Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres: Lecture XLIV — Lucan's Pharsalia — Tasso's Jerusalem — Camoens' Lusiad — Fenelon's Telemachus — Voltaire's Henriade — Milton's Paradise Lost
After Homer and Virgil, the next great epic poet of ancient times, who presents himself, is Lucan. He is a poet who deserves our attention, on account of a very peculiar mixture of great beauties, with great faults. Though his Pharsalia discover too little invention, and be conducted in too historical a manner, to be accounted a perfectly regular epic poem, yet it were the mere squeamishness of criticism, to exclude it from the epic class. The boundaries, as I formerly remarked, are far from being ascertained by any such precise limit, that we must refuse the epic name to a poem, which treats of great and heroic adventures, because it is not exactly conformable to the plans of Homer and Virgil. The subject of the Pharsalia carries, undoubtedly, all the epic grandeur and dignity; neither does it want unity of object, viz. the triumph of Caesar over the Roman liberty. As it stands at present, it is, indeed, brought to no proper close. But either time has deprived us of the last books, or it has been left by the author an incomplete work.
Though Lucan’s subject be abundantly heroic, yet I cannot reckon him happy in the choice of it. It has two defects. The one is, that civil wars, especially when as fierce and cruel as those of the Romans, present too many shocking objects to be fit for epic poetry, and give odious and disgusting views of human nature. Gallant and honourable achievements furnish a more proper theme for the epic muse. But Lucan’s genius, it must be confessed, seems to delight in savage scenes; he dwells upon them too much; and not content with those which his subject naturally furnished, he goes out of his way to introduce a long episode of Marius and Sylla’s proscriptions, which abounds with all the forms of atrocious cruelty.
The other defect of Lucan’s subject is, its being too near the times in which he lived. This is a circumstance, as I observed in a former lecture, always unfortunate for a poet; as it deprives him of the assistance of fiction and machinery, and thereby renders his work less splendid and amusing. Lucan has submitted to this disadvantage of his subject; and in doing so, he has acted with more propriety than if he had made an unseasonable attempt to embellish it with machinery; for the fables of the gods would have made a very unnatural mixture with the exploits of Caesar and Pompey; and instead of raising, would have diminished the dignity of such recent and well-known facts.
With regard to characters, Lucan draws them with spirit, and with force. But though Pompey be his professed hero, he does not succeed in interesting us much in his favour. Pompey is not made to possess any high distinction, either for magnanimity in sentiment, or in action; but, on the contrary, is always eclipsed by the superior abilities of Caesar. Cato is, in truth, Lucan’s favourite character; and wherever he introduces him, he appears to rise above himself. Some of the noblest and most conspicuous passages in the work, are such as relate to Cato; either speeches put into his mouth, or descriptions of his behaviour. His speech in particular to Labienus, who urged him to inquire at the oracle of Jupiter Ammon, concerning the issue of the war, (book ix. 564.) deserves to be remarked, as equal, for moral sublimity, to any thing that is to be found in all antiquity.
In the conduct of the story, our author has attached himself too much to chronological order. This renders the thread of his narration broken and interrupted, and makes him hurry us too often from place to place. He is too digressive also; frequently turning aside from his subject, to give us, sometimes, geographical descriptions of a country; sometimes, philosophical disquisitions concerning natural objects; as, concerning the African serpents in the ninth book, and the sources of the Nile in the tenth.
There are in the Pharsalia several very poetical and spirited descriptions. But the author’s chief strength does not lie either in narration or description. His narration is often dry and harsh; his descriptions are often over-wrought, and employed too upon disagreeable objects. His principal merit consists in his sentiments, which are generally noble and striking, and expressed in that glowing and ardent manner, which peculiarly distinguishes him. Lucan is the most philosophical and the most public-spirited poet of all antiquity. He was the nephew of the famous Seneca, the philosopher; was himself a stoic; and the spirit of that philosophy throughout his poem. We must observe too, that he is the only ancient epic poet whom the subject of his poem really and deeply interested. Lucan recounted no fiction. He was a Roman, and had felt all the direful effects of the Roman civil wars, and of that severe despotism which succeeded the loss of liberty. His high and bold spirit made him enter deeply into this subject, and kindle, on many occasions, into the most real warmth. Hence, he abounds in exclamations and apostrophes, which are, almost always, well-timed, and supported with a vivacity and fire that do him no small honour.
