Letter 21
The Earl of Rochester and Mr. Waller
The Earl of Rochester’s name is universally known. Mr. de St. Evremont has made very frequent mention of him, but then he has represented this famous nobleman in no other light than as the man of pleasure, as one who was the idol of the fair; but, with regard to myself, I would willingly describe in him the man of genius, the great poet. Among other pieces which display the shining imagination, his lordship only could boast he wrote some satires on the same subjects as those our celebrated Boileau made choice of. I do not know any better method of improving the taste than to compare the productions of such great geniuses as have exercised their talent on the same subject. Boileau declaims as follows against human reason in his “Satire on Man:”
The Earl of Rochester’s name is known to everyone. Mr. de St. Evremont has mentioned him very often. But he has portrayed this famous nobleman only as a man of pleasure, adored by women. For my part, I would rather describe Rochester as a man of genius and a great poet. Among other works displaying the brilliant imagination that Rochester alone could claim, he wrote some satires. These addressed the same subjects chosen by our celebrated Boileau. I know no better way to improve taste than to compare works by great minds who have addressed the same subject. Boileau attacks human reason as follows in his “Satire on Man:”
“Cependant à le voir plein de vapeurs légeres, Soi-même se bercer de ses propres chimeres, Lui seul de la nature est la baze et l’appui, Et le dixieme ciel ne tourne que pour lui. De tous les animaux il est ici le maître; Qui pourroit le nier, poursuis tu? Moi peut-être. Ce maître prétendu qui leur donne des loix, Ce roi des animaux, combien a-t’il de rois?” “Yet, pleased with idle whimsies of his brain, And puffed with pride, this haughty thing would fain Be think himself the only stay and prop That holds the mighty frame of Nature up. The skies and stars his properties must seem, * * * Of all the creatures he’s the lord, he cries. * * * And who is there, say you, that dares deny So owned a truth? That may be, sir, do I. * * * This boasted monarch of the world who awes The creatures here, and with his nod gives laws This self-named king, who thus pretends to be The lord of all, how many lords has he?” OLDHAM, a little altered.
“Yet look at him, full of idle fancies, comforting himself with his own delusions. He alone is nature’s foundation and support, and the tenth heaven turns for him alone. Of all the animals, he is the master here. Who could deny it, you ask? Perhaps I could. This supposed master gives the animals laws. But how many kings rule this king of animals?” “Yet, pleased with his own idle fantasies and swollen with pride, this arrogant creature wants to believe in his importance. He thinks he alone supports the whole vast structure of nature. The skies and stars must be his property, * * * He declares himself lord of all creatures. * * * And who, you ask, dares deny so widely accepted a truth? Perhaps I do, sir. * * * This boastful monarch of the world intimidates the creatures here and gives them laws with a nod. This self-appointed king claims to rule them all. But how many masters does he have?” OLDHAM, slightly altered.
The Lord Rochester expresses himself, in his “Satire against Man,” in pretty near the following manner. But I must first desire you always to remember that the versions I give you from the English poets are written with freedom and latitude, and that the restraint of our versification, and the delicacies of the French tongue, will not allow a translator to convey into it the licentious impetuosity and fire of the English numbers:—
Lord Rochester says something like the following in his “Satire against Man.” But first, please always remember that I translate the English poets freely, allowing myself considerable leeway. The constraints of French verse and the subtleties of the French language limit what a translator can convey. They prevent a translator from capturing the wild force and fire of English verse in French:
“Cet esprit que je haïs, cet esprit plein d’erreur, Ce n’est pas ma raison, c’est la tienne, docteur. C’est la raison frivôle, inquiete, orgueilleuse Des sages animaux, rivale dédaigneuse, Qui croit entr’eux et l’Ange, occuper le milieu, Et pense être ici bas l’image de son Dieu. Vil atôme imparfait, qui croit, doute, dispute Rampe, s’élève, tombe, et nie encore sa chûte, Qui nous dit je suis libre, en nous montrant ses fers, Et dont l’œil trouble et faux, croit percer l’univers. Allez, reverends fous, bienheureux fanatiques, Compilez bien l’amas de vos riens scholastiques, Pères de visions, et d’enigmes sacres, Auteurs du labirinthe, où vous vous égarez. Allez obscurement éclaircir vos mistères, Et courez dans l’école adorer vos chimères. Il est d’autres erreurs, il est de ces dévots Condamné par eux mêmes à l’ennui du repos. Ce mystique encloîtré, fier de son indolence Tranquille, au sein de Dieu. Que peut il faire? Il pense. Non, tu ne penses point, misérable, tu dors: Inutile à la terre, et mis au rang des morts. Ton esprit énervé croupit dans la molesse. Reveille toi, sois homme, et sors de ton ivresse. L’homme est né pour agir, et tu pretens penser?” &c.
