Part 8

... The Muse so oft her Harp has strung, That not a Mountain rears its Head unsung.

But, he adds, in the very next Line, that every shady Thicket too, grows renown'd in Verse; now one can never help remembering, that Thickets are Births, as it were of Yesterday; the mere Infancy of Woods! and that the oldest Woods in Italy may be growing on Foundations of ruin'd Cities, which flourish'd in the Times he there speaks of; whence it must naturally be inferr'd, that to say, the Italian Thickets grow renown'd in Roman Verse, though the Mountains really do so, is to make Use of Words, without Regard to their Meaning; A Lapse of dangerous Consequence, because, when the Understanding is once shock'd, this most rapturous Elevation of the Mind (as when cold Water is thrown suddenly upon boiling) sinks at once to chilling Flatness, and is considered as mere Gingle and childish Amusement.

No Man, I believe, has read without Pleasure, his fine and lively Descriptions of the Nar, Clitumnus, Mincio, and Albula, but the worst of it is, he winds us so long, in and out, between these Rivers, that he loses himself in their Maeanders, and brings us, at last, to a strange Stream indeed, which is 'immortaliz'd in Song,' and yet 'lost In Oblivion.'

"I look for Streams, immortaliz'd, in Song, Which lost, and buried in Oblivion lie."

The Thought, in this Place, is very lively and just, but quite obscur'd by the Redundancy and Wantonness of the Expression. Had he only said 'lost,' and 'buried,' It might have been urg'd, that the Rivers were dry'd up, and no longer to be found, in their old Channels. But, let them be lost, as to Existence, as certainly as he will, they can never be lost in 'Oblivion,' if they are 'immortaliz'd' in Poetry. 'Immortal' is a favourite Word in this Gentleman's Writings, and leads him, as most Favourites are apt to do, into very frequent Errors.

It is naturally unpleasant, to be detain'd too long in the Maziness of one tedious Thought, express'd many Ways successively. When we read that the 'Tiber is destitute of Strength,' what else can we conclude, but that its Stream is a weak one? But we are oblig'd to hear, also, that it 'derives its Source from an unthrifty Urn': Well, now, may we go on? No; its 'Urn' is not only 'unthrifty,' but its 'Source' is unfruitful. By this time, one can scarce help, enquiring, what new Meaning is convey'd to the Apprehension, by the Multiplication of the Phrases? And not finding any, we have no Reflection to satisfy ourselves with, but, that the strongest Flow of Fancy, is most subject to Whirlpools.

It is from the same unweigh'd Redundancy, and Misapplication of Words, that we so often find this excellent Writer falling into the Anticlimax. As where, for Example, he informs us of Liberty, that she is a Goddess,

"Profuse of Bliss, and pregnant with Delight, Eternal Pleasures, in her Presence reign."

After 'Profusion of Bliss,' that is to say, the heap'd Enjoyment of all Blessings to be wish'd for; how does it cool the Imagination, to read of being 'pregnant with Delight'? Had she been brought to Bed of 'Delight,' it had been but a poor Delivery: For what imports 'Delight,' in Comparison with 'Bliss'? And how much less too is pregnant with Delight,' than 'Delight' in Possession! But then again, after both these, what cou'd the Author hope to teach us, by adding, that 'Pleasure reigns in her Presence.' Can there be 'Bliss' without 'Delight'? Was there ever 'Delight' without 'Pleasure'? It shou'd gradually have ascended thus, Pleasure, Delight, Bliss; But to turn it the direct contrary Way, Bliss, Delight, Pleasure, is setting a poor Meaning upon its Head, and the same thing as to say, Mr. Addison writ incomparably, finely, nay, and tolerably. A Praise, which, I dare say, he wou'd have given no Body Thanks for. One wou'd think there were a kind of Fatality in Liberty, since scarce any Body can meddle either with the Word or the Thing, but they turn all topsey turvey.

But I am sliding insensibly into a Theme, that requires rather a Volume, than a Page or two; I hasten therefore to present you a Paraphrase on the Six Days Work of the Creator, as described to us by Moses, in the First Chapter of Genesis, which, you know, was written, originally, in Verse. It wou'd be difficult, I am sure, to match the Greatness of that inspired Author's Images, out of all the noble Writings, which have honour'd Antiquity; and whose most remarkable Excellencies have been found, in those Parts of their Works, which they elevated, and made more solemn, by a Mixture of their Religion. Our Poetry, in so able a Hand as Yours, might receive heavenly Advantages, from a Practice of like Nature. But I am of Opinion, that no English Verse, except that, which we, I think a little improperly, call Pindaric, can allow the necessary Scope, to so masterless a Subject, as the Creation, of all others the most copious, and illustrious; and which ought to be touch'd with most Discretion, and Choice of Circumstances.