But it is the fate of this poet, that his beauties can never be mentioned without their suggesting his blemishes also. As his principal excellency is a lively and glowing genius, which appears, sometimes in his descriptions, and very often in his sentiments, his great defect in both is want of moderation. He carries every thing to an extreme. He knows not where to stop. From an effort to aggrandize his objects, he becomes tumid and unnatural: and it frequently happens, that where the second line of one of his descriptions is sublime, the third, in which he meant to rise still higher, is perfectly bombast. Lucan lived in an age when the schools of the declaimers had begun to corrupt the eloquence and taste of Rome. He was not free from the infection; and too often, instead of showing the genius of the poet, betrays the spirit of the declaimer.
On the whole, however, he is an author of lively and original genius. His sentiments are so high, and his fire, on occasions, so great, as to atone for many of his defects; and passages may be produced from him, which are inferior to none in any poet whatever. The characters, for instance, which he draws of Pompey and Caesar, in the first book, are masterly; and the comparison of Pompey to the aged decaying oak, is highly poetical:
totus popularibus auris
Impelli, plausuque sui gaudere theatri;
Nec reparare novas vires, multumque priori
Credere fortunae; stat magni nominis umbra.
Qualis, frugifero quercus sublimis in agro,
Exuvias veteres populi sacrataque gestans
Dona ducum; nec jam validis radicibus heerens,
Pondere fixa suo est, nudosque per aera ramos
Effundens, trunco, non frondibus, efficit umbram.
At, quamvis primo nutet casura sub Euro,
Et circum silvae firmo se robore tollant,
Sola tamen colitur. Sed non in Caesare tantum
Nomen erat, nec fama ducis, sed nescia virtus
Stare loco, solusque pudor non vincere bello;
Acer et indomitus.” L. i. 132.
But when we consider the whole execution of his poem, we are obliged to pronounce, that his poetical fire was not under the government of either sound judgment or correct taste. His genius had strength, but not tenderness; nothing of what might be called amenity, or sweetness. In his style there is abundance of force: but a mixture of harshness, and frequently of obscurity, occasioned by his desire of expressing himself in a pointed and unusual manner. Compared with Virgil, he may be allowed to have more fire and higher sentiments, but in every thing else, falls infinitely below him, particularly in purity, elegance, and tenderness.
* With gifts and liberal bounty sought for fame,
And lov’d to hear the vulgar shout his name;
In his own theatre rejoic’d to sit,
Amidst the noisy praises of the pit.
Careless of future ills that might betide,
No aid he sought to prop his falling side,
But on his former fortune much rely’d.
Still seem’d he to possess, and fill his place;
But stood the shadow of what once he was
So, in the field with Ceres’ bounty spread,
Uprears some ancient oak his rev’rend head:
Chaplets and sacred gifts his boughs adorn,
And spoils of war by mighty heroes worn,
As Statius and Silius Italicus, though they be poets of the epic class, are too inconsiderable for particular criticism, I proceed next to Tasso, the most distinguished epic poet in modern ages.
His Jerusalem Delivered was published in the year 1574. It is a poem regularly and strictly epic in its whole construction; and adorned with all the beauties that belong to that species of composition. The subject is, the recovery of Jerusalem from the infidels, by the united powers of Christendom; which, in itself, and more especially according to the ideas of Tasso’s age, was a splendid, venerable, and heroic enterprise. The opposition of the Christians to the Saracens, forms an interesting contrast. The subject produces none of those fierce and shocking scenes of civil discord, which hurt the mind in Lucan; but exhibits the efforts of zeal and, inspired by an honourable object. The share which religion possesses in the enterprise, both tends to render it more august, and opens a natural field for machinery, and sublime description. The action, too, lies in a country, and at a period of time, sufficiently remote to allow an intermixture of fabulous tradition and fiction with true history.
