, who formed himself upon the Ancient Poets,
has every where rejected it with Scorn. If we look after mixt Wit among
the
Greek
Writers, we shall find it no where but in the
Epigrammatists. There are indeed some Strokes of it in the little Poem
ascribed to Musœus, which by that, as well as many other Marks, betrays
it self to be a modern Composition. If we look into the
Latin
Writers,
we find none of this mixt Wit in
Virgil, Lucretius
, or
Catullus
;
very little in
Horace
, but a great deal of it in
Ovid
, and scarce
any thing else in
Martial
.
Out of the innumerable Branches of
mixt Wit
, I shall choose one
Instance which may be met with in all the Writers of this Class. The
Passion of Love in its Nature has been thought to resemble Fire; for
which Reason the Words Fire and Flame are made use of to signify Love.
The witty Poets therefore have taken an Advantage from the doubtful
Meaning of the Word Fire, to make an infinite Number of Witticisms.
Cowley
observing the cold Regard of his Mistress's Eyes, and at the
same Time their Power of producing Love in him, considers them as
Burning-Glasses made of Ice; and finding himself able to live in the
greatest Extremities of Love, concludes the Torrid Zone to be habitable.
When his Mistress has read his Letter written in Juice of Lemmon by
holding it to the Fire, he desires her to read it over a second time by
Love's Flames. When she weeps, he wishes it were inward Heat that
distilled those Drops from the Limbeck. When she is absent he is beyond
eighty, that is, thirty Degrees nearer the Pole than when she is with
him. His ambitious Love is a Fire that naturally mounts upwards; his
happy Love is the Beams of Heaven, and his unhappy Love Flames of Hell.
When it does not let him sleep, it is a Flame that sends up no Smoak;
when it is opposed by Counsel and Advice, it is a Fire that rages the
more by the Wind's blowing upon it. Upon the dying of a Tree in which he
had cut his Loves, he observes that his written Flames had burnt up and
withered the Tree. When he resolves to give over his Passion, he tells
us that one burnt like him for ever dreads the Fire. His Heart is an
Ætna
, that instead of
Vulcan's
Shop incloses
Cupid's
Forge in it.
His endeavouring to drown his Love in Wine, is throwing Oil upon the
Fire. He would insinuate to his Mistress, that the Fire of Love, like
that of the Sun (which produces so many living Creatures) should not
only warm but beget. Love in another Place cooks Pleasure at his Fire.
Sometimes the Poet's Heart is frozen in every Breast, and sometimes
scorched in every Eye. Sometimes he is drowned in Tears, and burnt in
Love, like a Ship set on Fire in the Middle of the Sea.
The Reader may observe in every one of these Instances, that the Poet
mixes the Qualities of Fire with those of Love; and in the same Sentence
speaking of it both as a Passion and as real Fire, surprizes the Reader
with those seeming Resemblances or Contradictions that make up all the
Wit in this kind of Writing. Mixt Wit therefore is a Composition of Punn
and true Wit, and is more or less perfect as the Resemblance lies in the
Ideas or in the Words: Its Foundations are laid partly in Falsehood and
partly in Truth: Reason puts in her Claim for one Half of it, and
Extravagance for the other. The only Province therefore for this kind of
Wit, is Epigram, or those little occasional Poems that in their own
Nature are nothing else but a Tissue of Epigrams. I cannot conclude this
Head of
mixt Wit
, without owning that the admirable Poet out of whom I
have taken the Examples of it, had as much true Wit as any Author that
ever writ; and indeed all other Talents of an extraordinary Genius.
It may be expected, since I am upon this Subject, that I should take
notice of Mr.
Dryden's
Definition of Wit; which, with all the
Deference that is due to the Judgment of so great a Man, is not so
properly a Definition of Wit, as of good writing in general.
, as he
defines it, is
'a Propriety of Words and Thoughts adapted to the Subject.'
2
this be a true Definition of Wit, I am apt to think
that
Euclid
was
the greatest Wit that ever set Pen to Paper: It
is certain that never was a greater Propriety of Words and Thoughts
adapted to the Subject, than what that Author has made use of in his
Elements. I shall only appeal to my Reader, if this Definition agrees
with any Notion he has of Wit: If it be a true one I am sure Mr.
