The Poetical Works of John Dryden Volume Ii Part 33

"Wincing she was, as is a jolly colt, Long as a mast, and upright as a bolt."

I have almost done with Chaucer when I have answered some objections relating to my present work. I find some people are offended that I have turned these tales into modern English, because they think them unworthy of my pains, and look on Chaucer as a dry, old-fas.h.i.+oned wit not worth reviving. I have often heard the late Earl of Leicester say that Mr Cowley himself was of that opinion, who, having read him over at my lord's request declared he had no taste of him. I dare not advance my opinion against the judgment of so great an author, but I think it fair, however, to leave the decision to the public. Mr Cowley was too modest to set up for a dictator, and being shocked, perhaps, with his old style, never examined into the depth of his good sense. Chaucer, I confess, is a rough diamond, and must first be polished ere he s.h.i.+nes.

I deny not, likewise, that, living in our early days of poetry, he writes not always of a piece, but sometimes mingles trivial things with those of greater moment. Sometimes also, though not often, he runs riot, like Ovid, and knows not when he has said enough. But there are more great wits besides Chaucer, whose fault is their excess of conceits, and those ill sorted. An author is not to write all he can, but only all he ought. Having observed this redundancy in Chaucer (as it is an easy matter for a man of ordinary parts to find a fault in one of greater), I have not tied myself to a literal translation, but have often omitted what I judged unnecessary, or not of dignity enough to appear in the company of better thoughts. I have presumed farther, in some places, and added somewhat of my own where I thought my author was deficient, and had not given his thoughts their true l.u.s.tre, for want of words in the beginning of our language. And to this I was the more emboldened, because (if I may be permitted to say it of myself) I found I had a soul congenial to his, and that I had been conversant in the same studies.

Another poet, in another age, may take the same liberty with my writings, if, at least, they live long enough to deserve correction. It was also necessary sometimes to restore the sense of Chaucer, which was lost or mangled in the errors of the press. Let this example suffice at present. In the story of Palamon and Arcite, where the temple of Diana is described, you find these verses in all the editions of our author:--

"There saw I Dane turned into a tree, I mean not the G.o.ddess Diane, But Venus' daughter, which that hight Dane:"

Which, after a little consideration, I knew was to be reformed into this sense, that Daphne, the daughter of Peneus, was turned into a tree. I durst not make thus bold with Ovid, lest some future Milbourn should arise, and say I varied from my author because I understood him not.

But there are other judges who think I ought not to have translated Chaucer into English, out of a quite contrary notion. They suppose there is a certain veneration due to his old language, and that it is little less than profanation and sacrilege to alter it. They are farther of opinion, that somewhat of his good sense will suffer in this transfusion, and much of the beauty of his thoughts will infallibly be lost, which appear with more grace in their old habit. Of this opinion was that excellent person whom I mentioned, the late Earl of Leicester, who valued Chaucer as much as Mr Cowley despised him. My lord dissuaded me from this attempt (for I was thinking of it some years before his death), and his authority prevailed so far with me, as to defer my undertaking while he lived, in deference to him; yet my reason was not convinced with what he urged against it. If the first end of a writer be to be understood, then, as his language grows obsolete, his thoughts must grow obscure: _multa renascentur quae nunc cecidere, cadentque, quae nunc sunt in honore vocabula, si volet usus, quem penes arbitrium est et jus et norma loquendi._ When an ancient word for its sound and significancy deserves to be revived, I have that reasonable veneration for antiquity to restore it. All beyond this is superst.i.tion. Words are not like landmarks, so sacred as never to be removed; customs are changed, and even statutes are silently repealed, when the reason ceases for which they were enacted. As for the other part of the argument, that his thoughts will lose their original beauty by the innovation of words; in the first place, not only their beauty, but their being is lost, where they are no longer understood, which is the present case. I grant that something must be lost in all transfusion, that is, in all translations; but the sense will remain, which would otherwise be lost, or at least be maimed, when it is scarce intelligible, and that but to a few. How few are there who can read Chaucer, so as to understand him perfectly! And if imperfectly, then with less profit and no pleasure.

