Part 22

Every virtue has its proper excellence; and the excellence and the dignity which it has, it imparts immediately to every one who loves it. Thus, wisdom is the highest virtue, and it has in it four other virtues; of which one is prudence, another temperance, the third is fortitude, the fourth justice. Wisdom makes its lovers wise, and prudent, and moderate, and patient, and just; and it fills him who loves it with every good quality. This they who possess the power of this world cannot do. They cannot impart any virtue to those who love them, through their wealth, if they have it not in their nature. Hence it is very evident that the rich in worldly wealth have no proper dignity; but the wealth is, come to them from without, and they cannot from without have aught of their own. Consider now, whether any man is the less honorable because many men despise him. But if any man be the less honorable, then is every foolish man the less honorable, the more authority he has, to every wise man. Hence it is sufficiently clear that power and wealth cannot make its possessor the more honorable. But it makes him the less honorable, when it comes to him, if he were not before virtuous. So is also wealth and power the worse, if he who possesses it be not virtuous. Each of them is the more worthless, when they meet with each other.

But I can easily instruct you by an example, so that you may clearly enough perceive that this present life is very like a shadow, and in that shadow no man can attain the true good. If any very great man is driven from his country, or goes on his lord's errand, and so comes to a foreign people, where no man knows him, nor he any man, nor even knows the language, do you think his greatness can make him honorable in that land? Of course it cannot. But if dignity were natural to wealth and were its own, or again if wealth were the rich man's own, then it could not forsake him. Let the man who possessed them be in whatsoever land he might, then his wealth and his dignity would be with him. But because the wealth and the power are not his own, they forsake him; and because they have no natural good in themselves, they go away like a shadow or smoke. Yet the mistaken opinion and fancy of unwise men judge that power is the highest good. It is entirely otherwise. When a great man is either among foreigners, or among wise men in his own country, his wealth counts nothing to either one when they learn that he was exalted for no virtue, but through the applause of the ignorant. But if his power arose from any personal merit, he would keep that even if he lost the power. He would not lose the good that came from nature; that would always follow him and always make him honorable, whatever land he was in....

Worthless and very false is the glory of this world! Concerning this a certain poet formerly sung. When he contemned this present life, he said:--O glory of this world! wherefore do erring men call thee, with false voice, glory, when thou art none!--For man more frequently has great renown, and great glory, and great honor, through the opinion of the unwise, than he has through his deserts. But tell me now, what is more unmeet than this; or why men may not rather be ashamed of themselves than rejoice, when they hear that any one belies them. Though men even rightly praise any one of the good, he ought not the sooner to rejoice immoderately at the people's words. But at this he ought to rejoice, that they speak truth of him. Though he rejoice at this, that they spread his name, it is not the sooner so extensively spread as he persuades himself; for they cannot spread it over all the earth, though they may in some land; for though it be to one known, yet it is to another unknown. Though he in this land be celebrated, yet is he in another not celebrated. Therefore is the people's favor to be held by every man for nothing; since it comes not to every man according to his deserts, nor indeed remains always to any one. Consider first concerning noble birth. If any one boast of it, how vain and how useless is the boast; for every one knows that all men come from one father and from one mother. Or again, concerning the people's favor, and concerning their applause, I know not why we rejoice at it. Though they whom the vulgar applaud be illustrious, yet are they more illustrious and more rightly to be applauded who are dignified by virtues. For no man is really the greater or the more praiseworthy for the excellence of another, or for his virtues, if he himself has it not. Are you ever the fairer for another man's beauty? A man is little the better though he have a good father, if he himself is incapable of anything. Therefore I advise that you rejoice in other men's good and their nobility, but so far only that you ascribe it not to yourself as your own; because every man's good, and his nobility, is more in the mind than in the flesh. This only, indeed, I know of good in nobility: that it shames many a man if he is worse than his ancestors were, and he therefore endeavors with all his power to imitate the manners of some one of the best, and his virtues.

NICHOLAS BOILEAU-DESPRÉAUX

(1636-1711)

The name of Louis XIV. suggests ultra-lavishness in life and taste; a time when French society, surfeited with pleasure, demanded a stimulus of continual novelty in current literature. The natural result was _preciosité_, hyperbole, falsetto sentiment, which ranked the unusual above the natural, clever conceit above careful workmanship. It was tainted with artificiality, and now seems mawkish and superficial.

