II.

No might nor greatness in mortalityCan censure ’scape: back-wounding calumnyThe whitest virtue strikes.

Friar Lawrence, inRomeoandJuliet, 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 ofimitation?

InCymbeline, 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 samefarewell we have over the dead body in Lucian; ΤΕΚΝΟΝ ΑΘΛΙΟΝ, ΟΥΚΕΤΙ ΔΙΨΗΣΕΙΣ, ΟΥΚΕΤΙ ΠΕΙΝΗΣΕΙΣ, &c.”

When Valentine in theTwelfth-nightreports 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 frameTo pay this debt of love but to a brother,How will she love, when the rich golden shaftHath killed the flock of all affections elseThat live in her?

’Tis strange, the critics have never accused the poet of stealing this sentiment from Terence, who makes Simo in theAndrianreason on his son’s concern for Chrysis in the same manner:

Nonnunquam conlacrumabat: placuit tum id mihi.Sic cogitabam: hic parvae consuetudinisCausâ 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, andcapricious, than thethoughtof man, yet he will easily collect, thatcharacter,passion,system, orcircumstancecan, 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 theseinternal movements, as of the visible phaenomena of thenatural 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, ofreal ability, is childish. Common sense directs us, for the most part, to regardresemblancesin great writers, not as the pilferings, or frugal acquisitions of needyart, but as the honest fruits of genius, the free and liberal bounties of unenvyingnature.

III. Having learned, from our own conscious reflexion, the secret operations ofreason,character, andpassion, it now remains to contemplate theireffects 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 paintthemselves on thecountenance; stand forth inairsandattitudes; and declare themselves in all the diversities of humanaction. 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 ofimitation. For the external forms themselves are grateful to thefancy, and, as being expressive ofdesign, warm and agitate theheartwith passion. Hence it is, that narrative poetry, which draws mankind under everyapparent consequence and effectof passion, inchants the mind. And even the dramatic, we know, is cool and lifeless, and loses half its efficacy, withoutaction. This, too, is the province ofpicture,statuary, and all arts, which inform by mute signs. Nay, the mute arts may be styled, almost without a figure, in this class ofimitation, the most eloquent. For what words can expressairs 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, asfiction? Whenpassionis to be made known by outwardact, Homer himself yields the palm toRaphael.

But our business is with thepoets. And, in reviewing this their largest and most favoured stock ofmaterials, can we do better than contemplate them in the very order, in which we before disposed theworkingsof the mind itself, thecausesof these appearances?

1. To begin with theaffections. They have their rise, as was observed, from the veryconstitutionof 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 similarsentiments and reflexions. Hence the appeal is made to every one’s ownconsciousness, which declares the truth or falshood of theimitation. When thesecommotionsare produced and made objective to sense byvisible signs, isobservationa more fallible guide, thanconsciousness? Or, doth experience attest thesesignsto be less similar and uniform, than theiroccasions? By no means. Take a man under the impression ofjoy,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 thesechanges. And poetry sets herself at work, with eagerness, to catch and transcribe their variousappearances. No correspondency of representation, then, needs surprize us; nor any the exactestresemblancebe thought strange, where theobjectis equally present to all persons. For it must be remarked of thevisible effectsofMIND, as, before, of thephaenomenaof thematerial world, that they are, simply, the objects ofobservation. So that what was concluded ofthese, will hold also of theothers; with this difference, that theeffects of internal movementsdo not present themselves soconstantlyto the eye, nor with thatuniformityof appearance, aspermanent, external existencies. We cannot survey them atpleasure, but as occasion offers: and we, further, find them diversified by thecharacter, or disguised, in some degree, by theartifice, of the persons, in whom we observe them. But all the consequence is, that, to succeed in this work of painting thesignatures of internal affection, requires a larger experience, or quicker penetration, than copying afterstill life. Where the proper qualifications are possessed, and especially in describing themarksof vigorous affections, different writers cannot be supposed to varymore considerably, inthisprovince ofimitation, than in theother. 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 someillustrations.

