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Title: The works of Richard Hurd, volume 2 (of 8)

Author: Richard Hurd

Release date: September 8, 2016 [eBook #53012]
                Most recently updated: July 2, 2020

Language: English

Credits: Charlene Taylor, Wayne Hammond, Bryan Ness and the
        Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
        book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from
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book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from
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  THE

  WORKS

  OF

  RICHARD HURD, D.D.

  LORD BISHOP OF WORCESTER.

  VOL. II.

  Printed by J. Nichols and Son,
  Red Lion Passage, Fleet-Street, London.




  THE

  WORKS

  OF

  RICHARD HURD, D.D.

  LORD BISHOP OF WORCESTER.

  IN EIGHT VOLUMES.

  VOL. II.

  [Illustration]

  LONDON:
  PRINTED FOR T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND.
  1811.




  CRITICAL WORKS.

  VOL. II.




  Q. HORATII FLACCI

  EPISTOLAE

  AD

  PISONES,

  ET

  AUGUSTUM:

  WITH AN ENGLISH

  COMMENTARY AND NOTES:

  TO WHICH ARE ADDED

  CRITICAL DISSERTATIONS.




CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.


                                                             Page.

  DISSERTATION I.
  _On the Idea of Universal Poetry._                             1

  DISSERTATION II.
  _On the Provinces of Dramatic Poetry._                        27

  DISSERTATION III.
  _On Poetical Imitation._                                     107

  DISSERTATION IV.
  _On the Marks of Imitation._                                 243




CRITICAL DISSERTATIONS.


    I. ON THE IDEA OF UNIVERSAL POETRY.

   II. ON THE PROVINCES OF DRAMATIC POETRY.

  III. ON POETICAL IMITATION.

   IV. ON THE MARKS OF IMITATION.


                       VATIBVS ADDERE CALCAR,
  VT STVDIO MAIORE PETANT HELICONA VIRENTEM.
                                         HOR.




  A

  DISSERTATION

  ON THE

  IDEA OF UNIVERSAL POETRY.




  DISSERTATION I.

  ON THE

  IDEA OF UNIVERSAL POETRY.


When we speak of poetry, as an _art_, we mean _such a way or method of
treating a subject, as is found most pleasing and delightful to us_.
In all other kinds of literary composition, pleasure is subordinate to
USE: in poetry only, PLEASURE is the end, to which use itself (however
it be, for certain reasons, always pretended) must submit.

This _idea_ of the end of poetry is no novel one, but indeed the very
same which our great philosopher entertained of it; who gives it as
the essential note of this part of learning—THAT IT SUBMITS THE SHEWS
OF THINGS TO THE DESIRES OF THE MIND: WHEREAS REASON DOTH BUCKLE AND
BOW THE MIND UNTO THE NATURE OF THINGS. For to _gratify the desires of
the mind_, is to PLEASE: _Pleasure_ then, in the idea of Lord Bacon,
is the ultimate and appropriate end of poetry; for the sake of which
it accommodates itself to _the desires of the mind_, and doth not (as
other kinds of writing, which are under the controul of _reason_)
_buckle and bow the mind to the nature of things_.

But they, who like a principle the better for seeing it in Greek,
may take it in the words of an old philosopher, ERATOSTHENES, who
affirmed—ποιητὴν πάντα στοχάζεσθαι ψυχαγωγίας, οὐ διδασκαλίας—of
which words, the definition given above, is the translation.

This _notion_ of the end of poetry, if kept steadily in view, will
unfold to us all the mysteries of the poetic art. There needs but to
evolve the philosopher’s idea, and to apply it, as occasion serves.
_The art of poetry_ will be, universally, THE ART OF PLEASING; and all
its _rules_, but so many MEANS, which experience finds most conducive
to that end;

    Sic ANIMIS natum inventumque poema JUVANDIS.

Aristotle has delivered and explained these rules, so far as they
respect one species of poetry, the _dramatic_, or, more properly
speaking, the _tragic_: And when such a writer, as he, shall do as
much by the other species, then, and not till then, a complete ART OF
POETRY will be formed.

I have not the presumption to think myself, in any degree, equal to
this arduous task: But from the idea of this art, as given above, an
ordinary writer may undertake to deduce some general conclusions,
concerning _Universal Poetry_, which seem preparatory to those nicer
disquisitions, concerning its _several sorts or species_.

I. It follows from that IDEA, that it should neglect no advantage,
that fairly offers itself, of appearing in such a dress or mode of
language, as is most _taking_ and agreeable to us. We may expect then,
in the language or style of poetry, a choice of such words as are most
sonorous and expressive, and such an arrangement of them as throws
the discourse out of the ordinary and common phrase of conversation.
Novelty and variety are certain sources of pleasure: a construction
of words, which is not vulgar, is therefore more suited to the ends
of poetry, than one which we are every day accustomed to in familiar
discourse. Some manners of placing them are, also, more agreeable to
the ear, than others: Poetry, then, is studious of these, as it would
by all means, not manifestly absurd, give pleasure: And hence a certain
musical cadence, or what we call _Rhythm_, will be affected by the poet.

But, of all the means of adorning and enlivening a discourse by words,
which are infinite, and perpetually grow upon us, as our knowledge of
the tongue, in which we write, and our skill in adapting it to the ends
of poetry, increases, there is none that pleases more, than _figurative
expression_.

By _figurative expression_, I would be understood to mean, here, that
which respects _the pictures or images of things_. And this sort
of figurative expression is universally pleasing to us, because it
tends to impress on the mind the most distinct and vivid conceptions;
and truth of representation being of less account in this way of
composition, than the liveliness of it, poetry, as such, will delight
in tropes and figures, and those the most strongly and forceably
expressed. And though the _application_ of figures will admit of great
variety, according to the nature of the subject, and the _management_
of them must be suited to the taste and apprehension of the people, to
whom they are addressed, yet, in some way or other, they will find a
place in all works of poetry; and they who object to the use of them,
only shew that they are not capable of being pleased by this sort of
composition, or do, in effect, interdict the thing itself.

The ancients looked for so much of this force and spirit of expression
in whatever they dignified with the name of _poem_, that Horace tells
us it was made a question by some, whether comedy were rightly referred
to this class, because it differed only, in point of measure, from mere
prose.

    Idcirco quidam, comoedia necne poema
    Esset, quaesivere: quod acer spiritus, ac vis,
    Nec _verbis_, nec rebus inest: nisi quod pede certo
    Differt sermoni, sermo merus—
                                         Sat. l. I. iv.

But they might have spared their doubt, or at least have resolved it,
if they had considered that comedy adopts as much of this _force and
spirit of words_, as is consistent with the _nature_ and _degree_ of
that pleasure, which it pretends to give. For the name of poem will
belong to every composition, whose primary end is to _please_, provided
it be so constructed as to afford _all_ the pleasure, which its kind or
_sort_ will permit.

II. From the idea of the _end_ of poetry, it follows, that not only
figurative and tropical terms will be employed in it, as _these_, by
the images they convey, and by the air of novelty which such indirect
ways of speaking carry with them, are found most delightful to us,
but also that FICTION, in the largest sense of the word, is essential
to poetry. For its purpose is, not to delineate truth simply, but to
present it in the most taking forms; not to reflect the real face of
things, but to illustrate and adorn it; not to represent the fairest
objects only, but to represent them in the fairest lights, and to
heighten all their beauties up to the possibility of their natures;
nay, to _outstrip_ nature, and to address itself to our wildest fancy,
rather than to our judgment and cooler sense.

    Οὔτ’ ἐπιδερκτὰ τάδ’ ἀνδράσιν, οὔτ’ ἐπακουστὰ,
    Οὔτε νόῳ περίληπτα—

As sings one of the profession[1], who seems to have understood his
privileges very well.

For there is something in the mind of man, sublime and elevated, which
prompts it to overlook obvious and familiar appearances, and to feign
to itself other and more extraordinary; such as correspond to the
extent of its own powers, and fill out all the faculties and capacities
of our souls. This restless and aspiring disposition, poetry, first and
principally, would indulge and flatter; and thence takes its name of
_divine_, as if some power, above _human_, conspired to lift the mind
to these exalted conceptions.

Hence it comes to pass, that it deals in apostrophes and invocations;
that it impersonates the virtues and vices; peoples all creation
with new and living forms; calls up infernal spectres to terrify, or
brings down celestial natures to astonish, the imagination; assembles,
combines, or connects its ideas, at pleasure; in short, prefers not
only the agreeable, and the graceful, but, as occasion calls upon
her, the vast, the incredible, I had almost said, the impossible, to
the obvious truth and nature of things. For all this is but a feeble
expression of that magic virtue of poetry, which our Shakespear has so
forcibly described in those well-known lines—

    The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rowling,
    Doth glance from heav’n to earth, from earth to heav’n;
    And, as Imagination bodies forth
    The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
    Turns them to shape, and gives to aery nothing
    A focal habitation and a name.

When the received system of manners or religion in any country,
happens to be so constituted as to suit itself in some degree to this
extravagant turn of the human mind, we may expect that poetry will
seize it with avidity, will dilate upon it with pleasure, and take
a pride to erect its specious wonders on so proper and convenient a
ground. Whence it cannot seem strange that, of all the forms in which
poetry has appeared, that of _pagan fable_, and _gothic romance_,
should, in their turns, be found the most alluring to the true poet.
For, in defect of these advantages, he will ever adventure, in some
sort, to supply their place with others of his own invention; that is,
he will mould every system, and convert every subject, into the most
amazing and miraculous form.

And this is that I would say, at present, of these two requisites of
universal poetry, namely, _that licence of expression_, which we call
the _style_ of poetry, and _that licence of representation_, which
we call _fiction_. The _style_ is, as it were, the body of poetry;
_fiction_, is its soul. Having, thus, taken the privilege of a poet to
create a Muse, we have only now to give her a voice, or more properly
to _tune_ it, and then she will be in a condition, as one of her
favourites speaks, TO RAVISH ALL THE GODS. For

III. It follows from the same idea of the _end_, which poetry would
accomplish, that not only Rhythm, but NUMBERS, properly so called, is
essential to it. For this Art undertaking to gratify all those desires
and expectations of pleasure, that can be reasonably entertained by us,
and there being a capacity in language, the instrument it works by, of
pleasing us very highly, not only by the sense and imagery it conveys,
but by the structure of words, and still more by the harmonious
arrangement of them in metrical sounds or numbers, and lastly there
being no reason in the nature of the thing itself why these pleasures
should not be united, it follows that poetry will not be that which it
professes to be, that is, not accomplish its own purpose, unless it
delight the ear with numbers, or, in other words, unless it be cloathed
in VERSE.

The reader, I dare say, has hitherto gone along with me, in this
deduction: but here, I suspect, we shall separate. Yet he will startle
the less at this conclusion, if he reflect on the origin and first
application of poetry among all nations.

It is every where of the most early growth, preceding every other
sort of composition; and being destined for the _ear_, that is, to be
either sung, or at least recited, it adapts itself, even in its first
rude essays, to that sense of measure and proportion in sounds, which
is so natural to us. The hearer’s attention is the sooner gained by
this means, his entertainment quickened, and his admiration of the
performer’s art excited. Men are ambitious of pleasing, and ingenious
in refining upon what they observe will please. So that musical
cadences and harmonious sounds, which nature dictated, are farther
softened and improved by art, till poetry become as ravishing to the
ear, as the images, it presents, are to the imagination. In process
of time, what was at first the extemporaneous production of genius or
passion, under the conduct of a _natural ear_, becomes the labour of
the closet, and is conducted by artificial rules; yet still, with a
secret reference to the _sense_ of hearing, and to that acceptation
which melodious sounds meet with in the recital of expressive words.

Even the prose-writer (when the art is enough advanced to produce
prose) having been accustomed to have his ear consulted and gratified
by the poet, catches insensibly the same harmonious affection, tunes
his sentences and periods to some agreement with song, and transfers
into his coolest narrative, or gravest instruction, something of that
music, with which his ear vibrates from poetic impressions.

In short, he leaves measured and determinate numbers, that is, METRE,
to the poet, who is to please up to the height of his faculties, and
the nature of his work; and only reserves to himself, whose purpose
of giving pleasure is subordinate to another end, the looser musical
measure, or what we call RHYTHMICAL PROSE.

The reason appears, from this deduction, why _all_ poetry aspires to
please by melodious numbers. To _some_ species, it is thought more
essential, than to others, because those species continue to be _sung_,
that is, are more immediately addressed to the ear; and because they
continue to be sung in concert with _musical instruments_, by which the
ear is still more indulged. It happened in antient Greece, that even
tragedy retained this accompaniment of musical instruments, through
all its stages, and even in its most improved state. Whence Aristotle
includes _Music_, properly so called, as well as _Rhythm_ and _Metre_,
in his idea of the tragic poem. He did this, because he found the drama
of his country, OMNIBUS NUMERIS ABSOLUTUM, I mean in possession of
all the advantages which could result from the union of _rhythmical_,
_metrical_, and _musical_ sounds. Modern tragedy has relinquished part
of these: yet still, if it be true that this poem be more pleasing
by the addition of the _musical_ art, and there be nothing in the
nature of the composition which forbids the use of it, I know not
why Aristotle’s idea should not be adopted, and his precept become a
standing law of the tragic stage. For this, as every other poem, being
calculated and designed properly and ultimately to _please_, whatever
contributes to produce that end most perfectly, all circumstances taken
into the account, must be thought of the nature or essence of the kind.

But without carrying matters so far, let us confine our attention to
metre, or what we call _verse_. This must be essential to every work
bearing the name of _poem_, not, because we are only accustomed to call
works written in verse, _poems_, but because a work, which professes to
please us by every possible and proper method, and yet does not give
us this pleasure, which it is in its power, and is no way improper for
it, to give, must so far fall short of fulfilling its own engagements
to us; that is, it has not all those qualities which we have a right to
expect in a work of literary art, of which _pleasure_ is the ultimate
_end_.

To explain myself by an obvious instance. History undertakes to
INSTRUCT us in the transactions of past times. If it answer this
purpose, it does all that is of _its nature_; and, if it find means to
_please_ us, besides, by the harmony of its style, and vivacity of its
narration, all this is to be accounted as pure gain: if it instructed
ONLY, by the truth of its reports, and the perspicuity of its method,
it would fully attain its _end_. Poetry, on the other hand, undertakes
to PLEASE. If it employ all its powers to this purpose, it effects all
that is of _its nature_: if it serve, besides, to inform or instruct
us, by the truths it conveys, and by the precepts or examples it
inculcates, this service may rather be accepted, than required by
us: if it pleased ONLY, by its ingenious fictions, and harmonious
structure, it would discharge its office, and answer its _end_.

In this sense, the famous saying of Eratosthenes, quoted above—_that
the poet’s aim is to please, not to instruct_—is to be understood: nor
does it appear, what reason Strabo could have to take offence at it;
however it might be misapplied, as he tells us it was, by that writer.
For, though the poets, no doubt (and especially THE POET, whose honour
the great Geographer would assert, in his criticism on Eratosthenes)
frequently _instruct us_ by a true and faithful representation of
things; yet even this instructive air is only assumed for the sake of
_pleasing_; which, as the human mind is constituted, they could not
so well do, if they did not instruct at all, that is, if _truth_ were
wholly neglected by them. So that _pleasure_ is still the ultimate end
and _scope_ of the poet’s art; and _instruction_ itself is, in his
hands, only one of the _means_, by which he would effect it[2].

I am the larger on this head to shew that it is not a mere verbal
dispute, as it is commonly thought, whether poems should be written in
verse, or no. Men may include, or not include, the idea of metre in
their complex idea of what they call a _Poem_. What I contend for, is,
that _metre_, as an instrument of _pleasing_, is essential to every
work of poetic art, and would therefore enter into such idea, if men
judged of poetry according to its confessed _nature and end_.

Whence it may seem a little strange, that my Lord Bacon should speak
of _poesy as a part of learning in measure of words_ FOR THE MOST PART
_restrained_; when his own notion, as we have seen above, was, that
the essence of poetry consisted _in submitting the shews of things to
the desires of the mind_. For these _shews of things_ could only be
exhibited to the mind through the _medium of words_: and it is just as
natural for the mind to desire that these words should be _harmonious_,
as that the images, conveyed in them, should, be _illustrious_; there
being a capacity in the mind of being delighted through its organ, the
_ear_, as well as through its power, or faculty of _imagination_. And
the wonder is the greater, because the great philosopher himself was
aware of the _agreement and consort which poetry hath with music_, as
well as _with man’s nature and pleasure_, that is, with the pleasure
which naturally results from gratifying the imagination. So that, to be
consistent with himself, he should, methinks, have said—_that poesy
was a part of learning in measure of words_ ALWAYS _restrained_; such
_poesy_, as, through the idleness or negligence of writers, is not so
restrained, not agreeing to his own idea of _this part of learning_[3].

These reflexions will afford a proper solution of that question, which
has been agitated by the critics, “Whether a work of fiction and
imagination (such as that of the archbishop of Cambray, for instance)
conducted, in other respects, according to the rules of the epic poem,
but written in prose, may deserve the name of POEM, or not.” For,
though it be frivolous indeed to dispute about names, yet from what has
been said it appears, that if metre be not incongruous to the nature of
an epic composition, and it afford a pleasure which is not to be found
in mere prose, metre is, for that reason, essential to this mode of
writing; which is only saying in other words, that an epic composition,
to give all the pleasure which it is capable of giving, must be written
in _verse_.

But, secondly, this conclusion, I think, extends farther than to such
works as aspire to the name of _epic_. For instance, what are we to
think of those _novels_ or _romances_, as they are called, that is,
fables constructed on some private and familiar subject, which have
been so current, of late, through all Europe? As they propose pleasure
for their end, and prosecute it, besides, in the way of _fiction_,
though without metrical numbers, and generally, indeed, in harsh and
rugged prose, one easily sees what their pretensions are, and under
what idea they are ambitious to be received. Yet, as they are wholly
destitute of measured sounds (to say nothing of their other numberless
defects) they can, at most, be considered but as hasty, imperfect,
and abortive poems; whether spawned from the dramatic, or narrative
species, it may be hard to say—

    Unfinish’d things, one knows not what to call,
    Their generation’s so equivocal.

However, such as they are, these _novelties_ have been generally well
received: _Some_, for the real merit of their execution; _Others_,
for their amusing subjects; _All_ of them, for the gratification
they afford, or promise at least, to a vitiated, palled, and sickly
imagination—that last disease of learned minds, and sure prognostic of
expiring Letters. But whatever may be the temporary success of these
things (for they vanish as fast as they are produced, and are produced
as soon as they are conceived) good sense will acknowledge no work of
art but such as is composed according to the laws of its _kind_. These
KINDS, as arbitrary things as we account them (for I neither forget
nor dispute what our best philosophy teaches concerning _kinds_ and
_sorts_), have yet so far their foundation in nature and the reason of
things, that it will not be allowed us to multiply, or vary them, at
pleasure. We may, indeed, mix and confound them, if we will (for there
is a sort of literary luxury, which would engross all pleasures at
once, even such as are contradictory to each other), or, in our rage
for incessant gratification, we may take up with half-formed pleasures,
such as come first to hand, and may be administered by any body: But
true taste requires chaste, severe, and simple pleasures; and true
genius will only be concerned in administering such.

Lastly, on the same principle on which we have decided on these
questions concerning the _absolute merits_ of poems in prose, in
_all_ languages, we may, also, determine another, which has been put
concerning the _comparative merits_ of RHYMED, and what is called BLANK
verse, in our _own_, and the other _modern_ languages.

Critics and antiquaries have been sollicitous to find out who were
the inventors of rhyme, which some fetch from the Monks, some from
the Goths, and others from the Arabians: whereas, the truth seems to
be, that _rhyme_, or the consonance of final syllables, occurring at
stated intervals, is the dictate of nature, or, as we may say, an
appeal to the _ear_, in all languages, and in some degree pleasing in
all. The difference is, that, in some languages, these consonances are
apt of themselves to occur so often that they rather nauseate, than
please, and so, instead of being affected, are studiously avoided by
good writers; while in others, as in all the modern ones, where these
consonances are less frequent, and where the quantity of syllables
is not so distinctly marked as, of itself, to afford an harmonious
measure and musical variety, there it is of necessity that poets have
had recourse to _Rhyme_; or to some other expedient of the like nature,
such as the _Alliteration_, for instance; which is only another way
of delighting the ear by iterated sound, and may be defined, _the
consonance of initial letters_, as rhyme is, the _consonance of final
syllables_. All this, I say, is of necessity, because what we call
verses in such languages will be otherwise untuneful, and will not
strike the ear with that vivacity, which is requisite to put a sensible
difference between poetic numbers and measured prose.

In short, no method of gratifying the ear by _measured sound_, which
experience has found pleasing, is to be neglected by the poet: and
although, from the different structure and genius of languages, these
methods will be different, the studious application of such methods,
as each particular language allows, becomes a necessary part of his
office. He will only cultivate those methods most, which tend to
produce, in a given language, the most harmonious structure or measure,
of which it is capable.

Hence it comes to pass, that the poetry of some modern languages cannot
so much as subsist, without rhyme: In others, it is only embellished
by it. Of the _former_ sort is the French, which therefore adopts, and
with good reason, rhymed verse, not in tragedy only, but in comedy: And
though foreigners, who have a language differently constructed, are
apt to treat this observance of rhyme as an idle affectation, yet it
is but just to allow that the French themselves are the most competent
judges of the natural defect of their own tongue, and the likeliest to
perceive by what management such defect is best remedied or concealed.

In the _latter_ class of languages, whose poetry is only embellished
by the use of rhyme, we may reckon the Italian and the English: which
being naturally more tuneful and harmonious than the French, may afford
all the melody of sound which is expected in some sorts of poetry, by
its _varied pause_, and _quantity_ only; while in other sorts, which
are more sollicitous to please the ear, and where such solicitude, if
taken notice of by the reader or hearer, is not resented, it may be
proper, or rather it becomes a law of the English and Italian poetry,
to adopt _rhyme_. Thus, our tragedies are usually composed in blank
verse: but our epic and Lyric compositions are found most pleasing,
when cloathed in rhyme. Milton, I know, it will be said, is an
exception: But, if we set aside some learned persons, who have suffered
themselves to be too easily prejudiced by their admiration of the
Greek and Latin languages, and still more, perhaps, by the prevailing
notion of the monkish or gothic original of rhymed verse, all other
readers, if left to themselves, would, I dare say, be more delighted
with this poet, if, besides his various pause, and measured quantity,
he had enriched his numbers, with _rhyme_. So that his love of liberty,
the ruling passion of his heart, perhaps transported him too far,
when he chose to follow the example set him by one or two writers of
_prime note_ (to use his own eulogium), rather than comply with the
regular and prevailing practice of his favoured Italy, which first and
principally, as our best rhymist sings,

    With pauses, cadence, and well-vowell’d words,
    And all the graces a good ear affords,
    MADE RHYME AN ART—

Our comedy, indeed, is generally written in _prose_; but through the
idleness, or ill taste, of our writers, rather than from any other
just cause. For, though rhyme be not necessary, or rather would be
improper, in the comedy of our language, which can support itself in
poetic numbers, without the diligence of rhyme; yet some sort of metre
is requisite in this humbler species of poem; otherwise, it will not
contribute all that is within its power and province, to _please_. And
the particular metre, proper for this species, is not far to seek. For
it can plainly be no other than a careless and looser Iambic, such as
our language naturally runs into, even in conversation, and of which
we are not without examples, in our old and best writers for the comic
stage. But it is not wonderful that those critics, who take offence
at English epic poems in _rhyme_, because the Greek and Latin only
observed _quantity_, should require English comedies to be written in
_prose_, though the Greek and Latin comedies were composed in _verse_.
For the ill application of examples, and the neglect of them, may be
well enough expected from the same men, since it does not appear that
their judgment was employed, or the reason of the thing attended to, in
either instance.

And THUS much for the idea of UNIVERSAL POETRY. It is the art of
treating any subject in _such_ a way as is found most delightful
to us; that is, IN AN ORNAMENTED AND NUMEROUS STYLE—IN THE WAY OF
FICTION—AND IN VERSE. Whatever deserves the name of POEM must unite
these three properties; only in different degrees of each, according to
its nature. For the art of every _kind_ of poetry is only this general
art so modified as the _nature_ of each, that is, its more immediate
and subordinate end, may respectively require.

We are now, then, at the well-head of the poetic art; and they who
drink deeply of this spring, will be best qualified to perform the
rest. But all heads are not equal to these copious draughts; and,
besides, I hear the sober reader admonishing me long since—

              Lusisti satis atque BIBISTI;
    Tempus abire tibi est, ne POTUM LARGIUS AEQUO
    Rideat, et pulset lasciva decentius AETAS.

  THURCASTON,
  MDCCLXV.




  A

  DISSERTATION

  ON THE

  PROVINCES OF THE DRAMA.




  DISSERTATION II.

  ON THE

  PROVINCES OF THE DRAMA.


In the former Essay, I gave an idea, or slight sketch, of _Universal
Poetry_. In this, I attempt to deduce the laws of one of its kinds, the
_Dramatic_, under all its forms. And I engage in this task, the rather,
because, though much has been said on the subject of the drama, writers
seem not to have taken sufficient pains to distinguish, with exactness,
its several species.

I deduce the laws of this poem, as I did those of poetry at large, from
the consideration of its _end_: not the general end of poetry, which
alone was proper to be considered the former case, but the proximate
end of this kind. For from these ends, in subordination to that,
which governs the genus, or which all poetry, as such, designs and
prosecutes, are the peculiar rules and maxims of each species to be
derived.

THE PURPOSE OF THE DRAMA is, universally, “to represent human life in
the way of _action_.” But as such representation it made for separate
and distinct ENDS, it is, further, distinguished into different
_species_, which we know by the names of TRAGEDY, COMEDY, and FARCE.

By TRAGEDY, then, I mean that species of dramatic representation, whose
_end_ is “_to excite the passions of_ PITY _and_ TERROR, _and perhaps
some others, nearly allied to them_.”

By COMEDY _that_, which proposeth, for the _ends_ of its
representation, “_the sensation of pleasure arising from a view of the
truth of_ CHARACTERS, _more especially their specific differences_.”

By FARCE I understand, that species of the drama, “_whose sole aim and
tendency is to excite_ LAUGHTER.”

The idea of these _three species_ being then proposed, let us now
see, what conclusions may be drawn from it. And chiefly in respect
of _Tragedy_ and _Comedy_, which are most important. For as to what
concerns the province of _Farce_, this will be easily understood, when
the character of the other two is once settled.




CHAP. I.

ON THE PROVINCES OF TRAGEDY AND COMEDY.


From the idea of these two species, as given above, the following
conclusions, about the _natures_ of each, are immediately deducible.

1. If the proper end of TRAGEDY be to _affect_, it follows,
“that _actions_, not characters, are the chief object of its
representations.” For that which _affects_ us most in the view of human
life is the observation of those signal circumstances of _felicity
or distress_, which occur in the fortunes of men. But _felicity_ and
_distress_, as the great critic takes notice, depend on _action_; κατὰ
τὰς πράξεις, εὐδαίμονες, ἢ τουναντίον. They are then the calamitous
_events_, or fortunate _Issues_ in human action, which stir up the
stronger _affections_, and agitate the heart with _Passion_. The
_manners_ are not, indeed, to be neglected. But they become an inferior
consideration in the views of the tragic poet, and are exhibited only
for the sake of making the _action_ more proper to interest us. Thus
our _joy_, on the _happy catastrophe_ of the fable, depends, in a
good degree, on the _virtuous character_ of the agent; as on the other
hand, we sympathize more strongly with him, on a _distressful issue_.
The _manners_ of the several persons in the drama must, also, be
signified, that the _action_, which in many cases will be determined by
them, may appear to be carried on with _truth and probability_. Hence
every thing passing before us, as we are accustomed to see it in real
life, we enter more warmly into their interests, as forgetting, that
we are attentive to a _fictitious scene_. And, besides, from knowing
the personal _good, or ill, qualities_ of the agents, we learn to
anticipate their future _felicity_ or _misery_, which gives increase
to the _passion_ in either case. Our acquaintance with IAGO’S _close
villainy_ makes us tremble for Othello and Desdemona beforehand: and
HAMLET’S _filial piety and intrepid daring_ occasion the audience
secretly to exult in the _expectation_ of some successful vengeance to
be inflicted on the incestuous murderers.

2. For the same reason as tragedy takes for its _object_ the actions
of men, it, also, prefers, or rather confines itself to, such actions,
as are most _important_. Which is only saying, that as it intends
to _interest_, it, of course, chuses the representation of those
_events_, which are most _interesting_.

And this shews the defect of modern tragedy, in turning so constantly
as it does, on _love subjects_; the effect of this practice is,
that, excepting only the rank of the actors (which indeed, as will
be seen presently, is of considerable importance), the rest is below
the dignity of this drama. For the _action_, when stripped of its
accidental ornaments and reduced to the _essential fact_, is nothing
more than what might as well have passed in a cottage, as a king’s
palace. The Greek poets should be our guides here, who take the very
grandest events in their story to ennoble their tragedy. Whence it
comes to pass that the _action_, having an essential dignity, is always
_interesting_, and by the simplest management of the poet becomes in a
supreme degree, _pathetic_.

3. On the same account, the _persons_, whose actions Tragedy would
exhibit to us, must be of _principal rank and dignity_. For the actions
of these are, both in _themselves_ and in their _consequences_, most
fitted to excite passion. The _distresses_ of private and inferior
persons will, no doubt, _affect_ us greatly; and we may give the name
of _tragedies_, if we please, to dramatic representations of them:
as, in fact, we have several applauded pieces of this kind. Nay, it
may seem, that the fortunes of private men, as more nearly resembling
_those_ of the generality, should be most _affecting_. But this
circumstance, in no degree, makes amends for the loss of other and much
greater _advantages_. For, whatever be the _unhappy incidents_ in the
story of private men, it is certain, they must take faster hold of the
_imagination_, and, of course, impress the heart more forcibly, when
related of the higher characters in life.

    Τῶν γὰρ μεγάλων ἀξιοπενθεῖς
    Φῆμαι μᾶλλον κατέχουσιν.
                 EURIP. HIPP. v. 1484.

Kings, Heroes, Statesmen, and other persons of great and public
authority, influence by their _ill-fortune_ the whole community, to
which they belong. The attention is rouzed, and all our faculties
take an alarm, at the apprehension of such extensive and important
wretchedness. And, besides, if we regard the _event_ itself, without
an eye to its _effects_, there is still the widest difference between
the two cases. Those ideas of awe and veneration, which opinion throws
round the persons of princes, make us esteem the very _same event_ in
their fortunes, as more august and emphatical, than in the fortunes
of private men. In the _one_, it is ordinary and familiar to our
conceptions; it is singular and surprizing, in the _other_. The fall of
a _cottage_, by the accidents of time and weather, is almost unheeded;
while the ruin of a _tower_, which the neighbourhood hath gazed at for
ages with admiration, strikes all observers with concern. So that if we
chuse to continue the absurdity, taken notice of in the last article
of planning _unimportant action_ in our tragedy, we should, at least,
take care to give it this foreign and extrinsic _importance_ of great
_actors_: Yet our passion for the _familiar_ goes so far, that we have
tragedies, not only of private action, but of _private persons_; and so
have well nigh annihilated the noblest of the two dramas amongst us. On
the whole it appears, that as the proper object or tragedy is _action_,
so it is _important_ action, and therefore more especially the action
of _great and illustrious men_. Each of these conclusions is the direct
consequence of our idea of its _end_.

The reverse of all this holds true of COMEDY. For,

1. Comedy, by the very terms of the definition, is conversant about
_characters_. And if we observe, that which creates the pleasure we
find in contemplating the lives of men, considered as distinct from
the _interest_ we take in their fortunes, is the contemplation of
their manners and humours. Their _actions_, when they are not of that
sort, which seizes our admiration, or catches the affections, are not
otherwise considered by us, than as they are sensible indications of
the internal sentiment and disposition. Our intimate consciousness
of the several turns and windings of our nature, makes us attend to
these pictures of human life with an incredible curiosity. And herein
the proper entertainment, which comic representation, _as such_,
administers to the mind, consists. By turning the thought on _event and
action_, this entertainment is proportionably lessened; that is, the
_end_ of comedy is less perfectly attained[4].

But here, again, though _action_ be not the main object of comedy,
yet it is not to be neglected, any more than _character_ in tragedy,
but comes in as an useful accessary, or assistant to it. For the
_manners of men_ only shew themselves, or shew themselves most usually,
in _action_. It is this, which fetches out the latent strokes of
_character_, and renders the inward _temper and disposition_ the object
of sense. _Probable circumstances_ are then imagined, and a certain
_train of action_ contrived, to evidence the _internal qualities_.
There is no _other_, or no _probable_ way, but this, of bringing us
acquainted with them. Again; by engaging his _characters_ in a course
of action and the pursuit of some _end_, the comic poet leaves them to
express themselves undisguisedly, and _without design_; in which the
essence of _humour_ consists.

Add to this, that when the _fable_ is so contrived as to attach the
mind, we very naturally fancy ourselves present at a course of _living_
action. And this illusion quickens our attention to the _characters_,
which no longer appear to us creatures of the poet’s fiction, but
actors in real life.

These observations concerning the _moderated_ use of action in comedy,
instruct us what to think “of those intricate Spanish plots, which have
been in use, and have taken both with us and some French writers for
the stage. The truth is, they have hindered very much the main end of
comedy. For when these unnatural plots are used, the mind is not only
entirely _drawn off_ from the characters by those surprizing turns and
revolutions; but characters have no opportunity even of being _called
out_ and displaying themselves. For the actors of all characters
_succeed_ and are _embarrassed_ alike, when the instruments for
carrying on designs are only _perplexed apartments_, _dark entries_,
_disguised habits_, and _ladders of ropes_. The comic plot is, and
must, indeed, be carried on by _deceipt_. The Spanish scene does it
by deceiving the man _through his senses_: Terence and Moliere, by
deceiving him _through his passions and affections_. This is the right
method: for the character is _not_ called out under the _first_ species
of deceipt: under the _second_, the character does _all_.”

2. As _character_, not _action_, is the object of comedy; so the
_characters_ it paints must not be of _singular and illustrious note_,
either for their _virtues_ or _vices_. The reason is, that such
characters take too fast hold of the _affections_, and so call off
the mind from adverting to the _truth_ of the manners; that is, from
receiving the _pleasure_, which this poem _intends_. Our _sense of
imitation_ is that to which the comic poet addresses himself; but such
pictures of _eminent worth_ or _villainy_ seize upon the _moral sense_;
and by raising the strong correspondent passions of _admiration_ and
_abhorrence_, turn us aside from contemplating the _imitation itself_.
And,

3. For a like cause, comedy confines its views to the characters of
_private and inferior persons_. For the _truth of character_, which is
the spring of _humour_, being necessarily, as was observed, to be shewn
through the medium of _action_, and the actions of the great being
usually such as excite the _pathos_, it follows of course, that these
cannot, with propriety, be made the actors in comedy. Persons of high
and public life, if they are drawn agreeably to our accustomed ideas
of them, must be employed in such a _course of action_, as arrests the
attention, or interests the passions; and either way it diverts the
mind from observing the _truth_ of manners, that is, it prevents the
attainment of the specific _end_, which comedy designs.

And if the reason, here given, be sufficient to exclude the _higher
characters_ in life from this _drama_, even where the representation
is intended to be _serious_, we shall find it still more improper to
expose them in any pleasant or ridiculous light. ’Tis true, the follies
and foibles of the great will apparently take an easier ridicule by
representation, than those of their inferiors. And this it was, which
misled the celebrated P. CORNEILLE into the opinion, _that the actions
of the great, and even of kings themselves, provided they be of the
ridiculous kind, are as fit objects of comedy, as any other_. But he
did not reflect, that the _actions_ of the great being usually such,
as interest the intire community, at least scarcely any other falling
beneath vulgar notice; and the higher _characters_ being rarely seen
or contemplated by the people but with reverence, hence it is, that
in fact, _the representation of high life_ cannot, without offence to
probability, be made _ridiculous_, or consequently be admitted into
comedy under this view. And therefore PLAUTUS, when he thought fit
to introduce these reverend personages on the comic stage in his
AMPHITRUO, though he employed them in no very serious matters, was
yet obliged to apologize for this impropriety in calling his play a
_Tragicomedy_. What he says upon the occasion, though delivered with an
air of pleasantry, is according to the laws of just criticism.

    _Faciam ut commista sit_ TRAGICOCOMOEDIA.
    _Nam me perpetuo facere, ut sit Comoedia_
    REGES QUO VENIANT ET DII, _non par arbitror.
    Quid igitur? Quoniam hic_ SERVOS QUOQUE PARTES HABET,
    _Faciam sit, proinde ut dixi_, TRAGICOCOMOEDIA.
                                   PROL. IN AMPHIT.

And now, taking the _idea_ of the _two dramas_, as here opened, along
with us, we shall be able to give an account of several attributes,
_common_ to both, or which further _characterize_ each of them. And,

1. _A plot will be required in both._ For the end of tragedy being to
excite the affections _by_ action, and the end of comedy, to manifest
the truth of character _through_ it, an artful _constitution of the
Fable_ is required to do justice both to the one and the other. It
serves to bring out the _pathos_, and to produce _humour_. And thus
the general form or structure of the two dramas will be one and the
same.

