Chapter 13

sometimes counseltakes,and sometimes tea.

For 1. The writer’s intention is here, not toaffect the passions, ortransport the fancy, but solely todivert and amuse. And to suchendthis species of trifling is very apposite. 2. Themanner, which the burlesque epic takes to divert, is by confoundinggreat things with small. Amode of speechthen, which favours suchconfusion, is directly to its purpose. 3. This poem is, by its nature,satyrical, and, like theold comedy, delights in exposing the faults and vices ofcomposition. So that theexpressionis here properly employed (and this was, perhaps, thefirstview of the writer) to ridicule the use of it ingrave works. If M.D’Orvillethen could seriously design to confute Mr. Pope’s criticism by his own practice in that line of theRape of theLock, 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 thisdouble senseof 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 thesubject matterto the observation of aconceit, but to the admiration ofkindredsublime 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 thedouble senseis 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 thesedouble senses.

The comment ofServiuson this line is remarkable. “Hunc versum notant Critici, quasi superfluèet inutiliter additum, nec convenientemgravitatiejus, namque est magisneotericus.” 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 asOvidwould have written. We see the opinion which these Critics entertained of thedouble sense, ingeneral, 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 meremodernflourish, totally different from the pure unaffected manner of genuin antiquity. And thus far they unquestionably judged right. Their defect was in not seeing that theuseof it, as here employed by the Poet, was an exception to thegeneral 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,FactaorFataNepotum. And, as we now understand thatServiusand his Critics were utter strangers to Virgil’s noble idea, it is no wonder they could not resolve it. But thelatteris the Poet’s own word. He considered this shield of celestial make as a kind of Palladium, like theAncile, which fell from Heaven, and used to be carried in procession on the shoulders of theSalii. “Quid de scutis,” says Lactantius, “jam vetustate putridis dicam? Quae cum portant,Deos ipsos se gestareHumeris suisarbitrantur.” [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 sacredAncile; and in conformity to the practice in that sacred procession represents his Hero in the priestly office of Religion,

AttollensHumerofamamque etFATANepotum.

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 ofdouble senses, holds ofthe construction of a single term in two senses, even though its authorized usage may equally admitboth. So that I cannot be of a mind with the learned critic’swise 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 tooneof them, and with some force and straining only, to thesecond, as commonly happens with the application ofone verbtotwo substantives, it then degenerates, as Mr. Addison observes, into a merequibble,and is utterly incompatible with the graver form of composition. And for this we have the concurrent authority of thecordatithemselves, who readily admit,durum admodum etκαταχρηστικωτέρανfieri orationem, si verbum hoc ab alterutro abhorreat44. Without softening matters, besides the former absurdity ofa second sense, we are now indebted to a forced and barbarous construction foranysecond senseat 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 thelatteruse of thisfigurecondemned, but for reasons, which shew the manifest absurdity of the thing, however countenanced by authorities? And is not this the case of theformer? Or, is the transgression of the standing rules ofgood sense, in the judgment of thesecensors, a more pardonable crime in a writer, than ofcommon usage or grammar?

After all, since he lays so great stress on hisauthorities, it may not be amiss to consider the proper force of them.

The form of speaking under consideration has been censured as atrifling, affected witticism. Thiscensurehe hopes entirely to elude by shewing it was in use, more especially among two sorts of persons, the least likely to be infected withwrongtaste, theoldest, that is to say, thesimplest; and the mostrefinedwriters. In short, he thinks to stop all mouths by alledging instances fromHomerandVirgil.

