Mr. Addison is perfectly of the same mind, as appears from his criticism on that line in Ovid, Consiliis, non curribus utere nostris, “This way of joining, says he, two such different ideas as chariot and counsel to the same verb, is mightily used by Ovid, but is a very low kind of wit, and has always in it a mixture of pun; because the verb must be taken in a different sense, when it is joined with one of the things, from what it has in conjunction with the other. Thus in the end of this story he tells you, that Jupiter flung a thunderbolt at Phaëton; pariterque animaque rotisque expulit aurigam: where he makes a forced piece of Latin (animâ expulit aurigam) that he may couple the soul and the wheels to the same verb[39].”
These, the reader will think, are pretty good authorities. For, in matters of taste, I know of none, that more deserve to be regarded. The mere verbal critic, one would think, should be cautious, how he opposed himself to them. And yet a very learned Dutchman, who has taken great pains in elucidating an old Greek love-story, which, with its more passionate admirers, may, perhaps, pass for the Marianne of antiquity, hath not scrupled to censure this decision of their’s very sharply[40].
Having transcribed the censure of Mr. Pope, who, indeed, somewhat too hastily, suspects the line in Homer for an Interpolation, our critic fastens upon him directly. En cor Zenodoti, en jecur Cratetis! But foul language and fair criticism are different things; and what he offers of the latter rather accounts for than justifies the former. All he says on the subject, is in the good old way of authorities, which, he diligently rakes together out of every corner of Greek and Roman antiquity. From all these he concludes, as he thinks, irresistibly, not that the passage in question might be genuin (for that few would dispute with him) but that the kind of expression itself is a real beauty. Bona elocutio est: honesta figura. Though, to the praise of his discretion be it remembered, he does not even venture on this assertion, without his usual support of precedent. And, for want of a better, he takes up with old Servius. For so, it seems, this grammarian hath declared himself, with respect to some expressions of the same kind in Virgil.
But let him make the best of his authorities. And, when he has done that, I shall take the liberty to assure him, that the persons, he contends against, do not think themselves, in the least, concerned with them. For, though he believes it an undeniable maxim, Critici non esse inquirere, utrum recte autor quid scripserit, sed an omnino sic scripserit[41]: yet, in the case before us, he must not be surprized, if others do not so conceive of it.
Indeed, where the critic would defend the authenticity of a word or expression, the way of precedent is, doubtless, the very best, that common sense allows to be taken. For the evidence of fact, at once, bears down all suspicion of corruption or interpolation. Again; if the elegance of single words (or of intire phrases, where the suspicion turns on the oddity or uncommoness of the construction, only) be the matter in dispute, full and precise authorities must decide it. For elegance, here, means nothing else but the practice of the best writers. And thus far I would join issue with the learned censurer; and should think he did well in prescribing this rule to himself in the correction of approved ancient authors.
But what have these cases to do with the point in question? The objection is made, not to words, which alone are capable of being justified by authority, but to things, which must ever be what they are, in spite of it. This mode of writing is shewn to be abundantly defective, for reasons taken from the nature of our ideas, and the end and genius of the nobler forms of composition. And what is it to tell us, that great writers have overlooked or neglected them?
1. In our customary train of thinking, the mind is carried along, in succession, from one clear and distinct idea to another. Or, if the attention be at once employed on two senses, there is ever such a close and near analogy betwixt them, that the perceptive faculty, easily and almost instantaneously passing from the one to the other, is not divided in its regards betwixt them, but even seems to itself to consider them, as one: as is the case with metaphor: and, universally, with all the just forms of allusion. The union between the literal and figurative sense is so strict, that they run together in the imagination; and the effect of the figure is only to let in fresh light and lustre on the literal meaning. But now, when two different, unconnected ideas are obtruded, at the same time upon us, the mind suffers a kind of violence and distraction, and is thereby put out of that natural state, in which it so much delights. To take the learned writer’s instance from Polybius: ΕΛΠΙΔΑ καὶ ΧΕΙΡΑ ΠΡΟΣΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙΝ. How different is the idea of collecting forces, and of that act of the mind, which we call taking courage! These two perceptions are not only distinct from each other, but totally unconnected by any natural bond of relationship betwixt them. And yet the word ΠΡΟΣΛΑΜΒΑΝΕΙΝ must be seen in this double view, before we can take the full meaning of the historian.
2. This conjunction of unrelated ideas, by the means of a common term, agrees as ill to the end and genius of the writer’s composition, as the natural bent and constitution of the mind. For the question is only about the greater poetry, which addresses itself to the PASSIONS, or IMAGINATION. And, in either case, this play of words which Mr. Pope condemns, must be highly out of season.
When we are necessitated, as it were, to look different ways, and actually to contemplate two unconnected significations of the same word, before we can thoroughly comprehend its purpose, the mind is more amused by this fanciful conjunction of ideas, than is consistent with the artless, undesigning simplicity of passion. It disturbs and interrupts the flow of affection, by presenting this disparted image to the fancy. Again; where fancy itself is solely addressed, as in the nobler descriptive species, this arbitrary assemblage of ideas is not less improper. For the poet’s business is now, to astonish or entertain the mind with a succession of great or beautiful images. And the intervention of this juggler’s trick diverts the thought from contemplating its proper scenery. We should be admiring some glorious representation of nature, and are stopped, on a sudden, to observe the writer’s art, whose ingenuity can fetch, out of one word, two such foreign and discrepant meanings.
In the lighter forms of poetry indeed, and more especially in the burlesque epic, this affectation has its place; as in that line of Mr. Pope, quoted by this critic;