T. S. Arthur - "Heart Histories and Life Pictures"

Elinor Glyn - "His Hour"

Emerson Hough - "The Passing of the Frontier"

William James - "Pragmatism"

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Books: English literary criticism

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But what? methinks I deserve to be pounded, for straying from poetry
to oratory: but both have such an affinity in this wordish
consideration, that I think this digression will make my meaning receive
the fuller understanding: which is not to take upon me to teach poets
how they should do, but only finding myself sick among the rest, to
show some one or two spots of the common infection, grown among the
most part of writers: that, acknowledging ourselves somewhat awry, we
may bend to the right use both of matter and manner; whereto our
language giveth us great occasion, being indeed capable of any excellent
exercising of it. I know, some will say it is a mingled language. And
why not so much the better, taking the best of both the other?
[Footnote: Both the Teutonic and the Romance elements.] Another will
say it wanteth grammar. Nay, truly, it hath that praise, that it wanteth
not grammar; for grammar it might have, but it needs it not; being so
easy of itself, and so void of those cumbersome differences of cases,
genders, moods, and tenses, which I think was a piece of the Tower of
Babylon's curse, that a man should be put to school to learn his
mother-tongue. But for the uttering sweetly and properly the conceits
of the mind, which is the end of speech, that hath it equally with any
other tongue in the world: and is particularly happy, in compositions
of two or three words together, near the Greek, far beyond the Latin:
which is one of the greatest beauties can be in a language.

Now, of versifying there are two sorts, the one ancient, the other
modern: the ancient marked the quantity of each syllable, and according
to that framed his verse: the modern, observing only number (with some
regard of the accent), the chief life of it standeth in that like
sounding of the words, which we call rhyme. Whether of these be the
most excellent, would bear many speeches. The ancient (no doubt) more
fit for music, both words and tune observing quantity, and more fit
lively to express divers passions, by the low and lofty sound of the
well-weighed syllable. The latter likewise, with his rhyme, striketh
a certain music to the ear: and in fine, sith it doth delight, though
by another way, it obtains the same purpose: there being in either
sweetness, and wanting in neither majesty. Truly the English, before
any other vulgar language I know, is fit for both sorts: for, for the
ancient, the Italian is so full of vowels, that it must ever be cumbered
with elisions. The Dutch, [Footnote: Sidney probably means what we
should call German.] so of the other side with consonants, that they
cannot yield the sweet sliding fit for a verse. The French, in his
whole language, hath not one word, that hath his accent in the last
syllable saving two, called _Antepenultima_, and little more hath the
Spanish: and therefore, very gracelessly may they use _Dactyls_. The
English is subject to none of these defects.

Now, for the rhyme, though we do not observe quantity, yet we observe
the accent very precisely: which other languages either cannot do, or
will not do so absolutely. That _Caesura_, or breathing place in the
midst of the verse, neither Italian nor Spanish have; the French, and
we, never almost fail of. Lastly, even the very rhyme itself, the
Italian cannot put in the last syllable, by the French named the
masculine rhyme, but still in the next to the last, which the French
call the female, or the next before that, which the Italians termed
_Sdrucciola_. [Footnote: Hence the Italian verse is always of eleven,
not ten, syllables.] The example of the former, is _Buono_, _Suono_;
of the _Sdrucciola_, _Femina_, _Semina_. The French, on the other side,
hath both the male, as _Bon_, _Son_, and the female, as _Plaise_,
_Taise_. But the _Sdrucciola_ he hath not: where English hath all
three, as _Due_, _True_, _Father_, _Rather_, _Motion_, _Potion_ with
much more which might be said, but that I find already, the triflingness
of this discourse is much too much enlarged. So that sith the
ever-praiseworthy poesy is full of virtue-breeding delightfulness, and
void of no gift, that ought to be in the noble name of learning: sith
the blames laid against it are either false, or feeble: sith the cause
why it is not esteemed in England, is the fault of poet-apes, not
poets: sith lastly, our tongue is most fit to honour poesy, and to be
honoured by poesy, I conjure you all, that have had the evil luck to
read this ink-wasting toy of mine, even in the name of the nine Muses,
no more to scorn the sacred mysteries of poesy: no more to laugh at
the name of poets, as though they were next inheritors to fools: no
more to jest at the reverend title of a rhymer: but to believe with
Aristotle, that they were the ancient treasurers of the Grecians'
Divinity. To believe with Bembus, that they were first bringers in of
all civility. To believe with Scaliger, that no philosopher's precepts
can sooner make you an honest man, than the reading of Virgil. To
believe with Clauserus, the translator of Cornutus, that it pleased
the heavenly Deity, by Hesiod and Homer, under the veil of fables, to
give us all knowledge, logic, rhetoric, philosophy, natural and moral,
and _Quid non?_ To believe with me, that there are many mysteries
contained in poetry, which of purpose were written darkly, lest by
profane wits it should be abused. To believe with Landin, that they
are so beloved of the Gods, that whatsoever they write proceeds of a
divine fury. Lastly, to believe themselves, when they tell you they
will make you immortal, by their verses.

