Complete Works of Edward Young, page 113
Nor are we only ignorant of the dimensions of the human mind in general, but even of our own. That a man may be scarce less ignorant of his own powers than an oyster of its pearl, or a rock of its diamond; that he may possess dormant, unsuspected abilities, till awakened by loud calls, or stung-up by striking emergencies; is evident from the sudden eruption of some men out of perfect obscurity into public admiration, on the strong impulse of some animating occasion; not more to the world’s great surprise than their own. Few authors of distinction but have experienced something of this nature, at the first beamings of their yet unsuspected genius on their hitherto dark composition. The writer starts at it, as at a lucid meteor in the night, is much surprised, can scarce believe it true. During his happy confusion, it may be said to him, as to Eve at the lake,
“What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself.” — MILTON.
Genius, in this view, is like a dear friend in our company under disguise; who, while we are lamenting his absence, drops his mask, striking us at once with equal surprise and joy. This sensation, which I speak of in a writer, might favour, and so promote, the fable of poetic inspiration. A poet of a strong imagination and stronger vanity, on feeling it, might naturally enough realize the world’s mere compliment, and think himself truly inspired: which is not improbable; for enthusiasts of all kinds do no less.
Since it is plain that men may be strangers to their own abilities, and by thinking meanly of them without just cause may possibly lose a name, perhaps a name immortal, I would find some means to prevent these evils. Whatever promotes virtue, promotes something more, and carries its good influence beyond the moral man: to prevent these evils, I borrow two golden rules from ethics, which are no less golden in composition than in life: 1. “Know thyself;” 2. “Reverence thyself.” I design to repay ethics in a future letter, by two rules from rhetoric for its service.
1. “Know thyself.” Of ourselves it may be said, as Martial says of a bad neighbour, —
Nil tam, prope, tam proculque nobis.
Therefore dive deep into thy bosom; learn the depth, extent, bias, and Ml fort of thy mind; contract full intimacy with the stranger within thee; excite and cherish every spark of intellectual light and heat, however smothered under former negligence, or scattered through the dull, dark mass of common thoughts; and, collecting them into a body, let thy genius rise (if a genius thou hast) as the sun from chaos; and if I should then Bay, like an Indian, “Worship it,” (though too bold,) yet should I say little more than my second rule enjoins; namely, “Reverence thyself.”
That is, Let not great examples or authorities browbeat thy reason into too great a diffidence of thyself: thyself so reverence, as to prefer the native growth of thy own mind to the richest import from abroad: such borrowed riches make us poor. The man who thus reverences himself will soon find the world’s reverence to follow his own. His works will stand distinguished; his the sole property of them; which property alone can confer the noble title of an author: that is, of one who, to speak accurately, thinks and composes; while other invaders of the press, how voluminous and learned soever, (with due respect be it spoken,) only read and write. —
This is the difference between those two luminaries in literature, the well-accomplished scholar, and the divinely-inspired enthusiast: the first is, as the bright morning star; the second, as the rising sun. The writer who neglects those two rules above, will never stand alone: he makes one of a group, and thinks in wretched unanimity with the throng. Incumbered with the notions of others, and impoverished by their abundance, he conceives not the least embryo of new thought; opens not the least vista, through the gloom of ordinary writers, into the bright walks of rare imagination and singular design. While the true genius is crossing all public roads into fresh untrodden ground, he, up to the knees in antiquity, is treading the sacred footsteps of great examples, with the blind veneration of a bigot saluting the papal toe; comfortably hoping full absolution for the sins of his own understanding, from the powerful charm of touching his idol’s infallibility.
