to the quinquennial games, actually celebrated,
in honour of his temples, through many
parts of the empire. And this the poet undertakes
in the civil office of VICTOR.
2. What follows is in the religious office of
Priest. For it is to be noted, that, in assuming
this double character, which the decorum of the solemnities,
here recounted, prescribed, the poet has
an eye to the political design of the Aeneïs, which
was to do honour to Caesar, in either capacity of a
civil and religious personage; both being essential
to the idea of the PERFECT LEGISLATOR, whose office
and character (as an eminent critic hath lately shewn
us36) it was his purpose, in this immortal work, to
adorn and recommend. The account of his sacerdotal
functions is delivered in these words:
Ipse caput tonsae foliis ornatus olivae
Dona feram. Jam, nunc solemnes ducere pompas
Ad delubra juvat, caesosque videre juvencos;
Vel scena ut versis discedat frontibus, utque
Purpurea intexti tollant aulaea Britanni.
The imagery in this place cannot be understood,
without reflecting on the customary form and disposition
of the pagan temples. Delubrum, or Delubra,
for either number is used indifferently, denotes
the shrine, or sanctuary, wherein the statue
of the presiding God was placed. This was in the
center of the building. Exactly before the delubrum,
and at no great distance from it, was the ALTAR.
Further, the shrine, or delubrum, was inclosed and
shut up on all sides by doors of curious carved-work,
and ductile veils, embellished by the rich embroidery
of flowers, animals, or human figures. This
being observed, the progress of the imagery before
us will be this. The procession ad delubra, or
shrine: the sacrifice on the altars, erected before it;
and lastly, the painted, or rather wrought scenery of
the purple veils, inclosing the image, which were
ornamented, and seemed to be sustained or held up
by the figures of inwoven Britons. The meaning
of all which, is, that the poet would proceed to the
celebration of Caesar’s praise in all the gradual, solemn
preparation of poetic pomp: that he would
render the most grateful offerings to his divinity in
those occasional episodes, which he should consecrate
to his more immediate honour: and, finally,
that he would provide the richest texture of his fancy,
for a covering to that admired image of his virtues,
which was to make the sovereign pride and glory
of his poem. The choice of the inwoven Britons,
for the support of his veil, is well accounted for by
those, who tell us, that Augustus was proud to have
a number of these to serve about him in quality of
slaves.
The ornaments of the DOORS of this delubrum, on
which the sculptor used to lavish all the riches of his
art, are next delineated.
In foribus pugnam ex auro solidoque elephanto
Gangaridum faciam, victorisque arma Quirini;
Atque hic undantem bello, magnumque fluentem
Nilum, ac navali surgentes aere columnas.
Addam urbes Asiae domitas, pulsumque Niphatem,
Fidentemque fugâ Parthum versisque sagittis;
Et duo rapta manu diverso ex hoste trophaea,
Bisque triumphatas utroque ex littore gentes.
Here the covering of the figure is too thin to hide the
literal meaning from the commonest reader, who
sees, that the several triumphs of Caesar, here recorded
in sculpture, are those, which the poet hath
taken most pains to finish, and hath occasionally inserted,
as it were, in miniature, in several places of
his poem. Let him only turn to the prophetic speech
of Anchises’ shade in the VIth, and to the description
of the shield in the VIIIth book.
Hitherto we have contemplated the decorations
of the shrine, i. e. such as bear a more direct and
immediate reference to the honour of Caesar. We
are now presented with a view of the remoter, surrounding
ornaments of the temple. These are the
illustrious Trojan chiefs, whose story was to furnish
the materials, or, more properly, to form the body
and case, as it were, of his august structure. They
are also connected with the idol deity of the place by
the closest ties of relationship, the Julian family
affecting to derive its pedigree from this proud original.
The poet then, in his arrangement of these
additional figures, with admirable judgment, completes
and rounds the entire fiction.
Stabunt et Parii lapides, spirantia signa,
Assaraci proles, demissaeque ab Jove gentis
Nomina: Trosque parens et Trojae Cynthius auctor.
Nothing now remains but for fame to eternize the
glories of what the great architect had, at the
expence of so much art and labour, completed;
which is predicted in the highest sublime of ancient
poetry, under the idea of ENVY, whom the poet
personalizes, shuddering at the view of such transcendent
perfection; and tasting, beforehand, the
pains of a remediless vexation, strongly pictured in
the image of the worst, infernal tortures.
Invidia infelix furias amnemque severum
Cocyti metuet, tortosque Ixionis angues,
Immanemque rotam, et non exuperabile saxum.
Thus have I presumed, but with a religious awe,
to inspect and declare the mysteries of this ideal
temple. The attempt after all might have been
censured, as prophane, if the great Mystagogue
himself, or some body for him37, had not given us
the undoubted key to it. Under this encouragement
I could not withstand the temptation of disclosing
thus much of one of the noblest fictions of antiquity;
and the rather, as the propriety of allegoric composition,
which made the distinguished pride of ancient
poetry, seems but little known or attended to by the
modern professors of this fine art.
17. Nil oriturum alias, nil ortum tale fatentes.]
Il n’est impossible, says M. de Balzac, in
that puffed, declamatory rhapsody, intitled, Le
Prince, de resister au mouvement interieur, qui me
pousse. Je ne sçaurois m’empecher de parler du
Roy, et de sa vertu; de crier à tous les princes,
que c’est l’exemple, qu’ils doivent suivre; DE
DEMANDER A TOUS LES PEUPLES, ET A TOUS LES AGES,
S’ILS ONT JAMAIS RIEN VEU DE SEMBLABLE. This
was spoken of a king of France, who, it will be
owned, had his virtues. But they were the virtues
of the man, and not of the Prince. This, however,
was a distinction, which the eloquent encomiast was
not aware of, or, to speak more truly, his business
required him to overlook. For the whole elogy is
worth perusing, as it affords a striking proof of the
uniform genius of flattery, which, alike under all
circumstances, and indifferent to all characters, can
hold the same language of the weakest, as the ablest
of princes, of Louis le juste, and Caesar Octavianus
Augustus.
23. Sic fautor veterum, &c. to v. 28.] The
folly, here satyrized, is common enough in all
countries, and extends to all arts. It was just the
same preposterous affectation of venerating antiquity,
which put the connoisseurs in painting, under the
emperors, on crying up the simple and rude sketches
of Aglaophon and Polygnotus, above the exquisite
and finished pictures of Parrhasius and Zeuxis.
The account is given by Quintilian, who in his censure
of this absurdity, points to the undoubted source
of it. His words are these: “Primi, quorum
quidem opera non vetustatis modò gratiâ visenda
sunt, clari pictores fuisse dicuntur Polygnotus et
Aglaophon; quorum simplex color tam sui studiosos
adhuc habet, ut illa propè rudia ac velut
futurae mox artis primordia, maximis, qui post
eos extiterunt, auctoribus praeferantur, PROPRIO
QUODAM INTELLIGENDI (ut mea fert opinio) AMBITU.”
[L. xii. c. 10.] The lover of painting must
be the more surprized at this strange preference,
when he is told, that Aglaophon, at least, had the
use of only one single colour: whereas Parrhasius
and Zeuxis, who are amongst the maximi autores,
here glanced at, not only employed different colours,
but were exceedingly eminent, the one of them for
correct drawing, and the delicacy of his outline; the
other, for his invention of that great secret of the
chiaro oscuro. “Post Zeuxis et Parrhasius: quorum
prior LUMINUM UMBRARUMQUE INVENISSE RATIONEM,
secundus, EXAMINASSE SUBTILIUS LINEAS
DICITUR.” [Ibid.]
28. Si, quia Graiorum sunt antiquissima
quaeque scripta vel OPTIMA, &c.] The common
interpretation of this place supposes the poet to
admit the most ancient of the Greek writings to be
the best. Which were even contrary to all experience
and common sense, and is directly confuted
by the history of the Greek learning. What he allows
is, the superiority of the oldest Greek writings
extant; which is a very different thing. The turn
of his argument confines us to this sense. For he
would shew the folly of concluding the same of the
old Roman writers, on their first rude attempts to
copy the finished models of Greece, as of the old
Greek writers themselves, who were furnished with
the means of producing those models by long discipline
and cultivation. This appears, certainly, from
what follows:
Venimus ad summum fortunae: pingimus atque
Psallimus et luctamur Achivis doctius unctis.
The design of which hath been entirely overlooked.
For it hath been taken only for a general expression
of falsehood and absurdity, of just the same import,
as the proverbial line,
Nil intra est oleâ, nil extra est in nuce duri.
Whereas it was designedly pitched upon to convey
a particular illustration of the very absurdity in
question, and to shew the maintainers of it, from the
nature of things, how senseless their position was.
It is to this purpose: “As well it may be pretended,
that we Romans surpass the Greeks in the arts of
painting, music, and the exercises of the palaestra,
which yet it is confessed, we do not, as that our
old writers surpass the modern. The absurdity,
in either case, is the same. For, as the Greeks,
who had long devoted themselves, with great and
continued application, to the practice of these arts
(which is the force of the epithet UNCTI, here given
them) must, for that reason, carry the prize from
the Romans, who have taken very little pains about
them; so, the modern Romans, who have for a
long time been studying the arts of poetry and composition,
must needs excel the old Roman writers,
who had little or no acquaintance with those arts,
and had been trained, by no previous discipline, to
the exercise of them.”
The conciseness of the expression made it necessary
to open the poet’s sense at large. We now see,
that his intention, in these two lines, was to expose,
in the way of argumentative illustration, the ground
of that absurdity, which the preceding verses had
represented as, at first sight, so shocking to common
sense.
33. Unctis.] This is by no means a general
unmeaning epithet: but is beautifully chosen to
express the unwearied assiduity of the Greek artists.
For the practice of anointing being essential to their
agonistic trials, the poet elegantly puts the attending
circumstance for the thing itself. And so, in speaking
of them, as UNCTI, he does the same, as if he had
called them “the industrious, or exercising Greeks;”
which was the very idea his argument required him
to suggest to us.
43.—Honeste.] Expressing the credit such a
piece was held in, as had the fortune to be ranked
inter veteres, agreeably to what he said above—PERFECTOS
veteresque v. 37—and—vetus atque
PROBUS v. 39: which affords a fresh presumption in
favour of Dr. Bentley’s conjecture on v. 41, where,
instead of veteres poetas, he would read,
Inter quos referendus erit? veteresne PROBOSQUE,
An quos &c.