Thus doing, your name shall flourish in the printers' shops; thus
doing, you shall be of kin to many a poetical preface; thus doing, you
shall be most fair, most rich, most wise, most all, you shall dwell
upon superlatives. Thus doing, though you be _libertino patre natus_,
you shall suddenly grow _Herculis proles_:

_Si quid mea carmina possunt._

Thus doing, your soul shall be placed with Dante's Beatrix, or Virgil's
Anchises. But if (fie of such a but) you be born so near the dull
making Cataphract of Nilus, that you cannot hear the planet-like music
of poetry, if you have so earth-creeping a mind, that it cannot lift
itself up, to look to the sky of poetry: or rather, by a certain
rustical disdain, will become such a mome [Footnote: scorner.], as to
be a _momus_ of poetry: then, though I will not wish unto you the ass's
ears of Midas, nor to be driven by a poet's verses (as Bubonax was)
to hang himself, nor to be rhymed to death, as is said to be done in
Ireland: yet thus much curse I must send you, in the behalf of all
poets, that, while you live, you live in love, and never get favour,
for lacking skill of a sonnet: and when you die, your memory die from
the earth, for want of an epitaph.




JOHN DRYDEN.

(1631-1700)

II. PREFACE TO THE FABLES.


The following _Preface_ belongs to the last few months of Dryden's
life (1700), and introduces the collection, mainly of translations and
adaptations, to which he gave the title of _Fables_ Apart from
_Alexander's Feast_ (written in 1697), the most notable pieces in this
collection were the versions of Chaucer's _Knightes Tale_ and _Nonne
Prestes Tale_, and of three stories to be found in Boccaccio _Sigismunda
and Guiscardo_, _Cymon and Iphigenia_, _Theodore and Honoria_. The
Preface is memorable for its critical judgments on Homer, Virgil, and
Ovid, still more memorable for its glowing praise of Chaucer. It closes
as it was fitting that the last work of Dryden should close, with an
apology, full of manliness and dignity, for the licentiousness of his
comedies. For his short-comings in this matter he had lately been
attacked by Collier, and in his reply he more than wins back any esteem
that he may have lost by his transgression.


It is with a poet, as with a man who designs to build, and is very
exact, as he supposes, in casting up the cost beforehand; but, generally
speaking, he is mistaken in his account, and reckons short in the
expense he first intended. He alters his mind as the work proceeds,
and will have this or that convenience more, of which he had not thought
when he began. So has it happened to me. I have built a house, where
I intended but a lodge; yet with better success than a certain nobleman,
who, beginning with a dog-kennel, never lived to finish the palace he
had contrived.

