Complete Works of Edward Young, page 111
The results of this correspondence were favourable to the reputation of Dr. Young, who suppressed the reference to his long dangling about the court for preferment, and abridged his eulogy on the army. — EDIT.]
Conjectures on Original Composition (1759)
IN A LETTER TO THE AUTHOR OF SIR CHARLES GRANDISON.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION.
CONJECTURES, &c.
Young’s correspondent and fellow writer, Samuel Richardson (1689-1761) was best known for his epistolary novel ‘Pamela; or, Virtue Rewarded’ (1740).
INTRODUCTION.
Si habet aliquod tanquam pabulum studii, et doctrina, otiosa senectute nihil est jucundius. — Cic.
PRINTED IN MDCCLIX.
Considered as one of the latest prolusions of an aged author, this treatise is a wonderful production. It displays a vigour of intellect, and a depth and sprightliness of thought, much beyond what might have been expected from one who was then beginning to bend under the weight of nearly eighty years. The numerous reflections which it contains are generally very just and pertinent; such indeed as might naturally suggest themselves to a man of great genius and long experience. While perusing these “Conjectures,” the reader will be reminded of Cicero’s charming Cato Major, and others of his minor philosophical treatises.
Besides the brief account of the interview between the young earl of Warwick and Addison, when the dying bard softly said, “See in what peace a Christian can die;” a few other anecdotes will be found which were new to that generation. The first is Swift’s melancholy remark about himself, “ pointing at a noble elm, which in its uppermost branches was much withered and decayed, he said, I shall be like that tree: I shall die at top.” (P. 568.) Another relates to Pope’s intention of composing an original heroic poem: “For I heard the dying swan,” says Young, “talk over an epic plan, a few weeks before his decease.” (P. 569.) The third concerns Addison, his chief literary hero; who, when a student at Oxford, consulted the veteran Dryden on the subject of his Cato. After high commendation of the tragedy, that great poet’s opinion was, “that, on the stage, it would not meet with its deserved success.” (P. 677)
These Incidental notices of the best writers of the Augustan age of our literature, with whom Young lived on terms of intimacy, and whom he long survived, induce the regret, that he who possessed the requisite qualifications for the task has not bequeathed to posterity larger contributions of this description.
In one of Richardson’s letters to Young, he announces his having “written urgently to Mr. Johnson” to meet him, and adds: —
“I was very desirous that the anecdote of Addison’s death-scene should be inserted: yet (so many admirable things as there are in every page of the piece) I was half sorry to have that made the sole end of your writing it. Your subject of original composition is new and nobly spirited. How much is your execution admired! But three good judges of my acquaintance, and good men too, wish, as I presumed myself to propose, that the subject had been kept more separate and distinct. They think the next-to divine vehemence (so one of them expressed himself) with which original writing is recommended, suffers some cooling abatement; which it would not have done, had the solemn subject been left to the last, when the critic, the scholar, the classic, might properly have given place to the Christian divine. Let me ask, however great and noble what you say of Mr. Addison’s death is, whether it may not bear shortening? Will it not be thought laboured? “ — RICHARDSON’S “Correspondence.”
In tendering this prudent advice, Richardson, who was an excellent man, proved himself to be a true friend to the poet — EDIT.
CONJECTURES, &c.
DEAR SIR,
WE confess the follies of youth without a blush; not so, those of age. However, keep me a little in countenance, by considering, that age wants amusements more, though it can justify them less, than the preceding periods of life. How you may relish the pastime here sent you, I know not. It is miscellaneous in its nature, somewhat licentious in its conduct; and, perhaps, not over-important in its end. However, I have endeavoured to make some amends, by digressing into subjects more important, and more suitable to my season of life. A serious thought standing single, among many of a lighter nature, will sometimes strike the careless wanderer after amusement only, with useful awe: as monumental marbles scattered in a wide pleasure-garden (and such there are) will call to recollection those who would never have sought it in a church-yard walk of mournful yews.
To one such monument I may conduct you, in which is a hidden lustre, like the sepulchral lamps of old; but not like those will this be extinguished, but shine the brighter for being produced, after so long concealment, into open day.
You remember that your worthy patron, and our common friend, put some questions on the serious drama, at the same time when he desired our sentiments on original and on moral composition. Though I despair of breaking through the frozen obstructions of age, and care’s incumbent cloud, into that flow of thought and brightness of expression which subjects so polite require, yet will I hazard some conjectures on them.
