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Part III: 1672-1719
Part III: 1672-1719
Addison, in his life, and for some time afterwards, was considered by the
greater part of readers as supremely excelling both in poetry and criticism.
Part of his reputation may be probably ascribed to the advancement of his
fortune: when, as Swift observes, he became a statesman, and saw poets waiting
at his levee, it is no wonder that praise was accumulated upon him. Much
likewise may be more honourably ascribed to his personal character: he who, if
he had claimed it, might have obtained the diadem, was not likely to be denied
the laurel.
But time quickly puts an end to artificial and accidental fame; and
Addison is to pass through futurity protected only by his genius. Every name
which kindness of interest once raised too high, is in danger, lest the next
age should, by the vengeance of criticism, sink it in the same proportion. A
great writer has lately styled him an indifferent poet, and a worse critic.
His poetry is first to be considered; of which it must be confessed that
it has not often those felicities of diction which give lustre to sentiments,
or that vigour of sentiment that animates diction: there is little of ardour,
vehemence, or transport; there is very rarely the awfulness of grandeur, and
not very often the splendour of elegance. He thinks justly; but he thinks
faintly. This is his general character; to which, doubtless, many single
passages will furnish exceptions.
Yet, if he seldom reaches supreme excellence, he rarely sinks into
dulness, and is still more rarely entangled in absurdity. He did not trust his
powers enough to be negligent. There is in most of his compositions a calmness
and equability, deliberate and cautious, sometimes with little that delights,
but seldom with any thing that offends.
Of this kind seem to be his poems to Dryden, to Somers, and to the King.
His ode on St. Cecilia has been imitated by Pope, and has something in it of
Dryden`s vigour. Of his Account of the English Poets, he used to speak as a
poor thing; but it is not worse than his usual strain. He has said, not very
judiciously, in his character of Waller:
Thy verse could shew ev`n Cromwell`s innocence,
And compliment the storms that bore him hence.
O! had thy Muse not come an age too soon,
But seen great Nassau on the British throne,
How had his triumph glitter`d in thy page! -
What is this but to say that he who could compliment Cromwell had
been the proper poet for King William? Addison, however, never printed the
piece.
The Letter from Italy has been always praised, but has never been praised
beyond its merit. It is more correct, with less appearance of labour, and more
elegant, with less ambition of ornament, than any other of his poems. There
is, however, one broken metaphor, of which notice may properly be taken:
Fir`d with that name -
I bridle in my struggling Muse with pain,
That longs to launch into a nobler strain.
To bridle a goddess is no very delicate idea; but why must she be bridled?
because she longs to launch? an act which was never hindered by a bridle:
and whither will she launch? into a nobler strain. She is in the first line
a horse, in the second a boat; and the care of the poet is to keep his horse
or his boat from singing.
The next composition is the far-famed Campaign, which Dr. Warton has
termed a Gazette in Rhyme, with harshness not often used by the good-nature
of his criticism. Before a censure so severe is admitted, let us consider that
War is a frequent subject of Poetry, and then enquire who has described it
with more justness and force. Many of our own writers tried their powers upon
this year of victory, yet Addison`s is confessedly the best performance; his
poem is the work of a man not blinded by the dust of learning: his images are
not borrowed merely from books. The superiority which he confers upon his hero
is not personal prowess, and mighty bone, but deliberate intrepidity, a calm
command of his passions, and the power of consulting his own mind in the midst
of danger. The rejection and contempt of fiction is rational and manly.
It may be observed that the last line is imitated by Pope:
Marlb`rough`s exploits appear divinely bright -
Rais`d of themselves, their genuine charms they boast,
And those that paint them truest, praise them most.
This Pope had in his thoughts; but, not knowing how to use what
was not his own, he spoiled the thought when he had borrowed it.
The well-sung woes shall soothe my ghost;
He best can paint them who shall feel them most.
Martial exploits may be painted; perhaps woes may be painted; but they are
surely not painted by being well-sung: it is not easy to paint in song, or
to sing in colours.
