Chapter IV: Section I (1)

All _Poetry_, to speak with Aristotle and the Greek critics (if for so plain a point authorities be thought wanting) is, properly, _imitation_. It is, indeed, the noblest and most extensive of the mimetic arts; having all creation for its object, and ranging the entire circuit of universal being. In this view every wondrous _original_, which ages have gazed at, as the offspring of creative fancy; and of which poets themselves, to do honour to their inventions, have feigned, as of the immortal panoply of their heroes, that it came down from heaven, is itself but a _copy_, a transcript from some brighter page of this vast volume of the universe. Thus all is _derived_; all is _unoriginal_. And the office of genius is but to select the fairest forms of things, and to present them in due _place_ and _circumstance_, and in the richest colouring of _expression_, to the imagination. This primary or original _copying_, which in the ideas of Philosophy is _Imitation_, is, in the language of Criticism, called INVENTION.

Again; of the endless variety of these _original forms_, which the poet’s eye is incessantly traversing, those, which take his attention most, his active mimetic faculty prompts him to convert into fair and living _resemblances_. This magical operation the _divine_ philosopher (whose fervid fancy, though it sometimes obscures[16] his reasoning, yet never fails to clear and brighten his imagery) excellently illustrates by the similitude of a _mirror_; “_which_, says he, _as you turn about and oppose to the surrounding world, presents you instantly with a_ SUN, STARS, _and_ SKIES; _with your_ OWN, _and every_ OTHER _living form; with the_ EARTH, _and its several appendages of_ TREES, PLANTS, _and_ FLOWERS[17].” Just so, on whatever side the poet turns his imagination, the shapes of things immediately imprint themselves upon it, and a new corresponding creation reflects the old one. This shadowy ideal world, though unsubstantial as the _American vision of souls_[18], yet glows with such apparent life, that it becomes, thenceforth, the object of other mirrors, and is itself _original_ to future reflexions; This secondary or derivative image, is that alone which Criticism considers under the Idea of IMITATION.

And here the difficulty, we are about to examine, commences. For the poet, in his quick researches through all his stores and materials of _beauty_, meeting every where, in his progress, these _reflected forms_; and deriving from them his stock of imagery, as well as from the real subsisting objects of nature, the reader is often at a loss (for the poet himself is not always aware of it) to discern the _original_ from the _copy_; to know, with certainty, if the _sentiment_, or _image_, presented to him, be directly taken from the _life_, or be itself, a lively transcript, only, of some former copy. And this difficulty is the greater, because the _original_, as well as the _copy_, is always at hand for the poet to turn to, and we can rarely be certain, since both were equally in his power, which of the two he chose to make the object of his own _imitation_. For it is not enough to say here, as in the case of _reflexions_, that the latter is always the weaker, and of course betrays itself by the degree of faintness, which, of necessity, attends a _copy_. This, indeed, hath been said by one, to whose judgment a peculiar deference is owing. QUICQUID ALTERI SIMILE EST, NECESSE EST MINUS SIT EO, QUOD IMITATUR[19]. But it holds only of strict and scrupulous _imitations_. And of such alone, I think, it was intended; for the explanation follows, _ut umbra corpore, & imago facie, & actus histrionum veris affectibus_; that is, where the artist confines himself to the single view of taking a faithful and exact transcript. And even this can be allowed only, when the copyist is of inferior, or at most but of equal, talents. Nay, it is not certainly to be relied upon even _then_; as may appear from what we are told of an inferior painter’s [Andrea del Sarto’s] copying a portrait of the divine Raphael. The story is well known. But, as an aphorism, brought to determine the merits of _imitation_, in general, nothing can be falser or more delusive. For, 1. Besides the supposed _original_, the object itself, as was observed, is before the poet, and he may catch from thence, and infuse into his piece, the same glow of real life, which animated the _first copy_. 2. He may also take in circumstances, omitted or overlooked before in the _common_ object, and so give new and additional vigour to his imitation. Or, 3. He may possess a stronger, and more plastic genius, and therefore be enabled to touch, with more force of expression, even those particulars, which he professedly imitates.

