Lives Of The Poets, Vol. 1 (fiscle part-III) - Samuel Johnson (classic books to read txt) 📗

Street.

 

 

 

Milton Had Children Only By His First Wife; Anne, Mary, And Deborah.

Anne, Though Deformed, Married a Master-Builder, And Died of Her First

Child. Mary Died single. Deborah Married abraham Clark, A Weaver In

Spital Fields, And Lived seventy-Six Years, To August, 1727. This Is The

Daughter Of Whom Publick Mention Has Been Made. She Could Repeat The

First Lines Of Homer, The Metamorphoses, And Some Of Euripides, By

Having often Read Them. Yet Here Incredulity Is Ready To Make A

Stand. Many Repetitions Are Necessary To Fix In the Memory Lines Not

Understood; And Why Should Milton Wish Or Want To Hear Them So Often?

These Lines Were At The Beginning of The Poems. Of A Book Written In a

Language Not Understood, The Beginning raises No More Attention Than The

End; And As Those That Understand It Know Commonly The Beginning best,

Its Rehearsal Will Seldom Be Necessary. It Is Not Likely That Milton

Required any Passage To Be So Much Repeated, As That His Daughter Could

Learn It; Nor Likely That He Desired the Initial Lines To Be Read At

All; Nor That The Daughter, Weary Of The Drudgery Of Pronouncing unideal

Sounds, Would Voluntarily Commit Them To Memory.

 

 

 

To This Gentlewoman Addison Made A Present, And Promised some

Establishment, But Died soon After. Queen Caroline Sent Her Fifty

Guineas. She Had Seven Sons And Three Daughters; But None Of Them Had

Any Children, Except Her Son Caleb And Her Daughter Elizabeth. Caleb

Went To Fort St. George, In the East Indies, And Had Two Sons, Of Whom

Nothing is Now Known. Elizabeth Married thomas Foster, A Weaver In

Spital Fields; And Had Seven Children, Who All Died. She Kept A Petty

Grocer'S Or Chandler'S Shop, First At Holloway, And Afterwards In cock

Lane, Near Shoreditch Church. She Knew Little Of Her Grandfather, And

That Little Was Not Good. She Told Of His Harshness To His Daughters,

And His Refusal To Have Them Taught To Write; And, In opposition To

Other Accounts, Represented him As Delicate, Though Temperate, In his

Diet.

 

 

 

In 1750, April 5, Comus Was Played for Her Benefit. She Had So Little

Acquaintance With Diversion Or Gaiety, That She Did Not Know What Was

Intended, When A Benefit Was Offered her. The Profits Of The Night Were

Only One Hundred and Thirty Pounds, Though Dr. Newton Brought A Large

Contribution; And Twenty Pounds Were Given By Tonson, A Man Who Is To

Be Praised as Often As He Is Named. Of This Sum One Hundred pounds Were

Placed in the Stocks, After Some Debate Between Her And Her Husband, In

Whose Name It Should Be Entered; And The Rest Augmented their Little

Stock, With Which They Removed to Islington. This Was The Greatest

Benefaction That Paradise Lost Ever Procured the Author'S Descendants;

And To This He, Who Has Now Attempted to Relate His Life, Had The Honour

Of Contributing a Prologue[54].

 

 

 

In The Examination Of Milton'S Poetical Works, I Shall Pay So Much

Regard To Time As To Begin With His Juvenile Productions. For His Early

Pieces He Seems To Have Had A Degree Of Fondness Not Very Laudable; What

He Has Once Written He Resolves To Preserve, And Gives To The Publick An

Unfinished poem, Which He Broke Off, Because He Was "Nothing satisfied

With What He Had Done," Supposing his Readers Less Nice Than Himself.

These Preludes To His Future Labours Are In italian, Latin, And English.

Of The Italian I Cannot Pretend To Speak As A Critick; But I Have Heard

Them Commended by A Man Well Qualified to Decide Their Merit. The Latin

Pieces Are Lusciously Elegant; But The Delight Which They Afford Is

Rather By The Exquisite Imitation Of The Ancient Writers, By The Purity

Of The Diction, And The Harmony Of The Numbers, Than By Any Power Of

Invention, Or Vigour Of Sentiment. They Are Not All Of Equal Value; The

Elegies Excel The Odes; And Some Of The Exercises On Gunpowder Treason

Might Have Been Spared.

 

 

 

The English Poems, Though They Make No Promises Of Paradise Lost[55],

Have This Evidence Of Genius, That They Have A Cast Original And

Unborrowed. But Their Peculiarity Is Not Excellence; If They Differ From

The Verses Of Others, They Differ For The Worse; For They Are Too Often

Distinguished by Repulsive Harshness; The Combinations Of Words Are

New, But They Are Not Pleasing; The Rhymes And Epithets Seem To Be

Laboriously Sought, And Violently Applied.

