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It would be an unnecessary waste of language, to bring forward arguments to prove that the effect which this speech has on the mind of every reader is not to excite emotions of any kind, (and where there is no emotion produced, there can be no poetry,) but to summon up all the reasoning faculties which we possess, in order to ascertain whether the arguments which the Deity has recourse to, are true, and whether they vindicate him from every possible charge of injustice which can be urged against him, in his conduct towards man, and the rebel Angels. It is not my business to inquire whether they be just or unjust, reasonable, or unreasonable, because, in either case, the influence which they exercise over our feelings will be the same, namely, no influence at all. In a question of such moment, our feelings are entirely suspended, for the severity of reason will not suffer them to come into council, or bias, in the least, the judgment which it intends to pronounce.

No doubt it will be argued, that Milton could not have done otherwise than he did, that his subject required argument and discussion, and that consequently if he had not recourse to them, he could not have done justice to his subject. I admit the argument in its fullest meaning; but what does it prove? Certainly nothing less than that Milton happened to choose a subject not calculated for poetry, or otherwise that having no genius for poetry, he was obliged to take up a subject adapted to his genius. Now I apprehend, that which ever of these suppositions we adopt, the result will be equally unfavourable to Milton, so far as his poetic genius is concerned. To adopt the latter supposition, is unequivocally to admit that his genius was not formed for poetry: to adopt the former, if I

mistake not, will oblige us to come to the same conclusion. My reasons for thinking so are these.

If poetry be necessarily confined to certain subjects, he who has a genius for poetry, will also have that genius which points out these subjects to him instinctively. To possess a genius for poetry, is to possess those strong and ardent feelings which seldom listen to the suggestions of reason. I would be sorry to insinuate that poetic enthusiasm and common sense or reason are hostile to each other, or that the poet may not be as sensible and as capable of discriminating right from wrong, as the philosopher himself. But there is still a marked and characteristic difference between them. The reason of the

poet is acquired without seeking after it; that of the philosopher is the result of contemplation and study The poet either sees at a glance what is right and what is wrong, or he never sees it at all: the philosopher cannot grasp it so easily, but then he pursues it more steadily. When he cannot perceive it at first sight, he examines all the avenues that lead to its abode, and unravels, one after another, all the involutions in which it can possibly conceal itself. The philosopher unties the Gordian knot of science, but the poet cuts it, like Alexander, with his sword. In a word, the philosopher passes through all the premises or preliminary truths from which his conclusions are drawn, before he suffers himself to believe that they are true, whereas the poet comes to his conclusions at once, and therefore never seems to reason at all, as he takes for granted all the antecedent truths on which his assumptions are founded. If the poet, then, be guided more by his feelings than by his reason, he cannot relish subjects that require much reasoning, and little or no feeling. The ardour of his natural temper (for if he possess not this ardour he cannot be a poet,) instinctively leads him to select a subject where he will be at full liberty to speak the impassioned language which his own feelings inspire, and consequently if he selects a subject that requires no ardour, it proves he did not possess it, and that he wanted those feelings which cannot rest quiet, wherever they exist, until the heart is suffered to give them expression, and discharge itself of them by disclosing them to the world. They

may be suppressed for a time, but they will unburden themselves at length; and the longer they are kept in confinement, the more restless and impatient they become, and the more likely they are to produce the richest, and the maturest fruits. Rousseau did not become a poet until he reached his fortieth year, and it is doubtful whether he should have ever attained the same celebrity had he commenced at twenty.

If Milton, then chose a subject not calculated for poetry, it follows that he wanted that native ardour which would have led him to adopt a proper one, and which would have instinctively guided him to a theme, wherein the glow of innate feeling could have communicated itself to mankind. The question then to be resolved is;-whether the subject of "Paradise Lost," be a poetical subject, which, according to my theory, means, whether it be a subject that addresses itself to the feelings and sensibility of man?

To resolve this question, it is necessary to ascertain what the causes are by which our feelings are apt to be affected, for if the subject of "Paradise Lost" be not intimately connected with these causes, it cannot be calculated for poetical purposes.

