Volume 1 / Part 3 — 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:

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 contendere33. 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 INVICTO34.

’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 capital35. 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:

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:

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:

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:

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.

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:

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.

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 us36) it was his purpose, in this immortal work, to adorn and recommend. The account of his sacerdotal functions is delivered in these words:

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.

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.

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.

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 him37, 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:

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,

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,

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:

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,

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—

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—

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.

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 fooleries38.

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 verb39.”

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 sharply40.

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 scripserit41: 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;

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,

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 critic42, 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.” [Div. 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,

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 men43; 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 abhorreat44. 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 Sophocles45, where Electra, giving orders to Chrysothemis, about the disposal of the libations, destined for the tomb of her father, delivers herself thus,

The writer’s first intention was to look out for some such verb, as would equally correspond to ωνοαις and κὁνει, 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 Homer46, ἽΠΠΟΙ αἐρσίποδες, 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 Cicero47, 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,

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 Centuries48 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 videatur49.”

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 declare50. 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.

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.

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 eloquence51, 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 veniae 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

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;

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.