 

 

 

That, In the Early Part Of His Life, He Wrote With Much Care Appears

From His Manuscripts, Happily Preserved at Cambridge, In which Many

Of His Smaller Works Are Found, As They Were First Written, With The

Subsequent Corrections. Such Relicks Show How Excellence Is Acquired;

What We Hope Ever To Do With Ease, We Must Learn First To Do With

Diligence.

 

 

 

Those Who Admire The Beauties Of This Great Poet Sometimes Force Their

Own Judgment Into False Approbation Of His Little Pieces, And Prevail

Upon Themselves To Think That Admirable Which Is Only Singular. All That

Short Compositions Can Commonly Attain, Is Neatness And Elegance. Milton

Never Learned the Art Of Doing little Things With Grace; He Overlooked

The Milder Excellence Of Suavity And Softness: He Was A Lion, That Had

No Skill "In Dandling the Kid."

 

 

 

One Of The Poems On Which Much Praise Has Been Bestowed is Lycidas;

Of Which The Diction Is Harsh, The Rhymes Uncertain, And The Numbers

Unpleasing. What Beauty There Is, We Must, Therefore, Seek In the

Sentiments And Images. It Is Not To Be Considered as The Effusion Of

Real Passion; For Passion Runs Not After Remote Allusions And Obscure

Opinions. Passion Plucks No Berries From The Myrtle And Ivy, Nor Calls

Upon Arethuse And Mincius, Nor Tells Of Rough "Satyrs And Fauns With

Cloven Heel." Where There Is Leisure For Fiction, There Is Little Grief.

 

 

 

In This Poem There Is No Nature, For There Is No Truth; There Is No Art,

For There Is Nothing new. Its Form Is That Of A Pastoral: Easy, Vulgar,

And, Therefore, Disgusting; Whatever Images It Can Supply Are Long Ago

Exhausted; And Its Inherent Improbability Always Forces Dissatisfaction

On The Mind. When Cowley Tells Of Hervey, That They Studied together, It

Is Easy To Suppose How Much He Must Miss The Companion Of His Labours,

And The Partner Of His Discoveries; But What Image Of Tenderness Can Be

Excited by These Lines?

 

 

 

  We Drove Afield, And Both Together Heard,

  What Time The Grey Fly Winds Her Sultry Horn,

  Batt'Ning our Flocks With The Fresh Dews Of Night.

 

 

 

We Know That They Never Drove Afield, And That They Had No Flocks

To Batten; And, Though It Be Allowed that The Representation May Be

Allegorical, The True Meaning is So Uncertain And Remote, That It Is

Never Sought, Because It Cannot Be Known When It Is Found.

 

 

 

Among The Flocks, And Copses, And Flowers, Appear The Heathen Deities;

Jove And Phoebus, Neptune And Aeolus, With A Long Train Of Mythological

Imagery, Such As A College Easily Supplies. Nothing can Less Display

Knowledge, Or Less Exercise Invention, Than To Tell How A Shepherd Has

Lost His Companion, And Must Now Feed his Flocks Alone, Without Any

Judge Of His Skill In piping; And How One God Asks Another God What Is

Become Of Lycidas, And How Neither God Can Tell. He Who Thus Grieves

Will Excite No Sympathy; He Who Thus Praises Will Confer No Honour.

 

 

 

This Poem Has Yet A Grosser Fault. With These Trifling fictions Are

Mingled the Most Awful And Sacred truths, Such As Ought Never To Be

Polluted with Such Irreverend Combinations. The Shepherd, Likewise,

Is Now A Feeder Of Sheep, And Afterwards An Ecclesiastical Pastor, A

Superintendent Of A Christian Flock. Such Equivocations Are Always

Unskilful; But Here They Are Indecent, And, At Least, Approach To

Impiety, Of Which, However, I Believe The Writer Not To Have Been

Conscious. Such Is The Power Of Reputation Justly Acquired, That Its

Blaze Drives Away The Eye From Nice Examination. Surely No Man Could

Have Fancied that He Read Lycidas With Pleasure, Had He Not Known The

Author.

 

 

 

Of The Two Pieces, L'Allegro And Il Penseroso, I Believe, Opinion Is

Uniform; Every Man That Reads Them, Reads Them With Pleasure. The

Author'S Design Is Not, What Theobald Has Remarked, Merely To Show

How Objects Derive Their Colours From The Mind, By Representing the

Operation Of The Same Things Upon The Gay And The Melancholy Temper, Or

Upon The Same Man, As He Is Differently Disposed; But Rather How, Among

The Successive Variety Of Appearances, Every Disposition Of Mind Takes

Hold On Those By Which It May Be Gratified.