No passage in the Campaign has been more often mentioned than the simile
of the Angel, which is said in the Tatler to be one of the noblest thoughts
that ever entered into the heart of man, and is therefore worthy of attentive
consideration. Let it be first enquired whether it be a simile. A poetical
simile is the discovery of likeness between two actions in their general
nature dissimilar, or of causes terminating by different operations in some
resemblance of effect. But the mention of another like consequence from a like
cause, or of a like performance by a like agency, is not a simile, but an
exemplification. It is not a simile to say that the Thames waters fields, as
the Po waters fields; or that as Hecla vomits flames in Iceland, so Aetna
vomits flames in Sicily. When Horace says of Pindar, that he pours his
violence and rapidity of verse, as a river swollen with rain rushes from the
mountain; or of himself, that his genius wanders in quest of poetical
decorations, as the bee wanders to collect honey; he, in either case, produces
a simile; the mind is impressed with the resemblance of things generally
unlike, as unlike as intellect and body. But if Pindar had been described as
writing with the copiousness and grandeur of Homer, or Horace had told that he
reviewed and finished his own poetry with the same care as Isocrates polished
his orations, instead of similitude he would have exhibited almost identity;
he would have given the same portraits with different names. In the poem now
examined, when the English are represented as gaining a fortified pass, by
repetition of attack and perseverance of resolution; their obstinacy of
courage, and vigour of onset, is well illustrated by the sea that breaks, with
incessant battery, the dikes of Holland. This is a simile: but when Addison,
having celebrated the beauty of Marlborough`s person, tells us that Achilles
thus was formed with every grace, here is no simile, but a mere
exemplification. A simile may be compared to lines converging at a point, and
is more excellent as the lines approach from greater distance: an
exemplification may be considered as two parallel lines which run on together
without approximation, never far separated, and never joined.
Marlborough is so like the angel in the poem, that the action of both is
almost the same, and performed by both in the same manner. Marlborough teaches
the battle to rage; the angel directs the storm: Marlborough is unmoved in
peaceful thought; the angel is calm and serene: Marlborough stands unmoved
amidst the shock of hosts; the angel rides calm in the whirlwind. The lines on
Marlborough are just and noble; but the simile gives almost the same images a
second time.
But perhaps this thought, though hardly a simile, was remote from vulgar
conceptions, and required great labour of research, or dexterity of
application. Of this, Dr. Madden, a name which Ireland ought to honour, once
gave me his opinion. If I had set, said he, ten school-boys to write on the
battle of Blenheim, and eight had brought me the Angel, I should not have been
surprised.
The opera of Rosamond, though it is seldom mentioned, is one of the first
of Addison`s compositions. The subject is well-chosen, the fiction is
pleasing, and the praise of Marlborough, for which the scene gives an
opportunity, is, what perhaps every human excellence must be, the product of
good-luck improved by genius. The thoughts are sometimes great, and
sometimes tender; the versification is easy and gay. There is doubtless some
advantage in the shortness of the lines, which there is little temptation to
load with expletive epithets. The dialogue seems commonly better than the
songs. The two comic characters of Sir Trusty and Grideline, though of no
great value, are yet such as the poet intended. Sir Trusty`s account of the
death of Rosamond is, I think, too grossly absurd. The whole drama is airy and
elegant; engaging in its process, and pleasing in its conclusion. If Addison
had cultivated the lighter parts of poetry, he would probably have excelled.
The tragedy of Cato, which, contrary to the rule observed in selecting
the works of other poets, has by the weight of its character forced its way
into the late collection, is unquestionably the noblest production of
Addison`s genius. Of a work so much read, it is difficult to say any thing
new. About things on which the public thinks long, it commonly attains to
think right; and of Cato it has been not unjustly determined, that it is
rather a poem in dialogue than a drama, rather a succession of just sentiments
in elegant language, than a representation of natural affections, or of any
state probable or possible in human life. Nothing here excites or asswages
emotion; here is no magical power of raising phantastick terror or wild
anxiety. The events are expected without solicitude, and are remembered
without joy or sorrow. Of the agents we have no care; we consider not what
they are doing, or what they are suffering; we wish only to know what they
have to say. Cato is a being above our solicitude; a man of whom the gods take
care, and whom we leave to their care with heedless confidence. To the rest,
neither gods nor men can have much attention; for there is not one amongst
them that strongly attracts either affection or esteem. But they are made the
vehicles of such sentiments and such expression, that there is scarcely a
scene in the play which the reader does not wish to impress upon his memory.
When Cato was shewn to Pope, he advised the author to print it, without
any theatrical exhibition; supposing that it would be read more favourably
than heard. Addison declared himself of the same opinion; but urged the
importunity of his friends for its appearance on the stage. The emulation of
parties made it successful beyond expectation, and its success has introduced
or confirmed among us the use of dialogue too declamatory, of unaffecting
elegance, and chill philosophy.
