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 VIth, and to the description of the shield in the VIIIth 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;