Such meanness of mind, such prostration of our own powers, proceeds from too great admiration of others. Admiration has, generally, a degree of two very bad ingredients in it, — of ignorance, and of fear; and does mischief in composition and in life. Proud as the world is, there is more superiority in it given than assumed; and its grandees of all kinds owe more of their elevation to the littleness of others’ minds, than to the greatness of their own. Were not prostrate spirits their voluntary pedestals, the figure they make among mankind would not stand so high. Imitators and translators are somewhat of the pedestal-kind, and sometimes rather raise their original’s reputation, by showing him to be by them inimitable, than their own. Homer has been translated into most languages; Ælian tells us, that the Indians (hopeful tutors!) have taught him to speak their tongue. What expect we from them? Not Homer’s Achilles, but something which, like Patroclus, assumes his name, and, at its peril, appears in his stead: nor expect we Homer’s Ulysses gloriously bursting out of his cloud into royal grandeur, but an Ulysses under disguise, and a beggar to the last. Such is that inimitable father of poetry, and oracle of all the wise, whom Lycurgus transcribed; and for an annual public recital of whose works Solon enacted a law, that, it is much to be feared that his so numerous translations are but as the published testimonials of so many nations and ages, that this author, so divine, is untranslated still.
But here,
—— — Cynthius aurem
Vellut (Virg.)
and demands justice for his favourite, and ours. Great things he has done; but he might have done greater. What a fall is it from Homer’s numbers, free as air, lofty and harmonious as the spheres, into childish shackles and tinkling sounds! But, in his fall, he is still great;
“Nor appears
Less than archangel ruin’d, and the excess
Of glory obscured.” — MILTON.
Had Milton never wrote, Pope had been less to blame; but when in Milton’s genius Homer, as it were, personally rose to forbid Britons doing him that ignoble wrong, it is less pardonable, by that effeminate decoration, to put Achilles in petticoats a second time. How much nobler had it been, if his numbers had rolled on in full flow, through the various modulations of masculine melody, into those grandeurs of solemn sound which are indispensably demanded by the native dignity of heroic song! How much nobler, if he had resisted the temptation of that Gothic demon, which modern poesy, tasting, became mortal! O how unlike the deathless, divine harmony of three great names, (how justly joined!) of Milton, Greece, and Rome! His verse, but for this little speck of mortality, in its extreme parts, as his hero had in his heel, like him, had been invulnerable and immortal. But, unfortunately, that was undipped in Helicon, as this in Styx. Harmony, as well as eloquence, is essential to poesy; and a murder of his music is putting half Homer to death. “Blank” is a term of diminution: what we mean by “blank verse,” is, verse unfallen, uncursed; verse reclaimed, re-inthroned in the true language of the gods: who never thundered, nor suffered their Homer to thunder, in rhyme; and therefore, I beg you, my friend, to crown it with some nobler term; nor let the greatness of the thing lie under the defamation of such a name.
But, supposing Pope’s Iliad to have been perfect in its kind, yet it is a translation still; which differs as much from an original, as the moon from the sun.
— Phoeben alieno jusserat igne
Impleri, solemque tuo. — CLAUD.
But as nothing is more easy than to write originally wrong, originals are not here recommended but under the strong guard of my first rule, “ Know thyself,” Lucian, who was an original, neglected not this rule, if we may judge by his reply to one who took some freedom with him. He was, at first, an apprentice to a statuary; and when he was reflected on as such, by being called Prometheus, he replied, “I am, indeed, the inventor of a new work, the model of which I owe to none: and, if I do not execute it well, I deserve to be torn by twelve vultures, instead of one.”
If so, O Gulliver, dost thou not shudder at thy brother Lucian’s vultures hovering over thee? Shudder on? They cannot shock thee more than decency has been shocked by thee. How have thy Houynhunms thrown thy judgment from its seat, and laid thy imagination in the mire! In what ordure hast thou dipped thy pencil! What a monster hast thou made of the “human face divine!” [Milton] This writer has so satirised human nature, as to give a demonstration in himself, that it deserves to be satirised. “But,” say his wholesale admirers, “few could so have written.” True, and fewer would. If it required great abilities to commit the fault, greater still would have saved him from it. But whence arise such warm advocates for such a performance! From hence, namely, Before a character is established, merit makes fame; afterwards fame makes merit. Swift is not commended for this piece, but this piece for Swift. He has given us some beauties which deserve all our praise; and our comfort is, that his faults will not become common; for none can be guilty of them but who have wit as well as reputation to spare. His wit had been less wild, if his temper had not jostled his judgment. If his favourite Houynhunms could write, and Swift had been one of them, every horse with him would have been an ass, and he would have written a panegyric on mankind, saddling with much reproach the present heroes of his pen: on the contrary, being born amongst men, and, of consequence, piqued by many, and peevish at more, he has blasphemed a nature little lower than that of angels, and assumed by far higher than they. But surely the contempt of the world is not a greater virtue, than the contempt of mankind is a vice. Therefore I wonder that, though forborne by others, the laughter-loving Swift was not reproved by the venerable dean, who could sometimes be very grave.
