This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project
to make the world's books discoverable online.
It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject
to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books
are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover.
Marks, notations and other marginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the
publisher to a library and finally to you.
Usage guidelines
Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing this resource, we have taken steps to
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.
We also ask that you:
+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for
personal, non-commercial purposes.
+ Refrain from automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.
+ Maintain attribution The Google "watermark" you see on each file is essential for informing people about this project and helping them find
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it.
+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liability can be quite severe.
About Google Book Search
Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web
at http : //books . google . com/|
Digitized
by Google
Digitized
by Google
^iLi
Digitized
by Google
Digitized
by Google
ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM,
BY
HENRY HOME, LORD KAMES,
JVDQB OF THE COURT OF SESSIONS IN SCOTLiiND, 4cc Ac.
ANALYSES,
TRANSLATIONS OP ANCIENT AND FOREIGN
ILLUSTRATIONS.
EDITED BY ABRAHaA MILLS, A. M.
AtmiOS OP AN DfPSOVXD BDITIOM OP AUSOA ON TASTI, BTO.
NEW EDITION.
N E W - Y O R K :
HUNTINGTON AND SAVAGE,
174 PEARL-STREET.
1842.
Digitized
by Google
Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1833, by James Conneb and
William R. Gookb in the Clerk's Office ot the District Court of the Southern Dis-
trict of New York-
Digitized
by Google
P^/
PREFACE
TO
THE SECOND EDITION.
Printing, by multiplying copies at will, affords to writers
great opportunity of receiving instruction from every quarter.
The author of this treatise, having always been of opinion that
the general taste is seldom wrong, was resolved, from the be-
ginning, to submit to it with entire resignation : its severest dis-
approbation migjil have incited him to do better, but never to
complain. Finding now the judgment of the public to be fa-
vorable, ought be not to draw satisfaction from it? He would
be devoid of sensibility were he not greatly satisfied. Many
criticisms have indeed reached his ear ; but they are candid and
benevolent, if not always just. Gratitude, therefore, had there
been no other motive, must have roused his utmost industry,
to clear this edition from all the defects of the former, so far
as suggested by others, or discovered by himself In a work
containing many particulars, both new and abstruse, it was
difficult to express every article with sufficient perspicuity; and,
after all the pains bestowed, there remained certain passages
which are generally thought obscure. The author, giving an
attentive ear to every censure of that kind, has, in the present
edition, renewed his efforts to correct every defect ; and he
would gladly hope that he has not' been altogether unsuc-
cessful. The truth is, that a writer, who must be possessed of
Digitized
by Google
4 FRBFACS TO THE SECOND EDITION.
the thought before he can put it into words, is but ill quali
fied to judge whether the expression be sufficiently clear to
others: in that particular, he cannot avoid the taking on him
to judge for the reader, who can much better judge for himself
Junet 1763.
Digitized
by Google
EDITOR'S PREFACE.
Tbs present edition of Lord Karnes' Criticisms \fas pre*
pared, and is now offered to the public, with a view of &cilih
tating the use of the work, and of rendering it more acceptable
to general readers. To effect the former object, an analysisf
has been placed at the head of each chapter; and to effect th<r
latter, translations, either original or selected, have been affixed to
the numerous passages introduced as illustrations, from the La^
tin and Italian languages.
The editor deems it unnecessary to enter into any process ci
argument, by which to justify the course he has pursued in the
preparation of the present work; as in all matters of practical
utility, the only just judgment that can possibly be formed must
necessarily rest on practical effects: and though he would be
sorry to arrogate any superiority to himself, or to his own obser-
yation, yet there may, perhaps, be no impropriety in saying,
that the result of the experience of many years arduously deroted
to the business of instruction, is, a thorough conyiction that only
by presenting a subject to the mind in its leading features, and
as one whole, can students obtain a clear and comprehensive vieir
oi k. Too much dependence however, in the use of the worh;
must not be placed upon the analyses; for it is by no meani
UHfc^ed that because of them is less of the wort to be learaed-:
1*
Digitized
by Google
6 editor's preface.
their principal object is, as before stated, to render the instruc-
tion of classes less irksome, and less difficult. The editor would,
therefore, recommend to professors and teachers, uniformly to
insist that scholars, at the commencement of their recitations,
be prepared to repeat, with perfect clearness, the subject of each
chapter or section, by its respective analysis ; and from it to conduct
the recitation of the class. He is aware, however, that to teachers
not familiar with the subject, this would be impossible; but
where is the teacher to be found, determined to excel in his pro-
fession, who would not, from considerations, both of duty and of
interest, study to acquire that familiarity by which alone, he can
secure to himself, the confidence and respect of his scholars, and
ultimate success in his calling !
That in works for general reading, and especially in text
books, translations should be uniformly affixed to passages, intro-
duced from the ancient classics, as illustrations, the editor does
not hesitate to say must be the conviction of every candid and in-
telligent mind: as to scholars who may be familiar with those
languages, they can certainly be no hinderance ; while to those
who have not enjoyed the advantages of a classical education,
they are indispensably necessary. It is true that many persons
still seem to think it bordering almost on presumption for any
one to pretend to taste or elegant scholarship in the Belles Let-
tres, who can not read Latin and Greek ; but though the advan-
tages of a knowledge of these languages, in forming one's taste,
must ever be acknowledged to be immensely great, yet it by no
means follows, that' those who may not understand them have not
it in their power to cultivate theirs. The principles of taste, and
Ibe perception of the Sublime and the Beautiful, exist, in a
greater or less degree, in every mind ; and as every man fami-
Digitized
by Google
liar with the subject, must be sensible that English literature is
enriched with its full share of the most exquisite productions,
both in poetry and prose; so it would seem to follow, that if
these be devotedly studied, their beauties will be properly ascer*
tained, and duly appreciated.
Besides, it must not be forgotten, that the pursuits of elegant
literature form the most important part of the course of instruc-
tion at the present time pursued in every well regulated female-
school, both in this country and in Great Britain; and as cases
very rarely occur, in which young ladies are to be found with
sufficient acquaintance with the ancient classics to study works
filled with illustrations taken from them, that their studies may
not be constantly interrupted, every beauty should be presented
in such a form that they may 'immediately perceive it.
It is by no means pretended, however, that the force and spirit
of the original poetry, is uniformly retained in the translations.
This, when the dissimilarity that exists between the two lan-
guages is borne in mind, will at once be perceived to be impos-
sible ; but as the greater part of the translations here introduced,
are from translators of acknowledged celebrity, the editor feels
confident that, though accuracy principally was aimed at in pre-
paring them, yet they will be found sufficiently elegant not to
mar, at least, the interest of the work.
With regard to the body of the work, the editor has been at
great pains to preserve it in as pure a state, and as nearly as it
originally came from the pen of the celebrated author, as possible.
To efiect this purpose, the present edition is printed, with the ut-
most accuracy, from a copy of an edition published in Edinburgh
before the author's death, and which received his last revision.
Having thus briefly stated the character of the work, and the
Digitized
by Google
8 BOITO&'i ^ttSFACB.
improremaits that are proposed to have heea added to it, the
editor leaves t&e public to decide how &r his labors may be con*
sidered commendable; and should the objects mentioned in the
commencement of these remarks, be found to have been attained,
he will feel himself abundantly compensated.
Niw-Tork, AprUy 183a
Digitized
by Google
CONTENTS.
iarrRODUCTioN, • 11
Chap. I. Perceptions and Ideas in a train, 19
Chap. IL Emotions end Passions, 90
Part 1. Causes unfolded of the Emotions and Passions : ...
Sect 1. Difference between Emotion and Passion.— Causes that areths
most common and the most general. — Passion considered as
productive of Action, 27
Sect 2. Power of Sounds to raise Emotions and Passions, .. .34
Sect 3. Causes of the Emotions of Joy and Sorrow, ... 37
Sect 4. Sympathetic Emotion of Virtue, and its cause, . . .38
Sect 5. In many instances one Emotion is productiYfi.of another.— The
same of Passions, 41
Sect. 6. Causes of the Passions of Fear and Anger, .... 47
Sect. 7. Emotions caused by Fiction, . . -^ . . . . . 50
Part 2. Emotions and Passions as pleasant and painful, agreeable and
disagreeable. — Modification of these dualities, . . . fl6
Part 3. Interrupted Existence of Emotions and Passions. — Their G^wth
and l)ecay, 03
Part 4. Coexistent Emotions and Passions, ...... 67
Part 5. Influence of Passion with respect to our Perceptions, Opinions,
and Belief, 83
Appendix. — Methods that Nature hath afforded for computing Time
and Space, 88
Part 6. Resemblance of Emotions to their Causes, .... 94
Part 7. Final Causes of the more frequent Emotions and Passions, . 96
Chap. III. Beauty, i .... 108
Chap. IV. Grandeur and Sublimity, 109
Chap. V. Motion and Force, 197
Chap. VI. Novelty, and the unexpected appearance of Objects, • . 131
Chap. VII. Risible Objects, 137
Chap. VIII. Resemblance and Dissimilitude, 139
Chap. IX. Uniformity and Variety, 151
Appendix.— Concerning the Works of Nature, chiefly with respect
to Uniformity and Variety, 161
Chap. X. Congruity and Propriety, • . 164
Chap. XL Dignity and Grace, ITS
Digitized
by Google
10/ CONTENTS.
Chap. XII. Ridicule, 178
Chap. XIII. Wit, . 185
Chap. XIV. Custom and Habit, » . . 193
Chap. XY. External Signs of Emotions and Passions,' .... 204
Chap. XVI. Sentiments, .215
Chap. XVII. Language of Passion, • 235
Chap. XVni. Beauty of Language, 247
Sect 1. Beauty of Language with respect to Sound, • • • • 248
Sect. 2. Beauty of Language with respect to Signification, • • 254
Sect. 3. Beauty of Language from a resemblance between Sound and
Signification, ' 282
Sect. 4. Versification, • • • 289
Chap. XIX. Comparisons, 325
Chap. XX. Figures, . .347
Sect. 1. Personification, • • 347
Sect 2. Apostrophe, •••••••«•• 359
Sect. 3. Hyperbole, » . . . .361
Sect 4. The Means or Instrument conceived to be the agent, . • 365
Sect 5. A figure which, among related Objects, extends the Properties
of one to another, ; • 365
Sect. 6. Metaphor and Allegory, • 368
Sect. 7. Figure of Speech, . . 1 379
Table 1. Subjects expressed figuratively, , • • • . 382
Table 2. Attributes expressed figuratively, • • • • • 385
Chap. XXI. Narration and Description, • 391
Chap. XXII. Epic and Dramiatic Compositions 414
Chap. XXIII. The Three UViities, 429
Chap. XXIV. Gardening and Architecture, •.•••• 441
Chap. XXV. Standard of Taste, 466
Appendix. Terms defined or explained, ....••. 474
Index, . . • . 489
Digitized
by Google
INTRODUCTION.
Nothing external perceiyed till it makes an impression on the organs of sense—
A wide difference with respect to our knowledge of this impression — Sensible
of the impression in touch, taste, and smell — In seeing and hearing not sensiUe
of it — The pleasures of the eye and the ear occupy a middle rank — Other valu-
able properties of the pleasures of the eye and the ear besides those of elevation
and dignity — Organic pleasuKs defective in three particulars — Intellectual
pleasures uitipie, but are relieved by the pleasures of the eye and the ear-
Taste in the fine arts nearly allied to moral sense — The design of the authoi^-^
The requisites to form a critic — The effect of a thorough acquaintance with the
fine arts — It affords an enticing sort of logic — It furnishes pleasing topics for
conversation — It moderates the selfish affections, and invigorates the social —
It contributes towards the support of morality — Authority formerly prevailed
over reason ; latterlyreason has prevailed over authority, except in criticism—
The productions of Homer and Virgil the foundation of Bossu's rules of criti*
cism — Natuye the only proper foundation — To censure works, not men, th«
proper object of criticism — Time the only true standard of taste.
That nothing external is perceived till it first makes an impression
upon the organ of sense, is an observation that holds equally true in
every one of the external senses. But there is a difference as to onr
knowledge of that impression. In touching, tasting, and smelling,
we are sensible of the impression : that, for example, which is made
upon the hand by a stone, upon the palate by an apricot, and upon
the nostrils by a rose. It is otherwise in seeing and hearing ; for 1
am not sensible of the impression made upon my eye, when I behold
a tree ; nor of the impression made upon my ear, when I listen to a
song.* That difference in the manner of perceiving external objects,
distinguishes, remarkably, hearing and seeing from the other senses ,
and I am ready to show, that it distinguishes, still more remarkably,
the feelings of the former from those of the latter. Every feeling
pleasant or painful, must be in the mind; and yet, because in tasting,
touching, and smelling, we are sensible of the impression made upon
the organ, we are led to place there also the pleasant or painful
feeling caused by that impression.f But, with respect to seeing and
* See the Appendix, § 13.
t After the utmost efforts, we find it beyond our power to conceive the flavor
of a rose to exist in the mind ; we are necessarily led to conceive that pleasure at
existing in the nostrils along with the impression made by the rose upon that
orffan. And the same will be the result of experiments with respect to every
feeling of taste, touch, and smell. Touch affoms the most satisfactory experi-
ments. Were it not Uiat the delusion is detected by philosophy, no person would
hesitate to pronounce, that the pleasure arising from touching a smooth, soft, and
velvet surface, has its existence at the ends of the fingers, without once dreaming
of its existing any where else.
Digitized
by Google
t2 INTRODUCTIOH*
hearing, being insensible of the organic impression, we are not mis-
led to assign a wrong place to the pleasant or painful feelings caused
by that impression ; and therefore We naturally place them in the
mind, where they really are. Upon that account, they are conceived
to be more refined and spiritual, than what are derived from tastmg,
touching, and smdling; for the latter feelings, seeming to exist
externally at the organ of sense, are conceived to be merely cor-
poreal.
The pleasures of the eye and the ear, being thus elevated above
hose of the other external senses, acquire so much dignity as to
become a laudable entertainment. They are not, however, set on a
level with the purely intellectual^ being no less inferior in dignity
to intellectual pleasures, than superior to the organic, or corporeal.
They indeed resemble the latter, being, like them, produced by exter-
nal objects; but they also resemble tl^ former, being, like them,
produced without any sensible organic impression. Their mixt
nature, and middle place between organic and intellectual pleasures,
qualify them to associate with both. Beauty heightens all the
organic feelings, as well as the intellectual: harmony, though it
aspires to inflame devotion, disdains not to improve the relish of a
banquet.
The pleasures of the eye and the ear have other valuable proper-
ties beside those of dignity and elevation. Beins^ sweet and mode-
rately exhilarating, they are, in their tone, equally distant from the
turbulence of passion, and the languor of indolence : and by that
tone are perfectly well quahfied, not only to revive the spirits when
sunk by sensual gratification, but also to relax them when over-
strained m any violent pursuit. Here is a remedy provided for
many distresses ; and, to be convinced of its salutary effects, it will
be sufficient to run over the following particulars. Organic pleasures
have naturally a short duration : when prolonged, they lose their
relish; when indulged to excess, they beget satiety and disgust:
and, to restore a proper tone of mind, nothing can be more happily
■contrived than the exhilarating pleasures of the eye and ear. On
the other hand, any intense exercise of intellectual powers, becomes
painful by overstraining the mind. Cessation from such exercise
gures not instant relief: it is necessary that the void be filled with
some amusement, gently relaxing the spirits.* Organic pleasure,
which has no relish but while we are in vigor, is ill qualified for
that oflice ; but the finer pleasures of sense, which occupy without
exhausting the mind, are finely qualified to restore its usual tone
afler severe application to study or business, as well as after satiety
from sensual gratification.
Our first perceptions are of external objects, and our first attach-
ments are to them. Orglanic pleasures take the lead : but the mind,
gradually ripening, relishes more and more the pleasures of the eye
and ear ; which approach the purely mental, without exhausting the
* Du Bos judiciously observes, that silence does not tend to calm an agitated
Aiind ; but that soft and slow music has a fine effect
Digitized
by Google
iNTRODuonoir. 13
spirits ; and exceed the purely sensual, without danger of satiety. ^
The pleasures of the eye and ear have, accordingly, a natural apti-
tude to draw us from the immoderate grati6cation of sensual appetite ;
and the mind, once accustomed to enjoy a variety of external objects
without being sensible of the organic impression, is prepared for
enjoying internal objects where there cannot be an organic impres-
sion. Thus the Author of nature, bv qualifying the human mind
for a succession of enjoyments from low to high, leads it, hy gentle
steps, from the most grovelling corporeal pleasures, for which only
it is fitted in the beginning of life, to those refined and sublime plea-
sures that are suited to its maturity.
But we are not bound down to this succession by any law of
necessity. The God of nature ofiers it to us, in order to advance
our happiness ; and it is sufficient, that he has enabled us to carry it
on in a natural course. Nor has he made our task either disagree-
able or difficult: on the contrary, the transition is sweet and easy,
from corporeal pleasures to the more refined pleasures of sense , and
no less so, from these, to the exalted pleasure's of morality and reli- -
gion. We stand, therefore, engaged in honor, as well as interest,
to second the purposes of nature, by cultivating the pleasures of the
eye and ear ; those, especially, that require extraordinary culture* —
such as arise from poetry, painting, sculpture, music, gardening, and
architecture. This, ei*pecially, is the duty of the opulent, who have
leisure to improve their minds and their feelings. The fine arts are
contrived to give pleasure to the eye and the ear, disregarding the
inferior senses. A taste for these arts is a plant that grows natu-
rally in many soils ; but, without culture, scarcely to perfection in
any soil. It is susceptible of much refinement; and is, by proper
care, greatly improved. In this respect, a taste in the fine arts goes
hand in hand with the moral sense, to which indeed it is nearly
allied. Both of them discover what is right and what is wrong :
fashion, temper, and education, have an influence to vitiate both, or
to preserve them pure and untainted: neither of them are arbitrary
nor local ; being rooted in human nature, and governed by princi-
ples common to all men. The design of the present undertaking,
which aspires not to morality, is, to examine the sensitive branch of
human nature, to trace the objects that are naturally agreeable, as
well as those that are naturally disagreeable ; and by these means
to discover, if we can, what are the genuine principles of the fine
arts. The man who aspires to be a critic in these arts must pierce
still deeper. He must acquire a clear perception of what objects are
lofty, what low, what proper or improper, what manly, and what
mean or trivial. Hence a foundation for reasoning upon the taste
• A taste for natural objects is born with us in perfection ; for relishing a fine
countenance, a rich landscape, or a vivid colour, culture is unnecessary. The
observation holds equally in natural sounds ; such as the singing of bircus, or the
murmuring of a brook. Nature here, the artificer of the object as well as of the
percipient, has accurately suited them to each other. But of a poem, a caiHata,
a picture, or other artificial production, a true relish is not commonly attained,
without some study ana much piacuce.
2
Digitized
by Google
14 INTRO0I7CTIOK.
of any individual, and for passing sentence upon it. Where it is
conformable to principles, we can pronounce with certainty that it is
correct ; otherwise, that it is incorrect, and perhaps whimsicai.
Thus the fine arts, like morals, become a rational science; and, like
morals, may be cultivated to a high degree of refinement.
Manifold are the advantages of criticism, when thus studied as a
rational science. In the first place, a thorough acquaintance with the
principles of the fine arts, redoubles the pleasure we derive from
them. To the man who resigns himself to feeling without inter-
posing any judgment, poetry, music, painting, are mere pastime, in
the prime of life, indeed, they are delightful, being supported by the
force of novelty, and the heat of imagination : but in time they lose
their relish; and are generally neglected in the maturity of life,
which disposes to more serious and more important occupations.
To those who denl in criticism as a regular science, governed by
just principles, and givingscope to judsfment as well as to fancy, the
fine arts ar^ a favorite entertainment; and in old age maintain thn»
relish which they produce in the morning of life.*
In the next place, a philosophic inquiry into the principles of the
fine arts, inures the reflecting mind to the most enticing sort of logi«:.
The practice of reasoning upon subjects so agreeable, tends to a habit;
and a habit, strengthening the reasoning facuhies, prepares the mind
for entering into subjects more intricate and abstract. To have, in
that respect, a just conception of the importance of criticism, we need
but reflect upon the ordinary method of education ; which, after soire
years spent in acquiring languages, hurries us, without the least pvf^-
paratory discipline, into the most profound philosophy. A more 1 1-
fectual method to alienate the tender mind from abstract science, is
beyond the reach of invention ; and accordingly, with respect to such
speculations, our youth generally contract a sort of hobgoblin terror,
seldom if ever subdued. Those who apply to the arts, are trained in
a very diflTerent manner. They are led, step by step, from the easier
parts of the operation, to what are more difficult; and are not per-
mitted to make a new jnotion, till they are perfected in those which
go before. Thus the science of criticism may be considered as a
middle link, connecting the diflTerent parts of education into a regular
chain. This science furnishes an inviting opportunity to '^xercise
the judgment. We delight to reason upon subjects that are equally
pleasant and familiar: we proceed gradually from the simpler to tho
more involved cases ; and in a due course of discipline, custom, which
improves all our faculties, bestows acuteness on that of reason, suf-
ficient to unravel all the intricacies of philosophy.
Nor ought it to be overlooked, that the reasonings employed oii
the fine arts are of the same kind with those which regulate our con-
duct. Mathematical and metaphysical reasonings have no tendency
to improve our knowledge of man ; nor are they applicab]«~ o the
common affairs of life : but a just taste of the fine arts, ( ' )d from
♦ " Though logic may subsist without, rhetoric or poetry, yet so necessary
to these last is a sound and correct logic, thftt without it they are no better than
warbling trifles." Hermes^ p. 6.
Digitized
by Google
k
INTBODVOTION. t5
rational principles, furnishes elegant subjects for conversation, and
prepares us for acting in the social state with dignity and propriety.
The science of rational criticism tends to improve the heart no
less than the understanding. It tends, in the first place, to moderate
the selfish affections. By sweetening and harmonizing the temper,
it is a strong antidote to the turbulence of passion, and violence of
:> pursuit. It procures, to a man, so much mental enjoyment, that, in
- order to be occupied, he is not tempted to deliver up his youth to
::« hunting, gaming, drinking ; nor his middle age to ambition ; nor
i i his old age to avarice. Pride and envy, two disgustful passions, find
ly^ in the constitution no enemy more formidable than a delicate and
discerning taste, 'i'he man upon whom nature and culture have be-
stowed this blessing, delights in the virtuous dispositions and actions
of others : he loves to cherish them, and to publish them to the world.
Faults and failings, it is true, are to him no less obvious ; but these
he avoids, or removes out of sight, because they give him pain. On
the other hand, a man void of taste, upon whom even striking beau-
ties make but a faint impression, indulges pride or envy without con-
trol, and loves to brood over errors and blemishes. In a word, there
we other passions, that, upon occasion, may disturb the peace of so-
ciety more than those mentioned ; but not another passion is so un-
wearied an antagonist to the sweets of social intercourse. Pride and
envy put a man perpetually in opposition to others ; and dispose him
to relish bad more than good qualities, even in a companion. How
different that disposition of mind, where every virtue in a companion
or neighbor is, by refinement of taste, set in its strongest light ; and
re defects or blemishes, natural to all, are suppressed, or kept out of
^e.^ view!
In the next place, delicacy of taste tends no less to invigorate the
social afifectioos, than to moderate those that are selfish. To be con-
vinced of that tendency, we need only reflect,. that delicacy of taste
necessarily heightens our feeling of pain and pleasure ; and of course
per our sympathy, which is the capital branch of every social passion.
lich Sympathy invites a communication of joys and sorrows, hopes and
IS a fears : such exercise, soothing and satisfactory in itself, is necessarily
jar productive of mutual good-will and affection.
fsej One, other advantage of rational criticism is reserved to the last
IJy , place, being of all the most important ; which is, that it is a great
he support to morality. I insist on it with entire satisfaction, that no
;b occupation attaches a man more to his duty, than that of cultivating
af- a taste in the fine arts : a just relish of what is beautiful, proper, ele-
gant, and ornamental, in writing or painting, in architecture or gar-
on ; aening, is a fine preparation for the same just relish of these qualities
m- J in character and behavior. To the man who has acquired a taste
cy so acute and accomplished, every action, wrong or improper, must
bej be h'Hly:. disgustful. If, in any instance, the overbearing power of
passiot^;»4y him from his duty, he returns to it with redoubled re-
solution if ever to be swayed a second time. He has now an addi-
tional motive to virtue, a conviction derived from experience, thai
happiness depends on regularity and order, ard that disregard to
Digitized
by Google
. 6 INTRODIICTION.
justice or propriety never fails to be punished with shame an««
remorse.*
Rude ages exhibit the triumph of authority over reason. Philo-
sophers anciently were divided into sects, being Epicureans, Plato-
nists, Stoics, Pythagoreans, or Sceptics. The speculative relied no
farther on their own judgment than. to choose a leader, whom they*
implicitly followed. In later times, happily, reason has obtained the
ascendant : men now assert their native privilege of thinking for
themselves ; and disdain to be ranked in any sect, whatever be the
science. I am forced to except criticism, which, by what fatality I
know not, continues to be no less slavish in its principles, nor less
submissive to authority, than it was originally. Bossu, a celebrated
French critic, gives many rules ; but can discover no better founda-
tion for any of them, than the practice merely of Homer and Virgil,
supported by the authority of Aristotle. Strange ! that in so long a
work, he should never once have stumbled upon the question,
whether, and how far, do these rules agree with human nature. It
could not surely be his opinion, that these poets, however eminent
for genius, were entitled to give law to mankind ; and that nothing
DOW remains, but blind obedience to their arbitrary will. If in wri-
ting they followed no rule, why should they be imitated ? If they
studied nature, and were obsequious to rational principles, why
should these be concealed from us?
With respect to the present undertaking, it is not the author's
intention to compose a regular treatise upon each of the fine arts ;
but only, in general, to eiriiibit their fundamental principles, drawn
from human nature,- the true source of criticism. The fine arts are
intended to entertain us, by making pleasant impressions ; and, by
that circumstance, are distinguished from the useful arts. But, in
order to make pleasant impressions, we ought, as above hinted, to
know what objects are naturally agreeable, and what naturally dis-
agreeable. That subject is here attempted, as far as necessary for
unfolding the genuine principles of the fine arts ; and the author
assumes no merit from his performance, but that of evincing, per-
haps more distinctly than has hitherto been done, that these princi-
ples, as well as every just rule of criticism, are founded upon the
sensitive part of our nature. What the author has discovered or
collected upon that subject, he chooses to impart in the gay and
agreeable form of criticism ; imagining that this form will be more
relished, and perhaps be no less instructive, than a regular and la-
bored disquisition. His plan is, to ascend gradually to principles,
from facts and experiments ; instead of beginning with the former,
handled abstractedly, and descending to the latter. But, though
criticism is thus his only declared aim, he will not disown, that all
* Gknius is allied to a warm and inflammable constitution, delicacy of taste to
calmness and sedateness. Hence it ijs common to find genius in one who is a prey
to every passion ; but seldom delicacy of taste. Upon a man possessed of that
blessing, the moral duties, no less than the fine arts, make a deep impression, and
counterbalance every irre^lar desire : at the scone time, a temper calm and sedate
is not easily moved, even oy a strong temptation.
Digitized
by Google
INTRODUCnOH. 17
aloag it has been his view, to explain the nature of Man, considered
as a sensitive being capable of pleasure and pain : and, though he
flatters himself with having made some progress in that important
science, he is, however, too sensible of its extent and difficuhy, to
undertake it professedly, or to avow it as the chief purpose of the
juresent work.
To censure works, not men, is the just prerogative of criticism ;
and, accordingly, all personal censure is here avoided, unleis where
necessary to illustrate some general proposition. No praise is
claimed on that account ; because censuring with a view merely to
find fault, cannot be entertaining to any person of humanity. Wri-
ters, one should imagine, ought, above all others, to be reserved on
that article, when they lie so open to retaliation. The author of this
treatise, far from being confident of deserving no censure, entertains
not even the slightest hope of such perfection. Amusement was at
first the sole aim of his mquiries. Proceeding from one particular
to another, the subject grew under his handj and he was far ad-
vanced before the thought struck him, that his private meditations
might be publicly useAil. In public, however, he would not appear
in a slovenly dress; and, therefore, he pretends not otherwise to
apologise for his errors, than by observing, that in a new subject, no
less nice than extensive, errors are, in some measure, unavoidable.
Neither pretends he to justify his taste in every particular. That
point must be extremely clear, which admits not variety of opinion;
and in some matters susceptible of great refinement, time is perhaps
the only infallible touchstone of taste. To that he appeals, and to
that he cheerfully submita
N. B. The Elements of Criticism, meaninc^ the whole, is a
title too assuming for this work. A number of these elements or
principles are here unfolded : but, as the author is far from imagin-
ing that he has completed the list, a more humble title is proper, such
as may express any number of parts less than the whole. This he
thinks is signified by the title he has chosen, viz. Elements of
Criticism.
2»
Digitized
by Google
Digitized
by Google
ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM.
CHAPTER I.
L continued train of perceptions and ideas passing through the mind — The influ-
ence of the relation of objects in directing the train of thought — Connected
ideas varied by different causes — The will accelerates our ideas by dismissing,
retards by dwelling upon, and raises by attending to their slighter connections —
A melancholy tone of mind produces melancholy ideas ; a cheerful tone pro-
duces cheerful ideas — Bluntness of the perceptive faculty prevents from distin-
guishing relations — A great flow of ideas the consequence — Accurate judg-
ment seldom connected with a great flow of ideas — Wit and judgment seldom
connected — Order as well as connection observable in the succession of our
ideas — The order of nature — The train of historical events, from cause to
effect — The scientific train, from effect to cause — The former the synthetic)
the latter the analytic method of reasoning — Order a restraint upon great
geniuses — Homer, Pindar, Virgil, and others, deficient in order and con-
* nection — An episode should be mteresting — It should relate to the subject— Tt
should be short — It should be introduced where the subject relents.
A MAN, while awake, is conscious of a continued train of percep-
tions and ideas passing in his mind. It requires no activity on his
part to carry on the train; nor can he at will add any idea to the
train.* At the same time, we learn from daily experience, that the
train of our thoughts is not regulated by chance : and if it depend
not upon will, nor upon chance, by what law is it governed ? The
question is of importance in the science of human nature ; and I
promise beforehand, that it will be found of great importance in the
fine arts.
It appears, that the relations by which things are linked together,
have a great influence in directing the train of thought Taking a
view of external objects, their inherent properties are not more
remarkable, than the various relations that connect them together :
cause and effect, contiguity in time or in place, high and low, prior
and posterior, resemblance, contrast, and a thousand other relations,
connect things together without end. Not a single thing appears
solitary and aUogether devoid of connection : the only difference is,
♦ For how should this be done 1 what idea is it that we are to add 1 If we can
specify the idea, that idea is already in the mind, and there is no occasion for any
act of the will. If we cannot specify any idea, I next demand, how can a person
will, or to what purpose, if there be nothing in view 1 We cannot form a concep-
tion of such a thing. If this argument need confirmation, I urge experience :
whoever makes a trial will find, that ideas are linked together in the mind, form-
ing a connected *»hain ; and that we have not the command of any idea indepen-
dent of the chain.
Digitized
by Google
20 PERCSPriONS AND IDEAS IlhA TRAIN. iCh. 1.
hat some are intimately connected, some more slightly ) some near.
some at a distance.
Experience will satisfy us of what reason makes probable, that
the train of our thoughts is, in a great measure, regulated by the
forefi^oing relations. An external object is no sooner presented to us
in iaea, than it suggests, (o the mind, other objects to which it is
related; and in that manner is a train of thoughts composed. Such
is the law of succession ; which must be natural, because it governs
all human beings. The law, however, seems not to be inviolable.
It sometimes happens that an idea arises in the mind, without any
perceived connection : as, for example, after a profound sleep.
But, though we cannot add to the train an unconnected idea, yet,
in a measure, we can attend to some ideas, and dismiss others.
There are few things but what are connected with many others ; and
when a thing thus connected becomes a subject of thought, it com-
monly suggests many of its connections. Among these a choice is
afibrded : we can insist upon one, rejecting others ; and sometimes
we insist on what is commonly held the slighter connection. Where
ideas are left to their natural course, they are continued through the
strictest connections: the mind extends its view to a son more
readily than to a servant ; and more readily to a neighbor than to
one living at a distance. This order, as observed, may be varied by
will, but still within the limits of related objects ; for though we can
vary the order of a tiatural train, we cannot dissolve the train alto-
gether, by carrying on our thoughts in a loose manner without any
connection. So far does our power extend ; and that power is suffi-
cient for all useful purposes : to have more power, would probably
be hurtful, instead of being salutary.
Will is not the only cause that prevents a train of thought from
being continued through the strictest connections : much depends on
the present tone of mind ; for a subject that accords with that tone
is always welcome. Thus, in good spirits, a cheerful subject will
be introduced by the slightest connection ; and one that is melan-
<;holy. no less readily in low spirits. An interesting subject is
recalled, from time to time, by any connection indifierenily, strong or
weak ; which is finely touched by Shakspeare, with relation to a
rich cargo at sea:
My wind, cooling my broth,
Would blow me to an ague, when I thought
What harm a wind too great might do at sea
I should not see the sandy hour-glass run,
But I should think of shallows and of flats ;
And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand.
Vailing her high top lower than her ribs,
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church|
And see the holy edifice of stone,
And not bethink me strait of dangerous rocks 1
Which touching but my gentle vessel's side,
Would scatter all the spices on the stream,
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks;
And, in a word, but now worth this,
And now worth nothing.
MerckaiU of Venice, Act L Se. L
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 1.] PFRCBPTI0N8 AND IDEAS IN A TKAIK. 2a
Another cause clearly distinguishable from that now mentioned,
has also a considerable influence to vary the natural train of ideas ;
which is, that, in the minds of some persons, thoughts and circum-
stances crowd upon each other by the slightest connections. I
ascribe this to a bluntness in the aiscerning faculty ; for a person
who cannot accurately distinguish between a slight connection and
one that is more intimate, is equally affected by each. Such a pei-
son must necessarily have a gjeat flow of ideas, because they are
introduced by any relation indifferently ; and the slighter relations,
being without number, furnish ideas without end. This doctrine is,
in a lively manner, illustrated by Shakspeare.
FalsUiff. What is the gross sum that I owe thee 1
Hostess. Many, if thou wert an honest man^ thyself and thy money too.
Thou didst swear to me on a parcel oriU-goblet, sitting in my Dolphin-chamber,
at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday in Whitsun-week, when the
Prince broke thy head for likenino^ him to a singing man of Windsor ; thou didst
swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me^ and make me my
Lady thy wife. Canst thou deny it 1 Did not Goodwife Keech, the butcher s
wife, come in then, and call me Uossip Cluickly 1 coming in to borrow a mess of
vinegar ; telling us she had a good dish of prawns ; whereby Uiou didst desire to
eat some ; whereby I told thee they were ill for a men wound. And didst not
thou, when she was gone down stairs, desire me to be no more so familiarity with
such poor j)eople, saying, that ere long they should call me Madam 1 And didst
thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch thee thirty shillings 1 1 put thee now to thy
IxK^-oath, deny it if thou canst 1
Second PaH, Henry IV. Act II. Sc. 2.
On the other hand, a man of accurate judgment cannot have a
great flow of ideas, because the slighter relations, making no figure
in his mind, have no power to introduce ideas. And hence it is
that accurate judgment is not friendly to declamation or copious elo-
quence. This reasoning is confirmed by experience ; for it is a
noted observation, that a great or comprehensive memory is seldom
connected with a good judgment.
As an additional confirmation, I appeal to another noted observa-
tion, that wit and judgment are seldom united. Wit consists chiefly
in joining things by distant and fanciful relations, which surprise
because they are unexpected : such relations, being of the slightest
kind, readily occur to those only who make every relation equally
welcome. Wit, upon that account, is, in a good measure, incompati-
ble with solid judgment ; which, neglecting trivial relations, adheres
to what are substantial and permanent. Thus memory and wit are
often conjoined : solid judgment seldom with either.
Every man who attends to his own ideas, will discover order as
well as connection in their succession. There is implanted in the
breast of every man a principle of order, which governs the arrange-
ment of his perceptions, of his ideas, and of his actions. With ro;-
gard to perceptions, I observe that, in things of equal rank, such as
sheep in a fold, or trees in a wood, it must be indifferent in what
order they be surveyed. But, in things of unequal rank, our ten-
dency is, to view the principal subject before we descend to its ac-
cessories or ornaments, and the superior before the inferior or de-
pendant : wo are equally averse to enter into a minute consideration
Digitized
by Google
22 PERCEPTIONS AND IDEA8 IN A TRAIN. [Ch. 1.
of constituent parts, till the thing be first surveyed as a whole. It
need scarcely be added, that our ideas are governed by the same
principle ; and that, in thinking or reflecting upon a number of
objects, we naturally follow the same order as when we actually
survey them.
The principle of order is conspicuous with respect to natural
operations ; for it always directs our ideas in the order of nature.
Thinking upon a body in motion, we follow its natural course: the
mind falls with a heavy body, descends with a river, and ascends
with flame and smoke. In tracing out a family, we incline to begin
at the founder, and to descend gradually to his latest posterity : on
the contrary, musing on a lofty oak, we begin at the trunk, and
mount from it to the branches. As to historical facts, we love to
proceed in the order of time ; or, which is the same thing, to proceed
along the chain of causes and effects!
But though, in following out an historical chain, our bent is to pro-
ceed orderly from causes to their effects, we find not the same bent
in matters of science. There we seem rather disposed to proceed
from effects to their causes, and from particular propositions to those
which are more general. Why this difference in matters that ap-
pear so nearly related ? I answer, that the cases are similar in ap-
pearance only, not in reality. In an historical chain, every event is
particular, the effect of some former event, and the cause of others
that follow : in such a chain, there is nothing to bias the mind from
the order of nature. Widely different is science, when we endea-
vor to trace out causes and their effects. Many experiments are
commonly reduced under one cause ; and again, many of these
causes under one still more general and comprehensive. In our
progress from particular effects to general causes, and from particu-
lar propositions to the more comprehensive, we feel a gradual dila-
tation or expansion of mind, like what is felt in an ascending series,
which is extremely pleasing. The pleasure here exceeds that >
which arises from following the course of nature ; and it is that
pleasure which regulates our train of thought in the case now men-
tioned, and in others that are similar. These observations, by the
way, furnish materials for instituting a comparison between the
synthetic and analytic methods of reasoning. The synthetic method,
descending regularly from principles to their consequences, is more
agreeable to the strictness of order ; but in following the opposite
course in the analytic method, we have a sensible pleasure, like
mounting upward, which is not felt in the other. The analytic
method is more agreeable to the imagmation ; the other method will
be preferred by those only, who, with rigidity, adhere to order, and
give no indulgence to natural emotions.*
It now appears that we are framed by nature to relish order and
connection. When an object is introduced by a proper connection,
we are conscious of a certain pleasure arising from that circum-
stanca Among objects of equal rank, the pleasure is proportioned
♦ A train of perceptions or ideas, with respect to its uniformity and variety, \a
handled afterwards, chap. 9.
Digitized
by Google
Oh. 1 ] PSRCSPTI0H8 AND IDEAS IN A TRAIN. 23
to the degree of connection ; but among unequal objects, where wa
require a certain order, the pleasure arises cbiefly from an orderly
arrangement ; of which one is sensible, in tracing objects contrary
to the course of nature, or contrary to our sense of order. Th^r
mind proceeds with alacrity down a flowing river, and with tht
same alacrity from a whole to its parts, or from a principal to its ac-
cessories ; but in the contrary direction, it is sensible of a sort of re-
trograde motion, which is unpleasant. And here may be remarkec
the great influence of order upon the mind of man. Grandeur
which makes a deep impression, inclines us, in running over any
series, to proceed from small to great, rather than from great to
small ; but order prevails over that tendency, and aflbrds pleasure
as well as facility in passing from a whole to its parts, and from a
subject to its ornaments, which are not felt in the opposite course.
Elevation touches the mind no less than grandeur ; and in raising
the mind to elevated objects, there is a sensible pleasure. The
course of nature, however, has still a greater influence than eleva-
tion : and therefore, the pleasure of falling with rain, aT\d descending
gradually with a river, prevails over that of mounting npward. But
where the course of nature is joined with elevation, the effect must
be delightful ; and hence the singular beauty of smoke ascending
in a calm morning.
I am extremely sensible of the disgust men generally have to
abstract speculation ; and I would avoid it altogether, if it could be
done in a work that professes to draw the rules of criticism from
human nature, their true source. We have but a single choice,
which is, to continue a little longer in the same train, or to abandon
the undertaking altogether. Candor obliges me to intimate this to
my readers, that such of them as have an invincible aversion to
abstract speculation, may stop short here ; for till principles be un-
folded, I can promise no entertainment to those who shun thinking.
But I flatter myself with a different bent in the generality of readers :
some few, I imagine, will relish the abstract part for its own sake ;
and many for the useful purposes to which it may be applied. For
encouraging the latter to proceed with alacrity, I assure them
beforehand, that the foregoing speculation leads to many important
rules of criticism, which shall be unfolded in the course of this
work. In the meantime, for instant satisfaction in part, they will
be pleased to accept the following specimen.
Every work of art that is conformable to the natural course of our
ideas, is so far agreeable ; and every work of art that reverses that
course, is so far disagreeable. Hence it is required in every such
work, that, like an organic system, its parts be orderly arranged and
mutually connected, bearing each of them a relation to the whole,
some more intimate, some less, according to their destination. When
due regard is had to these particulars, we have a sense of just com-
position, and so far are pleased with the performance. Homer is
defective in order and connection ; and Pindar is more rema'-kably
m. Regularity, order, and connection, are painful restraints on a
bold and fertile imagination ; and are patiently submitted to, only
Digitized
by Google
24 FBKCEPTIONS AND IDEAl IN A TRAIN. [Ch. 1.
. after much culture and discipline. In Horace there is no fault more
eminent than want of connection : instances are without number.^
In the first fourteen lines of ode 7. lib. i. he mentions several towns
and districts, more to the taste of some than of others : in the remain-
der of the ode, Plancus is exhorted to drown his cares in wine.
Having narrowly escaped death by the iall of a tree, this poet* take^
occasion to observe justly, that while we guard against some dan-
gers, we are exposed to others we cannot foresee : he ends with dis-
playing the power of music. The parts of ode 16. lib. 2. are so
loosely connected as to disfigure a poem otherwise extremely beau-
tiful. The 1st. 2d, 3d, 4th, 1 1th,. 24th, 27th odes of the 3d book, all
lie open to the same censure. The first i$atire, book I. is so deformed
by want of connection, as upon the whole to be scarcely agreeable.
It commences with the important question, how it happens that peo-
ple, though much satisfied with themselves, are seldom so with their
rank or condition. After illustrating the observation in a sprightly
manner by several exunples, the author, forgetting his subject, enters
upon a declamation against avarice, which he pursues till the 108th
line. There he makes an apology for wandering, and promises to
return to his subject ; but avarice having got possession of his mind,
he follows out that theme to the end, and never returns to the ques-
tion proposed in the beginning.
Of Virgil's Greorgics, though esteemed the most complete work
of that author, the parts are ill connected, and the transitions far from
being sweet and easy. In the first bookf he deviates from his sub-
ject to give a description of the five zones. The want of connection
here, as well as in the description of the prodigies that accompanied
the death of CsBsar, are scarcely pardonable. A digression on the
praises of Italy in the second book, J is not more happily introduced :
and in the midst of a declamation upon the pleasures of husbandry,
which makes part of the same book,^ the author introduces himself
into the poem without the slightest connection. In the Lutrin, the
Goddess of Discord is introduced without any connection. She is
of no consequence in the poem ; and acts no part except that of lavish-
ing praise upon Louis XIV. The two prefaces of Sallust look as
if by some blunder they had been prefixed to his two histories : they
will suit any other history as well, or any subject as well as history.
Even the members of these prefaces are but loosely connected : they
look more like a number of maxims or observations than a connected
discourse.
An episode, in a narrative poem, being in effect an accessory,
demands not that strict union with the principal subject, which is
requisite between a whole and its constituent parts : it demands, how-
ever, a degree of union, such as ought to subsist between a princiual
and accessory ; and therefore will npt be graceful if it be loosely con-
nected with the principal subject. I give, for an example, the descent
of w^neas into hell, which employs the sixth book of the ^neid.
The reader is not prepared for that important event : no cause »8
assigned that can make it appear necessary, or even natural, to sus-
• lib. ii. ode 13. t Lin. 231. t Lin. 13t § Lin. 475.
Digitized
by Google
CL l.J PERCEFTION« AHD IDEAS IN A TRAIN. 25
pend, for so long a time, tb^ principal action in its most interesting
ferhd : the poet can find no pretext for an adventure so extraordi-
nary, but the hero's longing to visit the ghost of his father, recently
dead : in the mean time the story is interrupted, and the reader losec
his ardor. Pity it is that an episode so extremely beautiful, were
not more happily introduced. I must observe, at the same time, thitt
Ml justice is done to this incident, by considering it to be an episode ;
for if it be a constituent part of the principal action, the conneciioii
oaght to be still more intimate. The same objection lies against that
elaborate description of Fame in the iEneid :* any other book of
that heroic poem, or of any heroic poem, has as good a title to that
description as the book where it is placed.
In a natural landscape, we every day perceive a multitude of
objects connected by contiguity solely; wnich is not unpleasant,
because objects of sight make an impression so lively, that a relation
even of the slightest kind is relished. This, however, ought not to
be imitated in description. Words are so for short of the eye in
liveliness of impression, that in a description connection ought to be
carefully studied ; for new objects introduced in description are made
more or less welcome in proportion to the degree of their connectioi^
with the principal subject. In the following passage, different things
are brought together without the slightest connection, if it be nol
what may be called verbal, i. e. taking the same word in differenT
meanings.
Sur^amos : solet esse gravb cantantibus umbra.
Jumper! gravis umbra : nocent et frugibus umbrs*
Ite domum satune, venit Hesperus, ite capellse.
Virg. Buc. X. 7b.
Now let us rise, for hoarseness oft invades
The singer's voice, who sings beneath the shades;
From juniper unwholesome dews distil
That wast the sooty corn, the withering herbaa;e kill —
Away, my goats, away, for you have browzed your fiU.
The introduction of an object metaphorically or figuratively, will
not justify the Introduction of it in its natural appearance : a relation
so slight can never be relished :
Distrust in lovers is too warm a sun ;
But jret 'tis aight in loVe when that is gone.
And in those climes which most his scorching know,
He makes the noblest fruits and metals grow.
Part 2. Conqttest of Granada^ Act III.
The relations among objects have a considerable influence in the
gratification of our passions, and even in their production. But that
subject is reserved to be treated in the chapter of emotions and pas-
sions, f
There is not,. perhaps, another instance of a building so great,
erected upon a foundation so slight in appearance, as the relations of
objects and their arrangement. Relations make no capital figure in
the mind, the bulk of them being transitory, and some extremely
trivial. They are, however, the links that, by uniting our percep-
tions into one connected chain, produce connection of action, becanse
• Lib. iv. lin. 173. t Chap. 2. part L lect 4.
3
Digitized
by Google
W SHOTiaNS AND PASSIONS. [CL 2L
perception and action have an intimate Correspondence. But it i5
not sufficient for the conduct of life, that our actions be linked
together, however intimately : it is beside necessary that they pro-
feed in a certain ord^r ; andf this also is provided for by an origmal
propensity. Thus order and connection, while they aamit sufficient
trariety, introduce a method in the management of affairs: without
them our conduct would be fluctuating and desultory; and we should
be hurried from thought to thought, and from action to action,
entirely at the mercy of chance
CHAPTER II.
EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS.
The feelings excited by the eye and ear only, called emotions or passions — The
connection between the fine arts and emotions and passions, the desis^n of this
chapter — The principles of the fine arts open a direct avenue to the heart — A
general or slight survey all that can be expected.
Of all the feelings raised in us by external objects, those only of
the eye and the ear are honored with the name of passion or emo-
fion: the most pleasing feelings of taste, or touch, or smell, aspire not
to that honor. From this observation appears the connection of emo-
tions and passions with the fine arts, which, as observed in the intro-
duction, are all calculated to give pleasure to the eye or the ear ;
never once descending to gratify any of the inferior senses. The
design, accordingly, of this chapter, is to delineate that connection,
with the view chiefly to ascertain what power the fine arts have to
raise emotions and passions. To those who would excel in the fine
arts, that branch of knowledge is indispensable ; for without it the
critic, as well as the undertaker, ignorant of any rule, has nothing
left but to abandon himself to chance. Destitute of that branch of
knowledge, in vain will either pretend to foretell what effect his work
will have upon the heart.
The principles of the fine arts, appear, in this view, to open a direct
avenue to the heart of man. The inquisitive mind beginning with cri-
ticism, the most agreeable of all amusements, and finding no obstruc-
tion in its progress, advances far into the sensitive part of our nature;
and gains imperceptibly a thorough knowledge of the human heart,
of its desires, and of every motive to action — ^a science, which of all
that can be reached by man, is to him of the greatest importance.
Upon a subject so comprehensive, all that can be expected in this
chapter, is a general or slight survey; and to shorten that survey, I
propose to handle separately some emotions more peculiarly con-
nected with the fine arts. Even after that circumscription, so much
matter comes under the present chapter, that, to avoid confusion, I
find it necessary to divide it into many parts : and though the first of
&ese is confined to such causes of emotion or passion as are the
most common and the most general, yet upon examination I find this
Digitized
by Google
Pan I.] xvoTioNs and PAMioMi. 27
single part so extensive, as to require a subdivision into several teo*
tioDS. Human nature is a complicated machine, and is unavoidablj
so, in order to ai^swer its various purposes. The public indeed have
been entertained with many systems of human nature that flatter the
mind by their simplicity. Accord in^f to some writers, man is entirely
a selfish being: according to others, universal benevolence is his
doty: one founds morality upon sympathy solely, and one upon
atility. If any of these systems Were copied from nature, the present
subject might be soon discussed. But the variety of nature is noteo
easily reached, and for confuting such Utopian systems without the
fatigue of reasoning, it appears the best method to take a survey of
human nature, and to set before the eye, plainly and candidly, nicts
as tbey really exist.
PART I.
CAUSES UNFOLDED OF THE EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS.
SECTION I.
No passion or emotion exists without an antecedent cause — We love whiu is
agreeable, and bate what is disagreeable — Sources of emotions — External qua-
Imes of objects — Internal qualities ofobjects — Actions of sensible beings ; with,
or without reflection — The intention o^ actions, not the event, to be considered
—The feelings of others — Recollected ideas — Desire follows some emotions
and not others — Passions always accompanied with (iesire; emotions,
not— Passion is productive of action : we do nothing without an antecedent
cause — The objects of our passions are general, and particular — Passions
directed to general objects, called appetites ; and those retam their name — An
appetite precedes the object; a passion follows it — Actions are instinctive tend
deliberative — Passions and actions are social, selfish, mixed, or dissociat—
Sligfat impediments increase desire; insurmountable ones overcome it — Dif-
ferent objects equally attainable, produce different degrees of emotion — Ra-
tional bemgs raise the strongest emotions; animate next; and inanimate the
weakest.
These branches are so interwoven that they cannot be handled
separately. It is a fact universally admitted, that no emotion or pas-
sion ever starts up in the mind without a cause. If I love a person,
it is for good qualities or good offices : if I have resentment against a
man, it must be for some injury he has done me : and I cannot pity
any one who is under no distress of body nor of mind.
The circumstances now mentioned, if they raise an emotion or
passion, cannot be entirely indifferent ; for if so, they could not make
any impression. And we find upon examination, that they are pot
indifferent. Looking back upon the foregoing examples, the good
qualities or good offices that attract my love, are antecedently agree-
able: if an injury did not give uneasiness, it would not cccasion
resentment against the author; nor would the passion of pity be raised
by an object in distress, if that object did not give pain.
What is now said about the production of emotion or passion;
resolves itself into a very simple proposition — ^that we love what is
sgreeable, und hate what is disagreeable And indeed it is evident^
Digitized
by Google
28 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. (Ch. 2.
that a thing must be agreeable or disagreeable, before it can be the
object either of love or of hatred.
This short hint about the causes of passion and emotion, leads to a
more extensive view of the subject. Such is our nature, that upon
perceiving certaip external objects, we are instantaneously conscious
of pleasure or pain : a gently-flowing river— e smooth extended plain
— *a spreading oak — a towering hill, are objects of sight that raise
pleasant emotions : a barren heath — a dirty marsh — a rotten carcass,
raise painful emotions. Of the emotions thus produced, we inquire
for no other cause than merely the presence of the object.
The things now mentioned, raise emotions by means of their pro-
^perties and qualities. To the emotion raised by a large river, its
«ize, its force, and its fluency, contributes each a share : the regu-
larity, propriety, and convenience, of a fine building, contribute each
io the emotion raised by the building.
If external properties be agreeable, we have reason to expect the
same from those which are iniernal ; and, accordingly, power, dis-
cernment, wit, mildness, sympathy, courage, benevolence, are agree-
able in a high degree. Upon perceiving these qualities in others,
we instantaneously/ feel pleasant emotions, without the slightest act
of reflection, or of attention to consequences. It is almost unneces-
sary to add, that certain qualities opposite to the former, such as dujl-
ness, peevishness, inhumanity, cowardice, occasion, in the same man-
ner, painful emotions.
Sensible beings aflect us remarkably by their actions. Some actions
raise pleasant emotions in the spectator, without the least reflection ;
such as graceful motion, and genteel behavior. But as intention, a
fcipital circumstance in human actions, is not visible, it requires
reflection to discover their true character. I see one delivering a
rarse of money to another, but I can make nothing of that action, till
learn with what intention the money is given. If it be given to dis-
charge a debt, the action pleases me in a slight degree ; if it be a
grateful return, I feel a stronger emotion ; and the pleasant emotion
rises to a great height, when it is the intention of the giver to relieve
a virtuous family from want. Thus actions are qualified by inten-
tion : but they are not qualified by the event ; for an action well
intended gives pleasure, whatever the event may be. Farther,
human actions are perceived to be right or wrong; and that percep-
tion qualifies the pleasure or pain that results from them'.*
♦ In U-acing our emotions and passions to their origin, my first thought was,
that qualities and actions are the primary causes of emotions ; and that these emo-
tions are afterwards expanded upon the being to which these qualities and actions
belong. But I am now convinced that this opinion is erroneous. An attribute
is not, even in imagination, separable from the being to which it belongs ; and,
for that reason, cannot, of itself, be the cause of any emotion. We have, it i»
true, no knowledge of any being or substance but by means of its attributes ; and
therefore no being can be a^eeable to us otherwise than by their means. But
still, when an emotion is raised, it is the being itself, as we apprehend the matter,
that raises the emotion ; and it raises it by means of one or other of its attributes. If
It be urged, that we can in idea abstract a quality from the thing to which it
belongs; it mi^ht be answered, that such abstraction may serve the purposes of
reasoning, but is too faint to produce any sort of emotion. But it is suf&cient for
Digitized
by Google.
Pnrt 1.] XMOTioirs and passions. S9
Emotions are raised in us, not only by the qualitirs and actions of
others, but also by their feelings. I cannot behold s man in distress,
without partaking of his pain ; nor in joy, without partaking of his
p*^»8ure.
The beings or things above described, occasion emotions in us,
not only in tfo original survey, but also when recalled to the memory
in idea. A field laid out with taste, is pleasant in the recollection,
as well as when under our eye: a generous action described in
words or colors, occasions a sensible emotion, as well as when we
see it performed; and when we reflect upon the distress of any
person, our pain is of the same kind with what we felt when eytf-
witnesses. In a word, an agreeable or disagreeable object recalled
to the mind in idea, is the occasion 6f a pleasant or painful emotioii;
of the same kind with that produced when the object was present:
the only difference is, that an idea being fainter than an original per-
ception, the pleasure or pain produced by the former, is proportion-
abiy fainter than that produced by the latter.
Having explained the nature of an emotion, and mentioned ssveral
causes by which it is produced, we proceed to an observation of con-
siderable importance in the science of human nature, which is, that
desire follows some emotions, and not others. The emotions raised
by a beautiful garden, a magnificent building, or a number of fine
faces in a crowded assembly, is seldom accompanied with desire.
Other emotions are accompanied with desire : emotions, for example,
raised by human actions and qualities. A virtuous action raises in
every spectator a pleasant emotion, which is commonly attended
with desire to reward the author of the action : a vicious action, on
the contrary, produces a painful emotion, aUended with desire to
punish the delinquent. Even things inanimate often raise emotions
accompanied with desire. Witness the goods of fortune, which are
objects of desire almost universally; and the desire, when immo-
derate, obtains the name of avarice. The pleasant emotion produced
in a spectator by a capital picture in the possession of a prince, is
seldom accompanied with desire ; but if such a picture be exposed
to sale, desire of having or possessing is the natural consequence of
a strong emotion. \
It is a truth verified by induction, that every passion is accompa-
nied with desire; and if an emotion be sometimes accompanied
with desire, and sometimes not, it comes to be a material inquiry^
in what respect a passion differs from an emotion. Is passion in its
nature or feeling distinguishable from emotion 7 I have been apt to
think that there must be such a distinction : but, after the strictest
the present purpose to answer, that the eye never abstracts ; by tliat organ we per-
ceive things as they really exist, and never perceive a quality as separated from
the subject. Hence it must be evident, that emotions are raised, not by qualities
abstractly considered, but by the substance or body so and so quali^ed. Thus,
a spreadmg oak raises a pleasant emotion, by means of its color, figure, umbrag«|
&c. It is not the color, strictly speaking, that produces the emotion, b«t the tfee
colored : it is not tiie figure abstractly considered that produces the emotion, but
the tree of a certain figure. And hence, by the way, it appears, that the beauty
of «ich an object is complex, resolvable into several beauties more simple
Digitized by VorOOQlC
30 ^ EXOTIOKS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2.
examination, I cannot perceive any. What is love, for example, but
a pleasant emotion raised by a sight or idea of the beloved female,
joined with desire of enjoyment? In what else consists the passion
of resentment, but in a painful emotion occasioned by the injury,
accompanied with desire to chastise the guilty person? In general,
as to passion of every kind, we find no more in its composition, than
the particulars now mentioned — an emotion pleasant or painful,
^companied with desire. What then shall we say? Are passion
and emotio7t synonymous terms? That cannot be averred; because
no feeling nor agitation of the mind void of desire, is termed a pas-
f ion ; and we have discovered, that ther^ are many emotions which
pass away without raising desire of any kind. How is the difficulty
to b.e solved? There appears to me but one solution, which I relish
the more, as it renders the doctrine of the passions and emotions
simple and perspicuous. The solution follows. An internal motion
or agitation of the mind, when it passes away without desire, is
denominated an emotion : when desire follows, the motion or agita-
tion is denominated a passion. A fine face, for example, raises in
me a pleasant feeling. If that feeling vanish without producing any
effect, it is in proper language an emotion ; but if the feeling, by
reiterated views of the object, become sufficiently strong to occa-
sion desire, it loses its name of emotion, and acquires that of passion.
The same holds in all the other passions. The painful feeling raised
in a spectator by a slight injury done to a stranger, being accompa-
nied with no desire of revenge, is termed an emotion ; but that injury
raises in the stranger a stronger emotion, which being accompanied
with desire of revenge, is a passion. External expressions of dis-
tress produce, in the spectator, a painful feeling, which being some-
times so slight as to pass away without any effect, is an emotion ; but.
if the feeling be so strong as to prompt desire of affording relief, it
is a passion, and is termed pity: envy is emulation in excess ; if the
exaltation of a competitor be barely disagreeable, the painful feeling
is an emotion ; if it produce desire to depress him, it is a passion.
To prevent mistakes, it must be observed, that desire here is taken
in its proper sense ; namely, that internal act, which, by influencing
the will, makes us proceed to action. Desire in a lax sense respects
also actions and events that depend not on us ; as when I desire that
my friend may have a son to represent him, or that my country may
flourish in arts and sciences : but such internal act is more properly
termed a wish than a desire.
Havitig distinguished passion from emotion, we proceed to con-
sider passion more at large, with respect, especially, to its power ol
producing action.
We have daily and constant experience for our authority, that no
man ever proceeds to action but by means of ah antecedent desire or
impulse. So well established is this observation, and so deeply rooted
in the mind, that we can scarcely imagine a different system ot
action : even a child will say familiarly, what should make me do this
or that, when I have no desire to do it ? Taking it then for granted, that
4he existence of action depends on antecedent desire, it follows, that
Digitized by V^OOQ IC^
PiEUrt 1.] MOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 81
wliere there is no desire there can be no action. This opens another
shining distinction between emotions and passions. The former,
being without desire, are in their nature quiescent: the desire included
in the latter, prompts one to act in order to fulfil that desire, or, in
other words, to gratify the passion.
The cause of a pssion is sufficiently explained above: it is that
being or thing, which, by raising desire, converts an emotion intp a
passion. When we consider a passion with respect to its power of
prompting action, that same being or thing is termed its object. A
fine woman, for example, raises the passion of love, which is directed
to her as its object : a man, by injuring me, raises my resentment,
and becomes thereby the object of my resentment. Thus the cause
of a passion, and its object, are the same in different respects. An
emotion, on the other hand, being in its nature quiescent, and merely
a passive feeling, must have a cause ; but cannot be said, properly
speaking, to have an object.
The objects of our passions may be distinguished into two kinds,
general and particular. A man, a house, a garden, is a particular
object : fame, esteem, opulence, honor, are general objects, because
each of them comprehends many particulars. The passions directed
to general objects, are commonly termed appetites, in contradistinc-
tion to passions directed to particular objects, which retain their pro-
per name. Thus we say an appetite for fame, for glory, for conquest,
for riches ; but we say the passion of friendship, of love, of grati-
tude, of envy, of resentment. And there is a material difference
between appetites and passions, which makes it proper ta distinguish
them by different names. The latter have no existence till a proper
object be presented ; whereas the former exist first, and then are
directed to an object. A passion comes after its object ; an appetite
goes before it, which is obvious in the appetites of hunger, thirst, and
animal love, and is the same in the other appetites above mentioned.
By an object so powerful as to make a deep impression, the mind
is inflamed, and hurried to action with a strong impulse. Where
the object is less powerful, so as not to inflame the mind, nothing is
feh but desire without any sensible perturbation. The principle of
duty affords one instance : the desire generated by an object of duty,
being commonly moderate, moves us to act calmly, without any violent'
impulse ; but if the mind happen to be inflamed with the importance
of the object, in that case desire of doing our duty becomes a warm
passion.
The actions of brute creatures are generally directed by instinct,
meaning blind impulse or desire, without any view to consequences.,
Man is framed to be governed by reason : he commonly acts with
deliberation, in order to bring about some desirable end ; and in that
case his actions are means employed to bring about the end desired.
