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

Will Not

Be Easy To Discover How They Can Qualify Their Reader For A Better

Performance Of Translation Than Might Have Been Attained by His Own

Reflections.

 

 

 

He That Can Abstract His Mind From The Elegance Of The Poetry, And

Confine It To The Sense Of The Precepts, Will Find No Other Direction

Than That The Author Should Be Suitable To The Translator'S Genius; That

He Should Be Such As May Deserve A Translation; That He Who Intends To

Translate Him Should Endeavour To Understand Him; That Perspicuity Should

Be Studied, And Unusual And Uncouth Names Sparingly Inserted; And

That The Style Of The Original Should Be Copied in its Elevation And

Depression. These Are The Rules That Are Celebrated as So Definite And

Important; And For The Delivery Of Which To Mankind So Much Honour Has

Been Paid. Roscommon Has, Indeed, Deserved his Praises, Had They Been

Given With Discernment, And Bestowed not On The Rules Themselves, But The

Art With Which They Are Introduced, And The Decorations With Which They

Are Adorned.

 

 

 

The Essay, Though Generally Excellent, Is Not Without Its Faults. The

Story Of The Quack, Borrowed from Boileau, Was Not Worth The Importation;

He Has Confounded the British And Saxon Mythology:

 

 

 

  I Grant That From Some Mossy Idol Oak,

  In double Rhymes, Our Thor And Woden Spoke.

 

 

 

The Oak, As, I Think, Gildon Has Observed, Belonged to The British

Druids, And Thor And Woden Were Saxon Deities. Of The "Double Rhymes,"

Which He So Liberally Supposes, He Certainly Had No Knowledge.

 

 

 

His Interposition Of A Long Paragraph Of Blank Verses Is Unwarrantably

Licentious. Latin Poets Might As Well Have Introduced a Series Of

Iambicks Among Their Heroicks.

 

 

 

His Next Work Is The Translation Of The Art Of Poetry; Which Has

Received, In my Opinion, Not Less Praise Than It Deserves. Blank Verse,

Left Merely To Its Numbers, Has Little Operation Either On The Ear Or

Mind: It Can Hardly Support Itself Without Bold Figures And Striking

Images. A Poem, Frigidly Didactick, Without Rhyme, Is So Near To Prose,

That The Reader Only Scorns It For Pretending to Be Verse.

 

 

 

Having disentangled himself From The Difficulties Of Rhyme, He May Justly

Be Expected to Give The Sense Of Horace With Great Exactness, And To

Suppress No Subtilty Of Sentiment, For The Difficulty Of Expressing it.

This Demand, However, His Translation Will Not Satisfy; What He Found

Obscure, I Do Not Know That He Has Ever Cleared.

 

 

 

Among His Smaller Works, The Eclogue Of Virgil And The Dies Irae Are

Well Translated; Though The Best Line In the Dies Irae Is Borrowed from

Dryden. In return, Succeeding poets Have Borrowed from Roscommon.

 

 

 

In The Verses On The Lap-Dog, The Pronouns _Thou_ And _You_ Are

Offensively Confounded; And The Turn At The End Is From Waller.

 

 

 

His Versions Of The Two Odes Of Horace Are Made With Great Liberty, Which

Is Not Recompensed by Much Elegance Or Vigour.

 

 

 

His Political Verses Are Sprightly, And, When They Were Written, Must

Have Been Very Popular.

 

 

 

Of The Scene Of Guarini, And The Prologue To Pompey, Mrs. Phillips, In

Her Letters To Sir Charles Cotterel, Has Given The History.

 

 

 

"Lord Roscommon," Says She, "Is Certainly One Of The Most Promising young

Noblemen In ireland. He Has Paraphrased a Psalm Admirably; And A Scene

Of Pastor Fido, Very Finely, In some Places Much Better Than Sir Richard

Fanshaw. This Was Undertaken Merely In compliment To Me, Who Happened to

Say, That It Was The Best Scene In italian, And The Worst In english. He

Was Only Two Hours About It." It Begins Thus:

 

 

 

  Dear Happy Groves, And You, The Dark Retreat

  Of Silent Horrour, Rest'S Eternal Seat.

 

 

 

From These Lines, Which Are Since Somewhat Mended, It Appears That He Did

Not Think A Work Of Two Hours Fit To Endure The Eye Of Criticism, Without

Revisal.

