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  THE

  WORKS

  OF

  RICHARD HURD, D.D.

  LORD BISHOP OF WORCESTER.

  VOL. I.

  Printed by J. Nichols and Son,
  Red Lion Passage, Fleet Street, London.

[Illustration: The Right Reverend RICHARD HURD, D. D. Lord Bishop of
Worcester.

  T. Gainsborough pinx.         J. Hall sculp.

From the Original Picture in the Possession of her Majesty.

_Published March 1^{st}. 1811. by T. Cadell & W. Davies, Strand,
London._]




  THE

  WORKS

  OF

  RICHARD HURD, D. D.

  LORD BISHOP OF WORCESTER.

  IN EIGHT VOLUMES.

  VOL. I.

  [Illustration]

  LONDON:

  PRINTED FOR T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND.
  1811.




  DATES

  OF SOME OCCURRENCES

  IN THE

  LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.


    _The following Particulars, in the Author’s own hand-writing,
    and endorsed by him—“Some Occurrences in my Life. R. W.”—were
    found amongst his papers after his decease._




DATES

_Of some Occurrences in my own Life_.


[Sidenote: A. D.]

[Sidenote: 1719-20]

Richard Hurd was born at Congreve, in the Parish of Penkrich, in the
County of Stafford, January 13, 1719-20.

He was the second of three children, all sons, of John and Hannah Hurd;
plain, honest, and good people; of whom he can truly say with the poet—

    _Si natura juberet, &c._

They rented a considerable farm at Congreve, when he was born; but soon
after removed to a larger at Penford, about half way between Brewood
and Wolverhampton in the same County.

There being a good Grammar School at Brewood, he was educated there
under the Reverend Mr. Hillman, and, upon his death, under his
successor, the Reverend Mr. Budworth—both well qualified for their
office, and both very kind to him.

Mr. Budworth had been Master of the School at Rudgely; where he
continued two years after his election to Brewood, while the
School-house, which had been much neglected, was repairing. He was
therefore sent to Rudgely immediately on Mr. Budworth’s appointment to
Brewood, returned with him to this place, and continued under his care,
till he went to the University.

He must add one word more of his _second_ Master. He knew him well,
when he afterwards was of an age to judge of his merits. He had been a
scholar of the famous Mr. Blackwell of Derby, and afterwards bred at
Christ’s College in Cambridge, where he resided till he had taken his
M. A.’s degree. He understood Greek and Latin well, and had a true taste
of the best writers in those languages. He was, besides, a polite,
well-bred man, and singularly attentive to the _manners_, in every
sense of the word, of his scholars. He had a warm sense of virtue and
religion, and enforced both with a natural and taking eloquence. How
happy, to have had such a man, first, for his school-master, and then
for his friend.

[Sidenote: 1733]

Under so good direction, he was thought fit for the University, and was
accordingly admitted in Emanuel College, in Cambridge, October 3, 1733,
but did not go to reside there till a year or two afterwards.

In this college, he was happy in receiving the countenance, and in
being permitted to attend the Lectures, of that excellent Tutor, Mr.
Henry Hubbard, although he had been admitted under another person.

[Sidenote: 1738-9]

He took his B. A.’s degree in 1738-9.

[Sidenote: 1742]

He took his M. A.’s degree, and was elected fellow in 1742.

Was ordained Deacon, 13th of June that year in St. Paul’s Cathedral,
London, by Dr. Jos. Butler, Bishop of Bristol and Dean of St. Paul’s,
on Letters Dimissory from Dr. Gooch, Bishop of Norwich.

[Sidenote: 1744]

Was ordained Priest, 20 May 1744 in the Chapel of Gonville and Caius
College, Cambridge, by the Bishop of Norwich, Dr. Gooch.

[Sidenote: 1749]

He took his B. D.’s degree in 1749.

[Sidenote: 1750]

He published the same year Remarks on Mr. Weston’s book on the
_Rejection of Heathen Miracles_, and his Commentary on Horace’s _Ars
Poetica_; which last book introduced him to the acquaintance of Mr.
Warburton, by whose recommendation to the Bishop of London, Dr.
Sherlock, he was appointed Whitehall Preacher in May 1750.

[Sidenote: 1751]

He published the Commentary on the Epistle to Augustus in 1751.

[Sidenote: 1753]

—the new edition of both Comments, with Dedication to Mr. Warburton, in
1753.

[Sidenote: 1755]

—the Dissertation on the Delicacy of Friendship in 1755.

His Father died Nov. 27 this year, æt. 70.

[Sidenote: 1757]

He published the Remarks on Hume’s Natural History of Religion in 1757.

Was instituted this year, Feb. 16, to the Rectory of Thurcaston, in the
County of Leicester, on the presentation of Emanuel College.

[Sidenote: 1759]

He published Moral and Political Dialogues 1759.

[Sidenote: 1762]

He had the Sine-cure Rectory of Folkton, near Bridlington, Yorkshire,
given him by the Lord Chancellor (Earl of Northington) on the
recommendation of Mr. Allen, of Prior Park, near Bath, November 2, 1762.

He published the Letters on Chivalry and Romance this year.

[Sidenote: 1763]

—Dialogues on Foreign Travel in 1763.

[Sidenote: 1764]

And Letter to Dr. Leland of Dublin in 1764.

[Sidenote: 1765]

He was made Preacher of Lincoln’s Inn, on the recommendation of Mr.
Charles Yorke, &c. November 6, 1765.

[Sidenote: 1767]

Was collated to the Archdeaconry of Gloucester, on the death of Dr.
Geekie, by the Bishop, August 27, 1767.

[Sidenote: 1768]

Was appointed to open the Lecture of Bishop Warburton on Prophecy in
1768.

He took the degree of D. D. at Cambridge Commencement this year.

[Sidenote: 1772]

He published the Sermons on Prophecy in 1772.

[Sidenote: 1773]

His Mother died Feb. 27, 1773, æt. 88.

[Sidenote: 1775]

He was consecrated Bishop of Lichfield and Coventry, the 12th of
February 1775.

[Sidenote: 1776]

He published the 1st Volume of Sermons preached at Lincoln’s Inn, 1776.

And was made Preceptor to the Prince of Wales and his brother Prince
Frederick, the 5th of June the same year.

Preached before the Lords, December 13, 1776, first Fast for the war.

[Sidenote: 1779]

He lost his old and best friend, Bishop Warburton, June 7th, 1779.

[Sidenote: 1780]

He published the 2d and 3d Volumes of Sermons in 1780.

These three Volumes were published at the desire of the Bench of
Lincoln’s Inn.

[Sidenote: 1781]

He was elected Member of the Royal Society of Gottingen, January 11,
1781.

The Bishop of Winchester [Dr. Thomas] died Tuesday, May 1, 1781.
Received a gracious letter from his Majesty the next morning, by a
special messenger from Windsor, with the offer of the See of Worcester,
in the room of Bishop North, to be translated to Winchester, and of the
Clerkship of the Closet, in the room of the late Bishop of Winchester.

On his arrival at Hartlebury Castle in July that year, resolved to put
the Castle into complete order, and to build a Library, which was much
wanted.

[Sidenote: 1782]

The Library was finished in 1782 and furnished with a collection of
books, late Bishop Warburton’s, and ordered by his Will to be sold, and
the value given to the Infirmary at Gloucester

[Sidenote: 1783]

To these, other considerable additions have been since made.

Archbishop Cornwallis died in 1783.

Had the offer of the Archbishoprick from his Majesty, with many
gracious expressions, and pressed to accept it; but humbly begged leave
to decline it, as a charge not suited to his temper and talents, and
much too heavy for him to sustain, especially in these times.

The King was pleased not to take offence at this freedom, and then to
enter with him into some confidential conversation on the subject. It
was offered to the Bishop of London, Dr. Lowth, and refused by him, as
was foreseen, on account of his ill health. It was then given to Dr.
Moore, Bishop of Bangor.

[Sidenote: 1784]

Added a considerable number of books to the new Library at Hartlebury
in 1784.

[Sidenote: 1785]

Confirmed Prince Edward [their Majesties’ 4th son] in the Chapel of
Windsor Castle, May 14th, 1785.

Added more books to the Library this year. And put the last hand (at
least he thinks so) to the Bishop of Gloucester’s Life, to be prefixed
to the new edition of his works now in the press.

Confirmed Princess Augusta [their Majesties’ second daughter] in the
Chapel of Windsor Castle, Dec. the 24th this year.

Preached in the Chapel the next day (Christmas day) and administered
the Sacrament to their Majesties and the Princess Royal and Princess
Augusta.

[Sidenote: 1786]

Preached before the Lords the 30th of January 1786.

His Majesty was pleased this year to bestow a prebend of Worcester
[vacant by the death of Dr. Young] on my Chaplain, Mr. Kilvert.

Preached before their Majesties and Royal Family in the Chapel of
Windsor Castle, and administered the Sacrament to them, on Christmas
day 1786.

[Sidenote: 1788]

In the end of February this year, 1788,
was published in seven volumes 4to a complete edition of the works of
Bishop Warburton. The _Life_ is omitted for the present.

March 13, 1788, a fine gold Medal was this day given me by his Majesty
at the Queen’s House.

The King’s head on one side. The Reverse was taken from a Seal of
mine[1], which his Majesty chanced to see, and approved.

The Die was cut by Mr. Burch, and the Medal designed for the annual
Prize-Dissertation on Theological Subjects in the University of
Gottingen.

[Sidenote: July 12.]

This summer the King came to Cheltenham to drink the waters, and
was attended by the Queen, the Princess Royal, and the Princesses
Augusta and Elizabeth. They arrived at Cheltenham in the evening of
Saturday July the 12th, and resided in a house of Earl Falconberg.
From Cheltenham they made excursions to several places in
Gloucestershire and Worcestershire, and were every where received
with joy by all ranks of people.

[Sidenote: Aug. 2]

On Saturday, August the second, They were pleased to visit Hartlebury,
at the distance of thirty-three miles, or more. The Duke of York
came from London to Cheltenham the day before, and was pleased to
come with them. They arrived at Hartlebury at half an hour past
eleven. Lord Courtoun, Mr. Digby (the Queen’s Vice-Chamberlain), Col.
Gwin (one of the King’s Equerries), the Countesses of Harcourt and
Courtoun, composed the suite. Their Majesties, after seeing the House,
breakfasted in the Library; and, when they had reposed themselves some
time, walked into the Garden, and took several turns on the Terrases,
especially the Green Terras in the Chapel Garden. Here they shewed
themselves to an immense croud of people, who flocked in from the
neighbourhood, and standing on the rising grounds in the Park, saw, and
were seen, to great advantage. The day being extremely bright, the shew
was agreeable and striking. About two o’clock, their Majesties, &c.
returned to Cheltenham.

[Sidenote: Aug. 5.]

On the Tuesday following, August the fifth, their Majesties, with the
three Princesses, arrived at 8 o’clock in the evening at the Bishop’s
Palace in Worcester, to attend the charitable meeting of the three
Quires of Worcester, Hereford, and Gloucester, for the benefit of the
widows and orphans of the poorer Clergy of those Dioceses; which had
been fixed, in consequence of the signification of the King’s intention
to honour that solemnity with his presence, for the 6th, 7th, and 8th
of that month.

The next morning a little before 10 o’clock, the King was pleased
to receive the compliments of the Clergy. The Bishop, in the name
of himself, Dean and Chapter and Clergy of the Church and Diocese,
addressed the King in the Great Hall, in a short speech[2], to which
his Majesty was pleased to return a gracious answer. He had then the
honour to address the Queen in a few words, to which a gracious reply
was made; and they had all the honour to kiss the King’s and Queen’s
hand.

Soon after 10, the Corporation, by their Recorder, the Earl of
Coventry, addressed and went through the same ceremony of kissing the
King’s hand. Then the King had a Levée in the Great Hall, which lasted
till 11, when their Majesties, &c. walked through the Court of the
Palace to the Cathedral, to attend divine Service and a Sermon. The
Apparitor General, 2 Sextons, 2 Virgers, and 8 Beadsmen, walked before
the King (as on great occasions they usually do before the Bishop);
the Lord in waiting (Earl of Oxford) on the King’s right hand, and the
Bishop in his lawn on the left. After the King, came the Queen and
Princesses, attended by the Countesses of Pembroke and Harcourt (Ladies
of the Bed-chamber), and the Countess of Courtown, and the rest of
their Suite. At the entrance of the Cathedral, their Majesties were
received by the Dean and Chapter in their Surplices and hoods, and
conducted to the foot of the stairs leading to their seat in a Gallery
prepared and richly furnished by the Stewards[3] for their use, at the
bottom of the Church near the West window.

The same ceremony was observed the two following days, on which they
heard sacred music, but without prayers or a sermon. On the last day
Aug. 8th, the King was pleased to give £.200 to the charity: and in the
evening attended a concert in the College Hall for the benefit of the
Stewards.

[Sidenote: Aug. 9]

On Saturday morning, Aug. 9th, the King and Queen, &c. returned to
Cheltenham.

During their Majesties’ stay at the Palace, they attended prayers in
the Chapel of the Palace every morning (except the first, when the
service was performed in the Church) which were read by the Bishop.

The King at parting was pleased to put into my hands for the poor of
the City £.50, and the Queen £.50 more; which I desired the Mayor (Mr.
Davis) to see distributed amongst them in a proper manner.

The King also left £.300 in my hands towards releasing the Debtors in
the County and City Jails.

During the three days at Worcester, the concourse of people of all
ranks was immense, and the joy universal. The weather was uncommonly
fine. And no accident of any kind interrupted the mutual satisfaction,
which was given, and received, on this occasion.

[Sidenote: Aug. 16]

On Saturday, August 16, the King and Royal Family left Cheltenham, and
returned that evening to Windsor.

[Sidenote: Nov. 1]

In the beginning of November following,

[Sidenote: 1789]

[Sidenote: Feb. 28]

the King was seized with that illness, which was so much lamented.
It continued till the end of February 1789, when his Majesty happily
recovered.

[Sidenote: Mar. 15]

Soon after I had his Majesty’s command to attend him at Kew; and on
March 15, I administered the Sacrament to his Majesty at Windsor in the
Chapel of the Castle, as also on Easter Sunday, April 12,

[Sidenote: April 12]

and preached both days.

At the Sacrament of March 15, the King was attended only by three or
four of his Gentlemen: On Easter-day, the Queen, Princess Royal, and
Princesses Augusta and Elizabeth, with several Lords and Gentlemen and
Ladies of the Court, attended the King to the Chapel, and received the
Sacrament with him.

[Sidenote: April 23]

On April 23 [St. George’s Day] a public thanksgiving for the King’s
recovery was appointed. His Majesty, the Queen, and Royal Family, with
the two Houses of Parliament, &c. went in procession to St. Paul’s. The
Bishop of London preached. I was not well enough to be there.

[Sidenote: 1790]

[Sidenote: May 28]

May 28, 1790, the Duke of Montagu died. He was a nobleman of singular
worth and virtue; of an exemplary life; and of the best principles
in Church and State. As Governor to the Prince of Wales and Prince
Frederick, he was very attentive to his charge, and executed that trust
with great propriety and dignity. The Preceptor was honoured with his
confidence: and there never was the least misunderstanding between
them; or so much as a difference of opinion as to the manner in which
the education of the Princes should be conducted.

In October 1790, I had the honour to receive from the King the present
of two fine full-length pictures of his Majesty and the Queen, copied
from those at the Queen’s House, St. James’s Park, painted by the late
Mr. Gainsborough.

These pictures are put up in the great Drawing-room at the Palace in
Worcester, and betwixt them, over the fire-place, is fixed an oval
tablet of white marble with the following Inscription in Gold Letters.

  “Hospes,
  Imagines, quas contemplaris,
  Augustorum Principum,
  Georgii III, et Charlottæ Conjugis,
  Rex ipse
  Richardo Episcopo Vigorniensi
  Donavit,
  1790.”

[Sidenote: 1791]

[Sidenote: Sept. 17]

My younger Brother, Mr. Thomas Hurd, of Birmingham, died on Saturday,
Sept. 17, 1791.

[Sidenote: 1792]

[Sidenote: Dec. 6]

My elder Brother, Mr. John Hurd, of Hatton, near Shifnal, died on
Thursday, December 6, 1792.

[Sidenote: 1793]

[Sidenote: March 20]

My noble and honoured friend, the Earl of Mansfield, died March 20,
1793.

[Sidenote: 1795]

[Sidenote: Jan. 19]

My old and much esteemed friend, Dr. Balguy, Prebendary and Archdeacon
of Winchester, died January 19, 1795.

[Sidenote: Feb. 24]

The Life of Bishop Warburton, which was sent to the press in Autumn
last, was not printed off till the end of January, nor published till
towards the end of February this year.

[Sidenote: Dec. 1]

Printed in the course of this year at the Kidderminster press a
Collection of Bishop Warburton’s Letters to me, to be published after
my death for the benefit of the Worcester Infirmary.—The edition
consisted of 250 Copies, 4to—was finished at the press in the
beginning of December.

[Sidenote: 1796]

[Sidenote: June 17 to 30]

In the Summer of 1796 visited my Diocese in person, I have great reason
to suppose for the last time; being in the 77th year of my age—_fiat
voluntas Dei!_

[Sidenote: Sept. 1]

Mrs. Stafford Smith, late Mrs. Warburton, died at Fladbury, September
1, 1796.

[Sidenote: 1797]

[Sidenote: April 5]

Mr. Mason died at Aston, April 5, 1797. He was one of my oldest and
most respected friends. How few of this description now remain!

[Sidenote: 1799]

[Sidenote: Jan. 24]

By God’s great mercy enter this day [24 Jan. 1799] into my 80th year.
Ps. xc. 10. But see, 1 Cor. xv. 22. Rom. viii. 18. 1 Pet. i. 3-5. Χάρις
τῷ Θεῷ ἐπὶ τῇ ἀνεκδιηγήτῳ αὐτοῦ δωρεᾷ. 2 Cor. ix. 15.

[Sidenote: May 27 to June 14]

It pleased God that I was able this Summer to confirm over all parts of
my Diocese.

[Sidenote: 1800]

[Sidenote: June 6 to 17]

And to visit my Diocese in person once more in June 1800.—L. D.

[Sidenote: 1801]

[Sidenote: May 16]

Lost my old and worthy friend Dr. Heberden, in the 91st or 92nd year of
his age, May 16, 1801.

[Sidenote: 1802]

[Sidenote: June 15]

Consecrated, on Tuesday the 15th of June, 1802, the new Church and
Church-yard of Lower Eatington, near Shipston, in Warwickshire.

[Sidenote: Aug. 5]

My most deserving, unhappy, friend, Dr. William Arnald, died at
Leicester, August 5, 1802.

[Sidenote: 1803]

[Sidenote: May 31 to June 3]

Visited my Diocese by Commission—Commissioners, Dr. Arnold, my
Chancellor, and Dr. Evans, Archdeacon.

[Sidenote: 1804]

[Sidenote: July 25]

St. James’ day, July 25, 1804, held an Ordination in Hartlebury
Chapel—3 Deacons, 5 Priests—the last I can expect to undertake.

[Sidenote: 1805]

[Sidenote:

  March 27
        28
        29
]

Confirmations by the Bishop of Chester (Dr. Majendie.)

  March 27, Stratford.
        28, Bromsgrove.
        29, Hales Owen.

[Sidenote:

  June 14
       15
       17
]

—by the Bishop of Hereford (Dr. Cornwall.)

  June 14, Worcester
       15, Pershore
       17, Kidderminster

[Sidenote: 1806]

Visited my Diocese this year by Commission—

  Commissioners,
  The Chancellor and Archdeacon.
      Warwick         May 26.
      Worcester           28.
      Kidderminster       30.
      Pershore            31.

[Sidenote: 1807]

[Sidenote: Sept. 26]

1807, Sept. 26. The Prince of Wales visited Lady Downshire, at
Ombersley Court this month. I was too infirm to wait upon him either at
Ombersley or Worcester; but his Royal Highness was pleased to call at
Hartlebury, on Saturday the 26th of this month, attended by his brother
the Duke of Sussex, and Lord Lake, and staid with me above an hour.

[Sidenote: 1808]

1808, April 23. Granted a Commission to the Bishop of Chester,
(Dr. Majendie,) to consecrate the new Chapel and burying-ground at
Red-Ditch, in the parish of Tardebig; which was performed this day,
Thursday, April 21, 1808, the proper officers of the Court, and two of
my Chaplains attending.

       *       *       *       *       *

To this short narrative (the last paragraph of which was written by the
Author only five weeks before his death) little more will be added.

So late as the first Sunday in February before his death, though then
declining in health and strength, he was able to attend his Parish
Church, and to receive the Sacrament. Free from any painful or acute
disorder, he gradually became weaker, but his faculties continued
perfect. After a few days confinement to his bed, he expired in his
sleep, on Saturday morning, May 28, 1808; having completed four months
beyond his eighty-eighth year. He was buried in Hartlebury Church-yard,
according to his own directions.

He had been Bishop of Worcester for almost twenty-seven years: a longer
period than any Bishop of that See since the Reformation.




GENERAL CONTENTS.


  VOL. I. and II.

  CRITICAL WORKS.

  VOL. I. Q. Horatii Flacci Epistolae ad Pisones, et Augustum: _With
    an English Commentary and Notes_.

  VOL. II. CRITICAL DISSERTATIONS.

            _On the Idea of Universal Poetry._
            _On the Provinces of Dramatic Poetry._
            _On Poetical Imitation._
            _On the Marks of Imitation._


  VOL. III. and IV.

  MORAL AND POLITICAL DIALOGUES.

  VOL. III. _On Sincerity in the Commerce of the World._
            _On Retirement._
            _On the Age of Queen Elizabeth._
            _On the Constitution of the English Government._

  VOL. IV.  _On the Constitution of the English Government._
            _On the Uses of Foreign Travel._
            _And_
            LETTERS _on Chivalry and Romance_.


  VOL. V. VI. VII. and VIII.

  THEOLOGICAL WORKS.

  VOL. V. SERMONS _introductory to the study of the Prophecies_.
                  _With an Appendix;_
                  _Containing an anonymous Letter to the Author of these
                     Sermons, and his Answer to it._

  VOL. VI.   SERMONS _preached at Lincoln’s Inn_.

  VOL. VII.  SERMONS _preached at Lincoln’s Inn_.

  VOL. VIII. SERMONS _on public Occasions_.
             CHARGES _to the Clergy_.
             _And_
             _An Appendix;_
             _Containing Controversial Tracts on different subjects and
                occasions._




  CRITICAL WORKS.

  VOL. I.




  Q. HORATII FLACCI

  EPISTOLAE

  AD

  PISONES,

  ET

  AUGUSTUM:

  WITH AN ENGLISH

  COMMENTARY AND NOTES:

  TO WHICH ARE ADDED

  CRITICAL DISSERTATIONS.




CONTENTS.


  VOL. I.

  INTRODUCTION,
  _On Epistolary Writing_.

  EPISTOLA AD PISONES:
  _With an English Commentary and Notes_.

  EPISTOLA AD AUGUSTUM:
  _With an English Commentary and Notes_.


  VOL. II.

  DISSERTATION I.
  _On the Idea of Universal Poetry._

  DISSERTATION II.
  _On the Provinces of Dramatic Poetry._

  DISSERTATION III.
  _On Poetical Imitation._

  DISSERTATION IV.
  _On the Marks of Imitation._




CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME.


  INTRODUCTION,
  _On Epistolary Writing_.                     13

  EPISTOLA AD PISONES:
  _With an English Commentary and Notes_.      27

  EPISTOLA AD AUGUSTUM:
  _With an English Commentary and Notes_.     279




  TO

  SIR EDWARD LITTLETON, BART.


DEAR SIR,

Having reviewed these Sheets with some care, I beg leave to put them
into your hands, as a testimony of the respect I bear you; and, for the
time that such things may have the fortune to live, as a monument of
our friendship.

You see, by the turn of this address, you have nothing to fear from
that offensive adulation, which has so much dishonoured Letters. You
and I have lived together on other terms. And I should be ashamed to
offer you even such a trifle as this, in a manner that would give you a
right to think meanly of its author.

Your extreme delicacy allows me to say nothing of my obligations, which
otherwise would demand my warmest acknowledgements. For your constant
favour has followed me in all ways, in which you could contrive to
express it. And indeed I have never known any man more sensible to the
good offices of his friends, and even to their good intentions, or
more disposed, by every proper method, to acknowledge them. But you
much over-rate the little services, which it has been in my power to
render to you. I had the honour to be intrusted with a part of your
education, and it was my duty to contribute all I could to the success
of it. But the task was easy and pleasant. I had only to cultivate that
good sense, and those generous virtues, which you brought with you to
the University, and which had already grown up to some maturity under
the care of a man, to whom we had both of us been extremely obliged;
and who possessed every talent of a perfect institutor of youth in
a degree, which, I believe, has been rarely found in any of that
profession, since the days of _Quinctilian_.

I wish this small tribute of respect, in which I know how cordially
you join with me, could be any honour to the memory of an excellent
person[4], who loved us both, and was less known, in his life-time,
from that obscure situation to which the caprice of fortune oft
condemns the most accomplished characters, than his highest merit
deserved.

It was to cherish and improve that taste of polite letters, which his
early care had instilled into you, that you required me to explain to
you the following exquisite piece of the best poet. I recollect with
pleasure how welcome this slight essay then was to you; and am secure
of the kind reception you will now give to it; improved, as I think
it is, in some respects, and presented to you in this public way.—I
was going to say, how much you benefited by this poet (the fittest of
all others, for the study of a gentleman) in your acquaintance with
his _moral_, as well as critical writings; and how successfully you
applied yourself to every other part of learning, which was thought
proper for you—But I remember my engagements with you, and will not
hazard your displeasure by saying too much. It is enough for me to add,
that I truly respect and honour you; and that, for the rest, I indulge
in those hopes, which every one, who knows you, entertains from the
excellence of your nature, from the hereditary honour of your family,
and from an education in which you have been trained to the study of
the best things.

  I am,
  DEAR SIR,
  Your most faithful and
  most obedient Servant,
  R. HURD.

  EMAN. COLL. CAMB.
  June 21, 1757.




INTRODUCTION.


It is agreed on all hands, that the antients are our masters in the
_art_ of composition. Such of their writings, therefore, as deliver
instructions for the exercise of this _art_, must be of the highest
value. And, if any of them hath acquired a credit, in this respect,
superior to the rest, it is, perhaps, the _following work_: which the
learned have long since considered as a kind of _summary_ of the rules
of good writing; to be gotten by heart by every young student; and to
whose decisive authority the greatest masters in taste and composition
must finally submit.

But the more unquestioned the credit of this poem is, the more it will
concern the public, that it be justly and accurately understood. The
writer of these sheets then believed it might be of use, if he took
some pains to clear the sense, connect the method, and ascertain the
scope and purpose, of this admired epistle. Others, he knew indeed, and
some of the first fame for critical learning, had been before him in
this attempt. Yet he did not find himself prevented by their labours;
in which, besides innumerable lesser faults, he, more especially,
observed two inveterate errors, of such a sort, as must needs perplex
the genius, and distress the learning of _any_ commentator. The _one_
of these respects the SUBJECT; the other, the METHOD of the _Art of
poetry_. It will be necessary to say something upon each.

1. That the _Art of poetry_, at large, is not the _proper_ subject
of this piece, is so apparent, that it hath not escaped the dullest
and least attentive of its critics. For, however all the different
_kinds_ of poetry might appear to enter into it, yet every one saw,
that _some_ at least were very slightly considered: whence the frequent
attempts, the _artes et institutiones poeticæ_, of writers both at
home and abroad, to supply its deficiencies. But, though this truth
was seen and confessed, it unluckily happened, that the sagacity of
his numerous commentators went no further. They still considered this
famous epistle as a _collection_, though not a _system_, of criticisms
on poetry in general; with this concession however, that the stage
had evidently the largest share in it[5]. Under the influence of this
prejudice, several writers of name took upon them to comment and
explain it: and with the success, which was to be expected from so
fatal a mistake on setting out, as the not seeing, “that the proper and
sole purpose of the author, was, not to abridge the Greek critics,
whom he probably never thought of; nor to amuse himself with composing
a short critical system, for the general use of poets, which every line
of it absolutely confutes; but, simply to criticize the ROMAN DRAMA.”
For to this end, not the tenor of the work only, but, as will appear,
every single precept in it, ultimately refers. The mischiefs of this
original error have been long felt. It hath occasioned a constant
perplexity in defining the _general_ method, and in fixing the import
of _particular_ rules. Nay its effects have reached still further.
For, conceiving as they did, that the whole had been composed out of
the Greek critics, the labour and ingenuity of its interpreters have
been misemployed in picking out authorities, which were not wanted,
and in producing, or, more properly, by their studied refinements in
_creating_, conformities, which were never designed. Whence it hath
come to pass, that, instead of investigating the order of the poet’s
own reflexions, and scrutinizing the peculiar state of the Roman stage
(the methods, which common sense and common criticism would prescribe)
the world hath been nauseated with insipid lectures on _Aristotle_ and
_Phalereus_; whose solid sense hath been so attenuated and subtilized
by the delicate operation of French criticism, as hath even gone some
way towards bringing the _art_ itself into disrepute.

2. But the wrong explications of this poem have arisen, not from the
misconception of the _subject_ only, but from an inattention to the
METHOD of it. The _latter_ was, in part, the genuin consequence of
the _former_. For, not suspecting an unity of design in the subject,
its interpreters never looked for, or could never find a consistency
of disposition in the method. And this was indeed the very block
upon which HEINSIUS, and, before him, _Julius Scaliger_, himself,
stumbled. These illustrious critics, with all the force of genius,
which is required to disembarrass an involved subject, and all the
aids of learning, that can lend a ray to enlighten a dark one, have,
notwithstanding, found themselves utterly unable to unfold the order of
this epistle; insomuch, that SCALIGER[6], hath boldly pronounced the
conduct of it to be _vicious_; and HEINSIUS, had no other way to evade
the charge, than by recurring to the forced and uncritical expedient
of a licentious transposition. The truth is, they were both in one
common error, That the poet’s purpose had been to write a criticism of
the art of poetry at large, and not, as is here shewn, of the Roman
drama in particular. But there is something more to be observed, in
the case of HEINSIUS. For, as will be made appear in the notes on
particular places, this critic did not pervert the order of the piece,
from a simple mistake about the drift of the subject, but, also, from a
total inapprehension of the genuin charm and beauty of the _epistolary
method_. And, because I take this to be a principal cause of the wrong
interpretations, that have been given of all the epistles of Horace;
and it is, in itself, a point of curious criticism, of which little or
nothing hath been said by any good writer, I will take the liberty to
enlarge upon it.

THE EPISTLE, however various in its appearances, is, in fact, but of
_two_ kinds; _one_ of which may be called the DIDACTIC; the _other_,
the ELEGIAC epistle. By the FIRST I mean all those epistles, whose
end is to _instruct_; whether the subject be _morals_, _politics_,
_criticism_, or, in general, _human life_: by the LATTER, all those,
whose end is to _move_; whether the occasion be _love_, _friendship_,
_jealousy_, or other private distresses. If there are some of a lighter
kind in Horace, and other good writers, which seem not reducible to
either of these two classes, they are to be regarded only, as the
triflings of their pen, and deserve not to be considered, as making a
_third_ and distinct species of this poem.

Now these two kinds of the _epistle_, as they differ widely from each
other in their _subject_ and _end_, so do they likewise in their
_original_: though both _flourished_ at the same time, and are both
wholly _Roman_.

I. The former, or DIDACTIC epistle, was, in fact, the true and proper
offspring of the SATIRE. It will be worth while to reflect how this
happened. _Satire_, in its origin, I mean in the rude _fescennine
farce_, from which the idea of this poem was taken was a mere
extemporaneous jumble of mirth and ill-nature. ENNIUS, who had the
honour of introducing it under its new name, without doubt, civilized
both, yet left it without form or method; it being only, in his hands,
a rhapsody of poems on different subjects, and in different measures.
Common sense disclaiming the extravagance of this heterogeneous
mixture, LUCILIUS advanced it, in its next step, to an unity of
_design_ and _metre_; which was so considerable a change, that it
procured him the high appellation of INVENTOR of this poem. Though,
when I say, that Lucilius introduced into satire _an unity of metre_, I
mean only, in _the same piece_; for the measure, in different satires,
appears to have been different. That the _design_ in him was _one_, I
conclude, _first_, Because Horace expresly informs us, that _the form
or kind of writing_ in the satires of Lucilius was exactly the same
with _that_ in his own; in which no one will pretend, that there is
the least appearance of that rhapsodical, detached form, which made
the character of the _old satire_. But, _principally_, because, on
any other supposition, it does not appear, what could give Lucilius a
claim to that high appellation of INVENTOR of this poem. That he was
the _first_, who copied the manner of the _old comedy_ in satire, could
never be sufficient for this purpose. For all, that he derived into it
from thence, was, as Quinctilian speaks, _libertas atque inde acerbitas
et abunde salis_. It sharpened his _invective_, and polished his
_wit_, that is, it improved the _air_, but did not alter the _form_
of the satire. As little can a right to this title be pleaded from
the _uniformity of measure_, which he introduced into it. For _this_,
without an _unity of design_, is so far from being an alteration for
the better, that it even heightens the absurdity; it being surely more
reasonable to adapt different measures to different subjects, than
to treat a number of inconnected and quite different subjects in the
_same_ measure. When therefore Horace tells us, that Lucilius was the
_Inventor_ of the satire, it must needs be understood, that he was the
FIRST, who, from its former confused state, reduced it into a regular
consistent poem, respecting one main _end_, as well as observing one
_measure_. Little now remained for HORACE but to polish and refine. His
only material alteration was, that he appropriated to the satire ONE,
that is, the heroic metre.

From this short history of the satire we collect, 1. that its
design was _one_: And 2. we learn, what was the general form of its
composition. For, arising out of a loose, disjointed, miscellany,
its method, when most regular, would be free and unconstrained;
nature demanding some chain of connexion, and a respect to its origin
requiring that connexion to be slight and somewhat concealed. But its
_aim_, as well as origin, exacted this careless method. For being, as
Diomedes observes, _archææ comœdiæ charactere compositum_, “professedly
written after the manner of the old comedy,” it was of course to
admit the familiarity of the comic muse; whose genius is averse from
all constraint of _order_, save that only which a natural, successive
train of thinking unavoidably draws along with it. And this, by the
way, accounts for the dialogue air, so frequent in the Roman satire,
as likewise for the looser numbers which appeared so essential to the
grace of it. It was in learned allusion to this comic genius of the
satire, that Mr. Pope hath justly characterized it in the following
manner:

    “Horace still charms with graceful negligence,
    “And, without method, TALKS us into sense.”

2. It being now seen, what was the real form of the _satire_, nothing,
it is plain, was wanting, but the application of a particular
address, to constitute the _didactic epistle_: the structure of this
poem, as prescribed by the laws of nature and good sense, being in
nothing different from that of the _other_. For here 1. an _unity_
of subject or design is indispensably necessary, the freedom of a
miscellaneous matter being permitted only to the familiar letter. And
2. not professing _formally_ to instruct (which alone justifies the
severity of strict method) but, when of the gravest kind, in the way of
address only to _insinuate_ instruction, it naturally takes an air of
negligence and inconnexion, such as we have before seen essential to
the satire. All which is greatly confirmed by the testimony of _one_,
who could not be uninformed in these matters. In addressing his friend
on the object of his studies, he says,

                                      _sive
    Liventem_ satiram _nigra rubigine turpes,
    Seu tua_ NON ALIA _splendescat_ epistola CURA.
              [Stat. lib. i. Sylv. Tiburt. M. V.]

plainly intimating, that the rules and labour of composition were
exactly the same in these two poems. Though the critics on Statius,
not apprehending this identity, or exact correspondence between the
_satire_ and _epistle_, have unnecessarily, and without warrant,
altered the text, in this place, from ALIA into ALTA.

3. The general form and structure of _this_ epistle being thus clearly
understood, it will now be easy, in few words, to deduce the peculiar
laws of its composition.

And 1. it cannot wholly divest itself of all method: For, having
only one point in view, it must of course pursue it by some kind of
connexion. The progress of the mind in rational thinking requires, that
the chain be never broken entirely, even in its freest excursions.

2. As there must needs be a _connexion_, so _that connexion_ will best
answer its end and the purpose of the writer, which, whilst it leads,
by a sure train of thinking, to the conclusion in view, conceals itself
all the while, and leaves to the reader the satisfaction of supplying
the intermediate links, and joining together, in his own mind, what
is left in a seeming posture of neglect and inconnexion. The art of
furnishing this gratification, so respectful to the sagacity of the
reader, without putting him to the trouble of a painful investigation,
is what constitutes the supreme charm and beauty of EPISTOLARY METHOD.

II. What hath hitherto been advanced respects chiefly the _didactic_
form. It remains to say something of that other _species_ of the
epistle, the ELEGIAC; which, as I observed, had quite another
_original_. For this apparently sprung up from what is properly called
the _Elegy_: a poem of very antient Greek extraction: naturally arising
from the plaintive, querulous humour of mankind; which, under the
pressure of any grief, is impatient to break forth into wailings and
tender expostulations, and finds a kind of relief in indulging and
giving a loose to that flow of sorrow, which it hath not strength or
resolution wholly[7] to restrain. This is the account of the _Elegy_
in its proper Greek form; a negligent, inconnected, abrupt species of
writing, perfectly suited to an indolent disposition and passionate
heart. Such was OVID’S; who, taking advantage of this character of the
elegy, contrived[8] a new kind of poetry, without the expence of much
invention, or labour to himself. For, collecting, as it were, those
scattered hints, which composed the elegy, and directing them to one
principal view; and superadding a personal address, he became the
author of what is here styled the _Elegiac_ epistle; beautiful models
of which we have in his HEROIDES, and the _Epistles from_ PONTUS.
We see then the difference of _this_ from the _didactic_ form. They
have both one principal end and point in view. But the _Didactic_,
being of a cooler and more sedate turn, pursues its design uniformly
and connects easily. The _Elegiac_, on the contrary, whose end is
_emotion_, not _instruction_, hath all the abruptness of irregular
disordered passion. It catches at remote and distant hints, and starts
at once into a digressive train of thinking, which it requires some
degree of enthusiasm in the reader to follow.

Further than this it is not material to my present design to pursue
this subject. More exact ideas of the form and constitution of this
epistle, must be sought in that best example of it, the natural Roman
poet. It may only be observed of the different qualities, necessary to
those, who aspire to excel in these _two_ species: that, as the _one_
would make an impression on the _heart_, it can only do this by means
of an exquisite _sensibility of nature and elegance of mind_; and that
the _other_, attempting in the most inoffensive manner, to inform
the _head_, must demand, to the full accomplishment of its purpose,
_superior good sense_, _the widest knowledge of life_, and, above all,
_the politeness of a consummate address_. That the _former_ was the
characteristic of OVID’S genius hath been observed, and is well known.
How far the _latter_ description agrees to HORACE can be no secret to
those of his readers who have any share, or conception of these talents
themselves. But matters of this _nicer_ kind are properly the objects,
not of _criticism_, but of _sentiment_. Let it suffice then to examine
the poet’s practice, so far only, as we are enabled to judge of it by
the standard of the preceding rules.

III. These rules are reducible to _three_. 1. _that there be an unity
in the subject_. 2. _a connexion in the method_: and 3. _that such
connexion be easy_. All which I suppose to have been religiously
observed in the poet’s conduct of _this_, _i. e._ the _didactic_
epistle. For,

1. The _subject_ of each epistle is one: that is, one single point is
prosecuted through the whole piece, notwithstanding that the address
of the poet, and the delicacy of the subject may sometimes lead him
through a devious tract to it. Had his interpreters attended to this
practice, so consonant to the rule of nature before explained, they
could never have found _an art of poetry_ in the epistle, we are about
to examine.

2. This one point, however it hath not been seen[9], is constantly
pursued by an uniform, consistent _method_; which is never more
artificial, than when least apparent to a careless, inattentive reader.
This should have stimulated his learned critics to seek the connexion
of the poet’s own ideas, when they magisterially set themselves to
transpose or vilify his method.

3. This method is every where sufficiently _clear and obvious_;
proceeding if not in the strictest forms of _disposition_, yet, in an
easy, elegant progress, one hint arising out of another, and insensibly
giving occasion to succeeding ones, just as the cooler genius of this
_kind_ required. This, lastly, should have prevented those, who have
taken upon themselves to criticize _the art of poetry_ by the laws of
_this_ poem, from concealing their ignorance of its real views under
the cover of such abrupt and violent transitions, as might better agree
to the impassioned _elegy_, than to the sedate _didactic epistle_.

To set this three-fold character, in the fullest light, before the view
of the reader, I have attempted to explain the _Epistle to the Pisos_,
in the way of continued commentary upon it. And that the coherence of
the several parts may be the more distinctly seen, the Commentary is
rendered as concise as possible; some of the finer and less obvious
connexions being more carefully observed and drawn out in the notes.

For the _kind_ of interpretation itself, it must be allowed, of all
others, the fittest to throw light upon a difficult and obscure
subject, and, above all, to convey an exact idea of the scope and order
of any work. It hath, accordingly, been so considered by several of the
foreign, particularly the ITALIAN, critics; who have essayed long since
to illustrate, in this way, the very piece before us. But the _success_
of these foreigners is, I am sensible, a slender recommendation of
their _method_. I chuse therefore to rest on the _single_ authority of
a great author, who, in his _edition_ of our English Horace, the _best_
that ever was given of any classic, hath now retrieved and established
the full credit of it. What was the amusement of his pen, becomes
indeed, the _labour_ of inferior writers. Yet, on these unequal terms,
it can be no discredit to have aimed at some resemblance of one of the
least of those _merits_, which shed their united honours on the name of
the illustrious _friend_ and _commentator of_ Mr. POPE.




Q. HORATII FLACCI

ARS POETICA

EPISTOLA AD PISONES.


    Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam
    Jungere si velit, et varias inducere plumas
    Undique collatis membris, ut turpiter atrum
    Desinat in piscem mulier formosa superne;
    Spectatum admissi risum teneatis amici?                      5
    Credite, Pisones, isti tabulae fore librum
    Persimilem, cujus, velut aegri somnia, vanae
    Fingentur species; ut nec pes, nec caput uni
    Reddatur formae. Pictoribus atque poetis
    Quidlibet audendi semper fuit aequa potestas:               10
    Scimus, et hanc veniam petimusque damusque vicissim:
    Sed non ut placidis coëant inmitia; non ut
    Serpentes avibus geminentur, tigribus agni.
    Inceptis gravibus plerumque et magna professis
    Purpureus, late qui splendeat, unus et alter                15
    Adsuitur pannus: cum lucus, et ara Dianae,
    Et properantis aquae per amoenos ambitus agros,
    Aut flumen Rhenum, aut pluvius describitur arcus.
    Sed nunc non erat his locus: et fortasse cupressum
    Scis simulare: quid hoc, si fractis enatat exspes           20
    Navibus, aere dato qui pingitur? amphora coepit
    Institui, currente rota, cur urceus exit?
    Denique sit quidvis; simplex dumtaxat et unum.
    Maxima pars vatum, pater et juvenes patre digni,
    Decipimur specie recti. Brevis esse laboro,                 25
    Obscurus fio: sectantem lenia nervi
    Deficiunt animique: professus grandia turget:
    Serpit humi tutus nimium timidusque procellae:
    Qui variare cupit rem prodigialiter unam,
    Delphinum silvis adpingit, fluctibus aprum.                 30
    In vitium ducit culpae fuga, si caret arte.
    Aemilium circa ludum faber, unus et unguis
    Exprimet, et mollis imitabitur aere capillos;
    Infelix operis, summa: quia ponere totum
    Nesciet. hunc ego me, si quid componere curem,              35
    Non magis esse velim; quam naso vivere pravo,
    Spectandum nigris oculis nigroque capillo.
    Sumite materiam vestris, qui scribitis, aequam
    Viribus; et versate diu, quid ferre recusent,
    Quid valeant humeri. cui lecta potenter erit res,           40
    Nec facundia deseret hunc, nec lucides ordo.
    Ordinis haec virtus erit et venus, aut ego fallor;
    Ut jam nunc dicat, jam nunc debentia dici
    Pleraque differat et praesens in tempus omittat.
    Hoc amet, hoc spernat, promissi carminis auctor.            45
    In verbis etiam tenuis cautusque serendis;
    Dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum
    Reddiderit junctura novum; si forte necesse est
    Indiciis monstrare recentibus abdita rerum;
    Fingere cinctutis non exaudita Cethegis                     50
    Continget: dabiturque licentia sumta pudenter.
    Et nova factaque nuper habebunt verba fidem; si
    Graeco fonte cadent, parce detorta, quid autem:
    Caecilio Plautoque dabit Romanus, ademtum
    Virgilio Varioque? ego cur adquirere pauca,                 55
    Si possum, invideor? quum lingua Catonis et Enni
    Sermonem patrium ditaverit, et nova rerum
    Nomina protulerit. licuit, semperque licebit
    Signatum praesente nota procudere nummum.
    Ut silvis folia privos mutantur in annos;                   60
    Prima cadunt: ita verborum vetus interit aetas,
    Et juvenum ritu florent modo nata vigentque.
    Debemur morti nos, nostraque: sive receptus
    Terra Neptunus classis Aquilonibus arcet,
    Regis opus; sterilisve palus prius aptaque remis            65
    Vicinas urbis alit, et grave sentit aratrum:
    Seu cursum mutavit iniquum frugibus amnis,
    Doctus iter melius: mortalia cuncta peribunt:
    Nedum sermonum stet honos, et gratia vivax.
    Multa renascentur, quae jam cecidere; cadentque,            70
    Quae nunc sunt in honore vocabula: si volet usus,
    Quem penes arbitrium est, et jus, et norma loquendi.
    Res gestae regumque ducumque, et tristia bella,
    Quo scribi possent numero, monstravit Homerus.
    Versibus inpariter junctis querimonia primum,               75
    Post etiam inclusa est voti sententia compos.
    Quis tamen exiguos elegos emiserit auctor,
    Grammatici certant, et adhuc sub judice lis est.
    Archilochum proprio rabies armavit iambo.
    Hunc socci cepere pedem grandesque cothurni,                80
    Alternis aptum sermonibus, et popularis
    Vincentem strepitus, et natum rebus agendis.
    Musa dedit fidibus Divos, puerosque Deorum,
    Et pugilem victorem, et equum certamine primum,
    Et juvenum curas, et libera vina referre.                   85
    Descriptas servare vices operumque colores,
    Cur ego, si nequeo ignoroque, poeta salutor?
    Cur nescire, pudens prave, quam discere malo?
    Versibus exponi tragicis res comica non volt:
    Indignatur item privatis ac prope socco                     90
    Dignis carminibus narrari coena Thyestae.
    Singula quaeque locum teneant sortita decentem.
    Interdum tamen et vocem comoedia tollit,
    Iratusque Chremes tumido dilitigat ore.
    Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri.               95
    Telephus aut Peleus, cum pauper et exul uterque,
    Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba,
    Si curat cor spectantis tetigisse querela.
    Non satis est pulchra esse poëmata; dulcia sunto,
    Et quocunque volent, animum auditoris agunto.              100
    Ut ridentibus adrident, ita flentibus adflent
    Humani voltus. si vis me flere, dolendum est
    Primum ipsi tibi: tunc tua me infortunia laedent.
    Telephe, vel Peleu, male si mandata loqueris,
    Aut dormitabo, aut ridebo. tristia moestum                 105
    Voltum verba decent; iratum, plena minarum;
    Ludentem, lasciva; severum, seria dictu.
    Format enim Natura prius nos intus ad omnem
    Fortunarum habitum; juvat, aut inpellit ad iram,
    Aut ad humum moerore gravi deducit, et angit:              110
    Post effert animi motus interprete lingua.
    Si dicentis erunt fortunis absona dicta,
    Romani tollent equitesque patresque cachinnum.
    Intererit multum, Divusne loquatur, an heros;
    Maturusne senex, an adhuc florente juventa                 115
    Fervidus; et matrona potens, an sedula nutrix;
    Mercatorne vagus, cultorne virentis agelli;
    Colchus, an Assyrius; Thebis nutritus, an Argis.
    Aut famam sequere, aut sibi convenientia finge,
    Scriptor. Homereum si forte reponis Achillem;              120
    Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer,
    Jura neget sibi nata, nihil non arroget armis.
    Sit Medea ferox invictaque, flebilis Ino,
    Perfidus Ixion, Io vaga, tristis Orestes.
    Si quid inexpertum scenae conmittis, et audes              125
    Personam formare novam; servetur ad imum
    Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet.
    Difficile est proprie communia dicere: tuque
    Rectius Iliacum carmen deducis in actus,
    Quàm si proferres ignota indictaque primus.                130
    Publica materies privati juris erit, si
    Non circa vilem patulumque moraberis orbem;
    Nec verbum verbo curabis reddere fidus
    Interpres; nec desilies imitator in artum,
    Unde pedem proferre pudor vetet aut operis lex.            135
    Nec sic incipies, ut scriptor cyclicus olim:
    FORTUNAM PRIAMI CANTABO, ET NOBILE BELLUM.
    Quid dignum tanto feret hic promissor hiatu?
    Parturiunt montes: nascetur ridiculus mus.
    Quanto rectius hic, qui nîl molitur inepte!                140
    DIC MIHI, MUSA, VIRUM, CAPTAE POST MOENIA TROJAE,
    QUI MORES HOMINUM MULTORUM VIDIT ET URBIS.
    Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem
    Cogitat, ut speciosa dehinc miracula promat,
    Antiphaten, Scyllamque, et cum Cyclope Charybdin.          145
    Nec reditum Diomedis ab interitu Meleagri,
    Nec gemino bellum Trojanum orditur ab ovo:
    Semper ad eventum festinat; et in medias res,
    Non secus ac notas, auditorem rapit; et quae
    Desperat tractata nitescere posse, relinquit:              150
    Atque ita mentitur, sic veris falsa remiscet,
    Primo ne medium, medio ne discrepet imum.
    Tu, quid ego et populus mecum desideret, audi;
    Si fautoris eges aulaea manentis, et usque
    Sessuri, donec cantor, Vos plaudite, dicat:                155
    Aetatis cujusque notandi sunt tibi mores,
    Mobilibusque decor naturis dandus et annis.
    Reddere qui voces jam scit puer, et pede certo
    Signat humum; gestit paribus colludere, et iram
    Colligit ac ponit temere, et mutatur in horas.             160
    Inberbus juvenis, tandem custode remoto,
    Gaudet equis canibusque et aprici gramine campi;
    Cereus in vitium flecti, monitoribus asper,
    Utilium tardus provisor, prodigus aeris,
    Sublimis, cupidusque, et amata relinquere pernix.          165
    Conversis studiis, aetas animusque virilis
    Quaerit opes et amicitias, inservit honori;
    Conmisisse cavet quod mox mutare laboret.
    Multa senem circumveniunt incommoda; vel quod
    Quaerit, et inventis miser abstinet, ac timet uti;         170
    Vel quòd res omnis timide gelideque ministrat,
    Dilator, spe lentus, iners, pavidusque futuri;
    Difficilis, querulus, laudator temporis acti
    Se puero, castigator, censorque minorum.
    Multa ferunt anni venientes commoda secum,                 175
    Multa recedentes adimunt: ne forte seniles
    Mandentur juveni partes, pueroque viriles.
    Semper in adjunctis aevoque morabimur aptis.
    Aut agitur res in scenis, aut acta refertur:
    Segnius inritant animos demissa per aurem,                 180
    Quam quae sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et quae
    Ipse sibi tradit spectator. non tamen intus
    Digna geri promes in scenam: multaque tolles
    Ex oculis, quae mox narret facundia praesens:
    Ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet;                     185
    Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius Atreus;
    Aut in avem Procne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem.
    Quodcunque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi.
    Neve minor, neu sit quinto productior actu
    Fabula, quae posci volt, et spectata reponi.               190
    Nec Deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus
    Inciderit: nec quarta loqui persona laboret.
    Actoris partes chorus, officiumque virile
    Defendat: neu quid medios intercinat actus,
    Quod non proposito conducat et haereat apte.               195
    Ille bonis faveatque et consilietur amice,
    Et regat iratos, et amet pacare tumentis:
    Ille dapes laudet mensae brevis, ille salubrem
    Justitiam, legesque, et apertis otia portis:
    Ille tegat conmissa; Deosque precetur et oret,             200
    Ut redeat miseris, abeat fortuna superbis.
    Tibia non, ut nunc, orichalco juncta, tubaeque
    Aemula; sed tenuis, simplexque foramine pauco,
    Aspirare et adesse choris erat utilis, atque
    Nondum spissa nimis conplere sedilia flatu:                205
    Quo sane populus numerabilis, utpote parvus
    Et frugi castusque verecundusque coibat.
    Postquam coepit agros extendere victor, et urbem
    Laxior amplecti murus, vinoque diurno
    Placari Genius festis inpune diebus;                       210
    Accessit numerisque modisque licentia major.
    Indoctus quid enim saperet liberque laborum,
    Rusticus urbano confusus, turpis honesto?
    Sic priscae motumque et luxuriem addidit arti
    Tibicen, traxitque vagus per pulpita vestem:               215
    Sic etiam fidibus voces crevere severis,
    Et tulit eloquium insolitum facundia praeceps;
    Utiliumque sagax rerum, et divina futuri,
    Sortilegis non discrepuit sententia Delphis.
    Carmine qui tragico vilem certavit ob hircum,              220
    Mox etiam agrestis Satyros nudavit, et asper
    Incolumi gravitate jocum tentavit: eo quod
    Inlecebris erat et grata novitate morandus
    Spectator functusque sacris, et potus, et exlex.
    Verum ita risores, ita commendare dicacis                  225
    Conveniet Satyros, ita vertere seria ludo;
    Ne quicunque Deus, quicunque adhibebitur heros
    Regali conspectus in auro nuper et ostro,
    Migret in obscuras humili sermone tabernas:
    Aut, dum vitat humum, nubes et inania captet.              230
    Effutire levis indigna tragoedia versus,
    Ut festis matrona moveri jussa diebus,
    Intererit Satyris paulum pudibunda protervis.
    Non ego inornata et dominantia nomina solum
    Verbaque, Pisones, Satyrorum scriptor amabo:               235
    Nec sic enitar tragico differre colori;
    Ut nihil intersit, Davusne loquatur et audax
    Pythias emuncto lucrata Simone talentum;
    An custos famulusque Dei Silenus alumni.
    Ex noto fictum carmen sequar: ut sibi quivis               240
    Speret idem; sudet multum, frustraque laboret
    Ausus idem: tantum series juncturaque pollet:
    Tantum de medio sumtis accedit honoris.
    Silvis deducti caveant, me judice, Fauni,
    Ne velut innati triviis, ac pene forenses,                 245
    Aut nimium teneris juvenentur versibus umquam,
    Aut inmunda crepent ignominiosaque dicta.
    Offenduntur enim, quibus est equus, et pater, et res;
    Nec, si quid fricti ciceris probat et nucis emtor,
    Aequis accipiunt animis, donantve corona.                  250
    Syllaba longa brevi subjecta, vocatur Iambus,
    Pes citus: unde etiam Trimetris adcrescere jussit
    Nomen Iambeis, cum senos redderet ictus
    Primus ad extremum similis sibi: non ita pridem,
    Tardior ut paulo graviorque veniret ad auris,              255
    Spondeos stabilis in jura paterna recepit
    Commodus et patiens: non ut de sede secunda
    Cederet, aut quarta socialiter. Hic et in Accî
    Nobilibus Trimetris apparet rarus, et Ennî.
    In scenam missus cum magno pondere versus,                 260
    Aut operae celeris nimium curaque carentis,
    Aut ignoratae premit artis crimine turpi.
    Non quivis videt immodulata poëmata judex:
    Et data Romanis venia est indigna poetis.
    Idcircone vager, scribamque licenter? ut omnis             265
    Visuros peccata putem mea; tutas et intra
    Spem veniae cautus? vitavi denique culpam,
    Non laudem merui. Vos exemplaria Graeca
    Nocturna versate manu, versate diurna.
    At vestri proavi Plautinos et numeros et                   270
    Laudavere sales; nimium patienter utrumque
    (Ne dicam stulte) mirati: si modo ego et vos
    Scimus inurbanum lepido seponere dicto,
    Legitimumque sonum digitis callemus et aure.
    Ignotum tragicae genus invenisse Camenae                   275
    Dicitur, et plaustris vexisse poëmata Thespis
    Qui canerent agerentque, peruncti faecibus ora.
    Post hunc personae pallaeque repertor honestae
    Aeschylos et modicis instravit pulpita tignis,
    Et docuit magnumque loqui, nitique cothurno.               280
    Successit vetus his Comoedia, non sine multa
    Laude: sed in vitium libertas excidit, et vim
    Dignam lege regi: lex est accepta; chorusque
    Turpiter obticuit, sublato jure nocendi.
    Nil intentatum nostri liquere poëtae:                      285
    Nec minimum meruere decus, vestigia Graeca
    Ausi deserere, et celebrare domestica facta,
    Vel qui Praetextas, vel qui docuere Togatas.
    Nec virtute foret clarisve potentius armis,
    Quam lingua, Latium; si non offenderet unum-               290
    Quemque poëtarum limae labor et mora. Vos, ô
    Pompilius sanguis, carmen reprehendite, quod non
    Multa dies et multa litura coërcuit, atque
    Praesectum decies non castigavit ad unguem.
    Ingenium misera quia fortunatius arte                      295
    Credit, et excludit sanos Helicone poëtas
    Democritus; bona pars non unguis ponere curat,
    Non barbam: secreta petit loca, balnea vitat.
    Nanciscetur enim pretium nomenque poëtae,
    Si tribus Anticyris caput insanabile numquam               300
    Tonsori Licino conmiserit. O ego laevus,
    Qui purgor bilem sub verni temporis horam?
    Non alius faceret meliora poëmata: verum
    Nil tanti est. ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum
    Reddere quae ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi.            305
    Munus et officium, nil scribens ipse, docebo;
    Unde parentur opes: quid alat formetque poëtam;
    Quid deceat, quid non; quo virtus, quo ferat error.
    Scribendi recte, sapere est et principium et fons.
    Rem tibi Socraticae poterunt ostendere chartae:            310
    Verbaque provisam rem non invita sequentur.
    Qui didicit patriae quid debeat, et quid amicis;
    Quo sit amore parens, quo frater amandus et hospes;
    Quod sit conscripti, quod judicis officium; quae
    Partes in bellum missi ducis; ille profecto                315
    Reddere personae scit convenientia cuique.
    Respicere exemplar vitae morumque jubebo
    Doctum imitatorem, et vivas hinc ducere voces.
    Interdum speciosa locis, morataque recte
    Fabula, nullius veneris, sine pondere et arte,             320
    Valdius oblectat populum, meliusque moratur,
    Quam versus inopes rerum, nugaeque canorae.
    Graiis ingenium, Graiis dedit ore rotundo
    Musa loqui, praeter laudem, nullius avaris.
    Romani pueri longis rationibus assem                       325
    Discunt in partis centum diducere. Dicas
    Filius Albini, si de quincunce remota est
    Uncia, quid superet, poterat dixisse, triens? Eu!
    Rem poteris servare tuam. Redit uncia: quid fit?
    Semis. An haec animos aerugo et cura peculî                330
    Cum semel inbuerit, speramus carmina fingi
    Posse linenda cedro, et levi servanda cupresso?
    Aut prodesse volunt, aut delectare poëtae;
    Aut simul et jocunda et idonea dicere vitae.
    Quicquid praecipies, esto brevis: ut cito dicta            335
    Percipiant animi dociles, teneantque fideles.
    [Omne supervacuum pleno de pectore manat.]
    Ficta voluptatis causa sint proxima veris:
    Ne, quodcumque volet, poscat sibi fabula credi;
    Neu pransae Lamiae vivum puerum extrahat alvo.             340
    Centuriae seniorum agitant expertia frugis:
    Celsi praetereunt austera poëmata Ramnes.
    Omne tulit punctum, qui miscuit utile dulci,
    Lectorem delectando, pariterque monendo.
    Hic meret aera liber Sosiis, hic et mare transit,          345
    Et longum noto scriptori prorogat aevum.
    Sunt delicta tamen, quibus ignovisse velimus:
    Nam neque chorda sonum reddit, quem volt manus et mens;
    Poscentique gravem persaepe remittit acutum:
    Nee semper feriet, quodcumque minabitur, arcus.            350
    Verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis
    Offendar maculis, quas aut incuria fudit,
    Aut humana parum cavit natura. quid ergo est?
    Ut scriptor si peccat idem librarius usque,
    Quamvis est monitus, venia caret; ut citharoedus           355
    Ridetur, chorda qui semper oberrat eadem:
    Sic mihi qui multum cessat, fit Choerilos ille,
    Quem bis terve bonum, cum risu miror; et idem
    Indignor, quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus.
    Verum operi longo fas est obrepere somnum.                 360
    Ut pictura, poësis: erit quae, si propius stes,
    Te capiat magis; et quaedam, si longius abstes:
    Haec amat obscurum; volet haec sub luce videri,
    Judicis argutum quae non formidat acumen:
    Haec placuit semel; haec decies repetita placebit.         365
    O major juvenum, quamvis et voce paterna
    Fingeris ad rectum, et per te sapis; hoc tibi dictum
    Tolle memor: certis medium et tolerabile rebus
    Recte concedi: consultus juris, et actor
    Causarum mediocris; abest virtute diserti                  370
    Messallae, nec scit quantum Cascellius Aulus;
    Sed tamen in pretio est: mediocribus esse poëtis
    Non homines, non Dî, non concessere columnae.
    Ut gratas inter mensas symphonia discors,
    Et crassum unguentum, et Sardo cum melle papaver           375
    Offendunt; poterat duci quia coena sine istis:
    Sic animis natum inventumque poëma juvandis,
    Si paulum summo decessit, vergit ad imum.
    Ludere qui nescit, campestribus abstinet armis;
    Indoctusque pilae, discive, trochive, quiescit;            380
    Ne spissae risum tollant inpune coronae:
    Qui nescit versus, tamen audet fingere. Quid nî?
    Liber et ingenuus; praesertim census equestrem
    Summam nummorum, vitioque remotus ab omni.
    Tu nihil invita dices faciesve Minerva:                    385
    Id tibi judicium est, ea mens, si quid tamen olim
    Scripseris, in Maecî descendat judicis auris,
    Et patris, et nostras; nonumque prematur in annum,
    Membranis intus positis. Delere licebit
    Quod non edideris: nescit vox missa reverti.               390
    Silvestris homines sacer interpresque Deorum
    Caedibus et victu foedo deterruit Orpheus;
    Dictus ob hoc lenire tigris rabidosque leones.
    Dictus et Amphion, Thebanae conditor arcis,
    Saxa movere sono testudinis, et prece blanda               395
    Ducere quo vellet. fuit haec sapientia quondam,
    Publica privatis secernere, sacra profanis;
    Concubitu prohibere vago; dare jura maritis;
    Oppida moliri; leges incidere ligno.
    Sic honor et nomen divinis vatibus atque                   400
    Carminibus venit. post hos insignis Homerus
    Tyrtaeusque mares animos in Martia bella
    Versibus exacuit. dictae per carmina sortes,
    Et vitae monstrata via est, et gratia regum
    Pieriis tentata modis, ludusque repertus,                  405
    Et longorum operum finis; ne forte pudori
    Sit tibi Musa lyrae solers, et cantor Apollo.
    Natura fieret laudabile carmen, an arte,
    Quaesitum est. Ego nec studium sine divite vena,
    Nec rude quid possit video ingenium: alterius sic          410
    Altera poscit opem res, et conjurat amice.
    Qui studet optatam cursu contingere metam,
    Multa tulit fecitque puer; sudavit et alsit;
    Abstinuit venere et vino. qui Pythia cantat
    Tibicen, didicit prius, extimuitque magistrum.             415
    Nec satis est dixisse, Ego mira poëmata pango:
    Occupet extremum scabies: mihi turpe relinqui est,
    Et, quod non didici, sane nescire fateri.
    Ut praeco, ad merces turbam qui cogit emendas;
    Adsentatores jubet ad lucrum ire poëta                     420
    Dives agris, dives positis in foenore nummis.
    Si vero est, unctum qui recte ponere possit,
    Et spondere levi pro paupere, et eripere artis
    Litibus inplicitum; mirabor, si sciet inter-
    Noscere mendacem verumque beatus amicum.                   425
    Tu seu donaris seu quid donare voles cui;
    Nolito ad versus tibi factos ducere plenum
    Laetitiae; clamabit enim, Pulchre, bene, recte!
    Pallescet: super his etiam stillabit amicis
    Ex oculis rorem; saliet; tundet pede terram.               430
    Ut qui conducti plorant in funere, dicunt
    Et faciunt prope plura dolentibus ex animo: sic
    Derisor vero plus laudatore movetur.
    Reges dicuntur multis urguere culullis,
    Et torquere mero quem perspexisse laborant                 435
    An sit amicitia dignus. si carmina condes,
    Nunquam te fallant animi sub volpe latentes.
    Quintilio si quid recitares: Corrige sodes
    Hoc, aiebat, et hoc. melius te posse negares,
    Bis terque expertum frustra? delere jubebat,               440
    Et male ter natos incudi reddere versus.
    Si defendere delictum, quam vertere, malles;
    Nullum ultra verbum, aut operam insumebat inanem,
    Quin sine rivali teque et tua solus amares.
    Vir bonus et prudens versus reprehendet inertis;           445
    Culpabit duros; incomptis adlinet atrum
    Transverso calamo signum; ambitiosa recidet
    Ornamenta; parum claris lucem dare coget;
    Arguet ambigue dictum; mutanda notabit;
    Fiet Aristarchus; non dicet, Cur ego amicum                450
    Offendam in nugis? Hae nugae seria ducent
    In mala derisum semel, exceptumque sinistre.
    Ut mala quem scabies aut morbus regius urguet,
    Aut fanaticus error, et iracunda Diana;
    Vesanum tetigisse timent fugiuntque poëtam,                455
    Qui sapiunt: agitant pueri, incautique sequuntur.
    Hic, dum sublimis versus ructatur, et errat,
    Si veluti merulis intentus decidit auceps
    In puteum, foveamve; licet, Succurrite, longum
    Clamet, io cives: non sit qui tollere curet.               460
    Si curet quis opem ferre, et demittere funem;
    Quî scis, an prudens huc se projecerit, atque
    Servari nolit? dicam: Siculique poëtae
    Narrabo interitum. Deus inmortalis haberi
    Dum cupit Empedocles, ardentem frigidus Aetnam             465
    Insiluit. sit jus, liceatque perire poëtis.
    Invitum qui servat, idem facit occidenti.
    Nec semel hoc fecit; nec si retractus erit jam,
    Fiet <DW25>, et ponet famosae mortis amorem.
    Nec satis adparet, cur versus factitet; utrum              470
    Minxerit in patrios cineres, an triste bidental
    Moverit incestus: certe furit, ac velut ursus
    Objectos caveae valuit si frangere clathros,
    Indoctum doctumque fugat recitator acerbus.
    Quem vero arripuit, tenet, occiditque legendo,             475
    Non missura cutem, nisi plena cruoris, hirudo.