Thus I give charity in order to relieve a person from want ; I per-
form a grateful action as a duty incumbent on ine ; and I fight for
my country in order to repel its enemies. At the same time, there
are human actions that are not governed by reason, nor are done
with iny view to consequences. Infants, like brutes, aie mostly
Digitized by V^OOQ IC
32 SMOTIONB AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 52*
jjoverned by instinct, without the least view to any end, gfood or rlL
And even adult persons act sometimes instinctively. Thus one in
extreme hunger snatches at food, without the slightest consideration
whether it be salutary : avarice prompts to accumulate weahh, with-
out the least view of use; and thereby absurdly converts means into
an end : and animal love often hurries to fruition, without a thought
even of gratification.
A passion when it flames so high as to impel us to act blindly
without any view to consequences, good or ill, may in that state be
termed instinctive; and when it is so moderate as to admit reason,
and to prompt actions with a view to an end, it may, in that state, be
termed deliberative.
With respect to actions exerted as means to an end, desire to
bring about the end is what determines one to exert the action ; and
desire considered in that view is termed a motive. Thus the same
mental act that is termed desire with respect to an end in view. Is
termed a motive with respect to its power of determining one to act
Instinctive actions have a cause ; namely, the impulse of the passion *
but they cannot be said to have a motive, because they are not donf
with any view to consequences.
We learn from experience, that the gratification of desire is plea
sant ; and the foresight of that pleasure becomes often an additional
motive for acting. Thus a child eats by the mere impulse of hunger:
a young man thinks of the pleasure of gratification, which being a
motive for him to eat, fortifies the original impulse : and a man far-
ther advanced in life, has the additional motive, that it will contri-
bute to his health.*
•Froln these premises, it is easy to determine with accuracy, what
passions and actions are selfish, and what social. It is the end in
view that ascertains the class to which they belong : where the end
in view is my own good, they are selfish : where the end in view is
the good of another, they are social. Hence it follows, that instinc-
tive actions, where we act blindly and merely by impulse, cannot be
reckoned either social or selfish. Thus eating, when prompted by
an impulse merely of nature, is neither social nor selfish ; but add a
motive, that it will contribute to my pleasure or my health, and it
becomes in a measure selfish. On the other hand, when affection
moves me to exert an action to the end solely of advancing my
friend's happiness, without regard to my own gratification, the action
is justly denominated social ; and so is also the affection that is its
cause : if another motive be added, that gratifying the aflfection will
also contribute to my own happiness, the action becomes partly self-
ish. If charity be given with the single view of relieving a person
from distress, the action is purely social ; but if it be partly in view to
enjoy, the pleasure of a virtuous act, the action is so far selfish. t
♦ One exception there is, and that is remorse, when it is so violent as to make
a man desire to punish himself. The gratification here is far from being pleasant
See p. 99 of this volume. But a single exception, instead of overturning a gene-
ral rule, is rather a confirmation of it.
t A selfish motive prbceeding from a social principle, such As that mentioned,
11 the most respectable of all selfish motives. To enjoy the pleasure pf a virtuous
Digitized by V^OOglC
P^rt 1.] EMOTIONS AND PA88I0N8. 81
Animal love when carried into action by natural impulse singly, is
oeitber social nor selfish : when exerted with a view to gratification,
It is selfish : when the motive of giving pleasure to its object is su-
peradded, it is partly social, partly selfish. A just action, when
prompted by the principle of duty solely, is neithcir social nor selfish.
When I perform an act of justice with a view to the pleasure of gra-
tification, the action is selfish: I pay debt for my own sake, not with
a view to benefit my creditor. But suppose the money has been
advanced by a friend without interest, purely to oblige me : in that
case, together with the motive of gratification, there arises a motive
of gratitude, which respects the creditor solely, and prompts me to
act in order to do him good ; and the action is partly social, partly
selfish. Suppose again I meet with a surprising and unexpected act
of generosity, that inspires me with love to my benefactor, and the
utmost gratitude. I burn to do him good : he is the sole object of
my desire ; and iny own pleasure in gratifying the desire, vanishes
out of sight. In this case, the action I perform is purely social.
Thus it happens, that when a social motive becomes strong, the
action is exerted with a view singly to the object of the passion, and
self never comes in view. The same effect of stifling selfish motives,
is equally remarkable in other passions that are in no view social.
An action, for example, done to gratify my ambitious views, is selfish;
but if my ambition become headstrong, and blindly impel me to
action, the action is neither selfish nor social. A slight degree of
resentment, where my chief view in acting is the pleasure arising to
myself from gratifying the passion, is justly denominated selfish.
Where revenge flames so high as to have no other aim but the des-
truction of its object, it is no longer selfish ; but, in opposition to a
social passion, may be termed dissocial.*
When this analysis of human nature is considered, not one article
of which can with truth be controverted, there is reason to be sur-
prised at the blindness of some philosophers, who, by dark and con-
fused notions, are led to deny all motives to action but what arise
from self-love. Man, for aught appears, might possibly have been so
framed, as to be susceptible of no passions but what have self for their
object: but man thus framed would be ill fitted for society: his con-
stitution partly selfish, partly social, fits him much better for his
present situation,!
action, one must be virtuous ; and to enjoy the pleasure of a charitable action, one
must think charity laudable at least, if not a dutv. It is otherwise where a man
gives charity merely for the sake of ostentation ; for this he may do without having
any pity or benevolence in his temper.
♦ This word, hitherto not in usr, seems to fulfil all that is required by Demetrius
Phalereus (O/ ElocidimiySect. ^i^iy.) in coining a new word: first, that it be per-
spicuous ; and next, that it be in the tone of the language ; that we may not, says
ouf autlior, introduce among the Grecian vocables, words that sound like those of
Phrygia or Scythia.
t As the benevolence of many human actions is beyond the possibility of doubt,
the argument commonly insisted on for reconciling such actions to the selfish sys-
tem, is, tliat the only motive I can have to perform a benevolent action, or an action
of any kind, is the pleasure that it affords me. . So much then is yielded, that we
arc pleased when we do good to others : which is a fair admission of the princi-
ple of benevolence ; for without tliat principle, what pleasure could one have in
Digitized
by Google
34 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2.
Of self, every one has a direct perception ; of other things we
have no knowledge but by means of their attributes : and hence it is,
that of self the perception is more lively than of any other thing'.
Self is an agreeable object: and for the reason now given, must be
more agreeable than any other object. . Is this sufficient to account
for the prevalence of self-love ?
In the foregoing part of this chapter it is suggested, that some
circumstances make beings or things fit objects for desire, others
not. This hint ought to be pursued. It is a truth ascertained by
universal experience, that a thing which in our apprehension is
beyond reach, never is the object of desire. No man in his right
senses desires to walk on the clouds, or to descend to the centre of
the earth : we may amuse ourselves in a reverie, with building"
castles in the air, and wishing for what can never happen : but such
things never move desire. And indeed a desire to do what we arc
sensible is beyond our power, would be altogether absurd. In the
next place, though the difficulty of attainment, with respect to things
within reach, often inflames desire ; yet, where the prospect of attain-
ment is faint, and the event extremely uncertain, the object, however
agreeable, seldom raises any strong desire. Thus beauty, or any
other good quality, in a woman of rank, seldom raises love in a man
grtnuly/her inferior. In the third place, different objects, equally
within reach, raise emotions in different degrees ; and when desire
accompanies any of these emotions, its strength, as is natural, is pro-
portioned to that of its cause. Hence (he remarkable difference
among desires, directed to beings inanimate, animate, and rational.
The emotion caused by a rational being, is out of measure stronger
than any caused by an animal without reason ; and an emotion raised
by such an animal, is stronger than what is caused by any thing
inanimate. There is a separate reason why desire of which a
rational being is the object, should be the strongest: our desires
swell by partial gratification ; and the means we have of gratifying
desire, by benefiting or harming a rational being, are without end.
Desire directed to an inanimate being, susceptible neither of pleasure
nor pain, is not capable of a higher gratification than that of acquir-
ing the property. Hence it is, that though every emotion accom-
panied with desire, is strictly speaking a passion ; yet commonly
none of these are denominated passions, but where a sensibly being,
capable of pleasure and pain, is the object.
SECTION II.
Speech the most powerful means by which one being can display himself to
another-T-Music may be rendered the means of promoting effeminacy and
luxury ; but its refined pleasures humanize and polish the mind — The eifect
of music on the Arcadians, an example — The pernicious effect of EnjgfUsh
comedy.
Upon a review I find the foregoing section almost wholly em-
ployed upon emotions and passions raised by objects of sight, though
doing good to otliers 1 And admitting a principle of benevolence, why may i^
not be a motive to action, as well as selfishness is, or any other principle 1
Digitized
by Google
Ptit 1.] BVOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 85
tley are also raised by objects of hearing. As this happened with*
out intention, merely because such objects are more familiar than
others, I find it proper to add a short section upon the power of
sounds to raise emotions and passions.
I begin with comparing sounds and visible objects with resp^t
to their influence upon the mind. It has already been observed that of
all external objects, rational beings, especially of our own species, have
the most powerful influence in raising emotions and passions ; and,
as speech is the most powerful of all the means by which one human
being can display itself to another, the objects of the eye must so far
yield preference to those of the ear. With respect to inanimate
oljects of sight, sounds may be so contrived as to raise both terror
and mirth beyond what can be done by any such object. Music has
a commanding influence over the mind, especially in conjunction
with words. Objects of sight may indeed contribute to the same
end, but more faintly; as where a love poem is rehearsed in a
shady grove, or on the bank of a purling stream. But sounds,
which are vastly more ductile and various, readily accompany all
the social afTections expressed in a poem, especially emotions of
love and pity.
Music having at command a great variety of emotions, may, like
many objects of sight, be made to promote luxury and effeminacy :
of which we have instances without number, especially in vocal
music. But, with respect to its pure and refined pleasures, music
goes hand in hand with gardening and architectui*e, her sister-arts,
in humanizing and polishing the mind;* of which none can doubt
who have felt the charms of music. Bdt, if authority be required,
the following passage from a grave historian, eminent for solidity of
judgment, must have the greatest weight. Polybius, speaking of
the people of Cynaetha, an Arcadian tribe, has the following train of
reflections. *' As the Arcadians have always been celebrated for
their piety, humanity, and hospitality, we are naturally led to in-
quire, how it has happened that the Cynaetheans are distinguished
from the other Arcadian^, by savage manners, wickedness, and cru-
elty. I can attribute this diflference to no other cause, but a total
neglect among the people of Cynajtba, of an institution established
among the ancient Arcadians with a nice regard to their manners
and their climate : I mean the discipline and exercise of that genuine
and perfect music, which is useful iu every state, but necessary to
the Arcadians ; whose manners, originally rigid and austere, made
it of the greatest importance to incorporate this art into the very
essence of their government. All men know that, in Arcadia, the
children are early taught to perform hymns and songs composed in
honor of their gods and heroes; and that, when they have learned
the music of Timotheus and Philoxenus, they assemble yearly in
the public theatres, dancing with emulation to the sound of flutes,
aod acting in games adapted to their tender years. The Arcadians,
even in their private feasts, never employ hirelings, but each man
^ings in his turn. They are also taught all the military steps and
♦ See Chapter 24.
Digitized
by Google
36 EMOTIONS AND PA88ION8. [Ch. 2.
motions to the sound of instruments, which they perform yearly in
the theatres, at the public charge. To me it is evident, that these
solemnities were introduced, not for idle pleasure, but to soften the
rough and stubborn temper of the Arcadians, . occasioned by the
coldness of a high country. But the Cynaetheans,, neglecting these
arts, have become so fierce and savage, that there is not another city
in Greece so remarkable for frequent and great enormities. This
con:sideration ought to engage the Arcadians never to relax, in any
degree, their musical discipline ; and it ought to open the eyes of
the Cynastheans, and make them sensible of what importance it
would be to restore music to their city, and every discipline that
may soften their manners; for otherw^ise they can never hope to
subdue their brutal ferocity."*
No one will be surprised to hear such influence attributed to music,
when, with respect to another of the fine arts, he finds a living in^
stance of an influence no less powerful. It is unhappily indeed the
reverse of the former; for it has done more mischief by corrupting
British manners, than music ever did good by purifying those of
Arcadia.
The licentious court of Charles II., among its many disorders,
engendered a pest, the virulence of which subsists to this day. The
English comedy, copying the manners of the court, became abomi-
nably licentious ; and- continues so with very little softening. It is
there an established rule, to deck out the chief characters with every
vice in fashion, however gross. But, as such characters viewed in
a true light would be disgustful, care is taken to disguise their de-
formity under the embellishments of wit, sprightliness, and good
humor, which in mixed company makes a capital figure. It requires
not much thought to discover the poisonous. influence of such plays
A young man of figure, emancipated, at last, from the severity and
restraint of a college education, repairs to the capital disposed to
every sort of excess. The playhouse becomes his favorite amuse-
ment ; and he is enchanted with the gayety and splendor of the chief
personages. The disgust which vice gives him at first, soon wears
offi to make way for new notions, more liberal in his opinion ; by
which a sovereigii contempt of religion, and a declared war upon the
chastity of wives, maids, and widows, are converted from being in-
famous vices to be fashionable virtues. The infection spreads gra-
dually through all ranks, and becomes universal. How gladly
would I listen to any one who should undertake to prove, that what
I have been describmg is chimerical ! but the dissoluteness of our
young men of birth will not suflfer me to doubt its reality. Sir
Harry Wildair has completed many a rake ; and in the Suspicious
Htbshand, Ranger, the humble imitator of Sir Harry, has had no
slight influence in spreading that character. What woman, tinc-
tured with the playhouse morals, would not be the sprightly, the
witty, though dissolute Lady Townly, rather than the cold, the
sober, though virtuous Lady Grace ? How odious ought writers to
be, who thus employ the talents they have received from their Maker
♦ Polybius, Lib. 4. cap. 3.
Digitized
by Google
PllTt 1.] EMOTIONS AND PA88I0N8. 87
most traitorously against himself, by endeavoring to corrupt and.dis-
figoie his creatures ! If the comedies of Congreve did not rack him
with remorse in his last moments, he must have been lost to all
sense of virtue. Nor will it afford any excuse to such writers, that
their comedies are entertaining; unless it could be maintained, that
wit and sprightliness are better suited to a vicious than a virtuous
character. It would grieve me to think so ; and the direct contrary
is exemplified in the Merry Wives of Windsor, where we are
highly entertained with the conduct of two ladies, not more remark-
able for mirth and spirit than for the strictest purity of manners.
SECTION III.
An emotion follpwed by desire termed a passion — The joy of gratification, an emo-
tion— An event contrary to our desire, produces pain — An unexpected eyent^
fortunate, or unfortunate, produces joy or sorrow — A sudden removal of great
pain, the highest source of joy — yniy this is the case — The difficulty of
accounting for the extreme pleasure that follows a cessation of bodily pain-^
The effect of the gradual diminution of pain.
This subject was purposely reserved for a sep^te section, be-
"iiuse it could not, witn perspicuity, be handled under the general
oead. An emotion accompanied with desire is termed a passion ;
md when the desire is fulfilled, the passion is said to be gratified
Now, the gratification of every passion must be pleasant; for nothing
;an be more natural than that the accomplishment of any wish or
lesire should affect us with joy. I know of no exception but when-
a man, stung with remorse, desires to chastise and punish himself.
The joy of gratification is properly called an emotion ; because it
makes us happy in our present situation, and is ultimate in its
nature, not havmg a tendency to any thing beyond. On the other
hand, sorrow must be the result of an event contrary to what we
desire : for if the accomplishment of desire produce joy, it is equally
natural that disappointment should produce sorrow.
An event, fortunate or unfortunate, that falls out by accident, with-
out being foreseen or thought of, and which, therefore, could not be
the object of desire, raises an emotion of the same kind as that now
mentioned : but the cause must be different ; for there can be no gra-
tification where there is no desire. We have not, howeveri far to
seek for a cause : it is involved in the nature of man, that he cannot
be indifferent to an event that concerns him or any of his connec-
tions: if it be fortunate, it gives him joy; if unfortunate, it gives
him sorrow.
In no situation does joy rise to a greater height, than upon the
removal of any violent distress of mind or body ; and in no situation
does sorrow rise to a greater height, than upon the removal of what
makes us happy. The sensibility of our nature serves, in part, to
account for these effects. Other causes concur. One is, that violent
distress always raises an anxious desire to be free firom it ; and
therefore its removal is a high gratification : nor can we be pos-
sessed of any thing that makes us happy without wishing its con*'
4
Digitized
by Google
38 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [CIl 2.
linuance; and therefore its removal, by crossing our wishes, must
create sorrow. The principle of contrast is another cause: an
tMDotion of joy arising upon the removal of pain, is increased by
contrast when we reflect upon our former distress : an emotion of
sorrow, upon being deprived of any good, is increased by contrast
when we reflect upon our former happiness :
Jaffler, There's not a wretch that lives on common charity,
But's happier than me. For I have known
The luscious sww-'ts of plenty : every night
Have slept with soil content about my h^,
And never wak^d but to a joyful morning.
Yet now must fall lik«^ a full ear of com,
Wlidsp blossom *scap'd, yet's withered in ttuj ri)>cuing.
Venice Preserved ^ Act I. Sc. 1.
It has always been reckoned diflicult to account for the extreme
pleasure that follows a cessation of bodily pain ; as when one, for
instance, is relieved from the rack. What is said explains this diffi-
culty, in the easiest and simplest manner : cessation of bodily pain
is not pf itself a pleasure, for a non-ens or a negative can neither
give pleasure nor pain ; but man is so framed by nature as to rejoice
when he is eased of pain, as well as to be sorrowful when deprived
of any enjoyment. This branch of our constitution is chiefly the
cause of the pleasure. The gratification of desire comes in as an
accessory cause : and contrast joins its force, by increasing the sense
of our present happiness. In the case of an acute pain, a peculiar
circumstance contributes its part: the brisk circulation of the animal
spirits occasioned by acute pain, continues after the pain is gone, apd
produces a very pleasant emotion. Sickness has not that eflfect,
because it is always attended with a depression of spirits.
, Hence it is, that the gradual diminution of acute pain, occasions
a mixt emotion, partly pleasant, partly painful : the partial diminution
produces joy in proportion ; but the remaining pain balances the
joy. This raixt emotion, however, has no long endurance ; for the
ioy that arises upon the diminution of pain, soon vanishes, and
leaves in the undisturbed possession, that degree of pain which
. remains.
What is above observed about bodily pain, is equally applicable to
the distresses of the mind; and, accordingly, it is a common artifice,
to prepare us for the reception of good news by alarming our feara
SECT. IV.
A feeling that can neither be called an emotion nor a passion — Instances of illus^
tration — This feeling resembles the appetites — It is raised by virtuous actions
only—The effect of it in promoting virtue.
One feeling there is that merits a deliberate view, for its singu-
larity as well as utility. Whether to call it an emotion or a passion,
. seems uncertain: the former it can scarcely be, because it involves
desire ; the latter it can scarcely be, because it has no object. But
this feeling, and its nature, will be best understood from examples
A signal act of gratitude produces in the spectator or reader, not
Digitized
by Google,
Purt 1.] EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. A
only love or esteem for the author, but also a separate feeling, beings
a vague feeling of gratitude, without an object — a feeling, however,
that disposes the spectator or reader to acts of gratitude, more than
open an ordinary occasion. This feeling is overlooked by writers
upon ethics ; but a man may be convinced of its reality, by attentive-
ly watching his own heart when he thinks warmly of any signal
act of gratitude : he will be conscious of the feeling, as distinct from
the esteem or admiration he has for the gratefulperson. The fffel-
ing is singular in the following respect — that it is accompanied with
a desire to perform acts of gratitude, without having any object ;
though in that state, the mind, wonderfully bent on an object,
neglects no opportunity to vent itself: any act of kindness or good
will, that would pass unregarded upon another occasion, is greedily
seized ; and the vague feeling is converted into a real passion of
gratitude : in such a state, favors are returned double.
In like manner, a courageous action produces in a spectator the
passion of admiration directed to the author : and beside this weU-
known passion, a separate feeling is raised in the spectator, which
may be called an emotion of caurage ; because, while under its in-
fluence, he is conscious of a boldness and intrepidity beyond what is
usual, and longs for proper objects upon which to exert this motion *
Spumantemque dari, pecora inter inertia, voti& *
Optat aprum, aut fulvuni descendere monte leonem.
JSneid, iv. 158.
And rather would the tusky boar attend,
Or see the tawny lion downward bend.
Non altramente il taiiro, ove Virriti
Gteloso uraor con stimoU pungenti,
Hon-ibilmente mugge, e co'ranggiti
Gli spirti in s5 risveglia, e I'ire ardenti :
E'l como aguzza al tronchi, e par ch' inviti
Con vani colpi alia batta^lia i venti.
Sparge col pid I'arena ; el suo rivale
Da lunge snda a guerra aspra e mortale.
Tasso, Canto 7. 8t. 55.
Like as a bull when prickt with iealousie
He spies the rivall of his hot desire ;
Through all the fields both bellow, rore and crie,
And with his thund'ring voice augments his ire,
And threatening battaile to the emptie skie,
Teares with his home, each tree, plant, bush and brire,
And with his fo6t casts up the sand on hight,
Defying his strong foe to deadly fight Fairfax.
So fUll of valor that they smote the air
For breatliing m their faces. ♦
Tempest, Act IV. Sc. 4.
The emotions raised by music, independent of words, must be all
of this nature : courage roused by martial music performed upon in-
struments without a voice, cannot be directed to any object; nor can
grief or pity raised by melancholy music of the saipe kind have
an object.
For another example, let us figure some grand and heroic action.
Digitized
by Google
%
40 EMOTIONS AMD PASSIOMS. [Ch. 2.
bighly agreeable to the spectator : beside veneration for the author,
the spectator feels in himself an unusual dignity of character, which
disposes him to great and noble actions : and herein chiefly consists
the extreme delight every one takes in the histories of conquerors
and heroes.
This singular feeling, which may be termed the sympathetic emo-
iion of virtue, resembles, in one respect, the well-known appetites
ithat lead to the propagation and preservation of the species. The
appetites of hunger, thirst, and animal love, arise in the mind before
they are dire(^ to any object ; and in no case whatever is the mind
«iore solicitous for a proper object, than when under the influence
of any of these appetites.
The feeling which I have endeavored to unfold, may well be
termed the sympathetic emotion of virtue ; for it is raised in the
•pectator, or in a reader, by virtuous actions of every kind, and by no
Others. When we contemplate a virtuous action, which fails not to
prompt our love for the author, our propensity, at the same time, to
«uch actions, is so much enlivened, as to become for a time an actual
emotion. But no man has a propensity to vice as such : on the con-
trary, a wicked deed disgusts him, and makes him abhor the author;
and this abhorrence is a strong antidote against vice, as long as any
impression remains of the wicked action.
In a rough road, a halt to view a fine country is refreshing ; and
here a delightful prospect opens upon us. It is indeed wonderful to
observe what incitements there are to virtue in the human frame :
justice is perceived to be our duty ; and it is guarded by natural pun-
ishments, from which the guilty never escape ; to perform noble and
fifenerous actions, a warm sense of their dignity and superior excel-
lence is a most efiicacious incitement.* And to leave virtue in no
quarter unsupported, here is unfolded an admirable contrivance, by
which good example commands the heart, and adds to viitue, the
force of habit. We approve every virtuous action, and bestow our
affection on the author ; but if virtuous actions produced no other
effect upoQ us, good example would not have great influence : the
sympathetic emotion under consideration bestows upon good exam-
ple the utmost influence, by prompting us to imitate what we
admire. This singular emotion will readily find an object upon
which to exert itself: and at any rate, it never exists without prociuc-
ing some effect ; because virtuous emotions of that sort are, in some
degree, an exercise of virtue ; they are a mental exercise at least, if
they appear not externally. And. every exercise of virtue, interna]
ana external, leads to habit ; for a disposition or propensity of the
mind, like a limb of the body, becomes stronger by exercise. Pro
per means, at the same lime, being ever at hand, to raise this sym
pathetic emotion, its frequent reiteration may, in a good measure,
supply the want of a more complete exercise. Thus, by proper dis-
cipline, every person may acquire a settled habit of virtue: inter
course with men of worth, histories of generous and disinterested
actions, and frequent meditation upon them, keep the sympathetic
* See Essays on Morality and Natural Religion, part 1. ess. 8. ch. 4.
Digitized
by Google ^
Pm 1.] MOTIONS AND PA88I0N8. 41
emotion in constant exercise, which by desfrees introduces a habit,
and confirms the authority of virtue : with respect to educi^tion in
particular, what a spacious and commodious avenue to the heart of
a young person is here opened !
SECTION V. .'
The relations between objects productive of emotions and passion*— The relation
between a being and its qualities — The relation between a principal and its
accessories — The effect of veneration for relics — The respect and esteem which
great men command, transferred to their dress, &c. — Hatred extends to all con-
nections— These emotions properly termed secondary, bein^ produced by jMri-
mary antecedent emotions— The power of self-love — Family connections —
Friendship produces hatred towards the enemy of our friend — Slight connec-
tions not favorable to the communication of passion — Exceptions to this — The
influence of order in the communication of passion — The two exceptions — The
effect of marriage in obstructing the affections — One passion generated by ano-
ther without a change of the object.
In the first chapter it is observed, that the relations by which
things are connected, have a remarkable influence on \he train of
our ideas. I here add, that ihey have an influence, no less remark-
able, in the (production of emotions and passions. Beginning with
the former, an agreeable object makes every thing connected With iti
appear agreeable ; for the mind, gliding sweetly and easily through
related objects, carries along the agreeable properties it meets wilt
in its passage, and bestows them on the present object, which there-
by appears more agreeable than when considered apart.* This rea-
son may appear obscure and metaphysical, but the fact is beyond all
dispute. No relation is more intimate than the relation between a
being and its qualities : and accordingly, every quality in a hero,
even the slightest, makes a greater figure than more substantial qua-
lities in others. The propensity of carrying along agreeable pro-
perties from one object to another, is sometimes so vigorous as to'
convert defects into properties: the wry neck of Alexander was imi-
tated by his courtiers as a real beauty, without intention to fiattef :
Lady Piercy, speaking of her husband Hotspur,
-By his light
Did al\ the chivalry of England move.
To do brave acts. He was indeed the glass,
Wherein the noble youths did dress themselves.
He had no legs that practis'd not his gait :
And speaking thick, which Nature made his blemish,
* Such proneness has the mind to this communication of properties, that we
often find a property ascribed to a related object, of which naturally it is not sus-
ceptible. Sir Richard Grenville in a single ship, being surprised by Uie Spanish
fl^t, was advised to retire. He utterly refused to turn from the enemy ; declar- .
ing, " he would rather die, than dishonor himself, his country, and her Majesty's
■jup." Hakhiyt, vol. ii. part ii. p. 169. To aid the communication of proper-
iOBs in instances like the present, there always must be a momentary personimc»-
tkHi : a ship must be imagined a sensible bein§, to make it susceptible of honor
or dishonor. In the battle of Mantinea, Epaminondas being mortally wounded,
was carried to his tent in a manner dead : recovering his senses, the first thing
lie inquired about was his shield ; which being brought, he 'kissed it as the com-
panion of his valor and glory. It must be remarked, that among the Greeks and
Romans it was deemed infamous for a soldier to retutn from battle without his
shield.
4*
Digitized
by Google
42 EMOTIONS AND PA88IONB. Ch. 2.
Became the wscents of the valiant:
For those who could speak slow and tardily,
Would turn their own perfection to abuse,
To seem like him. Secand Party Henry IV. Act II. Sc. 6.
The same communication of passion obtains in the relation of prin-
cipal and accessory. Pride, of which self is the object, expands itself
«pon a house, a garden, servants, equipage, and every accessory.
A lover addresses his mistress's glove in the following terms :
Sweet ornament that decks a thing; divine.
Veneration for relics has the same natural foundation; and that
foundation with the superstructure of superstition, has occasioned much
blind devotion to the most ridiculous objects — to the supposed milk,
for example, of the Virgin Mary, or the supposed blood of St. Jani-
Tarius.* A temple is in a proper sense an accessory of the deity to
which it is dedicated : Diana is chaste, and not only her temple, but
€he Tery icicle which hangs on it, must partake of that property :
The noble sister of Poplicola,
The moon of Rome ; chaste as the icicle
That's curdled by the frost from purest snow,
; And hangs on Dian's temple. Coriolanus, Act V. Sc. 3.
Thus it is, that the respect and esteem, which the great, the power-
ful, the opulent, naturally command, are, in some measure, communi-
<iated to their dress, to their manners, and to all their connections : and
it is this communication of properties, which, prevailing, even over
ihe natural taste of beauty, helps to give currency to what is called
ihe fashion.
By means of the same easiness of communication, every bad qua-
lity m an enemy is spread upon all his connections. The sentence
©ronounced against Ravaillac for the assassination of Henry IV. of
i'rance, ordains, that the house in which he was born should be
.*azed to the ground, and that no other building should ever be erected
on that spot. Enmity will extend passion to objects still less con-
nected. The Swiss suffer no peacocks to live, because the Duke of
Austria, their ancient enemy, wears a peacock's tail in his crest.
A relation more slight and transitory than that of enmity, may have
the same effect : thus the bearer of bad tidings becomes an object of
Aversion :
Fellow, begone ; I cannot brook thy sight;
This news hath made tliee a most ugly man.
King Johnj Act III. Sc. X.
Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news
Hath but a losing office : and his tongue
Sounds ever after, as a sullen bell
Remember'd, tolling a departed friend.
Second Part, Henry IV. Act t Be. 3.
In borrowing thus properties from one object to bestow them on
another, it is not any object indifferently that will answer. Tiw
♦ But why worship the cross which is supposed to be that upon which our Sa-
vior suffered 1 That cross ought to be Uie object of hatred, not of ven^ation.
if it be urged, that as an instrument of Christ's suffering it was salutary to man-
kind, I answer. Why is not also Pontius Pilate reverenced, Caiphas the lugb
priest, liad Judas Iscariot 1
Digitized by LjOOQ IC
Part I.] BMOTIONS AKD PAMIOWf. 43
object from which properties are borrowed, must be such as to warm
the miifd and enliven the imagination. Thus the beauty of a mis-
tress, which inflames the imagination, is readily communicated to a
^love, as above mentioned ; but the greatest beauty of which a glove
is susceptible, touches the mind so little, as to be entirely dropped
in passing from it to the owner. In general, it may be observed,
that any dress upon a fine woman is becoming; but that ornaments
upon one who is homely, must be elegant indeed to have any remark-
able effect in improving her appearance.*
The emotions produced as above may properly be termed secondary,
being occasioned either by antecedent emotions or antecedent passions,
which in that respect may be termed primary. And to complete the
present theory, I must add, that a secondary emotion may readily
swell into a passion for the accessory object, provided the accessory
be a proper object for desire. Thus it happens that one passion is
often productive of another: examples are without number; the sole
difficulty is a proper choice. I begin with self-love, and the power
it has to generate love to children. Every man, beside making part
of a greater system, like a comet, a planet, or a satellite only, has a
less system of his own, in the centre of which he represents the sun
darting his fire and heat all around ; especially upon his nearest
connections : the connection between a man and his children, funda-
mentally that of cause and effect, becomes, by the addition of other
circumstances, the completest thatcan be among individuals; and
therefore self-love, the most vigorous of all passions, is readily ex-
panded upon children. The secondary emotion they produce by
means of their connection, is sufficiently strong to move aesire, even
from the beginning ; and the new passion swells by degrees, till it
rivals, in some measure, self-love, the primary passion. To demon-
strate the truth of this theory, I urge the following argument.
Remorse for betraying a friend, or murdering an enemy in cold
blood, makes a man even hate himself: in that state, he is not con-
scious of affection to his children, but rather of disgust or ill-wilU
What cause can be assigned for that change, other than the hatred
he has to himself, which is expanded upon his children. And if so,
may we not, with equal reason, derive from self-love, some part, at
least, of the affection a man generally has to them ?
The affection a man bears to his blood-relations, depends partly
on the same principle : self-love is also expanded upon them ; and
the communicated passion is more or less vigorous m proportion to
the degree of connection. Nor does self-love rest here : it is, by the
force of connection, communicated even to things inanimate : and
hence the affection a man bears to his property, and to every thing
he calls his own.
Friendship, less vigorous than self-love, is, for that reason, less
♦ A house and gardens surrounded with pleasant fields, all in ffood order,
bestow greater lustre upon the owner than at first will be imagined. The beauties
of the former are, by intimacy of connection, readily communicated to the latter;
*nd if it have been done at the expense of the owner himself, we naturally transfer
to him whatever of design, art, or taste, appecu-s in the performance. Sbouldj
thb be a strong motive with proprifinw to i
Digitized
by Google
44 KVOTI0N8 AND PASSI0K8. [CL 2.
apt to communicate itself to the friend's children, or other relations.
Instances, however, are not wanting of such communicated ^passion,
arising from friendship when it is strong. Friendship may go higher
in the matrimonial stale than in any other condition ; and Otway, ia
Venice Preserved, lakes advantage of that circumstance : in the scene
where Belvidera sues to her father for pardon, she is represented as
pleading her mother's merits, and the resemblance she bore to hei
mother :
Priidi. My daughter!
Belvidera, Yes, your daughter by a mother
Virtuous and noble, faithful to your honor,
Obedient to your will, kind to your wishes,
Dear to your arms. By all the joys she gave you
When in her blooming years she was your treasure,
Look kindly on me ; in my face behold
The lineaments of hers y'nave kiss'd so often,
Pleading the cause of your poor cast-off chiki.
And again,
Belvidera. Lay me, I beg you, lay me
By the dear ashes of my tender mother :
She would have pitied me, had fate yet spar'd her.
Venice Preserved^ Act V. 8c. 1.
This explains why any meritorious action, or any illustrious quali-
fication, in my son or my friend, is apt to make me over-value my-
self: if I value my friend's wife or son upon account of their con-
nection with him, it is still more natural that I should value myself
upon account of my connection with him.
Friendship, or any otber social affection, may, by changing the
object, produce opposite effects. Pity, by interesting us strongly for
the person in distress, must consequently inflame our resentment
against the author of the distress : for, in general, the affection we
have for any man, generates In us good-will to his friends, and ill-
will to his enemies. Shakspeare shows great art in the funeral ora-
tion pronounced by Antony over the body of Caesar. He first en-
deavors to excite grief in the hearers, by dwelling upon the deplo-
rable loss of so great a man : this passion, interestir^gthem strongly
in Caesar's fate, could not fail to produce a lively sense of the treach-
ery and cruelty of the conspirators — an infallible method to inflame
the resentment of the people beyond all bounds :
Antony. If you have tears, prepare to shed- tliem now.
You all do know this mantle. I remember
The first time ever Caesar put it on ;
*Twa8 on a summer's evening, in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii
Look ! in this place ran Cassius's dagger through ;
See what a rent the envious Casca mede.
Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd ;
And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Caesar foUow'd it !
As rushing out of doors, to be resolv'd.
If Brutus so unkindly knock'd or no :
For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel.
Judge, oh you (iods ! how dearly Caesar lov'd him
This, this, was the unkindest cut of all ;
For when the noble Caesar saw him stab,
Digitized
by Google
Put 1.] BItOTIONS AND PA88IONI. 45
iD^ratitnde, more strong than traitor's armi,
Cluite Ycmquisb'd him ; then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell,
Even at the base of Pompey's statue.
O what a fall was there, my countrymen !
Then I and you, and all of us, fell down,
Whilst bloody trea^n flourish'd over us.
O, now you weep ; and I perceive you feel
The dint of pity ; these are gracious drops.
Kind souls ! what ! weep you when you but behold
Our Cassar's vesture wounided 1 look you here !
Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, by traitors.
Julius Casar^ Act III. Sc. 6.
Had Antony endeavored to excite his audience to vengeance, with-
out paving the way by raising their grief, his speech would not have
made the same impression.
Hatred, and other dissocial passions, produce effects directly op-
posite to those above mentioned. If I hate a man, his children, his
relations, nay his property, become to me objects of aversion : his
enemies, on the other hand, I am disposed to esteem.
The more slight and transitory relations are not favorable to the
communication of passion. Anger, when sudden and violent, is one
exception ; for, if the person who did the injury be removed out of
reach, that passion will vent itseif against any related object, how-
ever slight the relation be. Another exception makes a greater
figure : a group of beings or things, becomes often the object of a
communicated passion, even where the relation of the individuals
to the percipient is but slight. Thus, though I put no value upon
a single man for living in the same town with myself; my towns-
men, however, considered in a body, are preferred before others.
This is still more remarkable with resj^ect to my countrymen in gene-
ral: the grandeur of the complex objects swells the passion. of self-
love by the relation I have to my native country ; and every pas*
aion, when it swells beyond its ordinary bounds, has a peculiar ten-
dency to expand itself along related objects. In fact, instances are
not rare, of persons, who upon all oc(;asions are willing to sacrifice
their lives and fortunes for their country. Such influence upon the
mind of man has a complex object, or, more properly speakijog, a
general term.*
The sense of order has influence in the communication of passion
It is a common observation, that a man's aflection to his parents ie
less vigorous than to his children : the order of nature in descending
to children, aids the transition of the affection : the ascent to a pa-
rent, contrary to that order; makes the transition more difficult.
Gratitude to a benefactor is readily extended to his children ; but
not so readily to his parents. The difference, however, between the;
natural and inverted order, is not so considerable, but that it may
be balanced by other circumstances. Pliny t gives an account of a
woman of rank condemned to die for a crime ; and, to avoid public
shame, detained in prison to die of hunger: her life being prolong-
♦See Essays on Morality and Natural Religion, part 1. ess. 2. ch. 5.
tUb.7.cap.36.
Digitized
by Google
.46 KItOTIONS AND PA88I0N8. [Ch. 2.
ed beyond' expectation, it was discovered, that she was nourished by
sucking milk from the breasts of her dailghter. This instance of
filial piety, which aided the transition, and made ascent no less easy
than descent is commonly, procured a pardon to the mother, and a
pension to both. The story of Androcfes and the lion,* may be ac-
counted for in the same manner : the admiration, of which the lion
was the object, for his kindness and gratitude to Androcles, produ-
ced good. will to Androcles, and a pardon of his crime.
And this leads to other observations upon communicated passions.
I love my daughter less after she is married, and my mother less
after a second marriage: the marriage of my son or of my father
diminishes not my affection so remarkably. The same observation
holds with respect to friendship, gratitude, and other passions. The
love I bear my friend, is but faintly extended to his married daughter:
the resentment I have against a man is readily extended against chil-
dren who make part of his family; not so readily against children
who are foris-familiated, especially by marriage. This difference is
also more remarkable in daughters than in sons. These are curious
ficts ; and, in order to discover the cause, we must examine minutely
that operation of the mind by which a passion is extended to a related
object. In considering two things as related, the miAd is not sta-
tionary, but passes and repasses from the one to the other, viewing
the relation from each of them perhaps oftener than pnce; which
holds more especially in considering a relation between things of
unequal rank ; as between the cause and the effect, or between a prin-
cipal and an accessory. In contemplating, for example, the relation
between a building and its ornaments, the mind is not satisfied with
a single transition from the former to the latter ; it must also view the
relation, beginning at the lajter, and passing from it to the former.
This vibration of the mind in passing and repassing between things
related, explains the facts above mentioned : the mind passes easily
from the father to the daughter : but where the daughter is married,
this new relation attracts the mind, and obstructs, in some measure,
the return from the daughter to the father ; and «ny circumstance
that obstructs the mind in passing and repassing between its objects,
occi^ions a like obstruction in the conununication of passion. The
marriage of a male obstructs less the easiness of transition ; because a
male is less sunk by the relation of marriage than a female.
The foregoing instances are of passion comitiunicated from one
object to another. But one passion may be generated by another,
without change of object. It in general is observable, that a passion
paves the way to others similar in their tone, whether directed to the
same or to a different object ; for the mind, heated by any passion,
is, in that state, more susceptible of a new impression in a similar
tone, than when cool and quiescent. It is a common observation,
that pity generally produces friendship for a person in distress. One
reason is, that pity interests us in its object, and recommends all its
virtuous qualities : female beauty accordingly shows best in distress;
being more apt to irlspire love, than upon an ordinary occasion. But
* Aulus Gellius, lib. 5. cap. 14.
Digitized
by Google
PM I.] BM0TI0N8 AND PASSIONS. 47
the chief reason is, that pity, warming and melting the spectator,
prepares him for the reception of other tender affections ; and pity
IS readily improved into love or friendship, hy a certain tenderness '
and concern for the object, which is the tone oi both passions. The
aptitude of pity to produce love, is beautifully illustrated by Shak*
speare:
Othello. Her father lov*d me ; oft invited mc ;
Still questioned me the story of my life,
From year to year ; the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That 1 have past.
I ran it through, e*en from my boyish days,
To th' very moment that he bade me tell it :
Wherein 1 spoke of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by Hood and field ;
Of hair-breadth 'scape? m th' imminent deadly breach
Of being taken by the insolent foe, .
And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence,
And with it all my travel's history.
All these to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline ;
But still the house-affairs would draw her thence,
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse ; which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
• But not distinctively. I did consent.
And often did beetle her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke
That my youth suffer'd. My story bein? done.
She gave me for my pains a worki of sighs :
She swore, in faitli, twas Strang^, 'twas passing strange—
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful —
She wish'd she had not heard it : — yet she wish'd
That Heaven had made her such a man : — she thank'd me.
And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. On this hint I spake :
She lov'd me for the dangers I heid past.
And I lov'd her, that she did pity them :
This only is the witchcraft I nave us'd;
Othello, Act I. Sc. 8.
lo this instance it will be observed that admiration concurred with
pity to produce love.
SECTION VI.
Pear and anger, instinctive and deliberative — Fear provkles for self-preservatioii
by flight; anger, by resistance — Instinctive an^r frequently raised by bodily
pain and internal distress — Anger exhibited in its rare appearances oiuy.
Pear and anger, to answer the purposes of nature, are happily so
' contrived as to operate sometimes instinctively, sometimes deliber-
ately, according to circumstances. As far as they are deliberate,
4ey fall in with the general system, and require no particular expla-
nation. If any object have a threatening appearance, reason sug-
Digitized by V^OOQIC
48 BM0TI0M8 AND PASSIONS. [Ck 2l
gests means to ayoid the danger : if a man be injured, the first thing
he thinks of, is what^ revenge he shall take, and wh^t means he shall
employ. These particulars are no less obvious than natural. But,
as the passions of fear and anger in their instinctive state, are less
familiar to us, it may be acceptable to the reader to have them accu-
rately delineated. ' He may also possibly be glad of an opportunity
to have the nature of instinctive passions more fully explained, than
there was formerly opportunity to do. I begin with fear.
Self-preservation is a matter of too great importance to be left
entirely to the conduct of reason. Nature has acted here with her
usual foresight Fear and anger are passions that move us to act,
sometimes deliberately, sometimes instinctively, according to circum- '
stances; and by operating in the latter manner, they frequently
afford security, when the slower operations of deliberate reason would
be too late. We take nourishment commonly, not by the direction of
reason, but by the impulse of hunger and thirst ; and, in the same
manner, we avoid danger by the impulse of fear, which often, before
there is time for reflection, places us in safety. Here we have an
illustrious instance of wisdom in the formation of man ; for it is not
within the reach of fancy to conceive any thing more artfully con-
trived to answer its purpose, than the instinctive passion of fear,
which, upon the firw surmise of danger, operates instantaneously.
So little does the passion, in such instances, depend on reason, that
it frequently operates in contradiction to it^; a man who is not upon
his guard cannot avoid shrinking at a blow, though he knows it to
be aimed in sport ; nor avoid closing his eyes at the approach of
what may hurt them, though conscious that he is in no danger. And
it also operates by impelling us to act even where we are conscious
that our interposition can be of no service : if a passage boat, in a
brisk gale, bear much to one side, I cannot avoid applying the
whole force of my shoulders to set it upright ; and, if my horse stum-
ble, my hands and knees are instantly at work to prevent him from
&lling.
Fear provides for self preservation by flying from harm ; anger,
by repelling it. Nothing, indeed, can be better contrived to repel or
prevent injury, than anger or resentment : destitute of that passion,
men, like defenceless lambs, would lie constantly open to mischief*
Deliberate anger caused by a voluntary injury, is too well known to
require any explanation. If my desire be to resent an affront, 1
must use means ; and these means must be discovered by reflection :
deliberation is here requisite ; and in that case the passion seldom
exceeds just bounds. But; where anger impels one suddenly to
return a blow, even without thinking of doing mischief, the passion
:aB instinctive ; and it is chiefly in such a case that it is rash and
ungovernable, because it operates blindly, without affording time for
deliberation or foresight.
Instinctive anger is frequently raised by bodily pain; by a stroke,
• Brasidas being bit by a mouse he had caught, let it slip out of his fingers:
" No creature (says he) is so contemptible, but what may provide for its own
safety, if it have courage." PhUarch, Apcihegmata,
Digitized
by Google
Part 1.] BMOTIONS AND PASSlOllfl. 19
for example, on a tender part, which, raffling the temper, and unhing*
iogthe mind, is in its tone similar to anger : and when a man is thus
beforehand disposed to anger, he is not nice nor scrupulous about an
object ; the person who gave the stroke, however accidentally, is by
an inflammable temper held a proper object, merely for having occa-
sioned the pain. It is still more remarkable, that a stock or a stone
b^ which I am hurt, becomes an object for my resentment : I am
violently excited to crush it to atoms. The passion, indeed, in that
case, can be but a single flash ; for being entirely irrational, it must
vanish with the first reflection. Nor is that irrational eflfect confined
to bodily pain : internal distress, when excessive, may be the occasion
of effects equally irrational: perturbation of mind occasioned by the
apprehension of having lost a dear friend, will, in a fiery temper,
produce momentary sparks of anger against that very friend, how*
ever innocent : thus Shakspeare, in the Tempest^
AUmzo. Sit down and re«t
Ev'n here I will put off my hope, and keep it
No longer for my flatterer ; he is drown'd
Whom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocks
Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go.
Act III. Sc. 3.
The final words, Well, let Mm go, are an, expression of impatience
and anger at Ferdinand, whose absence greatly distressed his father,
dreading that he was lost in the storm. This nice operation of the
haman mind, is by Shakspeare exhibited upon another occasion* and
finely painted in the tragedy of Othello : lacfo, fey dark hints and
suspicious circumstances, had roused Othello's jealousy; which,
however, appeared too slightly founded to be vented upion Desde-
mona, its proper object. The perturbation and distress of mind
thereby occasioned, produced a momentary resentment against lago,
considered as occasioning the jealousy, though innocent :
OtkeUo. Villain, be sufe thou prove my love a whore;
Be sure of it : give me the ocular proof,
Or by the wrath of man's eternal soul
Thou hadst been better have been born a dog,
Than answer my wak'd wrath.
lago. Is't come to this ?
Othello. Make me see't ; or, at the least, to prove it,
That the probation bear no hmge or loop
To hang a doubt on : or wo upon thy life !
lago. My noble Lord
Othello. If thou dost slander her, and torture me,
Never pray more; abandon all remorse;
On hovror s head horrors accumulate ;
Do deeds to make heav'n weep, all earth amaz'd :
For nothing canst thou to damnation add
Greater than that.
Othello, Act II. Sc. 8.
This blind and absurd effect of anger is more gayly illustrated by
Addison, in a story, the dramatis persona of which are, a cardinal,
and a spy retained, in pay for intelligence. The cardinal is repre-
sented as minuting down the particulars. The spy begins with a
low voice, ** Such an one the advocate whispered to one of his friends
within my hearing, that your Eminence was a very great poltroon j"
5
Digitized
by Google
&) SMpTIONft AXD PA88ION1. [CL 2.
•ftikd a&er having given his patron time to take it down, aods, " That
another called him a mercenary rascal in a public conversation.''
The cardinal replies, " Very v^rell," and bids him go on. The spy
proceeds, and loads him with reports of the same nature, till the car-
dinal rises in a fury, calls him an impudent scoundrel, and kicks him
out of the room.* ^ .
We meet with instances every day of resentment raised by loss at
play, and wreaked on the cards or dice. But anger, a furious pas-
sion, is satisfied with a connection still slighter than that of cause
and effect ; of which Congreve, in the Mourning Bride, gives one
beautiful example :
G(msalez. Have comfort.
Almeria. Curs'd be that tongue that bids me be of comfort,
Curs'd my own tongiie that could not move his pity,
Curs'd these weak hands that could not hold him here,
For he is gone to doom Alphonso's death. Act IV. Sc. 8.
I have chosen to exhibit anger in its more rare appearances, for in
these we can best trace its nature and extent. In the e;camples above
given, it appears to be an absurd passion, and altogether irrational.
But we ought to consider, that it is not the intention of nature to sub-
ject this passion, in every instance, to reason and reflection : it was
given us to prevent or to repel injuries: and, like fear, it often ope-
rates blindly and instinctively, without the least view to consequen-
ces : the very first apprehension of harm, sets it in motion to repel
injury by punishment. Were it more cool and deliberate, it would
lose its threatenipg appearance, and be insufficient to guard us against
violence. When such is, and ought to be the nature of the passion,
it is not wonderful to find it exerted irregularly and capriciously, as
it sometimes is where the mischief is sudden and unforeseen. All
the harm that can be done by the passion in that state is instantane-
ous ; for the shortest delay sets all to rights ; and circumstances are
. seldom so unlucky as to put it in the power of a passionate man to
do much harm in an instant.
Social passions, like the selfish, sometimes drop their character,
aq^ become instinctive. It is not unusual to find anger and fear
respecting others so excessive, as to operate blindly and impetuously,
precisely as where they are selfish.
SECTION VII.
Passions excited by fiction — That things exist as we behold^ them is a branch of
intuitive knowledge — Difference between ideal presence and reflective remem-
brance— Ideal presence, as distinguished from real presence, called a waking
dream — As distinguished from reflective remembrance, it has no regard to time
—In reading, truth and fiction equally excite emotions — History capable of excit-
ing emotions by ideal presence only — Theatrical representations the most suc-
cessful in raismg emotions—Painting— Reading— The effect of describing a
past event as present— Not to go backwards and forwards— Nothing improbar
ble to be introduced in an epic poem— No machinery to be employed— The final
cause of the excitement of our passions by fiction.
The attentive reader will observe, that hitherto no fiction has
been assigned as the cause of any passion or emotion ; whether it be
* Spectator, No. 439.
Digitized
by Google
Ant l.J EVOnOHS AND PAtCTOHl. <1
& being, action, or quality, that tioves xis, it is supposed to be really
eiisting. This observation shows that we have not yet completed
ear task ; because passions, as all the world know, are moved by
fiction as well as by truth. In judging beforehand of man, ao
remarkably addicted to truth and reality, one should little dream that
fiction can have any effect upon him ; but man's intellectual faculties
are not sufficiently perfect to dive far, even into his own. nature.
I shall take occasion aflervvard to show, that the pewer of fiction to
generate passion is an admirable contrivance, subservient to excels
lent purposes : in the mean time, we must try to unfold the means
that give fiction such influence over the mind.
That the objects of our external senses really exist in the way and
manner we perceive, is a branch of intuitive knowledge: when I see
a man walking, a tree growing, or cattle grazing, I cannot doubt that
these objects are really what they appear to be : if I be a spectator
of any transaction or event, I have a conviction of the real existence
of the persons engaged, of their words, and of their action's. Nature
determines us to rely on the veracity of our senses ; for otherwise
they could not, in any degree, answer their end — that of laying opea
things existing and passing around us.
By the power of memory, a thing formerly seen, may be recalled
to the mind with dififerent degrees of accuracy. We are commonly
satisfied with a slight recollection of the capital circumstances ; and,
in such recollection, the thing is not figured as in our view, nor any
image formed : we retain the consciousness of our present situation,
and barely remember that formerly we saw that thing. But with
respect to an interesting object or event that made a strong impres-
sion, I am not satisfied with a cursory review, but must dwell upon
every circumstance. I am imperceptibly converted into a spectator,
and perceive every particular passing in my presence, as when I
was in reality a spectator. For example, I saw, yesterday, a beau-
tiful woman in tears for the loss of an only rhild, and was greatly
moved with her distress : not satisfied with a slight recollection or
oare remembrance, I ponder upon the melancholy scene : conceiving
myself to be in the place where I was an eye-witness, every circum*
stance appears to me as at first : I think I see the woman in tears,
dnd hear her moans. Hence it may be justly said, that in a com-
plete idea of memory there is no past nor future: a thing recalled to
the mind with the accuracy I have been describing, is perceived as
in our view, and, consequentl}^, as existing at present. Past time
makes part of an incomplete idea only : I remember or reflect, that
some years ago I was at Oxford, and saw the first stone laid of the
Ratcliff* library ; and I remember that, at a still greater distance of
time, I heard a debate in the House of Commons about a standing
army.
Lamentable is the imperfection of language, almost in every par^
ticular that falls not under external sense. I am talking of a matter
exceedingly clear in the perception, and yet I find no small difl^culty
to express it clearl}'' in words ; for it is not accurate to talk of inci-
dents long past as passing in our sight, nor of hearing at present
Digitized
by Google
52 BHOTION8 AHD PASSIONS. [Ch. ^.
what we really beard yesterday, or at a more distant time. Ana
yet the want of proper words to describe ideal presence, and to dis-
tinguish it from real presence, makes this inaccuracy unavoidable.
When I recall any thing to my mind in a manner so distinct as to
ibrm an idea or image of it as present, I have not words to describe
that act, but that I perceive the thing as a spectator, and as existing
in my presence ; which means not that I am really a spectator, but
only that I conceive myself to be a spectator, and have a perception
of the object similar to what a real spectator has.
As many rules of criticism depend on ideal presence, the reader,
it is hoped, will take some pains to form an exact notion of it, as dis-
tinguished, on the one hand, from real presence, and on the other,
from a superficial or reflective remembranco. In contradistinction
to real presence, ideal presence may properlv be termed a waking
^rea ITS ; because, like a dream, it vanishes the moment we reflect
upon our present situation : real presence, on the contrary, vouched
by eye-sight, commands our belief, not only during the direct per-
ception, but in reflecting afterward on the object. To distinguish
ideal presence from reflective remembrance, I give the following
illustration : when I think of an event as past, without forming any
image, it is barely reflecting or remembering that I was an eye--
witness : but when I recall the event so distinctly as to form a com-
plete image of it, I perceive it as passing in my presence ; and this
perception is an act of intuition, into which reflection enters not, noore
than into an act of sight.
Though ideal presence is thus distinguished from real presence
on thebne side, and from reflective remembrance on the other, it is,
however, variable without any precise limits; rising sometimes
toward the former, and often sinking toward the latter. In a vigor-
ous exertion of memory, ideal presence is extremely distinct. Thus,
when a man, entirely occupied with some event that made a deep
impression, forgets hjmself, he perceives every thing as passing
before him, and has a consciousness of presence similar to that of a
spectator; with no diff*erence but that in the former the perception
of presence is less Arm and clear than in the latter. But such vigor-
ous exertion of memory is rare : ideal presence is oftener faint, and
the image so obscure as not to differ widely from reflective remem-
brance.
Hitherto I have sj)oken of an idea of memory. I proceed to con-
sider the idea of a thing I never saw, raised in me by speech, by
writing, or by painting. That idea, with respect to the present sub-
ject, is of the same nature with an idea of memory, being either com-
plete or incomplete. A/ lively and accurate description of an import-
ant event, raises in me ideas no less distinct than if I had been
originally an eye-witness : I am insensibly transformed into a spec-
tator ; and have an impression that every incident is passing in my
presence. On the other hand, a slight or superficial narrative pro-
duces but a faint and incomplete idea, of which ideal presence makes
no part. Past time is a circumstance that enters into this idea, as it
does into an incomplete idea of memory : I believe that Scipio existed
Digitized
by Google
Put 1.] KHOTIOMt AMD PASSIOKS. R
about 2000 years ago, and that he overcame Hapnibal in the fiunoM
battle of Zama. When I reflect so slightly upon that memorable
event. I consider it as long past. But let it be spread out in a lively
and beautiful description, I am insensibly transformed into a specta-
tor: I perceive these two heroes in act to engage: I perceive them
brandishing their swords, and cheering their troops; and in that
manner I attend them through the battle, every incident of which
appears to be passing in my sight.
I have had occasion to observe,* that ideas, both of memory and
of speech, produce emotions of the same kind with what are pro-
duced by an immediate view of the object : only famter, in proportion
as an idea is fainter than an original perception. The insight we
now have, unfolds that mystery : ideal presence supplies the want of
real presence; and in idea we perceive persons actmg and suffering,
precisely as in an original survey: if our sympathy be engaged by
the latter, it must also, in some degree, be engaged by the former,
especially if the distinctness of ideal presence approach to that of
real presence. Hence the pleasure of a reverie, where a man, for-
getting himself, is totally occupied with tbe ideas passing in his
mind, the objects of which he conceives to be really existing in his
presence. The power of language to raise emotions, depends en-
tirely on the raising of such lively and distinct images as are here
described : the reader's passions are never sensibly moved, till he m
thrown into a kind of reverie ; in which state, forgetting that he is
riding, he conceives every incident as passing in his presence, pre-
cisely as if he were an eye-witness. A general or reflective remem-
brance cannot warm us into any emotion : it may be agreeable in
some slight degree ; but its ideas are too faint and obscure to raise
any thing like an emotion ; and were they ever so lively, they pass
with too much precipitation to have that effect : our emotions are
never instantaneous ; even such as come the soonest to their height,
have different periods of birth and increment ; and to give opportu-
nity for these different periods, it is necessary that the cause of every
emotion be present to the mind a due time ; for an emotion is not
carried to its height by reiterated impressions only. We know that
to be the case of emotions arising from objects of sight ; a quick
succession, even of the most beautiful objects, scarcely making any
impression ; and if this hold in the succession of original percep-
tions, how much more in the succession of ideas ?
Though all this while I have been only describing what passes in
the mind of every one, and of what every one must be conscious, it
was necessary to enlarge upon the subject ; because, however clear
in the internal conception, it is far from being so when described in
words. Ideal presence, though of general importance, has scarcely
ever been touched by any writer ; and however difficult the explica-
tion, it could not be avoided in accounting for the effects produced by
fiction. Upon that point, the reader, I presume, has anticipated me:
it already must have occurred to him, that if, in reading, ideal pre*
seace be the means by which our passions are moved, it makes no
* Part I. sect. 1. of the present chapter.
6*
Digitized
by Google
:$4 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2
difference whether^ the subject be a fable or a true history: when
ideal presence is complete, we perqeive every object as in our sight ;
and th^ mind, totally occupied with an interesting event, finds no
leisure for reflection. This reasoning is confirmed by constant and
universal experience. Let us take under consideration the meeting
of Hector and Andromache, in the sixth book of the Iliad ; or some
of the passionate scenes in King Lear : these pictures of human
life, when we are sufficiently engaged, give an impression of reality
not less distinct than that given by Tacitus, in his description of the
death of Otho : we never once reflect whether the story be true or
feigned ; reflection comes afterward, when we have the scene no
longer before our eyes. This reasoning will appear in a still clearer
light, by opposing ideal presence to ideas raised by a cursory nar-
rative; which ideas being faint, obscure, and imperfect, leave a va-
cuity in the mind, which solicits reflection. And accordingly, a curt
narrative of feigned incidents is never relished : any slight pleasure
> it aflfords, is more than counterbalanced by the disgust it inspires for
want of truth.
To support the foregoing theory, I add what I reckon a decisive
argument; which is, that even genuine history has no command
over our passions but by ideal presence only ; and consequently, that
in this respect it stands upon the same footing with fable. To me it
appears clear, that in neither can our sympathy hold firm against
reflection : for if the reflection that a story is a pure fiction prevent
our sympathy, so will equally the reflection that the persons de-
scribed are no longer existing. What eflfect, for example, can the
belief of the rape of Lucretia have to raise our sympathy, when she
died above 2000 years ago, and has at present no painful feeling of
the injury done her? The eflfect of history, in point of instruction,
depends, in some measure, upon its veracity. But history cannot
reach the heart, while we indulge any reflection upon the facts : such
reflection, if it engage our belief, never fails, at the same time, to
poison our pleasure, by convincing us that our sympathy for those
who are dead and gone is absurd. And if reflection be laid aside,
history stands upon the same footing with fable : what effect either
may have to raise our sympathy, depends on the vivacity of the ideas
they raise ; and, with respect to that circumstance, fable is generally
more successful than history.
Of all the means for making an impression of ideal presence,
theatrical representation is the most powerful. That words, inde-
pendent of action, have the same power in a less degree, every one of
sensibility must have felt: a good tragedy will extort tears in pri-
vate, though not so forcibly as upon the stage. That power belongs
also to painting : a good historical picture makes a deeper impres-
sion than words can, though not equal to that of theatrical action.
Painting seems to possess a middle place between reading and acting :
in making an impression of ideal presence, it is not less superior to
the former than inferior to the latter.
It must not, however, be thought, that our passions can be raised
by painting, to such a height as by words : a picture is confined to a
Digitized
by Google
Part 1.] BitOTioivs and passions. 85
single instant of time, and cannot take in a succession of incidents
its impression indeed is the deepest that can be made instantane-
ously ; but seldom is a passion raised to any height in an instant, or
by a single impression. It was observed above, that our passions,
those especially of the sympathetic kind, require a succession of im-
pressions ; and for that reason, reading and acting have greatly the
advantage, by reiterating impressions without end.
Upon the whole, it is by means of ideal presence that oun passions
are excited ; and till words produce that charm, they avail nothing ;
even real events entitled to our belief, must be conceived present and
passing in our sight, before they can move us. And this theory
serves to explain several phenomena otherwise unaccountable. A
misfortune happening to a strangfer, makes a less impression than
ooe happening to a man we know, even where we are no way inter-
ested in him : our acquaintance with this man, however slight, aids
the conception of his suffering in our presence. For the same
reason, we are little moved by any distant event ; because we have
more difficulty to conceive it present, than an event that happened in
our neighborhood.
Every one is sensible, that describing a past event as present, has
a fine effect in language : for what other reason than that it aids the
con« fsption of ideal presence ? Take the following example.
And now witli shouts the shocking armies clos'd,
To lances lances, shields to shields oppos'd ;
Host against host the shadowy legions drew,
The sounding darts, an iron tempest, flew ;
Victors and vanquish'd join promiscuous cries,
Triumphing shouts and dying groans arise.
With streaming blood the slipp'ry field is dy *d,
And slaughler'd heroes swell the dreadful tide.
Cn this passage we may observe how the writer, inflamed with the
suqject, insensibly advances from the past time to the present ; led to
that form of narration by conceiving every circumstance as passing
in his own sight: which, at the same time, has a fine effect upon
the reader, by presenting things to him as a spectator. But change
from the past to the present requires some preparation, and is not
sweet where there is no stop in the sfense: witness the following
passage.
Thy fate was next, O Phaestus ! doom'd to feel
The great Idomeneus' protended steel ;
Whom Borus sent (his son and onlyjoy)
From fniitfiil Tame to the fields of Troy.
The Cretan jav'lin reach'd him from afar,
And pierc'd nis shoulder as he mounts his cex.
Jliadj v. 57.
It is still worse to fall back to the past in the same period ; for that
is an anticlimax in description :
Through breaking ranks his ^rious course he bends.
