Part 1

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THE

WORKS

OF

RICHARD HURD, D.D.

LORD BISHOP OF WORCESTER.

VOL. II.

Printed by J. Nichols and Son, Red Lion Passage, Fleet-Street, London.

THE

WORKS

OF

RICHARD HURD, D.D.

LORD BISHOP OF WORCESTER.

IN EIGHT VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON: PRINTED FOR T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND. 1811.

CRITICAL WORKS.

VOL. II.

Q. HORATII FLACCI

EPISTOLAE

AD

PISONES,

ET

AUGUSTUM:

WITH AN ENGLISH

COMMENTARY AND NOTES:

TO WHICH ARE ADDED

CRITICAL DISSERTATIONS.

CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

Page.

DISSERTATION I. _On the Idea of Universal Poetry._ 1

DISSERTATION II. _On the Provinces of Dramatic Poetry._ 27

DISSERTATION III. _On Poetical Imitation._ 107

DISSERTATION IV. _On the Marks of Imitation._ 243

CRITICAL DISSERTATIONS.

I. ON THE IDEA OF UNIVERSAL POETRY.

II. ON THE PROVINCES OF DRAMATIC POETRY.

III. ON POETICAL IMITATION.

IV. ON THE MARKS OF IMITATION.

VATIBVS ADDERE CALCAR, VT STVDIO MAIORE PETANT HELICONA VIRENTEM. HOR.

A

DISSERTATION

ON THE

IDEA OF UNIVERSAL POETRY.

DISSERTATION I.

ON THE

IDEA OF UNIVERSAL POETRY.

When we speak of poetry, as an _art_, we mean _such a way or method of treating a subject, as is found most pleasing and delightful to us_. In all other kinds of literary composition, pleasure is subordinate to USE: in poetry only, PLEASURE is the end, to which use itself (however it be, for certain reasons, always pretended) must submit.

This _idea_ of the end of poetry is no novel one, but indeed the very same which our great philosopher entertained of it; who gives it as the essential note of this part of learning—THAT IT SUBMITS THE SHEWS OF THINGS TO THE DESIRES OF THE MIND: WHEREAS REASON DOTH BUCKLE AND BOW THE MIND UNTO THE NATURE OF THINGS. For to _gratify the desires of the mind_, is to PLEASE: _Pleasure_ then, in the idea of Lord Bacon, is the ultimate and appropriate end of poetry; for the sake of which it accommodates itself to _the desires of the mind_, and doth not (as other kinds of writing, which are under the controul of _reason_) _buckle and bow the mind to the nature of things_.

But they, who like a principle the better for seeing it in Greek, may take it in the words of an old philosopher, ERATOSTHENES, who affirmed—ποιητὴν πάντα στοχάζεσθαι ψυχαγωγίας, οὐ διδασκαλίας—of which words, the definition given above, is the translation.

This _notion_ of the end of poetry, if kept steadily in view, will unfold to us all the mysteries of the poetic art. There needs but to evolve the philosopher’s idea, and to apply it, as occasion serves. _The art of poetry_ will be, universally, THE ART OF PLEASING; and all its _rules_, but so many MEANS, which experience finds most conducive to that end;

Sic ANIMIS natum inventumque poema JUVANDIS.

Aristotle has delivered and explained these rules, so far as they respect one species of poetry, the _dramatic_, or, more properly speaking, the _tragic_: And when such a writer, as he, shall do as much by the other species, then, and not till then, a complete ART OF POETRY will be formed.

I have not the presumption to think myself, in any degree, equal to this arduous task: But from the idea of this art, as given above, an ordinary writer may undertake to deduce some general conclusions, concerning _Universal Poetry_, which seem preparatory to those nicer disquisitions, concerning its _several sorts or species_.

I. It follows from that IDEA, that it should neglect no advantage, that fairly offers itself, of appearing in such a dress or mode of language, as is most _taking_ and agreeable to us. We may expect then, in the language or style of poetry, a choice of such words as are most sonorous and expressive, and such an arrangement of them as throws the discourse out of the ordinary and common phrase of conversation. Novelty and variety are certain sources of pleasure: a construction of words, which is not vulgar, is therefore more suited to the ends of poetry, than one which we are every day accustomed to in familiar discourse. Some manners of placing them are, also, more agreeable to the ear, than others: Poetry, then, is studious of these, as it would by all means, not manifestly absurd, give pleasure: And hence a certain musical cadence, or what we call _Rhythm_, will be affected by the poet.

But, of all the means of adorning and enlivening a discourse by words, which are infinite, and perpetually grow upon us, as our knowledge of the tongue, in which we write, and our skill in adapting it to the ends of poetry, increases, there is none that pleases more, than _figurative expression_.

