CHAPTER XVIII. AKENSIDE'S "PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION;" FALCONER'S "SHIPWRECK;" GRAINGER'S "SUGAR-CANE.” "THE TASK," BY WILLIAM COWPER. MARK AKENSIDE was born in 1721, and died in the year of the birth of Wordsworth. He was the son of a butcher at Newcastle, was educated at Edinburgh for the dissenting ministry, but took to medicine, and after three years at the University of Edinburgh, studied for another three years at Leyden, where his poetical tastes won him the friendship of a richer fellow-student, Mr. Dyson, who was studying law. Akenside graduated at Leyden as M.D., and was helped by his friend Dyson to establish himself in London practice as a physician. He had poetical instincts that struggled almost in vain against those conventions of his time which he had not strength to subdue to the higher uses of his genius. He assumed only too readily the outward airs of gravity and dignity and erudition that were thought useful aids to success as a physician, and he was weak enough to be ashamed of a slight lameness, because it recalled his father's shop, in which it had been caused when he was a child. When Akenside was at Leyden he was a poet with young blood in his veins, and his friend Dyson was justified in looking with high expectation to his future. "The Pleasures of Imagination," when published by him in its first form in 1744, was the work of a young man, then twenty-three years old, and although suggested by the taste for criticism, it took its departure creditably from such criticism as Addison's, when he inquired into the source of any delight in works of imagination. The poem was, in fact, suggested by Addison's eleven essays on "Imagination" in The Spectator; and with the religious tone underlying all Addison's reasonings Akenside was in sympathy. The earnestness of the strain helped its success, and its half philosophical form and sounding rhetoric-not altogether empty sound-made it the more welcome to readers of that day. The work was often reprinted, and then Akenside set about re-writing it, and was still at work on the completion of it in its second form when he died, in 1770. A stronger man would have been content with slight occasional revision of his early work, and would have passed on to other and larger efforts in his later years. This is Akenside's own setting forth of the design of his poem : There are certain powers in human nature which seem to hold a middle place between the organs of bodily sense and the faculties of moral perception: they have been called by a very general name, the Powers of Imagination. Like the external senses, they relate to matter and motion; and, at the same time, give the mind ideas analogous to those of moral approbation and dislike. As they are the inlets of some of the most exquisite pleasures with which we are acquainted, it has naturally happened that men of warm and sensible tempers have sought means to recall the delightful perceptions which they afford, independent of the objects which originally produced them. This gave rise to the imitative or designing arts; some of which, as painting and sculpture, directly copy the external appearances which were admired in nature; others, as music and poetry, bring them back to remembrance by signs universally established and understood. But these arts, as they grew more correct and deliberate, were of course led to extend their imitation beyond the peculiar objects of the imaginative powers; especially poetry, which, making use of language as the instrument by which it imitates, is consequently become an unlimited representative of every species and mode of being. Yet as their intention was only to express the objects of imagination, and as they still abound chiefly in ideas of that class, they of course retain their original character; and all the different pleasures which they excite are termed, in general, Pleasures of Imagination. The design of the following poem is to give a view of these in the largest acceptation of the term; so that whatever our imagination feels from the agreeable appearances of nature, and all the various entertainment we meet with either in poetry, painting, music, or any of the elegant arts, might be deducible from one or other of those principles in the constitution of the human mind, which are here established and explained. In executing this general plan, it was necessary first of all to distinguish the imagination from our other faculties; and in the next place to characterize those original forms or properties of being, about which it is conversant, and which are by nature adapted to it, as light is to the eyes, or truth to the understanding. These properties Mr. Addison had reduced to the three general classes of greatness, novelty, and beauty; and into these we may analyse every object, however complex, which, properly speaking, is delightful to the imagination. But such an object may also include many other sources of pleasure; and its beauty, or novelty, or grandeur, will make a