But what if Homer and Virgil in the few examples of this kind to be met with in their writings haveerred? And, which is more, what if that verysimplicityon the one hand, andrefinementon the other, which he builds so much upon, can be shewn to be thenaturaland almost necessaryoccasionsof their falling into sucherrors? This, I am persuaded, was the truth of the case. For,

1. In thesimpler ages of learning, when, as yet, composition is not turned into anart, but every writer, especially of vehement and impetuous genius, is contented to put down hisfirst thoughts, and, for theirexpression, 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 expresstwo things, and findingone word, which, in common usage, at least with a little straining, extends toboth, 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 governingverbcannot 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 themodes of speaking, alledged by the writer as instances of thedouble 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 suchverb, 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 ofsenseorsoundto 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 theposturerequired.

Nay, writers of more exactness than these simple Greek poets have occasionally overlooked such inaccuracies: as Cicero47, who, when more intent on hisargument, thanexpression, lets fall this impropriety;Nec verosupra terram,sed etiamin intimis ejusTENEBRISplurimarum rerumLATETutilitas. ’Tis plain, the writer, conceivingextat,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 thedouble application of single words. The truth is, they are examples ofindiligencein the writers, and as such, may shew us, how easily they might fall, for the same reason, into the impropriety ofdouble senses. In those of this class then the impropriety, complained of, is the effect of mereinattention or carelessness.

2. On the other hand, when this negligent simplicity ofthinking and speakinggives way to the utmost polish and refinement inboth, 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 toplease, the writer must find means tostrikeandsurprize. And hence theantithesis, theremote allusion, and every other mode ofaffected eloquence. But of these thefirstthat prevails, is the application of thedouble sense. For the general use justifying it, it easily passes with the reader and writer too, fornaturalexpression; 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 thewriter hath himself the truest taste (which wasVirgil’scase) such affectations will not be very common; or, when they do occur, will, for the most part, be agreeably softened. As in the instance ofretroque pedem cum voce repressit; where, by makingvoceimmediately dependent on thepreposition, and remotely on theverb, 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 ferroNudavit,

the incongruity ofthe two sensesinnudavit, is the less perceived from itsmetaphorical applicationtooneof them.

But the desire ofpleasing continually, which, in the circumstance supposed, insensibly grows into ahabit, 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 withOvid.

The purpose of all this is to shew, that the use of thisform of speakingarose fromnegligence, oraffectation, never fromjudgment. And such being the obvious, and, it is presumed, true account of the matter, the learnedAnimadvertoronCharitonis left, as I said, to make the best of hisauthorities; or, even to enlarge his list of them with theCenturies48of his good friends, at his leisure. For till hecan tell us of a writer, who, neither incareless, norambitioushumours, 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 ourbetters. And even here he need not be at a loss forprecedents. For so the disciples of Plato, we are told, in former times, affected to beround-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 turnStammerers. And without doubt, while this fashion prevailed, there were critics, who found out aJe ne sçai quoiin theairof the one party, and in theeloquenceof the other.

97.Suspendit picta vultum mentemque tabella;] Horace judiciously describespaintingby that peculiar circumstance, which does most honour to this fine art. It is, that, in the hands of a master, it attaches, not theeyesonly, but the verysoul, to its representation of thehuman affections and manners. For it is in contemplatingsubjectsof this kind, that the mind, with a fond and eager attention,hangson the picture. Other imitations mayplease, but this warms and transports withpassion. And, because whatever addresses itself immediately to theeye, affects us most; hence it is, that painting,so employed, becomes more efficacious to express themannersand imprintcharacters, than poetry itself: or rather, hath the advantages of the best and usefullest species of poetry, thedramatic, when enforced by just action on the stage.

Quintilian gives it the like preference toOratory. Speaking of the use ofactionin 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: quumpictura, 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, sinceaffectionsof every kind are equally within his power, that the painter apply himself to excite onlythose, 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 ofPolygnotus.” [Polit.lib. viii. c. 5.]

