Chapter III: Classicism in the Other Nations (2)

For the purpose we need not repeat, or even recapitulate, what has been said of its fortunes in Germany, Italy, and Spain, save to say that in the first-named country it only appeared to disappear, while in the other two it suffered increasing decrepitude. England and France are much more important and interesting subjects of consideration and comparison.

In both, as we saw, Neo-classicism is undoubtedly the accepted orthodoxy of the time. If that draft confession of Faith, which has been sketched in a former page, had been laid before an assembly of the leading men of letters in both countries, many might have taken exception to its actual form; but as for its spirit, there is hardly a Frenchman who would have refused to accept it, while not many Englishmen would have done so. At the same time—until, towards the later years of the century, the “alarums and excursions” of the Romantic rising recalled the orthodox to strictness—a more searching examination would have revealed serious defections and latitudinarianisms. Pope was perhaps the most orthodox neo-classic, in criticism as in creation, of the greater men of letters of the time; but Pope was fond of Spenser. Addison had never thoroughly cleared his mind up about criticism; but many things in him point the Romantic way, and we know that some of the more orthodox thought him weak and doubtful. Voltaire, at one time, had considerable leanings towards both Shakespeare and Milton; and we have seen how Johnson, though he resisted and recovered himself, was at least once within appreciable distance of that precipice of “judging by the event,” over which, when a Classic once lets himself slip, he falls for ever and for ever through the Romantic void.

Of lesser men we need not speak much—reference to what has been said above of the escapades of Fontenelle and Marmontel, of Steele and Kames, is sufficient. But all these things were as the liberalities of a securely established orthodoxy, estated and endowed, dreading no disturbance, and able to be generous to others—even to indulge itself a little in licence and peccadillo. Everywhere but in England the vast majority of men, and even in England all but a very small minority, had no doubt about the general principles of the Neo-classic Creed. They still judged by Rules and Kinds; they still had the notion that you must generalise, always generalise; they still believed that, in some way or other, Homer and Virgil—especially Virgil—had exhausted the secrets of Epic, and almost of poetry; and, above all, they were entirely unprepared to extend patient and unbiassed judgment to something acknowledged, and acknowledging itself, to be _new_. On the contrary, they must still be vindicating even things which they liked, but which appeared to them to be novel, on the score of their being so very like the old—as we saw in the case of Blair and _Ossian_.

The Nemesis of this their Correctness, as far as creation is concerned, in prose to some extent, but still more in verse, has been described over and over again by a thousand critics and literary historians. The highest and most poetical poetry they could not write at all—except when they had, like Collins, and Smart, and Blake, a little not merely of _furor poeticus_, but of actual insanity in their constitution, or when they violated their own rules by transgressing into pure nature-poetry or into intense realism of anthropology. In their own chosen way they could at best achieve the really poetical rhetoric, but at the same time strictly rhetorical poetry, of Pope, and, in a lower range, of Akenside.[744] For prose they had the luck to discover, in the Novel, a Kind which, never having been to any great extent practised before, was a Kind practically without rules, and so could make or neglect its rules for itself. In another, not quite so new, their performance gave striking instance of their limitations. The Periodical Essay was a thing of almost infinite possibilities: but because it had happened at first to be written in a certain form by persons of genius, they turned practice into Kind and Rule once more, and for nearly the whole century—not merely in England—went on imitating the _Spectator_.

-----

Footnote 744:

I take these examples all from English merely to avoid confusion. The
case in French is even clearer.

-----

In Criticism itself the effects were not wholly different, though of course to some extent apparently dissimilar. We have seen how, during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the necessary and ineluctable set of the critical current towards full and free “judging of authors” seems to have been resisted by a sort of unconscious recalcitrance on the part of critics; yet how they are drawn nearer and nearer to it, and, in Dryden’s case at any rate, achieve admirable results. By the eighteenth, in all countries, the tendency becomes irresistible. The interest in literature, the bent and occupations of men of letters great and small, the new institution of periodicals—all combine to strengthen it: and every kind of critical estimate, from the elaborate literary history to the brief review, begins to be written, and is written, ever more copiously.

This was what criticism wanted; and it could not but do good. Yet the results illustrated, as mere abstract treatises never could have done, the deficiencies of the common critical theory. The writers save themselves, as a rule, from the worst mistakes by simply ignoring that of which they are ignorant. But in regard to the things with which they do deal the inadequacy and the hamper of their theory are sufficiently apparent.

Of course the deficiencies of Eighteenth-century criticism are to be easily matched with other, and sometimes opposite, deficiencies in other times. It takes considerably more pains to get at something like a real appreciation of its subject, something more than a bare reference to schedule, than had been the case, either in ancient times or in the two centuries immediately preceding. It is very much better furnished with a critical theory (whether good or bad does not at the moment matter) than has usually been the case with Criticism from the early years of the nineteenth century to the early years of the twentieth. It is not even intentionally ignorant—its ignorance only proceeds from a mistaken estimate of things as worth or not worth knowing; and there is rarely to be found in it the bland assumption that “I like this,” or perhaps rather, “I choose to say I like this,” will settle everything, which has been not entirely unknown later. But it combines, in a fashion already perhaps sufficiently illustrated, the awkwardness of dogmatism and of compromise; and it is perhaps more exposed to those two terrible questions, “Why?” and “Why Not?” which are the Monkir and Nakir of all critics and all criticism, than the criticism of any other period. It is difficult to see how a critic such as Dennis could give any reasons for admiring Shakespeare at all, save ethical ones; and it is quite certain that a persistent _Te sequar_ with the “Why Not?” will dispose of almost all the stock eighteenth-century objections both to Shakespeare and to all other suspected persons. In a certain way La Harpe had the advantage of all his predecessors, for he was at least consistent.

The theory not merely of the _authades kallos_, the “head-strong beauty,” but of the “monstrous beauty”—the beauty which is beautiful but has no business to be so, the miracle-working power which does work miracles, but is to be forbidden as _magia nigra_, because it does not work them according to the rules—may seem itself so monstrous as to be a patent _reductio ad absurdum_. In fact it acted as such. Yet the logic of it is undeniable. It had all along been the unspoken word, but the word that ought to have been spoken, and had to be spoken some day. Nor need we grudge the admission that it was in a certain sense better than the practice (which had been often resorted to before, and which has not seldom been resorted to since) of absolutely denying the beauty altogether, with the possible result of being, after a time, honestly unable to see it.

A certain number of points, affecting the criticism and the taste of the Eighteenth century in particular, remains to be noticed briefly before we pass to the consideration of the Neo-classic Dispensation generally.

