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

Meaning, And

Intelligible To Every Body; And _When To Sow The Corn_, Is A Needless

_Addition_.

 

 

 

Ver. 3.

 

 

 

  "The Care Of Sheep, Of Oxen, And Of Kine,

  And When To Geld The Lambs, And Shear The Swine,

 

 

 

"Would As Well Have Fallen Under The _Cura Boum, Qui Cultus Habendo Sit

Pecori_, As Mr. D.'S _Deduction_ Of Particulars.

 

 

 

  Ver. 5

 

 

 

  "The Birth And Genius Of The Frugal Bee

  I Sing, Maecenas, And I Sing to Thee.

 

 

 

"But Where Did _Experientia_ Ever Signify _Birth Andgenius_? Or What

Ground Was There For Such A _Figure_ In this Place? How Much More Manly

Is Mr. Ogylby'S Version?

 

 

 

  "What Makes Rich Grounds, In what Celestial Signs

  'Tis Good To Plough, And Marry Elms With Vines:

  What Best Fits Cattle, What With Sheep Agrees,

  And Several Arts Improving frugal Bees;

  I Sing, Maecenas.

 

 

 

"Which Four Lines, Though Faulty Enough, Are Yet Much More To The Purpose

Than Mr. D.'S Six.

 

 

 

Ver. 22.

 

 

 

  "From Fields And Mountains To My Song Repair.

 

 

 

"For _Patrium Linquens Nemus, Saltusque Lycaei_--Very Well Explained!

 

 

 

Ver. 23, 24.

 

 

 

  "Inventor Pallas, Of The Fatt'Ning oil,

  Thou Founder Of The Plough, And Ploughman'S Toil!

 

 

 

"Written As If _These_ Had Been _Pallas'S Invention_. The _Ploughman'S

Toil'S_ Impertinent.

 

 

 

Ver. 25.

 

 

 

  "The Shroud-Like Cypress----

 

 

 

"Why _Shroud-Like_? Is A _Cypress_ Pulled up By The _Roots_, Which The

_Sculpture_ In the _Last Eclogue_ Fills _Silvanus'S_ Hand With, So Very

Like A _Shroud_? Or Did Not Mr. D. Think Of That Kind Of _Cypress_ Used

Often For _Scarves And Hatbands_, At Funerals Formerly, Or For _Widows'

Veils_, &C. ? If So, 'Twas A _Deep, Good Thought_.

 

 

 

Ver. 26.

 

 

 

  "That Wear

  The Royal Honours, And Increase The Year.

 

 

 

"What'S Meant By _Increasing the Year_? Did The _Gods_ Or _Goddesses_

Add More _Months_, Or _Days_, Or _Hours_, To It? Or How Can _Arva Tueri_

Signify To _Wear Rural Honours_? Is This To _Translate_, Or _Abuse_ An

_Author_? The Next _Couplet_ Is Borrowed from Ogylby, I Suppose, Because

_Less To The Purpose_ Than Ordinary.

 

 

 

Ver. 33.

 

 

 

  "The Patron Of The World, And Rome'S Peculiar Guard.

 

 

 

"_Idle_, And None Of Virgil'S, No More Than The Sense Of The _Precedent

Couplet_; So Again, _He Interpolates Virgil_ With That And _The Round

Circle Of The Year To Guide Powerful Of Blessings, Which Thou Strew'St

Around_; A Ridiculous _Latinism_, And An _Impertinent Addition_; Indeed

The Whole _Period_ Is But One Piece Of _Absurdity_ And _Nonsense_, As

Those Who Lay It With The _Original_ Must Find.

 

 

 

Ver. 42, 43.

 

 

 

  "And Neptune Shall Resign The Fasces Of The Sea.

 

 

 

"Was He _Consul_ Or _Dictator_ There?

 

 

 

  "And Wat'Ry Virgins For Thy Bed shall Strive.

 

 

 

"Both Absurd _Interpolations_."

 

 

 

Ver. 47, 48.

 

 

 

  "Where In the Void Of Heaven A Place Is Free.