COMMENTARY.

The subject of this piece being, as I suppose, _one, viz. the state of
the Roman Drama_, and common sense requiring, even in the freest forms
of composition, some kind of _method_, the intelligent reader will not
be surprised to find the poet prosecuting his subject in a regular,
well-ordered _plan_; which, for the more exact description of it, I
distinguish into three parts:

I. The first of them [from v. 1 to 89] is preparatory to the main
subject of the epistle, containing some general rules and reflexions on
poetry, but principally with an eye to the following parts: by which
means it serves as an useful introduction to the poet’s design, and
opens with that air of ease and negligence, essential to the epistolary
form.

II. The main body of the epistle [from v. 89 to 295] is laid out in
regulating the _Roman_ stage; but chiefly in giving rules for tragedy;
not only as that was the sublimer species of the _Drama_, but, as it
should seem, less cultivated and understood.

III. The last part [from v. 295 to the end] exhorts to correctness in
writing; yet still with an eye, principally, to the _dramatic species_;
and is taken up partly in removing the causes, that prevented it, and
partly in directing to the use of such means, as might serve to promote
it. Such is the general plan of the epistle. In order to enter fully
into it, it will be necessary to trace the poet, attentively, through
the elegant connexions of his own method.


PART I.

GENERAL REFLEXIONS ON POETRY.

The epistle begins [to v. 9] with that general and fundamental precept
_of preserving an unity in the subject and the disposition of the
piece_. This is further explained by defining the use, and fixing the
character of _poetic licence_ [from v. 9 to 13] which unskilful writers
often plead in defence of their transgressions against the law of
UNITY. To v. 23 is considered and exposed that particular violation of
_uniformity_, into which young poets especially, under the impulse of a
warm imagination, are apt to run, arising from frequent and ill-timed
descriptions. These, however beautiful in themselves, and with whatever
mastery they may be executed, yet, if foreign to the subject, and
incongruous to the place, where they stand, are extremely impertinent:
a caution, the more necessary, as the fault itself wears the appearance
of a _virtue_, and so writers [from v. 23 to 25] come to transgress the
_rule of right_ from their very ambition to observe it. There are two
cases, in which this _ambition_ remarkably misleads us. The _first_
is when it tempts us to push an _acknowledged beauty_ too far. Great
beauties are always in the confines of great faults; and therefore, by
affecting superior excellence, we are easily carried into absurdity.
Thus [from v. 25 to 30] _brevity_ is often _obscurity_; _sublimity_,
_bombast_; _caution_, _coolness_; and, to come round to the point, a
fondness for _varying and diversifying a subject_, by means of episodes
and descriptions, such as are mentioned above [v. 15] will often betray
a writer into that capital error of violating the _unity_ of his piece.
For, though variety be a real excellence under the conduct of true
judgment, yet, when affected beyond the bounds of probability, and
brought in solely to _strike_ and _surprize_, it becomes unseasonable
and absurd. The several episodes or descriptions, intended to give that
variety, may be inserted in improper places; and then the absurdity is
as great, as that of the painter, who, according to the illustration of
v. 19, 20, should introduce a cypress into a sea-piece, or, according
to the illustration of the present verse, who paints a dolphin in a
wood, or a boar in the sea.

2. Another instance, in which we are misled by an _ambition of
attaining to what is right_, is, when, through an excessive fear of
committing faults, we disqualify ourselves for the just execution of a
_whole_, or of such _particulars_, as are susceptible of real beauty.
For not the affectation of superior excellencies only, but even

    _In vitium ducit_ culpae fuga, _si caret arte_.

This is aptly illustrated by the case of a sculptor. An over-scrupulous
diligence to finish single and trivial parts in a statue, which, when
most exact, are only not faulty, leaves him utterly incapable of doing
justice to the more important members, and, above all, of designing and
completing a _whole_ with any degree of perfection. But this latter
is commonly the defect of a minute genius; who, having taken in hand
a design, which he is by no means able to execute, naturally applies
himself to labour and finish those parts, which he finds are within
his power. It is of consequence therefore [from v. 38 to 40] for every
writer to be well acquainted with the nature and extent of his own
talents: and to be careful to chuse a subject, which is, in all its
parts, proportioned to his strength and ability. Besides, from such an
attentive survey of his subject, and of his capacity to treat it, he
will also derive these further advantages [v. 41] 1. That he cannot be
wanting in a proper fund of matter, wherewith to inlarge under every
head: nor, 2. can he fail, by such a well-weighed choice, to dispose of
his subject in the best and most convenient method. Especially, as to
the latter, which is the principal benefit, he will perceive [to v. 45]
where it will be useful to preserve, and where to change, the natural
order of his subject, as may best serve to answer the ends of poetry.

Thus far some general reflexions concerning _poetical distribution_;
principally, as it may be affected by false notions, 1. Of _poetic
licence_ [v. 10] and, 2. Of _poetic perfection_ [v. 25]. But the same
causes will equally affect the _language_, as _method_, of poetry. To
these then are properly subjoined some directions about the _use of
words_. Now this particular depending so entirely on what is out of the
reach of rule, as the fashion of the age, the taste of the writer, and
his knowledge of the language, in which he writes, the poet only gives
directions about _new words_: or, since every language is necessarily
imperfect, about the _coining of such words_, as the writer’s necessity
or convenience may demand. And here, after having prescribed [l. 46]
a great _caution_ and _sparingness_ in the thing itself, he observes,
1. [to l. 49] That where it ought to be done, the better and less
offensive way will be, not to coin a _word_ entirely new (for this
is ever a task of some envy) but, by means of an ingenious and happy
position of a well-known word, in respect of some others, to give it a
new air, and cast. Or, if it be necessary to _coin new words_, as it
will be in subjects of an abstruse nature, and especially such, as were
never before treated in the language, that then, 2. [to l. 54] this
liberty is very allowable; but that the reception of them will be more
easy, if we derive them gently, and without too much violence, from
their proper source, that is, from a language, as the Greek, already
known, and approved. And, to obviate the prejudices of over-scrupulous
critics on this head, he goes on [from l. 54 to l. 73] in a vein of
popular illustration, to alledge, in favour of this liberty, the
examples of antient writers, and the vague, unsteady nature of language
itself.

From these reflexions on poetry, at large, he proceeds now to
_particulars_: the most obvious of which being the different _forms
and measures_ of poetic composition, he considers, in this view [from
v. 75 to 86] the four great species of poetry, to which all others may
be reduced, _the Epic_, _Elegiac_, _Dramatic_, and _Lyric_. But the
distinction of the _measures_ to be observed in the several species
of poetry is so obvious, that there can scarcely be any mistake about
them. The difficulty is to know [from v. 86 to 89] how far, each may
partake of the _spirit_ of other, without destroying that _natural
and necessary difference_, which ought to subsist betwixt them all.
To explane this, which is a point of great nicety, he considers [from
v. 89 to 99] the case of dramatic poetry; the two species of which
are as distinct from each other, as any two can be, and yet there are
times, when the features of the one will be allowed to resemble those
of the other. For, 1. Comedy, in the passionate parts, will admit of
a tragic elevation: and, 2. Tragedy, in its soft distressful scenes,
condescends to the ease of familiar conversation. But the poet had a
further view in chusing this instance. For he gets by this means into
the main of his subject, which was dramatic poetry, and, by the most
delicate transition imaginable, proceeds [from l. 89 to 323] to deliver
a series of rules, interspersed with historical accounts, and enlivened
by digressions, for the regulation and improvement of the ROMAN STAGE.


PART II.

DIRECTIONS FOR THE REGULATION AND IMPROVEMENT OF THE ROMAN STAGE.

Having fixed the distinct limits and provinces of the two species of
the drama, the poet enters directly on his subject, and considers, I.
[from v. 99 to 119] the properties of the TRAGIC STYLE; which will
be different, 1. [to v. 111] according to the _internal state and
character_ of the speaker: thus one sort of expression will become the
_angry_; another, the _sorrowful_; this, the _gay_, that, the _severe_.
And, 2. [from v. 111 to 119] according to the outward circumstances of
_rank_, _age_, _office_, or _country_.

II. Next [to v. 179] he treats of the CHARACTERS, which are of two
sorts. 1. _Old ones, revived_: and 2. _Invented, or new ones_. In
relation to the _first_ [from v. 119 to 125] the precept is, to _follow
fame_; that is, to fashion the character according to the _received,
standing idea_, which tradition and elder times have consecrated; that
idea being the sole test, whereby to judge of it. 2. In respect of the
_latter_ [from v. 125 to 128] the great requisite is _uniformity_,
or _consistency of representation_. But the formation of quite _new
characters_ is a work of great difficulty and hazard. For here, there
is no generally received and fixed _archetype_ to work after, but every
one judges, of common right, according to the extent and comprehension
of his own idea. Therefore [to v. 136] he advises to labour and
refit _old characters and subjects_; particularly those, made known
and authorized by the practice of Homer and the epic writers; and
directs, at the same time, by what means to avoid that _servility and
unoriginal air_, so often charged upon such pieces. I said _characters
and subjects_, for his method leading him to guard against servility
of imitation in point of _characters_, the poet chose to dispatch the
whole affair of _servile imitation_ at once, and therefore [to v. 136]
includes _subjects_, as well as _characters_.

But this very advice, about taking the subjects and characters from
the epic poets, might be apt to lead into two faults, arising from
the ill conduct of those poets themselves. For, 1. [to v. 146] the
dignity and importance of a subject, made sacred by antient fame,
had sometimes occasioned a boastful and ostentatious beginning, than
which nothing can be more offensive. And, 2. The whole story being
composed of great and striking particulars, injudicious writers, for
fear of losing any part of it, which might serve to adorn their work,
had been led to follow the _round of plain historic order_, and so
had made the disposition of their piece _uninteresting and unartful_.
Now both these improprieties, which appear so shocking in the _epic
poem_, must needs, with still higher reason, deform the _tragic_. For,
taking its rise, not from the flattering views of the _poet_, but the
real situation of the _actor_, its opening must of necessity, be very
simple and unpretending. And being, from its short term of action,
unable naturally to prepare and bring about many events, it, of course,
confines itself to _one_; as also for the sake of producing a due
_distress_ in the plot; which can never be wrought up to any _trying_
pitch, unless the whole attention be made to fix on _one_ single
object. The way to avoid both these faults, will be to observe (for
here the imitation cannot be too close) the well-judged practice of
Homer.

Having thus considered the affair of _imitation_, and shewn how _old
characters_, and, to carry it still further, _old_ subjects, may be
successfully treated, he resumes the head of _characters_, and proceeds
more fully [from v. 153 to 179] to recommend it as a point of principal
concern in the drawing of them, to be well acquainted with the manners,
agreeing to the several successive periods and stages of human life.
And this with propriety: for, though he had given a hint to this
purpose before,

    _Maturusne senex, an adhuc florente juventâ
    Fervidus_,

yet, as it is a point of singular importance, and a regard to _it_,
besides other distinctions, must be constantly had in the draught of
every character, it well deserved a separate consideration.

III. These instructions, which, in some degree, respect all kinds of
poetry, being dismissed; he now delivers some rules more peculiarly
relative to the case of the _drama_. And, as the _misapplication of
manners_, which was the point he had been considering, was destructive
of _probability_, this leads the poet, by a natural order, to censure
some other species of misconduct, which have the _same effect_. He
determines then, 1. [from v. 179 to 189] The case of _representation_
and _recital_: or what it is, which renders some things more fit to be
_acted_ on the stage, others more fit to be _related_ on it. Next, 2.
In pursuance of the same point, _viz. probability_ [to v. 193] he
restrains the use of _machines_; and prescribes the number of _acts_,
and of _persons_, to be introduced on the stage at the same time. And,
3. lastly, the _persona dramatis_, just mentioned, suggesting it to
his thoughts, he takes occasion from thence to pass on to the _chorus_
[from v. 193 to 202] whose double office it was, 1. To sustain the part
of a _persona dramatis_ in the acts; and, 2. To connect the _acts_
with songs, persuading to good morals, and suitable to the subject.
Further, tragedy being, originally, nothing more than a _chorus_ or
song, set to music, from which practice the harmony of the regular
chorus in aftertimes had its rise, he takes occasion to digress [from
v. 202 to 220] in explaining the simplicity and barbarity of the
_old_, and the refinements of the _later_, music. The application of
this account of the dramatic music to the case of the tragic chorus,
together with a short glance at the other improvements of _numbers,
stile, &c._ necessarily connected with it, gives him the opportunity
of going off easily into a subject of near affinity with this, _viz._
the _Roman satiric piece_; which was indeed a species of tragedy, but
of so extraordinary a composition, as to require a set of rules, and
instructions, peculiar to itself. A point, in which they agreed, but
which was greatly misunderstood or ill-observed by his countrymen,
was the kind of verse or measure employed in them. This therefore,
by a disposition of the most beautiful method, he reserves for a
consideration by itself, having, first of all, delivered such rules,
as seemed necessary about those points, in which they essentially
differed. He explains then [from v. 220 to 225] the _use and end_ of
the _satires_, shewing them to be designed for the exhilaration of the
rustic youth, on their solemn festivities, after the exhibition of
the graver, tragic shews. But, 2. To convert, as far as was possible,
what was thus a necessary sacrifice to the taste of the multitude into
a tolerable entertainment for the better sort, he lays down [from v.
225 to 240] the exactest description or idea of this sort of poem; by
means of which he instructs us in the due temperature and decorum of
the satyric style. 3. Lastly, [from v. 240 to 251] he directs to the
choice of proper subjects, and defines the just character of those
principal and so uncommon _personages_ in this drama, the _satyrs_
themselves. This being premised, he considers, as was observed, what
belongs in common to this with the regular tragedy [from v. 251 to 275]
the laws and use of the _iambic_ foot; reproving, at the same time,
the indolence or ill-taste of the Roman writers in this respect, and
sending them for instruction to the Grecian models.

Having introduced his critique on the _stage-music_, and _satyric
drama_, with some account of the rise and progress of _each_, the poet
very properly concludes this whole part [from v. 275 to 295] with a
short, incidental history of the principal improvements of the _Greek
tragedy and comedy_; which was artfully contrived to insinuate the
defective state of the Roman drama, and to admonish his countrymen, how
far they had gone, and what yet remained to complete it. And hence with
the advantage of the easiest transition he slides into the last part of
the epistle; the design of which, as hath been observed, was to reprove
an _incorrectness and want of care_ in the Roman writers. For, having
just observed their _defect_, he goes on, in the remaining part of the
epistle, to sum up the several causes, which seem to have produced it.
And this gives him the opportunity, under every head, of prescribing
the proper remedy for each, and of inserting such further rules and
precepts for good writing, as could not so properly come in before. The
whole is managed with singular address, as will appear from looking
over particulars.


PART III.

A CARE AND DILIGENCE IN WRITING RECOMMENDED.

I. [from l. 295 to l. 323] The poet ridicules that false notion, into
which the Romans had fallen, that _poetry_ and _possession_ were nearly
the same thing: that nothing more was required in a poet, than some
extravagant starts and sallies of thought; that coolness and reflexion
were inconsistent with his character, and that poetry was not to be
scanned by the rules of sober sense. This they carried so far, as to
affect the outward port and air of madness, and, upon the strength of
that appearance, to set up for wits and poets. In opposition to this
mistake, which was one great hindrance to critical correctness, he
asserts _wisdom and good sense to be the source and principle of good
writing_: for the attainment of which he prescribes, 1. [from v. 310 to
312] A careful study of the Socratic, that is, moral wisdom: and, 2.
[from v. 312 to 318] A thorough acquaintance with human nature, _that
great exemplar of manners_, as he finely calls it, or, in other words,
a wide extensive view of real, practical life. The joint direction
of these two, as means of acquiring moral knowledge, was perfectly
necessary. For the former, when alone, is apt to grow abstracted and
unaffecting: the latter, uninstructing and superficial. The philosopher
talks without experience, and the man of the world without principles.
United they supply each other’s defects; while the man of the world
borrows so much of the philosopher, as to be able to adjust the several
sentiments with precision and exactness; and the philosopher so much
of the man of the world as to copy the manners of life (which we can
only do by experience) with truth and spirit. Both together furnish a
thorough and complete comprehension of human life; which manifesting
itself in the _just_, and _affecting_, forms that exquisite degree of
perfection in the character of the dramatic poet; the want of which no
warmth of genius can atone for, or excuse. Nay such is the force of
this nice adjustment of _manners_ [from l. 319 to 323] that, where it
has remarkably prevailed, the success of a play hath sometimes been
secured by it, without one single excellence or recommendation besides.

II. He shews [from l. 323 to 333] another cause of their incorrectness
and want of success, in any degree, answering to that of the Greek
writers, to have been the low and illiberal education of the Roman
youth; who, while the Greeks were taught to open all their mind to
glory, were cramped in their genius by the rust of gain, and, by the
early infusion of such sordid principles, became unable to project a
great design, or with any care and mastery to complete it.

III. A third impediment to their success in poetry [from l. 333 to
346] was their inattention to the _entire_ scope and purpose of it,
while they contented themselves with the attainment of one only of
the two great ends, which are proposed by it. For the double design
of poetry being to _instruct_ and _please_, the full aim and glory
of the art cannot be attained without uniting them both: that is,
_instructing_ so as to _please_, and _pleasing_ so as to _instruct_.
Under either head of _instruction_ and _entertainment_ the poet, with
great address, insinuates the main art of each kind of writing, which
consists, 1. in _instructive_ or _didactic poetry_ [from v. 335 to 338]
in the _conciseness of the precept_: and, 2. in works of _fancy_ and
_entertainment_ [l. 338 to 341] in _probability of fiction_. But both
these [l. 341 to 347] must concur in a just piece.

But here the bad poet objects the difficulty of the terms, imposed
upon him, and that, if the critic looked for all these requisites, and
exacted them with rigour, it would be impossible to satisfy him: at
least it was more likely to discourage, than quicken, as he proposed,
the diligence of writers. To this the reply is [from l. 347 to 360]
that he was not so severe, as to exact a faultless and perfect piece:
that some inaccuracies and faults of less moment would escape the most
cautious and guarded writer; and that, as he should contemn a piece,
that was generally bad, notwithstanding a few beauties, he could, on
the contrary, admire a work, that was generally good, notwithstanding a
few faults. Nay, he goes on [from l. 360 to 366] to observe in favour
of writers, against their too rigorous censurers, that what were often
called faults, were really not so: that some parts of a poem ought
to be less _shining_, or less _finished_, than others; according to
the light, they were placed in, or the distance, from which they
were viewed; and that, serving only to connect and lead to others of
greater consequence, it was sufficient if they pleased once, or did not
displease, provided that those others would please on every review. All
this is said agreeably to _nature_, which does not allow every part
of a subject, to be equally susceptible of ornament; and to the _end
of poetry_, which cannot so well be attained, without an inequality.
The allusions to painting, which the poet uses, give this truth the
happiest illustration.

Having thus made all the reasonable allowances, which a writer could
expect, he goes on to inforce the general instruction of this part,
_viz. a diligence in writing_, by shewing [from l. 366 to 379] that
a _mediocrity_, however tolerable, or even commendable, it might be
in other arts, would never be allowed in this: for which he assigns
this very obvious and just reason; that, as the main end of poetry
is to _please_, if it did not reach that point (which it could not
do by stopping ever so little on this side excellence) it was, like
indifferent music, indifferent perfumes, or any other indifferent
thing, which we can do without, and whose end should be to please,
_offensive and disagreeable_, and for want of being very good,
absolutely and insufferably bad. This reflexion leads him with great
advantage [from l. 379 to 391] to the general conclusion in view,
_viz._ that as none but excellent poetry will be allowed, it should
be a warning to writers, how they engage in it without abilities;
or publish without severe and frequent correction. But to stimulate
the poet, who, notwithstanding the allowances already made, might be
something struck with this last reflexion, he flings out [from l. 391
to 408] into a fine encomium, on the dignity and excellence of the art
itself, by recounting its ancient honours. This encomium, besides its
great usefulness in invigorating the mind of the poet, has this further
view, to recommend and revive, together with its honours, the office of
ancient poesy; which was employed about the noblest and most important
subjects; the sacred source, from whence those honours were derived.

From this transient view of the several species of poetry, terminating,
as by a beautiful contrivance it is made to do, in the _Ode_, the
order of his ideas carries him into some reflexions on the power of
genius (which so essentially belongs to the lyric Muse) and to settle
thereby a point of criticism, much controverted among the ancients,
and on which a very considerable stress would apparently be laid. For,
if after all, so much art and care and caution be demanded in poetry,
what becomes of genius, in which alone it had been thought to consist?
would the critic insinuate, that good poems can be the sole effect of
art, and go so far, in opposition to the reigning prejudice, as to
assert nature to be of no force at all? This objection, which would be
apt to occur to the general scope and tenor of the epistle, as having
turned principally on _art_ and _rules_ without insisting much on
natural _energy_, the poet obviates at once [from v. 408 to 419] by
reconciling two things which were held, it seems, incompatible, and
demanding in the poet, besides the fire of real genius, all the labour
and discipline of art. But there is one thing still wanting. The poet
may be excellently formed by nature, and accomplished by art, but will
his own judgment be a sufficient guide, without assistance from others?
will not the partiality of an author for his own works sometimes
prevail over the united force of rules and genius, unless he call in
a fairer and less interested guide? Doubtless it will: and therefore
the poet, with the utmost propriety, adds [from v. 419 to 450] as a
necessary part of this instructive monition to his brother poets, some
directions concerning the choice of a prudent and sincere friend,
whose unbiassed sense might at all times correct the prejudices,
indiscretions, and oversights of the author. And to impress this
necessary care, with greater force, on the poet, he closes the whole
with shewing the dreadful consequences of being imposed upon in so nice
an affair; representing, in all the strength of colouring, the picture
of a bad poet, infatuated, to a degree of madness, by a fond conceit of
his own works, and exposed thereby (so important had been the service
of timely advice) to the contempt and scorn of the public.

And now, an unity of design in this epistle, and the pertinent
connection of its several parts being, it is presumed, from this method
of illustration, clearly and indisputably shewn, what must we think
of the celebrated FRENCH interpreter of Horace, who, after a studied
translation of this piece, supported by a long, elaborate commentary,
minutely condescending to scrutinize each part, could yet perceive so
little of its true form and character, as to give it for his summary
judgment, in conclusion; “_Comme il_ [Horace] _ne travailloit pas à
cela de suite et qu’il ne gardoit d’autre ordre que celui des matieres
que le hazard lui donnoit à lire et à examiner, il est arrivé delà qu’_
IL N’ Y A AUCUNE METHODE NI AUCUNE LIAISON DE PARTIES DANS CE TRAITÉ,
_qui même n’a jamais été achevé, Horace n’ ayant pas eu le tems d’y
mettre la derniere main, ou, ce qui est plus vraisemblable, n’ayant
pas voulu s’en donner la peine_.” [M. Dacier’s Introd. remarks to the
art of poetry.] The softest thing that can be said of such a critic,
is, that he well deserves the censure, he so justly applied to the
great Scaliger, S’IL L’AVOIT BIEN ENTENDU, IL LUI AUROIT RENDU PLUS DE
JUSTICE, ET EN AUROIT PARLÉ PLUS MODESTEMENT.




NOTES

ON THE

ART OF POETRY.


The text of this epistle is given from Dr. BENTLEY’S edition, except in
some few places, of which the reader is advertized in the notes. These,
that they might not break in too much on the thread of the Commentary,
are here printed by themselves. For the rest, let me apologize with a
great critic: _Nobis viri docti ignoscent, si hæc fusius: præsertim
si cogitent, veri critici esse, non literulam alibi ejicere, alibi
innocentem syllabam et quæ nunquàm male merita de patria fuerit, per
jocum et ludum trucidare et configere; verùm recte de autoribus et
rebus judicare, quod et solidæ et absolutæ eruditionis est._ HEINSIUS.

       *       *       *       *       *

1. HUMANO CAPITI, &c.] It is seen, in the comment, with what elegance
this first part [to v. 89] is made preparatory to the main subject,
agreeably to the genius of the Epistle. But elegance, in good hands,
always implies _propriety_; as is the case here. For the critic’s
rules must be taken either, 1. from the _general_ standing laws of
composition; or, 2. from the peculiar ones, appropriated to the _kind_.
Now the direction to be fetched from the former of these sources will
of course _precede_, as well on account of its superior dignity, as
that the mind itself delights to descend from _universals_ to the
consideration of _particulars_. Agreeably to this rule of nature, the
poet, having to correct, in the Roman drama, these three points, 1.
a misconduct in the disposition; 2. an abuse of language; and 3. a
disregard of the peculiar characters and _colorings_ of its different
species, hath chosen to do this on principles of universal nature;
which, while they include the case of the drama, at the same time
extend to poetic composition at large. These prefatory, universal
observations being delivered, he then proceeds, with advantage, to the
_second_ source of his art, viz. the consideration of the laws and
rules peculiar to the _kind_.

       *       *       *       *       *

9.—ICTORIBUS ATQUE POETIS—QUIDLIBET AUDENDI SEMPER FUIT AEQUA
POTESTAS.] The _modern_ painter and poet will observe that this
aphorism comes from the mouth of an objector.

       *       *       *       *       *

14. INCEPTIS GRAVIBUS, &c.] These preparatory observations concerning
the laws of poetic composition at large have been thought to glance
more _particularly_ at the epic poetry: Which was not improper: For, 1.
The _drama_, which he was about to criticize, had its rise and origin
from the _epos_. Thus we are told by the great critic, that Homer was
the first who _invented dramatic imitations_, μόνος—ὅτι μιμήσεις
δραματικὰς ἐποίησε. And to the same purpose Plato: ἔοικε μὲν τῶν καλῶν
ἁπάντων τούτων τῶν τραγικῶν πρῶτος διδάσκαλος καὶ ἡγεμὼν γενέσθαι
[Ὅμηρος.] _De Rep._ l. x. Hence, as our noble critic observes, “There
was no more left for tragedy to do after him, than to erect a stage,
and draw his dialogues and characters into scenes; turning in the same
manner upon one principal action or event, with regard to place and
time, which was suitable to a real spectacle.” [_Characterist._ vol. i.
p. 198.] 2. The several censures, here pointed at the epic, would bear
still more directly against the tragic poem; it being more glaringly
inconsistent with the genius of the _drama_ to admit of foreign and
digressive ornaments, than of the extended, episodical _epopœia_. For
both these reasons it was altogether pertinent to the poet’s purpose,
in a criticism on the _drama_, to expose the vicious practice of the
_epic_ models. Though, to preserve the unity of his piece, and for the
reason before given in note on v. 1. he hath artfully done this under
the cover of _general_ criticism.

       *       *       *       *       *

19. SED NUNC NON ERAT HIS LOCUS.] If one was to apply this observation
to our dramatic writings, I know of none which would afford pleasanter
instances of the absurdity, here exposed, than the famous ORPHAN of
Otway. Which, notwithstanding its real beauties, could hardly have
taken so prodigiously, as it hath done, on our stage, if there were not
somewhere a defect of _good taste_ as well as of _good morals_.

       *       *       *       *       *

23. DENIQUE SIT QUIDVIS: SIMPLEX DUNTAXAT ET UNUM.] Is not it strange
that he, who delivered this rule in form, and, by his manner of
delivering it, appears to have laid the greatest stress upon it, should
be thought capable of paying no attention to it himself, in the conduct
of this epistle?

       *       *       *       *       *

25-28. BREVIS ESSE LABORO, OBSCURUS FIO: SECTANTEM LENIA NERVI
DEFICIUNT ANIMIQUE: PROFESSUS GRANDIA TURGET: SERPIT HUMI TUTUS NIMIUM
TIMIDUSQUE PROCELLAE.] If these characters were to be exemplified in
our own poets, of reputation, the _first_, I suppose, might be justly
applied to Donne; the _second_, to Parnell; the _third_, to Thomson;
and the _fourth_, to Addison. As to the two following lines;

    _Qui variare cupit rem prodigialiter unam,
    Delphinum silvis adpingit, fluctibus aprum_:

they are applicable to so many of our poets, that, to keep the rest
in countenance, I will but just mention Shakespear himself; who, to
enrich his scene with that _variety_, which his exuberant genius so
largely supplied, hath deformed his best plays with these _prodigious_
incongruities.

       *       *       *       *       *

29. QUI VARIARE CUPIT REM PRODIGIALITER UNAM, &c.] Though I agree with
M. Dacier that _prodigialiter_ is here used in a good sense, yet the
word is so happily chosen by our _curious speaker_ as to carry the
mind to that fictitious monster, under which he had before allusively
shadowed out the idea of absurd and inconsistent composition, in v. 1.
The application, however, differs in this, that, whereas the monster,
there painted, was intended to expose the extravagance of putting
together _incongruous parts_, without any reference to a _whole_, this
_prodigy_ is designed to characterize a _whole_, but deformed by the
ill-judged _position_ of its _parts_. The former is like a monster,
whose several members, as of right belonging to different animals,
could, by no disposition, be made to constitute _one_ consistent
animal. The other, like a landskip, which hath no objects absolutely
_irrelative_, or irreducible to a _whole_, but which a wrong position
of the _parts_ only renders _prodigious_. Send the _boar to the woods_;
and the _dolphin to the waves_; and the painter might shew them both on
the same canvass.

Each is a violation of the law of unity, and a real _monster_: the one,
because it contains an assemblage of naturally _incoherent parts_;
the other, because its parts, though in themselves _coherent_, are
_misplaced_, and disjointed.

       *       *       *       *       *

34. INFELIX OPERIS SUMMA: QUIA PONERE TOTUM NESCIET.] This observation
is more particularly applicable to _dramatic_ poetry, than to any
other, an unity and integrity of action being of its very essence.—The
poet illustrates his observation very happily in the case of
_statuary_; but it holds of every other art, that hath a _whole_ for
its object. _Nicias_, the painter, used to say[10], “That the _subject_
was to him, what the fable is to the poet.” Which is just the sentiment
of _Horace_, reversed. For by the _subject_ is meant the whole of the
painter’s plan, the _totum_, which it will be impossible for those to
express, who lay out their pains so solicitously in finishing single
parts. Thus, to take an obvious example, the landskip-painter is to
draw together, and form into _one_ entire view, certain beautiful,
or striking objects. This is his main care. It is not even essential
to the merit of his piece, to labour, with extreme exactness, the
_principal_ constituent parts. But for the rest, a _shrub_ or _flower_,
a straggling _goat_ or _sheep_, these may be touched very negligently.
We have a great modern instance. Few painters have obliged us with
_finer_ scenes, or have possessed the art of combining _woods_,
_lakes_, and _rocks_, into more agreeable pictures, than G. POUSSIN:
Yet his _animals_ are observed to be scarce worthy an ordinary artist.
The use of these is _simply_ to decorate the scene; and so their beauty
depends, not on the truth and correctness of the _drawing_, but on
the elegance of their _disposition_ only. For, in a landskip, the eye
carelessly glances over the smaller parts, and regards them only in
reference to the surrounding objects. The painter’s labour therefore
is lost, or rather misemployed, to the prejudice of the _whole_, when
it strives to finish, so minutely, _particular_ objects. If some great
masters have shewn themselves ambitious of this fame, the objects,
they have laboured, have been always such, as are most considerable in
themselves, and have, besides, an _effect_ in illustrating and setting
off the entire scenery. It is chiefly in this view, that Ruisdale’s
_waters_, and Claude Lorain’s _skies_ are so admirable.

       *       *       *       *       *

40.—CUI LECTA POTENTER ERIT RES.] _Potenter_ i. e. κατὰ δύναμιν,
_Lambin_: which gives a pertinent sense, but without justifying the
expression. The learned editor of Statius proposes to read _pudenter_,
a word used by Horace on other occasions, and which suits the meaning
of the place, as well. A similar passage in the epistle to Augustus
adds some weight to this conjecture;

                                _nec meus audet_
    REM _tentare_ PUDOR, _quam vires ferre recusent_.

       *       *       *       *       *

45. HOC AMET, HOC SPERNAT, PROMISSI CARMINIS AUCTOR—IN VERBIS ETIAM
TENUIS CAUTUSQUE SERENDIS.] Dr. Bentley hath inverted the order of
these two lines; not merely, as I conceive, without sufficient reason,
but in prejudice also to the scope and tenor of the poet’s sense; in
which case only I allow myself to depart from his text. The whole
precept, on poetical distribution, is delivered, as of importance:

    [_Ordinis haec virtus erit et venus, aut ego fallor_.]

And such indeed it is: for, 1. It respects no less than the
constitution of a _whole_, i. e. the reduction of a subject into one
entire, consistent plan, the most momentous and difficult of all the
offices of _invention_, and which is more immediately addressed, in the
high and sublime sense of the word, to the POET. 2. ’Tis no trivial
_whole_, which the Precept had in view, but, as the context shews, and
as is further apparent from v. 150, where this topic is resumed and
treated more at large, the _epos_ and the _drama_: With what propriety
then is a rule of such dignity inforced by that strong emphatic
conclusion,

    _Hoc amet, hoc spernat, promissi carminis auctor_:

_i. e._ “Be this rule held sacred and inviolate by him, who hath
projected and engaged in a work, deserving the appellation of a poem.”
Were the subject only the choice or invention of _words_, the solemnity
of such an application must be ridiculous.

As for the construction, the commonest reader can find himself at no
loss to defend it against the force of the Doctor’s objections.

       *       *       *       *       *

46. IN VERBIS ETIAM TENUIS, &c.] I have said, that these preparatory
observations concerning an _unity_ of design, the _abuse of language_,
and the different _colourings_ of the several species of poetry,
whilst they extend to poetic composition at _large_, more particularly
respect the case of the _drama_. The _first_ of these articles has been
illustrated in note on v. 34. The _last_ will be considered in note v.
73. I will here shew the same of the _second_, concerning the _abuse
of words_. For 1. the style of the drama representing real life, and
demanding, on that account, a peculiar ease and familiarity in the
language, the practice of coining _new_ words must be more insufferable
in _this_, than in any other species of poetry. The majesty of the epic
will even sometimes require to be supported by this means, when the
commonest ear would resent it, as downright affectation upon the stage.
Hence the peculiar propriety of this rule to the dramatic writer,

    _In verbis etiam tenuis cautusque serendis_.

2. Next, it is necessary to keep the tragic style, though
condescending, in some sort, to the familiar cast of conversation,
from sinking beneath the dignity of the personages, and the solemnity
of the representation. Now no expedient can more happily effect
this, than what the poet prescribes concerning the _position_ and
_derivation_ of words. For thus, the language, without incurring the
odium of absolutely _invented_ terms, sustains itself in a becoming
stateliness and reserve, and, whilst it seems to stoop to the level
of conversation, artfully eludes the meanness of a trite, prosaic
style.—There are wonderful instances of this management in the _Samson
Agonistes_ of Milton; the most artificial and highly finished, though
for that reason, perhaps, the least popular and most neglected, of all
the great poet’s works.

       *       *       *       *       *

47. DIXERIS EGREGIE, NOTUM SI CALLIDA VERBUM REDDIDERIT JUNCTURA
NOVUM.—] This direction, about _disposing_ of old words in such a
manner as that they shall have the grace of _new_ ones, is among the
finest in the whole poem. And because Shakespear is he, of all our
poets, who has most successfully practised this secret, it may not be
amiss to illustrate the precept before us by examples taken from his
writings.

But first it will be proper to explain the _precept_ itself as given by
Horace.

His critics seem not at all to have apprehended the force of it. Dacier
and Sanadon, the two best of them, confine it merely to the formation
of _compound words_; which, though _one_ way in which this _callida
junctura_ shews itself, is by no means the whole of what the poet
intended by it.

Their mistake arose from interpreting the word _junctura_ too strictly.
They suppose it to mean only the _putting together two words into one_;
this being the most obvious idea we have of the _joining_ of words.
As if the most _literal_ construction of terms, according to their
etymology, were always the most proper.

But Mr. Dacier has a reason of his own for confining the precept to
this meaning. “The question, he says, is _de verbis serendis_; and
therefore this _junctura_ must be explained of _new_ words, properly so
called, as compound epithets are; and not of the grace of novelty which
single words seem to acquire from the art of disposing of them.”

By which we understand, that the learned critic did not perceive the
scope of his author; which was manifestly this. “The invention of new
terms, says he, being a matter of much nicety, I had rather you would
contrive to employ known words in such a way as to give them the effect
of new ones. ’Tis true, new words may sometimes be necessary: And if
so,” &c. Whence we see that the line,

    _In verbis etiam tenuis cautusque serendis_

is not given here in form as the _general rule_, and the following
line as the _example_. On the other hand, the rule is just mentioned
carelessly and in passing, while the poet is hastening to another
consideration of more importance, and which he even _opposes_ to the
former. “Instead of making new words, you will do well to confine
yourself merely to old ones.” Whatever then be the meaning of
_junctura_, it is clear we are not to explain it of such words as
exemplify the rule _de verbis serendis_.

But _junctura_ will best be interpreted by the _usage_ of Horace
together with the _context_; 1. The word occurs only once more in this
poet, and that in this very Epistle. It is where he advises a conduct
with regard to the _subject-matter_ of a poem, analogous to this
concerning the _language_ of it.

    _Ex noto fictum carmen sequar—
    ——tantum series juncturaque pollet._ v. 242.

Does he mean _the joining two subjects together_ and combining them
into _one_, so as that the _compound_ subject shall be a _new_ one? No
such thing; “The subject, says he, shall be a _known_, an old one. Yet
the _order, management, and contrivance_ shall be such as to give it
the air of an original fiction.” Apply now this sense of _junctura_ to
words, and we are only told, that expression may be so _ordered_ as to
appear new, when the words, of which it is made up, are all known and
common.

We have then the authority of the poet himself against the opinion
of the French critic. But we have also the authority of his great
imitator, or rather interpreter, Persius; who speaking of the language
of his satires says, in allusion to this passage of Horace,

    “_Verba togæ sequeris_, juncturâ callidus _acri_.
                                            S. v. 14.

i. e. he took up with words of common and familiar use, but contrived
to bring them into his style in such a manner as to give them the
force, spirit, and energy of satiric expression.”

2. Again: the context, as I observed, leads us to this meaning. The
poet in v. 42. had been giving his opinion of the nature and effect
of _method_, or orderly disposition in the conduct of a _fable_.
The course of his ideas carries him to apply the observation to
_words_; which he immediately does, only interposing v. 46. by way of
introduction to it.

On the whole then _junctura_ is a word of large and general import, and
the same in _expression_, as _order or disposition_, in a _subject_.
The poet would say, “Instead of framing new words, I recommend to you
_any_ kind of artful management by which you may be able to give a new
air and cast to old ones.”

Having now got at the true meaning of the precept, let us see how well
it may be exemplified in the practice of Shakespear.


1. The first example of this _artful management_, if it were only
in complaisance to former commentators, shall be that of _compound
epithets_; of which sort are,

  _High-sighted Tyranny_       J. C. A. II. S. 2.
  _A barren-spirited fellow_         A. IV. S. 1.
  _An arm-gaunt steed_          A. C. A. I. S. 6.
  _Flower-soft hands_                A. II. S. 3.
  _Lazy-pacing clouds_         R. J. A. II. S. 2.

and a thousand instances more in this poet. But this is a small part of
his _craft_, as may be seen by what follows. For this end is attained,


2. _By another form of composition_; by compound _verbs_ as well as
compound _adjectives_.


To _candy_ and _limn_ are known words. The poet would express the
contrary ideas, and he does it happily, by compounding them with our
English negative _dis_,

                              ——“The hearts
    That pantler’d me at heels, to whom I gave
    Their wishes, do _discandy_, melt their sweets
    On blossoming Cæsar—
                                A. C. A. IV. S. 9.

    “That which is now a horse, ev’n with a thought
    The rack _dislimns_, and makes it indistinct
    As water is in water—
                                A. C. A. IV. S. 10.

Though here we may observe, that for the readier acceptation of these
compounds, he artfully subjoins the explanation.


3. By a liberty he takes of converting _substantives_ into _verbs_;

    A glass that _featur’d_ them.
                                Cymb. A. I. S. 1.

                ——Simon’s weeping
    Did _scandal_ many a holy tear—
                                     A. III. S. 4.

    Great griefs, I see, _medicine_ the less.
                                       A. IV. S. 5.

                          ——that kiss
    I carried from thee, Dear; and my true lip
    Hath _virgin’d_ it e’er since—
                                   Cor. A. V. S. 3.

    Or _verbs_ into _substantives_;

                      ——Then began
    A stop i’ th’ chaser, a _Retire_—
                                  Cymb. A. V. S. 2.

                            ——take
    No stricter _render_ of me—
                                        A. V. S. 3.

                      ——handkerchief
    Still waving, as the fits and _stirs_ of’s mind
    Could best express—
                                   Cymb. A. I. S. 5.

            ——Sextus Pompeius
    Hath giv’n the _dare_ to Cæsar—
                                   A. C. A. I. S. 3.


4. By using _active_ verbs neutrally,

          ——He hath fought to-day
    As if a god in hate of mankind had
    _Destroy’d_, in such a shape—
                                A. C. A. IV. S. 6.

    It is the bloody business, that _informs_
    Thus to mine eyes—
                                 Macb. A. II. S. 2.

And _neutral_ verbs actively,

                              ——never man
    Sigh’d truer breath; but that I see thee here,
    Thou noble thing! more _dances_ my rapt heart
    Than when I first my wedded mistress saw
    Bestride my threshold—
                                   Cor. A. IV. S. 4.

                ——like smiling Cupids,
    With divers-colour’d fans, whose wind did seem
    To _glow_ the delicate cheeks which they did cool—
                                   A. C. A. II. S. 3.


5. By converting _Adjectives_ into Substantives.

                            ——I do not think
    So fair an _outward_ and such stuff within
    Endows a man but him—
                                     Cymb. A. I. S. 1.


6. By converting _Participles_ into Substantives.

    He would have well become this place, and grac’d
    The _thankings_ of a King—
                                      Cymb. A. V. S. 5.

    The herbs, that have in them cold dew o’ th’ night,
    Are _strewings_ fitt’st for Graves—
                                           A. IV. S. 5.

                  ——“Then was I as a tree
    Whose boughs did bend with fruit. But, in one night,
    A storm, or robbery, call it what you will,
    Shook down my mellow _hangings_——
                                     Cymb. A. III. S. 3.

                    ——Comes in my father,
    And like the tyrannous _breathing_ of the North
    Shakes all our Buds from blowing——
                                       Cymb. A. I. S. 5.

Which last instance I the rather give for the sake of proposing an
emendation, which I think restores this fine passage to its Integrity.
Before the late edition of Shakespear it stood thus,

    And like the tyrannous breathing of the North
    Shakes all our Buds from _growing_—

But the sagacious Editor saw that this reading was corrupt, and
therefore altered the last word, _growing_, for unanswerable reasons,
into _blowing_. See Mr. W’s note upon the place. This slight change
gives propriety and beauty to the passage, which before had no sort of
meaning. Yet still all is not quite right. For, as the great Critic
himself observes, “_Breathing_ is not a very proper word to express
the rage and bluster of the north wind.” Besides, one does not see how
the _shaking_ of these Buds is properly assign’d as the cause of their
not blowing. The wind might shake off the _blossoms_ of a fruit tree,
i. e. the Buds when they were _full-blown_; but so long as the blossom
lies folded up in the Bud, it seems secure from shaking. At least the
_shaking_ is not the _immediate_ cause of the effect, spoken of; it is
simply the _cold_ of the north-wind that closes the Bud and keeps it
from _blowing_. I am therefore tempted to propose another alteration of
the text, and to read thus,

    And like the tyrannous Breathing of the North
    _Shuts_ all our Buds from blowing—

If this correction be allowed, every thing is perfectly right. It is
properly the _breathing_, the cold breath of the North, that shuts up
the Buds when they are on the point of blowing. Whence the epithet
_tyrannous_ will be understood not as implying the idea of _blust’ring_
(an idea indeed necessary if we retain the word _shakes_) but simply
of _cruel_, the _tyranny_ of this wind consisting in imprisoning
the flower in its Bud and denying it the liberty of coming out into
_Blossom_. The application too of this comparison, which required the
change of _growing_ into _blowing_, seems also to require the present
alteration of _shakes_. For there was no manner of violence in _the
father’s_ coming in upon the lovers. All the effect was, that his
presence _restrained_ them from that interchange of tender words, which
was going to take place between them.

Thus far I had written in the last edition of these notes, and I,
now, see no cause to doubt the _general_ truth and propriety of
this emendation. Only it occurs to me that, instead of SHUTS, the
poet’s own word might, perhaps, be CHECKS; as not only being more
like in _sound_ to the word _shakes_, but as coming nearer to the
_traces_ of the Letters. Besides, CHECKS gives the precise idea we
should naturally look for, whether we regard the integrity of the
_figure_—_tyrannous_—_checks_—, or the _thing_ illustrated by it,
viz. the abrupt coming in of the father, which was properly a _check_
upon the lovers. Lastly, the expression is mended by this reading; for
though we may be allowed to say _shuts from blowing_, yet _checks from
blowing_, is easier and better English.


But to return to other Instances of the Poet’s artifice in the
management of _known_ words. An apparent Novelty is sometimes effected


7. By turning _Participles_ into Adverbs—

                    ——_tremblingly_ she stood
    And on the sudden dropt—
                                    A. C. A. V. S. 5.

(One remembers the fine use Mr. Pope has made of this word in,

    Or touch, if _tremblingly_ alive all o’er—)

                  ——But his flaw’d heart,
    Alack, too weak the conflict to support,
    ’Twixt two extremes of Passion, joy and grief,
    Burst _smilingly_—
                            Lear, A. V. S. 8.


8. By _figurative terms_; i. e. by such terms as though common in the
_plain_, are unusual in the figurative application.

                      ——This common Body
    Like to a vagabond flag, upon the stream,
    Goes to, and back, _lacquying_ the varying tide.
                                A. C. A. I. S. 5.

    ——When snow the Pasture _sheets_.
                                                       ib.

To this head may be referred those innumerable terms in Shakespear
which surprize us by their novelty; and which surprize us generally, on
account of his preferring the _specific_ idea to the _general_ in the
_subjects_ of his Metaphors and the _circumstances_ of his Description;
an excellence in poetical expression which cannot be sufficiently
studied. The examples are too frequent, and the thing itself too well
understood, to make it necessary to enlarge on this article.


9. By _plain words_, i. e. such as are common in the figurative,
uncommon in the literal acceptation.

    _Disasters_ vail’d the Sun—
                                Ham. A. I. S. 1.

See the note on the place.

    Th’ _extravagant_ and erring spirit hies
    To his confine—
                                                      ib.

                ——Can’t such things be
    And _overcome_ us, like a Summer’s cloud,
    Without our special wonder?—
                               Macb. A. III. S. 5.


10. By _transposition of words_—_unauthoriz’d use of terms_—_and
ungrammatical construction_. Instances in all his plays, _passim_.


11. By _foreign idioms_. ’Tis true these are not frequent in
Shakespear. Yet some Latinisms and e’en Grecisms we have. As

    _Quenched of hope_—
                                  Cymb. A. V. S. 5.

And the like. But, which is more remarkable and served his purpose
just as well, the writers of that time had so _latiniz’d_ the English
language; that the pure _English_ Idiom, which Shakespear generally
follows, has all the air of _novelty_ which other writers are used to
affect by a foreign phraseology.

The Reader sees, it were easy to extend this list of Shakespear’s arts
in the _Callida junctura_ much farther. But I intended only a specimen
of them; so much as might serve to illustrate the rule of Horace.

It is enough, that we have now a perfect apprehension of what is meant
by CALLIDA JUNCTURA; And that it is, in effect, but another word for
_Licentious Expression_: The use of which is, as Quintilian well
expresses it, “_Ut quotidiani et semper eodem modo formati sermonis
Fastidium levet, et nos à vulgari dicendi genere defendat_.” In short,
the articles, here enumerated, are but so many ways of departing from
the usual and simpler forms of speech, without neglecting too much the
grace of ease and perspicuity; In which well-tempered licence one
of the greatest charms of all poetry, but especially of Shakespear’s
poetry, consists. Not that He was always and every where so happy, as
in the instances given above. His expression sometimes, and by the very
means, here exemplified, becomes _hard_, _obscure_, and _unnatural_.
This is the extreme on the other side. But in general, we may say, that
He hath either followed the direction of Horace very ably, or hath hit
upon his Rule very happily.

We are not perhaps to expect the same ability, or good fortune from
others. _Novelty_ is a charm which nothing can excuse the want of, in
works of entertainment. And the necessity of preventing the tedium
arising from _hacknied expression_ is so instant, that those, who are
neither capable of prescribing to themselves this Rule of the _callida
Junctura_, or of following it when prescribed by others, are yet
inclined to ape it by some spurious contrivance; which being slight
in itself will soon become liable to excess, and ridiculous by its
absurdity. I have a remarkable instance in view, with which the reader
will not be displeased that I conclude this long note.

About the middle of the 17th century one of the most common of these
mimic efforts was the endless multiplication of _Epithets_; which soon
made their poetry at once both stiff and nerveless. When frequent and
excessive use had made this expedient ridiculous as well as cheap, they
tried another, it’s very opposite _the rejection of all Epithets_,
and so of languid poetry, made rigid Prose. This too had it’s day. A
dramatic Poet of that time has exposed these opposite follies with much
humour. A character of sense and pleasantry is made to interrogate a
Poetaster in the following manner.

    GOLDSWORTH.

    Master CAPERWIT, before you read, pray tell me,
    Have your verses any ADJECTIVES?

    CAPERWIT.

    Adjectives! Would you have a poem without
    Adjectives? They are the flow’rs, the grace of all our language;
    A well-chosen Epithete doth give new Soule
    To fainting Poesie; and makes everye verse
    A Bribe. With Adjectives we baite our lines,
    When we do fish for Gentlewomen’s loves,
    And with their sweetness catch the nibbling ear
    Of amorous Ladies: With the music of
    These ravishing Nouns, we charm the silken tribe,
    And make the Gallant melt with apprehension
    Of the rare word: I will maintain ’t (against
    A bundle of Grammarians) in Poetry
    The Substantive itself cannot subsist
    Without an Adjective.

    GOLDSWORTH.

                          But for all that,
    These words would sound more full, methinks, that are not
    So larded; and, if I might counsel you,
    You should compose a Sonnet, cleane without them.
    A row of stately SUBSTANTIVES would march,
    Like Switzers, and bear all the field before them;
    Carry their weight, shew fair, like DEEDS enroll’d;
    Not WRITS, that are first made, and after fill’d:
    Thence first came up the title of BLANK verse.
    You know, Sir, what _Blank_ signifies? When the Sense
    First fram’d, is tied with Adjectives, like Points,
    And could not hold together, without wedges.
    Hang ’t, ’tis Pedanticke, vulgar Poetry.
    Let children, when they versifye, sticke here
    And there these pidling words, for want of matter;
    POETS write masculine numbers.

    CAPERWIT.

    You have given me a pretty hint: ’Tis NEW.
    I will bestow these verses on my footman;
    They’ll serve a Chambermaid—
          SHIRLEY’S _Chances, or Love in a Maze_.

       *       *       *       *       *

54. CÆCILIO PLAUTOQUE DABIT ROMANUS, ADEMPTUM VIRGILIO VARIOQUE?]
The question is but reasonable. Yet the answer will not be to the
satisfaction of him that puts it. This humour, we may observe, holds
here in England, as it did formerly at Rome; and will, I suppose, hold
every-where, under the same circumstances. Cæcilius and Plautus were
allowed to _coin_, but not Virgil and Varius. The same indulgence our
authors had at the restoration of letters; but it is denied to our
present writers. The reason is plainly this. While arts are refining
or reviving, the greater part are forced, and _all_ are content to be
_Learners_. When they are grown to their usual height, all affect to be
_Teachers_. With this affectation, a certain envy, as the poet observes,

            ——_cur adquirere pauca,
    Si possum_, invideor—

insinuates itself; which is for restraining the privileges of writers,
to all of whom every reader is now become a Rival. Whereas men, under
the first character of _Learners_, are glad to encourage every thing
that makes for their instruction.

But whatever offence may be taken at this practice, good writers, as
they safely may, should _dare_ to venture upon it. A perfect language
is a chimæra. In every state of it there will frequently be occasion,
sometimes a necessity, to hazard a _new_ word. And let not a great
genius be discouraged, by the fastidious delicacy of his age, from a
sober use of this privilege. Let him, as the poet directs,

    Command _old_ words, that long have slept, to wake,
    Words, that wise BACON, or brave RALEGH spake;
    Or bid the _new_ be English ages hence,
    For USE will father what’s begot by SENSE.

This too was the constant language of ancient criticism. “Audendum
tamen; namque, ut ait Cicero, etiam quæ primò dura visa sunt, usu
molliuntur,” _Quintil._ l. i. c. v.

       *       *       *       *       *

70. MULTA RENASCENTUR, QUAE JAM CECIDERE.] This _revival_ of _old_
words is one of those _niceties_ in composition, not to be attempted
by any but great masters. It may be done two ways, 1. by restoring
such terms, as are grown entirely obsolete; or, 2. by selecting out
of those, which have still a currency, and are not quite laid aside,
such as are most forcible and expressive. For so I understand a passage
in Cicero, who urges this double use of old words, as an argument,
to his orator, for the diligent study of the old Latin writers. His
words are these: _Loquendi elegantia, quamquam expolitur scientiâ
literarum, tamen augetur legendis oratoribus [veteribus] et poetis:
sunt enim illi veteres, qui ornare nondum poterant ea, quae dicebant,
omnes prope præclare locuti—Neque tamen erit utendum verbis iis, quibus
jam consuetudo nostra non utitur, nisi quando ornandi causâ, parcè,
quod ostendam; sed usitatis ita poterit uti, lectissimis ut utatur
is, qui in veteribus erit scriptis studiosè et multum volutatus._ [De
Orat. l. iii. c. x.] These _choice_ words amongst such as are still
in _use_, I take to be those which are employed by the old writers in
some peculiarly strong and energetic sense, yet so as with advantage
to be copied by the moderns, without appearing barbarous or affected.
[See HOR. lib. ii. ep. ii. v. 115.] And the reason, by the way, of
our finding such words in the old writers of every language, may be
this. When ideas are new to us, they strike us most forcibly; and we
endeavour to express, not our _sense_ only, but our _sensations_,
in the terms we use to explain them. The passion of wonder, which
Philosophy would cure us of, is of singular use in raising the
conception, and strengthening the expression of poets. And such is
always the condition of old writers, when the arts are reviving, or
but beginning to refine. The other use of old terms, _i. e._ when
become _obsolete_, he says, must be made _parcè_, more sparingly. The
contrary would, in oratory, be insufferable affectation. The rule holds
in poetry, but with greater latitude; for, as he observes in another
place, and the reason of the thing speaks, _hæc sunt Poetarum licentiæ
liberiora_. [De Or. iii. 38.] But the elegance of the style, we are
told, is increased both ways. The reason is, according to Quinctilian
(who was perfectly of Cicero’s mind in this matter. See l. x. c. i.)
_Verba à vetustate repetita afferunt orationi majestatem aliquam non
sine delectatione; nam et auctoritatem antiquitatis habent; et, quia
intermissa sunt, gratiam novitati similem parant._ [Lib. i. c. vi.
sub fin.] But this is not all: The riches of a language are actually
increased by retaining its old words; and besides, they have often
a greater real weight and dignity, than those of a more fashionable
cast, which succeed to them. This needs no proof to such as are versed
in the earlier writings in _any_ language. A very capable judge hath
observed it in regard of the most admired _modern_ one: _Nous avons
tellement laissé ce qui étoit au viel françois, que nous avons
laissé quant et quant la plus part de ce qu’il avoit de bon._ [Trait.
préparatif à l’ Apol. pour Herod. l. i. c. xxviii.] Or, if the reader
requires a more decisive testimony, let him take it in the words of
that curious speaker, Fenelon. _Nôtre langue manque d’un grand nombre
de mots et de phrases. Il me semble même qu’on l’a genée et appauvrie
depuis environ cent ans en voulant la purifier. Il est vrai qu’elle
étoit encore un peu informe et trop verbeuse. Mais le vieux language
se fait regretter, quand nous le retrouvons dans_ MAROT, _dans_ AMIOT,
_dans le Cardinal d’_OSSAT, _dans les ouvrages les plus enjoues, et
dans les plus serieux. Il y avoit je ne scai quoi de court, de näif,
de vif et de passioné._ [Reflex. sur la Rhetorique, Amst. 1733. p. 4.]
From these testimonies we learn the extreme value, which these masters
of composition set upon their old writers; and as the reason of the
thing justifies their opinions, we may further see the important use of
some late attempts to restore a better knowledge of our _own_. Which I
observe with pleasure, as the growing prevalency of a very different
humour, first catched, as it should seem, from our commerce with the
French models, and countenanced by the too scrupulous delicacy of
some good writers amongst ourselves, had gone far towards unnerving
the noblest modern language, and effeminating the public taste. This
was not a little forwarded by, what generally makes its appearance at
the same time, a kind of feminine curiosity in the choice of words;
cautiously avoiding and reprobating all such (which were not seldom
the most expressive) as had been prophaned by a too vulgar use, or
had suffered the touch of some other accidental taint. This ran us
into periphrases and general expression; the peculiar bane of every
polished language. Whereas the rhetorician’s judgment here again
should direct us: _Omnia verba (exceptis paucis parum verecundis) sunt
alicubi optima; nam et humilibus interim et vulgaribus est opus, et quæ
cultiore in parte videntur sordida, ubi res poscit, propriè dicuntur_.
Which seems borrowed from Dionysius of Halicarnassus [περ. συνθεσ. §
xii.] οὐδὲν οὕτω ταπεινὸν, ἢ ῥυπαρὸν, ἢ μιαρὸν, ἢ ἄλλην τινὰ δυσχέρειαν
ἔχον ἔσεσθαί φημι λόγου μόριον, ᾧ σημαίνεταί τι σῶμα ἢ πρᾶγμα, ὃ
μηδεμίαν ἕξει χῶραν ἐπιτηδείαν ἐν λόγοις. However those two causes,
“The rejection of old words, as barbarous, and of many modern ones, as
unpolite,” had so exhausted the strength and stores of our language,
that, as I observed, it was high time for some master-hand to interpose
and send us for supplies to our old poets; which, there is the highest
authority for saying, no one ever despised, but for a reason, not very
consistent with his credit to avow: _rudem enim esse omnino in nostris
poëtis aut inertissimæ segnitiæ est aut fastidii delicatissimi_. [Cic.
de fin. l. i. c. ii.]

       *       *       *       *       *

72.—SI VOLET USUS, &c.] _Consuetudo certissima loquendi magistra;
utendumque planè sermone, ut nummo, qui publica forma est._ [Quinctil.
l. i. c. vi.] imitated from Horace. In _Lucian_ too, we find it one of
the charges brought against the Pedant, _Lexiphanes_, that _he clipped
the standard_ COIN _of the Greek language_—σπουδὴν ποιούμενος ὡς δή τι
μέγα ὂν, εἴτι ξενίζοι καὶ τὸ καθεστηκὸς ΝΟΜΙΣΜΑ τῆς φωνῆς παρακόπτοι
(c. 20.)

       *       *       *       *       *

73. RES GESTAE, etc.] The purport of these lines [from v. 73 to 86] and
their connexion with what follows, hath not been fully seen. They would
express this general proposition, “That the several kinds of poetry
essentially differ from each other, as may be gathered, not solely from
their different subjects, but their different measures; which good
sense, and an attention to the peculiar natures of each, instructed
the great inventors and masters of them to employ.” The use made of
this proposition is to infer, “that therefore the like attention should
be had to the different species of the _same kind_ of poetry [v. 89,
&c.] as in the case of tragedy and comedy (to which the application is
made) whose peculiar differences and correspondencies, as resulting
from the natures of each, should, in agreement to the universal law of
_decorum_, be exactly known and diligently observed by the poet.”

    _Singula quæque locum teneant sortita decentem._
                                                v. 92.

But, there is a further propriety in this enumeration of the several
kinds of poetry, as addressed to the dramatic writer. He is not only to
study, for the purposes here explained, the characteristic differences
of either species of the drama: He must further be knowing in the other
_kinds_ of poetry, so as to be able, as the nature of his work shall
demand, to adopt the genius of each, in its turn, and to transfer
the graces of universal poetry into the drama. Thus, to follow the
division here laid down, there will sometimes be occasion for the pomp
and high _coloring_ of the EPIC narration; sometimes for the plaintive
softness and passionate inconnexion of the ELEGY: and the chorus, if
characterized in the ancient manner, must catch the fiery, inraptured
spirit of the ODE.

    _Descriptas servare vices operumque colores,
    Cur ego, si nequeo ignoroque_, POETA _salutor?_

Hence is seen the truth of that remark, which there hath been more
than once occasion to make, “That, however general these prefatory
instructions may appear, they more especially respect the case of the
_drama_.”

       *       *       *       *       *

90. INDIGNATUR ITEM, etc.—COENA THYESTAE.] _Il met le souper de
Thyeste pour toutes sortes de tragedies_, says M. Dacier; but why this
subject was singled out, as the representative of the rest, is not
explained by him. We may be sure, it was not taken up at random. The
reason was, that the Thyestes of Ennius was peculiarly chargeable with
the fault, here censured: as is plain from a curious passage in the
_Orator_; where Cicero, speaking of the loose numbers of certain poets,
observes this, in particular, of the tragedy of Thyestes, _Similia sunt
quædam apud nostros: velut in Thyeste_,

    _Quemnam te esse dicam? qui tardâ in senectute._

_et quæ sequuntur: quæ nisi cùm tibicen accesserit_, ORATIONI SUNT
SOLUTÆ SIMILLIMA: which character exactly agrees to _this_ of Horace,
wherein the language of that play is censured, as flat and prosaic,
and hardly rising above the level of ordinary conversation in comedy.
This allusion to a particular play, written by one of their best poets,
and frequently exhibited on the Roman stage, gives great force and
spirit to the precept, at the same time that it exemplifies it in the
happiest manner. It seems further probable to me, that the poet also
designed an indirect compliment to _Varius_, whose Thyestes, we are
told, [_Quinctil._ l. x. c. i.] _was not inferior to any tragedy of the
Greeks_. This double intention of these lines well suited the poet’s
general aim, which is seen through all his critical works, of beating
down the excessive admiration of the old poets, and of asserting the
just honours of the modern. It may further be observed that the critics
have not felt the force of the words _exponi_ and _narrari_ in this
precept. They are admirably chosen to express the two faults condemned:
the first implying a kind of pomp and ostentation in the language,
which is therefore improper for the low subjects of comedy: and the
latter, as I have hinted, a flat, prosaic expression, not above the
cast of a common _narrative_, and therefore equally unfit for tragedy.
Nothing can be more rambling than the comment of Heinsius and Dacier on
this last word.

       *       *       *       *       *

94. IRATUSQUE CHREMES TUMIDO DILITIGAT ORE: ET TRAGICUS PLERUMQUE
DOLET SERMONE PEDESTRI.] It may not be amiss to open a little more
particularly the grounds of this criticism: which may best be done by a
commentary on the following lines of the poet:

    _Format enim natura priùs nos intùs ad omnem
    Fortunarum habitum; juvat aut impellit ad iram;
    Aut ad humum mærore gravi deducit et angit:
    Pòst effert animi motus interprete linguâ_:

To _draw_ after the life, in any given conjuncture, the poet must
recollect (which may easily be done by consulting with his own
conscious experience) that _peculiar disposition_ of mind, into which
the speaker is, of necessity, carried by the circumstances of his
situation. And the _sentiments_, which give the image of this peculiar
disposition, are the genuine lineaments of the character intended.

But the _truth_ of sentiment may be hurt or effaced by incongruous
language, just as the exactest lineaments of a portrait are often
disguised or lost under a vicious coloring. To _paint_ then as well
as draw after the truth, it is requisite that a further regard be
had to the _expression_. Which again is no great difficulty for the
artist, the same common nature holding the torch to him, as before.
For in entering into ourselves we find, that as the mind, in any
supposed situation, gives birth to a _certain_ set of conceptions and
sentiments, correspondent to its true state, and expressive of it: so
by attending to the _language_, in which those sentiments ordinarily
manifest themselves, we easily perceive they take _one_ style or
manner of expression preferably to every other. For _expression_,
where false art is not employed to distort it, gives the just image of
our _sentiments_; just as _these_, when nature is not suppressed or
counteracted, are ever the faithful representatives of the _manners_.
They result, like the famous _Simulacra_ of Epicurus, as by a secret
destination, from their _original forms_; and are, _each_, the perfect
copies of _other_. All which will be clearly understood by applying
these general observations to the instances in view.

The passion of ANGER rouses all the native fire and energy of the soul.
In this disorder, and, as it were, insurrection of the mental powers,
our sentiments are strong and vigorous; nature prompting us to liberal
and lofty conceptions of ourselves, and a superior disdainful regard
of others. This again determines the _genius_ of our language, which,
to conform to such sentiments, must be bold and animated; breaking
out into forcible imagery, and swelling in all the pomp of sounding
epithets and violent figures. And this even amidst the humbler
concerns of private and inferior fortunes:

    _Iratusque Chremes_ TUMIDO DILITIGAT ORE.

In the passion of GRIEF, on the contrary, the reverse of this takes
place. For the mind, oppressed and weighed down by its sorrows, sinks
into a weak and timorous despondency; inclining us to submit, almost
without resistance, to the incumbent affliction; or if we struggle
at all with it, it is only to ease the labouring heart by putting
forth some fruitless sighs and ineffectual complainings. Thus we find
it represented by those perfect masters of simple nature, the Greek
tragedians. So far are their sorrowing personages from entertaining any
vigorous thoughts or manly resolutions, that they constantly languish
into sad repinings at their present, and trembling apprehensions of
future, misery.

When these sentiments come to express themselves in _words_, what
can they be but the plainest and simplest which the language of
the complainant furnishes? Such negligence, or more properly such
dejection, of sorrow disposes the speaker to take up with terms as
humble as his fortune. His feeble conception is not only unapt or
unable to look out for fine words and painted phrases; but, if chance
throw them in his way, he even rejects them as trappings of another
condition, and which serves only to upbraid his present wretchedness.
The pomp of numbers and pride of _poetic_ expression are so little
his care, that it is well if he even trouble himself to observe the
ordinary exactness of _mere prose_[11]. And this even where the height
of rank and importance of affairs conspire to elevate the mind to more
state and dignity.

    _Et tragicus plerumque_ DOLET SERMONE PEDESTRI.