From translating the first of Homer's _Iliads_ (which I intended as
an essay to the whole work) I proceeded to the translation of the
twelfth book of Ovid's _Metamorphoses_, because it contains, among
other things, the causes, the beginning, and ending, of the Trojan
war. Here I ought in reason to have stopped; but the speeches of Ajax
and Ulysses lying next in my way, I could not baulk them. When I had
compassed them, I was so taken with the former part of the fifteenth
book (which is the masterpiece of the whole _Metamorphoses_), that I
enjoined myself the pleasing task of rendering it into English. And
now I found, by the number of my verses, that they began to swell into
a little volume; which gave me an occasion of looking backward on some
beauties of my author, in his former books: there occurred to me the
_Hunting of the Boar_, _Cinyras and Myrrha_, the good-natured story
of _Baucis and Philemon_, with the rest, which I hope I have translated
closely enough, and given them the same turn of verse which they had
in the original; and this, I may say without vanity, is not the talent
of every poet. He who has arrived the nearest to it, is the ingenious
and learned Sandys, the best versifier of the former age, if I may
properly call it by that name, which was the former part of this
concluding century. For Spenser and Fairfax both flourished in the
reign of Queen Elizabeth; great masters in our language, and who saw
much farther into the beauties of our numbers than those who immediately
followed them. Milton was the poetical son of Spenser, and Mr. Waller
of Fairfax, for we have our lineal descents and clans as well as other
families. Spenser more than once insinuates that the soul of Chaucer
was transfused into his body, and that he was begotten by him two
hundred years after his decease. Milton has acknowledged to me that
Spenser was his original, and many besides myself have heard our famous
Waller [Footnote: "He first made writing easily an art"--was Dryden's
verdict on Waller.--_English Garner_, iii. 492.] own that he derived
the harmony of his numbers from the _Godfrey of Bulloigne_, which was
turned into English by Mr. Fairfax.

But to return. Having done with Ovid for this time, it came into my
mind that our old English poet, Chaucer, in many things resembled him,
and that with no disadvantage on the side of the modern author, as I
shall endeavour to prove when I compare them; and as I am, and always
have been, studious to promote the honour of my native country, so I
soon resolved to put their merits to the trial, by turning some of the
Canterbury Tales into our language, as it is now refined; for by this
means, both the poets being set in the same light, and dressed in the
same English habit, story to be compared with story, a certain judgment
may be made betwixt them by the reader, without obtruding my opinion
on him. Or if I seem partial to my countryman, and predecessor in the
laurel, the friends of antiquity are not few; and besides many of the
learned, Ovid has almost all the beaux, and the whole fair sex, his
declared patrons. Perhaps I have assumed somewhat more to myself than
they allow me, because I have adventured to sum up the evidence; but
the readers are the jury, and their privilege remains entire, to decide
according to the merits of the cause, or, if they please, to bring it
to another hearing before some other court.

In the meantime, to follow the thread of my discourse (as thoughts,
according to Mr. Hobbes, have always some connection), so from Chaucer
I was led to think on Boccace, who was not only his contemporary, but
also pursued the same studies; wrote novels in prose, and many works
in verse; particularly is said to have invented the octave rhyme, or
stanza of eight lines, which ever since has been maintained by the
practice of all Italian writers, who are, or at least assume the title
of Heroic Poets; he and Chaucer, among other things, had this in common,
that they refined their mother tongue; but with this difference, that
Dante had began to file their language, at least in verse, before the
time of Boccace, who likewise received no little help from his master
Petrarch. But the reformation of their prose was wholly owing to Boccace
himself, who is yet the standard of purity in the Italian tongue,
though many of his phrases are become obsolete, as in process of time
it must needs happen. Chaucer (as you have formerly been told by our
learned Mr. Rymer) first adorned and amplified our barren tongue from
the Provencal, [Footnote: No one now believes this. An excellent
discussion of the subject will be found in Professor Lounsbury's
_Studies in Chaucer_, ii. 429-458.] which was then the most polished
of all the modern languages; but this subject has been copiously treated
by that great critic, who deserves no little commendation from us, his
countrymen. For these reasons of time, and resemblance of genius in
Chaucer and Boccace, I resolved to join them in my present work, to
which I have added some original papers of my own, which, whether they
are equal or inferior to my other poems, an author is the most improper
judge, and therefore I leave them wholly to the mercy of the reader.
I will hope the best, that they will not be condemned; but if they
should, I have the excuse of an old gentleman, who, mounting on
horseback before some ladies, when I was present, got up somewhat
heavily, but desired of the fair spectators that they would count
four-score-and-eight before they judged him. By the mercy of God, I
am already come within twenty years of his number, a cripple in my
limbs; but what decays are in my mind, the reader must determine. I
think myself as vigorous as ever in the faculties of my soul, excepting
only my memory, which is not impaired to any great degree; and if I
lose not more of it, I have no great reason to complain. What judgment
I had, increases rather than diminishes; and thoughts, such as they
are, come crowding in so fast upon me, that my only difficulty is to
choose or to reject; to run them into verse, or to give them the other
harmony of prose. I have so long studied and practised both, that they
are grown into a habit, and become familiar to me. In short, though
I may lawfully plead some part of the old gentleman's excuse, yet I
will reserve it till I think I have greater need, and ask no grains
of allowance for the faults of this my present work, but those which
are given of course to human frailty. I will not trouble my reader
with the shortness of time in which I writ it, or the several intervals
of sickness: they who think too well of their own performances, are
apt to boast in their prefaces how little time their works have cost
them, and what other business of more importance interfered; but the
reader will be as apt to ask the question, why they allowed not a
longer time to make their works more perfect, and why they had so
despicable an opinion of their judges, as to thrust their indigested
stuff upon them, as if they deserved no better.

