'Of Genius', in The Occasional Paper, and Preface to The Creation

by Aaron Hill

It must be noted, however, that this rejection of authority for a few rare individuals in no way constitutes a rejection of reason or conscious art. The genius has the right to cast off the fetters only after he has well studied them. Only in one instance does our author waver toward another conception. This is when he pauses to echo Rowe's preface to Shakespeare and Addison's famous Spectator no. 160. Then indeed he boasts that England has had many "Originals" who, "without the help of Learning, by the meer Force of natural Ability, have produc'd Works which were the Delight of their own Times, and have been the Wonder of Posterity." But when he doubts whether learning would have helped or "spoiled" them, it is hard to escape the conclusion that he is still poised on the horns of the typical neoclassical antithesis: that supposed enmity between reason, which was generally thought to create the form of the poem, and the emotions and imagination, which were considered largely responsible for its style.

Only when the admiration for such emotional and imaginative qualities should outweigh the desire for symmetrical form; when "primitive" literature should be preferred to Virgil and Horace; and when this preference should be joined with a belief in the diversity and fatality of literary bents—only then could the concept of original genius burst into full bloom.

In Aaron Hill's preface to the paraphrase of Genesis, published in 1720, we find no preoccupation with the fatality of temperament and style. But we do find a rising discontent with the emptiness and restraint of much contemporary verse, and a very real preference for a more meaningful and a more emotional and imaginative poetry. We find, in fact, a genuine appreciation for the poetry of the Old Testament—a poetry which Biblical scholars like Le Clerc were already viewing as the product of untrained primitives.

Hill was not alone in his admiration for Biblical style, for the praise of the "unclassical" poetry of the Bible, which had begun in the Renaissance, had swelled rather than diminished during the neoclassical age. By the second decade of the 18th century such Augustans as Dennis, Gildon, and Pope were crying up its beauties. Not all agreed, of course, on just what those beauties were. And still less did they agree on the extent to which contemporary poetry should imitate them.

One thing upon which almost all would have agreed, however, was the adoption of the historical point of view in the approach to Hebrew poetry. Yet many of Hill's predecessors had stopped short with the historical justification. Blackmore, for instance, had condemned as bigots and sectarians all those who denied that the Hebrew way was as great as the classical. He had pronounced it a mere accident of fate that modern poetry of Western Europe was modeled on that of Greece and Rome rather than on that of ancient Israel. But he had been perfectly willing to accept that fate—and to remodel the form and style of the book of Job on what he considered the pattern of the classical epic.

Hill is as far as most of his contemporaries from appreciating such a literal translation as the King James Version. On the other hand, he is one of a small group of critics who were beginning to see that at least certain aspects of Biblical style were of universal appeal; that they might be as effective psychologically for the modern Englishman as for the ancient Jew. And he sees in this collection of ancient Oriental literature a corrective for some of the worst tendencies of a degenerate contemporary poetry.

Hill's attack upon the current preoccupation with form and polish, and his contempt for mere smoothness, for the padded redundancy of Addison and the elaborate rhetoric of Trapp, are all part of a campaign waged by a small group of critics to make poetry once again a vehicle of the very highest truth. He insists, too, that great thought cannot be contained within the untroubled cadences of the heroic couplet. His own preference led to the freer, though currently unfashionable, Pindaric, the irregularity of which seemed justified by Biblical example, for despite a century and a half of study and speculation the secret of Biblical verse had not been solved and to most critics even the Psalms appeared devoid of any pattern. Indeed, Cowley had declared that in their freedom of structure and abruptness of transition the odes of Pindar were like nothing so much as the poetry of Israel.

In addition, Hill would have the modern poet profit by another quality of Biblical style: its magic combination of a "magnificent Plainness" with the "Spirit of Imagery." This is the Hebrew virtue of concrete suggestiveness, so highly prized by 20th-century critics and so alien to the generalized abstractions and the explicit clarity of much 18th-century poetry.

In consonance with those who believed poetry best communicated truth because it appealed to man's senses and emotions as well as to his logical faculty, Hill praises those "pictur'd Meanings of Poetry" which "enflame a Reader's Will, and bind down his Attention." Yet his analysis of Trapp's metaphorical expansions of Biblical imagery reveals that Hill does not like detailed descriptions or long-drawn-out comparisons. Instead, he admires the Hebrew ability to spring the imagination with a few vividly concrete details. Prior to Hill one can find, in a few paraphrasers and critics like Denham and Lamy, signs of an appreciation of the concrete suggestiveness of the Bible, but most of the hundreds of paraphrasers had felt it desirable to expand Biblical images to beautify and clarify them. Hill was apparently the first to prove the esthetic loss in such a practice by an analysis of particular paraphrastic expansions.

Despite his theory, however, Hill's own paraphrase seems almost as artificial and un-Biblical as those he condemns. He often forgets the principles he preaches. But even in his preface there is evident a blind spot that is a mark of his age. His false ideas of decorum, admiration for Milton, and approval of Dennis's interpretation of the sublime as the "vast" and the "terrible," all lead him to condemn the "low" or the familiar. And his own efforts to "raise" both his language and his comparisons to suit the "high" Biblical subject, result in personifications, compound epithets, and a Miltonic vocabulary, by which the very simplicity he himself found in the Bible is destroyed.