2. More particularly, _an unity and even simplicity in the conduct
of the fable[5] is a perfection in each_. For the course of the
_affections_ is diverted and weakened by the intervention of what
we call a _double plot_; and even by a multiplicity of _subordinate
events_, though tending to a common _end_; and, of _persons_,
though all of them, some way, concerned in promoting it. The like
consideration shews the observance of this _rule_ to be essential to
just comedy. For when the _attention_ is split on so many interfering
objects, we are not at leisure to observe, nor do we so fully enter
into, the _truth of representation_ in any of them; the _sense of
humour_, as of the _pathos_, depending very much on the continued and
undiverted operation of its _object_ upon us.

3. The two dramas agree, also, in this circumstance; that the _manners_
of the persons exhibited should be _imperfect_. An absolutely good,
or an absolutely bad, character is foreign to the purpose of each.
And the reason is, 1, That such a representation is _improbable_. And
_probability_ constitutes, as we have seen, the very essence of comedy;
and is the _medium_, through which tragedy is enabled most powerfully
to affect us. 2. Such _characters_ are improper to _comedy_, because,
as was hinted above, they turn the attention aside from contemplating
the _expression_ of them, which we call _humour_. And they are not less
unsuited to _tragedy_, because though they make a forcible impression
on the mind, yet, as Aristotle well observes, they do not produce the
passions of _pity and terror_; that is, their _impressions_ are not of
the nature of that _pathos_, by which tragedy works its purpose. [κ.
ίγ.]

There are, likewise, some peculiarities, which distinguish the two
dramas. And

1. _Though a plot be necessary to produce_ humour, _as well as the
pathos, yet a_ good plot _is not so essential to comedy, as tragedy_.
For the pathos is the result of the _entire action_; that is, of all
the circumstances of the story taken together, and conspiring by a
probable tendency, to a completion in the _event_. A failure in the
just arrangement and disposition of the parts may, then, affect what
is of the essence of this drama. On the contrary, _humour_, though
brought out by _action_, is not the effect of the _whole_, but may
be distinctly evidenced in a _single scene_; as may be eminently
illustrated in the two comedies of Fletcher, called _The Little French
Lawyer_, and _The Spanish Curate_. The nice contexture of the fable
therefore, though it may give _pleasure_ of another kind, is not so
immediately required to the production of _that_ pleasure, which the
nature of comedy demands. Much less is there occasion for that labour
and ingenuity of contrivance, which is seen in the intricacy of the
Spanish fable. Yet this is the taste of our comedy. Our writers are
all for plot and intrigue; and never appear so well satisfied with
themselves as when, to speak in their own phrase, they contrive to
have a great deal of _business_ on their hands. Indeed they have
reason. For it hides their inability to colour _manners_, which is the
proper but much harder province of true comedy.

2. _Tragedy succeeds best, when the subject is_ real; _comedy, when
it is_ feigned. What would this say, but that tragedy, turning our
attention principally on the _action represented_, finds means to
_interest_ us more strongly on the persuasion of its being taken from
_actual life_? While comedy, on the other hand, can neglect these
scrupulous measures of _probability_, as intent only on exhibiting
_characters_; for which purpose an _invented story_ will serve much
better. The reason is, _real action_ does not ordinarily afford variety
of incidents enough to shew the _character_ fully: _feigned action_ may.

And this difference, we may observe, explains the reason why tragedies
are often formed on the most _trite and vulgar subjects_, whereas
a _new_ subject is generally demanded in comedy. The _reality_ of
the story being of so much consequence to interest the affections,
the more _known_ it is, the fitter for the poet’s purpose. But a
_feigned_ story having been found more convenient for the display of
characters, it grew into a rule that the story should be always _new_.
This disadvantage on the side of the comic poet is taken notice of in
those verses of Antiphanes, or rather, as Casaubon conjectures, of
_Aristophanes_, in a play of his intitled, Ποίησις. The reason of this
difference now appears.

    —Μακάριόν ἐστιν ἡ τραγῳδία
    Ποίημα κατὰ πάντ’. εἴγε πρῶτον οἱ λόγοι
    Ὑπὸ τῶν θεατῶν εἰσὶν ἐγνωρισμένοι,
    Πρὶν καί τιν’ εἰπεῖν, ὡς ὑπομνῆσαι μόνον
    Δεῖ τὸν ποιητήν. Οἰδίπουν γάρ ἄν γε φῶ,
    Τὰ δ’ ἄλλα πάντ’ ἴσασιν· Ὁ πατὴρ Λάïος,
    Μήτηρ Ἰοκάστη, θυγατέρες, παῖδες τίνες·
    Τὶ πείσεθ’ οὗτος, τί πεποίηκεν····
    Ἡμῖν δὲ ταῦτ’ οὐκ ἔστιν· ἀλλὰ πάντα δεῖ
    Εὑρεῖν ὀνόματα καινὰ, τὰ διῳκημένα
    Πρότερον, τὰ νῦν παρόντα, τὴν καταστροφὴν,
    Τὴν ἐσβολήν. ἀν ἕν τι τούτων παραλίπῃ,
    Χρέμης τις, ἢ Φείδων τις ἐκσυρίττεται,
    Πηλεῖ δὲ ταῦτ’ ἔξεστι καὶ Τεύκρῳ ποιεῖν.

One sees, then, the reason why Tragedy prefers real _subjects_, and
even old ones; and, on the contrary, why comedy delights in feigned
subjects, and new.

The same genius in the two dramas is observable, in their draught of
_characters_. Comedy makes all its Characters _general_; Tragedy,
_particular_. The _Avare_ of Moliere is not so properly the picture of
a _covetous man_, as of _covetousness_ itself. Racine’s _Nero_, on the
other hand, is not a picture of _cruelty_, but of a _cruel man_.

Yet here it will be proper to guard against two mistakes, which the
principles now delivered may be thought to countenance.

The _first_ is with regard to _tragic_ characters, which I say are
_particular_. My meaning is, they are _more_ particular than those of
comedy. That is, the _end_ of tragedy does not require or permit the
poet to draw together so many of those characteristic circumstances
which shew the manners, as Comedy. For, in the former of these dramas,
no more of _character_ is shewn, than what the course of the action
necessarily calls forth. Whereas, all or most of the features, by which
it is usually distinguished, are sought out and industriously displayed
in the _latter_.

The case is much the same as in _portrait painting_; where, if a great
master be required to draw a _particular face_, he gives the very
lineaments he finds in it; yet so far resembling to what he observes of
the same turn in other faces, as not to affect any minute circumstance
of peculiarity. But if the same artist were to design a _head_ in
general, he would assemble together all the customary traits and
features, any where observable through the species, which should best
express the idea, whatever it was, he had conceived in his own mind and
wanted to exhibit in the picture.

There is much the same difference between the two sorts of _dramatic_
portraits. Whence it appears that in calling the tragic character
_particular_, I suppose it only _less representative_ of the kind than
the comic; not that the draught of so much character as it is concerned
to represent should not be _general_: the contrary of which I have
asserted and explained at large elsewhere [_Notes on the A. P._ v. 317.]

_Next_, I have said, the characters of just comedy are _general_.
And this I explain by the instance of the _Avare_ of Moliere, which
conforms more to the idea of _avarice_, than to that of the real
_avaricious man_. But here again, the reader will not understand me, as
saying this in the strict sense of the words. I even think Moliere
faulty in the instance given; though, with some necessary explanation,
it may well enough serve to express my meaning.

The view of the comic scene being to delineate characters, this end, I
suppose, will be attained most perfectly, by making those characters
as _universal_ as possible. For thus the person shewn in the drama
being the representative of all characters of the same kind, furnishes
in the highest degree the entertainment of _humour_. But then this
universality must be such as agrees not to our idea of the _possible_
effects of the character as conceived in the abstract, but to the
_actual_ exertion of its powers; which experience justifies, and common
life allows. Moliere, and before him Plautus, had offended in this;
that for a picture of the _avaricious man_, they presented us with a
fantastic unpleasing draught of the _passion of avarice_. I call this a
_fantastic_ draught, because it hath no archetype in nature. And it is,
farther, an _unpleasing_ one, for, being the delineation of a _simple
passion unmixed_, it wanted all those

    —Lights and shades, whose well-accorded strife
    Gives all the strength and colour of our life.

These _lights and shades_ (as the poet finely calls the intermixture
of many passions, which, with the _leading_ or principal one, form the
human character) must be blended together in every picture of dramatic
manners; because the avowed business of the drama is to image real
life. Yet the draught of the _leading_ passion must be as general as
this _strife_ in nature permits, in order to express the intended
character more perfectly.

All which again is easily illustrated in the instance of painting. In
_portraits of character_, as we may call those that give a picture of
the _manners_, the artist, if he be of real ability, will not go to
work on the possibility of an abstract idea. All he intends, is to shew
that some one quality _predominates_: and this he images strongly,
and by such signatures as are most conspicuous in the operation of
the _leading passion_. And when he hath done this, we may, in common
speech or in compliment, if we please, to his art, say of such a
portrait that it images to us not the _man_ but the _passion_; just as
the ancients observed of the famous statue of Apollodorus by Silarion,
that it expressed not the angry _Apollodorus_, but his passion of
_anger_[6]. But by this must be understood only that he has well
expressed the leading parts of the designed character. For the rest he
treats his _subject_ as he would any other; that is, he represents the
_concomitant affections_, or considers merely that general symmetry and
proportion which are expected in a human figure. And this is to copy
nature, which affords no specimen of a man turned all into a single
passion. No metamorphosis could be more strange or incredible. Yet
portraits of this vicious taste are the admiration of common starers,
who, if they find a picture of a _miser_ for instance (as there is
no commoner subject of moral portraits) in a collection, where every
muscle is strained, and feature hardened into the expression of this
idea, never fail to profess their wonder and approbation of it.—On
this idea of excellence Le Brun’s book of the PASSIONS must be said to
contain a set of the justest _moral portraits_: And the CHARACTERS of
Theophrastus might be recommended, in a _dramatic_ view, as preferable
to those of Terence.

The virtuosi in the fine arts would certainly laugh at the former of
these judgments. But the latter, I suspect, will not be thought so
extraordinary. At least if one may guess from the practice of some of
our best comic writers, and the success which such plays have commonly
met with. It were easy to instance in almost all plays of character.
But if the reader would see the extravagance of building dramatic
manners on abstract ideas, in its full light, he needs only turn to B.
Jonson’s _Every man out of his humour_; which under the name of a _play
of character_ is in fact, an unnatural, and, as the painters call it,
_hard_ delineation of a group of _simply existing passions_, wholly
chimerical, and unlike to any thing we observe in the commerce of real
life. Yet this comedy has always had its admirers. And _Randolph_, in
particular, was so taken with the design, that he seems to have formed
his _muse’s looking-glass_ in express imitation of it.

Shakespeare, we may observe, is in this as in all the other more
essential beauties of the drama, a perfect model. If the discerning
reader peruse attentively his comedies with this view, he will find
his _best-marked_ characters discoursing through a great deal of their
_parts_, just like any other, and only expressing their essential and
leading qualities occasionally, and as circumstances concur to give
an easy exposition to them. This singular excellence of his comedy,
was the effect of his copying faithfully after nature, and of the
force and vivacity of his genius, which made him attentive to what the
progress of the scene successively presented to him: whilst _imitation_
and _inferior talents_ occasion little writers to wind themselves up
into the habit of attending perpetually to their main view, and a
solicitude to keep their favourite characters in constant play and
agitation. Though in this illiberal exercise of their wit, they may be
said to use the _persons of the drama_ as a certain facetious sort do
their _acquaintance_, whom they urge and teize with their civilities,
not to give them a reasonable share in the conversation, but to force
them to play _tricks_ for the diversion of the company.

I have been the longer on this argument, to prevent the reader’s
carrying what I say of the superiority of _plays of character_ to
_plays of intrigue_ into an extreme; a mistake, into which some good
writers have been unsuspectingly betrayed by the acknowledged truth of
the general principle. It is so natural for men on all occasions, to
fly out into extremes, that too much care cannot be had to retain them
in a due medium. But to return from the digression to the consideration
of the difference of the two dramas.

3. A sameness of _character is not usually objected to in tragedy: in
comedy, it would not be endured_. The passion of _avarice_, to resume
the instance given above, being the main object, we find nothing but a
disgustful repetition in a second attempt to delineate that _character_.
_A particular cruel man_ only engrossing our regard in _Nero_, when
the train of events evidencing such cruelty is changed, we have all
the novelty we look for, and can contemplate, with pleasure, the
very _same_ character, set forth by a different course of action, or
displayed in some other _person_.

4. Comedy succeeds best when the scene is laid _at home_, tragedy for
the most part when _abroad_. “This appears at first sight whimsical
and capricious, but has its foundation in nature. What we chiefly seek
in comedy is a true image of life and _manners_, but we are not easily
brought to think we have it given us, when dressed in foreign modes
and fashions. And yet a good writer must follow his scene, and observe
decorum. On the contrary, ’tis the action in tragedy which most engages
our attention. But to fit a domestic occurrence for the stage, we must
take greater liberties with the action than a well-known story will
allow.” [_Pope’s Works_, vol. iv. p. 185.]

Other _characters_ of the two dramas, as well _peculiar_, as _common_,
which might be accounted for from the just notion of them, delivered
above, I leave to the observation of the reader. For my intention is
not to write a complete treatise on the drama, but briefly to lay down
such principles, from whence its _laws_ may be derived.




CHAP. II.

OF THE GENIUS OF COMEDY.


But it may not be amiss to express myself a little more fully as to the
_genius_ of comedy; which for want of passing through the hands of such
a critic as Aristotle, has been less perfectly understood.

Its _end_ is the production of _humour_: or which comes to the same
thing, “of that _pleasure_, which the _truth_ of representation
affords, in the _exhibition_ of the _private characters_ of life,
more particularly their _specific differences_.” I add this _latter_
clause, because the principal pleasure we take in contemplating
characters consists in noting those _differences_. The general
attributes of humanity, if represented ever so truly, give us but a
slender entertainment. They, of course, make a part of the drama;
but we chiefly delight in a picture of those peculiar _traits_,
which distinguish the species. Now these discriminating marks in the
characters of men are not _necessarily_ the causes of ridicule, or
pleasantry of any kind; but _accidentally_, and according to the
nature or quality of them. The vanity, and impertinent boasting of
_Thraso_ is the natural object of _contempt_, and, when truly and
forcibly expressed in his own character, provokes _ridicule_. The easy
humanity of _Mitio_, which is the leading part of his character, is the
object of _approbation_; and, when shewn in his own conduct, excites a
_pleasure_, in common with all just _expression of the manners_, but of
a _serious_ nature, as being joined with the sentiment of _esteem_.

But now as most men find a greater pleasure in gratifying the passion
of _contempt_, than the calm instinct of _approbation_, and since
perhaps the constitution of human life is such, as affords more
exercise for the one, than the other, hence it hath come to pass, that
the comic poet, who paints for the generality, and follows nature,
chuses more commonly to select and describe those _peculiarities_ in
the human character, which, by their nature, excite _pleasantry_, than
such as create a serious regard and esteem. Hence some persons have
appropriated the name of _comedies_ to those dramas, which chiefly
aim at producing _humour_, in the more _proper_ sense of the word;
under which view it means “such an expression or picture of what is
odd, or inordinate in each character, as gives us the fullest and
strongest image of the original, and by the truth of the representation
exposes the _ridicule_ of it.” And it is certain, that comedy receives
great advantage from representations of this kind. Nay, it cannot
well subsist without them. Yet it doth not exclude the other and more
_serious_ entertainment, which, as it stands on the same foundation of
_truth of representation_, I venture to include under the _common term_.

Further, there are _two ways_ of evidencing the characteristic and
predominant qualities of men, or, of producing _humour_, which require
to be observed. The _one_ is, when they are shewn in the perpetual
course and tenor of the representation; that is, when the _humour_
results from the _general_ conduct of the person in the drama, and the
discourse, which he holds in it. The _other_ is, when by an happy and
lively stroke, the characteristic quality is laid open and exposed _at
once_.

The _first_ sort of _humour_ is that which we find in the ancients, and
especially Terence. The _latter_ is almost peculiar to the moderns;
who, in uniting these two species of _humour_, have brought a vast
improvement to the comic scene. The reason of this difference may
perhaps have been the singular simplicity of the old writers, who were
contented to take up with such sentiments or circumstances, as most
naturally and readily occurred in the course of the drama: whereas
the moderns have been ambitious to shew a more exquisite and studied
investigation into the workings of human nature, and have sought out
for those peculiarly striking lineaments, in which the essence of
character consists. On the same account, I suppose, it was that the
ancients had _fewer_ characters in their plays, than the moderns,
and those more _general_; that is, their dramatic writers were well
satisfied with picturing the most _usual_ personages, and in their
most _obvious_ lights. They did not, as the moderns (who, if they
would aspire to the praise of _novelty_, were obliged to this route),
cast about for less _familiar_ characters; and the nicer and _less
observed_ peculiarities which distinguish _each_. Be it as it will, the
observation is certain. Later dramatists have apparently shewn a more
accurate knowledge of human life: and, by opening these new and untryed
veins of _humour_, have exceedingly enriched the comedy of our times.

But, though we are not to look for the _two species of humour_,
before-mentioned, in the same perfection on the simpler stages of
_Greece and Rome_, as in _our_ improved Theatres, yet the _first_ of
them was clearly seen and successfully practised by the ancient comic
masters; and there are not wanting in them some few examples even of
the _last_. “The old man in the _Mother-in-Law_ says to his Son,

    _Tum tu igitur nihil adtulisti huc plus unâ sententiâ._

This, as an excellent person observed to me, is true _humour_.
For his character, which was that of a lover of money, drew the
observation naturally and forcibly from him. His disappointment of a
rich succession made him speak contemptibly of a moral lesson, which
rich and covetous men, in their best humours, have no high reverence
for. And this too without _design_; which is important, and shews the
distinction of what, in the more restrained sense of the word, we call
_humour_, from other modes of _pleasantry_. For had a young friend of
the son, an unconcerned spectator of the scene, made the observation,
it had then, in another’s mouth, been _wit_, or a designed _banter_
on the father’s disappointment. As, on the other hand, when such
characteristic qualities are exaggerated, and the expression of them
stretched beyond _truth_, they become _buffoonry_, even in the person’s
_own_.”

This is an instance of the _second species_ of humour, under its idea
of exciting _ridicule_. But it may, also, be employed with the utmost
_seriousness_; as being only a method of expressing the _truth_ of
character in the _most striking_ manner. This same _old man_ in the
Hecyra will furnish an example. Though a lover of money, he appears, in
the main, of an honest and worthy nature, and to have born the truest
affection to an amiable and favourite son. In the perplexity of the
scene, which had arisen from the supposed misunderstanding between his
_son’s_ wife and his _own_, he proposes, as an expedient to end all
differences, to retire with his wife into the country. And to enforce
this proposal to the young man, who had his reasons for being against
it, he adds,

          _odiosa est haec aetas adolescentulis:
    E medio aequum excedere est: postremò nos jam fabula
    Sumus, Pamphile, senex atque anus_.

There is nothing, I suppose in these words, which provokes a smile.
Yet the _humour_ is strong, as before. In his solicitude to promote
his son’s satisfaction, he lets fall a sentiment truly characteristic,
and which old men usually take great pains to conceal; I mean,
his acknowledgment of _that suspicious fear of contempt, which is
natural to old age_. So true a picture of life, in the representation
of this _weakness_, might, in other circumstances, have created
some _pleasantry_; but the _occasion_, which forced it from him,
discovering, at the same time, the _amiable disposition_ of the
speaker, covers the ridicule of it, or more properly converts it into
an object of our _esteem_.

We have here, then, a kind of _intermediate_ species of _humour_
betwixt the _ridiculous_ and the _grave_; and may perceive how
insensibly the _one_ becomes the _other_, by the accidental mixture of
a virtuous _quality_, attracting _esteem_. Which may serve to reconcile
the reader to the application of this _term_ even to such _expression_
of the manners, as is perfectly _serious_; that is, where the _quality
represented_ is entirely, and without the least _touch_ of attending
ridicule, the object of _moral approbation_ to the mind. As in that
famous asseveration of Chremes in the _Self-tormentor_:

    _Homo sum: humani nihil à me alienum puto._

This is a strong expression of character; and, coming unaffectedly from
him in answer to the cutting reproof of his friend,

    _Chreme, tantumne ab re tuâ’st otî tibi
    Aliena ut cures; ea quae nihil ad te adtinent?_

hath the essence of true _humour_, that is, is a _lively picture of the
manners without design_.

Yet in this instance, which hath not been observed, the _humour_,
though of a serious cast, is heightened by a mixture of _satire_.
For we are not to take this, as hath constantly been done, for a
sentiment of pure humanity and the natural ebullition of benevolence.
We may observe in it a designed stroke of satirical resentment. _The
Self-tormentor_, as we saw, had ridiculed Chremes’ _curiosity_ by
a severe reproof. Chremes, to be even with him, reflects upon the
_inhumanity_ of his temper. “You, says he, seem such a foe to humanity,
that you spare it not _in yourself_; I, on the other hand, am affected,
when I see it suffer in _another_.”

Whence we learn, that, though all which is requisite to constitute
comic humour, be a _just expression of character without design_, yet
such _expression_ is felt more _sensibly_, when it is further enlivened
by _ridicule_, or quickened by the poignancy of _satire_.

From the account of comedy, here given, it may appear, that the idea
of this drama is much enlarged beyond what it was in Aristotle’s time;
who defines it to be, _an imitation of light and trivial actions,
provoking ridicule_. His notion was taken from the state and practice
of the Athenian stage; that is, from the _old_ or _middle_ comedy,
which answers to this description. The great revolution, which the
introduction of the _new comedy_ made in the drama, did not happen
till afterwards. This proposed for its _object_, in general, _the
actions and characters of ordinary life_; which are not, of necessity,
ridiculous, but, as appears to every observer, of a mixt kind,
_serious_ as well as _ludicrous_, and within their proper sphere of
influence, not unfrequently, even _important_. This kind of _imitation_
therefore, now admits the _serious_; and its scenes, even without
the least mixture of _pleasantry_, are entirely _comic_. Though the
common run of _laughers_ in our theatre are so little aware of the
extension of this _province_, that I should scarcely have hazarded the
observation, but for the authority of _Terence_; who hath confessedly
very little of the _pleasant_ in his drama. Nay, one of the most
admired of his comedies hath the gravity, and, in some places, almost
the solemnity of _tragedy itself_. But this _idea_ of comedy is not
peculiar to the more polite and liberal _ancients_. Some of the best
_modern_ comedies are fashioned in agreement to it. And an instance or
two, which I am going to produce from the stage of simple nature, may
seem to shew it the plain suggestion of common sense.

“The Amautas (says the author of the _Royal Commentaries of_ PERU),
who were men of the best ingenuity amongst them, invented COMEDIES
and TRAGEDIES; which, on their solemn festivals, they represented
before the King and the Lords of his court. The plot or argument of
their _tragedies_ was to represent _their military exploits, and the
triumphs, victories, and heroic actions of their renowned men_. And the
subject or design of their _comedies_ was, to demonstrate _the manner
of good husbandry in cultivating and manuring their fields, and to shew
the management of domestic affairs, with other familiar matters_. These
plays, continues he, were not made up of obscene and dishonest farces,
but such as were of _serious entertainment, composed of grave and
acute sentences_, &c.”

Two things are observable in this brief account of the Peruvian drama.
_First_, that its _species_ had respect to the very different _objects_
of the _higher_ or _lower_ stations. For the _great and powerful_
were occupied in _war_: and _agriculture_ was the chief employment of
_private and ordinary life_. And, in this distinction, these _Indian_,
perfectly agreed with the old Roman poets; whose PRAETEXTATA and TOGATA
shew, that they had precisely the same ideas of the drama. _Secondly_,
we do not learn only, what difference there _was_ betwixt their tragedy
and comedy, but we are also told, what difference there was _not_. It
was not, that one was _serious_, and the other _pleasant_. For we find
it expressly asserted of _both_, that they _were of grave and serious
entertainment_.

And this last will explain a similar observation on the Chinese, _who_,
as P. DE PREMERE acquaints us, _make no distinction betwixt tragedies
and comedies_. That is, _no distinction_, but what the different
_subjects_ of each make necessary. They do not, as our European dramas,
differ in this, that the _one_ is intended to make us _weep_, and the
other to make us _laugh_.

These are full and precise testimonies. For I lay no stress on what
the Historian of _Peru_ tells us, _that there were no obscenities in
their comedy_, nor on what an encomiast of _China_ pretends, _that
there is not so much as an obscene word in all their language_[7]: as
being sensible, that though indeed these must needs be considerable
abatements to the _humour_ of their comic scenes, yet, their ingenuity
might possibly find means to remedy these defects by the invention and
dextrous application of the _double entendre_, which, on our stage, is
found to supply the place of rank _obscenity_, and, indeed, to do its
office of exciting _laughter_ almost as well.

But, as I said, there is no occasion for this _argument_. We may
venture, without the help of it, to join these authorities to _that_
of Terence; which, together, enable us to conclude very fully, in
opposition to the general sentiment, that _ridicule_ is not of the
_essence of comedy_[8].

But, because the general practice of the _Greek and Roman theatres_,
which strongly countenance the other opinion, may still be thought
to outweigh this single _Latin poet_, together with all the _eastern
and western barbarians_, that can be thrown into the balance, let me
go one step further, and, by explaining the rise and occasion of this
_practice_, demonstrate, that, in the present case, their authority is,
in fact, of no moment.

The form of the Greek, from whence the Roman and our drama is taken,
though generally _improved_ by reflexion and just criticism, yet, like
so many other great inventions, was, in its original, the _product_ of
pure chance. Each of its species had sprung out of a _chorus-song_,
which was afterwards incorporated into the legitimate drama, and found
essential to its true form. But _reason_, which saw to establish
what was _right_ in this fortuitous conformation of the drama, did
not equally succeed in detecting and separating what was _wrong_. For
the _occasion_ of this chorus-song, in their religious festivities,
was widely different: the business _at one time_, being to express
their gratitude, in celebrating the praises of their gods and heroes;
at _another_, to indulge their mirth, in jesting and sporting among
themselves. The character of their drama, which had its rise from
hence,[9] conformed exactly to the difference of these _occasions_.
_Tragedy_, through all its several successive stages of improvement, was
serious and even solemn. And a gay or rather buffoon spirit was the
characteristic of _comedy_.

We see, then, the _genius_ of these two poems was accidentally fixed
in agreement to their respective _originals_; consequent writers
contenting themselves to embellish and perfect, not _change_, the
primary form. The practice of the ancient stage is then of no further
authority, than as it accords to just criticism. The solemn cast of
their _tragedy_, indeed, bears the test, and is found to be suitable
to its real nature. The same does not appear of the burlesque form of
_comedy_; no reason having been given, why _it_ must, of necessity,
have the _ridiculous_ for its object. Nay the effects of improved
criticism on the later Greek comedy give a presumption of the direct
contrary. For, in proportion to the gradual refinement of this
_species_ in the hands of its greatest masters, the buffoon cast of
the comic drama was insensibly dropt and even grew into a severity,
which departed at length very widely from the original idea. The
admirable scholar of THEOPHRASTUS, who had been tutored in the exact
study of human life, saw so much of the genuine character of true
comedy, that he cleansed it, at once, from the greater part of those
buffoonries, which had, till his time, defiled its nature. His great
imitator, Terence, went still further; and, whether impelled by his
native humour, or determined by his truer taste, mixed so little of
the _ridiculous_ in his comedy, as plainly shews, it might, in his
opinion, subsist entirely without it. His _practice_ indeed, and the
theory, here delivered, nearly meet. And the conclusion is, that
_comedy_, which is the image of private life, may take either character
of _pleasant_ or _serious_, as it chances, or even _unite_ them into
one piece; but that the _former_ is, by no means, more essential to its
constitution, than the _latter_.

I foresee but one objection, that can be made to this theory; which
has, in effect, been obviated already. “It may be said, that, if this
account of _comedy_ be just, it would follow, that it might, with
equal propriety, admit the gravest and most affecting events, which
inferior life furnishes, as the lightest. Whereas it is notorious, that
distresses of a deep and solemn nature, though faithfully copied from
the fortunes of private men, would never be endured, under the name of
_comedy_, on the stage. Nay, such representations would rather pass,
in the public judgment, for legitimate _tragedies_; of which kind, we
have, indeed, some examples in our language.”

Two things are mistaken in this objection. _First_, it supposes,
that deep distresses of every kind are inconsistent with comedy; the
contrary of which may be learnt from the SELF-TORMENTOR of Terence.
_Next_, it insinuates, that, if deep distresses of any kind may be
admitted into comedy, the _deepest_ may. Which is equally erroneous.
For the _manners_ being the proper object of comedy, the _distress_
must not exceed a certain degree of _severity_, lest it draw off the
mind from them, and confine it to the _action_ only: as would be the
case of _murder_, _adultery_, and other atrocious crimes, infesting
_private_, as well as _public_, life, were they to be represented,
in all their horrors, on the stage. And though some of these, as
_adultery_, have been brought, of late, into the comic scene, yet
it was not till it had lost the atrocity of its nature, and was made
the subject of mirth and pleasantry to the fashionable world. But for
this happy disposition of the times, comedy, as managed by some of our
writers, had lost its nature, and become _tragic_. And, yet, considered
as _tragic_, such representations of low life had been improper.
Because, where the intent is to _affect_, the subject is with more
advantage taken from _high life_, all the circumstances being, there,
more peculiarly adapted to answer that end.

The solution then of the difficulty is, in one word, this. All
_distresses_ are not _improper_ in comedy; but such only as attach
the mind to the _fable_, in neglect of the _manners_, which are its
chief object. On the other hand, all _distresses_ are not _proper_
in tragedy; but such only as are of force to interest the mind in
the _action_, preferably to the observation of the _manners_; which
can only be done, or is done most effectually, when the _distressful
event_, represented, is taken from _public life_. So that the
_distresses_, spoken of, are equally unsuited to what the natures
_both_ of _comedy and tragedy_, respectively, demand.




CHAP. III.

OF M. DE FONTENELLE’S NOTION OF COMEDY.


Notwithstanding the pains I have taken, in the preceding chapters,
to establish my theory of the comic drama, I find myself obliged to
support it still further against the authority of a very eminent modern
critic. M. de Fontenelle hath just now published two volumes of plays,
among which are some comedies of a very singular character. They are
not only, in a high degree, _pathetic_; but the scene of them is laid
in _antiquity_; and great personages, such as _Kings_, _Princesses_,
&c. are of the drama. He hath besides endeavoured to justify this
extraordinary species of comedy by a very ingenious preface. It will
therefore be necessary for me to examine this new system, and to
obviate, as far as I can, the prejudices which the name of the author,
and the intrinsic merit of the plays themselves, will occasion in
favour of it.

His system, as explained in the preface to these comedies, is, briefly,
this.

“The _subject_ of dramatic representation, he observes, is some event
or action of _human life_, which can be considered only in two views,
as being either that of _public_, or of _private_, persons. The end of
such representation, continues he, is to _please_, which it doth either
by engaging the attention, or by moving the passions. The _former_
is done by representing to us such events as are _great, noble, or
unexpected_: The _latter_ by such as are _dreadful, pitiable, tender,
or pleasant_. Of these several sources of _pleasure_, he forms what
he calls a _dramatic scale_, the extremes of which he admits to be
altogether inconsistent; no art being sufficient to bring together the
_grand_, the _noble_, or the _terrible_, into the same piece with the
_pleasant or ridiculous_. The impressions of these objects, he allows,
are perfectly opposed to each other. So that a tragedy, which takes
for its subject a _noble_, or _terrible_ event, can by no means admit
the _pleasant_. And a comedy, which represents a _pleasant_ action,
can never admit the _terrible_ or _noble_. But it is otherwise, he
conceives, with the intermediate species of this scale. The _singular_,
the _pitiable_, the _tender_, which fill up the interval betwixt the
_noble_ and _ridiculous_, are equally consistent with tragedy and
comedy. An uncommon stroke of Fortune may as well befall a peasant as
a prince. And two lovers of an inferior condition may have as lively a
passion for each other, and, when some unlucky event separates them,
may deserve our pity as much, as those of the highest fortune. These
situations then are equally suited to both dramas. They will only be
modified in each a little differently. From hence he concludes, that
there may be _dramatic representations_, which are neither perfectly
tragedies nor perfectly comedies, but yet partake of the nature of
each, and that in different proportions. There might be a species
of _tragedy_, for instance, which should unite the _tender_ with
the _noble_ in any degree, or even subsist entirely by means of the
_tender_: And of _comedy_, which should associate the _tender_ with the
_pleasant_, or even retain the _tender_ throughout to a certain degree
to the entire exclusion of the _pleasant_.

“As to his laying the _scene_ of his comedy in Greece, he thinks this
practice sufficiently justified by the practice of the French writers,
who make no scruple to lay their scene abroad, as in _Spain_ or
_England_.

“Lastly, for what concerns the introduction of great personages into
the comic drama, he observes that by _ordinary life_, which he supposes
the proper subject of comedy, he understands as well that of Emperors
and Princes, at times when they are only men, as of inferior persons.
And he thinks it very evident that what passes in the ordinary _life_,
so understood, of the greatest men, is truly comic[10].”

This is a simple exposition of M. de Fontenelle’s idea of comedy,
which, however, he hath set off with great elegance and a plausibility
of illustration, such as writers of his class are never at a loss to
give to any subject they would recommend.

Now, tho’ the principal aim of what I have to offer in confutation of
this system be to combat the ingenious writer’s notion of comedy, yet
as the tenor of his _preface_ leads him to deliver his sentiments also
of tragedy, I shall not scruple intermixing, after his example, some
reflexions on this latter drama.

M. de Fontenelle sets out with observing, that the end of dramatic
representation is to _please_. This end is very general. But he
explains himself more precisely, by saying, “_this pleasure is of two
kinds, and consists either in attaching the mind or affecting it_.” And
this is not much amiss. But his further explanation of these terms is
suspicious. “The mind, says he, is ATTACHED by the representation of
what is _great_, _noble_, _singular_, or _unexpected_: It is AFFECTED
by what is _terrible_, _pitiable_, _tender_, or _pleasant_[11].”
In this enumeration he forgets the merely _natural_ draught of the
manners. Yet this is surely one of the means by which the drama is
enabled to _attach_ the spectator. With me, I confess, this is the
first excellence of comedy. Nor could he mean to include this source
of pleasure under his _second_ division. For tho’ a lively picture of
the manners may in some sort be said to _affect_ us, yet certainly not
as coming under the consideration of what is _terrible_, _pitiable_,
_tender_, or _ridiculous_, but simply of what is _natural_. The
picture is _pleasant_ or otherwise, as it chances; but is always the
source of entertainment to the observer. When the pleasantry is high,
it takes indeed the passion of _ridicule_. In other instances, it
can scarcely be said to _move_, “emouvoir.” Now this I take to be a
very considerable omission. For if the observation of character be a
_pleasure_, which comedy is more particularly qualified to give, and
which is not in any degree so compatible with tragedy, does not this
bid fair for being the _proper_ end of comedy? Human life, he says,
which is the subject of the drama, can only be regarded in two views,
as either that _of the great and principally of kings_, and that of
_private men_. Now the _attachments_ and _emotions_, he speaks of, are
excited more powerfully and to more advantage in a representation of
the _former_. That which is _peculiar_ to a draught of _ordinary life_,
or which is attained _most perfectly_ by it, is the delight arising
from a just exhibition of the manners. No, he will say. The _pleasant_
belongs as peculiarly to a picture of common life, as the _natural_.
Surely not. Common life _distorted_, or what we call _farce_, gives
the entertainment of _ridicule_ more perfectly than comedy. The only
pleasure, which an exposition of _ordinary life_ affords, distinct
from that we receive from a view of _high life_ on the one hand,
and ordinary life _disfigured_ on the other, is the satisfaction of
contemplating the _truth of character_. However then this species
of representation may be improved by incorporating other kinds of
excellence with it, is not _this, of pleasing_ by the _truth_ of
character, to be considered as the _appropriate_ end of comedy?

I don’t dispute the propriety of serious or even affecting comedies. I
have already explained myself as to this point, and have shewn under
what restrictions _the weeping comedy_, _la larmoyante comedie_, as
the French call it, may be admitted on my plan. The main question is,
whether there be any foundation in nature for two distinct and separate
species _only_ of the drama; or whether, as he pretends, a certain
_scale_, which connects by an insensible communication the several
modifications of dramatic representation, unites and incorporates the
two species into one.

It is true the laws of the drama, as formed by Aristotle out of the
Greek poets, can of themselves be no rule to us in this matter; because
these poets had given no example of such intermediate species. This,
for aught appears to the contrary, may be an extension of the province
of the drama. The question then must be tried by the success of this
new practice, compared with the general dictates of common sense.

For I perfectly agree with this judicious critic, that we have a
right to inquire if, in what concerns the stage, we are not sometimes
governed by _established customs_ instead of rules; for _Rules_ they
will not deserve to be esteemed, till they have undergone the rigid
scrutiny of reason[12].

In respect of the _Practice_, then, it must be owned, there are many
stories in private life capable of being worked up in such a manner
as to move the passions strongly; and, on the contrary, many subjects
taken from the great world capable of diverting the spectator by a
pleasant picture of the manners. And lastly, it is also true, that
both these ends may be affected together, in some degree, in either
piece. But here is the point of enquiry. Whether if the end in view
be to _affect_, this will not be accomplished BETTER by taking a
subject from the public than private fortunes of men: Or, if the End
be to _please by the truth of character_, whether we are not likely
to perceive this pleasure more FULLY when the story is of private,
rather than of public life? For, as Aristotle said finely on a like
occasion, _we are not to look for every sort of pleasure from tragedy_
[or comedy] _but that which is peculiarly proper to each_[13]. “Human
life” this writer says, “can be considered but as _high_ or _low_;”
and “a representation of it can please only as it _attaches_, or
_affects_.” I ask then, to which sort of life shall the dramatic poet
confine himself, when he would endeavour to raise these _affections_
or these _attachments_ to the highest pitch. The answer is plain. For
if the poet would excite the tender passions, they will rise higher of
necessity, when awakened by noble subjects, than if called forth by
such as are of ordinary and familiar notice. This is occasioned by what
one may call a TRANSITION OF THE PASSIONS: that affection of the mind
which is produced by the impression of great objects, being more easily
convertible into the stronger degrees of pity and commiseration, than
such as arises from a view of the concerns of common life. The more
_important_ the interest, the greater part our minds take in it, and
the more susceptible are we of _passion_.