'Tis not for the use of some old Saxon friends that I have taken these pains with him: let them neglect my version, because they have no need of it. I made it for their sakes who understand sense and poetry as well as they, when that poetry and sense is put into words which they understand. I will go further, and dare to add, that what beauties I lose in some places, I give to others which had them not originally; but in this I may be partial to myself; let the reader judge, and I submit to his decision. Yet I think I have just occasion to complain of them, who, because they understand Chaucer, would deprive the greater part of their countrymen of the same advantage, and h.o.a.rd him up, as misers do their grandam, gold, only to look on it themselves, and hinder others from making use of it. In sum, I seriously protest that no man ever had, or can have, a greater veneration for Chaucer than myself. I have translated some part of his works, only that I might perpetuate his memory, or at least refresh it, amongst my countrymen. If I have altered him anywhere for the better, I must at the same time acknowledge that I could have done nothing without him: _Facile est inventis addere_ is no great commendation, and I am not so vain to think I have deserved a greater. I will conclude what I have to say of him singly, with this one remark: a lady of my acquaintance, who keeps a kind of correspondence with some authors of the fair s.e.x in France, has been informed by them that Mademoiselle de Scudery, who is as old as Sibyl, and inspired like her by the same G.o.d of poetry, is at this time translating Chaucer into modern French; from which I gather that he has been formerly translated into the old Provencal, (for how she should come to understand old English I know not). But the matter of fact being true, it makes me think that there is something in it like fatality; that, after certain periods of time, the fame and memory of great wits should be renewed, as Chaucer is both in France and England. If this be wholly chance, 'tis extraordinary, and I dare not call it more for fear of being taxed with superst.i.tion.

Boccace comes last to be considered, who, living in the same age with Chaucer, had the same genius, and followed the same studies. Both writ novels, and each of them cultivated his mother tongue. But the greatest resemblance of our two modern authors being in their familiar style, and pleasing way of relating comical adventures, I may pa.s.s it over, because I have translated nothing from Boccace of that nature. In the serious part of poetry, the advantage is wholly on Chaucer's side; for though the Englishman has borrowed many tales from the Italian, yet it appears that those of Boccace were not generally of his own making, but taken from authors of former ages, and by him only modelled; so that what there was of invention in either of them may be judged equal. But Chaucer has refined on Boccace, and has mended the stories which he has borrowed, in his way of telling; though prose allows more liberty of thought, and the expression is more easy when unconfined by numbers.

Our countryman carries weight, and yet wins the race at disadvantage. I desire not the reader should take my word, and, therefore, I will set two of their discourses on the same subject, in the same light, for every man to judge betwixt them. I translated Chaucer first, and, amongst the rest, pitched on the Wife of Bath's tale, not daring, as I have said, to adventure on her prologue, because it is too licentious.

There Chaucer introduces an old woman of mean parentage, whom a youthful knight of n.o.ble blood was forced to marry, and consequently loathed her.

The crone being in bed with him on the wedding night, and finding his aversion, endeavours to win his affection by reason, and speaks a good word for herself, (as who could blame her?) in hope to mollify the sullen bridegroom. She takes her topics from the benefits of poverty, the advantages of old age and ugliness, the vanity of youth, and the silly pride of ancestry and t.i.tles without inherent virtue, which is the true n.o.bility. When I had closed Chaucer I returned to Ovid and translated some more of his fables, and by this time had so far forgotten the Wife of Bath's tale, that, when I took up Boccace, unawares I fell on the same argument of preferring virtue to n.o.bility of blood and t.i.tles, in the story of Sigismunda, which I had certainly avoided for the resemblance of the two discourses, if my memory had not failed me. Let the reader weigh them both, and if he thinks me partial to Chaucer, it is in him to right Boccace.

