Books: Lives of the English Poets: Prior, Congreve, Blackmore, Pope
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Samuel Johnson >> Lives of the English Poets: Prior, Congreve, Blackmore, Pope
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Nothing now remained for the poets but to resist or fly. Dryden's
conscience or his prudence, angry as he was, withheld him from the
conflict. Congreve and Vanbrugh attempted answers. Congreve, a
very young man, elated with success, and impatient of censure,
assumed an air of confidence and security. His chief art of
controversy is to retort upon his adversary his own words: he is
very angry, and hoping to conquer Collier with his own weapons,
allows himself in the use of every term of contumely and contempt,
but he has the sword without the arm of Scanderbeg; he has his
antagonist's coarseness but not his strength. Collier replied, for
contest was his delight. "He was not to be frighted from his
purpose or his prey."
The cause of Congreve was not tenable; whatever glosses he might use
for the defence or palliation of single passages, the general tenour
and tendency of his plays must always be condemned. It is
acknowledged, with universal conviction, that the perusal of his
works will make no man better, and that their ultimate effect is to
represent pleasure in alliance with vice, and to relax those
obligations by which life ought to be regulated.
The stage found other advocates, and the dispute was protracted
through ten years: but at last comedy grew more modest, and Collier
lived to see the reformation of the theatre.
Of the powers by which this important victory was achieved, a
quotation from Love for Love, and the remark upon it, may afford a
specimen:-
Sir Samps. "Sampson's a very good name; for your Sampsons were
strong dogs from the beginning."
Angel. "Have a care--if you remember, the strongest Sampson of your
name pulled an old house over his head at last."
"Here you have the sacred history burlesqued, and Sampson once more
brought into the house of Dagon, to make sport for the Philistines!"
Congreve's last play was The Way of The World, which, though, as he
hints in him dedication it was written with great labour and much
thought, was received with so little favour, that being in a high
degree offended and disgusted, he resolved to commit his quiet and
his fame no more to the caprices of an audience.
From this time his life ceased to be public; he lived for himself
and his friends, and among his friends was able to name every man of
his time whom wit and elegance had raised to reputation. It may be
therefore reasonably supposed that his manners were polite, and his
conversation pleasing. He seems not to have taken much pleasure in
writing, as he contributed nothing to the Spectator, and only one
paper to the Tatler, though published by men with whom he might be
supposed willing to associate: and though he lived many years after
the publication of his "Miscellaneous Poems," yet he added nothing
to them, but lived on in literary indolence, engaged in no
controversy, contending with no rival, neither soliciting flattery
by public commendations, nor provoking enmity by malignant
criticism, but passing his time among the great and splendid, in the
placid enjoyment of his fame and fortune.
Having owed his fortune to Halifax, he continued, always of his
patron's party, but, as it seems, without violence or acrimony, and
his firmness was naturally esteemed, as his abilities were
reverenced. His security therefore was never violated; and when,
upon the extrusion of the Whigs, some intercession was used lest
Congreve should be displaced, the Earl of Oxford made this answer:-
"Non obtusa adeo gestamus pectora Poeni,
Nec tam aversus equos Tyria sol jungit ab urbe."
He that was thus honoured by the adverse party might naturally
expect to be advanced when his friends returned to power, and he was
accordingly made secretary for the island of Jamaica, a place, I
suppose without trust or care, but which, with his post in the
Customs, is said to have afforded him twelve hundred pounds a year.
His honours were yet far greater than his profits. Every writer
mentioned him with respect, and among other testimonies to his
merit, Steele made him the patron of his "Miscellany," and Pope
inscribed to him his translations of the "Iliad." But he treated
the muses with ingratitude; for, having long conversed familiarly
with the great, he wished to be considered rather as a man of
fashion than of wit; and, when he received a visit from Voltaire,
disgusted him by the despicable foppery of desiring to be considered
not as an author but a gentleman; to which the Frenchman replied,
"that, if he had been only a gentleman, he should not have come to
visit him."
In his retirement he may be supposed to have applied himself to
books, for he discovers more literature than the poets have commonly
attained. But his studies were in his later days obstructed by
cataracts in his eyes, which at last terminated in blindness. This
melancholy state was aggravated by the gout, for which he sought
relief by a journey to Bath: but, being overturned in his chariot,
complained from that time of a pain in his side, and died at his
house in Surrey Street in the Strand, January 29, 1728-9. Having
lain in state in the Jerusalem Chamber, he was buried in Westminster
Abbey, where a monument is erected to his memory by Henrietta
Duchess of Marlborough, to whom, for reasons either not known or not
mentioned, he bequeathed a legacy of about ten thousand pounds, the
accumulation of attentive parsimony, which, though to her
superfluous and useless, might have given great assistance to the
ancient family from which he descended, at that time, by the
imprudence of his relation, reduced to difficulties and distress.