For themanner, in which this moral efficacy of picture is brought about, we find it agreeably explained in that conversation ofSocrateswithParrhasiusin theMemorabiliaof 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 anysingle figureof a man, faultless in all its parts and of exact proportion; your way is to collect, fromseveral, 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, theMANNERS; 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 imitatethat, 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 akind, sometimes, anangry, 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 thelook or attitude: and that, whether we observe men inaction, or atrest. “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 theGOOD, theLOVELY, and theFAIR, of those, which represent theBAD, theHATEFUL, and theUGLY,qualities and affections of humanity? There can be no doubt, said Parrhasius,of their giving the preference to the former.” [Lib. iii.]

The conclusion, thephilosopherdrives at in this conversation, and which thepainterreadily 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 thismode of imitation, above all others, that the artistdesignsnot 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 nobleConnoisseur, whobespeakshis 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 inMORALS, as explained above, one cannot enough lament the ill destiny of this divineART; which, from the chaste hand-maid ofvirtue, hath been debauched, in violence to her nature, to a shameless prostitute ofvice, and procuress ofpleasure.

117.Scribimus indocti doctique poemata passim.] TheDOCTI POETAEhave at all times been esteemed by the wise and good, or, rather, have beenreverenced, as Plato speaks, ὥσπερ πατέρες τῆς σοφίας καὶ ἡγεμόνες.

As for theINDOCTI, 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. 4toLond. 1753.

118.Hic error tamen, &c.] What follows from hence to v. 136, containing an encomium onthe 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 sometraitsof pleasantry upon them, it insinuates to the emperor, in the manner the least offensive and ostentatious, the genuin merits, and evensacrednessof their character. The whole is afine 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;InterdumURBANI PARCENTIS VIRIBUS ATQUEExtenuantis eas consulto.[1 S. x. 14.]

This conduct, in the place before us, shews the poet’s exquisite knowledge ofhuman nature. For there is no surer method of removing prejudices, and gaining overothersto an esteem of any thing we would recommend, than by not appearing to lay too great a stress on itourselves. It is, further, a proof of his intimate acquaintance with the peculiar turn of thegreat; 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 thecharacters, prejudices, and expectationsof others, and of knowing to suit our application, prudently, but with innocence, to them, which constitutes what we callA 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 intriguinggenius, 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 alow cunningandcorrupt 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 forpoets, and, in them, forpoetryitself, 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 anyart, than that it tends to raise in the professor of it all thosevirtues, which contribute most to hisownproper enjoyment, and render him most agreeable toothers. Now this, it seems, may be urged, on the side ofpoetry, with a peculiar force. For not only thestudyof this art hath adirecttendency to produce a neglect or disregard ofworldly honours and emoluments(from the too eager appetite of which almost all thecalamities, as well as the more unfriendlyvices, ofmen arise) but he, whom the benign aspect of the muse hath glanced upon and destined for her peculiar service, is, byconstitution, which is ever the best security, fortified against the attacks of them. Thus hisRAPTURESin the enjoyment of his muse make him overlookthe common accidents of life[v. 121];he is generous, open, and undesigning, byNATURE[v. 122]; to which we must not forget to add, that he istemperate, that is to say,poor, byPROFESSION.

VIVIT SILIQUIS ET PANE SECUNDO.

II. [From v. 124 to 132.]THE UTILITY OF THE POET TO THE STATE: and this both on acivilandmoralaccount. For, 1. the poets, whom we read in our younger years, and from whom we learn thepower of words, andhidden harmony of numbers, that is, as a profound Scotchman teaches, thefirst and most essential principlesof 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: torecordorfeignillustrious examples of heroic worth, for the service of therising age: and, which is the last and best fruit of philosophy itself, it can relieve even the languor ofill-health, and sustainpovertyherself under the scorn and insult of contumelious opulence. 2. In amoralview its services are not less considerable. (For it may be observed thepoetwas so far of a mind with thephilosopher, to give no quarter toimmoralpoets). And to this end it serves, 1. [v. 127]in turning the ear of youthfrom that early corruptor of its innocence, the seducement of aloose and impure communication. 2. Next [v. 128] in forming our riper age (which it does with all the address and tenderness offriendship:AMICISpraeceptis)by the sanctity and wisdom of its precepts. And, 3. which is the proper office oftragedy, 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 toprevent the impressions of vice: toform the mind to habits of virtue: andto curb and regulate the passions.

