Page images
PDF
EPUB

its towering flight through regions of imaginary being, the other patiently and sedulously watching and investigating the properties and relations of actual existence. It may, therefore, be argued, that he who possesses the sober philosophic spirit, that spirit which labours to analyze and pursue, not the ideal objects or qualities of an ideal world, but real being and its affections, is, of all men, the most unlikely to indulge in that idle flight of fancy which is called imagination; and that if Milton was what I have represented him, a greater philosopher than a poet, he could not have so eminently excelled in that sphere of poetry which belongs to the imaginative faculties. This argument I would admit, if the premises on which it is founded were true; but if we reflect a moment on the subject, we shall find, that the philosophic spirit, so far from standing aloof from imagination, taking the term in its more enlarged sense, is actually the same spirit presenting itself to us under a different aspect. The philosophic spirit is only employed in finding out the latent causes of visible effects: it seeks less to become acquainted with objects than with their properties; but imagination is in search after objects themselves. When it traverses regions of ideal or possible existence, it seeks only to discover the beings which are most likely to inhabit those unexplored retreats; while philosophy, less daring, and less presumptuous in its flights, exerts itself in ascertaining the qualities and affections of such beings as are placed immediately before it. Imagination, despising its relation with material existence, and the vulgar appearances of nature, at tempts a higher flight, and seeks to become acquainted with beings of a sublimer and more etherial mould. It is, therefore, only a higher order of philosophy; or, in other words, the highest order to which philosophy can aspire. Both orders, however, are continually mingling and communing with each other. When the philosopher is puzzled or confounded in his attempts to explain some natural phenomena, he indulges in imagination; and conjecture supplies what reason cannot ascertain. This relation between philosophy and imagination is more apparent in the infancy of science; while the former is nonplused, and unable to account for the phenomena of which it takes cog

nizance. During this period, philosophy wanders more frequently into the dominions of imagination; for it cannot rest content until it satisfies itself one way or other. But when science has made such a progress in explaining the causes of natural phenomena, as to leave the philosopher satisfied with the result of his inquiries, he wanders less seldom abroad, because he is content with the certainty which he has acquired at home. In the time of Milton, science was, comparatively speaking, in its infancy, and consequently the imagination was more frequently called into action. Properly considered, imagination and philosophy are only different branches of the spirit of curiosity; the former applying itself to objects of which it has no certainty, the latter confining itself to certainty alone. In general, however, philosophy is in search after causes and the qualities of objects, while imagination is in pursuit of objects themselves. They are, therefore, only the same spirit differently applied; and consequently they are eternally mingling with each other, and frequently change sides altogether, what was imagination yesterday, becoming philosophy to day; and, vice versa, what was philosophy, becoming imagination. Whilever the objects of which the mind is in pursuit remain placed beyond the reach of certainty, they are properly objects of imagination; but the moment we ascertain them to be true or false, they become objects of philosophy. On the other hand, what appears to be philosophy, is frequently nothing more than imagination; such as the various theories and hypotheses formed by astronomers and natural philosophers before the days of Newton. These passed at the time for so many systems of philosophy; but the progress of science has detected the illusion, and proved them to be nothing more than the airy fabrics of imagination. It is obvious, then, that the philosophic spirit, and that exercise of mind which is called imagination, are not only nearly allied, but that they are in fact only different operations of the same spirit; and therefore we cannot be surprized that Milton should be at once a philosopher and a writer of sublime and expanded imagination. It is generally allowed, that sublimity is the distinguishing characteristic feature of Milton's poetry; and this opinion appears

to me one of the many proofs we have, that the judgment of the public is seldom in error. Sublimity is certainly the grand feature that distinguishes not only the "Paradise Lost," but all the works of Milton. No writer or poet has equalled him in this character of intellectual greatness; but then it must be remembered, that sublimity is not poetry. Besides, if we admit that there is a sublimity of passion as well as a sublimity of imagination, it is certain that Milton excelled only in the latter; and indeed I believe, when properly examined, we shall find that there is no real sublimity but what arises from imagination, or the agency of external objects. To call the emotion or sentiment which is excited in the breast of an individual by circumstances and situations, sublime, seems to be an evident perversion of terms. Such a sentiment may be pathetic, but if we call it sublime at the same time, what do we gain by doing so, but to confound terms which would have remained clearly dis