Congreve has merit of the highest kind; he is an original writer,
who borrowed neither the models of his plot nor the manner of his
dialogue. Of his plays I cannot speak distinctly, for since I
inspected them many years have passed, but what remains upon my
memory is, that his characters are commonly fictitious and
artificial, with very little of nature, and not much of life. He
formed a peculiar idea of comic excellence, which he supposed to
consist in gay remarks and unexpected answers; but that which he
endeavoured, he seldom failed of performing. His scenes exhibit not
much of humour, imagery, or passion: his personages are a kind of
intellectual gladiators; every sentence is to ward or strike; the
contest of smartness is never intermitted; his wit is a meteor
playing to and fro with alternate coruscations. His comedies have,
therefore, in some degree, the operation of tragedies, they surprise
rather than divert, and raise admiration oftener than merriment.
But they are the works of a mind replete with images, and quick in
combination.
Of his miscellaneous poetry I cannot say anything very favourable.
The powers of Congreve seem to desert him when he leaves the stage,
as Antaeus was no longer strong than when he could touch the ground.
It cannot be observed without wonder, that a mind so vigorous and
fertile in dramatic compositions should on any other occasion
discover nothing but impotence and poverty. He has in these little
pieces neither elevation of fancy, selection of language, nor skill
in versification: yet, if I were required to select from the whole
mass of English poetry the most poetical paragraph, I know not what
I could prefer to an exclamation in the "Mourning Bride":-
ALMERIA.
It was a fancied noise; for all is hushed.
LEONORA.
It bore the accent of a human voice.
ALMERIA.
It was thy fear, or else some transient wind
Whistling through hollows of this vaulted isle:
We'll listen -
LEONORA.
Hark!
ALMERIA.
No, all is hushed and still as death.--'Tis dreadful!
How reverend is the face of this tall pile,
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,
To bear aloft its arched and ponderous roof,
By its own weight made steadfast and immovable,
Looking tranquillity! It strikes an awe
And terror on my aching sight; the tombs
And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.
Give use thy hand, and let me hear thy voice;
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear
Thy voice--my own affrights me with its echoes.
He who reads these lines enjoys for a moment the powers of a poet;
he feels what he remembers to have felt before, but he feels it with
great increase of sensibility; he recognises a familiar image, but
meets it again amplified and expanded, embellished with beauty and
enlarged with majesty. Yet could the author, who appears here to
have enjoyed the confidence of Nature, lament the death of Queen
Mary in lines like these:-
"The rocks are cleft, and new-descending rills
Furrow the brows of all the impending hills.
The water-gods to floods their rivulets turn,
And each, with streaming eyes, supplies his wanting urn.
The fauns forsake the woods, the nymphs the grove,
And round the plain in sad distractions rove:
In prickly brakes their tender limbs they tear,
And leave on thorns their locks of golden hair.
With their sharp nails, themselves the satyrs wound,
And tug their shaggy beards, and bite with grief the ground.
Lo Pan himself, beneath a blasted oak,
Dejected lies, his pipe in pieces broke
See Pales weeping too in wild despair,
And to the piercing winds her bosses bare.
And see yon fading myrtle, where appears
The Queen of Love, all bathed in flowing tears;
See how she wrings her hands, and beats her breast,
And tears her useless girdle from her waist:
Hear the sad murmurs of her sighing doves!
For grief they sigh, forgetful of their loves."
And many years after he gave no proof that time had improved his
wisdom or his wit, for, on the death of the Marquis of Blandford,
this was his song:-
"And now the winds, which had so long been still,
Began the swelling air with sighs to fill;
The water-nymphs, who motionless remained
Like images of ice, while she complained,
Now loosed their streams; as when descending rains
Roll the steep torrents headlong o'er the plains.
The prone creation who so long had gazed
Charmed with her cries, and at her griefs amazed,
Began to roar and howl with horrid yell,
Dismal to hear, and terrible to tell!
Nothing but groans and sighs were heard around,
And echo multiplied each mournful sound."
