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-Project Gutenberg's The Works of Richard Hurd, D. D., Vol. II, by Richard Hurd
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
-the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
-
-Title: The Works of Richard Hurd, D. D.
-       Lord Bishop of Worcester.
-       Volume II.
-
-Author: Richard Hurd
-
-Release Date: September, 2016 [EBook #53012]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF RICHARD HURD, VOL. II ***
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-Produced by: Charlene Taylor, Wayne Hammond, Bryan Ness and the
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-
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-
-
-
-
-  THE
-
-  WORKS
-
-  OF
-
-  RICHARD HURD, D.D.
-
-  LORD BISHOP OF WORCESTER.
-
-  VOL. II.
-
-  Printed by J. Nichols and Son,
-  Red Lion Passage, Fleet-Street, London.
-
-
-
-
-  THE
-
-  WORKS
-
-  OF
-
-  RICHARD HURD, D.D.
-
-  LORD BISHOP OF WORCESTER.
-
-  IN EIGHT VOLUMES.
-
-  VOL. II.
-
-  [Illustration]
-
-  LONDON:
-  PRINTED FOR T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND.
-  1811.
-
-
-
-
-  CRITICAL WORKS.
-
-  VOL. II.
-
-
-
-
-  Q. HORATII FLACCI
-
-  EPISTOLAE
-
-  AD
-
-  PISONES,
-
-  ET
-
-  AUGUSTUM:
-
-  WITH AN ENGLISH
-
-  COMMENTARY AND NOTES:
-
-  TO WHICH ARE ADDED
-
-  CRITICAL DISSERTATIONS.
-
-
-
-
-CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
-
-
-                                                             Page.
-
-  DISSERTATION I.
-  _On the Idea of Universal Poetry._                             1
-
-  DISSERTATION II.
-  _On the Provinces of Dramatic Poetry._                        27
-
-  DISSERTATION III.
-  _On Poetical Imitation._                                     107
-
-  DISSERTATION IV.
-  _On the Marks of Imitation._                                 243
-
-
-
-
-CRITICAL DISSERTATIONS.
-
-
-    I. ON THE IDEA OF UNIVERSAL POETRY.
-
-   II. ON THE PROVINCES OF DRAMATIC POETRY.
-
-  III. ON POETICAL IMITATION.
-
-   IV. ON THE MARKS OF IMITATION.
-
-
-                       VATIBVS ADDERE CALCAR,
-  VT STVDIO MAIORE PETANT HELICONA VIRENTEM.
-                                         HOR.
-
-
-
-
-  A
-
-  DISSERTATION
-
-  ON THE
-
-  IDEA OF UNIVERSAL POETRY.
-
-
-
-
-  DISSERTATION I.
-
-  ON THE
-
-  IDEA OF UNIVERSAL POETRY.
-
-
-When we speak of poetry, as an _art_, we mean _such a way or method of
-treating a subject, as is found most pleasing and delightful to us_.
-In all other kinds of literary composition, pleasure is subordinate to
-USE: in poetry only, PLEASURE is the end, to which use itself (however
-it be, for certain reasons, always pretended) must submit.
-
-This _idea_ of the end of poetry is no novel one, but indeed the very
-same which our great philosopher entertained of it; who gives it as
-the essential note of this part of learning—THAT IT SUBMITS THE SHEWS
-OF THINGS TO THE DESIRES OF THE MIND: WHEREAS REASON DOTH BUCKLE AND
-BOW THE MIND UNTO THE NATURE OF THINGS. For to _gratify the desires of
-the mind_, is to PLEASE: _Pleasure_ then, in the idea of Lord Bacon,
-is the ultimate and appropriate end of poetry; for the sake of which
-it accommodates itself to _the desires of the mind_, and doth not (as
-other kinds of writing, which are under the controul of _reason_)
-_buckle and bow the mind to the nature of things_.
-
-But they, who like a principle the better for seeing it in Greek,
-may take it in the words of an old philosopher, ERATOSTHENES, who
-affirmed—ποιητὴν πάντα στοχάζεσθαι ψυχαγωγίας, οὐ διδασκαλίας—of
-which words, the definition given above, is the translation.
-
-This _notion_ of the end of poetry, if kept steadily in view, will
-unfold to us all the mysteries of the poetic art. There needs but to
-evolve the philosopher’s idea, and to apply it, as occasion serves.
-_The art of poetry_ will be, universally, THE ART OF PLEASING; and all
-its _rules_, but so many MEANS, which experience finds most conducive
-to that end;
-
-    Sic ANIMIS natum inventumque poema JUVANDIS.
-
-Aristotle has delivered and explained these rules, so far as they
-respect one species of poetry, the _dramatic_, or, more properly
-speaking, the _tragic_: And when such a writer, as he, shall do as
-much by the other species, then, and not till then, a complete ART OF
-POETRY will be formed.
-
-I have not the presumption to think myself, in any degree, equal to
-this arduous task: But from the idea of this art, as given above, an
-ordinary writer may undertake to deduce some general conclusions,
-concerning _Universal Poetry_, which seem preparatory to those nicer
-disquisitions, concerning its _several sorts or species_.
-
-I. It follows from that IDEA, that it should neglect no advantage,
-that fairly offers itself, of appearing in such a dress or mode of
-language, as is most _taking_ and agreeable to us. We may expect then,
-in the language or style of poetry, a choice of such words as are most
-sonorous and expressive, and such an arrangement of them as throws
-the discourse out of the ordinary and common phrase of conversation.
-Novelty and variety are certain sources of pleasure: a construction
-of words, which is not vulgar, is therefore more suited to the ends
-of poetry, than one which we are every day accustomed to in familiar
-discourse. Some manners of placing them are, also, more agreeable to
-the ear, than others: Poetry, then, is studious of these, as it would
-by all means, not manifestly absurd, give pleasure: And hence a certain
-musical cadence, or what we call _Rhythm_, will be affected by the poet.
-
-But, of all the means of adorning and enlivening a discourse by words,
-which are infinite, and perpetually grow upon us, as our knowledge of
-the tongue, in which we write, and our skill in adapting it to the ends
-of poetry, increases, there is none that pleases more, than _figurative
-expression_.
-
-By _figurative expression_, I would be understood to mean, here, that
-which respects _the pictures or images of things_. And this sort
-of figurative expression is universally pleasing to us, because it
-tends to impress on the mind the most distinct and vivid conceptions;
-and truth of representation being of less account in this way of
-composition, than the liveliness of it, poetry, as such, will delight
-in tropes and figures, and those the most strongly and forceably
-expressed. And though the _application_ of figures will admit of great
-variety, according to the nature of the subject, and the _management_
-of them must be suited to the taste and apprehension of the people, to
-whom they are addressed, yet, in some way or other, they will find a
-place in all works of poetry; and they who object to the use of them,
-only shew that they are not capable of being pleased by this sort of
-composition, or do, in effect, interdict the thing itself.
-
-The ancients looked for so much of this force and spirit of expression
-in whatever they dignified with the name of _poem_, that Horace tells
-us it was made a question by some, whether comedy were rightly referred
-to this class, because it differed only, in point of measure, from mere
-prose.
-
-    Idcirco quidam, comoedia necne poema
-    Esset, quaesivere: quod acer spiritus, ac vis,
-    Nec _verbis_, nec rebus inest: nisi quod pede certo
-    Differt sermoni, sermo merus—
-                                         Sat. l. I. iv.
-
-But they might have spared their doubt, or at least have resolved it,
-if they had considered that comedy adopts as much of this _force and
-spirit of words_, as is consistent with the _nature_ and _degree_ of
-that pleasure, which it pretends to give. For the name of poem will
-belong to every composition, whose primary end is to _please_, provided
-it be so constructed as to afford _all_ the pleasure, which its kind or
-_sort_ will permit.
-
-II. From the idea of the _end_ of poetry, it follows, that not only
-figurative and tropical terms will be employed in it, as _these_, by
-the images they convey, and by the air of novelty which such indirect
-ways of speaking carry with them, are found most delightful to us,
-but also that FICTION, in the largest sense of the word, is essential
-to poetry. For its purpose is, not to delineate truth simply, but to
-present it in the most taking forms; not to reflect the real face of
-things, but to illustrate and adorn it; not to represent the fairest
-objects only, but to represent them in the fairest lights, and to
-heighten all their beauties up to the possibility of their natures;
-nay, to _outstrip_ nature, and to address itself to our wildest fancy,
-rather than to our judgment and cooler sense.
-
-    Οὔτ’ ἐπιδερκτὰ τάδ’ ἀνδράσιν, οὔτ’ ἐπακουστὰ,
-    Οὔτε νόῳ περίληπτα—
-
-As sings one of the profession[1], who seems to have understood his
-privileges very well.
-
-For there is something in the mind of man, sublime and elevated, which
-prompts it to overlook obvious and familiar appearances, and to feign
-to itself other and more extraordinary; such as correspond to the
-extent of its own powers, and fill out all the faculties and capacities
-of our souls. This restless and aspiring disposition, poetry, first and
-principally, would indulge and flatter; and thence takes its name of
-_divine_, as if some power, above _human_, conspired to lift the mind
-to these exalted conceptions.
-
-Hence it comes to pass, that it deals in apostrophes and invocations;
-that it impersonates the virtues and vices; peoples all creation
-with new and living forms; calls up infernal spectres to terrify, or
-brings down celestial natures to astonish, the imagination; assembles,
-combines, or connects its ideas, at pleasure; in short, prefers not
-only the agreeable, and the graceful, but, as occasion calls upon
-her, the vast, the incredible, I had almost said, the impossible, to
-the obvious truth and nature of things. For all this is but a feeble
-expression of that magic virtue of poetry, which our Shakespear has so
-forcibly described in those well-known lines—
-
-    The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rowling,
-    Doth glance from heav’n to earth, from earth to heav’n;
-    And, as Imagination bodies forth
-    The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
-    Turns them to shape, and gives to aery nothing
-    A focal habitation and a name.
-
-When the received system of manners or religion in any country,
-happens to be so constituted as to suit itself in some degree to this
-extravagant turn of the human mind, we may expect that poetry will
-seize it with avidity, will dilate upon it with pleasure, and take
-a pride to erect its specious wonders on so proper and convenient a
-ground. Whence it cannot seem strange that, of all the forms in which
-poetry has appeared, that of _pagan fable_, and _gothic romance_,
-should, in their turns, be found the most alluring to the true poet.
-For, in defect of these advantages, he will ever adventure, in some
-sort, to supply their place with others of his own invention; that is,
-he will mould every system, and convert every subject, into the most
-amazing and miraculous form.
-
-And this is that I would say, at present, of these two requisites of
-universal poetry, namely, _that licence of expression_, which we call
-the _style_ of poetry, and _that licence of representation_, which
-we call _fiction_. The _style_ is, as it were, the body of poetry;
-_fiction_, is its soul. Having, thus, taken the privilege of a poet to
-create a Muse, we have only now to give her a voice, or more properly
-to _tune_ it, and then she will be in a condition, as one of her
-favourites speaks, TO RAVISH ALL THE GODS. For
-
-III. It follows from the same idea of the _end_, which poetry would
-accomplish, that not only Rhythm, but NUMBERS, properly so called, is
-essential to it. For this Art undertaking to gratify all those desires
-and expectations of pleasure, that can be reasonably entertained by us,
-and there being a capacity in language, the instrument it works by, of
-pleasing us very highly, not only by the sense and imagery it conveys,
-but by the structure of words, and still more by the harmonious
-arrangement of them in metrical sounds or numbers, and lastly there
-being no reason in the nature of the thing itself why these pleasures
-should not be united, it follows that poetry will not be that which it
-professes to be, that is, not accomplish its own purpose, unless it
-delight the ear with numbers, or, in other words, unless it be cloathed
-in VERSE.
-
-The reader, I dare say, has hitherto gone along with me, in this
-deduction: but here, I suspect, we shall separate. Yet he will startle
-the less at this conclusion, if he reflect on the origin and first
-application of poetry among all nations.
-
-It is every where of the most early growth, preceding every other
-sort of composition; and being destined for the _ear_, that is, to be
-either sung, or at least recited, it adapts itself, even in its first
-rude essays, to that sense of measure and proportion in sounds, which
-is so natural to us. The hearer’s attention is the sooner gained by
-this means, his entertainment quickened, and his admiration of the
-performer’s art excited. Men are ambitious of pleasing, and ingenious
-in refining upon what they observe will please. So that musical
-cadences and harmonious sounds, which nature dictated, are farther
-softened and improved by art, till poetry become as ravishing to the
-ear, as the images, it presents, are to the imagination. In process
-of time, what was at first the extemporaneous production of genius or
-passion, under the conduct of a _natural ear_, becomes the labour of
-the closet, and is conducted by artificial rules; yet still, with a
-secret reference to the _sense_ of hearing, and to that acceptation
-which melodious sounds meet with in the recital of expressive words.
-
-Even the prose-writer (when the art is enough advanced to produce
-prose) having been accustomed to have his ear consulted and gratified
-by the poet, catches insensibly the same harmonious affection, tunes
-his sentences and periods to some agreement with song, and transfers
-into his coolest narrative, or gravest instruction, something of that
-music, with which his ear vibrates from poetic impressions.
-
-In short, he leaves measured and determinate numbers, that is, METRE,
-to the poet, who is to please up to the height of his faculties, and
-the nature of his work; and only reserves to himself, whose purpose
-of giving pleasure is subordinate to another end, the looser musical
-measure, or what we call RHYTHMICAL PROSE.
-
-The reason appears, from this deduction, why _all_ poetry aspires to
-please by melodious numbers. To _some_ species, it is thought more
-essential, than to others, because those species continue to be _sung_,
-that is, are more immediately addressed to the ear; and because they
-continue to be sung in concert with _musical instruments_, by which the
-ear is still more indulged. It happened in antient Greece, that even
-tragedy retained this accompaniment of musical instruments, through
-all its stages, and even in its most improved state. Whence Aristotle
-includes _Music_, properly so called, as well as _Rhythm_ and _Metre_,
-in his idea of the tragic poem. He did this, because he found the drama
-of his country, OMNIBUS NUMERIS ABSOLUTUM, I mean in possession of
-all the advantages which could result from the union of _rhythmical_,
-_metrical_, and _musical_ sounds. Modern tragedy has relinquished part
-of these: yet still, if it be true that this poem be more pleasing
-by the addition of the _musical_ art, and there be nothing in the
-nature of the composition which forbids the use of it, I know not
-why Aristotle’s idea should not be adopted, and his precept become a
-standing law of the tragic stage. For this, as every other poem, being
-calculated and designed properly and ultimately to _please_, whatever
-contributes to produce that end most perfectly, all circumstances taken
-into the account, must be thought of the nature or essence of the kind.
-
-But without carrying matters so far, let us confine our attention to
-metre, or what we call _verse_. This must be essential to every work
-bearing the name of _poem_, not, because we are only accustomed to call
-works written in verse, _poems_, but because a work, which professes to
-please us by every possible and proper method, and yet does not give
-us this pleasure, which it is in its power, and is no way improper for
-it, to give, must so far fall short of fulfilling its own engagements
-to us; that is, it has not all those qualities which we have a right to
-expect in a work of literary art, of which _pleasure_ is the ultimate
-_end_.
-
-To explain myself by an obvious instance. History undertakes to
-INSTRUCT us in the transactions of past times. If it answer this
-purpose, it does all that is of _its nature_; and, if it find means to
-_please_ us, besides, by the harmony of its style, and vivacity of its
-narration, all this is to be accounted as pure gain: if it instructed
-ONLY, by the truth of its reports, and the perspicuity of its method,
-it would fully attain its _end_. Poetry, on the other hand, undertakes
-to PLEASE. If it employ all its powers to this purpose, it effects all
-that is of _its nature_: if it serve, besides, to inform or instruct
-us, by the truths it conveys, and by the precepts or examples it
-inculcates, this service may rather be accepted, than required by
-us: if it pleased ONLY, by its ingenious fictions, and harmonious
-structure, it would discharge its office, and answer its _end_.
-
-In this sense, the famous saying of Eratosthenes, quoted above—_that
-the poet’s aim is to please, not to instruct_—is to be understood: nor
-does it appear, what reason Strabo could have to take offence at it;
-however it might be misapplied, as he tells us it was, by that writer.
-For, though the poets, no doubt (and especially THE POET, whose honour
-the great Geographer would assert, in his criticism on Eratosthenes)
-frequently _instruct us_ by a true and faithful representation of
-things; yet even this instructive air is only assumed for the sake of
-_pleasing_; which, as the human mind is constituted, they could not
-so well do, if they did not instruct at all, that is, if _truth_ were
-wholly neglected by them. So that _pleasure_ is still the ultimate end
-and _scope_ of the poet’s art; and _instruction_ itself is, in his
-hands, only one of the _means_, by which he would effect it[2].
-
-I am the larger on this head to shew that it is not a mere verbal
-dispute, as it is commonly thought, whether poems should be written in
-verse, or no. Men may include, or not include, the idea of metre in
-their complex idea of what they call a _Poem_. What I contend for, is,
-that _metre_, as an instrument of _pleasing_, is essential to every
-work of poetic art, and would therefore enter into such idea, if men
-judged of poetry according to its confessed _nature and end_.
-
-Whence it may seem a little strange, that my Lord Bacon should speak
-of _poesy as a part of learning in measure of words_ FOR THE MOST PART
-_restrained_; when his own notion, as we have seen above, was, that
-the essence of poetry consisted _in submitting the shews of things to
-the desires of the mind_. For these _shews of things_ could only be
-exhibited to the mind through the _medium of words_: and it is just as
-natural for the mind to desire that these words should be _harmonious_,
-as that the images, conveyed in them, should, be _illustrious_; there
-being a capacity in the mind of being delighted through its organ, the
-_ear_, as well as through its power, or faculty of _imagination_. And
-the wonder is the greater, because the great philosopher himself was
-aware of the _agreement and consort which poetry hath with music_, as
-well as _with man’s nature and pleasure_, that is, with the pleasure
-which naturally results from gratifying the imagination. So that, to be
-consistent with himself, he should, methinks, have said—_that poesy
-was a part of learning in measure of words_ ALWAYS _restrained_; such
-_poesy_, as, through the idleness or negligence of writers, is not so
-restrained, not agreeing to his own idea of _this part of learning_[3].
-
-These reflexions will afford a proper solution of that question, which
-has been agitated by the critics, “Whether a work of fiction and
-imagination (such as that of the archbishop of Cambray, for instance)
-conducted, in other respects, according to the rules of the epic poem,
-but written in prose, may deserve the name of POEM, or not.” For,
-though it be frivolous indeed to dispute about names, yet from what has
-been said it appears, that if metre be not incongruous to the nature of
-an epic composition, and it afford a pleasure which is not to be found
-in mere prose, metre is, for that reason, essential to this mode of
-writing; which is only saying in other words, that an epic composition,
-to give all the pleasure which it is capable of giving, must be written
-in _verse_.
-
-But, secondly, this conclusion, I think, extends farther than to such
-works as aspire to the name of _epic_. For instance, what are we to
-think of those _novels_ or _romances_, as they are called, that is,
-fables constructed on some private and familiar subject, which have
-been so current, of late, through all Europe? As they propose pleasure
-for their end, and prosecute it, besides, in the way of _fiction_,
-though without metrical numbers, and generally, indeed, in harsh and
-rugged prose, one easily sees what their pretensions are, and under
-what idea they are ambitious to be received. Yet, as they are wholly
-destitute of measured sounds (to say nothing of their other numberless
-defects) they can, at most, be considered but as hasty, imperfect,
-and abortive poems; whether spawned from the dramatic, or narrative
-species, it may be hard to say—
-
-    Unfinish’d things, one knows not what to call,
-    Their generation’s so equivocal.
-
-However, such as they are, these _novelties_ have been generally well
-received: _Some_, for the real merit of their execution; _Others_,
-for their amusing subjects; _All_ of them, for the gratification
-they afford, or promise at least, to a vitiated, palled, and sickly
-imagination—that last disease of learned minds, and sure prognostic of
-expiring Letters. But whatever may be the temporary success of these
-things (for they vanish as fast as they are produced, and are produced
-as soon as they are conceived) good sense will acknowledge no work of
-art but such as is composed according to the laws of its _kind_. These
-KINDS, as arbitrary things as we account them (for I neither forget
-nor dispute what our best philosophy teaches concerning _kinds_ and
-_sorts_), have yet so far their foundation in nature and the reason of
-things, that it will not be allowed us to multiply, or vary them, at
-pleasure. We may, indeed, mix and confound them, if we will (for there
-is a sort of literary luxury, which would engross all pleasures at
-once, even such as are contradictory to each other), or, in our rage
-for incessant gratification, we may take up with half-formed pleasures,
-such as come first to hand, and may be administered by any body: But
-true taste requires chaste, severe, and simple pleasures; and true
-genius will only be concerned in administering such.
-
-Lastly, on the same principle on which we have decided on these
-questions concerning the _absolute merits_ of poems in prose, in
-_all_ languages, we may, also, determine another, which has been put
-concerning the _comparative merits_ of RHYMED, and what is called BLANK
-verse, in our _own_, and the other _modern_ languages.
-
-Critics and antiquaries have been sollicitous to find out who were
-the inventors of rhyme, which some fetch from the Monks, some from
-the Goths, and others from the Arabians: whereas, the truth seems to
-be, that _rhyme_, or the consonance of final syllables, occurring at
-stated intervals, is the dictate of nature, or, as we may say, an
-appeal to the _ear_, in all languages, and in some degree pleasing in
-all. The difference is, that, in some languages, these consonances are
-apt of themselves to occur so often that they rather nauseate, than
-please, and so, instead of being affected, are studiously avoided by
-good writers; while in others, as in all the modern ones, where these
-consonances are less frequent, and where the quantity of syllables
-is not so distinctly marked as, of itself, to afford an harmonious
-measure and musical variety, there it is of necessity that poets have
-had recourse to _Rhyme_; or to some other expedient of the like nature,
-such as the _Alliteration_, for instance; which is only another way
-of delighting the ear by iterated sound, and may be defined, _the
-consonance of initial letters_, as rhyme is, the _consonance of final
-syllables_. All this, I say, is of necessity, because what we call
-verses in such languages will be otherwise untuneful, and will not
-strike the ear with that vivacity, which is requisite to put a sensible
-difference between poetic numbers and measured prose.
-
-In short, no method of gratifying the ear by _measured sound_, which
-experience has found pleasing, is to be neglected by the poet: and
-although, from the different structure and genius of languages, these
-methods will be different, the studious application of such methods,
-as each particular language allows, becomes a necessary part of his
-office. He will only cultivate those methods most, which tend to
-produce, in a given language, the most harmonious structure or measure,
-of which it is capable.
-
-Hence it comes to pass, that the poetry of some modern languages cannot
-so much as subsist, without rhyme: In others, it is only embellished
-by it. Of the _former_ sort is the French, which therefore adopts, and
-with good reason, rhymed verse, not in tragedy only, but in comedy: And
-though foreigners, who have a language differently constructed, are
-apt to treat this observance of rhyme as an idle affectation, yet it
-is but just to allow that the French themselves are the most competent
-judges of the natural defect of their own tongue, and the likeliest to
-perceive by what management such defect is best remedied or concealed.
-
-In the _latter_ class of languages, whose poetry is only embellished
-by the use of rhyme, we may reckon the Italian and the English: which
-being naturally more tuneful and harmonious than the French, may afford
-all the melody of sound which is expected in some sorts of poetry, by
-its _varied pause_, and _quantity_ only; while in other sorts, which
-are more sollicitous to please the ear, and where such solicitude, if
-taken notice of by the reader or hearer, is not resented, it may be
-proper, or rather it becomes a law of the English and Italian poetry,
-to adopt _rhyme_. Thus, our tragedies are usually composed in blank
-verse: but our epic and Lyric compositions are found most pleasing,
-when cloathed in rhyme. Milton, I know, it will be said, is an
-exception: But, if we set aside some learned persons, who have suffered
-themselves to be too easily prejudiced by their admiration of the
-Greek and Latin languages, and still more, perhaps, by the prevailing
-notion of the monkish or gothic original of rhymed verse, all other
-readers, if left to themselves, would, I dare say, be more delighted
-with this poet, if, besides his various pause, and measured quantity,
-he had enriched his numbers, with _rhyme_. So that his love of liberty,
-the ruling passion of his heart, perhaps transported him too far,
-when he chose to follow the example set him by one or two writers of
-_prime note_ (to use his own eulogium), rather than comply with the
-regular and prevailing practice of his favoured Italy, which first and
-principally, as our best rhymist sings,
-
-    With pauses, cadence, and well-vowell’d words,
-    And all the graces a good ear affords,
-    MADE RHYME AN ART—
-
-Our comedy, indeed, is generally written in _prose_; but through the
-idleness, or ill taste, of our writers, rather than from any other
-just cause. For, though rhyme be not necessary, or rather would be
-improper, in the comedy of our language, which can support itself in
-poetic numbers, without the diligence of rhyme; yet some sort of metre
-is requisite in this humbler species of poem; otherwise, it will not
-contribute all that is within its power and province, to _please_. And
-the particular metre, proper for this species, is not far to seek. For
-it can plainly be no other than a careless and looser Iambic, such as
-our language naturally runs into, even in conversation, and of which
-we are not without examples, in our old and best writers for the comic
-stage. But it is not wonderful that those critics, who take offence
-at English epic poems in _rhyme_, because the Greek and Latin only
-observed _quantity_, should require English comedies to be written in
-_prose_, though the Greek and Latin comedies were composed in _verse_.
-For the ill application of examples, and the neglect of them, may be
-well enough expected from the same men, since it does not appear that
-their judgment was employed, or the reason of the thing attended to, in
-either instance.
-
-And THUS much for the idea of UNIVERSAL POETRY. It is the art of
-treating any subject in _such_ a way as is found most delightful
-to us; that is, IN AN ORNAMENTED AND NUMEROUS STYLE—IN THE WAY OF
-FICTION—AND IN VERSE. Whatever deserves the name of POEM must unite
-these three properties; only in different degrees of each, according to
-its nature. For the art of every _kind_ of poetry is only this general
-art so modified as the _nature_ of each, that is, its more immediate
-and subordinate end, may respectively require.
-
-We are now, then, at the well-head of the poetic art; and they who
-drink deeply of this spring, will be best qualified to perform the
-rest. But all heads are not equal to these copious draughts; and,
-besides, I hear the sober reader admonishing me long since—
-
-              Lusisti satis atque BIBISTI;
-    Tempus abire tibi est, ne POTUM LARGIUS AEQUO
-    Rideat, et pulset lasciva decentius AETAS.
-
-  THURCASTON,
-  MDCCLXV.
-
-
-
-
-  A
-
-  DISSERTATION
-
-  ON THE
-
-  PROVINCES OF THE DRAMA.
-
-
-
-
-  DISSERTATION II.
-
-  ON THE
-
-  PROVINCES OF THE DRAMA.
-
-
-In the former Essay, I gave an idea, or slight sketch, of _Universal
-Poetry_. In this, I attempt to deduce the laws of one of its kinds, the
-_Dramatic_, under all its forms. And I engage in this task, the rather,
-because, though much has been said on the subject of the drama, writers
-seem not to have taken sufficient pains to distinguish, with exactness,
-its several species.
-
-I deduce the laws of this poem, as I did those of poetry at large, from
-the consideration of its _end_: not the general end of poetry, which
-alone was proper to be considered the former case, but the proximate
-end of this kind. For from these ends, in subordination to that,
-which governs the genus, or which all poetry, as such, designs and
-prosecutes, are the peculiar rules and maxims of each species to be
-derived.
-
-THE PURPOSE OF THE DRAMA is, universally, “to represent human life in
-the way of _action_.” But as such representation it made for separate
-and distinct ENDS, it is, further, distinguished into different
-_species_, which we know by the names of TRAGEDY, COMEDY, and FARCE.
-
-By TRAGEDY, then, I mean that species of dramatic representation, whose
-_end_ is “_to excite the passions of_ PITY _and_ TERROR, _and perhaps
-some others, nearly allied to them_.”
-
-By COMEDY _that_, which proposeth, for the _ends_ of its
-representation, “_the sensation of pleasure arising from a view of the
-truth of_ CHARACTERS, _more especially their specific differences_.”
-
-By FARCE I understand, that species of the drama, “_whose sole aim and
-tendency is to excite_ LAUGHTER.”
-
-The idea of these _three species_ being then proposed, let us now
-see, what conclusions may be drawn from it. And chiefly in respect
-of _Tragedy_ and _Comedy_, which are most important. For as to what
-concerns the province of _Farce_, this will be easily understood, when
-the character of the other two is once settled.
-
-
-
-
-CHAP. I.
-
-ON THE PROVINCES OF TRAGEDY AND COMEDY.
-
-
-From the idea of these two species, as given above, the following
-conclusions, about the _natures_ of each, are immediately deducible.
-
-1. If the proper end of TRAGEDY be to _affect_, it follows,
-“that _actions_, not characters, are the chief object of its
-representations.” For that which _affects_ us most in the view of human
-life is the observation of those signal circumstances of _felicity
-or distress_, which occur in the fortunes of men. But _felicity_ and
-_distress_, as the great critic takes notice, depend on _action_; κατὰ
-τὰς πράξεις, εὐδαίμονες, ἢ τουναντίον. They are then the calamitous
-_events_, or fortunate _Issues_ in human action, which stir up the
-stronger _affections_, and agitate the heart with _Passion_. The
-_manners_ are not, indeed, to be neglected. But they become an inferior
-consideration in the views of the tragic poet, and are exhibited only
-for the sake of making the _action_ more proper to interest us. Thus
-our _joy_, on the _happy catastrophe_ of the fable, depends, in a
-good degree, on the _virtuous character_ of the agent; as on the other
-hand, we sympathize more strongly with him, on a _distressful issue_.
-The _manners_ of the several persons in the drama must, also, be
-signified, that the _action_, which in many cases will be determined by
-them, may appear to be carried on with _truth and probability_. Hence
-every thing passing before us, as we are accustomed to see it in real
-life, we enter more warmly into their interests, as forgetting, that
-we are attentive to a _fictitious scene_. And, besides, from knowing
-the personal _good, or ill, qualities_ of the agents, we learn to
-anticipate their future _felicity_ or _misery_, which gives increase
-to the _passion_ in either case. Our acquaintance with IAGO’S _close
-villainy_ makes us tremble for Othello and Desdemona beforehand: and
-HAMLET’S _filial piety and intrepid daring_ occasion the audience
-secretly to exult in the _expectation_ of some successful vengeance to
-be inflicted on the incestuous murderers.
-
-2. For the same reason as tragedy takes for its _object_ the actions
-of men, it, also, prefers, or rather confines itself to, such actions,
-as are most _important_. Which is only saying, that as it intends
-to _interest_, it, of course, chuses the representation of those
-_events_, which are most _interesting_.
-
-And this shews the defect of modern tragedy, in turning so constantly
-as it does, on _love subjects_; the effect of this practice is,
-that, excepting only the rank of the actors (which indeed, as will
-be seen presently, is of considerable importance), the rest is below
-the dignity of this drama. For the _action_, when stripped of its
-accidental ornaments and reduced to the _essential fact_, is nothing
-more than what might as well have passed in a cottage, as a king’s
-palace. The Greek poets should be our guides here, who take the very
-grandest events in their story to ennoble their tragedy. Whence it
-comes to pass that the _action_, having an essential dignity, is always
-_interesting_, and by the simplest management of the poet becomes in a
-supreme degree, _pathetic_.
-
-3. On the same account, the _persons_, whose actions Tragedy would
-exhibit to us, must be of _principal rank and dignity_. For the actions
-of these are, both in _themselves_ and in their _consequences_, most
-fitted to excite passion. The _distresses_ of private and inferior
-persons will, no doubt, _affect_ us greatly; and we may give the name
-of _tragedies_, if we please, to dramatic representations of them:
-as, in fact, we have several applauded pieces of this kind. Nay, it
-may seem, that the fortunes of private men, as more nearly resembling
-_those_ of the generality, should be most _affecting_. But this
-circumstance, in no degree, makes amends for the loss of other and much
-greater _advantages_. For, whatever be the _unhappy incidents_ in the
-story of private men, it is certain, they must take faster hold of the
-_imagination_, and, of course, impress the heart more forcibly, when
-related of the higher characters in life.
-
-    Τῶν γὰρ μεγάλων ἀξιοπενθεῖς
-    Φῆμαι μᾶλλον κατέχουσιν.
-                 EURIP. HIPP. v. 1484.
-
-Kings, Heroes, Statesmen, and other persons of great and public
-authority, influence by their _ill-fortune_ the whole community, to
-which they belong. The attention is rouzed, and all our faculties
-take an alarm, at the apprehension of such extensive and important
-wretchedness. And, besides, if we regard the _event_ itself, without
-an eye to its _effects_, there is still the widest difference between
-the two cases. Those ideas of awe and veneration, which opinion throws
-round the persons of princes, make us esteem the very _same event_ in
-their fortunes, as more august and emphatical, than in the fortunes
-of private men. In the _one_, it is ordinary and familiar to our
-conceptions; it is singular and surprizing, in the _other_. The fall of
-a _cottage_, by the accidents of time and weather, is almost unheeded;
-while the ruin of a _tower_, which the neighbourhood hath gazed at for
-ages with admiration, strikes all observers with concern. So that if we
-chuse to continue the absurdity, taken notice of in the last article
-of planning _unimportant action_ in our tragedy, we should, at least,
-take care to give it this foreign and extrinsic _importance_ of great
-_actors_: Yet our passion for the _familiar_ goes so far, that we have
-tragedies, not only of private action, but of _private persons_; and so
-have well nigh annihilated the noblest of the two dramas amongst us. On
-the whole it appears, that as the proper object or tragedy is _action_,
-so it is _important_ action, and therefore more especially the action
-of _great and illustrious men_. Each of these conclusions is the direct
-consequence of our idea of its _end_.
-
-The reverse of all this holds true of COMEDY. For,
-
-1. Comedy, by the very terms of the definition, is conversant about
-_characters_. And if we observe, that which creates the pleasure we
-find in contemplating the lives of men, considered as distinct from
-the _interest_ we take in their fortunes, is the contemplation of
-their manners and humours. Their _actions_, when they are not of that
-sort, which seizes our admiration, or catches the affections, are not
-otherwise considered by us, than as they are sensible indications of
-the internal sentiment and disposition. Our intimate consciousness
-of the several turns and windings of our nature, makes us attend to
-these pictures of human life with an incredible curiosity. And herein
-the proper entertainment, which comic representation, _as such_,
-administers to the mind, consists. By turning the thought on _event and
-action_, this entertainment is proportionably lessened; that is, the
-_end_ of comedy is less perfectly attained[4].
-
-But here, again, though _action_ be not the main object of comedy,
-yet it is not to be neglected, any more than _character_ in tragedy,
-but comes in as an useful accessary, or assistant to it. For the
-_manners of men_ only shew themselves, or shew themselves most usually,
-in _action_. It is this, which fetches out the latent strokes of
-_character_, and renders the inward _temper and disposition_ the object
-of sense. _Probable circumstances_ are then imagined, and a certain
-_train of action_ contrived, to evidence the _internal qualities_.
