Friar Lawrence, in Romeo and Juliet, observing the excessive raptures of Romeo on his marriage, gives way to a sentiment, naturally suggested by this circumstance:
Now what is it, in prejudice to the originality of these places, to alledge a hundred or a thousand passages (for so many it were, perhaps, not impossible to accumulate) analogous to them in the ancient or modern poets? Could any reasonable critic mistake these genuine workings of the mind for instances of imitation?
In Cymbeline, the obsequies of Imogen are celebrated with a song of triumph over the evils of human life, from which death delivers us:
What a temptation this for the parallelist to shew his reading! yet his incomparable editor observes slightly upon it: “This is the topic of consolation, that nature dictates to all men on these occasions. The same farewell we have over the dead body in Lucian; ΤΕΚΝΟΝ ΑΘΛΙΟΝ, ΟΥΚΕΤΙ ΔΙΨΗΣΕΙΣ, ΟΥΚΕΤΙ ΠΕΙΝΗΣΕΙΣ, &c.”
When Valentine in the Twelfth-night reports the inconquerable grief of Olivia for the loss of a brother, the duke observes upon it,
’Tis strange, the critics have never accused the poet of stealing this sentiment from Terence, who makes Simo in the Andrian reason on his son’s concern for Chrysis in the same manner:
It were easy to multiply examples, but I spare the reader. Though nothing may seem, at first sight, more inconstant, variable, and capricious, than the thought of man, yet he will easily collect, that character, passion, system, or circumstance can, each in its turn, by a secret yet sure influence, bind its extravagant starts and sallies; and effect, at length, as necessary a conformity in the representation of these internal movements, as of the visible phaenomena of the natural world. A poor impoverished spirit, who has no sources of invention in himself, may be tempted to relieve his wants at the expence of his wealthier neighbour. But the suspicion, of real ability, is childish. Common sense directs us, for the most part, to regard resemblances in great writers, not as the pilferings, or frugal acquisitions of needy art, but as the honest fruits of genius, the free and liberal bounties of unenvying nature.
III. Having learned, from our own conscious reflexion, the secret operations of reason, character, and passion, it now remains to contemplate their effects in visible appearances. For nature is not more regular and consistent with herself in touching the fine and hidden springs of humanity, than in ordering the outward and grosser movements. The thoughts and affections of men paint themselves on the countenance; stand forth in airs and attitudes; and declare themselves in all the diversities of human action. This is a new field for mimic genius to range in; a great and glorious one, and which affords the noblest and most interesting objects of imitation. For the external forms themselves are grateful to the fancy, and, as being expressive of design, warm and agitate the heart with passion. Hence it is, that narrative poetry, which draws mankind under every apparent consequence and effect of passion, inchants the mind. And even the dramatic, we know, is cool and lifeless, and loses half its efficacy, without action. This, too, is the province of picture, statuary, and all arts, which inform by mute signs. Nay, the mute arts may be styled, almost without a figure, in this class of imitation, the most eloquent. For what words can express airs and attitudes, like the pencil? Or, when the genius of the artists is equal, who can doubt of giving the preference to that representation, which, striking on the sight, grows almost into reality, and is hardly considered by the inraptured thought, as fiction? When passion is to be made known by outward act, Homer himself yields the palm to Raphael.
But our business is with the poets. And, in reviewing this their largest and most favoured stock of materials, can we do better than contemplate them in the very order, in which we before disposed the workings of the mind itself, the causes of these appearances?
1. To begin with the affections. They have their rise, as was observed, from the very constitution of human nature, when placed in given circumstances, and acted upon by certain occurrences. The perceptions of these inward commotions are uniformly the same, in all; and draw along with them the same, or similar sentiments and reflexions. Hence the appeal is made to every one’s own consciousness, which declares the truth or falshood of the imitation. When these commotions are produced and made objective to sense by visible signs, is observation a more fallible guide, than consciousness? Or, doth experience attest these signs to be less similar and uniform, than their occasions? By no means. Take a man under the impression of joy, fear, grief, or any other of the stronger affections; and see, if a peculiar conformation of feature, some certain stretch of muscle, or contortion of limb, will not necessarily follow, as the clear and undoubted index of his condition. Our natural curiosity is ever awake and attentive to these changes. And poetry sets herself at work, with eagerness, to catch and transcribe their various appearances. No correspondency of representation, then, needs surprize us; nor any the exactest resemblance be thought strange, where the object is equally present to all persons. For it must be remarked of the visible effects of MIND, as, before, of the phaenomena of the material world, that they are, simply, the objects of observation. So that what was concluded of these, will hold also of the others; with this difference, that the effects of internal movements do not present themselves so constantly to the eye, nor with that uniformity of appearance, as permanent, external existencies. We cannot survey them at pleasure, but as occasion offers: and we, further, find them diversified by the character, or disguised, in some degree, by the artifice, of the persons, in whom we observe them. But all the consequence is, that, to succeed in this work of painting the signatures of internal affection, requires a larger experience, or quicker penetration, than copying after still life. Where the proper qualifications are possessed, and especially in describing the marks of vigorous affections, different writers cannot be supposed to vary more considerably, in this province of imitation, than in the other. Our trouble therefore, on this head, may seem to be at an end. Yet it will be expected, that so general a conclusion be inforced by some illustrations.
The passion of LOVE is one of those affections, which bear great sway in the human nature. Its workings are violent. And its effects on the person, possessed by it, and in the train of events, to which it gives occasion, conspicuous to all observers. The power of this commanding affection hath triumphed at all times. It hath given birth to some of the greatest and most signal transactions in history; and hath furnished the most inchanting scenes of fiction. Poetry hath ever lived by it. The modern muse hath hardly any existence without it. Let us ask, then, of this tyrant passion, whether its operations are not too familiar to sense, its effects too visible to the eye, to make it necessary for the poet to go beyond himself, and the sphere of his own observation, for the original of his descriptions of it.
To prevent all cavil, let it be allowed, that the signs of this passion, I mean, the visible effects in which it shews itself, are various and almost infinite. It is reproached, above all others, with the names of capricious, fantastic, and unreasonable. No wonder then, if it assume an endless variety of forms, and seem impatient, as it were, of any certain shape or posture. Yet this Proteus of a passion may be fixed by the magic hand of the poet. Though it can occasionally take all, yet it delights to be seen in some shapes, more than others. Some of its effects are known and obvious, and are perpetually recurring to observation. And these are ever fittest to the ends of poetry; every man pronouncing of such representations from his proper experience, that they are from nature. Nay its very irregularities may be reduced to rule. There is not, in antiquity, a truer picture of this fond and froward passion, than is given us in the person of Terence’s Phaedria from Menander. Horace and Persius, when they set themselves, on purpose, to expose and exaggerate its follies, could imagine nothing beyond it. Yet we have much the same inconsistent character in Julia in The two Gentlemen of Verona.
Shall it be now said, that Shakespear copied from Terence, as Terence from Menander? Or is it not as plain to common sense, that the English poet is original, as that the Latin poet was an imitator?
Shakespear, on another occasion, describes the various, external symptoms of this extravagant affection. Amongst others, he insists, there is no surer sign of being in love, “than when every thing about you demonstrates a careless desolation.” [As you like it. A. iii. Sc. 8.] Suppose now the poet to have taken in hand the story of a neglected, abandoned lover; for instance of Ariadne; a story, which ancient poetry took a pleasure to relate, and which hath been touched with infinite grace by the tender, passionate muse of Catullus and Ovid. Suppose him to give a portrait of her passion in that distressful moment when, “from the naked beach, she views the parting sail of Theseus.” This was a time for all the signs of desolation to shew themselves. And could we doubt of his describing those very signs, which nature’s self dictated, long ago, to Catullus?
But there is a higher instance in view. The humanity and easy elegance of the two Latin poets, just mentioned, joined to an unaffected naivetè of expression, were, perhaps, most proper to describe the petulancies, the caprices, the softnesses of this passion in common life. To paint its tragic and more awful distresses, to melt the soul into all the sympathies of sorrow, is the peculiar character of Virgil’s poetry. His talents were, indeed, universal. But, I think, we may give it for the characteristic of his muse, that she was, beyond all others, possessed of a sovereign power of touching the tender passions. Euripides’ self, whose genius was most resembling to his, of all the ancients, holds, perhaps, but the second place in this praise.
A poet, thus accomplished, would omit, we may be sure, no occasion of yielding to his natural bias of recording the distresses of love. He discovered his talent, as well as inclination, very early, in the Bucolics; and even, where one should least expect it, in his Georgics. But the fairest opportunity offered in his great design of the Aeneis. Here, one should suppose, the whole bent of his genius would exert itself. And we are not disappointed. I speak not of that succession of sentiments, reflexions, and expostulations, which flow, as in a continued stream of grief, from the first discovery of her heart to her sister, to her last frantic and inflamed resentments. These belong to the former article of internal movements: and need not be considered. My concern at present, is with those visible, external indications, the sensible marks and signatures (as expressed in look, air, and action) of this tormenting frenzy. The history of these, as related in the narrative part of Dido’s adventure, would comprehend every natural situation of a person, under love’s distractions. And it were no unpleasing amusement to follow and contemplate her, in a series of pictures, from her first attitude, of hanging on the mouth of Aeneas, through all the gradual excesses of her rage, to the concluding fatal act of desperation. But they are deeply imprinted on every schoolboy’s memory. It need only be observed, that they are such, as almost necessarily spring up from the circumstances of her case, and which every reader, on first view, as agreeing to his own notices and observations, pronounces natural.
It may seem sufficient, therefore, to ascribe these portraitures of passion, so suitable to all our expectations, and in drawing which the genius of the great poet so eminently excelled, to the original hand and design of Virgil. But the perverse humour of criticism, occasioned by this inveterate prejudice “of taking all resemblances for thefts,” will allow no such thing. Before it will decide of this matter, every ancient writer, who but incidentally touches a love-adventure, must be sought out and brought in evidence against him. And finding that Homer hath his Calypso, and Euripides and Apollonius their Medea, it adjudges the entire episode to be stolen by piece-meal, and patched up out of their writings. I have a learned critic now before me, who roundly asserts, “that, but for the Argonautics, there had been no fourth book of the Aeneis27.” Some traits of resemblance there are. It could not be otherwise. But all the use a candid reader, who comes to his author with the true spirit of a critic, will make of them, is to shew, “how justly the poet copies nature, which had suggested similar representations to his predecessors.”
What is here concluded of the softer, cannot but hold more strongly of the boisterous passions. These do not shelter, and conceal themselves within the man. It is particularly, of their nature, to stand forth, and shew themselves in outward actions. Of the more illustrious effects of the ruder passions the chief are contentions and wars—regum & populorum aestus; which, by reason of the grandeur of the subject, and its important consequences, so fitted to strike the thought, and fire the affections of the reader, poetry, I mean the highest and sublimest species of it, chuses principally to describe. In the conduct of such description, some difference will arise from the instruments in use for annoyance of the enemy, and, in general, the state of art military; but the actuating passions of rage, ambition, emulation, thirst of honour, revenge, &c. are invariably the same, and are constantly evidenced by the same external marks or characters. The shocks of armies, single combats; the chances and singularities of either; wounds, deaths, stratagems, and the other attendants on battle, which furnish out the state and magnificence of the epic muse, are, all of them, fixed, determinate objects; which leave their impressions on the mind of the poet, in as distinct and uniform characters, as the great constituent parts of the material universe itself. He hath only to look abroad into life and action for the model of all such representations. On which account we can rarely be certain, that the picture is not from nature, though an exact resemblance give to superficial and unthinking observers the suspicion of art.
The same reasoning extends to all the phaenomena of human life, which are the effects or consequences of strong affections, and which set mankind before us in gestures, looks, or actions, declarative of the inward suggestions of the heart. It can seldom be affirmed with confidence, in such cases, on the score of any similarity, that one representation imitates another; since an ordinary attention to the same common original, sufficiently accounts for both. The reader, if he sees fit, will apply these remarks to the battles, games, travels, &c. of a great poet; the supposed sterility of whose genius hath been charged with serving itself pretty freely of the copious, inexhausted stores of Homer. In sum;
Whatever be the actuating passion, it cannot but be thought unfair to suspect the artist of imitation; where nothing more is pretended than a resemblance in the draught of similar effects, which it is not possible to avoid.
2. If this be comprehended, I shall need to say the less of the MANNERS; which are not less constant in their effects, than the PASSIONS. When the character of any person hath been signified, and his situation described, it is not wonderful, that twenty different writers should hit on the same attitudes, or employ him in the same manner. When Mercury is sent to command the departure of Ulysses from Calypso, our previous acquaintance with the hero’s character makes us expect to find him in the precise attitude, given to him by the poet, “sitting in solitude on the sea-shore, and casting a wishful eye towards Ithaca.” Or, when, in the Iliad, an embassy is dispatched to treat with the resentful and vindictive, but brave Achilles, nothing could be more obvious than to draw the pupil of Chiron in his tent “soothing his angry soul with his harp, and singing
It was the like attention to nature, which led Milton to dispose of his fallen angels after the manner, described in the second book of Paradise lost.
To multiply instances, when every poet in every page is at hand to furnish them, were egregious trifling. In all cases of this sort, the known character, in conjunction with the circumstances of the person described, determines the particular action or employment, for the most part, so absolutely, that it requires some industry to mistake it. In saying which, I do not forget, what many have, perhaps, been ready to object to me long since, “that what is natural is not therefore of necessity obvious: All the amazing flights of Homer’s or Shakespear’s fancy are found agreeable to nature, when contemplated by the capable reader; but who will say, that, therefore, they must have presented themselves to the generality of writers? The office of judgment is one thing, and of invention, another.”
Properly speaking, what we call invention in poetry is, in respect of the matter of it, simply, observation. And it is in the arrangement, use, and application of his materials, not in the investigation of them, that the exercise of the poet’s genius principally consists. In the case of immediate and direct imagery, which is the subject at present, nothing more is requisite, than to paint truly, what nature presents to the eye, or common sense suggests to the mind of the writer. A vivacity of thought will, indeed, be necessary to run over the several circumstances of any appearance, and a just discernment will be wanting, out of a number, to select such peculiar circumstances, as are most adapted to strike the imagination. It is not therefore pretended, that the same images must occur to all. Sluggish, unactive understandings, which seldom look abroad into living nature, or, when they do, have not curiosity or vigour enough to direct their attention to the nicer particularities of her beauties, will unavoidably overlook the commonest appearances: Or, wanting that just perception of what is beautiful, which we call taste, will as often mistake in the choice of those circumstances, which they may have happened to contemplate. But quick, perceptive, intelligent minds (and of such only I can be thought to speak) will hardly fail of seeing nature in the same light, and of noting the same distinct features and proportions. The superiority of Homer and Shakespear to other poets doth not lie in their discovery of new sentiments or images, but in the forceable manner, in which their sublime genius taught them to convey and impress old ones.
And to inforce what is here said of the familiarity of this class of the poet’s materials, one may, further, appeal to the case of the other mimetic arts, which have no assistance from narration. Certain gestures, looks, or attitudes, are so immediately declarative of the internal actuating causes, that, on the slightest view of the picture or statue, we collect the real state of the persons represented. This figure, we say, strongly expresses the passion of grief; that, of anger; that, of joy; and so of all the other affections. Or, again, when the particular passion is characterized, the general temper and disposition, which we call the manners, is clearly discernible. There is a liberal and graceful air, which discovers a fine temperature of the affections, in one; a close and sullen aspect, declaring a narrow contracted selfishness in another. In short, there is scarcely any mark or feature of the human mind, any peculiarity of disposition or character, which the artist does not set off and make appear at once, to the view, by some certain turn or conformation of the outward figure. Now this effect of his art would be impossible, were it not, that regular and constant observation hath found such external signs consociated with the correspondent internal workings. A heaven overhung with clouds, the tossing of waves, and intermingled flashes of lightning are not surer indications of a storm, than the gloomy face, distorted limb, and indignant eye are of the outrage of conflicting passion. The simplest spectator is capable of observing this. And the artist deceives himself, or would reflect a false honour on his art, who suspects there is any mystery in making such discoveries.
It is true, some great painters have thought it convenient to explain the design of their works by inscriptions. We find this expedient to have been practised of old by Polygnotus, as may be gathered from the description given us, of two of his pictures by Pausanias; and the same thing is observable of some of the best modern masters. But their intention was only to signify the names of the principal persons, and to declare the general scope of their pictures. And so far, this usage may not be amiss in large compositions, and especially on new or uncommon subjects. But should an artist borrow the assistance of words to tell us the meaning of airs and attitudes, and to interpret to us the expression of each figure, such a piece of intelligence must needs be thought very impertinent; since they must be very unqualified to pass their judgment on works of this sort, who had not, from their own observation, collected the visible signs, usually attendant on any character or passion; and whom therefore the representation of these signs, would not lead to a certain knowledge of the character or passion intended.
Nay there is one advantage which painting hath, in this respect, over narration, and even poetry itself. For though poetry represent the same objects, the same sensible marks of the internal movements, as painting, yet it doth it with less particularity and exactness. My meaning will be understood in reflecting, that words can only give us, even when most expressive, the general image. The pencil touches its smallest and minutest specialities. And this will explain the reason why any remarkable correspondency of air, feature, attitude, &c. in two pictures, will, commonly and with good reason, convict one or both of them of imitation: whereas this conclusion is by no means so certain from a correspondency of description in two poems. For the odds are prodigious against such exactness of similitude, when the slightest trace of the pencil forms a sensible difference: But poets, who do not convey ideas with the same precision and distinctness, cannot be justly liable to this imputation, even where the general image represented happens to be the same. Virgil, one would think, on a very affecting occasion, might have given the following representation of his hero,
without any suspicion of communicating with Homer, who had said, in like manner, of his,
But had two painters, in presenting this image, agreed in the same particularities of posture, inclination of the head, air of the face, &c. no one could doubt a moment, that the one was stolen from the other. Which single observation, if attended to, will greatly abate the prejudice, usually entertained on this subject. We think it incredible, amidst the infinite diversity of the poet’s materials, that any two should accord in the choice of the very same; more especially when described with the same circumstances. But we forget, that the same materials are left in common to all poets, and that the very circumstances, alledged, can be, in words, but very generally and imperfectly delineated.
3, Of the calmer sentiments, which come within the province of poetry, and, breaking forth into outward act, furnish matter to description, the most remarkable in their operations are those of religion. It is certain, that the principal of those rites and ceremonies, of those outward acts of homage, which have prevailed in different ages and countries, and constituted the public religion of mankind, had their rise in our common nature, and were the genuine product of the workings of the human mind28. For it is the mere illusion of this inveterate error concerning imitation, in general, which hath misled some great names to imagine them traductive from each other. But the occasion does not require us to take the matter so deep. The office of poetry, in describing the solemnity of her religious ritual is to look no farther, than the established modes of the age and country, whose manners it would represent. If these should be the same at different times in two religions, or the religion itself continue unchanged, it necessarily follows, that the representations of them by different writers will agree to the minutest resemblance. Not only the general rite or ceremony will be the same; but the very peculiarities of its performance, which are prescribed by rule, remain unaltered. Thus, if religious sentiments usually express themselves, in all men, by a certain posture of the body, direction of the hands, turn of the countenance, &c. these signs are uniformly and faithfully pictured in all devotional portraits. So again, if by the genius of any particular religion, to which the poet is carefully to adhere, the practice of sacrifices, auguries, omens, lustrations, &c. be required in its established ceremonial, the draught of this diversity of superstitions, and of their minutest particulars, will have a necessary place in any work, professing to delineate such religion; whatever resemblance its descriptions may be foreseen to have to those of any other.
The reader will proceed to apply these remarks, where he sees fit. For it may scarcely seem worth while to take notice of the insinuation, which a polite writer, but no very able critic, hath thrown out against the entire use of religious description in poetry. I say the entire use; for so I understand him, when he says, “the religion of the gentiles had been woven into the contexture of all the ancient poetry with a very agreeable mixture, which made the moderns affect to give that of Christianity a place also in their poems29.” He seems not to have conceived, that the visible effects of religious opinions and dispositions, constitute a principal part of what is most striking in the sublimer poetry. The narrative species delights in, or rather cannot subsist without, these solemn pictures of the religious ritual; and the theatre is never more moved, than when its awful scenery is exhibited in the dramatic. Or, if he meant this censure, of the intervention of superior agents, and what we call machinery, the observation (though it be seconded by one, whose profession should have taught him much better30) is not more to the purpose. For the pomp of the epic muse demands to be furnished with a train of these celestial personages. Intending, as she doth, to astonish the imagination with whatever is most august within the compass of human thought, it is not possible for her to accomplish this great end, but by the ministry of supernatural intelligences, PER AMBAGES ET MINISTERIA DEORUM.
Or, the proof of these two points may be given more precisely thus: “The relation of man to the deity, being as essential to his nature, as that which he bears to his fellow-citizens, religion becomes as necessary a part of a serious and sublime narration of human life, as civil actions. And as the sublime nature of it requires even virtues and vices to be personified, much more is it necessary, that supernatural agency should bear a part in it. For, whatever some sects may think of religion’s being a divine philosophy in the mind, the poet must exhibit man’s addresses to Heaven in ceremonies, and Heaven’s intervention by visible agency.”
So that the intermixture of religion, in every point of view, is not only agreeable, but necessary to the very genius of, at least, the highest class of poetry. Ancients and moderns might therefore be led to the display of this sacred scenery, without affectation. And for what concerns Christian poets, in particular, we see from an instance at home (whatever may be the success of some Italians, whom he appears to have had in his eye) that, where the subject is proper to receive it, it can appear with as much grace, as in the poets of paganism. It may be concluded then, universally, that religion is the proper object of poetry, which wants no prompter of a preceding model to give it an introduction; and that the forms, under which it presents itself, are too manifest and glaring to observation, to escape any writer.
The case is somewhat different with what I call the moral and oeconomical sentiments. These operate indeed within, and by their busy and active powers administer abundant matter to poetic description, which alone is equal to these unseen workings. For their actings on the body are too feeble to produce any visible alteration of the outward form. Their fine and delicate movements are to be apprehended only and surveyed by conscious attentive reflexion. They are not, usually, of force enough to wield the machine of man; to discompose his frame, or distort his feature: and so rarely come to be susceptible of picture or representation. One may compare the subtle operations of these sentiments on the human form, to the gentle breathing of the air on the face of nature. Its soft aspirations may be perceived; its nimble and delicate spirit may diffuse itself through woods and fields, and its pervading influence cherish and invigorate all animal or vegetative being. Yet no external signs evidence its effects to sense. It acts invisibly, and therefore no power of imitation can give it form and colouring. Its impulses must, at least, have a certain degree of strength: it must wave the grass, incline trees, and scatter leaves, before the painter can lay hold of it, and draw it into description. Just so it is with our calmer sentiments. They seldom stir or disorder the human frame. They spring up casually, and as circumstances concur, within us; but, as it were, sink and die away again, like passing gales, without leaving any impress or mark of violence behind them. In short, when they do not grow out of fixed characters, or are prompted by passion, they do not, I believe, ever make themselves visible.
And this observation reaches as well to event and action in life, as to the corporal figure of the person in whom they operate. The sentiments, here spoken of, however naturally or even necessarily they may occur to the mind on certain occasions, yet have seldom or never any immediate effect on consequent action. And the reason is, that we do not proceed to act on the sole conclusions of the understanding; unless such conclusions, by frequent meditation, or the co-operating influence of some affection, excite a ferment in the mind, and impel the will by passion. Such moral aphorisms as these, “that friendship is the medicine of life,” and, “that our country, as including all other interests, claims our first regard,” though likely to obtrude themselves upon us on a thousand occasions, yet would never have urged Achilles to such a train of action, as makes the striking part of the Iliad; or Ulysses, to that which runs through the intire Odyssey; if a strong, instinctive affection in both had not conspired to produce it. When produced therefore, they are to be considered as the genuine consequences, not of these moral sentiments, taken simply by themselves, but of strong benevolence of soul, implanted by nature, and strengthened by habit. They are properly then, the result of the manners, or passions, which have been already contemplated. Our sentiments, merely as such, terminate in themselves, and furnish no external apparent matter to description.
The same conclusion would, it must be owned, hold of our religious, as moral sentiments, were we to regard them only in this view of dispassionate and cool reflexions. For such reflexions produce no change of feature, no alteration in the form or countenance, nor are they necessarily followed by any sensible demonstration of their power in outward action. But then it usually happens (which sets the widest difference between the two cases) that the one, as respecting an object, whose very idea interests strongly, and puts all our faculties in motion, are, almost of necessity, associated with the impelling causes of affection; and so express themselves in legible signs and characters. Whereas the other sentiments, respecting human nature and its necessities, are frequently no other than a calm indifferent survey of common life, unattended with any emotion or inciting principle of action. Hence religion, inspiriting all its meditations with enthusiasm, generally shews itself in outward signs; whereas we frequently discern no traces, as necessarily attendant upon moral. Which difference is worth the noting, were it only for the sake of seeing more distinctly the vast advantage of poetry, above all other modes of imitation. For these, explaining themselves by the help of natural media, which present a real resemblance, are able but imperfectly to describe religious sentiments; in as much as they express the general vague disposition only, and not the precise sentiments themselves. And in moral, they can frequently give us no image or representation at all. While poetry, which tells its meaning by artificial signs, conveys distinct and clear notices of this class of moral and religious conceptions, which afford such mighty entertainment to the human mind. But it serves to a further purpose, more immediately relative to the subject of this inquiry. For these ethic and prudential conclusions, being seen to produce no immediate effect in look, attitude, or action, we are to regard them only in their remoter and less direct consequences, as influencing, at a distance, the civil and oeconomical affairs of life.
And in this view they open a fresh field for imitation; not quite so striking to the spectator, perhaps, but even larger, than that, into which religion, with all its multiform superstitions, before led us. For to these internal workings, assisted and pushed forward by the wants and necessities of our nature, which set the inventive powers on work, are ultimately to be referred that vast congeries of political, civil, commercial, and mechanic institutions, of those infinite manufactures, arts, and exercises, which come in to the relief or embellishment of human life. Add to these all those nameless events and actions, which, though determined by no fixed habit, or leading affection, human prudence, providing for its security or interests, in certain circumstances, naturally projects and prescribes. These are ample materials for description; and the greater poetry necessarily comprehends a large share of them. Yet in all delineations of this sort two things are observable, 1. That in the latter, which are the pure result of our reasonings concerning expediency, common sense, in given conjunctures, often leads to the same measures: As when Ulysses in Homer disguises himself, for the sake of coming at a more exact information of the state of his family; or, when Orestes in Sophocles does the same, to bring about the catastrophe of the Electra. 2. In respect of the former (which is of principal consideration) the established modes and practices of life being the proper and only archetype, experience and common observation cannot fail of pointing, with the greatest certainty, to them. So that in the one case different writers may concur in treating the same matter, in the other, they must. But this last will bear a little further illustration.
The critics on Homer have remarked, with admiration, in him, the almost infinite variety of images and pictures, taken from the intire circle of human arts. Whatever the wit of man had invented for the service or ornament of society in manual exercises and operations is found to have a place in his writings. Rural affairs, in their several branches; the mechanic, and all the polite arts of sculpture, painting, and architecture, are occasionally hinted at in his poems; or, rather, their various imagery, so far as they were known and practised in those times, is fully and largely displayed. Now this, though it shew the prodigious extent of his observation and diligent curiosity, which could search through all the storehouses and magazines of art, for materials of description, yet is not to be placed to the score of his superior inventive faculty; nor infers any thing to the disadvantage of succeeding poets, whose subjects might oblige them to the same descriptions; any more than his vast acquaintance with natural scenery, in all its numberless appearances, implies a want of genius in later imitators, who, if they ventured, at all, into this province, were constrained to give us the same unvaried representations.
The truth, as every one sees, is, briefly, this. The restless and inquisitive mind of man had succeeded in the discovery or improvement of the numberless arts of life. These, for the convenience of method, are considered as making a large part of those sensible external effects, which spring from our internal sentiments or reasonings. But, though they ultimately respect those reasonings, as their source, yet they, in no degree, depend on the actual exertion of them in the breast of the poet. He copies only the customs of the times, of which he writes, that is, the sensible effects themselves. These are permanent objects, and may, nay must be the same, whatever be the ability or genius of the copier. In short, taken together, they make up what, in the largest sense of the word, we may call, with the painters, il costumè; which though it be a real excellence scrupulously to observe, yet it requires nothing more than exact observation and historical knowledge of facts to do it.
And now having the various objects of poetical imitation before us (the greatest part of which, as appears, must, and the rest may, occur to the observation of the poet) we come to this conclusion, which, though it may startle the parallelist, there seems no method of eluding, “that of any single image or sentiment, considered separately and by itself, it can never be affirmed certainly, hardly with any shew of reason, merely on account of its agreement in subject-matter with any other, that it was copied from it.” If there be any foundation of this inference, it must, then be laid, not on the matter, but MANNER of imitation. But here, again, the subject branches out into various particulars; which, to be seen distinctly, will demand a new division, and require us to proceed with leisure and attention through it.
The sum of the foregoing article is this. The objects of imitation, like the materials of human knowledge, are a common stock, which experience furnishes to all men. And it is in the operations of the mind upon them, that the glory of poetry, as of science, consists. Here the genius of the poet hath room to shew itself; and from hence alone is the praise of originality to be ascertained. The fondest admirer of ancient art would never pretend that Palladio had copied Vitruvius; merely from his working with the same materials of wood, stone, or marble, which this great master had employed before him. But were the general design of these two architects the same in any buildings; were their choice and arrangement of the smaller members remarkably similar; were their works conducted in the same style, and their ornaments finished in the same taste; every one would be apt to pronounce on first sight, that the one was borrowed from the other. Even a correspondency in any one of these points might create a suspicion. For what likelihood, amidst an infinite variety of methods, which offer themselves, as to each of these particulars, that there should be found, without design, a signal concurrence in any one? ’Tis then in the usage and disposition of the objects of poetry, that we are to seek for proofs and evidences of plagiarism. And yet it may not be every instance of similarity, that will satisfy here. For the question recurs, “whether of the several forms, of which his materials are susceptible, there be nothing in the nature of things, which determines the artist to prefer a particular one to all others.” For it is possible, that general principles may as well account for a conformity in the manner, as we have seen them do for an identity of matter, in works of imitation. And to this question nothing can be replied, till we have taken an accurate survey of this second division of our subject. Luckily, the allusion to architecture, just touched upon, points to the very method, in which it may be most distinctly pursued. For here too, the MANNER of imitation, if considered in its full extent, takes in 1. The general plan or disposition of a poem. 2. The choice and application of particular subjects: and 3. The expression.
I. All poetry, as lord Bacon admirably observes, “nihil aliud est quam HISTORIAE IMITATIO AD PLACITUM.” By which is not meant, that the poet is at liberty to conduct his imitation absolutely in any manner he pleases, but with such deviations from the rule of history, as the end of poetry prescribes. This end is, universally, PLEASURE; as that of simple history is, INFORMATION. And from a respect to this end, together with some proper allowance for the diversity of the subject-matter, and the mode of imitation (I mean whether it be in the way of recital, or of action) are the essential differences of poetry from mere history, and the form or disposition of its several species, derived. What these differences are, and what the general plan in the composition of each species, will appear from considering the defects of simple history in reference to the main end, which poetry designs.
Some of these are observed by the great person before-mentioned, which I shall want no excuse for giving in his own words.
“1. Cum res gestae et eventus, qui verae historiae subjiciuntur, non sint ejus amplitudinis, in quâ anima humana sibi satisfaciat, praesto est poësis, quae facta magis heroica confingat. 2. Cum historia vera successus rerum minime pro meritis virtutum & scelerum, narret; corrigit eam poësis, & exitus & fortunas, secundum merita, & ex lege Nemeseos, exhibet. 3. Cum historia vera, obviâ rerum satietate & similitudine, animae humanae fastidio sit; reficit eam poësis, inexpectata, & varia & vicissitudinum plena canens.—Quare & merito etiam divinitatis cujuspiam particeps videri possit; quia animum erigit & in sublime rapit; rerum simulachra ad animi desideria accommodando, non animum rebus (quod ratio facit, & historia) submittendo31.”
These advantages chiefly respect the narrative poetry, and above all, the Epos. There are others, still more general, and more directly to the purpose of this inquiry. For 4. The historian is bound to record a series of independent events and actions; and so, at once, falls into two defects, which make him incapable of affording perfect pleasure to the mind. For 1. The flow of passion, produced in us by contemplating any signal event, is greatly checked and disturbed amidst a variety and succession of actions. And 2. being obliged to pass with celerity over each transaction (for otherwise history would be too tedious for the purpose of information) he has not time to draw out single circumstances in full light and impress them with all their force on the imagination. Poetry remedies these two defects. By confining the attention to one object only, it gives the fancy and affections fair play: and by bringing forth to view and even magnifying all the circumstances of that one, it gives to every subject its proper dignity and importance. 5. Lastly, to satisfy the human mind, there must not only be an unity and integrity, but a strict connexion and continuity of the fable or action represented. Otherwise the mind languishes, and the transition of the passions, which gives the chief pleasure, is broken and interrupted. The historian fails, also, in this. By proceeding in the gradual and orderly succession of time, the several incidents, which compose the story, are not laid close enough together to content the natural avidity of our expectations. Whilst poetry, neglecting this regularity of succession, and setting out in the midst of the story, gratifies our instinctive impatience, and carries the affections along, with the utmost rapidity, towards the event.
These advantages are common both to narrative and dramatic poetry. But the drama, as professing to copy real life, contents itself with these. The rest belong entirely to the province of narration.
Now the general forms of poetical method, as distinct from that of history, are the pure result of our conclusions concerning the expediency and fitness of these means, as conducive to the proper end of poetry. Which, without more words, will inform us, how it came to pass, that the true plan or disposition of poetical works, was so early hit upon in practice, and established by exact theories; and may therefore satisfy us of the necessary resemblance and uniformity of all productions of this kind, whether their authors had, or had not, been guided by the pole-star of example.
So much for the general forms of the two greater kinds of poetry. If a proper allowance be made for a diversity of subject-matter, in either mode of composition, it will be easy, as I said, to account for the particular forms of the several subordinate species. And I the rather choose to do it in this way, and not from the peculiar end of each, which indeed were more philosophical, because the business is to make appear, how nature leads to the same general plan of composition in practice, not to establish the laws of each in the exact way of theory. Now in considering the matter historically, the diversity of subject-matter was doubtless that which first determined the writer to a different form of composition, tho’ afterwards, a consideration of the end, accomplished by each, be requisite to deduce, with more precision of method, its distinct laws. The latter is that from whence the speculative critic rightly estimates the character of every species; but the inventor had his direction principally from the former.
Let me exemplify the observation in an instance under either mode of imitation, and leave the rest to the reader.
1. The Georgic is a species of narration. But, as things, not persons, are its subject (from which last alone the unity of design and continuity of action arise) this circumstance absolves it from the necessity of observing any other laws, than those of clear and perspicuous disposition, and of enlivening a matter, naturally uninteresting, by exquisite expression and pleasing digressions.
2. The Pastoral poem may be considered as a lower species of the Drama. But, its subject being the humble concerns of Shepherds, there seems no room for a tragic Plot; and their characters are too simple to afford materials for comic drawing. Their scene is indeed inchanting to the imagination. And, together with this, their little distresses may sooth us in a short song; or their fancies and humours may entertain us in a short Dialogue. And that this is the proper province of the Pastoral Muse, we may see by the ill success of those who have laboured to extend it. Tasso’s project was admired for a time. But we, now, understand that pastoral affairs will not admit a tragic pathos. And the continuance of the pastoral vein, through five long acts, is found insipid, or even distasteful. This poem then has returned to that form which its inventors gave it, and which the subject so naturally prescribes to it.
II. But, though the common end of poetry, which is to please by imitation, together with the subjects of its several species, may determine the general plan, yet is there nothing, it may be said, in the nature of things to fix the order and connexion of single parts. And here, it will be owned, is great room for invention to shew itself. The materials of poetry may be put together in so many different manners, consistently with the form which governs each species, that nothing but the power of imitation can be reasonably thought to produce a close and perpetual similarity in the composition of two works. I have said a close and perpetual similarity; for it is not every degree of resemblance, that will do here.
The general plan itself of any poem will occasion some unavoidable conformities in the disposition of its component parts. The identity or similarity of the subject may create others. Or, if no other assimilating cause intervene, the very uniformity of common nature, will, of necessity, introduce some. To explain myself as to the last of these causes.
The principal constituent members of any work, next to the essential parts of the fable, are EPISODES, DESCRIPTIONS, SIMILES. By descriptions I understand as well the delineation of characters in their speeches and imputed sentiments, as of places or things in the draught of their attending circumstances. Now not only the materials of these are common to all poets, but the same identical manner of assemblage in application of each in any poem will, in numberless cases, appear necessary.
1. The episode belongs, principally, to the epic muse; and the design of it is to diversify and ennoble the narration by digressive, yet not unrelated, ornaments; the former circumstance relieving the simplicity of the epic fable, while the other prevents its unity from being violated. Now these episodical narrations must either proceed from the poet himself, or be imputed to some other who is engaged in the course of the fable; and in either case, must help, indirectly at least, to forward it.
If of the latter kind, a probable pretext must be contrived for their introduction; which can be no other than that of satisfying the curiosity, or of serving to the necessary information of some other. And in either of these ways a striking conformity in the mode of conducting the work is unavoidable.
If the episode be referred to the former class, its manner of introduction will admit a greater latitude. For it will vary with the subject, or occasions of relating it. Yet we shall mistake, if we believe these subjects, and consequently the occasions, connected with them, very numerous. 1. They must be of uncommon dignity and splendor; otherwise nothing can excuse the going out of the way to insert them. 2. They must have some apparent connection with the fable. 3. They must further accord to the idea and state of the times, from which the fable is taken. Put these things together, and see if they will not, with probability, account for some coincidence in the choice and applications of the direct episode. And admitting this, the similarity of even its constituent parts is, also, necessary.
The genius of Virgil never suffers more in the opinion of his critics, than when his book of games comes into consideration and is confronted with Homer’s. It is not unpleasant to observe the difficulties an advocate for his fame is put to in this nice point, to secure his honour from the imputation of plagiarism. The descriptions are accurately examined; and the improvement of a single circumstance, the addition of an epithet, even the novelty of a metaphor, or varied turn in the expression, is diligently remarked and urged, with triumph, in favour of his invention. Yet all this goes but a little way towards stilling the clamour. The entire design is manifestly taken; nay, particular incidents and circumstantials are, for the most part, the same, without variation. What shall we say, then, to this charge? Shall we, in defiance of truth and fact, endeavour to confute it? Or, if allowed, is there any method of supporting the reputation of the poet? I think there is, if prejudice will but suspend its determinations a few minutes, and afford his advocate a fair hearing.
The epic plan, more especially that of the Aeneis, naturally comprehends whatever is most august in civil and religious affairs. The solemnities of funeral rites, and the festivities of public games (which religion had made an essential part of them) were, of necessity, to be included in a representation of the latter. But what games? Surely those, which ancient heroism vaunted to excell in; those, which the usage of the times had consecrated; and which, from the opinion of reverence and dignity entertained of them, were become most fit for the pomp of epic description. Further, what circumstances could be noted in these sports? Certainly those, which befell most usually, and were the aptest to alarm the spectator, and make him take an interest in them. These, it will be said, are numerous. They are so; yet such as are most to the poet’s purpose, are, with little or no variation, the same. It happened luckily for him, that two of his games, on which accordingly he hath exerted all the force of his genius, were entirely new. This advantage, the circumstances of the times afforded him. The Naumachia was purely his own. Yet so liable are even the best and most candid judges to be haunted by this spectre of imitation, that one, whom every friend to every human excellence honours, cannot help, on comparing it with the chariot-race of Homer, exclaiming in these words: “What is the encounter of Cloanthus and Gyas in the strait between the rocks, but the same with that of Menelaus and Antilochus in the hollow way? Had the galley of Serjestus been broken, if the chariot of Eumelus had not been demolished? Or, Mnestheus been cast from the helm, had not the other been thrown from his seat?” The plain truth is, it was not possible, in describing an ancient sea-fight, for one, who had even never seen Homer, to overlook such usual and striking particulars, as the justling of ships, the breaking of galleys, and loss of pilots.
It may appear from this instance, with what reason a similarity of circumstance, in the other games, hath been objected. The subject-matter admitted not any material variation: I mean in the hands of so judicious a copier of Nature as Virgil. For,