’Tis true, another Poet, who possessed a great part of Shakespear’s genius and all Jonson’s learning, has carried this courtly entertainment to its last perfection. But the Mask at Ludlow Castle was, in some measure, owing to the fairy Scenes of his Predecessor; who chose this province of Tradition, not only as most suitable to the wildness of his vast creative imagination, but as the safest for his unlettered Muse to walk in. For here he had much, you knew, to expect from the popular credulity, and nothing to fear from the classic superstition of that time.

2. It were endless to apply this note of imitation to other poets confessedly learned. Yet one instance is curious enough to be just mentioned.

Mr. Waller, in his famous poem on the victory over the Dutch on June 3, 1665, has the following lines;

He is comparing the British Admiral’s Ship to the Chariot of the Sun. You smile at the quaintness of the conceit, and the ridicule he falls into, in explaining it. But that is not the question at present. The latter, he says, bears the radiant ensign of the day: The other, the ensign of naval dominion. We understand how properly the English Flag is here denominated. But what is that other Ensign? The Sun itself, it will be said. But who, in our days, ever expressed the Sun by such a periphrasis? The image is apparently antique, and easily explained by those who know that anciently the Sun was commonly emblematized by a starry or radiate figure; nay, that such a figure was placed aloft, as an Ensign, over the Sun’s charioteer, as we may see in representations of this sort on ancient Gems and Medals.

From this original then Mr. Waller’s imagery was certainly taken; and it is properly applied in this place where he is speaking of the Chariot of the Sun, and Phaeton’s fall from it. But to remove all doubt in the case, we can even point to the very passage of a Pagan poet, which Mr. Waller had in his eye, or rather translated.

Here, you see, the poet’s allusion to a classic idea has led us to the discovery of the very passage from which it was taken. And this use a learned reader will often make of the species of Imitation, here considered.

V. Great writers, you find, sometimes forget the character of the Age, they live in; the principles, and notions that belong to it. “Sometimes they forget themselves, that is, their own situation and character.” Another sign of the influence of Imitation.

1. When we see such men, as Strada and Mariana, writers of fine talents indeed, but of recluse lives and narrow observation, chusing to talk like men of the world, and abounding in the most refined conclusions of the cabinet, we are sure that this character, which we find so natural in a Cardinal de Retz, is but assumed by these Jesuits. And we are not surprized to discover, on examination, that their best reflexions are copied from Tacitus.

On the other hand, when a man of the world took it into his head, the other day, in a moping fit, to talk Sentences, every body concluded that this was not the language of the writer or his situation, but that he had been poaching in some pedant; perhaps in the Stoical Fop, he affected so much contempt of, Seneca.

2. Sometimes we catch a great writer deviating from his natural manner, and taking pains, as it were, to appear the very reverse of his proper character. Would you wish a stronger proof of his being seduced, at least for the time, by the charms of imitation?

Nothing is better known than the easy, elegant, agreeable vein of Voiture. Yet you have read his famous Letter to Balzac, and have been surprized, no doubt, at the forced, quaint, and puffy manner, in which it is written. The secret is, Voiture is aping Balzac from one end of this letter to the other. Whether to pay his court to him, or to laugh at him, or that perhaps, in the instant of writing, he really fancied an excellence in the style of that great man, is not easy to determine. An eminent French critic, I remember, is inclined to take it for a piece of mockery. At all events, we must needs esteem it an imitation.

3. This remark on the turn of a writer’s genius may be further applied to that of his temper or disposition.

The natural misanthropy of Swift may account for his thinking and speaking very often in the spirit of Rochefoucault, without any thought of taking from his Maxims, though he was an admirer of them. But if at any time we observe so humane and benevolent a man as Mr. Pope giving into this language, we say of course, “This is not his own, but an assumed manner.”

Or what say you to an instance that exemplifies both these observations together? The natural unaffected turn of Mr. Cowley’s manner, and the tender sensibility of his mind, are equally seen and loved in his prose-works, and in such of his poems as were written after a good model, or came from the heart. A clear sparkling fancy, softened with a shade of melancholy, made him, perhaps, of all our poets the most capable of excelling in the elegiac way, or of touching us in any way where a vein of easy language and moral sentiment is required. Who but laments then to see this fine genius perverted by the prevailing pedantry of his age, and carried away, against the bias of his nature, to an emulation of the rapturous, high-spirited Pindar?

I might give many more examples. But you will observe them in your own reading. I take the first that come to hand only to explain my meaning, which is, “That if you find a course of sentiments or cast of composition different from that, to which the writer’s situation, genius, or complexion would naturally lead him, you may well suspect him of imitation.”