And at the goddess his broad lance extends ;
Through her bright veil the daring weapon drove,
Th' ambrosial veil, which all the graces wove :
Her snowy hand tlie razing steel profan'd.
And the transparent skin with crimson stained. JUad, v. 415.
Digitized
by Google
M BHOTIOHS AND FA98ION0. [CL %
Again, describing the shield of Jupiter :
Here all the terrors of grim "War appear,
Here rages Force, here tremble Flight and Fear.
Here storm'd Contention, and here Fury frown d,
And the dire orb portentous Gorgon crown'd.
Jliad, V. 914.
Nor is it pleasant to be carried backward^ and forward alternately in
a rapid succession :
Then dv'd Scamandrius, expert in the chace,
In woods and wilds to wound the savage race ;
Diana taught him «J1 her sylvan arts.
To bend the bow and aim unerring darts :
But vainly here Diana's arts he tries,
The fatal lance arrests him as he flies ;
From Menelaus' arm the weapon sent,
Through his broad back and heaving bosom went
Down sinks the warrior with a thund'ring sound,
Bis brazen armor rings against the ground.
Iliad, V. 65.
It is wonderful to observe, upon what slight foundations Nature
erects some of her most solid and magnificent works. In appear-
ance at leAst, what can be more slight than ideal presence; and yet
from it is derived that extensive influence which language has over
the heart ; an influence which, more than any other means, strength-
ens the bond of society, and attracts individuals from their private
system to perform acts of generosity and benevolence. Matters of
fact, it is true, and truth in general, may be inculcated without taking
advantage of ideal presence ; but without it, the finest speaker or
writer would in vain attempt to move any passion : our sympathy
would be confined to objects that are really present ; and language
would lose entirely its signal power of making us sympathize with
beings removed at the greatest distance of time as well as of place.
Nor is the influence of language, by means of ideal presence, con-
fined to the heart ; it reaches also the understanding, and contributes
to belief For when events are related in a lively manner, and every
circumstance appears to be passing before us, wesufier not patiently
the truth of the facts to be questioned. An historian, accordingly,
who has a genius for narration, seldom fails to engage our belief
The same facts related in a manner cold and indistinct, are not suf-
fered to pass without examination : a thing ill described is like an
object seen at a distance, or through a mist ; we doubt whether it be a
reality or a fiction. Cicero says, that to relate the nianner in which
an event passed, not only enlivens the story, but makes it appear
more credible.* For that reason, a poet who can warm and ani-
mate his reader, may employ bolder fictions than ought to be ven-
tured by an inferior genius : the reader, once thoroughly engaged,
is susceptible of the strongest impressions :
Vcracjuc constituunt, quae belle tangere poesunt
Aureis, et lepido quse sunt fiicata sonore.
Lucretius, lib. 1. 1. 644.
-And most believing true
The silver sounds that charm th' enchanted ear.
• De Oratore, lib. 2. sect 81.
Digitized
by Google
Pait ].] BMOTIONS AND PASBIONt. 57
A. masterly painting has the same efiect. Le Brun is no small sup-
port to Gluintus Curtius : and among the vulgar in Italy, the belief
of scripture-history is, perhaps, founded as much upon the authority
of Raphael, Michael Angelo, and other celebrated painters, as upon
that of the sacred writers.*
The foregoing theory miist have fatigued the reader with much
dry reasoning; but his labor will not be fruitless; because I'rom
that theory are derived many useful rules in criticism, which shall
he mentioned in their proper places. One specimen shall be our
present entertainment. Events that surprise by being unexpected,
and yet are natural, enliven greatly an epic poem : but in such a
poem, if it pretend to copy human manners and actions, no impro-
bable incident ought to be admitted : that is, no incident contrary to
the order and course of nature. A chain of imagined incidents,
linked together according to the order of nature, finds easy admit-
tance into the mind ; and a lively narrative of such incidents occa-
sions complete images, or, in other words, ideal presence : but our
jadgment revolts against an improbable incident ; and, if we once
begin to doubt of its reality, farewell relish and concern — an un-
happy effect ; for it will require more than an ordinary effort, to
restore the waking dream, and to make the reader conceive, even
the more probable incidents as passing in his presence.
I never was an admirer of machinery in an epic poem, and I now
find my taste justified by reason ; the foregoing argument concluding
still more strongly against imaginary beings, than against improba-
ble facts. Fictions of that nature may amuse by their novelty and
singularity ; but they never move the sympathetic passions, because
they cannot impose on the mind any perception of reality. I appeal
to the discerning reader, whether that observation be not applicable
to the machinery of Tasso and of Voltaire : such machinery is not
only, in itself, cold and uninteresting, but gives an air of fiction to
the whole composition. A burlesque poem, such as the Lutrin or
the Dispensary, may employ machinery with success; for these
poems, though they assume the air of history, give entertainment
chiefly by their pleasant and ludicrous pictures, to which machinery
contributes. It is not the aim of such a poem, to raise our sympa-
thy ; and for that reason a strict imitation of nature is not required.
A poem professedly ludicrous, may employ machinery to great ad-
vantage ; and the more extravagant the better.
Having assigned the means by which fiction commands our pas-
sions, what only remains for accomplishing our present task, is to
♦ At quae Polj^cleto defuerunt, Phidia atque Alcameni dantur. Phidias tamen
diis quam hoininibus efficiehdis melior artifex traditur : in ebore vero longc citra
amulum, vel si nihil nisi Minervam Athenis, aut Olympium in Elide Jovem
iwlsset, cujus pulchritudo adjecisse aliqnid etiam receptae religioni videtur j adeo«
maiestas operis Deum sequayit.
But Phidias and Alcamenes possess those qualities which were denied to Poly-
cletus. Phidias, however, is said to be a better artificer of gods than of men — in
ivory, indeed, he is far beyond his rival, even if he had made nothing except his
Minerva at Athens, or his Olympian love in Elis, whose beauty seems to have
even added something to the received religion, so much has the majesty' of the
work represented a god. Quintilianf lib. 12. cap. 10. f 1.
Digitized by LjOOQ IC
58 KMOTIOKfl AND PASSIONS. [CL 2.
assign the final cause. I have already mentioned, that ficticm, by
means of language, has the command of our sympathy for the good
of others. By the same means, our sympathy may also be raised
for our own good. In the fourth section of tne present chapter, it
is observed, that examples, both of virtue and of vice, raise virtuous
emotions ; which becoming stronger ty exercise, tend to make us
virtuous by habit, as well as by principle. I now farther observe,
that examples confined to real events are not so frequent as without
other means to produce a habit of virtue : if they be, they are not
recorded by historians. It therefore shows great wisdom, to form
us in such a manner, as to be susceptible of the same improvement
from fable that we receive from genuine history. By that contri-
vance, examples to ftnprove us in virtue may be multiplied without
end : no other sort of discipline contributes more to make virtue
habitual, and no other sort is so agreeable in th : application. I add
another final cause with thorough satisfaction; because it shows,
that the Author of our nature is not less kindly provident for the
happiness of his creatures, than for the regujarity of their conduct.
The power that fiction has over the mind affords an endless variety
of refined amusements always at hand to employ a vacant hour:
such amusements are a fine resource in solitude ; and, by cheer-
ing and sweetening the mind, contribute mightily to social hap-
piness.
PART II.
EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS AS PLEASANT AND PAINFUL, AGREEABLB
AND DISAGREEABLE. MODIFICATIONS OF THESE QUALITIES.
The difference between agreeable and pleasant, and painful and disagreeable —
Agreeable and disagreeable, qualities of the object — Pleasant and painful, quali-
ties of our emotions — A passion or emotion becomes either agreeable or disagree-
able, when made the object of thought — Emotions pleasant or painful according
to their cause — Nature and desire, the rules for determining the agreeableness
or disagreeableness of emotions — Agreeable emotions follow good actions, leuid
disagreeable emotions, bad — A passion becoming the object of thought, may
produce a passion or emotion — Instances of pleasant passions that are disagppee-
able, and painful passions that are a^eeable — Modincations of these passions
are without limit — The delicacy of discriminating between them — Of pleasant
emotions, some are gross and others refined — Of painful passions, some are
voluntary, and others involuntary — Ridicule considered a gross Measure.
It will naturally occur at first, that a discourse upon the passions
ought to commence with explaining the qualities now mentioned;
but upon trial, I found that this explanation could not be made dis-
tinctly, till the difference should first be ascertained between an
emotion and a passion, and their causes unfolded.
Great obscurity may be observed among writers with regard to
the present point : particularly no care is taken to distinguish agree-
able from pleasant, disagreeable from painful ; or rather, these terms
are deemed synonymous. This is an error not at all venial in the
science of ethics ; as instances can and shall be given, of painfdi
Digitized
by Google
Pait2.' BVOTXONS AND FAMIOM8. 59
pAssioDS that are agreeable, and of pleasant passions {hat are di^
agreeable. These terms, it is true, are used indifierently in ftuniliai
conversation, and in compositions for amusement ; but more accu-
racy is required from those who profess to explain the passions. In
writing upon the critical art, I would avoid every refinement that
may seem more curious than useful ; but the proper meaning of the
terms under consideration must be ascertained, in order to under-
stand the passions, and some of their efiects that are intimately
connected with criticism.
I shall endeavor to explain these terms by familiar examples.
Viewing a fine garden, I perceive it to' be beautiful or afi^reeable;
and I consider the beauty or agreeableness as belonging to tne object,
or as one of its qualities. When I turn my attention from the gar-
den to what passes in my mind, I am conscious of a pleasant emo-
tion, of which the garden is the cause : the pleasure here is felt, as
a quality, not of the garden, but of the emotion produced by it. 1
give an opposite example. A rotten carcass is disagreeable, and
raises in the spectator a painful emotion : the disagreeableness is a
quality of the object ; the pain is a quality of the emotion produced
by it In a word, agreeable and disagreeable are qualities of the
objects we perceive ; pleasant and painful are qualities of the emo-
tions we feel: the former qualities are perceived as adhering to
objects ; the latter are felt as existing within us.
But a passion or emotion, beside being felt, is frequently made an
object of thought or reflection: we examine it; we inquire into its
nature, its cause, and its effects. In that view, like other objects, it
is either agreeable or disagreeable. Hence clearly appear the
different significations of the terms under consideration, as applied
to passion : when a passion is termed pleasant or painful, we refer
to the actual feeling ; when termed agreeable or disagreeable, we
refer to it as an object of thought or reflection ; a passion is pleasant
or painful to the person in whom it exists ; it is agreeable or dis-
agreeable to the person who makes it a subject of contemplation.
In the description of emotions and passions, these terms do not
always coincide: to make which evident, we must endeavor to ascer-
tain, first, what passions and emotions are pleasant, and what painful:
and next, what aire agreeable, and what disagreeable. With respect
to both, there are general rules, which, if I can trust to induction,
admit not a single exception. The nature of an emotion or passion,
as pleasant or painful, depends entirely on its cause: the emotion
produced by an agreeable object is invariably pleasant; and the
emotion produced by a disagreeable object is invariably painful.*
Thus, a lofty oak, a generous action, a valuable discovery in art or
science, are agreeable objects that invariably produce *pleasant emo-
tions, A stinking puddle, a treacherous action, an irregular, ill-
contrived edifice, being disagreeable objects, produce painful emotions.
Selfish passions are pleasant ; for they arise from self, an agreeable
object or cause. A social passion directed upon an ag]i;^eable object
is always pleasant ; directed upon an object in distress it is painfULf
* See Part 7. of this chapter. t Ibid.
Digitized
by Google
60 BMOTIOHS AND PAStlOKS. . fCh. 2.
Lastly, all dissocial passions, such as envy, resentment, malice, being
caused by disagreeable objects, cannot fail to be painful.
A general rule for the agreeableness or disagreeableness of emo-
tions and passions is a more difficult enterprise : it must, however,
be attempted. We have a sense of a common nature in every
roecies of animals, particularly in our own ; and we h^ve a convic-
tion that this common nature is right, or perfect, and that individuals
ought to be ijaade conformable to it.* To every faculty, to every
passion, and to every bodily member, is assigned a proper office
and a due proportion : if one limb be longer than the other, or be
disproportioned to the whole, it is wrong and disagreeable: if a
passion deviate from the common nature, by being too strong or too
weak, it is also wrong and disagreeable : but as far as conformable
to common nature, every emotion and every passion is perceived by
us to be right, and as it ought to be ; and upon that account it must
appear agreeable. That this holds true in pleasant emotions and
passions, will readily be admitted : but the painful are no less natural
than the other ; and therefore ought not to be an exception. Thus
the painful emotron raised by a monstrous birth or brutal action, is
no less agreeable upon reflection, than the pleasant emotion raised
by a flowing river or a lofty dome ; and the painful passions of grief
and pity are agreeable, and applauded by all the world.
Another rule more simple and direct for ascertaining the agree-
ableness or disagreeableness of a passion as opposed to an emotion,
is derived from the desire that accompanies it. If the desire be to
perform a right action in order to produce a good eflect, the passion
IS agreeable; If the desire be, to do a wrong action in order to
produce an ill eflect, the passion is disagreeable. Thus, passions
as well as actions are governed by the moral sense. These rules
by the wisdom of Providence coincide : a passion that is conformable
to our common nature must tend to good ; and a passion that deviates
from our common nature must tend to ill.
This deduction may be carried a great way farther : but to avoid
intricacy and obscurity, I make but one other step. A passion
which, as aforesaid, becomes an object of thought to a spectator,
may have the effect to produce a passion or emotion in him ; for it
is natural, that a social being should be affected with the passions
of others. Passions or emotions thus generated, submit, in common
with others, to the general law above mentioned, namely, that an
agreeable object produces a pleasant emotion, and a disagreeable
object a painful emotion. Thus the passion of gratitude, being to
a spectator an agreeable object, product in him the pleasant passion
of love to the grateful person : and malice being to a spectator a
disagreeable object, produces in him the painful passion of hatred
to the malicious person.
We are now prepared for examples of pleasant passions that are
disagreeable, and of painful passions that are agreeable. Self-love,
as long as conflned within just bounds, is a passion both pleasant
and agreeable : in excess it is disagreeable, though it continues to
* See this doctf ine fully explained, chap. 25. Standard of Taste.
Digitized
by Google
Part 2.] BVOTioMs ahp passions. 61
be still pleasant Our appetites are precisely in the same condition.
Resentment, on the other hand, is, in every stage of the passion,
painful ; but it is not disagreeable unless in excess. Pity is always
painful, yet always agreeable. Vanity, on the contrary, is always
pleasant, yet always disagreeable. But however distinct these quali-
ties are, they coincide, I acknowledge, in one class of passions : all
vicious passions tending to the hurt of others, are equally painful
and disagreeable.
The foregoing qualities of pleasant and painful, may be sufficient
for ordinary subjects : but with respect to the science of criticism, it
is necessary, that we also be made acquainted with the several modi-
fications of these qualities ; with the modifications, at least, that make
the greatest figure. Even at first view one is sensible, that the
pleasure or pain of one passion dififers from that of another : how
distant the pleasure of revenge gratified from that of love ? so distant,
as that we cannot without reluctance admit them to be any way
related. That the same quality of pleasure should be so differently
modified in different passions, will not be surprising, when we reflect
on the boundless variety of agreeable sounds, tastea, and smells,
daily perceived. Our discernment reaches dififerences still more
minute, in objects even of the same sense : we have no difficulty to
distinguish difi!erent sweets, difierent sours, and different bitters;
honey is sweet, so is sugar, and yet the one never is mistaken for
the other : our sense of smelling is sufficiently acute, to distinguish
varieties in sweet-smelling fiowers without end. With respect to
passions and emotions, their dififerences as to pleasant and painful
have no limits ; though we want acuteness of feeling for the more
delicate modifications. There is here an analogy between our inter-
nal and external senses : the latter are sufficiently acute for all the
useful purposes of life, and so are the former. Some persons, indeed,
Nature's favorites, have a wonderful acuteness of sense, which to
them unfolds many a delightful scene, totally hid from vulgar eyes.
But if such refined pleasure be confined to a small number, it is,
however, wisely ordered that others are not sensible of the defect;
nor detracts it from their happiness that others secretly are more
happy. With relation to the fine arts only, that qualification seems
essential ; and there it is termed delicacy of taste.
Should an author of such a taste attempt to describe all those
varieties in pleasant and painful emotions which he himself feels,
he would soon meet an invincible obstacle in the npverty of language :
a people must be thoroughly refined, before they invent words for
expressing the more delicate feelings; and for that reason, no
known tongue has hitherto reached that perfection. We must,
therefore, rest satisfied with an explanation of the more obvious
modifications.
In forming a comparison between pleasant passions of different
kinds, we conceive some of them to be gros$^ some refined. Those
pleasures of external sense that are felt as at the organ of sense, are
conceived to be corporeal, or gross :* the pleasure of the eye and
* See the Introduction.
6
Digitized
by Google
62 BMOTtONS AND PASSICWS. fCh. 2,
tlie ear are felt to be internal ; and for that reason are conceived to
be more pure and refined.
The social affections are conceiyed by all to be more refined than
the selfish. S3rmpathy and humanity are universally esteemed the
finest temper of mind ; and for that reason, the prevalence of the
social affections in the progress of society, is held to be a refinement
in our nature. A savage knows little of social affection, and there*
fore is not qualified to compare selfish and social pleasure; but a
man, after acquiring a high relish for the latter, loses not thereby
a taste for the former : he is qualified to judge, and he will give
preference to social pleasures, as more sweet and refined. In hct
they maintain that cnaracter, not only in the direct feeling, but also
when we make them the subject of reflection : the social passions
are far more agreeable than the selfish, and rise much higher in
our esteem.
There are differences not less remarkable among the painful pas-
sions. Some are voluntary, some involuntary : the pain of the gout
is an example of the latter ; grief, of the former, which in some cases
is so voluntary as to reject all consolation. One pain softens the
tamper ; pity is an instance : one tends to render us savage and cruel,
which is the case of revienge. I value myself upon sympathy : 1
hate and despise myself for envy.
Social affections have an advantage over the selfish, not only with
respect to pleasure, as above explained, but also with respect to pain.
The pain of an affront, the pain of want, the pain of disappointment,
and a thousand odier selfish pains, are cruciating and tormenting,
and tend to a habit of peevishness and discontent. Social pains have
a very different tendency : the pain of sympathy, for example, is not
only voluntary, but softens my temper, and raises me in my own
esteem.
Refined manners, and polite behavior, must not be deemed altoge-
ther artificial : men who, inured to the sweets of society, cultivate
humanity, find an elegant pleasure in preferring others, and making
them happy, of which the proud, the selfish, scarcely have a con-
ception.
Ridicule, which chiefly arises from pride, a selfish passion, is at
best but a gross pleasure : a people, it is true, must have emerged
out of barbarity before they can have a taste for ridicule ; but it is
too rough an entertainment for the polished and refined. Cicero
discovers in Plautus a happy talent for ridicule, and a peculiar deli-
cacy of wit : but Horace, who made a figure in the court of Augustus,
where taste was considerably purified, declares against the lowness
and roughness of that author^s raillery. Ridicule is banished firom
France, and is losing ground in England.
Other modifications of pleasant passions will be occasionally
mentioned hereafter. Particularly the modifications of higk and
low are to be handled in the chapter of grandeur and sublimity ;
and the modifications of dignified and mean, in the chapter of dig-
nity and grace.
Digitized
by Google
Put 3.] XICaTIQNS AND PAilKOKi. 6S
PART III.
IKTKREUPTED EXISTENCE OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. — THSIE
GROWTH AND DECAY.
An emotion cannot exist withont the cause be present, or by means of an idea—
Cfrawth and decay of emotions and passions — Some emotions produced in their
utmost perfection, and of short continuance ; others of long ouration — A pas-
sioB inrodiiced in perfection when nature requires it to be suddenr-A paauon
fbonded on an original propensity, soon comes to maturity — The growth of loTe
or hatred slow or quick, according to circumstances — The tendency of passions
to excess — The growth of some passions depends on occasional circumstance*—
The eoDtiniKmce and decay of passions — Passions sudden in their growth, sud-
denly decay — ^A passion foundied on an original propensity, subsists for erer—
A passion having obtained its ultimate end, subsides— Particular and general
ends of passions — Particular ends accomplished by a single act — General ends
admit of repeated acts — DiiTerence between an oririnal propensity, and one
founded on custom — The former never eradicated ; uie latter may he.
Were it the nature of an emotion to continue, like color and
figure, in its present state till varied by some operating cause, the
condition of man would be deplorable : it is ordered wisely, that
emotions should more resemble another attribute of matter, namely
motion, which requires the constant exertion of an operating cause,
and ceases when the cause is withdrawn. An emotion may subsist
while its cause is present ; and when its cause is removed, may sub*
sist by means of an idea, though in a fainter manner : but the moment
another thought breaks in and engrosses the mind, the emotion is
l^ne, and is no longer felt ; if it return with its cause, or an idea of
Its cause, it again vanishes with them when other thoughts crowd in.
The reason is, that an emotion or passion is connected with the per-
ception or idea of its cause, so intimately as not to have any indepen-
dent existence : a strong passion, it is true, has a mighty influence
to detain its cause in the mind : but not so as to detain it for ever,
because a succession of perceptions or ideas is unavoidable.* Far-
ther, even while a passion subsists, it seldom continues long in the
same tone, but is successively vigorous and faint : the vigor of a
passion depends on the impression made by its cause ; and a cause
makes its deepest impression, when, happening to be the single
toteresting object, it attracts our whole attention :t its impression is
slighter when our attention is divided between it and other objects ;
and at that time the passion is fainter in proportion.
When emotions and passions are felt thus by intervals, and have
not a continued existence, it may be thought a nice problem to deter-
mine when they are the same, and when different. In a strict phi-
losophic view, every single impression made, even by the same
object, is distinguishable from what have gone before, ana from what
succeed: neither is an emotion raised by an idea the same with
what is raised by a sight of the object. But such accuracy not
being found in common apprehension, is not necessary in common
♦ See this point explained afterwards, chap. 9.
t See the Appendix, containing definitions and explanation of terms, Sect 33
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
64 KHaTIOKS AND PASSIOVt. [Ok. ^
language : the emotions raised by a line landscape in its successiye
appearances are not distinguishable from each other, nor even from
those raised by successive ideas of the object ; all of them being
held to be the same : a passion also is always reckoned the same as
long as it is fixed upon the same object ; and thus love and hatred
are said to continue the same for life. Nay, so loose are we in that
way of thinking, that many passions are rex^koned the same, even
after a change of object ; which is the case of all passions that pro-
ceed from some peculiar propensity: envy, for example, is considered
to be the same passion, not only while it is directed to the same per-
son, but even where it comprehends many persons at once : pride and
malice are examples of the same. So much was necessary to be
said upon the identity of a passion and emotion, in order to prepare
for examining their growth and decay.
The growth and decay of passions and emotions, traced through
all their mazes, is a subject too extensive for an undertaking like t^
present : I pretend only to give a cursory view of it, such as may be
necessary for the purposes of criticism. Some emotions are produced
in their utmost perfection, and have a very short endurance : which
is the case of surprise, of wonder, and sometimes of terror. Emo-
tions raised by inanimate objects, trees, rivers, buildings, pictures,
arrive at perfection almost instantaneously; and they have a long
endurance, a second view producing nearly the same pleasure as the
first. Love, haired, and some other passions, swell gradually to a cer-
tain pitch ; after which they decay gradually. Envy, malice, pride,
scarcely ever decay. Some passions, such as gratitude and revenge,
are often exhausted by a sinorle act of gratification : other passions,
such as pride, malice, envy, love, hatred, are not so exhausted ; but
having a long continuance, demand frequent gratification.
To handle every single passion and emotion with a view to these
diflferences, would be an endless work : we must be satisfied at pre-
sent with some general views. And with respect to emotions, which
•re quiescent, because not productive of desire, their growth and decay
are easily explained: an emotion caused by an inanimate object,
cannot naturally take longer time to arrive at maturity, than is neces-
sary for a leisurely survey : such emotion also must continue long
stationary, without any sensible decay ; a second or third view of
the object being nearly as agreeable as the first: this is the case of
an emotion produced by a fine prospect, an impetuous river, or a
towering hill. While a man remains the same, such objects ought
10 have the same effect upon him. Familiarity, however, has an
infiuence here, as it has every where : frequency of view, after short
intervals especially, weans the mind gradually from the object, which
at last loses all relish : the noblest object in the material world, a
clear and serene sky, is quite disregarded, unless perhaps after a
course of bad weather. An emotion raised by human virtues, quali-
ties, or actions, may, by reiterated views of the object, swell imper-
ceptibly till it becomes so vigorous as to generate desire : in that
condition it must be handled as a passion.
As to paspion, I observe, first, that when nature requires a passion
Digitized
by Google
Birtd.] ssMTfom Airp TMmnmn, 6#
telle sodden, it is commonly produced in perfection; which is the
case of fear and of anger. Wonder and surprise are always ptodu*
oed in perfection: reiterated impressions made by their cause, exhaust
diese pa88k>ns ii^ead of inflaming them. Tnis will be explained
hereafter.*
In the next place, when a passion has for its foundaticn an original
propensity peculiar to some men, it generally comes soon to matur-
ity : the propensity, upon presenting a proper object, is immediately
enlirened into a passion ; which is the case of pride, of envy, and
of malice.
In the third place, the growth of love and of hatred is slow or
quick according to circumstances: the good qualities of a person
mise in me a pleasant emotion; whicb, by reiterated views, is swelled
mto a passion involving desire of that person's happiness : this
desire being freely indulged, works gradually a change internally,
and at last produces in me a settled habit of affection for that person,
BOW my friend. Affection thus produced operates precisely like an
original propensity ; for to enliven it into a passion, no, more is
required than the real or ideal presence of the object. The habit of
aversion or of hatred is brought on in the same manner. And here
I must observe by the way, that love and hatred signify, commonly,
affection and aversion, not passion. The bulk of our passions are
indeed affection or aversion, inflamed into a passion by different cir*
cumstances : the affection I bear to my son, is inflamea into the pas*
sion of fear when he is in danger ; becomes hope when he has a
Erospect of good fortune ; becomes admiration when he performs a
ludable action ; and shame when he commits any v^ong : aversion
becomes fear when there is a prospect of good fortune to my enemy ;
becomes hope when he is in danger ; becomes joy when he is in
distress ; and sorrow when a laudable action is performed by him.
Fourthly, passions generally have a tendency to excess, occasioned
by the following means. The mind affected by any passion, is not
in a proper state for distinct perception, nor for cool reflection : it
has always a strong bias to the object of an agreeable passion, and
a bias no less strong against the object of a disagreeable passion.
The object of love, for example, however indifferent to others, is to
the lover's conviction a paragon ; and of hatred, is vice itself with*
out alloy. What less can such delusion operate, than to swell the
passion beyond what it was at first ? for if seeing or conversing with
a flne woman, has had the effect to carry me from indiflerence to love;
how much stronger must her influence be, when now, to my convic-
tion, she is an angel ? and hatred as well as other passions must run
the same course. Thus between a passion and its object there is
a natural operation, resembling action and reaction in physics: a
passion acting upon its object, magnifies it greatly in appearance :
and this magnified object reacting upon the passion, swells and
inflames it mightily.
Fifthly, the growth of some passion depends often on occasional
circumstances : obstacles to gratification, for example, never fiiil to
♦ Chap. 6.
6«
Digitized by LjOOQ IC
M EM0Tia» A»t> PAtnoirt. [Ch. %
augment and inflame a passion ; because a constant endearor to
remove an obstacle, preserves the object of the passion tret in view,
which swells the passion by impressions frequently reiterated. Thus
the restraint of conscience, when an obstacle to love, agitates the
mind and inflames the passion :
Gtuod licet, inCTatum est : cjuod non licet, acrius urit.
Si nunquam Danadn habuisset ahenea turris,
Non esset Danafi de Jove facta pcu^ns.
Ovid, Amor. I. 2.
Gross easy love does, like gross diet, pall,
In squeamy stomachs honey turns to gall,
Had Danae not been kept in brazen towers,
Jove had not thought her worth his golden showers.
At the same time, the mind, distressed with the obstacles, becomes
impatient for gratification, and consequently more desirous of it
Shakspeare expresses this observation finely :
All impediments in fancy's course,
Are motives of more fancy.
We need no better example than a lover who has many rivals.
Even the caprices of a mistress have the effect to inflame love;
these occasioning uncertainty of success, tend naturally to make the
anxious lover overvalue the. happiness of fruition.
So much upon the growth of passions : their continuance and
decay come next under consideration. And, first, it is a general
law of nature, that things sudden in their growth, are equally sud-
den in their decay. This is commonly the case of anger. And,
with respect to wonder and surprise, which also suddenly decay,
another reason concurs, that their causes are of short d.uration :
novelty soon degenerates into familiarity ; and the unexpectedness of
an object is soon sunk in the pleasure that the object affords. Fear,
which is a passion of greater importance as tending to self-preserva-
tion, is often instantaneous ; and yet is of equal duration with its
cause : nay, it frequently subsists after the cause is removed.
In the next place, a passion founded on a peculiar propensity, sub-
sists generally for ever; which is the case of pride, envy, and
malice : objects are never wanting to inflame the propensity into a
passion.
Thirdly, it may be laid down as a general IblW of nature, that
every passion ceases upon attaining its ultimate end. To explain
that law, we must distinguish between a particular and a general end.
I call that a particular end which may be accomplished by a single
act : a general end, on the contrary, admits acts without number :
because it cannot be said, that a general end is ever fully accom-
plished, while the object of the passion subsists. Gratitude and
revenge are examples of the first kind : the ends they aim at may
be accomplished by a single act ; and, when that act is performed,
the passions are necessarily at an end. Love and hatred are exam-
ples of the other kind; desire of doing cfood or of doing mischief
to an individual, is a general end, which admits acts without number
Digitized
by Google
f^ 4.] EMOTIONS AND. PAMI^Hf. 0
and which seldom is fully accomplished : therefore thete passioiK
ha?e ^equentl^ the same duration that their objects have.
Lastly, it will afibrd us another general view, to consider the dif-
ference between an original propensity, and afiection or aversion pro-
duced by custom. The former adheres too closely to the constitu-
tion ever to be eradicated ; and for that reason, the passions to which
it giFes birth, continue during life with no remarkable dimmution.
The latter, which owe their birth and increment to time, owe their
decay to the same cause : affection and aversion decay gradually as
they grow ; and accordingly hatred as well as love are extinguished
by long absence. Affection decays more gradually between persons,
who, living together, have daily occasion to testify mutually their
good-will and kindness : and, when affection is decayed, habi sup«
plies its pkce ; for it makes these persons necessary to each other,
by the pain of separation.* Affection to children has a long endu-
rance, longer perhaps than any other affection : its growth keeps
pace with that of its objects : they display new beauties and qualifica-
tions daily, to feed and augment the affection. But whenever the affec-
tion becomes stationary, it must begin to decay ; with a slow pace,
indeed, in proportion to its increment. In short, man with respect
to this life is a temporary being: he grows, becomes stationary,
decays ; and so must all his powers and passions.
PART IV.
COEXISTENT EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS.
Concordant sounds — An emotion raised by an object of si^ht, and its qnalities,
similar to this — Emotions, similar and dissimilar — Similar emotions produce
the same tone of mind — Dissimilar, produce different tones — Perfectly similar
emotions readily unite — Internal effects of emotions and passions — Represented
by addition in number — By harmony of sounds — Directly as the resemblance
of the emotions, and inversely as the connection of the causes — The effect when
both are united— The effects of dissimilar emotions — The opposite to the for-
mer, and distress the mind when the causes are similar — Opposite emotions
ncTer unite — They exist by succession — The stronger emotions overcome the
weaker — Music — Music resolved into harmony and melody — The difference
between vocal and instrumental music — Passions the cause of the external
effects of music — Two external passions with the same tendency, if similar, have
a double effect — Two passions with opposite tendencies, may proceed 6roin the
same cause — Difference of aim prevents the union of two passions, when the
objects are different — Means offered to gratify the passions when the objects
are different.
For a thorough knowledge of the human passions and emotions,
't is not sufficient that they be examined singly and separately : as a
plurality of them are sometimes felt at the same instant, the manner of
their coexistence, and the effects thereby produced, ought also to be
examined. This subject is extensive ; and it will be dilicuh to trace
all the laws that govern its endless variety of cases: if such an
undertaking can be brought to perfection, it must be by degrees.
The folio wmg hints may suffice for a first attempt.
We begin with emotions raised by different sounds, as the simplest
♦ Sec Chap. 14.
Digitized
by Google
88 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. fCh. 2. v
ease. Two sounds that mix, and, as it were, incorporate before they
reach the ear, are said to be concordant. That each of the two
sounds, even after their union, produces an emotion of its own, must
oe admitted : but these emotions, like the sounds that produce them,
mix so intimately, as to be rather one complex emotion than two
emotions in conjunction. Two sounds that refuse incorporation or
mixture, are said to be discordant : and when heard at the same
instant, the emotions produced by them are unpleasant in conjunc-
tion, however pleasant separately.
Similar to the emotion raised by mixed sounds is the emotion
raised by an object of sight with its several qualities : a tree, for
example, with its qualities of color, figure, size, &c. is perceived to
be one object ; and the emotion it produces is rather one complex
emotion than different emotions combined.
With respect to coexistent emotions produced by different objects
of sight, it must be observed, that however intimately connected such
objects may be, there cannot be a concordance among them like
what is perceived in some sounds. Different objects of siffht, mean-
ing objects that can exist each of them independent of tne others,
never mix nor incorporate in the act of vision : each object is per-
ceived as it exists, separately from others ; and each raises an emo-
tion different from that raised by the other. And the same holds in
all the causes of emotion or passion that can exist independent of
each other, sounds only excepted.
To explain the manner in which such emotions exist, similar emo-
tions must be distinguished from those that are dissimilar. Two
emotions are said to be similar, when they tend, each of them, to
produce the same tone of mind : cheerful emotions, however differ-
ent their causes may be, are similar : and so are those which are
melancholy. Dissimilar emotions are easily explained by their
opposition to what are similar: pride and humility, gayety and
gloominess, are dissimilar emotions.
Emotions perfectly similar, readily combine and unite,* so as, in
a manner, to become one complex emotion ; witness the emotions
produced by a number of flowers in a parterre, or of trees in a
wood. Emotions that are opposite, or extremely dissimilar, never
combine or unite : the mind cannot simultaneously take on opposite
tones : it cannot at the same instant be both joyful and sad, angry and
satisfied, proud and humble : dissimilar emotions may succeed each
other with rapidity, but they cannot exist simultaneously.
Between these two extremes, emotions unite more or less, in pro
portion to the degree of their resemblance, and the degree in which
•heir causes are connected. Thus the emotions produced by a fin«
landscape and the singing of birds, being similar in a considerable
degree, readily unite, though their causes are little connected. And
♦ It IB easier to conceive the manner of coexistence of similar emotions, than to
describe it. They cannot be said to mix or incorporate, like concordant sounds:
their union is raUier of- agreement or concord ; and therefore I have chosen th«
words in the text, not as sufficient to express clearly the manner of their coexist-
«nce, but only as less liable to exception than any other I can find.
Digitized
by Google
Part 4] EMOTIONS and passions. 69
the same happens where the causes are intimately connected, though
the emotions, themselves, have little resemblance to each other ; an
example of which is a mistress in distress, whose beauty gives plea-
sure, and her distress pain : these two emotions, proceeding from
difierent views of the object, have very little resemblance to each
©ther ; and yet so intimately connected are their causes, as to force
them into a sort of complex emotion, partly pleasant, partly painful.
This clearly explains some expressions common in poetry ; a sweet
distress, a pleasant pain.
It was necessary to describe, with some accuracy, in what manner
similar and dissimilar emotions coexist in the mind, in order to
explain their difierent effects, both internal and external. This sub-
ject, though obscure, is capable to be set in a clear light; and it
merits attention, not only for its extensive use in criticism, but for
the nobler purpose of deciphering many intricacies in the actions of
men. Beginning with internal effects, I discover two, clearly dis-
tinguishable from each other, both of them produced by pleasant
emotions that are similar ; of which, the one may be represented by
addition in numbers, the other by harmony in sounds. Two plea-
sant emotions that are similar, readily unite when they are coexist-
ent ; and the pleasure felt in the union, is the sum of the two plea-
sures : the same emotions ,in succession, are far from making the
same figure ; because the mind at no instant of the succession, is
conscious of more than a single emotion. This doctrine may aptly
be illustrated by a landscape comprehending hills, valleys, plains,
rivers, trees, &c. : the emotions produced by these several objects,
being similar in a high degree, as falling in easily and sweetly with
the same tone of mind, are in conjunction extremely pleasant. This
multiplied effect is felt from objects even of different senses; as
where a landscape is conjoined with the music of birds and odor of
flowers ; and results partly from the resemblance of the emotions
and partly, from the connection of their causes : whence it follows,
that the effect must be the greatest, where the causes are intimatelv
connected and the emotions perfectly similar. The same rule is
obviously applicable to painful emotions that are similar and coex-
istent.
The other pleasure arising from pleasant emotions similar and
coexistent, cannot be better explained than by the foregoing example
of a landscape, where the sight, hearing, and smelling, are employed :
beside the accumulated pleasure above mentioned, of so many dif
ferent similar emotions, a pleasure of a different kind is felt from the
concord of these emotions. As that pleasure resembles greatly the
pleasure of concordant sounds, it may be termed the harmony of
emotions. This harmony is felt in the different emotions occasioned
by the visible objects ; but it is felt still more sensibly in the emotions
occasioned by the objects of different senses ; as where the emotions
of the eye are combined with those of the ear. The former pleasure
comes under the rule of addition : this comes under a different rule.
It is directly in proportion to the degree of resemblance between the
emotions, and inversely in proportion to the degree of connectioD
Digitized
by Google
70 EX0TI0N9 ANP FAlNUONf. [Ck 2
between the causes: to feel this pleasure in perfectum, the resem-
blance between the emotions cannot be too strong, nor the connec-
tion between their causes too slight. The former condition is self-
evident ; and the reason of the latter is, that the pleasure of harmony
is felt from various similar emotions^ distinct from each other, and
yet sweetly combining in the mind; which excludes causes inti-
mately connected, for the emotions produced by them are forced into
one complex emotion. This pleasure of concord or harmony, which
is the result of pleasing emotions, and cannot have place with res-
pect to those that are painful, will be farther illustrated, when the
emotions produced by the sound of words and their meaning are
taken under consideration.*
The pleasure of concord from conjoined emotions, is felt, even
where the emotions are not perfectly similar. Though love be a
pleasant passion, yet by its softness and tenderness it resembles, in a
considerable degree, the painful passion of pity or of grief; and for
that reason, love accords better with these passions than with what
are gay and sprightly. I give the following example from Catullus,
where the concord between love and grief has a fine efiect, even in
so slight a subject as the death of a sparrow.
Lugete, 6 Veneres, Cupidinesque,
£t quantum est hominum venustioruin
Passer mortuus est me® puellsB,
Ciuem plus ilia oculis suis amabat.
Nam mellitus erat, suamque norat
Ipsam tarn bene^ quam puella matrem :
X^ec sese a gremio illius movebat ;
Sed circumsiliens modo hue, modo illuc,
Ad solam dominam usque pipilabat
Clui nunc it per iter tenebncosum,
niuc, unde negant redire quemquam.
At vobis male sit, malae tenebrae
Orci, quae omnia bella devoratis ;
Tam bellum mihi passerem abstulistis.
O factum male, 6 miselle'passer.
Tua nunc opera, mess puells
Flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli.
Each Love, each Venus, mourn with me !
Mourn, every son of gallantrv !
The Sparrow, my own nymph's delight, *
The joy and apple of her sight ;
The noney-binl, the darling dies',
To Lesbia dearer than her eyes.
As the fair-one knew her mother,
So he knew her from another.
With his gentle lady wrestling ;
In her snowy bosom nestling ;
With a flutter, and a bound,
Gtuiv'ring round her and around
Chirping, twitt'rinff, ever near,
Notes meant only for her ear.
Now he skims the shadowy way,
Whence none return to cheerful day.
Beshrew the shades ! that thus devour
All that's pretty in an hour.
* Chap. 18. Sect 3.
Digitized
by Google
Firt 4.] BKonoNs and PAisioirs. 7 a
The imtty Sparrow, thus, is dead
The tiny fugitive is fled.
Deed of ^ite ! poor bird !— ah 1 see,
For thy dear sake, alas I for met —
My nymph with brimful eyes appears,
Red from the flushing of Ker tears.
Next as to the efiects of dissimilar emotions, which we may guess
will be opposite to what are above described. Dissimilar coexistent
emotions, as said above, never fail to distress the mind by the difier-
ence of their tones ; from which situation a feeling of harmony never
can proceed ; and this holds whether the causes be connected or not
But it holds more remarkably where the causes are connected ; for
in that case the dissimilar emotions beincf £3rced into an umiatural
union, produce an actual feeling of discord. In the next place, if we
would estimate the force of dissimilar emotions coexistent, we must
distinguish between their causes as connected or unconnected : and
in order to compute their force in the former case, subtraction must
be used instead of addition ; which will be evident from what fol*
lows. Dissimilar emotions forced into union by the connection ot
their causes, are felt obscurely and imperfectly ; for each tends to
vary the tone of mind that is suited to the other ; and the mind thus
distracted between two objects, is at no instant in a condition to
receive a deep impression from either. Dissimilar emotions pro-
ceeding from unconnected causes, are in a very different condition ;
for as there is nothing to force them into union, they are never felt
but in succession ; by which means, each has an opportunity to make
a complete impression.
This curious theory requires to be illustrated by examples. In
reading the description of the dismal Vaste, book I. of Paradise
Lost, we are sensible of a confused feeling, arising from dissimilar
emotions forced into union ; to wit, the beauty of the description, and
the horror of the object described.
Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild,
The seat of desolation, void of light,
Save what the glimmering of these livid flames
Casts pale and dreadful 1
And with respect to this and many similar passages in Paradise
Lost, we are sensible, that the emotions being obscured by each
other, make neither of them that figure they would make separately.
For the same reason, ascending smoke in a calm morning, which
inspires stillness and tranquillity, is improper in a picture full of
violent action. A parterre, partly ornamented, partly in disorder,
produces a mixt feeling of the same sort. Two great armies in act
to engage, mix the dissimilar emotions of grandeur and of terror.
Sembra d'alberi densi alta foresta
L'un campo, e I'altro ; di tant' aste abbonda.
Son tesi gli arehi, e son le lance in resta :
Vibransi i dardi, e rotasi ogni fionda.
Offni cavallo in guerra anco s'appresta,
Qfi odii, e 1 furor del suo signor seconda:
Raspa, batte, nitrisce, e si raggira,
Gonfia le nari ; e fumo, e fuoco spira.
Digitized
by Google
7^ KMOTIONS AND PASSIOITS. \Cb. 2
Bello in si bella vista anco d V orrore
£ di mezzo la tema esoe il diletto.
Ne men le trombe orribili e canore,
Sono a gli orecchi, lieto e fero oggetto.
Pur il campo fedel, benchd minore,
Par di suon piu mirabile, e d'aspeto;
E canta in piu guerriero e chiaro canne
Ogni sua tromba, e mag^or luce han I'arme.
Oerusalemme Liherata^ Cant 20. st 21^, 30.
Of drie topt oakes, they seem'd two forrests thicke :
So did each hoste with speares and pikes aboimd,
Bent were Uieir bowes, in rests their lannces stkke,
Their hands shooke swords, their slings held cobles round :
Each steed to runne was readie, prest and quicke
At his commander's spurre, his hand, his sound ;
He chafes, he stampes, careers, and tumes about
He fomes, snorts, neighs, and fire and smoake breaths out
Horrour itselfe in that faire-sight seem'd faire,
And pleasure flew amid sad dreed and feare :
The trumpets shrill, that tPiundred in the aire,
Were musicke milde and sweete to everie eare :
The faithfule campe, though lesse, yet seem'd more raire
In that strange noise, more warlike, shrill and cleare,
In notes more sweete, the Pa^an trumpets iarre.
These sung, their armours shmed, these glistred farre.
Fairfax.
Suppose a Tirtuous man has drawn on himself a great misfortune,
by a fault incident to human nature, and therefore venial : the remorse
ho feels aggravates his distress, and consequently raises our pity to
a high pitch : we at the same time blame the man ; and the indig-
nation raised by the fault he has committed, is dissimilar to pity :
these two passions, however, proceeding from the same object, are
forced into a sort of union; but the indignation is so slight, as
scarcely to be felt in the mixture with pity. Subjects of this kind
are of all the fittest for tragedy ; but of that afterward.*
Opposite emotions are so dissimilar as not to admit any sort of
union, even where they proceed from causes the most intimately con-
nected. Love to a mistress, and resentment for her infidelity, are of
that nature : they cannot exist otherwise than in succession, which
by the connection of their causes is commonly rapid ; and these emo-
tions will govern alternately, till one of them obtain the ascendant,
or both be spent. A succession opens to me by the death of a wor-
thy man, who was my friend as well as my kinsman : when I think
of my friend I am grieved ; but the succession gives me joy. These
two causes are intimately connected ; for the succession is the direct
consequence of my friena's death : the emotions however being oppo-
site, do not mix ; they prevail alternately, perhaps for a course of
time, till grief for my friend's death be banished by the pleasures of
opulence. A virtuous man suffering unjustly, is an example of the
same kind. I pity him, and have great indignation at the author of
the wrong. These emotions proceed from causes nearly connected ;
but being directed to diflferent objects, they are not forced into union :
their opposition preserves them distinct ; and accordingly they are
found to prevail alternately.
♦ Chap. 22.
Digitized
by Google
Put 4.] EMOTIONS AND PAttlONt. 73
I proceed to examples of dissimilar emotions arising from uncon-
nected causes. Good and bad news oF equal importance arriving at
the same instant from different quarters, produce opposite emotions,
the discordance of which is not ielt, because they are not forced into
union : they govern alternately, commonly in a quick succession, till
their force be spent :
Skvlock. How now, Tubal, what news from Qenoal hast thou found my
daughter 1 ^
Tubal. I oflen came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her. ''
Skjf. Why there, there, there, there I a diamond gone, cost me two thousand
dneau in Francfort 1 the curse never fell upon our nation till now ; I never felt it
till now : two thousand ducats in that, and other precious, precious jewels ! I would
my daughter were dead at my foot, and thejewels in her ear ; O would she were
hears'd at my foot, and the ducats in her comn. No news of them ; why, so! and
I know not what's spent in the search : why, thou loss upon loss ! the thief gone
▼ith so much, and so much to find the thief; emd no satisfaction, no revenge, nor
00 ill luck stirring but what lights o' my shoulders ; no sighs but o' my breathing,
no tears but o' my shedding.
T\ib. Yes, other men have ill luck too ; Antonio, as I heard in G^oa
Sky. What, what, whatl ill luck, ill luck 1
Tub. Hath an argosie cast away, coming from Tripolis.
Sky. I thank Qod, I thank Grod ; is it true 1 is it true 1
7w. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wreck.
Sky. I thank thee, good Tubal ; good news, good news, ha, ha ; where, in
Genoa 1
7V6. Your daughter spent in Gknoa, as I heard, one night, fourscore ducats.
Sky. Thou stick'st a dagger in me ; I shall never see my gold again ; fourscore
docats at a sitting, fourscore ducats !
TW. There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my company to Venice, that
swear he cannot chuse but break.
Sky. I am glad of it, I'll plague him. 111 torture him ; I am glad of it
7V6. One of them shew'd me a ring, that he had of your daughter for a monkey.
fi^. Out upon her ! thou torturest me. Tubal ; it was my Turquoise ; I had it
of Leah when I was a bachelor ; I would not have given it for a wilderness of
monkies.
TVb. But Antonio is certainly undone.
&y. Nay, that's true, that's very true ; go see me an ofilcer, bespeak him a fort-
night before. I will have the heart of him, if he forfeit ; for were he out of Venice,
lean make what merchandise I will. Go, eo^ Tubal, and meet me at our synar
gogue ; go, good Tubal ; at our synagogue. Tubal.
Merchant of Venice, Act III. Sc. I.
In the same manner, good news arriving to a man laboring under
distress, occasions a vibration in his mind from th« one to the other :
Osmyn. By Heav'n thou'st rous'd me from my lethargy.
The spirit which was deaf to my own wrongs.
And tne loud cries of my dead father's blood.
Deaf to revenge — nay, which refiis'd to hear
The piercing siglis and murmurs of my love
Yet unenjoy d ; what not Ahneira could
Revive, or raise, my people's voice has waken'd.
0 my Antonio, I am all on fire.
My soul is up in arms, ready to char^
And bear amidst the foe witn conqu'rmg troops.
1 hear em' call to lead 'em on to liberty,
,To victory ; their shouts and clamours rend
My ears, and reach the heav'ns : where is the king 1
Wnef e is Alphonso 1 ha 1 where ! where indeed 1
O I could tear and burst the strings of life,
To break these chains. Off, off, ye stains of royalty
Off slavery ! O curse, that I alone
7
Digitized
by Google
t4 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [dh. 2
Can beat and flutter in my cage, when I
Would soar, and stoop at victory beneath !
Mourning Bride^ Act IIL Sc. 2.
If the emotious be unequal ,in force, the stronger, after a conflict, will
extinguish the weaker. Thus the loss of a house by fire, or of a sum
of money by bankruptcy, will make no figure in opposition to the
birth of a long-expected son, who is to inherit an opulent fortune:
after some slight vibrations, the mind settles in joy, and the loss is
forgotten.
The foregoing observations will be found of great use in the fine
arts. Many practical rules are derived from them, which shall after-
ward be mentioned ; but for instant gratification ii^ part, the reader
will accept the following specimen, being an application of these
observations to music. It must be premised, that no disa&^reeable
combination of sounds is entitled to the name of music : for all music
is resolvable into melody and harmony, which imply agreeableness
in their very conception.* Secondly, the agreeableness. of vocal
music differs from that of instrumental : the former, being intended
to accompany words, ought to be expressive of the sentiment that
they convey ; but the latter having no connection with words, may
be agreeable without relation to any sentiment : harmony, properly
80 called, though delightful when m perfection, has no relation to
sentiment ; and we often find melody without the least tincture of
itt Thirdly, in vocal music, the intimate connection of sense and
sound rejects dissimilar emotions, those especially that are opposite.
Similar emotions produced by the sense and the sound, go naturally
into union ; and at the same time are concordant or harmonious :
but dissimilar emotions, forced into union by these causes intimately
connected, obscure each other, and are also unpleasant by discord-
ance.
These premises make it easy to determine what sort of poetical
compositions are fitted for music. In general, as music in all its
various tones ought to be agreeable, it never can be concordant with
any composition in language expressing a disagreeable passion, or
describing^ a disagreeable object : for here the emotions raised by the
sense ana by the sound, are not only dissimilar but opposite ; and
such emotions forced into union, alvyays produce an unpleasant mix-
ture. Music, accordingly, is a very improper companion for senti-
ments of malice, cruelty, envy, peevishness, or of any other dissocial
passion ; witness among a thousand King John*s speech in Shak-
speare, soliciting Hubert to murder Prince Arthur, which, even in
the most cursory view, will appear incompatible with any sort of
♦ Sounds may be so contrived as to produce horror, and several other painful
feelings, wMch in a tragedy, or in an opera, may be introduced with advantage to
accompany the representation of a dissocial or disagreeable passion. But such
sounds must in themselves be disagreeable *, and upon that account cannot be dig-
nified with the name of music.
t It is beyond the power of music to Vaise a passion or a sentiment: but it is in
the power of music to raise emotions similar to what are raised by sentiments
expressed in words pronounced with propriety aiMl grace; and such music may
justly be termed seTUimeTUal,
Digitized
by Google
1^^ 4.] SMOTIONS AND PA8|II01|t. ' 75
mnsic. Music is a companioii no less improper for the description
(rfany disagreeable object, such as (hat of Polyphemus in the third
book of the -^kieid, or that of Sin in the second book of Paradise
Lost : the horror of the object described and the pleasure of the
masic, would be highly discordant.
With regard to vocal music, there is an additional reason against
associating it with disagreeable passions. The external, signs of such
passions are painful ; the looks and gestures to the eye, and the tone
of pronunciation to the ear : such tones, therefore, can never be ex-
pressed musically, for music must be pleasant, or it is not music.
On the other hand, music associates finely with poems that tend
to inspire pleasant emotions : music for example in a cheerful tone,
is perfectly concordant with every motion in the same tone ; and
hence our taste for airs expressive of mirth and jollity. Sympa-
thetic joy associates finely with cheerful mu^ic ; and sympathetic
pain no less finely with music that is tender and melancholy. All
the different emotions of love, namely, tenderness, concern, anxiety,
pain of absence, hope, fear, accord delightfully with music : and
accordingly, a person in love, even when unkindly treated, is soothed
by music ; for the tenderness of love still prevailing, accords with a
melancholy strain. This is finely exemplified by Shakspeare in
the fourth act of Othello, where Desdemona calls fojr a song expres-
sive of her distress. Wonderful is the delicacy of that writer's
taste, which fails him not even in the most refined emotions of hu-
man nature. Melancholy music is suited to slight grief, which
required or admits consolation : but deep grief, which refuses all
consolation, rejects, for that reason, even melancholy music.
Where the sarihe person is both the actor and the singer, as in an
opera, there is a separate reason why music should not be associ-
ated with the sentiments of any disagreeable passion, nor the descrip-
tion of any disagreeable object ; which is, that such association is
altogether unnatural. The pain, for example, that a man feels who
is agitated with malice or unjust revenge, disqualifies him for relish-
ing music, or any thing that is pleasing ; and, therefore, to repre-
sent such a man, contrary to nature, expressing his sentiments m a
song, cannot be agreeable to any audience of taste.
Pot a diflTerent reason, music is improper for accompanying
pleasant emotions of th^ more important kind; because these totally
engross the mind, and leave no place for music, nor for any sort of
amusement: in a perilous enterprise to dethrone a tyrant, music
would be impertinent, even where hope pi'evails, and the prospect of
success is great. Alexander attacking the Indian town, and mounting
the wall, had certainly no impulse to exert his prowess in a song.
It is true, that not the least regard is paid to these rules, either in
the French or Italian opera : and the attachment we have to operas,
may, at first, be Ansidered as an argument against the foregoing
floctrine. But the general taste for operas is no argument : in these
compositions the passions are so imperfectly expressed, as to leave
tk« mind free for relishing music of any sort indifferently ; and it
eannot be disguised, that the pleasure of an opera is derivea, chiefly,
Digitized
by Google
76 BMOXrONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2.
from the music, and scarcely at all from the sentiments i a, happy
concordance of the emotions raised by the song and by the music,
is extremely rare ; and I venture to affirm, that there is no example
of it, unless where the emotion raised by the former is agreeable as
well as that raised by the latter.*
The subject we have run-through appears not a little entertaining.
It is extremely curious to observe, in many instances, a plurality of
causes producing, in cpnj unction, a great pleasure: in other in-
stances, no less frequent, no conjunction, but each cause acting in
opposition. To enter bluntly upon a subject of such intricacy, might
gravel an acute philosopher ; but taking matters in a train, the in-
tricacy vanishes.
Next in order, according to the method proposed, come external
effects ; which lead us to passions as the causes of external effects.
Two coexistent passions that have the same tendency, must be simi-
lar : they accordingly readily unite, and in conjunction have double
force. This is verified by experience ; from which we learn, that
the mind receives not impulses alternately from such passions, but
one strong impulse from the whole in conjunction ; and, indeed, it is
not easy to conceive what should bar the union of passions that have
all of them the same tendency.
Two passions having opposite tendencies, may proceed from the
same cause considered in different views. Thus a mistress may at
once be the cause both of love and of resentment: her beauty in-
flames the passion of love ; her cruelty or inconstancy causes re-
sentment. When two such passions coexist in the same breast, the
opposition of their aim prevents any sort of union; and accordingly,
they are not felt otherwise than in succession : the consequence of
which must be, either that the passions will balance each other and
prevent external action, or'that one of them will prevail and accom-
plish its end. Guarini, in his Pastor Fido, describes beautifully
the struggle between love and resentment directed to the same
object :
Corisca. Chi vide mai, chi mai udi pii^ strana
fi piu foUe, e piu fera, c piu importuna
Passione amorosa 1 amore, ed odio
Con si mirabil tempre in un cor misd,
Che I'un par I'altro (e non so ben dir come)
E si Strugs, e s'avanza, e nasce, e more.
S' i' miro alle bellezze di Mirtillo
Dal pie leggiadro al grazioso volto, •
II vago portamento, ilbel sembiante,
Gli atti, i costumi,,e le pai*ole, e '1 guardo ;
M'assale Amore con si possente foco
Ch' i' ardo tutta, e par, ch' ogn' altro affetto
Da questo sol sia superato, e vinto :
Ma se poi penso all' ostinato amore,
a<
danse:
sujets de danses ; les plus graves actions de la vie se font en dansant. Les prA-
dres dansent,^ les ^oldats danscnt, les dieux dansent, les diables dansent, on dan9t
jusques dans les enterremens, et tout danse k propros de tout."
Digitized
by Google
PtiHA.] XMOTIONt AND PASSIOXf. H
Ch' ei porta ad altra donna, e ehe per lei
Di me non cura, e sprezza (il to' pur dire)
X^a mia famosa, e da mill' alme, e miHe,
Inchinata belti, bramata grazia ;
L* odio cosi, cosi Taborro, e sddyo,
Che impossibil mi par, ch'unqua per loi
Mi s'accendesse al cor fiamma amorosa.
Tailor meco ragiono : o s'io potessi
Gioir del mio dm dolcissimo Mirtillo,
Sicche fosse mio tutto, e ch' altra mai
Posseder no U potesse, o pitk d' ogn*^tra
Beata, e felicissima Corisca !
Ed in quel punto in me sorge un talento
Verso di lui si dolce, e si gentile,
Che di seguirloj e di pregarlo ancora,
E di scoprirgli il cor prendo consiglio.
Che piil 1 cod mi stimola il desio,
Che se potessi all or I' odorerei.
Dall' altra parte i' mi risento, e dico,
Un ritroso 1 uno schifo 1 un che non degna 1
Un, che pud d'altra donna esser amante 1
Un, ch'ardisce mirarmi, e non m'adora 1
E dal mio volto si difende in ^isa,
Che per amor non more 1 ed lo, che lui
Dovrei veder, come molti altri i* veggio
Supplice, e lagrimoso a' piedi miei,
Supplice, e lagrimoso a piedi suoi
Sosterro di c^Sere 1 ah non fia maL
Ed in questo pensier tant' ira aGCOfi;Uo
Contra di lui, contra di me, che Tolai
A sejrairlo il pensier, gli occhi a mirarlo,
Che ^ nome cu Mirtillo, e V amor mio
Odio piu che la morte ; e lui vorrei
Veder il piu dolente il piil infelice
Pastor, che viva ; e se potessi allora,
Con le mie proprie man I'anciderei.
Cosi sdegno, desire, odio, ed amore
Mi fanno guerra, ed io, che stata sono
Sempre fin qui.dimille cor la fiamma,
Di mill' alme il tormento, ardo, c languisco :
E proYO nel mio mal Ic pene altrui.*
Pastor Fido, Act I. So. 3.
Ovid ][v«ii /s in lively colors the vibration of mind between two op-
posite passii>jis directed to the same object. Althea had two brothers
much belovcJ, who were unjustly put to death by her son Meleager
in a fit of pUsion : she was strongly impelled to revenge ; but the
criminal was her own son. This ought to have withheld her hand ;
but the stor^ is more interesting, by the violence of the struggle
between reseutoent arid maternal love :
Dma Deiim templis nato victore ferebat;
Cum videt extinctos fratres Althaea referri.
Glu» plangore dato, moestis ululatibus urbem
Implet ; et auratas mutavit vestibus atris.
At sim^ri est auctor necis editus ; excidit omnis
Luctus : et a lacrymis in pcense versus amorem est
Stipes eiu^ quern, cum partus enixa jaceret
Thestias, m flammam triplices posuere sorores ;
* The editor did not thlik it necessary to introduce a translation of this p«-
^, as the same prindpk 'a contained in the following illustration.
7*
Digitized
by Google
78 BM0T10N8 AND PASSIOIffl. [Ch. !
Scaminaque impretso iatalia pollice nentes,
Tempora, dlxerunt, eadem hg^oque, tibique^
0 modo nate, damus. Gluo postquam cannine dicto
Excessdre Den; flagrantem mater ab igne
Eripuit torrem : sparsitquc liquentibus undis. ^
niediu fueratpenetralibus abditus imis ;
Senratusque tuos, juvenis, servaverat aiinos.
Protalit hunc genitrix, taedasque in fragmina poni
Imperat; etpositis inimicos admovet ignes.
1 um conata quater flommis imponere ramum,
Coepta quater tenuit Pusnat materque, sororque,
• Et diversa trahunt unum duo nomina peetos.
- Sepe metu sceleris palicbant era fVitun :
Ssepe suum fervens oculis dabat ira ruborem,
Et modo nescio quid similis crudde minanti
Yultus erat; modo quern misereri credere posses:
Cumque ferns lacrymas animi siccaverat ardor,
Inyeniebantur lacrymae tamen. Utque carina,
Gluam ventus, ventoque rapit contrarius isstus,
Vim ^eminam sentit, peuretque incerta duobus :
Thestias baud alitur dubiis affectibus errat,
Inquc vices ponit, positamque resuscitat iram.
Incipit esse tamen mclior germana parente ;
Et, consang|uineas ut sanguine leniat umbras,
Impietate pia est Nam postquam pestifer ignis
Convaluit; Rogus iste cremet mea viscera, dixit
Utque manu dir& lignum fatale tenebat ;
Ante sepulchraies infelix adsdtit aras.
PcenarumqueDecetripiicis furialibus, inquit,
Eumenides, sacris vultus advertite vestros. '
Ulciscor, facioque nefas. Mors morte pianda est;
In scelus addendum scelus est, in funera funus :
Per coacervatos pereat domus impia luctus.
An felix Oeneus nato victore frueturl
Thestius orbus eriti melius lugebitis ambo.
^ Yos modo fratcmi manes, animsque recentes,
Officium sentite meum ; magnoque paratas
«Accipite inferias, uteri mala pi^nora nostri.
Hei mihi ! quo rapior 1 fratres ignoscite matri.
Deficiunt ad coepta manus. Meruisse fatemur
Ilium, cur pereat: mortis mihi displicet auctor.
Ergo impune feret ; vivusque, et victor, et ipso
Succcssu tumidus regnum Ualydonis habebit ?
Vos cinis exiguus, gclidaeque jacebitis umbos 1
Haud equidem patiar. Pereat scelcratus ; et ille
Spemque patris, regnique trahat, patriaeque ruinam.
Mens ubi materna est 1 ubi sunt pia jura peurentum 1
Et, quos sustinui, bis mensem quinque laoores 1
O utinam prim is arsisses ignibus infans :
Idque ego passa forem ! vixisti munerc nostro ;
Nunc merito moridre tuo. Cape praemia facti ;
Bisque datam, primum partu, mox stipite rapto,
Redqe animom ; vel me fraternis adde sepulcnris.