54. Adeo sanctum est vetus omne poema.]
The reader is not to suppose, that Horace, in this
ridicule of the foolish adorers of antiquity, intended
any contempt of the old Roman poets, who, as the old
writers in every country, abound in strong sense,
vigorous expression, and the truest representation
of life and manners. His quarrel is only with the
critic:
Qui redit in fastos et virtutem aestimat annis.
An affectation, which for its folly, if it had not too
apparently sprung from a worse principle, deserved
to be laughed at.
For the rest, he every where discovers a candid
and just esteem of their earlier writers; as may be
seen from many places in this very epistle; but more
especially from that severe censure in 1 S. x. 17.
(which hath more of acrimony in it, than he usually
allows to his satyr) when, in speaking of the writers
of the old comedy, he adds,
Quos neque pulcher
Hermogenes unquam legit, neque simius iste
Nil praeter Calvum et doctus cantare Catullum.
With all his zeal for correct writing, he was not, we
see, of the humour of that delicate sort, who are for
burning their old poets; and, to be well with women
and court critics, confine their reading and admiration
to the innocent sing-song of some soft and
fashionable rhymer, whose utter insipidity is a thousand
times more insufferable, than any barbarism.
56. Pacuvius docti famam senis, Accius alti:]
The epithet doctus, here applied to the tragic poet,
Pacuvius, is, I believe, sometimes misunderstood,
though the opposition to altus clearly determines
the sense. For, as this last word expresses the sublime
of sentiment and expression, which comes from
nature, so the former word must needs be interpreted
of that exactness in both, or at least of that skill in
the conduct of the scene (the proper learning of a
dramatic poet) which is the result of art.
The Latin word doctus is indeed somewhat ambiguous:
but we are chiefly misled by the English
word, learned, by which we translate it, and by
which, in general use, is meant, rather extensive
reading, and what we call erudition, than a profound
skill in the rules and principles of any art.
But this last is frequently the sense of the Latin term
doctus, as we may see from its application, in the
best classic writers, to other, besides the literary
professions. Thus, to omit other instances, we find
it applied very often in Horace himself. It is applied
to a singing-girl—doctae psallere Chiae—in one of
his Odes, l. iv. 13. It is applied to several mechanic
arts in this epistle—“doctius Achivis pingimus
atque psallimus et luctamur:” It is even applied,
absolutely, to the player Roscius—doctus Roscius,
in v. 82, where his skill in acting could only
be intended by it. It is, also, in this sense, that he
calls his imitator, doctus, i. e. skilled and knowing
in his art, A. P. v. 319. Nay, it is precisely in this
sense that Quinctilian uses the word, when he characterizes
this very Pacuvius—Pacuvium videri
doctiorem, qui esse docti affectant, volunt [l. x.
c. 1.] i. e. they, who affect to be thought knowing in
the rules of dramatic writing, give this praise to
Pacuvius. The expression is so put, as if Quinctilian
intended a censure of these critics; because this
pretence to dramatic art, and the strict imitation of
the Greek poets, was grown, in his time, and long
before it, into a degree of pedantry and affectation;
no other merit but this of docti, being of any significancy,
in their account. There is no reason to
think that Quinctilian meant to insinuate the poet’s
want of this merit, or his own contempt of it: though
he might think, and with reason, that too much
stress had been laid upon it by some men.
It is in the same manner that one of our own poets
has been characterized; and the application of this
term to him will shew the force of it, still more
clearly.
In Mr. Pope’s fine imitation of this epistle, are
these lines—
In all debates, where critics bear a part,
Not one but nods, and talks of Jonson’s art—
One sees, then, how Mr. Pope understood the
docti, of Horace. But our Milton applies the word
learned itself, and in the Latin sense of it, to
Jonson—
When Jonson’s learned sock is on—
For what is this learning? Indisputably, his dramatic
learning, his skill in the scene, and his observance
of the ancient rules and practice. For, though
Jonson was indeed learned, in every sense, it is the
learning of his profession, as a comic artist, for
which he is here celebrated.
The Latin substantive, doctrina, is used with the
same latitude, as the adjective, doctus. It sometimes
signifies the peculiar sort of learning, under consideration;
though sometimes again it signifies learning,
or erudition, at large. It is used in the former
sense by Cicero, when he observes of the satires of
Lucilius, that they were remarkable for their wit and
pleasantry, not for their learning—doctrina mediocris.
So that there is no contradiction in this judgment,
as is commonly thought, to that of Quinctilian,
who declares roundly—eruditio in eo mira—For,
though doctrina and eruditio be sometimes
convertible terms, they are not so here. The learning
Cicero speaks of in Lucilius, as being but moderate,
is his learning, or skill in the art of writing
and composition.—That this was the whole purport
of Cicero’s observation, any one may see by turning
to the place where it occurs, in the proeme to his
first book De finibus.
59. Vincere Caecilius gravitate, Terentius
arte.] It should be observed, that the judgment,
here passed [from v. 55 to 60] on the most celebrated
Roman writers, being only a representation
of the popular opinion, not of the poet’s own, the
commendations, given to them, are deserved, or
otherwise, just as it chances.
Interdum volgus rectum videt, est ubi peccat.
To give an instance of this in the line before us.
A critic of unquestioned authority acquaints us,
wherein the real distinct merit of these two dramatic
writers consists. “In ARGUMENTIS, Caecilius
palmam poscit; in Ethesin, Terentius.”
[Varro.] Now by gravitate, as applied to Caecilius,
we may properly enough understand the grave and
affecting cast of his comedy; which is further confirmed
by what the same critic elsewhere observes of
him. “Pathe Trabea, Attilius, et Caecilius facile
moverunt.” But Terence’s characteristic of
painting the manners, which is, plainly, the right
interpretation of Varro’s Ethesin, is not so significantly
expressed by the attribute arte, here given to
him. The word indeed is of large and general import,
and may admit of various senses; but being
here applied to a dramatic writer, it most naturally
and properly denotes the peculiar art of his profession,
that is, the artificial contexture of the
plot. And this I doubt not was the very praise, the
town-critics of Horace’s time intended to bestow on
this poet. The matter is easily explained.
The simplicity and exact unity of the plots in the
Greek comedies would be, of course, uninteresting
to a people, not thoroughly instructed in the genuin
beauties of the drama. They had too thin a contexture
to satisfy the gross and lumpish taste of a Roman
auditory. The Latin poets, therefore, bethought
themselves of combining two stories into one. And
this, which is what we call the double plot, affording
the opportunity of more incidents, and a greater
variety of action, was perfectly suited to their apprehensions.
But, of all the Latin Comedians, Terence
appears to have practised this secret most assiduously:
at least, as may be concluded from what remains of
them. Plautus hath very frequently single plots,
which he was enabled to support by, what was natural
to him, a force of buffoon pleasantry. Terence,
whose genius lay another way, or whose taste was
abhorrent from such ribaldry, had recourse to the
other expedient of double plots. And this, I suppose,
is what gained him the popular reputation of
being the most artificial writer for the stage. The
Hecyra is the only one of his comedies, of the true
ancient cast. And we know how it came off in the
representation. That ill-success and the simplicity
of its conduct have continued to draw upon it the
same unfavourable treatment from the critics, to this
day; who constantly speak of it, as much inferior
to the rest; whereas, for the genuin beauty of dramatic
design, and the observance, after the ancient
Greek manner, of the nice dependency and coherence
of the fable, throughout, it is, indisputably, to every
reader of true taste, the most masterly and exquisite
of the whole collection.
63. Interdum volgus rectum videt: est ubi
peccat.] The capricious levity of popular opinion
hath been noted even to a proverb. And yet it is
this, which, after all, fixes the fate of authors.
This seemingly odd phaenomenon I would thus
account for.
What is usually complimented with the high and
reverend appellation of public judgment is, in any
single instance, but the repetition or echo, for the
most part eagerly catched and strongly reverberated
on all sides, of a few leading voices, which have
happened to gain the confidence, and so direct the
cry of the public. But (as, in fact, it too often falls
out) this prerogative of the few may be abused to the
prejudice of the many. The partialities of friendship,
the fashionableness of the writer, his compliance
with the reigning taste, the lucky concurrence of
time and opportunity, the cabal of a party, nay, the
very freaks of whim and caprice, these, or any of
them, as occasion serves, can support the dullest, as
the opposite disadvantages can depress the noblest
performance; and give the currency or neglect to
either, far beyond what the genuin character of each
demands. Hence the public voice, which is but the
aggregate of these corrupt judgments, infinitely
multiplied, is, with the wise, at such a juncture,
deservedly of little esteem. Yet, in a succession of
such judgments, delivered at different times and by
different sets or juntos of these sovereign arbiters of
the fate of authors, the public opinion naturally gets
clear of these accidental corruptions. Every fresh
succession shakes off some; till, by degrees, the work
is seen in its proper form, unsupported of every other
recommendation, than what its native inherent
excellence bestows upon it. Then, and not till then,
the voice of the people becomes sacred; after which
it soon advances into divinity, before which all
ages must fall down and worship. For now Reason
alone, without her corrupt assessors, takes the chair.
And her sentence, when once promulgated and
authorized by the general voice, fixes the unalterable
doom of authors. ΟΛΩΣ ΚΑΛΑ ΝΟΜΙΖΕ ΥΨΗ
ΚΑΙ ΑΛΗΘΙΝΑ, ΤΑ ΔΙΑΠΑΝΤΟΣ ΑΡΕΣΚΟΝΤΑ
ΚΑΙ ΠΑΣΙΝ [Longinus, § vii.] And the reason
follows, agreeably to the account here given. Ὅταν
γὰρ τοῖς ἀπὸ διαφόρων ΕΠΙΤΗΔΕΥΜΑΤΩΝ, ΒΙΩΝ,
ΖΗΛΩΝ, ΗΛΙΚΙΩΝ, λόγων, ἕν τι καὶ ταὐτὸν ἅμα
περὶ τῶν αὐτῶν ἅπασι δοκῇ, τόθ’ ἡ ἐξ ἀσυμφώνων
ὡς κρίσις καὶ συγκατάθεσις τὴν ἐπὶ τῷ θαυμαζομένῳ
ΠΙΣΤΙΝ ΙΣΧΥΡΑΝ ΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΙ ΑΝΑΜΦΙΛΕΚΤΟΝ.
[Ibid.]
This is the true account of popular fame, which,
while it well explains the ground of the poet’s aphorism,
suggests an obvious remark, but very mortifying
to every candidate of literary glory. It is,
that, whether he succeeds in his endeavours after
public applause, or not, fame is equally out of his
reach, and, as the moral poet teaches, a thing
beyond him, before his death, on either supposition.