The universality of applause, however it might quell the censure of
common mortals, had no other effect than to harden Dennis in fixed dislike;
but his dislike was not merely capricious. He found and shewed many faults: he
shewed them indeed with anger, but he found them with acuteness, such as ought
to rescue his criticism from oblivion; though, at last, it will have no other
life than it derives from the work which it endeavours to oppress.
Why he pays no regard to the opinion of the audience, he gives his
reason, by remarking, that
"A deference is to be paid to a general applause, when it appears that
that applause is natural and spontaneous; but that little regard is to be had
to it, when it is affected and artificial. Of all the tragedies which in his
memory have had vast and violent runs, not one has been excellent, few have
been tolerable, most have been scandalous. When a poet writes a tragedy, who
knows he has judgement, and who feels he has genius, that poet presumes upon
his own merit, and scorns to make a cabal. That people come coolly to the
representation of such a tragedy, without any violent expectation, or delusive
imagination, or invincible prepossession; that such an audience is liable to
receive the impressions which the poem shall naturally make in them, and to
judge by their own reason, and their own judgements, and that reason and
judgement are calm and serene, not formed by nature to make proselytes, and to
control and lord it over the imaginations of others. But that when an author
writes a tragedy, who knows he has neither genius nor judgement, he has
recourse to the making a party, and he endeavours to make up in industry what
is wanting in talent, and to supply by poetical craft the absence of poetical
art; that such an author is humbly contented to raise men`s passions by a plot
without doors, since he despairs of doing it by that which he brings upon the
stage. That party, and passion, and prepossession, are clamorous and
tumultuous things, and so much the more clamorous and tumultuous by how much
the more erroneous: that they domineer and tyrannize over the imaginations of
persons who want judgement, and sometimes too of those who have it; and, like
a fierce and outrageous torrent, bear down all opposition before them."
He then condemns the neglect of poetical justice; which is always one of
his favourite principles.
"`Tis certainly the duty of every tragic poet, by the exact distribution
of poetical justice, to imitate the Divine Dispensation, and to inculcate a
particular Providence. `Tis true, indeed, upon the stage of the world, the
wicked sometimes prosper, and the guiltless suffer. But that is permitted by
the Governor of the world, to shew, from the attribute of his infinite
justice, that there is a compensation in futurity, to prove the immortality of
the human soul, and the certainty of future rewards and punishments. But the
poetical persons in tragedy exist no longer than the reading, or the
representation; the whole extent of their entity is circumscribed by those;
and therefore, during that reading or representation, according to their
merits or demerits, they must be punished or rewarded. If this is not done,
there is no impartial distribution of poetical justice, no instructive lecture
of a particular Providence, and no imitation of the Divine Dispensation. And
yet the author of this tragedy does not only run counter to this, in the fate
of his principal character; but every where, throughout it, makes virtue
suffer, and vice triumph: for not only Cato is vanquished by Caesar, but the
treachery and perfidiousness of Syphax prevails over the honest simplicity and
the credulity of Juba; and the sly subtlety and dissimulation of Portius over
the generous frankness and open-heartedness of Marcus."
Whatever pleasure there may be in seeing crimes punished and virtue
rewarded, yet, since wickedness often prospers in real life, the poet is
certainly at liberty to give it prosperity on the stage. For if poetry has an
imitation of reality, how are its laws broken by exhibiting the world in its
true form? The stage may sometimes gratify our wishes; but, if it be truly the
mirror of life, it ought to shew us sometimes what we are to expect.
Dennis objects to the characters that they are not natural, or
reasonable; but as heroes and heroines are not beings that are seen every day,
it is hard to find upon what principles their conduct shall be tried. It is,
however, not useless to consider what he says of the manner in which Cato
receives the account of his son`s death.
"Nor is the grief of Cato, in the Fourth Act, one jot more in nature than
that of his son and Lucia in the third. Cato receives the news of his son`s
death not only with dry eyes, but with a sort of satisfaction; and in the same
page sheds tears for the calamity of his country, and does the same thing in
the next page upon the bare apprehension of the danger of his friends. Now,
since the love of one`s country is the love of one`s countrymen, as I have
shewn upon another occasion, I desire to ask these questions: Of all our
countrymen, which do we love most, those whom we know, or those whom we know
not? And of those whom we know, which do we cherish most, our friends or our
enemies? And of our friends, which are the dearest to us? those who are
related to us, or those who are not? And of all our relations, for which have
we most tenderness, for those who are near to us, or for those who are remote?