I prefer in our countryman, far above all his other stories, the n.o.ble poem of Palamon and Arcite, which is of the Epic kind, and perhaps not much inferior to the Ilias, or the aeneis. The story is more pleasing than either of them, the manners as perfect, the diction as poetical, the learning as deep and various, and the disposition full as artful,--only it includes a greater length of time, as taking up seven years at least; but Aristotle has left undecided the duration of the action, which, yet, is easily reduced into the compa.s.s of a year by a narration of what preceded the return of Palamon to Athens. I had thought, for the honour of our nation, and more particularly for his, whose laurel, though unworthy, I have worn after him, that this story was of English growth, and Chaucer's own; but I was undeceived by Boccace, for, casually looking on the end of his seventh Giornata, I found Dioneo (under which name he shadows himself) and Fiametta (who represents his mistress, the natural daughter of Robert king of Naples) of whom these words are spoken: _Dioneo e la Fiametta granpezza contarono insieme d'Arcita e di Palamone_: by which it appears that this story was written before the time of Boccace, but the name of its author being wholly lost, Chaucer is now become an original, and I question not but the poem has received many beauties by pa.s.sing through his n.o.ble hands. Besides this tale, there is another of his own invention, after the manner of the Provencals, called "The Flower and the Leaf," with which I was so particularly pleased, both for the invention and the moral, that I cannot hinder myself from recommending it to the reader.

As a corollary to this preface, in which I have done justice to others, I owe somewhat to myself: not that I think it worth my time to enter the lists with one Milbourn, and one Blackmore, but barely to take notice, that such men there are, who have written scurrilously against me without any provocation. Milbourn, who is in orders, pretends, amongst the rest, this quarrel to me, that I have fallen foul on priesthood. If I have, I am only to ask pardon of good priests, and am afraid his part of the reparation will come to little. Let him be satisfied that he shall not be able to force himself upon me for an adversary. I contemn him too much to enter into compet.i.tion with him. His own translations of Virgil have answered his criticisms on mine. If (as they say he has declared in print) he prefers the version of Ogilby to mine, the world has made him the same compliment: for it is agreed on all hands that he writes even below Ogilby: that, you will say, is not easily to be done; but what cannot Milbourn bring about? I am satisfied, however, that while he and I live together, I shall not be thought the worst poet of the age. It looks as if I had desired him underhand to write so ill against me; but upon my honest word I have not bribed him to do me this service, and am wholly guiltless of his pamphlet. 'Tis true, I should be glad, if I could persuade him to continue his good offices, and write such another critique on any thing of mine; for I find by experience he has a great stroke with the reader, when he condemns any of my poems, to make the world have a better opinion of them. He has taken some pains with my poetry; but n.o.body will be persuaded to take the same with his.

If I had taken to the church (as he affirms, but which was never in my thoughts), I should have had more sense, if not more grace, than to have turned myself out of my benefice by writing libels on my paris.h.i.+oners.

But his account of my manners and my principles are of a piece with his cavils and his poetry; and so I have done with him for ever.

As for the City Bard, or Knight Physician, I hear his quarrel to me is, that I was the author of Absalom and Achitophel, which he thinks is a little hard on his fanatic patrons in London.

But I will deal the more civilly with his two poems, because nothing ill is to be spoken of the dead; and therefore peace be to the manes of his Arthurs! I will only say, that it was not for this n.o.ble knight that I drew the plan of an Epic poem on King Arthur, in my preface to the translation of Juvenal. The guardian angels of kingdoms were machines too ponderous for him to manage; and therefore he rejected them, as Dares did the whirlbats of Eryx, when they were thrown before him by Entellus. Yet from that preface he plainly took his hint; for he began immediately upon the story, though he had the baseness not to acknowledge his benefactor, but instead of it, to traduce me in a libel.

I shall say the less of Mr Collier, because in many things he has taxed me justly; and I have pleaded guilty to all thoughts and expressions of mine, which can be truly argued of obscenity, profaneness, or immorality; and retract them. If he be my enemy, let him triumph; if he be my friend, as I have given him no personal occasion to be otherwise, he will be glad of my repentance. It becomes me not to draw my pen in the defence of a bad cause, when I have so often drawn it for a good one. Yet it were not difficult to prove, that in many places he has perverted my meaning by his glosses; and interpreted my words into blasphemy and bawdry, of which they were not guilty; besides that he is too much given to horse-play in his raillery; and comes to battle like a dictator from the plough. I will not say, the zeal of G.o.d's house has eaten him up; but I am sure it has devoured some part of his good-manners and civility. It might also be doubted whether it were altogether zeal which prompted him to this rough manner of proceeding: perhaps it became not one of his function to rake into the rubbish of ancient and modern plays: a divine might have employed his pains to better purpose than in the nastiness of Plautus and Aristophanes; whose examples, as they excuse not me, so it might be possibly supposed that he read them not without some pleasure. They who have written commentaries on those poets, or on Horace, Juvenal, and Martial, have explained some vices, which without their interpretation had been unknown to modern times. Neither has he judged impartially betwixt the former age and us.