For at the very time, that this bewitching music is
sounding in his ears, he can never be sure, if, instead
of the divine consentient harmony of a just praise, it
be not only the discordant din and clamour of ignorance
or prepossession.
If there be any exception to this melancholy truth,
it must be in the case of some uncommon genius,
whose superior power breaks through all impediments
in his road to fame, and forces applause even from
those very prejudices, that would obstruct his career
to it. It was the rare felicity of the poet, just mentioned,
to receive, in his life-time, this sure and
pleasing augury of immortality.
88. Ingeniis non ille favet, &c.] Malherbe
was to the French, pretty much what Horace had
been to the Latin, poetry. These great writers had,
each of them, rescued the lyric muse of their country
out of the rude, ungracious hands of their old poets.
And, as their talents of a good ear, elegant judgment,
and correct expression, were the same, they
presented her to the public in all the air and grace,
and yet severity, of beauty, of which her form was
susceptible. Their merits and pretensions being
thus far resembling, the reader may not be incurious
to know the fate and fortune of each. Horace hath
very frankly told us, what befel himself from the
malevolent and low passions of his countrymen.
Malherbe did not come off, with the wits and critics
of his time, much better; as we learn from a learned
person, who hath very warmly recommended his
writings to the public. Speaking of the envy, which
pursued him in his prose-works, but, says he,
“Comme il faisoit une particuliere profession de la
poesie, c’est en cette qualité qu’il a de plus severes
censeurs, et receu des injustices plus signalées.
Mais il me semble que je fermerai la bouche à
ceux, que le blament, quand je leur aurai monstré,
que sa façon d’escrire est excellente, quoiqu’elle
s’eloigne un peu de celle des NOS ANCIENS POETES,
QU’ILS LOUENT PLUSTOT PAR UN DEGOUST DES
CHOSES PRESENTES, QUE PAR LES SENTIMENTS D’UNE
VERITABLE ESTIME.” [Disc. de M. Godeau sur
les oeuvres de M. Malherbe.]
97. Suspendit mentem vultumque.] The
expression hath great elegance, and is not liable to
the imputation of harsh, or improper construction.
For suspendit is not taken, with regard either to
mentem or vultum, in its literal, but figurative,
signification; and, thus, it becomes, in one and the
same sense, applicable to both.
Otherwise, this way of coupling two substantives
to a verb, which does not, in strict grammatical usage,
govern both; or, if it doth, must needs be construed
in different senses; hath given just offence to the
best critics.
Mr. Pope censures a passage of this kind, in the
Iliad, with severity; and thinks the taste of the
ancients was, in general, too good for those fooleries38.
Mr. Addison is perfectly of the same mind, as
appears from his criticism on that line in Ovid,
Consiliis, non curribus utere nostris, “This way
of joining, says he, two such different ideas as
chariot and counsel to the same verb, is mightily
used by Ovid, but is a very low kind of wit, and
has always in it a mixture of pun; because the verb
must be taken in a different sense, when it is joined
with one of the things, from what it has in conjunction
with the other. Thus in the end of this
story he tells you, that Jupiter flung a thunderbolt
at Phaëton; pariterque animaque rotisque
expulit aurigam: where he makes a forced piece of
Latin (animâ expulit aurigam) that he may couple
the soul and the wheels to the same verb39.”
These, the reader will think, are pretty good
authorities. For, in matters of taste, I know of
none, that more deserve to be regarded. The mere
verbal critic, one would think, should be cautious,
how he opposed himself to them. And yet a very
learned Dutchman, who has taken great pains in
elucidating an old Greek love-story, which, with its
more passionate admirers, may, perhaps, pass for the
Marianne of antiquity, hath not scrupled to censure
this decision of their’s very sharply40.
Having transcribed the censure of Mr. Pope, who,
indeed, somewhat too hastily, suspects the line in
Homer for an Interpolation, our critic fastens upon
him directly. En cor Zenodoti, en jecur Cratetis!
But foul language and fair criticism are different
things; and what he offers of the latter rather
accounts for than justifies the former. All he says
on the subject, is in the good old way of authorities,
which, he diligently rakes together out of every corner
of Greek and Roman antiquity. From all these he
concludes, as he thinks, irresistibly, not that the
passage in question might be genuin (for that few
would dispute with him) but that the kind of expression
itself is a real beauty. Bona elocutio est:
honesta figura. Though, to the praise of his discretion
be it remembered, he does not even venture
on this assertion, without his usual support of
precedent. And, for want of a better, he takes up
with old Servius. For so, it seems, this grammarian
hath declared himself, with respect to some expressions
of the same kind in Virgil.
But let him make the best of his authorities.
And, when he has done that, I shall take the liberty
to assure him, that the persons, he contends against,
do not think themselves, in the least, concerned
with them. For, though he believes it an undeniable
maxim, Critici non esse inquirere, utrum
recte autor quid scripserit, sed an omnino sic scripserit41:
yet, in the case before us, he must not be
surprized, if others do not so conceive of it.
Indeed, where the critic would defend the authenticity
of a word or expression, the way of precedent
is, doubtless, the very best, that common sense
allows to be taken. For the evidence of fact, at once,
bears down all suspicion of corruption or interpolation.
Again; if the elegance of single words (or
of intire phrases, where the suspicion turns on the
oddity or uncommoness of the construction, only) be
the matter in dispute, full and precise authorities
must decide it. For elegance, here, means nothing
else but the practice of the best writers. And thus
far I would join issue with the learned censurer; and
should think he did well in prescribing this rule to
himself in the correction of approved ancient
authors.
But what have these cases to do with the point in
question? The objection is made, not to words,
which alone are capable of being justified by authority,
but to things, which must ever be what they
are, in spite of it. This mode of writing is shewn
to be abundantly defective, for reasons taken from
the nature of our ideas, and the end and genius of
the nobler forms of composition. And what is it to
tell us, that great writers have overlooked or neglected
them?
1. In our customary train of thinking, the mind
is carried along, in succession, from one clear and
distinct idea to another. Or, if the attention be
at once employed on two senses, there is ever such a
close and near analogy betwixt them, that the
perceptive faculty, easily and almost instantaneously
passing from the one to the other, is not divided in
its regards betwixt them, but even seems to itself to
consider them, as one: as is the case with metaphor:
and, universally, with all the just forms of allusion.
The union between the literal and figurative sense
is so strict, that they run together in the imagination;
and the effect of the figure is only to let in fresh
light and lustre on the literal meaning. But now,
when two different, unconnected ideas are obtruded,
at the same time upon us, the mind suffers a kind of
violence and distraction, and is thereby put out of
that natural state, in which it so much delights.
To take the learned writer’s instance from Polybius:
ΕΛΠΙΔΑ καὶ ΧΕΙΡΑ ΠΡΟΣΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙΝ. How
different is the idea of collecting forces, and of that
act of the mind, which we call taking courage!
These two perceptions are not only distinct from each
other, but totally unconnected by any natural bond
of relationship betwixt them. And yet the word
ΠΡΟΣΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙΝ must be seen in this double
view, before we can take the full meaning of the
historian.
2. This conjunction of unrelated ideas, by the
means of a common term, agrees as ill to the end
and genius of the writer’s composition, as the natural
bent and constitution of the mind. For the
question is only about the greater poetry, which
addresses itself to the PASSIONS, or IMAGINATION.
And, in either case, this play of words which Mr.
Pope condemns, must be highly out of season.
When we are necessitated, as it were, to look
different ways, and actually to contemplate two unconnected
significations of the same word, before we
can thoroughly comprehend its purpose, the mind
is more amused by this fanciful conjunction of ideas,
than is consistent with the artless, undesigning
simplicity of passion. It disturbs and interrupts the
flow of affection, by presenting this disparted image
to the fancy. Again; where fancy itself is solely
addressed, as in the nobler descriptive species, this
arbitrary assemblage of ideas is not less improper.
For the poet’s business is now, to astonish or entertain
the mind with a succession of great or beautiful
images. And the intervention of this juggler’s trick
diverts the thought from contemplating its proper
scenery. We should be admiring some glorious
representation of nature, and are stopped, on a
sudden, to observe the writer’s art, whose ingenuity
can fetch, out of one word, two such foreign and
discrepant meanings.
In the lighter forms of poetry indeed, and more
especially in the burlesque epic, this affectation has
its place; as in that line of Mr. Pope, quoted by
this critic;
sometimes counsel takes, and sometimes tea.
For 1. The writer’s intention is here, not to affect
the passions, or transport the fancy, but solely to
divert and amuse. And to such end this species of
trifling is very apposite. 2. The manner, which
the burlesque epic takes to divert, is by confounding
great things with small. A mode of speech then,
which favours such confusion, is directly to its purpose.
3. This poem is, by its nature, satyrical,
and, like the old comedy, delights in exposing the
faults and vices of composition. So that the expression
is here properly employed (and this was, perhaps,
the first view of the writer) to ridicule the use
of it in grave works. If M. D’Orville then could
seriously design to confute Mr. Pope’s criticism by
his own practice in that line of the Rape of the
Lock, he has only shewn, that he does not, in the
least, comprehend the real genius of this poem.
But to return:
There is, as appears to me, but one case, in which
this double sense of words can be admitted in the
more solemn forms of poetry. It is, when, besides
the plain literal meaning, which the context demands,
the mind is carried forward to some more
illustrious and important object. We have an instance
in the famous line of Virgil,
Attollens humeris famamque et fata nepotum.
But this is so far from contradicting, that it furthers
the writer’s proper intention. We are not called off
from the subject matter to the observation of a conceit,
but to the admiration of kindred sublime conceptions.
For even here, it is to be observed, there
is always required some previous dependency and relationship,
though not extremely obvious, in the
natures of the things themselves, whereon to ground
and justify the analogy. Otherwise, the intention
of the double sense is perfectly inexcusable.
But the instance from Virgil, as we have seen it
explained (and for the first time) by a great critic42,
is so curious, that I shall be allowed to enlarge a little
upon it: and the rather as Virgil’s practice in this
instance will let us into the true secret of conducting
these double senses.
The comment of Servius on this line is remarkable.
“Hunc versum notant Critici, quasi superfluè
et inutiliter additum, nec convenientem gravitati
ejus, namque est magis neotericus.” Mr.
Addison conceived of it in the same manner when he
said, “This was the only witty line in the Æneis;”
meaning such a line as Ovid would have written.
We see the opinion which these Critics entertained
of the double sense, in general, in the greater Poetry.
