Further, as the good fortune of Augustus, though adorned with the same enviable qualities, had exempted him from the injuries which had constantly befallen those admired characters, this peculiar circumstance in the history of his prince affords him the happiest occasion, flattery could desire, of paying distinguished honours to his glory.
And this constitutes the fine address and compliment of his Application.
But this justice, which Augustus had exacted, as it were, by the very authority of his virtue, from his applauding people, was but ill discharged in other instances.
And thus the very exception to the general rule, which forms the encomium, leads him with advantage into his argument; which was to observe and expose “the malignant influence of prepossession in obstructing the proper glories of living merit.” So that, as good sense demands in every reasonable panegyric, the praise results from the nature and foundation of the subject-matter, and is not violently and reluctantly dragged into it.
His general charge against his countrymen “of their bigotted attachment to those, dignified by the name of ancients, in prejudice to the just deserts of the moderns,” being thus delivered; and the folly of such conduct, with some agreeable exaggeration, exposed; he sets himself with a happy mixture of irony and argument, as well becomes the genius and character of the epistle, to confute the pretences, and overturn the very foundations, on which it rested.
One main support of their folly was taken from an allowed fact, viz. “That the oldest Greek writers were incontestably superior to the modern ones.” From whence they inferred, that it was but according to nature and the course of experience, to give the like preference to the oldest Roman masters.
His confutation of this sophism consists of two parts. First, [from v. 28 to 32] he insists on the evident absurdity of the opinion he is confuting. There was no reasoning with persons, capable of such extravagant positions. But, secondly, the pretended fact itself, with regard to the Greek learning, was grossly misunderstood, or perversely applied. For [from v. 32 to 34] it was not true, nor could it be admitted, that the very oldest of the Greek writers were the best, but those only, which were old, in comparison of the mere modern Greeks. The so much applauded models of Grecian antiquity were themselves modern, in respect of the still older and ruder essays of their first writers. It was long discipline and cultivation, the same which had given the Greek artists in the Augustan reign a superiority over the Roman, that by degrees established the good taste, and fixed the authority of the Greek poets; from which point it was natural and even necessary for succeeding, i. e. the modern Greeks to decline. But no consequence lay from hence to the advantage of the Latin poets, in question; who were wholly unfurnished with any previous study of the arts of verse; and whose works could only be compared with the very oldest, that is, the rude forgotten essays of the Greek poetry. So that the fine sense, so closely shut up in this concise couplet, comes out thus: “The modern Greek masters of the fine arts are confessedly superior to the modern Roman. The reason is, they have practised them longer, and with more diligence. Just so, the modern Roman writers must needs have the advantage of their old ones: who had no knowledge of writing, as an art, or, if they had, took but small care to put it in practice.”
Further, this plea of antiquity is as uncertain in its application, as it was destitute of all truth and reason in its original foundation. For if age only must bear away the palm, what way is there of determining, which writers are modern, and which ancient? The impossibility of fixing this to the satisfaction of an objector, which is pursued [to v. 50] with much agreeable raillery, makes it evident, that the circumstance of antiquity is absolutely nothing; and that in estimating the merit of writers, the real, intrinsic excellence of their writings themselves is alone to be regarded.
Thus far the poet’s intent was to combat the general prejudice of the critic,
Taking the fact for granted “of his strong prepossession for antiquity, as such” he would discredit, both by raillery and argument, so absurd a conduct. What he gains, by this disposition, is to come to the particulars of his charge with more advantage. For the popular contempt of modern composition, sheltering itself under a shew of learned admiration of the ancients, whose age and reputation had made them truly venerable, and whose genuine merits, in the main, could not be disputed, a direct attack upon their fame, at setting out, without any softening, had disgusted the most moderate; whereas this prefatory appeal to common sense, under the cover of general criticism, would even dispose bigotry itself to afford the poet a candid hearing. His accusation then of the public taste comes in, here, very pertinently; and is delivered, with address [from v. 50 to 63] in a particular detail of the judgements passed upon the most celebrated of the old Roman poets, by the generality of the modern critics; where, to win upon their prejudices still further by his generosity and good faith, he scruples not to recount such of their determinations on the merit of ancient writers, as were reasonable and well founded, as well as others, that he deemed less just, and as such intended more immediately to expose.