On the other hand, when the intended pleasure is to result from
strong pictures of human nature, this will be felt more entirely, and
with more sincerity, when we are at leisure to attend to them in the
representation of inferior persons, than when the rank of the speaker,
or dignity of the subject, is constantly drawing some part of our
observation to itself. In a word, though _mixed dramas_ may give us
pleasure, yet the pleasure, in either kind, will be LESS in proportion
to the mixture. And the _end_ of each will be then attained MOST
PERFECTLY when its character, according to the ancient practice, is
observed.

To consider then the writer’s favourite position, that _le pitoyable_
and _le tendre_ are “common both to tragedy and comedy.” The position,
in general, is true. The difficulty is in fixing the degree, with which
it ought to prevail in each. If _passion_ predominates in a picture
of private life, I call it a _tragedy_ of private story, because it
produces the _end_ which tragedy designs. If _humour_ predominates
in a draught of public life, I call it a _comedy_ of public story,
because it gives the _pleasure_ of pure comedy. Let these then be two
new species of the drama, if you please, and let new names be invented
for them. Yet, were I a poet, I should certainly adhere to the old
practice. That is, if I wanted to produce _passion_, I should think
myself able to raise it highest on a great subject. And if I aimed to
_attach_ by _humour_, I should depend on catching the whole attention
of the spectator more successfully on a familiar subject.

But by a _familiar subject_, this critic will say, he means, as I
do, a subject taken from _ordinary life_; and that the affairs of
kings and princes may very properly come into comedy under this view.
Besides the reason already produced against this innovation, I have
this further exception to it. The business of comedy, he will allow,
is in part at least to exhibit the _manners_. Now the princely or
heroic comedy is singularly improper for this end. If persons of so
distinguished a rank be the actors in comedy, propriety demands that
they be shewn in conformity to their characters in real life. But now
that very politeness, which reigns in the courts of princes and the
houses of the great, prevents the _manners_ from shewing themselves,
at least with that distinctness and _relief_ which we look for in
dramatic characters. Inferior personages, acting with less reserve and
caution, afford the fittest occasion to the poet of expressing their
genuine tempers and dispositions. Or, if a picture of the manners be
expected from the introduction of great persons, it can be only in
tragedy, where the importance of the interests and the strong play of
the passions strip them of their borrowed disguises, and lay open their
true characters. So that the princely, or _heroic_, comedy is the least
fitted, of any kind of drama, to furnish this pleasure.

The ancients appear to have had no doubt at all on the matter. The
tragedy on low life, and comedy on high life, were refinements
altogether unknown to them. What then hath occasioned this revolution
of taste amongst us? Principally, I conceive, these three things.

1. The comedy on high life hath arisen from a _different state of
government_. In the free towns of Greece there was no room for that
distinction of high and low comedy, which the moderns have introduced.
And the reason was, the members of those communities were so nearly
on a level, that any one was a representative of the rest. There was
no standing subordination of royalty, nobility, and commonalty, as
with us. Their way of ennobling their characters was, by making them
Generals, Ambassadors, Magistrates, &c. and then, in that public view,
they were fit personages for tragedy. When stripped of these ensigns of
authority, they became simple citizens.

Amongst us, persons of elevated rank make a separate order in the
community, whose private lives however might, no doubt, be the subject
of comic representation. Why then are not these fit personages for
comedy? The reason has been given. They want _dramatic manners_. Or, if
they did not, their elevated and separate estate makes the generality
conceive with such reverence of them, that it would shock their notions
of high life to see them employed in a course of comic adventures.
And of this M. de Fontenelle himself was sufficiently sensible. For,
speaking in another place of the importance which the tragic action
receives from the dignity of its persons, he says, “When the actions
are of such a kind as that, without losing any thing of their beauty,
they might pass between inferior persons, the names of kings and
princes are nothing but a foreign ornament, which the poet gives to
his subject. Yet _this ornament, foreign as it may be, is necessary:
so fated are we to be always dazzled by titles_[14].” Should he not
have seen then, that this pageantry of titles, which is so requisite to
raise the dignity of the tragic drama, must for the same reason prevent
the familiarity of the comic? The great themselves are, no doubt, in
this, as other instances, above _vulgar_ prejudices. But the dramatic
poet writes for the people.

2. The tragedy on low life, I suspect, has been chiefly owing to our
_modern romances_: which have brought the tender passion into great
repute. It is the constant and almost sole object of _le pitoyable_
and _le tendre_ in our drama. Now the prevalency of this passion in
all degrees hath made it thought an indifferent matter, whether the
story, that exemplifies it, be taken from low or high life. As it
rages equally in both, the pathos, it was believed, would be just the
same. And it is true, if tragedy confine itself to the display of this
passion, the difference will be less sensible than in other instances.
Because the concern terminates more directly in the _tender pair_
themselves, and does not so necessarily extend itself to others. Yet
to heighten this same pathos by the _grand_ and _important_, would
methinks be the means of affording a still higher pleasure.

3. After all, that effusion of _softness_ which prevails to such a
degree in all our dramas, comic as well as tragic, to the exclusion of
every other interest, is, perhaps, best accounted for by this writer.
As the matter is delicate, I chuse to give it in his own words: “On
s’imagine naturellement, que les piéces Grecques & les nôtres ont
été jugées au même tribunal, à celui d’un public assés egal dans les
deux nations; mais cela n’est pas tout-a-fait vrai. Dans le tribunal
d’Athenes, _les femmes_ n’avoient pas de voix, ou n’en avoient que très
peu. Dans le tribunal de Paris, c’est précisément le contraire; ici il
est donc question de plaire aux femmes, qui assurément aimeront mieux
le pitoyable & le tendre, que terrible et même le grand.” He adds, “_Et
je ne crois pas au fond qu’elles ayent grand tort_.” And what gallant
man but would subscribe to this opinion?

On the whole, this attempt of M. de Fontenelle, to innovate in the
province of comedy, puts one in mind of that he made, many years ago,
in pastoral poetry. It is exactly the same spirit which has governed
this polite writer in both adventures. He was once for bringing
courtiers in masquerade into _Arcadia_. And now he would set them
unmasked on the comic stage. Here, at least, he thought they would be
in place. But the simplicity of pastoral dialogue would not suffer
the one; and the familiarity of comic action forbids the other. It
must be confessed, however, he hath succeeded better in the example of
his comedies, than his pastorals. And no wonder. For what we call the
_fashions_ and _manners_ are confined to certain conditions of life, so
that _pastoral courtiers_ are an evident contradiction and absurdity.
But, the _appetites and passions_ extending through all ranks, hence
low tricks and low amours are thought to suit the minister and sharper
alike. However it be, the fact is, that M. de Fontenelle hath succeeded
best in his _comedies_. And as his theory is likely to gain more credit
from the success of his practice than the force of his reasoning, I
think it proper to close these remarks with an observation or two upon
it.

There are, I observed, three things to be considered in his comedies,
his _introduction of great personages, his practice of laying the
scene in antiquity, and his pathos_.

Now to see the impropriety of the _first_ of these innovations, we
need only observe with what art he endeavours to conceal it. His very
dexterity in managing his comic heroes clearly shews the natural
repugnance he felt in his own mind betwixt the representation of such
characters, and even his own idea of the comic drama.

The TYRANT is a strange title of a comedy. It required singular address
to familiarize this frightful personage to our conceptions. Which
yet he hath tolerably well done, but by such expedients as confute
his general theory. For, to bring him down to the level of a comic
character, he gives us to understand, that the _Tyrant_ was an usurper,
who from a very mean birth had forced his way into the tyranny. And
to lower him still more, we find him represented, not only as odious
to his people, but of a very contemptible character. He further makes
him the tyrant only of a small Greek town; so that he passes, with
the modern reader, for little more than the Mayor of a corporation.
There is also a plain illusion in making a _simple citizen_ demand his
daughter in marriage. For under the cover of this word, which conveys
the idea of a person in lower life, we think very little of the dignity
of a free citizen of Corinth. Whence it appears that the poet felt the
necessity of unkinging this tyrant as far as possible, before he could
make a comic character of him.

The case of his ABDOLONIME is still easier. ’Tis true, the structure of
the fable requires us to have an eye to royalty, but all the pride and
pomp of the regal character is studiously kept out of sight. Besides,
the affair of royalty does not commence till the action draws to a
conclusion, the persons of the drama being all simple particulars, and
even of the lowest figure through the entire course of it.

The King of Sidon is, further, a paltry sovereign, and a creature
of Alexander. And the characters of the persons, which are indeed
admirably touched, are purposely contrived to lessen our ideas of
sovereignty.

The LYSIANASSE is a tragedy in form, of that kind which hath a happy
catastrophe. The _persons_, _subject_, every thing so important, and
attaches the mind so intirely to the event, that nothing interests
more.

As to his _laying the scene in antiquity, and especially in the free
towns of Greece_, I would recommend it as an admirable expedient to
all those who are disposed to follow him in this new province of
heroic comedy. For amongst other advantages, it gives the writer an
occasion to fill the courts of his princes with _simple citizens_,
which, as was observed, by no means answer to our ideas of nobility.
But in any other view I cannot say much for the practice. It is for
obvious reasons highly inconvenient. Even this writer found it so, when
in one of his plays, the MACATE, he was obliged to break through the
propriety of ancient manners in order to adapt himself to the modern
taste. His duel, as he himself says, “_a l’air bien françois et bien
peu grec_.” The reader, if he pleases, may see his apology for this
transgression of decorum. Or, if there were no inconvenience of this
sort, the representation of characters after the _antique_ must, on
many occasions, be cold and disgusting. At least none but professed
scholars can be taken with it.

Nor is the usage of the Latin writers any precedent. For, besides
that Horace, we know, condemned it as suitable only to the infancy of
their comic poetry, the manners, laws, religion of the Greeks were
in the main so similar to their own, that the difference was hardly
discernible. Or if it were otherwise in some points, the neighbourhood
of this famous people and the intercourse the Romans had with them,
would bring them perfectly acquainted with such difference. And this
last reflexion shews how insufficient it was for the author to excuse
his own practice from the authority of his countrymen; who, says he,
“never scruple laying their scene in Spain or England.” Are the manners
of ancient Greece as familiar to a French pit, as those of these two
countries?

Lastly, I have very little to object to the _pathos_ of his comedy.
When it is subservient to the _manners_, as in the TESTAMENT and
ABDOLONIME, I think it admirable. When it exceeds this degree and
takes the attention intirely, as in the LYSIANASSE, it gives a
pleasure indeed, but not the pleasure appropriate to comedy. I regard
it as a faint imperfect species of tragedy. After all, I fear the
_tender and pitiable_ in comedy, though it must afford the highest
pleasure to sensible and elegant minds, is not perfectly suited to
the apprehensions of the generality. Are they susceptible of the soft
and delicate emotions which the fine distress in the _Testament_ is
intended to raise? Every one indeed is capable of being delighted
through the _passions_; but they must be worked up, as in tragedy, to
a greater height, before the generality can receive that delight from
them. The same objection, it will be said, holds against the finer
strokes of character. Not, I think, with the same force. I doubt our
sense of imitation, especially of the _ridiculous_, is quicker than our
humanity. But I determine nothing. Both these pleasures are perfectly
consistent. And my idea of comedy requires only that the _pathos_ be
kept in subordination to the _manners_.




CHAP. IV.

OF THE PROVINCE OF FARCE.


Thus much then for the general idea of COMEDY. If considered more
accurately, it is, further, of _two kinds_. And in considering these we
shall come at a just notion of the province of FARCE. For this _mirror
of private life_ either, 1. reflects such qualities and characters,
as are common _to human nature at large_: or, 2. it represents the
whims, extravagances, and caprices, which characterize the folly of
_particular persons or times_.

Again, _each_ of these is, further, to be subdivided into _two
species_. For 1. the representations of _common nature_ may either be
taken _accurately_, so as to reflect a _faithful and exact image_ of
their original; which alone is _that_ I would call COMEDY, as best
agreeing to the description which Cicero gives of it, when he terms
it IMAGINEM VERITATIS. Or, they may be forced and overcharged above
the simple and just proportions of _nature_; as when the excesses
of a _few_ are given for _standing_ characters, when not the man is
described, but the _passion_, or when, in the draught of the man, the
leading feature is extended beyond measure: And in these cases the
representation holds of the lower province of FARCE. In like manner,
2. the other _species_, consisting in the representation of _partial
nature_, either transcribes such characters as are peculiar to _certain
countries or times_, of which _our comedy_ is, in great measure, made
up; or it presents the image of _some real individual person_; which
was the distinguishing character of the _old comedy_ properly so called.

Both these kinds evidently belong to FARCE: not only as failing in that
general and universal imitation of nature, which is alone deserving the
name of comedy, but, also, for this reason, that, being more directly
written for the present purpose of discrediting certain _characters_
or _persons_, it is found convenient to exaggerate their peculiarities
and enlarge their features; and so, on a double account, they are to be
referred to that _class_.

And thus the _three forms of dramatic composition_, the only ones which
good sense acknowledges, are kept distinct: and the proper END and
CHARACTER of each, clearly understood.

1. _Tragedy and Comedy_, by their lively but faithful representations,
cannot fail to _instruct_. Such natural exhibitions of the human
character, being set before us in the clear mirror of the drama,
must needs serve to the highest _moral uses_, in awakening that
instinctive approbation, which we cannot withhold from _virtue_,
or in provoking the not less necessary detestation of _vice_. But
this, though it be their best _use_, is by no means their primary
_intention_. Their proper and immediate _end_ is, to PLEASE: the _one_,
more especially by interesting the _affections_; the _other_, by _a
just and delicate imitation of real life_. _Farce_, on the contrary,
professes to _entertain_, but this, in order more effectually to serve
the interests of virtue and good sense. Its proper _end_ and purpose
(if we allow it to have any reasonable one) is, then, to INSTRUCT.
Which the reader will understand me as saying, not of what we know by
the name of _farce_ on the modern stage (whose _prime_ intention can
hardly be thought even that low one, ascribed to it by Mr. Dryden,
_of_ entertaining _citizens, country gentlemen, and Covent Garden
fops_), but of the legitimate _end_ of this _drama_; known to the
Ancients under the name of the _old Comedy_, but having neither name
nor existence, properly speaking, among the Moderns. Of which we may
say, as Mr. Dryden did, but with less propriety, of Comedy, “_That it
is a sharp manner of_ instruction _for the vulgar, who are never well
amended, till they are more than sufficiently exposed_.” [Pref. to
Trans. of Fresnoy, p. xix.]

2. Though tragedy and comedy respect the _same general_ END, yet
pursuing it by _different means_, hence it comes to pass, their
CHARACTERS are wholly different. For tragedy, aiming at _pleasure_,
principally through the _affections_, whose flow must not be checked
and interrupted by any counter impressions: and comedy, as we have
seen, addressing itself _principally_ to our _natural sense of
resemblance and imitation_; it follows, that the _ridiculous_ can never
be associated with tragedy, without destroying its _nature_, though
with the _serious comic_ it very well consists.

And here the _practice_ coincides with the _rule_. All exact writers,
though they constantly mix _grave and pleasant_ scenes together in the
same _comedy_, yet never presume to do this in _tragedy_, and so keep
the two species of _tragedy and comedy_ themselves perfectly distinct.
But,

3. It is quite otherwise with _comedy_ and _farce_. These almost
perpetually run into each other. And yet the reason of the thing
demands as intire and perfect a separation in this case, as in
the other. For the perfection of _comedy_ lying in the accuracy
and fidelity of universal representation, and _farce_ professedly
neglecting or rather purposely transgressing the limits of common
nature and just decorum, they clash entirely with each other. And
_comedy_ must so far fail of giving the _pleasure_, appropriate to its
design, as it allies itself with _farce_; while _farce_, on the other
hand, forfeits the _use_, it intends, of promoting popular ridicule,
by restraining itself within the exact rules of _Nature_, which Comedy
observes.

But there is little occasion to guard against this _latter_ abuse. The
danger is all on the other side. And the passion for what is now called
_Farce_, the shadow of the Old Comedy, has, in fact, possessed the
modern poets to such a degree that we have scarcely one example of a
comedy, without this gross mixture. If any are to be excepted from this
censure in Moliere, they are his _Misanthrope_ and _Tartuffe_, which
are accordingly, by common allowance, the best of his large collection.
In proportion as his other plays have less or more of this farcical
turn, their true value hath been long since determined.

Of our own comedies, such of them, I mean, as are worthy of criticism,
Ben Jonson’s _Alchymist_ and _Volpone_ bid the fairest for being
written in this genuine unmixed manner. Yet, though their merits are
very great, severe Criticism might find something to object even to
these. The ALCHYMIST, some will think, is exaggerated throughout, and
so, at best, belongs to that species of comedy, which we have before
called _particular and partial_. At least, the extravagant pursuit
so strongly exposed in that play, hath now, of a long time, been
forgotten; so that we find it difficult to enter fully into the humour
of this highly-wrought character. And, in general, we may remark of
such characters, that they are a strong temptation to the writer to
exceed the bounds of truth in his draught of them at _first_, and are
further liable to an imperfect, and even unfair sentence from the
reader _afterwards_. For the welcome reception, which these pictures of
prevailing _local_ folly meet with on the stage, cannot but induce the
poet, almost without design, to inflame the representation: And the
want of _archetypes_, in a little time, makes it pass for immoderate,
were it originally given with ever so much discretion and justice. So
that whether the _Alchymist_ be farcical or not, it will _appear_,
at least, to have this note of Farce, “That the principal character
is exaggerated.” But then this is all we must affirm. For as to the
_subject_ of this Play’s being a _local folly_, which seems to bring
it directly under the denomination of Farce, it is but just to make
a distinction. Had the _end and purpose_ of the Play been to expose
_Alchymy_, it had been liable to this objection. But this mode of
_local folly_, is employed as the _means_ only of exposing _another_
folly, extensive as our Nature and coeval with it, namely _Avarice_. So
that the subject has all the requisites of true _Comedy_. It is just
otherwise, we may observe, in the _Devil’s an Ass_; which therefore
properly falls under our censure. For there, the folly of the time,
_Projects and Monopolies_, are brought in to be exposed, as the _end
and purpose_ of the comedy.

On the whole, the _Alchymist_ is a Comedy in just form, but a little
_Farcical_ in the extension of one of its characters.

The VOLPONE, is a subject so manifestly fitted for the entertainment
of all times, that it stands in need of no vindication. Yet neither,
I am afraid, is this Comedy, in all respects, a complete model. There
are even some Incidents of a farcical invention; particularly the
_Mountebank Scene_ and _Sir Politique’s Tortoise_ are in the taste
of the _old comedy_; and without its rational purpose. Besides,
the _humour_ of the dialogue is sometimes on the point of becoming
inordinate, as may be seen in the pleasantry of _Corbaccio’s mistakes
through deafness_, and in other instances. And we shall not wonder that
the best of his plays are liable to some objections of this sort, if
we attend to the _character_ of the writer. For his nature was severe
and rigid, and this in giving a strength and manliness, gave, at times
too, an intemperance to his satyr. His taste for ridicule was strong
but indelicate, which made him not over-curious in the choice of his
_topics_. And lastly, his _style_ in picturing characters, though
masterly, was without that elegance of _hand_, which is required to
correct and allay the force of so bold a colouring. Thus, the bias of
his nature leading him to Plautus rather than Terence for his model,
it is not to be wondered that his wit is too frequently caustic; his
raillery coarse; and his humour excessive.

Some later writers for the stage have, no doubt, avoided these
defects of the exactest of our old dramatists. But do they reach his
excellencies? Posterity, I am afraid, will judge otherwise, whatever
may be now thought of some more fashionable comedies. And if they do
not, neither the state of general manners, nor the turn of the public
taste, appears to be such as countenances the expectation of greater
improvements. To those who are not over-sanguine in their hopes, our
forefathers will perhaps be thought to have furnished (what, in
nature, seem linked together) the fairest example of _dramatic_, as of
_real manners_.

But here it will probably be said, an affected zeal for the honour of
our old poets has betrayed their unwary advocate into a concession,
which discredits his whole pains on this subject. For to what purpose,
may it be asked, this waste of dramatic criticism, when, by the
allowance of the idle speculatist himself, his theory is likely to
prove so unprofitable, at least, if it be not ill-founded? The only
part I can take in this nice conjuncture, is to screen myself behind
the authority of a much abler critical theorist, who had once the
misfortune to find himself in these unlucky circumstances, and has
apologized for it. The _objection_ is fairly urged by this fine
writer; and in so profound and speculative an age, as the present, I
presume to suggest no other answer, than he has thought fit to give to
it. “Speculations of this sort, says he, do not bestow genius on those
who have it not; they do not, perhaps, afford any great assistance to
those who have; and most commonly the men of genius are even incapable
of being assisted by speculation. To what use then do they serve? Why,
to lead up _to the first principles of beauty_ such persons as love
reasoning and are fond of reducing, under the controul of philosophy,
subjects that appear the most independent of it, and which are
generally thought abandoned to the caprice of taste[15].”




  A

  DISCOURSE

  ON

  POETICAL IMITATION.




  DISSERTATION III.

  ON

  POETICAL IMITATION.


I undertake, in the following discourse, to consider TWO QUESTIONS,
in which the credit of almost all great writers, since the time of
_Homer_, is vitally concerned.

First, “_Whether that Conformity in Phrase or Sentiment between two
writers of different times, which we call_ IMITATION, _may not with
probability enough, for the most part, be accounted for from general
causes, arising from our common nature; that is, from the exercise
of our natural faculties on such objects as lie in common to all
observers?_”

Secondly, “_Whether, in the case of confessed Imitations, any certain
and necessary conclusion holds to the disadvantage of the natural_
GENIUS _of the imitator?_”—QUESTIONS, which there seems no fit method
of resolving, but by taking the matter pretty deep, and deducing it
from its _first principles_.


SECTION I.

All _Poetry_, to speak with Aristotle and the Greek critics (if
for so plain a point authorities be thought wanting) is, properly,
_imitation_. It is, indeed, the noblest and most extensive of the
mimetic arts; having all creation for its object, and ranging the
entire circuit of universal being. In this view every wondrous
_original_, which ages have gazed at, as the offspring of creative
fancy; and of which poets themselves, to do honour to their inventions,
have feigned, as of the immortal panoply of their heroes, that it
came down from heaven, is itself but a _copy_, a transcript from
some brighter page of this vast volume of the universe. Thus all is
_derived_; all is _unoriginal_. And the office of genius is but to
select the fairest forms of things, and to present them in due _place_
and _circumstance_, and in the richest colouring of _expression_, to
the imagination. This primary or original _copying_, which in the ideas
of Philosophy is _Imitation_, is, in the language of Criticism, called
INVENTION.

Again; of the endless variety of these _original forms_, which the
poet’s eye is incessantly traversing, those, which take his attention
most, his active mimetic faculty prompts him to convert into fair and
living _resemblances_. This magical operation the _divine_ philosopher
(whose fervid fancy, though it sometimes obscures[16] his reasoning,
yet never fails to clear and brighten his imagery) excellently
illustrates by the similitude of a _mirror_; “_which_, says he, _as you
turn about and oppose to the surrounding world, presents you instantly
with a_ SUN, STARS, _and_ SKIES; _with your_ OWN, _and every_ OTHER
_living form; with the_ EARTH, _and its several appendages of_ TREES,
PLANTS, _and_ FLOWERS[17].” Just so, on whatever side the poet turns
his imagination, the shapes of things immediately imprint themselves
upon it, and a new corresponding creation reflects the old one. This
shadowy ideal world, though unsubstantial as the _American vision
of souls_[18], yet glows with such apparent life, that it becomes,
thenceforth, the object of other mirrors, and is itself _original_ to
future reflexions; This secondary or derivative image, is that alone
which Criticism considers under the Idea of IMITATION.

And here the difficulty, we are about to examine, commences. For the
poet, in his quick researches through all his stores and materials
of _beauty_, meeting every where, in his progress, these _reflected
forms_; and deriving from them his stock of imagery, as well as
from the real subsisting objects of nature, the reader is often at
a loss (for the poet himself is not always aware of it) to discern
the _original_ from the _copy_; to know, with certainty, if the
_sentiment_, or _image_, presented to him, be directly taken from
the _life_, or be itself, a lively transcript, only, of some former
copy. And this difficulty is the greater, because the _original_, as
well as the _copy_, is always at hand for the poet to turn to, and we
can rarely be certain, since both were equally in his power, which
of the two he chose to make the object of his own _imitation_. For
it is not enough to say here, as in the case of _reflexions_, that
the latter is always the weaker, and of course betrays itself by the
degree of faintness, which, of necessity, attends a _copy_. This,
indeed, hath been said by one, to whose judgment a peculiar deference
is owing. QUICQUID ALTERI SIMILE EST, NECESSE EST MINUS SIT EO, QUOD
IMITATUR[19]. But it holds only of strict and scrupulous _imitations_.
And of such alone, I think, it was intended; for the explanation
follows, _ut umbra corpore, & imago facie, & actus histrionum veris
affectibus_; that is, where the artist confines himself to the single
view of taking a faithful and exact transcript. And even this can be
allowed only, when the copyist is of inferior, or at most but of equal,
talents. Nay, it is not certainly to be relied upon even _then_; as
may appear from what we are told of an inferior painter’s [Andrea
del Sarto’s] copying a portrait of the divine Raphael. The story is
well known. But, as an aphorism, brought to determine the merits of
_imitation_, in general, nothing can be falser or more delusive. For,
1. Besides the supposed _original_, the object itself, as was observed,
is before the poet, and he may catch from thence, and infuse into his
piece, the same glow of real life, which animated the _first copy_.
2. He may also take in circumstances, omitted or overlooked before
in the _common_ object, and so give new and additional vigour to his
imitation. Or, 3. He may possess a stronger, and more plastic genius,
and therefore be enabled to touch, with more force of expression, even
those particulars, which he professedly imitates.

On all these accounts, the difficulty of distinguishing betwixt
_original_, and _secondary_, imitation is apparent. And it is of
importance, that this _difficulty_ be seen in its full light. Because,
if the _similarity_, observed in two or more writers, may, for the most
part, and with the highest probability, be accounted for from _general
principles_, it is superfluous at least, if not unfair, to have
recourse to the _particular_ charge of _imitation_.

Now to see how far the same common principles of nature will go towards
effecting the _similarity_, here spoken of, it is necessary to consider
very distinctly.

I. THE MATTER; _and_

II. THE MANNER, _of all poetical imitation_.

I. In all that range of _natural objects_, over which the restless
imagination of the poet expatiates, there is no subject of picture
or imitation, that is not reducible to one or other of the _three
following classes_. 1. The _material world, or that vast compages
of corporeal forms, of which this universe is compounded_. 2. _The
internal workings and movements of his own mind, under which I
comprehend the manners, sentiments, and passions._ 3. _Those internal
operations, that are made objective to sense by the outward signs of
gesture, attitude, or action._ Besides these I know of no source,
whence the artist can derive a single sentiment or image. There needs
no new distinction in favour of _Homer’s gods_, _Milton’s angels_,
or _Shakespear’s witches_; it being clear, that these are only
_human_ characters, diversified by such attributes and manners, as
superstition, religion, or even wayward fancy, had assigned to each.

1. The material universe, or what the painters call _still life_,
is the object of that species of poetical imitation, we call
_descriptive_. This beauteous arrangement of natural objects, which
arrests the attention on all sides, makes a necessary and forceable
impression on the human mind. We are so constituted, as to have a quick
_perception_ of beauty in the _forms_, _combinations_, and _aspects_ of
things about us; which the philosopher may amuse himself in explaining
from remote and insufficient considerations; but consciousness and
common feeling will never suffer us to doubt of its being entirely
_natural_. Accordingly we may observe, that it operates universally on
all men; more especially the young and unexperienced; who are not less
transported by the _novelty_, than _beauty_ of material objects. But
its impressions are strongest on those, whom nature hath touched with
a ray of that celestial fire, which we call true _genius_. Here the
workings of this instinctive sense are so powerful, that, to judge from
its effects, one should conclude, it perfectly intranced and bore away
the mind, as in a fit of rapture. Whenever the form of natural beauty
presents itself, though but casually, to the mind of the poet; busied
it may be, and intent on the investigation of quite other objects; his
imagination takes fire, and it is with difficulty that he restrains
himself from quitting his proper pursuit, and stopping a while to
survey and delineate the enchanting image. This is the character of
what we call a _luxuriant fancy_, which all the rigour of art can
hardly keep down; and we give the highest praise of judgment to those
few, who have been able to discipline and confine it within due limits.

I insist the more on this strong _influence of external beauty_,
because it leads, I think, to a clear view of the subject before us,
so far as it respects _descriptive poetry_. These _living forms_ are,
without any change, presented to observation in every age and country.
There needs but opening the eyes, and these forms necessarily imprint
themselves on the fancy; and the love of _imitation_, which naturally
accompanies and keeps pace with this _sense of beauty_ in the poet,
is continually urging him to translate them into _description_. These
descriptions will, indeed, have different degrees of _colouring_,
according to the force of genius in the imitator; but the _outlines_
are the same in all; in the weak, faint sketches of an ordinary Gothic
designer, as in the living pictures of _Homer_.

An instance will explain my meaning. Amidst all that diversity of
natural objects, which the poet delights to paint, nothing is so
_taking_ to his imagination, as _rural scenery_; which is, always,
the _first_ passion of _good_ poets, and the _only_ one that seems,
in any degree, to animate and inspirit _bad_ ones. Now let us take a
description of such a scene; suppose that which _Aelian_ hath left us
of the Grecian TEMPE, given from the life and without the heightenings
of poetic ornament; and we shall see how little the imagination of
the most fanciful poets hath ever done towards improving upon it.
_Aelian’s_ description is given in these words.

“The Thessalian TEMPE is a place situate between Olympus and Ossa;
which are mountains of an exceeding great height; and look, as if
they once had been joined, but were afterwards separated from each
other, by some god, for the sake of opening in the midst that large
plain, which stretches in length to about five miles, and in breadth
a hundred paces, or, in some parts, more. Through the middle of this
plain runs the _Peneus_, into which several lesser currents empty
themselves, and, by the confluence of their waters, swell it into a
river of great size. This vale is abundantly furnished with all manner
of _arbours and resting places_; not such as the arts of human industry
contrive, but which the bounty of spontaneous nature, ambitious, as it
were, to make a shew of all her beauties, provided for the supply of
this fair residence, in the very original structure and formation of
the place. For there is plenty of _ivy_ shooting forth in it, which
flourishes and grows so thick, that, like the generous and leafy vine,
it crawls up the trunks of tall trees, and twining its foliage round
their arms and branches, becomes almost incorporated with them. The
flowering _smilax_[20] also is there in great abundance; which running
up the acclivities of the hills, and spreading the close texture of
its leaves and tendrils on all sides, perfectly covers and shades
them; so that no part of the bare rock is seen; but the whole is hung
with the verdure of a thick, inwoven herbage, presenting the most
agreeable spectacle to the eye. Along the level of the plain, there are
frequent tufts of trees, and long continued ranges of arching bowers,
affording the most grateful shelter from the heats of summer; which
are further relieved by the frequent streams of clear and fresh water,
continually winding through it. The tradition goes, that these waters
are peculiarly good for bathing, and have many other medicinal virtues.
In the thickets and bushes of this dale are numberless _singing_
birds, every where fluttering about, whose warblings take the ear of
passengers, and cheat the labours of their way through it. On the
banks of the _Peneus_, on either side, are dispersed irregularly those
_resting places_, before spoken of; while the river itself glides
through the middle of the lawn, with a soft and quiet lapse; over-hung
with the shades of trees, planted on its borders, whose intermingled
branches keep off the rays of the sun, and furnish the opportunity
of a cool and temperate navigation upon it. The worship of the gods,
and the perpetual fragrancy of sacrifices and burning odours, further
consecrate the place, &c.” [_Var. Hist._ lib. III. c. 1.]

Now this picture, which Aelian took from nature, and which any one,
if he hath not seen the several parts of it subsisting together, may
easily compound for himself out of that stock of rural images which
are reposited in the memory, is, in fact, the substance of all those
luscious and luxuriant paintings, which poetry hath ever been able to
_feign_. For what more is there in the _Elysiums_, the _Arcadias_, the
_Edens_, of ancient and modern fame? And the common _object_ of all
these pictures being continually present to the eye, what way is there
of avoiding the most exact agreement of representation in them? Or how
from any _similarity_ in the materials, of which they are formed, shall
we infer an _imitation_?

This agreeable scenery is, for an obvious reason, the most frequent
object of description. Though sometimes it chuses to itself a dark
and sombrous imagery; which nature, again, holds out to imitation;
or fancy, which hath a wondrous quickness and facility in opposing
its ideas, readily suggests. We have an instance in the picture of
that _horrid and detested vale_ which Tamora describes in TITUS
ANDRONICUS. It is a perfect contrast to Aelian’s, and may be called an
_Anti-tempe_. Or, to see this opposition of images in the strongest
light, the reader may turn to _L’Allegro_ and _Il Penseroso_ of Milton;
where he hath artfully made, throughout the two poems, the same kind of
subjects excite the two passions of _mirth_ and _melancholy_.

When the reader is got into this train, he will easily extend the same
observation to other instances of _natural description_; and can hardly
avoid, after a few trials, coming to this short conclusion, “that of
all the various delineations in the poets, of the HEAVENS, in their
vicissitude of times and seasons; of the EARTH, in its diversity of
_mountains_, _valleys_, _promontories_, &c. of the SEA, under its
several aspects of _turbulence_, or _serenity_; of the _make_ and
_structure_ of ANIMALS, &c. it can rarely be affirmed, that they are
_copies_ of one another, but rather the genuine products of the same
creating fancy, operating uniformly in them all.”

Yet, notwithstanding this _identity_ of the subject-matter in natural
description, there is room enough for true Genius to shew itself. To
omit other considerations for the present, it will more especially
appear in the _manner of Representation_; by which is not meant the
language of the poet, but simply the _form_ under which he chuses to
present his imagery to the fancy. The reader will excuse my adding a
word on so curious a subject, which he will readily apprehend from the
following instance.

Descriptions of the _morning_ are very frequent in the poets. But this
appearance is known by so many attending circumstances, that there will
be room for a considerable variety in the pictures of it. It may be
described by those _stains of light_, which streak and diversify the
clouds; by the peculiar _colour of the dawn_; by its _irradiations_ on
the _sea_, or _earth_; on some peculiar objects, as _trees_, _hills_,
_rivers_, &c. A difference also will arise from the _situation_, in
which we suppose ourselves; if on the _sea shore_, this _harbinger
of day_ will seem to break forth from the _ocean_; if on the _land_,
from the extremity of a large plain, terminated, it may be, by some
remarkable object, as a _grove_, _mountain_, &c. There are many other
_differences_, of which the same precise _number_ will scarcely offer
itself to two poets; or not the _same individual_ circumstances; or not
_disposed_ in the same manner. But let the same identical circumstance,
suppose the _breaking or first appearance of the dawn_, be taken by
different writers, and we may still expect a considerable diversity
in their _representation_ of it. What we may allow to all poets, is,
that they will _impersonate_ the morning. And though this idea of it
is _metaphorical_, and so belongs to another place, as respecting
the _manner_ of imitation only; yet, when once considered under this
_figure_, the _drawing_ of it comes as directly within the province of
_description_, as the real, _literal_ circumstances themselves. Now in
descriptions of the morning under this idea of a _person_, the very
same _attitude_, which is made analogous to the _circumstance_ before
specified, and is to suggest it, will, as I said, be represented by
different writers very differently. _Homer_, to express _the rise or
appearance of this person_, speaks of her _as shooting forth from the
ocean_:


  ——ΑΠ ΩΚΕΑΝΟΙΟ ΡΟΑΩΝ
  ΩΡΝΥΘ.

_Virgil, as rising from the rocks of Ida._

    _Jamque jugis summae surgebat Lucifer Idae,
    Ducebatque diem._

_Shakespear_ hath closed a fine description of the morning with the
same _image_, but expressed in a very different manner.

    ——_Look what streaks
    Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
    Night’s candles are put out: and_ JOCUND DAY
    STANDS TIPTOE ON THE MISTY MOUNTAINS TOP.

The reader, no doubt, pronounces on first sight, this description to be
_original_. But why? There is no part of it, which may not be traced
in other poets. The _staining of the clouds_, and _putting out the
stars_, are circumstances, that are almost constantly taken notice of
in representations of the morning. And the last _image_, which strikes
most, is not essentially different from that of Virgil and Homer. It
would express the _attitude_ of a person impatient, and in act to make
his appearance. And this is, plainly, the _image_ suggested by the
other two. But the difference lies here. Homer’s _expression_ of this
_impatience_ is _general_, ΩΡΝΥΘ. So is Virgil’s, and, as the occasion
required, with less energy, SURGEBAT. Shakespear’s is _particular_:
that impatience is set before us, and pictured to the eye in the
circumstance of _standing tiptoe_; the attitude of a winged messenger,
in act to shoot away on his errand with eagerness and precipitation.
Which is a beauty of the same kind with that Aristotle so much admired
in the ΡΟΔΟΔΑΚΤΥΛΟΣ of Homer. “This image, says he, is peculiar and
singularly proper to set the object before our eyes. Had the poet said
ΦΟΙΝΙΚΟΔΑΚΤΥΛΟΣ, the colour had been signified too _generally_, and
still worse by ΕΡΥΘΡΟΔΑΚΤΥΛΟΣ. ΡΟΔΟΔΑΚΤΥΛΟΣ gives the precise idea,
which was wanting[21].”