They esteemed it a wanton play of fancy, misbecoming
the dignity of the writer’s work, and the
gravity of his character. They took it, in short,
for a mere modern flourish, totally different from
the pure unaffected manner of genuin antiquity.
And thus far they unquestionably judged right.
Their defect was in not seeing that the use of it, as
here employed by the Poet, was an exception to the
general rule. But to have seen this was not, perhaps,
to be expected even from these Critics.
However, from this want of penetration arose a
difficulty in determining whether to read, Facta
or Fata Nepotum. And, as we now understand
that Servius and his Critics were utter strangers to
Virgil’s noble idea, it is no wonder they could not
resolve it. But the latter is the Poet’s own word.
He considered this shield of celestial make as a kind
of Palladium, like the Ancile, which fell from
Heaven, and used to be carried in procession on the
shoulders of the Salii. “Quid de scutis,” says Lactantius,
“jam vetustate putridis dicam? Quae cum
portant, Deos ipsos se gestare Humeris suis arbitrantur.”
[Div. Inst. l. i. c. 21.]
Virgil, in a fine flight of imagination, alludes to
this venerable ceremony, comparing, as it were,
the shield of his Hero to the sacred Ancile; and
in conformity to the practice in that sacred procession
represents his Hero in the priestly office of
Religion,
Attollens Humero famamque et FATA Nepotum.
This idea then of the sacred shield, the guard and
glory of Rome, and on which, in this advanced situation,
depended the fame and fortune of his country,
the poet, with extreme elegance and sublimity,
transfers to the shield which guarded their great
progenitor, while he was laying the first foundations
of the Roman Empire.
But to return to the subject before us. What has
been said of the impropriety of double senses, holds
of the construction of a single term in two senses,
even though its authorized usage may equally admit
both. So that I cannot be of a mind with the
learned critic’s wise men43; who acknowledge an extreme
elegance in this form, when the governing
verb equally corresponds to the two substantives.
But when it properly can be applied but to one of
them, and with some force and straining only, to
the second, as commonly happens with the application
of one verb to two substantives, it then degenerates,
as Mr. Addison observes, into a mere quibble,
and is utterly incompatible with the graver
form of composition. And for this we have the
concurrent authority of the cordati themselves, who
readily admit, durum admodum et καταχρηστικωτέραν
fieri orationem, si verbum hoc ab alterutro abhorreat44.
Without softening matters, besides the
former absurdity of a second sense, we are now indebted
to a forced and barbarous construction for
any second sense at all.
But surely this venerable bench of critics, to
whom our censurer thinks fit to make his solemn
appeal, were not aware of the imprudence of this
concession. For why, if one may presume to ask,
is the latter use of this figure condemned, but for
reasons, which shew the manifest absurdity of
the thing, however countenanced by authorities?
And is not this the case of the former? Or, is the
transgression of the standing rules of good sense, in
the judgment of these censors, a more pardonable
crime in a writer, than of common usage or grammar?
After all, since he lays so great stress on his authorities,
it may not be amiss to consider the proper
force of them.
The form of speaking under consideration has
been censured as a trifling, affected witticism.
This censure he hopes entirely to elude by shewing
it was in use, more especially among two sorts of
persons, the least likely to be infected with wrong
taste, the oldest, that is to say, the simplest; and
the most refined writers. In short, he thinks to
stop all mouths by alledging instances from Homer
and Virgil.
But what if Homer and Virgil in the few examples
of this kind to be met with in their writings have
erred? And, which is more, what if that very
simplicity on the one hand, and refinement on the
other, which he builds so much upon, can be shewn
to be the natural and almost necessary occasions of
their falling into such errors? This, I am persuaded,
was the truth of the case. For,
1. In the simpler ages of learning, when, as yet,
composition is not turned into an art, but every
writer, especially of vehement and impetuous genius,
is contented to put down his first thoughts, and, for
their expression, takes up with the most obvious
words and phrases, that present themselves to him,
this improper construction will not be unfrequent.
For the writer, who is not knowing enough to take
offence at these niceties, having an immediate occasion
to express two things, and finding one word,
which, in common usage, at least with a little
straining, extends to both, he looks no further, but,
as suspecting no fault, employs it without scruple.
And I am the more confirmed in this account, from
observing, that sometimes, where the governing
verb cannot be made to bear this double sense, and
yet the meaning of the writer is clear enough from
the context, the proper word is altogether omitted.
Of this kind are several of the modes of speaking,
alledged by the writer as instances of the double
sense. As in that of Sophocles45, where Electra,
giving orders to Chrysothemis, about the disposal of
the libations, destined for the tomb of her father,
delivers herself thus,
ΑΛΛ’ ἢ ΠΝΟΑΙΣΙΝ, ἢ βαθυσκαφει̃ ΚΟΝΕΙ ΚΡΥΨΟΝ νιν.
The writer’s first intention was to look out for some
such verb, as would equally correspond to ωνοαις
and κὁνει, but this not occurring, he sets down one,
that only agrees to the last, and leaves the other to
be understood or supplied by the reader; as it easily
might, the scope of the place necessarily directing
him to it. It cannot be supposed, that Sophocles
designed to say, κρύψον πνοαῖς. There is no affinity
of sense or sound to lead him to such construction.
Again: in that verse of Homer46,
ἽΠΠΟΙ αἐρσίποδες, καὶ ποικίλα ΤΕΥΧΕ’ ΕΚΕΙΤΟ,
the poet never meant to say ἵπποι ἔκειντο, but neglectingly
left it thus, as trusting the nature of the
thing would instruct the reader to supply ἔστασαν, or
some such word, expressive of the posture required.
Nay, writers of more exactness than these simple
Greek poets have occasionally overlooked such inaccuracies:
as Cicero47, who, when more intent on his
argument, than expression, lets fall this impropriety;
Nec vero supra terram, sed etiam in intimis ejus
TENEBRIS plurimarum rerum LATET utilitas. ’Tis
plain, the writer, conceiving extat, patet, or some
such word, to be necessarily suggested by the tenor
of his sentence, never troubled himself to go back
to insert it. Yet these are brought as examples of
the double application of single words. The
truth is, they are examples of indiligence in the
writers, and as such, may shew us, how easily they
might fall, for the same reason, into the impropriety
of double senses. In those of this class then the impropriety,
complained of, is the effect of mere inattention
or carelessness.
2. On the other hand, when this negligent simplicity
of thinking and speaking gives way to the
utmost polish and refinement in both, we are then
to expect it, for the contrary reason. For the more
obvious and natural forms of writing being, now,
grown common, are held insipid, and the public
taste demands to be gratified by the seasoning of a more
studied and artificial expression. It is not enough
to please, the writer must find means to strike and
surprize. And hence the antithesis, the remote
allusion, and every other mode of affected eloquence.
But of these the first that prevails, is the application
of the double sense. For the general use
justifying it, it easily passes with the reader and
writer too, for natural expression; and yet as splitting
the attention suddenly, and at once, on two
different views, carries with it all the novelty and
surprize, that are wanted. When the public taste
is not, yet, far gone in this refinement, and the
writer hath himself the truest taste (which was Virgil’s
case) such affectations will not be very common;
or, when they do occur, will, for the most part,
be agreeably softened. As in the instance of retroque
pedem cum voce repressit; where, by making
voce immediately dependent on the preposition, and
remotely on the verb, he softens the harshness of
the expression, which seems much more tolerable
in this form, than if he had put it, pedem vocemque
repressit. So again in the line,
Crudeles aras trajectaque pectora ferro
Nudavit,
the incongruity of the two senses in nudavit, is the
less perceived from its metaphorical application to
one of them.
But the desire of pleasing continually, which, in
the circumstance supposed, insensibly grows into a
habit, must, of necessity, betray writers of less taste
and exactness into the frequent commission of this
fault. Which, as Mr. Addison takes notice, was
remarkably the case with Ovid.
The purpose of all this is to shew, that the use of
this form of speaking arose from negligence, or affectation,
never from judgment. And such being
the obvious, and, it is presumed, true account of
the matter, the learned Animadvertor on Chariton
is left, as I said, to make the best of his authorities;
or, even to enlarge his list of them with the Centuries48
of his good friends, at his leisure. For till he
can tell us of a writer, who, neither in careless,
nor ambitious humours, is capable of this folly, his
accumulated citations, were they more to his purpose,
than many of them are, will do him little service.
Unless perhaps we are to give up common
sense to authority, and pride ourselves on mimicking
the very defects of our betters. And even here
he need not be at a loss for precedents. For so the
disciples of Plato, we are told, in former times,
affected to be round-shouldered, in compliment to
their master; and Aristotle’s worshipers, because
of a natural impediment in this philosopher’s speech,
thought it to their credit to turn Stammerers. And
without doubt, while this fashion prevailed, there
were critics, who found out a Je ne sçai quoi in the
air of the one party, and in the eloquence of the
other.
97. Suspendit picta vultum mentemque tabella;]
Horace judiciously describes painting by
that peculiar circumstance, which does most honour
to this fine art. It is, that, in the hands of a master,
it attaches, not the eyes only, but the very soul,
to its representation of the human affections and
manners. For it is in contemplating subjects of this
kind, that the mind, with a fond and eager attention,
hangs on the picture. Other imitations may
please, but this warms and transports with passion.
And, because whatever addresses itself immediately
to the eye, affects us most; hence it is, that painting,
so employed, becomes more efficacious to express
the manners and imprint characters, than poetry
itself: or rather, hath the advantages of the best
and usefullest species of poetry, the dramatic, when
enforced by just action on the stage.
Quintilian gives it the like preference to Oratory.
Speaking of the use of action in an orator, he observes,
“Is [gestus] quantum habeat in oratore, momenti;
satis vel ex eo patet, quod pleraque, etiam citra
verba, significat. Quippe non manus solum, sed
nutus etiam declarant nostram voluntatem, et in
mutis pro sermone sunt: et salutatio frequenter
sine voce intelligitur atque afficit, et ex ingressu
vultuque perspicitur habitus animorum: et animantium
quoque, sermone carentium, ira, laetitia,
adulatio, et oculis et quibusdam aliis corporis
signis deprehenditur. Nec mirum, si ista, quae
tamen aliquo sunt posita motu, tantum in animis
valent: quum pictura, tacens opus, et habitûs
semper ejusdem, sic intimos penetret affectus, ut
ipsam vim dicendi nonnunquam superare videatur49.”