Thus far the dramatic writer may inform himself by entering into his
own _consciousness_, and observing the sure dictates of experience. For
what concerns the successful application of this rule in _practice_,
every thing, as is remarked below, [on v. 102.] must depend on the
constitution of his own mind; which yet may be much assisted by the
diligent study of those writers, who excel most in this way: in which
class all agree to give the palm to EURIPIDES.

But here it may not be improper to obviate a common mistake that seems
to have arisen from the too strict interpretation of the poet’s Rule.
_Tragic characters_, he says, _will generally express their sorrows in
a prosaic language_. From this just observation, hastily considered
and compared with the absurd practice of some writers, it hath been
concluded, That what we call _pure Poetry_, the essence of which
consists in bold figures and a lively imagery, hath no place on the
Stage. It may not be sufficient to oppose to this notion the _practice_
of the best poets, ancient and modern; for the question recurrs,
how far that practice is to be justified on the principles of good
criticism and common sense. To come then, _to the Reason of the thing_.


The capital rule in this matter is,

    _Reddere Personæ—convenientia cuique_.

But to do this, the _Situation_ of the persons, and the various
_passions_ resulting from such situation, must be well considered. Each
of these has a _character_ or turn of thinking peculiar to itself. But
_all_ agree in this property, that they occupy the whole attention of
the speaker, and are perpetually offering to his mind a set of pictures
or images, suitable to his state, and expressive of it. In these the
tragic character of every denomination loves to indulge; as we may see
by looking no farther than on what passes before us in common life,
where persons, under the influence of any passion, are more eloquent
and have a greater quickness at allusion and imagery, than at other
times. So that to take from the speaker this privilege of representing
such pictures or images is so far from consulting Nature, that it is,
in effect, to overlook or reject one of her plainest lessons.

’Tis true, if _one_ character is busied in running after the
Images which Nature throws in the way only of some _other_; or if,
in representing such images as are proper to the character, the
Imagination is taken up in tracing minute resemblances and amusing
itself with circumstances that have no relation to the case in hand:
then indeed the censure of these critics is well applied. It may be
_fine poetry_, if you will, but very bad _dramatic writing_. But let
the imagery be ever so great or splendid, if it be such only as the
governing passion loves to conceive and paint, and if it be no further
dilated on, and with no greater sollicitude and curiosity, than the
natural working of the passion demands, the Drama is so far from
rejecting such Poetry that it glories in it, as what is most essential
to its true end and design.

    _Ille per extentum funem mihi posse videtur
    Ire poeta, meum qui pectus inaniter angit,
    Inritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus implet,
    Ut magus_——

An office, which the dramatic poet hath no means of sustaining but by
that strong painting and forcible imagery, above described.

What seems to have given a colour to the opposite opinion, is the
faulty practice which good critics have observed in the _French_
tragedies, and in some of our own that have been formed upon their
model. But the case is mistaken. It is not the _Poetry_ of the
French or English drama that deserves their censure, but its prolix
and languid _Declamation_, neglecting passion for _sentiment_, or
expressing _passion_ in a calm circuit of words and without spirit.
Even Mr. Addison’s CATO, which from being immoderately extolled has
had the usual fate of being as immoderately undervalued, is not to be
censured for its abundance of poetry, but for its application of it in
a way that hurts the _passion_. General sentiments, uncharacteristic
imagery, and both drawn out in a spiritless, or, which comes to the
same thing, a too curious expression, are the proper faults of this
drama. What the critic of just taste demands in this fine tragedy, is
even more poetry, but better applied and touched with more spirit.

Still, perhaps, we are but on the surface of this matter. The true
ground of this mistaken Criticism, is, The Notion, that when the Hero
is at the crisis of his fate, he is not at liberty to use Poetical,
that is, highly figurative expression: but that the proper season for
these things is when he has nothing else to do. Whereas the truth is
just the contrary. The figures, when he is greatly agitated, come of
themselves; and, suiting the grandeur and dignity of his situation,
are perfectly natural. To use them in his cool and quiet moments, when
he has no great interests to prosecute or extricate himself from, is
directly against _Nature_. For, in this state of things, he must _seek_
them, if he will have them. And when he has got them and made his best
use of them, what do they produce? Not sublimity, but Bombast. For it
is not the _figures_, but the suitableness to the _occasion_, that
produces either. Not that I am ignorant that there are vices in the
_formation_ of figures, as well as in their application. But these
vices go under various other names. The _pure simple Bombast_ (if I
may be indulged so bold a catachresis) arises from putting figurative
expression to an improper use. To give an instance of what I mean.
TACITUS writes under one continued resentment at the degeneracy of his
times, and speaking of some sumptuary Laws proposed by the Senate, in 2
_Ann._ c. 33, he says they decreed, _Ne Vestis Serica viros_ FOEDARET.
This became the dignity of his historic character and genius. But had
his Contemporary, Suetonius, who wrote Chronicles in the spirit of
our STOW and HOLINSHED, used the same language, it would have set his
readers a laughing.

Not but figurative expression, even when _suitable_ to the character,
genius, and general subject of a writer, may still be _misplaced_.
Thus, had Tacitus, speaking of the honours decreed to Tiberius on a
certain occasion, said with his translator Gordon—_which of these
he meant to accept or which to reject, the approaching issue of his
days has_ BURIED _in oblivion_—the _figure_, the reader sees, would
have been miserably out of place; the conceit of the _burial_ of his
intentions, on the mention of his death, being even ridiculous. But
the ridicule, we may be sure, falls on the translator only, and not
on his great original, who expresses himself on this occasion, not
only with propriety, but with the greatest simplicity—_quos omiserit
receperitve_ IN INCERTO _fuit ob propinquum vitæ finem_. Ann. l. vi. c.
45.

I have brought these instances to shew that _figurative expression_ is
not improper even in a fervent animated historian, on a _fit subject_,
and in _due place_: much less should the tragic poet, when his
characters are to be shewn in the conflict of the stronger passions, be
debarred the use of it.

The short of the matter is, in one word, this. Civil Society first of
all _tames us to humanity_, as Cicero expresses it; and, in the course
of its discipline, brings us down to one dead level. Its effect is to
make us all the same pliant, mimic, obsequious things; not unlike, in
a word, (if our pride could overlook the levity of the comparison)
what we see of trained Apes. But when the violent passions arise (as
in the case of these Apes when the apples were thrown before them)
this artificial discipline is all shaken off, and we return again to
the free and ferocious state of Nature. And what is the expression of
that state? It is (as we understand by experience) a free and fiery
expression, all made up of bold metaphors and daring figures of Speech.

The conclusion is, that Poetry, _pure Poetry_, is the proper language
of _Passion_, whether we chuse to consider it as ennobling, or debasing
the human character.

There is, as I have said, an obvious distinction to be made (and to
that the poet’s rule, as explained in this note, refers) between the
soft and tender, and the more vigorous passions. When the former
prevail, the mind is in a weak languid state; and though all allusion
and imagery be not improper here, yet as that fire and energy of the
soul is wanting, which gives a facility of ranging over our ideas
and of seizing such as may be turned to any resemblance of our own
condition, it will for that reason be less _frequent_ in this state of
the mind than any other. Such imagery, too, will for the same reason be
less _striking_, because the same languid affections lead to, and make
us acquiesce in a simpler and plainer expression. But universally in
the stronger passions the _poetical character_ prevails, and rises only
in proportion to the force and activity of those passions.

To draw the whole then of what has been said on this subject into a
standing RULE for the observance of the dramatic Poet.

“MAN is so formed that whether he be in joy, or grief; in confidence or
despair; in pleasure or pain; in prosperity or distress; in security
or danger; or torn and distracted by all the various modifications of
Love, Hate, and Fear: The Imagination is incessantly presenting to the
mind an infinite variety of images or pictures, conformable to his
Situation: And these Pictures receive their various coloring from the
habits, which his birth and condition, his education, profession and
pursuits have induced. The _representation_ of these is the POETRY,
and a _just_ representation, in a great measure, the ART, of dramatic
writing.”

       *       *       *       *       *

95. ET TRAGICUS PLERUMQUE DOLET SERMONE PEDESTRI.] Dr. Bentley connects
this with the following line:

    [_Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri
    Telephus aut Peleus_

for the sake, as he says, of _preserving the opposition_. _In
comædiâ iratus Chremes tumido, in tragædiâ Telephus pauper humili
sermone utitur._ This is specious; but, if the reader attends, he
will perceive, that the opposition is better preserved without his
connection. For it will stand thus: The poet first asserts of comedy at
large, _that it sometimes raises its voice_,

    _Interdum tamen et vocem comædia tollit_.

Next, he confirms this general remark, by appealing to a particular
instance,

    _Iratusque Chremes tumido dilitigat ore_.

Exactness of _opposition_ will require the same method to be observed
in speaking of _tragedy_; which accordingly is the case, if we follow
the vulgar reading. For, first, it is said of _tragedy_, that, when
grief is to be expressed, it generally condescends to an humbler strain,

    _Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri_.

And then the general truth, as before, is illustrated by a particular
instance,

    _Telephus aut Peleus, cum pauper et exul uterque,
    Projicit ampullas, &c._

There is no absurdity, as the Doctor pretends, in taking _tragicus_ for
_tragædiarum scriptor_. For the poet, by a common figure, is made to do
that, which he represents his persons, as doing.

But this is not the whole, that will deserve the reader’s regard in
this place. A strict attention to the scope and turn of the passage
[from v. 96 to 114] will lead him to conclude, 1. “That some real
tragedy of Telephus and Peleus was intended in v. 96, in which the
characters were duly preserved and set forth in proper language.” This
the opposition to the _Chremes_ of Terence absolutely demands. Let us
inquire what this might be. _Euripides_, we know, composed tragedies
under these names; but it is unlikely, the poet should contrast the
instance of a _Greek_ tragedy to a _Latin_ comedy. Nor need it be
supposed. The subject was familiar to the Roman poets. For we find a
_Telephus_ ascribed to no less than three of them, _Ennius_, _Accius_,
and _Nævius_[12]. One of these then I doubt not, is here intended. But
the Roman, in those times, were little more than translations of the
Greek plays. Hence it is most likely, that the tragedy of _Telephus_
(and probably of _Peleus_, though we have not so direct authority
for this) was, in fact, the tragedy of _Euripides_, translated into
Latin, and accommodated to the Roman stage, by one of these writers.
It remains only to enquire, if the _Telephus_ itself of _Euripides_
answered to this character. Which, I think, it manifestly did, from
considering what his enemy, the buffoon Aristophanes, hath said
concerning it. Every body knows, that the BATRAXOI of this poet
contains a direct satyr, and Burlesque upon _Euripides_. Some part
of it is particularly levelled against his _Telephus_: whence we may
certainly learn the objections, that were made to it. Yet the amount
of them is only this, “That he had drawn the character of _Telephus_
in too many circumstances of distress and humiliation.” His fault was,
that he had represented him more like a beggar, than an unfortunate
prince. Which, in more candid hands, would, I suppose, amount only to
this, “That the poet had painted his distress in the most natural, and
affecting manner.” He had stripped him of his royalty, and, together
with it of the pomp and ostentation of the regal language, the very
beauty, which Horace applauds and admires in his _Telephus_.

2. Next, I think it as clear from what follows, “That some real tragedy
of _Telephus_, and _Peleus_, was also glanced at, of a different stamp
from the other, and in which the characters were not supported by
such propriety of language.” Let the reader judge. Having quoted a
_Telephus_ and _Peleus_, as examples to the rule concerning the style
of tragedy, and afterwards enlarged [from v. 98 to 103] on the reasons
of their excellence, he returns, with an air of insult, to the same
names, apostrophizing them in the following manner:

    _Telephe, vel Peleu, male si mandata loquêris,
    Aut dormitabo aut ridebo_:

But why this address to _characters_, which he had before alleged, as
examples of true dramatical _drawing_? Would any tolerable writer,
after having applauded Shakespear’s King _Lear_, as an instance of the
kingly character in distress, naturally painted, apostrophize it, with
such pointed vehemence, on the contrary supposition? But let this pass.
The Poet, as though a notorious violation of the critic’s rules was to
be thoroughly exposed, goes on, in the seven following lines, to search
into the bottom of this affair, laying open the source and ground of
his judgment; and concludes upon the whole,

    _Si dicentis erunt fortunis absona dicta_,
    ROMANI TOLLENT EQUITESQUE PATRESQUE CACHINNUM.

Can any thing be plainer, than that this last line points at some
well-known instance of a Latin play, which had provoked, upon this
account, the contempt and laughter of the best judges? It may further
be observed, that this way of understanding the passage before us, as
it is more conformable to what is here shewn to be the general scope of
the epistle, so doth it, in its turn, likewise countenance, or rather
clearly shew, the truth and certainty of this method of interpretation.

       *       *       *       *       *

99. NON SATIS EST PULCHRA, etc.] Dr. Bentley objects to _pulchra_,
because this, he says, is a general term, including under it every
species of beauty, and therefore that of _dulcis_ or the _affecting_.
But the great critic did not sufficiently attend to the connexion,
which, as F. Robortellus, in his paraphrase on the epistle, well
observes, stands thus: “It is not enough, that tragedies have that kind
of beauty, which arises from a pomp and splendor of diction, they must
also be pathetic or affecting.” _Objiciat se mihi hoc loco aliquis et
dicat, si id fiat_ [_i. e._ si projiciantur ampullæ] _corrumpi omnem
venustatem et gravitatem poëmatis tragici, quod nihil nisi grande et
elatum recipit. Huic ego ita respondendum puto, non satis esse, ut
poëmata venusta sint et dignitatem suam servent: nam dulcedine quoque
et suavitate quâdam sunt conspergenda, ut possint auditoris animum
inflectere in quamcunque voluerint partem._

But a very ingenious person, who knows how to unite philosophy with
criticism; and to all that is elegant in _taste_, to add what is most
just and accurate in _science_, hath, in the following note, shewn the
very foundation of Dr. Bentley’s criticism to be erroneous.

“There are a multitude of words in every language, which are sometimes
used in a _wider_, sometimes in a _more restrained_ sense. Of this
kind are καλὸν of the Greeks, the _pulchrum_ of the Romans, and the
words by which they are translated in modern languages. To whatever
subjects these epithets are applied, we always intend to signify that
they give us _pleasure_: and we seldom apply them to any subjects,
but those which please by means of impressions made on the fancy:
_including_ under this name the reception of images conveyed directly
by the sight itself. As Poetry therefore always addresses itself to the
imagination, every species of _poetical excellence_ obtains the name of
_Beauty_: and, among the rest, the power of pleasing us by affecting
the _passions_; an effect which intirely depends on the various images
presented to our view. In this sense of the word _beautiful_, it cannot
be opposed to _pathetic_. _Pulchrum enim quascunque carminis virtutes,
etiam ipsam_ dulcedinem, _in se continere meritò videatur._

But nothing, I think, can be plainer, than that this epithet is often
used more _determinately_. Visible forms are not merely occasions of
pleasure, in common with other objects, but they produce a pleasure of
a singular kind. And the power they have of producing it, is properly
denominated by the name of _Beauty_. Whether Regularity and Variety
have been rightly assigned, as the circumstances on which it depends,
is a question, which in this place we need not consider. It cannot
at least be denied, that we make a distinction among the objects of
sight, when the things themselves are removed from our view: and that
we annex the names of Beauty and Deformity to different objects and
different pictures, in consequence of these perceptions. I ask then,
what is meant, when the words are thus applied? Is it only that we
are _pleased_ or _displeased_? This surely cannot be said. For the
epithets would then be applied with equal propriety to the objects
of different senses: and the fragrance of a flower, for instance,
would be a species of beauty; the bitterness of wormwood a species
of deformity.—Do we then mean, that we receive pleasure and pain by
means of the _Imagination_? We may indeed mean _this_: but we certainly
mean _more_ than this. For the same names are used and applied, in a
manner perfectly similar, by numbers of persons who never once thought
of this artificial method of distinguishing their ideas. There is then
some kind of perception, common to them and us, which has occasioned
this uniformity in our ways of speaking: and whether you will chuse to
consider the perceptive faculty as resulting only from habit, or allow
it the name of a _Sense_ of Beauty; whether these perceptions can,
or cannot, be resolved into some _general_ principle, imagination of
private advantage, or sympathy with others, are, in the present case,
circumstances wholly indifferent.

If it be admitted that the epithets, of which we are speaking, were
originally used in this restrained sense, it is easy to see that they
would readily obtain the more _extended_ signification. For the species
of pleasure to which they were first confined, was found always to
arise from images impressed on the fancy: what then more natural,
than to apply the same words to every species of pleasure resulting
from the imagination, and to every species of images productive of
pleasure? Thus the _beauty_ of a human person might originally signify
such combinations of figure and colour, as produced the _peculiar_
perception above-mentioned. _Pulchritudo corporis_ (says Cicero) _aptâ
compositione membrorum movet oculos, et eo ipso delectat, &c._—But
from this signification to the other the transition was easy and
obvious. If every beautiful form gave pleasure, every pleasing form
might come to be called beautiful: not because the same perceptions
are excited by _all_ (the pleasures being apparently different) but
because they are all excited in the same manner. And this is confirmed
by a distinction which every one understands between beauties of the
_regular_ and _irregular_ kind. When we would distinguish these from
each other, we call the latter _agreeable_, and leave to the former
only the name of _beautiful_: that is, we confine the latter term to
its proper and original sense.—In much the same manner objects _not
visible_ may sometimes obtain the name of beauty, for no other reason
than because the imagination is agreeably employed about them; and we
may speak of a beautiful _character_, as well as a beautiful _person_:
by no means intending that we have the same _feeling_ from the one as
the other, but that in both cases we are _pleased_, and that in both
the _imagination_ contributes to the pleasure.

Now as every _representative art_ is capable of affording us pleasure,
and this pleasure is occasioned by images impressed on the fancy;
every pleasing production of art, will of course obtain the name
of beautiful. Yet this hinders us not from considering beauty as a
_distinct_ excellence in such productions. For we may distinguish,
either in a picture or poem, between the pleasures we receive directly
from the imitation of _visible forms_, and those which principally
depend on _other_ kinds of imitation: And we may consider visible forms
themselves either as _occasions_ of pleasure, in _common_ with other
objects; or as yielding us that _peculiar_ delight which they alone are
capable of yielding. If we use the word _beautiful_ in this _limited_
sense, it is very intelligibly opposed to _pathetic_. Images of Groves,
Fields, Rocks and Water, afford us a pleasure extremely different
from that which we find in the indulgence of our _tender affections_:
nor can there be any danger of confounding the agreeable perception
received from a masterly statue of an Apollo or a Venus, with that
which arises from a representation of the _terrors_ men feel under a
storm or a plague.

It is no objection to what has been said, that the objects we call
_beautiful_ may also in some cases be occasions of _passion_. The
sight, for instance, of a beautiful person may give birth to the
passion of Love: yet to perceive the beauty and to feel the passion are
two different things. For every beautiful object does not produce love
in every observer, and the same passion is sometimes excited by objects
not beautiful; I mean not called beautiful by the persons themselves
who are affected by them. And the distinction between these feelings,
would receive further confirmation (if indeed there could be any doubt
of it) from observing that people frequently speak of beauty, and as
far as appears intelligibly, in persons of their _own sex_; who feel
perhaps no _passion_ but that of _envy_: which will not surely be
thought the same with the perception of _beauty_.

There is then no room for an objection to the text of Horace, as
it stood before Dr. B.’s emendation: unless it should be thought an
impropriety to oppose two epithets which are _capable_ of being
understood in senses _not opposite_. But there is not the least ground
for this imagination. For when a word of uncertain signification is
_opposed_ to another whose signification is certain; the opposition
itself _determines_ the sense. The word _day_ in one of its senses
includes the whole space of twenty-four hours: yet it is not surely
an impropriety to oppose _day_ to _night_.—In like manner the words
_pulchra poëmata_, if we were not directed by the context, might
signify _good poems_ in general: but when the beauty of a poem is
_distinguished_ from other excellences, this distinction will lead
us to confine our idea to _beautiful imagery_; and, we know it is
agreeable to the sentiments which Horace expresses in other places,
to declare that this kind of merit is _insufficient_ in _dramatic_
writers, from whom we expect a pleasure of very different kind. Indeed
the most exquisite painting, if it is not constantly subordinate to
this higher end, becomes not only insufficient, but _impertinent_:
serving only to divert the attention, and interrupt the course of the
passions.

It may seem perhaps that the force of a _Latin_ expression cannot be
ascertained from reflections of this sort, but must be gathered from
citations of particular passages. And this indeed is true with regard
to the _peculiarities_ of the language. But the question before us
is of a different kind. It is a question of _Philosophy_ rather than
_Criticism_: as depending on those differences of ideas, which are
marked by similar forms of expression in _all_ languages.”

       *       *       *       *       *

102. SI VIS ME FLERE, DOLENDUM EST PRIMUM IPSI TIBI:] _Tragedy_, as[13]
one said, who had a heart to feel its tenderest emotions, _shewed forth
the ulcers that are covered with tissue_. In order to awaken and call
forth in the spectator all those sympathies, which naturally await on
the lively exhibition of such a scene, the writer must have a soul
_tuned_ to the most exquisite sensibility, and susceptible of the same
vibrations from his own created images, which are known to _shake_ the
sufferer in real life. This is so uncommon a pitch of humanity, that
’tis no wonder, so few have succeeded in this _trying_ part of the
drama. Euripides, of all the ancients, had most of this sympathetic
tenderness in his nature, and accordingly we find him without a rival
in this praise. Τραγικώτατος τῶν ποιητῶν, says Aristotle of him [Περὶ
ποιητ. κ. ιγʹ.] and to the same purpose another great critic, _In
affectibus cum omnibus mirus, tum in iis, qui_ MISERATIONE _constant,
facile præcipuus_. [Quinct. l. x. c. i.] They, who apply themselves to
express the _pitiable_ ἐλεεινὸν in tragedy, would do well to examine
their own hearts by this rule, before they presume to practise upon
those of others. See, further, this remark applied by Cicero to the
subject of oratory, and inforced with his usual elegance and good
sense. [l. ii. c. xlv. _De oratore._]

       *       *       *       *       *

103. TUNC TUA ME INFORTUNIA LAEDENT.] This is expressed with accuracy.
Yet the truth is, The more we are _hurt_ with representations of this
sort, the more we are _pleased_ with them. Whence arises this strange
_Pleasure_? The question hath been frequently asked, and various
answers have been given to it.

But of all the solutions of this famous difficulty, that which we have
just now received from Mr. Hume, is by far the most curious.


His account in short is, “That the force of imagination, the energy
of expression, the power of numbers, the charms of imitation, are all
naturally of themselves delightful to the mind; that these sentiments
of beauty, being the _predominant_ emotions, seize the whole mind, and
convert the uneasy melancholy passions into themselves. In a word, that
the sentiments of _beauty_, excited by a good tragedy, are the superior
prevailing movements, and transform the subordinate impressions
arising from _grief_, _compassion_, _indignation_, and _terror_, into
one uniform and strong enjoyment.” [_See four Dissertations by_ D.
Hume, _Esq. p. 185, &c._]


I have but two objections to this ingenious theory. ONE is, that it
supposes the impression of grief or terror, excited by a well-written
tragedy, to be weaker than that which arises from our observation of
the faculties of the writer, the power of numbers, and imitation. Which
to me is much the same thing as saying, That the sight of a precipice
hanging over our heads makes a fainter impression on the eye, than
the shrubs and wild flowers with which it happens to be covered. The
fact is so far otherwise, that, if the tragedy be well-written, I will
venture to say, the faculties of the writer, the charms of poetry, or
even the thought of imitation, never come into the spectator’s head.
But he may feel the effect of them, it will be said, for all that.
True: But unluckily the whole effect of these things is (and that was
my OTHER objection) to deepen the impressions of grief and terror. They
are out of place, and altogether impertinent, if they contribute to any
other end. So that to say, The impression of grief and terror from a
tragic story, strong as it is in itself, and made still stronger by the
art of the poet, is a weaker impression, than the mere pleasure arising
from that _art_, is methinks to account for one mystery by another ten
times greater, and to make the poet a verier _magician_ than Horace
ever intended to represent him.

This ingenious solution then, being so evidently founded on the
supposition of a _false fact_, deserves no further notice. As to the
_difficulty_ itself, the following hints may, perhaps, enable the
reader, in some measure, to account for it.

1. It is not to be doubted but that we love to have our _attention_
raised, and our _curiosity_ gratified. So far the ABBÉ DU BOS’ system
may be admitted.

2. The representation, however distressful, is still seen to be a
representation. We find our hearts affected, and even pained, by a
good tragedy. But we instantly recollect that the scene is fictitious;
and the _recollection_ not only abates our uneasiness, but diffuses a
secret joy upon the mind in the discovery we make that the _occasion_
of our uneasiness is not real. Just as our awaking from a frightful
dream, and sometimes a secret consciousness of the illusion during
the dream itself, is attended with pleasure. That so much of M. DE
FONTENELLE’S notion must be admitted, is clear, because children, who
take the sufferings on the stage for realities, are so afflicted by
them that they don’t care to repeat the experiment.

But still, all this is by no means a full account of the matter. For,

3. It should be considered, that ALL the uneasy Passions, in the
very time that we are distressed by them, nay, though the occasions
be instant and real, have a secret complacency mixed with them. It
seems as if Providence, in compassion to human feeling, had, together
with our sorrows, infused a kind of balm into the mind, to temper and
qualify, as it were, these bitter ingredients. But,

4. Besides this _general_ provision, the nature of the _peculiar_
passions, excited by tragedy, is such as, in a more eminent degree,
must produce pleasure. For what are these, but indignation at
prosperous vice, or the commiseration of suffering virtue? And the
agitation of these passions is even, in real life, accompanied with a
certain delight, which was, no doubt, intended to quicken us in the
exercise of those social offices. Still further.

5. To the pleasure _directly_ springing from these passions we may
add another which naturally, but imperceptibly almost steals in upon
us from _reflexion_. We are conscious to our own humanity on these
tender occasions. We understand and feel that it is _right_ for us
to be affected by the distresses of others. Our pain is softened by
a secret exultation in the rectitude of these sympathies. ’Tis true,
this reflex act of the mind is prevented, or suspended at least for a
time, when the sufferings are real, and concern those for whom we are
most interested. But the fictions of the stage do not press upon us so
closely.

Putting all these things together, the conclusion is, That though the
impressions of the theatre are, in their immediate effect, painful to
us, yet they must, on the whole, afford an extreme pleasure, and that
in proportion to the degree of the first painful impression. For not
only our attention is rouzed, but our moral instincts are gratified; we
reflect with joy that they are so, and we reflect too that the sorrows
which call them forth and give this exercise to our humanity, are but
fictitious. We are occupied, in a word, by a _great_ event; we are
melted into tears by a _distressful_ one; the heart is relieved by this
burst of sorrow; is cheared and animated by the finest moral feelings;
exults in the consciousness of its own sensibility; and finds, in
conclusion, that the whole is but an illusion.

The sum is, that we are not so properly delighted _by_ the Passions,
as _through_ them. They give _occasion_ to the most pleasing movements
and gratulations. The art of the poet indeed consists in giving _pain_.
But nature and reflexion fly to our relief; and though they do not
convert our pain into joy (for that methinks would be little less than
a new kind of _Transubstantiation_) they have an equivalent effect in
producing an exquisite joy out of our preceding sorrows.

       *       *       *       *       *

119. AUT FAMAM SEQUERE, &c.] The connexion lies thus: _Language_ must
agree with _character_; _character_ with _fame_, or at least with
_itself_.

       *       *       *       *       *

123. SIT MEDEA FEROX INVICTAQUE.] Horace took this instance from
Euripides, where the _unconquered fierceness_ of this character is
preserved in that due mediocrity, which nature and just writing
demand. The poet, in giving her character, is content to say of her,

    Βαρεῖα γὰρ φρὴν οὐδ’ ἀνέξεται κακῶς
    Πάσχους’

And

    Δεινὴ γάρ. οὖ τοι ῥᾳδίως γε συμβαλὼν
    Ἐχθράν τις αὐτῇ, καλλίνικον οἴσεται.

And she herself, when opening to the chorus her last horrid purpose,
says, fiercely indeed, but not frantically:

    Μηδείς με φαύλην κᾀσθενῆ νομιζέτω
    Μηδ’ ἡσυχαίαν.

And this is _nature_, which Seneca not perceiving, and yet willing to
write up to the critic’s rule, hath outraged her character beyond all
bounds, and, instead of a resolute, revengeful woman, hath made of her
a downright fury. Hence her passion is wrought up to a greater height
in the very first scene of the Latin play, than it ever reaches in the
Greek poet. The tenor of her language throughout is,

        _invadam deos,
    Et cuncta quatiam_.

And hence, in particular, the third and fourth acts expose to our view
all the horrors of sorcery (and those too _imaged_ to an extravagance)
which Euripides, with so much better judgment, thought fit entirely to
conceal.

       *       *       *       *       *

126. SERVETUR AD IMUM QUALIS AB INCEPTO PROCESSERIT, ET SIBI CONSTET.]
The rule is, as appears from the reason of the thing, and from
Aristotle, “Let an _uniformity_ of character be preserved, or at least
a _consistency_:” i. e. either let the manners be exactly the same
from the beginning to the end of the play, as those of Medea, for
instance, and Orestes; or, if any change be necessary, let it be such
as may consist with, and be easily reconciled to, the manners formerly
attributed; as is seen in the case of Electra and Iphigenia. We should
read then, it is plain,

                    _servetur ad imum
    Qualis ab incepto processerit_, AUT _sibi constet_.

The mistake arose from imagining, that a character could no other way
_consist_ with itself, but by being _uniform_. A mistake however,
which, as I said, not the reason of the thing only, but Aristotle’s
rule might have set right. It is expressed thus: Τέταρτον δὲ τὸ ὁμαλόν.
Κᾂν γὰρ ἀνώμαλός τις ᾖ, ὁ τὴν μίμησιν παρέχων καὶ τοιοῦτον ἦθος
ὑποτιθεὶς, ὅμως ὁμαλῶς ἀνώμαλον δεῖ εἶναι. Ποιητ. κ. ιεʹ. which last
words, having been not at all understood, have kept his interpreters
from seeing the true sense and scope of the precept. For they have been
explained of such characters, as that of _Tigellius_ in Horace; which,
however proper for satyr, or for farcical comedy, are of too fantastic
and whimsical a nature to be admitted into tragedy; of which Aristotle
must there be chiefly understood to speak, and to which Horace, in
this place, alone confines himself. “’Tis true, indeed, it may be said,
that though a _whimsical_ or _fantastic_ character be improper for
tragedy, an _irresolute_ one is not. Nothing is finer than a struggle
between different passions; and it is perfectly natural, that in such
a circumstance, each should prevail by turns.” But then there is the
widest difference between the two cases. _Tigellius_, with all his
fantastic irresolution, is as _uniform_ a character as that of _Mitio_.
If the expression may be allowed, its very _inconsistency_ is of the
essence of its _uniformity_. On the other hand, Electra, torn with
sundry conflicting passions, is most apparently, and in the properest
notion of the word, _ununiform_. One of the strongest touches in her
character is that of a high, heroic spirit, sensible to her own, and
her family’s injuries, and determined, at any rate, to revenge them.
Yet no sooner is this revenge perpetrated, than she softens, relents,
and pities. Here is a manifest _ununiformity_, which can, in no proper
sense of the expression lay claim to the critic’s ὁμαλὸν, but may be so
managed, by the poet’s skill, as to become consistent with the basis or
foundation of her character, that is, to be ὁμαλῶς ἀνώμαλον. And that
this, in fact, was the meaning of the critic, is plain from the similar
example to his own rule, given in the case of Iphigenia: which he
specifies (how justly will be considered hereafter) as an instance of
the ἀνωμάλου, _irregular_, or _ununiform_, character, ill-expressed,
or made _inconsistent_. So that the genuine sense of the precept is,
“Let the manners be uniform; or, if ununiform, yet consistently so, or
uniformly ununiform:” exactly copied, according to the reading, here
given by Horace. Whereas in the other way, it stands thus: “Let your
characters be uniform, or unchanged; or, if you paint an ununiform
character (such as Tigellius) let it be ununiform all the way; _i. e._
such an irregular character to the end of the play, as it was at the
beginning; which is, in effect, to say, let it be _uniform_:” which
apparently destroys the latter part of the precept, and makes it an
unmeaning tautology with the former.

       *       *       *       *       *

127. AUT SIBI CONSTET.] The ELECTRA and IPHIGENIA of Euripides have
been quoted, in the preceding note, as instances of _ununiform_
characters, justly sustained, or what Aristotle calls, _uniformly
ununiform_: And this, though the general opinion condemns the one,
and the great critic himself, the other; the reader will expect some
account to be given of this singularity.


1. The objection to Electra, is, that her character is drawn with
such heightenings of implacability and resentment, as make it utterly
incredible, she should, immediately on the murder of Clytæmnestra, fall
into the same excess of grief and regret, as Orestes. In confutation
of this censure I observe, 1. That the objection proceeds on a mistaken
presumption, that the distress of Electra is equally violent with that
of Orestes. On the contrary, it is discriminated from it by two plain
marks. 1. Orestes’s grief is expressed in stronger and more emphatic
terms—_he accuses the Gods—he reproaches his sister—he dwells upon
every horrid circumstance, that can inhance the guilt of the murder_.
Electra, in the mean time, _confesses the scene to be mournful—is
apprehensive of bad consequences—calmly submits to the just reproaches
of her brother_. 2. He labours as much as possible, to clear himself
from the imputation of the act. She takes it wholly on herself, but,
regarding it rather as her fate, than her fault, comforts herself in
reflecting on the justice of it.

    πατρὸς δ’ ἔτισας φόνον δικαίως.
                        Act v.

This last circumstance puts the widest difference between the two
cases. The one shews a perfect distraction of mind, which cannot even
bear the consciousness of its crimes: the other, a firm and steddy
spirit, sensible indeed to its misery, but not oppressed or astonished
by it.


2. But this measure of grief, so delicately marked, and, with such
truth of character, ascribed to Electra, ought not, it is further
insisted, to have shewn itself, immediately, on the murder of
Clytæmnestra. But why not? There is nothing in the _character of
Electra_, _the maxims of those times_, or _in the disposition of the
drama itself_, to render this change improper or incredible. On the
contrary, there is much under each of these heads, to lead one to
expect it.

1. _Electra’s character_ is indeed that of a fierce, and determined,
but withal of a generous and virtuous woman. Her motives to revenge
were, principally, a strong sense of justice, and superior affection
for a father; not a rooted, unnatural aversion to a mother. She acted,
as appears, not from the perturbation of a tumultuous revenge (in
that case indeed the objection had been of weight) but from a fixed
abhorrence of wrong, and a virtuous sense of duty. And what should
hinder a person of this character from being instantly touched with the
distress of such a spectacle?

2. _The maxims of those times also favour this conduct._ For, 1. The
notions of strict remunerative justice were then carried very high.
This appears from the _Lex talionis_, which, we know, was in great
credit in elder Greece; from whence it was afterwards transferred into
the Law of the XII Tables. Hence _blood for blood_ [αἷμα δ’ αἵματος
δανεισμὸς,—as the messenger, in his account of the death of Ægysthus,
expresses it, Act iv.] was the command and rule of justice. This the
Chorus, as well as the parricides, frequently insist upon, as the
ground and justification of the murder. 2. This severe vengeance on
enormous offenders was believed, not only consonant to the rules of
_human_, but to be the object, and to make the especial care of the
_divine_, justice. And thus the ancients conceived of this very case.
_Juvenal_, speaking of Orestes,

    _Quippe ille_ DEIS AUCTORIBUS _ultor
    Patris erat cæsi media inter pocula_.
                                Sat. viii.

And to this opinion agrees that tradition, or rather fiction, of the
poets, who, though they represent the judges of the Areopagus as
divided in their sentiments of this matter, yet make no scruple of
bringing in Minerva herself to pronounce his absolution. _Hoc etiam
fictis fabulis doctissimi homines memoriæ prodiderunt, eum, qui patris
ulciscendi causâ matrem necavisset, variatis hominum sententiis, non
solum divinâ, sed etiam sapientissimæ Deæ sententiâ absolutum_ [CIC.
pro MILON.] The venerable council of Areopagus, when judging by the
severe rules of _written_ justice, it seems, did not condemn the
criminal; and the _unwritten_ law of equity, which the fable calls
the _wisdom of Pallas_, formally _acquitted_ him. The murder then was
not against _human_, and directly agreeable to the determinations of
_divine_, justice. Of this too the Chorus takes care to inform us:

    Νέμει τοι δίκαν θεὸς ὅταν τύχῃ.
                      Act. iv.

This explains the reason of Electra’s question to Orestes, who had
pleaded the impiety of murdering a mother,

    Καὶ μὲν ἀμύνων πατρὶ, δυσσεβὴς ἔσῃ;

the force of which lies in this, that a father’s death revenged upon
the guilty mother, was equally _pious_ as just. 3. This vengeance was,
of course, to be executed by the nearest relations of the deceased.
This the law prescribed in judicial prosecutions. Who then so fit
instruments of fate, when that justice was precluded to them? This is
expressed, in answer to the plea of Orestes, that he should suffer the
vengeance of the Gods for the murder of his mother; Electra replies,

    Τῷ δαὶ πατρῴαν διαμεθῇς τιμωρίαν;

i. e. Who then shall repay vengeance to our father? She owns the
consequence, yet insists on the duty of incurring it. There was no
other, to whom the right of vengeance properly belonged.

4. Further the pagan doctrine of fate was such, that, in order to
discharge duty in one respect, it was unavoidable to incur guilt, in
another. This was the case here, Phœbus commanded and fate had decreed:
yet obedience was a crime, to be expiated by future punishment. This
may seem strange to us, who have other notions of these matters, but
was perfectly according to the pagan system. The result is, that they
knowingly exposed themselves to vengeance, in order to fulfil their
fate. All that remained was to lament their destiny, and revere the
awful and mysterious providence of their Gods. And this is, exactly,
what Orestes pleads, in vindication of himself, elsewhere:

    Ἀλλ’ ὡς μὲν οὐκ εὖ, μὴ λεγ’, εἴργασται τάδε,
    Ἡμῖν δὲ τοῖς δράσασιν οὐκ εὐδαιμόνως.
                            Orest. Act. ii.

5. Lastly, it should be remembered, how heinous a crime adultery
was esteemed in the old world; when, as well as murder, we find
it punished with death. The law of the XII Tables expressly says,
ADVLTERII CONVICTAM VIR ET COGNATI, VTI VELINT, NECANTO. Now, all these
considerations put together, Electra might assist at the assassination
of her mother, consistently with the strongest feelings of piety and
affection. That these then should instantly break forth, so soon as the
debt to justice, to duty, and to fate was paid, is nothing wonderful.
And this, by the way, vindicates the Chorus from the inconsistency,
by some charged upon it, in condemning the act, when done, which
before they had laboured to justify. The common answer, “That the
Chorus follows the character of the people,” is insufficient. For
(besides that the Chorus always sustains a moral character) whence that
inconsistency in the people themselves? The reason was, the popular
creed of those times. It had been an omission of duty to have declined,
it was criminal to execute, the murder.

3. The disposition of the drama (whether the most judicious, or
not, is not the question) was calculated to introduce this change
with the greatest probability. Electra’s principal resentment was
to Ægysthus. From him chiefly proceeded her ill treatment, and from
him was apprehended the main danger of the enterprize. Now, Ægysthus
being taken off in the beginning of the preceding act, there was time
to indulge all the movements and gratulations of revenge, which the
objection supposes should precede, and for a while suspend the horrors
of remorse, before they come to the murder of Clytæmnestra. This is
rendered the more likely by the long parley, that goes before it; which
rather tends to soften, than exasperate, her resentments, and seems
artfully contrived to prepare the change, that follows.

On the whole, Electra’s concern, as managed by the poet, is agreeable
to the tenor of her character, and the circumstances of her situation.
To have drawn her otherwise, had been perhaps in the taste of modern
tragedy, but had certainly been beside the line of nature, and practice
of the ancients.

II. The case of Iphigenia, though a greater authority stand in the way,
is still easier. Aristotle’s words are, τοῦ δὲ ἀνωμάλου [παράδειγμα]
ἡ ἐν Αὐλίδι Ἰφιγένεια. Οὐδὲν γὰρ ἔοικεν ἡ ἱκετεύουσα τῇ ὑστέρᾳ, i. e.
“Iphigenia is an instance of the inconsistent character: for there is
no probable conformity betwixt her fears and supplications at first,
and her firmness and resolution afterwards.” But how doth this appear,
independently of the name of this great critic? Iphigenia is drawn
indeed, at first, fearful and suppliant: and surely with the greatest
observance of nature. The account of her destination to the altar was
sudden, and without the least preparation; and, as Lucretius well
observes, in commenting her case, NUBENDI TEMPORE IN IPSO; when her
thoughts were all employed, and, according to the simplicity of those
times, confessed to be so, on her promised nuptials. The cause of such
destination too, as appeared at first, was the private family interest
of Menelaus. All this justifies, or rather demands, the strongest
expression of female fear and weakness. “But she afterwards recants
and voluntarily devotes herself to the altar.” And this, with the
same strict attention to probability. She had now informed herself of
the importance of the case. Her devotement was the demand of Apollo,
and the joint petition of all Greece. The glory of her country, the
dignity and interest of her family, the life of the generous Achilles,
and her own future fame, were, all, nearly concerned in it. All this
considered, together with the high, heroic sentiments of those times,
and the superior merit, as was believed, of voluntary devotement,
Iphigenia’s character must have been very unfit for the distress of
a whole tragedy to turn upon, if she had not, in the end, discovered
the readiest submission to her appointment. But, to shew with what
wonderful propriety the poet knew to sustain his characters, we find
her, after all, and notwithstanding the heroism of the change, in a
strong and passionate apostrophe to her native Mycenæ, confessing some
involuntary apprehensions and regrets, the remains of that instinctive
abhorrence of death, which had before so strongly possessed her.

    Ἔθρεψας Ἑλλάδι μέγα φάος—
    θανοῦσα δ’ οὐκ ἀναίνομαι.

    Once the bright star of Greece—
    But I submit to die.

This, I take to be not only a full vindication of the consistency of
Iphigenia’s character, but as delicate a stroke of nature, as is,
perhaps, to be found in any writer.

After the writing of this note, I was pleased to find, that so sensible
a critic, as P. Brumoi, had been before me in these sentiments
concerning the character of Iphigenia. The reasons he employs, are
nearly the same. Only he confirms them all by shewing, that the
Iphigenia of Racine, which is modelled, not according to the practice
of Euripides, but the Comment of Aristotle, is, in all respects, so
much the worse for it. In justice to this ingenious writer, it should
be owned, that he is almost the only one of his nation, who hath
perfectly seen through the foppery, or, as some affect to esteem it,
the refinement of French manners. This hath enabled him to give us, in
his _Théatre des Grecs_, a masterly and very useful view of the Greek
stage; set forth in all its genuine simplicity, and defended on the
sure principles of nature and common sense.

       *       *       *       *       *

128. DIFFICILE EST PROPRIE COMMUNIA DICERE: Lambin’s Comment is
_Communia hoc loco appellat Horatius argumenta fabularum à nullo
adhuc tractata: et ita, quæ cuivis exposita sunt et in medio
quodammodo posita, quasi vacua et à nemine occupata_. And that this
is the true meaning of _communia_ is evidently fixed by the words
_ignota indictaque_, which are explanatory of it: so that the sense,
given it in the commentary, is unquestionably the right one. Yet,
notwithstanding the clearness of the case, a late critic hath this
strange passage: _Difficile quidem esse proprie communia dicere, hoc
est, materiam vulgarem, notam, et è medio petitam ita immutare atque
exornare, ut nova et scriptori propria videatur, ultro concedimus; et
maximi proculdubio ponderis ista est observatio. Sed omnibus utrinque
collatis, et tum difficilis, tum venusti, tam judicii quam ingenii
ratione habita, major videtur esse gloria fabulam formare penitus
novam, quam veterem, utcunque mutatam, de novo exhibere._ [Poet. Præl.
v. ii. p. 164.] Where having first, put a wrong construction on the
word _communia_, he imploys it to introduce an impertinent criticism.
For where does the poet prefer the glory of refitting _old_ subjects,
to that of inventing new ones? The contrary is implied in what he urges
about the superior difficulty of the latter; from which he dissuades
his countrymen, only in respect of their abilities and inexperience in
these matters; and in order to cultivate in them, which is the main
view of the Epistle, a spirit of correctness, by sending them to the
old subjects, treated by the Greek writers.

       *       *       *       *       *

131. PUBLICA MATERIES PRIVATI JURIS ERIT, &c.] _Publica materies_
is just the reverse of what the poet had before stiled _communia_;
the latter meaning such subjects or characters, as, though by their
nature left in common to all, had yet, in fact, not been _occupied_
by any writer—the former those, which had already been made _public_
by _occupation_. In order to acquire a property in subjects of this
sort, the poet directs us to observe the three following cautions: 1.
_Not to follow the trite, obvious round of the original work_, i. e.
not servilely and scrupulously to adhere to its plan or method. 2.
_Not to be translators, instead of imitators_, i. e. if it shall be
thought fit to imitate more expressly any part of the original, to do
it with freedom and spirit, and without a slavish attachment to the
mode of expression. 3. _Not to adopt any particular incident, that may
occur in the proposed model, which either decency or the nature of the
work would reject._ M. Dacier illustrates these rules, which have been
conceived to contain no small difficulty, from the Iliad; to which the
poet himself refers, and probably not without an eye to particular
instances of the errors, here condemned, in the Latin tragedies. For
want of these, it may be of use to fetch an illustration from some
examples in our own. And we need not look far for them. Almost every
modern play affords an instance of one or other of these faults. The
single one of Catiline by B. Jonson is, itself, a specimen of them all.
This tragedy, which hath otherwise great merit, and on which its author
appears to have placed no small value, is, in fact, the Catilinarian
war of Sallust, put into poetical dialogue, and so offends against the
_first_ rule of the poet, _in following too servilely the plain beaten
round of the Chronicle_. 2. Next, the speeches of Cicero and Catiline,
of Cato and Cæsar are, all of them, direct and literal translations
of the historian and orator, in violation of the _second_ rule, which
forbids _a too close attachment to the mode, or form of expression_.
3. There are several transgressions of that rule, which injoins _a
strict regard to the nature and genius of the work_. One is obvious
and striking. In the history, which had, for its subject, the whole
Catilinarian war, the fates of the conspirators were distinctly to be
recorded, and the preceding debates, concerning the manner of their
punishment, afforded an occasion, too inviting to be overlooked by an
historian, and above all a republican historian, of embellishing his
narration by set harangues. Hence the long speeches of Cæsar and Cato
in the senate have great propriety, and are justly esteemed among the
leading beauties of that work. But the case was totally different in
the drama; which, taking for its subject the single fate of Catiline,
had no concern with the other conspirators, whose fates at most should
only have been hinted at, not debated with all the circumstance and
pomp of rhetoric on the stage. Nothing can be more flat and disgusting,
than this calm, impertinent pleading; especially in the very heat
and winding up of the plot. But the poet was misled by the beauty it
appeared to have in the original composition, without attending to the
peculiar laws of the drama, and the _indecorum_ it must needs have in
so very different a work.

       *       *       *       *       *

136. NEC SIC INCIPIES, UT SCRIPTOR CYCLICUS OLIM:] All this [to v. 153]
is a continuation of the poet’s advice, given above,

    _Rectius Iliacum carmen deducis in actus
    Quam si proferres ignota indictaque primus_.

For, having first shewn in what respects a close observance of the epic
form would be vicious in tragedy, he now prescribes how far it may be
usefully admitted. And this is, 1. [from 136 to 146] in the simplicity
and modesty of the exordium; and, 2. [to v. 153] in the artificial
method and contexture of the piece. 1. The reason of the former rule is
founded on the impropriety of raising a greater expectation, at setting
out, than can afterwards be answered by the sequel of the poem. But,
because the epic writers themselves, from whom this conduct was to be
drawn, had sometimes transgressed this rule, and as the example of such
an error would be likely to infect, and, in all probability, actually
did infect, the tragic poets of that time, he takes occasion, 1. to
criticize an absurd instance of it; and, 2. to oppose to it the wiser
practice of Homer.

2. The like conduct he observes under the second article. For, being
to recommend to the tragic writer such an artificial disposition
of his subject, as _hastens rapidly to the event_, and rejects, as
impertinent, all particulars in the round of the story, which would
unnecessarily obstruct his course to it—a plan essentially necessary
to the legitimate epic—he first glances at the injudicious violation
of this method in a certain poem on _the return of_ Diomed, and then
illustrates and lays open the superior art and beauty of the Iliad. And
all this, as appears, for the sole purpose of explaining and enforcing
the precept about forming the plots of tragedies from epic poems.
Whence we see, how properly the examples of the errors, here condemned,
are taken, not from the _drama_, as the less attentive reader might
expect, but solely from the epos; for, _this_ being made the object
of imitation to the dramatic poet, as the tenor of the place shews,
it became necessary to guard against the influence of bad models.
Which I observe for the sake of those, who, from not apprehending the
connection of this and such like passages in the epistle, hastily
conclude it to be a confused medley of precepts concerning the art of
poetry, in general; and not a regular well-conducted piece, uniformly
tending to lay open the state, and to remedy the defects, of the Roman
stage.

       *       *       *       *       *

148. SEMPER AD EVENTUM FESTINAT; &c.] The disposition, here recommended
to the poet, might be shewn _universally_ right from the clearest
principles. But the propriety and beauty of it will, perhaps, be best
apprehended by such, as are unused to the more abstract criticism,
from attending to a _particular_ instance. Let us conceive an objector
then to put the following query: “Supposing the author of the Æneis
to have related, in the natural order, the destruction of Troy, would
not the subject have been, to all intents and purposes, as much _one_,
as it is under its present form; in which that event is told, in the
second book, by way of episode?” I answer by no means. The reason
is taken from _the nature of the work_, and from _the state and
expectations of the reader_.

1. The _nature of an epic or narrative poem_ is this, that it lays the
author under an obligation of shewing any event, which he formally
undertakes in his own person, at full length, and with all its material
circumstances. Every figure must be drawn in full proportion, and
exhibited in strong, glowing colours. Now had the subject of the second
book of the Æneis been related, in this extent, it must not only have
taken up one, but many books. By this faithful and animated _drawing_,
and the time it would necessarily have to _play_ upon the imagination,
the event had grown into such importance, that the remainder could only
have passed for a kind of Appendix to it.

2. The same conclusion is drawn from considering _the state of the
reader_. For, hurried away by an instinctive impatience, he pursues the
proposed event with eagerness and rapidity. So circumstantial a detail,
as was supposed, of an intermediate action not necessarily connected
with it, breaks the course of his expectations, and throws forward the
point of view to an immoderate distance. In the mean time the action,
thus interposed and presented to his thoughts, acquires by degrees, and
at length ingrosses his whole attention. It becomes the important theme
of the piece; or, at least, what follows sets out with the disadvantage
of appearing to him, as a new and distinct subject.

But now being related by way of episode, that is, as a succinct,
summary narration, not made by the poet himself, but coming from the
mouth of a person, necessarily ingaged in the progress of the action,
it serves for a short time to interrupt, and, by that interruption to
sharpen, the eager expectation of the reader. It holds the attention,
for a while, from the main point of view; yet not long enough to
destroy that impatient curiosity, which looks forward to it. And thus
it contributes to the same end, as a piece of miniature, properly
introduced into a large picture. It amuses the eye with something
relative to the painter’s design, yet not so, as to with-hold its
principal observation from falling on the greater subject. The parallel
will not hold very exactly, because the painter is, of necessity,
confined to the same _instant_ of time; but it may serve for an
illustration of my meaning. Suppose the painter to take, for his
subject, that part of Æneas’s story, where, with his _penates_, his
_father_, and his _son_, he is preparing to set sail for Italy. To
draw _Troy in flames_, as a constituent part of this picture, would be
manifestly absurd. It would be painting two subjects, instead of one.
And perhaps _Troja incensa_ might seize the attention before

    _Ascanium Anchisenque patrem Teucrosque penates_.

But a distant perspective of _burning Troy_ might be thrown into a
corner of the piece, that is, episodically, with good advantage; where,
instead of distracting the attention, and breaking the unity of the
subject, it would concenter, as it were, with the great design, and
have an effect in augmenting the distress of it.

       *       *       *       *       *

153. TU, QUID EGO ET POPULUS, &c.] The connexion is this. “But though
the strict observance of these rules will enable the poet to conduct
his _plot_ to the best advantage, yet this is not _all_ which is
required to a _perfect_ tragedy. If he would seize the attention,
and secure the applause, of the audience, something further must be
attempted. He must (to return to the point, from which I digressed, v.
127) be particularly studious to express the _manners_. Besides the
peculiarities of _office_, _temper_, _condition_, _country_, &c. before
considered, all which require to be drawn with the utmost fidelity, a
singular attention must be had to the characteristic differences of
_age_.”

    _Ætatis cujusque notandi sunt tibi mores._

The reason of this conduct is given in the commentary. It further
serves to adorn this part of the epistle [which is wholly preceptive
from v. 89 to 202] with those beautiful pourtraitures of human life,
in its several successive stages, which nature and Aristotle had
instructed him so well to paint.

       *       *       *       *       *

157. MOBILIBUSQUE DECOR NATURIS DANDUS ET ANNIS.] MOBILIBUS] _non
levibus aut inconstantibus, sed quæ variatis ætatibus immutantur_.
Lambin. NATURIS] By this word is not meant, simply, that instinctive
_natural_ biass, implanted in every man, to this or that character,
but, in general, _nature_, as it appears diversified in the different
periods of life. The sense will be: A certain _decorum_ or propriety
must be observed in painting the natures or dispositions of men varying
with their years.

There is then no occasion for changing the text, with Dr. Bentley, into

    _Mobilibusque decor, maturis dandus et annis_.

       *       *       *       *       *

179. AUT AGITUR RES IN SCENIS, AUT ACTA REFERTUR: &c.] The connexion
is this. The _misapplication_, just now mentioned, destroys the
_credibility_. This puts the poet in mind of another misconduct, which
hath the same effect, viz. _intus digna geri promere in scenam_.
But, before he makes this observation, it was proper to premise a
_concession_ to prevent mistakes, viz.

    _Segnius irritant animos_, &c.

       *       *       *       *       *

182. NON TAMEN INTUS DIGNA GERI PROMES IN SCENAM:] I know not a more
striking example of the transgression of this rule, than in Seneca’s
Hippolytus; where Theseus is made to weep over the mangled members
of his son, which he attempts to put together on the stage. This,
which has so horrid an appearance in the _action_, might have been so
contrived, as to have an infinite beauty in the _narration_; as may be
seen from a similar instance in Xenophon’s Cyropædia, where Panthea is
represented putting together the torn limbs of Abradates.

       *       *       *       *       *

185. NE PUEROS CORAM POPULO, &c.] Seneca, whom we before [v. 123]
saw so sollicitous to keep up to one rule of Horace, here makes no
scruple to transgress another. For, in violation of the very letter
of this precept, and of all the laws of decency and common sense, he
represents Medea butchering her children in the face of the people;
and, as if this too faintly painted the fury of her character, he
further aggravates the cruelty of the execution, with all the horrors
of a lingering act. This, seemingly inconsistent, conduct of the poet
was, in truth, owing to one and the same cause, namely, “The endeavour
to sustain Medea’s character.” For, wanting true taste to discern the
exact boundaries, which nature had prescribed to the human character,
or true genius to support him in a due preservation of it, he, as all
bad writers use, for fear of doing too little, unfortunately does too
much; and so, as Shakespear well expresses it, _o’ersteps the modesty
of nature_, inflating her _sentiments_ with extravagant passion, and
blackening her _acts_ with circumstances of unnatural horror. Though
some of these faults I suspect he only copied. For, to say nothing of
_that_ of Ennius, Ovid’s Medea was, at this time, very famous, and
as, I think, may be collected from the judgment passed upon it by
Quinctilian, had some of the vices, here charged upon Seneca. _Ovidii
Medea_, says he, _videtur mihi ostendere, quantum vir ille præstare
potuerit, si ingenio suo temperare, quàm indulgere, maluisset_. It
is not possible indeed to say exactly, wherein this _intemperance_
consisted; but it is not unlikely, that, amongst other things, it might
shew itself in the sorceries and incantations; a subject, intirely
suited to the wildness of Ovid’s genius; and which, as appears from
his relation of this story in the metamorphosis, he knew not how to
treat without running into some excess and luxuriance in that part. But
whether this were the cause, or no, the very treating a subject, which
had gone through such hands, as Euripides, Ennius, and Ovid, was enough
to expose a writer of better judgment, than Seneca, to some hazard.
For, in attempting to outdo originals, founded on the plan of simple
nature, a writer is in the utmost danger of running into affectation
and bombast. And indeed, without this temptation, our writers have
generally found means to incur these excesses; the very best of them
being too apt to fill their plots with unnatural incidents, and to
heighten their characters into caracatures. Though it may be doubted,
whether this hath been owing so much to their own ill taste, as to
a vicious compliance with that of the public; for, as one says, who
well knew the expediency of this craft, and practised accordingly, _to
write unnatural things is the most probable way of pleasing them who
understand not nature_. [Dryd. Pref. to Mock Astrol.]

       *       *       *       *       *

193. ACTORIS PARTES CHORUS, &c.] See also _Aristotle_ [περ. ποιητ.
κ. ιηʹ.] The judgment of two such critics, and the practice of wise
antiquity concurring to establish this precept concerning the Chorus,
it should thenceforth, one would think, have become a fundamental rule
and maxim of the stage. And so indeed it appeared to some few writers.
The most admired of the French tragic poets ventured to introduce it
into two of his latter plays, and with such success, that, as one
observes, _It should, in all reason, have disabused his countrymen
on this head: l’essai heureux de M. Racine, qui les [chœurs] a fait
revivre dans_ ATHALIE _et dans_ ESTHER, _devroit, ce semble, nous
avoir detrompez sur cet article_. [P. Brumoi, vol. i. p. 105.] And,
before him, our _Milton_, who, with his other great talents, possessed
a supreme knowledge of antiquity, was so struck with its use and
beauty, as to attempt to bring it into our language. His _Sampson
Agonistes_ was, as might be expected, a master-piece. But even his
credit hath not been sufficient to restore the Chorus. Hear a late
Professor of the art declaring, _De choro nihil disserui, quia non
est essentialis dramati, atque à neotericis penitus_, ET, ME JUDICE,
MERITO, REPUDIATUR. [Præl. Poet. vol. ii. p. 188.] Whence it hath come
to pass, that the chorus hath been thus neglected, is not now the
inquiry. But that this critic, and all such are greatly out in their
judgments when they presume to censure it in the ancients, must appear
(if we look no further) from the double use, insisted on by the poet.
For, 1. A _chorus_ interposing, and bearing a part in the progress
of the action, gives the representation that _probability_[14], and
striking resemblance of real life, which every man of sense perceives
and _feels_ the want of upon our stage; a want, which nothing but such
an expedient as the chorus can possibly relieve. And, 2. The importance
of its other office [v. 196] to the _utility_ of the representation,
is so great, that, in a moral view, nothing can compensate for this
deficiency. For it is necessary to the truth and decorum of characters,
that the _manners_, bad as well as good, be drawn in strong, vivid
colours, and to that end that immoral sentiments, forcibly expressed
and speciously maintained, be sometimes _imputed_ to the speakers.
Hence the sound philosophy of the chorus will be constantly wanting
to rectify the wrong conclusions of the audience, and prevent the ill
impressions that might otherwise be made upon it. Nor let any one
say, that the audience is well able to do this for itself: Euripides
did not find even an Athenian theatre so quick-sighted. The story is
well known [Sen. Ep. 115.] that when this painter of the _manners_ was
obliged, by the rules of his art, and the character to be sustained,
to put a run of bold sentiments in the mouth of one of his persons,
the people instantly took fire, charging the poet with the _imputed_
villany, as though it had been his _own_. Now if such an audience could
so easily misinterpret an attention to the truth of character into the
real doctrine of the poet, and this too, when a chorus was at hand
to correct and disabuse their judgments, what must be the case, when
the _whole_ is left to the sagacity and penetration of the people?
The wiser sort, ’tis true, have little need of this information. Yet
the reflexions of sober sense on the course and occurrences of the
representation, clothed in the noblest dress of poetry, and inforced
by the joint powers of _harmony_ and _action_ (which is the true
character of the chorus) might make it, even to such, a not unpleasant
or unprofitable entertainment. But these _two_ are a small part of the
_uses_ of the chorus: which in every light is seen so important to the
truth, decorum, and dignity of the tragic scene, that the _modern_
stage, which hath not thought proper to adopt it, is even, with the
advantage of, sometimes, the justest moral painting and sublimest
imagery, but a very faint shadow of the _old_; as must needs appear
to those, who have looked into the ancient models, or, divesting
themselves of modern prejudices, are disposed to consult the dictates
of plain sense. For the use of such I once designed to have drawn into
one view the several important benefits, arising to the drama from
the observance of this rule, but have the pleasure to find myself
prevented by a sensible dissertation of a good French writer, which the
reader will find _in the_ VIII _Tom. of the history of the Academy of
Inscriptions and Belles Lettres_.—Or, it may be sufficient to refer
the English Reader to the late tragedies of ELFRIDA and CARACTACUS;
which do honour to modern poetry, and are a better apology, than any I
could make, for the ancient chorus.

       *       *       *       *       *

193. OFFICIUMQUE VIRILE] Heinsius takes _virile_ adverbially for
_viriliter_. But this is thought harsh. What hinders, but that it may
be taken _adjectively_? And then, agreeably to his interpretation,
_officium virile_ will mean a strenuous, diligent office, such as
becomes a person interested in the progress of the action. The precept
is leveled against the practice of those poets, who, though they allot
the part of a _persona dramatis_ to the _chorus_, yet for the most part
make it so idle and insignificant an one, as is of little consequence
in the representation: by which means the advantage of _probability_,
intended to be drawn from this use of the _chorus_, is, in great
measure, lost.

       *       *       *       *       *

194. NEU QUID MEDIOS INTERCINAT ACTUS, QUOD NON PROPOSITO CONDUCAT
ET HAEREAT APTE.] How necessary this advice might be to the writers
of the Augustan age cannot certainly appear; but, if the practice of
Seneca may give room for any suspicion, it should seem to have been
much wanted; in whom I scarcely believe there is one single instance
of the chorus being employed in a manner, consonant to its true end
and character. To support this general censure, which may seem to bear
hard on the poet, let us examine, in this view, one of the best of his
plays, I mean, the Hippolytus; whose chorus, throughout, bears a very
idle and uninteresting part—hath no share in the action—and sings
impertinently.

At the end of the _first_ act, when Phædra had avowed her passion
for Hippolytus, instead of declaiming against her horrid purpose,
enlarging on the danger and impiety of giving way to unnatural lusts,
or something of this nature, which was surely the office of the chorus,
it expatiates wantonly, and with a poetic luxuriance, on the sovereign,
wide-extended powers of love.

In the close of the _second_ act, instead of applauding the virtuous
obstinacy of Hippolytus, and execrating the mad attempt of Phædra, it
coolly sings the danger of beauty.

The _third_ act contains the false accusation of Hippolytus, and the
too easy deception of Theseus. What had the chorus to do here, but
to warn against a too great credulity, and to commiserate the case
of the deluded father? Yet it declaims, in general, on the unequal
distribution of _good_ and _ill_.

After the _fourth_ act, the chorus should naturally have bewailed the
fate of Hippolytus, and reverenced the mysterious conduct of Providence
in suffering the cruel destiny of the innocent. This, or something like
it, would have been to the purpose. But, as if the poet had never heard
of this rule of _coherence_, he harangues, in defiance of common sense,
on the instability of an high fortune, and the security of a low.

It will further justify this censure of _Seneca_, and be some amusement
to the critical reader, to observe, how the several blunders, here
charged upon him, arose from an injudicious imitation of _Euripides_.

I. There are two places in the Greek Hippolytus, which Seneca seems to
have had in view in his first chorus. We will consider them both.

1. When the unhappy Phædra at length suffers the fatal secret of her
passion to be extorted from her, she falls, as was natural, into all
the horrors of self-detestation, and determines not to survive the
confession of so black a crime. In this conjuncture, the _nutrix_, who
is not drawn, as in modern tragedy, an unmeaning confidante, the mere
depositary of the poet’s secrets, but has real manners assigned to
her, endeavours, with the highest beauty of character, to divert these
horrid intentions, and mitigate in some sort the guilt of her passion,
by representing to her the resistless and all-subduing force of love.
“Venus, says this virtuous _monitrix_, is not to be withstood, when she
rushes upon us with all her power. Nor is any part of creation vacant
from her influence. She pervades the air, and glides through the deeps.
We, the inhabitants of the earth, are all subject to her dominion.
Nay, ask of the ancient bards, and they will tell you, that the Gods
themselves are under her controul.” And so goes on, enumerating
particular examples, from all which she infers at last the necessity of
Phædra’s yielding to her fate. Again,

2. Towards the close of the Greek play, when, upon receiving the
tragical story of his son’s sufferings, Theseus began to feel his
resentments give way to the workings of paternal affection, and, on
that account, though he was willing to conceal the true motive, even
from himself, had given orders for the dying Hippolytus to be brought
before him, the chorus very properly flings out into that fine address
to Venus,

    Σὺ τὰν θεῶν ἄκαμπτον φρένα, &c.

the substance of which is, “That Venus, with her swift-winged boy, who
traverses the earth and ocean, subdues the stubborn hearts of Gods
and men: inspiring into all, on whom her influence rests, whether
inhabitants of the land or deep, and more especially the race of man, a
soft and sympathizing tenderness; demonstrating hereby, that she alone
extends her all-controuling dominion over universal nature.” This
song, as thus connected with the occasion, is apparently very proper,
and, when reduced from the pomp of lyric eloquence to plain prose, is
only an address of congratulation to the powers of love; confessing and
celebrating their influence, in thus softening the rigors of a father’s
hate, and awakening in his breast the soft touches of returning pity
and affection.

Now these two places, taken together, are plainly the ground-work of
that song,

    _Diva, non miti generata ponto_, &c.

but how improperly applied, has appeared, in respect of the latter
of them, from what has been observed concerning the _occasion_; and
must be acknowledged of the other, from the different _character_ of
the person to whom it is given; and also from hence, that the chorus
in the Greek poet expressly condemns the impiety of such suggestions
in the nurse, and admonishes Phædra not to lend an ear to them. The
chorus, when it comes to sing in him, is far otherwise employed; not in
celebrating the triumphs, but deprecating the pernicious fury of this
passion, and in lamenting the fatal miscarriages of Hymeneal love.