With this account of my present undertaking, I conclude the first part
of this discourse: in the second part, as at a second sitting, though
I alter not the draught, I must touch the same features over again,
and change the dead colouring of the whole. In general, I will only
say, that I have written nothing which savours of immorality or
profaneness; at least, I am not conscious to myself of any such
intention. If there happen to be found an irreverent expression, or
a thought too wanton, they are crept into my verses through my
inadvertency; if the searchers find any in the cargo, let them be
staved or forfeited, like contrabanded goods; at least, let their
authors be answerable for them, as being but imported merchandise, and
not of my own manufacture. On the other side, I have endeavoured to
choose such fables, both ancient and modern, as contain in each of
them some instructive moral, which I could prove by induction, but the
way is tedious; and they leap foremost into sight, without the reader's
trouble of looking after them. I wish I could affirm, with a safe
conscience, that I had taken the same care in all my former writings;
for it must be owned, that supposing verses are never so beautiful or
pleasing, yet if they contain anything which shocks religion, or good
manners, they are at best what Horace says of good numbers without
good sense:

_Versus inopes rerum, nugaeque canorae._

Thus far, I hope, I am right in court, without renouncing my other
right of self-defence, where I have been wrongfully accused, and my
sense wire-drawn into blasphemy or bawdry, as it has often been by a
religious lawyer, [Footnote: Jeremy Collier. See conclusion of the
_Preface_.] in a late pleading against the stage; in which he mixes
truth with falsehood, and has not forgotten the old rule of calumniating
strongly, that something may remain.