 

 

 

  "_Ah, Happy_ D----N, _Were_ That Place For _Thee_!

 

 

 

"But Where Is _That Void_? Or, What Does Our _Translator_ Mean By It? He

Knows What Ovid Says God Did To Prevent Such A Void In heaven; Perhaps

This Was Then Forgotten: But Virgil Talks More Sensibly.

 

 

 

Ver. 49.

 

 

 

  "The Scorpion Ready To Receive Thy Laws.

 

 

 

"No, He Would Not Then Have _Gotten Out Of His Way_ So Fast.

 

 

 

Ver. 56.

 

 

 

  "Though Proserpine Affects Her Silent Seat.

 

 

 

"What Made Her Then So _Angry_ With _Ascalaphus_, For Preventing her

Return? She Was Now Mus'D To _Patience_ Under The _Determinations Of

Fate_, Rather Than _Fond_ Of Her _Residence_,

 

 

 

Ver. 61, 62, 63.

 

 

 

  "Pity The Poet'S And The Ploughman'S Cares,

  Interest Thy Greatness In our Mean Affairs,

  And Use Thyself Betimes To Hear Our Prayers.

 

 

 

"Which Is Such A Wretched _Perversion_ Of Virgil'S _Noble Thought_ As

Vicars Would Have Blushed at; But Mr. Ogylby Makes Us Some Amends, By His

Better Lines:

 

 

 

  "O, Wheresoe'Er Thou Art, From Thence Incline,

  And Grant Assistance To My Bold Design!

  Pity, With Me, Poor Husbandmen'S Affairs,

  And Now, As If Translated, Hear Our Prayers.

 

 

 

"This Is _Sense_, And _To The Purpose_: The Other, Poor _Mistaken

Stuff_."

 

 

 

Such Were The Strictures Of Milbourne, Who Found Few Abetters, And Of

Whom It May Be Reasonably Imagined, That Many Who Favoured his Design

Were Ashamed of His Insolence.

 

 

 

When Admiration Had Subsided, The Translation Was More Coolly Examined,

And Found, Like All Others, To Be Sometimes Erroneous, And Sometimes

Licentious. Those Who Could Find Faults, Thought They Could Avoid Them;

And Dr. Brady Attempted, In blank Verse, A Translation Of The Aeneid,

Which, When Dragged into The World, Did Not Live Long Enough To Cry,

I Have Never Seen It; But That Such A Version There Is, Or Has Been,

Perhaps Some Old Catalogue Informed me.

 

 

 

With Not Much Better Success, Trapp, When His Tragedy And His Prelections

Had Given Him Reputation, Attempted another Blank Version Of The Aeneid;

To Which, Notwithstanding the Slight Regard With Which It Was Treated, He

Had Afterwards Perseverance Enough To Add The Eclogues And Georgicks. His

Book May Continue Its Existence As Long As It Is The Clandestine Refuge

Of Schoolboys.

 

 

 

Since The English Ear Has Been Accustomed to The Mellifluence Of Pope'S

Numbers, And The Diction Of Poetry Has Become More Splendid, New Attempts

Have Been Made To Translate Virgil; And All His Works Have Been Attempted

By Men Better Qualified to Contend With Dryden. I Will Not Engage Myself

In An Invidious Comparison By Opposing one Passage To Another; A Work Of

Which There Would Be No End, And Which Might Be Often Offensive Without

Use.

 

 

 

It Is Not By Comparing line With Line, That The Merit Of Great Works Is

To Be Estimated, But By Their General Effects And Ultimate Result. It Is

Easy To Note A Weak Line, And Write One More Vigorous In its Place; To

Find A Happiness Of Expression In the Original, And Transplant It By

Force Into The Version: But What Is Given To The Parts May Be Subducted

From The Whole, And The Reader May Be Weary, Though The Critick May

Commend. Works Of Imagination Excel By Their Allurement And Delight; By

Their Power Of Attracting and Detaining the Attention. That Book Is Good

In Vain, Which The Reader Throws Away. He Only Is The Master, Who Keeps

The Mind In pleasing captivity; Whose Pages Are Perused with Eagerness,

And In hope Of New Pleasure Are Perused again; And Whose Conclusion

Is Perceived with An Eye Of Sorrow, Such As The Traveller Casts Upon

Departing day [122].

 

 

 

By His Proportion Of This Predomination I Will Consent That Dryden Should

Be Tried; Of This, Which, In opposition To Reason, Makes Ariosto The

Darling and The Pride Of Italy; Of This, Which, In defiance Of Criticism,

Continues Shakespeare The Sovereign Of The Drama.

 

 

 

His Last Work Was His Fables, In which He Gave Us The First Example Of A

Mode Of Writing, Which The Italians Call _Refaccimento_, A Renovation

Of Ancient Writers, By Modernizing their Language. Thus The Old Poem

Of Boiardo Has Been New Dressed by Domenichi And Berni. The Works Of

Chaucer, Upon Which This Kind Of Rejuvenescence Has Been Bestowed by

Dryden, Require Little Criticism. The Tale Of The Cock Seems Hardly

Worth Revival; And The Story Of Palamon And Arcite, Containing an Action

Unsuitable To The Times In which It Is Placed, Can Hardly Be Suffered to

Pass Without Censure Of The Hyperbolical Commendation Which Dryden Has

Given It In the General Preface, And In a Poetical Dedication, A Piece

Where His Original Fondness Of Remote Conceits Seems To Have Revived.

 

 

 

Of The Three Pieces Borrowed from Boccace, Sigismunda May Be Defended by

The Celebrity Of The Story. Theodore And Honoria, Though It Contains Not

Much Moral, Yet Afforded opportunities Of Striking description. And Cymon

Was Formerly A Tale Of Such Reputation, That, At The Revival Of Letters,

It Was Translated into Latin By One Of The Beroalds.

 

 

 

Whatever Subjects Employed his Pen, He Was Still Improving our Measures

And Embellishing our Language.

 

 

 

In This Volume Are Interspersed some Short Original Poems, Which, With

His Prologues, Epilogues, And Songs, May Be Comprised in congreve'S

Remark, That Even Those, If He Had Written Nothing else, Would Have

Entitled him To The Praise Of Excellence In his Kind.

 

 

 

One Composition Must, However, Be Distinguished. The Ode For St.

Cecilia'S Day, Perhaps The Last Effort Of His Poetry, Has Been Always

Considered as Exhibiting the Highest Flight Of Fancy, And The Exactest

Nicety Of Art. This Is Allowed to Stand Without A Rival. If, Indeed,

There Is Any Excellence Beyond It, In some Other Of Dryden'S Works, That

Excellence Must Be Found. Compared with The Ode On Killigrew, It May Be

Pronounced, Perhaps, Superiour In the Whole; But Without Any Single Part

Equal To The First Stanza Of The Other.

 

 

 

It Is Said To Have Cost Dryden A Fortnight'S Labour; But It Does Not Want

Its Negligences: Some Of The Lines Are Without Correspondent Rhymes; A

Defect, Which I Never Detected, But After An Acquaintance Of Many Years,

And Which The Enthusiasm Of The Writer Might Hinder Him From Perceiving.

 

 

 

His Last Stanza Has Less Emotion Than The Former; But It Is Not Less

Elegant In the Diction. The Conclusion Is Vitious; The Musick Of

Timotheus, Which "Raised a Mortal To The Skies," Had Only A Metaphorical

Power; That Of Cecilia, Which "Drew An Angel Down," Had A Real Effect:

The Crown, Therefore, Could Not Reasonably Be Divided.

 

 

 

In A General Survey Of Dryden'S Labours, He Appears To Have A Mind Very

Comprehensive By Nature, And Much Enriched with Acquired knowledge. His

Compositions Are The Effects Of A Vigorous Genius Operating upon Large

Materials.

 

 

 

The Power That Predominated in his Intellectual Operations, Was Rather

Strong Reason Than Quick Sensibility. Upon All Occasions That Were

Presented, He Studied rather Than Felt, And Produced sentiments Not

Such As Nature Enforces, But Meditation Supplies. With The Simple And

Elemental Passions, As They Spring separate In the Mind, He Seems Not

Much Acquainted; And Seldom Describes Them But As They Are Complicated

By The Various Relations Of Society, And Confused in the Tumults And

Agitations Of Life.

 

 

 

What He Says Of Love May Contribute To The Explanation Of His Character:

 

 

 

  Love Various Minds Does Variously Inspire;

  It Stirs In gentle Bosoms Gentle Fire,

  Like That Of Incense On The Altar Laid;

  But Raging flames Tempestuous Souls Invade:

 

 

 

  A Fire Which Ev'Ry Windy Passion Blows,

  With Pride It Mounts, Or With Revenge It Glows.

 

 

 

Dryden'S Was Not One Of The "Gentle Bosoms:" Love, As It Subsists In

Itself, With No Tendency But To The Person Loved, And Wishing only For

Correspondent Kindness; Such Love As Shuts Out All Other Interest; The

Love Of The Golden Age, Was Too Soft And Subtile To Put His Faculties In

Motion. He Hardly Conceived it But In its Turbulent Effervescence With

Some Other Desires; When It Was Inflamed by Rivalry, Or Obstructed by

Difficulties: When It Invigorated ambition, Or Exasperated revenge.

 

 

 

He Is, Therefore, With All His Variety Of Excellence, Not Often

Pathetick; And Had So Little Sensibility Of The Power Of Effusions Purely

Natural, That He Did Not Esteem Them In others. Simplicity Gave Him No

Pleasure; And, For The First Part Of His Life, He Looked on Otway With

Contempt, Though, At Last, Indeed very Late, He Confessed that In his

Play "There Was Nature, Which Is The Chief Beauty."

 

 

 

We Do Not Always Know Our Own Motives. I Am Not Certain Whether It Was

Not Rather The Difficulty Which He Found In exhibiting the Genuine

Operations Of The Heart, Than A Servile Submission To An Injudicious

Audience, That Filled his Plays With False Magnificence. It Was Necessary

To Fix Attention; And The Mind Can Be Captivated only By Recollection,

Or By Curiosity; By Reviving natural Sentiments, Or Impressing new

Appearances Of Things. Sentences Were Readier At His Call Than Images; He

Could More Easily Fill The Ear With Some Splendid Novelty, Than Awaken

Those Ideas That Slumber In the Heart.

 

 

 

The Favourite Exercise Of His Mind Was Ratiocination; And, That Argument

Might Not Be Too Soon At An End, He Delighted to Talk Of Liberty And

Necessity, Destiny And Contingence; These He Discusses In the Language Of

The School With So Much Profundity, That The Terms Which He Uses Are Not

Always Understood. It Is, Indeed, Learning, But Learning out Of Place.

 

 

 

When Once He Had Engaged himself In disputation, Thoughts Flowed in on

Either Side: He Was Now No Longer At A Loss; He Had Always Objections And

Solutions At Command; "Verbaque Provisam Rem"--Give Him Matter For His

Verse, And He Finds, Without Difficulty, Verse For His Matter.

 

 

 

In Comedy, For Which He Professes Himself Not Naturally Qualified, The

Mirth Which He Excites Will, Perhaps, Not Be Found So Much To Arise From

Any Original Humour, Or Peculiarity Of Character Nicely Distinguished and

Diligently Pursued, As From Incidents And Circumstances, Artifices And

Surprises; From Jests Of Action Rather Than Of Sentiment. What He Had Of

Humorous Or Passionate, He Seems To Have Had Not From Nature, But From

Other Poets; If Not Always As A Plagiary, At Least As An Imitator.

 

 

 

Next To Argument, His Delight Was In wild And Daring sallies Of

Sentiment, In the Irregular And Eccentrick Violence Of Wit. He Delighted

To Tread Upon The Brink Of