By _figurative expression_, I would be understood to mean, here, that which respects _the pictures or images of things_. And this sort of figurative expression is universally pleasing to us, because it tends to impress on the mind the most distinct and vivid conceptions; and truth of representation being of less account in this way of composition, than the liveliness of it, poetry, as such, will delight in tropes and figures, and those the most strongly and forceably expressed. And though the _application_ of figures will admit of great variety, according to the nature of the subject, and the _management_ of them must be suited to the taste and apprehension of the people, to whom they are addressed, yet, in some way or other, they will find a place in all works of poetry; and they who object to the use of them, only shew that they are not capable of being pleased by this sort of composition, or do, in effect, interdict the thing itself.

The ancients looked for so much of this force and spirit of expression in whatever they dignified with the name of _poem_, that Horace tells us it was made a question by some, whether comedy were rightly referred to this class, because it differed only, in point of measure, from mere prose.

Idcirco quidam, comoedia necne poema Esset, quaesivere: quod acer spiritus, ac vis, Nec _verbis_, nec rebus inest: nisi quod pede certo Differt sermoni, sermo merus— Sat. l. I. iv.

But they might have spared their doubt, or at least have resolved it, if they had considered that comedy adopts as much of this _force and spirit of words_, as is consistent with the _nature_ and _degree_ of that pleasure, which it pretends to give. For the name of poem will belong to every composition, whose primary end is to _please_, provided it be so constructed as to afford _all_ the pleasure, which its kind or _sort_ will permit.

II. From the idea of the _end_ of poetry, it follows, that not only figurative and tropical terms will be employed in it, as _these_, by the images they convey, and by the air of novelty which such indirect ways of speaking carry with them, are found most delightful to us, but also that FICTION, in the largest sense of the word, is essential to poetry. For its purpose is, not to delineate truth simply, but to present it in the most taking forms; not to reflect the real face of things, but to illustrate and adorn it; not to represent the fairest objects only, but to represent them in the fairest lights, and to heighten all their beauties up to the possibility of their natures; nay, to _outstrip_ nature, and to address itself to our wildest fancy, rather than to our judgment and cooler sense.

Οὔτ’ ἐπιδερκτὰ τάδ’ ἀνδράσιν, οὔτ’ ἐπακουστὰ, Οὔτε νόῳ περίληπτα—

As sings one of the profession[1], who seems to have understood his privileges very well.

For there is something in the mind of man, sublime and elevated, which prompts it to overlook obvious and familiar appearances, and to feign to itself other and more extraordinary; such as correspond to the extent of its own powers, and fill out all the faculties and capacities of our souls. This restless and aspiring disposition, poetry, first and principally, would indulge and flatter; and thence takes its name of _divine_, as if some power, above _human_, conspired to lift the mind to these exalted conceptions.

Hence it comes to pass, that it deals in apostrophes and invocations; that it impersonates the virtues and vices; peoples all creation with new and living forms; calls up infernal spectres to terrify, or brings down celestial natures to astonish, the imagination; assembles, combines, or connects its ideas, at pleasure; in short, prefers not only the agreeable, and the graceful, but, as occasion calls upon her, the vast, the incredible, I had almost said, the impossible, to the obvious truth and nature of things. For all this is but a feeble expression of that magic virtue of poetry, which our Shakespear has so forcibly described in those well-known lines—

The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rowling, Doth glance from heav’n to earth, from earth to heav’n; And, as Imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen Turns them to shape, and gives to aery nothing A focal habitation and a name.

When the received system of manners or religion in any country, happens to be so constituted as to suit itself in some degree to this extravagant turn of the human mind, we may expect that poetry will seize it with avidity, will dilate upon it with pleasure, and take a pride to erect its specious wonders on so proper and convenient a ground. Whence it cannot seem strange that, of all the forms in which poetry has appeared, that of _pagan fable_, and _gothic romance_, should, in their turns, be found the most alluring to the true poet. For, in defect of these advantages, he will ever adventure, in some sort, to supply their place with others of his own invention; that is, he will mould every system, and convert every subject, into the most amazing and miraculous form.

And this is that I would say, at present, of these two requisites of universal poetry, namely, _that licence of expression_, which we call the _style_ of poetry, and _that licence of representation_, which we call _fiction_. The _style_ is, as it were, the body of poetry; _fiction_, is its soul. Having, thus, taken the privilege of a poet to create a Muse, we have only now to give her a voice, or more properly to _tune_ it, and then she will be in a condition, as one of her favourites speaks, TO RAVISH ALL THE GODS. For

III. It follows from the same idea of the _end_, which poetry would accomplish, that not only Rhythm, but NUMBERS, properly so called, is essential to it. For this Art undertaking to gratify all those desires and expectations of pleasure, that can be reasonably entertained by us, and there being a capacity in language, the instrument it works by, of pleasing us very highly, not only by the sense and imagery it conveys, but by the structure of words, and still more by the harmonious arrangement of them in metrical sounds or numbers, and lastly there being no reason in the nature of the thing itself why these pleasures should not be united, it follows that poetry will not be that which it professes to be, that is, not accomplish its own purpose, unless it delight the ear with numbers, or, in other words, unless it be cloathed in VERSE.