In the first place, both could not fail to be influenced most powerfully by the constant growth of literature in volume; by the appearance, almost for the first time in large numbers, of the man of letters by profession; and, lastly, by certain changes in general education, and so in the quality of writers and readers. To say that the general reader first made his appearance about 1660, in what were to be thenceforward the two great literary countries of Europe, would be an exaggeration, but only an exaggeration, of the truth. He certainly increased and multiplied in both thenceforward; and, by an inevitable consequence, at once created the vocation of the writer and determined the cast and quality of the things written. Matters like the continued _engouement_ of the French court and French society for literature, and the alternate exaltation and depression, the Secretaryships of State and the Grub Street kennels, for it in England, only concern us indirectly; but they do concern us. Prosperity and patronage enticed the literary man to work; poverty and contempt drove him to it, if only to hack-work. Influences came, too, from the subdivision of Kinds, the specialisation of study required, the reduction of mere erudition among those who were not specialists. I should suppose that, taking the average reading of those who had any reading at all, the late sixteenth century, with a great part of the seventeenth, was the most erudite time in the known history of the world. The level of general erudition has been constantly declining since, though with some fluctuations; and it was at a specially low level during the later eighteenth century. Although it is an auxiliary on whose aid Romantic criticism—or rather that catholic criticism which is neither Classic nor Romantic exclusively, but both and more than both—can by no means pride herself, there is little doubt that the increasing neglect of the classics did help to discredit the criticism which chiefly appealed to them; while the constantly growing attention to certain kinds of physical science could not but tell upon the purely literary estimate. The historical studies which were so great a characteristic of the later century could not, again, but be powerful unsettlers of the fixed point of view; the ever-growing popularity of the novel was constantly lifting into greater prominence a kind of which the ancients had practically taken no notice at all; the equally constant development of the newspaper was always adding writers, who knew little of ancient rules, on subjects of which the ancients had never thought. Even without the special literary influences which we may hope to consider in the next Book, the general trend of habit and event made for a change in criticism; and such a change was imperatively called for, at once by that _reductio ad absurdum_ of neo-classic strictures, and by that illogical tolerance of certain great writers of the past, to which we have given the joint name and status of its Nemesis.[745]

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Footnote 745:

One word to guard against a possible supposition that the writer
supposes Classicism dead. Nothing in literature dies: things only wane
and wax, retire and come forward again. At this very moment there is
even a sort of Classical reaction, which has shown itself in France
for a long time and is showing itself in England now. When people are
asking, not whether _Old Mortality_, and _Vingt Ans Après_, and
_Esmond_, and _Westward Ho!_ are good _books_, but whether the
Historical novel is a good _Kind_,—when they argue, not that a play is
decent, or sensible, or brilliant as literature, but that it is a
“problem”-play, and therefore sacred—John Barleycorn is going to get
up again, not to the surprise at all of historical students.

-----

II.

We now have before us the more important, but also the more difficult, task of summing up the achievements and the shortcomings of the whole period covered by this volume—the _only_ period, be it remembered, in which Criticism was regarded from the point of view of a commonly accepted, if not very commonly understood, orthodoxy. This of itself is an advantage, which, though it has not recently counted for very much, will never be overlooked by true critics. Even if we drop the _quod semper_, the _quod ubique, quod ab omnibus_ has a weight which leaves it wholly for the other side to show case and cause against. Orthodoxy may be really right—really _ortho_dox; on that head it has at least an even chance against any of its opponents. Even if it is not, it has merits which they can rarely claim. It has no temptations for the clever fool, who is perhaps on the whole the most pestilent, intellectually, of human beings. It demands a certain amount of self-abnegation, which is always a good thing. It does not perhaps really offer any greater temptation to the merely stupid than does the cheap heterodoxy of other times. Above all, it directly tends to a certain intellectual calmness—to an absence of fuss, and worry, and pother, which is certainly not one of the least characteristics of the Judge. At all times the wise man would rather be orthodox than not; and at most times, though not quite at all, the wisest men have been orthodox, if only because they have recognised that every opinion has some amount of truth in it, and that this truth, _plus_ the advantages of orthodoxy just mentioned, is greatest, and should prevail.

This will be recognised by all fair-minded persons as a handsome allowance in any case; it is surely a particularly handsome allowance when the arbiter happens not to be a partisan of the orthodoxy in question. And it is quite sincere. The present writer has emerged from the serious and consecutive examination of “classical” critics, necessary for the writing of this volume, with a distinctly higher opinion of them generally, with a higher opinion in most cases in particular, than he held previously on piecemeal and imperfect acquaintance. It is only in such a case as that of Boileau—where an almost consummate faculty of expression masks really small critical gifts, and where the worst faults of the critical character, personal rudeness and spite, are continually lurking behind what seem to be systematic judgments—that the result of the reading has gone the other way. At the same time, if we take the true reading of _illud Syrianum_, “Judex damnatur [_capitis_ cum [_in_]nocens [_culpatur vel minime_],” then the case of the criticism with which we have been dealing becomes somewhat parlous. It is all the worse because its worsening is gradual and continuous. The sins of the earliest Renaissance criticism are sins chiefly of neglect, and are not as a rule aggravated by commission; while its merits are very great. We could have done nothing without it: at best we should have had to do for ourselves all that it has done for us. But the bad side of the matter betrays itself in the code-making of the seventeenth century; it is but imperfectly and unsatisfactorily disguised in the compromises of the earlier eighteenth; and it appears in all its deformity in the La Harpian recrudescence.

The fault of the whole is undoubtedly but an aggravation of what in Ancient Criticism could hardly be called with justice a fault at all, though it was even there a serious defect—the absence, that is to say, of a wide enough collection of instances from the past, and of an elastic and tolerant system of trial and admission for the present and future. We may _now_[746] use the word “fault” almost without qualification, proviso, or apology. The Greek could not, and the Roman until very late days could only to a most limited extent, exercise the proper sweep of observation and comparison; the man of the earlier Middle Ages was, from different causes, prevented from doing so to any effect. But the contemporaries of Lilius Giraldus who knew (or knew of) Chaucer and Wyatt—still more, in the next generation, those of Patrizzi who knew Ronsard and the Pléiade—could plead no such exemption or excuse. They had recovered the exacter knowledge of the remoter past which the Middle Ages lacked, the critical spirit which during the Middle Ages was asleep: and they had accumulated and were accumulating treasures, of completed mediæval work and of modern work constantly accruing, enough to give them every comparison, without exception, that they could have wanted. Their guilt was deepening daily as their opportunities increased.

-----

Footnote 746:

Cf. vol. i. p. 485.

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For they neglected these opportunities, they “sinned” these mercies, almost without exception. If England in any way deserved the good fortune that fell to her at the close of the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth, it was because she had never wholly denied either Chaucer or Spenser, either Shakespeare or Milton. But the just men who thus saved her were wofully few, and they were almost all of them followers of Naaman, who extorted a permission to bow in the house of Rimmon, rather than of the glorious Three Children, who would do obeisance to no graven image that any king set up. If Germany had the honour of leading the way—or very nearly leading the way—in the Critical Reformation, it was because, from the very beginning of her really modern literature, she had put faith in her _Heldenbuch_ and her _Bergreihen_. But even this faith was rather hesitating for a long time, and it had no foothold in courtly, and curial, and academic places. The men who were the real pioneers in the revival or commencement of that universal study of literature which alone can lead to a universal criticism, were as a rule mere scholars and antiquaries, men like Oldys and Capell, La Monnoye and Sainte-Palaye, Sanchez and Sedano. Gray, the greatest man of letters by far who at least fumbled with the key of the enchanted garden, did but fumble with that key: and his successors Percy and Warton, who opened what they could, were not great men of letters at all. Abroad, and especially in France, their analogues, such as Marmontel, never got so far even as they did. In Spain it became fashionable to deny Lope if not Cervantes: in Italy Dante-worship was too often, if not in most cases, lip-worship only.

The spectacle of these centuries is almost infinitely interesting and surprising. I cannot, after having, with not a little pains, attained to some Pisgah-sight of it, exhaust my own wonder, especially in regard to the Eighteenth, or disentangle myself from that fatalism which I have already—with the result of some misunderstanding in the house of no un-friends—announced at the end of the First volume. We can understand the Sixteenth century, with its vernaculars hardly yet fully formed, with their greatest literature coming and to come, with an almost excusable distaste for the immediate past, and with the full eagerness—the honeymoon intoxication—of their intercourse with the classics upon them—we can understand this being excessive in admitting, in continuing, in caricaturing, the critical principles of the classics themselves. We can also, if not quite so fully, understand how the dwindling enthusiasms of the Seventeenth, with its still greater sense of “the petty done, the undone vast” in the matter of mere erudition, and its thick-coming concerns of party politics, material progress, physical science, rivalry of nations, and the like—we can understand its sinking, in mid-journey or thereabouts, to an “age of prose and sense,” where the prose was as certain as the sense was sometimes problematical. But the Eighteenth was beginning to be disengaged, to specialise, to take stock, to disuse the Chronicle and begin the History. How, we must ask ourselves, could men like Muratori and Gravina, like Addison and Johnson, like Fontenelle and Du Bos, rest even partly satisfied (for wholly, as we have seen, some of them at least were not) with literary sealed patterns which admittedly would not fit the greatest admitted literature of all their respective countries except France, and which presented, to the not insufficient self-sufficiency of Frenchmen, the proposition that, for hundreds of years, French men of letters had been barbarians, if not idiots?

There is no explanation but Grandgousier’s, eked a little by the remembrance that—as we shall, it is to be hoped, see in the next volume—there _was_ a searching of hearts, a moving of the waters, not very late, in fact very early, in the Eighteenth century itself. But, as we have seen already, the creed of the majority, the orthodoxy of the time, admitted no hint of this. It made a few concessions or extensions—till it found them obviously unsafe—in the direction of amiable but illogical compromise in particulars. It yielded up no jot of the general creed. It was still matter of breviary _circa_ 1780, as it had begun to be _circa_ 1580, that the Fable was the Poem (let us say that if Homer had written an argument of the _Iliad_, and had left off there, he would have done all that was actually necessary); that you must follow Nature by following the ancients; that you must not use epic verse in non-epic poetry, and so forth. In all countries, or almost all,—the extreme literary poverty and disarray of Germany here serving her in good stead,—these general assumptions, and the many others which have been noticed in the foregoing pages, had narrowed down to yet others of the particular kind—that the pause in an English verse must be absolutely within a syllable or two of the middle; that a French Alexandrine must not have the impudence to overflow into its neighbour; and the like. And the whole sums itself up all the more strikingly—because of the doubtful and argumentative tone of the passage—in that memorable decision of Johnson’s which has been discussed above, the decision justifying Rymer, justifying La Harpe, that we must not “judge by the event,”—that the presence of the fig is no proof of the nature of the fig-tree.

No very elaborate indications of the faults inseparable from this style of criticism can be necessary. That if carried out rigorously (as in some instances at least it was) it would simply have sterilised and petrified the literary production of the world, is of course obvious. That journey _au fond de l’inconnu pour trouver du nouveau_, which, with whatever success or failure it may meet, however dangerous it may be in some high functions and departments of Life and Thought, is the motive principle of Art, was barred by it at once. It was no question of “progress” in the very likely chimerical sense of improvement; there was to be not even any _difference_. “To-morrow” was not, according to the proverb, to be “a new day”: if the men of this school did not go as far as Musette and pronounce that _Demain, c’est une fatuité du calendrier_, they held that it was to be as yesterday, and much more also. It is equally obvious that this doctrine positively invited indulgence in some of the worst faults of criticism. The critic who nowadays compasses all the reference shelves of the British Museum in order to find one discrepancy with his author, and then triumphs over him, is mostly confined to dates and names, or to more or less transparent erections of personal opinion (or personal ignorance) into standards, which the fairly intelligent reader takes for what they are worth. A hundred and fifty years ago the child of Momus had much better cards in his hand. The “exact scales of Bossu” were not only infinitely complicated and elaborate, but people in general, however intelligent, were by no means inclined to find any fault with them or question their justice. He had a hundred chances, to one that he now has, of catching his author tripping under statute, and without any actual garbling or dishonesty.

But between the dangers on the great scale and the dangers on the small, which have been indicated in the last paragraph, there were many of intermediate kinds. Without absolute distrust of novelty or unfamiliarity as such on the one hand, and without a mere peddling tendency to pick holes on the other, a critic under this dispensation might, and almost must, find himself distracted, hampered, wellnigh mantrapped, in his critical investigations. A dreamlike network or chain of obsessions was upon him. To submit himself frankly to the effect of the work and judge it as he would a prospect or a picture,[747] a vintage or a face, was forbidden him. It was his duty, in the first place, if the author openly classed his work in any Kind, to decide whether it really belonged to this or to another; if the author had omitted that ceremony, to determine the classification sedulously for himself. Then he had to remember, or look up, the most celebrated ancient examples of the Kind, or those modern ones which had obtained the credit of being most like the ancients; and to decide whether the resemblance was sufficient in general. And then he had to descend—if descent be possible in this process of grovelling—to particulars, and see if _they_ were “according to Cocker.” If everything were entirely _en règle_, he was at liberty to admire and enjoy, supposing that, after the preliminaries, he had any disposition towards admiration and enjoyment left in him.

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Footnote 747:

In judging pictures he would, indeed, have been almost equally liable
to be “connoisseured out of his senses,” but the interference was less
authoritative. Towards the end of the century the prophets of the
Picturesque tried to invade prospects also with their preceptism: but
Nature laughed at them too obviously.

-----

This is not a caricature; it is absolutely exact according to the “regulation” theory: and as the examples quoted before will have shown, and as hundreds of others might be produced to show, it is by no means untrue to practice. A critic, great, or generous, or happily both, might transcend his brief, be better than his creed, as in that noble eulogy of Gray’s _Elegy_ which makes up for much in Johnson’s _Life_ of the poet. But these were works of supererogation; and it is not quite certain that the exercise of them was entirely orthodox. The “stop-watch” _was_ orthodox: it was the very centre and pulse of the machine of neo-classic criticism.

I do not think that it is part of my duty as a Historian to support this view by any further argument. I have given the strongest possible, in a minute, and I believe faithful, exposition of the _actual_ survey, the _actual_ opinions, the _actual_ processes and judgments of neo-classic critics. If it is necessary to say any more, let it be this only. The weakness of their position is sufficiently shown by the fact that it could not bear the light of a historical knowledge of literature. There was none such, so long as it lasted: and when that light shone, it fell. The coincidences may not be causative; but it is for others to show that they are not.

If, however, any one should conclude from these strictures that, in the view of the present writer, the critical work of these three centuries was only evil continually, he would make a very great mistake. Moreover, putting all personal views out of the question, it is certain that this could not be the case. In almost all arts and even sciences, but in Art even more than in Science, the task set before the human faculties is a gigantic “Rule of False,” as the older arithmetic books called it, in which, by following out certain hypotheses, and ascertaining how and to what extent you are led wrong by them, you at last discover the right way. The most grotesque error is thus a benefit to Humanity, which, indeed, sometimes shows itself conscious enough of the beneficial character to perform the experiment over and over again. And further, in all arts and in all sciences, but especially in the higher division of Art, the reward of these excursions is not confined to the somewhat negative advantage of discovering that man need go that way no more. Corollaries and episodes—wayside windfalls of the Muses—await, not so thinly spread, the adventurous and single-hearted practitioner of Allegory as of Alchemy, on the acrostic as on the astrolabe. And considering the secondary or parasitic character which so specially belongs to Criticism, it is inevitable, not merely that these “bonuses,” these “extras,” should be more abundant here than anywhere else, but that the regular profits of the ordinary work should be considerable. Unless the critic is utterly incompetent and bad—unless he is a very Rymer, I do not say a Dennis, much less a Boileau—his mere contact with a new work of art must result in something useful, in a critical datum and fact for the future. It is very unlikely—if he is a person of even rather more than average brains it is practically impossible—that the exact equation or conjunction of his temperament, and his equipment, and the character of the work, will ever recur. It is, _ex hypothesi_, quite certain that it can never have occurred before. That he judges under a certain system, even a wrong one, will not detract from the value of the result, save in quantity. There will still be the actual fact—acquired to the stock of critical data for the future—that a critical power, say A, applied under the restrictions of system _m_ or _n_, to work B, has resulted in the judgment _x_. And this result, in its own line and sphere, is as much a “thing,” and a thing of interest, to the critical student of literature, as a new beetle to the man of science, or a new judgment of the House of Lords to the man of law. Nay, to such a student it has a higher interest still: it is in rank and line (_mutatis mutandis_ again) with the work criticised, with a picture, with a sonata, as a thing of art itself.

And critics in these centuries, from these points of view and others, estated criticism more richly than it could have hoped to be endowed when the Humanists began once more to attack and defend Poetry, or when Daniello a little later set himself down to write the first treatise of criticism proper in a vernacular language. They attempted, and to the best of their power arranged, the more general questions of the Art, always with zeal, if not always with discretion; they did valuable, if also somewhat and sometimes mistaken, work in its intermediate regions; and slowly, grudgingly, but surely, they set themselves to the apparently humbler but really fruitful work of actual critical examination of literature, at first as it had been provided and already criticised long ago, at last as it was being provided by the flying day. Their own theories, right or wrong, they worked out with altogether admirable patience and thoroughness, applying them, too, with a faithfulness which must excite admiration, if it cannot command agreement. And, as we have taken all fair pains to show, they not unfrequently strayed and stumbled upon outside truths, leant over the border of their somewhat narrow world and pried into others, after a fashion which, when the due time came, was sure to start more adventurous discoverers on wider paths of exploration.

It would be superfluous to extend this already long volume with any list of selected specimens of individual achievement and excellence. I hope, indeed, that this book may attract or help attention to some critics—Capriano, Cinthio, Patrizzi, Ogier are a very few examples—who are at present very little known: and to others, unnecessary to specify, whose claims have, as it seems to me, been underrated or misunderstood. But I have included, I think, no one of all the hundreds appearing in this volume who is not profitable in some way, for example, or for correction, or for reproof—who has not done something, if it be only in the way of warning, to help the student of all time.

We may also advantageously compare this balance-sheet with the balance-sheets of Ancient Criticism as given before, and of Modern in an anticipated draft. As compared with the former, Neo-Classicism has the disadvantage that, with at least equal if not greater narrowness, it is almost entirely destitute of the same excuse for being narrow. The Greeks of the great age wrote with nothing but Greek literature before them; those of the decadence and the Romans with nothing but Greek literature and Roman, which was for the most part a pale copy of Greek. The men of the eighteenth century, had they chosen, could have compared, with the practice and the theory of these two literatures, not merely the vast, the interesting, and, as “correcting” classicism, the inestimable literature of the Middle Ages, but at least four substantive and important literatures of modern times, those of France, Italy, England, and Spain. They not only did not do this as a matter of fact, but they invariably in practice, and not seldom as a matter of express theory, flouted and scouted the bare idea of doing it. They persisted in applying a travesty of the system of Horace, itself travestied from Aristotle, to these totally different products. Sometimes this resulted in the bland absurdity of the _Battle of the Books_ attitude, sometimes in the hardly less ludicrous compromise which, by stretching the faults-and-beauties doctrine to its farthest possible extent, allowed critics to make room, as it were by sufferance, for Shakespeare and Milton, for Dante and Cervantes. They could laugh heartily at a dinner in the style of the ancients, and their common-sense would at once have pronounced any one fit for Bedlam who attempted to journey from London to York bareheaded, clothed in a toga, and with sandals on foot; but in theory, and even partly in practice, they imposed the classical uniform on literature.

Still, they show, at least in some respects, better beside their modern successors than it is the fashion to think. We have opened the road which they barred, and permitted the exploration of the countries which they forbade; but it is rather a question whether we have profited as we should by this gain. It is still the very rarest thing to find a critic who, by equipment or even by inclination, is himself disposed to take a really catholic view of literature; and those who do endeavour to take such a view are constantly regarded with distrust by the general, and with a rather comic rancour by specialists. It follows that the modern critic is, taking each on his own scheme, very much less well prepared as a rule than the critic, not merely of the eighteenth century, as has been said above, but of our period generally, and very nearly as liable as that critic was to take hasty sweeping views in condemnation of whole provinces of his subject.

Excesses, moreover, of this kind, which critics from the Renaissance onwards committed, are a natural result of reaction in all histories. And in the History of Literature a hundred years of something approaching to Anarchy are perhaps not too much to balance three hundred of mistakenly experimental Order. We shall see the causes and the faults, as well as the excuses and the gains, of the Anarchy later. For the present it is fitting to conclude, with an acknowledgment anew of the merits of the Order also, in respect to the faults of which we have been so frank. They are the merits of a remarkable industry, of a commendable freedom from mere dilettantism, of the discovery of not a few sound critical principles, and the registration of not a few sound critical judgments, of an experimentation and accomplishment which, even if it went wrong, serves as an invaluable warning to other ages not to pursue the paths which have so misled. And, yet once more, let us recognise that adjustment of criticism to creation—mysterious or simply natural as it may seem to different temperaments and different systems of thought—which we have observed before, in the cautious check of Renaissance criticism on the heady exuberance of the great Renaissance creation, in the support given by Seventeenth-century classicism to such mediate powers and dispositions as those of Corneille and even Racine, of Dryden and even Pope; in the salutary deterrence of Eighteenth-century orthodoxy, which saved us from more Beatties and more Anne Radcliffes when the time was not ready for Keatses or for Scotts. For so also in literature—and even in that, as some would have it, not divinest part of literature, Criticism—do all the works of the Lord, the lesser as well as the greater, praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

INDEX.

(_Dates in the following entries are only given in the case of critical writers actually belonging to the period dealt with in the volume. To economise space, also, the kind of writing practised is only indicated where confusion is possible._)

_Abrégé de l’Art Poétique_, 121. Academic _Éloges_, 533, 534. Academy, the French, 256 _sq._ _Account of the English Dramatic Poets_, 400, 401. _Account of the greatest English Poets_, 438, 439. _Adagia_ of Erasmus, the, 11. Addison, Joseph (1672-1719), 271, 325, 415 _note_, 432 _sq._, 437-448, 463, 541, 561 _sq._ “Admiration,” 52, 270. _Adone_, 259. _Advancement and Reformation of Modern Poetry_, 433 _sq._ —— _of Learning_, 191 _sq._ _Advice to a Young Poet_, 452. Æneas Sylvius Piccolomini—Pope Pius II. (1405-64), 18. Æschylus, 61, 77. _Æthiopica_, 77, 131. _Agamemnon_, the, 262 _note_, 313. Agrippa, Cornelius (1486-1535), 17 _note_, 28, 29, 352 _note_. _Agudeza y arte de ingenio_, 349, 350. Aguilar, Francesco López de, 346. _A King and No King_, Rymer on, 394. _Alaric_, 257, 265. Alexander, Sir William, Earl of Stirling (1567?-1640), 196, 197. _All for Love_, Preface to, 384. _Almanack des Grands Hommes de nos jours_, 534. _Ambra_, 24 _sq._ _Amour Tyrannique_, 266. Amthor, 556. Amyot, 139. _Ana_, the, 274-277. Anacreon, 522. _Anacrisis_, 196, 197. Anchères, Daniel d', see Schélandre, Jean de. _Ancient Mariner, The_, 497 _note_. “Ancients and Moderns,” 270, 320-322, 324, 327, 401, 412, 457, 503 _sq._ André, Père, 513 _note_. _Andromeda_, 161. _Anecdotes_, Spence’s, 332, 454. _An Evening’s Love_, Preface to, 383. _Annus Mirabilis_, Preface to, 375. _Anticlaudianus_, 67, 96. _Antigone_, the, 256, 432. _Antiquity of the English Tongue, The_, 452. _Apollo, The British_, 406. Apollonius Rhodius, 393, 531. _Apology of Heroic Poetry_, 384. —— _for Poetry_, 171 _sq._ —— _for Smectymnuus_, 366. _Apophthegmata_ of Erasmus, the, 11. Apuleius, 14, 254 _note_, 532. Aquinas, 20. _Araucana_, the, 348. Arber, Professor, Bk. IV., ch. vi., _notes passim_. Arbuthnot, 450 _sq._ _Arcadian Rhetoric_, 186 _note_. _Architrenius_, 67, 96. Aretino, L., see Bruni. —— C., 66. Argensolas, the (Lupercio, 1565-1613; Bartolomé, 1566-1631), 346 _note_. Arias Montano, Benito (1577-98), 336. Ariosto, 53 _sq._, 64, 85, 91, 293 _sq._, 303, 555. Aristophanes, 54, 254 _note_, 151, 308. Aristotle, 6, 37, 38, 40, 41, 52 _sq._, 60 _sq._, 70, 80 _sq._, 97 _sq._, 103, 106, 213, 219, 413, 454 and _passim_. Arnold, Matthew, 144-146, 219, 272, 277, 437, 462 _note_, 489 _sq._, 493 _sq._, 506, 512. Aromatari, Giuseppe (1588-1660), 328, 329, 411. _Arte de Trobar_, 333. _Arte Nuevo de Hacer Comedias_, 50 _note_, 332, 343-346. _Arte Poetica_, Minturno’s, 51 _sq._ —— Muzio’s, 46. Arthurian Romances, Ronsard on, 124, 125. —— Chapelain on, 260. —— Montaigne on, 139. Artieda, M. A. Rey de (1560-1625), 346 _note_. Artiga, Francesco José (_fl. c._ 1690), 547, 548. _Art of English Poesy_, Puttenham’s, 176 _sq._ _Art of Poetry_, Bysshe’s, 426 _sq._ —— Gildon’s, 429 _sq._ _Art of Rhetoric_, Wilson’s, 148-151. _Art Poétique_, Boileau’s, 281 _sq._ —— La Mesnardière’s, 265. —— Laudun’s, 127, 128. —— Pelletier’s, 117 _sq._ —— Vauquelin’s, 128 _sq._ _Artus_, 124, 125. Ascham, Roger (1515-68), 9, 46, 113, 148-162, 193, 224 _sq._ Asselineau, M., 255. _Athalie_, 298. _Athenæum_, the, 40 _note_. _Athenian Mercury, The_, 406. _Athenian Oracle, The_, 406. _Athenian Sport_, 406. Atterbury, Francis, Bishop of Rochester (1672-1732), 449. Aubignac, F. Hédelin, Abbé d’(1604-76), 241, 308-310, 357, 369 _note_. Aubigné, Agrippa d', 505. _Aurengzebe_, Prologue to, 384. _Autre Art Poétique_, 111 _note_. Avellaneda, 347 _note_. Averroes, 20. Axon, Mr W. E. A., 29.

Bacon, Sir Francis, Lord Verulam (1561-1626), 191-196, 206, 232, 318 _note_. Bacon-Shakespeare theory, 207 _note_, 318 _note_, 486. Baillet, Adrien (1649-1706), 102 _note_, 107 _note_, 241, 316, 317-319. Balzac, J. Guez de (1594-1655), 241, 252-254, 257. —— Honoré de, 557. Barbauld, Mrs, 497 _note_. _Barbon, Le_, 254. Barreda, Francesco de la, 346 _note_. Bartas, Du, 199, 505. _Basia_, 68. Bath-Easton Vase, the, 240. Batteux, Charles, Abbé (1713-80), 522-525, 536 _note_. _Battle of the Books, The_, 450. Baudelaire, 87. Bausset, Louis Francois, Cardinal de, (1748-1824), 304 _note_. Bayle, Pierre (1647-1706), 316, 317, 363, 364. Béat de Muralt, 553. Beaumont and Fletcher, 378 _sq._, 393 _sq._ _Beaux Arts réduits a un même Principe, Les_, 523. Beccadelli, 63, 66. Beddoes, 87. _Bee, The_, 498. Behn, Afra, 426. Bellay, see Du Bellay. Bembo, Pietro (1470-1547), 49, 455. Ben, see Jonson. Beni, Paolo (1552-1625), 107, 324, 325. Benserade, Isaac de (1612-91), 254. Bentley, Richard (1662-1742), 24 _note_, 392, 400, 401, 450, 451. Béranger, 87, 539. Bergerac, Cyrano de (1619-55), 285 _note_, 297. _Bergreihen_, 569. Berni, Francesco (1490-1536), 29. Bertaut, 281. _Biographia Literaria_, 52. Blair, Hugh (1718-1800), 419, 462-465. Blake, 391 _note_, 426. Blanchemain, M. Prosper, 120. Blankenburg, 329, 330 _notes_. Blount, Sir Thomas Pope (1649-97), 404, 406. Boccaccio, 7, 8, 22, 43, 334. Boccalini, Trajano (1556-1613), 329, 330. Bodmer, J. J., 551. Boileau, Nicolas B. Despréaux (1636-1711), 29, 34, 70, 241, 247, 278 _note_, 280-300, 321, 389, 390, 411, 455 _sq._, 517, 526 _sq._, 567. Bolingbroke, 332. Bolton, Edmund (1573?-1633), 187. Boscan, Juan (1500-43), 337. Boswell, 474. Bouhours, Dominique, Abbé (1628-1702), 308, 315, 316, 330, 417. Bourgoin, M., 240 _note_, 256, 258, 268, 287 _note_, 301 _note_, 304 _note_, 319 _note_. Boyl, Carlos, 346 _note_. _Bradamante_, 132. Breitinger, J. J., 551. —— M. H., 44 _note_. Brocense, El, see Sanchez, F. Brossette, Claude (1671-1743), 247 _note_, 290 _note_. Brown, John (1715-66), 476, 477. Browne, Sir T., 272, 326. Browning, Mr, 404 _note_. Brumoy, Père Pierre (1688-1742), 509. Brunetière, M. Ferdinand, 113 _sq._, 144, 280. Bruni, Leonardo (often called L. _Aretino_ (1369-1444), 20. Bruno, Giordano (1549-1600), 95 and _note_, 97 and _note_, 101. Brunot, M., 243 _note_, 251 _note_. _Bruttezza_, Tassoni on, 327, 417, 418. _Buch von der Deutschen Poeterei_, 360-363. Buckhurst, see Dorset. Buehler, J., 355. Buffon, Jean Louis Leclerc, Comte de (1707-1788), 202, 519-521. Burns, 87, 539. Burton, R., 326. Butcher, Prof., 61. Bysshe, Edward (_fl. c._ 1700), 107, 426-429.

Cæsar, 152. Calcagnini, Celio, 62. Calderon, de la Barca, &c., Pedro (1600-81), 349. Callières, François de (1645-1717), 450. Camoens, 497 _note_, 516, 553 _note_. Campbell, George (1709-96), 470-473. Campion, Thomas (?-1619), 187-189, 199, 366. Camusat, Denis François (1695-1732), 551 _note_. _Canons of Criticism_, the, 497 _note_. Capell, 569. Caporali, Cesare (1531-1601), 344 _note_, 347 _note_. Capriano, G. P. (_fl. c._ 1550), 47, 48, 219. _Caprice au Seig. S. Nicolas_, 129 _sq._ “Car of Cambridge”—_i.e._, Carr, Nicholas (1524-68), Greek Professor? 193. _Caractères, Les_, 301 _sq._ Carlyle, Mr, 526. Caro, Annibale (1507-66), 49, 91. Carvallo, Louis Alfonso de (_fl. c._ 1600), 341. Cascales, Francisco (?-1640), 338. Castelvetro, Lodovico (1505-71), 17, 22 _note_, 31 _note_, 57, 80-89, 90, 91, 101, 215, 219, 233, 244 _note_, 265, 273 _note_, 326, 331, 341. Castiglione, 93. _Castle of Indolence_, the, 495. _Catiline_, Rymer on, 396. Catullus, 45, 81, 531. Caxton, William (1442?-91?), 145. Celtes, Conrad, 28. Cervantes, Miguel de (1547-1616), 347-349. Chamfort, Sebastien Roch Nicolas (1741-94), 534 _note_. _Champfleury_, 110 _note_, 135. Chapelain, Jean (1595-1674), 249 _note_, 252, 256-261, 297, 387 _note_, 393, 417. Chapman, 199, 384, 387. _Character of Saint-Evremond_, 271, 385 _note_. Chaucer, 6, 63 and _note_, 146 _sq._, 150, 158 _sq._, 179 _sq._, 388, 390, 393, 438, 561. Cheke, Sir John (1514-57), 148, 151-153. Chénier, M. J., 525 _note_. Chester, Thomas, 6. Chesterfield, Philip Dormer Stanhope (1694-1773), 476 _note_, 514 _note_. _Chevræana_, 274 _note_. _Chevy Chase_, 173, 443. _Choice_, the, 488. Christopher North, 496. _Christus Patiens_, 357 _note_. Churchill, 517. Cicero, 11, 12, 40, 48 and _note_, 53 _note_, 59, 150, 471. _Ciceronianus_, 10-12, 193, 276. _Cid_, the, and the censure on it, 257 _sq._ _Cigarrales de Toledo_, 332, 342, 343. _Cinna_, 379. Cinthio Giraldi, Giambattista (1504-73), 58-62, 81, 84, 90-92, 101, 214, 219. _Cisne de Apolo_, 341. _Citizen of the World_, the, 498. “Classical Metres,” 157 _sq._ Claudian, 384, 405. Claveret, 258 _note_. Cleveland, 235, 377, 387, 421. Cœlius Rhodiginus, 405. Coleridge, 52, 145, 202, 532. Colet, John (1467-1513), 15, 63. Colletet family, 286 and _note_. Collier, Jeremy (1650-1726), 392, 402-404, 433 _sq._, 451. Collins (the poet), 490 _sq._ _Colloquies_ of Erasmus, the, 11, 13, 14. “Columbarius, Julius,” 346. _Comical Gallant_, the, 434. _Comparaisons_, Rapin’s, 310 _sq._ _Comus_, 490. _Conceptismo_, 350. _Concio, sive Merdardus_, 13. Condorcet, M. J. A. N. Caritat, Marquis de (1743-94), 525 _note_. _Conflictus Thaliæ et Barbariei_, 13. Congreve, 403. Conrart, Valentin (1603-75), 240, 278. Conti, Armand de Bourbon, Prince de (1629-66), 402 _note_. _Conversations with Drummond_, 198 sq. _Convivium Poeticum_, 13. Cook, Prof. A. S., 30. _Cooper’s Hill_, 375, 500. Corneille, Pierre (1606-84), 54, 258, 261-264, 297, 304, 378 _sq._, 419, 504 _sq._, 522. —— Voltaire’s Commentary on, 516. —— Thomas (1625-1706), 316 _note_. Correa, L. (_fl. c._ 1590), 107. Costar, Pierre (1603-60), 278. Cotin, Charles, Abbé (1604-82), 282, 287 _note_, 297. _Cours de Littérature_, 530 _sq._ Courthope, Mr, 444 _note_, 453 _note_. _Courtier_, the, 93. Cowley, Abraham (1618-67), 366, 367, 393, 404, 438, 439, 450, 481, 488 _sq._ Cowper, 87, 476 _note_. Coxe, Leonard, 148 _note_. Craik, Sir Henry, 398 _note_. Crashaw, Pope on, 453 _note_. Crébillon, Fils, 536 _note_. Creed, attempted summary of the Neo-Classic, 216, 217. Crescimbeni, Giovanni Maria (1663-1728), 218 _note_, 324, 542. 324, 542. Crinitus, Petrus (Pietro Riccio, 1465-1505), 27. _Critical Review_, the, 497. Croy, Henri de, 110. Crusca, Ac. della, 92 _sq._ _Culteranismo_, 346 _sq._ _Cultismo_, 346 _sq._ _Cursor Mundi_, 230. _Cynthia’s Revels_, 198 _note_.

Dacier, André (1651-1722), 81, 84. —— Madame (Anne Lefèvre) (1654-1720), 508. D’Alembert, Jean le Rond, _called_ (1717-83), 518. Daniel, Samuel (1562-1619), 189-191, 199, 226, 366. Danielle, Bernardo (_fl. c._ 1530), 42-44, 213, 219. Dante, 6, 8, 34, 40 _note_, 82, 160, 313 _note_, 334, 369, 372, 373, 405, 532 _sq._, 534 _sq._, 540. —— Rivarol’s _Preface_ to, 534 _sq._ Darmesteter and Hatsfeld, MM., 112 _note_. Davenant, Sir William (1606-68), 365, 367, 371. _Davideis_, 367 _note_. _De Arte Poetica_, Viperano’s, 103. _De Augmentis_, 192 _note_. _De Divisione et Utilitate Omnium Scientiarum_, 21 _note_. _De Genealogia Deorum_, 7. _De Honesta Sapientia_, 27. _De Imitatione Poetica_, 102. _De Ludicra Dictione_, 254 _note_. _De Perfecta Poeseos Ratione_, 107. _De Poemate Epico_, 265-268. _De Poeta_ (Minturno’s), 51 _sq._ _De Poetis Latinis_, 27. _De Poetis Nostrorum Temporum_, 63 _sq._ _De Quincey_, 47 _note_, 98, 219. _De Re Poetica_, 353 _sq._ _De Scientiis_, 21. _De Tragœdiæ Constitutione_, 356, 357. _De Vanitate Scientiarum_, 28, 29. _De Vulgari Eloquio_, 40 _note_, 112, 160, 328, 540. _Deca Disputata, La_, 95 _sq._ _Deca Istoriale, La_, 95 _sq._ _Dedication of the Æneis_, 385. —— _of the Spanish Friar_, 384. _Defence of Poesy_, 170 _sq._ _Defence of Rhyme_, 189-191. _Defence of the Epilogue_ (to _Conquest of Granada_), 383. _Défense du Poème Héroique_, 277. _Défense et Illustration de la Langue Française_, 111 _sq._ Defoe, 277. _Degli Autori del Ben Parlare_, 328. Deimier, Pierre de (1576-1620), 251 _note_. _Dell’ Imitatione Poetica_, 47 _note_. _Della Bellezza del Volgar Poesia_, 542. _Della Crusca_, see Crusca. _Della Difesa di Dante_, 105. _Della Lingua Toscana_, 47 _note_. _Della Perfetta Poesia Italiana_, 541, 542. _Della Poesia_, 106, 107. _Della Ragion Poetica_, 538 _sq._ _Della Storia e della Ragione d’Ogni Poesia_, 542-545. _Della Vera Poetica_, 47, 48. _Delminio, G. C._, 329. _De l’Origine des Romans_, 274, 275. _De l’Universalité de la Langue Française_, 534 _sq._ Denham, 439. Dennis, John (1657-1734), 387 _note_, 431-437. Denores, Jason (_fl. c._ 1570), 106, 107, 219. Derby, Lord, 433. Descartes, René (1596-1650), 221, 278. Deschamps, Eustache (? 1340-? 1410), 109. _Deserted Village, The_, 297. Desmarets de Saint-Sorlin, Jean (1595-1676), 257, 277, 278, 369. Desportes, Philippe (1546-1601), 242 _sq._, 281, 366 _note_, 450. “Despréaux,” 450, and see Boileau. _Dialogo contra i Poeti_, 29. _Dialogo de la[s] Lengua[s]_, 335. _Dialogues des Dieux_, 510. —— _des Morts_, 503. —— _sur l’Eloquence_, 305 _sq._ —— _sur les Héros de Roman_, 292. _Dialogus in Defensionem Poetices_, 27, 28. _Dictionnaire Philosophique_, 517. Diderot, 518 _sq._ _Difesa di Dante_, 105. _Digressions sur les Anciens et les Modernes_, 506. _Dionysius Areopagita_, 22. _Discorsi_, Cinthio’s, 581 _sq._ —— Summo’s, 108. —— Tasso’s, 92 _sq._ _Discours de Réception_, Buffon’s, 519 _sq._ _Discours des Trois Unités_, 262 _sq._ _Discourse of English Poesy_, 176 _sq._ _Discourse on Medals_, 439. —— _on Music, Painting, and Poetry_, 473 _sq._ —— _on Satire_, 385. —— _on the Grounds of Criticism in Tragedy_, 384. _Discoveries_, Jonson’s, 198 _sq._ _Dissertation on Ossian_, 464. —— _on Phalaris_, 401, 402. —— _on the Rise of Poetry and Music_, 474. _Dissertation sur le mot “Vaste,”_ 269 _sq._ Donatus, Ælius, 6 _note_, 48 and _note_, 59, 345. Donne, 199, 489. Dorset, Earl of, 376 _sq._, 439. Douglas, Gavin, 218. Drant, Thomas (_d._ 1578?), 162 _sq._ Drayton, 199, 498. Drummond (of Hawthornden), 198 _sq._, 356 _note_, 399. Dryden, John (1631-1700), 56, 93, 119, 121, 144, 232, 237 and _motto_, 262, 264, 271, 300, 314 _note_, 322, 332, 344, 347, 369, 371-391, 393, 403, 411, 413, 416, 417, 425 _sq._, 432, 438, 439, 449, 454, 472 _note_, 485, 489 _sq._, 503, 560. Du Bartas, 313, 369. Du Bellay, Joachim (1524-60), 111-116, 221, 233, 369. Du Bos, Jean Baptiste, Abbé (1670-1742), 511-513, 542 _note_. Dunton, John (1659-1733), 406. Du Pont, Gratien (_fl. c._ 1540), 110. Dyer, Sir Edward, 165. —— John, 421, 478.

Edgeworth, Miss, 97, 348. Edwards, Thomas (1699-1757), 497 _note_. _Ejemplar Poético_, 338, 341. E. K., 224. _Eléments de Littérature_, 526 _sq._ _Elements of Criticism_, the, 465-470. _Éloges_, D’Alembert’s, 519. —— Fontenelle’s, 506. —— Other, 529, 533. Elton, Professor, 552. Encina, Juan del (1468-1534), 335. _English Parnassus_, the, 426 _note_. _Entretiens d’Ariste_, 308. _Ephemerides of Phialo_, 169 _note_. _Epistle to Augustus_, Pope’s, 453 _sq._ _Epistles_, Ovid’s, Dryden’s Preface to, 384. _Epistolæ Obscurorum Virorum_, 14 _note_. _Epitome de la Eloquencia Española_, 547, 548. Erasmus, Desiderius (1467-1536), 9-16, 61, 65, 75, 85, 193, 276, 352 _note_. _Ercolano, L’_, 49. Eschenbach, Wolfram von, 230. Espinel, Vicente (1544-1634), 337. _Essai sur la Poésie Epique_, 516. —— _sur le Beau_, 513 _note_. —— _sur le Goût_, 514, 528. —— _sur les Éloges_, 529. —— _sur les Romans_, 527. _Essay of Dramatic Poesy_, 332, 376-382. —— _of Heroic Plays_, 383. —— _on a New Species of Writing_, 497 _note_. —— _on Criticism_, 453 _sq._ —— _on Modern Education_, 452. _Essay on Poetry_ (Temple’s), 401. —— _on the Genius of Shakespeare_, 434. —— _on Translated Verse_, 404. —— _upon Poetry and Painting_, 497 _note_. _Essays_, Collier’s, 404. —— _Critical_ (Scott’s), 500. —— Montaigne’s, 138 _sq._ —— _Moral and Literary_, 499. _Estimate of the Manners and Principles of the Times_, 476. _Estratto dell’ Arte Poetica d’Aristotile_, 546. Etherege, 463. Euphuism, 225 _sq._ Euripides, 14, 54. _Evening’s Love, An_, Preface to, 383. _Examens_, Corneille’s, 262 _sq._ _Expostulatio Spongiæ_, 346.

_Fables_, Dryden’s, Preface to, 386. Fabri, Pierre (_fl. c._ 1520), 110. Fabriano, see Gilio. Fabricius, Georgius (1515-71), 108, 181, 353-355. _Faerie, Queene_, the, 168. “Fatura,” 63. Fauchet, Claude (1530-1601), 101, 135. Feillet, M., 258. Feltre, Vittorino da, 20. Fénelon, Francois de Salignac de La Mothe (1651-1715), 241, 272, 301, 304-308. Feyjóo y Montenegro, Benito Geronimo (1701-64), 549. “Fidenziano,” 540 _note_. Fielding, 349. _Filosofia Antigua Poética_, 338-340. _Fingal_, 464. Flaubert, G., 12, 302. Flecknoe, 377. Flemming, 556. Fletcher, 378 _sq._ _Floriant et Florete_, 394 _note_. Folengo, 540. Fontaine, Ch. (1513-88?), 116. Fontenelle, Bernard le Bovier de (1657-1757), 292, 416, 419, 423 _motto_, 501-507. Fracastoro, Jeronimo (1483-1553), 44-46, 67, 88, 90, 214, 217, 219. _Franciade_, Preface to the, 120 _sq._ Fraunce, Abraham (_fl. c._ 1590), 186 _note_, 199. _Fray Gerundio_, 550. Froissart, 141. Froude, Mr, 5. Fulgentius, 8, 397. _Fureteriana_, 274 _note_. Furetière, Antoine (1620-88), 553, 554 _note_. “Furor Poeticus,” 97 and _note_, 267, 268, 295, 340, 410, 420.