On all these accounts, the difficulty of distinguishing betwixt _original_, and _secondary_, imitation is apparent. And it is of importance, that this _difficulty_ be seen in its full light. Because, if the _similarity_, observed in two or more writers, may, for the most part, and with the highest probability, be accounted for from _general principles_, it is superfluous at least, if not unfair, to have recourse to the _particular_ charge of _imitation_.

Now to see how far the same common principles of nature will go towards effecting the _similarity_, here spoken of, it is necessary to consider very distinctly.

I. THE MATTER; _and_

II. THE MANNER, _of all poetical imitation_.

I. In all that range of _natural objects_, over which the restless imagination of the poet expatiates, there is no subject of picture or imitation, that is not reducible to one or other of the _three following classes_. 1. The _material world, or that vast compages of corporeal forms, of which this universe is compounded_. 2. _The internal workings and movements of his own mind, under which I comprehend the manners, sentiments, and passions._ 3. _Those internal operations, that are made objective to sense by the outward signs of gesture, attitude, or action._ Besides these I know of no source, whence the artist can derive a single sentiment or image. There needs no new distinction in favour of _Homer’s gods_, _Milton’s angels_, or _Shakespear’s witches_; it being clear, that these are only _human_ characters, diversified by such attributes and manners, as superstition, religion, or even wayward fancy, had assigned to each.

1. The material universe, or what the painters call _still life_, is the object of that species of poetical imitation, we call _descriptive_. This beauteous arrangement of natural objects, which arrests the attention on all sides, makes a necessary and forceable impression on the human mind. We are so constituted, as to have a quick _perception_ of beauty in the _forms_, _combinations_, and _aspects_ of things about us; which the philosopher may amuse himself in explaining from remote and insufficient considerations; but consciousness and common feeling will never suffer us to doubt of its being entirely _natural_. Accordingly we may observe, that it operates universally on all men; more especially the young and unexperienced; who are not less transported by the _novelty_, than _beauty_ of material objects. But its impressions are strongest on those, whom nature hath touched with a ray of that celestial fire, which we call true _genius_. Here the workings of this instinctive sense are so powerful, that, to judge from its effects, one should conclude, it perfectly intranced and bore away the mind, as in a fit of rapture. Whenever the form of natural beauty presents itself, though but casually, to the mind of the poet; busied it may be, and intent on the investigation of quite other objects; his imagination takes fire, and it is with difficulty that he restrains himself from quitting his proper pursuit, and stopping a while to survey and delineate the enchanting image. This is the character of what we call a _luxuriant fancy_, which all the rigour of art can hardly keep down; and we give the highest praise of judgment to those few, who have been able to discipline and confine it within due limits.

I insist the more on this strong _influence of external beauty_, because it leads, I think, to a clear view of the subject before us, so far as it respects _descriptive poetry_. These _living forms_ are, without any change, presented to observation in every age and country. There needs but opening the eyes, and these forms necessarily imprint themselves on the fancy; and the love of _imitation_, which naturally accompanies and keeps pace with this _sense of beauty_ in the poet, is continually urging him to translate them into _description_. These descriptions will, indeed, have different degrees of _colouring_, according to the force of genius in the imitator; but the _outlines_ are the same in all; in the weak, faint sketches of an ordinary Gothic designer, as in the living pictures of _Homer_.

An instance will explain my meaning. Amidst all that diversity of natural objects, which the poet delights to paint, nothing is so _taking_ to his imagination, as _rural scenery_; which is, always, the _first_ passion of _good_ poets, and the _only_ one that seems, in any degree, to animate and inspirit _bad_ ones. Now let us take a description of such a scene; suppose that which _Aelian_ hath left us of the Grecian TEMPE, given from the life and without the heightenings of poetic ornament; and we shall see how little the imagination of the most fanciful poets hath ever done towards improving upon it. _Aelian’s_ description is given in these words.

“The Thessalian TEMPE is a place situate between Olympus and Ossa; which are mountains of an exceeding great height; and look, as if they once had been joined, but were afterwards separated from each other, by some god, for the sake of opening in the midst that large plain, which stretches in length to about five miles, and in breadth a hundred paces, or, in some parts, more. Through the middle of this plain runs the _Peneus_, into which several lesser currents empty themselves, and, by the confluence of their waters, swell it into a river of great size. This vale is abundantly furnished with all manner of _arbours and resting places_; not such as the arts of human industry contrive, but which the bounty of spontaneous nature, ambitious, as it were, to make a shew of all her beauties, provided for the supply of this fair residence, in the very original structure and formation of the place. For there is plenty of _ivy_ shooting forth in it, which flourishes and grows so thick, that, like the generous and leafy vine, it crawls up the trunks of tall trees, and twining its foliage round their arms and branches, becomes almost incorporated with them. The flowering _smilax_[20] also is there in great abundance; which running up the acclivities of the hills, and spreading the close texture of its leaves and tendrils on all sides, perfectly covers and shades them; so that no part of the bare rock is seen; but the whole is hung with the verdure of a thick, inwoven herbage, presenting the most agreeable spectacle to the eye. Along the level of the plain, there are frequent tufts of trees, and long continued ranges of arching bowers, affording the most grateful shelter from the heats of summer; which are further relieved by the frequent streams of clear and fresh water, continually winding through it. The tradition goes, that these waters are peculiarly good for bathing, and have many other medicinal virtues. In the thickets and bushes of this dale are numberless _singing_ birds, every where fluttering about, whose warblings take the ear of passengers, and cheat the labours of their way through it. On the banks of the _Peneus_, on either side, are dispersed irregularly those _resting places_, before spoken of; while the river itself glides through the middle of the lawn, with a soft and quiet lapse; over-hung with the shades of trees, planted on its borders, whose intermingled branches keep off the rays of the sun, and furnish the opportunity of a cool and temperate navigation upon it. The worship of the gods, and the perpetual fragrancy of sacrifices and burning odours, further consecrate the place, &c.” [_Var. Hist._ lib. III. c. 1.]

Now this picture, which Aelian took from nature, and which any one, if he hath not seen the several parts of it subsisting together, may easily compound for himself out of that stock of rural images which are reposited in the memory, is, in fact, the substance of all those luscious and luxuriant paintings, which poetry hath ever been able to _feign_. For what more is there in the _Elysiums_, the _Arcadias_, the _Edens_, of ancient and modern fame? And the common _object_ of all these pictures being continually present to the eye, what way is there of avoiding the most exact agreement of representation in them? Or how from any _similarity_ in the materials, of which they are formed, shall we infer an _imitation_?

This agreeable scenery is, for an obvious reason, the most frequent object of description. Though sometimes it chuses to itself a dark and sombrous imagery; which nature, again, holds out to imitation; or fancy, which hath a wondrous quickness and facility in opposing its ideas, readily suggests. We have an instance in the picture of that _horrid and detested vale_ which Tamora describes in TITUS ANDRONICUS. It is a perfect contrast to Aelian’s, and may be called an _Anti-tempe_. Or, to see this opposition of images in the strongest light, the reader may turn to _L’Allegro_ and _Il Penseroso_ of Milton; where he hath artfully made, throughout the two poems, the same kind of subjects excite the two passions of _mirth_ and _melancholy_.

When the reader is got into this train, he will easily extend the same observation to other instances of _natural description_; and can hardly avoid, after a few trials, coming to this short conclusion, “that of all the various delineations in the poets, of the HEAVENS, in their vicissitude of times and seasons; of the EARTH, in its diversity of _mountains_, _valleys_, _promontories_, &c. of the SEA, under its several aspects of _turbulence_, or _serenity_; of the _make_ and _structure_ of ANIMALS, &c. it can rarely be affirmed, that they are _copies_ of one another, but rather the genuine products of the same creating fancy, operating uniformly in them all.”

Yet, notwithstanding this _identity_ of the subject-matter in natural description, there is room enough for true Genius to shew itself. To omit other considerations for the present, it will more especially appear in the _manner of Representation_; by which is not meant the language of the poet, but simply the _form_ under which he chuses to present his imagery to the fancy. The reader will excuse my adding a word on so curious a subject, which he will readily apprehend from the following instance.

Descriptions of the _morning_ are very frequent in the poets. But this appearance is known by so many attending circumstances, that there will be room for a considerable variety in the pictures of it. It may be described by those _stains of light_, which streak and diversify the clouds; by the peculiar _colour of the dawn_; by its _irradiations_ on the _sea_, or _earth_; on some peculiar objects, as _trees_, _hills_, _rivers_, &c. A difference also will arise from the _situation_, in which we suppose ourselves; if on the _sea shore_, this _harbinger of day_ will seem to break forth from the _ocean_; if on the _land_, from the extremity of a large plain, terminated, it may be, by some remarkable object, as a _grove_, _mountain_, &c. There are many other _differences_, of which the same precise _number_ will scarcely offer itself to two poets; or not the _same individual_ circumstances; or not _disposed_ in the same manner. But let the same identical circumstance, suppose the _breaking or first appearance of the dawn_, be taken by different writers, and we may still expect a considerable diversity in their _representation_ of it. What we may allow to all poets, is, that they will _impersonate_ the morning. And though this idea of it is _metaphorical_, and so belongs to another place, as respecting the _manner_ of imitation only; yet, when once considered under this _figure_, the _drawing_ of it comes as directly within the province of _description_, as the real, _literal_ circumstances themselves. Now in descriptions of the morning under this idea of a _person_, the very same _attitude_, which is made analogous to the _circumstance_ before specified, and is to suggest it, will, as I said, be represented by different writers very differently. _Homer_, to express _the rise or appearance of this person_, speaks of her _as shooting forth from the ocean_:

——ΑΠ ΩΚΕΑΝΟΙΟ ΡΟΑΩΝ
ΩΡΝΥΘ.

_Virgil, as rising from the rocks of Ida._

_Jamque jugis summae surgebat Lucifer Idae,
Ducebatque diem._

_Shakespear_ hath closed a fine description of the morning with the same _image_, but expressed in a very different manner.

——_Look what streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night’s candles are put out: and_ JOCUND DAY
STANDS TIPTOE ON THE MISTY MOUNTAINS TOP.

The reader, no doubt, pronounces on first sight, this description to be _original_. But why? There is no part of it, which may not be traced in other poets. The _staining of the clouds_, and _putting out the stars_, are circumstances, that are almost constantly taken notice of in representations of the morning. And the last _image_, which strikes most, is not essentially different from that of Virgil and Homer. It would express the _attitude_ of a person impatient, and in act to make his appearance. And this is, plainly, the _image_ suggested by the other two. But the difference lies here. Homer’s _expression_ of this _impatience_ is _general_, ΩΡΝΥΘ. So is Virgil’s, and, as the occasion required, with less energy, SURGEBAT. Shakespear’s is _particular_: that impatience is set before us, and pictured to the eye in the circumstance of _standing tiptoe_; the attitude of a winged messenger, in act to shoot away on his errand with eagerness and precipitation. Which is a beauty of the same kind with that Aristotle so much admired in the ΡΟΔΟΔΑΚΤΥΛΟΣ of Homer. “This image, says he, is peculiar and singularly proper to set the object before our eyes. Had the poet said ΦΟΙΝΙΚΟΔΑΚΤΥΛΟΣ, the colour had been signified too _generally_, and still worse by ΕΡΥΘΡΟΔΑΚΤΥΛΟΣ. ΡΟΔΟΔΑΚΤΥΛΟΣ gives the precise idea, which was wanting[21].”