Still it may be, these considerations are rather too general. I come to others more particular and decisive.

VI. It may be difficult sometimes to determine whether a single sentiment or image be derived or not. But when we see a cluster of them in two writers, applied to the same subject, one can hardly doubt that one of them has copied from the other.

A celebrated French moralist makes the following reflexions. “Quelle chimere est-ce donc que l’homme? Quelle nouveautè, quel chaos, quel sujet de contradiction? Juge de toutes choses, imbecile ver de terre; depositaire du vrai, amas d’incertitude; gloire, et rebut de l’univers.”

Turn now to the Essay on Man, and tell me if Mr. Pope did not work up the following lines out of these reflexions.

2. This conclusion is still more certain, when, together with a general likeness of sentiments, we find the same disposition of the parts, especially if that disposition be in no common form.

and the rest of that fine speech in the IVth Book of Paradise Lost, which you remember so perfectly that I need not transcribe more of it.

Milton’s fancy, as usual, is rich and exuberant; but the conduct and application of his imagery shews, that the whole passage was shadowed out of those charming but simpler lines in the Danae of Euripides.

VII. There is little doubt in such cases as these. There needs not perhaps be much in the case, sometimes, of single sentiments or images. As where we find “a sentiment or image in two writers precisely the same, yet new and unusual.”

1. Thus we are told very reasonably, that Milton’s clust’ring locks is the copy of Apollonius’ ΠΛΟΚΑΜΟΙ ΒΟΤΡΥΟΕΝΤΕΣ. Obs. on Spenser, p. 80. For though the metaphor be a just one and very natural, yet there is perhaps no other authority for the use of it, but in these two poets. And Milton had certainly read Apollonius.

2. What the same critic observes of Milton’s

being taken from Jonson’s

is still more unquestionable. For here is a combination of signs to convict the former of imitation: Not only the singularity of the image, but the identity of expression, and, what I lay the most stress upon, the boldness of the figure, as employed by Milton. Jonson speaks of old Sherwood’s head, as curl’d. Milton, as conscious of his authority, drops the preparatory idea, and says at once, The grove curl’d.

Let me add to these, two more instances from the same poet.

3. Spenser tells us of

Can you imagine that Milton did not take his idea from hence, when he said, in his Penseroso,

4. Again, in his description of Paradise,

Every poet of every time is lavish of his flowers on such occasions. But the rose without thorn is a rarity. And, though it was fine to imagine such an one in Paradise, could only be an Italian refinement. Tasso, you will think, is the original, when you have read the following lines;

5. Another instance, still more remarkable, may be taken from Mr. Pope. One of the most striking passages in the Essay on Man is the following,

Can you doubt, from the singularity of this sentiment, that the great poet had his eye on Plato? who makes Socrates say, in allusion to a remark of Heraclitus, Ὅτι ἀνθρώπων ὁ σοφώτατος πρὸς θεὸν πίθηκος φανεῖται. Hipp. Major.

The application indeed is different. And it could not be otherwise. For the observation, which the Philosopher refers πρὸς θεὸν, is in the Poet given to superior Beings only. The consequence is, that the Ape is an object of derision in the former case, of admiration, in the latter.

To conclude this head, I will just observe to you, that, though the same uncommon sentiment in two writers be usually the effect of imitation, yet we cannot affirm this of Actors in real life. The reason is, when the situation of two men is the same, Nature will dictate the same sentiments more invariably than Genius. To give a remarkable instance of what I mean.

Tacitus relates, in the first book of his Annals, what passed in the senate on its first meeting after the death of Augustus. His politic successor carried it, for some time, with much apparent moderation. He wished, besides other reasons, to get himself solemnly recognized for Emperor by that Body, before he entered on the exercise of his new dignity. Dabat famæ, says the historian, ut vocatus electusque potiùs à Republicâ videretur, quàm per uxorium ambitum et senili adoptione irrepsisse. One of his courtiers would not be wanting to himself on such an occasion. When therefore several motions had been made in the Senate, concerning the honours to be paid to the memory of their late Prince, Valerius Messalla moved Renovandum per annos sacramentum in nomen Tiberii; in other words, that the oath of allegiance should be taken to Tiberius. This was the very point that Tiberius drove at. And the consciousness of it made him suspect that this motion might be thought to proceed from himself. He therefore asked Messalla, “Num, se mandante, eam sententiam promsisset?” His answer is in the following words. “Spontè dixisse, respondit; neque in iis, quæ ad rempublicam pertinerent, consilio nisi suo usurum, vel cum periculo offensionis.” Ea, concludes the historian, sola species adulandi supererat.