“The mind I hate, the mind so full of error, is not my reason, doctor, but yours. It is that shallow, restless, arrogant reason, the scornful rival of wise animals. It believes it stands between those animals and the Angel, and thinks itself God’s image on earth. A wretched, imperfect speck, it believes, doubts, argues, crawls, rises, falls, and still denies its fall. It tells us, ‘I am free,’ while showing us its chains. Its clouded, unreliable eye thinks it can see through the universe. Go on, reverend fools, you blessed fanatics. Carefully compile your heap of scholarly nothings. You father visions and sacred riddles. You build the maze in which you lose yourselves. Go on, explain your mysteries with more obscurity. Rush to the schools to worship your fantasies. There are other errors, too. Some devout souls condemn themselves to the boredom of doing nothing. Consider this cloistered mystic, proud of his idleness, resting peacefully in God’s embrace. What can he do? He thinks. No, you do not think, you miserable creature. You sleep. You are useless to the world and counted among the dead. Your weakened mind stagnates in idle comfort. Wake up, be a man, and shake off your stupor. Man was born to act, and you claim to think?” etc.
The original runs thus:—
The original reads as follows:
“Hold mighty man, I cry all this we know, And ’tis this very reason I despise, This supernatural gift that makes a mite Think he’s the image of the Infinite; Comparing his short life, void of all rest, To the eternal and the ever blest. This busy, puzzling stirrer 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.”
“Stop, mighty man, I cry. We know all this. And the very thing I despise is reason, this supernatural gift. Reason makes a tiny creature think he is the image of the Infinite. He compares his short, restless life to the eternal and forever blessed. Reason busily stirs up troubling doubts, inventing deep mysteries and then solving them. Reason fills those venerable madhouses, colleges and schools, with frenzied crowds of thinking fools. On reason’s wings, every dull fool can fly beyond the limits of the boundless universe. Just so, magic ointments make an old witch fly and carry her crippled body through the sky. This is the lofty power whose work consists of nonsense and impossibilities. Reason made an eccentric philosopher prefer his tub to the wide world. And we have modern fools shut away in seclusion, who withdraw to think because they have nothing to do. But thought is given to us to guide action. Where action stops, thought serves no purpose.”
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.
Whether these ideas are true or false, they are certainly expressed with the energy and fire that make a poet. I have no intention of examining these verses philosophically, putting down the pencil and picking up the ruler and compass. My only aim in this letter is to show the genius of the English poets. So I shall continue with that aim.
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:—
The celebrated Mr. Waller has been much discussed in France. Mr. De la Fontaine, St. Evremont, and Bayle have written praises of him, yet only his name is known. His reputation in London was much like Voiture’s in Paris, and in my opinion, Waller deserved it more. Voiture was born in an age just emerging from barbarism. It was still a rough and ignorant age. People tried to be witty, though they had no claim to wit at all. They sought clever turns and far-fetched comparisons instead of feeling. Bristol stones are easier to find than diamonds. Voiture had a natural talent for light, effortless writing. He was the first to shine in this dawn of French literature. Suppose he had been born after those great geniuses who brought such glory to the age of Louis XIV. He would either have remained unknown, been despised, or corrected his style. Boileau praised him, but only in his first satires, before that great poet’s taste had fully developed. Boileau was young, at an age when people judge writers by their reputations rather than their works. Besides, Boileau was very biased in both his praise and his criticism. He praised Segrais, whose works nobody reads. He attacked Quinault, whose poems everyone knows by heart. And he said nothing at all about La Fontaine. Although Waller was a better poet than Voiture, he was not yet a fully accomplished one. Waller’s tender poems breathe grace, but carelessness makes them limp, and strained ideas often spoil them. The English had not yet mastered the art of writing correctly in his time. But his serious poems show unexpected strength and vigor, given the softness and effeminacy of his other pieces. He wrote an elegy on Oliver Cromwell that, despite all its faults, is considered a masterpiece. To understand these verses, you need to know that a great storm marked the day Oliver died. Waller’s poem begins as follows:
“Il n’est plus, s’en est fait, soumettons nous au sort, Le ciel a signalé ce jour par des tempêtes, Et la voix des tonnerres éclatant sur nos têtes Vient d’annoncer sa mort. “Par ses derniers soupirs il ébranle cet île; Cet île que son bras fit trembler tant de fois, Quand dans le cours de ses exploits, Il brisoit la téte des Rois, Et soumettoit un peuple à son joug seul docile. “Mer tu t’en es troublé; O mer tes flots émus Semblent dire en grondant aux plus lointains rivages Que l’effroi de la terre et ton maître 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 reçut les homages; Obéï dans sa vie, sa mort adoré, Son palais fut un Temple,” &c.