-There is no _other_, or no _probable_ way, but this, of bringing us
-acquainted with them. Again; by engaging his _characters_ in a course
-of action and the pursuit of some _end_, the comic poet leaves them to
-express themselves undisguisedly, and _without design_; in which the
-essence of _humour_ consists.
-
-Add to this, that when the _fable_ is so contrived as to attach the
-mind, we very naturally fancy ourselves present at a course of _living_
-action. And this illusion quickens our attention to the _characters_,
-which no longer appear to us creatures of the poet’s fiction, but
-actors in real life.
-
-These observations concerning the _moderated_ use of action in comedy,
-instruct us what to think “of those intricate Spanish plots, which have
-been in use, and have taken both with us and some French writers for
-the stage. The truth is, they have hindered very much the main end of
-comedy. For when these unnatural plots are used, the mind is not only
-entirely _drawn off_ from the characters by those surprizing turns and
-revolutions; but characters have no opportunity even of being _called
-out_ and displaying themselves. For the actors of all characters
-_succeed_ and are _embarrassed_ alike, when the instruments for
-carrying on designs are only _perplexed apartments_, _dark entries_,
-_disguised habits_, and _ladders of ropes_. The comic plot is, and
-must, indeed, be carried on by _deceipt_. The Spanish scene does it
-by deceiving the man _through his senses_: Terence and Moliere, by
-deceiving him _through his passions and affections_. This is the right
-method: for the character is _not_ called out under the _first_ species
-of deceipt: under the _second_, the character does _all_.”
-
-2. As _character_, not _action_, is the object of comedy; so the
-_characters_ it paints must not be of _singular and illustrious note_,
-either for their _virtues_ or _vices_. The reason is, that such
-characters take too fast hold of the _affections_, and so call off
-the mind from adverting to the _truth_ of the manners; that is, from
-receiving the _pleasure_, which this poem _intends_. Our _sense of
-imitation_ is that to which the comic poet addresses himself; but such
-pictures of _eminent worth_ or _villainy_ seize upon the _moral sense_;
-and by raising the strong correspondent passions of _admiration_ and
-_abhorrence_, turn us aside from contemplating the _imitation itself_.
-And,
-
-3. For a like cause, comedy confines its views to the characters of
-_private and inferior persons_. For the _truth of character_, which is
-the spring of _humour_, being necessarily, as was observed, to be shewn
-through the medium of _action_, and the actions of the great being
-usually such as excite the _pathos_, it follows of course, that these
-cannot, with propriety, be made the actors in comedy. Persons of high
-and public life, if they are drawn agreeably to our accustomed ideas
-of them, must be employed in such a _course of action_, as arrests the
-attention, or interests the passions; and either way it diverts the
-mind from observing the _truth_ of manners, that is, it prevents the
-attainment of the specific _end_, which comedy designs.
-
-And if the reason, here given, be sufficient to exclude the _higher
-characters_ in life from this _drama_, even where the representation
-is intended to be _serious_, we shall find it still more improper to
-expose them in any pleasant or ridiculous light. ’Tis true, the follies
-and foibles of the great will apparently take an easier ridicule by
-representation, than those of their inferiors. And this it was, which
-misled the celebrated P. CORNEILLE into the opinion, _that the actions
-of the great, and even of kings themselves, provided they be of the
-ridiculous kind, are as fit objects of comedy, as any other_. But he
-did not reflect, that the _actions_ of the great being usually such,
-as interest the intire community, at least scarcely any other falling
-beneath vulgar notice; and the higher _characters_ being rarely seen
-or contemplated by the people but with reverence, hence it is, that
-in fact, _the representation of high life_ cannot, without offence to
-probability, be made _ridiculous_, or consequently be admitted into
-comedy under this view. And therefore PLAUTUS, when he thought fit
-to introduce these reverend personages on the comic stage in his
-AMPHITRUO, though he employed them in no very serious matters, was
-yet obliged to apologize for this impropriety in calling his play a
-_Tragicomedy_. What he says upon the occasion, though delivered with an
-air of pleasantry, is according to the laws of just criticism.
-
-    _Faciam ut commista sit_ TRAGICOCOMOEDIA.
-    _Nam me perpetuo facere, ut sit Comoedia_
-    REGES QUO VENIANT ET DII, _non par arbitror.
-    Quid igitur? Quoniam hic_ SERVOS QUOQUE PARTES HABET,
-    _Faciam sit, proinde ut dixi_, TRAGICOCOMOEDIA.
-                                   PROL. IN AMPHIT.
-
-And now, taking the _idea_ of the _two dramas_, as here opened, along
-with us, we shall be able to give an account of several attributes,
-_common_ to both, or which further _characterize_ each of them. And,
-
-1. _A plot will be required in both._ For the end of tragedy being to
-excite the affections _by_ action, and the end of comedy, to manifest
-the truth of character _through_ it, an artful _constitution of the
-Fable_ is required to do justice both to the one and the other. It
-serves to bring out the _pathos_, and to produce _humour_. And thus
-the general form or structure of the two dramas will be one and the
-same.
-
-2. More particularly, _an unity and even simplicity in the conduct
-of the fable[5] is a perfection in each_. For the course of the
-_affections_ is diverted and weakened by the intervention of what
-we call a _double plot_; and even by a multiplicity of _subordinate
-events_, though tending to a common _end_; and, of _persons_,
-though all of them, some way, concerned in promoting it. The like
-consideration shews the observance of this _rule_ to be essential to
-just comedy. For when the _attention_ is split on so many interfering
-objects, we are not at leisure to observe, nor do we so fully enter
-into, the _truth of representation_ in any of them; the _sense of
-humour_, as of the _pathos_, depending very much on the continued and
-undiverted operation of its _object_ upon us.
-
-3. The two dramas agree, also, in this circumstance; that the _manners_
-of the persons exhibited should be _imperfect_. An absolutely good,
-or an absolutely bad, character is foreign to the purpose of each.
-And the reason is, 1, That such a representation is _improbable_. And
-_probability_ constitutes, as we have seen, the very essence of comedy;
-and is the _medium_, through which tragedy is enabled most powerfully
-to affect us. 2. Such _characters_ are improper to _comedy_, because,
-as was hinted above, they turn the attention aside from contemplating
-the _expression_ of them, which we call _humour_. And they are not less
-unsuited to _tragedy_, because though they make a forcible impression
-on the mind, yet, as Aristotle well observes, they do not produce the
-passions of _pity and terror_; that is, their _impressions_ are not of
-the nature of that _pathos_, by which tragedy works its purpose. [κ.
-ίγ.]
-
-There are, likewise, some peculiarities, which distinguish the two
-dramas. And
-
-1. _Though a plot be necessary to produce_ humour, _as well as the
-pathos, yet a_ good plot _is not so essential to comedy, as tragedy_.
-For the pathos is the result of the _entire action_; that is, of all
-the circumstances of the story taken together, and conspiring by a
-probable tendency, to a completion in the _event_. A failure in the
-just arrangement and disposition of the parts may, then, affect what
-is of the essence of this drama. On the contrary, _humour_, though
-brought out by _action_, is not the effect of the _whole_, but may
-be distinctly evidenced in a _single scene_; as may be eminently
-illustrated in the two comedies of Fletcher, called _The Little French
-Lawyer_, and _The Spanish Curate_. The nice contexture of the fable
-therefore, though it may give _pleasure_ of another kind, is not so
-immediately required to the production of _that_ pleasure, which the
-nature of comedy demands. Much less is there occasion for that labour
-and ingenuity of contrivance, which is seen in the intricacy of the
-Spanish fable. Yet this is the taste of our comedy. Our writers are
-all for plot and intrigue; and never appear so well satisfied with
-themselves as when, to speak in their own phrase, they contrive to
-have a great deal of _business_ on their hands. Indeed they have
-reason. For it hides their inability to colour _manners_, which is the
-proper but much harder province of true comedy.
-
-2. _Tragedy succeeds best, when the subject is_ real; _comedy, when
-it is_ feigned. What would this say, but that tragedy, turning our
-attention principally on the _action represented_, finds means to
-_interest_ us more strongly on the persuasion of its being taken from
-_actual life_? While comedy, on the other hand, can neglect these
-scrupulous measures of _probability_, as intent only on exhibiting
-_characters_; for which purpose an _invented story_ will serve much
-better. The reason is, _real action_ does not ordinarily afford variety
-of incidents enough to shew the _character_ fully: _feigned action_ may.
-
-And this difference, we may observe, explains the reason why tragedies
-are often formed on the most _trite and vulgar subjects_, whereas
-a _new_ subject is generally demanded in comedy. The _reality_ of
-the story being of so much consequence to interest the affections,
-the more _known_ it is, the fitter for the poet’s purpose. But a
-_feigned_ story having been found more convenient for the display of
-characters, it grew into a rule that the story should be always _new_.
-This disadvantage on the side of the comic poet is taken notice of in
-those verses of Antiphanes, or rather, as Casaubon conjectures, of
-_Aristophanes_, in a play of his intitled, Ποίησις. The reason of this
-difference now appears.
-
-    —Μακάριόν ἐστιν ἡ τραγῳδία
-    Ποίημα κατὰ πάντ’. εἴγε πρῶτον οἱ λόγοι
-    Ὑπὸ τῶν θεατῶν εἰσὶν ἐγνωρισμένοι,
-    Πρὶν καί τιν’ εἰπεῖν, ὡς ὑπομνῆσαι μόνον
-    Δεῖ τὸν ποιητήν. Οἰδίπουν γάρ ἄν γε φῶ,
-    Τὰ δ’ ἄλλα πάντ’ ἴσασιν· Ὁ πατὴρ Λάïος,
-    Μήτηρ Ἰοκάστη, θυγατέρες, παῖδες τίνες·
-    Τὶ πείσεθ’ οὗτος, τί πεποίηκεν····
-    Ἡμῖν δὲ ταῦτ’ οὐκ ἔστιν· ἀλλὰ πάντα δεῖ
-    Εὑρεῖν ὀνόματα καινὰ, τὰ διῳκημένα
-    Πρότερον, τὰ νῦν παρόντα, τὴν καταστροφὴν,
-    Τὴν ἐσβολήν. ἀν ἕν τι τούτων παραλίπῃ,
-    Χρέμης τις, ἢ Φείδων τις ἐκσυρίττεται,
-    Πηλεῖ δὲ ταῦτ’ ἔξεστι καὶ Τεύκρῳ ποιεῖν.
-
-One sees, then, the reason why Tragedy prefers real _subjects_, and
-even old ones; and, on the contrary, why comedy delights in feigned
-subjects, and new.
-
-The same genius in the two dramas is observable, in their draught of
-_characters_. Comedy makes all its Characters _general_; Tragedy,
-_particular_. The _Avare_ of Moliere is not so properly the picture of
-a _covetous man_, as of _covetousness_ itself. Racine’s _Nero_, on the
-other hand, is not a picture of _cruelty_, but of a _cruel man_.
-
-Yet here it will be proper to guard against two mistakes, which the
-principles now delivered may be thought to countenance.
-
-The _first_ is with regard to _tragic_ characters, which I say are
-_particular_. My meaning is, they are _more_ particular than those of
-comedy. That is, the _end_ of tragedy does not require or permit the
-poet to draw together so many of those characteristic circumstances
-which shew the manners, as Comedy. For, in the former of these dramas,
-no more of _character_ is shewn, than what the course of the action
-necessarily calls forth. Whereas, all or most of the features, by which
-it is usually distinguished, are sought out and industriously displayed
-in the _latter_.
-
-The case is much the same as in _portrait painting_; where, if a great
-master be required to draw a _particular face_, he gives the very
-lineaments he finds in it; yet so far resembling to what he observes of
-the same turn in other faces, as not to affect any minute circumstance
-of peculiarity. But if the same artist were to design a _head_ in
-general, he would assemble together all the customary traits and
-features, any where observable through the species, which should best
-express the idea, whatever it was, he had conceived in his own mind and
-wanted to exhibit in the picture.
-
-There is much the same difference between the two sorts of _dramatic_
-portraits. Whence it appears that in calling the tragic character
-_particular_, I suppose it only _less representative_ of the kind than
-the comic; not that the draught of so much character as it is concerned
-to represent should not be _general_: the contrary of which I have
-asserted and explained at large elsewhere [_Notes on the A. P._ v. 317.]
-
-_Next_, I have said, the characters of just comedy are _general_.
-And this I explain by the instance of the _Avare_ of Moliere, which
-conforms more to the idea of _avarice_, than to that of the real
-_avaricious man_. But here again, the reader will not understand me, as
-saying this in the strict sense of the words. I even think Moliere
-faulty in the instance given; though, with some necessary explanation,
-it may well enough serve to express my meaning.
-
-The view of the comic scene being to delineate characters, this end, I
-suppose, will be attained most perfectly, by making those characters
-as _universal_ as possible. For thus the person shewn in the drama
-being the representative of all characters of the same kind, furnishes
-in the highest degree the entertainment of _humour_. But then this
-universality must be such as agrees not to our idea of the _possible_
-effects of the character as conceived in the abstract, but to the
-_actual_ exertion of its powers; which experience justifies, and common
-life allows. Moliere, and before him Plautus, had offended in this;
-that for a picture of the _avaricious man_, they presented us with a
-fantastic unpleasing draught of the _passion of avarice_. I call this a
-_fantastic_ draught, because it hath no archetype in nature. And it is,
-farther, an _unpleasing_ one, for, being the delineation of a _simple
-passion unmixed_, it wanted all those
-
-    —Lights and shades, whose well-accorded strife
-    Gives all the strength and colour of our life.
-
-These _lights and shades_ (as the poet finely calls the intermixture
-of many passions, which, with the _leading_ or principal one, form the
-human character) must be blended together in every picture of dramatic
-manners; because the avowed business of the drama is to image real
-life. Yet the draught of the _leading_ passion must be as general as
-this _strife_ in nature permits, in order to express the intended
-character more perfectly.
-
-All which again is easily illustrated in the instance of painting. In
-_portraits of character_, as we may call those that give a picture of
-the _manners_, the artist, if he be of real ability, will not go to
-work on the possibility of an abstract idea. All he intends, is to shew
-that some one quality _predominates_: and this he images strongly,
-and by such signatures as are most conspicuous in the operation of
-the _leading passion_. And when he hath done this, we may, in common
-speech or in compliment, if we please, to his art, say of such a
-portrait that it images to us not the _man_ but the _passion_; just as
-the ancients observed of the famous statue of Apollodorus by Silarion,
-that it expressed not the angry _Apollodorus_, but his passion of
-_anger_[6]. But by this must be understood only that he has well
-expressed the leading parts of the designed character. For the rest he
-treats his _subject_ as he would any other; that is, he represents the
-_concomitant affections_, or considers merely that general symmetry and
-proportion which are expected in a human figure. And this is to copy
-nature, which affords no specimen of a man turned all into a single
-passion. No metamorphosis could be more strange or incredible. Yet
-portraits of this vicious taste are the admiration of common starers,
-who, if they find a picture of a _miser_ for instance (as there is
-no commoner subject of moral portraits) in a collection, where every
-muscle is strained, and feature hardened into the expression of this
-idea, never fail to profess their wonder and approbation of it.—On
-this idea of excellence Le Brun’s book of the PASSIONS must be said to
-contain a set of the justest _moral portraits_: And the CHARACTERS of
-Theophrastus might be recommended, in a _dramatic_ view, as preferable
-to those of Terence.
-
-The virtuosi in the fine arts would certainly laugh at the former of
-these judgments. But the latter, I suspect, will not be thought so
-extraordinary. At least if one may guess from the practice of some of
-our best comic writers, and the success which such plays have commonly
-met with. It were easy to instance in almost all plays of character.
-But if the reader would see the extravagance of building dramatic
-manners on abstract ideas, in its full light, he needs only turn to B.
-Jonson’s _Every man out of his humour_; which under the name of a _play
-of character_ is in fact, an unnatural, and, as the painters call it,
-_hard_ delineation of a group of _simply existing passions_, wholly
-chimerical, and unlike to any thing we observe in the commerce of real
-life. Yet this comedy has always had its admirers. And _Randolph_, in
-particular, was so taken with the design, that he seems to have formed
-his _muse’s looking-glass_ in express imitation of it.
-
-Shakespeare, we may observe, is in this as in all the other more
-essential beauties of the drama, a perfect model. If the discerning
-reader peruse attentively his comedies with this view, he will find
-his _best-marked_ characters discoursing through a great deal of their
-_parts_, just like any other, and only expressing their essential and
-leading qualities occasionally, and as circumstances concur to give
-an easy exposition to them. This singular excellence of his comedy,
-was the effect of his copying faithfully after nature, and of the
-force and vivacity of his genius, which made him attentive to what the
-progress of the scene successively presented to him: whilst _imitation_
-and _inferior talents_ occasion little writers to wind themselves up
-into the habit of attending perpetually to their main view, and a
-solicitude to keep their favourite characters in constant play and
-agitation. Though in this illiberal exercise of their wit, they may be
-said to use the _persons of the drama_ as a certain facetious sort do
-their _acquaintance_, whom they urge and teize with their civilities,
-not to give them a reasonable share in the conversation, but to force
-them to play _tricks_ for the diversion of the company.
-
-I have been the longer on this argument, to prevent the reader’s
-carrying what I say of the superiority of _plays of character_ to
-_plays of intrigue_ into an extreme; a mistake, into which some good
-writers have been unsuspectingly betrayed by the acknowledged truth of
-the general principle. It is so natural for men on all occasions, to
-fly out into extremes, that too much care cannot be had to retain them
-in a due medium. But to return from the digression to the consideration
-of the difference of the two dramas.
-
-3. A sameness of _character is not usually objected to in tragedy: in
-comedy, it would not be endured_. The passion of _avarice_, to resume
-the instance given above, being the main object, we find nothing but a
-disgustful repetition in a second attempt to delineate that _character_.
-_A particular cruel man_ only engrossing our regard in _Nero_, when
-the train of events evidencing such cruelty is changed, we have all
-the novelty we look for, and can contemplate, with pleasure, the
-very _same_ character, set forth by a different course of action, or
-displayed in some other _person_.
-
-4. Comedy succeeds best when the scene is laid _at home_, tragedy for
-the most part when _abroad_. “This appears at first sight whimsical
-and capricious, but has its foundation in nature. What we chiefly seek
-in comedy is a true image of life and _manners_, but we are not easily
-brought to think we have it given us, when dressed in foreign modes
-and fashions. And yet a good writer must follow his scene, and observe
-decorum. On the contrary, ’tis the action in tragedy which most engages
-our attention. But to fit a domestic occurrence for the stage, we must
-take greater liberties with the action than a well-known story will
-allow.” [_Pope’s Works_, vol. iv. p. 185.]
-
-Other _characters_ of the two dramas, as well _peculiar_, as _common_,
-which might be accounted for from the just notion of them, delivered
-above, I leave to the observation of the reader. For my intention is
-not to write a complete treatise on the drama, but briefly to lay down
-such principles, from whence its _laws_ may be derived.
-
-
-
-
-CHAP. II.
-
-OF THE GENIUS OF COMEDY.
-
-
-But it may not be amiss to express myself a little more fully as to the
-_genius_ of comedy; which for want of passing through the hands of such
-a critic as Aristotle, has been less perfectly understood.
-
-Its _end_ is the production of _humour_: or which comes to the same
-thing, “of that _pleasure_, which the _truth_ of representation
-affords, in the _exhibition_ of the _private characters_ of life,
-more particularly their _specific differences_.” I add this _latter_
-clause, because the principal pleasure we take in contemplating
-characters consists in noting those _differences_. The general
-attributes of humanity, if represented ever so truly, give us but a
-slender entertainment. They, of course, make a part of the drama;
-but we chiefly delight in a picture of those peculiar _traits_,
-which distinguish the species. Now these discriminating marks in the
-characters of men are not _necessarily_ the causes of ridicule, or
-pleasantry of any kind; but _accidentally_, and according to the
-nature or quality of them. The vanity, and impertinent boasting of
-_Thraso_ is the natural object of _contempt_, and, when truly and
-forcibly expressed in his own character, provokes _ridicule_. The easy
-humanity of _Mitio_, which is the leading part of his character, is the
-object of _approbation_; and, when shewn in his own conduct, excites a
-_pleasure_, in common with all just _expression of the manners_, but of
-a _serious_ nature, as being joined with the sentiment of _esteem_.
-
-But now as most men find a greater pleasure in gratifying the passion
-of _contempt_, than the calm instinct of _approbation_, and since
-perhaps the constitution of human life is such, as affords more
-exercise for the one, than the other, hence it hath come to pass, that
-the comic poet, who paints for the generality, and follows nature,
-chuses more commonly to select and describe those _peculiarities_ in
-the human character, which, by their nature, excite _pleasantry_, than
-such as create a serious regard and esteem. Hence some persons have
-appropriated the name of _comedies_ to those dramas, which chiefly
-aim at producing _humour_, in the more _proper_ sense of the word;
-under which view it means “such an expression or picture of what is
-odd, or inordinate in each character, as gives us the fullest and
-strongest image of the original, and by the truth of the representation
-exposes the _ridicule_ of it.” And it is certain, that comedy receives
-great advantage from representations of this kind. Nay, it cannot
-well subsist without them. Yet it doth not exclude the other and more
-_serious_ entertainment, which, as it stands on the same foundation of
-_truth of representation_, I venture to include under the _common term_.
-
-Further, there are _two ways_ of evidencing the characteristic and
-predominant qualities of men, or, of producing _humour_, which require
-to be observed. The _one_ is, when they are shewn in the perpetual
-course and tenor of the representation; that is, when the _humour_
-results from the _general_ conduct of the person in the drama, and the
-discourse, which he holds in it. The _other_ is, when by an happy and
-lively stroke, the characteristic quality is laid open and exposed _at
-once_.
-
-The _first_ sort of _humour_ is that which we find in the ancients, and
-especially Terence. The _latter_ is almost peculiar to the moderns;
-who, in uniting these two species of _humour_, have brought a vast
-improvement to the comic scene. The reason of this difference may
-perhaps have been the singular simplicity of the old writers, who were
-contented to take up with such sentiments or circumstances, as most
-naturally and readily occurred in the course of the drama: whereas
-the moderns have been ambitious to shew a more exquisite and studied
-investigation into the workings of human nature, and have sought out
-for those peculiarly striking lineaments, in which the essence of
-character consists. On the same account, I suppose, it was that the
-ancients had _fewer_ characters in their plays, than the moderns,
-and those more _general_; that is, their dramatic writers were well
-satisfied with picturing the most _usual_ personages, and in their
-most _obvious_ lights. They did not, as the moderns (who, if they
-would aspire to the praise of _novelty_, were obliged to this route),
-cast about for less _familiar_ characters; and the nicer and _less
-observed_ peculiarities which distinguish _each_. Be it as it will, the
-observation is certain. Later dramatists have apparently shewn a more
-accurate knowledge of human life: and, by opening these new and untryed
-veins of _humour_, have exceedingly enriched the comedy of our times.
-
-But, though we are not to look for the _two species of humour_,
-before-mentioned, in the same perfection on the simpler stages of
-_Greece and Rome_, as in _our_ improved Theatres, yet the _first_ of
-them was clearly seen and successfully practised by the ancient comic
-masters; and there are not wanting in them some few examples even of
-the _last_. “The old man in the _Mother-in-Law_ says to his Son,
-
-    _Tum tu igitur nihil adtulisti huc plus unâ sententiâ._
-
-This, as an excellent person observed to me, is true _humour_.
-For his character, which was that of a lover of money, drew the
-observation naturally and forcibly from him. His disappointment of a
-rich succession made him speak contemptibly of a moral lesson, which
-rich and covetous men, in their best humours, have no high reverence
-for. And this too without _design_; which is important, and shews the
-distinction of what, in the more restrained sense of the word, we call
-_humour_, from other modes of _pleasantry_. For had a young friend of
-the son, an unconcerned spectator of the scene, made the observation,
-it had then, in another’s mouth, been _wit_, or a designed _banter_
-on the father’s disappointment. As, on the other hand, when such
-characteristic qualities are exaggerated, and the expression of them
-stretched beyond _truth_, they become _buffoonry_, even in the person’s
-_own_.”
-
-This is an instance of the _second species_ of humour, under its idea
-of exciting _ridicule_. But it may, also, be employed with the utmost
-_seriousness_; as being only a method of expressing the _truth_ of
-character in the _most striking_ manner. This same _old man_ in the
-Hecyra will furnish an example. Though a lover of money, he appears, in
-the main, of an honest and worthy nature, and to have born the truest
-affection to an amiable and favourite son. In the perplexity of the
-scene, which had arisen from the supposed misunderstanding between his
-_son’s_ wife and his _own_, he proposes, as an expedient to end all
-differences, to retire with his wife into the country. And to enforce
-this proposal to the young man, who had his reasons for being against
-it, he adds,
-
-          _odiosa est haec aetas adolescentulis:
-    E medio aequum excedere est: postremò nos jam fabula
-    Sumus, Pamphile, senex atque anus_.
-
-There is nothing, I suppose in these words, which provokes a smile.
-Yet the _humour_ is strong, as before. In his solicitude to promote
-his son’s satisfaction, he lets fall a sentiment truly characteristic,
-and which old men usually take great pains to conceal; I mean,
-his acknowledgment of _that suspicious fear of contempt, which is
-natural to old age_. So true a picture of life, in the representation
-of this _weakness_, might, in other circumstances, have created
-some _pleasantry_; but the _occasion_, which forced it from him,
-discovering, at the same time, the _amiable disposition_ of the
-speaker, covers the ridicule of it, or more properly converts it into
-an object of our _esteem_.
-
-We have here, then, a kind of _intermediate_ species of _humour_
-betwixt the _ridiculous_ and the _grave_; and may perceive how
-insensibly the _one_ becomes the _other_, by the accidental mixture of
-a virtuous _quality_, attracting _esteem_. Which may serve to reconcile
-the reader to the application of this _term_ even to such _expression_
-of the manners, as is perfectly _serious_; that is, where the _quality
-represented_ is entirely, and without the least _touch_ of attending
-ridicule, the object of _moral approbation_ to the mind. As in that
-famous asseveration of Chremes in the _Self-tormentor_:
-
-    _Homo sum: humani nihil à me alienum puto._
-
-This is a strong expression of character; and, coming unaffectedly from
-him in answer to the cutting reproof of his friend,
-
-    _Chreme, tantumne ab re tuâ’st otî tibi
-    Aliena ut cures; ea quae nihil ad te adtinent?_
-
-hath the essence of true _humour_, that is, is a _lively picture of the
-manners without design_.
-
-Yet in this instance, which hath not been observed, the _humour_,
-though of a serious cast, is heightened by a mixture of _satire_.
-For we are not to take this, as hath constantly been done, for a
-sentiment of pure humanity and the natural ebullition of benevolence.
-We may observe in it a designed stroke of satirical resentment. _The
-Self-tormentor_, as we saw, had ridiculed Chremes’ _curiosity_ by
-a severe reproof. Chremes, to be even with him, reflects upon the
-_inhumanity_ of his temper. “You, says he, seem such a foe to humanity,
-that you spare it not _in yourself_; I, on the other hand, am affected,
-when I see it suffer in _another_.”
-
-Whence we learn, that, though all which is requisite to constitute
-comic humour, be a _just expression of character without design_, yet
-such _expression_ is felt more _sensibly_, when it is further enlivened
-by _ridicule_, or quickened by the poignancy of _satire_.
-
-From the account of comedy, here given, it may appear, that the idea
-of this drama is much enlarged beyond what it was in Aristotle’s time;
-who defines it to be, _an imitation of light and trivial actions,
-provoking ridicule_. His notion was taken from the state and practice
-of the Athenian stage; that is, from the _old_ or _middle_ comedy,
-which answers to this description. The great revolution, which the
-introduction of the _new comedy_ made in the drama, did not happen
-till afterwards. This proposed for its _object_, in general, _the
-actions and characters of ordinary life_; which are not, of necessity,
-ridiculous, but, as appears to every observer, of a mixt kind,
-_serious_ as well as _ludicrous_, and within their proper sphere of
-influence, not unfrequently, even _important_. This kind of _imitation_
-therefore, now admits the _serious_; and its scenes, even without
-the least mixture of _pleasantry_, are entirely _comic_. Though the
-common run of _laughers_ in our theatre are so little aware of the
-extension of this _province_, that I should scarcely have hazarded the
-observation, but for the authority of _Terence_; who hath confessedly
-very little of the _pleasant_ in his drama. Nay, one of the most
-admired of his comedies hath the gravity, and, in some places, almost
-the solemnity of _tragedy itself_. But this _idea_ of comedy is not
-peculiar to the more polite and liberal _ancients_. Some of the best
-_modern_ comedies are fashioned in agreement to it. And an instance or
-two, which I am going to produce from the stage of simple nature, may
-seem to shew it the plain suggestion of common sense.
-
-“The Amautas (says the author of the _Royal Commentaries of_ PERU),
-who were men of the best ingenuity amongst them, invented COMEDIES
-and TRAGEDIES; which, on their solemn festivals, they represented
-before the King and the Lords of his court. The plot or argument of
-their _tragedies_ was to represent _their military exploits, and the
-triumphs, victories, and heroic actions of their renowned men_. And the
-subject or design of their _comedies_ was, to demonstrate _the manner
-of good husbandry in cultivating and manuring their fields, and to shew
-the management of domestic affairs, with other familiar matters_. These
-plays, continues he, were not made up of obscene and dishonest farces,
-but such as were of _serious entertainment, composed of grave and
-acute sentences_, &c.”
-
-Two things are observable in this brief account of the Peruvian drama.
-_First_, that its _species_ had respect to the very different _objects_
-of the _higher_ or _lower_ stations. For the _great and powerful_
-were occupied in _war_: and _agriculture_ was the chief employment of
-_private and ordinary life_. And, in this distinction, these _Indian_,
-perfectly agreed with the old Roman poets; whose PRAETEXTATA and TOGATA
-shew, that they had precisely the same ideas of the drama. _Secondly_,
-we do not learn only, what difference there _was_ betwixt their tragedy
-and comedy, but we are also told, what difference there was _not_. It
-was not, that one was _serious_, and the other _pleasant_. For we find
-it expressly asserted of _both_, that they _were of grave and serious
-entertainment_.
-
-And this last will explain a similar observation on the Chinese, _who_,
-as P. DE PREMERE acquaints us, _make no distinction betwixt tragedies
-and comedies_. That is, _no distinction_, but what the different
-_subjects_ of each make necessary. They do not, as our European dramas,
-differ in this, that the _one_ is intended to make us _weep_, and the
-other to make us _laugh_.
-
-These are full and precise testimonies. For I lay no stress on what
-the Historian of _Peru_ tells us, _that there were no obscenities in
-their comedy_, nor on what an encomiast of _China_ pretends, _that
-there is not so much as an obscene word in all their language_[7]: as
-being sensible, that though indeed these must needs be considerable
-abatements to the _humour_ of their comic scenes, yet, their ingenuity
-might possibly find means to remedy these defects by the invention and
-dextrous application of the _double entendre_, which, on our stage, is
-found to supply the place of rank _obscenity_, and, indeed, to do its
-office of exciting _laughter_ almost as well.
-
-But, as I said, there is no occasion for this _argument_. We may
-venture, without the help of it, to join these authorities to _that_
-of Terence; which, together, enable us to conclude very fully, in
-opposition to the general sentiment, that _ridicule_ is not of the
-_essence of comedy_[8].
-
-But, because the general practice of the _Greek and Roman theatres_,
-which strongly countenance the other opinion, may still be thought
-to outweigh this single _Latin poet_, together with all the _eastern
-and western barbarians_, that can be thrown into the balance, let me
-go one step further, and, by explaining the rise and occasion of this
-_practice_, demonstrate, that, in the present case, their authority is,
-in fact, of no moment.
-
-The form of the Greek, from whence the Roman and our drama is taken,
-though generally _improved_ by reflexion and just criticism, yet, like
-so many other great inventions, was, in its original, the _product_ of
-pure chance. Each of its species had sprung out of a _chorus-song_,
-which was afterwards incorporated into the legitimate drama, and found
-essential to its true form. But _reason_, which saw to establish
-what was _right_ in this fortuitous conformation of the drama, did
-not equally succeed in detecting and separating what was _wrong_. For
-the _occasion_ of this chorus-song, in their religious festivities,
-was widely different: the business _at one time_, being to express
-their gratitude, in celebrating the praises of their gods and heroes;
-at _another_, to indulge their mirth, in jesting and sporting among
-themselves. The character of their drama, which had its rise from
-hence,[9] conformed exactly to the difference of these _occasions_.
-_Tragedy_, through all its several successive stages of improvement, was
-serious and even solemn. And a gay or rather buffoon spirit was the
-characteristic of _comedy_.
-
-We see, then, the _genius_ of these two poems was accidentally fixed
-in agreement to their respective _originals_; consequent writers
-contenting themselves to embellish and perfect, not _change_, the
-primary form. The practice of the ancient stage is then of no further
-authority, than as it accords to just criticism. The solemn cast of
-their _tragedy_, indeed, bears the test, and is found to be suitable
-to its real nature. The same does not appear of the burlesque form of
-_comedy_; no reason having been given, why _it_ must, of necessity,
-have the _ridiculous_ for its object. Nay the effects of improved
-criticism on the later Greek comedy give a presumption of the direct
-contrary. For, in proportion to the gradual refinement of this
-_species_ in the hands of its greatest masters, the buffoon cast of
-the comic drama was insensibly dropt and even grew into a severity,
-which departed at length very widely from the original idea. The
-admirable scholar of THEOPHRASTUS, who had been tutored in the exact
-study of human life, saw so much of the genuine character of true
-comedy, that he cleansed it, at once, from the greater part of those
-buffoonries, which had, till his time, defiled its nature. His great
-imitator, Terence, went still further; and, whether impelled by his
-native humour, or determined by his truer taste, mixed so little of
-the _ridiculous_ in his comedy, as plainly shews, it might, in his
-opinion, subsist entirely without it. His _practice_ indeed, and the
-theory, here delivered, nearly meet. And the conclusion is, that
-_comedy_, which is the image of private life, may take either character
-of _pleasant_ or _serious_, as it chances, or even _unite_ them into
-one piece; but that the _former_ is, by no means, more essential to its
-constitution, than the _latter_.
-
-I foresee but one objection, that can be made to this theory; which
-has, in effect, been obviated already. “It may be said, that, if this
-account of _comedy_ be just, it would follow, that it might, with
-equal propriety, admit the gravest and most affecting events, which
-inferior life furnishes, as the lightest. Whereas it is notorious, that
-distresses of a deep and solemn nature, though faithfully copied from
-the fortunes of private men, would never be endured, under the name of
-_comedy_, on the stage. Nay, such representations would rather pass,
-in the public judgment, for legitimate _tragedies_; of which kind, we
-have, indeed, some examples in our language.”
-
-Two things are mistaken in this objection. _First_, it supposes,
-that deep distresses of every kind are inconsistent with comedy; the
-contrary of which may be learnt from the SELF-TORMENTOR of Terence.
-_Next_, it insinuates, that, if deep distresses of any kind may be
-admitted into comedy, the _deepest_ may. Which is equally erroneous.