All the pleasures and pains of which man is capable, seems to arise from three sources. The first and most palpable are the impressions made upon us by the presence of external objects. These objects affect us through certain media, called the five senses; and it is a universally received doctrine, that all our ideas are acquired through these media. The second source of our pleasures are the emotions and passions which arise in the breasts of others, and which communicate themselves to us by a sort of indescribable sympathy. We recognize the passions of love, hatred, anger, malignity, pride, revenge, fear, courage, &c. &c. in the countenance, even before we are taught to distinguish the external signs by which they are generally accompanied, and which are never safe criteria of mental emotions, because the same passions evince themselves differently, in different people. What makes one man red turns another man pale; but whether red or pale, the spectator has no difficulty in recognizing the nature of the feelings by which he is agitated, which evidently

proves there is an indiscribable son thing to guide him, besides the me colour of the man's face. This, li the former, is not more a source pleasure than of pain, for as our me agreeable and delightful emotions ari from sympathizing with correspondir emotions in the breasts of others, likewise do our most disagreeable se sations arise, from witnessing the pr dominance of contrary emotions. Thi source of pleasure, like the former, a fects us through the medium of th senses; but it is not mere matter an form that affects us, but internal, in visible emotions which make them selves known to us in a manner which human reason cannot explain. Imagi nation is the third source of our plea sures, but this source appears to me to be the least understood, and it is necessary to understand it, if we would form a correct idea of Milton's genius. We are told it consists in the power of creating new images, and of wandering at large through all the regions of possible existence, to select, combine, and diversify whatever we discover in these ideal abodes. This, at least, is the substance of the idea which is generally attached to imagination, however variously it may be expressed or defined by different writers; and they also tell us, that the pleasures which it imparts, are, of all others, the most pleasing and delightful. With this opinion, I can as little agree as with its definition. In the first place, the province of imagination, is much more extensive than it is allowed to be, though some writers please themselves with the idea of having given it an unlimited, and undefined extent. It is certain, however, that imagination is not confined to the creation, selection, combination, or diversification of sensible images, for it is equally conversant in reviving, creating, &c. the emotions, passions, sensibilities, affections, and all the endless modifications of feeling by which the human heart is capable of being affected. Was it not by the power of imagination that Homer invested all the characters of his Iliad with affections, passions, and tempers of mind which they never possessed, and which therefore existed only in the mind of the poet? But emotions and passions convey no images to the mind, and consequently imagination is not confined to images

of sensible being.

The

Imagination properly consists in renewing the two first sources of our pleasures, which I have already explained, and hence it is, that the pleasures of imagination, however greatly they may have been extolled by fanciful writers, are never so ardent, never so rapturous and delightful, as the pleasures resulting from the two first sources; because the images and affections which they picture to the mind, are only copies of the former. The idea which a lover forms of his mistress, in her absence, is an idea of imagination; but this idea never conveys such rapturous emotions as he feels when she is present. The thoughts of her, it is true, make him happy, but how greatly is this happiness encreased the moment she appears in his presence. The presence of sensible objects affects us, therefore, more strongly than the images which imagination forms of them in their absence. The same may be said of the second source of our pleasures. We are much more affected by witnessing a generous action, than we are when imagination afterwards revives the impression. pains of imagination, are, in like manner, less vivid than those which result from the former sources. It hurts us to revive, even in idea, the image of a man who has injured us, but if he happen to present himself before us, the sensation is greatly increased. The pleasures and pains of imagination are therefore never so sensibly felt, except where the mind is disordered by an over-heated fancy, as those which arise from the two first sources of our pleasures, because the images and passions which it attempts to realize, are mere pictures or copies of the former. It affords us, however, a light and agreeable pleasure; for though none of its pictures are so affecting as the originals, it possesses the advantage of multiplying these pictures, ad infinitum; and therefore compensates, in a great measure, for the slight impression which each of them makes upon us, by their multitude and diversity. A present object affects us so strongly, that we will not suffer ourselves to withdraw our attention from it; but an ideal object affects us so slightly, that we pass from it without difficulty, to contemplate another, and another. It