Now it is very remarkable, that we find in Ludlow’s memoirs, one of Cromwell’s officers, on the very same occasion, answering the Protector in the very same species of flattery.

Colonel William Jephson moved in the House that Cromwell might be made King. Cromwell took occasion, soon after, to reprove the Colonel for this proposition, telling him, that he wondered what he could mean by it. To which the other replied, “That while he was permitted the honour of sitting in that House, he must desire the liberty to discharge his conscience, though his opinion should happen to displease.”

Here we have a very striking coincidence of sentiment, without the least probability of imitation. For no body, I dare say, suspects Colonel William Jephson of stealing this refined stroke of adulation from Valerius Messalla. The truth is, the same situation, concurring with the same corrupt disposition, dictated this peculiar sentiment to the two courtiers. Yet, had these similar thoughts been found in two dramatic poets of the Augustan and Oliverian ages, we should probably have cried out, “An Imitation.” And with good reason. For, besides the possibility of an Oliverian poet’s knowing something of Tacitus, the speakers had then been feigned, not real personages. And it is not so likely that two such should agree in this sentiment: I mean, considering how new and particular it is. For, as to the more common and obvious sentiments, even dramatic speakers will very frequently employ the same, without affording any just reason to conclude that their prompters had turned plagiaries.

VIII. If to this singularity of a sentiment, you add the apparent harshness of it, especially when not gradually prepared (as such sentiments always will be by exact writers, when of their own proper invention), the suspicion grows still stronger. I just glanced at an instance of this sort in Milton’s curl’d grove. But there are others still more remarkable. Shall I presume for once to take an instance from yourself?

Your fine Ode to Memory begins with these very lyrical verses:

This sublime imagery has a very original air. Yet I, who know how familiar the best ancient and modern critics are to you, have no doubt that it is taken from Strada.

“Quid accommodatius, says he, speaking of your subject, Memory, quàm simulachrorum ingentes copias, tanquàm addictam ubique tibi sacramento militiam, eo inter se nexu ac fide conjunctam cohærentemque habere; ut sive unumquodque separatim, sive confertim universa, sive singula ordinatim in aciem proferre velis; nihil planè in tantâ rerum herbâ turbetur, sed alia procul atque in recessu sita prodeuntibus locum cedant; alia, se tota confestim promant atque in medium certò evocata prosiliant? Hoc tam magno, tam fido domesticorum agmine instructus animus, &c.” Prol. Acad. I.

Common writers know little of the art of preparing their ideas, or believe the very name of an Ode absolves them from the care of art. But, if this uncommon sentiment had been intirely your own, you, I imagine, would have dropped some leading idea to introduce it.

IX. You see with what a suspicious eye, we who aspire to the name of critics, examine your writings. But every poet will not endure to be scrutinized so narrowly.

1. B. Jonson, in his Prologue to the Sad Shepherd, is opening the subject of that poem. The sadness of his shepherd is

The reflexion in this place is unnecessary and even impertinent. Who besides ever heard of the feet of a river? Of arms, we have. And so it stood in Jonson’s original.

The poet is speaking of the corruption of the courts of justice, and the allusion is perfectly fine and natural. Jonson was tempted to bring it into his prologue by the mere beauty of the sentiment. He had a river at his disposal, and would not let slip the opportunity. But “his unnatural use” of it detects his “imitation.”

2. I don’t know whether you have taken notice of a miscarriage, something like this, in the most judicious of all the poets.

Theocritus makes Polypheme say,

Nothing could be better fancied than to make this enormous son of Neptune use the sea for his looking-glass. But is Virgil so happy when his little land-man says,

His wonderful judgment for once deserted him, or he might have retained the sentiment with a slight change in the application. For instance, what if he had said,

It is a sort of curiosity, you say, to find Ovid reading a lesson to Virgil. I will dissemble nothing. The lines are, as I have cited them, in the 13th book of the Metamorphosis. But unluckily they are put into the mouth of Polypheme. So that instead of instructing one poet by the other, I only propose that they should make an exchange; Ovid take Virgil’s sea, and Virgil be contented with Ovid’s water. However this be, you may be sure the authority of the Prince of the Latin poets will carry it with admiring posterity above all such scruples of decorum. Nobody wonders therefore to read in Tasso,

But of all the misappliers of this fine original sentiment, commend me to that other Italian, who made his shepherd survey himself, in a fountain indeed, but a fountain of his own weeping.

