in a general sense, the uniting or putting together several things, so as to form one whole, called a compound.
Composition of ideas, an act of the mind, whereby it unites several simple ideas into one conception or complex idea.
When we are provided with a sufficient stock of simple ideas, and have by habit and use rendered them familiar to our minds, they become the component parts of other ideas still more complicated, and form what we may call a second order of compound notions. This process may be continued to any degree of composition we please, mounting from one stage to another, and enlarging the number of combinations.
grammar, the joining of two words together; or prefixing a particle to another word, to augment, diminish, or change its signification.
logic, a method of reasoning, where- by we proceed from some general self-evident truth, to other particular and singular ones.
In disposing and putting together our thoughts, there are two ways of proceeding, equally within our choice: for we may so propose the truths, relating to any part of knowledge, as they presented themselves to the mind, in the manner of investigation; carrying on the series of proofs in a reverse order, till they, at last, terminate in first principles: or beginning with these principles, we may take the contrary way, and from them deduce, by a direct train of reasoning, all the several propositions we want to establish.
This diversity, in the manner of arranging our thoughts, gives rise to the twofold division of method established among logicians; the one called analytic method, or the method of resolution, inasmuch as it traces things back to their source, and resolves knowledge into its first and original principles. This method stands in contradiction to the method of composition; or, as it is otherwise called, the synthetic method: for here we proceed by gathering together the several scattered parts of knowledge, and combining them into one system, in such a manner, as that the understanding is enabled distinctly to follow truth through all the different stages of gradation.
music, the art of disposing musical sounds into airs, songs, &c., either in one or more parts, to be sung by a voice, or played on instruments. See Music, and Song.
Under composition are comprehended the rules,
1. Of melody, or the art of making a single part; that is, contriving and disposing the simple sounds, so as that their succession and progression may be agreeable to the ear. See Melody.
2. Of harmony, or the art of disposing and concerting several single parts together, so that they make one agreeable whole. See Harmony.
literature, the art of forming and arranging sentiments, and cloathing them with language suitable to the nature of the subject or discourse. We shall first give a few thoughts on original composition; and, 2dly, by way of example, unfold the nature of epic and dramatic compositions.
1. On Original Composition.
The mind of a man of genius is a fertile and pleasant field; pleasant as Elysium, and fertile as Tempe; it enjoys a perpetual spring. Of that spring, originals are the fairest flowers; imitations are of quicker growth, but fainter bloom. Imitations are of two kinds; one of nature, one of author's: the first we call originals, and confine the term imitation to the second. We shall not enter into the curious inquiry of what is, or is not, strictly speaking, original, content with what all must allow, that some compositions are more so than others; and the more they are so, the better. Originals are, and ought to be, great favourites, for they are benefactors; they extend the republic of letters, and add a new province to its dominion: imitators only give us a sort of duplicates of what we had, possibly much better, before; increasing the mere drug of books, while all that makes them valuable, knowledge and genius, are at a stand.
The pen of an original writer, like Armida's wand, out of a barren wattle calls a blooming spring: out of that blooming spring an imitator is a transplanter of laurels, which sometimes die on removal, always languish in a foreign soil.
But suppose an imitator to be most excellent (and such there are), yet still he but nobly builds on another's foundation; his debt is, at least, equal to his glory; which therefore, on the balance, cannot be very great. On the contrary, an original, though but indifferent (its originality being set aside), yet has something to boast; it is something to say with him in Horace,
Meo sum pauper in ore;
and to share ambition with no less than Caesar, who declared he had rather be the first in a village, than the second at Rome.
Still farther: an imitator shares his crown, if he has one, with the chosen object of his imitation; an original enjoys an undivided applause. An original may be said to be of a vegetable nature; it rises spontaneously from the vital root of genius; it grows, it is not made: imitations are often a sort of manufacture wrought by those mechanics, art and labour, out of pre-existent materials not their own.
Again: we read imitation with somewhat of his languor who listens to a twice-told tale: our spirits roufe at an original; that is a perfect stranger, and all throng to learn what news from a foreign land: and though it comes, like an Indian prince, adorned with feathers only, having little of weight; yet of our attention it will rob the more solid, if not equally new: thus every telescope is lifted at a new-discovered star; it makes a hundred astronomers in a moment, and denies equal notice to the sun. But if an original, by being as excellent, as new, adds admiration to surprize, then are we at the writer's mercy; on the strong wing of his imagination, we are snatched from Britain to Italy, from climate to climate, from pleasure to pleasure; we have no home, no thought, of our own; till the magician drops his pen: and then falling down into ourselves, we awake to flat realities, lamenting the change, like the beggar who dreamt himself a prince.
It is with thoughts, as it is with words; and with both, as with men; they may grow old and die. Words tarnished, by passing through the mouths of the vulgar, are laid aside as inelegant and obsolete. So thoughts, when become too common, should lose their currency; and we should send new metal to the mint, that is, new meaning to the press. The division of tongues at Babel did not more effectually debar men from making themselves a name (as the scripture speaks) than the too great concurrence or union of tongues will do for ever. We may as well grow good by another's virtue, or fat by another's food, as famous by another's thought. The world will pay its debt of praise but once; and instead of applauding, explode a second demand, as a cheat.
If it is said, that most of the Latin classics, and all the Greek, except, perhaps, Homer, Pindar, and Anacreon, creon, are in the number of imitators, yet receive our highest applause; our answer is, that they, though not real, are accidental originals; the works they imitated, few excepted, are lost: they, on their father's decease, enter as lawful heirs on their estates in fame; the fathers of our copyists are still in possession; and secured in it, in spite of Goths, and flames, by the perpetuating power of the press. Very late must a modern imitator's fame arrive, if it waits for their decease.
An original enters early on reputation: fame, fond of new glories, sounds her trumpet in triumph at its birth; and yet how few are awakened by it into the noble ambition of like attempts? Ambition is sometimes no vice in life; it is always a virtue in composition. High in the towering Alps is the fountain of the Po; high in fame, and in antiquity, is the fountain of an imitator's undertaking; but the river, and the imitation, humbly creep along the vale. So few are our originals, that, if all other books were to be burnt, the lettered world would resemble some metropolis in flames, where a few incumbent buildings, a fortress, temple, or tower, lift their heads, in melancholy grandeur, amid the mighty ruin. Compared with this conflagration, old Omar lighted up but a small bonfire, when he heated the baths of the barbarians, for eight months together, with the famed Alexandrian library's inevitable spoils, that no profane book might obstruct the triumphant progress of his holy Alcoran round the globe.
But why are originals so few? not because the writer's harvest is over, the great reapers of antiquity having left nothing to be gleaned after them; nor because the human mind's teeming time is past, or because it is incapable of putting forth unprecedented births; but because illustrious examples engross, prejudice and intimidate. They engross our attention, and so prevent a due inspection of ourselves; they prejudice our judgment in favour of their abilities, and so lessen the sense of our own; and they intimidate us with the splendour of their renown, and thus under disfidence bury our strength. Nature's impossibilities, and those of diffidence, lie wide asunder.
After all, the first ancients had not merit in being originals: they could not be imitators. Modern writers have a choice to make; and therefore have a merit in their power. They may soar in the regions of liberty, or move in the soft fetters of easy imitation; and imitation has as many plausible reasons to urge, as pleasure had to offer to Hercules. Hercules made the choice of an hero, and so became immortal.
