_affections_, and constitutional _characters_, will be allowed to
act powerfully and steadily upon us. The violence and rapidity of
their movements render all disguise impossible. And we find ourselves
determined, by a kind of necessity, to _think and speak_, in given
circumstances, after much the same manner. But what shall we say of
our cooler reasonings; the _sentiments_, which the mind, at pleasure,
revolves, and applies, as it sees fit, to various occasions? “Fancy and
humour, it will be thought, have so great an influence in directing
these operations of our mental faculties, as to make it altogether
incredible, that any remarkable coincidence of sentiment, in different
persons, should result from them.”
To think of reducing the thoughts of man, which are “_more than the
sands, and wider than the ocean_,” into classes, were, perhaps, a wild
attempt. Yet the most considerable of those, which enter into works of
poetry (besides such as result from fixed _characters_ or predominant
_passions_) may be included in the division of 1. _Religious_, 2.
_Moral_, and 3. _Oeconomical_ sentiments; understanding by this
_last_ (for I know of no fitter term to express my meaning) all those
_reasonings_, which take their rise from _particular conjunctures of
ordinary life, and are any way relative to our conduct in it_.
1. The apprehension of some invisible power, as superintending the
universe, tho’ not _connate_ with the mind, yet, from the experience of
all ages, is found inseparable from the first and rudest exertions of
its powers. And the several reflexions, which religion derives from
this _idea_, are altogether as necessary. It is easy to conceive, how
unavoidably, almost, the mind awakened by certain conjunctures of
_distress_, and working on the ground of this original _impression_,
turns itself to awful views of deity, and seeks relief in those
soothing contemplations of Providence, which we find so frequent in
the _epic_ and _tragic_ poets. And whoever shall give himself the
trouble of examining those noble _hymns_, which the _lyric_ muse, in
her gravest humours, chaunted to the popular gods of paganism, will
hardly find a single trace of a devotional sentiment, which hath not
been common, at all times, to all _religionists_. Their _power_,
and sovereign _disposal of all events_; their _care of the good_,
and _aversion to the wicked_; the blessings, they derive on their
_worshippers_, and the terrors, they infix in the breasts of the
_profane_; they are the usual topics of their meditations; the solemn
sentiments, that consecrate these addresses to their local, gentilitial
deities. In listening to these divine strains every one _feels_, from
his own consciousness, how necessary such reflexions are to human
nature; more particularly, when to the simple apprehension of _deity_,
a warm _fancy_ and strong _affections_ join their combined powers, to
push the mind forward into enthusiastic raptures. All the faculties of
the soul being then upon the stretch, natural ability holds the place,
and, in some sort, doth the office, of divine suggestion. And, bating
the impure mixture of their fond and senseless _traditions_, one is
not surprized to find a strong resemblance, oftentimes, in point of
_sentiment_, betwixt these pagan odes, and the genuine inspirations of
Heaven. Let not the reader be scandalized at this bold comparison. It
affirms no more, than what the gravest authors have frequently shewn,
a manifest analogy between the sacred and prophane poets; and which
supposes only, that Heaven, when it infuses its own light into the
breasts of men, doth not extinguish _that_ which nature and reason
had before kindled up in them. It follows, that either _succeeding_
poets are not necessarily to be accused of stealing their religious
sentiments from their elder brethren, or that ORPHEUS, HOMER, and
CALLIMACHUS may be as reasonably charged with plundering the sacred
treasures of DAVID, and the other Hebrew prophets.
It is much the same with the _illusions_ of _corrupt_ religion. The
_fauns and nymphs_ of the ancients, holding their residence in shadowy
groves or caverns, and the frightful spectres of their _Larvae_: to
which we may oppose the modern visions of _fairies_; and of _ghosts_,
gliding through church-yards, and haunting sepulchres; together with
the vast train of gloomy reflexions, which so naturally wait upon
them, are, as well as the juster notions of divinity, the genuine
offspring of the same _common apprehensions_. Reason, when misled
by superstition, takes a _certain route_, and keeps as steadily in
it, as when conducted by a sound and sober piety. There needs only a
previous conception of unseen _intelligence_ for the ground-work; and
the timidity of human nature, amidst the nameless terrors, which are
everywhere presenting themselves to the suspicious eye of ignorance,
easily builds upon it the entire fabrick of superstitious thinking.
With the poets all this goes under the common name of RELIGION. For
they are concerned only to represent the opinions and conclusions, to
which the _idea_ of divinity leads. And these, we now see, they derive
from their own _experience_, or the received _theology_ of the times,
of which they write. _Religious sentiments_ being, then, universally,
either the obvious deductions of human reason, in the easiest exercise
of its powers, or the plain matter of simple observation, regarding
what passes before us in real life, how can they but be the _same_
in different writers, though perfectly _original_, and holding no
correspondence with each other?
2. And the same is true of our _moral_, as _religious_ sentiments.
Whole volumes, indeed, have been written to shew, that all our
commonest notices of _right_ and _wrong_ have been traduced from
ancient tradition, founded on express supernatural communication. With
writers of this turn the _gnomae_ of paganism, even the slightest moral
sentiments of the most original ancients, spring from this source. If
any exception were allowed, one should suppose it would be in favour of
the _father of poetry_, whose writings all have agreed to set up as the
very prodigy of human invention. And yet a very learned Professor[26]
(to pass over many slighter Essays) hath compiled a large work of
Homer’s moral _parallelisms_; that is, ethic sentences, confronted with
similar ones out of sacred writ. The correspondency, it seems, appeared
so striking to this learned person, that he was in doubt, if this great
original thinker had not drawn from the fountains of _Siloam_, instead
of _Castalis_. Whereas the whole, which these studied collections
prove to plain sense, perverted by no bias of false zeal or religious
prepossession, is, that reason, or provident nature, has inscribed the
same legible characters of _moral_ truth on all minds; and that the
beauties of the _moral_, as _natural_ world lie open to the view of all
observers. This, if it were not too plain to need insisting upon, might
be further shewn from the _similarity_, which hath constantly been
observed in the _law_ and _moral_ of all states and countries; as well
the uninformed, and far distant regions of barbarism, as those happier
climates, on which, from the neighbourhood of their situation, and the
curiosity of inquiry, some beams of this celestial light may be thought
to have glanced.
3. For what concerns the class of _oeconomical sentiments_; or such
prudential conclusions, as offer themselves on certain conjunctures
of ordinary life, these, it is plain, depending very much on the free
exercise of our reasoning powers, will be more variable and uncertain,
than any other. When the mind is at leisure to cast about and amuse
itself with reflexions, which no _characteristic quality_ dictates,
or _affection_ extorts, and which spring from no preconceived system
of _moral or religious_ opinions, a greater latitude of thinking is
allowed; and consequently any remarkable correspondency of _sentiment_
affords more room for suspicion of _imitation_. Yet, in any supposed
combination of circumstances, one train of thought is, generally, most
obvious, and occurs soonest to the understanding; and, it being the
office of poetry to present the most _natural_ appearances, one cannot
be much surprized to find a frequent coincidence of reflexion even
here. The first page one opens in any writer will furnish examples. The
duke in _Measure for Measure_, upon hearing some petty slanders thrown
out against himself, falls into this trite reflexion:
_No might nor greatness in mortality
Can censure ’scape: back-wounding calumny
The whitest virtue strikes._
Friar Lawrence, in _Romeo_ and _Juliet_, observing the excessive
raptures of Romeo on his marriage, gives way to a sentiment, naturally
suggested by this circumstance:
_These violent delights have violent ends,
And in their triumph die._
Now what is it, in prejudice to the originality of these places,
to alledge a hundred or a thousand passages (for so many it were,
perhaps, not impossible to accumulate) analogous to them in the ancient
or modern poets? Could any reasonable critic mistake these genuine
workings of the mind for instances of _imitation_?
In _Cymbeline_, the obsequies of Imogen are celebrated with a song of
triumph over the evils of human life, from which death delivers us:
_Fear no more the heat o’ th’ sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages, &c._
What a temptation this for the parallelist to shew his reading! yet his
incomparable editor observes slightly upon it: “This is the topic of
consolation, that nature dictates to all men on these occasions. The
same farewell we have over the dead body in Lucian; ΤΕΚΝΟΝ ΑΘΛΙΟΝ,
ΟΥΚΕΤΙ ΔΙΨΗΣΕΙΣ, ΟΥΚΕΤΙ ΠΕΙΝΗΣΕΙΣ, &c.”
When Valentine in the _Twelfth-night_ reports the inconquerable grief
of Olivia for the loss of a brother, the duke observes upon it,
_O! she that hath a heart of that fine frame
To pay this debt of love but to a brother,
How will she love, when the rich golden shaft
Hath killed the flock of all affections else
That live in her?_
’Tis strange, the critics have never accused the poet of stealing this
sentiment from Terence, who makes Simo in the _Andrian_ reason on his
son’s concern for Chrysis in the same manner:
_Nonnunquam conlacrumabat: placuit tum id mihi.
Sic cogitabam: hic parvae consuetudinis
Causâ hujus mortem tam fert familiariter:
Quid si ipse amâsset? Quid mihi hic faciet patri?_
It were easy to multiply examples, but I spare the reader. Though
nothing may seem, at first sight, more inconstant, variable, and
capricious, than the _thought_ of man, yet he will easily collect,
that _character_, _passion_, _system_, or _circumstance_ can, each
in its turn, by a secret yet sure influence, bind its extravagant
starts and sallies; and effect, at length, as necessary a conformity
in the representation of these _internal movements_, as of the visible
phaenomena of the _natural world_. A poor impoverished spirit, who has
no sources of invention in himself, may be tempted to relieve his wants
at the expence of his wealthier neighbour. But the suspicion, of _real
ability_, is childish. Common sense directs us, for the most part,
to regard _resemblances_ in great writers, not as the pilferings, or
frugal acquisitions of needy _art_, but as the honest fruits of genius,
the free and liberal bounties of unenvying _nature_.
III. Having learned, from our own conscious reflexion, the secret
operations of _reason_, _character_, and _passion_, it now remains
to contemplate their _effects in visible appearances_. For nature is
not more regular and consistent with herself in touching the fine and
hidden springs of humanity, than in ordering the outward and grosser
movements. The thoughts and affections of men paint themselves on
the _countenance_; stand forth in _airs_ and _attitudes_; and declare
themselves in all the diversities of human _action_. This is a new
field for mimic genius to range in; a great and glorious one, and
which affords the noblest and most interesting objects of _imitation_.
For the external forms themselves are grateful to the _fancy_, and,
as being expressive of _design_, warm and agitate the _heart_ with
passion. Hence it is, that narrative poetry, which draws mankind under
every _apparent consequence and effect_ of passion, inchants the
mind. And even the dramatic, we know, is cool and lifeless, and loses
half its efficacy, without _action_. This, too, is the province of
_picture_, _statuary_, and all arts, which inform by mute signs. Nay,
the mute arts may be styled, almost without a figure, in this class
of _imitation_, the most eloquent. For what words can express _airs
and attitudes_, like the pencil? Or, when the genius of the artists is
equal, who can doubt of giving the preference to that representation,
which, striking on the sight, grows almost into reality, and is hardly
considered by the inraptured thought, as _fiction_? When _passion_ is
to be made known by outward _act_, Homer himself yields the palm to
_Raphael_.
But our business is with the _poets_. And, in reviewing this their
largest and most favoured stock of _materials_, can we do better than
contemplate them in the very order, in which we before disposed the
_workings_ of the mind itself, the _causes_ of these appearances?
1. To begin with the _affections_. They have their rise, as was
observed, from the very _constitution_ of human nature, when placed
in given circumstances, and acted upon by certain occurrences. The
perceptions of these inward commotions are uniformly the same, in
all; and draw along with them the same, or similar _sentiments
and reflexions_. Hence the appeal is made to every one’s own
_consciousness_, which declares the truth or falshood of the
_imitation_. When these _commotions_ are produced and made objective
to sense by _visible signs_, is _observation_ a more fallible guide,
than _consciousness_? Or, doth experience attest these _signs_ to
be less similar and uniform, than their _occasions_? By no means.
Take a man under the impression of _joy_, _fear_, _grief_, or any
other of the stronger affections; and see, if a peculiar conformation
of feature, some certain stretch of muscle, or contortion of limb,
will not necessarily follow, as the clear and undoubted index of his
condition. Our natural curiosity is ever awake and attentive to
these _changes_. And poetry sets herself at work, with eagerness, to
catch and transcribe their various _appearances_. No correspondency
of representation, then, needs surprize us; nor any the exactest
_resemblance_ be thought strange, where the _object_ is equally present
to all persons. For it must be remarked of the _visible effects_
of MIND, as, before, of the _phaenomena_ of the _material world_,
that they are, simply, the objects of _observation_. So that what
was concluded of _these_, will hold also of the _others_; with this
difference, that the _effects of internal movements_ do not present
themselves so _constantly_ to the eye, nor with that _uniformity_ of
appearance, as _permanent, external existencies_. We cannot survey
them at _pleasure_, but as occasion offers: and we, further, find
them diversified by the _character_, or disguised, in some degree,
by the _artifice_, of the persons, in whom we observe them. But all
the consequence is, that, to succeed in this work of painting the
_signatures of internal affection_, requires a larger experience, or
quicker penetration, than copying after _still life_. Where the proper
qualifications are possessed, and especially in describing the _marks_
of vigorous affections, different writers cannot be supposed to vary
more considerably, in _this_ province of _imitation_, than in the
_other_. Our trouble therefore, on this head, may seem to be at an end.
Yet it will be expected, that so general a conclusion be inforced by
some _illustrations_.
The passion of LOVE is one of those affections, which bear great sway
in the human nature. Its _workings_ are violent. And its _effects_
on the person, possessed by it, and in the train of events, to which
it gives occasion, conspicuous to all observers. The power of this
commanding affection hath triumphed at all times. It hath given birth
to some of the greatest and most signal transactions in _history_; and
hath furnished the most inchanting scenes of _fiction_. Poetry hath
ever lived by it. The modern muse hath hardly any existence without it.
Let us ask, then, of this _tyrant passion_, whether its operations are
not too familiar to _sense_, its _effects_ too visible to the _eye_, to
make it necessary for the poet to go beyond himself, and the sphere of
his own observation, for the _original_ of his descriptions of it.
To prevent all cavil, let it be allowed, that the _signs_ of this
passion, I mean, the visible effects in which it shews itself, are
various and almost infinite. It is reproached, above all others, with
the names of _capricious, fantastic, and unreasonable_. No wonder
then, if it assume an endless variety of forms, and seem impatient,
as it were, of any certain shape or posture. Yet this Proteus of a
passion may be fixed by the magic hand of the poet. Though it can
_occasionally_ take _all_, yet it delights to be seen in _some_ shapes,
more than others. Some of its _effects_ are known and obvious, and
are perpetually recurring to observation. And these are ever fittest
to the ends of poetry; every man pronouncing of such representations
from his proper experience, that they are from _nature_. Nay its very
irregularities may be reduced to rule. There is not, in antiquity, a
truer picture of this fond and froward passion, than is given us in the
person of Terence’s _Phaedria_ from Menander. _Horace_ and _Persius_,
when they set themselves, on purpose, to expose and exaggerate its
follies, could imagine nothing beyond it. Yet we have much the same
inconsistent character in JULIA in _The two Gentlemen of Verona_.
Shall it be now said, that _Shakespear_ copied from Terence, as Terence
from Menander? Or is it not as plain to common sense, that the English
poet is _original_, as that the _Latin_ poet was an _imitator_?
_Shakespear_, on another occasion, describes the various, external
symptoms of this extravagant affection. Amongst others, he insists,
there is no surer sign of being in love, “_than when every thing
about you demonstrates a careless desolation_.” [_As you like it._
A. iii. Sc. 8.] Suppose now the poet to have taken in hand the story
of a neglected, abandoned lover; for instance of Ariadne; a story,
which ancient poetry took a pleasure to relate, and which hath been
touched with infinite grace by the tender, passionate muse of Catullus
and Ovid. Suppose him to give a portrait of her _passion_ in that
distressful moment when, “_from the naked beach, she views the parting
sail of Theseus_.” This was a time for all the signs of _desolation_
to shew themselves. And could we doubt of his describing those _very
signs_, which nature’s self dictated, long ago, to Catullus?
_Non flavo retinens subtilem vertice mitram,
Non contexta levi velatum pectus amictu,
Non tereti strophio luctantes vincta papillas;
Omnia quae toto delapsa è corpore passim
Ipsius ante pedes fluctus salis alludebant._
But there is a higher instance in view. The humanity and easy elegance
of the two Latin poets, just mentioned, joined to an unaffected
_naivetè_ of expression, were, perhaps, most proper to describe the
petulancies, the caprices, the softnesses of this passion in common
life. To paint its tragic and more awful distresses, to melt the
soul into all the sympathies of sorrow, is the peculiar character of
Virgil’s poetry. His talents were, indeed, universal. But, I think, we
may give it for the characteristic of his muse, that she was, beyond
all others, possessed of a sovereign power of touching the tender
passions. Euripides’ self, whose genius was most resembling to his, of
all the ancients, holds, perhaps, but the second place in this praise.
A poet, thus accomplished, would omit, we may be sure, no occasion of
yielding to his natural bias of recording the distresses of _love_.
He discovered his talent, as well as inclination, very early, in
the _Bucolics_; and even, where one should least expect it, in his
_Georgics_. But the fairest opportunity offered in his great design of
the _Aeneis_. Here, one should suppose, the whole bent of his genius
would exert itself. And we are not disappointed. I speak not of that
succession of _sentiments, reflexions, and expostulations_, which
flow, as in a continued stream of grief, from the first discovery of
her heart to her sister, to her last frantic and inflamed resentments.
These belong to the former article of _internal movements_: and need
not be considered. My concern at present, is with those _visible,
external indications_, the sensible marks and signatures (as expressed
in _look_, _air_, and _action_) of this tormenting frenzy. The history
of these, as related in the narrative part of Dido’s adventure, would
comprehend every natural _situation_ of a person, under _love’s_
distractions. And it were no unpleasing amusement to follow and
contemplate her, in a series of pictures, from her first attitude, of
_hanging on the mouth of Aeneas_, through all the gradual excesses
of her rage, to the concluding fatal _act of desperation_. But they
are deeply imprinted on every schoolboy’s memory. It need only be
observed, that they are such, as almost necessarily spring up from the
circumstances of her case, and which every reader, on first view, as
agreeing to his own notices and observations, pronounces _natural_.
It may seem sufficient, therefore, to ascribe these portraitures of
passion, so suitable to all our expectations, and in drawing which
the genius of the great poet so eminently excelled, to the original
hand and design of Virgil. But the perverse humour of criticism,
occasioned by this inveterate prejudice “of taking all _resemblances_
for _thefts_,” will allow no such thing. Before it will decide of
this matter, every ancient writer, who but incidentally touches a
love-adventure, must be sought out and brought in evidence against
him. And finding that _Homer_ hath his Calypso, and _Euripides_
and _Apollonius_ their Medea, it adjudges the entire episode to be
stolen by piece-meal, and patched up out of their writings. I have
a learned critic now before me, who roundly asserts, “that, but for
the Argonautics, there had been no fourth book of the Aeneis[27].”
Some traits of resemblance there are. It could not be otherwise. But
all the use a candid reader, who comes to his author with the true
spirit of a critic, will make of them, is to shew, “how justly the
poet copies nature, which had suggested similar representations to his
predecessors.”