The passion ofLOVEis one of those affections, which bear great sway in the human nature. Itsworkingsare violent. And itseffectson 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 inhistory; and hath furnished the most inchanting scenes offiction. Poetry hath ever lived by it. The modern muse hath hardly any existence without it. Let us ask, then, of thistyrant passion, whether its operations are not too familiar tosense, itseffectstoo visible to theeye, to make it necessary for the poet to go beyond himself, and the sphere of his own observation, for theoriginalof his descriptions of it.

To prevent all cavil, let it be allowed, that thesignsof this passion, I mean, the visible effects in which it shews itself, are various andalmost infinite. It is reproached, above all others, with the names ofcapricious, 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 canoccasionallytakeall, yet it delights to be seen insomeshapes, more than others. Some of itseffectsare 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 fromnature. 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’sPhaedriafrom Menander.HoraceandPersius, 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 inJuliainThe two Gentlemen of Verona.

Shall it be now said, thatShakespearcopied from Terence, as Terence from Menander?Or is it not as plain to common sense, that the English poet isoriginal, as that theLatinpoet was animitator?

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 herpassionin that distressful moment when, “from the naked beach, she views the parting sail of Theseus.” This was a time for all the signs ofdesolationto shew themselves. And could we doubt of his describing thosevery signs, which nature’s self dictated, long ago, to Catullus?

Non flavo retinens subtilem vertice mitram,Non contexta levi velatum pectus amictu,Non tereti strophio luctantes vincta papillas;Omnia quae toto delapsa è corpore passimIpsius 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 unaffectednaivetèof 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 oflove. He discovered his talent, as well as inclination, very early, in theBucolics; and even, where one should least expect it, in hisGeorgics. But the fairest opportunity offered in his great design of theAeneis. Here, one should suppose, the whole bent of his genius would exert itself. And we are not disappointed. I speak not of that succession ofsentiments, 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 ofinternal movements: and need not be considered. My concern at present, is with thosevisible, external indications, the sensible marks and signatures (as expressed inlook,air, andaction) of this tormenting frenzy. The history of these, as related in the narrative part of Dido’s adventure, would comprehend every naturalsituationof a person, underlove’sdistractions. And it were no unpleasing amusement to follow and contemplate her, in a series of pictures, from her first attitude, ofhanging on the mouth of Aeneas, through all the gradual excesses of her rage, to the concluding fatalact 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, pronouncesnatural.

It may seem sufficient, therefore, to ascribe these portraitures of passion, so suitable to all our expectations, and in drawing which thegenius 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 allresemblancesforthefts,” 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 thatHomerhath his Calypso, andEuripidesandApolloniustheir 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 Aeneis27.” 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 thesofter, cannot but hold more strongly of theboisterouspassions. These do not shelter, and conceal themselves within the man. It is particularly, of their nature, to stand forth, and shew themselves inoutward actions. Of the more illustriouseffectsof the ruder passions the chief arecontentions 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 suchdescription, some difference will arise from the instruments in use for annoyance of the enemy, and, in general, the state ofart military; but the actuating passions ofrage,ambition,emulation,thirst of honour,revenge, &c. are invariably the same, and are constantly evidenced by the same external marks or characters. Theshocks of armies,single combats;the chances and singularities of either;wounds,deaths,stratagems, and the other attendants onbattle, 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 lookabroad intolife and actionfor the model of all such representations. On which account we can rarely be certain, that thepictureis not fromnature, though an exact resemblance give to superficial and unthinking observers the suspicion ofart.

The same reasoning extends to all thephaenomenaof human life, which are the effects or consequences ofstrong affections, and which set mankind before us ingestures,looks, oractions, 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 representationimitatesanother; since an ordinary attention to the same common original, sufficiently accounts for both. The reader, if he sees fit, will apply these remarks to thebattles,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 theactuating passion, it cannot but be thought unfair to suspect the artist ofimitation; where nothing more is pretended than aresemblancein the draught ofsimilar effects, which it is not possible to avoid.

2. If this be comprehended, I shall need to say the less of theMANNERS; which are not less constant in theireffects, than thePASSIONS. When thecharacterof any person hath been signified, and his situation described, it is not wonderful, that twenty different writers should hit on the sameattitudes, 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 preciseattitude, 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 tonature, which led Milton to dispose of his fallen angels afterthe manner, described in the second book ofParadise 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, theknown character, in conjunction with thecircumstancesof the person described, determines the particularactionoremployment, 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 isnaturalis not therefore of necessityobvious: 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 ofjudgmentis one thing, and ofinvention, another.”

Properly speaking, what we callinventionin poetry is, in respect of thematterof it, simply,observation. And it is in the arrangement, use, and application of hismaterials, not in the investigation of them, that the exercise of the poet’s genius principally consists. In the case of immediate and directimagery,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 anyappearance, 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 imagesmustoccur 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 isbeautiful, which we calltaste, will as often mistake in thechoiceof 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 ofnew sentiments or images, but in the forceablemanner, in which their sublime genius taught them to convey and impressold ones.

And to inforce what is here said of thefamiliarityof this class of the poet’s materials, one may, further, appeal to the case of the othermimeticarts, which have no assistance fromnarration. Certaingestures,looks, orattitudes, are so immediately declarative of theinternal actuating causes, that, on the slightest view of thepictureorstatue, we collect the real state of the persons represented. Thisfigure, we say, strongly expresses the passion ofgrief;that, ofanger;that, ofjoy; and so of all the other affections. Or, again, when the particularpassionis characterized, the general temper and disposition, which we call themanners, is clearly discernible. There is a liberal and graceful air, which discovers a fine temperature of the affections, inone; a close and sullen aspect, declaring a narrow contracted selfishness inanother. In short, there is scarcely any mark or feature of the human mind, any peculiarity of disposition orcharacter, which the artist does not set off and make appear at once, to the view, by some certain turn orconformationof the outward figure. Now this effect of hisartwould be impossible, were it not, that regular and constant observation hath found suchexternal signsconsociated with the correspondentinternal workings. Aheaven overhung with clouds, thetossing of waves, andintermingled flashes of lightningare not surer indications of astorm, than thegloomy face,distorted limb, andindignant eyeare of the outrage of conflictingpassion. 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 byinscriptions. 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 tellus the meaning ofairs and attitudes, and to interpret to us theexpressionof 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 thevisible signs, usually attendant on anycharacterorpassion; and whom therefore the representation of thesesigns, would not lead to a certain knowledge of the character or passionintended.

Nay there is one advantage whichpaintinghath, in this respect, overnarration, and evenpoetryitself. For though poetry represent thesameobjects, thesamesensible marks of the internal movements, as painting, yet it doth it with lessparticularity and exactness. My meaning will be understood in reflecting, thatwordscan only give us, even when most expressive, thegeneralimage. The pencil touches its smallest and minutestspecialities. And this will explain the reason why any remarkable correspondency ofair,feature,attitude, &c. in two pictures, will, commonly and with good reason, convict one or both of them ofimitation: whereas this conclusion is by no means so certain from a correspondency of description in two poems. For the odds areprodigious 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 ofposture,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 verysame; more especially when described with the samecircumstances. But we forget, thatthe same materials are left in common toallpoets, and that the verycircumstances, alledged, can be, inwords, but very generally and imperfectly delineated.

3, Of thecalmer 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 ofreligion. 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 thepublic religionof mankind, had their rise in our common nature, and were the genuine product of the workings of the human mind28. For it is the mere illusion of this inveterate error concerningimitation, 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 thereligion itself continue unchanged, it necessarily follows, that the representations of them by different writers will agree to the minutest resemblance. Not only the generalriteorceremonywill be the same; but the very peculiarities of its performance, which are prescribed by rule, remain unaltered. Thus, ifreligious sentimentsusually express themselves, inallmen, by a certainposture of the body,direction of the hands,turn of the countenance, &c. thesesignsare uniformly and faithfully pictured in all devotional portraits. So again, if by the genius of anyparticularreligion, to which the poet is carefully to adhere, the practice ofsacrifices,auguries,omens,lustrations, &c. be required in its established ceremonial, the draught of this diversity ofsuperstitions, 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 ofreligious descriptionin poetry. I say theentire use; for so I understand him, when he says, “thereligionof the gentiles had been woven into the contexture of all the ancient poetry with a veryagreeablemixture, which made the modernsaffectto give that of Christianity a place also in their poems29.” He seems not to have conceived, that thevisible effectsof religious opinions and dispositions, constitute a principal part of what is most striking in the sublimer poetry. Thenarrative speciesdelights 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 thedramatic. Or, if he meant this censure, of theintervention of superior agents, and what we callmachinery, the observation (though it be seconded by one, whose profession should have taught him much better30) is not more to the purpose. For the pomp of theepic musedemands to be furnished with atrain 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,religionbecomes as necessary a part of a serious and sublime narration of human life, ascivil actions. And as the sublime nature of it requires evenvirtues and vicesto be personified, much more is it necessary, thatsupernatural agencyshould bear a part in it. For, whatever somesectsmay think of religion’s being a divine philosophy in the mind, thepoetmust exhibit man’s addresses to Heaven inceremonies, and Heaven’s intervention byvisible agency.”

So that the intermixture of religion, in every point of view, is not onlyagreeable, but necessary to the very genius of, at least, the highest class of poetry. Ancients and modernsmight therefore be led to the display of thissacred scenery, withoutaffectation. And for what concernsChristian 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 muchgrace, as in thepoets of paganism. It may be concluded then, universally, thatreligionis the proper object of poetry, which wants no prompter of a preceding model to give it an introduction; and that theforms, 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 themoral and oeconomical sentiments. These operate indeedwithin, and by their busy and active powers administer abundant matter to poetic description, whichaloneis equal to theseunseen 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: andso rarely come to be susceptible ofpictureorrepresentation. One may compare the subtle operations of thesesentimentson 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 throughwoodsandfields, and its pervading influence cherish and invigorate allanimalorvegetative being. Yet no external signs evidence itseffectsto sense. It acts invisibly, and therefore no power of imitation can give itformandcolouring. Its impulses must, at least, have a certain degree of strength: it mustwavethe grass,inclinetrees, andscatterleaves, before the painter can lay hold of it, and draw it intodescription. Just so it is with ourcalmer 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 offixed characters, or are prompted bypassion, they do not, I believe, ever make themselves visible.

And this observation reaches as well toevent and actionin life, as to thecorporal figureof 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 toacton the sole conclusions of the understanding; unless suchconclusions, by frequent meditation, or the co-operating influence of some affection, excite a ferment in the mind, and impel the will bypassion. 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. Whenproducedtherefore, they are to be considered as the genuine consequences, not of thesemoral sentiments, taken simply by themselves, but of strong benevolence of soul, implanted bynature, and strengthened byhabit. They are properly then, the result of themanners, orpassions, which have been already contemplated. Our sentiments, merely as such, terminate inthemselves, and furnish no external apparent matter todescription.

The same conclusion would, it must be owned, hold of ourreligious, asmoralsentiments, were we to regard them only in this view ofdispassionate and cool reflexions. For such reflexions produce no change offeature, no alteration in theform or countenance, nor are they necessarily followed by anysensibledemonstration of their power in outwardaction. But then it usually happens (which sets the widest difference between the two cases) that theone, as respecting anobject, whose veryideainterests strongly, and puts all our faculties in motion, are, almost of necessity, associated with the impelling causes ofaffection; and so express themselves in legible signs and characters. Whereas the other sentiments, respectinghuman nature and its necessities, are frequently no other than a calm indifferent survey of common life, unattended with anyemotionor inciting principle of action. Hencereligion, inspiriting all its meditations withenthusiasm, generally shews itself inoutward signs; whereas we frequently discern no traces, as necessarily attendant uponmoral. Whichdifferenceis worth the noting, were it only for the sake of seeing more distinctly the vastadvantage ofpoetry, above allother modes of imitation. Forthese, explaining themselves by the help ofnatural media, which present areal resemblance, are able but imperfectly to describereligious sentiments; in as much as they express thegeneral vague dispositiononly, and not the precisesentiments themselves. And inmoral, they can frequently give us noimageor representation at all. Whilepoetry, which tells its meaning byartificial signs, conveys distinct and clear notices of this class ofmoral and religiousconceptions, which afford such mighty entertainment to the human mind. But it serves to a further purpose, more immediately relative to the subject of this inquiry. For theseethic and prudentialconclusions, being seen to produce no immediateeffectin look, attitude, or action, we are to regard them only in their remoter and less direct consequences, as influencing, at a distance, the civil and oeconomical affairs of life.

And in this view they open a fresh field forimitation; not quite so striking to the spectator, perhaps, but even larger, thanthat, into which religion, with all its multiform superstitions, before led us. For to theseinternal workings, assisted and pushed forward by the wants and necessities of our nature,which set the inventive powers on work, are ultimately to be referred that vast congeries ofpolitical,civil,commercial, andmechanicinstitutions, of those infinitemanufactures,arts, andexercises, which come in to the relief or embellishment of human life. Add to these all those namelesseventsandactions, which, though determined by no fixedhabit, or leadingaffection, human prudence, providing for its security or interests, in certain circumstances, naturally projects and prescribes. These are ample materials fordescription; and the greater poetry necessarily comprehends a large share of them. Yet in all delineations of this sort two things are observable, 1. That in thelatter, which are the pure result of our reasonings concerning expediency,common sense, in given conjunctures, often leads to the same measures: As whenUlyssesin Homer disguises himself, for the sake of coming at a more exact information of the state of his family; or, whenOrestesin Sophocles does the same, to bring about the catastrophe of theElectra. 2. In respect of theformer(which is of principal consideration) the established modes and practices of life being the proper and onlyarchetype, experience and common observation cannot fail of pointing, with the greatest certainty, tothem. So that in theonecase different writersmayconcur in treating thesamematter, in theother, theymust. But this last will bear a little further illustration.

The critics on Homer have remarked, with admiration, in him, the almost infinite variety of images and pictures, taken from the intire circle ofhuman arts. Whatever the wit of man had invented for the service or ornament of society in manual exercises and operations is found to have a place in his writings.Rural affairs, in their several branches; themechanic, and all the polite arts ofsculpture,painting, andarchitecture, are occasionally hinted at in his poems; or, rather, their various imagery, so far as they were known and practised in those times, is fully and largely displayed. Now this, though it shew the prodigious extent of his observation and diligent curiosity, which could search through all the storehouses and magazines ofart, for materials of description, yet is not to be placed to the score of his superiorinventive faculty; nor infers any thing to the disadvantage of succeeding poets, whose subjects might oblige them to the same descriptions; any more than his vast acquaintance withnatural scenery, in all its numberless appearances, implies awant ofgeniusin later imitators, who, if they ventured, at all, into this province, were constrained to give us thesame unvaried representations.

The truth, as every one sees, is, briefly, this. The restless and inquisitive mind of man had succeeded in the discovery or improvement of the numberless arts of life. These, for the convenience of method, are considered as making a large part of those sensible externaleffects, which spring from our internalsentimentsorreasonings. But, though they ultimately respect thosereasonings, as their source, yet they, in no degree, depend on the actual exertion of them in the breast of the poet. He copies only the customs of the times, of which he writes, that is, the sensibleeffectsthemselves. These are permanent objects, and may, naymustbe thesame, whatever be the ability or genius of thecopier. In short, taken together, they make up what, in the largest sense of the word, we may call, with the painters,il costumè; which though it be a real excellence scrupulously to observe, yet it requires nothing more than exact observation and historical knowledge offactsto do it.

And now having the various objects ofpoetical imitationbefore us (the greatest part of which, as appears,must, and the restmay, occur to the observation of the poet) we come to thisconclusion, which, though it may startle theparallelist, there seems no method of eluding, “that of any singleimageorsentiment, considered separately and by itself, it can never be affirmed certainly, hardly with any shew of reason, merely on account of its agreement insubject-matterwith any other, that it was copied from it.” If there be any foundation of this inference, it must, then be laid, not on thematter, butMANNERof imitation. But here, again, the subject branches out into various particulars; which, to be seen distinctly, will demand a new division, and require us to proceed with leisure and attention through it.

The sum of the foregoingarticleis this. Theobjectsof imitation, like thematerialsof human knowledge, are a common stock, which experience furnishes to all men. And it is in theoperationsof the mind upon them, thatthe glory ofpoetry, as ofscience, consists. Here the genius of thepoethath room to shew itself; and from hence alone is the praise oforiginalityto be ascertained. The fondest admirer of ancient art would never pretend thatPalladiohad copiedVitruvius; merely from his working with the same materials ofwood,stone, ormarble, which this great master had employed before him. But were the generaldesignof these two architects thesamein any buildings; were their choice and arrangement of the smallermembersremarkably similar; were their works conducted in the samestyle, and their ornaments finished in the sametaste; every one would be apt to pronounce on first sight, that the one wasborrowedfrom the other. Even a correspondency in anyoneof these points might create a suspicion. For what likelihood, amidst an infinite variety ofmethods, which offer themselves, as toeachof these particulars, that there should be found, withoutdesign, a signal concurrence inany one? ’Tis then in theusage and dispositionof the objects of poetry, that we are to seek for proofs and evidences of plagiarism. And yet it may not be every instance of similarity, that will satisfy here. For the question recurs, “whether of the severalforms, of which his materialsare susceptible, there be nothing in the nature of things, which determines the artist to prefer aparticularone to all others.” For it is possible, thatgeneral principlesmay as well account for aconformity in the manner, as we have seen them do for anidentity of matter, in works of imitation. And to this question nothing can be replied, till we have taken an accurate survey of thissecond divisionof our subject. Luckily, the allusion to architecture, just touched upon, points to the very method, in which it may be most distinctly pursued. For here too, theMANNERof imitation, if considered in its full extent, takes in 1.The general plan or disposition of a poem.2.The choice and application of particular subjects: and3.The expression.

I.All poetry, as lord Bacon admirably observes, “nihil aliud est quamHISTORIAE IMITATIO AD PLACITUM.” By which is not meant, that the poet is at liberty to conduct hisimitationabsolutely in any manner he pleases, but with such deviations from the rule of history, as theendof poetry prescribes. This end is, universally,PLEASURE; asthatof simple history is,INFORMATION. And from a respect to thisend, together with some proper allowance for the diversity of thesubject-matter,and themode of imitation(I mean whether it be in the way ofrecital, or of action) are the essential differences of poetry from mere history, and theform or dispositionof its severalspecies, derived. What thesedifferencesare, and what thegeneral planin the composition ofeach species, will appear from considering thedefectsof simple history in reference to themain end, which poetry designs.

Some of these are observed by the great person before-mentioned, which I shall want no excuse for giving in his own words.

“1. Cum res gestae et eventus, qui verae historiae subjiciuntur, non sint ejus amplitudinis, in quâ anima humana sibi satisfaciat, praesto estpoësis, quae facta magis heroica confingat. 2. Cum historia vera successus rerum minime pro meritis virtutum & scelerum, narret; corrigit eampoësis, & exitus & fortunas, secundum merita, & ex lege Nemeseos, exhibet. 3. Cum historia vera, obviâ rerum satietate & similitudine, animae humanae fastidio sit; reficit eam poësis, inexpectata, & varia & vicissitudinum plena canens.—Quare & merito etiam divinitatis cujuspiam particeps videri possit; quiaanimum erigit & in sublime rapit;rerum simulachra ad animi desideria accommodando, non animum rebus (quod ratio facit, & historia) submittendo31.”

Theseadvantageschiefly respect thenarrativepoetry, and above all, theEpos. There are others, still moregeneral, and more directly to the purpose of this inquiry. For 4. Thehistorianis bound to recorda series of independent events and actions; and so, at once, falls into twodefects, which make him incapable of affording perfectpleasureto the mind. For 1. The flow of passion, produced in us by contemplatingany signal event, is greatly checked and disturbed amidst avariety and succession of actions. And 2. being obliged to pass with celerity overeachtransaction (for otherwise history would be too tedious for the purpose ofinformation) he has not time to draw outsingle circumstancesin full light and impress them with all their force on the imagination.Poetryremedies these two defects. By confining the attention tooneobject only, it gives the fancy and affections fair play: and by bringing forth to view and even magnifying all thecircumstancesofthatone, it gives to every subject its proper dignity and importance. 5. Lastly, to satisfy the human mind, there must not only be anunity and integrity, but a strictconnexion and continuityof the fable or action represented. Otherwise the mind languishes, and the transition of the passions, which gives the chief pleasure, is broken and interrupted. Thehistorianfails, also, in this. By proceeding in the gradual and orderly succession oftime, the several incidents, which compose the story, are not laid close enough together to content the natural avidity of our expectations. Whilstpoetry, neglecting this regularity of succession, and setting out in the midst of the story, gratifies our instinctive impatience, and carries theaffectionsalong, with the utmost rapidity, towards theevent.