In both these funeral poems, when he has YELLED out many SYLLABLES
of senseless DOLOUR, he dismisses his reader with senseless
consolation. From the grave of Pastora rises a light that forms a
star, and where Amaryllis wept for Amyntas from every tear sprung up
a violet. But William is his hero, and of William he will sing:-
"The hovering winds on downy wings shall wait around,
And catch, and waft to foreign lands, the flying sound."
It cannot but be proper to show what they shall have to catch and
carry:-
"'Twas now, when flowery lawns the prospect made,
And flowing brooks beneath a forest shade,
A lowing heifer, loveliest of the herd,
Stood feeding by; while two fierce bulls prepared
Their armed heads for light, by fate of war to prove
The victor worthy of the fair one's love;
Unthought presage of what met next my view;
For soon the shady scene withdrew.
And now, for woods, and fields, and springing flowers,
Behold a town arise, bulwarked with walls and lofty towers;
Two rival armies all the plain o'erspread,
Each in battalia ranged, and shining arms arrayed
With eagle eyes beholding both from far,
Namur, the price and mistress of the war."
The "Birth of the Muse" is a miserable fiction. One good line it
has which was borrowed from Dryden. The concluding verses are
these:-
"This said, no more remained. The ethereal host
Again impatient crowd the crystal coast.
The father now, within his spacious hands,
Encompassed all the mingled mass of seas and lands;
And, having heaved aloft the ponderous sphere,
He launched the world to float in ambient air."
Of his irregular poems, that to Mrs. Arabella Hunt seems to be the
best; his Ode for St. Cecilia's Day, however, had some lines which
Pope had in his mind when he wrote his own. His imitations of
Horace are feebly paraphrastical, and the additions which he makes
are of little value. He sometimes retains what were more properly
omitted, as when he talks of VERVAIN and GUMS to propitiate Venus.
Of his Translations, the "Satire of Juvenal" was written very early,
and may therefore be forgiven, though it had not the massiness and
vigour of the original. In all his versions strength and
sprightliness are wanting; his "Hymn to Venus," from Homer, is
perhaps the best. His lines are weakened with expletives, and his
rhymes are frequently imperfect. His petty poems are seldom worth
the cost of criticism; sometimes the thoughts are false and
sometimes common. In his verses on Lady Gethin, the latter part is
in imitation of Dryden's ode on Mrs. Killigrew; and "Doris," that
has been so lavishly flattered by Steele, has indeed some lively
stanzas, but the expression might be mended, and the most striking
part of the character had been already shown in "Love for Love."
His "Art of Pleasing" is founded on a vulgar, but perhaps
impracticable principle, and the staleness of the sense is not
concealed by any novelty of illustration or elegance of diction.
This tissue of poetry, from which he seems to have hoped a lasting
name, is totally neglected, and known only as it is appended to his
plays.
While comedy or while tragedy is regarded, his plays are likely to
be read; but, except what relates to the stage, I know not that he
has ever written a stanza that is sung, or a couplet that is quoted.
The general character of his "Miscellanies" is that they show little
wit and little virtue. Yet to him it must be confessed that we are
indebted for the connection of a national error, and for the cure of
our Pindaric madness. He first taught the English writers that
Pindar's odes were regular; and though certainly he had not the lire
requisite for the higher species of lyric poetry, he has shown us
that enthusiasm has its rules, and that in mere confusion there is
neither grace nor greatness.
BLACKMORE
Sir Richard Blackmore is one of those men whose writings have
attracted much notice, but of whose life and manners very little has
been communicated, and whose lot it has been to be much oftener
mentioned by enemies than by friends. He was the son of Robert
Blackmore, of Corsham in Wiltshire, styled by Wood Gentleman, and
supposed to have been an attorney, having been for some time
educated in a country school, he was at thirteen sent to
Westminster, and in 1668 was entered at Edmund Hall in Oxford, where
he took the degree of MA. June 8, 1676, and resided thirteen years,
a much longer time than is usual to spend at the university, and
which he seems to have passed with very little attention to the
business of the place; for, in his poems, the ancient names of
nations or places, which he often introduces, are pronounced by
chance. He afterwards travelled. At Padua he was made doctor of
physic, and, after having wandered about a year and a half on the
Continent, returned home.
In some part of his life, it is not known when, his indigence
compelled him to teach a school, a humiliation with which, though it
certainly lasted but a little while, his enemies did not forget to
reproach him, when he became conspicuous enough to excite
malevolence; and let it be remembered for his honour, that to have
been once a schoolmaster is the only reproach which all the
perspicacity of malice, animated by wit, has ever fixed upon his
private life.