In the conduct of the story, Tasso has shown a rich and fertile invention, which, in a poet, is a capital quality. He is full of events; and those, too, abundantly various, and diversified in their kind. He never allows us to be tired by mere war and fighting. He frequently shifts the scene; and, from camps and battles, transports us to more pleasing objects. Sometimes the solemnities of religion; sometimes the intrigues of love; at other times, the adventures of a journey, or even the incidents of pastoral life, relieve and entertain the reader. At the same time, the whole work is artfully connected; and while there is much variety in the parts, there is perfect unity in the plan. The recovery of Jerusalem is the object kept in view through the whole, and with it the poem closes. All the episodes, if we except that of Olindo and Sophronia, in the second book, on which I formerly passed a censure, are sufficiently related to the main subject of the poem.
But the first vigour of his root now gone,
He stands dependent on his weight alone;
All bare his naked branches are display’d,
And with his leafless trunk he forms a shade.
Yet, though the winds his ruin daily threat,
As every blast would heave him from his seat;
Though thousand fairer trees the field supplies,
That, rich in youthful verdure, round him rise.
Fix'd in his ancient seat, he yields to none,
And wears the honours of the grove alone.
But Caesar’s greatness, and his strength, was more
Than past renown and antiquated power;
’Twas not the fame of what he once had been,
Or tales in old records or annals seen;
But ’twas a valour restless, unconfin’d,
Which no success could sate, nor limits bind;
’Twas shame, a soldier’s shame, untaught to yield,
That blush’d for nothing but an ill-fought field. — Rotvjb TASSO’S JERUSALEM.
The poem is enlivened with a variety of characters, and those too both clearly marked and well supported. Godfrey, the leader of the enterprise, prudent, moderate, brave; Tancred, amorous, generous, and gallant, and well contrasted with the fierce and brutal Argantes; Rinaldo, (who is properly the hero of the poem, and is in part copied after Homer’s Achilles,) passionate and resentful, seduced by the allurements of Armida; but a personage, on the whole, of much zeal, honour, and heroism. The brave and high-minded
Solyman, the tender Erminia, the artful and violent Armida, the masculine Clorinda, are all of them well drawn and animated figures. In the characteristical part, Tasso is indeed remarkably distinguished; he is, in this respect, superior to Virgil; and yields to no poet except Homer.
He abounds very much with machinery; and in this part of the work his merit is more dubious. Wherever celestial beings are made to interpose, his machinery is noble. God looking down upon the hosts, and, on different occasions, sending an angel to check the Pagans, and to rebuke the evil spirits, produces a sublime effect. The description of hell too, with the appearance and speech of Satan, in the beginning of the 4th book, is extremely striking; and plainly has been imitated by Milton, though he must be allowed to have improved upon it. But the devils, the enchanters, and the conjurors, act too great a part throughout Tasso’s poem; and form a sort of dark and gloomy machinery, not pleasing to the imagination. The enchanted wood, on which the nodus, or intrigue of the poem, is made in a great measure to depend; the messengers sent in quest of Rinaldo, in order that he may break the charm; their being conducted by a hermit to a cave in the centre of the earth; the wonderful voyage which they make to the fortunate islands; and their recovering Rinaldo from the charms of Armida and voluptuousness; are scenes which, though very amusing, and described with the highest beauty of poetry, yet must be confessed to carry the marvellous to a degree of extravagance.
In general, that for which Tasso is most liable to censure, is a certain romantic vein, which runs through many of the adventures and incidents of his poem. The objects which he presents to us, are always great; but, sometimes, too remote from probability. He retains somewhat of the taste of his age, which was not reclaimed from an extravagant admiration of the stories of knight-errantry; stories, which the wild, but rich and agreeable imagination of Ariosto, had raised into fresh reputation. In apology, however, for Tasso, it may be said, that he is not more marvellous and romantic than either Homer or Virgil. All the difference is, that in the one we find the romance of paganism, in the other, that of chivalry.
With all the beauties of description, and of poetical style, Tasso remarkably abounds. Both his descriptions and his style are much diversified, and well suited to each other. In describing magnificent objects, his style is firm and majestic; when he descends to gay and pleasing ones, such as Erminia’s pastoral retreat in the seventh book, and the arts and beauty of Armida in the fourth book, it is soft and insinuating. Both those descriptions which I have mentioned, are exquisite in their kind. His battles are animated, and very properly varied in the incidents; inferior however to Homer’s, in point of spirit and fire.