And of our near relations, which are the nearest, and consequently the dearest
to us, our offspring or others? Our offspring, most certainly; as nature, or
in other words Providence, has wisely contrived for the preservation of
mankind. Now, does it not follow, from what has been said, that for a man to
receive the news of his son`s death with dry eyes, and to weep at the same
time for the calamities of his country, is a wretched affectation, and a
miserable inconsistency? Is not that, in plain English, to receive with dry
eyes the news of the deaths of those for whose sake our country is a name so
dear to us, and at the same time to shed tears for those for whose sakes our
country is not a name so dear to us?"
But this formidable assailant is least resistible when he attacks the
probability of the action, and the reasonableness of the plan. Every critical
reader must remark, that Addison has, with a scrupulosity almost unexampled on
the English stage, confined himself in time to a single day, and in place to
rigorous unity. The scene never changes and the whole action of the play
passes in the great hall of Cato`s house at Utica. Much therefore is done in
the hall, for which any other place had been more fit; and this impropriety
affords Dennis many hints of merriment, and opportunities of triumph. The
passage is long; but as such disquisitions are not common, and the objections
are skilfully formed and vigorously urged, those who delight in critical
controversy will not think it tedious.
"Upon the departure of Portius, Sempronius makes but one soliloquy, and
immediately in comes Syphax, and then the two politicians are at it
immediately. They lay their heads together, with their snuff-boxes in their
hands, as Mr. Bayes has it, and league it away. But, in the midst of that wise
scene, Syphax seems to give a seasonable caution to Sempronius:
"Syph. But is it true, Sempronius, that your senate
Is call`d together? Gods! thou must be cautious,
Cato has piercing eyes.
"There is a great deal of caution shewn indeed, in meeting in a
governor`s own hall to carry on their plot against him. Whatever opinion they
have of his eyes, I suppose they had none of his ears, or they would never
have talked at this foolish rate so near.
"Gods! thou must be cautious.
"Oh! yes, very cautious: for if Cato should overhear you, and turn you
off for politicians, Caesar would never take you; no, Caesar, would never
take you.
"When Cato, Act II. turns the senators out of the hall, upon pretence of
acquainting Juba with the result of their debates, he appears to me to do a
thing which is neither reasonable nor civil. Juba might certainly have better
been made acquainted with the result of that debate in some private apartment
of the palace. But the poet was driven upon this absurdity to make way for
another; and that is, to give Juba an opportunity to demand Marcia of her
father. But the quarrel and rage of Juba and Syphax in the same Act, the
invectives of Syphax against the Romans and Cato; the advice that he gives
Juba, in her father`s hall, to bear away Marcia by force; and his brutal and
clamorous rage upon his refusal, and at a time when Cato was scarce out of
sight, and perhaps not out of hearing; at least, some of his guards or
domestics must necessarily be supposed to be within hearing; is a thing that
is so far from being probable, that it is hardly possible.
"But treason is not the only thing that is carried on in this hall: that,
and love, and philosophy, take their turns in it, without any manner of
necessity or probability occasioned by the action, as duly and as regularly,
without interrupting one another, as if there were a triple league between
them, and a mutual agreement that each should give place to and make way for
the other, in a due and orderly succession.
"We come now to the Third Act. Sempronius, in this Act, comes into the
governor`s hall, with the leaders of the mutiny: but as soon as Cato is gone,
Sempronius, who but just before had acted like an unparalleled knave,
discovers himself, like an egregious fool, to be an accomplice in the
conspiracy.
"Semp. Know, villains, when such paltry slaves presume
To mix in treason, if the plot succeeds,
They`re thrown neglected by: but if it fails,
They`re sure to die like dogs, as you shall do.