We see then of what importance it is, since affections
of every kind are equally within his power,
that the painter apply himself to excite only those,
which are subservient to good morals. An importance,
of which Aristotle himself (who was no
enthusiast in the fine arts) was so sensible, that he
gives it in charge, amongst other political instructions,
to the governors of youth, “that they allow
them to see no other pictures, than such as have
this moral aim and tendency; of which kind were
more especially those of Polygnotus.” [Polit.
lib. viii. c. 5.]
For the manner, in which this moral efficacy of
picture is brought about, we find it agreeably explained
in that conversation of Socrates with Parrhasius
in the Memorabilia of Xenophon. The
whole may be worth considering.
“Painting, said Socrates, one day, in a conversation
with the painter Parrhasius, is, I think,
the resemblance or imitation of sensible objects.
For you represent in colours, bodies of all sorts,
hollow and projecting, bright and obscure, hard
and soft, old and new. “We do.” And, when
you would draw beautiful pourtraits, since it is
not possible to find any single figure of a man,
faultless in all its parts and of exact proportion;
your way is to collect, from several, those members
or features, which are most perfect in each,
and so, by joining them together, to compound
one whole body, completely beautiful. “That
is our method.” What then, continued Socrates,
and are you not able, also, to imitate in colours,
the MANNERS; those tendencies and dispositions
of the soul, which are benevolent, friendly, and
amiable; such as inspire love and affection into
the heart, and whose soft insinuations carry with
them the power of persuasion?
“How, replied Parrhasius, can the pencil imitate
that, which hath no proportion, colour, or any
other of those properties, you have been just now
enumerating, as the objects of sight?” Why, is it
not true, returned Socrates, that a man sometimes
casts a kind, sometimes, an angry, look on others?
“It is.” There must then be something in the
eyes capable of expressing those passions. “There
must.” And is there not a wide difference between
the look of him, who takes part in the prosperity
of a friend, and another, who sympathizes
with him in his sorrows? “Undoubtedly, there is
the widest. The countenance, in the one case, expresses
joy, in the other, concern.” These affections
may then be represented in picture.
“They may so.” In like manner, all other dispositions
of our nature, the lofty and the liberal,
the abject and ungenerous, the temperate and
the prudent, the petulant and profligate, these
are severally discernible by the look or attitude:
and that, whether we observe men in action, or
at rest. “They are.” And these, therefore,
come within the power of graphical imitation?
“They do.” Which then, concluded Socrates, do
you believe, men take the greatest pleasure in
contemplating; such imitations, as set before
them the GOOD, the LOVELY, and the FAIR, of
those, which represent the BAD, the HATEFUL,
and the UGLY, qualities and affections of humanity?
There can be no doubt, said Parrhasius,
of their giving the preference to the former.”
[Lib. iii.]
The conclusion, the philosopher drives at in this
conversation, and which the painter readily concedes
to him, is what, I am persuaded, every master of
the art would be willing to act upon, were he at
liberty to pursue the bent of his natural genius and
inclination. But it unfortunately happens, to the
infinite prejudice of this mode of imitation, above
all others, that the artist designs not so much what
the dignity of his profession requires of him, or the
general taste of those, he would most wish for his
judges, approves; as what the rich or noble Connoisseur,
who bespeaks his work, and prescribes
the subject, demands. What this has usually been,
let the history of ancient and modern painting declare50.
Yet, considering its vast power in MORALS,
as explained above, one cannot enough lament the
ill destiny of this divine ART; which, from the
chaste hand-maid of virtue, hath been debauched,
in violence to her nature, to a shameless prostitute
of vice, and procuress of pleasure.
117. Scribimus indocti doctique poemata passim.]
The DOCTI POETAE have at all times been
esteemed by the wise and good, or, rather, have been
reverenced, as Plato speaks, ὥσπερ πατέρες τῆς σοφίας
καὶ ἡγεμόνες.
As for the INDOCTI, we may take their character
as drawn by the severe, but just pen of our great
Milton—“Poetas equidem verè doctos et diligo et
colo et audiendo saepissimè delector—istos verò
versiculorum nugivendos quis non oderit? quo
genere nihil stultius aut vanius aut corruptius, aut
mendacius. Laudant, vituperant, sine delectu,
sine discrimine, judicio aut modo, nunc principes,
nunc plebeios, doctos juxta atque indoctos, probos
an improbos perindè habent; prout cantharus,
aut spes nummuli, aut fatuus ille furor inflat ac
rapit; congestis undique et verborum et rerum
tot discoloribus ineptiis tamque putidis, ut laudatum
longè praestet sileri, et pravo, quod aiunt,
vivere naso, quàm sic laudari: vituperatus verò
qui sit, haud mediocri sanè honori sibi ducat, se
tam absurdis, tam stolidis nebulonibus displicere.”
Def. Secund. pro Pop. Ang. p. 337. 4to Lond. 1753.
118. Hic error tamen, &c.] What follows
from hence to v. 136, containing an encomium on
the office of poets, is one of the leading beauties in
the epistle. Its artifice consists in this, that, under
the cover of a negligent commendation, interspersed
with even some traits of pleasantry upon them, it
insinuates to the emperor, in the manner the least
offensive and ostentatious, the genuin merits, and
even sacredness of their character. The whole is a
fine instance of that address, which, in delivering
rules for this kind of writing, the poet prescribes
elsewhere.
Et sermone opus est modo tristi, saepe jocoso,
Defendente vicem modo Rhetoris atque Poetae;
Interdum URBANI PARCENTIS VIRIBUS ATQUE
Extenuantis eas consulto.
[1 S. x. 14.]
This conduct, in the place before us, shews the
poet’s exquisite knowledge of human nature. For
there is no surer method of removing prejudices,
and gaining over others to an esteem of any thing
we would recommend, than by not appearing to lay
too great a stress on it ourselves. It is, further, a
proof of his intimate acquaintance with the peculiar
turn of the great; who, not being forward to think
highly of any thing but themselves and their own dignities,
are, with difficulty, brought to conceive of
other accomplishments, as of much value; and can
only be won by the fair and candid address of their
apologist, who must be sure not to carry his praises
and pretensions too high. It is this art of entering
into the characters, prejudices, and expectations of
others, and of knowing to suit our application, prudently,
but with innocence, to them, which constitutes
what we call A KNOWLEDGE OF THE WORLD.
An art, of which the great poet was a consummate
master, and than which there cannot be a more useful
or amiable quality. Only we must take care not
to confound it with that supple, versatile, and intriguing
genius, which, taking all shapes, and reflecting
all characters, generally passes for it in the
commerce of the world, or rather is prized much
above it; but, as requiring no other talents in the
possessor than those of a low cunning and corrupt
design, is of all others the most mischievous, worthless,
and contemptible character, that infests human
life.
118. Hic error tamen et levis haec insania
Quantas Virtutes habeat, sic collige:] This
apology for poets, and, in them, for poetry itself,
though delivered with much apparent negligence
and unconcern, yet, if considered, will be found to
comprize in it every thing, that any, or all, of its
most zealous advocates have ever pretended in its
behalf. For it comprehends,
I. [From v. 118 to 124,] the personal good
qualities of the poet. Nothing is more insisted
on by those, who take upon themselves the patronage
and recommendation of any art, than that it
tends to raise in the professor of it all those virtues,
which contribute most to his own proper enjoyment,
and render him most agreeable to others. Now
this, it seems, may be urged, on the side of poetry,
with a peculiar force. For not only the study of
this art hath a direct tendency to produce a neglect
or disregard of worldly honours and emoluments
(from the too eager appetite of which almost all the
calamities, as well as the more unfriendly vices, of
men arise) but he, whom the benign aspect of the
muse hath glanced upon and destined for her peculiar
service, is, by constitution, which is ever the
best security, fortified against the attacks of them.
Thus his RAPTURES in the enjoyment of his muse
make him overlook the common accidents of life
[v. 121]; he is generous, open, and undesigning,
by NATURE [v. 122]; to which we must not forget
to add, that he is temperate, that is to say, poor,
by PROFESSION.
VIVIT SILIQUIS ET PANE SECUNDO.
II. [From v. 124 to 132.] THE UTILITY OF THE
POET TO THE STATE: and this both on a civil and
moral account. For, 1. the poets, whom we read
in our younger years, and from whom we learn
the power of words, and hidden harmony of numbers,
that is, as a profound Scotchman teaches, the
first and most essential principles of eloquence51,
enable, by degrees, and instruct their pupil to appear
with advantage, in that extensively useful capacity
of a public speaker. And, indeed, graver writers,
than our poet, have sent the orator to this school.
But the pretensions of poetry go much farther. It
delights [from v. 130 to 132] to immortalize the
triumphs of virtue: to record or feign illustrious
examples of heroic worth, for the service of the
rising age: and, which is the last and best fruit of
philosophy itself, it can relieve even the languor of
ill-health, and sustain poverty herself under the
scorn and insult of contumelious opulence. 2. In
a moral view its services are not less considerable.
(For it may be observed the poet was so far of a
mind with the philosopher, to give no quarter to
immoral poets). And to this end it serves, 1. [v.
127] in turning the ear of youth from that early
corruptor of its innocence, the seducement of a loose
and impure communication. 2. Next [v. 128] in
forming our riper age (which it does with all the
address and tenderness of friendship: AMICIS praeceptis)
by the sanctity and wisdom of its precepts.
And, 3. which is the proper office of tragedy, in
correcting the excesses of the natural passions [v.
122]. The reader who doth not turn himself to the
original, will be apt to mistake this detail of the
virtues of poetry, for an account of the Policy and
Legislation of ancient and modern times; whose
proudest boast, when the philanthropy of their enthusiastic
projectors ran at the highest, was but to
prevent the impressions of vice: to form the mind
to habits of virtue: and to curb and regulate the
passions.
III. His services to Religion. This might
well enough be said, whether by religion we understand
an internal reverence of the Gods, which
poetry first and principally intended; or their popular
adoration and worship, which, by its fictions,
as of necessity conforming to the received fancies of
superstition, it must greatly tend to promote and
establish. But the poet, artfully seizing a circumstance,
which supposes and includes in it both these
respects, renders his defence vastly interesting.
All the customary addresses of Heathenism to
its gods, more especially on any great and solemn
emergency, were the work of the poet. For nature,
it seems, had taught the pagan world, what the
Hebrew Prophets themselves did not disdain to
practice, that, to lift the imagination, and, with it,
the sluggish affections of human nature, to Heaven,
it was expedient to lay hold on every assistance of
art. They therefore presented their supplications
to the Divinity in the richest and brightest dress
of eloquence, which is poetry. Not to insist, that
devotion, when sincere and ardent, from its very
nature, enkindles a glow of thought, which communicates
strongly with the transports of poetry.