Mr. Milton, Mr. Cowley, Sir Richard Blackmore, and now, lately, a young Gentleman, of a very lively Genius, have severally tried their Strength in this celestial Bow; Sir Richard may be said indeed to have shot farthest, but too often beside the Mark; He will permit me the Liberty of owning my Opinion, that he is too minute, and particular, and rather labours to oppress us with every Image he cou'd raise, than to refresh and enliven us, with the noblest, and most differing. He is also too unmindful of the Dignity of his Subject, and diminishes it by mean, and contemptible Metaphors. Speaking of the Skies, he says they were

Spun thin, and wove, on Nature's finest Loom.

Longinus is very angry with Timaeus for saying of Alexander, that he conquer'd all Asia, in less Time than Isocrates took to write his Panegyric, "Because, says the Critick, it is a pitiful Comparison of Alexander the Great with a Schoolmaster." What then wou'd he have said of Sir Richard's Metaphorical Comparison of the CREATOR Himself, to a Spinster, and a Weaver? The very Beasts of Mr. Milton, who kept Moses in his Eye, carry Infinitely more Majesty, than the Skies of Sir Richard.

The Grassy Clods now calv'd; and half appear'd The tawny Lyon, pawing to get free His hinder Parts; then springs, as broke from Bonds, And, rampant, shakes aloft, his brinded Main! The heaving Leopard, rising, like the Mole, In Heaps the crumbling Earth about him threw!

These animated Images, or pictured Meanings of Poetry, are the forcible Inspirers, which enflame a Reader's Will, and bind down his Attention. They arise from living Words, as Aristotle calls them; that is, from Words so finely chosen, and so Justly ranged, that they call up before a Reader the Spirit of their Sense, in that very Form, and Action, it impressed upon the Writer. But when the Idea, which a Poet strives to raise, is in itself magnificent and striking, the Dawb of Metaphor, or any spumy Colourings of Rhetoric can but deaden, and efface it.

If Sir Richard had said, concerning the Skies, on any other Subject but This, of the Creation, that they were 'spun thin, and wove, on Nature's finest Loom,' the Thought had been so far from Impropriety, as to have been pleasing, and praise-worthy; But when the Image he wou'd set before us, is the Maker of Heaven and Earth, in all the dreadful Majesty of his Omnipotence, producing at a Word, the noblest Part of the Creation, and 'spreading out the Heavens as a Curtain'; In this tremendous Exercise of his Divinity, to compare him to a Weaver, and his Expansion of the Skies, to the low Mechanism of a 'Loom,' is injudiciously to diminish an Idea, he pretends to heighten and illustrate.

I will end with a Word or two concerning the different Measure of the Verse, in which the following Poem is written; and which is apt to disgust Readers, not well grounded in Poetry, because it requires a fuller Degree of Attention than the Couplet, and, as Mr. Cowley has said of it,

... Will no unskilful Touch endure, But flings Writer and Reader too, that sits not sure.

I have, in another Place, endeavoured by Arguments to demonstrate the Preference of this Kind of Verse to any other; I will here observe only, from my Experience of other Writers, that it wins, insinuates, and grows insensibly upon the Relish of a Reader, till the little seeming Harshness, which is supposed to be in it, softens gradually away, and leaves a vigorous Impression behind it, of mixed Majesty and Sweetness.

A Man, who is just beginning to try his Ear in Pindaric, may be compared to a new Scater; He totters strangely at first, and staggers backward and forward; Every Stick, or frozen Stone in his Way, is a Rub that he falls at. But when many repeated Trials have embolden'd him to strike out, and taught the true Poize of Motion, he throws forward his Body with a dextrous Velocity, and becoming ravish'd with the masterly Sweep of his Windings, knows no Pleasure greater, than to feel himself fly through that well-measured Maziness, which he first attempted with Perplexity. But I will detain you no longer, and hasten now to the Poem, which has given me this pleasing Opportunity of telling you how much I am,

Sir,

Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant,

A. HILL

THE AUGUSTAN REPRINT SOCIETY

ANNOUNCES ITS

Publications for the Third Year(1948-1949)

At least two items will be printed from each of the three following groups:

Series IV: Men, Manners, and Critics