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

Settled and Prescriptive Place By The Fire, Was In the Summer Placed in

The Balcony, And That He Called the Two Places His Winter And His Summer

Seat. This Is All The Intelligence Which His Two Survivers Afforded me.

One Of His Opinions Will Do Him No Honour In the Present Age, Though In

His Own Time, At Least In the Beginning of It, He Was Far From Having it

Confined to Himself. He Put Great Confidence In the Prognostications

Of Judicial Astrology. In the Appendix To The Life Of Congreve Is A

Narrative Of Some Of His Predictions Wonderfully Fulfilled; But I Know

Not The Writer'S Means Of Information, Or Character Of Veracity. That He

Had The Configurations Of The Horoscope In his Mind, And Considered them

As Influencing the Affairs Of Men, He Does Not Forbear To Hint:

  The Utmost Malice Of The Stars Is Past.

  Now Frequent _Trines_ The Happier Lights Among,

  And _High-Rais'D Jove_, From His Dark Prison Freed,

  Those Weights Took Off That On His Planet Hung,

  Will Gloriously The New-Laid Works Succeed.

He Has, Elsewhere, Shown His Attention To The Planetary Powers; And,

In The Preface To His Fables, Has Endeavoured obliquely To Justify His

Superstition, By Attributing the Same To Some Of The Ancients. The

Letter, Added to This Narrative, Leaves No Doubt Of His Notions Or

Practice.

So Slight And So Scanty Is The Knowledge Which I Have Been Able To

Collect Concerning the Private Life And Domestick Manners Of A Man Whom

Every English Generation Must Mention With Reverence As A Critick And A

Poet.

Dryden May Be Properly Considered as The Father Of English Criticism, As

The Writer Who First Taught Us To Determine Upon Principles The Merit Of

Composition. Of Our Former Poets, The Greatest Dramatist Wrote Without

Rules, Conducted through Life And Nature By A Genius That Rarely Misled,

And Rarely Deserted him. Of The Rest, Those Who Knew The Laws Of

Propriety Had Neglected to Teach Them.

Two Arts Of English Poetry Were Written In the Days Of Elizabeth By Webb

And Puttenham, From Which Something might Be Learned, And A Few Hints Had

Been Given By Jonson And Cowley; But Dryden'S Essay On Dramatick Poetry

Was The First Regular And Valuable Treatise On The Art Of Writing.

He Who, Having formed his Opinions In the Present Age Of English

Literature, Turns Back To Peruse This Dialogue, Will Not, Perhaps, Find

Much Increase Of Knowledge, Or Much Novelty Of Instruction; But He Is To

Remember That Critical Principles Were Then In the Hands Of A Few, Who

Had Gathered them Partly From The Ancients, And Partly From The Italians

And French. The Structure Of Dramatick Poems Was Not Then Generally

Understood. Audiences Applauded by Instinct, And Poets, Perhaps, Often

Pleased by Chance.

A Writer Who Obtains His Full Purpose Loses Himself In his Own Lustre.

Of An Opinion Which Is No Longer Doubted, The Evidence Ceases To

Be Examined. Of An Art Universally Practised, The First Teacher Is

Forgotten. Learning once Made Popular Is No Longer Learning; It Has The

Appearance Of Something which We Have Bestowed upon Ourselves, As The Dew

Appears To Rise From The Field Which It Refreshes.

To Judge Rightly Of An Author, We Must Transport Ourselves To His Time,

And Examine What Were The Wants Of His Contemporaries, And What Were His

Means Of Supplying them. That Which Is Easy At One Time Was Difficult At

Another. Dryden At Least Imported his Science, And Gave His Country

What It Wanted before; Or Rather, He Imported only The Materials And

Manufactured them By His Own Skill.

The Dialogue On The Drama Was One Of His First Essays Of Criticism,

Written When He Was Yet A Timorous Candidate For Reputation, And,

Therefore, Laboured with That Diligence Which He Might Allow Himself

Somewhat To Remit, When His Name Gave Sanction To His Positions, And His

Awe Of The Publick Was Abated, Partly By Custom, And Partly By Success.

It Will Not Be Easy To Find, In all The Opulence Of Our Language, A

Treatise So Artfully Variegated with Successive Representations Of

Opposite Probabilities, So Enlivened with Imagery, So Brightened with

Illustrations. His Portraits Of The English Dramatists Are Wrought With

Great Spirit And Diligence. The Account Of Shakespeare May Stand As A

Perpetual Model Of Encomiastick Criticism; Exact Without Minuteness,

And Lofty Without Exaggeration. The Praise Lavished by Longinus, On The

Attestation Of The Heroes Of Marathon By Demosthenes, Fades Away Before

It. In a Few Lines Is Exhibited a Character, So Extensive In its

Comprehension, And So Curious In its Limitations, That Nothing can Be

Added, Diminished, Or Reformed; Nor Can The Editors And Admirers Of

Shakespeare, In all Their Emulation Of Reverence, Boast Of Much More Than

Of Having diffused and Paraphrased this Epitome Of Excellence, Of Having

Changed dryden'S Gold For Baser Metal, Of Lower Value Though Of Greater

Bulk.

