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

May Make Grey Authors Blush. There Are Many Of His First Essays In

Oratory, In epigram, Elegy, And Epick, Still Handed about The University

In Manuscript, Which Show A Masterly Hand; And, Though Maimed and Injured

By Frequent Transcribing, Make Their Way Into Our Most Celebrated

Miscellanies, Where They Shine With Uncommon Lustre. Besides Those Verses

In The Oxford Books, Which He Could Not Help Setting his Name To, Several

Of His Compositions Came Abroad Under Other Names, Which His Own Singular

Modesty, And Faithful Silence, Strove In vain To Conceal. The Encaenia

And Publick Collections Of The University Upon State Subjects, Were

Never In such Esteem, Either For Elegy Or Congratulation, As When He

Contributed most Largely To Them; And It Was Natural For Those Who Knew

His Peculiar Way Of Writing, To Turn To His Share In the Work, As By

Far The Most Relishing part Of The Entertainment. As His Parts Were

Extraordinary, So He Well Knew How To Improve Them; And Not Only To

Polish The Diamond, But Enchase It In the Most Solid And Durable Metal.

Though He Was An Academick The Greatest Part Of His Life, Yet He

Contracted no Sourness Of Temper, No Spice Of Pedantry, No Itch Of

Disputation, Or Obstinate Contention For The Old Or New Philosophy, No

Assuming way Of Dictating to Others, Which Are Faults (Though Excusable)

Which Some Are Insensibly Led into, Who Are Constrained to Dwell Long

Within The Walls Of A Private College. His Conversation Was Pleasant And

Instructive, And What Horace Said Of Plotius, Varius, And Virgil, Might

Justly Be Applied to Him:

 

 

 

  Nil Ego Contulerim Jucundo Sanus Amico. Sat. V. L. 1.

 

 

 

As Correct A Writer As He Was In his Most Elaborate Pieces, He Read The

Works Of Others With Candour, And Reserved his Greatest Severity For His

Own Compositions; Being readier To Cherish And Advance, Than Damp Or

Depress A Rising genius, And As Patient Of Being excelled himself (If Any

Could Excel Him) As Industrious To Excel Others.

 

 

 

'Twere To Be Wished he Had Confined himself To A Particular Profession,

Who Was Capable Of Surpassing in any; But, In this, His Want Of

Application Was, In a Great Measure, Owing to His Want Of Due

Encouragement.

 

 

 

He Passed through The Exercises Of The College And University With

Unusual Applause; And Though He Often Suffered his Friends To Call Him

Off From His Retirements, And To Lengthen Out Those Jovial Avocations,

Yet His Return To His Studies Was So Much The More Passionate, And

His Intention Upon Those Refined pleasures Of Reading and Thinking

So Vehement, (To Which His Facetious And Unbended intervals Bore No

Proportion,) That The Habit Grew Upon Him; And The Series Of Meditation

And Reflection Being kept Up Whole Weeks Together, He Could Better Sort

His Ideas, And Take In the Sundry Parts Of A Science At One View, Without

Interruption Or Confusion. Some, Indeed, Of His Acquaintance, Who Were

Pleased to Distinguish Between The Wit And The Scholar, Extolled him

Altogether On The Account Of The First Of These Titles; But Others, Who

Knew Him Better, Could Not Forbear Doing him Justice As A Prodigy In both

Kinds. He Had Signalized himself, In the Schools, As A Philosopher And

Polemick Of Extensive Knowledge And Deep Penetration; And Went Through

All The Courses With A Wise Regard To The Dignity And Importance Of Each

Science.

 

 

 

I Remember Him In the Divinity School Responding and Disputing with A

Perspicuous Energy, A Ready Exactness, And Commanding force Of Argument,

When Dr. Jane Worthily Presided in the Chair; Whose Condescending and

Disinterested commendation Of Him Gave Him Such A Reputation, As

Silenced the Envious Malice Of His Enemies, Who Durst Not Contradict

The Approbation Of So Profound A Master In theology. None Of Those

Self-Sufficient Creatures, Who Have Either Trifled with Philosophy, By

Attempting to Ridicule It, Or Have Encumbered it With Novel Terms And

Burdensome Explanations, Understood Its Real Weight And Purity Half So

Well As Mr. Smith. He Was Too Discerning to Allow Of The Character Of

Unprofitable, Rugged, And Abstruse, Which Some Superficial Sciolists, (So

Very Smooth And Polite, As To Admit Of No Impression,) Either Out Of An

Unthinking indolence, Or An Ill-Grounded prejudice, Had Affixed to This

Sort Of Studies. He Knew The Thorny Terms Of Philosophy Served well To

Fence In the True Doctrines Of Religion; And Looked upon School-Divinity

As Upon A Rough But Well-Wrought Armour, Which Might At Once Adorn And

Defend The Christian Hero, And Equip Him For The Combat.