Dryden
was not only a better Poet, but a greater Wit than Mr.
Cowley
; and
Virgil
a much more facetious Man than either
Ovid
or
Martial
.
Bouhours
,
I look upon to be the most penetrating of all the
French
Criticks, has taken pains to shew, that it is impossible
for any Thought to be beautiful which is not just, and has not its
Foundation in the Nature of things: That the Basis of all Wit is Truth;
and that no Thought can be valuable, of which good Sense is not the
Ground-work
.
Boileau
has endeavoured to inculcate the same
Notions in several Parts of his Writings, both in Prose and Verse
.
This is that natural Way of Writing, that beautiful Simplicity, which we
so much admire in the Compositions of the Ancients; and which no Body
deviates from, but those who want Strength of Genius to make a Thought
shine in its own natural Beauties. Poets who want this Strength of
Genius to give that Majestick Simplicity to Nature, which we so much
admire in the Works of the Ancients, are forced to hunt after foreign
Ornaments, and not to let any Piece of Wit of what kind soever escape
them. I look upon these writers as
Goths
in Poetry, who, like
those in Architecture, not being able to come up to the beautiful
Simplicity of the old
Greeks and Romans
, have endeavoured to
supply its place with all the Extravagancies of an irregular Fancy.
.
Dryden
makes a very handsome Observation, on
Ovid
's writing a Letter
from
Dido
to
Æneas
, in the following Words
.
'Ovid' says he,
(speaking of Virgil's Fiction of Dido and Æneas) 'takes it up
after him, even in the same Age, and makes an Ancient Heroine of
Virgil's new-created Dido; dictates a Letter for her just before her
Death to the ungrateful Fugitive; and, very unluckily for himself, is
for measuring a Sword with a Man so much superior in Force to him on the
same Subject. I think I may be Judge of this, because I have translated
both. The famous Author of the Art of Love has nothing of his own; he
borrows all from a greater Master in his own Profession, and, which is
worse, improves nothing which he finds: Nature fails him, and being
forced to his old Shift, he has Recourse to Witticism. This passes
indeed with his soft Admirers, and gives him the Preference to Virgil
in their Esteem.'
Were not I supported by so great an Authority as that of Mr.
Dryden
, I
should not venture to observe, That the Taste of most of our
English
Poets, as well as Readers, is extremely
Gothick
.
quotes Monsieur
Segrais
for a threefold Distinction of the Readers of Poetry: In
the first of which he comprehends the Rabble of Readers, whom he does
not treat as such with regard to their Quality, but to their Numbers and
Coarseness of their Taste. His Words are as follow:
'Segrais has
distinguished the Readers of Poetry, according to their Capacity of
judging, into three Classes. [He might have said the same of Writers
too, if he had pleased.] In the lowest Form he places those whom he
calls Les Petits Esprits, such things as are our Upper-Gallery
Audience in a Play-house; who like nothing but the Husk and Rind of Wit,
prefer a Quibble, a Conceit, an Epigram, before solid Sense and elegant
Expression: These are Mob Readers. If Virgil and Martial
stood for Parliament-Men, we know already who would carry it. But though
they make the greatest Appearance in the Field, and cry the loudest, the
best on't is they are but a sort of French Huguenots, or
Dutch Boors, brought over in Herds, but not Naturalized; who have
not Lands of two Pounds per Annum in Parnassus, and
therefore are not privileged to poll. Their Authors are of the same
Level, fit to represent them on a Mountebank's Stage, or to be Masters
of the Ceremonies in a Bear-garden: Yet these are they who have the most
Admirers. But it often happens, to their Mortification, that as their
Readers improve their Stock of Sense, (as they may by reading better
Books, and by Conversation with Men of Judgment) they soon forsake
them.'
must not dismiss this Subject without
observing that as Mr.
Lock
in the Passage above-mentioned has discovered the most
fruitful Source of Wit, so there is another of a quite contrary Nature
to it, which does likewise branch it self out into several kinds. For
not only the
Resemblance
, but the
Opposition
of Ideas,
does very often produce Wit; as I could shew in several little Points,
Turns and Antitheses, that I may possibly enlarge upon in some future
Speculation.
C.
