and to every established system of legislation. When certain individuals,
by dint of superior prowess or understanding, had acquired the veneration
of their fellow savages, and erected themselves into divinities on the
ignorance and superstition of mankind; then mythology took place, and
such a swarm of deities arose, as produced a religion replete with
the most shocking absurdities. Those, whom their superior talents had
deified, were found to be still actuated by the most brutal passions
of human nature; and in all probability their votaries were glad to
find such examples to countenance their own vicious inclinations. Thus
fornication, incest, rape, and even bestiality, were sanctified by the
amours of Jupiter, Pan, Mars, Venus, and Apollo. Theft was patronized by
Mercury; drunkenness by Bacchus; and cruelty by Diana. The same heroes
and legislators, those who delivered their country, founded cities,
established societies, invented useful arts, or contributed in any
eminent degree to the security and happiness of their fellow-creatures,
were inspired by the same lusts and appetites, which domineered among
the inferior classes of mankind; therefore every vice incident to human
nature was celebrated in the worship of one or other of these divinities;
and every infirmity consecrated by public feast and solemn sacrifice.
In these institutions the poet bore a principal share. It was his
genius that contrived the plan, that executed the form of worship, and
recorded in verse the origin and adventures of their gods and demi-gods.
Hence the impurities and horrors of certain rites; the groves of Paphos
and Baal Peor; the orgies of Bacchus; the human sacrifices to Moloch
and Diana. Hence the theogony of Hesiod; the theology of Homer; and
those innumerable maxims scattered through the ancient poets, inviting
mankind to gratify their sensual appetites, in imitation of the gods,
who were certainly the best judges of happiness. It is well known, that
Plato expelled Homer from his commonwealth on account of the infamous
characters by which he has distinguished his deities, as well as for some
depraved sentiments which he found diffused through the course of the
Iliad and Odyssey. Cicero enters into the spirit of Plato, and exclaims,
in his first book De Natura Deorum, “Nec multa absurdiora sunt ea, quæ,
poetarum vocibus fusa, ipsâ suavitate nocuerunt: qui, et irâ inflammatos,
et libidine furentes, induxerunt Deos, feceruntque ut eorum bella,
pugnas, prœlia, vulnera videremus: odia præterea, dissidia, discordias,
ortus, interitus, querelas, lamentationes, effusas in omni intemperantiâ
libidines, adulteria, vincula, cum humano genere concubitus, mortalesque
ex immortali procreatos.” “Nor are those things much more absurd, which,
flowing from the poet’s tongue, have done mischief even by the sweetness
of his expression. The poets have introduced gods inflamed with anger and
enraged with lust; and even produced before our eyes their wars, their
wrangling, their duels, and their wounds. They have exposed, besides,
their antipathies, animosities, and dissensions; their origin and death;
their complaints and lamentations; their appetites, indulged to all
manner of excess; their adulteries; their fetters; their amorous commerce
with the human species, and from immortal parents derived a mortal
offspring.”
As the festivals of the gods necessarily produced good cheer, which was
often carried to riot and debauchery, mirth of consequence prevailed; and
this was always attended with buffoonery. Taunts and jokes, and raillery
and repartee, would necessarily ensue; and individuals would contend for
the victory in wit and genius. These contests would in time be reduced to
some regulations, for the entertainment of the people thus assembled, and
some prize would be decreed to him who was judged to excel his rivals.
The candidates for fame and profit being thus stimulated, would task
their talents, and naturally recommend these alternate recriminations to
the audience, by clothing them with a kind of poetical measure, which
should bear a near resemblance to prose. Thus, as the solemn service
of the day was composed in the most sublime species of poetry, such as
the ode or hymn, the subsequent altercation was carried on in iambics,
and gave rise to satire. We are told by the Stagirite, that the highest
species of poetry was employed in celebrating great actions; but the
humbler sort used in this kind of contention;[7] and that in the ages of
antiquity there were some bards that professed heroics, and some that
pretended to iambics only.
Οἱ μεν ἡρωικων, οἱ δε ιαμβων ποιηται.
To these rude beginnings we not only owe the birth of satire, but
likewise the origin of dramatic poetry. Tragedy herself, which afterwards
attained to such dignity as to rival the epic muse, was at first no other
than a trial of crambo, or iambics, between two peasants, and a goat was
the prize, as Horace calls it, _vile certamen ob hircum_; “a mean contest
for a he-goat.” Hence the name τραγωδια, signifying the goat-song, from
τραγος _hircus_, and ωδη _carmen_.
Carmine qui tragico vilem certavit ob hircum,
Mox etiam agrestes satyros nudavit, et asper
Incolumi gravitate jocum tentavit, eo quod
Illecebris erat et grata novitate morandus
Spectator, functusque sacris, et potus et exlex.
_Hor._
The tragic bard, a goat his humble prize,
Bade satyrs naked and uncouth arise;
His muse severe, secure, and undismay’d,
The rustic joke in solemn strain convey’d;
For novelty alone he knew could charm
A lawless crowd, with wine and feasting warm.
Satire then was originally a clownish dialogue in loose iambics, so
called, because the actors were disguised like satyrs, who not only
recited the praises of Bacchus, or some other deity, but interspersed
their hymns with sarcastic jokes and altercation. Of this kind is the
_Cyclop_ of Euripides, in which Ulysses is the principal actor. The
Romans also had their _Atellanæ_, or interludes of the same nature, so
called from the city of _Atella_, where they were first acted: but these
were highly polished in comparison of the original entertainment, which
was altogether rude and innocent. Indeed the _Cyclop_ itself, though
composed by the accomplished Euripides, abounds with such impurity, as
ought not to appear on the stage of any civilized nation.
It is very remarkable that the _Atellanæ_, which were in effect
tragi-comedies, grew into such esteem among the Romans, that the
performers in these pieces enjoyed several privileges which were refused
to the ordinary actors. They were not obliged to unmask, like the other
players, when their action was disagreeable to the audience. They were
admitted into the army, and enjoyed the privileges of free citizens,
without incurring that disgrace, which was affixed to the characters of
other actors.[8] The poet Laberius, who was of equestrian order, being
pressed by Julius Cæsar to act a part in his own performance, complied
with great reluctance, and complained of the dishonour he had incurred,
in his prologue preserved by Macrobius, which is one of the most elegant
morsels of antiquity.
Tragedy and comedy flowed from the same fountain, though their streams
were soon divided. The same entertainment which, under the name of
_tragedy_, was rudely exhibited by clowns, for the prize of a goat, near
some rural altar of Bacchus, assumed the appellation of _comedy_, when it
was transferred into cities, and represented with a little more decorum
in a cart or waggon, that strolled from street to street, as the name
κωμωδια, implies, being derived from κωμη, a street, and ωδη, a poem. To
this origin Horace alludes in these lines:
Dicitur et plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis
Quæ canerent agerentque peruncti fæcibus ora.
Thespis, inventor of dramatic art,
Convey’d his vagrant actors in a cart:
High o’er the crowd the mimic tribe appear’d,
And play’d and sung, with lees of wine besmear’d.
Thespis is called the inventor of the dramatic art, because he raised the
subject from clownish altercation to the character and exploits of some
hero: he improved the language and versification, and relieved the chorus
by the dialogue of two actors. This was the first advance towards that
consummation of genius and art, which constitutes what is now called a
perfect tragedy. The next great improver was Æschylus, of whom the same
critic says,
Post hunc personæ pallæque repertor honestæ
Æschylus, et modicis instravit pulpita tignis;
Et docuit magnumque loqui, nitique cothurno.
Then Æschylus a decent vizard used;
Built a low stage; the flowing robe diffused:
In language more sublime two actors rage,
And in the graceful buskin tread the stage.
The dialogue which Thespis introduced, was called the _episode_, because
it was an addition to the former subject, namely, the praises of Bacchus;
so that now tragedy consisted of two distinct parts, independent of each
other; the old _recitative_, which was the _chorus_, sung in honour of
the gods; and the _episode_, which turned upon the adventures of some
hero. This episode being found very agreeable to the people, Æschylus,
who lived about half a century after Thespis, still improved the
drama, united the chorus to the episode, so as to make them both parts
or members of one fable, multiplied the actors, contrived the stage,
and introduced the decorations of the theatre; so that Sophocles, who
succeeded Æschylus, had but one step to surmount, in order to bring
the drama to perfection. Thus tragedy was gradually detached from its
original institution, which was entirely religious. The priests of
Bacchus loudly complained of this innovation by means of the episode,
which was foreign to the intention of the chorus; and hence arose the
proverb of _Nihil ad Dionysium_, “nothing to the purpose.” Plutarch
himself mentions the episode as a perversion of tragedy, from the honour
of the gods to the passions of men: but, notwithstanding all opposition,
the new tragedy succeeded to admiration; because it was found the most
pleasing vehicle of conveying moral truths, of meliorating the heart, and
extending the interests of humanity.
Comedy, according to Aristotle, is the younger sister of Tragedy. As the
first originally turned upon the praises of the gods, the latter dwelt on
the follies and vices of mankind. Such, we mean, was the scope of that
species of poetry which acquired the name of comedy, in contradiction to
the tragic muse: for in the beginning they were the same. The foundation,
upon which comedy was built, we have already explained to be the practice
of satirical repartee or altercation, in which individuals exposed the
follies and frailties of each other, on public occasions of worship and
festivity.
The first regular plan of comedy is said to have been the _margites_ of
Homer, exposing the idleness and folly of a worthless character: but
of this performance we have no remains. That division, which is termed
the _ancient comedy_, belongs to the labours of Eupolis, Cratinus, and
Aristophanes, who were contemporaries, and flourished at Athens about
four hundred and thirty years before the Christian era. Such was the
licence of the muse at this period, that, far from lashing vice in
general characters, she boldly exhibited the exact portrait of every
individual, who had rendered himself remarkable or notorious by his
crimes, folly, or debauchery. She assumed every circumstance of his
external appearance, his very attire, air, manner, and even his name:
according to the observation of Horace.
——Poetæ
——quorum comœdia prisca virorum est:
Si quis erat dignus describi, quod malus, aut fur,
Quod mœchus foret, aut sicarius, aut alioqui
Famosus, multâ cum libertate notabant.
The comic poets, in its earliest age,
Who form’d the manners of the Grecian stage—
Was there a villain who might justly claim
A better right of being damn’d to fame,
Rake, cut-throat, thief, whatever was his crime,
They boldly stigmatised the wretch in rhyme.
Eupolis is said to have satirized Alcibiades in this manner, and to have
fallen a sacrifice to the resentment of that powerful Athenian: but
others say he was drowned in the Hellespont, during a war against the
Lacedæmonians; and that, in consequence of this accident, the Athenians
passed a decree, that no poet should ever bear arms.
The comedies of Cratinus are recommended by Quintilian for their
eloquence; and Plutarch tells us, that even Pericles himself could not
escape the censure of this poet.
Aristophanes, of whom there are eleven comedies still extant, enjoyed
such a pre-eminence of reputation, that the Athenians by a public decree
honoured him with a crown made of a consecrated olive-tree, which grew
in the citadel, for his care and success in detecting and exposing the
vices of those who governed the commonwealth. Yet this poet, whether
impelled by mere wantonness of genius, or actuated by malice and envy,
could not refrain from employing the shafts of his ridicule against
Socrates, the most venerable character of Pagan antiquity. In the comedy
of the Clouds, this virtuous philosopher was exhibited on the stage under
his own name, in a cloak exactly resembling that which Socrates wore, in
a mask modelled from his features, disputing publicly on the nature of
right and wrong. This was undoubtedly an instance of the most flagrant
licentiousness; and what renders it the more extraordinary, the audience
received it with great applause, even while Socrates himself sat publicly
in the theatre. The truth is, the Athenians were so fond of ridicule,
that they relished it even when employed against the gods themselves,
some of whose characters were very roughly handled by Aristophanes and
his rivals in reputation.
We might here draw a parallel between the inhabitants of Athens and the
natives of England, in point of constitution, genius, and disposition.
Athens was a free state like England, that piqued itself upon the
influence of the democracy. Like England, its wealth and strength
depended upon its maritime power, and it generally acted as umpire in
the disputes that arose among its neighbours. The people of Athens, like
those of England, were remarkably ingenious, and made great progress in
the arts and sciences. They excelled in poetry, history, philosophy,
mechanics, and manufactures; they were acute, discerning, disputatious,
fickle, wavering, rash, and combustible, and, above all other nations in
Europe, addicted to ridicule; a character which the English inherit in a
very remarkable degree.
If we may judge from the writings of Aristophanes, his chief aim was to
gratify the spleen and excite the mirth of his audience; of an audience
too, that would seem to have been uninformed by taste, and altogether
ignorant of decorum; for his pieces are replete with the most extravagant
absurdities, virulent slander, impiety, impurities, and low buffoonery.
The comic muse, not contented with being allowed to make free with the
gods and philosophers, applied her scourge so severely to the magistrates
of the commonwealth, that it was thought proper to restrain her within
bounds by a law, enacting that no person should be stigmatised under
his real name; and thus the chorus was silenced. In order to elude the
penalty of this law, and gratify the taste of the people, the poets began
to substitute fictitious names, under which they exhibited particular
characters in such lively colours, that the resemblance could not
possibly be mistaken or overlooked. This practice gave rise to what is
called the _middle comedy_, which was but of short duration: for the
legislature, perceiving that the first law had not removed the grievance
against which it was provided, issued a second ordinance, forbidding,
under severe penalties, any real or family occurrences to be represented.
This restriction was the immediate cause of improving comedy into a
general mirror, held forth to reflect the various follies and foibles
incident to human nature; a species of writing called the _new comedy_,
introduced by Diphilus and Menander, of whose works nothing but a few
fragments remain.
FOOTNOTES:
[7] Οἱ μεν γαρ σεμνοτεροι, τας καλας εμιμουντο πραξεις——οἱ δε
ευτελεστεροι, τας των φαυλων, πρωτον λογοις ποιουντες.
[8] Cum artem ludicram, scenamque totam probro ducerent, genus id
hominum non modo honore civium reliquorum carere, sed etiam tribu moveri
notatione censoriâ voluerunt.
_Cic. apud S. Aug. de Civit. Dei._
XV.
POETRY DISTINGUISHED FROM OTHER WRITING.
Having communicated our sentiments touching the origin of poetry, by
tracing tragedy and comedy to their common source, we shall now endeavour
to point out the criteria, by which poetry is distinguished from every
other species of writing. In common with other arts, such as statuary
and painting, it comprehends imitation, invention, composition, and
enthusiasm. Imitation is indeed the basis of all the liberal arts:
invention and enthusiasm constitute genius, in whatever manner it may be
displayed. Eloquence of all sorts admits of enthusiasm. Tully says, an
orator should be “vehemens ut procella, excitatus ut torrens, incensus ut
fulmen; tonat, fulgurat, et rapidis eloquentiæ fluctibus cuncta proruit
et proturbat.” “Violent as a tempest, impetuous as a torrent, and glowing
intense like the red bolt of heaven, he thunders, lightens, overthrows,
and bears down all before him, by the irresistible tide of eloquence.”
This is the “mens divinior atque os magna sonaturum” of Horace. This is
the talent,
——Meum qui pectus inaniter angit,
Irritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus implet,
Ut magus.
With passions not my own who fires my heart;
Who with unreal terrors fills my breast,
As with a magic influence possess’d.
We are told, that Michael Angelo Buonaroti used to work at his statues in
a fit of enthusiasm, during which he made the fragments of the stone fly
about him with surprising violence. The celebrated Lully being one day
blamed for setting nothing to music but the languid verses of Quinault,
was animated with the reproach, and running in a fit of enthusiasm to his
harpsichord, sung in recitative, and accompanied four pathetic lines from
the Iphigenia of Racine with such expression, as filled the hearers with
astonishment and horror.
Though versification be one of the criteria that distinguish poetry from
prose, yet it is not the sole mark of distinction. Were the histories of
Polybius and Livy simply turned into verse, they would not become poems;
because they would be destitute of those figures, embellishments, and
flights of imagination, which display the poet’s art and invention. On
the other hand, we have many productions that justly lay claim to the
title of poetry, without having the advantage of versification; witness
the Psalms of David, the Song of Solomon, with many beautiful hymns,
descriptions, and rhapsodies, to be found in different parts of the Old
Testament; some of them the immediate productions of divine inspiration:
witness the Celtic fragments, which have lately appeared in the English
language, and are certainly replete with poetical merit. But though good
versification alone will not constitute poetry, bad versification alone
will certainly degrade and render disgustful the sublimest sentiments
and finest flowers of imagination. This humiliating power of bad verse
appears in many translations of the ancient poets; in Ogilby’s Homer,
Trapp’s Virgil, and frequently in Creech’s Horace. This last indeed is
not wholly devoid of spirit, but it seldom rises above mediocrity; and as
Horace says,
——Mediocribus esse poetis
Non homines, non Dî, non concessêre columnæ.
But God and man and letter’d post denies
That poets ever are of middling size.
How is that beautiful ode, beginning with “Justum et tenacem propositi
virum,” chilled and tamed by the following translation:
He who by principle is sway’d,
In truth and justice still the same,
Is neither of the crowd afraid,
Though civil broils the state inflame;
Nor to a haughty tyrant’s frown will stoop,
Nor to a raging storm, when all the winds are up.
Should nature with convulsions shake,
Struck with the fiery bolts of Jove,
The final doom and dreadful crack
Cannot his constant courage move.
That long Alexandrine—“Nor to a raging storm, when all the winds are
up,” is drawling, feeble, swoln with a pleonasm or tautology, as well
as deficient in the rhyme; and as for “the dreadful crack” in the next
stanza, instead of exciting terror, it conveys a low and ludicrous idea.
How much more elegant and energetic is this paraphrase of the same ode,
inserted in one of the volumes of Hume’s History of England:
The man whose mind, on virtue bent,
Pursues some greatly good intent
With undiverted aim,
Serene beholds the angry crowd;
Nor can their clamours fierce and loud
His stubborn honour tame.
Nor the proud tyrant’s fiercest threat,
Nor storms that from their dark retreat
The lawless surges wake;
Nor Jove’s dread bolt that shakes the pole
The firmer purpose of his soul
With all its power can shake.
Should Nature’s frame in ruins fall,
And Chaos o’er the sinking ball
Resume primeval sway,
His courage Chance and Fate defies,
Nor feels the wreck of earth and skies
Obstruct its destined way.
If poetry exists independent of versification, it will naturally be
asked, how then is it to be distinguished? Undoubtedly by its own
peculiar expression: it has a language of its own, which speaks so
feelingly to the heart, and so pleasingly to the imagination, that its
meaning cannot possibly be misunderstood by any person of delicate
sensations. It is a species of painting with words, in which the figures
are happily conceived, ingeniously arranged, affectingly expressed, and
recommended with all the warmth and harmony of colouring: it consists of
imagery, description, metaphors, similes, and sentiments, adapted with
propriety to the subject, so contrived and executed as to soothe the ear,
surprise and delight the fancy, mend and melt the heart, elevate the
mind, and please the understanding. According to Flaccus:
Aut prodesse volunt, aut delectare poëtæ;
Aut simul et jucunda et idonea dicere vitæ.
Poets would profit or delight mankind,
And with the amusing show the instructive join’d.
Omne tulit punctum, qui miscuit utile dulci,
Lectorem delectando, pariterque monendo.
Profit and pleasure mingled thus with art
To soothe the fancy and improve the heart.
Tropes and figures are likewise liberally used in rhetoric: and some of
the most celebrated orators have owned themselves much indebted to the
poets. Theophrastus expressly recommends the poet for this purpose. From
their source the spirit and energy, the pathetic, the sublime, and the
beautiful, are derived.[9] But these figures must be more sparingly used
in rhetoric than in poetry, and even then mingled with argumentation, and
a detail of facts altogether different from poetical narration. The poet,
instead of simply relating the incident, strikes off a glowing picture
of the scene, and exhibits it in the most lively colours to the eye of
the imagination. “It is reported that Homer was blind,” says Tully in
his Tusculan Questions, “yet his poetry is no other than painting. What
country, what climate, what ideas, battles, commotions, and contests
of men, as well as of wild beasts, has he not painted in such a manner
as to bring before our eyes those very scenes, which he himself could
not behold!”[10] We cannot therefore subscribe to the opinion of some
ingenious critics, who have blamed Mr. Pope for deviating in some
instances from the simplicity of Homer, in his translation of the Iliad
and Odyssey. For example, the Grecian bard says simply, the sun rose;
and his translator gives us a beautiful picture of the sun rising. Homer
mentions a person who played upon the lyre; the translator sets him
before us warbling to the silver strings. If this be a deviation, it is
at the same time an improvement. Homer himself, as Cicero observes above,
is full of this kind of painting, and particularly fond of description
even in situations where the action seems to require haste. Neptune,
observing from Samothrace the discomfiture of the Grecians before Troy,
flies to their assistance, and might have been wafted thither in half
a line; but the bard describes him, first, descending the mountain on
which he sat; secondly, striding towards his palace at Ægæ, and yoking
his horses; thirdly, he describes him putting on his armour; and lastly,
ascending his car, and driving along the surface of the sea. Far from
being disgusted by these delays, we are delighted with the particulars of
the description. Nothing can be more sublime than the circumstance of the
mountain’s trembling beneath the footsteps of an immortal:
——Τρεμε δ’ ουρεα μακρα και ὑλη
Ποσσιν ὑπ’ αθανατοισι Ποσειδαωνος ιοντος.
But his passage to the Grecian fleet is altogether transporting.
Βη δ’ ελααν επι κυματ’, &c.
He mounts the car, the golden scourge applies,
He sits superior, and the chariot flies;
His whirling wheels the glassy surface sweep:
The enormous monsters, rolling o’er the deep,
Gambol around him on the watery way,
And heavy whales in awkward measures play;
The sea subsiding spreads a level plain,
Exults and crowns the monarch of the main;
The parting waves before his coursers fly;
The wandering waters leave his axle dry.
With great veneration for the memory of Mr. Pope, we cannot help
objecting to some lines of this translation. We have no idea of the sea’s
exulting and crowning Neptune, after it had subsided into a level plain.
There is no such image in the original. Homer says, the whales exulted,
and knew or owned their king; and that the sea parted with joy; γηθοσυνη
δε θαλασσα διιστατο. Neither is there a word of the wandering waters; we
therefore think the lines might be thus altered to advantage:
They knew and own’d the monarch of the main;
The sea subsiding spreads a level plain;
The curling waves before his coursers fly:
The parting surface leaves his brazen axle dry.