_original_, and _secondary_, imitation is apparent. And it is of
importance, that this _difficulty_ be seen in its full light. Because,
if the _similarity_, observed in two or more writers, may, for the most
part, and with the highest probability, be accounted for from _general
principles_, it is superfluous at least, if not unfair, to have
recourse to the _particular_ charge of _imitation_.
Now to see how far the same common principles of nature will go towards
effecting the _similarity_, here spoken of, it is necessary to consider
very distinctly.
I. THE MATTER; _and_
II. THE MANNER, _of all poetical imitation_.
I. In all that range of _natural objects_, over which the restless
imagination of the poet expatiates, there is no subject of picture
or imitation, that is not reducible to one or other of the _three
following classes_. 1. The _material world, or that vast compages
of corporeal forms, of which this universe is compounded_. 2. _The
internal workings and movements of his own mind, under which I
comprehend the manners, sentiments, and passions._ 3. _Those internal
operations, that are made objective to sense by the outward signs of
gesture, attitude, or action._ Besides these I know of no source,
whence the artist can derive a single sentiment or image. There needs
no new distinction in favour of _Homer’s gods_, _Milton’s angels_,
or _Shakespear’s witches_; it being clear, that these are only
_human_ characters, diversified by such attributes and manners, as
superstition, religion, or even wayward fancy, had assigned to each.
1. The material universe, or what the painters call _still life_,
is the object of that species of poetical imitation, we call
_descriptive_. This beauteous arrangement of natural objects, which
arrests the attention on all sides, makes a necessary and forceable
impression on the human mind. We are so constituted, as to have a quick
_perception_ of beauty in the _forms_, _combinations_, and _aspects_ of
things about us; which the philosopher may amuse himself in explaining
from remote and insufficient considerations; but consciousness and
common feeling will never suffer us to doubt of its being entirely
_natural_. Accordingly we may observe, that it operates universally on
all men; more especially the young and unexperienced; who are not less
transported by the _novelty_, than _beauty_ of material objects. But
its impressions are strongest on those, whom nature hath touched with
a ray of that celestial fire, which we call true _genius_. Here the
workings of this instinctive sense are so powerful, that, to judge from
its effects, one should conclude, it perfectly intranced and bore away
the mind, as in a fit of rapture. Whenever the form of natural beauty
presents itself, though but casually, to the mind of the poet; busied
it may be, and intent on the investigation of quite other objects; his
imagination takes fire, and it is with difficulty that he restrains
himself from quitting his proper pursuit, and stopping a while to
survey and delineate the enchanting image. This is the character of
what we call a _luxuriant fancy_, which all the rigour of art can
hardly keep down; and we give the highest praise of judgment to those
few, who have been able to discipline and confine it within due limits.
I insist the more on this strong _influence of external beauty_,
because it leads, I think, to a clear view of the subject before us,
so far as it respects _descriptive poetry_. These _living forms_ are,
without any change, presented to observation in every age and country.
There needs but opening the eyes, and these forms necessarily imprint
themselves on the fancy; and the love of _imitation_, which naturally
accompanies and keeps pace with this _sense of beauty_ in the poet,
is continually urging him to translate them into _description_. These
descriptions will, indeed, have different degrees of _colouring_,
according to the force of genius in the imitator; but the _outlines_
are the same in all; in the weak, faint sketches of an ordinary Gothic
designer, as in the living pictures of _Homer_.
An instance will explain my meaning. Amidst all that diversity of
natural objects, which the poet delights to paint, nothing is so
_taking_ to his imagination, as _rural scenery_; which is, always,
the _first_ passion of _good_ poets, and the _only_ one that seems,
in any degree, to animate and inspirit _bad_ ones. Now let us take a
description of such a scene; suppose that which _Aelian_ hath left us
of the Grecian TEMPE, given from the life and without the heightenings
of poetic ornament; and we shall see how little the imagination of
the most fanciful poets hath ever done towards improving upon it.
_Aelian’s_ description is given in these words.
“The Thessalian TEMPE is a place situate between Olympus and Ossa;
which are mountains of an exceeding great height; and look, as if
they once had been joined, but were afterwards separated from each
other, by some god, for the sake of opening in the midst that large
plain, which stretches in length to about five miles, and in breadth
a hundred paces, or, in some parts, more. Through the middle of this
plain runs the _Peneus_, into which several lesser currents empty
themselves, and, by the confluence of their waters, swell it into a
river of great size. This vale is abundantly furnished with all manner
of _arbours and resting places_; not such as the arts of human industry
contrive, but which the bounty of spontaneous nature, ambitious, as it
were, to make a shew of all her beauties, provided for the supply of
this fair residence, in the very original structure and formation of
the place. For there is plenty of _ivy_ shooting forth in it, which
flourishes and grows so thick, that, like the generous and leafy vine,
it crawls up the trunks of tall trees, and twining its foliage round
their arms and branches, becomes almost incorporated with them. The
flowering _smilax_[20] also is there in great abundance; which running
up the acclivities of the hills, and spreading the close texture of
its leaves and tendrils on all sides, perfectly covers and shades
them; so that no part of the bare rock is seen; but the whole is hung
with the verdure of a thick, inwoven herbage, presenting the most
agreeable spectacle to the eye. Along the level of the plain, there are
frequent tufts of trees, and long continued ranges of arching bowers,
affording the most grateful shelter from the heats of summer; which
are further relieved by the frequent streams of clear and fresh water,
continually winding through it. The tradition goes, that these waters
are peculiarly good for bathing, and have many other medicinal virtues.
In the thickets and bushes of this dale are numberless _singing_
birds, every where fluttering about, whose warblings take the ear of
passengers, and cheat the labours of their way through it. On the
banks of the _Peneus_, on either side, are dispersed irregularly those
_resting places_, before spoken of; while the river itself glides
through the middle of the lawn, with a soft and quiet lapse; over-hung
with the shades of trees, planted on its borders, whose intermingled
branches keep off the rays of the sun, and furnish the opportunity
of a cool and temperate navigation upon it. The worship of the gods,
and the perpetual fragrancy of sacrifices and burning odours, further
consecrate the place, &c.” [_Var. Hist._ lib. III. c. 1.]
Now this picture, which Aelian took from nature, and which any one,
if he hath not seen the several parts of it subsisting together, may
easily compound for himself out of that stock of rural images which
are reposited in the memory, is, in fact, the substance of all those
luscious and luxuriant paintings, which poetry hath ever been able to
_feign_. For what more is there in the _Elysiums_, the _Arcadias_, the
_Edens_, of ancient and modern fame? And the common _object_ of all
these pictures being continually present to the eye, what way is there
of avoiding the most exact agreement of representation in them? Or how
from any _similarity_ in the materials, of which they are formed, shall
we infer an _imitation_?
This agreeable scenery is, for an obvious reason, the most frequent
object of description. Though sometimes it chuses to itself a dark
and sombrous imagery; which nature, again, holds out to imitation;
or fancy, which hath a wondrous quickness and facility in opposing
its ideas, readily suggests. We have an instance in the picture of
that _horrid and detested vale_ which Tamora describes in TITUS
ANDRONICUS. It is a perfect contrast to Aelian’s, and may be called an
_Anti-tempe_. Or, to see this opposition of images in the strongest
light, the reader may turn to _L’Allegro_ and _Il Penseroso_ of Milton;
where he hath artfully made, throughout the two poems, the same kind of
subjects excite the two passions of _mirth_ and _melancholy_.
When the reader is got into this train, he will easily extend the same
observation to other instances of _natural description_; and can hardly
avoid, after a few trials, coming to this short conclusion, “that of
all the various delineations in the poets, of the HEAVENS, in their
vicissitude of times and seasons; of the EARTH, in its diversity of
_mountains_, _valleys_, _promontories_, &c. of the SEA, under its
several aspects of _turbulence_, or _serenity_; of the _make_ and
_structure_ of ANIMALS, &c. it can rarely be affirmed, that they are
_copies_ of one another, but rather the genuine products of the same
creating fancy, operating uniformly in them all.”
Yet, notwithstanding this _identity_ of the subject-matter in natural
description, there is room enough for true Genius to shew itself. To
omit other considerations for the present, it will more especially
appear in the _manner of Representation_; by which is not meant the
language of the poet, but simply the _form_ under which he chuses to
present his imagery to the fancy. The reader will excuse my adding a
word on so curious a subject, which he will readily apprehend from the
following instance.
Descriptions of the _morning_ are very frequent in the poets. But this
appearance is known by so many attending circumstances, that there will
be room for a considerable variety in the pictures of it. It may be
described by those _stains of light_, which streak and diversify the
clouds; by the peculiar _colour of the dawn_; by its _irradiations_ on
the _sea_, or _earth_; on some peculiar objects, as _trees_, _hills_,
_rivers_, &c. A difference also will arise from the _situation_, in
which we suppose ourselves; if on the _sea shore_, this _harbinger
of day_ will seem to break forth from the _ocean_; if on the _land_,
from the extremity of a large plain, terminated, it may be, by some
remarkable object, as a _grove_, _mountain_, &c. There are many other
_differences_, of which the same precise _number_ will scarcely offer
itself to two poets; or not the _same individual_ circumstances; or not
_disposed_ in the same manner. But let the same identical circumstance,
suppose the _breaking or first appearance of the dawn_, be taken by
different writers, and we may still expect a considerable diversity
in their _representation_ of it. What we may allow to all poets, is,
that they will _impersonate_ the morning. And though this idea of it
is _metaphorical_, and so belongs to another place, as respecting
the _manner_ of imitation only; yet, when once considered under this
_figure_, the _drawing_ of it comes as directly within the province of
_description_, as the real, _literal_ circumstances themselves. Now in
descriptions of the morning under this idea of a _person_, the very
same _attitude_, which is made analogous to the _circumstance_ before
specified, and is to suggest it, will, as I said, be represented by
different writers very differently. _Homer_, to express _the rise or
appearance of this person_, speaks of her _as shooting forth from the
ocean_:
——ΑΠ ΩΚΕΑΝΟΙΟ ΡΟΑΩΝ
ΩΡΝΥΘ.
_Virgil, as rising from the rocks of Ida._
_Jamque jugis summae surgebat Lucifer Idae,
Ducebatque diem._
_Shakespear_ hath closed a fine description of the morning with the
same _image_, but expressed in a very different manner.
——_Look what streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night’s candles are put out: and_ JOCUND DAY
STANDS TIPTOE ON THE MISTY MOUNTAINS TOP.
The reader, no doubt, pronounces on first sight, this description to be
_original_. But why? There is no part of it, which may not be traced
in other poets. The _staining of the clouds_, and _putting out the
stars_, are circumstances, that are almost constantly taken notice of
in representations of the morning. And the last _image_, which strikes
most, is not essentially different from that of Virgil and Homer. It
would express the _attitude_ of a person impatient, and in act to make
his appearance. And this is, plainly, the _image_ suggested by the
other two. But the difference lies here. Homer’s _expression_ of this
_impatience_ is _general_, ΩΡΝΥΘ. So is Virgil’s, and, as the occasion
required, with less energy, SURGEBAT. Shakespear’s is _particular_:
that impatience is set before us, and pictured to the eye in the
circumstance of _standing tiptoe_; the attitude of a winged messenger,
in act to shoot away on his errand with eagerness and precipitation.
Which is a beauty of the same kind with that Aristotle so much admired
in the ΡΟΔΟΔΑΚΤΥΛΟΣ of Homer. “This image, says he, is peculiar and
singularly proper to set the object before our eyes. Had the poet said
ΦΟΙΝΙΚΟΔΑΚΤΥΛΟΣ, the colour had been signified too _generally_, and
still worse by ΕΡΥΘΡΟΔΑΚΤΥΛΟΣ. ΡΟΔΟΔΑΚΤΥΛΟΣ gives the precise idea,
which was wanting[21].”
This, it must be owned, is one of the surest characteristics of real
genius. And if we find it generally in a writer, we may almost venture
to esteem him _original_ without further scruple. For the shapes and
appearances of things are apprehended, only in the gross, by dull
minds. They think they _see_, but it is as through a mist, where if
they catch but a faint glimpse of the form before them, it is well.
More one is not to look for from their clouded imaginations. And what
they thus imperfectly discern, it is not possible for them to delineate
very distinctly. Whereas every object stands forth in bright sunshine
to the view of the true poet. Every minute mark and lineament of the
contemplated form leaves a corresponding trace on his fancy. And having
these bright and determinate conceptions of things in his own mind,
he finds it no difficulty to convey the liveliest ideas of them to
others. This is what we call _painting_ in poetry; by which not only
the general natures of things are described, and their more obvious
appearances shadowed forth; but every single _property_ marked, and the
poet’s own image set in distinct _relief_ before the view of his reader.
If this glow of imagery, resulting from clear and bright perceptions in
the poet, be not a certain character of _genius_, it will be difficult,
I believe, to say what is: I mean so far as descriptive poetry, which
we are now considering, is concerned. The same _general_ appearances
must be copied by all poets; the same _particular_ circumstances will
frequently occur to all. But to give life and colour to the selected
circumstance, and imprint it on the imagination with distinctness and
vivacity, this is the proper office of true genius. An ordinary writer
may, by dint of industry, and a careful study of the best models,
sometimes succeed in this work of _painting_; that is, having stolen a
ray of celestial matter, he may now and then direct it so happily, as
to animate and enkindle his own earthly lump; but to succeed constantly
in this art of description, to be able, on all occasions, to exhibit
what the Greek Rhetoricians call ΦΑΝΤΑΣΙΑΝ; which is, as Longinus well
expresses it, when “the poet, from his own vivid and enthusiastic
conception, seems to have the object, he describes, in actual view,
and presents it, almost, to the eyes of the reader[22];” this can
be accomplished by nothing less, than the genuine plastic powers of
original creation.
2. If from this vast theatre of _sensible and extraneous_ beauty,
the poet turn his attention to what passes _within_, he immediately
discovers a new world, invisible indeed and intellectual; but which
is equally capable of being represented to the internal sense of
others. This arises from that _similarity of mind_, if I may so speak,
which, like that of outward _form_ and _make_, by the wise provision
of nature, runs through the whole species. We are all furnished with
the same original _properties and affections_, as with the same
stock of _perceptions and ideas_; whence it is, that our intimate
consciousness of what we carry about in ourselves, becomes, as it were,
the interpreter of the poet’s thought; and makes us readily enter
into all his descriptions of the human nature. These descriptions
are of two kinds; either 1. such as express that tumult and disorder
of the mind, which we feel in ourselves from the disturbance of any
natural affection: or, 2. that more quiet state, which gives birth to
calmer sentiments and reflexions. The _former_ division takes in all
the workings of PASSION. The _latter_, comprehends our MANNERS and
SENTIMENTS. Both are equally the objects of poetry; and of poetry only,
which triumphs without a rival, in this most sublime and interesting
of all the modes of _imitation_. Painting, we know, can express the
_material universe_; and, as will be seen hereafter, can evidence the
internal movements of the soul by _sensible marks and symbols_; but
it is poetry alone, which delineates the mind itself, and opens the
recesses of the heart to us.
EFFERT ANIMI MOTUS INTERPRETE LINGUA.
Now the poet, as I said, in addressing himself to this province of his
art, hath only to consult with his own conscious reflexion. Whatever
be the situation of the persons, whom he would make known to us, let
him but take counsel of his own heart[23], and it will very faithfully
suggest the fittest and most natural expressions of their character.
No man can describe of others further than he hath _felt_ himself. And
what he hath thus known from his own _feeling_ is so consonant to the
experience of all others, that his description must needs be _true_;
that is, be the very same, which a careful attention to such experience
must have dictated to every other. So that, instead of asking one’s
self (as an admired ancient advised to do) on any attempt to excel in
composition, “how this or that celebrated author would have written on
the occasion;” the surer way, perhaps, is to inquire of ourselves “how
we have _felt_ or _thought_ in such a conjuncture, what _sensations_
or _reflexions_ the like circumstances have actually excited in us.”
For the answer to these queries will undoubtedly set us in the direct
road of nature and common sense. And, whatever is thus taken from the
_life_, will, we may be sure, affect other minds, in proportion to the
vigour of our conception and expression of it. In sum,
_To catch the manners living, as they rise_,
I mean, from our own internal frame and constitution, is the sole
way of writing naturally and justly of human life. And every such
description of _ourselves_ (the great exemplar of _moral imitation_)
will be as unavoidably similar to any description copied on the like
occasion, by other poets; as pictures of the _natural world_ by
different hands, are, and must be, to each other, as being all derived
from the archetype of one common original.
1. Let us take some master-piece of a great poet, most famed for
his original invention, in which he has successfully revealed the
secret internal workings of any PASSION. What does he make known of
these mysterious powers, but what he _feels_? And whence comes the
impression, his description makes on others, but from its agreement
to their _feelings_[24]? To instance, in the expression of _grief on
the murder of children, relations, friends, &c._ a _passion_, which
poetry hath ever taken a fond pleasure to paint in all its distresses,
and which our common nature obliges all readers to enter into with an
exquisite sensibility. What are the tender touches which most affect
us on these occasions? Are they not such as these: _complaints of
untimely death_: _of unnatural cruelty in the murderer_: _imprecations
of vengeance_: _weariness and contempt of life_: _expostulations with
heaven_: _fond recollections of the virtues and good qualities of the
deceased_; _and of the different expectations, raised by them_? These
were the dictates of nature to the _father of poets_, when he had to
draw the distresses of _Priam’s_ family sorrowing for the death of
Hector. Yet nothing, it seems, but _servile imitation_ could supply
his sons, the Greek and Roman poets in aftertimes, with such pathetic
lamentations. It may be so. They were all nourished by his streams. But
what shall we say of one, who assuredly never drank at his fountains?
—_My heart will burst, and if I speak—
And I will speak, that so my heart may burst.
Butchers and villains, bloody cannibals,
How sweet a plant have ye untimely cropt!
You have no children; butchers, if you had,
The thought of them would have stirr’d up remorse._
The reader, also, may consult that wonderful scene, in which MACDUFF
laments the murder of his wife and children. [MACBETH.]
2. It is not different with the MANNERS; I mean those sentiments,
which mark and distinguish _characters_. These result immediately from
the suggestions of _nature_; which is so uniform in her workings,
and offers herself so openly to common inspection, that nothing but a
perverse and studied affectation can frequently hinder the exactest
similarity of representation in different writers. This is so true,
that, from knowing the _general character_, intended to be kept up,
we can guess, beforehand, how a person will act, or what sentiments
he will entertain, on any occasion. And the critic even ventures to
prescribe, by the authority of rule, the particular properties and
attributes, required to sustain it. And no wonder. Every man, as he can
make himself the _subject_ of all passions, so he becomes, in a manner,
the _aggregate_ of all _characters_. Nature may have inclined him most
powerfully to one set of _manners_; just as one _passion_ is, always,
predominant in him. But he finds in himself the seeds of all others.
This consciousness, as before, furnishes the characteristic sentiments,
which constitute the _manners_. And it were full as strange for two
poets, who had taken in hand such a character, as that of Achilles,
to differ materially in their expression of it; as for two painters,
drawing from the same object, to avoid a striking conformity in the
_design_ and attitude of their pictures.
Those who are fond of hunting after parallels, might, I doubt not,
with great ease, confront almost every sentiment, which, in the Greek
tragedians, is made expressive of particular _characters_, with similar
passages in other poets; more especially (for I must often refer to
his authority) in the various living portraitures of _Shakespear_. Yet
he, who after taking this learned pains, should chuse to urge such
parallels, when found, for proofs of his _imitation of the ancients_,
would only run the hazard of being reputed, by men of sense, as poor a
critic of human nature, as of his author.
I say this with confidence, because I say it on a great authority.
“Tout est dit (says an exquisite writer on the subject of _manners_)
et l’on vient trop tard depuis plus de sept mille ans qu’il y a des
hommes, et qui pensent. Sur ce qui concerne les MOEURS, le plus beau et
le meilleur est enlevé; l’on ne fait que glaner après les anciens, &
les habiles d’entre les modernes[25].”