There is more bawdry in one play of Fletcher's, called "The Custom of the Country," than in all ours together. Yet this has been often acted on the stage in my remembrance. Are the times so much more reformed now, than they were five-and-twenty years ago? If they are, I congratulate the amendment of our morals. But I am not to prejudice the cause of my fellow-poets, though I abandon my own defence. They have some of them answered for themselves, and neither they nor I can think Mr Collier so formidable an enemy that we should shun him. He has lost ground at the latter end of the day, by pursuing his point too far, like the Prince of Conde at the battle of Senneffe: from immoral plays, to no plays; _ab abusu ad usum non valet consequentia_. But being a party, I am not to erect myself into a judge. As for the rest of those who have written against me, they are such scoundrels, that they deserve not the least notice to be taken of them. Blackmore and Milbourn are only distinguished from the crowd, by being remembered to their infamy.

--Demetri, teque Tigelli Discipulorum inter jubeo plorare cathedras.

TO HER GRACE THE d.u.c.h.eSS OF ORMOND,[71]

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM OF PALAMON AND ARCITE.

MADAM,

The bard who first adorn'd our native tongue, Tuned to his British lyre this ancient song: Which Homer might without a blush rehea.r.s.e, And leaves a doubtful palm in Virgil's verse: He match'd their beauties, where they most excel; Of love sung better, and of arms as well.

Vouchsafe, ill.u.s.trious Ormond! to behold What power the charms of beauty had of old; Nor wonder if such deeds of arms were done, Inspired by two fair eyes that sparkled like your own. 10

If Chaucer by the best idea wrought, And poets can divine each other's thought, The fairest nymph before his eyes he set; And then the fairest was Plantagenet; Who three contending princes made her prize, And ruled the rival nations with her eyes: Who left immortal trophies of her fame, And to the n.o.blest order gave the name.

Like her, of equal kindred to the throne, You keep her conquests, and extend your own: 20 As when the stars in their ethereal race, At length have roll'd around the liquid s.p.a.ce, At certain periods they resume their place; From the same point of heaven their course advance, And move in measures of their former dance; Thus, after length of ages, she returns, Restored in you, and the same place adorns; Or you perform her office in the sphere, Born of her blood, and make a new Platonic year.

O true Plantagenet! O race divine! 30 (For beauty still is fatal to the line) Had Chaucer lived that angel-face to view, Sure he had drawn his Emily from you; Or had you lived to judge the doubtful right, Your n.o.ble Palamon had been the knight; And conquering Theseus from his side had sent Your generous lord, to guide the Theban government.

Time shall accomplish that; and I shall see A Palamon in him, in you an Emily.

Already have the Fates your path prepared, 40 And sure presage your future sway declared: When westward, like the sun, you took your way, And from benighted Britain bore the day, Blue Triton gave the signal from the sh.o.r.e, The ready Nereids heard, and swam before, To smooth the seas; a soft Etesian gale But just inspired, and gently swell'd the sail; Portunus took his turn, whose ample hand Heaved up his lighten'd keel, and sunk the sand, And steer'd the sacred vessel safe to land. 50 The land, if not restrain'd, had met your way, Projected out a neck, and jutted to the sea.

Hibernia, prostrate at your feet, adored In you the pledge of her expected lord; Due to her isle; a venerable name; His father and his grandsire known to fame; Awed by that house, accustom'd to command, The st.u.r.dy kerns in due subjection stand; Nor bear the reins in any foreign hand.

At your approach, they crowded to the port; 60 And scarcely landed, you create a court: As Ormond's harbinger, to you they run; For Venus is the promise of the sun.

The waste of civil wars, their towns destroy'd, Pales unhonour'd, Ceres unemploy'd, Were all forgot; and one triumphant day Wiped all the tears of three campaigns away.

