Part 8

_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_.