II. The second song, on the graces of the prince’s person, and the
danger of beauty, which follows on the abrupt departure of Hippolytus,
rejecting, with a virtuous disdain, the mad attempts of Phædra and her
confidante, is so glaringly improper, as not to admit an excuse from
any example. And yet, I am afraid, the single authority, it has to
lean on, is a very short hint, slightly dropped by the chorus in the
Greek poet on a very different occasion. It is in the entrance of that
scene, where the mangled body of Hippolytus is brought upon the stage;
on the sight of which the chorus very naturally breaks out,

    Καὶ μὲν ὁ τάλας ὅδε δὴ στείχει
    Σάρκας νεαρὰς
    Ξανθόν τε κάρα διαλυμανθείς.

and yet, as the reader of just taste perceives, nothing beyond a single
reflexion could have been endured even here.

III. The next song of the chorus may seem directly copied from
Euripides. Yet the two occasions will be found extremely different.
In Seneca, Theseus, under the conviction of his son’s guilt, inveighs
bitterly against him, and at last supplicates the power of Neptune to
avenge his crimes. The chorus, as anticipating the effects of this
imprecation, arraigns the justice of the Gods. In the Greek poet, the
father, under the like circumstances, invokes the same avenging power,
and, as some immediate relief to his rage, pronounces the sentence
of banishment, and urges the instant execution of it, against him.
Hippolytus, unable to contend any longer with his father’s fury, breaks
out into that most tender complaint (than which nothing was ever more
affecting in tragedy)

    Ἄρηρεν, ὡς ἔοικεν, ὦ τάλας ἐγώ. &c.

containing his last adieu to his country, companions, and friends. The
chorus, touched with the pathos of this apostrophe, and commiserating
his sad reverse of fortune, enters with him into the same excess
of lamentation, and, as the first expression of it, lets fall this
natural sentiment, “That though from coolly contemplating the divine
superintendency of human affairs, there results abundant confidence
and security against the ills of life, yet when we look abroad into
the lives and fortunes of men, that confidence is apt to fail us,
and we find ourselves discouraged and confounded by the promiscuous
and undistinguishing appointments of _good_ and _ill_.” This is the
thought, which Seneca hath imitated, and, as his manner is, outraged in
his chorus of the third act:

    _O magna parens, Natura, Deûm_, &c.

But the great difference lies here. That, whereas in _Euripides_ this
sentiment is proper and agreeable to the state and circumstances of
the chorus, which is ever attentive to the progress of the action, and
is most affected by what immediately presents itself to observation;
in _Seneca_ it is quite foreign and impertinent; the attention of
the chorus naturally turning, not on the distresses of Hippolytus,
which had not yet commenced, but on the rashness and unhappy delusion
of Theseus, as being that, which had made the whole subject of the
preceding scene. But the consequence of that delusion, it will be said,
was obvious. It may be so. But the chorus, as any sensible spectator,
is most agitated by such reflexions, as occur to the mind from those
scenes of the drama, which are actually passing before it, and not from
those which have not yet taken place.

IV. What was remarked of the _second_ song of the chorus will be
applicable to the _fourth_, which is absurdly founded on a single
reflexion in the Greek poet, but just touched in a couple of lines,
though much more naturally introduced. Theseus, plunged in the deepest
affliction by the immature death of Phædra, and not enduring the sight
of the supposed guilty author of it, commands him into banishment,
“Lest, as he goes on, his former triumphs and successes against the
disturbers of mankind, should in consequence of the impunity of such
unprecedented crimes, henceforth do him no honour.” The chorus, struck
with the distressful situation of the old king, and recollecting with
him the sum of his former glories, is made to exclaim,

    Οὐκ οἶδ’ ὅπως εἴποιμ’ ἂν εὐτυχεῖν τινα
    Θνητῶν· τὰ γὰρ δὴ πρῶτ’ ἀνέστραπται πάλιν.

i. e. _there is henceforth no such thing, as human happiness, when the
first examples of it are thus sadly reversed_. Which casual remark
Seneca seizes and extends through a whole chorus; where it visibly
serves to no other end, but to usurp a place, destined for far more
natural and affecting sentiments.

If I have been rather long upon this head, it is because I conceive
this critique on the Hippolytus will let the reader, at once, into
the true character of _Seneca_; which, he now sees, is that of a mere
_declamatory moralist_. So little deserving is he of the reputation of
a just dramatic poet.

       *       *       *       *       *

196. ILLE BONIS FAVEATQUE, &c.] _The chorus_, says the poet, _is to
take the side of the good and virtuous_, i. e. is always to sustain a
moral character. But this will need some explanation and restriction.
To conceive aright of its office, we must suppose the _chorus_ to
be a number of persons, by some probable cause assembled together,
as witnesses and spectators of the great action of the drama. Such
persons, as they cannot be wholly uninterested in what passes before
them, will very naturally bear some share in the representation. This
will principally consist in declaring their sentiments, and indulging
their reflexions freely on the several events and distresses as they
shall arise. Thus we see the _moral_, attributed to the chorus, will be
no other than the dictates of plain sense; such as must be obvious to
every thinking observer of the action, who is under the influence of
no peculiar partialities from _affection_ or _interest_. Though even
these may be supposed in cases, where the character, towards which they
_draw_, is represented as virtuous.

A chorus, thus constituted, must always, it is evident, take the
part of virtue; because this is the natural and almost necessary
determination of mankind, in all ages and nations, when acting freely
and unconstrained. But then it is to be observed,

1. That this moral character, or approbation of virtue, must also
be considerably influenced by the common and established notions of
_right_ and _wrong_; which, though in essential points, for the most
part, uniformly the same under all circumstances, yet will, in some
particular instances, be much distorted by the corrupt principles and
practices of different countries and times. Hence the _moral_ of the
stage will not be always strictly philosophical; as reflecting to us
the image not of the sage’s speculation, but, of the obvious sense of
common, untutor’d minds. The reader will find this observation applied
to the case of the _chorus_ in the Medea, in note on v. 200, and it
might further, perhaps, be extended to the vindication of some others,
to which the ignorant temerity of modern criticism hath taken occasion
to object. But,

2. The _moral character_ of the chorus will not only depend very
much on the several mistaken notions and usages, which may happen,
under different circumstances, to corrupt and defile _morality_; but
allowance is also to be made for the _false policies_, which may
prevail in different countries; and especially if they constitute any
part of the subject, which the drama would represent. If the _chorus_
be made up of free citizens, whether of a republic, or the milder
and more equal royalties, they can be under little or no temptation
to suppress or disguise their real sentiments on the several events,
presented to their observation; but will be at liberty to pursue their
natural inclination of speaking the truth. But should this venerable
assembly, instead of sustaining the dignity of free subjects, be, in
fact, a company of slaves, devoted by long use to the service and
interests of a master, or awed, by the dread of tyrannical power,
into an implicit compliance with his will, the baleful effect, which
this very different situation must have on their moral character,
is evident. Their opinions of persons and things will cease to be
oracular; and the interposition of the _chorus_ will be more likely
to injure the cause of virtue, than to assist and promote it. Nor can
any objection be made, on this account, to the conduct of the poet;
who keeps to nature and probability in drawing the chorus with this
imperfectly moral character; and is only answerable for his ill choice
of a subject, in which such a pernicious representation is required.
An instance will explane my meaning more perfectly. The chorus in
the _Antigone_, contrary to the rule of Horace, takes the side of
the _wicked_. It consists of a number of old Thebans, assembled by
the order of Creon to assist, or rather to be present, at a kind of
mock council; in which he meant to issue his cruel interdict of the
rites of sepulture to the body of Polynices; a matter of the highest
consequence in those days, and upon which the whole distress of the
play turns. This veteran troop of vassals enter at once into the
horrid views of the tyrant, and obsequiously go along with him in
the projects of his cruelty; calmly, and without the appearance of
any virtuous emotion, consenting to them all. The consequence is that
the interludes of the chorus are, for the most part, impertinent, or
something worse; cautiously avoiding such useful reflexions, as the
nature of the case must suggest, or indulging, by their flatteries,
the impotent tyranny of their prince. And yet no blame can be fairly
charged upon the great poet, who hath surely represented, in the most
striking colours, the pernicious character, which a chorus, under such
circumstances, would naturally sustain. The fault must therefore fall,
where the poet manifestly intended to throw it, on the accursed spirit
of despotism; which extinguishes, or over-rules, the suggestions of
common sense; kills the very seeds of virtue, and perverts the most
sacred and important offices, such as is that of the chorus, into the
means and instruments of vice. The glory, which he designed, by this
representation, to reflect upon the government and policy of his own
state, is too glaring to be overlooked. And he hath artfully contrived
to counter-act any ill impressions on the minds of the people, from the
prostituted authority of the chorus, by charging them, in the persons
of Hæmon and Antigone, with their real motives and views. In all
indifferent things, in which the passions or interests of their master
were not concerned, even this chorus would of course preserve a moral
character. But we are to look for it no further. This is the utmost
verge and boundary of a slave’s virtue. An important truth, which,
among many greater and more momentous instructions, furnishes this to
the dramatic poet, “That, if he would apply the chorus to the uses of a
sound and useful moral, he must take his subjects, not from the annals
of despotic tyranny, but from the great events, which occur in the
records of free and equal commonwealths.”

       *       *       *       *       *

200. ILLE TEGAT COMMISSA] This important advice is not always easy to
be followed. Much indeed will depend on the choice of the subject,
and the artful constitution of the fable. Yet, with all his care, the
ablest writer will sometimes find himself embarrassed by the chorus.
I would here be understood to speak chiefly of the moderns. For the
ancients, though it has not been attended to, had some peculiar
advantages over us in this respect, resulting from the principles and
practices of those times. For, as it hath been observed of the ancient
epic muse, that she borrowed much of her state and dignity from the
false _theology_ of the pagan world, so, I think, it may be justly
said of the ancient tragic, that she has derived great advantages
of probability from its mistaken _moral_. If there be truth in this
reflexion, it will help to justify some of the ancient choirs, that
have been most objected to by the moderns. To give an instance or two,
and leave the curious reader to extend the observation at his leisure.

I. In the Hippolytus of Euripides, the chorus, which is let into
Phædra’s design of killing herself, suffers this rash attempt to take
effect, rather than divulge the intrusted secret. This, to a modern
reader, seems strange; and we are ready to arraign the poet of having
allotted a very unfit and unbecoming part to his _chorus_, which,
in order to observe a _critical_, is thus made to violate a _moral_
precept, or at least to sacrifice the more essential part of its
character to a punctilio of honour. But the case was quite otherwise.
This suicide of Phædra, which, on our stricter moral plan, is repugnant
to the plain rules of duty, was, in the circumstances supposed, fully
justified on the pagan system. Phædra had confessed the secret of her
criminal passion. By the forward zeal of her confident, her disgrace
is made known to Hippolytus; and thereby, as she conceives, rendered
notorious to the public. In this distress she had only one way to
vindicate her honour, and that was at the expence of her life. Rather
than bear the insupportable load of public infamy, she kills herself.
That this was a justifiable cause of self-murder in the eye of the
chorus is clear from the reason, there assigned, of her conduct,
manifestly in approbation of it. “Phædra, says the chorus, oppressed
and borne down by her afflictions, has recourse to this expedient of
suicide,

      τάν τ’ εὔδοξον ἀνθαιρουμένα
    Φάμαν, ἀπαλλάσσουσά
    Τ’ ἀλγεινὸν φρενῶν ἔρωτα.

for the sake of her good fame, and in order to free herself from
the tortures of a cruel passion.” And how agreeable this was to the
pagan system, in general, let the reader collect from the following
testimonies in Cicero: _Si omnia fugiendæ turpitudinis adipiscendæque
honestatis causâ faciemus, non modo stimulos doloris, sed etiam
fulmina fortunæ contemnamus licebit: præsertim cum paratum sit illud
ex hesternâ disputatione perfugium. Ut enim, si, cui naviganti
prædones insequantur, Deus quis dixerit, Ejice te navi; præsto est,
qui excipiat_, &c. _omnem omittas timorem; sic, urgentibus asperis
et odiosis doloribus, si tanti non sint ut ferendi sint, quo sit
confugiendum vides._ [Tusc. Disp. l. ii. 26.] And, again, in the close
of the V^{th} disputation, _Mihi quidem in vita servanda videtur illa
lex, quæ in Græcorum conviviis obtinet: Aut bibat, inquit, aut abeat.
Et recte. Aut enim fruatur aliquis pariter cum aliis voluptate potandi;
aut, ne sobrius in violentiam vinolentorum incidat, ante discedat: sic_
INJURIAS FORTUNÆ, QUAS FERRE NEQUEAS, DEFUGIENDO RELINQUAS.

II. Another example may, I think, be fetched from the _Medea_. Scarcely
any thing has been more the subject of modern censure, than the
part, which the chorus is made to act in this tragedy. _Whence comes
it_, says M. Dacier, _that the chorus, which consists of Corinthian
women, is faithful to a stranger against their sovereign[15]?_ This
good Frenchman, it seems, thought it a kind of treason, even on the
stage, and where a moral character was to be sustained, to take part
against a tyrant. But he will further say, that the moral character
of the chorus was forfeited in thus concealing, and, in effect,
abetting the impious cruelties of Medea. _The laws of nature and of
God were transgressed in rendering this service to her._ All which is
very true, supposing the reader to judge of this matter by the purer
christian moral. But how will he prove this to be the case on the
received notions and practices of paganism? It appears, this critic
did not apprehend, what a moderate attention to ancient history and
manners might have taught him, that the violation of conjugal fidelity
was a crime of that high nature, as to deserve in the public opinion,
and to excuse, the severest vengeance of retaliation. This the laws
expresly allowed to the injuries of the husband. And, it is probable,
the wife might incline to think the reason of the case extended also
to her. What is certain is, that we find some of the deepest scenes
of horror, which ancient history furnishes, or ancient fiction could
paint, wrought up from the occasion of this neglect of conjugal
faith. And it is well observed by one, in speaking of the difference
between the ancient and modern stage, that what is now held the fit
subject of comic mirth and ridicule in christian theatres, was never
employed but to stir up the utmost horror and commiseration, on the
heathen. “We do not find, says this agreeable writer, any comedy in
so polite an author, as Terence, raised upon the violations of the
marriage-bed. The falsehood of the wife or husband has given occasion
to noble tragedies; but a Scipio and Lælius would have looked upon
incest or murder, to have been as proper subjects for comedy.” This
is strictly and precisely the truth. And, therefore, as the crimes of
incest or murder were believed deserving of the highest punishment
by the Pagans, and every good man was ready to interest himself in
seeing it inflicted[16]; so, in the case of the open violation of the
marriage-compact, the fiercest acts of revenge were justified in the
public opinion, and passed only for acts of strict justice. And for
this, if we wanted further authority, we have the express word of the
chorus. The Corinthian women do not barely consent to secrecy, in
virtue of an extorted oath or promise (though more might have been said
for this, than every reader is aware of) but in consequence of their
entire and full approbation of her intentions. For thus, in answer to
Medea’s petition to them, without the least reserve or hesitation, they
are made to reply,

    Δράσω τάδ’· ἐνδίκως γὰρ ἐκτίσῃ πόσιν
    Μήδεια.

_I will do it; for this revenge on a husband is just._ We see then the
chorus, in keeping the secret of Medea’s murders, was employed in its
great office of countenancing and supporting _salubrem justitiam_,
_wholesome justice_. And, therefore, the scholiast, with M. Dacier’s
leave, gave a fit and proper account of the matter (so far was it from
being _impious_ and _ridiculous_) in saying, _that the Corinthian women
being free_, i. e. not devoted to the service of Creon, by the special
duties of any personal attachment, _take the side of justice, as the
chorus is wont to do on other occasions_. The circumstance of their
_freedom_ is properly mentioned. For this distinguishes their case
from that of the _nutrix_, who upon receiving the account of Jason’s
cruelties, cries out,

    Ὄλοιτο μὲν μὴ, δεσπότης γάρ ἐστ’ ἐμὸς,
    Ἀτὰρ κακός γ’ ὢν εἰς φίλους ἁλίσκεται.

And that the chorus enter’d into Medea’s designs against her husband,
the tyrant Creon, and her rival, on reasons of justice and equity only,
and not (as is hastily believed by some, who have not enough attended
to the decorum of the ancient tragedy) for the sake of forwarding the
poet’s plot, may be certainly shewn. For when, in the fury of her
resentments, and as the full completion of her revenge, the mother
comes to propose the murder of her innocent children, the chorus starts
with horror at the thought, dissuades her from it in the most earnest
and affecting manner[17], and seems to have concealed the dreadful
secret only from the persuasion, that it was too horrid and unnatural
to be perpetrated. The reader will collect this with pleasure, by
turning to the fine song, which follows. It may be further observed,
that Medea herself, in opening this last purpose of her rage to the
chorus, exacts fidelity of them only, _as they wished well to an
injured queen, and were women_;

    Εἴπερ φρονεῖς εὖ δεσπόταις, γυνή τ’ ἔφυς.

which is beautifully contrived by the poet, to discriminate the two
cases, and to intimate to us, that reasons of justice were now no
longer to be pleaded.

In sum, though these acts of severe avenging justice might not be
according to the express letter of the laws, or the more refined
conclusions of the PORCH or ACADEMY; yet there is no doubt, that they
were, in the general account, esteemed fit and reasonable. And, it
is to be observed, in order to pass a right judgment on the ancient
chorus, that, though in virtue of their office, they were obliged
universally to sustain a moral character; yet this moral was rather
political and popular, than strictly legal or philosophic. Which is
also founded on good reason. The scope and end of the ancient theatre
being to serve the interests of virtue and society, on the principles
and sentiments, already spread and admitted amongst the people, and not
to correct old errors, and instruct them in philosophic truth.

       *       *       *       *       *

202. TIBIA NON, UT NUNC, ORICHALCO, &c.] [from v. 202 to v. 220.] This
is one of those many passages in the epistle, about which the critics
have said a great deal, without explaining any thing. In support of
what I mean to offer, as the true interpretation, I observe,

That the poet’s intention certainly was, not to censure the _false_
refinements of their stage-music; but, in a short digressive history
(such as the didactic form will sometimes require) to describe
the rise and progress of the _true_. This I collect, 1. From _the
expression itself_; which cannot, without violence, be understood in
any other way. For, as to the words _licentia_ and _præceps_, which
have occasioned much of the difficulty, the _first_ means a _freer
use_, not a _licentiousness_, properly so called; and the _other_ only
expresses a vehemence and rapidity of language, naturally productive of
a quicker elocution, such as must of course attend the more numerous
harmony of the lyre:—not, as M. Dacier translates it, _une eloquence
temeraire et outrée_, an extravagant straining and affectation of
style. 2. From _the reason of the thing_; which makes it incredible,
that the music of the theatre should then be most complete, when the
times were barbarous, and entertainments of this kind little encouraged
or understood. 3. From _the character of that music itself_; for the
rudeness of which, Horace, in effect, apologizes in defending it only
on the score of the imperfect state of the stage, and the simplicity of
its judges. But what shall we say then to those lines,

    _Indoctus quid enim saperet liberque laborum,
    Rusticus urbano confusus, turpis honesto?_

which seem to imply a censure on these Improvements, as unworthy the
approbation of _wise_ men; contrary to what I have just now supposed to
be the scope of this whole passage.

On the strictest attention, I believe we are to understand them as a
_Sneer_, in passing, on what grave and philosophic men have observed
of these refinements, which they constantly treat, as _Corruptions_.
See note on v. 218. But the mixed auditories of these days, says the
poet with his usual _badinage_, were not so _wise_. ’Tis, as if he had
said, “What I mention here as an improvement in dramatic music is, in
the ideas and language of some grave men, an abuse and perversion of
it to immoral purposes. It may be so: but consider, for what sorts of
people these theatrical entertainments were designed: for the _ignorant
clown and citizen, the plebeian and gentleman_, huddled together into
one confused mass, and crowding to the theatre, on a holyday, for some
relief from their ordinary toils and occupations. And alas, what do
these men know, or consider of this austere _wisdom_?

But the cast of the whole passage is, besides, such as favours the
supposition of an intended Irony. Hence the _Tibia non, ut nunc,
orichalco vincta_, &c. delivered in the usual tone of declaimers
against modern manners. Hence the epithets, _frugi castusque
verecundusque_, to denote the quality of those who assisted, of old, at
these _virtuous_ entertainments. And hence the enormity of that state
of things, when the people were afterwards permitted to regale on holy
days, _impune_. This intention too accounts for the terms _licentia_,
_luxuries_, _facundia_, _præceps_, and others, which being of ambiguous
interpretation, the poet purposely chose, to mimic, and humour, as
it were, the objectors in their favourite language on this occasion.
Till at last, impatient to continue the raillery any further, he
concludes at once with an air of solemnity very proper to confound the
impertinence of such criticism.

    Utiliumque sagax rerum, et divina futuri
    Sortilegis non discrepuit sententia Delphis.

All this the reader sees is agreeable to the poet’s _prescription_
elsewhere,

    —Sermone opus est tristi, sæpe _jocoso_.

and indeed to his own _practice_ on an hundred occasions. So that on
the whole there is little doubt of his intention in the lines,

    Indoctus quid enim _saperet_, &c.

At least, in this view the poet, I am apt to think, will be found
intelligible and even elegant. Whereas, on any other supposition of his
numerous commentators, I cannot see that the verses before us (as they
here stand) have either propriety or common sense.”

The interpretation then of this whole passage, from v. 202 to 220,
will stand thus. “The Tibia, says the poet, was at first _low_ and
_simple_. The _first_, as best agreeing to the _state of the stage_,
which required only a soft music to go along with, and assist the
chorus; there being no large and crowded theatres to _fill_ in those
days. And the _latter_, as suiting best to the _state of the times_;
whose simplicity and frugal manners exacted the severest temperance, as
in every thing else, so, in their dramatic ornaments and decorations.
But, when conquest had enlarged the territory, and widened the walls
of Rome; and, in consequence thereof, a social spirit had dispelled
that severity of manners, by the introduction of frequent festival
solemnities; then, as was natural to expect, a freer and more varied
harmony took place. Nor let it be objected that this _freer harmony_
was itself an abuse, a corruption of the severe and _moral_ music
of ancient times. Alas! we were not as yet so _wise_, to see the
inconveniencies of this improvement. And how should we, considering
the nature and end of these theatrical entertainments, and the sort of
men of which our theatres were made up? But, leaving the Philosopher
to speculate at his ease, on this matter, thus, in _fact_, it was,
“that the _Tibicen_, the musician, who played to the declamation in
the acts, instead of the rude and simpler strain of the old times,
gave a richness and variety of tone; and, instead of the old inactive
posture, added the grace of motion to his art. Just in the same
manner, continues he, it happened to the _Lyre_, i. e. _the music in
the chorus_, which originally, as that of the _Tibia_, was severe
and simple; but, by degrees, acquired a quicker and more expressive
modulation, such as corresponded to the more elevated and passionate
turn of the poet’s style, and the diviner enthusiasm of his sentiment.”
All that is further wanting to support and justify this interpretation,
will be found in the notes on particular passages.

       *       *       *       *       *

203. TENUIS SIMPLEXQUE, &c.] It may here be observed of the manner,
in which the poet hath chosen to deliver this whole part [from v. 202
to 295] that, besides its other uses, it tends directly to convey
to his readers, and impress upon them in the strongest manner, the
principal instruction, he has in view, and with which the epistle more
expresly concludes, _viz. The uses and importance of a spirit of
critical application_. For, in speaking of the _stage music_, of the
_satyrs_, and the _Greek tragedy_ (all which come naturally in his
way, and are very artfully connected) he chuses to deduce the account
of each from its ruder and less polished original; tracing it through
its several successive stages, and marking out to us the gradual
polish and refinement, which it acquired from increasing diligence and
correctness. The _Tibia_ at first was _simple_ and _rude_—The _satyrs
naked_ and _barbarous_—and the _Greek tragedy itself deformed and
shapeless_ in the cart of Thespis. Care and attention reformed each. It
follows,

    _Nil intentatum nostri liquere poetæ, &c._

_i. e._ our poets have not been wanting in their attempts to excel in
these several particulars. What is necessary to their success is, _limæ
labor et mora_. If the reader bear this in mind, it will help him to
see the order and scope of this part more distinctly.

       *       *       *       *       *

204. ASPIRARE ET ADESSE CHORIS, &c.] _Chorus_ here means the whole
dramatic performance, which was originally nothing else.

       *       *       *       *       *

206. UTPOTE PARVUS, ET FRUGI CASTUSQUE VERECUNDUSQUE, &c.] M. _Dacier_
finds here _four_ causes _of the little regard the ancients had
for plays_ [he should have said, of their being satisfied with the
_Tibia_, all rude and simple as is here described] _la premiere, que
le peuple Romain étoit encore alors en petit nombre: la seconde, qu’il
étoit sage: la troisiéme, qu’il étoit chaste, c’est à dire pieux: et
la quatriéme, qu’il étoit modeste_. But the three last epithets are
synonymous, all of them expressing what, though he took three guesses
for it, he had the ill fortune to miss at last, _that plainness and
simplicity_ of character, _that frugal reserve and moderation in
the use of any thing_, which so essentially belongs to rude minds,
uninstructed in the arts of life. His _four_ causes are, in fact, then
but two; which have been fully considered in note on v. 202.

       *       *       *       *       *

211. ACCESSIT NUMERISQUE MODISQUE LICENTIA MAJOR.] M. _Dacier_ takes
_licentia major_ in a bad sense, as implying _lasciveté_, _a culpable
and licentious refinement_. But the _licence_, here spoken of, with
regard to _numbers_ and _sounds_, like that in another place, which
respects _words_ [l. 51.] is one of those, which is allowed, when
_sumpta pudenter_. The comparative _major_, which is a _palliative_,
shews this; and is further justified by a like passage in _Cicero_,
_De Oratore_ [l. iii. c. 48.] where speaking of this very licence
in poetry, he observes, that out of the Heroic and Iambic measure,
which were at first strictly observed, there arose by degrees the
Anapæst, _procerior quidam numerus, et ille licentior et divitior
Dithyrambus_; evidently not condemning this change, but opposing it
to the rigorous and confined measure of the elder poets. But the
expression itself occurs in the piece entitled _Orator_, in which,
comparing the freedoms of the poetical and oratorial style, _in ea_ [i.
e. _poetica_] says he, _licentiam statuo majorem esse, quam in nobis,
faciendorum jungendorumque verborum_. The poet says, this _licence_
extended _numeris modisque_, the former of which words will express
that _licence of metre_, spoken of by _Cicero_, and which is further
explained v. 256, _&c._ where an account is given of the improvement of
the Iambic verse.

       *       *       *       *       *

    214. SIC PRISCAE, — — — ARTI
         TIBICEN, &c.
         SIC ETIAM FIDIBUS, &c.]

This is the application of what hath been said, in general, concerning
the refinement of theatrical music to the case of _tragedy_. Some
commentators say, and to _comedy_. But in this they mistake, as will
appear presently. M. _Dacier_ hath, I know not what conceit about
a comparison betwixt the _Roman_ and _Greek_ stage. His reason is,
_that the lyre was used in the Greek chorus, as appears_, he says,
_from Sophocles playing upon this instrument himself in one of his
tragedies_. And was it not used too in the Roman chorus, as appears
from Nero’s playing upon it in several tragedies? But the learned
critic did not apprehend this matter. Indeed from the caution, with
which his guides, the dealers in antiquities, always touch this point,
it should seem, that they too had no very clear conceptions of it.
The case I take to have been this: The _Tibia_, as being most proper
to accompany the declamation of the acts, _cantanti succinere_, was
constantly employed, as well in the Roman tragedy as comedy. This
appears from many authorities. I mention only two from Cicero. _Quam
multa_ [Acad. l. ii. 7.] _quæ nos fugiunt in cantu, exaudiunt in eo
genere exercitati: Qui, primo inflatu Tibicinis, Antiopam esse aiunt
aut Andromacham, cum nos ne suspicemur quidem._ The other is still more
express. In his piece, entitled _Orator_, speaking of the negligence
of the Roman writers, in respect of _numbers_, he observes, _that
there were even many passages in their tragedies, which, unless the_
TIBIA _played to them, could not be distinguished from mere prose_:
_quæ, nisi cum Tibicen accesserit, orationi sint solutæ simillima_.
One of these passages is expresly quoted from _Thyestes_, a tragedy
of _Ennius_; and, as appears from the measure, taken out of one of
the acts. It is clear then, that the _Tibia_ was certainly used in
the _declamation_ of tragedy. But now the song of the tragic chorus,
being of the nature of the ode, of course required _Fides_, the lyre,
the peculiar and appropriated instrument of the lyric Muse. And this
is clearly collected, if not from express testimonies; yet from some
occasional hints dropt by the ancients. For, 1. the lyre, we are
told, [Cic. De Leg. ii. 9. & 15.] and is agreed on all hands, was an
instrument of the Roman theatre; but it was not employed in comedy.
This we certainly know from the short accounts of the music prefixed to
Terence’s plays. 2. Further, the _Tibicen_, as we saw, accompanied the
declamation of the acts in tragedy. It remains then, that the proper
place of the lyre was, where one should naturally look for it, in the
songs of the chorus; but we need not go further than this very passage
for a proof. It is unquestionable, that the poet is here speaking of
the chorus only; the following lines not admitting any other possible
interpretation. By _Fidibus_ then is necessarily understood the
instrument peculiarly used in it. Not that it need be said that the
_Tibia_ was never used in the chorus. The contrary seems expressed in
a passage of Seneca, [Ep. lxxxiv.] and in Julius Pollux [l. iv. 15. §
107.] ’Tis sufficient, if the _lyre_ was used solely, or principally in
it, at this time. In this view, the whole digression is more pertinent
and connects better. The poet had before been speaking of tragedy.
All his directions, from l. 100. respect this species of the drama
only. The application of what he had said concerning music, is then
most naturally made, 1. to the _Tibia_, the music of the acts; and, 2.
to _Fides_, that of the choir: thus confining himself, as the tenor
of this part required, to tragedy only. Hence is seen the mistake,
not only of M. Dacier, whose comment is in every view insupportable;
but, as was hinted, of Heinsius, Lambin, and others, who, with more
probability, explained this of the Roman comedy and tragedy. For
though _Tibia_ might be allowed to stand for comedy, as opposed to
_Tragœdia_, [as in fact, we find it in l. ii. Ep. 1. 98.] that being
the only instrument employed in it; yet, in speaking expresly of the
music of the stage, _Fides_ could not determinately enough, and in
contradistinction to _Tibia_, denote that of tragedy, it being an
instrument used solely, or principally in the chorus; of which, the
context shews, he alone speaks. It is further to be observed, that, in
the application here made, besides the music, the poet takes in the
other improvements of the tragic chorus, these happening, as from the
nature of the thing they would do, at the same time.

       *       *       *       *       *

214. SIC PRISCAE MOTUMQUE ET LUXURIEM.] These two words are employed
to express that _quicker movement_, and _richer modulation_ of the new
music; the peculiar defects of the _old_ being, 1. That it moved too
slowly, and, 2. That it had no compass or variety of notes. It was that
_movement_, that velocity and vehemence of the music, which Roscius
required to have slackened in his old age.

       *       *       *       *       *

215. TRAXITQUE VAGUS PER PULPITA VESTEM.] This expresses not only the
improvement arising from the ornament of proper dresses, but from the
grace of motion: not only the _actor_, whose peculiar office it was,
but the _minstrel_ himself, as appears from hence, conforming his
gesture in some sort to the music.

Of the use and propriety of these gestures, or dances, it will not be
easy for us, who see no such things attempted on the modern stage,
to form any very clear or exact notions. What we cannot doubt of is,
1. That the several theatrical dances of the ancients were strictly
conformable to the genius of the different species of composition, to
which they were applied. 2. That, therefore, the tragic dance, which
more especially accompanied the chorus, must have been expressive of
the highest gravity and decorum, tending to inspire ideas of what is
_becoming, graceful_, and _majestic_; in which view we cannot but
perceive the important assistance it must needs lend to virtue, and
how greatly it must contribute to set all her graces and attractions
in the fairest light. 3. This idea of the ancient tragic dance, is not
solely formed upon our knowledge of the conformity, beforementioned;
but is further collected from the name, usually given to it, which was
Ἐμμέλεια. This word cannot well be translated into our language; but
expresses all that grace and concinnity of motion, which the dignity
of the choral song required. 4. Lastly, it must give us a very high
notion of the moral effect of this dance, when we find the severe Plato
admitting it into his commonwealth.

       *       *       *       *       *

216. SIC ETIAM FIDIBUS VOCES, &c.] He is here speaking of the great
improvement in the tragic chorus, after the Roman conquests, when the
Latin writers began to enquire

    _Quid Sophocles et Thespis et Æschylus utile ferrent_.

This improvement consisted, 1. In a more instructive moral sentiment:
2. In a more sublime and animated expression; which of course produced,
3. A greater vehemence in the declamation: to which conformed, 4.
A more numerous and rapid music. All these particulars are here
expressed, but, as the reason of the thing required, in an inverted
order. The music of the lyre (that being his subject, and introducing
the rest) being placed first; the declamation, as attending that, next;
the language, _facundia_, that is, the subject of the declamation,
next; and the sentiment, _sententia_, the ground and basis of the
language, last.

    _Et tulit eloquium insolitum facundia præceps._

literally, “A vehemence and rapidity of language produced an unusual
vehemence and rapidity of elocution in the declaimer!” This “rapidity
of language,” is exactly the same, as that Cicero speaks of in
Democritus and Plato, [_Orat._ 638. _Elz._] which, because of its quick
and rapid movement, _quod incitatius feratur_, some critics thought
to be poetical. _Unaccustomed_, we may observe, is indifferently a
_censure_ or _encomium_, according as the preceding state of the thing
spoken of was _wrong_, or _right_. Much the same may be concluded of
_præceps_; its _literal_ sense is a degree of _motion_ in any thing
above what it had before. This may be _excessive_, or otherwise, as it
chances: When applied to _the bleak East wind, dispersing a flight of
bees, and dashing them on the stream_,

                                  _si forte morantes
    Sparserit, aut præceps Neptuno immerserit Eurus_.
                                    Virg. Georg. iv. 29.

the epithet implies _excess_; but when spoken of the _gentle South,
whose strongest gale is but sufficient to drive the willing ship to
port_, [Æn. vii. 410.] _Præcipiti delata Noto_, it then only expresses
_due measure_.

As for the criticism from Quintilian, who opposes _præcipitia_ to
_sublimibus_, it is doubly impertinent: 1. As the sense is necessarily
fixed by its opposition to _sublimibus_: and 2. As the word is here
used, not as implying _motion_, but _height_, in which view its sense
is _absolute_, and always denotes _excess_.

       *       *       *       *       *

218. UTILIUMQUE SAGAX RERUM, ET DIVINA FUTURI, SORTILEGIS NON
DISCREPUIT SENTENTIA DELPHIS.] It is amazing that these two lines
should ever have been misunderstood as a censure, the import of them
being highly _encomiastic_, yet with great exactness declaring the
specific boast and excellence of the chorus; which lay, as Heinsius
hath well observed, 1. In inculcating important moral lessons; and 2.
In delivering useful presages and monitions concerning future conduct,
with an almost oracular prudence and authority.

    SIC PRISCAE — — — — ARTI.

What hath chiefly misled the Critics in their explanation of this
place, I suspect to have been the frequent encomiums on the severity
of the ancient music, by the Greek and Latin writers. Though here
they seem to have overlooked two very material considerations: 1.
That the _former_ have chiefly treated the subject in a _moral_ or
_political_ view, and therefore preferred the ancient music only as
it was conceived to influence the public manners. For this reason
Plato, one of the chief of those _encomiasts_, applauds, as we find,
the practice of Ægypt, in suffering no change of her poetry, but
continuing, to his time, her fondness for the _Songs of Isis_ [De Leg.
l. ii. sub. init.] which just as much infers the perfection of those
songs, considered in a critical view, as Rome’s sticking to her _Saliar
verses_ would have shewn those poor, obscure orisons to have exceeded
the regular odes and artificial compositions of Horace. And it was this
kind of criticism which, as I suppose, the poet intended to expose
in the famous verses, which I explain in note on v. 202. 2. That the
_latter_, the principal of them at least, who talk in the same strain,
lived under the Emperors; in whose time, indeed, music had undergone
a miserable prostitution, _being broken_, as one of the best of those
writers complains, _into an effeminate and impure delicacy_—_In
scenis effeminata et impudicis modis fracta_, [Quint. I. l. x.] As
to the times in question, I know but of one passage, which clearly
and expresly condemns the music then in vogue; and that will admit of
some alleviation from its being found in a treatise concerning laws.
The passage I mean is in Cicero, [De Leg. l. ii. 15.] who, following
Plato in his high-flown principles of legislation, exclames, _Illa
quæ solebant quondam compleri severitate jucunda Livianis et Nævianis
modis; nunc ut eadem exultent, cervices oculosque pariter eum_ MODORUM
FLEXIONIBUS _torqueant!_ For the _severitas jucunda_ of the music,
to which Livius’s plays were set, it may be tolerably guessed from
hence, that he was the _first_ who brought a written Play upon the
stage; _i. e._ the first writer whose plays were acted to a regular
and precomposed music. And it is not, we know, very usual for the
first essays in any art to be perfect. It should seem then, that the
_flexiones modorum_, as opposed to the plainness of the old music, are
here condemned, not so much in the view of a critic, estimating the
true state of the stage; but, as was hinted, of a legislator, treading
in the steps of Plato. Though indeed I have no doubt, that the music
in those times was much changed, and had even suffered some degree of
corruption. This I infer, not so much from any express authorities that
have occurred, as from the general state of those times, which were
degenerating apace into the worst morals, the sure fore-runners of a
corrupt and vitiated music; for, though it may indeed, in its turn, and
doubtless does, when established, contribute much to help on the public
depravity, yet that depravity itself is originally not the _effect_,
but the _cause_ of a bad music; as is more than hinted to be Cicero’s
real opinion in the place referred to, where, observing that the
manners of many Greek states had kept pace with their music, he adds,
that they had undergone this change, _Aut hac dulcedine corruptelaque
depravati, ut quidam putant; aut cum severitas eorum ob alia vitia
cecidisset, tum fuit in auribus animisque mutatis etiam huic mutationi
locus_. [Leg. ii. 15.] But be this as it will, Horace, as we have seen,
is no way concerned in the dispute about the ancient music.

       *       *       *       *       *

219. SENTENTIA DELPHIS.] _Sententia_ is properly _an aphorism taken
from life, briefly representing either what is, or what ought to be
the conduct of it_: _Oratio sumpta de vita, quæ aut quid sit, aut quid
esse oporteat, in vita, breviter ostendit_. [Ad Herenn. Rhet. l. iv.]
These aphorisms are here mentioned, as constituting the peculiar praise
and beauty of the chorus. This is finely observed, and was intended to
convey an oblique censure on the practice of those poets, who stuff out
every part of the drama alike with moral sentences, not considering,
that the only proper receptacle of them is the chorus, where indeed
they have an extreme propriety; it being the peculiar office and
character of the chorus to moralize. In the course of the action they
should rarely be used; and that for the plain reason assigned by the
author, just quoted, [for the rule holds on the stage, as well as at
the bar] _Ut rei actores, non vivendi præceptores, esse videamur_. That
there was some ground for this reproof of the Roman drama, is collected
from the few remaining fragments of the old Latin plays, which have
much of this sententious cast, and from what Quintilian expresly tells
us of the old Latin poets, whose fame, it seems, was principally raised
upon this merit. _Tragœdiæ scriptores, Accius et Pacuvius, clarissimi
gravitate sententiarum, &c._ [l. x. c. 1.] To how intolerable an
extreme this humour of moralizing in plays was afterwards carried,
Seneca has given us an example.

But here a question will be started, “Why then did the Greeks moralize
so much, or, if we condemn _Accius_ and _Seneca_, how shall we defend
_Sophocles_ and _Euripides_?” An ingenious[18] modern hath taken some
pains to satisfy this difficulty, and in part, I think, hath succeeded.
His solution, in brief, is, “That the moral and political aphorisms of
the Greek stage generally contained some apt and interesting allusion
to the state of public affairs, which was easily catched by a quick,
intelligent auditory; and not a dry, affected moral, without further
meaning, as for the most part was that of the Latins.” This account is
not a little confirmed by particular instances of such acknowledged
allusions, as well as from reflexions on the genius and government of
the Athenians, at large. But this, though it goes some way, does not
fully extricate the matter. The truth is, these sentences are too thick
sown in the Greek writers, to be fully accounted for from the single
consideration of their democratical views. Not to observe, that the
very choice of this _medium_ for the conveyance of their political
applications, presupposes the prior acknowledged use and authority of
it. I would then account for it in the following manner.

I. In the virtuous simplicity of less polished times, this spirit of
moralizing is very prevalent; the good sense of such people always
delighting to shew itself in sententious or proverbial γνῶμαι, or
observations. Their character, like that of the clown in Shakespear,
is _to be very swift and sententious_. [As you like it, Act v. sc.
1.] This is obvious to common experience, and was long since observed
by the _philosopher_, οἱ ἄγροικοι μάλιστα γνωμοτύποι εἰσὶ, καὶ ῥᾳδίως
ἀποφάινονται, [Arist. Rhet. l. ii. c. 21.] an observation, which of
itself accounts for the practice of the elder poets in Greece, as in
all other nations. A custom, thus introduced, is not easily laid aside,
especially when the oracular cast of these sentences, so fitted to
_strike_, and the moral views of writers themselves (which was more
particularly true of the old dramatists) concurred to favour this
taste. But, 2. there was added to this, more especially in the age
of Sophocles and Euripides, a general prevailing fondness for moral
wisdom, which seems to have made the fashionable study of men of all
ranks in those days; when schools of philosophy were resorted to for
recreation as well as instruction, and a knowledge in morals was the
supreme accomplishment in vogue: The fruit of these philosophical
conferences would naturally shew itself in certain brief, sententious
conclusions, which would neither contradict the fashion, nor, it
seems, offend against the ease and gaiety of conversation in those
times. _Schools_ and _pedantry_, _morals_ and _austerity_, were not so
essentially connected, in their combinations of ideas, as they have
been since; and a sensible moral truth might have fallen from any
mouth, without disgracing it. Nay, which is very remarkable, the very
_scholia_, as they were called, or drinking catches of the Greeks,
were seasoned with this moral turn; the sallies of pleasantry, which
escaped them in their freest hours, being tempered for the most part,
by some strokes of this national sobriety. “During the course of their
entertainments, says Athenæus, [l. xv. c. 14.] they loved to hear, from
some wise and prudent person, an agreeable song: and those songs were
held by them most agreeable, which contained exhortations to virtue, or
other instructions relative to their conduct in life.”

And to give the reader a taste of these _moral_ songs, I will take
leave to present him with a very fine one, written by no less a person
than Aristotle himself; and the rather, as I have it in my power to
present him, at the same time, with an elegant translation of it. But
its best recommendation will be that it comes from the same hand which
has so agreeably entertained us of late with some spirited imitations
of Horace[19].

    Ἀρετὰ πολύμοχθε γένει βροτείῳ,
    Θήραμα κάλλιστον βίῳ.
    Σᾶς πέρι, Παρθένε, μορφᾶς
    Καὶ θανεῖν ζηλωτὸς ἐν Ἑλλάδι πότμος,
    Καὶ πόνους τλῆναι μαλεροὺς ἀκάμαντας.
    Τοῖον ἐπὶ φρένα βάλλεις καρπὸν εἰς ἀθάνατον,
    Χρυσοῦ τε κρέσσω καὶ γονέων,
    Μαλακαυγητοῖό θ’ ὕπνου.
    Σοῦ δ’ ἕνεκ’ ἐκ Διὸς Ἡρακλέης
    Λήδας τε κοῦροι πόλλ’ ἀνέτλασαν,
    Ἔργοις σὰν ἀγορεύοντες δύναμιν.
    Σοῖς τε πόθοις Ἀχιλλεὺς
    Αἴας τ’ αἴδαο δόμους ἦλθον·
    Σᾶς δ’ ἕνεκα φιλίου μορφᾶς
    Ἀταρνέως ἔντροφος
    Ἀελίου χήρωσεν αὐγάς.
    Τοίγαρ ἀοίδιμον ἔργοις,
    Ἀθάνατόν τε μιν αὐξήσουσι μοῦσαι,
    Μναμοσύνας θύγατρες,
    Διὸς ξενίου σέβας αὔξουσαι
    Φιλίας τε γέρας βεβαίου[20].

      I.
    Hail, Virtue! Goddess! sov’reign Good,
    By man’s bold race with pain pursu’d!
    Where’er thou dart’st thy radiant eye,
    Greece sees her sons with transport fly;
    Danger before thee disappears,
    And death’s dark frown no terror wears.

      II.
    So full into the breast of man descends
      Thy rich ambrosial show’r;
    A show’r, that gold, that parents far transcends,
      Or, sleep’s soft-soothing pow’r.

      III.
    By thee ALCIDES soar’d to fame,
    Thy influence LEDA’S twins proclaim;
    Heroes for thee have dauntless trod
    The dreary paths of hell’s abode;
    Fir’d by thy form, all beamy bright,
    Atarneus’ nursling left the light.

      IV.
    His deeds, his social love (so will the nine,
      Proud to spread wide the praise
    Of friendship and of friendly Jove) shall shine
      With ever-living rays.

This moralizing humour, so prevalent in those times, is, I dare be
confident, the true source of the sententious cast of the Greek
dramatic writers, as well as of that sober air of moral, which, to the
no small disgust of modern writers, is spread over all their poets.
Not but there would be some difference in those poets themselves, and
in proportion as they had been more or less conversant in the Academy,
would be their relish of this moral mode; as is clearly seen in the
case of Euripides, that philosopher of the stage, as the Athenians
called him, and who is characterized by Quinctilian, as _sententiis
densus, et in iis, quæ a sapientibus tradita sunt, pæne ipsis par_. [L.
x. c. 1.] Yet still the fashion was so general, that no commerce of the
world could avoid, or wholly get clear of it; and therefore Sophocles,
though his engagements in the state kept him at a greater distance from
the schools, had yet his share of this philosophical humour. Now this
apology for the practice of the Greek poets doth by no means extend to
the Roman; Philosophy having been very late, and never generally, the
taste of Rome.

Cicero says, _Philosophia quidem tantum abest ut proinde, ac de hominum
est vitâ merita, laudetur, ut a plerisque neglecta, a multis etiam
vituperetur_. In another place he tells us, that in his time Aristotle
was not much known, or read, even by the philosophers themselves.
[_Cic. Top. sub init._]

And, though in the age of Seneca, _Sentences_, we know, were much in
use, yet the cast and turn of them evidently shew them to have been
the affectation of the lettered _few_, and not the _general_ mode and
practice of the time. For the quaintness, in which Seneca’s aphorisms
are dressed, manifestly speaks the labour and artifice of the closet,
and is just the reverse of that easy, simple expression, which cloaths
them in the Greek poets, thus demonstrating their familiar currency in
common life. Under any other circumstances than these, the practice, as
was observed, must be unquestionably faulty; except only in the chorus,
where for the reason before given, it may always, with good advantage,
be employed.

       *       *       *       *       *

220. CARMINE QUI TRAGICO, &c.] The connexion with v. 201, from whence
the poet had digressed, is worth observing. The digression had been
taken up in describing the improved state of dramatic music; the
application of which to the case of tragedy, brings him round again to
his subject, the tragic chorus; to which alone, as hath been observed,
the two last lines refer. This too is the finest preparation of what
follows. For to have passed on directly from the _tibia_ to the
_satyrs_, had been abrupt and inartificial; but from _tragedy_, the
transition is easy, the _satyrs_ being a species of the tragic drama.
That it was so accounted may be seen from the following passage in Ovid,

    _Est et in obscænos deflexa tragædia risus,
      Multaque præteriti verba pudoris habet_.
                             Trist. l. ii. v. 409.

For the _tragedy_, here referred to, cannot be the regular Roman
tragedy. _That_ he had distinctly considered before, and, besides,
it in no age admitted, much less in this, of which we are speaking,
so intolerable a mixture. As little can it be understood of the
proper Atellane fable, for besides that Ovid is here considering the
_Greek_ drama only, the Atellane was ever regarded as a species, not
of tragedy, but comedy: The authority of Donatus is very express;
“_Comædiarum_ formæ sunt tres: Palliatæ, Togatæ, _Atellanæ_, salibus
et jocis compositæ, quæ in se non habent nisi vetustam elegantiam.”
[Prol. in Terent.] And Athenæus [l. vi.] speaking of some pieces of
this sort, which L. Sylla had composed, calls them σατυρικὰς κωμῳδίας,
satyric comedies; _comedies_, because, ss Donatus says, “salibus et
jocis compositæ:” and _satyric_, not that satyrs were introduced
in them, but, according to Diomedes, from their being “argumentis
dictisque _similes_ satyricis fabulis Græcis.” Of what then can Ovid
be understood to speak, but the true satyric piece, which was always
esteemed, and, as appears from the Cyclops, in fact is, what Demetrius
[περὶ ἑρμηνείας] elegantly calls it, τραγῳδία παιζούση, a lighter kind
of _tragedy_; the very name, which Horace, as well as Ovid in this
place, gives to it? But this is further clear from the instance quoted
by Ovid, of this loose tragedy; for he proceeds:

    _Nec nocet autori, mollem qui fecit Achillem,
      Infregisse suis fortia facta modis_.

which well agrees to the idea of a satyric piece, and, as Vossius takes
notice, seems to be the very same subject, which Athenæus and others
tell us, Sophocles had work’d into a satyric tragedy, under the title
of Ἀχιλλέως ἐρασταί.

       *       *       *       *       *

221. MOX ETIAM, &c.] It is not the intention of these notes to retail
the accounts of others. I must therefore refer the reader, for whatever
concerns the history of the satyric, as I have hitherto done, of
the tragic, and comic drama, to the numerous dissertators on the
ancient stage; and above all, in the case before us, to the learned
Casaubon; from whom all that hath been said to any purpose, by modern
writers, hath been taken. Only it will be proper to observe one or two
particulars, which have been greatly misunderstood, and without which
it will be impossible, in any tolerable manner, to explane what follows.

I. The design of the poet, in these lines, is not to fix the origin of
the satyric piece, in ascribing the invention of it to Thespis. This
hath been concluded, without the least warrant from his own words,
which barely tell us, “that the Representation of tragedy was in elder
Greece, followed by the _satyrs_;” and indeed the nature of the thing,
as well as the testimony of all antiquity, shews it to be impossible.
For the _satyr_ here spoken of, is, in all respects, a regular drama,
and therefore could not be of earlier date, than the times of Æschylus,
when the constitution of the drama was first formed. ’Tis true indeed,
there was a kind of entertainment of much greater antiquity, which by
the ancients is sometimes called _satyric_, out of which (as Aristotle
assures us) tragedy itself arose, ἡ δὲ τραγῳδία, διὰ τὸ ἐκ σατυρικοῦ
μεταβαλεῖν, ὀψὲ ἀπεσεμνώθη, [περ. ποιητ. κ. δ.] But then this was
nothing but a chorus of satyrs [Athenæus, l. xiv.] celebrating the
festivals of _Bacchus_, with rude songs, and uncouth dances; and had
little resemblance to that, which was afterwards called _satyric_;
which, except that it retained the chorus of satyrs, and turned upon
some subject relative to Bacchus, was of a quite different structure,
and, in every respect, as regular a composition, as tragedy itself.

II. There is no doubt but the poem, here distinguished by the name of
SATYRI, was in actual use on the Roman stage. This appears from the
turn of the poet’s whole criticism upon it. Particularly, his address
to the Pisos, v. 235. and his observation of the offence which a loose
dialogue in this drama would give to a _Roman_ auditory, v. 248. make
it evident that he had, in fact, the practice of his own stage in
view. It hath, however, been questioned, whether by _Satyri_ we are to
understand the proper Greek _Satyrs_, or the Latin _Atellane_ fable,
which, in the main of its character, very much resembled that drama.
If the authority of Diomedes be any thing, the _former_ must be the
truth, for he expresly asserts, “that the Satyric and Atellane pieces,
though similar in the general cast of their composition, differed in
this essential point, that the persons in the former were satyrs, in
the other, not.” [L. iii. c. De poëm. gen.] Now the poet expresly tells
us, the Persons in the drama he is here describing, were _Satyrs_, and
accordingly delivers rules for the regulation of their characters. As
to the _Atellane_, according to the way in which Vossius reads the
words of Diomedes, the characters were _Oscan_, _personæ Oscæ_, which
is very probable, not so much for the reasons assign’d by this Critic
(for they are indeed very frivolous) but because, as it should seem
from a passage in Strabo, [Lib. v. 233.] the language of the OSCI was
used in these Atellanes, and therefore common sense would require,
that the persons also introduced should be Oscan. The difficulty is
to know how it happened that, in a work written purposely to reform
the Roman stage, the poet should say nothing of one species, the
_Atellane_, which was of great authority and constant use at Rome, and
yet say so much of another, the _Satyrs_, which was properly a Greek
entertainment and certainly much less cultivated by the Roman poets.
The plain solution of the matter, is, that, when now the Romans were
become acquainted with the Greek models, and had applied themselves
to the imitation of them, these Oscan characters were exchanged for
the Greek satyrs, which they before resembled in the main parts of
their character; and which appear, on other occasions, to have been
no strangers at Rome; as we collect from the Sileni and Satyrs making
a part (as Dionysius relates it) in their triumphal processions. So
that this change of the Oscan persons for _Satyrs_ is to be considered
only as an improvement of the old _Atellane_, and not the introduction
of an intirely new drama. In every other respect the precepts here
given for the regulation of the _Satyrs_ are such as would equally
serve to improve the _Atellane_. The probable reason why the poet
chose to insist so much on this alteration, or rather why he laboured
so strenuously to _support_ it, will be given in its place. In the
mean time supposing his view to have been this of countenancing the
introduction of _satyric persons_ into the Atellane (and that they
were, in fact, introduced, we learn from an express authority[21])
every thing said on the subject will not only be pertinent and
agreeable to what is here taught to be the general tenor of the
epistle, but will be seen to have an address and contrivance, which
will very much illustrate this whole part, and recommend it to the
exact reader.

But before I quit this subject of the Atellane fable it will be proper
to observe, That when I every where speak of it, as of early original,
and ancient use on the Roman stage, I am not unmindful that Velleius
Paterculus speaks of Pomponius as the Inventor of this Poem; which, if
taken in the strict sense, will bring the date of it very low. “Sane
non ignoremus eâdem ætate fuisse Pomponium, sensibus celebrem, verbis
rudem, et _novitate inventi a se operis_ commendabilem.” L. ii. c. ix.
For the age he is speaking of is that of SYLLA. But the authorities
for the high antiquity of the Atellane fable are so express, that,
when Pomponius is called the _Inventor_ of it, it is but as Horace
calls Lucilius the Inventor of the Roman Satire. That is, he made so
considerable a change in the form and conduct of this poem, as to run
away with all the honour of it. The improvements made by Lucilius in
Satire have been taken notice of in the _Introduction_. And it happens
that a curious passage in Athenæus will let us into the Improvements
made by Pomponius in the Atellanes.

But first we are to understand that this sort of entertainment, as the
name speaks, was imported to Rome from ATELLA, a town of the OSCI in
Campania; and that the Dialect of that people was constantly and _only_
used in it, even when the Osci themselves had ceased to be a people.
This we learn from Strabo. ΟΣΚΩΝ ἐκλελοιπότων, ἡ διάλεκτος μένει παρὰ
τοῖς Ῥωμαίοις· ὧστε καὶ ποιήματα σκηνοβατεῖσθαι κατά τινα ἀγῶνα πάτριον
καὶ μιμολογεῖσθαι. L. v. 233.

The OSCAN language, we see, was made use of in the Atellane plays, just
as the Welsh, or some Provincial Dialect, is often employed in our
Comedies.

But now we learn from Athenæus that L. Sylla writ some of these
Atellanes in the ROMAN LANGUAGE. ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ γραφεῖσαι σατυρικαὶ κωμῳδίαι
ΤΗΙ ΠΑΤΡΩΩΙ ΦΩΝΗΙ. [L. vi. p. 261. Ed. Casaub.] The difficulty then
clears up. For the Pomponius whom Velleius speaks of was contemporary
with L. Sylla. So that to give any propriety to the term of _Inventor_,
as applied to Pomponius, we must conclude that he was the _first_
person who set this example of composing Atellane plays in the vulgar
dialect: which took so much that he was even followed in this practice
by the Roman General. This account of the matter perfectly suits
with the encomium given to Pomponius. He would naturally, on such
an alteration, endeavour to give this buffoon sort of Comedy a more
rational cast: And this reform of itself would entitle him to great
honour. Hence the SENSIBUS CELEBRIS of Paterculus[22]. But to preserve
some sort of resemblance (which the people would look for) to the old
Atellane, and not to strip it of all the pleasantry arising from the
barbarous dialect, he affected, it seems, the _antique_ in the turn of
his expression. Hence the other part of his character (which in the
politer age of Paterculus grew offensive to nice judges) VERBIS RUDIS.

The conclusion is, That the Atellane Fable was in its first rude form
and Oscan Dialect of ancient use at Rome, where it was admitted, as
Strabo speaks, ΚΑΤΑ ΤΙΝΑ ΑΓΩΝΑ ΠΑΤΡΙΟΝ: That Pomponius afterwards
_reformed_ its barbarities, and brought it on the Stage in a _Roman_
dress; which together were thought so great improvements, that later
writers speak of him as the INVENTOR of this Poem. But to return to our
proper subject, the _Greek Satyrs_.

III. For the absolute merit of these satyrs, the reader will judge
of it himself by comparing the Cyclops, the only piece of this kind
remaining to us from antiquity, with the rules here delivered by
Horace. Only it may be observed, in addition to what the reader will
find elsewhere [_n._ v. 223.] apologized in its favour, that the
double character of the satyrs admirably fitted it, as well for a
sensible entertainment to the wise, as for the sport and diversion of
the vulgar. For while the grotesque appearance, and jesting vein of
these fantastic personages amused the one; the other saw much further;
and considered them, at the same time, as replete with science, and
informed by a spirit of the most abstruse wisdom. Hence important
lessons of civil prudence, interesting allusions to public affairs,
or a high, refined moral, might, with the highest probability, be
insinuated, under the slight cover of a rustic simplicity. And from
this instructive cast, which from its nature must be very obscure, if
not impenetrable, to us at this day, was, I doubt not, derived the
principal pleasure which the ancients found in this species of the
drama. If the modern reader would conceive any thing of the nature and
degree of this pleasure, he may in part guess at it, from reflecting on
the entertainment he himself receives from the characters of the clowns
in Shakespear; _who_, as the poet himself hath characterized them,
_use their folly, like a stalking horse, and, under the presentation of
that, shoot their wit_. [As you like it.]

       *       *       *       *       *

221. AGRESTIS SATYROS, &c.] It hath been shewn, that the poet could
not intend, in these lines, to _fix the origin of the satyric drama_.
But, though this be certain, and the dispute concerning that point be
thereby determined, yet is it to be noted, that he purposely describes
the satyr in its ruder and less polished form; glancing even at some
barbarities, which deform the Bacchic chorus; which was properly the
satyric piece, before Æschylus had, by his regular constitution of the
drama, introduced it, under a very different form on the stage. The
reason of this conduct is given in _n._ on v. 203. Hence the propriety
of the word _nudavit_, which Lambin rightly interprets, _nudos
introduxit Satyros_, the poet hereby expressing the monstrous indecorum
of this entertainment in its first unimproved state. Alluding also to
this ancient character of the _Satyr_, he calls him _asper_, i. e.
rude and petulant; and even adds, that his jests were intemperate, and
without the _least mixture of gravity_. For thus, upon the authority of
a very ingenious and learned critic, I explane _incolumi gravitate_, i.
e. rejecting every thing serious, bidding _farewell_, as we say, _to
all gravity_. Thus [L. iii. O. 5.]

    _Incolumi Jove et urbe Roma;_

_i. e._ bidding farewell to Jupiter [Capitolinus] and Rome; agreeably
to what is said just before,

    _Anciliorum et nominis et togæ_
    OBLITUS, _æternæque Vestæ_.

or, as SALVUS is used still more remarkably in Martial [10. l. v.]

    _Ennius est lectus_ SALVO _tibi, Roma, Marone:
      Et sua riserunt secula Mæonidem._

_Farewell, all gravity_, is as remote from the original sense of the
words _fare well_, as _incolumi gravitate_ from that of _incolumis_, or
_salvo Marone_ from that of _salvus_.

       *       *       *       *       *

223. INLECEBRIS ERAT ET GRATA NOVITATE MORANDUS SPECTATOR—] The poet
gives us in these words the reason, why such gross Ribaldry, as we know
the Atellanes consisted of, was endured by the politest age of Rome.
Scenical representations, being then intended, not, as in our days, for
the entertainment of the better sort, but on certain great solemnities,
indifferently for the diversion of the whole city, it became necessary
to consult the taste of the multitude, as well as of those, _quibus est
equus, et pater et res_.

And this reason is surely sufficient to vindicate the poet from the
censure of a late critic, who has fallen upon this part of the epistle
with no mercy. “The poet, says he, spends a great number of verses
about these satyrs; but the subject itself is unworthy his pen. He,
who could not bear the elegant mimes of Laberius, that he should think
this farcical and obscene trash, worth his peculiar notice, is somewhat
strange.” I doubt not, it appeared so to this writer, who neither
considered the peculiar necessity of the satyric piece, nor attended to
the poet’s purpose and drift in this epistle. The former is the more
extraordinary, because he hath told us, and rightly too, “that, to
content the people, the satyric was superadded to the tragic drama.”
And he quotes a passage from Diomedes, which gives the same account,
_Satyros induxerunt ludendi causa jocandique, simul ut spectator inter
res tragicas seriasque satyrorum quoque jocis et ludis delectaretur_.
Should not this have taught him, that what was so requisite to content
the people, might deserve some notice from the poet? This _farcical
trash_ was chiefly calculated for those, who without the _enticement
of so agreeable a change_ in the entertainment of the day, would not
have had patience to sit out the tragedy; which being intended for
the gratification of the better sort, _urbani et honesti_, they, in
their turn, required to be diverted in the only way, which was to the
level of their taste, that of farce and pleasantry. And this I dare be
confident, so great a patron of liberty, as this writer, will agree
with me in thinking to be but reasonable in a free state; which ought
to make some provision for the _few_, that may chance, even under
such advantages, to want a truly critical spirit. I hold then, that
Horace acted, not only in the character of a good critic, but of a
prudent man, and good citizen, in attempting to refine, what it had
not been equitable, or was not in his power, wholly to remove. But 2.
the learned critic as little attended to the drift of the epistle,
as to the important use and necessity of the satyric drama. He must
otherwise have seen, that, in an essay to improve and regulate the
Roman theatre (which is the sole purpose of it) the poet’s business was
to take it, as it then stood, and to confine himself to such defects
and abuses, as he found most likely to admit a correction, and not, as
visionary projectors use, to propose a thorough reform of the public
taste in every instance. The _Atellanes_ had actual possession of
the stage, and, from their antiquity, and other prejudices in their
favour, as well as from the very design and end of their theatrical
entertainments, would be sure to keep it. What had the poet then, in
these circumstances, to do but, in pursuance of his main design, to
encourage a reformation of that entertainment, which he was not at
liberty absolutely, and under every shape, to reject. This he judged
might most conveniently be done by adopting the Greek _Satyrs_ instead
of their own _Oscan_ characters. With this change, though the Atellanes
might not, perhaps, be altogether to his own taste, yet he hoped to
render it a tolerable entertainment to the better sort. And this, in
fact, it might have been by following the directions here given; part
of which were intended to free it from that _obscene and farcical
trash_, which appears to have been no less offensive to the poet, than
to this critic.

As for the so much applauded _mimes_, they had not, it is probable, at
this time gained a footing on the stage, sufficient to entitle them to
so much consideration. This was a new upstart species of the drama,
which, though it had the common good-fortune of absurd novelties, to
take with the great; yet was generally disapproved by men of better
taste, and better morals. Cicero had passed a severe censure upon it
in one of his epistles, [Ad famil. ix. 16.] which intimates, that it
was of a more buffoon and ridiculous composition, than their Atellanes;
whose place it began to be the fashion to supply with this ribaldry.
And we collect the same thing from what Ovid observes of it in apology
for the looseness of his own verses,

    _Quid si scripsissem_ MIMOS _obscœna jocantes,
      Qui semper vetiti crimen amoris habent?_

    _Nec satis incestis temerari vocibus_ aures,
    _Assuescunt_ oculi _multa pudenda pati_.
                                  Trist. l. ii. v. 497.

Horace, with this writer’s leave, might therefore judge it better to
retain the Atellanes under some restrictions, than adopt what was much
worse. But the mimes of Laberius were quite another thing. They were
all elegance. So J. Scaliger [Comment, de Comœd. et Tragœd. c. vi.]
and, after him, this writer, tells us; but on no better grounds, than
that he wrote good Latin (though not always that, as may be seen in
A. Gellius, l. xvi. c. 7.) and hath left a few elegant, moral scraps
behind him. But what then? the kind of composition was ridiculous and
absurd, and, in every view, far less tolerable, than the _satyrs_ under
the regulation of Horace. The latter was a regular drama, consisting
of an intire fable, conducted according to the rules of probability
and good sense, only dashed with a little extravagance for the sake
of the mob. The character of the former hath been given above from
unquestionable authorities. Accordingly Diomedes [iii. p. 488. ed.
Putsch.] defines it to be _an irreverent and lascivious imitation of
obscene acts_—_mimus est sermonis cujuslibet motus sine reverentia,
vel factorum et turpium cum lascivia imitatio_. And Scaliger himself
owns _veri mimi proprium esse quædam sordida ut affectet_, loc. cit.
It seems, in short, to have been a confused medley of comic drollery
on a variety of subjects, without any consistent order or design;
delivered by one actor, and heightened with all the licence of obscene
gesticulation. Its best character, as practised by its greatest master,
Laberius, was that of being witty in a very bad way [Sen. Controv. l.
iii. c. 18.] and its sole end and boast, _risu diducere rictum_ [Hor.
i. S. x. 7.] which, whatever virtue it may be, is not always a proof of
much elegance. But I have spent too many words on a criticism, which
the ingenious author, I am persuaded, let fall unawares, and did not
mean to give us as the result of a mature and well-weighed deliberation
on this subject.