This, it must be owned, is one of the surest characteristics of real
genius. And if we find it generally in a writer, we may almost venture
to esteem him _original_ without further scruple. For the shapes and
appearances of things are apprehended, only in the gross, by dull
minds. They think they _see_, but it is as through a mist, where if
they catch but a faint glimpse of the form before them, it is well.
More one is not to look for from their clouded imaginations. And what
they thus imperfectly discern, it is not possible for them to delineate
very distinctly. Whereas every object stands forth in bright sunshine
to the view of the true poet. Every minute mark and lineament of the
contemplated form leaves a corresponding trace on his fancy. And having
these bright and determinate conceptions of things in his own mind,
he finds it no difficulty to convey the liveliest ideas of them to
others. This is what we call _painting_ in poetry; by which not only
the general natures of things are described, and their more obvious
appearances shadowed forth; but every single _property_ marked, and the
poet’s own image set in distinct _relief_ before the view of his reader.

If this glow of imagery, resulting from clear and bright perceptions in
the poet, be not a certain character of _genius_, it will be difficult,
I believe, to say what is: I mean so far as descriptive poetry, which
we are now considering, is concerned. The same _general_ appearances
must be copied by all poets; the same _particular_ circumstances will
frequently occur to all. But to give life and colour to the selected
circumstance, and imprint it on the imagination with distinctness and
vivacity, this is the proper office of true genius. An ordinary writer
may, by dint of industry, and a careful study of the best models,
sometimes succeed in this work of _painting_; that is, having stolen a
ray of celestial matter, he may now and then direct it so happily, as
to animate and enkindle his own earthly lump; but to succeed constantly
in this art of description, to be able, on all occasions, to exhibit
what the Greek Rhetoricians call ΦΑΝΤΑΣΙΑΝ; which is, as Longinus well
expresses it, when “the poet, from his own vivid and enthusiastic
conception, seems to have the object, he describes, in actual view,
and presents it, almost, to the eyes of the reader[22];” this can
be accomplished by nothing less, than the genuine plastic powers of
original creation.

2. If from this vast theatre of _sensible and extraneous_ beauty,
the poet turn his attention to what passes _within_, he immediately
discovers a new world, invisible indeed and intellectual; but which
is equally capable of being represented to the internal sense of
others. This arises from that _similarity of mind_, if I may so speak,
which, like that of outward _form_ and _make_, by the wise provision
of nature, runs through the whole species. We are all furnished with
the same original _properties and affections_, as with the same
stock of _perceptions and ideas_; whence it is, that our intimate
consciousness of what we carry about in ourselves, becomes, as it were,
the interpreter of the poet’s thought; and makes us readily enter
into all his descriptions of the human nature. These descriptions
are of two kinds; either 1. such as express that tumult and disorder
of the mind, which we feel in ourselves from the disturbance of any
natural affection: or, 2. that more quiet state, which gives birth to
calmer sentiments and reflexions. The _former_ division takes in all
the workings of PASSION. The _latter_, comprehends our MANNERS and
SENTIMENTS. Both are equally the objects of poetry; and of poetry only,
which triumphs without a rival, in this most sublime and interesting
of all the modes of _imitation_. Painting, we know, can express the
_material universe_; and, as will be seen hereafter, can evidence the
internal movements of the soul by _sensible marks and symbols_; but
it is poetry alone, which delineates the mind itself, and opens the
recesses of the heart to us.

    EFFERT ANIMI MOTUS INTERPRETE LINGUA.

Now the poet, as I said, in addressing himself to this province of his
art, hath only to consult with his own conscious reflexion. Whatever
be the situation of the persons, whom he would make known to us, let
him but take counsel of his own heart[23], and it will very faithfully
suggest the fittest and most natural expressions of their character.
No man can describe of others further than he hath _felt_ himself. And
what he hath thus known from his own _feeling_ is so consonant to the
experience of all others, that his description must needs be _true_;
that is, be the very same, which a careful attention to such experience
must have dictated to every other. So that, instead of asking one’s
self (as an admired ancient advised to do) on any attempt to excel in
composition, “how this or that celebrated author would have written on
the occasion;” the surer way, perhaps, is to inquire of ourselves “how
we have _felt_ or _thought_ in such a conjuncture, what _sensations_
or _reflexions_ the like circumstances have actually excited in us.”
For the answer to these queries will undoubtedly set us in the direct
road of nature and common sense. And, whatever is thus taken from the
_life_, will, we may be sure, affect other minds, in proportion to the
vigour of our conception and expression of it. In sum,

    _To catch the manners living, as they rise_,

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?

    _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_.

The same conclusion would, it must be owned, hold of our _religious_,
as _moral_ sentiments, were we to regard them only in this view of
_dispassionate and cool reflexions_. For such reflexions produce no
change of _feature_, no alteration in the _form or countenance_, nor
are they necessarily followed by any _sensible_ demonstration of their
power in outward _action_. But then it usually happens (which sets the
widest difference between the two cases) that the _one_, as respecting
an _object_, whose very _idea_ interests strongly, and puts all our
faculties in motion, are, almost of necessity, associated with the
impelling causes of _affection_; and so express themselves in legible
signs and characters. Whereas the other sentiments, respecting _human
nature and its necessities_, are frequently no other than a calm
indifferent survey of common life, unattended with any _emotion_ or
inciting principle of action. Hence _religion_, inspiriting all its
meditations with _enthusiasm_, generally shews itself in _outward
signs_; whereas we frequently discern no traces, as necessarily
attendant upon _moral_. Which _difference_ is worth the noting, were
it only for the sake of seeing more distinctly the vast advantage
of _poetry_, above all _other modes of imitation_. For _these_,
explaining themselves by the help of _natural media_, which present a
_real resemblance_, are able but imperfectly to describe _religious
sentiments_; in as much as they express the _general vague disposition_
only, and not the precise _sentiments themselves_. And in _moral_,
they can frequently give us no _image_ or representation at all. While
_poetry_, which tells its meaning by _artificial signs_, conveys
distinct and clear notices of this class of _moral and religious_
conceptions, 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 these _ethic and prudential_ conclusions,
being seen to produce no immediate _effect_ in 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 for _imitation_; not quite so
striking to the spectator, perhaps, but even larger, than _that_, into
which religion, with all its multiform superstitions, before led us.
For to these _internal 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 of _political_,
_civil_, _commercial_, and _mechanic_ institutions, of those infinite
_manufactures_, _arts_, and _exercises_, which come in to the relief or
embellishment of human life. Add to these all those nameless _events_
and _actions_, which, though determined by no fixed _habit_, or leading
_affection_, human prudence, providing for its security or interests,
in certain circumstances, naturally projects and prescribes. These are
ample materials for _description_; 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 the _latter_, which are the pure
result of our reasonings concerning expediency, _common sense_, in
given conjunctures, often leads to the same measures: As when _Ulysses_
in Homer disguises himself, for the sake of coming at a more exact
information of the state of his family; or, when _Orestes_ in Sophocles
does the same, to bring about the catastrophe of the _Electra_. 2.
In respect of the _former_ (which is of principal consideration)
the established modes and practices of life being the proper and
only _archetype_, experience and common observation cannot fail of
pointing, with the greatest certainty, to them. So that in the _one_
case different writers _may_ concur in treating the _same_ matter, in
the _other_, they _must_. 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
of _human 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; the _mechanic_, and all the polite arts of _sculpture_,
_painting_, and _architecture_, 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
of _art_, for materials of description, yet is not to be placed to
the score of his superior _inventive 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
with _natural scenery_, in all its numberless appearances, implies a
want of _genius_ in later imitators, who, if they ventured, at all,
into this province, were constrained to give us the _same 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 external
_effects_, which spring from our internal _sentiments_ or _reasonings_.
But, though they ultimately respect those _reasonings_, 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 sensible _effects_ themselves. These
are permanent objects, and may, nay _must_ be the _same_, whatever
be the ability or genius of the _copier_. 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 of _facts_ to do it.

And now having the various objects of _poetical imitation_ before us
(the greatest part of which, as appears, _must_, and the rest _may_,
occur to the observation of the poet) we come to this _conclusion_,
which, though it may startle the _parallelist_, there seems no method
of eluding, “that of any single _image_ or _sentiment_, considered
separately and by itself, it can never be affirmed certainly, hardly
with any shew of reason, merely on account of its agreement in
_subject-matter_ with any other, that it was copied from it.” If there
be any foundation of this inference, it must, then be laid, not on
the _matter_, but MANNER of 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.


II.

The sum of the foregoing _article_ is this. The _objects_ of imitation,
like the _materials_ of human knowledge, are a common stock, which
experience furnishes to all men. And it is in the _operations_ of the
mind upon them, that the glory of _poetry_, as of _science_, consists.
Here the genius of the _poet_ hath room to shew itself; and from hence
alone is the praise of _originality_ to be ascertained. The fondest
admirer of ancient art would never pretend that _Palladio_ had copied
_Vitruvius_; merely from his working with the same materials of _wood_,
_stone_, or _marble_, which this great master had employed before him.
But were the general _design_ of these two architects the _same_ in any
buildings; were their choice and arrangement of the smaller _members_
remarkably similar; were their works conducted in the same _style_,
and their ornaments finished in the same _taste_; every one would be
apt to pronounce on first sight, that the one was _borrowed_ from
the other. Even a correspondency in any _one_ of these points might
create a suspicion. For what likelihood, amidst an infinite variety of
_methods_, which offer themselves, as to _each_ of these particulars,
that there should be found, without _design_, a signal concurrence in
_any one_? ’Tis then in the _usage and disposition_ of 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 several _forms_, of
which his materials are susceptible, there be nothing in the nature
of things, which determines the artist to prefer a _particular_ one
to all others.” For it is possible, that _general principles_ may
as well account for a _conformity in the manner_, as we have seen
them do for an _identity of matter_, in works of imitation. And to
this question nothing can be replied, till we have taken an accurate
survey of this _second division_ of 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, the MANNER _of
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: and_ 3. _The expression._

I. _All poetry_, as lord Bacon admirably observes, “_nihil
aliud est quam_ HISTORIAE IMITATIO AD PLACITUM.” By which is not meant,
that the poet is at liberty to conduct his _imitation_ absolutely
in any manner he pleases, but with such deviations from the rule of
history, as the _end_ of poetry prescribes. This end is, universally,
PLEASURE; as _that_ of simple history is, INFORMATION. And from a
respect to this _end_, together with some proper allowance for the
diversity of the _subject-matter_, and the _mode of imitation_ (I mean
whether it be in the way of _recital_, or of action) are the essential
differences of poetry from mere history, and the _form or disposition_
of its several _species_, derived. What these _differences_ are, and
what the _general plan_ in the composition of _each species_, will
appear from considering the _defects_ of simple history in reference to
the _main 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
est _poësis_, quae facta magis heroica confingat. 2. Cum historia
vera successus rerum minime pro meritis virtutum & scelerum, narret;
corrigit eam _poësis_, & 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; quia animum
erigit & in sublime rapit; _rerum simulachra ad animi desideria
accommodando, non animum rebus (quod ratio facit, & historia)
submittendo_[31].”

These _advantages_ chiefly respect the _narrative_ poetry, and above
all, the _Epos_. There are others, still more _general_, and more
directly to the purpose of this inquiry. For 4. The _historian_ is
bound to record _a series of independent events and actions_; and
so, at once, falls into two _defects_, which make him incapable of
affording perfect _pleasure_ to the mind. For 1. The flow of passion,
produced in us by contemplating _any signal event_, is greatly
checked and disturbed amidst a _variety and succession of actions_.
And 2. being obliged to pass with celerity over _each_ transaction
(for otherwise history would be too tedious for the purpose of
_information_) he has not time to draw out _single circumstances_ in
full light and impress them with all their force on the imagination.
_Poetry_ remedies these two defects. By confining the attention to
_one_ object only, it gives the fancy and affections fair play: and
by bringing forth to view and even magnifying all the _circumstances_
of that _one_, it gives to every subject its proper dignity and
importance. 5. Lastly, to satisfy the human mind, there must not only
be an _unity and integrity_, but a strict _connexion and continuity_
of the fable or action represented. Otherwise the mind languishes,
and the transition of the passions, which gives the chief pleasure,
is broken and interrupted. The _historian_ fails, also, in this. By
proceeding in the gradual and orderly succession of _time_, the several
incidents, which compose the story, are not laid close enough together
to content the natural avidity of our expectations. Whilst _poetry_,
neglecting this regularity of succession, and setting out in the midst
of the story, gratifies our instinctive impatience, and carries the
_affections_ along, with the utmost rapidity, towards the _event_.

These _advantages_ are common both to _narrative_ and _dramatic_
poetry. But the _drama_, as professing to copy _real life_, contents
itself with these. The rest belong entirely to the province of
_narration_.

Now the _general forms_ of poetical method, as distinct from _that_
of history, are the pure result of our conclusions concerning the
expediency and fitness of these _means_, as conducive to the proper
_end_ of poetry. Which, without more words, will inform us, how it came
to pass, that the _true plan or disposition of poetical_ works, was so
early hit upon in _practice_, and established by exact _theories_; and
may therefore satisfy us of the _necessary_ resemblance and uniformity
of all productions of this kind, whether their authors had, or had not,
been guided by the pole-star of _example_.

So much for the _general forms_ of the two greater _kinds_ of poetry.
If a proper allowance be made for a diversity of _subject-matter_, in
either _mode_ of composition, it will be easy, as I said, to account
for the _particular forms_ of the several subordinate species. And
I the rather choose to do it in this way, and not from the peculiar
_end_ of each, which indeed were more philosophical, because the
business is to make appear, how nature leads to the same general plan
of composition in _practice_, not to establish the laws of each in the
exact way of _theory_. Now in considering the matter _historically_,
the diversity of _subject-matter_ was doubtless _that_ which first
determined the writer to a different _form_ of composition, tho’
afterwards, a consideration of the _end_, accomplished by _each_, be
requisite to deduce, with more precision of method, its distinct laws.
The _latter_ is that from whence the _speculative critic_ rightly
estimates the character of every species; but the inventor had his
direction principally from the _former_.

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

1. The GEORGIC is a species of _narration_. But, as _things_, not
_persons_, are its subject (from which last alone the _unity of
design_ and _continuity of action_ arise) 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, by _exquisite expression_ and _pleasing digressions_.

2. The PASTORAL poem may be considered as a lower species of the
_Drama_. But, its subject being the _humble concerns_ of Shepherds,
there seems no room for a tragic _Plot_; and their characters are
too simple to afford materials for comic _drawing_. Their _scene_ is
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 the
_subject_ so naturally prescribes to it.

II. But, though the _common end_ of poetry, which is to _please by
imitation_, together with the subjects of its several species, may
determine the _general plan_, yet is there nothing, it may be said,
in the nature of things to fix _the order and connexion of single
parts_. And here, it will be owned, is great room for _invention_
to shew itself. The materials of poetry may be put together in so
many different manners, consistently with the _form_ which governs
each species, that nothing but the power of _imitation_ can be
reasonably thought to produce _a close and perpetual similarity_ in
the composition of two works. I have said _a close and perpetual
similarity_; for it is not every degree of resemblance, that will do
here.

The _general plan itself_ of any poem will occasion some unavoidable
conformities in the disposition of its component parts. The _identity_
or _similarity_ of 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
these _causes_.

The principal constituent members of any work, next to the essential
parts of the _fable_, are EPISODES, DESCRIPTIONS, SIMILES. By
_descriptions_ I understand as well the delineation of _characters_
in their _speeches and imputed sentiments_, as of _places or things_
in 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 of _each_ in any poem will, in
numberless cases, appear necessary.

1. The _episode_ belongs, principally, to the epic muse; and the design
of it is to diversify and ennoble the narration by _digressive_, yet
not _unrelated_, ornaments; the _former_ circumstance relieving the
_simplicity_ of the epic fable, while the _other_ prevents its _unity_
from being violated. Now these episodical narrations must 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 the _latter_ kind, a probable pretext must be contrived for
their introduction; which can be no other than that of satisfying the
_curiosity_, or of serving to the necessary _information_ of some
other. And in either of these ways a striking conformity in the mode of
conducting the work is unavoidable.

If the _episode_ be referred to the _former_ class, its _manner_ of
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
the _fable_ is taken. Put these things together, and see if they will
not, with probability, account for some coincidence _in the choice
and applications_ of the _direct_ episode. And admitting this, the
similarity of even _its_ constituent parts is, also, necessary.

The genius of Virgil never suffers more in the opinion of his
critics, than when his _book of games_ comes 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 of _plagiarism_. 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 in _civil_ and _religious_ affairs.
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 the _latter_. But what _games_?
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, what _circumstances_ could 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 his _games_, on which
accordingly he hath exerted all the force of his genius, were entirely
new. This advantage, the circumstances of the times afforded him. The
_Naumachia_ was purely his own. Yet so liable are even the best and
most candid judges to be haunted by this spectre of _imitation_, that
_one_, whom every friend to every human excellence honours, cannot
help, on comparing it with the _chariot-race_ of 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 ancient _sea-fight_, for one,
who had even never seen Homer, to overlook such usual and striking
particulars, as the _justling 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. The
_subject-matter_ admitted not any material variation: I mean in the
hands of so judicious a copier of Nature as Virgil. For,

    “Homer and Nature were, he found, the same.”

So that we are not to wonder he kept close to his author, though at
the expence of this false fame of _Originality_. Nay it appears
directly from a remarkable instance that in the case before us, He
unquestionably judged right.

A defect of _natural ability_ is not that, which the critics have
been most forward to charge upon _Statius_. A person of true taste,
who, in a fanciful way, hath contrived to give us the just character
of the Latin poets, in assigning to this poet the topmost station
on Parnassus, sufficiently acknowledges the vigour and activity of
his genius. Yet, in composing his _Thebaid_ (an old story taken from
the heroic ages, which obliged him to the celebration of _funeral
obsequies_ with the attending solemnities of _public games_) to avoid
the dishonour of following too closely on the heels of Homer and
Virgil, who had not only taken the same _route_, but pursued it in the
most direct and natural course, he resolved, at all adventures, to keep
at due distance from them, and to make his way, as well as he could,
more _obliquely_ to the same end. To accomplish this project, he was
forced, though in the description of the same individual _games_, to
look out for different _circumstances and events_ in them; that so the
identity of his _subject_, which he could not avoid, might, in some
degree, be atoned for by the diversity of his _manner_ in treating it.
It must be owned, that great ingenuity as well as industry hath been
used, in executing this design. Had it been practicable, the character,
just given of this poet, makes it credible, he must have succeeded
in it. Yet, so impossible it is, without deserting nature herself,
to dissent from her faithful copiers, that the main objection to the
sixth book of the _Thebaid_ hath arisen from this fruitless endeavour
of being _original_, where common sense and the reason of the thing
would not permit it. “In the particular descriptions of each of these
games (says the great writer before quoted, and from whose sentence in
matters of taste, there lies no appeal) _Statius_ hath not borrowed
from either of his predecessors, _and his poem is so much the worse for
it_.”

2. The case of DESCRIPTION is still clearer, and, after what has
been so largely discoursed on the _subjects_ of it, will require but
few words. For it must have appeared, in considering them, that not
only the _objects_ themselves are necessarily obtruded on the poet,
but that the _occasions_ of introducing them are also restrained
by many limitations. If we reflect a little, we shall find, that
they grow out of the _action_ represented, which, in the greater
poetry, implies a great _similarity_, even when most _different_.
What, for instance, is the purpose of _the epic poet_, but to shew
his hero under the most awful and interesting circumstances of human
life? To this end some general design is formed. He must _war_ with
Achilles, or _voyage_ with Ulysses. And, to work up his _fable_ to
that _magnificence_, ΜΕΓΑΛΟΠΡΕΠΕΙΑΝ, which Aristotle rightly observes
to be the characteristic of this poem, _heaven_ and _hell_ must also
be interested in the success of his enterprise. And what is this, in
_effect_, but to own, that the pomp of _epic description_, in its
draught of _battles_, with its several _accidents_; of _storms_,
_shipwrecks_, &c. _of the intervention of gods_, or _machination of
devils_, is, in great measure, determined, not only as to the _choice_,
but _application_ of it, to the poet’s hands? And the like conclusion
extends to still minuter particularities.

What concerns the delineation of _characters_ may seem to carry with
it more difficulty. Yet, though these are infinitely diversified by
distinct peculiar lineaments, poetry cannot help falling into the same
_general_ representation. For it is conversant about the _greater
characters_; such as demand the imputation of like _manners_, and who
are actuated by the same governing _passions_. To set off these, _the
same combination of circumstances_ must frequently be imagined; at
least so _similar_, as to bring on the same series of representation.
The _piety_ of _one_ hero, and the _love of his country_, which
characterizes _another_, can only be shewn by the influence of the
_ruling principle_ in each, constraining them to neglect inferior
considerations, and to give up all subordinate affections to it. The
more prevalent the _affection_, the greater the _sacrifice_, and the
more strongly is the _character_ marked. Hence, without doubt, the
_Calypso_ of Homer. And need we look farther than the instructions
of _common nature_ for a similar contrivance in a _later_ poet? Not
to be tedious on a matter, which admits no dispute, the dramatic
writings of all times may convince us of _two things_, 1. “_that the
actuating passions of men are universally and invariably the same_;”
and 2. “_that they express themselves constantly in similar effects_.”
Or, one single small volume, _the characters of Theophrastus_,
will sufficiently do it. And what more is required to justify this
consequence, “that _the descriptions of characters_, even in the most
original _designers_, will resemble each other;” and “that the very
_contexture_ of a work, designed to evidence them in _action_, will,
under the management of different writers, be, frequently, much the
same?” A _conclusion_, which indeed is neither mine nor any novel one,
but was long ago insisted on by a discerning ancient, and applied to
the comic drama, in these words,

    —_Si personis isdem uti aliis non licet,
    Qui magis licet currentis servos scribere,
    Bonas matronas facere, meretrices malas,
    Parasitum edacem, gloriosum militem,
    Puerum supponi, falli per servum senem_,
    AMARE, ODISSE, SUSPICARI?

3. In truth, so far as _direct and immediate description_ is concerned,
the matter is so plain, that it will hardly be called into question.
The difficulty is to account for the similarity of _metaphor and_
COMPARISON (that is, of _imagery_, which comes in obliquely, and for
the purpose of illustrating some other, and, frequently, very remote
and distinct subject) observable in all writers. Here it may not seem
quite so easy to make out an original claim; for, though descriptions
of the _same object_, when it occurs, must needs be similar, yet it
remains to shew how the same object comes, in this case, to occur
at all. Before an answer can be given to this question, it must be
observed 1. that there is in the mind of man, not only a strong natural
love of _imitation_, but of _comparison_. We are not only fond of
_copying_ single objects, as they present themselves, but we delight
to set two objects together, and contemplate their mutual aspects and
appearances. The _pleasure_ we find in this exercise of the imagination
is the main source of that perpetual usage of _indirect and allusive
imagery_ in the writings of the poets; for I need not here consider
the _necessity_ of the thing, and the unavoidable introduction of
sensible images into all language. 2. This work of _comparison_ is
not gone about by the mind _causelessly and capriciously_. There are
certain obvious and striking resemblances in nature, which the poet is
carried necessarily to observe, and which offer themselves to him on
the slightest exercise and exertion of his _comparing_ powers. It may
be difficult to explain the causes of this established relationship
in all cases; or to shew distinctly, what these secret ties and
connexions are, which link the objects of sense together, and draw
the imagination thus insensibly from one subject to another. The most
obvious and natural is that of _actual similitude_, whether in _shape_,
_attitude_, _colour_, or _aspect_. As when _heroes_ are compared to
_gods_,—_a hero in act to strike at his foe_, to _a faulcon stooping
at a dove_,—_blood running down the skin_, to _the staining of
ivory_,—_corn waving with the wind_, to _water in motion_. Sometimes
the associating cause lies in the _effect_. As when the _return of a
good prince to his country_ is compared _to the sun_—a _fresh gale
to mariners_, to _the timely coming of a general to his troops_, &c.
more commonly, in some _property_, _attribute_, or _circumstance_. Thus
an _intrepid_ hero suggests the idea of a _rock_, on account of _its
firmness and stability_;—of _a lion_, for his _fierceness_,—_of a
deer encompassed_ with wolves, for his _situation when surrounded with
enemies_. In short, for I pretend not to make a complete enumeration of
the _grounds_ of connexion, whatever the mind observes in any object,
that bears an analogy to something in any other, becomes the _occasion_
of comparison betwixt them; and the fancy, which is ever, in a great
genius, quick at espying these _traits_ of resemblance, and delights to
survey them, lets dip no opportunity of setting them over against each
other, and producing them to observation.

But whatever be the _causes_, which associate the ideas of the poet,
and how fantastic soever or even casual, may sometimes appear to be
the _ground_ of such association, yet, in respect of the greater works
of genius, there will still be found the most exact _uniformity_ of
allusion, the same ideas and aspects of things constantly admonishing
the poet of the same _resemblances and relations_. I say, in _the
greater works of genius_, which must be attended to; for the folly of
taking _resemblances_ for _imitations_, in this province of _allusion_,
hath arisen from hence; that the poet is believed to have all art
and nature before him, and to be at liberty to fetch his _hints_ of
similitude and correspondence from every distant and obscure corner
of the universe. That is, the genius of the epic, dramatic, and
universally, of the greater, poetry hath not been comprehended, nor
their distinct laws and characters distinguished from those of an
inferior species.

The _mutual habitudes and relations_ (at least what the mind is capable
of regarding as _such_), subsisting between those innumerable objects
of thought and sense, which make up the entire natural and intellectual
world, are indeed infinite; and if the poet be allowed to associate and
bring together all those ideas, wherein the ingenuity of the mind can
perceive any remote sign or glimpse of _resemblance_, it were truly
wonderful, that, in any number of images and allusions, there should
be found a close conformity of them with those of any other writer.
But this is far from being the case. For 1. the more august poetry
disclaims, as unsuited to its state and dignity, that inquisitive and
anxious diligence, which pries into nature’s retirements; and searches
through all her secret and hidden haunts, to detect a forbidden
commerce, and expose to light some strange unexpected conjunction of
ideas. This quaint combination of remote, unallied imagery, constitutes
a species of entertainment, which, for its _novelty_, may amuse and
divert the mind in other compositions; but is wholly inconsistent with
the reserve and solemnity of the _graver_ forms. There is too much
curiosity of art, too solicitous an affectation of _pleasing_, in these
ingenious exercises of the fancy, to suit with the simple majesty of
the _epos_ or _drama_; which disclaims to cast about for forced and
tortured allusions, and aims only to expose, in the fairest light,
such as are most obvious and natural. And here, by the way, it may
be worth observing, in honour of a great Poet of the last century, I
mean Dr. DONNE, that, though agreeably to the turn of his genius, and
taste of his age, he was fonder, than ever poet was, of these _secret
and hidden ways_ in his lesser poetry; yet when he had projected his
great work “_On the progress of the soul_” (of which we have only the
beginning) his good sense brought him out into the freer _spaces_ of
nature and open day-light.

    Largior hic compos æther, et lumine vestit
    Purpureo: solemque suum, sua sidera norunt.

In this, the author of GONDIBERT, and another writer of credit, a
contemporary of DONNE, Sir FULK GREVIL, were not so happy. 2. This
work of _indirect imagery_ is intended, not so much to illustrate and
enforce the original thought, to which it is applied, as to amuse
and entertain the fancy, by holding up to view, in these occasional
digressive representations, the pictures of pleasing scenes and
objects. But this _end_ of allusion (which is principal in the sublimer
works of genius) restrains the poet to the use of a few select images,
for the most part taken from obvious common nature; these being always
most illustrious in themselves, and therefore most apt to seize and
captivate the imagination of the reader. Thus is the poet confined, by
the very nature of his work, to a very moderate compass of allusion, on
both these accounts; _first_, as he must employ the easiest and most
apparent resemblances: and _secondly_, of _these_, such as impress the
most delightful images on the fancy.

This being the case, it cannot but happen, that the allusions of
different poets, of the higher class, though writing without any
communication with each other, will, of course, be much the same on
similar occasions. There are fixed and real analogies between different
_material objects_; between these objects, and the _inward workings_
of the mind; and, again, between these, and the _external signs_ of
them. Such, on every occasion, do not so properly offer themselves
to the searching eye of the poet, as force themselves upon him; so
that, if he submit to be guided by the most natural views of things,
he cannot avoid a very remarkable correspondence of imagery with his
predecessors. And we find this conclusion verified in fact; as appears
not only from comparing together the great ancient and modern writers,
who are known to have held an intimate correspondence with each other,
but those, who cannot be suspected of this commerce. Several critics,
I observed, have taken great pains to illustrate the sentiments of
Homer from similar instances in the sacred writers. The same design
might easily be carried on, in respect of _allusive imagery_; it being
obvious to common observation, that numberless of the most beautiful
_comparisons_ in the Greek poet are to be met with in the Hebrew
prophets. Nay, the remark may be extended to the undisciplined writers
and speakers of the farthest _west_ and _east_, whom nature instructs
to beautify and adorn their conceptions with the same imagery. So
little doth it argue an inferiority of genius in Virgil, if it be true,
as the excellent translator of Homer says, “that he has scarcely any
_comparisons_, which are not drawn from his master.”

The truth is, the _nature_ of the two subjects, which the Greek poet
had taken upon himself to adorn, was such, that it led him through
every circumstance and situation of human life; which his quick
attentive observation readily found the means of shewing to advantage
under the cover of the most fit and proper imagery. Succeeding writers,
who had _not_ contemplated his pictures, yet, drawing from one common
original, have unknowingly hit upon the very same. And those, who
_had_, with all their endeavours after _novelty_, and the utmost
efforts of genius to strike out original lights, have never been able
to succeed in their attempts. Our _Milton_, who was most ambitious of
this fame of _invention_, and whose vast and universal genius could
not have missed of new _analogies_, had nature’s self been able to
furnish them, is a glaring instance to our purpose. He was so averse
from resting in the old imagery of Homer, and the other epic poets,
that he appears to have taken infinite pains in the investigation of
new _allusions_, which he picked up out of the rubbish of every silly
legend or romance, that had come to his knowledge, or extracted from
the dry and rugged materials of the sciences, and even the mechanic
arts. Yet, in comparison of the genuine treasures of nature, which he
found himself obliged to make use of, in common with other writers,
his own proper stock of _images_, imported from the regions of _art_,
is very poor and scanty; and, as might be expected, makes the least
agreeable part of his divine work.

What is here said of the epic holds, as I hinted, of all the more
serious kinds of poetry. In works of a lighter cast, there is greater
liberty and a larger field of allusion permitted to the poet. All
the appearances in _art_ and _nature_, betwixt which there is any
resemblance, may be employed here to surprize and divert the fancy. The
further and more remote from vulgar apprehension these analogies lie,
so much the fitter for his purpose, which is not so much to illustrate
his ideas, as to place them in new and uncommon lights, and entertain
the mind by that odd fantastic conjunction, or opposition of ideas,
which we know by the name of _wit_. Nay, the _lowest_, as well as the
least obvious imagery will be, oftentimes, the most proper; his view
being not to ennoble and raise his subject by the means of _allusion_,
but to sink and debase it by every art, that hath a tendency to
excite the mirth and provoke the ridicule of the reader. Here then we
may expect a much more original air, than in the higher designs of
invention. When all nature is before the poet, and the genius of his
work allows him to seize her, as the shepherd did Proteus, in every
dirty form, into which she can possibly twist herself, it were, indeed,
a wonder, if he should _chance_ to coincide, in his imagery, with any
other, from whom he had not expressly copied. They who are conversant
in works of _wit and humour_, more especially of these later times,
will know this to be the case, in _fact_. There is not perhaps a single
comparison in the inimitable TELEMAQUE, which had not, before, been
employed by some or other of the poets. Can any thing, like this, be
said of RABELAIS, BUTLER, MARVEL, SWIFT, &c.?

III. It only remains to consider the EXPRESSION. And in this are to
be found the surest and least equivocal marks of _imitation_. We may
regard it in _two_ lights; either 1. as it respects the _general_ turn
or manner of writing, which we call a _style_; or 2. the peculiarities
of _phrase and diction_.

1. A _style_ in writing, if not formed in express imitation of some
certain _model_, is the pure result of the disposition of the mind, and
takes its character from the predominant _quality_ of the writer. Thus
a _short and compact_, and a _diffused and flowing_ expression are the
proper consequences of certain corresponding characters of the human
genius. One has a vigorous comprehensive conception, and therefore
collects his sense into few words. Another, whose imagination is more
languid, contemplates his objects leisurely, and so displays their
beauties in a greater compass of words, and with more circumstance and
parade of language. A polite and elegant humour delights in the grace
of ease and perspicuity. A severe and melancholic spirit inspires
a forcible but involved expression. There are many other nicer
differences and peculiarities of _manner_, which, though not reducible,
perhaps, to general heads, the critic of true taste easily understands.

2. As men of different tempers and dispositions assume a different
cast of expression, so may the same observation be applied, still more
_generally_, to different _countries and times_. It may be difficult
to explain the _efficient causes_ of this diversity, which I have no
concern with at present. The _fact_ is, that the eloquence of the
_eastern_ world has, at all times, been of another strain from that of
the _western_. And, also, in the several provinces of _each_, there
has been some peculiar _note_ of variation. The _Asiatic_, of old, had
its proper stamp, which distinguished it from the _Attic_; just as
the _Italian_, _French_, and _Spanish_ wits have, each, their several
characteristic manners of expression.

A different state of _times_ has produced the like effect; which a late
writer accounts for, not unaptly, from what he calls a _progression of
life and manners_. That which cannot be disputed is, that the _modes_
of writing undergo a perpetual change or variation in every country.
And it is further observable, that these _changes_ in one country,
under similar circumstances, have a signal correspondence to those,
which the incessant rotation of taste brings about in every other.

Of near affinity to this last consideration is _another_ arising from
the _corresponding genius_ of two people, however remote from each
other in time and place. And, as it happens, the application may be
made directly to ourselves in a very important instance. “Languages,
says one, always take their character from the genius of a people.
So that two the most distant states, thinking and acting with the
same generous love of mankind, must needs have very near the same
combinations of ideas.—And it is our boast that in this conformity
we approach the nearest to ancient Greece and Italy.” I quote these
words from a tract[32], which the author perhaps may consider with the
same neglect, as Cicero did his earlier compositions on _Rhetoric_;
but which the curious will regard with reverence, as a fine essay of
his genius, and a prelude to the great things he was afterwards seen
capable of producing. But to come to the use we may make of this
fine observation. The corresponding state of the English and Roman
people has produced very near the same _combinations of ideas_. May
we not carry the conclusion still further on the same principle, that
it produced very near the same _combinations of words_? The fact is,
as the same writer observes, That “we have a language that is brief,
comprehensive, nervous, and majestic.” The very character which an old
Roman would give us of his own language. And when the same general
character of language prevails, is it any thing strange that the
different modifications of it, or _peculiar styles_, arising from
the various turns and dispositions of writers (which, too, in such
circumstances will be corresponding) should therefore be very similar
in the productions of the two states? Or, in other words, can we
wonder that some of our best writers bear a nearer resemblance, I mean
independently of direct imitation, to the Latin classics, than those of
any other people in modern times?

But let it suffice to leave these remarks without further comment or
explanation.

The use the discerning reader will make of them is, that if different
writers agree in the same _general disposition_, or in the same
_national character_; live together in the _same period of time_; or
in corresponding periods of the _progression of manners_, or are under
the influence of a corresponding genius of _policy and government_;
in every of these cases, some _considerable similarity_ of expression
may be occasioned by the agency of _general principles_, without any
suspicion of studied or designed _imitation_.

II. An _identity of phrase and diction_, is a much surer note of
_plagiarism_. For considering the vast variety of _words_, which
any language, and especially the more copious ones furnish, and
the infinite possible combinations of them into all the forms of
_phraseology_, it would be very strange, if two persons should hit on
the same identical _terms_, and much more should they agree in the same
precise arrangement of them in whole sentences.

There is no defending _coincidences_ of this kind; and whatever
writers themselves may pretend, or their friends for them, no one can
doubt a moment of such _identity_ being a clear and decisive proof of
_imitation_.

Yet this must be understood with some limitations.

For 1. There are in every language some current and authorized forms of
speech, which can hardly be avoided by a writer without affectation.
They are such as express the most obvious sentiments, and which the
ordinary occasions of life are perpetually obtruding on us. Now these,
as by common agreement, we chuse to deliver to one another in the same
_form_ of words. Convenience dictates this to one set of writers,
and politeness renders it sacred in another. Thus it will be true of
certain _phrases_ (as, universally, of the _words_, in any language),
that they are left in common to all writers, and can be claimed as
matter of _property_, by none. Not that such phraseology will be
frequent in nobler compositions, as the familiarity of its usage takes
from their natural reserve and dignity. Yet on certain _occasions_,
which justify this negligence, or in certain _authors_, who are not
over-sollicitous about these indecorums, we may expect to meet with it.
Hamlet says of his father,

    _He was a man, take him for all in all_;
    I shall not look upon his like again.

which may be suspected of being stolen from Sophocles, who has the
following passage in the TRACHINIAE.