Hence the language of the Gods (for so was poetry
accounted, as well from its being the divinest species
of communication, our rude conceptions can
well frame even for superior intelligencies, as for
that it was the fittest vehicle of our applications to
them) became not the ornament only, but an essential
in the ceremonial, of paganism. And this, together
with an allusion to a form of public prayer
(for such was his secular ode) composed by himself,
gives, at once, a grace and sublimity to this part of
the apology, which are perfectly inimitable.
Thus hath the great poet, in the compass of a few
lines, drawn together a complete defence of his art.
For what more could the warmest admirer of poetry,
or, because zeal is quickened by opposition, what
more could the vehement declaimer against Plato
(who proscribed it), urge in its behalf, than that it
furnishes, to the poet himself, the surest means of
solitary and social enjoyment: and further serves
to the most important CIVIL, MORAL, and RELIGIOUS
purposes?
119.—vatis avarus Non temere est animus:]
There is an unlucky Italian proverb, which says,
Chi ben scrive, non sara mai ricco.—The true
reason, without doubt, is here given by the poet.
124. Militiae quamquam piger et malus,]
The observation has much grace, as referring to
himself, who had acquired no credit, as a soldier,
in the civil wars of his country.—We have an example
of this misalliance between the poetic and military
character, recorded in the history of our own
civil wars, which may be just worth mentioning.
Sir P. Warwick, speaking of the famous Earl of
Newcastle, observes—“his edge had too much of
the razor in it, for he had a tincture of a romantic
spirit, and had the misfortune to have somewhat
of the Poet in him; so as he chose Sir William
Davenant, an eminent good poet, and loyal gentleman,
to be lieutenant-general of his ordnance.
This inclination of his own, and such kind of
witty society (to be modest in the expressions of
it) diverted many councils, and lost many opportunities,
which the nature of that affair, this great
man had now entered into, required.” Memoirs,
p. 235.
132. Castis cum pueris, &c.] We have, before,
taken notice, how properly the poet, for the easier
and more successful introduction of his apology,
assumed the person urbani, parcentis viribus. We
see him here, in that of Rhetoris atque Poetae.
For admonished, as it were, by the rising dignity of
his subject, which led him from the moral, to
speak of the religious uses of poetry, he insensibly
drops the badineur, and takes an air, not of seriousness
only, but of solemnity. This change is made
with art. For the attention is carried from the uses
of poetry, in consoling the unhappy, by the easiest
transition imaginable, to the still more solemn application
of it to the offices of piety. And its use
is, to impress on the mind a stronger sense of the
weight of the poet’s plea, than could have been expected
from a more direct and continued declamation.
For this is the constant and natural effect of
knowing to pass from gay to severe, with grace and
dignity.
169. Sed habet Comoedia tanto plus oneris,
quanto veniae minus.] Tragedy, whose intention
is to affect, may secure what is most essential to its
kind, though it fail in some minuter resemblances
of nature: Comedy, proposing for its main end
exact representation, is fundamentally defective, if
it do not perfectly succeed in it. And this explains
the ground of the poet’s observation, that Comedy
hath veniae minus; for he is speaking of the draught
of the manners only, in which respect a greater indulgence
is very deservedly shewn to the tragic than
comic writer. But though Tragedy hath thus far
the advantage, yet in another respect its laws are
more severe than those of Comedy; and that is in
the conduct of the fable. It may be asked then,
which of the two dramas is, on the whole, most
difficult. To which the answer is decisive. For
Tragedy, whose end is the Pathos, produces it
by action, while Comedy produces its end, the
Humourous, by Character. Now it is much more
difficult to paint manners, than to plan action; because
that requires the philosopher’s knowledge of
human nature; this, only the historian’s knowledge
of human events.
It is true, in one sense, the tragic muse has veniae
minus; for though grave and pleasant scenes may
be indifferently represented, or even mixed together,
in comedy, yet, in tragedy, the serious and
solemn air must prevail throughout. Indeed, our
Shakespear has violated this rule, as he hath, upon
occasion, almost every other rule, of just criticism:
Whence, some writers, taking advantage of that
idolatrous admiration which is generally professed
for this great poet, and nauseating, I suppose, the
more common, though juster, forms of literary
composition, have been for turning his very transgression
of the principles of common sense, into a
standing precept for the stage. “It is said, that, if
comedy may be wholly serious, why may not
tragedy now and then be indulged in being gay?”
If these critics be in earnest in putting this question,
they need not wait long for an answer. The
end of comedy being to paint the manners, nothing
hinders (as I have shewn at large in the dissertation
on the provinces of the drama) but “that it may
take either character of pleasant or serious, as it
chances, or even unite them both in one piece:”
But the end of tragedy being to excite the stronger
passions, this discordancy in the subject breaks the
flow of those passions, and so prevents, or lessens at
least, the very effect which this drama primarily
intends. “It is said, indeed, that this contrast of
grave and pleasant scenes, heightens the passion:”
if it had been said that it heightens the surprize,
the observation had been more just. Lastly, “we
are told, that this is nature, which generally
blends together the ludicrous, and the sublime.”
But who does not know
That art is nature to advantage dress’d;
and that to dress out nature to advantage in the
present instance, that is, in a composition whose
laws are to be deduced from the consideration of its
end, these characters are to be kept by an artist,
perfectly distinct?
However this restraint upon tragedy does not
prove that, upon the whole, it has plus oneris. All
I can allow, is, that either drama has weight enough
in all reason, for the ablest shoulders to sustain.
177. Quem tulit ad Scenam ventoso gloria
curru, Exanimat lentus Spectator, &c. to v. 182.]
There is an exquisite spirit of pleasantry in these
lines, which hath quite evaporated in the hands of
the critics. These have gravely supposed them to
come from the person of the poet, and to contain
his serious censure of the vanity of poetic fame.
Whereas, besides the manifest absurdity of the
thing, its inconsistency with what is delivered elsewhere
on this subject [A. P. v. 324.] where the
Greeks are commended as being praeter laudem
nullius avari, absolutely requires us to understand
them as proceeding from an objector; who, as the
poet hath very satirically contrived, is left to expose
himself in the very terms of his objection. He had
just been blaming the venality of the Roman dramatic
writers. They had shewn themselves more
sollicitous about filling their pockets, than deserving
the reputation of good poets. And, instead of
insisting further on the excellency of this latter
motive, he stops short, and brings in a bad poet
himself to laugh at it.
“And what then, says he, you would have us
yield ourselves to the very wind and gust of praise;
and, dropping all inferior considerations, drive
away to the expecting stage in the puffed car of
vain-glory? For what? To be dispirited, or
blown up with air, as the capricious spectator
shall think fit to enforce, or withhold, his inspirations.
And is this the mighty benefit of
your vaunted passion for fame? No; farewel
the stage, if the breath of others is that, on which
the silly bard is to depend for the contraction or
enlargement of his dimensions.” To all which
convincing rhetoric the poet condescends to say
nothing; as well knowing, that no truer service is,
oftentimes, done to virtue or good sense, than
when a knave or fool is left to himself, to employ
his idle raillery against either.
These interlocutory passages, laying open the
sentiments of those against whom the poet is disputing,
are very frequent in the critical and moral
writings of Horace, and are well suited to their dramatic
genius and original.
210. Ille per extentum funem, &c.] The Romans,
who were immoderately addicted to spectacles
of every kind, had in particular esteem the funambuli,
or rope-dancers;
Ita populus studio stupidus in FUNAMBULO
Animum occuparat.
Prol. in Hecyr.
From the admiration of whose tricks the expression,
ire per extentum funem, came to denote, proverbially,
an uncommon degree of excellence and perfection
in any thing. The allusion is, here, made with
much pleasantry, as the poet had just been rallying
their fondness for these extraordinary atchievements.
Ibid. Ille per extentum funem, &c. to v. 214.]
It is observable, that Horace, here, makes his own
feeling the test of poetical merit. Which is said
with a philosophical exactness. For the pathos in
tragic, humour in comic, and the same holds of the
sublime in the narrative, and of every other species
of excellence in universal poetry, is the object, not of
reason, but sentiment; and can be estimated only
from its impression on the mind, not by any speculative
or general rules. Rules themselves are indeed
nothing else but an appeal to experience; conclusions
drawn from wide and general observation of
the aptness and efficacy of certain means to produce
those impressions. So that feeling or sentiment
itself is not only the surest, but the sole ultimate
arbiter of works of genius.
Yet, though this be true, the invention of general
rules is not without its merit, nor the application
of them without its use, as may appear from
the following considerations.
It may be affirmed, universally, of all didactic
writing, that it is employed in referring particular
facts to general principles. General principles
themselves can often be referred to others more general;
and these again carried still higher, till we
come to a single principle, in which all the rest are
involved. When this is done, science of every kind
hath attained its highest perfection.
The account, here given, might be illustrated
from various instances. But it will be sufficient to
confine ourselves to the single one of criticism; by
which I understand that species of didactic writing,
which refers to general rules the virtues and faults
of composition. And the perfection of this art
would consist in an ability to refer every beauty and
blemish to a separate class; and every class, by a
gradual progression, to some one single principle.
But the art is, as yet, far short of perfection. For
many of these beauties and blemishes can be referred
to no general rule at all; and the rules, which have
been discovered, seem many of them unconnected,
and not reducible to a common principle. It must
be admitted however that such critics are employed
in their proper office, as contribute to the confirmation
of rules already established, or the invention
of new ones.
Rules already established are then confirmed,
when more particulars are referred to them. The
invention of new rules implies, 1. A collection of
various particulars, not yet regulated. 2. A discovery
of those circumstances of resemblance or
agreement, whereby they become capable of being
regulated. And 3. A subsequent regulation of
them, or arrangement into one class according to such
circumstances of agreement. When this is done,
the rule is completed. But if the critic is not able
to observe any common circumstance of resemblance
in the several particulars he hath collected, by which
they may, all of them, be referred to one general
class, he hath then made no advancement in the
art of criticism. Yet the collection of his particular
observations may be of use to other critics; just as
collections of natural history, though no part of
philosophy, may yet assist philosophical inquirers.
We see then from this general view of the matter,
that the merit of inventing general rules consists in
reducing criticism to an art; and that the use of
applying them, in practice, when the art is thus
formed, is, to direct the caprices of taste by the
authority of rule, which we call reason.
And, thus much being premised, we shall now be
able to form a proper judgment of the method, which
some of the most admired of the ancients, as well
as moderns, have taken in this work of criticizing.
