Lives Of The Poets, Vol. 1 (fiscle part-III), Samuel Johnson [good summer reads .TXT] 📗
- Author: Samuel Johnson
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Describing an Undisciplined army, After Having said With Elegance,
His Forces Seem'D No Army, But A Crowd
Heartless, Unarm'D, Disorderly, And Loud,
He Gives Them A Fit Of The Ague.
The Allusions, However, Are Not Always To Vulgar Things; He Offends By
Exaggeration, As Much As By Diminution:
The King was Plac'D Alone, And O'Er His Head
A Well-Wrought Heaven Of Silk And Gold Was Spread.
Whatever He Writes Is Always Polluted with Some Conceit:
Where The Sun'S Fruitful Beams Give Metals Birth,
Where He The Growth Of Fatal Gold Doth See,
Gold, Which Alone More Influence Has Than He.
In One Passage He Starts A Sudden Question, To The Confusion Of
Philosophy:
Ye Learned heads, Whom Ivy Garlands Grace,
Why Does That Twining plant The Oak Embrace;
The Oak, For Courtship Most Of All Unfit,
And Rough As Are The Winds That Fight With It?
His Expressions Have, Sometimes, A Degree Of Meanness That Surpasses
Expectation:
Nay, Gentle Guests, He Cries, Since Now You'Re In,
The Story Of Your Gallant Friend Begin.
In A Simile Descriptive Of The Morning:
As Glimm'Ring stars Just At Th' Approach Of Day,
Cashier'D By Troops, At Last Drop All Away.
The Dress Of Gabriel Deserves Attention:
He Took For Skin A Cloud Most Soft And Bright,
That E'Er The Mid-Day Sun Pierc'D Through With Light;
Upon His Cheeks A Lively Blush He Spread,
Wash'D From The Morning beauties' Deepest Red;
An Harmless Flatt'Ring meteor Shone For Hair,
And Fell Adown His Shoulders With Loose Care;
He Cuts Out A Silk Mantle From The Skies,
Where The Most Sprightly Azure Pleas'D The Eyes;
This He With Starry Vapours Sprinkles All,
Took In their Prime Ere They Grow Ripe And Fall;
Of A New Rainbow, Ere It Fret Or Fade,
The Choicest Piece Cut Out, A Scarf Is Made.
This Is A Just Specimen Of Cowley'S Imagery: What Might, In general
Expressions, Be Great And Forcible, He Weakens And Makes Ridiculous
By Branching it Into Small Parts. That Gabriel Was Invested with The
Softest Or Brightest Colours Of The Sky, We Might Have Been Told, And
Been Dismissed to Improve The Idea In our Different Proportions Of
Conception; But Cowley Could Not Let Us Go, Till He Had Related where
Gabriel Got First His Skin, And Then His Mantle, Then His Lace, And Then
His Scarf, And Related it In the Terms Of The Mercer And Tailor.
Sometimes He Indulges Himself In a Digression, Always Conceived with His
Natural Exuberance, And Commonly, Even Where It Is Not Long, Continued
Till It Is Tedious.
I' Th' Library A Few Choice Authors Stood,
Yet 'Twas Well Stor'D, For That Small Store Was Good;
Writing, Man'S Spiritual Physick, Was Not Then
Itself, As Now, Grown A Disease Of Men.
Learning (Young Virgin) But Few Suitors Knew;
The Common Prostitute She Lately Grew,
And With The Spurious Brood Loads Now The Press;
Laborious Effects Of Idleness.
As The Davideis Affords Only Four Books, Though Intended to Consist
Of Twelve, There Is No Opportunity For Such Criticism As Epick Poems
Commonly Supply. The Plan Of The Whole Work Is Very Imperfectly Shown By
The Third Part. The Duration Of An Unfinished action Cannot Be Known. Of
Characters, Either Not Yet Introduced, Or Shown But Upon Few Occasions,
The Full Extent And The Nice Discriminations Cannot Be Ascertained. The
Fable Is Plainly Implex, Formed rather From The Odyssey Than The Iliad;
And Many Artifices Of Diversification Are Employed, With The Skill Of A
Man Acquainted with The Best Models. The Past Is Recalled by Narration,
And The Future Anticipated by Vision: But He Has Been So Lavish Of His
Poetical Art, That It Is Difficult To Imagine How He Could Fill Eight
Books More Without Practising again The Same Modes Of Disposing his
Matter; And, Perhaps, The Perception Of This Growing incumbrance
Inclined him To Stop. By This Abruption Posterity Lost More Instruction
Than Delight. If The Continuation Of The Davideis Can Be Missed, It Is
For The Learning that Had Been Diffused over It, And The Notes In which
It Had Been Explained.