Theseadvantagesare common both tonarrativeanddramaticpoetry. But thedrama, as professing to copyreal life, contents itself with these. The rest belong entirely to the province ofnarration.

Now thegeneral formsof poetical method, as distinct fromthatof history, are the pure result of our conclusions concerning the expediency and fitness of thesemeans, as conduciveto the properendof poetry. Which, without more words, will inform us, how it came to pass, that thetrue plan or disposition of poeticalworks, was so early hit upon inpractice, and established by exacttheories; and may therefore satisfy us of thenecessaryresemblance and uniformity of all productions of this kind, whether their authors had, or had not, been guided by the pole-star ofexample.

So much for thegeneral formsof the two greaterkindsof poetry. If a proper allowance be made for a diversity ofsubject-matter, in eithermodeof composition, it will be easy, as I said, to account for theparticular formsof the several subordinate species. And I the rather choose to do it in this way, and not from the peculiarendof each, which indeed were more philosophical, because the business is to make appear, how nature leads to the same general plan of composition inpractice, not to establish the laws of each in the exact way oftheory. Now in considering the matterhistorically, the diversity ofsubject-matterwas doubtlessthatwhich first determined the writer to a differentformof composition, tho’ afterwards, a consideration of theend, accomplished byeach, be requisite to deduce, with more precision of method, its distinct laws.Thelatteris that from whence thespeculative criticrightly estimates the character of every species; but the inventor had his direction principally from theformer.

Let me exemplify the observation in an instance under eithermodeof imitation, and leave the rest to the reader.

1. TheGeorgicis a species ofnarration. But, asthings, notpersons, are its subject (from which last alone theunity of designandcontinuity of actionarise) this circumstance absolves it from the necessity of observing any other laws, than those of clear and perspicuous disposition, and of enlivening a matter, naturally uninteresting, byexquisite expressionandpleasing digressions.

2. ThePastoralpoem may be considered as a lower species of theDrama. But, its subject being thehumble concernsof Shepherds, there seems no room for a tragicPlot; and their characters are too simple to afford materials for comicdrawing. Theirsceneis indeed inchanting to the imagination. And, together with this, their little distresses may sooth us in a short song; or their fancies and humours may entertain us in a short Dialogue.And that this is the proper province of the Pastoral Muse, we may see by the ill success of those who have laboured to extend it. Tasso’s project was admired for a time. But we, now, understand that pastoral affairs will not admit a tragic pathos. And the continuance of the pastoral vein, through five long acts, is found insipid, or even distasteful. This poem then has returned to that form which its inventors gave it, and which thesubjectso naturally prescribes to it.

II. But, though thecommon endof poetry, which is toplease by imitation, together with the subjects of its several species, may determine thegeneral plan, yet is there nothing, it may be said, in the nature of things to fixthe order and connexion of single parts. And here, it will be owned, is great room forinventionto shew itself. The materials of poetry may be put together in so many different manners, consistently with theformwhich governs each species, that nothing but the power ofimitationcan be reasonably thought to producea close and perpetual similarityin the composition of two works. I have saida close and perpetual similarity; for it is not every degree of resemblance, that will do here.

Thegeneral plan itselfof any poem will occasion some unavoidable conformities in the disposition of its component parts. Theidentityorsimilarityof the subject may create others. Or, if no other assimilating cause intervene, the very uniformity of common nature, will, of necessity, introduce some. To explain myself as to the last of thesecauses.

The principal constituent members of any work, next to the essential parts of thefable, areEPISODES,DESCRIPTIONS,SIMILES. BydescriptionsI understand as well the delineation ofcharactersin theirspeeches and imputed sentiments, as ofplaces or thingsin the draught of their attending circumstances. Now not only the materials of these are common to all poets, but the same identical manner of assemblage in application ofeachin any poem will, in numberless cases, appear necessary.

