Lives Of The Poets, Vol. 1 (fiscle part-III) by Samuel Johnson (best beach reads TXT) 📖

Morn His Fame Does Early Crow.

 

 

 

Describing an Undisciplined army, After Having said With Elegance,

 

 

 

  His Forces Seem'D No Army, But A Crowd

  Heartless, Unarm'D, Disorderly, And Loud,

 

 

 

He Gives Them A Fit Of The Ague.

 

 

 

The Allusions, However, Are Not Always To Vulgar Things; He Offends By

Exaggeration, As Much As By Diminution:

 

 

 

  The King was Plac'D Alone, And O'Er His Head

  A Well-Wrought Heaven Of Silk And Gold Was Spread.

 

 

 

Whatever He Writes Is Always Polluted with Some Conceit:

 

 

 

  Where The Sun'S Fruitful Beams Give Metals Birth,

  Where He The Growth Of Fatal Gold Doth See,

  Gold, Which Alone More Influence Has Than He.

 

 

 

In One Passage He Starts A Sudden Question, To The Confusion Of

Philosophy:

 

 

 

  Ye Learned heads, Whom Ivy Garlands Grace,

  Why Does That Twining plant The Oak Embrace;

  The Oak, For Courtship Most Of All Unfit,

  And Rough As Are The Winds That Fight With It?

 

 

 

His Expressions Have, Sometimes, A Degree Of Meanness That Surpasses

Expectation:

 

 

 

  Nay, Gentle Guests, He Cries, Since Now You'Re In,

  The Story Of Your Gallant Friend Begin.

 

 

 

In A Simile Descriptive Of The Morning:

 

 

 

  As Glimm'Ring stars Just At Th' Approach Of Day,

  Cashier'D By Troops, At Last Drop All Away.

 

 

 

The Dress Of Gabriel Deserves Attention:

 

 

 

  He Took For Skin A Cloud Most Soft And Bright,

  That E'Er The Mid-Day Sun Pierc'D Through With Light;

  Upon His Cheeks A Lively Blush He Spread,

  Wash'D From The Morning beauties' Deepest Red;

  An Harmless Flatt'Ring meteor Shone For Hair,

  And Fell Adown His Shoulders With Loose Care;

  He Cuts Out A Silk Mantle From The Skies,

  Where The Most Sprightly Azure Pleas'D The Eyes;

  This He With Starry Vapours Sprinkles All,

  Took In their Prime Ere They Grow Ripe And Fall;

  Of A New Rainbow, Ere It Fret Or Fade,

  The Choicest Piece Cut Out, A Scarf Is Made.

 

 

 

This Is A Just Specimen Of Cowley'S Imagery: What Might, In general

Expressions, Be Great And Forcible, He Weakens And Makes Ridiculous

By Branching it Into Small Parts. That Gabriel Was Invested with The

Softest Or Brightest Colours Of The Sky, We Might Have Been Told, And

Been Dismissed to Improve The Idea In our Different Proportions Of

Conception; But Cowley Could Not Let Us Go, Till He Had Related where

Gabriel Got First His Skin, And Then His Mantle, Then His Lace, And Then

His Scarf, And Related it In the Terms Of The Mercer And Tailor.

 

 

 

Sometimes He Indulges Himself In a Digression, Always Conceived with His

Natural Exuberance, And Commonly, Even Where It Is Not Long, Continued

Till It Is Tedious.

 

 

 

  I' Th' Library A Few Choice Authors Stood,

  Yet 'Twas Well Stor'D, For That Small Store Was Good;

  Writing, Man'S Spiritual Physick, Was Not Then

  Itself, As Now, Grown A Disease Of Men.

  Learning (Young Virgin) But Few Suitors Knew;

  The Common Prostitute She Lately Grew,

  And With The Spurious Brood Loads Now The Press;

  Laborious Effects Of Idleness.

 

 

 

As The Davideis Affords Only Four Books, Though Intended to Consist

Of Twelve, There Is No Opportunity For Such Criticism As Epick Poems

Commonly Supply. The Plan Of The Whole Work Is Very Imperfectly Shown By

The Third Part. The Duration Of An Unfinished action Cannot Be Known. Of

Characters, Either Not Yet Introduced, Or Shown But Upon Few Occasions,

The Full Extent And The Nice Discriminations Cannot Be Ascertained. The

Fable Is Plainly Implex, Formed rather From The Odyssey Than The Iliad;

And Many Artifices Of Diversification Are Employed, With The Skill Of A

Man Acquainted with The Best Models. The Past Is Recalled by Narration,

And The Future Anticipated by Vision: But He Has Been So Lavish Of His

Poetical Art, That It Is Difficult To Imagine How He Could Fill Eight

Books More Without Practising again The Same Modes Of Disposing his

Matter; And, Perhaps, The Perception Of This Growing incumbrance

Inclined him To Stop. By This Abruption Posterity Lost More Instruction

Than Delight. If The Continuation Of The Davideis Can Be Missed, It Is

For The Learning that Had Been Diffused over It, And The Notes In which

It Had Been Explained.