When he first engaged in the study of physic, he inquired, as he
says, of Dr. Sydenham, what authors he should read and was directed
by Sydenham to "Don Quixote": "which" said he, "is a very good
book; I read it still." The perverseness of mankind makes it often
mischievous to men of eminence to give way to merriment; the idle
and the illiterate will long shelter themselves under this foolish
apophthegm. Whether he rested satisfied with this direction, or
sought for better, he commenced physician, and obtained high
eminence and extensive practice. He became Fellow of the College of
Physicians, April 12, 1687, being one of the thirty which, by the
new charter of King James, were added to the former fellows. His
residence was in Cheapside, and his friends were chiefly in the
City. In the early part of Blackmore's time a citizen was a term of
reproach; and his place of abode was another topic, to which his
adversaries had recourse in the penury of scandal.
Blackmore, therefore, was made a poet not by necessity but
inclination, and wrote not for a livelihood but for fame; or, if he
may tell his own motives, for a nobler purpose, to engage poetry in
the cause of virtue.
I believe it is peculiar to him that his first public work was an
heroic poem. He was not known as a maker of verses till he
published (in 1695) "Prince Arthur," in ten books, written, as he
relates, "by such catches and starts, and in such occasional
uncertain hours as his profession afforded, and for the greatest
part in coffee-houses, or in passing up and down the streets." For
the latter part of this apology he was accused of writing "to the
rumbling of his chariot wheels." He had read, he says, "but little
poetry throughout his whole life; and for fifteen years before had
not written a hundred verses except one copy of Latin verses in
praise of a friend's book." He thinks, and with some reason, that
from such a performance perfection cannot be expected; but he finds
another reason for the severity of his censurers, which he expresses
in language such as Cheapside easily furnished. "I am not free of
the Poet's Company, having never kissed the governor's hands: mine
is therefore not so much as a permission poem, but a downright
interloper. Those gentlemen, who carry on their poetical trade in a
joint stock, would certainly do what they could to sink and ruin an
unlicensed adventurer, notwithstanding I disturbed none of their
factories, nor imported any goods they have ever dealt in." He had
lived in the City till he had learned its note.
That "Prince Arthur" found many readers is certain; for in two years
it had three editions, a very uncommon instance of favourable
reception, at a time when literary curiosity was yet confined to
particular classes of the nation. Such success naturally raised
animosity; and Dennis attacked it by a formal criticism, more
tedious and disgusting than the work which he condemns. To this
censure may be opposed the approbation of Locke, and the admiration
of Molyneux, which are found in their printed "Letters." Molyneux
is particularly delighted with the song of Mopas, which is therefore
subjoined to this narrative.
It is remarked by Pope, that "what raises the hero, often sinks the
man." Of Blackmore is may be said that, as the poet sinks, the man
rises; the animadversions of Dennis, insolent and contemptuous as
they were, raised in him no implacable resentment; he and his critic
were afterwards friends; and in one of his latter works he praises
Dennis "as equal to Boileau in poetry, and superior to him in
critical abilities." He seems to have been more delighted with
praise than pained by censure, and instead of slackening, quickened
his career. Having in two years produced ten books of "Prince
Arthur," in two years more (1697) he sent into the world "King
Arthur" in twelve. The provocation was now doubled, and the
resentment of wits and critics may be supposed to have increased in
proportion. He found, however, advantages more than equivalent to
all their outrages. He was this year made one of the physicians in
ordinary to King William, and advanced by him to the honour of
knighthood, with the present of a gold chaise and medal. The
malignity of the wits attributed his knighthood to his new poem, but
King William was not very studious of poetry; and Blackmore perhaps
had other merit, for he says in his dedication to "Alfred," that "he
had a greater part in the succession of the house of Hanover than
ever he had boasted."
What Blackmore could contribute to the Succession, or what he
imagined himself to have contributed, cannot now be known. That he
had been of considerable use, I doubt not but he believed, for I
hold him to have been very honest; but he might easily make a false
estimate of his own importance. Those whom their virtue restrains
from deceiving others, are often disposed by their vanity to deceive
themselves. Whether he promoted the Succession or not, he at least
approved it, and adhered invariably to his principles and party
through his whole life.
His ardour of poetry still continued; and not long after (1700) he
published a "Paraphrase on the Book of Job, and other parts of the
Scripture." This performance Dryden, who pursued him with great
malignity, lived long enough to ridicule in a Prologue.