 

 

 

When Mrs. Phillips Was In ireland, Some Ladies That Had Seen Her

Translation Of Pompey, Resolved to Bring it On The Stage At Dublin; And,

To Promote Their Design, Lord Roscommon Gave Them A Prologue, And

Sir Edward Deering, An Epilogue; "Which," Says She, "Are The Best

Performances Of Those Kinds I Ever Saw." If This Is Not Criticism, It

Is, At Least, Gratitude. The Thought Of Bringing caesar And Pompey Into

Ireland, The Only Country Over Which Caesar Never Had Any Power, Is

Lucky.

 

 

 

Of Roscommon'S Works, The Judgment Of The Publick Seems To Be Right. He

Is Elegant, But Not Great; He Never Labours After Exquisite Beauties,

And He Seldom Falls Into Gross Faults. His Versification Is Smooth, But

Rarely Vigorous; And His Rhymes Are Remarkably Exact. He Improved

Taste, If He Did Not Enlarge Knowledge, And May Be Numbered among The

Benefactors To English Literature[74].

 

 

 

[Footnote 70: The Biographia Britannica Says, Probably About The Year

1632; But This Is Inconsistent With The Date Of Stratford'S Viceroyalty

In The Following page. C.]

 

 

 

[Footnote 71: It Was His Grandfather, Sir Robert Dillon, Second Earl Of

Roscommon, Who Was Converted from Popery; And His Conversion Is Recited

In The Patent Of Sir James, The First Earl Of Roscommon, As One Of The

Grounds Of His Creation. M.]

 

 

 

[Footnote 72: He Was Married to Lady Frances  Boyle In april, 1662. By

This Lady He Had No Issue. He Married secondly, 10Th November, 1674,

Isabella, Daughter Of Matthew Boynton, Of Barmston, In yorkshire. M.]

 

 

 

[Footnote 73: They Were Published, Together With Those Of Duke, In an

Octavo Volume, In 1717. The Editor, Whoever He Was, Professes To Have

Taken Great Care To Procure And Insert All Of His Lordship'S Poems That

Are Truly Genuine. The Truth Of This Assertion Is Flatly Denied by The

Author Of An Account Of Mr. John Pomfret, Prefixed to His Remains; Who

Asserts, That The Prospect Of Death Was Written By That Person, Many

Years After Lord Roscommon'S Decease; As Also, That The Paraphrase Of The

Prayer Of Jeremy Was Written By A Gentleman Of The Name Of Southcourt,

Living in the Year 1724. H.]

 

 

 

[Footnote 74: This Life Was Originally Written By Dr. Johnson, In the

Gentleman'S Magazine For May, 1748. It Then Had Notes, Which Are Now

Incorporated with The Text. C.]

Otway.

Of Thomas Otway, One Of The First Names In the English Drama, Little Is

Known; Nor Is There Any Part Of That Little Which His Biographer Can Take

Pleasure In relating.

 

 

 

He Was Born At Trottin, In sussex, March 3, 1651, The Son Of Mr. Humphry

Otway, Rector Of Woolbeding. From Winchester School, Where He Was

Educated, He Was Entered, In 1669, A Commoner Of Christ Church; But Left

The University Without A Degree, Whether For Want Of Money, Or From

Impatience Of Academical Restraint, Or Mere Eagerness To Mingle With The

World, Is Not Known.

 

 

 

It Seems Likely That He Was In hope Of Being busy And Conspicuous; For He

Went To London, And Commenced player; But Found Himself Unable To Gain

Any Reputation On The Stage[75].

 

 

 

This Kind Of Inability He Shared with Shakespeare And Jonson, As He

Shared likewise Some Of Their Excellencies. It Seems Reasonable To Expect

That A Great Dramatick Poet Should, Without Difficulty, Become A Great

Actor; That He Who Can Feel, Should Express; That He Who Can Excite

Passion, Should Exhibit, With Great Readiness, Its External Modes: But

Since Experience Has Fully Proved, That Of Those Powers, Whatever Be

Their Affinity, One May Be Possessed in a Great Degree By Him Who Has

Very Little Of The Other; It Must Be Allowed that They Depend Upon

Different Faculties, Or On Different Use Of The Same Faculty; That The

Actor Must Have A Pliancy Of Mien, A Flexibility Of Countenance, And A

Variety Of Tones, Which The Poet May Be Easily Supposed to Want; Or That

The Attention Of The Poet And The Player Has Been Differently Employed;

The One Has Been Considering thought, And The Other Action; One Has

Watched the Heart, And The Other Contemplated the Face.

 

 

 

Though He Could Not Gain Much Notice As A Player, He Felt In himself

Such Powers As Might Qualify For A Dramatick Author; And, In 1675, His

Twenty-Fifth Year, Produced alcibiades, A Tragedy; Whether From The

Alcibiade Of Palaprat, I Have Not Means To Inquire. Langbaine, The Great

Detecter Of Plagiarism, Is Silent.