Et cupio, et nequeo. Cluid agam 1 modo vulnera fratrum
Ante oculos mini sunt, et tantse caxlis hnago ;
Nunc animum pietas, matemaque nomina frangunt
Me miseram ! male vincetis'Jsed vincite, firatres ;
Dummodo, quse dedero vobis solatia, vosque
Ipsa sequar, dixit : dextraque a versa trementi f
Funereum torrem medios conjecit in ignes.
Aut dedit, aut visus gemitus est ille dedisse
Stipes : et invitis corrcptus ab ignibus arsit
Mitamorph. m}.S.liib
Digitized
by Google
i
Put 4.] SMOTIONS AMD PASSIONS.
Pleased with the first, unknown the second news ;
Althsea to the temples pays their dwi%
F(Nr her son's conquest ; when at length appear
Her grisly brethren stretched upon the bior ;
Pale at the sudden siffht she changed her cheer.
And with her choer, her robes : but hearing tell
The cause, the manner, and by whom they fell,
*Twas grief no more, or erief and rage were one
Within her soul ; at la8t,"twas rage cuone ;
Which bursting upwards in succession, dries
The tears, that stcxxl considering in her eyes.
There lay- a log unli^hted on the hearth,
When she was lab'rmg in the throes of birth,
For the unborn chief; the fatal sisters came,
And raised it ixp^ and toss'd it on the flame ;
Then on the rock a scanty measure place
Of vital flax, and turned the wheel apace ;
And turning sung ; To this red brand and thee,
O new-bom babe, we give an equal destiny : —
So vanished out of view ; The frighted dame
Sprang hasty from her beid. and quenched the flame :
The log, in secret locked, she kept with care ;
■ And that, while thus preserved, preserved her heir.
This brand she now produced ; and first she strows
The hearth with heaps of chips, and after blows :
Thrice heaved her hand, and neaved, she thrice repressed :
The sister, and the mother long contest.
Two doubtful titles, in one tender breast
And now her eyes and cheeks with fury glow,
Now pale her cheeks, her eyes with pity flow :
Now lowering looks presage approaching storms,
And now prevailing love her face reforms ;
Resolved, she doubts again ; the tears she dried
With burning rage, are by new tears supplied ;
And as a ship, which winds and waves assail.
Now with the current drives, now with the gale,
Both opposite, and neither long prevail ;
She feeis a double force, by turns obeys
The imperious tempest, and the impetuous seas :
So fares Althaea's mind ; she first relents
With pity; of that pity then^repents.
Sister y and tnoiher, long the scales divide ;
But the beam nodded on the sister^s side :
Sometimes she softly sighed, then roared aloud :
But si^hs were stifled in tlie cries of blood.
The pious, impious wretch at length decreed.
To please her brothers' ghost, her son should bleed:
And when the funeral flames began to rise, ^
Receive, she said, a sister's sacrifice;
A mother's bowels burn : high in her hand,
Thus while she spoke, she held the fatal brand;
Then thrice before the kindled pile she bowed,
And the three Furies thrice invoked aloud :
Come, come, revenging sisters ; come, and view
A sister paying her dead brothers' due :
A crime I pumsh, and a crime commit.
But blood for blood and death for death is fit :
Great crimes must be with greater crimes repaid,
And second funerals on the former laid.
Let the whole household in one ruin fall.
And may Diana's curse o'ertake us all !
Shall fate to ha^y GBneus still allow
One son, wHile Thestius stands deprived of twol
Digitized
by Google
80 ' KMOtlOKS AltD PASSIONS ' ^Oh. 2.
Better three lost, than one unpunished ^.
Take, then, dear ghost, while yet admitted ne#
In hell, you wait my duty, take your due :
A costly offerinff on your tomb is laid.
When with my Wood the price of yours is paid. —
Ah! whither am I hurried 1 Ah! forffive, ^
Ye shades, and let your sister's issue uve : ^
A mother cannot giye him death ; though he
Deserves it, he deserves it not from me : —
Then shall the unpunished wretch insult the slain,
Triumphant live, nor only live, but reign,
While you, thin shades, the sport of winds are tossed
O'er dreary plains, or tread the burning coast
I cannot, cannot bear; 'tis past, 'tis done;
Perish this impious, tliis detested son ;
Perish his sire, and perish I with all ;
And let the house's heir, and the hop'd kingdom fell !
Where is the mother fled, her pious love,
An4 where the pains with which ten months I strove !
Ah ! hadst thou died, my son, in infant years,
Thy little hearse had been bedewed with tears.—
Thou livedst by me ; to me thy breath resign ;
Mine is the merit, the demerit thine.
Thy life by double title I require ;
Once given at birth, and once preserved from fire j
One murder pay, or add one murder more.
And me to them who fell by thee restore. —
Lwould, but cannot: my son's image stands
Before my sight ; and now their angry hands
My brothers hold, and vengeance ^^se exact,
7»M pleads compassion, and repents the fact —
He pleads in vain, and 1 pronounce his doom :
My brothers, though unjustly, shall o'ercome :
But having paid their injured ghosts their due,
My son requires my death, and mine shall his pursue.
At this, for the last time, she lifts her hand.
Averts her eyes, and, half unwilling, drops the brand.
The brand, amid the flaming fuel thrown.
Or drew, or seemed to draw, a dying groan :
The fires themselves but faintly lickM their prey.
Then loath'd their impioils food, and would nave shrunk away.
In cases of this kind, one circumstance always augments the fluc-
tuation : after balancing between two actions, a resolution to prefer
one of them is an inchoated gratification of the prevailing passion,
which moderates it in some degree ; and that circumstance tends to
give a superiority to the opposite passion : another circumstance also
concurs, that this opposite passion has, by restraint, acquired in the
interim some additional force.
Love and jealousy connected by a common object, occupy the
mind alternately : when the object is considered as beautiful, love
prevails ; when considered as possibly unfaithful, jealousy prevails.
A situation of that kind affords great scope for fluctuation of passion ;
which is painted to the life by several masterly hands in words as
well as in colors. Shakspeare handles the same subject, but in a
manner uncommon, and peculiar to himself: in Othello's soliloquy
before putting his wife to death, love and jealousy are represented,
each exerting its whole force, but without any struggle : Othello
was naturally inflexible ; and the tender^st love could not divert him
Digitized
by Google
Ptot 4.] AMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 81
from a purpose he approved as right, not even for a moment : but
every thing consistent with such a character is done to reconcile the
two opposite passions ; he is resolved to put her to death, but he will
not shed her blood, nor so much as ruffle her skin :
Otk^Uo. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul ; —
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars !
It is the cause Yet I'll not shed her blood,
^or scar that whiter skin of her's than snow.
And s]jk)0th as monumental alabaster. [Lays dovm the sword.
Yet she must die j else shell betray more men.
Put out the light, and then — Put out the light !—
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can a^in thy former light restore.
Should 1 repent : but once put out thy light,
Thou cunnmg'st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy life relumine. — [Sets dovm the taper.
When I have pluck'd thy rose,
I cannot give it vital growth acain ;
It needs must wither. — I'll smell th^ on the tree. [Kissing hir.
O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
Justice to break her sword ! — One more ; one more;
Be thus when thou art dead, and J will kill thee.
And love thee after. One more, that's the last;
So sweet was ne'er so fatal ; I must weep.
But they are cruel tears ! this sorrow's heavenly ;
It strikes where it doth love. Othello, Act Y. Sc. 6. ^
In Otway's Orphan, we have an illustrious example of the address
employed to gratify opposite passions directed to the same object.
Castalio and Polydore, brothers and rivals, had sworn mutual con-
fidence : Castalio broke his faith by a private marriage ; which un-
warily betrayed Polydore into a dismal deed, that of polluting his
brother's bed. Thus he had injured his brother, and was injured
by him: justice prompted him to make full atonement by his own
death; resentment against his brother, required a full atonement
to be made to himself In coexistent passions so contradictory, one
of them commonly prevails after a struggle : but here happily an
expedient occurred to Polydore for gratifying both ; which was, that
he should provoke his brother to put him to death. Polydore's crime,
in his own opinion, merited that punishment ; and justice was satis-
fied when he fell by the hand of the man he had injured : he wanted,
at the same time, to punish his brother for breach of faith; and he
could not punish more ejSectually than by betraying his brother to
be his executioner.
If difference of aim prevent the union of two passions, though they
have the same object, much more will it prevent their union, when
their objects are also different : in both cases there is a fluctuation;
but in the latter the fluctuation is slower than in the former. A beau-
tiful situation of that kind is exhibited in the Cid of Corneille. Don
Diegue, an old soldier worn out with age, having received a mortal
afllront from the Count, father to Chimene, employs his son Don
Rodrigue, Chimene*s lover, to demand satisfaction. This situation
occasions in the breast of Don Rodriffue a cruel struggle between
love and honor, one of which must be sacrificed. The scene is
Digitized
by Google
9^ EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 'Ch. %'
fiuely conducted, chiefly by making love, in some degree, take part
with honor, Don Rodrigue reflecting, that if he lost his honor he
could not deserve his mistress : honor triumphs ; and the Count
provoked to a single combat, falls by the hand of Don Rodri^^e.
This produces another beautiful situation respecting Chimene,
which making part of the same story, is placed here, though it pro-
perly belongs to the foregoing head. It became the duty of that lady
to demand justice against her lover, for whose preservation, in other
circumstances, she would have cheerfully sacrificed her own life.
The struggle between these opposite passions directed to the same
object is finely expressed in the third scene of the third act :
Elvire. H vous privc d'un pSre, et vous I'aimez encore !
Chimene. C'est peu de dire aimer, Elvire, je Tadore ;
Ma passion s'oppose a mon ressentiment,
Dedans mon ennemi je trouve mon amant;
Et je sens qu'cn depit de toute ma colore,
Rodrigue dans mon coeur combat encor mon pfcre.
II I'attaque, il l^resse, il cede, il se defend,
Tantot fort, tantot foible, et tantdt triomphant ; ^
' Mais en ce dur combat de coldre et de flamme,
II dechire mon coeur sans partager mon ame
Et quoique mon amour ait sur moi du pouvoir,
Je ne consulte point pour suivre mon devoir.
Je cours sans balancer ou mon honneur m'oblige ;
Rodrigue m'est bien cher, son interdt m'afflige,
Mon coeur preiid son parti ; mais malgr6 son effort,
Jesaisque je suis, et que mon p6re est mort
Not less when the objects are diflerent than when the same, are
means sometimes aflTorded to gratify both passions ; and such means
are greedily embraced. In Tasso's Gerusalemme, Edward and Gil-
dippe, husband and wife, are introduced fighting gallantly against
the Saracens. Gildippe receives a mortal wound by the hand of
Soliman : Edward inflamed with revenge, as well as concern for
Gildippe, is agitated between the two different objects. The poet*
describes him endeavoring to gratify both at once, applying his right
hand against Soliman, the object of his resentment, and his left hand
to support his wife, the object of his love..
PART V.
INFLUENCE OF PASSION WITH RESPECT TO OUR PERCEPTIONS,
OPINIONS, AND BELIEF.
The influence of psission upon our perceptions, opinions, and belief— Tran-
Quillity or sedateness, the proper state of mind for accurate perception and cool
deliberation — Agreeable passions prepossess us in favor of their objects; dis-
agreeable do not — A strong propensity in our natuf e to justify our passions
and actions — Arguments for a favorite opinion always at hemd — The mind
delighted and impressed by agreeable arguments, but not by disagreeable —
Examples: Gratitude — Envy — Grief— Resentment — Anger — Good news — 3ad
news — Improbable events — Future fevents — Prosperity — Affliction.
CoNsiDERiNo how intimately our perceptions, passions, and ac-
tions, are mutually connected, it would be wonderful if they shpuld
* Canto 30. st 97.
Digitized
by Google
Pan 5.] XM0T10N8 and PAssioitt. 8S
haie DO mutual influence. That our actions are too much influenced
by passion, is a known truth; but it is not less certain, though not
80 well known, that passion has also an influence upon our percep-
tions, opinions, and oelief. For example, the opinions we form of
men and things, are generally directed by affection : an advice given
by a man of figure, has great weight ; the same advice from one in
a low condition is despised or neglected : a men of courage under-
rates danger ; and to the indolent the slightest obstacle appears un-
sormountable.
This doctrine is of great use in logic ; and of still greatct use in
criticism, by serving to explain several principles of the fine arts
that will be unfolded in the course of this worlc. A few general ob-
servations shall, at present, suffioe, It^aving the subject to be prose-
cuted more particularly afterward when occasion offers.
There is no truth more universally known, than that tranquillity
tod sedateness are the proper state of mind for accurate perception
and cool deliberation ; and for that reason, we never regard the opi-
nion, even of the wisest man, when we discover prejudice or passion
behind the curtain. Passion, as observed above,* has such influ-
ence over us, as to give a false light to all its objects. Agreeable
passions prepossess the mind in favor of their objects, and disagree-
able passions, no less against their objects : a woman is all perfec-
tion in her lover*s opinion, while, in the eye of a rival beauty, she
is awkward and disagreeable : when the passion of love is gone,
beauty vanishes with it, — nothing is lefl of that genteel motion, that
sprightly conversation, those numberless graces, which formerly, in
jtne lover's opinion, charmed all hearts. To a zealot every one of
his own sect is a saint, while the most upright of a different sect are,
to him, children of perdition : the talent of speaking in a friend, ia
more regarded than prudent conduct in any other. Nor will this
surprise one acquainted with the world. Our opinions, the result,
frequently, of various and complicated views, are commonly so slight
and wavering, as readily to be suscejjfible of a bias from passion.
With that natural bias another circumstance concurs, to give pas-
sion an undue influence on our opinions and belief; and that is a
strong tendency in our nature to justify our passions as well as our
actions, not to others only, but even to ourselves. That tendency is
peculiarly remarkable with respect to disagreeable passions : by its
influence, objects are magnified or lessened, circumstances supplied
or suppressed, every thing colored and disguised, to answer the end
of justification. Hence the foundation of self deceit, where a man
imposes upon himself innocently, and even without suspicion of a bias.
There are subordinate means that contribute to pervert the judg-.
ment, and to make us form opinions contrary to truth ; of which I
shall mention two. First, it was formerly observed,! that though
ideas seldom start up in the mind without connection, yet that ideas
suited to the present tone of mind are readily suggested by any slight
connection : the arguments for a favorite opinion are always at hand,
while we ofien search in vain for those that cross our inclinatioa
♦ Page 68. t Chap. 1.
Digitized
by Google
84 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2.
Second ; the mind, taking delight in agreeahle circumstances or ar-
guments, is deeply impressed with them ; while those that are disa-
greeable are hurried over so as scarcely to make any impression :
the sam6 argument, by beinff relished or not relished, weighs so
differently, as in truth to make conviction depend more on passion
than on reasoning. This observation is fully justified by experi-
ence : to confine myself to a single instance ; the numberless ab-
surd religious tenets that at diflferent times have pestered the world,
would be altogether unaccountable but for that irregular bias of
passion.
We proceed to a more pleasant task, which is, to illustrate the
foregoing observations by proper examples. Gratitude, when warm,
is often exerted upon the children of the benefactor ; especially where
he is removed out of reach by death or absence.* The passion in this
case being exerted for the sake of the benefactor, requires no pecu-
liar excellence in his children : but the practice of doing good to
these children produces afifection for them, which never rails to ad-
vance them in our esteem. By such means, strong; connections of
afifection are often formed among individuals, upon the slight found-
ation now mentioned.
Envy is- a passion, which, being altogether unjustifiable, can only
be excused by disguising it under some plausible name. At the same
time, no passion is more eager than envy, to give its object a disa-
greeable appearance : it magnifies every bad quality, and fixes on
the most humbling circumstances :
Cassius. I cannot tell what you and other men
Think of this life ; but for my single self,
I had as lief not be, as live to be
In awe of such a thing as I myself.
I was bom free as Caesar, so were you ;
We both have fed as well ; and we can both
Endure the winter's cold as well as he.
For once, upon a raw and gusty day,
The troubled Tyber chafing with his shores,
Caesar says to me, Dar'st thou, Cassius, now
Leap in with me into this angry flood,
And swim to yonder point 1 — upon the word,
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in.
And bid him follow ; so indeed he did.
The torrent roar*d, and we did buffet it,
With lusty sinews ; throwing it aside.
And stemming it with hearts of controversy.
But ere we could arrive the point projws'd,
Caesar cry'd, Help me, Cassius, or I sink.
L as iBneas, our great ancestor.
Did from the flames of 7roy upon his shoulder
The old Anchises bear ; so fipom the waves of Tyber
Did I the tired Caesar : and this man
Is now become a god, and Cassius is
A wretched creature ; and inust bend his body,
If Caesar carelessly but nod on him.
He had a fever when he was in Spain,
And when the fit was on him, I did maik
How he did shake. 'Tis true, this god did shake;
* See part 1. sect 1. of the pre8&.n chapter.
Digitized by LjOOQ IC
But 5.J KM 0TI0N8 AND PAStlON 8. 65
His eoward lips did from their oolor fly,
And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world,
Did lose its lustre ; I did hear lum eroan :
Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans
Mark him, and write his speeches in Uieir books,
Alais ! it cry'd Give me some drink, Titinius,
As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me,
A man of such a feeble temper should
So ffet a start of the majestic world.
And bear the palm alone. Julius Casar, Act L Sc. 3.
Glo'ster, inflamed with resentment against his ^on Edgar, could
even force himself into a momentary conviction that they were not
related:
0 strange fastened villain !
Would he deny his letter 1 — I never cot him.
King Lear, Act U. Sc. 3.
When hy great sensibility of heart, or other means, grief becomes
immoderate, the mind, in order to justify itself, is prone to magnify
the cause : 'and if the real cause admit not of being magnified the
mind seeks a cause for its grief in imagined future events :
Busby. Madam, your Majesty is much too sad :
You promised, when you paifted with the King,
To lay aside self-harming heaviness,
And entertain a cheerful disposition.
Queen. To please the King, I did ; to please myself,
1 cannot do it Yet I know no cause
Why I should welcome such a guest as grief:
Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest
As my sweet Richard : yet again, methinks.
Some unborn sorrow, ripe in Fortune's womb,
Is coming tow'rd me ; and my inward soul
With something trembles, yet at nothing grieves.
More than with parting from my lord the King.
Richard U. Act II. Sc. 5.
Resentment at first is vented on the relations of the offender, in
order to punish him : but as resentment, when so outrageous, is con-
trary to conscience, the mind, to justify its passion, is disposed to
paint these relations in the blackest colors ; and it comes, at last, to
be convinced, that they ought to be punished for their own demerits.
Anger raised by an accidental stroke upon a tender part of the
body, is sometimes vented upon the undesigning cause. But as the
passion in that case is absurd, and as there can be no solid gratifi-
cation in punishing the innocent, the mind, prone to justify as well
as to gratify its passion, deludes itself into a conviction that the ac-
tion is voluntary. The conviction, however, is but momentary: the
first reflection shows it to be erroneous ; and the passion vanishes
ahnost instantaneously with the conviction. But anger, the most vio-
lent of all passions, has still greater influence : it sometimes forces
the mind to personify a stock or a stone, if it happen to occasion
bodily pain, and even to believe it a voluntary agent, in order to be
a proper object of resentment. And that we have really a momen-
tary conviction of its being a voluntary agent, must be evident from
considering, that, without such conviction, the passion can neither
8
Digitized
by Google
86 EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2
be justified nor gratified : the imagination can give no aid • for a
stock or a stone imagined sensible, cannot be an object of punishment,
if the mind be conscious that it is imagination merely, without any
reality. Of such personification, involving a conviction of reality,
there is one illustrious instance: when the first bridge of boats over
the Hellespont was destroyed by a storm, Xerxes fell into a transport
of rage, so excessive, that he commanded the sea to be punished with
300 stripes ; and a pair of fetters to be thrown into it, enjoining the
following words to be pronounced — " O thou salt and bitter water ?
thy master hath condemned thee to this punishment for oflfending
him without cause ; and is resolved to pass over thee in despite of
ihy insolence: with reason all men neglect to sacrifice to thee, be-
cause thou art both disagreeable and treacherous."*
Shalfspeare exhibits beautiful examples of the irregular influence
nf passion in making us believe things to be otherwise than what
they are. King Lear, in his distress, personifies the rain, wind,
and thunder; and, in order to justify his resentment, believes them,
to be taking part with his daughters :
Lear. Rumble thy bellyful, spit fire, spout rain !
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters.
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness ;
I never gave you kingdoms, call'd you children ;
You owe me no subscription. Then let fall
Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand, your slave ;
A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man !
But yet I call you servile ministers,
That have with two pernicious daughters join'd
Your high-engender'd battles, 'gainst a head
So old and white as this. Oh ! oh ! 'tis foul !
Lear, Act III. Sc. 2.
King Richard, full of indignation against his favorite horse for
carrying Bolingbroke, is led into the conviction of his being rational :
Groom. O, how it yeam'd my heart, when I beheld
In London streets, that coronation-day.
When Bolingbroke rode on Roan Barbary,
That horse that thou so often hast bestrid,
That horse that I so carefully have dressed.
K. Riiih. Rode he on Barbary 1 tell me, gentle friend,
How went he under him 7
Gromn. So proudly as he had disdain'd the ground.
K. Rich. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back !
That iade had eat bread from my roycd hand.
This hand hath made him proud with clappii _
Would he not stumble 1 would he not fall down,
rSince pride must have a fall,) and break the neck
Of that proud man that did usurp his back 1
Richard II. Act V. Sc. 5.
Hamlet, swelled with indignation at his mother's second marriage,
was strongly inclined to lessen the time of her widowhood, die
shortness of the time being a violent circumstance against her ; and
he deluaes himself, by degrees, into the opinion of an interval shorter
than the real one :
Hamlet. That it should come to tliis !
But two months dead ! nay, not so much ; not two;->
♦ Hepxlotus, book 7.
Digitized
by Google
Pan 5.] EMOTIONS and passions. 87
So excellent a king, Uiat was, tg this,
Hyperion to a satyr : so loving to my n. »ther,
That he permitted not the winds of heav'n
Visit her face too roue^hly. Heav'n and earth
Must I remember — whj, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown *
By what it fed on ; Vet, within a month,
Let me not think — Frailty, thv name is Woman I
A little month ; or ere these shoes were old,
With which she follow'd my poor father's body.
Like Niobe, all tears Why she, e'en she
(O heav'n ! a beast that wants discourse of reason,
Would have mourn'd longer) — married with mine uncle,
My father's brother ; but no more like my father^
Than I to Hercules. Within a njonth !
Ere yet the salt of moat unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her ^auled eyes,
She married Oh, most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets !
It is not, nor it cannot come to good.
But breiik, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
Hamlet, Act I. Sc. 3.
The power of passion to falsify the computation of time is remarkable
in this instance ; because time, which has an accurate measure, is
less obsequious to our desires and wishes, than objects which have
no precise standard of less or more.
Good news are greedily swallowed upon very slender evidence :
our wishes magnifythe probability of the event, as well as the vera-
city of the relater ; and Ave believe as certain, what at best is doubtful.
For the same reason, bad news gain also credit upon the slightest
evidence : fear, if once alarmed, has the same effect that hope has,
to magnify every circumstance that tends to conviction. Shakspeare,
who shows more knowledge of human nature than any of our philo-
sophers, has in his Cymbeline* represented this bias of the mind ;
for he makes the person who alone was affected with the bad news,
yield to evidence that did not convince any of his companions.
And Othellot is convinced of his wife's infidelity from circumstances
too slight to move any person less interested.
if the news interest us in so low a degree as to give place to
reason, the efiect Avill not be altogether the same : judging of the
probability or improbability of the story, the mind settles in a rational
conviction, either that it is true or not. But, even in that case, the
mind is not allowed to rest in that degree of conviction which is
produced by rational evidence: if the news be, in any degree, favor-
able, our belief is raised by hope to an improper height; and if
unfavorable, by fear.
This observation holds equally with respect to future events: if a
future event be either much wished or dreaded, the mind never fails
to augment the probability beyond truth.
That easiness of belief with respect to wonders and prodigies,
even the most absurd and ridiculous, is a strange phenomenon;
because nothing can be more evident than the following proposition,
that the more singular any event is, the more evidence is required
♦ Act II. Sc. 4. t Act III. Sc. 4.
Digitized
by Google
8S EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 2
to produce belief. . A familiar event daily occurring, beifig in itseli
C2:tremely probable, finds ready credit, and therefbre is vouched by
the slightest evidence ; but to overcome the improbability of a strange
and rare event, contrary to the course of nature, the very strongest
evidence is required. It is certain, however, that wonders and
prodigies are swallowed by the vulgar, upon evidence that would
not be sufficient to ascertain the most familiar occurrence. It has
been reckoned difficult to explain that irregular bias of mind ; but
we are now made acquainted with the influence of passion upon
opinion and belief: a story of ghosts or fairies, told with an air of
gravity and truth, raises an emotion of wonder, and perhaps of
oread; and these emotions ^imposing upon a weak mind, impress
upon it a thorough conviction contrary to reason.
Opinion and belief are influenced by propensity as well as by
passion. An innate propensity is all we have to convince us, thai
the operations of nature are uniform : influenced by that propensity,
we often rashly think, that good or bad weather will never have an
end; and in natural philosophy, writers, influenced by the same
propensity, stretch, commonly, their analogical reasonings beyond
just bounds.
Opinion and belief are influenced by affection as well as by pro-
|)ensity. The noted story of a fine lady and a curate viewing the
moon through a telescope, is a pleasant illustration. I perceive,
says the lady, two shadows inclining to each other ; they are cer-
tainly two happy lovers. Not at all, replies the curate ; they are
two steeples of a cathedral.
APPENDIX TO PART V.
METHODS THAT NATURE HAS AFFORDED FOR COMPUTING TIME
AND SPACE.
The succession of our thoughts the only natural method of computing time ; but •
this is inaccurate — Two periods of computing time, passing and past — Exam-
ples of time passing : Absence appears long to lovers — Time appears short to
a criminal between sentence anq execution — Time appears long when bodily
pain is fixed to one part of the body — Examples of time past : Here we measure
by succession of thought — To distinguish between a train of perceptions and
a train of ideas here necessary — Time employed on real objects appecirs longer
than that spent on ideas — When passing through a populous country time
appeeirs longer than when passing through a barren one — Time appears short
when travelling with agreeable company, or when engaged in agreeable work —
Close thinking rendeis time short — Grief has the same effect.
This subject is introduced, because it affords several curious
examples of the influence of passion to bias the mind in its concep-
tions and opinions — a lesson that cannot be too frequently inculcated,
as there is not, perhaps, another bias in human nature that has an
mfluence, so universal, to make us wander from truth as well as
from justice.
I begin with time ; and the question is, what was the meaiSure of
time before artificial measures were invented ; and what is the mea-
sure at present when these are not at hand? I speak not of months
Digitized
by Google
P&rt 5.] EMOTIONS AND PA88ION8. 89
and days, which are computed by the moon and sun ; but of hours,
or in general of the time that passes between any two occurrences
when there is not access to the sun. The only natural measure is
the succession of our thoughts ; for we always judge the time to be
long or short, in proportion to the number of perceptions and ideas
that have passed during that interval. This measure is, indeed, far
from being accurate ; because in a quick and in a slow succession,
it must evidently produce different computations of the same time:
but, however inaccurate, it is the only measure by which we natu-
rally calculate time ; and that measure is applied on all occasions,
without regard to any casual variation in the rate of succession.
That measure would however be tolerable, did it labor under no
other imperfection beside that mentioned: but in many instances it
is much more fallacious; in order to explain which distinctly, an
analysis will be necessary. Time is computed at two different
periods; one while it is passing, another after it is past: these
computations shall be considered separately, with the errors to
which each of them is liable. Beginning with computation of time,
while it is passing, it is a common and trite observation, that to
lovers absence appears immeasurably long — every minute an hour,
and every day a year : the same computation is made in every case
where we lobg for a distant event ; as where one is in expectation
of good news, or where a profligate heir watches for the death of an
old rich miser. Opposite to these are instances not fewer in number :
to a criminal the interval between sentence and execution appears
wofully short : and the same holds in every case where one dreads
an approaching event ; of which, even a school-boy can bear witness :
the hour allowed him for piay, moves, in his apprehension, with a
very swift pace ; before he is thorouglily engaged, the hour is gone.
A computation founded on the number of ideas, will never produce
estimates so regularly opposite to each other ; for our wishes do not
produce a slow succession of ideas, nor our fears a quick succession.
What then moves nature, in the cases mentioned, to desert her ordi-
nary measure for one very different ? I know not that this question
ever has been resolved ; the false estimates I have suggested being
80 common and familiar, that no writer has thought of their cause.
And, indeed, to enter upon this matter without preparation, might
occasion some difficulty; to encounter which we are luckily pre-
pared, by what is said upon the power of passion to bias the mind in
its perceptions and opinions. Among the circumstances that terrify
a condemned criminal, the short time he has to live is one; which
time, by the influence of terror, is made to appear still shorter than
It is in reality. In the same manner, among the distresses of an
absent lover, the time of separation is a capital circumstance, which
for that reason is greatly magnified by his anxiety and impatience :
he imagines that the time of meeting comes on very slowly, or
rather that it will never come: every minute is thought of an intole-
rable length. Here is a fair, and, I hope, satisfactory reason, why
time is thought to be tedious when we long for a future event, and
not less fleet when we dread the event. The reason is confirmed
8»
Digitized
by Google
9b EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. * [dh. 2
by other instances. Bodily pain, fixed to one part, produces a slow
train of perceptions, which, according to the common measure of
time, ought to make it appear short : yet we know, that, in such a
state, time has the opposite appearance ; and the reason is, that bodily
pain is always attended with a degree of impatience, which makes
us think every minute to be an hour. The same holds where the
pain shifts from place to place ; but not so remarkably, because such
a pain is not attended with the same degree of impatience. The
impatience a man has in travelling through a barren country, or in
a bad road, makes him think, during the journey, that time goes on
with a very slow pace. We shall see afterward, that a very different
computation is made when the journey is over.
How ought it to stand with a person who apprehends bad news ?
It will probably be thought that the case of this person resembles
that- of a criminal, who, terrified at his approaching execution,
believes every hour to be but a minute: yet the computation^ is
directly opposite. Reflecting upon the difficulty, there appears one
capital distinguishing circumstance : the fate of the criminal is de-
termined ; in the case under consideration, the person is still in sus-
pense. Every one has felt the distress that accompanies suspense :
we wish to get rid of it at any rate, even at the expense of bad news.
This case, therefore, upon a more narrow inspection, resembles that
of bodily pain: the present distress, in both cases, makes the time
appear extremely tedious.
The reader, probably, will not be displeased, to have this branch
of the subject illustrated, by an author who is acquainted with every
maze of the human heart, and who bestows ineffable grace and orna-
ment upon every subject he handles :
Rosalinda. I pray you, what is't a-clock 1 '
Orlatido, You should ask me, what time o'day; tliere's no clock in the foresl.
Ros. Then there is no true lover in the forest ; else, sighing every minute, and
grocming every hour, would detect the lazy foot of Time, as well as a clock.
Orla. Why not the swift foot of Time 1 Had not that been as proper 1
Ros. By no means, sir. Time travels in diverse paces with diverse persoDs.
I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops
withal, and who he stands still withal.
Orla. I pr'ythee whom doth he trot witlial 1 r
Ros. Marry, he trots hard with a youn^ maid between the contract of her mar-
riage and the day it is solemnized : if the mterim be but a se'ennight, Time's p«ce
is 80, hard, that it seems the len^^th of seven years.
Orla. Who ambles Time withal 1
Ros. With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that hath not the gout:
for the one sleeps easily, because he cannot study ; and the other lives merrily,
because he feels no pain : the one lacking the burthen of lean and wasteful learn-
ing: the other knowing no burthen of heavy tedious penury. These Times
ambles withal. •
Orla. Whom doth he gallop withal 1
Ros. With a thief to the gallows: for, tho' he go as softly as foot can fall, he
thinks himself too soon there.
Orla. Whom stays it still withal 1
Ros. With lawyers in the vacation : for they sleep between term and terra,
and then they perceive not how Time moves.
As You Like B, Act III. Se. 9.
The natural melfhod of computing present time, shows how far
Digitized by LjOOQ IC
Part 5J ♦ BXOTIOlfS AN1> PA88ION9. M
from truth we may be led by the irregular influence of passion : nor
are our eyes immediately opened when the scene is past ; lor iho
deception continues while there remain any traces of the passion.
But looking back upon past time when the joy or distress is no longer
remembered, the computation is very difierent : in that condition, we
coolly and deliberately make use of the ordinary measure, namely, the
course of our perceptions. And I shall now proceed to the errors to
whith this measure is subjected. Here we must distinguish between
a train of perceptions, and a train of ideas. Real objects make a
strong impression, and are faithfully remembered: ideas, on the
contrar}^ however entertaining at the time, are apt to escape a
snbsequent recollection. Hence it is, that in retrospection, the time
that was employed upon real objects, appears longer than that
< mployed upon ideas : the former are more accurately recollected
than the latter ; and we measure the time by the number that is
recollected. This doctrine shall be illustrated by examples. After
finishing a journey through a populous country, the frequency of
agreeable objects, distinctly recollected by the traveler, makes the
lime spent in the journey appear to him longer than it was in reality ;
which is chiefly remarkable in the first journey, when every object is
new, and makes a strong impression. On (he other hand, after finish-
ing a journey through a barren country thinly peopled, the time ap-
pears short, being measured by the number of objects, which were
lew, and far from interesting. Here in both instances a computation is
made, directly opposite to that made during the journey. And this,
by the way, serves to account for what may appear singular, that in a
barren country, a computed mile is always longer, than near the
capital, where the country is rich and populous : the traveler has
no natural measure of the miles he has traveled, other than the time
bestowed upon the journey; nor any natural measure ,of the time,
other than the number of his perceptions : now these, being few
from the paucity of objects in a waste country, lead him to compute
that the time has been short, and consequently ihat the miles have
been few: by the same method of computation, the great number of
perceptions, from the quantity of objects in a populous country, make
the traveler conjecture that the time has been long, and the miles
niany. The last step of the computation is obvious : in estimating the
distance of one place from another, if the miles be reckoned few in
number, each mile must of course be long; if many in number,
each must be short.
Again, traveling with an agreeable companion, produces a short
Computation both of the road and of time ; especially if there be
few objects that demand attention, or if the objects be familiar : and
the case is the same of young people at a ball, or of a joyous com-
pany over a bottle : the ideas with which they have been entertained,
being transitory, escape the memory: after the journey and the enter-
tainment are over, they reflect that they have been much diverted,
but scarcely can say about what.
When one is totally occupied with any agreeable work that admits
not many objects, time runs on without observation : and upon a
Digitized
by Google
112 EMOTIONS AND PiLSSIONf. • [Ch. 2
nubsequent recollection, must appear short, in proportion to the pau-
city of objects. This is still more remarkable in close contempla-
tion and in deep thinking, where the train, composed wholly of
ideas, proceeds with an extremely slow pace : not only are the ideas
few in number, but are apt to escape an after reckoning. The like
false reckoning of time may proceed from an opposite state of mind :
in a reverie, where ideas float at random without making any impres-
sion, time goes on unheeded, and the reckoning is lost. A reverie
may be so profound as to prevent the recollection of any one idea :
that the mind was busied in a train of thinking, may, in general, be
remembered ; but what was the subject, has quite escaped the memory.
In such a case, we are altogether at a loss about the time, having no
data for making a computation. No cause produces so false- a
reckoning of lime, as immoderate grief: the mind, in that state, is
violently attached to a single object, and admits not a different
thought : any other object breaking in, is itstantly banished, so as
scarcely to give an appearance of succession. In a reverie, we are
uncertain of the time that is past; but, in the example now given,
there is an appearance of certainty, that the time must have been
short, when the perceptions are so few in number.
The natural measure of space, appears more obscure than that of
time. I venture, however, to mention it, leaving it to be farther pro-
secuted, if it be thought of any importance.
The space marked out for a house appears considerably larger
after it is divided into its proper parts. A piece of ground* appears
larger after it is surrounded with a fence ; and still larger when it is
made a garden and divided into different compartments.
On the contrary, a large plain looks less after it is divided into
parts. The sea must be excepted, which looks less from that very
circumstance of not being divided into parts.
A room of a moderate size appears larger when properly furnished.
But, when a very large room is furnished, I doubt whether it be not
lessened in appearance.
A room oi a moderate size looks less by having a ceiling lower
than in proportion. The same low ceiling makes a very large room
look larger than it is in reality.
These experiments are by far too small a stock for a general
theory : but they are all that occur at present ; and, instead of a regu-
lar system, I have nothing for the reader's instruction but a few
conjectures.
The largest angle of vision seems to be the natural measure ot
space : the eye is the only judge ; and in examining with it the size
of any plain, or the length of any line, the most accurate method that
can be taken is, to run over the object in parts : the largest pan that
can be seen with one steadfast look, determines the largest angle of
vision : and, when that angle is given, one may institute a calculation,
by trymg with the eye how many of these prts are in the whole.
Whether this angle be the same in all men, I know not : the
smallest angle of vision is ascertained ; and to ascertain the largest,
would not be less curious.
Digitized
by Google "
Part 9.] ' BHOTIONB AND PASSIONS. 93
But supposing it kno\ini, it would be a very imperfect measure ;
perhaps more so than the natural measure of time : for it requires
great steadiness of eye to measure a line with any accuracy, by ap-
plying to it the largest angle of distinct vision. And supposing that
steadiness to be acquired by practice, the measure will be imperfect
from other circumstances. The space comprehended under thjs
angle will be different according to the distance, and also according
to the situation of the object : of a perpendicular this angle will
comprehend the smallest space ; the space will be larger in looking
upon an inclined plain ; and will be larger or less in proportion to
the degree of inclination.
This measure of space, like the measure of time, is liable to seve-
ral errors, from certain operations of the mind, which will account
for some of the erroneous judgments above mentioned. The space
marked out for a dwelling-house, where the eye is at any reasonable
distance, is seldom greater than can be seen at once, without moving
ihehead : divide that space into two or three equal parts, and none
of these parts will appear much less than what can be comprehended
at one distinct look ; consequently each of them will appear equal,
or nearly equal, to what the whole did before the division. If, on
the other hand, the whole be very small, so as scarcely to fill the
eye at one look, its division into parts will, I conjecture, make it
appear still less : the minuteness of the parts is, by an easy transi-
tion of ideas, transferred to the whole ; and we pass the same judg-
ment on the latter that we do on the former.
The space marked out for a small garden is surveyed almost at
one view; and requires a motion of the eye so slight, as to pass for
an object that can be comprehended under the largest angle of dis-
tinct vision : if not divided into too many parts, we are apt to form
the same judgment of each part, and consequently to magnify the
garden in proportion to the number of its parts.
A very large plain without protuberances is an object no less rare
than beautiful ; and in those who see it for the first time, it must pro-
duce an emotion of wonder. That emotion, however slight, imposes
on the mind, and makes it judge that the plain is larger than it is in
reality. Divide the plain into parts, and our wonder ceases ; it is no
longer considered as one great plain, but as so many different fields
or inclosures.
The first time one beholds the sea, it appears to be large beyond
all bounds. When it becomes familiar, .and ceases to raise our won-
der, it appears less than it is in reality. In a storm it appears large,
being distinguishable by the rolling waves into a number of great
parts. Islands scattered at considerable distances, add in appearance
to its size : each intercepted part looks extremely large, and we insen-
sibly apply arithmetic to increase the appearance of the whole.
Many islands scattered at hand, give a diminutive appearance to the
sea, by its connection with its diminutive parts : the Lomond lake
would undoubtedly look larger without its islands.
Furniture increases in appearance the size of a small room, for
the same reason that divisions increase in appearance the size of a
Digitized
by Google
94 EMOTIONS AMD PA88ION8. [(%. 2
garden. The emotion of wonder which is raised hy a very larg^
room without furniture, makes it look larger than it is in reality: il
completely furnished, we view* it in parts, and our wonder is not
raised.
A low ceiling has a diminutive appearance, which, hy an easy
transition of ideas, is communicated to the length and breadth, pro-
vided they bear any proportion to the height. If they be out of all
proportion, the opposition seizes the mind, and raises some degree
of wonder, whicn makes the difference appear greater than il
really is.
PART VI.
THE RESEMBLANCE OF EMOTIONS TO THEIR CAUSES.
Many emotions resemble their causes — Examples : Motion — Sounds — A wall or
pillar — Pasture^Emotions raised by the qualities, actions, anfl passions of a
sensible being — Love — Gratitude, courage, and all virtuous actions — Grief-
Fear — Pity — Emotions raised by bad passions and actions do not resemble
their causes.
That many emotions have some resemblance to their causes, is a
truth that can be made clear by induction ; though, as far as I know,
the observation has not been made by any writer. Motion, in its
different circumstances, is productive of feelings that resemble it :
sluggish motion, for example, causes a languid unpleasant feeling ;
slow uniform motion, a feeling calm and pleasant; and brisk motion,
a lively feeling that rouses the spirits, and promotes activity. A^fali
of water through rocks, raises, in the mind, a tumultuous, confused
agitation, extremely similar to its cause. When force is exerted
with any effort, the spectator feels a similar effort, as offeree exerted
within his mind. A large object swells in the heart. An elevated
object mikes the spectator stand erect.
Sounds also produce emotions or feelings that resemble them. A
sound in a low key brings down the mind; such a sound in a full
tone has a certain solemnity, which it communicates to the feeling
produced by it. A sound in a high key cheers the mind by raising
It: /Such a sound in a full tone both elevates and swells the mind.
Again, a wall or pillar that declines from the perpendicular, pro-
duces a painful feeling, as of a tottering and falling within the mind :
and a feeling somewhat similar is produced by a tall pillar that
stands so ticklish as to look like falling.* A column with a base
looks more firm and stable than upon the naked ground ; and for
that reason is more agreeable : and though the cylinder is a more
• * Sunt enim Tempe saltus transitu difficilis : nam praeter angustias per quinque
millia, qua exiguum jumento onusto iter est, rapes utrinque ita abscissae sunt, ut
despici vix sine vertigine quadam simul oculorura animique possit.
TVm Livius^ lib. 44. sect. 6.
For the forest of Tempe is difficult to pass — besides the narrowness for five
miles affording scant passage for a laden beast, the rocks on each side are so
parted, that they can scarcely be contemplated, without a certain giddiness, both
of the eyes and the brain.
Digitized
by Google
Part 6.] SX0TI0N8 and passions. 95
beautiful figure, yet the cube for a base is preferred : its angles being
exteDded to a greater distance from the centre than the circumference
of a cylinder. This excludes not a different reason, that the base,
the shaft, and the capital of a pillar, ought, for the sake of variety,
CO differ from each other : if the shaA be round, the base and capitat
ought to be square. '
A constrained posture, uneasy to the man himself, is disagreeable
to the spectator ; whence a rule in painting, that the drapery ought
not to adhere to the body, but hang loose, that the figures may ap-
pear easy and free in their movements. The constrained posture of
a French dancing master in one of Hogarth's pieces, is for that
reason disagreeable ; and it is also ridiculous, because the constraint
is assumed as a grace.
The foregoini^ observation is not confined to emotions or feelings
raised by still life : it holds also in those which are raised by the
qualities, actions, and passions, of a sensible being. Love inspired
by a fine woman assumes her qualities : it is sublime, soft, tender,
severe, or gay, according to its cause. This is still more remarkable
in emotions raised by human actions : it has already been remark-
ed,* that any signal instance of gratitude, beside procuring esteem
for the author, raises, in the spectator, a vague emotion of gratitude,
which disposes him to be grateful ; and I now further remark, that
this vague emotion has a strong resemblance to its cause, namely,'
the passion that produced the grateful action. Courage exerted in-
spires the reader as well as the spectator with a like emotion of
courage; a just action fortifies our love of justice, and a generous
action rouses our generosity. In short, with respect to all virtuous
actions, it will be found by induction, that they lead us to imitation,
by inspiring emotions resembling the passions that produce these
actions. And hence the advantage of choice books and choice
company.
Grief as well as joy is mfectious : the emotions they each raise
in a spectator resemble them perfectly. Fear is equally infectious :
and hence in an army, a few taking fright, even without cause,
spread the infection till it becomes an universal panic. Pity is simi-
lar to its cause ; a parting scene between lovers or friends, produces,
in the spectator, a sort of pity, which is tender like the distress : the
anguish of remorse, produces pity of a harsh kind ; and if the re-
morse be extreme, the pity has a mixture of horror. Anger I think
is singular ; for even where it is moderate, and causes no disgust,
it disposes not the spectator to anger in any degree, t Covetousness,
cruelty, treachery, and other vicious passions, are so far from raising
any emotion similar ta themselves, to incite a spectator to imitation,
that they have an opposite effect: they raise abhorrence, and fortify
the spectator in his aversion to such actions. When anger is im-
moderate, it cannot fail to produce the same effect.
• Part I. of this chapter, sect 4.
t Aristotle, Poet. cap. 18. sect 3. says, that anger raises in the spectator a simi-
l« emotion of anger.
Digitized
by Google
M SMOTIONS AWD PAMIOIM. [Ch. %
PART VIL
VIMAL CAUSES OF THE MORE FREaUENT EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS.
Actions always prompted by desire — All passions conducive to public good— An
agreeable cause produces a pleasant emotion ; a disagreeable cause, painful —
Inanimate objects agreeable — They promote happiness — They excite indus-
try — DisasreeaUe objects hurtful — As a mark or wisdom some objects are in-
diiferent— Inanimate objects that are agreeable, are attractive ; the contrary are
repubive — ^A sensible oeing a^^reeable by its attributes, inspires a pleasant
emotion, accompanied with desire — Final cause — It promotes our happiness —
A painful emotion excited by a person in distress — Self-love would induce us to
turn from it — Benevolence, to relieve it — Termed s^rmpathjr — Indignation ex-
cited by vice and wickedness — To secure us from injury, injury done to our-
selves requires retaliation — Painful emotions excited in a delinquent by a
disagreeable action, termed remorse — Right or wrong, actions never indifferent
to the spectator — When right, they inspire esteem ; when wrong, dis^st — Grood
qualities in myself raise esteem as well as in another; mean qualities, inferi-
ority— An appetite for fame useful, and of moral tendency — Communication
of passion to related objects extends the social affections — The contrary ten-
dency of malevolent passions — This regards savaiges only — The economy of
the human passions entertaining to the rational mind.
It is a law of our nature, that we never act but by the impulse
of desire ; which in other words is saying, that passion, by the de-
sire included in it, is what determines the will. Hence in the con-
duct of life, it isof the utmost importance, that our passions be
directed to proper objects, tend lo just and rational ends, and with
relation to each jother, be duly balanced. The beauty of contrivance,
so conspicuous in the human frame, is not confined to the rational
part of our nature, but is visible over the whole. Concerning the
passions in particular, however irregular, headstrong, and perverse,
m a slight view, they may appear, I hope to demonstrate, that they
are, by nature, modelled and tempered with perfect wisdom, for the
good of society as well as for private good. The subject, treated at
large, would be too extensive for the present work : all there is room
for is a . few general observations upon the sensitive part of our na-
ture, without regarding that strange irregularity of passion disco-
vered in some individuals. Such topical irregularities, if I may use
the term, cannot fairly be held an objection to the present theory.
We are frequently, it is true, misled by inordinate passion ; but we
are also, ana perhaps no less frequently, misledby wrong judgment.
In order to fulfil my engagement it must be premised, that an
agreeable cause always produces a pleasant emotion; and a dis-
agreeable cause, a painful emotion. This is a general law of nature,
which admits not a single exception. Agreeableness in the cause is
indeed so essentially connected with pleasure in the emotion, its efiect,
that an agreeable cause cannot be better defined, than by its power
of producing a pleasant emotion : and disagreeableness in the cause
has the same necessary connection with pain in the emotion pro-
duced by it.
From this preliminary it appears, that in order to know for what
end an emotion is made pleasant or painful, we must begin with
Digitized
by Google
Pirt 7.1 SM0TI0N8 AKB PAimiOMB. 97
hiquiring for what end its cause is made agfreeable or disagreeable.
And, with respect to inanimate objects, considered as the causes oi
emotions, many of them are made agreeable in order to promote our
happiness ; and it proves invincibly the benignity of the Deity, that
we are placed in the midst of objects for the most part agreeable
Bat that is not all. The bulk of such objects, being of real use in
life, are made agreeable in order to excite our industry : witness a
large tree, a well-dressed fallow, a rich field of grain, and others
that may be named without end. On the other hand, it is not easy
to specify a disagreeable object that is not at the same time hurtful.
Some things are made disagreeable, such as a rotten carcase, be-
cause they are noxious: others, a dirty marsh, for example, or a
barren heath, are made disagreeable, in order, as above, to excite
our industry. And, with respect to the few things that ate neither
agreeable nor disagreeable, it will be made evident, that their beinff
left indifferent is not a work of chance but of wisdom : of such I
shall have occasion to give several instances.
Because inanimate objects that are agreeable fix our attention, and
draw us to them, they in that respect are termed attractire : such
objects inspire pleasant emotions, which are gratified by adhering to
the objects, and enjoying them. Because disagreeable objects of the
same kind repel us from them, they, in that respect, are termed repul-
sive: and the painful emotions raised by such objects are gratified
by flying from them. Thus, in general, with respect to things in-
animate, the tendency of every pleasant emotion is to prolong the
pleasure ; and the tendency of every painful emotion is to end the
pain.
Sensible beings considered as objects of passion, lead into a more
complex theory. A sensible being that is agreeable by its attributes,
inspires ns with a pleasant emotion accompanied with desire ; and
Ae question is, what is naturally the gratification of that desire f
Were man altogether selfish, his nature would lead him to indulge
the pleasant emotion, without making any acknowledgment to the
person who gives him pleasure, more than to a pure air or tempe-
rate clime : but as man is endued with a principle of benevolence
as well as of selfishness, he is prompted by his nature to desire the
good of every sensible being that gives him pleasure ; and the hap-
piness of th'at being is the gratification of his desire. The final
cause of desire so directed is illustrious : it contributes to a man's
own happiness, by affording him means of graUfication beyond what
selfishness can afford ; and, at the same time, it tends eminently to
advance the happiness of others. This lays open a beautiful theory
in the nature of man. A selfish action can only benefit myself: a
benevolent action benefits myself as much as it benefits others. In
a word, benevolence may not improperly be said to be the most re-
Ifaed selfishness ; which, by the way, ought to silence certain shal-
low philosophers, who, ignorant of human nature, teach a disgustful
doctrine, that to serve others, unless with a view to our own happi-
sess, is weakness and folly ; as if self-love only, and notl>enevolence,
eontribated to our happiness. The hand of God is too visible inth%
9
I
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
98 BMOTIOKS AND PAf 8iaN«. [Ok. 3
human frame, to permit us to think seriously, that there ever can be
any jarring or inconsistency among natural principles, those espe-
cially of self-love and benevolence, which govern the bulk of our
actions.*
Next in order come sensible beings that are in distress. A p^son
in distress, being so far a disagreeable object, must raise in a specta-
tor a painful passion ; and, were man purely a seifish being, he
would desire to be relieved from that pain, by turning from the
object But the principle of benevolence gives an opposite direction
to his desire : it makes him desire to afford relief: and by relieving
the person from distress, his passion is gratified. The painful pas-
sion thus directed, is termed sympathy ; which, though painful, is
yet in its nature attractive. >And^ with respect to its final cause, we
can be at no loss : it not only tends to relieve a fellow-creature from
distress, but in its gratification is greatly more pleasant than if it
were repulsive.
We, m the last place, bring under consideration persons hateful
by vice or wickedness. Imagine a wretch who has lately perpe-
trated some horrid crime : he is disagreeable to every spectator ; and
consequently raises in every spectator a painful passion. What is
the natural gratification of that passion ? L must here again observe,
that, supposing man to be entirely a selfish being, he would be
prompted by his nature to relieve himself from the pain, by averting
his eye, and banishing the criminal from his thoughts. But man is
not so constituted: he is composed of many principles, which,
though seemingly contradictory, are perfectly concordant. His
actions are influenced by the principle of benevolence, as well as by
that of selfishness : and in order to answer the foregoing question,
I must introduce a third principle, no less remarkable in its influ-
ence than either of these mentioned ; it is that principle, common to
aH, which prompts us to punish those who do wrong. An envious,
a malicious, or a cruel action, being disagreeable, raises in the spec-
tator the painful emotion of resentment, which frequently swells into
a passion^ and the natural gratification of the desire included in that
passion, is to punish the guihy person : »I must chastise the wretch
by indignation at least and hatred, if not more severely. Here the
final cause is self-evident.
An injury done to myself, touching me more than when done to
* With shallow thinkers the selfish system naturally prevails in theory, I do •
not say in practice. During infeuicy, our desires centre mostly in ourselves :
«very one perceives intuitively the comfort of food and raiment, of a snug dwell-
ing, and of every convenience. But that doing good to others will make ut
hsippy, is not so evident; feedinfi" the hungry, for example, or clothing the naked.
Tnis truth is seen but obscurely by the gross of mankind, if at afl seen : the
superior pleasure that accompanies the exercise of benevolence, of friendship, and
of every social principle, is not clearly understood till it be frequently felt. To
perceive the social phnciple in its triumphant state, a man must forget himself^
ind turn his thoughts upon the character and conduct of his fellow-creatures : he
will feel a secret charm in every passion that tends to the good of others, and a
secret aversion against every unfeeling heart that is indifferent to the happiness
and distress of ouers. In a word, it is but too common for men to indulge s^
iahness ia themselves ; but all men abhor it in others.
Digitized
by Google
FM 7.] iMonoxs AND pAssioirs. M
others, raises my resentment to a higher degree. The desire, ac-
cordingly, included in this passion, is not satisfied with so slight h
(mnishmeDt as indignation or hatred ; it is not fully gratified with
retaliation; and the author must hy my hand sufiSer mischief, as
great, at least, as he has done to me. Neither can we be at any loss
thovii the final cause of that higher degree of resentment : the whole
Tigor of the passion is required to secure individuals from the in-
justice and oppression of others.*
A wicked or disgraceful action is disagreeable not only to others,
bat eyen to the delinquent himself: and raises in both a painful
emotion including a desire of punishment. The painful emotion
felt by. the delinquent, is distinguished bjy the name of remorse ;
which naturally excites liim to punish himself There cannot be
imagined a better contrivance to deter us from vice • for remorse
itself is a severe punishment. That passion, and the aesire of self-
punishment deriyed from it, are touched delicately by Terence:
MeTiedemus. Ubi comperi ex iis, qui ei fuere conscii,
Domum revortor moestus, atque animo fere
PerturbcUo, atque incerto prte aegritudine :
Adskk) ; adcurrunt servi, soccos detrahunt:
Video alios festinare, lectos sternere,
Coenam adparare : pro se quisque sedulo
Faciebat, auo illam mihi lenirent miseriam.
Ubi video neec, coepi cogitare : Hem ! tot mea
Solius solliciti sunt causa, ut me unum expleantl
AnciUs tot me yestiant 1 sumptus domi
Tantos ego solus faciam 1 sed gnatum unicum,
Ctuem pariter uti his decuit, aut etiam amplius, \
, QUiod ilia stas ma^is ad heec utenda idonea est,
Eum ego hinc ejici miserum injustitia mea.
Malo quidem fne dignum auovis deputera.
Si id faciam : nam usque aum ille vitam ulam colet
Inopem, carens patria ob meas injurias,
Interea usque ilb de me supplicium dabo :
Laborans, quserens, parcens, illi serviens.
Ita facio prorsus : nmil relinquo in sedibus,
Nee vas, nee vestimentum : conrasi omnia,
Ancillas, servos, nisi eos, qui opere rustico
Faciundo facile sumptum exercerent suum :
Omnes produxi ac vendidi : inscripsi illico
.fides mercede : quasi talenta ad quindecim
CoSgi : agrum hunc mercatus sum : hie me excrcco.
Decrevi tantisper me minus injurise,
Chreme, meo gnato facere, dum fiam miser :
Nee fas esse uTla me voluptate hie fnii,
Nisi ubi ille hue salvos redierit meus particeps.t
HeautoTUimontmenos, Act I. Sc. 1.
Otway reaches the same sentiment :
Monimia. Let mischi'-fs multiply ! let ev'ry hour
Of my loath'd life yield me increase of horror !
Oh let the sun to these unhappy eyes
Ne'er shine again, but be ectips'd for ever !
• See Historical Law Tracts,. Tract 1.
t As the sentiment contained in this extract from Terence is also found in the
pduage from -Otway, that follows it, the editor thought it unnecessary to intio-
loce a translation. ^
Digitized
by Google
May eyeiy thing I look on seem a prodigy,
To fill my soul with terror, till I quite
Forget I ever had humanity,
And grow a ciirser of the works of nature !
Orphan, Act IV.
In the cases mentioned, benevolence alone, or desire of punish-
ment alone, governs without a rival ; and it was necessary to handle
these cases separately, in order to elucidate a subject which by wri-
ters is left in great obscurity. But neither of these principles ope-
rates always without rivalship : cases may be imagined, and cases
actually exist, where the same person is an object both of sympathy
and of punishment. Thus the sight of a profligate in the venereal
' disease, overrun with blotches and sores, puts both principles in
motion : while his distress Axes my attention, sympathy prevails ;
but as soon as I think of his profligacy, hatred prevails, accompa-
nied, sometimes, with a desire to punish. This, in general, is the
case of distress occasioned by immoral action that are not highly
criminal : and if the distress and the immoral actions make impres-
sions equal or nearly so, sympathy and hatred, counterbalancing
each other, will not suffer me either Jo afford relief, or to inflict
{)unishment. What then will be the result? The principle of sclf^
ove soives the question : abhorring an object so loathsome, I natu-
rally avert my eye, and walk off as fast as I can, in order to be
relieved from the pain.
The present subject gives birth to several other observations, for
which I could not find room above, without relaxing more from the
strictness of order and connection, than with safety could be indulged
in discoursing upon an intricate subject. These observations I shall
throw out loosely as they occur.
No action, right nor wrong, is indifferent, even to a mere spec-
tator : if right, it inspires esteem ; if wrong, disgust. But it is
reinarkable, that these emotions are seldom accompanied with
desire: the abilities of man are limited, and he finds sufficient
employment, in relieving the distressed, in requiting his benefac-
torSj and in punishing those who wrong him, without moving put
of his sphere for the benefit or chastisement of those with whom he
has no connection.
If the good qualities of others raise .my esteem, the same qualities
in myself must produce a similar effect in a superior degree, upon
account of the natural partiality every man has for himself: and this
increases self-love. If these qualities be of a high rank, they pro-
duce a conviction of superiority, which excites me to assume some
sort of government over others. Mean qualities, on the other han4,
produce in me a conviction of inferiority, which makes me submit to
others. These convictions, distributed among individuals by mea-
sure and proportion, may justly be esteemed the solid basis of govern-
ment ; because upon them depends the natural submission of the
many to the few, without which even the mildest government would
be in a violent state, and have a constant tendency to dissolution.
No other branch of the human constitution shows more visibly
our destination for society, nor tends more to our improvement, than
Digitized
by Google
Put 7.] SHOTIOMS AWD PASSIONS. 101
appetite for fame or esteem : for as the whole conveniences of Ufe
are derired from mutual aid and support in society, it ought to he a
capital aim to secure these conveniences, hy gaining the esteem and
anection of others. Reason, indeed, dictates that lesson : hut reason
alone is not sufficient in a matter of such importance; and the appe-
tite mentioned is a motive more powerful than reason, to he active
in gaining esteem and affection. That appetite, at the same time, is
finely adjusted to the moral branch of our constitution, by promoting
all the moral virtues : for what means are there to attract love and
esteem so effectual as a virtuous course of life? if a man be just and
beneficent, if he be temperate, modest, and prudent, he will infallibly
gain the esteem and love of all who know him.
Communication of passion to related objects, is an illustrious
instance of the care of Providence to extend social connections as
far as the limited nature of man can admit. That communication
is so far hurtful, as to spread the malevolent passions beyond their
natural bounds: but let it be remarked, that this unhappy effeci
regards savages only, who give way to malevolent passions; for
adder the discipline of soci^y, these passions being subdued, are in
a good measure eradicated ; and in their place succeed the kindly
affections, which, meeting with all encouragement, take polsession
of the mind, and govern all our actions. In that condition, the
progress of passion along related objects, by spreading the kindly
affections through a multitude of individuals, has a glorious effect.
Nothing can be more entertaining to a rational mind, than the
economy of the human passions, of which I have attempted to give
some faint notion. It must, however, be acknowledged, that our
passions, when they happen to swell fceyond proper limits, assume a
less regular appearance : reason may proclaim our duty, but the
will, influenced by passion, makes gratification always welcome.
Hence the power of passion, which, when in excess, can only be
resisted by the utmost fortitude of mind: it is bent upon gratifi-
cation ; and where proper objects are wanting, it clings to any object
at hand without distinction. Thus joy, inspired by a fortunate event,
is diffused upon every person around by acts of benevolence; and
resentment for an atrocious injury done by one out of reach, seizes
the first object that occurs upon which to yent itself Those who
believe in prophecies, even wish the accomplishment ; and a weak
mind is disposed voluntarily to fulfil a prophecy, in order to gratify
its wish. Shakspeare, whom no particle of human nature has
escaped, however remote from common observation, describes that ,
weakness :
K. Henry. Doth any name particular belong
Cnto that lodging where I first did swoon 7
IVarwick. 'TIS call'd Jerusalem, my noble lord.
K. Henry. Laud be to G(od ! ev'n there my life must end.
It hath been prophesy'd to me many years,
I should not die but in Jenisalem,
Which vainly I suppos'd the Holy Land.
But bear me to that chamber, there I'll lie :
In that Jerusalem shall Henry die.
Sec<md Part Henry IV, Act IV, Sc. UhM.
9# - ^ .
Digitized
by Google
02 ^ IBAVTT. fCh. i
I could not deny myself the amusement of the foregoing observation,
though it does not properly come under my plan. The irregulari-
ties of passion proceeding from peculiar weaknesses and biasses, I
do not undertake to justify ; and of these we have had many exam-
ples.* It is sufficient that passions common to all, are made subser-
vient to beneficent purposes. I shall only observe, that, in a polished
society, instances of irregular passions are rare, and that their mis-
chief does not extend far.
CHAPTER III.
BEAUTY.
The term beauty appropriated to objects of si^ht — Objects of sight complex —
Constituents of the beauty of the human species — Intrinsic and relative beauty
— The effect when botli are united — Simplicity essential to beauty — Regularity
and order please because they increase our happiness — A curve Ime more beau-
tiful than a square ; a square, than a parallelogram, or an equilateral triangle —
Uniformity disgusts by excess — Dinerence between primcury and secondary
qualities — Primary exist in the object; secondary in the percipient — Final cause
of beauty : It prompts to industry — It secures social intercourse.