1. Theepisodebelongs, principally, to the epic muse; and the design of it is to diversify and ennoble the narration bydigressive, yet notunrelated, ornaments; theformercircumstance relieving thesimplicityof the epic fable, while theotherprevents itsunityfrom being violated. Now these episodical narrationsmust either proceed from the poet himself, or be imputed to some other who is engaged in the course of the fable; and in either case, must help, indirectly at least, to forward it.

If of thelatterkind, a probable pretext must be contrived for their introduction; which can be no other than that of satisfying thecuriosity, or of serving to the necessaryinformationof some other. And in either of these ways a striking conformity in the mode of conducting the work is unavoidable.

If theepisodebe referred to theformerclass, itsmannerof introduction will admit a greater latitude. For it will vary with the subject, or occasions of relating it. Yet we shall mistake, if we believe these subjects, and consequently the occasions, connected with them, very numerous. 1. They must be of uncommon dignity and splendor; otherwise nothing can excuse the going out of the way to insert them. 2. They must have some apparent connection with the fable. 3. They must further accord to the idea and state of the times, from which thefableis taken. Put these things together, and see if they will not, with probability, account for some coincidencein the choice andapplicationsof thedirectepisode. And admitting this, the similarity of evenitsconstituent parts is, also, necessary.

The genius of Virgil never suffers more in the opinion of his critics, than when hisbook of gamescomes into consideration and is confronted with Homer’s. It is not unpleasant to observe the difficulties an advocate for his fame is put to in this nice point, to secure his honour from the imputation ofplagiarism. The descriptions are accurately examined; and the improvement of a single circumstance, the addition of an epithet, even the novelty of a metaphor, or varied turn in the expression, is diligently remarked and urged, with triumph, in favour of his invention. Yet all this goes but a little way towards stilling the clamour. The entire design is manifestly taken; nay, particular incidents and circumstantials are, for the most part, the same, without variation. What shall we say, then, to this charge? Shall we, in defiance of truth and fact, endeavour to confute it? Or, if allowed, is there any method of supporting the reputation of the poet? I think there is, if prejudice will but suspend its determinations a few minutes, and afford his advocate a fair hearing.

The epic plan, more especially that of the Aeneis, naturally comprehends whatever is most august incivilandreligiousaffairs. The solemnities of funeral rites, and the festivities of public games (which religion had made an essential part of them) were, of necessity, to be included in a representation of thelatter. But whatgames? Surely those, which ancient heroism vaunted to excell in; those, which the usage of the times had consecrated; and which, from the opinion of reverence and dignity entertained of them, were become most fit for the pomp of epic description. Further, whatcircumstancescould be noted in these sports? Certainly those, which befell most usually, and were the aptest to alarm the spectator, and make him take an interest in them. These, it will be said, are numerous. They are so; yet such as are most to the poet’s purpose, are, with little or no variation, the same. It happened luckily for him, that two of hisgames, on which accordingly he hath exerted all the force of his genius, were entirely new. This advantage, the circumstances of the times afforded him. TheNaumachiawas purely his own. Yet so liable are even the best and most candid judges to be haunted by this spectre ofimitation, thatone, whom everyfriend to every human excellence honours, cannot help, on comparing it with thechariot-raceof Homer, exclaiming in these words: “What is the encounter of Cloanthus and Gyas in the strait between the rocks, but the same with that of Menelaus and Antilochus in the hollow way? Had the galley of Serjestus been broken, if the chariot of Eumelus had not been demolished? Or, Mnestheus been cast from the helm, had not the other been thrown from his seat?” The plain truth is, it was not possible, in describing an ancientsea-fight, for one, who had even never seen Homer, to overlook such usual and striking particulars, as thejustling of ships, the breaking of galleys, and loss of pilots.

It may appear from this instance, with what reason a similarity of circumstance, in the other games, hath been objected. Thesubject-matteradmitted not any material variation: I mean in the hands of so judicious a copier of Nature as Virgil. For,

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