Letters concerning the English Nation/Letter XXI
THE Earl of Rochester's Name is universally known. Mr. de St. Evremont has made very frequent mention of him, but then he has represented this famous Nobleman in no other Light than as the Man of Pleasure, as one who was the Idol of the Fair; but with regard to my self, I would willingly describe in him the Man of Genius, the great Poet. Among other Pieces which display the shining Imagination his Lordship only cou'd boast, he wrote some Satyrs on the same Subjects as those our celebrated Boileau made choice of. I don't know any better Method of improving the Taste, than to compare the Productions of such great Genius's as have exercis'd their Talent on the same Subject. Boileau declaims as follows against human Reason in his Satyr on Man.
Cependant à le voir plein de vapeurs légeres,
Soi-même se bercer de ses propres chimeres,
Lui seul de la nature est la baze & l'appui,
Et le dixieme ciel ne tourne que pour lui.
De tous les Animaux il est ici le Maître;
Qui pourroit le nier, poursuis tu? Moi peut-être.
Ce maître prétendu qui leur donne des loix,
Ce Roi des Animaux, combien à-t'il de Rois?
Yet, pleas'd with idle Whimsies of his Brain,
And puff'd with Pride, this haughty Thing wou'd fain
Be thought himself the only Stay and Prop
That holds the mighty Frame of Nature up.
The Skies and Stars his Properties must seem,
Of all the Creatures he's the Lord, he cries.
And who is there, say you, that dares deny
So own'd a Truth? That may be, Sir, do I.
This boasted Monarch of the World who awes
The Creatures here, and with his Nod gives Laws;
This self-nam'd King, who thus pretends to be
The Lord of all, how many Lords has he?
The Lord Rochester expresses himself, in his Satyr against Man, in pretty near the following Manner: But I must first desire you always to remember, that the Versions I give you from the English Poets are written with Freedom and Latitude; and that the Restraint of our Versification, and the Delicacies of the French Tongue, will not allow a Translator to convey into it the licentious Impetuosity and Fire of the English Numbers.
Cet Esprit que je haïs, cet Esprit plein d'erreur,
Ce n'est pas ms raison, c'est la tienne Docteur.
C'est la raison frivôle, inquiete, orgeuilleuse
Des sages Animaux, rivale dédaigneuse,
Qui croit entr'eux & l'Ange, occuper le milieu,
Et pense être ici bas l'image de son Dieu.
Vil atôme imparfait, qui croit, doute, dispute
Rampe, s'eleve, tombe, & nie encore sa chûte.
Qui nous dit je suis libre, en nous montrant ses fers,
Et dont l'œil trouble & faux, croit percer l'univers.
Allez, reverends Fous, bienheureux Fanatiques,
Compilez bien l'Amas de vos Riens scholastiques,
Peres de Visions, & d'Enigmes sacrez,
Auteurs du Labirinthe, ou vous vous égarez.
Allez obscurement éclaircir vos misteres,
Et courez dans l'école adorer vos chimeres.
Il est d'autres erreurs, il est de ces dévots
Condamné par eux mêmes à l'ennui du repos.
Ce mystique encloîtré, fier de son Indolence
Tranquille, au sein de Dieu. Que peut il faire? Il pense.
Non, tu ne penses point, misérable, tu dors:
Inutile à la terre, & mis au rang des Morts.
Ton esprit énervé croupit dans la Molesse.
Reveille toi, sois hommes, & sors de ton Yvresse.
L'homme est né pour agir, & tu pretens penser? &c.
The Original runs thus:
Hold, mighty Man, I cry all this we know,
And 'tis this very Reason I despise,
This supernatural Gift, that makes a Mite
Think he's the Image of the Infinite;
Comparing his short Life, void of all rest,
To the eternal and the ever blest.
This busy, puzzling Stirrer up of Doubt,
That frames deep Mysteries, then finds 'em out,
Filling, with frantic Crowds of thinking Fools,
Those reverend Bedlams, Colleges and Schools;
Borne on whose Wings, each heavy Sot can pierce
The Limits of the boundless Universe.
So charming Ointments make an old Witch fly,
And bear a crippled Carcass through the Sky.
'Tis this exalted Power, whose Business lies
In Nonsense and Impossibilities.
This made a whimsical Philosopher,
Before the spacious World his Tub prefer;
And we have modern cloyster'd Coxcombs, who
Retire to think, 'cause they have nought to do:
But thoughts are giv'n for Action's Government,
Where Action ceases, Thought's impertinent.
Whether these Ideas are true or false, 'tis certain they are express'd with, an Energy and Fire which form the Poet. I shall be very far from attempting to examine philosophically into these Verses; to lay down the Pencil and take up the Rule and Compass on this Occasion; my only Design in this Letter, being to display the Genius of the English Poets, and therefore I shall continue in the same View.