The wits easily confederated against him, as Dryden, whose favour
they almost all courted, was his professed adversary. He had,
besides, given them reason for resentment, as, in his preface to
"Prince Arthur," he had said of the dramatic writers almost all that
was alleged afterwards by Collier; but Blackmore's censure was cold
and general, Collier's was personal and ardent; Blackmore taught his
reader to dislike what Collier incited him to abhor.
In his preface to "King Arthur" he endeavoured to gain at least one
friend, and propitiated Congreve by higher praise of his "Mourning
Bride" than it has obtained from any other critic.
The same year he published a "Satire on Wit," a proclamation of
defiance which united the poets almost all against him, and which
brought upon him lampoons and ridicule from every side. This he
doubtless foresaw, and evidently despised; nor should his dignity of
mind be without its praise, had he not paid the homage to greatness
which he denied to genius, and degraded himself by conferring that
authority over the national taste, which he takes from the poets,
upon men of high rank and wide influence, but of less wit and not
greater virtue.
Here is again discovered the inhabitant of Cheapside, whose head
cannot keep his poetry unmingled with trade. To hinder that
intellectual bankruptcy which he affects to fear he will erect a
"Bank for Wit." In this poem he justly censured Dryden's
impurities, but praised his powers, though in a subsequent edition
he retained the satire, and omitted the praise. What was his
reason, I know not; Dryden was then no longer in his way. His head
still teemed with heroic poetry; and (1705) he published "Eliza," in
ten books. I am afraid that the world was now weary of contending
about Blackmore's heroes, for I do not remember that by any author,
serious or comical, I have found "Eliza" either praised or blamed.
She "dropped," as it seems, "dead-born from the press." It is never
mentioned, and was never seen by me till I borrowed it for the
present occasion. Jacob says "it is corrected and revised from
another impression," but the labour of revision was thrown away.
From this time he turned some of his thoughts to the celebration of
living characters, and wrote a poem on the Kit-Cat Club, and "Advice
to the Poets how to celebrate the Duke of Marlborough" but on
occasion of another year of success, thinking himself qualified to
give more instruction, he again wrote a poem of "Advice to a Weaver
of Tapestry." Steele was then publishing the Tatler, and, looking
round him for something at which he might laugh, unluckily alighted
on Sir Richard's work, and treated it with such contempt that, as
Fenton observes, he put an end to that species of writers that gave
advice to painters.
Not long after (1712) he published "Creation," a philosophical poem,
which has been, by my recommendation, inserted in the late
collection. Whoever judges of this by any other of Blackmore's
performances will do it injury. The praise given it by Addison
(Spectator, 339) is too well known to be transcribed; but some
notice is due to the testimony of Dennis, who calls it a
"philosophical poem, which has equalled that of 'Lucretius' in the
beauty of its versification, and infinitely surpassed it in the
solidity and strength of its reasoning."
Why an author surpasses himself it is natural to inquire. I have
heard from Mr. Draper, an eminent bookseller, an account received by
him from Ambrose Philips, "That Blackmore, as he proceeded in this
poem, laid his manuscript from time to time before a club of wits
with whom he associated, and that every man contributed, as he
could, either improvement or correction; so that," said Philips,
"there are perhaps nowhere in the book thirty lines together that
now stand as they were originally written."
The relation of Philips, I suppose, was true; but when all
reasonable, all credible allowance is made for this friendly
revision, the author will still retain an ample dividend of praise;
for to him must always be assigned the plan of the work, the
distribution of its parts, the choice of topics, the train of
argument, and, what is yet more, the general predominance of
philosophical judgment and poetical spirit. Correction seldom
effects more than the suppression of faults: a happy line, or a
single elegance, may perhaps be added; but of a large work, the
general character must always remain. The original constitution can
be very little helped by local remedies; inherent and radical
dulness will never be much invigorated by intrinsic animation. This
poem, if he had written nothing else, would have transmitted him to
posterity among the first favourites of the English muse; but to
make verses was his transcendent pleasure, and, as he was not
deterred by censure, he was not satiated with praise. He deviated,
however, sometimes into other tracks of literature, and condescended
to entertain his readers with plain prose. When the Spectator
stopped, he considered the polite world as destitute of
entertainment, and in concert with Mr. Hughes, who wrote every third
paper, published three times a week the "Lay Monastery," founded on
the supposition that some literary men, whose characters are
described, had retired to a house in the country to enjoy
philosophical leisure, and resolved to instruct the public by
communicating their disquisitions and amusements. Whether any real
persons were concealed under fictitious names is not known. The
hero of the club is one Mr. Johnson, such a constellation of
excellence, that his character shall not be suppressed, though there
is no great genius in the design nor skill in the delineation.
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