In his sentiments, Tasso is not so happy as in his descriptions. It is indeed rather by actions, characters, and descriptions, that he interests us, than by the sentimental part of the work. He is far inferior to Virgil in tenderness. When he aims at being pathetic and sentimental in his speeches, he is apt to become artificial and strained.
With regard to points and conceits, with which he has often been reproached, the censure has been carried too far. Affectation is by no means the general character of Tasso’s manner, which, upon the whole, is masculine, strong, and correct. On some occasions, indeed, especially, as I just now observed, when he seeks to be tender, he degenerates into forced and unnatural ideas; but these are far from being so frequent or common as has been supposed. Threescore. or fourscore lines retrenched from the poem, would fully clear it, I am persuaded, of all such exceptionable passages.
With Boileau, Dacier, and the other French critics of the last age, the humour prevailed of decrying Tasso; and passed from them to some of the English writers. But one would be apt to imagine, they were not much acquainted with Tasso; or at least they must have read him under the influence of strong prejudices. For to me it appears clear, that the Jerusalem is, in rank and dignity, the third regular epic poem in the world; and comes next to the Iliad and iEneid.
Tasso may be justly held inferior to Homer, in simplicity and in fire; to Virgil, in tenderness; to Milton, in daring sublimity of genius; but he yields to no other in any poetical talents; and for fertility of invention, variety of incidents, expression of characters, richness of description, and beauty of style, I know no poet, except the three just named, that can be compared to him.
Ariosto, the great rival of Tasso in Italian poetry, cannot, with any propriety, be classed among the epic writers. The fundamental rule of epic composition is, to recount an heroic enterprise, and to form it into a regular story. Though there is a sort of unity and connexion in the plan of Orlando Furioso, yet, instead of rendering this apparent to the reader, it seems to have been the author’s intention to keep it out of view by the desultory manner in which the poem is carried on, and the perpetual interruptions of the several stories before they are finished. Ariosto appears to have despised all regularity of plan, and to have chosen to give loose reins to a copious and rich, but extravagant fancy. At the same time, there is so much epic matter in the Orlando Furioso, that it would be improper to pass it by without some notice. It unites, indeed, all sorts of poetry; sometimes comic and satiric; sometimes light and licentious; at other times, highly heroic, descriptive, and tender. Whatever strain the poet assumes, he excels in it. He is always master of his subject; seems himself to play with it; and leaves us sometimes at a loss to know whether he be serious or in jest. He is seldom dramatic; sometimes, but not often, sentimental; but in narration and description, perhaps no poet ever went beyond him. He makes every scene which he describes, and every event which he relates, pass before our eyes; and in his selection of circumstances, is eminently picturesque. His style is much varied, always suited to the subject, and adorned with a remarkably smooth and melodious versification.
As the Italians make their boast of Tasso, so do the Portuguese of Camoens; who was nearly contemporary with Tasso, but whose poem was published before the Jerusalem. The subject of it is the first discovery of the East Indies by Vasco de Gama; an enterprise splendid in its nature, and extremely interesting to the countrymen of Camoens, as it laid the foundation of their future wealth and consideration in Europe. The poem opens with Vasco and his fleet appearing on the ocean, between the island of Madagascar and the coast of Æthiopia. After various attempts to land on that coast, they are at last hospitably received in the kingdom of Melinda. Vasco, at the desire of the king, gives him an account of Europe, recites a poetical history of Portugal, and relates all the adventures of the voyage, which had preceded the opening of the poem. This recital takes up three cantos or books. It is well imagined; contains a great many poetical beauties; and has no defect, except that Vasco makes an unseasonable display of learning to the African prince, in frequent allusions to the Greek and Roman histories. Vasco and his countrymen afterwards set forth to pursue their voyage. The storms and distresses which they encounter; their arrival at Calecut, on the Malabar coast; their reception and adventures in that country, and at last their return homewards, fill up the rest of the poem.
The whole work is conducted according to the epic plan. Both the subject and the incidents are magnificent; and, joined with some wildness and irregularity, there appear in the execution much poetic spirit, strong fancy, and bold description; as far as I can judge from translations, without any knowledge of the original. There is no attempt towards painting characters in the poem; Vasco is the hero, and the only personage indeed that makes any figure.