In This, And In all His Other Essays On The Same Subject, The Criticism

Of Dryden Is The Criticism Of A Poet; Not A Dull Collection Of Theorems,

Nor A Rude Detection Of Faults, Which, Perhaps, The Censor Was Not Able

To Have Committed; But A Gay And Vigorous Dissertation, Where Delight

Is Mingled with Instruction, And Where The Author Proves His Right Of

Judgment By His Power Of Performance.

The Different Manner And Effect With Which Critical Knowledge May Be

Conveyed, Was, Perhaps, Never More Clearly Exemplified than In the

Performances Of Rymer And Dryden. It Was Said Of A Dispute Between Two

Mathematicians, "Malim Cum Scaligero Errare, Quam Cum Clavio Recte

Sapere;" That "It Was More Eligible To Go Wrong With One, Than Right

With The Other." A Tendency Of The Same Kind Every Mind Must Feel At The

Perusal Of Dryden'S Prefaces And Rymer'S Discourses. With Dryden We Are

Wandering in quest Of Truth; Whom We Find, If We Find Her At All, Drest

In The Graces Of Elegance; And, If We Miss Her, The Labour Of The Pursuit

Rewards Itself; We Are Led only Through Fragrance And Flowers. Rymer,

Without Taking a Nearer, Takes A Rougher Way; Every Step Is To Be Made

Through Thorns And Brambles; And Truth, If We Meet Her, Appears Repulsive

By Her Mien, And Ungraceful By Her Habit. Dryden'S Criticism Has The

Majesty Of A Queen; Rymer'S Has The Ferocity Of A Tyrant.

As He Had Studied with Great Diligence The Art Of Poetry, And Enlarged or

Rectified his Notions, By Experience Perpetually Increasing, He Had His

Mind Stored with Principles And Observations; He Poured out His Knowledge

With Little Labour; For Of Labour, Notwithstanding the Multiplicity Of

His Productions, There Is Sufficient Reason To Suspect That He Was Not

A Lover. To Write _Con Amore_, With Fondness For The Employment, With

Perpetual Touches And Retouches, With Unwillingness To Take Leave Of His

Own Idea, And An Unwearied pursuit Of Unattainable Perfection, Was, I

Think, No Part Of His Character.

His Criticism May Be Considered as General Or Occasional. In his General

Precepts, Which Depend Upon The Nature Of Things, And The Structure

Of The Human Mind, He May, Doubtless, Be Safely Recommended to The

Confidence Of The Reader; But His Occasional And Particular Positions

Were Sometimes Interested, Sometimes Negligent, And Sometimes Capricious.

It Is Not Without Reason That Trapp, Speaking of The Praises Which He

Bestows On Palamon And Arcite, Says, "Novimus Judicium Drydeni De Poemate

Quodam Chauceri, Pulchro Sane Illo, Et Admodum Laudando, Nimirum Quod Non

Modo Vere Epicum Sit, Sed iliada Etiam Atque Aeneada Aequet, Imo Superet.

Sed novimus Eodem Tempore Viri Illius Maximi Non Semper Accuratissimas

Esse Censuras, Nec Ad Severissimam Critices Normam Exactas: Illo Judice

Id Plerumque Optimum Est, Quod Nunc Prae Manibus Habet, Et In quo Nunc

Occupatur."

He Is, Therefore, By No Means Constant To Himself. His Defence And

Desertion Of Dramatick Rhyme Is Generally Known. Spence, In his Remarks

On Pope'S Odyssey, Produces What He Thinks An Unconquerable Quotation

From Dryden'S Preface To The Aeneid, In favour Of Translating an Epick

Poem Into Blank Verse; But He Forgets That When His Author Attempted the

Iliad, Some Years Afterwards, He Departed from His Own Decision, And

Translated into Rhyme.

When He Has Any Objection To Obviate, Or Any License To Defend, He Is Not

Very Scrupulous About What He Asserts, Nor Very Cautious, If The Present

Purpose Be Served, Not To Entangle Himself In his Own Sophistries. But,

When All Arts Are Exhausted, Like Other Hunted animals, He Sometimes

Stands At Bay; When He Cannot Disown The Grossness Of One Of His Plays,

He Declares That He Knows Not Any Law That Prescribes Morality To A

Comick Poet.

His Remarks On Ancient Or Modern Writers Are Not Always To Be Trusted.

