_June_ 26, 1785.
I have sent your book to Mr. Colman, Sir, and must desire you in return
to offer my grateful thanks to Mr. Knight, who has done me an honour, to
which I do not know how I am entitled, by the present of his poetry,
which is very classic, and beautiful, and tender, and of chaste
simplicity.
To _your_ book, Sir, I am much obliged on many accounts; particularly
for having recalled my mind to subjects of delight, to which it was
grown dulled by age and indolence. In consequence of your reclaiming it,
I asked myself whence you feel so much disregard for certain authors
whose fame is established: you have assigned good reasons for
withholding your approbation from some, on the plea of their being
imitators: it was natural, then, to ask myself again, whence they had
obtained so much celebrity. I think I have discovered a cause, which I
do not remember to have seen noted; and _that_ cause I suspect to have
been, that certain of those authors possessed grace:--do not take me for
a disciple of Lord Chesterfield, nor imagine that I mean to erect grace
into a capital ingredient of writing, but I do believe that it is a
perfume that will serve from putrefaction, and is distinct even from
style, which regards expression. _Grace_, I think, belongs to _manner_.
It is from the charm of grace that I believe some authors, not in your
favour, obtained part of their renown; Virgil, in particular: and yet I
am far from disagreeing with you on his subject in general. There is
such a dearth of invention in the Aeneid (and when he did invent, it was
often so foolishly), so little good sense, so little variety, and so
little power over the passions, that I have frequently said, from
contempt for his matter, and from the charm of his harmony, that I
believe I should like his poem better, if I was to hear it repeated, and
did not understand Latin. On the other hand, he has more than harmony:
whatever he utters is said gracefully, and he ennobles his images,
especially in the Georgics; or, at least, it is more sensible there,
from the humility of the subject. A Roman farmer might not understand
his diction in agriculture; but he made a Roman courtier understand
farming, the farming of that age, and could captivate a lord of
Augustus's bedchamber, and tempt him to listen to themes of rusticity.
On the contrary, Statius and Claudian, though talking of war, would
make a soldier despise them as bullies. That graceful manner of thinking
in Virgil seems to me to be more than style, if I do not refine too
much: and I admire, I confess, Mr. Addison's phrase, that Virgil "tossed
about his dung with an air of majesty." A style may be excellent without
grace: for instance, Dr. Swift's. Eloquence may bestow an immortal
style, and one of more dignity; yet eloquence may want that ease, that
genteel air that flows from or constitutes grace. Addison himself was
master of that grace, even in his pieces of humour, and which do not owe
their merit to style; and from that combined secret he excels all men
that ever lived; but Shakspeare, in humour,[1] by never dropping into an
approach towards burlesque and buffoonery, when even his humour
descended to characters that in other hands would have been vulgarly
low. Is not it clear that Will Wimble was a gentleman, though he always
lived at a distance from good company? Fielding had as much humour,
perhaps, as Addison; but, having no idea of grace, is perpetually
disgusting. His innkeepers and parsons are the grossest of their
profession; and his gentlemen are awkward when they should be at their
ease.
[Footnote 1: "_Addison's humour._" Undoubtedly there is much
gentlemanlike humour in Addison's Sir Roger de Coverley; but to say that
he "excels all men that ever lived" in that quality is an exaggeration
hardly to be understood in a man who had seen the "Rivals" and the
"Critic." In the present day no one, it may be supposed, would echo it,
after Scott with the Baron, the Antiquary, Dalgetty, &c., and Thackeray
with Mrs. O'Dowd, Major Pendennis, and Colonel Newcome. The epithet
"_Vafer_" applied to Horace by Persius is not inapplicable to Addison.
There is a slyness about some of his sketches which breathes something
of the Horatian facetiousness. It is remarkable that in all this long
and varied criticism Walpole scarcely mentions _wit_, which he seems to
allow to no one but Horace and Boileau. His comparative denial of it to
Aristophanes and Lucian creates a supposition that his Greek was
inferior to his Latin scholarship. It is not always easy to distinguish
humour from wit; of the two, the former seems the higher quality. Wit is
verbal, conversant with language, combining keenness and terseness of
expression with a keen perception of resemblances or differences; humour
has, comparatively speaking, little to do with language, and is of
different kinds, varying with the class of composition in which it is
found. In one of his "Imaginary Conversations" Savage Landor remarks
that "It is no uncommon thing to hear, 'Such an one has humour rather
than wit.' Here the expression can only mean _pleasantry_, for whoever
has humour has wit, although it does not follow that whoever has wit has
humour.... The French have little humour, because they have little
_character_; they excel all nations in wit, because of their levity and
sharpness."]
The Grecians had grace in everything; in poetry, in oratory, in
statuary, in architecture, and probably, in music and painting. The
Romans, it is true, were their imitators; but, having grace too,
imparted it to their copies, which gave them a merit that almost raises
them to the rank of originals. Horace's "Odes" acquired their fame, no
doubt, from the graces of his manner and purity of his style--the chief
praise of Tibullus and Propertius, who certainly cannot boast of more
meaning than Horace's "Odes."
Waller, whom you proscribe, Sir, owed his reputation to the graces of
his manner, though he frequently stumbled, and even fell flat; but a few
of his smaller pieces are as graceful as possible: one might say that he
excelled in painting ladies in enamel, but could not succeed in
portraits in oil, large as life. Milton had such superior merit, that I
will only say, that if his angels, his Satan, and his Adam have as much
dignity as the Apollo Belvedere, his Eve has all the delicacy and
graces of the Venus of Medicis; as his description of Eden has the
colouring of Albano. Milton's tenderness imprints ideas as graceful as
Guido's Madonnas: and the "Allegro," "Penseroso," and "Comus" might be
denominated from the three Graces; as the Italians gave similar titles
to two or three of Petrarch's best sonnets.