III.His services to Religion. This might well enough be said, whether byreligionwe understand aninternal reverenceof the Gods, which poetry first and principally intended; or theirpopular adoration and worship, which, by itsfictions, as of necessity conforming to the received fancies of superstition, it must greatly tend to promote andestablish. But the poet, artfully seizing a circumstance, which supposes and includes in it both these respects, renders his defence vastly interesting.

All the customaryaddressesof Heathenism to its gods, more especially on any great and solemn emergency, were the work of the poet. Fornature, 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, thatdevotion, when sincere and ardent, from its verynature, enkindles a glow of thought, which communicates strongly with the transports of poetry. Hencethe 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 anessentialin the ceremonial, of paganism. And this, together with an allusion toa form of public prayer(for such was hissecular 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 hisart.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 ofsolitary and socialenjoyment: and further serves to the most importantCIVIL,MORAL, andRELIGIOUSpurposes?

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 thepoeticandmilitarycharacter, recorded in the history of our own civil wars, which may be just worth mentioning. Sir P. Warwick, speaking of the famous Earl ofNewcastle, 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 ofit) 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 personurbani, parcentis viribus. We see him here, inthatofRhetoris atque Poetae. For admonished, as it were, by the rising dignity of his subject, which led him from themoral, to speak of thereligioususes of poetry, he insensibly drops thebadineur, and takes an air, not of seriousness only, but of solemnity. This change is made withart. For the attention is carried from the uses of poetry, inconsoling the unhappy, by the easiest transition imaginable, to the still more solemn application of it to theoffices of piety. And itsuseis, 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 fromgaytosevere, with grace and dignity.

169.Sed habet Comoedia tanto plus oneris, quanto veniae minus.] Tragedy, whose intention is toaffect, may secure what is most essential to itskind, though it fail in some minuter resemblancesofnature: Comedy, proposing for its main endexact representation, is fundamentally defective, if it do not perfectly succeed in it. And this explains the ground of the poet’s observation, that Comedy hathveniae minus; for he is speaking of the draught of themannersonly, in which respect a greaterindulgenceis 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 thefable. 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 thePathos, produces it byaction, while Comedy produces its end, theHumourous, byCharacter. Now it is much more difficult to paint manners, than to plan action; becausethatrequires the philosopher’s knowledge of human nature;this, only the historian’s knowledge of human events.

It is true, in one sense, thetragicmuse hasveniae 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, themore 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 whollyserious, why may not tragedy now and then be indulged in beinggay?” If these critics be in earnest in putting this question, they need not wait long for an answer. Theendof comedy beingto paint the manners, nothing hinders (as I have shewn at large in the dissertationon the provinces of the drama) but “that it may take either character ofpleasantorserious, as it chances, or even unite them both in one piece:” But the end of tragedy beingto 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 ofgraveandpleasantscenes, heightens thepassion:” if it had been said that it heightens thesurprize, the observation had been more just. Lastly, “we are told, that this is nature, which generally blends together theludicrous, and thesublime.” But who does not know

That art is nature to advantage dress’d;

and that to dress out nature toadvantagein the present instance, that is, in a composition whose laws are to be deduced from the consideration of itsend, these characters are to be kept by an artist, perfectly distinct?