 

 

 

Had Not His Characters Been Depraved, Like Every Other Part, By Improper

Decorations, They Would Have Deserved uncommon Praise. He Gives Saul

Both The Body And Mind Of A Hero:

 

 

 

  His Way Once Chose, He Forward Thrust Outright,

  Nor Turn'D Aside For Danger Or Delight.

 

 

 

And The Different Beauties Of The Lofty Merah And The Gentle Michol, Are

Very Justly Conceived and Strongly Painted.

 

 

 

Rymer Has Declared the Davideis Superiour To The Jerusalem Of Tasso;

"Which," Says He, "The Poet, With All His Care, Has Not Totally Purged

From Pedantry." If By Pedantry Is Meant That Minute Knowledge Which

Is Derived from Particular Sciences And Studies, In opposition To The

General Notions Supplied by A Wide Survey Of Life And Nature, Cowley

Certainly Errs, By Introducing pedantry Far More Frequently Than Tasso.

I Know Not, Indeed, Why They Should Be Compared; For The Resemblance Of

Cowley'S Work To Tasso'S Is Only That They Both Exhibit The Agency Of

Celestial And Infernal Spirits, In which, However, They Differ

Widely; For Cowley Supposes Them Commonly To Operate Upon The Mind By

Suggestion; Tasso Represents Them As Promoting or Obstructing events By

External Agency.

 

 

 

Of Particular Passages That Can Be Properly Compared, I Remember Only

The Description Of Heaven, In which The Different Manner Of The Two

Writers Is Sufficiently Discernible. Cowley'S Is Scarcely Description,

Unless It Be Possible To Describe By Negatives: For He Tells Us

Only What There Is Not In heaven. Tasso Endeavours To Represent The

Splendours And Pleasures Of The Regions Of Happiness. Tasso Affords

Images, And Cowley Sentiments. It Happens, However, That Tasso'S

Description Affords Some Reason For Rymer'S Censure. He Says Of The

Supreme Being,

 

 

 

  Ha Sotto I Piedi E Fato E La Natura,

  Ministri Umili, E'L Moto, E Chi'L Misura.

 

 

 

The Second Line Has In it More Of Pedantry Than, Perhaps, Can Be Found

In Any Other Stanza Of The Poem.

 

 

 

In The Perusal Of The Davideis, As Of All Cowley'S Works, We Find Wit

And Learning unprofitably Squandered. Attention Has No Relief; The

Affections Are Never Moved: We Are Sometimes Surprised, But Never

Delighted; And Find Much To Admire, But Little To Approve. Still,

However, It Is The Work Of Cowley; Of A Mind Capacious By Nature, And

Replenished by Study.

 

 

 

In The General Review Of Cowley'S Poetry It Will Be Found, That He Wrote

With Abundant Fertility, But Negligent Or Unskilful Selection; With Much

Thought, But With Little Imagery; That He Is Never Pathetick, And

Rarely Sublime; But Always Either Ingenious Or Learned, Either Acute Or

Profound.

 

 

 

It Is Said By Denham, In his Elegy,

 

 

 

  To Him No Author Was Unknown,

  Yet What He Writ Was All His Own.

 

 

 

This Wide Position Requires Less Limitation, When It Is Affirmed of

Cowley, Than, Perhaps, Of Any Other Poet.--He Read Much, And Yet

Borrowed little.

 

 

 

His Character Of Writing was, Indeed, Not His Own: He Unhappily Adopted

That Which Was Predominant. He Saw A Certain Way To Present Praise; And,

Not Sufficiently Inquiring by What Means The Ancients Have Continued to

Delight Through All The Changes Of Human Manners, He Contented himself

With A Deciduous Laurel, Of Which The Verdure, In its Spring, Was Bright

And Gay, But Which Time Has Been Continually Stealing from His Brows.

 

 

 

He Was, In his Own Time, Considered as Of Unrivalled excellence.

Clarendon Represents Him As Having taken A Flight Beyond All That Went

Before Him; And Milton Is Said To Have Declared, That The Three Greatest

English Poets Were Spenser, Shakespeare, And Cowley.

 

 

 

His Manner He Had In common With Others; But His Sentiments Were His

Own. Upon Every Subject He Thought For Himself; And Such Was His

Copiousness Of Knowledge, That Something at Once Remote And Applicable

Rushed into His Mind; Yet It Is Not Likely That He Always Rejected a

Commodious Idea Merely Because Another Had Used it: His Known Wealth Was

So Great, That He Might Have Borrowed without Loss Of Credit.

 

 

 

In His Elegy On Sir Henry Wotton, The Last Lines Have Such Resemblance

To The Noble Epigram Of Grotius On The Death Of Scaliger, That I Cannot

But Think Them Copied from It, Though They Are Copied by No Servile

Hand.

 

 

 

One Passage In his Mistress Is So Apparently Borrowed from Donne, That

He Probably Would Not Have Written It, Had It Not Mingled with His Own

Thoughts, So As That He Did Not Perceive Himself Taking it From Another:

 

 

 

  Although I Think Thou Never Found Wilt Be,

  Yet I'M Resolv'D To Search For Thee:

  The Search Itself Rewards The Pains.