-For the _manners_ being the proper object of comedy, the _distress_
-must not exceed a certain degree of _severity_, lest it draw off the
-mind from them, and confine it to the _action_ only: as would be the
-case of _murder_, _adultery_, and other atrocious crimes, infesting
-_private_, as well as _public_, life, were they to be represented,
-in all their horrors, on the stage. And though some of these, as
-_adultery_, have been brought, of late, into the comic scene, yet
-it was not till it had lost the atrocity of its nature, and was made
-the subject of mirth and pleasantry to the fashionable world. But for
-this happy disposition of the times, comedy, as managed by some of our
-writers, had lost its nature, and become _tragic_. And, yet, considered
-as _tragic_, such representations of low life had been improper.
-Because, where the intent is to _affect_, the subject is with more
-advantage taken from _high life_, all the circumstances being, there,
-more peculiarly adapted to answer that end.
-
-The solution then of the difficulty is, in one word, this. All
-_distresses_ are not _improper_ in comedy; but such only as attach
-the mind to the _fable_, in neglect of the _manners_, which are its
-chief object. On the other hand, all _distresses_ are not _proper_
-in tragedy; but such only as are of force to interest the mind in
-the _action_, preferably to the observation of the _manners_; which
-can only be done, or is done most effectually, when the _distressful
-event_, represented, is taken from _public life_. So that the
-_distresses_, spoken of, are equally unsuited to what the natures
-_both_ of _comedy and tragedy_, respectively, demand.
-
-
-
-
-CHAP. III.
-
-OF M. DE FONTENELLE’S NOTION OF COMEDY.
-
-
-Notwithstanding the pains I have taken, in the preceding chapters,
-to establish my theory of the comic drama, I find myself obliged to
-support it still further against the authority of a very eminent modern
-critic. M. de Fontenelle hath just now published two volumes of plays,
-among which are some comedies of a very singular character. They are
-not only, in a high degree, _pathetic_; but the scene of them is laid
-in _antiquity_; and great personages, such as _Kings_, _Princesses_,
-&c. are of the drama. He hath besides endeavoured to justify this
-extraordinary species of comedy by a very ingenious preface. It will
-therefore be necessary for me to examine this new system, and to
-obviate, as far as I can, the prejudices which the name of the author,
-and the intrinsic merit of the plays themselves, will occasion in
-favour of it.
-
-His system, as explained in the preface to these comedies, is, briefly,
-this.
-
-“The _subject_ of dramatic representation, he observes, is some event
-or action of _human life_, which can be considered only in two views,
-as being either that of _public_, or of _private_, persons. The end of
-such representation, continues he, is to _please_, which it doth either
-by engaging the attention, or by moving the passions. The _former_
-is done by representing to us such events as are _great, noble, or
-unexpected_: The _latter_ by such as are _dreadful, pitiable, tender,
-or pleasant_. Of these several sources of _pleasure_, he forms what
-he calls a _dramatic scale_, the extremes of which he admits to be
-altogether inconsistent; no art being sufficient to bring together the
-_grand_, the _noble_, or the _terrible_, into the same piece with the
-_pleasant or ridiculous_. The impressions of these objects, he allows,
-are perfectly opposed to each other. So that a tragedy, which takes
-for its subject a _noble_, or _terrible_ event, can by no means admit
-the _pleasant_. And a comedy, which represents a _pleasant_ action,
-can never admit the _terrible_ or _noble_. But it is otherwise, he
-conceives, with the intermediate species of this scale. The _singular_,
-the _pitiable_, the _tender_, which fill up the interval betwixt the
-_noble_ and _ridiculous_, are equally consistent with tragedy and
-comedy. An uncommon stroke of Fortune may as well befall a peasant as
-a prince. And two lovers of an inferior condition may have as lively a
-passion for each other, and, when some unlucky event separates them,
-may deserve our pity as much, as those of the highest fortune. These
-situations then are equally suited to both dramas. They will only be
-modified in each a little differently. From hence he concludes, that
-there may be _dramatic representations_, which are neither perfectly
-tragedies nor perfectly comedies, but yet partake of the nature of
-each, and that in different proportions. There might be a species
-of _tragedy_, for instance, which should unite the _tender_ with
-the _noble_ in any degree, or even subsist entirely by means of the
-_tender_: And of _comedy_, which should associate the _tender_ with the
-_pleasant_, or even retain the _tender_ throughout to a certain degree
-to the entire exclusion of the _pleasant_.
-
-“As to his laying the _scene_ of his comedy in Greece, he thinks this
-practice sufficiently justified by the practice of the French writers,
-who make no scruple to lay their scene abroad, as in _Spain_ or
-_England_.
-
-“Lastly, for what concerns the introduction of great personages into
-the comic drama, he observes that by _ordinary life_, which he supposes
-the proper subject of comedy, he understands as well that of Emperors
-and Princes, at times when they are only men, as of inferior persons.
-And he thinks it very evident that what passes in the ordinary _life_,
-so understood, of the greatest men, is truly comic[10].”
-
-This is a simple exposition of M. de Fontenelle’s idea of comedy,
-which, however, he hath set off with great elegance and a plausibility
-of illustration, such as writers of his class are never at a loss to
-give to any subject they would recommend.
-
-Now, tho’ the principal aim of what I have to offer in confutation of
-this system be to combat the ingenious writer’s notion of comedy, yet
-as the tenor of his _preface_ leads him to deliver his sentiments also
-of tragedy, I shall not scruple intermixing, after his example, some
-reflexions on this latter drama.
-
-M. de Fontenelle sets out with observing, that the end of dramatic
-representation is to _please_. This end is very general. But he
-explains himself more precisely, by saying, “_this pleasure is of two
-kinds, and consists either in attaching the mind or affecting it_.” And
-this is not much amiss. But his further explanation of these terms is
-suspicious. “The mind, says he, is ATTACHED by the representation of
-what is _great_, _noble_, _singular_, or _unexpected_: It is AFFECTED
-by what is _terrible_, _pitiable_, _tender_, or _pleasant_[11].”
-In this enumeration he forgets the merely _natural_ draught of the
-manners. Yet this is surely one of the means by which the drama is
-enabled to _attach_ the spectator. With me, I confess, this is the
-first excellence of comedy. Nor could he mean to include this source
-of pleasure under his _second_ division. For tho’ a lively picture of
-the manners may in some sort be said to _affect_ us, yet certainly not
-as coming under the consideration of what is _terrible_, _pitiable_,
-_tender_, or _ridiculous_, but simply of what is _natural_. The
-picture is _pleasant_ or otherwise, as it chances; but is always the
-source of entertainment to the observer. When the pleasantry is high,
-it takes indeed the passion of _ridicule_. In other instances, it
-can scarcely be said to _move_, “emouvoir.” Now this I take to be a
-very considerable omission. For if the observation of character be a
-_pleasure_, which comedy is more particularly qualified to give, and
-which is not in any degree so compatible with tragedy, does not this
-bid fair for being the _proper_ end of comedy? Human life, he says,
-which is the subject of the drama, can only be regarded in two views,
-as either that _of the great and principally of kings_, and that of
-_private men_. Now the _attachments_ and _emotions_, he speaks of, are
-excited more powerfully and to more advantage in a representation of
-the _former_. That which is _peculiar_ to a draught of _ordinary life_,
-or which is attained _most perfectly_ by it, is the delight arising
-from a just exhibition of the manners. No, he will say. The _pleasant_
-belongs as peculiarly to a picture of common life, as the _natural_.
-Surely not. Common life _distorted_, or what we call _farce_, gives
-the entertainment of _ridicule_ more perfectly than comedy. The only
-pleasure, which an exposition of _ordinary life_ affords, distinct
-from that we receive from a view of _high life_ on the one hand,
-and ordinary life _disfigured_ on the other, is the satisfaction of
-contemplating the _truth of character_. However then this species
-of representation may be improved by incorporating other kinds of
-excellence with it, is not _this, of pleasing_ by the _truth_ of
-character, to be considered as the _appropriate_ end of comedy?
-
-I don’t dispute the propriety of serious or even affecting comedies. I
-have already explained myself as to this point, and have shewn under
-what restrictions _the weeping comedy_, _la larmoyante comedie_, as
-the French call it, may be admitted on my plan. The main question is,
-whether there be any foundation in nature for two distinct and separate
-species _only_ of the drama; or whether, as he pretends, a certain
-_scale_, which connects by an insensible communication the several
-modifications of dramatic representation, unites and incorporates the
-two species into one.
-
-It is true the laws of the drama, as formed by Aristotle out of the
-Greek poets, can of themselves be no rule to us in this matter; because
-these poets had given no example of such intermediate species. This,
-for aught appears to the contrary, may be an extension of the province
-of the drama. The question then must be tried by the success of this
-new practice, compared with the general dictates of common sense.
-
-For I perfectly agree with this judicious critic, that we have a
-right to inquire if, in what concerns the stage, we are not sometimes
-governed by _established customs_ instead of rules; for _Rules_ they
-will not deserve to be esteemed, till they have undergone the rigid
-scrutiny of reason[12].
-
-In respect of the _Practice_, then, it must be owned, there are many
-stories in private life capable of being worked up in such a manner
-as to move the passions strongly; and, on the contrary, many subjects
-taken from the great world capable of diverting the spectator by a
-pleasant picture of the manners. And lastly, it is also true, that
-both these ends may be affected together, in some degree, in either
-piece. But here is the point of enquiry. Whether if the end in view
-be to _affect_, this will not be accomplished BETTER by taking a
-subject from the public than private fortunes of men: Or, if the End
-be to _please by the truth of character_, whether we are not likely
-to perceive this pleasure more FULLY when the story is of private,
-rather than of public life? For, as Aristotle said finely on a like
-occasion, _we are not to look for every sort of pleasure from tragedy_
-[or comedy] _but that which is peculiarly proper to each_[13]. “Human
-life” this writer says, “can be considered but as _high_ or _low_;”
-and “a representation of it can please only as it _attaches_, or
-_affects_.” I ask then, to which sort of life shall the dramatic poet
-confine himself, when he would endeavour to raise these _affections_
-or these _attachments_ to the highest pitch. The answer is plain. For
-if the poet would excite the tender passions, they will rise higher of
-necessity, when awakened by noble subjects, than if called forth by
-such as are of ordinary and familiar notice. This is occasioned by what
-one may call a TRANSITION OF THE PASSIONS: that affection of the mind
-which is produced by the impression of great objects, being more easily
-convertible into the stronger degrees of pity and commiseration, than
-such as arises from a view of the concerns of common life. The more
-_important_ the interest, the greater part our minds take in it, and
-the more susceptible are we of _passion_.
-
-On the other hand, when the intended pleasure is to result from
-strong pictures of human nature, this will be felt more entirely, and
-with more sincerity, when we are at leisure to attend to them in the
-representation of inferior persons, than when the rank of the speaker,
-or dignity of the subject, is constantly drawing some part of our
-observation to itself. In a word, though _mixed dramas_ may give us
-pleasure, yet the pleasure, in either kind, will be LESS in proportion
-to the mixture. And the _end_ of each will be then attained MOST
-PERFECTLY when its character, according to the ancient practice, is
-observed.
-
-To consider then the writer’s favourite position, that _le pitoyable_
-and _le tendre_ are “common both to tragedy and comedy.” The position,
-in general, is true. The difficulty is in fixing the degree, with which
-it ought to prevail in each. If _passion_ predominates in a picture
-of private life, I call it a _tragedy_ of private story, because it
-produces the _end_ which tragedy designs. If _humour_ predominates
-in a draught of public life, I call it a _comedy_ of public story,
-because it gives the _pleasure_ of pure comedy. Let these then be two
-new species of the drama, if you please, and let new names be invented
-for them. Yet, were I a poet, I should certainly adhere to the old
-practice. That is, if I wanted to produce _passion_, I should think
-myself able to raise it highest on a great subject. And if I aimed to
-_attach_ by _humour_, I should depend on catching the whole attention
-of the spectator more successfully on a familiar subject.
-
-But by a _familiar subject_, this critic will say, he means, as I
-do, a subject taken from _ordinary life_; and that the affairs of
-kings and princes may very properly come into comedy under this view.
-Besides the reason already produced against this innovation, I have
-this further exception to it. The business of comedy, he will allow,
-is in part at least to exhibit the _manners_. Now the princely or
-heroic comedy is singularly improper for this end. If persons of so
-distinguished a rank be the actors in comedy, propriety demands that
-they be shewn in conformity to their characters in real life. But now
-that very politeness, which reigns in the courts of princes and the
-houses of the great, prevents the _manners_ from shewing themselves,
-at least with that distinctness and _relief_ which we look for in
-dramatic characters. Inferior personages, acting with less reserve and
-caution, afford the fittest occasion to the poet of expressing their
-genuine tempers and dispositions. Or, if a picture of the manners be
-expected from the introduction of great persons, it can be only in
-tragedy, where the importance of the interests and the strong play of
-the passions strip them of their borrowed disguises, and lay open their
-true characters. So that the princely, or _heroic_, comedy is the least
-fitted, of any kind of drama, to furnish this pleasure.
-
-The ancients appear to have had no doubt at all on the matter. The
-tragedy on low life, and comedy on high life, were refinements
-altogether unknown to them. What then hath occasioned this revolution
-of taste amongst us? Principally, I conceive, these three things.
-
-1. The comedy on high life hath arisen from a _different state of
-government_. In the free towns of Greece there was no room for that
-distinction of high and low comedy, which the moderns have introduced.
-And the reason was, the members of those communities were so nearly
-on a level, that any one was a representative of the rest. There was
-no standing subordination of royalty, nobility, and commonalty, as
-with us. Their way of ennobling their characters was, by making them
-Generals, Ambassadors, Magistrates, &c. and then, in that public view,
-they were fit personages for tragedy. When stripped of these ensigns of
-authority, they became simple citizens.
-
-Amongst us, persons of elevated rank make a separate order in the
-community, whose private lives however might, no doubt, be the subject
-of comic representation. Why then are not these fit personages for
-comedy? The reason has been given. They want _dramatic manners_. Or, if
-they did not, their elevated and separate estate makes the generality
-conceive with such reverence of them, that it would shock their notions
-of high life to see them employed in a course of comic adventures.
-And of this M. de Fontenelle himself was sufficiently sensible. For,
-speaking in another place of the importance which the tragic action
-receives from the dignity of its persons, he says, “When the actions
-are of such a kind as that, without losing any thing of their beauty,
-they might pass between inferior persons, the names of kings and
-princes are nothing but a foreign ornament, which the poet gives to
-his subject. Yet _this ornament, foreign as it may be, is necessary:
-so fated are we to be always dazzled by titles_[14].” Should he not
-have seen then, that this pageantry of titles, which is so requisite to
-raise the dignity of the tragic drama, must for the same reason prevent
-the familiarity of the comic? The great themselves are, no doubt, in
-this, as other instances, above _vulgar_ prejudices. But the dramatic
-poet writes for the people.
-
-2. The tragedy on low life, I suspect, has been chiefly owing to our
-_modern romances_: which have brought the tender passion into great
-repute. It is the constant and almost sole object of _le pitoyable_
-and _le tendre_ in our drama. Now the prevalency of this passion in
-all degrees hath made it thought an indifferent matter, whether the
-story, that exemplifies it, be taken from low or high life. As it
-rages equally in both, the pathos, it was believed, would be just the
-same. And it is true, if tragedy confine itself to the display of this
-passion, the difference will be less sensible than in other instances.
-Because the concern terminates more directly in the _tender pair_
-themselves, and does not so necessarily extend itself to others. Yet
-to heighten this same pathos by the _grand_ and _important_, would
-methinks be the means of affording a still higher pleasure.
-
-3. After all, that effusion of _softness_ which prevails to such a
-degree in all our dramas, comic as well as tragic, to the exclusion of
-every other interest, is, perhaps, best accounted for by this writer.
-As the matter is delicate, I chuse to give it in his own words: “On
-s’imagine naturellement, que les piéces Grecques & les nôtres ont
-été jugées au même tribunal, à celui d’un public assés egal dans les
-deux nations; mais cela n’est pas tout-a-fait vrai. Dans le tribunal
-d’Athenes, _les femmes_ n’avoient pas de voix, ou n’en avoient que très
-peu. Dans le tribunal de Paris, c’est précisément le contraire; ici il
-est donc question de plaire aux femmes, qui assurément aimeront mieux
-le pitoyable & le tendre, que terrible et même le grand.” He adds, “_Et
-je ne crois pas au fond qu’elles ayent grand tort_.” And what gallant
-man but would subscribe to this opinion?
-
-On the whole, this attempt of M. de Fontenelle, to innovate in the
-province of comedy, puts one in mind of that he made, many years ago,
-in pastoral poetry. It is exactly the same spirit which has governed
-this polite writer in both adventures. He was once for bringing
-courtiers in masquerade into _Arcadia_. And now he would set them
-unmasked on the comic stage. Here, at least, he thought they would be
-in place. But the simplicity of pastoral dialogue would not suffer
-the one; and the familiarity of comic action forbids the other. It
-must be confessed, however, he hath succeeded better in the example of
-his comedies, than his pastorals. And no wonder. For what we call the
-_fashions_ and _manners_ are confined to certain conditions of life, so
-that _pastoral courtiers_ are an evident contradiction and absurdity.
-But, the _appetites and passions_ extending through all ranks, hence
-low tricks and low amours are thought to suit the minister and sharper
-alike. However it be, the fact is, that M. de Fontenelle hath succeeded
-best in his _comedies_. And as his theory is likely to gain more credit
-from the success of his practice than the force of his reasoning, I
-think it proper to close these remarks with an observation or two upon
-it.
-
-There are, I observed, three things to be considered in his comedies,
-his _introduction of great personages, his practice of laying the
-scene in antiquity, and his pathos_.
-
-Now to see the impropriety of the _first_ of these innovations, we
-need only observe with what art he endeavours to conceal it. His very
-dexterity in managing his comic heroes clearly shews the natural
-repugnance he felt in his own mind betwixt the representation of such
-characters, and even his own idea of the comic drama.
-
-The TYRANT is a strange title of a comedy. It required singular address
-to familiarize this frightful personage to our conceptions. Which
-yet he hath tolerably well done, but by such expedients as confute
-his general theory. For, to bring him down to the level of a comic
-character, he gives us to understand, that the _Tyrant_ was an usurper,
-who from a very mean birth had forced his way into the tyranny. And
-to lower him still more, we find him represented, not only as odious
-to his people, but of a very contemptible character. He further makes
-him the tyrant only of a small Greek town; so that he passes, with
-the modern reader, for little more than the Mayor of a corporation.
-There is also a plain illusion in making a _simple citizen_ demand his
-daughter in marriage. For under the cover of this word, which conveys
-the idea of a person in lower life, we think very little of the dignity
-of a free citizen of Corinth. Whence it appears that the poet felt the
-necessity of unkinging this tyrant as far as possible, before he could
-make a comic character of him.
-
-The case of his ABDOLONIME is still easier. ’Tis true, the structure of
-the fable requires us to have an eye to royalty, but all the pride and
-pomp of the regal character is studiously kept out of sight. Besides,
-the affair of royalty does not commence till the action draws to a
-conclusion, the persons of the drama being all simple particulars, and
-even of the lowest figure through the entire course of it.
-
-The King of Sidon is, further, a paltry sovereign, and a creature
-of Alexander. And the characters of the persons, which are indeed
-admirably touched, are purposely contrived to lessen our ideas of
-sovereignty.
-
-The LYSIANASSE is a tragedy in form, of that kind which hath a happy
-catastrophe. The _persons_, _subject_, every thing so important, and
-attaches the mind so intirely to the event, that nothing interests
-more.
-
-As to his _laying the scene in antiquity, and especially in the free
-towns of Greece_, I would recommend it as an admirable expedient to
-all those who are disposed to follow him in this new province of
-heroic comedy. For amongst other advantages, it gives the writer an
-occasion to fill the courts of his princes with _simple citizens_,
-which, as was observed, by no means answer to our ideas of nobility.
-But in any other view I cannot say much for the practice. It is for
-obvious reasons highly inconvenient. Even this writer found it so, when
-in one of his plays, the MACATE, he was obliged to break through the
-propriety of ancient manners in order to adapt himself to the modern
-taste. His duel, as he himself says, “_a l’air bien françois et bien
-peu grec_.” The reader, if he pleases, may see his apology for this
-transgression of decorum. Or, if there were no inconvenience of this
-sort, the representation of characters after the _antique_ must, on
-many occasions, be cold and disgusting. At least none but professed
-scholars can be taken with it.
-
-Nor is the usage of the Latin writers any precedent. For, besides
-that Horace, we know, condemned it as suitable only to the infancy of
-their comic poetry, the manners, laws, religion of the Greeks were
-in the main so similar to their own, that the difference was hardly
-discernible. Or if it were otherwise in some points, the neighbourhood
-of this famous people and the intercourse the Romans had with them,
-would bring them perfectly acquainted with such difference. And this
-last reflexion shews how insufficient it was for the author to excuse
-his own practice from the authority of his countrymen; who, says he,
-“never scruple laying their scene in Spain or England.” Are the manners
-of ancient Greece as familiar to a French pit, as those of these two
-countries?
-
-Lastly, I have very little to object to the _pathos_ of his comedy.
-When it is subservient to the _manners_, as in the TESTAMENT and
-ABDOLONIME, I think it admirable. When it exceeds this degree and
-takes the attention intirely, as in the LYSIANASSE, it gives a
-pleasure indeed, but not the pleasure appropriate to comedy. I regard
-it as a faint imperfect species of tragedy. After all, I fear the
-_tender and pitiable_ in comedy, though it must afford the highest
-pleasure to sensible and elegant minds, is not perfectly suited to
-the apprehensions of the generality. Are they susceptible of the soft
-and delicate emotions which the fine distress in the _Testament_ is
-intended to raise? Every one indeed is capable of being delighted
-through the _passions_; but they must be worked up, as in tragedy, to
-a greater height, before the generality can receive that delight from
-them. The same objection, it will be said, holds against the finer
-strokes of character. Not, I think, with the same force. I doubt our
-sense of imitation, especially of the _ridiculous_, is quicker than our
-humanity. But I determine nothing. Both these pleasures are perfectly
-consistent. And my idea of comedy requires only that the _pathos_ be
-kept in subordination to the _manners_.
-
-
-
-
-CHAP. IV.
-
-OF THE PROVINCE OF FARCE.
-
-
-Thus much then for the general idea of COMEDY. If considered more
-accurately, it is, further, of _two kinds_. And in considering these we
-shall come at a just notion of the province of FARCE. For this _mirror
-of private life_ either, 1. reflects such qualities and characters,
-as are common _to human nature at large_: or, 2. it represents the
-whims, extravagances, and caprices, which characterize the folly of
-_particular persons or times_.
-
-Again, _each_ of these is, further, to be subdivided into _two
-species_. For 1. the representations of _common nature_ may either be
-taken _accurately_, so as to reflect a _faithful and exact image_ of
-their original; which alone is _that_ I would call COMEDY, as best
-agreeing to the description which Cicero gives of it, when he terms
-it IMAGINEM VERITATIS. Or, they may be forced and overcharged above
-the simple and just proportions of _nature_; as when the excesses
-of a _few_ are given for _standing_ characters, when not the man is
-described, but the _passion_, or when, in the draught of the man, the
-leading feature is extended beyond measure: And in these cases the
-representation holds of the lower province of FARCE. In like manner,
-2. the other _species_, consisting in the representation of _partial
-nature_, either transcribes such characters as are peculiar to _certain
-countries or times_, of which _our comedy_ is, in great measure, made
-up; or it presents the image of _some real individual person_; which
-was the distinguishing character of the _old comedy_ properly so called.
-
-Both these kinds evidently belong to FARCE: not only as failing in that
-general and universal imitation of nature, which is alone deserving the
-name of comedy, but, also, for this reason, that, being more directly
-written for the present purpose of discrediting certain _characters_
-or _persons_, it is found convenient to exaggerate their peculiarities
-and enlarge their features; and so, on a double account, they are to be
-referred to that _class_.
-
-And thus the _three forms of dramatic composition_, the only ones which
-good sense acknowledges, are kept distinct: and the proper END and
-CHARACTER of each, clearly understood.
-
-1. _Tragedy and Comedy_, by their lively but faithful representations,
-cannot fail to _instruct_. Such natural exhibitions of the human
-character, being set before us in the clear mirror of the drama,
-must needs serve to the highest _moral uses_, in awakening that
-instinctive approbation, which we cannot withhold from _virtue_,
-or in provoking the not less necessary detestation of _vice_. But
-this, though it be their best _use_, is by no means their primary
-_intention_. Their proper and immediate _end_ is, to PLEASE: the _one_,
-more especially by interesting the _affections_; the _other_, by _a
-just and delicate imitation of real life_. _Farce_, on the contrary,
-professes to _entertain_, but this, in order more effectually to serve
-the interests of virtue and good sense. Its proper _end_ and purpose
-(if we allow it to have any reasonable one) is, then, to INSTRUCT.
-Which the reader will understand me as saying, not of what we know by
-the name of _farce_ on the modern stage (whose _prime_ intention can
-hardly be thought even that low one, ascribed to it by Mr. Dryden,
-_of_ entertaining _citizens, country gentlemen, and Covent Garden
-fops_), but of the legitimate _end_ of this _drama_; known to the
-Ancients under the name of the _old Comedy_, but having neither name
-nor existence, properly speaking, among the Moderns. Of which we may
-say, as Mr. Dryden did, but with less propriety, of Comedy, “_That it
-is a sharp manner of_ instruction _for the vulgar, who are never well
-amended, till they are more than sufficiently exposed_.” [Pref. to
-Trans. of Fresnoy, p. xix.]
-
-2. Though tragedy and comedy respect the _same general_ END, yet
-pursuing it by _different means_, hence it comes to pass, their
-CHARACTERS are wholly different. For tragedy, aiming at _pleasure_,
-principally through the _affections_, whose flow must not be checked
-and interrupted by any counter impressions: and comedy, as we have
-seen, addressing itself _principally_ to our _natural sense of
-resemblance and imitation_; it follows, that the _ridiculous_ can never
-be associated with tragedy, without destroying its _nature_, though
-with the _serious comic_ it very well consists.
-
-And here the _practice_ coincides with the _rule_. All exact writers,
-though they constantly mix _grave and pleasant_ scenes together in the
-same _comedy_, yet never presume to do this in _tragedy_, and so keep
-the two species of _tragedy and comedy_ themselves perfectly distinct.
-But,
-
-3. It is quite otherwise with _comedy_ and _farce_. These almost
-perpetually run into each other. And yet the reason of the thing
-demands as intire and perfect a separation in this case, as in
-the other. For the perfection of _comedy_ lying in the accuracy
-and fidelity of universal representation, and _farce_ professedly
-neglecting or rather purposely transgressing the limits of common
-nature and just decorum, they clash entirely with each other. And
-_comedy_ must so far fail of giving the _pleasure_, appropriate to its
-design, as it allies itself with _farce_; while _farce_, on the other
-hand, forfeits the _use_, it intends, of promoting popular ridicule,
-by restraining itself within the exact rules of _Nature_, which Comedy
-observes.
-
-But there is little occasion to guard against this _latter_ abuse. The
-danger is all on the other side. And the passion for what is now called
-_Farce_, the shadow of the Old Comedy, has, in fact, possessed the
-modern poets to such a degree that we have scarcely one example of a
-comedy, without this gross mixture. If any are to be excepted from this
-censure in Moliere, they are his _Misanthrope_ and _Tartuffe_, which
-are accordingly, by common allowance, the best of his large collection.
-In proportion as his other plays have less or more of this farcical
-turn, their true value hath been long since determined.
-
-Of our own comedies, such of them, I mean, as are worthy of criticism,
-Ben Jonson’s _Alchymist_ and _Volpone_ bid the fairest for being
-written in this genuine unmixed manner. Yet, though their merits are
-very great, severe Criticism might find something to object even to
-these. The ALCHYMIST, some will think, is exaggerated throughout, and
-so, at best, belongs to that species of comedy, which we have before
-called _particular and partial_. At least, the extravagant pursuit
-so strongly exposed in that play, hath now, of a long time, been
-forgotten; so that we find it difficult to enter fully into the humour
-of this highly-wrought character. And, in general, we may remark of
-such characters, that they are a strong temptation to the writer to
-exceed the bounds of truth in his draught of them at _first_, and are
-further liable to an imperfect, and even unfair sentence from the
-reader _afterwards_. For the welcome reception, which these pictures of
-prevailing _local_ folly meet with on the stage, cannot but induce the
-poet, almost without design, to inflame the representation: And the
-want of _archetypes_, in a little time, makes it pass for immoderate,
-were it originally given with ever so much discretion and justice. So
-that whether the _Alchymist_ be farcical or not, it will _appear_,
-at least, to have this note of Farce, “That the principal character
-is exaggerated.” But then this is all we must affirm. For as to the
-_subject_ of this Play’s being a _local folly_, which seems to bring
-it directly under the denomination of Farce, it is but just to make
-a distinction. Had the _end and purpose_ of the Play been to expose
-_Alchymy_, it had been liable to this objection. But this mode of
-_local folly_, is employed as the _means_ only of exposing _another_
-folly, extensive as our Nature and coeval with it, namely _Avarice_. So
-that the subject has all the requisites of true _Comedy_. It is just
-otherwise, we may observe, in the _Devil’s an Ass_; which therefore
-properly falls under our censure. For there, the folly of the time,
-_Projects and Monopolies_, are brought in to be exposed, as the _end
-and purpose_ of the comedy.
-
-On the whole, the _Alchymist_ is a Comedy in just form, but a little
-_Farcical_ in the extension of one of its characters.
-
-The VOLPONE, is a subject so manifestly fitted for the entertainment
-of all times, that it stands in need of no vindication. Yet neither,
-I am afraid, is this Comedy, in all respects, a complete model. There
-are even some Incidents of a farcical invention; particularly the
-_Mountebank Scene_ and _Sir Politique’s Tortoise_ are in the taste
-of the _old comedy_; and without its rational purpose. Besides,
-the _humour_ of the dialogue is sometimes on the point of becoming
-inordinate, as may be seen in the pleasantry of _Corbaccio’s mistakes
-through deafness_, and in other instances. And we shall not wonder that
-the best of his plays are liable to some objections of this sort, if
-we attend to the _character_ of the writer. For his nature was severe
-and rigid, and this in giving a strength and manliness, gave, at times
-too, an intemperance to his satyr. His taste for ridicule was strong
-but indelicate, which made him not over-curious in the choice of his
-_topics_. And lastly, his _style_ in picturing characters, though
-masterly, was without that elegance of _hand_, which is required to
-correct and allay the force of so bold a colouring. Thus, the bias of
-his nature leading him to Plautus rather than Terence for his model,
-it is not to be wondered that his wit is too frequently caustic; his
-raillery coarse; and his humour excessive.
-
-Some later writers for the stage have, no doubt, avoided these
-defects of the exactest of our old dramatists. But do they reach his
-excellencies? Posterity, I am afraid, will judge otherwise, whatever
-may be now thought of some more fashionable comedies. And if they do
-not, neither the state of general manners, nor the turn of the public
-taste, appears to be such as countenances the expectation of greater
-improvements. To those who are not over-sanguine in their hopes, our
-forefathers will perhaps be thought to have furnished (what, in
-nature, seem linked together) the fairest example of _dramatic_, as of
-_real manners_.
-
-But here it will probably be said, an affected zeal for the honour of
-our old poets has betrayed their unwary advocate into a concession,
-which discredits his whole pains on this subject. For to what purpose,
-may it be asked, this waste of dramatic criticism, when, by the
-allowance of the idle speculatist himself, his theory is likely to
-prove so unprofitable, at least, if it be not ill-founded? The only
-part I can take in this nice conjuncture, is to screen myself behind
-the authority of a much abler critical theorist, who had once the
-misfortune to find himself in these unlucky circumstances, and has
-apologized for it. The _objection_ is fairly urged by this fine
-writer; and in so profound and speculative an age, as the present, I
-presume to suggest no other answer, than he has thought fit to give to
-it. “Speculations of this sort, says he, do not bestow genius on those
-who have it not; they do not, perhaps, afford any great assistance to
-those who have; and most commonly the men of genius are even incapable
-of being assisted by speculation. To what use then do they serve? Why,
-to lead up _to the first principles of beauty_ such persons as love
-reasoning and are fond of reducing, under the controul of philosophy,
-subjects that appear the most independent of it, and which are
-generally thought abandoned to the caprice of taste[15].”
-
-
-
-
-  A
-
-  DISCOURSE
-
-  ON
-
-  POETICAL IMITATION.
-
-
-
-
-  DISSERTATION III.
-
-  ON
-
-  POETICAL IMITATION.
-
-
-I undertake, in the following discourse, to consider TWO QUESTIONS,
-in which the credit of almost all great writers, since the time of
-_Homer_, is vitally concerned.
-
-First, “_Whether that Conformity in Phrase or Sentiment between two
-writers of different times, which we call_ IMITATION, _may not with
-probability enough, for the most part, be accounted for from general
-causes, arising from our common nature; that is, from the exercise
-of our natural faculties on such objects as lie in common to all
-observers?_”
-
-Secondly, “_Whether, in the case of confessed Imitations, any certain
-and necessary conclusion holds to the disadvantage of the natural_
-GENIUS _of the imitator?_”—QUESTIONS, which there seems no fit method
-of resolving, but by taking the matter pretty deep, and deducing it
-from its _first principles_.
-
-
-SECTION I.
-
-All _Poetry_, to speak with Aristotle and the Greek critics (if
-for so plain a point authorities be thought wanting) is, properly,
-_imitation_. It is, indeed, the noblest and most extensive of the
-mimetic arts; having all creation for its object, and ranging the
-entire circuit of universal being. In this view every wondrous
-_original_, which ages have gazed at, as the offspring of creative
-fancy; and of which poets themselves, to do honour to their inventions,
-have feigned, as of the immortal panoply of their heroes, that it
-came down from heaven, is itself but a _copy_, a transcript from
-some brighter page of this vast volume of the universe. Thus all is
-_derived_; all is _unoriginal_. And the office of genius is but to
-select the fairest forms of things, and to present them in due _place_
-and _circumstance_, and in the richest colouring of _expression_, to
-the imagination. This primary or original _copying_, which in the ideas
-of Philosophy is _Imitation_, is, in the language of Criticism, called
-INVENTION.
-
-Again; of the endless variety of these _original forms_, which the
-poet’s eye is incessantly traversing, those, which take his attention
-most, his active mimetic faculty prompts him to convert into fair and
-living _resemblances_. This magical operation the _divine_ philosopher
-(whose fervid fancy, though it sometimes obscures[16] his reasoning,
-yet never fails to clear and brighten his imagery) excellently
-illustrates by the similitude of a _mirror_; “_which_, says he, _as you
-turn about and oppose to the surrounding world, presents you instantly
-with a_ SUN, STARS, _and_ SKIES; _with your_ OWN, _and every_ OTHER
-_living form; with the_ EARTH, _and its several appendages of_ TREES,
-PLANTS, _and_ FLOWERS[17].” Just so, on whatever side the poet turns
-his imagination, the shapes of things immediately imprint themselves
-upon it, and a new corresponding creation reflects the old one. This
-shadowy ideal world, though unsubstantial as the _American vision
-of souls_[18], yet glows with such apparent life, that it becomes,
-thenceforth, the object of other mirrors, and is itself _original_ to
-future reflexions; This secondary or derivative image, is that alone
-which Criticism considers under the Idea of IMITATION.
