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.