Here, take these factious monsters, drag them forth
To sudden death. -
"`Tis true, indeed, the second leader says, there are none there but
friends; but is that possible at such a juncture? Can a parcel of rogues
attempt to assassinate the governor of a town of war, in his own house, in mid
- day, and after they are discovered and defeated, can there be none near them
but friends? Is it not plain from these words of Sempronius,
"Here, take these factious monsters, drag them forth
To sudden death -
"and from the entrance of the guards upon the word of command, that
those guards were within ear-shot? Behold Sempronius then palpably
discovered. How comes it to pass, then, that, instead of being hanged up with
the rest, he remains secure in the governor`s hall, and there carries on his
conspiracy against the government, the third time in the same day, with his
old comrade Syphax? who enters at the same time that the guards are carrying
away the leaders, big with the news of the defeat of Sempronius; though where
he had his intelligence so soon is difficult to imagine. And now the reader
may expect a very extraordinary scene: there is not abundance of spirit
indeed, nor a great deal of passion, but there is wisdom more than enough to
supply all defects.
"Syph. Our first design, my friend, has prov`d abortive;
Still there remains an after-game to play:
My troops are mounted, their Numidian steeds
Snuff up the winds, and long to scour the desert:
Let but Sempronius lead us in our flight,
We`ll force the gate, where Marcus keeps his guard,
And hew down all that would oppose our passage;
A day will bring us into Caesar`s camp.
"Semp. Confusion! I have fail`d of half my purpose;
Marcia, the charming Marcia`s left-behind.
"Well! but though he tells us the half-purpose that he has failed of,
he does not tell us the half that he has carried. But what does he mean by
"Marcia, the charming Marcia`s left behind?
"He is now in her own house; and we have neither seen her nor heard of
her any where else since the play began. But now let us hear Syphax:
"What hindern then, but that thou find her out,
And hurry her away by manly force?
"But what does old Syphax mean by finding her out? They talk as if she
were as hard to be found as a hare in a frosty morning.
"Semp. But how to gain admission?
"Oh! she is found out then, it seems.
"But how to gain admission? for access
Is giv`n to none, but Juba and her brothers.
"But, raillery apart, why access to Juba? For he was owned and received
as a lover neither by the father nor by the daughter. Well! but let that pass.
Syphax puts Sempronius out of pain immediately; and, being a Numidian,
abounding in wiles, supplies him with a stratagem for admission, that, I
believe, is a non-pareille:
"Syph. Thou shalt have Juba`s dress, and Juba`s guards;
The doors will open, when Numidia`s prince
Seems to appear before them.
"Sempronius is, it seems, to pass for Juba in full day at Cato`s house,
where they were both so very well known, by having Juba`s dress and his
guards: as if one of the marshals of France could pass for the Duke of
Bavaria, at noon-day, at Versailles, by having his dress and liveries. But
how does Syphax pretend to help Sempronius to young Juba`s dress? Does he
serve him in a double capacity, as general and master of his wardrobe? But why
Juba`s guards? For the devil of any guards has Juba appeared with yet. Well!
though this is a mighty politic invention, yet, methinks, they might have done
without it: for, since the advice that Syphax gave to Sempronius was,
"To hurry her away by manly force,
"in my opinion, the shortest and likeliestway of coming at the lady was by
demolishing, instead of putting on an impertinent disguise to circumvent two
or three slaves. But Sempronius, it seems, is of another opinion. He extols to
the skies the invention of old Syphax:
"Sempr. Heavens! what a thought was there!
"Now I appeal to the reader, if I have not been as good as my word. Did I
not tell him, that I would lay before him a very wise scene?
"But now let us lay before the reader that part of the scenery of the
Fourth Act, which may shew the absurdities which the author has run into,
through the indiscreet observance of the Unity of Place. I do not remember
that Aristotle has said any thing expressly concerning the Unity of Place.
`Tis true, implicitly he has said enough in the rules which he has laid down
for the Chorus. For, by making the Chorus an essential part of Tragedy, and by
bringing it on the stage immediately after the opening of the scene, and
retaining it there till the very catastrophe, he has so determined and fixed
the place of action, that it was impossible for an author on the Grecian stage
to break through that unity. I am of opinion, that if a modern tragic poet can
preserve the unity of place, without destroying the probability of the
incidents, `tis always best for him to do it; because, by the preservation of
that unity, as we have taken notice above, he adds grace, and cleanness, and
comeliness, to the representation. But since there are no express rules about
it, and we are under no compulsion to keep it, since we have no Chorus as the
Grecian poet had; if it cannot be preserved, without rendering the greater
part of the incidents unreasonable and absurd, and perhaps sometimes
monstrous, `tis certainly better to break it.