The machinery of the Lusiad is perfectly extravagant; not only is it formed of a singular mixture of Christian ideas, and Pagan mythology; but it is so conducted, that the Pagan gods appear to be the true deities, and Christ and the Blessed Virgin, to be subordinate agents. One great scope of the Portuguese expedition, our author informs us, is to propagate the Christian faith, and to extirpate Mahometanism. In this religious undertaking, the great protector of the Portuguese is Venus, and their great adversary is Bacchus, whose displeasure is excited by Vasco’s attempting to rival his fame in the Indies. Councils of the gods are held, in which Jupiter is introduced as foretelling the downfall of Mahometanism, and the propagation of the Gospel. Vasco, in great distress from a storm, prays most seriously to God; implores the aid of Christ and the Virgin, and begs for such assistance as was given to the Israelites, when they were passing through the Red Sea, and to the Apostle Paul, when he was in hazard of shipwreck. In return to this prayer,
Venus appears, who, discerning the storm to be the work of Bacchus, complains to Jupiter, and procures the winds to be calmed. Such strange and preposterous machinery, shows how much authors have been misled by the absurd opinion, that there could be no epic poetry without the gods of Homer. Towards the end of the work, indeed, the author gives us an awkward salvo for his whole mythology; making the goddess Thetis inform Vasco, that she, and the rest of the heathen deities, are no more than names to describe the operations of Providence.
There is, however, some fine machinery, of a different kind, in the Lusiad. The genius of the river Ganges appearing to Emanuel, king of Portugal, in a dream, inviting that prince to discover his secret springs, and acquainting him, that he was the destined monarch for whom the treasures of the East were reserved, is a happy idea. But the noblest conception of this sort, is in the fifth canto, where Vasco is recounting to the king of Melinda, all the wonders which he met with in his navigation. He tells him, that when the fleet arrived at the Cape of Good Hope, which never before had been doubled by any navigator, there appeared to them, on a sudden, a huge and monstrous phantom, rising out of the sea, in the midst of tempests and thunders, with a head that reached the clouds, and a countenance that filled them with terror. This was the genius, or guardian, of that hitherto unknown ocean. It spoke to them with a voice like thunder; menacing them for invading those seas which he had so long possessed undisturbed; and for daring to explore those secrets of the deep, which never had been revealed to the eye of mortals: required them to proceed no farther; if they should proceed, foretold all the successive calamities that were to befall them; and then, with a mighty noise, disappeared. This is one of the most solemn and striking pieces of machinery that ever was employed; and is sufficient to show that Camoens is a poet, though of an irregular, yet of a bold and lofty imagination *
In reviewing the epic poets, it were unjust to make no mention of the amiable author of the Adventures of Telemachus. His work, though not composed in verse, is justly entitled to be held a poem. The measured poetical prose, in which it is written, is remarkably harmonious; and gives the style nearly as much elevation as the French language is capable of supporting, even in regular verse.
The plan of the work is, in general, well contrived; and is deficient neither in epic grandeur, nor unity of object. The author has entered with much felicity into the spirit and ideas of the ancient poets, particularly into the ancient mythology, which retains more dignity, and makes a better figure in his hands, than in those of any other modern poet. His descriptions are rich and beautiful;
* I have made no mention of the Araucana, an epic poem, in Spanish, composed by Alonzo d’Ercilla, because I am unacquainted with the original language, and have not seen any translation of it. A full account of it is given by Mr Hayley, in the notes upon his essay on epic poetry.
especially of the softer and calmer scenes, for which the genius of Fenelon was best suited; such as the incidents of pastoral life, the pleasures of virtue, or a country flourishing in peace. There is an inimitable sweetness and tenderness in several of the pictures of this kind which he has given.
The best executed part of the work, is the first six books, in which Telemachus recounts his adventures to Calypso. The narration, throughout them, is lively and interesting. Afterwards, especially in the last twelve books, it becomes more tedious and languid; and in the warlike adventures, which are attempted, there is a great defect of vigour. The chief objection against this work being classed with epic poems, arises from the minute details of virtuous policy, into which the author in some places enters; and from the discourses and instructions of Mentor, which recur upon us too often, and too much in the strain of common-place morality. Though these were well suited to the main design of the author, which was to form the mind of a young prince, yet they seem not congruous to the nature of epic poetry; the object of which is to improve us by means of actions, characters, and sentiments, rather than professed and formal instruction.
