Complete Works of Samuel Johnson

by Samuel Johnson

  By the lovers of virtue and of wit it will be solicitously asked, if he now was happy. Let them peruse one of his letters, accidentally preserved by Peck, which I recommend to the consideration of all that may, hereafter, pant for solitude.

  “TO DR. THOMAS SPRAT.

  “Chertsey, May 21, 1665.

  “The first night that I came hither I caught so great a cold, with a defluxion of rheum, as made me keep my chamber ten days. And, two after, had such a bruise on my ribs with a fall, that I am yet unable to move or turn myself in my bed. This is my personal fortune here to begin with. And, besides, I can get no money from my tenants, and have my meadows eaten up every night by cattle put in by my neighbours. What this signifies, or may come to in time, God knows; if it be ominous, it can end in nothing less than hanging. Another misfortune has been, and stranger than all the rest, that you have broke your word with me, and failed to come, even though you told Mr. Bois that you would. This is what they call ‘Monstri simile.’ I do hope to recover my late hurt so farre within five or six days, (though it be uncertain yet whether I shall ever recover it,) as to walk about again. And then, methinks, you and I and ‘the dean’ might be very merry upon St. Ann’s hill. You might very conveniently come hither the way of Hampton Town, lying there one night. I write this in pain, and can say no more: ‘Verbum sapienti.’”

  He did not long enjoy the pleasure, or suffer the uneasiness, of solitude; for he died at the Porch-house in Chertsey, in 1667, in the forty-ninth year of his age.

  He was buried, with great pomp, near Chaucer and Spenser; and king Charles pronounced, “that Mr. Cowley had not left behind him a better man in England.” He is represented, by Dr. Sprat, as the most amiable of mankind; and this posthumous praise may safely be credited, as it has never been contradicted by envy or by faction.

  Such are the remarks and memorials which I have been able to add to the narrative of Dr. Sprat; who, writing when the feuds of the civil war were yet recent, and the minds of either party were easily irritated, was obliged to pass over many transactions in general expressions, and to leave curiosity often unsatisfied. What he did not tell, cannot, however, now be known; I must, therefore, recommend the perusal of his work, to which my narration can be considered only as a slender supplement.

  Cowley, like other poets who have written with narrow views, and, instead of tracing intellectual pleasures in the minds of men, paid their court to temporary prejudices, has been at one time too much praised, and too much neglected at another.

  Wit, like all other things, subject by their nature to the choice of man, has its changes and fashions, and, at different times, takes different forms. About the beginning of the seventeenth century, appeared a race of writers, that may be termed the metaphysical poets; of whom in a criticism on the works of Cowley, it is not improper to give some account.

  The metaphysical poets were men of learning, and, to show their learning was their whole endeavour; but, unluckily resolving to show it in rhyme, instead of writing poetry, they only wrote verses, and, very often, such verses as stood the trial of the finger better than of the ear; for the modulation was so imperfect, that they were only found to be verses by counting the syllables.

  If the father of criticism has rightly denominated poetry, ‘technae mimaetikhae’, an imitative art, these writers will, without great wrong, lose their right to the name of poets; for they cannot be said to have imitated any thing; they neither copied nature nor life; neither painted the forms of matter, nor represented the operations of intellect.

  Those, however, who deny them to be poets, allow them to be wits. Dryden confesses of himself and his contemporaries, that they fall below Donne in wit; but maintains, that they surpass him in poetry.

  If wit be well described by Pope, as being “that which has been often thought, but was never before so well expressed,” they certainly never attained, nor ever sought it; for they endeavoured to be singular in their thoughts, and were careless of their diction. But Pope’s account of wit is undoubtedly erroneous: he depresses it below its natural dignity, and reduces it from strength of thought to happiness of language.

  If, by a more noble and more adequate conception, that be considered as wit which is, at once, natural and new, that which, though not obvious, is, upon its first production, acknowledged to be just; if it be that, which he that never found it, wonders how he missed; to wit of this kind the metaphysical poets have seldom risen. Their thoughts are often new, but seldom natural; they are not obvious, but neither are they just; and the reader, far from wondering that he missed them, wonders more frequently by what perverseness of industry they were ever found.

  But wit, abstracted from its effects upon the hearer, may be more rigorously and philosophically considered as a kind of “discordia concors;” a combination of dissimilar images, or discovery of occult resemblances in things apparently unlike. Of wit, thus defined, they have more than enough. The most heterogeneous ideas are yoked by violence together; nature and art are ransacked for illustrations, comparisons, and allusions; their learning instructs, and their subtilty surprises; but the reader commonly thinks his improvement dearly bought, and, though he sometimes admires, is seldom pleased.

  From this account of their compositions it will be readily inferred, that they were not successful in representing or moving the affections. As they were wholly employed on something unexpected and surprising, they had no regard to that uniformity of sentiment which enables us to conceive and to excite the pains and the pleasure of other minds: they never inquired what, on any occasion, they should have said or done; but wrote rather as beholders, than partakers of human nature; as beings looking upon good and evil, impassive and at leisure; as epicurean deities, making remarks on the actions of men, and the vicissitudes of life, without interest and without emotion. Their courtship was void of fondness, and their lamentation of sorrow. Their wish was only to say what they hoped had never been said before.