       *       *       *       *       *

225. VERUM ITA RISORES, &c.] The connecting particle, _verum_,
expresses the opposition intended between the original satyr and that
which the poet approves. For having insinuated the propriety of the
satyric shews, as well from the practice of Greece, as the nature of
festival solemnities, the poet goes on to animadvert on their defects,
and to prescribe such rules, in the conduct of them, as might render
them a tolerable diversion, even to the better sort. This introduction
of the subject hath no small art. For, there being at this time (as
hath been shewn) an attempt to bring in the Greek satyrs, while the
Atellane plays (as was likely) still held the affections of the people,
the poet was not openly to reproach and discredit these; but, by a
tacit preference, to support and justify the other. This is done with
address. For, instead of criticising the Atellanes, which came directly
in his way, after having closed his account of the Roman tragedy, he
relates, as it were, incidentally, the practice of ancient Greece in
exhibiting satyrs, and thence immediately passes on, without so much as
touching on the other favourite entertainment, to offer some directions
concerning the satyric drama.

       *       *       *       *       *

227. NE QUICUNQUE DEUS, QUICUNQUE ADHIBEBITUR HEROS, &c.] Gods and
Heroes were introduced as well into the satyric as tragic drama, and
often the very same Gods and Heroes, which had born a part in the
preceding tragedy: a practice, which Horace, I suppose, intended, by
this hint, to recommend as most regular. This gave the serious, tragic
air to the satyr. The comic arose from the _risor_ and _dicax_, who was
either a satyr himself, or some character of an extravagant, ridiculous
cast, like a satyr. Of this kind, says Diomedes, from whom I take this
account, are Autolychus and Burris: which last particular I mention
for the sake of justifying a correction of the learned Casaubon. This
great critic conjectured, that, instead of _Burris_, in this place, it
should be read _Busiris_. His reason is “_nam Burris iste ex Græcorum
poetis mihi non notus_:” which reason hath more force, than appears at
first sight. For the very nature of this diversion required, that the
principal character of it should be well known, which it was scarce
likely to be, if not taken from a common story in their poets. But
Vossius objects, “_sed non ea fuerit persona ridicula_:” contrary to
what the grammarian represents it. But how so? Busiris was a savage,
inhospitable tyrant, who sacrificed strangers. And what should hinder
this character from being made ridiculous, as well as Polypheme in the
Cyclops? Their characters were not unlike. And, as is seen in that
case, the ancients knew to set forth such monsters of cruelty in a
light, that rendered them equally absurd and detestable. This was
agreeable to their humanity, which, by such representations, loved to
cultivate a spirit of benevolence in the spectators; and shews the
moral tendency of even the absurdest of the ancient dramatic shews. The
objection of Vossius is then of no weight. But what further confirms
the emendation of the excellent Casaubon, is a manuscript note on the
margin of a printed copy of this book[23], which I have now by me, as
it should seem, from his own hand, “_lectionem vero quam restituimus
etiam in optimo codice Puteano postea invenimus_.” The learned reader
will therefore, henceforth, look upon the text of _Diomedes_, in this
place, as fully settled.

       *       *       *       *       *

229. MIGRET IN OBSCURAS &c.—AUT, DUM VITAT &c.] The two faults,
cautioned against, are 1. a too low, or vulgar expression, in the comic
parts; and 2. a too sublime one, in the tragic. The _former_ of these
faults would almost naturally adhere to the first essays of the Roman
satyrs, from the buffoon genius of the old Atellane: and the _latter_,
from not apprehending the true measure and degree of the tragic
mixture. To correct both these, the poet gives the exactest idea of
the satyrs, in the image of a Roman matron, sharing in the mirth of a
religious festival. The occasion obliged to some freedoms: and yet the
dignity of her character demanded a decent reserve.

       *       *       *       *       *

234. NON EGO INORNATA &c.] The scope of these lines may be to regulate
the satyric style, by the idea of its character, before given, in
the allusion to a Roman matron. Conformably to that idea, a plain,
unornamented expression [from v. 234 to 236.] must not always be used.
The three following lines inforce this general application by example.

If the exact reader find himself dissatisfied with this gloss, which
seems the only one, the words, as they now stand, will bear, he may,
perhaps, incline to admit the following conjecture, which proposes
to read, instead of _inornata_, _honorata_. I. The context, I think,
requires this change. For the two faults observed above [v. 229, 30.]
were, 1. a too low expression, and, 2. a too lofty. Corresponding to
this double charge, the poet having fixed the idea of this species of
composition [v. 231, 2, 3.] should naturally be led to apply it to both
points in questions: 1. to the comic part, in prescribing the true
measure of its condescension, and, 2. to the tragic, in settling the
true bounds of its elevation. And this, according to the reading here
offered, the poet doth, only in an inverted order. The sense of the
whole would be this,

    1. _Non ego_ HONORATA _et dominantia nomina solum
    Verbaque, Pisones, satyrorum scriptor amabo_:

_i. e._ in the tragic scenes, I would not confine myself to such words
only, as are in honour, and bear rule in tragic, and the most serious
subjects; this stateliness not agreeing to the condescending levity of
the satyr.

    2. _Nec sic enitar tragico differre colori,
    Ut nihil intersit Davusne loquatur, et audax
    Pythias, emuncto lucrata Simone talentum,
    An custos famulusque Dei Silenus alumni._

_i. e._ nor, on the contrary, in the comic scenes, would I incur the
other extreme of a too plain, and vulgar expression, this as little
suiting its inherent matronlike dignity. But, II. this correction
improves the _expression_ as well as the _sense_. For besides the
opposition, implied in the disjunctive, _nec_, which is this way
restored, _dominantia_ hath now its genuine sense, and not that strange
and foreign one forced upon it out of the Greek language. As connected
with _honorata_, it becomes a metaphor, elegantly pursued; and hath too
a singular propriety, the poet here speaking of figurative terms. And
then, for _honorata_ itself, it seems to have been a familiar mode of
expression with Horace. Thus [2 Ep. ii. 112.] _honore indigna vocabula_
are such words as have _parum splendoris_ and are _sine pondere_. And
“_quæ sunt in honore vocabula_” is spoken of the contrary ones, such
as are fit to enter into a serious tragic composition, in this very
epistle, v. 71.

       *       *       *       *       *

240. EX NOTO FICTUM &c.] This precept [from v. 240 to 244] is analogous
to that, before given [v. 129] concerning tragedy. It directs to
form the satyrs out of a known subject. The reasons are, in general,
the same for both. Only one seems peculiar to the satyrs. For the
cast of them being necessarily romantic, and the persons, those
fantastic beings, called satyrs, the τὸ ὅμοιον, or probable, will
require the subject to have gained a popular belief, without which the
representation must appear unnatural. Now these subjects, which have
gained a popular belief, in consequence of old tradition, and their
frequent celebration in the poets, are what Horace calls _nota_; just
as newly invented subjects, or, which comes to the same thing, such
as had not been employed by other writers, _indicta_, he, on a like
occasion, terms _ignota_. The connexion lies thus. Having mentioned
_Silenus_ in v. 239, one of the commonest characters in this drama, an
objection immediately offers itself; “but what good poet will engage
in subjects and characters so trite and hackney’d?” The answer is, _ex
noto fictum carmen sequar_, i. e. however trite and well known this and
some other characters, essential to the satyr, are, and must be; yet
will there be still room for fiction and genius to shew itself. The
conduct and disposition of the play may be wholly new, and above the
ability of common writers, _tantum series juncturaque pollet_.

       *       *       *       *       *

244. SYLVIS DEDUCTI CAVEANT &c.] Having before [v. 232] settled the
true idea of the satyric style in general, he now treats of the
peculiar language of the satyrs themselves. This common sense demands
to be in conformity with their sylvan character, neither affectedly
tender and gallant, on the one hand; nor grossly and offensively
obscene, on the other. The _first_ of these cautions seems leveled at
a false improvement, which, on the introduction of the Roman satyr,
was probably attempted on the simple, rude plan of the Greek, without
considering the rustic extraction and manners of the fauns and satyrs.
The _latter_, obliquely glances at the impurities of the Atellane,
whose licentious ribaldry, as hath been observed, would, of course,
infect the first essays of the Roman satyr.

But these rules so necessary to be followed in the _satyric_, are (to
observe it by the way) still more essential to the PASTORAL poem: the
fortunes and character of which (though numberless volumes have been
written upon it) may be given in few words.

The prodigious number of writings, called Pastoral, which have been
current in all times, and in all languages, shews there is something
very taking in this poem. And no wonder, since it addresses itself to
THREE leading principles in human nature, THE LOVE OF EASE, THE LOVE
OF BEAUTY, and THE MORAL SENSE: such pieces as these being employed
in representing to us the TRANQUILLITY, the INNOCENCE, and the
SCENERY, of the rural life. But though these ideas are of themselves
agreeable, good sense will not be satisfied unless they appear to have
some foundation in truth and nature. And even, then, their impression
will be but faint, if they are not, further, employed to _convey
instruction_, or _interest the heart_.

Hence the different _forms_, under which this poem hath appeared.
THEOCRITUS thought it sufficient to give a _reality_ to his pictures of
the rural manners. But in so doing it was too apparent that his draught
would often be coarse and unpleasing. And, in fact, we find that his
shepherds, contrary to the poet’s rule,

    ——_immunda crepent ignominiosaque dicta_.

VIRGIL avoided this extreme. Without departing very widely from the
simplicity of rustic nature, his shepherds are more decent, their
lives more serene, and, in general, the scene more inviting. But the
refinements of his age not well agreeing to these simple delineations,
and his views in writing not being merely to _entertain_, he saw fit
to allegorize these agreeable fancies, and make them the vehicles of
_historical_, and sometimes even of _philosophic_, information.

Our SPENSER wanted to engross all the beauties of his masters: and so,
to the artless and too natural drawing of the _Greek_, added the deep
allegoric design of the _Latin_, poet.

One easily sees that this ænigmatic cast of the pastoral was meant
to give it an air of instruction, and to make it a reasonable
entertainment to such as would nauseate a sort of writing,

    “Where pure description held the place of sense.”

But this refinement was out of place, as not only inconsistent with
the simplicity of the pastoral character, but as tending to rob us in
a good degree of the _pleasure_, which these amusing and picturesque
poems are intended to give.

Others therefore took another route. The famous TASSO, by an effort
of genius which hath done him more honour than even his epic talents,
produced a new kind of pastoral, by engrafting it on the drama. And
under this form, pastoral poetry became all the vogue. The charming
AMINTAS was even commented by the greatest scholars and critics. It was
read, admired, and imitated by all the world.

There is no need to depreciate the fine copies that were taken of
it, in Italy. But those by our own poets were, by far, the best.
SHAKESPEARE had, indeed, set the example of something like pastoral
dramas, in our language; and in his _Winter’s Tale_, _As ye like
it_, and some other of his pieces, has enchanted every body with his
natural sylvan manners, and sylvan scenes. But FLETCHER set himself,
in earnest, to emulate the Italian, yet still with an eye of reverence
towards the English, poet. In his _faithful shepherdess_ he surpasses
the _former_, in the variety of his paintings and the beauty of his
scene; and only falls short of the _latter_, in the truth of manners,
and a certain original grace of invention which no imitation can reach.
The fashion was now so far established, that every poet of the time
would try his hand at a pastoral. Even surly BEN, though he found no
precedent for it among his ancients, was caught with the beauty of this
novel drama, and, it must be owned, has written above himself in the
fragment of his _sad shepherd_.—The scene, at length, was closed with
the _Comus_ of MILTON, who, in his rural paintings, almost equalled the
simplicity and nature of Shakespeare and Fletcher, and, in the purity
and splendor of his expression, outdid TASSO.

In this new form of the pastoral, what was childish before, is readily
admitted and excused. A simple _moral_ tale being the groundwork of
the piece, the charms of description and all the embellishments of
the scene are only subservient to the higher purpose of picturing the
manners, or touching the heart.

But the good sense of Shakespeare, or perhaps the felicity of his
genius, was admirable. Instead of the deep tragic air of Tasso (which
has been generally followed) and his continuance of the pastoral
strain, even to satiety, through _five_ acts, he only made use of these
playful images to enrich his comic scenes. He saw, I suppose, that
pastoral subjects were unfit to bear a tragic distress. And besides,
when the distress rises to any height, the wantonness of pastoral
imagery grows distasteful. Where as the genius of comedy admits of
humbler distresses; and leaves us at leisure to recreate ourselves with
these images, as no way interfering with the draught of characters, or
the management of a comic tale. But to make up in _surprize_ what was
wanting in _passion_, Shakespeare hath, with great judgment, adopted
the popular system of Faeries; which, while it so naturally supplies
the place of the old sylvan theology, gives a wildness to this sort of
pastoral painting which is perfectly inimitable.

In a word; if Tasso had the honour of inventing the _pastoral drama_,
properly so called, Shakespeare has shewn us the just application of
_pastoral poetry_; which, however amusing to the imagination, good
sense will hardly endure, except in a short dialogue, or in some
occasional dramatic scenes; and in _these_ only, as it serves to the
display of characters and the conduct of the poet’s plot.

And to confirm these observations on pastoral poetry, which may
be thought too severe, one may observe that such, in effect, was
the judgment passed upon it by that great critic, as well as wit,
CERVANTES. He concludes his famous adventures, with a kind of project
for his knight and squire _to turn shepherds_: an evident ridicule
on the turn of that time for pastoral poems and romances, that were
beginning to succeed to their books of heroic knight-errantry. Not, but
it contains, also, a fine stroke of _moral criticism_, as implying,
what is seen from experience to be too true, that men capable of
running into one enthusiasm are seldom cured of it but by some sudden
diversion of the imagination, which drives them into another.

In conclusion, the reader will scarcely ask me, why, in this deduction
of the history and genius of pastoral poetry, I have taken no notice of
what has been written of this kind, in France; which, if it be not the
most _unpoetical_ nation in Europe, is at least the most _unpastoral_.
Nor is their _criticism_ of this poem much better than their execution.
A late writer[24] indeed pronounces M. de Fontenelle’s discourse on
pastoral poetry _to be one of the finest pieces of criticism in the
world_. For my part, I can only say it is rather more tolerable than
his pastorals.

       *       *       *       *       *

248. OFFENDENTUR ENIM QUIBUS EST EQUUS ET PATER ET RES.] The poet, in
his endeavour to reclaim his countrymen from the _taste obscene_, very
politely, by a common figure, represents that as being the _fact_,
which he wished to be so. For what reception the rankest obscenities
met with on the Roman stage we learn from Ovid’s account of the success
of the MIMI:

    _Nobilis hos virgo matronaque, virque puerque,
      Spectat: et è magnâ parte_ senatus _adest_.
                                       Trist. ii. v. 501.

This, indeed, was not till some time after the date of this epistle.
But we may guess from hence what must have been the tendency of the
general disposition, and may see to how little effect the poet had
laboured to divert the public attention from the _Mimes_ to his
reformed _Atellanes_.

       *       *       *       *       *

251. SYLLABA LONGA BREVI, &c.] This whole critique on the satyrs
concludes with some directions about the Iambic verse. When the
commentary asserts, that this metre was common to tragedy and the
satyrs, this is not to be taken strictly; the satyrs, in this respect,
as in every other, sustaining a sort of intermediate character betwixt
tragedy and comedy. For, accurately speaking, their proper measure, as
the Grammarians teach, was the Iambic enlivened with the tribrachys.
“_Gaudent_ [Victor. l. ii. c. met. Iamb.] _trisyllabo pede et maxime
tribrache_.” Yet there was likeness enough to consider this whole
affair of the metre under the same head. The Roman dramatic writers
were very careless in their versification, which arose, as is hinted,
v. 259, from an immoderate and undistinguishing veneration of their old
poets.

In conclusion of all that has been delivered on the subject of these
_satyrs_, it may be amusing to the learned reader to hear a celebrated
French critic express himself in the following manner: “_Les Romains
donnoient_ encore le nom de Satyre à une espece de _Piece Pastorale_;
qui tenoit, _dit on_ le milieu entre la Tragedie et la Comedie. _C’est
tout ce que nous en sçavons._” [_Mem. de l’Hist. des Belles Lett._ tom.
xvii. p. 211.]

       *       *       *       *       *

264. ET DATA ROMANIS VENIA EST INDIGNA POETIS.] It appears certainly,
that what is said here concerning the metre of dramatic poems, was
peculiarly calculated for the correction of the Roman negligence, and
inaccuracy in this respect. This, if it had not been so expresly told
us, would have been seen from the few remaining fragments of the old
Latin plays, in which a remarkable carelessness of numbers is observed.
This gives a presumption, that, with the like advantage of consulting
them, it would also appear, that the rest of the poet’s rules were
directed to the same end, and that even such, as are delivered in the
most absolute and general form, had a peculiar reference, agreeably
to what is here taught of the plan of this poem, to the corresponding
defects in the state of the Roman stage.

       *       *       *       *       *

270. AT VESTRI PROAVI PLAUTINOS ET NUMEROS ET LAUDAVERE SALES; NIMIUM
PATIENTER UTRUMQUE, NE DICAM STULTE, MIRATI;] It hath been thought
strange, that Horace should pass so severe a censure on the _wit_ of
Plautus, which yet appeared to Cicero so admirable, that he speaks of
it as _elegans, urbanum, ingeniosum, facetum_. [De Off. i. 29.] Nor can
it be said, that this difference of judgment was owing to the improved
delicacy of taste for wit, in the Augustan age, since it doth not
appear, that Horace’s own jokes, when he attempts to divert us in this
way, are at all better than Cicero’s.

The common answer, so far as it respects the poet, is, I believe, the
true one: “that endeavouring to beat down the excessive veneration
of the elder Roman poets, and, among the rest (as appears from 2 Ep.
i. and A. P. 54.) of Plautus, he censures, without reserve, every
the least defect in his writings; though, in general, he agreed with
Cicero in admiring him.” But then this was all. For that he was not
so over-nice as to dislike Plautus’ wit in the main, and, but in this
view, probably had not criticized him at all, I collect from his
express approbation of the wit of the old _comedy_; which certainly was
not more delicate, than that of _Plautus_.

                                _ridiculum acri
    Fortius et melius magnas plerumque secat res.
    Illi, scripta quibus comœdia prisca viris est,
    Hoc stabant_, HOC SUNT IMITANDI.
                                        I S. x. 15.

I know, it hath been thought, that, even in this very place, where
he censures the wit of Plautus, he directs us _ad Græca exemplaria_,
i. e. as his critics understand him, to Aristophanes, and the other
writers of the old Comedy; but such a direction in this place, were
altogether improper, and the supposition is, besides, a palpable
mistake. For the _Græca exemplaria_ are referred to _only_, as models
in exact versification, as the tenor of the place fully shews. And
what Horace afterwards remarks on the wit of Plautus, in addition
to the observations on metre, is a new and distinct criticism, and
hath no kind of reference to the preceding direction. But still, as I
said, Horace appears no such enemy to the old comic wit, as, without
the particular reason assigned, to have so severely condemned it. The
difficulty is to account for Cicero’s so peculiar admiration of it, and
that a taste, otherwise so exact, as his, should delight in the coarse
humour of Plautus, and the old comedy. The case, I believe, was this:

Cicero had imbibed a strong relish of the frank and libertine wit of
the old comedy, as best suited to the genius of popular eloquence;
which, though it demands to be tempered with some urbanity, yet never
attains its end so effectually, as when let down and accommodated, in
some certain degree, to the general taste and manners of the people.
This Cicero in effect owns, when he tells us, the main end of jesting
at the bar [De Orat. ccxl.] is, not to acquire the credit of consummate
humour, but to carry the cause, _ut proficiamus aliquid_: that is, _to
make an impression on the people_; which is generally, we know, better
done by a coarser joke, than by the elegance of refined raillery.
And that this was the real ground of Cicero’s preference of the old
comedy to the new, may be concluded, not only from the nature of the
thing, and his own example (for he was ever reckoned intemperate in
his jests, which by no means answer to the elegance of his character)
but is certainly collected from what Quintilian, in his account of
it, expresly observes of the old comedy, _Nescio an ulla poesis (post
Homerum) aut similior sit oratoribus, aut ad oratores faciendos
aptior_. The reason, doubtless, was, that _strength_, and _prompt and
eloquent freedom_, _Vires et facundissima libertas_, which he had
before observed, so peculiarly belonged to it.

And this, I think, will go some way towards clearing an embarrassing
circumstance in the history of the Roman learning, which I know not,
if any writer hath yet taken notice of. It is, that though Menander
and the authors of the new comedy were afterwards admired, as the only
masters of the comic drama, yet this does not appear to have been
seen, or, at least, so fully acknowledged, by the Roman writers, till
after the Augustan age; notwithstanding that the Roman taste was, from
that time, visibly declining. The reason, I doubt not, was, that the
popular eloquence, which continued, in a good degree of vigour, to that
time, participating more of the freedom of the _old_ comic banter,
and rejecting, as improper to its end, the refinements of the _new_,
insensibly depraved the public taste; which, by degrees only, and not
till a studied and cautious declamation had, by the necessary influence
of absolute power, succeeded to the liberty of their old oratory,
was fully reconciled to the delicacy and strict decorum of Menander’s
wit. Even the case of Terence, which, at first sight, might seem to
bear hard against it, confirms this account. This poet, struck with
the supreme elegance of Menander’s manner, and attempting too soon,
before the public taste was sufficiently formed for it, to bring it on
the stage, had occasion for all the credit, his noble patrons could
give him, to support himself against the popular clamour. What was the
object of that _clamour_, we learn from a curious passage in one of his
prologues, where his adversary is made to object,

                  _Quas—fecit—fabulas
    Tenui esse oratione et scriptura levi_.
                                Prol. ad Phorm.

The sense of which is not, as his commentators have idly thought, _that
his style was low and trifling_, for this could never be pretended, but
_that his dialogue was insipid, and his characters, and, in general,
his whole composition, without that comic heightening, which their
vitiated tastes required_. This further appears from those common
verses of Cæsar, where, characterizing the genius of Terence’s plays,
as devoid of this comic spirit, he calls them _lenia scripta_:

    LENIBUS _atque utinam_ SCRIPTIS _adjuncta foret vis_
    COMICA:

words, which are the clearest comment on the lines in question.

But this famous judgment of Cæsar deserves to be scrutinized more
narrowly. For it may be said “that by _vis comica_ I suppose him to
mean the comic drollery of the _old_ and _middle_ comedy; whereas it is
more probable he meant the elegant but high humour of the best writers
of the _new_, particularly of Menander; why else doth he call Terence,
“_Dimidiate Menander_?” There is the more force in this objection,
because _the elegant but high humour_, here mentioned, is of the truest
merit in comedy; and because Menander, of whom the ancients speak so
honourably, and whom we only know by their encomiums, may be reasonably
thought to have excelled in it. What occurs in answer to it, is this.

1. The Ancients are generally allowed to have had very little of what
we now understand by _comic humour_. Lucian is the _first_, indeed the
only one, who hath properly left us any considerable specimens of it.
And he is almost modern with regard to the writers under consideration.
But,

2. That _Menander and the writers of the new comedy did not excel in
it_, is probable for these reasons.

1. The most judicious critic of antiquity, when he is purposely
considering the excellencies of the Greek comedians, and, what is more,
exposing the comparative deficiencies of the Roman, says not a word
of it. He thinks, indeed, that _Terence’s_, which yet he pronounces
to be most elegant, is but the faintest shadow of the Greek, comedy.
But then his reason is, _quod sermo ipse Romanus non recipere videatur
illam solis concessam Atticis venerem_. [L. x. 1.] It seems then as
if the main defect, which this critic observed in Terence’s comedy,
was a want of that inexplicable grace of language, which so peculiarly
belonged to the Greeks; a grace of so subtle a nature that even they
could only catch it in one dialect—_quando eam ne Græci quidem in alio
genere linguæ non obtinuerint_. [Ib.]”

2. Some of Terence’s plays may be almost said to be direct translations
from Menander. And the comic humour, supposed in the objection, being
of the truest taste, no reason can be imagined why the poet should so
industriously avoid to transfuse this last and highest grace into his
comedy. Especially since the popular cry against him proceeded from
hence, that he was wanting in comic pleasantry; a _want_, which by a
stricter attention to this virtue of his great original, supposing
Menander to have been possessed of it, he might so easily have
supplied. And lest it should be thought he omitted to do this, as not
conceiving any thing of this _virtue_, or as not approving it, we find
in him, but rarely indeed, some delicate touches, which approach as
nearly as any thing in antiquity to this genuine comic humour. Of which
kind is that in the _Hecyra_:

    _Tum tu igitur nihil adtulisti huc plus unâ sententiâ?_

For these reasons I should suppose that _Menander_ and the writers of
the new comedy, from whom Terence copied, had little of this beauty.

But what shall we say then to Cæsar’s _dimidiate Menander_? It refers,
I believe, solely to what Quintilian, as we have seen, observed, that,
with all his emulation of Attic elegance, he was unable, through the
native stubbornness of the Latin tongue, to come up to the Greek
comedy. The very text of Cæsar leads to this meaning.

    _Tu quoque, tu in summis, ô dimidiate Menander,
    Poneris, et merito_, PURI SERMONIS AMATOR.

His excellence consisted in the _purity and urbanity of his
expression_, in which praise if he still fell short of his master, the
fault was not in him, but the intractability of his language. And in
this view Cæsar’s address carries with it the highest _compliment_.
Quintilian had said in relation to this point, _Vix levem consequimur
umbram_. But Cæsar, in a fond admiration of his merit, cries out,

    _Tu quoque_, TU _in summis_, Ô DIMIDIATE MENANDER.

His _censure_ of him is delivered in the following lines:

    _Lenibus atque utinam scriptis adjuncta foret vis
    Comica, ut æquato virtus polleret honore
    Cum Græcis, neque in hâc despectus parte jaceres;
    Unum hoc maceror et doleo tibi deesse, Terenti._

Which, again, gives no countenance to the supposition of Menander’s
excelling in _comic humour_. For he does not say, that with the
addition of this talent he had equalled _Menander_, but in general, the
GREEKS—_æquato virtus polleret honore cum_ GRÆCIS. And this was what
occasioned Cæsar’s regret. He wished to see him unite all the merits of
the Greek comedy. As far as the Latin tongue would permit, he had shewn
himself a master of the elegance of the _new_. What he further required
in him was the strong wit and satyr of the _old_. His favourite had
then rivalled, in every praise, the Greek writers.

And, if this be admitted, nothing hinders but that by _vis comica_
Cæsar may be understood to mean (how consistently with the admired
urbanity of Terence is not the question) the comic pleasantry of the
middle or old comedy.

The thing indeed could hardly be otherwise. For Plautus, who chiefly
copied, from the _middle_ comedy, had, by the drollery of his wit,
and the buffoon pleasantry of his scenes, so enchanted the people
as to continue the reigning favourite of the stage, even long after
Afranius and Terence had appeared on it. Nay the humour continued
through the Augustan age[25], when, as we learn from Horace, in many
parts of his writings, the public applause still followed Plautus; in
whom though himself could see many faults, yet he does not appear
to have gone so far, as, upon the whole, to give the preference to
Terence. Afterwards indeed the case altered. Paterculus admires; and
Plutarch and Quintilian are perfectly charmed: _ita omnem vitæ imaginem
expressit, ita est omnibus rebus, personis, affectibus accommodatus_.
This character, one would think, should have fitted him also for a
complete model to the orator. And this, as might be expected, was
Quintilian’s opinion. For, though he saw, as appears from the passage
already quoted, that the writers of the old comedy were, in fact,
_the likest to orators, and the most proper to form them to the
practice of the Forum_, yet, in admiration of the absolute perfection
of Menander’s manner, and criticising him by the rules of a just and
accurate rhetoric, and not at all in the views of a practical orator,
he pronounces him to be a complete pattern of oratorial excellence:
_vel unus, diligenter lectus, ad cuncta efficienda sufficiat_, l. x.
c. 1. Yet Cicero, it seems, thought otherwise; for he scarcely, as I
remember, mentions the name of Menander in his rhetorical books, though
he is very large in commending the authors of the old Greek comedy. The
reason was unquestionably that we have been explaining: The delicate
observance of decorum, for which this poet was so famous, _in omnibus
mire custoditur ab hoc poeta decorum_, rendered him an unfit model for
a popular speaker, especially in Rome, where an orator was much more
likely to carry his point by the _vis comica_, the _broader mirth_
of Aristophanes, or Plautus, than by the delicate railleries, and
exquisite paintings of Menander, or Terence.

       *       *       *       *       *

273. SI MODO EGO ET VOS SCIMUS INURBANUM LEPIDO SEPONERE DICTO.] It was
very late ere the ancients became acquainted with this distinction.
Indeed it does not appear, they ever possessed it in that supreme
degree, which might have been expected from their exquisite discernment
in other instances. Even Horace himself, though his pictures of life
are commonly the most delicate, and wrought up in the highest beauty
of humour, yet, when he affects the _plaisant_, and purposely aims
at the comic style and manner, is observed to sink beneath himself
extremely. The truth is, there is something low, and what the French
call _grossier_, in the whole cast of ancient wit; which is rather a
kind of rude, illiberal satire, than a just and temperate ridicule,
restrained by the exact rules of civility and good sense. This a
celebrated writer, who seems willing to think the most favourably of
the ancient wits, in effect owns, when, after quoting certain instances
of their raillery, he says, _Ces exemples, quoique vifs et bons en
leur genre, ont quëlque chose de trop dur, qui ne s’accommoderoit pas
à nôtre maniere de vivre; et ce seroit ce que nous appellons rompre en
visiers, que de dire en face des veritez aussi forts que celles-là_.
[Rec. de bons Contes et de bons Mots, p. 89.] This rudeness,
complained of, appears in nothing more evident, than in their perpetual
banter on corporal infirmities, which runs through all the wits both
of Greece and Rome. And to shew us, that this was not a practice,
they allowed themselves in against rule, Cicero mentions corporal
infirmities [De Or. l. ii. c. 59.] as one of the most legitimate
sources of the RIDICULOUS. _Est deformitatis et corporis vitiorum satis
bella materies._ And in another place, _Valde ridentur etiam imagines,
quæ fere in deformitatem, aut in aliquod vitium corporis ducuntur cum
similitudine turpioris_, &c. [ib. c. 66.] And this, which is very
remarkable, though they saw the absurdity of it, as appears from the
answer of Lamia, recorded by Cicero, to a joke of this kind, _Non potui
mihi formam ipse fingere_, [ib. c. 65.] The universal prevalence of a
practice so absurd in itself, and seen by themselves to be so, in the
two politest states of the old world, must needs have sprung from some
very _general_, and _powerful_ cause; which, because it hath not, that
I know of, been considered by any writer, I shall here attempt to open
and explane. The subject is curious, and would require a volume to do
it justice. I can only hint at the principal reasons, which appear to
me to have been these.

I. _The free and popular government of those states._ This, preserving
an equality of condition, and thereby spreading a fearlessness and
independency through all ranks and orders of men, of course produced
and indulged the utmost freedom of expression, uninfluenced by hopes
of favour, and unawed by fear of personal offence; the two sources,
from whence the civility of a more cautious ridicule is derived. Now
of all the species of raillery, the most natural and _obvious_ to a
people unrestrained by these causes, is ever the _coarsest_, such as
that on corporal deformities; as appears from its prevailing every
where, in all forms of government, among the lowest of the people,
betwixt whom those causes never subsist. But this reason involves in
it some particulars, which deserve to be considered. 1. The _orators_,
who catched it from the constitution themselves, contributed in
their turn to forward and help on this disposition to uncivilized
mirth. For, the form of their government requiring immediate, and
almost continual, applications to the people; and the nature of such
applications giving frequent exercise to their wit, it was natural for
them to suit it to the capacities of their auditory; if indeed they had
seen better themselves. Thus we find the orators in the Forum, even
in the later times of the Roman republic, exposing their adversary to
the broad mirth of the populace, by enlarging on his _low stature_,
_ugly face_, or _distorted chin_. Instances of which may be met with
in Cicero’s treatise De oratore; and even, as hath been observed, in
some orations and other pieces of Cicero himself. 2. From the _Forum_
the humour insensibly spread amongst all orders, and particularly,
amongst the writers for the stage, where it was kept up in its full
vigour, or rather heightened to a further extravagance, the laughter
of the people being its more immediate and direct aim. But, the stage
not only conformed, as of course it would, to the spirit of the times
(which, for the reason already given, were none of the most observant
of decorum) but, as we shall also find, it had perhaps the greatest
influence in _producing and forming that spirit itself_. This will
appear, if we recollect, in few words, _the rise, progress, and
character of the ancient stage_.

The Greek drama, we know, had its origin from the loose, licentious
raillery of the rout of Bacchus, indulging to themselves the freest
sallies of taunt and invective, as would best suit to lawless natures,
inspirited by festal mirth, and made extravagant by wine. Hence
arose, and with a character answering to this original, the _satyric
drama_; the spirit of which was afterwards, in good measure, revived
and continued in the old comedy, and itself preserved, though with
considerable alteration in the form, through all the several periods of
the Greek stage; even when tragedy, which arose out of it, was brought
to its last perfection. Much the same may be observed of the _Roman_
drama, which, we are told, had its rise in the unrestrained festivity
of the rustic youth. This gave occasion to their _Satyræ_, that is,
medleys of an irregular form, acted for the diversion of the people.
And, when afterwards Livius Andronicus had, by a further reform,
reduced these _Satyræ_ into regular tragedies, another species of
buffoon ridicule was cultivated, under the name of _Atellanæ fabulæ_;
which, according to Diomedes’ character of them, _were replete with
jocular witticisms, and very much resembled the Greek satyrs_. _Dictis
jocularibus refertæ, similes fere sunt satyricis fabulis Græcorum._
These were ever after retained, and annexed to their most regular
dramatic entertainments in Rome, just as the _satyrs_ were in Greece;
and this (as was seen in its place) though much pains was taken to
reform, if not wholly remove, them. But to shew how strong the passion
of the Romans was for this rude illiberal banter, even the licentious
character of the _Atellanes_ did not fully satisfy them; but, as
if they were determined to stick to their genuine rusticity, they
continued the _Satyræ_ themselves, under the name of _Exodia_, that is
farces of the grossest and most absurd composition; which, to heighten
the mirth of the day, were commonly interwoven with the Atellane
pieces. The reason of the continuance of such ribaldry in the politest
ages of Greece and Rome hath been inquired into. At present it appears,
what effect it must necessarily have upon the public taste.

II. Another cause connected with the foregoing, and rising out of
it, seems to have been the festal licence of particular seasons,
such as the _Dionysia_ and _Panathenæa_, amongst the Greeks; and
the _Bacchanalia_ and _Saturnalia_, at Rome. These latter, it is
observable, were continued to the latest period of the Roman empire,
preserving in them an image, as well of the frank and libertine wit of
their old stage, as of the original equality and independency of their
old times. Quintilian thinks, that, with some regulation, good use
might have been made of these seasons of licence, for the cultivating
a just spirit of raillery in the orators of his time. As it was, there
is no doubt, they helped much to vitiate and deprave it. His words
are these: _Quin illæ ipsæ, quæ_ DICTA _sunt ac vocantur, quas certis
diebus festæ licentiæ dicere solebamus, si paulum adhibita ratione
fingerentur, aut aliquid in his serium quoque esset admixtum, plurimum
poterunt utilitatis afferre: quæ nunc juvenum, aut sibi ludentium
exercitatio est._ [Quint. l. iv. c. 3.] Besides, in Greece, the jester
was a character by profession, necessary to the pleasantry of private
feasts, and, as we learn from the fine satyr in Xenophon’s _Symposium_,
even in that polite age, welcome to all companies[26].

From these reasons I think it not difficult to account for the
coarseness of ancient wit. The free genius of the Greek and Roman
constitution was unquestionably its main spring and support. But,
when this character of their government was seconded by the freedom
of their demagogues, the petulance of the stage, and the uncontrouled
licence of recurring festival solemnities, it was no wonder, the
illiberal manner so thoroughly infected all ranks and degrees of
the people, as by no after diligence and refinement wholly to be
removed. And this theory is indeed confirmed by _fact_. For, when now
the tyranny of one man had ingrossed the power, and oppressed the
liberties, of Greece, their stage refined, their wit polished, and
Menander wrote. And though a thorough reform was never made in the
Roman stage, partly, as Quintilian thinks, from the intractability of
their language, but chiefly, it may be, as to the point in question,
from the long continuance of their rude farcical shews, yet something
like this appears to have followed upon the loss of their freedom;
as is plain from the improved delicacy of their later critics; who,
as Quintilian and Plutarch, are very profuse in their encomiums on
Menander, and the _new_ comedy; whereas we find little said of it
by the Augustan writers, who seem generally to have preferred the
coarser wit and pleasantry of the _old_. The state of modern wit too
confirms this account. For it has grown up, for the most part, under
limited monarchies, in which their scenical entertainments were more
moderate, or for plain reasons must less affect the public taste.
Whenever therefore a turn for letters has prevailed, a poignant, but
liberal kind of wit hath generally sprung up with it. Where it is worth
observing, the growing tyranny in some states hath either extinguished
it intirely, or refined it into an effeminate and timid delicacy, as
the growing licentiousness in others hath sunk it into a rude and
brutal coarseness; whilst by a due mixture of liberty and letters, we
have seen it acquire a proper temperament at home, and, as managed
by our best writers, exhibit a specimen of that strong, yet elegant
ridicule, which hath never yet been equalled by any other nation in the
world.

       *       *       *       *       *

275. IGNOTUM TRAGICAE GENUS INVENISSE CAMENAE, &c.] The poet, having
just remarked the negligence of the Roman writers, in two or three
instances, and, at the same time recommended to them the superior care
and accuracy of the Greeks (all which is elegantly preparatory to the
last division of the epistle) proceeds in a short view of the Greek
drama, to insinuate, as well the successful pains of the Greek writers,
as the real state of the Roman stage; the complete glory of which could
only be expected, as immediately follows, from a spirit of diligence
and correctness. As this whole connexion is clear and easy, so is the
peculiar method, in which it is conducted, extremely proper. 1. To
shew, how great the advantage of their situation was over that of the
Greeks, he observes, that the latter had the whole constitution of the
drama to invent and regulate; which yet, by the application and growing
experience of their poets, was soon effected; their tragedy, all rude
and shapeless, as it was, in the cart of Thespis, appearing in its just
form and proportion on the stage of Æschylus; and their comedy also
(which, from that time, began to be cultivated) asserting its proper
character, and, but for the culpable omission of a chorus, reaching the
full extent and perfection of its kind.

2. To shew, what still remained to them, he brings down the history of
tragedy no lower than Æschylus; under whom it received its due form and
all the essentials of its nature, yet still wanted, to its absolute
perfection, the further accuracy and correctness of a Sophocles. And,
for their comedy, he hints the principal defect of that; its omission,
after the manner of the new comedy, of the chorus. There is great
address in this conduct. The censure also implied in it, is perfectly
just. For, 1. the character of the Roman tragedy, in the times of
Horace, was exactly that of Æschylus. Æschylus, says Quintilian,
was the first, “_qui protulit tragœdias_,” i. e. who composed true
legitimate tragedies, _sublimis et gravis et grandiloquus sæpe usque ad
vitium; sed rudis in plerisque et incompositus_ [L. x. c. i.] the very
description, which Horace gives [2 Ep. i. 165.] of the Roman tragedy.

                      _natura sublimis et acer,
    Nam spirat tragicum satis et feliciter audet;
    Sed turpem putat inscitus metuitque lituram._

2. The state of their comedy, as managed by their best writers,
Afranius and Terence, was, indeed, much more complete; yet wanted the
chorus, which, in the judgment of the poet, it seems, was equally
necessary to the perfection of this, as of the other drama.

3. But the application is made in express terms.

    _Nil intentatum nostri liquere poetæ_, &c.

_i. e._ our poets, as well as the Greek, have, in some degree, applied
themselves to improve and regulate the stage. In particular, a late
innovation, in taking their subjects, both of tragedy and comedy, from
domestic facts, is highly to be applauded. Their sole disadvantage is,
_a neglect or contempt of that labour and accuracy, which gave the last
perfection to the Greek scene_.

After this clear and natural exposition of the connexion of these
lines, all the difficulties, that have been found in them by certain
great critics, vanish of themselves. And the reader now sees (what
the sagacious Heinsius thought impossible to be shewn) an ἀκολουθίαν,
or consistent, natural order in this part of the epistle; which was
in imminent danger of losing all its grace and beauty, by the wild
transpositions of that critic.

       *       *       *       *       *

278. POST HUNC PERSONAE PALLAEQUE, &c.] M. _Dacier_ hath here puzzled
himself with a difficulty of his own raising. He wonders, that Horace
should omit, in this history, the other improvements of Æschylus,
mentioned by Aristotle, and that Aristotle, in his turn, should omit
those, mentioned by Horace. The truth is, neither of them intended
a complete account of the improvements of the Greek stage; but only
so much of them, as was necessary to the views of each. Aristotle,
treating of the _internal_ constitution of the drama, speaks of such
changes, made in it by Æschylus, as respected that end. Horace,
treating in general of its _form_, as perfected by the pains and
application of the same poet, selects those improvements only, which
contrast best to the rude essays of Thespis, and, while they imply the
rest, exhibit tragedy, as it were, in her proper person, on the stage.
The reader feels the effect of this in the poetry.

       *       *       *       *       *

288. VEL QUI PRAETEXTAS, VEL QUI DOCUERE TOGATAS.] There hath been
much difficulty here in settling a very plain point. The question is,
whether _prætextas_ means _tragedy_, or a species of _comedy_? The
answer is very clear from Diomedes, whose account is, in short, this.
“^{1}_Togatæ_ is a general term for all sorts of Latin plays, adopting
the Roman customs and dresses; as _Palliatæ_ is, for all, adopting the
Græcian. Of the _Togatæ_, the several ^{2}species are, 1. _Prætexta_, or
_Prætextata_, in which Roman kings and generals were introduced, and
is so called, because the _prætexta_ was the distinguishing habit of
such persons. 2. _Tabernaria_, frequently called ^{3}_Togata_, though
that word, as we have seen, had properly a larger sense. 3. _Atellana._
4. _Planipedis._” He next marks the difference of these several sorts
of _Togatæ_, from the similar, corresponding ones of the _Palliatæ_,
which are these: “1. ^{4}Tragœdia, absolutely so styled. 2. ^{5}Comœdia,
3. ^{6}Satyri. 4. ^{7}Μῖμος.” [These four sorts of the _palliatæ_ were
also probably in use at Rome; certainly, at least, the two former.]
It appears then from hence, that _prætextata_ was properly the Roman
tragedy. But he adds, “_Togata prætextata à tragœdia differt_, and it
is also said, _to be only like tragedy_, _tragœdiæ similis_.” What is
this difference and this likeness? The explanation follows. “^{8}Heroes
are introduced in _tragedy_, such as Orestes, Chryses, and the like. In
the _prætextata_, Brutus, Decius, or Marcellus.” So then we see, when
Græcian characters were introduced, it was called simply _tragœdia_;
when Roman, _prætextata_; yet both, tragedies. The sole difference lay
in the persons being foreign or domestic. The correspondence in every
other respect was exact. The same is observed of the Roman comedy; when
it adopted ^{9}Greek characters, it was called _comœdia_: when Roman,
^{20}_Togata Tabernaria_, or ^{3}_Togata_, simply. That the reader may
assure himself of the fidelity of this account, let him take it at
large, in the Grammarian’s own words. “^{1}Togatæ fabulæ dicuntur, quæ
scriptæ sunt secundum ritus et habitus hominum togatorum, id est,
Romanorum (Toga namque Romana est), sicut Græcas fabulas ab habitu æque
palliatas Varro ait nominari. ^{3}Togatas autem cum sit generale nomen,
specialiter tamen pro tabernariis, non modo communis error usurpat,
sed et poetæ.—Togatarum fabularum ^{2}species tot fere sunt, quot et
palliatarum. Nam prima species est togatarum, quæ prætextatæ dicuntur,
in quibus imperatorum negotia agebantur et publica, et reges Romani vel
duces inducuntur, personarum et argumentorum sublimitate ^{4}tragœdiis
similes: Prætextatæ autem dicuntur, quia fere regum vel magistratuum,
qui prætexta utuntur, in hujusmodi fabulis acta comprehenduntur.
Secunda species togatarum, quæ tabernariæ dicuntur, humilitate
personarum et argumentorum similitudine ^{5}comœdiis pares—Tertia
species est fabularum latinarum, quæ—Atellanæ dictæ sunt, similes
^{6}satyricis fabulis, Græcis. Quarta species est planipedis, Græce
dicitur ^{7}Μῖμος.—Togata prætextata, à ^{4}tragœdia differt. In tragœdia
^{8}heroes introducuntur. Pacuvius tragœdias nominibus heroicis scripsit
Oresten, Chrysen, et his similia. Item Accius. In prætextata autem
scribitur, Brutus, vel Decius, vel Marcellus. ^{19}Togata tabernaria
à ^{5}comœdia differt, quod in ^{9}comœdia Græci ritus inducuntur,
personæque Græcæ, Laches, Sostrata. In illa vero Latinæ.” [L. iii.
c. de Com. et Trag. diff.] With this account of Diomedes agrees
perfectly that of _Festus_; from which, however, M. Dacier draws a very
different conclusion. “Togatarum duplex est genus: prætextarum—et
tabernariarum.” His inference is, that prætextatæ, as being a species
of the togatæ, must needs be comedies; not considering that togata is
here a generic term, comprehending under it all the several species
both of the Roman tragedy and comedy. After what hath been said,
and especially, after the full and decisive testimony of Diomedes,
there can no longer be any doubt about the meaning of _prætextas_;
and one must be surprized to find M. Dacier prefacing his long note
on this place in the following important manner: _C’est un des plus
difficiles passages d’Horace, et peutêtre celui qu’il est le plus mal
aisé d’eclaircir à cause du peu de lumiere que nous donnent les auteurs
Latins sur tout ce qui regarde leurs pieces de theatre_.

       *       *       *       *       *

281. SUCCESSIT VETUS HIS COMOEDIA, &c.] _i. e._ Comedy began to be
cultivated and improved from the time that tragedy had obtained its
end, ἔσχε τὴν ἑαυτῆς φύσιν, under Æschylus. There is no reason to
suppose, with some critics, that Horace meant to date its origin from
hence. The supposition is, in truth, contradicted by _experience_ and
the _order of things_. For, as a celebrated French writer observes,
“_Le talent d’imiter, qui nous est naturel, nous porte plutôt à
la comedie qui roule sur des choses de nôtre connoissance qu’à la
Tragedie, qui prend des sujets plus èloignés de l’usage commun; et
en effet, en Gréce aussi bien qu’en France, la Comedie est l’aînée
de la tragedie_.” [Hist. du Theat. Franc. par M. de Fontenelle.] The
_latter_ part of this assertion is clear from the piece referred to;
and the _other_, which respects Greece, seems countenanced by Aristotle
himself [περ. ποιητ. κ. ε.] ’Tis true, Comedy, though its rise be every
where, at least, as early as that of tragedy, is perfected much later.
Menander, we know, appeared long after Æschylus. And, though the French
tragedy, to speak with Aristotle, ἔσχε τὴν ἑαυτῆς φύσιν in the hands
of Corneille, this cannot be said of their comedy, which was forced to
wait for a Moliere, before it arrived at that pitch of perfection. But
then this is owing to the superior difficulty of the comic drama. Nor
is it any objection that the contrary of this happened at Rome. For the
Romans, when they applied themselves in earnest to the stage, had not
to invent, but to imitate or rather _translate_, the perfect models of
Greece. And it chanced, for reasons which I shall not stay to deduce,
that their poets had better success in copying their _comedy_, than
_tragedy_.

       *       *       *       *       *

284. TURPITER OBTICUIT—] Evidently because, though the _jus nocendi_
was taken away, yet that was no good reason, why the chorus should
entirely cease. M. Dacier mistakes the matter. _Le chœur se tût
ignominieusement, parceque la loi reprima sa licence, et que ce fut, à
proprement parler, la loi qui le bannit; ce qu’ Horace regarde comme
une espece de flétrissure. Properly speaking_, the law only abolished
the _abuse_ of the chorus. The ignominy lay in dropping the entire use
of it, on account of this restraint. Horace was of opinion, that the
chorus ought to have been retained, though the state had abridged it of
the licence, it so much delighted in, of an illimited, and intemperate
satyr. _Sublatus chorus fuit_, says Scaliger, _cujus illæ videntur esse
præcipuæ partes, ut potissimum quos liberet, læderent_.

       *       *       *       *       *

286. NEC MINIMUM MERUERE DECUS VESTIGIA GRÆCA AUSI DESERERE ET
CELEBRARE DOMESTICA FACTA.] This judgment of the poet, recommending
domestic subjects, as fittest for the stage, may be inforced from
many obvious reasons. As I. that it renders the drama infinitely
more _affecting_: and this on many accounts. 1. As a subject, taken
from our own annals, must of course carry with it an air of greater
probability, at least to the generality of the people, than one
borrowed from those of any other nation. 2. As we all find a personal
interest in the subject. 3. As it of course affords the best and
easiest opportunities of catching our minds, by frequent references to
our manners, prejudices, and customs. And of how great importance this
is, may be learned from hence, that, even in the exhibition of foreign
characters, dramatic writers have found themselves obliged to sacrifice
truth and probability to the humour of the people, and to dress up
their personages, contrary to their own better judgment, in some degree
according to the mode and manners of their respective countries[27].
And 4. as the writer himself, from an intimate acquaintance with the
character and genius of his own nation, will be more likely to draw the
manners with life and spirit.

II. Next, which should ever be one great point in view, it renders the
drama more generally useful in its moral destination. For, it being
conversant about domestic acts, the great instruction of the fable more
sensibly affects us; and the characters exhibited, from the part we
take in their good or ill qualities, will more probably influence our
conduct.

III. Lastly, this judgment will deserve the greater regard, as the
conduct recommended was, in fact, the practice of our great models, the
Greek writers; in whose plays, it is observable, there is scarcely a
single scene, which lies out of the confines of Greece.

But, notwithstanding these reasons, the practice hath, in all times,
been but little followed. The Romans, after some few attempts in
this way (from whence the poet took the occasion of delivering it as
a dramatic precept), soon relapsed into their old use; as appears
from Seneca’s, and the titles of other plays, written in, or after
the Augustan age. Succeeding times continued the same attachment to
Grecian, with the addition of an equal fondness for Roman, subjects.
The reason in both instances hath been ever the same: that strong and
early prejudice, approaching somewhat to adoration, in favour of the
illustrious names of those two great states. The account of this matter
is very easy; for their writings, as they furnish the business of our
younger, and the amusement of our riper, years, and more especially
make the study of all those, who devote themselves to poetry and the
stage, insensibly infix in us an excessive veneration for all affairs
in which they were concerned; insomuch that no other subjects or events
seem considerable enough, or rise, in any proportion, to our ideas of
the dignity of the tragic scene, but such as time and long admiration
have consecrated in the annals of their story. Our Shakespeare was,
I think, the first that broke through this bondage of classical
superstition. And he owed this felicity, as he did some others, to
his want of what is called the advantage of a learned education. Thus
uninfluenced by the weight of early prepossession, he struck at once
into the road of nature and common sense: and without designing,
without knowing it, hath left us in his historical plays, with all
their anomalies, an exacter resemblance of the Athenian stage, than is
any where to be found in its most professed admirers and copyists.

I will only add, that, for the more successful execution of this rule
of celebrating domestic acts, much will depend on the æra, from
whence the subject is taken. Times too remote have almost the same
inconveniences, and none of the advantages, which attend the ages
of Greece and Rome. And, for those of later date, they are too much
familiarized to us, and have not as yet acquired that venerable cast
and air, which tragedy demands, and age only can give. There is no
fixing this point with precision. In the general, that æra is the
fittest for the poet’s purpose, which, though fresh enough in our minds
to warm and interest us in the event of the action, is yet at so great
a distance from the present times, as to have lost all those mean and
disparaging circumstances, which unavoidably adhere to recent deeds,
and, in some measure, sink the noblest modern transactions to the level
of ordinary life.

       *       *       *       *       *

295. INGENIUM MISERA, &c.] _Sæpe audivi poetam bonum neminem (id
quod à Democrito et Platone in scriptis relictum esse dicunt)
sine inflammatione animorum existere posse et sine quodam afflatu
quasi furoris._ [Cic. De orat. l. ii. c. xlvi.] And so Petronius,
_præcipitandus liber spiritus, ut furentis animi vaticinatio appareat_.
[c. cxviii.] And to the same purpose every good critic, ancient or
modern. But who can endure the grimace of those minute _genii_, who,
because the truly inspired, in the ravings of the fit, are _touched_
with the flame and fury of enthusiasm, must, therefore, with a tame,
frigid fancy, be laying claim to the same fervent and fiery raptures?
The fate of these _aspirants_ to divinity is that ἐνθουσιᾷν ἑαυτοῖς
δοκοῦντες, οὐ βακχεύουσιν, ἀλλὰ παίζουσιν [Longin. περ. ὕψ. τμημ. χ.]
And Quintilian opens the mystery of the whole matter: _Quo quisque
ingenio minus valet, hoc se magis attollere et dilatare conatur: ut
statura breves in digitos eriguntur et plura infirmi minantur. Nam
tumidos et corruptos et tinnulos et quocunque alio cacozeliæ genere
peccantes, certum habeo, non virium, sed infirmitatis vitio laborare:
ut corpora non robore, sed valetudine inflantur: et recto itinere lapsi
plerumque divertunt._ [L. ii. c. 3.]

       *       *       *       *       *

298. BONA PARS NON UNGUES, &c.] The constant and pitiful affectation of
the race before spoken of, who, with the modesty of laying claim to the
_thing_, will be sure not to omit the _sign_, and so, from fancying an
inspiration, they have _not_ come to adopt every foppery, that has ever
disgraced it in those who _have_.

       *       *       *       *       *

308. QUID DECEAT, QUID NON:] _Nihil est difficilius quam_, quid deceat,
_videre._ Πρέπον _appellant hoc Græci: nos dicamus sane_ Decorum. _De
quo præclare et multa præcipiuntur, et res est cognitione dignissima.
Hujus ignoratione non modo in vitâ, sed sæpissime in_ POEMATIS _et in
oratione peccatur._ [Orator. xxi.]

       *       *       *       *       *

309. SCRIBENDI RECTE, SAPERE EST ET PRINCIPIUM ET FONS.] The Orator
was of the same mind, when he sent his pupil to the academy for
instruction. _Quis nescit maximam vim existere oratoris in hominum
mentibus vel ad iram, aut dolorem incitandis, vel ab hisce iisdem
permotionibus ad lenitatem misericordiamque revocandis? quæ, nisi qui
naturas hominum, vimque omnem humanitatis, causasque eas quibus mentes
aut incitantur aut reflectuntur, penitus perspexerit, dicendo, quod
volet, perficere non poterit. Atqui_ TOTUS HIC LOCUS PHILOSOPHORUM
PROPRIUS VIDETUR. [De Orat. l. i. c. xii.] And he spoke, we know, from
his own experience, _having acquired his oratorial skill not in the
schools of the rhetoricians, but the walks of the academy_: _fateor
me oratorem, si modo sim, aut etiam quicunque sim, non ex rhetorum
officinis, sed ex Academiæ spatiis extitisse_. [Orat. p. 622. Elz. ed.]
But the reason he gives for this advice, though common to the poet;
whose character, as well as the orator’s, it is, _posse voluntates
impellere, quo velis, unde velis, deducere_, is yet, not the only one,
which respects the poet. For his business is to _paint_, and that
not only, as the orator does, in order to move, but for the sole end
of _pleasing_: _solam petit voluptatem_. [Quinct. l. x. c. i.] The
boast of his art is to catch every different aspect of nature, and
more especially to exhibit the human character in every varying light
and form, under which it presents itself. But this is not to be done
without an exquisite study, and philosophical knowledge of man; to
which end, as is remarked in _n._ on v. 317. the Socratic philosophy
is more peculiarly adapted. Add to this, that it is the genius of
true poetry, not only to animate, but to _personalize_ every thing,
_omnia debent esse morata_. Hence the indispensable necessity of moral
science: all poetry being, in effect, what Mr. Dryden somewhere calls
comedy, THE THEFT OF POETS FROM MANKIND.

       *       *       *       *       *

310. SOCRATICAE CHARTAE.] An admired writer, in many respects
deservedly so, thus comments on these words: “The philosophical
writings, to which our poet refers, were in themselves a kind of
poetry, like the _mimes_, or personated pieces of early times, before
philosophy was in vogue, and when as yet _Dramatical imitation_
was scarce formed: or at least, in many parts, not brought to due
perfection. They were pieces, which, besides their force of style, and
hidden numbers, carried a sort of _action_ and _imitation_, the same as
the _Epic_ and _Dramatic_ kinds. They were either real dialogues, or
recitals of such personated discourses; where the persons themselves
had their characters preserved throughout; their manners, humours,
and distinct turns of temper and understanding maintained, according
to the most exact poetical truth. ’Twas not enough, that these pieces
treated fundamentally of morals, and, in consequence, pointed out
real characters and manners: They exhibited them alive, and set the
countenances and complexions of men plainly in view. And by this means
they not only taught us to know others; but, what was principal and
of highest virtue in them, they taught us to know ourselves.” Thus
far then these models are of unquestioned use to writers of every
denomination. I forbear to mention, what this noble author finds
occasion frequently to insinuate, and, by his own practice, labours
to recommend, the superior excellency of the _manner_, as well as
_matter_, of these highly-rated originals. Not that I presume to think
it unworthy of imitation. But the public taste, as appears, is running
full fast that way, insomuch that some may even doubt, if the state
of literary composition be more endangered by the neglect, or vicious
imitation, of the Platonic manner. Its graces, when sparingly employed
by a real genius, for the embellishment of strong sense, have, it
must be owned, great beauty. But when this humour of _platonizing_
seizes on some minuter spirit, bent on ennobling a trivial matter,
and all over-run with academic delicacy and affectation, nothing, to
a just and manly relish, can be more disgusting. One must wink hard
not to see frequent examples of this, in the master Platonist himself.
But his mimics, of late, have gone much farther. There is no need,
in such a croud of instances, to point to particulars. What I would
rather observe is, that this folly, offensive as it is, may perhaps
admit of some excuse from the _present state of our literature_, and
_the character of the great original himself_, whom these writers
aspire to imitate. When a language, as ours at this time, hath been
much polished and enriched with perfect models of style in almost
every way, it is in the order of things, that the next step should be
to a _vicious affectation_. For the simplicity of true taste, under
these circumstances, grows insipid. Something _better than the best_
must be aimed at; and the reader’s languid appetite raised by the
provocatives of an ambitious refinement. And this in _sentiment_,
as well as _language_. Whence we see how it happened, that even in
_Greece_ itself, where composition was studied with a more than common
accuracy, _Philosophy_, when it passed out of the hands of its great
masters, degenerated by degrees into the subtilties of sophistry, as
did _Eloquence_, likewise, into the tricks of rhetoric.

But there was something, as I hinted, too, in the _character of the
writer imitated_, of a very ticklish and dangerous nature; and of which
our tribe of imitators were not sufficiently aware. A very exact critic
of antiquity hath told us what it was. It lay in Plato’s _bringing
the tumor of poetic composition into discourses of philosophy_, ΟΤΙ
ΤΟΝ ΟΓΚΟΝ ΤΗΣ ΠΟΙΗΤΙΚΗΣ ΚΑΤΑΣΚΕΥΗΣ ΕΠΙ ΛΟΓΟΥΣ ΗΓΑΓΕ ΦΙΛΟΣΟΦΟΥΣ[28].
And though the experiment, for the most part, succeeded not amiss (as
what contradiction is there which superior genius cannot reconcile?)
yet it sometimes failed even in his hands. And as a French writer
well expresses it, Le DIVIN _Plato, pour avoir voulu s’elever trop au
dessus des hommes, est souvent tombè dans un_ GALIMATIAS _pompeux que
quelques uns confondent avec le_ SUBLIME. The PHAEDRUS, though the most
remarkable, is not the only example of such mischance in the writings
of this great man.

       *       *       *       *       *

317. VERAS HINC DUCERE VOCES.] _Truth_, in poetry, means such an
expression, as conforms to the general nature of things; _falsehood_,
that, which, however suitable to the particular instance in view
doth yet not correspond to such _general nature_. To attain to this
_truth_ of expression in dramatic poetry two things are prescribed:
1. A diligent study of the Socratic philosophy; and 2. A masterly
knowledge and comprehension of human life. The _first_, because it is
the peculiar distinction of this school _ad veritatem vitæ propius
accedere_. [Cic. de Or. i. 51.] And the _latter_, as rendering the
imitation more universally striking. This will be understood by
reflecting that _truth_ may be followed too closely in works of
imitation, as is evident in two respects. For, 1. the artist, when
he would give a Copy of nature, may confine himself too scrupulously
to the exhibition of _particulars_, and so fail of representing the
general idea of the _kind_. Or, 2. in applying himself to give the
_general_ idea, he may collect it from an enlarged view of _real_ life,
whereas it were still better taken from the nobler conception of it
as subsisting only in the _mind_. This last is the kind of censure we
pass upon the _Flemish_ school of painting, which takes its model from
real nature, and not, as the _Italian_, from the contemplative idea of
beauty[29]. The _former_ corresponds to that other fault objected also
to the Flemish masters, which consists in their copying from particular
odd and grotesque nature in contradistinction to general and graceful
nature.

We see then that in deviating from particular and partial, the poet
more faithfully imitates _universal_, truth. And thus an answer occurs
to that refined argument, which Plato invented and urged, with much
seeming complacency, against poetry. It is, that _poetical imitation
is at a great distance from truth_. “Poetical expression, says the
Philosopher, is the copy of the poet’s own conceptions; the poet’s
conception, of things, and things, of the standing archetype, as
existing in the divine mind. Thus the poet’s expression, is a copy at
third hand, from the primary, original truth.” [Plat. De rep. l. x.]
Now the diligent study of this rule of the poet obviates this reasoning
at once. For, by abstracting from existences all that peculiarly
respects and discriminates the _individual_, the poet’s conception,
as it were neglecting the intermediate particular objects, catches, as
far as may be, and reflects the divine archetypal idea, and so becomes
itself the copy or image of truth. Hence too we are taught the force
of that unusual encomium on poetry by the great critic, _that it is
something more severe and philosophical than history_, φιλοσοφώτερον
καὶ σπουδαιότερον ποίησις ἱστορίας ἐστίν. The reason follows, which
is now very intelligible; ἡ μὲν γὰρ ποίησις μᾶλλον τὰ καθόλου, ἡ
δ’ ἱστορία τὰ καθ’ ἕκαστον λέγει. [Περ. ποιητ. κ. θ.] And this will
further explain an essential difference, as we are told, between the
two great rivals of the Greek stage. Sophocles, in return to such
as objected a want of truth in his characters, used to plead, _that
he drew men such as they ought to be, Euripides such as they were_.
Σοφοκλῆς ἔφη, αὐτὸς μὲν οἵους δεῖ ποιεῖν, Εὐριπίδης δὲ οἷοί εἰσι.
[Περ. ποιητ. κ. κε.] The meaning of which is, Sophocles, from his more
extended commerce with mankind, had enlarged and widened the narrow,
partial conception, arising from the contemplation of _particular_
characters, into a complete comprehension of the _kind_. Whereas the
philosophic Euripides, having been mostly conversant in the academy,
when he came to look into life, keeping his eye too intent on single,
really existing personages, sunk the _kind_ in the _individual_; and
so painted his characters naturally indeed, and _truly_, with regard
to the objects in view, but sometimes without that general and
universally striking likeness, which is demanded to the full exhibition
of poetical truth.

But here an objection meets us, which must not be overlooked. It will
be said, “that philosophic speculations are more likely to render men’s
views _abstract_ and _general_ than to confine them to _individuals_.
This latter is a fault arising from the _small number_ of objects
men happen to contemplate: and may be removed not only by taking a
view of many _particulars_, which is knowledge of the world; but also
by reflecting on the _general nature_ of men, as it appears in good
books of morality. For the writers of such books form their _general_
notion of human nature from an extensive experience (either their own,
or that of others) without which their writings are of no value.”
The answer, I think, is this. _By reflecting on the general nature
of man_ the philosopher learns, what is the tenor of action arising
from the predominancy of certain qualities or properties; _i. e._ in
general, what that conduct is, which the imputed character requires.
But to perceive clearly and certainly, how far, and with what degree
of strength this or that character will, on particular occasions,
most probably shew itself, this is the fruit only of a knowledge of
the world. Instances of a want of this knowledge cannot be supposed
frequent in such a writer, as Euripides; nor, when they occur, so
glaring as to strike a common reader. They are niceties, which can
only be discerned by the true critic; and even to _him_, at this
distance of time, from an ignorance of the Greek manners, that may
possibly appear a fault, which is a real beauty. It would therefore be
dangerous to think of pointing out the places, which Aristotle might
believe liable to this censure in Euripides. I will however presume to
mention one, which, if not justly criticized, will, at least, serve to
illustrate my meaning.

The story of his _Electra_ is well known. The poet had to paint, in
the character of this princess, a virtuous, but fierce, resentful
woman; stung by a sense of personal ill treatment; and instigated
to the revenge of a father’s death, by still stronger motives. A
disposition of this warm temperament, it might be concluded by the
philosopher in his closet, would be prompt to shew itself. _Electra_
would, on any proper occasion, be ready to avow her resentment, as
well as to forward the execution of her purpose. But to what lengths
would this _resentment_ go? _i. e._ what degree of fierceness might
_Electra_ express, without affording occasion to a person widely
skilled in mankind, and the operation of the passions, to say, “this
is improbable?” Here abstract theories will be of little service. Even
a moderate acquaintance with real life will be unable to direct us.
Many individuals may have fallen under observation, that will justify
the poet in carrying the expression of such a _resentment_ to any
extreme. History would, perhaps, furnish examples, in which a virtuous
resentment hath been carried even farther than is here represented by
the poet. What way then of determining the precise bounds and limits
of it? Only by observing in numerous instances, _i. e._ from a large
extensive knowledge of practical life, how far it usually, in such
characters, and under such circumstances, prevails. Hence a difference
of representation will arise in proportion to the extent of that
_knowledge_. Let us now see, how the character before us, hath, in
fact, been managed by Euripides.

In that fine scene, which passes between Electra and Orestes, whom as
yet she suspects not to be her brother, the conversation very naturally
turns upon Electra’s distresses, and the author of them, Clytæmnestra,
as well as on her hopes of deliverance from them by the means of
Orestes. The dialogue upon this proceeds:

_Or._ What then of Orestes, were he to return to this Argos?

_El._ Ah! wherefore that question, when there is no prospect of his
return at all?

_Or._ But supposing he should return, how would he go about to revenge
the death of his father?

_El._ In the same way, in which that father suffered from the daring
attempts of his enemies.

_Or._ And could you then dare to undertake with him the murder of your
mother?

_El._ Yes, with that very steel, with which she murdered my father.

_Or._ And am I at liberty to relate this to your brother, as your fixed
resolution?