Having discoursed in general of emotions and passions, I proceed
to a more narrow inspection of such of them as serve to unfold the
principles of the fine arts. It is the province of a writer upon ethics,
to give.a full enumeration of all the passions ; and of each separately
to assign the nature, the cause, the gratification, and the effects. But
a treatise of ethics is not my province: 1 carry my view no farther
than to the elements of criticism, in order to show, that the fine arts
are a subject of reasoning as well as of taste. An extensive work
would ill suit a design so limited ; and to confine this work within
moderate bounds, the following plan may contribute. The observa-
tion made above, that things are the causes of emotions, by means of
their properties and attributes,t furnishes a hint for distribution.
Instead of a painful and tedious examination of the several passions
and emotions, I purpose to confine my inquiries to such attributes,
relations, and circumstances, as in the fine arts are chiefly employed
to raise agreeable emotions. Attributes of single objects, as the most
simple, shalj take the lead; to be followed with particulars, which,
depending on relations, are not found in single objects. Dispatching
next some coincident matters, I shall proceed to my. chief aim ; which
is, to establish practical rules for the fine arts, derived from princi-
• pies previously established. This is a general view of the intended
method ; reserving, however, a privilege to vary it in particular
instances, where a deviation may be more commodious. I begin
with Beauty, the most noted of all the qualities that belong to single
objects.
The term beauty ^ in its native signification, is appropriated to
objects of sight : objects of the other senses may be agreeable, such
♦ Part 5. of the present chapter. t Chftp. 2. part I. sect 1. first note-
Digitized
by Google
CL 3.j IIAITTT. (08
as the sounds of musical instruments, the smoothness and softness of
some surfaces ; but the agreeableness denominated beauty, belongs
to objects of sight.
Of all the objects of external sense, an object of sight is the most
complex: in the very simplest, color is perceived, figure, and length,
breadth, and thickness. A tree is composed of a trunk, branches,
and leaves ; it has color, figure, size, and sometimes motion : by
means of each of these particulars, separately considered, it appears
beautiful; how much more so, when they are all united together?
The beauty of the human figure is extraordinary, bein&f a composi-
tion of numberless beauties, arising from the parts ana qualities of
the obje<*t, various colors, various motions, figures, size, &c. all united
in one complex object, and striking the eye with combined force.
Hence it is, that beauty, a quality so remarkable in visible objects,
lends its name to express every thing that is eminently agreeable :
thns, by a figure of speech, we say a beautiful sound, a beautiful
thought or expression, a beautiful theorem, a beautiful event, a
beautiful discovery in art or science. But, as figurative expres-
sion is the subject of a following chapter, this chapter is confined to
beauty in its proper signification.
It is natural to suppose, that a perception so various as tlyit of
beauty, comprehending sometimes many particulars, sometimes few,
should occasion emotions equally various : and yet all the various
emotions of beauty maintain one common character, that of sweet-
ness and gaiety.
Considering attentively the beauty of visible objects, we discover
two kinds. The first may be termed intrinsic beauty, because it
is discovered in a single object viewed apart without relation to any
other : the examples above given are of that kind. The other may
be termed relative beauty, being founded on the relation of objects.
The purposed distribution would lead me to handle these beauties
separately ; but they are frequently so intimately connected, that, for
the sake of connection, I am forcea, in this instance, to vary from the
plan, and to bring them both into the same chapter. Intrinsic beauty
18 an object of sense merely : to perceive the beauty of a spreading
oak, or of a flowing river, no more is required than simply an act
of vision. The perception of relative beauty is accompanied with
an act of understanding and reflection ; for of a fine instrument or
engine, we perceive not the relative beauty, until we be made
acquainted with its use and destination. In a word, intrinsic beauty
is ultimate : relative beauty is that of means relating to some good
end or purpose. These diflerent beauties agree in one capital cir-
cumstance,, that both are equally perceived as belonging to the object.
This is evident with respect to intrinsic beauty ; but will not be so
readily admitted with respect to the other: the utility of the plough,
for example, may make it an object of admiration, or of desire : but
why should utility make it appear beautiful? A natural propensity
mentioned above* will explain that doubt : the beauty of the effect by
iin easy transition of ideas, is transferred to the cause ] and is per-
* Chap. 2. part 1. sect 5.
Digitized
by Google
104 VE^mr. [Ch. 3.
ceived as one of the qualities of the cause. Thus a subject void of
intrinsic beauty appears beautiful from its utility; an old Gothic
tower, that has no beauty in itself, appears beautiful, considered as
proper to defend against an enemy ; a dwelling-house, void of all
regularity, is, however, beautiful in the view of convenience ; and
the want of form or symmetry in a tree, will not prevent its appejir-
ing beautiful, if it be known to produce good fruit.
When these two beauties coincide in any object, it appears delight-
ful : every member of the human body possesses both in a high
degree : the fine proportions and slender make of a horse destined
for running, please every eye; partly from symmetry, and partly
from utility.
The beauty of utility, being proportioned accurately to the degree
of utility, requires no illustration ; but intrinsic beauty, so complex
as I have said, cannot be handled distinctly without being analyzed
into its constituent parts. If a tree be beautiful by means of its color,
its figure, its size, its motion, it is in reality possessed of so many
different beauties, which ought to be examined separately, in order
to have a clear notion of them when combined. Tne beauty of color
is too familiar to need explanation. Do not the bright and cheerful
colofs of gold and silver contribute to preserve these metals in high
estimation ? The beauty of figure, arising from various circurfistan-
ces and different views, is more complex: for example, viewing any
body as a whole, the beauty of its figure arises from regularity and
simplicity ; viewing the parts with relation to each other, uniformity,
proportion, and order, contribute to its beauty. The beauty of motion
deserves a chapter by itself; and another chapter is destined for
grandeur being distinguishable from beauty in its proper sense.
For a description of regularity, uniformity, proportion, and order, if
thought necessary, I refer my reader to the Appendix at the end of
the book. Upon simplicity I must make a few cursory observations,
such as may be of use in examining the beauty of single objects.
A multitude of objects crowding into the mind at once, disturb the
attention, and pass without making any impression, or any distinct
impression ; in a group, no single object makes the figure it would
do apart, when it occupies the whole attention.* For the same rea-
son, the impression made by an object that divides tjie attention by
the multiplicity of its parts, equals not that of a more simple object
comprehended in a single view : parts extremely complex must be
considered in portions successively ; and a number of impressions in
succession, which cannot unite because not simultaneous, never touch
the mind like one entire impression made, as it were, at one stroke.
This justifies simplicity in works of art, as opposed to complicated
circumstances and crowded ornaments. There is an additional rea-
son for simplicity, in works of dignity or elevation ; which is, that
the mind attached to beauties of a high rank, cannot descend to infe-
rior beauties. The best artists, accordingly, have in all ages been
governed by a taste for simplicity. How comes it then that we find
profuse decoration prevailing in works of art ^ The reason plainly
* See the Appendix, containing definitions, and explanation of terms, sect 3S.
Digitized
by Google
CSl 3.] IXAUTT. 105
ia, tkit authors and architects who cannot reach the higher beauties*
endeayor to supply want of genius by multiplying those that arc
inferior.
These things premised, I proceed to examine the beauty of figure
as arising from the above mentioned particulars, namely, regularity,
tmiformity, proportion, order and simplicity. To exhaust this sub-
ject would require a volume ; and I have not even a whole chapter
to spare. To inquire why an object, by means of the particulart
mentioned, appears beautiful, would, I am afraid, be a yam attempt:
it seems the most probable opinion, that the nature of man was
originally framed with a relish for them, in order to answer wise
and good purposes. To explain these purposes or final causes,
though a subject of great importance, has scarcely been attempted
by any writer. One thing is evident, that our relish for the particu-
lars mentioned adds much beauty to the objects that surround us :
which of course tends to our happiness : and the Author of our
nature has given many signal proofs that this final cause is not below
his care. We may be confirmed in this thought upon reflecting,
that our taste for these particulars is not accidental, but uniform and
universal, making a branch of our nature. At the same time, it
ought not to be overlooked, that regularity, uniformity, order, and
simplicity, contribute each of them to readiness of apprehension ;
enabling us to form more distinct images of objects, than can be
done with the utmost attention where these particulars are not found.
With respect to proportion, it is in some instances connected with a
useful end, asin animals, where the best proportioned are the strong-
est and most active ; but instances are still more numerous, where
the proportions we relish have no connection with utility. Writers
on architecture insist much on the proportions of a column, and
assign dififerent proportions to the Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian : but
no architect will maintain, that the most ac^curate proportions con-
tribute more to use, than several that are less accurate and less
agreeable ; neither will it be maintained, that the length, breadth,
and height of rooms assigned as the most beautiful proportions, tend
also to make them the more commodious. With respect then to
the final cause of proportion, I see not more to be made of it but to
rest upon the final cause first mentioned, namely, its contributing to
our happiness, by increasing the beauty of visible objects.
And now with respect to the beauty of figure as far as it depends
on the other circumstances mentioned ; as to which, having room
only for a slight specimen, I confine myself to the simplest figures.
A circle and a square are each of them perfectly regular, being
equally confined to a precise form, which admits not the slightest
variation ; a square, however, is less beautiful than a circle. And
the reason seems to be, that the attention is divided among the sides
and angles of a square ; whereas the circumference of a circle, being
ftsbgle object, makes one entire impression. And this simplicity
contributes to beauty ; which may be illustrated by another example :
a square, though not more regular than a hexagon or octagon, is
more beautiful than either ; for what other reason, but that a square
Digitized
by Google
106 BBAITTT. [Ch. i
18 more simple, and the attention less divided ? This reasoning will
appear still more conclusive, when we consider any regular polygon
of very many sides ; for of this figure the mind can never have any
distinct perception.
A square is more regular than a parallelogram, and its parts more
uniform ; and for these reasons it is more heautiful. But that holds
with respect to intrinsic beauty only ; for in many instances utility
turns the scale on the side of the parallelogram. This figure for
the doors and windows of a dwelling-house is preferred, because of
utility ; and here we find the beauty of utility prevailing over that
of regularity and uniformity.
A parallelogram again depends for its beauty, on the proportion
of its sides. A great inequality of sides annihilates its beauty:
approximation towards equality has the same efiect ; for proportion
there degenerates into imperfect uniformity, and the figure appears
an unsuccessful attempt toward a square. And thus proportion con-
tributes to beauty.
An equilateral triangle yields not to a square in regularity, nor
in uniformity of parts, ana it is more simple. But an equilateral
triangle is less beautiful than a square ; which must be owing to
inferiority of order in the position of its parts ; the sides of an equi-
lateral triangle incline to each other in the same angle, being the
most perfect order of which they af e susceptible ; but this orSer in
obscure, and far from being so perfect as the parallelism of the sides
of a square. Thus order contributes to the beauty of visible objects,
no less than simplicity, regularity, or proportion.
A parallelogram exceeds an equilateral triangle in the orderly
disposition of its * parts ; but being inferior in uniformity and sinn-
plicity, it is less beautiful.
Uniformity is singular in one capital circumstance, that it is apt
to disgust by excess : a number of things destined for the same use,
such as windows, chairs, spoons, buttons, cannot be too uniform ; fot
supposing their figure to be good, utility requires uniformity : but a
scrupulous uniformity of parts in a large garden or field, is far irom
being agreeable. Uniformity among connected objects belongs not
to the present subject: it is handled in the chapter' of uniformity
and variety.
In all the works of nature, simplicity makes an illustrious figure.
It also makes a figure in works of art : profuse ornament in paint-
ing, gardening, or architecture, as well as in dress, or in language
shows a mean or corrupted taste :
Poets, like painters, thus unskilled to trace
The naked nature and the living grace,
With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part,
And hide with ornaments their want of art
, Papers Essay on Criticism^
No single property recommends a machine more than its sim
plicity; not solely for better answering its purpose, but by appearing
m itself more beautiful. Simplicity in behavior and manners has an
enchanting effect, and never fails to gain our affection • very dififer*
Digitized
by Google
fit. 3.] BMXVTY. / 107
eot are the artifickl manners of moderji times. General theorems,
abstracting from their importance, are delightful hy their simplicity,
aad by the easiness of their application to variety of cases. We
take equal delight in the laws of motion, which, with the greatest
simplicity, are boundless in their operations.
A gradual progress from simplicity to complex forms and profuse
ornament, seems to be the iate of all the fine arts : in that progress
iliese arts resemble behavior, which, from original candor and sim-
plicity, has degenerated into artificial refinements. At present, lite-
rary productions are crowded with words, epithets, figures: in
music, sentiment is neglected for jhe luxury of harmony, and for
difficult movement: in taste, properly so called, poignant sauces,
with complicated mixtures, of diflferent savors, prevail among people
of condition : the French, accustomed to artificial red on a female
cheek, think the modest coloring of nature altogether insipid.
The same tendency is discovered in the proffress of the fine arts
among the ancients. Some vestiges of the old Grecian buildings
prove them to be of the Doric order : the Ionic succeeded, and seems
to have been the favorite order, while architecture was in the height
of glory : the Corinthian came next in vogue ; and in Greece the
buildings of that order appear mostly to have been erected after the
Romans got footing there. At last came the Composite, with all its
extravagancies, where simplicity is sacrificed to' finery and crowded
ornament.
But what taste is to prevail next ? for fashion is a continual flux,
dad taste must vary with it Afler rich and profuse ornaments
become femiliar, simplicity appears lifeless and insipid ; which, would
be an unsurmountable obstruction, should any person of genius and
ta^ endeavor to restore ancient simplicity.*
The distinction between primary and secondary qualities in mat-
ter,^ seems now fully established. Heat and cold, smell and taste,
though seeming to exist in bodies, are discovered to be effects caused
by these bodies in a sensitive being : color, which appears to the eye
as spread upon a substance, has no existence but in the mind of the
spectator. Qualities of that kind, which owe their existence to the
percipient as much as to the object, are termed secondary qualities,
and are distinguished from figure, extension, solidity, which, in con-
tradistinction to the former, are termed primary qualities, because
they inhere in subjects whether perceived or not. This distinction
suggests at curious inquiry, whether beauty be a primary or only a
secondary quality of objects ? The question is easily determined
with respect to the beauty of color; for, if color be a secondary
quality, existing no where but in the mind of the spectator, its beauty
must exist there also. This conclusion equally nolds with respect
to the beauty of utility, which is plainly a conception of the mind,
arising not from sight, but from reflecting that the thing is fitted for r
♦ A aprightly writer observes, " that the noble simplicity of the Au^stan age
wai dnven out by false taste ; that the gigantic, the puerile, the quaint, and at
UMtthe barbarous and the monkish, had each their successiTe admirers: that
tne h«B become a science of tricks and slight of hand," &c.
Digitized
by Google
1(^ BBAUTT. [OIl 8
Bome good end or purpose. The question is more intricate with res
pect to the beauty of regularity; for, if regularity be a "primary
quality, why not also its beauty? That this is not a good inference,
will appear from considering, that beauty, in its very conception,
refers to a percipient ; for an object is said to be beautiful, for no other
reason but that it appears so to a spectator : the same piece of matter
that to a man appears beautiful, may possibly appear ugly to a being
of a different species. Beauty, therefore, which for its existence
depends on the percipient as much as on the object perceived, cannot
be an inherent property in either. And hence it is wittily observed
by the poet, that beauty is not in the person beloved, but in the lover's
eye. This reasoning is solid ; and the only cause of doubt or hesi-
tation is, that we are taught a different lesson by sense : a singular
determination of nature makes us perceive both beauty and color as
belonging to the object, and, like figure or extension, as inherent
properties. This mechanism is uncommon; and, when nature, to
fulfil her intention, prefers any singular method of operation, we
may be certain of some final cause that cannot be reached by ordinary
means. For the beauty of some objects we are indebted entirely to
nature ; but, with respect to the endless variety of objects that owe
their beauty to art ana culture, the perception of beauty greatly pro-
motes industry; being to us a strong additional incitement to enrich
our fields, and improve our manufactures. These, however, are but
slight effects, compared with the connections that are formed among
individuals in society by means of this singular mechanism : the
qualifications of the head and heart form, undoubtedly, the most solid
and most permanent connections ; but external beauty, which lies
more in view, has a more extensive influence in forming these con-
nections: at any rate, it concurs in an eminent degree with mental
qualifications to produce social intercourse, mutual good-will, and
consequently mutual aid and support, which are the life of society.
It must not, however, be overlooked, that the perception of beauty
does not, when immoderate, tend to advance the interests of society.
Love, in particular, arising from a perception of beauty, loses, when
excessive, its sociable character: the appetite for gratification pre-
vailing over affection for the beloved object, is ungovernable ; and
tends violently to its end, regardless of the misery that must follow.
Love, in that state, is no longer a sweet agreeable passion : it becomes
painful, like hunger or thirst ; and produces no happiness but in the
instant of fruition. This discovery suggests a most important les-
^n ; that moderation in our desires and appetites, which fits us for
doing our duty, contributes at the same time the most to happiness :
even social passions, when moderate, are more pleasant than when
they swell beyond proper bounds.
Digitized
by Google
CL 4.] OR AND BUR AND SUBLIMITT. 109
CHAP. IV.
GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY.
Tike mind of man attached to things mat and eleyated— E3eyation of an obieft
affects us as well as magnitude — The effect of a great object; and also of aa
elevated one — Emotions produced by great and elevated objects, are grandeur aad
sublimity — Greatness, considered abstractly, is agreeable — Regularity, propor-
tion, order, and color, assist in causing grandeur— %rreatne8s distinguishes gnm-
deur from beauty — Difference between an emotion of grandeur and of beautf
—The former is serious, thjs latter gay and weak — Regularity, proportion, aad
Older, not so essential to grandeur as to beauty — Not so distinctly perceived in
a great as in a small object — The mind occupied with the capital parts — Theie
observations applied to sublimity — An agreeable object made sublime by placiM
it high — Litdeness and lowness of place not disagreeable, are indi^rent— ft
they were agreeable, greatness and elevation would notbe so^a mentalprogre*-
sion from less to greater, more agreeable than from greater to less— Grrandew
and sublimity figurative — These terms applicable to persons and charactei*—
The same in music — An ascending series of thought, or climax, agreeable —
The grcufKlest emotion is when the whole object is seen at one view — The suM-
lime may be carried too far- The effort is too ffreat ; and it is difficult to descend-*
Grandeur in manner, consists in presenting the most important circumstance*—
A good description often affects more than a real view — Abstract terms to be
avoided — An emotion of grandeur raised by reiterated impressions -Grandew
indirectly applied, depresses the mind — The bombast — Imaginary beings, with'
out propriety of action.
Nature has not more remarkably distinguished us from otiMt
animals by an erect posture, than by a capacious and aspiring miQ^
attaching us to things great and elevated. The ocean, the sky, sewe
the attention, and make a deep impression :* robes of state are ma4e
large and full, to draw respect : we admire an elephant for its magni-
tude, notwithstanding its unwieldiness.
The elevation of an object affects us no less than its magnitude: m
high place is chosen for the statue of a deity or hero : a tree groir-
ing on the brink of a precipice looks charming when viewed from
the plain below: a throne is erected for the chief magistrate; and 4
chair with a high seat for the president of a court. Among aM
nations, heaven is placed far above us, hell far below us.
In some objects, greatness and elevation concur to make a coiA-
{dicated impression : the Alps and the Peak of Teneriffe are proper
examj)les ; with the following difference, that in the former greatnett
teems to prevail, elevation in the latter.
The emotions raised by great and by elevated objects, are clearly
distinguishable, not only in internal feeling, but even in their exter-
nal expressions. A great object makes the spectator endeavor
to enlarge his bulk ; which is remarkable in plain people, who
give way to nature without reserve; in describing a great objeel^
mey naturally expand themselves by drawing in air with all their
* Longinus observes, that nature inclines us to admire, not a small rivulet, how-
ever clear and transparent, but the Nile, the Ister, the Rhine, or still more tlit
oeeaa. The sight of a small fire produces no emotion ; but we are struck with
^ boiling furnaces of ^tna, pouring out whole rivers of liquid flame. T^mt-
Mtetf the SMime^ chap. 29.
10
Digitized
by Google
110 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. [Ch. i.
force. An elevated object produces a diflfcrent expression ; it makes
the spectator stretch upward, and stand a-liptoe.
Great and elevated objects considered with relation to the emotions
produced ,by them, are termed grand and sublime. Grandeur and
mhlimity have a double signification : they commonly signify the
quality or circumstance in objects by which the emotions of gran-
,deur and sublimity are produced; sometimes the emotions themselves.
. • In handling the present subject, it is necessary that the impression
tnade on the mind by the magnitude of an object, abstracting from
its other qualities, should be ascertained. And because abstraction
is a mental operation of some difficulty, the safest method for judg-
ing is, to choose a plain object that is neither beautiful nor deformed,
if such a one can be found. The plainest that occurs, is a huge
mass of rubbiish, the ruins, perhaps, of some extensive building, or
a Iferge heap of stones, such as are collected together for keeping in
mtmoxy a battle or other remarkable event. Such an object, which
in miniature would be perfectly indifferent, makes an impression by
its magnitude, and appears agreeable. And supposing it so large, as
to fill the eye, and to prevent the attention from wandering upon
other objects, the impression it makes will be so much the deeper.*
*, But, though a plain object of that kind be agreeable, it is not
tern^d grand: it is not entitled to that character, unless, together
with its size, it be possessed of other qualities that contribute to beauty,
such as regularity, proportion, order, or color : and according to the
number of such qualities combined with magnitude, it is more or
less grand. Thus, St. Peter's church at Rome, the great pyramid
Off Egypt, the Alps towering above the clouds, a great ana of the
sea, and, above all, a clear and serene sky, are grand, because, beside
their size, they are beautiful in an eminent degree. On the other
hand, an overgrown whale, having a disagreeable appearance, is
not grand. A large building, agreeable by its regularity and pro-
portions, is grand, and yet a much larger building destitute of regu-
larity, has not the least tincture of grandeur. A single regiment in
battle array, makes a grand appearance; which the surrounding
crowd does not, though perhaps ten for one in number. And a
xefifiment where the men are all in one livery, and the horses of one
poTor, makes a grander appearance, and consequently strikes more
terror, than where there is confusion of colors and of dres^ Thus
^eatness or magnitude is the circumstance that distinguishes gran-
diBur from beauty : agreeableness is the genus, of which beauty and
grandeur are species.
The emotion of grandeur, duly examined, will be found an addi-
tional proof of the foregoing doctrine. That this emotion is plea-
sant in a high degree, requires no other evidence than once to
have seen a grand object ; and if an emotion of sfrandeur be pleasant,
its cause or object, as observed al^ve, must infallibly be agreeable in
pp)portion.
. The qualities of grandeur and beauty are not more distinct, than
thjO emotions are which these qualities produce in a spectator. It is
* See Append ix^ Terms defined, sect 33.
Digitized
by Google
^ C3l 4.] GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITT. tit
observed in the chapter immediately foregoing, that all the Tariout
emotions of beauty nave one common character, that of sweetnen
and gaiety. The emotion of grandeur has a different character : a
large object that is agreeable, occupies the whole attention, and
swells the heart into a vivid emotion, which, though extremely plea-
sant, is rather serious than gay. And this aflbrds a good reason for
distinguishing in language these different emotions. The emotions
raised by color, by regularity, by proportion, and by order, have siicft
a resemblance to each other, as readily to come under one general
term, viz. the emotion of beauty; but the emotion of grandeur is so
difrei*ent from these mentioned, as to merit a peculiar name.
Though regularity, proportion, order, and color, contribute to
grandeur as well as to beauty, yet these qualities are not by far so
essential to the former as to the latter. To make out that proposi-
tion, some preliminaries are requisite. In the first place, the mind,
not being totally occupied' with a small object, can give its attention
at the same time to every minute part ; but in a great or extensive
object, the mind being totally occupied with the capital and striking
parts, has no attention left for those that are little or indifferent. Ib
the next place, two similar objects appear not similar when viewecl
at different distances ; the similar parts of a very large object, cannot
be seen but at different distances ; and for that reason, its regularity,
and the proportion of its parts, are, in some measure, lost to the eye ;
neither are the irregularities of a very large object so conspicuous as
of one that is small. Hence it is, that a large object is not so agreeable
by its regularity, as a small object ; nor so disagreeable by its irre-
gularities.
These considerations make it evident, that grandeur is satisfied-
with a less degree of regularity and of the other qualities mentioned,
than is requisite for beauty ; which may be illustrated by the follow-
ing experiment. Approaching to a small conical hill, we take an
accurate survey of every part, and are sensible of the slightest devi-
ation from regularity and proportion. Supposinc^ the hill to be con-
siderably enlarged, so as to make us less sensible of its regularity.
It will, upon that account, appear less beautiful. It wijl not, how-
ever, appear less agreeable, because some slight emotion of grandeur
comes in place of what is lost in beauty. And at last, when the hill
18 enlarged to a great mountain, the small degree of beauty that is
left, is sunk in its grandeur. Hence it is, that a towering hill is
delightful, if it have but the slightest resemblance of a cone; and a
chain of mountains no less so, though deficient in the accuracy of
order and proportion. We require a small surface to be smooth ;
bat in an extensive plain, considerable inequalities are overlooked.
In a word, regularity, proportion, order, and color, contribute to
grandeur as well as to beauty ; but with a remarkable difference.
timt, in passing from small to great, they are not required in :the
same degree of perfection. This remark serves to explain the
extreme delight we have in viewing the face of nature, when suffi-
ciently enriched and diversified with objects. The bulk of the
objectii in a natural landscape are beautiful, and some of them grand:
Digitized'
by Google
112 GBANDIUR AlID SUBLIMITY. f^h. 4. «
• flowing river, a spreading oak, a round hill, an extended plain,
•re delightful ; and even a rugged rock or harren heath, though in
themselves disagreeable, contribute, by contrast, to the beauty of the
whole. Joining to these, the verdure of the fields,»the mixture of
tight and shade, and the sublime canopy spread over all ; it will not
appear wonderful, that so extensive a group of splendid objects
should swell the heart to its utmost bounds, and raise the strongest
emotion of grandeur. The spectator is conscious of an enthusiasm,
which cannot bear confinement, nor the strictness of regularity and
order: he loves to range at large; and is so enchanted with magni-
ficent objects, as to overlook slight beautied or deformities.
The same observation is applicable, in some measure, to works of
art: in a small building, thq slightest irregularity is disagreeable;
Imt, in a magnificent palace, or a large Gothic church, irregulari-
ties are less regarded : in an epic poem we pardon hiapy negligences
that would not be permitted in a sonnet or epigram. Notwith-
standing such exceptions, it may be justly laid down for a rule, that
in works of art, order and regularity ought to be governing princi-
ples : and hence the observation of Longinus,* " In works of art we
nave regard to exact proportion ; in those of nature, to grandeur and
magnificence."
The same reflections are, in a good measure, applicable to subli-
mity ; particularly, that, like grandeur, it is a species of agreeable-
ness ; that a beautiful object placed high, appearmg more agreeable
than formerly, produces in the spectator a new emotion, termed the
emotion of sublimity ; and that the perfection of .order, regularity,
and proportion, is less required in objects placed high, or at a dis-
tance, than at hand.
The pleasant emotion raised by large objects, has not escaped th*
poets.
He doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus ; and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs. Julius Casar^ Act I. Sc. 3.
Cleopatra. I dreamt there was an Emp'ror Antony j
Oh such another sleep, that I might see
But such another man !
His face was as the heavens : and therein stuck
A sun and moon, which kept their course, and lighted
The little O o' th' earth.
His legs bestrid the ocean, his rear'd arm
Crested the world. Afitony and Cleopairaf Act V. Sc. 3.
—————— Majesty
Dies not alone, but, like a gulph, doth draw
"What's near it with it. Irs a massy wheel
Fix'd on the summit of the highest mount ;
To whose huge spokes, ten thousand lesser things
Are mortis'd and adjoin'd ; which when it falls,
Each small annexment, petty consequence,
" Attends the boist'rous ruin. Hamlet^ Act III. Sc. 8.
The poets have also made good use of the emotion produced by the
devatea situation of an object :
Cluod si me lyricis vatibus inseres,
Subliml feriam sidera vertice. Horat. Cam. 1. 1. Ode 1.
♦ Chap. 30.
Digitized by LjOOQ IC
Gh 4.] oRANDiuR AND sviLiiirhr. . 118
Amongst the lyric bards let me be read,
. High as the stars shall rise my lofty head.
O thou I the earthly author of my blood,
Whose youthftd spirit, in me regenerate,
Doth with a twofold vigor lift me up,
To reach at victory above my head. Richard II. Act I. Sc. 4.
Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal
The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne.
Rickard U, Ad Y.Scfl
Antony. Why was I rais'd the meteor of the world.
Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travell'd.
Till all my fires were spent ; and then cast downward ;
To be trod out by Ca»ar 1 Dryden, All for Love, Act I.
The description of Paradise in the fourth book of Paradise Lost,
0* t fine illustration of the impression made by elevated objects :
So on he fares, and to the border comes
Of Eden, where delicious Paradise,
Now nearer, crowns with her inclosure green,
As with a rural n^und, the champain head
Of a steep wilderness; whose hairy sides
With thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild.
Access deny'd ; and overhead up grew
Insuperable height of loftiest shade,
Cedar and pine, and fir, and branching palm,
A sylvan scene ; and as the ranks ascend,
Shade above shade, a woody theatre
Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops
The verd'rous wall of Paradise up sprung ;
Which to our general sire gave prospect largo
Into his nether empire neighb'rin^ round.
And higher than that walla circling row
Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit,
Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue,
Appear'd with gay enamel 'd colors mix'd. B. 4. 1. 131.
Though a grand object is agr'eeable, we must not infer that a little
object is disagreeable ; which would be unhappy for man, consider-
ing that he is surrounded with so many objects of that kind. The
same holds with respect to place: a body placed high is agreeable:
but the same body placed low, is not, by that circumstance, rendered
disagreeable. Littleness and lowness of place are precisely similar
in the following particular, that they neither give pleasure nor pain.
And in this may visibly be discovered peculiar attention in fitting the
internal constitution of man to his external circumstances. Were
littleness and lowness of place agreeable, greatness and elevation
could not be so : were littleness and lowness of place disagreeable,
they would occasion perpetual uneasiness.
The difference between great and little with respect to agreeable-
liess, is remarkably felt in a series, when we pass gradually from the
one extreme to the other. A mental progress from the capital to the
kingdom, from that to Europe — ^to the whole earth — to the planetary
system — to the universe, is extremely pleasant : the heart swells,
and the mind is dilated, at every step. The returning in an oppo-
«ite direction is not positively painful, though our pleasure lessens
at every step, till it vanishes into indifference : such a progress may
^metimes produce pleasure of a different sort, wfiicn arises from
10*
Digitized
by Google
114 ORAHDEUF AND SUBLIMITY. [Ch. 4.
taking a narrower and narrower inspection. The same observation
holds in a progress upward and downward. Ascent is pleasant, be-
cause it elevates us : but descent is never painful ; it is for the most
part pleasant from a different cause, that it is according to the order
of nature. The fall of a stone from any height is extremely agreea-
ble by its accelerated motion. I feel it pleasant to descend from a
mountain, because the descent is natural and easy. Neither is look-
ing downward painful ; on the contrary, to look down upon objects
makes part of the pleasure of elevation : looking down becomes then'
only painful when the object is' so far below as to create dizziness ;
and even when that is the case, we feel a sort of pleasure mixed with
pain. Witness Shakspeare's description of Dover clifis :
How fearful
And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eye so low !
The crows and choughs, that wine the midway-air,
Show scarce so gross as beetles. Half-way down
Han^s one tliat gathers samphire ; dreadful trade!
V Metmnks he seems no bigger thA his head.
The fishermen that walk upon the beach.
Appear like mice ; and yon tall anchoring bark
Duninish'd to her cock ; her cock, a buoy
Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge,
That on th' unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes,
Cannot be heard so high. Fil look no more,
Lest my Vain turn, and the deficient sight
Topple down headlong. King Ijcar, Act IV. Sc. 6.
A remark is made above,'that the emotions of grandeur and subli-
mity are nearly allied ; and hence it is, that the one term is frequently
put for the other. An increasing series of numbers, for example,
producing an emotion similar to that of mounting upward, is com-
monly termed an ascending series : a series of numbers gradually
decreasing, producing an emotion similar to that of going downward,
is commonly termed a descending series : we talk familiarly of go-
ing up to the capital, and of going down to the country : from a
lesser kingdom we talk of going up to a greater ; \vhence the anabasis
in the Greek language, when one travels from Greece to Persia.
We discover the same way of speaking in the language even of
Japan ;* and its universality proves it the offspring of a natural
feeling.
The foregoing observation leads us to consider grandeur and
aublimity in a figurative sense, and as applicable to the fine arts.
Hitherto these terms have been taken in their proper sense, as ap-
plicable to objects of sight only: and it was of importance to
bestow some pains upon that article ; because, generally speaking,
ihe figurative sense of a word is derived from its proper sense, which
holds remarkably at present. Beauty in its original signification is
confined to objects of sight; but, as many other objects, intellectual
as well as moral, raise emotions resembling that of beauty, the re-
semblance of the effects prompts us to extend the term beauty to these
objects. This equally accounts for the terms grandeur and sublimity
tak^n in a figurative sense. Every motion, from whatever cause
* Kempfer's Histor^of Japan, b. 5. chap. 2.
Digitized
by Google
Ck 4.] GRANDEUR AHD SUBLIMITT. 115
k proceeds, that resembles an emotion of grandeur or elevation, is
called by the same name : thus generosity is said to be an elevated
emotion, as well as great courage ; and that firmness of soul which
is superior to misfortunes, obtains the peculiar name of magnanimity.
On the other hand, every emotion that contracts the mind, and fixes
it upon things trivial or of no importance, is termed low, by its re-
semblance to an emotion produced by a little or low object of sight :
thus an appetite for trifling amusements is called a low taste. The
same terms are applied to characters and actions : we talk familiarly
of an elevated genius, of a great man, and equally so of littleness
of mind : some actions are great and elevated, and others are little
and grovelling. Sentiments, and even expressions, are characterised
in the same manner: an expression or sentiment that raises the mind
is denominated great or elevated ; and hence the sublime* in po-
etry. In such figurative terms, we lose the distinction between great
and elevated in their proper sense; for the resemblance is not so
entire as to preserve these terms distinct in their figurative applica-
lion. We carry this figure still farther. Elevation in its proper
sense, imports superiority of place ; and lowness, inferiority of place:
and hence a man of superior talents, of superior rank, of inferior
parts, of inferior taste, and such like. The veneration we have foif
our ancestors, and for the ancients in general, being similar to the
emotion produced by an elevated object of sight, justifies the figura-
tive expresswH, of the ancients being raised above us, or possessing
a superior place. And we may remark in passing, that as words
are intimately connected with ideas, many, by this form of expres-
sion, are led to conceive their ancestors as really above them in place,
and their posterity below them :
A grandam's name is little less in love,
Than is the doting: title of a mother :
They are as children but one step below.
, Richard 111. Act ly.Sc. 5.
The notes of the gamut, proceeding regularly from the blunter or
grosser sounds to the more acute and piercing, produce, in the hearer,
a feeling somewhat similar to what is produced by mounting up-
ward ; and this gives occasion to the figurative expressions, a high
»of«, a low note.
Such is the resemblance in feeling between real and figurative
prandeur, that among the nations on the east coast of Afric, who are
oirected purely by nature, the officers of state are, with respect to rank,
* Longinus gives a description of the Sublime that is not amiss, though far
from beinsnust in every circumstance, " That the mind is elevated by it, and so
tt&sibly alected, as to swell in transport and inward pride, as if wnat is only
hftud or read, were its own invention." But he adheres not to this description ;
ia his 6th chapter, he justly observes, that many passions have nothing of the
grand, such as grief, fear, pity, which depress the mind instead of raising it; ana
p^ in chap. 8. he mentions Sappho's ode upon love as sublime : beautiful it is
•rioubtedly, but it cannot be sublune, because it really depresses the mind instead
if nusing it His translator Boileaux is not more successful in his instances. In
las lOch reflection, he cites a passage from Demosthenes and another from Her^
dtHis as sublime, which have not t^ least tincture of that quality.
Digitized
by Google
1 (6 ORANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. [Ch. 4
distinguished by the length of the batoon each carries in his hand :
and in Japan, princes and great lords show their rank by the length
and size of their sedan-poles.* Again, it is a rule in painting, that
figures of a small size are proper for grotesque pieces ; but that an
historical subject, grand and important, requires figures as^eat as
the life. The resemblance of these feelings is in reality so strong,
that elevation, in a figurative sense, is observed to have the same ef-
fect, even externally, with real elevation :
K. Henry. This day is called the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him in the name of Crispian.
Henry V. Act IV. Sc. 8.
The relsemblance, in feeling, between real and figurative grandeur,
is humorously illustrated by Addison in criticising upon English
tragedy : ** The ordinary method of making an hero, is to clap a
huge plume of feathers upon his head, which rises so high, thai
there is often a greater length from his chiri to the top of his head,
than to the sole of his foot. One would believe, that we thought a
great man and a tall man the same thing. As these superfluous or-
naments upon the head make a great man, a princess generally re-
ceives her grandeur from these additional encumbrances that fall in-
to her tail : I mean the broad sweeping train, that follows her in all
her motions ; and finds constant employment for a boy, who stands
behind her to open and Spread it to advantage."* The Scythians
impressed with the fame of Alexander, were astonished when they
found him a little man.
A gradual progress from small to great is no less remarkable in
figurative, than in real grandeur or elevation. Every one must have
observed the delightful effect of a number of thoughts or sentiments,
artfully disposed like an ascending series, and making impressions
deeper and deeper : 'Such disposition of members in a period, is term-
ed a climax.
Within certain limits, grandeur and sublimity produce their strong-
est effects, which lessen by excess as well as by defect. This is re-
markable in grandeur and sublimity taken in their proper sense:
the grandest emotion that can be raised by a visible object, is where
the object can be taken in at one view ; if so immense as not to be
comprehended but in parts, it tends rather to distract than satisfy the
mind :t in like manner, the strongest emotion produced by eleva-
tion, is where the object is seen distinctly ; a greater elevation les-
sens in appearance the object, till it vanishes out of sight with its
pleasant emotion. The same is equally remarkable in figurative
grandeur and elevation, which shall be handled together, because,
as observed above, they are scarcely distinguishable. Sentiments
* Spectator, No. 42.
t It is justly observe by Addison, that perhaps a man would have been more
astonished with the majestic air that appeared in one of Lysippus's statues of
Alexander, though no bigger than the life, than he might have been with Mount
Athos, had it been cut into the figure of the hero, according to the proposal ot
Phidias, with a river in one hand, and a city in the other. Spectator^ No. 415.
Digitized
by Google
Ck 4.1 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 1 17
may be so strained as to become obscure, or to exceed the capacity
of the human mind. Against such licensit of imagination, every
good writer will be upon his guard ; and therefore it is of greater
importance to observe, that even the true sublime may be carried be-
pad that pitch which produces the highest entertainment We are
ondoubtedly susceptible of a greater elevation than can be inspired
by human actions, the most heroic and magnanimous : witness what
we feel from Milton's description of superior beings ; yet every man
must be sensible of a more constant and sweet elevation, when the
history of his own species is the subject : he enjoys an elevation
equal to that of the greatest hero, of an Alexander or a CaBsar, of a
Brutus, or an Epaminondas ; he accompanies these heroes in their
sttbiimest sentiments and most hazardous exploits, with a magna-
nimity equal to theirs ; and finds it no stretch, to preserve the same
tone of mind, for hours together, without sinking. The case is not
the same in describing the actions or qualities of superior beings :
the reader's imagination cannot keep pace with that of the poet ; the
mind, unable to support itself in a Strained elevation, falls as from a
height; and the fall is immoderate, like the elevation: where that
effect is not felt, it must be prevented by some obscurity in the con-
cejrtion, which frequently attends the description of unknown objects.
Hence the St. Francises, St. Dominies, and other tutelary saints,
among the Roman Catholics. A mind unable to raise itself to the
Supreme Being, self-existent and eternal, or to support itself in a
strained elevation, finds itself more at ease in using the intercession
of some saint, whose piety and penances while on earth, are sup-
posed to have made him a favorite in heaven.
A strained elevation is attended with another inconvenience, that
t!» author is apt to fall suddenly as well as the reader ; because it is
not a little difficult, to descend sweetly and easily from such ele-
vation, to the ordinary tone of the subject. The following passage
is a good illustration of that observation :
Saepe etiam immensum coelo venit agmen aquarum,
Et foedam glomerant tempestatem imbribus atris
Conlectse ex alto nubes. Ruit arduus sether,
Et pluvia ingenti sata laeta boumque labores
Diluit. Inplentur fossae, et cava numina crescunt
Cum sonitu, fervetque fretis spirantibus wquor.
Ipse Pater, media nimborum in nocte, corusca
Fulmina molHur dextra. duo maxima motu
Terra tremit: fu^^re ferae, et mortalia corda
Per gentes humilis stravit pavor. Ille flagranti
Am Atho, aut Rodopen, aut alta Ceraunia telo *
Dejicit: ingeminaiU austri, et densissimus imber.
Virg. Georg. 1. 1.
And oft whole sheets descend of sluicy rain,
Suck'd by the spungy clouds from oft the main —
The lofty skies at once come pouring down,
The promised crop and golden labors drown.
The dikes are filled ; and with a roaring sound,
The rising rivers float the nether ground —
And rocks the bellowing voice of boiling seas rebound.
The father of the gods his glory shrouds,
Involved in tempests and a night of clouds ;
Digitized
by Google
lis ORANDBU& AND SUBLIMITY. [Ch. i.
And from the middle darkness flashing out,
By fits he deals his fiery bolts about
Earth feeis the motions of her angry ^ ;
Her entrails tremble, and her mountams nod—
And flying beasts in forests seek abode.
Deep horror seizes every human breas^
Their pride is humbled and their fear confessed,
While he from high his rolling thunder throws,
And fires the mountains with repeated blows :
The rocks are from their old foundations rent.
The winds redouble and the rains augment —
The waves on heaps are dashed against the shore,
And now the woods and now the billows roar !
In the description of a storm, to figure Jupiter throwing down huge
mountains with his thunder-bolts, is hyper bolically sublime, if I may
use the expression : the tone of mind produced by that image is so
distant from the tone produced by a thick shower of rain, that the
sudden transition must be unpleasant.
Objects of sight that are not remarkably great nor high, scarcely
raise any emotion of grandeur or of sublimity : and the same holds
in other objects ; for we often find the mind roused and animated,
without being carried to that height. This (lifference may be discerned
in many sorts of music, as well as in some musical instruments ; a
kettle-drum rouses, and a hautboy is animating; but neither of them
inspires an emotion of sublimity : revenge animates the mind in a
considerable degree ; but I think it never produces an emotion that
can be termed grand or sublime ; and I shall have occasion after- ,
ward to observe, that no disagreeable passion ever has that efiect.
I am willing to put this to the test, by pkcing before my reader a
most spirited picture of revenge: it is a speech of Antony wai\ing
over the body of CsBsar :
Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood !
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,
rWhich like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips,
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue,)
A curse shall light upon the kind of men j
Domestic fury, and fierce civil strife,
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy;
Blood and destruction shall be so in use,
And dreadful objects so familiar.
That mothers shall but smile, when they behold
Their infants quarter'd by the hands of war.
All pity chok'd with custom of fell deeds,
And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge,
With Ate by his side come hot from hell.
Shall in these confines, with a monarch's voice,
Cry, Havock! and let slip the dogs of war.
JuliiLS Casarj Act III. Sc. 4.
No desire is more universal than to be exalted and honored ; and
upon that account chiefly are we ambitious of power, riches, titles,
fame, which would suddenly lose their relish, did they not raise us
above others, and command submission and deference ;* and it may
* Honestum per se esse expelendum indicant pueri, in quibus, ut in speculis,
natura cemitur. Gtuanta studia decertantium sunt! Gtuanta ipsa certamina!
Ut iUi efferuntulr Isetitia, cum vicerunt ! Ut pudet victos ! Ut se accusari nolunt!
Digitized
by Google
CtL L] GRANDEUR AND 80BI.IMITT. 1 19
be thought that oar attachment to things grand and lofly proceeds
from their connection with our favorite passion. This connection has
undoubtedly an effect ; but that the preference given to things grand
and lofty must have a deeper root in human nature, will appear from
considering, that many bestow their time upon low and trifling amuse*
raents, without having the least tincture of this favorite passion : yet
these very persons talk the same language with the rest of mankind,
I frad prefer the more elevated pleasures : they acknowledge a more
refined taste, and are ashamed of their own as low and grovelling.
This sentiment, constant and universal, must be the work of nature ;
and it plainly indicates an original attachment in human nature to
every object that elevates the mind : some men may have a greater
relish for an object not of the highest rank ; but they are conscious
of the preference given by mankind in general to thmgs grand and
sublime ; and they are sensible that their peculiar taste ought to yield >
lo the general taste.
What is said above suggests a capital rule for reaching the sub-
lime in such works of art as are susceptible, of it ; and that is, to pre-
sent those parts or circumstances only which make the greatest
figure, keeping out of view every thing low or trivial ; for the mind,
elevated by an important object, cannot, without reluctance, be forced
down to bestow any share of its attention upon trifles. Such judi-
cious selection of capital circumstances, is by an eminent critic styled
gra/ndeur of manner** In none of the fine arts is there so great
scope for that voile as in poetry ; which, by that meaiis, enjoys a re-
markable power of bestowing upon objects and events an air of
grandeur : when we are spectators, every minute object presents it-
self in its order ; but, in describing at 3econd hand, these are laid
aside, and the capital objects are brought close. together. A judicious
taste* in thus selecting the most interesting incidents, to give them an
united force, accounts for a fact that may appear surprising ; which
is, that we are more moved by a spirited narrative at second hand,
than by being spectators of the event itself, in all its circumstances.
Longinus exemplifies the foregoing rule by a comparison of two
passages.! The first, from Aristssus, is thus translated :
Ye pow'rs, what madness ! how on ships so frail
(Tremendous thought !) can thoughtless mortals sail 1 \
For stormy seas they quit the pleasing plain,
Plant woods in waves, and dwell amidst the main.
Far o'er the deep (a trackless path) they go,
And wander oceans in pursuit of wo.
No ease their hearts, no rest their eyes can find,
On heaven their looks, and on the waves their mind.
/
lit eopiunt laudari ! Cluos illi labores non perferunt, ut SBqualium principes tinil
Ckitro definibus. . n . ,
Boys show that honor is worthy to be sought for ; in whom, as in a mirror,
we see nature. How zealous are the contenders ! How great are their coft-
mts! How exalted with joy are the conqueror*— how ashamed are the cou-
riered I How unwilling to be blamed ; how desirous of praise ! What labori
m^f not undergo to surpass their equals !
♦ tocctator, No. 415.
Chap. 8. of the Sublime.
Digitized
by Google
,120 eRANDBVR AND SUBLIMITY. [Ch. 4
Sank are their spirits, while their arms th^y rear,
And gods are wearied with their fi-uitless prayer.
The other, from Horaer, I shall give in Pope's translation :
Burst as a wave that from the cloud impends,
And swell'd with tempests on the ship descends.
White are the decks with foam : the winds aloud
Howl o'er the masts, and sing through every shroud.
^ Pale, trembling, tir'd, the sailors freeze with fears,
And instant death on every wave appears.
In the latter passage, the most striking circumstances are selected to
fill the mind with terror and astonishment. The former is a collec-
tion of minute and low circumstances, which scatter the thought, and
make no impression : it is, at the same time, full of verbal antitheses
and low conceit, extremely improper in a scene of distress. But this
last observation belongs to another head.
The following description of a battle is remarkably sublime, by
collecting together, in tne fewest words, those circumstances which
make the greatest figure.
Like Autumn's dark storms pouring from two echoing hills, toward each other
approached the heroes : as two dark streams from high rocks meet and roar on
the plain, loud, rou^h, and dark in battle, meet Lochlin and Inisfail. Chief
mixes his strokes with chief, and man with man : steel sounds on steel, and
helmets are cleft on high : blood bursts and smokes around : strings murmur on
the polish'd yew : darts rush along the sky : spears fall like sparks of flame that
gild the stormy face of night.
As the noise of the troubled ocean when roll the waves on high, as the last peal
of thundering heaven, such is the noise of "battle. Tho' Cormac's hundred bards
were there, feeble were the voice of a hundred bards to send the deaths to future
times ; for many were the deaths of the heroes, and wide poured the blood of the
valiant , JFHngal.
The following passage in the 4th book of the Iliad, is a descrip-
.ion of a battle, woi;iderfully ardent. " When now gathered on either
side, the hosts plunged together in fight; shield is harshly laid to
shield, spears crash on the brazen corslets; bossy buckler with
buckler meets ; loud tumult rages over all ; groans are mixed with
boasts of men : the slain and slayer join in noise ; the earth is float-
ing round with blood. As when two rushing streams from two
mountains come roaring down, and throw together their rapid
waters below, they roar along the gulphy vale : The startled shep-
herd hears the sound, as he stalks o'er the distant hills : So, as they
mixed in fight, from both armies clamor with loud terror arose.
But such general descriptions are not frequent in Homer. Even his
single combats are rare. The fifth book is the longest account of a
battle that is in the Iliad ; and yet contains nothing but a long cata-
logue of chiefs killing chiefs, not in single combat neither, but at a
distance, with an arrow or a javelin ; and these chiefs named for the
first time and the last. The same scene is continued through a great
part of the sixth book. There is, at the same time, a minute descrip-
tion of every wound, which for accuracy may do honor to an anato-
mist, but in an epic poem is tiresome and Kitiguing. There is no
relief from horrid languor but the beautiful Greek language^ and
melody of Homer's versification.
Digitized
by Google
CL 4.] GRANOBUR AKO SUBLIlilTT. 121
In the twenty-first book of the Odyssey, there is a passage which
deviates widely from the rule above laid down : it concerns that part
of the history of Penelope and her suitors, in which she is made to
declare in favor of him who should prove the most dextrous in shoot-
ing with the bow of Ulysses :
Now gently winding; up the fair ascent
By many an easy step, the matron went:
Then o'er the pavement glides with grace divine,
(With polish'd oak the level pavements shine ;)
The folding gates a dazzling light disnlay'd,
With pomp of various architrave o'ertayxL
The bolt, obedient to the silken string,
Forsakes the staple as she pulls the nns;;
The wards respondent to the key tum'a round
The bars fall bieick ; the fly ine valves resound.
Loud as a bull makes hill and valley ring ;
So roar'd the lock when it releas'd the spring.
She moves majestic through the wealthy room
Where treasur'd garments cast a rich perfume ;
There from the column where aloft it hung,
Reach'd, in its splendid case, the bow unstrung.
Virgil sometimes errs against this rule : in the following passages
minute circumstances are brought into full view; and, what is still
worse, they are described with all the pomp of poetical diction;
^neid. L. ].L 214. to 219. L. 6. /. 176. to 182. L. 6. /. 212. to
231.: and the last, which describes a funeral, is the less excusable,
as the man whose funeral it is makes no figure in the poem.
The speech of Clytemnesira, descending from her chariot in the
Iphigenia of Euripides,* is stuffed with a number of common and
trivial circumstances.
But of all writers, Lucan, as to this article, is the most injudicious.
The sea-fight between the Romans and Massilians,t is described so
much in detail, without exhibiting any grand or total view, that the
reader is fatigued with endless circumstances, without ever feeling
any degree of elevation; and yet there are some fine incidents, those
for example of the two brothers, and of the old man and his son,
which, taken separately. Would afiect us greatly. But Lucan, once
tngaged in a description, knows no end. See other passages of the
same kind, L. 24. /. 292. to 337. L. 4. /. 750. to 765. The episode
of the sorceress Erictho, end of book 6, is intolerably minute and
prolix.
To these I venture to oppose a passage from an old historical
bdlad:
Gh), little page, tell Hardiknute,
That lives on hill so high,t
To draw his sword, the dread of faes,
And haste to follow me.
The little pas;e flew swift as dart
Flung by his master's arm.
'* Come down, come down, Lord Hardiknute»
" And rid your king from harm."
* Begmning of Act 3.
t Lib. 3. beeinning at line 567.
t JEfi^A, in the old Scotch language, is pronounoed hee.
Digitized
by Google
U^ OftAKIHIVIl AKD srBUHITY. (Ch. 4.
Tbi8 rale is also applicable to other fine arts. In painting* it is
established, that the principal figure must be put in the strongest
light; that the beauty of attitude consists in placing the nobler parts
inost in view, and in suppressing the smaller parts as much as possi-
ble ; that the folds of the drapery must be few and large ; that fore
shortenings are bad, because tney make the parts appear little;
and that the muscles ought to be kept as entire as possible, without
being divided into small sections. Every one at present subscribes
to that rule as applied to gardening, in opposition to parterres split
into a thousand small parts in the stifiest regularity of figure. The
most eminent architects have governed themselves by the same rule
in all their works.
Another rule chiefly regards the sublime, though it is applicable
to every sort of literary performance intended for amusement ; and
that is, to avoid, as much as possible, abstract and general term9.
Such terms, similar to mathematical signs, are contrived to expfejss
our thoughts in a concise manner ; but images, which are the life of
poetry, cannot be raised in any perfection but by introducing parti-
eular objects. Greneral terms that comprehend a number of indivi-
duals, must be excepted from that rule : our kindred, our clan, our
country, and words of the like import, though they scarcely raise
any image, have, however, a wonderful power over our passions :
the greatness of the complex object overbalancies the obscurity of
the image.
Grandeur, being an extremely vivid emotion, is not readily produced
in perfection but by reiterated impressions. The effect of a single
impression can be but momentary; and if one feel suddenly some-
what like a swelling or exaltation of mind, the emotion vanishes as
soon as felt. Single thoughts or sentiments, I know, are often cited
as examples of the sublime ; but their effect is far inferior to that of
a grand subject displayed in its capital parts. I shall give a few
examples, that the reader may judge for himself In the famous
action of Thermopylae, where Leonidas the Spartan king, and his
chosen band, fighting for their country, were cut off to the last man,
A saying is reported of Diencces, one of the band, which, expressing
eheerful and undisturbed bravery, is wellentitled to the first place in
examples of that kind. Respecting the number of their enemies, it
was observed, that the arrows shot by such a multitude would inter-
<W|)t the light of the sun. So much the belter, says he, for we shal
then fight in the shade.*
Someriet. Ah ! Warwick, Warwick, wert thou as we are,
We might recover all our loss again.
The Gtueen from France hath brought a puissant power,
Ev'n now we heard the news. Ah ! couldst thou fly !
Warwick. Why, then I would not fly.
nird Part Hmry VI. Act V. Sc 3.
Buch a sentiment from a man expiring of his wounds, is truly heroic,
imd must elevate the mind to the greatest height that can be done by
t jingle expression: it will not suffer in a comparison with the &
* Hm)dotu8, Book 7.
Digitized
by Google
(%i.] <QRJ^NDBUR AND SUBLIMITY. tS8
moQs sentiment Qu'il mourut of CorDeille : the latter is a sentiment
of indignation merely, the former of firm and cheerful courage.
To cite in opposition many a sublime passage, enriched with the
• finest images, and dressed in the most nervous expressions, would
scarcely be fair: I shall produce but one instance, from Shakspeare»
which sets a few objects before the eye, without much pomp of lan-
guage : it operates its effect by representing these objects in a climax,
raising the mind higher and higher till it feel the emotion of gran-
deur in perfection :
The clood-capt tow*rs, the gorg^us palaces,
The solemn temples, the ffreat ^lobe itself,
Yea all which it inherit, snail dissolve, d.c.
The chtid'ca/pt towWs produce an elevating emotion, heightened by
the gorgeous palaces ; and the mind is carried still higher and
higher by the images that follow. Successive images, making thus
deeper and deeper impressions, must elevate more than any single
isoage can do.
Mon the one hand, no means directly applied have more influ-
ence to raise the mind than grandeur and sublimity; so, on the
other, DO, means indirectly applied have more influence to sink and
depress it : for in a state of elevation, the artful introduction of an
bumbling object, makes the fall great in proportion to the elevation.
Of this observation Shakspeare gives a beautiful example, in the
passage last quoted :
The cloud-capt tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great §[lobe itself,
Yea all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like the baseless fabric of a vision,
Leave not a racb behind.
Tempest, Act IV. Sc. 4.
The elevation of the mind in the former part of this beautiful pas-
jage, makes the fall great in proportion, when the most humbling of
Allimages is introduced, that of an utter dissolution of the earth and
Its inhabitants. The mind, when warmed, is more susceptible of
impressions than in a cool state; and a depressing or melanchofy
object listened to, makes the strongest impression when it reaches
Ae mind in its highest state of elevation or cheerfulness.
But a humbling image is not always necessary to produce that
^ect : a remark is made above, that, in describing superior beings,
the reader's imagination, unable to support itself in a strained eleva-
tion, falls often as from a height, and sinks even below its ordinary
tone. The following instance comes luckily in view ; for a better
wmnot be given : " God said, Let there be light, and there was
light." Longinus quotes this passage from Moses as a shining ex-
ample of the sublime ; and it is scarcely possible, in fewer words,
to convey so clear an image of the infinite power of the Deity : but
then it belongs to the present subject to remark, that the emotion of
sublimity raised by th.is image is but momentary ; and that the mind,
unable to support itself in an elevation so much above nature, im-
mediately sinks down into humility and veneration for a being so fiir
Digitized
by Google
«24 GRANDEUR AND SVBLIMItV. [Cit 4
oxaited aoove groveling mortals. Every one is acquainted with a
dispute about that passage between two French critics,* the one posi-
tively affirming it to be sublime, the other as positively denying.
What I have remarked shows that both of them have reached the
truth, but neither of them the whole truth : the primary effect of the
passage is undoubtedly an emotion of grandeur; which so far jus-
tifies Boileau : but then every one must be sensible, that the emotion
is merely a flash, which, vanishing instantaneously, gives way to
humility and veneration. That indirect effect of sublimity justifies
Huet, who, being a man of true piety, and probably not much car-
ried by imagination, felt the humbling passion more sensibly than
his antagonist did. And, laying aside diflference of character, Huet's
opinion may, I think, be defended as the more solid ; because in
such images, the depressing emotions are the more sensibly felt, and
have the longer enliu ranee.
The straining of an elevated subject beyond due bounds, is a vice
not so frequent as to require the correction of. criticism. But false
sublime is a rock on which writers of more fire than judgment com-
monly split; and therefore a collection of examples may be of use
as a beacon to future adventurers. One species of false sublime,
known by the name of bombast, is common amgng writers of a mean
genius: it is a serious endeavor, by strained description, to raise a
low or familiar subject above its rank; which, instead of being sub-
lime, becomes ridiculous. I am extremely sensible how prone the
mind is, in some animating passions, to magnify its objects beyond
natural bounds : but such hyperbolical description has its limits ;
and, when carried beyond the impulse of the propensity, it degene-
rates into burlesque. Take the following examples.
Sejanus. '■ Great and high
The world knows only two, that's Rome ana 1.
My roof receives me not ; 'tis air I tread,
And at each step I feel my advanc'd head
Knock out a star in heav n.
SejOnuSj Ben Johnson, Act V.
A writer who has no natural elevation of mind, deviates readily
into bombast: he strains above his natural powers; and the violent
effort carries him beyond the bounds of propriety. Boileau ex-
presses this happily :
, L'autre a peur de ramper, il se perd dans la nue.1
The same author, Ben Johnson, abounds in the bombast :
The mother,
Th' expulsed Apicata, finds them there ;
Whom when she saw lie spread on the degrees,
After a world of fury on herself,
Tearing her hair, defacing of her face,
Beating her breasts and womb, kneeling amaz'd,
Crying to heav'n, then to' them ; at last
Her drowned voice got up above her woes :
And with such black and bitter execrations,
(As might affright the gods, and force the sun
Run backward to the east ; nay, make the old
' Boileau and Huet t L'art Poet chant 1. 1
Digitized
by Google
(^ i] ORAMDBUR Airi> 8«BLIM1T¥.
Defbrmed chaos rise again t' o'erwhelm
Them, us, and all the world,) she fills the air.
Upbraids the heavens with tneir partial dooms,
Defies their t3rranrous powers, and demands
What she and those poor innocents have transfrett'^
That they must suffer such a share in vengeance.
Lentulus, the roan.
If all our fire were out, would fetch down new
Out of the hand of Jove ; and rivet him
To Caucasus, should he but frown ; and let
His own gaunt eagle fly at him to tire.
Catalin€,Aet1XL
Can these, or such, be any aid to us 1
Look they as they were built to shake the work)
Or be a moment to our enterprise 1
A thousand, such as they- are, could not make
One atom of our souls. The)r should be men
Worth heaven's fear, that looking up, but Aus,
Would make Jove stand upon his guard, and draw
Himself within his thunder ; which, amaz'd,
He should discharge in vain, and they unhurt
Or, if they were, iDce Capaneus at Thebes,
They should hang dead upon the highest spires
And ask the second bolt to be thrown down.
Why Lentulus talk you so lon» 1 This time
Had been enough t'have scattered all the stars.
T'have quench'd the sun and moon, and made the worki
Despair of day, or any light but ours.
CataHne^ Act IV.
This is the language of a madman :
Guildford, Give way, and let the gushing torrent come,
Behold the tears we bnng to sweP the deluge,
Till the flood rise upon me guilty world
And make the ruin common.
Lady Jane Qray^ Act IV. near the end.
I am sorry to observe that the following bombast stuff dropt from
the pen of Dryden :
To see this fleet upon the ocean move,
Angels drew wide the curtains of the skies;
And heaven, as if there wanted lights above,
For tapers made two glaring comets rise.
Another species of false sublime is still more fiiultj than bom*
bast ; and that is, to force elevation by introducing imaginary beiogi
without preserving any propriety in their actions ; as if it were law-
ful to ascribe every extravagance and inconsistence to beings of the
poet's creation. No writers are more licentious in that article than
Johnson and Dryden:
Methinks I see Death and the Furies waiting
What we will do, and all the heaven at leisure
For the great si)ectacle. Draw then your swords :
And if our destiny envy our virtue
The honor of the day, yet let us care
To sell ourselves at such a price, as may
Undo the world to buy us, and make Fate,
While she tempts ours, to fear her own estate.
OitoJMWtAety.
11*
Digitized
by Google
195 GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. (CL 4.
-The Furies stood on hill
Circling the place, and trembled to see men
Do more than they ; whilst Piety led the field,
Grieved for that side, that in so bad a cause
They kney knew not what a crime their valor was.
The Sun stood stUl, and was, behind the cloud
The battle made, seen sweating to drive up
Hia frighted horse, whom still the noise drove backward.
Md. Act V.
Osmyn. While we indulge our common happiness,
He is fcrgot by whom we «ul possess,
The brave Alinanzor, to whose arms we owe
All that we did, and all that we shall do ;
Who like a tempest that outrides the wind.
Made a just battle ere the bodies join'd.
AbddUa. His victories we scarce could keep in view,
Or polish 'em so fast as he rough drew.
Abdemelech. Fate after him b^low with pain did move.
And Victory could scarce keep pace above.
Death did at length so many slain forget.
And lost the tale, and took "^em by the great.
Conquest of Oratrnda^ Act II. at beginning.