However this restraint upon tragedy does not prove that, upon the whole, it hasplus oneris. All I can allow, is, that either drama hasweightenough in all reason, for the ablestshouldersto 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 thepersonof thepoet, 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 beingpraeter laudem nullius avari, absolutely requires us to understand them as proceeding from anobjector; who, as the poet hath very satirically contrived, is left to expose himself in the very terms of hisobjection. He had just been blaming the venality of the Roman dramatic writers. They had shewn themselves more sollicitous aboutfilling their pockets, than deserving the reputation of good poets. And, instead of insisting further on the excellency of thislattermotive, 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, driveaway to the expecting stage in thepuffed car of vain-glory? For what? To bedispirited, or blown up with air, as the capricious spectator shall think fit to enforce, or withhold, hisinspirations. And is this the mighty benefit of your vaunted passion for fame? No; farewel the stage, if the breath of others isthat, 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 thecritical and moralwritings 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 thefunambuli, orrope-dancers;

Ita populus studio stupidus in FUNAMBULOAnimum occuparat.Prol.inHecyr.

From the admiration of whose tricks the expression,ire per extentum funem, came to denote, proverbially,an uncommon degree of excellence and perfectionin any thing. The allusion is, here, made with much pleasantry, as the poet had just been rallying their fondness for theseextraordinary atchievements.

Ibid.Ille per extentum funem, &c. to v. 214.] It is observable, that Horace, here, makes his ownfeelingthe test of poetical merit. Which is said with a philosophical exactness. For thepathosin tragic,humourin comic, and the same holds of thesublimein the narrative, and of every otherspeciesof excellence in universal poetry, is the object, not ofreason, butsentiment; and can be estimated only from itsimpressionon the mind, not by any speculative or generalrules. Rules themselves are indeed nothing else but an appeal toexperience; conclusions drawn from wide and general observation of the aptness and efficacy of certainmeansto produce thoseimpressions. So that feeling or sentiment itself is not only the surest, but the soleultimatearbiter of works of genius.

Yet, though this be true, theinventionofgeneral rulesis not without its merit, nor theapplicationof them without itsuse, as may appear from the following considerations.

It may be affirmed, universally, of alldidactic writing, that it is employed inreferring 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 asingleprinciple, in which all the rest areinvolved. 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 ofcriticism; by which I understand thatspeciesof didactic writing, whichrefers to general rules the virtues and faults of composition. And the perfection of thisartwould consist in an ability to refereverybeauty and blemish to a separate class; andeveryclass, by a gradual progression, to someonesingle principle. But theartis, 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 theconfirmationof rules already established, or theinventionof new ones.

Rules already established are thenconfirmed, when moreparticularsare referred to them. The invention ofnewrules implies, 1. Acollectionof various particulars, not yet regulated. 2. Adiscoveryof those circumstances ofresemblanceoragreement, whereby they become capable of being regulated. And 3. A subsequentregulationof them, or arrangement intooneclass according tosuchcircumstances ofagreement. When this is done, the rule is completed. But if the critic is not ableto observe anycommoncircumstance 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 theart 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 themeritof inventinggeneral rulesconsists in reducing criticism to anart; and that theuseof applying them, in practice, when the art is thus formed, is, to direct the caprices oftasteby the authority of rule, which we callreason.

And, thus much being premised, we shall now be able to form a proper judgment of themethod, which some of the most admired of the ancients, as well as moderns, have taken in thiswork 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.Allthe beautiful passages, whichLonginuscites, are referred by him tofivegeneral classes. And 2dly, These general classes belong all to thecommonprinciple ofsublimity. He does not say this passage isexcellent, but assigns thekindof excellence,viz. sublimity. Neither does he content himself with the general notion ofsublimity, but names thespecies, viz.Grandeurofsentiment,power of moving thepassions, &c. His work therefore enables us toclassour perceptions of excellence, and consequently is formed on thetrue planof criticism.

2. The same may be observed of P.Bouhours. The passages, cited by him, are never mentioned ingeneralterms asgoodorbad: but are instances of good or badsentiment. This is thegenus, in whichallhis instances are comprehended: but of this genus he marks also the distinctspecies. He does not say, this sentiment isgood; but it issublime, ornatural, orbeautiful, ordelicate: or, that another sentiment isbad; but that it ismean, orfalse, ordeformed, oraffected. 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 ofsingle sentiment, as opposed to the variousotherexcellencies and faults, which are observed in composition.