Several of the epic poets have described a descent into hell; and in the prospects they have given us of the invisible world, we may observe the gradual refinement of men’s notions concerning a state of future rewards and punishments. The descent of Ulysses into hell, in Homer’s Odyssey, presents to us a very indistinct and dreary sort of object. The scene is laid in the country of the Cimmerians, which is always covered with clouds and darkness, at the extremity of the ocean. When the spirits of the dead begin to appear, we scarcely know whether Ulysses is above ground or below it. None of the ghosts, even of the heroes, appear satisfied with their condition in the other world; and when Ulysses endeavours to comfort Achilles, by reminding him of the illustrious figure which he must make in those regions, Achilles roundly tells him that all such speeches are idle; for he would rather be a day-labourer on earth, than have the command of all the dead.
In the sixth book of the iEneid, we discern a much greater refinement of ideas, corresponding to the progress which the world had then made in philosophy. The objects there delineated, are both more clear and distinct, and more grand and awful. The separate mansions of good and of bad spirits, with the punishments of the one, and the employments and happiness of the other, are finely described, and in consistency with the most pure morality. But the visit which Fenelon makes Telemachus pay to the shades, is much more philosophical still than Virgil’s. He employs the same fables and the same mythology; but we find the ancient mythology refined by the knowledge of the true religion, and adorned with that beautiful enthusiasm, for which Fenelon was so distinguished. His account of the happiness of the just is an excellent description in the mystic strain; and very expressive of the genius and spirit of the author.
Voltaire has given us, in his Henriade, a regular epic poem, in French verse. In every performance of that celebrated writer, we may expect to find marks of genius; and, accordingly, that work discovers, in several places, that boldness in the conceptions, and that liveliness and felicity in the expression, for which the author is so remarkably distinguished. Several of the comparisons, in particular, which occur in it, are both new and happy. But, considered upon the whole, I cannot esteem it one of his chief productions; and am of opinion, that he has succeeded infinitely better in tragic than in epic composition. French versification seems ill adapted to epic poetry. Besides its being always fettered by rhyme, the language never assumes a sufficient degree of elevation or majesty; and appears to be more capable of expressing the tender in tragedy, than of supporting the sublime in epic. Hence a feebleness, and sometimes a prosaic flatness, in the style of the Henriade; and whether from this, or from some other cause, the poem often languishes. It does not seize the imagination, nor interest and carry the reader along, with that ardour which ought to be inspired by a sublime and spirited epic poem.
The subject of the Henriade is the triumph of Henry the Fourth over the arms of the League. The action of the poem properly includes only the siege of Paris. It is an action perfectly epic in its nature; great, interesting, and conducted with a sufficient regard to unity, and all the other critical rules. But it is liable to both the defects which I before remarked in Lucan’s Pharsalia. It is founded wholly on civil wars; and presents to us those odious and detestable objects of massacres and assassinations, which throw a gloom over the poem. It is also, like Lucan’s, of too recent a date, and comes too much within the bounds of well-known history. To remedy this last defect, and to remove the appearance of being a mere historian, Voltaire has chosen to mix fiction with truth. The poem, for instance, opens with a voyage of Henry’s to England, and an interview between him and Queen Elizabeth; though every one knows that Henry never was in England, and that these two illustrious personages never met. In facts of such public notoriety, a fiction like this shocks the reader, and forms an unnatural and ill-sorted mixture with historical truth. The episode was contrived, in order to give Henry an opportunity of recounting the former transactions of the civil wars, in imitation of the recital which Æneas makes to Dido in the iEneid. But the imitation was injudicious. Æneas might, with propriety, relate to Dido transactions of which she was either entirely ignorant, or had acquired only an imperfect knowledge by flying reports. But Queen Elizabeth could not but be supposed to be perfectly apprized of all the facts, which the poet makes Henry recite to her.