Yet let not assertors of classic excellence imagine, that we deny the tribute it so well deserves. He that admires not ancient authors, betrays a secret he would conceal, and tells the world, that he does not understand them. Let us be as far from neglecting, as from copying, their admirable compositions: sacred be their rights, and inviolate their fame. Let our understanding feed on theirs; they afford the noblest nourishment: but let them nourish, and annihilate, our own. When we read, let our imagination kindle at their charms; when we write, let our judgment shut them out of our thoughts; treat even Homer himself, as his royal admirer was treated by the cynic; bid him stand aside, nor shade our composition from the beams of our own genius; for nothing original can rise, nothing immortal, can ripen, in any other sun.
Must we, then, not imitate ancient authors? Imitate them, by all means; but imitate aright. He that imitates the divine Iliad, does not imitate Homer; but he who takes the same method, which Homer took, for arriving at a capacity of accomplishing a work so great. Tread in his steps to the sole fountain of immortality; drink where he drank, at the true Helicon, that is, at the breast of nature. Imitate; but imitate not the composition, but the man. For may not this paradox pass into a maxim? viz. "The less we copy the renowned ancients, we shall resemble them the more."
But possibly it may be replied, that we must either imitate Homer, or depart from nature. Not so: for suppose you was to change place, in time, with Homer; then, if you write naturally, you might as well charge Homer with an imitation of you. Can you be said to imitate Homer for writing so, as you would have written if Homer had never been? As far as a regard to nature, and found sense, will permit a departure from your great predecessors; so far, ambitiously, depart from them; the farther from them in similitude, the nearer are you to them in excellence; you rise by it into an original; become a noble collateral, not a humble descendant from them. Let us build our compositions with the spirit, and in the taste of the ancients; but not with their materials: thus will they resemble the structures of Pericles at Athens, which Plutarch commends for having had an air of antiquity as soon as they were built. All eminence, and distinction, lies out of the beaten road; excursion, and deviation, are necessary to find it; and the more remote your path from the highway, the more reputable; if, like poor Gulliver, you fall not into a ditch, in your way to glory.
What glory to come near, what glory to reach, what glory (presumptuous thought!) to surpass our predecessors? And is that then in nature absolutely impossible? or is it not rather contrary to nature to fail in it? Nature herself sets the ladder, all wanting is our ambition to climb. For by the bounty of nature we are as strong as our predecessors; and by the favour of time (which is but another round in nature's scale) we stand on higher ground. As to the first, were they more than men? or are we less? Are not our minds cast in the same mould with those before the flood? The flood affected matter: mind escaped. As to the second; though we are moderns, the world is an ancient; more ancient far, than when they, whom we most admire, filled it with their fame. Have we not their beauties, as stars, to guide; their defects, as rocks, to be shunned; the judgment of ages on both, as a chart to conduct, and a sure helm to steer us in our passage to greater perfection than theirs? And shall we be stopt in our rival pretensions to fame by this just reproof?
Stat contra, dictique tibi tua pagina, Fur es.
Marr.
It is by a sort of noble contagion, from a general familiarity with their writings, and not by any particular forlorn theft, that we can be the better for those who went before us. Hope we, from plagiarism, any dominion in literature; as that Rome rose from a nest of thieves?
Rome was a powerful ally to many states; ancient authors are our powerful allies; but we must take heed, that they do not succour till they inflame, after the manner of Rome. Too formidable an idea of their superiority, like a spectre, would fright us out of a proper use of our wits; and dwarf our understanding, by making a giant of theirs. Too great awe for them lays genius under restraint, and denies it that free scope, that full elbow-room, which is requisite for striking its most masterly strokes. Genius is a master-workman, learning is but an instrument, and an instrument, though most valuable, yet not always indispensable. Heaven will not admit of a partner in the accomplishment of some favorite spirits; but rejecting all human means, assumes the whole glory to itself. Have not some, though not famed for erudition, so written, as almost to persuade us, that they shone brighter, and soared higher, for escaping the boasted aid of that proud ally?
Nor is it strange; for what, for the most part, mean we by genius, but the power of accomplishing great things without the means generally reputed necessary to that end? A genius differs from a good understanding, as a magician from a good architect; that raises his structure by means invisible; this by the skilful use of common tools. Hence genius has ever been supposed to partake of something divine.
Learning, destitute of this superior aid, is fond, and proud of what has cost it much pains; is a great lover of rules, and boaster of famed examples. As beauties less perfect, who owe half their charms to cautious art, learning inveighs against natural unstudied graces, and small harmless inaccuracies, and sets rigid bounds to that liberty to which genius often owes its supreme glory; but the no genius its frequent ruin. For unpremeditated beauties, and unexampled excellence, which are characteristics of genius, lie without the pale of learning's authorities, and laws; which pale, genius must leap to come at them: but by that leap, if genius is wanting, we break our necks; we lose that little credit, which possibly we might have enjoyed before. For rules, like crutches, are a needful aid to the lame, though an impediment to the strong. A Homer casts them away; and, like his Achilles,
Jura negat sibi nata, nihil non arrebat, by native force of mind. There is something in poetry beyond profane reason; there are mysteries in it not to be explained, but admired; which render mere profane infidels to their divinity. And here may be offered a second paradox: viz. "Genius often then deserves most to be praised, when it is most sure to be condemned; that is, when its excellence, from mounting high, to weak eyes is quite out of sight."
If we might speak farther of learning and genius, we would compare genius to virtue, and learning to riches. As riches are most wanted where there is least virtue; so learning where there is least genius. As virtue without much riches can give happiness; so genius without much learning can give renown. As it is said in Terence, pecuniari negligere interdum maximum est incursum; so to neglect of learning, genius sometimes owes its greater glory. Genius, therefore, leaves but the second place, among men of letters, to the learned. It is their merit, and ambition, to fling light on the works of genius, and point out its charms. We most justly reverence their informing radius for that favour; but we must much more admire the radiant stars pointed out by them.
A star of the first magnitude among the moderns was Shakespeare; among the ancients, Pindar; who, (as Vitruvius tells us) boasted of his no-learning, calling himself the eagle, for his flight above it. And such genii as these may, indeed, have much reliance on their own native powers. For genius may be compared to the natural strength of the body; learning to the superinduced accoutrements of arms: if the first is equal to the proposed exploit, the latter rather encumbers, than assists; rather retards, than promotes, the victory. Sacer nobis insit Deus, says Seneca. With regard to the moral world, conscience, with regard to the intellectual, genius, is that god within. Genius can set us right in composition, without the rules of the learned; as conscience sets us right in life, without the laws of the land: thus, singly, can make us good, as men: that, singly, as writers, can, sometimes, make us great.
As too great admirers of the fathers of the church have sometimes set up their authority against the true sense of scripture; so too great admirers of the classical fathers have sometimes set up their authority, or example, against reason.
Neve minor, nee sit quinto productior actu fabula. So says Horace, so says ancient example. But reason has not subscribed. We know but one book that can justify our implicit acquiescence in it: and (by the way) on that book a noble disdain of undue deference to prior opinion has lately cast, and is still casting, a new and estimable light.
But, superstition for our predecessors set aside; the classics are for ever our rightful and revered masters in composition; and our understandings bow before them. But when? When a matter is wanted; which sometimes is not the case. Some are pupils of nature only, nor go farther to school. From such we reap often a double advantage; they not only rival the reputation of the great ancient authors, but also reduce the number of mean ones among the moderns. For when they enter on subjects which have been in former hands, such is their superiority, that, like a tenth wave, they overwhelm, and bury in oblivion all that went before; and thus not only enrich and adorn, but remove a load, and lessen the labour, of the letter'd world.
