Lives Of The Poets, Vol. 1 (fiscle part-III) by Samuel Johnson (audio ebook reader txt) 📕

It Is Propounded by Morena, As A Receipt To Cure Their Fathers Of Their

Cholerick Humours; And, Were It Written In characters As Barbarous As

The Words, Might Very Well Pass For A Doctor'S Bill. To Conclude: It Is

Porridge, 'Tis A Receipt, 'Tis A Pig With A Pudding in the Belly, 'Tis

I Know Not What: For, Certainly, Never Any One That Pretended to Write

Sense, Had The Impudence Before To Put Such Stuff As This Into The Mouths

Of Those That Were To Speak It Before An Audience, Whom He Did Not Take

To Be All Fools; And, After That, To Print It Too, And Expose It To The

Examination Of The World. But Let Us See What We Can Make Of This Stuff:

  "For When We'Re Dead, And Our Freed souls Enlarg'D--

"Here He Tells Us What It Is To Be _Dead_; It Is To Have _Our Freed souls

Set Free_. Now, If To Have A Soul Set Free, Is To Be Dead; Then To Have A

_Freed soul_ Set Free, Is To Have A Dead Man Die.

  "Then Gentle, As A Happy Lover'S Sigh--

"They Two Like One _Sigh_, And That One _Sigh_ Like Two Wandering

Meteors,

  "Shall Fly Through The Air--

"That Is, They Shall Mount Above Like Falling stars, Or Else They Shall

Skip Like Two Jacks With Lanterns, Or Will With A Wisp, And Madge With A

Candle.

"_And In their Airy Walk Steal Into Their Cruel Fathers' Breasts, Like

Subtle Guests_. So That Their _Fathers' Breasts_ Must Be In an _Airy

Walk_, An Airy _Walk_ Of A _Flier. And There They Will Read Their Souls,

And Track The Spheres Of Their Passions_. That Is, These Walking fliers,

Jack With A Lantern, &C. Will Put On His Spectacles, And Fall A _Reading

Souls_, And Put On His Pumps And Fall A _Tracking of Spheres_; So That He

Will Read And Run, Walk And Fly, At The Same Time! Oh! Nimble Jack! _Then

He Will See, How Revenge Here, How Ambition There_--The Birds Will Hop

About. _And Then View The Dark Characters Of Sieges, Ruins, Murders,

Blood, And Wars, In their Orbs: Track The Characters_ To Their Forms! Oh!

Rare Sport For Jack! Never Was Place So Full Of Game As These Breasts!

You Cannot Stir, But Flush A Sphere, Start A Character, Or Unkennel An

Orb!"

Settle'S Is Said To Have Been The First Play Embellished with Sculptures;

Those Ornaments Seem To Have Given Poor Dryden Great Disturbance. He

Tries, However, To Ease His Pain By Venting his Malice In a Parody:

"The Poet Has Not Only Been So Impudent To Expose All This Stuff, But So

Arrogant To Defend It With An Epistle; Like A Saucy Booth-Keeper, That,

When He Had Put A Cheat Upon The People, Would Wrangle And Fight With

Any That Would Not Like It, Or Would Offer To Discover It; For Which

Arrogance Our Poet Receives This Correction; And, To Jerk Him A Little

The Sharper, I Will Not Transpose His Verse, But By The Help Of His Own

Words Transnonsense Sense, That, By My Stuff, People May Judge The Better

What His Is:

  "Great Boy, Thy Tragedy And Sculptures Done,

  From Press And Plates, In fleets Do Homeward Come;

  And In ridiculous And Humble Pride,

  Their Course In ballad-Singers' Baskets Guide,

  Whose Greasy Twigs Do All New Beauties Take,

  From The Gay Shows Thy Dainty Sculptures Make.

  Thy Lines A Mess Of Rhyming nonsense Yield,

  A Senseless Tale, With Flattering fustian Fill'D.

  No Grain Of Sense Does In one Line Appear,

  Thy Words Big Bulks Of Boist'Rous Bombast Bear,

  With Noise They Move, And From Play'Rs' Mouths Rebound,

  When Their Tongues Dance To Thy Words' Empty Sound.

  By Thee Inspir'D The Rumbling verses Roll,

  As If That Rhyme And Bombast Lent A Soul:

  And With That Soul They Seem Taught Duty Too;

  To Huffing words Does Humble Nonsense Bow,

  As If It Would Thy Worthless Worth Enhance,

  To Th' Lowest Rank Of Fops Thy Praise Advance,

  To Whom, By Instinct, All Thy Stuff Is Dear:

  Their Loud Claps Echo To The Theatre:

  From Breaths Of Fools Thy Commendation Spreads,

  Fame Sings Thy Praise With Mouths Of Loggerheads.

