Lives Of The Poets, Vol. 1 (fiscle part-III), Samuel Johnson [good summer reads .TXT] 📗

He Did Not

Go To France, And Act Again For The King, Without The Consent Of His

Bondsman; That He Did Not Show His Loyalty At The Hazard Of His Friend,

But By His Friend'S Permission.

 

 

 

Of The Verses On Oliver'S Death, In which Wood'S Narrative Seems To

Imply Something encomiastick, There Has Been No Appearance. There Is A

Discourse Concerning his Government, Indeed, With Verses Intermixed, But

Such As Certainly Gained its Author No Friends Among The Abettors Of

Usurpation.

 

 

 

A Doctor Of Physick, However, He Was Made At Oxford, In december, 1657;

And, In the Commencement Of The Royal Society, Of Which An Account

Has Been Given By Dr. Birch, He Appears Busy Among The Experimental

Philosophers, With The Title Of Dr. Cowley.

 

 

 

There Is No Reason For Supposing that He Ever Attempted practice: But

His Preparatory Studies Have Contributed something to The Honour Of His

Country. Considering botany As Necessary To A Physician, He Retired into

Kent To Gather Plants; And As The Predominance Of A Favourite Study

Affects All Subordinate Operations Of The Intellect, Botany, In the Mind

Of Cowley, Turned into Poetry. He Composed, In latin, Several Books On

Plants, Of Which The First And Second Display The Qualities Of Herbs, In

Elegiac Verse; The Third And Fourth, The Beauties Of Flowers, In various

Measures; And The Fifth And Sixth, The Uses Of Trees, In heroick

Numbers.

 

 

 

At The Same Time Were Produced, From The Same University, The Two Great

Poets, Cowley And Milton, Of Dissimilar Genius, Of Opposite Principles;

But Concurring in the Cultivation Of Latin Poetry, In which The English,

Till Their Works And May'S Poem Appeared[12], Seemed unable To Contest

The Palm With Any Other Of The Lettered nations.

 

 

 

If The Latin Performances Of Cowley And Milton Be Compared, (For May I

Hold To Be Superiour To Both,) The Advantage Seems To Lie On The Side

Of Cowley. Milton Is Generally Content To Express The Thoughts Of The

Ancients In their Language; Cowley, Without Much Loss Of Purity Or

Elegance, Accommodates The Diction Of Rome To His Own Conceptions.

 

 

 

At The Restoration, After All The Diligence Of His Long Service, And

With Consciousness Not Only Of The Merit Of Fidelity, But Of The Dignity

Of Great Abilities, He Naturally Expected ample Preferments; And, That

He Might Not Be Forgotten By His Own Fault, Wrote A Song Of Triumph. But

This Was A Time Of Such General Hope, That Great Numbers Were Inevitably

Disappointed; And Cowley Found His Reward Very Tediously Delayed. He Had

Been Promised, By Both Charles The First And Second, The Mastership Of

The Savoy, "But He Lost It," Says Wood, "By Certain Persons, Enemies To

The Muses."

 

 

 

The Neglect Of The Court Was Not His Only Mortification; Having by Such

Alteration, As He Thought Proper, Fitted his Old Comedy Of The Guardian

For The Stage, He Produced it[13], Under The Title Of The Cutter Of

Coleman Street[14]. It Was Treated on The Stage With Great Severity, And

Was Afterwards Censured as A Satire On The King'S Party.

 

 

 

Mr. Dryden, Who Went With Mr. Sprat To The First Exhibition, Related

To Mr. Dennis, "That, When They Told Cowley How Little Favour Had Been

Shown Him, He Received the News Of His Ill Success, Not With So Much

Firmness As Might Have Been Expected from So Great A Man."

 

 

 

What Firmness They Expected, Or What Weakness Cowley Discovered, Cannot

Be Known. He That Misses His End Will Never Be As Much Pleased as He

That Attains It, Even When He Can Impute No Part Of His Failure To

Himself; And When The End Is To Please The Multitude, No Man, Perhaps,

Has A Right, In things Admitting of Gradation And Comparison, To Throw

The Whole Blame Upon His Judges, And Totally To Exclude Diffidence And

Shame By A Haughty Consciousness Of His Own Excellence.

 

 

 

For The Rejection Of This Play, It Is Difficult Now To Find The Reason:

It Certainly Has, In a Very Great Degree, The Power Of Fixing attention

And Exciting merriment. From The Charge Of Disaffection He Exculpates

Himself, In his Preface, By Observing, How Unlikely It Is, That, Having

Followed the Royal Family Through All Their Distresses, "He Should

Choose The Time Of Their Restoration To Begin A Quarrel With Them." It

Appears, However, From The Theatrical Register Of Downes, The Prompter,

To Have Been Popularly Considered as A Satire On The Royalists.

