endeavour to lead truth through unfrequented and new ways, and from the
most remote shades; by representing nature, though not in an affected,
yet in an unusual dress[44].” These were the principles he went upon:
let us now attend to the success of his endeavours.
The METHOD of his work is defective in many respects. To instance in
the two following. Observing the large compass of the ancient epic,
for which he saw no cause in nature, and which, he supposed, had been
followed merely from a blind deference to the authority of the first
model, he resolved to construct an heroic poem on the narrower and, as
he conceived, juster plan of the dramatic poets. And, because it was
their practice, for the purpose of _raising the passions_ by a close
accelerated plot, and for the convenience of _representation_, to
conclude their subject in _five acts_, he affects to restrain himself
within the same limits. The event was, that, cutting himself off,
by this means, from the opportunity of digressive ornaments, which
contribute so much to the pomp of the epic poetry; and, what is more
essential, from the advantage of the most gradual and circumstantiated
narration, which gives an air of _truth and reality_ to the fable, he
failed in accomplishing the proper _end_ of this poem, ADMIRATION;
_produced_ by a grandeur of design and variety of important incidents,
and _sustained_ by all the energy and minute particularity of
description.
2. It was essential to the ancient epos to raise and exalt the fable
by the intervention of _supernatural agency_. This, again, the poet
mistook for the prejudice of the affected imitators of Homer, “who
had so often led them into heaven and hell, till, by conversation
with gods and ghosts, they sometimes deprive us of those natural
probabilities in story, which are instructive to human life[45].” Here
then he would needs be original; and so, by recording only the affairs
of men, hath fairly omitted a necessary part of the epic plan, and that
which, of all others, had given the greatest state and magnificence
to its construction. Yet here, to do him justice, one thing deserves
our commendation. It had been the way of the Italian romancers, who
were at that time the best poets, to run very much into prodigy and
enchantment. “Not only to exceed the _work_, but also the _possibility_
of nature, they would have impenetrable armors, inchanted castles,
invulnerable bodies, iron men, flying horses, and a thousand other
such things, which are easily feigned by them that dare[46].” These
conceits, he rightly saw, had too slender a foundation in the serious
belief of his age to justify a relation of them. And had he only
dropped these, his conduct had been without blame. But, as it is the
weakness of human nature, the observation of this extreme determined
him to the other, of admitting nothing, however well established in
the general opinion, that was _supernatural_.
And as here he did too much, so in another respect, it may be observed,
he did too little. The romancers, before spoken of, had carried their
notions of _gallantry_ in ordinary life, as high, as they had done
those of _preternatural agency_, in their marvellous fictions. Yet
here this original genius, who was not to be held by the shackles of
superstition, suffered himself to be entrapped in the silken net of
_love and honour_. And so hath adopted, in his draught of _characters_,
that elevation of sentiment which a change of manners could not but
dispose the reader to regard as _fantastic_ in the Gothic romance, at
the same time that he rejected what had the truest grace in the ancient
epic, a _sober intermixture of religion_.
The _execution_ of his poem was answerable to the general _method_. His
SENTIMENTS are frequently forced, and so tortured by an affectation of
wit, that every stanza hath the air of an epigram. And the EXPRESSION,
in which he cloaths them, is so quaint and figurative, as turns his
description almost into a continued riddle.
Such was the effect of a studious affectation of _originality_ in a
writer, who, but for this misconduct, had been in the first rank of
our poets. His endeavour was to keep clear of the models, in which his
youth had been instructed, and which he perfectly understood. And in
this indeed he succeeded. But the success lost him the possession of,
what his large soul appears to have been full of, a true and permanent
glory; which hath ever arisen, and can only arise, from the unambitious
simplicity of nature; _contemplated_ in her own proper form, or, by
_reflexion_, in the faithful mirror of those very models, he so much
dreaded.
In short, from what hath been here advanced, and especially as
confirmed by so uncommon an instance, I think myself entitled to
come at once to this _general conclusion_, which they, who have a
comprehensive view of the history of letters, in their several periods,
and a just discernment to estimate their state in them, will hardly
dispute with me, “that, though many causes concur to produce a thorough
degeneracy of taste in any country; yet the _principal_, ever, is, THIS
ANXIOUS DREAD OF IMITATION IN POLITE AND CULTIVATED WRITERS.”
And, if such be the case, among the other uses of this Essay, it may
perhaps serve for a seasonable admonition to the poets of our time,
to relinquish their vain hopes of _originality_, and turn themselves
to a stricter imitation of the best models. I say, a _seasonable
admonition_; for the more polished a nation is, and the more generally
these models are understood, the greater danger there is, as was now
observed, of running into that worst of literary faults, _affectation_.
But, to stimulate their endeavours to this practice, the judgment of
the public should first be set right; and their readers prepared to
place a just value upon it. In this respect, too, I would willingly
contribute, in some small degree, to the service of letters. For the
poet, whose object is _fame_, will always adapt himself to the humour
of those, who confer it. And till the public taste be reduced, by sober
criticism, to a just standard, strength of genius will only enable a
writer to pervert it still further, by a too successful compliance with
its vicious expectations.
A
DISSERTATION
ON
THE MARKS OF IMITATION.
DISSERTATION IV.
ON
THE MARKS OF IMITATION.
TO MR. MASON.
I have said, in the discourse on POETICAL IMITATION, “that
coincidencies of a certain _kind_, and in a certain _degree_, cannot
fail to convict a writer of Imitation[47].” You are curious, my friend,
to know what these _coincidencies_ are, and have thought that an
attempt to point them out would furnish an useful Supplement to what
I have written on this subject. But the just execution of this design
would require, besides a careful examination of the workings of the
human mind, an exact scrutiny of the most original and most imitative
writers. And, with all your partiality for me, can you, in earnest,
think me capable of fulfilling the _first_ of these conditions; Or,
if I were, do you imagine that, at this time o’ day, I can have the
leisure to perform the _other_? My younger years, indeed, have been
spent in turning over those authors which young men are most fond of;
and among these I will not disown that the Poets of ancient and modern
fame have had their full share in my affection. But you, who love me
so well, would not wish me to pass more of my life in these flowery
regions; which though you may yet wander in without offence, and the
rather as you wander in them with so pure a mind and to so moral a
purpose, there seems no decent pretence for me to loiter in them any
longer.
Yet in saying this I would not be thought to assume that severe
character; which, though sometimes the garb of reason, is oftener,
I believe, the mask of dulness, or of something worse. No, I am too
sensible to the charms, nay to the uses of your profession, to affect a
contempt for it. The great Roman said well, _Haec studia adolescentiam
alunt; senectutem oblectant_. We make a full meal of them in our
youth. And no philosophy requires so perfect a mortification as that
we should wholly abstain from them in our riper years. But should we
invert the observation; and take this light food not as the refreshment
only, but as the proper _nourishment_ of Age; such a name as Cicero’s,
I am afraid, would be wanting, and not easily found, to justify the
practice.
Let us own then, on a greater authority than His, “That every thing is
beautiful in its season.” The Spring hath its _buds and blossoms_: But,
as the year runs on, you are not displeased, perhaps, to see them fall
off; and would certainly be disappointed not to find them, in due time,
succeeded by those _mellow hangings_, the poet somewhere speaks of.
I could alledge still graver reasons. But I would only say, in one
word, that your friend has had his share in these amusements. I may
recollect with pleasure, but must never live over again
Pieriosque dies, et amantes carmina somnos.
Yet something, you insist, is to be done; and, if it amount to no more
than a specimen or slight sketch, such as my memory, or the few notes
I have by me, would furnish, the design, you think, is not totally to
be relinquished.
I understand the danger of gratifying you on these terms. Yet, whatever
it be, I have no power to excuse myself from any attempt, by which,
you tell me at least, I may be able to gratify you. I will do my
best, then, to draw together such observations, as I have sometimes
thought, in reading the poets, most material for the certain discovery
of _Imitations_. And I address them to YOU, not only as you are the
properest judge of the subject; you, who understand so well in what
manner the Poets are us’d to imitate each other, and who yourself so
finely imitate the best of them; But as I would give you this small
proof of my affection, and have perhaps the ambition of publishing to
the world in this way the entire friendship, that subsists between us.
You tell me I have not succeeded amiss in explaining the difficulty of
detecting _Imitations_. The materials of poetry, you own, lie so much
in common amongst all writers, and the several ways of employing them
are so much under the controul of common sense, that writings will
in many respects be similar, where there is no thought or design of
_Imitating_. I take advantage of this concession to conclude from it,
That we can seldom pronounce with certainty of Imitations without some
external proof to assist us in the discovery. You will understand me
to mean by these _external proofs_, the previous knowledge we have,
from considerations not respecting the _Nature_ of the work itself, of
the writer’s _ability_ or _inducements_ to imitate. Our first enquiry,
then, will be, concerning the _Age_, _Character_, and _Education_ of
the supposed Imitator.
We can determine with little certainty, how far the principal Greek
writers have been indebted to Imitation. We trace the waters of Helicon
no higher than to their source. And we acquiesce, with reason, in the
device of the old painter, you know of, who somewhat rudely indeed, but
not absurdly, drew the figure of Homer with a fountain streaming out of
his mouth, and the other poets watering at it.
Hither, as to their fountain, other Stars
Repairing, in their golden urns draw light.
The Greek writers then were, or, for any thing we can say, might be
Original.
But we can rarely affirm this of any other. And the reason is plain.
When a taste for letters prevailed in any country, if it arose at first
from the efforts of original thinking, it was immediately cherished and
cultivated by the study of the old writers. You are too well acquainted
with the progress of ancient and modern wit to doubt of this fact. Rome
adorned itself in the spoils of Greece. And both assisted in dressing
up the later European poetry. What else do you find in the Italian or
French Wits, but the old matter, worked over again; only presented to
us in a new form, and embellished perhaps with a conceit or two of mere
modern invention?
But the English, you say, or rather your fondness for your Masters
leads you to suppose, are original thinkers. ’Tis true, Nature has
taken a pleasure to shew us what she could do, by the production of ONE
Prodigy. But the rest are what we admire them for, not indeed without
Genius, perhaps with a larger share of it than has fallen to the lot of
others, yet directly and chiefly by the discipline of art and the helps
of imitation.
The golden times of the English Poetry were, undoubtedly, the reigns
of our two Queens. Invention was at its height, in the _one_; and
Correctness, in the _other_. In _both_, the manners of a court refin’d,
without either breaking or corrupting the spirit of our poets. But do
you forget that ELIZABETH read Greek and Latin almost as easily as our
Professors? And can you doubt that what she knew so well, would be
known, admired, and imitated by every other? Or say, that the writers
of her time were, some of them, ignorant enough of the _learned_
languages to be inventors; can you suppose, from what you know of the
fashion of that age, that their fancies would not be sprinkled, and
their wits refreshed by the essences of the Italian poetry?
I scarcely need say a word of our OTHER Queen, whose reign was
unquestionably the æra of classic imitation and of classic taste. Even
they, who had never been as far as Greece or Italy, to warm their
imaginations or stock their memories, might do both to a tolerable
degree in France; which, though it bowed to our country’s arms, had
almost the ascendant in point of letters.
I mention these things only to put you in mind that hardly _one_ of our
poets has been in a condition to do without, or certainly be above,
the suspicion of learned imitation. And the observation is so true,
that even in this our age, when good letters, they say, are departing
from us, the Greek or Roman stamp is still visible in every work of
genius, that has taken with the public. Do you think one needed to be
told in the title-page, that a late DRAMA, or some later ODES were
formed on the ancient model?
The drift of all this, you will say, is to overturn the former
discourse; for that now I pretend, every degree of likeness to a
preceding writer is an argument of imitation. Rather, if you please,
conclude that, in my opinion, every degree of likeness is exposed
to the _suspicion_ of imitation. To convert this suspicion into a
proof, it is not enough to say, that a writer _might_, but that his
circumstances make it plain or probable at least, that he _did_,
imitate.
Of these _circumstances_ then, the _first_ I should think deserving our
attention, is the AGE in which the writer lived. One should know if
it were an age addicted to much study, and in which it was creditable
for the best writers to make a shew of their reading. Such especially
was the age succeeding to that memorable æra, the revival of letters
in these western countries. The fashion of the time was to interweave
as much of ancient wit as possible in every new work. Writers were so
far from affecting to think and speak in their own way, that it was
their pride to make the admired ancient think and speak for them. This
humour continued very long, and in some sort even still continues: with
this difference indeed, that, then, the ancients were introduced to
do the honours, since, to do the drudgery of the entertainment. But
several causes conspired to carry it to its height in England about
the beginning of the last century. You may be sure, then, the writers
of that period abound in imitations. The best poets boasted of them as
their sovereign excellence. And you will easily credit, for instance,
that B. Jonson was a servile imitator, when you find him on so many
occasions little better than a painful translator.
I foresee the occasion I shall have, in the course of this letter, to
weary you with citations: and would not therefore go out of my way for
them. Yet, amidst a thousand instances of this sort in Jonson, the
following, I fancy, will entertain you. The Latin verses, you know, are
of Catullus.
Ut flos in septis secretus nascitur hortis,
Ignotus pecori, nullo convulsus aratro,
Quem mulcent auræ, firmat sol, educat imber,
Multi illum pueri, multæ optavere puellæ.
Idem, quum tenui carptus defloruit ungui,
Nulli illum pueri, nullæ optavere puellæ.
It came in Jonson’s way, in one of his masks, to translate this
passage; and observe with what industry he has secured the sense, while
the spirit of his author escapes him.
Look, how a flower that close in closes grows,
Hid from rude cattle, bruised with no plows,
Which th’ air doth stroke, sun strengthen, show’rs shoot high’r,
It many youths, and many maids desire;
The same, when cropt by cruel hand, is wither’d,
No youths at all, no maidens have desir’d.
—It was not thus, you remember, that Ariosto and Pope have translated
these fine verses. But to return to our purpose:
To this consideration of the _Age_ of a writer, you may add, if you
please, that of his EDUCATION. Though it might not, in general, be
the fashion to affect learning, the habits acquired by a particular
writer might dispose him to do so. What was less esteemed by the
enthusiasts of Milton’s time (of which however he himself was one of
the greatest) than prophane or indeed any kind of learning? Yet we,
who know that his youth was spent in the study of the best writers in
every language, want but little evidence to convince us that his great
genius did not disdain to stoop to imitation. You assent, I dare say,
to Dryden’s compliment, though it be an invidious one, “That no man has
so copiously translated Homer’s Grecisms, and the Latin elegancies of
Virgil.” Nay, don’t you remember, the other day, that we were half of a
mind to give him up for a shameless plagiary, chiefly because we were
sure he had been a great reader.
But no good writer, it will be said, has flourished out of a learned
age, or at least without some tincture of learning. It may be so. Yet
every writer is not disposed to make the most of these advantages. What
if we pay some regard then to the CHARACTER of the writer? A poet,
enamoured of himself, and who sets up for a great inventive genius,
thinks much to profit by the sense of his predecessors, and even when
he steals, takes care to dissemble his thefts, and to conceal them
as much as possible. You know I have instanced in such a poet in Sir
_William D’Avenant_. In detecting the imitations of such a writer,
one must then proceed with some caution. But what if our concern be
with _one_, whose modesty leads him to revere the sense and even the
expression of approved authors, whose taste enables him to select
the finest passages in their works, and whose judgment determines
him to make a free use of them? Suppose we know all this from common
fame, and even from his own confession; would you scruple to call
that an _imitation_ in him, which in the other might have passed for
_resemblance_ only?
As the character is amiable, you will be pleased to hear me own, there
are many modern poets to whom it belongs. Perhaps, the first that
occurred to my thoughts was Mr. Addison. But the observation holds of
others, and of _one_, in particular, very much his superior in true
genius. I know not whether you agree with me, that the famous line in
the _Essay on Man_;
“An honest man’s the noblest work of God,”
is taken from Plato’s, Πάντων ἱερώτατόν ἐστιν ἄνθρωπος ὁ ἀγαθός. But I
am sure you will that the still more famous lines, which shallow men
repeat without understanding,
“For modes of Faith let graceless zealots fight,
His, can’t be wrong whose life is in the right:”
are but copied, though with vast improvement in the force and turn
of expression, from the excellent and, let it be no disparagement to
him to say, from the orthodox Mr. Cowley. The poet is speaking of his
friend CRASHAW.
“His Faith perhaps in some nice tenets might
Be wrong; his life, I’m sure, was in the right.”
Mr. Pope, who found himself in the same circumstances with Crashaw,
and had suffered no doubt from the like uncharitable constructions
of _graceless zeal_, was very naturally tempted to adopt this candid
sentiment, and to give it the further heightening of his own spirited
expression.
Let us see then how far we are got in this inquiry. We may say of the
old Latin poets, that they all came out of the Greek schools. It is as
true of the moderns in this part of the world, that they, in general,
have had their breeding in both the Greek and Latin. But when the
question is of any particular writer, how far and in what instances you
may presume on his being a professed imitator, much will depend on the
certain knowledge you have of his _Age_, _Education_, and _Character_.
When all these circumstances meet in one man, as they have done in
others, but in none perhaps so eminently as in B. Jonson, wherever you
find an acknowledged likeness, you will do him no injustice to call it
_imitation_.
Yet all this, you say, comes very much short of what you require of
me. You want me to specify those peculiar considerations, and even
to reduce them into rule, from which one may be authorised, in any
instance to pronounce of imitations. It is not enough, you pretend,
to say of any passage in a celebrated poet, that it most probably was
taken from some other. In your extreme jealousy for the credit of your
order, you call upon me to shew the distinct marks which convict him of
this commerce.
In a word, You require me to turn to the poets; to gather a number of
those passages I call Imitations; and to point to the _circumstances_
in each that prove them to be so. I attend you with pleasure in this
amusing search. It is not material, I suppose, that we observe any
strict method in our ramblings. And yet we will not wholly neglect it.
Perhaps then we shall find undoubted marks of Imitation, both in the
SENTIMENT, and EXPRESSION of great writers.
To begin with such considerations as are most GENERAL.
I. An identity of the _subject-matter_ of poetry is no sure evidence of
Imitation: and least of all, perhaps, in natural description. Yet where
the _local_ peculiarities of nature are to be described, there an exact
conformity of the matter will evince an imitation.
Descriptive poets have ever been fond of lavishing all the riches of
their fancy on the _Spring_. But the appearances of this _prime of the
year_ are so diversified with the climate, that descriptions of it, if
taken directly from nature, must needs be very different. The Greek and
Latin, and, since them, the Provencial poets, when they insist, as they
always do, on the indulgent softness of this season, its _genial dews_
and _fostering breezes_, speak nothing but what is agreeable to their
own experience and feeling.
It ver; et Venus; et Veneris praenuntius antè
Pinnatus graditur Zephyrus vestigia propter:
Flora quibus mater praespergens antè viaï
Cuncta coloribus egregiis et odoribus opplet.
Venus, or the spirit of love, is represented by those poets as brooding
o’er this delicious season;
Rura foecundat voluptas: rura VENEREM sentiunt.
Ipsa gemmas purpurantem pingit annum floribus:
Ipsa surgentis papillas de Favonî spiritu
Urguet in toros tepentes; ipsa roris lucidi, &c.
and a great deal more to the same purpose, which every one recollects
in the old classic and in the Provencial poets.
But when we hear this language from the more Northern, and particularly
our English bards, who perhaps are shivering with the blasts of the
North-east, at the very time their imagination would warm itself
with these notions, one is certain this cannot be the effect of
_observation_, but of a sportful fancy; enchanted by the native
loveliness of these exotic images, and charmed by the secret insensible
power of _imitation_.
And to shew the certainty of this conclusion, Shakespear, we may
observe, who had none of this classical or Provencial bias on his
mind, always describes, not a Greek, or Italian, or Provencial, but
an English Spring; where we meet with many unamiable characters; and,
among the rest, instead of Zephyr or Favonius, we have the bleak
North-east, that _nips the blooming infants of the Spring_.