Part 12

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.