  With Noise And Laughing each Thy Fustian Greets,

  'Tis Clapt By Choirs Of Empty-Headed cits,

  Who Have Their Tribute Sent, And Homage Given,

  As Men In whispers Send Loud Noise To Heaven.

"Thus I Have Daubed him With His Own Puddle: And Now We Are Come From

Aboard His Dancing, Masking, Rebounding, Breathing fleet; And, As If We

Had Landed at Gotham, We Meet Nothing but Fools And Nonsense."

Such Was The Criticism To Which The Genius Of Dryden Could Be Reduced,

Between Rage And Terrour; Rage With Little Provocation, And Terrour With

Little Danger. To See The Highest Minds Thus Levelled with The Meanest,

May Produce Some Solace To The Consciousness Of Weakness, And Some

Mortification To The Pride Of Wisdom. But Let It Be Remembered, That

Minds Are Not Levelled in their Powers But When They Are First Levelled

In Their Desires. Dryden And Settle Had Both Placed their Happiness In

The Claps Of Multitudes.

An Evening'S Love, Or The Mock Astrologer, A Comedy, 1671, Is Dedicated

To The Illustrious Duke Of Newcastle, Whom He Courts By Adding to His

Praises Those Of His Lady, Not Only As A Lover But A Partner Of His

Studies. It Is Unpleasing to Think How Many Names, Once Celebrated,

Are Since Forgotten. Of Newcastle'S Works Nothing is Now Known But His

Treatise On Horsemanship.

The Preface Seems Very Elaborately Written, And Contains Many Just

Remarks On The Fathers Of English Drama. Shakespeare'S Plots, He Says,

Are In the Hundred novels Of Cinthio; Those Of Beaumont And Fletcher In

Spanish Stories; Jonson Only Made Them For Himself. His Criticisms Upon

Tragedy, Comedy, And Farce, Are Judicious And Profound. He Endeavours To

Defend The Immorality Of Some Of His Comedies By The Example Of Former

Writers; Which Is Only To Say, That He Was Not The First, Nor, Perhaps,

The Greatest Offender. Against Those That Accused him Of Plagiarism He

Alleges A Favourable Expression Of The King: "He Only Desired that They,

Who Accuse Me Of Thefts, Would Steal Him Plays Like Mine;" And Then

Relates How Much Labour He Spends In fitting for The English Stage What

He Borrows From Others.

Tyrannick Love, Or The Virgin Martyr, 1672, Was Another Tragedy In rhyme,

Conspicuous For Many Passages Of Strength And Elegance, And Many Of Empty

Noise And Ridiculous Turbulence. The Rants Of Maximin Have Been Always

The Sport Of Criticism; And Were, At Length, If His Own Confession May Be

Trusted, The Shame Of The Writer.

Of This Play He Takes Care To Let The Reader Know, That It Was Contrived

And Written In seven Weeks. Want Of Time Was Often His Excuse, Or,

Perhaps, Shortness Of Time Was His Private Boast, In the Form Of An

Apology.

It Was Written Before The Conquest Of Granada, But Published after It.

The Design Is To Recommend Piety: "I Considered that Pleasure Was Not The

Only End Of Poesy; And That Even The Instructions Of Morality Were Not

So Wholly The Business Of A Poet, As That Precepts And Examples Of Piety

Were To Be Omitted; For To Leave That Employment Altogether To The Clergy,

Were To Forget That Religion Was First Taught In verse, Which The Laziness

Or Dulness Of Succeeding priesthood Turned afterwards Into Prose." Thus

Foolishly Could Dryden Write, Rather Than Not Show His Malice To The

Parsons.

The Two Parts Of The Conquest Of Granada, 1672, Are Written With A

Seeming determination To Glut The Publick With Dramatick Wonders; To

Exhibit, In its Highest Elevation, A Theatrical Meteor Of Incredible Love

And Impossible Valour, And To Leave No Room For A Wilder Flight To The

Extravagance Of Posterity. All The Rays Of Romantick Heat, Whether

Amorous Or Warlike, Glow In almanzor, By A Kind Of Concentration. He Is

Above All Laws; He Is Exempt From All Restraints; He Ranges The World At

Will, And Governs Wherever He Appears. He Fights Without Inquiring the

Cause, And Loves, In spite Of The Obligations Of Justice, Of Rejection By

His Mistress, And Of Prohibition From The Dead. Yet The Scenes Are, For

The Most Part, Delightful; They Exhibit A Kind Of Illustrious Depravity,

And Majestick Madness; Such As, If It Is Sometimes Despised, Is Often

Reverenced, And In which The Ridiculous Is Mingled with The Astonishing.