For I remember, as I and others were taking with him an evening’s walk, about a mile out of Dublin, he stopped short: we passed on; but, perceiving that he did not follow us, I went back, and found him fixed as a statue, and earnestly gazing upward at a noble elm, which in its uppermost branches was much withered and decayed. Pointing at it, he said, “I shall be like that tree: I shall die at top.” As in this he seemed to prophesy like the Sybils; if, like one of them, he had burnt part of his works, especially this blasted branch of a noble genius, like her, too, he might have risen in his demand for the rest.
Would not his friend Pope have succeeded better in an original attempt! Talents untried are talents unknown. All that I know is, that, contrary to these sentiments, he was not only an avowed professor of imitation, but a zealous recommender of it also. Nor could he recommend any thing better, except emulation, to those who write. One of these all writers must call to their aid; but aids they are of unequal repute. Imitation is inferiority confessed, emulation is superiority contested or denied; imitation is servile, emulation generous; that fetters, this fires; that may give a name, this a name immortal. This made Athens to succeeding ages the rule of taste, and the standard of perfection. Her men of genius struck fire against each other; and kindled, by conflict, into glories, which no time shall extinguish. We thank Æschylus for Sophocles, and Parrhasius for Zeuxis, emulation for both. That bids us fly the general fault of imitators; bids us not to be struck with the loud report of former fame as with a knell, which damps the spirits, but as with a trumpet, which inspires ardour to rival the renowned. Emulation exhorts us, instead of learning our discipline for ever, like raw troops, under ancient leaden in composition, to put those laurelled veterans in some hazard of losing their superior posts in glory.
Such is Emulation’s high-spirited advice, such her immortalizing call. Pope would not hear, pre-engaged with Imitation, which blessed him with all her charms. He chose rather, with his namesake of Greece, to triumph in the old world, than to look out for a new. His taste partook the error of his religion, — it denied not worship to saints and angels; that is, to writers who, canonized for ages, have received their apotheosis from established and universal fame. True poesy, like true religion, abhors idolatry; and though it honours the memory of the exemplary, and takes them willingly (yet cautiously) as guides in the way to glory, real (though unexampled) excellence is its only aim; nor looks it for any inspiration less than divine.
Though Pope’s noble muse may boast her illustrious descent from Homer, Virgil, Horace, yet is an original author more nobly born. As Tacitus says of Curtius Rufus, an original author is born of himself, is his own progenitor, and will probably propagate a numerous offspring of imitators, to eternise his glory; while mule-like imitators die without issue. Therefore, though we stand much obliged for his giving us an Homer, yet had he doubled our obligation by giving us — a Pope. Had he a strong imagination, and the true sublime? That granted, we might have had two Homers instead of one, if longer had been his life; for I heard the dying swan talk over an epic plan a few weeks before his decease.
Bacon, under the shadow of whose great name I would shelter my present attempt in favour of originals, says, “Men seek not to know their own stock and abilities, but fancy their possessions to be greater, and their abilities less, than they really are.” Which is, in effect, saying, that we ought to exert more than we do; and that, on exertion, our probability of success is greater than we conceive.
Nor have? Bacon’s opinion only, but his assistance too, on my side. His mighty mind travelled round the intellectual world, and, with a more than eagle’s eye, saw and has pointed out blank spaces or dark spots in it, on which the human mind never shone: some of these have been enlightened since; some are benighted still.
Moreover, so boundless are the bold excursions of the human mind, that, in the vast void beyond real existence, it can call forth shadowy beings and unknown worlds, as numerous, as bright, and perhaps as lasting, as the stars: such quite-original beauties we may call paradisiacal, —
Natos sine semine flores. — OVID.