"But, it may be said, since originals can arise from genius only, and since genius is so very rare, it is scarce worth while to labour a point so much, from which we can reasonably expect so little." To show that genius is not so very rare as you imagine, we shall point out strong instances of it, in a far distant quarter from that mentioned above. The minds of the schoolmen were almost as much cloistered as their bodies: they had but little learning, and few books; yet may the most learned be struck with with some astonishment at their so singular natural sagacity, and most exquisite edge of thought. Who would expect to find Pindar and Scotus, Shakespeare and Aquinas, of the same party? Both equally shew an original, unindebted, energy: the vigor igneum, and celestis origo, burns in both; and leaves us in doubt whether genius is more evident in the sublime flights and beauteous flowers of poetry, or in the profound penetrations, and marvelously keen and minute distinctions, called the thorns of the schools. There might have been more able consuls called from the plough, than ever arrived at that honour: many a genius, probably, there has been, which could neither write nor read. So that genius, that supreme lustre of literature, is less rare than is generally conceived.
By the praise of genius we detract not from learning; we detract not from the value of gold, by saying that diamond has greater till. He who disregaruds learning, shows that he wants its aid; and he that overvalues it, shows that its aid has done him harm. Over valued indeed it cannot be, if genius as to composition, is valued more. Learning, we thank; genius, we revere; that gives us pleasure, this gives us rapture; that informs, this inspires; and is itself inspired; for genius is from heaven, learning from man: this sets us above the low, and illiterate; that, above the learned, and polite. Learning is borrowed knowledge; genius is knowledge innate, and quite our own. Therefore, as Bacon observes, it may take a nobler name, and be called wisdom; in which sense of wisdom, some are born wise.
Having put in a caveat against the most fatal of errors, from the too great indulgence of genius, return we now to that too great supposition of it, which is detrimental to composition; and endeavour to rescue the writer, as well as the man. We have said, that some are born wise; but they, like those that are born rich, by neglecting the cultivation and produce of their own possessions, and by running in debt, may be beggared at last; and lose their reputations, as younger brothers estates, not by being born with less abilities than the rich heir, but at too late an hour.
Many a great man has been lost to himself, and the public, purely because great ones were born before him. Hermias, in his collections on Homer's blindness, says, that Homer requesting the gods to grant him a sight of Achilles, that hero role, but in armour so bright, that it struck Homer blind with the blaze. Let not the blaze of even Homer's muse darken us to the discernment of our own powers; which may possibly set us above the rank of imitators: who, though most excellent, and even immortal, (as some of them are), yet are still but dii minorum gentium, nor can expect the largest share of incense, the greatest profusion of praise, on their secondary altars.
But farther still: a spirit of imitation hath many ill effects: we shall confine ourselves to three. First, It deprives the liberal and politer arts of an advantage which the mechanic enjoy: in these, men are ever endeavouring to go beyond their predecessors; in the former, to follow them. And since copies surpass not their originals, as streams rise not higher than their spring, rarely so high; hence, while arts mechanic are in perpetual progress and increase, the liberal are in retrogradation and decay. These resemble pyramids, are broad at bottom, but lessen exceedingly as they rise; those resemble rivers, which, from a small fountain-head, are spreading ever wider and wider, as they run. Hence it is evident, that different portions of understanding are not (as some imagine) allotted to different periods of time; for we see, in the same period, understanding rising in one set of artists, and declining in another. Therefore nature stands abolished, and our inferiority in composition must be charged on ourselves.
Nay, so far are we from complying with a necessity which nature lays us under, that, secondly, by a spirit of imitation we counteract nature, and thwart her design. She brings us into the world all originals. No two faces, no two minds, are just alike; but all bear nature's evident mark of separation on them. Born originals, how comes it to pass that we die copies? That meddling ape imitation, as soon as we come to years of indiscipline, (if we may so speak), snatches the pen, and blots out nature's mark of separation, cancels her kind intention, destroys all mental individuality; the letter'd world no longer consists of singulars, it is a medly, a mass; and a hundred books, at bottom, are but one. Why are monkies such matters of mimickry? why receive they such a talent at imitation? Is it not as the Spartan slaves received a licence for ebriety, that their betters might be ashamed of it?
The third fault to be found with a spirit of imitation is, that with great incongruity it makes us poor and proud: makes us think little, and write much; gives us huge folios, which are little better than more reputable cushions to promote our repose. Have not some sevenfold volumes put us in mind of Ovid's sevenfold channels of the Nile at the conflagration?
Ostia septem
Pulverulent vacant septem sine flumine valles.
Such leaden labours are like Lycurgus's iron money, which was so much less in value than in bulk, that it required barns for strong boxes, and a yoke of oxen to draw five hundred pounds.
But notwithstanding these disadvantages of imitation, imitation must be the lot (and often an honourable lot it is) of most writers. If there is a famine of invention in the land, like Joseph's brethren, we must travel far for food; we must visit the remote and rich ancients: but an inventive genius may safely stay at home; that, like the widow's cruse, is divinely replenished from within, and affords us a miraculous delight. Whether our own genius be such or not, we diligently should inquire, that we may not go a-begging with gold in our purse. For there is a mine in man, which must be deeply dug ere we can conjecture its contents. Another often sees that in us, which we see not ourselves; and may there not be that in us which is unseen by both? That there may, chance often discovers, either by a luckily chosen theme, or a mighty premium, or an absolute necessity of exertion, or a noble stroke of emulation from another's glory; as that on Thucydides from hearing Herodotus repeat part of his history at the Olympic games. Had there been no Herodotus, there might have been no Thucydides, and the world's... world's admiration might have begun at Livy for excellence in that province of the pen. Demosthenes had the same stimulation on hearing Callistratus; or Tully might have been the first of consummate renown at the bar.
Quite clear of the dispute concerning ancient and modern learning, we speak not of performance, but powers. The modern powers are equal to those before them; modern performance in general is deplorably short. How great are the names just mentioned? Yet who will daily affirm, that as great may not rise up in some future, or even in the present age? Reasons there are why talents may not appear, none why they may not exist, as much in one period as another. An evocation of vegetable fruits depends on rain, air, and sun; an evocation of the fruits of genius no less depends on externals. What a marvellous crop bore it in Greece and Rome? And what a marvellous sunshine did it there enjoy? What encouragement from the nature of their governments, and the spirit of their people? Virgil and Horace owed their divine talents to Heaven; their immortal works to men; thank Maecenas and Augustus for them. Had it not been for these, the genius of those poets had lain buried in their ashes. Athens expended on her theatre, painting, sculpture, and architecture, a tax levied for the support of a war. Caesar dropt his papers when Tully spoke; and Philip trembled at the voice of Demosthenes. And has there arisen but one Tully, one Demosthenes, in so long a course of years? The powerful eloquence of them both in one stream, should never bear us down into the melancholy persuasion, that several have not been born, though they have not emerged. The sun as much exists in a cloudy day, as in a clear; it is outward, accidental circumstances that with regard to genius either in nation, or age,
Collectas fugat nubes, solentque reducit. Virg.
