Chapter V: Section I (2)

2. If this be comprehended, I shall need to say the less of the MANNERS; which are not less constant in their _effects_, than the PASSIONS. When the _character_ of any person hath been signified, and his situation described, it is not wonderful, that twenty different writers should hit on the same _attitudes_, or employ him in the same manner. When Mercury is sent to command the departure of Ulysses from Calypso, our previous acquaintance with the hero’s character makes us expect to find him in the precise _attitude_, given to him by the poet, “sitting in solitude on the sea-shore, and casting a wishful eye towards Ithaca.” Or, when, in the Iliad, an embassy is dispatched to treat with the resentful and vindictive, but brave Achilles, nothing could be more obvious than to draw the pupil of Chiron in his tent “soothing his angry soul with his harp, and singing

“_Th’ immortal deeds of heroes and of kings_.”

It was the like attention to _nature_, which led Milton to dispose of his fallen angels after the manner, described in the second book of _Paradise lost_.

To multiply instances, when every poet in every page is at hand to furnish them, were egregious trifling. In all cases of this sort, the _known character_, in conjunction with the _circumstances_ of the person described, determines the particular _action_ or _employment_, for the most part, so absolutely, that it requires some industry to mistake it. In saying which, I do not forget, what many have, perhaps, been ready to object to me long since, “that what is _natural_ is not therefore of necessity _obvious_: All the amazing flights of Homer’s or Shakespear’s fancy are found agreeable to nature, when contemplated by the capable reader; but who will say, that, therefore, they must have presented themselves to the generality of writers? The office of _judgment_ is one thing, and of _invention_, another.”

Properly speaking, what we call _invention_ in poetry is, in respect of the _matter_ of it, simply, _observation_. And it is in the arrangement, use, and application of his _materials_, not in the investigation of them, that the exercise of the poet’s genius principally consists. In the case of immediate and direct _imagery_, which is the subject at present, nothing more is requisite, than to paint truly, what nature presents to the eye, or common sense suggests to the mind of the writer. A vivacity of thought will, indeed, be necessary to run over the several circumstances of any _appearance_, and a just discernment will be wanting, out of a number, to select such peculiar circumstances, as are most adapted to strike the imagination. It is not therefore pretended, that the same images _must_ occur to all. Sluggish, unactive understandings, which seldom look abroad into living nature, or, when they do, have not curiosity or vigour enough to direct their attention to the nicer particularities of her beauties, will unavoidably overlook the commonest appearances: Or, wanting that just perception of what is _beautiful_, which we call _taste_, will as often mistake in the _choice_ of those circumstances, which they may have happened to contemplate. But quick, perceptive, intelligent minds (and of such only I can be thought to speak) will hardly fail of seeing nature in the same light, and of noting the same distinct features and proportions. The superiority of Homer and Shakespear to other poets doth not lie in their discovery of _new sentiments or images_, but in the forceable manner, in which their sublime genius taught them to convey and impress _old ones_.

And to inforce what is here said of the _familiarity_ of this class of the poet’s materials, one may, further, appeal to the case of the other _mimetic_ arts, which have no assistance from _narration_. Certain _gestures_, _looks_, or _attitudes_, are so immediately declarative of the _internal actuating causes_, that, on the slightest view of the _picture_ or _statue_, we collect the real state of the persons represented. This _figure_, we say, strongly expresses the passion of _grief_; _that_, of _anger_; _that_, of _joy_; and so of all the other affections. Or, again, when the particular _passion_ is characterized, the general temper and disposition, which we call the _manners_, is clearly discernible. There is a liberal and graceful air, which discovers a fine temperature of the affections, in _one_; a close and sullen aspect, declaring a narrow contracted selfishness in _another_. In short, there is scarcely any mark or feature of the human mind, any peculiarity of disposition or _character_, which the artist does not set off and make appear at once, to the view, by some certain turn or _conformation_ of the outward figure. Now this effect of his _art_ would be impossible, were it not, that regular and constant observation hath found such _external signs_ consociated with the correspondent _internal workings_. A _heaven overhung with clouds_, the _tossing of waves_, and _intermingled flashes of lightning_ are not surer indications of a _storm_, than the _gloomy face_, _distorted limb_, and _indignant eye_ are of the outrage of conflicting _passion_. The simplest spectator is capable of observing this. And the artist deceives himself, or would reflect a false honour on his art, who suspects there is any mystery in making such discoveries.