Had Not His Characters Been Depraved, Like Every Other Part, By Improper
Decorations, They Would Have Deserved uncommon Praise. He Gives Saul
Both The Body And Mind Of A Hero:
His Way Once Chose, He Forward Thrust Outright,
Nor Turn'D Aside For Danger Or Delight.
And The Different Beauties Of The Lofty Merah And The Gentle Michol, Are
Very Justly Conceived and Strongly Painted.
Rymer Has Declared the Davideis Superiour To The Jerusalem Of Tasso;
"Which," Says He, "The Poet, With All His Care, Has Not Totally Purged
From Pedantry." If By Pedantry Is Meant That Minute Knowledge Which
Is Derived from Particular Sciences And Studies, In opposition To The
General Notions Supplied by A Wide Survey Of Life And Nature, Cowley
Certainly Errs, By Introducing pedantry Far More Frequently Than Tasso.
I Know Not, Indeed, Why They Should Be Compared; For The Resemblance Of
Cowley'S Work To Tasso'S Is Only That They Both Exhibit The Agency Of
Celestial And Infernal Spirits, In which, However, They Differ
Widely; For Cowley Supposes Them Commonly To Operate Upon The Mind By
Suggestion; Tasso Represents Them As Promoting or Obstructing events By
External Agency.
Of Particular Passages That Can Be Properly Compared, I Remember Only
The Description Of Heaven, In which The Different Manner Of The Two
Writers Is Sufficiently Discernible. Cowley'S Is Scarcely Description,
Unless It Be Possible To Describe By Negatives: For He Tells Us
Only What There Is Not In heaven. Tasso Endeavours To Represent The
Splendours And Pleasures Of The Regions Of Happiness. Tasso Affords
Images, And Cowley Sentiments. It Happens, However, That Tasso'S
Description Affords Some Reason For Rymer'S Censure. He Says Of The
Supreme Being,
Ha Sotto I Piedi E Fato E La Natura,
Ministri Umili, E'L Moto, E Chi'L Misura.
The Second Line Has In it More Of Pedantry Than, Perhaps, Can Be Found
In Any Other Stanza Of The Poem.
In The Perusal Of The Davideis, As Of All Cowley'S Works, We Find Wit
And Learning unprofitably Squandered. Attention Has No Relief; The
Affections Are Never Moved: We Are Sometimes Surprised, But Never
Delighted; And Find Much To Admire, But Little To Approve. Still,
However, It Is The Work Of Cowley; Of A Mind Capacious By Nature, And
Replenished by Study.
In The General Review Of Cowley'S Poetry It Will Be Found, That He Wrote
With Abundant Fertility, But Negligent Or Unskilful Selection; With Much
Thought, But With Little Imagery; That He Is Never Pathetick, And
Rarely Sublime; But Always Either Ingenious Or Learned, Either Acute Or
Profound.
It Is Said By Denham, In his Elegy,
To Him No Author Was Unknown,
Yet What He Writ Was All His Own.
This Wide Position Requires Less Limitation, When It Is Affirmed of
Cowley, Than, Perhaps, Of Any Other Poet.--He Read Much, And Yet
Borrowed little.
His Character Of Writing was, Indeed, Not His Own: He Unhappily Adopted
That Which Was Predominant. He Saw A Certain Way To Present Praise; And,
Not Sufficiently Inquiring by What Means The Ancients Have Continued to
Delight Through All The Changes Of Human Manners, He Contented himself
With A Deciduous Laurel, Of Which The Verdure, In its Spring, Was Bright
And Gay, But Which Time Has Been Continually Stealing from His Brows.
He Was, In his Own Time, Considered as Of Unrivalled excellence.
Clarendon Represents Him As Having taken A Flight Beyond All That Went
Before Him; And Milton Is Said To Have Declared, That The Three Greatest
English Poets Were Spenser, Shakespeare, And Cowley.
His Manner He Had In common With Others; But His Sentiments Were His
Own. Upon Every Subject He Thought For Himself; And Such Was His
Copiousness Of Knowledge, That Something at Once Remote And Applicable
Rushed into His Mind; Yet It Is Not Likely That He Always Rejected a
Commodious Idea Merely Because Another Had Used it: His Known Wealth Was
So Great, That He Might Have Borrowed without Loss Of Credit.
In His Elegy On Sir Henry Wotton, The Last Lines Have Such Resemblance
To The Noble Epigram Of Grotius On The Death Of Scaliger, That I Cannot
But Think Them Copied from It, Though They Are Copied by No Servile
Hand.
One Passage In his Mistress Is So Apparently Borrowed from Donne, That
He Probably Would Not Have Written It, Had It Not Mingled with His Own
Thoughts, So As That He Did Not Perceive Himself Taking it From Another:
Although I Think Thou Never Found Wilt Be,
Yet I'M Resolv'D To Search For Thee:
The Search Itself Rewards The Pains.