Blood, rapines, ma.s.sacres, were cheaply bought, So mighty recompence your beauty brought.

As when the dove returning bore the mark 70 Of earth restored to the long labouring ark, The relics of mankind, secure of rest, Oped every window to receive the guest, And the fair bearer of the message bless'd; So, when you came, with loud repeated cries, The nation took an omen from your eyes, And G.o.d advanced his rainbow in the skies, To sign inviolable peace restored; The saints, with solemn shouts, proclaim'd the new accord.

When at your second coming you appear, 80 (For I foretell that millenary year) The sharpen'd share shall vex the soil no more, But earth unbidden shall produce her store; The land shall laugh, the circling ocean smile, And Heaven's indulgence bless the holy isle.

Heaven from all ages has reserved for you That happy clime, which venom never knew; Or if it had been there, your eyes alone Have power to chase all poison, but their own.

Now in this interval, which Fate has cast 90 Betwixt your future glories, and your past, This pause of power, 'tis Ireland's hour to mourn; While England celebrates your safe return, By which you seem the seasons to command, And bring our summers back to their forsaken land.

The vanquish'd isle our leisure must attend, Till the fair blessing we vouchsafe to send; Nor can we spare you long, though often we may lend.

The dove was twice employ'd abroad, before The world was dried, and she return'd no more. 100

Nor dare we trust so soft a messenger, New from her sickness, to that northern air: Rest here a while, your l.u.s.tre to restore, That they may see you as you shone before; For yet the eclipse not wholly past, you wade Through some remains, and dimness of a shade.

A subject in his prince may claim a right, Nor suffer him with strength impair'd to fight; Till force returns, his ardour we restrain, And curb his warlike wish to cross the main. 110

Now past the danger, let the learn'd begin The inquiry where disease could enter in; How those malignant atoms forced their way; What in the faultless frame they found to make their prey, Where every element was weigh'd so well, That Heaven alone, who mix'd the ma.s.s, could tell Which of the four ingredients could rebel; And where, imprison'd in so sweet a cage, A soul might well be pleased to pa.s.s an age.

And yet the fine materials made it weak: 120 Porcelain, by being pure, is apt to break: Even to your breast the sickness durst aspire; And, forced from that fair temple to retire, Profanely set the holy place on fire.

In vain your lord, like young Vespasian, mourn'd When the fierce flames the sanctuary burn'd: And I prepared to pay in verses rude A most detested act of grat.i.tude: Even this had been your elegy, which now Is offer'd for your health, the table of my vow. 130

Your angel sure our Morley's mind inspired, To find the remedy your ill required; As once the Macedon, by Jove's decree, Was taught to dream an herb for Ptolemy: Or Heaven, which had such over-cost bestow'd, As scarce it could afford to flesh and blood, So liked the frame, he would not work anew, To save the charges of another you.

Or by his middle science did he steer, And saw some great contingent good appear, 140 Well worth a miracle to keep you here: And for that end preserved the precious mould, Which all the future Ormonds was to hold; And meditated in his better mind An heir from you, which may redeem the failing kind.

Blest be the Power which has at once restored The hopes of lost succession to your lord!

Joy to the first and last of each degree-- Virtue to courts, and, what I long'd to see, To you the Graces, and the Muse to me! 150 O daughter of the rose! whose cheeks unite The differing t.i.tles of the red and white; Who Heaven's alternate beauty well display, The blush of morning, and the milky way; Whose face is Paradise, but fenced from sin: For G.o.d in either eye has placed a cherubin.

All is your lord's alone; even absent, he Employs the care of chaste Penelope.

For him you waste in tears your widow'd hours, For him your curious needle paints the flowers; 160 Such works of old imperial dames were taught; Such, for Ascanius, fair Eliza wrought.

The soft recesses of your hours improve The three fair pledges of your happy love: All other parts of pious duty done, You owe your Ormond nothing but a son; To fill in future times his father's place, And wear the garter of his mother's race.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 71: 'd.u.c.h.ess of Ormond:' daughter of Duke of Bedford, afterwards Lieutenant of Ireland, and who had recently visited it.]

PALAMON AND ARCITE:

OR, THE KNIGHT'S TALE.