The most eminent, at least the most popular, are,
perhaps, Longinus, of the Greeks; P. Bouhours,
of the French; and Mr. Addison, with us in
England.
1. All the beautiful passages, which Longinus
cites, are referred by him to five general classes.
And 2dly, These general classes belong all to the
common principle of sublimity. He does not say
this passage is excellent, but assigns the kind of
excellence, viz. sublimity. Neither does he content
himself with the general notion of sublimity, but
names the species, viz. Grandeur of sentiment,
power of moving the passions, &c. His work
therefore enables us to class our perceptions of
excellence, and consequently is formed on the true
plan of criticism.
2. The same may be observed of P. Bouhours.
The passages, cited by him, are never mentioned
in general terms as good or bad: but are instances
of good or bad sentiment. This is the genus, in
which all his instances are comprehended: but of
this genus he marks also the distinct species. He
does not say, this sentiment is good; but it is sublime,
or natural, or beautiful, or delicate: or, that
another sentiment is bad; but that it is mean, or
false, or deformed, or affected. To these several
classes he refers his particular instances: and these
classes themselves are referred to the more comprehensive
principles of the excellence or fault of
single sentiment, as opposed to the various other
excellencies and faults, which are observed in composition.
3. Mr. Addison, in his criticism on Milton,
proceeded in like manner. For, first, these remarks
are evidently applicable to the general observations
on the poem; in which every thing is referred to
the common heads of fable, morals, sentiments,
and language; and even the specific excellencies and
faults considered under each head distinctly marked
out. Secondly, The same is true concerning many
of the observations on particular passages. The
reader is not only told, that a passage has merit; but
is informed what sort of merit belongs to it.
Neither are the remaining observations wholly
without use. For such particular beauties and blemishes,
as are barely collected, may yet serve as a
foundation to future inquirers for making further discoveries.
They may be considered as so many
single facts, an attention to which is excited by the
authority of the critic; and when these are considered
jointly with such as others may have observed, those
general principles of similitude may at length be
found, which shall enable us to constitute new classes
of poetical merit or blame.
Thus far the candid reader may go in apologizing
for the merits of these writers. But, as, in sound
criticism, candour must not be indulged at the expence
of justice, I think myself obliged to add an
observation concerning their defects; and that, on
what I must think the just principles here delivered.
Though the method, taken by these writers, be
scientifical, the real service they have done to criticism,
is not very considerable. And the reason
is, they dwell too much in generals: that is, not only
the genus to which they refer their species is too
large, but those very subordinate species themselves
are too comprehensive.
Of the three critics, under consideration, the
most instructive is, unquestionably, Longinus. The
genus itself, under which he ranks his several
classes, is as particular as the species of the other
two. Yet even his classes are much too general to
convey my very distinct and useful information. It
had been still better, if this fine critic had descended
to lower and more minute particularities, as subordinate
to each class. For to observe of any sentiment,
that it is grand, or pathetic, and so of the
other species, of sublime, is saying very little. Few
readers want to be informed of this. It had been
sufficient, if any notice was to be taken at all of so
general beauties, to have done it in the way, which
some of the best critics have taken, of merely
pointing to them. But could he have discovered
and produced to observation those peculiar qualities
in sentiment, which occasion the impression of
grandeur, pathos, &c. this had been advancing the
science of criticism very much, as tending to lay
open the more secret and hidden springs of that pleasure,
which results from poetical composition.
P. Bouhours, as I observed, is still more faulty.
His very species are so large, as make his criticism
almost wholly useless and insignificant.
It gives one pain to refuse to such a writer as
Mr. Addison any kind of merit, which he appears
to have valued himself upon, and which the generality
of his readers have seemed willing to allow him.
Yet it must not be dissembled, that criticism was
by no means his talent. His taste was truly
elegant; but he had neither that vigour of understanding,
nor chastised, philosophical spirit, which
are so essential to this character, and which we find
in hardly any of the ancients besides Aristotle, and
but in a very few of the moderns. For what concerns
his criticism on Milton in particular, there was
this accidental benefit arising from it, that it occasioned
an admirable poet to be read, and his excellencies
to be observed. But for the merit of the
work itself, if there be any thing just in the plan, it
was, because Aristotle and Bossu had taken the same
route before him. And as to his own proper observations,
they are for the most part, so general and
indeterminate, as to afford but little instruction to the
reader, and are, not unfrequently, altogether frivolous.
They are of a kind with those, in which the French
critics (for I had rather instance in the defects of
foreign writers than of our own) so much abound;
and which good judges agree to rank in the worst sort
of criticism. To give one example for all.
Cardinal Perron, taking occasion to commend
certain pieces of the poet Ronsard, chuses to deliver
himself in the following manner: “Prenez de
lui quelque poëme que ce soit, il paye toujours son
lecteur, et quand la verve le prend, il se guinde en
haut, il vous porte jusques dans les nuës, il vous
fait voir mille belles choses.
“Que ses saisons sont bien-faites! Que la description
de la lyre a Bertaut est admirable! Que
le discours au ministre, excellent! Tous ses
hymnes sont beaux. Celui de l’eternité est admirable;
ceux des saisons marveilleux.” [Perroniana.]
What now has the reader learned from this varied
criticism, but that his Eminence was indeed very
fond of his poet; and that he esteemed these several
pieces to be (what with less expence of words he
might, in one breath, have called them) well-turned,
beautiful, excellent, admirable, marvellous,
poems? To have given us the true character
of each, and to have marked the precise degree, as
well as kind, of merit in these works, had been a
task of another nature.
211.—QUI PECTUS INANITER ANGIT,] The word
inaniter as well as falsi, applied in the following
line to terrores, would express that wondrous force
of dramatic representation, which compels us to
take part in feigned adventures and situations, as if
they were real; and exercises the passions with the
same violence, in remote fancied scenes, as in the
present distresses of real life.
And this is that sovereign quality in poetry, which,
as an old writer of our own naturally expresses it, is
of force to hold children from play, and old men
from the chimney corner52. The poet, in the
place before us, considers it as a kind of magic virtue,
which transports the spectator into all places,
and makes him, occasionally, assume all persons.
The resemblance holds, also, in this, that its effects
are instantaneous and irresistible. Rules, art, decorum,
all fall before it. It goes directly to the
heart, and gains all purposes at once. Hence it is,
that, speaking of a real genius, possessed of this commanding
power, Horace pronounces him, emphatically,
THE POET,
Ille per extentum funem mihi posse videtur
Ire POETA:
it being more especially this property, which, of
itself, discovers the true dramatist, and secures the
success of his performance, not only without the
assistance of art, but in direct opposition to its
clearest dictates.
This power has been felt on a thousand other
occasions. But its triumphs were never more conspicuous,
than in the famous instance of the Cid of
P. Corneille; which, by the sole means of this enchanting
quality, drew along with it the affections
and applauses of a whole people: notwithstanding
the manifest transgression of some essential rules,
the utmost tyranny of jealous power, and, what is
more, in defiance of all the authority and good sense
of one of the justest pieces of criticism in the French
language, written purposely to discredit and expose
it.
224. Cum lamentamur non adparere labores
Nostros, &c.] It was remarked upon verse 211,
that the beauties of a poem can only appear by
being felt. And they, to whom they do not appear
in this instance, are the writer’s own friends,
who, it is not to be supposed, would disguise their
feelings. So that the lamentation, here spoken of,
is at once a proof of impertinence in the poet, and
of the badness of his poetry, which sets the complainant
in a very ridiculous light.
228. Egere vetes.] The poet intended, in
these words, a very just satire on those presuming
wits and scholars, who, under the pretence of
getting above distressful want, in reality aspire to
public honours and preferments; though this be the
most inexcusable of all follies (to give it the softest
name), which can infest a man of letters: Both,
because experience, on which a wise man would
chuse to regulate himself, is contrary to these
hopes; and, because if literary merit could succeed
in them, the Reward, as the poet speaks,
would either bring
No joy, or be destructive of the thing:
That is, the learned would either have no relish for
the delights of so widely different a situation; or,
which hath oftener been the case, would lose the
learning itself, or the love of it at least, on which
their pretensions to this reward are founded.
232. Gratus Alexandro regi magno &c.]
This praise of Augustus, arising from the comparison
of his character with that of Alexander, is extremely
fine. It had been observed of the Macedonian by
his historians and panegyrists, that, to the stern
virtues of the conqueror, he had joined the softer
accomplishments of the virtuoso, in a just discernment
and love of poetry, and of the elegant arts.
The one was thought clear from his admiration and
study of Homer: And the other, from his famous
edict concerning Apelles and Lysippus, could not
be denied. Horace finds means to turn both these
circumstances in his story to the advantage of his
prince.
From his extravagant pay of such a wretched versifier,
as Choerilus, he would insinuate, that Alexander’s
love of the muse was, in fact, but a blind
unintelligent impulse towards glory. And from
his greater skill in the arts of sculpture and painting,
than of verse, he represents him as more concerned
about the drawing of his figure, than the
pourtraiture of his manners and mind. Whereas
Augustus, by his liberalities to Varius and Virgil,
had discovered the truest taste in the art, from
which he expected immortality: and, in trusting to
that, as the chief instrument of his fame, had confessed
a prior regard to those mental virtues, which
are the real ornament of humanity, before that look
of terror, and air and attitude of victory, in which
the brute violence of Alexander most delighted to
be shewn.
243. Musarum dona] The expression is happy;
as implying, that these images of virtue, which are
represented as of such importance to the glory of
princes, are not the mere offerings of poetry to
greatness, but the free-gifts of the muse to the
poet. For it is only to such works, as these, that
Horace attributes the wondrous efficacy of expressing
the manners and mind in fuller and more durable
relief, than sculpture gives to the exterior
figure.
Non magis expressi vultus per aënea signa,
Quam per vatis opus mores animique virorum
Clarorum adparent.
247.—Virgilius.] Virgil is mentioned, in this
place, simply as a Poet. The precise idea of his
poetry is given us elsewhere.
molle atque facetum
Virgilio annuerunt gaudentes rure Camoenae.
1 Sat. x. 44.
But this may appear a strange praise of the sweet
and polished Virgil. It appeared so to Quinctilian,
who cites this passage, and explains it, without
doubt, very justly, yet in such a way as shews that
he was not quite certain of the truth of his explanation.