 

 

 

The Cheerful Man Hears The Lark In the Morning; The Pensive Man Hears

The Nightingale In the Evening. The Cheerful Man Sees The Cock Strut,

And Hears The Horn And Hounds Echo In the Wood; Then Walks, "Not

Unseen," To Observe The Glory Of The Rising sun, Or Listen To The

Singing milkmaid, And View The Labours Of The Ploughman And The Mower:

Then Casts His Eyes About Him Over Scenes Of Smiling plenty, And Looks

Up To The Distant Tower, The Residence Of Some Fair Inhabitant; Thus He

Pursues Rural Gaiety Through A Day Of Labour Or Of Play, And Delights

Himself At Night With The Fanciful Narratives Of Superstitious

Ignorance.

 

 

 

The Pensive Man, At One Time, Walks "Unseen" To Muse At Midnight; And,

At Another, Hears The Sullen Curfew. If The Weather Drives Him Home, He

Sits In a Room Lighted only By "Glowing embers;" Or, By A Lonely Lamp,

Outwatches The North Star, To Discover The Habitation Of Separate Souls,

And Varies The Shades Of Meditation, By Contemplating the Magnificent Or

Pathetick Scenes Of Tragick Or Epick Poetry. When The Morning comes, A

Morning gloomy With Rain And Wind, He Walks Into The Dark, Trackless

Woods[56], Falls Asleep By Some Murmuring water, And With Melancholy

Enthusiasm Expects Some Dream Of Prognostication, Or Some Musick Played

By Aerial Performers.

 

 

 

Both Mirth And Melancholy Are Solitary, Silent Inhabitants Of The

Breast, That Neither Receive Nor Transmit Communication; No Mention Is,

Therefore, Made Of A Philosophical Friend, Or A Pleasant Companion. The

Seriousness Does Not Arise From Any Participation Of Calamity, Nor The

Gaiety From The Pleasures Of The Bottle.

 

 

 

The Man Of Cheerfulness, Having exhausted the Country, Tries What

"Towered cities" Will Afford, And Mingles With Scenes Of Splendour, Gay

Assemblies, And Nuptial Festivities; But He Mingles A Mere Spectator,

As, When The Learned comedies Of Jonson, Or The Wild Dramas Of

Shakespeare, Are Exhibited, He Attends The Theatre.

 

 

 

The Pensive Man Never Loses Himself In crowds, But Walks The Cloister,

Or Frequents The Cathedral. Milton Probably Had Not Yet Forsaken The

Church.

 

 

 

Both His Characters Delight In musick; But He Seems To Think, That

Cheerful Notes Would Have Obtained, From Pluto, A Complete Dismission Of

Eurydice, Of Whom Solemn Sounds Only Procured a Conditional Release.

 

 

 

For The Old Age Of Cheerfulness He Makes No Provision; But Melancholy He

Conducts With Great Dignity To The Close Of Life. His Cheerfulness Is

Without Levity, And His Pensiveness Without Asperity.

 

 

 

Through These Two Poems The Images Are Properly Selected, And Nicely

Distinguished; But The Colours Of The Diction Seem Not Sufficiently

Discriminated. I Know Not Whether The Characters Are Kept Sufficiently

Apart. No Mirth Can, Indeed, Be Found In his Melancholy; But I Am Afraid

That I Always Meet Some Melancholy In his Mirth. They Are Two Noble

Efforts Of Imagination[57].

 

 

 

The Greatest Of His Juvenile Performances Is The Masque Of Comus, In

Which May Very Plainly Be Discovered the Dawn Or Twilight Of Paradise

Lost. Milton Appears To Have Formed very Early That System Of Diction,

And Mode Of Verse, Which His Maturer Judgment Approved, And From Which

He Never Endeavoured nor Desired to Deviate.

 

 

 

Nor Does Comus Afford Only A Specimen Of His Language; It Exhibits,

Likewise, His Power Of Description And His Vigour Of Sentiment, Employed

In The Praise And Defence Of Virtue. A Work More Truly Poetical Is

Rarely Found; Allusions, Images, And Descriptive Epithets, Embellish

Almost Every Period With Lavish Decoration. As A Series Of Lines,

Therefore, It May Be Considered as Worthy Of All The Admiration With

Which The Votaries Have Received it.

 

 

 

As A Drama It Is Deficient. The Action Is Not Probable. A Mask, In those

Parts Where Supernatural Intervention Is Admitted, Must, Indeed, Be

Given Up To All The Freaks Of Imagination; But, So Far As The Action Is

Merely Human, It Ought To Be Reasonable, Which Can Hardly Be Said Of The

Conduct Of The Two Brothers; Who, When Their Sister Sinks With Fatigue

In A Pathless Wilderness, Wander Both Away Together, In search Of

Berries, Too Far To Find Their Way Back, And Leave A Helpless Lady To

All The Sadness And Danger Of Solitude. This, However, Is A Defect

Overbalanced by Its Convenience.

 

 

 

What Deserves More Reprehension Is, That The Prologue Spoken In the Wild

Wood, By The Attendant Spirit, Is Addressed to The Audience; A Mode Of

Communication So Contrary To The Nature Of Dramatick Representation,

That No Precedents Can Support It[58].

 

 

 

The Discourse Of The