The celebrated Mr. Waller has been very much talk'd of in France, and Mr. de la Fontaine, St. Evremont and Bayle have written his Elogium, but still his Name only is known. He had much the same Reputation in London as Voiture had in Paris, and in my Opinion deserv'd it better. Voiture was born in an Age that was just emerging from Barbarity; an Age that was still rude and ignorant, the People of which aim'd at Wit, tho' they had not the least Pretensions to it, and sought for Points and Conceits instead of Sentiments. Bristol Stones are more easily found than Diamonds. Voiture, born with an easy and frivolous Genius, was the first who shone in this Aurora of French Literature. Had he come into the World after those great Genius's who spread such a Glory over the Age of Lewis the Fourteenth, he would either have been unknown, wou'd have been despis'd, or wou'd have corrected his Style. Boileau applauded him, but 'twas in his first Satyrs, at a Time when the Taste of that great Poet was not yet form'd. He was young, and in an Age when Persons form a Judgment of Men from their Reputation, and not from their Writings. Besides, Boileau was very partial both in his Encomiums and his Censures. He applauded Segrais, whose Works no Body reads; he abus'd Quinault, whose poetical Pieces every one has got by Heart, and is wholly silent upon La Fontaine. Waller, tho' a better Poet than Voiture, was not yet a finish'd Poet. The Graces breathe in such of Waller's Worths as are writ in a tender Strain, but then they are languid thro' Negligence, and often disfigur'd with false Thoughts. The English had not, in his Time, attain'd the Art of correct Writing. But his serious Compositions exhibit a Strength and Vigour which cou'd not have been expected from the Softness and Effeminacy of his other Pieces. He wrote an Elegy on Oliver Cromwell, which with all it's Faults is nevertheless look'd upon as a Master-Piece. To understand this Copy of Verses, you are to know that the Day Oliver died was remarkable for a great Storm. His Poem begins in this Manner:
Il n'est plus, s'en est fait, soumettons nous au sort,
Le ciel a signalé ce jour par des tempêtes,
Et la voix des tonnerres éclatant sur nos têtes
Vient d'annoncer sa mort.
Par ses derniers soupirs il ébranle cet île;
Cet île que son bras fit trembler tant de fois,
Quand dans le cours de ses Exploits,
Il brisoit la tête des Rois,
Et soumettoit un peuple à son joug seul docile.
Mer tu t'en és troublé; O Mer tes flots émus
Semblent dire en grondant aux plus lointains rivages
Que l'effroi de la terre & ton Maître n'est plus.
Tel au ciel autrefois s'envola Romulus,
Tel il quita la Terre, au milieu des orages,
Tel d'un peuple guerrier il reçut les homages;
Obéï dans sa vie, à sa mort adoré,
Son palais fut un Temple, &c.
We must resign! Heav'n his great Soul does claim
In Storms as loud as his immortal Fame:
His dying Groans, his last Breath shakes our Isle,
And Trees uncut fall for his fun'ral Pile:
About his Palace their broad Roots are tost
Into the Air; so Romulus was lost!
New Rome in such a Tempest miss'd her King,
And from obeying fell to worshipping:
'Twas this Elogium that gave Occassion to the Reply (taken Notice of in Bayle's Dictionary,) which Waller made King Charles the Second. This King, to whom Waller had a little before, (as is usual with Bards and Monarchs) presented a Copy of Verses embroider'd with Praises; reproach'd the Poet for not writing with so much Energy and Fire as when he had applauded the Usurper (meaning Oliver;) Sir, reply'd Waller to the King, we Poets succeed better in Fiction than in Truth. This Answer was not so sincere as that which a Dutch Ambassador made, who, when the same Monarch complain'd that his Masters paid less Regard to him than they had done to Cromwell; Ah Sir! says the Ambassador, Oliver was quite another Man 'Tis not my Intent to give a Commentary on Waller's Character, nor on that of any other Person; for I consider Men after their Death in no other Light than as they were Writers, and wholly disregard every Thing else. I shall only observe, that Waller, tho' born in a Court, and to an Estate of five or fix thousand Pounds Sterling a Year, was never so proud or so indolent as to lay aside the happy Talent which Nature had indulg'd him. The Earls of Dorset and Roscommon, the two Dukes of Buckingham, the Lord Halifax and so many other Noblemen, did not think the Reputation they obtain'd of very great Poets and illustrious Writers, any way derogatory to their Quality. They are more glorious for their Works than for their Titles. These cultivated the polite Arts with as much Assiduity, as tho' they had been their whole Dependance. They also have made Learning appear venerable in the Eyes of the Vulgar, who have need to be led in all Things by the Great; and who nevertheless fashion their Manners less after those of the Nobility (in England I mean) than in any other Country in the World.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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