9
? PRINCETOTSr. W. J. 'if*
Presented by Mr. Samuel Agnew of Philadelphia, Pa.
BX 5037 .H86 1811 v. 2 Hurd, Richard, 1720-1808. The works of Richard Hurd Lord Bishop of Worcester
WORKS
OF
RICHARD HURD, D.D.
LORD BISHOP OF WORCESTER.
VOL. II.
Printed by J. Nichols and Son, Red Lion Passage, Fleet-Street, London.
THE
WORKS
7'
RICHARD'HURD, D. D.
LORD BISHOP OF WORCESTER. IN EIGHT VOLUMES. VOL. IL
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR T, CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND. 1811.
CRITICAL WOUKS.
VOL. II.
a Z
Digitized by tine Internet Arcliive in 2014
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Q. HORATII FLACCI EPISTOL AE
AD
PISONES,
E T
AUGUSTUM:
WITH AN ENGLISH
COMMENTARY AND NOTES:
TO WHICH ARE ADDED
CRITICAL EISSERTATIONS.
CONTENTS
OF
THE SECOND VOLUME.
Page.
Dissertation I. On the Idea of Universal Poetry. 1
Dissertation II. On the Provinces of Dramatic Poetry. 27
Dissertation III. On Poetical Imitation. 107
Dissertation IV. On the Marks of Imitation. 243
CRITICAL DISSERTATIONS.
I. ON THE IDEA OF UNIVERSAL POETRY. II. ON THE PROVINCES OF DRAMATIC POETRY.
III. ON POETICAL IMITATION.
IV. ON THE MARKS OF IMITATION.
vatibvs addere calcar, vt stvdio maiore petant helicon*. virentem.
Hoe.
DISSERTATION
ON THE
IDEA OF UNIVERSAL POETRY.
VOL. II.
DISSERTATION L
ON THE
IDEA OF UNIVERSAL POETRY.
When we speak of poetry, as an art, we mean such a way or method of treating a sub- ject, as is found most pleasing and delightful to us. In all other kinds of literary composi- tion, pleasure is subordinate to use: in poetry only, PLEASURE is the end, to which use itself (however it be, for certain reasons, always pre- tended) must submit.
This idea of the end of poetry is no novel one, but indeed the very same which our great philosopher entertained of it ; who gives it as the essential note of this part of learning—
THAT IT SUBMITS THE SHEWS OF THINGS TO THE DESIRES OF THE MIND: WHEREAS REASON DOTH BUCKLE AND BOW THE MIND UNTO THE NATURE
OF THINGS. For to gratify the desires of the mind, is to please: Pleasure then, in the B 2
4
ON THE IDEA OF
idea of Lord Bacon, is the ultimate and ap- propriate end of poetry ; for the sake of which it accommodates itself to the desires of the mind, and doth not (as other kinds of writing, which are under the controul of reason) buckle and bow the mind to the nature of things.
But they, who like a principle the better for seeing it in Greek, may take it in the words of an old philosopher, Eratosthenes, who af- firmed— CT0i7]Tr]v ■aavTOL go^a§s(r^ai vj/up^ayftH yi'ttf, 8 oioatTHaXlag — of which words, the definition given above, is the translation.
This notion of the end of poetry, if kept steadily in view, will unfold to us all the mys- teries of the poetic art. There needs but to evolve the philosopher's idea, and to apply it, as occasion serves. The art of poetry will be, universally, the art of pleasing ; and all its rules, but so many means, which experience finds most conducive to that end ;
SicANiMis natum inventumquepoema juvandis.
Aristotle has delivered and explained these rules, so far as they respect one species of poetry, the dramatic, or, more properly speaking, the tragic: And when such a writer.
UNIVERSAL POETRY.
5
as he, shall do as much by the other species, then, and not till then, a complete art of POETRY will be formed.
I have not the presumption to think myself, in atiy degree, equal to this arduous task: But from the idea of this art, as ^ven above, an ordinary writer may undertake to deduce some general conclusions, concerning Univer^ .sal Poetry/, which seem preparatory to those nicer disquisitions, concerning its several sorts or species.
I. It follows from that idea, that it should neglect no advantage, that fairly offers itself, of appearing in such a dress or mode of lan- guage, as is most taking and agreeable to us. We may expect then, in the language or style of poetry, a choice of such vvoi'ds as are most sonorous and expressive, and such An arrange- ment of them as throws the discourse out of the ordinaiy and common phrase of conversa- tion. Novelty and variety are certain sources of pleasure : a construction of words, which is not vulgar, is therefore more suited to the ends of poetry, than one which we are every day accustomed to in familiar discourse. Some manners of placing them are, also, more agree- able to the ear, than others : Poetry, then, is
6
ON THE IDEA OF
studious of these, as it would by all means, not manifestly absurd, give pleasure : And hence a certain musical cadence, or what we call Rhythm, will be affected by the poet.
But, of all the means of adorning and en- livening a discourse by words, which are infi- nite, and perpetually grow upon us, as our knowledge of the tongue, in which we write, and our skill in adapting it to the ends of poetry, increases, there is none that pleases more, than Jigurative expression.
By Jigurative expression, I would be un- derstood to mean, here, that which respects the picture^- or images of things. And this sort of figurative expression is universally pleasing to us, because it tends to impress on the mind the most distinct and vivid concep- tions ; and truth of repres-entation being of less account in this way of composition, than the liveliness of it, poetry, as such, will delight in tropes and figures, and those the most strongly and forceably expressed. And though the application of figures will admit of great variety, according to the nature of the subject, and the management of them must be suited to the taste and apprehension of the people, to whom they are addressed, yet, in some way
UNIVERSAL POETRY.
7
or other, they will find a place in all works of poetry; and they who object to the use of them, only shew that they are not capable of being pleased by this sort of composition, or do, in effect, interdict the thing itself.
The ancients looked for so much of this force and spirit of expression in whatever they dig- nified with the name of poem, that Horace tells us it was made a question by some, whe- ther comedy were rightly referred to this class, because it differed only, in point of measure, from mere prose.
Idcirco qvidam, comoedia necne poema Esset, quaesivere : quod acer spiritus, ac vis, Nec verbis, nee rebus inest : nisi quod pede certo
Differt sermoni, sermo merus — Sat. 1. I. iv.
But they might have spared their doubt, or at least have resolved it, if they had considered that comedy adopts as much of this .^brce and spirit of words, as is consistent with the na- ture and degree of that pleasure, which it pre- tends to give. For the name of poem will be- long to every composition, whose primary end is to please, provided it be so constructed as to afford all the pleasure, which its kind or sort will permit.
v.. J
& ON THE IDEA OF
II. From the idea of the end, of poetry, it follows, that not only figurative and tropical terms will be employed in it, as these, by the images they convey, and by the air of novelty which such indirect ways of speaking carry with them, are found most delightful to us, but also that fiction, in the largest sense of the word, is essential to poetry. For its pur- pose is, not to delineate truth simply, but to present it in the most taking forms ; not to re- flect the real face of things, but to illustrate and adorn it ; not to represent the fairest ob- jects only, but to represent them in the fairest lights, and to heighten all their beauties up to the possibility of their natures ; nay, to out- strip nature, and to address itself to our wildest fancy, rather than to our judgment and cooler sense.
Out' eVtoecxTot TaS* av8ga<riv, bt' eTraxs^Uf Outs voio zse^lhrprTa —
As sings one of the profession*, who seems to have understood his privileges very well.
For there is something in the mind of man, sublime and elevated, which prompts it to overlook all obvious and familiar appearances,
• £mp«dodes. See Plutarch, vol. I, p. 16. Far. 1624.
UNIVERSAL POETRY.
9
and to feign to itself other and more extraor- dinary ; such as correspond to the extent of its own powers, and fill out all the faculties and capacities of our souls. This restless and as- piring disposition, poetry, first and principally, would indulge and flatter ; and thence takes its name of divine, as if some power, above hu- man, conspired to lift the mind to these exalted conceptions.
Hence it comes to pass, that it deals in apostrophes and invocations ; that it imperso- nates the virtues and vices ; peoples all creation with new and living forms; calls up infernal spectres to terrify, or brings down celestial natures to astonish, the imagination ; assem- bles, combines, or connects its ideas, at plea- sure ; in short, prefers not only the agreeable, and the graceful, but, as occasion calls upon her, the vast, the incredible, I had almost said, the impossible, to the obvious truth and nature of things. For all this is but a feeble expression of that magic virtue of poetry, which our Shakespear has so forcibly described in. those well-known lines —
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rowling, Doth glance from lieav'n to earth, from ;earth to heav'n ;
10
ON THE IDEA OF
And, as Imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shape, and gives to aery- nothing A local habitation and a name.
When the received system of manners or religion in any country, happens to be so con- stituted as to suit itself in some degree to this extravagant turn of the human mind, we may expert that poetry will seize it with avidity, will dilate upon it with pleasure, and take a pride to erect its specious wonders on so proper and convenient a ground. Whence it cannot seem strange that, of all the forms in which poetry has appeared, that of pagan fable, and gothic romaiice, should, in their turns, be found the most alluring to the true poet. For, in defect of these advantages, he will ever ad- venture, in some sort, to supply their place with others of his own invention ; that is, he will mould every system, and convert every subject, into the most amazing and miraculous form.
And this is that I would say, at present, of these two requisites of universal poetry, namely, that licence of expression, which we call the style of poetry, and that licence of represen-
UNIVERSAL POETRY.
11
tatiun, which we call Jiction. Tlie style is, as it were, the body of poetry ; Jiction, is its soul- Having, thus, taken the privilege of a poet to create a Muse, we have only now to give her a voice, or more properly to tune it, and then she will be in a condition, as one of her favourites speaks, to ravish all the Gods, For
III. It follows from the same idea of the end, which poetry would accomplish, that not only Rhythm, but numbers, properly so called, is essential to it. For this Art undertaking to gratify all those desires and expectations of pleasure, that can be reasonably entertained by us, and there being a capacity in language, the instrument it works by, of pleasing us v-ery highly, not only by the sense and imagery it conveys, but by the structure of words, and still more by the harmonious arrangement of them in metrical sounds or numbers, and 'lastly there being no reason in the nature of the thing itself why these pleasures should not be united, it follows that poetry will not be that which it professes to be, that is, will not accomplish its own purpose, unless it dehglit the ear with numbers, or, in otlier words, un- less it be cloathed in verse.
12
ON THE IDEA OF
The reader, I dare say, has hitherto gone along with me, in this deduction : but here, I suspect, we shall separate. Yet he will startle the less at this conclusion, if he reflect on the origin and first application of poetry among all nations.
It is every where of the most early growth, preceding every other sort of composition; and being destined for the ear, that is, to be either sung, or at least recited, it adapts itself, even in its first rude essays, to that sense of measure and proportion in sounds, which is so natural to us. The hearer's attention is the sooner gained by this means, his entertainment quickened, and his admiration of the per- former's r.rt excited. Men are ambitious of pleasing, and ingenious in refining upon what they observe M'ill please. So that musical ca- dences and harmonious sounds, which nature dictated, are farther softened and improved by art, till poetry become as ravishing to the ear, as the images, it presents, are to the imagina- tion. In process of time, what was at first the extemporaneous production of genius or passion, under the conduct of a natu- ral ear, becomes the labour of the closet, and is conducted by artificial rules ; yet still, with a secret reference to the sense of hearing.
ITMIVEIISAL POFTRV.
13
and to that acceptation which melodious sounds meet with in the recital of expressive words.
Even the prose-writer (when the art is enough advanced to produce prose) having been accustomed to have his ear consulted and gratified by the poet, catches insensibly the same harmonious affection, tunes his sen- tences and periods to some agreement with song, and transfers into his coolest narrative, or gravest instruction, something of that mu- sic, with which his ear vibrates from poetic impressions.
In short, he leaves measured and determi- nate numbers, that is. Metre, to the poet, who is to please up to the height of his facul- ties, and the nature of his work ; and only re- serves to himself, whose purpose of giving pleasure is subordinate to another end, the looser musical measure, or what we call Rhythmical Prose.
The reason appears, from this deduction, why all poetry aspires to please by melodious numbers. To some species, it is thought more essential, than to others, because those species continue to be sung, that is, are more
14 ON THE IDEA OF
immediately addressed to the ear ; and because they continue to be sungf in concert with ?nu~ sical Instruments, by which the ear is still more indulged. It happened in antient Greece, that even tragedy retained this accompaniment of musical instruments, through all its stages, and even in its most improved state. Whence Aristotle includes Music, properly so called, as well as Rhythm and Metre, in his idea of the tragic poem. He did this, because he found the drama of his country, omnijvus nu- MERis ABSOLUTUM, I mean in possession of all the advantages which could result from the union of rhythmical, metrical, and musical sounds. Modern tragedy has relinquished part of these : 3'et still, if it be true that this poem be more pleasing by the addition of the musical art, and there be nothing in the nature of the composition which forbids the use of it, I know not why Aristotle's idea should not be adopted, and his precept become a standing law of the tragic stage. For this, as every other poem, being calculated and designed properly and ultimately to please, whatever contributes to produce that end most perfectly, all circumstances taken into the account, must be thought of the nature or essence of the kind.
UNIVERSAL POETRY.
15
But without carrying matters so far, let us confine our attention to metre, or what we call verse. This must be essential to every work bearing the name of poem, not, because we are only accustomed to call works written in verse, poems, but because a work, which pro- fesses to please us by every possible and proper method, and yet does not give us this plea- sure, which it is in its power, and is no way improper for it, to give, must so far fall short of fulfilling its own engagements to us; that is, it has not all those qualities which we have a right to expect in a work of literary art, of which pleasure is the ultimate end.
To explain myself by an obvious instance. History undertakes to instruct us in the transactions of past times. If it answer this purpose, it does all that is of its nature ; and, if it find means to please us, besides, by the harmony of its style, and vivacity of its narra- tion, all this is to be accounted as pure gain : if it instructed only, by the truth of its reports, and the perspicuity of its method, it would fully attain its end. Poetry, on the other hand, undertakes to please. I f it em- ploy all its powers to this purpose, it cflects oil that is of its nature : if it serve, besides, to inform or instruct us, by the truths it conveys.
iff ON THE IDEA OF
and by the precepts or examples it inculcates, this service may rather be accepted, than re- quired by us : if it pleased omly, by its inge- nious fictions, and harmonious structure, it would discharge its office, and answer its end.
In this sense, the famous saying of Erato- sthenes, quoted above — that the poet's aim is to please, not to instruct — is to be under- stood : nor does it appear, what reason Strabo could have to take offence at it ; however it might be misapplied, as he tells us it was, by that writer. For, though the poets, no doubt (and especially the poet, whose honour the great Geographer would assert, in his criticism on Eratosthenes) frequently instruct us by a true and faithful representation of things ; yet even this instructive air is only assumed for the sake of pleading ; which, as the human mind is constituted, they could not so well do, if they did not instruct at all, that is, if truth were wholly neglected by them. So that jo/ea- jure is still the ultimate end and scope of tlie poet's art ; and instruction itself is, in his hands, only one of the means, by which he would effect it*^.
b See Sthabo, L i. p. 16. Par. 1C20.
UNIVERSAL POETRY.
17
I am the larger on this head to shew that it is not a mere verbal dispute^ as it is commonly thought, whether poems should be written in verse, or no. Men may include, or not in- clude, the idea of metre in their complex idea of what they call a Poem. What I contend for, is, that metre, as an instrument of pleasing, is essential to every work of poetic art, and would therefore enter into such idea, if men judged of poetry according to its con- fessed nature and end.
Whence it may seem a little strange, that my Lord Bacon slionid speak of puesy as a part of learning in measure of words for the MOST PART restrained ; when his own notion, as we have seen above, was, that the essence of poetry consisted in submitting the shews of things to the desires of the mind. For these shews of things could only be exhibited to the mind through the medium of words : and it is just as natural for the mind to desire that these words should be harmonious, as that the images, conveyed in them, should be illus- trious ; there being a capacity in the mind of being delighted through its organ, the ear, as well as through its power, or faculty of imagi- nation. And the wonder is the greater, be- cause the great philosoplier himself was aware
VOL. II. C
l8
ON THE IDEA OP
of the agreement and consort which poetry hath with music, as well as with man's nature and pleasure, that is, with the pleasure which naturally results from gratifying the imagina- tion. So that, to be consistent with himself, he should, methinks, have said — that poesy was a part of' learning in measure of words ALWAYS restrained ; such poesy, as, through the idleness or negligence of writers, is not so restrained, not agreeing to liis own idea of this part of learning''.
These reflexions will aflford a proper solu- tion of that question, which has been agitated by the critics, " Whether a work of fiction '* and imagination (such as that of the arch- *• bishop of Cambray, for instance) conducted, " in other respects, according to the rules of
the epic poem, but written in prose, may " deserve the name of Poem, or not." For, though it be frivolous indeed to dispute about names, yet from what has been said it appears, that if metre be not incongruous to the nature of an epic composition, and it aflford a pleasure which is not to be found in mere prose, metre is, for that reason, essential to this mode of
« Adv. of Leahning, vofl. i, p. &0. Dr. Birch's Ed, 1765.
UNIVERSAL POETRY,
19
Writing ; which is only saying in other words, that an epic composition, to give all the plea- sure which it is capable of giving, must be written in verse.
But, secondly, this conclusion, I think, ex- tends farther than to such works as aspire to the name of epic. For instance, what are we to think of those novels or romances^ as they are called, that is, fables constructed on some private and familiar subject, which have been so current, of late, through all Europe? As they propose pleasure for their end, and pro- secute it, besides, in the way of Jiction, though without metrical numbers, and generally, in- deed, in harsh and rugged prose, one easily sees what their pretensions are, and under what idea they are ambitious to be received. Yet, as they are wholly destitute of measured sounds (to say nothing of their other number- less defects) they can, at most, be considered but as hasty, imperfect, and abortive poems 5 whether spawned from the dramatic, or nar- rative species, it may be hard to say —
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call.
Their generation's so equivocal^, C 2
20
ON THE IDEA OF
However, such as they are, these novelties have been generally well received : Some, for the real merit of their execution ; Others, for their amusing subjects ; All of them, for the gratification they afford, or promise at least, to a vitiated, palled, and sickly imagination — that last disease of learned minds, and sure prognostic of expiring Letters. But whatever may be the temporary success of these things (for they vanish as fast as they are produced, and are produced as soon as they are conceived) good sense will acknowledge no work of art but such as is composed according to the laws of its hind. These kinds, as arbitrary things as we account them (for I neither forget nor dispute what our best philosophy teaches con- cerning hinds and sorts), have yet so far their foundation in nature and the reason of things, that it will not be allovred us to multiply, or vary them, at pleasure. We may, indeed, mix and confound them, if we will (for there is a sort of literary luxury, which would en- gross all pleasures at once, even such as are contradictory to each other), or, in our rage for incessant gratification, we may take up with half-formed pleasures, such as come first to hand, and may be administered by any body: But true taste requires chaste, severe.
UNIVERSAL POETRY.
21
and simple pleasures ; and true genius will only be concerned in administering such.
Lastly, on the same principle on which we have decided on these questions concerning the absolute merits of poems in prose, in all languages, we may, also, determine ano- ther, which has been put concerning the comparative merits of ri-ivmed, and what is called BLANK verse, in our own, and the other modern languages.
Critics and antiquaries have been sollicitous to find out who were the inventors of rhyme, which some fetch from the Monks, some, from the Goths, and others from the Arabians : whereas, the truth seems to be, that rhyme, or the consonance of final syllables, occurring at stated intervals, is the dictate of nature, or, as we may say, an appeal to the ear, in all lan- guages, and in some degree pleasing in all. The difference is, that, in some languages, these con- sonances are apt of themselves to occur so often that they rather nauseate, than please, and so, instead of being affected, are studiously avoided by good writers ; while in others, as in all the modern ones, where these consonances are less frequent, and where the quantity of syllables
22
ON THE IDEA OF
is not so distinctly marked as, of itself, to af- ford an harmonious measure and musical va- riety, there it is of necessity that poets have had recourse to Rhyme ; or to some other ex- pedient of the like nature, such as the Allite- ration, for instance ; which is only another way of delighting the ear by iterated sound, and may be defined, the consonance of initial letters, as rhyme is, the consonance of final syllables. All this, I say, is of necessity, be- cause what we call verses in such languages will be otherwise untuneful, and will not strike the ear with that vivacity, which is requisite to put a sensible difference between poetic numbers and measured prose.
In short, no method of gratifying the ear by measured sound, which experience has found pleasing, is to be neglected by the poet : and although, from the different structure and genius of languages, these methods will be different, the studious application of such methods, as each particular language allows, becomes a necessary part of his office. He will only cultivate those methods most, which tend to produce, in a given language, the most harmonious structure or measure, of which it is capable.
UNIVERSAL POETRY. S3
Hence it comes to pass, that the poetry of some modern languages cannot so much as subsist, without rhyme: In others, it is only embellished by it. Of the former sort is the French, which therefore adopts, and with good reason, rhymed verse, not in tragedy only, but in comedy : And though foreigners, who have a language differently constructed, are apt to treat this observance of rhyme as an idle affectation, yet it is but just to allow that the French themselves are the most competent judges of the natural defect of their own tongue, and the likeliest to perceive by what management such defect is best remedied or concealed.
In the latter class of languages, whose poetry is only embellished by the use of rhyme, we may reckon the Italian and the English : which being naturally more tuneful and harmonious than the French, may afford all the melody of sound which is expected in some sorts of poetry, by its varied pause, and quantity only ; while in other sorts, which are more sollicitous to please the ear, and where such sollicitude, if taken notice of by the reader or hearer, is not resented, it may be proper, or rather it becomes a law of the Eng- lish and Italian poetry, to ^idopt rht/nir. Thus,
24
ON- THE IDEA OF
our tragedies are usually composed in blank verse: but our epic and Lyric compositions are found most pleasing, when cloathed in rhyme. Milton, I know, it will be said, is an exception: But, if we set aside some learned persons, who have suffered themselves to be too easily prejudiced by their admiration of the Greek and Latin languages, and still more, perhaps, by the prevailing notion of the monkish or gothic original of rhymed verse, all other readers, if left to themselves, would, I dare say, be more delighted with this poet, if, besides his various pause, and measured quantity, he had enriched his numbers, with rhyme. So that his love of liberty, the ruling passion of his heart, perhaps transported him too far, when he chose to follow the example set him by one or two writers of prime note (to use his own eulogium), rather than comply with the regular and prevailing practice of his favoured Italy, which first and principally, as our best rhymist sings.
With pauses, cadence, and well-vowell'd words.
And all the graces a good ear affords. Made rhyme an art —
Our comedy, indeed, is generally written in prose; but through the idleness, or ill taste.
UNIVERSAL POETRY.
25
of our writers, rather than from any other just cause. For, though rhyme be not necessary, or rather world be improper, in the comedy of our lanouage, which can support itself in poetic numbers, without the dihgence of rhyme; yet some sort of metre is requi:-v.e in this humbler species of poem ; otherwise, it will not contribute all that is within its power and province, to please. And the particular metre, proper for this species, is not far to seek. For it can plainly be no other than a careless and looser Iambic, such as our lan- guage naturally runs into, even in conversation, and of which we are not without examples, in our old and best writers for the comic stage. But it is not wonderful that those critics, who take offence at English epic poems in rhyme, because the Greek and Latin only observed quantity, should require English comedies to be written in prose, though the Greek and Latin comedies were composed in verse. For the ill application of examples, and the neglect of them, may be well enough expected from the same men, since it does not appear that their judgment was employed, or the reason pf the thing attended to, in either instance.
And THUS much for the idea of Universal Poetry. It is the art of treating any subject
26
ON THE IDEA, ETC.
in such a way as is found most delightful to us; that is, in an ornamented and numerous
STYLE IN THE WAY OF FICTION AND IN
VERSE. Whatever deserves the name of poem must unite these three properties ; only in dif- ferent degrees of each, according to its nature. For the art of every hind of poetry is only this general art so modified as the nature of each, that is, its more immediate and subordinate end, may respectively require.
We are now, then, at the well-head of the poetic art ; and they who drink deeply of this spring, will be best qualified to perform the rest. But all heads are not equal to these cA- pious draughts ; and, besides, I hear the sober reader admonishing ine long since —
Lusisti satis atque bibisti ; Tempus abire tibi est, ne potum largius AEauo
Rideat, et pulset lasciva decentius aetas. Thurcaston,
MDCCLXV.
DISSERTATION
ON THE
PROVINCES OF THE DRAMA,
DISSERTATION IL
ON THE
PROVINCES OF THE DRAMA.
In the former Essay, I gave an idea, or slight sketch, of Universal Poetry. In this, I at- tempt to deduce the laws of one of its kinds, the Dra7natic, under all its forms. And I engage in this task, the rather, because, though much has been said on the subject of the drama, writers seem not to have taken suffi- cient pains to distinguish, with exactness, its several species.
I deduce the laws of this poem, as I did those of poetry at large, from the consideration of its end: not the general end of poetry, which alone was proper to be considered in the former case, but the proximate end of
30
Oy THE PROVINCES OF
this kind. For from these ends, in subordi- nation to that, which governs the genus, or which all poetry, as such, designs and prose- cutes, are the peculiar rules and maxims of each species to be derived.
The purpose of the Drama is, univer- sally, " tq represent human life in the way of " action,'" But as such representation is made for separate and distinct ends, it is, further, distinguished into different species, which we know by the names of Tragedy, Comedy, and Farce.
By Tragedy, then, I mean that species of dramatic representation, whose end is " to excite the passions of fity and terror, and perhaps some others, nearly allied to them"
By Comedy that, which proposeth, for the ends of its representation, " the sensation of pleasure arising from a view of the truth of characters, more especially their specific differences"
By Farce I understand, that species of th^ drama, " whose sole aim and tendency is td excite laughter."
THE DRAMA.
31
The idea of these three species being then proposed, let us now see, what conclusions may be drawn from it. And chiefly in respect of Tragedy and Comedy, which are most important. For as to what concerns the province of Farce, this will be easily under- stood, when the character of the other two is once settled.
32 ON THE PROVINCES OF
CHAP. I.
ON THE PROVINCES OF TRAGEDY AND COMEDY,
From the idea of these two species, as given above, the following conclusions, about tlie natures of each, are iminediately deducible.
1 . If the proj^er end of tragedy be to af- fect, it follows, " that actions, not characters, " are the chief object of its representations." For that which affects us most in the view of human life is the observation of those signal circumstances of felicity or distress, which occur in the fortunes of men. But felicity and distress, as the great critic takes notice, depend OJi action; xark rag n^pa^sis, s't'^alfioves,
TBvavTiov. They are then the caiamiious events, or fortunate Issues in human action, which stir up the stronger affections, and agi- tate the heart with Passion. The manners are not, indeed, to be neglected. But they become an inferior consideration in the views of the tragic poet, and are exhibited only for the sake of making the action more proper to interest us. Thus our joy, on the happy
tHE DRAMA.
33
catastrophe of the fable, depends, in a good degree, on the virtuous character of the agent ; as on the other hand, we sympathize more strongly with him, on a distressful issue. The manners of the several persons in the drama must, also, be signified, that the ac- tion, which in many cases will be determined by them, may appear to be carried on with truth and probability. Hence every thing passing before us, as we are accustomed to see it in real life, we enter more warmly into their interests, as forgetting, that we are attentive to a Jictitious scene. And, besides, from knowing the personal good, or ill, qualities of the agents, we learn to anticipate their fu- ture felicity or misery, which gives increase to the passion in either case. Our acquaint- ance with Iago's close villainy makes us tremble for Othello and Desdemona before- hand : and Hamlet's Jilial piety and intrepid daring occasion the audience secretly to exult in the expectation of some successful vengeance to be inflicted on the incestuous murderers.
2. For the same reason as tragedy takes for its ohject the actions of men, it, also, prefers, or, rather confines itself to, such actions, as tire most important. Which is only saying, that as it intends to interest, it, of course,
VOL. II. 1>
ON THE rROVINCÂŁS OF
chuses the representation of those events, which are most interesting.
And this shews tl^e defect of modern tra- gedy, in turning so constantly as it does, on love subjects; the effect of this practice is, that, excepting only the rank of the actors (which indeed, as will be seen presently, is of considerable importance), the rest is below the dignity of this drama. For the action, when stripped of its accidental ornaments and re- duced to the essential fact, is nothing more than what might as well have passed in a cot- tage, as a king's palace. The Greek poets should be our guides here, who take the very grandest events in their story to ennoble their tragedy. Whence it comes to pass that the action, having an essential dignity, is always interesting, and by the simplest management of the poet becomes in a supreme degree, pathetic,
3. On the same account, tha per so7is, Xvhose actions Tragedy would exhibit to us, must be of principal rank and dignity. For the ac- Uons of these are, both in themselves fnd in their consequences, most fitted to excite pas- sion. The distresses of private and inferior persons w ill, no doubt, affect us greatly ; and
THE DRAMA.
35
HTs may give the name of tragedies, if we please, to dramatic representations of them : as, in fact, we have several applauded pieces of this kind. Nay, it may seem, that the for- tunes of private men, as more nearly re- sembling those of the generality, should be most aff 'ecthig. But this circumstance, in no degree, makes amends for the loss of other and much greater advantages. For, whatever be the unhappy incidents in the story of private men, it is certain, they must take faster hold of the imagination, and, of course, impress the heart more forcibly, when related of the higher characters in life.
EuRip. Hipp. v. 1484,
Kings, Heroes, Statesmen, and other persons of great and public authority, influence by their ill-fortune the whole commnnity, to which they belong. The attention is rouzed, and all our faculties take an alarm, at the ap- prehension of such extensive and important wretchedness. And, besides, if we regard the event itself, without an eye to its effects, there is still the widest difl^erence between the two cases. Those ideas of awe and veneration,
36
ON THE PROVINCES OF
which opinion throws round the persons of princes, make us esteem the very same event in their fortunes, as more august and empha- tical, than in the fortunes of private men. In the one, it is ordinary and famihar to our con- ceptions ; it is singular and surprizing, in the other. The fall of a cottage, by the accidents of time and weather, is almost unheeded ; while the ruin of a tower, which the neigh- bourhood hath gazed at for ages with admi- ration, strikes all observers with concern. So that if we ehuse to continue the absurdity^ taken notice of in the last article of planning unimportant action in our tragedy, we should, at least, take care to give it this foreign and extrinsic importance of great actors : Yet our passion for the familiar goes so far, that we have tragedies, not only of private action, but of private persons ; and so have well nigh an- nihilated the noblest of the two dramas amongst us. On the whole it appears, that as the proper object of tragedy is action, so it is important action, and therefore more espe- cially the action of great and illustrious men. Each of these conclusions is the direct conse- tjuence of our idea of its e7id.
The reverse of all this holds true of comedy. For,
THE DRAMA,
37
1. Comedy, by the very terms of the defi- nition, is conversant about characters. And if we observe, that which creates the pleasure we find in contemplating the lives of men, considered as distinct from the interest we take in their fortunes, is the contemplation of their manners and humours. Their actions, when they are not of that sort, which seizes our ad- miration, or -catches the affections, are no otherwise considered by us, than as they are sensible indications of the internal sentiment and disposition. Our intimate consciousness of the several turns and windings of our nature, makes us attend to these pictures of human life with an incredible curiosity. And herein the proper entertainment, which comic repre- sentation, as such, administers to the mind, consists. By turning the thought on event and action, this entertainment is proportion- ably lessened ; that is, the end of comedy is less perfectly attained
d Aristotle was of the «aTne mind, ns appears from his definition of comedy, which, says he, is MIMHSIS <bAX- AOTEPnN ; [k. ' ] that is, the imitation of characters, whatever be the distinct meaning of the term (pavxirtfoi. It is true, this critic, in his account of the origin of tra- gedy and comedy, makes them both the imitations of ac- tions. Oi |iisv ^EfivoTfpoj TAE KAAA2 fpp.3v7o nPAHEIi:, ol 55 iUTiXEs-tpot TAS tSv [)c. S.] Yet, even here, the
ox THE PROVINCES OF
But here, again, tliough action be not the main object of comedy, yet it is not to be neg- lected^ any more than character in tragedy, but comes in as an useful accessary, or assistant to it. For the manners of men only shew themselves, or shew themselves most usually, in action. It is this, which fetches out the latent strokes of character, and renders the inward temper and disposition the object of sense. Probable circimistances are then ima- gined, and a certain train oj" action contrived, to evidence the internal qualities. There is no other, or no probable vvav, but this, of bringing us acquainted with them. Again ; by engaging his characters in a course of action and the pursuit of some end, the comic poet leaves them to express themselves undisguisedly, and without design ; in which the essence of humour consists.
Add to this, that when the Jable is so con- trived as to attach the mind, we very naturally fancy ourselves present at a course of living action. And this illusion quickens our atten-
cxpression is so put, as if he had been conscious that persons, not actions, were the direct object ot coniedj'. And the quotation, now alledged from another plac?^ where a definition is given more in fonn^ shews, that tlus was, in efiect, his sentiment.
THE DRAMA.
39
lion to the characters, which no longer ap- pear to us creatures of the poet's fiction, but actors in real life.
These observations concerning the mode- rated use of action in comedy, instruct us what to think " of those intricate Spanish plots, *' which have been in use, and have taken both " with us and some French writers for the " stage. The truth is, they have hindered " very much the main end of comedy. For " when these unnatural plots are used, the " mind is not only entirely drawn off from
the characters by those surprizing turns and " revolutions ; but characters have no oppor- " tunity even of being called out and displaying
themselves. For the actors of all characters " succeed and are embarrassed alike, when the " instruments for carrying on designs are only " perplexed apartments, dark entries, dis- " guised habits, and ladders of' ropes. The " comic plot is, and must, indeed, be carried *' on by deceipt. The Spanish scene does it " by deceiving the man tJirough Ids senses: Te- " rence and Moliere, by deceiving him through " his passions and affections. This is the " right method : for the character is not called
out under the first species of deceipt : under
the second, the character does all."
40
ON THE PROVINCES OF
2. As character, not action, is the object of comedy ; so the characters it paints must not be of singular and illustrious note, either for their virtues or vices. The reason is, that such characters take too fast hold of the cjf ec- tions, and so call off the mind from adverting to the truth of the manners ; that is, from re- ceiving the pleasure, which this jjoem intends. Our sense of imitation is that to which the comic poet addresses himself ; but such pic- tures of eminent ivorth or villainy seize upon the moral sense; and by raising the strong correspondent passions of admiration and ab^ horrence, turn us aside from contemplating the imitation itself. And,
3. For a like cause, comedy confines its views to the characters of private and inferior persons. For t! e truth of character, which is the spring of humour, being necessarily, as was observed, to be shewn through the medium of action, and the actions of the great being urually such as excite the pathos, it follows of course, that there cannot, with propriety, be made the actors in comedy. Persons of high and public life, if they are drawn agreeably to our accustomed ideas of them, must be tm- ployed in such a course of action, as arrests the attention, or interests the passions; and
THE DRAMA.
41
either way it diverts the mind from observing the truth of manners, that is, it prevents the attainment of the specific end, which comedy designs.
And if the reason, here given, be sufficient to exclude the higher characters in hfe from this drama, even where the representation is intended to be serious, we shall find it still more improper to expose them in any pleasant or ridiculous light. 'Tis true, the follies and foibles of the great will apparently take an easier ridicule by representation, than those of their inferiors. And this it was, which misled the celebrated P. Corneille into the opinion, tJiut the actions of the great, and even oj' kings themselves, prodded thei/ be of the ridi- culous hind, are as Jit objects of comedy, as any other. But he did not reflect, that tlie actions of the great being usually such, as in- terest the intire community, at least scarcely any other falling beneath vulgar notice ; aixd the higher characters being rarely seen or contemplated by the people but with reverence, hence it is, that in fact, the representation of high life cannot, without offence to proba- bility, be made ridiculous, or consequently be admitted into comedy under this view. And therefore Plautus, when he thought fit to
42
ON THE PROVINXES OF
introduce these reverend perscnages on the comic stage in his Amphitrug, though he em- ployed them in no verv serious matters, was yet obhged to apologize for this impropriety in calling his play a Tragicomedy. What he says upon the occasion, though delivered vvith an air of pleasantry, is according to the laws of just criticism.
Fac'iam ut comtnhta sit Tragicocomoedia, Nam me perpetuofacere, ut sit Comoedia Heges auo VENiANT ET Dii, Tjou par arhitror. Quid igifur ? Quoniam hie servos auoauE
PARTES HAHET,
Faciam sit, proinde ut dixi, Tragicocomoedia.
Prol. in Amphit.
And now, taking the idea of the two dramas, as here opened, along with us, we shall be able to give an account of several attributes, cumjnon to both, or which further characterize each of them. And,
1. A plot Will he required in hath. For the end of tragedy being to excite the affections by action, and the end of comedy, to manifest the truth of character through it, an artful coti- stituiion of the Fuhle is required to do justice both to the one and the other. It serves to b; ing out the pathos, apd to produce humour.
THE DRAMA.
43
And thus the general form or structure of the tvio dramas will be one and the same.
2. More particularly, an itn'itij and even isimjAicitij in the conduct of the fable ' is a -perfection in each. For the course of the affections is diverted and weakened by the in- tervention of what w e call a doiihle plot ; aiid even by a multiplicity of subordinate events, though tending to a common end; and, of persons, though all of them, some way, con- cerned in promoting it. The like consideration shews the observance of this rule to be essen-
e The neglect of tliis is one of the gieatest defects in Jhc modern drama; wlikh in nothing falls so much short of the perfection cf th-j Greek scene as in this want of simplicity in the c onstj action of its f.lble. The good sense of the author of the History of the Italian Theatre (who, though a mere player, appcg.ib to liave had juster notions pf the drama, than the generdity of ev^n professed critics) was sensibly stiaick with this dilftrence in trcigcdij. " Quant h. I'unite' d'action, says he, je trouve un gninde " difference cnt.'c les tragedies Grecques et les tragedies " Frani^oises ; j'apper(j-ois toujours atst-ment Taction des " tragedies Grecques, et je ne la perds point de vfte ; raais " dans les tragedies F!an<joi3CS, j'avoiie, que j'ai souvent " bien de la peine h denifiler Faction des episodes, dont
elle est charg^e." llJisi. dtt Theatre Italien, par Lovh JliccoBONi^ p. 293. Paris 1728.]
44
ON THE PROVINCES OP
tial to just comedy. For when the attention is split on so many interfering objects, we are not at leisure to observe, nor do we so fully enter into, the truth of representation in any of them; the soise of humour, as oi the pathos, depending very much on the continued and undiverted operation of its object upon us.
3. The two dramas agree, also, in this cir- cumstance; that the manners of the persons exhibited should be imperfect. An absolutely good, or an absolutely had, character is fo- reign to the purpose of each. And the reason is, 1, That such a representation is improbable. And probability constitutes, as we have seen, the very essence of comedy ; and is the me- dium, through which tragedy is enabled most powerfully to affect us. 2. Such characters are improper to comedy, because, as was hinted above, they turn the attention aside from con- templating the expression of them, which we call humour. And they are not less unsuited to tragedy, because though they make a forci- ble impression on the mind, yet, as Aristotle well observes, they do not produce the passions of pify and terror; that is, their impressions are not of the nature of that pathos, by which tragedy works its purpose, [x. ly.]
THE DRAMA.
45
There are, likewise, some peculiarities, which distinguish the two dramas. And
1. Though a plot he necessary to produce humour, as well as the pathos, yet a good plot is not so essential to comedy, as tragedy. For the pathos is the result of the entire action ; that is, of all the circumstances of the story taken together, and conspiring by a probable tendency, to a completion in the event. A failure in the just arrangement and disposition of the parts may, then, affect what is of the essence of this drama. On the contrar}'-, hu- mour, though brought out by action, is not the effect of the whole, but may be distinctly evidenced in a single scene; as may be emi- nently illustrated in the two comedies of Fletcher, called The Little French Latvyer, and The Spanish Curate. The nice contexture of the fable therefore, though it may give a pleasure of another kind, is not so imme- diately required to the production of that pleasure, which the nature of comedy de- mands. Much less is there occasion for that labour and ingenuity of contrivance, which is seen in the intricacy of the Spanish fable. Yet this is the taste of our comedy. Our writers are all for plot and intrigue ; and never appear 8o well satisfied with themselves as when, to
46
(DN THE PROVINCES OF
speak in their own phrase, they contrive to hkvc a great deal of hus'mess on their hands. Indeed they have reason. For it hides their inabihty to colour manners, which is the proper but much harder province of true comedy.
2. Tragedy succeeds hcst^ when the subject is real ; comedy, when it is feigned. What would this say, but that tragedy, turning our attention principally -on the action represented, finds means to interest us more strongly on the persuasion of its being taken from actual â– life ? While comedy, on the other hand, can neglect these scrupulous measures ofpi-obabilify, as intent only on exhibiting characters ; for which purpose an invented story will serve much better. The reason is, real action does not ordinarily afford variety of incidents enough to shew the character fully: feigned action may.
And this difference, we may observe, ex- plains the reason why tragedies are often formed on the most trite and vulgar subjects, whereas a new subject is generally demanded in comedy. The reality of the stor}' being of so much consequence to interest the affections, the more known it is, the fitter for the poet's purpose. But a feigned stoiy having been
THE DRAMA. 47
found more convenient for tlie display of cha- racters, it grew into a rule that the story should be always new. This disadvantage on the side of the comic poet is taken notice of in those verses of Antiphanes, or rather, as Ca- saubon conjectures, of Aristophanes, in a play of his intitled, Ilolr](ris. The reason of this difference now appears.
— Maxaf>^ov ej-fv tJ rpaycp^la. IIo»7]jaa xara Trravr'. s'lys CTpcorov o» Xoyot Ttto rwv ^sardSv sWh syvu)ptcry.evot, Uotv xai Tiv' eiTreTv, cog u7roy.vricrat [xo-jov Asi Tov Ti^ToirjTT^v, 'OiOiVsv yap av ys <pM, To, o' aXXa vravT ^l(ra.(riv' 'O zrarrlp AciVoj, MvfxTjp 'Iox«s">2, ^iuyari^sg, otkTosj rlvsg' Ti TiTsia-sd" BTog, rl zrsTrolrjXsv ' ' • • 'H[xi¥ TOUT sg-iv ahXa zravra Eu^sTf ovojxara xaiva, ra. (iuoxTiijAva TlpoTspov, TO. vuv vsoLpuvTO., Ty]v xaTaj-co(pr]v, T->)v £(r^0A7]'v. av sv ri tstmv OTa§a7u'7r'jr], "KpsiJirig ri£, ri *^si^(ov rig sx(ruptrrsTaty Tl7]Xei oe Taur' b^s^i Jcai Tsuxpco txtoisIv.
One sees, then, the reason why Tragedy prefers real subjects, and even old ones ,• and, on the contrary, why comedy delights in feigned subjects, and new.
48
ON THE PROVINCES OF
The same genius in the two dramas is ob- servable, in their drauglit of characters. Co- medy makes all its Characters general; Tra- gedy, particular. The Avare of Moliere is not so properly the picture of a covetous man, as of covetousness itself. Racine's Nero, on the other hand, is not a picture of cruelty, but of a cruel man.
Yet here it will be proper to guard against two mistakes, which the principles now deli- vered may be thought to countenance.
The first is with regard to tragic characters, which I say are particular. My meaning is, they are more particular than those of comedy. Thdt is, the end of tragedy does not require or peritiit the poet to draw together so many of those characteristic circumstances which shew the manners, as Comedy. For, in the former of these dramas, no more of character is shewn, than what the course of the action ne- cessarily calls forth. Whereas, all or most of the features, by which it is usually distin- guished, are sought out and industriously displayed in the latter.
The case is much the same as in portrait painting; where, if a great master be required
THE DRAMA.
49
to draw a -particular face, lie gives the very lineaments he finds in it ; yet so far resembling to what he observes of the same turn in other faces, as not to affect any minute circumstance of peculiarity. But if the same artist were to design a head in general, he would assemble together all the customary traits and features, any where observable through the species, which should best express the idea, whatever it was, he had conceived in his own mind and wanted to exhibit in the picture.
There is much the same difference between the two sorts of dramatic portraits. Whence it appears that in calling the tragic character particular, I suppose it only less representa- tive oi the kind than the. comic; not that the draught of so much character as it is concerned to represent should not be general : the con- trary of whicii I have asserted and explained at large elsewhere [Notes on the A. P. v. 31 7.]
Next, I have said, the characters of just comedy are general. And this I explain by the instance of the Avare of Moliere, which conforms more to the idea of avarice, than to that of the real avaricious man. But here again, the reader will not understand me, as saying this in the strict sense of the words. I
VOL. n. E
50
OK THE PROVINCES OF
even tliiuk Molicre faulty in the instance given; though, with so'.ne necessary explanation, it may well enough serve to express my meaning-.
The view of the comic scene being to deli- neate characters, this end, I Pnjjpose, will be attained most perfectly, by making those cha- racters as univerml as possible. For thus the person shewn in the drama being the repre- sentative of all characters of the same kind, furnishes in the highest degree the entertain- ment of humour. But then this universality must be such as agrees not to our idea of the possible effects of the character as conceived in the abstract, but to the actual exertion of its powers ; which experience justifies, and com- mon life allows. Moliere, and before him Plautus, had offended in. this; that for a pic- ture of the avaricious man, they presented us with a fantastic unpleasing draught of the passion of avarice. I call this a fantastic draught, because it hath no archetype in na- ture. And it is, farther, an unpleasing one, for, being the delineation of a simple passion unmixed, it wanted all those
— Lights and shades^ v,hose well-accorded strife
(Jives all the strene"th and colour of our life.
THE DRAMA.
51
These lights tuid shades (as the poet finely rails the intermixture of many passions, which, with the leading or principal one, form the human character) must be blended together in every picture of dramatic manners ; because the avowed business of the drama is to image real life. Yet the draught of the leading pas- sion must be as general as this strife in nature permits, in order to express the intended cha- racter more perfectly.
All which again is easily illustrated in the instance of painting. In portraits of cha- racter, as we may call those that give a picture of the manners, the artist, if he be of real ability, will not go to work on the possibility of an abstract idea. All he intends, is to shew * that some one quality predoininates : and this he i:!iages strongly, and by such signatures as are most conspicuous in the operation of the leading passion. And when he hath done this, we may, in common speech or in com- pliment, if we please, to his art, say of such a ])ortrait that it images to ns not the but the passion; just as the ancients observed of the famous statue of ApoUodorus by Silarion, that it expressed not t!ie angry Apollodor'ns, but his passion of anger^. But by this mUst
' Nun hominenifx are fecit, sed iraciindiam. Plin, xxxir. 3
r. 2
52
ON THE PROVINCES OF
be understood only that he has well expressed the leading parts of the designed character. For the rest he treats his subject as he would any other ; that is, he represents the concomi- tant affections, or considers merely that ge- neral symmetry and proportion which are ex- pected in a human figure. And this is to copy nature, which affords no specimen of a man turned all into a single passion. No metamor- phosis could be more strange or incredible. Yet portraits of this vicious taste are the ad- miration of common starers, who, if they find a picture of a miser for instance (as there is no commoner subject of moral portraits) in a col- lection, where every muscle is strained, and feature hardened into the expression of this idea, never fail to profess their wonder and- approbation of it. — On this idea of excellence Le Bruu's book of the Passions must be said to contain a set of the justest moral portraits : And the Characters of Theophrastus might be recommended, in a dramatic view, as pre- ferable to those of Terence.
The virtuosi in the fine arts would certain!}* laugh at the former of these judgments. But the latter, I suspect, will not be thought so extraordinary. At least if one may guess from the practice of some of our best comic writers.
THE DRAMA.
5S
and the success which such plays have com- fuonly met with. It were easy to instance in almost all pla^^s of character. But if the reader would see the extravagance of building dra- matic manners on abstract ideas, in its full light, he needs only turn to B. Jonson's Every man out of his hvnwur ; which under the name of a plafj of character is in fact, an unnatural, and, as the painters call it, liard delineation of a group of simph/ existing pas- sions, wholly cliimerical, and unlike to any thing we observe in the commerce of real life. Yet this comedy has always had its admirers. And Randolph, in particular, was so taken with the design, that he seems to have formed his 7nuse's looking-glass in express imitation of it.
Shakespeare, we may observe, is in this as in all the other more essential beauties of the drama, a perfect model. If the discerning reader peruse attentively his comedies with this view, he will find his hest-marhed cha- racters discoursing through a great deal of their parts, just like any other, and only expressing their essential and leading qualities occasionally, and as circumstances concur to give an easy exposition to them. This singular excellence of his comedy, was the effect of his copying
54 ON THE PRO\'INtE% OT
faithfully after nature, and of the force and vi- vacity of his genius, which made him attentive to what the progress of the scene successively presented to him : whilst imitation and infe- rior talents occasion little writers to wind themselves up into the habit of attending per- petually to their main view, and a solicitude to keep their favourite characters in constant play and agitation. Though in this illiberal exercise of their wit, they may be said to us« the persons of the drama as a certain facetious sort do their acquaintance, whom they urge and teize v. ith their civilities, not to give them a reasonable share in the conversation, but to force them to play tricks for the diversion of the company.
I have been the longer on this argument, tc prevent the reader's carrying what I say of the superiority of plai/s of character to plays of intrigue into an extreme ; a mistake, into which some good writers have been unsus>- pectingly betrayed by the acknowledged truth of the general principle. It is so natural for men on all occasions, to fly out into extremes, that too much care cannot be had to retain them in a due medium. But to return from this digression to the consideration of tli* diflerence of the two dramas.
THE DRAMA.
55
,3. A sameness of character is not tisually , objected to in tragedy : in comedy, it ivould not be endured. The passion of avat ice, to resume the instance given above, being the main object, we find nothing but a disgustful repetition in a second attempt to delineate that character. A particular cruel 7nan only en- grossing our regard in Nero, when the train of events evidencing such cruelty is changed, we have all the novelty we look for, and can con- template, with pleasure, the very same cha- racter, set forth by a dit}trent course of action, or displayed in some other person.
4. Comedy succeeds best when the scene is laid at home, tragedy for the most part when abroad. " This appears at first sight whim-
sical and capricious, but has its foundation " in nature. What we chiefly seek in comedy " is a true image of life and manners, but we " are not easily brouglit to think we have it " given us, when dressed in foreign modes and " fashions. And yet a good writer must follow " his scene, and observe decorum. On the " contrary, 'tis the action in tragedy which " most engages our attention. But to fit a " domestic occurrence for the stage, v/e nuist " take greater liberties with the action than a
56
ON THE PROVINCES OF
" well-known story will allow." ^Popes Worhs, vol. iv. p. 185.]
Other characters of the two dramas, as well peculiar, as common, which might be ac- counted for from the just notion of them, de- livered above, I leave to the observation of the reader. For my intention is not to write a complete treatise on the drama, but briefly to lay down such principles, from whence its laws may be derived.
THE DRAMA.
57
CHAP. IL
OF THE GENIUS OF COMEDY.
But it may not be amiss to express myself a little more fully as to the genius of comedy ; vvliich for want of passing through the hands of such a critic as Aristotle, has been less perfectly understood.
Its end is the production of humour : or which comes to the same thing, " of that " pleasure, v/hich the truth of representation " affords, in the exhihition of the private cha- " racters of life, more particularly their spe- " cific differences." I add this latter clause, because the principal pleasure we take in con- templating characters consists in noting those differences . The general attributes of huma- nity, if represented ever so truly, give us but ;i slender entertainment. They, of course, make a part of the drama ; but we chiefly de- light in a picture of those peculiar traits, which distinguish the species. Now these discriminating marks in the characters of men are not necessarily the causes of ridicule, dr jileasantry of any kind ; but accidentally, and
58
ON THE PRO\'IN'CE& OF
according to the nature or quality of them. The vanity, and impertinent boasting of Thraso is tlie natural object of contempt, and, when truly and forcibly expressed in his own character, provokes ridicule. The easy hu- manity of Mitio, which is the leading part of his character, is the object of approbation i and, when shewn in his own conduct, excites St pleasure, in common with ^\\ ^m^X. expression of the manners, but of a serious nature, as being joined with the sentiment of esteem.
But now as most men find a greater pleasure in gratifying the passion of coutimpt, than the calm instinct of approbation, and since per- haps the constitution of human life is such, as aftbrds more exercise for the one, than the other, hence it hath come to pass, that the comic poet, who paints for the generality, and follows nature, chuses more commonly to se- lect and describe those pccnliarities in the human character, which, by their nature, ex- cite pleasantry, than such as create a serious regard and esteem. Hence some persons have appropriated the name of comedies to those dramas, which chiefiy aim at producing hu- mour, in the more proper sense of the word ; under which view it means " such an ex- *' pression or picture of what is odd, or inof-
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59
*' clinate in each character, as gives, us the " fullest and strongest image of the original, and by the truth of the representation ex- " poses the ridicule of it." And it is certain, that comedy receives great advantnge from re - presentations of this kind. Nay, it cannot well subsist without them. Yet it doth not exclude the other and more serious entertain- ment, uhich, as it stands on the same founda- tion of truth of representation, I venture to include under the common term.
Further, there are two ways of evidencing the characteristic and predominant qualities of men, or, of producing humour, which require to be observed. The one is, when they are shewn in the perpetual course and tenor of die representation ; that is, when the humour re- sults from the general conduct of tiie person in the drama, and the discourse, which he holds in it. The other is, when by an happy and lively stroke, the characteristic quality is laid open and exposed at once.
The first sort of humour is that which we find in the ancients, and especially Terence. The latter is almost peculiar to- the moderns ; who, in uniting these two species of humour.
ON- TH£ PROVI^•CE5 OF
have brought a vast iiPiprovement to tht coitiic Scene. The reason of this difference may per- haps have been the singular siniphcity of the old writers, who were contented to take up with such sentiments or circumstances, as most naturally and readily occurred in thi Course of the drama : whereas the rrtoderns have been ambitious to shew a more exquisit* and studied investigation into the workings of human nature, and have sought out for thosd peculiarly striking lineaments, in which the essence of character consists. On the same Account, I suppose, it was that the ancients had J'eiver characters in their plaj's, than the moderns, and those more general; that is, their dramatic writers were well satisfied with picturing the most itsual personages, and in their most obvious lights. They did not, a* the moderns (who, if they would aspire to the praise of novelty, were obliged to this route), cast about for less famiUar characters ; and the nicer and less observed peculiarities which dis- tinguish each. Be it as it will, the observation is certain. Later dramatists have apparently shewn a more accurate knowledge of human life: and, by opening these new and untryed veins of humour, have exceedingly enriched the comedy of our times.
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Gi
But, though we are not to look for the two species of humour, before-inentioned, in the same perfection on ttie simpler stages of Greece and Rome, as in our improved t heatres, yet the Jirst of them was clearly seen anrl success- fully practised by the ancient comic niasters; and there are not wanting in thein some few examples even of the last. " The old man in *• the Mother-in- Law says to his Son,
Turn tu igitur nihil adtuUsti hue plus mid sententid.
*' This, as an excellent person observed to me, " is true humour. For his character, which " was that of a lover of money, drew the ob- " servation naturally and forcibly from him- " His disappointment of a rich succession made *' him speak contemptibly of a moral lesson, " which rich and covetous men, in their best " humours, have no high reverence for. And " this too without design ; which is important, *' and shews the distinction of what, in the " more restrained sense of the word, we call " humour, from other modes of pleasatitri/. " For had a young friend of the son, an un- " concerned spectator of the scene, made the observat^ion, it had then, in another's mouth, " been wit, or a designed banter on the father^'s *' disappointment. As, on the other Jbanc(,
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OS THE PROVINCES OF
" when such characteristic qualities are exag- gerated, and the expression of them stretched " beyond truths they become bujf 'oonry, even " in the person's ouv?."
This is an instance of the second species of humour, under its idea of exciting ridicule. But it may, also, be employed with the ut- most seriousness ; as being only a method of expressing the truth of character in the 7nost striking manner. This same old man in the Hecyra will furnish an example. Though a lover of money, he appears, in the main, of an honest and worthy nature, and to have born the truest affection to an amiable and fa- vourite son. In the perplexity of the scene, which had arisen from the suj)posed misunder- standing between his sov\s wife and his own, he proposes, as an expedient to end all dif- ferences, to retire with his wife into the country. And to enforce this projDosal to the young man. who had his reasons for being against it. he adds,
odiosu est hate aetus adolesce, uuUs : E piedio aequutn excedere est : postreinh nos
jam J'uhufu Suvtius, Pamphile, scnex atque ami9.
There is nothing, I suppose in these woi-ds, which provokes a smile. Yet the humour is
THE DRAMA.
strong, as before. In his solicitude to promote his son's satisfaction, he lets fall a sentiment truly characteristic, and which old men usually take great pains to conceal ; I mean, his ac- knowledgment of that .\usplcious Jear of coti- fenipf, which is natural to old age. So true a picture of life, in the representation of this weakness, might, in oilier circumstances, have created some plcasaiiti-i/ ; but the occasion, which forced it from him, discovering, at the same time, the ainiahle disposition of the speaker, covers the ridicule of it, or more pro- perly converts it into ?.n object of our esteem.
We have here, then, a kind of iiiterjJiediate species of Inimour betwixt the i-ldicnlous and the grave; and may perceive how insensibly the 07ie becomes the other, by tlie accidental mixture of a virtuous (jualiti/, attracting es- teem. Which ir.ay serve to reconcile the reader to the application of this term even to such exprcssioN of the manners, as is perfectly serious; that is, where the fjualiti/ represent ed is entirely, and without the least touch of attending ridicule, the object of moral appru- hation to the mind. As in that famous asseve- ration of Chremes in the Self-tormenfor :
Homo sujn ; humani nihil a me alienum pufo.
C4 ON THE PROVINCES OF
This IS a strong expression of character; and, coming unaffectedly from him in answer to the cutting reproof of his friend,
Chreme, tantumne ah re tud'st ott tibl Alieyia ut cures; ea quae nihil ad te adtinent?
hath the essence of true humour, that is, is a lively picture of the manners ivithout design.
Yet in this instance, which hath not been observed, the humour, though of a serious cast, is heightened by a mixture of satire. Fof we are not to take this, as hath constantly been done, for a sentiment of pure humanity and the natural ebullition of benevolence. We may observe in it a designed stroke of satirical resentment. The Self-tormentor, as we saw, had ridiculed Chremes' curiosity by a severe reproof. Chremes, to be even with him, re- flects upon the inhumanity of his temper. " You, says he, seem such a foe to humanity, that you spare it not in yourself; I, on the " other hand, am affected, w hen I see it suffer " in another y
Whence we learn, that, though all which is requisite to constitute comic humour, be a just expression of character without design,
/
THE DRAMA. ^5
yet such expression is felt more sensibly, when it is further enlivened by ridicule, or quickened by the poignancy of satire.
From the account of comedy, here given, it may appear, that the idea of this drama is much enlarged beyond what it v/as in Aristotle's time; who defines it to be, an imitation of light and trivial actions, provoking ridicule. His notion was taken from the state and prac- tice of the Athenian stage ; that is, from the old or middle comedy, which answers to this description. The great revolution, which the introduction of the new comedy made in the drama, did not happen till afterwards. This proposed for its object, in general, the actions and characters of ordinary life; which are not, of necessity, ridiculous, but, as appears to every observer, of a mixt kind, serious as well as ludicrous, and within their proper sphere of influence, not unfrequently, even important. This kind of imitation therefore, now admits the serious ; and its scenes, even without the lieast mixture of pleasantry, are entirely comic. Though the common run of laughers in our theatre are so little aware of the extension of this province, that I should scarcely have hazarded the observation, but for the authority of Terence; who hath confessedly
yoL. ri. F
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ON THE PROVI?<CES OF
very little of the pleasant in bis drama. Na} ,. one of the most admired of his comedies hath the gravity, and, in some places, almost the solemnity of tragedy itself. But this idea of comedy is not peculiar to the more polite and liberal ancients. Some of the best modern comedies are fashioned in agreement to it. And an instance or two, which I am going to produce from the stage of sim.ple nature, may seem to shew it the plain suggestion of com- mon sense,
" Tlie Amautas (says the author of the " Royal Commentaries of Peru), who were " men of the best ingenuity amongst them, in- *' vented Comedies and Tragedies ; whieli, " on their solemn festivals, they represented " before the King and the Lords of his court. " The plot or argument of their tragedies was " to represent their military exploits, and the " triumphs, victories, and heroic actions of " their remivned men. And the subject or " design of their comedies was, to demonstrate " the manner of good husbandry in cultivating " and manuring their fields, and to shetv the
management of domestic affairs, with other "familiar matters, lliese plays, continues " he, were not made up of obscene and dis- " honest farces, but such as were of serious
THE DRAMA.
" entertainment, ^composed of gravt and acute " sentences, &c."
Two things are observable in this brief ac- count of the Peruvian drama. First, that its species had respect to the very different objects of the higher or lower stations. Fur the great and powerful were occupied in war : and agriculture was the chief employment of pri- vate and ordinary life. And, in this dis- tinction, these Indian, perfectly agreed with the old Roman poets ; whose praetextata and TOGATA shew, that they had precisely the same ideas of the drama. Secondly, we do not learn only, what difference there was' be- twixt their tragedy and comedy, but we are also told, what difference there was not. It was not, that one was serious, and the other pleasant. For we find it expressly asserted of both, that they were of grave and serious en- tertainment.
And this last will explain a similar observa- tion on the Chinese, who, as P. de Premere acquaints us, make no distinction betwixt tra- gedies and comedies. That is, no distinction, but what the different subjects of each make necessary. They do not, as our European dramas, differ in this, that the one is intended F 2
58
ON THE PROVINCES OF
to make us weep, and the» other to make us laugh.
These are full and precise testimonies. For I lay no stress on what the Historian of Peru tells us, that there were no obscenities in their comedi/, nor on what an encomiast of China pretends, that there is not so much as an. ob- scene word in all their language^ : as being sensible, that though indeed these must needs be considerable abatements to the humour of their comic scenes, yet, their ingenuity might possibly find means to remedy these defects by the invention and dextrous application of the double entendre, which, on our stage, is found to supply the place of rank obscenity, and, indeed, to do its office of exciting laughter almost as well.
But, as I said, there is no occasion for this argument. We may venture, without the help of it, to join these authorities to tJiat of
? P. Alvarez Semeuo, speaking of their poetiy, says, " Le plus giand advantage et la plus grande utilite qu'ea " ont tire les Chinois, est cette grande modestie et re- " tenue incomparable, qui se ^oit en leurs ecrits, n'ayant " pas meme une lettre en tous leurs livres, ni en toutcs leurs " ecr_itures, pour exprimer les parties Iionteuses de la nature." [Hist. Ukiv. de la Chixe, p. S2. h Lyon 1667. 4to,]
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69
Terence ; winch, together, enable us to con- clude very fully, in opposition to the general sentiment, that ridicule is not of the essence of comedy^.
But, because the general practice of the Greek and Roman theatres, which strongly countenance the other opinion, may still be thought to outweigh this single Latin poet, together with all the eastern and ivestern bar- barians, that can be thrown into the balance, let me go one step further, and, by explaining the rise and occasion of this practice, demon- strate, that, in the present case, their autho- rity is, in fact, of no moment.
The form of the Greek, from whence the Roman and our drama is taken, though ge- nerally improved by reflexion and just criticism, yet, like so many other great inventions, was, in its original, tlie product of pure chance. 4, Each of its species had sprung out of a chorus- song, which was afterwards incorporated into the legitimate drama, and found essential to its true form. But reason, which saw to
i> Le RID1CUI.E EST CE aU'lL Y A DE PLUS ESSPNTIEL A LA COMEDIE. [P. RaPIN^ ReTLEX. PUR LA FOBS, p. 154.
Paris 1684.]
70 ON THE PROVINCES OF
establish what was right in this fortuitous con- formation of the drama, did not equally suc- ceed in detecting and separating what was wrong. For the occasion of this chorus-song, in their religious festivities, was widely diffe- rent: the business at one time, being to ex- press their gratitude, in celebrating the praises of their gods and heroes ; at another, to in- dulge their mirth, in jesting and sporting among themselves. The character of their drama, which had its rise from hence, » con- formed exactly to the ditference of these occa-
' Oi Qijxnri^oi rij naKa,c t/xi|OiSvlo â– crpalfi,-, xoci Ta.{ Ta>
torors noioYNTEs, nsnEP etepoi tmnoys kai ef-
KfiMIA. [nEP. nolHT. y.^'.] Thb is Aristotle's account of the origin of the different species of poetry. They were occasioned, he says, by the different and even oppo- site tempers and dispusilions of men : those of a loftier spirit delighting in the encomiastic poetry, while the humbler sort betook themsekcs to sdtrre. But this, also, is the just ac- count of the rise and chai"acter of the different species of the Drama. For the)- grew up, he tells us in this very chariter, from the Dithyr.^mbic, and Phallic soags. And who were the tiien, who chaunted these, but tte XEMNOTEPOI, and EYTEAESTEPOI, before-mentioned? And ho-v were they employed in them, but the former, in hymning the praises of Bacchus ; the latter, in dealing about obscene j:kes and iauntvig inveclii-es on each other ? So that the characters of the men, and their subjects, being exactly
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71
â– f/uns. Tragedi/, througli all its several suc- cessive stages of improvement, was serious and even solemn. And a gay or rather buffoon spirit was the characteristic of comedtf.
We see, then, the genius of these two poems was accidentally fixed in agreement to their respective originals; consequent writers contenting themselves to embellish and jjerfect, not change, the primary form. The practice of the ancient stage is then of no further au- thority, than as it accords to just criticism. The solemn cast of their tragedy, indeed, bears the test, and is found to be suitable to its real nature. The same does not ap]>ear of the burlesque form of comedy; no reason having been given, why it must, of necessity, have the ridiculous for its object. Nay the effects of improved criticism on the later Greek comedy give a presumption of the direct con- trary. For, in proportion to the gradual refinement of this species in the hands of its
the same in both, what is said of the one is equally appli- cable to the other. It was proper to observe this, or the readei- might, perhaps, object to the use made of this pas- sage, here, as well as above, where it is brought to illus- trate Aristotle's ugtion of the natures of the tragic and comic poetry.
72
ox THE PROVINCES OF
greatest masters, the buffoon cast of the comic drama was insensibly dropt and even grew into tL severity, which departed at length very widely from the original idea. The admirable scholar of Theophrastus, who had been tu- tored in the exact study of human life, saw so m ich of the genume character of true comedy, that he cleansed it, at once, from the greater part of those bufFoonries, which had, till his time, defiled its nature. His great imitator, Terence, went still further ; and, whether im- pelled by his native hultnour, or determined by his truer taste, mixed so little of the ridiculous in his comedy, as plainly shews, it might, in bis opinion, subsist entirely without it. His practice indeed, and the theory, here deli- vered, nearly meet. And the conclusion is, that coynedy, which is the image of private life, may take either character of pleasant or serious, as it chances, or even unite them into one piece ; but that the fortner is, by no means, more essential to its constitution, th^ the latter.
I foresee but or,e objection, that can be made to this theory ; which has, in effect, been obviated already. " It may be said, that, " if this account of comedif be just, it would " follow, that it might, with equal propriety^
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" admit the gravest and most affecting events, " which inferior hfe furnishes, as the lightest. " Whereas it is notorious, that distresses of a deep and solemn nature, though faithfully " copied from the fortunes of private men, " would never be endured, under the name of " comedy, on the stage. Nay, such repre- " sentations would rather pass, in the public "judgment, for legitimate tragedies; of which " kind, we have, indeed, some examples in " our language."
Two things are mistaken in this objection. First, it supposes, that deep distresses of every kind are inconsistent with comedy ; the contrary of which may be learnt from the Self-tormentor of Terence. Next, it in- sinuates, that, if deep distresses of any kind may be admitted into comedy, the deepest may. Which is equally erroneous. For the manners being the proper object of comedy, the distress must not exceed a certain degree of severity, lest it draw off the mind from them, and confine it to the action only : as would be the case of murder, adultery, and other atrocious crimes, infesting private, as well as public, life, were they to be repre- sented, in all their horrors, on the stage. And though some of these, as adultery, have
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ON THE rr.ovi^rcEs of
been brouj.5ht, of laic, into the comic scene, yet it was not till it had lost the atrocity of its nature, and was made the subject of mirth and pleasantry to the fashionable world. But for this hajjpy disposition of the times, co- medy, as managed by some of our writers, had lost its nature, and become tragic. And, yet, considered as tragic, such representations of low life had been improper. Because, where the mtent is to affect, the subject is with more advantage taken from high life, all the circum- stances being, there, more peculiarly adapted fo answer that end.
The solution then of the difficuity is, in one word, this. All distresses are not improper in comedy ; but such only as attach the mind to the fahle, in neglect of the manners, which are its chief object. On the other hand, all ffJstresses are not proper in tragedy ; but such only as are of force to interest the mind in the action, preferably to the observation of the manners ; which can only be done, or is done most efifectually, when the distressful event, represented, is taken from public life. So that tlie distresses, spoken of, are equally unsuited to what the natures both of comedy and tra- gedf/, respect) vel>", demand.
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CHAP. III.
OF M. DE FONTENELLE's NOTION OF COMEDY.
Notwithstanding the pains I have taken, in the preceding chapters, to estabhsh my theory of the comic drama, I find myself obHged to support it still further against the authority of a very eminent modern critic. M. de Fontenelle hath just now published two volumes of plays, among which are some co- medies of a very singular character. They are not only, in a high degree, pathetic ; but the scene of them is laid in aiitlquittj ; and great personages, such as Kings, Princesses, &c. are of the drama. He hath besides endea-i voured to justify this extraordinary species of comedy by a very ingenious preface. It will therefore be necessary for me to examine this new system, and to obviate, as far as I can, the prejudices which the name of the author, and the intrinsic merit of the plays themselves, will occasion in favour of it.
His system, as explained in the preface to these comedies, is, briefly, this.
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ON THE PROVINCES 01
" The subject of dramatic representation, " he observes, is some event or action of hti- " man life, which can be considered only in *' two views, as being eithe^ that of public, or " of private, persons. The end of such re- presentation, continues he, is to please, " which it doth either bv engaging the atten- " tion, or by moving the passions. The Jbr~ 7ner is done by representing to us such events as are greats noble, or nnexpected : " The latter by such as are dreadful, pitiable, " tender, or pleasant. Of these several sources " of pleasure, he forms what he calls a dra- " mafic scale, the extremes of which he admits " to be altogether inconsistent ; no art being " sufficient to bring together the grand, the Hoble, or the terrible, into the same piece " with the pleasant or ridiculous. The im- pressions of these objects, lie allows, are " perfectly ojjposed to each other. So that a " tragedy, which takes for its subject a noble, " or terrible event, can by no means admit " the pleasant. And a comedy, which repre- *^ sents a pleasant action, can never admit the " terrible or noble. But it is otherwise, he conceives, with the intermediate species of *' this scale. The singular, the pitiable, the '( tender, which fill up the interval betwixt the mble and ridiculous, are equally consistent
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" with tragedy and comedy. An uncommon stroke of Fortune may as well befall a pea- " sant as a prince. And two lovers of an in- " ferior condition may have as lively a passion " for each other, and, when some unlucky " event separates them, may deserve our pity " as much, as those of the highest fortune. " These situations then are equally suited to " both dramas. They will only be modified " in each a little differently. From hence he " concludes, that there may be dramatic re- " presentations, which are neither perfectly " tragedies nor perfectly comedies, but yet " partake of the nature of each, and that in " different proportions. There might be a species of tragedif, for instance, which should " unite the tender vvitli the noble in any de- " gree, or even subsist entirely by means of " the ter.der : And of comedy, which should " associate the tender with the pleasant, or " even retain the tender throughout to a cer- " tain degree to the entire exclusion of the " pleasant.
" As to his laying the scene of his comedy " in Greece, he thinks this practice sufficiently " justified by the practice of the French writers, " who make no scruple to lay their scene " abroad, as in Spain or England.
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ox THE PROVINCES OF
" Lastly, for what concenis the introduction " of great personages into the comic drama, " he observes that by ordinary life, which he " supposes the proper subject of comedy, he " understands as well that of Emperors and " Princes, at times when they are only men, " as of inferior persons. And he thinks it " very evident that what passes in the ordinary " life, so understood, of the greatest men, is " truly comic''."
This is a simple exposition of M. de Fonte- nelle's idea of comedy, which, however, he hath set off with great elegance and a plausi- bility of illustration, such as writers of his class are never at a loss to give to anv subject they would recommend.
Now, tho' the principal aim of what I have to offer in confutation of this system be to combat the ingenious writer's notion of co- medy, yet as the tenor of his preface leads him to deliver his sentiments also of ti'agedy, I shall not scruple intermixing, after his ex- ample, some reflexions on this latter drama.
M. de Fontenelle sets out with observing, th&.t the end of dramatic representation is to
k Pref. generate, torn. vii. Par. I79I;
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79
please. This end is very general. But he explains himself more precisely, by saying, '' this pleasure is of two kinds, and consists " either in attaching the mind or affecting itS' And this is not much amiss. But Ins further explanation of these terms is suspicious. " The mind, says he, is attached by the repre- " sentation of what is great, noble, singular, " or unexpected : It is affected by what is " terrible, pitiable, tender, or pleasant^.''' In this enumeration he forgets the merely natural draught of the manners. Yet this is surely one of the means by which the drama is en- abled to attach the spectator. With me, I confess, this is the fir'jt excellence of comedy. Nor could he mean to include this source of pleasure under his second division. For tho' a lively picture of the manners may in some sort ho said to affect us, yet certainly not as coming- under the consideration of what is terrible, pitiable, tender, or ridiculous, bat simply of what is natural. The picture is pleasant or otherwise, as it chances ; but is always the source of entertainment to the ob- server. When the pleasantry is high, it takes
1 " On attaclie par le grand, par le noble, par le rare, " par rii«pr<-vCi. On Cmexxt par le terrible oti alfreux,, " par le pitoyable, p;ir le tendre, pai- le 2)ln!smt ou liJi- •' cule." p. xiv.
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ON THE PROVINCES OF
indeed the passion of ridicule. In other iir- stances, it can scarcely be said to move, " emouvoir," Now this I take to be a very considerable omission. For if the observation of character be a pleasure, which comedy is more particularly qualified to give, and which is not in any degree so compatible with tra- gedy, does not this bid fair for being the pro- per end of comedy? Human life, he says, which is the subject of the drama, can only be regarded in two views, as either that of the great and principally of kings, and that of private men. Now the attachments and emo- tions, he speaks of, are excited more power- fully and to more advantage in a representation of the former. That which is peculiar to a draught of ordinari/ life, or which is attained 7nost perjectli/ by it, is the delight arising ft-om a just exhibition of the manners. No, he will say. The pleasant belongs as peculiarly to a picture of common life, as the natural. Surely not. Common life distorted, or what we call farce, gives the entertainment of ridicule more perfectly than comedy. The only pleasure, which an exposition of ordinary/ life affords, distinct from that we receive from a view of high life on the one hand, and ordinary life disfigured on the other, is the satisfaction of contemplating the truth of character. How-
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81
ever then this species of representation may be improved by incorporating other kinds of ex- cellence with it, is not t/ils, of -pleasing by the truth of character, to be considered as the appropriate end of comedy ?
I don't dispute the propriety of serious or even affecting comedies. I have already ex- plained myself as to this point, and have shewn under what restrictions the weeping comedy, la larmoyante comedie, as the French call it, may be admitted on my plan. The main question is, whether there be any foundation in nature for two distinct and separate species only of the drama ; or whether, as he pre- tends, a certain scale, which connects by an insensible communication the several modifi- cations of dramatic representation, unites and incorporates the two species into one.
It is true the laws of the drama, as formed by Aristotle out of the Greek poets, can of themselves be no rule to us in this matter; because these poets had given no example of such intermediate species. This, for aught appears to the contrary, may be an extension of the province of the drama. The question then must be tried by the success of this new prac-
VOL. II. G
8^
ON THE PROVINCES OF
tice, compared with the general dictates of cominon sense.
For I perfectly agree with this judicious critic, that we have a right to inquire if, in what con- cerns the stage, we are not sometimes governed by established customs instead of rales; for Rules they will not deserve to be esteemed, till they have undergone the rigid scrutiny of reason™.
In respect of the Practice, then, it must be owned, there are many stories in private life capable of being worked up in such a manner as to move the passions strongly ; and, on the contrary, many subjects taken from the great world capable of diverting the spectator by a pleasant picture of the manners. And lastly, it is also true, that both tliese ends may be affected together, in some degree, in either piece. But here is the point of enquiry. Whether if the end in view be to affect, this will not be accomplished better by taking a
"1 " Que nou? sommes en droit d examiner si, en fait de Theatre, nous n'aurions pas quelquefois des habitudes " au lieu de regies, car les regies ne pem ent rfitre qu" " apr^s avoir subi Ics rigueurs du tribunal de la raisont." p. 37.
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53
subject from the public than private fortunes of men: Or, if the End be to please by the truth o f character, whether we are not hkely to perceive this pleasure more fully when the story is of private, rather than of public life? For, as Aristotle said finely on a like occasion, we are not to look for every sort of pleasure from tragedy [or comedy] btit that which is peculiarly proper to each^. "Human life, this writer says, " can be considered but as " high or low and " a representation of it " can please only as it attaches, or affects'" I ask then, to which sort of life shall the dra- matic poet confine himself, when he would endeavour to raise these affections or these at- tachments to the highest pitch. The answer is plain. For if the poet would excite the ten- der passions, they will rise higher of necessity, when awakened by noble subjects, than if called forth by such as are of ordinary and familiar notice. This is occasioned by what one may call a TRANSITION OF THE Passions : that affec- tion of the mind which is produced by the im- pression of great objects, being more easily convertible into the stronger degrees of pity and commiseration, than such as arises from a
noinr, n, iJ',
G 2
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ON THE PROVINCES OF
view of the conoerns of common life. The more important the interest, the greater part our minds take in it, and the more susceptible are we of passion.
On tlie other hand, when the intended plea- sure is to result from strong pictures of human nature, this will be felt more entirely, and with more sincerity, when we are at leisure to attend to them in the representation of inferior persons, than when the rank of the speaker, or dignity of the subject, is constantly drawing some part of our observation to itself. In a word, though mixed dramas may give us plea- sure, yet the pleasure, in either kind, will be LESS in proportion to the mixture. And the end of each will be then attained most per- fectly when its character, according to the ancient practice, is observed.
To consider then the writer's favourite po- sition, that le pifui/able and le tendre are *^ common both to tragedy and comedy." The position, in general, is true. The difficulty is in fixing the degree, with vrhich it ought to prevail in each. If passion predominates in a picture of private life, I call it a tragedy of private story, because it produces the end which tragedy designs. If htonoiir predominates in a
THE DRAMA.
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draught of public life, I call it a comedy of public story, because it gives the pleasure of pure comedy. Let these then be two new species of the drama, if you please, and let new names be invented for them. Yet, were I a poet, I should certainly adhere to the old practice. That is, if I wanted to produce jyas- sion, I should think myself able to raise it highest on a great subject. And if I aimed to attach by humour, I should depend on catching the whole attention of the spectator more suc- cessfully on a familiar subject.
But by a fumiUar subject, this critic will say, he means, as I do, a subject taken from ordinary life; and that the affairs of kings and princes may ver}' properly come into co- medy under this view. Besides the reason already produced against this innovation, I have this further exception to it. The business of comedy, he will allow, is in part at least to exhibit the manners. Now the princely or heroic comedy is singularly improper for this end. If persons of so distinguished a rank be the actors in comedy, propriety demands that they be shewn in conformity to their characters in real life. But now that very politeness, which reigns in the courts of princes and the houses of the great, prevents the manners froin
S6
ON THE PROVINCES OF
shewing themselves, at least with that distinct- ness and relief which we look for in dramatic characters. Inferior personages, acting with less reserve and caution, afford the fittest oc- casion to the poet of expressing their genuine tempers and dispositions. Or, if a picture of the manners be expected from the introduction of great persons, it can be only in tragedy, where the importance of tlie interests and the strong play of the passions strip them of their borrowed disguises, and lay open their true characters. So that the princely, or heroic, comedy is the least fitted, of any kind of drama, to furnish this pleasure.
The ancients appear to have had no doubt at all on the matter. The tragedy on low life, and comedy on high life, were refinements al- together unknown to them. What then hath occasioned this revolution of taste amongst us ? Principally, I conceive, these three things.
1. The comedy on high life hath arisen from a different state of ^ovenuuent. In the free towns of Greece there was no room for that distinction of high and low comedy, which the moderns have introduced. And the reason was, the members of those communities were so nearly on a level, that any one was a repre-
THE DRAMA.
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sentative of the rest. There was no standing subordination of royalty, nobihty, and com- monalty, as witli us. Their way of ennobling their characters was, by making them Generals, Ambassadors, Magistrates, &c. and then, in that public view, they were fit personages for tragedy. When stripped of these ensigns of authority, they became simple citizens.
Amongst us, persons of elevated rank make a separate order in the community, whose pri- vate lives however might, no doubt, be the subject of comic representation. Why then are not these fit personages for comedy ? The reason has been given. They want dramatic manners. Or, if they did not, their elevated and separate estate makes the generality con- ceive with such reverence of them, that it would shock their notions of high life to see them employed in a course of comic adven- tures. And of this M. de Fontenelle himself was sufficiently sensible. For, speaking in another place of the importance which the tragic action receives from the dignity of its persons, he says, " When the actions are of " such a kind as that, without losing any " thing of their beauty, they might pass be- " tween inferior persons, the names of kings
and princes are nothing but a foreign orna-
88
OS THE PROVINCES OF
" ment, which the poet gives to his subject. " Yet this ornament, foreign as it may be, is " necessary : so foted are we to he always " dazzled by titles°f Should he not have seen then, that this pageantry of titles, which is so requisite to raise the dignity of the tragic drama, must for the same reason prevent the familiarity of the comic ? The great themselves are, no doubt, in this, as other instances, above vulgar prejudices. But the dramatic poet writes for the people.
2. The tragedy on low life, I suspect, has been chiefly owing to our modern romances : which have brought the tender passion into great repute. It is the constant and almost sole object of le pi fay able and le tendre in our drama. Now the prevalency of this passion in all degrees hath made it thought an indif- ferent matter, wliether the story, that exem- plifies it, be taken from low or high life. As it rages equally in both, the pathos, it was be- lieved, would be just the same. And it is true, if tragedy confine itself to the display of this passion, the difference will be less sensible than in other instances. Because the concern terminates more directly in the tender pair
• Reflex, sur la Pocs. p. 132.
THE DRAMA.
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themselves, and does not so necessarily extend itself to others. Yet to heighten this same pathos by the graiid and important, would methinks be the means of affording a still higher pleasure.
3. After all, that effusion of softness which prevails to such a degree in all our dramas, comic as well as tragic, to the exclusion of every other interest, is, perhaps, best accounted for by this writer. As the matter is delicate, I chuse to give it in his own words : " On s'ima- " gine naturellement, que les pieces Grecques " & les notres ont ^te jugees au meme tribunal, " a celui d'un public ass^s egal dans les deux nations ; mais cela n'est pas tout-a-fait vrai. " Dans le tribunal d'Athenes, les femmes " n'avoient pas de voix, ou n'en avoient que " tr^s peu. Dans le tribunal de Paris, c'est " precis^ment le contraire ; ici il est done " question de plaire aux femmes, qui assur^- ment aimeront mieux le pitoyable & le ten- dre, que terrible et meme le grand." He adds, " Et je ne crois pas au fond qu'elles " ayent grand tort." And what gallant man but would subscribe to this ojjinion ?
On the whole, this attempt of M. de Fon- tenelle, to innovate in the province of comedy,
50 ON THE PROVINCES OF
puts one in mind of that he made, many years ago, in pastoral poetry. It is exactly the same spirit which has governed this polite writer in both adventures. He was once for bringing courtiers in masqueratle into Arcadia. And now he would set them unmasked on the cOmic stage. Here, at least, he thought tliey would be in place. But the simplicity of pas- toral dialogue would not sufler the one ; and the familiarity of comic action forbids the other. It must be confessed, however, he hath succeeded better in the example of his comedies, than his pastorals. And no won- der. For what we call the fashions and man- ners are confined to certain conditions of life, so that pastoral courtiers are an evident con- tradiction and absurdity. But, the appetites and passions extending through all ranks, hence low tricks and low amours are thought to suit the minister and sharper alike. How- ever it be, the fact is, that M. de Fontenelle hath succeeded best in his comedies. And as his theory is likely to gain more credit from the success of his practice than the force of his reasoning, I think it proper to close these re-. marks with an observation or two upon it.
There are, I observed, three things to be considered in his comedies, his introduction of
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great personages, his practice of laying the scene in antiquity, and his pathos.
Now to see the impropriety of the Jirst of these innovations, we need only observe with what art he endeavours to conceal it. His very dexterity in managing his comic heroes clearly shews the natural repugnance he felt in his own mind betwixt the representation of such characters, and even his own idea of the comic drama.
The Tyrant is a strange title of a comedy. It required singular address to familiarize this frightful personage to our conceptions. Which yet he hath tolerably vi'ell done, but by such expedients as confute liis general theory. For, to bring him down to the level of a comic cha- racter, he gives us to understand, that the Tyrant was an usurper, who from a very mean birth had forced his way into the tyranny. And to lower him still more, we tind him re- presented, not only as odious to his people, but of a very contemptible character. He fur- ther makes him the tyrant only of a small Greek town ; so that he passes, with the mo- dern reader, for little more than the Mayor of a corporation. There is also a pli:in illusion in making a simple citizen demand his daughter
92 ON THE PROVINCES OF
in marriage. For under the cover of thi» word, whicii conveys the idea of a person in lower hfe, we think very Httle of the dignity of a free citizen of Corinth. Whence it ap- pears that tlie poet felt the necessity of un- kinging this tyrant as far as possible, before he could make a comic character of him.
The case of his Abdolonime is still easier. Tis true, the structure of the fable requires us to have an eye to royalty, but all the pride and pomp of the regal character is studiously kept out of sight. Besides, the affair of royaUy does not commence till the action draws to a conclusion, the persons of the drarna bsing ail sirn.'"^ particulars, and even of the lowest n.T;ure through the entire course of it.
The King of Sidon is, further, a paltry so- vereign, and a creature of Alexander. And the characters of the persons, which are indeed admirably touched, are purposely contrived to lessen our ideas of sovereignty.
The Lysianasse is a tragedy in form, of that kind which hath a happy catastrophe. The persons, subject, every thing so impor- tant, and attaches the mind so intirely to the event, that nothing interests more.
THE DRAMA.
9S
As to his laying the scene in antiquity, and especially in the free towns of Greece, I would recommend it as an admirable expedient to all those who are disposed to follow him in thi{j new province of heroic comedy. For amongst other advantages, it gives the writer an occa- sion to fill the courts of his princes with simple citizens, which, as was observed,- by no means answer to our ideas of nobility. But in any other view I cannot say much for the practice. It is for obvious reasons highly inconvenient. Even this writer found it so, when in one of his plays, the Macate, he was obliged to break through the propriety of ancient man- ners in order to adapt himself to the modem taste. His duel, as he himself says, " a Vair " hien fran^ois et hien peu grec." The reader, if he pleases, may see his apology for this transgression of decorum. Or, if there were no inconvenience of this sort, the representation of characters after the antique must, on many occasions, be cold and disgusting. At least none but professed scholars can be taken with it.
Nor is the usage of the Latin writera any precedent. For, besides that Horace, we know, condemned it as suitable only to the infancy of their cumic poetry, tlie manners, jaws, religion of the Greeks were in the main
94
ON THE PROVI>fCES OF
SO similar to their own, that the' difference was hardly discernible. Or if it were otherwise in some points, the neighbourhood of this fa- mous people and the intercourse the Romans had with them, would bring them perfectly acquainted with such difference. And this last reflexion shews how insufficiervt it was for the author to excuse his own practice from the authority of his countrymen; who,' says lie, "never scruple laying their scene in 'Spain or *' England." Are the manners of ancient Greece as familiar to a French pit, as those of these two countries ?
Lastly, I have very little to object to the pathos of his comedy. When it is subservient to the manners, as in the Testament and Ab- DOLONiME, I think it admirable. When it exceeds this degree and takes the attention in- tirely, as in the Lysianasse, it gives a pleasure indeed, but not the pleasure appropriate to comedy. I regard it as a faint imperfect spe- cies of tragedy. After all, I fear the tender and pUtqble in comedy, though it must afford the higliest pleasure to sensible and elegant minds, is not perfectly suited to the apprehen- sions of the generality. Are they susceptible of the soft and delicate emotions which the fine distress in the Testament is intended ta
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raise ? Every one indeed is capable of being delighted through the passions ; but they must be worked up, as in tragedy, to a greater height, before the generality can receive that delight from them. The same objection, it will be said, holds against the finer strokes of character. Not, I think, with the same force. I doubt our sense of imitation, especially of the ridiculous, is quicker than our humanity. But I determine nothing. Both these plea- sures are perfectly consistent. And my idea of comedy requires only that the pathos be kept in^ subordination to the manners.
9G
ON THE PROVIKGES OF
CHAP. IV.
OF THE PROVINCE OF FARCE.
Thus much then for the general idea of Co- medy. If considered more accurately, it is, fiirther, of tivo kinds. And in considering these we shall come at a just notion of the province of farce. For this mirror of ' private life either, 1. reflects such qualities and cha- racters, as are common to human nature at large: or, 2. it represents the whims, extra- vagances, and caprices, which characterize the folly of particular persons or times.
Again, each of these is, further, to be sub- divided into tieo species. For 1. the repre- sentations of common nature may either be taken accurately, so as to reflect a faithful and exact image of their original ; which alone is that I would call comedy, as best agreeing to the description which Cicero gives of it, when he terms it imaginem veritatis. Or, they may be forced and overcharged above the simple and just proportions of nature; as when
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the excesses of a few are given for standing characters, when not the man is described, but the passion, or when, in the draught of the man, the leading feature is extended beyond measure: And in these cases the representa- tion holds of the lower province of Farce. In like manner, 2. the other species, consisting in the representation of palatial nature, either transcribes such characters as are peculiar to certain countries or times, of which our co- medy is, in great measure, made np ; or it presents the image of some real individual person ; which was the distinguishing cha- racter of the old comedy properly so called.
Both these kinds evidently belong to farce : not only as failing in that general and universal imitation of nature, which is alone deserving the name of comedy, but, also, for this reason, that, being more directly written for the pre- sent purpose of discrediting certain characters or persons, it is found convenient to exaggerate their peculiarities and enlarge their features ; and so, on a double account, they are to be referred to that class.
And thus the three forms of dramatic com- position, the only ones which good sense acknowledges, are kept distinct : and the
VOI-. II. H
ON THE PROVINCES OF
proper end and character of each, clearly understood.
1. Tragedy mid Comedy, by their lively but faithful representations, cannot fail to hi- struct. Such natural exhibitions of the human character, being set before us in the clear mirror of the drama, must needs serve to the liif^hest vioral uses, in awakening that in- stinctive approbation, which we cannot with- hold from virtue, or in provoking the not less necessary detestation of ?vV(?. But this, though it be their best ztse, is by no means their primary intention. I'heir proper and imme- diate end is, to please: the one, more espe- cially by interesting the affections ; the other, by a just and delicate imitation of real life. Farce, on the contrary, professes to entertain, but this, in order more effectually to serve the interests of virtue and good sense. Its proper end and purpose (if we allow it to have any reasonable one) is, then, to instruct. Which the reader will understand me as saying, not of w hat we know by the name of farce on the modern stage (whose prime intention can hardly be tliought even that low one, ascribed to it by Mr. Dryden, oj' entertaining citizens, coiintrij gentlemen, and Covent Garden fups), but of the legitimate end of this drama; known
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to the Ancients under the name of the old Comedy, but having neither name nor exist- ence, properly speaking, among the Moderns. Of which we may say, as Mr. Dry den did, but with less propriety, of Comedy, " That it
is a sharp manner of instruction for the " vulgar, who are never well amended, till
they are more than sufficiently exposed." [Pref. to Trans, of Fresnoy, p. xix.]
2. Though tragedy and comedy respect the same general end, yet pursuing it by different means, hence it comes to pass, their charac- ters are wholly different. For tragedy, aiming at pleasure, principally through the affections, whose flow must not be checked and inter- rupted by any counter impressions : and co- medy, as we have seen, addressing itself prin- cipally to our natural sense of resemblance and imitation ; it follows, that the ridiculous can never be associated with tragedy, without destroying its fiature, though with the serious comic it very well consists.
And here the practice coincides with the rule. All exact writers, though they con- stantly mix grave and pleasant scenes together in the same comedy, yet never presume to do this in tragedy, and so keep the two species of 11 2
100 ON THE PROVINCES OF
tragedy and comedtj themselves perfectly dis- tinct. But,
3. It is quite otherwise with comedy and farce. These almost perpetually run into each other. And yet the reason of the thing demands as intire and perfect a separation in this case, as in the other. For the perfection of comedy lying in the accuracy and fidelity of universal representation, and farce professedly neglecting or rather purposely transgressing the limits of common nature and just decorum, they clash entirely with each other. And co- viedy must so far fail of giving the pleasure, appropriate to its design, as it allies itself with farce; w\v\e farce, on the other hand, forfeits the use, it intends, of promoting popular ridi- cule, by restraining itself within the exact rules of Nature, which Comedy observes.
But there is little occasion to guard against this latter abuse. The danger is all on the other side. And the passion for what is now called Farce, the shadow of the Old Comedy, has, in fact, possessed the modern poets to such a degree that we have scarcely one ex- ample of fci comedy, without this gross mixture. If any are to be excepted from this censure in IVIoliere, they are his Misanthrope and Tar-
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ttiffe, which are accordingly, by common al- lowance, the best of his large collection. In ])roportion as his other plays have less or more of this farcical turn, their true value hath been long since determined.
Of our own comedies, such of them, I mean, as are worthy of criticism, Ben Jonson's Al- chipnist and Fo (pone hid the fairest for being written in this genuine unmixed manner. Yet, though their merits are very great, severe Cri- ticism might find something to object even to these. The Alchymist, some will think, is exaggerated throughout, and so, at best, be- longs to that species of comedy, which we have before called particular and partial. At least, the extravagant pursuit so strongly ex posed in that play, hath now, of a long time, been forgotten ; so that we find it difficult to enter fully into the humour of this highly- wrought character. And, in general, we may remark of such characters, that they are a strong temptation to the writer to exceed the bounds of truth in his draught of them at Jirst, and are further liable to an imperfect, and even unfair sentence from the reader afterwards. For the welcome reception, which these pic- tures of prevailing local folly meet with on the stage, cannot but induce the poet, almost
103 ON THE PRO\ INCES OF
without design, to inflame the representation : And the want of archetypes, in a httle time, makes it pass for immoderate, were it originally- given with ever so much discretion and justice. So that whether the Alchymist be farcical or not, it will appear, at least, to have this note of Farce, " That the principal character is ex- aggerated." But then this is all we must affirna. For as to the subject of this Play's being a local folly, which seems to bring it directly under the denomination of Farce, it is but just to make a distinction. Had the end and purpose of the Play been to expose Al- chymy, it had been liable to this objection. But this mode of local folly, is employed as the means only of exposing another folly, ex- tensive as our Nature and coeval with it, namely Avarice. So that the subject has all the re- quisites of true Comedy. It is just otherwise, we may observe, in the Devil's an Ass; which therefore properly falls under our censure. For there, the folly of the time, Projects and Monopolies, are brought in to be exposed, as the end and purpose of the comedy.
On the whole, the Alchymist is a Comedy in just form, but a little Farcical in the exten- sion of one of its characters.
THE DRAMA.
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The VoLPOKE, is a subject so manifestly fitted for the entertainment of all times, that it stands in need of no vindication. Yet nei- ther, I am afraid, is this Comedy, in all re- spects, a complete model. There are even some Incidents of a farcical invention ; parti- cularly the Mountebank Scene and Sir PoU- tique's Tortoise are in the taste of the old comedy; and without its rational purpose. Besides, the humour of the dialogue is some- times on the point of becoming inordinate, as may be seen in the pleasantry of Corhaccio's mistakes through deafness, and in other in- stances. And we shall not wonder that the best of his plays are liable to some objections of this sort, if we attend to the character of the writer. For his nature was severe and rigid, and this in giving a strength and man- liness, gave, at times too, an intemperance to his satyr. His taste for ridicule was strong but indelicate, which made him not over- curious in the choice of his topics. And lastly, his sti/le in picturing characters, though mas- terly, was without that elegance of hand, which is required to correct and allay the force of so bold a colouring. Thus, the biass of his nature leading him to Plautus rather than Terence for his model, it is not to be wondered that his wit is too frequently caustic ; his raillery coarse ; and his humour excessive.
104
ON THE PROVINCES OF
Some later writers for the stage have, no doubt, avoided these defects of the exactest of our old dramatists. But do they reach his excellencies? Posterity, I am afraid, will judge otherwise, whatever may be now thought of some more fashionable comedies. And if they do not, neither the state of general man- ners, nor the turn of the public taste, appears to be such as countenances the expectation of greater improvements. To those who are not over-sanguine in their hopes, our fore- fathers will perhaps be thought to have fur- nished (what, in nature, seem linked together) the fairest example of dramatic, as of real manners.
But here it will probably be said, an af- fected zeal for the honour of our old poets has betrayed their unwary advocate into a conces- sion, which discredits his whole pains on tiiis subject. For to what purpose, may it be asked, this waste of dramatic criticism, when, by the allowance of the idle speculatist him- self, his theory is likely to prove so unprofit- able, at least, if it be not ill-founded ? The only part I can take in this nice conjuncture, is to screen myself behind the authority of a much abler critical theorist, who had once the misfortune to find himself in these unlucky circunistances, and has apologized for it. The
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ohjecfion is fairly urged by this fine writer ; and in so profound and speculative an age, as the present, I presume to suggest no other answer, than he has thought fit to give to it. " Speculations of this sort, says he, do not be- " stow genius on those who have it not ; they " do not, perhaps, afford any great assistance
to those who have ; and most commonly the " men of genius are even incapable of being " assisted by speculation. To what use then " do they serve ? Why, to lead up to the ^'Jirst principles of heauty such persons as " love reasoning and are fond of reducing, un- " der the controul of philosophy, subjects that " appear the most independent of it, and
which are generally thought abandoned to " the caprice of taste p."
P " Ccs sortes de speculations ne donnent point de " genie si ceux qui en manquent ; elles n'aident beaucoup " ceux qui en ont : et le plus souvent m^me les gens de " g(!nie sont incapables d'etre aid^es par les speculations. " A quoi done sont-elles bonnes ? A faire remonter jus- " qu'aux premieres idees du beau quelques gens qui aiment " la raisonnemeiit, et se plaisent k reduire sous I'empiie " de la philosophie Its choses qui en paroissent le plus in- " d^pendantes, et que Ton croit communement abandon- " n&s k la bizarrerie des goflts."' M. de Fontenelle.
DISCOURSE
ON
POETICAL IMITATION.
DISSERTATION III.
ON
POETICAL IMITATION.
I UNDERTAKE, in the following discourse, to consider two auESTioNs, in which the cre- dit of almost all great writers, since the time of Homer, is vitally concerned.
First, " JVhethcr that Conformiti) in Phrase " or Sentiment between two writers of dif- ferent times, whieh we call Imitation, maj/ " not with prohahiUtij enough, for the most " part, he accounted for from general causes, " arising from our common nature ; that is, "from the exercise of our natural faculties " on such ohjects as lie in common to all oh- " servers ?
110
A DISCOURSE ON
Secondly, " Whether, in tJie case of con- " Jessed Imitations, any certain and neces- " sarij conclusion holds to the disadvantage " of the natural genius of the imitator ?" — Questions, which there seems no fit method of resolving, but by taking the matter pretty deep, and deducing it from its Jirst principles.
POETICAL IMITATION.
Ill
SECTION I.
All Poetry, to speak with Aristotle and the Greek critics (if for so plain a point autho- rities be thought wanting) is, projjerly, imita- tion. It is, indeed, the noblest and most extensive of the mimetic arts ; having all crea- tion for its object, and ranging the entire cir- cuit of universal being. In this view every wondrous orii^inal, which ages have gazed at, as the offspring of creative fancy; and of which poets themselves, to do honour to their inven- tions, have feigned, as of the immortal panoply of their heroes, that it came down from hea- ven, is itself but a copy, a transcript from some brighter page of this vast volume of the uni- verse. 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 flace and circumstance, and in the richest colouring of expression, to tlie imagination. This primary or original copying, which in the ideas of Philosophy is Imitation, is, in the language of Criticism, called Invention:.
112
A DISCOURSE ON
Again ; of the endless variety of these 0/7- ginal 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 ob- scures* his reasoning, yet never fails to clear and brighten his imagery) excellently illus- trates 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; ivith " the EARTH, and its several appendages of
" TREES, PLANTS, Olid FLOWERS Just SO,
on whatever side the poet turns his imagina- tion, 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 Atnc- rican vision of souls^, yet glows with such apparent life, that it becomes, thenceforth, the object of other mirrors, and is itself original
a MfXai'v.-i tf, says Dionj siii? of Halicarnassus, speaking of his figurative manner, to o-a?U xa* ^o'?;^' wapaTXrVi'.i" [T. ii. p. '204. Ed. Hudson.']
b Plato De Repub. lib, x.
c Spectator, No. 56.
POETICAL IMITATION.
to future reflexions. This secondary or deri- vative 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 de- riving 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 him- self is not always aware of it) to discern the original from the copy ; to know, with cer- tainty, if the sentiment, or image, presented to him, be directly taken from the lij'e, or be itself, a lively transcript, only, of some former copy. And this difficulty is the greater, be- cause the original, as well as the copy, is al- ways 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. <2^'^'-""
VOL. II. I
114
A DISCOURSE ON
aUID ALTER! SIMILE EST, NECESSB EST MIKUS
SIT Eo, auoD IMITATUR''. But it holds only of strict and scrupulous imitations. And of such alone, I tiiink, it was intended ; for the explanation follows, tit umhra corpore, 8^ imago facie, ^ actus histrionum veris affec^ tihus ; that is, where the artist confines him- self to the single view of taking a faithful and exact transcript. And even this can be al- lowed 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 por- trait of the divine Raphael. The story is well known. But, as an aphorism, brought to de- termine 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 ani- mated the Jirst 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
d QuiMCTIL. lib. X. C. 11;
POETICAL IMITATION.
115
genius, and therefore be enabled to touch, with more force of expression, even -those par- ticulars, which he professedly imitates.
On all these accounts, the difficulty of dis- tinguishing betwixt original, and secondary^ imitations is apparent. And it is of import- ance, 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 prin- ciples of nature will go towards effecting the similarity, here spoken of, it is necessary t« consider very distinctly
I. The matter ; and
II. The manner, of all poetica^ imitation,
I. In all that range of natural objects, over which the restless imagination of the poet expatiates, there is no subject of picture ©r I 2
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imitation, that is not reducible to one or other of t\\e three following classes. 1. The mate- rial world, or that vast compages of corporeal Jbrms, of which this universe is compounded. 3. The internal workings and inovements of his own mind, under which I comprehend the manners, sentiments, and passiotis. 3. Those internal opei^ations, that are made objective to sense by the outward signs of gesture, at- titude, or action. Besides these I know of no source, whence the artist can derive a single sentiment or image. There needs no new dis- tinction in favour of Homers gods, Milton's angels, or Shakespears witches; it being clear, that these are only human characters, diversified by such attributes arid manners, as -superstition, religion, or even wayward fancy, had assigned to each.
1. The material uiiiverse, or what the painters call still life, is the object of that species of poetical imitation, we call descrip- tive. 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
POETICAL â– IMITATION .
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about us ; which the philosopher may amuse himself in explaining from remote and insuffi- cient 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 unexpe- rienced; 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 work- ings 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 investiga- tion of quite other objects ; his imagination takes fire, and it is with difficulty that he re- strains himself from quitting his proper pur- suit, and stopping a while to survey and deli- neate the enchanting image. This is the cha- racter of what we call a luxuriant fancy, which all the rigour of art can hardly keep downi and we give the highest praise of judgment ta those few, who have been able to discipline and confine it within due limits.
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I insist the more on this strong influence of external heauty, because it leads, I think, to a clear view of the subject before us, so far as it re- spects descriptive poetry. These living forms are, without any change, presented to obser- vation in every age and country. There needs but opening the eyes, and these forms neces- sarily imprint themselves on the fancy ; find the love of imitation, which naturally accom- panies and keeps pace with this sense of heavdy in the poet, is continually urging him to trans- late them into description. These descriptions will, indeed, have different degrees of colour^ ing, 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 d^ree, to animate and inspirit had 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
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119
the lieightenings of poetic ornaiTient ; and we shall see how httle the imagination of the most fanciful poets hath ever done towards improving upon it. Aelimis 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 " lookj as if they once had been joined, but " were afterwai-ds 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 in- " dustry 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 ivi/ shooting " forth in it, which flourishes and grows so
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" tliick, 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 fiowering smilax^ 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, afibrding the most grateful shelter '•' from the heats of summer; which are fur- " ther 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 s 'mging *' birds, every where fluttering about, whose " warblings take the ear of passengers, and
e Botanists give it the name of oriental bind weed. It is said to be a very rambling plant, which climbs up trees, and rises to a great height ill the Levant, where it pjirti- cidarly flourishes.
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121
" cheat the labours of their way through it. " On the banks of the Peneiis, 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 f of trees, planted on its borders, whose in- " termingled branches keep off the rays of the
surt, and furnish the opportunity of a cool " and temjierate navigation upon it. The *^ worship of the gods, and the perpetual fra- " grancy of sacrifices and burning odours, fur- " ther consecrate tlie place, &c." [^ar. Ilisf, 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 Jeign. For what more is there in the Ehjsiums, 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
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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 descrip- tion. Though sometimes it chases to itself a dark and sombrous imagery ; which nature, again, holds out to imitation ; or fancy, which hath a wondrous quickness and facility in op- posing 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 V Allegro and // Penseroso of Milton ; where he hath art- fully made, throughout the two poems, the same kind of subjects excite the two passions of mirth and melanclwly.
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 deli-
neations in the poets, of the heavens, in *' their vicissitude of times and seasons ; of *' the EARTH, in its diversity of mountains,
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123
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 co- " j}ies of one another, but rather the genuine
products of the same creating fancy, ope-
rating uniformly in them all."
Yet, notwithstanding this identify 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 ray adding a word on so curious a subject, which he will readily apprehend from the following instance.
Descriptions of the morning are very fre- quent in the poets. But this appearance is known by so many attending circumstances, that there will be room for a considerable va- riety in the pictures of it. It may be described by those stains of light, which streak and di- versify the clouds ; by the peculiar colour of the dawn ; by its irradiations on the sea, or
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earth; on some peculiar objects, as trees, hills, rhers, &c. A dilference also will arise from the situation, in which we suppose our- selves ; if on the sea shore, this harbinger of day will seem to break forth from the ocean ; if rA\ the laiid, from the extremity of a large plain, terminated, it may be, by some re- markable object, as a grove, mountain, &c. I'here are many other differences, of which the same precise number will scarcely offer it- self to two poets ; or not the same ijidividual circumstances ; or not disposed in the same manner. But let the same identical circum- stance, suppose the breahing or Jirst appear- ance of the daicn, be taken by different writers, and we may still expect a considerable diversity in their 7-epresenfafion of it. What we may allow to all poets, is, that they will imperso- nate 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 Jigure, the draicing of it comes as directly witiiin the province of description, as the real, literal circumstances themselves. Now in de- scriptions 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.
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be represented by different writers very dif- Fereatly. Homer, to express the rise or ap- pearance of this person, speaks of her nhootivg forth from the ocean ;
An ilKEANOIO P0AÂŁ2N
i2PNT0.
Virgil, as rising from the rocks of Ida.
Jamque jagis summae siirgehat Lucfer Mae. Ducebatque diem.
Shahespear hath closed a fine description of the morning with the same image, but ex- pressed in a very different manner.
Look what streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east : Nighfs candles are put out: and jocvsiy da^ Stands tiptoe on the misty mountains top.
The reader, no doubt, pronounces on firsf sight, this description to be original. But why ? There is no part of it, which may not be traced in other poets. I'he staining of the clouds, and patting oat the stars, are circum- stances, that are almost constantly taken notice of in representations of the morning. And the last image, which strikes most, is not
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essentially different from that of Virgil and Homer. It would express the attitude of a person impatient, and in act to make his ap- pearance. And this is, plainly, the image suggested by the other two. But the diffe- rence lies here. Homer's expression of this impatience is general, iiPNT©. So is Vir- gil's, and, as the occasion required, with less energy, suhgebat. Shakespear's is particu- lar : that impatience is set before us, and pic- tured 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 POAOAAKTYAOS of Homer. « This *' image, says he, is peculiar and singularly *' proper to set the object before our eyes. « Had the poet said *OINIKOAAKTYAOS, *' the colour had been signified too generally, ♦ and still worse by EPT0POAAKTYAOS. *' POAOAAKTTAOS gives the precise idea, which was wanting ^"
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
i Arist. Rhet. tib. iii. c. xi.
POETICAL IMITATION. l27
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 the 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 dis- tinctly. Whereas every object stands forth in bright sunshine to the view of the true poet. Every minute mark and lineament of the con- templated 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 be- fore 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 gC7uus, it will be difficult, I believe, to say what is : I mean so far as de- scriptive poetry, which we are now considerihg,
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is concerned. The same general appearances fnust be copied by all poets ; the same parti- cular circumstances will frequently occur to all. But to give life and colour to the selected' circumstance, and imprint it on the imagina- tion 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 pahitwg ; that is, having stolen a ray of celestial matter, he ma)' 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 <E>ANTASIAN; which is, as Longinus well expresses it, when " the " poet, from his own vivid and enthusiastic " conception, seems to have the object, he de- " scribes, in actual view, and presents it, al- " most, to the eyes of the reader?;" 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 beaut)-, the poet turn his attention
o-i-n 7i6r: «>t«W.>. [HEP, Tt. § .\v.]
POETICAL IMITATION.
to what passes ivithin, he immediately disco- vers a new world, invisible indeed and intel- lectual ; 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 pro- perties 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 vniverse ; and, as will be seen
VOL. II. K
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hereafter, can evidence the internal movferhents of the soul by sensible marks and syynbbls ; but it is poetry alone, which delineates the rhind itself, and opens the recesses of the heart to us.
EfFERT AMMI MOTt S INTERPRETE LINGUA.
Now the poet, as I said, in addressing him- self 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'', and it will very faithfully suggest the tittest and most natural expi-essions 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 conso- nant 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
'WTiat is here said of poetical fiction, Quinctilian hath applied to oratorial narration; the credibility of which will depend on the observance of this nile. Credibilis erit narratio ante omnia, si priiis consvlueritnus nostrum anxmum, ntquid naturae dkanwi adrersum, [L. iv. 5.]
POETICAL IMITATION.
(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 Jtlt or " thought in such a conjuncture, what sensa- " tions 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 pro- portion 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 con- stitution, 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
K 2
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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 thew feelings^ ? 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 (f ven- geance : weariness and cotitemjit of life : ex- postulations ivith Jieaven : fond recollections
• So the great philosopher, o yap •Brtpl Ulaq cvixSaltn
TO-aS©- la-xyf^U tsto f'v CTaj-ai; VTafX"- '''^ ^- ^■'^o"
3ta?ffH, xai tZ |u«axov. IIOAIT. 0. 'W'hence our Hobbes seems to have taken his aphorism, which he makes the corner-stone of his philosophy. " That for the similitude " of the thoughts and passions of one man to the thoughts " and passions of another, whosoever looketh into him- " self, and considereth what he doth, when he does think, " opine, reason, hope, fear, &c. and upon what groimds ; " he shall thereby read and know, what are the thoughts " and passions of all other men, upon the like occasions."
Lbviathaw, Introd. p.2.fol, London. 1651.
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133
of the virtues and good qualities of the de- ceased; and of the different expectations, raised hi/ them ? These were the dictates of nature to the father of foets, 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 after- times, 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 speali — And I will speah, that so my heart may burst. Butchers and villains, bloody cannibals. How sweet a plant have ye untimely cropt .' Vou Jiave no children ; butchers, if you had. The thought of them iconld have stirrd 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 dis- tinguish characters. These result imme- diately from the suggestions of nature ; which
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is SO uniform in her \vorkin;]^s, and offers her- self 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 cha- racter, 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 con- sciousness, as before, furnishes the characte- ristic sentiments, which constitute the man- ners. 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.
POETICAL imTAfiqs.
135
Those who are fond of hunting after par- allels, 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 pourtraitnres of Shakfspear. Yet he, who after taking this learned pains, should chuse to urge such parallels, when found, for prupfss 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 man- " nets) et Ten 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 enlev^' ; Ton ne " fait que glaner aprds les anciens, & les *' habiles d'entre les modernes*'."
Thus far indeed, the case is almost too plain to be disputed. Strong affections, and consti-
k M. pB LA Bbuyere, Tom. 1. p. 91. Amst. 1701.
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tutional 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 ^t, 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 icider than the ocean" into classes, were, perhaps, a wild attempt. Yet the most considerable of those, which enter into works of poetry (be- sides 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 ex- press my meaning) all those reasonings, which take their rise from particular conjunctures of'
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137
ordinary life, and are any way relative to. our conduct in it,
1. The apprehension of some invisible power, as superintending the universe, the* not connate with the mind, yet, from the ex- perience of all ages, is found inseparable from the first and rudest exertions of its powers. And the several reflexions, which religion de- rives from this idea, are altogether as neces- sary. It is easy to conceive, how unavoidably, almost, the mind • awakened by certain con- junctures 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 n icked ; 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
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meditations; the solemn sentiments, that con- secrate 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 oifice, of divine suggestion. And, bating the impure mixture of their fond and senseless traditions, one is not surprized to find a strong resem- blance, oftentimes, in point of sentiment, be- twixt these pagan odes, and the genuine in- spirations 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 eitlier succeeding poets are not necessarily to be accused of stealing their religious sentiments from their elder brethren, or that Orpheus,
POETICAL IMITATION.
Homer, and Callimachus may be as rea- sonably charged with plundering the sacred treasures of David, and the other Hebrew prophets.
It is much the same with the illusions of corrupt rehgion. The fauns and nymphs of the ancients, holding their residence in sha- dowy 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. Tiiere 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 them- selves 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
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conclusions, to which the idea of divinity leads. And these, we now see, they derive from their own experience, or the received theologi/ of the times, of which they write. ReligioKS 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, in- deed, have been written to shew, that all our commonest notices of rig/it and ivrong 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 sup- pose 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' (to pass over
1 Dr. Duport.
POETICAL IMITATION.
141
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 foun- tains of Siloani, instead of Castalls. 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 incribed the aame 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 ob- servers. This, if it were not too plain to need insisting upon, might be further shewn from the s'tmilarity, 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 oeco-no- mical sentiments; or such prudential conclu-
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sions, as offer themselves on certain conjunc- tures of ordinary life, these, it is plain, de- pending 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 reli- gious 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 sup- posed 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.
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Friar Lawrence, in Romeo and Juliet, ob- serving 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 origi- nality of these places, to alledge a hundred or a thousand passages (for so many it were, perhaps, not impossible to accumulate) ana- logous to them in the ancient or modern poets ? Could any reasonable critic mistake these genuine workings of the mind for in- stances of imitation ?
In Cyynbeline, the obsequies of Imogen are celebrated with a song of triumph over the evils of Jiuman life, from which death delivers us :
Fear no more the heat o' tU sun, Nor the furious ivinter's rages, ^r.
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
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" farewell we have over the dead body in "Lucian; TEKNON A0AION, OTKETl " AI*H5EIS, OTKETl HEINHSEIS, &c;'
When Valentine in the Twelfth-night re- ports the inconquerable grief of Olivia for the loss of a brother, the duke observes upon it,
O ! she that hath a heart of that Jine frame To j)ay this debt of love hut to a brother, How will she love, ivhen 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 Te- rence, who makes Simo in the Andrian reason on his son's concern for Chrysis in the same manner :
Nonmmquam conlacrumahat : placuit turn id mihi.
Sic cogitabam : hie parvae consuetudinis Causd hujus mortem tamfertfamiliariter : Quid si ipse amdsset ? Quid mihi hie faciet patri ?
It were easy to multiply examples, but 1 spare the reader. Though nothing may seem, at first sight, more inconstant, variable, and
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Capvicious, 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 exti-a- vagant 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 ahility, is childish. Common sense directs us, for the most part, to regard resemblances in great writers, not as the pilferings, or frugal acqui- sitions of needy art, but as the honest fruits of genius, the free and liberal bounties of un- envying nature.
III. Having learned, from our own con- scious reflexion, the secret operations of rea- son, character, and passion, it now remains to contemplate their effects in visible appear- ances. For nature is not more regular and consistent with herself in touching the fine and hidden springs of humanity, than in or- dering the outward and grosser movements. The thoughts and affections of men paint
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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 imita- timi. For the external forms themselves are grateful to the fancy, and, as being expressive of design, warm and agitate the heart with ])assion. 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 ai-ts, 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 exjaress air.n and attitudes, like the pencil ? Or, when the genius of the artists is equal, who can donbt 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 Ac- tion ? When passion is to be made known by outward act, Homer himself yields the palm to Raphael.
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But our business is with the poets. An(\, in reviewing this their largest and most fa- voured stock of materials, can we do better than contemplate them in the very order, in which we before disposed the icorkings 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 rejlexions. Hence the appeal is made to every one's own consciousness, which declares the truth or falshood of the imitation. When these commotions are pro- duced 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 uni- form, 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.
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Our natural curiosity is ever awake and atten- tive to these changes. And poetry sets herself at work, with eagerness, to eatch and tran- scribe their various appearances. No cor- respondency 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 re- marked of the visible effects of mind, as, be- fore, of the phaenomena of the material icorldy that they are, simply, the objects of observa- tion. So that what was concluded of these^ will hold also of the others ; with this differ- ence, that the effects of internal moveTnents do not present themselves so constantly to the eye, nor with that unijbrmittf of appearance, as permanent, external existencies. We can- not 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 mnrhs of vigorous afTections^ different writers cannot be supposed to vary
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more considerably, in this province of imita- tion, 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 affec- tions, 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 with- out it. Let us ask, then, of this tyrant pas- sion, 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
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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 ob- servation. And these are ever fittest to the ends of poetry; every man pronouncing of such representations from his proper expe- rience, 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 in- consistent character in Julia in The two Gen- tlemen of Verona.
Shall it be now said, that Shakespear copied from Terence^ as Terence from Menander ?
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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 extra- vagant affection. Amongst others, he insists, there is no surer sign of being in love, " than " when evert/ 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, aban- doned 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 Ca- tullus and Ovid. Suppose him to give a pour- trait 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 them- selves. And could we doubt of his describing those very signs, which nature's self dictated, long ago, to Catullus ?
Nonjlavo retinens suhtilem vertice initram, Non contexta levi velatum pectus amictu, Non tereti strophio luctantes vincta papillas ; Omnia quae toto delapsa e corpore passim Ipsius ante pedes Jluctus salis alludebanL
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But there is a higher instance in view. The humanity and easy elegance of the two Latin poets, just mentioned, joined to an unaffected naivete of expression, were, perhaps, most proper to describe the petulancies, the caprices, the softnesses of this passion in common hfe. To paint its tragic and more awful distresses, to melt the soul into all the sympathies of sor- row, 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, j)erhaps, 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 sup- pose, the whole bent of his genius would exert itself. And we are not disappointed. I speak not of that succession of sentiments, reflexions.
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and expostulations, which flow, as in a con- tinued 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 infernal viovements : and need not be considered. My concern at pre- sent, is with those visible, external indications, the sensible marks and signatures (as expressed in looh, air, and action) of this tormenting frenzy. The history of these, as related in the narrative part of Dido's adventure, would com- prehend every natural situation of a person, under love's distractions. And it were no un- pleasing 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 school- boy'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 thes^ pourtraitures of passion, so suitable to all our expectations, and in. drawing which the
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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 re- semblances 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 Jpollonius their Wedea, it ijdjudges 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™.'' 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, can- not but hold more strongly of the boisterous
Jeremias Hoelslixcs, PTolc'gom. ad. /ipollon. Rhodium.
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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 contentiom and ivars — reguni 8^ po- puloruvi aesttis ; 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 militarif ; but the actuating passions of rage, ambition, emulation, thirst of honour, re- venge, &.C. are invariably the same, and are constantly evidenced by the same external marks or characters. The shochs 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, fijced, deteryninafc 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
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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 phae- nomena of human life, which are the effects or consequences of strong affections, and which set mankind before us in gestures, loohs, or actions, declarative of the inward sugges- tions of the heart. It can seldom be affirmed with confidence, in such cases, on the score of any similarity, that one representation imi- tates another ; since an ordinary attention to the same common original, sufficiently ac- counts for both. I'he reader, if he sees fit, will apply these remarks to the battles, games, travels, &c. of a great poet; the supposed sterility of whose genias hath been charged with serving itself pretty freely of the copious, inexhausted stores of Homer. In sum ;
Quicquid agunt homims, votum, timer, ira,
voluptas, Gaudia, %c.
Whatever be the actuating passion, it cannot but be thought unfair to suspect the artist of
POETICAL IMITATION.
15?
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 Ca- lypso, 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 yindictive, 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
" Til immortal deeds of heroes and of kings."*
It was the like attention to nature, which led Milton to dispose of his fallen angels after
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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, deter- mines 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 sny, that, therefore, " they must have presented themselves to the " generality of writers? The ofHce 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 arrange- ment, use, and application of his nuiterials, not in the investigation of them, that the exer- cise of the poet's genius principally consists. In the case of immediate and direct imagery.
POETICAL IMITATION.
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 circum- stances, as are most adapted to strike the imagination. It is not therefore pretended, that the same images must occur to all. Slug- gish, unactive understandings, which seldom look abroad into living nature, or, when thev 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 clioice of those circumstances, which they may have happened to contemplate. But quick, per- ceptive, 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 seuthnents or /mages, but in the farceabie
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manner, in which their subUme genius taught them to convey and impress old ones.
And to inforce what is here said of the fa- miliarity 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 charac- terized, the general temper and disposition, which we call the inanners, is clearly dis- cernible. 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 lji»
POETICAL IMITATION.
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art would be impossible, were it not, that regular and constant observation hath found such external signs consociated with the cor- respondent 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 sus- pects 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 expe- dient to have been practised of old by Poly- gnotus, 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 esj)ecially on new or uncommon subjects. But should an artist borrow the assistance of words to tell
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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 unquahtied to pass their judgment oft 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.
â– Nay there is one advantage which painting hath, in this respect, over narration, and even poetry itself. For though poetry repre- sent 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 ivords 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 re- markable correspondency of air, feature, atti- tude, &c. in two pictures, will, commonly and with good reason, convict one or both of them of imitatio7i : whereas this conclusion is by no means so certain from a correspondency' of description in two poems. For the odds are
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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 dis- tinctness, cannot be justly liable to this impu- tation, even where the general image repre- sented happens to be the same. Virgil, one would think, on a very affecting occasion, might have given the following representation of his hero,
3Iulta gemens largoque humectat jiumine vultum ;
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 pos- ture, inclhiation of the /wad, air of the face, &c. no one could doubt a moment, that the one was stolen from tht; other. Which single observation, if attended to, will greatly abate the prejudice, usually entertained on this sub- ject. We think it incredible, amidst the infi- nite 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 circitnLstances. But we forget, that M 2
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the same materials are left in common to all poets, and that the very circvtusfances^ al- ledged, can be, in words, but \ery <icnerally and imperfectly delineated.
3, Of the calmer sentiments, which come within the province of poetry, and, breaking forth into outward act, furnish matter to de- scription, the most remarkable in their opera- tions 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 minJ". 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 dees 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 •<ame at different times in two religions, or the
» Div. Leg, vol. ii. par. 1. p. 355. wl. 1741.
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religion itself continue unchanged, it neces- sarily follows, that the representations of them by ditterent writers v il! agree to the minutest resemblance. Not only the general rite or ceremony will be the same ; but the very pe- culiarities of its performance, which are pre- scribed by rule, remain unaltered. Thus, if religious sentiments usually express them- selves, in all men, by a certain posture of the lodij, direction of the hands, turn of the countenance, &c. these signs are uniformly and faithfully pictured in all devotional pour- traits. So again, if by the genius of any par- ticular 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 re- marks, where he sees fit. For it may scarcely seem worth while to take notice of the insinua- tion, which a polite writer, but no very able critic, hath thrown out against the entire use of 7'eligious description in poetry. I say the
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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 poems"." He seems not to have conceived, that the vi- sible ejf ects of religious opinions and disposi- tions, 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 tlie religious ritual ; and the theatre is never more moved, than when its awful scenery is exhi- bited 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 profes- sion should have taught him much betterP) is not more to the purpose. For the pomp of the epic muse demands to be furnished with a
o Sir William Temple's Works, vol. i. p. 245. ed. 1740. fol.
P " La machine du merveilleux, V'tnterventian d'un pou- " voir ciieste, la natuie des episodes, tout ce qui depend '• de la tyrannie de la coutumi, & de cet instinct qui on " nomtne ^oiit ; voilk sur quoi il y a miile opinions, & ''point de regies gem rales." M. de Voltaire, Essai/e la poesie Epique, chap. i.
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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 mi- nistry of supernatural intelligences, per am- bages ET MINISTERIA DEOUUM.
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 phi- " losophy in the mind, the poet must ex- " hibit man's addresses to Heaven in cere- " monies, 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
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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 ap- pears 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 re- ligion 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 witJiin, and by their busy and active power> iiinister abundant matter to poetic descri])tion, 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 surve\ed by conscious attentive re- flexion. They are not, usually, of force enough to wield the machine of man ; to dis- compose his frame, or distort his feature : and
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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 foynn and colouring. Its impulses must, at least, have a certain degi-ee 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 sel- dom stir or disorder the human frame. They spring up casually, and as circumstances con- cur^ 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 opeiate. The senti-
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ments, 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 under- standing ; 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, in- stinctive affection in both had not conspired to produce it. When produced therefore, they are to be considered as the genuine conse- quences, not of these moral sentiments, taken simply by themselves, but of strong benevo- lence 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
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themselves, and furnish no external apparent matter to description.
The same conclusion would, it must be owned, hold of our religious, as moral senti- ments, 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 ac- tion. 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 affec- tion ; 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 sig9is; whereas we frequently discern no traces, as necessarily attendant upon moral. Which difference is worth the noting, were it onl)'^ for the sake of seeing more distinctly the vast
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advantage of T^oe^r?/, above all other modes of imi- tation. For these, explaining themselves by the help of natural media, which present a real reseviblance, are able but imperfectly to describe religioit^ sentiments; in as much as they ex- press the general vague disposition only, and not the precise sentiments tluunselces. And in moral, they can frequently give us no iinage or representation at all. While poetry, which tells its iiieaning by artificial signs, conveys distinct and clear notices of this class of maral and religious concej^tions, which afford such mighty entertainment to the human mind. But it serves to a further purpose, more im- mediately relative to the subject of this inquiry. For these ethic and prudential conclusions, being seen to produce no immedi.ite ejfect in look, altitude, or action, we are to regard them only in their remoter and less direct conse- quences, as influencing, at a distance, the civil and oeconoiiiical affairs of life.
And in this view they open a fresh field for imitation ; not quite so striking to the spec- tator, perhaps, but even larger, than that, into which religion, with all its multiform superstitions, before led us. For to these internal ivorJcings, assisted and pushed for- ward by the wants and necessities of our nature.
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whicli set the inventive powers on work, are ultimately to be rtferred rhat vast congeries of political, civil, commercial, and tiiechanic institutions, of those infinite mamifactures, arts, and exercises, whicii 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 ajfectio)], human prudence, pro- viding for its security or interests, in certain circumstances, naturally projects and pre- scribes. These are ample materials for de- scription ; and the greater poetry necessarily comprehends a large share of them. Yet in all delineations of this sort two things are ob- servable, 1. That in the latter, which are the pure result of our reasonings concerning expe- diency, common sense, in given conjunctures, often leads to the same measures : As w hen Ulysses in Homer disguises himself, for the sake of coming at a more exact information of the state of his famil}' ; or. when Orestes in Sophocles does the same, to bring about the catastrophe of the Electrn. 2. In respect of the former (which is of principal considera- tion) the established modes and practices of life being the proper and only arcJtetype, ex- perience and common observation cannot fail of pointing, with the greatest certainty, to
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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 me- chanic, and all the polite arts of sculpture, painting, and architecture, are occasionally hinted at in his poems; or, rather, their va- rious imagery, so far as they were know n and practised in those times, is fully and largely displayed. Now this, tliough it shew the prodigious extent of his observation and dili- gent curiosity, which could search through all the storehouses and magazines of art, for ma- terials 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
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want of geniiLs in later imitators, who, if they ventured, at ail, into this province, were constrained to give us the mine unvaried represent a tlom.
The truth, as every one sees, is, briefly, this. The restless and inquisitive mind of man had succeeded in the discovery or im- provement of the numberless arts of life. These, for the convenience of method, are considered as making a large part of those sen- sible 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 ejjx'cts themselves. These are permanent ob- jects, and may, nay must be the same, what- ever 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 costume ; which though it be a real excellence scrupulously to observe, yet it requires nothing more than exact ob- servation and historical knov»^]edge of facts to do it.
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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 purallelist, there seems no method of eluding, " that of any single image or sen- " timent, 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 divi- sion, and require us to proceed with leisure and attention through it.
II.
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
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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 Palladia had copied Vitruvius, merely ft-om 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 remark- ably 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 corre- spondency in any one of these points might create a suspicion. For what likelihood, amidst an infinite variety of methods, which offer themselves, as to eacli of these particulars, that there should be found, without design, a signal concurrence in anyone? 'Tis then in the usage and disposition of the objects of poetry, that we are to seek for proofs and evi- dences 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 n^aterials
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" are susceptible, there be nothing in the na- " tare of things, which determines the artist " to prefer a jmrtiadnr one to all others." For it is possible, that general principles may as well account for a crmforinity in the manner. as we have seen them do for an identity of matter, in works of imitation. And to tbi.s question nothing can be replied, till we have taken an accurate survey of this second division of our subject. Luckily, the allusion to ar- chitecture,, just touched upon, points to the very method, in which it may be most dis- tinctly pursued. For here too, the manner oj" 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 S. The expression.
1. yJll poetn/. as lord Bacon admirably observes, " nihil aliud est qvam 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 histor}', 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 pro- per allowance for the diversity of the subject-
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matter, and the 7node 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 his- tory in reference to the main end, which poetry designs.
Some of these ai"e 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 anipH- " tudinis, in quii anima humana sibi satisfa- " ciat, praesto est poesis, quae facta magis " heroica confingat. 2. Cuin historia vera " successus rerum minime pro meritis virtutum " & scelerum, narret ; corrigit eani poc'sis, & " exitus & fortunas, secundum merita, & ex " lege Nemeseos, exhibet. 3. Cum historia " vera, obvia rerum satietate & similitudine, " animae humanae fastidio sit ; relicit earn " poesis, inexpectata, & varia & vicissitudinum " plena canens. — Quare & merito etiam divi- " nitatis cujuspiam particeps videri possit; quia N 2
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" animum erigit & in sublime rapit ; ret urn " simulachra ad animi desideria accovimo- " dando, mn animum rebus (quod ratio facit, *' 8s historia) submittendo^."
These advantages chiefly respect the nar- rative poetry, and above all, the Epos. There are others, still more general, and more di- rectly to the purpose of this inquiry. For 4, The historian is bound to record a series of independent events and actiotis ; and so, at once, falls into two defects, which make him incapable of affording perfect pleasure to the mind. For 1. I'he 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 trans- action (for otherwise history would be too te- dious 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 affec- tions fair playi and by bringing forth to vievr and even magnifying all the circumstances of
De augm. Scibnt. Lb. ii. c. 13.
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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 uniti/ and integrity/, but a strict connexion and continuity of the fable or action repre- sented. 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, gra- tifies our instinctive impatience, and carries the affections along, with the utmost rapidity, towards the event.
These advantages are common both to nar- rative 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 expe- diency and fitness of these means, as conducive
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to the proper end of poetry. Which, without more words, will inform us, how it came td pass, that the true plan or disposition of poetical works, was so early hit upon in praC' tice, 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 ^vriter to a different form of composition, tho' afterwards, a consideration of the end, accom- plished by each, be requisite to deduce, with ipore precision of method, its distinct laws.
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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 vnitf/ 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, natu- rally 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 Shep- herds, 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.
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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 hy imitation, together with the subjects of its several species, may deter- mine the general plan, yet is there nothing, it may be said, in the nature of things to fix the order and connexiofi of single parts. And here, it will be owned, is great room for in- vention 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.
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The general plan itself of any poem will occasion some unavoidable conformities in the disposition of its component parts. The iden- tity 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 delinea- tion of characters in their speeches and im- puted 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 cir- cumstance relieving the si?npUcity of the epic fable, while the other prevents its unity from being violated. Now these episodical narra-
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tious must either proceed from the poet liimself, 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 curiositij, or of serving to the necessary itifor- viation of some other. And in either of these waj's a striking conformity in the mode of con- ducting the work is unavoidable.
If the episode be referred to ihe 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 nu- merous. 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, ac- count for some coiucideace in ih€ choke and
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applications of the direct episode. And ad- mitting this, the similarity of even its con- stituent 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 con- fronted 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, endea- vour 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, anc^ atfovd his advocate a fair hearing.
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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 an- cient 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
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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 Gj^as " 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-Jight, for one, who had even never seen Homer, to overlook such usual and striking particulars, as the jiistling 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,
" Homer and Nature were, he found, tlw; same."
So that we are not to wonder he kept close to his author, though at the expence of this false fame of Originality, Nay it appear*
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dit-ectly from a remarkable instance that hi the case before us, He unquestionably judged right.
A defect df natural abilitt/ is not that, which the critics have been most forward to charge Upon Statins. A person of true taste, who, in a fanciful way, hath contrived to give us the just character of the Latin poets, in assigning to this poet the topmost station on Parnassus, sufficiently acknowledges the vigour and ac- tivity of his genius. Yet, in composing his Thebaid (an old story taken from the heroic ages, which obliged him to the celebration of funeral obsequies with the attending solemni-- ties of public games) to avoid the dishonour of following too closely on the heels of Homer and Virgil, who had not only taken the same route, but pursued it in the most direct and natural course, he resolved, at all adventures, to keep at due distance from them, and to make his way, as well as he could, more obliquely to the same end. To accomplish this project, he was forced, though in the description of the same individual games, to look out for difterent circumstances and events in them ; that so the identity of his subject, which he could not avoid, might, in some degree, be atoned for by the di^'ersity of his
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»((intier in treating it. It must be owned, that great ingenuity as well as industry hath •been used, in executing this design. Had it been practicable, the character, just given of this poet, makes it credible, he must have succeeded in it. Yet, so impossible it is, without deserting nature herself, to dissent from her faithful copiers, that the main objec- tion to the sixth book of the Thehaid hath arisen from this fruitless endeavour of being original, where common sense and the reason of the thing would not permit it. " In the particular descriptions of each of these games (says the great writer before quoted, and " from whose sentence in matters of taste, there lies no appeal) Stafii/s hath not bor- rowed from either of his predecessors, a7id " his poem is so mucJi the worse for if."
2. The case of description is still clearer, and, after what has been so lai'gely discoursed on the subjects of it, will require but few words. For it must have appeared, in considering them, that not only the objects themselves are necessarily obtruded on the poet, but that the occasions of introducing them are also re- strained by many limitations. If we reflect a little, we shall find, that they grow out of the action represented, which, in the greater poetry^
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implies a great similarity, even when most different. What, for instance, is the purpose of the epic poet, but to shew his hero under the most awful and interesing circumstances of human Hfe ? To this end some general design is formed. He must war with Achilles, or voyage with Ulysses. And, to 'work up his fahle to that magnificence, MEFAAOnPE- IIEIAN, which Aristotle rightly observes to be the characteristic of this poem, heaven and hell must also be interested in the success of his enterprise. And what is this, in effect, but to own, that the pomp of epic description, in its draught of battles, with its several acci- dents ; of storms, shipwrechs, &c. of the in- tervention of gods, or machination of devils, is, in great measure, determined, not only as to the choice, but application of it, to the poet's hands? And the like conclusion ex- tends to still minuter particularities.
What concerns the delineation of characters may seem to carry with it more difficulty. Yet, though these are infinitely diversified by dis- tinct peculiar lineaments, poetry cannot help falling into the same general representation. For it is conversant about the greater cha- racters; such as demand the imputation of like manners, and who are actuated by the
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same governing passions. To set olF these, the same combination of circumstances must frequently" be imagined ; at least so similar, as to bring on the same series of representation. The piety of one hero, and the love of his country, which characterizes another, can only be shewn by the influence of the I'vling principle in each, constraining them to neg- lect inferior considerations, and to give up all subordinate affections to it. The more pre- valent the affection, the greater the sacrifice, and the more strongly is the character marked. Hence, without doubt, the Calypso of Homer. And need we look farther than the instructions of common nature for a similar contrivance in a later poet? Not to be tedious on a matter, which admits no dispute, the dramatic writings of all times may convince us of two things, 1. " that the actuating passions of men are luii-
versally and invariably the same /' and 2.
that they express themselves constantly in " similar effects''' Or, one single small vo- lume, tlie characters of Theophrastas, will sufficiently do it. And what more is required to justify this consequence, " that the descrip- " tions of characters, even in the most ori- " ginal designers, will resemble each other and " that the very contexture of a work, de-
signed to evidence them in action, will,
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under the management of different writers, *' be, frequently, much the same ?" A con- clusion, which indeed is neither mine nor any novel one, but was long ago insisted on by a discerning ancient, and applied to the comic drama, in these words,
— Sipersonis isdem uti aliis non licet, Qui magis licet currentis servos scrihere. Bonus matronas facere, meretrices malas, Pnrasitum edacem, gloriosum militem, Puerum supponi, Jalli per servum senettiy Amare, odisse, suspicari ?
3. In truth, so far as direct and immediate description is concerned, the matter is so plainj that it will hardly be called into question. The difficulty is to account for the similarity of vietaphor and comparison (that is, of ima- gery, which comes in obliquely, and for the purpose of illustrating some other, and, fre- quently, very remote and distinct subject) observable in all writers. Here it may not seem quite so easy to make out an original claim ; for, though descriptions of the same object, when it occurs, must needs be similar, yet it remains to shew how the same object comes, in this case, to occur at all. Before an ansvver can be given to this question, it
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must be observed 1 . that there is in the mind of man, not only a strong natural love of imi- fation, but of comparison. We are not only fond of copying single objects, as they present themselves, but we delight to set two objects together, and contemplate their mutual aspects and appearances. The pleasure we find in this exercise of the imagination is the main source of that perpetual usage of indirect and allusive Imagery in the writings of the poets ; for I need not here consider the necessity of the thing, and the unavoidable introduction of sensible images into all language. 2. This •work of comparison is not gone about by the mind causelessly and capriciously. There are certain obvious and striking resemblances in nature, which' the poet is carried necessarily to observe, and which offer themselves to him on the slightest exercise and exertion of his comparing powers. It may be difficult to explain the causes of this established relation- ship in all cases ; or to shew distinctly, what these secret ties and connexions are, which link the objects of sense together, and draw the imagination thus insensibly from one subject to another. The most obvious and natural is that of actual sitnilitude, whether in shape, attitude, colour, or aspect. As when heroes are compared to gods, — a hero in act to strike
19^
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at his foe, to a faulcon stooping at a dovcj^ blood running down the skin, to the staining of ivory, — corn waving with the wind, to water in motion. Sometimes the associating cause lies in the effect. As when the return of a good prince to his country is compared to the sun — a fresh gale to mariners, to the timely coming of a general to his troops, &c. more commonly, in some property, attribute, or circujnstance. Tiius an intrepid hero sug- gests the idea of a roch, on account of its firm- ness and stability ; — of a lion, for his fierce- ness,— of a deer encompassed with wolves, for his situation when surrounded with enemies. In short, for I pretend not to make a complete enumeration of the grounds of connexion, whatever the mind observes in any object, that bears an analogy to something in any other, becomes the occasion of comparison betwixt them; and the fancy, which is ever, in a great genius, quick at espying these traits of re- semblance, and delights to survey them, lets slip no opportunity of setting them over against each other, and producing them to observation.
But whatever be the causes, which associate the ideas of the poet, and how fantastic soever or even casual, may sometimes " appear to be
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I he ground of such association, yet, in respect of the greater works of genius, there will still be found the most exact uniformity of allusion, the same ideas and aspects of things constantly admonishing the poet of the same resemblances and relations. 1 say, in the greater woriks of' genius, which must be attended to ? for the folly of taking resemblances for imita- tions, in this province of allusion, hath arisen from hence ; that the poet is believed to have all art and nature before him, and to be at liberty to fetch his hints of similitude and cor- respondence from every distant and obscure corner of the universe. That is, the genius of the epic, dramatic, and universally, of the greater, poetry hath not been comprehended, nor their distinct laws and characters distin- guished from those of an inferior species.
The mutual habitudes and relations (at least what the mind is capable of regarding as such), subsisting between those innumerable objects of thought and sense, which make up the entire natural and intellectual world, are indeed infinite; and if the poet be allowed to associate and bring together all those ideas, wherein the ingenuity of the mmd can perceive any remote sign or glimpse of resemblayice, it were truly wonderful, that, in any number of
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images and allusions, there should be found a close conformity of thejn with those of any other writer. But this is far from being the case. For 1. the more august poetry disclaims, as unsuited to its state and dignity, that inqui- sitive and anxious diligence, which pries into nature's retirements ; and searches through all her secret and hidden haunts, to detect a for- bidden commerce, and expose to light some strange unexpected conjunction of ideas. This quaint combination of remote, unallied ima- gery, constitutes a species of entertainment, which, for its novelty, may amuse and divert the mind in other compositions ; but is wholly inconsistent with the reserve and solemnity of the graver forms. There is too nmch cu- riosity of art, too solicitous an affectation of pleasing, in these ingenious exercises of tlie fancy, to suit with the simple majesty of the epos or drama ; which disclaims to cast about for forced and tortured allusions, and aims only to expose, in the fairest light, such as are most obvious and natural. And here, by the way, it may be worth observing, in honour of a great Poet of the last century, I mean Dr. Donne, that, though agreeably to the turn of his genius, and taste of his age, he was fonder, than ever poet was, of these secret and hidden
POETICAL IMITATION.
1.99
icays in his lesser poetry ; yet when he had projected his great work " On the progress of " the soul" (of which we have only the be- ginning) his good sense brought him out into the freer spaces of nature and open day-light.
Largior hie compos aether, et lumine vestit Purpureo : solemque suum, sua sidera norunt.
In this, the author of Gondibert, and ano- ther writer of credit, a contemporary of Donne, Sir FuLK Grevil, were not so happy. 3. This work of indirect imagery is intended, not so much to illustrate and enforce the ori- ginal thought, to which it is applied, as to amuse and entertain the fancy, by holding up to view, in these occasional digressive repre- sentations, the pictures of pleasing scenes and objects. But this end of allusion (which is principal in the sublimer works of genius) re- strains the poet to the use of a few select images, for the most part taken from obvious common nature ; these being always most illustrious in themselves, and therefore most apt to seize and captivate the imagination of the reader. Thus is the poet confined, by the very nature of his work, to a very moderate compass of allusion, on both these accounts; Jirst, as he must employ the easiest and most
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appareiit resemblances : and secondly, of these, such as impress the most dehghtful images ou the fancy.
This being the case, it cannot but happen, tliat the allusions of difFei-ent poets, of the higher class, though writing without any com- munication with each other, will, of course, be much the same on similar occasions. There are fixed and real analogies between different material objects ; between these objects, and the inward ivorJiings of the mind ; and, again, between these, and the external signs of them. Such, on every occasion, do not so properly offer themselves to the searching eye of the poet, as force themselves upon him ; so that, if he submit to be guided by the most natural views of things, he cannot avoid a very remark- able correspondence of imager}- with his pre- decessors. And we find this conclusion veri- fied in fact ; as appears not only from com- paring together the great ancient and modern writers, who are known to have held an inti- mate correspondence with each other, but those, who cannot be suspected of this com- merce. Several critics, I observed, have taken great pains to illustrate the sentiments of Homer from similar instances in the sacred writers. I'he same design might easily be carried on,
POETICAL IMITATION.
201
in respect of allusive imagery; it being ob- vious to common observation, that numberless of the most beautiful compariso77s in the Greek poet are to be met with in the Hebrew pro- phets. Nay, the remark may be extended to the undiscipHned writers and speakers of the farthest ivest and east, whom nature ins^rvicts to beautify and adorn their conceptions wiih the same imagery. So httle doth it argue an infe- riority of genius in Virgil, if it be true, as the excellent translator of Homer says, " that he " has scarcely any comparisons, which are not " drawn from his master."
The truth is, the nature of the two subjects, which the Greek poet had taken upon himself to adorn, was such, that it led him through every circumstance and situation of human life ; which his quick attentive observation readily found the means of shewing to advan- tage under the cover of the most fit and proper imagery. Succeeding writers, who had not contemplated his pictures, yet, drawing from one common original, have unknowingly hit upon the very same. And those, who had, with all their endeavours after novelty, and the utmost efforts of genius to strike out ori- ginal lights, have never been able to succeed in their attempts. Our Milton, w ho was most
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ambitious of this fame of invention, and whose vast and universal genius could not have missed of new analogies, had nature's self been able to furnish them^ is a glaring instance to our purpose. He was so averse from resting in the old imagery of Homer, and the other epic poets, that he appears to have taken infinite pains in the investigation of new allusions, which he picked up out of the rubbish of every silly legend or romance, that had come to his knowledge, or extracted from the dry and rugged materials of the sciences, and even the mechanic arts. Yet, in comparison of the genuine treasures of nature, which he found himself obliged to make use of, in common with other writers, his own proper stock of images, imported from the regions of art, it very poor and scanty ; and, as might be ex- pected, makes the least agreeable part of his divine work.
What is here said of the epic holds, as I hinted, of all the more serious kinds of poetry. In works of a lighter cast, there is greater liberty and a larger field of allusion permitted to the poet. All the appearances in art and nature, betwixt v/hich there is any resemblance, may be employed here to surprize and divert the fancy. The further -and more remote from
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203
vulgar apprehension these analogies lie, so much the fitter for his purpose, which is not so much to illustrate- his ideas, as to place them in new and uncommon lights, and en- tertain the mind by that odd fantastic con- junction, or opposition of ideas, which we know by the name of wit. Nay, the loivest, as well as the least obvious imagery will be, oftentimes, the most proper ; his view being not to ennoble and raise his subject by the means of allusion, but to sink and debase it by every art, that hath a tendency to excite the mirth and provoke the ridicule of the reader. Here then we may expect a much more original air, than in the higher designs of invention. When all nature is before the poet, and the genius of his work allows him to seize her, as the shepherd did Proteus, in every dirty form, into which she can possibly twist herself, it were, indeed, a wonder, if he should chance to coincide, in his imager}', with any other, from whom he had not ex- pressly copied. They who are conversant in works of wit and humoitr, more especially of these later times, will know this to be the case, mfact. There is not pei'haps a single com- parison in the inimitable TELEMAauE, which had not, before, been employed by eome or other of the poets. Can any thing, like this.
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be said of Rabelais, ButleII, Marvel, Swift, &c, ?
III. It only remains to consider the expres- sion. And in this are to be found the surest and least equivocal marks of imitation. We may regard it in two lights; either 1. as it respects the general turn or manner of writing, which we call a style ; or 2. the peculiarities of phrase and diction.
1. A style in writing, if not formed in express imitation of some certain model, is the pure result of the disposition of the mind, and takes its character from the predominant qua- lify of the writer. Thus a short and compact, and a dijfitsi d and Jiowing expression are the proper consequences of certain corresponding characters of the human genius. One has a vigorous comprehensive conception, and there- fore collects his sense into few words. Ano- ther, whose im.agination is more languid, con- templates his objects leisurely, and so displays their beauties in a greater compass of words, and with more circumstance and parade of hmgnage. A polite and elegant humour de- lights in the grace of ease and |}erspicuity. A severe and melancholic spirit inspires a forcible bat involved expression. Tliere are many
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205
other nicer difierences and peculiarities of manner, which, though not reducible, per- haps, to general heads, the critic of ti ue taste easily understands.
2. As men of different tempers and dispo- sitions assume a different cast of expression, so may the same observation be applied, still more generally, to different countries and times. It may be difficult to explain the ejffi- cient causes of this diversity, which I have no concern with at present. The fact is, that the eloquence of the eastern world has, at all times, been of another strain from that of the western. And, also, in the several provinces of each, there has been some peculiar note of variation. The Asiatic, of old, had its proper stamp, which distinguished it from the Attic ; just as the Italian, French, and Spanish wits have, each, their several characteristic manners of expression.
A different state of times has produced the like effect; which a late writer accounts for, not unaptly, from what he calls a progression of Vfe and manners. That which cannot be disputed is, that the modes of writing undergo a perpetual change or variation in every coun- try. And it is further observable, that these
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changes in one country, under similar circum- stances, have a signal correspondence to those, which the incessant rotation of taste brings about in every other.
Of near affinity to this last consideration is another arising from the corresponding genius of two people, however remote from each other in time and place. And, as it happens, the application may be made directly to ourselves in a very important instance. " Languages, " says one, always take their character from " the genius of a people. So that two the " most distant states, thinking and acting with " the same generous love of mankind, must " needs have very near the same combinations " of ideas. — And it is our boast that in this *' conformity we approach the nearest to an- *' cient Greece and Italy." I quote these words from a tracts which the author perhaps may consider with the same neglect, as Cicero did his earlier compositions on Rhetoric ; but which the curious will regard with reverence, as a fine essay of his genius, and a prelude to the great things he was afterwards seen capable of producing. But to come to the use we may
» A Critical and Philosophical Inquiry into the causes of prodigies and miracles, &c. p. 130.
POETICAL I;V1ITATI0N'. 207
make of this fine observation. The corre- sponding state of the EngHsh and Roman people has produced very near the same co?n- hinations of ideas. May w^e not carry the conclusion still further on the same principle, that it produced very near the same combi- nations of icords ? The fact is, as the same writer observes, That " we have a language *' that is brief, comprehensive, nervous, and " majestic." The very character which an oldi Roman would give us of his own language. And when the same general character of lan- guage prevails, is it any thing strange that the different modifications of it, or peculiar styles, arising from the various turns and dispositions of writers (which, too, in such circumstances will be corresponding) should therefore be very similar in the productions of the two states ? Or, in other words, can we wonder that some of our best writers bear a nearer resemblance, I mean independently of direct imitation, to the Latin classics, than those of any other people in modern times ?
But let it suffice to leave these remarks without further comment or explanation.
The use the discerning reader will make of them is, that if different writers agree in
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the same general dhpos'it'iou, or in the same national character ; live together in the same period of time ; or in corresponding periods of the progression of manners, or are under the influence of a corresponding genius of po- llcy and government ; in every of these cases, some considerable similarity of expression may be occasioned by the agency of general principles, without any suspicion of studied or designed imitation.
II. An identity of phrase and diction, is a much surer note of plagiarism. For consi- dering the vast variety of words, which any language, and especially the more copious ones furnish, and the infinite possible combinations of them into all the forms of phraseology, it would be very strange, if two persons should hit on the same identical terins, and much more should they agree in the same precise arrangement of them in whole sentences.
There is no defending coincidences of this kind ; and whatever writers themselves may pretend, or their friends for them, no one can doubt a moment of such identity being a clear and decisive proof of imitation.
Yet this must be understood with some limitations.
POmCAL IMITATION.
For 1. There are in every language some current and authorized forms of speech, which can hardly be avoided by a writer v\tithout affectation. They are such as express the most obvious sentiments, and which the ordi- nary occasions of life are perpetually obtruding on us. Now these, as by common agreement, we chuse to deliver to one another in the same form of words. Convenience dictates this to one set of writers, and politeness renders it sacred in another. Thus it will be true of certain phrases (as, universally, of the words, in any language), that they are left in common to all writers, and can be claimed as matter of property, by none. Not that such phraseo- logy will be frequent in nobler compositions, as the familiarity of its usage takes from their natural reserve and dignity. Yet on certain occasions, which justify this negligence, or in certain authors, who are not over-soUicitous about these indecorums, we may expect to meet with it. Hamlet says of his father,
He was a man, take him for all in all ; I shall not look upon his like again.
which may be suspected of being stolen from Sophocles, who has the following passage in the Trachiniae.
VOL. IT. p
A DISCOURSE ON
Tlavrmv ol^i^ov dvopa rwv ettj p^9ov»
KrÂŁ(W/onOION AAAON OTK 0*EI nOTE. V. 824.
The sentiment being one of the commonest, that offers itself to the mind, the sole ground of suspicion must he in the expression, " / " shall not look upon his like again," to which the Greek so exactly answers. But these were the ordinary expressions of such sentiment, in the two languages ; and neither the characters of the great poets, nor the situation of the speakers, would suffer the affectation of de- parting from common usage.
What is here said of the situation of the- speakers reminds me of another class of ex- pressions, which will often be similar in all poets. Nature, under the same conjunctures, gives birth to the same conceptions ; and if they be of such a kind, as to exclude all thought of artifice, and the tricks of eloquence (as on occasions of deep anxiety and distress) they run, of themselves, into the same form of expression. The wretched Priam, in his la- mentation of Hector, lets drop the following words :
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*' This line, says his translator, is particularly " tender, and almost, word for word, the " same with that of the Patriarch Jacob ; who, " upon a like occasion, breaks out in the same " complaint, and tells his children, that, if " they deprive him of his son Benjamin, they " will bring down his grey hairs with sorroiv " to the grave."
We may, further, except, under this head, certain privileged Torms of speech, which the peculiar idioms of diffei enf languages niake necessary in them, and which poetry conse- crates in all. But this is easily observed, and its efTect is not very considerable.
2. In pleading this identity of expression^ regard must be had to the language, from which the theft is supposed to be made. If from the same language (setting aside the ex- ceptions, just mentioned) the same arrange- ment of the same words is admitted as a certain argument of plagiarism : nay, less than this will do in some instances, as where the imi- tated expression is pretty singular, or so remarkable, on any account, as to be well hiown, &c. But if from another language, the matter is not so easy. It can rarely hap- pen, indeed, but by design, that there should P 2
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be the same order or composition of words, in two languages. But that which passes even for literal translation, is but a similar com- position of corresponding ivords. And what does this imply, but that the writers conceived of their object in the same manner, and had occasion to set it in the same Hght ? An occa- sion, which is perpetually recurring to all authors. As may be gathered from that fre- quent and strong resemblance in the expression of moral sentiments, observable in the writers of every age and country. Can there be a commoner reflexion, or which more constantly occurs to the mind under the same appearance^ than that of our great poet, who, speaking of the state after death, calls it
That nndiscocered country, from whose bourn No traveller returns.
Shall we call this a translation of the Latin poet ;
Nunc it per iter tenebricosum Illuc, uude uegant redire quenquam.
Catul. III. V. II.
Or, doth it amount to any more than this, that the terms employed by the tu o u rilers in expressing the same obvious thought are cor- respondent 9 But corrcspondenct/ and identitif
POETICAL IMITATION.
are different things. The latter is only, where the words are numerically the same, which can only happen in one and the same language: the other is effected by different sets of words, which are numerous in every language, and are therefore no convincing j)roof (abstractedly from other circumstances) of imitation.
From these general reflexions on language, without refining too far, or prying too cu- riously into the mysteries of it, the same con- clusion meets us, as before. The expression of two writers may be similar, and sometimes even identical, and yet be original in both. Which shews the necessity there was to lead the reader through this long investigation of the general sources of similitude in works of INVENTION, in order to put him into a condi- tion of judging truly and equitably of those of IMITATION. For if similariti/, even in this province of ivords, which the reason of the thing shews to be most free from the constraint of general rules, be no argument of theft in all cases ; much less can it be pretended of the other subjects of this inquiry, which from the necessary uniformity of nature in all her ap- pearances, and of common sense in its opera- tions upon them, must give frequent and
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unavoidable occasion to such similarity. But then this is all I would insinuate.
For, after the proper allowances, which candid critlcisai requires to be made on this head, it will still be true (and nothing in this Essay attempts to contradict it) 'â– ' that coinci- " dencies of a certain hind, and in a certain " degree, cannot fail to convict a writer of " imitation.''' What these are, the impatient reader, I suppose, is ready to enquire. And, not entirely to disappoint him, I have thrown together, at the close of this volume, some re- marks which, perhaps, will be of use in solving that difficult question*. In the mean time, it seemed of importance to free the mind from the perversion of that early prejudice, which is so prompt to mistake resemblance universally for imitation. And what other method of ef- fecting this, than by taking a view of the extent and influence of the genuine powers of nature, which, when righrly apprehended, make it an easier task to detect, in particular mstances, the intervention of design ?
Allowing then (what this previous inquiry not only no way contradicts but even assists us
t Letter to Mr. Masok.
POETICAL IMITATION. 21.5
in perceiving more clearly) that certain re- semblances may be urged as undoubted proofs of imitation, it remains only to ilie integrity of this discourse, to satisfy that other question, " hoio far the credit of the imitator is con- " cerned in the discovery or, in other words, (since the praise of invention is of the highest value to the poet) " how far the concession of " his having borrowed from others, may be "justly thought to detract from him in that " respect.'' An inquiry, which, though for its consequences to the fame of all great writers, since the time of Homer, of much importance, may yet be dispatched in few words.
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SECTION II.
IN entering on this apology for professed imitators, I shall not be suspected of under- valuing the proper merits of invention, which unquestionably holds the first place in the virtides of a poet, and is that power, which, of all others, enables him to give tlie highest entertainment to the reader. Much less will it be thought, that I am here pleading the cause of those base and abject spirits, who have not the courage or ability to attempt any thing of themselves, and can barely make a shift, as a great poet of our own expresses it, to creep servilely after the sense of some other. These I readily resign to the shame and censure, which have so justly followed them in all ages ; as subscribing to the truth of that remark, " Imitatio per se ipsa non suff.cit, vel quia pigri est ingenii, contentum esse iis, quae sunt ah aliis inventa" My concern is only with those, whose talent of original genius is not disputed, but the degree of strength and vigour, with which it prevails in them, some- what lowered in the general estimation, froiiri
POETICAL IMITATION.
this imputed crime of plagiarism. And, witli respect fd such as these, something, I con- ceive, may be said, not undeserving the notice of the candid reader.
1. The most universal cause, inducing imi- tation in great writers, is, the force of early discipl'me and education. Were it true, that poets took their descriptions and images im- mediately from common nature, one might expect, indeed, a general similitude in their works, but such, as could seldom or never, in all its circumstances, amount to a strict and rigorous correspondency. The properties of things are so numerous, and the lights in which they shew themselves to a mind unin- fluenced by former prejudices, so diflferent, that some grace of novelty, some tincture of original beauty, would constantly infuse itself into all their delineations. But the case is far otherwise. Strong as the bent of the imagina- tion may be to contemplate, living forms, and to gaze with delight on this grand theatre of nature, its attention is soon taken off, and arrested, on all sides, by those infinite mirrors, and reflexions of things, which it every where meets with in the world of imitation. We are habituated to a survey of this secondary and derivativp_ nature, as presented in the admired
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works of art, through the entire course of our education. The writings of the best poets are put into our hands, to instruct us in the know- ledge of men and things, as soon as we are capable of apprehending them. Nay, we are taught to lisp their very words, in our ten- derest infancy. Some quick and transient glances we cannot chuse but cast, at times, on the phaenomena of living beauty ; but its forms are rarely contemplated by us with dili- gence, but in these mirrors, which are the constant furniture of our schools and closets. And no wonder, were we even left to ourselves, that such should be our proper choice and determination. For, by the prodigious and almost magical operations of fancy on original objects, they even shew fairer, and are made to look more attractive, in these artificial re- presentations, than in their own rude and native aspects. Thus, by the' united powers of discipline and inclination, we are almost necessitated to see nature in the same light, and to know her only in the dress, in which her happier suitors and favourites first gave her to observation.
The effect of this early bias of the mind, which insensibly grows into the inveteracy of habit, needs not be insisted on. When the
POETICAL IMITATION.
poet, thus tutored in the works of imitation, comes to address himself to invention, these familiar images, which he hath so often and so fondly admired, immediately step in and intercept his observation of their great original. Or, if he has power to hold them off, and turn his eye directly on the primari/ object, he still inclines to view it only on that side and in those lights, in which he has been accus- tomed to study it. Nor let it be said, that this is the infirmity, only, of weak minds. It belongs to our very natures, and the utmost vigour of genius is no security against it. Cus- tom, in this as in every thing else, moulds, at pleasure, the soft and ductile matter of a mi- nute spirit, and by degrees can even bend the elastic metal of the greatest.
And if the force of habit can thus determine a writer knowingly, to imitation, it cannot be thought strange, that it should frequently carry him into resemblance, when himself perhaps is not aware of it. Great readers, who have their memories fraught with the stores of an- cient and modern poetr}'-, unavoidably employ the sentiments, and sometimes the very words, of other writers, without any distinct remem- brance of them, or so much as the suspicion of having seen them. At the least, their
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general cast of thinking or turn of expression will be much affected by them. For the most original writer as certainly takes a tincture from the authors in which he has been most conversant ; as water, from the beds of earths or minerals, it hath happened to run over. Especially such authors, as are studied and even got by heart by us in our early youth, leave a lasting impression, which is hardly ever effaced out of the mind. Hence a certain constrained and unoriginal air, in some degree or other, in every genius, throughly disciplined hy Hi course of learned education. Which, by the way, leads to a question, not very absurd in itself, however it may pass with most readers for paradoxical, viz. " Wliether the usual forms of learning be not rather injurious to " the true poet, than really assisting to him ?" It should seem to be so for a natural reason. For the faculty of invention, as all our other powers, is much improved and strengthened by exercise. And great reading prevents this, by demanding the perpetual exercise of the memory. Thus the mind becomes not only indisposed, but, for want of use, really un- qualified, to turn itself to other views, than such as habitual recollection easily presents to it. And this, I am persuaded, hath been the case with many a fine genius, and especially
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221
with one of our own country" ; who, as ap- pears fropi some original efforts in the subhme allegorical way, had no want of natural talents for the greater poetry ; which yet were so restrained and disabled by his constant and superstitious study of the old classics, that he was, in fact, but a very ordinary poet.
2. But were early habit of less power to incline the mind to imitation, than it really is, yet the high hand of authority/ would compel it. For the first originals in the several species of poetry, like the Autocthones of old, were deemed to have come into the world by a kind of miracle. They were perfect prodigies, at least reputed so by the admiring multitude, from their first appearance. So that their au- thority, in a short time, became sacred; and succeeding writers were obliged, at the hazard of their fame, and as they dreaded the charge of a presumptuous and prophane Uhertinism in poetry, to take them for their guides and models. Which is said even without the licence of a figure ; at least of one of them ; whom Cicero calls the fountain and at'igin oj' all mviHR institutions'" ; and another, of elder
^ Mr. Addison. w Somn. Sup. il c. 10.
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and more reverend estimation, pronounce* to
And what is here observed of the injluence of these master spirits, whom the admiration of antiquity hath placed at the head of the poetic world, will, with some allowance, hold also, of that of later, though less original writers, whose uncommon merits have given them a distinguished rank in it.
3. Next, (as it usually comes to pass in other instances) what was, at first, imposed by the rigour of authority, soon grew respectable m itself, and was chosen for its own sake, as a virtue, which deserved no small commenda- tion. For, when sober and enlightened criti- cism began to inspect, at leisure, these miracles of early invention, it presently acknowledged them for the best, as well as the most ancient, poetic models, and accordingly recommended, or more properly enjoined them by rule, to the imitation of all ages. The effect of this criticism was clearly seen in the works of all succeeding poets in the same language. But, when a new and different one was to be
^ Pl^to, Alcibiad.
POETICAL IMITATION.
furnished with fresh models, it became much more conspicuous. For, besides the same or a still higher veneration of their inventions, which the distance of place and time insensibly procured to them, the grace of novelty, which they would appear to have in another language, was, now, a further inducement to copy them. Hence we find it to be the utmost pride of the Roman writers, such I mean as came the nearest to them in the divinity of their genius, to follow the practice, and emulate the virtues, of the Grecian.
Libera per vacuuin posui vestigia princeps, Non aliena meo pressi pede —
says one of the best of those writers, who yet was only treading in the footsteps of his Gre- cian masters.
But another was less reserved, and seemed desirous of being taken notice of, as an express imitator, without so much as laying in his claim to this sort of originality, in a new lan- guage— in multis versibus Virgilius fecit — non surripiendi causa, sed palam imitandi, hoc animo ut vellet agnosci. Sen. Suasor. iii.
And, on the revival of these arts in later times and more barbarous languages, the same
224
A DISCOURSE ON
spirit appeared again, or rather superior ho- nours were paid to successful imitation. So that what a pohte French writer declares on this head is, now, become the fixed opinion of the learned in all countries. " C'est meme " donner une grace a ses ouvrages, que de les orner de fragmens antiques. Des vers d'Ho- " race et de Virgile bien traduits, et mis en *' ceuvre a propos dans un poeme Francois, y " font le meme effet que les statues antiques " font dans la gallerie de Versailles. Les lec- " teurs retrouvent avec plaisir, sous une nou- " velle forme, la pensee, qui leur plut autrefois " en Latin
It should, further, be added, that this praise of borrowing from the originals of Greece and Rome is now extended to the imitation of great modern authors. Every body applauds this practice, where the imitation is of approved writers in different languages. And even in the same languages, w hen this liberty is taken with the most ancient and venerable, it is not denied to have its grace and merit.
4. But, besides these several incitements, similarity of genin.^, alone, will, almost ne-
y iie^e.r. sur la Poes. et sur la Pe'uif lorn. ii. SO. Par, J 746.
POETICAL IMITATION.
cessarily determine a writer to the studious emulation of some other. For, though it is with the minds, as the faces of men, that no two are exactly and in every feature alike ; yet the general cast of their genius, as well as the air and turn of the countenance, will frequently be very similar in different persons. When two such spirits approach, they run together with eagerness and rapidity : the instinctive bias of the mind towards imitation being now quickened by passion. This is chiefly said in respect of that uniformity of style and mannei^ which, whenever we observe it in two writers, we almost constantly charge to the account of imitation. Indeed, where the resemblance holds to the last degree of minuteness, or where the peculiarities, only, of the model are taken, there is ground enough for this sus- picion. For every original genius, however consonant, in the main, to any otlier, has still some distinct marks and characters of his own, by which he may be distinguished ; and to copy peculiarities, when there is no appear- ance of the same original spirit, which gave birth to them, is manifest affectation. But the question is put of such, whose manner hath only a general, though strong, resem- blance to that of some other, and whose true genius is above the suspicion of falling into the
VOL. II. tt
226
A DISCOURSE ON
trap of what Horace happily calls, exemplar VITUS iMiTABiLEi And of thcsc it is perhaps juster to say, that a previous correspondency of character impelled to imitate, than that imitation itself produced that correspondency of character. At least (which is all my con- cern at present) it will be allowed to incline a writer strongly to imitation; and where a congenial spirit appears to provoke him to it, a candid critic will not be forward to turn this circumstance to the dishonour of his invention.
5. Lastly, were every other consideration out of the way, yet, oftentimes, the very na- ture of the poefs theme would oblige him to a diligent imitation of preceding writers. I do not mean this of such subjects, as suggest and produce a necessary conformity of descrip- tion, whether purposely intended or not. This hath been fully considered. But my meaning is, that, when the greater provinces of poetry have been, already, occupied, and its most interesting scenes exhausted ; or, rather, their application to the uses of poetiy determined by great masters, it becomes, thenceforward, unavoidable for succeeding writers to draw from their sources. The law of probability exacts this at their hands ; and one may almost affirm, that to copy them closely is to paint after
POffriCAL IMITATION.
227
nature. I shall explain myself by an instance or two.
With regard to the religious opinions and ceremonies of the Pagan world, the writings of Homer, it is said and very truly, were " the " standard of private belief, and the grand
directory of public ivorship^ " Whatever liberty might have been taken with the rites and gods of Paganism before his time, yet, when he had given an exact description of both, and had formed, to the satisfaction of all, the established religion into a kind of si/s- tem, succeeding poets were obliged, of course, to take their theology from him ; and could no longer be thought to write justly and natu- rally of their Gods, than whilst their descrip- tions conformed to the autlientiv delineations of Homer. His relations, and even the Jig- tions, which his genius had raised on the popular creed of cider Paganism, were now the proper archetype of all religious repre- sentations. And to speak of these, as given truly and origiiuilly, is, in ellcct, to say, that they were borrowed or rather transcribed from the page of that poet.
/• Inquiry into the L. and IV. of Homer, p. J 74. (i 'Z
228
A DISCOURSE 6S
And the same may be observed of hlstoticat facts, as of religious traditions. For not unfrequently, where the subject is taken from authentic histor}-, the authority of a preceding poet is so prevalent, as to render any account of the matter improbable, which is not fashioned and regulated after his ideas. A succeeding writer is neither at liberty to relate matters of fact, which no one thinks credible, nor to feign afresh for himself. In this case, again, all that the most original genius has to do, is to imitate. We have been told that the second book of the Aeneis was translated from Pisander*. Another thinks, it was taken from the little iliad*^. Or, why confine him to either of these, when Metrodorus, Syagrus, Hegesiaxax, Aratus, and others, wrote poems on the taking of Troy ? But granting the poet (as is most likely) to have had these originals before him, what shall we infer from it ? Only this, that he took his principal facts and circumstances (as we see he was obliged to do for the sake of probabi^ lity) from these writers. And why should this be thought a greater crime in him, than
» Macrobius, v. tiaturnal.
b Inquiry into L. *c. of Homer, p, 319.
POETICAL IMITATION.
229
in PoLYGNOTUs; who, in his famous picture on this subject, was under the necessity, and for the same reason, of collecting his subject- matter from several poets'^?
It follows, from these considerations, that ^ve cannot justify ourselves in thinking so hardly, as we commonly do, of the class of imitators ; which is, now, by the concurrence of various circumstances, become the necessary character of almost all poets. Nor let it be any concern to the true poet, that it is so. For imitations, when real and confessed, may still have their merit; nay, I presume to add, sometimes a greater merit, than the very ori- ginals on which they are formed : And, with the reader's leave (though I am hastening to a conclusion of this long discourse), I will detain him, one moment, with the reasons of this opinion.
After all the praises that are deservedly given to the novelty of a subject, or the beauty of design, the supreme merit of poetry, and that which more especially immortalizes the writers of it, lies in the execution. It is thus that
<" Mem. de I'Acad, dcs Inscrtpt. S<c. torn. vi. p. 445,
230
A DISCOURSE ON
the poets of the Augustan age have not so properly excelled, as discredited, all the pro- ductions of their predecessors ; and that those of the age of Louis XIV**^ not only obscure, but will in process of time obliterate, the fame and memory of the elder French writers. Or, to see the effect of masterly execution in single instances, hence it h, that Lucilius not only yields to Horace, but would be almost for" gotten by us, if it had not been for the honour his imitator has done him. And nobod)^ needs be told the advantage which Pope is likely to have over all our older satirists, excellent as some of them are, and more entitled than he to the honour of being inventors. We have here, then, an established Jact. The first essa3's of genius, though ever so original, are overlooked ; while the later productions of men, who had never risen to such distinction but by means of the very originals they dis^ grace, obtain the applause and admiration of all ages.
I'he solution of ih'is fact, so notorious, and, at the same time, so contrary, in appearance, to the honours which men are disposed to pay to original invention, will open the mvsterv i)^ that matter we are now considering.
POETICAL IMITATION,
The faculties, or, as we may almost term them, the magic powers, which ope the palace of eternity to great writers, are a confirmed judgment, and ready invention.
Now the Jirst is seen to most advantage, in selecting, out of all preceding stores, the par- ticulars that are most suited to the nature of a poet's work, and the ends of poetry. When true g-enius has exhausted, as it were, the various manners, in which a work of art may be conducted, and the various topics which may be employed to adorn it, judgment is in its province, or rather sovereignty, when it determines which of all these is to be preferred, and which neglected. In this sense, as well as others, it will be most true. Quod ai-tis pars magna contineatur imitatione.
Nay, by means of this discernment, the very topic or method, which had no effect, or per- haps an ill one, under one management, or in one situation, shall charm every reader, in another. And by force of judging right, the copier shall almost lose his title, ^ud become an inventor:
Tantum de medio sumptis accedit honoris.
232 A DISCOURSE ON •
But imitation, though it give most room t© the display of judgment, does not exclude the exercise of the other faculty, invention. Nay, it requires the most dextrous, perhaps the most difficult, exertion of this faculty. For consider how the case stands. When we speak of an imitator, we do not speak, as the poet says, of
A barren-spirited fellow, one who feeds On abject orts, and imitations —
but of one, who, in aiming to be like, con- tends also \.o be equal to his original. To attain to this equality, it is not enough that he select the best of those stores which are ready prepared to his hand (for thus he would be rather a skilful borrower, than a successful imitator) ; but, in taking something from others, he must add much of his own: he must improve the expression, where it is de- fective or barely passable: he must throw fresh lights of fancy on a common image : he must strike out new hints from a vulgar sentiment. Thus, he will complete his original, where he finds it imperfect : he will supply its omissions : he will emulate, or rather surpass, its highest beauties. Or, in despair of this last, we shall Hnd him taking a different route; giving us
POETICAL IMITATION.
233
an equivalent in a beauty of another kind, which yet he extracts from some latent inti- mation of his author; or, where his purpose requires the very same representation, giving it a new form, perhaps a nobler, by the turn of his application.
But all this requires not only the truest judgment, but the most delicate operation of inventive genius. And, where they both meet in a supreme degree, we sometimes find an admired original, not only excelled by his imitator, but almost discredited. Of which, if there were no other, the sixth book of Virgil, I mean taking it in the light of an imitation, is an immortal instance.
Thus much I could not forbear saying on the merit of successful imitation. As to the necessity of the thing, hear the apology of a great Poet, for himself. " All that is left us,
says this original writer, is to recommend " our productions by the imitation of the an- " cients : and it will be found true, that, in " every age, the highest character for sense " and learning has been obtained by those who " have been the most indebted to them. For, " to say truth, whatever is very good sense, " must have been common sense in all times;
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A DISCOURSE ON
" and what we call learning is but the know- " ledge of our predecessors. Therefore they " who say our thoughts are not our own, be- " cause they resemble the ancients, may as " well say, our faces are not our own, because " they are like our fathers : and indeed it is " very unreasonable, that people should expect " us to be scholars, and yet be angry to find " us so'^."
He adds, " I fairly confess, that I have " served myself all I could by reading where the good sense of the practice, is as conspicuous, as the ingenuity, so becoming the greatness of his character, in confessing it. For, when a writer, who, as we have seen, is driven by so many powerful motives to the imitation of pre- ceding models, revolts against them all, and determines, at any rate, to be original, no- thing can be expected but an aukward straining in every thing. Improper method, forced conceits, and affected expression, are the cer- tain issue of such obstinacy. The business is to be unlike ; and this he may very possibly be, but at the expence of graceful ease and true beauty. For he puts himself, at best, into a convulsed, unnatural state; and it is
d Mr. Pope's Preface to his A\ orks.
I
POETICAL IMITATION.
235
well, if he be not forced, beside his purpose, to leave common sense, as well as his model, behind him. Like one who would break loose from an impediment, which holds him fast ; the very endeavour to get clear of it throws him into uneasy attitudes, and violent contorsions ; and, if he gain his liberty at last, it is by an effort, which carries him much further than the point he would wish to stop at.
And, that the reader may not suspect me of asserting tliis without experience, let me exemplify what has been here said in the case of a very eminent person, who, with all the advantages of art and nature that could be required to adorn the true poet, was ruined by this single error. The person I mean was Sir William D'Avenant ,- whose Gondibert will remain a perpetual monument of the mischiefs, which must ever arise from this affectation of originality in lettered and polite poets.
The great author, when he projected his plan of an heroic poem, was so far from in- tending to steer his course by example, that he sets out, in his preface, with upbraiding the followers of Homer, as a base and timorous
A DISCOURSE ON
crew of coasters, who would not adventure to launch forth on the vast ocean of invention. For, speaking of this poet, he observes, " that, " as sea marks are chiefly used to coasters, " and serve not those who have the ambition " of discoverers, that love to sail in untried ** seas ; so he hath rather proved a guide for those, whose satisfied wit will not venture *' beyond the track of others ; than to them, " who affect a new and remote way of thinking; " who esteem it a deficiency and meanness of " mind, to stay and depend upon the authority " of example^"
And, afterwards, he professedly makes his own merit to consist in " an endeavour to lesA *' truth through unfrequented and new ways, *' and from the most remote shades ; by repre- " senting nature, though not in an affected, "yet in an unusual dress V These were the principles he went upon : let us now attend to the success of his endeavours.
The METHOD of his work is defective in many respects. I'o instance in the two fol- lowing. Observing the large compass of the
« Pref. to GoNDiBEHT, p, 2. Lond. 1€51, 4t». f Ibid. p. 30,
POETICAL IMITATION. 5^7
ancient epic, for which he saw no cause in nature, and which, he supposed, had been followed merely from a blind deference to the authority of the first model, he resolved to construct an heroic poem on the narrower and, as he conceived, juster plan of the dramatic poets. And, because it was their practice, for the purpose of raising the passions by a close accelerated plot, and for the convenience of representation, to conclude their subject in five acts, he affects to restrain himself within the same limits. The event was, that, cutting himself off, by this means, from the opportu- nity of digressive ornaments, which contribute so much to the pomp of the epic poetry ; and, what is more essential, from the advantage of the most gradual and circumstantiated narra- tion, which gives an air of truth and reality to the fable, he failed in accomplishing tlie proper end of this poem, admiration ; pro- duced by a grandeur of design and variety of important incidents, and sustained by all the energy and minute particularity of description,
2. It was essential to the ancient epos to raise and exalt the fable by the intervention of supernatural agency. Tliis, again, the poet mistook for the prejudice of the affected imi- tators of Homer, " who had so often led them
«38
A DISCOURSE ON
" into heaven and hell, till, by conversation *' with gods and ghosts, they sometimes de- " prive us of those natural probabilities in " story, which are instructive to human life?." Here then he would needs be original ; and so, by recording only the affairs of men, hath fairly omitted a necessary part of the epic plan, and that which, of all other?, had given the greatest state and magnificence to its construc- tion. Yet here, to do him justice, one thing deserves our commendation. It had been the way of the Italian romancers, who were at that time the best poets, to run very' much into prodigy and enchantment. " Not only to *' exceed the ivork, but also the jiossihility of *' nature, they would have impenetrable armors, " inchanted castles, iin uhierable bodies, iron " men, flying horst's, and a thousand other " such things, w hich are easily feigned by " them that dare^."' These conceits, he rightly saw, had too slender a foundation in the serious belief of his age to justify a relation of them. And had he only dropped these, his conduct had been without blame. But, as it is the weakness of human nature, the observation of this extreme determined him to the other, of
ff Pief.to GoNDiBERT, p. 3. Lood. 1651, 4to. .Answer to the Preface, p. 81.
POETICAL IMITATION.
239
admitting nothingj however well established in the general opinion, that was supernatural.
And as here he did too much, so in another respect, it may be observed, he did too little. The romancers, before spoken of, had carried their notions of gallantry in ordinary life, as high, as they had done those of preternatural agency, in their marvellous fictions. Yet here this original genius, who was not to be held by the shackles of superstition, suffered him- self to be entrapped in the silken net of love and honour. And so hath adopted, in hi^ draught of characters, that elevation of senti- ment which a change of manners could not but dispose the reader to regard as fantastic in the Gothic romance, at the same time that he re- jected what had the truest grace in the ancient epic, a sober intermixture ofreUgion.
The execution of his poem was answerable to the general method. His sentiments are frequently forced, and so tortured by an affec- tation of wit, that every stanza hath the air of an epigram. And the expression, in which he cloaths them, is so quaint and figurative, as turns his description almost into a continued riddle.
Such was the effect of a studious aflectation of originality in a writer, who, but for this
ÂŁ40
A DISCOURSE ON
misconduct, had been in the first rank of our poets. His endeavour was to keep clear of the models, in which his youth had been instructed, and which he perfectly understood. And in this indeed he succeeded. But the success lost him the possession of, what his large soul ap- pears to have been full of, a true and permanent glory; which hath ever arisen, and can only arise, from the unambitious simplicity of na- ture; contemplated in her own proper form, or, by reflexion, in the faithful miiTor of those very models, he so much dreaded.
In short, from what hath been here advanced, and especially as confirmed by so uncommon an instance, I think myself entitled to come at once to this general conclusion, which they, who have a comprehensive view of the historj' of letters, in their several periods, and a just discernment to estimate their state in them, will hardly dispute with me, " that, though many " causes concur to produce a thorough degene- " racy of taste in any country ; yet the princi- *' pal, ever, is, this anxious dread of imita-
[ TION IN POLITE AND CULTIVATED WRITERS."
And, if such be the case, among the other uses of this Essay, it may perhaps serve for a seasonable admonition to the poets of our time, to relinquish their vain hopes of originality,
POETICAL IMITATION.
241
and turn themselves to a stricter imitation of the best models. I say, a seasonable admoni- tion ; for the more polished a nation is, and the more generally these models are understood, the greater danger there is, as was now ob- served, of running into that worst of literary faults, affectation. But, to stimulate their endeavours to this practice, the judgment of the public should first be set right ; and their readers prepared to place a just value upon it. In this respect, too, I would willingly contri- bute, in some small degree, to the service of letters. For the poet, whose object is fame, will always adapt himself to the humour of those, who confer it. And till the public taste be reduced, by sober criticism, to a just standard, strength of genius will only enable a writer to pervert it still fiirther, by a too successful compliance with its vicious expec- tations.
VOL. II.
DISSERTATION
ON
THE MARKS OF IMITATION.
DISSEUTATION IV.
ON
THE MARKS OF IMITATION.
TO MR. MA SOX.
J HAVE said, in the discourse on PoETir al Imitation, *' that coincidencies of a certain " hind, and in a certain degree, cannot fail to -'â– convict a writer of Imitation You are cu- rious, iny friend, to know what these coinci- dencies are, and have thought that an attempt to point them out would furnish an useful Supplement to what I have written on this subject. But the just execution of this design would require, besides a careftil examination of the workings of the human mind, an exact
a P. 214.
246
ON THE MARKS
scrutiny of the most oric^inal and most imitative writers. And, with all your partiality for me, can you, in earnest, think me capable of ful- filling the Jii-sf of these conditions; Or, if I were, do you imagine that, at this time o' day, I can have the leisure to perform the other ? My younger years, indeed, have been spent in turning over those authors which young men are most fond of ; and among these I will not dis- own tliat the Poets of ancient and modern fame have had their fall share in my affection. But you, who love me so well, would not wish me to pass more of my life in these flowery regions; which though you may yet wander in without offence, and the rather as you wander in them with so pure a mind and to so moral a purpose, there seems no decent pre- tence for me to loiter in them any longer.
Yet in saying this I would not be thought to assume that severe character; which, though sometimes the garb of reason, is oftner, believe, the mask of dulness, or of something worse. No, 1 am too sensible to the charms, nay to the uses of your profession, to affect a contempt for it. The great Roman said well, Haec studia adolescentiam alunt ; senectntem ohlectant. We make a full meal of them in our youth. And no philosophy requires so
OF IMITATION,
247
perfect a mortification as that we should wholly abstain from them in our riper years. But should we invert the observation ; and take this light food not as the refreshment only, but as the proper nourishment of Age; such a name as Cicero's, I am afraid, would be wanting, and not easily found, to justify the practice.
Let us own then, on a greater authority than His, " That every thing is beautiful in its " season." The Spring hath its huds and blossoms : But, as the year runs on, you are not displeased, perhaps, to see them fall off; and would certainly be disappointed not to find them, in due time, succeeded by those mellow hangings, the poet somewhere speaks of.
I could alledge still graver reasons. But I would only say, in one word, that your friend has had his share in these amusements. 1 may recollect with pleasure, but must never live over again
Piei-iosque dies, et amantes carmina somnos.
Yet something, you insist, is to be done ; and, if it amount to no more than a specuxien or slight sketch_, such as my memory, or the few
248
ON THE MARKS
notes I have by me, would furnish, the design, you think, is not totally to be rehnquished.
I understand the danger of gratifying you on these terms. Yet, whatever it be, I have no power to excuse myself from any attempt, by which, you tell me at least, I may be able to gratify you. I will do my best, then, to draw together such observations, as I have sometimes thought, in reading the poets, most material for the certain discovery of Imitations. And I address them to you, not only as you are the properest judge of the subject ; you, who understand so well in what manner the Poets are us'd to iinitate each other, and who your- self so fi'iely imitate the best of them ; But as I would give you this small proof of my aflec- tion, and have perhaps the ambition of pub- lishing to the world in this way the entire friendship, tliat subsists between us.
You tell me I have not succeeded amiss in explaining the difficulty of detecting Imita- tions. The materials of poetry, you own, lie so much in common amongst all writers, and the several ways of employing them are so much under the controul of common sense, that writings will in many respects be similar.
OF IMITATIOX.
249
where there is no thought or design of Imi- tating. I take advantage of this concession to conchide from it, That we can seldom pro- nounce with certainty of Imitations without some external proof to assist us in the disco- very. You will understand me to mean by these external proofs, the previous knowledge we have, from considerations not respecting the Nature of the work itself, of the writer's ability or inducements to imitate. Our first enquiry, then, will be, concerning the Age, Character, and Education of the supposed Imitator.
We can determine with little certainty, how far the principal Greek writers have been in- debted to Imitation. We trace the waters of Helicon no higher than to their source. And we acquiesce, with reason, in the device of the old painter, you know of, who somewhat rudely indeed, but not absurdly, drew the figure, of Homer with a fountain streaming out of his mouth, and the otlier poets watering at it.
Hither, as to their Fountain, other Stars Repairing, ia their golden urns draw light.
The Greek writers then were, or, for any thing we can say, might be Original.
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ON THE MARKS
But we can rarely affirm this of any other. And the reason is plain. When a taste for letters prevailed in any country, if it arose at first from the efforts of original thinking, it was immediately cherished and cultivated by the study of the old writers. You are too well acquainted with the progress of ancient and modern wit to doubt of this fact, Rome adorned itself in the spoils of Greece. And both as- sisted in dressing up the later European poetry. What else do you find in the Italian or French Wits, but the old matter, worked over again ; only presented to us in a new form, and em- bellished perhaps with a conceit or two of mere modern invention ?
But the English, you say, or rather your fondness for your Masters leads you to sup- pose, are original thinkers. 'Tis true. Nature has taken a pleasure to shew us what she could do, by the production of one Prodigy. But the rest are what we admire them for, not indeed without Genius, perhaps with a larger share of it than has fallen to the lot of others, yet directly and chiefly by the discipline of art and the helps of imitation.
The golden times of the English Poetry were, undoubtedly, the reigns of our twp
OF IMITATION.
Queens. Invention was at its height, in the one ; and Correctness, in the other. In both, the man- ners of a court refin'd, without either breaking or corrupting the spirit of our poets. But do you forget that Elizabeth read Greek and Latin almost as easily as our Professors ? And can you doubt that what she knew so well, would be known, admired, and imitated by every other ? Or say, that the writers of her time were, some of them, ignorant enough of the learned languages to be inventors; can you suppose, from what you know of the fashion of that age, that their fancies would not be sprinkled, and their wits refreshed by the essences of the Italian poetry ?
I scarcely need say a word of our other Queen, whose reign was unquestionably the tera of classic imitation and of classic taste. Even they, who had never been as far as Greece or Italy, to warm their imaginations or stock their memories, might do both to a tolerable degree in France ; which, though it bowed to our country's arms, had almost the ascendant in point of letters.
I mention these things only to put you in mind that hardly one of our poets has been in a condition to do without, or certainly be above,
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the suspicion of learned imitation. And the observation is so true, that even in this our age, when good letters, they say, are departing from us, the Greek or Roman stamp is still visible in every work of genius, that has taken with the public. Do you think one needed to be told in the title-page, that a late Drama, or some later Odes were formed on the ancient model ?
The drift of all this, you will say, is to over- turn the former discourse ; for that now I pre- tend, every degree of likeness to a preceding writer is an argument of imitation. Rather, if you please, conclude that, in iny opinion, every degree of likeness is exposed to the sus- picion of imitation. To convert this suspicion into a proof, it is not enough to say, that a writer might, but that his circumstances make it plain or probable at least, that he did, imi- tate.
Of these circumstances then, the Jirst I should think deserving our attention, is the AGE in which the writer lived. One should know if it were an age addicted to much study, and in which it was creditable for the best writers to make a shew of their reading. Such especially was the age succeeding to that nie-
OF IMITATION.
253
morable aera, the revival of letters in these western countries. The fashion of the time wa,s to interweave as much of ancient wit as possible in every new work. Writers were so far from affecting to think and speak in their own way, that it was their pride to make the admired ancient think and speak for them. This humour continued very long, and in some sort even still continues : with this dif- ference indeed, that, then, the ancients were introduced to do the honours, since, to do the drudgery of the entertainment. But several causes conspired to carry it to its height in England about the beginning of the last cen^ tury. You may be sure, then, the writers of, that period abound in imitations. The best poets boasted of them as their sovereign excel- lence. And you will easily credit, for instance, that B. Jonson was a servile imitator, when you find him on so many occasions little better than a painful translator.
I foresee the occasion I shall have, in the course of tiiis letter, to weary you with cita- tions : and would not therefore go out of my way for them. Yet, amidst a thousand in- stances of this sort in Jonson, the following, I fancy, will entertain you. The Latin verses, you know, are of Catullus.
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ON THE MARKS
Ut flos in septis secretus nascitur hortis, Ignotus pecori, nullo convulsus aratro. Quern mulcent aurae, firmat sol, educat imber, Multi ilium pueri, multse optavere puellae. Idem, quum tenui carptus defloruit ungui, Nulli ilium pueri, nuUae optavere puellaj.
It came in Jonson's way, in one of his masks, to translate this passage; and observe with what industry he has secured the sense, while the spirit of his author escapes him.
Look, how a flower that close in closes grows. Hid from rude cattle, bruised with no plows. Which th' air doth stroke, sun strengthen,
show'rs shoot high'r. It many youths, and many maids desire ; The same, when cropt by cruel hand, is wi-
ther'd.
No youths at all, no maidens have desir'd.
— It was not thus, you remember, that Ari- osto and Pope have translated these fine verses. But to return to our purpose :
To this consideration of the Jge of a writer, you may add, if you please, that of his Edu- cation. Though it might not, in general, be the fashion to affect learning, the habits ac- quired by a particular writer might dispose him to do so. What was less esteemed by the
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enthusiasts of Milton's time (of which however he himself was one of the greatest) than pro- phane or indeed any kind of learning ? Yet we, who know that his youth was spent in the study of the best writers in every language, want but little evidence to convince us that his great genius did not disdain to stoop to imita- tion. You assent, I dare say, to Dryden's compliment, though it be an invidious one, " That no man has so copiously translated " Homer's Grecisms, and the Latin elegancies " of Virgil." Nay, don't you remember, the other day, that we were half of a mind to give him up for a shameless plagiary, chiefly because we were sure he had been a great reader.
But no good writer, it will be said, has flourished out of a learned age, or at least without some tincture of learning. It may be so. Yet every writer is not disposed to make the most of these advantages. What if we pay some regard then to the character of the writer? A poet, enamoured of himself, and who sets up for a great inventive genius, thinks much to profit by the sense of his predecessors, and even when he steals, takes care to dissemble his thefts, and to conceal them as much as pos- sible. You know I have instanced in such a poet in Sir Wdliain D'Avenant. In detecting
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the imitations of such a writer, one mu&t then proceed with some caution. But what if our concern be with one, wliose modesty leads him to revere the sense and even the expression of approved authors, whose taste enables him to select the finest passages in their works, and whose judgment determines him to make a free use of them ? Suppose we know all this from common fame, and even from his own con- fession ; would you scruple to call that an imi- tation in him, which in the other might have passed for resemblance only ?
As the character is amiable, you will be pleased to hear me own, there are many mo- dern poets to whom it belongs. Perhaps, the first that occurred to my thoughts was Mr. Addison. But the observation holds of others, and of one, in particular, very much his supe- rior in true genius. I know not whether you agree with me, that the famous line in the Essay on Man ;
" An honest man's the noblest work of God,
is taken from Plato's, Ylavnav Upwrarov e^iv aydocoTTog 6 ayuBog. But I am sure you will that the still more famous lines, which shallow men repeat without understanding,
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For modes of Faith let graceless zealots fight, " His, can't be wrong whose life is in the right:"
are but co])iecl, though with vast improvement in the force and turn of expression, from the excellent and, let it be no disparagement to him to say, from the orthodox Mr. Cowley. The poet is speaking of his friend Crashaw.
" His Faith perhaps in some nice tenets might " Be wrong; his life, I'm sure, was in the right."
Mr. Pope, who found himself in the same circumstances with Crashaw, and had suffered no doubt from the like uncharitable construc- tions of graceless zeal, was very naturally tempted to ado])t this candid sentiment, and to give it the further heightening of his own spirited expression.
Let us see then how far we are got in this inquiry. We may say of the old Latin poets, that they all came out of the Greek schools. It is as true of the moderns in this part of the world, that they, in general, have had their breeding in both the Greek and Latin. But when the question is of any particular writer, how far and in what instances you may presume
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on his being a professed imitator, much will depend on the certain know ledge you have of his Age, Education, and Cliaracter. When all these circumstances meet in one man, as they have done in others, but in none perhaps so eminently as in B. Jonson, wherever you find an acknowledged likeness, you will do him no injustice to call it imitation.
Yet all this, you say, comes very much short of what you require of me. You want me to specify those peculiar considerations, and even to reduce them into rule, from which one may be authorised in any instance to pronounce of imitations. It is not enough, you pretend, to say of any passage in a celebrated poet, that it most probably was taken from some other. In your extreme jealousy for the credit of your order, you call upon me to shew the distinct marks which convict him of this commerce.
In a word. You require me to! turn to the poets ; to gather a number of those passages I call Imitations; and to point to the circum- stances in each that prove them to be so. I attend you with pleasure in this amusing search. It is not material, I suppose, that we observe any strict method in our ramblings. And yet we will not wholly neglect it.
OF IMITATION.
Perhaps then we shall find undoubted marks of Imitation, both in the Sentiment, and Expression of great writers.
To begin with such considerations as are
most GENERAL.
I. An identity of the subject-matter of poetry is no sure evidence of Imitation : and least of all, perhaps, in natural description. Yet where the local peculiarities of nature are to be described, there an exact conformity of the matter will evince an imitation.
Descriptive poets have ever been fond of lavishing all the riches of their fancy on the Spring. But the appearances of this prime of' the year are so diversified with the climate, that descriptions of it, if taken directly from nature, must needs be very diflferent. The Greek and Latin, and, since them, the Pro- vencial poets, when they insist, as they always do, on the indulgent softness of this season, its genial dews and fostering breezes, speak no- thing but what is agreeable to their own expe- rience and feeling.
It ver; et Venus ; et Veneris praenuntius ant^ Pirmsttus graditnr Zephyrus vestigia propter :
St
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Flora quibus mater praespergens ante viai Cuncta coloribus egregiis et odoribus opplet.
Venus, or the spirit of love, is represented by those poets as brooding o'er this delicious season ;
Rura foecundat voluptas : rura Venerem sen- tiunt.
Ipsa gemmas purpurantem pingit annum flori- bus:
Ipsa surgentis papillas de Favoni spiritu Urguet in toros tepentes; ipsa roris lucidi, &c.
and a great deal more to the same purpose, which every one recollects in the old classic and in the Provencial poets.
But when we hear this language from the more Northern, and particularly our English bards, who perhaps are shivering with the Islasts of the North-east, at the very time their imagination would warm itself with these no- tions, one is certain this cannot be the effect of observation, but of a sportful fancy ; en- chanted by the native loveliness of these exotic images, and charmed by the secret insensible power of imitation.
And to shew the certainty of this conclusion, Shakespear/ we may observe, who had none of
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this classical or Provencial bias on his mind, always describes, not a Greek, or Italian, or Provencial, but an English Spring ; where we meet with many unamiable characters ; and, among the rest, instead of Zephyr or Favonius, we have the bleak North-east, that nips the blooming Infants of the Spring.
But there are other obvious examples. In Cranmer's prophetic speech, at the end of Henry VIII. when the poet makes him say of Queen Elizabeth, that,
" In her days ev'ry man shall eat with safety " Under his own vine what he plants."
and of King James, that,
" He shall flourish, " And, like a mountain Cedar, reach his
" branches " To all the plains about him" —
It is easy to see that his Fine and Cedar are not of English growth, but transplanted from Judaea. I do not mention this as an impro- priety in the poet, who, for the greater solem- nity of his prediction, and even from a prin- ciple of decorum, makes his Arch-bishop fetch his imagery from Scripture. I only take no- tice of it as a certain argument that the imagery
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was not his own, that is, not stiggested by his own observation of nature.
The case you see, in these instances, is the same as if an English landskip-painter should choose to decorate his Scene with an Italian $ky. The Connoisseur would say, he had copied this particular from Titian, and not from Nature. I presume then to give it for a certain note of Imitation, when the properties of one clime are given to another.
II. You will draw the same conclusion whenever you find " The Genius of one people " given to another."
I. Plautus gives us the following true pic- ture of the Greek manners :
— In hominum aetate multa eveniunt hujus- modi —
Irae interveniunt, redeunt rursum in gratiam. Verum irae siquae forte eveniunt hujusmodi. Inter eos rursum si reventum in gratiam est. Bis tanto amici sunt inter se, quam prius.
Amphyt. a. III. S. 2.
You are better acquainted with the modern Italian writers than I am ; but if ever you find
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any of them transferring this placabiHty of temper into an eulogy of his countrymen, conclude without hesitation, that the sentiment is taken.
S. The late Editor of Jonson's works ob- serves very well the impropriety of leaving a trait of Italian manners in his Every man in his humour, when he fitted up that Play with English characters. Had the scene been laid originally in England, and that trait been given us, it had convicted the poet of Imitation.
3. This attention to the genius of a people will sometimes shew you, that the form of composition, as well as particular sentiments, comes from Imitation. An instance occurs to me as I am writing. The Greeks, you know, were great haranguers. So were the ancient Romans, but in a less degree. One is not surprized therefore that their historians abound in set speeches ; which, in their hands, be- come the finest parts of their works. But when you find modern writers indulging in this practice of speech-making, you may guess from what source the habit is derived. Would Machiavel, for instance, as little of a Scholar as, they say, he was, have adorned his fine
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history of Florence with so many harangues, if the classical bias, imperceptibly, it may be, to himself, had not hung on his mind ?
Another example is remarkable. You have sometimes wondered how it has come to pass that the moderns delight so much in dialogue- tvriflng, and yet that so very few have suc- ceeded in it. The proper answer to the first part of your enquiry will go some way towards giving you satisfaction as to the last. The practice is not original, has no foundation in the manners of modern times. It arose from the excellence of the Greek and Roman dia- logues, which was the usual form in which the ancients chose to deliver their sentiments ou any subject.
Still another instance comes in my way. How happened it, one may ask, that Sir Philip Sydney in his Arcadia, and afterwards Spenser in his Fairy Queen, observed so un- natural a conduct in those works ; in which the Story proceeds, as it were, by snatches, and witli continual interruptions ? How was the good sense of those writers, so conversant besides in the best models of antiquity, seduced into this preposterous method ? The answer, no
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doubt, is, that they were copying the design, or disorder rather, of Ariosto, the favourite poet of that time,
III. Of near akin to this contrariety to the genius of a people is another mark which a careful reader will observe " in the representa- " tion of certain Tenets, different from those " which prevail in a writer's country or time."
1. We seldom are able to fasten an imita- tion, with certainty, on such a writer as Shakespear. Sometimes we are, but never to so much advantage as when he happens to forget himself in this respect. When Claudio, in Measure for Pleasure, pleads for his life in that famous speech,
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; To lye in cold obstruction, and to rot ; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod ; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice ; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds. And blown with restless violence about The pendant world —
It is plain that these are not the Sentiments which any man entertained of Death in the
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writer's age or in that of the speaker. We in this passage a mixture of Christian ar>d Pagan ideas ; all of them very susceptible of poetical ornament, and conducive to the argu- ment of the Scene; but such as Shakesj:)ear had never dreamt of but for Virgil's Platonic hell ; where, as we read,
aliae panduntur inanes Suspensae ad ventos : aliis sub gurgite vasto, Infectum eluitur scelus, aut exuritur igni.
Virg. 1. vi..
2. A prodigiously fine passage in Miltoa may furnish another example of this sort.
When Lust By unchast looks, loose gestures, and foul tall*. But most by lewd and lavish act of Sin, Lets in defilement to the inward parts, The soul grows clotted by contagion, Imbodies, and imbrutes, till she quite lose The divine property of her first being. Suchare those thick andgloomyshadows damp. Oft seen in charnel vaults and sepulchres, Ling'ring, and sitting by a new-made grave, As loth to leave the body, that it lov'd, And linkt itself by carnal sensuality To a degenerate and degraded state.
Mask of Ludlow Castle.
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This philosophy of imbnited souls becoming thick shadoivs is so remote from any ideas en- tertained at present of the effects of Sin, and at the same time is so agreeable to the notions of Plato (a double favourite of Milton, for his own sake, and for the sake of his being a favourite with his Italian Masters), that there is not the least question of its being taken from the Phaedo.
sraXtv e\s tov oparoi/ toVov, (ftoSip rS asi^Sg ts xoti a^s, VTsp) TO. iLvriiKOLra xcCi Tsg ra^ej xuXiv- Se/xlvij* rrepi a 815 xa) to<pBr} artra ypv^dSv sxtosidrf <pavTaG-[j.aTa, ola. zsa^s^ovrai ai roiuurai vjvu^a)
There is no wonder, now one sees the foun- tain Milton drew from, that, in admiration of this poetical philosophy (which nourished the fine spirits of that time, though it corrupted some), he should make the other speaker in. the scene cry out, as in a fit of extasy.
How charming is divine philosophy !
Not harsh, and crabbed, as dull fools suppose,
But musical as is Apollo's lute.
And a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets.
Where no crude surfeit reigns —
The very ideas which Lord Shaftesbury has
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employed in his encomiums on the Platonic philosophy ; and the very language which Dr. Henry More would have used, if he had known to express himself so soberly.
3. Having said so much of Plato, whom the Italian writers have helped to make known to us, let me just observe one thing, to our pre- sent purpose, of those Italian writers thena- selves. One of their peculiarities, and almost the first that strikes us, is a certain sublime mystical air which runs through all their fic- tions. We find them a sort of philosophical fanatics, indulging themselves in strange con- ceits " concerning the Soul, the chymhig of " celestial orbs, and presiding Si/re7is.''' One may tell by these marks, that they doted on the fancies of Plato; if we had not, besides, direct evidence for this conclusion. Tasso says of himself, and he applauds the same thing in Petrarch, " Lessi gia tutte I'opere di *' Platone, b mi rimassero molti semi nella " menta della sua dottrina." I take these words from Menage, who has much more to the same purpose, in his elegant observations on the Amintas of this poet.
One sees then where Milton had been for that imagery in the Arcades,
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then listen I To the celestial Syrens' harmony, That sit upon the nine enfolded spheres And sing to those that hold the vital shears. And turn the adamantine spindle round, On which the fate of Gods and men is wound.
The best comment on these verses is a pas- sage in the x**" Book of Plato's Republic, where this whole system, of Syrens quiring to the fates, is explained or rather delivered.
IV. We have seen a Mark of Imitation, in the allusion of writers to certain strange, and foreign tenets of philosophy. The observation may be extended to all those passages (which are innumerable in our poets) that allude to the rites, customs, language, and theology of Paganism.
It is true, indeed, this Species of Imitation is not that which is, properly, the subject of this Letter. The most original writer is al- lowed to furnish himself with poetical ideas from all quarters. And the management of learned Allusion is to be regarded, perhaps, as one of the nicest offices of Invention. Yet it may be useful to see from what sources a great poet derives his materials ; and the rather, as
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this detection will sometimes account for the manner in which he disposes of them. How- ever, I will but detain you with a remark or two on this class of Imitations.
1. I observe, that even Shakespear himself abounds in learned Allusions. How he came by them, is another question ; though not so difficult to be answered, you know, as some have imagined. They, who are in such asto- nishment at the learning of Shakespear, besides that they certainly carry the notion of his illi- teracy too far, forget that the Pagan imagery was familiar to all the poets of his time- — that abundance of this sort, of learning was to be picked up from almost every English book, he could take into his hands — that many of the best writers in Greek and Latin had been translated into English — that his conversation lay among the most learned, that is, the most paganized poets of his age — but above all, that, if he had never looked into books, or conversed with bookish men, he might have learned almost all the secrets of paganism (so far, I mean, as a poet had any use of them) from the Masks of B. Jonson ; contrived by that poet with so pedantical an exactness, that one is ready to take them for lectures and illustra^ tions on the ancient learning, rather than
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exercises of modern wit. Tlie taste of the age, much devoted to eruditioii, and still more, the taste of the Princes, for whom he writ, gave a prodigious vogue to these unnatural exhibition?. And the knowledge of antiquity, requisite to succeed in them, was, I imagine, the reason that Shakespear was not over-fond to try his hand at these elaborate trifles. Once indeed he did, and with such success as to disgrace the very best things of this kind we find in Jonson, Tlie short Mask in the Tempest is fitted up with a classical exactness. But its chief merit lies in the beauty of the Shew, and the richness of the poetry. Shakespear was so sensible of his Superiority, that he could not help exulting a little upon it, where he makes Ferdinand say,
Tliis is a most majestic Vision, and Harmonious charming Lays —
'Tis true, another Poet, who possessed a great part of Shakespear's genius and all Jon- son's learning, has carried this courtly enter- tainment to its last perfection. But the Mask at Ludlow Castle was, in some measure, owing to the Jairy Scenes of his Predecessor; who chose this province of Tradition, not only as most suitable to the wildness of his vast creative
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imagination, but as the safest for his unlettered Muse to walk in. For here he had much, you know, to expect from the popular credulity, and nothing to fear from the classic superstition of that time.
2. It were endless to apply this note of imitation to other poets confessedly learned. Yet one instance is curious enough to be just mentioned.
Mr. Waller, in his famous poem on the victory over the Dutch on June 3, I665, has the following lines ;
His flight tow'rds heav'n th' aspiring Belgian took ;
But fell, like Phaeton, with thunder strook : From vaster hopes than his, he seem'd to fall. That durst attempt the British Admiral : From her broadsides a ruder flame is thrown. Than from the fiery chariot of the Sun : ThaTj bears the radiant ensign of the day ; And She, the flag that governs in the Sea.
He is comparing the British x^dmiral's S/iip to the Chariot of the Sun. You smile at the quaintness of the conceit, and the ridicule he falls into, in explaining it. But that is not the question at present. The latter, he says.
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bears the radiant ensign of the day : The other, the ensign of' naval dominion. We understand how properly the English Flag is here denominated. But what is that other Ensign 9 Tlie Sun itself, it will be said. But who, in our days, ever expressed the Suu by such a periphrasis? The image is appa- rently antique, and easily explained by those who know that anciei\tly the Sun was com- monly emblematized by a starry or radiate Jigure ; nay, that such a figure was placed aloft, as an Ensign, over thfe Stints charioteer, as v^^ fflay see in i-epresentations of this sort on ancient Gems and Medals.
From this original then Mr. Waller's ima- gery was certainly taken ; and it is properly applied in this place where he is speaking of the Chariot of the Sun, and Phaetons Jail from it. But to remove all doubt in the case, we can even point to the very passage of a Pagan poet, which Mr. Waller had in his eye, or rather translated.
Propterea noctes hiberno tempore longae Cessant, duni veniat radiatum insigne diei.
Lucr. 1. v. 6()8.
Here, you see, the poet's allusion to a classic idea has led us to the discovery of the very
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passage from which it was taken. And this use a learned reader will often make of the species of Imitation, here considered.
V. Great writers, you find, sometimes for- get the character of the Age, they live in ; the principles, and notions that belong to it. " Sometimes they forget themselves, that is, " their own situation and character." Another sign of the influence of Imitation.
1. When we see such men, as Strada and Mariana, writers of fine talents indeed, but of recluse lives and narrow observation, chusing to talk like men of the world, and abounding in the most refined conclusions of the cabinet, we are sure that this character, which we find so natural in a Cardinal de Retz, is but as- sumed by these Jesuits. And we are not sur- prized to discover, on examination, that their best reflexions are copied from Tacitus.
On the other hand, when a man of the world took it into his head, the other day, in a moping fit, to talk Sentences, every body concluded that this was not the language of the writer or his situation, but that he had been poaching in some pedant; perhaps in the Stoical Fop. he affected so much contempt of, Seneca.
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2. Sometimes we catch a great writer de- viating from his natural manner, and taking pains, as it were, to appear the very reverse of his proper character. Would you wish a stronger proof of his being seduced, at least for the time, by the charms of imitation ?
Nothing is better known than the easy, ele- gant, agreeable vein of Voiture. Yet you have read his famous Letter to Balzac, and have been surprized, no doubt, at the forced, quaint, and puffy manner, in which it is written. The secret is, Voiture is aping Bal- zac from one end of this letter to the other. Whether to pay his court to him, or to laugh at him, or that perhaps, in the instant of writing, he really fancied an excellence in the style of that great man, is not easy to deter- mine. An eminent French critic, I remem- ber, is inclined to take it for a piece of mockery. At all events, we must needs esteem it an imitation.
3. This remark on the turn of a writer's genius may be further applied to that of his temper or disposition.
The natural misanthropy of Swift may ac- count for his thinking and speaking very often
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in the spirit of Rochefoucault, without any- thought of taking from his Maxims, though he was an admirer of them. But if at any time we observe so humane and benevolent a man as Mr. Pope giving into this language, we say of course, " This is not his own, but an " assumed manner."
Or what say you lo an instance that exem- plifies both these observations together ? The natural unaffected turn of Mr. Cowley's man- ner, and the tender sensibility of his mind, are equally seen and loved in his prose-works, and in such of his poems as were written after a good model, or came from the heart. A clear sparkling fancy, softened with a shade of melancholy, made him, perhaps, of all our poets the most capable of excelling in the ele- giac way, or of touching us in any way where a vein of easy language and moral sentiment is required. Who but laments then to see this fine genius perverted by the prevailing pedantry of his age, and carried away, against the bias of his nature, to an emulation of the raptuious, high-spirited Pindar?
1 might give many more examples. But you will observe them in your own reading. I take the first that come to hand only to
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explain my meaning, which is, " That if you find a course of sentiments or cast of composi- tion different from that, to which the writer's s'ltitafion, s;en'nis, or complexitm would na- turally lead him, you may well suspect him of imitation."
Still it may be, these considerations are ra- ther too general. I come to others more par- ticular and decisive.
VI. It may be difficult sometimes to deter- mine whether a single sentiment or image be derived or not. But when we see a cluster of them in two writers, applied to the same sub- ject, one can hardly doubt that one of them has copied from the other.
A celebrated French moralist makes the following reflexions. " Quelle chimere est-ce " done que Thomme ? Quelle uouveaute, " quel chaos, quel sujet de contradiction ? " Juge de toutes choses, imbecile ver de terre ; " depositaire du vrai, amas d'incertitude; gloire, " et rebut de I'univers."
Turn now to the Essay on Man, and tell me if Mr. Pope did not work up tlie following- lines out of these reflexions.
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" Chaos of thought and passion, all confus d ; " Still by himself abus'd or disabus'd ;
Created half to rise, and half to fall, " Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all ; " Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd : " I'he glory, jest, and riddle of the world.
2. This conclusion is still more certain, when, together with a general likeness of sen- timents, we find tlie same disposition of the parts, especially if that disposition be in no common form.
" Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet
" With charm of earliest birds : pleasant the sun,
" When first on this delightful land he spreads His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flow'r,
" Glist'ring with dew"
and the rest of that fine speech in the IVth Book of Paradise Lost, which you remember so perfectly that I need not transcribe more of it.
Milton's fancy, as usual, is rich and exube- rant; but the conduct and a})plication of his im.agery shews, that the whole passage was
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shadowed out of those charming but simpler hnes in the Danae of Euripides.
TlnXkuiv T STratvov sg-l |xo» xl^aj xu'hwv. *Aax' aSsi/ WTO) \a.y.7rpav, »3' ISeTv, xaXov,
Oa<3a)y vsoyvaov Iv So'^ojj iSsTv <poLO$.
VII. There is httle doubt in such cases as these. There needs not perhaps be much in the case, sometimes, of single sentiments or images. As where we find " a sentiment or " image in two writers precisely tiie same, yet " new and unusual."
1. Thus we are told very reasonably, that Milton's clusfrii7g loclfs is the co^y of Apol- lonius' nAOKAMOI B0TPY0ENTE2. Obs. on Spenser, p. 8o. For though the metaphor be a just one and very natural, yet there is perhaps no other authority for the use of it, but in these two poets. And Milton had cer- tainly read Apollonius.
2. What the same critic observes of Milton's
" And curl the grove
" In ringlets quaint'' —
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being taken from Jonson's
When was old Sherwood's head more quaintlij curVd ?
is still more unquestionable. For here is a combination of signs to convict the former of imitation : Not only the singularity of the image, but the identify of expresAon, and, what I lay the most stress upon, the boldness of the figure, as employed by Milton. Jon- son speaks of old Sherwood's head, as curl'd. Milton, as conscious of his authority, drops the preparatory idea, and says at once. The grove curl'd.
Let me add to these, two more instances from the same poet.
3. Spenser tells us of
A little glooming light, much like a shade.
F. Q. c. II. s. 14.
Can you imagine that Milton did not take his idea from hence, when he said, in his }^en-
seroso,
— glowing embers thro' the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ?
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4. Again, in his description of Paradise, FlovvVs of all hues, and without thorn the rose.
Every poet of every time is lavish of his flowers on such occasions. But the rose with- out thorn is a rarity. And, tliough it was fine to imagine such an one in Paradise, could only be an Italian refinement. Tasso, you will think, is the original, when you have read the following lines ;
Senza quei suoi pungenti ispidi dumi Spiego le foglje la purpurea Rosa.
5. Another instance, still more remarkable, may be taken from Mr. Pope. One of the most striking passages in the Essay on 3Ian is the followmg,
Superior Beings, when of late they saw A mortal man unfol*^ all nature's law, Admir'd such wisdom in an earthly shape. And shew'd a Newton, as we shew an ape.
Ep. ii. V. 31.
Can you doubt, from the singularity of this sentiment, that the great poet had his eye on PiuLO ? who makes Socrates say, in allusion to a rcjinark of Heraclitus, "On iv^ftcoTrayv 0 <ro^c6- TttTi^ 73-^0^ ^ehv ct/Stjxoj (pavthTai. Hipp. Major.
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The application indeed is different. And it could not be otherwise. For the observation, which the Philosopher refers â– arprjg ^sov, is in the Poet given to superior Beings only. The consequence is, that the Ape is an object of derision in the former case, of admiration, in the latter.
To conclude this head, I will just observe to you, that, though the same uncommon sentiment in two writers be usually the effect of imita- tion, yet we cannot affirm this of Actors in real life. The reason is, when the situation of two men is the same, Nature will dictate the same sentiments more invariably than Genius. To give a remarkable instance of what I mean.
Tacitus relates, in the Jirst book of his An- nals, what passed in the senate on its first meeting after the death of Augustus. His politic successor carried it, for some time, with much apparent moderation. He wished, be- sides other reasons, to get himself solemnly recognized for Emperor by that Body, before he entered on the exercise of his new dignity. Dahat fama?, says the historian, ut vocatus electusque potiits a Repuhlicd videretur, quam per uxorium ambitum et senili adoptione ir- repsisse. One of his courtiers would not be
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wanting to himself on such an occasion. When therefore several motions bad been made in the Senate, concerning the honours to be paid to the memory of their late Prmce, Valerius Messalla moved Kenovandum per annos
SACRAMENTUM IN NOMEN TlBERII ; in Other
words, that the oath of allegiance should be taken to Tiberius. 1'his was the very point that Tiberius drove at. And the consciousness of it made him suspect that this motion might be thought to proceed from himself. He there- fore asked Messalla, " Num, se mandante, earn " sententiam proTfisisset 9" His answer is iu the following words. " Spont^ dixisse, re- " spondit ; neqiie in iis, qiice ad rempuhlkam " pertiney^ent, consilio nisi suo usurum, vel " cum periculo ofFensionis.'' Ea, concludes the historian, sola species adulandi superemt.
Now it is very remarkable, that we find in Ludlow's memoirs, one of Cromwell's oflicers, on the very same occasion, answering the Pro- tector in the very same species of flattery.
Colonel William Jephson moved in the House that Cromwell might be made King. Cromwell took occasion, soon after, to reprove the Colonel for this proposition, telling him, that he wondered what he could mean by it. To
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which the other rephed, " That while he was permitted the honour of sitting in that HousCy he must desire the libertij to discharge his conscience, though his opinion should happen to displease."
Here we have a very striking coincidence of sentiment, without the least probabiHty of imitation. For no body, I dare say, suspects Colonel William Jephson of stealing this re- fined stroke of adulation from Valerius Mes- salla. The truth is, the same situation, con- curring with the same corrupt disposition, dictated this peculiar sentiment to the two courtiers. Yet, had these similar thoughts been found in two dramatic poets of the Au- gustan and Oliverian ages, we should probably have cried out, " An Imitation." And with good reason. For, besides the possibility of an Oliverian poet's knowing something of Ta- citus, the speakers had then been feigned, not real personages. And it is not so likely that two such should agree in this sentiment: I mean, considering how new and particular it is. For, as to the more common and obvious sentiments, even dramatic speakers will very frequently employ the same, without afibrding any just reason to conclude that their prompters had turned plagiaries.
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VIII. If to this singularity of a sentiment, you add the apparent harshness of it, espe- cially when not gradually prepared (as such sentiments always will be by exact writers, when of their own proper invention), the sus- picion grows still stronger. I just glanced at an instance of this sort in Milton's curTd grove. But there are others still more remarkable. Shall I presume for once to take an instance from yourself?
Your fine Ode to Memory begins w ith these, very lyrical verses :
Mother of Wisdom ! Thou whose sway The throng'd ideal hosts obey ; Who bidst their ranks now vanish, now ap- pear,
Flame in the van, and darken in the rear.
This sublime imagery has a very original air. Yet I, who know how familiar the best ancient and modern critics are to you, have no doubt that it is taken from Strada.
" Quid accommodatius, says he, speaking of your subject. Memory, quam simulachrorurn ingentes copias, tanquam addictam nbiqiie fibi Sacramento militiam, eo inter se nexu ac fide conjunctam cohaerentemqiie Imbere ; ut sive
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unumqurdq\ie separatim, sive confertim uni- versa, sive singula ord'natim m aciem proferre velis ; nihil plan^ in tanta rerum herba turbe- tur, sed alia procul atque in recessu sita pro- deuntibus locum cedant; alia, se tota oonfestim promant atque in medium certb evocata prosi- liant ? Hoc tarn magno, tarn fide domestico- rum agmine instructus animus, &c."
Prol. Acad. I.
Common writers know little of the art of prej^ar'nig their ideas, or believe the very name of an Ode absolves them from the care of art. Brt, if this uncommon sentiment had been intirely your own, you, I imagine, would i*ave dropped some leading idea to introduce it.
IX. You see with what a suspicious eye, we who aspire to the name of critics, examine your writings. But every poet will not endure to be scrutinized so narrowl}'.
1. B. Jonson, in his Prologue to the Sad Shepherd, is opening the subject of that poem. The sadness of his shepherd is
For his lost Love, who in the Trent is said To have miscarried; 'las! tvhat knows the head Of a calm river, whom the feet have drowned!
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The reflexion in this place is unnecessary and even impertinent. Who besides ever heard of the^ee^ of a river? Of ai^ms, we have. And so it stood in Jonson s original.
Greatest and fairest Empress, know you this, Alas ! no more than Thames' calm head doth know
Whose meads his arms drown, or whose corn o'erflow.
Dr. Donne.
The poet is speaking of the corruption of the courts of justice, and the allusion is per- fectly fine and natural. Jonson was tempted to bring it into his prologue by the mere beauty of the sentiment. He had a river at his disposal, and woi.Id not let slip the oppor- tunity. But " his unnatural use" of it detects his " imitation."
2. I don't know whether you have taken notice of a miscarriage, something like this, in the most judicious of all the poets.
Theocritus makes Polypheme say,
Kai yap ^t^v bS' sl^og s^w xaxov, (ug (XÂŁ "kiyovr 'i, 'H yap zsoav Ig Ylovrov ÂŁ(riS7^e7roy â– ^v Os yaXava.
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Nothing could be better fencied than to make this enormous son of Neptune use the sea for his lookmg-glass. But is Virgil so happy when his httle land-man says,
Nec sum adeo informis : nuper me in littore vidi,
Cum placidum ventis staret mare
His wonderful judgment for once deserted him, or he might have retained the sentiment with a slight change in the application. For instance, what if he had said,
Cert^ ego me novi, Iiquida?qtie in imagine vidi
Xuper aqua?, placultque mihi mea forma vi- denti.
It is a sort of curiosity, you say, to find Ovid reading a lesson to Virgil. I will dis- semble nothing. The lines are, as I have cited them, in the 13th book of tlie Metamor- phosis. But unluckily they are put into the mouth of Polypheme. So that instead of in- structing one poet by the other, I only propose that they should make an exchange; Ovid take Virgil's sea, and ^''irgil be contented with Ovid's water. However this be, you may be
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sut-e the authority of the Prince of the Latin poets will carry it with admiring posterity above all such scruples of decorum. Nobody wonders therefore to read in Tasso,
' Non son' io
Da disprezzar, se ben me stesso vldi Nel liquido del mar, quando I'altr' hieri Taceano i venti, et ei giacea senz' onda.
But of all the misappliers of this fine original sentiment, commend me to that other Italian, who made his shepherd survey himself, in a fountain indeed, but a fountain of his own weeping.
3. You will forgive my adding one other instance " of this vicious application of a fine " thought."
You remember those agreeable verses of Sir John Suckling,
" Tempests of winds thus (as my storms of grief
Carry my tears which should relieve my heart) Have hurried to the thankless ocean clouds And show'rs, that needed not at all the cour- tesy.
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When the poor plains have languish'd for the want.
And almost burnt asunder."
Brennoralt. A. iii. S. 1.
I don't stay to examine how far the fancy of tears relieving the heart is allowable. But admitting the propriety of the observation, in the sense the poet intended it, the simile is applied and expressed with the utmost beauty. It accordingly struck the best writers of that time. Sprat, in his history of the Royal So- ciety, is taking notice of the misapplication of philosophy to subjects of Religion. " That " shower, says he, has done very much injury " by falling on the sea, for which the shep- " herd, and the ploughman, called in vain : " The wit of men has been profusely poured " out on Religion, which needed not its help, *' and which was only thereby made more *' tempestuous : while it might have been more " fruitfully spent, on some parts of philosophy, " which have been hitherto barren, and might " soon have been made fertile." p. 25.
Yau see what wire-drawing here is to make the comparison, so proper in its original use, just and pertinent to a subject to which it had
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naturally no relation. Besides, there is an absurdity in speaking of a shower's doing injuty to the sea by falling into it. But the thing- illustrated by this comparison requiring the idea of injury, he transfers the idea to the comparing thing. He would soften the absur- dity, by running the comparison into meta"- phorical expression, but, I think, it does not remove it. In short, for these reasons, one might easily have inferred an Imitation, with- out that parenthesis to apologize for it — " To " use that meta})hor which an excellent poet of " our nation turns to another purpose — "
But A poet of that time has no better success in the management of this metaphor, than the Historian.
Love makes so many hearts the prize Of the bright Carlisle's conqu'ring eyes ; Which she regards no more, than they The tears of lesser beauties weigh. So have I seen the lost clouds pour Into the Sea an useless show'r ; And the vex'd Sailors curse the rain, For which poor Shepherds pray'd in vain.
Waller's Poems, p. 25.
The Sentiment stands thus : " She regards the captive hearts of others no more than U 2
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" those others — the tears of lesser beauties." Thus, with much difficulty, we get to tears. And when we have them, the allusion to lost clouds is so strained (besides that he makes his shower both useless and injurious), that one readily perceives the poet's thought was distorted by imitation.
X. Tlie chaise of Plagiarism is so disre- putable to a great writer that one is not sur- prized to find him anxious to avoid the impu- tation of it. Yet " this very anxiety serves, *' sonaetimes, to fix it upon him."
Mr. Dryden, in the Preface to his transla^ tion of Fresnoy's Art of Painting, makes the following observation on Virgil : " He pretends " sometimes to trip, but 'tis only to make you " think him in danger of a fall when he is most secure. Like a skilful dancer on the Rope (if you will pardon the meanness of " the similitude) who slips willingly and makes " a seeming stumble, that you may think him " in great hazard of breaking his neck ; while. " at the same time he is only giving you a " proof of his dexterity. My late Lord Ros-r " common was often pleased with this reflexion, « &c " p. 50.
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His apology for the use of this simile, and his concluding with Lord Roscommon's satis- faction at his remark, betray, I think, an anxiety to pass for original, under the con- sciousness of being but an imitator. So that if we were to meet with a passage, very like this, in a celebrated ancient, we could hardly doubt of its being copied by Mr. Dryden. What think you then of this observation in one of Pliny's Letters, " Ut quasdam artes, *' ith eloquentiam nihil magis quam ancipitia " commendant. Vides qui fune in summa " nituntur, quantos soleant excitare ciarnores, " cum jam jamque casuri videntur." L. ix. Ep. 26.
Prior, one may observe, has acted more naturally in his Alma, and by so doing, though the resemblance be full as great, one is not so certain of his being an Imitator. The verses are, of Butler :
He perfect Dancer climbs the Rope, And balances your fear and hope: If after some distinguish'd leap. He drops his Pole and seems to slip ; Strait gath'ring all his active strength H« rises higher half his length.
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; With wonder you appFove his shght. And owe your pleasure to youvj'rigkt.
C. n.
Though the two last lines seem taken from the application of this similitude in Pliny, " Sunt enim maxime mirahilia, quae maxime " inexpectata, et maxime pericidosa."
XI. Writers are, sometimes, solliqitous to conceal themselves : At others, they are fond to proclaim their Imitation. " It is when " they have a mind to shew their dexterity in " contending with a great original."
You remember these lines of Milton in his Comus,
Wisdom's self Oft seeks to sweet retired Solitude, Where, with her best nurse. Contemplation, She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her Avings,
That in the various bustle of resort
Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair'd.
On which Dr. Warburton has the following note. " Mr. Pope has imitated this thought
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and (as was always his way when he imitated) improved it.
" Bear me, some Gods! oh, quickly bear me , "hence
"To wholesome SoUtude, the nurse of Sense; " Where Contemplation prunes her ruffled " wings, . " And the free Soul looks down to pity Kingsi,
^' Mr. Pope has not only improved the har- " itiony, but the sense. In Milton, Confein- plation is called the Nuvse ; iri Pope, m6i't "properly Solitude: In Milton, Wisdom is " said to prune her wings ; in Pope, Contem- "plation is said to do it, and with much greater " propriety, as she is of a soaring nature, and " on that account is called by Milton himself, " the Cherub Contemplation."
One sees that Mr. Pope's view was to surpass his original ; " which, it is said, was always his " way when he imitated." The meaning is, when he purposely and professedly bent him- self to Imitation ; fof then his fine genius taught him to seize every beauty, and his wonderful judgment, to avoid every defect or impropriety, in his author. And this distinc- tion is very material to our passing a right judgment on the merit of Imitators. It is
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coihimonly said, that their imitations fall short of their originals. And they will do so, what- ever the Genius of the Imitator be, if they are formed only on a general resemblance of the thought imitated. For an Inventor compre- hends his own idea more distinctly and fully, and of course expresses his purpose better, than a casual Imitator. But the case is differ- ent, when a good writer studies the passage from which he borrows. For then he not only copies, but improves on the first idea ; and thus there will frequently (as in the case of Pope) be greater merit in the Copyist, than the original.
XII. We sometimes catch an Imitation lurking " in a licentious Paraphrase," The ground of suspicion lies in the very compla- cency with which a writer expatiates on a bor- rowed sentiment. He is usually more reserved in adorning one of his own.
1. AuRELius Victor observes of Fabricius, quod difficilius ab honestate, quam Sol a sua " cursu, averti posset."
Tasso flourishes a little on this thought ;
Prima dal corso distornar la Luna E le stelle potra, che dal diritto
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377
Torcere un sol mio passo —
C. X. S. 24.
Mr. Waller rises upon the Italian,
" where her love was due. So fast, so faithful, loyal, and so true, That a bold hand as soon might hope to force The rowling lights of heav'n, as change her course."
On the Death of Lady Rich.
But Mr. Cowley, knowing what authority he had for the general sentiment, gives the reins to his fancy and wantons upon it without measure.
Virtue was thy Life's centre, and from thence Did silently and constantly dispense The gentle vigorous influence To all the wide and fair circumference : And all the parts upon it lean'd 90 easilie, Obey'd the mighty force so willinglie. That none could discord or disorder see
In all their contrarietie. Each had his motion natural and free, And the whole no more mov'd, than the whole world could be,
Brutus,
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2. The ingenious author of the Ohservafions on Spenser (from which fine specimen of his critical talents one is led to expect great things) directs us to another imitation of this sort.
Tasso had said,
Gosi a le belle lagrime le piume
Si bagna Araore, e gode al chraro lume.
On which short hint Spenser has raised the following luxuriant imagery,
The blinded archer-boy.
Like lark in show'r of rain, Sate bathing of his wings.
And glad the time did spend Under those crystal drops,
Which fall from her fair eyes. And at their brightest beams
Him proyn'd in lovely wise.
3. I will just add two more examples of the samekitid ; chiefly, because they illustrate an observation, very proper to be attended to on this subject; which is, "That in this display " of a borrowed thought, the Imitation will *' generally fall short of the Original, even " though the borrower be the greater CJe- " nius.''
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The Italian poet, just now quoted, says sublimely o? the Night,
— Usci la Notte, ^ sotto I'ali Mend il silentio —
C. V. S. 79.
Milton has given a paraphrase of this pas- sage, but very much below his original,
Now came still ev'ning on, and twilight gray Had in her sober livery all things clad ; Silence accompanifd —
The striking part of Tasso's picture, is, " Night's brmging in Silence under her wingsT So new and singular an idea as this had detected an Imitation. Milton contents himself, then, with saying simply^ Silence accompanifd. However, to make amends, as he thought, for this defect, Night itself] which the Italian had merely personized, the English poet not only personizes, but employs in a very becoming office :
Now came still ev'ning on, -and twilight gray
Had in her sober livery all things clad.
Every body will observe a little blemish, in this fine couplet. He should not have used
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the epithet sfill, when he intended to add.
Silence accompanied —
But there is a worse fault in this Imitation^ To hide it, he speaks of Night's liven/. When he had done that, to speak of her wings, had been ungraceful. Therefore he is forced to say obscurely as well as simply, Silence accom- pany d : And so loses a more noble image for a less noble one. The truth is, they would not stand together. Livery belongs to hiemav grandeur ; icings to divine or celestial. So that in Milton's very attempt to surpass his original, he put it out of his power to employ the circumstance that most recommended it.
He is not happier on another occasion, Spenser had said with his usual simplicity,
" Virtue gives herself light thro' darkness for *' to wade,"
F. Q.B.I.
Milton catched at this image, and has run it into a sort of paraphrase, in those fine lines,
" Virtue could see to do what virtue would " By her own radiant light, tho' Sun and Moon '* Were in the flat sea sunk —
CoMU9,
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In Spenser's line we have the idea of Virtu« «(lfojyt dowii into a world, all over darkened with vice and error. \'irtue excites tlte light of truth to see all around her, and not only dissipate the neighbouring darkness, but to direct her course in pursuing her victory and driving her enemy out of it ; the arduousness of which exploit is weJJ expressed by — thro' darkness for to -A' at>^. On the contrary, Mil- ton, in Jborrovvi/ig, substitutes the physical for the moral idea — ht/ hrr own radiant light — and tho' San U9)d Moon were in the fiat sea ■sunk. It may be asked, how this happened ? Very naturally. Milton was caught with the obvious imagery., which he found he could display to more advantage; and so did not enough attend to the noble seiniinent that was couched under it.
XIII. These are instances of a paraj)hrastical licence in dilating on a famous Stjntiinerit or Image. The grotind is the same, only flou- rished upon by the genius of the Imitator. At times we find him practising a different art; *' not merely spreading, as it were, and laying " open the same sentiment, but adding to it, " and by a new and studied device improving
upon it." In this case we naturally conclude that tlie refinement had not been made, if the
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plain and simple thought had not preceded and given rise to it. You will apprehend rny meaning by what follows.
1. Shakespear had said of Henry IV^*^,
— He cannot long hold out these pangs ; The incessant care and labour of his mind Hath wrought the mure, that should confine it in,
So thin, that life looks through, and will break out.
Hen. IV. A. 4.
You h^ve, here, the thought in its first sim- plicity. It was not unnatural, after speaking of the body, as a case or tenement of the Soul, the mure that confines it, to say, that as that case wears away and grows thin, life iook§ through, and is ready to break out.
Daniel, by refining on this sentiment, if by nothing else, shews himself to be the copyist. Speaking of the same Henry, he observes.
And Pain and Grief, inforcing more and more,
Besieg'd the hold that could not long defend ; Consuming so all the resisting store
Of those provisions Nature deign'd to lend,
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283.
As tliat the Walls, worn thin, permit the mind
To look out thorough, and his frailty find.
Here we see, not simply that Life is going to break through the infirm and much-worn habitation, but that the Mind looks through and Jinds his frailty, that it discovers, that Life will soon make his escape. I might add, that the four first lines are of the nature of the Paraphrase, considered in the last article : And that the expression of the others is too much the same to be original. But we are not yet come to the head of expression. And I choose to confine myself to the single point of view we have before us.
Daniel's improvement, then, looks hke the artifice of a man that would outdo his Master. Though he fails in the attempt : for his inge- nuity betrays him into a false thought. The mind, looking through, does not find its own frailty, but the frailty of the building it inha- bits. However, I have endeavoured to rectify this mistake in my explanation.
The truth is, Daniel was not a man to im- prove upon Shakespear. But now comes a writer, that knew his business much better.
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He chuses to employ this well-worn image, of rather to alter it a little and then employ it, for the conveyance of a very new fancy. If the mind could look through a thin body, much more one that was cracked and battered. And if it be for looking through at all, he will have it look to good purpose, and find, not its frailty only, but much other useful knowledge.
The lines are Mr. Waller's, and in the best manner of that very refined writer.
Stronger by weakness, wiser, men become As they draw near to their eternal home. The Soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay 'd. Lets in new light thro' chinks that time has made.
f. After all, these conceits, I doubt, are not much to your taste. The instance I am going to give, will aflord you more pleasure. Is there a passage in Milton you read with more admiration, than this in the Penseroso ?
Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep ;
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream ;
Of lively portraiture display 'd
Softly on my eye-lids laid. "*i
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Would you think it possible now that the ground-work of this fine imagery should be laid in a passage of Ben Jonson ? Yet so we read, or seem to read, in his Fisionof Deliglif.
Break, Phant'sy, from thy cave of cloud., And spread thy purple wings: Create of airy forms a stream. And tho' it be a waking dream. Yet let it like an odour rise
To all the senses here, And fall like sleep upon their eyes Or musick in their ear.
It is a delicate matter to analyze such pas- sages as these ; which, how exquisite soever in the poetry, when estimated by the Jine fhrenzy of a Genius, hardly look like sense when given in plain prose. But if you give me leave to take them in pieces, I will do it, at least, with reverence. We find then, that Fancy is here employed in one of her nicest operations, the production of a day-dream; which both 'poets represent as an airy form, or forms streaming in the air, gently falling on the eye-lids of her entranced votary. So far their imagery agrees. But now comes the mark of imitation I would point out to you. Milton carries the idea still further, and improves
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finely upon it, in the conception as well expression. Jonson evokes fancy out of her cave of cloud, those cells of the mind, as it were, in which during her intervals of rest, and when unemploy'd, fancy lies hid; and bids her, like a Magician, create this stream of forms. All this is just and truly poetical. But Milton goes further. He employs the dewi/- featJiefd sleep as his Minister in this machi- nery. And the mysterious day-dream is seen wavhig at his ivings in airy stream. Jonson would have Fancy immediately produce this Dream. Milton more poetically, because in more distinct and particular imagery, repre- sents Fancy as doing her work by means of sleep; that soft composure of the mind ab- stracted from outward objects, in which il yields to these phantastic impressions.
You see then a wonderful improvement in, this addition to the original thought. And the notion of dreams waving at the ivings of sleep is, by the way, further justified by what Vir- gil feigns of their sticking or rather fluttering on the leaves of his magic tree in the infernal regions. But it is curious to observe how this improvement itself arose from hints suggested by his original. From Jonson's dream, Jail- ing, like sleep upon their eyes, Milton took
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his feather'd sleep, which he im}iersonates so properly ; And from Phant'sys spreading her purple wings, a circumstance, not so imme- diately connected with Jonson's design of creating of airy forms a stream, he catched the idea of Sleep spreading her wings, and to good purpose, since the airy stream of forms was to wave at them.
However, Jonson's image is, in itself, in- comparable. It is taken from a winged insect breaking out of its Aurelia state, its cave of cloud, as it is finely called : Not unlike that of Mr. Pope,
So spins the Silk-worm small its slender store. And labours till it clouds itself all o'er.
IV. Dune. V. 253.
And nothing can be juster than this allusion. For the ancients always pictured Fancy and Human-love with Insect's wings.
XIV. Thus then, whether the poet preva- ricates, enlarges, or adds, still we frequently find some latent circumstance, attending his management, that convicts him of Imitation. Nay, he is not safe even when he denies him- self these liberties; I mean when he only glances at his original. " For, in this case, X 2
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" the borrowed sentiment usually wants some- thing of that perspicuity which always at- " tends the first delivery of it." This Rule may be considered as the Reverse of the last. A writer, sometimes, takes a pleasure to refine on a plain thought: Sometimes (and that is usually when tlie original sentiment is well known and fully developed) he does not so much as attempt to open and explain it.
A poet of the last age has the following lines, on the subject of Religion :
Religion now is a young Mistress here^ For which each man will fight, and dye at least ;
Let it alone awhile, and 't will become A kind of married wife; people will be Content to live with it in quietness.
Suckling says this in his Tragedy of Brenno- ralt; which is a Satire throughout on the rising troubles of that time. Butler has taken the thought and applied it on the same occasion :
When hard words, jealousies, and fears Set folks together by the ears. And make them fight, like mad or drunk. For dame Religion, as for Punk.
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Setting aside the difference between the burlesque and serious- style, one easily sees that this sentiment is borrowed from Suckling. It has not the clear and full exposition of an original thought. Butler only rejjresents men as drunk with Religion and fighting for it as for a Punk. The oilier gives the reason of the Debaucli, namely, fondness for a new face; and tells us, besides, how things would sub- side into ])eace or indifference on a nearer and more familiar arquaintiince. One could ex- pect no less from the Inventor of this humo- rous thought ; a Borrower might be content to allude to it.
XV. This last consideration puts me in mind of another artifice to conceal a borrowed sentiment. Nothing lies more open to disco- very than a Simile in form, especially if it be a remarkable one. These are a sort of pnrjm- rei panni which catch all eyes ; and, if the comparison be not a writer's own, he is almost sure to be detected. The way then that re- fined Imitators take to conceal themselves, in such a case, is to run the Similitude into Al- legory. We have a curious instance in Mr. Pope, who has succeeded so well in the attempt, that his plagiarism, I believe^ lias pever been suspected.
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The verses, I have in my eye, are these fine ones, addressed to Lord'Bolingbroke,
Oh, while along the stream of time thy name Expanded flies, and gathers all it's fame. Say, shall my little Bark attendant sail, Pursue the triumph, and partake the Gale ?
What think you, now, of these admired verses ? Are they, besides their other beauties, perfectly original ? You will be able to resolve this question, by turning to the following pas- sage in a Poet, Mr. Pope was once fond of, I mean Statils,
Sic ubi magna novum Phario de litore puppis Solvit iter, jamque innumeros utrinque ru- dentes
Lataque veliferi porrexit brachia mali Invasitque vias, in eodem angusta phaselus jEquore, et immensi partem sibi vendicat Austri. SiLV. 1. V. i. v. 242.
But, especially, this other,
— imraensae veluti connexa carinae Cymba minor, cum saevit hyems, pro parte, furentes
Parva receptat aquas, et eodem voL^â– ITUK
AUSTRO.
SiLV. 1. I. iv. v, 120.
OF IMITATION.
2ÂŁ)1
XVI. I release you from this head of Sen- thnents, with observing- that we sometimes conclude a writer to have had a celebrated ori- ginal in his eye, when " without copying the " peculiar thought, or stroke of imagery, he " gives us only a copy of ihe impression, it " had made upon him."
1. In delivering this rule, I will not dis- semble that I myself am copying, or rather stealing from a great critic : From one, how- ever, who will not resent this theft ; as indeed he has no reason, for he is so prodigiously rich in these things, as in others of more value, that what he neglects or flings away, would make the fortune of an ordinary writer. The person I mean is the late Editor of Shakespear, who, in an admirable note on Julius Caesar, taking occasion to quote that passage of Cato,
O think what anxious moments pass between The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods, Oh, 'tis a dreadful interval of time, Fill'd up with horror all, and big with death,
observes " that Mr. Addison was so struck and " aflfected with the terrible graces of Shake- spear (in the passage he is there considering) that, instead of imitating his author's senti- " ments, he hath, before he was aware, given
292
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" US only the copy of his own impressions " made by them. For,
Oh, 'tis a dreadful interval of time,
Fill'd up with horror all, and big with death,
" are but the affections raised by such forcible '•' images as these,
All the Int'rim is
Like a Phantasma, or a hideous dream
The state of man,
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an Insurrection."
The observation is new and finely applied. Give me leave to suppose that the following is an instance of the same nature.
2. Milton on a certain occasion sa3's of Death, that she
*' Grinn'd horrible a ghastly smile —
P. L. B. n. V. 846'.
This representation is supposed by his learned Editor to be taken from Homer, from Statius, or from the Italian poets. A certain friend of ours, not to be named without ho- nour, and therefore not at all on so slight an
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293
occasion, suggests that it might probably be copied from Spenser's,
Grinning griesly —
B. V. c. 12.
And there is the more HkeHhood in this con- jecture, as the poet a httle before had call'd death— the gries It/ terror — v. 704. But after all, if he had any preceding writer in view, I suspect it might be Fletcher; who, in his ff^ife for a Month, has these remarkable lines.
The game of Death was never play'd more nobly,
The meagre thief grew iianton in his mis- chiefs,
And his shrunk hollow eyes smil'd on his ruin.
The word Ghastly, I would observe, gives the precise idea of shrunk hollow eyes, and looks as if Milton, in admiration of his original, had only looked out for an epithet to Death's smile, as he found it pictured in Fletcher.
Thus much, then, may perhaps serve for an illustration of the first part of this Inquiry. We have found out several marks, and applied them to various passages in the best writers, from which we may reasonably enough be
254
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allowed to infer an Imitation in point of Sen- timent. For what respects the other part of Expression, this is an easier task, and will be dispatched in few words.
Only you will indulge me in an observation or two, to prevent your expecting from me more than I undertake to perform.
When I speak of Expression, then I meiin to confine myself " to siilgle words or sen- ^' tences, or at most the stmcture of a passage." When Imitation is carried so far as to affect the general cast of language, or what we call a Style, no great sagacity is, perhaps, required to detect it. Thus the Ciceroniani, if they were not ambitious of proclaiming themselves, tire discoverable at the first glance. And the later Roman poets, as well as the modern Latin versifiei-s, are, to the best of their power, Virgilian. The thing is perhaps still easier in a living language; especially if that language be our own. Milton and Pope, if they have made but few poets, have made many imitators ; so many, that we are ready to complain therfe is hardly an original poet left.
Another point seems of no importance in the present inquiry, I know, it is asked. How
OF IMITATION.
295
far a writer casually or designedly imitates? that is, whether he copies another from me- mory only, without recollecting, ot the time, the passage from which his expression is drawn, or purposely, and with full knowledge of his original. And this consideration is of much weight, as I have shewn at large, where the question is concerning the credit of the sup* posed imitator. For this is affected by nothing but direct and intended imitation. But as we are looking at present only for those marks in the expression which shew it not to be original, it is enough that the resemblance is such as cannot well be accounted for but on the sup- position of some sort of commerce ; whether immediately perceived by the writer himself, is cot material, 'Tis true, this observation is applicable to sentiments as well as expression ; and I have not pretended to give the preceding articles, as proofs, or even presumptions, in all cases, that the later writer copied inten- tionally from a former. But there is this dif- ference in the two cases. Sentiments may be strikingly similar, or even identical, without the least thought, or even effect, of a preceding original. But the identity of expression, ex- cept in some few cases of no importance, is, in the same language, where the writer speaks
S96 ON THE MARKS
entirely from himself, an almost impossible thing. And you will be of this mind, if you reflect on the infinitely varied lights in which the same image or sentiment presents itself to different writers ; the infinitely varied purpose they have to serve by it ; or where it happens to strike precisely in the same manner, and is directed precisely to the same end, the infinite combinations of words in which it may be ex- pressed. To all which you may add, that the least imaginable variation, either in the terms or the structure of them, not only destroys the identity, but often disfigures the resemblance to that degree that we hardly know it to be a resemblance.
So that you see, the ?»arks of imitated or, if you will, derived expression are much less equivocal, than of sentimerit. We may pro- nounce of the former \\ ithout hesitation, that it is taken, when corresponding marks in the latter would only authorise us to conclude that it was the same or perhaps similar.
I need not use more words to convince you, that the distinction of casual and design d imitation is still of less significancy in this class of imitations, than the other.
OF imiTATION.
29?
And with this preamble, more particular perhaps and circumstantial than was necessary, I now proceed to lay before you some of those signs of derived expression, which I conceive to be unequivocal. If they are so, they will generally appear at first sight ; so that I shall have little occasion to trouble you, as I did before, with my comments. It will be suffi- cient to deliver the 7-ule, and to exemplify it.
1. An identity of expression, especially if carried on through an intire sentence, is the most certain proof of imitation.
jNIr. Waller of Sacharissa,
So little care of what is done belovv Hath the bright dame, whom heav'n afFeoteth so ;
Paints her, 'tis true, with the same hand
which spreads Like glorious colours thro' the flow'ry meads ; When lavish nature ivith her best attire Cloaths the gay spring, the season of desire.
Mr. Fenton takes notice that the poet is copying from the Muiopotmos of Spenser,
To the gay gardens his unstaid desire Him wholly carried to refresh his sprights:
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There lavish Nature, in her best attire, Pours forth sweet odours and alluring sights.
We shall see presently that, besides the iden- tity of expression, there is also another mark of imitation in this passage.
II. But less than this will do, where the similarity of thought, and application of it, is striking.
Mr. Pope says divinely well.
Shall burning ^tna, if a sage require?, Forget to thimder and recall its fires ? On air or sea new motions he impressed, Oh blameless Bethel ! to relieve thy breast ? When the. loose mountain trembles from on high.
Shall gravitation cease if you go hy ? Or some old temple nodding to its fall For Chartres head reserve the hanging wall ?
Essay iv. v. 123.
Now turn to Mr. Wollaston, an easy natural writer (where his natural manner is not stiffened by a mathematical pedantry) and abounding in fine sallies of the imagination ; and see if the poet did not catch his expression, as wel]
OF IMITATION.
the fire of his conception in this place, frora the philosopher :
" As to the course of Nature, if a good man- be passing" by an infirm building, just in the article of falling, can it be expected that God should suspend the force of gravitation till he is gone hy, in order to his deliverance ; or can we think it would be increased, and the fall hastened, if a bad man was there, only that he might be caught, crushed, and made an example? If a man's safety or prosperity should depend upon winds or rains, must new vwtions be impressed upon the atmosphere, and new directions given to tlie floating parts of it, by some extraordinary and new influence from God
III. Sometimes the original expression is not taken but paraphrased ; and the writer dis- guises himself in a kind of circundocution. Yet this artifice does not conceal him, espe- cially if some fragments, as it were, of the inventor's phrase are found dispersediy in the imitation.
For in the secret of her troubled thought A doubtful combat love and honour fought.
Fairfax''s Tasso, B. iv. S. 70.
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Hence Mr. Waller,
There public care and private passion Jbughf A doubtful combat in his noble thought.
Poems, p. 14.
Public care is the periphrasis of honour, and private passion, of love. For the rest you see — disjecti membra poeta;.
IV. An imitation is discoverable, ^\hen there is but the least particle of the original expres- sion, " by a peculiar and no very natural ar- rangement of words."
In Fletcher's faithful Shepherdess, the speaker says,
In thy face
Shines more awful majesty, Than dull weak mortality Dare with misty eyes behold, And live —
The writer glanced, but very improperly on such an occasion, at Exod. xxxiii. 20. " Thou " canst not see my face: for there shall no man " see me, and live."
V. An uncommon construction of words not identical, especially if the subject be the
OF IMITATION. 301
same, or the ideas similar, will look like imitation. . â– ;
Milton says finely of the Stran,
The Swan with arched neck
Between her white wings mantling proudly
ROWS
Her state — •
I !>hould think he might probably have that line of Fletcher in his head,
How like a Swan she swims her pace !
The ex})ression, you see, is very like. 'Tis true, the image in Milton is much nobler. It is taken from a barge of state in a public procession.
V' I. We may even pronounce that a single u oi d is taken, when it is new and uncommon.
Milton's calling a ray of light — a levell'd rule in Comus v. 340, is so particular that, when one reads in Euripides ijXis KANflN <ra<pi^f, Suppl. V. 6'50, one has no doubt that the learned poet translated the Greek, word.
Again, Mr. Pope's, *• Or ravish'd with the ivhistUng of a name,"
302
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is for the same reason, if there were no other points of hkeness, copied from Mr. Cowley's
"â– Charm'd with the foohsh whistlings of a name,"
Transl. of Virgil's O ! fortunati nhnium, &c.
VII. An improper me of uncommon ex- pression, in very exact writers, will sometimes create a suspicion. Milton had called the sight indifferently visual nerve and visual ray, P. L. iii. 6ao. xi. 415- Mr. Pope in his Mes- siah thought he might take the same liberty, but forgot that though the visual nerve might be purged from film, the visual ray could not. Had Mr. Pope invented this bold expression, he would have seen to apply his metaphor more properly.
VIII. Where the word or phrase '\s foreign, there is, if possible, still less doubt.
at last his sail-broad vans
He spreads for flight.
Milton, P. L. ii. v. 927.
Most certainly from Tasso's,
— Spiega al grand volo i vanni. ix.
And that of Jonson in his Sejanus,
OF IMITATION.
O ! what is it proud slime will not believe Of his own worth, to hear it equal prais'd Thus ivith the Gods —
A. 1.
from Juvenal's
niiiil est quod credere de se
Non possit, cum laudatur Diis ccqna potestas.
IX. Con^clude the same when the expression is antique, in the writer's own language.
In Mr. Waller's Panegyric on the Protector.
So, when a Lion shakes his dreadful )nane. And angry grows, if he that first took pnhi 'I'd tame liis youth, approach the haughty beast,
lie bends to him, hut frights away the rest.
The antique formality of the phrase that first took pain, for, that first took the pains, in so pure and modern a speaker, as this poet, looks sufipicious. He took it, as he found it in an older writer. There are many other •narks of imitation, but we had needed no more than this to make the discovery :
So when a lion shakes his dreadful manCj And beats his tail, with courage proud^ and, wroth,
V 2
304
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If his commander come, who first tooh pain To tame his youth, his lofty crest down go'th.
Fairfax's Tasso, B. viii. S. 83.
X. You observe in most of the instances, here given, besides other marks, there is an identity of rhyme. And this circumstance of itself, in our poetry, is no bad argument of imitation, particularly when joined to a simi- larity of expression. And the reason is, the rhyme itself very naturally brings the expres- sion along with it.
1 . " Stuck o'er with titles, and hung round
with strings. That thou may'st be by Kings, or ivhores of Kings."
Essay on Man, E. iv. v. 205.
from Mr. Cowley in his translation of Hor. 1 . ep. 10.
" To Kings, or to the favourites of Kings."
2. " Such is the world's great harmony, that
springs
From order, union, full consent of things." * Ep. III. 295.
from Denham's Cowper's Hill,
" Wisely she knew the harmony of things As well as that of sounds from discord springs.'"
I
OF IMITATION. 305
3. " Far as the solar walk, or milky way." : Essay on Man, Ep. I. v. 103.
from Mr. Dryden's Pindaric Poem to th« memory of K. Charles II.
" Out of the solar walk, or heav'n's high way."
Though these consonancies chyming in the writer's head, he might not always be aware of the imitation.
XI. In the examples, just given, there was no reason to suspect the poet was imitating, till you met with the original. Then indeed the rhynie lead- to the discovery. But " if an exact writer falls into a flatness of expres- sion for the sake of rhyme, you may ev'n previously conclude that he has some precedent for it."
In the famous lines,
Let modest Foster, if he will, excell • w Ten metropolitans in preaching well.
Ep. to Satires, v. 131.
I used to suspect that the phrase of preaching well so unlike the concise accuracy of Pope, would not have been hazarded by him, if some eminent writer, though perhaps of an older
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age and less correct taste than his own, had not set the example. But I had no doubt left when I happened on the following couplet in Mr. Waller.
Your's sounds aloud, and tells us you excell No less in courage, than in singing well. ,; Poem to Sir W. D'Avenant.
Our great poet is more happy in the appli- cation of these rhymes on another occasion.
Let such teach others, who themselves excel I ^ And censure freely, who !iave written uell. - ' EJssay on Crit. v. 15,
The reason is apparent. But here he glanced at the Duke of Buckingham's,
" Nature's chief master-piece is u riting u ell.
XII. " The same pause and turn 9f ex- pression are pretty sure symptoms of imita- tion." These minute resemblances do not usually spring from Nature, which, when rfie sentiment is the same, hath a hundred ways of its pwn^ of giving it to us.
^. That noble verse in the essa} on cviti- e'lsxn, V. 625.
OF IMITATION. 507
" For fools rush in, Tvh"-e angels dare not ttead,"
is certainly fashion'd upon Shakespear's,
' " the world is grown so bad
" That wrens make prey, where angels dare not perch."
Rich. III. A. I. S. III.
2. The verses to Sir W. Trumbal in Past. 1.
" And carrying with you all the world can boast,
To all the world illustriously are lost."
from Waller's Maid's Tragedy alter'd,
Happy is he that from ttie world retires And carries with him what the world admires.
p. 215. Lond. 1712.
XIII. When to these marks the same Rhyme. is added, the case is still more evident.
" Men would be angels, angels would be Gods."
Essay on Man, Ep. I. v. 12^J.
Without all question from Sir Fulk Grevil,
Men would be tyrants, tyrants would be Gods.
Works, Lond. lf)33. p. 73.
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ON THE AjlARKS
XIV. The seeming quaintness and obscurity of an expression frequently indicates imitation. As when in Fletcher's Pilgrim we read,
" Hummings of higher nature vex his brains." ■••' ' A.'ii."S. 2.
Had the idea been original, the poet had expressed it more plainly. In leaving it thus, he pays his reader the compliment to suppose, that he will readily call to mind,
aliena negotia centum Per caput, et circa saliuut latus ;
which sufficiently explains it: As we may see from Mr. Cowley's application of the same pas- sage. " Aliena negotia centum per caput et " centum saliunt latus. A hundred businesses " of other men fly continually about his head " and ears, and strike him in the face like " Dorres." Disc, of Liberty. And still more clearly, from Mr. Pope's,
" A hundred other men's affairs,
" Like bees, are humming in my ears."
Learned writers of quick parts abound in these delicate allusions. It makes a principal part of modern elegancy to glance ir^ this oblique manner at well-known passages in the classics.
OF IMITATION.
XV. I will trouble you with but one more note of imitated expression, and it shall be the very reverse of the last. When the pas- sages glanced at are not familiar, the expression is frequentl)' minute and circumstantial, cor- responding to the original in the order, turn, and almost number of the words. The reasons are, that, the imitated passage not being known, tlie imitator may give it, as he finds it, with safety, or at least without offence ; and that, besides, the force and beaut v of it would escape us in a brief and general allusion. The following are instances :
1. " Man never is, but always to be blest."
Essay on Man, Ep. I, v. 69.
from Manilius, Victuros agimus semper, nec vivimus unquam^
2. — *' Hope never comes, " That comes to all." —
Milton, P. L. i. v. 66.
from Euripides in the Troad. v. 676.
3. But above all, that in Jonson's Catiline,
" He shall die : " Shall was too slowly said : He's di/ing: That " Is still too slow : He's dead."'
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from Seneca's Hercules fur ens, A. lii.
' *' Lycus Creonti debitas poenas dah\t : " Lentum est, dablt ; dat : hoc quoque est lentum ; dedit."
You have now, Sir, before you a specimen of those rules, which I have fancied might be fairly applied to the discovery of imitations, both in regard to the sense and expression of great writers. I would not pretend that the same stress is to be laid on all ; but there may be something, at least, worth attending to in every one of them. It were easy, perhaps, to enumerate still more, and to illustrate these I have given with more agreeable citations. Yet I have spared you the disgust of considerin* those vulgar passages, which every body recol- lects and sets down for acknowledged imita- tions. And these I have used are taken from the most celebrated of the ancient and modern writers. You may observe indeed that I have chiefly drawn from our own jwefs; which I did, not merely because I know you despise the pedantry of confining one's self to learned quotations, but because I think we are better able to discern those circumstances, which be- tray an imitation, in our own language than in any other. Amongst other reasons, an iden- tity of words find {>lirases, upon which so
OF IMITATION.
sn
much depends, especially in the article of ex- pression, is ©nly to be had in the sa}7ie language. And you are not to be told with how much more certainty we determine of the degree of evidence, which such identity affords for this purpose, in a language we speak, than in one which we only lisp or spell.
But you will best understand of what im- portance tliis affair of expression is to the discovery of imitations, by considering how seldom we are able to fix avi imitation on Shakespear. The reason is, not, that there are not numberless passages in him very like to others in approved authors, or that he had not read enough to give us a fair hold of him ; but that his expression is so totally his own, that he almost always sets us at defiance.
You will ask me, perhaps, now I am on this subject, how it happened that Shakespear's language is every where so much his own as to secure his imitations, if they were such, from discovery ; when I pronounce with such as- surance of those of our other poets. The answer is given for me in the Preface to Mr. Theobald's Shakespear ; though the observa- tion, I think, is too good to come from that ci'itic. It is, thatj though his words, agree-
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ably to the state of thfe English tongue at that time, be generally Latin, his phraseology is perfectly English: An advantage, he owed to his slender acquaintance with the Latin idiom. Whereas the other writers of his age, and such others of an older date as were likely to fall into his hands, had not only the most familiar acquaintance with the Latin idiom, but affected on all occasions to make use of it. Hence it comes to pass, that, though he might draw sometimes from the Latin (Ben Jonson, you know, tells us. He had less Greek) and the learned English writers, he takes nothing but the sentiment ; the expression comes of itself, and is purely English.
I might indulge in other reflexions, and detain you still further with examples taken from his works. But we have lain, as the Poet speaks, on these primrose beds, too long. It is time that you now rise to your own nobler inventions ; and that I return myself to those, less pleasing, perhaps, but more useful studies from which your friendly sollicitations have called me. Such as these amusements are, however, I cannot repent me of them, since they have been innocent at least, and even ingenuous; and, what I am fondest to recollect, have helped to enliven those many years of
OF IMITATION.
friendship we have passed together in this place. I see indeed, witli regret, the approach of that time, which threatens to take me both from if, and you. But, however fortune may- dispose of me, she cannot throw me to a dis-^ tance, to which your affection and good wishes, at least, will not follow me.
And for the rest, " Be no unpleasing melancholy mine.*'
The coming years of my life will not, I foresee, in many respects, be what the past have been to me. But, till they take me from myself, I must always bear about me the agree- uble remembrance of our friendship.
I am.
Dear Sir,
Your most affectionate
Fr!e9id and Servant,
Cambridge, ,iug. 15, 1757
INDEX
TO THE
TWO VOLUMES-
Addison, Mr. his judgment of the douWe sense of verbs, i. 359. his Cato, defended, 102. not too poetical, ib. its real defects, ib. his criti- cism on Milton proceeds on just principles, 39S. how far defective, 396,.
Aeneis, prefigured under the idea of a temple, i. 333. the destruction of Troy, an episode,, why, i- 139.
Aglaophon, his rude manner of painting; why
preferred to Parrhasius and Zeuxis, i. 346. Allegory, the distinguished pride of ancient
poetry, i. 343. a fine instiince from Firgil, 333. Ancients, immoderately extolled, v/hy, i. 346. Antigone, the chorus of it defended, i. 158. Aphorisms, condemned in the Roman writers, i.
184. why used so frequently by the Greeks, 185. Apollonius Rhodius, why censured by Ansiopka-
7jtf.<^ and Aristarchiis, i. 267.
INDEX.
Apotheosis, the usual mode of flattery in the Au- gustan age, i. 333.
Aristotle, his opinion of Homer's imitations, i. 67. of Euripides, 1J6. of the business of the chorus, 145. of the sententious manner, 186. his fine Ode, corrected, 188. n. translated, 189. of the origin of tragedy, 194. a passage in his poetics explained, 123. his censure of the Iphigenia at Aulis, considered, 131. he was little known at Rome in Cicero's time, 191. why Horace differs from him in his account of Aeschy- luis inventions, 240. a supposed contradiction between him and Horace reconciled, 26S. his judgment of moral pictures, 375. his admiration of an epithet in Homer, on what founded, ii. 126.
Art and Nature, their provinces in forming a poet, i. 27 3.
Atellane fable, a species of Comedy, i. 192. different from the satyric piece, 1 95. the Oscan language used in it, 198. why criticised by Ho- race, 206. in what sense Pomponius, the In- ventor of it, 198.
Athenaeus, of the moralizing turn of the Greeks, i. 187.
Acc roR ad Herennium, defines an aphorism, i. 184. Augustus, fond of the old Comedy, i. 228. n.
B.
Bacon, Lord, his idea of poetry, ii. 178. Balz.\C, Mr. his flattery of Luuis LE JUSTE, i. 344, 345.
INDEX.
Beauty, the idea of, how distinguished from the pathetic, i. 110.
Bentley, Dr. corrections of his censured, i. 71, 72, 106, 142. an interpretation of his confuted, 110. a conjecture of his confirmed, 349.
Bos, M. de, how he accounts for the effect of Tra- gedy, i. 119. for the degeneracy of taste and literature, 264. what he thought of modern imi- tations of the ancient poets, ii. 224,
BOUHOURS, P. his merit as a critic, pointed out, i. 393. wherein censured, 395.
Brumoy, p. his character, i. 133. commends the Athalk and Esther of Racine, 145. justifies the chorus, ib. accounts for the sententious manner of tlie Greek stage, 185. an observation of his on the imitation of foreign characters, 247.
Sruyere, M. de la, an observation of his concern- ing the manners, ii. 135.
BusiRis, in what sense a ridiculous character, i. 208.
C.
Caesai!, C Julius, his judgment of Terence, i. 22.5.
Casaubon, Isaac, his book on satyric poetry re- commended, i. 194. an emendation of his con- firmed, 208.
Character, the object of comedy, ii. 56. of what sort, 40. of what persons, ib. plays of, in what faulty, 43. instances of such plays, 53. VOL. I).
318
rVDÂŁx.
Characi ERS, of comedy, general ; of tragedy, particular, why, ii. 48. this matter explained at large, to 54.
Chorus, its use and importance, i. 145. its moral character, 156. more easily conducted by ancient than modern poets, 161. improvements in the Latin tragic chorus, 179.
CiCER , M. Tullins, of the use of old words, i. S9. of self-murder, 162. of poetic licence, 174. of the language of Deviocritiis and Plato, 180. of the music of his time, 182. of the neglect of philo- sophy, 191. of the mimes, 205. of Plautus's wit, 220. does not mention .i!/(f7zani?^r, 229. mentions corporal infirmities as proper subjects forridicule, 231. of a good poet, 249. of decorum, 251. of the use of philosophy, ib.
CiD, of P. Corneille, its uncommon success, to what owing, i. 398.
Clow.ns, their character in ^AcAfijDi'ar, i. 186.
GoMEDY, Roman, three species of it, i. 192.
the author's idea of it, ii. 30. conclusions
concerning its nature, from that idea, 37. attri- butes, common to it and tragedy, 42. attributes, peculiar to it, 45. its genius, considered at large, 57. M. de Fontenelle's notion of it, considered, 75. idea of it enlarged since the time of Aristotle, 65. polite and heroic, what we are to think of it, 86. on high life, censured, ib. of modern inven- tion, ib. accounted for, 87. why more difficult than tragedy, iU
INDSX. 319
Comparison, similarity of, in all writers, why ne- cessary, ii. 194. why more so in the graver than lighter poetry, 198.
CouNEiLLE, P. his objection to Euripides's Medeay confuted, i. 163. his notion of comic action con- sidered, ii. 41.
Criticism, the uses of it, ii. 105. its aim, 391. when perfect, ib.
D.
Dacier, M. criticisms of his considered, i. 94, 168, 173, 174, 175, 240, 244, 245, 268, ibid, the author's opinion of him, as a critic, 62, n. and 272. his account of the opening of xha Epistle to Augustus censured, 326.
Dance, the choral commended, i. 178.
Davenant, Sir William, his Gondibert criticised, ii. 235.
Demetrius Phalereus, characterizes the satyric
piece, i. 193. Description, natural and moral, why similar in
the form as well as matter in all poets, ii. 19 J,
192.
Dialogue, Socratic, the genius of, i. 252.
Dio Cassius, instances from him of the gross flat- tery paid to Caesar t i. 330.
DiOMEDES, of the Satyric and Atellane fables, i. 195. of the use of the Satyric piece, 203. a passage in him corrected by Casaubon, 208. his character of the Atellanes, 234. distinguishes the different, kinds of th« Roman drama, 241.
Z 3
330
IWDEX.
DiONYSius, of Halicarnassus, of the nse of words, i. 92. of Plato's figurative style, 254.
DOCTOS, the meaning of, explained, i. 350 — 352.
DONATUS, distinguishes the three forms of comedy, i. 192, 193.
Drama, see Tragedy, Comedy^ Farce.
Peruvian, some acconnt of, ii. 66, 67.
CJiinese, 67. Greek and Roman, its character, 69. the laws of, in what different from those of history, ii. 179.
DULCE, its distinction from pw/<:Arz<m, i. 109,
Dpport, Pr. his collection of moral parallelisms in Homer, and Sacred Writ, of what use ? li. 14a
E.
Electra, of Euripides, vindicated, i. 125. a cir- cumstance in the two plays of that name by Eu- ripides and Sophocles compared, 259.
Elfrida, of Mr. Mason, i. 148. the best apology for the ancient chorus, ibid.
Envy, how it operates in human nature, i. 329. how it operated in the case of Mr. Pope, 328.
Epic Poetry, admits new words, i. 73. its plan how fat to be copied by the tragic poet, 137. in what different from history, ii. 179.
Episode, its character and laws, ii. 185.
Epistle, didactic and degiac, Intr. to vol. i. 17, Didactic, the offspring of the satyr, ibid, its three-fold character, 24. Elegiac, the difference of this from the didactic form, 23, 24.
INDEX.
321
Eratosthenes, his idea of the end of poetry, ii. 4.
Euripides, his character, i. 116. his Medea com- mended, 121. Electro, vindicated, 125. Iphi- genia in Aulis vindicated, 131. the decorum of his characters, 132. his Hippolytus led Sejieca into mistakes, 150. an observation on the chorus of that play, 161. and of the Medea, 162. Sum- /i^M(w'5 character of him, 191. a circumstance in his Electra compared with Sophocles, 259. his genius resembling Virgil's, ii. 152.
Expression, why similar in different writers withoat imitation, ii. 204.
F.
F.^^BLE, why essential to both Dramas, ii, 42. why an unity and even simplicity in the fable, 43. a good one, why not so essential to comedy as tragedy, 45.
Farce, the author's idea of it, ii. 30. its laws, 96.
its end and character, how distinguished from
those of tragedj' and comedy, 98.^ Feeling, rightly made the test of poetical merit,
L 390.
Fenelon, of the use of old words, i. 91. Fiction, poetical, when credible, ii. 130. tlie soul
of poetry, ii. 11. Flattery of the Romayi Emperors excessive, i.
330. imported from the .(^^w/jc provinces, 331. FONTENELLE, M. de, his opinion of tlie origin of
comedy, i. 244. his notion of the drama, ii. 75,
/
INDEX.
&c. his comedies criticised^ 90. his pastorals censured, ibid, his opinion of the uses of ciiti- cism, 105.
6.
Geddes, J. Esq. his notion of the most essential principles of Eloquence, i. 381.
Gellius, Auliis, his opinion of Laberius, i. 206.
Genius, original, a proof of, in the particularity of description, ii. 126. similarity of, in two wri- ters, its effects, 225.
Georgic, the form of this poem, what, ii. 183.
Greeks, their most ancient writers falsely supposed to be the best, i. 347.
H.
Heinsius, his idea of true criticism, i. 65. his ex- planation of a passage in Z^oracf, 148. thought one part of the Epistle to the Pisos inexplicable, 269. his transposition of the Epistle censured, 272.
HIPPOLYTUS, of Euripides ; an observation on the chorus, i. 161. of Seneca, censured, 149.
HoBBES, Mr. his censure of the Italian romancers in their unnatural fiction, ii. 238.
HoESLlNUS, his opinion of the fourth book of th«i ^eneis, ii. 154.
INDEX.
323
HoMEO, first inveiiteci dramatic imitations, i. 42. his excellence in planting the effects of the man- ners, ii. 157.
Horace, explained and illustrated, passim, his Epistle to the Pisos, a criticism on the Roman drama, Introd. to vol. i. 15. the character of his genius, 24. his Epistle to Augustus, an apology for the Roman poets, 325. design and character of his other critical works, 407. what majf be said for his flattery of Augustus, 330. fond of the old Zfl^m poets, 349. his knowledge of the world, 379.
Hume, David, Esq. his account of the pathos in tragedy, considered, i, 118. his judgment of Fontenelle's discourse on pastoral poetry, 218.
Humour, the end of corned}', ii- 57. two species of humour, 59. one of these not much known to the ancients, ibid, neither of them in that per- fection on the ancient as modern stage, 60. may subsist without ridicule, 62. yet enlivened by it, 64.
Hymns, profane and sacred, why similar, ii. 138. I. and J.
'Invention, in poetry, what, ii. ill. principally displayed in the manner of imitation, 158.
Jester, a character by profession amongst the Greeks, i. 235.
Imitation, primary and secondary, what, ii. 113, the latter not easily distinguishable from the forr
324
INDEX.
mer, ibid, shewn at large in respect of the mat- ter of poetry, 1 15 to 176. %f the manner, J 76 to 215. in painting, sooner detected than in poetry, why, 162. how it may be detected, 208. and Letter to Mr. Mason, throughout. Why no rules delivered for it in the Discourse on imitation, 214. confessed, no certain proof of an inferiority of genius, 215, 216. accounted for from habit, 217. from authority, 221. from judgment, 222. from similarity of genius, 224. from the nature of the subject, 226. its singular merit, 228. not to be avoided by literate writers without affectation, 234.
Incolumi gravitate, a learned critic's interpreta- tion of these words, i. 201. Innovation, in words, why allowed to old writers,
and not to others, i. 88. Intrigue, when faulty in comedy, ii. 39. JONSON, Ben. a criticism on his Catiline, i. 135.
his Every man out of his humour censured, ii.
52. his Alchijmist and Volpone criticized, 101.
the character of his genius and comedy, 103, IPHlGENlAat AUUS, of Euripides, vindicated, i. 131, Julius Pollux, shews the Tibia to have been used
in the chorus, i. 177. JuNCTURA Callida, explained, i. 74. exemplified
from Shakespear, 77,
K.
Knowledge of the world, what, i. 379.
L.
323
Laberius, his mimes, what, i. 205. Lambin, his comment on communia supported, i. 133, Landsk(P-painting, wherein its beauty consists, i. 71.
Lex Talionis, i. 127.
Licence, of particular seasons in Greece and Romt, its effect on taste, i. 234, 235, of ancient wit, tQ what owing, 231.
LlPSlus, his extravagant flattery, i. 332.
LoNGlNUS^ his opinion of imitators without genius,
i. 250. accounts for the decUne of the arts, 265. his opinion of the mutual assistance of art and nature, 273. his method of criticizing, scientific, 392. wherein defective, 394.
Love, subjects of, a defect in modern tragedy, why, ii. 34. passion of, how described by Te~ rence and Shakespcar, ii. 144. by Catullus and Ovid, 151. by Virgil, 152.
LvciAN, the first of the ancients who has left us any considerable specimens of comic humour, L 225, his AAEKTPTUN and AAni0AI, 235.
M.
Machineey, essential to the epic poetry, why,
ii. 166.
Malheebe, M. the character and fortune of hi» poetry, i. 358.
32^
r\DEX.
Manners, why imperfeet in both dramas, ii. 60.
desciiption of, whence taken, 129. Markland, Mr. an emendation of his confirmed,
i. 71.
Marks, of Imitation, ii. Letter to Mr. Mason. Mason, his Elfrida, commended, i. 148. Medea, of Euripides, commended, i. 121. its
chorus vindicated, 162. oi Seneca, cen&xxTeA, 122. Menage, his judgment of ancient wit, i. 230. his
intended discourse on imitation, 405. Menander, why most admired after the Augustan
age, i. 223. did not excel in comic humour, 225.
his improvements of comedy, ii. 72. Milton, his angels, whence taken, ii. 116. his
attention to the effects of the manners, 1 58. Mimes, the character of them, i. 205. defined by
Diomedes, 206. Moderns, bad imitators of P/a^o, i. 2j4. Moliere, his comedies farcical, ii. 100. his Misan-,
thrope and 7a?'/z{^6' commended, 101. Money, love of, the bane of the ancient arts, i. 264'. Morning, descriptions of, in the poets compared,
ii. 123. when most original, 126.
Music, old, why preferred by the Greek writers,
i. 181. why by the Za^w, 182. , of the stage, its rise and progress at Borne,
j. 168. defects of the old music, 182.
N.
Narration, oratorial, the credibility of, on what
it depends, ii. 130. n. NovKLS, modern, criticized, ii. 18.
INDEX.
O
Ode, its character, i. 94. its end, 270. the j)oet''s. own odes, apologized for, ibid.
Opinion, popular, of writings, under what circum- stances to be regarded, i. 355.
D'Orville, Mr. his defence of the double sense of verbs examined, i. 358.
Osci, their language used in the Atellanes, i. 196.
Otway, his Or/)/zan censured, i. 68.
Ovid, the character of his genius, Introd. to i. 23, 24. a conjecture concerning his Medea, i. 143. makes the satyrs to be a species of the tragic drama, 192. his account of the mimes, 205.
P.
Painting, Landskip, wherein its beauty consists, i. 71. Portrait, its excellence, ii. 49. difference between the Italian and Flemish schools, i. 25*?. its moral efficacy, 375. inferior to poetry, in what, ii. 130. wherein superior to poetry, 146. expresses the general character, 160. hath an advantage in this respect over poetry, 162. un- able to represent moral and ceconomical senti- ments, 168.
Passions, the way to paint them naturally, ii. 131. Pastoral poetry, its genius, and fortunes, i. 214. Pathos, the supreme excellence of tragedy, i. 116. 397. how far to be admitted into comedy, ii. 73.
328
INDEX.
the pleasure arising from, how to be accounted for, i. 119.
Paterculus, Velleius, an admirer of Memndery i.
229. his character of Pomponius, 197. Pausanias, describes two pictures of Polygnotus,
ii. 161.
Plato, his opinion of Homer's imitations, i. 67. commends the Aegyptian policy in retaining the songs of 181. his *Sj/?H/70s»m criticized, 235. his manner of writing, characterised, 255. his Phaedrus censured, ibid, his objection to poetry- answered, 256.
Plautcs, why Cicero commends his wit, and Ho- race condemns it, i. 220. copied from the middle comedy, i22S. his apology for the Amphitriio, why necessary, ii. 42. preferred to Terence in the Augustan age, i. 228.
Perron, Cardinal, his manner of criticizing Ron- sard, i. 594.
Plots, double, in the LMtin comedies, admired, why, i. 354.
Plhtarch, his admiration of Menander, i. 229.
Poetry, the art of, wherein it consists, ii. 3. the knowledge of its several species, necessary to the dramatic poet, i. 94. more philosophic than his- tory, 257. tragic, its peculiar excellence, 3»7. hath the advantage of all other modes of imita- tion, in what, ii. 1 72.
descriptive, an identity in the subject of,
no proof of imitation, ii. 118.
•- pure, the proper language of Passion, i.
104.
INDEX.
329
Poets, old, much esteeined by Horace, i. 349. their apology, 380. bad soldiers, 384. dramatic, a rule for their observance, i. 105. bad, charac- terized by Milton, 378.
PoLYGNOTUS, his simple manner, why admired, under the emperors, i. 346. his expedient to ex- plain the design of his pictures, ii. 161.
PoMPONius, in what sense Inventor of the Atellane poem, i. 198.
Pope, Mr. honoured after death, by whom, i. 329. his censure of a passage in the Iliad, defended, 359. his judgment of the 6th book of the Thebaid, ii. 191. his censure of the comparisons in Virgil considered, 201. his opinion of imitation, 234.
PoussiN, Caspar, his landskips, in what excellent, i. 70.
Prodigies, inquiry into; the author's opinion of that discourse, ii. 206. an observation quoted from it, ib.
PuLCHRUM, how distinguished from Dulce, i. 109. Q.
QuhNTlLlAN, his judgment of new words, i. 88, 93, of Varius' tragedy of Thyestes, 95. of the pa- thetic vein of Euripides, 116. of Ovid'' s Medea, 1 44. of the state of Music in his time, 1 82. of Euripides'' use of sentences, 190. of the old Greek comic writers, 223. of Te?mce's wit, 225. and elegance, 226. of the licentious feasts of JSac-
INDEX.
chiis, &c. 235. of Aeschylus, 239. of the false fire, of bad writers, 250. his opinion of the necessary inferiority of a copy to its original, how far to be admitted, ii. 114. his rule for oratorial narration^ 1 30. n.
11.
RA>rDOLPH, his Muse's Looking-glass, censured, ii. 53.
Rhyme, how far essential to modern poetry, ii. II.
RiccOBONi, L. his observation of the difference be- twixt the Greek and French drama, ii. 43. u. a good critic, though a mere player, ib.
RoBQRTELLUS, his explanation of a passage, in^ forced, i. HQ.
Romans, much addicted to spectacles, i. 339,
Rt'iSDALE, his waters, i. 71.
S.
Salmasius, what he thought of the method of the
Epistle to the Pisos, Intr. to vol. i. 25. n. Sapeket, the meamng of this word in A. P. i. 169. Satyi;s, a species of the tragic drama, i. 192. dis.
tinct from the Atellane fables, 195.
of elder Greece, what, i. 194.
why Horace enlarges upon them, i. 202, 203-
their double purpose, 200, style, 210. measure,
219.
INDEX.
SoALiGEi!, J. what he thought of the Epistles of Ho- i-ace, Intr. to i. 24. n. of the ancient Mimes, i. 205. his wrong interpretation of the Art of Pot- try, to what owing, Intr. to i. 16.
ScrxEj of comedy, laid at home ; of tragedy, abroad; the reason of this practice, ii. 55.
Scholars, their pretensions to public honours and preferments, on what founded, i. 309.
Scnt)Li.A, of the Greeks, i. 137. Aristotle's trans- lated, 189.
Seneca, the philosopher, his account of the mimes
of Labcrius, i. 206. his Medea, censured, i. 121, 143. his Hip-
polytus censuxedi, 149. his Aphorisms quaint, 1 9 1. .Sentencf.s, why so frequent in the Greek writers,
i. 185.
Sentiments, religious, moral, and oeconomical, why the descriptions of, similar in all poets, ii. 136^ 145.
Sermo, the meaning of this word, i. 327.'
Sh.'VFTESEURY, E. of, his opinion of ITo7ne) ''s imita- tions, i. 67. of the writings of Plato, 252. his Platonic manner liable to censure, 253.
Shakespear, excels in the callida junctiira,\. 17. how he characterizes his clowns, 200. bis want of a learned education, 248. advantages of it, ib. his excellence in drawing characters, wherein it consists, ii. 53. his power in painting the passion of grief, 133. his description of ceconomical sen- timents, original, 144.
Statius, his character, ii. 190. hii book of games criticized, 191.
332
INDEX.
Shirley, a fine passage from one of his plays, i. 86.
Sidney, Sir Philip, his character, i. 116. his enco- mium on the pathos of tragedy, 397.
Socrates, his office in the symposia of Xenophon and Plato, i. 236. n, his judgment of moral paint- ings, 375.
Sophocles, the chorus of his Antigone defended, i.
158, 163. n. a satyric tragedy ascribed to him,
iy3. a circumstance in his Electra compared
with Euripides, 259. Stephens, H. his observations on the refinement
of the French language, i. 90. Stuabo, a passage from him to prove the Tuscan
language used in the Atellanes, i. 198. Style, of poetry, defined, ii. 10. SuBJEC'i'S, public, how to acquire a property in
them, i. 219. domestic, why fittest for the stage,
247. real, succeed best in tragedy ; feigned, in
comedy, why, ii. 46.
T.
Tacitus, a bold expression of bis, justified, i. 103.
Telemaque, why no new similes in this work, ii. 203.
Telephus, a tragedy of ÂŁ'M7 J>?</ei-, i. 107. another tragedy of that name glanced at by Horace, 108,
Tempe, Aeliaii's description of, translated, ii. 119.
Temple, Sir William^ his sentiments on the pas- sion of avarice, i. 265. his notion of religious description in modern poets, ii. 166.
INDEX.
333
Terence, why his plays ill received, i. 224. fell ^fhort of Menander in the elegance of his expres- sion, 225. a remarkable instance of humour ia the Hecyra, ii. 62. the characteristic of his co- medies, his Hecyra vindicated, i. 354, 355. a passage in his Andrian compared with one in Shakespear'' s Twelfth-Night, ii. 1 44. his opinion of the necessary uniformity of moral description, 194.
TRiVGEDY, the Author's idea of, ii. 30. conclusions, concerning its nature, from this idea, 31. attri- butes, common to it and comedy, 42. attributes peculiar to it, 45.
admits pure poetry, i. 101. why its pa- thos pleases, 119. on low life, censured, ii. 84. a modern refinement, 86. accounted for, 87.
Trapp, Dr. his interpretation of communia, i. 134. his judgment of the chorus, 1 46.
Truth in Poetry, what, i. 255. may be followed too closely in works of imitation, ib.
U.
Varro, AI. Tereniius, assigns the distinct merit of
Cacilhis and Terence, i. 353, Vatry, Abb^, his defence of the ancient chorus, i.
148.
ViCTORlus, of the satyric Metre, i. 219.
Virgil, his method in conducting the Aeneis justi- fied, i. 139. his address in his flattery of Augus- VOL. IL A A
334
INDEX.
tus, 332. his introduction to the third Georgic explained, 333. three verses in the same, spu- rious, 341. n. his moral character, vindicated, 403. his poetical, vol. ii. Discourse on poetical imitation, throughout ; his book of gavits defend- ed from the charge of plagiarism, 187. why few comparisons in his works, but what are to be found in Homer, 201. Uncti, the meaning of, in the Epistle to Augustus,
i. 349.
Voltaire, M. de, his judgment of machinery, what,
ii. 166. n.
Upton, Mr. his criticism on the satyrs, examined, i. 202.
W.
WarSURTON, Mr. his edition of Mr. Pope , Intr. to i. 26. and of Shakespear, Ded. to Epistle to Au- gustus, 287. and 80. his judgment of the nitricacy of the comic plot, ii. 39. of the scene of the drama, 55. of comic humour, 61. of the double sense in writing, i. 365. of the similarity in reli- gious rites, ii. 165.
Whole, its beauty consists not in the accurate finishing, but in the elegant disposition, of the parts, i. 69.
Wit, ancient, licentious, i. 230. why, 231.
AVoRDS, old ones, their energy, how revived, i. 83.
INDEX.
535
X.
XekophON, an elegant inaccuracy in a speech in the Cyropaedia, i. 99. n. his ftiie narration of a circumstance in the story of Panthea, unsuited to the stage, 143. his symposium explained, 235. n. a conversation on painting from the Memorabilia, translated, 375.
Z,
Zeuxis, his pictures, in what repute under the Em- perors, i. 346.
THE END OF THE SECOND VOLUME,
Nichols and Son, Printers, Ked Lion Passage, Fleet Street, London.
Mlipiiii
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