I begin with original composition; and the more willingly, as it seems an original subject to me, who have seen nothing hitherto written on it: but, first, a few thoughts on composition in general. Some are of opinion, that its growth, at present, is too luxuriant, and that the press is overcharged. Overcharged, I think, it could never be, if none were admitted, but such as brought their imprimatur from sound understanding, and the public good. Wit, indeed, however brilliant, should not be permitted to gaze self-enamoured on its useless charms, in that fountain of fame, (if so I may call the press,) if beauty is all that it has to boast; but, like the first Brutus, it should sacrifice its most darling offspring to the sacred interests of virtue, and? real service of mankind.
This restriction allowed, the more composition the better. To men of letters and leisure, it is not only a noble amusement, but a sweet refuge; it improves their parts, and promotes their peace; it opens a back-door out of the bustle of this busy and idle world, into a delicious garden, of moral and intellectual fruits and flowers, the key of which is denied to the rest of mankind. When stung with idle anxieties, or teazed with fruitless impertinence, or yawning over insipid diversions, then we perceive the blessings of a lettered recess. With what a gust do we retire to our disinterested and immortal friends in our closet, and find our minds, when applied to some favourite theme, as naturally and as easily quieted and refreshed as a peevish child (and peevish children are we all till we fell asleep) when laid to the breast! Our happiness no longer lives on charity; nor bids fair for a fall, by leaning on that most precarious and thorny pillow, another’s pleasure, for our repose. How independent of the world is he, who can daily find new acquaintance that at once entertain and improve him, in the little world, the minute but fruitful creation of his own mind!
These advantages composition affords us, whether we write ourselves, or in more humble amusement peruse the works of others. While we bustle through the thronged walks of public life, it gives us a respite, at least, from care; a pleasing pause of refreshing recollection. If the country is our choice or fete, there it rescues us from sloth: and sensuality, which, like obscene vermin, are apt gradually to creep unperceived into the delightful bowers? of our retirement, and to poison all its sweets. Conscious? guilt robs the rose of its scent, the lily of its lustre; and makes an Eden a deflowered and dismal scene.
Moreover, if we consider life’s endless evils, what can be more prudent, than to provide for consolation under them? A consolation under them the wisest of men have found in the pleasures of the pen: witness, among many more, Thucydides, Xenophon, Tully, Ovid, Seneca, Pliny the younger, who says, In uxoris infirmitate, et amicorum periculo, aut morte turbatus, ad studia, unicum doloris levamentum, confugio. And why not add to these their modern equals, Chaucer, Raleigh, Bacon, Milton, Clarendon, under the same shield, unwounded by misfortune, and nobly smiling in distress?
Composition was a cordial to these under the frowns of fortune; but evils there are which her smiles cannot prevent or cure. Among these are the languors of old age. If those are held honourable who in a hand benumbed by time have grasped the just sword in defence of their country, shall they be less esteemed whose unsteady pen vibrates to the last in the cause of religion, of virtue, of learning? Both these are happy in this, that, by fixing their attention on objects most important, they escape numberless little anxieties, and that tædium vitae which often hangs so heavy on its evening hours. May not this insinuate some apology for my spilling ink, and spoiling paper, so late in life?
But there are who write with vigour and success, to the world’s delight and their own renown. These are the glorious fruits where genius prevails. 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 authors: the first we call “originals,” and confine the term “imitation” to the second. I 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, I say, the better. Originals are, and ought to be, great favourites, for they are great 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 waste 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 aere; and to share ambition with no less than Cæsar, 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 up 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 rouse 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 surprise, 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 fiat 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, 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 fathers’ 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 incombustible 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 inestimable 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 diffidence bury our strength. Nature’s impossibilities, and those of diffidence, lie wide asunder.
Let it not be suspected, that I would weakly insinuate any thing in favour of the moderns, as compared with ancient authors; no, I am lamenting their great inferiority. But I think it is no necessary inferiority; that it is not from Divine destination, but from some cause far beneath the moon. [Inquiry Into the Life of Homer, p. 76.] I think that human souls, through all periods, are equal; that due care and exertion would set us nearer our immortal predecessors than we are at present; and he who questions and confutes this, will show abilities not a little tending toward a proof of that equality which he denies.
After all, the first ancients had no merit in being originals: they could not be imitators. Modem 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 I 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 inviolable their fame. Let our understanding feed on theirs; they afford the noblest nourishment; but let them nourish, not 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,” you say, “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? — namely, “The less we copy the renowned ancients, we shall resemble them the more.”
But possibly you may reply, that you 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 sound 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 an 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, (of whom anon,) you fall not into a ditch in your way to glory.