3. You will forgive my adding one other instance “of this vicious application of a fine thought.”

You remember those agreeable verses of Sir John Suckling,

I don’t stay to examine how far the fancy of tears relieving the heart is allowable. But admitting the propriety of the observation, in the sense the poet intended it, the simile is applied and expressed with the utmost beauty. It accordingly struck the best writers of that time. Sprat, in his history of the Royal Society, is taking notice of the misapplication of philosophy to subjects of Religion. “That shower, says he, has done very much injury by falling on the sea, for which the shepherd, and the ploughman, called in vain: The wit of men has been profusely poured out on Religion, which needed not its help, and which was only thereby made more tempestuous: while it might have been more fruitfully spent, on some parts of philosophy, which have been hitherto barren, and might soon have been made fertile.” p. 25.

You see what wire-drawing here is to make the comparison, so proper in its original use, just and pertinent to a subject to which it had naturally no relation. Besides, there is an absurdity in speaking of a shower’s doing injury to the sea by falling into it. But the thing illustrated by this comparison requiring the idea of injury, he transfers the idea to the comparing thing. He would soften the absurdity, by running the comparison into metaphorical expression, but, I think, it does not remove it. In short, for these reasons, one might easily have inferred an Imitation, without that parenthesis to apologize for it—“To use that metaphor which an excellent poet of our nation turns to another purpose—”

But a poet of that time has no better success in the management of this metaphor, than the Historian.

The Sentiment stands thus: “She regards the captive hearts of others no more than those others—the tears of lesser beauties.” Thus, with much difficulty, we get to tears. And when we have them, the allusion to lost clouds is so strained (besides that he makes his shower both useless and injurious), that one readily perceives the poet’s thought was distorted by imitation.

X. The charge of Plagiarism is so disreputable to a great writer that one is not surprized to find him anxious to avoid the imputation of it. Yet “this very anxiety serves, sometimes, to fix it upon him.”

Mr. Dryden, in the Preface to his translation of Fresnoy’s Art of Painting, makes the following observation on Virgil: “He pretends sometimes to trip, but ’tis only to make you think him in danger of a fall when he is most secure. Like a skilful dancer on the Rope (if you will pardon the meanness of the similitude) who slips willingly and makes a seeming stumble, that you may think him in great hazard of breaking his neck; while at the same time he is only giving you a proof of his dexterity. My late Lord Roscommon was often pleased with this reflexion, &c.” p. 50.

His apology for the use of this simile, and his concluding with Lord Roscommon’s satisfaction at his remark, betray, I think, an anxiety to pass for original, under the consciousness of being but an imitator. So that if we were to meet with a passage, very like this, in a celebrated ancient, we could hardly doubt of its being copied by Mr. Dryden. What think you then of this observation in one of Pliny’s Letters, “Ut quasdam artes, ità eloquentiam nihil magis quàm ancipitia commendant. Vides qui fune in summa nituntur, quantos soleant excitare clamores, cùm jam jamque casuri videntur.” L. ix. Ep. 26.

Prior, one may observe, has acted more naturally in his Alma, and by so doing, though the resemblance be full as great, one is not so certain of his being an Imitator. The verses are, of Butler:

Though the two last lines seem taken from the application of this similitude in Pliny, “Sunt enim maximè mirabilia, quæ maximè inexpectata, et maximè periculosa.”

XI. Writers are, sometimes, sollicitous to conceal themselves: At others, they are fond to proclaim their Imitation. “It is when they have a mind to shew their dexterity in contending with a great original.”

You remember these lines of Milton in his Comus,

On which Dr. Warburton has the following note. “Mr. Pope has imitated this thought and (as was always his way when he imitated) improved it.

“Mr. Pope has not only improved the harmony, but the sense. In Milton, Contemplation is called the Nurse; in Pope, more properly Solitude: In Milton, Wisdom is said to prune her wings; in Pope, Contemplation is said to do it, and with much greater propriety, as she is of a soaring nature, and on that account is called by Milton himself, the Cherub Contemplation.”

One sees that Mr. Pope’s view was to surpass his original; “which, it is said, was always his way when he imitated.” The meaning is, when he purposely and professedly bent himself to Imitation; for then his fine genius taught him to seize every beauty, and his wonderful judgment, to avoid every defect or impropriety, in his author. And this distinction is very material to our passing a right judgment on the merit of Imitation. It is commonly said, that their imitations fall short of their originals. And they will do so, whatever the Genius of the Imitator be, if they are formed only on a general resemblance of the thought imitated. For an Inventor comprehends his own ideas more distinctly and fully, and of course expresses his purpose better, than a casual Imitator. But the case is different, when a good writer studies the passage from which he borrows. For then he not only copies, but improves on the first idea; and thus there will frequently (as in the case of Pope) be greater merit in the Copyist, than the original.