    Πάντων ἄριστον ἄνδρα τῶν ἐπὶ χθονὶ
    Κτείνασ’, ΟΠΟΙΟΝ ΑΛΛΟΝ ΟΥΚ ΟΨΕΙ ΠΟΤΕ. v. 824.

The sentiment being one of the commonest, that offers itself to the
mind, the sole ground of suspicion must lie in the _expression_, “_I
shall not look upon his like again_,” to which the Greek so exactly
answers. But these were the ordinary expressions of such sentiment,
in the two languages; and neither the characters of the great poets,
nor the situation of the speakers, would suffer the _affectation_ of
departing from common usage.

What is here said of the _situation of the speakers_ reminds me of
another _class_ of expressions, which will often be _similar_ in all
poets. _Nature_, under the _same_ conjunctures, gives birth to the
_same_ conceptions; and if they be of such a kind, as to exclude all
thought of artifice, and the tricks of eloquence (as on occasions of
deep anxiety and distress) they run, of themselves, into the _same_
form of expression. The wretched Priam, in his lamentation of Hector,
lets drop the following words:

    οὗ μ’ ἄχος ὀξὺ κατοίσεται ἄïδος εἴσω:

“This line, says his translator, is particularly tender, and almost,
word for word, the same with that of the Patriarch _Jacob_; who, upon
a like occasion, breaks out in the same complaint, and tells his
children, that, if they deprive him of his son _Benjamin, they will
bring down his grey hairs with sorrow to the grave_.”

We may, further, except, under this head, certain privileged forms
of speech, which the peculiar idioms of _different_ languages make
necessary in them, and which poetry consecrates in _all_. But this is
easily observed, and its effect is not very considerable.

2. In pleading this _identity of expression_, regard must be had to the
_language_, from which the _theft_ is supposed to be made. If from the
_same_ language (setting aside the exceptions, just mentioned) _the
same arrangement of the same words_ is admitted as a certain argument
of _plagiarism_: nay, less than this will do in some instances, as
where the _imitated expression_ is pretty _singular_, or so remarkable,
on any account, as to be _well known_, &c. But if from _another_
language, the matter is not so easy. It can rarely happen, indeed,
but by design, that there should be the _same order or composition_
of words, in two languages. But that which passes even for _literal
translation_, is but _a similar composition of corresponding words_.
And what does this imply, but that the writers conceived of their
_object_ in the same _manner_, and had occasion to set it in the same
light? An occasion, which is perpetually recurring to all authors.
As may be gathered from that frequent and strong resemblance in the
_expression_ of moral sentiments, observable in the writers of every
age and country. Can there be a commoner reflexion, or which more
constantly occurs to the mind under the same appearance, than _that_ of
our great poet, who, speaking of the state after death, calls it

    _That undiscovered country, from whose bourn
    No traveller returns_.

Shall we call this a translation of the Latin poet;

    _Nunc it per_ iter tenebricosum
    Illuc, unde negant redire quenquam.
                              CATUL. III. v. 11.

Or, doth it amount to any more than this, that the terms employed
by the two writers in expressing the same obvious thought are
_correspondent_? But _correspondency_ and _identity_ are different
things. The _latter_ is only, where the words are _numerically_ the
same, which can only happen in one and the same language: the other
is effected by _different sets of words_, which are numerous in every
language, and are therefore no convincing proof (abstractedly from
other circumstances) of _imitation_.

From these general reflexions on _language_, without refining too far,
or prying too curiously into the mysteries of it, the same conclusion
meets us, as before. The _expression_ of two writers may be _similar_,
and sometimes even _identical_, and yet be _original_ in both. Which
shews the necessity there was to lead the reader through this long
investigation of the general sources of _similitude_ in works of
INVENTION, in order to put him into a condition of judging truly and
equitably of those of IMITATION. For if _similarity_, even in this
province of _words_, which the reason of the thing shews to be most
free from the constraint of general rules, be no argument of _theft_
in all cases; much less can it be pretended of the other _subjects_ of
this inquiry, which from the necessary uniformity of _nature_ in all
her appearances, and of _common sense_ in its operations upon them,
must give frequent and unavoidable occasion to such _similarity_. But
then this is all I would insinuate.

For, after the proper allowances, which candid criticism requires to
be made on this head, it will still be true (and nothing in this Essay
attempts to contradict it) “that coincidences of a certain _kind_, and
in a certain _degree_, cannot fail to convict a writer of _imitation_.”
What these _are_, the impatient reader, I suppose, is ready to enquire.
And, not entirely to disappoint him, I have thrown together, at the
close of this volume, some remarks which, perhaps, will be of use
in solving that difficult question[33]. In the mean time, it seemed
of importance to free the mind from the perversion of that early
prejudice, which is so prompt to mistake _resemblance_ universally for
_imitation_. And what other method of effecting this, than by taking
a view of the extent and influence of the genuine powers of _nature_,
which, when rightly apprehended, make it an easier task to detect, in
particular instances, the intervention of _design_?

Allowing then (what this previous inquiry not only no way contradicts
but even assists us in perceiving more clearly) that certain
_resemblances_ may be urged as undoubted proofs of _imitation_, it
remains only to the integrity of this discourse, to satisfy that other
question, “_how far the credit of the imitator is concerned in the
discovery_;” or, in other words, (since the praise of _invention_ is of
the highest value to the poet) “how far the concession of his having
borrowed from others, may be justly thought to detract from him in that
respect.” An _inquiry_, which, though for its consequences to the fame
of all great writers, since the time of Homer, of much importance, may
yet be dispatched in few words.


SECTION II.

In entering on this apology for _professed imitators_, I shall not
be suspected of undervaluing the proper merits of _invention_, which
unquestionably holds the first place in the _virtutes_ of a poet, and
is that power, which, of all others, enables him to give the highest
entertainment to the reader. Much less will it be thought, that I am
here pleading the cause of those base and abject spirits, who have not
the courage or ability to attempt any thing of themselves, and can
barely make a shift, as a great poet of our own expresses it, _to creep
servilely after the sense of_ some other. These I readily resign to
the shame and censure, which have so justly followed them in all ages;
as subscribing to the truth of that remark, “_Imitatio per se ipsa
non sufficit_, vel _quia pigri est ingenii, contentum esse iis, quae
sunt ab aliis inventa_.” My concern is only with those, whose talent
of original genius is not disputed, but the _degree_ of strength and
vigour, with which it prevails in them, somewhat lowered in the general
estimation, from this imputed crime of PLAGIARISM. And, with respect
to such as these, something, I conceive, may be said, not undeserving
the notice of the candid reader.

1. The most universal cause, inducing _imitation_ in great writers, is,
the force of early _discipline and education_. Were it true, that poets
took their _descriptions and images_ immediately from common nature,
one might expect, indeed, a general _similitude_ in their works, but
such, as could seldom or never, in all its circumstances, amount to
a strict and rigorous correspondency. The _properties_ of things are
so numerous, and the _lights_ in which they shew themselves to a mind
uninfluenced by former prejudices, so different, that some grace of
novelty, some tincture of original beauty, would constantly infuse
itself into all their delineations. But the case is far otherwise.
Strong as the bent of the imagination may be to contemplate living
forms, and to gaze with delight on this grand theatre of _nature_,
its attention is soon taken off, and arrested, on all sides, by those
infinite mirrors, and reflexions of things, which it every where meets
with in the world of _imitation_. We are habituated to a survey of this
_secondary and derivative nature_; as presented in the admired works
of _art_, through the entire course of our education. The writings of
the best poets are put into our hands, to instruct us in the knowledge
of _men and things_, as soon as we are capable of apprehending them.
Nay, we are taught to lisp their very _words_, in our tenderest
infancy. Some quick and transient glances we cannot chuse but cast,
at times, on the phænomena of living beauty; but its forms are rarely
contemplated by us with diligence, but in these _mirrors_, which are
the constant furniture of our schools and closets. And no wonder, were
we even left to ourselves, that such should be our _proper_ choice and
determination. For, by the prodigious and almost magical operations
of _fancy_ on original objects, they even shew fairer, and are made
to look more attractive, in these artificial representations, than
in their own rude and native aspects. Thus, by the united powers of
_discipline_ and _inclination_, we are almost necessitated to _see_
nature in the same _light_, and to know her only in the _dress_, in
which her happier suitors and favourites first gave her to observation.

The effect of this early bias of the mind, which insensibly grows into
the inveteracy of habit, needs not be insisted on. When the poet,
thus tutored in the works of _imitation_, comes to address himself
to _invention_, these familiar images, which he hath so often and so
fondly admired, immediately step in and intercept his observation of
their great _original_. Or, if he has power to hold them off, and
turn his eye directly on the _primary object_, he still inclines to
view it only on that side and in those _lights_, in which he has
been accustomed to study it. Nor let it be said, that this is the
_infirmity_, only, of weak minds. It belongs to our very natures, and
the utmost vigour of genius is no security against it. _Custom_, in
this as in every thing else, moulds, at pleasure, the soft and ductile
matter of a _minute_ spirit, and by degrees can even bend the elastic
metal of the _greatest_.

And if the force of habit can thus determine a writer knowingly, to
_imitation_, it cannot be thought strange, that it should frequently
carry him into _resemblance_, when himself perhaps is not aware of
it. Great readers, who have their memories fraught with the stores of
ancient and modern poetry, unavoidably employ the _sentiments_, and
sometimes the very _words_, of other writers, without any distinct
remembrance of them, or so much as the suspicion of having seen them.
At the least, their general cast of thinking or turn of expression
will be much affected by them. For the most original writer as
certainly takes a _tincture_ from the authors in which he has been
most conversant; as water, from the beds of earths or minerals, it
hath happened to run over. Especially such authors, as are studied
and even got by heart by us in our early youth, leave a lasting
impression, which is hardly ever effaced out of the mind. Hence a
certain constrained and unoriginal air, in some degree or other, in
every genius, throughly disciplined by a _course of learned education_.
Which, by the way, leads to a question, not very absurd in itself,
however it may pass with most readers for paradoxical, viz. “_Whether
the usual forms of learning be not rather injurious to the true poet,
than really assisting to him?_” It should seem to be so for a _natural
reason_. For the faculty of _invention_, as all our other powers, is
much improved and strengthened by exercise. And great reading prevents
this, by demanding the perpetual exercise of the _memory_. Thus
the mind becomes not only indisposed, but, for want of use, really
unqualified, to turn itself to other views, than such as habitual
recollection easily presents to it. And this, I am persuaded, hath
been the case with many a fine genius, and especially with _one_ of
our own country[34]; who, as appears from some original efforts in the
sublime allegorical way, had no want of natural talents for the greater
poetry; which yet were so restrained and disabled by his constant and
superstitious study of the old classics, that he was, in fact, but a
very ordinary poet.

2. But were early _habit_ of less power to incline the mind to
_imitation_, than it really is, yet the high hand of _authority_ would
compel it. For the first originals in the several species of poetry,
like the Autocthones of old, were deemed to have come into the world
by a kind of miracle. They were perfect prodigies, at least reputed so
by the admiring multitude, from their first appearance. So that their
authority, in a short time, became sacred; and succeeding writers were
obliged, at the hazard of their fame, and as they dreaded the charge of
a presumptuous and _prophane libertinism_ in poetry, to take them for
their guides and models. Which is said even without the licence of a
figure; at least of _one_ of them; whom Cicero calls _the fountain and
origin of all_ DIVINE _institutions_[35]; and another, of elder and
more reverend estimation, pronounces to be ὁ θεὸς καὶ θεῶν προφήτης[36]·

And what is here observed of the _influence_ of these master spirits,
whom the admiration of antiquity hath placed at the head of the poetic
world, will, with some allowance, hold also, of _that_ of later,
though less original writers, whose uncommon merits have given them a
distinguished rank in it.

3. _Next_, (as it usually comes to pass in other instances) what was,
at first, imposed by the rigour of _authority_, soon grew respectable
in _itself_, and was chosen for its own sake, as a _virtue_, which
deserved no small commendation. For, when sober and enlightened
criticism began to inspect, at leisure, these miracles of early
invention, it presently acknowledged them for the _best_, as well as
the most _ancient_, poetic models, and accordingly recommended, or
more properly enjoined them by rule, to the imitation of all ages.
The effect of this criticism was clearly seen in the works of all
succeeding poets in the _same_ language. But, when a new and different
one was to be furnished with fresh _models_, it became much more
conspicuous. For, besides the same or a still higher veneration of
their _inventions_, which the distance of place and time insensibly
procured to them, the grace of _novelty_, which they would appear
to have in another _language_, was, now, a further inducement to
copy them. Hence we find it to be the utmost pride of the _Roman_
writers, such I mean as came the nearest to them in the divinity of
their genius, to follow the practice, and emulate the virtues, of the
_Grecian_.

    _Libera per vacuum posui vestigia princeps,
    Non aliena meo pressi pede_—

says _one_ of the best of those writers, who yet was only treading in
the _footsteps_ of his Grecian masters.

But _another_ was less reserved, and seemed desirous of being taken
notice of, as an express _imitator_, without so much as laying in
his claim to this sort of originality, in a new language—in multis
versibus Virgilius fecit—non surripiendi causâ, sed _palam_ imitandi,
_hoc animo ut vellet agnosci_. _Sen. Suasor._ III.

And, on the revival of these arts in later times and more barbarous
languages, the same spirit appeared again, or rather superior honours
were paid to successful _imitation_. So that what a polite French
writer declares on this head is, now, become the fixed opinion of the
learned in all countries. “C’est même donner une grace à ses ouvrages,
que de les orner de fragmens antiques. Des vers d’Horace et de Virgile
bien traduits, et mis en œuvre à propos dans un poëme François, y
font le même effet que les statuës antiques font dans la gallerie de
Versailles. Les lecteurs retrouvent avec plaisir, sous une nouvelle
forme, la pensée, qui leur plût autrefois en Latin[37].”

It should, further, be added, that this praise of borrowing from the
originals of _Greece_ and _Rome_ is now extended to the imitation of
great _modern_ authors. Every body applauds this practice, where the
imitation is of approved writers in _different_ languages. And even in
the _same_ languages, when this liberty is taken with the most ancient
and venerable, it is not denied to have its _grace_ and merit.

4. But, besides these several incitements, _similarity of genius_,
alone, will, almost necessarily determine a writer to the studious
emulation of some other. For, though it is with the _minds_, as the
_faces_ of men, that no two are exactly and in every feature alike; yet
the general cast of their genius, as well as the air and turn of the
countenance, will frequently be very _similar_ in different persons.
When two such spirits approach, they run together with eagerness and
rapidity: the instinctive bias of the mind towards _imitation_ being
now quickened by _passion_. This is chiefly said in respect of that
uniformity of _style and manner_, which, whenever we observe it in two
writers, we almost constantly charge to the account of _imitation_.
Indeed, where the resemblance holds to the last degree of _minuteness_,
or where the _peculiarities_, only, of the model are taken, there is
ground enough for this suspicion. For every original genius, however
consonant, in the main, to any other, has still some distinct marks
and characters of his own, by which he may be distinguished; and to
copy _peculiarities_, when there is no appearance of the same original
spirit, which gave birth to them, is manifest affectation. But the
question is put of such, whose _manner_ hath only a _general_, though
strong, resemblance to that of some other, and whose true genius is
above the suspicion of falling into the trap of what Horace happily
calls, EXEMPLAR VITIIS IMITABILE. And of these it is perhaps juster
to say, that a previous correspondency of _character_ impelled to
_imitate_, than that imitation itself produced that correspondency of
_character_. At least (which is all my concern it present) it will
be allowed to incline a writer strongly to _imitation_; and where a
congenial spirit appears to provoke him to it, a candid critic will
not be forward to turn this circumstance to the dishonour of his
_invention_.

5. Lastly, were every other consideration out of the way, yet,
oftentimes, the _very nature of the poet’s theme_ would oblige him to a
diligent _imitation_ of preceding writers. I do not mean this of such
subjects, as suggest and produce a necessary conformity of description,
whether purposely intended or not. This hath been fully considered.
But my meaning is, that, when the greater provinces of poetry have
been, already, occupied, and its most interesting scenes exhausted; or,
rather, their application to the uses of poetry determined by great
masters, it becomes, thenceforward, unavoidable for succeeding writers
to draw from their sources. The law of probability exacts this at their
hands; and one may almost affirm, that to _copy_ them closely is to
paint after _nature_. I shall explain myself by an instance or two.

With regard to the religious opinions and ceremonies of the Pagan
world, the writings of Homer, it is said and very truly, were “_the
standard of private belief, and the grand directory of public
worship_[38].” Whatever liberty might have been taken with the rites
and gods of Paganism before his time, yet, when he had given an exact
description of _both_, and had formed, to the satisfaction of all,
the established religion into a kind of _system_, succeeding poets
were obliged, of course, to take their theology from him; and could no
longer be thought to write _justly and naturally_ of their Gods, than
whilst their _descriptions_ conformed to the _authentic_ delineations
of _Homer_. His relations, and even the _fictions_, which his genius
had raised on the popular creed of elder Paganism, were now the proper
archetype of all _religious representations_. And to speak of _these_,
as given _truly and originally_, is, in effect, to say, that they were
borrowed or rather transcribed from the page of _that poet_.

And the same may be observed of _historical facts_, as of _religious
traditions_. For not unfrequently, where the subject is taken from
authentic history, the authority of a preceding poet is so prevalent,
as to render _any_ account of the matter improbable, which is not
fashioned and regulated after his ideas. A succeeding writer is neither
at liberty to relate matters of fact, which no one thinks _credible_,
nor to _feign_ afresh for himself. In this case, again, all that the
most original genius has to do, is to _imitate_. We have been told
that the _second book of the_ AENEIS was translated from Pisander[39].
Another thinks, it was taken from the LITTLE ILIAD[40]. Or, why confine
him to either of these, when METRODORUS, SYAGRUS, HEGESIANAX, ARATUS,
and others, wrote poems on _the taking_ of TROY? But granting the
poet (as is most likely) to have had these originals before him, what
shall we infer from it? Only this, that he took his principal facts
and circumstances (as we see he was obliged to do for the sake of
_probability_) from these writers. And why should this be thought a
greater crime in him, than in POLYGNOTUS; who, in his famous picture
on this subject, was under the necessity, and for the same reason, of
collecting his _subject-matter_ from several poets[41]?

It follows, from these considerations, that we cannot justify ourselves
in thinking so hardly, as we commonly do, of the class of _imitators_;
which is, now, by the concurrence of various circumstances, become the
necessary character of almost all poets. Nor let it be any concern
to the _true_ poet, that it is so. For _imitations_, when real and
confessed, may still have their merit; nay, I presume to add, sometimes
a _greater_ merit, than the very originals on which they are formed:
And, with the reader’s leave (though I am hastening to a conclusion of
this long discourse), I will detain him, one moment, with the reasons
of this opinion.

After all the praises that are deservedly given to the novelty of a
_subject_, or the beauty of _design_, the supreme merit of poetry, and
that which more especially immortalizes the writers of it, lies in the
_execution_. It is thus that the poets of the Augustan age have not
so properly excelled, as discredited, all the productions of their
predecessors; and that those of the age of Louis XIV^{th} not only
obscure, but will in process of time obliterate, the fame and memory of
the elder French writers. Or, to see the effect of masterly execution
in single instances, hence it is, that Lucilius not only yields to
Horace, but would be almost forgotten by us, if it had not been for
the honour his imitator has done him. And nobody needs be told the
advantage which Pope is likely to have over all our older satirists,
excellent as some of them are, and more entitled than he to the honour
of being inventors. We have here, then, an established _fact_. The
first essays of genius, though ever so original, are overlooked; while
the later productions of men, who had never risen to such distinction
but by means of the very originals they disgrace, obtain the applause
and admiration of all ages.

The solution of this _fact_, so notorious, and, at the same time, so
contrary, in appearance, to the honours which men are disposed to pay
to original invention, will open the mystery of that matter we are now
considering.

The faculties, or, as we may almost term them, the magic powers,
which _ope the palace of eternity_ to great writers, are a _confirmed
judgment_, and _ready invention_.

Now the _first_ is seen to most advantage, in selecting, out of all
preceding stores, the particulars that are most suited to the nature of
a poet’s work, and the ends of poetry. When true genius has exhausted,
as it were, the various _manners_, in which a work of art may be
conducted, and the various _topics_ which may be employed to adorn
it, _judgment_ is in its province, or rather sovereignty, when it
determines which of all these is to be preferred, and which neglected.
In this sense, as well as others, it will be most true, _Quòd artis
pars magna contineatur imitatione_.

Nay, by means of this discernment, the very _topic_ or method, which
had no effect, or perhaps an ill one, under one management, or in
one situation, shall charm every reader, in another. And by force of
_judging right_, the copier shall almost lose his title, and become an
inventor:

    Tantum _de medio_ sumptis accedit honoris.

But imitation, though it give most room to the display of judgment,
does not exclude the exercise of the other faculty, _invention_. Nay,
it requires the most dextrous, perhaps the most difficult, exertion of
this faculty. For consider how the case stands. When we speak of an
_imitator_, we do not speak, as the poet says, of

    A barren-spirited fellow, one who feeds
    On abject orts, and imitations—

but of one, who, in aiming to be like, contends also to be equal to
his original. To attain to this _equality_, it is not enough that he
select the best of those stores which are ready prepared to his hand
(for thus he would be rather a skilful borrower, than a successful
imitator); but, in taking something from others, he must add much
of his own: he must improve the _expression_, where it is defective
or barely passable: he must throw fresh lights of fancy on a common
_image_: he must strike out new hints from a vulgar _sentiment_. Thus,
he will complete his original, where he finds it _imperfect_: he will
supply its _omissions_: he will emulate, or rather surpass, its highest
_beauties_. Or, in despair of this last, we shall find him taking a
different _route_; giving us an equivalent in a beauty of another
kind, which yet he extracts from some latent intimation of his author;
or, where his purpose requires the very same representation, giving it
a new form, perhaps a nobler, by the turn of his application.

But all this requires not only the truest judgment, but the most
delicate operation of inventive genius. And, where they both meet in
a supreme degree, we sometimes find an admired original, not only
excelled by his imitator, but almost discredited. Of which, if there
were no other, the sixth book of Virgil, I mean taking it in the light
of an _imitation_, is an immortal instance.

Thus much I could not forbear saying on the _merit_ of successful
imitation. As to the _necessity_ of the thing, hear the apology of
a great Poet, for himself. “All that is left us, says this original
writer, is to recommend our productions by the imitation of the
ancients: and it will be found true, that, in every age, the highest
character for sense and learning has been obtained by those who have
been the most indebted to them. For, to say truth, whatever is very
good sense, must have been common sense in all times; and what we call
learning is but the knowledge of our predecessors. Therefore they who
say our thoughts are not our own, because they resemble the ancients,
may as well say, our faces are not our own, because they are like our
fathers: and indeed it is very unreasonable, that people should expect
us to be scholars, and yet be angry to find us so[42].”

He adds, “_I fairly confess, that I have served myself all I could by
reading_:” where the good sense of the _practice_, is as conspicuous,
as the ingenuity, so becoming the greatness of his character, in
_confessing_ it. For, when a writer, who, as we have seen, is driven by
so many powerful motives to the imitation of preceding models, revolts
against them all, and determines, at any rate, to be _original_,
nothing can be expected but an aukward straining in every thing.
_Improper method_, _forced conceits_, and _affected expression_, are
the certain issue of such obstinacy. The business is to be _unlike_;
and this he may very possibly be, but at the expence of graceful ease
and true beauty. For he puts himself, at best, into a convulsed,
unnatural state; and it is well, if he be not forced, beside his
purpose, to leave _common sense_, as well as his _model_, behind him.
Like one who would break loose from an impediment, which holds him
fast; the very endeavour to get clear of it throws him into _uneasy
attitudes_, and _violent contorsions_; and, if he gain his liberty at
last, it is by an _effort_, which carries him much further than the
_point_ he would wish to stop at.

And, that the reader may not suspect me of asserting this without
experience, let me exemplify what has been here said in the case of a
very eminent person, who, with all the advantages of art and nature
that could be required to adorn the true poet, was ruined by this
single error. The person I mean was Sir WILLIAM D’AVENANT; whose
_Gondibert_ will remain a perpetual monument of the mischiefs, which
must ever arise from this affectation of originality in lettered and
polite poets.

The great author, when he projected his plan of an heroic poem, was
so far from intending to steer his course by _example_, that he sets
out, in his preface, with upbraiding the followers of Homer, as a
base and timorous crew of _coasters_, who would not adventure to
launch forth on the vast ocean of invention. For, speaking of this
poet, he observes, “that, as sea marks are chiefly used to coasters,
and serve not those who have the ambition of discoverers, that love
to sail in untried seas; so he hath rather proved a guide for those,
whose satisfied wit will not venture beyond the track of others; than
to them, who affect a new and remote way of thinking; who esteem it a
deficiency and meanness of mind, to stay and depend upon the authority
of example[43].”

And, afterwards, he professedly makes his own merit to consist in “an
endeavour to lead truth through unfrequented and new ways, and from the
most remote shades; by representing nature, though not in an affected,
yet in an unusual dress[44].” These were the principles he went upon:
let us now attend to the success of his endeavours.

The METHOD of his work is defective in many respects. To instance in
the two following. Observing the large compass of the ancient epic,
for which he saw no cause in nature, and which, he supposed, had been
followed merely from a blind deference to the authority of the first
model, he resolved to construct an heroic poem on the narrower and, as
he conceived, juster plan of the dramatic poets. And, because it was
their practice, for the purpose of _raising the passions_ by a close
accelerated plot, and for the convenience of _representation_, to
conclude their subject in _five acts_, he affects to restrain himself
within the same limits. The event was, that, cutting himself off,
by this means, from the opportunity of digressive ornaments, which
contribute so much to the pomp of the epic poetry; and, what is more
essential, from the advantage of the most gradual and circumstantiated
narration, which gives an air of _truth and reality_ to the fable, he
failed in accomplishing the proper _end_ of this poem, ADMIRATION;
_produced_ by a grandeur of design and variety of important incidents,
and _sustained_ by all the energy and minute particularity of
description.

2. It was essential to the ancient epos to raise and exalt the fable
by the intervention of _supernatural agency_. This, again, the poet
mistook for the prejudice of the affected imitators of Homer, “who
had so often led them into heaven and hell, till, by conversation
with gods and ghosts, they sometimes deprive us of those natural
probabilities in story, which are instructive to human life[45].” Here
then he would needs be original; and so, by recording only the affairs
of men, hath fairly omitted a necessary part of the epic plan, and that
which, of all others, had given the greatest state and magnificence
to its construction. Yet here, to do him justice, one thing deserves
our commendation. It had been the way of the Italian romancers, who
were at that time the best poets, to run very much into prodigy and
enchantment. “Not only to exceed the _work_, but also the _possibility_
of nature, they would have impenetrable armors, inchanted castles,
invulnerable bodies, iron men, flying horses, and a thousand other
such things, which are easily feigned by them that dare[46].” These
conceits, he rightly saw, had too slender a foundation in the serious
belief of his age to justify a relation of them. And had he only
dropped these, his conduct had been without blame. But, as it is the
weakness of human nature, the observation of this extreme determined
him to the other, of admitting nothing, however well established in
the general opinion, that was _supernatural_.

And as here he did too much, so in another respect, it may be observed,
he did too little. The romancers, before spoken of, had carried their
notions of _gallantry_ in ordinary life, as high, as they had done
those of _preternatural agency_, in their marvellous fictions. Yet
here this original genius, who was not to be held by the shackles of
superstition, suffered himself to be entrapped in the silken net of
_love and honour_. And so hath adopted, in his draught of _characters_,
that elevation of sentiment which a change of manners could not but
dispose the reader to regard as _fantastic_ in the Gothic romance, at
the same time that he rejected what had the truest grace in the ancient
epic, a _sober intermixture of religion_.

The _execution_ of his poem was answerable to the general _method_. His
SENTIMENTS are frequently forced, and so tortured by an affectation of
wit, that every stanza hath the air of an epigram. And the EXPRESSION,
in which he cloaths them, is so quaint and figurative, as turns his
description almost into a continued riddle.

Such was the effect of a studious affectation of _originality_ in a
writer, who, but for this misconduct, had been in the first rank of
our poets. His endeavour was to keep clear of the models, in which his
youth had been instructed, and which he perfectly understood. And in
this indeed he succeeded. But the success lost him the possession of,
what his large soul appears to have been full of, a true and permanent
glory; which hath ever arisen, and can only arise, from the unambitious
simplicity of nature; _contemplated_ in her own proper form, or, by
_reflexion_, in the faithful mirror of those very models, he so much
dreaded.

In short, from what hath been here advanced, and especially as
confirmed by so uncommon an instance, I think myself entitled to
come at once to this _general conclusion_, which they, who have a
comprehensive view of the history of letters, in their several periods,
and a just discernment to estimate their state in them, will hardly
dispute with me, “that, though many causes concur to produce a thorough
degeneracy of taste in any country; yet the _principal_, ever, is, THIS
ANXIOUS DREAD OF IMITATION IN POLITE AND CULTIVATED WRITERS.”

And, if such be the case, among the other uses of this Essay, it may
perhaps serve for a seasonable admonition to the poets of our time,
to relinquish their vain hopes of _originality_, and turn themselves
to a stricter imitation of the best models. I say, a _seasonable
admonition_; for the more polished a nation is, and the more generally
these models are understood, the greater danger there is, as was now
observed, of running into that worst of literary faults, _affectation_.
But, to stimulate their endeavours to this practice, the judgment of
the public should first be set right; and their readers prepared to
place a just value upon it. In this respect, too, I would willingly
contribute, in some small degree, to the service of letters. For the
poet, whose object is _fame_, will always adapt himself to the humour
of those, who confer it. And till the public taste be reduced, by sober
criticism, to a just standard, strength of genius will only enable a
writer to pervert it still further, by a too successful compliance with
its vicious expectations.




A

DISSERTATION

ON

THE MARKS OF IMITATION.




DISSERTATION IV.

ON

THE MARKS OF IMITATION.


TO MR. MASON.

I have said, in the discourse on POETICAL IMITATION, “that
coincidencies of a certain _kind_, and in a certain _degree_, cannot
fail to convict a writer of Imitation[47].” You are curious, my friend,
to know what these _coincidencies_ are, and have thought that an
attempt to point them out would furnish an useful Supplement to what
I have written on this subject. But the just execution of this design
would require, besides a careful examination of the workings of the
human mind, an exact scrutiny of the most original and most imitative
writers. And, with all your partiality for me, can you, in earnest,
think me capable of fulfilling the _first_ of these conditions; Or,
if I were, do you imagine that, at this time o’ day, I can have the
leisure to perform the _other_? My younger years, indeed, have been
spent in turning over those authors which young men are most fond of;
and among these I will not disown that the Poets of ancient and modern
fame have had their full share in my affection. But you, who love me
so well, would not wish me to pass more of my life in these flowery
regions; which though you may yet wander in without offence, and the
rather as you wander in them with so pure a mind and to so moral a
purpose, there seems no decent pretence for me to loiter in them any
longer.

Yet in saying this I would not be thought to assume that severe
character; which, though sometimes the garb of reason, is oftener,
I believe, the mask of dulness, or of something worse. No, I am too
sensible to the charms, nay to the uses of your profession, to affect a
contempt for it. The great Roman said well, _Haec studia adolescentiam
alunt; senectutem oblectant_. We make a full meal of them in our
youth. And no philosophy requires so perfect a mortification as that
we should wholly abstain from them in our riper years. But should we
invert the observation; and take this light food not as the refreshment
only, but as the proper _nourishment_ of Age; such a name as Cicero’s,
I am afraid, would be wanting, and not easily found, to justify the
practice.

Let us own then, on a greater authority than His, “That every thing is
beautiful in its season.” The Spring hath its _buds and blossoms_: But,
as the year runs on, you are not displeased, perhaps, to see them fall
off; and would certainly be disappointed not to find them, in due time,
succeeded by those _mellow hangings_, the poet somewhere speaks of.

I could alledge still graver reasons. But I would only say, in one
word, that your friend has had his share in these amusements. I may
recollect with pleasure, but must never live over again

    Pieriosque dies, et amantes carmina somnos.

Yet something, you insist, is to be done; and, if it amount to no more
than a specimen or slight sketch, such as my memory, or the few notes
I have by me, would furnish, the design, you think, is not totally to
be relinquished.

I understand the danger of gratifying you on these terms. Yet, whatever
it be, I have no power to excuse myself from any attempt, by which,
you tell me at least, I may be able to gratify you. I will do my
best, then, to draw together such observations, as I have sometimes
thought, in reading the poets, most material for the certain discovery
of _Imitations_. And I address them to YOU, not only as you are the
properest judge of the subject; you, who understand so well in what
manner the Poets are us’d to imitate each other, and who yourself so
finely imitate the best of them; But as I would give you this small
proof of my affection, and have perhaps the ambition of publishing to
the world in this way the entire friendship, that subsists between us.

You tell me I have not succeeded amiss in explaining the difficulty of
detecting _Imitations_. The materials of poetry, you own, lie so much
in common amongst all writers, and the several ways of employing them
are so much under the controul of common sense, that writings will
in many respects be similar, where there is no thought or design of
_Imitating_. I take advantage of this concession to conclude from it,
That we can seldom pronounce with certainty of Imitations without some
external proof to assist us in the discovery. You will understand me
to mean by these _external proofs_, the previous knowledge we have,
from considerations not respecting the _Nature_ of the work itself, of
the writer’s _ability_ or _inducements_ to imitate. Our first enquiry,
then, will be, concerning the _Age_, _Character_, and _Education_ of
the supposed Imitator.

We can determine with little certainty, how far the principal Greek
writers have been indebted to Imitation. We trace the waters of Helicon
no higher than to their source. And we acquiesce, with reason, in the
device of the old painter, you know of, who somewhat rudely indeed, but
not absurdly, drew the figure of Homer with a fountain streaming out of
his mouth, and the other poets watering at it.

    Hither, as to their fountain, other Stars
    Repairing, in their golden urns draw light.

The Greek writers then were, or, for any thing we can say, might be
Original.

But we can rarely affirm this of any other. And the reason is plain.
When a taste for letters prevailed in any country, if it arose at first
from the efforts of original thinking, it was immediately cherished and
cultivated by the study of the old writers. You are too well acquainted
with the progress of ancient and modern wit to doubt of this fact. Rome
adorned itself in the spoils of Greece. And both assisted in dressing
up the later European poetry. What else do you find in the Italian or
French Wits, but the old matter, worked over again; only presented to
us in a new form, and embellished perhaps with a conceit or two of mere
modern invention?

But the English, you say, or rather your fondness for your Masters
leads you to suppose, are original thinkers. ’Tis true, Nature has
taken a pleasure to shew us what she could do, by the production of ONE
Prodigy. But the rest are what we admire them for, not indeed without
Genius, perhaps with a larger share of it than has fallen to the lot of
others, yet directly and chiefly by the discipline of art and the helps
of imitation.

The golden times of the English Poetry were, undoubtedly, the reigns
of our two Queens. Invention was at its height, in the _one_; and
Correctness, in the _other_. In _both_, the manners of a court refin’d,
without either breaking or corrupting the spirit of our poets. But do
you forget that ELIZABETH read Greek and Latin almost as easily as our
Professors? And can you doubt that what she knew so well, would be
known, admired, and imitated by every other? Or say, that the writers
of her time were, some of them, ignorant enough of the _learned_
languages to be inventors; can you suppose, from what you know of the
fashion of that age, that their fancies would not be sprinkled, and
their wits refreshed by the essences of the Italian poetry?

I scarcely need say a word of our OTHER Queen, whose reign was
unquestionably the æra of classic imitation and of classic taste. Even
they, who had never been as far as Greece or Italy, to warm their
imaginations or stock their memories, might do both to a tolerable
degree in France; which, though it bowed to our country’s arms, had
almost the ascendant in point of letters.

I mention these things only to put you in mind that hardly _one_ of our
poets has been in a condition to do without, or certainly be above,
the suspicion of learned imitation. And the observation is so true,
that even in this our age, when good letters, they say, are departing
from us, the Greek or Roman stamp is still visible in every work of
genius, that has taken with the public. Do you think one needed to be
told in the title-page, that a late DRAMA, or some later ODES were
formed on the ancient model?

The drift of all this, you will say, is to overturn the former
discourse; for that now I pretend, every degree of likeness to a
preceding writer is an argument of imitation. Rather, if you please,
conclude that, in my opinion, every degree of likeness is exposed
to the _suspicion_ of imitation. To convert this suspicion into a
proof, it is not enough to say, that a writer _might_, but that his
circumstances make it plain or probable at least, that he _did_,
imitate.

Of these _circumstances_ then, the _first_ I should think deserving our
attention, is the AGE in which the writer lived. One should know if
it were an age addicted to much study, and in which it was creditable
for the best writers to make a shew of their reading. Such especially
was the age succeeding to that memorable æra, the revival of letters
in these western countries. The fashion of the time was to interweave
as much of ancient wit as possible in every new work. Writers were so
far from affecting to think and speak in their own way, that it was
their pride to make the admired ancient think and speak for them. This
humour continued very long, and in some sort even still continues: with
this difference indeed, that, then, the ancients were introduced to
do the honours, since, to do the drudgery of the entertainment. But
several causes conspired to carry it to its height in England about
the beginning of the last century. You may be sure, then, the writers
of that period abound in imitations. The best poets boasted of them as
their sovereign excellence. And you will easily credit, for instance,
that B. Jonson was a servile imitator, when you find him on so many
occasions little better than a painful translator.

I foresee the occasion I shall have, in the course of this letter, to
weary you with citations: and would not therefore go out of my way for
them. Yet, amidst a thousand instances of this sort in Jonson, the
following, I fancy, will entertain you. The Latin verses, you know, are
of Catullus.

    Ut flos in septis secretus nascitur hortis,
    Ignotus pecori, nullo convulsus aratro,
    Quem mulcent auræ, firmat sol, educat imber,
    Multi illum pueri, multæ optavere puellæ.
    Idem, quum tenui carptus defloruit ungui,
    Nulli illum pueri, nullæ optavere puellæ.

It came in Jonson’s way, in one of his masks, to translate this
passage; and observe with what industry he has secured the sense, while
the spirit of his author escapes him.

    Look, how a flower that close in closes grows,
    Hid from rude cattle, bruised with no plows,
    Which th’ air doth stroke, sun strengthen, show’rs shoot high’r,
    It many youths, and many maids desire;
    The same, when cropt by cruel hand, is wither’d,
    No youths at all, no maidens have desir’d.

—It was not thus, you remember, that Ariosto and Pope have translated
these fine verses. But to return to our purpose:

To this consideration of the _Age_ of a writer, you may add, if you
please, that of his EDUCATION. Though it might not, in general, be
the fashion to affect learning, the habits acquired by a particular
writer might dispose him to do so. What was less esteemed by the
enthusiasts of Milton’s time (of which however he himself was one of
the greatest) than prophane or indeed any kind of learning? Yet we,
who know that his youth was spent in the study of the best writers in
every language, want but little evidence to convince us that his great
genius did not disdain to stoop to imitation. You assent, I dare say,
to Dryden’s compliment, though it be an invidious one, “That no man has
so copiously translated Homer’s Grecisms, and the Latin elegancies of
Virgil.” Nay, don’t you remember, the other day, that we were half of a
mind to give him up for a shameless plagiary, chiefly because we were
sure he had been a great reader.

But no good writer, it will be said, has flourished out of a learned
age, or at least without some tincture of learning. It may be so. Yet
every writer is not disposed to make the most of these advantages. What
if we pay some regard then to the CHARACTER of the writer? A poet,
enamoured of himself, and who sets up for a great inventive genius,
thinks much to profit by the sense of his predecessors, and even when
he steals, takes care to dissemble his thefts, and to conceal them
as much as possible. You know I have instanced in such a poet in Sir
_William D’Avenant_. In detecting the imitations of such a writer,
one must then proceed with some caution. But what if our concern be
with _one_, whose modesty leads him to revere the sense and even the
expression of approved authors, whose taste enables him to select
the finest passages in their works, and whose judgment determines
him to make a free use of them? Suppose we know all this from common
fame, and even from his own confession; would you scruple to call
that an _imitation_ in him, which in the other might have passed for
_resemblance_ only?

As the character is amiable, you will be pleased to hear me own, there
are many modern poets to whom it belongs. Perhaps, the first that
occurred to my thoughts was Mr. Addison. But the observation holds of
others, and of _one_, in particular, very much his superior in true
genius. I know not whether you agree with me, that the famous line in
the _Essay on Man_;

    “An honest man’s the noblest work of God,”

is taken from Plato’s, Πάντων ἱερώτατόν ἐστιν ἄνθρωπος ὁ ἀγαθός. But I
am sure you will that the still more famous lines, which shallow men
repeat without understanding,

    “For modes of Faith let graceless zealots fight,
     His, can’t be wrong whose life is in the right:”

are but copied, though with vast improvement in the force and turn
of expression, from the excellent and, let it be no disparagement to
him to say, from the orthodox Mr. Cowley. The poet is speaking of his
friend CRASHAW.

    “His Faith perhaps in some nice tenets might
     Be wrong; his life, I’m sure, was in the right.”

Mr. Pope, who found himself in the same circumstances with Crashaw,
and had suffered no doubt from the like uncharitable constructions
of _graceless zeal_, was very naturally tempted to adopt this candid
sentiment, and to give it the further heightening of his own spirited
expression.

Let us see then how far we are got in this inquiry. We may say of the
old Latin poets, that they all came out of the Greek schools. It is as
true of the moderns in this part of the world, that they, in general,
have had their breeding in both the Greek and Latin. But when the
question is of any particular writer, how far and in what instances you
may presume on his being a professed imitator, much will depend on the
certain knowledge you have of his _Age_, _Education_, and _Character_.
When all these circumstances meet in one man, as they have done in
others, but in none perhaps so eminently as in B. Jonson, wherever you
find an acknowledged likeness, you will do him no injustice to call it
_imitation_.

Yet all this, you say, comes very much short of what you require of
me. You want me to specify those peculiar considerations, and even
to reduce them into rule, from which one may be authorised, in any
instance to pronounce of imitations. It is not enough, you pretend,
to say of any passage in a celebrated poet, that it most probably was
taken from some other. In your extreme jealousy for the credit of your
order, you call upon me to shew the distinct marks which convict him of
this commerce.

In a word, You require me to turn to the poets; to gather a number of
those passages I call Imitations; and to point to the _circumstances_
in each that prove them to be so. I attend you with pleasure in this
amusing search. It is not material, I suppose, that we observe any
strict method in our ramblings. And yet we will not wholly neglect it.

Perhaps then we shall find undoubted marks of Imitation, both in the
SENTIMENT, and EXPRESSION of great writers.

To begin with such considerations as are most GENERAL.

I. An identity of the _subject-matter_ of poetry is no sure evidence of
Imitation: and least of all, perhaps, in natural description. Yet where
the _local_ peculiarities of nature are to be described, there an exact
conformity of the matter will evince an imitation.

Descriptive poets have ever been fond of lavishing all the riches of
their fancy on the _Spring_. But the appearances of this _prime of the
year_ are so diversified with the climate, that descriptions of it, if
taken directly from nature, must needs be very different. The Greek and
Latin, and, since them, the Provencial poets, when they insist, as they
always do, on the indulgent softness of this season, its _genial dews_
and _fostering breezes_, speak nothing but what is agreeable to their
own experience and feeling.

    It ver; et Venus; et Veneris praenuntius antè
    Pinnatus graditur Zephyrus vestigia propter:
    Flora quibus mater praespergens antè viaï
    Cuncta coloribus egregiis et odoribus opplet.

Venus, or the spirit of love, is represented by those poets as brooding
o’er this delicious season;

    Rura foecundat voluptas: rura VENEREM sentiunt.
    Ipsa gemmas purpurantem pingit annum floribus:
    Ipsa surgentis papillas de Favonî spiritu
    Urguet in toros tepentes; ipsa roris lucidi, &c.

and a great deal more to the same purpose, which every one recollects
in the old classic and in the Provencial poets.

But when we hear this language from the more Northern, and particularly
our English bards, who perhaps are shivering with the blasts of the
North-east, at the very time their imagination would warm itself
with these notions, one is certain this cannot be the effect of
_observation_, but of a sportful fancy; enchanted by the native
loveliness of these exotic images, and charmed by the secret insensible
power of _imitation_.

And to shew the certainty of this conclusion, Shakespear, we may
observe, who had none of this classical or Provencial bias on his
mind, always describes, not a Greek, or Italian, or Provencial, but
an English Spring; where we meet with many unamiable characters; and,
among the rest, instead of Zephyr or Favonius, we have the bleak
North-east, that _nips the blooming infants of the Spring_.

But there are other obvious examples. In Cranmer’s prophetic speech, at
the end of HENRY VIII. when the poet makes him say of Queen Elizabeth,
that,

    “In her days ev’ry man shall eat with safety
     Under his own vine what he plants.”

and of King James, that,

                “He shall flourish,
    And, like a mountain Cedar, reach his branches
    To all the plains about him”—

It is easy to see that his _Vine_ and _Cedar_ are not of English
growth, but transplanted from Judæa. I do not mention this as an
impropriety in the poet, who, for the greater solemnity of his
prediction, and even from a principle of decorum, makes his Arch-bishop
fetch his imagery from Scripture. I only take notice of it as a certain
argument that the imagery was not his own, that is, not suggested by
his own observation of nature.

The case you see, in these instances, is the same as if an English
landskip-painter should choose to decorate his Scene with an Italian
sky. The Connoisseur would say, he had copied this particular from
Titian, and not from Nature. I presume then to give it for a certain
note of Imitation, _when the properties of one clime are given to
another_.

II. You will draw the same conclusion whenever you find “The Genius of
one _people_ given to another.”

1. Plautus gives us the following true picture of the Greek manners:

    —In hominum aetate multa eveniunt hujusmodi—
    Irae interveniunt, redeunt rursum in gratiam,
    Verùm irae siquae fortè eveniunt hujusmodi,
    Inter eos rursum si reventum in gratiam est,
    Bis tanto amici sunt inter se, quàm prius.
                            AMPHYT. A. III. S. 2.

You are better acquainted with the modern Italian writers than I am;
but if ever you find any of them transferring this placability of
temper into an eulogy of his countrymen, conclude without hesitation,
that the sentiment is taken.

2. The late Editor of Jonson’s works observes very well the impropriety
of leaving a trait of Italian manners in his _Every man in his humour_,
when he fitted up that Play with English characters. Had the scene been
laid originally in England, and that _trait_ been given us, it had
convicted the poet of _Imitation_.

3. This attention to the genius of a people will sometimes shew you,
that the _form_ of composition, as well as particular sentiments, comes
from Imitation. An instance occurs to me as I am writing. The Greeks,
you know, were great haranguers. So were the ancient Romans, but in
a less degree. One is not surprized therefore that their historians
abound in set speeches; which, in their hands, become the finest parts
of their works. But when you find modern writers indulging in this
practice of speech-making, you may guess from what source the habit is
derived. Would Machiavel, for instance, as little of a Scholar as, they
say, he was, have adorned his fine history of Florence with so many
harangues, if the classical bias, imperceptibly, it may be, to himself,
had not hung on his mind?

Another example is remarkable. You have sometimes wondered how it has
come to pass that the moderns delight so much in _dialogue-writing_,
and yet that so very few have succeeded in it. The proper answer to
the first part of your enquiry will go some way towards giving you
satisfaction as to the last. The practice is not original, has no
foundation in the manners of modern times. It arose from the excellence
of the Greek and Roman dialogues, which was the usual form in which the
ancients chose to deliver their sentiments on any subject.

Still another instance comes in my way. How happened it, one may ask,
that Sir PHILIP SYDNEY in his Arcadia, and afterwards SPENSER in
his Fairy Queen, observed so unnatural a conduct in those works; in
which the Story proceeds, as it were, by snatches, and with continual
interruptions? How was the good sense of those writers, so conversant
besides in the best models of antiquity, seduced into this preposterous
method? The answer, no doubt, is, that they were copying the design,
or disorder rather, of ARIOSTO, the favourite poet of that time.

III. Of near akin to this contrariety _to the genius of a people_ is
another mark which a careful reader will observe “in the representation
of certain TENETS, different from those which prevail in a writer’s
country or time.”

1. We seldom are able to fasten an imitation, with certainty, on such a
writer as Shakespear. Sometimes we are, but never to so much advantage
as when he happens to forget himself in this respect. When Claudio, in
_Measure for Measure_, pleads for his life in that famous speech,

    Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;
    To lye in cold obstruction, and to rot;
    This sensible warm motion to become
    A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
    To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
    In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;
    To be imprison’d in the viewless winds,
    And blown with restless violence about
    The pendant world—

It is plain that these are not the Sentiments which any man entertained
of _Death_ in the writer’s age or in that of the speaker. We see in
this passage a mixture of Christian and Pagan ideas; all of them very
susceptible of poetical ornament, and conducive to the argument of the
Scene; but such as Shakespear had never dreamt of but for Virgil’s
Platonic hell; where, as we read,

                   aliae panduntur inanes
    Suspensae ad ventos: aliis sub gurgite vasto,
    Infectum eluitur scelus, aut exuritur igni.
                                       Virg. l. vi.

2. A prodigiously fine passage in Milton may furnish another example of
this sort,

                                  When Lust
    By unchast looks, loose gestures, and foul talk,
    But most by lewd and lavish act of Sin,
    Lets in defilement to the inward parts,
    The soul grows clotted by contagion,
    Imbodies, and imbrutes, till she quite lose
    The divine property of her first being.
    Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp,
    Oft seen in charnel vaults and sepulchres,
    Ling’ring, and sitting by a new-made grave,
    As loth to leave the body, that it lov’d,
    And linkt itself by carnal sensuality
    To a degenerate and degraded state.
                      _Mask at Ludlow Castle._

This philosophy of _imbruted souls_ becoming _thick shadows_ is so
remote from any ideas entertained at present of the effects of Sin,
and at the same time is so agreeable to the notions of Plato (a double
favourite of Milton, for his own sake, and for the sake of his being
a favourite with his Italian Masters), that there is not the least
question of its being taken from the PHAEDO.

Ἡ τοιαύτη ψυχὴ βαρύνεταί τε καὶ ἕλκεται πάλιν εἰς τὸν ὁρατὸν τόπον,
φόβῳ τοῦ ἀειδοῦς τε καὶ ᾅδου, περὶ τὰ μνήματα καὶ τοὺς τάφους
κυλινδουμένη· περὶ ἃ δὴ καὶ ὤφθη ἄττα ψυχῶν σκιοειδῆ φαντάσματα, οἷα
παρέχονται αἱ τοιαῦται ψυχαὶ εἴδωλα, αἱ μὴ καθαρῶς ἀπολυθεῖσαι——

There is no wonder, now one sees the fountain Milton drew from, that,
in admiration of this poetical philosophy (which nourished the fine
spirits of that time, though it corrupted some), he should make the
other speaker in the scene cry out, as in a fit of extasy,

    How charming is divine philosophy!
    Not harsh, and crabbed, as dull fools suppose,
    But musical as is Apollo’s lute,
    And a perpetual feast of nectar’d sweets,
    Where no crude surfeit reigns—

The very ideas which Lord SHAFTESBURY has employed in his encomiums
on the Platonic philosophy; and the very language which Dr. HENRY MORE
would have used, if he had known to express himself so soberly.

3. Having said so much of Plato, whom the Italian writers have
helped to make known to us, let me just observe one thing, to our
present purpose, of those Italian writers themselves. One of their
peculiarities, and almost the first that strikes us, is a certain
sublime mystical air which runs through all their fictions. We find
them a sort of philosophical fanatics, indulging themselves in strange
conceits “concerning the _Soul_, the _chyming of celestial orbs_, and
presiding _Syrens_.” One may tell by these marks, that they doted on
the fancies of Plato; if we had not, besides, direct evidence for this
conclusion. Tasso says of himself, and he applauds the same thing in
Petrarch, “Lessi già tutte l’opere di Platone, è mi rimassero molti
semi nella menta della sua dottrina.” I take these words from Menage,
who has much more to the same purpose, in his elegant observations on
the _Amintas_ of this poet.

One sees then where Milton had been for that imagery in the ARCADES,

                            then listen I
    To the celestial Syrens’ harmony,
    That sit upon the nine enfolded spheres
    And sing to those that hold the vital shears,
    And turn the adamantine spindle round,
    On which the fate of Gods and men is wound.

The best comment on these verses is a passage in the x^{th} Book of
Plato’s Republic, where this whole system, of _Syrens quiring to the
fates_, is explained or rather delivered.

IV. We have seen a _Mark_ of Imitation, in the allusion of writers to
certain strange, and foreign tenets of philosophy. The observation may
be extended to all those passages (which are innumerable in our poets)
that allude to the _rites, customs, language, and theology of Paganism_.

It is true, indeed, this Species of Imitation is not that which is,
properly, the subject of this Letter. The most original writer is
allowed to furnish himself with poetical ideas from all quarters. And
the management of learned _Allusion_ is to be regarded, perhaps, as
one of the nicest offices of Invention. Yet it may be useful to see
from what sources a great poet derives his materials; and the rather,
as this detection will sometimes account for the _manner_ in which he
disposes of them. However, I will but detain you with a remark or two
on this class of Imitations.

1. I observe, that even Shakespear himself abounds in learned
Allusions. How he came by them, is another question; though not so
difficult to be answered, you know, as some have imagined. They, who
are in such astonishment at the learning of Shakespear, besides that
they certainly carry the notion of his illiteracy too far, forget that
the Pagan imagery was familiar to all the poets of his time—that
abundance of this sort of learning was to be picked up from almost
every English book, he could take into his hands—that many of the best
writers in Greek and Latin had been translated into English—that his
conversation lay among the most learned, that is, the most paganized
poets of his age—but above all, that, if he had never looked into
books, or conversed with bookish men, he might have learned almost all
the secrets of paganism (so far, I mean, as a poet had any use of them)
from the MASKS of B. Jonson; contrived by that poet with so pedantical
an exactness, that one is ready to take them for lectures and
illustrations on the ancient learning, rather than exercises of modern
wit. The taste of the age, much devoted to erudition, and still more,
the taste of the Princes, for whom he writ, gave a prodigious vogue to
these unnatural exhibitions. And the knowledge of antiquity, requisite
to succeed in them, was, I imagine, the reason that Shakespear was not
over-fond to try his hand at these elaborate trifles. Once indeed he
_did_, and with such success as to disgrace the very best things of
this kind we find in Jonson. The short Mask in the _Tempest_ is fitted
up with a classical exactness. But its chief merit lies in the beauty
of the _Shew_, and the richness of the _poetry_. Shakespear was so
sensible of his Superiority, that he could not help exulting a little
upon it, where he makes _Ferdinand_ say,

    This is a most majestic _Vision_, and
    Harmonious charming _Lays_—

’Tis true, another Poet, who possessed a great part of Shakespear’s
genius and all Jonson’s learning, has carried this courtly
entertainment to its last perfection. But the _Mask at Ludlow Castle_
was, in some measure, owing to the _fairy Scenes_ of his Predecessor;
who chose this province of _Tradition_, not only as most suitable to
the wildness of his vast creative imagination, but as the _safest_
for his unlettered Muse to walk in. For here he had much, you knew, to
expect from the popular credulity, and nothing to fear from the classic
superstition of that time.

2. It were endless to apply this _note_ of imitation to other poets
confessedly learned. Yet one instance is curious enough to be just
mentioned.

Mr. Waller, in his famous poem on the victory over the Dutch on June 3,
1665, has the following lines;

    His flight tow’rds heav’n th’ aspiring BELGIAN took;
    But fell, like PHAETON, with thunder strook:
    From vaster hopes than his, he seem’d to fall,
    That durst attempt the BRITISH Admiral:
    From her broadsides a ruder flame is thrown,
    Than from the fiery chariot of the Sun:
    THAT, bears THE RADIANT ENSIGN OF THE DAY;
    And SHE, the flag that governs in the Sea.

He is comparing the British Admiral’s _Ship_ to the _Chariot_ of the
Sun. You smile at the quaintness of the conceit, and the ridicule he
falls into, in explaining it. But that is not the question at present.
The _latter_, he says, bears _the radiant ensign of the day_: The
_other_, _the ensign of naval dominion_. We understand how properly the
_English Flag_ is here denominated. But what is that _other Ensign_?
The _Sun_ itself, it will be said. But who, in our days, ever expressed
the Sun by such a periphrasis? The image is apparently antique, and
easily explained by those who know that anciently the Sun was commonly
emblematized by a _starry or radiate figure_; nay, that such a figure
was placed aloft, as an _Ensign_, over the _Sun’s charioteer_, as we
may see in representations of this sort on ancient Gems and Medals.

From this original then Mr. Waller’s imagery was certainly taken;
and it is properly applied in this place where he is speaking of the
_Chariot of the Sun_, and _Phaeton’s fall_ from it. But to remove all
doubt in the case, we can even point to the very passage of a Pagan
poet, which Mr. Waller had in his eye, or rather translated.

    Proptereà noctes hiberno tempore longæ
    Cessant, dum veniat RADIATUM INSIGNE DIEI.
                              _Lucr._ l. v. 698.

Here, you see, the poet’s allusion to a classic idea has led us to the
discovery of the very passage from which it was taken. And this use
a learned reader will often make of the species of Imitation, here
considered.

V. Great writers, you find, sometimes forget the character of the
_Age_, they live in; the _principles_, and _notions_ that belong to it.
“Sometimes they forget _themselves_, that is, their own situation and
character.” Another sign of the influence of _Imitation_.

1. When we see such men, as STRADA and MARIANA, writers of fine talents
indeed, but of recluse lives and narrow observation, chusing to talk
like men of the world, and abounding in the most refined conclusions of
the cabinet, we are sure that this character, which we find so natural
in a Cardinal DE RETZ, is but assumed by these Jesuits. And we are not
surprized to discover, on examination, that their best reflexions are
copied from TACITUS.

On the other hand, when a man of the world took it into his head, the
other day, in a moping fit, to talk _Sentences_, every body concluded
that this was not the language of the writer or his situation, but that
he had been poaching in some pedant; perhaps in the _Stoical Fop_, he
affected so much contempt of, SENECA.

2. Sometimes we catch a great writer deviating from his _natural
manner_, and taking pains, as it were, to appear the very reverse of
his proper _character_. Would you wish a stronger proof of his being
seduced, at least for the time, by the charms of _imitation_?

Nothing is better known than the easy, elegant, agreeable vein of
VOITURE. Yet you have read his famous Letter to BALZAC, and have been
surprized, no doubt, at the forced, quaint, and puffy manner, in which
it is written. The secret is, Voiture is aping Balzac from one end of
this letter to the other. Whether to pay his court to him, or to laugh
at him, or that perhaps, in the instant of writing, he really fancied
an excellence in the style of that great man, is not easy to determine.
An eminent French critic, I remember, is inclined to take it for a
piece of mockery. At all events, we must needs esteem it an _imitation_.

3. This remark on the turn of a writer’s _genius_ may be further
applied to that of his _temper or disposition_.

The natural misanthropy of Swift may account for his thinking and
speaking very often in the spirit of ROCHEFOUCAULT, without any
thought of taking from his _Maxims_, though he was an admirer of them.
But if at any time we observe so humane and benevolent a man as Mr.
Pope giving into this language, we say of course, “This is not his own,
but an assumed manner.”

Or what say you to an instance that exemplifies both these observations
together? The natural unaffected turn of Mr. Cowley’s manner, and the
tender sensibility of his mind, are equally seen and loved in his
prose-works, and in such of his poems as were written after a good
model, or came from the heart. A clear sparkling fancy, softened with
a shade of melancholy, made him, perhaps, of all our poets the most
capable of excelling in the elegiac way, or of touching us in any way
where a vein of easy language and moral sentiment is required. Who
but laments then to see this fine genius perverted by the prevailing
pedantry of his age, and carried away, against the bias of his nature,
to an emulation of the rapturous, high-spirited Pindar?

I might give many more examples. But you will observe them in your
own reading. I take the first that come to hand only to explain my
meaning, which is, “That if you find a course of sentiments or cast of
composition different from that, to which the writer’s _situation_,
_genius_, or _complexion_ would naturally lead him, you may well
suspect him of imitation.”

Still it may be, these considerations are rather too general. I come to
others more particular and decisive.

VI. It may be difficult sometimes to determine whether a single
sentiment or image be derived or not. But when we see a cluster of them
in two writers, applied to the same subject, one can hardly doubt that
one of them has copied from the other.

A celebrated French moralist makes the following reflexions. “Quelle
chimere est-ce donc que l’homme? Quelle nouveautè, quel chaos, quel
sujet de contradiction? Juge de toutes choses, imbecile ver de terre;
depositaire du vrai, amas d’incertitude; gloire, et rebut de l’univers.”

Turn now to the _Essay on Man_, and tell me if Mr. Pope did not work up
the following lines out of these reflexions.

    “Chaos of thought and passion, all confus’d;
     Still by himself abus’d or disabus’d;
     Created half to rise, and half to fall,
     Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;
     Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl’d:
     The glory, jest, and riddle of the world.”

2. This conclusion is still more certain, when, together with a general
likeness of sentiments, we find the same _disposition_ of the parts,
especially if that disposition be in no common form.

    “Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet
     With charm of earliest birds: pleasant the sun,
     When first on this delightful land he spreads
     His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flow’r,
     Glist’ring with dew”——

and the rest of that fine speech in the IVth Book of _Paradise Lost_,
which you remember so perfectly that I need not transcribe more of it.

Milton’s fancy, as usual, is rich and exuberant; but the conduct and
application of his imagery shews, that the whole passage was shadowed
out of those charming but simpler lines in the DANAE of Euripides.

    ——φίλον μὲν φέγγος ἡλίου τόδε.
    Καλὸν δὲ πόντου χεῦμ’ ἰδεῖν εὐήνεμον,
    Γῆ τ’ ἠρινὸν θάλλουσα, πλούσιόν θ’ ὕδωρ,
    Πολλῶν τ’ ἔπαινόν ἐστί μοι λέξαι καλῶν.
    Ἀλλ’ οὐδὲν οὕτω λαμπρὸν, οὐδ’ ἰδεῖν, καλὸν,
    Ὡς τοῖς ἄπαισι, καὶ πόθῳ δεδηγμένοις,
    Παίδων νεογνῶν ἐν δόμοις ἰδεῖν φάος.

VII. There is little doubt in such cases as these. There needs not
perhaps be much in the case, sometimes, of _single_ sentiments or
images. As where we find “a sentiment or image in two writers precisely
the same, yet new and unusual.”

1. Thus we are told very reasonably, that _Milton’s clust’ring locks_
is the copy of Apollonius’ ΠΛΟΚΑΜΟΙ ΒΟΤΡΥΟΕΝΤΕΣ. _Obs. on Spenser_, p.
80. For though the metaphor be a just one and very natural, yet there
is perhaps no other authority for the use of it, but in these two
poets. And Milton had certainly read Apollonius.

2. What the same critic observes of Milton’s

    ——“And _curl_ the grove
    In ringlets _quaint_”—

being taken from Jonson’s

    When was old Sherwood’s head more _quaintly curl’d_?

is still more unquestionable. For here is a combination of signs to
convict the former of imitation: Not only the _singularity of the
image_, but the _identity of expression_, and, what I lay the most
stress upon, the _boldness of the figure_, as employed by Milton.
Jonson speaks of old Sherwood’s _head_, as curl’d. Milton, as conscious
of his authority, drops the preparatory idea, and says at once, The
_grove_ curl’d.

Let me add to these, two more instances from the same poet.

3. _Spenser_ tells us of

    A little _glooming light_, much like a shade.
                                F. Q. c. II., s. 14.

Can you imagine that Milton did not take his idea from hence, when he
said, in his _Penseroso_,

    —glowing embers thro’ the room
    Teach _light_ to counterfeit a _gloom_?

4. Again, in his description of Paradise,

    Flow’rs of all hues, and without thorn the rose.

Every poet of every time is lavish of his flowers on such occasions.
But _the rose without thorn_ is a rarity. And, though it was fine to
imagine such an one in Paradise, could only be an Italian refinement.
Tasso, you will think, is the original, when you have read the
following lines;

    Senza quei suoi pungenti ispidi dumi
    Spiegò le foglie la purpurea Rosa.

5. Another instance, still more remarkable, may be taken from Mr.
Pope. One of the most striking passages in the _Essay on Man_ is the
following,

    Superior Beings, when of late they saw
    A mortal man unfold all nature’s law,
    Admir’d such wisdom in an earthly shape,
    And shew’d a NEWTON, as we shew an ape.
                                Ep. ii. v. 31.

Can you doubt, from the _singularity_ of this sentiment, that the
great poet had his eye on Plato? who makes Socrates say, in allusion
to a remark of Heraclitus, Ὅτι ἀνθρώπων ὁ σοφώτατος πρὸς θεὸν πίθηκος
φανεῖται. _Hipp. Major._

The application indeed is different. And it could not be otherwise. For
the observation, which the Philosopher refers πρὸς θεὸν, is in the Poet
given to _superior Beings_ only. The consequence is, that the _Ape_ is
an object of _derision_ in the former case, of _admiration_, in the
latter.

To conclude this head, I will just observe to you, that, though the
_same uncommon sentiment_ in two _writers_ be usually the effect of
imitation, yet we cannot affirm this of _Actors_ in real life. The
reason is, when the situation of two men is the same, _Nature_ will
dictate the same sentiments more invariably than _Genius_. To give a
remarkable instance of what I mean.

Tacitus relates, in the _first_ book of his _Annals_, what passed
in the senate on its first meeting after the death of Augustus. His
politic successor carried it, for some time, with much apparent
moderation. He wished, besides other reasons, to get himself solemnly
recognized for Emperor by that Body, before he entered on the exercise
of his new dignity. _Dabat famæ_, says the historian, _ut vocatus
electusque potiùs à Republicâ videretur, quàm per uxorium ambitum
et senili adoptione irrepsisse_. One of his courtiers would not be
wanting to himself on such an occasion. When therefore several motions
had been made in the Senate, concerning the honours to be paid to the
memory of their late Prince, VALERIUS MESSALLA moved RENOVANDUM PER
ANNOS SACRAMENTUM IN NOMEN TIBERII; in other words, that the oath of
allegiance should be taken to Tiberius. This was the very point that
Tiberius drove at. And the consciousness of it made him suspect that
this motion might be thought to proceed from himself. He therefore
asked Messalla, “_Num, se mandante, eam sententiam promsisset?_” His
answer is in the following words. “Spontè _dixisse, respondit; neque
in iis, quæ ad rempublicam pertinerent_, consilio nisi suo usurum, vel
cum periculo offensionis.” _Ea_, concludes the historian, _sola species
adulandi supererat_.

Now it is very remarkable, that we find in Ludlow’s memoirs, one of
Cromwell’s officers, on the very same occasion, answering the Protector
in the very same species of flattery.

Colonel WILLIAM JEPHSON moved in the House that Cromwell might be made
King. Cromwell took occasion, soon after, to reprove the Colonel for
this proposition, telling him, that he wondered what he could mean
by it. To which the other replied, “_That while he was permitted
the honour of sitting in that House, he must desire the liberty
to discharge his conscience, though his opinion should happen to
displease_.”

Here we have a very striking coincidence of _sentiment_, without the
least probability of imitation. For no body, I dare say, suspects
Colonel William Jephson of stealing this refined stroke of adulation
from Valerius Messalla. The truth is, the same situation, concurring
with the same corrupt disposition, dictated this peculiar sentiment to
the two courtiers. Yet, had these similar thoughts been found in two
dramatic poets of the Augustan and Oliverian ages, we should probably
have cried out, “An Imitation.” And with good reason. For, besides
the possibility of an Oliverian poet’s knowing something of Tacitus,
the speakers had then been _feigned_, not real personages. And it is
not so likely that two such should agree in this sentiment: I mean,
considering how new and particular it is. For, as to the more common
and obvious sentiments, even dramatic speakers will very frequently
employ the _same_, without affording any just reason to conclude that
their prompters had turned plagiaries.

VIII. If to this singularity of a sentiment, you add the _apparent
harshness_ of it, especially when not gradually _prepared_ (as such
sentiments always will be by exact writers, when of their own proper
invention), the suspicion grows still stronger. I just glanced at an
instance of this sort in Milton’s _curl’d_ grove. But there are others
still more remarkable. Shall I presume for once to take an instance
from yourself?

Your fine Ode to Memory begins with these very lyrical verses:

    Mother of Wisdom! Thou whose sway
    The throng’d ideal hosts obey;
    Who bidst their ranks now vanish, now appear,
    Flame in the van, and darken in the rear.

This sublime imagery has a very original air. Yet I, who know how
familiar the best ancient and modern critics are to you, have no doubt
that it is taken from STRADA.

“Quid accommodatius, says he, speaking of your subject, Memory,
quàm _simulachrorum ingentes copias_, tanquàm _addictam ubique tibi
sacramento militiam_, eo inter se nexu ac fide conjunctam cohærentemque
habere; ut sive unumquodque separatim, sive confertim universa, sive
singula ordinatim _in aciem proferre_ velis; nihil planè in tantâ rerum
herbâ turbetur, sed alia _procul atque in recessu_ sita prodeuntibus
locum cedant; alia, se tota confestim promant atque in medium _certò
evocata prosiliant_? Hoc tam magno, tam fido domesticorum _agmine_
instructus animus, &c.”
                                                  _Prol. Acad._ I.

Common writers know little of the art of _preparing_ their ideas, or
believe the very name of an Ode absolves them from the care of art.
But, if this uncommon sentiment had been intirely your own, you, I
imagine, would have dropped some _leading_ idea to introduce it.

IX. You see with what a suspicious eye, we who aspire to the name of
critics, examine your writings. But every poet will not endure to be
scrutinized so narrowly.

1. B. Jonson, in his Prologue to the _Sad Shepherd_, is opening the
subject of that poem. The _sadness_ of his shepherd is

    For his lost Love, who in the TRENT is said
    To have miscarried; _’las! what knows the head
    Of a calm river, whom the feet have drown’d!_

The reflexion in this place is unnecessary and even impertinent. Who
besides ever heard of the _feet_ of a river? Of _arms_, we have. And so
it stood in Jonson’s original.

    Greatest and fairest Empress, know you this,
    Alas! no more than Thames’ calm head doth know
    Whose meads his arms drown, or whose corn o’erflow.
                                             Dr. DONNE.

The poet is speaking of the corruption of the courts of justice, and
the allusion is perfectly fine and natural. Jonson was tempted to bring
it into his prologue by the mere beauty of the sentiment. He had a
river at his disposal, and would not let slip the opportunity. But “his
unnatural use” of it detects his “imitation.”

2. I don’t know whether you have taken notice of a miscarriage,
something like this, in the most judicious of all the poets.

Theocritus makes Polypheme say,

    Καὶ γὰρ θὴν οὐδ’ εἶδος ἔχω κακὸν, ὥς με λέγοντι,
    Ἦ γὰρ πρὰν ἐς Πόντον ἐσέβλεπον· ἦν δὲ γαλάνα.

Nothing could be better fancied than to make this enormous son of
Neptune use the sea for his looking-glass. But is Virgil so happy when
his little land-man says,

    Nec sum adeò informis: nuper me in littore vidi,
    Cùm placidum ventis staret _mare_——

His wonderful judgment for once deserted him, or he might have retained
the sentiment with a slight change in the application. For instance,
what if he had said,

    Certè ego me novi, liquidæque in imagine vidi
    Nuper aquæ, placuitque mihi mea forma videnti.

It is a sort of curiosity, you say, to find Ovid reading a lesson to
Virgil. I will dissemble nothing. The lines are, as I have cited them,
in the 13th book of the Metamorphosis. But unluckily they are put into
the mouth of Polypheme. So that instead of instructing one poet by the
other, I only propose that they should make an exchange; Ovid take
Virgil’s _sea_, and Virgil be contented with Ovid’s _water_. However
this be, you may be sure the authority of the Prince of the Latin
poets will carry it with admiring posterity above all such scruples of
decorum. Nobody wonders therefore to read in Tasso,

    ————————————————————————Non son’ io
    Da disprezzar, se ben me stesso vidi
    Nel liquido del mar, quando l’altr’ hieri
    Taceano i venti, et ei giacea senz’ onda.

But of all the misappliers of this fine original sentiment, commend me
to that _other_ Italian, who made his shepherd survey himself, in a
_fountain_ indeed, but a fountain of his own weeping.

3. You will forgive my adding one other instance “of this vicious
application of a fine thought.”

You remember those agreeable verses of Sir _John Suckling_,

    “Tempests of winds thus (as my storms of grief
     Carry my tears which should relieve my heart)
     Have hurried to the thankless ocean clouds
     And show’rs, that needed not at all the courtesy.
     When the poor plains have languish’d for the want,
     And almost burnt asunder.”——
                       _Brennoralt._ A. III. S. 1.

I don’t stay to examine how far the fancy of _tears relieving the
heart_ is allowable. But admitting the propriety of the observation,
in the sense the poet intended it, the simile is applied and expressed
with the utmost beauty. It accordingly struck the best writers of that
time. SPRAT, in his history of the _Royal Society_, is taking notice of
the misapplication of philosophy to subjects of Religion. “That shower,
says he, has done very much injury by falling on the sea, for which
the shepherd, and the ploughman, called in vain: The wit of men has
been profusely poured out on _Religion_, which needed not its help, and
which was only thereby made more tempestuous: while it might have been
more fruitfully spent, on some parts of _philosophy_, which have been
hitherto barren, and might soon have been made fertile.” _p. 25._

You see what wire-drawing here is to make the comparison, so proper
in its original use, just and pertinent to a subject to which it had
naturally no relation. Besides, there is an absurdity in speaking
of a shower’s doing _injury_ to the sea by falling into it. But the
thing illustrated by this comparison requiring the idea of _injury_,
he transfers the idea to the comparing thing. He would soften the
absurdity, by running the comparison into metaphorical expression,
but, I think, it does not remove it. In short, for these reasons, one
might easily have inferred an Imitation, without that parenthesis to
apologize for it—“To use that metaphor which an excellent poet of our
nation turns to _another_ purpose—”

But a poet of that time has no better success in the management of this
metaphor, than the Historian.

    LOVE makes so many hearts the prize
    Of the bright CARLISLE’S conqu’ring eyes;
    Which she regards no more, than they
    The tears of lesser beauties weigh.
    So have I seen the lost clouds pour
    Into the Sea an useless show’r;
    And the vex’d Sailors curse the rain,
    For which poor Shepherds pray’d in vain.
                    WALLER’S Poems, p. 25.

The Sentiment stands thus: “She regards the captive _hearts_ of others
no more than those others—the _tears_ of lesser beauties.” Thus, with
much difficulty, we get to _tears_. And when we have them, the allusion
to _lost clouds_ is so strained (besides that he makes his shower both
_useless_ and _injurious_), that one readily perceives the poet’s
thought was distorted by _imitation_.

X. The charge of Plagiarism is so disreputable to a great writer that
one is not surprized to find him anxious to avoid the imputation of it.
Yet “this very anxiety serves, sometimes, to fix it upon him.”