The gods of Rome fight for ye ; loud Fame calls ye,
PitchM on the topless Appenine, and blows
To all the under world, aJl nations
The seas, and unfrequented deserts, where the snow dwells,
Wakens the ruin'd monuments, and there.
Where nothing but eternal deaiii and sleep is.
Informs again the dead bones.
Beaumont and Fletcher^ Bonduca^ Act III. Sc. 3.
An actor on thd stage maybe guilty of bombast as well as an
author in his closet ; a certain manner of acting, which, is grand
when supported by dignity in the sentiment and force in the expres-
sion, is ridiculous where the sentiment is mean, and the expres
sion flat.
This chapter shall be closed with some observations. When the
sublime is carried to its due height, and circumscribed within proper
bounds, it enchants the mind, and raises the most delightful of. all
emotions: the reader, engrossed by a sublime object, feels himself
raised as it were to a higher rank. Considering that effect, it is not
wonderful that the history of conquerors and heroes, should be uni-
versally the favorite entertainment. And this fairly accounts for
what I once erroneously suspected to be a wrong bias originally in
human nature ; which is, that the grossest acts of oppression and
injustice scarcely blemish the character of a great conqueror : we.
nevertheless, warmly espouse his interest, accompany him in his
exploits, and are anxious for his success : the splendour and enthusi-
asm of the hero transfused into the readers, elevate their minds fai
above the rules of justice, and render them, in a great measure, in-
sensible of the wrongs that are committed :
For in those days might only shall be admir'd,
And valor and heroic virtue call'd ;
To overcome in battle, and subdue
Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite
Manslaughter, shall be held the highest pitch
Of human glcuy, and for glory done
Digitized
by Google
Ck 5.] MOTION AND FOKCV. 127
Of triumph, to be styl*d jnjeat conquerors,
Patrons of mankind, gods, and sons of goiis,
Destroyers rightlier caJl'd, and plagnies of men.
Thus fame shall be achiev'd, renown on earth.
And what most merits fame in silence hid.
MUtoHf b. ii.
The irregular influence of grandeur reaches also to other matters *
however good, honest, or useful, a man may be, he is not so much
respected as is one of a more elevated character, though of less
integrity ; nor do the misfortunes of the former affect us so much as
those of the latter. And I add, because it cannot be disguised, that
the remorse which attends breach of engagement, is, in a great mea-
sure, proportioned to the figure that the injured peraon makes:
the vows and protestations of lovers are an illustrious example ; for
these commonly are little regarded when rtade to women of inferior
rank.
CHAPTER V.
MOTION AND FORCE.
Motion is agreeable, rest, indifferent — Motion agreeable, when it corresponds with
the course of our perceptions — duick motion at first agreeable — By accelerating
the course of our perceptions, it becomes painful — Slow motion becomes painful
by retarding our perceptions — Regular motion more agreeable than irregular-
Motion uniformly accelerated, more agreeable than when uniformly retarded
- Upward motion agreeable — Motion in a straight line agreeable-i-In curve
lines more so — Two kinds of force ; one quiescent, and one exerted in motion-
To see them both exerted in motion is agreeable — The difference between the
emotions excited by motion and those excited by force — Downward motion
quiets the mind — iJpward motion elevates the-mmd — The animating effect of
great force — The final cause, to promote industry.
That motion is agreeable to the eye without relation to purpose
dr design, may appear from the amusement it gives to infants:
juvenile exercises are relished chiefly on that account.
If a body in motion be agreeable, one will be apt to conclude that
at rest it must be disagreeable : but we learn from experience, that
this would be a rash conclusion. Rest is one of those circumstances
that are neither agreeable nor disagreeable, being viewed with per-
fect indifierency. And happy is it for mankind to have the matter
80 ordered ; if rest were agreeable, it would disincline*-us to taoiion,
by which all things are performed : if it were disagreeable, it would
be a source of perpetual uneasiness ; for the bulk of the things we
see, appear to be at rest. A similar instance of designing wisdom
I have had occasion to explain, in opposing grandeur to littleness,
and elevation to lowness of place.* Even in the simplest matters,
the finger of God is conspicuous : the happy adjustment of the inter-
nal nature of man to his external circumstances, displayed in the
instances here given, is indeed admirable.
Motion is agreeable in all its varieties of quickness and slowness ;
bat motion long continued admits some exceptions. That degree of
* See Chap. 4.
Digitized
by Google
128 MOTION AND FORCE. [CL 5.
continued motion which corresponds to the natural course of our
perceptions, is the most agreeable. The quickest motion is for an
instant delightful ; but soon appears to be too rapid : it becomes pain-
ful by forcibly accelerating the course of our perceptions. Slow
continued motion becomes disagreeable from an opposite pause, that
it retards the natural course of our perceptions.*
There are other varieties in motion, beside quickness and slow-
ness, that make it more or less agreeable: regular motion is pre-
ferred before what is irregular ; witness the motion of the planets in
orbits nearly circular : the motion of the comets in orbits less regu-
lar, is less agreeable.
Motion uniformly accelerated, resembling an a,3cending series of
numbers, is more agreeable than when uniformly retarded : motion
upward is agreeable, by tendency to elevation. What then shall we
say of downward motion regularly accelerated by the force of gravity,
compared with upward-motion regularly retarded by the same force?
Which of these is the most agreeable ? This question is not easily
solved.
Motion in a straight line is agreeable : but we prefer undulating
:fnotion, as of waves, of a. flame, of a ship under sail; such motion is
more free, and also more natural. Hence the beauty of a serpentine
river.
The easy and sliding motion of a fluid, from the lubricity of its
parts, is agreeable upon that account ; but the agreeableness chiefly
depends on the following circumstance, that the motion is perceived,
not as of one body, but as of an endless number moving together
with order and regularity. Poets struck with tjjat beauty, draw
more images from fluids in motion than from solids.
. Force is of two kinds; one quiescent, and one exerted in motion.
The former, dead weight for example, must be laid-aside ; for a body
at rest is not, by that circumstance, either agreeable or disagreeable.
Moving force only is my province ; and, though it is not separable
from motion, yet by the power of abstraction, either of them may be
considered inaependept of the other. Both of them are agreeable,
because both o( them include activity. It is agreeable to see a thing
move : to see it moved, as when it is dragged or pushed along, is
neither agreeable nor disagreeable, more than when at rest. It is
agreeable to see a thing exert force ; but it makes not the thing either
agreeable or disagreeable, to see force exerted upon it.
Though motion and force are each of them agreeable, the impres-
sions they make are different. This difference, clearly felt, is not
easily described. All we can say is, that the emotion raised by a
moving body, resembling its cause, is felt as if the mind were carried
along : the emotion raised by force exerted, resembling also its cause,
is felt as if force were exerted within the mind.
To illustrate that difference, I give the following examples It haa
been explained why smoke ascending in a calm dby, suppose from a
cottage m a wood, is an agreeable object ;t so remarkably agreeftble,
• * ♦ Tkis will be ej^lauied more fully af^erwafd, oh. 9.
t Chftp.L
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 5.] MOTION AND FORCE. 129
that landscape-painters introduce it upon all occasions. The ascent
being natural, and without effort, is pleasant in a calm ojtate of mind .
it resembles a gently-flowinof river, but is more agreeable, because
ascent is more to our taste than descent. A fire- work or a jet deau
rouses the mind more ) because the beauty of force visibly exerted,
is superadded to that of upward motion. To a man reclinirig indo-
lently upon a bank of flowers, ascending smoke in a still morning is
charming ; but a fire-work or a jet deau rouses him from that supine
posture, and puts him in motion.
A jet deau makes an impression distinguishable from that of a
waterfall. Downward motion being natural and without effort, tends
rather to quiet the mind than to rouse it: upward motion, on the con-
trary, overcoming the resistance of gravity, makes an impression of
a great eflfort, and thereby rouses and enlivens the mind.
The public games of the Greeks and Romans, which gave so
much entertainment to the spectators, consisted chiefly in exerting
force, wrestling, leaping, throwing great stones, and such-like trials
of strength. When great force is exerted, the effort felt internally
is animating. The effort may be such, as, in some measure, to over-
power the mind : thus the explosion of gun-powder, the violence of
a torrent, the weight of a mountain, and the crush of an earthquake,
create astonishment rather than pleasure.
No quality nor circumstance contributes more to grandeur than
force, especially where exerted by sensible beings. I cannot make
the observation more evident than by the following quotations.
— Him the almightv power
Hurl'd headlong flaming from th etliereal sky,
With hideous ruin and combustion, down
To bottomless perdition, there to dwell
In adamantine chains and penal fire,
Who durst defy th' OmnipK)tent to arms.
Paradise Lost^ book I.
Now storming; fury rose,
And clamor such as heard in heaven till now
Was never ; arms on armor clashing bray'd
Horrible discord, and the madding wheels
Of brazen chariots rag*d ; dire was the noise
Of conflict; over head the dismal hiss
Of fiery darts in flaming vollies flew,
And flying vaulted either host with fire.
So uncler nery cope together rusfl'd
Both battles main, with ruinous assault
And inextinguishable ra^e ; all heaven
Resounded ; and had earm been then, all earth
Had to -iier centre shook. Ibid, book 6.
They ended parle, and both addressed for fight
. Unspeakable ; for who, though with the tongue
Of angels, can relate, or to wnat things
Liken on earth conspicuous, that may lift
Human imagination to such height
Of godlike pow'r 1 for likest gods they seem'd,
Stood they or mov'd, in stature, motion, arms,
Pit to decide the empire of great Heav'n.
Now wav'd their fiery swords, and in the air >
Made horrid circles : two broad suns their shields
Digitized
by Google
130 MOTION AND FORCE. [Ch. &
Blaz'd opposite, while Expectation stood
In horror: from each hand with speed reiir'd,
• Wliere erst was thickest fight, th' angelic throng,
And left large field, unsafe within the wind
Of such commotion ; such as, to set forth
Oreat things by small, if Nature's concord broke,
Amongr the constellations war were sprung.
Two planets, rushing from aspect malign
Of fiercest opposition, in mid sky
Should combat, and their jarring spheres confound.
Md,ho6k€.
We shall next consider the efiect of motion and force in'conjunc-
tion. In contemplating the planetary system, what strikes us the
most, is the spherical figures of the planets, and their regular motions;
the conception we have of their activity and enormous hulk being'
more obscure : the beauty accordingly of that system, raises a more
lively emotion than its grandeur. But if we could comprehend the
whole system at one view, the activity and irresistible force of these
immense bodies would fill us with amazement : nature cannot furnish
another scene so grand.
Motion and force, agreeable in themselves, are also agreeable by
their utility when employed as means to accomplish some beneficial
end. Hence the superior beauty of some machines, where force and
motion concur to perform the work of numberless hands. Hence
the beautiful motions, firm and regular, of a horse trained for war:
every single step is the fittest that can be, for obtaining the purposed
end. But the grace of motion is visible chiefly in man, not only for
the reasons mentioned, but because every gesture is significant. The
power, however, of agreeable motion is not a common talent: every
limb of the human body has an agreeable and disagreeable motion;
some motions being extremely graceful, others plain and vulgar;
some expressing dignity, others meanness. But the pleasure here,
arising, not singly from the beauty of motion, but from indicating
character and sentiment, belongs to diflTerent chapters.*
I should conclude with the final cause of the relish we have for
motion and force, were it not so evident as to require no explanation.
We are placed here in such circumstances as to make industry
essential to our well-being ; for without industry the plainest neces-
saries of life are not obtained. When our situation, therefore, in
this world requires activity and a constant exertion of motion and
force, Providence indulgently provides for our welfare by making
these agreeable to us : it would be a gross imperfection in our nature,
to make any thing disagreeable that we depend on for existence ; and
even indiflference would slacken greatly that degree of activity which
IS indispensable.
♦ Chap. 11. and 15.
Digitized
by Google
CL 6.] KOTBLTT, *0. 181
CHAPTER VI.
NOVELTY, AND THE UNEXPECTED APPEARANCE OP
OBJECTS.
The powerful efTect of novelty in raUine emotion — Wonder, the emotion raised
by novelty — The difference between admiration and wonder — "Wonder directed
to an object ; admiration to an agent — Novelty the cause of wonder ; unexpect*
edness, of surprise — Wonder agreeable or disagreeable according to its cause
—Surprise pleasant or painful, according to the object — The difference between
the pleasures of novelty, and those of variety — Novelty springs from one source;
variety from many — The lowest decree of novelty from a second survey of the
object — The second, of objects of which we have bad a description — The third,
of new objects resembling a known species — The hiehcst degree, from an un-
known object, having no analogy to any thing with wnich we are acquainted —
The prevalence of novelty among people of a mean taste — To arouse self-love
in action in case of danger, the final cause of surprise. •
Of all the circumstances that raise emotions, not excepting beauty,
nor even greatness, novelty has the most powerful influence. A new
object produces, instantaneously, an emotion termed wonder, which
totally occupies the mind, and for a time excludes all other objects.
Conversation among the vulgar never is more interesting than when
it tarns upon strange objects and extraordinary events. Men tear
themselves from their native country in search of things rare and
new; and novelty converts into a pleasure, the fatigues, and even
perils of traveling. To what cause shall we ascribe these singular
appearances ? To curiosity undoubtedly, a principle implanted in
Iwman naftire for a purpose extremely beneficial, that of acquiring
knowledge ; and the emotion of wonder, raised by new and strange
objects, inflames our curiosity to know more of them. This emotion
is different from admiration: novelty wherever found, whether in a
ouality or action, is the cause of wonder ; admiration is directed to
tne pefson who performs any thing wonderful.
During infancy, every new object is probably the occasion of won-
der, in some degree; because, during infancy, every object at first
sight is strange as well as new : but as objects are rendered familiar
by custom, we cease, by degrees, to wonder at new appearances, if
they have any resemblance to what we are acquainted with : for a
tUng must be singular as well as new, to raise ^ur wonder. To
ttpfe multiplying words, I would be understood to comprehend both
drcumstances when I, hereafter, talk of novelty.
In an ordinary train of perceptions where one thing introduces
another, not a single object makes its appearance unexpectedly :* the
mind thus prepared for the reception of its objects, admits them one
after another without perturbation. But when a thing breaks in
wiexpectedly, and without the preparation of any connection, it raises
SB emotion, known by the name of surprise. That emotion may be
fioduced by the most familiar object, as when one unexpectedly
tests a friend who was reported to be dead ; or a man in high life
htoty a beggar. On the other hand, a new object, howetet flttange*
« See CIu4f>. L
Digitized
by Google
132 NOYELTT, AC. [CL 6
will not produce the emotion, if the spectator be prepared for the
sight: an elephant in India will not surprise a traveller who goes to
see one ; and yet its novelty will raise his wonder : an Inaian in
Britain would be much surprised to stumble upon an elephant feed-
ing at large in the open fields : but the creature itself, to which he
was accustomed, would not raise his wonder.
Surprise, thus, in several respects diflfers from wonder: unexpect-
edness is the cause of the former emotion ; novelty is the cause of
the latter. Nor differ they less in their nature ani circumstances,
as will be explained hereafter. With relation to one circu instance
they perfectly agree; which i^ the shortness of their duration: the
instantaneous production of these emotions in perfection, may contri-
bute to that effect, in conformity to a general law, that things soon decay
which soon come to perfection : the violence of the emotions may also
contribute; for an ardent emotion, which is not susceptible of increase,
cannot have a long course. But their short duration is occasioned
chiefly by that of their causes : we are soon reconciled to an object,
however unexpected ; and novelty soon degenerates into familiarity.
Whether these emotions be pleasant or painful, is not a clear point.
It may appear strange, that our own feelings and their capital qualities,
should afford any matter for a doubt : but when we are engrossed
by any emotion, there is no place for speculation ; and when suf-
ficiently calm for speculation, it is not easy to recall the emotion with
accuracy. New objects are sometimes terrible, sometimes delightful.
The terror which a tiger inspires is greatest at first, and wears off
gradually by familiarity: on the other hand, even womeil will
acknowledge that it is novelty which pleases the most in a new
fashion. It would be rash, however, to conclude, that wonder is in
itself neither pleasant nor painful, but that it assumes either quality
according to circumstances. An object, it is true, that has a threat-
ening appearance, adds to our terror by its novelty : but from that
experiment it does not follow, that novelty is in itself disagreeable;
for it is perfectly consistent, that we be delighted with an object in
one view, and terrified with it in another : a river in flood swelling
over its banks, is a grand and delightful object ; and yet it may pro-
duce no small degree of fear when we attempt to cross it : courage
and magnanimity are agreeable; and yet, when we view these
qualities in an enemy, they serve to increase our terror. In the same
manner, novelty may produce two effects clearly distinguishable from
each other: it may, directly and in itself, be agreeable; and it may
have an opposite effect indirectly, which is, to inspire terror; for
when a new object appears in any degree dangerous, our ignorance
of its powers and qualities, affords ample scope for the imagination
to dress it in the frightful colors.* The first sight of a lion, foi
example, may at the same instant produce two opposite feelings,
the pleasant emotion of wonder, and the painful passion of terror:
the novelty of the object produces the former directly, and contri-
butes to the latter indirectly. Thus, when the subject is analysed,
we find, that the power which novelty has indirectly to inflame ler-
* Essays on the Principles of Morality and Natural Religion, part 2. ess. 6.
Digitized
I by Google
CJk. 6.] NOTELTV, *o. 133
ror, IS pnerfectly consistent with its being, in every circumstance,
agreeable. The matter may be put in the clearest light, by adding
the following circumstances. If a lion be first seen from a place of
safety, the spectacle is altogether agreeable without the least mixture
of terror. If, again, the first sight puts us within reach of that dan-
gerous animal, our terror may be so great as quite to exclude any sense
^novelty. But this fact proves not that wonder is painful: it proves
only, that wonder may be excluded by a more powerful passion.
Every man may be made certain from his own experience, that won-
der, raised by a new object which isinofiensive, is always pleasant;
and with respect to ofiensive objects, it appears from the foregoing
deduction, that the same must hold as long as the spectator can attend
to the qovfelty.
Whether surprise be in itself pleasant or painful, is a question no
less intricate than the former. It is certain that surprise inflames
our joy when unexpectedly we meet with an old friend, and our ter-
ror-when we stumble upon any thing noxious. To clear that ques-
tion, the first thing to be remarked is, that in some instances an
unexpected object overpowers the mind, so as lo produce a momen-
tary stupefaction : where the object is dangerous, or appears so, the
sudden alarm it gives, without preparation, is apt totally to unhinge the
mind, and for a moment to suspend all its faculties, even thought
itself;* in which state a man is quite helpless; and if he move at
all, is as likely to run upon the danger as from it. Surprise carried
to such a height, cannot be either pleasant or painful ; because the
mind, during such momentary stupefaction, is in a good measure, if
not totally, insensible.
If we then inquire for the character of this emotion, it must be
where the unexpected object or event produces less violent eflfects.
And while the mind remains sensible of pleasure and pain, is it not
natural to suppose, that surprise, Irke wonaer, should have an invaria-
ble character? I am inclined, however, to think that surprise has no
invariable character, but assumes that of 'the object which raises it.
Wonder being an emotion invariably raised by novelty, and being
distinguishable from all other emotions, ought naturally to possess
one constant character. The tmexpected appearance of an object,
seems not equally entitled to produce an emotion distinguishable
from that which is produced by the object in its ordinary appearance :
the effect it ought naturally to have, is only to swell that emotion,
by making it more pleasant or more painful than it commonly is.
And that conjecture is confirmed by experience, as well as by lan-
guage, which is built upon experience : when a man meets a friend
ttnexpectedly, he is said to be agreeably surprised ; and when he meets
•n enemy unexpectedly, he is said to be disagreeably surprised. It
appears, then, that the sole effect of surprise is to swell the emotion
msed by the object And that effect can be clearly explained : a tide
of connected perceptions glide gently into the mind, and produce no
, perturbation ; but an object breaking in unexpectedly, sounds an
tkurm, rouses tne mind out of its calm state, and directs its whole
« Hence the Latin names for suiprise, torpor, animi sbwpor.
12
Digitized
by Google
184 HOVELTT, *c. [Ch. 6.
attention to the object, which, if agreeable, becomes doubly so.
Several circumstances concur to produce that effect: on the one hand,
the agitation of the mind, and its keen attention, prepare it, in the
most effectual manner, for receiving a deep impression : on the other
hand, the object, by its sudden and unforeseen appearance, makes an
impressijon, not gradually as expected objects do, but as at one stroke
with its whole force. The circumstances are precisely similar where
the object is in itself disagreeable.*
The pleasure of novelty is easily distinguished from that of variety:
to produce the ktter, a plurality of objects is necessary ; the former
arises from a circumstance found in a single object. Again, where
objects, whether co-existent or in succession, are sufficiently diversi-
fied, the pleasure of variety is complete, though every single object
of the train be familiar : but the pleasure of novelty, directly oppo-
site to familiarity, requires no diversification.
There are different degrees of novelty, and its effects are in pro-
portion. The lowest degree is found in dbjects surveyed a second
time after a long interval ; and that in this case an object takes on
some appearance of novelty, is certain from experience: a large
building of many parts variously adorned, or an extensive field
embellished with trees, lakes, temples, statues, and other ornaments,
will appear new oftener than once : the memory of an object so
complex is soon lost, of its parts at least, or of their arrangement.
But experience teaches, that even without any decay of remem-
brance, absence alone will give an air of novelty to a once fami-
liar object; which is not surprising, because familiarity wears off
gradually by absence : thus a person with whom we have been inri-
raate, returning after a long interval, appears like a new acquaint-
* What the Mareschal Saxe terms le ccsur huTfiain is no other than fear occa-
sioned by surprise. It is owins to that cause that an ambush is generally so
destructive : intelligence of it beforehand rendei-s it harmless. The Mareschal
gives from Caesar's Commentaries two examples of what he calls /^ ccRur kuTnain.
At the siege of Amiens by the Gauls, Caesar came up with his army, which did
not exceed 7000 men, and began to intrench himself m such hurry, that the bar-
barians, judging him to be afraid, attacked his intrenchments with great spirit.
During tlie time they were filling up the ditch, he issued out with his cohorts; and,
by attacking them unexpectedly, struck a panic that made them fly with precipi-
tation, not a single man offering to make a stand. At the siege of Alesia, the
Gauls, infinitely superior in number, attacked the Roman lines of circumvalla-
lion, in oi-der to raise the siege. Caesar ordei-ed a body of his men to march out
silently, and to attack them on the one flank, while he with another body did the
same on the other flank. The surprise of being attacked when they expected a
defence only, put the Gauls into disorder, and gave an easy victory to Caesar,
A third may be added, no less memorable. In the year 846, an obstinate batde
was fought between Xamire Kin^ of Leon, and Abdoulrahman the Moorish King
of Spain, After a very long conflict, the night only prevented the Arabians from
obtaming a complete victory. The King of Leon, taking advantaiee of the dark-
ness, retreated to a neighboring hill, leaving the Arabians masters of me field of bat-
tle. Next morning, perceiving that he could not maintain his place for want of
provisions, nor be able to draw off his men in the face of a victorious army, he
nutged his men in order of battle, and, without losing a moment, raarcmd to
attack the enemy, resolving to conquer or die. The Arabians, astonished to be
attacked by those who were conquered the night before, lost all heart : fear suc-
ceeded to astonishment, the panic was univei*»al, and they all turned their bodtt
•Unpst without drawing a sword.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 6.] NOYKLTT, 4kO. 195
aoce: and distance of place contribute* to this appearance, no ]eM
than distance of time. A friend, for example, after a short absence
io a remote country, has the same air of novehy as if he had returned
ifier a lenger interval from a place near home : the mind forms a con-
oection between him and the remote country, and bestows upon him
the singularity of the objects he has seen. For the same reason,
when two things equally new and singular are presented, the specta-
tor balances between them ; but when told that one of them is the
product of a distant quarter of the world, he no longer hesitates, but
clings to it as the most singular. Hence the preference given to
foreign luxuries, and to foreign curiosities, which appear rare in
proportion to their original distance.
The next degree of novelty, mounting upward, is found in objectjB
of which we have some information at second hand; for descrip-
tion, though it contribute to familiarity, cannot altogether remove
the appearance of novelty when the object itself is presented:
the first sight of a lion occasions some wonder, after a thorough
acquaintance with the correctest pictures and statues of that animal.
A new object that bears some distant resemblance to a known spe-
cies, is an instance, of a third degree of novelty: a strong resem-
Uance among individuals of the same species, prevents, almost
entirely, the effect of novelty^ unless distance of place or some other
circumstance concur; but where the resemblance is faint, some
decree of wonder is felt, and the emotion rises in proportion to the
fiiiotnes% of the resemblance.
The highest degree of wonder arises from unknown objects that
have no analogy to any species with which we are acquainted. Shak*
ipeare in a simile imroduces that species of novelty :
As o:lorious lo the sight
As IS a winded messenger from heaven
Unto the white up-tumed wond'ring eye
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,
And sails upon the bosom of the air.
Romeo arid Jtdiet.
Oie example of that species of novelty deserves peculiar attention;
and that is, when an object altogether new is seen by one person oply,
and but once. These circumstances heighten, remarkably, the emo-
tion : the singularity of the spectator concurs with the singularity of
the object, to inflame wonder to its highest pitch.
In explaining the effects of novelty, the place a being occupies
b the scale of existence, is a circumstance that must not be omit-
ted. Novelty in the individuals of a low class, is perceived with
mdifference, or with a very slight emotion : thus a pebble, however
sitigular in its appearance, scarcely moves our wonder. The emo-
tioD rises with, the rank of the object; and, other circumstances being
equal, is strongest in the highest order of existence : a strange insect
a&cts us more than a strange vegetable ; and a strange quadruped
Qiore than a strange insect.
However natural novelty may be, it is a matter of experience, thai
Digitized
by Google
136 NOVELTY, *c. [Ch. 6.
those who relish it the most are careful to conceal its influence.
Love of novelty, it is true, prevails in children, in idlers, and in men
of shallo>v understanding: and yet, after all, why should one be
ashamed of indulging a natural propensity? A distmction will aflford
a satisfactory answer. No man is ashamed of curiosity when it is
indulged in order to acquire knowledge. But to prefer-any thing
merely because it is new, shows a mean taste#of which one ought to
be ashamed : vanity is commonly at the bottom, which leads those
who are deficient in taste to prefer things odd, rare, or singular, in
order to disiinguish themselves from others. And in fact, that appe-
tite, as above mentioned, reigns chiefly among persons of a mean
taste, who are ignorant of refined and elegant pleasures.
One final cause of wonder, hinted above, is, that this emotion is
intended to stimulate our curiosity. Another, somewhat different, is,
fo prepare the mind for receiving deep impressions of new objects.
An acquaintance with the various things that may aflect us, and with
their properties, is essential to our well-being: nor will a slight or
superfici tl acquaintance be sufficient; they ought to be so deeply
engraved on the mind, as to be ready for use upon every occasion.
Now, in order to make a deep impression, it is wisely contrived, that
things should be introduced to our acquaintance with a certain pomp
and solemnity productive of a vivid emotion. When the impression is
once fairly made, the emotion of novelty, being no longer necessary,
vanishes almost instantaneously; never to return, unless, wherf ine
impression happens to be obliterated by length of time or olhfer
means; in which case, the second introduction has nearly the same
solemnity that the first had.
Designing wisdom is no where more legible than in this part of
the human frame. If new objects did not affect us in a very peculiar
manner, their impressions would be so slight as scarcely to be of any
use in life: on the other hand, did objects continue to aflfect us as
deeply as at first, the mind would be totally engrossed with them,
and have no room left, either for action of reflection.
The final cause of surprise is siill more evident than of novelty.
Self-love makes us vigilantly attentive to self-preservation ; but self-
love, which operates by means of reason and reflection, and impels
not the mind to any particular object or from it, is a principle too cool
for a sudden emergency : an object breaking in unexpectedly, aflx)rds
no time for deliberation; and, in that case, the agitation of surprise
comes in seasonably to rouse self-love into action : surprise gives the
alarm; and if there be any appearance of danger, our whole force
is instantly summoned up to shun or to prevent it
Digitized
by Google
Ch.7.) RISIBLE OBJBOTa 1S7
CHAPTER VIL
RISIBLE OBJECTS.
Risible objects expressed externally hy laughter — Ludicrous objects such as are
playful or jocular — Trivial and unimportant objects only, risible — Works of
nature and of art, risible only, when out of rule — Objects that are not risibl&->
Risible emotions, except contempt, not produced when the mind is occupied —
Objects which cause laughter, either risible or ridiculous — A risible object
mirthful only ; a ridiculous one, both mirthful and contemptible — The nature
of the emotion raised by a risible object; and also of that raised by a ridicu>
bus one.
Such is the nature of man, that his powers and facuhies are soon
blunted hy exercise. The returns of sleep, suspending all activity,
are not alone sufficient to preserve him in vigor: during his waking
hours, amusement hy intervals is requisite to unhend his mind from
serious occupation. To that end, nature has kindly made a provi-
sion of many ohjects, which may be distinguished by the epithet ot
risible, because they raise in us a peculiar emotion expressed exter-
nally by laughter : that emotion is pleasant ; and being also mirthful,
it most successfully unbends the mind, and recruits the spirits.
Imagination contributes a part, by multiplying such objects without
end.
Ludicrous is a general term, signifying, as may appear from its
derivation, what is playsome, sportive, or jocular. Ludicrous, there-
fore, seems the genus, of which risible is a species, limited, as above,
to what makes us laugh.
However easy it may be, concerning any particular object, to cay
whether it be risible or not, it seems difficult, if at all practicable, to
establish any general character, by which objects of that kind may
be distinguished from others. Nor is that a singular case ; for,
upon a review, we find the same difficulty in most of the articles
already handled. There is nothing more easy, viewing a particular
ohject, than to pronounce that it is beautiful or ugly, grand or little :
but were we to attempt general rules for ranging objects under
difierent classes, according to these qualities, we should be much
gravelled. A separate cause increases the difficulty of distinguishing
risible objects by a general character: all men are not equally affected
by risible objects ; nor the same man at all times ; for in high spirits
a thing will make him laugh outright, which scarcely provokes a
smile in a grave mood. Risible objects, however, are circumscribed
within certain limits ; which I shall suggest, without pretending to
accuracy. And, in the first place, I observe, that no object is risible
but what appears slight, little, or trivial ; for we laugh at nothing
that is of importance to our own interest, or to that of others. A
real distress raises pity, and therefore cannot be risible; but a slight
or imaginary distress, which moves not pity, is risible. The adven-
ture of the fulling-mills in Don Cluixote, is extremely risible ; so it
the scene where Sancho, in a dark night, tumbling into a pit, and
attaching himself to the side by hand and foot, hangs there in terrible
12*
Digitized
by Google
128 RISIBLE OBJECTS. [Ch. 7.
dismay till the morning, when he discovers himself to be within a
foot of the bottom. A nose remarkably long or short, is risible; but
o want it altogether, far from, provoking laughter, raises horror in
th,e spectator. Secondly, with respect to works both of nature and
of art, none of them are risible but what are out of rule, some re-
markable defefet or excess ; a very long visage, for example, or a
very short one. Hence nothing just, proper, decent, beautiful, pro-
portioned, or grand, is risible.
Even from this slight sketch it will readily be conjectured, that
the emotion raised by a risible object is of a nature so singular, as
scarcely to find place while the mind is occupied with any other
passion or emotion : and the conjecture is verified by experience ;
ibr we scarcely ever find that emotion blended with any other. One
emotion I must except; and that is, contempt raised by certain im-
proprieties: every improper act inspires us with some degree of
contenript for the author; and if an improper act be, at the same
lime, risible to provoke laughter, of which blunders and absurdities
are noted instances, the two emotions of contempt and of laughter
unite intimately in the mind, and produce externally what is termed
a laugh of derision or of scorn. Hence objects that cause laughter
may be distinguished into two kinds: they are either risible or ridi-
culous. A risible object is mirthful only y a ridiculous object is both
mirthful and contemptible. The first raises an emotion of laughter
that is altogether pleasant: the pleasant emotion of laughter raised
by the other^ is blended with the painful emotion of contempt ; and
the mixed emotion is termed the emotion of ridictdd. The pain a
ridiculous object gives me is resented and punished by a laugh of
derision. A risible object, on the other hand, gives me no pain : it
is altogether pleasant by a certain sort of titillation, which is ex-
pressed externally by mirthful laug&ter. Ridicule will be more
fully explained afterward : Jibe present chapter is appropriated to the
other emotion.
Risible objects are so common, and so well understood, that it is
unnecessary to consume paper or time upon them. Take the few
following examples.
FalstajJ'. I do rcimember him at Clement's inn, like a man made after supper
of a cheese-paring. When he was naked, he was for all the world like a forked
radish, witli a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife.
Sectmd Part Henry IV. Act III. Sc. 5.
The foregoing is of disproportion. The following examples are
of slight or imaginary misfortunes.
Fahtaff. Go fetch me a quart of sack ; put a toast in't. Have I liv*d to be
carried in a basket, like a barrow of butcher's offal, and to be thrown into the
Thames ! Well, if I be served such another trick, I'll have my brains ta'en out
i butter'd, and give them to a dog for a new-year's gift. The rogues slio^hted
me into the river with as little remorse as they would have drown'd a Ijitch's
blind puppies, fifteen i'th'litter ; and you may know by my size, that I have a
kmd of alacrity in sinking: if the bottom were as deep as hell, I should down.
I had been drown'd, but that the shore was shelvy and shallow ; a death that I
abhor ; for the water swells a man : and what a thing should I have been when I
had been swell'd % I should have been a mountain of mummy.
Merrn Wives of Windsor ^ Act III. Sc.
Digitized by VorOOQiC:^
i
Ch 8.1 RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. 130
FaUtaff. Nay, you shall hear, Master Brook, what I have sufTer'd to bring
this woman to evil for your good. Being thus crammM in the baslfet, a couple
of Ford's knaves, his hinds, were call'd forth by their mistress, to carry me in
(he name of foul clothes to Dntchet-laue. They took me on their shoulders, met
the jealous knave their master in the door, wlio ask'd tliem once or twice what
ihey had in their basket I quak'd for fear, lest the lunatic knave would have
aearch'd it ; but Fate, ordainmg he should be a cuckold, held his hand. Well,
on went he for a search, and away went I for foul clothes. But mark the seqmel.
Master Brook. I suffer'd the pan^ of tlire« egre^ous deaths ; first, an intole-
rable fright, to be detected by a jealous rotten bell-wether ; next, to be compass'd
like a gwid bilbo, in the circumference of a peck, hilt to point, heel to head ; and
then to be stopt in, like a strong distillation, with stinking clothes that fretted in
their own grease. Think of that, a man of my kidney; think of that, that am
as subject to heat as butter; a man of continual dissolution and thaw ; it was a
miracle to 'scape suflfocation. And in the height of this bath, when I was more
than half stewed in ^ase, like a Dutch dish, to be thrown into the Thames, and
cool'd glowing hot, m that surge, like a horse shoe; think of that; hissing hot;
think of tliat, Master Brook.
Merry ^Vives of Windsor^ Act III. Sc. 5.
CHAPTER VIIL
RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE.
T'dR pleasure of discovering dissimilitude where res'^mblance prevails, and resem-
blance where dissimilitude prevails— A comparison carried too far, appears
slight and trivial — Instmction the chief end of comparison — To present a thing
in the strongest point of view, another end — The same effect produced by con-
trast— The similes of poets of taste drawn from tilings that differ from the
principal subject — A contrast to be attempted, only when the things have
a common genus, and a resemblance in their capital circumstance — Illustrated;—
The passions are inflamed by comparison — Illustrated — The influence of com-
parisoh on our opinions — A man m ^rief not able to bear mirtli — Appearances
of danger excite botji pleasure and pain — Wonder, the cause of the effect pro-
duced by heightenino; or diminishing an object — Surjirise makes the difference
appear greater than it is — Things found to be more beautiful or strange than
they were expected to be, are conceived to be more strange than they are— »
Cause for the effect of contrast and comparison — The principle on which it is
founded— To induce the completion of works of art, the final cause — Resem-
blance too entire has no effect — Emotions make the greatest figure when con-
trasted in succession — Emotions raised by the fine arts, too nearly related to
make a figure by resemblance — In a small garden, or painting, no dissimilarity
of emotion to be produced — Wit and ridicule opposed to grandeur.
Having discussed tl>ose qualities and circumstances of single
objects that seem peculiarly connected with criticism, we proceed,
according to the method proposed in the chapter of beauty, to the
relations of objects, beginning with the relations of resemblance and
dissimilitude.
The connection that man has with the beings around him, requires
•oroe acquaintance with their nature, their powers and their qualities,
far Kgulaiing his conduct. For acquiring a branch of knowledge
•a essential to our well-being, motives alone of reason and interest
we not sufficient: nature has providently superadded curiosity, a
vigorous propensity, which never is at rest. Thi» propensity attaches
Digitized
by Google
140 RK8EMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. [Ch. 8.
US to every n^w object ;• and incites us to compare objects, in order
10 discover their differences and resemblances.
Resemblance amongf objects of the same kind, and dissimilitude
among objects of different kinds, are too obvious and familiar to
gratify our curiosity in any degree : its gratification lies in discover-
ing differences among things where resemblance prevails, and re-
semblances where difference prevails. Thus a difference in indi-
viduals of the same kind of plants or animals is deemed a discovery;
while the many particulars in which they agree are negler.ted : *and
in different kinds, any resemblance is greedily remarked, without
attending to the many particulars in which they differ.
A comparison, however, may be too far stretched. When differ-
ences or resemblances are carried beyond certain bounds, they
appear slight and trivial ; and for that reason will not be relished
by a man of taste : yet such propensity is there to gratify passion,
curiosity in particular, that even among good writers we find many
comparisons too slight to afford satis&ction. Hence the frequent
instances among logicians of distinctions without any solid difference:
and hence the frequent instances among poets and orators, of similes
without any just resemblance. With regard to the latter, I shall
confine myself to one instance, which will probably amuse the
reader, being a quotation, not from a poet nor orator, but from a
grave author, writing an institute of law. " Our student shall ob-
serve, that the knowledge of the law is like a deep well, out of which
each man draweth according to 'the strength of his understanding.
He that reaches deepest, seeth the amiable and admirable secrets of
the law, wherein I assure you the sages of the law in former times
have had the deepest reach. And, as the bucket in the depth is
easily drawn to the uppermost part of the water, (for nullum ele-
mentum in siio proprio loco est grave,) but take it from the water, it
cannot be drawn up but with a great difficulty ; so, albeit beginnings
of this study seem difficult, yet, when the professor of the law can
dive into the depth, it is delightful, easy, and withor^ any heavy
burden, so long as he keep jiimself in his own proper element."!
Shakspeare, with uncommon humor, ridicules such disposition to
simile-making, by putting in the mouth of a weak man a resem*
blance much of a piece with that now mentioned :
Fluellen. I think it is in Macedon where Alexander is pom : I tell you, Cap-
tajn, if you look in the maps of the orld, I warrant that you sail find, in the com-
parisons between Macedon and Monmouth, that the situations, look you, is both
alike. There is a river in Macedon, there is also moreover a river in Monmouth :
it is called Wye at Monmouth, but it is out of my prains what is the name of tlie
other river; but it is all one, 'tis as like as my fingers to my fingers, and there is
salmons in both. If you mbrk Alexander's life well, Harry of Monmouth's life
is come after it indifferent well ; for there is figures in all things. Alexander^
Qod knows, and you know, in his rages, and his furies, and his wraths, and his
eholors, and his moods, and his displeasures, and his indignations ; and also
beine; a little intoxicates in his prains, did, in his ales and his angers, look yoti,
lEiil his pest friend Cl^s.
Gower. Our King is not like him in that; he never kill'd any of his friends.
flitteUen, It is net 'w^ell done, msurk you now, to take the tales out of my mouth
^ 8eft ohs^. 6. f Coke upofi^ Lyttleton, p. 71.
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
CkSJ] RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. 141
ere ii is made and finished. I speak but in figures, and comparisons of it : At
Alexander kill'd his friend Clytus, beingr in his ales and his cups; soalsn Harry
Monmouth, being in his right wits and nis good judgrtients, turn'd away the fat
bught -wjith the great belly doublet ; he was full of jests, and gypes, and knave-
ries, and mocks : I have forgot his name.
Gower. Sir John FalstaffV
Flueilen. That is he : I tell you there is good m.^n pom at Monmouth.
K. Henry V. Act IV. Sc i3.
Instruction, no doubt, is the chief end of comparison ; but that it
is not the^only end will be evident from considering, thai a compa-
risen may be employed with success to put a subject in a strong
point of view. A lively idea is formed of a man's courage, by
likening it to that of a lion ; and eloquence is exalted in our imagi-
nation, by comparing it to a river overflowing its banks, and invol-
ving all in its impetuous course. The same effect is produced by
contrast: a man in prosperity becomes more sensible of his happi-
ness by opposing his condition to that of a person in want of bread.
Thus, comparison is 'subservient to poetry as well as to philosophy;
and, with respect to both, the foregoing observation holcfs equally,
that resemblance among objects of the same kind, and dissimilitude
among objects of different kinds, have no eflfect: such a comparison
neither tends to gratify our curiosity, nor to set the objects compared
in a stronger light: two apartments in a palace, similar in shape,
size, and furniture, make, separately, as good a figure as when com-
pared; and the same observation is applicable to two similar copart-
lueiits in a garden : on the other hand, oppose a regular building
to a fall of water, or a good picture to a towering hill, or even a
little dog to a large horse, and the contrast will produce no effect.
But a resemblance between objects of different kinds, and a difference
between objects of the same kind, have remarkably an enlivening
effect. The poets, such of them as have a jujst taste, draw all their
similies from things that in the main differ widely from the principal
subject ; and they never attempt a contrast but where the things have
« common genus and a resemblance in the capital circumstances :
jftice together a large and a small sized animal of the same species,
the one will appear greater, the other less, than when viewed sepa-
rately: when we oppose beauty to deformity, each makes a greater
figure by the comparison. We compare the dress of different nations
with curiosity, but without surprise: because they have no such
resemblance in the capital parts as to please us by contrasting the
8Bialler parts. But a new cut of a sleeve or of a pocket enchants
by its novelty, and in opposition to the former fashion, raises some
<%ree of surprise.
That resemblance and dissimilhnde have an enlivening effect upon
objects of sight, is made sufficiently evident: and that they have the
«IBae effect upon objects of the other senses, is also certain. Nor is
tfctt law confined to the external senses : for characters contrasted
fflftfce a greater figure by the opposition : lago, in the tragedy of
Oikello, says,
He hatli a daily beauty in his life
That makes me ugly.
Digitized
by Google
!42 RJCSSMBLANCB AND DIflSlMILITirDX. [Ch. 8.
The character of a fop, and of a rough warrior, are no where more
mccessfully contrasted than in Shakspeare :
Botspwr. My liege, I did deny no prisoners;
But I remember, when the fight was done.
When I was dfy with ra^, and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword ;
Came there a certain lord, neat trimly dress'd,
Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, new-reap*d,
Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest-home.
He was perfumed like a milliner; •
And 'twixt his finder and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon
He gave his nose ; — and still he smil'd, and talked
And as the soldiers bare dead bodies by,
He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly.
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility !
With many holiday and lady terms
He question'd me : among the rest demanded
My pris'ners, in your Majesty's behalf.
I then all smarting with my wounds ; being gall'd
To be so pester'd with a popinjay.
Out of my grief, and my impatience,
Answer'd, neglectingly, I know not what:
He should, or should not; for he made me mad,
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds ; (God save the mark !)
Arid telling me, the sov'reignest thing on earth
Was pcmnacity, for an inward bruise ;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
This villainous saltpetre should be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless eami.
Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed
So cowardly : and but for these vile guns
He would himself have been a soldier.
First Part Henry IV. Act I. Sc. 4.
Passions and emotions are also inflamed by comparison. A man
of high rank humbles the by-standers, even to annihilate them in
their own opinion. Caesar, beholding the statue of Alexander, was
greatly mortified, that now at the age of thirty-two, when Alexander
died, he had not performed one memorable action.
Our opinions also are much influenced by comparison. A man
whose opulence exceeds the ordinary standard, is reputed richer
than he is in reality; and wisdom or weakness, if at all remarkable
in an individual, is generally carried beyond the truth.
The opinion a man forms of his present distress is heightened by
contrasting it with his former happiness.
Could I forget
What I have been, I might the better bear
What I am destin'd to. I'm not the first
That have been wretched : but to think how much
I have been happier.
Southem^s Innocent Adultery, Act 11.
The distress of a long journey makes even an indifferent inn agree-
able: and in travelling, when the road is good, and the horsemsfe
well covered, a bad day may be agreeable by making him sensible
how snug he is.
Digitized
by Google
CL 8.] RESVMBLANOB AND DI88IMILITVD1. 148
The same effect is equally remarkable, when a man opposes his
condition to that of others. A ship tossed about in a storm, makes
:he spectator reflect upon his own ease and security, and puts these
in the strongest light :
Suave, mari magno turbantibus aequora yentis,
E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem ;
Non quia vexari quemquam est jucunda voluptas,
Sed quibus ipse malls careas, qus cernere suave est.
iMcrel. I. 3. principU,
How sweet to stand when tempests tear the main
On the firm cliiT, and mark the seaman's toil 1
Not that another's danger soothes the soul,
But firom such toil how sweet to feel secure !
A man in grief cannot bear mirth : it gives him a more lively notion
of his unhappiness, and of course makes him more unhappy. Satan
contemplating the beauties of the terrestrial paradise, has the fol-
lowing exclamation :
With what delight could I have walk'd thee roimd.
If I could joy in ought, sweet interchange
Of hill and valley, rivers, woods, and plains,
Now land, now sea, and shores with forest crown'd.
Rocks, dens, and caves t but I in none of these
Find place or refuge ; and the more I see
Pleasures about me, so much more I feel
Torment within me, as from the hateful siege
Of contraries : all good to me becomes
Bane, and in heav'n much worse would be my state.
Paradise Lost, book 9. 1. 114.
Gaimt. All places that the eye of heaven visits,
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.
Teach thy necessity to reason thus :
There is no virtue like necessity.
Think not the King did banish thee :
But thou the King. Woe doth the heavier sit,
Where it perceives it is but faintly borne.
Go say, I sent thee forth to purchase honor ;
And not, the King exil'd thee. Or suppose,
Devouring pestilence hangs in our air.
And tliou art flying to a fresher clime.
Look what thy soul holds dear, imagine it
To lie that way thou §o'st, not whence thou com'st
Suppose the singing birds, musicians ;
The grass whereon thou tread'st, the presence-floor;
The flow'rs, fair ladies ; and thy steps, no more
Than a delightful measure, or a dance.
For gnarling Sorrow hath less power to bite
The man that mocks at it, and sets it light.
Bolingbroke. Oh, who can hold a fire in his hand^
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus 1
Or cloy the hungry edge of Appetite,
By bare imagination of a feast 1
Or wallow naked in December snow,
Bv thinking on fantastic summer's heat
On, no \ the apprehension of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.
King Richard II Act I. 8c. C
Ms appearance of danger gives sometimes pleasure, sometimes pain.
M. timorous person upon the battlements of a high tower, is seized
with fear, which even the consciousness of security cannot dissipata
Digitized
by Google
144 RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. [Ch. 8.
But upon one of a firm head, this situation has a contrary effect:
the appearance of danger heightens, by opposition, the conscious-
ness of security, and consequently, the satisfaction that arises from
security: here the feeling resembles that above mentioned, occa-
sioned by a ship laboring in a storm.
The effect of magnifying or lessening objects by means of com-
parison, is so familiar, that no philosopher has thought of searching
for a cause.* The obscurity of the subject may possibly have con-
tributed to their silence; but luckily, we discover the cause to be a
principle unfolded above, which is, the influence of passion over
our opinions.! We have had occasion to see many illustrious effects
of that singular power of passion ; and that the magnifying or the
diminishing of objects by means of comparison, proceeds from thu
same cause, will evidently appear, by reflecting in what manner a
spectator is affected/ when a very large animal is for the first time
placed beside a very small one of the same species. The first thing
that strikes the mind, is the difference between the two animals,
which is so great as to occasion surprise; and this, like other emo-
tions, magnifying its object, makes us conceive the difference to be
the greatest that can be ; we see, or seem to see, the one animal
extremely little, and the other extremely large. The emotion of
surprise arising from any unusual resemblance, serves equally to
explain, why at first view we are apt to think such resemblance more
entire than it is in reality. And it must not escape observation, that
the circumstances of more and less, which are the proper subjects of
comparison, raise a perception so indistinct and vague as to facilitate
the effect described : we have no mental standard of great and little,
nor of the several degrees of any attribute ; and the mind thus un-
restrained, is naturally disposed to indulge its surprise to the utmost
extent.
In exploring the operations of the mind, some of which are ex-
tremely nice and slippery, it is necessary to proceed with the utmost
caution : and after all, seldom it happens that speculations of that
kind afford any satisfaction. Luckily, in the present case, our spec-
ulations are supported by facts and solid argument. First, a small
object of one species opposed to a great object of another, produces
not, in any degree, that deception which is so remarkable when both,
objects are of the same species. The greatest disparity between
objects of different kinds, is so common as to be observed with per-
fect indifference ; but such disparity between objects of the same
Kind, being uncommon, never fails to produce surprise: and may vr«
not fairly conclude, that surprise, in the latter case, is what occasions
the deception, when we find no deception in the former? In the next
place, if surprise be the sole cause of the deception, it follows neces-
sarily, that the deception will vanish as soon as the.objects compared
♦ Practiced writers upon the fine arts will attempt any thing, being blind both
to the ditficulty and danger. De Piles, accounting why contrast is agreeable,
says. * That it is a sort of war, which puts the opposite parties in motion.
Thus, to account for an effect of which there is no doubt, any cause, howevw
foolish, is made welcome.
t Chap. 2. part 5.
Digitized
by Google
CL 8.J RESEMBLANCE AND DIS8I1IILITUDB. 14S
become familiar. This holds so unerringly, as to leare do reason-
able doubt that surprise is the prime mover: our surprise is great
the first time a small lap-dog is seen with a large mastiff; but when
two such animals are constantly together, there is no surprise, and
it makes no difference whether they be viewed separately or in com-
pany : we set no bounds to the riches of a man who has recently
made his fortune, the surprising disproportion between his present
and his past situation being carried to an extreme; but with regard
to a family that for many generations has enjoyed great wealth, the
same false reckoning is not made. It is equally remarkable, that a.
trite simile has no effect ; a lover compared to a moth scorching
itself at the flame of a candle, originally a sprightly simile, hos by
frequent use lost all force ; love cannot now be compared to fire, with-
out some degree of disgust : it has been justly objected against
Homer, that the lion is too often introduced into his similies; all the
variety he is able to throw into them, not being sufficient to keep
alive the reader's surprise.
To e.xplain the influence of comparison upon the mind, I haye
•chosen the siniplest case, to Avit, the first sight of two animals of the
same kind, differing in size only ; but to complete the theory, other
circumstances must be taken in. And the next supposition I make,
is where both animals, separately familiar to the spectator, are
brought together for the first time. In that case, the effect of mag-
nifying and diminishing, is found remarkably greater than in that
first mentioned ; and the reason will appear upon analyzing the ope-
ration : the first feeling we have is of surprise at the uncoipmon
difference of two creatures of the same species : we are next sen-
sible, that the one appears less, the other larger, than they did for-
merly ; and that new circumstance, increasing our surprise, makes
US imagine a still greater opposition between the animals than if we
had formed no notion of them beforehand.
I shall confine myself to one other supposition : That the spec-
tator was acquainted beforehand with one of the animals only, the
lap-dog for example. This new circumstance will vary the effect;
for instead of widening the natural diflference, by enlarging in ap-
pearance the one animal, and diminishing the other in proportion,
the whole apparent alteration will rest upon the lap-dog : the sur-
prise to find it less than it appeared formerly, directs to it our whole
attention, and makes us conceive it to be a most diminutive creature :
^e mastiff in the mean time is quite overlooked. I am able to illus-
toethis effect by a familiar example. 'Take a piece of paper, or of
Bnen tolerably white, and compare it with a pure white of the same
land: the juagment we formed of the first object is instantly varied;
tod the surprise occasioned by finding it lest white than was
diOQght, produces a hasty conviction that it is much less white than
kis in reality: withdrawing now the pure white, and putting in its
|hce a deep black, the surprise occasioned by that new circumstance
tirries us to the other extreme, and makes us conceive the object
- Att mentioned to be a pure white : and thus experience compels ut
to acknowledge, that our emotions have an influence even upon our
13
Digitized
by Google
146 RK8EMBLANCB AND DI881M ILITUDB. {Ch. 8
eyesight. This experiment leads to a general ohservation, that
whatever is found more strange or beautiful than was expected, is
judged to be more strange or beautiful than it is in reality. Hencc«
a common artifice, to depreciate beforehand what we wish to make a
figure in the opinion of others.
The comparisons employed by poets and orators, are of the kind
last mentioned ; for it is always a known object that is to be magui-
fied or lessened. The former is effected by likening it to some
grand object, or by contrasting it with one of an opposite character.
To effectuate the latter, the method must be reversed : the object
must be contrasted with something superior to it, or likened to some-
thing inferior. The whole effect is produced upon the principal
object, which by that means is elevated above its rank, or depressed
below it.
In accounting for the effect that any unusual, resemblance or dis-
similitude has upon the mind, no cause has been mentioned but sur-
prise; and to prevent confusion, it was proper to discuss that cause
first. But surprise is not the only cause of the effect described :
another concurs which operates, perhaps, not less powerfully, namely,*
a principle in hun:an nature that lies still in obscurity, not having
been unfolded by any writer, though its effects are extensive; and
as it is not distinguished by a proper name, the reader must be satis-
fied with the following description. Every man who studies him-
self or others, must be sensible of a tendency or propensity in the
mind, to complete every work that is begun, and to carry things to
their* full perfection. There is little opportunity to display that pro-
pensity upon natural operations, which are seldom left imperfect ;
but in the operations of art, it has great scope : it impels us to per-
severe in our own work, and to wish for the completion of whai
another is doing : we feel a sensible pleasure when the work is
brought to perfection ; and our pain is no less sensible when we are
disappointed. Hence our uneasiness, when an interesting story is
broker! off in the middle, when a piece of music ends without a
close, or when a building or garden is left unfinished. The same
propensity operates in making collections, such as the whole works
good and bad of any author. A certain person attempted to collect
prints of all the capital paintings, and succeeded except as to a few.
La Bruyere remarks, that an anxious search was made for these;
not for their value, but to complete the set.*
* The examples above given, are of things that can be carried to an end oi
conclusion. But tlie same uneasiness is perceptible with respect to things that
admit not any conclusion ; witness a series that has no end, commonly caUed an
infinite series. The mind moving along such a series, begins soon to feel an'
uneasiness, which becomes more and more sensible, in continuing its progress
without hope of an end.
An unbounded'prospect doth not long continue agreeable : we soon feel a slight
uneasiness, which increases with the time we bestow upon the prospect An
avenue without a terminating object, is one instance of an unbounded prospect ;
and we might hone to find the cause of its discigreeableness, if it resembled an
infinite series. TTie eye indeed promises no resemblance j for the sharpest eye
commands but a certain length of space, and there it is bounded, however ob-
•curely. But the mind perceives things as they exist j and the line is carried on
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 8 J ftXSEMBLANCS AND DI88IMILITUD1. ' 147
The final cause of the propensity is an additional proof of its
existence: human works are of no significancy till they he com-
pleted ; and reason is not always a sufficient counterhalance to indo-
lence : some principle over and ahove is necessary, to excite our
industry, and to prevent our stopping short in the middle of the
course.
We need not lose time to describe the co-operation of the foregoing
propensity with surprise, in producing the effect that follows any
unusual resemblance or dissimilitude. Surprise first operates, and
. carries our opinion of the resemblance or dissimilitude beyond truth.
The propensity we have been describing carries us still farther ; for
it forces upon the mind a conviction, that the resemblance or dissi-
militude is complete. We need no better illustration, than the
resemblance that is fancied in some pebbles to a tree or an insect*,
which resenablance, however faint in reality, is conceived to be won-
derfully perfect. The tendency to complete a resemblance acting
jftintly with surprise, carries the mind sometimes so far, as even to
presume upon future events. In the Greek tragedy entitled Phi-
neides, those unhappy women, seeing the place where it was intended
ibey should be slain, cried out with anguish, " They now saw their
cruel destiny had condemned them to die in that place, being the
same where they had been exposed in their infancy."*
The propensity to advance every thing to its perfection, not only
. co-operates with surprise to deceive the mind, but of itself is able to
produce that effect Of this we see many instances where there is
no place for surprise; and the first I shall give is of resemblance.
Unumquodque eodem modo dissolvitur quo colligatum esU\ is a
maxim in the Roman law that has no foundation in truth ; for tying
and loosing, building and demolishing, are acts opposite to each
other, and are performed by opposite means : but when these acts
are connected by their relation to the same subject, their connection
in idea without end*; in which respect an unbounded prospect is similar to an infi-
nite series. In fact, the uneasiness of an unbounded prospect, differs very little
in its feeling from that of an infinite series ; and therefore we may reasonably
presume, that both proceed from the same cause.
We next consider a prospect unbounded every way, as, for examp>le, a great
I^ain or the ocean, viewed from an eminence. We feel here an uneasiness occa-
sioned by the want of an end or terminfition, precisely as in the other cases. A
prospect unbounded every way, is indeed so far singular, as at first to be more
pleasant than a prospect that is unbounded in one direction only, and afterward
to be more painful. But these circumstances are easily explained, without
wounding the general theory : the pleasure we feel at first, is a vivid emotion of
grandeur, arising from the immense extent oi the object : and to increase the paii)
we feel afierward for the want of a termination, there concurs a pain of a different
idnd, occasioned by stretching the eye to comprehend so wide a prospect; a pain
that gradually increases with the repeated efforts we make to ^asp tne whole.
It IS the same principle, if I mistake not, which operates miperceptibly with
Kspect to quantity and number. Another's property indented into my field,
gives me uneasiness ; and I am eager to make the purchase, not for profit, but in
«d«r to square my field. Xerxes and his army, in their passage to Greece, were
wmptuously entertained by Pythius the Lydian : Xerxes recompensed him with
^OOO Darics, which he wanted to complete the sum of four millions.
* Aristotle, Poet. cap. 17.
* Every thing is dissolved in the same manner in which it is tied together
Digitized
by Google
U8 RRSEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. [Ch. 8.
leads us to imagine a sort of resemblance between them, which by
the foregoing propensity is conceived to be as complete as possible.
The next instance shall be of Contrast. Addison observes, " That
the palest features look the most agreeable in white; that a face
which is overflushed appears to advantage in the deejiest scarlet ;
and that a dark complexion is not a little alleviated by a black hoed."*
The foregoing propensity serves to account for these appearances;
to make which evident, one of the cases shall suffice. A complexion,
however dark, never approaches to black: when these colors appear
together, their opposition strikes us ; and the propensity we have to
complete the opposition makes the darkness of complexion vanish
out of sight.
The operation of this propensity, even where there is no ground
for surprise, is not confined to opinion or conviction : so powerful it
is, as to make us sometimes proceed to action, in order to complete a
resemblaoce or dissimilitude. If this appear obscure, it will be
made clear by the following instances. Upon what principle is the
lex talionis founded, other than to make the punishment resemble
the mischief? Reason dictates, that there ought to be a conformity
or resemblance between a crime and its punishment ; and the fore-
going propensity impels ns to make the resemblance as complete as
possible. Titus Livius, under the influence of that propensity,
accounts for a certain punishment by a resemblance between it and
the crime, too subtle for common apprehension. Treating of Met-
tus Fufietius, the Alban general, who, for treachery to the Romans
his allies, was sentenced to be torn to pieces by horses, he puts the
following speech in the mouth of Tullus Hostilius, who decreed the
punishment. " Mette FufTeti, inquit, si ipse discere posses fidem ac
foedera servare, vivo tibi ea disciplina a me adhibita esset. Nunc,
quoniam, tuum insanabile ingenium est, at tu tuo supplicio doce hu-
manum genus, ea sancta credere, qus8 a te violata sunt Ut igitur
paulo ante animum inter Fidenatem Romanamque rem ancipitem
gessisti, ita jam corpus passim distrahendum dabis.'^t By the same
influence, the sentence is often executed upon the very spot where
the crime was committed. In the Electra of Sophocles, Egistheus
is dragged from the theatre into an inner room of the supposed
palace, to suffer death where he murdered Agamemnon. Shak-
speare, whose knowledge of nature is no less profound than exten-
sive, has not overlooked this propensity :
Othello. Get me some poison, la go, this night ; I'll not expostulate with her,
lest her body and her beauty unprovide my mind again : this night, lago.
lago. Do' it not with poison; strangle her in bed, even in the bed she lialh con-
taminated.
Othello. Good, good: the justice of it pleases; very good.
OtheUo, Act IV. Sc 5.
* Spectator, No. 265.
t Meltus Fulfetius, he says, if you could learn faith, and attention to treaties,
you should live, and receive similar treatment from me. Now, since your nature
18 incurable, your own punishment shall teach mankind to believe in the sacred-
ne^s of those things which you have violated. As, therefore, you have held a
divided mind with regard to the Romans and the Fidenates, so shall your bodf
be now divided in all quarters. — Lib. 1. sect. 28.
Digitized
by Google
GL 8.] RESSMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. 149
Warwick. From off the gates of York fetch down the head,
Ybur father's head, which Clifford placed there.
Instead whereof let his supply the room.
Measure for measure must be cmswered.
Tkird Part of Htwry VL Act II. Sc
Persons in their last moments are generally seized with an anxiety to
be buried with their relations. In the Amynta of Tasso, the lover,
hearing that his mistress was torn to pieces by a wolt expresses a
desire to die the same death.*
Upon the subject in general Ihave two remarks to add. The
first concerns resemblance, which, when too entire, has no effect,
however different in kind the things compared may be. The remark
is applicable to works of art only ; for natural objects of different
kinds have scarcely ever an entire resemblance. To give an example
in a work of art, marble is a sort of matter very different from >Vnat
composes an animal ; and marble cut into a human figure produces
great pleasure by the resemblance ; but, if a marble statue be colored
like ^ picture, the resemblance is so entire, as at a distance to make
the statue appear a person : we discover the mistake when we
approach ; and no other emotion is raised, than surprise occasioned
by the deception. The figure still appears a real person, rather than
an imitation ; and we must use reflection to correct the mistake.
This cannot happen in a picture; for the resemblance can never be
80 entire as to disguise the imitation.
The other remark relates to contrast. Emotions make the great-
est figure when contrasted in succession ; but the succession ought
neither to be rapid, nor immoderately slow : if too slow, the effect of
contrast becomes faint by the distance of the emotions ; and if rapid«
no single emotion has room to expand itself to its full size, but is sti-
fled, as it were, in the birth, by a succeeding emotion. The funeral
oration of the Bishop of Meaux upon the Dutchess of Orleans is a
perfect hodge-podge of cheerful and melancholy representations fol-
lowing each other in the quickest succession. Opposite emotions
are best felt in succession ; but eacj^ emotion separately should be
raised to its due pitch, before another be introduced.