As great, perhaps greater than those mentioned (presumptuous as it may found) may, possibly, arise; for, who hath fathomed the mind of man? Its bounds are as unknown, as those of the creation; since the birth of which, perhaps, not one has so far exerted, as not to leave his possibilities beyond his attainments, his powers beyond his exploits. Forming our judgments altogether by what has been done, without knowing, or at all inquiring, what possibly might have been done, we naturally enough fall into too mean an opinion of the human mind. If a sketch of the divine Iliad before Homer wrote, had been given to mankind, by some superior being, or otherwise, its execution would probably have appeared beyond the power of man. Now, to surpass it, we think impossible. As the first of these opinions would evidently have been a mistake, why may not the second be so too? Both are founded on the same bottom; on our ignorance of the possible dimensions of the mind of man.
Nor are we only ignorant of the dimensions of the human mind in general, but even of our own. That a man may be scarce less ignorant of his own powers, than an oyster of its pearl, or a rock of its diamond; that he may possess dormant, unsuspected abilities, till awakened by loud calls, or stung up by striking emergencies; is evident from the sudden eruption of some men out of perfect obscurity, into public admiration, on the strong impulse of some animating occasion; not more to the world's great surprise, than their own. Few authors of distinction but have experienced something of this nature, at the first beamings of their yet unsuspected genius on their hitherto dark composition. The writer starts at it, as a lucid meteor in the night; is much surprised; can scarce believe it true. During this happy confusion, it may be said to him, as to Eve at the lake,
What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself.
Milton.
Genius, in this view, is like a dear friend in our company under disguise; who, while we are lamenting his absence, drops his mask, striking us at once with equal surprise and joy. This sensation, which we speak of in a writer, might favour, and to promote, the fable of poetic inspiration. A poet of a strong imagination, and stronger vanity, on feeling it, might naturally enough realise the world's mere compliment, and think himself truly inspired. Which is not improbable; for enthusiasm of all kinds do no less.
Since it is plain, that men may be strangers to their own abilities; and by thinking meanly of them without just cause, may possibly lose a name, perhaps a name immortal; we would find some means to prevent these evils. Whatever promotes virtue, promotes something more, and carries its good influence beyond the moral man: to prevent these evils we borrow two golden rules from ethics, which are no less golden in composition, than in life. 1. Know thyself; 2. Reverence thyself.
1st, Know thyself. Of ourselves it may be said, as Martial says of a bad neighbour,
Nil tam prope, proculque nobis.
Therefore dive deep into thy bosom; learn the depth, extent, bias, and full fort of thy mind; contract full intimacy with the stranger within thee; excite and cherish every spark of intellectual light and heat, however smothered under former negligence, or scattered through the dull, dark mass of common thoughts; and collecting them into a body, let thy genius rise (if a genius thou hast) as the sun from chaos; and if we should then say, like an Indian, Worship it, (though too bold) yet should we say little more than the second rule enjoins, viz. Reverence thyself.
That is, let not great examples, or authorities, browbeat thy reason into too great a diffidence of thyself: thyself so reverence, as to prefer the native growth of thy own mind to the richest import from abroad; such borrowed riches make us poor. The man who thus reverences himself, will soon find the world's reverence to follow his own. His works will stand distinguished; his the sole property of them; which property alone can confer the noble title of an author: that is, of one who, to speak accurately, thinks, and composes; while other invaders of the press, how voluminous, and learned however, with due respect be it spoken, only read and write.
This is the difference between those two luminaries in literature, the well-accomplished scholar, and the divinely-inspired enthusiast; the first is, as the bright morning star; the second, as the rising sun. The writer who neglects those two rules above will never stand alone; he makes makes one of a group, and thinks in wretched unanimity with the throng. Incumbered with the notions of others; and impoverished by their abundance, he conceives not the least embryo of new thought; opens not the least vista through the gloom of ordinary writers, into the bright walks of rare imagination, and singular design; while the true genius is crossing all public roads into fresh untrodden ground, he, up to the knees in antiquity, is treading the sacred footsteps of great examples, with the blind veneration of a bigot saluting the papal toe; comfortably hoping full absolution for the sins of his own understanding, from the powerful charm of touching his idol's infallibility.
Such manner of mind, such prostration of our own powers, proceeds from too great admiration of others. Admiration has generally a degree of two very bad ingredients in it; of ignorance, and of fear; and does mischief in composition, and in life. Proud as the world is, there is more superiority in it given, than assumed: and its grandees of all kinds owe more of their elevation to the littleness of others minds, than to the greatness of their own. Were not profligate spirits their voluntary pedestals, the figure they make among mankind would not stand so high. Imitators and translators are somewhat of the pedestal-kind, and sometimes rather raise their original's reputation, by showing him to be by them inimitable, than their own. Homer has been translated into most languages; Ælian tells us, that the Indians, (hopeful tutors!) have taught him to speak their tongue. What expect we from them? Not Homer's Achilles, but something, which, like Patroclus, assumes his name, and, at his peril, appears in his stead; nor expect we Homer's Ulysses gloriously bursting out of his cloud into royal grandeur, but an Ulysses under disguise, and a beggar to the last. Such is that inimitable father of poetry, and oracle of all the wise, whom Lycurgus transcribed; and for an annual public recital of whose works Solon enacted a law; that it is much to be feared, that his so numerous translations are but as the published testimonials of so many nations, and ages, that this author so divine is untranslated still.
But here,
Cynthus aurem
Vellit,
and demands justice for his favourite, and ours. Great things he has done; but he might have done greater. What a fall is it from Homer's numbers, free as air, lofty and harmonious as the spheres, into childish flaccidities, and tinkling sounds! But, in his fall, he is still great;
Nor appears
Less than archangel ruin'd, and the excess
Of glory obscure'd.
Had Milton never wrote, Pope had been less to blame; but when in Milton's genius, Homer, as it were, personally rose to forbid Britons doing him that ignoble wrong; it is less pardonable, by that effeminate decoration, to put Achilles in petticoats a second time. How much nobler had it been, if his numbers had rolled on in full flow, through the various modulations of masculine melody, into those grandeur of solemn found, which are indispensably demanded by the native dignity of heroic song? How much nobler, if he had resisted the temptation of that Gothic demon, which modern poetry calling, became mortal? O how unlike the deathless, divine harmony of three great names (how justly joined!) of Milton, Greece, and Rome? His verse, but for his little speck of mortality, in its extreme parts, as his hero had in his heel; like him, had been invulnerable, and immortal. But, unfortunately, that was undipt in Helicon; as this in Styx. Harmony as well as eloquence is essential to poetry; and a murder of his music is putting half Homer to death. Blank is a term of diminution; what we mean by blank verse is, verse unfallen, uncult; verse reclaimed, reenthroned in the true language of the gods, who never thundered, nor suffered their Homer to thunder in rhyme.
But supposing Pope's Iliad to have been perfect in its kind; yet it is a translation still; which differs as much from an original, as the moon from the sun.
But as nothing is more easy than to write originally wrong; originals are not here recommended, but under the strong guard of the first rule,—Know thyself. Lucian, who was an original, neglected not this rule, if we may judge by his reply to one who took some freedom with him. He was at first an apprentice to a statuary; and when he was reflected on as such, by being called Prometheus, he replied, "I am indeed the inventor of a new work, the model of which I owe to none; and, if I do not execute it well, I deserve to be torn by twelve vultures, instead of one."
Bacon says, "Men seek not to know their own stock, and abilities; but fancy their possessions to be greater, and their abilities less, than they really are." Which is in effect saying, "That we ought to exert more than we do; and that, on exertion, our probability of success is greater than we conceive."
Nor have we Bacon's opinion only, but his assistance too, in favour of originals. His mighty mind travelled round the intellectual world; and, with more than eagle's eye, saw, and has pointed out, blank spaces, or dark spots in it, on which the human mind never shone: some of these have been enlightened since; some are benighted still.