In order to embellish his subject, Voltaire has chosen to employ a great deal of machinery. But here, also, I am obliged to censure his conduct; for the machinery which he chiefly employs is of the worst kind, and the least suited to an epic poem — that of allegorical beings. Discord, cunning, and love, appear as personages, mix with the human actors, and make a considerable figure in the intrigue of the poem. This is contrary to every rule of rational criticism. Ghosts, angels, and devils, have popular belief on their side, and may be conceived as existing. But every one knows, that allegorical beings are no more than representatives of human dispositions and passions. They may be employed like other personifications and figures of speech; or in a poem, that is wholly allegorical, they may occupy the chief place; they are there in their native and proper region. But in a poem which relates to human transactions, as I had occasion before to remark, when such beings are described as acting along with men, the imagination is confounded; it is divided between phantasms and realities, and knows not on what to rest.
In justice, however, to our author, I must observe, that the machinery of St. Louis, which he also employs, is of a better kind, and possesses real dignity. The finest passage in the Henriade, indeed one of the finest that occurs in any poem, is the prospect of the invisible world, which St. Louis gives to Henry in a dream, in the seventh canto: Death bringing the souls of the departed in succession before God; their astonishment when, arriving from all different countries and religious sects, they are brought into the Divine presence; when they find their superstitions to be false, and have the truth unveiled to them; the palace of the Destinies opened to Henry, and the prospect of his successors which is there given him: are striking and magnificent objects, and do honour to the genius of Voltaire.
Though some of the episodes in this poem are properly extended, yet the narration is, on the whole, too general; the events are too much crowded, and superficially related; which is doubtless, one cause of the poem making a faint impression. The strain of sentiment which runs through it, is high and noble. Religion appears, on every occasion, with great and proper lustre; and the author breathes that spirit of humanity and toleration, which is conspicuous in all his works.
Milton, of whom it remains now to speak, has chalked out for
himself a new and very extraordinary road in poetry. As soon as we open his Paradise Lost, we find ourselves introduced all at once into an invisible world, and surrounded with celestial and infernal beings. Angels and devils are not the machinery, but principal actors, in the poem; and, what in any other composition would be the marvellous, is here only the natural course of events. A subject so remote from the affairs of this world, may furnish ground to those who think such discussions material, to bring it into doubt, whether Paradise Lost can properly be classed among epic poems. By whatever name it is to be called, it is, undoubtedly, one of the highest efforts of poetical genius; and in one great characteristic of the epic poem, majesty and sublimity, it is fully equal to any that bear that name.
How far the author was altogether happy in the choice of his subject, may be questioned. It has led him into very difficult ground. Had he taken a subject that was more human, and less theological; that was more connected with the occurrences of life, and afforded a greater display of the characters and passions of men, his poem would, perhaps, have, to the bulk of readers, been more pleasing and attractive. But the subject which he has chosen, suited the daring sublimity of his genius.* It is a subject for which Milton alone was fitted; and in the conduct of it, he has shown a stretch both of imagination and invention, which is perfectly wonderful. It is astonishing how, from the few hints given us in the sacred Scriptures, he was able to raise so complete and regular a structure, and to fill his poem with such a variety of incidents. Dry and harsh passages sometimes occur. The author appears, upon some occasions, a metaphysician and a divine, rather than a poet. But the general tenour of his work is interesting; he seizes and fixes the imagination; engages, elevates, and affects us as we proceed; which is always a sure test of merit in an epic composition. The artful change of his objects; the scene laid now in earth, now in hell, and now in heaven, affords a sufficient diversity; while unity of plan is, at the same time, perfectly supported. We have still life, and calm scenes, in the employments of Adam and Eve in Paradise; and we have busy scenes, and great actions, in the enterprise of Satan, and the wars of the angels. The innocence, purity, and amiableness of our first parents, opposed to the pride and ambition of Satan, furnishes a happy contrast, that reigns throughout the whole poem; only the conclusion, as I before observed, is too tragic for epic poetry.