  Nor was the sublime more within their reach than the pathetick; for they never attempted that comprehension and expanse of thought which, at once, fills the whole mind, and of which, the first effect is sudden astonishment, and the second, rational admiration. Sublimity is produced by aggregation, and littleness by dispersion. Great thoughts are always general, and consist in positions not limited by exceptions, and in descriptions not descending to minuteness. It is with great propriety that subtilty, which, in its original import, means exility of particles, is taken, in its metaphorical meaning, for nicety of distinction. Those writers who lay on the watch for novelty could have little hope of greatness; for great things cannot have escaped former observation. Their attempts were always analytick; they broke every image into fragments; and could no more represent, by their slender conceits, and laboured particularities, the prospects of nature, or the scenes of life, than he who dissects a sunbeam with a prism can exhibit the wide effulgence of a summer noon.

  What they wanted, however, of the sublime, they endeavoured to supply by hyperbole; their amplification had no limits; they left not only reason but fancy behind them; and produced combinations of confused magnificence, that not only could not be credited, but could not be imagined.

  Yet great labour, directed by great abilities, is never wholly lost; if they frequently threw away their wit upon false conceits, they, likewise, sometimes struck out unexpected truth; if their conceits were far-fetched, they were often worth the carriage. To write on their plan it was, at least, necessary to read and think. No man could be born a metaphysical poet, nor assume the dignity of a writer, by descriptions copied from descriptions, by imitations borrowed from imitations, by traditional imagery, and hereditary similes, by readiness of rhyme, and volubility of syllables.

  In perusing the works of this race of authors, the mind is exercised either by recollection or inquiry; either something already learned is to be retrieved, or something new is to be examined. If their greatness seldom elevates, their acuteness often surprises; if the imaginatio
n is not always gratified, at least the powers of reflection and comparison are employed; and, in the mass of materials which ingenious absurdity has thrown together, genuine wit and useful knowledge may be sometimes found buried, perhaps, in grossness of expression, but useful to those who know their value; and such as, when they are expanded to perspicuity, and polished to elegance, may give lustre to works which have more propriety, though less copiousness of sentiment.

  This kind of writing, which was, I believe, borrowed from Marino and his followers, had been recommended by the example of Donne, a man of very extensive and various knowledge; and by Jonson, whose manner resembled that of Donne more in the ruggedness of his lines than in the cast of his sentiments.

  When their reputation was high, they had, undoubtedly, more imitators than time has left behind. Their immediate successours, of whom any remembrance can be said to remain, were Suckling, Waller, Denham, Cowley, Cleiveland, and Milton. Denham and Waller sought another way to fame, by improving the harmony of our numbers. Milton tried the metaphysick style only in his lines upon Hobson, the carrier. Cowley adopted it, and excelled his predecessors, having as much sentiment, and more musick. Suckling neither improved versification, nor abounded in conceits. The fashionable style remained chiefly with Cowley; Suckling could not reach it, and Milton disdained it.

  Critical remarks are not easily understood without examples; and I have, therefore, collected instances of the modes of writing by which this species of poets, for poets they were called by themselves and their admirers, was eminently distinguished.

  As the authors of this race were, perhaps, more desirous of being admired than understood, they sometimes drew their conceits from recesses of learning, not very much frequented by common readers of poetry. Thus Cowley, on knowledge:

  The sacred tree ‘midst the fair orchard grew;

  The phoenix, truth, did on it rest,

  And built his perfum’d nest:

  That right Porphyrian tree which did true logic shew;

  Each leaf did learned notions give,

  And th’ apples were demonstrative;

  So clear their colour and divine,

  The very shade they cast did other lights outshine.

  On Anacreon continuing a lover in his old age:

  Love was with thy life entwin’d,

  Close as heat with fire is join’d;

  A powerful brand prescrib’d the date

  Of thine, like Meleager’s fate

  Th’ antiperistasis of age

  More enflam’d thy amorous rage.

  In the following verses we have an allusion to a rabbinical opinion concerning manna:

  Variety I ask not: give me one

  To live perpetually upon.

  The person love does to us fit,

  Like manna, has the taste of all in it.

  Thus Donne shows his medicinal knowledge in some encomiastick verses:

  In every thing there naturally grows

  A balsamum to keep it fresh and new,

  If ‘twere not injur’d by extrinsique blows;

  Your youth and beauty are this balm in you.

  But you, of learning and religion,

  And virtue and such ingredients, have made

  A mithridate, whose operation

  Keeps off, or cures what can be done or said.

  Though the following lines of Donne, on the last night of the year, have something in them too scholastick, they are not inelegant:

  This twilight of two years, not past nor next,

  Some emblem is of me, or I of this,

  Who, meteor-like, of stuff and form perplext,

  Whose what and where in disputation is,

  If I should call me any thing, should miss.