 

 

 

Mr. Smith Had A Long And Perfect Intimacy With All The Greek And Latin

Classicks; With Whom He Had Carefully Compared whatever Was Worth

Perusing in the French, Spanish, And Italian, (To Which Languages He Was

No Stranger,) And In all The Celebrated writers Of His Own Country.

But Then, According to The Curious Observation Of The Late Earl Of

Shaftesbury, He Kept The Poet In awe By Regular Criticism; And, As It

Were, Married the Two Arts For Their Mutual Support And Improvement.

There Was Not A Tract Of Credit, Upon That Subject, Which He Had Not

Diligently Examined, From Aristotle Down To Hedelin And Bossu; So That,

Having each Rule Constantly Before Him, He Could Carry The Art Through

Every Poem, And At Once Point Out The Graces And Deformities. By This

Means He Seemed to Read With A Design To Correct, As Well As Imitate.

 

 

 

Being thus Prepared, He Could Not But Taste Every Little Delicacy That

Was Set Before Him; Though It Was Impossible For Him, At The Same Time,

To Be Fed and Nourished with Any Thing but What Was Substantial And

Lasting. He Considered the Ancients And Moderns Not As Parties Or Rivals

For Fame, But As Architects Upon One And The Same Plan, The Art Of

Poetry; According to Which He Judged, Approved, And Blamed, Without

Flattery Or Detraction. If He Did Not Always Commend The Compositions Of

Others, It Was Not Ill-Nature, (Which Was Not In his Temper,) But Strict

Justice, That Would Not Let Him Call A Few Flowers Set In ranks, A Glib

Measure, And So Many Couplets, By The Name Of Poetry: He Was Of Ben

Jonson'S Opinion, Who Could Not Admire

 

 

 

  Verses As Smooth And Soft As Cream,

  In which There Was Neither Depth Nor Stream.

 

 

 

And, Therefore, Though His Want Of Complaisance For Some Men'S

Overbearing vanity Made Him Enemies, Yet The Better Part Of Mankind Were

Obliged by The Freedom Of His Reflections.

 

 

 

His Bodleian Speech, Though Taken From A Remote And Imperfect Copy, Hath

Shown The World How Great A Master He Was Of The Ciceronian Eloquence,

Mixed with The Conciseness And Force Of Demosthenes, The Elegant And

Moving turns Of Pliny, And The Acute And Wise Reflections Of Tacitus.

 

 

 

Since Temple And Roscommon, No Man Understood Horace Better, Especially

As To His Happy Diction, Rolling numbers, Beautiful Imagery, And

Alternate Mixture Of The Soft And The Sublime. This Endeared dr. Hannes'S

Odes To Him, The Finest Genius For Latin Lyrick Since The Augustan Age.

His Friend Mr. Philips'S Ode To Mr. St. John, (Late Lord Bolingbroke,)

After The Manner Of Horace'S Lusory Or Amatorian Odes, Is Certainly A

Masterpiece; But Mr. Smith'S Pocockius Is Of The Sublimer Kind, Though,

Like Waller'S Writings Upon Oliver Cromwell, It Wants Not The Most

Delicate And Surprising turns Peculiar To The Person Praised. I Do Not

Remember To Have Seen Any Thing like It In dr. Bathurst[125], Who Had

Made Some Attempts This Way With Applause. He Was An Excellent Judge Of

Humanity; And So Good An Historian, That In familiar Discourse He Would

Talk Over The Most Memorable Facts In antiquity, The Lives, Actions, And

Characters Of Celebrated men, With Amazing facility And Accuracy. As He

Had Thoroughly Read And Digested thuanus'S Works, So He Was Able To Copy

After Him; And His Talent In this Kind Was So Well Known And Allowed,

That He Had Been Singled out, By Some Great Men, To Write A History,

Which It Was For Their Interest To Have Done With The Utmost Art And

Dexterity. I Shall Not Mention For What Reasons This Design Was Dropped,

Though They Are Very Much To Mr. Smith'S Honour. The Truth Is, And I

Speak It Before Living witnesses, Whilst An Agreeable Company Could

Fix Him Upon A Subject Of Useful Literature, Nobody Shone To Greater

Advantage; He Seemed to Be That Memmius Whom Lucretius Speaks Of:

 

 

 

  Quem Tu, Dea, Tempore In omni

  Omnibus Ornatum Voluisti Excellere Rebus.

 

 

 

His Works Are Not Many, And Those Scattered up And Down In miscellanies

And Collections, Being wrested from Him By His Friends With Great

Difficulty And Reluctance. All Of Them Together Make But A Small Part Of

That Much Greater Body Which Lies Dispersed in the Possession Of Numerous

Acquaintance; And Cannot, Perhaps, Be Made Entire Without Great Injustice

To Him, Because Few Of Them Had His Last Hand, And The Transcriber Was

Often Obliged to Take The Liberties Of A Friend. His Condolence For The

Death Of Mr. Philips Is Full Of The Noblest Beauties, And Hath Done

Justice To The Ashes Of That Second Milton, Whose Writings Will Last As

Long As The English Language, Generosity, And Valour. For Him Mr. Smith

Had Contracted a Perfect Friendship; A Passion He Was Most Susceptible

Of, And Whose Laws He Looked upon As Sacred and Inviolable.

 

 

 

Every Subject That Passed under His Pen Had All The Life, Proportion,

And Embellishments Bestowed on It, Which An Exquisite Skill, A Warm

Imagination, And A Cool Judgment, Possibly Could Bestow On It. The Epick,

Lyrick, Elegiack, Every Sort Of Poetry He Touched upon, (And He Had

Touched upon A Great Variety,) Was Raised to Its Proper Height, And The

Differences Between Each Of Them Observed with A Judicious Accuracy. We

Saw The Old Rules And New Beauties Placed in admirable Order By Each

Other; And There Was A Predominant Fancy And Spirit Of His Own Infused,

Superiour To What Some Draw Off From The Ancients, Or From Poesies Here

And There Culled out Of The Moderns, By A Painful Industry And Servile

Imitation. His Contrivances Were Adroit And Magnificent; His Images

Lively And Adequate; His Sentiments Charming and Majestick; His

Expressions Natural And Bold; His Numbers Various And Sounding; And

That Enamelled mixture Of Classical Wit, Which, Without Redundance And

Affectation, Sparkled through His Writings, And Was No Less Pertinent And

Agreeable.

 

 

 

His Phaedra Is A Consummate Tragedy, And The Success Of It Was As Great

As The Most Sanguine Expectations Of His Friends Could Promise Or

Foresee. The Number Of Nights, And The Common Method Of Filling the

House, Are Not Always The Surest Marks Of Judging what Encouragement A

Play Meets With; But The Generosity Of All The Persons Of A Refined taste

About Town Was Remarkable On This Occasion; And It Must Not Be Forgotten

How Zealously Mr. Addison Espoused his Interest, With All The Elegant

Judgment And Diffusive Good-Nature For Which That Accomplished gentleman

And Author Is So Justly Valued by Mankind. But As To Phaedra, She Has

Certainly Made A Finer Figure Under Mr. Smith'S Conduct, Upon The English

Stage, Than Either In rome Or Athens; And If She Excels The Greek And

Latin Phaedra, I Need not Say She Surpasses The French One, Though

Embellished with Whatever Regular Beauties And Moving softness Racine

Himself Could Give Her.

 

 

 

No Man Had A Juster Notion Of The Difficulty Of Composing than Mr. Smith;

And He Sometimes Would Create Greater Difficulties Than He Had Reason

To Apprehend. Writing with Ease, What (As Mr. Wycherley Speaks) May

Be Easily Written, Moved his Indignation. When He Was Writing upon A

Subject, He Would Seriously Consider What Demosthenes, Homer, Virgil,

Or Horace, If Alive, Would Say Upon That Occasion, Which Whetted him To

Exceed himself, As Well As Others. Nevertheless, He Could Not, Or Would

Not, Finish Several Subjects He Undertook; Which May Be Imputed either

To The Briskness Of His Fancy, Still Hunting after New Matter, Or To An

Occasional Indolence, Which Spleen And Lassitude Brought Upon Him, Which,

Of All His Foibles, The World Was Least Inclined to Forgive. That This

Was Not Owing to Conceit And Vanity, Or A Fulness Of Himself, (A Frailty

Which Has Been Imputed to No Less Men Than Shakespeare And Jonson,) Is

Clear From Hence; Because He Left His Works To The Entire Disposal Of

His Friends, Whose Most Rigorous Censures He Even Courted and Solicited,

Submitting to Their Animadversions, And The Freedom They Took With Them,

With An Unreserved and Prudent Resignation.

 

 

 

I Have Seen Sketches And Rough Draughts Of Some Poems He Designed, Set

Out Analytically; Wherein The Fable, Structure, And Connexion, The

Images, Incidents, Moral Episodes, And A Great Variety Of Ornaments, Were

So Finely Laid Out, So Well Fitted to The Rules Of Art, And Squared so

Exactly To The Precedents Of The Ancients, That I Have Often Looked on

These Poetical Elements With The Same Concern With Which Curious Men Are

Affected at The Sight Of The Most Entertaining remains And Ruins