We see then with what art the poet conducts himself in this attack on the ancients, and how it served his purpose, by turns, to soften and aggravate the charge. First, “he wanted to lower the reputation of the old poets.” This was not to be done by general invective or an affected dissimulation of their just praise. He admits then [from v. 63 to 66] their reasonable pretensions to admiration. ’Tis the degree of it alone, to which he objects.
Secondly, “he wanted to draw off their applauses from “the ancient to the modern poets.” This required the advantages of those moderns to be distinctly shewn, or, which comes to the same, the comparative deficiencies of the ancients to be pointed out. These were not to be dissembled, and are, as he openly insists [to v. 69] obsolete language, rude and barbarous construction, and slovenly composition,
But what then? an objector replies, these were venial faults, surely; the deficiencies of the times, and not of the men; who, with such incorrectnesses as are here noted, might still possess the greatest talents, and produce the noblest designs. This [from v. 69 to 79] is readily admitted. But, in the mean time, one thing was clear, that they were not finished models—exactis minimum distantia. Which was the main point in dispute. For the bigot’s absurdity lay in this,
Nay, his folly is shewn to have gone still greater lengths. These boasted models of antiquity, with all their imperfections, had occasionally [v. 73, 74] though the instances were indeed rare and thinly scattered, striking beauties. These, under the recommendation of age, which, of course, commands our reverence, might well impose on the judgements of the generality, and standing forth with advantage, as from a shaded and dark ground, would naturally catch the eye and admiration of the more learned. Thus much the poet candidly insinuates in excuse of the bigot’s ill judgment. But, unluckily, he had cut himself off from the benefit of this plea, by avowedly grounding his admiration, not merely on the intrinsic excellence, so far as it went, of the ancient poetry itself; but on the advantage of any extraneous circumstance, which but casually stuck to it. The accident of a play’s having passed though the mouth, and been graced by the action, of a just speaker, was sufficient [from v. 79 to 83] (so inexcusable were his prejudices) to attract his wonder, and justify his esteem. In so much that it became an insolence, generally cried out upon, for any one to censure such pieces of the theatre,
This being the case, it was no longer a doubt, whether the affected admiration of antiquity proceeded from a deluded judgment only, or a much worse cause. It could plainly be resolved into no other, than the willful agency of the malignant affections; which, wherever they prevail, corrupt the simple and ingenuous sense of the mind, either 1. [v. 83] in engendring high conceits of self, and referring all degrees of excellence to the supposed infallible standard of every man’s own judgment; or 2. [to v. 86] in creating a false shame, and reluctancy in us to be directed by the judgments of others, though seen to be more equitable, whenever they are found in opposition to our own rooted and preconceived opinions. The bigotry of old Men is, especially, for this reason, invincible. They hold themselves upbraided by the sharper sight of their juniors; and regard the adoption of new sentiments, at their years, as so much absolute loss on the side of the dead stock of their old literary possessions. These considerations are generally of such prevalency in great veteran critics, that [from v. 86 to 90] whenever, as in the case before us, they pretend an uncommon zeal for antiquity, and their sagacity piques itself on detecting the superior value of obscure rhapsodists whom no body else reads, or is able to understand, we may be sure the secret view of such, is, not the generous defence and patronage of ancient wit, but a low malevolent pleasure in decrying the just pretensions of the modern.