 

 

 

That He Might Shorten This Tedious Suspense, He Published his

Pretensions And His Discontent, In an Ode Called the Complaint; In which

He Styles Himself The _Melancholy_ Cowley. This Met With The Usual

Fortune Of Complaints, And Seems To Have Excited more Contempt Than

Pity.

 

 

 

These Unlucky Incidents Are Brought, Maliciously Enough, Together In

Some Stanzas, Written About That Time On The Choice Of A Laureate; A

Mode Of Satire, By Which, Since It Was First Introduced by Suckling,

Perhaps, Every Generation Of Poets Has Been Teased.

 

 

 

  Savoy-Missing cowley Came Into The Court,

  Making apologies For His Bad Play;

  Every One Gave Him So Good A Report,

  That Apollo Gave Heed to All He Could Say:

  Nor Would He Have Had, 'Tis Thought, A Rebuke,

  Unless He Had Done Some Notable Folly;

  Writ Verses Unjustly In praise Of Sam Tuke,

  Or Printed his Pitiful Melancholy.

 

 

 

His Vehement Desire Of Retirement Now Came Again Upon Him. "Not

Finding," Says The Morose Wood, "That Preferment Conferred upon Him

Which He Expected, While Others For Their Money Carried away Most

Places, He Retired discontented into Surrey."

 

 

 

"He Was Now," Says The Courtly Sprat, "Weary Of The Vexations And

Formalities Of An Active Condition. He Had Been Perplexed with A Long

Compliance To Foreign Manners. He Was Satiated with The Arts Of A Court;

Which Sort Of Life, Though His Virtue Made It Innocent To Him, Yet

Nothing could Make It Quiet. Those Were The Reasons That Moved him To

Follow The Violent Inclination Of His Own Mind, Which, In the Greatest

Throng Of His Former Business, Had Still Called upon Him, And

Represented to Him The True Delights Of Solitary Studies, Of Temperate

Pleasures, And A Moderate Revenue Below The Malice And Flatteries Of

Fortune."

 

 

 

So Differently Are Things Seen! And So Differently Are They Shown!

But Actions Are Visible, Though Motives Are Secret. Cowley Certainly

Retired; First To Barn-Elms, And Afterwards To Chertsey, In surrey. He

Seems, However, To Have Lost Part Of His Dread Of The "Hum Of Men[15]."

He Thought Himself Now Safe Enough From Intrusion, Without The Defence Of

Mountains And Oceans; And, Instead Of Seeking shelter In america, Wisely

Went Only So Far From The Bustle Of Life As That He Might Easily Find

His Way Back, When Solitude Should Grow Tedious. His Retreat Was, At

First, But Slenderly Accommodated; Yet He Soon Obtained, By The Interest

Of The Earl Of St. Alban'S And The Duke Of Buckingham, Such A Lease Of

The Queen'S Lands, As Afforded him An Ample Income[16].

 

 

 

By The Lovers Of Virtue And Of Wit It Will Be Solicitously Asked, If

He Now Was Happy. Let Them Peruse One Of His Letters, Accidentally

Preserved by Peck, Which I Recommend To The Consideration Of All That

May, Hereafter, Pant For Solitude.

 

 

 

"To Dr. Thomas Sprat.

 

 

 

"Chertsey, May 21, 1665.

 

 

 

"The First Night That I Came Hither I Caught So Great A Cold, With A

Defluxion Of Rheum, As Made Me Keep My Chamber Ten Days. And, Two After,

Had Such A Bruise On My Ribs With A Fall, That I Am Yet Unable To Move

Or Turn Myself In my Bed. This Is My Personal Fortune Here To Begin

With. And, Besides, I Can Get No Money From My Tenants, And Have My

Meadows Eaten Up Every Night By Cattle Put In by My Neighbours. What

This Signifies, Or May Come To In time, God Knows; If It Be Ominous, It

Can End In nothing less Than Hanging. Another Misfortune Has Been, And

Stranger Than All The Rest, That You Have Broke Your Word With Me, And

Failed to Come, Even Though You Told Mr. Bois That You Would. This Is

What They Call 'Monstri Simile.' I Do Hope To Recover My Late Hurt So

Farre Within Five Or Six Days, (Though It Be Uncertain Yet Whether I

Shall Ever Recover It,) As To Walk About Again. And Then, Methinks, You

And I And 'The Dean' Might Be Very Merry Upon St. Ann'S Hill. You Might

Very Conveniently Come Hither The Way Of Hampton Town, Lying there One

Night. I Write This In pain, And Can Say No More: 'Verbum Sapienti.'"

 

 

 

He Did Not Long Enjoy The Pleasure, Or Suffer The Uneasiness, Of

Solitude; For He Died at The Porch-House[17] In chertsey, In 1667, In

The Forty-Ninth Year Of His Age.

 

 

 

He Was Buried, With Great Pomp, Near Chaucer And Spenser; And King

Charles Pronounced, "That Mr. Cowley Had Not Left Behind Him A Better

Man In england." He Is Represented, By Dr. Sprat, As The Most Amiable Of

Mankind; And This Posthumous Praise May Safely Be Credited, As It Has

Never Been Contradicted by Envy Or By Faction.

 

 

 

Such Are The Remarks And Memorials Which I Have Been Able To Add To The

Narrative Of Dr. Sprat; Who, Writing when The Feuds Of The Civil War

Were Yet Recent, And The Minds Of Either Party Were Easily Irritated,

Was Obliged to Pass Over Many Transactions In general Expressions, And

To Leave Curiosity Often Unsatisfied. What He Did Not Tell, Cannot,

However, Now Be Known; I Must, Therefore, Recommend The Perusal Of

His Work, To Which My Narration Can Be Considered only As A Slender

Supplement.

 

 

 

Cowley, Like Other Poets Who Have Written With Narrow Views, And,

Instead Of Tracing intellectual Pleasures In the Minds Of Men, Paid

Their Court To Temporary Prejudices, Has Been At One Time Too Much

Praised, And Too Much Neglected at Another.

 

 

 

Wit, Like All Other Things, Subject By Their Nature To The Choice Of

Man, Has Its Changes And Fashions, And, At Different Times, Takes

Different Forms. About The Beginning of The Seventeenth Century,

Appeared a Race Of Writers, That May Be Termed the Metaphysical Poets;

Of Whom In a Criticism On The Works Of Cowley, It Is Not Improper To

Give Some Account.

 

 

 

The Metaphysical Poets Were Men Of Learning, And, To Show Their Learning

Was Their Whole Endeavour; But, Unluckily Resolving to Show It In rhyme,

Instead Of Writing poetry, They Only Wrote Verses, And, Very Often, Such

Verses As Stood The Trial Of The Finger Better Than Of The Ear; For The

Modulation Was So Imperfect, That They Were Only Found To Be Verses By

Counting the Syllables.

 

 

 

If The Father Of Criticism Has Rightly Denominated poetry, 'Technae

Mimaetikhae', An Imitative Art, These Writers Will, Without Great Wrong,

Lose Their Right To The Name Of Poets; For They Cannot Be Said To Have

Imitated any Thing; They Neither Copied nature Nor Life; Neither Painted

The Forms Of Matter, Nor Represented the Operations Of Intellect.

 

 

 

Those, However, Who Deny Them To Be Poets, Allow Them To Be Wits. Dryden

Confesses Of Himself And His Contemporaries, That They Fall Below Donne

In Wit; But Maintains, That They Surpass Him In poetry.

 

 

 

If Wit Be Well Described by Pope, As Being "That Which Has Been Often

Thought, But Was Never Before So Well Expressed," They Certainly Never

Attained, Nor Ever Sought It; For They Endeavoured to Be Singular In

Their Thoughts, And Were Careless Of Their Diction. But Pope'S Account

Of Wit Is Undoubtedly Erroneous: He Depresses It Below Its Natural

Dignity, And Reduces It From Strength Of Thought To Happiness Of

Language.

 

 

 

If, By A More Noble And More Adequate Conception, That Be Considered as

Wit Which Is, At Once, Natural And New, That Which, Though Not Obvious,

Is, Upon Its First Production, Acknowledged to Be Just; If It Be That,

Which He That Never Found It, Wonders How He Missed; To Wit Of This Kind

The Metaphysical Poets Have Seldom Risen. Their Thoughts Are Often New,

But Seldom Natural; They Are Not Obvious, But Neither Are They Just;

And The Reader, Far From Wondering that He Missed them, Wonders More

Frequently By What Perverseness Of Industry They Were Ever Found.

 

 

 

But Wit, Abstracted from Its Effects Upon The Hearer, May Be More

Rigorously And Philosophically Considered as A Kind Of "Discordia

Concors;" A Combination Of Dissimilar Images, Or Discovery Of Occult

Resemblances In things Apparently Unlike. Of Wit, Thus Defined, They

Have More Than Enough. The Most Heterogeneous Ideas Are Yoked by

Violence Together; Nature And Art Are Ransacked for Illustrations,

Comparisons, And Allusions; Their Learning instructs, And Their Subtilty

Surprises; But The Reader Commonly Thinks His Improvement Dearly Bought,

And, Though He Sometimes Admires, Is Seldom Pleased.

 

 

 

From This Account Of Their Compositions It Will Be Readily Inferred,

That They Were Not Successful In representing or Moving the Affections.

As They Were Wholly Employed on Something unexpected and Surprising,

They Had No Regard To That Uniformity Of Sentiment Which Enables Us To

Conceive And To Excite The Pains And The Pleasure Of Other Minds: They

Never Inquired what, On Any Occasion,