-
-And here the difficulty, we are about to examine, commences. For the
-poet, in his quick researches through all his stores and materials
-of _beauty_, meeting every where, in his progress, these _reflected
-forms_; and deriving from them his stock of imagery, as well as
-from the real subsisting objects of nature, the reader is often at
-a loss (for the poet himself is not always aware of it) to discern
-the _original_ from the _copy_; to know, with certainty, if the
-_sentiment_, or _image_, presented to him, be directly taken from
-the _life_, or be itself, a lively transcript, only, of some former
-copy. And this difficulty is the greater, because the _original_, as
-well as the _copy_, is always at hand for the poet to turn to, and we
-can rarely be certain, since both were equally in his power, which
-of the two he chose to make the object of his own _imitation_. For
-it is not enough to say here, as in the case of _reflexions_, that
-the latter is always the weaker, and of course betrays itself by the
-degree of faintness, which, of necessity, attends a _copy_. This,
-indeed, hath been said by one, to whose judgment a peculiar deference
-is owing. QUICQUID ALTERI SIMILE EST, NECESSE EST MINUS SIT EO, QUOD
-IMITATUR[19]. But it holds only of strict and scrupulous _imitations_.
-And of such alone, I think, it was intended; for the explanation
-follows, _ut umbra corpore, & imago facie, & actus histrionum veris
-affectibus_; that is, where the artist confines himself to the single
-view of taking a faithful and exact transcript. And even this can be
-allowed only, when the copyist is of inferior, or at most but of equal,
-talents. Nay, it is not certainly to be relied upon even _then_; as
-may appear from what we are told of an inferior painter’s [Andrea
-del Sarto’s] copying a portrait of the divine Raphael. The story is
-well known. But, as an aphorism, brought to determine the merits of
-_imitation_, in general, nothing can be falser or more delusive. For,
-1. Besides the supposed _original_, the object itself, as was observed,
-is before the poet, and he may catch from thence, and infuse into his
-piece, the same glow of real life, which animated the _first copy_.
-2. He may also take in circumstances, omitted or overlooked before
-in the _common_ object, and so give new and additional vigour to his
-imitation. Or, 3. He may possess a stronger, and more plastic genius,
-and therefore be enabled to touch, with more force of expression, even
-those particulars, which he professedly imitates.
-
-On all these accounts, the difficulty of distinguishing betwixt
-_original_, and _secondary_, imitation is apparent. And it is of
-importance, that this _difficulty_ be seen in its full light. Because,
-if the _similarity_, observed in two or more writers, may, for the most
-part, and with the highest probability, be accounted for from _general
-principles_, it is superfluous at least, if not unfair, to have
-recourse to the _particular_ charge of _imitation_.
-
-Now to see how far the same common principles of nature will go towards
-effecting the _similarity_, here spoken of, it is necessary to consider
-very distinctly.
-
-I. THE MATTER; _and_
-
-II. THE MANNER, _of all poetical imitation_.
-
-I. In all that range of _natural objects_, over which the restless
-imagination of the poet expatiates, there is no subject of picture
-or imitation, that is not reducible to one or other of the _three
-following classes_. 1. The _material world, or that vast compages
-of corporeal forms, of which this universe is compounded_. 2. _The
-internal workings and movements of his own mind, under which I
-comprehend the manners, sentiments, and passions._ 3. _Those internal
-operations, that are made objective to sense by the outward signs of
-gesture, attitude, or action._ Besides these I know of no source,
-whence the artist can derive a single sentiment or image. There needs
-no new distinction in favour of _Homer’s gods_, _Milton’s angels_,
-or _Shakespear’s witches_; it being clear, that these are only
-_human_ characters, diversified by such attributes and manners, as
-superstition, religion, or even wayward fancy, had assigned to each.
-
-1. The material universe, or what the painters call _still life_,
-is the object of that species of poetical imitation, we call
-_descriptive_. This beauteous arrangement of natural objects, which
-arrests the attention on all sides, makes a necessary and forceable
-impression on the human mind. We are so constituted, as to have a quick
-_perception_ of beauty in the _forms_, _combinations_, and _aspects_ of
-things about us; which the philosopher may amuse himself in explaining
-from remote and insufficient considerations; but consciousness and
-common feeling will never suffer us to doubt of its being entirely
-_natural_. Accordingly we may observe, that it operates universally on
-all men; more especially the young and unexperienced; who are not less
-transported by the _novelty_, than _beauty_ of material objects. But
-its impressions are strongest on those, whom nature hath touched with
-a ray of that celestial fire, which we call true _genius_. Here the
-workings of this instinctive sense are so powerful, that, to judge from
-its effects, one should conclude, it perfectly intranced and bore away
-the mind, as in a fit of rapture. Whenever the form of natural beauty
-presents itself, though but casually, to the mind of the poet; busied
-it may be, and intent on the investigation of quite other objects; his
-imagination takes fire, and it is with difficulty that he restrains
-himself from quitting his proper pursuit, and stopping a while to
-survey and delineate the enchanting image. This is the character of
-what we call a _luxuriant fancy_, which all the rigour of art can
-hardly keep down; and we give the highest praise of judgment to those
-few, who have been able to discipline and confine it within due limits.
-
-I insist the more on this strong _influence of external beauty_,
-because it leads, I think, to a clear view of the subject before us,
-so far as it respects _descriptive poetry_. These _living forms_ are,
-without any change, presented to observation in every age and country.
-There needs but opening the eyes, and these forms necessarily imprint
-themselves on the fancy; and the love of _imitation_, which naturally
-accompanies and keeps pace with this _sense of beauty_ in the poet,
-is continually urging him to translate them into _description_. These
-descriptions will, indeed, have different degrees of _colouring_,
-according to the force of genius in the imitator; but the _outlines_
-are the same in all; in the weak, faint sketches of an ordinary Gothic
-designer, as in the living pictures of _Homer_.
-
-An instance will explain my meaning. Amidst all that diversity of
-natural objects, which the poet delights to paint, nothing is so
-_taking_ to his imagination, as _rural scenery_; which is, always,
-the _first_ passion of _good_ poets, and the _only_ one that seems,
-in any degree, to animate and inspirit _bad_ ones. Now let us take a
-description of such a scene; suppose that which _Aelian_ hath left us
-of the Grecian TEMPE, given from the life and without the heightenings
-of poetic ornament; and we shall see how little the imagination of
-the most fanciful poets hath ever done towards improving upon it.
-_Aelian’s_ description is given in these words.
-
-“The Thessalian TEMPE is a place situate between Olympus and Ossa;
-which are mountains of an exceeding great height; and look, as if
-they once had been joined, but were afterwards separated from each
-other, by some god, for the sake of opening in the midst that large
-plain, which stretches in length to about five miles, and in breadth
-a hundred paces, or, in some parts, more. Through the middle of this
-plain runs the _Peneus_, into which several lesser currents empty
-themselves, and, by the confluence of their waters, swell it into a
-river of great size. This vale is abundantly furnished with all manner
-of _arbours and resting places_; not such as the arts of human industry
-contrive, but which the bounty of spontaneous nature, ambitious, as it
-were, to make a shew of all her beauties, provided for the supply of
-this fair residence, in the very original structure and formation of
-the place. For there is plenty of _ivy_ shooting forth in it, which
-flourishes and grows so thick, that, like the generous and leafy vine,
-it crawls up the trunks of tall trees, and twining its foliage round
-their arms and branches, becomes almost incorporated with them. The
-flowering _smilax_[20] also is there in great abundance; which running
-up the acclivities of the hills, and spreading the close texture of
-its leaves and tendrils on all sides, perfectly covers and shades
-them; so that no part of the bare rock is seen; but the whole is hung
-with the verdure of a thick, inwoven herbage, presenting the most
-agreeable spectacle to the eye. Along the level of the plain, there are
-frequent tufts of trees, and long continued ranges of arching bowers,
-affording the most grateful shelter from the heats of summer; which
-are further relieved by the frequent streams of clear and fresh water,
-continually winding through it. The tradition goes, that these waters
-are peculiarly good for bathing, and have many other medicinal virtues.
-In the thickets and bushes of this dale are numberless _singing_
-birds, every where fluttering about, whose warblings take the ear of
-passengers, and cheat the labours of their way through it. On the
-banks of the _Peneus_, on either side, are dispersed irregularly those
-_resting places_, before spoken of; while the river itself glides
-through the middle of the lawn, with a soft and quiet lapse; over-hung
-with the shades of trees, planted on its borders, whose intermingled
-branches keep off the rays of the sun, and furnish the opportunity
-of a cool and temperate navigation upon it. The worship of the gods,
-and the perpetual fragrancy of sacrifices and burning odours, further
-consecrate the place, &c.” [_Var. Hist._ lib. III. c. 1.]
-
-Now this picture, which Aelian took from nature, and which any one,
-if he hath not seen the several parts of it subsisting together, may
-easily compound for himself out of that stock of rural images which
-are reposited in the memory, is, in fact, the substance of all those
-luscious and luxuriant paintings, which poetry hath ever been able to
-_feign_. For what more is there in the _Elysiums_, the _Arcadias_, the
-_Edens_, of ancient and modern fame? And the common _object_ of all
-these pictures being continually present to the eye, what way is there
-of avoiding the most exact agreement of representation in them? Or how
-from any _similarity_ in the materials, of which they are formed, shall
-we infer an _imitation_?
-
-This agreeable scenery is, for an obvious reason, the most frequent
-object of description. Though sometimes it chuses to itself a dark
-and sombrous imagery; which nature, again, holds out to imitation;
-or fancy, which hath a wondrous quickness and facility in opposing
-its ideas, readily suggests. We have an instance in the picture of
-that _horrid and detested vale_ which Tamora describes in TITUS
-ANDRONICUS. It is a perfect contrast to Aelian’s, and may be called an
-_Anti-tempe_. Or, to see this opposition of images in the strongest
-light, the reader may turn to _L’Allegro_ and _Il Penseroso_ of Milton;
-where he hath artfully made, throughout the two poems, the same kind of
-subjects excite the two passions of _mirth_ and _melancholy_.
-
-When the reader is got into this train, he will easily extend the same
-observation to other instances of _natural description_; and can hardly
-avoid, after a few trials, coming to this short conclusion, “that of
-all the various delineations in the poets, of the HEAVENS, in their
-vicissitude of times and seasons; of the EARTH, in its diversity of
-_mountains_, _valleys_, _promontories_, &c. of the SEA, under its
-several aspects of _turbulence_, or _serenity_; of the _make_ and
-_structure_ of ANIMALS, &c. it can rarely be affirmed, that they are
-_copies_ of one another, but rather the genuine products of the same
-creating fancy, operating uniformly in them all.”
-
-Yet, notwithstanding this _identity_ of the subject-matter in natural
-description, there is room enough for true Genius to shew itself. To
-omit other considerations for the present, it will more especially
-appear in the _manner of Representation_; by which is not meant the
-language of the poet, but simply the _form_ under which he chuses to
-present his imagery to the fancy. The reader will excuse my adding a
-word on so curious a subject, which he will readily apprehend from the
-following instance.
-
-Descriptions of the _morning_ are very frequent in the poets. But this
-appearance is known by so many attending circumstances, that there will
-be room for a considerable variety in the pictures of it. It may be
-described by those _stains of light_, which streak and diversify the
-clouds; by the peculiar _colour of the dawn_; by its _irradiations_ on
-the _sea_, or _earth_; on some peculiar objects, as _trees_, _hills_,
-_rivers_, &c. A difference also will arise from the _situation_, in
-which we suppose ourselves; if on the _sea shore_, this _harbinger
-of day_ will seem to break forth from the _ocean_; if on the _land_,
-from the extremity of a large plain, terminated, it may be, by some
-remarkable object, as a _grove_, _mountain_, &c. There are many other
-_differences_, of which the same precise _number_ will scarcely offer
-itself to two poets; or not the _same individual_ circumstances; or not
-_disposed_ in the same manner. But let the same identical circumstance,
-suppose the _breaking or first appearance of the dawn_, be taken by
-different writers, and we may still expect a considerable diversity
-in their _representation_ of it. What we may allow to all poets, is,
-that they will _impersonate_ the morning. And though this idea of it
-is _metaphorical_, and so belongs to another place, as respecting
-the _manner_ of imitation only; yet, when once considered under this
-_figure_, the _drawing_ of it comes as directly within the province of
-_description_, as the real, _literal_ circumstances themselves. Now in
-descriptions of the morning under this idea of a _person_, the very
-same _attitude_, which is made analogous to the _circumstance_ before
-specified, and is to suggest it, will, as I said, be represented by
-different writers very differently. _Homer_, to express _the rise or
-appearance of this person_, speaks of her _as shooting forth from the
-ocean_:
-
-
-  ——ΑΠ ΩΚΕΑΝΟΙΟ ΡΟΑΩΝ
-  ΩΡΝΥΘ.
-
-_Virgil, as rising from the rocks of Ida._
-
-    _Jamque jugis summae surgebat Lucifer Idae,
-    Ducebatque diem._
-
-_Shakespear_ hath closed a fine description of the morning with the
-same _image_, but expressed in a very different manner.
-
-    ——_Look what streaks
-    Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
-    Night’s candles are put out: and_ JOCUND DAY
-    STANDS TIPTOE ON THE MISTY MOUNTAINS TOP.
-
-The reader, no doubt, pronounces on first sight, this description to be
-_original_. But why? There is no part of it, which may not be traced
-in other poets. The _staining of the clouds_, and _putting out the
-stars_, are circumstances, that are almost constantly taken notice of
-in representations of the morning. And the last _image_, which strikes
-most, is not essentially different from that of Virgil and Homer. It
-would express the _attitude_ of a person impatient, and in act to make
-his appearance. And this is, plainly, the _image_ suggested by the
-other two. But the difference lies here. Homer’s _expression_ of this
-_impatience_ is _general_, ΩΡΝΥΘ. So is Virgil’s, and, as the occasion
-required, with less energy, SURGEBAT. Shakespear’s is _particular_:
-that impatience is set before us, and pictured to the eye in the
-circumstance of _standing tiptoe_; the attitude of a winged messenger,
-in act to shoot away on his errand with eagerness and precipitation.
-Which is a beauty of the same kind with that Aristotle so much admired
-in the ΡΟΔΟΔΑΚΤΥΛΟΣ of Homer. “This image, says he, is peculiar and
-singularly proper to set the object before our eyes. Had the poet said
-ΦΟΙΝΙΚΟΔΑΚΤΥΛΟΣ, the colour had been signified too _generally_, and
-still worse by ΕΡΥΘΡΟΔΑΚΤΥΛΟΣ. ΡΟΔΟΔΑΚΤΥΛΟΣ gives the precise idea,
-which was wanting[21].”
-
-This, it must be owned, is one of the surest characteristics of real
-genius. And if we find it generally in a writer, we may almost venture
-to esteem him _original_ without further scruple. For the shapes and
-appearances of things are apprehended, only in the gross, by dull
-minds. They think they _see_, but it is as through a mist, where if
-they catch but a faint glimpse of the form before them, it is well.
-More one is not to look for from their clouded imaginations. And what
-they thus imperfectly discern, it is not possible for them to delineate
-very distinctly. Whereas every object stands forth in bright sunshine
-to the view of the true poet. Every minute mark and lineament of the
-contemplated form leaves a corresponding trace on his fancy. And having
-these bright and determinate conceptions of things in his own mind,
-he finds it no difficulty to convey the liveliest ideas of them to
-others. This is what we call _painting_ in poetry; by which not only
-the general natures of things are described, and their more obvious
-appearances shadowed forth; but every single _property_ marked, and the
-poet’s own image set in distinct _relief_ before the view of his reader.
-
-If this glow of imagery, resulting from clear and bright perceptions in
-the poet, be not a certain character of _genius_, it will be difficult,
-I believe, to say what is: I mean so far as descriptive poetry, which
-we are now considering, is concerned. The same _general_ appearances
-must be copied by all poets; the same _particular_ circumstances will
-frequently occur to all. But to give life and colour to the selected
-circumstance, and imprint it on the imagination with distinctness and
-vivacity, this is the proper office of true genius. An ordinary writer
-may, by dint of industry, and a careful study of the best models,
-sometimes succeed in this work of _painting_; that is, having stolen a
-ray of celestial matter, he may now and then direct it so happily, as
-to animate and enkindle his own earthly lump; but to succeed constantly
-in this art of description, to be able, on all occasions, to exhibit
-what the Greek Rhetoricians call ΦΑΝΤΑΣΙΑΝ; which is, as Longinus well
-expresses it, when “the poet, from his own vivid and enthusiastic
-conception, seems to have the object, he describes, in actual view,
-and presents it, almost, to the eyes of the reader[22];” this can
-be accomplished by nothing less, than the genuine plastic powers of
-original creation.
-
-2. If from this vast theatre of _sensible and extraneous_ beauty,
-the poet turn his attention to what passes _within_, he immediately
-discovers a new world, invisible indeed and intellectual; but which
-is equally capable of being represented to the internal sense of
-others. This arises from that _similarity of mind_, if I may so speak,
-which, like that of outward _form_ and _make_, by the wise provision
-of nature, runs through the whole species. We are all furnished with
-the same original _properties and affections_, as with the same
-stock of _perceptions and ideas_; whence it is, that our intimate
-consciousness of what we carry about in ourselves, becomes, as it were,
-the interpreter of the poet’s thought; and makes us readily enter
-into all his descriptions of the human nature. These descriptions
-are of two kinds; either 1. such as express that tumult and disorder
-of the mind, which we feel in ourselves from the disturbance of any
-natural affection: or, 2. that more quiet state, which gives birth to
-calmer sentiments and reflexions. The _former_ division takes in all
-the workings of PASSION. The _latter_, comprehends our MANNERS and
-SENTIMENTS. Both are equally the objects of poetry; and of poetry only,
-which triumphs without a rival, in this most sublime and interesting
-of all the modes of _imitation_. Painting, we know, can express the
-_material universe_; and, as will be seen hereafter, can evidence the
-internal movements of the soul by _sensible marks and symbols_; but
-it is poetry alone, which delineates the mind itself, and opens the
-recesses of the heart to us.
-
-    EFFERT ANIMI MOTUS INTERPRETE LINGUA.
-
-Now the poet, as I said, in addressing himself to this province of his
-art, hath only to consult with his own conscious reflexion. Whatever
-be the situation of the persons, whom he would make known to us, let
-him but take counsel of his own heart[23], and it will very faithfully
-suggest the fittest and most natural expressions of their character.
-No man can describe of others further than he hath _felt_ himself. And
-what he hath thus known from his own _feeling_ is so consonant to the
-experience of all others, that his description must needs be _true_;
-that is, be the very same, which a careful attention to such experience
-must have dictated to every other. So that, instead of asking one’s
-self (as an admired ancient advised to do) on any attempt to excel in
-composition, “how this or that celebrated author would have written on
-the occasion;” the surer way, perhaps, is to inquire of ourselves “how
-we have _felt_ or _thought_ in such a conjuncture, what _sensations_
-or _reflexions_ the like circumstances have actually excited in us.”
-For the answer to these queries will undoubtedly set us in the direct
-road of nature and common sense. And, whatever is thus taken from the
-_life_, will, we may be sure, affect other minds, in proportion to the
-vigour of our conception and expression of it. In sum,
-
-    _To catch the manners living, as they rise_,
-
-I mean, from our own internal frame and constitution, is the sole
-way of writing naturally and justly of human life. And every such
-description of _ourselves_ (the great exemplar of _moral imitation_)
-will be as unavoidably similar to any description copied on the like
-occasion, by other poets; as pictures of the _natural world_ by
-different hands, are, and must be, to each other, as being all derived
-from the archetype of one common original.
-
-1. Let us take some master-piece of a great poet, most famed for
-his original invention, in which he has successfully revealed the
-secret internal workings of any PASSION. What does he make known of
-these mysterious powers, but what he _feels_? And whence comes the
-impression, his description makes on others, but from its agreement
-to their _feelings_[24]? To instance, in the expression of _grief on
-the murder of children, relations, friends, &c._ a _passion_, which
-poetry hath ever taken a fond pleasure to paint in all its distresses,
-and which our common nature obliges all readers to enter into with an
-exquisite sensibility. What are the tender touches which most affect
-us on these occasions? Are they not such as these: _complaints of
-untimely death_: _of unnatural cruelty in the murderer_: _imprecations
-of vengeance_: _weariness and contempt of life_: _expostulations with
-heaven_: _fond recollections of the virtues and good qualities of the
-deceased_; _and of the different expectations, raised by them_? These
-were the dictates of nature to the _father of poets_, when he had to
-draw the distresses of _Priam’s_ family sorrowing for the death of
-Hector. Yet nothing, it seems, but _servile imitation_ could supply
-his sons, the Greek and Roman poets in aftertimes, with such pathetic
-lamentations. It may be so. They were all nourished by his streams. But
-what shall we say of one, who assuredly never drank at his fountains?
-
-    —_My heart will burst, and if I speak—
-    And I will speak, that so my heart may burst.
-    Butchers and villains, bloody cannibals,
-    How sweet a plant have ye untimely cropt!
-    You have no children; butchers, if you had,
-    The thought of them would have stirr’d up remorse._
-
-The reader, also, may consult that wonderful scene, in which MACDUFF
-laments the murder of his wife and children. [MACBETH.]
-
-2. It is not different with the MANNERS; I mean those sentiments,
-which mark and distinguish _characters_. These result immediately from
-the suggestions of _nature_; which is so uniform in her workings,
-and offers herself so openly to common inspection, that nothing but a
-perverse and studied affectation can frequently hinder the exactest
-similarity of representation in different writers. This is so true,
-that, from knowing the _general character_, intended to be kept up,
-we can guess, beforehand, how a person will act, or what sentiments
-he will entertain, on any occasion. And the critic even ventures to
-prescribe, by the authority of rule, the particular properties and
-attributes, required to sustain it. And no wonder. Every man, as he can
-make himself the _subject_ of all passions, so he becomes, in a manner,
-the _aggregate_ of all _characters_. Nature may have inclined him most
-powerfully to one set of _manners_; just as one _passion_ is, always,
-predominant in him. But he finds in himself the seeds of all others.
-This consciousness, as before, furnishes the characteristic sentiments,
-which constitute the _manners_. And it were full as strange for two
-poets, who had taken in hand such a character, as that of Achilles,
-to differ materially in their expression of it; as for two painters,
-drawing from the same object, to avoid a striking conformity in the
-_design_ and attitude of their pictures.
-
-Those who are fond of hunting after parallels, might, I doubt not,
-with great ease, confront almost every sentiment, which, in the Greek
-tragedians, is made expressive of particular _characters_, with similar
-passages in other poets; more especially (for I must often refer to
-his authority) in the various living portraitures of _Shakespear_. Yet
-he, who after taking this learned pains, should chuse to urge such
-parallels, when found, for proofs of his _imitation of the ancients_,
-would only run the hazard of being reputed, by men of sense, as poor a
-critic of human nature, as of his author.
-
-I say this with confidence, because I say it on a great authority.
-“Tout est dit (says an exquisite writer on the subject of _manners_)
-et l’on vient trop tard depuis plus de sept mille ans qu’il y a des
-hommes, et qui pensent. Sur ce qui concerne les MOEURS, le plus beau et
-le meilleur est enlevé; l’on ne fait que glaner après les anciens, &
-les habiles d’entre les modernes[25].”
-
-Thus far indeed, the case is almost too plain to be disputed. Strong
-_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.”
-
-What is here concluded of the _softer_, cannot but hold more strongly
-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_.
-
-The truth, as every one sees, is, briefly, this. The restless and
-inquisitive mind of man had succeeded in the discovery or improvement
-of the numberless arts of life. These, for the convenience of method,
-are considered as making a large part of those sensible external
-_effects_, which spring from our internal _sentiments_ or _reasonings_.
-But, though they ultimately respect those _reasonings_, as their
-source, yet they, in no degree, depend on the actual exertion of them
-in the breast of the poet. He copies only the customs of the times,
-of which he writes, that is, the sensible _effects_ themselves. These
-are permanent objects, and may, nay _must_ be the _same_, whatever
-be the ability or genius of the _copier_. In short, taken together,
-they make up what, in the largest sense of the word, we may call,
-with the painters, _il costumè_; which though it be a real excellence
-scrupulously to observe, yet it requires nothing more than exact
-observation and historical knowledge of _facts_ to do it.
-
-And now having the various objects of _poetical imitation_ before us
-(the greatest part of which, as appears, _must_, and the rest _may_,
-occur to the observation of the poet) we come to this _conclusion_,
-which, though it may startle the _parallelist_, there seems no method
-of eluding, “that of any single _image_ or _sentiment_, considered
-separately and by itself, it can never be affirmed certainly, hardly
-with any shew of reason, merely on account of its agreement in
-_subject-matter_ with any other, that it was copied from it.” If there
-be any foundation of this inference, it must, then be laid, not on
-the _matter_, but MANNER of imitation. But here, again, the subject
-branches out into various particulars; which, to be seen distinctly,
-will demand a new division, and require us to proceed with leisure and
-attention through it.
-
-
-II.
-
-The sum of the foregoing _article_ is this. The _objects_ of imitation,
-like the _materials_ of human knowledge, are a common stock, which
-experience furnishes to all men. And it is in the _operations_ of the
-mind upon them, that the glory of _poetry_, as of _science_, consists.
-Here the genius of the _poet_ hath room to shew itself; and from hence
-alone is the praise of _originality_ to be ascertained. The fondest
-admirer of ancient art would never pretend that _Palladio_ had copied
-_Vitruvius_; merely from his working with the same materials of _wood_,
-_stone_, or _marble_, which this great master had employed before him.
-But were the general _design_ of these two architects the _same_ in any
-buildings; were their choice and arrangement of the smaller _members_
-remarkably similar; were their works conducted in the same _style_,
-and their ornaments finished in the same _taste_; every one would be
-apt to pronounce on first sight, that the one was _borrowed_ from
-the other. Even a correspondency in any _one_ of these points might
-create a suspicion. For what likelihood, amidst an infinite variety of
-_methods_, which offer themselves, as to _each_ of these particulars,
-that there should be found, without _design_, a signal concurrence in
-_any one_? ’Tis then in the _usage and disposition_ of the objects of
-poetry, that we are to seek for proofs and evidences of plagiarism.
-And yet it may not be every instance of similarity, that will satisfy
-here. For the question recurs, “whether of the several _forms_, of
-which his materials are susceptible, there be nothing in the nature
-of things, which determines the artist to prefer a _particular_ one
-to all others.” For it is possible, that _general principles_ may
-as well account for a _conformity in the manner_, as we have seen
-them do for an _identity of matter_, in works of imitation. And to
-this question nothing can be replied, till we have taken an accurate
-survey of this _second division_ of our subject. Luckily, the allusion
-to architecture, just touched upon, points to the very method, in
-which it may be most distinctly pursued. For here too, the MANNER _of
-imitation_, if considered in its full extent, takes in 1. _The general
-plan or disposition of a poem._ 2. _The choice and application of
-particular subjects: and_ 3. _The expression._
-
-I. _All poetry_, as lord Bacon admirably observes, “_nihil
-aliud est quam_ HISTORIAE IMITATIO AD PLACITUM.” By which is not meant,
-that the poet is at liberty to conduct his _imitation_ absolutely
-in any manner he pleases, but with such deviations from the rule of
-history, as the _end_ of poetry prescribes. This end is, universally,
-PLEASURE; as _that_ of simple history is, INFORMATION. And from a
-respect to this _end_, together with some proper allowance for the
-diversity of the _subject-matter_, and the _mode of imitation_ (I mean
-whether it be in the way of _recital_, or of action) are the essential
-differences of poetry from mere history, and the _form or disposition_
-of its several _species_, derived. What these _differences_ are, and
-what the _general plan_ in the composition of _each species_, will
-appear from considering the _defects_ of simple history in reference to
-the _main end_, which poetry designs.
-
-Some of these are observed by the great person before-mentioned, which
-I shall want no excuse for giving in his own words.
-
-“1. Cum res gestae et eventus, qui verae historiae subjiciuntur, non
-sint ejus amplitudinis, in quâ anima humana sibi satisfaciat, praesto
-est _poësis_, quae facta magis heroica confingat. 2. Cum historia
-vera successus rerum minime pro meritis virtutum & scelerum, narret;
-corrigit eam _poësis_, & exitus & fortunas, secundum merita, & ex
-lege Nemeseos, exhibet. 3. Cum historia vera, obviâ rerum satietate
-& similitudine, animae humanae fastidio sit; reficit eam poësis,
-inexpectata, & varia & vicissitudinum plena canens.—Quare & merito
-etiam divinitatis cujuspiam particeps videri possit; quia animum
-erigit & in sublime rapit; _rerum simulachra ad animi desideria
-accommodando, non animum rebus (quod ratio facit, & historia)
-submittendo_[31].”
-
-These _advantages_ chiefly respect the _narrative_ poetry, and above
-all, the _Epos_. There are others, still more _general_, and more
-directly to the purpose of this inquiry. For 4. The _historian_ is
-bound to record _a series of independent events and actions_; and
-so, at once, falls into two _defects_, which make him incapable of
-affording perfect _pleasure_ to the mind. For 1. The flow of passion,
-produced in us by contemplating _any signal event_, is greatly
-checked and disturbed amidst a _variety and succession of actions_.
-And 2. being obliged to pass with celerity over _each_ transaction
-(for otherwise history would be too tedious for the purpose of
-_information_) he has not time to draw out _single circumstances_ in
-full light and impress them with all their force on the imagination.
-_Poetry_ remedies these two defects. By confining the attention to
-_one_ object only, it gives the fancy and affections fair play: and
-by bringing forth to view and even magnifying all the _circumstances_
-of that _one_, it gives to every subject its proper dignity and
-importance. 5. Lastly, to satisfy the human mind, there must not only
-be an _unity and integrity_, but a strict _connexion and continuity_
-of the fable or action represented. Otherwise the mind languishes,
-and the transition of the passions, which gives the chief pleasure,
-is broken and interrupted. The _historian_ fails, also, in this. By
-proceeding in the gradual and orderly succession of _time_, the several
-incidents, which compose the story, are not laid close enough together
-to content the natural avidity of our expectations. Whilst _poetry_,
-neglecting this regularity of succession, and setting out in the midst
-of the story, gratifies our instinctive impatience, and carries the
-_affections_ along, with the utmost rapidity, towards the _event_.
-
-These _advantages_ are common both to _narrative_ and _dramatic_
-poetry. But the _drama_, as professing to copy _real life_, contents
-itself with these. The rest belong entirely to the province of
-_narration_.
-
-Now the _general forms_ of poetical method, as distinct from _that_
-of history, are the pure result of our conclusions concerning the
-expediency and fitness of these _means_, as conducive to the proper
-_end_ of poetry. Which, without more words, will inform us, how it came
-to pass, that the _true plan or disposition of poetical_ works, was so
-early hit upon in _practice_, and established by exact _theories_; and
-may therefore satisfy us of the _necessary_ resemblance and uniformity
-of all productions of this kind, whether their authors had, or had not,
-been guided by the pole-star of _example_.
-
-So much for the _general forms_ of the two greater _kinds_ of poetry.
-If a proper allowance be made for a diversity of _subject-matter_, in
-either _mode_ of composition, it will be easy, as I said, to account
-for the _particular forms_ of the several subordinate species. And
-I the rather choose to do it in this way, and not from the peculiar
-_end_ of each, which indeed were more philosophical, because the
-business is to make appear, how nature leads to the same general plan
-of composition in _practice_, not to establish the laws of each in the
-exact way of _theory_. Now in considering the matter _historically_,
-the diversity of _subject-matter_ was doubtless _that_ which first
-determined the writer to a different _form_ of composition, tho’
-afterwards, a consideration of the _end_, accomplished by _each_, be
-requisite to deduce, with more precision of method, its distinct laws.
-The _latter_ is that from whence the _speculative critic_ rightly
-estimates the character of every species; but the inventor had his
-direction principally from the _former_.
-
-Let me exemplify the observation in an instance under either _mode_ of
-imitation, and leave the rest to the reader.
-
-1. The GEORGIC is a species of _narration_. But, as _things_, not
-_persons_, are its subject (from which last alone the _unity of
-design_ and _continuity of action_ arise) this circumstance absolves
-it from the necessity of observing any other laws, than those of clear
-and perspicuous disposition, and of enlivening a matter, naturally
-uninteresting, by _exquisite expression_ and _pleasing digressions_.
-
-2. The PASTORAL poem may be considered as a lower species of the
-_Drama_. But, its subject being the _humble concerns_ of Shepherds,
-there seems no room for a tragic _Plot_; and their characters are
-too simple to afford materials for comic _drawing_. Their _scene_ is
-indeed inchanting to the imagination. And, together with this, their
-little distresses may sooth us in a short song; or their fancies and
-humours may entertain us in a short Dialogue. And that this is the
-proper province of the Pastoral Muse, we may see by the ill success of
-those who have laboured to extend it. Tasso’s project was admired for
-a time. But we, now, understand that pastoral affairs will not admit
-a tragic pathos. And the continuance of the pastoral vein, through
-five long acts, is found insipid, or even distasteful. This poem then
-has returned to that form which its inventors gave it, and which the
-_subject_ so naturally prescribes to it.
-
-II. But, though the _common end_ of poetry, which is to _please by
-imitation_, together with the subjects of its several species, may
-determine the _general plan_, yet is there nothing, it may be said,
-in the nature of things to fix _the order and connexion of single
-parts_. And here, it will be owned, is great room for _invention_
-to shew itself. The materials of poetry may be put together in so
-many different manners, consistently with the _form_ which governs
-each species, that nothing but the power of _imitation_ can be
-reasonably thought to produce _a close and perpetual similarity_ in
-the composition of two works. I have said _a close and perpetual
-similarity_; for it is not every degree of resemblance, that will do
-here.
-
-The _general plan itself_ of any poem will occasion some unavoidable
-conformities in the disposition of its component parts. The _identity_
-or _similarity_ of the subject may create others. Or, if no other
-assimilating cause intervene, the very uniformity of common nature,
-will, of necessity, introduce some. To explain myself as to the last of
-these _causes_.
-
-The principal constituent members of any work, next to the essential
-parts of the _fable_, are EPISODES, DESCRIPTIONS, SIMILES. By
-_descriptions_ I understand as well the delineation of _characters_
-in their _speeches and imputed sentiments_, as of _places or things_
-in the draught of their attending circumstances. Now not only the
-materials of these are common to all poets, but the same identical
-manner of assemblage in application of _each_ in any poem will, in
-numberless cases, appear necessary.
-
-1. The _episode_ belongs, principally, to the epic muse; and the design
-of it is to diversify and ennoble the narration by _digressive_, yet
-not _unrelated_, ornaments; the _former_ circumstance relieving the
-_simplicity_ of the epic fable, while the _other_ prevents its _unity_
-from being violated. Now these episodical narrations must either
-proceed from the poet himself, or be imputed to some other who is
-engaged in the course of the fable; and in either case, must help,
-indirectly at least, to forward it.
-
-If of the _latter_ kind, a probable pretext must be contrived for
-their introduction; which can be no other than that of satisfying the
-_curiosity_, or of serving to the necessary _information_ of some
-other. And in either of these ways a striking conformity in the mode of
-conducting the work is unavoidable.
-
-If the _episode_ be referred to the _former_ class, its _manner_ of
-introduction will admit a greater latitude. For it will vary with the
-subject, or occasions of relating it. Yet we shall mistake, if we
-believe these subjects, and consequently the occasions, connected with
-them, very numerous. 1. They must be of uncommon dignity and splendor;
-otherwise nothing can excuse the going out of the way to insert them.
-2. They must have some apparent connection with the fable. 3. They
-must further accord to the idea and state of the times, from which
-the _fable_ is taken. Put these things together, and see if they will
-not, with probability, account for some coincidence _in the choice
-and applications_ of the _direct_ episode. And admitting this, the
-similarity of even _its_ constituent parts is, also, necessary.
-
-The genius of Virgil never suffers more in the opinion of his
-critics, than when his _book of games_ comes into consideration and
-is confronted with Homer’s. It is not unpleasant to observe the
-difficulties an advocate for his fame is put to in this nice point, to
-secure his honour from the imputation of _plagiarism_. The descriptions
-are accurately examined; and the improvement of a single circumstance,
-the addition of an epithet, even the novelty of a metaphor, or varied
-turn in the expression, is diligently remarked and urged, with triumph,
-in favour of his invention. Yet all this goes but a little way towards
-stilling the clamour. The entire design is manifestly taken; nay,
-particular incidents and circumstantials are, for the most part, the
-same, without variation. What shall we say, then, to this charge? Shall
-we, in defiance of truth and fact, endeavour to confute it? Or, if
-allowed, is there any method of supporting the reputation of the poet?
-I think there is, if prejudice will but suspend its determinations a
-few minutes, and afford his advocate a fair hearing.
-
-The epic plan, more especially that of the Aeneis, naturally
-comprehends whatever is most august in _civil_ and _religious_ affairs.
-The solemnities of funeral rites, and the festivities of public games
-(which religion had made an essential part of them) were, of necessity,
-to be included in a representation of the _latter_. But what _games_?
-Surely those, which ancient heroism vaunted to excell in; those, which
-the usage of the times had consecrated; and which, from the opinion of
-reverence and dignity entertained of them, were become most fit for the
-pomp of epic description. Further, what _circumstances_ could be noted
-in these sports? Certainly those, which befell most usually, and were
-the aptest to alarm the spectator, and make him take an interest in
-them. These, it will be said, are numerous. They are so; yet such as
-are most to the poet’s purpose, are, with little or no variation, the
-same. It happened luckily for him, that two of his _games_, on which
-accordingly he hath exerted all the force of his genius, were entirely
-new. This advantage, the circumstances of the times afforded him. The
-_Naumachia_ was purely his own. Yet so liable are even the best and
-most candid judges to be haunted by this spectre of _imitation_, that
-_one_, whom every friend to every human excellence honours, cannot
-help, on comparing it with the _chariot-race_ of Homer, exclaiming in
-these words: “What is the encounter of Cloanthus and Gyas in the strait
-between the rocks, but the same with that of Menelaus and Antilochus in
-the hollow way? Had the galley of Serjestus been broken, if the chariot
-of Eumelus had not been demolished? Or, Mnestheus been cast from the
-helm, had not the other been thrown from his seat?” The plain truth is,
-it was not possible, in describing an ancient _sea-fight_, for one,
-who had even never seen Homer, to overlook such usual and striking
-particulars, as the _justling of ships, the breaking of galleys, and
-loss of pilots_.
-
-It may appear from this instance, with what reason a similarity
-of circumstance, in the other games, hath been objected. The
-_subject-matter_ admitted not any material variation: I mean in the
-hands of so judicious a copier of Nature as Virgil. For,
-
-    “Homer and Nature were, he found, the same.”
-
-So that we are not to wonder he kept close to his author, though at
-the expence of this false fame of _Originality_. Nay it appears
-directly from a remarkable instance that in the case before us, He
-unquestionably judged right.
-
-A defect of _natural ability_ is not that, which the critics have
-been most forward to charge upon _Statius_. A person of true taste,
-who, in a fanciful way, hath contrived to give us the just character
-of the Latin poets, in assigning to this poet the topmost station
-on Parnassus, sufficiently acknowledges the vigour and activity of
-his genius. Yet, in composing his _Thebaid_ (an old story taken from
-the heroic ages, which obliged him to the celebration of _funeral
-obsequies_ with the attending solemnities of _public games_) to avoid
-the dishonour of following too closely on the heels of Homer and
-Virgil, who had not only taken the same _route_, but pursued it in the
-most direct and natural course, he resolved, at all adventures, to keep
-at due distance from them, and to make his way, as well as he could,
-more _obliquely_ to the same end. To accomplish this project, he was
-forced, though in the description of the same individual _games_, to
-look out for different _circumstances and events_ in them; that so the
-identity of his _subject_, which he could not avoid, might, in some
-degree, be atoned for by the diversity of his _manner_ in treating it.
-It must be owned, that great ingenuity as well as industry hath been
-used, in executing this design. Had it been practicable, the character,
-just given of this poet, makes it credible, he must have succeeded
-in it. Yet, so impossible it is, without deserting nature herself,
-to dissent from her faithful copiers, that the main objection to the
-sixth book of the _Thebaid_ hath arisen from this fruitless endeavour
-of being _original_, where common sense and the reason of the thing
-would not permit it. “In the particular descriptions of each of these
-games (says the great writer before quoted, and from whose sentence in
-matters of taste, there lies no appeal) _Statius_ hath not borrowed
-from either of his predecessors, _and his poem is so much the worse for
-it_.”
-
-2. The case of DESCRIPTION is still clearer, and, after what has
-been so largely discoursed on the _subjects_ of it, will require but
-few words. For it must have appeared, in considering them, that not
-only the _objects_ themselves are necessarily obtruded on the poet,
-but that the _occasions_ of introducing them are also restrained
-by many limitations. If we reflect a little, we shall find, that
-they grow out of the _action_ represented, which, in the greater
-poetry, implies a great _similarity_, even when most _different_.
-What, for instance, is the purpose of _the epic poet_, but to shew
-his hero under the most awful and interesting circumstances of human
-life? To this end some general design is formed. He must _war_ with
-Achilles, or _voyage_ with Ulysses. And, to work up his _fable_ to
-that _magnificence_, ΜΕΓΑΛΟΠΡΕΠΕΙΑΝ, which Aristotle rightly observes
-to be the characteristic of this poem, _heaven_ and _hell_ must also
-be interested in the success of his enterprise. And what is this, in
-_effect_, but to own, that the pomp of _epic description_, in its
-draught of _battles_, with its several _accidents_; of _storms_,
-_shipwrecks_, &c. _of the intervention of gods_, or _machination of
-devils_, is, in great measure, determined, not only as to the _choice_,
-but _application_ of it, to the poet’s hands? And the like conclusion
-extends to still minuter particularities.
-
-What concerns the delineation of _characters_ may seem to carry with
-it more difficulty. Yet, though these are infinitely diversified by
-distinct peculiar lineaments, poetry cannot help falling into the same
-_general_ representation. For it is conversant about the _greater
-characters_; such as demand the imputation of like _manners_, and who
-are actuated by the same governing _passions_. To set off these, _the
-same combination of circumstances_ must frequently be imagined; at
-least so _similar_, as to bring on the same series of representation.
-The _piety_ of _one_ hero, and the _love of his country_, which
-characterizes _another_, can only be shewn by the influence of the
-_ruling principle_ in each, constraining them to neglect inferior
-considerations, and to give up all subordinate affections to it. The
-more prevalent the _affection_, the greater the _sacrifice_, and the
-more strongly is the _character_ marked. Hence, without doubt, the
-_Calypso_ of Homer. And need we look farther than the instructions
-of _common nature_ for a similar contrivance in a _later_ poet? Not
-to be tedious on a matter, which admits no dispute, the dramatic
-writings of all times may convince us of _two things_, 1. “_that the
-actuating passions of men are universally and invariably the same_;”
-and 2. “_that they express themselves constantly in similar effects_.”
-Or, one single small volume, _the characters of Theophrastus_,
-will sufficiently do it. And what more is required to justify this
-consequence, “that _the descriptions of characters_, even in the most
-original _designers_, will resemble each other;” and “that the very
-_contexture_ of a work, designed to evidence them in _action_, will,
-under the management of different writers, be, frequently, much the
-same?” A _conclusion_, which indeed is neither mine nor any novel one,
-but was long ago insisted on by a discerning ancient, and applied to
-the comic drama, in these words,
-
-    —_Si personis isdem uti aliis non licet,
-    Qui magis licet currentis servos scribere,
-    Bonas matronas facere, meretrices malas,
-    Parasitum edacem, gloriosum militem,
-    Puerum supponi, falli per servum senem_,
-    AMARE, ODISSE, SUSPICARI?
-
-3. In truth, so far as _direct and immediate description_ is concerned,
-the matter is so plain, that it will hardly be called into question.
-The difficulty is to account for the similarity of _metaphor and_
-COMPARISON (that is, of _imagery_, which comes in obliquely, and for
-the purpose of illustrating some other, and, frequently, very remote
-and distinct subject) observable in all writers. Here it may not seem
-quite so easy to make out an original claim; for, though descriptions
-of the _same object_, when it occurs, must needs be similar, yet it
-remains to shew how the same object comes, in this case, to occur
-at all. Before an answer can be given to this question, it must be
-observed 1. that there is in the mind of man, not only a strong natural
-love of _imitation_, but of _comparison_. We are not only fond of
-_copying_ single objects, as they present themselves, but we delight
-to set two objects together, and contemplate their mutual aspects and
-appearances. The _pleasure_ we find in this exercise of the imagination
-is the main source of that perpetual usage of _indirect and allusive
-imagery_ in the writings of the poets; for I need not here consider
-the _necessity_ of the thing, and the unavoidable introduction of
-sensible images into all language. 2. This work of _comparison_ is
-not gone about by the mind _causelessly and capriciously_. There are
-certain obvious and striking resemblances in nature, which the poet is
-carried necessarily to observe, and which offer themselves to him on
-the slightest exercise and exertion of his _comparing_ powers. It may
-be difficult to explain the causes of this established relationship
-in all cases; or to shew distinctly, what these secret ties and
-connexions are, which link the objects of sense together, and draw
-the imagination thus insensibly from one subject to another. The most
-obvious and natural is that of _actual similitude_, whether in _shape_,
-_attitude_, _colour_, or _aspect_. As when _heroes_ are compared to
-_gods_,—_a hero in act to strike at his foe_, to _a faulcon stooping
-at a dove_,—_blood running down the skin_, to _the staining of
-ivory_,—_corn waving with the wind_, to _water in motion_. Sometimes
-the associating cause lies in the _effect_. As when the _return of a
-good prince to his country_ is compared _to the sun_—a _fresh gale
-to mariners_, to _the timely coming of a general to his troops_, &c.
-more commonly, in some _property_, _attribute_, or _circumstance_. Thus
-an _intrepid_ hero suggests the idea of a _rock_, on account of _its
-firmness and stability_;—of _a lion_, for his _fierceness_,—_of a
-deer encompassed_ with wolves, for his _situation when surrounded with
-enemies_. In short, for I pretend not to make a complete enumeration of
-the _grounds_ of connexion, whatever the mind observes in any object,
-that bears an analogy to something in any other, becomes the _occasion_
-of comparison betwixt them; and the fancy, which is ever, in a great
-genius, quick at espying these _traits_ of resemblance, and delights to
-survey them, lets dip no opportunity of setting them over against each
-other, and producing them to observation.
-
-But whatever be the _causes_, which associate the ideas of the poet,
-and how fantastic soever or even casual, may sometimes appear to be
-the _ground_ of such association, yet, in respect of the greater works
-of genius, there will still be found the most exact _uniformity_ of
-allusion, the same ideas and aspects of things constantly admonishing
-the poet of the same _resemblances and relations_. I say, in _the
-greater works of genius_, which must be attended to; for the folly of
-taking _resemblances_ for _imitations_, in this province of _allusion_,
-hath arisen from hence; that the poet is believed to have all art
-and nature before him, and to be at liberty to fetch his _hints_ of
-similitude and correspondence from every distant and obscure corner
-of the universe. That is, the genius of the epic, dramatic, and
-universally, of the greater, poetry hath not been comprehended, nor
-their distinct laws and characters distinguished from those of an
-inferior species.
-
-The _mutual habitudes and relations_ (at least what the mind is capable
-of regarding as _such_), subsisting between those innumerable objects
-of thought and sense, which make up the entire natural and intellectual
-world, are indeed infinite; and if the poet be allowed to associate and
-bring together all those ideas, wherein the ingenuity of the mind can
-perceive any remote sign or glimpse of _resemblance_, it were truly
-wonderful, that, in any number of images and allusions, there should
-be found a close conformity of them with those of any other writer.
-But this is far from being the case. For 1. the more august poetry
-disclaims, as unsuited to its state and dignity, that inquisitive and
-anxious diligence, which pries into nature’s retirements; and searches
-through all her secret and hidden haunts, to detect a forbidden
-commerce, and expose to light some strange unexpected conjunction of
-ideas. This quaint combination of remote, unallied imagery, constitutes
-a species of entertainment, which, for its _novelty_, may amuse and
-divert the mind in other compositions; but is wholly inconsistent with
-the reserve and solemnity of the _graver_ forms. There is too much
-curiosity of art, too solicitous an affectation of _pleasing_, in these
-ingenious exercises of the fancy, to suit with the simple majesty of
-the _epos_ or _drama_; which disclaims to cast about for forced and
-tortured allusions, and aims only to expose, in the fairest light,
-such as are most obvious and natural. And here, by the way, it may
-be worth observing, in honour of a great Poet of the last century, I
-mean Dr. DONNE, that, though agreeably to the turn of his genius, and
-taste of his age, he was fonder, than ever poet was, of these _secret
-and hidden ways_ in his lesser poetry; yet when he had projected his
-great work “_On the progress of the soul_” (of which we have only the
-beginning) his good sense brought him out into the freer _spaces_ of
-nature and open day-light.
-
-    Largior hic compos æther, et lumine vestit
-    Purpureo: solemque suum, sua sidera norunt.
-
-In this, the author of GONDIBERT, and another writer of credit, a
-contemporary of DONNE, Sir FULK GREVIL, were not so happy. 2. This
-work of _indirect imagery_ is intended, not so much to illustrate and
-enforce the original thought, to which it is applied, as to amuse
-and entertain the fancy, by holding up to view, in these occasional
-digressive representations, the pictures of pleasing scenes and
-objects. But this _end_ of allusion (which is principal in the sublimer
-works of genius) restrains the poet to the use of a few select images,
-for the most part taken from obvious common nature; these being always
-most illustrious in themselves, and therefore most apt to seize and
-captivate the imagination of the reader. Thus is the poet confined, by
-the very nature of his work, to a very moderate compass of allusion, on
-both these accounts; _first_, as he must employ the easiest and most
-apparent resemblances: and _secondly_, of _these_, such as impress the
-most delightful images on the fancy.
-
-This being the case, it cannot but happen, that the allusions of
-different poets, of the higher class, though writing without any
-communication with each other, will, of course, be much the same on
-similar occasions. There are fixed and real analogies between different
-_material objects_; between these objects, and the _inward workings_
-of the mind; and, again, between these, and the _external signs_ of
-them. Such, on every occasion, do not so properly offer themselves
-to the searching eye of the poet, as force themselves upon him; so
-that, if he submit to be guided by the most natural views of things,
-he cannot avoid a very remarkable correspondence of imagery with his
-predecessors. And we find this conclusion verified in fact; as appears
-not only from comparing together the great ancient and modern writers,
-who are known to have held an intimate correspondence with each other,
-but those, who cannot be suspected of this commerce. Several critics,
-I observed, have taken great pains to illustrate the sentiments of
-Homer from similar instances in the sacred writers. The same design
-might easily be carried on, in respect of _allusive imagery_; it being
-obvious to common observation, that numberless of the most beautiful
-_comparisons_ in the Greek poet are to be met with in the Hebrew
-prophets. Nay, the remark may be extended to the undisciplined writers
-and speakers of the farthest _west_ and _east_, whom nature instructs
-to beautify and adorn their conceptions with the same imagery. So
-little doth it argue an inferiority of genius in Virgil, if it be true,
-as the excellent translator of Homer says, “that he has scarcely any
-_comparisons_, which are not drawn from his master.”
-
-The truth is, the _nature_ of the two subjects, which the Greek poet
-had taken upon himself to adorn, was such, that it led him through
-every circumstance and situation of human life; which his quick
-attentive observation readily found the means of shewing to advantage
-under the cover of the most fit and proper imagery. Succeeding writers,
-who had _not_ contemplated his pictures, yet, drawing from one common
-original, have unknowingly hit upon the very same. And those, who
-_had_, with all their endeavours after _novelty_, and the utmost
-efforts of genius to strike out original lights, have never been able
-to succeed in their attempts. Our _Milton_, who was most ambitious of
-this fame of _invention_, and whose vast and universal genius could
-not have missed of new _analogies_, had nature’s self been able to
-furnish them, is a glaring instance to our purpose. He was so averse
-from resting in the old imagery of Homer, and the other epic poets,
-that he appears to have taken infinite pains in the investigation of
-new _allusions_, which he picked up out of the rubbish of every silly
-legend or romance, that had come to his knowledge, or extracted from
-the dry and rugged materials of the sciences, and even the mechanic
-arts. Yet, in comparison of the genuine treasures of nature, which he
-found himself obliged to make use of, in common with other writers,
-his own proper stock of _images_, imported from the regions of _art_,
-is very poor and scanty; and, as might be expected, makes the least
-agreeable part of his divine work.
-
-What is here said of the epic holds, as I hinted, of all the more
-serious kinds of poetry. In works of a lighter cast, there is greater
-liberty and a larger field of allusion permitted to the poet. All
-the appearances in _art_ and _nature_, betwixt which there is any
-resemblance, may be employed here to surprize and divert the fancy. The
-further and more remote from vulgar apprehension these analogies lie,
-so much the fitter for his purpose, which is not so much to illustrate
-his ideas, as to place them in new and uncommon lights, and entertain
-the mind by that odd fantastic conjunction, or opposition of ideas,
-which we know by the name of _wit_. Nay, the _lowest_, as well as the
-least obvious imagery will be, oftentimes, the most proper; his view
-being not to ennoble and raise his subject by the means of _allusion_,
-but to sink and debase it by every art, that hath a tendency to
-excite the mirth and provoke the ridicule of the reader. Here then we
-may expect a much more original air, than in the higher designs of
-invention. When all nature is before the poet, and the genius of his
-work allows him to seize her, as the shepherd did Proteus, in every
-dirty form, into which she can possibly twist herself, it were, indeed,
-a wonder, if he should _chance_ to coincide, in his imagery, with any
-other, from whom he had not expressly copied. They who are conversant
-in works of _wit and humour_, more especially of these later times,
-will know this to be the case, in _fact_. There is not perhaps a single
-comparison in the inimitable TELEMAQUE, which had not, before, been
-employed by some or other of the poets. Can any thing, like this, be
-said of RABELAIS, BUTLER, MARVEL, SWIFT, &c.?
-
-III. It only remains to consider the EXPRESSION. And in this are to
-be found the surest and least equivocal marks of _imitation_. We may
-regard it in _two_ lights; either 1. as it respects the _general_ turn
-or manner of writing, which we call a _style_; or 2. the peculiarities
-of _phrase and diction_.
-
-1. A _style_ in writing, if not formed in express imitation of some
-certain _model_, is the pure result of the disposition of the mind, and
-takes its character from the predominant _quality_ of the writer. Thus
-a _short and compact_, and a _diffused and flowing_ expression are the
-proper consequences of certain corresponding characters of the human
-genius. One has a vigorous comprehensive conception, and therefore
-collects his sense into few words. Another, whose imagination is more
-languid, contemplates his objects leisurely, and so displays their
-beauties in a greater compass of words, and with more circumstance and
-parade of language. A polite and elegant humour delights in the grace
-of ease and perspicuity. A severe and melancholic spirit inspires
-a forcible but involved expression. There are many other nicer
-differences and peculiarities of _manner_, which, though not reducible,
-perhaps, to general heads, the critic of true taste easily understands.
-
-2. As men of different tempers and dispositions assume a different
-cast of expression, so may the same observation be applied, still more
-_generally_, to different _countries and times_. It may be difficult
-to explain the _efficient causes_ of this diversity, which I have no
-concern with at present. The _fact_ is, that the eloquence of the
-_eastern_ world has, at all times, been of another strain from that of
-the _western_. And, also, in the several provinces of _each_, there
-has been some peculiar _note_ of variation. The _Asiatic_, of old, had
-its proper stamp, which distinguished it from the _Attic_; just as
-the _Italian_, _French_, and _Spanish_ wits have, each, their several
-characteristic manners of expression.
-
-A different state of _times_ has produced the like effect; which a late
-writer accounts for, not unaptly, from what he calls a _progression of
-life and manners_. That which cannot be disputed is, that the _modes_
-of writing undergo a perpetual change or variation in every country.
-And it is further observable, that these _changes_ in one country,
-under similar circumstances, have a signal correspondence to those,
-which the incessant rotation of taste brings about in every other.
-
-Of near affinity to this last consideration is _another_ arising from
-the _corresponding genius_ of two people, however remote from each
-other in time and place. And, as it happens, the application may be
-made directly to ourselves in a very important instance. “Languages,
-says one, always take their character from the genius of a people.
-So that two the most distant states, thinking and acting with the
-same generous love of mankind, must needs have very near the same
-combinations of ideas.—And it is our boast that in this conformity
-we approach the nearest to ancient Greece and Italy.” I quote these
-words from a tract[32], which the author perhaps may consider with the
-same neglect, as Cicero did his earlier compositions on _Rhetoric_;
-but which the curious will regard with reverence, as a fine essay of
-his genius, and a prelude to the great things he was afterwards seen
-capable of producing. But to come to the use we may make of this
-fine observation. The corresponding state of the English and Roman
-people has produced very near the same _combinations of ideas_. May
-we not carry the conclusion still further on the same principle, that
-it produced very near the same _combinations of words_? The fact is,
-as the same writer observes, That “we have a language that is brief,
-comprehensive, nervous, and majestic.” The very character which an old
-Roman would give us of his own language. And when the same general
-character of language prevails, is it any thing strange that the
-different modifications of it, or _peculiar styles_, arising from
-the various turns and dispositions of writers (which, too, in such
-circumstances will be corresponding) should therefore be very similar
-in the productions of the two states? Or, in other words, can we
-wonder that some of our best writers bear a nearer resemblance, I mean
-independently of direct imitation, to the Latin classics, than those of
-any other people in modern times?
-
-But let it suffice to leave these remarks without further comment or
-explanation.
-
-The use the discerning reader will make of them is, that if different
-writers agree in the same _general disposition_, or in the same
-_national character_; live together in the _same period of time_; or
-in corresponding periods of the _progression of manners_, or are under
-the influence of a corresponding genius of _policy and government_;
-in every of these cases, some _considerable similarity_ of expression
-may be occasioned by the agency of _general principles_, without any
-suspicion of studied or designed _imitation_.
-
-II. An _identity of phrase and diction_, is a much surer note of
-_plagiarism_. For considering the vast variety of _words_, which
-any language, and especially the more copious ones furnish, and
-the infinite possible combinations of them into all the forms of
-_phraseology_, it would be very strange, if two persons should hit on
-the same identical _terms_, and much more should they agree in the same
-precise arrangement of them in whole sentences.
-
-There is no defending _coincidences_ of this kind; and whatever
-writers themselves may pretend, or their friends for them, no one can
-doubt a moment of such _identity_ being a clear and decisive proof of
-_imitation_.
-
-Yet this must be understood with some limitations.
-
-For 1. There are in every language some current and authorized forms of
-speech, which can hardly be avoided by a writer without affectation.
-They are such as express the most obvious sentiments, and which the
-ordinary occasions of life are perpetually obtruding on us. Now these,
-as by common agreement, we chuse to deliver to one another in the same
-_form_ of words. Convenience dictates this to one set of writers,
-and politeness renders it sacred in another. Thus it will be true of
-certain _phrases_ (as, universally, of the _words_, in any language),
-that they are left in common to all writers, and can be claimed as
-matter of _property_, by none. Not that such phraseology will be
-frequent in nobler compositions, as the familiarity of its usage takes
-from their natural reserve and dignity. Yet on certain _occasions_,
-which justify this negligence, or in certain _authors_, who are not
-over-sollicitous about these indecorums, we may expect to meet with it.
-Hamlet says of his father,
-
-    _He was a man, take him for all in all_;
-    I shall not look upon his like again.
-
-which may be suspected of being stolen from Sophocles, who has the
-following passage in the TRACHINIAE.
-
-    Πάντων ἄριστον ἄνδρα τῶν ἐπὶ χθονὶ
-    Κτείνασ’, ΟΠΟΙΟΝ ΑΛΛΟΝ ΟΥΚ ΟΨΕΙ ΠΟΤΕ. v. 824.
-
-The sentiment being one of the commonest, that offers itself to the
-mind, the sole ground of suspicion must lie in the _expression_, “_I
-shall not look upon his like again_,” to which the Greek so exactly
-answers. But these were the ordinary expressions of such sentiment,
-in the two languages; and neither the characters of the great poets,
-nor the situation of the speakers, would suffer the _affectation_ of
-departing from common usage.
-
-What is here said of the _situation of the speakers_ reminds me of
-another _class_ of expressions, which will often be _similar_ in all
-poets. _Nature_, under the _same_ conjunctures, gives birth to the
-_same_ conceptions; and if they be of such a kind, as to exclude all
-thought of artifice, and the tricks of eloquence (as on occasions of
-deep anxiety and distress) they run, of themselves, into the _same_
-form of expression. The wretched Priam, in his lamentation of Hector,
-lets drop the following words:
-
-    οὗ μ’ ἄχος ὀξὺ κατοίσεται ἄïδος εἴσω:
-
-“This line, says his translator, is particularly tender, and almost,
-word for word, the same with that of the Patriarch _Jacob_; who, upon
-a like occasion, breaks out in the same complaint, and tells his
-children, that, if they deprive him of his son _Benjamin, they will
-bring down his grey hairs with sorrow to the grave_.”
-
-We may, further, except, under this head, certain privileged forms
-of speech, which the peculiar idioms of _different_ languages make
-necessary in them, and which poetry consecrates in _all_. But this is
-easily observed, and its effect is not very considerable.
-
-2. In pleading this _identity of expression_, regard must be had to the
-_language_, from which the _theft_ is supposed to be made. If from the
-_same_ language (setting aside the exceptions, just mentioned) _the
-same arrangement of the same words_ is admitted as a certain argument
-of _plagiarism_: nay, less than this will do in some instances, as
-where the _imitated expression_ is pretty _singular_, or so remarkable,
-on any account, as to be _well known_, &c. But if from _another_
-language, the matter is not so easy. It can rarely happen, indeed,
-but by design, that there should be the _same order or composition_
-of words, in two languages. But that which passes even for _literal
-translation_, is but _a similar composition of corresponding words_.
-And what does this imply, but that the writers conceived of their
-_object_ in the same _manner_, and had occasion to set it in the same
-light? An occasion, which is perpetually recurring to all authors.
-As may be gathered from that frequent and strong resemblance in the
-_expression_ of moral sentiments, observable in the writers of every
-age and country. Can there be a commoner reflexion, or which more
-constantly occurs to the mind under the same appearance, than _that_ of
-our great poet, who, speaking of the state after death, calls it
-
-    _That undiscovered country, from whose bourn
-    No traveller returns_.
-
-Shall we call this a translation of the Latin poet;
-
-    _Nunc it per_ iter tenebricosum
-    Illuc, unde negant redire quenquam.
-                              CATUL. III. v. 11.
-
-Or, doth it amount to any more than this, that the terms employed
-by the two writers in expressing the same obvious thought are
-_correspondent_? But _correspondency_ and _identity_ are different
-things. The _latter_ is only, where the words are _numerically_ the
-same, which can only happen in one and the same language: the other
-is effected by _different sets of words_, which are numerous in every
-language, and are therefore no convincing proof (abstractedly from
-other circumstances) of _imitation_.
-
-From these general reflexions on _language_, without refining too far,
-or prying too curiously into the mysteries of it, the same conclusion
-meets us, as before. The _expression_ of two writers may be _similar_,
-and sometimes even _identical_, and yet be _original_ in both. Which
-shews the necessity there was to lead the reader through this long
-investigation of the general sources of _similitude_ in works of
-INVENTION, in order to put him into a condition of judging truly and
-equitably of those of IMITATION. For if _similarity_, even in this
-province of _words_, which the reason of the thing shews to be most
-free from the constraint of general rules, be no argument of _theft_
-in all cases; much less can it be pretended of the other _subjects_ of
-this inquiry, which from the necessary uniformity of _nature_ in all
-her appearances, and of _common sense_ in its operations upon them,
-must give frequent and unavoidable occasion to such _similarity_. But
-then this is all I would insinuate.
-
-For, after the proper allowances, which candid criticism requires to
-be made on this head, it will still be true (and nothing in this Essay
-attempts to contradict it) “that coincidences of a certain _kind_, and
-in a certain _degree_, cannot fail to convict a writer of _imitation_.”
-What these _are_, the impatient reader, I suppose, is ready to enquire.
-And, not entirely to disappoint him, I have thrown together, at the
-close of this volume, some remarks which, perhaps, will be of use
-in solving that difficult question[33]. In the mean time, it seemed
-of importance to free the mind from the perversion of that early
-prejudice, which is so prompt to mistake _resemblance_ universally for
-_imitation_. And what other method of effecting this, than by taking
-a view of the extent and influence of the genuine powers of _nature_,
-which, when rightly apprehended, make it an easier task to detect, in
-particular instances, the intervention of _design_?
-
-Allowing then (what this previous inquiry not only no way contradicts
-but even assists us in perceiving more clearly) that certain
-_resemblances_ may be urged as undoubted proofs of _imitation_, it
-remains only to the integrity of this discourse, to satisfy that other
-question, “_how far the credit of the imitator is concerned in the
-discovery_;” or, in other words, (since the praise of _invention_ is of
-the highest value to the poet) “how far the concession of his having
-borrowed from others, may be justly thought to detract from him in that
-respect.” An _inquiry_, which, though for its consequences to the fame
-of all great writers, since the time of Homer, of much importance, may
-yet be dispatched in few words.
-
-
-SECTION II.
-
-In entering on this apology for _professed imitators_, I shall not
-be suspected of undervaluing the proper merits of _invention_, which
-unquestionably holds the first place in the _virtutes_ of a poet, and
-is that power, which, of all others, enables him to give the highest
-entertainment to the reader. Much less will it be thought, that I am
-here pleading the cause of those base and abject spirits, who have not
-the courage or ability to attempt any thing of themselves, and can
-barely make a shift, as a great poet of our own expresses it, _to creep
-servilely after the sense of_ some other. These I readily resign to
-the shame and censure, which have so justly followed them in all ages;
-as subscribing to the truth of that remark, “_Imitatio per se ipsa
-non sufficit_, vel _quia pigri est ingenii, contentum esse iis, quae
-sunt ab aliis inventa_.” My concern is only with those, whose talent
-of original genius is not disputed, but the _degree_ of strength and
-vigour, with which it prevails in them, somewhat lowered in the general
-estimation, from this imputed crime of PLAGIARISM. And, with respect
-to such as these, something, I conceive, may be said, not undeserving
-the notice of the candid reader.
-
-1. The most universal cause, inducing _imitation_ in great writers, is,
-the force of early _discipline and education_. Were it true, that poets
-took their _descriptions and images_ immediately from common nature,
-one might expect, indeed, a general _similitude_ in their works, but
-such, as could seldom or never, in all its circumstances, amount to
-a strict and rigorous correspondency. The _properties_ of things are
-so numerous, and the _lights_ in which they shew themselves to a mind
-uninfluenced by former prejudices, so different, that some grace of
-novelty, some tincture of original beauty, would constantly infuse
-itself into all their delineations. But the case is far otherwise.
-Strong as the bent of the imagination may be to contemplate living
-forms, and to gaze with delight on this grand theatre of _nature_,
-its attention is soon taken off, and arrested, on all sides, by those
-infinite mirrors, and reflexions of things, which it every where meets
-with in the world of _imitation_. We are habituated to a survey of this
-_secondary and derivative nature_; as presented in the admired works
-of _art_, through the entire course of our education. The writings of
-the best poets are put into our hands, to instruct us in the knowledge
-of _men and things_, as soon as we are capable of apprehending them.
-Nay, we are taught to lisp their very _words_, in our tenderest
-infancy. Some quick and transient glances we cannot chuse but cast,
-at times, on the phænomena of living beauty; but its forms are rarely
-contemplated by us with diligence, but in these _mirrors_, which are
-the constant furniture of our schools and closets. And no wonder, were
-we even left to ourselves, that such should be our _proper_ choice and
-determination. For, by the prodigious and almost magical operations
-of _fancy_ on original objects, they even shew fairer, and are made
-to look more attractive, in these artificial representations, than
-in their own rude and native aspects. Thus, by the united powers of
-_discipline_ and _inclination_, we are almost necessitated to _see_
-nature in the same _light_, and to know her only in the _dress_, in
-which her happier suitors and favourites first gave her to observation.
-
-The effect of this early bias of the mind, which insensibly grows into
-the inveteracy of habit, needs not be insisted on. When the poet,
-thus tutored in the works of _imitation_, comes to address himself
-to _invention_, these familiar images, which he hath so often and so
-fondly admired, immediately step in and intercept his observation of
-their great _original_. Or, if he has power to hold them off, and
-turn his eye directly on the _primary object_, he still inclines to
-view it only on that side and in those _lights_, in which he has
-been accustomed to study it. Nor let it be said, that this is the
-_infirmity_, only, of weak minds. It belongs to our very natures, and
-the utmost vigour of genius is no security against it. _Custom_, in
-this as in every thing else, moulds, at pleasure, the soft and ductile
-matter of a _minute_ spirit, and by degrees can even bend the elastic
-metal of the _greatest_.
-
-And if the force of habit can thus determine a writer knowingly, to
-_imitation_, it cannot be thought strange, that it should frequently
-carry him into _resemblance_, when himself perhaps is not aware of
-it. Great readers, who have their memories fraught with the stores of
-ancient and modern poetry, unavoidably employ the _sentiments_, and
-sometimes the very _words_, of other writers, without any distinct
-remembrance of them, or so much as the suspicion of having seen them.
-At the least, their general cast of thinking or turn of expression
-will be much affected by them. For the most original writer as
-certainly takes a _tincture_ from the authors in which he has been
-most conversant; as water, from the beds of earths or minerals, it
-hath happened to run over. Especially such authors, as are studied
-and even got by heart by us in our early youth, leave a lasting
-impression, which is hardly ever effaced out of the mind. Hence a
-certain constrained and unoriginal air, in some degree or other, in
-every genius, throughly disciplined by a _course of learned education_.
-Which, by the way, leads to a question, not very absurd in itself,
-however it may pass with most readers for paradoxical, viz. “_Whether
-the usual forms of learning be not rather injurious to the true poet,
-than really assisting to him?_” It should seem to be so for a _natural
-reason_. For the faculty of _invention_, as all our other powers, is
-much improved and strengthened by exercise. And great reading prevents
-this, by demanding the perpetual exercise of the _memory_. Thus
-the mind becomes not only indisposed, but, for want of use, really
-unqualified, to turn itself to other views, than such as habitual
-recollection easily presents to it. And this, I am persuaded, hath
-been the case with many a fine genius, and especially with _one_ of
-our own country[34]; who, as appears from some original efforts in the
-sublime allegorical way, had no want of natural talents for the greater
-poetry; which yet were so restrained and disabled by his constant and
-superstitious study of the old classics, that he was, in fact, but a
-very ordinary poet.
-
-2. But were early _habit_ of less power to incline the mind to
-_imitation_, than it really is, yet the high hand of _authority_ would
-compel it. For the first originals in the several species of poetry,
-like the Autocthones of old, were deemed to have come into the world
-by a kind of miracle. They were perfect prodigies, at least reputed so
-by the admiring multitude, from their first appearance. So that their
-authority, in a short time, became sacred; and succeeding writers were
-obliged, at the hazard of their fame, and as they dreaded the charge of
-a presumptuous and _prophane libertinism_ in poetry, to take them for
-their guides and models. Which is said even without the licence of a
-figure; at least of _one_ of them; whom Cicero calls _the fountain and
-origin of all_ DIVINE _institutions_[35]; and another, of elder and
-more reverend estimation, pronounces to be ὁ θεὸς καὶ θεῶν προφήτης[36]·
-
-And what is here observed of the _influence_ of these master spirits,
-whom the admiration of antiquity hath placed at the head of the poetic
-world, will, with some allowance, hold also, of _that_ of later,
-though less original writers, whose uncommon merits have given them a
-distinguished rank in it.
-
-3. _Next_, (as it usually comes to pass in other instances) what was,
-at first, imposed by the rigour of _authority_, soon grew respectable
-in _itself_, and was chosen for its own sake, as a _virtue_, which
-deserved no small commendation. For, when sober and enlightened
-criticism began to inspect, at leisure, these miracles of early
-invention, it presently acknowledged them for the _best_, as well as
-the most _ancient_, poetic models, and accordingly recommended, or
-more properly enjoined them by rule, to the imitation of all ages.
-The effect of this criticism was clearly seen in the works of all
-succeeding poets in the _same_ language. But, when a new and different
-one was to be furnished with fresh _models_, it became much more
-conspicuous. For, besides the same or a still higher veneration of
-their _inventions_, which the distance of place and time insensibly
-procured to them, the grace of _novelty_, which they would appear
-to have in another _language_, was, now, a further inducement to
-copy them. Hence we find it to be the utmost pride of the _Roman_
-writers, such I mean as came the nearest to them in the divinity of
-their genius, to follow the practice, and emulate the virtues, of the
-_Grecian_.
-
-    _Libera per vacuum posui vestigia princeps,
-    Non aliena meo pressi pede_—
-
-says _one_ of the best of those writers, who yet was only treading in
-the _footsteps_ of his Grecian masters.
-
-But _another_ was less reserved, and seemed desirous of being taken
-notice of, as an express _imitator_, without so much as laying in
-his claim to this sort of originality, in a new language—in multis
-versibus Virgilius fecit—non surripiendi causâ, sed _palam_ imitandi,
-_hoc animo ut vellet agnosci_. _Sen. Suasor._ III.
-
-And, on the revival of these arts in later times and more barbarous
-languages, the same spirit appeared again, or rather superior honours
-were paid to successful _imitation_. So that what a polite French
-writer declares on this head is, now, become the fixed opinion of the
-learned in all countries. “C’est même donner une grace à ses ouvrages,
-que de les orner de fragmens antiques. Des vers d’Horace et de Virgile
-bien traduits, et mis en œuvre à propos dans un poëme François, y
-font le même effet que les statuës antiques font dans la gallerie de
-Versailles. Les lecteurs retrouvent avec plaisir, sous une nouvelle
-forme, la pensée, qui leur plût autrefois en Latin[37].”
-
-It should, further, be added, that this praise of borrowing from the
-originals of _Greece_ and _Rome_ is now extended to the imitation of
-great _modern_ authors. Every body applauds this practice, where the
-imitation is of approved writers in _different_ languages. And even in
-the _same_ languages, when this liberty is taken with the most ancient
-and venerable, it is not denied to have its _grace_ and merit.
-
-4. But, besides these several incitements, _similarity of genius_,
-alone, will, almost necessarily determine a writer to the studious
-emulation of some other. For, though it is with the _minds_, as the
-_faces_ of men, that no two are exactly and in every feature alike; yet
-the general cast of their genius, as well as the air and turn of the
-countenance, will frequently be very _similar_ in different persons.
-When two such spirits approach, they run together with eagerness and
-rapidity: the instinctive bias of the mind towards _imitation_ being
-now quickened by _passion_. This is chiefly said in respect of that
-uniformity of _style and manner_, which, whenever we observe it in two
-writers, we almost constantly charge to the account of _imitation_.
-Indeed, where the resemblance holds to the last degree of _minuteness_,
-or where the _peculiarities_, only, of the model are taken, there is
-ground enough for this suspicion. For every original genius, however
-consonant, in the main, to any other, has still some distinct marks
-and characters of his own, by which he may be distinguished; and to
-copy _peculiarities_, when there is no appearance of the same original
-spirit, which gave birth to them, is manifest affectation. But the
-question is put of such, whose _manner_ hath only a _general_, though
-strong, resemblance to that of some other, and whose true genius is
-above the suspicion of falling into the trap of what Horace happily
-calls, EXEMPLAR VITIIS IMITABILE. And of these it is perhaps juster
-to say, that a previous correspondency of _character_ impelled to
-_imitate_, than that imitation itself produced that correspondency of
-_character_. At least (which is all my concern it present) it will
-be allowed to incline a writer strongly to _imitation_; and where a
-congenial spirit appears to provoke him to it, a candid critic will
-not be forward to turn this circumstance to the dishonour of his
-_invention_.
-
-5. Lastly, were every other consideration out of the way, yet,
-oftentimes, the _very nature of the poet’s theme_ would oblige him to a
-diligent _imitation_ of preceding writers. I do not mean this of such
-subjects, as suggest and produce a necessary conformity of description,
-whether purposely intended or not. This hath been fully considered.
-But my meaning is, that, when the greater provinces of poetry have
-been, already, occupied, and its most interesting scenes exhausted; or,
-rather, their application to the uses of poetry determined by great
-masters, it becomes, thenceforward, unavoidable for succeeding writers
-to draw from their sources. The law of probability exacts this at their
-hands; and one may almost affirm, that to _copy_ them closely is to
-paint after _nature_. I shall explain myself by an instance or two.
-
-With regard to the religious opinions and ceremonies of the Pagan
-world, the writings of Homer, it is said and very truly, were “_the
-standard of private belief, and the grand directory of public
-worship_[38].” Whatever liberty might have been taken with the rites
-and gods of Paganism before his time, yet, when he had given an exact
-description of _both_, and had formed, to the satisfaction of all,
-the established religion into a kind of _system_, succeeding poets
-were obliged, of course, to take their theology from him; and could no
-longer be thought to write _justly and naturally_ of their Gods, than
-whilst their _descriptions_ conformed to the _authentic_ delineations
-of _Homer_. His relations, and even the _fictions_, which his genius
-had raised on the popular creed of elder Paganism, were now the proper
-archetype of all _religious representations_. And to speak of _these_,
-as given _truly and originally_, is, in effect, to say, that they were
-borrowed or rather transcribed from the page of _that poet_.
-
-And the same may be observed of _historical facts_, as of _religious
-traditions_. For not unfrequently, where the subject is taken from
-authentic history, the authority of a preceding poet is so prevalent,
-as to render _any_ account of the matter improbable, which is not
-fashioned and regulated after his ideas. A succeeding writer is neither
-at liberty to relate matters of fact, which no one thinks _credible_,
-nor to _feign_ afresh for himself. In this case, again, all that the
-most original genius has to do, is to _imitate_. We have been told
-that the _second book of the_ AENEIS was translated from Pisander[39].
-Another thinks, it was taken from the LITTLE ILIAD[40]. Or, why confine
-him to either of these, when METRODORUS, SYAGRUS, HEGESIANAX, ARATUS,
-and others, wrote poems on _the taking_ of TROY? But granting the
-poet (as is most likely) to have had these originals before him, what
-shall we infer from it? Only this, that he took his principal facts
-and circumstances (as we see he was obliged to do for the sake of
-_probability_) from these writers. And why should this be thought a
-greater crime in him, than in POLYGNOTUS; who, in his famous picture
-on this subject, was under the necessity, and for the same reason, of
-collecting his _subject-matter_ from several poets[41]?
-
-It follows, from these considerations, that we cannot justify ourselves
-in thinking so hardly, as we commonly do, of the class of _imitators_;
-which is, now, by the concurrence of various circumstances, become the
-necessary character of almost all poets. Nor let it be any concern
-to the _true_ poet, that it is so. For _imitations_, when real and
-confessed, may still have their merit; nay, I presume to add, sometimes
-a _greater_ merit, than the very originals on which they are formed:
-And, with the reader’s leave (though I am hastening to a conclusion of
-this long discourse), I will detain him, one moment, with the reasons
-of this opinion.
-
-After all the praises that are deservedly given to the novelty of a
-_subject_, or the beauty of _design_, the supreme merit of poetry, and
-that which more especially immortalizes the writers of it, lies in the
-_execution_. It is thus that the poets of the Augustan age have not
-so properly excelled, as discredited, all the productions of their
-predecessors; and that those of the age of Louis XIV^{th} not only
-obscure, but will in process of time obliterate, the fame and memory of
-the elder French writers. Or, to see the effect of masterly execution
-in single instances, hence it is, that Lucilius not only yields to
-Horace, but would be almost forgotten by us, if it had not been for
-the honour his imitator has done him. And nobody needs be told the
-advantage which Pope is likely to have over all our older satirists,
-excellent as some of them are, and more entitled than he to the honour
-of being inventors. We have here, then, an established _fact_. The
-first essays of genius, though ever so original, are overlooked; while
-the later productions of men, who had never risen to such distinction
-but by means of the very originals they disgrace, obtain the applause
-and admiration of all ages.
-
-The solution of this _fact_, so notorious, and, at the same time, so
-contrary, in appearance, to the honours which men are disposed to pay
-to original invention, will open the mystery of that matter we are now
-considering.
-
-The faculties, or, as we may almost term them, the magic powers,
-which _ope the palace of eternity_ to great writers, are a _confirmed
-judgment_, and _ready invention_.
-
-Now the _first_ is seen to most advantage, in selecting, out of all
-preceding stores, the particulars that are most suited to the nature of
-a poet’s work, and the ends of poetry. When true genius has exhausted,
-as it were, the various _manners_, in which a work of art may be
-conducted, and the various _topics_ which may be employed to adorn
-it, _judgment_ is in its province, or rather sovereignty, when it
-determines which of all these is to be preferred, and which neglected.
-In this sense, as well as others, it will be most true, _Quòd artis
-pars magna contineatur imitatione_.
-
-Nay, by means of this discernment, the very _topic_ or method, which
-had no effect, or perhaps an ill one, under one management, or in
-one situation, shall charm every reader, in another. And by force of
-_judging right_, the copier shall almost lose his title, and become an
-inventor:
-
-    Tantum _de medio_ sumptis accedit honoris.
-
-But imitation, though it give most room to the display of judgment,
-does not exclude the exercise of the other faculty, _invention_. Nay,
-it requires the most dextrous, perhaps the most difficult, exertion of
-this faculty. For consider how the case stands. When we speak of an
-_imitator_, we do not speak, as the poet says, of
-
-    A barren-spirited fellow, one who feeds
-    On abject orts, and imitations—
-
-but of one, who, in aiming to be like, contends also to be equal to
-his original. To attain to this _equality_, it is not enough that he
-select the best of those stores which are ready prepared to his hand
-(for thus he would be rather a skilful borrower, than a successful
-imitator); but, in taking something from others, he must add much
-of his own: he must improve the _expression_, where it is defective
-or barely passable: he must throw fresh lights of fancy on a common
-_image_: he must strike out new hints from a vulgar _sentiment_. Thus,
-he will complete his original, where he finds it _imperfect_: he will
-supply its _omissions_: he will emulate, or rather surpass, its highest
-_beauties_. Or, in despair of this last, we shall find him taking a
-different _route_; giving us an equivalent in a beauty of another
-kind, which yet he extracts from some latent intimation of his author;
-or, where his purpose requires the very same representation, giving it
-a new form, perhaps a nobler, by the turn of his application.
-
-But all this requires not only the truest judgment, but the most
-delicate operation of inventive genius. And, where they both meet in
-a supreme degree, we sometimes find an admired original, not only
-excelled by his imitator, but almost discredited. Of which, if there
-were no other, the sixth book of Virgil, I mean taking it in the light
-of an _imitation_, is an immortal instance.
-
-Thus much I could not forbear saying on the _merit_ of successful
-imitation. As to the _necessity_ of the thing, hear the apology of
-a great Poet, for himself. “All that is left us, says this original
-writer, is to recommend our productions by the imitation of the
-ancients: and it will be found true, that, in every age, the highest
-character for sense and learning has been obtained by those who have
-been the most indebted to them. For, to say truth, whatever is very
-good sense, must have been common sense in all times; and what we call
-learning is but the knowledge of our predecessors. Therefore they who
-say our thoughts are not our own, because they resemble the ancients,
-may as well say, our faces are not our own, because they are like our
-fathers: and indeed it is very unreasonable, that people should expect
-us to be scholars, and yet be angry to find us so[42].”
-
-He adds, “_I fairly confess, that I have served myself all I could by
-reading_:” where the good sense of the _practice_, is as conspicuous,
-as the ingenuity, so becoming the greatness of his character, in
-_confessing_ it. For, when a writer, who, as we have seen, is driven by
-so many powerful motives to the imitation of preceding models, revolts
-against them all, and determines, at any rate, to be _original_,
-nothing can be expected but an aukward straining in every thing.
-_Improper method_, _forced conceits_, and _affected expression_, are
-the certain issue of such obstinacy. The business is to be _unlike_;
-and this he may very possibly be, but at the expence of graceful ease
-and true beauty. For he puts himself, at best, into a convulsed,
-unnatural state; and it is well, if he be not forced, beside his
-purpose, to leave _common sense_, as well as his _model_, behind him.
-Like one who would break loose from an impediment, which holds him
-fast; the very endeavour to get clear of it throws him into _uneasy
-attitudes_, and _violent contorsions_; and, if he gain his liberty at
-last, it is by an _effort_, which carries him much further than the
-_point_ he would wish to stop at.
-
-And, that the reader may not suspect me of asserting this without
-experience, let me exemplify what has been here said in the case of a
-very eminent person, who, with all the advantages of art and nature
-that could be required to adorn the true poet, was ruined by this
-single error. The person I mean was Sir WILLIAM D’AVENANT; whose
-_Gondibert_ will remain a perpetual monument of the mischiefs, which
-must ever arise from this affectation of originality in lettered and
-polite poets.
-
-The great author, when he projected his plan of an heroic poem, was
-so far from intending to steer his course by _example_, that he sets
-out, in his preface, with upbraiding the followers of Homer, as a
-base and timorous crew of _coasters_, who would not adventure to
-launch forth on the vast ocean of invention. For, speaking of this
-poet, he observes, “that, as sea marks are chiefly used to coasters,
-and serve not those who have the ambition of discoverers, that love
-to sail in untried seas; so he hath rather proved a guide for those,
-whose satisfied wit will not venture beyond the track of others; than
-to them, who affect a new and remote way of thinking; who esteem it a
-deficiency and meanness of mind, to stay and depend upon the authority
-of example[43].”
-
-And, afterwards, he professedly makes his own merit to consist in “an
-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_.
-
-But there are other obvious examples. In Cranmer’s prophetic speech, at
-the end of HENRY VIII. when the poet makes him say of Queen Elizabeth,
-that,
-
-    “In her days ev’ry man shall eat with safety
-     Under his own vine what he plants.”
-
-and of King James, that,
-
-                “He shall flourish,
-    And, like a mountain Cedar, reach his branches
-    To all the plains about him”—
-
-It is easy to see that his _Vine_ and _Cedar_ are not of English
-growth, but transplanted from Judæa. I do not mention this as an
-impropriety in the poet, who, for the greater solemnity of his
-prediction, and even from a principle of decorum, makes his Arch-bishop
-fetch his imagery from Scripture. I only take notice of it as a certain
-argument that the imagery was not his own, that is, not suggested by
-his own observation of nature.
-
-The case you see, in these instances, is the same as if an English
-landskip-painter should choose to decorate his Scene with an Italian
-sky. The Connoisseur would say, he had copied this particular from
-Titian, and not from Nature. I presume then to give it for a certain
-note of Imitation, _when the properties of one clime are given to
-another_.
-
-II. You will draw the same conclusion whenever you find “The Genius of
-one _people_ given to another.”
-
-1. Plautus gives us the following true picture of the Greek manners:
-
-    —In hominum aetate multa eveniunt hujusmodi—
-    Irae interveniunt, redeunt rursum in gratiam,
-    Verùm irae siquae fortè eveniunt hujusmodi,
-    Inter eos rursum si reventum in gratiam est,
-    Bis tanto amici sunt inter se, quàm prius.
-                            AMPHYT. A. III. S. 2.
-
-You are better acquainted with the modern Italian writers than I am;
-but if ever you find any of them transferring this placability of
-temper into an eulogy of his countrymen, conclude without hesitation,
-that the sentiment is taken.
-
-2. The late Editor of Jonson’s works observes very well the impropriety
-of leaving a trait of Italian manners in his _Every man in his humour_,
-when he fitted up that Play with English characters. Had the scene been
-laid originally in England, and that _trait_ been given us, it had
-convicted the poet of _Imitation_.
-
-3. This attention to the genius of a people will sometimes shew you,
-that the _form_ of composition, as well as particular sentiments, comes
-from Imitation. An instance occurs to me as I am writing. The Greeks,
-you know, were great haranguers. So were the ancient Romans, but in
-a less degree. One is not surprized therefore that their historians
-abound in set speeches; which, in their hands, become the finest parts
-of their works. But when you find modern writers indulging in this
-practice of speech-making, you may guess from what source the habit is
-derived. Would Machiavel, for instance, as little of a Scholar as, they
-say, he was, have adorned his fine history of Florence with so many
-harangues, if the classical bias, imperceptibly, it may be, to himself,
-had not hung on his mind?
-
-Another example is remarkable. You have sometimes wondered how it has
-come to pass that the moderns delight so much in _dialogue-writing_,
-and yet that so very few have succeeded in it. The proper answer to
-the first part of your enquiry will go some way towards giving you
-satisfaction as to the last. The practice is not original, has no
-foundation in the manners of modern times. It arose from the excellence
-of the Greek and Roman dialogues, which was the usual form in which the
-ancients chose to deliver their sentiments on any subject.
-
-Still another instance comes in my way. How happened it, one may ask,
-that Sir PHILIP SYDNEY in his Arcadia, and afterwards SPENSER in
-his Fairy Queen, observed so unnatural a conduct in those works; in
-which the Story proceeds, as it were, by snatches, and with continual
-interruptions? How was the good sense of those writers, so conversant
-besides in the best models of antiquity, seduced into this preposterous
-method? The answer, no doubt, is, that they were copying the design,
-or disorder rather, of ARIOSTO, the favourite poet of that time.
-
-III. Of near akin to this contrariety _to the genius of a people_ is
-another mark which a careful reader will observe “in the representation
-of certain TENETS, different from those which prevail in a writer’s
-country or time.”
-
-1. We seldom are able to fasten an imitation, with certainty, on such a
-writer as Shakespear. Sometimes we are, but never to so much advantage
-as when he happens to forget himself in this respect. When Claudio, in
-_Measure for Measure_, pleads for his life in that famous speech,
-
-    Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;
-    To lye in cold obstruction, and to rot;
-    This sensible warm motion to become
-    A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
-    To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
-    In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;
-    To be imprison’d in the viewless winds,
-    And blown with restless violence about
-    The pendant world—
-
-It is plain that these are not the Sentiments which any man entertained
-of _Death_ in the writer’s age or in that of the speaker. We see in
-this passage a mixture of Christian and Pagan ideas; all of them very
-susceptible of poetical ornament, and conducive to the argument of the
-Scene; but such as Shakespear had never dreamt of but for Virgil’s
-Platonic hell; where, as we read,
-
-                   aliae panduntur inanes
-    Suspensae ad ventos: aliis sub gurgite vasto,
-    Infectum eluitur scelus, aut exuritur igni.
-                                       Virg. l. vi.
-
-2. A prodigiously fine passage in Milton may furnish another example of
-this sort,
-
-                                  When Lust
-    By unchast looks, loose gestures, and foul talk,
-    But most by lewd and lavish act of Sin,
-    Lets in defilement to the inward parts,
-    The soul grows clotted by contagion,
-    Imbodies, and imbrutes, till she quite lose
-    The divine property of her first being.
-    Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp,
-    Oft seen in charnel vaults and sepulchres,
-    Ling’ring, and sitting by a new-made grave,
-    As loth to leave the body, that it lov’d,
-    And linkt itself by carnal sensuality
-    To a degenerate and degraded state.
-                      _Mask at Ludlow Castle._
-
-This philosophy of _imbruted souls_ becoming _thick shadows_ is so
-remote from any ideas entertained at present of the effects of Sin,
-and at the same time is so agreeable to the notions of Plato (a double
-favourite of Milton, for his own sake, and for the sake of his being
-a favourite with his Italian Masters), that there is not the least
-question of its being taken from the PHAEDO.
-
-Ἡ τοιαύτη ψυχὴ βαρύνεταί τε καὶ ἕλκεται πάλιν εἰς τὸν ὁρατὸν τόπον,
-φόβῳ τοῦ ἀειδοῦς τε καὶ ᾅδου, περὶ τὰ μνήματα καὶ τοὺς τάφους
-κυλινδουμένη· περὶ ἃ δὴ καὶ ὤφθη ἄττα ψυχῶν σκιοειδῆ φαντάσματα, οἷα
-παρέχονται αἱ τοιαῦται ψυχαὶ εἴδωλα, αἱ μὴ καθαρῶς ἀπολυθεῖσαι——
-
-There is no wonder, now one sees the fountain Milton drew from, that,
-in admiration of this poetical philosophy (which nourished the fine
-spirits of that time, though it corrupted some), he should make the
-other speaker in the scene cry out, as in a fit of extasy,
-
-    How charming is divine philosophy!
-    Not harsh, and crabbed, as dull fools suppose,
-    But musical as is Apollo’s lute,
-    And a perpetual feast of nectar’d sweets,
-    Where no crude surfeit reigns—
-
-The very ideas which Lord SHAFTESBURY has employed in his encomiums
-on the Platonic philosophy; and the very language which Dr. HENRY MORE
-would have used, if he had known to express himself so soberly.
-
-3. Having said so much of Plato, whom the Italian writers have
-helped to make known to us, let me just observe one thing, to our
-present purpose, of those Italian writers themselves. One of their
-peculiarities, and almost the first that strikes us, is a certain
-sublime mystical air which runs through all their fictions. We find
-them a sort of philosophical fanatics, indulging themselves in strange
-conceits “concerning the _Soul_, the _chyming of celestial orbs_, and
-presiding _Syrens_.” One may tell by these marks, that they doted on
-the fancies of Plato; if we had not, besides, direct evidence for this
-conclusion. Tasso says of himself, and he applauds the same thing in
-Petrarch, “Lessi già tutte l’opere di Platone, è mi rimassero molti
-semi nella menta della sua dottrina.” I take these words from Menage,
-who has much more to the same purpose, in his elegant observations on
-the _Amintas_ of this poet.
-
-One sees then where Milton had been for that imagery in the ARCADES,
-
-                            then listen I
-    To the celestial Syrens’ harmony,
-    That sit upon the nine enfolded spheres
-    And sing to those that hold the vital shears,
-    And turn the adamantine spindle round,
-    On which the fate of Gods and men is wound.
-
-The best comment on these verses is a passage in the x^{th} Book of
-Plato’s Republic, where this whole system, of _Syrens quiring to the
-fates_, is explained or rather delivered.
-
-IV. We have seen a _Mark_ of Imitation, in the allusion of writers to
-certain strange, and foreign tenets of philosophy. The observation may
-be extended to all those passages (which are innumerable in our poets)
-that allude to the _rites, customs, language, and theology of Paganism_.
-
-It is true, indeed, this Species of Imitation is not that which is,
-properly, the subject of this Letter. The most original writer is
-allowed to furnish himself with poetical ideas from all quarters. And
-the management of learned _Allusion_ is to be regarded, perhaps, as
-one of the nicest offices of Invention. Yet it may be useful to see
-from what sources a great poet derives his materials; and the rather,
-as this detection will sometimes account for the _manner_ in which he
-disposes of them. However, I will but detain you with a remark or two
-on this class of Imitations.
-
-1. I observe, that even Shakespear himself abounds in learned
-Allusions. How he came by them, is another question; though not so
-difficult to be answered, you know, as some have imagined. They, who
-are in such astonishment at the learning of Shakespear, besides that
-they certainly carry the notion of his illiteracy too far, forget that
-the Pagan imagery was familiar to all the poets of his time—that
-abundance of this sort of learning was to be picked up from almost
-every English book, he could take into his hands—that many of the best
-writers in Greek and Latin had been translated into English—that his
-conversation lay among the most learned, that is, the most paganized
-poets of his age—but above all, that, if he had never looked into
-books, or conversed with bookish men, he might have learned almost all
-the secrets of paganism (so far, I mean, as a poet had any use of them)
-from the MASKS of B. Jonson; contrived by that poet with so pedantical
-an exactness, that one is ready to take them for lectures and
-illustrations on the ancient learning, rather than exercises of modern
-wit. The taste of the age, much devoted to erudition, and still more,
-the taste of the Princes, for whom he writ, gave a prodigious vogue to
-these unnatural exhibitions. And the knowledge of antiquity, requisite
-to succeed in them, was, I imagine, the reason that Shakespear was not
-over-fond to try his hand at these elaborate trifles. Once indeed he
-_did_, and with such success as to disgrace the very best things of
-this kind we find in Jonson. The short Mask in the _Tempest_ is fitted
-up with a classical exactness. But its chief merit lies in the beauty
-of the _Shew_, and the richness of the _poetry_. Shakespear was so
-sensible of his Superiority, that he could not help exulting a little
-upon it, where he makes _Ferdinand_ say,
-
-    This is a most majestic _Vision_, and
-    Harmonious charming _Lays_—
-
-’Tis true, another Poet, who possessed a great part of Shakespear’s
-genius and all Jonson’s learning, has carried this courtly
-entertainment to its last perfection. But the _Mask at Ludlow Castle_
-was, in some measure, owing to the _fairy Scenes_ of his Predecessor;
-who chose this province of _Tradition_, not only as most suitable to
-the wildness of his vast creative imagination, but as the _safest_
-for his unlettered Muse to walk in. For here he had much, you knew, to
-expect from the popular credulity, and nothing to fear from the classic
-superstition of that time.
-
-2. It were endless to apply this _note_ of imitation to other poets
-confessedly learned. Yet one instance is curious enough to be just
-mentioned.
-
-Mr. Waller, in his famous poem on the victory over the Dutch on June 3,
-1665, has the following lines;
-
-    His flight tow’rds heav’n th’ aspiring BELGIAN took;
-    But fell, like PHAETON, with thunder strook:
-    From vaster hopes than his, he seem’d to fall,
-    That durst attempt the BRITISH Admiral:
-    From her broadsides a ruder flame is thrown,
-    Than from the fiery chariot of the Sun:
-    THAT, bears THE RADIANT ENSIGN OF THE DAY;
-    And SHE, the flag that governs in the Sea.
-
-He is comparing the British Admiral’s _Ship_ to the _Chariot_ of the
-Sun. You smile at the quaintness of the conceit, and the ridicule he
-falls into, in explaining it. But that is not the question at present.
-The _latter_, he says, bears _the radiant ensign of the day_: The
-_other_, _the ensign of naval dominion_. We understand how properly the
-_English Flag_ is here denominated. But what is that _other Ensign_?
-The _Sun_ itself, it will be said. But who, in our days, ever expressed
-the Sun by such a periphrasis? The image is apparently antique, and
-easily explained by those who know that anciently the Sun was commonly
-emblematized by a _starry or radiate figure_; nay, that such a figure
-was placed aloft, as an _Ensign_, over the _Sun’s charioteer_, as we
-may see in representations of this sort on ancient Gems and Medals.
-
-From this original then Mr. Waller’s imagery was certainly taken;
-and it is properly applied in this place where he is speaking of the
-_Chariot of the Sun_, and _Phaeton’s fall_ from it. But to remove all
-doubt in the case, we can even point to the very passage of a Pagan
-poet, which Mr. Waller had in his eye, or rather translated.
-
-    Proptereà noctes hiberno tempore longæ
-    Cessant, dum veniat RADIATUM INSIGNE DIEI.
-                              _Lucr._ l. v. 698.
-
-Here, you see, the poet’s allusion to a classic idea has led us to the
-discovery of the very passage from which it was taken. And this use
-a learned reader will often make of the species of Imitation, here
-considered.
-
-V. Great writers, you find, sometimes forget the character of the
-_Age_, they live in; the _principles_, and _notions_ that belong to it.
-“Sometimes they forget _themselves_, that is, their own situation and
-character.” Another sign of the influence of _Imitation_.
-
-1. When we see such men, as STRADA and MARIANA, writers of fine talents
-indeed, but of recluse lives and narrow observation, chusing to talk
-like men of the world, and abounding in the most refined conclusions of
-the cabinet, we are sure that this character, which we find so natural
-in a Cardinal DE RETZ, is but assumed by these Jesuits. And we are not
-surprized to discover, on examination, that their best reflexions are
-copied from TACITUS.
-
-On the other hand, when a man of the world took it into his head, the
-other day, in a moping fit, to talk _Sentences_, every body concluded
-that this was not the language of the writer or his situation, but that
-he had been poaching in some pedant; perhaps in the _Stoical Fop_, he
-affected so much contempt of, SENECA.
-
-2. Sometimes we catch a great writer deviating from his _natural
-manner_, and taking pains, as it were, to appear the very reverse of
-his proper _character_. Would you wish a stronger proof of his being
-seduced, at least for the time, by the charms of _imitation_?
-
-Nothing is better known than the easy, elegant, agreeable vein of
-VOITURE. Yet you have read his famous Letter to BALZAC, and have been
-surprized, no doubt, at the forced, quaint, and puffy manner, in which
-it is written. The secret is, Voiture is aping Balzac from one end of
-this letter to the other. Whether to pay his court to him, or to laugh
-at him, or that perhaps, in the instant of writing, he really fancied
-an excellence in the style of that great man, is not easy to determine.
-An eminent French critic, I remember, is inclined to take it for a
-piece of mockery. At all events, we must needs esteem it an _imitation_.
-
-3. This remark on the turn of a writer’s _genius_ may be further
-applied to that of his _temper or disposition_.
-
-The natural misanthropy of Swift may account for his thinking and
-speaking very often in the spirit of ROCHEFOUCAULT, without any
-thought of taking from his _Maxims_, though he was an admirer of them.
-But if at any time we observe so humane and benevolent a man as Mr.
-Pope giving into this language, we say of course, “This is not his own,
-but an assumed manner.”
-
-Or what say you to an instance that exemplifies both these observations
-together? The natural unaffected turn of Mr. Cowley’s manner, and the
-tender sensibility of his mind, are equally seen and loved in his
-prose-works, and in such of his poems as were written after a good
-model, or came from the heart. A clear sparkling fancy, softened with
-a shade of melancholy, made him, perhaps, of all our poets the most
-capable of excelling in the elegiac way, or of touching us in any way
-where a vein of easy language and moral sentiment is required. Who
-but laments then to see this fine genius perverted by the prevailing
-pedantry of his age, and carried away, against the bias of his nature,
-to an emulation of the rapturous, high-spirited Pindar?
-
-I might give many more examples. But you will observe them in your
-own reading. I take the first that come to hand only to explain my
-meaning, which is, “That if you find a course of sentiments or cast of
-composition different from that, to which the writer’s _situation_,
-_genius_, or _complexion_ would naturally lead him, you may well
-suspect him of imitation.”
-
-Still it may be, these considerations are rather too general. I come to
-others more particular and decisive.
-
-VI. It may be difficult sometimes to determine whether a single
-sentiment or image be derived or not. But when we see a cluster of them
-in two writers, applied to the same subject, one can hardly doubt that
-one of them has copied from the other.
-
-A celebrated French moralist makes the following reflexions. “Quelle
-chimere est-ce donc que l’homme? Quelle nouveautè, quel chaos, quel
-sujet de contradiction? Juge de toutes choses, imbecile ver de terre;
-depositaire du vrai, amas d’incertitude; gloire, et rebut de l’univers.”
-
-Turn now to the _Essay on Man_, and tell me if Mr. Pope did not work up
-the following lines out of these reflexions.
-
-    “Chaos of thought and passion, all confus’d;
-     Still by himself abus’d or disabus’d;
-     Created half to rise, and half to fall,
-     Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;
-     Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl’d:
-     The glory, jest, and riddle of the world.”
-
-2. This conclusion is still more certain, when, together with a general
-likeness of sentiments, we find the same _disposition_ of the parts,
-especially if that disposition be in no common form.
-
-    “Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet
-     With charm of earliest birds: pleasant the sun,
-     When first on this delightful land he spreads
-     His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flow’r,
-     Glist’ring with dew”——
-
-and the rest of that fine speech in the IVth Book of _Paradise Lost_,
-which you remember so perfectly that I need not transcribe more of it.
-
-Milton’s fancy, as usual, is rich and exuberant; but the conduct and
-application of his imagery shews, that the whole passage was shadowed
-out of those charming but simpler lines in the DANAE of Euripides.
-
-    ——φίλον μὲν φέγγος ἡλίου τόδε.
-    Καλὸν δὲ πόντου χεῦμ’ ἰδεῖν εὐήνεμον,
-    Γῆ τ’ ἠρινὸν θάλλουσα, πλούσιόν θ’ ὕδωρ,
-    Πολλῶν τ’ ἔπαινόν ἐστί μοι λέξαι καλῶν.
-    Ἀλλ’ οὐδὲν οὕτω λαμπρὸν, οὐδ’ ἰδεῖν, καλὸν,
-    Ὡς τοῖς ἄπαισι, καὶ πόθῳ δεδηγμένοις,
-    Παίδων νεογνῶν ἐν δόμοις ἰδεῖν φάος.
-
-VII. There is little doubt in such cases as these. There needs not
-perhaps be much in the case, sometimes, of _single_ sentiments or
-images. As where we find “a sentiment or image in two writers precisely
-the same, yet new and unusual.”
-
-1. Thus we are told very reasonably, that _Milton’s clust’ring locks_
-is the copy of Apollonius’ ΠΛΟΚΑΜΟΙ ΒΟΤΡΥΟΕΝΤΕΣ. _Obs. on Spenser_, p.
-80. For though the metaphor be a just one and very natural, yet there
-is perhaps no other authority for the use of it, but in these two
-poets. And Milton had certainly read Apollonius.
-
-2. What the same critic observes of Milton’s
-
-    ——“And _curl_ the grove
-    In ringlets _quaint_”—
-
-being taken from Jonson’s
-
-    When was old Sherwood’s head more _quaintly curl’d_?
-
-is still more unquestionable. For here is a combination of signs to
-convict the former of imitation: Not only the _singularity of the
-image_, but the _identity of expression_, and, what I lay the most
-stress upon, the _boldness of the figure_, as employed by Milton.
-Jonson speaks of old Sherwood’s _head_, as curl’d. Milton, as conscious
-of his authority, drops the preparatory idea, and says at once, The
-_grove_ curl’d.
-
-Let me add to these, two more instances from the same poet.
-
-3. _Spenser_ tells us of
-
-    A little _glooming light_, much like a shade.
-                                F. Q. c. II., s. 14.
-
-Can you imagine that Milton did not take his idea from hence, when he
-said, in his _Penseroso_,
-
-    —glowing embers thro’ the room
-    Teach _light_ to counterfeit a _gloom_?
-
-4. Again, in his description of Paradise,
-
-    Flow’rs of all hues, and without thorn the rose.
-
-Every poet of every time is lavish of his flowers on such occasions.
-But _the rose without thorn_ is a rarity. And, though it was fine to
-imagine such an one in Paradise, could only be an Italian refinement.
-Tasso, you will think, is the original, when you have read the
-following lines;
-
-    Senza quei suoi pungenti ispidi dumi
-    Spiegò le foglie la purpurea Rosa.
-
-5. Another instance, still more remarkable, may be taken from Mr.
-Pope. One of the most striking passages in the _Essay on Man_ is the
-following,
-
-    Superior Beings, when of late they saw
-    A mortal man unfold all nature’s law,
-    Admir’d such wisdom in an earthly shape,
-    And shew’d a NEWTON, as we shew an ape.
-                                Ep. ii. v. 31.
-
-Can you doubt, from the _singularity_ of this sentiment, that the
-great poet had his eye on Plato? who makes Socrates say, in allusion
-to a remark of Heraclitus, Ὅτι ἀνθρώπων ὁ σοφώτατος πρὸς θεὸν πίθηκος
-φανεῖται. _Hipp. Major._
-
-The application indeed is different. And it could not be otherwise. For
-the observation, which the Philosopher refers πρὸς θεὸν, is in the Poet
-given to _superior Beings_ only. The consequence is, that the _Ape_ is
-an object of _derision_ in the former case, of _admiration_, in the
-latter.
-
-To conclude this head, I will just observe to you, that, though the
-_same uncommon sentiment_ in two _writers_ be usually the effect of
-imitation, yet we cannot affirm this of _Actors_ in real life. The
-reason is, when the situation of two men is the same, _Nature_ will
-dictate the same sentiments more invariably than _Genius_. To give a
-remarkable instance of what I mean.
-
-Tacitus relates, in the _first_ book of his _Annals_, what passed
-in the senate on its first meeting after the death of Augustus. His
-politic successor carried it, for some time, with much apparent
-moderation. He wished, besides other reasons, to get himself solemnly
-recognized for Emperor by that Body, before he entered on the exercise
-of his new dignity. _Dabat famæ_, says the historian, _ut vocatus
-electusque potiùs à Republicâ videretur, quàm per uxorium ambitum
-et senili adoptione irrepsisse_. One of his courtiers would not be
-wanting to himself on such an occasion. When therefore several motions
-had been made in the Senate, concerning the honours to be paid to the
-memory of their late Prince, VALERIUS MESSALLA moved RENOVANDUM PER
-ANNOS SACRAMENTUM IN NOMEN TIBERII; in other words, that the oath of
-allegiance should be taken to Tiberius. This was the very point that
-Tiberius drove at. And the consciousness of it made him suspect that
-this motion might be thought to proceed from himself. He therefore
-asked Messalla, “_Num, se mandante, eam sententiam promsisset?_” His
-answer is in the following words. “Spontè _dixisse, respondit; neque
-in iis, quæ ad rempublicam pertinerent_, consilio nisi suo usurum, vel
-cum periculo offensionis.” _Ea_, concludes the historian, _sola species
-adulandi supererat_.
-
-Now it is very remarkable, that we find in Ludlow’s memoirs, one of
-Cromwell’s officers, on the very same occasion, answering the Protector
-in the very same species of flattery.
-
-Colonel WILLIAM JEPHSON moved in the House that Cromwell might be made
-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.
-
-And nothing can be juster than this allusion. For the ancients always
-pictured FANCY and HUMAN-LOVE with Insect’s wings.
-
-XIV. Thus then, whether the poet _prevaricates_, _enlarges_, or _adds_,
-still we frequently find some latent circumstance, attending his
-management, that convicts him of Imitation. Nay, he is not safe even
-when he denies himself these liberties; I mean when he only _glances_
-at his original. “For, in this case, the borrowed sentiment usually
-wants something of that perspicuity which always attends the first
-delivery of it.” This Rule may be considered as the Reverse of the
-_last_. A writer, sometimes, takes a pleasure to _refine_ on a plain
-thought: Sometimes (and that is usually when the original sentiment is
-well known and fully developed) he does not so much as attempt to open
-and _explain_ it.
-
-A poet of the last age has the following lines, on the subject of
-_Religion_:
-
-    Religion now is a young Mistress here,
-    For which each man will fight, and dye at least;
-    Let it alone awhile, and ’t will become
-    A kind of married wife; people will be
-    Content to live with it in quietness.
-
-SUCKLING says this in his Tragedy of Brennoralt; which is a Satire
-throughout on the rising troubles of that time. BUTLER has taken the
-thought and applied it on the same occasion:
-
-    When hard words, jealousies, and fears
-    Set folks together by the ears,
-    And make them fight, like mad or drunk,
-    For dame Religion, as for Punk.
-
-Setting aside the difference between the burlesque and serious style,
-one easily sees that this sentiment is borrowed from Suckling. It has
-not the clear and full exposition of an original thought. Butler only
-represents men as drunk with Religion and fighting for it as for a
-Punk. The _other_ gives the reason of the Debauch, namely, _fondness
-for a new face_; and tells us, besides, how things would subside into
-peace or indifference on a nearer and more familiar acquaintance. One
-could expect no less from the _Inventor_ of this humorous thought; a
-_Borrower_ might be content to allude to it.
-
-XV. This last consideration puts me in mind of another artifice to
-conceal a borrowed sentiment. Nothing lies more open to discovery than
-a Simile in form, especially if it be a remarkable one. These are a
-sort of _purpurei panni_ which catch all eyes; and, if the comparison
-be not a writer’s own, he is almost sure to be detected. The way then
-that refined Imitators take to conceal themselves, in such a case, is
-to run the Similitude into Allegory. We have a curious instance in Mr.
-Pope, who has succeeded so well in the attempt, that his plagiarism, I
-believe, has never been suspected.
-
-The verses, I have in my eye, are these fine ones, addressed to Lord
-Bolingbroke,
-
-    Oh, while along the stream of time thy name
-    Expanded flies, and gathers all it’s fame,
-    Say, shall my little Bark attendant sail,
-    Pursue the triumph, and partake the Gale?
-
-What think you, now, of these admired verses? Are they, besides their
-other beauties, perfectly original? You will be able to resolve this
-question, by turning to the following passage in a Poet, Mr. Pope was
-once fond of, I mean STATIUS,
-
-    Sic ubi magna novum Phario de litore puppis
-    Solvit iter, jamque innumeros utrinque rudentes
-    Lataque veliferi porrexit brachia mali
-    Invasitque vias, in eodem angusta phaselus
-    Æquore, et immensi partem sibi vendicat Austri.
-                       SILV. l. V. I. v. 242.
-
-But, especially, this other,
-
-       —immensæ veluti CONNEXA carinæ
-    CYMBA MINOR, cum sævit hyems, pro parte, furentes
-    Parva receptat aquas, et EODEM VOLVITUR AUSTRO.
-                          SILV. l. I. iv. v. 120.
-
-XVI. I release you from this head of _Sentiments_, with observing that
-we sometimes conclude a writer to have had a celebrated original in his
-eye, when “without copying the peculiar thought, or stroke of imagery,
-he gives us only a copy of the impression, it had made upon him.”
-
-1. In delivering this rule, I will not dissemble that I myself am
-copying, or rather stealing from a great critic: From _one_, however,
-who will not resent this theft; as indeed he has no reason, for he is
-so prodigiously rich in these things, as in others of more value, that
-what he neglects or flings away, would make the fortune of an ordinary
-writer. The person I mean is the late Editor of Shakespear, who, in an
-admirable note on Julius Cæsar, taking occasion to quote that passage
-of Cato,
-
-    O think what anxious moments pass between
-    The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods,
-    Oh, ’tis a dreadful interval of time,
-    Fill’d up with horror all, and big with death,
-
-observes “that Mr. Addison was so struck and affected with the
-_terrible graces_ of Shakespear (in the passage he is there
-considering) that, instead of imitating his author’s sentiments,
-he hath, before he was aware, given us only the copy of his own
-impressions made by them. For,
-
-    Oh, ’tis a dreadful interval of time,
-    Fill’d up with horror all, and big with death,
-
-are but the affections raised by such forcible images as these,
-
-    ——All the Int’rim is
-    Like a Phantasma, or a hideous dream
-    ——The state of man,
-    Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
-    The nature of an Insurrection.”
-
-The observation is new and finely applied. Give me leave to suppose
-that the following is an instance of the same nature.
-
-2. Milton on a certain occasion says of _Death_, that she
-
-    “Grinn’d horrible a ghastly smile—”
-                          _P. L._ B. II. v. 846.
-
-This representation is supposed by his learned Editor to be taken from
-Homer, from Statius, or from the Italian poets. A certain friend of
-ours, not to be named without honour, and therefore not at all on so
-slight an occasion, suggests that it might probably be copied from
-Spenser’s,
-
-    Grinning griesly—
-                     B. V. c. 12.
-
-And there is the more likelihood in this conjecture, as the poet a
-little before had call’d _death—the griesly terror_—v. 704. But after
-all, if he had any preceding writer in view, I suspect it might be
-FLETCHER; who, in his _Wife for a Month_, has these remarkable lines,
-
-    The game of Death was never play’d more nobly,
-    The meagre thief grew _wanton_ in his mischiefs,
-    And _his shrunk hollow eyes smil’d_ on his ruin.
-
-The word _Ghastly_, I would observe, gives the precise idea of _shrunk
-hollow eyes_, and looks as if Milton, in admiration of his original,
-had only looked out for an _epithet_ to Death’s smile, as he found it
-pictured in Fletcher.
-
-THUS MUCH, then, may perhaps serve for an illustration of the first
-part of this Inquiry. We have found out several _marks_, and applied
-them to various passages in the best writers, from which we may
-reasonably enough be allowed to infer an Imitation in point of
-_Sentiment_. For what respect the other part of _Expression_, this is
-an easier task, and will be dispatched in few words.
-
-Only you will indulge me in an observation or two, to prevent your
-expecting from me more than I undertake to perform.
-
-When I speak of _Expression_, then I mean to confine myself “to
-single words of sentences, or at most the structure of a passage.”
-When _Imitation_ is carried so far as to affect the general cast of
-language, or what we call a _Style_, no great sagacity is, perhaps,
-required to detect it. Thus the _Ciceroniani_, if they were not
-ambitious of proclaiming themselves, are discoverable at the first
-glance. And the later Roman poets, as well as the modern Latin
-versifiers, are, to the best of their power, _Virgilian_. The thing is
-perhaps still easier in a living language; especially if that language
-be our own. Milton and Pope, if they have made but few poets, have made
-many imitators; so many, that we are ready to complain there is hardly
-an original poet left.
-
-Another point seems of no importance in the present inquiry. I know, it
-is asked, How far a writer casually or designedly imitates? that is,
-whether he copies another from memory only, without recollecting, at
-the time, the passage from which his expression is drawn, or purposely,
-and with full knowledge of his original. And this consideration is
-of much weight, as I have shewn at large, where the question is
-concerning the _credit_ of the supposed imitator. For this is affected
-by nothing but direct and _intended_ imitation. But as we are looking
-at present only for those marks in the expression which shew it _not_
-to be original, it is enough that the resemblance is such as cannot
-well be accounted for but on the supposition of some sort of commerce;
-whether immediately perceived by the writer himself, is not material.
-’Tis true, this observation is applicable to _sentiments_ as well as
-expression; and I have not pretended to give the preceding articles,
-as proofs, or even presumptions, in all cases, that the later writer
-copied intentionally from a former. But there is this difference in the
-two cases. _Sentiments_ may be strikingly similar, or even identical,
-without the least thought, or even effect, of a preceding original.
-But the identity of _expression_, except in some few cases of no
-importance, is, in the same language, where the writer speaks entirely
-from himself, an almost impossible thing. And you will be of this mind,
-if you reflect on the infinitely varied lights in which the same image
-or sentiment presents itself to different writers; the infinitely
-varied purpose they have to serve by it; or where it happens to strike
-precisely in the same manner, and is directed precisely to the same
-end, the infinite combinations of words in which it may be expressed.
-To all which you may add, that the least imaginable variation, either
-in the terms or the structure of them, not only destroys the identity,
-but often disfigures the resemblance to that degree that we hardly know
-it to be a resemblance.
-
-So that you see, the _marks_ of imitated or, if you will, _derived
-expression_ are much less equivocal, than of _sentiment_. We may
-pronounce of the _former_ without hesitation, that it is taken, when
-corresponding marks in the _latter_ would only authorise us to conclude
-that it was the _same_ or perhaps _similar_.
-
-I need not use more words to convince you, that the distinction of
-_casual_ and _design’d_ imitation is still of less significancy in this
-class of imitations, than the other.
-
-And with this preamble, more particular perhaps and circumstantial than
-was necessary, I now proceed to lay before you some of those _signs_
-of derived expression, which I conceive to be _unequivocal_. If they
-are so, they will generally appear at first sight; so that I shall have
-little occasion to trouble you, as I did before, with my comments. It
-will be sufficient to deliver the _rule_, and to _exemplify_ it.
-
-I. An identity of expression, especially if carried on through an
-intire sentence, is the most certain proof of imitation.
-
-Mr. Waller of Sacharissa,
-
-    So little care of what is done below
-    Hath the bright dame, whom heav’n affecteth so;
-    Paints her, ’tis true, with the same hand which spreads
-    Like glorious colours thro’ the flow’ry meads;
-    _When lavish nature with her best attire_
-    Cloaths the gay spring, the season of desire.
-
-Mr. Fenton takes notice that the poet is copying from the _Muiopotmos_
-of Spenser.
-
-    To the gay gardens his unstaid desire
-    Him wholly carried to refresh his sprights:
-    _There lavish Nature, in her best attire,_
-    Pours forth sweet odours and alluring sights.
-
-We shall see presently that, besides the identity of expression, there
-is also another mark of imitation in this passage.
-
-II. But less than this will do, where the similarity of thought, and
-application of it, is striking.
-
-Mr. Pope says divinely well,
-
-    Shall burning Ætna, if a sage requires,
-    Forget to thunder and recall its fires?
-    On _air_ or sea _new motions be impress’d_,
-    Oh blameless Bethel! to relieve thy breast?
-    When the loose mountain trembles from on high,
-    Shall _gravitation cease if you go by_?
-    Or some old temple nodding to its fall
-    For Chartres’ head reserve the hanging wall?
-                               _Essay_ IV. v. 123.
-
-Now turn to Mr. Wollaston, an easy natural writer (where his natural
-manner is not stiffened by a mathematical pedantry) and abounding in
-fine sallies of the imagination; and see if the poet did not catch his
-_expression_, as well as the fire of his conception in this place,
-from the philosopher:
-
-“As to the course of Nature, if a good man be passing by an infirm
-building, just in the article of falling, can it be expected that God
-should _suspend the force of gravitation till he is gone by_, in order
-to his deliverance; or can we think it would be increased, and the
-fall hastened, if a bad man was there, only that he might be caught,
-crushed, and made an example? If a man’s safety or prosperity should
-depend upon winds or rains, must _new motions be impressed upon the
-atmosphere_, and new directions given to the floating parts of it, by
-some extraordinary and new influence from God?”
-
-III. Sometimes the original expression is not taken but paraphrased;
-and the writer disguises himself in a kind of circumlocution. Yet this
-artifice does not conceal him, especially if some fragments, as it
-were, of the inventor’s phrase are found dispersedly in the imitation.
-
-    For in the secret of her troubled thought
-    A doubtful combat love and honour fought.
-                _Fairfax’s Tasso_, B. IV. S. 70.
-
-Hence Mr. Waller,
-
-    There public care and private passion _fought_
-    _A doubtful combat_ in his noble _thought_.
-                                     _Poems_, p. 14.
-
-_Public care_ is the periphrasis of _honour_, and _private passion_, of
-_love_. For the rest you see—_disjecti membra poetæ_.
-
-IV. An imitation is discoverable, when there is but the least particle
-of the original expression, “by a peculiar and no very natural
-arrangement of words.”
-
-In Fletcher’s _faithful Shepherdess_, the speaker says,
-
-    — — — — — — — In thy face
-    Shines more awful majesty,
-    Than dull weak mortality
-    Dare with misty eyes behold,
-    AND LIVE—
-
-The writer glanced, but very improperly on such an occasion, at _Exod._
-xxxiii. 20. “Thou canst not see my face: for there shall no man see me,
-_and live_.”
-
-V. An uncommon _construction_ of words not identical, especially if the
-subject be the same, or the ideas similar, will look like imitation.
-
-Milton says finely of the _Swan_,
-
-      — — — — —The Swan with arched neck
-    Between her white wings mantling proudly ROWS
-    HER STATE—
-
-I should think he might probably have that line of Fletcher in his head,
-
-    How like a Swan she SWIMS HER PACE!
-
-The expression, you see, is very like. ’Tis true, the _image_ in
-Milton is much nobler. It is taken from a barge of state in a public
-procession.
-
-VI. We may even pronounce that a _single word_ is taken, when it is new
-and uncommon.
-
-Milton’s calling a ray of light—a levell’d _rule_ in Comus v. 340,
-is so particular that, when one reads in Euripides ἡλίου ΚΑΝΩΝ σαφὴς,
-Suppl. v. 650, one has no doubt that the learned poet translated the
-Greek word.
-
-Again, Mr. Pope’s,
-
-    “Or ravish’d with the _whistling_ of a name,”
-
-is for the same reason, if there were no other points of likeness,
-copied from Mr. Cowley’s
-
-    “Charm’d with the foolish _whistlings_ of a name.”
-     Transl. of Virgil’s _O! fortunati nimium_, &c.
-
-VII. An improper _use_ of uncommon expression, in very exact writers,
-will sometimes create a suspicion. Milton had called the _sight_
-indifferently _visual nerve_ and _visual ray_, P. L. iii. 620. xi. 415.
-Mr. Pope in his Messiah thought he might take the same liberty, but
-forgot that though the _visual nerve_ might be purged from film, the
-_visual ray_ could not. Had Mr. Pope _invented_ this bold expression,
-he would have seen to apply his _metaphor_ more properly.
-
-VIII. Where the word or phrase is _foreign_, there is, if possible,
-still less doubt.
-
-      — — — —at last his sail-broad _vans_
-    He spreads for flight.
-                          Milton, P. L. ii. v. 927.
-
-Most certainly from Tasso’s,
-
-    —Spiega al grand volo i _vanni_. ix.
-
-And that of Jonson in his _Sejanus_,
-
-    O! what is it proud slime will not believe
-    Of his own worth, to hear it _equal prais’d_
-    _Thus with the Gods_—
-                                           A. 1.
-
-from Juvenal’s
-
-    ------nihil est quod credere de se
-    Non possit, cum _laudatur Diis æqua_ potestas.
-
-IX. Conclude the same when the expression is _antique_, in the writer’s
-own language.
-
-In Mr. Waller’s Panegyric on the Protector,
-
-    So, when a Lion shakes his dreadful mane,
-    And angry grows, if he _that first took pain_
-    To tame his youth, approach the haughty beast,
-    He bends to him, but frights away the rest.
-
-The antique formality of the phrase _that first took pain_, for, _that
-first took the pains_, in so pure and modern a speaker, as this poet,
-looks suspicious. He took it, as he found it in an older writer. There
-are many other marks of imitation, but we had needed no more than this
-to make the discovery:
-
-    So when a lion shakes his dreadful mane,
-    And beats his tail, with courage proud, and wroth,
-    If his commander come, _who first took pain_
-    To tame his youth, his lofty crest down go’th.
-                     Fairfax’s _Tasso_, B. VIII. S. 83.
-
-X. You observe in most of the instances, here given, besides other
-marks, there is an identity of rhyme. And this circumstance of itself,
-in our poetry, is no bad argument of imitation, particularly when
-joined to a similarity of expression. And the reason is, the rhyme
-itself very naturally brings the expression along with it.
-
-    1. “Stuck o’er with titles, and hung round with strings,
-    That thou mayst be _by Kings, or whores of Kings_.”
-                                 Essay on Man, E. IV. v. 205.
-
-from Mr. Cowley in his translation of _Hor._ 1. _ep._ 10.
-
-    “To Kings, or to the favourites of Kings.”
-
-    2. “Such is the world’s great harmony, that _springs_
-    From order, union, full _consent of things_.”
-                                            Ep. III. 295.
-
-from Denham’s _Cowper’s Hill_,
-
-    “Wisely she knew the _harmony of things_
-    As well as that of sounds from discord _springs_.”
-
-    3. “Far as the solar walk, or milky way.”
-                         Essay on Man, Ep. I. v. 102.
-
-from Mr. Dryden’s Pindaric Poem to the memory of K. Charles II.
-
-    “Out of the solar walk, or heav’n’s high way.”
-
-Though these consonancies chyming in the writer’s head, he might not
-always be aware of the imitation.
-
-XI. In the examples, just given, there was no reason to suspect the
-poet was imitating, till you met with the original. Then indeed the
-rhyme leads to the discovery. But “if an exact writer falls into a
-_flatness of expression_ for the sake of rhyme, you may ev’n previously
-conclude that he has some precedent for it.”
-
-In the famous lines,
-
-    Let modest Foster, if he will, excell
-    Ten metropolitans _in preaching well_.
-                           Ep. to Satires, v. 131.
-
-I used to suspect that the phrase of _preaching well_ so unlike the
-concise accuracy of Pope, would not have been hazarded by him, if some
-eminent writer, though perhaps of an older age and less correct taste
-than his own, had not set the example. But I had no doubt left when I
-happened on the following couplet in Mr. Waller.
-
-    Your’s sounds aloud, and tells us you _excell_
-    No less in courage, than _in singing well_.
-                         Poem to Sir W. D’Avenant.
-
-Our great poet is more happy in the application of these rhymes on
-another occasion,
-
-    Let such teach others, who themselves _excell_,
-    And censure freely, who have written _well_.
-                              Essay on Crit. v. 15.
-
-The reason is apparent. But here he glanced at the Duke of Buckingham’s,
-
-    “Nature’s chief master-piece is _writing well_.”
-
-XII. “The same pause and turn of expression are pretty sure symptoms
-of imitation.” These minute resemblances do not usually spring from
-Nature, which, when the sentiment is the same, hath a hundred ways of
-its own, of giving it to us.
-
-1. That noble verse in the essay on criticism, v. 625.
-
-    “For fools rush in, where angels dare not tread,”
-
-is certainly fashion’d upon Shakespear’s,
-
-    ——————————“the world is grown so bad
-    That wrens make prey, where angels dare not perch.”
-                            _Rich._ III. A. I. S. III.
-
-2. The verses to Sir W. Trumbal in Past. 1.
-
-    “And carrying with you all the world can boast,
-     To all the world illustriously are lost.”
-
-from Waller’s _Maid’s Tragedy_ alter’d,
-
-    Happy he that from the world retires
-    And carries with him what the world admires.
-                             p. 215. Lond. 1712.
-
-XIII. When to these marks the same _Rhyme_ is added, the case is still
-more evident.
-
-    “Men would be angels, angels would be Gods.”
-                   Essay on Man, Ep. I. v. 126.
-
-Without all question from Sir Fulk Grevil,
-
-    Men would be tyrants, tyrants would be _Gods_.
-                       Works, _Lond._ 1633. p. 73.
-
-XIV. The seeming quaintness and obscurity of an expression frequently
-indicates imitation. As when in Fletcher’s _Pilgrim_ we read,
-
-    “_Hummings_ of higher nature vex his brains.”
-                                    A. II. S. 2.
-
-Had the idea been original, the poet had expressed it more plainly. In
-leaving it thus, he pays his reader the compliment to suppose, that he
-will readily call to mind,
-
-                  aliena negotia centum
-    Per caput, et circa saliunt latus;
-
-which sufficiently explains it: As we may see from Mr. Cowley’s
-application of the same passage. “Aliena negotia centum per caput et
-centum saliunt latus. A hundred businesses of other men fly continually
-about his head and _ears_, and strike him in the face like Dorres.”
-_Disc. of Liberty._ And still more clearly, from Mr. Pope’s,
-
-    “A hundred other men’s affairs,
-     Like bees, are _humming_ in my ears.”
-
-Learned writers of quick parts abound in these delicate allusions. It
-makes a principal part of modern elegancy to glance in this oblique
-manner at well-known passages in the classics.
-
-XV. I will trouble you with but one more note of _imitated expression_,
-and it shall be the very reverse of the last. When the passages
-glanced at are not familiar, the expression is frequently minute and
-circumstantial, corresponding to the original in the order, turn, and
-almost number of the words. The reasons are, that, the imitated passage
-not being known, the imitator may give it, as he finds it, with safety,
-or at least without offence; and that, besides, the force and beauty of
-it would escape us in a brief and general allusion. The following are
-instances:
-
-    1. “Man never is, but always to be blest.”
-                  Essay on Man, Ep. I. v. 69.
-
-from Manilius,
-
-    Victuros agimus semper, nec vivimus unquam.
-
-    2.    —“Hope never comes,
-    That comes to all.”—
-                       MILTON, P. L. I. v. 66.
-
-from Euripides in the Troad. v. 676.
-
-     —οὐδ’, ὃ πᾶσι λείπεται βροτοῖς,
-    Ξύνεστιν ἐλπὶς.—
-
-3. But above all, that in Jonson’s Catiline,
-
-                              “He shall die:
-    _Shall_ was too slowly said: He’s _dying_: That
-    Is still too slow: He’s _dead_.”
-
-from Seneca’s _Hercules furens_, A. III.
-
-    “Lycus Creonti debitas poenas _dabit_:
-     Lentum est, dabit; _dat_: hoc quoque est lentum; _dedit_.”
-
-You have now, Sir, before you a specimen of those rules, which I have
-fancied might be fairly applied to the discovery of imitations, both
-in regard to the SENSE and EXPRESSION of great writers. I would not
-pretend that the same stress is to be laid on _all_; but there may be
-something, at least, worth attending to in every one of them. It were
-easy, perhaps, to enumerate still more, and to illustrate these I have
-given with more agreeable citations. Yet I have spared you the disgust
-of considering those vulgar passages, which every body recollects and
-sets down for acknowledged imitations. And these I have used are taken
-from the most celebrated of the ancient and modern writers. You may
-observe indeed that I have chiefly drawn from our own poets; which I
-did, not merely because I know you despise the pedantry of confining
-one’s self to learned quotations, but because I think we are better
-able to discern those circumstances, which betray an imitation, in our
-own language than in any other. Amongst other reasons, an _identity_
-of words and phrases, upon which so much depends, especially in the
-article of _expression_, is only to be had in the _same_ language. And
-you are not to be told with how much more certainty we determine of the
-degree of evidence, which such identity affords for this purpose, in a
-language we speak, than in one which we only lisp or spell.
-
-But you will best understand of what importance this affair of
-_expression_ is to the discovery of imitations, by considering how
-seldom we are able to fix an imitation on Shakespear. The reason is,
-not, that there are not numberless passages in him very like to others
-in approved authors, or that he had not read enough to give us a fair
-hold of him; but that his expression is so totally his own, that he
-almost always sets us at defiance.
-
-You will ask me, perhaps, now I am on this subject, how it happened
-that Shakespear’s language is every where so much his own as to secure
-his imitations, if they were such, from discovery; when I pronounce
-with such assurance of those of our other poets. The answer is given
-for me in the Preface to Mr. Theobald’s Shakespear; though the
-observation, I think, is too good to come from that critic. It is,
-that, though his words, agreeably to the state of the English tongue
-at that time, be generally Latin, his phraseology is perfectly English:
-An advantage, he owed to his slender acquaintance with the Latin idiom.
-Whereas the other writers of his age, and such others of an older date
-as were likely to fall into his hands, had not only the most familiar
-acquaintance with the Latin idiom, but affected on all occasions to
-make use of it. Hence it comes to pass, that, though he might draw
-sometimes from the Latin (Ben Jonson, you know, tells us, _He had less
-Greek_) and the learned English writers, he takes nothing but the
-_sentiment_; the expression comes of itself, and is purely English.
-
-I might indulge in other reflexions, and detain you still further with
-examples taken from his works. But we have _lain_, as the Poet speaks,
-_on these primrose beds_, too long. It is time that you now rise to
-your own nobler _inventions_; and that I return myself to those, less
-pleasing, perhaps, but more useful studies from which your friendly
-sollicitations have called me. Such as these amusements are, however,
-I cannot repent me of them, since they have been innocent at least,
-and even ingenuous; and, what I am fondest to recollect, have helped
-to enliven those many years of friendship we have passed together in
-this place. I see indeed, with regret, the approach of that time, which
-threatens to take me both from _it_, and _you_. But, however fortune
-may dispose of me, she cannot throw me to a distance, to which your
-affection and good wishes, at least, will not follow me.
-
-And for the rest,
-
-    “Be no unpleasing melancholy mine.”
-
-The coming years of my life will not, I foresee, in many respects, be
-what the past have been to me. But, till they take me from myself, I
-must always bear about me the agreeable remembrance of our friendship.
-
-  _I am,_
-
-    _Dear Sir,_
-
-      _Your most affectionate
-      Friend and Servant._
-
-  CAMBRIDGE,
-  Aug. 15, 1757.
-
-
-
-
-INDEX
-
-TO THE
-
-TWO VOLUMES.
-
-
-  A.
-
-  ADDISON, Mr., his judgment of the double sense of verbs, i. 359.
-    his _Cato_, defended, 102.
-      not too poetical, ib.
-      its real defects, ib.
-    his criticism on _Milton_ proceeds on just principles, 393.
-      how far defective, 396.
-
-  AENEIS, prefigured under the idea of a temple, i. 333.
-    the destruction of Troy, an episode, why, i. 139.
-
-  AGLAOPHON, his rude manner of painting; why preferred to _Parrhasius_
-      and _Zeuxis_, i. 346.
-
-  ALLEGORY, the distinguished pride of ancient poetry, i. 343.
-    a fine instance from _Virgil_, 333.
-
-  ANCIENTS, immoderately extolled, why, i. 346.
-
-  ANTIGONE, the chorus of it defended, i. 158.
-
-  APHORISMS, condemned in the _Roman_ writers, i. 184.
-    why used so frequently by the Greeks, 185.
-
-  APOLLONIUS _Rhodius_, why censured by _Aristophanes_ and
-      _Aristarchus_, i. 267.
-
-  APOTHEOSIS, the usual mode of flattery in the _Augustan_ age, i. 333.
-
-  ARISTOTLE, his opinion of _Homer’s_ imitations, i. 67.
-    of _Euripides_, 116.
-    of the business of the chorus, 145.
-    of the sententious manner, 186.
-    his fine Ode, corrected, 188. n.
-    translated, 189.
-    of the origin of tragedy, 194.
-    a passage in his poetics explained, 123.
-    his censure of the _Iphigenia at Aulis_, considered, 131.
-    he was little known at Rome in Cicero’s time, 191.
-    why _Horace_ differs from him in his account of _Aeschylus’s_
-      inventions, 240.
-    a supposed contradiction between him and _Horace_ reconciled, 262.
-    his judgment of moral pictures, 375.
-    his admiration of an epithet in _Homer_, on what founded, ii. 126.
-
-  ART and NATURE, their provinces in forming a poet, i. 273.
-
-  ATELLANE FABLE, a species of Comedy, i. 192.
-    different from the satyric piece, 195.
-    the Oscan language used in it, 198.
-    why criticised by _Horace_, 206.
-    in what sense Pomponius, the Inventor of it, 198.
-
-  ATHENAEUS, of the moralizing turn of the Greeks, i. 187.
-
-  AUCTOR ad Herennium, defines an aphorism, i. 184.
-
-  AUGUSTUS, fond of the old Comedy, i. 228. n.
-
-
-  B.
-
-  BACON, Lord, his idea of poetry, ii. 178.
-
-  BALZAC, Mr., his flattery of LOUIS LE JUSTE, i. 344, 345.
-
-  BEAUTY, the idea of, how distinguished from the pathetic, i. 110.
-
-  BENTLEY, Dr., corrections of his censured, i. 71, 72, 106, 142.
-    an interpretation of his confuted, 110.
-    a conjecture of his confirmed, 349.
-
-  BOS, _M. de_, how he accounts for the effect of Tragedy, i. 119.
-    for the degeneracy of taste and literature, 264.
-    what he thought of modern imitations of the ancient poets, ii. 224.
-
-  BOUHOURS, P., his merit as a critic, pointed out, i. 393.
-    wherein censured, 395.
-
-  BRUMOY, P., his character, i. 133.
-    commends the _Athalie_ and _Esther_ of _Racine_, 145.
-    justifies the chorus, ib.
-    accounts for the sententious manner of the _Greek_ stage, 185.
-    an observation of his on the imitation of foreign characters, 247.
-
-  BRUYERE, _M. de la_, an observation of his concerning the manners,
-      ii. 135.
-
-  BUSIRIS, in what sense a ridiculous character, i. 208.
-
-
-  C.
-
-  CAESAR, _C. Julius_, his judgment of _Terence_, i. 225.
-
-  CASAUBON, _Isaac_, his book on satyric poetry recommended, i. 194.
-    an emendation of his confirmed, 208.
-
-  CHARACTER, the object of comedy, ii. 56.
-    of what sort, 40.
-    of what persons, ib.
-    plays of, in what faulty, 48.
-    instances of such plays, 53.
-
-  CHARACTERS, of comedy, general; of tragedy, particular, why, ii. 48.
-    this matter explained at large, to 54.
-
-  CHORUS, its use and importance, i. 145.
-    its moral character, 156.
-    more easily conducted by ancient than modern poets, 161.
-    improvements in the Latin tragic chorus, 179.
-
-  CICER, _M. Tullius_, of the use of old words, i. 89.
-    of self-murder, 162.
-    of poetic licence, 174.
-    of the language of _Democritus_ and _Plato_, 180.
-    of the music of his time, 182.
-    of the neglect of philosophy, 191.
-    of the mimes, 205.
-    of _Plautus’s_ wit, 220.
-    does not mention _Menander_, 229.
-    mentions corporal infirmities as proper subjects for ridicule, 231.
-    of a good poet, 249.
-    of decorum, 251.
-    of the use of philosophy, ib.
-
-  CID, of _P. Corneille_, its uncommon success, to what owing, i. 398.
-
-  CLOWNS, their character in _Shakespear_, i. 186.
-
-  COMEDY, _Roman_, three species of it, i. 192.
-
-  —— the author’s idea of it, ii. 30.
-    conclusions concerning its nature, from that idea, 37.
-    attributes, common to it and tragedy, 42.
-    attributes, peculiar to it, 45.
-    its genius, considered at large, 57.