What is above laid down, will enable us to determine a very impor-
tant question concerning emotions raised by the fine arts, namely,
whether ought similar emotions to succeed each other, or dissimilar?
The emotions raised by the fine arts are, for the most part, too nearly
related to make a figure by resemblance ; and for that reason their
succession ought to be regulated as much as possible by contrast
This holds confessedly in epic and dramatic compositions ; and the
best writers, led, perhaps, by taste more than by reasoning, have gene-
rally aimed at that beauty. It holds equally in music : in the same
cantata, all the variety of emotions that are within the power of music
may not only be indulged, but, to make the greatest figure, ought to
be contrasted. In gardening, there is an additional reason for the
rule. The emotions raised by that art are at best so faint, that every
artifice should be employed to give them their utmost vigor : a fiela
♦ Act IV. Sc. 2.
13*
Digitized
by Google
fj
150 RESEMBLANCE AND DISBIBflLITUDB. [Ch. 8,
may be laid out in grand, sweet, gay, neat, wild, melancholy scenes ;
and when these are viewed in succession, grandeur ought to be con-
trasted with neatness, regularity with wiidness, and gaiety with
melancholy, so that each emotion may succeed its opposite : nay, it is
an improvement to intermix in the succession rude uncultivated spots
as well as unbounded views, which in themselves are disagreeable,
but in succession heighten the feeling of the agreeable objects ; and
we have nature for our guide, which in her most beautiful landscapes
often intermixes rugged rocks, dirty Marshes, and barren stony
heaths. The greatest masters of music have the same view in their
compositions : the second part of an Italian song seldom conveys any
sentiment; and. by its harshness, seems purposely contrived to give
a greater relish for the interesting parts of the composition. ,
A small garden comprehended under a single view, afibrds little
opportunity for that embellishment. Dissimilar emotions require
different tones of mind; and therefore in conjunction can never be
pleasant :* gayety and sweetness may be combined, or wiidness and
Roominess ; but a composition of gayety and gloominess is distaste-
ul. The rude uncultivated copartment of furze and broom in Rich-
mond garden has a good effect in the succession of objects ; but a
spot of that nature would be insufferable in the midst of a polished
parterre or flower-plot. A garden, therefore, if not of great extent,
admits not dissimilar emotions ; and in ornamenting a small gar-
den, the safest course is to confine it to a single expression. For
the same reason, a landscape ought also to be confined to a single
expression ; and accordingly it is a rule in painting, that if the sub-
ject be gay, every figure ought to contribute to that emotion.
' It follows from the foregoing train of reasoning, that a garden,
near a great city, ought to have an air of solitude. The solitariness
again of a waste country ought to be contrasted in forming a gar-
den ; no temples, no obscure walks ; but jets dJeau, cascades, objects
active, gay, and splendid. Nay, such a garden should in some mea-
sure avoid imitating nature, by taking on an extraordinary appearance
of regularity and art, to show the busy hand of man, which in a
waste country has a fine effect by contrast.
It may be gathered from what is said above.f that wit and ridi-
cule make not an agreeable mixture with gran leur. Dissimilar
emotions have a fine effect in a slow succession ; but in a rapid suc-
cession, which approaches to coexistence, they will not be relished:
in the midst of a labored and elevated description of a battle, Virgil
iiUroauces a ludicrous image, which is certainly out of its pls^'-e:
Obvius ambustum torrem Chorinaeus ab ara
Corripit, et venienti Ebuso plagamque ferenti
Occupat OS flammis : illi ingens barba reluxit,
Nidoremque ambusta dedit. JEn. XII. 298.
Priest Corynaeus armed his better hand,
From his own altar, with a blazing brand ;
And as Ebusus witli a thundering pace
Advanced to battle, dashed it on his face :
His bristly beard shines out with sudden fires,
The crackling crop a' noisome sc^nt expires.
« See Chap. 2. Part 4. t Chap. 2. Paxt 4
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 9.] VNIPORMITT AND TARIETY. ' 151
Tk following image is tio less ludicrous, nor less improprrly
placed \
Mentre fan ^uesti i bellici stromenu
Perchd debbiano tosto in uso porsc,
II gran nemico de I'humane genti
Contra i Christiani i lividi occhL torse
E lor Feggendo a le bell' opre intenti,
Ambo le labra per furor si morse :
B qual tauro ferito, 11 suo dolore
Verso mugghiando e sospirando fuore. Gerusal, Cant IV. at 1.
While thus their work went on with luckie speed,
And reared rammes their horrid fronts advance,
The ancient ioe to man, and mortal seed,
His wannish eies upon them bent askance ;
And when he saw tneir labours well succeed,
He wept for rage, and threat'ned dire mischance.
He chokt his, curses, to himselfe he spake,
Such noise wild buls, that sofdy bellow, make. Fairfax.
It would, however, be too austere to banish altogether ludicrous
images from an epic poem. This poem does not always soar above
the clouds: it admits great varieiy; and upon occasion can descend
even to the ground without sinking. In its more familiar tones, a
ludicrous scene may be introduced without impropriety. This is
done by Virgil* in a foot-race; the circumstances of which, not
excepting the ludicrous part, are copied from Homer.f- After a fit
of merriment, we are, it is true, the less disposed to the serious and
sublime : but then, a ludicrous scene, by unbending the mind from
severe application to more interesting subjects, may prevent fatigue,
and preserve our relish entire.
CHAPTER IX
UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY.
Snccession of perceptions examined with respect to order and connection, and with
lespect to uniformity and variety— The succession by artificial methods can be
rendered uniform and various — The train left to its natural course, not regular —
The causes by which the rates of succession are varied — The effect of a peculiar
constitution of mind, in accelerating or retarding; it —The motion of tne train
droends on the perceptions which compose it — The effect of occupation — The
eflect of temper and constitution — The effect of the will, over different objects —
Our power over our train strengthened by discipline and business— The mind
most at eeise when the perceptions flow in their natural course — Pain excited by
aeeelerating or retarding the natural course of our perceptions — Number without
▼ariety, not agreeable — Excess in variety, disagreeable — To alter the variety
which nature requires, as painful as to alter the velocity — Final cause why neUure
has affixed pleasure to a moderate train — A rapid train is painful, to prevent
injuring the mind by loo great activity^ — Another, to prevent rashness — A quick
train made agreeable by habit — Variety corresponqing with our perceptions,
agreeable in works of art — Color and sound often repeated, become unpleasant ;
varied, they are agreeable — Ip works of art, exposed to view, variety to be stu-
died—In a landscape, among the same objects, contrast should prevail — In
writing for amusement, variety should prevail.
In attempting to explain uniformity and variety, in order to show
fcow we are affected by these circumstances, a doubt occurs, what
♦ JSn. lib. 5. t Iliad, book 23. 1. 879.
Digitized
by Google
152» VNIFORMITT AND VARIETY. [Ck 9
method ought to be followed. In adhering closely to the subject, I
foresee difficulties ; and yet by indulging such a circuit as may be
necessary for a satisfactory view, I probably shall incur the censure
of wandering. — Yet the dread of censure ought not to prevail over
what is proper: beside that the intended circuit will lead to some
collateral matters, that are not onl^ curious, but of considerable
importance in the science of human nature.
The necessary succession of perceptions may be examined in two
different views ; one with respect to order and connection, and one
with respect to uniformity and variety. In the first view it is 'han-
dled above:* and I now proceed to the second. The world we
inhabit is replete with things no less remarkable for their variety
than for their number : these, unfolded by the wonderful mechanism
of external sense, furnish the mind with many perceptions ; which,
joined with ideas of memory, of imagination, and of reflection, form
a complete train that has not a gap or interval. This train of per-
ceptions and ideas depends very little on will. The mind, as has
been observed,! is so constituted, ** that it can by no effort break off
the succession of its ideas, nor keep its attention long fixed upon the
same object:" we can arrest a perception in its course; we can
shorten its natural duration, to make room for another ; we can vary
the succession, by change of place or of amusement; and we can, in
some measure, prevent variety, by frequently recalling the same
object after short intervals : but still there must be a succession, and
a change from one perception to another. By artificial means, the
succession may be retarded or accelerated, may be rendered more
various or more uniform, but in one shape or another is unavoidable.
The train, even when left to its ordinary course, is not always
uniform in its. motion ; there are natural causes that accelerate or
retard it considerably. The first I shall mention, is a peculiar con-
stitution of mind. One man is distinguished firom another, by no cir-
cumstance more remarkably, than his train of perceptions. To a
cold languid temper belongs a slow course of perceptions, which
occasions dulness of apprehension and sluggishness in action : to a
warm temper, on the contrary, belongs a quick course of ipercep-
tions, which occasions quickness of apprehension and activity m
business. The Asiatic nations, the Chinese especially, are observed
to be more cool and deliberate than the Europeans ; may not the
reason be, that heat enervates by exhausting the spirits ? and that a
certain degree of cold, as in the middle regions of Europe, bracing
the fibres, rouses the mind, and produces a brisk circulation of thought,
accompanied with vigor in action ? In youth is observable a quicker
^succession of perceptions than in old age : and hence, in youth, a
remarkable avidity for variety of amusements, which in riper years
give place to more uniform and more sedate occupation. This qua-
lifies men of middle age for business, where activity is required, but
with a greater proportion of uniformity than variety. In old age, a
dlow and languid succession makes variety unnecessary ; and for that
re^on, the aged, in all their motions, are generally governed by an
* Chap. 1. t Locke, book 2. chap. 14.
Digitized
by Google
Cb 9.] UNIFORMITY AND VARIBTT. 153
habitual uniformity. Whatever be the cause, we may venture to pro-
Boooce, that heat in the imagfination and temper, is always connected
with a brisk flow of perceptions.
, The natural rate of succession, depends also, in some degree, upon
the parlMcalar perceptions that compose the train. An agreeable object,
takiag a strong hold of the mind, occasions a slower succession than
when the objects are indifferent : grandeur and novelty fix the atten-
tion for a considerable time, excluding all other ideas ; and the mind
thus occupied is sensible of no vacuity. Some emotions, by hurry-
ing the mind from object to object, accelerate the succession. Where
the train is composed of connected perceptions or ideas, the succes-
sion is quick; for it is so ordered by nature, thdt the mind goes
easily and sweetly along connected objects,* On the other hand, the
succession must be slow, where the train is composed of unconnected
perceptions or ideas, which find not ready access to the mind ; and
that an unconnected object is not admitted without a struggle, appears
from the unsettled state of the mind for some moments after sufh an
object is presented, wavering between it and the former train : during
that short period, one or other of the former objects will intrude,
perhaps oftener than once, till ihe attention be fixed entirely upon
the new object. The same observations are applicable to ideas sug-
pfested by language: the mind can bear a nnick succession of related
ideas; but an unrelated idea, for which the mind is not prepared,
takes time to make an impression ; and therefore a train composed
of such ideas, ought to proceed with a slow pace. Hence an
epic poem, a- play, or any slory connected in all its parts, may be
perused in a shorter time, than a book of maxims or apothegms, of
which a quick sftccession creates both confusion and fatigue.
Such latitude has nature indulged in the rate of succession : what
latitude it indulges with respect to uniformity, we proceed to exa-
mine. The uniformity or variety of a train, so far as composed of
perceptions, depends on the particular objects that surround the per-
cipient at the time. The present occupation must also have an
inflaence; for one is sometimes engaged in a multiplicity of afl^airs,
sometimes altogether vacant. A natural train of ideas of memory
is more circumscribed, each object being, by some connection, linked
to what precedes and to what follows it \ these connections, which
are many, and of different kinds, aflford scope for a sufficient degree of
itriety ; and at the same time prevent that degree which is unpleasant
by excess. Temper and constitution also have an influence here, as
well as upon the rate of succession : a man of a calm and sedate tem-
per, admits not willingly any idea but what is regularly introduced
ly a proper connection: one of a roving disposition embraces with
ftvidity ev^ry new idea, however slender its relation be to those that
IMceded it. Neither must we overlook the nature of the percep-
tions that compose the train; for their influence is no less with
nspect to uniformity and variety, than with respect to the rate of
"•accession. The mind engrossed by any passion, love or hatred,
fcope or fear, broods over its object, and can bear no interruption ; and
♦ Soc Cliap. 1.
Digitized
by Google
154 UNIFORMITY AND TARIETT. 'Ch. 9,
in such a state; the train of perceptions must not only be slow, but
extremely uniform. Anger newly inflamed eagerly grasps its object,
and leaves not a cranny in the mind for another thought but of
revenge. In the character of Hotspur, that state of mind is repre-
sented to the life; a picture remarkable for likeness as vfeW as for
high coloring.
Worcester. Peace, cousin, say no mpre :
And now I will unclasp a secret book,
And to your quick conceiving discontents
I'll read you matter, deep and dan^rous;
As full of peril and advent'rous spirit
As to o'erwalk a current roaring loud,
On the unsteadfast footing of a spesur.
Hotspur. If he fall in, good ni^ht Or sink or swim
Send danger from the east into the west.
So honor cross 'it from the north to south ;
And let them grapple. Oh ! the blood more stirs
To rouse a lion than to start a hare.
Worcester. Those same noble Scots,
That are your prisoners
Hotspur. I'll keep them all ;
By Heav'n, he shall not have a Scot of them:
No ; if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not;
I'll keep them, by this hand.
Worcester. You start away,
And lend no ear unto my purposes :
Those pris'ners you shall keep.
Hotspur. 1 will, that's flat : '
He said he would not ransom Mortimer ;
Forbade my ton^e to speak of Mortimer:
But I will find him when he lies asleep.
And in his ear I'll holla Mortimer!
Nay, I will have a starling taught to speak
Nothing but Mortimer ^ and give it him,
To keep his anger still in motion.
Worcester. Hear you, cousin, a word.
Hotspur. All studies here I solemnly defy.
Save iiow to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke
And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales,
(But that I think his father loves him not,
, And would be ^lad he met with some mischance),
I'd have him poison'd with a pot of ale.
Worcester. Farewell, my kinsman, I will talk to you x
When you are bettei temper'd to attend.
First Partj Henry IV. Act I. Sc. 3.
Having viewed a train of perceptions as directed by nature, and
the variations of which it is susceptible from different necessaify
causes, we proceed to examine how far it is subjected to will ; for
that this faculty has some influence, is observed above. And first,
the rate of succession may be retarded by insisting upon one object,
and propelled by dismissing another before its time. But such volun-
tary mutations in the natural course of succession, have limits that
cannot be extended by the most painful efforts : which will appear
from considering, that the mind, circumscribed in its capacity, can-
not, at the same instant, admit many perceptions ; and when replete,
that it has not place for new perceptions, till others are remofed ;
consequently, that a voluntary change of perceptions cannot be instan-
Digitized
by Google
Gh. 9.] VNirORMITT AND TARIKTT. 155
taneoua, as the time it requires sets bounds to the velocity of succes-
sioa On the other hand, the power we have to arrest a flying per-
ception, is equally limited ; and the reason is, that the longer we
detain any perception,^ the more difficulty we find in the operation ;
till, the difficulty becoming unsurmountable, we are forced to quit
our hold, and to permit the train to take its usual course.
The power we have over this train as to uniformity and variety,
is in some cases very great, in others very little. A train composed
of perceptions of external objects, depends entirely on the place we
occupy, and admits not more nor less variety but by change of place.
A. train composed of ideas of memory, is still less under our power;
because we cannot, at will, call up any idea that is not connected with
the train.* But a train of ideas suggested by reading, may be varied
at will, provided we have books at hand.
The power that nature has given us over our train of perceptions,
may be greatly strengthened by proper discipline, and by an early
application to business ; witness some mathematicians, who go far
beyond common nature in slowness and uniformity ; and still more
persons devoted to religious exercises, who pass whole days in con-
templation, and impose upon themselves long and severe penances.
With respect to celerity and variety, it is not easily conceived what
length a habit of activity in affairs will carry some men. Let a
stranger, or let any person to whom the sight is not familiar, attend
the Chancellor of Great Britain through the labors but of one day,
during a session of Parliament: how great will be his astonish-
ment ! what multiplicity of law-business, what deep thinking, and
what elaborate application to matters of government ! The train of
perceptions must in that great man be accelerated far beyond the
ordinary course of nature : yet no confusion or hurry ; but in every
article the greatest order and accuracy. Such is the force of habit.
How happy is man, to have the command of a principle of action
that can elevate him so far above the ordinary condition of huma-
nity If
We are now prepared for considering a train of perceptions, with
respect to pleasure and pain : and to that speculation peculiar atten-
tion must be given, because it serves to explain the effects that uni-
formity and variety have upon the mind. A man, when his percep-
tions flow in their natural course, feels himself free, light, and easy,
especially after any forcible acceleration or retardation. On the other
kand, accelerating or retarding the natural course, excites a pain,
which, though scarcely felt in small removes, becomes considerable
toward the extremes. Aversion to fix on a single object for a long
time, or to take in a multiplicity of objects in a short time, is remark-
dde in children ; and equally so in men unaccustomed to business : a
Ban languishes when the succession is very slow ; and, if he grows
iot impatient, is apt to fall asleep : during a rapid succession, he has
•feeling as if his head were turning round ; he is fatigued, and his
|lia resembles that of weariness after bodily labor.
But a moderate course will not satisfy the mind, unless the per-
♦ See Chap. 1. t This chapter was composed in the year 1753.
Digitized
by Google
156 UNIFORMITY AND TARISTT [Ch. i
ceptions be also diversified : number without variety is not sufficieni
to constitute an agreeable train. In comparing a few objects, uni*
formity is pleasant ; but the frequent reiteration of uniform objects
becomes unpleasant : one tires of a scene that is not diversified ; and
soon feels a sort of unnatural restraint when confined within a nar-
row range, whether occasioned by a retarded succession, or by too
great uniformity. An excess in variety is, on the other hand, fa-
tiguing: which is felt even in a train of related perceptions ; muck
more of unrelated perceptions, which gain not admittance without
effort: the eflbrt, it is true, is scarcely perceptible in a single in-
stance; but by frequent reiteration it becomes exceedingly pain fuL
Whatever be the cause, the fact is certain, that a man never finds'
himself more at ease, than when his perceptions succeed each other
with a certain degree, not only of velocity, but also of variety. The
pleasure that arises from a train of connected ideas, is remarkable
m a reverie ; especially where the imagination interposes, and is ac-
tive in coining new ideas, which is done with wonderful facility,
one must be sensible, that the serenity and ease of the mind in that
state, makes a great part of the enjoyment. The case is different
where external objects enter into the train ; for these, making their
appearance without order, and without connection save that of con-
tiguity, form a train of perceptions that may be extremely uniform
or extremely diversified ; which, for opposite reasons, are both of
them painful.
• To alter, by an act of will, that degree of variety which nature re-
quires, is not' less painful, cnan to alter that degree of velocity which
it requires. Contemplation, when the mind is long attached to one
subject, becomes painful by restraining the free range of perception:
curiosity, and the prospect of useful discoveries, may fortify one to
bear that pain : but it is deeply felt by the bulk of mankind, and pro-
duces in them aversion to all abstract sciences. In any profession
or calling, a train of operation that is simple and reiterated without
intromission, makes the operator languish, and lose vigor : he com-
plains neither of too great labor, nor of too little action ; but regrets
the want of variety, and the being obliged to do the same thing over
and over : where the operation is sufficiently varied, the mind retains
its vigor, and is pleased with its condition. Actions again create
uneasiness when excessive in number or variety, though in every
other respect pleasant : thus a throng of business in law, in physic,
or in traffic, aistresses and distracts the mind, unless where a nabiti
of application is acquired by long and constant exercise: the exces-
sive variety is the distressing circumstance; and the mmd suffers
grievously by being kept constantly upon the stretch.
With relation to involuntary causes disturbing that degree of va-
riety which nature requires, a slight pain affecting one part of the
body without variation, becomes, by its constancy and long duration,
almost insupportable ; the patient, sensible that the pain is not in-
creased in degree, complains of its constancy more than of its seve-
rity of its engrossing his whole thoughts, and admitting no other
object. A shifting pain is more tolerable, because change of place
Digitized
by Google
t
Ch. 9.1 UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 157
(ODtributes to variety : and an intermitting pain, suffering other ob
*"^ to intervene, still more so. Ag^in, any single color or so and
returning becomes unpleasant ; as may be observed in viewing a
of similar apartments in a g^eat house painted with the same
►lor, and in hearing the prolonged tollings of a bell. Color and sound
ied within certain limits, though without any order, are pleasant ;
ness the various colors of plants and flowers m a field, ana the vari-
IS notes of birds in a thicket : increase the number of variety, and the
tling becomes unpleasant ; thus a great variety of colors, crowded
n a small canvas or in quick succession, create an uneasy feel-
which is prevented by putting the colors at a greater distance
each other, either of place or of time. A number of voices in
crowded assembly, a number of animals collected in a market, pro-
ice an unpleasant feeling ; though a few of them together, or all
}f them in a moderate succession, would be pleasant. And because
'of the same excess in variety, a number of pains felt in different parts
""the body, at the same instant or in a rapid succession, are an ex-
isite torture.
The pleasure or pain resulting from a train of perceptions in dif-
Ffcrent circumstances, are a beautiful contrivance of nature for valu-
[lUe purposes. But being sensible, that the mind, inflamed with
ulations so highly interesting, is beyond measure disposed to con-
tion J I shall be watchful to admit no argument nor remark, but
what appears solidly founded ; and with that caution I proceed to un-
fAi these purposes. It is occasionally observed above, that persons t)f
atphlegmatic temperament, having a sluggish train of perceptions are
faidisposed to action ; and that activity constantly accompanies a brisk
tow of perceptions. To ascertain that fact, a man need not go abroad
fcr experiments : reflecting on things passing in his own mind, he
will find, that a brisk circulation of thought constantly prompts him
to action ; and that he is averse to action when his perceptions lan-
fuish in their course. But as man by nature is formed for action, and
must be active in order to be happy, nature has kindly provided against
Indolence, by annexing pleasure to a moderate course of perceptions,
and by making any remarkable retardation painful. A slow course
of perceptions is attended with another bad effect : man, in a few
capital cases, is governed bv propensity or instinct; but in matters
that admit deliberation and cnoice, reason is assigned him for a guide :
now, as reasoning requires often a great compass of ideas, their suc-
cession ought to be so quick as readily to furnish every motive that
may be necessary* for mature deliberation ; in a languid succession,
motives will often occur after action is commenced, when it is too
late to retreat.
Nature has guarded man, her favorite, against a succession too
nqpid, no less carefully than against one too dow : both are equally
painfcil, though the pain is not the same in both. Many are the good
effects of that contrivance. In the first place, as the exertion of bodily
tieulties is by certain painful sensations confined within proper
iittits, Nature is equalljr provident with respect to the nobler facul-
ties of the mind • the pain of an accelerated course of perceptions,
14
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
158 UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. [Ch. 9
18 Nature's admonition to relax our pace, and to admit a more gentle
exertion of thought Another valuable purpose is discovered upon
reflecting in what manner objects are imprinted on the mind : to give
the memory firm hold of an external object, time is required, even
where attention is the greatest ; and a moderate degree of attention,
which is the common case, must be continued still longer to produce
the same effect. A rapid succession, accordingly, must prevent ob-
jects from making an impression so deep as to be of real service in
life ; and Nature, for the sake of memory, has, by a painful feeling,
guarded against a rapid succession. But a still more valuable pur-
pose is answered by the contrivance ; as, on the one hand, a sluggish
course of perceptions indisposes to action ; so, on the other, a course
too rapid impels \o rash and precipitant action : prudent conduct is
the child of deliberation and clear conception, for which there is no
place in a rapid course of thought. Nature therefore, taking mea-
sures for prudent conduct, has guarded us effectually from precipi-
tancy of thought, by making it painful.
Nature not only provides against a succession too slow or too
quick, but makes the middle course extremely pleasant. Nor is that
course confined within narrow bounds : every man can naturally,
without pain, accelerate or retard, in some degree, the rate of his per-
ceptions. And he can do it in a still greater degree by the force of
habit : a habit of contemplation annihilates the pain of a retarded
course of perceptions ; and a busy life, after long |)ractice, makes ac-
celeration pleasant.
Concerning the final cause of our taste for variety, it will be consi-
dered, that human affairs, complex by variety as well as number,
require the distributing of our attention and activity in measure and
proportion. Nature therefore, to secure a just distribution corres-
ponding to the variety of human affairs, has, made too great uni-
formity or too great variety in the course of perceptions, equally
unpleasant: and indeed, were we addicted to either extreme, our
internal constitution would be ill suited to our external circumstances.
At the same time, where great uniformity of operation is required,
as in several manufactures, or great variety, as in law or physic.
Nature, attentive to all our wants, has also provided for these cases,
?by implanting in the breast of every person, an efi[icacious principle
jthat leads to habit : an obstinate perseverance in the same occupation,
i relieves from the pain of excessive uniformity; and the like perse-
verance in a quick circulation of different occupations, relieves from
the pain of excessive variety. And thus we come'to take delight in
several occupations, that by nature, without habit, are not a little
disgustful.
A middle rate also in the train of perceptions between uniformity
and variety, is no less pleasant than between quickness and slowness.
• The mind^ of man, so framed, is wonderfully adapted to the course
of human affairs, which are continually changing, but not without
connection: it is equally adapted to the acquisition of knowledge,
which results chiefly from discovering resemolances among difiering
objects, and differences among resembling objects : such occupation^
Digitized
by Google
CL 9J VNirORMITT AND VARIETY. 15p
even abstracting from the knowledge we acquire, is in itself delight-
fol, by preserving a middle rate between too great oniformity and
too great variety.
We are now arrived at the chief purpose of the present chapter
which is to consider uniformity and variety with jrefation to the fine
arts, in order to discover, if we can, when it is that the one ought to
prevail, and when the other. And the knowledge we have obtained,
will even at first view suggest a general observation, that in eveiy
work of art, it must be agreeable, to find that degree of variety which
corresponds to the natural course of our perceptions ; and that an
excess in variety or in uniformity must be disagreeable, by varying
that natural course. For that reason, works of art admit more or
leas variety according to the nature of the subject : in a picture of
an interesting event that strongly attaches the spectator to a single
object, the mind relishes not a multiplicity of figures nor of orna-
ments: a picture representing a gay subject, admits great variety of
figures and ornaments ; because these are agreeable to the mind in
a cheerful tone. The same observation is applicable to poetry and
to music.
It must at the same time be remarked, that one can bear a greater
variety of natural objects, than of objects in a picture ; and a greater
variety in a picture, than in a description. A real object presented
to view, makes an impression more readily than when represented
in colors, and much more readily than when represented m words.
Hence it is, that the profuse variety of objects in some natural land-
scapes, neither breeds confusion nor fatigue : and for the same rea-
son, there is place for greater variety of ornament in a picture than
in a poem. A picture, however, like a building, ought to be so
simple as to be comprehended in one view. Whether every one of
Le Brun's pictures of Alexander's history will stand this test, is
submitted to judges.
Frpm these general observations, I proceed to particulars. In
works exposed continually to public view, variety ought to be studied.
It is a rule, accordingly, in sculpture, to contrast the differerit limbs
of a statue, in order to give it all the variety possible. Though the
cone, in a single view, be more beautiful than the pyramid ; yet a
pyramidal steeple, because of its variety, is justly preferred. For
the same reason, the oval is preferred before the circle; and painters,
ia copying buildings or any regular work, give an air of variety, by
•representing the subject in ai;i angular view : we are pleased with
*&e variety, without losing sight of the regularity. In a landscape
representing animals, those especially of the same kind, contrast
ought to prevail : to draw one sleeping, another awake ; one sitting,
another in motion ; one moving toward the spectator, another from
Mm, is the life of such a performance.
In every sort of writing intended for amusement, variety is neces-
«ary in proportion to the length of the work. Want of variety is
awsibly felt in Davila's history of the civil wars of France: the
t»ents are indeed important and various ; but the reader languishes
' ^ a tiresome monotony of character, every person engaged being
Digitized
by Google
160 UNIFORMITY AND VARIBTY. ^Ch. 9.
figured a consummate politician, governed by interest only. It ig
hard to say, whether Ovid disgusts more by too great variety, or too
great uniformity. His stories are all of the same kind, concluding
mvariably with the transformation of one being into another ; and
80 far he is tiresome by excess in uniformity: he is not less fiitiguing
by excess in variety, hurrying his reader incessantly from story to
story. Ariosto is still more fatiguing than Ovid, by exceeding the
just bounds of variety. Not satisfied, like Ovid, with a succession
in his stories, he distracts the reader, by jumbling together 9. multi-
tude of ihem without any connection. Nor is the Orlando Furioso
less tiresome by its uniformity than the Metamorphoses, though in
a different manner. After a story is brought to a crisis, the reader,
intent on the catastrophe, is suddenly snatched away to a new story,
which makes no impression so long as the mind is occupied with
the former. This tantalizing method, from which the author never
once swerves during the course of a long work, besides its uniformity,
has another bad effect : it prevents that sympathy, which is raised
by an interesting event when the reader meets with no interruption.
The emotions produced by our perceptions in a train, have been
little considered, and less understood ; the subject therefore required
an elaborate discussion. It may surprise some readers to find variety
treated as only contributing to make a train of perceptions pleasant,
when it is commonly held to be a necessary ingredient in beauty of
whatever kind ; according to the definition, " That beauty consists
in uniformity amid variety." But, after the subject is explained and
illustrated as above, I presume it will be evident, that this definition,
however applicable to one or other species, is far from being just
with respect to beauty in general : variety contributes no share to
the beauty of a moral action, nor of a mathematical theorem : and
numberless are the beautiful objects of sight that have little or no
variety in them : a globe, the most uniform of all figures,- is of all
the most beautiful; and a square, though more beautiful than a
trapezium, has less variety in its donstituent parts. The foregoing
definition, which at best is but obscurely expressed, is only applicable
to a number of objects in a group or in succession, among which,
indeed, a due mixture of uniformity and variety is always agreeable;
provided the particular objects, separately considered, be in any
degree beautiful, for uniformity amid variety among ugly objects,
affords no pleasure. This circumstance is totally omitted in the
definition ; and indeed to have mentioned it, would, at the very first
glance, have shown the definition to be imperfect: for to define
beauty as arising from beautiful objects blended together in a due
proportion of uniformity and variety, would be too gross to pass cur-
rent : as nothing can be more gross, than to employ in a definition
the very term that is to be explained.
Digitized
by Google
Ol 9.] imiFORMITT AND TARIETT. 161
%
APPENDIX TO CHAPTER IX.
CONCERNING THE WORKS OF NATURE, CHIEFLY WITH RESPECT TC
UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY.
Be«uty and design in the works of nature, equally conspicuous, both in the inter-
nal and external structure — External structure respects regularity in animals-
Beauty of inanimate nature — Mechanical operations of man confined to the
surfaces of bodies — The operations of nature diffused through the most intimate
and minute parts of all suostances — The mechanical power of nature not con-
fined to the smaller bodies, but extends to the largest ones — The wonderful
power of nature in connecting and propagating systems — The connection
Dctwixt the internal frame and external nature, of all, the most wonderful —
Uniformity and variety interwoven in the works of nature with surprising art ;
especially in man — Still there is here, a great diversity — ^Natural objects hence
fbiia themselves into groups, and are always agreeable.
In things of Nature's workmansliip, whether we regard their
internal or external structure, beauty and design are equally con-
spicuous. We shall begin with the outside of nature, as what first
presents itself.
The figure of an organic body is generally regular. The trunk
of a tree, its branches, and their ramifications, are nearly round, and
form a series regularly decreasing from the trunk to the smallest
fibre : uniformity is no where more remarkable than in the leaves,
which, in the same species, have all th^ same color, size, and shape :
the seeds and fruits are all regular figures, approaching for the most
part to the globular form. • Hence a plant, especially of the larger
kind, with its trunk, branches, foliage, and fruit, is a charmin|^ object.
In an animal, the trunk, which is much larger than the other
parts, occupies a chief place : its shape, like that of the stem of plants,
is nearly round ; a figure which of all is the most agreeable : its two
sides are precisely similar : several of the under parts go off in pairs ;
and the two individuals of each pair are accurately uniform : the
single parts are placed in the middle : the limbs baring a certain
proportion to the trunk, serve to support it, and to give it a proper
elevation : upon one extremity are disposed the neck and head, in
the direction of the trunk : the head being the chief part, possesses
with great propriety the chief place. Hence, the oeauty of the
whole figure, is the result of many equal and proportional parts
orderly disposed : apd the smallest variation in number, equality,
proportion, or order, never fails to produce a perception of deformity.
Nature in no particular seems more profuse of ornament, than m
the beautiful coloring of her works. The flowers of plants, the furft
•of beasts, and the feathers of birds, vie with each other in the beauty
of their colors, which in lustre as well as in harmony are beyond
the power of imitation. Of all natural appearances, the coloring of
the human face is the most exquisite : it is the strongest instance of
the ineffable art of nature, in adapting and proportioning its colors
to the magnitude, figure, and position, of the parts. In a word,
color seems to live in nature oruy, and to languish under the finest
touches of art.
14*
Digitized by LjOOQ IC
1 62 UNIFORMITY AND TARIBTT. [Ch. 9.
When we examine the internal structure of a phnt or animal, a
wonderful subtlety of mechanism is displayed. Man, in his mecha-
nical operations, is confined to the surface of bodies; but the opera*
lions of nature are exerted through the whole substance, so as to
reach even the elementary parts. Thus the body of an animal, and
of a plant, are composed of certain great vessels ; these of smaller ;
and these again of still smaller, without end, as far as we can dis>
cover. This power of diffusing mechanism through the most inti-
mate parts, is peculiar to nature, and distinguishes her operations,
most remarkably, from every work of art. Such texture, continued
from the grosser parts to the most minute, preserves all along the
strictest regularity. The fibres of plants are a hundle of cylindric
canals, lying in the same direction, and parallel or nearly parallel
to each other : in some instances, a most accurate arrangement of
parts is discovered, as in onions, formed of concentric coats, one
within another, to the very centre. An animal body is still more
admirable, in the disposition of its internal parts, and in their order
and symmetry ; there is not a bone, a muscle, a blood-vessel, a nerve,
that has not one corresponding to it on the opposite side; and the
same order is carried through the most minute parts : the lungs are
composed of two parts, which are disposed upon the sides of the
thorax; and the kidneys, in a lower situation, have a position no
less orderly: as to the parts that are single, the heart is advan-
t'lgeously situated near the middle ; the liver, stomach, and spleen,
are disposed in the upper region of the abdomen, about the same
height ; the bladder is placed in the middle of the body, as well as
the intestinal canal, which fills the whole cavity with its convolutions.
The mechanical power of nature, not confined to small bodies,
reaches equally those of the greatest size ; witness the bodies that
compose the solar system, wnich, however large, are weighed,
measured, and subjected to certain laws, with the utmost accuracy.
Their places round the sun, with their distances, are determined by
a precise rule, corresponding to their quantity of matter. The
superior dignity of the central body, in respect of its bulk and lucid
appearance, is suited to the place it occupies. The globular figure
of these bodies, is not only in itself beautiful, but is above all otheis
fitted for regular motion. Each planet revolves about its own axis
in a given time; and each moves round the sun, in an orbit nearly
circular, and in a time proportioned to its distance. Their velocities,
directed by an established law, are perpetually changing by regxilar
accelerations and retardations. In fine, the great variety of regular
appearances, joined with the beauty of the system itself; cannot fail
to produce the highest delight in every one who is sensible of design,
power, or beauty.
Nature hsfe a wonderful power of connecting systems with each
other, ind of propagating that connection througn all her works.
Thus the constituent parts of a plant, the* roots, the stem, the
branches, the leaves, the fruit, are really different systems, united
by a mutual dependence on each other : in an animal, the lymphatic
and lacteal ducts, the blood-vessels and nerves, the muscles 9Xkd
Digitized by V^OOQIC
Ch. 9.} UNIFORMITY AND TARIETT. l63
gJaods, tbe bones and cartilages, the membranes and bowels with
ibe other organs, form distinct systems, which are united into one
whole. There are, at the same time, other connections less intimato :
erery plant is joined to the earth by its roots ; it requires rain and
dews to furnish it with juices ; and it requires heat to preserve these
juices in fluidity and motion : every animal, by its fifravity, is con-
nected with the earth, with the element in which it breathes, and
with the sun, hj deriving from it cherishing and enlivening heat :
the earth furnishes aliment to plants, these to animals, and these,
again to other animals, in a long train of dependence. That the
earth is part of a greater system, comprehending many bodies
mutually attracting each other, and gravitating all toward one com-
mon centre, is now thoroughly explored. Such a regular and uni-
form series of connections, propagated through so great a number of
beings, and through such wide spaces, is wonderful : and our wonder
must increase, when we observe these connections propagated from
the minutest atoms to bodies of the most enormous size, and so
widely diffused as that we can neither perceive their beginning nor
their end. That these connections are not confined within our own
planetary system, is certain : they are diffused over spaces still more
remote, where new bodies and systems rise without end. All space
is filled with the works of God, which are conducted by one plan,
to answer unerringly one great end.
Etut the most wonderful connection of all, though not the most
conspicuous, is that of our internal frame with the works of nature :
man is obviously fitted for. contemplating these works, because in
this contemplation he has great delight. The works of nature are
remarkable in their uniformity no less than in their variety ; and
the mind of man is fitted to receive pleasure equally from both.
Uniformity and variety are interwoven in the works oi nature with
surprising art : variety, however great, is never without some degree
of uniformity ; nor the greatest uniformity without some degree of
•variety : there is great variety in the same plant, by the different
appearances of its stem, branches, leaves, blossoms, fruit, size, and
color ; and yet, when we trace that variety through different plants,
especially of the same kind, there is discovered a surprising uni-
formity : again, where nature seems to have intended the most exact
uaiformity, as among individuals of the same kind, there still appears
a diversity, which serves readily to distinguish one individual from
an(^her. It is indeed admirable, that the human visage, in which
uniformity is so prevalent, should yet be so marked, as to leave no
room, among millions, for mistaking one person for another : these
marks, though clearly perceived, are generally so delicate, that
words cannot be found to describe them. A correspondence so
perfect between the human mind jnd the works of nature, is ex-
tremely remarkable. The opposition between variety and uniformity
» so great, that ope would not readily imagine they could both be
reUshed by the same palate ; at least not in the same object, nor at
the same time: it is however true, that the pleasures they afford,
befa^ happily adjusted to each other, and readily mixing in intimate
Digitized by V^OOQIC
C64 CONORUITT AND FROPRIETT. [Ch. 10.
union, are frequently produced by the same individual object. Nay,
fitrther, in the objects that touch us the most, uniformity and variety
are constantly combined ; witness natural objects, where this com-
bination is always found in perfection. Hence it is, that natural
objects readily form themselves into groups, and are agreeable in
whatever manner combined: a wood with its trees, shrubs, and
herbs, is agreeable : the music of birds, the lowing of cattle, and
the murmuring of a brook, are in conjunction delightful ; though
they strike the ear without modulation or harmony. In short,
notning can be more happily accommodated to the inward constitu-
tion of man, than that mixture of uniformity with variety, which the
eye discovers in natural objects ; and, accordingly, the mind is never
more highly gratified than in contemplating a natural landscape.
CHAPTER X
CONGRUITY AND PROPRIETY
Oongruity and propriety not applicable to one object— Man has a sense of con-
gruity and propriety — They are agreeable, because man is so formed — Con-
eruity and propriety required, in proportion to the relation between things-
No coincidence between congruity and beauty — Distinction between oongruity
and propriety — A great degree of congruity between a part and the whole-
Principal and accessory, mean appearance — Congruity relates to kind, as well
as to quantity of ornament — A slight impropriety, makes a stronffer impression
than a slight incongruity — The improprieties which excite laughter and con-
tempt, ridiculous — A mixed emotion consists of one too risible for anger, and
too serious for derision — The effect of contempt for another upon ourselves—
Congruity, as its final cause, contributes to our happiness — Impropriety fur-
nishes entertainment — It makes us cautious — It prompts to moral conduct-
Propriety regulates our actions — It induces justice to ourselves and others-
It enforces the performance of social duties.
Man is superior to the brute, not more by his rational faculties,
than by his senses. With respect to external senses, brutes pro-
bably yield not to men ; and they may also have some obscure per-
ception of beauty : but the more delicate senses of regularity, order,
uniformity, and congruity, being connected with morality and reli-
gion, are reserved to dignify the chief of the terrestrial creation.
Upon that account, no discipline is more suitable to man, nor more
congruous to the dignity of his nature, than that which refines his
taste, and leads him to aistinguish, in every subject, what is regular,
what is orderly, what is suitable, and what is fit and proper.*
* Nee vero ilia parya vis naturae est rationisque, quod unum hoc animal %
^uid sit ordo, quid sit quod deceat in factis dictisque, qui modus. Itaque eorutt
ipsorum, quae aspectu sentiuntur, nullum aliud animal, pulchritudinem, venustatem,
convenientiam partium sentit duam similitudinem natura ratioque ab oculis ad
animum transferens, multo etiam magis pulchritudinem, constantiam, ordinem, in
consiliis factisque conservandum putat, cavetque ne auid indecore effeminateve
faciat ; tum in omnibus et opinionibus et factis ne quid libidinose aut faciat ant
co^tet Gluibus ex rebus conflatur et efficitur id, quod quaerimus, bonestoBL
Cicero de Officiis, 1. 1.
Nor 18 it a trifling power of nature and of reason that this animal alone under-
■tands order, decency in words and deeds, and propriety of manner. No other
Digitized by V^OOglC
Ch. 10.] 00N0RUIT7 AND PROPRIITT 165
It is clear from the very conception of the terms congruity and
fropriety, that they are not applicable to any single object: they
m^Xj a plurality, and obviously signify a particular relation between
diferent objects. Thus we say currently, that a decent garb is suit-
able or proper for a judge, modest behavior for a young woman,
and a lofty style for an epic poem: and, on the other hand, that it ja
unsuitable or incongrtbous to see a little woman sunk in an over-
grown farthingale, a coat richly embroidered covering coarse and
dirty linen, a mean subject in an elevated style, an elevated subject
m a mean style, a first minister darning his wife's stocking, or a
reverend prelate in lawn sleeves dancing a hornpipe.
The perception we have of this relation, which seems peculiar to
man, cannot proceed from any other cause, than from a ser^e of
congruity or propriety ; for, supposing us destitute of that sense,
the terms would be to us unintelligible.*
It is matter of experience, that congruity or propriety, wherever
perceived, is agreeable ; and that incongruity or impropriety, wherc-
ever perceived, is disagreeable. The only difficulty is, to ascertain
what are the particular objects that in conjunction suggest these
relations ; for there are many objects that do not : the sea, for exam-
ple, viewed in conjunction with a picture, or a man viewed in con-
junction with a mountain, suggest not either congruity or incon-
gruity. It seems natural to infer, what will be found true by indue-
tion, that we never perceive congruity nor incongruity but among
filings that are connected by some relation ; such as a man and his
fictions, a principal and its accessories, a subject and its ornaments.
We are, indeed, so framed by nature, as, among things so connected,
to require a certain suitableness or correspondence, termed congruity
^propriety; and to be displeased when we fina the opposite relation
id incongruity or impropriety. \
animal has an eye to perceive the beauty, a^eableness, and convenience of parts.
Nature and reason, in transferring this simflitude from the eyes to the mind, thinks
that beauty, constancy, and order, are much more to be preserved m counsels and
actions, and takes care that nothing be done indecorously or effeminately, and that,
in opinions and actions, nothing libidinous should be thought or done. That,
iridch we seek, honesty, is made up of this.
• ♦ From many things that pass current in the world without being generally
omdemned, one at first view would imagine, that the sense of congruity or pro-
priety has scarce any foundation in nature ; and that it is rather an artificial
rafinement of those who affect to distinguish themselves from others. The fulsoms
panegyrics bestowed upon the great and opulent, in epistles dedicatory and other-
aaeh compositions, would incline us to think so. Dicf there prevail in the worid,
Hwill be said, or did nature suggest, a taste of what is suitable, decent, or proper,
IWwJd any good writer deal in such compositions, or any man of sense receive
^ — I without disgust 1 Can it be sup]X)sed that Louis XIV. of France was
Wtoed by na*ure with any sense of propriety, when, in a dramatic performance
flOposely composed for his entertainment, he suffered himself, publicly and in his
fsieoce, to be styled the gpreatest king ever the earth produced T These, it is true,
^Itrong facts ; but luckily they do not prove the sense of propriety to be arti-
wM: they only prove, that the sense of propriety is at times overpowered by
Mis and vanity ; which is no singular case, for tnat sometimes is the fate even
if^ sense of justice.
t In the chapter of beauty, (][ualities are distinguished into primary and second-
- •f : and to clear some obscurity that may appear in the text, it is proper to be
4ianred, that the same distinction is applicable to relations. Resemblance,
Digitized
by Google
466 CONORiriTT AMD PROPRnBTT. [Clt 10.
If things connected be the subject of congruity, it is reasonabk
beforehand to expect a degree of congruity proportioned to the degree
of the connection. And, upon examination we find our expectation
to be well founded: wlmre the relation is intimate, as between a
cause and its effect, a whole and its parts, we require the strictest
congruity ; but where the relation is slight, or accidental, as among
things jumbled together, we require little or no congruity: the
strictest propriety is required in behavior and manner of living;
because a man is connected with these by the relation of cause and
effect : the relation between an edifice and the ground upon which it
stands is of the most intimate kind, and therefore the situation of a
great house ought to be lofty : its relation to neighboring hills, rivers,
plains, being that of propinquity only, demands but a small share oi
congruity : among members of the same club, the copgruity ought
to be considerable, as well as among things placed for show in the
same niche : among passeno^ers in a stage-coach we require very
little congruity ; and less still at a public spectacle.
Congruity is so nearly allied to beauty, as commonly to be held
a species of it ; and yet they differ so essentially, as never to coincide :
beauty, like color, is placed upon a single subject ; congruity upon a
plurality : farther, a thing beautiful in itself may, with relation to
other things, produce the strongest sense of incongruity.
. Congruity and propriety are commonly reckoned synonymous
terms; and hitherto in opening the subject they have been used
indifferently : but they are distinguishable ; and the precise meaning
of each must be ascertained. Congruity is the genus, of which pro-
priety is a species ; for we call nothing propriety, but that congruity
or suitableness, which oug^ht to subsist between sensible beings, ana
their thoughts, words, and actions.
In order to give a full view of these secondary relations, I shall
trace them through some of the most considerable primary relations.
The relation of a part to the whole, being extremely intimate, de-
mands the utmost degree of congruity : even the slightest deviation
is disgustful ; witness the Lulrin, a burlesque poem, which is closed
with a serious and warm panegyric on Lamoignon, one of the king's
judges : '
Amphora ccepit
Institui; currente rota, cur urceus exiti*
Examples of congruity and incongruity are furnished in plenty
by the relation between a subject and its ornaments. A literary
equality, uniformity, proximity, are relations that depend not on us, but exist
equally whether perceived or not ; and upon that account may justly be termed
primary relations. But there are other relauons, that only appear such to us, ajid
that have not any external existence like primary relations ; which is the case of
congruity, incongruity, propriety, impropriety: these may be properly termod
secondary relations. Thus it appears from what is said in the text, that the
secondary relations mentioned arise from objects connected by some primary
relation. Property is an example of a secondary relation, as it exists no where
but in the mind. I purchase a field or a horse : uie covenant makes the primary
relation ; and the secondary relation built on it, is property.
* The two-handed vessel, of a foot square, is getting in &8hioD-^as the whfisl
turns, why does the pitcher disappear 1
Digitized
by Google
Ck 1(X] CONGRUITT AND PROPRIETY. 167
performance intended merely for amusement is susceptible of much
ornament, as well as a music-room or a playhouse ; for in gayety
the mind has a peculiar relish for show and decoration. The most
gorgeous apparel, however improper in tragedy, is not unsuitable to
opera-actors : the truth is, an opera, in its present form, is a mighty
fine thing ; but, as it deviates from nature in its capital circumstances,
we look not for nature nor propriety in those wiich are accessory. '
On the other hand, a serious and important subject admits not much
ornament ;* nor a subject that of itself is extremely beautiful : and a
subject that fills the mind with its loftiness chid grandeur, appears
best in a dress altogether plain.
To a person of a mean appearance, gorgeous apparel is unsuit-
aWej which beside the incongruity, shows by contrast the meanness
of appearance in the strongest light. Sweetness of look and manner
requires simplicity of dress joined with the greatest elegance. A
stately and majestic air reauires sumptuous apparel, which ought
not to be gaudy, nor crowded with little ornaments. A woman of
consummate beauty can bear to be highly adorned, and yet shows
best in a plai» dress,
For loveliness
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
But is, when unadom'd, adorn'd the most |
TViomson^s Autumn f 208.
Congruity regulates not only the quantity of ornament, but also
tbe kind. The decorations of a dancing-room ought, all of them,
to be gay. No picture is proper for a church but what has religion
for its subject. Every ornament upon a shield should relate to war;
and Virgil, with great judgment, confines the carvings upon the
shield of -^neas to the military history of the Romans . that beauty
is overlooked by Homer ; for the bulk of the sculpture upon the
shield of Achilles is of the arts of peace in general, and of joy and
festivity in particular : the author of Telemachus betrays the same
inattention, in describing the shield of that young hero.
In judging of propriety with regard to ornaments, we must attend,
not only to the nature of the subject that is to be adorned, but also
to the circumstances in which it is placed : the ornaments that are
proper for a ball will appear not altogether so decent at public wor-
ship: and the same person ought to dress differently for a marriage
feast and for a funeral.
Nothing is more intimately related to a man than his sentiments,
words, and actions ; and therefore we require here the strictest con-
fioxmity. When we find what we thus require, we have a lively
sense of propriety : when we find the contrary, our sense of impro-
prwty is no Jess lively. Hence the universal distaste of affectation,
whkn consists in making a show of greater delicacy and refine-
tma^ than is suited, either to the character or circumstances of the
♦ Contrary to this rule, the introduction to the third volume of the Characteristics^
it ft continued chain of metaphors : these in such profusion are too florid for tha
«i^; uid have beside the bad effect •£ removing our attention from the princi*
pal sdlject, to fix it upon splendid trifles.
Digitized
by Google
168 CONORUITY AND PROPRIETY. [Ch. 10
person. Nothing in epic or dramatic compositions is more disgust-
ful than impropriety of manners. In Corneille's tragedy of Cinna,
.Emilia, a favourite of Augustus, receives daily marks of his affec-
tion, and is loaded with benefits : yet all the while is lajring plots to
assassinate her benefector, directed by no other motive but to avenge
her father's death:* revenge against a benefactor, founded solely
upon filial piety, cannot be directed by any principle but that of
justice, and therefore never can suggest unlawful means ; yet the
crime here attempted, a treacherous murder, is what even a mis-
creant will scarcely attempt against his bitterest enemy.
What is said might be thought sufiicient to explain the relations
of congruity and propriety. And yet the subject is not exhausted:
on the contrary, the prospect enlarges upon us, when we take under
view the effects these relations produce in the mind. Congruity
and propriety, wherever perceived, appear agreeable ; and every
'"agreeable object produces in the mina a pleasant emotion : incon-
gruity and impropriety, on the other hand, are disagreeable ; and of
course produce painful emotions. These emotions, whether pleasant
or painful, sometimes vanish without any consequence ; but more
frequently occasion other emotions, to which I proceed.
When any slight incongruity is perceived in an accidental com-
bination of persons or things, as of passengers in a stage-coach, or
of individuals dining at an ordinary; the painful emotion of incon-
gruity, after a momentary existence, vanishes without producing
any effect. But this is not the case of propriety and impropriety:
voluntary acts, whether words or deeds, are imputed to the author;
when proper, we reward him with our estefem ; when improper,
we punish him with our contempt. Let us suppose, for example,
ft generous action suited to the character of the author, which
raises in him and in every spectator the pleasant emotion of pro-
priety : this emotion generates in the author both self-esteem and
loy; the former when he considers his relation to the action, and the
latter when he considers the good opinion that others will entertain
of him : the same emotion of propriety produces in the spectators
esteem for the author of the action ; and when they think of them-
selves, it also produces by contrast an emotion of humility. To
discover the effects of an unsuitable action, we must invert each of
these circumstances : the painful emotion of impropriety generates
in the author of the action both humility and shame ; the former
when he considers his relation to the action, and the latter when he
considers what others will think of him ; the same emotion of im-
propriety produces in the spectators contempt for the author of the
action ; and it also produces, by contrast when they think of them*
selves, an emotion of self-esteem. Here then are maijy different
emotions, derived from the same action considered in different
views by different persons — a machine provided with many springs,
and not a little complicated. Propriety of action, it would seem, is a
favourite of Nature, or of the Author of Nature, when such care and
solicitude is bestowed on it. It is not lefl to our own choice ; but, like
♦ See Act I Sc. 2.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 10.] COKORUITT AND PROPRIETY. 109
justice, is required at oar hands ; and, like justice, is enforced hy
natural rewards and punishments : a man cannot, with impunity,
do any thing unbecoming or improper ; he sufiers the chastisement
of contempt inflicted by others, and of shame inflicted by himself
An apparatus so complicated, and so singular, ought to rouse our
attention : for nature does nothing in vain ; and we may conclude
with certainty, that this curious branch of the human constitution
i« intended for some valuable purpose. To the discovery of that
purpose or final cause I shall with ardor apply my thoughts, after
discoursing a little more at large upon the punishment, as it may
now be called, that nature has provided for indecent and unbecom-
ing behavior. This, at any rate, is necessary, in order to give a
M view of the subject ; and who knows whether it may not, over
and above, open some track that will lead us to the final cause of
which we are in quest ?
A gross impropriety is punished with contempt and indignation,
which are vented against the offender by external expressions : nor is
even the slightest improprie^ suffered to pass without some degree
of contempt. But there are improprieties of the slighter kind, that
provoke laughter ; of which we have examples without end in the
blunders and absurdities of our own species : such improprieties
receive a different punishment, as will appear by what follows. The
emotions of contempt and of laughter occasioned by an impropriety
of that kind, uniting intimately in the mind of the spectator, are
expressed externally by a peculiar sort of laugh, termed a laugh of
derision or scorn* An impropriety that thus moves not only contempt
but laughter, is distinguished by the epithet pf ridiculous ; and a
laugh oif derision or scorn is tne punishment provided for it by
aature. Nor ought it to escape observation, that we are so fond of
ifificting that punishment, as sometimes to exert it even against
oreatures of an inferior species : witness a turkeycock swelling with
pide, and strutting with displayed feathers,. which in a gay mood
» apt to provoke a laugh of derision.
We must not expect, that these different improprieties are sepsr-
nrted by distinct boundaries : for of improprieties, from the slightest
te the most gross, from the most risible to the most serious, there
are degrees without end. Hence it is, that in viewing some unbe-
coming actions, too risible for anger, and too serious for derision ;
tbe spectator feels a sort of mixt emotion, partaking both of derision
aird of anger ; which accounts for an expression, common witk
leqpect to the impropriety of some actions, that we know not whe-
iker to laugh or be angry.
It cannot fail to be observed, that in the case of a risible impro-
t' ^, which is always slight, the contempt we have for the onon-
is extremely faint, though derision, its gratification, is extremely
ibuant This disproportion between a passion and its gratification,
Hqr seem not conformable to the analogy of nature. In looking
Amt for a solution, I reflect upon what is laid down above, that an
i^^n^r action not only nK)ves our contempt for the author, b«ft
* See Chap. 7.
15
Digitized
by Google
170 CONORVITT AND PROPRIETT. [Ck 10.
also, by means of contrast, swells the good opinion we have of our-
selves. This contributes, more than any other particular, to the
pleasure we have in ridiculing follies and absurdities ; and accord-
ingly, it is well known, that those who have the greatest share of
vanity are the most prone to laugh at others. Vanity, which is a
vivid passion, pleasant in itself, and not less so in its gratification,
would singly be sufficient to account for the pleasure of ridicule,
without borrowing any aid from contempt Hence appears the
reason of a noted observation, that we are the most disposed to ridi-
cule the blunders and absurdities of others, when we are in high
spirits ; for in high spirits, self-conceit displays itself with more than
ordinary vigor.
Having with wary steps traced an intricate road, not without
danger of wandering ; what remains to complete our journey, is to
account for the final cause of congruity and propriety, which make
so great a figure in the human constitution. One final cause, regard-
ing congruity, is pretty obvious, that the sense of congruity, as
one principle of the fine arts, contributes, in a remarkable degree,
to our entertainment; which is the final cause assigned above
for our sense of proportion,* and need not be enlarged upon
Jiere. Congruity, indeed, with respect to quantity coincides with
proportion : when the parts of a building are nicely^ adjusted to
lach other, it may be said indifferently, that it is agreeable by
ihe congruity of its parts, or by the proportion of its parts. But
propriety, which regards voluntary agents only, can never be
ihe same with proportion: a very long nose is disproportioned, but
cannot be termed improper. In some instances, it is true, impro-
priety coincides with disproportion in the same subject, but never
in the same respect. I give for an example, a very little man
buckled to a long toledo : considering tne man and the sword with
respect to size, we perceive a disproportion : considering the sword
as the choice of the man, we perceive an impropriety.
The sense of impropriety with respect to mistakes, blunders, and
absurdities, is evidently calculated for the good of mankind. In
the spectators it is productive of mirth and laughter, excellent
recreation in an interval from business. But this is a trifle compared
to what follows. It is painful to be the subject of ridicule ; and to
punish with ridicule the man who is guilty of an absurdity, tends
to put him more on his guard in time to come. It is well ordered,
that even the most innocent blunder is not committed with impunity;
because, were errors licensed where they do no hurt, inattention
would grow into habit, and be the occasion of much hurt.
The final cause of propriety, as to moral duties, is of all the most
illustrious. To have a just notion of it, the moral duties that respect
other^ must be distinguished from those that respect ourselves. Fide-
lity, gratitude, and abstinence from injury, are examples of the first
sort ; temperance, modesty, firmness of mind, are examples of the
other : the forme" are made duties by the sense of justice ; the
latter, by the sen^e of propriety. Here is a final cause of the
« See Chap. 3.
Digitized
by Google
Ol 10.] CONORUITY AND PROPRIBTT. 171
Kfase of propriety that will rouse our attention. It is undoubt-
edly the interest of every man to suit his behavior to the dignity
of his nature, and to the station allotted him by Providence ; for
SQch rational conduct contributes in every respect to happiness.
hj preserving health, by procuring plenty, by gaining the esteem
of others, ■'and, which of all is ihe greatest blessing, by gaining
a justly founded self-esteem. But in a matter so essential to our
well-being, even self-interest is not relied on : the powerful autho-
rity of duty is superadded to the motive of interest. The God of
nature, in all things essential to our happiness, has observed one
uniform method: to keep us steady m our conduct, he has fortified
us with natural laws and principles, preventiveofmafiy aberrations,
which would daily happen were we totally surrendered to so fallible
1 guide as is human reason. Propriety cannot rightly be consi-
dered in another light than as the natural law that regulates our
conduct with respect to ourselves; as justice is the natural luw
that regulates our conduct with respect to others. I call propriety
a law, no less than justice; because both are equally rules of con-
dcct that ought to be obeyed: propriety includes that obligation:
for to say an action is proper, is in other words to say, that it oughl
to be performed ; and to say it is improper, is in other words to say.
that it ought to be forborne. It is that very character of ought and
iiould which makes justice a law to us ; and the same character in
applicable to propriety, though perhaps more faintly than to jnstic**.
but the difference is in degree only, not in kind ; and we ought, without
hesitation or reluctance, to submit equally to the government of both.
But I have more to urge upon that head. To the sense of pro-
priety as well as of justice, are annexed the sanctions of rewards
and piyiishments ; which evidently prove the one to be a law as
well as the other. The satisfaction a man has in doing his duty,
joined to the esteem and good- will of others, is the reward that
belongs to both equally. The punishments also, though not the
same, are nearly allied; and differ in dec^ree more than in quality.
Disobedience -to the law of justice is purlished with remorse ; disohe-
dience to the law of propriety, with shame, which is remorse in ii
lower degree. Every transgression of the law of justice rai&es
indignation in the beholder ; and so does every flagrant transgres-
sion of the law of propriety. Slighter improprieties receive a milder
punishment: they are always rebuked with some degree of con-
tempt, and frequently with derision. In general, it is true, that th»'
ttwards and punishnaents annexed to the sense of propriety are
slighter in degree than those annexed to the sense of jusfiCe; which
is wisely ordered, because duty to others is still more essential to
society than duty to ourselves : society, indeed, could not subsist a
taoment, were individuals not protected from the headstrong and
tiurbulent passions of their neighbors.
The final cause now unfolded of the sense of propriety, must, to
eirery discerning eye, appear delightful : and yet this is but a partial
dew; for that sense reaches another illustrious end, which is, in
conjunction with the sense of justice, to enforce the performance of
Digitized
by Google
172 DIONITT AND 6KACK. [Ck 11.
i>ocial duties. In fact, the sanctions visibly contrired to compel a
man to be just to himself, are equally servipeable to compel him to
be just to others; which will be evident from a single reflection,
that an action, by being unjust, ceases not to be improper: an acti<Hi
never appears more eminently improper, than when it is unjust:
it is obviously becoming, and suitable to human nature, that each
man do his duty to others ; and, accordingly, every transgression
of duty to others, is at the same time a transgression of duly to
one's self This is a plain truth without exaggeration ; and it
opens a new and enchanting view m the moral landscape^ the
prospect bemg greatly enriched by the multiplication of agreeable
objects. It appears now, that nothing is overlooked, nothing left
undone, that can possibly contribute to the enforcing of social duty;
for to all the sanctions that belong to it singly, are superadded
the sanctions of self-duty. A familiar example shall suffice for
illustration. An act of ingratitude, considered in itself is to the
author disagreeable, as well as to every spectator; considered by
the author with relation to himself^ it raises self-contempt: consi-
dered- by him with relation to the world, it makes him ashamed :
considered by others, it raises their contempt and indignation against
the author. These feelings are all of them occasioned by the im-
propriety of the action. When the action is considered as uiyust, it
occasions another set of feelings : in the author it produces remorse,
and a dread of merited punishment ; and in others, the benefactor
chiefly, indignation and hatred directed to the ungrateful person.
Thus shame and remorse united in the ungrateful person, and
indignation united with hatred in the hearts of others, are the punish-
ments provided by nature for injustice. Stupid and insensible must
he be, who, in a contrivance so exquisite, perceives not the benevo-
lent hand of our Creator.
CHAPTER XL ,
DIGNITY AND GRACE.
The terms dignity and meanness, applied to man, in point of character, sentiment,
and behavior— Dignity smd mesmness belong to sensible beings only — Actions
appear in themselves grand or little ; with respect to the authors, proper or impro-
per ; with respect to Siose affected by them, just or unjust — Dignity and mean-
ness, founded on man's natural sense of the excellence of his nature — Actions
corresponding to the dignity of man, manly ; the contrary, childish — Courage
held in higher estimation than justice — Of pleasures, organic are the lowest, those
of the eye and the ear are higher, and those of the understanding the highest—
. Final cause of corporeal pleasures — The pleasures of the eye and the ear are of
utility — The social pleasures qualify a man for society — The high rank of the
pleasures of the understanding with respect to time and etemity--Grace, as di»-
plajred externally, is an object of one only of the five senses — It belongs exclu-
sively to mem — The definition of grace — A graceful person, of all external
objects, the most agreeable— -Dancing affords great opportunity for (displaying
grace ; and haranguing still greater — A person deficient in amiable qualities,
cannot be graceful.