_El._ I desire only to live, till I have murdered my mother. The Greek
is still stronger:

    _May I die, as soon as I have murdered my mother!_

Now that this last sentence is absolutely unnatural, will not be
pretended. There have been doubtless many examples, under the like
circumstances, of an expression of revenge carried thus far. Yet, I
think, we can hardly help being a little shocked at the fierceness of
_this_ expression. At least _Sophocles_ has not thought fit to carry
it to that extreme. In him, _Electra_ contents herself with saying to
_Orestes_, on a similar occasion:

“The conduct of this affair now rests upon you. Only let me observe
this to you, that, had I been left alone, I would not have failed in
one of these two purposes, either to deliver myself gloriously, or to
perish gloriously.”

Whether this representation of Sophocles be not more agreeable to
_truth_, as collected from wide observation, i. e. from human nature
at large, than that of Euripides, the capable reader will judge. If
it be, the reason I suppose to have been, _that Sophocles painted his
characters, such, as, from attending to numerous instances of the
same kind, he would conclude they ought to be; Euripides, such, as a
narrower sphere of observation had persuaded him they were_.

       *       *       *       *       *

319. INTERDUM SPECIOSA LOCIS, &c.] The poet’s science in _ethics_ will
principally shew itself in these two ways, 1. in furnishing proper
matter for general reflexion on human life and conduct; and, 2. in a
due adjustment of the manners. By the former of these two applications
of moral knowledge a play becomes, what the poet calls, _speciosa
locis_, i. e. (for the term is borrowed from the rhetoricians)
_striking in its moral topics_: a merit of the highest importance on
the ancient stage, and which, if prudently employed in subserviency to
the _latter_ more essential requisite of the drama, _a just expression
of the manners_, will deserve to be so reputed at all times and on
every theatre. The danger is, lest a studied, declamatory _moral_,
affectedly introduced, or indulged to excess, should prejudice the
natural exhibition of the _characters_, and so convert _the image of
human life_ into an unaffecting, philosophical dialogue.

       *       *       *       *       *

319. MORATAQUE RECTE FABULA, &c.] This judgment of the poet, in regard
of the superior efficacy of _manners_, is generally thought to be
contradicted by Aristotle; who in treating this subject, observes,
“that let a piece be never so perfect in the _manners_, _sentiments_,
and _style_, it will not so well answer the end and purpose of
tragedy, as if defective in these, and finished only in the fable and
composition.” Ἐάν τις ἐφεξῆς θῇ ῥήσεις ἠθικὰς καὶ λέξεις καὶ διανοίας
εὖ πεποιημένας, οὐ ποιήσει ὃ ἦν τῆς τραγῳδίας ἔργον, ἀλλὰ πολὺ μᾶλλον
ἡ καταδεεστέροις τούτοις κεχρημένη τραγῳδία, ἔχουσα δὲ μῦθον καὶ
σύστασιν πραγμάτων. Κεφ. ϛʹ. M. Dacier thinks to clear this matter
by saying, “that what Aristotle remarks holds true of tragedy, but
not of comedy, of which alone Horace is here speaking.” But granting
that the artificial contexture of the fable is less necessary to the
perfection of comedy, than of tragedy (as it certainly is), yet the
tenor of this whole division, exhorting to correctness in general,
makes it unquestionable, that Horace must intend to include _both_.
The case, as it seems to me, is this. The poet is not comparing
the respective importance of the _fable_ and _manners_, but of the
_manners_ and _diction_, under this word including also _numbers_.
He gives them the preference _not_ to a _good plot_, nor even to
_fine sentiments_, but to _versus inopes rerum nugæque canoræ_. The
_art_ he speaks of, is the art of _expressing_ the thoughts properly,
gracefully, and harmoniously: the _pondus_ is the force and energy of
good _versification_. _Venus_ is a general term including both kinds
of beauty. _Fabula_ does not mean the _fable_ (in distinction from the
rest) but simply _a play_.

       *       *       *       *       *

323. GRAIIS INGENIUM, &c.] The Greeks being eminent for _philosophy_,
especially _morals_; the last observation naturally gives rise to this.
For the transition is easy from their superiority, as philosophers,
to their superiority as poets; and the more easy, as the latter is
shewn to be, in part, the effect of the former. Now this superiority of
the Greeks in genius and eloquence (which would immediately occur, on
mentioning the _Socraticæ chartæ_) being seen and confessed, we are led
to ask, “whence this arises.” The answer is, from their making _glory_,
not _gain_, the object of their wishes.

       *       *       *       *       *

330. AERUGO ET CURA PECULI CUM SEMEL IMBUERIT, &c.] This _love of
gain_, to which Horace imputes the imperfect state of the Roman poetry,
hath been uniformly assigned, by the wisdom of ancient times, as the
specific bane of arts and letters. _Longinus_ and _Quintilian_ account,
from hence, for the decay of eloquence, _Galen_ of physic, _Petronius_
of painting, and _Pliny_, of the whole circle of the liberal arts. An
ingenious modern is indeed for carrying his views much further. He,
it seems, would account [Refl. sur la Poes. et sur la Peint. v. ii. §
xiv.] for this _public degeneracy_ of taste and literature, not from
the malignity of the selfish passions, but the baleful influences of
the air, emulating, I suppose, herein, the wisdom of that philosophy,
which teaches to lay the _private degeneracy_ of individuals on the
stars. Thus much however may be true, that other causes have generally
co-operated with it. Some of these, as might be shewn, did not escape
the attention of these wise ancients. Yet they did right to insist
chiefly on _this_, which is every way equal to the effect ascribed to
it. It is so in its _nature_: For being, as Longinus calls it, νόσημα
μικροποιὸν, _a disease which narrows and contracts the soul_, it must,
of course, restrain the generous efforts and expansions of genius;
cramp the free powers and energies of the mind, and render it unapt to
open itself to wide views, and to the projection of great, extensive
designs. It is so in its _consequences_. For, as one says elegantly,
_when the passion of avarice grows general in a country, the temples
of Honour are soon pulled down, and all men’s sacrifices are made to
Fortune_[30]. Thus extinguishing the sense of honour, that divinest
movement in our frame, and the only one, which can invigorate the mind
under the long labours of invention, it must needs be, that the fire
and high spirit of genius go out with it; and dragging in its train the
_love of pleasure_, that unmanliest of all the passions, it diffuses
such a languor and impotency over the mind, as must leave it at length
a prey to a supine wasting indolence; till, as Longinus observes of his
own age (and let every friend to letters deprecate the omen), Πάντες
ἐγκαταβιοῦμεν, οὐκ ἄλλως πονοῦντες, ἢ ἀναλαμβάνοντες, εἰ μὴ ἐπαίνου καὶ
ἡδονῆς ἕνεκα, ἀλλὰ μὴ τῆς ζήλου καὶ τιμῆς ἀξίας ποτὲ ὠφελείας.

       *       *       *       *       *

333. AUT PRODESSE VOLUNT, AUT DELECTARE POETAE, &c.] Though these lines
have the appearance of general criticism, yet do they more especially
respect the dramatic poesy. This will be evident from attending to
the context. The full boast and glory of the drama is to _delight_
and _instruct_ mankind. 1. The latter praise was more especially due
to the ancient tragic muse, who did not think it sufficient to paint
lovely pourtraitures of _public_ and _social_ virtue, and to call in
the moralizing chorus to her assistance, but, which was one of her
discriminating characters, she was perpetually inculcating every branch
of true moral in those brief sententious precepts, which inform and
solemnize her page. To these precepts then the poet manifestly refers
in those lines,

    _Quicquid præcipies, esto brevis; ut cito dicta
    Percipiant animi dociles, teneantque fideles_.

But what follows is still clearer, [2.] The other end of the drama is
to _entertain_, and this by the means of _probable fiction_.

    _Ficta, voluptatis causa, sint proxima veris._

And the poet applies this to the case of the drama in express words:

    _Ne quodcunque volet, poscat sibi fabula credi:
    Neu pransæ Lamiæ vivum puerum extrahat alvo_.

The instance of _Lamia_, as Mr. Dacier observes, is certainly taken
from some poet of that time, who had been guilty of this misconduct.
The reader may learn from hence, how intently Horace pursues his design
of criticizing the _Roman_ stage, when, in treating a subject, from
its nature, the most general of any in the epistle, _viz. critical
correctness_, we yet find him so industriously recurring to this point.

       *       *       *       *       *

343. MISCUIT UTILE DULCI.] The unnatural separation of the DULCE
ET UTILE hath done almost as much hurt in _letters_ as that of the
HONESTUM ET UTILE, which Tully somewhere complains of, hath done in
_morals_. For while the polite writer, as he is called, contents
himself with the _former_ of these qualities, and the man of erudition
with the _latter_, it comes to pass, as the same writer expresses it,
that ET DOCTIS ELOQUENTIA POPULARIS, ET DISERTIS ELEGANS DOCTRINA DESIT
[Orat. iii.]

       *       *       *       *       *

363. HAEC AMAT OBSCURUM, VOLET HAEC SUB LUCE VIDERI.] Cicero hath
given the same precept in relation to oratory, _habeat illa in dicendo
admiratio ac summa laus umbram aliquam et recessum, quo magis id, quod
erit illuminatum, extare atque eminere videatur_. [De orat. l. iii. c.
xxvi.]

       *       *       *       *       *

373. MEDIOCRIBUS ESSE POETIS NON HOMINES, &c.] This judgment, however
severe it may seem, is according to the practice of the best critics.
We have a remarkable instance in the case of _Apollonius Rhodius_, who,
though, in the judgment of Quintilian, the author of no contemptible
poem, yet on account of that _equal mediocrity_, which every where
prevails in him, was struck out of the list of good writers by such
sovereign judges of poetical merit, as Aristophanes and Aristarchus.
[Quint. l. x. c. i.]

       *       *       *       *       *

403. DICTAE PER CARMINA SORTES,] The oracles here spoken of, are such
as respect not _private persons_ (whom a natural curiosity, quickened
by anxious superstition, has ever prompted to pry into their future
fortunes) but _entire communities_; and for these there was little
place, till Ambition had inspired great and eventful designs, and by
involving the fate of nations, had rendered the knowledge of futurity
_important_. Hence, in marking the progress of ancient poesy, Horace
judiciously postpones _oracles_, to the _celebration_ of martial
_prowess_, as being that, which gave the principal _eclat_ to them.
This species of poetry then is rightly placed, though it be true, as
the commentators have objected, that oracles were much ancienter than
Homer, and the Trojan war.

       *       *       *       *       *

404. ET VITAE MONSTRATA VIA EST;] Meaning the writings of _Theognis_,
_Phocylides_, _Hesiod_, and others, which, consisting wholly of moral
precepts, are elegantly said to lay open, or discover _the road
of life_. Mr. Dacier’s interpretation, which makes the poet mean
_physics_ by _viam vitæ_, is supported by no reason. _Il ne faut pas_,
says he, _entendre ceci de la philosophie et des mœurs_; CAR _Horace
se contrediroit, puisque il a dit que ce fut le premier soin de la
poesie_. The learned critic did not consider, that the first care of
poesy, as explained above, and as employed by _Orpheus_ and _Amphion_,
was to inculcate _policy_, not _moral_.

       *       *       *       *       *

404. ET GRATIA REGUM, PIERIIS TENTATA MODIS, LUDUSQUE REPERTUS, ET
LONGORUM OPERUM FINIS: NE FORTE PUDORI SIT TIBI MUSA LYRAE SOLERS,
ET CANTOR APOLLO.] This is one of those master-strokes, which make
the sovereign charm of this poet. But the way in which it hath been
understood, extinguishes all its grace and beauty. _On les vers
employa_, says an interpreter, who speaks the sense of the rest, _à
gagner la faveur des rois, et on les mit de tous les jeux et de tous
les spectacles, qu’on inventa pour se delasser de ses longs travaux et
de toutes ses fatigues. Je vous dis cela afin que vous n’ayez point
de honte de faire la cour aux Muses et à Apollon._ And, lest this
should not seem explicit enough, he adds in a couple of notes, that by
_ludus repertus_, &c. _il_ [le poete] _veut parler des tragedies et
des comedies que l’on faisoit jour dans les fêtes solemnelles_. And
then, as to the _ne forte pudori_, _Cela prouve qu’ Horace ne fait
cet eloge de la poesie que pour empecher que Pison n’en fût degouté_.
Can any thing be more insipid? For could the poet think so meanly of
his art, as to believe it wanted an apology? Or had the _courtier_ so
little address, as to direct that apology immediately to the Pisos?
Besides, what species of poesy is it that he labours to excuse? Why,
according to this interpretation, the _dramatic_: the supreme boast of
his art, and the main subject of the epistle. And in what _manner_ does
he excuse it? Why, in recommending it, as an agreeable amusement. But
his master, Aristotle, would have furnished him with a nobler plea: and
’tis certain, the ancients talked at another rate of the use and end
of the drama. Let us see then, if the sense, given in the commentary,
will bring any relief to the poet. In fact, this whole passage [from
_et vitæ_, &c. to _cantor Apollo_] obliquely glances at the two sorts
of poetry peculiarly cultivated by himself, and is an indirect apology
for his own choice of them. For 1. _vitæ monstrata via est_ is the
character of his _sermones_. And 2. all the rest, of his _Odes_. These
are recommended, agreeably to their nature, 1. as of use to _conciliate
the favour of princes_; hereby glancing at the success of his own odes,
and, with the happiest address, insinuating the regard, which Augustus
paid to letters. 2. As contributing to the mirth and entertainment of
feasts, and especially as holding a principal place in the celebration
of those more sacred, secular festivities (_longorum operum finem_)
which could not be duly solemnized, without the ministration of the
lyric muse.

    _Castis cum pueris ignara puella mariti,
    Disceret unde preces, vatem ni musa dedisset?_
                                        2 Ep. i. 132.

And again:

                    _ego Diis amicum,
    Sæculo festas referente luces,
    Reddidi carmen docilis modorum
                Vatis Horatî_.
                              Carm. Sec.

In another place both ends are expressed:

                            _testudo
    Divitum_ MENSIS _et amica_ TEMPLIS.
                                              3 Od. xi.

Where it may be observed, this double character of lyric poetry exactly
corresponds to that, which the poet had before expressly given of it in
this very epistle: the _gratia regum_ being the same as

    _Musa dedit fidibus Divos puerosque Deorum
    Et pugilem victorem et equum certamine primum_.
                                                v. 83.

And _ludusque repertus_, describing its other office,

    _Et juvenum curas et libera vina referre_.
                                                   ib.

In this view the following line, which apologizes, not for poesy in
general, or its noblest species, the drama, but for his own lyrics
only, hath, as the reader perceives, infinite grace; and is peculiarly
marked with that vein of exquisite humour, so suited to the genius of
the epistle, and which makes one of the distinguishing beauties of
the poet. It hath also an extreme _propriety_; the levity of the ode
admitting, or rather requiring some apology to the Pisos; who would be
naturally led to think but meanly of it, in comparison of the sublimer
dramatic poetry. I must add, the very terms of the apology so expresly
define and characterize lyric poetry, that it is something strange, it
should have escaped vulgar notice: _musa lyræ solers_ being evidently
explained by _Romanæ fidicen lyræ_ [4 Od. iii. 23.] and the epithet
_cantor_, describing Apollo, as clearly as words can do it, in the
peculiar character of _Lyric_.

       *       *       *       *       *

407. CANTOR APOLLO. NATURA FIERET, &c.] The transition is delicate,
and a fine instance of that kind of method, which the Epistle demands.
The poet had just been speaking of the ode, and its inspirer, _cantor
Apollo_; and this, in the natural train of his ideas, suggested that
enthusiasm, and stretch of genius, which is at once the characteristic
and glory of the lyric composition. And this was ground enough, in an
Epistle, to pass on to say something concerning the power and influence
of genius in poetry in general. It was for want of attending to so
plain a reflexion as this, that the excellent Heinsius trifled so
egregiously, in his transpositions of the Epistles, and in particular
of this very place. And the hasty censures, which M. Dacier passed
on the poet’s method, are apparently owing to no other cause. [See
his introduct. remarks.] But to declare my sense at parting, of the
_latter_ of these critics, I would say, as he himself does of the
former, _C’est assez parlé contre M._ DACIER, _dont j’estime et admire
autant la profonde érudition, que je condamne la mauvais usage qu’il
en a fait en quelques rencontres_.

       *       *       *       *       *

410. ALTERIUS SIC ALTERA POSCIT OPEM RES, ET CONJURAT AMICE.] This
conclusion, “that art and nature must conspire to the production of
a perfect piece,” is, in the general, unquestionably just. If we
would know the distinct powers and provinces of each, a fine passage
in Longinus will inform us. For, of the five sources of the sublime,
enumerated by that critic, two only, “a grandeur of conception, and
the pathetic,” come from _nature_: the rest, “a just arrangement of
figures,” “a splendid diction,” and “dignity of composition,” are of
the province of _art_. Yet, though their powers are thus distinct,
each, in order to attain its due perfection, must conspire, and be
consociated, with the other. For that “sublime of conception” and
“pathetic enthusiasm” never make a more sure and lasting impression,
than when cloathed in the graces, and moderated by the sober sense
of _art_: as, on the contrary, the milder beauties of “language” and
“artificial composition” are never so secure of seizing the attention,
as when raised and inspirited by the _pathos_, or _sublime_. So that
the nature of the union, here recommended, is such, as makes it not
only necessary to the completion of that great end, _viz._ the glory of
perfect composition; but that either part, in the alliance, may fully
effect its own. All which is but the larger explication of another
passage in Longinus, who teaches, that ΤΟΤΕ Η ΤΕΧΝΗ ΤΕΛΕΙΟΣ, ΗΝΙΚ’ ΑΝ
ΦΥΣΙΣ ΕΙΝΑΙ ΔΟΚΗΙ· Η Δ’ ΑΥ ΦΥΣΙΣ ΕΠΙΤΥΧΗΣ, ΟΤΑΝ ΛΑΝΘΑΝΟΥΣΑ ΠΕΡΙΕΧΗΙ ΤΗΝ
ΤΕΧΝΗΝ. [περ. ὑψ. τμη. κβʹ.]


But here, in parting, it will be amusing, perhaps, to the curious
reader to observe, what perpetual matter of debate this question hath
furnished to the ancient learned.


It seems first to have taken its rise from the high pretension of
poets to inspiration [see Pind. Od. iii. Nem.], which was afterwards
understood in too literal a sense, and in time extended to all works
of genius or imitation. The orator, who, as Cicero tells us, is _near
a-kin to the poet_, set up the same claim; principally, as it should
seem, on the authority of Socrates, who, taking occasion from the ill
use that had been made of _rhetoric_, to decry it as an _art_, was
herein followed by the most illustrious of his scholars; amongst whom
was Aristotle, [Quinct. l. ii. c. 17.] who had written a set treatise
professedly with this view, though his books of rhetoric proceed on
very different principles. The question afterwards appeared of so much
moment to Cicero, that he discussed it in form, in one of his dialogues
De Oratore. And Quinctilian, in still later times, found himself
obliged to resume the same debate, and hath accordingly considered it
in an entire chapter.

The long continuance of so frivolous a dispute, and which admits so
easy a decision, would go near to persuade one, if, as Shakespeare
speaks, _they had not the privilege of antiquity upon them_, that the
pens of the ancient _literati_ were not always more wisely employed,
than those of modern controversialists. If we ask the reason, it would
seem to be owing to that ambitious spirit of subtlety and refinement,
which, as Quintilian observes, _puts men upon teaching not what
they believe to be true, but what, from the falsehood or apparent
strangeness of the matter, they expect the praise of ingenuity from
being able to maintain_. This, I say, might seem to be the cause of
so much perversity, on the first view, and unquestionably it had its
influence. But the truth is, the real cause was something more general
and extensive. It was, in fact, that _natural proneness_, so Longinus
terms it, _in mankind, to censure and degrade things present_, ἴδιον
ἀνθρώπου καταμέμφεσθαι τὰ παρόντα. This in nothing holds truer,
than in what concerns the state of literature; as may be seen from
that unwearied industry of the learned to decry whatever appears to
be the prevailing taste of the times; whether it be in suggesting
some defect to be made good by future improvements; or, as is more
common, because the easier and less invidious task, in setting up,
and magnifying some former examples of a different cast and merit.
Thus, in the case before us, exquisite art and commanding genius,
being the two only means of rising to superior literary excellence,
in proportion as any age became noted for the one, it was constantly
defamed, and the preference given to the other. So, during the growth
of letters in any state, when a sublimity of sentiment and strength
of expression make, as under those circumstances they always will,
the characteristic of the times, the critic, disgusted with the rude
workings of nature, affects to admire only the nicer finishings and
proportions of art. When, let but the growing experience of a few years
refine and perfect the public taste, and what was before traduced as
roughness and barbarity, becomes at once nerves, dignity, and force.
Then art is effeminacy; and judgment want of spirit. All now is rapture
and inspiration. The exactest modern compositions are unmanly and
unnatural, _et solos veteres legendos putant, neque in ullis aliis esse
naturalem eloquentiam et robur viris dignum arbitrantur_. [Quinct. l.
x. c. i.] The truth of this observation might he justified from many
examples. The learning and art of _Pacuvius_ (for so I understand the
epithet _doctus_) carried it before the sublime of _Accius_; just as in
elder Greece the smooth and correct _Simonides_, _tenuis Simonides_,
as Quinctilian characterizes him, bore away the prize from the lofty
and high-spirited _Æschylus_. Afterwards indeed the case was altered.
The Athenians, grown exact in the rules of good writing, became so
enamoured of the bold flights of Æschylus, as with a little correction
to admit him on the stage, who, by this means, frequently gained the
prize from a polite and knowing people, for what had certainly lost it
him in the simpler, and less informed theatre of his own times. Thus
too it fared with the elder Latin poets, who, though admired indeed in
their own age, but with considerable abatement from the reason before
assigned, were perfectly idolized in that of Augustus; so as to require
the sharpest satire of our poet, to correct the malevolent principle
from whence the affectation arose. But the observation holds of our own
writers. There was a time, when the art of JONSON was set above the
divinest raptures of SHAKESPEARE. The present age is well convinced of
the mistake. And now the genius of SHAKESPEARE is idolized in its turn.
Happily for the public taste, it can scarcely be too much so. Yet,
should any, in the rage of erecting trophies to the genius of ancient
poesy, presume to violate the recent honours of more correct poets,
the cause of such critical perversity will be ever the same. For all
admiration of past times, when excessive, is still to be accounted for
the same way,

    _Ingeniis non ille favet plauditque sepultis,
    Nostra sed impugnat, nos nostraque lividus odit_.


THE END OF THE NOTES ON THE ART OF POETRY.




Q. HORATII FLACCI

EPISTOLA AD AUGUSTUM.




TO THE REVEREND

MR. WARBURTON.


REVEREND SIR,

Give me leave to present to you the following Essay on the _Epistle
to Augustus_; which, whatever other merit it may want, is secure of
this, that it hath been planned upon the best model. For I know not
what should hinder me from declaring to you in this public manner,
that it was the early pleasure I received from what you had written of
this sort, which _first_ engaged me in the province of criticism. And,
if I have taken upon me to illustrate _another_ of the finest pieces
of antiquity after the _same method_, it is because I find myself
encouraged to do so by higher considerations, than even the Authority
of your example.

CRITICISM, considered in its ancient and noblest office of doing
justice to the merits of great writers, more especially in works
of poetry and invention, demands, to its perfect execution, these
two qualities: _a philosophic spirit_, capable of penetrating the
fundamental reasons of excellence in every different species of
composition; and _a strong imagination_, the parent of what we call
_true taste_, enabling the critic to feel the full force of his
author’s excellence himself, and to impress a lively sense of it
upon others. Each of these abilities is necessary. For by means of
philosophy, criticism, which were otherwise a vague and superficial
thing, acquires the soundness and solidity of science. And from the
_power of fancy_, it derives that light and energy and spirit, which
are wanting to provoke the public emulation and carry the general
conclusions of reason into practice.

Of these talents (to regard them in their separate state) that of a
_strong imagination_, as being the commoner of the two, one would
naturally suppose should be the first to exert itself in the service of
criticism. And thus it seems, in fact, to have happened. For there were
very early in Greece a sort of men, who, under the name of RHAPSODISTS,
made it their business to illustrate the beauties of their favourite
writers. Though their art, indeed, was very simple; for it consisted
only in _acting_ the finest passages of their works, and in _repeating_
them, with a rapturous kind of vehemence, to an ecstatic auditory.
Whence it appears, that criticism, as being yet in its infancy, was
wholly turned to _admiration_; a passion which true _judgment_ as
little indulges in the schools of _Art_, as sound philosophy in those
of _Nature_. Accordingly these enraptured declaimers, though they
travelled down to the politer ages, could not subsist in them. The
fine ridicule of Plato, in one of his Dialogues[31], and the growing
taste for just thinking, seem perfectly to have discredited this folly.
And it was presently seen and acknowledged even by the Rhapsodist
himself, that, how _divinely_ soever he might feel himself affected by
the magnetic virtue of the muse, yet, as he could give no intelligible
account of its subtle operations, he was assuredly no _Artist_; ΘΕΙΟΝ
εἶναι καὶ μὴ ΤΕΧΝΙΚΟΝ ἐπαινέτην.

From this time they, who took upon themselves the office of commenting
and recommending the great writers of Greece, discharged it in a very
different manner. Their researches grew severe, inquisitive, and
rational. And no wonder; for the person, who now took the lead in these
studies, and set the fashion of them, was a _philosopher_, and, which
was happy for the advancement of this art, the justest philosopher of
antiquity. Hence _scientific_ or speculative criticism attained to
perfection, at once; and appeared in all that severity of reason and
accuracy of method, which Aristotle himself could bestow upon it.

But now this might almost seem as violent an extreme as the other.
For though to _understand_ be better than to _admire_, yet the
generality of readers _cannot_, or _will not_, understand, where there
is _nothing_ for them to admire. So that _reason_, for her own sake,
is obliged to borrow something of the dress, and to mimic the airs,
of _fancy_: And Aristotle’s _reason_ was too proud to submit to this
management.

Hence, the critical plan, which the Stagirite had formed with such
rigour of science, however it might satisfy the curious speculatist,
wanted to be _relieved_ and set off to the common eye by the
heightenings of eloquence. This, I observed, was the easier task of the
two; and yet it was very long before it was _successfully_ attempted.
Amongst other reasons of this delay, the principal, as you observe,
might be the fall of the public freedom of Greece, which soon after
followed. For then, instead of the free and manly efforts of genius,
which alone could accomplish such a reformation, the trifling spirit of
the times declined into mere verbal amusements: “whence,” as you say,
“so great a cloud of scholiasts and grammarians so soon over-spread
the learning of Greece, when once that famous community had lost its
liberty[32].”

And what Greece was thus unable, of a long time, to furnish, we shall
in vain seek in another great community, which soon after flourished,
in all liberal studies. The genius of Rome was bold and elevated enough
for this task. But Criticism, of any kind, was little cultivated, never
professed as an _art_, by this people. The specimens we have of their
ability in this way (of which the most elegant, beyond dispute, are
the two epistles to _Augustus_, and the _Pisos_) are slight occasional
attempts; made in the negligence of common sense, and adapted to the
peculiar exigencies of their own taste and learning: and not by any
means the regular productions of _art_, professedly bending itself to
this work, and ambitious to give the last finishing to the critical
system.

For so great an effort as this we are to look back to the confines
of Greece. And there at length, and even from beneath the depression
of slavery (but with a spirit that might have done honour to its
age of greatest liberty) a CRITIC arose, singularly qualified for
so generous an undertaking. His profession, which was that of a
_rhetorical sophist_, required him to be fully instructed in the graces
and embellishments of eloquence; and these, the vigour of his genius
enabled him to comprehend in their utmost force and beauty. In a word,
LONGINUS was the person, whom, of all the critics of antiquity, nature
seems to have formed with the proper talents to give the last honour to
his profession, and penetrate the very soul of fine writing.

Yet so bounded is human _wit_, and with such difficulty is human _art_
compleated, that even here the advantage, which had been so fortunately
gained on the one hand, was, in great measure, lost and forfeited on
the other. He had softened indeed the severity of Aristotle’s plan;
but, in doing this, had gone back again too far into the manner of
the admiring Rhapsodist. In short, with the brightest views of nature
and true beauty, which the finest imagination could afford to the best
critic, he now wanted, in a good degree, that precision, and depth of
thought, which had so eminently distinguished his predecessor. For, as
Plotinus long ago observed of him, _though he had approved himself a
master of polite literature, he was_ NO _Philosopher_; ΦΙΛΟΛΟΓΟΣ ΜΕΝ,
ΦΙΛΟΣΟΦΟΣ ΔΕ ΟΥΔΑΜΩΣ.

Thus the art had been shifting reciprocally into two extremes. And in
one or other of these extremes, it was likely to continue. For the fame
and eminent ability of their great founders had made them considered
as _models_, in their different ways, of perfect criticism. Only it
was easy to foresee which of them the humour of succeeding times would
be most disposed to emulate. The catching enthusiasm and picturesque
fancy of the _one_ would be sure to prevail over the coolness and
austerity of the _other_. Accordingly in the last and present century,
when now the diligence of learned men had, by restoring the purity,
opened an easy way to the study, of the old classics, a numberless
tribe of commentators have attempted, after the manner of Longinus,
to _flourish_ on the excellencies of their composition. And some of
them, indeed, succeeded so well in this method, that one is not to
wonder it soon became the popular and only authorized form of what was
reputed _just Criticism_. Yet, as nothing but superior genius could
make it tolerable even in the best of these, it was to be expected
(what experience hath now fully shewn), that it would at length, and
in ordinary hands, degenerate into the most unmeaning, frivolous, and
disgustful jargon, that ever discredited polite letters.

This, Sir, was the state in which you received _modern Criticism_: a
state, which could only shew you, that, of the two models, antiquity
had furnished to our use, we had learned, by an awkward imitation of
it, to abuse the _worst_. But it did not content your zeal for the
service of letters barely to remedy this _abuse_. It was not enough,
in your enlarged view of things, to restore either of these models to
its ancient splendour. They were both to be revived; or rather a new
original plan of criticism was to be struck out, which should unite the
virtues of each of them. The experiment was made on the TWO greatest
of our own poets; and, by reflecting all the lights of the imagination
on the severest reason, every thing was effected, which the warmest
admirer of ancient art could promise to himself from such an union.
But you went farther. By joining to these powers a perfect insight
into human nature, and so ennobling the exercise of _literary_, by
the addition of the justest moral, censure, you have now, at length,
advanced CRITICISM to its full glory.

Not but, considering the inveterate foible of mankind, which the poet
so justly satirizes in the following work, I mean that, which disposes
them to malign and depreciate all the efforts of wit and virtue,

        —nisi quae terris semota suisque
    Temporibus defuncta videt—

Considering, I say, this temper of mankind, you may sooner, perhaps,
expect the censures of the dull and envious of all denominations, than
the candid applause of the public, even for this service.

I apprehend this consequence the rather, because criticism, though it
be _the last fruit of literary experience_, is more exposed to the
cavils of ignorance and vanity, than, perhaps, any other species of
learned application: all men being forward to judge, and few men giving
themselves leave to doubt of their being able to judge, of the merits
of well-known and popular writers.

Nor is this all: When writers of a certain rank condescend to this work
of criticism, the innovation excites a very natural ferment in the _men
of the profession_.

Their JEALOUSY is alarmed, as if there was a design to strip them of
the only honour they can reasonably pretend to, that of sitting in
judgment on the _inventions_ of their betters. But to JUDGE, he well
as to INVENT, is thought a violent encroachment in the republic of
Letters; not unlike the ambition of the Roman emperors, who would
be consuls, and censors too, that is, would have the privilege of
excluding from the senate, as well as of presiding in it.

But if jealousy were out of the case, their MALIGNITY would be much
inflamed by this intrusion. For who can bear to see his own weak
endeavours in any art, disgraced by a consummate model?

Besides, to say the truth, the conceptions of such writers, as I before
spoke of, lie so remote from vulgar apprehension, that, without either
_jealousy_ or _malignity_, DULLNESS itself will be sure to create them
many peevish detractors. For an ordinary critic can scarce help finding
fault with what he does not understand, or being angry where he has no
ideas.

On all these accounts it may possibly happen, as I said, that your
critical labours will draw upon you much popular resentment and
invective.

But if such should be the _present_ effect of your endeavours to
cultivate and complete this elegant part of literature, you, who know
the temper of the learned world, and, by your eminent merits, have
so oft provoked its injustice, will not be disturbed or surprized at
it: much less should it discourage those who are disposed to do you
more right, from celebrating, and, as they find themselves able, from
copying your example;

For USE will father what’s begot by SENSE, as well in this, as in other
instances.

You see, Sir, what there is of encomium in the turn of this Letter,
was intended not so much for your sake, as my own. Had my purpose been
any other, I must have chosen very ill among the various parts of your
character to take _this_ for the subject of an address to you. For,
after all I have said and think of your critical abilities, it might
seem almost as strange in a panegyrist on Mr. Warburton to tell of his
admirable criticisms on POPE and SHAKESPEAR, as it would be in him,
who should design an encomium on Socrates, to insist on his excellent
sculpture of MERCURY and the GRACES. Yet there is a time, when it may
be allowed to lay a stress on the amusements of such men. It is, when
an adventurer in either _art_ would do an honour to his profession.

  I am, with the truest esteem,

  Reverend Sir,

  Your most obedient

  and most humble servant,

  R. HURD.

  CAMBRIDGE,
  _March 29, 1753_.




Q. HORATII FLACCI

EPISTOLA AD AUGUSTUM.


    Cum tot sustineas et tanta negotia solus,
    Res Italas armis tuteris, moribus ornes,
    Legibus emendes; in publica commoda peccem,
    Si longo sermone morer tua tempora, Caesar.
    Romulus, et Liber pater, et cum Castore Pollux,              5
    Post ingentia fata, Deorum in templa recepti,
    Dum terras hominumque colunt genus, aspera bella
    Conponunt, agros adsignant, oppida condunt;
    Ploravere suis non respondere favorem
    Speratum meritis. diram qui contudit Hydram,                10
    Notaque fatali portenta labore subegit,
    Comperit invidiam supremo fine domari.
    Urit enim fulgore suo, qui praegravat artis
    Infra se positas: extinctus amabitur idem.
    Praesenti tibi maturos largimur honores,                    15
    Jurandasque tuum per numen ponimus aras,
    Nil oriturum alias, nil ortum tale fatentes.
    Sed tuus hoc populus sapiens et justus in uno,
    Te nostris ducibus, te Graiis anteferendo,
    Cetera nequaquam simili ratione modoque                     20
    Aestimat; et, nisi quae terris semota suisque
    Temporibus defuncta videt, fastidit et odit:
    Sic fautor veterum, ut Tabulas peccare vetantis,
    Quas bis quinque viri sanxerunt, Foedera regum
    Vel Gabiis vel cum rigidis aequata Sabinis,                 25
    Pontificum libros, annosa volumina Vatum,
    Dictitet Albano Musas in monte locutas.
    Si, quia Graiorum sunt antiquissima quaeque
    Scripta vel optima, Romani pensantur eadem
    Scriptores trutina; non est quod multa loquamur:            30
    Nil intra est olea, nil extra est in nuce duri:
    Venimus ad summum fortunae: pingimus, atque
    Psallimus, et luctamur Achivis doctius unctis.
    Si meliora dies, ut vina, poemata reddit;
    Scire velim, chartis pretium quotus arroget annus,          35
    Scriptor ab hinc annos centum qui decidit, inter
    Perfectos veteresque referri debet, an inter
    Vilis atque novos? excludat jurgia finis.
    Est vetus atque probus centum qui perficit annos.
    Quid? qui deperiit minor uno mense vel anno,                40
    Inter quos referendus erit? veteresne poetas,
    An quos et praesens et postera respuat aetas?
    Iste quidem veteres inter ponetur honeste,
    Qui vel mense brevi, vel toto est junior anno.
    Utor permisso, caudaeque pilos ut equinae                   45
    Paullatim vello; et demo unum, demo et item unum;
    Dum cadat elusus ratione ruentis acervi,
    Qui redit in fastos, et virtutem aestimat annis,
    Miraturque nihil, nisi quod Libitina sacravit.
    Ennius et sapiens, et fortis, et alter Homerus,             50
    Ut critici dicunt, leviter curare videtur
    Quo promissa cadant, et somnia Pythagorea.
    Naevius in manibus non est, et mentibus haeret
    Pene recens? adeo sanctum est vetus omne poema.
    Ambigitur quotiens, uter utro sit prior; aufert             55
    Pacuvius docti famam senis, Accius alti:
    Dicitur Afranî toga convenisse Menandro:
    Plautus ad exemplar Siculi properare Epicharmi;
    Vincere Caecilius gravitate, Terentius arte.
    Hos ediscit, et hos arto stipata theatro                    60
    Spectat Roma potens; habet hos numeratque poetas
    Ad nostrum tempus, Livî Scriptoris ab aevo.
    Interdum volgus rectum videt: est ubi peccat.
    Si veteres ita miratur laudatque poetas,
    Ut nihil anteferat, nihil illis comparet; errat:            65
    Si quaedam nimis antique, si pleraque dure
    Dicere cedit eos, ignave multa fatetur;
    Et sapit, et mecum facit, et Jove judicat aequo.
    Non equidem insector, delendave carmina Laevî
    Esse reor, memini quae plagosum mihi parvo                  70
    Orbilium dictare; sed emendata videri
    Pulchraque, et exactis minimum distantia, miror:
    Inter quae verbum emicuit si forte decorum,
    Si versus paulo concinnior unus et alter;
    Injuste totum ducit venitque poema.                         75
    Indignor quicquam reprehendi, non quia crasse
    Compositum, inlepideve putetur, sed quia nuper:
    Nec veniam antiquis, sed honorem et praemia posci.
    Recte necne crocum floresque perambulet Attae
    Fabula, si dubitem; clament periisse pudorem                80
    Cuncti pene patres: ea cum reprehendere coner,
    Quae gravis Aesopus, quae doctus Roscius egit.
    Vel quia nil rectum, nisi quod placuit sibi, ducunt;
    Vel quia turpe putant parere minoribus, et, quae
    Inberbi didicere, senes perdenda fateri.                    85
    Jam Saliare Numae carmen qui laudat, et illud
    Quod mecum ignorat, solus volt scire videri;
    Ingeniis non ille favet plauditque sepultis,
    Nostra sed inpugnat, nos nostraque lividus odit.
    Quod si tam Graiis novitas invisa fuisset,                  90
    Quam nobis; quid nunc esset vetus? aut quid haberet,
    Quod legeret tereretque viritim publicus usus?
    Ut primum positis nugari Graecia bellis
    Coepit, et in vitium fortuna labier aequa;
    Nunc athletarum studiis, nunc arsit equorum:                95
    Marmoris, aut eboris fabros, aut aeris amavit;
    Suspendit picta vultum mentemque tabella;
    Nunc tibicinibus, nunc est gavisa tragoedis:
    Sub nutrice puella velut si luderet infans,
    Quod cupide petiit, mature plena reliquit.                 100
    Quid placet, aut odio est, quod non mutabile credas?
    Hoc paces habuere bonae, ventique secundi.
    Romae dulce diu fuit et sollenne, reclusa
    Mane domo vigilare, clienti promere jura:
    Scriptos nominibus rectis expendere nummos:                105
    Majores audire, minori dicere, per quae
    Crescere res posset, minui damnosa libido.
    Mutavit mentem populus levis, et calet uno
    Scribendi studio: puerique patresque severi
    Fronde comas vincti coenant, et carmina dictant.           110
    Ipse ego, qui nullos me adfirmo scribere versus,
    Invenior Parthis mendacior; et prius orto
    Sole vigil, calamum et chartas et scrinia posco.
    Navem agere ignarus navis timet: abrotonum aegro
    Non audet, nisi qui didicit, dare: quod medicorum est,     115
    Promittunt medici: tractant fabrilia fabri:
    Scribimus indocti doctique poemata passim.
    Hic error tamen et levis haec insania quantas
    Virtutes habeat, sic collige: vatis avarus
    Non temere est animus: versus amat, hoc studet unum;       120
    Detrimenta, fugas servorum, incendia ridet:
    Non fraudem socio, puerove incogitat ullam
    Pupillo: vivit siliquis, et pane secundo:
    Militiae quanquam piger et malus, utilis urbi;
    Si das hoc, parvis quoque rebus magna juvari;              125
    Os tenerum pueri balbumque poëta figurat:
    Torquet ab obscoenis jam nunc sermonibus aurem;
    Mox etiam pectus praeceptis format amicis,
    Asperitatis et invidiae corrector et irae:
    Recte facta refert; orientia tempora notis                 130
    Instruit exemplis; inopem solatur et aegrum.
    Castis cum pueris ignara puella mariti
    Disceret unde preces, vatem ni Musa dedisset?
    Poscit opem chorus, et praesentia numina sentit;
    Coelestis implorat aquas, docta prece blandus;             135
    Avertit morbos, metuenda pericula pellit;
    Inpetrat et pacem, et locupletem frugibus annum:
    Carmine Dî superi placantur, carmine Manes.
    Agricolae prisci, fortes, parvoque beati,
    Condita post frumenta, levantes tempore festo              140
    Corpus et ipsum animum spe finis dura ferentem,
    Cum sociis operum pueris et conjuge fida,
    Tellurem porco, Silvanum lacte piabant,
    Floribus et vino Genium memorem brevis aevi.
    Fescennina per hunc invecta licentia morem                 145
    Versibus alternis opprobria rustica fudit;
    Libertasque recurrentis accepta per annos
    Lusit amabiliter: donec jam saevus apertam
    In rabiem coepit verti jocus, et per honestas
    Ire domos impune minax. doluere cruento                    150
    Dente lacessiti: fuit intactis quoque cura
    Conditione super communi: quin etiam lex
    Poenaque lata, malo quae nollet carmine quemquam
    Describi. vertere modum, formidine fustis
    Ad bene dicendum delectandumque redacti.                   155
    Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit, et artis
    Intulit agresti Latio. sic horridus ille
    Defluxit numerus Saturnius, et grave virus
    Munditiae pepulere: sed in longum tamen aevum
    Manserunt, hodieque manent, vestigia ruris.                160
    Serus enim Graecis admovit acumina chartis;
    Et post Punica bella quietus quaerere coepit,
    Quid Sophocles et Thespis et Aeschylos utile ferrent:
    Tentavit quoque rem, si digne vertere posset:
    Et placuit sibi, natura sublimis et acer.                  165
    Nam spirat tragicum satis, et feliciter audet;
    Sed turpem putat inscitus metuitque lituram.
    Creditur, ex medio quia res arcessit, habere
    Sudoris minimum; sed habet Comoedia tanto
    Plus oneris, quanto veniae minus. aspice, Plautus          170
    Quo pacto partis tutetur amantis ephebi;
    Ut patris attenti, lenonis ut insidiosi:
    Quantus sit Dossennus edacibus in parasitis:
    Quam non adstricto percurrat pulpita socco.
    Gestit enim nummum in loculos demittere; post hoc          175
    Securus, cadat an recto stet fabula talo.
    Quem tulit ad scenam ventoso gloria curru,
    Exanimat lentus spectator, sedulus inflat.
    Sic leve, sic parvum est, animum quod laudis avarum
    Subruit ac reficit. valeat res ludicra, si me              180
    Palma negata macrum, donata reducit opimum.
    Saepe, etiam audacem, fugat hoc terretque poetam;
    Quod numero plures, virtute et honore minores,
    Indocti, stolidique, et depugnare parati
    Si discordet eques, media inter carmina poscunt            185
    Aut ursum aut pugiles: his nam plebecula gaudet.
    Verum equiti quoque jam migravit ab aure voluptas
    Omnis, ad ingratos oculos, et gaudia vana.
    Quatuor aut pluris aulaea premuntur in horas;
    Dum fugiunt equitum turmae, peditumque catervae:           190
    Mox trahitur manibus regum fortuna retortis:
    Esseda festinant, pilenta, petorrita, naves:
    Captivum portatur ebur, captiva Corinthus.
    Si foret in terris, rideret Democritus; seu
    Diversum confusa genus panthera camelo,                    195
    Sive elephas albus volgi converterit ora:
    Spectaret populum ludis attentius ipsis,
    Ut sibi praebentem mimo spectacula plura:
    Scriptores autem narrare putaret asello
    Fabellam surdo. nam quae pervincere voces                  200
    Evaluere sonum, referunt quem nostra theatra?
    Garganum mugire putes nemus, aut mare Tuscum.
    Tanto cum strepitu ludi spectantur, et artes,
    Divitiaeque peregrinae: quibus oblitus actor
    Cum stetit in scena, concurrit dextera laevae:             205
    Dixit adhuc aliquid? nil sane. quid placet ergo?
    Lana Tarentino violas imitata veneno.
    Ac ne forte putes me, quae facere ipse recusem,
    Cum recte tractent alii, laudare maligne:
    Ille per extentum funem mihi posse videtur                 210
    Ire poeta; meum qui pectus inaniter angit,
    Inritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus inplet,
    Ut magus; et modo me Thebis, modo ponit Athenis.
    Verum age, et his, qui se lectori credere malunt,
    Quam spectatoris fastidia ferre superbi,                   215
    Curam impende brevem: si munus Apolline dignum
    Vis complere libris; et vatibus addere calcar,
    Ut studio majore petant Helicona virentem.
    Multa quidem nobis facimus mala saepe poëtae,
    (Ut vineta egomet caedam mea) cum tibi librum              220
    Sollicito damus, aut fesso: cum laedimur, unum
    Si quis amicorum est ausus reprendere versum:
    Cum loca jam recitata revolvimus inrevocati:
    Cum lamentamur non adparere labores
    Nostros, et tenui deducta poemata filo:                    225
    Cum speramus eo rem venturam, ut, simul atque
    Carmina rescieris nos fingere, commodus ultro
    Arcessas, et egere vetes, et scribere cogas.
    Sed tamen est operae pretium cognoscere, qualis
    Aedituos habeat belli spectata domique                     230
    Virtus, indigno non committenda poetae.
    Gratus Alexandro regi Magno fuit ille
    Choerilos, incultis qui versibus et male natis
    Rettulit acceptos, regale nomisma, Philippos.
    Sed veluti tractata notam labemque remittunt               235
    Atramenta, fere scriptores carmine foedo
    Splendida facta linunt. idem rex ille, poëma
    Qui tam ridiculum tam care prodigus emit,
    Edicto vetuit; ne quis se, praeter Apellen
    Pingeret, aut alius Lysippo cuderet aera                   240
    Fortis Alexandri voltum simulantia. quod si
    Judicium subtile videndis artibus illud
    Ad libros et ad haec Musarum dona vocares;
    Boeotum in crasso jurares aëre natum.
    At neque dedecorant tua de se judicia, atque               245
    Munera, quae multa dantis cum laude tulerunt,
    Dilecti tibi Virgilius Variusque poetae:
    Nec magis expressi voltus per aënea signa,
    Quam per vatis opus mores animique virorum
    Clarorum adparent. nec sermones ego mallem                 250
    Repentis per humum, quam res componere gestas,
    Terrarumque situs, et flumina dicere, et arcis
    Montibus impositas, et barbara regna, tuisque
    Auspiciis totum confecta duella per orbem,
    Claustraque custodem pacis cohibentia Janum,               255
    Et formidatam Parthis, te principe, Romam:
    Si quantum cuperem, possem quoque. sed neque parvum
    Carmen majestas recipit tua; nec meus audet
    Rem tentare pudor, quam vires ferre recusent.
    Sedulitas autem stulte, quem diligit, urguet;              260
    Praecipue cum se numeris commendat et arte.
    Discit enim citius, meminitque libentius illud
    Quod quis deridet, quam quod probat et veneratur.
    Nil moror officium, quod me gravat: ac neque ficto
    In pejus voltu proponi cereus usquam,                      265
    Nec prave factis decorari versibus opto:
    Ne rubeam pingui donatus munere, et una
    Cum scriptore meo capsa porrectus operta,
    Deferar in vicum vendentem tus et odores,
    Et piper, et quicquid chartis amicitur ineptis.            270


COMMENTARY.

EPISTOLA AD AUGUSTUM.] In conducting this work, which is _an apology
for the poets of his own time_, the method of the writer is no other,
than that which plain sense, and the subject itself, required of
him. For, as the main dislike to the Augustan poets had arisen from
an _excessive reverence_ paid to their elder brethren, the _first_
part of the epistle [from v. 1 to 118] is very naturally laid out in
the ridicule and confutation of so absurd a prejudice. And having,
by this preparation, obtained a candid hearing for his defence, he
then proceeds [in what follows, to the _end_] to vindicate their real
_merits_; setting in view the excellencies of the _Latin poetry_, as
cultivated by the great modern masters; and throwing the blame of
their ill success, and of the contempt in which they had lain, not so
much on themselves, or their _profession_ (the dignity of _which_, in
particular, he insists highly upon, and asserts with spirit) as on the
vicious taste of the age, and certain unfavouring circumstances, which
had accidentally concurred to dishonour _both_.

This idea of the _general_ plan being comprehended, the reader will
find it no difficulty to perceive the order and arrangement of
_particular_ parts, which the natural transition of the poet’s thought
insensibly drew along with it.

5-118. ROMULUS, ET LIBER PATER, &c.] The subject commences from v. 5,
where, by a contrivance of great beauty, a pertinent _illustration_
of the poet’s argument becomes an offering of the happiest _address_
to the emperor. Its _double_ purpose may be seen thus. His primary
intention was to take off the force of prejudice against _modern_
poets, arising from the superior veneration of the _ancients_. To
this end the first thing wanting was to demonstrate by some striking
instance, that it was, indeed, nothing but _prejudice_; which he
does effectually in taking that instance from the _heroic_, that is,
the most revered, ages. For if such, whose acknowledged virtues and
eminent services had raised them to the rank of _heroes_, that is, in
the pagan conception of things, to the honours of _divinity_, could
not secure their fame, in their own times, against the malevolence of
slander, what wonder that the race of _wits_, whose obscurer merit is
less likely to dazzle the public eye, and yet, by a peculiar fatality,
is more apt to awaken its jealousy, should find themselves oppressed
by its rudest censure? In the _former_ case the honours, which equal
posterity paid to excelling worth, declare all _such_ censure to have
been the calumny of malice only. What reason then to conclude, it had
any other original in the _latter_? This is the poet’s _argument_.

But now, of these worthies themselves, whom the justice of grateful
posterity had snatched out of the hands of detraction, there were some,
it seems, whose illustrious services the virtue or vain-glory of the
emperor most affected to emulate; and these, therefore, the poet, by an
ingenious flattery, selects for examples to his general _observation_,

    _Romulus, et Liber pater, et cum Castore Pollux
    Post ingentia fata_, &c.

Further, as the good fortune of Augustus, though adorned with the
_same_ enviable qualities, had exempted _him_ from the injuries which
had constantly befallen _those admired characters_, this peculiar
circumstance in the history of his prince affords him the happiest
occasion, flattery could desire, of paying distinguished honours to his
glory.

    _Praesenti tibi maturos largimur honores._

And this constitutes the fine _address and compliment of his
Application_.

But this justice, which Augustus had exacted, as it were, by the very
authority of his virtue, from his applauding people, was but ill
discharged in other instances.

    _Sed tuus hoc populus sapiens et justus in uno,
    Te nostris ducibus, te Graiis anteferendo,
    Cetera nequaquam simili ratione modoque
    Aestimat_, &c.

And thus the very _exception_ to the general rule, which forms the
encomium, leads him with advantage into his _argument_; which was
to observe and expose “the malignant influence of prepossession in
obstructing the proper glories of living merit.” So that, as good sense
demands in every reasonable panegyric, the praise results from the
nature and foundation of the subject-matter, and is not violently and
reluctantly dragged into it.

His general charge against his countrymen “of their bigotted attachment
to those, dignified by the name of _ancients_, in prejudice to the just
deserts of the moderns,” being thus delivered; and the folly of such
conduct, with some agreeable exaggeration, exposed; he sets himself
with a happy mixture of irony and argument, as well becomes the genius
and character of the _epistle_, to confute the pretences, and overturn
the very _foundations_, on which it rested.

One main support of their folly was taken from an allowed fact, viz.
“That the oldest _Greek_ writers were incontestably superior to the
modern ones.” From whence they inferred, that it was but according to
nature and the course of experience, to give the like preference to the
oldest _Roman_ masters.

His confutation of this sophism consists of two parts. _First_, [from
v. 28 to 32] he insists on the _evident_ absurdity of the opinion he
is confuting. There was no reasoning with persons, capable of such
_extravagant positions_. But, _secondly_, the pretended fact itself,
with regard to the Greek learning, was _grossly misunderstood, or
perversely applied_. For [from v. 32 to 34] it was not true, nor
could it be admitted, that the very _oldest_ of the _Greek_ writers
were the best, but those only, which were old, in comparison of the
mere modern Greeks. The so much applauded models of Grecian antiquity
were themselves _modern_, in respect of the still _older_ and ruder
essays of their first writers. It was long discipline and cultivation,
the same which had given the Greek _artists_ in the Augustan reign a
superiority over the Roman, that by degrees established the good taste,
and fixed the authority of the Greek _poets_; from which point it was
natural and even necessary for succeeding, _i. e._ the modern Greeks
to decline. But no consequence lay from hence to the advantage of the
Latin poets, in question; who were wholly unfurnished with any previous
study of the arts of verse; and whose works could only be compared with
the very _oldest_, that is, the rude forgotten essays of the Greek
poetry. So that the fine sense, so closely shut up in this concise
couplet, comes out thus: “The modern Greek masters of the _fine arts_
are confessedly superior to the modern Roman. The reason is, they have
practised them longer, and with more diligence. Just so, the modern
Roman writers must needs have the advantage of their _old_ ones: who
had no knowledge of writing, as an _art_, or, if they had, took but
small care to put it in practice.”

Further, this plea of antiquity is as uncertain in its _application_,
as it was destitute of all truth and reason in its original
_foundation_. For if age only must bear away the palm, what way is
there of determining, which writers are _modern_, and which _ancient_?
The impossibility of fixing this to the satisfaction of an objector,
which is pursued [to v. 50] with much agreeable raillery, makes it
evident, that the circumstance of antiquity is absolutely nothing;
and that in _estimating the merit_ of writers, the real, intrinsic
excellence of their writings _themselves_ is alone to be regarded.

Thus far the poet’s intent was to combat the _general_ prejudice of the
critic,

    _Qui redit in fastos et virtutem aestimat annis._

Taking the fact for granted “of his strong prepossession for antiquity,
_as such_” he would discredit, both by raillery and argument, so
absurd a conduct. What he gains, by this disposition, is to come to
the _particulars_ of his charge with more advantage. For the popular
contempt of modern composition, sheltering itself under a shew of
learned admiration of the _ancients_, whose age and reputation had
made them truly venerable, and whose genuine merits, in the main,
could not be disputed, a direct attack upon their fame, at setting
out, without any softening, had disgusted the most _moderate_; whereas
this prefatory appeal to common sense, under the cover of general
criticism, would even dispose bigotry itself to afford the poet a
candid hearing. His accusation then of the public taste comes in, here,
very pertinently; and is delivered, with address [from v. 50 to 63] in
a particular detail of the judgements passed upon the most celebrated
of the old Roman poets, by the generality of the modern critics; where,
to win upon their prejudices still further by his generosity and good
faith, he scruples not to recount such of their determinations on the
merit of ancient writers, as were reasonable and well founded, as
well as others, that he deemed less just, and as such intended more
immediately to expose.

We see then with what art the poet conducts himself in this attack on
the _ancients_, and how it served his purpose, by turns, to soften and
aggravate the _charge_. _First_, “he wanted to lower the reputation
of the old poets.” This was not to be done by general invective or an
affected dissimulation of their just praise. He admits then [from v. 63
to 66] their reasonable pretensions to _admiration_. ’Tis the _degree_
of it alone, to which he objects.

    _Si veteres_ ITA _miratur laudatque_, &c.

_Secondly_, “he wanted to draw off their applauses from “the ancient
to the modern poets.” This required the _advantages_ of those
moderns to be distinctly shewn, or, which comes to the same, the
_comparative deficiencies_ of the ancients to be pointed out. These
were not to be dissembled, and are, as he openly insists [to v. 69]
_obsolete language_, _rude and barbarous construction_, and _slovenly
composition_,

    _Si quaedam nimis_ ANTIQUE, _si pleraque_ DURE,
    _Dicere cedit eos_, IGNAVE _multa_.

But what then? an objector replies, these were venial faults, surely;
the _deficiencies_ of the times, and not of the men; who, with such
incorrectnesses as are here noted, might still possess the greatest
_talents_, and produce the noblest _designs_. This [from v. 69 to 79]
is readily admitted. But, in the mean time, one thing was clear, that
they were not _finished models_—_exactis minimum distantia_. Which was
the main point in dispute. For the bigot’s absurdity lay in this,

    _Non veniam antiquis, sed honorem et praemia posci._

Nay, his folly is shewn to have gone still greater lengths. These
boasted models of antiquity, with all their imperfections, had
occasionally [v. 73, 74] though the instances were indeed rare and
thinly scattered, _striking beauties_. These, under the recommendation
of _age_, which, of course, commands our reverence, might well
impose on the judgements of the _generality_, and standing forth
with advantage, as from a shaded and dark _ground_, would naturally
catch the eye and admiration of the more _learned_. Thus much the
poet candidly insinuates in excuse of the bigot’s _ill judgment_.
But, unluckily, he had cut himself off from the benefit of this plea,
by avowedly grounding his _admiration_, not merely on the intrinsic
excellence, so far as it went, of the ancient poetry itself; but on the
advantage of any extraneous circumstance, which but casually stuck to
it. The accident of a play’s having passed though the mouth, and been
graced by the action, of a just speaker, was sufficient [from v. 79 to
83] (so inexcusable were his prejudices) to attract his wonder, and
justify his esteem. In so much that it became an insolence, generally
cried out upon, for any one to censure such pieces of the theatre,

    _Quae gravis Æsopus, quae doctus Roscius egit._

This being the case, it was no longer a doubt, whether the affected
admiration of antiquity proceeded from a deluded judgment only, or a
much worse cause. It could plainly be resolved into no other, than
the willful agency of the malignant affections; which, wherever they
prevail, corrupt the simple and ingenuous sense of the mind, either
1. [v. 83] _in engendring high conceits of self_, and referring all
degrees of excellence to the supposed infallible standard of every
man’s own judgment; or 2. [to v. 86] _in creating a false shame_, and
reluctancy in us to be directed by the judgments of others, though
_seen_ to be more equitable, whenever they are found in opposition to
our own rooted and preconceived opinions. The bigotry of _old Men_ is,
especially, for this reason, invincible. They hold themselves upbraided
by the sharper sight of their juniors; and regard the adoption of new
sentiments, at their years, as so much absolute loss on the side of the
dead stock of their old literary possessions. These considerations are
generally of such prevalency in great veteran critics, that [from v.
86 to 90] whenever, as in the case before us, they pretend an uncommon
zeal for antiquity, and their sagacity piques itself on detecting the
superior value of obscure rhapsodists whom no body else reads, or is
able to understand, we may be sure the secret view of such, is, not the
generous defence and patronage of _ancient_ wit, but a low malevolent
pleasure in decrying the just pretensions of the _modern_.

    _Ingeniis non ille favet plauditque sepultis,
    Nostra sed impugnat, nos nostraque lividus odit._

The poet had, now, made appear the unreasonable attachment of his
countrymen to the fame of their old writers. He had thoroughly
unravelled the sophistical pretences, on which it affected to justify
itself; and had even dared to unveil the _secret iniquitous principle_,
from which it arose. It was now time to look forward to the _effects_
of it; which were, in truth, very baleful; its poisonous influences
being of force to corrupt and wither, as it were, in the bud, every
rising species of excellence, and fatally to check the very hopes and
tendencies of true genius. Nothing can be truer, than this remark;
which he further enforces, and brings home to his adversaries, by
asking a pertinent question, to which it concerned them to make a
serious reply. They had magnified v. 28 the perfection of the Greek
models. But what [to v. 93] if the Greeks had conceived the same
aversion to _novelties_, as the Romans? How then could _those_ models
have ever been furnished to the public use? The question, we see,
insinuates what was before affirmed to be the truth of the case; that
the unrivalled excellence of the Greek poets proceeded only from
long and vigorous exercise, and a painful uninterrupted application
to the arts of verse. The liberal spirit of that people led them to
countenance every new attempt towards superior literary excellence;
and so, by the public favour, their writings, from rude essays, became
at length the standard and admiration of succeeding wits. The Romans
had treated their adventurers quite otherwise, and the effect was
answerable. This is the purport of what to a common eye may look like
a _digression_ [from v. 93 to 108], in which is delineated the very
different genius and practice of the two nations. For the _Greeks_ [to
v. 102] had applied themselves, in the intervals of their leisure from
the toils of war, to the cultivation of every species of elegance,
whether in _arts_, or _letters_; and loved to cherish the public
emulation, by affording a free indulgence to the various and volatile
disposition of the times. The activity of these restless spirits, was
incessantly attempting some new and untryed _form_ of composition; and,
when _that_ was brought to a due degree of perfection, it turned, _in
good time_, to the cultivation of some _other_.

    _Quod cupide petiit, mature plena reliquit._

So that the very caprice of _humour_ [v. 101] assisted, in this
libertine country, to advance and help forward the public taste. Such
was the effect of _peace and opportunity_ with them.

    _Hoc paces habuere bonae ventique secundi._

Whereas the _Romans_ [to v. 108] by a more composed temperament and
saturnine complexion had devoted their pains to the pursuit of domestic
utilities, and a more dexterous management of the _arts of gain_. The
consequence of which was, that when [to v. 117] by the decay of the
old frugal spirit, the necessary effect of overflowing plenty and
ease, they began, at length, to seek out for the elegancies of life;
and _a fit of versifying_, the first of all liberal amusements, that
usually seizes an idle people, had come upon them; their ignorance of
rules, and want of exercise in the art of writing, rendered them wholly
unfit to succeed in it. So that their awkward attempts in poetry were
now as disgraceful to their _taste_, as their total disregard of it,
before, had been to their _civility_. The root of this mischief was the
idolatrous regard paid to their ancient poets: which unluckily, when
the public emulation was set a going, not only checked its progress,
but gave it a wrong bias; and, instead of helping true genius to
outstrip the lame and tardy endeavours of ancient wit, drew it aside
into a vicious and unprofitable mimicry of its very imperfections.
Whence it had come to pass, that, whereas in other _arts_, the previous
knowledge of rules is required to the practice of them, in this of
_versifying_, no such qualification was deemed necessary.

    _Scribimus indocti doctique poemata passim._

This mischance was _doubly_ fatal to the Latin poetry. For the ill
success of these blind adventurers had increased the original mischief,
by confirming, as it needs must, the superstitious reverence of the
old writers; and insensibly brought, as well the art itself, as the
modern professors of it, into disrepute with the discerning public.
The vindication of _both_, then, at this critical juncture, was become
highly seasonable; and to this, which was the poet’s main purpose, he
addresses himself through the remainder of the epistle.

118 to the end. HIC ERROR TAMEN, &c.] Having sufficiently obviated
the popular and reigning prejudices against the modern poets, his
office of _advocate_ for their fame, which he had undertaken, and was
now to discharge, in form, required him to set their real merits and
pretensions in a just light. He enters therefore immediately on this
task. And, in drawing the character of the _true poet_, endeavours to
impress the Emperor with as advantageous an idea as possible, of the
worth and dignity of his calling. And this, not in the fierce insulting
tone of a zealot for the _honour of his order_, which to the _great_
is always disgusting, and where the occasion is, confessedly, not of
the last importance, plainly absurd; but with that unpretending air
of insinuation, which good sense, improved by a thorough knowledge
of the world, teaches: with that seeming indifference which disarms
prejudice: in a word, with that gracious _smile in his aspect_, which
his strong admirer and faint copyer, Persius, so justly noted in him,
and which convinces almost without the help of argument; or to say it
more truly, _persuades_ where it doth not properly _convince_. In this
disposition he sets out on his defence; and yet omits no _particular_,
which could any way serve to the real recommendation of _poets_, or
which indeed, the gravest or warmest of their friends have ever pleaded
in their behalf. This defence consists [from v. 118 to 139] in bringing
into view their many _civil_, _moral_, and _religious_ virtues. For
the muse, as the poet contends (and nothing could be more likely to
conciliate the esteem of the politic emperor) administers, in this
threefold capacity, to the service of the state.

But _Religion_, which was its _noblest end_, was, besides, the _first
object_ of poetry. The dramatic muse, in particular, had her birth,
and derived her very character, from it. This circumstance then leads
him with advantage, to give an historical deduction of the rise and
progress of the Latin poesy, from its first rude workings in the days
of barbarous superstition, through every successive period of its
improvement, down to his own times. Such a view of its descent and
gradual reformation was directly to the poet’s purpose. For having
magnified the virtues of his order, as of such importance to society,
the question naturally occurred, by what unhappy means it had fallen
out, that it was, nevertheless, in such low estimation with the public.
The answer is, that the state of the Latin poetry, as yet, was very
rude and imperfect: and so the public disregard was occasioned, only,
by its not having attained to that degree of perfection, of which its
_nature_ was capable. Many reasons had concurred to keep the Latin
poetry in this state, which he proceeds to enumerate. The _first and
principal_ was [from v. 139 to 164] the little attention paid _to
critical learning, and the cultivation of a correct and just spirit
of composition_. Which, again, had arisen from the coarse illiberal
disposition of the Latin muse, who had been nurtured and brought up
under the roof of rural superstition; and this, by an impure mixture of
licentious jollity, had so corrupted her very nature, that it was only
by slow degrees, and not till the conquest of Greece had imported arts
and learning into Italy, that she began to chastise her manners, and
assume a juster and more becoming deportment. And still she was but in
the condition of a rustic _beauty_, when, practising her aukward airs,
and making her first ungracious essays towards a _manner_.

                   _in longum tamen aevum
    Manserunt, hodieque manent_ vestigia ruris.

Her late acquaintance with the Greek models had, indeed, improved her
air, and inspired an inclination to emulate their noblest graces. But
how successfully, we are given to understand from her unequal attempts
in the two sublimer species of their poetry, the TRAGIC, AND COMIC
DRAMAS.

1. [from v. 160 to 168] The _study of the Greek tragedians_ had very
naturally, and to good purpose, in the infancy of their taste, disposed
the Latin writers to _translation_. Here they stuck long; for their
tragedy, even in the Augustan age, was little else; and yet they
succeeded but indifferently in it. The bold and animated genius of
Rome was, it is readily owned, well suited to this work. And for force
of colouring, and a truly tragic elevation, the Roman poets came not
behind their great originals. But unfortunately their judgment was
unformed, and they were too soon satisfied with their own productions.
Strength and fire was all they endeavoured after. And with this praise
they sate down perfectly contented. The discipline of correction, the
curious polishing of art, which had given such a lustre to the Greek
tragedians, they knew nothing of; or, to speak their case more truly,
they held disgraceful to the high spirit and energy of the Roman genius:

  TURPEM PUTAT IN SCRIPTIS METUITQUE LITURAM.