tinct if each of them were confined to its own class of ideas. Yet most writers on subjects of taste and criticism, seem to have conspired in confounding these ideas with each other, by quoting pathetic sentiments as examples of sublime writing, of which the famous Qu'il Mourut of Corneille is a noted instance. The pathetic, however, is as distinct from the sublime, as feeling is from imagination. The following lines are extremely pathetic; but to call them sublime on that account, appears to me the surest means of perpetuating error, by confounding in language, perceptions which stand clearly distinct from each other in the mind.

[blocks in formation]

Oh, write it not my hand, the name appears
Already written, wash it out, my tears.
In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays,
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.

this sublime writing, with Mr. Payne It is certain, however, that if we call Knight, Lord Kames, &c. it was not that sort of sublimity in which Milton excelled: his soul was not tuned to notes of tender feeling, or impassioned sensibility. The great and the sublime of external nature, and of external appearances, and the images which imagination "bodies forth" of sensible being, was the only sublime with which he was acquainted. In my opinion, nothing shews the absurdity of applying the term sublime to these two species of writing more than the fact, that he who went as far as "the force of nature could go" in the latter, was a mere novice in the former. This appears evident from what I have already said of his want of feeling, and from his own acknowledgment, where he informs us

that he was

Not sedulous by nature to indite Wars hitherto the only argument Heroic deemed.

For by wars he did not mean wars alone, but all the vicissitudes of fortune to which the hero of the poem, and all the subordinate characters are diversely exposed. This is the real argument, subject of the poems to which Milton or more properly speaking, the real alluded, as the Iliad, the Odyssey, the Eneid, the Jerusalem Delivered, &c. Milton could not succeed in subjects of this kind, simply because he could not describe the feelings which would naturally be excited by every new situation in which he should happen to place his characters; and the reason he could not describe them was, because he was little acquainted with the human heart, and consequently with the modes of feeling which it experiences under the different influences of times and circumstances. No wonder, then, that of these he was

Nor skilled nor studious, because no man is studious of that for which he has no talent or genius. Milton's genius consisted in taking an enlarged view of the works of creation: he travelled as far as he could, with certainty for his guide; but where cer

ply the want of original feeling ;-the want of that quick sensibility of nerve which instantly responds to every impulse; for how describe a feeling which is not felt, and of which, until felt, we. can form no idea. If it should be thought that this doctrine leads to materialism, as this quick sensibility_results from our physical organization, I reply, that it must first be shewn that our physical organization itself is not the re

tainty forsook him, he pursued his course under the guidance of imagination, and consequently enlarged the sphere from which he selected his images to an almost unlimited extent. This is the true source of Milton's sublimity; and if it could be shewn that a writer is always poetic in proportion as he is sublime, Milton would certainly stand at the head of poets, and deprive Homer of that poetic sovereignty which he is likely ever to retain. Homer, how-sult of that elemental spark that awakes ever, approaches nearer to the sublimity of Milton, than Milton does to the poetic enthusiasm of Homer. This enthusiasm gave him a greater versatility of talent than Milton possessed: his feelings were so plastic, that they always took" their form and pressure" from the subject before them, instead of obliging the subject to take their dress and character from them. Homer's feelings were of that fine and ductile mould, that they yielded to the slightest impulse: he therefore painted all his scenes and characters as different as the originals were in nature, because every scene, character, and situation, made its own appropriate impression upon him; and this impression he described exactly as he felt it, and therefore the description was always a faithful portrait of the original. Milton's feelings were not so accommodating: they could not so easily become whatever their subject required of them. Too proud to bend to every impulse, they retained their lordly superiority; and instead of describing scenes, characters, and situations according to the impressions which they made on him, he described them as his own understanding or imagination painted them to his mind: he did not consult his feelings, merely because he found they had no information to give him: they could not tell him how they were affected by the subjects he was attempting to describe, because they were not affected at all; or at least in so slight a degree, that the impressions were too vague and indistinct to be deciphered with certainty. Instead, therefore, of attempting to describe confused and uncertain feelings, which were all too much alike to be distinguished from each other, he described every thing as imagination directed him.

