Part 6

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_,