But Boileau changed all that. Perhaps no author unendowed with genius has ever so influenced literature,

Aside from his work, the man and his life seem essentially commonplace. Nicholas Boileau, who, adding another name to his own,--quite a fashion then,--was usually called Despréaux by his contemporaries, was born in Paris, in the palace court, nearly opposite the royal Sainte Chapelle. He rarely went farther from the city than to the little house at Auteuil, where he spent twenty summers. So he knew his Paris very intimately, and was limited too by knowing only her life and thought. To his repressed youth, guarded by a strict father and a cross servant,--for his mother died in his babyhood,--is sometimes attributed his lack of emotional quality. But his was not an intense nature, and probably no training could have made the didactic poet lyric or passionate. Sincerity and common-sense were his predominating qualities, and he had the rare faculty of obedience to his own instincts. He first studied for the priesthood, but anything like mysticism was too repellent to his matter-of-fact mind. Then, as many of his family had been lawyers, he naturally turned toward that career. But the practice as taught him seemed senseless and arbitrary. Its rational basis upon a logical theory only dawned upon him later. In spite of his literary tastes, there was something extremely mundane about the pleasure-loving bachelor, so fond of good eating and of jovial café revels with Racine, Furetière, Ninon de L'Enclos, and other witty Bohemians. With them he was much happier than in the more fastidious society of the Hôtel Rambouillet, from which he retired after reading aloud a satiric poem not favorably received. Neither was he happy at court, in spite of the favor of Louis XIV., who, entertained by his rough honesty, gave him a pension of two thousand francs. Later, when appointed with Racine to write a history of the reign,--that unfortunate history which was accidentally burned,--we find him an unwilling follower on royal expeditions, his ungainly horsemanship the mock of high-bred courtiers. In fact, he was bourgeois through and through, and not at ease with the aristocrats. He was thrifty bourgeois too; so often called miserly as well as malicious that it is pleasant to remember certain illustrations of his nobler side. The man who offered to resign his own pension if that of old disfavored Corneille might be continued, and when the latter was forced to sell his library, paid him its full value and then left him in lifelong possession,--was generous if he did love to save sous. His was a fine independence, which felt his art too lofty for purchase, and would accept nothing from the booksellers.

He had always wished to be a poet. Feeble of body, asthmatic, and in later life deaf and almost deprived of voice, he found in writing all the charm of a brilliant and ingenious game. Then too he had something definite to say, as all his work consistently testifies. Neither rich nor poor, without family cares, he could give himself unreservedly to authorship. In 1660 he published a satire upon the vices of Paris, which inaugurated his great success. Seven satires appeared in 1666, and he afterward added five others. Their malicious wit, their novel form, the harmonious swing of the couplet rhyme, forced immediate attention. They held up contemporary literary weaknesses to scorn, and indulged in the most merciless personalities, sparing not even his own brother, the poet Gilles Boileau. All retorts upon himself the author bore with complacent superiority which forced his adversaries to feel worsted.

From 1666 to 1774 most of the 'Epistles' were written; and also his best known work, 'L'Art poétique' (The Art of Poetry). In the satires he had been destructive, but he was too practical to be negative. The 'Art of Poetry,' modeled after Horace's work of that name, offers the theory of poetic composition. It is a work in four cantos of couplets: the first setting forth general rules of metrical composition; the second a dissertation upon different forms--ode, sonnet, pastoral, and others; the third treating tragedy, comedy, and epic poetry; and the last consisting of general reflections and advice to authors. Briefly stated, Boileau's desire was to establish literature upon a foundation of unchanging laws. Why did some works speedily die while others endure through the centuries? Because works akin to the eternal classics did not, like much contemporary writing, reflect the trivial and evanescent. They contained what is perennially true of humanity; and stated this in a simple, interesting, and reasonable way. Above all, Boileau demands truth in subject, and the conscientious workmanship which finds the most suitable form of expression. To see a word at the end of a couplet only because it rhymes with the word above it, he finds inexcusable. Without a method resulting in unity, clearness, and proportion, writing is not literature. Later, in his 'Reflections upon Longinus,' Boileau repeated and emphasized these views.

His mock-heroic poem 'Le Lutrin' (The Reading-Desk), ridiculing clerical pettinesses, was strong in realistic descriptions, and was perhaps his most popular work.

A modern poet's definition of poetry as "the heat and height of sane emotion" would have been unintelligible to Boileau. Deficient in imagination, he always saw life on its material side, and was irritated by any display of emotion not reducible to logic. So his poetry is sensible, clear argument in exquisitely careful metre. His great strength lay in a taste which recognized harmony and fitness instinctively. To us his quality is best translated by the dainty, perfect couplets of his imitator Pope. His talent, essentially French in its love of effect and classification, has strewn the language with clever saws, and his works have been studied as authoritative models by generation after generation of students.

But after all, it is less as a poet than as a critic, "the lawgiver of the French Parnassus," that the world has always known Boileau, Before him the art of criticism had hardly existed. Authors had received indiscriminate praise or blame, usually founded upon interested motives or personal bias; but there had been little comparison with an acknowledged standard. This "slashing reviewer in verse," as Saintsbury calls him, was a severe pedagogue, but his public did learn their lesson. He made mistakes, was neither broad-minded nor profound in attainments, was occasionally unjust; but he showed readers why they should praise or blame; taught them appreciation of his greater friends Molière and Racine; and pointed out to authors what their purpose should be. With a greater creative power seeking self-expression, he might have accomplished less in literary reform.

ADVICE TO AUTHORS

From 'The Art of Poetry'

There is a kind of writer pleased with sound, Whose fustian head with clouds is compassed round-- No reason can disperse them with its light; Learn then to think, ere you pretend to write As your idea's clear, or else obscure, The expression follows, perfect or impure; What we conceive with ease we can express; Words to the notions flow with readiness.

Observe the language well in all you write, And swerve not from it in your loftiest flight. The smoothest verse and the exactest sense Displease if uncouth language give offense; A barbarous phrase no reader can approve; Nor bombast, noise, or affectation love. In short, without pure language, what you write Can never yield us profit or delight.

Take time for thinking; never work in haste; And value not yourself for writing fast; A rapid poem, with such fury writ, Shows want of judgment, not abounding wit. More pleased we are to see a river lead His gentle streams along a flowery mead, Than from high banks to hear loud torrents roar, With foamy waters, on a muddy shore. Gently make haste, of labor not afraid; A hundred times consider what you've said; Polish, repolish, every color lay, And sometimes add, but oftener take away.

'Tis not enough, when swarming faults are writ, That here and there are scattered sparks of wit; Each object must be fixed in the true place, And differing parts have corresponding grace; Till, by a curious art disposed, we find One perfect whole of all the pieces joined. Keep to your subject close in all you say, Nor for a sounding sentence ever stray.

The public censure for your writings fear, And to yourself be critic most' severe; Fantastic wits their darling follies love, But find you faithful friends that will reprove, That on your works may look with careful eyes, And of your faults be zealous enemies. Lay by an author's pride and vanity, And from a friend a flatterer descry, Who seems to like, but means not what he says; Embrace true counsel, but suspect false praise.

A sycophant will everything admire; Each verse, each sentence, sets his soul on fire; All is divine! there's not a word amiss! He shakes with joy and weeps with tenderness; He overpowers you with his mighty praise.

Truth never moves in those impetuous ways. A faithful friend is careful of your fame, And freely will your heedless errors blame; He cannot pardon a neglected line, But verse to rule and order will confine, Reprove of words the too-affected sound,-- "Here the sense flags, and your expression's bound, Your fancy tires, and your discourse grows vain; Your term's improper;--make it just and plain." Thus 'tis a faithful friend will freedom use. But authors partial to their darling muse Think to protect it they have just pretense, And at your friendly counsel take offense. "Said you of this, that the expression's flat? Your servant, sir, you must excuse me that," He answers you. "This word has here no grace, Pray leave it out."--"That, sir, 's the properest place."

"This term I like not."--"'Tis approved by all." Thus, resolute not from one fault to fall, If there's a symbol as to which you doubt, 'Tis a sure reason not to blot it out. Yet still he says you may his faults confute, And over him your power is absolute. But of his feigned humility take heed: 'Tis a bait laid to make you hear him read; And when he leaves you, happy in his muse, Restless he runs some other to abuse.

And often finds; for in our scribbling times No fool can lack a fool to praise his rhymes; The flattest work has here within the court Met with some zealous ass for its support; And in all times a forward scribbling fop Has found some greater fool to cry him up.

THE PASTORAL, THE ELEGY, THE ODE, AND THE EPIGRAM From 'The Art of Poetry'

As A fair nymph, when rising from her bed, With sparkling diamonds dresses not her head, But without gold, or pearl, or costly scents, Gathers from neighboring fields her ornaments: Such, lovely in its dress, but plain withal, Ought to appear a perfect Pastoral. Its humble method nothing has of fierce, But hates the rattling of a lofty verse; There native beauty pleases and excites, And never with harsh sounds the ear affrights.

But in this style a poet, often spent In rage, throws by his rural instrument, And vainly, when disordered thoughts abound, Amidst the eclogue makes the trumpet sound; Pan flies alarmed into the neighboring woods, And frighted nymphs dive down into the floods.