His Parallel Of The Versification Of Ovid With That Of Claudian Has Been

Very Justly Censured by Sewel[120]. His Comparison Of The First Line Of

Virgil With The First Of Statius Is Not Happier. Virgil, He Says, Is

Soft And Gentle, And Would Have Thought Statius Mad, If He Had Heard Him

Thundering out:

  Quae Superimposito Moles Geminata Colosso.

Statius, Perhaps, Heats Himself, As He Proceeds, To Exaggerations

Somewhat Hyperbolical; But Undoubtedly Virgil Would Have Been Too Hasty,

If He Had Condemned him To Straw For One Sounding line. Dryden Wanted an

Instance, And The First That Occurred was Imprest Into The Service.

What He Wishes To Say, He Says At Hazard; He Cited gorbuduc, Which He

Had Never Seen; Gives A False Account Of Chapman'S Versification; And

Discovers, In the Preface To His Fables, That He Translated the First

Book Of The Iliad Without Knowing what Was In the Second.

It Will Be Difficult To Prove That Dryden Ever Made Any Great Advances

In Literature. As, Having distinguished himself At Westminster Under The

Tuition Of Busby, Who Advanced his Scholars To A Height Of Knowledge Very

Rarely Attained in grammar-Schools, He Resided afterwards At Cambridge,

It Is Not To Be Supposed, That His Skill In the Ancient Languages Was

Deficient, Compared with That Of Common Students; But His Scholastick

Acquisitions Seem Not Proportionate To His Opportunities And Abilities.

He Could Not, Like Milton Or Cowley, Have Made His Name Illustrious

Merely By His Learning. He Mentions But Few Books, And Those Such As Lie

In The Beaten Track Of Regular Study; From Which, If Ever He Departs, He

Is In danger Of Losing himself In unknown Regions.

In His Dialogue On The Drama, He Pronounces, With Great Confidence, That

The Latin Tragedy Of Medea Is Not Ovid'S, Because It Is Not Sufficiently

Interesting and Pathetick. He Might Have Determined the Question Upon

Surer Evidence; For It Is Quoted by Quintilian As The Work Of Seneca; And

The Only Line Which Remains Of Ovid'S Play, For One Line Is Left Us, Is

Not There To Be Found. There Was, Therefore, No Need of The Gravity Of

Conjecture, Or The Discussion Of Plot Or Sentiment, To Find What Was

Already Known Upon Higher Authority Than Such Discussions Can Ever Reach.

His Literature, Though Not Always Free From Ostentation, Will Be Commonly

Found Either Obvious, And Made His Own By The Art Of Dressing it; Or

Superficial, Which, By What He Gives, Shows What He Wanted; Or Erroneous,

Hastily Collected, And Negligently Scattered.

Yet It Cannot Be Said That His Genius Is Ever Unprovided of Matter, Or

That His Fancy Languishes In penury Of Ideas. His Works Abound With

Knowledge, And Sparkle With Illustrations. There Is Scarcely Any Science

Or Faculty That Does Not Supply Him With Occasional Images And Lucky

Similitudes; Every Page Discovers A Mind Very Widely Acquainted both With

Art And Nature, And In full Possession Of Great Stores Of Intellectual

Wealth. Of Him That Knows Much, It Is Natural To Suppose That He Has Read

With Diligence; Yet I Rather Believe That The Knowledge Of Dryden Was

Gleaned from Accidental Intelligence And Various Conversation, By A Quick

Apprehension, A Judicious Selection, And A Happy Memory, A Keen Appetite

Of Knowledge, And A Powerful Digestion; By Vigilance That Permitted

Nothing to Pass Without Notice, And A Habit Of Reflection That Suffered

Nothing useful To Be Lost. A Mind Like Dryden'S, Always Curious, Always

Active, To Which Every Understanding was Proud To Be Associated, And Of

Which Every One Solicited the Regard, By An Ambitious Display Of Himself,

Had A More Pleasant, Perhaps A Nearer Way To Knowledge Than By The Silent

Progress Of Solitary Reading. I Do Not Suppose That He Despised books,

Or Intentionally Neglected them; But That He Was Carried out, By The

Impetuosity Of His Genius, To More Vivid And Speedy Instructors; And

That His Studies Were Rather Desultory And Fortuitous Than Constant And

Systematical.

It Must Be Confessed, That He Scarcely Ever Appears To Want

Book-Learning, But When He Mentions Books; And To Him May Be Transferred

The Praise Which He Gives His Master Charles:

  His Conversation, Wit, And Parts,

  His Knowledge In the Noblest Useful Arts,

  Were Such, Dead Authors Could Not Give,

  But Habitudes Of Those That Live,

  Who, Lighting him, Did Greater Lights Receive:

  He Drained from