The poet had, now, made appear the unreasonable attachment of his countrymen to the fame of their old writers. He had thoroughly unravelled the sophistical pretences, on which it affected to justify itself; and had even dared to unveil the secret iniquitous principle, from which it arose. It was now time to look forward to the effects of it; which were, in truth, very baleful; its poisonous influences being of force to corrupt and wither, as it were, in the bud, every rising species of excellence, and fatally to check the very hopes and tendencies of true genius. Nothing can be truer, than this remark; which he further enforces, and brings home to his adversaries, by asking a pertinent question, to which it concerned them to make a serious reply. They had magnified v. 28 the perfection of the Greek models. But what [to v. 93] if the Greeks had conceived the same aversion to novelties, as the Romans? How then could those models have ever been furnished to the public use? The question, we see, insinuates what was before affirmed to be the truth of the case; that the unrivalled excellence of the Greek poets proceeded only from long and vigorous exercise, and a painful uninterrupted application to the arts of verse. The liberal spirit of that people led them to countenance every new attempt towards superior literary excellence; and so, by the public favour, their writings, from rude essays, became at length the standard and admiration of succeeding wits. The Romans had treated their adventurers quite otherwise, and the effect was answerable. This is the purport of what to a common eye may look like a digression [from v. 93 to 108], in which is delineated the very different genius and practice of the two nations. For the Greeks [to v. 102] had applied themselves, in the intervals of their leisure from the toils of war, to the cultivation of every species of elegance, whether in arts, or letters; and loved to cherish the public emulation, by affording a free indulgence to the various and volatile disposition of the times. The activity of these restless spirits, was incessantly attempting some new and untryed form of composition; and, when that was brought to a due degree of perfection, it turned, in good time, to the cultivation of some other.
So that the very caprice of humour [v. 101] assisted, in this libertine country, to advance and help forward the public taste. Such was the effect of peace and opportunity with them.
Whereas the Romans [to v. 108] by a more composed temperament and saturnine complexion had devoted their pains to the pursuit of domestic utilities, and a more dexterous management of the arts of gain. The consequence of which was, that when [to v. 117] by the decay of the old frugal spirit, the necessary effect of overflowing plenty and ease, they began, at length, to seek out for the elegancies of life; and a fit of versifying, the first of all liberal amusements, that usually seizes an idle people, had come upon them; their ignorance of rules, and want of exercise in the art of writing, rendered them wholly unfit to succeed in it. So that their awkward attempts in poetry were now as disgraceful to their taste, as their total disregard of it, before, had been to their civility. The root of this mischief was the idolatrous regard paid to their ancient poets: which unluckily, when the public emulation was set a going, not only checked its progress, but gave it a wrong bias; and, instead of helping true genius to outstrip the lame and tardy endeavours of ancient wit, drew it aside into a vicious and unprofitable mimicry of its very imperfections. Whence it had come to pass, that, whereas in other arts, the previous knowledge of rules is required to the practice of them, in this of versifying, no such qualification was deemed necessary.
This mischance was doubly fatal to the Latin poetry. For the ill success of these blind adventurers had increased the original mischief, by confirming, as it needs must, the superstitious reverence of the old writers; and insensibly brought, as well the art itself, as the modern professors of it, into disrepute with the discerning public. The vindication of both, then, at this critical juncture, was become highly seasonable; and to this, which was the poet’s main purpose, he addresses himself through the remainder of the epistle.
118 to the end. Hic error tamen, &c.] Having sufficiently obviated the popular and reigning prejudices against the modern poets, his office of advocate for their fame, which he had undertaken, and was now to discharge, in form, required him to set their real merits and pretensions in a just light. He enters therefore immediately on this task. And, in drawing the character of the true poet, endeavours to impress the Emperor with as advantageous an idea as possible, of the worth and dignity of his calling. And this, not in the fierce insulting tone of a zealot for the honour of his order, which to the great is always disgusting, and where the occasion is, confessedly, not of the last importance, plainly absurd; but with that unpretending air of insinuation, which good sense, improved by a thorough knowledge of the world, teaches: with that seeming indifference which disarms prejudice: in a word, with that gracious smile in his aspect, which his strong admirer and faint copyer, Persius, so justly noted in him, and which convinces almost without the help of argument; or to say it more truly, persuades where it doth not properly convince. In this disposition he sets out on his defence; and yet omits no particular, which could any way serve to the real recommendation of poets, or which indeed, the gravest or warmest of their friends have ever pleaded in their behalf. This defence consists [from v. 118 to 139] in bringing into view their many civil, moral, and religious virtues. For the muse, as the poet contends (and nothing could be more likely to conciliate the esteem of the politic emperor) administers, in this threefold capacity, to the service of the state.