-    M. _de Fontenelle’s_ notion of it, considered, 75.
-    idea of it enlarged since the time of _Aristotle_, 65.
-    polite and heroic, what we are to think of it, 86.
-    on high life, censured, ib.
-    of modern invention, ib.
-    accounted for, 87.
-    why more difficult than tragedy, ib.
-
-  COMPARISON, similarity of, in all writers, why necessary, ii. 194.
-    why more so in the graver than lighter poetry, 198.
-
-  CORNEILLE, P., his objection to _Euripides’s Medea_, confuted, i. 163.
-    his notion of comic action considered, ii. 41.
-
-  CRITICISM, the uses of it, ii. 105.
-    its aim, 391.
-    when perfect, ib.
-
-
-  D.
-
-  DACIER, _M._, criticisms of his considered, i. 94, 168, 173, 174, 175,
-      240, 244, 245, 268, ibid.
-    the author’s opinion of him, as a critic, 62, n. and 272.
-    his account of the opening of the _Epistle to Augustus_ censured,
-      326.
-
-  DANCE, the choral commended, i. 178.
-
-  DAVENANT, Sir _William_, his _Gondibert_ criticised, ii. 235.
-
-  DEMETRIUS PHALEREUS, characterizes the satyric piece, i. 193.
-
-  DESCRIPTION, natural and moral, why similar in the form as well as
-      matter in all poets, ii. 191, 192.
-
-  DIALOGUE, _Socratic_, the genius of, i. 252.
-
-  DIO CASSIUS, instances from him of the gross flattery paid to
-      _Caesar_, i. 330.
-
-  DIOMEDES, of the Satyric and Atellane fables, i. 195.
-    of the use of the Satyric piece, 203.
-    a passage in him corrected by _Casaubon_, 208.
-    his character of the Atellanes, 234.
-    distinguishes the different kinds of the _Roman_ drama, 241.
-
-  DIONYSIUS, of _Halicarnassus_, of the use of words, i. 92.
-    of _Plato’s_ figurative style, 254.
-
-  DOCTUS, the meaning of, explained, i. 350-352.
-
-  DONATUS, distinguishes the three forms of comedy, i. 192, 193.
-
-  DRAMA, see _Tragedy_, _Comedy_, _Farce_.
-
-  —— _Peruvian_, some account of, ii. 66, 67.
-    _Chinese_, 67.
-    _Greek_ and _Roman_, its character, 69.
-    the laws of, in what different from those of history, ii. 179.
-
-  DULCE, its distinction from _pulchrum_, i. 109.
-
-  DUPORT, _Pr._, his collection of moral parallelisms in _Homer_, and
-      Sacred Writ, of what use? ii. 140.
-
-
-  E.
-
-  ELECTRA, of _Euripides_, vindicated, i. 125.
-    a circumstance in the two plays of that name by _Euripides_ and
-      _Sophocles_ compared, 259.
-
-  ELFRIDA, of Mr. Mason, i. 148.
-    the best apology for the ancient chorus, ibid.
-
-  ENVY, how it operates in human nature, i. 329.
-    how it operated in the case of Mr. _Pope_, 328.
-
-  EPIC _Poetry_, admits new words, i. 73.
-    its plan how far to be copied by the tragic poet, 137.
-    in what different from history, ii. 179.
-
-  EPISODE, its character and laws, ii. 185.
-
-  EPISTLE, didactic and elegiac, Intr. to vol. i. 17.
-    _Didactic_, the offspring of the satyr, ibid.
-    its three-fold character, 24.
-    _Elegiac_, the difference of this from the didactic form, 23, 24.
-
-  ERATOSTHENES, his idea of the end of poetry, ii. 4.
-
-  EURIPIDES, his character, i. 116.
-    his _Medea_ commended, 121.
-    _Electra_ vindicated, 125.
-    _Iphigenia_ in _Aulis_ vindicated, 131.
-    the decorum of his characters, 132.
-    his _Hippolytus_ led _Seneca_ into mistakes, 150.
-    an observation on the chorus of that play, 161.
-    and of the _Medea_, 162.
-    _Quintilian’s_ character of him, 191.
-    a circumstance in his _Electra_ compared with _Sophocles_, 259.
-    his genius resembling _Virgil’s_, ii. 152.
-
-  EXPRESSION, why similar in different writers without imitation, ii.
-      204.
-
-
-  F.
-
-  FABLE, why essential to both Dramas, ii. 42.
-    why an unity and even simplicity in the fable, 43.
-    a good one, why not so essential to comedy as tragedy, 45.
-
-  FARCE, the author’s idea of it, ii. 30.
-    its laws, 96.
-    its end and character, how distinguished from those of tragedy and
-      comedy, 98.
-
-  FEELING, rightly made the test of poetical merit, i. 390.
-
-  FENELON, of the use of old words, i. 91.
-
-  FICTION, _poetical_, when credible, ii. 130.
-    the soul of poetry, ii. 11.
-
-  FLATTERY of the _Roman Emperors_ excessive, i. 330.
-    imported from the _Asiatic_ provinces, 331.
-
-  FONTENELLE, M. _de_, his opinion of the origin of comedy, i. 244.
-    his notion of the drama, ii. 75, &c.
-    his comedies criticised, 90.
-    his pastorals censured, ibid.
-    his opinion of the uses of criticism, 105.
-
-
-  G.
-
-  GEDDES, J. Esq., his notion of the most essential principles of
-      Eloquence, i. 381.
-
-  GELLIUS, _Aulus_, his opinion of _Laberius_, i. 206.
-
-  GENIUS, original, a proof of, in the particularity of description,
-      ii. 126.
-    similarity of, in two writers, its effects, 225.
-
-  GEORGIC, the form of this poem, what, ii. 183.
-
-  GREEKS, their most ancient writers falsely supposed to be the best,
-      i. 347.
-
-
-  H.
-
-  HEINSIUS, his idea of true criticism, i. 65.
-    his explanation of a passage in _Horace_, 148.
-    thought one part of the Epistle to the _Pisos_ inexplicable, 269.
-    his transposition of the Epistle censured, 272.
-
-  HIPPOLYTUS, of _Euripides_; an observation on the chorus, i. 161.
-    of _Seneca_, censured, 149.
-
-  HOBBES, Mr., his censure of the Italian romancers in their unnatural
-      fiction, ii. 238.
-
-  HOESLINUS, his opinion of the fourth book of the Aeneis, ii. 154.
-
-  HOMER, first invented dramatic imitations, i. 42.
-    his excellence in painting the _effects_ of the manners, ii. 157.
-
-  HORACE, explained and illustrated, _passim_.
-    his _Epistle to the Pisos_, a criticism on the Roman drama, Introd.
-      to vol. i. 15.
-    the character of his genius, 24.
-    his _Epistle to Augustus_, an apology for the _Roman_ poets, 325.
-    design and character of his other critical works, 407.
-    what may be said for his flattery of _Augustus_, 330.
-    fond of the old _Latin_ poets, 349.
-    his knowledge of the world, 379.
-
-  HUME, _David_, Esq., his account of the pathos in tragedy, considered,
-      i. 118.
-    his judgment of Fontenelle’s discourse on pastoral poetry, 218.
-
-  HUMOUR, the end of comedy, ii. 57.
-    two species of humour, 59.
-    one of these not much known to the ancients, ibid.
-    neither of them in that perfection on the ancient as modern stage,
-      60.
-    may subsist without ridicule, 62.
-    yet enlivened by it, 64.
-
-  HYMNS, profane and sacred, why similar, ii. 138.
-
-
-  I. and J.
-
-  INVENTION, in poetry, what, ii. 111.
-    principally displayed in the _manner_ of imitation, 158.
-
-  JESTER, a character by profession amongst the _Greeks_, i. 235.
-
-  IMITATION, primary and secondary, what, ii. 113.
-    the latter not easily distinguishable from the former, ibid.
-    shewn at large in respect of the matter of poetry, 115 to 176.
-    of the _manner_, 176 to 215.
-    in painting, sooner detected than in poetry, why, 162.
-    how it may be detected, 208 and _Letter to Mr. Mason_, throughout.
-    Why no rules delivered for it in the _Discourse on imitation_, 214.
-    confessed, no certain proof of an inferiority of genius, 215, 216.
-    accounted for from habit, 217.
-    from authority, 221.
-    from judgment, 222.
-    from similarity of genius, 224.
-    from the nature of the subject, 226.
-    its singular merit, 228.
-    not to be avoided by literate writers without affectation, 234.
-
-  INCOLUMI GRAVITATE, a learned critic’s interpretation of these words,
-      i. 201.
-
-  INNOVATION, in words, why allowed to old writers, and not to others,
-      i. 88.
-
-  INTRIGUE, when faulty in comedy, ii. 39.
-
-  JONSON, _Ben_, a criticism on his _Catiline_, i. 135.
-    his _Every man out of his humour_ censured, ii. 52.
-    his _Alchymist_ and _Volpone_ criticized, 101.
-    the character of his genius and comedy, 103.
-
-  IPHIGENIA at AULIS, of Euripides, vindicated, i. 131.
-
-  JULIUS POLLUX, shews the _Tibia_ to have been used in the chorus,
-      i. 177.
-
-  JUNCTURA CALLIDA, explained, i. 74.
-    exemplified from Shakespear, 77.
-
-
-  K.
-
-  KNOWLEDGE of the world, what, i. 379.
-
-
-  L.
-
-  LABERIUS, his mimes, what, i. 205.
-
-  LAMBIN, his comment on _communia_ supported, i. 133.
-
-  LANDSKIP-PAINTING, wherein its beauty consists, i. 71.
-
-  LEX TALIONIS, i. 127.
-
-  LICENCE, of particular seasons in _Greece_ and _Rome_, its effect
-      on taste, i. 234, 235.
-    of ancient wit, to what owing, 231.
-
-  LIPSIUS, his extravagant flattery, i. 332.
-
-  LONGINUS, his opinion of imitators without genius, i. 250.
-    accounts for the decline of the arts, 265.
-    his opinion of the mutual assistance of art and nature, 273.
-    his method of criticizing, scientific, 392.
-    wherein defective, 394.
-
-  LOVE, subjects of, a defect in modern tragedy, why, ii. 34.
-    passion of, how described by _Terence_ and _Shakespear_, ii. 144.
-    by _Catullus_ and _Ovid_, 151.
-    by _Virgil_, 152.
-
-  LUCIAN, the first of the ancients who has left us any considerable
-      specimens of comic humour, i. 225.
-    his ΑΛΕΚΤΡΥΩΝ and ΛΑΠΙΘΑΙ, 235.
-
-
-  M.
-
-  MACHINERY, essential to the epic poetry, why, ii. 166.
-
-  MALHERBE, M., the character and fortune of his poetry, i. 358.
-
-  MANNERS, why imperfect in both dramas, ii. 60.
-    description of, whence taken, 129.
-
-  MARKLAND, Mr., an emendation of his confirmed, i. 71.
-
-  MARKS, of _Imitation_, ii. _Letter to Mr. Mason_.
-
-  MASON, his _Elfrida_, commended, i. 148.
-
-  MEDEA, of _Euripides_, commended, i. 121.
-    its chorus vindicated, 162.
-    of _Seneca_, censured, 122.
-
-  MENAGE, his judgment of ancient wit, i. 230.
-    his intended discourse on imitation, 405.
-
-  MENANDER, why most admired after the _Augustan_ age, i. 223.
-    did not excel in comic humour, 225.
-    his improvements of comedy, ii. 72.
-
-  MILTON, his angels, whence taken, ii. 116.
-    his attention to the effects of the manners, 158.
-
-  MIMES, the character of them, i. 205.
-    defined by _Diomedes_, 206.
-
-  MODERNS, bad imitators of _Plato_, i. 234.
-
-  MOLIERE, his comedies farcical, ii. 100.
-    his _Misanthrope_ and _Tartuffe_ commended, 101.
-
-  MONEY, love of, the bane of the ancient arts, i. 264.
-
-  MORNING, descriptions of, in the poets compared, ii. 123.
-    when most original, 126.
-
-  MUSIC, old, why preferred by the _Greek_ writers, i. 181.
-    why by the _Latin_, 182.
-
-  —— of the stage, its rise and progress at _Rome_, i. 168.
-    defects of the old music, 182.
-
-
-  N.
-
-  NARRATION, oratorial, the credibility of, on what it depends,
-      ii. 130. n.
-
-  NOVELS, modern, criticized, ii. 18.
-
-
-  O.
-
-  ODE, its character, i. 94.
-    its end, 270.
-    the poet’s own odes, apologized for, ibid.
-
-  OPINION, popular, of writings, under what circumstances to be
-      regarded, i. 355.
-
-  D’ORVILLE, Mr., his defence of the double sense of verbs examined,
-      i. 358.
-
-  OSCI, their language used in the Atellanes, i. 196.
-
-  OTWAY, his _Orphan_ censured, i. 68.
-
-  OVID, the character of his genius, Introd. to i. 23, 24.
-    a conjecture concerning his _Medea_, i. 143.
-    makes the satyrs to be a species of the tragic drama, 192.
-    his account of the mimes, 205.
-
-
-  P.
-
-  PAINTING, _Landskip_, wherein its beauty consists, i. 71.
-    _Portrait_, its excellence, ii. 49.
-    difference between the _Italian_ and _Flemish_ schools, i. 256.
-    its moral efficacy, 375.
-    inferior to poetry, in what, ii. 130.
-    wherein superior to poetry, 146.
-    expresses the general character, 160.
-    hath an advantage in this respect over poetry, 162.
-    unable to represent moral and œconomical sentiments, 168.
-
-  PASSIONS, the way to paint them naturally, ii. 131.
-
-  PASTORAL poetry, its genius, and fortunes, i. 214.
-
-  PATHOS, the supreme excellence of tragedy, i. 116., 397.
-    how far to be admitted into comedy, ii. 73.
-    the pleasure arising from, how to be accounted for, i. 119.
-
-  PATERCULUS, _Velleius_, an admirer of _Menander_, i. 229.
-    his character of Pomponius, 197.
-
-  PAUSANIAS, describes two pictures of _Polygnotus_, ii. 161.
-
-  PERRON, Cardinal, his manner of criticizing _Ronsard_, i. 394.
-
-  PLATO, his opinion of _Homer’s_ imitations, i. 67.
-    commends the _Aegyptian_ policy in retaining the songs of
-      _Isis_, 181.
-    his _Symposium_ criticized, 235.
-    his manner of writing, characterised, 255.
-    his _Phaedrus_ censured, ibid.
-    his objection to poetry answered, 256.
-
-  PLAUTUS, why _Cicero_ commends his wit, and _Horace_ condemns
-      it, i. 220.
-    copied from the middle comedy, 228.
-    his apology for the _Amphitruo_, why necessary, ii. 42.
-    preferred to _Terence_ in the _Augustan_ age, i. 228.
-
-  PLOTS, double, in the _Latin_ comedies, admired, why, i. 354.
-
-  PLUTARCH, his admiration of _Menander_, i. 229.
-
-  POETRY, the art of, wherein it consists, ii. 3.
-    the knowledge of its several species, necessary to the dramatic
-      poet, i. 94.
-    more philosophic than history, 257.
-    tragic, its peculiar excellence, 397.
-    hath the advantage of all other modes of imitation, in what,
-      ii. 172.
-
-  —— descriptive, an identity in the subject of, no proof of
-          imitation, ii. 118.
-
-  —— pure, the proper language of Passion, i. 104.
-
-  POETS, old, much esteemed by _Horace_, i. 349.
-    their apology, 380.
-    bad soldiers, 384.
-    dramatic, a rule for their observance, i. 105.
-    bad, characterized by _Milton_, 378.
-
-  POLYGNOTUS, his simple manner, why admired, under the emperors,
-      i. 346.
-    his expedient to explain the design of his pictures, ii. 161.
-
-  POMPONIUS, in what sense Inventor of the Atellane poem, i. 198.
-
-  POPE, Mr., honoured after death, by whom, i. 329.
-    his censure of a passage in the _Iliad_, defended, 359.
-    his judgment of the 6th book of the _Thebaid_, ii. 191.
-    his censure of the comparisons in _Virgil_ considered, 201.
-    his opinion of imitation, 234.
-
-  POUSSIN, _Gaspar_, his landskips, in what excellent, i. 70.
-
-  PRODIGIES, inquiry into, the author’s opinion of that discourse,
-      ii. 206.
-    an observation quoted from it, ib.
-
-  PULCHRUM, how distinguished from _Dulce_, i. 109.
-
-
-  Q.
-
-  QUINTILIAN, his judgment of new words, i. 88, 93.
-    of _Varius’_ tragedy of Thyestes, 95.
-    of the pathetic vein of _Euripides_, 116.
-    of _Ovid’s Medea_, 144.
-    of the state of Music in his time, 182.
-    of _Euripides’_ use of sentences, 190.
-    of the old _Greek_ comic writers, 223.
-    of _Terence’s_ wit, 225.
-    and elegance, 226.
-    of the licentious feasts of _Bacchus_, &c., 235.
-    of _Aeschylus_, 239.
-    of the false fire of bad writers, 250.
-    his opinion of the necessary inferiority of a copy to its
-      original, how far to be admitted, ii. 114.
-    his rule for oratorial narration, 130. n.
-
-
-  R.
-
-  RANDOLPH, his _Muse’s Looking-glass_, censured, ii. 53.
-
-  RHYME, how far essential to modern poetry, ii. 11.
-
-  RICCOBONI, L., his observation of the difference betwixt the
-      _Greek_ and _French_ drama, ii. 43. n.
-    a good critic, though a mere player, ib.
-
-  ROBORTELLUS, his explanation of a passage, inforced, i. 110.
-
-  ROMANS, much addicted to spectacles, i. 389.
-
-  RUISDALE, his waters, i. 71.
-
-
-  S.
-
-  SALMASIUS, what he thought of the method of the _Epistle to the
-      Pisos_, Intr. to vol. i. 25. n.
-
-  SAPERET, the meaning of this word in A. P., i. 169.
-
-  SATYRS, a species of the tragic drama, i. 192.
-    distinct from the Atellane fables, 195.
-
-  —— of elder _Greece_, what, i. 194.
-
-  —— why _Horace_ enlarges upon them, i. 202, 203.
-    their double purpose, 200.
-    style, 210.
-    measure, 219.
-
-  SCALIGER, J., what he thought of the Epistles of _Horace_, Intr.
-      to i. 24. n.
-    of the ancient Mimes, i. 205.
-    his wrong interpretation of the _Art of Poetry_, to what owing,
-      Intr. to i. 16.
-
-  SCENE, of comedy, laid at home; of tragedy, abroad; the reason
-      of this practice, ii. 55.
-
-  SCHOLARS, their pretensions to public honours and preferments,
-      on what founded, i. 399.
-
-  SCHOLIA, of the _Greeks_, i. 187.
-    Aristotle’s translated, 189.
-
-  SENECA, the philosopher, his account of the mimes of _Laberius_,
-      i. 206.
-
-  —— his _Medea_, censured, i. 121, 143.
-    his _Hippolytus_ censured, 149.
-    his Aphorisms quaint, 191.
-
-  SENTENCES, why so frequent in the _Greek_ writers, i. 185.
-
-  SENTIMENTS, religious, moral, and œconomical, why the descriptions
-      of, similar in all poets, ii. 136, 145.
-
-  SERMO, the meaning of this word, i. 327.
-
-  SHAFTESBURY, E., of, his opinion of _Homer’s_ imitations, i. 67.
-    of the writings of _Plato_, 252.
-    his Platonic manner liable to censure, 253.
-
-  SHAKESPEAR, excels in the _callida junctura_, i. 77.
-    how he characterizes his clowns, 200.
-    his want of a learned education, 248.
-    advantages of it, ib.
-    his excellence in drawing characters, wherein it consists, ii. 53.
-    his power in painting the passion of grief, 133.
-    his description of œconomical sentiments, original, 144.
-
-  STATIUS, his character, ii. 190.
-    his book of games criticized, 191.
-
-  SHIRLEY, a fine passage from one of his plays, i. 86.
-
-  SIDNEY, Sir Philip, his character, i. 116.
-    his encomium on the pathos of tragedy, 397.
-
-  SOCRATES, his office in the symposia of _Xenophon_ and _Plato_, i.
-      236. n.
-    his judgment of moral paintings, 375.
-
-  SOPHOCLES, the chorus of his _Antigone_ defended, i. 158, 163. n.
-    a satyric tragedy ascribed to him, 193.
-    a circumstance in his _Electra_ compared with _Euripides_, 259.
-
-  STEPHENS, H., his observations on the refinement of the _French_
-      language, i. 90.
-
-  STRABO, a passage from him to prove the Tuscan language used in
-      the Atellanes, i. 198.
-
-  STYLE, of poetry, defined, ii. 10.
-
-  SUBJECTS, public, how to acquire a property in them, i. 219.
-    domestic, why fittest for the stage, 247.
-    real, succeed best in tragedy; feigned, in comedy, why, ii. 46.
-
-
-  T.
-
-  TACITUS, a bold expression of his, justified, i. 103.
-
-  TELEMAQUE, why no new similes in this work, ii. 203.
-
-  TELEPHUS, a tragedy of _Euripides_, i. 107.
-    another tragedy of that name glanced at by _Horace_, 108.
-
-  TEMPE, _Aelian’s_ description of, translated, ii. 119.
-
-  TEMPLE, Sir William, his sentiments on the passion of avarice,
-      i. 265.
-    his notion of religious description in modern poets, ii. 166.
-
-  TERENCE, why his plays ill received, i. 224.
-    fell short of _Menander_ in the elegance of his expression, 225.
-    a remarkable instance of humour in the Hecyra, ii. 62.
-    the characteristic of his comedies, his _Hecyra_ vindicated,
-      i. 354, 355.
-    a passage in his _Andrian_ compared with one in _Shakespear’s
-      Twelfth-Night_, ii. 144.
-    his opinion of the necessary uniformity of moral description, 194.
-
-  TRAGEDY, the Author’s idea of, ii. 30.
-    conclusions, concerning its nature, from this idea, 31.
-    attributes, common to it and comedy, 42.
-    attributes peculiar to it, 45.
-
-  —— admits pure poetry, i. 101.
-    why its pathos pleases, 119.
-    on low life, censured, ii. 84.
-    a modern refinement, 86.
-    accounted for, 87.
-
-  TRAPP, Dr., his interpretation of _communia_, i. 134.
-    his judgment of the chorus, 146.
-
-  TRUTH IN POETRY, what, i. 255.
-    may be followed too closely in works of imitation, ib.
-
-
-  U.
-
-  VARRO, _M. Terentius_, assigns the distinct merit of _Cæcilius_
-      and _Terence_, i. 353.
-
-  VATRY, Abbé, his defence of the ancient chorus, i. 148.
-
-  VICTORIUS, of the satyric Metre, i. 219.
-
-  VIRGIL, his method in conducting the _Aeneis_ justified, i. 139.
-    his address in his flattery of _Augustus_, 332.
-    his introduction to the third _Georgic_ explained, 333.
-    three verses in the same, spurious, 341. n.
-    his moral character, vindicated, 403.
-    his poetical, vol. ii. _Discourse on poetical imitation_, throughout;
-    his book of _games_ defended from the charge of plagiarism, 187.
-    why few comparisons in his works, but what are to be found
-      in _Homer_, 201.
-
-  UNCTI, the meaning of, in the Epistle to _Augustus_, i. 349.
-
-  VOLTAIRE, _M. de_, his judgment of machinery, what, ii. 166. n.
-
-  UPTON, Mr., his criticism on the satyrs, examined, i. 202.
-
-
-  W.
-
-  WARBURTON, Mr., his edition of Mr. _Pope_; Intr. to i. 26.
-    and of Shakespear, Ded. to Epistle to Augustus, 287. and 80.
-    his judgment of the intricacy of the comic plot, ii. 39.
-    of the scene of the drama, 55.
-    of comic humour, 61.
-    of the double sense in writing, i. 365.
-    of the similarity in religious rites, ii. 165.
-
-  WHOLE, its beauty consists not in the accurate finishing, but in
-      the elegant disposition, of the parts, i. 69.
-
-  WIT, ancient, licentious, i. 230.
-    why, 231.
-
-  WORDS, old ones, their energy, how revived, i. 89.
-
-
-  X.
-
-  XENOPHON, an elegant inaccuracy in a speech in the _Cyropaedia_,
-      i. 99. n.
-    his fine narration of a circumstance in the story of _Panthea_,
-      unsuited to the stage, 143.
-    his symposium explained, 235. n.
-    a conversation on painting from the _Memorabilia_, translated,
-      375.
-
-
-  Z.
-
-  ZEUXIS, his pictures, in what repute under the Emperors, i. 346.
-
-
-THE END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
-
-  Nichols and Son, Printers,
-  Red Lion Passage, Fleet Street, London.
-
-
-
-
-FOOTNOTES:
-
-[1] Empedocles. See Plutarch, vol. I. p. 15. Par. 1624.
-
-[2] See STRABO, l. i. p. 15. Par. 1620.
-
-[3] ADV. OF LEARNING, vol. i, p. 50. Dr. Birch’s Ed. 1765.
-
-[4] Aristotle was of the same mind, as appears from his definition of
-comedy, which, says he, is ΜΙΜΗΣΙΣ ΦΑΥΛΟΤΕΡΩΝ; [κ. ε.] that is, _the
-imitation of characters_, whatever be the distinct meaning of the term
-φαυλότεροι. It is true, this critic, in his account of the origin of
-tragedy and comedy, makes them both the imitations of ACTIONS. Οἱ μὲν
-σεμνότεροι ΤΑΣ ΚΑΛΑΣ ἐμιμοῦντο ΠΡΑΞΕΙΣ, οἱ δὲ εὐτελέστεροι ΤΑΣ τῶν
-φαύλων. [κ. δ.] Yet, even here, the expression is so put, as if he had
-been conscious that _persons_, not _actions_, were the direct object
-of comedy. And the quotation, now alledged from another place, where a
-definition is given more in form, shews, that this was, in effect, his
-sentiment.
-
-[5] The neglect of this is one of the greatest defects in the _modern
-drama_; which in nothing falls so much short of the perfection of the
-Greek scene as in this want of simplicity in the construction of its
-fable. The good sense of the author of the _History of the Italian
-Theatre_ (who, though a mere player, appears to have had juster notions
-of the drama, than the generality of even professed critics) was
-sensibly struck with this difference in _tragedy_. “Quant à l’unité
-d’action, says he, je trouve un grande difference entre les tragedies
-Grecques et les tragedies Françoises; j’apperçois toûjours aísément
-l’action des tragedies Grecques, et je ne la perds point de vûe; mais
-dans les tragedies Françoises, j’avoüe, que j’ai souvent bien de la
-peine à demêler l’action des episodes, dont elle est chargée.” [_Hist.
-du Theatre Italian_, par LOUIS RICCOBONI, p. 293. _Paris_ 1728.]
-
-[6] _Non hominem ex ære fecit, sed iracundiam._ Plin. xxxiv. 8.
-
-[7] P. ALVAREZ SEMEDO, speaking of their poetry, says, “Le plus grand
-advantage et la plus grande utilité qu’en ont tiré les CHINOIS, est
-cette grande modestie et retenuë incomparable, qui se voit en leurs
-ecrits, _n’ayant pas meme une lettre en tous leurs livres, ni en toutes
-leurs ecritures, pour exprimer les parties honteuses de la nature_.”
-[HIST. UNIV. DE LA CHINE, p. 82, à LYON 1667. 4^{to}.]
-
-[8] LE RIDICULE EST CE QU’IL Y A DE PLUS ESSENTIEL A LA COMEDIE. [P.
-RAPIN, REFLEX. SUR LA POES. p. 154. PARIS 1684.]
-
-[9] Οἱ μὲν σεμνότεροι τὰς καλὰς ἐμιμοῦντο πράξεις, καὶ τὰς τῶν τοιούτων
-τύχας· οἱ δὲ εὐτελέστεροι, τὰς τῶν φαύλων, ΠΡΩΤΟΝ ΨΟΓΟΥΣ ΠΟΙΟΥΝΤΕΣ,
-ΩΣΠΕΡ ἙΤΕΡΟΙ ΥΜΝΟΥΣ ΚΑΙ ΕΓΚΩΜΙΑ. [ΠΕΡ. ΠΟΙΗΤ. κδ.] This is Aristotle’s
-account of the origin of the different _species of_ POETRY. They were
-occasioned, he says, by the different and even opposite _tempers
-and dispositions of men: those of a loftier spirit delighting in
-the encomiastic poetry, while the humbler sort betook themselves to
-satire_. But this, also, is the just account of the rise and character
-of the different _species of the_ DRAMA. For they grew up, he tells
-us in this very chapter, from the DITHYRAMBIC, and PHALLIC songs. And
-who were the _men_, who chaunted _these_, but the ΣΕΜΝΟΤΕΡΟΙ, and
-ΕΥΤΕΛΕΣΤΕΡΟΙ, before-mentioned? And how were they _employed_ in them,
-_but the former, in hymning the praises of Bacchus; the latter, in
-dealing about obscene jokes and taunting invectives on each other_? So
-that the _characters_ of the men, and their _subjects_, being exactly
-the same in _both_, what is said of the _one_ is equally applicable
-to the _other_. It was proper to observe this, or the reader might,
-perhaps, object to the use made of this passage, _here_, as well as
-_above_, where it is brought to illustrate Aristotle’s notion of the
-_natures_ of the tragic and comic poetry.
-
-[10] _Pref. generale_, tom. vii. Par. 1751.
-
-[11] “On attache par le grand, par le noble, par le rare, par
-l’imprévû. On émeut par le terrible ou affreux, par le pitoyable, par
-le tendre, par le plaisant ou ridicule.” p. xiv.
-
-[12] “Que nous sommes en droit d’examiner si, en fait de Theatre, nous
-n’aurions pas quelquefois des _habitudes_ au lieu de _regles_, car les
-regles ne peuvent l’être qu’ après avoir subi les rigueurs du tribunal
-de la raison.” p. 37.
-
-[13] Οὐ πᾶσαν δεῖ ζητεῖν ἡδονὴν ἀπὸ τραγῳδίας, ἀλλὰ τὴν οἰκείαν.
-Ποιητ. κ. ιδʹ.
-
-[14] _Reflex. sur la Poes._ p. 132.
-
-[15] “Ces sortes de speculations ne donnent point de genie à ceux
-qui en manquent; elles n’aident beaucoup ceux qui en ont: et le plus
-souvent même les gens de génie sont incapables d’être aidées par les
-speculations. A quoi donc sont-elles bonnes? A faire remonter jusqu’aux
-premieres idées du beau quelques gens qui aiment la raisonnement, et
-se plaisent à reduire sous l’empire de la philosophie les choses qui
-en paroissent le plus indépendantes, et que l’on croit communément
-abandonnées à la bizarrerie des goûts.”
-                                                 M. DE FONTENELLE.
-
-[16] Μελαίνει τε, says Dionysius of Halicarnassus, speaking of his
-figurative manner, τὸ σαφὲς καὶ ζόφῳ ποιεῖ παραπλήσιον· [T. ii. p. 204.
-_Ed. Hudson_.]
-
-[17] PLATO DE REPUB. lib. x.
-
-[18] Spectator, No. 56.
-
-[19] QUINCTIL. lib. x. c. 11.
-
-[20] Botanists give it the name of _oriental bind weed_. It is said to
-be a very rambling plant, which climbs up trees, and rises to a great
-height in the Levant, where it particularly flourishes.
-
-[21] ARIST. RHET. lib. iii. c. xi.
-
-[22] Ὅταν ἃ λέγῃς, ὑπ’ ἐνθουσιασμοῦ καὶ πάθους βλέπειν δοκῇς, καὶ
-ὑπ’ ὄψιν τιθῇς ἀκούουσιν. [ΠΕΡ. ΥΨ. § xv.]
-
-[23] What is here said of _poetical fiction_, Quinctilian hath applied
-to _oratorial narration_; the credibility of which will depend on the
-observance of this rule. _Credibilis erit narratio antè omnia, si priùs
-consuluerimus nostrum_ ANIMUM, _nequid naturae dicamus adversum_. [L.
-iv. 2.]
-
-[24] So the great philosopher, ὃ γὰρ περὶ ἐνίας συμβαίνει πάθος ψυχὰς
-ἰσχυρῶς, τοῦτο ἐν πάσαις ὑπάρχει. τῷ δὲ ἧττον διαφέρει, καὶ τῷ μᾶλλον.
-ΠΟΛΙΤ. Θ. Whence our Hobbes seems to have taken his aphorism, which
-he makes the corner-stone of his philosophy. “That for the similitude
-of the thoughts and passions of one man to the thoughts and passions
-of another, whosoever looketh into himself, and considereth what he
-doth, when he does _think, opine, reason, hope, fear_, &c. and upon
-what grounds; he shall thereby read and know, what are the thoughts and
-passions of all other men, upon the like occasions.”
-                          LEVIATHAN, _Introd. p. 2. fol. London_. 1651.
-
-[25] M. DE LA BRUYERE, Tom. 1. p. 91. Amst. 1701.
-
-[26] Dr. Duport.
-
-[27] JEREMIAS HOELSLINUS, _Prolegom. ad. Apollon. Rhodium_.
-
-[28] DIV. LEG. vol. ii. par. 1. p. 355. ed. 1741.
-
-[29] Sir WILLIAM TEMPLE’S _Works_, vol. i. p. 245. ed. 1740. fol.
-
-[30] “_La machine du merveilleux_, _l’intervention d’un pouvoir
-céleste_, la nature des episodes, tout ce qui _depend de la tyrannie de
-la coutume_, & de cet instinct qui on nomme goût; voilà sur quoi il y a
-mille opinions, & _point de régles générales_.” M. DE VOLTAIRE, _Essaye
-sur la poësie Epique_, chap. i.
-
-[31] DE AUGM. SCIENT. lib. ii. c. 13.
-
-[32] _A Critical and Philosophical Inquiry into the causes of prodigies
-and miracles_, &c. p. 130.
-
-[33] Letter to Mr. MASON.
-
-[34] Mr. Addison.
-
-[35] _Somn. Scip._ ii. c. 10.
-
-[36] PLATO, _Alcibiad._
-
-[37] _Reflex. sur la Poës. et sur la Peint._ tom. ii. 80. Par. 1746.
-
-[38] _Inquiry into the L. and W. of Homer_, p. 174.
-
-[39] MACROBIUS, V. _Saturnal._
-
-[40] _Inquiry into L. &c. of Homer_, p. 319.
-
-[41] _Mem. de l’Acad. des Inscript. &c._ tom. vi. p. 445.
-
-[42] Mr. Pope’s Preface to his Works.
-
-[43] Pref. to GONDIBERT, p. 2. Lond. 1651, 4^{to}.
-
-[44] Ibid. p. 30.
-
-[45] Pref. to GONDIBERT, p. 3. Lond. 1651, 4^{to}.
-
-[46] Answer to the Preface, p. 81.
-
-[47] P. 214.
-
-
-
-
-[Transcriber’s Note:
-
-All instances of a stigma (ϛ) in words have been changed to sigma tau
-(στ).
-
-The original text had an alternative pi (ϖ) at the start of a word.
-These have been changed to the standard pi (π).
-
-Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]
-
-
-
-
-End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Works of Richard Hurd, D. D.,
-Lord Bishop of Worcester. Volume II.
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