From these observations we may draw an important inference; which is, that no intellectual powers, no clearness or comprehensiveness of idea, can sup

us into existence. Who can tell but it is the different degrees of energy which our spiritual part originally possesses, that communicates to us those different degrees of sensibility which distinguish us from each other, and which produce every thing that we call the result of physical organization, as strength, weakness, rapidity, sluggishness, patience, impatience, &c. As the subject, however, does not belong to our present inquiry, I make use of this one argument to guard myself against the imputation of materialism. Whatever be the cause of that quickness of feeling which is the soul of poetry, certain it is, that no man can be a poet without it. Poets are justly called the genus irritabile vatum; for wherever the feelings are easily affected, they are, consequently, more easily irritated, simply because they are more subject to all modes of feeling and passion. If, then, irritability has rendered itself a more prominent feature in their character than any other passion, it is only because it exposes their weakness more than any other; and we cannot help indulging in reflection, and admiring that incomprehensible government of nature or of providence, which has ordained that weakness and wisdom should be so closely allied.

The observations which I have hitherto made on the genius of Milton are chiefly founded upon the " Paradise Lost," as being the poem which alone has served to immortalize his name. I know that if novelty and originality of opinion possess any merit, I must be allowed some portion; for I believe I am the first who has ventured to call in question, Milton's poetical pre-eminence. Doctor Johnson, and Mr. Payne Knight, have, indeed, boldly acknowledged that Milton is not one of those poets to whom we return with pleasure; but they have not ventured to attribute this to any deficiency of poetical genius. Mr. Knight

ascribes it almost entirely, and, if I remember right, exclusively, to the sole circumstance of his having written in blank verse; and he ascribes the same reason for the want of interest in Thompson's Seasons. I have not aimed, however, at being novel, in order to distinguish myself from other writers; for I prize not that novelty and originality which is not founded in truth. Perhaps, indeed, I may have some reason to tremble for opinions which are advanced in opposition to Addison, Johnson, and the voice of public opinion; but with regard to Addison and Johnson, I am perfectly easy: they claimed no exemption from fallibility; and it belongs to the public to decide which of us has escaped most successfully from the snares which encompass our judgment, in all its decisions. Addison, indeed, was well qualified to judge of Milton's real poetical merits, but like other critics, he was imposed upon by mistaking sublimity for poetry. He had, like all writers of refined taste, a high respect for public opinion, and as he conceived that the public looked upon Milton as the first, or at least the second of poets, he distrusted his own judgment wherever it perceived any want of interest in the "Paradise Lost." He chose therefore rather to bestow unqualified praise than venture to call in question the judgment of that tribunal to which not only poetic but literary merit of every description must ultimately appeal. If the public judgment was, what Addison conceived it to be, I would acknowledge his propriety in submitting to its decree; but nothing is more certain than that we are frequently ignorant of public opinion, even when this opinion seems openly and unequivocally to declare itself to the world. Whenever the public extol any individual, that individual must certainly possess extraordinary talents or endowments of some kind or other; but the public may be still ignorant of the distinctive character, or peculiar nature of these endowments; for it belongs to philosophy alone to find out what that faculty is which renders its possessor so noted and distinguished. This is the case with Milton: the public have long acknowledged his preeminence; and in doing so, they were

right: they only erred in not distinguishing wherein his pre-eminence consisted; or in not ascertaining precisely in what powers of mind he particularly excelled. That common feeling which in, stinctively discerns every species of excellence, does not however, possess that still finer tact which separates all the species from each other, and perceives the impassable lines that eternally prevent them from mingling with each other, Milton's pre-eminence was supposed to consist in his poetical genius, but this arose from the confusion which has resulted from confounding the poetic with the sublime. With the public opinion then I agree so far as admitting that Milton was the first in his class, but his comparative excellence can only be ap preciated by comparing him with writers whose characteristic excellence is sublimity and not poetry. If we except some of the inspired penmen, Milton is the most sublime of all writers; but I cannot agree that he was the first of poets; and if public opinion were properly known, I have no hesitation to say, that the public admire Milton not as a poet, but as a sublime writer, Those who admire him as a poet, do so merely because they have paid no attention to the difference between sublimity and poetry.