stronger impression by reason of this concurrence. Besides which, the imitative arts, especially poetry, owe much of their effect to a similar exhibition of properties quite foreign to the imagination, insomuch that in every line of the most applauded poems we meet with either ideas drawn from the external senses, or truths discovered to the understanding, or illustrations of contrivance and final causes; or, above all the rest, with circumstances proper to awaken and engage the passions. It was therefore necessary to enumerate and exemplify these different species of pleasure; especially that from the passions, which, as it is supreme in the noblest work of human genius, so being in some particulars not a little surprising, gave an opportunity to enliven the didactic turn of the poem, by introducing an allegory to account for the appearance. After these parts of the subject, which hold chiefly of admiration, or naturally warm and interest the mind, a pleasure of a very different nature, that which arises from ridicule, came next to be considered. As this is the foundation of the comic manner in all the arts, and has been but very imperfectly treated by moral writers, it was thought proper to give it a particular illustration, and to distinguish the general sources from which the ridicule of characters is derived. Here too a change of style became necessary; such a one as might yet be consistent, if possible, with the general taste of composition in the serious parts of the subject; nor is it any task to give any tolerable force to images of this kind, without running either into the gigantic expressions of the mock-heroic, or the familiar and poetical raillery of professed satire; neither of which would have been proper here. The materials of all imitation being thus laid open, nothing now remained but to illustrate some particular pleasures which arise either from the relations of different objects one to another, or from the nature of imitation itself. Of the first kind is that various and complicated resemblance existing between several parts of the material and immaterial worlds, which is the foundation of metaphor and wit. As it seems in a great measure to depend on the early association of our ideas, and as this habit of associating is the source of many pleasures and pains in life, and on that account bears a great share in the influence of poetry and the other arts, it is therefore mentioned here and its effects described. Then follows a general account of the production of these elegant arts, and of the secondary pleasure, as it is called, arising from the resemblance of their imitations to the original appearances of nature. After which, the work concludes with some reflections on the general conduct of the powers of imagination, and on their natural and moral usefulness in life. Concerning the manner or turn of composition which prevails in this piece, little can be said with propriety by the author. He had two models; that ancient and simple one of the first Grecian poets, as it is refined by Virgil in the Georgics, and the familiar epistolary way of Horace. This latter has several advantages. It admits of a greater variety of style; it more readily engages the generality of readers, as partaking more of the air of conversation; and, especially with the assistance of rhyme, leads to a closer and inore concise expression. Add to this the example of the most perfect of modern poets, who has so happily applied this manner to the noblest parts of philosophy, that the public taste is in a great measure formed to it alone. Yet, after all, the subject before us, tending almost constantly to admiration and enthusiasm, seemed rather to demand a more open, pathetic, and figured style. This too appeared more natural, as the author's aim was not so much to give formal precepts, or enter into the way of direct argumentation; as, by exhibiting the most engaging prospects of nature, to enlarge and harmonise the imagination, and by that means insensibly dispose the minds of men to a similar taste and habit of thinking in religion, morals, and civil life. 'Tis on this account that he is so careful to point out the benevolent intention of the Author of Nature in every principle of the human constitution here insisted on; and also to unite the moral excellences of life in the same point of view with the mere external objects of good taste; thus recommending them in common to our natural propensity for admiring what is beautiful and lovely. The same views have also led him to introduce some sentiments which may perhaps be looked upon as not quite direct to the subject; but, since they bear an obvious relation to it, the authority of Virgil (the faultless model of didactic poetry) will best support him in this particular. For the sentiments themselves he makes no apology. These lines may be taken as fair illustration of the style and spirit of the poem : Say, why was man so eminently raised But that the Omnipotent might send him forth, In contest with his equals, who shall best The approving smile of Heaven? Else wherefore burns The various forms which this full world presents Indus or Ganges rolling his broad wave Which murmureth at his feet? Where does the soul Which bears her up, as on an eagle's wings, At length she stands, and the dread space beyond Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery lap, Through Nature's opening walks enlarge her aim, When Archibald Campbell, a ship's purser, wrote in imitation of Lucian a dialogue, "Lexiphanes," in ridicule of Latin-English and the pretentious roll of the rhetoric then slowly passing into disrepute, he took Akenside as representative in verse of that which he burlesqued in the prose style of Johnson's Rambler. William Falconer, the author of "The Shipwreck," had been at sea with Archibald Campbell as his servant when he was ship's purser. Campbell saw part of his worth, and helped to add something to his scanty education. Falconer was about nine years younger than Akenside, son of a poor barber at Edinburgh, and the only one of his children who was not deaf and dumb. When very young he was apprenticed on board a merchant vessel at Leith, and had risen to be second mate, when he joined a vessel in the Levant trade that was wrecked on its passage from Alexandria to Venice, with loss of all hands except three men, of whom William Falconer was one. In the spring of 1762 Falconer published his chief poem, "The Shipwreck." It was dedicated to the Duke of York, who helped him to exchange out of the merchant service into the navy. In the autumn he was a midshipman on board the Royal George. In 1763 he became purser of a 32gun frigate, the Glory. Upon this he married, and in 1764 he published an improved edition of his poem. He was happy in his marriage, but not in his fortunes, until 1768, when he was appointed purser of the Aurora frigate, bound to India with three gentleman who were to see to the affairs of the East India Company, and to one of whom he hoped to be attached as secretary. The Aurora sailed from England on the 30th of September, 1769, and, after touching at the Cape upon its way, was never again heard of. The poet of "Shipwreck " died by shipwreck when he was not quite forty years old. In the introduction to his poem thus William Falconer wrote of himself and of his song: With living colours give my verse to glow, Of wanderers shipwrecked on a leeward shore. To plough the tide where wintry tempests roar? Or shall a youth approach their hallowed fane, But while he measured o'er the painful race Still o'er the victim hung with iron sway; Or where pale Famine blasts the hopeful year, Or where, all dreadful in the embattled line, Falconer's poem is in Three Cantos. In the First, A ship from Egypt o'er the deep impelled It was the ship in which he suffered wreck. It ertered the haven of Candia, where the poet saw the once happy island ruined by oppression of the Turk. The trading ship was here four days becalmed in harbour. Falconer describes its three chief officers. Albert, the captain, a good sailor, of temper softened by the kindliness of his domestic life. He had a wife and daughter Anna by the Thames at home. Rodmond, the first mate, was a bold north-country seaman, rough and coarse. The second mate was Arion, in whom the poet described himself. There was on board also, in charge of the cargo, Palemon, the son of the owner, who had been sent to sea by his rich father because he had fallen in love with Albert's daughter Anna, when sent on business of the firm to Captain Albert's house. Falconer represents young Palemon as confiding in Arion, and so places the main interest of his first canto in a love-story that gives individual life to the chief persons on board the ship, and so prepares the mind for a strong human interest in the coming story of the wreck. While thus connecting his reader's sympathies with those who sail out of the haven of Candia, he represents already in the calm, of which the captain grows impatient, indication of the coming storm. A sullen languor still the skies opprest And held th' unwilling ship in strong arrest. When a slight breeze at last rises at night, and the master at once takes advantage of it, there is still the same suggestion to the mind. Deep midnight now involves the livid skies, Arion is roused from dreams of storm and peril, blended with images of the love of Palemon and Anna, by the boatswain's whistle and the shout "All hands unmoor!" The ship leaves port, and in the morning has Mount Ida in sight, but the morning dawns "frowning stern and wrapt in sullen shade." The dim horizon lowering vapours shroud And blot the sun yet struggling through the cloud; Through the wide atmosphere condensed with haze, His glaring orb emits a sanguine blaze. The canto ends with a description of the ship itself in the pride of its beauty. The scene of the Second Canto lies at sea between Cape Freschin in Candia and the island of Falconera. The ship speeds now before a favourable breeze. There is description of a waterspout, of a shoal of dolphins, and of the death of a dolphin speared by Rodmond. Then the breeze freshens; the ship is trimmed. The storm still gathers. The blackening ocean curls, the winds arise, The swift calls of the master and movements of the crew in navigation of the ship are blended with the storm as a squall approaches, and breaks on the ship. It comes, resistless, and with foaming sweep The mainsail is rent, but the squall is weathered. There is now a troop of porpoises to leeward, and the ship, beyond shelter, is exposed to the fury of a southwesterly gale. Animation is given to the scene, and interest by the constant strain of energy on board the ship. This is expressed by the rapid succession of the seaman's duties, and at one time of peril by division of opinion between the chief officers upon a point of navigation. Arion narrowly escapes the fate of four seamen who are lost off the lee yardarm. The prompt energy and fearlessness of the seamen are praised by the poet, while they are shown in action as they could be shown only by a sailor who had known the dangers of the deep. The ship neared a lee shore by the rugged island of Falconera, bound with rocks and breakers, and was struck by a great wave. The boats beneath the thundering deluge broke; Five feet of water in the well enforce work at the pumps. The guns have to be thrown overboard. Albert, the master-seaman, holds council with his two mates. On one side is the open sea in storm; rocky islands are near; safe harbour is in the gulf of Corinth, unattainable for want of sails. Rodmond advises endeavour to ride out the storm where they are, working strenuously at the pumps. A murmur is heard from the men at the pumps. The leaks gain upon them. Arion, as second mate, then counsels driving shoreward towards Greece, taking the chance of escape from the rocks of Falconera. Still all our powers the increasing leaks defy, Arion cheers also the drooping spirit of Palemon, while Albert announces to the brave crew the desperate counsel in which alone, it was agreed, there might be a chance for their lives. One only refuge from despair we find— Other such counsels follow, and last the sailors are told that the Greek coast is less cruel than the English, for among the Greeks there will be no wreckers to fear. With conscious horror struck, the naval band Detested for a while their native land; They cursed the sleeping vengeance of the laws That thus forgot her guardian sailor's cause. The master uttered in a prayer his resignation to the will of God. Order was then given to bear away. The fore-staysail was hoisted, and split; the head yards were braced aback, and Rodmond cut the mizenmast away. There ends the Second Canto of "The Shipwreck." In the Third Canto, after prelude of the poet on his art and its theme, the ship, with the wreck of the mizenmast cleared away, veers before the wind. To guide the wayward course amid the gloom While Rodmond, fearful of some neighbouring shore, Thus o'er the flood four hours she scudding flew, But soon returning fears their hopes destroy. But here, the poet being near the shores of Greece, and writing for a generation that would be classical, asks Memory to say, "What regions now the scudding ship surround?" Memory brings accordingly into the poem a digression upon Athens, Socrates, Plato, Aristides, Solon, Corinth, its architecture, Sparta, Leonidas, invasion by Xerxes, Lycurgus, Epaminondas, present state of the Spartans, Arcadia, its past prosperity and present misery, Ithaca, Ulysses and Penelope, Argos, Agamemnon, Lemnos, Vulcan, Delos, Apollo and Diana, Troy, Sestos, Leander and Hero, Delphos, Temple of Apollo, Parnassus and the Muses-a digression which, no doubt, seemed to the author necessary for the conciliation of critics with conventional ideas, and what, out of a livelier sense of the real worth of ancient literature, we may now venture to call low classical propensities. But there is a little of true art in the digression. It comes at the critical point of the story, just before the shipwreck on the coast of Athens. Falconer packs it all 1 Timoneer, pilot. French "timonnier," from "timon," the helm of a ship, or pole of a coach. into a little more than two hundred lines, and makes it end on Parnassus with soft images of peace and. young delight, from which he starts back with advantage of strong contrast into the fury of the storm. Awake, O Memory, from the inglorious dream! The gale howls through the shrouds, rain pours, and then thick hail, and then the thunderstorm breaks over them. Wide bursts in dazzling sheets the living flame, And dread concussion rends the ethereal frame; Sick Earth convulsive groans from shore to shore, And Nature shuddering feels the horrid roar. Dawn comes. The ship still is flying shoreward, and the hills of Greece are on her lee. There is danger from the rocky island of St. George. But haply she escapes the dreadful strand, The sailors look back to it with longing as a refuge lost. But now Athenian mountains they descry, |