would be sufficient, however, to mention these three sources of pleasure,

without dwelling on their natures, in ascertaining whether "Paradise Lost” be a fit subject for poetry, were it not that in treating of the genius of Milton, it is necessary to find out how far imagination is a source of poetic pleasure, because it will immediately appear, that his "Paradise Lost" is not, only the offspring of imagination altogether, but that it also conveys this impression to the mind of the reader, whereas the Iliad, though it is equally the offspring of imagination, excludes the appearance of it as much as possible.

If "Paradise Lost" be a proper subject for poetry, it must take its images and descriptions from one or other of the three sources of pleasure which I have just explained, because these are the only sources we are acquainted with, capable of imparting either happiness or pleasure of any kind, and where there is nothing to please, there can be no poetry. That "Paradise Lost" does not take its images and descriptions either from sensible appearances, or human passions, is obvious, because it treats of an order of being whom we are taught from our infancy to believe, possess nothing in common with man. Whenever we attempt to form an idea of spiritual being, we divest it as much as we can of all material qualities, and we would divest it of them all together, if we could form the most obscure idea of it without them. We clothe spirit in the lightest robes of material texture which we can possibly imagine, merely because we must do so, or form no idea of it at all; but we still bear in mind, that the texture is infinitely too gross, that however we may subtilize and refine it, it will still be too gross, and that consequently spirit is something of which we know nothing. Hence it necessarily follows, that we can take no interest in that with which we are wholly unacquainted; and that the smallest degree of interest which it can ever impart to us, must arise from resembling it to something with which we are acquainted. This resemblance, however, is purely arbitrary, for we know that whatever we resemble it to, we are mistaken. Hence it is, that the pleasure arising from the resemblance, is always attended with the reflection, that it is founded in deception, and that it bears no analogy whatever to the sensible

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being with which we have compared it; and while ever the pleasure is attended with this reflection, it carries along with it a dissatisfaction which more than balances the enjoyment which it would otherwise impart. Wherever there is a suspicion of deception, there can be no enjoyment; for, as Goldsmith justly observes:

"The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy."

When we know, that a circumstance related to us is impossible, the pleasure is lost, though it be even a circumstance that would have given us great pleasure if it could have occurred; but our pleasure is not in the least diminished by reflecting that the circumstance in all probability never happened, provided we perceive nothing impossible in it; because we always argue on the side of our feelings, while we have the least grounds for doing so; and always wish to believe, that what ever they incline us to is true, unless its impossibility be glaringly manifest. Whatever is possible, then, will delight us in poetry, if it delight us in the reality; but whatever we know to be impossible, can never yield unmixed satisfaction; for though we should wish it might have happened, we cannot sympathize with it while we know it to be a shadow. When therefore, Moloch, addressing the rebel host,

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and fall to them' be adverse," they would never think it difficult to rise, nor would Moloch ever think of convincing them that "the ascent" was easy." No person would be foolish enough to argue with a man who stood on the top of a steeple in order to convince him, that if he threw himself off, he would come down to the earth instead of rising to Heaven, simply because he could never doubt of it, as he knew his proper nature was to descend. If then the Angels knew that their proper nature was to ascend, it would be as absurd in Moloch to seek to convince them of it, as it would in me, to seek to convince a man on the top of a steeple, that his proper nature was to descend, and that if he threw himself off, he had no chance of scaling the Heavens. Moloch, then, instead of convincing his brethren that the ascent was easy, should rather have taken it for granted that they knew it as well as himself, and dwelt on the advantages which it gave them in making a new attempt. The arguments of Moloch, indeed, are true, though it is perfectly absurd to suppose that he would have recourse to them. And yet, true as they are, Milton himself proves them absurd, if he was consistent in describing Satan,

"Incumbent on the dusky air That felt unequal weight."