With regard to Dr. Johnson's high opinion of Milton's poetical genius, he was evidently deceived like Addison and all the rest, by confounding the sublime with the poetic. Had he only thought of separating them from each other, I believe he would have viewed the genius of Milton in the same light that I have viewed it; for it is obvious, from his critiques, that he considered Milton devoid of feeling, passion, and poetic enthusiasm. He differed from me only in supposing, that there can be poetry without either feeling or passion. I have, therefore, little to fear from standing opposed to Johnson: I admire Milton as much as any of his admirers; but I admire him as a sublime writer, not as a poet; and I feel confident, that however the public may be deceived by terms, it is his sublimity, not his poetry, that has procured him so high a place in their esteem.

APHORISMS, OPINIONS, AND THOUGHTS ON MORALS.

Without command of temper, no one can be sure of always speaking the truth; for many persons of both sexes utter, while under the dominion of passion, what they are glad to disown and explain away when their passion is over, Occasional irritability of nerves, and secret anxiety, may sometimes overset even the finest temper. We must, therefore, denominate as fine tempered, not those who are never out of humour, for where are they found? but those who are most rarely thrown off their guard.

If happiness be the goal in view, virtue and talent may be called two Arabian coursers, which, however fleet and powerful, would never reach the desired and destined point, unless managed and guided by the hand of Temper.

The talent exhibited in caricatures is of a very low order of humour, and is of the highest order of malignity; and there is a little warp in the mind that takes delight in them.

Lampoons of the pen, as well as lampoons of the pencil, are offensive to good taste and to good feeling, though not equally so with the latter, as the former are chiefly directed against mental, and, therefore, perhaps, corrigible imperfections; whereas, the latter are usually levelled at those of the body, which are, surely, more objects of pity than ridicule. But though less the degree of malice, the lampoon is of the same quality as the caricature; and the mind that can write the one, would probably, if it could, draw the other.

There exists not any man, or woman, of an affectionate and generous nature, who would not much rather blame themselves than blame the object of their esteem and tenderness; and no feeling ismore difficult to be borne, than the conscious degradation of the being, one has fondly adored.

The egotism of the sick, and of the dying, is as interesting, as that of other persons is wearisome and disgusting.

Who can calculate on the mischiefs resulting from the weak boastings of vanity, uttered by impudence, and supported by falsehood?

Who can can say to what degradation to one's self, or destruction to another, the indulgence of vanity may not lead? It may only be weakness in

the first instance: in the second, it may be vice.

To stigmatize the whole of our nobility as profligate, because some of them stand forth conspicuous for their profligacy, would be as unjust as it would be to pronounce a country wholly deficient in entire, habitable, and respectable mansions, because a few ruined edifices force themselves on the eye, rendered prominent and remarkable by being on an elevated situation.

A family friend, or l'ami de la maison, (as the French call him) may be dangerous to the peace of a married couple, unless he be honourable, and the wife well-principled: for he who is a guest at all times, and welcome at all hours, must sometimes come when a cloud has gathered on the brow of the husband, or the wife, and the latter contrasts, perhaps, with the frowns of her husband, the unruffled brow, the complacent smile, and constant attention of the visitor and friend.—At such moments, how easily, if left alone with her, may an artful man win from a

weak woman a detail of the causes of her husband's ill-humour and complaints of his unkindness, while he, in reply, wonders how any man can have the heart to afflict such excellence.

In what misery does not one frail woman involve all who are connected with her!-But let those women, who are apt to consider thoughtlessness as an error of no consequence, either_in themselves or others, remember that she violates her duty both to society and herself, who gives any one reason to say, or even to insinuate, that appearance is against her.

A child of four years old knows right from wrong as well as a person of forty; and the boy, who lies at four years old, will lie when he is grown up; and it is to prevent this, that he ought to be reasoned or punished out of this fault when a child.

Those, accustomed in childhood to curb and deny their little appetites and passions, will be best able to struggle with and surmount the passions and appetites of their riper years.

It is the observation of every unprejudiced person, that those parents are treated by their children, through

« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »