霍布斯　《對(duì)德文南特為〈岡迪伯特〉所寫的序言的解說(shuō)》

托馬斯·霍布斯?（1588—1679）

霍布斯是17世紀(jì)英國(guó)著名哲學(xué)家。在他同時(shí)代的英國(guó)人中，沒(méi)有一個(gè)人在國(guó)外的名聲比他高。凡是去英國(guó)訪問(wèn)的外國(guó)文人都希望能同這位有學(xué)識(shí)的人會(huì)晤。1647年他被委任為威爾士親王的數(shù)學(xué)導(dǎo)師。他曾把英國(guó)著名學(xué)者培根的一些英語(yǔ)隨筆譯成拉丁文，并筆錄下培根的思想。他同培根一樣，強(qiáng)調(diào)知識(shí)的實(shí)用價(jià)值。他關(guān)注的是人和自然，對(duì)人和自然界以外的抽象的超自然世界沒(méi)有興趣。與培根不同的是，他認(rèn)為科學(xué)主要是演繹的，科學(xué)研究應(yīng)該用演繹法和幾何學(xué)示范法，而不是培根所主張的歸納法。

17世紀(jì)英國(guó)資產(chǎn)階級(jí)革命時(shí)，霍布斯因持有保王思想，并與王室過(guò)往甚密，唯恐身有不測(cè)，遂出走法國(guó)。在歐洲大陸，他與諸如伽利略、笛卡兒等著名學(xué)者均有交往。也正是在旅居歐洲大陸期間，由于研究歐幾里得的《幾何原本》，他首創(chuàng)演繹法。在法國(guó)，他同法國(guó)大數(shù)學(xué)家梅爾森和意大利物理學(xué)家伽利略討論了運(yùn)動(dòng)中的物質(zhì)問(wèn)題。

他的哲學(xué)三部曲是：《論物體》（1655），從運(yùn)動(dòng)解釋物質(zhì)現(xiàn)象；《論人》（1658），闡述在人的認(rèn)識(shí)和欲望中包含哪些特殊的肉體運(yùn)動(dòng)；《論公民》（1642），由上述觀念推論人類的社會(huì)組織。他的名著《利維坦》（Leviathan）在巴黎寫成，1651年在倫敦出版，著作包括“論人”、“論國(guó)家”、“論基督教國(guó)家”和“論黑暗王國(guó)”4個(gè)部分。

作為一個(gè)思想家，他對(duì)人的哲學(xué)作出了貢獻(xiàn)。他提出了利己主義心理學(xué)，成為功利學(xué)派的先驅(qū)。在政治理論方面，他首先剖析達(dá)到和平和安全所必需的條件，然后根據(jù)他的“社會(huì)契約論”，提出一個(gè)能夠取得上述條件的理想國(guó)方案。他的“社會(huì)契約論”認(rèn)為，為了使人擺脫悲慘的戰(zhàn)爭(zhēng)，使人因懼怕遭到懲罰而遵守和平協(xié)議和自然法則，必須建立一個(gè)使用武力、實(shí)施懲罰的權(quán)力機(jī)構(gòu)或政府。個(gè)人應(yīng)該把自己的權(quán)力交給他人或眾人組成的機(jī)構(gòu)，從而加入一種社會(huì)契約，以確保個(gè)人的平安。

他認(rèn)為人的體能和智能是均等的。因此，人人均有機(jī)會(huì)達(dá)到自己的目的。當(dāng)兩個(gè)人追求同一物，而此物只能由一人得到時(shí)，個(gè)人為了自己的生存和享受，就不得不同人競(jìng)爭(zhēng)，使參與競(jìng)爭(zhēng)的一方成為不可信任的敵人。因此，霍布斯認(rèn)為，人的天性是自私的。

他認(rèn)為，人對(duì)權(quán)力、財(cái)富、知識(shí)和榮譽(yù)的追求使人產(chǎn)生激情。因此，人與人總是處于敵對(duì)狀態(tài)，人的自身安全全靠自己的力量和智慧。于是就有了“人為人敵”的論斷。但是，他又說(shuō)，人同時(shí)具有激情和理智。激情使人與人處于敵對(duì)狀態(tài)；理智又使人考慮到搏斗可能導(dǎo)致自身的死亡。為了自身的安全，人又需要和平。因此，必須制定出人人均需遵守的和平協(xié)議。人還必須遵循自然規(guī)律。在他所寫的《利維坦》一書中，霍布斯列舉了19條自然規(guī)律，其中最基本的一條是理智準(zhǔn)則。根據(jù)這一準(zhǔn)則，人人都必須為和平而奮斗。只有人人都遵守自然規(guī)律，人類才能共享和平。

霍布斯認(rèn)為政府不是上帝的創(chuàng)造物，而是人的創(chuàng)造物。這就使他的政治理論徹底擺脫了宗教迷信。這一點(diǎn)是值得稱道的。

他說(shuō)，一切知識(shí)均源于人的感覺(jué)和經(jīng)驗(yàn)，而感覺(jué)又源于物質(zhì)的運(yùn)動(dòng)。當(dāng)物體處于靜止?fàn)顟B(tài)時(shí)，若無(wú)外力的推動(dòng)，物體將永遠(yuǎn)處于靜止?fàn)顟B(tài)。一旦物體開(kāi)始運(yùn)動(dòng)，若無(wú)外力阻礙，物體將處于永恒運(yùn)動(dòng)狀態(tài)。人的欲望正是為了保存自己而對(duì)客觀世界物質(zhì)運(yùn)動(dòng)所作出的反應(yīng)?；舨妓拐J(rèn)為，只有物質(zhì)的東西才是可認(rèn)識(shí)的，而認(rèn)識(shí)世界則要靠人的經(jīng)驗(yàn)。人不可能知道是否存在上帝，因?yàn)槿宋茨苡H身經(jīng)驗(yàn)上帝的存在。

霍布斯的散文也很出眾。他也是文學(xué)家，晚年以重新研究古典作品自?shī)省?675至1676年，他出版了《奧德賽》和《伊利亞特》的英譯本。

他是一個(gè)集哲學(xué)、政治學(xué)、物理學(xué)、文學(xué)于一身，多才多藝的杰出學(xué)者。

內(nèi)容提要

先說(shuō)明文章的標(biāo)題。Sir William Davenant（1606—1668）出生于英國(guó)牛津，并在牛津大學(xué)求學(xué)。他是17世紀(jì)英國(guó)著名詩(shī)人和劇作家，1638年獲英國(guó)桂冠詩(shī)人稱號(hào)。他曾積極支持查理一世，被封為爵士。Gondibert是他創(chuàng)作的一部未完成的浪漫史詩(shī)；1650年史詩(shī)的第1卷、第2卷和部分第3卷出版，1651年完成其他部分。在結(jié)尾前，詩(shī)人已對(duì)自己的詩(shī)作感到厭倦，隨之?dāng)R筆，使這部共有1,700詩(shī)節(jié)的史詩(shī)成為未完成的作品。這部浪漫史詩(shī)寫的是Gondibert公爵的愛(ài)情故事。

霍布斯的《對(duì)德文南特為〈岡迪伯特〉所寫的序言的解說(shuō)》一文寫于1650年。在這篇論文中霍布斯探討了文學(xué)的主要文類，以及文學(xué)藝術(shù)創(chuàng)作和客觀現(xiàn)實(shí)的關(guān)系。他認(rèn)為文學(xué)要虛構(gòu)，詩(shī)人要有想象力。但是虛構(gòu)應(yīng)有限度，不能太多地超越或違背客觀現(xiàn)實(shí)。文學(xué)作品應(yīng)該在文體上和諧、得體、前后一致。

他說(shuō)，詩(shī)人寫作的對(duì)象是生活在宮廷、城市和鄉(xiāng)村這三個(gè)范圍內(nèi)的人。宮廷內(nèi)的人均屬有權(quán)有勢(shì)者，對(duì)平民百姓施加巨大影響，故稱其為英雄。城市喧囂、熙攘、空氣污濁，故城市生活和市民有頗多可諷刺之處。鄉(xiāng)村寧?kù)o，有田園風(fēng)光，民風(fēng)淳樸。三種地域三類人，詩(shī)亦可據(jù)此分為三類：英雄詩(shī)、諷刺詩(shī)和田園詩(shī)。這三大類詩(shī)又可根據(jù)其表現(xiàn)形式的不同（或是敘述性的，或是戲劇性的），進(jìn)而分為六類：一、敘述性的英雄詩(shī)，即史詩(shī)；二、戲劇性的英雄詩(shī)，即悲??；三、諷刺性的敘述詩(shī)，即諷刺詩(shī)；四、戲劇性的敘述詩(shī)，即喜??；五、敘述性的田園詩(shī)，即田園詩(shī)，亦即古時(shí)的牧歌；六、戲劇性的田園詩(shī)，即田園性喜劇。

詩(shī)起源于古希臘。古希臘人用詩(shī)的語(yǔ)言祭神。早在“詩(shī)人”這一稱謂出現(xiàn)之前，詩(shī)這一文體就廣為預(yù)言家、祭神者和法律所使用。贊美詩(shī)也采用詩(shī)體。

詩(shī)有韻律，能朗朗上口，且文體優(yōu)雅。因此，詩(shī)常被用作歌詞吟唱，用作戲劇的臺(tái)詞。

古時(shí)的詩(shī)人在人民中享有極高的聲譽(yù)。在人民的眼中，詩(shī)人似神，是預(yù)言家，是人民心目中的精神權(quán)威。詩(shī)的語(yǔ)言也就如同神的語(yǔ)言，受到人民的崇敬。

時(shí)間和教育培養(yǎng)經(jīng)驗(yàn)；經(jīng)驗(yàn)產(chǎn)生記憶；記憶孕育判斷力和想象力；想象力激發(fā)詩(shī)情。想象力能給詩(shī)人素材、靈感和意象。因此，想象力是詩(shī)人不可缺少的才能。

霍布斯探討的一個(gè)重要問(wèn)題是文學(xué)藝術(shù)和客觀現(xiàn)實(shí)的關(guān)系。有人喜歡在文學(xué)作品中看到超越現(xiàn)實(shí)可能性的、過(guò)分夸張的虛構(gòu)，如鐵人、飛馬、刺不透的盔甲等等。有人認(rèn)為，詩(shī)的美就在于虛構(gòu)的大膽?；舨妓拐J(rèn)為，虛構(gòu)應(yīng)有一定的限度，不能超越客觀現(xiàn)實(shí)，導(dǎo)致荒誕。

要使詩(shī)真實(shí)、自然，詩(shī)人必須做到兩點(diǎn)：一、對(duì)所寫的東西有深刻的了解；二、知識(shí)淵博。詩(shī)人對(duì)所寫的東西了解深刻表現(xiàn)在他的詩(shī)表達(dá)清晰、貼切、有特色。這會(huì)使無(wú)知者和有知者均感滿意。知識(shí)淵博則表現(xiàn)在表達(dá)新穎。新穎能贏得讀者的贊賞，引起讀者的好奇心，而好奇心又是獲取知識(shí)不可缺少的條件。

Thomas Hobbes (1588—1679)

Answer to Davenant's Preface to Gondibert

SIR,

If to commend your poem I should only say, in general terms, that in the choice of your argument, the disposition of the parts, the maintenance of the characters of your persons, the dignity and vigor of your expression, you have performed all the parts of various experience, ready memory, clear judgment, swift and well-governed fancy, though it were enough for the truth, it were too little for the weight and credit of my testimony. For I lie open to two exceptions, one of an incompetent, the other of a corrupted witness. Incompetent, because I am not a poet; and corrupted with the honor done me by your preface. The former obliges me to say something, by the way, of the nature and differences of poesy.

As philosophers have divided the universe, their subject, into three regions, celestial, aerial, and terrestrial, so the poets (whose work it is, by imitating human life in delightful and measured lines, to avert men from vice and incline them to virtuous and honorable actions) have lodged themselves in the three regions of mankind, court, city, and country, correspondent in some proportion to those three regions of the world. For there is in princes and men of conspicuous power, anciently called heroes, a luster and influence upon the rest of men resembling that of the heavens, and an insincereness, inconstancy, and troublesome humor of those that dwell in populous cities, like the mobility, blustering, and impurity of the air; and a plainness, and though dull, yet a nutritive faculty in rural people, that endures a comparison with the earth they labor.

From hence have proceeded three sorts of poesy, heroic, scommatic, and pastoral. Every one of these is distinguished again in the manner of representation, which sometimes is narrative, wherein the poet himself relateth, and sometimes dramatic, as when the persons are every one adorned and brought upon the theater to speak and act their own parts. There is therefore neither more nor less than six sorts of poesy. For the heroic poem narrative, such as is yours, is called an epic poem. The heroic poem dramatic is tragedy. The scommatic narrative is satire, dramatic is comedy. The pastoral narrative is called simply pastoral, anciently bucolic; the same dramatic, pastoral comedy. The figure therefore of an epic poem and of a tragedy ought to be the same, for they differ no more but in that they are pronounced by one or many persons. Which I insert to justify the figure of yours, consisting of five books divided into songs, or cantos, as five acts divided into scenes has ever been the approved figure of a tragedy.

They that take for poesy whatsoever is writ in verse will think this division imperfect, and call in sonnets, epigrams, eclogues, and the like pieces, which are but essays and parts of an entire poem, and reckon Empedocles and Lucretius (natural philosophers) for poets, and the moral precepts of Phocylides, Theognis, and the quatrains of Pybrach and the history of Lucan, and others of that kind amongst poems, bestowing on such writers for honor the name of poets rather than of historians or philosophers. But the subject of a poem is the manners of men, not natural causes; manners presented, not dictated; and manners feigned, as the name of poesy imports, not found in men. They that give entrance to fictions writ in prose err not so much, but they err: for prose requireth delightfulness, not only of fiction, but of style, in which, if prose contend with verse, it is with disadvantage and, as it were, on foot against the strength and wings of Pegasus.

For verse amongst the Greeks was appropriated anciently to the service of their gods, and was the holy style, the style of the oracles, the style of the laws, and the style of men that publicly recommended to their gods the vows and thanks of the people, which was done in their holy songs called hymns, and the composers of them were called prophets and priests before the name of poet was known. When afterwards the majesty of that style was observed, the poets chose it as best becoming their high invention. And for the antiquity of verse, it is greater than the antiquity of letters. For it is certain Cadmus was the first that from Phoenicia, a country that neighboreth Judea, brought the use of letters into Greece. But the service of the gods and the laws, which by measured sounds were easily committed to the memory, had been long time in use before the arrival of Cadmus there.

There is, besides the grace of style, another cause why the ancient poets chose to write in measured language, which is this. Their poems were made at first with intention to have them sung, as well epic as dramatic—which custom hath been long time laid aside, but began to be revived, in part, of late years in Italy—and could not be made commensurable to the voice or instruments in prose, the ways and motions whereof are so uncertain and undistinguished, like the way and motion of a ship in the sea, as not only to discompose the best composers, but also to disappoint sometimes the most attentive reader and put him to hunt counter for the sense. It was therefore necessary for poets in those times to write in verse.

The verse which the Greeks and Latins, considering the nature of their own languages, found by experience most grave, and for an epic poem most decent, was their hexameter, a verse limited not only in the length of the line, but also in the quantity of the syllables. Instead of which we use the line of ten syllables, recompensing the neglect of their quantity with the diligence of rhyme. And this measure is so proper for a heroic poem as without some loss of gravity and dignity it was never changed. A longer is not far from ill prose, and a shorter is a kind of whisking, you know, like the unlacing rather than the singing of a Muse. In an epigram or a sonnet a man may vary his measures, and seek glory from a needless difficulty, as he that contrived verses into the forms of an organ, a hatchet, an egg, an altar, and a pair of wings; but in so great and noble a work as is an epic poem, for a man to obstruct his own way with unprofitable difficulties is great imprudence. So likewise to choose a needless and difficult correspondence of rhyme is but a difficult toy, and forces a man sometimes for the stopping of a chink to say somewhat he did never think; I cannot therefore but very much approve your stanza, wherein the syllables in every verse are ten, and the rhyme alternate.

For the choice of your subject, you have sufficiently justified yourself in your preface. But because I have observed in Virgil, that the honor done to Aeneas and his companions has so bright a reflection upon Augustus Caesar and other great Romans of that time as a man may suspect him not constantly possessed with the noble spirit of those his heroes, and believe you are not acquainted with any great man of the race of Gondibert, I add to your justification the purity of your purpose, in having no other motive of your labor but to adorn virtue and procure her lovers, than which there cannot be a worthier design, and more becoming noble poesy.

In that you make so small account of the example of almost all the approved poets, ancient and modern, who thought fit in the beginning, and sometimes also in the progress of their poems, to invoke a Muse or some other deity that should dictate to them or assist them in their writings, they that take not the laws of art from any reason of their own but from the fashion of precedent times will perhaps accuse your singularity. For my part, I neither subscribe to their accusation, nor yet condemn that heathen custom otherwise than as accessory to their false religion. For their poets were their divines, had the name of prophets, exercised amongst the people a kind of spiritual authority, would be thought to speak by a divine spirit, have their works which they writ in verse (the divine style) pass for the word of God and not of man, and to be hearkened to with reverence. Do not our divines (excepting the style) do the same, and by us that are of the same religion cannot justly be reprehended for it? Besides, in the use of the spiritual calling of divines, there is danger sometimes to be feared from want of skill, such as is reported of unskillful conjurers, that mistaking the rites and ceremonious points of their art, call up such spirits as they cannot at their pleasure allay again, by whom storms are raised that overthrow buildings and are the cause of miserable wrecks at sea. Unskillful divines do oftentimes the like: for when they call unseasonably for zeal there appears a spirit of cruelty; and by the like error, instead of truth they raise discord; instead of wisdom, fraud; instead of reformation, tumult; and controversy instead of religion. Whereas in the heathen poets, at least in those whose works have lasted to the time we are in, there are none of those indiscretions to be found that tended to subversion or disturbance of the commonwealths wherein they lived. But why a Christian should think it an ornament to his poem, either to profane the true God or invoke a false one, I can imagine no cause but a reasonless imitation of custom, of a foolish custom, by which a man, enabled to speak wisely from the principles of nature and his own meditation, loves rather to be thought to speak by inspiration, like a bagpipe.

Time and education begets experience; experience begets memory; memory begets Judgment and Fancy: Judgment begets the strength and structure, and Fancy begets the ornaments of a poem. The ancients therefore fabled not absurdly in making memory the mother of the Muses. For memory is the world (though not really, yet so as in a looking glass) in which the Judgment, the severer sister, busieth herself in a grave and rigid examination of all the parts of nature, and in registering by letters their order, causes, uses, differences, and resemblances; whereby the Fancy, when any work of art is to be performed, finds her materials at hand and prepared for use, and needs no more than a swift motion over them, that what she wants, and is there to be had, may not lie too long unespied. So that when she seemeth to fly from one Indies to the other, and from heaven to earth, and to penetrate into the hardest matter and obscurest places, into the future and into herself, and all this in a point of time, the voyage is not very great, her self being all she seeks; and her wonderful celerity consisteth not so much in motion as in copious imagery discreetly ordered and perfectly registered in the memory, which most men under the name of philosophy have a glimpse of, and is pretended to by many that, grossly mistaking her, embrace contention in her place. But so far forth as the fancy of man has traced the ways of true philosophy, so far it hath produced very marvelous effects to the benefit of mankind. All that is beautiful or defensible in building, or marvelous in engines and instruments of motion, whatsoever commodity men receive from the observations of the heavens, from the description of the earth, from the account of time, from walking on the seas, and whatsoever distinguisheth the civility of Europe from the barbarity of the American savages, is the workmanship of Fancy but guided by the precepts of true philosophy. But where these precepts fail, as they have hitherto failed in the doctrine of moral virtue, there the architect, Fancy, must take the philosopher's part upon herself. He therefore that undertakes a heroic poem, which is to exhibit a venerable and amiable image of heroic virtue, must not only be the poet, to place and connect, but also the philosopher, to furnish and square his matter, that is, to make both body and soul, color and shadow of his poem out of his own store: which how well you have performed I am now considering.

Observing how few the persons be you introduce in the beginning, and how in the course of the actions of these (the number increasing) after several confluences they run all at last into the two principal streams of your poem, Gondibert and Oswald, methinks the fable is not much unlike the theater. For so, from several and far distant sources, do the lesser brooks of Lombardy, flowing into one another, fall all at last into two main rivers, the Po and the Adice. It hath the same resemblance also with a man's veins, which, proceeding from different parts, after the like concourse insert themselves at last into the two principal veins of the body. But when I considered that also the actions of men, which singly are inconsiderable, after many conjunctures grow at last either into one great protecting power or into two destroying factions, I could not but approve the structure of your poem, which ought to be no other than such as an imitation of human life requireth.

In the streams themselves I find nothing but settled valor, clean honor, calm counsel, learned diversion, and pure love, save only a torrent or two of ambition, which, though a fault, has somewhat heroic in it, and therefore must have place in a heroic poem. To show the reader in what place he shall find every excellent picture of virtue you have drawn is too long. And to show him one is to prejudice the rest; yet I cannot forbear to point him to the description of love in the person of Birtha, in the seventh canto of the second book. There has nothing been said of that subject neither by the ancient nor modern poets comparable to it. Poets are painters: I would fain see another painter draw so true, perfect, and natural a love to the life, and make use of nothing but pure lines, without the help of any the least uncomely shadow, as you have done. But let it be read as a piece by itself, for in the most equal height of the whole the eminence of parts is lost.

There are some that are not pleased with fiction, unless it be bold, not only to exceed the work, but also the possibility of nature: they would have impenetrable armors, enchanted castles, invulnerable bodies, iron men, flying horses, and a thousand other such things, which are easily feigned by them that dare. Against such I defend you (without assenting to those that condemn either Homer or Virgil) by dissenting only from those that think the beauty of a poem consisteth in the exorbitancy of the fiction. For as truth is the bound of historical, so the resemblance of truth is the utmost limit of poetical liberty. In old time amongst the heathen such strange fictions and metamorphoses were not so remote from the articles of their faith as they are now from ours, and therefore were not so unpleasant. Beyond the actual works of nature a poet may now go; but beyond the conceived possibility of nature, never. I can allow a geographer to make in the sea a fish or a ship which by the scale of his map would be two or three hundred miles long, and think it done for ornament, because it is done without the precincts of his undertaking; but when he paints an elephant so, I presently apprehend it as ignorance, and a plain confession of terra incognita.

As the description of great men and great actions is the constant design of a poet, so the descriptions of worthy circumstances are necessary accessions to a poem, and being well performed are the jewels and most precious ornaments of poesy. Such in Virgil are the funeral games of Anchises, the duel of Aeneas and Turnus, etc.; and such in yours are "The Hunting," "The Bataile," "The City Mourning," "The Funeral," "The House of Astragon," "The Library," and "The Temple," equal to his, or those of Homer whom he imitated.

There remains now no more to be considered but the expression, in which consisteth the countenance and color of a beautiful Muse, and is given her by the poet out of his own provision, or is borrowed from others. That which he hath of his own is nothing but experience and knowledge of nature, and specially human nature, and is the true and natural color. But that which is taken out of books (the ordinary boxes of counterfeit complexion) shows well or ill, as it hath more or less resemblance with the natural, and are not to be used without examination unadvisedly. For in him that professes the imitation of nature, as all poets do, what greater fault can there be than to betray an ignorance of nature in his poem—especially having a liberty allowed him, if he meet with anything he cannot master, to leave it out?

That which giveth a poem the truth and natural color consisteth in two things, which are, to know well, that is, to have images of nature in the memory distinct and clear, and to know much. A sign of the first is perspicuity, property, and decency, which delight all sorts of men, either by instructing the ignorant or soothing the learned in their knowledge. A sign of the latter is novelty of expression, and pleaseth by excitation of the mind; for novelty causeth admiration, and admiration curiosity, which is a delightful appetite of knowledge.

There be so many words in use at this day in the English tongue, that though of magnifique sound, yet (like the windy blisters of a troubled water) have no sense at all, and so many others that lose their meaning by being ill coupled, that it is a hard matter to avoid them; for having been obtruded upon youth in the schools by such as make it, I think, their business there (as 'tis expressed by the best poet) "with terms to charm the weak and pose the wise," they grow up with them, and, gaining reputation with the ignorant, are not easily shaken off.

To this palpable darkness I may also add the ambitious obscurity of expressing more than is perfectly conceived, or perfect conception in fewer words than it requires. Which expressions, though they have had the honor to be called strong lines, are indeed no better than riddles, and, not only to the reader but also after a little time to the writer himself, dark and troublesome.

To the property of expression I refer that clearness of memory by which a poet, when he hath once introduced any person whatsoever speaking in his poem, maintaineth in him to the end the same character he gave him in the beginning. The variation whereof is a change of pace that argues the poet tired.

Of the indecencies of a heroic poem the most remarkable are those that show disproportion either between the persons and their actions, or between the manners of the poet and the poem. Of the first kind is the uncomeliness of representing in great persons the inhuman vice of cruelty or the sordid vice of lust and drunkenness. To such parts as those the ancient approved poets thought it fit to suborn, not the persons of men, but of monsters and beastly giants, such as Polyphemus, Cacus, and the centaurs. For it is supposed a Muse, when she is invoked to sing a song of that nature, should maidenly advise the poet to set such persons to sing their own vices upon the stage, for it is not so unseemly in a tragedy. Of the same kind it is to represent scurrility or any action or language that moveth much laughter. The delight of an epic poem consisteth not in mirth, but admiration. Mirth and laughter is proper to comedy and satire. Great persons that have their minds employed on great designs have not leisure enough to laugh, and are pleased with the contemplation of their own power and virtues, so as they need not the infirmities and vices of other men to recommend themselves to their own favor by comparison, as all men do when they laugh. Of the second kind, where the disproportion is between the poet and the persons of his poem, one is in the dialect of the inferior sort of people, which is always different from the language of the court. Another is to derive the illustration of anything from such metaphors or comparisons as cannot come into men's thoughts but by mean conversation and experience of humble or evil arts, which the person of an epic poem cannot be thought acquainted with.

From knowing much, proceedeth the admirable variety and novelty of metaphors and similitudes, which are not possible to be lighted on in the compass of a narrow knowledge. And the want whereof compelleth a writer to expressions that are either defaced by time or sullied with vulgar or long use. For the phrases of poesy, as the airs of music, with often hearing become insipid, the reader having no more sense of their force than our flesh is sensible of the bones that sustain it. As the sense we have of bodies consisteth in change and variety of impression, so also does the sense of language in the variety and changeable use of words. I mean not in the affectation of words newly brought home from travail, but in new and withal significant translation to our purposes of those that be already received, and in farfetched but withal apt, instructive, and comely similitudes.

Having thus, I hope, avoided the first exception against the incompetency of my judgment, I am but little moved with the second, which is of being bribed by the honor you have done me by attributing in your preface somewhat to my judgment. For I have used your judgment no less in many things of mine, which coming to light will thereby appear the better. And so you have your bribe again.

Having thus made way for the admission of my testimony, I give it briefly thus: I never yet saw poem that had so much shape of art, health of morality, and vigor and beauty of expression as this of yours. And but for the clamor of the multitude, that hide their envy of the present under a reverence of antiquity, I should say further that it would last as long as either the Aeneid or Iliad, but for one disadvantage; and the disadvantage is this: The languages of the Greeks and Romans, by their colonies and conquests, have put off flesh and blood, and are become immutable, which none of the modern tongues are like to be. I honor antiquity, but that which is commonly called old time is young time. The glory of antiquity is due, not to the dead, but to the aged.

And now, while I think on it, give me leave with a short discord to sweeten the harmony of the approaching close. I have nothing to object against your poem, but dissent only from something in your preface sounding to the prejudice of age. 'Tis commonly said that old age is a return to childhood: which methinks you insist on so long, as if you desired it should be believed. That's the note I mean to shake a little. That saying, meant only of the weakness of body, was wrested to the weakness of mind by froward children, weary of the controlment of their parents, masters, and other admonitors. Secondly, the dotage and childishness they ascribe to age is never the effect of time, but sometimes of the excesses of youth, and not a returning to, but a continual stay with, childhood. For they that, wanting the curiosity of furnishing their memories with the rarities of nature in their youth, and pass their time in making provision only for their ease and sensual delight, are children still at what years soever, as they that coming into a populous city, never going out of their inn, are strangers still, how long soever they have been there. Thirdly, there is no reason for any man to think himself wiser today than yesterday, which does not equally convince he shall be wiser tomorrow than today. Fourthly, you will be forced to change your opinion hereafter when you are old; and in the meantime you discredit all I have said before in your commendation, because I am old already. But no more of this.

I believe, sir, you have seen a curious kind of perspective, where he that looks through a short hollow pipe upon a picture containing divers figures sees none of those that are there painted, but some one person made up of their parts, conveyed to the eye by the artificial cutting of a glass. I find in my imagination an effect not unlike it from your poem. The virtues you distribute there amongst so many noble persons represent in the reading the image but of one man's virtue to my fancy, which is your own, and that so deeply imprinted as to stay forever there, and govern all the rest of my thoughts and affections in the way of honoring and serving you to the utmost of my power, that am, sir,

Your most humble and obedient servant,

Thomas Hobbes.

Paris, January 10, 1650

1. scommatic：諷刺性的。

2. Cadmus：卡德摩斯，希臘神話中底比斯城（Thebes）的創(chuàng)建者，后來(lái)成為底比斯的國(guó)王。

3. Phoenicia：腓尼基，敘利亞古國(guó)。

4. Judea：朱迪亞，今巴勒斯坦古地區(qū)。

5. in measured language：即language in verse form。

6. Gondibert：岡迪伯特，指浪漫史詩(shī)《岡迪伯特》（Gondibert）中的主要人物Duke Gondibert。

7. fancy：即imagination。

8. Indies：此處指古印度和古印度周邊地區(qū)。

9. Oswald：奧斯瓦爾德，指浪漫史詩(shī)《岡迪伯特》中的主要人物Prince Oswald。

10. Lombardy：倫巴第區(qū)，地名，在意大利北部。

11. nature：指reality。

12. poetical liberty：亦可稱poetical license，指寫詩(shī)允許夸張，如唐詩(shī)中的“白發(fā)三千丈”等。

13. terra incognita：意為undiscovered territory。

14. Anchises：安喀塞斯，希臘神話中的特洛伊王子。他同女神阿佛洛狄特（Aphrodite，即羅馬神話中的維納斯）相愛(ài)，生下埃涅阿斯（Aeneas）。

15. Turnus：特納斯，羅馬詩(shī)人維吉爾所寫的史詩(shī)《埃涅阿斯紀(jì)》中的意大利英雄，在與埃涅阿斯戰(zhàn)斗中被其殺死。

16. bataile：即battle。

17. magnifique：意為magnificent。

18. “with terms to charm the weak and pose the wise，”：引自Gondibert。

19. Polyphemus：波呂斐摩斯，希臘神話中的獨(dú)目巨人之一。

20. Cacus：凱卡斯，羅馬神話中口能噴火的怪物。