2. It did not fare better with them [from v. 168 to 175] in their
attempts to rival _the Greek comedy_. They preposterously set out
with the notion of its being easier to execute this drama than the
tragic: whereas to hit its genuine character with exactness was, in
truth, a point of much more difficulty. As the _subject_ of comedy
was taken from common life, they supposed an ordinary degree of care
might suffice, to do it justice. No wonder then, they overlooked or
never came up to that nice adjustment of the _manners_, that truth and
decorum of _character_, wherein the glory of comic painting consists,
and which none but the quickest eye can discern, and the steadiest
hand execute; and, in the room, amused us with _high colouring_,
and _false drawing_; with _extravagant, aggravated portraitures_;
which, neglecting the modest proportion of real life, are the certain
arguments of an unpractised pencil, or vicious taste.

What contributed to this prostitution of the comic muse, was [to v.
177] the seducement of that corruptress of all virtue, _the love of
money_; which had thoroughly infected the Roman wits, and was, in fact,
the sole object of their pains. Hence, provided they could but catch
the applauses of the people, to which the pleasantry of the comic scene
more especially aspires, and so secure a good round _price_ from the
magistrates, whose office it was to furnish this kind of entertainment,
they became indifferent to every nobler view and honester purpose.
In particular [to v. 182] they so little considered _fame and the
praise of good writing_, that they made it the ordinary topic of their
ridicule; representing it as the mere illusion of vanity, and the
pitiable infirmity of _lean-witted_ minds, to be catched by the lure of
so empty and unsubstantial a benefit.

Though, were any one, in defiance of public ridicule, so _daring_
(as there is no occasion in life, which calls for, or demonstrates
a greater firmness), as frankly to avow and submit himself to this
generous _motive_, the surest inspirer of every virtuous excellence,
yet one thing remained to check and weaken the vigour of his emulation.
This [from v. 182 to 187] was the folly and ill taste of the
undiscerning multitude; who, in all countries, have a great share in
determining the fate and character of scenical representations, but,
from the popular constitution of the government, were, at Rome, of the
first consequence. These, by their rude clamours, and the authority
of their numbers, were enough to dishearten the most intrepid genius;
when, after all his endeavours to reap the glory of an absolute work,
the _action_ was almost sure to be mangled and broken in upon by the
shews of _wild beasts and gladiators_; those _dear delights_, which the
Romans, it seems, prized much above the highest pleasures of the drama.

Nay, the poet’s case was still more desperate. For it was not the
untutored rabble, as in other countries, that gave a countenance to
these illiberal sports: even _rank and quality_, at Rome, debased
itself in shewing the fiercest passion for these _shews_, and was
as ready, as abject commonalty itself, to prefer the uninstructing
pleasures of the _eye_ to those of the _ear_.

      EQUITI _quoque jam migravit ab aure voluptas
    Omnis ad ingratos oculos et gaudia vana._

And, because this barbarity of taste had contributed more than any
thing else to deprave the poetry of the stage, and discourage its best
masters from studying its perfection, what follows [from v. 189 to 207]
is intended, in all the keenness of raillery, to satyrize this madness.
It afforded an ample field for the poet’s ridicule. For, besides the
riotous disorders of their theatre, the senseless admiration of _pomp
and spectacle_ in their plays had so inchanted his countrymen, that
the very decorations of the scene, the tricks and trappings of the
comedians, were surer to catch the applauses of the gaping multitude,
than any regard to the justness of the poet’s design, or the beauty of
his execution.

Here the poet should naturally have concluded his _defence of the
dramatic writers_; having alledged every thing in their favour, that
could be urged, plausibly, from _the state of the Roman stage: the
genius of the people: and the several prevailing practices of ill
taste_, which had brought them into disrepute with the best judges.
But finding himself obliged, in the course of this vindication of the
modern _stage-poets_, to censure as sharply, as their very enemies, the
vices and defects of their _poetry_; and fearing lest this severity
on a sort of writing, to which himself had never pretended, might be
misinterpreted as the effect of envy only, and a malignant disposition
towards the art itself, under cover of pleading for its _professors_,
he therefore frankly avows [from v. 208 to 214] his preference of the
_dramatic_, to every other species of poetry; declaring the sovereignty
of its pathos over the _affections_, and the magic of its illusive
scenery on the _Imagination_, to be the highest argument of poetic
excellence, the last and noblest exercise of the human genius.

One thing still remained. He had taken upon himself to apologize for
the Roman poets, in _general_; as may be seen from the large terms, in
which he proposes his subject.

    _Hic error tamen et levis haec insania quantas
    Virtutes habeat, sic collige._

But, after a general encomium on the _office_ itself, he confines his
defence to the _writers for the stage_ only. In conclusion then, he was
constrained, by the very purpose of his address, to say a word or two
in behalf of the remainder of this neglected family; of those, who, as
the poet expresses it, had _rather trust to the equity of the closet,
than subject themselves to the caprice and insolence of the theatre_.

Now, as before, in asserting the honour of the stage-poets he every
where supposes the emperor’s _disgust_ to have sprung from the wrong
conduct of the poets themselves, and then extenuates the blame of
such _conduct_, by considering, still further, the _causes_ which
gave rise to it; so he prudently observes the like method here. The
politeness of his address concedes to Augustus, the just _offence_ he
had taken to his brother poets; whose honour, however, he contrives
to save by softening the _occasions_ of it. This is the drift of what
follows [from v. 214 to 229] where he pleasantly recounts the several
foibles and indiscretions of the muse; but in a way, that could only
dispose the emperor to smile at, or at most, to pity her infirmities,
not provoke his serious censure and disesteem. They amount, on the
whole, but to certain idlenesses of _vanity_, the almost inseparable
attendant of _wit_, as well as _beauty_; and may be forgiven in _each_,
as implying a strong _desire_ of pleasing, or rather as _qualifying_
both to please. One of the most exceptionable of these _vanities_ was a
fond persuasion, too readily taken up by men of parts and genius, that
_preferment is the constant pay of merit_; and that, from the moment
their talents become known to the public, distinction and advancement
are sure to follow. They believed, in short, they had only to convince
the world of their superior abilities, to deserve the favour and
countenance of their prince. But fond and presumptuous as these hopes
are (continues the poet [from v. 229 to 244] with all the insinuation
of a courtier, and yet with a becoming sense of the dignity of his
own character) it may deserve a serious consideration, what poets are
fit to be entrusted with the glory of princes; what _ministers_ are
worth retaining in the service of an illustrious VIRTUE, whose honours
demand to be solemnized with a religious reverence, and should not be
left to the profanation of vile, unhallowed hands. And, to support
the authority of this remonstrance, he alledges the example of a
great Monarch, who had dishonoured himself by a neglect of this care;
of ALEXANDER THE GREAT, who, when master of the world, as Augustus
now was, perceived, indeed, the importance of gaining a poet to his
service; but unluckily chose so ill, that his encomiums (as must ever
be the case with a vile panegyrist) but tarnished the native splendor
of those virtues, which his office required him to present, in their
fullest and fairest glory, to the admiration of the world. In his
appointment of _artists_, whose skill is, also, highly serviceable to
the fame of princes, he shewed a truer judgment. For he suffered none
but an APELLES and a LYSIPPUS to counterfeit the form and fashion of
his _person_. But his _taste_, which was thus exact and even _subtile_
in what concerned the mechanic execution of the _fine arts_, took up
with a CHOERILUS, to transmit an image of his _mind_ to future ages;
so grosly undiscerning was he in works of poetry, and the liberal
_offerings of the muse_!

And thus the poet makes a double use of the illjudgment of this
imperial critic. For nothing could better demonstrate the importance
of _poetry_ to the honour of _greatness_, than that this illustrious
conqueror, without any particular knowledge or discernment in the
_art_ itself, should think himself concerned to court its assistance.
And, then, what could be more likely to engage the emperor’s further
protection and love of _poetry_, than the insinuation (which is
made with infinite address) that, as he honoured it equally, so he
understood its merits much better? For [from v. 245 to 248, where, by
a beautiful concurrence, the flattery of his prince falls in with the
honester purpose of doing justice to the memory of his friends] it was
not the same unintelligent liberality, which had cherished Choerilus,
that poured the full stream of Caesar’s bounty on such persons, as
VARIUS and VIRGIL. And, as if the spirit of these inimitable poets
had, at once, seized him, he breaks away in a bolder run of verse
[from v. 248 to 250] _to sing the triumphs of an art_, which expressed
the _manners and the mind_ in fuller and more durable _relief_, than
painting or even sculpture had ever been able to give to the external
_figure_: And [from v. 250 to the end] _apologizes for himself_ in
adopting the humbler epistolary _species_, when a warmth of inclination
and the unrivaled glories of his prince were continually urging him on
to the nobler, _encomiastic_ poetry. His excuse, in brief, is taken
from the conscious inferiority of his genius, and a tenderness for
the fame of the emperor, which is never more disserved than by the
officious sedulity of bad poets to do it honour. And with this apology,
one while condescending to the unfeigned humility of a person, sensible
of the _kind and measure_ of his abilities, and then, again, sustaining
itself by a freedom and even familiarity, which real merit knows, on
certain occasions, to take without offence, the epistle concludes.

If the general opinion may be trusted, this, which was one of the
_last_, is also among the _noblest_, of the great poet’s compositions.
Perhaps, the reader, who considers it in the plain and simple order, to
which the foregoing analysis hath reduced it, may satisfy himself, that
this praise hath not been undeservedly bestowed.




NOTES

ON THE

EPISTLE TO AUGUSTUS.


EPISTOLA AD AUGUSTUM.] The epistle to AUGUSTUS is _an apology for the
Roman poets_. The epistle to the PISOS, _a criticism on their poetry_.
_This_ to Augustus may be therefore considered as a sequel of _that_ to
the Pisos; and which could not well be omitted; for the author’s design
of forwarding the study and improvement of the _art of poetry_ required
him to bespeak the public favour to its _professors_.

But as, _there_, in correcting the abuses of their poetry, he mixes,
occasionally, some encomiums on _poets_; so, _here_, in pleading the
cause of the poets, we find him interweaving instructions on _poetry_.
Which was but according to the writer’s _occasions_ in each work. For
the freedom of his censure on the _art of poetry_ was to be softened
by some expressions of his good-will towards the poets; and this
apology for their _fame_ had been too direct and unmanaged, but for
the qualifying appearance of its intending the further benefit of
the _art_. The coincidence, then, of the same general _method_, as well
as _design_, in the two epistles, made it not improper to give them
together, and on the same footing, to the public. Though both the
_subject_ and _method_ of this last are so clear as to make a continued
commentary upon it much less wanted.

       *       *       *       *       *

4. SI LONGO SERMONE MORER TUA TEMPORA, CAESAR.] The poet is thought to
begin with apologizing for the _shortness of this epistle_. And yet
’tis one of the longest he ever wrote. How is this inconsistency to be
reconciled? “Horace parle pêutêtre ainsi pour ne pas rebuter Auguste,
et pour lui faire connôitre, qu’il auroit fait une lettre, beaucoup
plus longue, s’il avoit suivi son inclination.” This is the best
account of the matter we have, hitherto, been able to come at. But the
familiar civility of such a compliment, as M. Dacier supposes, though
it might be well enough to an _equal_, or, if dressed up in spruce
phrases, might make a figure in the _lettres familieres et galantes_ of
his own nation; yet is surely of a cast, entirely foreign to the Roman
gravity, more especially in an address to the emperor of the world.
Mr. Pope, perceiving the absurdity of the common interpretation, seems
to have read the lines _interrogatively_; which though it saves the
sense, and suits the purpose of the English poet very well, yet neither
agrees with the language nor serious air of the original. The case, I
believe, was this. The genius of epistolary writing demands, that the
subject-matter be not abruptly delivered, or hastily obtruded on the
person addressed; but, as the law of decorum prescribes (for the rule
holds in _writing_, as in _conversation_) be gradually and respectfully
introduced to him. This obtains more particularly in applications to
the _great_, and on important subjects. But, now, the poet, being to
address his prince on a point of no small delicacy, and on which he
foresaw he should have occasion to hold him pretty long, prudently
contrives to get, as soon as possible, into his subject; and, to that
end, hath the art to convert the very transgression of this rule into
the justest and most beautiful compliment.

That cautious preparation, which is ordinarily requisite in our
approaches to _greatness_, had been, the poet observes, in the present
case, highly unseasonable, as the business and interests of the empire
must, in the mean time, have stood still and been suspended. By
_sermone_ then we are to understand, not the _body_ of the epistle,
but the proeme or _introduction_ only. The _body_, as of public
concern, might be allowed to engage, at full length, the emperor’s
attention. But the _introduction_, consisting of _ceremonial_ only,
the _common good_ required him to shorten as much as possible. It
was no time for using an insignificant preamble, or, in our English
phrase, of making _long speeches_. The reason, too, is founded, not
merely in the elevated rank of the emperor, but in the peculiar
diligence and sollicitude, with which, history tells us, he endeavoured
to promote, by various ways, the interests of his country. So that
the compliment is as _just_, as it is _polite_. It may be further
observed, that _sermo_ is used in Horace, to signify the ordinary style
of conversation [See Sat. i. 3, 65, and iv. 42.] and therefore not
improperly denotes the familiarity of the epistolary address, which, in
its easy expression, so nearly approaches to it.

       *       *       *       *       *

13. URIT ENIM FULGORE SUO, QUI PRAEGRAVAT ARTES INFRA SE POSITAS:
EXTINCTUS AMABITUR IDEM.] The poet, we may suppose, spoke this from
experience. And so might _another_ of later date when he complained:

    Unhappy Wit, like most mistaken things,
    Attones not for that envy which it brings.
                  _Essay on Crit._ v. 494.

Unless it be thought, that, as this was said by him very early in life,
it might rather pass for a prediction of his future fortunes. Be this
as it will, the sufferings, which _unhappy wit_ is conceived to bring
on itself from the _envy_ it excites, are, I am apt to think, somewhat
aggravated; at least if one may judge from the effects it had on this
_Complainant_. That which would be likely to afflict him most, was
the _envy_ of his friends. But the generosity of these deserves to be
recorded. The _wits_ took no offence at his fame, till they found
it eclipse their _own_: And his _Philosopher and Guide_, ’tis well
known, stuck close to him, till another and brighter star had gotten
the ascendant. Or supposing there might be some malice in the case,
it is plain there was little mischief. And for this little the poet’s
creed provides an ample recompence. EXTINCTUS AMABITUR IDEM: not, we
may be sure, by _those_ he most improved, enlightened, and obliged;
but by late impartial posterity; and by ONE at least of his surviving
friends; who generously took upon him the patronage of his fame, and
who inherits his genius and his virtues.

       *       *       *       *       *

14. EXTINCTUS AMABITUR IDEM.] _Envy_, says a discerning ancient,
_is the vice of those, who are too weak to contend, and too proud
to submit_: _vitium eorum, qui nec cedere volunt, nec possunt
contendere_[33]. Which, while it sufficiently exposes the folly
and malignity of this hateful passion, secures the honour of human
nature; as implying at the same time, that its worst corruptions are
not without a mixture of generosity in them. For this false pride
in _refusing to submit_, though absurd and mischievous enough, when
unsupported by all _ability to contend_, yet discovers such a sense of
superior excellence, as shews, how difficult it is for human nature
to divest itself of all virtue. Accordingly, when the too powerful
_splendor_ is withdrawn, our natural veneration of it takes place:
_Extinctus amabitur idem._ This is the true exposition of the poet’s
sentiment; which therefore appears just the reverse of what his French
interpreter would fix upon him. “La justice, que nous rendons aux
grands hommes après leur mort, ne vient pas de l’AMOUR, que nous avons
pour leur _vertu_, mais de la HAINE, dont notre cœur est rempli pour
ceux, qui ont pris leur PLACE.” An observation, which only becomes the
misanthropy of an old cynic virtue, or the selfishness of a modern
system of ethics.

       *       *       *       *       *

15. PRAESENTI TIBI MATUROS, &c. to v. 18.] We are not to wonder at
this and the like extravagances of adulation in the Augustan poets.
They had ample authority for what they did of this sort. We know, that
altars were erected to the Emperor by the command of the Senate; and
that he was publicly invoked, as an established, tutelary divinity. But
the seeds of the corruption had been sown much earlier. For we find it
sprung up, or rather (as of all the ill weeds, which the teeming soil
of human depravity throws forth, none is more thriving and grows faster
than this of _flattery_) flourishing at its height, in the tyranny of
J. CAESAR. Balbus, in a letter to Cicero [Ep. ad Att. l. ix.] _Swears
by the health and safety of Caesar_: _ità, incolumi Caesare, moriar_.
And Dio tells us [L. xliv.] that it was, by the express injunction
of the Senate, decreed, even in Caesar’s life-time, that the Romans
should bind themselves by this oath. The Senate also, as we learn from
the same writer, [L. xliii.] upon receiving the news of his defeat
of Pompey’s sons, caused his statue to be set up, in the temple of
Romulus, with this inscription, DEO INVICTO[34].

’Tis true, these and still greater honours had been long paid to the
Roman governors in their provinces, by the _abject, slavish Asiatics_.
And this, no doubt, facilitated the admission of such idolatries into
the capital[35]. But that a people, from the highest notions of an
independent republican equality, could so soon be brought to this
prostrate adoration of their first _Lord_, is perfectly amazing! In
this, they shewed themselves ripe for servitude. Nothing could keep
them out of the hands of a master. And one can scarcely read such
accounts, as these, without condemning the vain efforts of dying
patriotism, which laboured so fruitlesly, may one not almost say,
so weakly? to protract the liberty of such a people, Who can, after
this, wonder at the incense, offered up by a few court-poets? The
adulation of Virgil, which has given so much offence, and of Horace,
who kept pace with him, was, we see, but the authorized language of the
times; presented indeed with address, but without the heightenings and
privileged licence of their profession. For, to their credit, it must
be owned, that, though in the office of _poets_, they were to comply
with the popular voice, and echo it back to the ears of sovereignty;
yet, as _men_, they had too much good sense, and too scrupulous a
regard to the dignity of their characters, to exaggerate and go beyond
it.

It should, in all reason, surprize and disgust us still more, that
modern writers have not always shewn themselves so discrete. The grave
and learned LIPSIUS was not ashamed, even without the convenient
pretext of popular flattery, or poetic _coloring_, in so many words,
to make a God of his patron: who though neither King, nor Pope, was
yet the next best material for this manufacture, an Archbishop. For,
though the critic knew, that it was _not every wood, that will make a
Mercury_, yet no body would dispute the fitness of that, which grew
so near the altar. In plain words, I am speaking of an Archbishop of
MECHLIN, whom, after a deal of fulsome compliment (which was the vice
of the man) he exalts at last, with a pagan complaisance, into the
order of Deities. “Ad haec, says he, erga omnes humanitas et facilitas
me faciunt, ut omnes te non tanquàm hominem aliquem de nostro coetu,
sed tanquam DEUM QUENDAM DE COELO DELAPSUM INTUEANTUR ET ADMIRENTUR.”

       *       *       *       *       *

16. JURANDASQUE TUUM PER NUMEN PONIMUS ARAS.] On this idea of the
APOTHEOSIS, which was the usual mode of flattery in the Augustan
age, but, as having the countenance of public authority, sometimes
inartificially enough employed, Virgil hath projected one of the
noblest allegories in ancient poetry, and at the same time hath given
to it all the force of _just_ compliment, the _occasion_ itself
allowed. _Each_ of these excellencies was to be expected from his
talents. For, as his genius led him to the _sublime_; to his exquisite
judgment would instruct him to palliate this bold fiction, and qualify,
as much as possible, the shocking adulation, implied in it. So singular
a beauty deserves to be shewn at large.

The _third_ GEORGIC sets out with an apology for the low and simple
argument of that work, which, yet, the poet esteemed, for its novelty,
preferable to the sublimer, but trite, themes of the Greek writers. Not
but he intended, on some future occasion, to adorn a nobler subject.
This was the great plan of the Aeneïs, which he now _prefigures_ and
unfolds at large. For, taking advantage of the noblest privilege of
his _art_, he breaks away, in a fit of _prophetic_ enthusiasm, to
foretel his successes in this projected enterprize, and, under the
imagery of the ancient _triumph_, which comprehends, or suggests to
the imagination, whatever is most august in human affairs, to delineate
the future glories of this ambitious design. The whole conception,
as we shall see, is of the utmost grandeur and magnificence; though,
according to the usual management of the poet (which, as not being
apprehended by his critics, hath furnished occasion, even to the best
of them, to charge him with a want of the _sublime_) he hath contrived
to soften and _familiarize_ its appearance to the reader, by the artful
manner, in which it is introduced. It stands thus:

            _tentanda via est, qua me quoque possim
    Tollere humo_, VICTORQUE _virûm volitare per ora_.

This idea of _victory_, thus casually dropped, he makes the basis
of his imagery; which, by means of this gradual preparation, offers
itself easily to the apprehension, though it thereby loses, as the poet
designed it should, much of that broad _glare_, in which writers of
less judgment love to shew their ideas, as tending to set the common
reader to a gaze. The allegory then proceeds:

    _Primus ego patriam mecum (modo vita supersit)
    Aonio rediens deducam vertice Musas_.

The projected conquest was no less than that of all the _Grecian Muses_
at once; whom, to carry on the decorum of the allegory, he threatens,
1. to force from their high and advantageous situation on the summit of
the _Aonian mount_; and, 2. bring _captive_ with him into Italy: the
_former_ circumstance intimating to us the difficulty and danger of
the enterprize; and the _latter_, his complete execution of it.

The _palmy_, triumphal entry, which was usual to victors on their
return from foreign successes, follows:

    _Primus Idumaeas referam tibi, Mantua, palmas_.

But ancient conquerors did not hold it sufficient to reap this
transient fruit of their labours. They were ambitious to consecrate
their glory to immortality, by a _temple_, or other public monument,
which was to be built out of the spoils of the conquered cities or
countries. This the reader sees is suitable to the idea of the great
work proposed; which was, out of the old remains of Grecian art, to
compose a _new_ one, that should comprize the virtues of them all:
as, in fact, the Aeneïd is known to unite in itself whatever is most
excellent, not in Homer only, but, universally, in the wits of Greece.
The everlasting monument of the _marble_ temple is then reared:

    _Et viridi in campo templum de_ MARMORE _ponam_.

And, because ancient superstition usually preferred, for these
purposes, the banks of _rivers_ to other situations, therefore the
poet, in beautiful allusion to the site of some of the most celebrated
pagan temples, builds _his_ on the MINCIUS. We see with what a
scrupulous propriety the allusion is carried on.

    _Propter aquam, tardis ingens ubi flexibus errat_
    MINCIUS, _et tenera praetexit arundine ripas_.

Next, this temple was to be dedicated, as a monument of the victor’s
_piety_, as well as glory, to some propitious, tutelary deity, under
whose auspices the great adventure had been atchieved. The _dedication_
is then made to the poet’s _divinity_, Augustus:

    _In medio mihi_ CAESAR _erit, templumque tenebit_.

TEMPLUM TENEBIT. The expression is emphatical; as intimating to us, and
prefiguring the secret purpose of the Aeneïs, which was, in the person
of Aeneas, to shadow forth and consecrate the character of Augustus.
His divinity was to fill and _occupy_ that great work. And the ample
circuit of the epic plan was projected only, as a more awful enclosure
of that august presence, which was to _inhabit_ and solemnize the vast
round of this poetic building.

And now the wonderful address of the poet’s artifice appears. The mad
servility of his country had _deified_ the emperor in good earnest;
and his brother poets made no scruple to _worship_ in his temples, and
to come before him with handfuls of _real_ incense, smoking from the
altars. But the sobriety of Virgil’s adoration was of another cast. He
seizes this circumstance only to _embody_ a poetical fiction; which,
on the supposition of an actual _deification_, hath all the force of
compliment, which the _fact_ implies, and yet, as presented through
the chast veil of allegory, eludes the offence, which the _naked_
recital must needs have given to sober and reasonable men. Had the
emperor’s _popular_ divinity been flatly acknowledged, and adored,
the praise, even under Virgil’s management, had been insufferable for
its extravagance; and, without some support for his poetical _numen_
to rest upon, the figure had been more forced and strained, than the
rules of just writing allow. As it is, the historical truth of his
_apotheosis_ authorizes and supports the _fiction_, and the fiction, in
its turn, serves to refine and palliate the _history_.

The Aeneïs being, by the poet’s improvement of this circumstance, thus
naturally predicted under the image of a _temple_, we may expect to
find a close and studied analogy betwixt them. The great, component
parts of the _one_ will, no doubt, be made, very faithfully, to
represent and adumbrate those of the _other_. This hath been executed
with great art and diligence.

1. The _temple_, we observed, was erected on the banks of a river. This
site was not only proper, for the reason already mentioned, but also,
for the further convenience of instituting _public games_, the ordinary
attendants of the _consecration_ of temples. These were generally,
as in the case of the Olympic and others, celebrated on the banks of
rivers.

    _Illi victor ego, et Tyrio conspectus in ostro,
    Centum quadrijugos agitabo ad flumina currus.
    Cuncta mihi, Alpheum linquens lucosque Molorchi,
    Cursibus et crudo decernet Graecia caestu._

To see the propriety of the _figure_ in this place, the reader needs
only be reminded of the _book of games_ in the Aeneïd, which was
purposely introduced in honour of the Emperor, and not, as is commonly
thought, for a mere trial of skill between the poet and his master. The
emperor was passionately fond of these sports, and was even the author,
or restorer, of _one_ of them. It is not to be doubted, that he alludes
also to the _quinquennial games_, actually celebrated, in honour of his
temples, through many parts of the empire. And this the poet undertakes
in the _civil_ office of VICTOR.

2. What follows is in the _religious_ office of PRIEST. For it is to
be noted, that, in assuming this double character, which the decorum
of the solemnities, here recounted, prescribed, the poet has an eye to
the _political_ design of the Aeneïs, which was to do honour to Caesar,
in either capacity of a _civil_ and _religious_ personage; both being
essential to the idea of the PERFECT LEGISLATOR, whose office and
character (as an eminent critic hath lately shewn us[36]) it was his
purpose, in this immortal work, to adorn and recommend. The account of
his _sacerdotal functions_ is delivered in these words:

    _Ipse caput tonsae foliis ornatus olivae
    Dona feram. Jam, nunc solemnes ducere pompas
    Ad delubra juvat, caesosque videre juvencos;
    Vel scena ut versis discedat frontibus, utque
    Purpurea intexti tollant aulaea Britanni._

The imagery in this place cannot be understood, without reflecting on
the customary form and disposition of the pagan temples. DELUBRUM, or
DELUBRA, for either _number_ is used indifferently, denotes the shrine,
or sanctuary, wherein the statue of the presiding God was placed. This
was in the center of the building. Exactly before the _delubrum_, and
at no great distance from it, was the ALTAR. Further, the shrine, or
_delubrum_, was inclosed and shut up on all sides by _doors_ of curious
carved-work, and ductile _veils_, embellished by the rich embroidery
of _flowers_, _animals_, or _human figures_. This being observed, the
progress of the imagery before us will be this. The procession _ad
delubra_, or shrine: the sacrifice on the _altars_, erected before it;
and lastly, the painted, or rather wrought _scenery_ of the purple
_veils_, inclosing the image, which were ornamented, and seemed to be
sustained or held up by the figures of _inwoven Britons_. The meaning
of all which, is, that the poet would proceed to the celebration of
Caesar’s praise in all the gradual, solemn preparation of poetic pomp:
that he would render the most grateful _offerings_ to his divinity in
those occasional _episodes_, which he should consecrate to his more
immediate honour: and, finally, that he would provide the richest
texture of his fancy, for a covering to that admired _image_ of his
virtues, which was to make the sovereign pride and glory of his poem.
The choice of the _inwoven Britons_, for the support of his _veil_, is
well accounted for by those, who tell us, that Augustus was proud to
have a number of these to serve about him in quality of slaves.

The ornaments of the DOORS of this _delubrum_, on which the sculptor
used to lavish all the riches of his _art_, are next delineated.

    _In foribus pugnam ex auro solidoque elephanto
    Gangaridum faciam, victorisque arma Quirini;
    Atque hic undantem bello, magnumque fluentem
    Nilum, ac navali surgentes aere columnas.
    Addam urbes Asiae domitas, pulsumque Niphatem,
    Fidentemque fugâ Parthum versisque sagittis;
    Et duo rapta manu diverso ex hoste trophaea,
    Bisque triumphatas utroque ex littore gentes._

Here the covering of the _figure_ is too thin to hide the _literal_
meaning from the commonest reader, who sees, that the several triumphs
of Caesar, here recorded in _sculpture_, are those, which the poet
hath taken most pains to _finish_, and hath occasionally inserted, as
it were, in _miniature_, in several places of his _poem_. Let him only
turn to the prophetic speech of Anchises’ shade in the VI^{th}, and to
the description of the shield in the VIII^{th} book.

Hitherto we have contemplated the decorations of the _shrine_, i. e.
such as bear a more direct and immediate reference to the honour of
Caesar. We are now presented with a view of the remoter, surrounding
ornaments of the temple. These are the illustrious Trojan chiefs,
whose story was to furnish the materials, or, more properly, to form
the body and _case_, as it were, of his august structure. They are
also connected with the idol deity of the place by the closest ties
of relationship, the Julian family affecting to derive its pedigree
from this proud original. The poet then, in his arrangement of these
additional figures, with admirable judgment, completes and rounds the
entire fiction.

    _Stabunt et Parii lapides, spirantia signa,
    Assaraci proles, demissaeque ab Jove gentis
    Nomina: Trosque parens et Trojae Cynthius auctor._

Nothing now remains but for _fame_ to eternize the glories of what
the great architect had, at the expence of so much art and labour,
completed; which is predicted in the highest sublime of ancient poetry,
under the idea of ENVY, whom the poet personalizes, shuddering at the
view of such transcendent perfection; and tasting, beforehand, the
pains of a remediless vexation, strongly pictured in the image of the
worst, infernal tortures.

    INVIDIA _infelix furias amnemque severum
    Cocyti metuet, tortosque Ixionis angues,
    Immanemque rotam, et non exuperabile saxum_.

Thus have I presumed, but with a religious awe, to inspect and declare
the mysteries of this ideal temple. The attempt after all might have
been censured, as prophane, if the great _Mystagogue_ himself, or some
body for him[37], had not given us the undoubted key to it. Under this
encouragement I could not withstand the temptation of disclosing thus
much of one of the noblest fictions of antiquity; and the rather, as
the propriety of allegoric composition, which made the distinguished
pride of ancient poetry, seems but little known or attended to by the
_modern_ professors of this fine art.

       *       *       *       *       *

17. NIL ORITURUM ALIAS, NIL ORTUM TALE FATENTES.] _Il n’est
impossible_, says M. DE BALZAC, in that puffed, declamatory rhapsody,
intitled, LE PRINCE, _de resister au mouvement interieur, qui me
pousse. Je ne sçaurois m’empecher de parler du_ ROY, _et de sa vertu;
de crier à tous les princes, que c’est l’exemple, qu’ils doivent
suivre_; DE DEMANDER A TOUS LES PEUPLES, ET A TOUS LES AGES, S’ILS ONT
JAMAIS RIEN VEU DE SEMBLABLE. This was spoken of a king of France,
who, it will be owned, had his virtues. But they were the virtues of
the _man_, and not of the _Prince_. This, however, was a distinction,
which the eloquent encomiast was not aware of, or, to speak more truly,
his business required him to overlook. For the whole elogy is worth
perusing, as it affords a striking proof of the uniform genius of
flattery, which, alike under all circumstances, and indifferent to all
characters, can hold the same language of the weakest, as the ablest of
princes, of LOUIS LE JUSTE, and CAESAR OCTAVIANUS AUGUSTUS.

       *       *       *       *       *

23. SIC FAUTOR VETERUM, &c. to v. 28.] The folly, here satyrized,
is common enough in all countries, and extends to all arts. It was
just the same preposterous affectation of venerating antiquity, which
put the connoisseurs in _painting_, under the emperors, on crying up
the simple and rude sketches of AGLAOPHON and POLYGNOTUS, above the
exquisite and finished pictures of PARRHASIUS and ZEUXIS. The account
is given by Quintilian, who in his censure of this absurdity, points
to the undoubted source of it. His words are these: “Primi, quorum
quidem opera non vetustatis modò gratiâ visenda sunt, clari pictores
fuisse dicuntur Polygnotus et Aglaophon; quorum simplex color tam sui
studiosos adhuc habet, ut illa propè rudia ac velut futurae mox artis
primordia, maximis, qui post eos extiterunt, auctoribus praeferantur,
PROPRIO QUODAM INTELLIGENDI (ut mea fert opinio) AMBITU.” [L. xii. c.
10.] The lover of painting must be the more surprized at this strange
_preference_, when he is told, that Aglaophon, at least, had the use
of only _one single colour_: whereas Parrhasius and Zeuxis, who are
amongst the _maximi autores_, here glanced at, not only employed
_different colours_, but were exceedingly eminent, the one of them for
_correct drawing, and the delicacy of his outline_; the _other_, for
his _invention_ of that great secret of the _chiaro oscuro_. “Post
Zeuxis et Parrhasius: quorum prior LUMINUM UMBRARUMQUE INVENISSE
RATIONEM, secundus, EXAMINASSE SUBTILIUS LINEAS DICITUR.” [Ibid.]

       *       *       *       *       *

28. SI, QUIA GRAIORUM SUNT ANTIQUISSIMA QUAEQUE SCRIPTA vel OPTIMA,
&c.] The common interpretation of this place supposes the poet to
admit _the most ancient of the Greek writings to be the best_. Which
were even contrary to all experience and common sense, and is directly
confuted by the history of the Greek learning. What he allows is, the
_superiority_ of the oldest Greek writings _extant_; which is a very
different thing. The turn of his argument confines us to this sense.
For he would shew the folly of concluding the same of the _old Roman_
writers, on their _first_ rude attempts to copy the finished models of
Greece, as of the _old Greek writers_ themselves, who were furnished
with the means of producing those _models_ by long discipline and
cultivation. This appears, certainly, from what follows:

    _Venimus ad summum fortunae: pingimus atque
    Psallimus et luctamur Achivis doctius unctis_.

The design of which hath been entirely overlooked. For it hath been
taken only for a _general expression_ of falsehood and absurdity, of
just the same import, as the proverbial line,

    _Nil intra est oleâ, nil extra est in nuce duri_.

Whereas it was _designedly_ pitched upon to convey a _particular
illustration_ of the very absurdity in question, and to shew the
maintainers of it, from the nature of things, how senseless their
position was. It is to this purpose: “As well it may be pretended,
that we _Romans_ surpass the _Greeks_ in the arts of _painting, music,
and the exercises of the palaestra_, which yet it is confessed, we do
not, as that our _old_ writers surpass the _modern_. The absurdity,
in either case, is the same. For, as the Greeks, who had long devoted
themselves, with great and continued application, to the practice of
these arts (which is the force of the epithet UNCTI, here given them)
must, for that reason, carry the prize from the Romans, who have taken
very little pains about them; so, the modern Romans, who have for a
long time been studying the _arts of poetry and composition_, must
needs excel the old Roman writers, who had little or no acquaintance
with those arts, and had been trained, by no previous discipline, to
the exercise of them.”

The conciseness of the expression made it necessary to open the poet’s
sense at large. We now see, that his intention, in these two lines, was
to expose, in the way of _argumentative illustration_, the ground of
that absurdity, which the preceding verses had represented as, at first
sight, so shocking to _common sense_.

       *       *       *       *       *

33. UNCTIS.] This is by no means a general unmeaning epithet: but is
beautifully chosen to express the unwearied _assiduity_ of the Greek
artists. For the practice of _anointing_ being essential to their
agonistic trials, the poet elegantly puts the attending _circumstance_
for the _thing_ itself. And so, in speaking of them, as UNCTI, he does
the same, as if he had called them “the industrious, or _exercising_
Greeks;” which was the very idea his argument required him to suggest
to us.

       *       *       *       *       *

43.—HONESTE.] Expressing the _credit_ such a piece was held in, as had
the fortune to be ranked _inter veteres_, agreeably to what he said
above—PERFECTOS _veteresque_ v. 37—and—_vetus atque_ PROBUS v. 39:
which affords a fresh presumption in favour of Dr. Bentley’s conjecture
on v. 41, where, instead of _veteres poetas_, he would read,

    _Inter quos referendus erit? veteresne_ PROBOSQUE,
    _An quos &c._

       *       *       *       *       *

54. ADEO SANCTUM EST VETUS OMNE POEMA.] The reader is not to suppose,
that Horace, in this ridicule of the foolish adorers of antiquity,
intended any contempt of the old Roman poets, who, as the old writers
in every country, abound in strong sense, vigorous expression, and the
truest representation of life and manners. His quarrel is only with the
critic:

    _Qui redit in fastos et virtutem aestimat annis._

An affectation, which for its _folly_, if it had not too apparently
sprung from a worse principle, deserved to be laughed at.

For the rest, he every where discovers a candid and just esteem of
their earlier writers; as may be seen from many places in this very
epistle; but more especially from that severe censure in 1 S. x. 17.
(which hath more of acrimony in it, than he usually allows to his
satyr) when, in speaking of the writers of the old comedy, he adds,

        _Quos neque pulcher
    Hermogenes unquam legit, neque simius iste
    Nil praeter Calvum et doctus cantare Catullum._

With all his zeal for correct writing, he was not, we see, of the
humour of that delicate sort, who are for burning their old poets;
and, to be well with women and court critics, confine their reading
and admiration to the innocent sing-song of some soft and fashionable
rhymer, whose utter insipidity is a thousand times more insufferable,
than any barbarism.

       *       *       *       *       *

56. PACUVIUS DOCTI FAMAM SENIS, ACCIUS ALTI:] The epithet _doctus_,
here applied to the tragic poet, _Pacuvius_, is, I believe, sometimes
misunderstood, though the opposition to _altus_ clearly determines the
sense. For, as this last word expresses the _sublime_ of sentiment and
expression, which comes from _nature_, so the former word must needs be
interpreted of that _exactness_ in both, or at least of that _skill_
in the conduct of the scene (the proper _learning_ of a dramatic poet)
which is the result of _art_.

The Latin word _doctus_ is indeed somewhat ambiguous: but we are
chiefly misled by the English word, _learned_, by which we translate
it, and by which, in general use, is meant, rather extensive reading,
and what we call _erudition_, than a profound skill in the rules and
principles of any art. But this last is frequently the sense of the
Latin term _doctus_, as we may see from its application, in the best
classic writers, to other, besides the literary professions. Thus, to
omit other instances, we find it applied very often in Horace himself.
It is applied to a _singing-girl_—_doctae_ psallere Chiae—in one of
his Odes, l. iv. 13. It is applied to several _mechanic arts_ in this
epistle—“_doctius_ Achivis pingimus atque psallimus et luctamur:” It
is even applied, _absolutely_, to the player Roscius—_doctus_ Roscius,
in v. 82, where his skill in _acting_ could only be intended by it. It
is, also, in this sense, that he calls his imitator, _doctus_, i. e.
skilled and knowing in his art, A. P. v. 319. Nay, it is precisely in
this sense that Quinctilian uses the word, when he characterizes this
very Pacuvius—_Pacuvium videri_ doctiorem, _qui esse docti affectant,
volunt_ [l. x. c. 1.] i. e. _they, who affect to be thought knowing
in the rules of dramatic writing, give this praise to Pacuvius_.
The expression is so put, as if Quinctilian intended a censure of
these critics; because this pretence to dramatic art, and the strict
imitation of the Greek poets, was grown, in his time, and long before
it, into a degree of pedantry and _affectation_; no other merit but
this of _docti_, being of any significancy, in their account. There is
no reason to think that Quinctilian meant to insinuate the poet’s want
of this merit, or his own contempt of it: though he might think, and
with reason, that too much stress had been laid upon it by some men.

It is in the same manner that one of our own poets has been
characterized; and the application of this term to him will shew the
force of it, still more clearly.

In Mr. Pope’s fine imitation of this epistle, are these lines—

    In all debates, where critics bear a part,
    Not one but nods, and talks of Jonson’s _art_—

One sees, then, how Mr. Pope understood the _docti_, of Horace. But our
Milton applies the word _learned_ itself, and in the Latin sense of it,
to Jonson—

    When Jonson’s _learned_ sock is on—

For what is this _learning_? Indisputably, his _dramatic learning_,
his skill in the scene, and his observance of the ancient rules and
practice. For, though Jonson was indeed _learned_, in every sense, it
is the learning of his profession, as a comic artist, for which he is
here celebrated.

The Latin substantive, _doctrina_, is used with the same latitude, as
the adjective, _doctus_. It sometimes signifies the _peculiar sort_
of learning, under consideration; though sometimes again it signifies
_learning_, or erudition, at large. It is used in the _former_
sense by Cicero, when he observes of the satires of Lucilius, that
they were remarkable for their wit and pleasantry, not for their
_learning_—_doctrina_ mediocris. So that there is no contradiction
in this judgment, as is commonly thought, to that of Quinctilian, who
declares roundly—_eruditio_ in eo mira—For, though _doctrina_ and
_eruditio_ be sometimes convertible terms, they are not so here. The
_learning_ Cicero speaks of in Lucilius, as being but _moderate_, is
his learning, or skill in the art of writing and composition.—That
this was the whole purport of Cicero’s observation, any one may see by
turning to the place where it occurs, in the proeme to his first book
DE FINIBUS.

       *       *       *       *       *

59. VINCERE CAECILIUS GRAVITATE, TERENTIUS ARTE.] It should be
observed, that the judgment, here passed [from v. 55 to 60] on the most
celebrated Roman writers, being only a representation of the _popular_
opinion, not of the poet’s _own_, the commendations, given to them, are
deserved, or otherwise, just as it chances.

    _Interdum volgus rectum videt, est ubi peccat._

To give an instance of this in the line before us.

A critic of unquestioned authority acquaints us, wherein the
_real distinct merit_ of these two dramatic writers consists. “In
ARGUMENTIS, Caecilius palmam poscit; in ETHESIN, TERENTIUS.” [Varro.]
Now by _gravitate_, as applied to Caecilius, we may properly enough
understand the _grave and affecting cast_ of his comedy; which is
further confirmed by what the same critic elsewhere observes of him.
“PATHE Trabea, Attilius, et CAECILIUS facile moverunt.” But Terence’s
characteristic of _painting the manners_, which is, plainly, the right
interpretation of Varro’s ETHESIN, is not so significantly expressed
by the attribute _arte_, here given to him. The word indeed is of
large and general import, and may admit of various senses; but being
here applied to a _dramatic_ writer, it most naturally and properly
denotes the _peculiar_ art of his profession, that is, _the artificial
contexture of the plot_. And this I doubt not was the very praise, the
town-critics of Horace’s time intended to bestow on this poet. The
matter is easily explained.

The simplicity and exact unity of the plots in the Greek comedies would
be, of course, uninteresting to a people, not thoroughly instructed
in the genuin beauties of the drama. They had too thin a contexture
to satisfy the gross and lumpish taste of a Roman auditory. The Latin
poets, therefore, bethought themselves of combining two stories into
one. And this, which is what we call the _double plot_, affording the
opportunity of more incidents, and a greater variety of _action_,
was perfectly suited to their apprehensions. But, of all the Latin
Comedians, _Terence_ appears to have practised this secret most
assiduously: at least, as may be concluded from what remains of them.
_Plautus_ hath very frequently _single plots_, which he was enabled to
support by, what was natural to him, a force of buffoon pleasantry.
_Terence_, whose genius lay another way, or whose taste was abhorrent
from such ribaldry, had recourse to the other expedient of _double
plots_. And this, I suppose, is what gained him the popular reputation
of being the most _artificial_ writer for the stage. The HECYRA is the
only one of his comedies, of the true ancient cast. And we know how it
came off in the representation. That ill-success and the simplicity
of its conduct have continued to draw upon it the same unfavourable
treatment from the critics, to this day; who constantly speak of
it, as much inferior to the rest; whereas, for the genuin beauty of
dramatic design, and the observance, after the ancient Greek manner,
of the nice dependency and coherence of the _fable_, throughout, it
is, indisputably, to every reader of true taste, the most masterly and
exquisite of the whole collection.

       *       *       *       *       *

63. INTERDUM VOLGUS RECTUM VIDET: EST UBI PECCAT.] The capricious
levity of _popular opinion_ hath been noted even to a proverb. And
yet it is this, which, after all, _fixes_ the fate of authors. This
seemingly odd phaenomenon I would thus account for.

What is usually complimented with the high and reverend appellation
of _public judgment_ is, in any single instance, but the repetition
or echo, for the most part eagerly catched and strongly reverberated
on all sides, of a few leading voices, which have happened to gain
the confidence, and so direct the _cry_ of the public. But (as, in
fact, it too often falls out) this prerogative of the _few_ may be
abused to the prejudice of the _many_. The partialities of friendship,
the fashionableness of the writer, his compliance with the reigning
taste, the lucky concurrence of time and opportunity, the cabal of
a party, nay, the very freaks of whim and caprice, these, or any of
them, as occasion serves, can support the dullest, as the opposite
disadvantages can depress the noblest performance; and give the
currency or neglect to _either_, far beyond what the genuin character
of each demands. Hence the _public voice_, which is but the aggregate
of these corrupt judgments, infinitely multiplied, is, with the wise,
at such a juncture, deservedly of little esteem. Yet, in a succession
of such _judgments_, delivered at different times and by different
sets or juntos of these sovereign arbiters of the fate of authors, the
public opinion naturally gets clear of these accidental corruptions.
Every fresh succession shakes off some; till, by degrees, the work is
seen in its proper form, unsupported of every other recommendation,
than what its native inherent excellence bestows upon it. Then, and not
till then, _the voice of the people_ becomes sacred; after which it
soon advances into _divinity_, before which all ages must fall down and
worship. For now Reason alone, without her corrupt assessors, takes the
chair. And her sentence, when once promulgated and authorized by the
general voice, fixes the unalterable doom of authors. ΟΛΩΣ ΚΑΛΑ ΝΟΜΙΖΕ
ΥΨΗ ΚΑΙ ΑΛΗΘΙΝΑ, ΤΑ ΔΙΑΠΑΝΤΟΣ ΑΡΕΣΚΟΝΤΑ ΚΑΙ ΠΑΣΙΝ [Longinus, § vii.]
And the reason follows, agreeably to the account here given. Ὅταν γὰρ
τοῖς ἀπὸ διαφόρων ΕΠΙΤΗΔΕΥΜΑΤΩΝ, ΒΙΩΝ, ΖΗΛΩΝ, ΗΛΙΚΙΩΝ, λόγων, ἕν τι καὶ
ταὐτὸν ἅμα περὶ τῶν αὐτῶν ἅπασι δοκῇ, τόθ’ ἡ ἐξ ἀσυμφώνων ὡς κρίσις
καὶ συγκατάθεσις τὴν ἐπὶ τῷ θαυμαζομένῳ ΠΙΣΤΙΝ ΙΣΧΥΡΑΝ ΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙ ΚΑΙ
ΑΝΑΜΦΙΛΕΚΤΟΝ. [Ibid.]

This is the true account of _popular fame_, which, while it well
explains the ground of the poet’s aphorism, suggests an obvious remark,
but very mortifying to every candidate of literary glory. It is, that,
whether he succeeds in his endeavours after public applause, or not,
_fame_ is equally out of his reach, and, as the moral poet teaches, _a
thing beyond him, before his death_, on either supposition. For at the
very time, that this bewitching music is sounding in his ears, he can
never be sure, if, instead of the divine consentient harmony of a just
praise, it be not only the discordant din and clamour of ignorance or
prepossession.

If there be any exception to this melancholy truth, it must be in the
case of some uncommon genius, whose superior power breaks through all
impediments in his road to fame, and forces applause even from those
very prejudices, that would obstruct his career to it. It was the rare
felicity of the poet, just mentioned, to receive, in his life-time,
this sure and pleasing augury of immortality.

       *       *       *       *       *

88. INGENIIS NON ILLE FAVET, &c.] MALHERBE was to the French, pretty
much what HORACE had been to the Latin, poetry. These great writers
had, each of them, rescued the lyric muse of their country out of the
rude, ungracious hands of their old poets. And, as their talents of
a _good ear_, _elegant judgment_, and _correct expression_, were the
same, they presented her to the public in all the air and grace, and
yet _severity_, of beauty, of which her form was susceptible. Their
merits and pretensions being thus far resembling, the reader may not
be incurious to know the fate and fortune of _each_. _Horace_ hath
very frankly told us, what befel himself from the malevolent and low
passions of his countrymen. _Malherbe_ did not come off, with the
wits and critics of his time, much better; as we learn from a learned
person, who hath very warmly recommended his writings to the public.
Speaking of the envy, which pursued him in his _prose-works_, but,
says he, “Comme il faisoit une particuliere profession de la _poesie_,
c’est en cette qualité qu’il a de plus severes censeurs, et receu des
injustices plus signalées. Mais il me semble que je fermerai la bouche
à ceux, que le blament, quand je leur aurai monstré, que sa façon
d’escrire est excellente, quoiqu’elle s’eloigne un peu de celle des
NOS ANCIENS POETES, QU’ILS LOUENT PLUSTOT PAR UN DEGOUST DES CHOSES
PRESENTES, QUE PAR LES SENTIMENTS D’UNE VERITABLE ESTIME.” [DISC. DE M.
GODEAU SUR LES OEUVRES DE M. MALHERBE.]

       *       *       *       *       *

97. SUSPENDIT MENTEM VULTUMQUE.] The expression hath great elegance,
and is not liable to the imputation of _harsh, or improper
construction_. For _suspendit_ is not taken, with regard either
to _mentem_ or _vultum_, in its _literal_, but _figurative_,
signification; and, thus, it becomes, in one and the _same_ sense,
applicable to _both_.

Otherwise, this way of coupling _two substantives_ to a _verb_, which
does not, in strict grammatical usage, _govern_ both; or, if it doth,
must needs be construed in different senses; hath given just offence to
the best critics.

Mr. Pope censures a passage of this kind, in the _Iliad_, with
severity; and thinks _the taste of the ancients was, in general, too
good for those fooleries_[38].

Mr. Addison is perfectly of the same mind, as appears from his
criticism on that line in Ovid, _Consiliis, non curribus utere
nostris_, “This way of joining, says he, two such different ideas as
chariot and counsel to the same verb, is mightily used by _Ovid_, but
is a very low kind of wit, and has always in it a mixture of _pun_;
because the verb must be taken in a different sense, when it is
joined with one of the things, from what it has in conjunction with
the other. Thus in the end of this story he tells you, that Jupiter
flung a thunderbolt at Phaëton; _pariterque animaque rotisque expulit
aurigam_: where he makes a forced piece of _Latin_ (_animâ expulit
aurigam_) that he may couple the soul and the wheels to the same
verb[39].”

These, the reader will think, are pretty good authorities. For, in
matters of _taste_, I know of none, that more deserve to be regarded.
The _mere verbal critic_, one would think, should be cautious, how
he opposed himself to them. And yet a very learned Dutchman, who has
taken great pains in _elucidating_ an old Greek love-story, which, with
its more passionate admirers, may, perhaps, pass for the MARIANNE of
antiquity, hath not scrupled to censure this decision of their’s very
sharply[40].

Having transcribed the censure of Mr. Pope, who, indeed, somewhat too
hastily, suspects the line in Homer for an Interpolation, our critic
fastens upon him directly. EN COR ZENODOTI, EN JECUR CRATETIS! But foul
language and fair criticism are different things; and what he offers of
the _latter_ rather accounts for than justifies the _former_. All he
says on the subject, is in the good old way of _authorities_, which,
he diligently rakes together out of every corner of Greek and Roman
antiquity. From all these he concludes, as he thinks, irresistibly, not
that the passage in question _might_ be _genuin_ (for that few would
dispute with him) but that the kind of expression itself is a _real
beauty_. _Bona elocutio est: honesta figura._ Though, to the praise
of his discretion be it remembered, he does not even venture on this
assertion, without his usual support of _precedent_. And, for want
of a better, he takes up with old _Servius_. For so, it seems, this
grammarian hath declared himself, with respect to some expressions of
the same kind in _Virgil_.

But let him make the best of his authorities. And, when he has done
that, I shall take the liberty to assure him, that the persons, he
contends against, do not think themselves, in the least, concerned with
them. For, though he believes it an undeniable maxim, _Critici non
esse inquirere, utrum recte autor quid scripserit, sed an omnino sic
scripserit_[41]: yet, in the case before us, he must not be surprized,
if others do not so conceive of it.

Indeed, where the critic would defend the _authenticity_ of a word or
expression, the way of _precedent_ is, doubtless, the very best, that
common sense allows to be taken. For the evidence of _fact_, at once,
bears down all suspicion of _corruption_ or _interpolation_. Again;
if the _elegance_ of single words (or of intire phrases, where the
suspicion turns on the _oddity or uncommoness of the construction_,
only) be the matter in dispute, full and precise authorities must
decide it. For _elegance_, here, means nothing else but the practice
of the best writers. And thus far I would join issue with the learned
censurer; and should think he did well in prescribing this rule to
himself in the correction of _approved ancient authors_.

But what have these cases to do with the point in question? The
objection is made, not to _words_, which alone are capable of being
justified by authority, but to _things_, which must ever be what they
are, in spite of it. This mode of writing is shewn to be abundantly
defective, for reasons taken from _the nature of our ideas, and the end
and genius of the nobler forms of composition_. And what is it to tell
us, that great writers have overlooked or neglected them?

1. In our customary train of _thinking_, the mind is carried along,
_in succession_, from _one_ clear and distinct idea to _another_.
Or, if the attention be _at once_ employed on _two senses_, there is
ever such a close and near analogy betwixt them, that the perceptive
faculty, easily and almost instantaneously passing from the one to
the other, is not divided in its regards betwixt them, but even seems
to itself to consider them, as _one_: as is the case with _metaphor_:
and, universally, with all the just forms of _allusion_. The union
between the _literal_ and _figurative_ sense is so strict, that they
run together in the imagination; and the effect of the _figure_ is only
to let in fresh light and lustre on the _literal_ meaning. But now,
when _two different, unconnected ideas_ are obtruded, at the same time
upon us, the mind suffers a kind of violence and distraction, and is
thereby put out of that natural state, in which it so much delights.
To take the learned writer’s instance from Polybius: ΕΛΠΙΔΑ καὶ ΧΕΙΡΑ
ΠΡΟΣΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙΝ. How different is the idea of _collecting forces_, and
of that _act_ of the mind, which we call _taking courage_! These two
_perceptions_ are not only distinct from each other, but totally
unconnected by any _natural_ bond of relationship betwixt them. And yet
the word ΠΡΟΣΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙΝ must be seen in this double view, before we can
take the full meaning of the historian.

2. This conjunction of _unrelated_ ideas, by the means of a _common
term_, agrees as ill to the _end and genius of the writer’s
composition_, as _the natural bent and constitution of the mind_. For
the question is only about the _greater poetry_, which addresses itself
to the PASSIONS, or IMAGINATION. And, in either case, this play of
words which Mr. Pope condemns, must be highly out of season.

When we are necessitated, as it were, to look different ways, and
actually to contemplate two unconnected significations of the same
word, before we can thoroughly comprehend its purpose, the mind is
more amused by this fanciful conjunction of ideas, than is consistent
with the artless, undesigning simplicity of _passion_. It disturbs and
interrupts the flow of _affection_, by presenting this disparted image
to the _fancy_. Again; where _fancy_ itself is solely addressed, as in
the _nobler descriptive species_, this arbitrary assemblage of ideas
is not less improper. For the poet’s business is now, to astonish or
entertain the mind with a succession of _great_ or _beautiful_ images.
And the intervention of this juggler’s trick diverts the thought from
contemplating its proper scenery. We should be admiring some glorious
representation of _nature_, and are stopped, on a sudden, to observe
the writer’s _art_, whose ingenuity can fetch, out of one word, two
such foreign and discrepant meanings.

In the lighter forms of poetry indeed, and more especially in the
_burlesque epic_, this affectation has its _place_; as in that line of
Mr. Pope, quoted by this critic;

    _sometimes counsel_ takes, _and sometimes tea_.

For 1. The writer’s intention is here, not to _affect the passions_,
or _transport the fancy_, but solely to _divert and amuse_. And to
such _end_ this species of trifling is very apposite. 2. The _manner_,
which the burlesque epic takes to divert, is by confounding _great
things with small_. A _mode of speech_ then, which favours such
_confusion_, is directly to its purpose. 3. This poem is, by its
nature, _satyrical_, and, like the _old comedy_, delights in exposing
the faults and vices of _composition_. So that the _expression_ is
here properly employed (and this was, perhaps, the _first_ view of the
writer) to ridicule the use of it in _grave works_. If M. _D’Orville_
then could seriously design to confute Mr. Pope’s criticism by his own
practice in that line of the _Rape of the Lock_, he has only shewn,
that he does not, in the least, comprehend the real genius of this
poem. But to return:

There is, as appears to me, but one case, in which this _double sense_
of words can be admitted in the more solemn forms of poetry. It is,
when, besides the plain literal meaning, which the context demands, the
mind is carried forward to some more illustrious and important object.
We have an instance in the famous line of Virgil,

    _Attollens humeris famamque et fata nepotum_.

But this is so far from contradicting, that it furthers the writer’s
proper intention. We are not called off from the _subject matter_ to
the observation of a _conceit_, but to the admiration of _kindred_
sublime conceptions. For even here, it is to be observed, there is
always required some previous dependency and relationship, though not
extremely obvious, in the natures of the things themselves, whereon to
ground and justify the analogy. Otherwise, the intention of the _double
sense_ is perfectly inexcusable.

But the instance from Virgil, as we have seen it explained (and for
the first time) by a great critic[42], is so curious, that I shall
be allowed to enlarge a little upon it: and the rather as Virgil’s
practice in this instance will let us into the true secret of
conducting these _double senses_.

The comment of _Servius_ on this line is remarkable. “Hunc versum
notant Critici, quasi superfluè et inutiliter additum, nec
convenientem _gravitati_ ejus, namque est magis _neotericus_.” Mr.
Addison conceived of it in the same manner when he said, “_This was the
only witty line in the Æneis_;” meaning such a line as _Ovid_ would
have written. We see the opinion which these Critics entertained of the
_double sense_, in _general_, in the greater Poetry. They esteemed it
a wanton play of fancy, misbecoming the dignity of the writer’s work,
and the gravity of his character. They took it, in short, for a mere
_modern_ flourish, totally different from the pure unaffected manner of
genuin antiquity. And thus far they unquestionably judged right. Their
defect was in not seeing that the _use_ of it, as here employed by the
Poet, was an exception to the _general rule_. But to have seen this was
not, perhaps, to be expected even from these Critics.

However, from this want of penetration arose a difficulty in
determining whether to read, _Facta_ or _Fata_ Nepotum. And, as we
now understand that _Servius_ and his Critics were utter strangers to
Virgil’s noble idea, it is no wonder they could not resolve it. But the
_latter_ is the Poet’s own word. He considered this shield of celestial
make as a kind of Palladium, like the ANCILE, which fell from Heaven,
and used to be carried in procession on the shoulders of the SALII.
“Quid de scutis,” says Lactantius, “jam vetustate putridis dicam? Quae
cum portant, _Deos ipsos se gestare_ HUMERIS SUIS _arbitrantur_.” [<DW37>.
Inst. l. i. c. 21.]

Virgil, in a fine flight of imagination, alludes to this venerable
ceremony, comparing, as it were, the shield of his Hero to the sacred
ANCILE; and in conformity to the practice in that sacred procession
represents his Hero in the priestly office of Religion,

    _Attollens_ HUMERO _famamque et_ FATA _Nepotum._

This idea then of the sacred shield, the guard and glory of Rome, and
on which, in this advanced situation, depended the fame and fortune of
his country, the poet, with extreme elegance and sublimity, transfers
to the shield which guarded their great progenitor, while he was laying
the first foundations of the Roman Empire.

But to return to the subject before us. What has been said of the
impropriety of _double senses_, holds of _the construction of a single
term in two senses_, even though its authorized usage may equally admit
_both_. So that I cannot be of a mind with the learned critic’s _wise
men_[43]; _who acknowledge an extreme elegance in this form, when the
governing verb equally corresponds to the two substantives_. But when
it properly can be applied but to _one_ of them, and with some force
and straining only, to the _second_, as commonly happens with the
application of _one verb_ to _two substantives_, it then degenerates,
as Mr. Addison observes, into a mere _quibble_, and is utterly
incompatible with the graver form of composition. And for this we have
the concurrent authority of the _cordati_ themselves, who readily
admit, _durum admodum et_ καταχρηστικωτέραν _fieri orationem, si verbum
hoc ab alterutro abhorreat_[44]. Without softening matters, besides the
former absurdity of _a second sense_, we are now indebted to a forced
and barbarous construction for _any_ second sense _at all_.

But surely this venerable bench of critics, to whom our censurer thinks
fit to make his solemn appeal, were not aware of the imprudence of this
concession. For why, if one may presume to ask, is the _latter_ use
of this _figure_ condemned, but for reasons, which shew the manifest
absurdity of the thing, however countenanced by authorities? And is not
this the case of the _former_? Or, is the transgression of the standing
rules of _good sense_, in the judgment of these _censors_, a more
pardonable crime in a writer, than of _common usage or grammar_?

After all, since he lays so great stress on his _authorities_, it may
not be amiss to consider the proper force of them.

The form of speaking under consideration has been censured as a
_trifling, affected witticism_. This _censure_ he hopes entirely to
elude by shewing it was in use, more especially among two sorts of
persons, the least likely to be infected with _wrong taste_, the
_oldest_, that is to say, the _simplest_; and the most _refined_
writers. In short, he thinks to stop all mouths by alledging instances
from _Homer_ and _Virgil_.

But what if Homer and Virgil in the few examples of this kind to be met
with in their writings have _erred_? And, which is more, what if that
very _simplicity_ on the one hand, and _refinement_ on the other, which
he builds so much upon, can be shewn to be the _natural_ and almost
necessary _occasions_ of their falling into such _errors_? This, I am
persuaded, was the truth of the case. For,

1. In the _simpler ages of learning_, when, as yet, composition is
not turned into an _art_, but every writer, especially of vehement
and impetuous genius, is contented to put down his _first thoughts_,
and, for their _expression_, takes up with the most obvious words and
phrases, that present themselves to him, this improper construction
will not be unfrequent. For the writer, who is not knowing enough to
take offence at these niceties, having an immediate occasion to express
_two things_, and finding _one word_, which, in common usage, at least
with a little straining, extends to _both_, he looks no further, but,
as suspecting no fault, employs it without scruple. And I am the more
confirmed in this account, from observing, that sometimes, where the
governing _verb_ cannot be made to bear this double sense, and yet the
meaning of the writer is clear enough from the context, the proper
word is altogether omitted. Of this kind are several of the _modes
of speaking_, alledged by the writer as instances of the _double
sense_. As in that of Sophocles[45], where Electra, giving orders to
Chrysothemis, about the disposal of the libations, destined for the
tomb of her father, delivers herself thus,

    ΑΛΛ’ ἢ ΠΝΟΑΙΣΙΝ, ἢ βαθυσκαφεῖ ΚΟΝΕΙ ΚΡΥΨΟΝ νιν.

The writer’s first intention was to look out for some such _verb_, as
would equally correspond to πνοαῖς and κόνει, but this not occurring,
he sets down one, that only agrees to the last, and leaves the other to
be understood or supplied by the reader; as it easily might, the scope
of the place necessarily directing him to it. It cannot be supposed,
that Sophocles designed to say, κρύψον πνοαῖς. There is no affinity
of _sense_ or _sound_ to lead him to such construction. Again: in that
verse of Homer[46], ἽΠΠΟΙ ἀερσίποδες, καὶ ποικίλα ΤΕΥΧΕ’ ΕΚΕΙΤΟ, the
poet never meant to say ἵπποι ἔκειντο, but neglectingly left it thus,
as trusting the nature of the thing would instruct the reader to supply
ἔστασαν, or some such word, expressive of the _posture_ required.

Nay, writers of more exactness than these simple Greek poets have
occasionally overlooked such inaccuracies: as Cicero[47], who, when
more intent on his _argument_, than _expression_, lets fall this
impropriety; _Nec vero_ SUPRA TERRAM, _sed etiam_ IN INTIMIS EJUS
TENEBRIS _plurimarum rerum_ LATET _utilitas_. ’Tis plain, the writer,
conceiving _extat_, _patet_, or some such word, to be necessarily
suggested by the tenor of his sentence, never troubled himself to go
back to insert it. Yet these are brought as examples of the _double
application of single words_. The truth is, they are examples of
_indiligence_ in the writers, and as such, may shew us, how easily
they might fall, for the same reason, into the impropriety of _double
senses_. In those of this class then the impropriety, complained of, is
the effect of mere _inattention or carelessness_.

2. On the other hand, when this negligent simplicity of _thinking and
speaking_ gives way to the utmost polish and refinement in _both_, we
are then to expect it, for the contrary reason. For the more obvious
and natural forms of writing being, now, grown common, are held
insipid, and the public taste demands to be gratified by the seasoning
of a more studied and artificial expression. It is not enough to
_please_, the writer must find means to _strike_ and _surprize_. And
hence the _antithesis_, the _remote allusion_, and every other mode
of _affected eloquence_. But of these the _first_ that prevails, is
the application of the _double sense_. For the general use justifying
it, it easily passes with the reader and writer too, for _natural_
expression; and yet as splitting the attention suddenly, and at once,
on two different views, carries with it all the novelty and surprize,
that are wanted. When the public taste is not, yet, far gone in this
refinement, and the writer hath himself the truest taste (which was
VIRGIL’S case) such affectations will not be very common; or, when
they do occur, will, for the most part, be agreeably softened. As in
the instance of _retroque pedem cum voce repressit_; where, by making
_voce_ immediately dependent on the _preposition_, and remotely on the
_verb_, he softens the harshness of the expression, which seems much
more tolerable in this form, than if he had put it, _pedem vocemque
repressit_. So again in the line,

    _Crudeles aras trajectaque pectora ferro
    Nudavit,_

the incongruity of _the two senses_ in _nudavit_, is the less perceived
from its _metaphorical application_ to _one_ of them.

But the desire of _pleasing continually_, which, in the circumstance
supposed, insensibly grows into a _habit_, must, of necessity, betray
writers of less taste and exactness into the frequent commission of
this fault. Which, as Mr. Addison takes notice, was remarkably the case
with OVID.

