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.