Letters on England [47]
up of doubt,
That frames deep mysteries, then finds them out,
Filling, with frantic crowds of thinking fools,
Those reverend bedlams, colleges, and schools;
Borne on whose wings each heavy sot can pierce
The limits of the boundless universe.
So charming ointments make an old witch fly,
And bear a crippled carcase through the sky.
'Tis this exalted power, whose business lies
In nonsense and impossibilities.
This made a whimsical philosopher
Before the spacious world his tub prefer;
And we have modern cloistered coxcombs, who
Retire to think, 'cause they have naught to do.
But thoughts are given for action's government,
Where action ceases, thought's impertinent."
Whether these ideas are true or false, it is certain they are
expressed with an energy and fire which form the poet. I shall be
very far from attempting to examine philosophically into these
verses, to lay down the pencil, and take up the rule and compass on
this occasion; my only design in this letter being to display the
genius of the English poets, and therefore I shall continue in the
same view.
The celebrated Mr. Waller has been very much talked of in France,
and Mr. De la Fontaine, St. Evremont, and Bayle have written his
eulogium, but still his name only is known. He had much the same
reputation in London as Voiture had in Paris, and in my opinion
deserved it better. Voiture was born in an age that was just
emerging from barbarity; an age that was still rude and ignorant,
the people of which aimed at wit, though they had not the least
pretensions to it, and sought for points and conceits instead of
sentiments. Bristol stones are more easily found than diamonds.
Voiture, born with an easy and frivolous, genius, was the first who
shone in this aurora of French literature. Had he come into the
world after those great geniuses who spread such a glory over the
age of Louis XIV., he would either have been unknown, would have
been despised, or would have corrected his style. Boileau applauded
him, but it was in his first satires, at a time when the taste of
that great poet was not yet formed. He was young, and in an age
when persons form a judgment of men from their reputation, and not
from their writings. Besides, Boileau was very partial both in his
encomiums and his censures. He applauded Segrais, whose works
nobody reads; he abused Quinault, whose poetical pieces every one
has got by heart; and is wholly silent upon La Fontaine. Waller,
though a better poet than Voiture, was not yet a finished poet. The
graces breathe in such of Waller's works as are writ in a tender
strain; but then they are languid through negligence, and often
disfigured with false thoughts. The English had not in his time
attained the art of correct writing. But his serious compositions
exhibit a strength and vigour which could not have been expected
from the softness and effeminacy of his other pieces. He wrote an
elegy on Oliver Cromwell, which, with all its faults, is
nevertheless looked upon as a masterpiece. To understand this copy
of verses you are to know that the day Oliver died was remarkable
for a great storm. His poem begins in this manner:-
"Il n'est plus, s'en est fait, soumettons nous au sort,
Le ciel a signale ce jour par des tempetes,
Et la voix des tonnerres eclatant sur nos tetes
Vient d'annoncer sa mort.
"Par ses derniers soupirs il ebranle cet ile;
Cet ile que son bras fit trembler tant de fois,
Quand dans le cours de ses exploits,
Il brisoit la tete des Rois,
Et soumettoit un peuple a son joug seul docile.
"Mer tu t'en es trouble; O mer tes flots emus
Semblent dire en grondant aux plus lointains rivages
Que l'effroi de la terre et ton maitre n'est plus.
"Tel au ciel autrefois s'envola Romulus,
Tel il quitta la Terre, au milieu des orages,
Tel d'un peuple guerrier il recut les homages;
Obei dans sa vie, sa mort adore,
That frames deep mysteries, then finds them out,
Filling, with frantic crowds of thinking fools,
Those reverend bedlams, colleges, and schools;
Borne on whose wings each heavy sot can pierce
The limits of the boundless universe.
So charming ointments make an old witch fly,
And bear a crippled carcase through the sky.
'Tis this exalted power, whose business lies
In nonsense and impossibilities.
This made a whimsical philosopher
Before the spacious world his tub prefer;
And we have modern cloistered coxcombs, who
Retire to think, 'cause they have naught to do.
But thoughts are given for action's government,
Where action ceases, thought's impertinent."
Whether these ideas are true or false, it is certain they are
expressed with an energy and fire which form the poet. I shall be
very far from attempting to examine philosophically into these
verses, to lay down the pencil, and take up the rule and compass on
this occasion; my only design in this letter being to display the
genius of the English poets, and therefore I shall continue in the
same view.
The celebrated Mr. Waller has been very much talked of in France,
and Mr. De la Fontaine, St. Evremont, and Bayle have written his
eulogium, but still his name only is known. He had much the same
reputation in London as Voiture had in Paris, and in my opinion
deserved it better. Voiture was born in an age that was just
emerging from barbarity; an age that was still rude and ignorant,
the people of which aimed at wit, though they had not the least
pretensions to it, and sought for points and conceits instead of
sentiments. Bristol stones are more easily found than diamonds.
Voiture, born with an easy and frivolous, genius, was the first who
shone in this aurora of French literature. Had he come into the
world after those great geniuses who spread such a glory over the
age of Louis XIV., he would either have been unknown, would have
been despised, or would have corrected his style. Boileau applauded
him, but it was in his first satires, at a time when the taste of
that great poet was not yet formed. He was young, and in an age
when persons form a judgment of men from their reputation, and not
from their writings. Besides, Boileau was very partial both in his
encomiums and his censures. He applauded Segrais, whose works
nobody reads; he abused Quinault, whose poetical pieces every one
has got by heart; and is wholly silent upon La Fontaine. Waller,
though a better poet than Voiture, was not yet a finished poet. The
graces breathe in such of Waller's works as are writ in a tender
strain; but then they are languid through negligence, and often
disfigured with false thoughts. The English had not in his time
attained the art of correct writing. But his serious compositions
exhibit a strength and vigour which could not have been expected
from the softness and effeminacy of his other pieces. He wrote an
elegy on Oliver Cromwell, which, with all its faults, is
nevertheless looked upon as a masterpiece. To understand this copy
of verses you are to know that the day Oliver died was remarkable
for a great storm. His poem begins in this manner:-
"Il n'est plus, s'en est fait, soumettons nous au sort,
Le ciel a signale ce jour par des tempetes,
Et la voix des tonnerres eclatant sur nos tetes
Vient d'annoncer sa mort.
"Par ses derniers soupirs il ebranle cet ile;
Cet ile que son bras fit trembler tant de fois,
Quand dans le cours de ses exploits,
Il brisoit la tete des Rois,
Et soumettoit un peuple a son joug seul docile.
"Mer tu t'en es trouble; O mer tes flots emus
Semblent dire en grondant aux plus lointains rivages
Que l'effroi de la terre et ton maitre n'est plus.
"Tel au ciel autrefois s'envola Romulus,
Tel il quitta la Terre, au milieu des orages,
Tel d'un peuple guerrier il recut les homages;
Obei dans sa vie, sa mort adore,