The purpose of all this is to shew, that the use of this _form of
speaking_ arose from _negligence_, or _affectation_, never from
_judgment_. And such being the obvious, and, it is presumed, true
account of the matter, the learned _Animadvertor_ on CHARITON is left,
as I said, to make the best of his _authorities_; or, even to enlarge
his list of them with the _Centuries_[48] of his good friends, at
his leisure. For till he can tell us of a writer, who, neither in
_careless_, nor _ambitious_ humours, is capable of this folly, his
accumulated citations, were they more to his purpose, than many of
them are, will do him little service. Unless perhaps we are to give up
common sense to authority, and pride ourselves on mimicking the very
defects of our _betters_. And even here he need not be at a loss for
_precedents_. For so the disciples of Plato, we are told, in former
times, affected to be _round-shouldered_, in compliment to their
master; and Aristotle’s worshipers, because of a natural impediment
in this philosopher’s speech, thought it to their credit to turn
_Stammerers_. And without doubt, while this fashion prevailed, there
were critics, who found out a _Je ne sçai quoi_ in the _air_ of the one
party, and in the _eloquence_ of the other.

       *       *       *       *       *

97. SUSPENDIT PICTA VULTUM MENTEMQUE TABELLA;] Horace judiciously
describes _painting_ by that peculiar circumstance, which does most
honour to this fine art. It is, that, in the hands of a master,
it attaches, not the _eyes_ only, but the very _soul_, to its
representation of the _human affections and manners_. For it is in
contemplating _subjects_ of this kind, that the mind, with a fond and
eager attention, _hangs_ on the picture. Other imitations may _please_,
but this warms and transports with _passion_. And, because whatever
addresses itself immediately to the _eye_, affects us most; hence it
is, that painting, so employed, becomes more efficacious to express
the _manners_ and imprint _characters_, than poetry itself: or rather,
hath the advantages of the best and usefullest species of poetry, the
_dramatic_, when enforced by just action on the stage.

Quintilian gives it the like preference to _Oratory_. Speaking of the
use of _action_ in an orator, he observes, “Is [gestus] quantum habeat
in oratore, momenti; satis vel ex eo patet, quod pleraque, etiam citra
verba, significat. Quippe non manus solum, sed nutus etiam declarant
nostram voluntatem, et in mutis pro sermone sunt: et salutatio
frequenter sine voce intelligitur atque afficit, et ex ingressu
vultuque perspicitur habitus animorum: et animantium quoque, sermone
carentium, ira, laetitia, adulatio, et oculis et quibusdam aliis
corporis signis deprehenditur. Nec mirum, si ista, quae tamen aliquo
sunt posita motu, tantum in animis valent: quum _pictura, tacens opus,
et habitûs semper ejusdem, sic intimos penetret affectus, ut ipsam vim
dicendi nonnunquam superare videatur_[49].”

We see then of what importance it is, since _affections_ of every kind
are equally within his power, that the painter apply himself to excite
only _those_, which are subservient to good morals. An importance,
of which Aristotle himself (who was no enthusiast in the fine arts)
was so sensible, that he gives it in charge, amongst other political
instructions, to the governors of youth, “that they allow them to
see no other pictures, than such as have this moral aim and tendency;
of which kind were more especially those of POLYGNOTUS.” [POLIT. lib.
viii. c. 5.]

For the _manner_, in which this moral efficacy of picture is brought
about, we find it agreeably explained in that conversation of
_Socrates_ with _Parrhasius_ in the _Memorabilia_ of Xenophon. The
whole may be worth considering.

“PAINTING, said Socrates, one day, in a conversation with the painter
Parrhasius, is, I think, the resemblance or imitation of sensible
objects. For you represent in colours, bodies of all sorts, _hollow and
projecting, bright and obscure, hard and soft, old and new_. “We do.”
And, when you would draw beautiful pourtraits, since it is not possible
to find any _single figure_ of a man, faultless in all its parts and of
exact proportion; your way is to collect, from _several_, those members
or features, which are most perfect in each, and so, by joining them
together, to compound one whole body, completely beautiful. “That is
our method.” What then, continued Socrates, and are you not able, also,
to imitate in colours, the MANNERS; those tendencies and dispositions
of the soul, which are benevolent, friendly, and amiable; such as
inspire love and affection into the heart, and whose soft insinuations
carry with them the power of persuasion?

“How, replied Parrhasius, can the pencil imitate _that_, which hath no
proportion, colour, or any other of those properties, you have been
just now enumerating, as the objects of sight?” Why, is it not true,
returned Socrates, that a man sometimes casts a _kind_, sometimes, an
_angry_, look on others? “It is.” There must then be something in the
eyes capable of expressing those passions. “There must.” And is there
not a wide difference between the look of him, who takes part in the
prosperity of a friend, and another, who sympathizes with him in his
sorrows? “Undoubtedly, there is the widest. The countenance, in the one
case, expresses joy, in the other, concern.” These affections may then
be represented in picture. “They may so.” In like manner, all other
dispositions of our nature, _the lofty and the liberal, the abject
and ungenerous, the temperate and the prudent, the petulant and
profligate_, these are severally discernible by the _look or attitude_:
and that, whether we observe men in _action_, or at _rest_. “They are.”
And these, therefore, come within the power of graphical imitation?
“They do.” Which then, concluded Socrates, do you believe, men take
the greatest pleasure in contemplating; such imitations, as set before
them the GOOD, the LOVELY, and the FAIR, of those, which represent the
BAD, the HATEFUL, and the UGLY, _qualities and affections of humanity_?
There can be no doubt, said Parrhasius, of their giving the preference
to the former.” [Lib. iii.]

The conclusion, the _philosopher_ drives at in this conversation, and
which the _painter_ readily concedes to him, is what, I am persuaded,
every master of the art would be willing to act upon, were he at
liberty to pursue the bent of his natural genius and inclination. But
it unfortunately happens, to the infinite prejudice of this _mode of
imitation_, above all others, that the artist _designs_ not so much
what the dignity of his profession requires of him, or the general
taste of those, he would most wish for his judges, approves; as
what the rich or noble _Connoisseur_, who _bespeaks_ his work, and
prescribes the subject, demands. What this has usually been, let the
history of ancient and modern painting declare[50]. Yet, considering
its vast power in MORALS, as explained above, one cannot enough lament
the ill destiny of this divine ART; which, from the chaste hand-maid
of _virtue_, hath been debauched, in violence to her nature, to a
shameless prostitute of _vice_, and procuress of _pleasure_.

       *       *       *       *       *

117. SCRIBIMUS INDOCTI DOCTIQUE POEMATA PASSIM.] The DOCTI POETAE have
at all times been esteemed by the wise and good, or, rather, have been
reverenced, as Plato speaks, ὥσπερ πατέρες τῆς σοφίας καὶ ἡγεμόνες.

As for the INDOCTI, we may take their character as drawn by the severe,
but just pen of our great Milton—“Poetas equidem verè doctos et diligo
et colo et audiendo saepissimè delector—istos verò versiculorum
nugivendos quis non oderit? quo genere nihil stultius aut vanius
aut corruptius, aut mendacius. Laudant, vituperant, sine delectu,
sine discrimine, judicio aut modo, nunc principes, nunc plebeios,
doctos juxta atque indoctos, probos an improbos perindè habent; prout
cantharus, aut spes nummuli, aut fatuus ille furor inflat ac rapit;
congestis undique et verborum et rerum tot discoloribus ineptiis tamque
putidis, ut laudatum longè praestet sileri, et pravo, quod aiunt,
vivere naso, quàm sic laudari: vituperatus verò qui sit, haud mediocri
sanè honori sibi ducat, se tam absurdis, tam stolidis nebulonibus
displicere.” DEF. SECUND. PRO POP. ANG. p. 337. 4^{to} Lond. 1753.

       *       *       *       *       *

118. HIC ERROR TAMEN, &c.] What follows from hence to v. 136,
containing an encomium on _the office of poets_, is one of the leading
beauties in the epistle. Its artifice consists in this, that, under the
cover of a negligent commendation, interspersed with even some _traits_
of pleasantry upon them, it insinuates to the emperor, in the manner
the least offensive and ostentatious, the genuin merits, and even
_sacredness_ of their character. The whole is a fine instance of that
address, which, in delivering rules for this kind of writing, the poet
prescribes elsewhere.

    _Et sermone opus est modo tristi, saepe jocoso,
    Defendente vicem modo Rhetoris atque Poetae;
    Interdum_ URBANI PARCENTIS VIRIBUS ATQUE
    EXTENUANTIS EAS CONSULTO.
                                         [1 S. x. 14.]

This conduct, in the place before us, shews the poet’s exquisite
knowledge of _human nature_. For there is no surer method of removing
prejudices, and gaining over _others_ to an esteem of any thing we
would recommend, than by not appearing to lay too great a stress on
it _ourselves_. It is, further, a proof of his intimate acquaintance
with the peculiar turn of the _great_; who, not being forward to think
highly of any thing but themselves and their own dignities, are, with
difficulty, brought to conceive of other accomplishments, as of much
value; and can only be won by the fair and candid address of their
apologist, who must be sure not to carry his praises and pretensions
too high. It is this art of entering into the _characters, prejudices,
and expectations_ of others, and of knowing to suit our application,
prudently, but with innocence, to them, which constitutes what we
call A KNOWLEDGE OF THE WORLD. An art, of which the great poet was a
consummate master, and than which there cannot be a more useful or
amiable quality. Only we must take care not to confound it with that
supple, versatile, and intriguing genius, which, taking all shapes,
and reflecting all characters, generally passes for it in the commerce
of the world, or rather is prized much above it; but, as requiring
no other talents in the possessor than those of a _low cunning_ and
_corrupt design_, is of all others the most mischievous, worthless, and
contemptible character, that infests human life.

       *       *       *       *       *

118. HIC ERROR TAMEN ET LEVIS HAEC INSANIA QUANTAS VIRTUTES HABEAT, SIC
COLLIGE:] This apology for _poets_, and, in them, for _poetry_ itself,
though delivered with much apparent negligence and unconcern, yet, if
considered, will be found to comprize in it every thing, that any, or
all, of its most zealous advocates have ever pretended in its behalf.
For it comprehends,

I. [From v. 118 to 124,] THE PERSONAL GOOD QUALITIES OF THE POET.
Nothing is more insisted on by those, who take upon themselves the
patronage and recommendation of any _art_, than that it tends to
raise in the professor of it all those _virtues_, which contribute
most to his _own_ proper enjoyment, and render him most agreeable to
_others_. Now this, it seems, may be urged, on the side of _poetry_,
with a peculiar force. For not only the _study_ of this art hath
a _direct_ tendency to produce a neglect or disregard of _worldly
honours and emoluments_ (from the too eager appetite of which almost
all the _calamities_, as well as the more unfriendly _vices_, of men
arise) but he, whom the benign aspect of the muse hath glanced upon
and destined for her peculiar service, is, by _constitution_, which is
ever the best security, fortified against the attacks of them. Thus his
RAPTURES in the enjoyment of his muse make him overlook _the common
accidents of life_ [v. 121]; _he is generous, open, and undesigning,
by_ NATURE [v. 122]; to which we must not forget to add, that he is
_temperate_, that is to say, _poor_, by PROFESSION.

    VIVIT SILIQUIS ET PANE SECUNDO.

II. [From v. 124 to 132.] THE UTILITY OF THE POET TO THE STATE: and
this both on a _civil_ and _moral_ account. For, 1. the poets, whom we
read in our younger years, and from whom we learn the _power of words_,
and _hidden harmony of numbers_, that is, as a profound Scotchman
teaches, the _first and most essential principles_ of eloquence[51],
enable, by degrees, and instruct their pupil to appear with advantage,
in that extensively useful capacity of a public speaker. And, indeed,
graver writers, than our poet, have sent the orator to this school. But
the pretensions of poetry go much farther. It delights [from v. 130
to 132] to immortalize the triumphs of virtue: to _record_ or _feign_
illustrious examples of heroic worth, for the service of the _rising
age_: and, which is the last and best fruit of philosophy itself, it
can relieve even the languor of _ill-health_, and sustain _poverty_
herself under the scorn and insult of contumelious opulence. 2. In a
_moral_ view its services are not less considerable. (For it may be
observed the _poet_ was so far of a mind with the _philosopher_, to
give no quarter to _immoral_ poets). And to this end it serves, 1.
[v. 127] _in turning the ear of youth_ from that early corruptor of
its innocence, the seducement of a _loose and impure communication_.
2. Next [v. 128] in forming our riper age (which it does with all the
address and tenderness of _friendship_: AMICIS _praeceptis_) _by the
sanctity and wisdom of its precepts_. And, 3. which is the proper
office of _tragedy, in correcting the excesses of the natural passions_
[v. 122]. The reader who doth not turn himself to the original, will be
apt to mistake this detail of the virtues of poetry, for an account of
the Policy and Legislation of ancient and modern times; whose proudest
boast, when the philanthropy of their enthusiastic projectors ran at
the highest, was but to _prevent the impressions of vice_: to _form the
mind to habits of virtue_: and _to curb and regulate the passions_.

III. HIS SERVICES TO RELIGION. This might well enough be said, whether
by _religion_ we understand an _internal reverence_ of the Gods, which
poetry first and principally intended; or their _popular adoration
and worship_, which, by its _fictions_, as of necessity conforming to
the received fancies of superstition, it must greatly tend to promote
and establish. But the poet, artfully seizing a circumstance, which
supposes and includes in it both these respects, renders his defence
vastly interesting.

All the customary _addresses_ of Heathenism to its gods, more
especially on any great and solemn emergency, were the work of the
poet. For _nature_, it seems, had taught the pagan world, what the
Hebrew Prophets themselves did not disdain to practice, that, to
lift the imagination, and, with it, the sluggish affections of human
nature, to Heaven, it was expedient to lay hold on every assistance
of art. They therefore presented their supplications to the Divinity
in the richest and brightest dress of eloquence, which is poetry. Not
to insist, that _devotion_, when sincere and ardent, from its very
_nature_, enkindles a glow of thought, which communicates strongly
with the transports of poetry. Hence _the language of the Gods_ (for
so was poetry accounted, as well from its being the divinest species
of communication, our rude conceptions can well frame even for
superior intelligencies, as for that it was the fittest vehicle of our
applications to them) became not the ornament only, but an _essential_
in the ceremonial, of paganism. And this, together with an allusion to
_a form of public prayer_ (for such was his _secular ode_) composed
by himself, gives, at once, a grace and sublimity to this part of the
apology, which are perfectly inimitable.

Thus hath the great poet, in the compass of a few lines, drawn together
a complete defence of his _art_. For what more could the warmest
admirer of poetry, or, because zeal is quickened by opposition, what
more could the vehement declaimer against Plato (who proscribed it),
urge in its behalf, than that it furnishes, to the poet himself, the
surest means of _solitary and social_ enjoyment: and further serves to
the most important CIVIL, MORAL, and RELIGIOUS purposes?

       *       *       *       *       *

119.—VATIS AVARUS NON TEMERE EST ANIMUS:] There is an unlucky Italian
proverb, which says, _Chi ben scrive, non sara mai ricco_.—The true
reason, without doubt, is here given by the poet.

       *       *       *       *       *

124. MILITIAE QUAMQUAM PIGER ET MALUS,] The observation has much grace,
as referring to himself, who had acquired no credit, as a soldier, in
the civil wars of his country.—We have an example of this misalliance
between the _poetic_ and _military_ character, recorded in the history
of our own civil wars, which may be just worth mentioning. Sir P.
Warwick, speaking of the famous Earl of _Newcastle_, observes—“his
edge had too much of the razor in it, for he had a tincture of a
romantic spirit, and had the misfortune to have somewhat of the Poet
in him; so as he chose Sir William Davenant, an eminent good poet,
and loyal gentleman, to be lieutenant-general of his ordnance. This
inclination of his own, and such kind of witty society (to be modest
in the expressions of it) diverted many councils, and lost many
opportunities, which the nature of that affair, this great man had now
entered into, required.” MEMOIRS, p. 235.

       *       *       *       *       *

132. CASTIS CUM PUERIS, &c.] We have, before, taken notice, how
properly the poet, for the easier and more successful introduction of
his apology, assumed the person _urbani, parcentis viribus_. We see
him here, in _that_ of _Rhetoris atque Poetae_. For admonished, as it
were, by the rising dignity of his subject, which led him from the
_moral_, to speak of the _religious_ uses of poetry, he insensibly
drops the _badineur_, and takes an air, not of seriousness only, but
of solemnity. This change is made with _art_. For the attention is
carried from the uses of poetry, in _consoling the unhappy_, by the
easiest transition imaginable, to the still more solemn application of
it to the _offices of piety_. And its _use_ is, to impress on the mind
a stronger sense of the weight of the poet’s plea, than could have been
expected from a more direct and continued declamation. For this is the
constant and natural effect of knowing to pass from _gay_ to _severe_,
with grace and dignity.

       *       *       *       *       *

169. SED HABET COMOEDIA TANTO PLUS ONERIS, QUANTO VENIAR MINUS.]
Tragedy, whose intention is to _affect_, may secure what is most
essential to its _kind_, though it fail in some minuter resemblances
of _nature_: Comedy, proposing for its main end _exact representation_,
is fundamentally defective, if it do not perfectly succeed in it. And
this explains the ground of the poet’s observation, that Comedy hath
_veniae minus_; for he is speaking of the draught of the _manners_
only, in which respect a greater _indulgence_ is very deservedly
shewn to the tragic than comic writer. But though Tragedy hath thus
far the advantage, yet in another respect its laws are more severe
than those of Comedy; and that is in the conduct of the _fable_. It
may be asked then, which of the two dramas is, on the whole, most
difficult. To which the answer is decisive. For Tragedy, whose end is
the _Pathos_, produces it by _action_, while Comedy produces its end,
the _Humourous_, by _Character_. Now it is much more difficult to paint
manners, than to plan action; because _that_ requires the philosopher’s
knowledge of human nature; _this_, only the historian’s knowledge of
human events.

It is true, in one sense, the _tragic_ muse has _veniae minus_; for
though grave and pleasant scenes may be indifferently represented,
or even mixed together, in comedy, yet, in tragedy, the serious and
solemn air must prevail throughout. Indeed, our Shakespear has violated
this rule, as he hath, upon occasion, almost every other rule, of just
criticism: Whence, some writers, taking advantage of that idolatrous
admiration which is generally professed for this great poet, and
nauseating, I suppose, the more common, though juster, forms of
literary composition, have been for turning his very transgression
of the principles of common sense, into a standing precept for the
stage. “It is said, that, if comedy may be wholly _serious_, why may
not tragedy now and then be indulged in being _gay_?” If these critics
be in earnest in putting this question, they need not wait long for
an answer. The _end_ of comedy being _to paint the manners_, nothing
hinders (as I have shewn at large in the dissertation _on the provinces
of the drama_) but “that it may take either character of _pleasant_
or _serious_, as it chances, or even unite them both in one piece:”
But the end of tragedy being _to excite the stronger passions_, this
discordancy in the subject breaks the flow of those passions, and
so prevents, or lessens at least, the very effect which this drama
primarily intends. “It is said, indeed, that this contrast of _grave_
and _pleasant_ scenes, heightens the _passion_:” if it had been said
that it heightens the _surprize_, the observation had been more just.
Lastly, “we are told, that this is nature, which generally blends
together the _ludicrous_, and the _sublime_.” But who does not know

    _That art is nature to advantage dress’d_;

and that to dress out nature to _advantage_ in the present instance,
that is, in a composition whose laws are to be deduced from the
consideration of its _end_, these characters are to be kept by an
artist, perfectly distinct?

However this restraint upon tragedy does not prove that, upon the
whole, it has _plus oneris_. All I can allow, is, that either drama has
_weight_ enough in all reason, for the ablest _shoulders_ to sustain.

       *       *       *       *       *

177. QUEM TULIT AD SCENAM VENTOSO GLORIA CURRU, EXANIMAT LENTUS
SPECTATOR, &c. to v. 182.] There is an exquisite spirit of pleasantry
in these lines, which hath quite evaporated in the hands of the
critics. These have gravely supposed them to come from the _person_
of the _poet_, and to contain his serious censure of the vanity of
poetic fame. Whereas, besides the manifest absurdity of the thing, its
inconsistency with what is delivered elsewhere on this subject [A.
P. v. 324.] where the Greeks are commended as being _praeter laudem
nullius avari_, absolutely requires us to understand them as proceeding
from an _objector_; who, as the poet hath very satirically contrived,
is left to expose himself in the very terms of his _objection_. He had
just been blaming the venality of the Roman dramatic writers. They
had shewn themselves more sollicitous about _filling their pockets_,
than deserving the reputation of good poets. And, instead of insisting
further on the excellency of this _latter_ motive, he stops short, and
brings in a bad poet himself to laugh at it.

“And what then, says he, you would have us yield ourselves to the very
wind and gust of praise; and, dropping all inferior considerations,
drive away to the expecting stage in the _puffed car of vain-glory_?
For what? To be _dispirited_, or blown up with air, as the capricious
spectator shall think fit to enforce, or withhold, his _inspirations_.
And is this the mighty benefit of your vaunted passion for fame? No;
farewel the stage, if the breath of others is _that_, on which the
silly bard is to depend for the contraction or enlargement of his
dimensions.” To all which convincing rhetoric the poet condescends to
say nothing; as well knowing, that no truer service is, oftentimes,
done to virtue or good sense, than when a knave or fool is left to
himself, to employ his idle raillery against either.

These interlocutory passages, laying open the sentiments of those
against whom the poet is disputing, are very frequent in the _critical
and moral_ writings of Horace, and are well suited to their dramatic
genius and original.

       *       *       *       *       *

210. ILLE PER EXTENTUM FUNEM, &c.] The Romans, who were immoderately
addicted to spectacles of every kind, had in particular esteem the
_funambuli_, or _rope-dancers_;

    _Ita populus studio stupidus in_ FUNAMBULO
    _Animum occuparat._
                       PROL. in HECYR.

From the admiration of whose tricks the expression, _ire per extentum
funem_, came to denote, proverbially, _an uncommon degree of excellence
and perfection in any thing_. The allusion is, here, made with much
pleasantry, as the poet had just been rallying their fondness for these
_extraordinary atchievements_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ibid. ILLE PER EXTENTUM FUNEM, &c. to v. 214.] It is observable, that
Horace, here, makes his own _feeling_ the test of poetical merit.
Which is said with a philosophical exactness. For the _pathos_ in
tragic, _humour_ in comic, and the same holds of the _sublime_ in the
narrative, and of every other _species_ of excellence in universal
poetry, is the object, not of _reason_, but _sentiment_; and can
be estimated only from its _impression_ on the mind, not by any
speculative or general _rules_. Rules themselves are indeed nothing
else but an appeal to _experience_; conclusions drawn from wide and
general observation of the aptness and efficacy of certain _means_ to
produce those _impressions_. So that feeling or sentiment itself is not
only the surest, but the sole _ultimate_ arbiter of works of genius.

Yet, though this be true, the _invention_ of _general rules_ is not
without its merit, nor the _application_ of them without its _use_, as
may appear from the following considerations.

It may be affirmed, universally, of all _didactic writing_, that it is
employed in _referring particular facts to general principles_. General
principles themselves can often be referred to others more general; and
these again carried still higher, till we come to a _single_ principle,
in which all the rest are involved. When this is done, science of
every kind hath attained its highest perfection.

The account, here given, might be illustrated from various instances.
But it will be sufficient to confine ourselves to the single one of
_criticism_; by which I understand that _species_ of didactic writing,
which _refers to general rules the virtues and faults of composition_.
And the perfection of this _art_ would consist in an ability to refer
_every_ beauty and blemish to a separate class; and _every_ class, by
a gradual progression, to some _one_ single principle. But the _art_
is, as yet, far short of perfection. For many of these beauties and
blemishes can be referred to no general rule at all; and the rules,
which have been discovered, seem many of them unconnected, and not
reducible to a common principle. It must be admitted however that such
critics are employed in their proper office, as contribute to the
_confirmation_ of rules already established, or the _invention_ of new
ones.

Rules already established are then _confirmed_, when more _particulars_
are referred to them. The invention of _new_ rules implies, 1.
A _collection_ of various particulars, not yet regulated. 2. A
_discovery_ of those circumstances of _resemblance_ or _agreement_,
whereby they become capable of being regulated. And 3. A subsequent
_regulation_ of them, or arrangement into _one_ class according to
_such_ circumstances of _agreement_. When this is done, the rule is
completed. But if the critic is not able to observe any _common_
circumstance of resemblance in the several particulars he hath
collected, by which they may, all of them, be referred to one general
class, he hath then made no advancement in the _art of criticism_. Yet
the collection of his particular observations may be of use to other
critics; just as collections of natural history, though no part of
philosophy, may yet assist philosophical inquirers.

We see then from this general view of the matter, that the _merit_ of
inventing _general rules_ consists in reducing criticism to an _art_;
and that the _use_ of applying them, in practice, when the art is thus
formed, is, to direct the caprices of _taste_ by the authority of rule,
which we call _reason_.

And, thus much being premised, we shall now be able to form a proper
judgment of the _method_, which some of the most admired of the
ancients, as well as moderns, have taken in this _work of criticizing_.
The most eminent, at least the most popular, are, perhaps, Longinus,
of the Greeks; P. Bouhours, of the French; and Mr. Addison, with us in
England.

1. _All_ the beautiful passages, which LONGINUS cites, are referred by
him to _five_ general classes. And 2dly, These general classes belong
all to the _common_ principle of _sublimity_. He does not say this
passage is _excellent_, but assigns the _kind_ of excellence, _viz._
_sublimity_. Neither does he content himself with the general notion of
_sublimity_, but names the _species_, viz. _Grandeur_ of _sentiment_,
power of moving the _passions_, &c. His work therefore enables us to
_class_ our perceptions of excellence, and consequently is formed on
the _true plan_ of criticism.

2. The same may be observed of P. BOUHOURS. The passages, cited by him,
are never mentioned in _general_ terms as _good_ or _bad_: but are
instances of good or bad _sentiment_. This is the _genus_, in which
_all_ his instances are comprehended: but of this genus he marks also
the distinct _species_. He does not say, this sentiment is _good_;
but it is _sublime_, or _natural_, or _beautiful_, or _delicate_: or,
that another sentiment is _bad_; but that it is _mean_, or _false_,
or _deformed_, or _affected_. To these several classes he refers his
particular instances: and these classes themselves are referred to the
more comprehensive principles of the excellence or fault of _single
sentiment_, as opposed to the various _other_ excellencies and faults,
which are observed in composition.

3. Mr. ADDISON, in his _criticism on Milton_, proceeded in like manner.
For, _first_, these remarks are evidently applicable to the general
observations on the poem; in which every thing is referred to the
common heads of _fable_, _morals_, _sentiments_, and _language_; and
even the _specific_ excellencies and faults considered under each head
distinctly marked out. _Secondly_, The same is true concerning _many_
of the observations on particular passages. The reader is not only
told, that a passage _has_ merit; but is informed what _sort_ of merit
belongs to it.

Neither are the remaining observations wholly without use. For such
particular beauties and blemishes, as are barely _collected_, may
yet serve as a foundation to future inquirers for making further
discoveries. They may be considered as so many _single_ facts, an
_attention_ to which is excited by the authority of the critic; and
when these are considered jointly with such as _others_ may have
observed, those general principles of _similitude_ may at length be
found, which shall enable us to constitute _new_ classes of poetical
merit or blame.

Thus far the candid reader may go in apologizing for the _merits_
of these writers. But, as, in sound criticism, candour must not be
indulged at the expence of _justice_, I think myself obliged to add
an observation concerning their _defects_; and _that_, on what I must
think the just principles here delivered.

Though the method, taken by these writers, be _scientifical_, the real
service they have done to criticism, is not very considerable. And the
reason is, they dwell too much in _generals_: that is, not only the
_genus_ to which they refer their _species_ is too large, but those very
subordinate species themselves are too comprehensive.

Of the _three_ critics, under consideration, the most instructive is,
unquestionably, _Longinus_. The _genus_ itself, under which he ranks
his several _classes_, is as _particular_ as the species of the other
two. Yet even _his_ classes are much too general to convey my very
distinct and useful information. It had been still better, if this fine
critic had descended to lower and more minute _particularities_, as
subordinate to _each class_. For to observe of any _sentiment_, that it
is _grand_, or _pathetic_, and so of the other _species_, of sublime,
is saying very little. Few readers want to be informed of this. It had
been sufficient, if any notice was to be taken at all of so _general_
beauties, to have done it in the way, which some of the best critics
have taken, of merely pointing to them. But could he have discovered
and produced to observation those _peculiar_ qualities in _sentiment_,
which occasion the impression of _grandeur, pathos, &c._ this had
been advancing the science of criticism very much, as tending to lay
open the more secret and hidden springs of that _pleasure_, which
results from poetical composition.

_P. Bouhours_, as I observed, is still more faulty. His very _species_
are so large, as make his criticism almost wholly useless and
insignificant.

It gives one pain to refuse to such a writer as Mr. _Addison_ any
_kind_ of merit, which he appears to have valued himself upon, and
which the generality of his readers have seemed willing to allow him.
Yet it must not be dissembled, that _criticism_ was by no means his
talent. His taste was truly elegant; but he had neither that vigour
of understanding, nor chastised, philosophical spirit, which are so
essential to this character, and which we find in hardly any of the
ancients besides Aristotle, and but in a very few of the moderns. For
what concerns his _criticism on Milton_ in particular, there was this
accidental benefit arising from it, that it occasioned an admirable
poet to be read, and his excellencies to be observed. But for the merit
of the work itself, if there be any thing just in the _plan_, it was,
because Aristotle and Bossu had taken the same route before him. And
as to his _own_ proper observations, they are for the most part, so
general and indeterminate, as to afford but little instruction to the
reader, and are, not unfrequently, altogether frivolous. They are of a
kind with those, in which the French critics (for I had rather instance
in the defects of _foreign_ writers than of our _own_) so much abound;
and which good judges agree to rank in the worst sort of criticism. To
give one example for all.

Cardinal PERRON, taking occasion to commend certain pieces of the poet
RONSARD, chuses to deliver himself in the following manner: “Prenez de
lui quelque poëme que ce soit, il paye toujours son lecteur, et quand
la verve le prend, il se guinde en haut, il vous porte jusques dans les
nuës, il vous fait voir mille belles choses.

“Que ses _saisons_ sont _bien-faites_! Que la description de la lyre a
Bertaut est _admirable_! Que le discours au ministre, _excellent_! Tous
ses hymnes sont _beaux_. Celui de l’eternité est _admirable_; ceux des
saisons _marveilleux_.” [Perroniana.]

What now has the reader learned from this varied criticism, but
that his _Eminence_ was indeed very fond of his poet; and that he
esteemed these several pieces to be (what with less expence of words
he might, in one breath, have called them) _well-turned_, _beautiful_,
_excellent_, _admirable_, _marvellous_, poems? To have given us the
true character of _each_, and to have marked the precise _degree_, as
well as _kind_, of merit in these works, had been a task of another
nature.

       *       *       *       *       *

211.—QUI PECTUS INANITER ANGIT,] The word _inaniter_ as well as
_falsi_, applied in the following line to _terrores_, would express
that wondrous force of _dramatic representation_, which compels us
to take part in _feigned_ adventures and situations, as if they were
_real_; and exercises the passions with the same violence, in _remote
fancied scenes_, as in the _present distresses of real life_.

And this is that sovereign quality in poetry, which, as an old writer
of our own naturally expresses it, is of force _to hold children from
play, and old men from the chimney corner_[52]. The poet, in the place
before us, considers it as a kind of _magic virtue_, which transports
the spectator into all _places_, and makes him, occasionally, assume
all _persons_. The resemblance holds, also, in this, that its effects
are instantaneous and irresistible. _Rules_, _art_, _decorum_, all fall
before it. It goes directly to the _heart_, and gains all purposes at
once. Hence it is, that, speaking of a real genius, possessed of this
commanding power, Horace pronounces him, emphatically, THE POET,

    _Ille per extentum funem mihi posse
    videtur Ire_ POETA:

it being more especially this property, which, of itself, discovers
the _true dramatist_, and secures the success of his performance, not
only without the assistance of _art_, but in direct opposition to its
clearest dictates.

This power has been felt on a thousand other occasions. But its
triumphs were never more conspicuous, than in the famous instance of
the CID of P. Corneille; which, by the sole means of this enchanting
quality, drew along with it the affections and applauses of a whole
people: notwithstanding the manifest transgression of some essential
rules, the utmost tyranny of jealous power, and, what is more, in
defiance of all the authority and good sense of one of the justest
pieces of criticism in the French language, written purposely to
discredit and expose it.

       *       *       *       *       *

224. CUM LAMENTAMUR NON ADPARERE LABORES NOSTROS, &c.] It was remarked
upon verse 211, that the beauties of a poem can only _appear_ by being
felt. And _they_, to whom they do not appear in this instance, are the
writer’s own _friends_, who, it is not to be supposed, would disguise
their _feelings_. So that the _lamentation_, here spoken of, is at once
a proof of _impertinence_ in the poet, and of the _badness_ of his
poetry, which sets the complainant in a very ridiculous light.

       *       *       *       *       *

228. EGERE VETES.] The poet intended, in these words, a very just
satire on those presuming _wits and scholars_, who, under the pretence
of getting above distressful _want_, in reality aspire to public
honours and preferments; though this be the most inexcusable of all
follies (to give it the softest name), which can infest a man of
letters: Both, because experience, on which a wise man would chuse to
regulate himself, is contrary to these hopes; and, because if literary
merit could succeed in them, the _Reward_, as the poet speaks,

          _would either bring
    No joy, or be destructive of the thing_:

That is, the learned would either have no relish for the delights of
so widely different a situation; or, which hath oftener been the case,
would lose the learning itself, or the _love_ of it at least, on which
their pretensions to this _reward_ are founded.

       *       *       *       *       *

232. GRATUS ALEXANDRO REGI MAGNO &c.] This praise of Augustus,
arising from the comparison of his character with that of Alexander,
is extremely fine. It had been observed of the Macedonian by his
historians and panegyrists, that, to the stern virtues of the
_conqueror_, he had joined the softer accomplishments of the
_virtuoso_, in a just discernment and love of _poetry_, and of the
_elegant arts_. The one was thought clear from his admiration and
study of Homer: And the _other_, from his famous edict concerning
Apelles and Lysippus, could not be denied. Horace finds means to turn
both these circumstances in his story to the advantage of his prince.

From his extravagant pay of such a wretched versifier, as _Choerilus_,
he would insinuate, that Alexander’s love of the muse was, in fact, but
a blind unintelligent impulse towards _glory_. And from his greater
skill in the arts of _sculpture_ and _painting_, than of _verse_, he
represents him as more concerned about the _drawing_ of his figure,
than the pourtraiture of his _manners_ and _mind_. Whereas Augustus,
by his liberalities to _Varius_ and _Virgil_, had discovered the
truest taste in the _art_, from which he expected immortality: and,
in trusting to _that_, as the _chief_ instrument of his fame, had
confessed a prior regard to those _mental virtues_, which are the
real ornament of humanity, before that _look of terror_, and _air and
attitude of victory_, in which the brute violence of Alexander most
delighted to be shewn.

       *       *       *       *       *

243. MUSARUM DONA] The expression is happy; as implying, that these
_images_ of virtue, which are represented as of such importance to the
glory of princes, are not the mere _offerings_ of poetry to greatness,
but the _free-gifts_ of the muse to the poet. For it is only to such
_works_, as these, that Horace attributes the wondrous efficacy of
expressing the _manners and mind_ in fuller and more durable relief,
than _sculpture_ gives to the _exterior figure_.

    _Non magis expressi vultus per aënea signa,
    Quam per vatis opus mores animique virorum
    Clarorum adparent._

       *       *       *       *       *

247.—VIRGILIUS.] Virgil is mentioned, in this place, simply as a
_Poet_. The precise idea of his _poetry_ is given us elsewhere.

          _molle atque facetum
    Virgilio annuerunt gaudentes rure Camoenae._
                                        1 Sat. x. 44.

But this may appear a strange praise of the sweet and polished Virgil.
It appeared so to Quinctilian, who cites this passage, and explains it,
without doubt, very justly, yet in such a way as shews that he was not
quite certain of the truth of his explanation.

The case, I believe, was this. The word _facetum_, which makes
the difficulty, had acquired, in Quinctilian’s days, the sense of
_pleasant_, _witty_, or _facetious_, _in exclusion_ to every other
idea, which had formerly belonged to it. It is true that, in the
Augustan age, and still earlier, _facetum_ was sometimes used in this
sense. But its proper and original meaning was no more than _exact_,
_factitatum, benè factum_. And in this strict sense, I believe, it is
always used by Horace.

    _Malthinus tunicis demissis ambulat: est qui
    Inguen ad obscoenum subductis usque facetus._
                                        1 S. ii. 25.

i. e. _tucked up, trim, expedite_.

    _Mutatis tantùm pedibus numerisque facetus._
                                         1 S. iv. 7.

i. e. he [Lucilius] adopted a _stricter_ measure, than the writers
of the old comedy; or, by changing the loose iambic to the Hexameter
verse, he gave a proof of his _art_, _skill_, and _improved judgment_.

              _frater, pater, adde;
    Ut cuique est aetas, ita quemque facetus adopta._
                                        1. Ep. vi. 55.

i. e. _nicely_ and _accurately_ adapt your address to the age and
condition of each.

I do not recollect any other place where _facetus_ is used by Horace;
and in all these it seems probable to me that the principal idea,
conveyed by it, is that of _care_, _art_, _skill_, only differently
modified according to the subject to which it is applied: a gown tucked
up _with care_—a measure _studiously_ affected—an address _nicely_
accommodated—No thought of _ridicule_ or _pleasantry_ intended.

It is the same in the present instance—

  MOLLE ATQUE FACETUM

i. e. _a soft flowing versification_, and _an exquisitely finished
expression_: the two precise, characteristic merits of Virgil’s _rural_
poetry.

This change, in the sense of words, is common in all languages, and
creeps in so gradually and imperceptibly as to elude the notice,
sometimes, of the best critics, even in their own language. The
transition of ideas, in the present instance, may be traced thus.
As what was _wittily_ said, was most _studied_, _artificial_, and
_exquisite_, hence in process of time _facetum_ lost its primary sense,
and came to signify merely, _witty_.

We have a like example in our own language. A _good wit_ meant formerly
a man of good natural sense and understanding: but because what we now
call _wit_ was observed to be the flower and quintessence, as it were,
of good sense, hence _a man of wit_ is now the exclusive attribute of
one who exerts his good sense in that peculiar manner.

       *       *       *       *       *

247. DILECTI TIBI VIRGILIUS &c.] It does honour to the memory of
Augustus, that he bore the _affection_, here spoken of, to this amiable
poet; who was not more distinguished from his contemporary writers
by the force of an original, inventive genius, than the singular
benevolence and humanity of his character. Yet there have been critics
of so perverse a turn, as to discover an inclination, at least, of
disputing both.

1. Some have taken offence at his supposed unfriendly neglect of
Horace, who, on every occasion, shewed himself so ready to lavish all
his praises on him. But the folly of this slander is of a piece with
its malignity, as proceeding on the absurd fancy, that Virgil’s friends
might as easily have slid into such works, as the Georgics and Eneïs,
as those of Horace into the various occasional poems, which employed
his pen.

Just such another senseless suspicion hath been raised of his jealousy
of Homer’s superior glory (a vice, from which the nature of the great
poet was singularly abhorrent), only, because he did not think fit to
give him the first place among the poets in _Elysium_, several hundred
years before he had so much as made his appearance upon _earth_.

But these petty calumnies of his _moral_ character hardly deserve
a confutation. What some greater authorities have objected to his
_poetical_, may be thought more serious. For,

2. It has been given out by some of better note among the moderns, and
from thence, according to the customary influence of authority, hath
become the prevailing sentiment of the generality of the learned, that
the great poet was more indebted for his fame to the _exactness of his
judgment; to his industry, and a certain trick of imitation_, than to
the energy of natural genius; which he is thought to have possessed in
a very slender degree.

This charge is founded on the similitude, which all acknowledge,
betwixt his great work, the Aeneis, and the poems of Homer. But, “how
far such similitude infers imitation; or, how far imitation itself
infers an inferiority of natural genius in the imitator,” this hath
never been considered. In short the affair of _imitation_ in poetry,
though one of the most curious and interesting in all criticism, hath
been, hitherto, very little understood: as may appear from hence,
that there is not, as far as I can learn, one single treatise, now
extant, written purposely to explain it; the discourse, which the
learned _Menage_ intended, and which, doubtless, would have given
light to this matter, having never, as I know of, been made public.
To supply, in some measure, this loss, I have thought it not amiss to
put together and methodize a few reflexions of my own on this subject,
which (because the matter is large, and cannot easily be drawn into a
compass, that suits with the nature of these occasional remarks) the
reader will find in a distinct and separate dissertation upon it[53].


CONCLUSION.

AND, now, having explained, in the best manner I could, the two famous
Epistles of Horace to Augustus and the Pisos, it may be expected, in
conclusion, that I should say something of the rest of our poet’s
critical writings. For his _Sermones_ (under which general term I
include his _Epistles_) are of two sorts, MORAL and CRITICAL; and,
though both are exquisite, the _latter_ are perhaps, in their kind,
the more perfect of the two; his _moral_ principles being sometimes, I
believe, liable to exception, his _critical_, never.

The two pieces, illustrated in these volumes, are _strictly_ critical:
the _first_, being a professed criticism of the Roman drama; and the
_last_, in order to their vindication, of the Roman poets. The rest of
his works, which turn upon this subject of criticism, may be rather
termed _Apologetical_. They are the IV^{th} and X^{th} of the FIRST,
and I^{st} of the SECOND book of Satires; and the XIX^{th} of the
FIRST, and, in part, the II^{d} of the SECOND book of Epistles.

In _these_, the poet has THREE great objects; one or other of which he
never loses sight of, and generally he prosecutes them all together,
in the same piece. These objects are, 1. to vindicate the way of
writing in satire. 2. To justify his opinion of a favourite writer of
this class, the celebrated Lucilius. And 3. to expose the careless and
incorrect composition of the Roman writers.

He was himself deeply concerned in these three articles; so that he
makes his own apology at the same time that he criticizes or censures
others. The _address_ of the poet’s manner will be seen by bearing in
mind this general purpose of his critical poetry. How he came to be
_engaged_ in this controversy, will best appear from a few observations
on the state of the Roman learning, when he undertook to contribute his
pains to the improvement of it.

I have, in the introduction to the first of these volumes, given a
slight sketch of the rise and progress of the Roman satire. This poem,
was purely of Roman invention: _first of all_, struck out of the old
fescennine farce, and rudely cultivated, by Ennius: _Next_, more
happily treated, and enriched with the best part of the old comedy,
by Lucilius: And, after some succeeding essays, taken up and finally
adorned, by Horace.

HORACE was well known to the public by his lyric compositions, and
still more perhaps by his favour at court, when he took upon him to
correct the manners and taste of his age, by his _Lucilian Satires_.
But, here, he encountered, at once, many prejudices; and all his own
credit, together with that of his court-friends, was little enough to
support him, against the torrent.

FIRST, the kind of writing itself was sure to give offence. For, though
men were well enough pleased to have their natural malignity gratified
by an old poet’s satire against a _former_ age, yet they were naturally
alarmed at the exercise of this talent upon their _own_, and, as it
might chance, upon themselves.

The poet’s eminence, and favour, would, besides, give a peculiar
force and _effect_ to his censures, so that all who found, or thought
themselves liable to them, were concerned, in interest, to discredit
the attempt, and blast his rising reputation.

    _Omnes hi metuunt versus, odere_ POETAM.

Hence, he was constrained to stand upon his own defence, and to
vindicate, as well the thing itself, as his management of it, to the
tender and suspicious public.

But this was not all: For, SECONDLY, an old satirist, of high birth
and quality, LUCILIUS, was considered, not only as an able writer of
this class, but as a perfect model in it; and of course, therefore,
this new satirist would be much decried and undervalued, on the
comparison. This circumstance obliged the poet to reduce this admired
writer to his real value; which could not be done without thwarting
the general admiration, and pointing out his vices and defects in the
freest manner. This perilous task he discharged in the IV^{th} satire
of his first book, and with such rigour of criticism, that not only the
partizans of Lucilius, in the poet’s own age, but the most knowing and
candid critics of succeeding times, were disposed to complain of it.
However, the obnoxious step had been taken; and nothing remained but to
justify himself, as he hath done at large, in his X^{th} satire.

On the whole, in comparing what he has said in these two satires
with what Quinctilian long after observed on the subject of them,
there seems no reason to conclude, that the poet judged ill; though
he expressed his judgment in such terms as he would, no doubt, have
something softened (out of complaisance to the general sentiment,
and a becoming deference to the real merits of his master), if his
adversaries had been more moderate in urging their charge, or if the
occasion had not been so pressing.

_Lastly_, this attack on Lucilius produced, or rather involved in
it, a THIRD quarrel. The poet’s main objection to Lucilius was his
careless, verbose, and hasty composition, which his admirers, no doubt,
called genius, grace, and strength. This being an inveterate folly
among his countrymen, he gives it no quarter. Through all his critical
works, he employs the utmost force of his wit and good sense to expose
it: And his own writings, being at the same time supremely correct,
afforded his enemies (which would provoke them still more) no advantage
against him. Yet they attempted, as they could, to repay his perpetual
reproaches on the popular writers for their neglect of _limae labor_,
by objecting to him, in their turn, that what he wrote was _sine
nervis_: and this, though they felt his _force_ themselves, and though
another set of men were complaining, at the same time, of his severity.

    _Sunt quibus in satyrâ videor nimis_ ACER—
                        SINE NERVIS _altera quicquid
    Composui pars esse putat, similesque meorum_
    Mille die versus _deduci posse_—

His detractors satirically alluding, in these last words, to his charge
against Lucilius—

                                  in horâ _saepè_ ducentos,
    _Ut magnum_, versus _dictabat, stans pede in uno_.

It is not my purpose, in this place, to enlarge further on the
character of Lucilius, whose _wordy_ satires gave occasion to our
poet’s criticism. Several of the ancient writers speak of him
occasionally, in terms of the highest applause; and without doubt,
he was a poet of distinguished merit. Yet it will hardly be thought,
at this day, that it could be any discredit to him to be censured,
rivalled, and excelled by Horace.

What I have here put together is only to furnish the young reader with
the proper KEY to Horace’s critical works, which generally turn on his
own vindication, _against the enemies of satire_—_the admirers of
Lucilius_—_and the patrons of loose and incorrect composition_.

In managing these several topics, he has found means to introduce
a great deal of exquisite criticism. And though his scattered
observations go but a little way towards making up a complete critical
system, yet they are so _luminous_, as the French speak, that is, they
are so replete with good sense, and extend so much further than to the
case to which they are immediately applied, that they furnish many of
the principles on which such a system, if ever it be taken in hand,
must be constructed: And, without carrying matters too far, we may
safely affirm of these _Critical Discourses_, that, next to Aristotle’s
immortal work, they are the most valuable remains of ancient art upon
this subject.

_The End of the Notes on the Epistle to_ AUGUSTUS.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.


  J. Nichols and Son, Printers,
  Red Lion Passage, Fleet Street, London.




FOOTNOTES:


[1] [A Cross with the initials on a label—I. N. R. I. a Glory above,
and the motto below ΕΚ ΠΙΣΤΕΩΣ.]

[2] “We, the Bishop and Dean and Chapter and Clergy of the Church and
Diocese of Worcester, humbly beg leave to present our dutiful respects
to your Majesty, and to express the joy we feel on your Majesty’s
arrival at this place.

“Your presence, Sir, gladdens the hearts of your faithful subjects,
wherever you go. But We, the Clergy of this place, have a peculiar
cause to rejoice in the honour vouchsafed us at this time; a time,
devoted to an excellent charity for the relief of a most deserving,
though unfortunate part of our Order. This gracious notice and
countenance of us at such a moment, shews, as your whole life has
invariably done, your zealous concern for the interests of Religion,
and the credit of its Ministers. And we trust, Sir, that we entertain a
due sense of this goodness; and that we shall never be wanting in the
most dutiful attachment to your Majesty’s sacred person, to your august
house, and to your mild and beneficent government.

“In our daily celebration of the sacred offices, committed to our
charge, we make it our fervent prayer to Almighty God, that He will
be pleased to take your Majesty into his special protection; and that
your Majesty may live long, very long, in health and honour, to be the
blessing and the delight of all your people.”

[The above is the substance, and I believe the words, of my address to
the King at Worcester, 6th August 1788.]

To this address his Majesty was pleased to return an answer, very
gracious, personally, to the Bishop himself, and expressive of the
highest regard for the Clergy of the Established Church.

                                                            R. W.

[3] [Edward Foley, Esq. Member of Parliament for the County, and
William Langford, D. D. late Prebendary of Worcester.]

[4] The Reverend Mr. BUDWORTH, Head-Master of the Grammar School at
BREWOOD, in Staffordshire. He died in 1745.

[5] Satyra hæc est in sui sæculi poetas, PRÆCIPUE vero in Romanum
drama. Baxter.

[6] Præf. in LIB. POET. et l. vi. p. 338.

[7] _Mærorem minui_, says Tully, grieving for the loss of his daughter,
_dolorem nec potui, nec, si possem_, VELLEM. [Ep. ad Att. xii. 28.] A
striking picture of real grief!

[8]

    _Vel tibi composita cantetur_ EPISTOLA _voce_;
      IGNOTUM HOC ALIIS ILLE NOVAVIT OPUS.
                         ART. AMAT. l. iii. v. 345.

[9] J. Scaliger says, _Epistolas, Græcorum more, Phocylidæ atque
Theognidis_ [Horatius] _scripsit: præceptis philosophiæ divulsis
minimeque inter se cohærentibus_. And of _this_ Epistle, in particular,
he presumes to say, _De Arte quæres quid sentiam. Quid? Equidem quod de
Arte sine arte traditâ._ And to the same purpose another great Critic;
_Non solum antiquorum ὑποθῆκαι in moralibus hoc habuere, ut ἀκολουθίαν
non servarent, sed etiam alia de quibuscunque rebus præcepta. Sic
Epistola Horatii ad Pisones de Poëticâ perpetuum ordinem seriemque_
NULLAM _habet; sed ab uno præcepto ad aliud transilit, quamvis_ NULLA
_sit materiæ affinitas ad sensum connectendum._ [Salmasii Not. in
Epictetum et Simplicium, p. 13. _Lugd. Bat._ 1640.]

[10] See _Victor. Comm. in Dem. Phaler._ p. 73. _Florent._ 1594.

[11] The reader may see a fine speech in the Cyropædia of Xenophon [l.
iv.] where not so much as this is observed.

[12] See _Robert Stephens’s Fragm. Vet. Latinorum_.

[13] Sir _Philip Sidney_.

[14] _Quel avantage ne peut il [le poëte] pas tirer d’une troupe
d’acteurs, qui remplissent sa scene, qui rendent plus sensible la
continuité de l’action, et qui la font paroitre_ VRAISEMBLABLE,
_puisqu’il n’est pas naturel qu’elle se passe sans temoins. On ne sent
que trop le vuide de notre Théatre sans chœurs, &c._ [Le Théatre des
Grecs, vol. i. p. 105.]

[15] See also to the same purpose P. Corneille’s _Exam. sur la Medée_.
If the objection, made by these critics, to the part of the chorus, be,
_the improbability_, as was explained at large in the preceding note,
_of a slave’s taking the side of virtue against the pleasure of his
tyrant_, the manifest difference of the two cases will shew it to be
without the least foundation. For 1. the chorus in the Medea consists
of women, whom compassion and a secret jealousy and indignation at so
flagrant an instance of the violated faith of marriage, attach, by
the most natural connexion of interests, to the cause and person of
the injured queen. In the Antigone, it is composed of old courtiers,
devoted, by an habitude of slavery, to the will of a master, assembled,
by his express appointment, as creatures of his tyranny, and, prompted,
by no strong movements of self-love, to take part against him. 2. In
the Antigone, the part of Creon is _principal_. Every step, in the
progress of the play, depends so immediately upon him, that he is
almost constantly upon the stage. No reflexions could therefore be made
by the chorus, nor any part against him be undertaken, but directly
in his presence, and at their own manifest hazard. The very reverse
of this is the case in the Medea. Creon is there but a subaltern
person—has a very small part assigned him in the conduct of the
play—is, in fact, introduced upon the stage but in one single scene.
The different situation of the chorus, resulting from hence, gives
occasion for the widest difference in their conduct. They may speak
their resentments freely. Unawed by the frowns and menaces of their
tyrant, they are left at liberty to follow the suggestions of virtue.
Nothing here offends against the law of probability, or, in the least,
contradicts the reasoning about the chorus in the Antigone.

[16] See note on v. 127.

[17] _For her own sake_, as is pleaded, _and in obedience to the laws_,

    Σέ τ’ ὠφελεῖν θέλουσα, καὶ νόμοις βροτῶν
    Ξυλλαμβάνουσα, δρᾷν σ’ ἀπεννέπω τάδε.
                                  v. 812.

which shews, that the other murders were not against the spirit of the
laws, whatever became of the letter of them.

[18] P. Brumoy, Disc. sur le parall. des Theat. p. 165. Amst. 1732.

[19] _Imitations of Horace_ by Thomas Nevile, M. A. Fellow of Jesus
College, Cambridge, 1758.

[20] There is a considerable difference in the copies of this ode, as
given us in the best editions of Athenæus and Diogenes Laertius. But
the SIXTH verse is, in all of them, so inexplicable, in respect of the
_measure_, the _construction_, and the _sense_, that I have no doubt
of its being extremely corrupt. In such a case one may be indulged in
making conjectures. And the following one, by a learned person, exactly
skilled in the proprieties as well as elegancies of the Greek language,
is so reasonable, that I had almost ventured to give it a place in the
text.

The Poet had been celebrating v. 3. the divine _form_ of virtue; which
inspired the Grecian youth with an invincible courage and contempt of
danger. It was natural therefore to conclude his panegyric with some
such Epiphonema as this: “Such a passion do’st thou kindle up in the
minds of men!”

To justify this passion, he next turns to the _fruits_, or advantages
which virtue yields; which, he tells us, are more excellent than those
we receive from any other possession, whether of _wealth_, _nobility_,
or _ease_, the three great idols of mankind. Something like this we
collect from the obscure glimmerings of sense that occur to us from the
common reading,

    Τοῖον ἐπὶ φρένα βάλλεις καρπόν τ’ εἰς ἀθάνατον,
    Χρυσοῦ τε κρέσσω, &c.

But it is plain, then, that a very material word must have dropt out of
the _first_ part of the line, and that there is an evident corruption
in the _last_. In a word, the whole passage may be reformed thus,

    Τοῖον ἐπὶ φρέν’ ἜΡΩΤΑ βάλλεις.
    Καρπὸν ΦΕΡΕΙΣ ἀθάνατον
    Χρυσοῦ τε κρέσσω καὶ γονέων,
    Μαλακαυγητοῖό θ’ ὕπνου.

It need not be observed how easily καρπὸν ΤΕΕΙΣ is changed into καρπὸν
ΦΕΡΕΙΣ: And as to the restored word ἔρωτα, besides the necessity of
it to complete the sense, it exactly suits with σοῖς τε πόθοις in v.
12. Lastly, the _measure_ will now sufficiently justify itself to the
learned reader.

[21] _Agite, fugite, quatite, Satyri_: A verse cited from one of these
Latin satyrs by Marius Victorinus.

[22] This, I think, must be the interpretation of _sensibus celebrem_,
supposing it to be the true reading. But a learned critic has shewn
with great appearance of reason, that the text is corrupt and should
be reformed into _sensibus_ CELEREM. According to which reading the
encomium here past on Pomponius must be understood of his _Wit_, and
not the gravity of his moral Sentences. Either way his title to the
honour of Invention is just the same.—See a Specimen of a new Edition
of Paterculus in BIBLIOTHEQUE BRITANNIQUE, _Juillet, &c._ 1736.

[23] In the library of Emmanuel College, Cambridge.

[24] Mr. Hume, OF SIMPLICITY AND REFINEMENT.

[25] And no wonder, when, as Suetonius tells us, the emperor himself
was so delighted with the old comedy. [c. 89.]

[26] This is further confirmed from Lucian, who, in the description
of a splendid feast in his ΑΛΕΚΤΡΥΩΝ, and in the _Symposium of his_
ΛΑΠΙΘΑΙ, brings in the ΓΕΛΩΤΟΠΟΙΟΙ as necessary attendants on the
entertainment.—But the reader will not take what is said of the _fine
satyr_ of Xenophon’s Symposium, who hath not observed, that this
sort of compositions, which were in great credit with the ancients,
are of the nature of dramas, ΗΘΙΚΟΙ ΛΟΓΟΙ, as Aristotle would call
them. In which the dialogists, who are real personages as in the _old
comedy_, give a lively, and sometimes exaggerated expression of their
own characters. Under this _idea_ of a Symposium we are prepared to
expect _bad_ characters as well as _good_. Nothing in the _kind_
of composition itself confined the writer to the _latter_; and the
decorum of a _festal conversation_, which, in a republic especially,
would have a mixture of satyr in it, seemed to demand the _former_.
We see then the undoubted purpose of Xenophon in the persons of his
JESTER and SYRACUSIAN; and of Plato, in those of ARISTOPHANES and some
others. Where we may further take notice, that, to prevent the abuse
and misconstruction, to which these personated discourses are ever
liable, Socrates is brought in to correct the looseness of them, in
both dialogues, and in some measure doth the office of the dramatic
chorus, BONIS FAVENDI. But it is the less strange that the moderns
have not apprehended the genius of these _Symposia_, when Athenæus,
who professedly criticises them, and one would think, had a better
opportunity of knowing their real character, hath betrayed the grossest
ignorance about them.—I can but just hint these things, which might
afford curious matter for a dissertation. But enough is said to let the
intelligent reader into the true secret of these _convivial dialogues_,
and to explane the ground of the encomium here passed upon _one_ of
them.

[27] “L’étude égale des poëtes de différens tems à plaire à leurs
spectateurs, a encore influé dans la maniere de peindre les characters.
Ceux qui paroissent sur la scene Angloise, Espagnole, Françoise, sont
plus Anglois, Espagnols, ou François que Grecs ou Romains, en un mot
que ce qu’ils doivent être. Il ne faut qu’en peu discernement pour
s’appercevoir que nos Césars et nos Achilles, en gardant même une
partie de leur caractere primitif, prennent droit de naturalité dans le
païs où ils sont transplantez, semblables à ces portraits, qui sortent
de la main d’un peintre Flamand, Italien, ou François, et qui portent
l’empreinte du païs. On veut plaire à sa nation, et rien ne plait tant
que la resemblance de manieres et de genie.” [P. Brumoy, vol. i. p.
200.]

[28] DIONYS. HALICARN. EP. AD C. POMP. p. 205. _Edit. Huds._

[29] In conformity with the _Antique_. _Nec enim Phidias, cum faceret
Jovis formam aut Minervæ, contemplabatur aliquem e quo similitudinem
duceret: sed ipsius in mente incidebat_ species pulchritudinis eximia
quædam, _quam intuens in eaque defixus ad illius similitudinem artem et
manum dirigebat_ [Cic. Orat. 2.]

[30] Sir _William Temple_.

[31] ἼΩΝ.

[32] Pope’s Works, vol. V. p. 244. 8^{vo}.

[33] Quinctilian, lib. xi. c. 1.

[34] Θεῷ ἀνικήτῳ ἐπιγράψαντες. Though, to complete the farce, it was
with the greatest shyness and reluctance, that the humility of these
lords of the universe could permit itself to accept the ensigns of
deity, as the court-historians of those times are forward to inform
us. An affectation, which was thought to sit so well upon them, that
we find it afterwards practised, in the absurdest and most impudent
manner, by the worst of their successors.

[35] See a learned and accurate dissertation on the subject in HIST. DE
L’ACAD. DES INSCR. &c. tom. i.

[36] <DW37>. LEG. vol. i. B. ii. S. 4.

[37] In these lines,

    _Mox tamen ardentes accingar dicere pugnas
    Caesaris, et nomen famâ tot ferre per annos,
    Tithoni primâ quot abest ab origine Caesar_.

Which I suspect not to have been from the hand of Virgil. And,

I. On account of some _peculiarities in the expression_.

1. _Accingar_ is of frequent use in the best authors, to denote _a
readiness and resolution to do any thing_; but as joined with an
_infinitive mood_, _accingar dicere_, I do not remember to have ever seen
it. ’Tis often used by Virgil, but, if the several places be consulted,
it will always be found with an _accusative_ and _preposition_,
expressed, or understood, as _magicas accingier artes_,
or with an _accusative_ and _dative_, as _accingere se praedae_, or
lastly, with an _ablative_, expressing the _instrument_, as _accingor
ferro_. LA CERDA, in his notes upon the place, seemed sensible of the
objection, and therefore wrote, _Graeca locutio_: the common, but
paltry, shift of learned critics, when they determine, at any rate, to
support an ancient reading.

2. _Ardentes pugnas_, _burning battles_, sounds well enough to a modern
ear, but I much doubt, if it would have passed in the times of Virgil.
At least, I recollect no such expression in all his works; _ardens_
being constantly joined to a word, denoting a _substance_ of apparent
_light_, _heat_, or _flame_, to which the allusion is easy, as
_ardentes gladios_, _ardentes oculos_, _campos armis sublimibus ardentes_,
and, by an easy metaphor, _ardentes hostes_, but no where, that I can
find, to so _abstract_ a notion, as that of _fight_. It seems to be to
avoid this difficulty, that some have chosen to read _ardentis_, in the
_genitive_, which yet Servius rejects as of no authority.

3. But the most glaring note of illegitimacy is in the line,

    _Tithoni primâ quot abest ab origine Caesar_.

It has puzzled all the commentators from old Servius down to the
learned Mr. Martyn, to give any tolerable account of the poet’s choice
of _Tithonus_, from whom to derive the ancestry of Augustus, rather
than _Anchises_, or _Assaracus_, who were not only more famous, but
in the _direct_ line. The pretences of any or all of them are too
frivolous to make it necessary to spend a thought about them. The
instance stands single in antiquity: much less is there any thing like
it to be found in the Augustan poets.

II. But the _phraseology_ of these lines is the least of my objection.
Were it ever so accurate, there is besides, on the first view, a
manifest absurdity in the _subject-matter_ of them. For would any
writer, of but common skill in the art of composition, close a long
and elaborate allegory, the principal grace of which consists in its
very mystery, with a cold, and formal explanation of it? Or would he
pay so poor a compliment to his patron, as to suppose his sagacity
wanted the assistance of this additional triplet to lead him into the
true meaning? Nothing can be more abhorrent from the usual address and
artifice of Virgil’s manner. Or,

III. Were the _subject-matter_ itself passable, yet, how, in defiance
of all the laws of _disposition_, came it to be _forced_ in here? Let
the reader turn to the passage, and he will soon perceive, that this
could never be the _place_ for it. The allegory being concluded, the
poet returns to his subject, which is proposed in the six following
lines:

    _Intereà Dryadum sylvas, saltusque sequamur
    Intactos, tua, Maecenas, haud mollia jussa;
    Te sine nil altum mens inchoat: en age segnes
    Rumpe moras; vocat ingenti clamore Cithaeron,
    Taygetique canes, domitrixque Epidaurus equorum,
    Et vox assensu nemorum ingeminata remugit_.

Would now any one expect, that the poet, after having conducted the
reader, thus respectfully, to the very threshold of his subject, should
immediately run away again to the point, from which he had set out, and
this on so needless an errand, as the letting him into the secret of
his allegory?

But this inserted triplet agrees as ill with what _follows_, as with
what _precedes_ it. For how abrupt is the transition, and unlike the
delicate connexion, so studiously contrived by the Augustan poets, from

    _Tithoni primâ quot abest ab origine Caesar_.

to

    _Seu quis Olympiacae miratus praemia palmae_, &c.

When omit but these interpolated lines, and see how gracefully, and by
how natural a succession of ideas, the poet slides into the main of his
subject.—

    _Intereà Dryadum silvas saltusque sequamur
    Intactos—
    Te sine nil—
    Rumpe moras: vocat ingenti clamore Cithaeron
    Taygetique canes, domitrixque Epidaurus_ EQUORUM,
    _Et vox assensu nemorum ingeminata_ REMUGIT.
      _Seu quis Olympiacae miratus praemia palmae
    Pascit_ EQUOS; _seu quis fortes ad aratra_ JUVENCOS.

On the whole, I have not the least doubt, that the lines before us
are the spurious offspring of some _later poet_; if indeed the writer
of them deserve that name; for, whoever he was, he is so far from
partaking of the original spirit of Virgil, that, at most he appears
to have been but a servile and paltry mimic of Ovid; from the opening
of whose Metamorphosis the design was clearly taken. The turn of
the thought is evidently the same in both, and even the expression.
_Mutatas dicere formas_ is echoed by _ardentes dicere pugnas_: _dicere
fert animus_, is, by an affected improvement, _accingar dicere_: and
_Tithoni primâ ab origine_ is almost literally the same as _primâque
ab origine mundi_. For the _insertion_ of these lines in this place,
I leave it to the curious to conjecture of it, as they may: but in
the mean time, must esteem the office of the true _critic_ to be so
far resembling that of the _poet_ himself, as, within some proper
limitations, to justify the _honest_ liberty here taken.

    _Cum tabulis animum censoris sumet honesti;
    Audebit quaecunque parum splendoris habebunt
    Et sine pondere erunt, et honore indigne feruntur_,
    VERBA MOVERE LOCO; QUAMVIS INVITA RECEDANT,
    ET VERSENTUR ADHUC INTRA PENETRALIA VESTAE.
                                [2 Ep. ii. 110.]

[38] [B. ix. v. 641.]

[39] _Notes on the story of Phaëton._ [v. 23.]

[40] JACOBI PHILIPPI D’ ORVILLE _Animadversiones in_ CHARIT. APHROD.
lib. iv. c. 4.

[41] Ibid. vol. ii. p. 325.

[42] D. L. vol. ii. p. 644.

[43] At inspiciamus porrò, quid alii, _quibus correctius sapit_, de hoc
loquendi modo CENSUERINT. Agnoscunt enim, etc. p. 299.

[44] Ibid.

[45] v. 437.

[46] Iliad, Γ. 327.

[47] N. D. ii. 64.

[48] Pag. 397.

[49] INST. ORAT. xi. 3.

[50] There having been such wretches, as the Painter Plutarch speaks
of—Χαιρεφάνης, ἀκολάστους ὁμιλίας γυναικῶν πρὸς ἄνδρας. De aud. Poet.

[51] See an essay on the _Composition of the Antients_, by J. GEDDES,
Esq.

[52] Sir Philip Sidney.

[53] Diss. III. vol. ii.




[Transcriber’s Note:

Poetry line numbers normalized.

All instances of a stigma (ϛ) in words have been changed to sigma tau (στ).

The original text had an alternative pi (ϖ) at the start of a word.
These have been changed to the standard pi (π).

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Works of Richard Hurd, Volume 1
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