XII. We sometimes catch an Imitation lurking “in a licentious Paraphrase.” The ground of suspicion lies in the very complacency with which a writer expatiates on a borrowed sentiment. He is usually more reserved in adorning one of his own.

1. Aurelius Victor observes of Fabricius, “quòd difficiliùs ab honestate, quàm Sol à suo cursu, averti posset.”

Tasso flourishes a little on this thought;

Mr. Waller rises upon the Italian,

But Mr. Cowley, knowing what authority he had for the general sentiment, gives the reins to his fancy and wantons upon it without measure.

2. The ingenious author of the Observations on Spenser (from which fine specimen of his critical talents one is led to expect great things) directs us to another imitation of this sort.

Tasso had said,

On which short hint Spenser has raised the following luxuriant imagery,

3. I will just add two more examples of the same kind; chiefly, because they illustrate an observation, very proper to be attended to on this subject; which is, “That in this display of a borrowed thought, the Imitation will generally fall short of the Original, even though the borrower be the greater Genius.”

The Italian poet, just now quoted, says sublimely of the Night,

Milton has given a paraphrase of this passage, but very much below his original,

The striking part of Tasso’s picture, is, “Night’s bringing in Silence under her wings.” So new and singular an idea as this had detected an Imitation. Milton contents himself, then, with saying simply, Silence accompany’d. However, to make amends, as he thought, for this defect, Night itself, which the Italian had merely personized, the English poet not only personizes, but employs in a very becoming office:

Every body will observe a little blemish, in this fine couplet. He should not have used the epithet still, when he intended to add,

But there is a worse fault in this Imitation. To hide it, he speaks of Night’s livery. When he had done that, to speak of her wings, had been ungraceful. Therefore he is forced to say obscurely as well as simply, Silence accompany’d: And so loses a more noble image for a less noble one. The truth is, they would not stand together. Livery belongs to human grandeur; wings to divine or celestial. So that in Milton’s very attempt to surpass his original, he put it out of his power to employ the circumstance that most recommended it.

He is not happier on another occasion. Spenser had said with his usual simplicity,

Milton catched at this image, and has run it into a sort of paraphrase, in those fine lines,

In Spenser’s line we have the idea of Virtue dropt down into a world, all over darkened with vice and error. Virtue excites the light of truth to see all around her, and not only dissipate the neighbouring darkness, but to direct her course in pursuing her victory and driving her enemy out of it; the arduousness of which exploit is well expressed by—thro’ darkness for to WADE. On the contrary, Milton, in borrowing, substitutes the physical for the moral idea—by her own radiant light—and tho’ Sun and Moon were in the flat sea sunk. It may be asked, how this happened? Very naturally, Milton was caught with the obvious imagery, which he found he could display to more advantage; and so did not enough attend to the noble sentiment that was couched under it.

XIII. These are instances of a paraphrastical licence in dilating on a famous Sentiment or Image. The ground is the same, only flourished upon by the genius of the Imitator. At times we find him practising a different art; “not merely spreading, as it were, and laying open the same sentiment, but adding to it, and by a new and studied device improving upon it.” In this case we naturally conclude that the refinement had not been made, if the plain and simple thought had not preceded and given rise to it. You will apprehend my meaning by what follows.

1. Shakespear had said of Henry IV^th,

You have, here, the thought in its first simplicity. It was not unnatural, after speaking of the body, as a case or tenement of the Soul, the mure that confines it, to say, that as that case wears away and grows thin, life looks through, and is ready to break out.

Daniel, by refining on this sentiment, if by nothing else, shews himself to be the copyist. Speaking of the same Henry, he observes,

Here we see, not simply that Life is going to break through the infirm and much-worn habitation, but that the Mind looks through and finds his frailty, that it discovers, that Life will soon make his escape. I might add, that the four first lines are of the nature of the Paraphrase, considered in the last article: And that the expression of the others is too much the same to be original. But we are not yet come to the head of expression. And I choose to confine myself to the single point of view we have before us.

Daniel’s improvement, then, looks like the artifice of a man that would outdo his Master. Though he fails in the attempt: for his ingenuity betrays him into a false thought. The mind, looking through, does not find its own frailty, but the frailty of the building it inhabits. However, I have endeavoured to rectify this mistake in my explanation.

The truth is, Daniel was not a man to improve upon Shakespear. But now comes a writer, that knew his business much better. He chuses to employ this well-worn image, or rather to alter it a little and then employ it, for the conveyance of a very new fancy. If the mind could look through a thin body, much more one that was cracked and battered. And if it be for looking through at all, he will have it look to good purpose, and find, not its frailty only, but much other useful knowledge.

The lines are Mr. Waller’s, and in the best manner of that very refined writer.