Mr. Dryden, in the Preface to his translation of Fresnoy’s Art of
Painting, makes the following observation on Virgil: “He pretends
sometimes to trip, but ’tis only to make you think him in danger of
a fall when he is most secure. Like a skilful dancer on the Rope (if
you will pardon the meanness of the similitude) who slips willingly
and makes a seeming stumble, that you may think him in great hazard of
breaking his neck; while at the same time he is only giving you a proof
of his dexterity. My late Lord Roscommon was often pleased with this
reflexion, &c.” p. 50.

His apology for the use of this simile, and his concluding with Lord
Roscommon’s satisfaction at his remark, betray, I think, an anxiety to
pass for original, under the consciousness of being but an imitator. So
that if we were to meet with a passage, very like this, in a celebrated
ancient, we could hardly doubt of its being copied by Mr. Dryden. What
think you then of this observation in one of Pliny’s Letters, “Ut
quasdam artes, ità eloquentiam nihil magis quàm ancipitia commendant.
Vides qui fune in summa nituntur, quantos soleant excitare clamores,
cùm jam jamque casuri videntur.” L. ix. Ep. 26.

PRIOR, one may observe, has acted more naturally in his _Alma_, and
by so doing, though the resemblance be full as great, one is not so
certain of his being an Imitator. The verses are, of BUTLER:

    He perfect Dancer climbs the Rope,
    And balances your fear and hope:
    If after some distinguish’d leap,
    He drops his Pole and seems to slip;
    Strait gath’ring all his active strength
    He rises higher half his length.
    With _wonder_ you approve his slight,
    And owe your pleasure to your _fright_.
                                           C. II.

Though the two last lines seem taken from the application of this
similitude in Pliny, “Sunt enim maximè _mirabilia_, quæ maximè
inexpectata, et maximè _periculosa_.”

XI. Writers are, sometimes, sollicitous to conceal themselves: At
others, they are fond to proclaim their Imitation. “It is when they
have a mind to shew their dexterity in contending with a great
original.”

You remember these lines of Milton in his Comus,

                              Wisdom’s self
    Oft seeks to sweet retired Solitude,
    Where, with her best nurse, Contemplation,
    She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings,
    That in the various bustle of resort
    Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair’d.

On which Dr. Warburton has the following note. “Mr. Pope has imitated
this thought and (as was always his way when he imitated) improved it.

    “Bear me, some Gods! oh, quickly bear me hence
     To wholesome Solitude, the nurse of Sense;
     Where Contemplation prunes her ruffled wings,
     And the free Soul looks down to pity Kings.

“Mr. Pope has not only improved the harmony, but the sense. In
Milton, _Contemplation_ is called the _Nurse_; in Pope, more properly
_Solitude_: In Milton, _Wisdom_ is said to _prune_ her wings; in Pope,
_Contemplation_ is said to do it, and with much greater propriety, as
she is of a _soaring_ nature, and on that account is called by Milton
himself, the _Cherub Contemplation_.”

One sees that Mr. Pope’s view was to surpass his original; “which,
it is said, was always his way when he imitated.” The meaning is,
when he purposely and professedly bent himself to Imitation; for then
his fine genius taught him to seize every beauty, and his wonderful
judgment, to avoid every defect or impropriety, in his author. And this
distinction is very material to our passing a right judgment on the
merit of Imitation. It is commonly said, that their imitations fall
short of their originals. And they will do so, whatever the Genius of
the Imitator be, if they are formed only on a _general_ resemblance
of the thought imitated. For an Inventor comprehends his own ideas
more distinctly and fully, and of course expresses his purpose better,
than a casual Imitator. But the case is different, when a good writer
_studies_ the passage from which he borrows. For then he not only
copies, but improves on the first idea; and thus there will frequently
(as in the case of Pope) be greater merit in the Copyist, than the
original.

XII. We sometimes catch an Imitation lurking “in a licentious
Paraphrase.” The ground of suspicion lies in the very complacency with
which a writer expatiates on a borrowed sentiment. He is usually more
reserved in adorning one of his own.

1. AURELIUS VICTOR observes of Fabricius, “quòd difficiliùs ab
honestate, quàm Sol à suo cursu, averti posset.”

TASSO flourishes a little on this thought;

    Prima dal corso distornar la Luna
    E le stelle potrà, che dal diritto
    Torcere un sol mio passo—
                              C. x. S. 24.

Mr. Waller rises upon the Italian,

                      “where her love was due,
    So fast, so faithful, loyal, and so true,
    That a bold hand as soon might hope to force
    The rowling lights of heav’n, as change her course.”
                           _On the Death of Lady_ RICH.

But Mr. COWLEY, knowing what authority he had for the general
sentiment, gives the reins to his fancy and wantons upon it without
measure.

    Virtue was thy Life’s centre, and from thence
    Did silently and constantly dispense
          The gentle vigorous influence
    To all the wide and fair circumference:
    And all the parts upon it lean’d so easilie,
    Obey’d the mighty force so willinglie,
    That none could discord or disorder see
          In all their contrarietie.
    Each had his motion natural and free,
    And the whole no more mov’d, than the whole world could be.
                                                        BRUTUS.

2. The ingenious author of the _Observations on Spenser_ (from which
fine specimen of his critical talents one is led to expect great
things) directs us to another imitation of this sort.

Tasso had said,

    Cosi a le belle lagrime le piume
    Si bagna Amore, e gode al chiaro lume.

On which short hint Spenser has raised the following luxuriant imagery,

    The blinded archer-boy,
      Like lark in show’r of rain,
    Sate bathing of his wings,
      And glad the time did spend
    Under those crystal drops,
      Which fall from her fair eyes,
    And at their brightest beams
      Him proyn’d in lovely wise.

3. I will just add two more examples of the same kind; chiefly, because
they illustrate an observation, very proper to be attended to on this
subject; which is, “That in this display of a borrowed thought, the
Imitation will generally fall short of the Original, even though the
borrower be the greater Genius.”

The Italian poet, just now quoted, says sublimely of the _Night_,

          —Usci la Notte, è sotto l’ali
    Menò il silentio—
                                C. v. S. 79.

Milton has given a paraphrase of this passage, but very much below his
original,

    Now came still ev’ning on, and twilight gray
    Had in her sober livery all things clad;
    _Silence accompany’d_—

The striking part of Tasso’s picture, is, “_Night’s bringing in Silence
under her wings_.” So new and singular an idea as this had detected an
Imitation. Milton contents himself, then, with saying simply, _Silence
accompany’d_. However, to make amends, as he thought, for this defect,
_Night itself_, which the Italian had merely personized, the English
poet not only _personizes_, but employs in a very becoming office:

    Now came still ev’ning on, and twilight gray
    Had in her sober livery all things clad.

Every body will observe a little blemish, in this fine couplet. He
should not have used the epithet _still_, when he intended to add,

    _Silence_ accompanied—

But there is a worse fault in this _Imitation_. To hide it, he speaks
of _Night’s livery_. When he had done that, to speak of her _wings_,
had been ungraceful. Therefore he is forced to say obscurely as well as
_simply_, _Silence accompany’d_: And so loses a more noble image for a
less noble one. The truth is, they would not stand together. _Livery_
belongs to _human grandeur_; _wings_ to _divine_ or _celestial_. So that
in Milton’s very attempt to surpass his original, he put it out of his
power to employ the _circumstance_ that most recommended it.

He is not happier on another occasion. Spenser had said with his usual
simplicity,

    “Virtue gives herself light thro’ darkness for to wade,”
                                      F. Q. B. 1.

Milton catched at this image, and has run it into a sort of paraphrase,
in those fine lines,

    “Virtue could see to do what virtue would
     By her own radiant light, tho’ Sun and Moon
     Were in the flat sea sunk—”
                                        COMUS.

In Spenser’s line we have the idea of Virtue dropt down into a world,
all over darkened with vice and error. Virtue excites the light of
truth to see all around her, and not only dissipate the neighbouring
darkness, but to direct her course in pursuing her victory and
driving her enemy out of it; the arduousness of which exploit is well
expressed by—_thro’ darkness for to_ WADE. On the contrary, Milton,
in borrowing, substitutes the physical for the moral idea—_by her own
radiant light_—and _tho’ Sun and Moon were in the flat sea sunk_. It
may be asked, how this happened? Very naturally, Milton was caught
with the obvious _imagery_, which he found he could display to more
advantage; and so did not enough attend to the noble _sentiment_ that
was couched under it.

XIII. These are instances of a paraphrastical licence in dilating on a
famous Sentiment or Image. The _ground_ is the same, only flourished
upon by the genius of the Imitator. At times we find him practising
a different art; “not merely spreading, as it were, and laying open
the same sentiment, but _adding_ to it, and by a new and studied
device improving upon it.” In this case we naturally conclude that the
refinement had not been made, if the plain and simple thought had not
preceded and given rise to it. You will apprehend my meaning by what
follows.

1. Shakespear had said of Henry IV^{th},

      —He cannot long hold out these pangs;
    The incessant care and labour of his mind
    Hath wrought the mure, that should confine it in,
    So thin, that life look through, and will break out.
                              HEN. IV. A. 4.

You have, here, the thought in its first simplicity. It was not
unnatural, after speaking of the body, as a case or tenement of the
Soul, _the mure that confines_ it, to say, that as that case wears away
and grows thin, life looks through, and is ready to break out.

DANIEL, by refining on this sentiment, if by nothing else, shews
himself to be the copyist. Speaking of the same Henry, he observes,

    And Pain and Grief, inforcing more and more,
      Besieg’d the hold that could not long defend;
    Consuming so all the resisting store
      Of those provisions Nature deign’d to lend,
    As that the Walls, worn thin, permit the mind
    To look out thorough, and his frailty find.

Here we see, not simply that _Life_ is going to break through the
infirm and much-worn habitation, but that the _Mind_ looks through and
_finds_ his frailty, that it discovers, that Life will soon make his
escape. I might add, that the four first lines are of the nature of the
_Paraphrase_, considered in the last article: And that the _expression_
of the others is too much the same to be original. But we are not yet
come to the head of _expression_. And I choose to confine myself to the
single point of view we have before us.

Daniel’s improvement, then, looks like the artifice of a man that would
outdo his Master. Though he fails in the attempt: for his ingenuity
betrays him into a false thought. The mind, looking through, does not
find _its own frailty_, but the frailty of the _building_ it inhabits.
However, I have endeavoured to rectify this mistake in my explanation.

The truth is, Daniel was not a man to improve upon Shakespear. But
now comes a writer, that knew his business much better. He chuses
to employ this well-worn image, or rather to alter it a little and
then employ it, for the conveyance of a very new fancy. If the mind
could look through a _thin_ body, much more one that was _cracked_ and
battered. And if it be for looking through at all, he will have it look
to good purpose, and find, not its frailty only, but much other useful
knowledge.

The lines are Mr. Waller’s, and in the best manner of that very
_refined_ writer.

    Stronger by weakness, _wiser_, men become
    As they draw near to their eternal home.
    The Soul’s dark cottage, batter’d and decay’d,
    Lets in new light thro’ chinks that time has made.

2. After all, these conceits, I doubt, are not much to your taste. The
instance I am going to give, will afford you more pleasure. Is there
a passage in Milton you read with more admiration, than this in the
_Penseroso_?

    Entice the dewy-feather’d sleep;
    And let some strange mysterious dream
    Wave at his wings in airy stream;
    Of lively portraiture display’d
    Softly on my eye-lids laid.

Would you think it possible now that the ground-work of this fine
imagery should be laid in a passage of Ben Jonson? Yet so we read, or
seem to read, in his _Vision of Delight_.

    Break, Phant’sy, from thy cave of cloud,
    And spread thy purple wings:
    Create of airy forms a stream,
    And tho’ it be a waking dream,
      Yet let it like an odour rise
        To all the senses here,
      And fall like sleep upon their eyes
        Or musick in their ear.

It is a delicate matter to analyze such passages as these; which, how
exquisite soever in the poetry, when estimated by the _fine phrenzy_
of a Genius, hardly look like sense when given in plain prose. But if
you give me leave to take them in pieces, I will do it, at least, with
reverence. We find then, that _Fancy_ is here employed in one of her
nicest operations, the production of a _day-dream_; which both poets
represent as an _airy form_, or forms _streaming_ in the air, gently
falling on the eye-lids of her entranced votary. So far their imagery
agrees. But now comes the _mark_ of imitation I would point out to
you. Milton carries the idea still further, and improves finely upon
it, in the _conception_ as well as expression. Jonson evokes fancy
out of her _cave of cloud_, those cells of the mind, as it were, in
which during her intervals of rest, and when unemploy’d, fancy lies
hid; and bids her, like a Magician, _create_ this stream of forms. All
this is just and truly poetical. But Milton goes further. He employs
the _dewy-feather’d sleep_ as his Minister in this machinery. And the
mysterious day-dream is seen _waving at his wings in airy stream_.
Jonson would have Fancy _immediately_ produce this Dream. Milton more
poetically, because in more distinct and particular imagery, represents
Fancy as doing her work by means of _sleep_; that soft composure of
the mind abstracted from outward objects, in which it yields to these
phantastic impressions.

You see then a wonderful improvement in this addition to the original
thought. And the notion of _dreams waving at the wings of sleep_ is, by
the way, further justified by what Virgil feigns of their _sticking_
or rather fluttering on the leaves of his magic tree in the infernal
regions. But it is curious to observe how this improvement itself arose
from hints suggested by his original. From Jonson’s dream, _falling,
like sleep upon their eyes_, Milton took his _feather’d sleep_, which
he impersonates so properly; And from _Phant’sy’s spreading her purple
wings_, a circumstance, not so immediately connected with Jonson’s
design _of creating of airy forms a stream_, he catched the idea of
_Sleep spreading her wings_; and to good purpose, since the airy stream
of forms was to _wave at them_.

However, Jonson’s image is, in itself, incomparable. It is taken from a
_winged_ insect breaking out of its Aurelia state, its _cave of cloud_,
as it is finely called: Not unlike that of Mr. Pope,

    So spins the Silk-worm small its slender store,
    And labours till it _clouds_ itself all o’er.
                                IV. _Dunc._ v. 253.

And nothing can be juster than this allusion. For the ancients always
pictured FANCY and HUMAN-LOVE with Insect’s wings.

XIV. Thus then, whether the poet _prevaricates_, _enlarges_, or _adds_,
still we frequently find some latent circumstance, attending his
management, that convicts him of Imitation. Nay, he is not safe even
when he denies himself these liberties; I mean when he only _glances_
at his original. “For, in this case, the borrowed sentiment usually
wants something of that perspicuity which always attends the first
delivery of it.” This Rule may be considered as the Reverse of the
_last_. A writer, sometimes, takes a pleasure to _refine_ on a plain
thought: Sometimes (and that is usually when the original sentiment is
well known and fully developed) he does not so much as attempt to open
and _explain_ it.

A poet of the last age has the following lines, on the subject of
_Religion_:

    Religion now is a young Mistress here,
    For which each man will fight, and dye at least;
    Let it alone awhile, and ’t will become
    A kind of married wife; people will be
    Content to live with it in quietness.

SUCKLING says this in his Tragedy of Brennoralt; which is a Satire
throughout on the rising troubles of that time. BUTLER has taken the
thought and applied it on the same occasion:

    When hard words, jealousies, and fears
    Set folks together by the ears,
    And make them fight, like mad or drunk,
    For dame Religion, as for Punk.

Setting aside the difference between the burlesque and serious style,
one easily sees that this sentiment is borrowed from Suckling. It has
not the clear and full exposition of an original thought. Butler only
represents men as drunk with Religion and fighting for it as for a
Punk. The _other_ gives the reason of the Debauch, namely, _fondness
for a new face_; and tells us, besides, how things would subside into
peace or indifference on a nearer and more familiar acquaintance. One
could expect no less from the _Inventor_ of this humorous thought; a
_Borrower_ might be content to allude to it.

XV. This last consideration puts me in mind of another artifice to
conceal a borrowed sentiment. Nothing lies more open to discovery than
a Simile in form, especially if it be a remarkable one. These are a
sort of _purpurei panni_ which catch all eyes; and, if the comparison
be not a writer’s own, he is almost sure to be detected. The way then
that refined Imitators take to conceal themselves, in such a case, is
to run the Similitude into Allegory. We have a curious instance in Mr.
Pope, who has succeeded so well in the attempt, that his plagiarism, I
believe, has never been suspected.

The verses, I have in my eye, are these fine ones, addressed to Lord
Bolingbroke,

    Oh, while along the stream of time thy name
    Expanded flies, and gathers all it’s fame,
    Say, shall my little Bark attendant sail,
    Pursue the triumph, and partake the Gale?

What think you, now, of these admired verses? Are they, besides their
other beauties, perfectly original? You will be able to resolve this
question, by turning to the following passage in a Poet, Mr. Pope was
once fond of, I mean STATIUS,

    Sic ubi magna novum Phario de litore puppis
    Solvit iter, jamque innumeros utrinque rudentes
    Lataque veliferi porrexit brachia mali
    Invasitque vias, in eodem angusta phaselus
    Æquore, et immensi partem sibi vendicat Austri.
                       SILV. l. V. I. v. 242.

But, especially, this other,

       —immensæ veluti CONNEXA carinæ
    CYMBA MINOR, cum sævit hyems, pro parte, furentes
    Parva receptat aquas, et EODEM VOLVITUR AUSTRO.
                          SILV. l. I. iv. v. 120.

XVI. I release you from this head of _Sentiments_, with observing that
we sometimes conclude a writer to have had a celebrated original in his
eye, when “without copying the peculiar thought, or stroke of imagery,
he gives us only a copy of the impression, it had made upon him.”

1. In delivering this rule, I will not dissemble that I myself am
copying, or rather stealing from a great critic: From _one_, however,
who will not resent this theft; as indeed he has no reason, for he is
so prodigiously rich in these things, as in others of more value, that
what he neglects or flings away, would make the fortune of an ordinary
writer. The person I mean is the late Editor of Shakespear, who, in an
admirable note on Julius Cæsar, taking occasion to quote that passage
of Cato,

    O think what anxious moments pass between
    The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods,
    Oh, ’tis a dreadful interval of time,
    Fill’d up with horror all, and big with death,

observes “that Mr. Addison was so struck and affected with the
_terrible graces_ of Shakespear (in the passage he is there
considering) that, instead of imitating his author’s sentiments,
he hath, before he was aware, given us only the copy of his own
impressions made by them. For,

    Oh, ’tis a dreadful interval of time,
    Fill’d up with horror all, and big with death,

are but the affections raised by such forcible images as these,

    ——All the Int’rim is
    Like a Phantasma, or a hideous dream
    ——The state of man,
    Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
    The nature of an Insurrection.”

The observation is new and finely applied. Give me leave to suppose
that the following is an instance of the same nature.

2. Milton on a certain occasion says of _Death_, that she

    “Grinn’d horrible a ghastly smile—”
                          _P. L._ B. II. v. 846.

This representation is supposed by his learned Editor to be taken from
Homer, from Statius, or from the Italian poets. A certain friend of
ours, not to be named without honour, and therefore not at all on so
slight an occasion, suggests that it might probably be copied from
Spenser’s,

    Grinning griesly—
                     B. V. c. 12.

And there is the more likelihood in this conjecture, as the poet a
little before had call’d _death—the griesly terror_—v. 704. But after
all, if he had any preceding writer in view, I suspect it might be
FLETCHER; who, in his _Wife for a Month_, has these remarkable lines,

    The game of Death was never play’d more nobly,
    The meagre thief grew _wanton_ in his mischiefs,
    And _his shrunk hollow eyes smil’d_ on his ruin.

The word _Ghastly_, I would observe, gives the precise idea of _shrunk
hollow eyes_, and looks as if Milton, in admiration of his original,
had only looked out for an _epithet_ to Death’s smile, as he found it
pictured in Fletcher.

THUS MUCH, then, may perhaps serve for an illustration of the first
part of this Inquiry. We have found out several _marks_, and applied
them to various passages in the best writers, from which we may
reasonably enough be allowed to infer an Imitation in point of
_Sentiment_. For what respect the other part of _Expression_, this is
an easier task, and will be dispatched in few words.

Only you will indulge me in an observation or two, to prevent your
expecting from me more than I undertake to perform.

When I speak of _Expression_, then I mean to confine myself “to
single words of sentences, or at most the structure of a passage.”
When _Imitation_ is carried so far as to affect the general cast of
language, or what we call a _Style_, no great sagacity is, perhaps,
required to detect it. Thus the _Ciceroniani_, if they were not
ambitious of proclaiming themselves, are discoverable at the first
glance. And the later Roman poets, as well as the modern Latin
versifiers, are, to the best of their power, _Virgilian_. The thing is
perhaps still easier in a living language; especially if that language
be our own. Milton and Pope, if they have made but few poets, have made
many imitators; so many, that we are ready to complain there is hardly
an original poet left.

Another point seems of no importance in the present inquiry. I know, it
is asked, How far a writer casually or designedly imitates? that is,
whether he copies another from memory only, without recollecting, at
the time, the passage from which his expression is drawn, or purposely,
and with full knowledge of his original. And this consideration is
of much weight, as I have shewn at large, where the question is
concerning the _credit_ of the supposed imitator. For this is affected
by nothing but direct and _intended_ imitation. But as we are looking
at present only for those marks in the expression which shew it _not_
to be original, it is enough that the resemblance is such as cannot
well be accounted for but on the supposition of some sort of commerce;
whether immediately perceived by the writer himself, is not material.
’Tis true, this observation is applicable to _sentiments_ as well as
expression; and I have not pretended to give the preceding articles,
as proofs, or even presumptions, in all cases, that the later writer
copied intentionally from a former. But there is this difference in the
two cases. _Sentiments_ may be strikingly similar, or even identical,
without the least thought, or even effect, of a preceding original.
But the identity of _expression_, except in some few cases of no
importance, is, in the same language, where the writer speaks entirely
from himself, an almost impossible thing. And you will be of this mind,
if you reflect on the infinitely varied lights in which the same image
or sentiment presents itself to different writers; the infinitely
varied purpose they have to serve by it; or where it happens to strike
precisely in the same manner, and is directed precisely to the same
end, the infinite combinations of words in which it may be expressed.
To all which you may add, that the least imaginable variation, either
in the terms or the structure of them, not only destroys the identity,
but often disfigures the resemblance to that degree that we hardly know
it to be a resemblance.

So that you see, the _marks_ of imitated or, if you will, _derived
expression_ are much less equivocal, than of _sentiment_. We may
pronounce of the _former_ without hesitation, that it is taken, when
corresponding marks in the _latter_ would only authorise us to conclude
that it was the _same_ or perhaps _similar_.

I need not use more words to convince you, that the distinction of
_casual_ and _design’d_ imitation is still of less significancy in this
class of imitations, than the other.

And with this preamble, more particular perhaps and circumstantial than
was necessary, I now proceed to lay before you some of those _signs_
of derived expression, which I conceive to be _unequivocal_. If they
are so, they will generally appear at first sight; so that I shall have
little occasion to trouble you, as I did before, with my comments. It
will be sufficient to deliver the _rule_, and to _exemplify_ it.

I. An identity of expression, especially if carried on through an
intire sentence, is the most certain proof of imitation.

Mr. Waller of Sacharissa,

    So little care of what is done below
    Hath the bright dame, whom heav’n affecteth so;
    Paints her, ’tis true, with the same hand which spreads
    Like glorious colours thro’ the flow’ry meads;
    _When lavish nature with her best attire_
    Cloaths the gay spring, the season of desire.

Mr. Fenton takes notice that the poet is copying from the _Muiopotmos_
of Spenser.

    To the gay gardens his unstaid desire
    Him wholly carried to refresh his sprights:
    _There lavish Nature, in her best attire,_
    Pours forth sweet odours and alluring sights.

We shall see presently that, besides the identity of expression, there
is also another mark of imitation in this passage.

II. But less than this will do, where the similarity of thought, and
application of it, is striking.

Mr. Pope says divinely well,

    Shall burning Ætna, if a sage requires,
    Forget to thunder and recall its fires?
    On _air_ or sea _new motions be impress’d_,
    Oh blameless Bethel! to relieve thy breast?
    When the loose mountain trembles from on high,
    Shall _gravitation cease if you go by_?
    Or some old temple nodding to its fall
    For Chartres’ head reserve the hanging wall?
                               _Essay_ IV. v. 123.

Now turn to Mr. Wollaston, an easy natural writer (where his natural
manner is not stiffened by a mathematical pedantry) and abounding in
fine sallies of the imagination; and see if the poet did not catch his
_expression_, as well as the fire of his conception in this place,
from the philosopher:

“As to the course of Nature, if a good man be passing by an infirm
building, just in the article of falling, can it be expected that God
should _suspend the force of gravitation till he is gone by_, in order
to his deliverance; or can we think it would be increased, and the
fall hastened, if a bad man was there, only that he might be caught,
crushed, and made an example? If a man’s safety or prosperity should
depend upon winds or rains, must _new motions be impressed upon the
atmosphere_, and new directions given to the floating parts of it, by
some extraordinary and new influence from God?”

III. Sometimes the original expression is not taken but paraphrased;
and the writer disguises himself in a kind of circumlocution. Yet this
artifice does not conceal him, especially if some fragments, as it
were, of the inventor’s phrase are found dispersedly in the imitation.

    For in the secret of her troubled thought
    A doubtful combat love and honour fought.
                _Fairfax’s Tasso_, B. IV. S. 70.

Hence Mr. Waller,

    There public care and private passion _fought_
    _A doubtful combat_ in his noble _thought_.
                                     _Poems_, p. 14.

_Public care_ is the periphrasis of _honour_, and _private passion_, of
_love_. For the rest you see—_disjecti membra poetæ_.

IV. An imitation is discoverable, when there is but the least particle
of the original expression, “by a peculiar and no very natural
arrangement of words.”

In Fletcher’s _faithful Shepherdess_, the speaker says,

    — — — — — — — In thy face
    Shines more awful majesty,
    Than dull weak mortality
    Dare with misty eyes behold,
    AND LIVE—

The writer glanced, but very improperly on such an occasion, at _Exod._
xxxiii. 20. “Thou canst not see my face: for there shall no man see me,
_and live_.”

V. An uncommon _construction_ of words not identical, especially if the
subject be the same, or the ideas similar, will look like imitation.

Milton says finely of the _Swan_,

      — — — — —The Swan with arched neck
    Between her white wings mantling proudly ROWS
    HER STATE—

I should think he might probably have that line of Fletcher in his head,

    How like a Swan she SWIMS HER PACE!

The expression, you see, is very like. ’Tis true, the _image_ in
Milton is much nobler. It is taken from a barge of state in a public
procession.

VI. We may even pronounce that a _single word_ is taken, when it is new
and uncommon.

Milton’s calling a ray of light—a levell’d _rule_ in Comus v. 340,
is so particular that, when one reads in Euripides ἡλίου ΚΑΝΩΝ σαφὴς,
Suppl. v. 650, one has no doubt that the learned poet translated the
Greek word.

Again, Mr. Pope’s,

    “Or ravish’d with the _whistling_ of a name,”

is for the same reason, if there were no other points of likeness,
copied from Mr. Cowley’s

    “Charm’d with the foolish _whistlings_ of a name.”
     Transl. of Virgil’s _O! fortunati nimium_, &c.

VII. An improper _use_ of uncommon expression, in very exact writers,
will sometimes create a suspicion. Milton had called the _sight_
indifferently _visual nerve_ and _visual ray_, P. L. iii. 620. xi. 415.
Mr. Pope in his Messiah thought he might take the same liberty, but
forgot that though the _visual nerve_ might be purged from film, the
_visual ray_ could not. Had Mr. Pope _invented_ this bold expression,
he would have seen to apply his _metaphor_ more properly.

VIII. Where the word or phrase is _foreign_, there is, if possible,
still less doubt.

      — — — —at last his sail-broad _vans_
    He spreads for flight.
                          Milton, P. L. ii. v. 927.

Most certainly from Tasso’s,

    —Spiega al grand volo i _vanni_. ix.

And that of Jonson in his _Sejanus_,

    O! what is it proud slime will not believe
    Of his own worth, to hear it _equal prais’d_
    _Thus with the Gods_—
                                           A. 1.

from Juvenal’s

    ------nihil est quod credere de se
    Non possit, cum _laudatur Diis æqua_ potestas.

IX. Conclude the same when the expression is _antique_, in the writer’s
own language.

In Mr. Waller’s Panegyric on the Protector,

    So, when a Lion shakes his dreadful mane,
    And angry grows, if he _that first took pain_
    To tame his youth, approach the haughty beast,
    He bends to him, but frights away the rest.

The antique formality of the phrase _that first took pain_, for, _that
first took the pains_, in so pure and modern a speaker, as this poet,
looks suspicious. He took it, as he found it in an older writer. There
are many other marks of imitation, but we had needed no more than this
to make the discovery:

    So when a lion shakes his dreadful mane,
    And beats his tail, with courage proud, and wroth,
    If his commander come, _who first took pain_
    To tame his youth, his lofty crest down go’th.
                     Fairfax’s _Tasso_, B. VIII. S. 83.

X. You observe in most of the instances, here given, besides other
marks, there is an identity of rhyme. And this circumstance of itself,
in our poetry, is no bad argument of imitation, particularly when
joined to a similarity of expression. And the reason is, the rhyme
itself very naturally brings the expression along with it.

    1. “Stuck o’er with titles, and hung round with strings,
    That thou mayst be _by Kings, or whores of Kings_.”
                                 Essay on Man, E. IV. v. 205.

from Mr. Cowley in his translation of _Hor._ 1. _ep._ 10.

    “To Kings, or to the favourites of Kings.”

    2. “Such is the world’s great harmony, that _springs_
    From order, union, full _consent of things_.”
                                            Ep. III. 295.

from Denham’s _Cowper’s Hill_,

    “Wisely she knew the _harmony of things_
    As well as that of sounds from discord _springs_.”

    3. “Far as the solar walk, or milky way.”
                         Essay on Man, Ep. I. v. 102.

from Mr. Dryden’s Pindaric Poem to the memory of K. Charles II.

    “Out of the solar walk, or heav’n’s high way.”

Though these consonancies chyming in the writer’s head, he might not
always be aware of the imitation.

XI. In the examples, just given, there was no reason to suspect the
poet was imitating, till you met with the original. Then indeed the
rhyme leads to the discovery. But “if an exact writer falls into a
_flatness of expression_ for the sake of rhyme, you may ev’n previously
conclude that he has some precedent for it.”

In the famous lines,

    Let modest Foster, if he will, excell
    Ten metropolitans _in preaching well_.
                           Ep. to Satires, v. 131.

I used to suspect that the phrase of _preaching well_ so unlike the
concise accuracy of Pope, would not have been hazarded by him, if some
eminent writer, though perhaps of an older age and less correct taste
than his own, had not set the example. But I had no doubt left when I
happened on the following couplet in Mr. Waller.

    Your’s sounds aloud, and tells us you _excell_
    No less in courage, than _in singing well_.
                         Poem to Sir W. D’Avenant.

Our great poet is more happy in the application of these rhymes on
another occasion,

    Let such teach others, who themselves _excell_,
    And censure freely, who have written _well_.
                              Essay on Crit. v. 15.

The reason is apparent. But here he glanced at the Duke of Buckingham’s,

    “Nature’s chief master-piece is _writing well_.”

XII. “The same pause and turn of expression are pretty sure symptoms
of imitation.” These minute resemblances do not usually spring from
Nature, which, when the sentiment is the same, hath a hundred ways of
its own, of giving it to us.

1. That noble verse in the essay on criticism, v. 625.

    “For fools rush in, where angels dare not tread,”

is certainly fashion’d upon Shakespear’s,

    ——————————“the world is grown so bad
    That wrens make prey, where angels dare not perch.”
                            _Rich._ III. A. I. S. III.

2. The verses to Sir W. Trumbal in Past. 1.

    “And carrying with you all the world can boast,
     To all the world illustriously are lost.”

from Waller’s _Maid’s Tragedy_ alter’d,

    Happy he that from the world retires
    And carries with him what the world admires.
                             p. 215. Lond. 1712.

XIII. When to these marks the same _Rhyme_ is added, the case is still
more evident.

    “Men would be angels, angels would be Gods.”
                   Essay on Man, Ep. I. v. 126.

Without all question from Sir Fulk Grevil,

    Men would be tyrants, tyrants would be _Gods_.
                       Works, _Lond._ 1633. p. 73.

XIV. The seeming quaintness and obscurity of an expression frequently
indicates imitation. As when in Fletcher’s _Pilgrim_ we read,

    “_Hummings_ of higher nature vex his brains.”
                                    A. II. S. 2.

Had the idea been original, the poet had expressed it more plainly. In
leaving it thus, he pays his reader the compliment to suppose, that he
will readily call to mind,

                  aliena negotia centum
    Per caput, et circa saliunt latus;

which sufficiently explains it: As we may see from Mr. Cowley’s
application of the same passage. “Aliena negotia centum per caput et
centum saliunt latus. A hundred businesses of other men fly continually
about his head and _ears_, and strike him in the face like Dorres.”
_Disc. of Liberty._ And still more clearly, from Mr. Pope’s,

    “A hundred other men’s affairs,
     Like bees, are _humming_ in my ears.”

Learned writers of quick parts abound in these delicate allusions. It
makes a principal part of modern elegancy to glance in this oblique
manner at well-known passages in the classics.

XV. I will trouble you with but one more note of _imitated expression_,
and it shall be the very reverse of the last. When the passages
glanced at are not familiar, the expression is frequently minute and
circumstantial, corresponding to the original in the order, turn, and
almost number of the words. The reasons are, that, the imitated passage
not being known, the imitator may give it, as he finds it, with safety,
or at least without offence; and that, besides, the force and beauty of
it would escape us in a brief and general allusion. The following are
instances:

    1. “Man never is, but always to be blest.”
                  Essay on Man, Ep. I. v. 69.

from Manilius,

    Victuros agimus semper, nec vivimus unquam.

    2.    —“Hope never comes,
    That comes to all.”—
                       MILTON, P. L. I. v. 66.

from Euripides in the Troad. v. 676.

     —οὐδ’, ὃ πᾶσι λείπεται βροτοῖς,
    Ξύνεστιν ἐλπὶς.—

3. But above all, that in Jonson’s Catiline,

                              “He shall die:
    _Shall_ was too slowly said: He’s _dying_: That
    Is still too slow: He’s _dead_.”

from Seneca’s _Hercules furens_, A. III.

    “Lycus Creonti debitas poenas _dabit_:
     Lentum est, dabit; _dat_: hoc quoque est lentum; _dedit_.”

You have now, Sir, before you a specimen of those rules, which I have
fancied might be fairly applied to the discovery of imitations, both
in regard to the SENSE and EXPRESSION of great writers. I would not
pretend that the same stress is to be laid on _all_; but there may be
something, at least, worth attending to in every one of them. It were
easy, perhaps, to enumerate still more, and to illustrate these I have
given with more agreeable citations. Yet I have spared you the disgust
of considering those vulgar passages, which every body recollects and
sets down for acknowledged imitations. And these I have used are taken
from the most celebrated of the ancient and modern writers. You may
observe indeed that I have chiefly drawn from our own poets; which I
did, not merely because I know you despise the pedantry of confining
one’s self to learned quotations, but because I think we are better
able to discern those circumstances, which betray an imitation, in our
own language than in any other. Amongst other reasons, an _identity_
of words and phrases, upon which so much depends, especially in the
article of _expression_, is only to be had in the _same_ language. And
you are not to be told with how much more certainty we determine of the
degree of evidence, which such identity affords for this purpose, in a
language we speak, than in one which we only lisp or spell.

But you will best understand of what importance this affair of
_expression_ is to the discovery of imitations, by considering how
seldom we are able to fix an imitation on Shakespear. The reason is,
not, that there are not numberless passages in him very like to others
in approved authors, or that he had not read enough to give us a fair
hold of him; but that his expression is so totally his own, that he
almost always sets us at defiance.

You will ask me, perhaps, now I am on this subject, how it happened
that Shakespear’s language is every where so much his own as to secure
his imitations, if they were such, from discovery; when I pronounce
with such assurance of those of our other poets. The answer is given
for me in the Preface to Mr. Theobald’s Shakespear; though the
observation, I think, is too good to come from that critic. It is,
that, though his words, agreeably to the state of the English tongue
at that time, be generally Latin, his phraseology is perfectly English:
An advantage, he owed to his slender acquaintance with the Latin idiom.
Whereas the other writers of his age, and such others of an older date
as were likely to fall into his hands, had not only the most familiar
acquaintance with the Latin idiom, but affected on all occasions to
make use of it. Hence it comes to pass, that, though he might draw
sometimes from the Latin (Ben Jonson, you know, tells us, _He had less
Greek_) and the learned English writers, he takes nothing but the
_sentiment_; the expression comes of itself, and is purely English.

I might indulge in other reflexions, and detain you still further with
examples taken from his works. But we have _lain_, as the Poet speaks,
_on these primrose beds_, too long. It is time that you now rise to
your own nobler _inventions_; and that I return myself to those, less
pleasing, perhaps, but more useful studies from which your friendly
sollicitations have called me. Such as these amusements are, however,
I cannot repent me of them, since they have been innocent at least,
and even ingenuous; and, what I am fondest to recollect, have helped
to enliven those many years of friendship we have passed together in
this place. I see indeed, with regret, the approach of that time, which
threatens to take me both from _it_, and _you_. But, however fortune
may dispose of me, she cannot throw me to a distance, to which your
affection and good wishes, at least, will not follow me.

And for the rest,

    “Be no unpleasing melancholy mine.”