In The Epilogue To The Second Part Of The Conquest Of Granada, Dryden

Indulges His Favourite Pleasure Of Discrediting his Predecessors; And

This Epilogue He Has Defended by A Long Postscript. He Had Promised a

Second Dialogue, In which He Should More Fully Treat Of The Virtues And

Faults Of The English Poets, Who Have Written In the Dramatick, Epick, Or

Lyrick Way. This Promise Was Never Formally Performed; But, With Respect

To The Dramatick Writers, He Has Given Us In his Prefaces, And In this

Postscript, Something equivalent; But His Purpose Being to Exalt

Himself By The Comparison, He Shows Faults Distinctly, And Only Praises

Excellence In general Terms.

A Play Thus Written, In professed defiance Of Probability, Naturally Drew

Down Upon Itself The Vultures Of The Theatre. One Of The Criticks That

Attacked it Was Martin Clifford, To Whom Sprat Addressed the Life Of

Cowley, With Such Veneration Of His Critical Powers As Might Naturally

Excite Great Expectations Of Instruction From His Remarks. But Let Honest

Credulity Beware Of Receiving characters From Contemporary Writers.

Clifford'S Remarks, By The Favour Of Dr. Percy, Were, At Last, Obtained;

And That No Man May Ever Want Them More, I Will Extract Enough To Satisfy

All Reasonable Desire.

In The First Letter His Observation Is Only General: "You Do Live," Says

He, "In As Much Ignorance And Darkness As You Did In the Womb: Your

Writings Are Like A Jack-Of-All-Trades' Shop; They Have A Variety, But

Nothing of Value; And If Thou Art Not The Dullest Plant-Animal That Ever

The Earth Produced, All That I Have Conversed with Are Strangely Mistaken

In Thee."

In The Second, He Tells Him That Almanzor Is Not More Copied from

Achilles Than From Ancient Pistol: "But I Am," Says He, "Strangely

Mistaken If I Have Not Seen This Very Almanzor Of Yours In some Disguise

About This Town, And Passing under Another Name. Pr'Ythee Tell Me True,

Was Not This Huffcap Once The Indian Emperor? And, At Another Time, Did

He Not Call Himself Maximin? Was Riot Lyndaraxa Once Called almeira?

I Mean Under Montezuma The Indian Emperor. I Protest And Vow They Are

Either The Same, Or So Alike That I Cannot, For My Heart, Distinguish One

From The Other. You Are, Therefore, A Strange Unconscionable Thief; Thou

Art Not Content To Steal From Others, But Dost Rob Thy Poor Wretched self

Too."

Now Was Settle'S Time To Take His Revenge. He Wrote A Vindication Of His

Own Lines; And, If He Is Forced to Yield Any Thing, Makes Reprisals Upon

His Enemy. To Say That His Answer Is Equal To The Censure, Is No High

Commendation. To Expose Dryden'S Method Of Analyzing his Expressions, He

Tries The Same Experiment Upon The Description Of The Ships In the Indian

Emperor, Of Which, However, He Does Not Deny The Excellence; But Intends

To Show, That, By Studied misconstruction, Every Thing may Be

Equally Represented as Ridiculous. After So Much Of Dryden'S Elegant

Animadversions, Justice Requires That Something of Settle'S Should Be

Exhibited. The Following observations Are, Therefore, Extracted from A

Quarto Pamphlet Of Ninety-Five Pages:

  "Fate After Him Below With Pain Did Move,

  And Victory Could Scarce Keep Pace Above.

"These Two Lines, If He Can Show Me Any Sense Or Thought In, Or Any

Thing but Bombast And Noise, He Shall Make Me Believe Every Word In his

Observations On Morocco Sense.

"In The Empress Of Morocco Were These Lines:

  "I'Ll Travel Then To Some Remoter Sphere,

  Till I Find Out New Worlds, And Crown You There.

"On Which Dryden Made This Remark:

"'I Believe Our Learned author Takes A Sphere For A Country: The Sphere

Of Morocco; As If Morocco Were The Globe Of Earth And Water; But A Globe

Is No Sphere Neither, By His Leave,' &C. So _Sphere_ Must Not Be Sense,

Unless It Relate To A Circular Motion About A Globe, In which Sense The

Astronomers Use It. I Would Desire Him To Expound Those Lines In granada:

  "I'Ll To The Turrets Of The Palace Go,

  And Add New Fire To Those That Fight Below.

  Thence, Hero-Like, With Torches By My Side,

  (Far Be The Omen Though) My Love I'Ll Guide.

  No, Like His Better Fortune I'Ll Appear,

  With Open Arms, Loose Veil, And Flowing hair.

  Just Flying forward From My Rowling sphere.

"I Wonder, If He Be So Strict, How He Dares Make So Bold