Moreover, so boundless are the bold excursions of the human mind, that in the vast void beyond real existence, it can call forth shadowy beings, and unknown worlds, as numerous, as bright, and perhaps as lasting as the stars; such quite-original beauties we may call paradisaical,
Nato sine semine flores.
When such an ample area for renowned adventure in original attempts lies before us, shall we be as mere leaden pipes, conveying to the present age small streams of excellence from its grand reservoir in antiquity; and those too perhaps muddied in the past? Originals shine like comets; have no peer in their path; are rivalled by none, and the gaze of all: all other compositions (if they shine at all) shine in clutters; like the stars in the galaxy; where, like bad neighbours, all suffer from all; each particular being diminished, and almost lost in the throng.
If thoughts of this nature prevailed; if ancients and moderns were no longer considered as masters and pupils, but as hard-matched rivals for renown; then moderns, by the longevity of their labours, might one day become ancients themselves: and old time, that best weigher of merits, to keep his balance even, might have the golden weight of an Augustan age in both his scales: or rather, our scale might descend: and that of antiquity (as a modern match for it strongly speaks) might kick the beam.
Why condemned Maro his admirable epic to the flames? Was it not because his discerning eye saw some length of perfection beyond it? And what he saw, may not others reach? And who bid fairer than our country- men for that glory? Something new may be expected from Britons particularly; who seem not to be more se- vered from the rest of mankind by the surrounding sea, than by the current in their veins; and of whom little more appears to be required, in order to give us origi- nals, than a consistency of character, and making their compositions of a piece with their lives. May our geni- us shine; and proclaim us in that noble view!
—minimá contentos nede Britannae. Virg.
And so it does; for in polite composition, in natu- ral and mathematical knowledge, we have great origi- nals already: Bacon, Boyle, Newton, Shakespeare, Milton, have showed us, that all the winds cannot blow the British flag farther, than an original spirit can convey the British fame; their names go round the world; and what foreign genius strikes not as they pass? Why should not their posterity embark in the same bold bottom of new enterprise, and hope the same success? Hope it they may; or we must assert, either that those originals, which we already enjoy, were written by angels, or deny that we are men. As Simonides said to Paufunias, rea- son should say to the writer, "Remember thou art a man." And for man not to grasp at all which is lauda- ble within his reach, is a dishonour to human nature, and a disobedience to the divine; for as Heaven does no- thing in vain, its gift of talents implies an injunction of their use.
Johnson, in the serious drama, is as much an imitator as Shakespeare is an original. He was very learned, as Samson was very strong, to his own hurt. Blind to the nature of tragedy, he pulled down all antiquity on his head, and buried himself under it; we see nothing of Johnson, nor indeed of his admired (but also murdered) ancients; for what shone in the historian is a cloud on the poet; and Catiline might have been a good play if Sallust had never written.
Dryden, destitute of Shakespeare's genius, had al- most as much learning as Johnson, and, for the buskin, quite as little taste. He was a stranger to the pathos, and, by numbers, expression, sentiment, and every other dramatic cheer, strove to make amends for it: as if a saint could make amends for the want of conscience; a soldier, for the want of valour; or a vestal, of mode- rity. The noble nature of tragedy disclaims an equiva- lent; like virtue, it demands the heart; and Dryden had none to give. Let epic poets think, the tragedian's point is rather to feel; such distant things are a trage- dian and a poet, that the latter indulged, destroys the former. Look on Barnwell, and Essex, and see how as to these distant characters Dryden excels, and is excel-
led. But the strongest demonstration of his no-taste for the buskin, are his tragedies fringed with rhyme; which, in epic poetry, is a sore disease; in the tragic, absolute death. To Dryden's enormity, Pope's was a light off- ence. As lacemen are foes to mourning, these two au- thors, rich in rhyme, were no great friends to those so- lemn ornaments, which the noble nature of their works required.
Must rhyme then, it may be said, be banished? It is to be wished the nature of our language could bear its entire expulsion; but our lesser poetry stands in need of a toleration for it; it raises that, but sinks the great; as spangles adorn children, but expose men.
Among the brightest of the moderns, Mr Addison must take his place. Who does not approach his char- acter with great respect? They who refuse to close with the public in his praise, refuse at their peril. But, if men will be fond of their own opinions, some hazzard must be run. He had, what Dryden and Johnson want- ed, a warm, and feeling heart; but, being of a grave and bashful nature, through a philosophic reserve, and a sort of moral prudery, he concealed it, where he should have let loose all his fire, and have showed the most ten- der sensibility of heart. At his celebrated Cato, few tears are shed, but Cato's own; which indeed are truly great, but unafflicting, except to the noble few who love their country better than themselves. The bulk of mankind want virtue enough to be touched by them. His strength of genius has reared up one glorious image, more lofty, and truly golden, than that in the plain of Dura, for cool admiration to gaze at, and warm patriotism (how rare!) to worship; while those two throbbing pulses of the drama, by which alone it is shown to live, terror and pity, neglected through the whole, leave our unmolested hearts at perfect peace. Thus the poet, like his hero, through mistaken excellence, and virtue overstrained, becomes a sort of suicide; and that which is most dramatic in the drama, dies. All his charms of poetry are but as funeral flowers which adorn, all his noble sentiments but as rich spices which embalm, the tragedy deceased.
Socrates frequented the plays of Euripides; and, what living Socrates would decline the theatre, at the repre- sentation of Cato? Tully's assassins found him in his litter, reading the Medea of the Grecian poet, to prepare him- self for death. Part of Cato might be read to the same end. In the weight and dignity of moral reflection, Ad- dison resembles that poet, who was called the dramatic philosopher; and is himself, as he says of Cato, ambici- ously sententious. But as to the singular talent so re- markable in Euripides, at melting down hearts into the tender streams of grief and pity, there the resemblance fails. His beauties sparkle, but do not warm; they sparkle as stars in a frosty night. There is, indeed, a constellation in his play; there is the philosopher, pa- triot, orator, and poet; but where is the tragedian? And, if that is wanting,
Cur in theatrum Cato severe venisti? Mart.
2. Of epic and dramatic Compositions.
Tragedy and the epic poem differ little in substantial in both the same ends are proposed, viz. instruction and amusement; and in both the same means are employed, viz. imitation of human actions. They differ in the manner only of imitating: epic poetry deals in narration; tragedy represents its facts as passing in our sight: in the former, the poet introduces himself as an historian; in the latter, he presents his actors, and never himself.
This difference, regarding form only, may be thought slight: but the effects it occasions, are by no means so; for what we see, makes a stronger impression than what we learn from others. A narrative poem is a story told by another: facts and incidents passing upon the stage, come under our own observation; and are beside much enlivened by action and gesture, expressive of many sentiments beyond the reach of language.
A dramatic composition has another property, independent altogether of action; which is, that it makes a deeper impression than narration; in the former, persons express their own sentiments; in the latter, sentiments are related at second hand. For that reason, Aristotle, the father of critics, lays it down as a rule, That in an epic poem the author ought to take every opportunity to introduce his actors, and to confine the narrative part within the narrowest bounds. Homer understood perfectly the advantage of this method; and his poems are both of them in a great measure dramatic. Lucan runs to the opposite extreme; and is guilty of a still greater fault, in stuffing his Pharsalia with cold and languid reflections, the merit of which he affixes to himself, and deigns not to share with his personages.
