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

by Richard Hurd

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.