Essay concerning Human Understanding
, Bk II. ch. II (p. 68
of ed. 1690; the first).
'If Wit has truly been defined as a Propriety of Thoughts and Words,
then that definition will extend to all sorts of Poetry ... Propriety
of Thought is that Fancy which arises naturally from the Subject, or
which the Poet adapts to it. Propriety of Words is the cloathing of
these Thoughts with such Expressions as are naturally proper to them.'
Dryden's Preface to
Albion and Albanius
.
is
Dominique Bouhours, a learned and accomplished Jesuit, who
died in 1702, aged 75, was a Professor of the Humanities, in Paris, till
the headaches by which he was tormented until death compelled him to
resign his chair. He was afterwards tutor to the two young Princes of
Longueville, and to the son of the minister Colbert. His best book was
translated into English in 1705, as
'The Art of Criticism: or the Method of making a Right Judgment upon
Subjects of Wit and Learning. Translated from the best Edition of the
French, of the Famous Father Bouhours, by a Person of Quality.
In Four Dialogues.'
Here he says:
'Truth is the first Quality, and, as it were, the foundation of
Thought; the fairest is the faultiest, or, rather, those which pass
for the fairest, are not really so, if they want this Foundation.... I
do not understand your Doctrine, replies Philanthus, and I can scarce
persuade myself that a witty Thought should be always founded on
Truth: On the contrary, I am of the opinion of a famous Critic (i.e.
Vavassor in his book on Epigrams) that Falsehood gives it often all
its Grace, and is, as it were, the Soul of it,'
&c., pp, 6, 7, and the following.
As in the lines
Tout doit tendre au Bon Sens: mais pour y parvenir
Le chemin est glissant et penible a tenir.
Art. Poétique,
chant 1.
And again,
Aux dépens du Bon Sens gardez de plaisanter.
Art. Poétique
, chant 3.
Dedication of his translation of the
Æneid
to Lord
Normanby, near the middle; when speaking of the anachronism that made
Dido and Æneas contemporaries.
Jean Regnauld de Segrais, b. 1624, d. 1701, was of Caen,
where he was trained by Jesuits for the Church, but took to Literature,
and sought thereby to support four brothers and two sisters, reduced to
want by the dissipations of his father. He wrote, as a youth, odes,
songs, a tragedy, and part of a romance. Attracting, at the age of 20,
the attention of a noble patron, he became, in 1647, and remained for
the next 24 years, attached to the household of Mlle. de Montpensier. He
was a favoured guest among the
Précieuses
of the
Hotel Rambouillet
,
and was styled, for his acquired air of
bon ton
, the Voiture of Caen.
In 1671 he was received by Mlle. de La Fayette. In 1676 he married a
rich wife, at Caen, his native town, where he settled and revived the
local 'Academy.' Among his works were translations into French verse of
the
Æneid
and
Georgics
. In the dedication of his own translation of the
Æneid
by an elaborate essay to Lord Normanby, Dryden refers much, and
with high respect, to the dissertation prefixed by Segrais to his French
version, and towards the end (on p. 80 where the essay occupies 100
pages), writes as above quoted. The first parenthesis is part of the
quotation.
"would not break the thread of this discourse without;" and
an
Erratum
appended to the next Number says, 'for
without
read
with
.'
Contents
|
Saturday, May 12, 1711 |
Addison |
Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam
Jungere si velit et varías inducere plumas
Undique collatis membris, ut turpiter atrum
Desinat in piscem mulier formosa supernè;
Spectatum admissi risum teneatis amici?
Credite, Pisones, isti tabulæ fore librum
Persimilem, cujus, velut ægri somnia, vanæ
Finguntur species ...
Hor.
translation
It is very hard for the Mind to disengage it self from a Subject in
which it has been long employed. The Thoughts will be rising of themselves from time to time, tho' we give
them no Encouragement; as the Tossings and Fluctuations of the Sea
continue several Hours after the Winds are laid.
It is to this that I impute my last Night's Dream or Vision, which
formed into one continued Allegory the several Schemes of Wit, whether
False, Mixed, or True, that have been the Subject of my late Papers.