Opposed to this, another, low in style, Makes shepherds speak a language low and vile; His writings, flat and heavy, without sound, Kissing the earth and creeping on the ground; You'd swear that Randal, in his rustic strains, Again was quavering to the country swains, And changing, without care of sound or dress, Strephon and Phyllis into Tom and Bess.

'Twixt these extremes 'tis hard to keep the right: For guides take Virgil and read Theocrite; Be their just writings, by the gods inspired, Your constant pattern, practiced and admired. By them alone you'll easy comprehend How poets without shame may condescend To sing of gardens, fields, of flowers and fruit, To stir up shepherds and to tune the flute;

Of love's rewards to tell the happy hour, Daphne a tree, Narcissus make a flower, And by what means the eclogue yet has power To make the woods worthy a conqueror; This of their writings is the grace and flight; Their risings lofty, yet not out of sight.

The Elegy, that loves a mournful style, With unbound hair weeps at a funeral pile; It paints the lover's torments and delights, A mistress flatters, threatens, and invites; But well these raptures if you'll make us see, You must know love as well as poetry.

I hate those lukewarm authors, whose forced fire In a cold style describes a hot desire; That sigh by rule, and raging in cold blood, Their sluggish muse whip to an amorous mood. Their transports feigned appear but flat and vain; They always sigh, and always hug their chain, Adore their prisons and their sufferings bless, Make sense and reason quarrel as they please. 'Twas not of old in this affected tone That smooth Tibullus made his amorous moan; Nor Ovid, when, instructed from above, By nature's rule he taught the art of love. The heart in elegies forms the discourse.

The Ode is bolder and has greater force; Mounting to heaven in her ambitious flight, Amongst the gods and heroes takes delight; Of Pisa's wrestlers tells the sinewy force, And sings the lusty conqueror's glorious course; To Simois's streams does fierce Achilles bring, And makes the Ganges bow to Britain's king. Sometimes she flies like an industrious bee, And robs the flowers by nature's chemistry; Describes the shepherd's dances, feasts, and bliss, And boasts from Phyllis to surprise a kiss, When gently she resists with feigned remorse, That what she grants may seem to be by force. Her generous style at random oft will part, And by a brave disorder shows her art.

Unlike those fearful poets whose cold rime In all their raptures keeps exactest time; That sing the illustrious hero's mighty praise-- Lean writers!--by the terms of weeks and days, And dare not from least circumstances part, But take all towns by strictest rules of art. Apollo drives those fops from his abode; And some have said that once the humorous god, Resolving all such scribblers to confound, For the short Sonnet ordered this strict bound, Set rules for the just measure and the time, The easy-running and alternate rime; But above all, those licenses denied Which in these writings the lame sense supplied, Forbade a useless line should find a place, Or a repeated word appear with grace. A faultless sonnet, finished thus, would be Worth tedious volumes of loose poetry. A hundred scribbling authors, without ground, Believe they have this only phoenix found, When yet the exactest scarce have two or three, Among whole tomes, from faults and censure free; The rest, but little read, regarded less, Are shoveled to the pastry from the press. Closing the sense within the measured time, 'Tis hard to fit the reason to the rime.

The Epigram, with little art composed, Is one good sentence in a distich closed. These points, that by Italians first were prized, Our ancient authors knew not, or despised; The vulgar, dazzled with their glaring light, To their false pleasures quickly they invite; But public favor so increased their pride, They overwhelmed Parnassus with their tide.

The Madrigal at first was overcome, And the proud Sonnet fell by the same doom; With these grave Tragedy adorned her flights, And mournful Elegy her funeral rites, A hero never failed them on the stage: Without his point a lover durst not rage; The amorous shepherds took more care to prove True to his point, than faithful to their love. Each word, like Janus, had a double face, And prose, as well as verse, allowed it place; The lawyer with conceits adorned his speech, The parson without quibbling could not preach. At last affronted reason looked about, And from all serious matters shut them out; Declared that none should use them without shame, Except a scattering, in the epigram-- Provided that by art, and in due time, They turned upon the thought, and not the rime. Thus in all parts disorders did abate; Yet quibblers in the court had leave to prate, Insipid jesters and unpleasant fools, A corporation of dull, punning drolls. 'Tis not but that sometimes a dextrous muse May with advantage a turned sense abuse, And on a word may trifle with address; But above all, avoid the fond excess, And think not, when your verse and sense are lame, With a dull point to tag your epigram.

TO MOLIÈRE

From 'The Satires'

Unequaled genius, whose warm fancy knows No rhyming labor, no poetic throes; To whom Apollo has unlocked his store; Whose coin is struck from pure Parnassian ore; Thou, dextrous master, teach thy skill to me, And tell me, Molière, how to1 rhyme like thee!