3. Mr.Addison, in hiscriticism 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 offable,morals,sentiments, andlanguage; and even thespecificexcellencies and faults considered under each head distinctly marked out.Secondly, The same is true concerningmanyof the observations on particular passages. The reader is not only told, that a passagehasmerit; but is informed whatsortof merit belongs to it.

Neither are the remaining observations wholly without use. For such particular beauties and blemishes, as are barelycollected, may yet serve as a foundation to future inquirers for making further discoveries. They may be considered as so manysinglefacts, anattentionto which is excited by the authority of the critic; and when these are considered jointly with such asothersmay have observed, those general principles ofsimilitudemay at length be found, which shall enable us to constitutenewclasses of poetical merit or blame.

Thus far the candid reader may go in apologizing for themeritsof these writers. But, as, in sound criticism, candour must not be indulged at the expence ofjustice, I think myself obliged to add an observation concerning theirdefects; andthat, on what I must think the just principles here delivered.

Though the method, taken by these writers, bescientifical, the real service they have done to criticism, is not very considerable. And the reason is, they dwell too much ingenerals: that is, not only thegenusto which they refer theirspeciesis too large, but those very subordinate species themselves are too comprehensive.

Of thethreecritics, under consideration, the most instructive is, unquestionably,Longinus. Thegenusitself, under which he ranks his severalclasses, is asparticularas the species of the other two. Yet evenhisclasses are much too general toconvey my very distinct and useful information. It had been still better, if this fine critic had descended to lower and more minuteparticularities, as subordinate toeach class. For to observe of anysentiment, that it isgrand, orpathetic, and so of the otherspecies, 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 sogeneralbeauties, 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 thosepeculiarqualities insentiment, which occasion the impression ofgrandeur, pathos, &c.this had been advancing the science of criticism very much, as tending to lay open the more secret and hidden springs of thatpleasure, which results from poetical composition.

P. Bouhours, as I observed, is still more faulty. His veryspeciesare so large, as make his criticism almost wholly useless and insignificant.

It gives one pain to refuse to such a writer as Mr.Addisonanykindof 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, thatcriticismwas 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, andbut in a very few of the moderns. For what concerns hiscriticism on Miltonin 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 theplan, it was, because Aristotle and Bossu had taken the same route before him. And as to hisownproper 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 offoreignwriters than of ourown) so much abound; and which good judges agree to rank in the worst sort of criticism. To give one example for all.

CardinalPerron, taking occasion to commend certain pieces of the poetRonsard, 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 sessaisonssontbien-faites! Que la description de la lyre a Bertaut estadmirable! Que le discours au ministre,excellent! Tous ses hymnes sontbeaux. Celui de l’eternité estadmirable; ceux des saisonsmarveilleux.” [Perroniana.]

What now has the reader learned from this varied criticism, but that hisEminencewas indeed veryfond 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 ofeach, and to have marked the precisedegree, as well askind, of merit in these works, had been a task of another nature.

211.—QUI PECTUS INANITER ANGIT,] The wordinaniteras well asfalsi, applied in the following line toterrores, would express that wondrous force ofdramatic representation, which compels us to take part infeignedadventures and situations, as if they werereal; and exercises the passions with the same violence, inremote fancied scenes, as in thepresent 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 forceto hold children from play, and old men from the chimney corner52. The poet, in the place before us, considers it as a kind ofmagic virtue, which transports the spectator into allplaces, and makes him, occasionally, assume allpersons. The resemblance holds, also, in this, that its effects are instantaneous and irresistible.Rules,art,decorum, all fall before it. It goes directly to theheart, and gains all purposes at once. Hence it is, that, speaking of a real genius, possessed of this commandingpower, Horace pronounces him, emphatically,THE POET,

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