So, Though The Chymic His Great Secret Miss
(For Neither It In art Or Nature Is,)
Yet Things Well Worth His Toil He Gains;
And Does His Charge And Labour Pay
With Good Unsought Experiments By The Way. Cowley.
Some That Have Deeper Digg'D Love'S Mine Than I,
Say, Where His Centric Happiness Doth Lie:
I Have Lov'D, And Got, And Told;
But Should I Love, Get, Tell, Till I Were Old;
I Should Not Find That Hidden Mystery;
Oh, 'Tis Imposture All!
And As No Chymic Yet Th' Elixir Got,
But Glorifies His Pregnant Pot,
If By The Way To Him Befall
Some Odoriferous Thing, Or Medicinal,
So Lovers Dream A Rich And Long Delight,
But Get A Winter-Seeming summer'S Night. Donne.
Jonson And Donne, As Dr. Hurd Remarks, Were Then In the Highest Esteem.
It Is Related by Clarendon, That Cowley Always Acknowledges His
Obligation To The Learning and Industry Of Jonson; But I Have Found No
Traces Of Jonson In his Works: To Emulate Donne Appears To Have Been
His Purpose; And From Donne He May Have Learned that Familiarity With
Religious Images, And That Light Allusion To Sacred things, By Which
Readers Far Short Of Sanctity Are Frequently Offended; And Which Would
Not Be Borne, In the Present Age, When Devotion, Perhaps, Not More
Fervent, Is More Delicate.
Having produced one Passage Taken By Cowley From Donne, I Will
Recompense Him By Another Which Milton Seems To Have Borrowed from Him.
He Says Of Goliah:
His Spear, The Trunk Was Of A Lofty Tree,
Which Nature Meant Some Tall Ship'S Mast Should Be.
Milton Of Satan:
His Spear, To Equal Which The Tallest Pine
Hewn On Norwegian Hills, To Be The Mast
Of Some Great Admiral, Were But A Wand,
He Walked with.
His Diction Was, In his Own Time, Censured as Negligent. He Seems Not To
Have Known, Or Not To Have Considered, That Words, Being arbitrary, Must
Owe Their Power To Association, And Have The Influence, And That Only,
Which Custom Has Given Them. Language Is The Dress Of Thought: And,
As The Noblest Mien, Or Most Graceful Action, Would Be Degraded and
Obscured by A Garb Appropriated to The Gross Employments Of Rusticks Or
Mechanicks; So The Most Heroick Sentiments Will Lose Their Efficacy, And
The Most Splendid Ideas Drop Their Magnificence, If They Are Conveyed by
Words Used commonly Upon Low And Trivial Occasions, Debased by Vulgar
Mouths, And Contaminated by Inelegant Applications.
Truth, Indeed, Is Always Truth, And Reason Is Always Reason; They Have
An Intrinsick And Unalterable Value, And Constitute That Intellectual
Gold Which Defies Destruction; But Gold May Be So Concealed in baser
Matter, That Only A Chymist Can Recover It; Sense May Be So Hidden In
Unrefined and Plebeian Words, That None But Philosophers Can Distinguish
It; And Both May Be So Buried in impurities, As Not To Pay The Cost Of
Their Extraction.
The Diction, Being the Vehicle Of The Thoughts, First Presents Itself To
The Intellectual Eye; And, If The First Appearance Offends, A Further
Knowledge Is Not Often Sought. Whatever Professes To Benefit By
Pleasing, Must Please At Once. The Pleasures Of The Mind Imply Something
Sudden And Unexpected; That Which Elevates Must Always Surprise. What
Is Perceived by Slow Degrees May Gratify Us With The Consciousness Of
Improvement, But Will Never Strike With The Sense Of Pleasure.
Of All This, Cowley Appears To Have Been Without Knowledge, Or Without
Care. He Makes No Selection Of Words, Nor Seeks Any Neatness Of Phrase:
He Has No Elegancies, Either Lucky Or Elaborate: As His Endeavours Were
Rather To Impress Sentences Upon The Understanding than Images On
The Fancy, He Has Few Epithets, And Those Scattered without Peculiar
Propriety Or Nice Adaptation. It Seems To Follow From The Necessity Of
The Subject, Rather Than The Care Of The Writer, That The Diction Of His
Heroick Poem Is Less Familiar Than That Of His Slightest Writings. He
Has Given Not The Same Numbers, But The Same Diction, To The Gentle
Anacreon And The Tempestuous Pindar.
His Versification Seems To Have Had Very Little Of His Care; And, If
What He Thinks Be True, That His Numbers Are Unmusical Only When They
Are Ill Read, The Art Of
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