"Now comes bully Sempronius, comically accoutred and equipped with his
Numidian dress and his Numidian guards. Let the reader attend to him with all
his ears; for the words of the wise are precious:
"Sempr. The deer is lodg`d, I`ve track`d her to her covert.
"Now I would fain know why this deer is said to be lodged, since we have
not heard one word, since the play began, of her being at all out of harbour:
and if we consider the discourse with which she and Lucia began the Act, we
have reason to believe that they had hardly been talking of such matters in
the street. However, to pleasure Sempronius, let us suppose, for once, that
the deer is lodged:
"The deer is lodg`d, I`ve track`d her to her covert.
"If he had seen her in the open field, what occasion had he to track her,
when he had so many Numidian dogs at his heels, which, with one halloo, he
might have set upon her haunches? If he did not see her in the open field, how
could he possibly track her? If he had seen her in the street, why did he not
set upon her in the street, since through the street she must be carried at
last? Now here, instead of having his thoughts upon his business, and upon the
present danger; instead of meditating and contriving how he shall pass with
his mistress through the southern gate, where her brother Marcus is upon the
guard, and where she would certainly prove an impediment to him, which is the
Roman word for the baggage, instead of doing this, Sempronius is entertaining
himself with whimsies:
"Sempr. How will the young Numidian rave to see
His mistress lost! If aught could glad my soul,
Beyond th` enjoyment of so bright a prize,
`Twould be to torture that young gay Barbarian.
But hark! what noise? Death to my hopes, `tis he,
`Tis Juba`s self! There is but one way left!
He must be murder`d, and a passage cut
Through those his guards.
"Pray, what are those his guards? I thought at present, that Juba`s
guards had been Sempronius` tools, and had been dangling after his heels.
"But now let us sum up all these absurdities together. Sempronius goes at
noonday, in Juba`s clothes,and with Juba`s guards, to Cato`s palace, in order
to pass for Juba, in a place where they were both so very well known: he meets
Juba there, and resolves to murder him with his own guards. Upon the guards
appearing a little bashful, he threatens them:
"Hah! Dastards, do you tremble!
Or act like men, or by yon azure heav`n!
But the guards still remaining restive, Sempronius himself attacks Juba,
while each of the guards is representing Mr. Spectator`s sign of the Gaper,
awed, it seems and terrified by Sempronius` threats. Juba kills Sempronius,
and takes his own army prisoners, and carries them in triumph away to Cato.
Now I would fain know, if any part of Mr. Bayes` tragedy is so full of
absurdity as this?
"Upon hearing the clash of swords, Lucia and Marcia come in. The question
is, why no men come in upon hearing the noise of swords in the governor`s
hall? Where was the governor himself? Where were his guards? Where were his
servants? Such an attempt as this, so near the person of a governor of a place
of war, was enough to alarm the whole garrison: and yet, for almost half an
hour after Sempronius was killed, we find none of those appear who were the
likeliest in the world to be alarmed; and the noise of swords is made to draw
only two poor women thither, who were most certain to run away from it. Upon
Lucia and Marcia`s coming in, Lucia appears in all the symptoms of an
hysterical gentlewoman:
"Luc. Sure `twas the clash of swords! my troubled heart
Is so cast down, and sunk amidst its sorrows,
It throbs with fear, and akes at every sound!
"And immediately her old whimsy returns upon her:
"O Marcia, should thy brothers, for my sake -
I die away with horror at the thought.
"She fancies that there can be no cutting of throats but it must be for
her. If this is tragical, I would fain know what is comical. Well! upon this
they spy the body of Sempronius; and Marcia, deluded by the habit, it seems,
takes him for Juba; for, says she,
"The face is muffled up within the garment.
`Now how a man could fight, and fall with his face muffled up in his
garment, is, I think, a little hard to conceive! Besides, Juba, before he
killed him, knew him to be Sempronius. It was not by his garment that he knew
this; it was by his face then: his face therefore was not muffled. Upon seeing
this man with the muffled face, Marcia falls a-raving; and, owning her
passion for the supposed defunct, begins to make his funeral oration. Upon
which Juba enters listening, I suppose on tip-toe: for I cannot imagine how
any one can enter listening, in any other posture. I would fain know how it
came to pass, that during all this time he had sent nobody, no not so much as
a candle snuffer, to take away the dead body of Sempronius. Well! but let us
regard him listening. Having left his apprehension behind him, he, at first,
applies what Marcia says to Sempronius. But finding at last, with much ado,
that he himself is the happy man, he quits his eves-dropping, and greedily
intercepts the bliss, which was fondly designed for one who could not be the
better for it. But here I must ask a question: how comes Juba to listen here,
who had not listened before throughout the play? Or, how comes he to be the
only person of this tragedy who listens, when love and treason were so often
talked in so public a place as a hall? I am afraid the author was driven upon
all these absurdities only to introduce this miserable mistake of Marcia;
which, after all, is much below the dignity of tragedy, as any thing is which
is the effect or result of trick.
"But let us come to the scenery of the Fifth Act. Cato appears first upon
the scene, sitting in a thoughtful posture; in his hand Plato`s treatise on
the Immortality of the Soul, a drawn sword on the table by him. Now let us
consider the place in which this sight is presented to us. The place,
forsooth, is a long hall. Let us suppose, that any one should place himself in
this posture, in the midst of one of our halls in London; that he should
appear solus, in a sullen posture, a drawn sword on the table by him; in his
hand Plato`s treatise on the Immortality of the Soul, translated lately by
Bernard Lintot: I desire the reader to consider, whether such a person as this
would pass with them who beheld him for a great patriot, a great philosopher,
or a general, or for some whimsical person who fancied himself all these; and
whether the people, who belonged to the family, would think that such a person
had a design upon their midrifs or his own?
"In short, that Cato should sit long enough, in the aforesaid posture, in
the midst of this large hall, to read over Plato`s treatise on the Immortality
of the Soul, which is a lecture of two long hours; that he should propose to
himself to be private there upon that occasion; that he should be angry with
his son for intruding there; then, that he should leave this hall upon the
pretence of sleep, give himself the mortal wound in his bedchamber, and then
be brought back into that hall to expire, purely to shew his good-breeding,
and save his friends the trouble of coming up to his bedchamber; all this
appears to me to be improbable, incredible, impossible."
Such is the censure of Dennis. There is, as Dryden expresses it, perhaps
too much horse play in his raillery; but if his jests are coarse, his
arguments are strong. Yet as we love better to be pleased than to be taught,
Cato is read, and the critic is neglected.
Flushed with consciousness of these detections of absurdity in the
conduct, he afterwards attacked the sentiments of Cato; but he then amused
himself with petty cavils, and minute objections.
Of Addison`s smaller poems, no particular mention is necessary; they have
little that can employ or require a critic. The parallel of the Princes and
Gods, in his verses to Kneller, is often happy, but is too well known to be
quoted.
His translations, so far as I compared them, want the exactness of a
scholar. That he understood his authors cannot be doubted; but his versions
will not teach others to understand them, being too licentiously
paraphrastical. They are, however, for the most part, smooth and easy; and,
what is the first excellence of a translator, such as may be read with
pleasure by those who do not know the originals.
His poetry is polished and pure; the product of a mind too judicious to
commit faults, but not sufficiently vigorous to attain excellence. He has
sometimes a striking line, or a shining paragraph; but in the whole he is warm
rather than fervid, and shews more dexterity than strength. He was, however,
one of our earliest examples of correctness.
The versification which he had learned from Dryden, he debased rather
than refined. His rhymes are often dissonant; in his Georgic he admits broken
lines. He uses both triplets and alexandrines, but triplets more frequently in
his translations than his other works. The mere structure of verses seems
never to have engaged much of his care. But his lines are very smooth in
Rosamond, and too smooth in Cato.
Addison is now to be considered as a critic; a name which the present
generation is scarcely willing to allow him. His criticism is condemned as
tentative or experimental, rather than scientific, and he is considered as
deciding by taste rather than by principles.
It is not uncommon for those who have grown wise by the labour of others,
to add a little of their own, and overlook their masters. Addison is now
despised by some who perhaps would never have seen his defects, but by the
lights which he afforded them. That he always wrote as he would think it
necessary to write now, cannot be affirmed; his instructions were such as the
character of his readers made proper. That general knowledge which now
circulates in common talk, was in his time rarely to be found. Men not
professing learning were not ashamed of ignorance; and in the female world,
any acquaintance with books was distinguished only to be censured. His purpose
was to infuse literary curiosity, by gentle and unsuspected conveyance, into
the gay, the idle, and the wealthy; he therefore presented knowledge in the
most alluring form, not lofty and austere, but accessible and familiar. When
he shewed them their defects, he shewed them likewise that they might be
easily supplied. His attempt succeeded; enquiry was awakened, and
comprehension expanded. An emulation of intellectual elegance was excited, and
from his time to our own, life has been gradually exalted, and conversation
purified and enlarged.
Dryden had, not many years before, scattered criticism over his Prefaces
with very little parsimony; but though he sometimes condescended to be
somewhat familiar, his manner was in general too scholastic for those who had
yet their rudiments to learn, and found it not easy to understand their
master. His observations were framed rather for those that were learning to
write, than for those that read only to talk.
An instructor like Addison was now wanting, whose remarks being
superficial, might be easily understood, and being just, might prepare the
mind for more attainments. Had he presented Paradise Lost to the public with
all the pomp of system and severity of science, the criticism would perhaps
have been admired, and the poem still have been neglected; but by the
blandishments of gentleness and facility, he has made Milton an universal
favourite, with whom readers of every class think it necessary to be pleased.
He descended now and then to lower disquisitions; and by a serious
display of the beauties of Chevy Chase, exposed himself to the ridicule of
Wagstaff, who bestowed a like pompous character on Tom Thumb, and to the
contempt of Dennis, who, considering the fundamental position of his
criticism, that Chevy Chase pleases, and ought to please, because it is
natural, observes, "that there is a way of deviating from nature, by bombast
or tumour, which soars above nature, and enlarges images beyond their real
bulk; by affectation, which forsakes nature in quest of something unsuitable;
and by imbecility, which degrades nature by faintness and diminution, by
obscuring its appearances, and weakening its effects." In Chevy Chase there is
not much of either bombast or affectation; but there is chill and lifeless
imbecility. The story cannot possibly be told in a manner that shall make less
impression on the mind.
Before the profound observers of the present race repose too securely on
the consciousness of their superiority to Addison, let them consider his
Remarks on Ovid, in which may be found specimens of criticism sufficiently
subtle and refined; let them peruse likewise his Essays on Wit, and on the
Pleasures of Imagination, in which he founds art on the base of nature, and
draws the principles of invention from dispositions inherent in the mind of
man, with skill and elegance, such as his contemners will not easily attain.
As a describer of life and manners, he must be allowed to stand perhaps
the first of the first rank. His humour, which, as Steele observes, is
peculiar to himself, is so happily diffused as to give the grace of novelty to
domestic scenes and daily occurrences. He never outsteps the modesty of
nature, nor raises merriment or wonder by the violation of truth. His figures
neither divert by distortion, nor amaze by aggravation. He copies life with so
much fidelity, that he can be hardly said to invent; yet his exhibitions have
an air so much original, that it is difficult to suppose them not merely the
product of imagination.
As a teacher of wisdom, he may be confidently followed. His religion has
nothing in it enthusiastic or superstitious: he appears neither weakly
credulous nor wantonly sceptical; his morality is neither dangerously lax, nor
impracticably rigid. All the enchantment of fancy, and all the cogency of
argument, are employed to recommend to the reader his real interest, the care
of pleasing the Author of his being. Truth is shewn sometimes as the phantom
of a vision, sometimes appears half-veiled in an allegory; sometimes
attracts regard in the robes of fancy, and sometimes steps forth in the
confidence of reason. She wears a thousand dresses, and in all is pleasing.
Mille habet ornatus, mille decenter habet.
His prose is the model of the middle style; on grave subjects not formal,
on light occasions not groveling; pure without scrupulosity, and exact without
apparent elaboration; always equable, and always easy, without glowing words
or pointed sentences. Addison never deviates from his track to snatch a grace;
he seeks no ambitious ornaments, and tries no hazardous innovations. His page
is always luminous, but never blazes in unexpected splendour.
It was apparently his principal endeavour to avoid all harshness and
severity of diction; he is therefore sometimes verbose in his transitions and
connections, and sometimes descends too much to the language of conversation;
yet if his language had been less idiomatical, it might have lost somewhat of
its genuine Anglicism. What he attempted, he performed; he is never feeble,
and he did not wish to be energetic; he is never rapid, and he never
stagnates. His sentences have neither studied amplitude, nor affected brevity:
his periods, though not diligently rounded, are voluble and easy. Whoever
wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but
not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison.
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