The case, I believe, was this. The word facetum,
which makes the difficulty, had acquired, in Quinctilian’s
days, the sense of pleasant, witty, or facetious,
in exclusion to every other idea, which had
formerly belonged to it. It is true that, in the Augustan
age, and still earlier, facetum was sometimes
used in this sense. But its proper and original
meaning was no more than exact, factitatum, benè
factum. And in this strict sense, I believe, it is
always used by Horace.
Malthinus tunicis demissis ambulat: est qui
Inguen ad obscoenum subductis usque facetus.
1 S. ii. 25.
i. e. tucked up, trim, expedite.
Mutatis tantùm pedibus numerisque facetus.
1 S. iv. 7.
i. e. he [Lucilius] adopted a stricter measure, than
the writers of the old comedy; or, by changing the
loose iambic to the Hexameter verse, he gave a proof
of his art, skill, and improved judgment.
frater, pater, adde;
Ut cuique est aetas, ita quemque facetus adopta.
1. Ep. vi. 55.
i. e. nicely and accurately adapt your address to
the age and condition of each.
I do not recollect any other place where facetus
is used by Horace; and in all these it seems probable
to me that the principal idea, conveyed by it,
is that of care, art, skill, only differently modified according
to the subject to which it is applied: a gown
tucked up with care—a measure studiously affected—an
address nicely accommodated—No
thought of ridicule or pleasantry intended.
It is the same in the present instance—
MOLLE ATQUE FACETUM
i. e. a soft flowing versification, and an exquisitely
finished expression: the two precise, characteristic
merits of Virgil’s rural poetry.
This change, in the sense of words, is common
in all languages, and creeps in so gradually and imperceptibly
as to elude the notice, sometimes, of
the best critics, even in their own language. The
transition of ideas, in the present instance, may be
traced thus. As what was wittily said, was most
studied, artificial, and exquisite, hence in process
of time facetum lost its primary sense, and came to
signify merely, witty.
We have a like example in our own language.
A good wit meant formerly a man of good natural
sense and understanding: but because what we now
call wit was observed to be the flower and quintessence,
as it were, of good sense, hence a man of
wit is now the exclusive attribute of one who exerts
his good sense in that peculiar manner.
247. Dilecti tibi Virgilius &c.] It does honour
to the memory of Augustus, that he bore the
affection, here spoken of, to this amiable poet;
who was not more distinguished from his contemporary
writers by the force of an original, inventive
genius, than the singular benevolence and humanity
of his character. Yet there have been critics of so
perverse a turn, as to discover an inclination, at
least, of disputing both.
1. Some have taken offence at his supposed unfriendly
neglect of Horace, who, on every occasion,
shewed himself so ready to lavish all his praises on
him. But the folly of this slander is of a piece
with its malignity, as proceeding on the absurd
fancy, that Virgil’s friends might as easily have slid
into such works, as the Georgics and Eneïs, as those
of Horace into the various occasional poems, which
employed his pen.
Just such another senseless suspicion hath been
raised of his jealousy of Homer’s superior glory (a
vice, from which the nature of the great poet was
singularly abhorrent), only, because he did not
think fit to give him the first place among the poets
in Elysium, several hundred years before he had so
much as made his appearance upon earth.
But these petty calumnies of his moral character
hardly deserve a confutation. What some greater
authorities have objected to his poetical, may be
thought more serious. For,
2. It has been given out by some of better note
among the moderns, and from thence, according to
the customary influence of authority, hath become
the prevailing sentiment of the generality of the
learned, that the great poet was more indebted for
his fame to the exactness of his judgment; to his
industry, and a certain trick of imitation, than to
the energy of natural genius; which he is thought
to have possessed in a very slender degree.
This charge is founded on the similitude, which
all acknowledge, betwixt his great work, the Aeneis,
and the poems of Homer. But, “how far such similitude
infers imitation; or, how far imitation itself
infers an inferiority of natural genius in the imitator,”
this hath never been considered. In short
the affair of imitation in poetry, though one of the
most curious and interesting in all criticism, hath
been, hitherto, very little understood: as may appear
from hence, that there is not, as far as I can
learn, one single treatise, now extant, written purposely
to explain it; the discourse, which the learned
Menage intended, and which, doubtless, would
have given light to this matter, having never, as I
know of, been made public. To supply, in some
measure, this loss, I have thought it not amiss to
put together and methodize a few reflexions of my
own on this subject, which (because the matter is
large, and cannot easily be drawn into a compass,
that suits with the nature of these occasional remarks)
the reader will find in a distinct and separate
dissertation upon it53.
And, now, having explained, in the best manner
I could, the two famous Epistles of Horace to Augustus
and the Pisos, it may be expected, in conclusion,
that I should say something of the rest of
our poet’s critical writings. For his Sermones (under
which general term I include his Epistles) are
of two sorts, Moral and Critical; and, though
both are exquisite, the latter are perhaps, in their
kind, the more perfect of the two; his moral principles
being sometimes, I believe, liable to exception,
his critical, never.
The two pieces, illustrated in these volumes, are
strictly critical: the first, being a professed criticism
of the Roman drama; and the last, in order
to their vindication, of the Roman poets. The rest
of his works, which turn upon this subject of criticism,
may be rather termed Apologetical. They
are the IVth and Xth of the First, and Ist of the Second
book of Satires; and the XIXth of the First,
and, in part, the IId of the Second book of Epistles.
In these, the poet has THREE great objects; one
or other of which he never loses sight of, and generally
he prosecutes them all together, in the same
piece. These objects are, 1. to vindicate the way
of writing in satire. 2. To justify his opinion of a
favourite writer of this class, the celebrated Lucilius.
And 3. to expose the careless and incorrect composition
of the Roman writers.
He was himself deeply concerned in these three
articles; so that he makes his own apology at the
same time that he criticizes or censures others.
The address of the poet’s manner will be seen by
bearing in mind this general purpose of his critical
poetry. How he came to be engaged in this controversy,
will best appear from a few observations on
the state of the Roman learning, when he undertook
to contribute his pains to the improvement of it.
I have, in the introduction to the first of these
volumes, given a slight sketch of the rise and progress
of the Roman satire. This poem, was purely of
Roman invention: first of all, struck out of the old
fescennine farce, and rudely cultivated, by Ennius:
Next, more happily treated, and enriched with the
best part of the old comedy, by Lucilius: And, after
some succeeding essays, taken up and finally
adorned, by Horace.
Horace was well known to the public by his lyric
compositions, and still more perhaps by his favour
at court, when he took upon him to correct the
manners and taste of his age, by his Lucilian
Satires. But, here, he encountered, at once,
many prejudices; and all his own credit, together
with that of his court-friends, was little enough to
support him, against the torrent.
First, the kind of writing itself was sure to give
offence. For, though men were well enough pleased
to have their natural malignity gratified by an old
poet’s satire against a former age, yet they were naturally
alarmed at the exercise of this talent upon their
own, and, as it might chance, upon themselves.
The poet’s eminence, and favour, would, besides,
give a peculiar force and effect to his censures, so
that all who found, or thought themselves liable to
them, were concerned, in interest, to discredit the
attempt, and blast his rising reputation.
Omnes hi metuunt versus, odere POETAM.
Hence, he was constrained to stand upon his own
defence, and to vindicate, as well the thing itself,
as his management of it, to the tender and suspicious
public.
But this was not all: For, Secondly, an old
satirist, of high birth and quality, Lucilius, was
considered, not only as an able writer of this class,
but as a perfect model in it; and of course, therefore,
this new satirist would be much decried and
undervalued, on the comparison. This circumstance
obliged the poet to reduce this admired
writer to his real value; which could not be done
without thwarting the general admiration, and
pointing out his vices and defects in the freest
manner. This perilous task he discharged in the
IVth satire of his first book, and with such rigour of
criticism, that not only the partizans of Lucilius, in
the poet’s own age, but the most knowing and candid
critics of succeeding times, were disposed to complain
of it. However, the obnoxious step had been
taken; and nothing remained but to justify himself,
as he hath done at large, in his Xth satire.
On the whole, in comparing what he has said in
these two satires with what Quinctilian long after
observed on the subject of them, there seems no
reason to conclude, that the poet judged ill;
though he expressed his judgment in such terms as
he would, no doubt, have something softened (out
of complaisance to the general sentiment, and a
becoming deference to the real merits of his master),
if his adversaries had been more moderate in urging
their charge, or if the occasion had not been so
pressing.
Lastly, this attack on Lucilius produced, or
rather involved in it, a THIRD quarrel. The poet’s
main objection to Lucilius was his careless, verbose,
and hasty composition, which his admirers, no
doubt, called genius, grace, and strength. This
being an inveterate folly among his countrymen, he
gives it no quarter. Through all his critical works,
he employs the utmost force of his wit and good
sense to expose it: And his own writings, being at
the same time supremely correct, afforded his enemies
(which would provoke them still more) no
advantage against him. Yet they attempted, as
they could, to repay his perpetual reproaches on the
popular writers for their neglect of limae labor, by
objecting to him, in their turn, that what he wrote
was sine nervis: and this, though they felt his force
themselves, and though another set of men were
complaining, at the same time, of his severity.
Sunt quibus in satyrâ videor nimis ACER—
SINE NERVIS altera quicquid
Composui pars esse putat, similesque meorum
Mille die versus deduci posse—
His detractors satirically alluding, in these last words,
to his charge against Lucilius—
in horâ saepè ducentos,
Ut magnum, versus dictabat, stans pede in uno.
It is not my purpose, in this place, to enlarge
further on the character of Lucilius, whose wordy
satires gave occasion to our poet’s criticism. Several
of the ancient writers speak of him occasionally,
in terms of the highest applause; and without doubt,
he was a poet of distinguished merit. Yet it will
hardly be thought, at this day, that it could be any
discredit to him to be censured, rivalled, and excelled
by Horace.
What I have here put together is only to furnish
the young reader with the proper Key to Horace’s
critical works, which generally turn on his own
vindication, against the enemies of satire—the
admirers of Lucilius—and the patrons of loose
and incorrect composition.
In managing these several topics, he has found
means to introduce a great deal of exquisite criticism.
And though his scattered observations go but a
little way towards making up a complete critical
system, yet they are so luminous, as the French
speak, that is, they are so replete with good sense,
and extend so much further than to the case to which
they are immediately applied, that they furnish
many of the principles on which such a system, if
ever it be taken in hand, must be constructed: And,
without carrying matters too far, we may safely
affirm of these Critical Discourses, that, next to
Aristotle’s immortal work, they are the most valuable
remains of ancient art upon this subject.
J. Nichols and Son, Printers,
Red Lion Passage, Fleet Street, London.
