Chapter XIV: Part III (9)

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 critic[42], 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 men_[43]; _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 abhorreat_[44]. 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 Sophocles[45], 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 βαθυσκαφεῖ ΚΟΝΕΙ ΚΡΥΨΟΝ νιν.

The writer’s first intention was to look out for some such _verb_, as would equally correspond to πνοαῖς and κόνει, 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 Homer[46], ἽΠΠΟΙ ἀερσίποδες, 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 Cicero[47], 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 _Centuries_[48] 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.

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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 videatur_[49].”

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 declare[50]. 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_.

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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. 4^{to} Lond. 1753.

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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.

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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 eloquence[51], 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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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169. SED HABET COMOEDIA TANTO PLUS ONERIS, QUANTO VENIAR 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.

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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.

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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_.

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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.

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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 corner_[52]. 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.

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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.

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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,