I resume the thread of my discourse with the first of my translation,
which was the first Iliad of Homer. If it shall please God to give me
longer life, and moderate health, my intentions are to translate the
whole _Ilias_; provided still that I meet with those encouragements
from the public, which may enable me to proceed in my undertaking with
some cheerfulness. And this I dare assure the world beforehand, that
I have found, by trial, Homer a more pleasing task than Virgil (though
I say not the translation will be less laborious). For the Grecian is
more according to my genius than the Latin poet. In the works of the
two authors we may read their manners and inclinations, which are
wholly different. Virgil was of a quiet, sedate temper; Homer was
violent, impetuous, and full of fire. The chief talent of Virgil was
propriety of thoughts, and ornament of words; Homer was rapid in his
thoughts, and took all the liberties, both of numbers and of
expressions, which his language, and the age in which he lived, allowed
him: Homer's invention was more copious, Virgil's more confined; so
that if Homer had not led the way, it was not in Virgil to have begun
heroic poetry; for nothing can be more evident, than that the Roman
poem is but the second part of the _Ilias_; a continuation of the same
story, and the persons already formed; the manners of Aeneas are those
of Hector superadded to those which Homer gave him. The Adventures of
Ulysses in the _Odysseis_ are imitated in the first six books of
Virgil's _Aeneis_; and though the accidents are not the same (which
would have argued him of a servile copying, and total barrenness of
invention), yet the seas were the same in which both the heroes
wandered; and Dido cannot be denied to be the poetical daughter of
Calypso. The six latter books of Virgil's poem are the four and twenty
Iliads contracted; a quarrel occasioned by a lady, a single combat,
battles fought, and a town besieged. I say not this in derogation to
Virgil, neither do I contradict anything which I have formerly said
in his just praise: for his Episodes are almost wholly of his own
invention; and the form which he has given to the telling, makes the
tale his own, even though the original story had been the same. But
this proves, however, that Homer taught Virgil to design; and if
invention be the first virtue of an Epic poet, then the Latin poem can
only be allowed the second place. Mr. Hobbes, in the preface to his
own bald translation of the _Ilias_ (studying poetry as he did
mathematics, when it was too late), Mr. Hobbes, I say, begins the
praise of Homer where he should have ended it. He tells us that the
first beauty of an Epic poem consists in diction, that is, in the
choice of words, and harmony of numbers; now the words are the colouring
of the work, which in the order of nature is the last to be considered.
The design, the disposition, the manners, and the thoughts are all
before it; where any of those are wanting or imperfect, so much wants
or is imperfect in the imitation of human life; which is in the very
definition of a poem. Words, indeed, like glaring colours, are the
first beauties that arise, and strike the sight: but if the draught
be false or lame, the figures ill-disposed, the manners obscure or
inconsistent, or the thoughts unnatural, then the finest colours are
but daubing, and the piece is a beautiful monster at the best. Neither
Virgil nor Homer were deficient in any of the former beauties; but in
this last, which is expression, the Roman poet is at least equal to
the Grecian, as I have said elsewhere; supplying the poverty of his
language by his musical ear, and by his diligence. But to return: our
two great poets, being so different in their tempers, one choleric and
sanguine, the other phlegmatic and melancholic; that which makes them
excel in their several ways is, that each of them has followed his own
natural inclination, as well in forming the design, as in the execution
of it. The very heroes show their authors; Achilles is hot, impatient,
revengeful, _Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer,_ &c. Aeneas
patient, considerate, careful of his people, and merciful to his
enemies; ever submissive to the will of heaven, _quo fata trahunt,
retrahuntque, sequamur_. I could please myself with enlarging on this
subject, but am forced to defer it to a fitter time. From all I have
said I will only draw this inference, that the action of Homer being
more full of vigour than that of Virgil, according to the temper of
the writer, is of consequence more pleasing to the reader. One warms
you by degrees; the other sets you on fire all at once, and never
intermits his heat. 'T is the same difference which Longinus makes
betwixt the effects of eloquence in Demosthenes and Tully. One
persuades, the other commands. You never cool while you read Homer,
even not in the second book (a graceful flattery to his countrymen);
but he hastens from the ships, and concludes not that book till he has
made you an amends by the violent playing of a new machine. From thence
he hurries on his action with variety of events, and ends it in less
compass than two months. This vehemence of his, I confess, is more
suitable to my temper; and therefore I have translated his first book
with greater pleasure than any part of Virgil; but it was not a pleasure
without pains: the continual agitations of the spirits must needs be
a weakening of any constitution, especially in age; and many pauses
are required for refreshment betwixt the heats; the _Iliad_ of itself
being a third part longer than all Virgil's works together.

This is what I thought needful in this place to say of Homer. I proceed
to Ovid and Chaucer, considering the former only in relation to the
latter. With Ovid ended the golden age of the Roman tongue; from Chaucer
the purity of the English tongue began. The manners of the poets were
not unlike: both of them were well-bred, well-natured, amorous, and
libertine, at least in their writings, it may be also in their lives.
Their studies were the same, philosophy and philology. Both of them
were known in astronomy, of which Ovid's books of the Roman feasts,
and Chaucer's treatise of the Astrolabe, are sufficient witnesses. But
Chaucer was likewise an astrologer, as were Virgil, Horace, Persius,
and Manilius. Both writ with wonderful facility and clearness: neither
were great inventors; for Ovid only copied the Grecian fables; and
most of Chaucer's stories were taken from his Italian contemporaries,
or their predecessors. Boccace's _Decameron_ was first published, and
from thence our Englishman has borrowed many of his Canterbury tales;
[Footnote: It is doubtful whether Chaucer had any knowledge of the
_Decameron_.] yet that of Palamon and Arcite was written in all
probability by some Italian wit in a former age, as I shall prove
hereafter. The tale of Grizild was the invention of Petrarch; by him
sent to Boccace, from whom it came to Chaucer. Troilus and Cressida
was also written by a Lombard author [Footnote: Boccaccio himself.],
but much amplified by our English translator, as well as beautified;
the genius of our countrymen in general being rather to improve an
invention than to invent themselves, as is evident not only in our
poetry, but in many of our manufactures.