But Religion, which was its noblest end, was, besides, the first object of poetry. The dramatic muse, in particular, had her birth, and derived her very character, from it. This circumstance then leads him with advantage, to give an historical deduction of the rise and progress of the Latin poesy, from its first rude workings in the days of barbarous superstition, through every successive period of its improvement, down to his own times. Such a view of its descent and gradual reformation was directly to the poet’s purpose. For having magnified the virtues of his order, as of such importance to society, the question naturally occurred, by what unhappy means it had fallen out, that it was, nevertheless, in such low estimation with the public. The answer is, that the state of the Latin poetry, as yet, was very rude and imperfect: and so the public disregard was occasioned, only, by its not having attained to that degree of perfection, of which its nature was capable. Many reasons had concurred to keep the Latin poetry in this state, which he proceeds to enumerate. The first and principal was [from v. 139 to 164] the little attention paid to critical learning, and the cultivation of a correct and just spirit of composition. Which, again, had arisen from the coarse illiberal disposition of the Latin muse, who had been nurtured and brought up under the roof of rural superstition; and this, by an impure mixture of licentious jollity, had so corrupted her very nature, that it was only by slow degrees, and not till the conquest of Greece had imported arts and learning into Italy, that she began to chastise her manners, and assume a juster and more becoming deportment. And still she was but in the condition of a rustic beauty, when, practising her aukward airs, and making her first ungracious essays towards a manner.
Her late acquaintance with the Greek models had, indeed, improved her air, and inspired an inclination to emulate their noblest graces. But how successfully, we are given to understand from her unequal attempts in the two sublimer species of their poetry, the TRAGIC, AND COMIC DRAMAS.
1. [from v. 160 to 168] The study of the Greek tragedians had very naturally, and to good purpose, in the infancy of their taste, disposed the Latin writers to translation. Here they stuck long; for their tragedy, even in the Augustan age, was little else; and yet they succeeded but indifferently in it. The bold and animated genius of Rome was, it is readily owned, well suited to this work. And for force of colouring, and a truly tragic elevation, the Roman poets came not behind their great originals. But unfortunately their judgment was unformed, and they were too soon satisfied with their own productions. Strength and fire was all they endeavoured after. And with this praise they sate down perfectly contented. The discipline of correction, the curious polishing of art, which had given such a lustre to the Greek tragedians, they knew nothing of; or, to speak their case more truly, they held disgraceful to the high spirit and energy of the Roman genius:
2. It did not fare better with them [from v. 168 to 175] in their attempts to rival the Greek comedy. They preposterously set out with the notion of its being easier to execute this drama than the tragic: whereas to hit its genuine character with exactness was, in truth, a point of much more difficulty. As the subject of comedy was taken from common life, they supposed an ordinary degree of care might suffice, to do it justice. No wonder then, they overlooked or never came up to that nice adjustment of the manners, that truth and decorum of character, wherein the glory of comic painting consists, and which none but the quickest eye can discern, and the steadiest hand execute; and, in the room, amused us with high colouring, and false drawing; with extravagant, aggravated portraitures; which, neglecting the modest proportion of real life, are the certain arguments of an unpractised pencil, or vicious taste.