Aristotle, from the nature of the fable, divides tragedy into simple and complex: but it is of greater moment, with respect to dramatic as well as epic poetry, to found a distinction upon the different ends attained by such compositions. A poem, whether dramatic or epic, that has nothing in view but to move the passions, and to exhibit pictures of virtue and vice, may be distinguished by the name of pathetic: but where a story is purposely contrived to illustrate some moral truth, by showing that disorderly passions naturally lead to external misfortunes, such composition may be denominated moral. Besides making a deeper impression than can be done by any moral discourse, it affords conviction equal to that of the most accurate reasoning. To be satisfied of this, we need but reflect, that the natural connection which vice hath with misery, and virtue with happiness, may be illustrated by stating a fact as well as by urging an argument. Let us assume, for example, the following moral truths: That discord among the chiefs renders inefficient all common measures; and that the consequences of a slightly-founded quarrel, fostered by pride and arrogance, are not less fatal than those of the grossest injury: these truths may be inculcated, by the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles at the siege of Troy. In this view, probable circumstances must be invented, such as furnish an opportunity for the turbulent passions to exert themselves in action: at the same time, no accidental nor unaccountable event ought to be admitted; for the necessary or probable connection between vice and misery, is not learned from any events but what are naturally occasioned by the characters and passions of the persons represented, acting in such and such circumstances. A real event of which we see not the cause, may be a lesson to us; because what hath happened may again happen; but this cannot be inferred from a story that is known to be a fiction.
Many are the good effects of such compositions. A pathetic composition, whether epic or dramatic, tends to a habit of virtue, by exciting us to do what is right, and refraining from what is wrong. Its frequent pictures of human woes produce, beside, two effects extremely salutary: they improve our sympathy, and at the same time fortify us in bearing our own misfortunes. A moral composition must obviously produce the same good effects, because by being moral it doth not cease to be pathetic: it enjoys beside an excellence peculiar to itself; for it not only improves the heart, as above mentioned, but instructs the head by the moral it contains. For our part, we cannot imagine any entertainment more suited to a rational being, than a work thus happily illustrating some moral truth; where a number of persons of different characters are engaged in an important action, some retarding, others promoting, the great catastrophe; and where there is dignity of style as well as of matter. A work of this kind has our sympathy at command, and can put in motion the whole train of the social affections: our curiosity is by turns excited and gratified; and our delight is confirmed at the close, upon finding, from the characters and situations exhibited at the commencement, that every incident down to the final catastrophe is natural, and that the whole in conjunction make a regular chain of causes and effects.
Considering that an epic and a dramatic poem are the same in substance, and have the same aim or end, one would readily imagine, that subjects proper for the one must be equally proper for the other. But considering their difference as to form, there will be found reason to correct that conjecture, at least in some degree. Many subjects may indeed be treated with equal advantage in either form; but the subjects are still more numerous for which they are not equally qualified; and there are subjects proper for the one and not at all for the other. To give some slight notion of the difference, as there is no room here for enlarging upon every article, we observe, that dialogue is the best qualified for expressing sentiments, and narrative for displaying facts. Heroism, magnanimity, undaunted courage, and the whole tribe of the elevated virtues, figure best in action: tender passions, and the whole tribe of sympathetic affections, figure best in sentiment: what we feel is the most remarkable in the latter; what we perform is the most remarkable in the former. It clearly follows, that tender passions are more peculiarly the province of tragedy, grand and heroic actions of epic poetry.
The subject best fitted for tragedy is a story where a man has himself been the cause of his misfortune. But this man must neither be deeply guilty, nor altogether innocent: the misfortune must be occasioned by a fault incident to human nature, and therefore venial. Misfortunes of this kind call forth the social affections, and warmly interest the spectator. An accidental misfortune, if not extremely singular, doth not greatly move our... our pity: the person who suffers, being innocent, is freed from the greatest of all torments, that anguish of mind which is occasioned by remorse.
An atrocious criminal, on the other hand, who brings misfortunes upon himself, excites little pity, for a different reason: his remorse, it is true, aggravates his distress, and swells the first emotions of pity; but then our hatred of him as a criminal blending with pity, blunts its edge considerably. Misfortunes that are not innocent, nor highly criminal, partake the advantages of each extreme: they are attended with remorse to embitter the distress, which raises our pity to a great height; and the slight indignation we have at a venial fault, detracts not sensibly from our pity. For this reason, the happiest of all subjects for raising pity, is where a man of integrity falls into a great misfortune by doing an action that is innocent, but which by some singular means he conceives to be criminal: his remorse aggravates his distress; and our compassion, unrestrained by indignation, rises to its highest pitch. Pity comes thus to be the ruling passion of a pathetic tragedy; and by proper representation, may be raised to a height scarce exceeded by anything felt in real life. A moral tragedy takes in a larger field; for, beside exercising our pity, it raises another passion, selfish indeed, but which deserves to be cherished equally with the social affections. The passion we have in view is fear or terror; for when a misfortune is the natural consequence of some wrong bias in the temper, every spectator who is conscious of such a wrong bias in his own temper, takes the alarm, and dreads his falling into the same misfortune: and it is by this emotion of fear or terror, frequently reiterated in a variety of moral tragedies, that the spectators are put upon their guard against the disorders of passion.
The commentators upon Aristotle, and other critics, have been much gravelled about the account given of tragedy by this author: "That by means of pity and terror, it refines or purifies in us all sorts of passion." But no one who has a clear conception of the end and effects of a good tragedy, can have any difficulty about Aristotle's meaning: our pity is engaged for the persons represented; and our terror is upon our own account. Pity indeed is here made to stand for all the sympathetic emotions, because of these it is the capital. There can be no doubt, that our sympathetic emotions are refined or improved by daily exercise; and in what manner our other passions are refined by terror, we have just now said.
With respect to subjects of this kind, it may indeed be a doubtful question, whether the conclusion ought not always to be fortunate. Where a person of integrity is represented as suffering to the end under misfortunes purely accidental, we depart discontented, and with some obscure sense of injustice: for seldom is man so submissive to providence, as not to revolt against the tyranny and vexations of blind chance; he will be inclined to say, This ought not to be. We give for an example the Romeo and Juliet of Shakespeare, where the fatal catastrophe occasioned by Friar Laurence's coming to the monument a minute too late. We are vexed at the unlucky chance, and go away dissatisfied. Such impressions, which ought not to be cherished, are a sufficient reason for excluding stories of that kind from the theatre. The misfortunes of a virtuous person, arising from necessary causes, or from a chain of unavoidable circumstances, will be considered in a different light: chance affords always a gloomy prospect, and in every instance gives an impression of anarchy and misrule; a regular chain, on the contrary, of causes and effects, directed by the general laws of nature, never fails to suggest the hand of Providence; to which we submit without resentment, being conscious that submission is our duty. For that reason, we are not disgusted with the distresses of Voltaire's Mariamne, though redoubled on her till the moment of her death, without the least fault or failing on her part: her misfortunes are owing to a cause extremely natural, and not unfrequent, the jealousy of a barbarous husband. The fate of Desdemona in the Moor of Venice, affects us in the same manner. We are not so easily reconciled to the fate of Cordelia in King Lear: the causes of her misfortune are by no means so evident, as to exclude the gloomy notion of chance. In short, a perfect character suffering under misfortunes, is qualified for being the subject of a pathetic tragedy, provided chance be excluded. Nor is a perfect character altogether inconsistent with a moral tragedy: it may successfully be introduced as an under-part, supposing the chief place to be filled with an imperfect character from which a moral can be drawn. This is the case of Desdemona and Mariamne: just now mentioned; and it is the case of Monimia and Belvidera, in Otway's two tragedies, the Orphan, and Venice Preserved.
