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.]