The sentiments contained in the Pharsalia, so far as he dared express them, breathe a love of freedom, and an attachment to the old Roman republicanism. Although the imperial patronage which he at first enjoyed, and, perhaps, the better promise of the commencement of Nero’s reign, tempted him to indulge in courtly flattery; still, even at that time, his praises of liberty evidently came from the heart. As the poem proceeds his sentiments become more exalted; his virtuous indignation gradually rises, until it pours forth a torrent of burning satire on the inhuman tyrant. This poem, the only one of his works which survives, is an epic in ten books; its subject, the civil war between Cæsar and Pompey. It bears evident marks of having been left unfinished, and of not having received the last touches from the hand of the author. It was preceded by four other shorter poems—the first on the Death of Hector; the second on the Visit of Orpheus to the Infernal Regions; the third, on the Burning of Rome; the fourth addressed to his wife Polla Argentaria. He also wrote some prose works; and Martial attributes to him some poems on lighter subjects.[[1103]]
Lucan is an unequal poet: his Pharsalia is defaced with great faults and blemishes; but at the same time it possesses peculiar beauties. Its subject is a noble one and full of historic interest, and is treated with spirit, brilliance, and animation. Its arrangement is that of annals, and therefore it wants the unity of an epic poem: it has not the connectedness of history, because the poet naturally selected only the most striking and romantic incidents; and yet, notwithstanding these defects in the plan, the historical pictures themselves are beautifully drawn. The characters of Cæsar and Pompey, for example, are master-pieces. Again, some passages have neither the dignity of prose nor the melody of poetry; whilst others are scarcely inferior to any written by the best Latin poets. This inequality has caused the great diversity of opinions which have been held by critics respecting the merits of Lucan. Some have unjustly depreciated him; others, as groundlessly, have lauded him to the skies. Quintilian commended his ardent enthusiasm and lucidity of expression,[[1104]] but qualified his praise by adding, that he would be admired by orators rather than by poets. Corneille preferred him to Virgil, of whom he was obviously a warm admirer. His poem furnishes materials and reason for this diversity of judgment; but it may safely be asserted that his faults are due to the age in which he lived, whilst his beauties were the fruits and developments of his own native genius. His principal merit is originality: although he was not great enough to lead the taste of the age, and to rise superior to its false principles, he did not condescend to be a servile imitator even of those poets whose reputation was firmly established. There are many parallelisms between his poetry and that of Virgil, but they are the parallelisms of a student, not of a plagiarist.
Without adopting the unauthorized assumptions, found in some of his biographies, that he was educated under the immediate superintendence of his uncle Seneca, that Remmius Palæmon taught him grammar, Virginius Flaccus rhetoric, and Cornutus philosophy, it is clear that his taste was formed and his talents drawn out in an age, the characteristics of which were pedantic erudition, inflated rhetoric, and dogmatic philosophy. It is clear, also, that even though Seneca was not his tutor, still the conceit and affectation which dimmed the transcendent abilities of the philosopher, exercised a baneful influence over the literary taste of his contemporaries. In the midst of these influences Lucan was educated, and for that reason his poem is disfigured by commonplace maxims, pompous diction, an affectation of learning, a rhetorical exuberance which outstripped its subjects, and therefore produces the effect of frigidity. In a poem, the characters and events of which are historical, the real is in too strong contrast to the ideal, hence the effect of both is marred. The fidelity expected of the historian circumscribes the creative power of the poet. To the poet who constructs his work out of the materials of epochs which are beyond the reach of history, the whole field of the past is open. The only limits within which he must restrain his genius are those of the probable: within these bounds he may conjure up the most magnificent ideal forms; he may use the most gorgeous imagery, the most supernatural machinery: the whole wears an air of historic truth; as there are no realities with which his ideal can be compared and tested, truth never appears to be violated.
But in history, almost contemporaneous with the age of the poet, every circumstance is recorded, every character well known and estimated. If an act of bravery is exaggerated into one of superhuman heroism, or one who is known to have been a man, although a great man, recast in the heroic mould, we are struck at once with the falsehood: and therefore the poet cannot venture on such efforts of genius. In a train of events, which the page of history enables us to trace from the beginning to the end, no difficulties can occur deserving of supernatural machinery, no dignus vindice nodus; and thus, in the place of the Olympian Pantheon of Homer and Virgil, Lucan can only deify the popular but unpoetical principle of chance, and personify Fortune.
This position may appear inconsistent with the charm which confessedly belongs to the modern historical romance; but then it is to be remembered, that the interest we take in the historical portions is purely historical, enlivened by the events grouping themselves round the hero: in fact, the interest of biography is united with that of history. The strictest accuracy, therefore, in matters which fall within the range of history is perfectly compatible. The romantic interest depends on the inner or social life of the characters—which forms no part of history—in which, as there is no standard of comparison, the imagination of the poet is quite free and unfettered. But this is totally different from the plan on which such a poem as the Pharsalia is constructed. The vision of the genius of Rome which appeared to Cæsar at the fatal Rubicon, those which haunt the slumbers of the Cæsareans in the plundered camp of Pompey, and the dream of Pompey, in which the secrets of the infernal regions are laid open by the shade of his departed wife Julia, are the nearest approaches to that invisible world which the imagination of Homer disclosed, and which Virgil reproduced;[[1105]] but these are only isolated passages.
It is impossible to be at once an historian and a poet: in the one character the author must restrain the flights of his imagination; in the other, he must sacrifice truth. Nor is there any doubt of which character we demand the conservation, when matters of history are concerned. We desiderate truth: we wish moot points to be settled and doubts solved. All imaginative pictures we look upon as interruptions, and cast them aside as warping the judgment and giving prejudiced views. Hence, our admiration of Lucan is called forth, not by considering his poem as an epic, but for the sake of isolated scenes, such as the naval victory off Marseilles; splendid descriptions, such as that of the cruelties of Marius and Sulla; felicitous comparisons, that, for example, of Pompey to an aged oak; and the epigrammatic terseness which gives force, as well as beauty, to his sayings. In a single line, for instance—
Pauperiorque fuit tunc primum Cæsare Roma—
he describes the wealth and avarice of the conqueror, and in the well-known verse—
Victrix causa Diis placuit sed victa Catoni—
he depicts the disinterestedness of Cato. To this may be added, that the subject of the Pharsalia is, although a period of the deepest historical interest, ill adapted to poetry. Events so nearly contemporary were fitter for history and panegyric than for poetry; and although they give scope for descriptive power and bold imagery, they are deficient in that mysterious and romantic character which is required for an epic poem. His imagination was rich—his enthusiasm refused to be curbed. They were such as we might suppose would be nurtured by the warm and sunny climate of Spain. His sentiments often exhibit that chivalrous tone which distinguishes the Spanish poets of modern times. We may discern the nobleness, the liberality, the courage, which once marked the high-born Spanish gentleman; and the grave and thoughtful wisdom which makes Spanish literature so rich in proverbs, and which peeps out even from under the unreal conventionalisms of the contemporary Roman philosophy.