Methoughts I was transported into a Country that was filled with
Prodigies and Enchantments, governed by the Goddess of
Falsehood
,
entitled
the Region of False Wit
. There is nothing in the Fields, the
Woods, and the Rivers, that appeared natural. Several of the Trees
blossomed in Leaf-Gold, some of them produced Bone-Lace, and some of
them precious Stones. The Fountains bubbled in an Opera Tune, and were
filled with Stags, Wild-Boars, and Mermaids, that lived among the
Waters; at the same time that Dolphins and several kinds of Fish played
upon the Banks or took their Pastime in the Meadows. The Birds had many
of them golden Beaks, and human Voices.
Flowers perfumed the Air
with Smells of Incense, Amber-greese, and Pulvillios
; and were so
interwoven with one another, that they grew up in Pieces of Embroidery.
The Winds were filled with Sighs and Messages of distant Lovers. As I
was walking to and fro in this enchanted Wilderness, I could not forbear
breaking out into Soliloquies upon the several Wonders which lay before
me, when, to my great Surprize, I found there were artificial Ecchoes in
every Walk, that by Repetitions of certain Words which I spoke, agreed
with me, or contradicted me, in every thing I said. In the midst of my
Conversation with these invisible Companions, I discovered in the Centre
of a very dark Grove a monstrous Fabrick built after the
Gothick
manner, and covered with innumerable Devices in that barbarous kind of
Sculpture. I immediately went up to it, and found it to be a kind of
Heathen Temple consecrated to the God of
Dullness
. Upon my
Entrance I saw the Deity of the Place dressed in the Habit of a Monk,
with a Book in one Hand and a Rattle in the other. Upon his right Hand
was
Industry
, with a Lamp burning before her; and on his left
Caprice
, with a Monkey sitting on her Shoulder. Before his Feet
there stood an
Altar
of a very odd Make, which, as I afterwards
found, was shaped in that manner to comply with the Inscription that
surrounded it. Upon the Altar there lay several Offerings of
Axes,
Wings
, and
Eggs
, cut in Paper, and inscribed with Verses. The
Temple was filled with Votaries, who applied themselves to different
Diversions, as their Fancies directed them. In one part of it I saw a
Regiment of
Anagrams
, who were continually in motion, turning to the
Right or to the Left, facing about, doubling their Ranks, shifting their
Stations, and throwing themselves into all the Figures and
Countermarches of the most changeable and perplexed Exercise.
Not far from these was a Body of
Acrosticks
, made up of very
disproportioned Persons. It was disposed into three Columns, the
Officers planting themselves in a Line on the left Hand of each Column.
The Officers were all of them at least Six Foot high, and made three
Rows of very proper Men; but the Common Soldiers, who filled up the
Spaces between the Officers, were such Dwarfs, Cripples, and Scarecrows,
that one could hardly look upon them without laughing. There were behind
the
Acrosticks
two or three Files of
Chronograms
, which
differed only from the former, as their Officers were equipped (like the
Figure of Time) with an Hour-glass in one Hand, and a Scythe in the
other, and took their Posts promiscuously among the private Men whom
they commanded.
In the Body of the Temple, and before the very Face of the Deity,
methought I saw the Phantom of
Tryphiodorus
the
Lipogrammatist
, engaged in a Ball with four and twenty Persons,
who pursued him by Turns thro' all the Intricacies and Labyrinths of a
Country Dance, without being able to overtake him.
Observing several to be very busie at the Western End of the
Temple
, I inquired into what they were doing, and found there was
in that Quarter the great Magazine of
Rebus's
. These were several
Things of the most different Natures tied up in Bundles, and thrown upon
one another in heaps like Faggots. You might behold an Anchor, a
Night-rail, and a Hobby-horse bound up together. One of the Workmen
seeing me very much surprized, told me, there was an infinite deal of
Wit in several of those Bundles, and that he would explain them to me if
I pleased; I thanked him for his Civility, but told him I was in very
great haste at that time. As I was going out of the Temple, I observed
in one Corner of it a Cluster of Men and Women laughing very heartily,
and diverting themselves at a Game of
Crambo
. I heard several
Double Rhymes
as I passed by them, which raised a great deal of
Mirth.