Cowley, I think, would have had grace (for his mind was graceful) if he
had had any ear, or if his task had not been vitiated by the pursuit of
wit; which, when it does not offer itself naturally, degenerates into
tinsel or pertness. Pertness is the mistaken affection of grace, as
pedantry produces erroneous dignity; the familiarity of the one, and the
clumsiness of the other, distort or prevent grace. Nature, that
furnishes samples of all qualities, and on the scale of gradation
exhibits all possible shades, affords us types that are more apposite
than words. The eagle is sublime, the lion majestic, the swan graceful,
the monkey pert, the bear ridiculously awkward. I mention these as more
expressive and comprehensive than I could make definitions of my
meaning; but I will apply the swan only, under whose wings I will
shelter an apology for Racine, whose pieces give me an idea of that
bird. The colouring of the swan is pure; his attitudes are graceful; he
never displeases you when sailing on his proper element. His feet may be
ugly, his notes hissing, not musical, his walk not natural; he can soar,
but it is with difficulty;--still, the impression the swan leaves is
that of grace. So does Racine.
Boileau may be compared to the dog, whose sagacity is remarkable, as
well as its fawning on its master, and its snarling at those it
dislikes. If Boileau was too austere to admit the pliability of grace,
he compensates by good sense and propriety. He is like (for I will drop
animals) an upright magistrate, whom you respect, but whose justice and
severity leave an awe that discourages familiarity. His copies of the
ancients may be too servile: but, if a good translator deserves praise,
Boileau deserves more. He certainly does not fall below his originals;
and, considering at what period he wrote, has greater merit still. By
his imitations he held out to his countrymen models of taste, and
banished totally the bad taste of his predecessors. For his "Lutrin,"[1]
replete with excellent poetry, wit, humour, and satire, he certainly was
not obliged to the ancients. Excepting Horace, how little idea had
either Greeks or Romans of wit and humour! Aristophanes and Lucian,
compared with moderns, were, the one a blackguard, and the other a
buffoon. In my eyes, the "Lutrin," the "Dispensary," and the "Rape of
the Lock," are standards of grace and elegance, not to be paralleled by
antiquity; and eternal reproaches to Voltaire, whose indelicacy in the
"Pucelle" degraded him as much, when compared with the three authors I
have named, as his "Henriade" leaves Virgil, and even Lucan, whom he
more resembles, by far his superiors.
[Footnote 1: The "Lutrin" is a critical poem in six cantos. Lutrin means
a desk; and Hallam, who does not seem to rate it very highly, regards
the plan of it as borrowed from Tassoni's "Secchia rapita," Secchia
meaning a pitcher.]
"The Dunciad" is blemished by the offensive images of the games; but the
poetry appears to me admirable; and, though the fourth book has
obscurities, I prefer it to the three others: it has descriptions not
surpassed by any poet that ever existed, and which surely a writer
merely ingenious will never equal. The lines on Italy, on Venice, on
Convents, have all the grace for which I contend as distinct from
poetry, though united with the most beautiful; and the "Rape of the
Lock," besides the originality of great part of the invention, is a
standard of graceful writing.
In general, I believe that what I call grace, is denominated elegance;
but by grace I mean something higher. I will explain myself by
instances--Apollo is graceful, Mercury is elegant. Petrarch, perhaps,
owed his whole merit to the harmony of his numbers and the graces of his
style. They conceal his poverty of meaning and want of variety. His
complaints, too, may have added an interest, which, had his passion been
successful, and had expressed itself with equal sameness, would have
made the number of his sonnets insupportable. Melancholy in poetry, I am
inclined to think, contributes to grace, when it is not disgraced by
pitiful lamentations, such as Ovid's and Cicero's in their banishments.
We respect melancholy, because it imparts a similar affection, pity. A
gay writer, who should only express satisfaction without variety, would
soon be nauseous.
Madame de Sévigné shines both in grief and gaiety. There is too much of
sorrow for her daughter's absence; yet it is always expressed by new
terms, by new images, and often by wit, whose tenderness has a
melancholy air. When she forgets her concern, and returns to her natural
disposition--gaiety, every paragraph has novelty: her allusions, her
applications are the happiest possible. She has the art of making you
acquainted with all her acquaintance, and attaches you even to the spots
she inhabited. Her language is correct, though unstudied; and, when her
mind is full of any great event, she interests you with the warmth of a
dramatic writer, not with the chilling impartiality of an historian.
Pray read her accounts of the death of Turenne, and of the arrival of
King James in France, and tell me whether you do not know their persons
as if you had lived at the time.
For my part, if you will allow me a word of digression (not that I have
written with any method), I hate the cold impartiality recommended to
Historians: "Si vis me flere, dolendum est Primùm ipsi tibi:"[1] but,
that I may not wander again, nor tire, nor contradict you any more, I
will finish now, and shall be glad if you will dine at Strawberry Hill
next Sunday, and take a bed there, when I will tell you how many more
parts of your book have pleased me, than have startled my opinions, or,
perhaps, prejudices. I have the honour to be, Sir, with regard, &c.
[Footnote 1: A quotation from Horace's "Ars Poetica," 102.]
_MINISTERIAL DIFFICULTIES--THE AFFAIR OF THE NECKLACE IN
PARIS--FLUCTUATING UNPOPULARITY OF STATESMEN--FALLACIES OF HISTORY._