“He is gone. It is over. Let us accept our fate. Heaven has marked this day with storms. Thunder roaring above our heads has announced his death. “His last breaths shake this island. His might shook this island so often during his campaigns. He crushed the heads of kings and forced a people under his rule. They would obey no other ruler. “Sea, his death has disturbed you. O sea, your surging waves seem to tell the farthest shores with their roar: The terror of the earth and your master is no more. “So Romulus once rose to heaven. So he left the earth amid storms. So he received the honors of a warlike people. Obeyed in life, he was worshipped after death. His palace became a temple,” etc.
* * * * *
* * * * *
“We must resign! heaven his great soul does claim In storms as loud as his immortal fame; His dying groans, his last breath shakes our isle, And trees uncut fall for his funeral pile: About his palace their broad roots are tost Into the air; so Romulus was lost! New Rome in such a tempest missed her king, And from obeying fell to worshipping. On Œta’s top thus Hercules lay dead, With ruined oaks and pines about him spread. Nature herself took notice of his death, And, sighing, swelled the sea with such a breath, That to remotest shores the billows rolled, Th’ approaching fate of his great ruler told.” WALLER.
“We must accept our loss! Heaven claims his great soul amid storms as loud as his undying fame. His dying groans and final breath shake our island. Trees fall without being cut, ready for his funeral pyre. Around his palace, their broad roots are tossed into the air. So Romulus was lost! New Rome lost her king in just such a storm, and went from obeying him to worshipping him. So Hercules lay dead on Œta’s summit, with shattered oaks and pines spread around him. Nature herself took notice of his death. With a sigh, she stirred the sea with so great a breath that waves rolled to the most distant shores. Those waves announced the approaching death of the sea’s great ruler.” WALLER.
It was this elogium that gave occasion to the reply (taken notice of in Bayle’s Dictionary), which Waller made to King Charles II. This king, to whom Waller had a little before (as is usual with bards and monarchs) presented a copy of verses embroidered with praises, reproached the poet for not writing with so much energy and fire as when he had applauded the Usurper (meaning Oliver). “Sir,” replied Waller to the king, “we poets succeed better in fiction than in truth.” This answer was not so sincere as that which a Dutch ambassador made, who, when the same monarch complained that his masters paid less regard to him than they had done to Cromwell. “Ah, sir!” says the Ambassador, “Oliver was quite another man—” It is not my intent to give a commentary on Waller’s character, nor on that of any other person; for I consider men after their death in no other light than as they were writers, and wholly disregard everything else. I shall only observe that Waller, though born in a court, and to an estate of five or six thousand pounds sterling a year, was never so proud or so indolent as to lay aside the happy talent which Nature had indulged him. The Earls of Dorset and Roscommon, the two Dukes of Buckingham, the Lord Halifax, and so many other noblemen, did not think the reputation they obtained of very great poets and illustrious writers, any way derogatory to their quality. They are more glorious for their works than for their titles. These cultivated the polite arts with as much assiduity as though they had been their whole dependence.
This tribute prompted Waller’s reply to King Charles II, recorded in Bayle’s Dictionary. Shortly before, Waller had presented the king with verses lavishly decorated with praise (as is usual with poets and monarchs). The king reproached Waller for writing with less energy and fire than when he had praised the Usurper (meaning Oliver). “Sir,” Waller replied to the king, “we poets do better with fiction than with truth.” This answer was less sincere than a Dutch ambassador’s reply to the same king. Charles complained that the ambassador’s masters showed him less respect than they had shown Cromwell. “Ah, sir!” said the ambassador, “Oliver was quite another man.” I do not mean to comment on Waller’s character, or anyone else’s. After people die, I consider them only as writers and disregard everything else. I will only note that Waller was born at court, with an estate worth five or six thousand pounds sterling a year. Yet he was never too proud or too idle to use the fine talent Nature had given him. The Earls of Dorset and Roscommon, the two Dukes of Buckingham, the Lord Halifax, and many other noblemen felt the same. They did not think their reputations as great poets and distinguished writers in any way diminished their noble rank. Their works bring them more glory than their titles. These men pursued the arts with as much dedication as if their entire livelihood depended on them.
They also have made learning appear venerable in the eyes of the vulgar, who have need to be led in all things by the great; and who, nevertheless, fashion their manners less after those of the nobility (in England I mean) than in any other country in the world.
They have also made learning seem worthy of respect to ordinary people, who need the great to guide them in all things. Yet ordinary people imitate the nobility’s manners less in England than in any other country in the world.