Fable operates on our passions, by representing its events as passing in our sight, and by deluding us into a conviction of reality. Hence, in epic and dramatic compositions, it is of importance to employ means of every sort that may promote the delusion, such as the borrowing from history some noted event, with the addition of circumstances that may answer the author's purpose: the principal facts are known to be true; and we are disposed to extend our belief to every circumstance. But in chusing a subject that makes a figure in history, greater precaution is necessary than where the whole is a fiction. In the latter case there is full scope for invention: the author is under no restraint other than that the characters and incidents be just copies of nature. But where the story is founded on truth, no circumstances must be added, but such as connect naturally with what are known to be true; history may be supplied, but must not be contradicted: further, the subject chosen must be distant in time, or at least in place; for the familiarity of persons and events nearly connected with us, ought by all means to be avoided. Familiarity ought more especially to be avoided in an epic poem, the peculiar character of which is dignity and elevation: modern manners make but a poor figure in such a poem.
After Voltaire, no writer, it is probable, will think of rearing an epic poem upon a recent event in the history of his own country. But an event of this kind is perhaps not altogether unqualified for tragedy: it was admitted in Greece; and Shakespear has employed it successfully. One advantage it possesses above fiction, that of more readily engaging our belief, which tends above any other particular to raise our sympathy. The scene of comedy is generally laid at home; familiarity is no objection; and we are peculiarly sensible of the ridicule of our own manners.
After a proper subject is chosen, the dividing it into parts requires some art. The conclusion of a book in an epic poem, or of an act in a play, cannot be altogether arbitrary; nor be intended for so slight a purpose as to make the parts of equal length. The supposed pause at the end of every book, and the real pause at the end of every act, ought always to coincide with some pause in the action. In this respect, a dramatic or epic poem ought to resemble a sentence or period in language, divided into members that are distinguished from each other by proper pauses; or it ought to resemble a piece of music, having a full close at the end, preceded by imperfect closes that contribute to the melody. Every act in a dramatic poem ought therefore to close with some incident that makes a pause in the action; for otherwise there can be no pretext for interrupting the representation: it would be absurd to break off in the very heat of action; against which every one would exclaim: the absurdity still remains, though the action relents, if it be not actually suspended for some time. This rule is also applicable to an epic poem; though there, a deviation from the rule is less remarkable; because it is in the reader's power to hide the absurdity, by proceeding instantly to another book. The first book of the Paradise Lost ends without any regular close, perfect or imperfect: it breaks off abruptly, where Satan, seated on his throne, is prepared to make a speech to the convoked host of the fallen angels; and the second book begins with the speech. Milton seems to have copied the Æneid, of which the two first books are divided much in the same manner. Neither is there any proper pause at the end of the fifth book of the Æneid. There is no proper pause at the end of the seventh book of Paradise Lost, nor at the end of the eleventh.
This branch of the subject shall be closed with a general rule. That action being the fundamental part of every composition whether epic or dramatic, the sentiments and tone of language ought to be subservient to the action, so as in every respect to appear natural, and proper for the occasion. The application of this rule to our modern plays, would reduce the bulk of them to a skeleton.
After carrying on together epic and dramatic compositions, we proceed to handle them separately, and to mention circumstances peculiar to each, beginning with the epic kind. In a theatrical entertainment, which employs both the eye and the ear, it would be a gross absurdity to introduce upon the stage superior beings in a visible shape. There is not place for this objection in an epic poem; and Boileau, with many other critics, declares strongly for this sort of machinery in an epic poem. But waving authority, which is apt to impose upon the judgment, let us draw what light we can from reason. This matter is but indistinctly handled by critics: the poetical privilege of animating insensible objects for enlivening a description, is very different from what is termed machinery, where deities, angels, devils, or other supernatural powers, are introduced as real personages, mixing in the action, and contributing to the catastrophe; and yet these two things are constantly jumbled together in the reasoning. The former is founded on a natural principle: but can the latter claim the same authority? So far from it, that nothing can be more unnatural. Its effects, at the same time, are deplorable. First, it gives an air of fiction to the whole; and prevents that impression of reality which is requisite to interest our affections, and to move our passions: this of itself is sufficient to explode machinery, whatever entertainment it may afford to readers of a fantastic taste or irregular imagination. And, next, were it possible, by disguising the fiction, to delude us into a notion of reality, an inuperable objection would still remain, which is, that the aim or end of an epic poem can never be attained in any perfection where machinery is introduced; for an evident reason, that virtuous emotions cannot be raised successfully but by the actions of those who are endowed with passions and affections like our own, that is, by human actions: and as for moral instruction, it is clear, that none can be drawn from beings who act not upon the same principles with us. A fable in Æsop's manner is no objection to this reasoning: his lions, bulls, and goats, are truly men under disguise: they act and feel in every respect as human beings; and the moral we draw is founded on that supposition. Homer, it is true, introduces the gods into his fable: but he was authorised to take that liberty by the religion of his country; it being an article in the Grecian creed, that the gods often interpose visibly and bodily in human affairs. We must however observe, that Homer's deities do no honour to his poems: fictions that transgress the bounds of nature, seldom have a good effect: they may inflame the imagination for a moment, but will not be relished by any person of a correct taste. Let us add, that of whatever use such fictions may be to a mean genius, an able writer has much finer materials of Nature's production, for elevating his subject, and making it interesting.
The marvellous is indeed so much promoted by machinery, that it is not wonderful to find it embraced by the bulk of writers, and perhaps of readers. If indulged at all, it is generally indulged to excess. Homer introduces his deities with no greater ceremony than his mortals; and Virgil has still less moderation: a pilot spent with watching cannot fall asleep and drop into the sea by natural means: one bed cannot hold the two lovers, Æneas and Dido, without the immediate interposition of superior powers. The ridiculous in such fictions must appear, even through the thickest veil of gravity and solemnity.
Angels and devils serve equally with the Heathen deities, as materials for figurative language, perhaps better among Christians, because we believe in them, and not in the Heathen deities. But every one is sensible, as well as Boileau, that the invisible powers in our creed make a much worse figure as actors in a modern poem, than the invisible powers in the Heathen creed did in ancient times. The reason seems to be what follows. The Heathen deities, in the opinion of their votaries, were beings elevated one step only above mankind, actuated by the same passions, and directed by the same motives; therefore not altogether improper to mix with men in an important action. In our creed, superior beings are placed at such a mighty distance from us, and are of a nature so different, that with no propriety can they appear with us upon the same stage: man is a creature so much inferior, that he loses all dignity when set in opposition.
There can be no doubt, that an historical poem admits the embellishment of allegory, as well as of metaphor, simile, or other figure. Moral truth, in particular, is finely illustrated in the allegorical manner: it amuses the fancy to find abstract terms, by a sort of magic, converted into active beings; and it is delightful to trace a general proposition in a pictured event. But allegorical beings should be confined within their own sphere, and never be admitted to mix in the principal action, nor to cooperate in retarding or advancing the catastrophe; which would have a still worse effect than invisible powers, and we are ready to assign the reason. The impression of real existence, essential to an epic poem, is inconsistent with that figurative existence which is essential to an allegory; and therefore no method can be more effectual to prevent the impression of reality, than to introduce allegorical beings co-operating with those whom we conceive to be really existing. The love-episode in the Henriade, insufferable by the discordant mixture of allegory with real life, is copied from that of Rinaldo and Armida in the Gierufalamme liberata, which hath no merit to intitle it to be copied. An allegorical object, such as Fame in the Æneid, and the Temple of Love in the Henriade, may find place in a description; but to introduce Discord as a real personage, imploring the assistance of Love as another real personage, to enervate the courage of the hero, is making these figurative beings act beyond their sphere, and creating a strange jumble of truth and fiction.