It is obvious, indeed, that Milton, in this passage, describes the Angels as spiritual and sensible beings, at the same moment. As spiritual beings "descent and fall to them' was adverse:" As sensible beings, the way might "seem difficult and steep to scale." To avoid this absurd mixture, he had no choice, but that of representing them always as sensible agents. Had he even done so, however, they would be still unfit instruments for poetical purposes, because we are so habituated to consider them as unembodied essences, that we are always more or less dissatisfied when we see them in a dress which we know cannot belong to them. Milton, it is true, was reduced to the necessity of clothing them in this dress, but this only shews, that the subject which he chose, was not adapted to poetry, as it necessarily obliged him to describe what could not be described; and consequently, what

could excite no interest, because we cannot be interested in what we are

unacquainted with. It also obliged him to found the personal description of all his characters on deception, except Adam and Eve, for we know, not only, that there is no truth, but that there can be no truth in all he has said of the Angels, and the interest which we take in relations which we know cannot be true, is only the interest of children. We read merely to amuse ourselves, for the moment, with airy fictions, and throw aside the book with perfect indifference, from a consciousness that we have been reading what has no foundation in nature, and which had its existence only in the mind of the poet. This is not the sort of interest we take in the characters of the Iliad. We know that if every thing related there be not true, at least they might have happened, and therefore we sympathize with all the characters, as much as if they were real. But who can sympathize with beings "the least" of whom

"Could wield

who could sympathise in his anger? Who would feel interested in his fate? Who would accompany him to battle, and exult in every triumph which he obtained over the enemy? We are interested then in his fate, only because we believe him to be of a kindred nature with ourselves, as well in mind as in body. Pares cum paribus facile congregantur. But no man will claim kindred with him who lies "floating many a rood;" on the contrary, we should turn from such pictures with disgust, were we not satisfied that there is not, and that there cannot be a word of truth in the description. We know there is nothing in the nature of spiritual essences that conveys an idea of magnitude or materiality, and therefore we look upon these descriptions of Milton, as mere chimeras,-bubbles of imagination, which may excite a smile, but which would create disgust, if we could only believe them to be true. They do not disgust us, therefore, simply because we do not believe in them; but the same cause that prevents them from disgusting us, prevents them from giving us any pleasure but what is

Those elements, and arm him with the strictly of a puerile nature. We smile

force

Of all their regions."

If indeed, we could believe there was a being of earthly mould, such as the Angels of Milton are described, so prodigiously strong, and so hugely immense, as to pull up a mountain by the roots, much less to "wield the elements," so far from sympathizing with any act of his, we should avoid him as a monster, and we should be equally disgusted with Milton's Angels, if we really imagined they were what he describes them to be. If Achilles, the bravest of Homer's warriors, was described "extended long and large" and lying

"Floating many a rood; in bulk as huge

As whom the fables name of monstrous

size,

Titanian, or earth-born, that warred on Jove;

Briareos or Typhon, whom the den

By ancient Tharsus held, on that sea beast

Leviathan, which God of all his works Created highest that swim the ocean stream,"

Eur. Mag. Vol. 81. April 1822.

at them, indeed, but we cannot sympathize with them, because our feelings will neither suffer us to sympathize with beings who are foreign to our own nature, nor yet to be elicited without a cause; and though they may be sometimes elicited by imaginary causes, these causes must always assume the mask of reality, for we can never sympathise with what we know to be a manifest mockery of truth.

The "Paradise Lost" then, excites no sympathy, because we can never impose so far upon our understandings as to believe the one-twentieth of what it contains. In the first place, we know it is, from beginning to end, a mere fiction of imagination, except so far as it is a transcript of the Scriptures; and I have already shewn the fallacy of supposing, that the pleasures of imagination are as vivid, as ardent, or as impassioned as those of real existence. In the second place, all other works of imagination have an advantage over the "Paradise Lost," because their images are taken from real existence, whereas, those of the "Paradise Lost" are taken from we know not what, from beings of whom we know nothing except "through a glass darkly." And

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