It is true, some great painters have thought it convenient to explain the design of their works by _inscriptions_. We find this expedient to have been practised of old by Polygnotus, as may be gathered from the description given us, of two of his pictures by Pausanias; and the same thing is observable of some of the best modern masters. But their intention was only to signify the names of the principal persons, and to declare the general scope of their pictures. And so far, this usage may not be amiss in large compositions, and especially on new or uncommon subjects. But should an artist borrow the assistance of words to tell us the meaning of _airs and attitudes_, and to interpret to us the _expression_ of each figure, such a piece of intelligence must needs be thought very impertinent; since they must be very unqualified to pass their judgment on works of this sort, who had not, from their own observation, collected the _visible signs_, usually attendant on any _character_ or _passion_; and whom therefore the representation of these _signs_, would not lead to a certain knowledge of the character or passion _intended_.

Nay there is one advantage which _painting_ hath, in this respect, over _narration_, and even _poetry_ itself. For though poetry represent the _same_ objects, the _same_ sensible marks of the internal movements, as painting, yet it doth it with less _particularity and exactness_. My meaning will be understood in reflecting, that _words_ can only give us, even when most expressive, the _general_ image. The pencil touches its smallest and minutest _specialities_. And this will explain the reason why any remarkable correspondency of _air_, _feature_, _attitude_, &c. in two pictures, will, commonly and with good reason, convict one or both of them of _imitation_: whereas this conclusion is by no means so certain from a correspondency of description in two poems. For the odds are prodigious against such exactness of similitude, when the slightest trace of the pencil forms a sensible difference: But poets, who do not convey ideas with the same precision and distinctness, cannot be justly liable to this imputation, even where the general image represented happens to be the same. Virgil, one would think, on a very affecting occasion, might have given the following representation of his hero,

_Multa gemens largoque humectat flumine vultum_;

without any suspicion of communicating with Homer, who had said, in like manner, of his,

Ἵστατο δακρυχέων, ὥστε κρήνη μελάνυδρος.

But had two painters, in presenting this image, agreed in the same particularities of _posture_, _inclination of the head_, _air of the face_, &c. no one could doubt a moment, that the one was stolen from the other. Which single observation, if attended to, will greatly abate the prejudice, usually entertained on this subject. We think it incredible, amidst the infinite diversity of the poet’s materials, that any two should accord in the choice of the very _same_; more especially when described with the same _circumstances_. But we forget, that the same materials are left in common to _all_ poets, and that the very _circumstances_, alledged, can be, in _words_, but very generally and imperfectly delineated.

3, Of the _calmer sentiments_, which come within the province of poetry, and, breaking forth into outward act, furnish matter to description, the most remarkable in their operations are those of _religion_. It is certain, that the principal of those rites and ceremonies, of those outward acts of homage, which have prevailed in different ages and countries, and constituted the _public religion_ of mankind, had their rise in our common nature, and were the genuine product of the workings of the human mind[28]. For it is the mere illusion of this inveterate error concerning _imitation_, in general, which hath misled some great names to imagine them traductive from each other. But the occasion does not require us to take the matter so deep. The office of poetry, in describing the solemnity of her religious ritual is to look no farther, than the established modes of the age and country, whose manners it would represent. If these should be the same at different times in two religions, or the religion itself continue unchanged, it necessarily follows, that the representations of them by different writers will agree to the minutest resemblance. Not only the general _rite_ or _ceremony_ will be the same; but the very peculiarities of its performance, which are prescribed by rule, remain unaltered. Thus, if _religious sentiments_ usually express themselves, in _all_ men, by a certain _posture of the body_, _direction of the hands_, _turn of the countenance_, &c. these _signs_ are uniformly and faithfully pictured in all devotional portraits. So again, if by the genius of any _particular_ religion, to which the poet is carefully to adhere, the practice of _sacrifices_, _auguries_, _omens_, _lustrations_, &c. be required in its established ceremonial, the draught of this diversity of _superstitions_, and of their minutest particulars, will have a necessary place in any work, professing to delineate such religion; whatever resemblance its descriptions may be foreseen to have to those of any other.

The reader will proceed to apply these remarks, where he sees fit. For it may scarcely seem worth while to take notice of the insinuation, which a polite writer, but no very able critic, hath thrown out against the entire use of _religious description_ in poetry. I say the _entire use_; for so I understand him, when he says, “the _religion_ of the gentiles had been woven into the contexture of all the ancient poetry with a very _agreeable_ mixture, which made the moderns _affect_ to give that of Christianity a place also in their poems[29].” He seems not to have conceived, that the _visible effects_ of religious opinions and dispositions, constitute a principal part of what is most striking in the sublimer poetry. The _narrative species_ delights in, or rather cannot subsist without, these solemn pictures of the religious ritual; and the theatre is never more moved, than when its awful scenery is exhibited in the _dramatic_. Or, if he meant this censure, of the _intervention of superior agents_, and what we call _machinery_, the observation (though it be seconded by one, whose profession should have taught him much better[30]) is not more to the purpose. For the pomp of the _epic muse_ demands to be furnished with a train of these celestial personages. Intending, as she doth, to astonish the imagination with whatever is most august within the compass of human thought, it is not possible for her to accomplish this great end, but by the ministry of supernatural intelligences, PER AMBAGES ET MINISTERIA DEORUM.

Or, the proof of these two points may be given more precisely thus: “The relation of man to the deity, being as essential to his nature, as that which he bears to his fellow-citizens, _religion_ becomes as necessary a part of a serious and sublime narration of human life, as _civil actions_. And as the sublime nature of it requires even _virtues and vices_ to be personified, much more is it necessary, that _supernatural agency_ should bear a part in it. For, whatever some _sects_ may think of religion’s being a divine philosophy in the mind, the _poet_ must exhibit man’s addresses to Heaven in _ceremonies_, and Heaven’s intervention by _visible agency_.”

So that the intermixture of religion, in every point of view, is not only _agreeable_, but necessary to the very genius of, at least, the highest class of poetry. Ancients and moderns might therefore be led to the display of this _sacred scenery_, without _affectation_. And for what concerns _Christian poets_, in particular, we see from an instance at home (whatever may be the success of some Italians, whom he appears to have had in his eye) that, where the subject is proper to receive it, it can appear with as much _grace_, as in the _poets of paganism_. It may be concluded then, universally, that _religion_ is the proper object of poetry, which wants no prompter of a preceding model to give it an introduction; and that the _forms_, under which it presents itself, are too manifest and glaring to observation, to escape any writer.

The case is somewhat different with what I call the _moral and oeconomical sentiments_. These operate indeed _within_, and by their busy and active powers administer abundant matter to poetic description, which _alone_ is equal to these _unseen workings_. For their actings on the body are too feeble to produce any visible alteration of the outward form. Their fine and delicate movements are to be apprehended only and surveyed by conscious attentive reflexion. They are not, usually, of force enough to wield the machine of man; to discompose his frame, or distort his feature: and so rarely come to be susceptible of _picture_ or _representation_. One may compare the subtle operations of these _sentiments_ on the human form, to the gentle breathing of the air on the face of nature. Its soft aspirations may be perceived; its nimble and delicate spirit may diffuse itself through _woods_ and _fields_, and its pervading influence cherish and invigorate all _animal_ or _vegetative being_. Yet no external signs evidence its _effects_ to sense. It acts invisibly, and therefore no power of imitation can give it _form_ and _colouring_. Its impulses must, at least, have a certain degree of strength: it must _wave_ the grass, _incline_ trees, and _scatter_ leaves, before the painter can lay hold of it, and draw it into _description_. Just so it is with our _calmer sentiments_. They seldom stir or disorder the human frame. They spring up casually, and as circumstances concur, within us; but, as it were, sink and die away again, like passing gales, without leaving any impress or mark of violence behind them. In short, when they do not grow out of _fixed characters_, or are prompted by _passion_, they do not, I believe, ever make themselves visible.

And this observation reaches as well to _event and action_ in life, as to the _corporal figure_ of the person in whom they operate. The sentiments, here spoken of, however naturally or even necessarily they may occur to the mind on certain occasions, yet have seldom or never any immediate effect on consequent action. And the reason is, that we do not proceed to _act_ on the sole conclusions of the understanding; unless such _conclusions_, by frequent meditation, or the co-operating influence of some affection, excite a ferment in the mind, and impel the will by _passion_. Such moral aphorisms as these, “_that friendship is the medicine of life_,” and, “_that our country, as including all other interests, claims our first regard_,” though likely to obtrude themselves upon us on a thousand occasions, yet would never have urged Achilles to such a train of action, as makes the striking part of the Iliad; or Ulysses, to that which runs through the intire Odyssey; if a strong, instinctive affection in both had not conspired to produce it. When _produced_ therefore, they are to be considered as the genuine consequences, not of these _moral sentiments_, taken simply by themselves, but of strong benevolence of soul, implanted by _nature_, and strengthened by _habit_. They are properly then, the result of the _manners_, or _passions_, which have been already contemplated. Our sentiments, merely as such, terminate in themselves, and furnish no external apparent matter to _description_.

The same conclusion would, it must be owned, hold of our _religious_, as _moral_ sentiments, were we to regard them only in this view of _dispassionate and cool reflexions_. For such reflexions produce no change of _feature_, no alteration in the _form or countenance_, nor are they necessarily followed by any _sensible_ demonstration of their power in outward _action_. But then it usually happens (which sets the widest difference between the two cases) that the _one_, as respecting an _object_, whose very _idea_ interests strongly, and puts all our faculties in motion, are, almost of necessity, associated with the impelling causes of _affection_; and so express themselves in legible signs and characters. Whereas the other sentiments, respecting _human nature and its necessities_, are frequently no other than a calm indifferent survey of common life, unattended with any _emotion_ or inciting principle of action. Hence _religion_, inspiriting all its meditations with _enthusiasm_, generally shews itself in _outward signs_; whereas we frequently discern no traces, as necessarily attendant upon _moral_. Which _difference_ is worth the noting, were it only for the sake of seeing more distinctly the vast advantage of _poetry_, above all _other modes of imitation_. For _these_, explaining themselves by the help of _natural media_, which present a _real resemblance_, are able but imperfectly to describe _religious sentiments_; in as much as they express the _general vague disposition_ only, and not the precise _sentiments themselves_. And in _moral_, they can frequently give us no _image_ or representation at all. While _poetry_, which tells its meaning by _artificial signs_, conveys distinct and clear notices of this class of _moral and religious_ conceptions, which afford such mighty entertainment to the human mind. But it serves to a further purpose, more immediately relative to the subject of this inquiry. For these _ethic and prudential_ conclusions, being seen to produce no immediate _effect_ in look, attitude, or action, we are to regard them only in their remoter and less direct consequences, as influencing, at a distance, the civil and oeconomical affairs of life.

And in this view they open a fresh field for _imitation_; not quite so striking to the spectator, perhaps, but even larger, than _that_, into which religion, with all its multiform superstitions, before led us. For to these _internal workings_, assisted and pushed forward by the wants and necessities of our nature, which set the inventive powers on work, are ultimately to be referred that vast congeries of _political_, _civil_, _commercial_, and _mechanic_ institutions, of those infinite _manufactures_, _arts_, and _exercises_, which come in to the relief or embellishment of human life. Add to these all those nameless _events_ and _actions_, which, though determined by no fixed _habit_, or leading _affection_, human prudence, providing for its security or interests, in certain circumstances, naturally projects and prescribes. These are ample materials for _description_; and the greater poetry necessarily comprehends a large share of them. Yet in all delineations of this sort two things are observable, 1. That in the _latter_, which are the pure result of our reasonings concerning expediency, _common sense_, in given conjunctures, often leads to the same measures: As when _Ulysses_ in Homer disguises himself, for the sake of coming at a more exact information of the state of his family; or, when _Orestes_ in Sophocles does the same, to bring about the catastrophe of the _Electra_. 2. In respect of the _former_ (which is of principal consideration) the established modes and practices of life being the proper and only _archetype_, experience and common observation cannot fail of pointing, with the greatest certainty, to them. So that in the _one_ case different writers _may_ concur in treating the _same_ matter, in the _other_, they _must_. But this last will bear a little further illustration.

The critics on Homer have remarked, with admiration, in him, the almost infinite variety of images and pictures, taken from the intire circle of _human arts_. Whatever the wit of man had invented for the service or ornament of society in manual exercises and operations is found to have a place in his writings. _Rural affairs_, in their several branches; the _mechanic_, and all the polite arts of _sculpture_, _painting_, and _architecture_, are occasionally hinted at in his poems; or, rather, their various imagery, so far as they were known and practised in those times, is fully and largely displayed. Now this, though it shew the prodigious extent of his observation and diligent curiosity, which could search through all the storehouses and magazines of _art_, for materials of description, yet is not to be placed to the score of his superior _inventive faculty_; nor infers any thing to the disadvantage of succeeding poets, whose subjects might oblige them to the same descriptions; any more than his vast acquaintance with _natural scenery_, in all its numberless appearances, implies a want of _genius_ in later imitators, who, if they ventured, at all, into this province, were constrained to give us the _same unvaried representations_.

The truth, as every one sees, is, briefly, this. The restless and inquisitive mind of man had succeeded in the discovery or improvement of the numberless arts of life. These, for the convenience of method, are considered as making a large part of those sensible external _effects_, which spring from our internal _sentiments_ or _reasonings_. But, though they ultimately respect those _reasonings_, as their source, yet they, in no degree, depend on the actual exertion of them in the breast of the poet. He copies only the customs of the times, of which he writes, that is, the sensible _effects_ themselves. These are permanent objects, and may, nay _must_ be the _same_, whatever be the ability or genius of the _copier_. In short, taken together, they make up what, in the largest sense of the word, we may call, with the painters, _il costumè_; which though it be a real excellence scrupulously to observe, yet it requires nothing more than exact observation and historical knowledge of _facts_ to do it.

And now having the various objects of _poetical imitation_ before us (the greatest part of which, as appears, _must_, and the rest _may_, occur to the observation of the poet) we come to this _conclusion_, which, though it may startle the _parallelist_, there seems no method of eluding, “that of any single _image_ or _sentiment_, considered separately and by itself, it can never be affirmed certainly, hardly with any shew of reason, merely on account of its agreement in _subject-matter_ with any other, that it was copied from it.” If there be any foundation of this inference, it must, then be laid, not on the _matter_, but MANNER of imitation. But here, again, the subject branches out into various particulars; which, to be seen distinctly, will demand a new division, and require us to proceed with leisure and attention through it.

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 the glory of _poetry_, as of _science_, consists. Here the genius of the _poet_ hath room to shew itself; and from hence alone is the praise of _originality_ to be ascertained. The fondest admirer of ancient art would never pretend that _Palladio_ had copied _Vitruvius_; merely from his working with the same materials of _wood_, _stone_, or _marble_, which this great master had employed before him. But were the general _design_ of these two architects the _same_ in any buildings; were their choice and arrangement of the smaller _members_ remarkably similar; were their works conducted in the same _style_, and their ornaments finished in the same _taste_; every one would be apt to pronounce on first sight, that the one was _borrowed_ from the other. Even a correspondency in any _one_ of these points might create a suspicion. For what likelihood, amidst an infinite variety of _methods_, which offer themselves, as to _each_ of these particulars, that there should be found, without _design_, a signal concurrence in _any one_? ’Tis then in the _usage and disposition_ of the objects of poetry, that we are to seek for proofs and evidences of plagiarism. And yet it may not be every instance of similarity, that will satisfy here. For the question recurs, “whether of the several _forms_, of which his materials are susceptible, there be nothing in the nature of things, which determines the artist to prefer a _particular_ one to all others.” For it is possible, that _general principles_ may as well account for a _conformity in the manner_, as we have seen them do for an _identity of matter_, in works of imitation. And to this question nothing can be replied, till we have taken an accurate survey of this _second division_ of our subject. Luckily, the allusion to architecture, just touched upon, points to the very method, in which it may be most distinctly pursued. For here too, the MANNER _of imitation_, if considered in its full extent, takes in 1. _The general plan or disposition of a poem._ 2. _The choice and application of particular subjects: and_ 3. _The expression._

I. _All poetry_, as lord Bacon admirably observes, “_nihil aliud est quam_ HISTORIAE IMITATIO AD PLACITUM.” By which is not meant, that the poet is at liberty to conduct his _imitation_ absolutely in any manner he pleases, but with such deviations from the rule of history, as the _end_ of poetry prescribes. This end is, universally, PLEASURE; as _that_ of simple history is, INFORMATION. And from a respect to this _end_, together with some proper allowance for the diversity of the _subject-matter_, and the _mode of imitation_ (I mean whether it be in the way of _recital_, or of action) are the essential differences of poetry from mere history, and the _form or disposition_ of its several _species_, derived. What these _differences_ are, and what the _general plan_ in the composition of _each species_, will appear from considering the _defects_ of simple history in reference to the _main end_, which poetry designs.

Some of these are observed by the great person before-mentioned, which I shall want no excuse for giving in his own words.

“1. Cum res gestae et eventus, qui verae historiae subjiciuntur, non sint ejus amplitudinis, in quâ anima humana sibi satisfaciat, praesto est _poësis_, quae facta magis heroica confingat. 2. Cum historia vera successus rerum minime pro meritis virtutum & scelerum, narret; corrigit eam _poësis_, & exitus & fortunas, secundum merita, & ex lege Nemeseos, exhibet. 3. Cum historia vera, obviâ rerum satietate & similitudine, animae humanae fastidio sit; reficit eam poësis, inexpectata, & varia & vicissitudinum plena canens.—Quare & merito etiam divinitatis cujuspiam particeps videri possit; quia animum erigit & in sublime rapit; _rerum simulachra ad animi desideria accommodando, non animum rebus (quod ratio facit, & historia) submittendo_[31].”

These _advantages_ chiefly respect the _narrative_ poetry, and above all, the _Epos_. There are others, still more _general_, and more directly to the purpose of this inquiry. For 4. The _historian_ is bound to record _a series of independent events and actions_; and so, at once, falls into two _defects_, which make him incapable of affording perfect _pleasure_ to the mind. For 1. The flow of passion, produced in us by contemplating _any signal event_, is greatly checked and disturbed amidst a _variety and succession of actions_. And 2. being obliged to pass with celerity over _each_ transaction (for otherwise history would be too tedious for the purpose of _information_) he has not time to draw out _single circumstances_ in full light and impress them with all their force on the imagination. _Poetry_ remedies these two defects. By confining the attention to _one_ object only, it gives the fancy and affections fair play: and by bringing forth to view and even magnifying all the _circumstances_ of that _one_, it gives to every subject its proper dignity and importance. 5. Lastly, to satisfy the human mind, there must not only be an _unity and integrity_, but a strict _connexion and continuity_ of the fable or action represented. Otherwise the mind languishes, and the transition of the passions, which gives the chief pleasure, is broken and interrupted. The _historian_ fails, also, in this. By proceeding in the gradual and orderly succession of _time_, the several incidents, which compose the story, are not laid close enough together to content the natural avidity of our expectations. Whilst _poetry_, neglecting this regularity of succession, and setting out in the midst of the story, gratifies our instinctive impatience, and carries the _affections_ along, with the utmost rapidity, towards the _event_.

These _advantages_ are common both to _narrative_ and _dramatic_ poetry. But the _drama_, as professing to copy _real life_, contents itself with these. The rest belong entirely to the province of _narration_.

Now the _general forms_ of poetical method, as distinct from _that_ of history, are the pure result of our conclusions concerning the expediency and fitness of these _means_, as conducive to the proper _end_ of poetry. Which, without more words, will inform us, how it came to pass, that the _true plan or disposition of poetical_ works, was so early hit upon in _practice_, and established by exact _theories_; and may therefore satisfy us of the _necessary_ resemblance and uniformity of all productions of this kind, whether their authors had, or had not, been guided by the pole-star of _example_.

So much for the _general forms_ of the two greater _kinds_ of poetry. If a proper allowance be made for a diversity of _subject-matter_, in either _mode_ of composition, it will be easy, as I said, to account for the _particular forms_ of the several subordinate species. And I the rather choose to do it in this way, and not from the peculiar _end_ of each, which indeed were more philosophical, because the business is to make appear, how nature leads to the same general plan of composition in _practice_, not to establish the laws of each in the exact way of _theory_. Now in considering the matter _historically_, the diversity of _subject-matter_ was doubtless _that_ which first determined the writer to a different _form_ of composition, tho’ afterwards, a consideration of the _end_, accomplished by _each_, be requisite to deduce, with more precision of method, its distinct laws. The _latter_ is that from whence the _speculative critic_ rightly estimates the character of every species; but the inventor had his direction principally from the _former_.

Let me exemplify the observation in an instance under either _mode_ of imitation, and leave the rest to the reader.

1. The GEORGIC is a species of _narration_. But, as _things_, not _persons_, are its subject (from which last alone the _unity of design_ and _continuity of action_ arise) this circumstance absolves it from the necessity of observing any other laws, than those of clear and perspicuous disposition, and of enlivening a matter, naturally uninteresting, by _exquisite expression_ and _pleasing digressions_.

2. The PASTORAL poem may be considered as a lower species of the _Drama_. But, its subject being the _humble concerns_ of Shepherds, there seems no room for a tragic _Plot_; and their characters are too simple to afford materials for comic _drawing_. Their _scene_ is indeed inchanting to the imagination. And, together with this, their little distresses may sooth us in a short song; or their fancies and humours may entertain us in a short Dialogue. And that this is the proper province of the Pastoral Muse, we may see by the ill success of those who have laboured to extend it. Tasso’s project was admired for a time. But we, now, understand that pastoral affairs will not admit a tragic pathos. And the continuance of the pastoral vein, through five long acts, is found insipid, or even distasteful. This poem then has returned to that form which its inventors gave it, and which the _subject_ so naturally prescribes to it.

II. But, though the _common end_ of poetry, which is to _please by imitation_, together with the subjects of its several species, may determine the _general plan_, yet is there nothing, it may be said, in the nature of things to fix _the order and connexion of single parts_. And here, it will be owned, is great room for _invention_ to shew itself. The materials of poetry may be put together in so many different manners, consistently with the _form_ which governs each species, that nothing but the power of _imitation_ can be reasonably thought to produce _a close and perpetual similarity_ in the composition of two works. I have said _a close and perpetual similarity_; for it is not every degree of resemblance, that will do here.

The _general plan itself_ of any poem will occasion some unavoidable conformities in the disposition of its component parts. The _identity_ or _similarity_ of the subject may create others. Or, if no other assimilating cause intervene, the very uniformity of common nature, will, of necessity, introduce some. To explain myself as to the last of these _causes_.

The principal constituent members of any work, next to the essential parts of the _fable_, are EPISODES, DESCRIPTIONS, SIMILES. By _descriptions_ I understand as well the delineation of _characters_ in their _speeches and imputed sentiments_, as of _places or things_ in the draught of their attending circumstances. Now not only the materials of these are common to all poets, but the same identical manner of assemblage in application of _each_ in any poem will, in numberless cases, appear necessary.

1. The _episode_ belongs, principally, to the epic muse; and the design of it is to diversify and ennoble the narration by _digressive_, yet not _unrelated_, ornaments; the _former_ circumstance relieving the _simplicity_ of the epic fable, while the _other_ prevents its _unity_ from being violated. Now these episodical narrations must either proceed from the poet himself, or be imputed to some other who is engaged in the course of the fable; and in either case, must help, indirectly at least, to forward it.

If of the _latter_ kind, a probable pretext must be contrived for their introduction; which can be no other than that of satisfying the _curiosity_, or of serving to the necessary _information_ of some other. And in either of these ways a striking conformity in the mode of conducting the work is unavoidable.

If the _episode_ be referred to the _former_ class, its _manner_ of introduction will admit a greater latitude. For it will vary with the subject, or occasions of relating it. Yet we shall mistake, if we believe these subjects, and consequently the occasions, connected with them, very numerous. 1. They must be of uncommon dignity and splendor; otherwise nothing can excuse the going out of the way to insert them. 2. They must have some apparent connection with the fable. 3. They must further accord to the idea and state of the times, from which the _fable_ is taken. Put these things together, and see if they will not, with probability, account for some coincidence _in the choice and applications_ of the _direct_ episode. And admitting this, the similarity of even _its_ constituent parts is, also, necessary.

The genius of Virgil never suffers more in the opinion of his critics, than when his _book of games_ comes into consideration and is confronted with Homer’s. It is not unpleasant to observe the difficulties an advocate for his fame is put to in this nice point, to secure his honour from the imputation of _plagiarism_. The descriptions are accurately examined; and the improvement of a single circumstance, the addition of an epithet, even the novelty of a metaphor, or varied turn in the expression, is diligently remarked and urged, with triumph, in favour of his invention. Yet all this goes but a little way towards stilling the clamour. The entire design is manifestly taken; nay, particular incidents and circumstantials are, for the most part, the same, without variation. What shall we say, then, to this charge? Shall we, in defiance of truth and fact, endeavour to confute it? Or, if allowed, is there any method of supporting the reputation of the poet? I think there is, if prejudice will but suspend its determinations a few minutes, and afford his advocate a fair hearing.

The epic plan, more especially that of the Aeneis, naturally comprehends whatever is most august in _civil_ and _religious_ affairs. The solemnities of funeral rites, and the festivities of public games (which religion had made an essential part of them) were, of necessity, to be included in a representation of the _latter_. But what _games_? Surely those, which ancient heroism vaunted to excell in; those, which the usage of the times had consecrated; and which, from the opinion of reverence and dignity entertained of them, were become most fit for the pomp of epic description. Further, what _circumstances_ could be noted in these sports? Certainly those, which befell most usually, and were the aptest to alarm the spectator, and make him take an interest in them. These, it will be said, are numerous. They are so; yet such as are most to the poet’s purpose, are, with little or no variation, the same. It happened luckily for him, that two of his _games_, on which accordingly he hath exerted all the force of his genius, were entirely new. This advantage, the circumstances of the times afforded him. The _Naumachia_ was purely his own. Yet so liable are even the best and most candid judges to be haunted by this spectre of _imitation_, that _one_, whom every friend to every human excellence honours, cannot help, on comparing it with the _chariot-race_ of Homer, exclaiming in these words: “What is the encounter of Cloanthus and Gyas in the strait between the rocks, but the same with that of Menelaus and Antilochus in the hollow way? Had the galley of Serjestus been broken, if the chariot of Eumelus had not been demolished? Or, Mnestheus been cast from the helm, had not the other been thrown from his seat?” The plain truth is, it was not possible, in describing an ancient _sea-fight_, for one, who had even never seen Homer, to overlook such usual and striking particulars, as the _justling of ships, the breaking of galleys, and loss of pilots_.

It may appear from this instance, with what reason a similarity of circumstance, in the other games, hath been objected. The _subject-matter_ admitted not any material variation: I mean in the hands of so judicious a copier of Nature as Virgil. For,

“Homer and Nature were, he found, the 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 appears directly from a remarkable instance that in the case before us, He unquestionably judged right.

A defect of _natural ability_ is not that, which the critics have been most forward to charge upon _Statius_. 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 activity 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 solemnities 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 different _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 diversity of his _manner_ 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 objection to the sixth book of the _Thebaid_ 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) _Statius_ hath not borrowed from either of his predecessors, _and his poem is so much the worse for it_.”

2. The case of DESCRIPTION is still clearer, and, after what has been so largely 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 restrained by many limitations. If we reflect a little, we shall find, that they grow out of the _action_ represented, which, in the greater poetry, 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 interesting circumstances of human life? To this end some general design is formed. He must _war_ with Achilles, or _voyage_ with Ulysses. And, to work up his _fable_ to that _magnificence_, ΜΕΓΑΛΟΠΡΕΠΕΙΑΝ, 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 _accidents_; of _storms_, _shipwrecks_, &c. _of the intervention 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 extends 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 distinct peculiar lineaments, poetry cannot help falling into the same _general_ representation. For it is conversant about the _greater characters_; such as demand the imputation of like _manners_, and who are actuated by the same governing _passions_. To set off 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 _ruling principle_ in each, constraining them to neglect inferior considerations, and to give up all subordinate affections to it. The more prevalent 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 universally and invariably the same_;” and 2. “_that they express themselves constantly in similar effects_.” Or, one single small volume, _the characters of Theophrastus_, will sufficiently do it. And what more is required to justify this consequence, “that _the descriptions of characters_, even in the most original _designers_, will resemble each other;” and “that the very _contexture_ of a work, designed to evidence them in _action_, will, under the management of different writers, be, frequently, much the same?” A _conclusion_, 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,

—_Si personis isdem uti aliis non licet,
Qui magis licet currentis servos scribere,
Bonas matronas facere, meretrices malas,
Parasitum edacem, gloriosum militem,
Puerum supponi, falli per servum senem_,
AMARE, ODISSE, SUSPICARI?

3. In truth, so far as _direct and immediate description_ is concerned, the matter is so plain, that it will hardly be called into question. The difficulty is to account for the similarity of _metaphor and_ COMPARISON (that is, of _imagery_, which comes in obliquely, and for the purpose of illustrating some other, and, frequently, 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 answer can be given to this question, it must be observed 1. that there is in the mind of man, not only a strong natural love of _imitation_, 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 relationship 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 similitude_, whether in _shape_, _attitude_, _colour_, or _aspect_. As when _heroes_ are compared to _gods_,—_a hero in act to strike at his foe_, to _a faulcon stooping at a dove_,—_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 _circumstance_. Thus an _intrepid_ hero suggests the idea of a _rock_, on account of _its firmness and stability_;—of _a lion_, for his _fierceness_,—_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 resemblance, and delights to survey them, lets dip 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 the _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_. I say, in _the greater works of genius_, which must be attended to; for the folly of taking _resemblances_ for _imitations_, 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 correspondence 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 distinguished 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 mind can perceive any remote sign or glimpse of _resemblance_, it were truly wonderful, that, in any number of images and allusions, there should be found a close conformity of them 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 inquisitive and anxious diligence, which pries into nature’s retirements; and searches through all her secret and hidden haunts, to detect a forbidden commerce, and expose to light some strange unexpected conjunction of ideas. This quaint combination of remote, unallied imagery, 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 much curiosity of art, too solicitous an affectation of _pleasing_, in these ingenious exercises of the 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 ways_ in his lesser poetry; yet when he had projected his great work “_On the progress of the soul_” (of which we have only the beginning) his good sense brought him out into the freer _spaces_ of nature and open day-light.

Largior hic compos æther, et lumine vestit
Purpureo: solemque suum, sua sidera norunt.

In this, the author of GONDIBERT, and another writer of credit, a contemporary of DONNE, Sir FULK GREVIL, were not so happy. 2. This work of _indirect imagery_ is intended, not so much to illustrate and enforce the original thought, to which it is applied, as to amuse and entertain the fancy, by holding up to view, in these occasional digressive representations, the pictures of pleasing scenes and objects. But this _end_ of allusion (which is principal in the sublimer works of genius) restrains 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; _first_, as he must employ the easiest and most apparent resemblances: and _secondly_, of _these_, such as impress the most delightful images on the fancy.

This being the case, it cannot but happen, that the allusions of different poets, of the higher class, though writing without any communication 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 workings_ 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 remarkable correspondence of imagery with his predecessors. And we find this conclusion verified in fact; as appears not only from comparing together the great ancient and modern writers, who are known to have held an intimate correspondence with each other, but those, who cannot be suspected of this commerce. Several critics, I observed, have taken great pains to illustrate the sentiments of Homer from similar instances in the sacred writers. The same design might easily be carried on, in respect of _allusive imagery_; it being obvious to common observation, that numberless of the most beautiful _comparisons_ in the Greek poet are to be met with in the Hebrew prophets. Nay, the remark may be extended to the undisciplined writers and speakers of the farthest _west_ and _east_, whom nature instructs to beautify and adorn their conceptions with the same imagery. So little doth it argue an inferiority 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.”