What contributed to this prostitution of the comic muse, was [to v. 177] the seducement of that corruptress of all virtue, the love of money; which had thoroughly infected the Roman wits, and was, in fact, the sole object of their pains. Hence, provided they could but catch the applauses of the people, to which the pleasantry of the comic scene more especially aspires, and so secure a good round price from the magistrates, whose office it was to furnish this kind of entertainment, they became indifferent to every nobler view and honester purpose. In particular [to v. 182] they so little considered fame and the praise of good writing, that they made it the ordinary topic of their ridicule; representing it as the mere illusion of vanity, and the pitiable infirmity of lean-witted minds, to be catched by the lure of so empty and unsubstantial a benefit.
Though, were any one, in defiance of public ridicule, so daring (as there is no occasion in life, which calls for, or demonstrates a greater firmness), as frankly to avow and submit himself to this generous motive, the surest inspirer of every virtuous excellence, yet one thing remained to check and weaken the vigour of his emulation. This [from v. 182 to 187] was the folly and ill taste of the undiscerning multitude; who, in all countries, have a great share in determining the fate and character of scenical representations, but, from the popular constitution of the government, were, at Rome, of the first consequence. These, by their rude clamours, and the authority of their numbers, were enough to dishearten the most intrepid genius; when, after all his endeavours to reap the glory of an absolute work, the action was almost sure to be mangled and broken in upon by the shews of wild beasts and gladiators; those dear delights, which the Romans, it seems, prized much above the highest pleasures of the drama.
Nay, the poet’s case was still more desperate. For it was not the untutored rabble, as in other countries, that gave a countenance to these illiberal sports: even rank and quality, at Rome, debased itself in shewing the fiercest passion for these shews, and was as ready, as abject commonalty itself, to prefer the uninstructing pleasures of the eye to those of the ear.
And, because this barbarity of taste had contributed more than any thing else to deprave the poetry of the stage, and discourage its best masters from studying its perfection, what follows [from v. 189 to 207] is intended, in all the keenness of raillery, to satyrize this madness. It afforded an ample field for the poet’s ridicule. For, besides the riotous disorders of their theatre, the senseless admiration of pomp and spectacle in their plays had so inchanted his countrymen, that the very decorations of the scene, the tricks and trappings of the comedians, were surer to catch the applauses of the gaping multitude, than any regard to the justness of the poet’s design, or the beauty of his execution.
Here the poet should naturally have concluded his defence of the dramatic writers; having alledged every thing in their favour, that could be urged, plausibly, from the state of the Roman stage: the genius of the people: and the several prevailing practices of ill taste, which had brought them into disrepute with the best judges. But finding himself obliged, in the course of this vindication of the modern stage-poets, to censure as sharply, as their very enemies, the vices and defects of their poetry; and fearing lest this severity on a sort of writing, to which himself had never pretended, might be misinterpreted as the effect of envy only, and a malignant disposition towards the art itself, under cover of pleading for its professors, he therefore frankly avows [from v. 208 to 214] his preference of the dramatic, to every other species of poetry; declaring the sovereignty of its pathos over the affections, and the magic of its illusive scenery on the Imagination, to be the highest argument of poetic excellence, the last and noblest exercise of the human genius.
One thing still remained. He had taken upon himself to apologize for the Roman poets, in general; as may be seen from the large terms, in which he proposes his subject.
But, after a general encomium on the office itself, he confines his defence to the writers for the stage only. In conclusion then, he was constrained, by the very purpose of his address, to say a word or two in behalf of the remainder of this neglected family; of those, who, as the poet expresses it, had rather trust to the equity of the closet, than subject themselves to the caprice and insolence of the theatre.