The reader, I dare say, has hitherto gone along with me, in this deduction: but here, I suspect, we shall separate. Yet he will startle the less at this conclusion, if he reflect on the origin and first application of poetry among all nations.

It is every where of the most early growth, preceding every other sort of composition; and being destined for the _ear_, that is, to be either sung, or at least recited, it adapts itself, even in its first rude essays, to that sense of measure and proportion in sounds, which is so natural to us. The hearer’s attention is the sooner gained by this means, his entertainment quickened, and his admiration of the performer’s art excited. Men are ambitious of pleasing, and ingenious in refining upon what they observe will please. So that musical cadences and harmonious sounds, which nature dictated, are farther softened and improved by art, till poetry become as ravishing to the ear, as the images, it presents, are to the imagination. In process of time, what was at first the extemporaneous production of genius or passion, under the conduct of a _natural ear_, becomes the labour of the closet, and is conducted by artificial rules; yet still, with a secret reference to the _sense_ of hearing, and to that acceptation which melodious sounds meet with in the recital of expressive words.

Even the prose-writer (when the art is enough advanced to produce prose) having been accustomed to have his ear consulted and gratified by the poet, catches insensibly the same harmonious affection, tunes his sentences and periods to some agreement with song, and transfers into his coolest narrative, or gravest instruction, something of that music, with which his ear vibrates from poetic impressions.

In short, he leaves measured and determinate numbers, that is, METRE, to the poet, who is to please up to the height of his faculties, and the nature of his work; and only reserves to himself, whose purpose of giving pleasure is subordinate to another end, the looser musical measure, or what we call RHYTHMICAL PROSE.

The reason appears, from this deduction, why _all_ poetry aspires to please by melodious numbers. To _some_ species, it is thought more essential, than to others, because those species continue to be _sung_, that is, are more immediately addressed to the ear; and because they continue to be sung in concert with _musical instruments_, by which the ear is still more indulged. It happened in antient Greece, that even tragedy retained this accompaniment of musical instruments, through all its stages, and even in its most improved state. Whence Aristotle includes _Music_, properly so called, as well as _Rhythm_ and _Metre_, in his idea of the tragic poem. He did this, because he found the drama of his country, OMNIBUS NUMERIS ABSOLUTUM, I mean in possession of all the advantages which could result from the union of _rhythmical_, _metrical_, and _musical_ sounds. Modern tragedy has relinquished part of these: yet still, if it be true that this poem be more pleasing by the addition of the _musical_ art, and there be nothing in the nature of the composition which forbids the use of it, I know not why Aristotle’s idea should not be adopted, and his precept become a standing law of the tragic stage. For this, as every other poem, being calculated and designed properly and ultimately to _please_, whatever contributes to produce that end most perfectly, all circumstances taken into the account, must be thought of the nature or essence of the kind.

But without carrying matters so far, let us confine our attention to metre, or what we call _verse_. This must be essential to every work bearing the name of _poem_, not, because we are only accustomed to call works written in verse, _poems_, but because a work, which professes to please us by every possible and proper method, and yet does not give us this pleasure, which it is in its power, and is no way improper for it, to give, must so far fall short of fulfilling its own engagements to us; that is, it has not all those qualities which we have a right to expect in a work of literary art, of which _pleasure_ is the ultimate _end_.

To explain myself by an obvious instance. History undertakes to INSTRUCT us in the transactions of past times. If it answer this purpose, it does all that is of _its nature_; and, if it find means to _please_ us, besides, by the harmony of its style, and vivacity of its narration, all this is to be accounted as pure gain: if it instructed ONLY, by the truth of its reports, and the perspicuity of its method, it would fully attain its _end_. Poetry, on the other hand, undertakes to PLEASE. If it employ all its powers to this purpose, it effects all that is of _its nature_: if it serve, besides, to inform or instruct us, by the truths it conveys, and by the precepts or examples it inculcates, this service may rather be accepted, than required by us: if it pleased ONLY, by its ingenious fictions, and harmonious structure, it would discharge its office, and answer its _end_.