When such an ample area for renowned adventure in original attempts lies before us, shall we be as mere leaden pipes, conveying to the present age small streams of excellence from its grand reservoir in antiquity, and those too, perhaps, mudded in the pass! Originals shine like comets, have no peer in their path, are rivalled by none, and the gaze of all: all other compositions, if they shine at all, shine in clusters, like the stars in the galaxy; where, like bad neighbours, all suffer from all; each particular being diminished, and almost lost in the throng.
If thoughts of this nature prevailed, — if ancients and moderns were no longer considered as masters and pupils, but as hard-matched rivals for renown, — then modems, by the longevity of their labours, might one day become ancients themselves; and old Time, that best weigher of merits, to keep his balance even, might have the golden weight of an Augustan age in both his scales; or, rather, our scale might descend; and that of antiquity (as a modern match for it strongly speaks) might kick the beam.
And why not? For, consider, — since an impartial Providence scatters talents indifferently, as through all orders of persons, so through all periods of time; — since a marvellous light, unenjoyed of old, is poured on us by revelation, with larger prospects extending our understanding, with brighter objects enriching our imagination, with an inestimable prize setting our passions on fire, thus strengthening every power that enables composition to shine; — since there has been no fall in man on this side Adam, who left no works, and the works of all other ancients are our auxiliars against themselves, as being perpetual spurs to our ambition, and shining lamps in our path to fame; — since this world is a school, as well for intellectual as moral advance, and the longer human nature is a school, the better scholar it should be; — since, as the moral world expects its glorious millennium, the world intellectual may hope, by the rules of analogy, for some superior degrees of excellence to crown her later scenes; nor may it only hope, but must enjoy them too; for Tully, Quintilian, and all true critics allow, that virtue assists genius, and that the writer will be more able, when better is the man all these particulars (I say) considered, why should it seem altogether impossible, that Heaven’s latest editions of the human mind may be the most correct and fair; that the day may come when the moderns may proudly look back on the comparative darkness of former ages, on the children of antiquity, reputing Homer and Demosthenes as the dawn of divine genius, and Athens as the cradle of infant-fame? What a glorious revolution would this make in the rolls of renown!
“What a rant,” say you, “is here!” I partly grant it: yet, consider, my friend, knowledge physical, mathematical, moral, and Divine, increases; all arts and sciences are making considerable advance; with them, all the accommodations, ornaments, delights, and glories of human life; and these are new food to the genius of a polite writer; these are as the root, and composition as the flower; and as the root spreads and thrives, shall the flower fail? As well may a flower flourish when the root is dead. It is prudence to read, genius to relish, glory to surpass, ancient authors; and wisdom to try our strength, in an attempt in which it would be no great dishonour to fail.
Why condemned Maro his admirable epic to the flames? Was it not because his discerning eye saw some length of perfection beyond it? And what he saw, may not others reach ) And who bid fairer than our countrymen for that glory? Something new may be expected from Britons particularly; who seem not to be more severed from the rest of mankind by the surrounding sea, than by the current in their veins; and of whom little more appears to be required, in order to give us originals, than a consistency of character, and making their compositions of a piece with their lives. May our genius shine, and proclaim us in that noble view, —
— minima contentos nocte Britannos! — JUVENAL.
And so it does; for in polite composition, in natural and mathematical knowledge, we have great originals already: Bacon, Boyle, Newton, Shakspeare, Milton, have showed us, that all the winds cannot blow the British flag farther than an original spirit can convey the British fame. Their names go round the world; and what foreign genius strikes not as they pass! Why should not their posterity embark in the same bold bottom of new enterprise, and hope the same success? Hope it they may; or you must assert, either that those originals, which we already enjoy, were written by angels, or deny that we are men. As Simonides said to Pausanias, reason should say to the writer, “Remember thou art a man.” And for man not to grasp at all which is laudable within his reach, is a dishonour to human nature, and a disobedience to the Divine; for as Heaven does nothing in vain, its gift of talents implies an injunction of their use.