This, it must be owned, is one of the surest characteristics of real genius. And if we find it generally in a writer, we may almost venture to esteem him _original_ without further scruple. For the shapes and appearances of things are apprehended, only in the gross, by dull minds. They think they _see_, but it is as through a mist, where if they catch but a faint glimpse of the form before them, it is well. More one is not to look for from their clouded imaginations. And what they thus imperfectly discern, it is not possible for them to delineate very distinctly. Whereas every object stands forth in bright sunshine to the view of the true poet. Every minute mark and lineament of the contemplated form leaves a corresponding trace on his fancy. And having these bright and determinate conceptions of things in his own mind, he finds it no difficulty to convey the liveliest ideas of them to others. This is what we call _painting_ in poetry; by which not only the general natures of things are described, and their more obvious appearances shadowed forth; but every single _property_ marked, and the poet’s own image set in distinct _relief_ before the view of his reader.

If this glow of imagery, resulting from clear and bright perceptions in the poet, be not a certain character of _genius_, it will be difficult, I believe, to say what is: I mean so far as descriptive poetry, which we are now considering, is concerned. The same _general_ appearances must be copied by all poets; the same _particular_ circumstances will frequently occur to all. But to give life and colour to the selected circumstance, and imprint it on the imagination with distinctness and vivacity, this is the proper office of true genius. An ordinary writer may, by dint of industry, and a careful study of the best models, sometimes succeed in this work of _painting_; that is, having stolen a ray of celestial matter, he may now and then direct it so happily, as to animate and enkindle his own earthly lump; but to succeed constantly in this art of description, to be able, on all occasions, to exhibit what the Greek Rhetoricians call ΦΑΝΤΑΣΙΑΝ; which is, as Longinus well expresses it, when “the poet, from his own vivid and enthusiastic conception, seems to have the object, he describes, in actual view, and presents it, almost, to the eyes of the reader[22];” this can be accomplished by nothing less, than the genuine plastic powers of original creation.

2. If from this vast theatre of _sensible and extraneous_ beauty, the poet turn his attention to what passes _within_, he immediately discovers a new world, invisible indeed and intellectual; but which is equally capable of being represented to the internal sense of others. This arises from that _similarity of mind_, if I may so speak, which, like that of outward _form_ and _make_, by the wise provision of nature, runs through the whole species. We are all furnished with the same original _properties and affections_, as with the same stock of _perceptions and ideas_; whence it is, that our intimate consciousness of what we carry about in ourselves, becomes, as it were, the interpreter of the poet’s thought; and makes us readily enter into all his descriptions of the human nature. These descriptions are of two kinds; either 1. such as express that tumult and disorder of the mind, which we feel in ourselves from the disturbance of any natural affection: or, 2. that more quiet state, which gives birth to calmer sentiments and reflexions. The _former_ division takes in all the workings of PASSION. The _latter_, comprehends our MANNERS and SENTIMENTS. Both are equally the objects of poetry; and of poetry only, which triumphs without a rival, in this most sublime and interesting of all the modes of _imitation_. Painting, we know, can express the _material universe_; and, as will be seen hereafter, can evidence the internal movements of the soul by _sensible marks and symbols_; but it is poetry alone, which delineates the mind itself, and opens the recesses of the heart to us.

EFFERT ANIMI MOTUS INTERPRETE LINGUA.

Now the poet, as I said, in addressing himself to this province of his art, hath only to consult with his own conscious reflexion. Whatever be the situation of the persons, whom he would make known to us, let him but take counsel of his own heart[23], and it will very faithfully suggest the fittest and most natural expressions of their character. No man can describe of others further than he hath _felt_ himself. And what he hath thus known from his own _feeling_ is so consonant to the experience of all others, that his description must needs be _true_; that is, be the very same, which a careful attention to such experience must have dictated to every other. So that, instead of asking one’s self (as an admired ancient advised to do) on any attempt to excel in composition, “how this or that celebrated author would have written on the occasion;” the surer way, perhaps, is to inquire of ourselves “how we have _felt_ or _thought_ in such a conjuncture, what _sensations_ or _reflexions_ the like circumstances have actually excited in us.” For the answer to these queries will undoubtedly set us in the direct road of nature and common sense. And, whatever is thus taken from the _life_, will, we may be sure, affect other minds, in proportion to the vigour of our conception and expression of it. In sum,

_To catch the manners living, as they rise_,

I mean, from our own internal frame and constitution, is the sole way of writing naturally and justly of human life. And every such description of _ourselves_ (the great exemplar of _moral imitation_) will be as unavoidably similar to any description copied on the like occasion, by other poets; as pictures of the _natural world_ by different hands, are, and must be, to each other, as being all derived from the archetype of one common original.

1. Let us take some master-piece of a great poet, most famed for his original invention, in which he has successfully revealed the secret internal workings of any PASSION. What does he make known of these mysterious powers, but what he _feels_? And whence comes the impression, his description makes on others, but from its agreement to their _feelings_[24]? To instance, in the expression of _grief on the murder of children, relations, friends, &c._ a _passion_, which poetry hath ever taken a fond pleasure to paint in all its distresses, and which our common nature obliges all readers to enter into with an exquisite sensibility. What are the tender touches which most affect us on these occasions? Are they not such as these: _complaints of untimely death_: _of unnatural cruelty in the murderer_: _imprecations of vengeance_: _weariness and contempt of life_: _expostulations with heaven_: _fond recollections of the virtues and good qualities of the deceased_; _and of the different expectations, raised by them_? These were the dictates of nature to the _father of poets_, when he had to draw the distresses of _Priam’s_ family sorrowing for the death of Hector. Yet nothing, it seems, but _servile imitation_ could supply his sons, the Greek and Roman poets in aftertimes, with such pathetic lamentations. It may be so. They were all nourished by his streams. But what shall we say of one, who assuredly never drank at his fountains?

—_My heart will burst, and if I speak—
And I will speak, that so my heart may burst.
Butchers and villains, bloody cannibals,
How sweet a plant have ye untimely cropt!
You have no children; butchers, if you had,
The thought of them would have stirr’d up remorse._

The reader, also, may consult that wonderful scene, in which MACDUFF laments the murder of his wife and children. [MACBETH.]

2. It is not different with the MANNERS; I mean those sentiments, which mark and distinguish _characters_. These result immediately from the suggestions of _nature_; which is so uniform in her workings, and offers herself so openly to common inspection, that nothing but a perverse and studied affectation can frequently hinder the exactest similarity of representation in different writers. This is so true, that, from knowing the _general character_, intended to be kept up, we can guess, beforehand, how a person will act, or what sentiments he will entertain, on any occasion. And the critic even ventures to prescribe, by the authority of rule, the particular properties and attributes, required to sustain it. And no wonder. Every man, as he can make himself the _subject_ of all passions, so he becomes, in a manner, the _aggregate_ of all _characters_. Nature may have inclined him most powerfully to one set of _manners_; just as one _passion_ is, always, predominant in him. But he finds in himself the seeds of all others. This consciousness, as before, furnishes the characteristic sentiments, which constitute the _manners_. And it were full as strange for two poets, who had taken in hand such a character, as that of Achilles, to differ materially in their expression of it; as for two painters, drawing from the same object, to avoid a striking conformity in the _design_ and attitude of their pictures.

Those who are fond of hunting after parallels, might, I doubt not, with great ease, confront almost every sentiment, which, in the Greek tragedians, is made expressive of particular _characters_, with similar passages in other poets; more especially (for I must often refer to his authority) in the various living portraitures of _Shakespear_. Yet he, who after taking this learned pains, should chuse to urge such parallels, when found, for proofs of his _imitation of the ancients_, would only run the hazard of being reputed, by men of sense, as poor a critic of human nature, as of his author.

I say this with confidence, because I say it on a great authority. “Tout est dit (says an exquisite writer on the subject of _manners_) et l’on vient trop tard depuis plus de sept mille ans qu’il y a des hommes, et qui pensent. Sur ce qui concerne les MOEURS, le plus beau et le meilleur est enlevé; l’on ne fait que glaner après les anciens, & les habiles d’entre les modernes[25].”

Thus far indeed, the case is almost too plain to be disputed. Strong _affections_, and constitutional _characters_, will be allowed to act powerfully and steadily upon us. The violence and rapidity of their movements render all disguise impossible. And we find ourselves determined, by a kind of necessity, to _think and speak_, in given circumstances, after much the same manner. But what shall we say of our cooler reasonings; the _sentiments_, which the mind, at pleasure, revolves, and applies, as it sees fit, to various occasions? “Fancy and humour, it will be thought, have so great an influence in directing these operations of our mental faculties, as to make it altogether incredible, that any remarkable coincidence of sentiment, in different persons, should result from them.”

To think of reducing the thoughts of man, which are “_more than the sands, and wider than the ocean_,” into classes, were, perhaps, a wild attempt. Yet the most considerable of those, which enter into works of poetry (besides such as result from fixed _characters_ or predominant _passions_) may be included in the division of 1. _Religious_, 2. _Moral_, and 3. _Oeconomical_ sentiments; understanding by this _last_ (for I know of no fitter term to express my meaning) all those _reasonings_, which take their rise from _particular conjunctures of ordinary life, and are any way relative to our conduct in it_.

1. The apprehension of some invisible power, as superintending the universe, tho’ not _connate_ with the mind, yet, from the experience of all ages, is found inseparable from the first and rudest exertions of its powers. And the several reflexions, which religion derives from this _idea_, are altogether as necessary. It is easy to conceive, how unavoidably, almost, the mind awakened by certain conjunctures of _distress_, and working on the ground of this original _impression_, turns itself to awful views of deity, and seeks relief in those soothing contemplations of Providence, which we find so frequent in the _epic_ and _tragic_ poets. And whoever shall give himself the trouble of examining those noble _hymns_, which the _lyric_ muse, in her gravest humours, chaunted to the popular gods of paganism, will hardly find a single trace of a devotional sentiment, which hath not been common, at all times, to all _religionists_. Their _power_, and sovereign _disposal of all events_; their _care of the good_, and _aversion to the wicked_; the blessings, they derive on their _worshippers_, and the terrors, they infix in the breasts of the _profane_; they are the usual topics of their meditations; the solemn sentiments, that consecrate these addresses to their local, gentilitial deities. In listening to these divine strains every one _feels_, from his own consciousness, how necessary such reflexions are to human nature; more particularly, when to the simple apprehension of _deity_, a warm _fancy_ and strong _affections_ join their combined powers, to push the mind forward into enthusiastic raptures. All the faculties of the soul being then upon the stretch, natural ability holds the place, and, in some sort, doth the office, of divine suggestion. And, bating the impure mixture of their fond and senseless _traditions_, one is not surprized to find a strong resemblance, oftentimes, in point of _sentiment_, betwixt these pagan odes, and the genuine inspirations of Heaven. Let not the reader be scandalized at this bold comparison. It affirms no more, than what the gravest authors have frequently shewn, a manifest analogy between the sacred and prophane poets; and which supposes only, that Heaven, when it infuses its own light into the breasts of men, doth not extinguish _that_ which nature and reason had before kindled up in them. It follows, that either _succeeding_ poets are not necessarily to be accused of stealing their religious sentiments from their elder brethren, or that ORPHEUS, HOMER, and CALLIMACHUS may be as reasonably charged with plundering the sacred treasures of DAVID, and the other Hebrew prophets.

It is much the same with the _illusions_ of _corrupt_ religion. The _fauns and nymphs_ of the ancients, holding their residence in shadowy groves or caverns, and the frightful spectres of their _Larvae_: to which we may oppose the modern visions of _fairies_; and of _ghosts_, gliding through church-yards, and haunting sepulchres; together with the vast train of gloomy reflexions, which so naturally wait upon them, are, as well as the juster notions of divinity, the genuine offspring of the same _common apprehensions_. Reason, when misled by superstition, takes a _certain route_, and keeps as steadily in it, as when conducted by a sound and sober piety. There needs only a previous conception of unseen _intelligence_ for the ground-work; and the timidity of human nature, amidst the nameless terrors, which are everywhere presenting themselves to the suspicious eye of ignorance, easily builds upon it the entire fabrick of superstitious thinking. With the poets all this goes under the common name of RELIGION. For they are concerned only to represent the opinions and conclusions, to which the _idea_ of divinity leads. And these, we now see, they derive from their own _experience_, or the received _theology_ of the times, of which they write. _Religious sentiments_ being, then, universally, either the obvious deductions of human reason, in the easiest exercise of its powers, or the plain matter of simple observation, regarding what passes before us in real life, how can they but be the _same_ in different writers, though perfectly _original_, and holding no correspondence with each other?

2. And the same is true of our _moral_, as _religious_ sentiments. Whole volumes, indeed, have been written to shew, that all our commonest notices of _right_ and _wrong_ have been traduced from ancient tradition, founded on express supernatural communication. With writers of this turn the _gnomae_ of paganism, even the slightest moral sentiments of the most original ancients, spring from this source. If any exception were allowed, one should suppose it would be in favour of the _father of poetry_, whose writings all have agreed to set up as the very prodigy of human invention. And yet a very learned Professor[26] (to pass over many slighter Essays) hath compiled a large work of Homer’s moral _parallelisms_; that is, ethic sentences, confronted with similar ones out of sacred writ. The correspondency, it seems, appeared so striking to this learned person, that he was in doubt, if this great original thinker had not drawn from the fountains of _Siloam_, instead of _Castalis_. Whereas the whole, which these studied collections prove to plain sense, perverted by no bias of false zeal or religious prepossession, is, that reason, or provident nature, has inscribed the same legible characters of _moral_ truth on all minds; and that the beauties of the _moral_, as _natural_ world lie open to the view of all observers. This, if it were not too plain to need insisting upon, might be further shewn from the _similarity_, which hath constantly been observed in the _law_ and _moral_ of all states and countries; as well the uninformed, and far distant regions of barbarism, as those happier climates, on which, from the neighbourhood of their situation, and the curiosity of inquiry, some beams of this celestial light may be thought to have glanced.

3. For what concerns the class of _oeconomical sentiments_; or such prudential conclusions, as offer themselves on certain conjunctures of ordinary life, these, it is plain, depending very much on the free exercise of our reasoning powers, will be more variable and uncertain, than any other. When the mind is at leisure to cast about and amuse itself with reflexions, which no _characteristic quality_ dictates, or _affection_ extorts, and which spring from no preconceived system of _moral or religious_ opinions, a greater latitude of thinking is allowed; and consequently any remarkable correspondency of _sentiment_ affords more room for suspicion of _imitation_. Yet, in any supposed combination of circumstances, one train of thought is, generally, most obvious, and occurs soonest to the understanding; and, it being the office of poetry to present the most _natural_ appearances, one cannot be much surprized to find a frequent coincidence of reflexion even here. The first page one opens in any writer will furnish examples. The duke in _Measure for Measure_, upon hearing some petty slanders thrown out against himself, falls into this trite reflexion:

_No might nor greatness in mortality
Can censure ’scape: back-wounding calumny
The whitest virtue strikes._

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:

_These violent delights have violent ends,
And in their triumph die._

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:

_Fear no more the heat o’ th’ sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages, &c._

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,

_O! she that hath a heart of that fine frame
To pay this debt of love but to a brother,
How will she love, when the rich golden shaft
Hath killed the flock of all affections else
That live in her?_

’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:

_Nonnunquam conlacrumabat: placuit tum id mihi.
Sic cogitabam: hic parvae consuetudinis
Causâ hujus mortem tam fert familiariter:
Quid si ipse amâsset? Quid mihi hic faciet patri?_

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?

_Non flavo retinens subtilem vertice mitram,
Non contexta levi velatum pectus amictu,
Non tereti strophio luctantes vincta papillas;
Omnia quae toto delapsa è corpore passim
Ipsius ante pedes fluctus salis alludebant._

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 Aeneis[27].” 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;

_Quicquid agunt homines, votum, timor, ira, voluptas,
Gaudia, &c._

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.