Now, as before, in asserting the honour of the stage-poets he every where supposes the emperor’s disgust to have sprung from the wrong conduct of the poets themselves, and then extenuates the blame of such conduct, by considering, still further, the causes which gave rise to it; so he prudently observes the like method here. The politeness of his address concedes to Augustus, the just offence he had taken to his brother poets; whose honour, however, he contrives to save by softening the occasions of it. This is the drift of what follows [from v. 214 to 229] where he pleasantly recounts the several foibles and indiscretions of the muse; but in a way, that could only dispose the emperor to smile at, or at most, to pity her infirmities, not provoke his serious censure and disesteem. They amount, on the whole, but to certain idlenesses of vanity, the almost inseparable attendant of wit, as well as beauty; and may be forgiven in each, as implying a strong desire of pleasing, or rather as qualifying both to please. One of the most exceptionable of these vanities was a fond persuasion, too readily taken up by men of parts and genius, that preferment is the constant pay of merit; and that, from the moment their talents become known to the public, distinction and advancement are sure to follow. They believed, in short, they had only to convince the world of their superior abilities, to deserve the favour and countenance of their prince. But fond and presumptuous as these hopes are (continues the poet [from v. 229 to 244] with all the insinuation of a courtier, and yet with a becoming sense of the dignity of his own character) it may deserve a serious consideration, what poets are fit to be entrusted with the glory of princes; what ministers are worth retaining in the service of an illustrious Virtue, whose honours demand to be solemnized with a religious reverence, and should not be left to the profanation of vile, unhallowed hands. And, to support the authority of this remonstrance, he alledges the example of a great Monarch, who had dishonoured himself by a neglect of this care; of Alexander the great, who, when master of the world, as Augustus now was, perceived, indeed, the importance of gaining a poet to his service; but unluckily chose so ill, that his encomiums (as must ever be the case with a vile panegyrist) but tarnished the native splendor of those virtues, which his office required him to present, in their fullest and fairest glory, to the admiration of the world. In his appointment of artists, whose skill is, also, highly serviceable to the fame of princes, he shewed a truer judgment. For he suffered none but an Apelles and a Lysippus to counterfeit the form and fashion of his person. But his taste, which was thus exact and even subtile in what concerned the mechanic execution of the fine arts, took up with a Choerilus, to transmit an image of his mind to future ages; so grosly undiscerning was he in works of poetry, and the liberal offerings of the muse!
And thus the poet makes a double use of the illjudgment of this imperial critic. For nothing could better demonstrate the importance of poetry to the honour of greatness, than that this illustrious conqueror, without any particular knowledge or discernment in the art itself, should think himself concerned to court its assistance. And, then, what could be more likely to engage the emperor’s further protection and love of poetry, than the insinuation (which is made with infinite address) that, as he honoured it equally, so he understood its merits much better? For [from v. 245 to 248, where, by a beautiful concurrence, the flattery of his prince falls in with the honester purpose of doing justice to the memory of his friends] it was not the same unintelligent liberality, which had cherished Choerilus, that poured the full stream of Caesar’s bounty on such persons, as Varius and Virgil. And, as if the spirit of these inimitable poets had, at once, seized him, he breaks away in a bolder run of verse [from v. 248 to 250] to sing the triumphs of an art, which expressed the manners and the mind in fuller and more durable relief, than painting or even sculpture had ever been able to give to the external figure: And [from v. 250 to the end] apologizes for himself in adopting the humbler epistolary species, when a warmth of inclination and the unrivaled glories of his prince were continually urging him on to the nobler, encomiastic poetry. His excuse, in brief, is taken from the conscious inferiority of his genius, and a tenderness for the fame of the emperor, which is never more disserved than by the officious sedulity of bad poets to do it honour. And with this apology, one while condescending to the unfeigned humility of a person, sensible of the kind and measure of his abilities, and then, again, sustaining itself by a freedom and even familiarity, which real merit knows, on certain occasions, to take without offence, the epistle concludes.
If the general opinion may be trusted, this, which was one of the last, is also among the noblest, of the great poet’s compositions. Perhaps, the reader, who considers it in the plain and simple order, to which the foregoing analysis hath reduced it, may satisfy himself, that this praise hath not been undeservedly bestowed.
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: