King. Cromwell took occasion, soon after, to reprove the Colonel for
this proposition, telling him, that he wondered what he could mean
by it. To which the other replied, “_That while he was permitted
the honour of sitting in that House, he must desire the liberty
to discharge his conscience, though his opinion should happen to
displease_.”
Here we have a very striking coincidence of _sentiment_, without the
least probability of imitation. For no body, I dare say, suspects
Colonel William Jephson of stealing this refined stroke of adulation
from Valerius Messalla. The truth is, the same situation, concurring
with the same corrupt disposition, dictated this peculiar sentiment to
the two courtiers. Yet, had these similar thoughts been found in two
dramatic poets of the Augustan and Oliverian ages, we should probably
have cried out, “An Imitation.” And with good reason. For, besides
the possibility of an Oliverian poet’s knowing something of Tacitus,
the speakers had then been _feigned_, not real personages. And it is
not so likely that two such should agree in this sentiment: I mean,
considering how new and particular it is. For, as to the more common
and obvious sentiments, even dramatic speakers will very frequently
employ the _same_, without affording any just reason to conclude that
their prompters had turned plagiaries.
VIII. If to this singularity of a sentiment, you add the _apparent
harshness_ of it, especially when not gradually _prepared_ (as such
sentiments always will be by exact writers, when of their own proper
invention), the suspicion grows still stronger. I just glanced at an
instance of this sort in Milton’s _curl’d_ grove. But there are others
still more remarkable. Shall I presume for once to take an instance
from yourself?
Your fine Ode to Memory begins with these very lyrical verses:
Mother of Wisdom! Thou whose sway
The throng’d ideal hosts obey;
Who bidst their ranks now vanish, now appear,
Flame in the van, and darken in the rear.
This sublime imagery has a very original air. Yet I, who know how
familiar the best ancient and modern critics are to you, have no doubt
that it is taken from STRADA.
“Quid accommodatius, says he, speaking of your subject, Memory,
quàm _simulachrorum ingentes copias_, tanquàm _addictam ubique tibi
sacramento militiam_, eo inter se nexu ac fide conjunctam cohærentemque
habere; ut sive unumquodque separatim, sive confertim universa, sive
singula ordinatim _in aciem proferre_ velis; nihil planè in tantâ rerum
herbâ turbetur, sed alia _procul atque in recessu_ sita prodeuntibus
locum cedant; alia, se tota confestim promant atque in medium _certò
evocata prosiliant_? Hoc tam magno, tam fido domesticorum _agmine_
instructus animus, &c.”
_Prol. Acad._ I.
Common writers know little of the art of _preparing_ their ideas, or
believe the very name of an Ode absolves them from the care of art.
But, if this uncommon sentiment had been intirely your own, you, I
imagine, would have dropped some _leading_ idea to introduce it.
IX. You see with what a suspicious eye, we who aspire to the name of
critics, examine your writings. But every poet will not endure to be
scrutinized so narrowly.
1. B. Jonson, in his Prologue to the _Sad Shepherd_, is opening the
subject of that poem. The _sadness_ of his shepherd is
For his lost Love, who in the TRENT is said
To have miscarried; _’las! what knows the head
Of a calm river, whom the feet have drown’d!_
The reflexion in this place is unnecessary and even impertinent. Who
besides ever heard of the _feet_ of a river? Of _arms_, we have. And so
it stood in Jonson’s original.
Greatest and fairest Empress, know you this,
Alas! no more than Thames’ calm head doth know
Whose meads his arms drown, or whose corn o’erflow.
Dr. DONNE.
The poet is speaking of the corruption of the courts of justice, and
the allusion is perfectly fine and natural. Jonson was tempted to bring
it into his prologue by the mere beauty of the sentiment. He had a
river at his disposal, and would not let slip the opportunity. But “his
unnatural use” of it detects his “imitation.”
2. I don’t know whether you have taken notice of a miscarriage,
something like this, in the most judicious of all the poets.
Theocritus makes Polypheme say,
Καὶ γὰρ θὴν οὐδ’ εἶδος ἔχω κακὸν, ὥς με λέγοντι,
Ἦ γὰρ πρὰν ἐς Πόντον ἐσέβλεπον· ἦν δὲ γαλάνα.
Nothing could be better fancied than to make this enormous son of
Neptune use the sea for his looking-glass. But is Virgil so happy when
his little land-man says,
Nec sum adeò informis: nuper me in littore vidi,
Cùm placidum ventis staret _mare_——
His wonderful judgment for once deserted him, or he might have retained
the sentiment with a slight change in the application. For instance,
what if he had said,
Certè ego me novi, liquidæque in imagine vidi
Nuper aquæ, placuitque mihi mea forma videnti.
It is a sort of curiosity, you say, to find Ovid reading a lesson to
Virgil. I will dissemble nothing. The lines are, as I have cited them,
in the 13th book of the Metamorphosis. But unluckily they are put into
the mouth of Polypheme. So that instead of instructing one poet by the
other, I only propose that they should make an exchange; Ovid take
Virgil’s _sea_, and Virgil be contented with Ovid’s _water_. However
this be, you may be sure the authority of the Prince of the Latin
poets will carry it with admiring posterity above all such scruples of
decorum. Nobody wonders therefore to read in Tasso,
————————————————————————Non son’ io
Da disprezzar, se ben me stesso vidi
Nel liquido del mar, quando l’altr’ hieri
Taceano i venti, et ei giacea senz’ onda.
But of all the misappliers of this fine original sentiment, commend me
to that _other_ Italian, who made his shepherd survey himself, in a
_fountain_ indeed, but a fountain of his own weeping.
3. You will forgive my adding one other instance “of this vicious
application of a fine thought.”
You remember those agreeable verses of Sir _John Suckling_,
“Tempests of winds thus (as my storms of grief
Carry my tears which should relieve my heart)
Have hurried to the thankless ocean clouds
And show’rs, that needed not at all the courtesy.
When the poor plains have languish’d for the want,
And almost burnt asunder.”——
_Brennoralt._ A. III. S. 1.
I don’t stay to examine how far the fancy of _tears relieving the
heart_ is allowable. But admitting the propriety of the observation,
in the sense the poet intended it, the simile is applied and expressed
with the utmost beauty. It accordingly struck the best writers of that
time. SPRAT, in his history of the _Royal Society_, is taking notice of
the misapplication of philosophy to subjects of Religion. “That shower,
says he, has done very much injury by falling on the sea, for which
the shepherd, and the ploughman, called in vain: The wit of men has
been profusely poured out on _Religion_, which needed not its help, and
which was only thereby made more tempestuous: while it might have been
more fruitfully spent, on some parts of _philosophy_, which have been
hitherto barren, and might soon have been made fertile.” _p. 25._
You see what wire-drawing here is to make the comparison, so proper
in its original use, just and pertinent to a subject to which it had
naturally no relation. Besides, there is an absurdity in speaking
of a shower’s doing _injury_ to the sea by falling into it. But the
thing illustrated by this comparison requiring the idea of _injury_,
he transfers the idea to the comparing thing. He would soften the
absurdity, by running the comparison into metaphorical expression,
but, I think, it does not remove it. In short, for these reasons, one
might easily have inferred an Imitation, without that parenthesis to
apologize for it—“To use that metaphor which an excellent poet of our
nation turns to _another_ purpose—”
But a poet of that time has no better success in the management of this
metaphor, than the Historian.
LOVE makes so many hearts the prize
Of the bright CARLISLE’S conqu’ring eyes;
Which she regards no more, than they
The tears of lesser beauties weigh.
So have I seen the lost clouds pour
Into the Sea an useless show’r;
And the vex’d Sailors curse the rain,
For which poor Shepherds pray’d in vain.
WALLER’S Poems, p. 25.
The Sentiment stands thus: “She regards the captive _hearts_ of others
no more than those others—the _tears_ of lesser beauties.” Thus, with
much difficulty, we get to _tears_. And when we have them, the allusion
to _lost clouds_ is so strained (besides that he makes his shower both
_useless_ and _injurious_), that one readily perceives the poet’s
thought was distorted by _imitation_.
X. The charge of Plagiarism is so disreputable to a great writer that
one is not surprized to find him anxious to avoid the imputation of it.
Yet “this very anxiety serves, sometimes, to fix it upon him.”
Mr. Dryden, in the Preface to his translation of Fresnoy’s Art of
Painting, makes the following observation on Virgil: “He pretends
sometimes to trip, but ’tis only to make you think him in danger of
a fall when he is most secure. Like a skilful dancer on the Rope (if
you will pardon the meanness of the similitude) who slips willingly
and makes a seeming stumble, that you may think him in great hazard of
breaking his neck; while at the same time he is only giving you a proof
of his dexterity. My late Lord Roscommon was often pleased with this
reflexion, &c.” p. 50.
His apology for the use of this simile, and his concluding with Lord
Roscommon’s satisfaction at his remark, betray, I think, an anxiety to
pass for original, under the consciousness of being but an imitator. So
that if we were to meet with a passage, very like this, in a celebrated
ancient, we could hardly doubt of its being copied by Mr. Dryden. What
think you then of this observation in one of Pliny’s Letters, “Ut
quasdam artes, ità eloquentiam nihil magis quàm ancipitia commendant.
Vides qui fune in summa nituntur, quantos soleant excitare clamores,
cùm jam jamque casuri videntur.” L. ix. Ep. 26.
PRIOR, one may observe, has acted more naturally in his _Alma_, and
by so doing, though the resemblance be full as great, one is not so
certain of his being an Imitator. The verses are, of BUTLER:
He perfect Dancer climbs the Rope,
And balances your fear and hope:
If after some distinguish’d leap,
He drops his Pole and seems to slip;
Strait gath’ring all his active strength
He rises higher half his length.
With _wonder_ you approve his slight,
And owe your pleasure to your _fright_.
C. II.
Though the two last lines seem taken from the application of this
similitude in Pliny, “Sunt enim maximè _mirabilia_, quæ maximè
inexpectata, et maximè _periculosa_.”
XI. Writers are, sometimes, sollicitous to conceal themselves: At
others, they are fond to proclaim their Imitation. “It is when they
have a mind to shew their dexterity in contending with a great
original.”
You remember these lines of Milton in his Comus,
Wisdom’s self
Oft seeks to sweet retired Solitude,
Where, with her best nurse, Contemplation,
She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings,
That in the various bustle of resort
Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair’d.
On which Dr. Warburton has the following note. “Mr. Pope has imitated
this thought and (as was always his way when he imitated) improved it.
“Bear me, some Gods! oh, quickly bear me hence
To wholesome Solitude, the nurse of Sense;
Where Contemplation prunes her ruffled wings,
And the free Soul looks down to pity Kings.
“Mr. Pope has not only improved the harmony, but the sense. In
Milton, _Contemplation_ is called the _Nurse_; in Pope, more properly
_Solitude_: In Milton, _Wisdom_ is said to _prune_ her wings; in Pope,
_Contemplation_ is said to do it, and with much greater propriety, as
she is of a _soaring_ nature, and on that account is called by Milton
himself, the _Cherub Contemplation_.”
One sees that Mr. Pope’s view was to surpass his original; “which,
it is said, was always his way when he imitated.” The meaning is,
when he purposely and professedly bent himself to Imitation; for then
his fine genius taught him to seize every beauty, and his wonderful
judgment, to avoid every defect or impropriety, in his author. And this
distinction is very material to our passing a right judgment on the
merit of Imitation. It is commonly said, that their imitations fall
short of their originals. And they will do so, whatever the Genius of
the Imitator be, if they are formed only on a _general_ resemblance
of the thought imitated. For an Inventor comprehends his own ideas
more distinctly and fully, and of course expresses his purpose better,
than a casual Imitator. But the case is different, when a good writer
_studies_ the passage from which he borrows. For then he not only
copies, but improves on the first idea; and thus there will frequently
(as in the case of Pope) be greater merit in the Copyist, than the
original.
XII. We sometimes catch an Imitation lurking “in a licentious
Paraphrase.” The ground of suspicion lies in the very complacency with
which a writer expatiates on a borrowed sentiment. He is usually more
reserved in adorning one of his own.
1. AURELIUS VICTOR observes of Fabricius, “quòd difficiliùs ab
honestate, quàm Sol à suo cursu, averti posset.”
TASSO flourishes a little on this thought;
Prima dal corso distornar la Luna
E le stelle potrà, che dal diritto
Torcere un sol mio passo—
C. x. S. 24.
Mr. Waller rises upon the Italian,
“where her love was due,
So fast, so faithful, loyal, and so true,
That a bold hand as soon might hope to force
The rowling lights of heav’n, as change her course.”
_On the Death of Lady_ RICH.
But Mr. COWLEY, knowing what authority he had for the general
sentiment, gives the reins to his fancy and wantons upon it without
measure.
Virtue was thy Life’s centre, and from thence
Did silently and constantly dispense
The gentle vigorous influence
To all the wide and fair circumference:
And all the parts upon it lean’d so easilie,
Obey’d the mighty force so willinglie,
That none could discord or disorder see
In all their contrarietie.
Each had his motion natural and free,
And the whole no more mov’d, than the whole world could be.
BRUTUS.
2. The ingenious author of the _Observations on Spenser_ (from which
fine specimen of his critical talents one is led to expect great
things) directs us to another imitation of this sort.
Tasso had said,
Cosi a le belle lagrime le piume
Si bagna Amore, e gode al chiaro lume.
On which short hint Spenser has raised the following luxuriant imagery,
The blinded archer-boy,
Like lark in show’r of rain,
Sate bathing of his wings,
And glad the time did spend
Under those crystal drops,
Which fall from her fair eyes,
And at their brightest beams
Him proyn’d in lovely wise.
3. I will just add two more examples of the same kind; chiefly, because
they illustrate an observation, very proper to be attended to on this
subject; which is, “That in this display of a borrowed thought, the
Imitation will generally fall short of the Original, even though the
borrower be the greater Genius.”
The Italian poet, just now quoted, says sublimely of the _Night_,
—Usci la Notte, è sotto l’ali
Menò il silentio—
C. v. S. 79.
Milton has given a paraphrase of this passage, but very much below his
original,
Now came still ev’ning on, and twilight gray
Had in her sober livery all things clad;
_Silence accompany’d_—
The striking part of Tasso’s picture, is, “_Night’s bringing in Silence
under her wings_.” So new and singular an idea as this had detected an
Imitation. Milton contents himself, then, with saying simply, _Silence
accompany’d_. However, to make amends, as he thought, for this defect,
_Night itself_, which the Italian had merely personized, the English
poet not only _personizes_, but employs in a very becoming office:
Now came still ev’ning on, and twilight gray
Had in her sober livery all things clad.
Every body will observe a little blemish, in this fine couplet. He
should not have used the epithet _still_, when he intended to add,
_Silence_ accompanied—
But there is a worse fault in this _Imitation_. To hide it, he speaks
of _Night’s livery_. When he had done that, to speak of her _wings_,
had been ungraceful. Therefore he is forced to say obscurely as well as
_simply_, _Silence accompany’d_: And so loses a more noble image for a
less noble one. The truth is, they would not stand together. _Livery_
belongs to _human grandeur_; _wings_ to _divine_ or _celestial_. So that
in Milton’s very attempt to surpass his original, he put it out of his
power to employ the _circumstance_ that most recommended it.
He is not happier on another occasion. Spenser had said with his usual
simplicity,
“Virtue gives herself light thro’ darkness for to wade,”
F. Q. B. 1.
Milton catched at this image, and has run it into a sort of paraphrase,
in those fine lines,
“Virtue could see to do what virtue would
By her own radiant light, tho’ Sun and Moon
Were in the flat sea sunk—”
COMUS.
In Spenser’s line we have the idea of Virtue dropt down into a world,
all over darkened with vice and error. Virtue excites the light of
truth to see all around her, and not only dissipate the neighbouring
darkness, but to direct her course in pursuing her victory and
driving her enemy out of it; the arduousness of which exploit is well
expressed by—_thro’ darkness for to_ WADE. On the contrary, Milton,
in borrowing, substitutes the physical for the moral idea—_by her own
radiant light_—and _tho’ Sun and Moon were in the flat sea sunk_. It
may be asked, how this happened? Very naturally, Milton was caught
with the obvious _imagery_, which he found he could display to more
advantage; and so did not enough attend to the noble _sentiment_ that
was couched under it.
XIII. These are instances of a paraphrastical licence in dilating on a
famous Sentiment or Image. The _ground_ is the same, only flourished
upon by the genius of the Imitator. At times we find him practising
a different art; “not merely spreading, as it were, and laying open
the same sentiment, but _adding_ to it, and by a new and studied
device improving upon it.” In this case we naturally conclude that the
refinement had not been made, if the plain and simple thought had not
preceded and given rise to it. You will apprehend my meaning by what
follows.
1. Shakespear had said of Henry IV^{th},
—He cannot long hold out these pangs;
The incessant care and labour of his mind
Hath wrought the mure, that should confine it in,
So thin, that life look through, and will break out.
HEN. IV. A. 4.
You have, here, the thought in its first simplicity. It was not
unnatural, after speaking of the body, as a case or tenement of the
Soul, _the mure that confines_ it, to say, that as that case wears away
and grows thin, life looks through, and is ready to break out.
DANIEL, by refining on this sentiment, if by nothing else, shews
himself to be the copyist. Speaking of the same Henry, he observes,
And Pain and Grief, inforcing more and more,
Besieg’d the hold that could not long defend;
Consuming so all the resisting store
Of those provisions Nature deign’d to lend,
As that the Walls, worn thin, permit the mind
To look out thorough, and his frailty find.
Here we see, not simply that _Life_ is going to break through the
infirm and much-worn habitation, but that the _Mind_ looks through and
_finds_ his frailty, that it discovers, that Life will soon make his
escape. I might add, that the four first lines are of the nature of the
_Paraphrase_, considered in the last article: And that the _expression_
of the others is too much the same to be original. But we are not yet
come to the head of _expression_. And I choose to confine myself to the
single point of view we have before us.
Daniel’s improvement, then, looks like the artifice of a man that would
outdo his Master. Though he fails in the attempt: for his ingenuity
betrays him into a false thought. The mind, looking through, does not
find _its own frailty_, but the frailty of the _building_ it inhabits.
However, I have endeavoured to rectify this mistake in my explanation.
The truth is, Daniel was not a man to improve upon Shakespear. But
now comes a writer, that knew his business much better. He chuses
to employ this well-worn image, or rather to alter it a little and
then employ it, for the conveyance of a very new fancy. If the mind
could look through a _thin_ body, much more one that was _cracked_ and
battered. And if it be for looking through at all, he will have it look
to good purpose, and find, not its frailty only, but much other useful
knowledge.
The lines are Mr. Waller’s, and in the best manner of that very
_refined_ writer.
Stronger by weakness, _wiser_, men become
As they draw near to their eternal home.
The Soul’s dark cottage, batter’d and decay’d,
Lets in new light thro’ chinks that time has made.
2. After all, these conceits, I doubt, are not much to your taste. The
instance I am going to give, will afford you more pleasure. Is there
a passage in Milton you read with more admiration, than this in the
_Penseroso_?
Entice the dewy-feather’d sleep;
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream;
Of lively portraiture display’d
Softly on my eye-lids laid.
Would you think it possible now that the ground-work of this fine
imagery should be laid in a passage of Ben Jonson? Yet so we read, or
seem to read, in his _Vision of Delight_.
Break, Phant’sy, from thy cave of cloud,
And spread thy purple wings:
Create of airy forms a stream,
And tho’ it be a waking dream,
Yet let it like an odour rise
To all the senses here,
And fall like sleep upon their eyes
Or musick in their ear.
It is a delicate matter to analyze such passages as these; which, how
exquisite soever in the poetry, when estimated by the _fine phrenzy_
of a Genius, hardly look like sense when given in plain prose. But if
you give me leave to take them in pieces, I will do it, at least, with
reverence. We find then, that _Fancy_ is here employed in one of her
nicest operations, the production of a _day-dream_; which both poets
represent as an _airy form_, or forms _streaming_ in the air, gently
falling on the eye-lids of her entranced votary. So far their imagery
agrees. But now comes the _mark_ of imitation I would point out to
you. Milton carries the idea still further, and improves finely upon
it, in the _conception_ as well as expression. Jonson evokes fancy
out of her _cave of cloud_, those cells of the mind, as it were, in
which during her intervals of rest, and when unemploy’d, fancy lies
hid; and bids her, like a Magician, _create_ this stream of forms. All
this is just and truly poetical. But Milton goes further. He employs
the _dewy-feather’d sleep_ as his Minister in this machinery. And the
mysterious day-dream is seen _waving at his wings in airy stream_.
Jonson would have Fancy _immediately_ produce this Dream. Milton more
poetically, because in more distinct and particular imagery, represents
Fancy as doing her work by means of _sleep_; that soft composure of
the mind abstracted from outward objects, in which it yields to these
phantastic impressions.
You see then a wonderful improvement in this addition to the original
thought. And the notion of _dreams waving at the wings of sleep_ is, by
the way, further justified by what Virgil feigns of their _sticking_
or rather fluttering on the leaves of his magic tree in the infernal
regions. But it is curious to observe how this improvement itself arose
from hints suggested by his original. From Jonson’s dream, _falling,
like sleep upon their eyes_, Milton took his _feather’d sleep_, which
he impersonates so properly; And from _Phant’sy’s spreading her purple
wings_, a circumstance, not so immediately connected with Jonson’s
design _of creating of airy forms a stream_, he catched the idea of
_Sleep spreading her wings_; and to good purpose, since the airy stream
of forms was to _wave at them_.
However, Jonson’s image is, in itself, incomparable. It is taken from a
_winged_ insect breaking out of its Aurelia state, its _cave of cloud_,
as it is finely called: Not unlike that of Mr. Pope,
So spins the Silk-worm small its slender store,
And labours till it _clouds_ itself all o’er.
IV. _Dunc._ v. 253.