  I sum the years and me, and find me not

  Debtor to th’ old, nor creditor to th’ new.

  That cannot say, my thanks I have forgot;

  Nor trust I this with hopes; and yet scarce true

  This bravery is, since these times shew’d me you.

  Yet more abstruse and profound is Donne’s reflection upon man as a microcosm:

  If men be worlds, there is in every one

  Something to answer in some proportion

  All the world’s riches: and in good men, this

  Virtue, our form’s form, and our soul’s soul, is.

  Of thoughts so far-fetched, as to be not only unexpected, but unnatural, all their books are full.

  To a lady, who wrote poesies for rings:

  They, who above do various circles find,

  Say, like a ring, th’ equator heaven does bind.

  When heaven shall be adorn’d by thee,

  (Which then more heaven than ’tis will be,)

  ’Tis thou must write the poesy there,

  For it wanteth one as yet,

  Then the sun pass through ‘t twice a year,

  The sun, which is esteem’d the god of wit. COWLEY.

  The difficulties which have been raised about identity in philosophy, are, by Cowley, with still more perplexity applied to love:

  Five years ago (says story) I lov’d you,

  For which you call me most inconstant now;

  Pardon me, madam, you mistake the man;

  For I am not the same that I was then:

  No flesh is now the same ’twas then in me;

  And that my mind is chang’d yourself may see.

  The same thoughts to retain still, and intents,

  Were more inconstant far; for accidents

  Must of all things most strangely inconstant prove,

  If from one subject they t’ another move;

  My members, then, the father members were,

  From whence these take their birth which now are here.

  If then this body love what th’ other did,

  ’Twere incest, which by nature is forbid.

  The love of different women is, in geographical poetry, compared to travels through different countries:

  Hast thou not found each woman’s breast

  (The land where thou hast travelled)

  Either by savages possest,

  Or wild, and uninhabited?

  What joy could’st take, or what repose,

  In countries so unciviliz’d as those?

  Lust, the scorching dogstar, here

  Rages with immoderate heat;

  Whilst pride, the rugged northern bear,

  In others makes the cold too great.

  And where these are temperate known,

  The soil’s all barren sand, or rocky stone. COWLEY.

  A lover, burnt up by his affection, is compared to Egypt:

  The fate of Egypt I sustain,

  And never feel the dew of rain

  From clouds which in the head appear;

  But all my too much moisture owe

  To overflowings of the heart below. COWLEY.

  The lover supposes his lady acquainted with the ancient laws of augury, and rites of sacrifice:

  And yet this death of mine, I fear,

  Will ominous to her appear:

  When sound in every other part,

  Her sacrifice is found without an heart.

  For the last tempest of my death

  Shall sigh out that too, with my breath.

  That the chaos was harmonized, has been recited of old; but whence the different sounds arose remained for a modern to discover:

  Th’ ungovern’d parts no correspondence knew;

  An artless war from thwarting motions grew;

  Till they to number and fixt rules were brought.

  Water and air he for the tenor chose;

  Earth made the base; the treble,

  flame arose. COWLEY.

  The tears of lovers are always of great poetical account; but Donne has extended them into worlds. If the lines are not easily understood, they may be read again:

  On a round ball

  A workman, that hath copies by, can lay

  An Europe, Afric, and an Asi
a,

  And quickly make that, which was nothing, all.

  So doth each tear,

  Which thee doth wear,

  A globe, yea world, by that impression grow,

  Till thy tears mixt with mine do overflow

  This world, by waters sent from thee my heaven dissolved so.

  On reading the following lines, the reader may, perhaps, cry out,

  “Confusion worse confounded:”

  Here lies a she-sun, and a he-moon here,

  She gives the best light to his sphere,

  Or each is both, and all, and so

  They unto one another nothing owe. DONNE.

  Who but Donne would have thought that a good man is a telescope?

  Though God be our true glass, through which we see

  All, since the being of all things is he,

  Yet are the trunks, which do to us derive

  Things in proportion fit, by perspective

  Deeds of good men; for by their living here,

  Virtues, indeed remote, seem to be near.

  Who would imagine it possible, that in a very few lines so many remote ideas could be brought together?

  Since ’tis my doom, love’s undershrieve,

  Why this reprieve?

  Why doth my she-advowson fly

  Incumbency?

  To sell thyself dost thou intend

  By candle’s end,

  And hold the contrast thus in doubt,

  Life’s taper out?

  Think but how soon the market fails,

  Your sex lives faster than the males;

  And if, to measure age’s span,

  The sober Julian were th’ account of man,

  Whilst you live by the fleet Gregorian. CLEIVELAND.

  Of enormous and disgusting hyperboles, these may be examples:

  By every wind that comes this way,

  Send me, at least, a sigh or two,

  Such and so many I’ll repay

  As shall themselves make winds to get to you. COWLEY.

  In tears I’ll waste these eyes,

  By love so vainly fed;

  So lust of old the deluge punished. COWLEY.