What is the true notion of an episode? or how is it to be distinguished from the principal action? Every incident that promotes or retards the catastrophe, must be a part of the principal action. This clears the nature of an episode; which may be defined, "An incident connected with the principal action, but contributing neither to advance nor retard it." The descent of Æneas into hell doth not advance nor retard the catastrophe; and therefore is an episode. The story of Nisus and Euryalus, producing an alteration in the affairs of the contending parties, is a part of the principal action. The family scene in the sixth book of the Iliad is of the same nature: by Hector's retiring from the field of battle to visit his wife, the Grecians had liberty to breathe, and even to press upon the Trojans. Such being the nature of an episode, the unavoidable effect of it must be, to break in upon the unity of action; and therefore it ought never to be indulged, unless to unbend the mind after the fatigue of a long narration. This purpose of an episode demands the following conditions: it ought to be well connected with the principal action; it ought to be lively and interesting; it ought to be short: and a
time ought to be chosen when the principal action relents.
Next, upon the peculiarities of a dramatic poem. And the first we shall mention is a double plot; one of which must be of the nature of an episode in an epic poem; for it would distract the spectator, instead of entertaining him, if he were forced to attend, at the same time, to two capital plots equally interesting. And even supposing it an under-plot, of the nature of an episode, it seldom hath a good effect in tragedy, of which simplicity is a chief property; for an interesting subject that engages our warmest affections, occupies our whole attention, and leaves no room for any separate concern. Variety is more tolerable in comedy, which pretends only to amuse, without totally occupying the mind. But even here to make a double plot agreeable, is no slight effort of art: the under plot ought not to vary greatly in its tone from the principal; for discordant passions are unpleasant when jumbled together; which, by the way, is an insuperable objection to tragic comedy. Upon this account, we blame the Provoked Husband: all the scenes that bring the family of the Wrongheads into action, being ludicrous and farcical, agree very ill with the principal scenes, displaying severe and bitter expostulations between lord Townly and his lady. The same objection touches not the double plot of the Careless Husband; the different subjects being sweetly connected, and having only so much variety as to resemble shades of colours harmoniously mixed. But this is not all. The under plot ought to be connected with that which is principal, so much at least as to employ the same persons: the under-plot ought to occupy the intervals or pauses of the principal action; and both ought to be concluded together. This is the case of the Merry Wives of Windsor.
Violent action ought never to be represented on the stage. While the dialogue runs on, a thousand particulars concur to delude us into an impression of reality, genuine sentiments, passionate language, and persuasive gesture: the spectator once engaged, is willing to be deceived, loses sight of himself, and without scruple enjoys the spectacle as a reality. From this absent state, he is roused by violent action: he wakes as from a pleasing dream, and gathering his senses about him, finds all to be a fiction.
The French critics join with Horace in excluding from the stage the shedding blood; but they have overlooked the most substantial objection, that above-mentioned, urging only that it is barbarous, and shocking to a polite audience. But the Greeks had no notion of such delicacy, or rather effeminacy; witness the murder of Clytemnestra by her son Orestes, passing behind the scene, as represented by Sophocles: her voice is heard calling out for mercy, bitter expostulations on his part, loud shrieks upon her being flabbed, and then a deep silence. We appeal to every person of feeling, whether this scene be not more horrible, than if the deed had been committed in sight of the spectators upon a sudden gust of passion. If Corneille, in representing the affair between Horatius and his sister upon which murder ensues behind the scene, had Had no other view but to remove from the spectators a shocking action, he certainly was in a capital mistake: for murder in cold blood, which in some measure was the case as represented, is more shocking to a polite audience, even where the conclusive stab is not seen, than the same act performed in their presence, when it is occasioned by violent and unpremeditated passion, as suddenly repented of as committed. We heartily agree with Addison, that no part of this incident ought to have been represented, but referred for a narrative, with every alleviating circumstance in favour of the hero. This is the only method to avoid the difficulties that unqualify this incident for representation, a deliberate murder on the one hand, and on the other a violent action performed on the stage, which must rouse the spectator from his dream of reality.
A few words upon the dialogue, which ought to be so conducted as to be a true representation of nature. Every single speech, short or long, ought to arise from what is said by the former speaker, and furnish matter for what comes after, till the end of the scene. In this view, the whole speeches, from first to last, represent so many links, all connected together in one regular chain. No author, ancient or modern, possesses the art of dialogue equal to Shakespeare. Dryden in this particular may justly be placed as his opposite: he frequently introduces three or four persons speaking upon the same subject, each throwing out his own sentiments separately, without regarding what is said by the rest; take for an example the first scene of Aurenzebe: sometimes he makes a number club in relating an event, not to a stranger, supposed ignorant of it, but to one another, for the sake merely of speaking: of which notable sort of dialogue, we have a specimen in the first scene of the first part of the Conquest of Granada. In the second part of the same tragedy, scene second, the king, Abenamar, and Zulema, make their separate observations, like so many colloquies, upon the fluctuating temper of the mob: a dialogue so uncouth, puts one in mind of two shepherds in a pastoral, excited by a prize to pronounce verses alternately, each in praise of his own mistress.
The bandying sentiments in this manner, beside an unnatural air, has another bad effect: it stays the course of the action, because it is not productive of any consequence. In Congreve's comedies, the action is often suspended to make way for a play of wit.
No fault is more common among writers, than to prolong a speech after the impatience of the person to whom it is addressed ought to prompt him or her to break in. Consider only how the impatient actor is to behave in the mean time. To express his impatience in violent action without interrupting, would be unnatural; and yet to dissemble his impatience by appearing cool where he ought to be highly inflamed, would be no less unnatural.
Rhyme being unnatural and disagreeable in dialogue, is happily banished from our theatre: the only wonder is, that it ever found admittance, especially among a people accustomed to the more manly freedom of Shakespeare's dialogue. By banishing rhyme, we have gained so much as never once to dream that there can be any further improvement. And yet, however suitable blank verse may be to elevated characters and warm passions, it must appear improper and affected in the mouths of the lower sort. Why then should it be a rule, that every scene in tragedy must be in blank verse? Shakespeare, with great judgment, has followed a different rule; which is, to intermix prose with verse, and only to employ the latter where the importance or dignity of the subject requires it. Familiar thoughts and ordinary facts ought to be expressed in plain language; and if it appear not ridiculous to hear a footman deliver a simple message in blank verse, a veil must be drawn over the ridiculous appearance by the force of custom. In short, that variety of characters and of situations, which is the life of a play, requires not only a suitable variety in the sentiments, but also in the diction.
painting, consists of two parts, invention and disposition; the first whereof is the choice of the objects which are to enter into the composition of the subject the painter intends to execute, and is either simply historical or allegorical.
commerce, a contract between an insolvent debtor and his creditors, whereby the latter accept of a part of the debt in compensation for the whole, and give a general acquittance accordingly.
printing, commonly termed composing, the arranging of several types, or letters, in the composing-stick, in order to form a line; and of several lines ranged in order in the galley, to make a page; and of several pages, to make a form. See Printing.