The nature of the subject did not admit any great display of characters; but such as could be introduced, are supported with much propriety. Satan, in particular, makes a striking figure, and is, indeed, the best drawn character in the poem. Milton has not described him such as we suppose an infernal spirit to be. He has, more suitably to his own purpose, given him a human, that is, a mixed character, not altogether void of some good qualities. He is brave and faithful to his troops. In the midst of his impiety, he is not without remorse. He is even touched with pity for our first parents; and justifies himself in his design, against them, from the necessity of his situation. He is actuated by ambition and resentment, rather than by pure malice. In short, Milton’s Satan is no worse than many a conspirator or factious chief, that makes a figure in history. The different characters of Beelzebub, Moloch, Belial, are exceedingly well painted in those eloquent speeches which they make in the second book. The good angels, though always described with dignity and propriety, have more uniformity than the infernal spirits in their appearance; though among them, too, the dignity of Michael, the mild condescension of Raphael, and the tried fidelity of Abdiel, form proper characteristical distinctions. The attempt to describe God Almighty himself, and to recount dialogues between the Father
* “He seems to have been well acquainted with his own genius, and to know what it was that nature had bestowed upon him more bountifully than upon others; the power of displaying the vast, illuminating the splendid, enforcing the awful, darkening the gloomy, and aggravating the dreadful. He therefore chose a subject, on which too much could not be said; on which he might tire his fancy, without the censure of extravagance.”
Dr. Johnson’s Life of Milton.
and the Son, was too bold and arduous, and is that wherein our poet, as was to have been expected, has been most unsuccessful. With regard to his human characters, the innocence of our first parents, and their love, are finely and delicately painted. In some of his speeches to Raphael and to Eve, Adam is, perhaps, too knowing and refined for his situation. Eve is more distinctly characterized. Her gentleness, modesty, and frailty, mark very expressively a female character.
Milton’s great and distinguishing excellence is, his sublimity. In this, perhaps, he excels Homer; as there is no doubt of his leaving Virgil, and every other poet, far behind him. Almost the whole of the first and second books of Paradise Lost, are continued instances of the sublime. The prospect of hell and of the fallen host, the appearance and behaviour of Satan, the consultation of the infernal chiefs, and Satan’s flight through chaos to the borders of this world, discover the most lofty ideas that ever entered into the conception of any poet. In the sixth book, also, there is much grandeur, particularly in the appearance of the Messiah; though some parts of that book are censurable; and the witticisms of the devils upon the effect of their artillery, form an intolerable blemish. Milton’s sublimity is of a different kind from that of Homer. Homer’s is generally accompanied with fire and impetuosity: Milton’s possesses more of a calm and amazing grandeur. Homer warms and hurries us along; Milton fixes us in a state of astonishment and elevation. Homer’s sublimity appears most in the description of actions; Milton’s, in that of wonderful and stupendous objects.
But though Milton is most distinguished for his sublimity, yet there is also much of the beautiful, the tender, and the pleasing, in many parts of his work. When the scene is laid in Paradise, the imagery is always of the most gay and smiling kind. His descriptions show an uncommonly fertile imagination; and in his similes, he is, for the most part, remarkably happy. They are seldom improperly introduced; seldom either low or trite. They generally present to us images taken from the sublime or the beautiful class of objects; if they have any faults, it is their alluding too frequently to matters of learning, and to fables of antiquity. In the latter part of Paradise Lost, there must be confessed to be a falling off. With the fall of our first parents, Milton’s genius seems to decline. Beauties, however, there are, in the concluding books, of the tragic kind. The remorse and contrition of the guilty pair, and their lamentations over Paradise, when they are obliged to leave it, are very moving. The last episode, of the angel’s showing Adam the fate of his posterity, is happily imagined; but, in many places, the execution is languid.
Milton’s language and versification have high merit. His style is full of majesty, and wonderfully adapted to his subject. His blank verse is harmonious and diversified, and affords the most complete example of the elevation which our language is capable of attaining by the force of numbers. It does not flow, like the French verse, in tame, regular, uniform melody, which soon tires the ear; but is sometimes smooth and flowing, sometimes rough; varied in its cadence, and intermixed with discords, so as to suit the strength and freedom of epic composition. Neglected and prosaic lines, indeed, we sometimes meet with; but, in a work so long, and in the main so harmonious, these may be forgiven.
On the whole, Paradise Lost is a poem that abounds with beauties of every kind, and that justly entitles its author to a degree of fame not inferior to any poet; though it must be also admitted to have many inequalities. It is the lot of almost every high and daring genius, not to be uniform and correct. Milton is too frequently theological and metaphysical; sometimes harsh in his language; often too technical in his words, and affectedly ostentatious of his learning. Many of his faults must be attributed to the pedantry of the age in which he lived. He discovers a vigour, a grasp of genius, equal to every thing that is great; if, at some times, he falls much below himself, at other times he rises above every poet of the ancient or modern world.