of the _boisterous_ passions. These do not shelter, and conceal
themselves within the man. It is particularly, of their nature, to
stand forth, and shew themselves in _outward actions_. Of the more
illustrious _effects_ of the ruder passions the chief are _contentions
and wars_—_regum & populorum aestus_; which, by reason of the grandeur
of the subject, and its important consequences, so fitted to strike
the thought, and fire the affections of the reader, poetry, I mean the
highest and sublimest species of it, chuses principally to describe.
In the conduct of such _description_, some difference will arise from
the instruments in use for annoyance of the enemy, and, in general,
the state of _art military_; but the actuating passions of _rage_,
_ambition_, _emulation_, _thirst of honour_, _revenge_, &c. are
invariably the same, and are constantly evidenced by the same external
marks or characters. The _shocks of armies_, _single combats_; _the
chances and singularities of either_; _wounds_, _deaths_, _stratagems_,
and the other attendants on _battle_, which furnish out the state and
magnificence of the epic muse, are, all of them, _fixed, determinate
objects_; which leave their impressions on the mind of the poet, in as
distinct and uniform characters, as the great constituent parts of the
material universe itself. He hath only to look abroad into _life and
action_ for the model of all such representations. On which account we
can rarely be certain, that the _picture_ is not from _nature_, though
an exact resemblance give to superficial and unthinking observers the
suspicion of _art_.
The same reasoning extends to all the _phaenomena_ of human life, which
are the effects or consequences of _strong affections_, and which set
mankind before us in _gestures_, _looks_, or _actions_, declarative
of the inward suggestions of the heart. It can seldom be affirmed
with confidence, in such cases, on the score of any similarity, that
one representation _imitates_ another; since an ordinary attention to
the same common original, sufficiently accounts for both. The reader,
if he sees fit, will apply these remarks to the _battles_, _games_,
_travels_, &c. of a great poet; the supposed sterility of whose genius
hath been charged with serving itself pretty freely of the copious,
inexhausted stores of Homer. In sum;
_Quicquid agunt homines, votum, timor, ira, voluptas,
Gaudia, &c._
Whatever be the _actuating passion_, it cannot but be thought unfair
to suspect the artist of _imitation_; where nothing more is pretended
than a _resemblance_ in the draught of _similar effects_, which it is
not possible to avoid.
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_.