Spence’s surprise is again aroused in a way that shows how little he has
reflected on the limits of poetry and painting.
“As to the muses in general,” he says, “it is remarkable that the poets
say but little of them in a descriptive way; much less than might indeed
be expected for deities to whom they were so particularly obliged.”[77]
What is this but expressing surprise that the poets, when they speak of
the muses, do not use the dumb language of the painter? In poetry,
Urania is the muse of astronomy. Her name and her employment reveal her
office. In art she can be recognized only by the wand with which she
points to a globe of the heavens. The wand, the globe, and the attitude
are the letters with which the artist spells out for us the name Urania.
But when the poet wants to say that Urania had long read her death in
the stars,—
Ipsa diu positis lethum prædixerat astris
Urania.[78]
Why should he add, out of regard to the artist,—Urania, wand in hand,
with the heavenly globe before her? Would that not be as if a man, with
the power and privilege of speech, were to employ the signs which the
mutes in a Turkish seraglio had invented to supply the want of a voice?
Spence expresses the same surprise in regard to the moral beings, or
those divinities who, among the ancients, presided over the virtues and
undertook the guidance of human life.[79] “It is observable,” he says,
“that the Roman poets say less of the best of these moral beings than
might be expected. The artists are much fuller on this head; and one who
would know how they were each set off must go to the medals of the Roman
emperors. The poets, in fact, speak of them very often as persons; but
of their attributes, their dress, and the rest of their figure they
generally say but little.”
When a poet personifies abstractions he sufficiently indicates their
character by their name and employment.
These means are wanting to the artist, who must therefore give to his
personified abstractions certain symbols by which they may be
recognized. These symbols, because they are something else and mean
something else, constitute them allegorical figures.
A female figure holding a bridle in her hand, another leaning against a
column, are allegorical beings. But in poetry Temperance and Constancy
are not allegorical beings, but personified abstractions.
Necessity invented these symbols for the artist, who could not otherwise
indicate the significance of this or that figure. But why should the
poet, for whom no such necessity exists, be obliged to accept the
conditions imposed upon the artist?
What excites Spence’s surprise should, in fact, be prescribed as a law
to all poets. They should not regard the limitations of painting as
beauties in their own art, nor consider the expedients which painting
has invented in order to keep pace with poetry, as graces which they
have any reason to envy her. By the use of symbols the artist exalts a
mere figure into a being of a higher order. Should the poet employ the
same artistic machinery he would convert a superior being into a doll.
Conformity to this rule was as persistently observed by the ancients as
its studious violation is by the viciousness of modern poets. All their
imaginary beings go masked, and the writers who have most skill in this
masquerade generally understand least the real object of their work,
which is to let their personages act, and by their actions reveal their
character.
Among the attributes by which the artist individualizes his
abstractions, there is one class, however, better adapted to the poet
than those we have been considering, and more worthy of his use. I refer
to such as are not strictly allegorical, but may be regarded as
instruments which the beings bearing them would or could use, should
they ever come to act as real persons. The bridle in the hand of
Temperance, the pillar which supports Constancy are purely allegorical,
and cannot therefore be used by the poet. The scales in the hand of
Justice are less so, because the right use of the scales is one of the
duties of Justice. The lyre or flute in the hand of a muse, the lance in
the hand of Mars, hammer and tongs in the hands of Vulcan, are not
symbols at all, but simply instruments without which none of the actions
characteristic of these beings could be performed. To this class belong
the attributes sometimes woven by the old poets into their descriptions,
and which, in distinction from those that are allegorical, I would call
the poetical. These signify the thing itself, while the others denote
only some thing similar.[80]