The coming years of my life will not, I foresee, in many respects, be
what the past have been to me. But, till they take me from myself, I
must always bear about me the agreeable remembrance of our friendship.

  _I am,_

    _Dear Sir,_

      _Your most affectionate
      Friend and Servant._

  CAMBRIDGE,
  Aug. 15, 1757.




INDEX

TO THE

TWO VOLUMES.


  A.

  ADDISON, Mr., his judgment of the double sense of verbs, i. 359.
    his _Cato_, defended, 102.
      not too poetical, ib.
      its real defects, ib.
    his criticism on _Milton_ proceeds on just principles, 393.
      how far defective, 396.

  AENEIS, prefigured under the idea of a temple, i. 333.
    the destruction of Troy, an episode, why, i. 139.

  AGLAOPHON, his rude manner of painting; why preferred to _Parrhasius_
      and _Zeuxis_, i. 346.

  ALLEGORY, the distinguished pride of ancient poetry, i. 343.
    a fine instance from _Virgil_, 333.

  ANCIENTS, immoderately extolled, why, i. 346.

  ANTIGONE, the chorus of it defended, i. 158.

  APHORISMS, condemned in the _Roman_ writers, i. 184.
    why used so frequently by the Greeks, 185.

  APOLLONIUS _Rhodius_, why censured by _Aristophanes_ and
      _Aristarchus_, i. 267.

  APOTHEOSIS, the usual mode of flattery in the _Augustan_ age, i. 333.

  ARISTOTLE, his opinion of _Homer’s_ imitations, i. 67.
    of _Euripides_, 116.
    of the business of the chorus, 145.
    of the sententious manner, 186.
    his fine Ode, corrected, 188. n.
    translated, 189.
    of the origin of tragedy, 194.
    a passage in his poetics explained, 123.
    his censure of the _Iphigenia at Aulis_, considered, 131.
    he was little known at Rome in Cicero’s time, 191.
    why _Horace_ differs from him in his account of _Aeschylus’s_
      inventions, 240.
    a supposed contradiction between him and _Horace_ reconciled, 262.
    his judgment of moral pictures, 375.
    his admiration of an epithet in _Homer_, on what founded, ii. 126.

  ART and NATURE, their provinces in forming a poet, i. 273.

  ATELLANE FABLE, a species of Comedy, i. 192.
    different from the satyric piece, 195.
    the Oscan language used in it, 198.
    why criticised by _Horace_, 206.
    in what sense Pomponius, the Inventor of it, 198.

  ATHENAEUS, of the moralizing turn of the Greeks, i. 187.

  AUCTOR ad Herennium, defines an aphorism, i. 184.

  AUGUSTUS, fond of the old Comedy, i. 228. n.


  B.

  BACON, Lord, his idea of poetry, ii. 178.

  BALZAC, Mr., his flattery of LOUIS LE JUSTE, i. 344, 345.

  BEAUTY, the idea of, how distinguished from the pathetic, i. 110.

  BENTLEY, Dr., corrections of his censured, i. 71, 72, 106, 142.
    an interpretation of his confuted, 110.
    a conjecture of his confirmed, 349.

  BOS, _M. de_, how he accounts for the effect of Tragedy, i. 119.
    for the degeneracy of taste and literature, 264.
    what he thought of modern imitations of the ancient poets, ii. 224.

  BOUHOURS, P., his merit as a critic, pointed out, i. 393.
    wherein censured, 395.

  BRUMOY, P., his character, i. 133.
    commends the _Athalie_ and _Esther_ of _Racine_, 145.
    justifies the chorus, ib.
    accounts for the sententious manner of the _Greek_ stage, 185.
    an observation of his on the imitation of foreign characters, 247.

  BRUYERE, _M. de la_, an observation of his concerning the manners,
      ii. 135.

  BUSIRIS, in what sense a ridiculous character, i. 208.


  C.

  CAESAR, _C. Julius_, his judgment of _Terence_, i. 225.

  CASAUBON, _Isaac_, his book on satyric poetry recommended, i. 194.
    an emendation of his confirmed, 208.

  CHARACTER, the object of comedy, ii. 56.
    of what sort, 40.
    of what persons, ib.
    plays of, in what faulty, 48.
    instances of such plays, 53.

  CHARACTERS, of comedy, general; of tragedy, particular, why, ii. 48.
    this matter explained at large, to 54.

  CHORUS, its use and importance, i. 145.
    its moral character, 156.
    more easily conducted by ancient than modern poets, 161.
    improvements in the Latin tragic chorus, 179.

  CICER, _M. Tullius_, of the use of old words, i. 89.
    of self-murder, 162.
    of poetic licence, 174.
    of the language of _Democritus_ and _Plato_, 180.
    of the music of his time, 182.
    of the neglect of philosophy, 191.
    of the mimes, 205.
    of _Plautus’s_ wit, 220.
    does not mention _Menander_, 229.
    mentions corporal infirmities as proper subjects for ridicule, 231.
    of a good poet, 249.
    of decorum, 251.
    of the use of philosophy, ib.

  CID, of _P. Corneille_, its uncommon success, to what owing, i. 398.

  CLOWNS, their character in _Shakespear_, i. 186.

  COMEDY, _Roman_, three species of it, i. 192.

  —— the author’s idea of it, ii. 30.
    conclusions concerning its nature, from that idea, 37.
    attributes, common to it and tragedy, 42.
    attributes, peculiar to it, 45.
    its genius, considered at large, 57.
    M. _de Fontenelle’s_ notion of it, considered, 75.
    idea of it enlarged since the time of _Aristotle_, 65.
    polite and heroic, what we are to think of it, 86.
    on high life, censured, ib.
    of modern invention, ib.
    accounted for, 87.
    why more difficult than tragedy, ib.

  COMPARISON, similarity of, in all writers, why necessary, ii. 194.
    why more so in the graver than lighter poetry, 198.

  CORNEILLE, P., his objection to _Euripides’s Medea_, confuted, i. 163.
    his notion of comic action considered, ii. 41.

  CRITICISM, the uses of it, ii. 105.
    its aim, 391.
    when perfect, ib.


  D.

  DACIER, _M._, criticisms of his considered, i. 94, 168, 173, 174, 175,
      240, 244, 245, 268, ibid.
    the author’s opinion of him, as a critic, 62, n. and 272.
    his account of the opening of the _Epistle to Augustus_ censured,
      326.

  DANCE, the choral commended, i. 178.

  DAVENANT, Sir _William_, his _Gondibert_ criticised, ii. 235.

  DEMETRIUS PHALEREUS, characterizes the satyric piece, i. 193.

  DESCRIPTION, natural and moral, why similar in the form as well as
      matter in all poets, ii. 191, 192.

  DIALOGUE, _Socratic_, the genius of, i. 252.

  DIO CASSIUS, instances from him of the gross flattery paid to
      _Caesar_, i. 330.

  DIOMEDES, of the Satyric and Atellane fables, i. 195.
    of the use of the Satyric piece, 203.
    a passage in him corrected by _Casaubon_, 208.
    his character of the Atellanes, 234.
    distinguishes the different kinds of the _Roman_ drama, 241.

  DIONYSIUS, of _Halicarnassus_, of the use of words, i. 92.
    of _Plato’s_ figurative style, 254.

  DOCTUS, the meaning of, explained, i. 350-352.

  DONATUS, distinguishes the three forms of comedy, i. 192, 193.

  DRAMA, see _Tragedy_, _Comedy_, _Farce_.

  —— _Peruvian_, some account of, ii. 66, 67.
    _Chinese_, 67.
    _Greek_ and _Roman_, its character, 69.
    the laws of, in what different from those of history, ii. 179.

  DULCE, its distinction from _pulchrum_, i. 109.

  DUPORT, _Pr._, his collection of moral parallelisms in _Homer_, and
      Sacred Writ, of what use? ii. 140.


  E.

  ELECTRA, of _Euripides_, vindicated, i. 125.
    a circumstance in the two plays of that name by _Euripides_ and
      _Sophocles_ compared, 259.

  ELFRIDA, of Mr. Mason, i. 148.
    the best apology for the ancient chorus, ibid.

  ENVY, how it operates in human nature, i. 329.
    how it operated in the case of Mr. _Pope_, 328.

  EPIC _Poetry_, admits new words, i. 73.
    its plan how far to be copied by the tragic poet, 137.
    in what different from history, ii. 179.

  EPISODE, its character and laws, ii. 185.

  EPISTLE, didactic and elegiac, Intr. to vol. i. 17.
    _Didactic_, the offspring of the satyr, ibid.
    its three-fold character, 24.
    _Elegiac_, the difference of this from the didactic form, 23, 24.

  ERATOSTHENES, his idea of the end of poetry, ii. 4.

  EURIPIDES, his character, i. 116.
    his _Medea_ commended, 121.
    _Electra_ vindicated, 125.
    _Iphigenia_ in _Aulis_ vindicated, 131.
    the decorum of his characters, 132.
    his _Hippolytus_ led _Seneca_ into mistakes, 150.
    an observation on the chorus of that play, 161.
    and of the _Medea_, 162.
    _Quintilian’s_ character of him, 191.
    a circumstance in his _Electra_ compared with _Sophocles_, 259.
    his genius resembling _Virgil’s_, ii. 152.

  EXPRESSION, why similar in different writers without imitation, ii.
      204.


  F.

  FABLE, why essential to both Dramas, ii. 42.
    why an unity and even simplicity in the fable, 43.
    a good one, why not so essential to comedy as tragedy, 45.

  FARCE, the author’s idea of it, ii. 30.
    its laws, 96.
    its end and character, how distinguished from those of tragedy and
      comedy, 98.

  FEELING, rightly made the test of poetical merit, i. 390.

  FENELON, of the use of old words, i. 91.

  FICTION, _poetical_, when credible, ii. 130.
    the soul of poetry, ii. 11.

  FLATTERY of the _Roman Emperors_ excessive, i. 330.
    imported from the _Asiatic_ provinces, 331.

  FONTENELLE, M. _de_, his opinion of the origin of comedy, i. 244.
    his notion of the drama, ii. 75, &c.
    his comedies criticised, 90.
    his pastorals censured, ibid.
    his opinion of the uses of criticism, 105.


  G.

  GEDDES, J. Esq., his notion of the most essential principles of
      Eloquence, i. 381.

  GELLIUS, _Aulus_, his opinion of _Laberius_, i. 206.

  GENIUS, original, a proof of, in the particularity of description,
      ii. 126.
    similarity of, in two writers, its effects, 225.

  GEORGIC, the form of this poem, what, ii. 183.

  GREEKS, their most ancient writers falsely supposed to be the best,
      i. 347.


  H.

  HEINSIUS, his idea of true criticism, i. 65.
    his explanation of a passage in _Horace_, 148.
    thought one part of the Epistle to the _Pisos_ inexplicable, 269.
    his transposition of the Epistle censured, 272.

  HIPPOLYTUS, of _Euripides_; an observation on the chorus, i. 161.
    of _Seneca_, censured, 149.

  HOBBES, Mr., his censure of the Italian romancers in their unnatural
      fiction, ii. 238.

  HOESLINUS, his opinion of the fourth book of the Aeneis, ii. 154.

  HOMER, first invented dramatic imitations, i. 42.
    his excellence in painting the _effects_ of the manners, ii. 157.

  HORACE, explained and illustrated, _passim_.
    his _Epistle to the Pisos_, a criticism on the Roman drama, Introd.
      to vol. i. 15.
    the character of his genius, 24.
    his _Epistle to Augustus_, an apology for the _Roman_ poets, 325.
    design and character of his other critical works, 407.
    what may be said for his flattery of _Augustus_, 330.
    fond of the old _Latin_ poets, 349.
    his knowledge of the world, 379.

  HUME, _David_, Esq., his account of the pathos in tragedy, considered,
      i. 118.
    his judgment of Fontenelle’s discourse on pastoral poetry, 218.

  HUMOUR, the end of comedy, ii. 57.
    two species of humour, 59.
    one of these not much known to the ancients, ibid.
    neither of them in that perfection on the ancient as modern stage,
      60.
    may subsist without ridicule, 62.
    yet enlivened by it, 64.

  HYMNS, profane and sacred, why similar, ii. 138.


  I. and J.

  INVENTION, in poetry, what, ii. 111.
    principally displayed in the _manner_ of imitation, 158.

  JESTER, a character by profession amongst the _Greeks_, i. 235.

  IMITATION, primary and secondary, what, ii. 113.
    the latter not easily distinguishable from the former, ibid.
    shewn at large in respect of the matter of poetry, 115 to 176.
    of the _manner_, 176 to 215.
    in painting, sooner detected than in poetry, why, 162.
    how it may be detected, 208 and _Letter to Mr. Mason_, throughout.
    Why no rules delivered for it in the _Discourse on imitation_, 214.
    confessed, no certain proof of an inferiority of genius, 215, 216.
    accounted for from habit, 217.
    from authority, 221.
    from judgment, 222.
    from similarity of genius, 224.
    from the nature of the subject, 226.
    its singular merit, 228.
    not to be avoided by literate writers without affectation, 234.

  INCOLUMI GRAVITATE, a learned critic’s interpretation of these words,
      i. 201.

  INNOVATION, in words, why allowed to old writers, and not to others,
      i. 88.

  INTRIGUE, when faulty in comedy, ii. 39.

  JONSON, _Ben_, a criticism on his _Catiline_, i. 135.
    his _Every man out of his humour_ censured, ii. 52.
    his _Alchymist_ and _Volpone_ criticized, 101.
    the character of his genius and comedy, 103.

  IPHIGENIA at AULIS, of Euripides, vindicated, i. 131.

  JULIUS POLLUX, shews the _Tibia_ to have been used in the chorus,
      i. 177.

  JUNCTURA CALLIDA, explained, i. 74.
    exemplified from Shakespear, 77.


  K.

  KNOWLEDGE of the world, what, i. 379.


  L.

  LABERIUS, his mimes, what, i. 205.

  LAMBIN, his comment on _communia_ supported, i. 133.

  LANDSKIP-PAINTING, wherein its beauty consists, i. 71.

  LEX TALIONIS, i. 127.

  LICENCE, of particular seasons in _Greece_ and _Rome_, its effect
      on taste, i. 234, 235.
    of ancient wit, to what owing, 231.

  LIPSIUS, his extravagant flattery, i. 332.

  LONGINUS, his opinion of imitators without genius, i. 250.
    accounts for the decline of the arts, 265.
    his opinion of the mutual assistance of art and nature, 273.
    his method of criticizing, scientific, 392.
    wherein defective, 394.

  LOVE, subjects of, a defect in modern tragedy, why, ii. 34.
    passion of, how described by _Terence_ and _Shakespear_, ii. 144.
    by _Catullus_ and _Ovid_, 151.
    by _Virgil_, 152.

  LUCIAN, the first of the ancients who has left us any considerable
      specimens of comic humour, i. 225.
    his ΑΛΕΚΤΡΥΩΝ and ΛΑΠΙΘΑΙ, 235.


  M.

  MACHINERY, essential to the epic poetry, why, ii. 166.

  MALHERBE, M., the character and fortune of his poetry, i. 358.

  MANNERS, why imperfect in both dramas, ii. 60.
    description of, whence taken, 129.

  MARKLAND, Mr., an emendation of his confirmed, i. 71.

  MARKS, of _Imitation_, ii. _Letter to Mr. Mason_.

  MASON, his _Elfrida_, commended, i. 148.

  MEDEA, of _Euripides_, commended, i. 121.
    its chorus vindicated, 162.
    of _Seneca_, censured, 122.

  MENAGE, his judgment of ancient wit, i. 230.
    his intended discourse on imitation, 405.

  MENANDER, why most admired after the _Augustan_ age, i. 223.
    did not excel in comic humour, 225.
    his improvements of comedy, ii. 72.

  MILTON, his angels, whence taken, ii. 116.
    his attention to the effects of the manners, 158.

  MIMES, the character of them, i. 205.
    defined by _Diomedes_, 206.

  MODERNS, bad imitators of _Plato_, i. 234.

  MOLIERE, his comedies farcical, ii. 100.
    his _Misanthrope_ and _Tartuffe_ commended, 101.

  MONEY, love of, the bane of the ancient arts, i. 264.

  MORNING, descriptions of, in the poets compared, ii. 123.
    when most original, 126.

  MUSIC, old, why preferred by the _Greek_ writers, i. 181.
    why by the _Latin_, 182.

  —— of the stage, its rise and progress at _Rome_, i. 168.
    defects of the old music, 182.


  N.

  NARRATION, oratorial, the credibility of, on what it depends,
      ii. 130. n.

  NOVELS, modern, criticized, ii. 18.


  O.

  ODE, its character, i. 94.
    its end, 270.
    the poet’s own odes, apologized for, ibid.

  OPINION, popular, of writings, under what circumstances to be
      regarded, i. 355.

  D’ORVILLE, Mr., his defence of the double sense of verbs examined,
      i. 358.

  OSCI, their language used in the Atellanes, i. 196.

  OTWAY, his _Orphan_ censured, i. 68.

  OVID, the character of his genius, Introd. to i. 23, 24.
    a conjecture concerning his _Medea_, i. 143.
    makes the satyrs to be a species of the tragic drama, 192.
    his account of the mimes, 205.


  P.

  PAINTING, _Landskip_, wherein its beauty consists, i. 71.
    _Portrait_, its excellence, ii. 49.
    difference between the _Italian_ and _Flemish_ schools, i. 256.
    its moral efficacy, 375.
    inferior to poetry, in what, ii. 130.
    wherein superior to poetry, 146.
    expresses the general character, 160.
    hath an advantage in this respect over poetry, 162.
    unable to represent moral and œconomical sentiments, 168.

  PASSIONS, the way to paint them naturally, ii. 131.

  PASTORAL poetry, its genius, and fortunes, i. 214.

  PATHOS, the supreme excellence of tragedy, i. 116., 397.
    how far to be admitted into comedy, ii. 73.
    the pleasure arising from, how to be accounted for, i. 119.

  PATERCULUS, _Velleius_, an admirer of _Menander_, i. 229.
    his character of Pomponius, 197.

  PAUSANIAS, describes two pictures of _Polygnotus_, ii. 161.

  PERRON, Cardinal, his manner of criticizing _Ronsard_, i. 394.

  PLATO, his opinion of _Homer’s_ imitations, i. 67.
    commends the _Aegyptian_ policy in retaining the songs of
      _Isis_, 181.
    his _Symposium_ criticized, 235.
    his manner of writing, characterised, 255.
    his _Phaedrus_ censured, ibid.
    his objection to poetry answered, 256.

  PLAUTUS, why _Cicero_ commends his wit, and _Horace_ condemns
      it, i. 220.
    copied from the middle comedy, 228.
    his apology for the _Amphitruo_, why necessary, ii. 42.
    preferred to _Terence_ in the _Augustan_ age, i. 228.

  PLOTS, double, in the _Latin_ comedies, admired, why, i. 354.

  PLUTARCH, his admiration of _Menander_, i. 229.

  POETRY, the art of, wherein it consists, ii. 3.
    the knowledge of its several species, necessary to the dramatic
      poet, i. 94.
    more philosophic than history, 257.
    tragic, its peculiar excellence, 397.
    hath the advantage of all other modes of imitation, in what,
      ii. 172.

  —— descriptive, an identity in the subject of, no proof of
          imitation, ii. 118.

  —— pure, the proper language of Passion, i. 104.

  POETS, old, much esteemed by _Horace_, i. 349.
    their apology, 380.
    bad soldiers, 384.
    dramatic, a rule for their observance, i. 105.
    bad, characterized by _Milton_, 378.

  POLYGNOTUS, his simple manner, why admired, under the emperors,
      i. 346.
    his expedient to explain the design of his pictures, ii. 161.

  POMPONIUS, in what sense Inventor of the Atellane poem, i. 198.

  POPE, Mr., honoured after death, by whom, i. 329.
    his censure of a passage in the _Iliad_, defended, 359.
    his judgment of the 6th book of the _Thebaid_, ii. 191.
    his censure of the comparisons in _Virgil_ considered, 201.
    his opinion of imitation, 234.

  POUSSIN, _Gaspar_, his landskips, in what excellent, i. 70.

  PRODIGIES, inquiry into, the author’s opinion of that discourse,
      ii. 206.
    an observation quoted from it, ib.

  PULCHRUM, how distinguished from _Dulce_, i. 109.


  Q.

  QUINTILIAN, his judgment of new words, i. 88, 93.
    of _Varius’_ tragedy of Thyestes, 95.
    of the pathetic vein of _Euripides_, 116.
    of _Ovid’s Medea_, 144.
    of the state of Music in his time, 182.
    of _Euripides’_ use of sentences, 190.
    of the old _Greek_ comic writers, 223.
    of _Terence’s_ wit, 225.
    and elegance, 226.
    of the licentious feasts of _Bacchus_, &c., 235.
    of _Aeschylus_, 239.
    of the false fire of bad writers, 250.
    his opinion of the necessary inferiority of a copy to its
      original, how far to be admitted, ii. 114.
    his rule for oratorial narration, 130. n.


  R.

  RANDOLPH, his _Muse’s Looking-glass_, censured, ii. 53.

  RHYME, how far essential to modern poetry, ii. 11.

  RICCOBONI, L., his observation of the difference betwixt the
      _Greek_ and _French_ drama, ii. 43. n.
    a good critic, though a mere player, ib.

  ROBORTELLUS, his explanation of a passage, inforced, i. 110.

  ROMANS, much addicted to spectacles, i. 389.

  RUISDALE, his waters, i. 71.


  S.

  SALMASIUS, what he thought of the method of the _Epistle to the
      Pisos_, Intr. to vol. i. 25. n.

  SAPERET, the meaning of this word in A. P., i. 169.

  SATYRS, a species of the tragic drama, i. 192.
    distinct from the Atellane fables, 195.

  —— of elder _Greece_, what, i. 194.

  —— why _Horace_ enlarges upon them, i. 202, 203.
    their double purpose, 200.
    style, 210.
    measure, 219.

  SCALIGER, J., what he thought of the Epistles of _Horace_, Intr.
      to i. 24. n.
    of the ancient Mimes, i. 205.
    his wrong interpretation of the _Art of Poetry_, to what owing,
      Intr. to i. 16.

  SCENE, of comedy, laid at home; of tragedy, abroad; the reason
      of this practice, ii. 55.

  SCHOLARS, their pretensions to public honours and preferments,
      on what founded, i. 399.

  SCHOLIA, of the _Greeks_, i. 187.
    Aristotle’s translated, 189.

  SENECA, the philosopher, his account of the mimes of _Laberius_,
      i. 206.

  —— his _Medea_, censured, i. 121, 143.
    his _Hippolytus_ censured, 149.
    his Aphorisms quaint, 191.

  SENTENCES, why so frequent in the _Greek_ writers, i. 185.

  SENTIMENTS, religious, moral, and œconomical, why the descriptions
      of, similar in all poets, ii. 136, 145.

  SERMO, the meaning of this word, i. 327.

  SHAFTESBURY, E., of, his opinion of _Homer’s_ imitations, i. 67.
    of the writings of _Plato_, 252.
    his Platonic manner liable to censure, 253.

  SHAKESPEAR, excels in the _callida junctura_, i. 77.
    how he characterizes his clowns, 200.
    his want of a learned education, 248.
    advantages of it, ib.
    his excellence in drawing characters, wherein it consists, ii. 53.
    his power in painting the passion of grief, 133.
    his description of œconomical sentiments, original, 144.

  STATIUS, his character, ii. 190.
    his book of games criticized, 191.

  SHIRLEY, a fine passage from one of his plays, i. 86.

  SIDNEY, Sir Philip, his character, i. 116.
    his encomium on the pathos of tragedy, 397.

  SOCRATES, his office in the symposia of _Xenophon_ and _Plato_, i.
      236. n.
    his judgment of moral paintings, 375.

  SOPHOCLES, the chorus of his _Antigone_ defended, i. 158, 163. n.
    a satyric tragedy ascribed to him, 193.
    a circumstance in his _Electra_ compared with _Euripides_, 259.

  STEPHENS, H., his observations on the refinement of the _French_
      language, i. 90.

  STRABO, a passage from him to prove the Tuscan language used in
      the Atellanes, i. 198.

  STYLE, of poetry, defined, ii. 10.

  SUBJECTS, public, how to acquire a property in them, i. 219.
    domestic, why fittest for the stage, 247.
    real, succeed best in tragedy; feigned, in comedy, why, ii. 46.


  T.

  TACITUS, a bold expression of his, justified, i. 103.

  TELEMAQUE, why no new similes in this work, ii. 203.

  TELEPHUS, a tragedy of _Euripides_, i. 107.
    another tragedy of that name glanced at by _Horace_, 108.

  TEMPE, _Aelian’s_ description of, translated, ii. 119.

  TEMPLE, Sir William, his sentiments on the passion of avarice,
      i. 265.
    his notion of religious description in modern poets, ii. 166.

  TERENCE, why his plays ill received, i. 224.
    fell short of _Menander_ in the elegance of his expression, 225.
    a remarkable instance of humour in the Hecyra, ii. 62.
    the characteristic of his comedies, his _Hecyra_ vindicated,
      i. 354, 355.
    a passage in his _Andrian_ compared with one in _Shakespear’s
      Twelfth-Night_, ii. 144.
    his opinion of the necessary uniformity of moral description, 194.

  TRAGEDY, the Author’s idea of, ii. 30.
    conclusions, concerning its nature, from this idea, 31.
    attributes, common to it and comedy, 42.
    attributes peculiar to it, 45.

  —— admits pure poetry, i. 101.
    why its pathos pleases, 119.
    on low life, censured, ii. 84.
    a modern refinement, 86.
    accounted for, 87.

  TRAPP, Dr., his interpretation of _communia_, i. 134.
    his judgment of the chorus, 146.

  TRUTH IN POETRY, what, i. 255.
    may be followed too closely in works of imitation, ib.


  U.

  VARRO, _M. Terentius_, assigns the distinct merit of _Cæcilius_
      and _Terence_, i. 353.

  VATRY, Abbé, his defence of the ancient chorus, i. 148.

  VICTORIUS, of the satyric Metre, i. 219.

  VIRGIL, his method in conducting the _Aeneis_ justified, i. 139.
    his address in his flattery of _Augustus_, 332.
    his introduction to the third _Georgic_ explained, 333.
    three verses in the same, spurious, 341. n.
    his moral character, vindicated, 403.
    his poetical, vol. ii. _Discourse on poetical imitation_, throughout;
    his book of _games_ defended from the charge of plagiarism, 187.
    why few comparisons in his works, but what are to be found
      in _Homer_, 201.

  UNCTI, the meaning of, in the Epistle to _Augustus_, i. 349.

  VOLTAIRE, _M. de_, his judgment of machinery, what, ii. 166. n.

  UPTON, Mr., his criticism on the satyrs, examined, i. 202.


  W.

  WARBURTON, Mr., his edition of Mr. _Pope_; Intr. to i. 26.
    and of Shakespear, Ded. to Epistle to Augustus, 287. and 80.
    his judgment of the intricacy of the comic plot, ii. 39.
    of the scene of the drama, 55.
    of comic humour, 61.
    of the double sense in writing, i. 365.
    of the similarity in religious rites, ii. 165.

  WHOLE, its beauty consists not in the accurate finishing, but in
      the elegant disposition, of the parts, i. 69.

  WIT, ancient, licentious, i. 230.
    why, 231.

  WORDS, old ones, their energy, how revived, i. 89.


  X.

  XENOPHON, an elegant inaccuracy in a speech in the _Cyropaedia_,
      i. 99. n.
    his fine narration of a circumstance in the story of _Panthea_,
      unsuited to the stage, 143.
    his symposium explained, 235. n.
    a conversation on painting from the _Memorabilia_, translated,
      375.


  Z.

  ZEUXIS, his pictures, in what repute under the Emperors, i. 346.


THE END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

  Nichols and Son, Printers,
  Red Lion Passage, Fleet Street, London.




FOOTNOTES:

[1] Empedocles. See Plutarch, vol. I. p. 15. Par. 1624.

[2] See STRABO, l. i. p. 15. Par. 1620.

[3] ADV. OF LEARNING, vol. i, p. 50. Dr. Birch’s Ed. 1765.

[4] Aristotle was of the same mind, as appears from his definition of
comedy, which, says he, is ΜΙΜΗΣΙΣ ΦΑΥΛΟΤΕΡΩΝ; [κ. ε.] that is, _the
imitation of characters_, whatever be the distinct meaning of the term
φαυλότεροι. It is true, this critic, in his account of the origin of
tragedy and comedy, makes them both the imitations of ACTIONS. Οἱ μὲν
σεμνότεροι ΤΑΣ ΚΑΛΑΣ ἐμιμοῦντο ΠΡΑΞΕΙΣ, οἱ δὲ εὐτελέστεροι ΤΑΣ τῶν
φαύλων. [κ. δ.] Yet, even here, the expression is so put, as if he had
been conscious that _persons_, not _actions_, were the direct object
of comedy. And the quotation, now alledged from another place, where a
definition is given more in form, shews, that this was, in effect, his
sentiment.

[5] The neglect of this is one of the greatest defects in the _modern
drama_; which in nothing falls so much short of the perfection of the
Greek scene as in this want of simplicity in the construction of its
fable. The good sense of the author of the _History of the Italian
Theatre_ (who, though a mere player, appears to have had juster notions
of the drama, than the generality of even professed critics) was
sensibly struck with this difference in _tragedy_. “Quant à l’unité
d’action, says he, je trouve un grande difference entre les tragedies
Grecques et les tragedies Françoises; j’apperçois toûjours aísément
l’action des tragedies Grecques, et je ne la perds point de vûe; mais
dans les tragedies Françoises, j’avoüe, que j’ai souvent bien de la
peine à demêler l’action des episodes, dont elle est chargée.” [_Hist.
du Theatre Italian_, par LOUIS RICCOBONI, p. 293. _Paris_ 1728.]

[6] _Non hominem ex ære fecit, sed iracundiam._ Plin. xxxiv. 8.

[7] P. ALVAREZ SEMEDO, speaking of their poetry, says, “Le plus grand
advantage et la plus grande utilité qu’en ont tiré les CHINOIS, est
cette grande modestie et retenuë incomparable, qui se voit en leurs
ecrits, _n’ayant pas meme une lettre en tous leurs livres, ni en toutes
leurs ecritures, pour exprimer les parties honteuses de la nature_.”
[HIST. UNIV. DE LA CHINE, p. 82, à LYON 1667. 4^{to}.]

[8] LE RIDICULE EST CE QU’IL Y A DE PLUS ESSENTIEL A LA COMEDIE. [P.
RAPIN, REFLEX. SUR LA POES. p. 154. PARIS 1684.]

[9] Οἱ μὲν σεμνότεροι τὰς καλὰς ἐμιμοῦντο πράξεις, καὶ τὰς τῶν τοιούτων
τύχας· οἱ δὲ εὐτελέστεροι, τὰς τῶν φαύλων, ΠΡΩΤΟΝ ΨΟΓΟΥΣ ΠΟΙΟΥΝΤΕΣ,
ΩΣΠΕΡ ἙΤΕΡΟΙ ΥΜΝΟΥΣ ΚΑΙ ΕΓΚΩΜΙΑ. [ΠΕΡ. ΠΟΙΗΤ. κδ.] This is Aristotle’s
account of the origin of the different _species of_ POETRY. They were
occasioned, he says, by the different and even opposite _tempers
and dispositions of men: those of a loftier spirit delighting in
the encomiastic poetry, while the humbler sort betook themselves to
satire_. But this, also, is the just account of the rise and character
of the different _species of the_ DRAMA. For they grew up, he tells
us in this very chapter, from the DITHYRAMBIC, and PHALLIC songs. And
who were the _men_, who chaunted _these_, but the ΣΕΜΝΟΤΕΡΟΙ, and
ΕΥΤΕΛΕΣΤΕΡΟΙ, before-mentioned? And how were they _employed_ in them,
_but the former, in hymning the praises of Bacchus; the latter, in
dealing about obscene jokes and taunting invectives on each other_? So
that the _characters_ of the men, and their _subjects_, being exactly
the same in _both_, what is said of the _one_ is equally applicable
to the _other_. It was proper to observe this, or the reader might,
perhaps, object to the use made of this passage, _here_, as well as
_above_, where it is brought to illustrate Aristotle’s notion of the
_natures_ of the tragic and comic poetry.

[10] _Pref. generale_, tom. vii. Par. 1751.

[11] “On attache par le grand, par le noble, par le rare, par
l’imprévû. On émeut par le terrible ou affreux, par le pitoyable, par
le tendre, par le plaisant ou ridicule.” p. xiv.

[12] “Que nous sommes en droit d’examiner si, en fait de Theatre, nous
n’aurions pas quelquefois des _habitudes_ au lieu de _regles_, car les
regles ne peuvent l’être qu’ après avoir subi les rigueurs du tribunal
de la raison.” p. 37.

[13] Οὐ πᾶσαν δεῖ ζητεῖν ἡδονὴν ἀπὸ τραγῳδίας, ἀλλὰ τὴν οἰκείαν.
Ποιητ. κ. ιδʹ.

[14] _Reflex. sur la Poes._ p. 132.

[15] “Ces sortes de speculations ne donnent point de genie à ceux
qui en manquent; elles n’aident beaucoup ceux qui en ont: et le plus
souvent même les gens de génie sont incapables d’être aidées par les
speculations. A quoi donc sont-elles bonnes? A faire remonter jusqu’aux
premieres idées du beau quelques gens qui aiment la raisonnement, et
se plaisent à reduire sous l’empire de la philosophie les choses qui
en paroissent le plus indépendantes, et que l’on croit communément
abandonnées à la bizarrerie des goûts.”
                                                 M. DE FONTENELLE.

[16] Μελαίνει τε, says Dionysius of Halicarnassus, speaking of his
figurative manner, τὸ σαφὲς καὶ ζόφῳ ποιεῖ παραπλήσιον· [T. ii. p. 204.
_Ed. Hudson_.]

[17] PLATO DE REPUB. lib. x.

[18] Spectator, No. 56.

[19] QUINCTIL. lib. x. c. 11.

[20] Botanists give it the name of _oriental bind weed_. It is said to
be a very rambling plant, which climbs up trees, and rises to a great
height in the Levant, where it particularly flourishes.

[21] ARIST. RHET. lib. iii. c. xi.

[22] Ὅταν ἃ λέγῃς, ὑπ’ ἐνθουσιασμοῦ καὶ πάθους βλέπειν δοκῇς, καὶ
ὑπ’ ὄψιν τιθῇς ἀκούουσιν. [ΠΕΡ. ΥΨ. § xv.]

[23] What is here said of _poetical fiction_, Quinctilian hath applied
to _oratorial narration_; the credibility of which will depend on the
observance of this rule. _Credibilis erit narratio antè omnia, si priùs
consuluerimus nostrum_ ANIMUM, _nequid naturae dicamus adversum_. [L.
iv. 2.]

[24] So the great philosopher, ὃ γὰρ περὶ ἐνίας συμβαίνει πάθος ψυχὰς
ἰσχυρῶς, τοῦτο ἐν πάσαις ὑπάρχει. τῷ δὲ ἧττον διαφέρει, καὶ τῷ μᾶλλον.
ΠΟΛΙΤ. Θ. Whence our Hobbes seems to have taken his aphorism, which
he makes the corner-stone of his philosophy. “That for the similitude
of the thoughts and passions of one man to the thoughts and passions
of another, whosoever looketh into himself, and considereth what he
doth, when he does _think, opine, reason, hope, fear_, &c. and upon
what grounds; he shall thereby read and know, what are the thoughts and
passions of all other men, upon the like occasions.”
                          LEVIATHAN, _Introd. p. 2. fol. London_. 1651.

[25] M. DE LA BRUYERE, Tom. 1. p. 91. Amst. 1701.

[26] Dr. Duport.

[27] JEREMIAS HOELSLINUS, _Prolegom. ad. Apollon. Rhodium_.

[28] DIV. LEG. vol. ii. par. 1. p. 355. ed. 1741.

[29] Sir WILLIAM TEMPLE’S _Works_, vol. i. p. 245. ed. 1740. fol.

[30] “_La machine du merveilleux_, _l’intervention d’un pouvoir
céleste_, la nature des episodes, tout ce qui _depend de la tyrannie de
la coutume_, & de cet instinct qui on nomme goût; voilà sur quoi il y a
mille opinions, & _point de régles générales_.” M. DE VOLTAIRE, _Essaye
sur la poësie Epique_, chap. i.

[31] DE AUGM. SCIENT. lib. ii. c. 13.

[32] _A Critical and Philosophical Inquiry into the causes of prodigies
and miracles_, &c. p. 130.

[33] Letter to Mr. MASON.

[34] Mr. Addison.

[35] _Somn. Scip._ ii. c. 10.

[36] PLATO, _Alcibiad._

[37] _Reflex. sur la Poës. et sur la Peint._ tom. ii. 80. Par. 1746.

[38] _Inquiry into the L. and W. of Homer_, p. 174.

[39] MACROBIUS, V. _Saturnal._

[40] _Inquiry into L. &c. of Homer_, p. 319.

[41] _Mem. de l’Acad. des Inscript. &c._ tom. vi. p. 445.

[42] Mr. Pope’s Preface to his Works.

[43] Pref. to GONDIBERT, p. 2. Lond. 1651, 4^{to}.

[44] Ibid. p. 30.

[45] Pref. to GONDIBERT, p. 3. Lond. 1651, 4^{to}.

[46] Answer to the Preface, p. 81.

[47] P. 214.




[Transcriber’s Note:

All instances of a stigma (ϛ) in words have been changed to sigma tau
(στ).

The original text had an alternative pi (ϖ) at the start of a word.
These have been changed to the standard pi (π).

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]






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