In this sense, the famous saying of Eratosthenes, quoted above—_that the poet’s aim is to please, not to instruct_—is to be understood: nor does it appear, what reason Strabo could have to take offence at it; however it might be misapplied, as he tells us it was, by that writer. For, though the poets, no doubt (and especially THE POET, whose honour the great Geographer would assert, in his criticism on Eratosthenes) frequently _instruct us_ by a true and faithful representation of things; yet even this instructive air is only assumed for the sake of _pleasing_; which, as the human mind is constituted, they could not so well do, if they did not instruct at all, that is, if _truth_ were wholly neglected by them. So that _pleasure_ is still the ultimate end and _scope_ of the poet’s art; and _instruction_ itself is, in his hands, only one of the _means_, by which he would effect it[2].

I am the larger on this head to shew that it is not a mere verbal dispute, as it is commonly thought, whether poems should be written in verse, or no. Men may include, or not include, the idea of metre in their complex idea of what they call a _Poem_. What I contend for, is, that _metre_, as an instrument of _pleasing_, is essential to every work of poetic art, and would therefore enter into such idea, if men judged of poetry according to its confessed _nature and end_.

Whence it may seem a little strange, that my Lord Bacon should speak of _poesy as a part of learning in measure of words_ FOR THE MOST PART _restrained_; when his own notion, as we have seen above, was, that the essence of poetry consisted _in submitting the shews of things to the desires of the mind_. For these _shews of things_ could only be exhibited to the mind through the _medium of words_: and it is just as natural for the mind to desire that these words should be _harmonious_, as that the images, conveyed in them, should, be _illustrious_; there being a capacity in the mind of being delighted through its organ, the _ear_, as well as through its power, or faculty of _imagination_. And the wonder is the greater, because the great philosopher himself was aware of the _agreement and consort which poetry hath with music_, as well as _with man’s nature and pleasure_, that is, with the pleasure which naturally results from gratifying the imagination. So that, to be consistent with himself, he should, methinks, have said—_that poesy was a part of learning in measure of words_ ALWAYS _restrained_; such _poesy_, as, through the idleness or negligence of writers, is not so restrained, not agreeing to his own idea of _this part of learning_[3].

These reflexions will afford a proper solution of that question, which has been agitated by the critics, “Whether a work of fiction and imagination (such as that of the archbishop of Cambray, for instance) conducted, in other respects, according to the rules of the epic poem, but written in prose, may deserve the name of POEM, or not.” For, though it be frivolous indeed to dispute about names, yet from what has been said it appears, that if metre be not incongruous to the nature of an epic composition, and it afford a pleasure which is not to be found in mere prose, metre is, for that reason, essential to this mode of writing; which is only saying in other words, that an epic composition, to give all the pleasure which it is capable of giving, must be written in _verse_.

But, secondly, this conclusion, I think, extends farther than to such works as aspire to the name of _epic_. For instance, what are we to think of those _novels_ or _romances_, as they are called, that is, fables constructed on some private and familiar subject, which have been so current, of late, through all Europe? As they propose pleasure for their end, and prosecute it, besides, in the way of _fiction_, though without metrical numbers, and generally, indeed, in harsh and rugged prose, one easily sees what their pretensions are, and under what idea they are ambitious to be received. Yet, as they are wholly destitute of measured sounds (to say nothing of their other numberless defects) they can, at most, be considered but as hasty, imperfect, and abortive poems; whether spawned from the dramatic, or narrative species, it may be hard to say—

Unfinish’d things, one knows not what to call, Their generation’s so equivocal.

However, such as they are, these _novelties_ have been generally well received: _Some_, for the real merit of their execution; _Others_, for their amusing subjects; _All_ of them, for the gratification they afford, or promise at least, to a vitiated, palled, and sickly imagination—that last disease of learned minds, and sure prognostic of expiring Letters. But whatever may be the temporary success of these things (for they vanish as fast as they are produced, and are produced as soon as they are conceived) good sense will acknowledge no work of art but such as is composed according to the laws of its _kind_. These KINDS, as arbitrary things as we account them (for I neither forget nor dispute what our best philosophy teaches concerning _kinds_ and _sorts_), have yet so far their foundation in nature and the reason of things, that it will not be allowed us to multiply, or vary them, at pleasure. We may, indeed, mix and confound them, if we will (for there is a sort of literary luxury, which would engross all pleasures at once, even such as are contradictory to each other), or, in our rage for incessant gratification, we may take up with half-formed pleasures, such as come first to hand, and may be administered by any body: But true taste requires chaste, severe, and simple pleasures; and true genius will only be concerned in administering such.

Lastly, on the same principle on which we have decided on these questions concerning the _absolute merits_ of poems in prose, in _all_ languages, we may, also, determine another, which has been put concerning the _comparative merits_ of RHYMED, and what is called BLANK verse, in our _own_, and the other _modern_ languages.