Part 7

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?