Not far from these was another Set of merry People engaged at a
Diversion, in which the whole Jest was to mistake one Person for
another. To give Occasion for these ludicrous Mistakes, they were
divided into Pairs, every Pair being covered from Head to Foot with the
same kind of Dress, though perhaps there was not the least Resemblance
in their Faces. By this means an old Man was sometimes mistaken for a
Boy, a Woman for a Man, and a Black-a-moor for an
European
, which
very often produced great Peals of Laughter. These I guessed to be a
Party of
Punns
. But being very desirous to get out of this World
of Magick, which had almost turned my Brain, I left the Temple, and
crossed over the Fields that lay about it with all the Speed I could
make. I was not gone far before I heard the Sound of Trumpets and
Alarms, which seemed to proclaim the March of an Enemy; and, as I
afterwards found, was in reality what I apprehended it. There appeared
at a great Distance a very shining Light, and, in the midst of it, a
Person of a most beautiful Aspect; her Name was
Truth
. On her right Hand
there marched a Male Deity, who bore several Quivers on his
Shoulders, — and grasped several Arrows in his Hand. His Name was
Wit
. The Approach of these two Enemies filled all the Territories
of
False Wit
with an unspeakable Consternation, insomuch that the
Goddess of those Regions appeared in Person upon her Frontiers, with the
several inferior Deities, and the different Bodies of Forces which I had
before seen in the Temple, who were now drawn up in Array, and prepared
to give their Foes a warm Reception. As the March of the Enemy was very
slow, it gave time to the several Inhabitants who bordered upon the
Regions
of
Falsehood
to draw their Forces into a Body, with a
Design to stand upon their Guard as Neuters, and attend the Issue of the
Combat.
I must here inform my Reader, that the Frontiers of the Enchanted
Region, which I have before described, were inhabited by the Species of
Mixed Wit
, who made a very odd Appearance when they were mustered
together in an Army. There were Men whose Bodies were stuck full of
Darts, and Women whose Eyes were Burning-glasses: Men that had Hearts of
Fire, and Women that had Breasts of Snow. It would be endless to
describe several Monsters of the like Nature, that composed this great
Army; which immediately fell asunder and divided itself into two Parts,
the one half throwing themselves behind the Banners of
Truth
, and the
others behind those of
Falsehood
.
The Goddess of
Falsehood
was of a Gigantick Stature, and advanced some
Paces before the Front of her Army: but as the dazling Light, which
flowed from
Truth
, began to shine upon her, she faded insensibly;
insomuch that in a little Space she looked rather like an huge Phantom,
than a real Substance. At length, as the Goddess of
Truth
approached
still nearer to her, she fell away entirely, and vanished amidst the
Brightness of her Presence; so that there did not remain the least Trace
or Impression of her Figure in the Place where she had been seen.
As at the rising of the Sun the Constellations grow thin, and the Stars
go out one after another, till the whole Hemisphere is extinguished;
such was the vanishing of the Goddess: And not only of the Goddess her
self, but of the whole Army that attended her, which sympathized with
their Leader, and shrunk into Nothing, in proportion as the Goddess
disappeared. At the same time the whole Temple sunk, the Fish betook
themselves to the Streams, and the wild Beasts to the Woods: The
Fountains recovered their Murmurs, the Birds their Voices, the Trees
their Leaves, the Flowers their Scents, and the whole Face of Nature its
true and genuine Appearance. Tho' I still continued asleep, I fancied my
self as it were awakened out of a Dream, when I saw this Region of
Prodigies restored to Woods and Rivers, Fields and Meadows.
Upon the removal of that wild Scene of Wonders, which had very much
disturbed my Imagination, I took a full Survey of the Persons of
Wit
and
Truth
; for indeed it was impossible to look upon the first, without
seeing the other at the same time. There was behind them a strong and
compact Body of Figures. The Genius of
Heroic Poetry
appeared
with a Sword in her Hand, and a Lawrel on her Head.
Tragedy
was
crowned with Cypress, and covered with Robes dipped in Blood.
Satyr
had Smiles in her Look, and a Dagger under her Garment.
Rhetorick
was known by her Thunderbolt; and
Comedy
by her
Mask. After several other Figures,
Epigram
marched up in the
Rear, who had been posted there at the Beginning of the Expedition, that
he might not revolt to the Enemy, whom he was suspected to favour in his
Heart. I was very much awed and delighted with the Appearance of the God
of