  So, Though The Chymic His Great Secret Miss

  (For Neither It In art Or Nature Is,)

  Yet Things Well Worth His Toil He Gains;

 

 

 

 

  And Does His Charge And Labour Pay

  With Good Unsought Experiments By The Way. Cowley.

 

 

 

  Some That Have Deeper Digg'D Love'S Mine Than I,

  Say, Where His Centric Happiness Doth Lie:

  I Have Lov'D, And Got, And Told;

  But Should I Love, Get, Tell, Till I Were Old;

  I Should Not Find That Hidden Mystery;

  Oh, 'Tis Imposture All!

  And As No Chymic Yet Th' Elixir Got,

  But Glorifies His Pregnant Pot,

  If By The Way To Him Befall

  Some Odoriferous Thing, Or Medicinal,

  So Lovers Dream A Rich And Long Delight,

  But Get A Winter-Seeming summer'S Night.  Donne.

 

 

 

Jonson And Donne, As Dr. Hurd Remarks, Were Then In the Highest Esteem.

 

 

 

It Is Related by Clarendon, That Cowley Always Acknowledges His

Obligation To The Learning and Industry Of Jonson; But I Have Found No

Traces Of Jonson In his Works: To Emulate Donne Appears To Have Been

His Purpose; And From Donne He May Have Learned that Familiarity With

Religious Images, And That Light Allusion To Sacred things, By Which

Readers Far Short Of Sanctity Are Frequently Offended; And Which Would

Not Be Borne, In the Present Age, When Devotion, Perhaps, Not More

Fervent, Is More Delicate.

 

 

 

Having produced one Passage Taken By Cowley From Donne, I Will

Recompense Him By Another Which Milton Seems To Have Borrowed from Him.

He Says Of Goliah:

 

 

 

  His Spear, The Trunk Was Of A Lofty Tree,

  Which Nature Meant Some Tall Ship'S Mast Should Be.

 

 

 

Milton Of Satan:

 

 

 

  His Spear, To Equal Which The Tallest Pine

  Hewn On Norwegian Hills, To Be The Mast

  Of Some Great Admiral, Were But A Wand,

  He Walked with.

 

 

 

His Diction Was, In his Own Time, Censured as Negligent. He Seems Not To

Have Known, Or Not To Have Considered, That Words, Being arbitrary, Must

Owe Their Power To Association, And Have The Influence, And That Only,

Which Custom Has Given Them. Language Is The Dress Of Thought: And,

As The Noblest Mien, Or Most Graceful Action, Would Be Degraded and

Obscured by A Garb Appropriated to The Gross Employments Of Rusticks Or

Mechanicks; So The Most Heroick Sentiments Will Lose Their Efficacy, And

The Most Splendid Ideas Drop Their Magnificence, If They Are Conveyed by

Words Used commonly Upon Low And Trivial Occasions, Debased by Vulgar

Mouths, And Contaminated by Inelegant Applications.

 

 

 

Truth, Indeed, Is Always Truth, And Reason Is Always Reason; They Have

An Intrinsick And Unalterable Value, And Constitute That Intellectual

Gold Which Defies Destruction; But Gold May Be So Concealed in baser

Matter, That Only A Chymist Can Recover It; Sense May Be So Hidden In

Unrefined and Plebeian Words, That None But Philosophers Can Distinguish

It; And Both May Be So Buried in impurities, As Not To Pay The Cost Of

Their Extraction.

 

 

 

The Diction, Being the Vehicle Of The Thoughts, First Presents Itself To

The Intellectual Eye; And, If The First Appearance Offends, A Further

Knowledge Is Not Often Sought. Whatever Professes To Benefit By

Pleasing, Must Please At Once. The Pleasures Of The Mind Imply Something

Sudden And Unexpected; That Which Elevates Must Always Surprise. What

Is Perceived by Slow Degrees May Gratify Us With The Consciousness Of

Improvement, But Will Never Strike With The Sense Of Pleasure.

 

 

 

Of All This, Cowley Appears To Have Been Without Knowledge, Or Without

Care. He Makes No Selection Of Words, Nor Seeks Any Neatness Of Phrase:

He Has No Elegancies, Either Lucky Or Elaborate: As His Endeavours Were

Rather To Impress Sentences Upon The Understanding than Images On

The Fancy, He Has Few Epithets, And Those Scattered without Peculiar

Propriety Or Nice Adaptation. It Seems To Follow From The Necessity Of

The Subject, Rather Than The Care Of The Writer, That The Diction Of His

Heroick Poem Is Less Familiar Than That Of His Slightest Writings. He

Has Given Not The Same Numbers, But The Same Diction, To The Gentle

Anacreon And The Tempestuous Pindar.

 

 

 

His Versification Seems To Have Had Very Little Of His Care; And, If

What He Thinks Be True, That His Numbers Are Unmusical Only When They

Are Ill Read, The Art Of