XLV. It would not be foreign, but rather very consonant to the object
of our present criticism, to say something in this place of the poetry,
to which they give the epithet of divine, and which is composed to be
sung in churches, I may without temerity, venture to pronounce, that
poetry in Spain, is in a worse state of perdition than music. The
number of those who write couplets is infinite, but none of them are
poets. If I was to be asked, which are the most difficult of all arts,
I should answer, medicine, poetry, and oratory: and if I was also to
be asked, which are the most easy; I should answer, oratory, poetry,
and medicine. There is no student, who, if he takes a fancy to it, does
not write verses. All the religious who mount the pulpit, and all the
doctors who have studied and practised physic, find their partizans:
but where will you meet with the truly able physician, the compleat
poet, or the perfect orator?
XLVI. Our most learned monk _Don John de Mabillon_, in his Treatise on
Monastic Studies, says, that an excellent poet is a very rare treasure,
and I agree with him in sentiment; for upon strict examination, where,
among the numbers of poetical essays that are published, will you
meet with any one, which (omitting many other requisite qualities) is
natural, sublime, sweet and pointed; and at the same time, ingenious,
and clear; brilliant without affectation, sonorous without turgidity,
and harmonious without impropriety; that runs without hobbling, is
delicate without affectation, forcible without harshness, beautiful
without paint or strained colouring, noble without presumption, and
copious and comprehensive without obscurity? I will almost venture to
pronounce, that he who would find a poet capable of writing verses in
this stile, should seek for him in the regions inhabited by the Phœnix.
XLVII. In Spain however, poetry is in so deplorable a state, that
according to all appearances, it would be needless to search for such
a one there. He who errs the least, with the exception of here and
there a particular one, seems as if he studied how he should commit
faults. All his care appears to be placed, in swelling the verse with
irrational hyperboles, and pompous words; by which means, he produces
a bloated, and confirmed dropsical poem, the sight of which turns your
stomach, and the perusal fills you with melancholy. Those essential
qualities, propriety and nature, without which, neither poetry or
prose can ever be good, seem to have abandoned, and become fugitives
from our compositions. Our authors don’t in their productions, appear
to have hit upon that native splendor, which gives a brilliancy to
their ideas, but rather, to have disfigured their best thoughts, with
affected and bombast expressions; so that their original conceptions,
may be compared to a fine woman that falls into indiscreet hands to be
dressed and ornamented.
XLVIII. Thus much in general for modern Spanish poetry; but the worst
is, that you hear these sort of compositions in the sacred canticles;
which are often so bad, that it would be better, instead of them, to
sing the couplets of blind men; because these seem to have a tendency
to promote devout affections, and their rustic simplicity is in some
degree the symptom of a good intention. All the gracefulness, or rather
the attempt at displaying it, in the church canticles of these times,
consists in low equivocations, trivial metaphors, and puerile changes
and rechanges. The worst is, that they are entirely void of spirit,
and not at all calculated to excite religious emotions, which are the
principal, if not the only qualities required, and which ought to be
sought after in such compositions. Don Antonio de Solis was without
doubt a person of sublime genius, and one who well understood the
excellencies of poetry. He exceeded all others, and even sometimes
himself also, in painting the passions with such apt, close, and
subtile expressions, that the descriptions of his pen seem to give
you a clearer idea of, and make you better acquainted with them, than
the knowledge which is gained by experience. But with all this, we in
his small sacred tracts, perceive a strange falling-off; because in
them, we don’t meet with that nobleness of thought, that delicacy of
expression, and that stirring of the passions, which is frequent and
common in his other Lyric Poems. This did not happen because he wanted
genius or talents to write sacred compositions; for his dirges upon the
conversion of St. Francisco de Borja, are some of the best things he
ever exhibited, and perhaps the most sublime, which to this day have
been composed in the Spanish language.
XLIX. I believe the badness of the composition of these couplets,
called Letrillas, which are generally written for festivals, has
proceeded from Solis, and other poets of ability, having looked upon
them as trifles; though in reality, no other compositions require so
much study or serious attention. What subjects can be more noble than
those, where the eulogium of the saints and martyrs is sung, and the
excellency of the divine attributes and mysteries, is represented and
celebrated? These are the things, on which men of abilities, should
exert the whole power of their genius and talents. What employment
can be more worthy a man of shining parts, than that of painting the
beauty of virtue in such amiable colours, as to make mankind in love
with it; and representing the deformity of vice, in so striking a point
of view, as to make the world abhor and detest it; and to contrive to
praise God and his angels in such a way, as would stimulate people
to a desire of imitation, and light up in their minds, the flame of
adoration and worship? The grandeur of poetry, consists in that active
persuasion, which the poet instills into the soul, and with which he
moves the heart, to follow the course he would wish it should pursue.
To write in this stile, says our Mabillon, speaking of poetry, is not
children’s play; much less then, should sacred poetry be only fit to
amuse infants; but after all, that which is sung in our churches is
nothing better.
L. Even those, whose compositions are held in estimation, do no more,
than provide and prepare the first light conceits that occur to them on
the subject they are about to write upon; and although they have not
in themselves, union with respect to time, or tendency to any design
whatever, they distribute them in couplets, and notwithstanding one
leads to Flanders, and another to Morocco, they introduce them into the
context; and provided each couplet says something, for this is their
explanation, although it is without life, spirit, or force; nay more,
although it is without order, or direction to any determinate point or
purpose, they say it is good composition; when, in truth, it no more
deserves the name of a composition, than a heap of stones that of an
edifice, or the throwing or huddling together a number of colours, that
of a picture.
LI. Keen sentences, wit, airy pleasantry, and lively conceits, are the
precise ornaments of poetry; but they should not be introduced into a
poem, as if they had been studiously sought after; on the contrary,
they should seem as if they were always in waiting, and ready either
for the poet to lay his hand on them, or to obey his command; who
should pursue the rout he has chalked out for himself, and as he
proceeds on, gather such flowers as he meets on his way, and which grow
naturally in the road through which he travels. This was the practice
of Virgil, Ovid, Horace, and all the illustrious poets of antiquity.
To make couplets, which are no more than an unformed mass of little
conceits, is a thing very easy, and at the same time very useless;
because there is not in them, nor are they capable of containing, any
of the sublime excellences of poetry. Why do I say sublime excellences?
Not even the lowest requisites which are of its essence.
LII. But I have not even yet mentioned the worst part belonging to
the divine canticles; which is, that if not all, a great many of them
are composed in a burlesque stile. This is certainly done with great
discretion; because by this practice, the things appertaining to
God, are converted to things of interlude. What idea can a thousand
extravagances, put in the mouths of Gill and Pasquil, give of the
ineffable mystery of the incarnation? I shall leave it here, for the
thoughts of such an absurdity put me out of all patience; and he to
whom such an indignant abuse, does not of itself appear disgusting, I
shall never be able to persuade or convince, by any arguments whatever.
The following, which is extracted from the learned Letters of
FEYJOO, is an Answer of the Author’s to a Letter from a Friend on
the Subject of Music. The Title he gives to the Letter, is,