 

 

 

In 1677, He Published titus And Berenice, Translated from Rapin, With The

Cheats Of Scapin, From Moliere; And, In 1678, Friendship In fashion,

A Comedy, Which, Whatever Might Be Its First Reception, Was, Upon Its

Revival At Drury Lane, In 1749, Hissed off The Stage For Immorality And

Obscenity.

 

 

 

Want Of Morals, Or Of Decency, Did Not, In those Days, Exclude Any Man

From The Company Of The Wealthy And The Gay, If He Brought With Him Any

Powers Of Entertainment; And Otway Is Said To Have Been, At This Time,

A Favourite Companion Of The Dissolute Wits. But, As He Who Desires No

Virtue In his Companion, Has No Virtue In himself, Those Whom Otway

Frequented had No Purpose Of Doing more For Him Than To Pay His

Reckoning. They Desired only To Drink And Laugh: Their Fondness Was

Without Benevolence, And Their Familiarity Without Friendship. "Men Of

Wit," Says One Of Otway'S Biographers, "Received, At That Time, No Favour

From The Great, But To Share Their Riots; From Which They Were Dismissed

Again To Their Own Narrow Circumstances. Thus They Languished in poverty,

Without The Support Of Eminence."

 

 

 

Some Exception, However, Must Be Made. The Earl Of Plymouth, One Of King

Charles'S Natural Sons, Procured for Him A Cornet'S Commission In some

Troops Then Sent Into Flanders. But Otway Did Not Prosper In his Military

Character; For He Soon Left His Commission Behind Him, Whatever Was The

Reason, And Came Back To London In extreme Indigence, Which Rochester

Mentions With Merciless Insolence, In the Session Of The Poets:

 

 

 

  Tom Otway Came Next, Tom Shadwell'S Dear Zany,

  And Swears For Heroicks He Writes Best Of Any;

  Don Carlos His Pockets So Amply Had Fill'D,

  That His Mange Was Quite Cur'D, And His Lice Were All Kill'D:

  But Apollo Had Seen His Face On The Stage,

  And Prudently Did Not Think Fit To Engage

  The Scum Of A Playhouse, For The Prop Of An Age.

 

 

 

Don Carlos, From Which He Is Represented as Having received so Much

Benefit, Was Played in 1675. It Appears, By The Lampoon, To Have Had

Great Success, And Is Said To Have Been Played thirty Nights Together.

This, However, It Is Reasonable To Doubt[76], As So Long A Continuance

Of One Play Upon The Stage Is A Very Wide Deviation From The Practice

Of That Time; When The Ardour For Theatrical Entertainments Was Not Yet

Diffused through The Whole People, And The Audience, Consisting nearly Of

The Same Persons, Could Be Drawn Together Only By Variety.

 

 

 

The Orphan Was Exhibited in 1680. This Is One Of The Few Plays That Keep

Possession Of The Stage, And Has Pleased for Almost A Century, Through

All The Vicissitudes Of Dramatick Fashion. Of This Play Nothing new Can

Easily Be Said. It Is A Domestick Tragedy Drawn From Middle Life. Its

Whole Power Is Upon The Affections; For It Is Not Written With Much

Comprehension Of Thought, Or Elegance Of Expression. But If The Heart Is

Interested, Many Other Beauties May Be Wanting, Yet Not Be Missed.

 

 

 

The Same Year Produced the History And Fall Of Caius Marius; Much Of

Which Is Borrowed from The Romeo And Juliet Of Shakespeare.

 

 

 

In 1683[77] Was Published the First, And Next Year[78] The Second, Parts

Of The Soldier'S Fortune, Two Comedies Now Forgotten; And, In 1685[79]

His Last And Greatest Dramatick Work, Venice Preserved, A Tragedy,

Which Still Continues To Be One Of The Favourites Of The Publick,

Notwithstanding the Want Of Morality In the Original Design, And The

Despicable Scenes Of Vile Comedy With Which He Has Diversified his

Tragick Action[80]. By Comparing this With His Orphan, It Will Appear

That His Images Were By Time Become Stronger, And His Language More

Energetick. The Striking passages Are In every Mouth; And The Publick

Seems To Judge Rightly Of The Faults And Excellencies Of This Play, That

It Is The Work Of A Man Not Attentive To Decency, Nor Zealous For Virtue;

But Of One Who Conceived forcibly, And Drew Originally, By Consulting

Nature