Lives Of The Poets, Vol. 1 (fiscle part-III), Samuel Johnson [good summer reads .TXT] 📗
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Settled and Prescriptive Place By The Fire, Was In the Summer Placed in
The Balcony, And That He Called the Two Places His Winter And His Summer
Seat. This Is All The Intelligence Which His Two Survivers Afforded me.
One Of His Opinions Will Do Him No Honour In the Present Age, Though In
His Own Time, At Least In the Beginning of It, He Was Far From Having it
Confined to Himself. He Put Great Confidence In the Prognostications
Of Judicial Astrology. In the Appendix To The Life Of Congreve Is A
Narrative Of Some Of His Predictions Wonderfully Fulfilled; But I Know
Not The Writer'S Means Of Information, Or Character Of Veracity. That He
Had The Configurations Of The Horoscope In his Mind, And Considered them
As Influencing the Affairs Of Men, He Does Not Forbear To Hint:
The Utmost Malice Of The Stars Is Past.
Now Frequent _Trines_ The Happier Lights Among,
And _High-Rais'D Jove_, From His Dark Prison Freed,
Those Weights Took Off That On His Planet Hung,
Will Gloriously The New-Laid Works Succeed.
He Has, Elsewhere, Shown His Attention To The Planetary Powers; And,
In The Preface To His Fables, Has Endeavoured obliquely To Justify His
Superstition, By Attributing the Same To Some Of The Ancients. The
Letter, Added to This Narrative, Leaves No Doubt Of His Notions Or
Practice.
So Slight And So Scanty Is The Knowledge Which I Have Been Able To
Collect Concerning the Private Life And Domestick Manners Of A Man Whom
Every English Generation Must Mention With Reverence As A Critick And A
Poet.
Dryden May Be Properly Considered as The Father Of English Criticism, As
The Writer Who First Taught Us To Determine Upon Principles The Merit Of
Composition. Of Our Former Poets, The Greatest Dramatist Wrote Without
Rules, Conducted through Life And Nature By A Genius That Rarely Misled,
And Rarely Deserted him. Of The Rest, Those Who Knew The Laws Of
Propriety Had Neglected to Teach Them.
Two Arts Of English Poetry Were Written In the Days Of Elizabeth By Webb
And Puttenham, From Which Something might Be Learned, And A Few Hints Had
Been Given By Jonson And Cowley; But Dryden'S Essay On Dramatick Poetry
Was The First Regular And Valuable Treatise On The Art Of Writing.
He Who, Having formed his Opinions In the Present Age Of English
Literature, Turns Back To Peruse This Dialogue, Will Not, Perhaps, Find
Much Increase Of Knowledge, Or Much Novelty Of Instruction; But He Is To
Remember That Critical Principles Were Then In the Hands Of A Few, Who
Had Gathered them Partly From The Ancients, And Partly From The Italians
And French. The Structure Of Dramatick Poems Was Not Then Generally
Understood. Audiences Applauded by Instinct, And Poets, Perhaps, Often
Pleased by Chance.
A Writer Who Obtains His Full Purpose Loses Himself In his Own Lustre.
Of An Opinion Which Is No Longer Doubted, The Evidence Ceases To
Be Examined. Of An Art Universally Practised, The First Teacher Is
Forgotten. Learning once Made Popular Is No Longer Learning; It Has The
Appearance Of Something which We Have Bestowed upon Ourselves, As The Dew
Appears To Rise From The Field Which It Refreshes.
To Judge Rightly Of An Author, We Must Transport Ourselves To His Time,
And Examine What Were The Wants Of His Contemporaries, And What Were His
Means Of Supplying them. That Which Is Easy At One Time Was Difficult At
Another. Dryden At Least Imported his Science, And Gave His Country
What It Wanted before; Or Rather, He Imported only The Materials And
Manufactured them By His Own Skill.
The Dialogue On The Drama Was One Of His First Essays Of Criticism,
Written When He Was Yet A Timorous Candidate For Reputation, And,
Therefore, Laboured with That Diligence Which He Might Allow Himself
Somewhat To Remit, When His Name Gave Sanction To His Positions, And His
Awe Of The Publick Was Abated, Partly By Custom, And Partly By Success.
It Will Not Be Easy To Find, In all The Opulence Of Our Language, A
Treatise So Artfully Variegated with Successive Representations Of
Opposite Probabilities, So Enlivened with Imagery, So Brightened with
Illustrations. His Portraits Of The English Dramatists Are Wrought With
Great Spirit And Diligence. The Account Of Shakespeare May Stand As A
Perpetual Model Of Encomiastick Criticism; Exact Without Minuteness,
And Lofty Without Exaggeration. The Praise Lavished by Longinus, On The
Attestation Of The Heroes Of Marathon By Demosthenes, Fades Away Before
It. In a Few Lines Is Exhibited a Character, So Extensive In its
Comprehension, And So Curious In its Limitations, That Nothing can Be
Added, Diminished, Or Reformed; Nor Can The Editors And Admirers Of
Shakespeare, In all Their Emulation Of Reverence, Boast Of Much More Than
Of Having diffused and Paraphrased this Epitome Of Excellence, Of Having
Changed dryden'S Gold For Baser Metal, Of Lower Value Though Of Greater
Bulk.
In This, And In all His Other Essays On The Same Subject, The Criticism
Of Dryden Is The Criticism Of A Poet; Not A Dull Collection Of Theorems,
Nor A Rude Detection Of Faults, Which, Perhaps, The Censor Was Not Able
To Have Committed; But A Gay And Vigorous Dissertation, Where Delight
Is Mingled with Instruction, And Where The Author Proves His Right Of
Judgment By His Power Of Performance.
The Different Manner And Effect With Which Critical Knowledge May Be
Conveyed, Was, Perhaps, Never More Clearly Exemplified than In the
Performances Of Rymer And Dryden. It Was Said Of A Dispute Between Two
Mathematicians, "Malim Cum Scaligero Errare, Quam Cum Clavio Recte
Sapere;" That "It Was More Eligible To Go Wrong With One, Than Right
With The Other." A Tendency Of The Same Kind Every Mind Must Feel At The
Perusal Of Dryden'S Prefaces And Rymer'S Discourses. With Dryden We Are
Wandering in quest Of Truth; Whom We Find, If We Find Her At All, Drest
In The Graces Of Elegance; And, If We Miss Her, The Labour Of The Pursuit
Rewards Itself; We Are Led only Through Fragrance And Flowers. Rymer,
Without Taking a Nearer, Takes A Rougher Way; Every Step Is To Be Made
Through Thorns And Brambles; And Truth, If We Meet Her, Appears Repulsive
By Her Mien, And Ungraceful By Her Habit. Dryden'S Criticism Has The
Majesty Of A Queen; Rymer'S Has The Ferocity Of A Tyrant.
As He Had Studied with Great Diligence The Art Of Poetry, And Enlarged or
Rectified his Notions, By Experience Perpetually Increasing, He Had His
Mind Stored with Principles And Observations; He Poured out His Knowledge
With Little Labour; For Of Labour, Notwithstanding the Multiplicity Of
His Productions, There Is Sufficient Reason To Suspect That He Was Not
A Lover. To Write _Con Amore_, With Fondness For The Employment, With
Perpetual Touches And Retouches, With Unwillingness To Take Leave Of His
Own Idea, And An Unwearied pursuit Of Unattainable Perfection, Was, I
Think, No Part Of His Character.
His Criticism May Be Considered as General Or Occasional. In his General
Precepts, Which Depend Upon The Nature Of Things, And The Structure
Of The Human Mind, He May, Doubtless, Be Safely Recommended to The
Confidence Of The Reader; But His Occasional And Particular Positions
Were Sometimes Interested, Sometimes Negligent, And Sometimes Capricious.
It Is Not Without Reason That Trapp, Speaking of The Praises Which He
Bestows On Palamon And Arcite, Says, "Novimus Judicium Drydeni De Poemate
Quodam Chauceri, Pulchro Sane Illo, Et Admodum Laudando, Nimirum Quod Non
Modo Vere Epicum Sit, Sed iliada Etiam Atque Aeneada Aequet, Imo Superet.
Sed novimus Eodem Tempore Viri Illius Maximi Non Semper Accuratissimas
Esse Censuras, Nec Ad Severissimam Critices Normam Exactas: Illo Judice
Id Plerumque Optimum Est, Quod Nunc Prae Manibus Habet, Et In quo Nunc
Occupatur."
He Is, Therefore, By No Means Constant To Himself. His Defence And
Desertion Of Dramatick Rhyme Is Generally Known. Spence, In his Remarks
On Pope'S Odyssey, Produces What He Thinks An Unconquerable Quotation
From Dryden'S Preface To The Aeneid, In favour Of Translating an Epick
Poem Into Blank Verse; But He Forgets That When His Author Attempted the
Iliad, Some Years Afterwards, He Departed from His Own Decision, And
Translated into Rhyme.
When He Has Any Objection To Obviate, Or Any License To Defend, He Is Not
Very Scrupulous About What He Asserts, Nor Very Cautious, If The Present
Purpose Be Served, Not To Entangle Himself In his Own Sophistries. But,
When All Arts Are Exhausted, Like Other Hunted animals, He Sometimes
Stands At Bay; When He Cannot Disown The Grossness Of One Of His Plays,
He Declares That He Knows Not Any Law That Prescribes Morality To A
Comick Poet.
His Remarks On Ancient Or Modern Writers Are Not Always To Be Trusted.
His Parallel Of The Versification Of Ovid With That Of Claudian Has Been
Very Justly Censured by Sewel[120]. His Comparison Of The First Line Of
Virgil With The First Of Statius Is Not Happier. Virgil, He Says, Is
Soft And Gentle, And Would Have Thought Statius Mad, If He Had Heard Him
Thundering out:
Quae Superimposito Moles Geminata Colosso.
Statius, Perhaps, Heats Himself, As He Proceeds, To Exaggerations
Somewhat Hyperbolical; But Undoubtedly Virgil Would Have Been Too Hasty,
If He Had Condemned him To Straw For One Sounding line. Dryden Wanted an
Instance, And The First That Occurred was Imprest Into The Service.
What He Wishes To Say, He Says At Hazard; He Cited gorbuduc, Which He
Had Never Seen; Gives A False Account Of Chapman'S Versification; And
Discovers, In the Preface To His Fables, That He Translated the First
Book Of The Iliad Without Knowing what Was In the Second.
It Will Be Difficult To Prove That Dryden Ever Made Any Great Advances
In Literature. As, Having distinguished himself At Westminster Under The
Tuition Of Busby, Who Advanced his Scholars To A Height Of Knowledge Very
Rarely Attained in grammar-Schools, He Resided afterwards At Cambridge,
It Is Not To Be Supposed, That His Skill In the Ancient Languages Was
Deficient, Compared with That Of Common Students; But His Scholastick
Acquisitions Seem Not Proportionate To His Opportunities And Abilities.
He Could Not, Like Milton Or Cowley, Have Made His Name Illustrious
Merely By His Learning. He Mentions But Few Books, And Those Such As Lie
In The Beaten Track Of Regular Study; From Which, If Ever He Departs, He
Is In danger Of Losing himself In unknown Regions.
In His Dialogue On The Drama, He Pronounces, With Great Confidence, That
The Latin Tragedy Of Medea Is Not Ovid'S, Because It Is Not Sufficiently
Interesting and Pathetick. He Might Have Determined the Question Upon
Surer Evidence; For It Is Quoted by Quintilian As The Work Of Seneca; And
The Only Line Which Remains Of Ovid'S Play, For One Line Is Left Us, Is
Not There To Be Found. There Was, Therefore, No Need of The Gravity Of
Conjecture, Or The Discussion Of Plot Or Sentiment, To Find What Was
Already Known Upon Higher Authority Than Such Discussions Can Ever Reach.
His Literature, Though Not Always Free From Ostentation, Will Be Commonly
Found Either Obvious, And Made His Own By The Art Of Dressing it; Or
Superficial, Which, By What He Gives, Shows What He Wanted; Or Erroneous,
Hastily Collected, And Negligently Scattered.
Yet It Cannot Be Said That His Genius Is Ever Unprovided of Matter, Or
That His Fancy Languishes In penury Of Ideas. His Works Abound With
Knowledge, And Sparkle With Illustrations. There Is Scarcely Any Science
Or Faculty That Does Not Supply Him With Occasional Images And Lucky
Similitudes; Every Page Discovers A Mind Very Widely Acquainted both With
Art And Nature, And In full Possession Of Great Stores Of Intellectual
Wealth. Of Him That Knows Much, It Is Natural To Suppose That He Has Read
With Diligence; Yet I Rather Believe That The Knowledge Of Dryden Was
Gleaned from Accidental Intelligence And Various Conversation, By A Quick
Apprehension, A Judicious Selection, And A Happy Memory, A Keen Appetite
Of Knowledge, And A Powerful Digestion; By Vigilance That Permitted
Nothing to Pass Without Notice, And A Habit Of Reflection That Suffered
Nothing useful To Be Lost. A Mind Like Dryden'S, Always Curious, Always
Active, To Which Every Understanding was Proud To Be Associated, And Of
Which Every One Solicited the Regard, By An Ambitious Display Of Himself,
Had A More Pleasant, Perhaps A Nearer Way To Knowledge Than By The Silent
Progress Of Solitary Reading. I Do Not Suppose That He Despised books,
Or Intentionally Neglected them; But That He Was Carried out, By The
Impetuosity Of His Genius, To More Vivid And Speedy Instructors; And
That His Studies Were Rather Desultory And Fortuitous Than Constant And
Systematical.
It Must Be Confessed, That He Scarcely Ever Appears To Want
Book-Learning, But When He Mentions Books; And To Him May Be Transferred
The Praise Which He Gives His Master Charles:
His Conversation, Wit, And Parts,
His Knowledge In the Noblest Useful Arts,
Were Such, Dead Authors Could Not Give,
But Habitudes Of Those That Live,
Who, Lighting him, Did Greater Lights Receive:
He Drained from
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