I find I have anticipated already, and taken up from Boccace before
I come to him; but there is so much less behind; and I am of the temper
of most kings, who love to be in debt, are all for present money, no
matter how they pay it afterwards; besides, the nature of a preface
is rambling, never wholly out of the way, nor in it. This I have learned
from the practice of honest Montaigne, and return at my pleasure to
Ovid and Chaucer, of whom I have little more to say. Both of them built
on the inventions of other men; yet since Chaucer had something of his
own, as the _Wife of Bath's Tale, The Cock and the Fox_, which I have
translated, and some others, I may justly give our countryman the
precedence in that part, since I can remember nothing of Ovid which
was wholly his. Both of them understood the manners, under which name
I comprehend the passions, and, in a larger sense, the descriptions
of persons, and their very habits; for an example, I see Baucis and
Philemon as perfectly before me, as if some ancient painter had drawn
them; and all the pilgrims in the Canterbury Tales, their humours,
their features, and the very dress, as distinctly as if I had supped
with them at the Tabard in Southwark; yet even there too the figures
in Chaucer are much more lively, and set in a better light: which
though I have not time to prove, yet I appeal to the reader, and am
sure he will clear me from partiality. The thoughts and words remain
to be considered in the comparison of the two poets; and I have saved
myself one half of that labour, by owning that Ovid lived when the
Roman tongue was in its meridian, Chaucer in the dawning of our
language; therefore that part of the comparison stands not on an equal
foot, any more than the diction of Ennius and Ovid, or of Chaucer and
our present English. The words are given up as a post not to be defended
in our poet, because he wanted the modern art of fortifying. The
thoughts remain to be considered, and they are to be measured only by
their propriety, that is, as they flow more or less naturally from the
persons described, on such and such occasions. The vulgar judges, which
are nine parts in ten of all nations, who call conceits and jingles
wit, who see Ovid full of them, and Chaucer altogether without them,
will think me little less than mad, for preferring the Englishman to
the Roman; yet, with their leave, I must presume to say, that the
things they admire are only glittering trifles, and so far from being
witty, that in a serious poem they are nauseous, because they are
unnatural. Would any man, who is ready to die for love, describe his
passion like Narcissus? Would he think of _inopem me copia fecit_, and
a dozen more of such expressions, poured on the neck of one another,
and signifying all the same thing? If this were wit, was this a time
to be witty, when the poor wretch was in the agony of death? This is
just John Littlewit in _Bartholomew Fair_, [Footnote: Jonson's play
of that name, act i. sc. i.] who had a conceit (as he tells you) left
him in his misery; a miserable conceit. On these occasions the poet
should endeavour to raise pity; but instead of this, Ovid is tickling
you to laugh. Virgil never made use of such machines, when he was
moving you to commiserate the death of Dido: he would not destroy what
he was building. Chaucer makes Arcite violent in his love, and unjust
in the pursuit of it; yet when he came to die, he made him think more
reasonably: he repents not of his love, for that had altered his
character, but acknowledges the injustice of his proceedings, and
resigns Emilia to Palamon. What would Ovid have done on this occasion?
He would certainly have made Arcite witty on his death-bed. He had
complained he was farther off from possession by being so near, and
a thousand such boyisms, which Chaucer rejected as below the dignity
of the subject. They, who think otherwise, would by the same reason
prefer Lucan and Ovid to Homer and Virgil, and Martial to all four of
them. As for the turn of words, in which Ovid particularly excels all
poets, they are sometimes a fault, and sometimes a beauty, as they are
used properly or improperly; but in strong passions always to be
shunned, because passions are serious, and will admit no playing. The
French have a high value for them; and I confess, they are often what
they call delicate, when they are introduced with judgment; but Chaucer
writ with more simplicity, and followed nature more closely, than to
use them. I have thus far, to the best of my knowledge, been an upright
judge betwixt the parties in competition, not meddling with the design
nor the disposition of it, because the design was not their own, and
in the disposing of it they were equal. It remains that I say somewhat
of Chaucer in particular.