The terms dignity and meanness are applied to man iti point of
character, sentiment, and behavior : we say, for example, of one maDi
Digitized
by Google
Gh. 11.] DIGNITY AND ORACB. ITS
that he has iratunil dimity m his air and manner ; of anotber, that
he makes a mean figure: we perceive dignity in every action and
sratiment of some persons ; meanness and vulgarity in the actions
and sentiments of others. With respect to the fine arts, some per-
ibnoances are said to be manly, and suitable to the dignity of human
nature ; others are termed low, mean, trivial. Such expressions are
common, though they have not always a precise meaning. With
respect to the art of criticism, it must be a real acquisition to ascertain
vihni these terms truly import ; which possibly may enable us to
lank every performance in the fine arts according to its dignity.
Inquiring first to what subjects the terms dignity and meanness
are appropriated, we soon discover, that they are not applicable to
any thing inanimate : the most magnificent palace that ever was
bttilt, may be lofty, may be grand, but it has no relation to dignity :
die most diminutive shrub may be little, but it is not mean. These
terms must belong to sensitive beings, probably to man only; which
will be evident when we advance in the inquiry.
Human actions appear in many different lights : in themselves they
appear grand or little ; with respect to the author, they appear pro-
per or improper; with respect to those aflfected by them, just or
unjust : and I now add, that they are also distinguished by dignity
and meaimess. If any one incline to think, that, with respect to
hnman actions, dignity coincides with grandeur, and meanness with
littleness, the difference will be evident upon reflecting, that an action
may be grand without being virtuous, and little without being faulty;
but that we never attribute dignity to any action but what is virtu-
ous, nor meanness to any but what is fiiulty. Every action of dignity
creates respect and esteem for the author ; and a mean action draws
upon him contempt. A man is admired for a grand action, but fre-
quently is neither loved nor esteemed for it : neither is a man always
contemned for a low or little action. The action of Caesar passing
the Rubicon was grand ; but there was no dignity in it, considering
that his purpose was to enslave his country. Caesar, in a march,
taking opportunity of a rivulet to quench his thirst, did a low action,
bat the action was not mean.
As it appears to me, dignity and meanness are founded on a
natural principle not hitherto mentioned. Man is endowed with
a SENSE of the worth and excellence of his nature : he deems it
tnore perfect than that of tbe other beings around him ; and he per-
ceives, that the perfection of his nature consists in virtue, particularly
m virtues of the highest rank. To express that sense, the term di^-
%itlf is appropriated. Farther, to behave with dignity, and to refrain
from all mean actions, is felt to be, not a virtue only, but a duty : it
is a duty every man owes to himself By acting in that manner, he
attracts love and esteem : by acting meanly, or below himself^ he is
.^approved and contemned.
According to thd description here given of dignity and meannesB,
^ Jkey appear to be a species of propriety and impropriety. Many
actions may be proper or improper, to which dignity or meanness
caimot be applied : to eat when one is hungry, is proper, but there m
15*
Digitized by LjOOQ IC
174 iDIONITT AND ORACB. [Ch. 11
110 dignity in that action : revenge fairly taken, if against law, is
improper, but not mean. But every action of dignity is also proper,
Imd every mean action is also improper.
This sense of the dignity of human nature, reaches even out
pleasures and amusements : if they enlarge the mind by raising
g^and or elevated emotions, or if they humanize the mind by exer-
cising our sympathy, they are approved as suited to the dignity of
our nature : if they contract the mind by fixing it on trivial objects,
they are contemned as not suited to the dignity of our nature.
Hence, in general, every occupation, whether of use or amusement,
that corresponds to the dignity of man, is termed manly ; and every
occupation below his nature, is termed childish.
To those who study human nature, there is a point which has
always, appeared intricate : how comes it that generosity and courage
are more esteemed, and bestow more dignity, than good nature, or
even justice ; though the latter contributes more than the former to
private as well as to public happiness ? This question, bluntly pro-
posed, might puzzle a cunning philosopher ; but, by means of the
foregoing observations, will easily be solved. Human virtues, like
other objects, obtain a rank in our estimation, not from their utility,
which is a subject of reflection, but from the direct impression they
iniake on us. Justice and good nature are a sort of negative virtues,
that scarcely make any impression but when they are transgressed,
courage and generosity, on the contrary, producing elevated emo-
tions, enliven greatly the sense of a man's dignity, both in himself
and in others ; and for that reason, courage and generosity are in
liigher regard than the other virtues mentioned : we describe them
as grand and elevated, as of greater dignity, and more praiseworthy.
This leads us to examine more directly emotions and passions wim
respect to the present subject ; and it will not be difficult to form a
scale of them, beginping with the meanest, and ascending gradually
to those of the highest rank and dignity. Pleasure felt as the organ
of sense, named corporeal pleasure, is perceived to be low; and when
indulged to excess, is perceived also to be mean : for that reason,
persons of any delicacy dissemble the pleasure they take in eating
and drinking. The pleasures of the eye and ear, having no organic
feeling,* and being free from any sense of meanness, arc indulged
without any shame : they even rise to a certain degree of dignity
when their objects are grand or elevated. The same is the case of
the sympathetic passions : a virtuous person behaving with fortitude
and dignity under cruel misfortunes, makes a capital figure ; and the
sympathizing spectator feels in himself the same dignity. Sympa-
thetic distress at the same time never is mean : on the contrary, it is
agreeable t6 the nature of a social being, and has general approba-
'tioh. The rank that love possesses in the scale, depends in a great
measure on its object : it possesses a low place when founded on
external properties merely ; and is mean when bestowed on a person
'-of inferior rank without any extraordinary qualification : burwhea
'^founded on the more elevated internal properties, it assumes a coil-
'* See the Introduction.
Digitized
by Google
C3l 11.] riOMITT AN» OftACB. 17C
aderable degree of /'ignity. The same is the case of frieadship.
When gratitude is wann, it animates the mind ; but it scarcely rises
.0 dignity. Joy bestows dignity when it proceeds from an elevated cause.
If I can depend upon induction, dignity is not a property of any
disagreeable passion : one is slis'ht, another severe ; one depresses
ilie mind, another animates it ; but there is no elevation, far less
dignity, in any of them. Revenge, in particular, though it inflame
tnd swell the mind, is not accompanied with dignity, not even with
elevation : it is not, however, felt as mean or groveling, unless when
it takes indirect measures for gratification. Shame and remorse,
though they sink the spirits, are not mean. Pride, a disagreeable
passion, bestows no dignity in the eye of a spectator. Vanity always
tq)pears mean ; and extremely so where founded, as commonly hap-
pens, on trivial qualifications.
I jMTOceed to the pleasures of the understanding, which possess a
high rank in point of dignity. Of this every one will be sensible,
when he considers the important truths that have been laid open by
science ; such as general theorems, and the general laws that govern
the material and moral worlds. The pleasures of the understanding
are suited to man as a rational and contemplative being ; and they
tend not a little to ennoble his nature ; even to the Deity he stretches
his contem.plations, which, in the discovery of infinite power, wis-
dom, and benevolence, afford delight of the most exalted kind.
Hence it appears, that the fine arts studied as a rational science,
aflford entertainment of great dignity; superior far to what they
afford as a subject of taste merely.
But contemplation, however in itself valuable, is chiefly respected
as subservient to action ; for man is intended to be more an active
&an a contemplative being. He accordingly shows more dignity
in action than in contemplation : generosity, magnanimity, heroism,
raise his character to the highest pitch : these Wt express the dig-
* nky of his nature, and advance him nearer to divinity than any
otter of his attributes.
By every production that shows art and contrivance, our curiosity
is excited upon two points ; first, how it was made ; and, next, to what
«ri. Of the two, the latter is the more important inquiry, because
&e means are ever subordinate to the end ; and, in fact, our curiosity
IB always more inflamed by the final than by the efficient cause.
%is preference is no where more visible, than in contemplating thr
fnaka of nature: if in the efficient cause wisdom and power be dis-
-j^ysd, wisdom is no less conspicuous in the final cause; and from
at only can we infer benevolence, which of all the divine attributes is
M mm the most important.
*Having endeavored to assign the efllkient cause of dignity and
^Beanness, hy unfolding the principle on which they are founded,
mt prAceed to explain the final cause of the dignity or meanness
%QBtowed upon the several particulars above mentioned, beginning
«ith corporeal pleasures. These, as far as usual, are, like justice,
ittficd jwith sufficient sanctions to prevent their being neglected:
hunger and thirst are painful sensationsL; and weare incited to uni
Digitized
by Google
176 DIGNITY AND ORACK. [Gh. II
mal love by a vigorous propensity: were corporeal pleasures digni-
fied over and above with a place in a high class, they would in&llibly
disturb the balance of the mind, by outweighing the social affections.
This is a satisfactory final cause for refusing to these pleasures any
degree of dignity : and the final cause is no less evident of their
meanness, when they are indulged to excess. The more refined plea-
sures of external sense, conveyed by the eye and the ear from natural
objects and from the fine arts, deserve a high place in our esteem,
because of their singular and extensive utility : in some cases they
rise to a considerable dignity ; and the very lowest pleasures of the
kind are never esteemed mean or grovelling. 1 He pleasure a 'ising;
from wit, humor, ridicule, or from what is simply ludicrous, is ui»e-
ful, by relaxing the mind after the fatigue df more manly occupation :
but the mipd, when it surrenders itself to pleasure of that kind, loses
its vigor, and sinks gradually into sloth.* The place this pleasure
occupies in point of dignity, is adjusted to these views: to make it
useful as a relaxation, it is not branded with meanness ; to prevent
its usurpation, it is removed from that place but a single degree : no
man values himself for that pleasure, even during gratification ; and
if it have engrossed more of his time than is requisite for relaxation,
he looks back with some degree of shame.
In point of dignity, the social emotions rise above the selfish, and
much above those of the eye and ear : man is by his nature a social
being ; and to qualify him for society, it is wisely contrived, that he
should value himself more for being social than selfisLf
The excellency of man is chiefly discernible in the great improve
ments of which he is susceptible in society : these, by perseverance,
may be carried on progressively above any assignable limits ; and,
even abstracting from revelation, there is great probability, that tfie
progress begun here will be completed in some future state. Now,
as all valuable improvements proceed from the exercise of our
rational faculties', the author of our nature, in order to excite us to a
due use of these faculties, has assigned a high rank to the pleasures
of the understanding : their utility, with respect to this life as well
as a future, entitles them to that rank.
But as action is the aim of all our improvements, virtuous actions
justly possess the highest of all the ranks. These, we find, are by
nature distributed into difierent classes, and the first in point of dig-
nity assigned to actions that appear not the first in point of use :
generosity, for example, in the sense of mankind is more respected
than justice, though the latter is undoubtedly more essential to soci-
* Neque enim ita generati a natura sumus, ut ad ludum et jocum facti am
videamur, sed ad seyeritatem potius et ad qusedam studia graviora atque major*.
Ludo autem et jooo, uti illis quidem licet, sed sicut somno et quietibus caeteris, turn
com gravibus seiiisque rebus satisfecerimus. Cicero de offic. lib. L
Nor are we so constituted by nature as to seem made for sport and jest; bat
rather for severity, and the graver and higher studies. It is oiuy proper for u$ lo
use sport and jest as we do sleep and other repose, after the satiety of grave stel
serious things.
t For the same reason, the selfish emotions that are founded upon a social pril^
fiiple, rise higher in our esteem than thos^ that are founded upon a selfish pnicipls>
As to which see above, p. 47. note.
Digitized
by Google
C^ IJ.J DIGNITY Ain> OR ACS. 177
ety; and magnanimity, heroism, undaunted courage, rise still higher
ia our esteem. One would readily think, that the moral virtues
afaould be esteemed according to their importance. Nature has here
deviated from her ordinary path, and great wisdom is shown in the
detiation : the efficient cause is explained above, and the final cause
is e^Iained in the Essays of Morality and Natural Religion.*
We proceed to analyse grace^ which being in a good measure an
uncultivated field, requires more than ordinary labor.
Graceful is an attribute: grace and gracefidn^s express that
attribute in the form of a noun.
That this attribute is agreeable, no one doi^bts.
As grace is displayed externally, it must be an object of one or
other of our five senses. That it is an object of sight, every person
of taste can bear witness ; and that it is confined to that sense, appears
ftom induction ; for it is not an object of smell, nor of taste, nor of
touch. Is it an object of hearing % Some music indeed is termed
graceful ; but that expression is metaphorical, as when we say of
other music that it is beautiful : the latter m^aphor, at the same time,
is more sweet and easy ; which shows how little applicable to music
or to sound the former is, when taken in its proper sense.
That it is an attribute of man, is beyond dispute. But of what
other beings is it also an attribute ? We perceive at first sight that
mitbing inanimate is entitled to that epithet. What animal then,
Ifsside man, is entitled ? Surely, not an elephant, nor even a lion.
A horse may have a delicate shape with a lofty mien, and all his
motions may be ejiquisite; but he is never said to be graceful.
Beaaty and grandeur are common to man with some other beings ;
kt dignity is not applied' to any being inferior to man ; and upon
die strictest examination, the same appears to hold in grace.
Confining then grace to man, the next inquiry is, whether, like
beauty, it makes a constant appearance or in some circumstances
only. Does a person display this attribute at rest as well as in
fliotion, asleep as when awake ? It is undoubtedly connected with
motion ; for when the most graceful person is at rest, neither moving
nor speaking, we lose sight of that quality as much as of color in the
dark. Grace then is an agreeable attribute, inseparable from motion
U opposed to rest, and as comprehending speech, looks, gestures,
ild loco-motion.
. As some motions are homely, the opposite to graceful, the next
bquiry is, with what motions is this attribute connected? No man
Eiars graceful in a mask ; and, therefore, laying aside the expres-
s of the countenance, the other motions may be genteel, may be ele-
Ipmt, but of themselves never are graceful. A motion adjusted in the
l|08tiperfec.t manner to answer its end, is elegant ; but still somewhat
ittore is required to complete our idea of grace, or gracefulness.
What this unknown more may be, is the nice point. One thing
5 clear from what is said, that this more must arise from the expres-
ta of the countenance : and from what expressions so naturally as
4bm, those which indicate mental qualities, such as sweetness,
* Part 1. essay 2. chap. 4.
Digitized
byGoogfe
178 RWicuLE. [Ch. 12.
benevolisnce, elevation, dignity^ This promises to be a fair analysis;
because of all objects mental qualities affect us the most ; and the
impression made by graceful appearance upon every spectator of
taste, is too deep for any cause purely corporeal.
The next step is, to examine what are the mental qualities, that, in
conjunction with elegance of motion, produce a graceful appjear^nce.
Sweetness, cheerfulness, affability, are not separately sufficient, nor
even in conjunction. As it appears to me, dignity alone with elegant
motion may produce a graceful appearance ; but still more graceful,
with the aid of other qualities, those especially that are the most
exalted. '
But this is not all. The most exalted virtues may be the lot of a
person whose countenance has little expression : such a person cannot
be graceful. Therefore, to produce this appearance, we must add
another circumstance, namely, an expressive countenance, displaymg
to every spectator of taste, with life and energy, every thing that
passes in the mind.
Collecting these circumstances together, grace may be defined,
that agreeable appearance which arises from elegance of motion,
and from a countenance expressive of dignity. Expressions of other
mental qualities are not essential to that appearance, but they
heighten it greatly.
Of all external objects, a graceful person is the most agreeable.
i Dancing affords great opportunity for displaying grace, and
haranguing still more.
I conclude with the following reflection, that in vain will a p»son
attempt to be graceful, who is deficient in amiable qualities. A man,
it is true, may form an idea of qualities of which he is destitute;
and, by means of that idea, may endeavor to express these qualities
oy looks and gestures : but such studied expression will be too &int
and obscure to be graceful.
CHAPTER XII.
RIDICULE.
A ridiculous object, both improper and risible — Burlesque is of two kinds ; that
which excites laughter, and mat which excites derision — Humor connected
with ridicule — It b^lon^ to an author who pretends to be grave, but who paints
his subject so as to excite laughter — Irony consists in laughing at a ma^ under
the disguise of appearing to speak well of him—The effect of parody — ^dicule
, the test of truth.
To define ridicule has puzzled and vexed every critic. The defi-
nition given by Aristotle is obscure and imperfect.* Cicero handles
it at great length ;t but without giving any satisfkction : he wanders
in the dark, and misses the distinction between risible and ridiculous.
Cluintilian is sensible of the distinction4 but has not attempted to
* Poet. cap. 5. t L. 2. De Oratore.
t Ideoque anceps ejus rei ratio est, quod a derisu non procul abest risud ; Ub. &
sap. 3. § 1.
Therefore the reason of this is doubtful, that laughter is not far from ndicole.
Digitized
by Google
Ch.12.] RIDICVLB. 179
explain it Luckily this subject lies no longer in obscurity : a risi*
ble object produces an emotion of laughter merely:* a ridiculous
object is improper as well as risible ; and produces a mixt emotion,
trhich is vented by a laugh of derision or scorn, f
Having therefore happily unravelled the knotty part, I proceed to
other particulars.
Burlesque, though a ffreat engine 6f ridicule, is not confined to
that subject; for it is clearly distinguishable into burlesque that
excites laughter merely, ana burlesque that provokes derision or
ridicule. A grave subject in which there is no impropriety, may be
brought down by a certain coloring so as to be risiole; which is the
case of Virgil Travestie ;X and also the case of the Secchia Rapita :^
the authors laugh first, in order to make their readers laugh. The
LUrin is a burlesque poem of the other sort, laying hold of a low
and trifling incident, to expose the luj^ury, indolence, and conten*
tioQs spirit of a set of monks. Boileau, the author, gives a ridiculous
air to the subject, by dressing it in the heroic style, and affecting to
consider it as of the utmost dignity and importance. In a composi-
tion of this kind, no image professedly ludicrous ought to find
foarter, because such images destroy the contrast ; and, accordingly,
the author shows always the grave face, and never once betrays a
smile.
Though the burlesque that aims at ridicule, produces its eflfect by
elevating the style far above the subject, yet it has limits beyond
which the elevation ought not to be carried: the poet, consulting the
imagination of his readers, ought to confine himself to such images
•8 are lively, and readily apprehended : a strained elevation, soanng
ak)ve an ordinary reach of fancy, makes not a pleasant impression :
the reader, fatigued with being always upon the stretch, is soon dis-
psted ; and if he persevere, becomes thoughtless and indifferent.
Farther, a fiction gives no pleasure unless it be painted in colors so
lively as to produce some perception of reality ; which never can be
done effectually where the images are formed with labor or difficulty.
Pot these reasons, I cannot avoid condemning the Bairachomuoma-
cJna, said to be the composition of Homer : it is beyond the power
of imagination to form a clear and lively image of frogs and mice,
acting with the dignity of the highest of our species ; nor can we
fern a conpeption of the reality of such an action, in any manner so
&tinct as to interest our affections even in the slightest degree.
The Rape of the Lock is of a character clearly distinguishable
ftom those now mentioned : it is not properly a burlesque perform-
mee,but what may rather be termed an heroi-comical poem : it treats
« gay and familiar subject with pleasantry, and with a moderate
d^ee of dignity : the author puts not on a mask like Boileau, nor
ptnesses to make us laugh like Tassoni. The Rape of the Lock is
a genteel species of writing, less strained than those mentioned:
nd is pleasant or ludicrous without having ridicule for its chiei
•ia; giving way however to ridicule where it arises naturally from
•^particular character, such as that of Sir Plume. Addison's Spec'
* See Chap. 7.. t SeeChi^p. 10. * Scarron. § Taawm.
Digitized
by Google
199 BiDioviA [CL \SL
Uior uix>n the exercise of the fiin* is extremely gay and ludicrcos,
lesembting in its subject the Rape of the Lock. *
Humour belongs to the present chapter, because it is connected
with ridicule. Conffreve defines humor to be "a singular and una-
Yoidable manner of doing or saying any thing, peculiar and natural
to one man only, by which his speech and actions are distinguished
from those of other men." Were this definition just, a majestic and
commanding air, which is a singular property, is humor ; as also a
natural flow of correct and commanding eloquence, which is no less
singular. Nothing just or proper is denominated humor ; nor anv
singularity of character, words, or actions, that is valued or respected.
When we attend to the character of an humorist, we find that it
arises from circumstances both risible and improper, and ther^ore
that it lessens the man in our esteem, and makes nim in some mea-
sure ridiculous.
Humor in writing is very diflerent firom humor in character.
When an author insists upon ludicrous subjects with a professed
purpose to make his readers laugh, he may be styled a Ivdicrous
vftiter ; but is scarcely entitled to be styled a vyriter of humor.
This quality belongs to an author, who affecting to be grave and
serious, paints his objects in such colors as to provoke mirth and
laufi^hter. A writer that is really an humorist in character, does this
without design : if not, he must affect the character in order to suc-
ceed. SwiH and Fontaine were humorists in character, and their
writings are full of humor. Addison was not an humorist in cha-
racter ; and yet in his prose writings a most delicate and refined
humor prevails. Arbuthnot exceeds them all in drollery and humor-
ous paintinc^; which shows a great genius, because, if I am not
misinformed he had nothing of that peculiarity in his character.
There remains to show by examples the manner of treating sub-
jects, so as to give them a ridiculous appearance.
n ne dit jamais, je vous donne, mais, je vous prcte le bon jour. Moliere.
Orleans. I know him to be valiant.
Constable. I was told that by one that knows him better than you
Orleans. What's he 1
Constable. Marry, he tdd me so himself; and he said he car'd not who knew it
Henry V. Shakspeare.
He never broke any man's head but his own, and that was against a post when
he was drunk. Und.
MiUament. Sententious Mirabell ! pr'ythee don't look with that violent and
inflexible wise face, like Solomon at the dividing of the chiM in an old tapestnr
hanging. Way of ike World.
A true critic, in the perusal of a book, is like a dog at a feast, whose thoughts
and stomach are wholly set upon what the e^ests fling away, and consequent^ if
apt to snarl most when there are the fewest bones. Tale of a Tw.
In the Allowing instances, the ridicule arises firom absurd con-
ceptions in the persons introduced.
MtucarUU. Te souvient-il, vioomte dexette demilune, que aoub tn^rtdmes wm
let ennemis au siege d'Arra»?
Digitized by LjOOQ IC
(%. 1A] miMcvu. Ml
JMd. due Teuz ta dire avec t& dani-lune % c'Ikoit bteawie lune tout entMi%
MolUrt lesPrecieuses Ridicuies^ Sc 11.
SUnder. 1 came yonder at Eaton to marry Mrs. Anne Page ; and she's a great
liAberiy boy.
Page. Upon my life then you took the wronar.
Slmder. wTiat need you tell me that 1 I thimc so when I took a boy for a ffirl ;
if I had been many'd to him, for all he wjas in woman's apparel, I wouldnot
have had him. Merry Wives oj Windsor,
VaUfUine. Your blessing, Sir.
Sir Sampson. You've hSd. it already, Sir ; I think I sent it you to-day in a bill
for four thousand pound ; a great deal of money, Brother Foresight.
' Foresight. Ay indeed. Sir Sampson, a gre&t deal of money for a young man ;
1 wonder what can he do with it. hove for iove^ Act II. Sc. 7.
Mmament. I nauseate walking; 'tis a country-diTcrsion ; I lothe the country,
and erery thing that relates to it.
Sir Wilful. Indeed ! hah ! look ye, look ye, you do 1 nay, 'tis like you may
^here are choice of pastimes here in town, as plays and the like ; that must
be confess'd indeed.
^MiUement. Ahl'etourdie! I hate the town too.
Sir Wilful, Dear heart, that's much— -^ — ^hah ! that you should hate 'em both !
ball! 'tis like you may; there are some can't relish the town, and others can't
away with the country 'tis like you may be one of these, Cousine.
Way of the World, Act IV. Sc. 4.
Lord FVoih. I assure you, Sir Paul, I laugh at nobody's jests but my own, or
a ndy's : I assure, you. Sir Paul. •
Brisk. How 1 how, my Lord 1 what, afiront my wit ! Let me perish, do I
0effir say any thing worthy to be lauffh'd at 1
Lord Froth. O foy, don't misapprehend me, I don't say so, for 1 often smile at
]ffnir conceptions. But there is nothing more unbecoming a man of quality than
to^angh ; 'tis such a vulgar expression of the passion 1 every body can lauffh.
TlKti especially to laugh at the jest of an inferior person, or when any body else
iji the same quality does not laugh with one ; ridiculous ! To be pleas'd with
what pleases me crowd ! Now, when I laugh I always laugh alone.
Double Dealer y Act L Sc. 4.
So sharp-sighted is pride in blemishes, and so willing to be gra-
tified, that it takes up with the yery slightest improprieties : such as
a blunder by a foreigner in speaking our language, especially if
the blunder can bear a sense that reflects on the speaker :
Quickly. The young man is an honest man. f
Cms. What shall de honest man do in my closet 1 dere is no honest man dat
«W1 come in my closet. Merry Wives of Wvndsof
Love-speecties are finely ridiculed in the following passage.
Ctuoth he. My faith as adamantine,
As chains of destiny, I'll maintain ;
True as Apollo ever spoke.
Or oracle from heart of oak ;
And if you'll give my flame but vent,
Now in close hugger mugger pent,
And shine upon me but TOnignly,
With that one, and that other pigsney,
The sun and day shall sooner part,
Than love, or you, shake off my hieart ;
The sun that snail no more dispense
His own but your bright influence :
m carve your name on barks of trees.
With true love-knots, and flourishes ;
That shall infuse eternal spring,
And everlasting flourishing :
16
Digitized
by Google
182 IlIBICULB. [Ol 1%
Drink ev'iy letter on*t in stum,
And make it brisk champaign become.
Where-e'er you tread, your foot shall set
The primrose and the violet ;
All spices, perfumes, and sweet powders
Shall borrow from your breath tlieir odours f
Nature her charter shall renew,
And take all lives of things from you ;
The world depend upon your eye,
And when you frown upon it, die.
Only our lores shall stiU survive,
New worlds and natures to outlive j
And, like to herald's moons, remain
All crescents, without change or wane.
BudibraSf Part 3. canto 1
Irony turns things into ridicule in a peculiar manner ; it consists
in laughing at a man under disguise of appearing to praise or speak
well of him. Swift affords us many illustrious examples of that
species of ridicule. Take the following.
By these methods, in a few weeks, there starts up many a writer, capable of
managing the profoundest and most universal subjects. For what thoa^ his
head be empty^ provided his common-place book tie full ! And if you w3l bate
him but the circumstances of method, and style, and grammar, and invention ;
allow him but the common privileges of transcribing from others, and digressing
from himself, as often as he shall see occasion ; he will desire no more in^i^ients
towards fitting up a treatise that shall make a very comely figure on a booksel-
ler's shelf, there to be preserved neat and clean, for a long eternity, adorned with
the heraldry of its title, fairly inscribed on a label ; never to be thumbed or greased
by students, nor bound to everlasting chains of darkness in a library ; but when
the fulness of time is come, shall happily undergo the trial of purgatory, in order
to ascend the sky.*
I cannot but congratulate our age on this peculiar felicity, that though we have
indeed made great progress in all other branches of luxury, we are not yet de-
bauched with any high relish in poetry, but are in this one taste less nice than our
ancestors.
If the Reverend clergy shewed more concern than others, I charitably impute it
to their great charge ot soujs ; and what confirmed me in this opinion was^ that
the de^ees of apprehension and terror could be distinguished to be greater or kss^
accordmg to their ranks and degrees in the church.t
A parody must be distinguished from every species of ridicule
it enlivens a gay subject by imitating some important incident that is
serious: it is ludicrous, and may be risible; but ridicule is not a
necessary ingredient. Take the following examples, the first ot
which refers to an expression of Moses.
The skilful nymph reviews her force with care :
Let spades be trumps ! she said, and trumps they were.
Rape of the Lock^ Canto lU. 45.
The next is ifi imitation of Achilles's oath in Homer.
But by this lock, this sacred lock, I swear,
(Which never more shall join its parted hair,
Which never more its honors shall renew,
Clipp'd from the lovely head where late it grew,)
♦ Tale of a Tub, sect. 7.
t A true and faithful narrative of what passed in London ^haing the gcner^
consternation of all ranks and degrees of mankind.
Digitized
by Google
CIl 12.J BiPiovLK. 188
That while my nostrils draw the vital air,
This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear.
He spoke, and speaking, in psoud triumph spread
The tong-contemed honors of her head.
IHd, Canto IV. 133.
TBe foUowing imitates the history of Agamemnon's sceptre in
Homer.
Now m^ thy fate, incens'd Belinda cry'd,
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side,
(The same, his ancient personage to deck,
Her great-great grandsire wore about his neck.
In three sem-rings ; which after, mdted down,
* Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown : «
Her infant srandame's whistle next it grew,
The bells she jingled, and the whistle mew ;
Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs.
Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) >
Aid, Canto V. 87.
Though ridicule, as observed above, is no necessary ingredient in
a parody, yet there is no opposition between them : ridicule may be
wiccessfulfy employed in a parody ; and a parody may be employed
to promote ridicule : witness the following example with respect to
the latter, in which the goddess of Dulness is addressed upon the
sobject of modern education :
Thou gav'st that ripeness, which so soon began,
And ceas'd so soon, he ne'er was boy nor man ;
Through school and college, thy kind cloUd o'ercast,
Safe and unseen the ^roung .£neas past ;*
Thence bursting glorious, all at once let down,
Stunn'd with his giddy larum half the town.
Dwidad, B. IV. 287.
The interposition of the gods, in the manner of Homer and Vir-
gil, ought to be confined 'to ludicrous subjects, which are much enli-
yened by such interposition handled in the form of a parody ; wii-
.ness the cave of Spleen, Rape of the Lock, canto 4. ; the goddess of
IXseord, Lutrin^ canto 1. ; and the goddess of Indolence, canto 2.
Those who have a talent for ridicule, which is seldom united with
a taste for delicate and refined beauties, are quick-sighted in impro-
prieties ; and these they eagerly grasp, in order to gratify their
&Torite propensity. Persons galled are provoked to maintam, that
ridicule is improper for grave subjects. Subjects really wave are
by no means fit for ridicule : but then it is urged against them, that
when it is called in question whether a certain subject be really
grave, ridicule is the only means of- determining the controversy.
Hence a celebrated question, whether ridicule is or is not a test of
truth ? I give this question a place here, because it tends to illus-
trate the nature of ridicule.
The question stated in accurate terms is, whether the sense of ridi-
cule is the proper test for distinguishing ridiculous objects, from
what are not so. Taking it for granted, that ridicule is not a subject
of reasoning, but of sense or taste,t I proceed thus. No person
* Mil \.l. At Vewis obscuroy &c.
t See Chap. 10. compared with Chap. 7.
Digitized
by Google
tt4 RiixicuLK. iCh. 1^
doubts but that our sense of beauty is the true test of what is beau-
tiful ; and our sense of grandeur, of what is great or sublime. Is
it more doubtful whether our sense of ridicule be the true test ^f
what is ridiculous? It is not only the true test, but indeed the only
test; for this subject comes not, more than beauty or grandeur, under
the province of reason. If any subject, by the influence of ^shion
or custom, have acquired a degree of ^veneration to which naturally
it is not entitled, what are the proper means for wiping off the arti-
ficial coloring, and displaying the subject in its true light 1 A man
of true taste sees the subject without disguise : but if he hesitate,
let him apply the test of ridicule, which separates it from its arti-
ficial connections, and exposes it naked with all its native impro-
prieties.
But it is urged, that the gravest and most serious matters may be
si't in a ridiculous light. Hardly so ; for where an object is neither
risible nor improper, it lies not open in any quarter to an attack
from ridicule. But supposing the fact, I foresee not any harmful
consequence. By the same sort of reasoning, a talent for wit ought
to be condemned, because it may be employed to burlesque a great or
lofty subject. Such irregular use made of a talent for wit or ridi-
cule, cannot long impose upon mankind : it cannot stand the test of
correct and delicate taste ; and truth will at last prevail even with the
vulgar. To condemn a talent for ridicule because it may be perverted
to wrong purposes, is not a little ridiculous. Could one forbear to
smile, if a talent for reasoning were condemned because it also may
be perverted ? and yet the conclusion in the latter case, would be not
less just than in the former: perhaps more just; for no talent is
more frequently perverted than that of reason.
We had best leave nature to her own operations : the most valu-
able talents may be abused, and so may that of ridicule : let us bring
it under proper culture if we can, without endeavoring to pluck it
up by the root. Were we destitute of this test of truth, I know not
what might be the consequences : I see not what rule would be left
us to prevent splendid trifles passing for matters of importance,
show and form for substance, and superstition or enthusiasm fojc paw
religion.
Digitized
by Google
(kid.] WIT. 18ft
CHAPTER XIIL
WIT.
Wit, a quality of certain thoughts and expressions, not applicable to an action or a
passion — Divided into two Kinds; in tne thought, and in the expression- Wit
in the thought, divided into two kinds : ludicrous imag^ ; and ludicrous com-
tinations of things — Ludicrous combinations, divided info five kinds : fandl^
causes ; fanciful reasoning ; ludicrous junction of small things to great ; join-
ing things apparently opposite ; promises, promising much, and performing
nothing — Verbal wit depends upon choosing words ofdifferent significations—
Verbal wit of five kinds : seeming resemblance from the double meaning of the
words ; a verbal antithesis, or seeming contrast, iirom the same cause ; seeming
connection from the same cause ; seeming opposition from the same cause ; tak-
ing words in a different meaning from what they were intended — An assertion
that bears a double meaning a species of wit, called a pun.
Wit is a quality of certain thoughts and expressions : the term is
never applied to an action nor a passion, and as little to an external
object
However difficult it may be, in many instances, to distinguish a
witty thought or expression from one that is not so, yet, in general,
it may be laid down, that the term wit is appropriated to such thoughts
and expressions as are ludicrous, and also occasion some degree of
surprise by their singularity! Wit also, in a figurative sense, expresses
a talent for inventing ludicrous thoughts or expressions : we say
commonly a witty man, or a man of wit.
Wit in its proper sense, as explained above, is distinguishable into
two kinds ; wit in the thought, and wit in the words or expression.
Again, wit in the thought is of two kinds ; ludicrous images, and
hdicrous combinations of things that have little or no natural
relation.
Ludicrous images that occasion surprise by their singularity, as
hiving little or no foundation in nature, are fabricated by the imagi-
nation : and the imagination is well qualified for the Office ; being ot
all our faculties the most active, and the least under restraint Take
the following example :
Skylock. You knew (none so well, none so well as you) of my dauffhter*s flight.
Salino. That's certain; I for my part knew the tailor that made the wings dhe
flew withal. Merchant of Venice^ Act III. Sc. 1.
The image here is undoubtedly witty. It is ludicrous : and it must
occasion surprise ; for having no natural foundation, it is altogether
unexpected.
The other branch of wit in the thought, is that only which is taken
notice of by Addison, following Locke, who defines it "to lie in the
assemblage of ideas ; and putting those together, with quickness and
variety, wherein can be found any resemblance or congruity, thereby
to make up pleasant pictures and agreeable visions in the fancy."*
It may be defined more concisely, and perhaps more accurately, ** A
ianction of things by distant and fanciful relations, which surprise
because they are unexpected."t The following is a proper example.
♦ B. II. Ch. 11. § 2. t See Chap. 1.
16* _
Digitized by V^OOQ IC
.t86 wtT. fSh.18
We grant although he had much wit,
He was very shy of using it,
As being loth to wear it out ;
And th^fore bore it not about,
' Unless on holidays, oir so,
As men their best apparel do. Hudibras^ Canto 1.
' Wit is of all the inost elegant recreation : the image enters the
•aind svith gayety, and gives a sudden flash, which is extremely plea-
sant. Wit thereby gently elevates without straining, raises miirth
withbtit dissoluteness, ana relaxes while it entertains.
Wit in the expression, commonly called a piny of words, being a
bastard sort of wit, is reserved for the last place. I proceed to exam-
ples of wit in the thought ; and first of ludicrous images.
Falstafl*, speaking of his taking Sir John Coleville of the Dale:
Here he is, and her6 I yield him; and I beseech your Grace, let it be btiok'd
with the rest of this day's deeds ; or, by the Lord, I will have it in a particular
, bajlad else, with mine own picture on tne top of it, Coleville kissing my foot: to
the which course if I be enforc'd, if you do not all show like gilt twopences to me;
an^ I, in the clear sky of fame, o'ershine you as much as the full moon doth tfie
cinders of the element, which show like pms' heads to her ; believe not the won!
of the Noble. Therefore let me havB right, and let desei^ mount.
Second PaH Henry IV. A.cxW.^c^2.
1 knew, when seven justices could not take up a (quarrel, but when the partiet
were met themselves, one of them thought but of an if; as, if^ou said so^ then 1
' aaid so ; and they shook hands, and swore brothers ; Your if'is the only peitee-
maker ; much virtue ham if. Skakspeare.
For there is not through all Nature, another so callous, and insensible a mem-
ber, as the world's posteriors, whether you apply to it the toe or the birch. ,
Preface to a Tale of a Tub.
The war hath intnoduced abundioince of polysyllables, which will never be able
to live many more campai^;ns. Speculations, operations, preliminaries, ambassar
dors, palisadoes, commimication, circimivallation, battalions, as numerous as they
aire, if they attack us too frequently in our coifeehouses, we shall certainly p^
them to flight, and cut off the rear. Taller, No. 230.
Speaking of Discord,
She never went abroad, but she brought home such a bundle of monstrous ties,
as would have amazed any mortal, but such as knew her; of a whale that had
swallowed a fleet of ships ; of the lions being let out of the Tower to destroy the
■ Protestant religidn ; of tne Pope's being seen in a brandy-shop at Wapping, Ac
History of John Bull, Part I. Ch; 16.
The other branch of wit in the thought, namely, ludicrous combi-
nations and oppositions, may be traced through various ramifications.
And, first, fanciful causes assigned that have no natural relation tofhe
ejects produced :
Lancaster. Pare you well, Falstaff ; I, in my condition,
Shall better speak of you than you deserve. [Exit.
Falstaff. I would you had but the wit ; 'twere better than your dukedom.
(Sood faith, this same younff sober-blooded boy doth not love me ; nor amah ciii-
not make him laugh; but that's no marvel, he drinks no wine. There's BMir
any of these demure^ boys come to any proof; for thin drink doth so OTerottol
their ^lood, and making many fish-meals, that they fall into a kind of malegredi-
'' sickness ; and then, when they marry, they get wenches. They are ^heralh^fo^
fjid cowards; which some of us should to too, but for inflammation. A ^<tod
, vherris-sack hath a twofold oi)eration in it : it ascends me into the brain ; ofiBS
ine there all the foolish, dull, and crudy vapors which environ it; makes it mvi^
iMDsive, quick, forgive, ftill of nimble, fiery, and delectable dh8^>es; whicnoBfi*-
vered o'er to the VMee, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. Tbt
Digitized by V^OOQKC
Mflond proper^ of your excdlent sherris is, -Um wumiar of the Uood , -^^lueh
before cold an^ settled, left the Hver ^hite asad pide; whien is the badge of pusil-
lanjiiiity and cowardice: but the sherris waraas it, and makes it coofse frnoKlhe
iowaids to die parts extreme ; it iUuminatcth the face, which, as a beacon, gives
warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, man, to aim; and then thft vital
commoners and inland j)etty .spirits muster me all to their captain, the heart, who,
great, and puff'd up with his retinue, doth any deed of couraee: and thus vabr
eflnes of ^rris. So that skill in the weapon is nothing wiUiout sack, for that
Ms it a^'Wvrk ; and learning a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil, till sack com-
mences it, and sets it in act wid use. Hereof comes it that Frince Harry is valiant;
for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of his father, he kath, like lean, steril,
and bare Isfnd, manured, husbanded, and till'd, with excellent endeavor of drink-
ing; good and good store of fertile sherris, that he is become very hot and valiant. If
i 1m a thousand sons, the' first human principle I would teach them, should bt
to^rswear thin potations, and to addict themselves to sack.
Second Part of Benry IV. Act IV. Sc. 7.
The trenchant blade, toledo trusty.
For want of fightin? was grown rusty,
And ate into itself, for lack
Of some body to hew and hack.
The peaceful scabbard where it dwcilt.
The rancor of its edge had felt :
For of the lower end two handrul,
It had devoured, 'twas so manful ;
And so much scom'd to luric in case,
As if it durst not show its face. Huiikras^ Canto I.
Speaking of physicians,
Le bon de cette profusion est, qu'il y a parmi les mortstme honndtetl, une dis-
cr6tion la plus grande du monde ; Jamais on n'en voit se plaindre du m^decin qui
i'atu^. ^ Le Tdedidn malgri hii,
Admirez les bontes, admirez les tendress^s,
De ces vieux eselaves du sort.
- lis ne sont jamais las d'acqu6rir des richesses,
Pour ceux qui souhaitent leur mort
Btivnda. Juard, he has so pester'd me with flames and stuff— I think I shan't
endure ^ sight of a fire this twelvemonth. Old Bachelor^ Act II. Sc. 8.
To account for effects by such fantastical causes, being highly
ladicrous, is quite improper in any serious composition. Therefore
the following passage from Cotvley, in his poem on the death of Sir
Henry Wooton, is in a bad tewte.
., He did the utmost bounds of knowledge find.
He found them not so large as was his mind. «
But, like the brave Pellaean youth, did mo^,
Because that art had no more worlds than one.
And when he saw that he through all hafl p8^
He dy'd, leit he should idle grow at last
Fanciful reasoning:
IVsk^ff. Imboweil'd ! — > — -if thou unbowel me to-day, IH give you leave to
JMnrto me, and eat me to-morrow ! 'Sblood, 'twas time to counterfeit, or that
vM '-ttnrtagant Scot had'^pkid me «cot andldt too. Cormtevfeit ! I li«, I am no
fetaNtufeit* to'die is t6 be acounferfoit; forbe is but the counterfeit of a aao,
V^kalli not the life of a man; but to counterfeit dying, when a man thtmfof
llvelh, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect unage of life indeed.
J^ri Part , Jfeary /r. Act V. Sc 4.
jOflUMi. 'And iht more pity «hat great folk should have countenance via this
'WlWfij dtdwn &t'htiag thtituselves* more thscn their even-christian.
Digitized
by^oogle
188 WIT [Ch. 13.
Pedro. Will you have mc, Lady 1
Beatrice. No, my Lord, unless 1 might have another for working days. Your
G(race is too costly to wear every day.
Muck Ado about Nothing^ Act II. Sc 1.
Jessica. I shall be saved by my husband ; he hath made me a Christieui.
Laimcelot. Truly the more to blame he ; we were Christians enough before,
e'en as many as could well live by one another : this making of Christians will
raise the price of hogs ; if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we shall not have a rasher
on the coals for money. * Merchant of Venice^ Act III. Sc 5.
In western clime there is atown.
To those that dwell therein well known ;
Therefore there needs no more be said here,
We unto them refer our reader :
For brevity is very good
When w' are, or are not understood. Hudtbras, Canto L
But Hudibras ffave him a twitch,
As quick as ligntning, in the breech,
Just m the place where honor's lodg'd, ,
As wise philosophers have judg'd ;
Because a kick in that part, more
Hurts honor, than deep woimds before. Ibid. Canto IIL
Ludicrous junction of small things with great, as of equal impor-
tance :
This day black omens threat the brightest fair
That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care :
Some dire disaster, or by force, or slight :
But what, or where, the fates have wrapt in night:
Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law ;
Or some frail cliina jar receive a flaw j
Or stain her honor, or her new brocade ;
Forget her pray'rs, or miss a masquerade;
Or lose her Heart, or necklace, at a ball ;
Or whether Heav'n has doom'd that Shock must falL
Rape of the Lock, Canto 11. 101.
One speaks the glory of the British Ctueen,
And one describes a charming Indian screen.
ndd. Canto HI. 13.
Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes,
And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies.
Not louder shrieks to pitying Heav'n are cast,
When husbands or when lapdogs breathe their last
Or when rich china vessels fall'n from high.
In glitt'ring dust and painted fragments he !
Snd. Canto HI. 155.
•Not youthful kin^ in battle seiz'd alive.
Not scornful virgins who their charms survive,
Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss.
Nor ancient ladies when refus'd a kiss,
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die.
Not Cynthia when her manteau's piim'd awry.
E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair.
As thou, sad virgin, for thy ravish'd hair. Ibid. Canto lY. 3.
Joining things that in appearance are opposite. As for exampte*
where Sir Roger de Coverley, in the Spectator, speaking of iii«
widow,
That he would have given her a coal-pit to have kept her in clean linen; and
that her finger should have sparkled with one hundred or his richest acres.
Premises that promise much and perform nothing. Cicero upon
that article says,
Digitized
by Google
C3l13.] wit. MS
Bed acids esse notissimuBi ridicii^ genus, cum aliod eiqMcUBMtt, aliud diottor:
liiejiobismetipsis nosier error risum movet.* De Oratore, 1. iL cap. 6Sw
Beatryx. ^With a good leg and a good foot, unde, and money enough ii
hii parse, sudi a man would win any woman in the world, if he could get her
good-will Much Ado about Nothing^ Act II. &. L
Beatrice, I have a good eye, uncle, I can see a church by day-light. Aid,
Le m^decin que I'on m'indique
Sait le Latin, le Qrec, l'H6br^
Les belles lettres, la physique,
La chimie et la botanique.
Chacun lui donne son aveu :
II auroit aussi ma pratique ;
Mais jeveoxvivre encore unpeu. '
Again,
Again,
Vin^ ibis le jour le bon Ghr^goire
A soin de fermer son armoire.
De quoi pensez-rous qu'il a peur 1
Belle demande ! Gtu'un voleur
Trouvant une facile proie,
Ne lui ravisse tout son bien.
Non ; Gr6goire a peur qu'on ne Toie
Glue dans son armoire il na nen.
L'athsmatique Damon a cm que I'air des champs
Bepareroit en lui le rava^ des ans,
II s^est fait, a grands iirais, transporter en Bretagne.
Orvoyezce qu a fait Pair natal qu'il a pris I
Damon seroit mort d Paris :
Damon est mort a la campagne.
Having discussed wit in the thought, we proceed to what is verbal
only, commonly called a play of words. This sort of wit depends,
for the most part, upon choosing a word that has different signifi-
cations : by that artifice hocus-pocus tricks are played in language,
and thoughts plain and simple take on a very different appearance.
Play is necessary for man, in order to refresh him afler labor ; and
accordingly man loves play, even so much as to relish a play of
words : and it is happy for us, that words can be employed, not only
for useful purposes, but also for our amusement. This amusemen^
though humble and low, unbends the mind ; and is relished by some
at all times, and by all at some times.
It is remarkable, that this low species of wit, has among all nations
been a favorite entertainment, in a certain stage of their progress
toward refinement of taste and manners, and has gradually gone into
disrepute. As soon as a language is formed into a system, and the
meaning of words is ascertained with tolerable accuracy, opportunity
is afibrded for expressions that, by the double meaning of some
words, give a familiar thought the appearance of being new ; and
the penetration of the reader or hearer is gratified in detecting the
ttye sense disguised under the double meaning. That this sort of
Hit was in England deemed a reputable amusement, during the
Kigas of Elizabeth and James I., is vouched by the works of Shak-
Jpeare, and even by the writings of grave divines. But it cannot have
J But vou know that it is the masked Mnd of the ludicrous when we expect one
1 another is said — ^here we laugh at our own mistake.
De O^atore^ 1. ii. cap. 63
♦ But yo
4ngaiida
Digitized
by Google
190 WIT. ret 18.
fmy long endarance : for as language ripens, and the meaning of
words is more and more ascertained, words held to he synonymous
diminish daily; and when those that remain have heen more than
once employcMl, the pleasure vanishes with the novelty.
I proceed to examples, which, as in the former case, shall he dis-
tributed into different classes.
A seeming resemblance from the double meaning of a word:
Beneath this stone my wife doth lie;
She's now at rest, and so am I.
A seeming contrast from the same cause, termed a vtrbcJ, antUhe-
fu, which has no despicable effect in ludicrous subjects :
While Iris his cosmetic wash would try
To make her Uoom reviTe, and lovers die,
Some ask for charms, and others philters choose,
To gain Corinna, and their quartans lose. i>u^eiisary, Canto 2
And how frail nymphs, oft by abortion, aim
To lose a substance, to presenre a name. Itfid, Canto 3.
While nymphs take treats, or assignations give.
Rape of the Lock.
Other seeming connections from the same cause :
Will you employ your conquering swoid,
To break a fiddle, and your word 1 Hudibras^ Canto 2.
To whom the knight with comely grace
Put off his hat to put his case. ^ JBnd, Part 3. Canto 3
Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom
Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at hcnne ;
Here thou, great Anna ! whom three realms obey,
Dost sometimes counsel take— and sometimes tea.
Rape of the Lack, Canto 3. 1. 5.
O'er their quietus where fat jud^ dose,
And lull their cough and conscience to repose.
Dispensary, Canto I.
Speaking of Prince Eugene :
This general is a great taker of snuff as well as of towns.
Pope, Key to ike Lock.
Ezul mentisque domusque. Metamorpkasei, L ix. 409.
The exile from his mind and his home.
A seeming opposition from the same cause:
Hie quiescit qui nunquam quierit
Here he rests, who never rested.
Again,
Again,
duel &ge a cette Iris, dont on fait tant de bruit 1
Me demandoit Cliton nagudre.
H faut, dis-je, vous satisfaire,
EUle a vingt ans le jour, et cinquante ans la nuit
So like the chances are of love and war.
That they alone in this distinguish'd are;
In love the victors frt>m the vanquish'd fly,
They fly that wound, and they pursue that die.
What new found witchcraft was in thee,
With thine own cold to kindle me 1
Strange art; like him that should devise
To make a burning-glass of ice. Cowley •
Digitized
by Google
Ch. la] WIT. 19i
Wit of this kind is unsuitable in a serious pochn ; witness the fol«
lowing line in Pope's Elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady:
Cold is that breast which wann'd the worid before.
This sort of writing is finely burlesqued by Swift:
Her hands the softest ever felt,
Though cold would bum, though dry would melt
Strepkon and Chloi,
Taking a word in a difierent sense from what is meant, comsii
Qiider wit, because it occasions some slight degree of surprise:
Beatrice. I may sit in a comer, and cry Beigh ho! for a husband.
Pedro. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.
Beatrice. I would rather have one of your father's getting. Hath your grace
ne'er a brother like you 1 Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could
come by them. JMSch Ado about Nothing, Act II. Sc. 1.
Falstaff. My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about
PiOol. Two yards and more.
Faistaff. No quips, now, Pistol : indeed I am in the waist two yards about ;
lKttIamnowa]x>utno waste; I am about thrift
Merry Wives of Windsor, Act I. Sc 3.
Lo. Sands. By your leave, sweet ladies.
If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me :
I had it from my father.
Atme BuUen. Was he mad, sir !
Sands. O, very mad, exceeding mad, in love too ;
But he would bite none K. Henry VIII,
An assertion that bears a double meaning, one right, one wrong,
but so introduced as to direct us to the wroncf meaning, is a species of
bastard wit, which is distinguished from allothers by the name pun
For example,
Paris. Sweet Helen, I must woo you.
To help unarm our Hector : his stubbom Ducldes,
With tnese your white enchanting fingers touch'd,
Shall more obey, than to the edge of steel.
Or force of Greekish sinews ; you shall do more
Than all the island Kings, disarm great Hector.
TVoil/us and Cressiday Act III. Sc. 1.
The pun is in the close. The word disarm has a double meaning;;
it signifies to take off a man's armor, and also to subdue him in fight.
We are directed to the latter sense by the context ; but, with regard
to Helen, the word holds only true in the former sense. I go on with
other examples :
Esse nihil dicis quicquid petis, improbe Cinna:
Si nil, Cinna, petis, nil tibi, Cinna, nego. Martial, 1. 3. epigr. 61.
You say, wicked Cinna, that you ask nothing —
If you ask nothing, I deny you nothing.
Jocondus geminum imposuit tibi, Sequana pontem ;
Hunc tu jure potes dicere pontificem. Sanazarius,
Sequana, Jocondus placed a double bridge over theo— Well mayst thou eat.
him a bridge-maker. (Fontifex, a priest)
N. B. Jocondus was a m&nk.
Cki^Justiu. Welt ! the troth is. Sir John, you live in mat infamy.
Faikaf. He that buckles him in my belt cannot live in less.
CHef Justice. Your means are very slender, and your waste is great
Faikaf. I would it were otherwise ; I would my means were greater, aaa
my waist slenderer. Second Part, Eenrif IV. AsXh^%
Digitized
by Google
ise WIT. [cai. It.
Celia. Ijpray you bear with me^ 1 can go a^ furter.
Cloton. For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you: y^ I shoaU
oear no cross if I did bear you ; for I think you have no money in your purse.
As you like U^ Act II. S<^ 4.
He that imposes an oath makes it,
Not he that for convenience takes it ;
Then how can any man be said
To break an oath he never made 1 Hudibras^ Part 2. Canto 3
The seventh, satire of the first book of Horace is purposely contrived
o introduce at the close a most execrable pun. Talking of some infii-
mous wretch, whose name was Rex Rupilius,
Persius exclamat, Per magnos, Brute, deos te
Oro, qui reges consueris tollere, cur non
Hunc regem jugulas 1 Operum hoc, mihi crede, tuorum est
By all the immortal gods, O Brute,
To thee I make my fervent suit.
Thou, that art wont, all kin^s to kill.
Use this king also as you will :
For take my word, it is the task
Of him that bears both ax and mask.
Though playing with words is a mark of a mipd at ease, and dis-
posed to any sort of amusement, we must not thence conclude that
playing with words js always ludicrous. Words are so intimately
connected with thought, that if the subject be really grave, it will not
appear ludicrous even in that fantastic dress. I am, however, fiir
from recommending it in any serious performance : on the contrary,
the discordance between the thought and expression must be disa-
greeable ; witness the following specimen.
He hath abandoned his physicians, madam, under whose practices he hath per-
secuted time with hope : and finds no other advantage in the process, but only the
losing of hope by time. All's Well that Ends Well, Act I. So. 1.
K. Henry. O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows !
When that my care could not withhold thy riots.
What wilt thou do when riot is thy care %
Second Part, K. Henry IV.
If any one shall observe that there is a third species of wit, diff^-
ent from those mentioned, consisting in sounds merely, I am willing
to give it place. And indeed it must be admitted, that many of Hudi-
hras's double rhymes come under the definition of wit given in the
beginning of this chapter : they are ludicrous, and their singularity
occasions some degree of surprise. Swifi is no less successful than
Butler in this sort of wit ; witness the following instances : God-
dess— Boddice. Pliny — Nicolini. Iscariots— Chariots. Mitre —
Nitre. Dragon — Suffragan.
A repartee may happen to be witty : but it cannot be considered
as a species of wit ; because there are many repartees extremely
smart, and yet extremely seriqus. I give the iollowing example, k
certain petulant Greek, objecting to Anacharsis that he was a Scy-
thian: True; says Anacharsis, my country disgraces me, but you
disgrace your country. This fine turn gives surprise; but it i^ fin
from being ludicrous.
Digitized
byGoogk
CL 14.] CUSTOM AND HABIT. * 193
CHAPTER XIV.
CtSTOM AND HABIT.
Custom and habit distinguished — ^Effects of habit either active or passive —
The influence of habit in youth, in middle age, and in old age — Habits rise and
decline gradually — Thino^s moderately agreeable become habkual sooner than
those hiffhly agreeable ; the same is applicable to pleasures of the inferior senses
— Lengtn of time as well as frequency of acts, necessary to introduce an active
habit — Agreeable objects of taste are not made habitual, but produce satiety and
disgust — ^The same true with respect to objects extremely agreeable — Violent pas-
sions not stren^ened by repetition— Difl*erence between natural appetites and
habit — The pmn of habit less undec our power, than that which anses from a
want of salification, and the delight not greater — Difference between generic
and specific habits — Moderate pleasures produce a generic habit — Grood effects
of misery — Good effects of society — Final cause of custom or pain Ail business
—Custom softens pain — As another final cause, it puts the rich and the poor on
a level — Iliustrated — Our native sensibility biasseci by custom.
Viewing man as under the influence of novelty, would one sus-
pect that custom also should influence him ? and yet our nature is
qually susceptible of each : not only in diflferent objects, but fre-
ouently in the same. When an object is new, it is enchanting :
iamiliarity renders it indiflTerent ; and custom, after a longer fami-
Karity, makes it again disagreeable. Human nature, diversified
with many and various springs of action, is wonderfully, and,
indulging the expression, intricately constructed.
Custom has such influence upon many of our feelings, by warp-
ing and varying them, that Vve must attend to its operations if we would
be acquainted with human nature. This subject, in itself obscure,
has been much neglected ; and a complete analysis of it would be
no easy task. I pretend only to touch it cursorily; hoping, how-
[ ever, that what is here laid down, will dispose diligent inquirers to
attempt farther discoveries.
Custom respects the action, habit the agent. By custom we mean
a ^uent reiteration of the same act ; and by habit, the eflfect that
eoitom has on the agent. This eflfect may be either active, witness
lie dexterity produced by custom in performing certain exercises;
or passive, as when a thing makes an impression on us diflferent
ftmu what it did originally. The latter only, as relative to the sen-
aiive part of our nature, comes under the present undertaking.
This subject is intricate : some pleasures are fortified by custom ;
and yet custom begets familiarity, and consequently indiflference :*
ia many instances, satiety and disgust are the consequences of reitera-
tum: again, though custom blunts the edge of distress and of pain,
yet the want of any thing to which we have been long accustomed,
w a sor^ of torture. A clue to guide us through all the intricacies
cf this labyrinth, would be an acceptable present.
Whatever be the cause, it is certain that we are much influenced
* If all the year were playing holidays.
To sport would be as tedious as to work :
But when they seldom come, they wish'd for come,
And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.
nrst Part Henry IV, Act I. Sc. 8.
17
Digitized
by Google
194 CVSTOM AND HABIT. [Ch. 14
by custom: it has an ^ effect upon our pleasures, upon our actions^
and even upon our thoughts and sentiments. Habit mak^s no figure
during the vivacity of youth : in middle age it gains ground ; and in
old age governs without control. In that period of life, generally
speaking, we eat at a certain hour, take exercise at a certain hour,
go to rest at a certain hour, all by the direction of habit : nay, a
particular seat, table, bed, comes to be essential : and a habit in any
of these cannot be controlled without uneasiness.
Any slight or moderate pleasure frequently reiterated for a long
time, forms a peculiar connection between us and the thing that
causes the pleasure. This connection, termed habit, has the efiect
to awaken our desire or appetite for that thing when it returns not
as usual. During the course of enjoyment, the pleasure rises insensi-
bly higher and higher till a habit be established; at which time the
pleasure is at its height. It continues not however stationary : the
same customary reiteration which carried it to its height, brings it
down again by insensible degrees, even lower than it was at first :
but of that circumstance I shall treat afterward. What at present
we have in view, is to prove by experiments, that those things which
at first are but moderately agreeable, are the aptest to become habitual.
Spiritous liquors, at first scarcely agreeable, readily produce an ha-
bitual appetite : and custom prevails so far, as even to make us fond
of things originally disagreeable, such a^ cofiee, assafoetida, and
tobacco : which is pleasantly illustrated by Congreve :
FainaU. For a passionate lover, metliinks you are a man somewhat too dis-
cerning in the faihngs of your mistress.
MtrabeU. And for a discerning man, somewhat too passionate a lover ; for I
like her with all her faults ; nay, like her for her faults. Her follies are so natural,
or 80 artful, that they become her; emd those affectations which in another woman
would be odious, serve but to make her more agreeable. I'll tell thee, Fsdnall,
she once us'd me with that insolence, that in revenge I took her to pieces, sifted
her, and separated her failings ; I study*d 'em, and got *em by rote. . The cata-
logue was so large, /that I was not without hopes, one day or other,* to hate her
heartiljr : to which end I so us'd myself to think of 'em, that at length, contrary to
my design and exj)ectation, they gave me every hour less and less disturbance j
till in a few days, it became habitual to me to remember 'em without bein^ di»-
plecised. They are now grown as familiar to me as my own frailties ; and in all
probability, in a little time longer, I shall like 'em as well.
The Way of the World, Act I. Sc. 3.
A walk upon the quarter-deck, though intolerably confined, becomes,
however, so agreeable by custom, that a sailor in his walk on shore,
confines himself commonly within the same bounds. I knew a man
who had relinquished the sea for a country life : in the corner of his
garden he reared an artificial mount with a level summit, resembling
most accurately a quarter-deck, not only in shape but in size ; and
here he generally walked. In Minorca, Governor Kane iliade an
excellent road the whole length of the island ; and yet the inhabitants
adhere to the old road, though not only longer but extremely bad*
* Custom is a second nature. Formerly, the merchants of Bristol had no
place for meeting but the street, open to every variety of weather. An exchan^
was erected for mem with convenient piazzas. But so rivetted were they to their
accustomed place, that in order to dislodge them, the magistrates were forced to
tNTtitdc up the pavement, and to render the place a heap of rough stones.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 14.] CUSTOM AND HABIT. 195
Play, or gaming, at first barely amusing by the occupation it afibrds,
becomes in time extremely agreeable ; ana is frequently prosecuted
with avidity, as if it were the chief business of life. The same
(Aservation is applicable to the pleasures of the internal senses, those
of knowledge and virtue in particular : children have scarcely any
sense of these pleasures ; and men very little who are in the state of
nature without culture : our taste for virtue and knowledge improves
slowly ; but is capable of growing stronger than any other appetite
in human nature.
To introduce an active habit, frequency ©f acts is not sufficient
without length of lime : the quickest succession of acts in a short
dme, is not sufficient ; nor a slow succession in the longest time.
The effect must be produced by a moderate soft action, and a long
series of easy touches, removed from each other by short intervals.
Nor are these sufficient without regularity in the time, place, and
other circumstances of the action : the more uniform any operation
is, the sooner it becomes habitual. And this holds equally in a
passive habit ; variety in any remarkable degree, prevents the effect :
thus any particular food will scarcely ever become habitual, where
the manner of dressing it is varied. The circumstances then requi-
site to augment a moderate pleasure, and at the long run to form a
habit, are weak uniform acts, reiterated during a long course of time
without. any considerable interruption: every agreeable cause that
operates in this manner, will grow habitual. »
Affection and aversion, as distinguished from passion on the one
hand, and on the other from original disposition, are in reality habits
respecting particular objects, acquired in the manner above set forth.
The pleasure of social intercourse with any person, must originally
be feint, and frequently reiterated, in order to establish the habit of
J affection. Affection thus generated, whether it be friendship or love,
. seldom swells into any tumultuous or vigorous passion ; but is
however the strongest cement that can bind together two individuals
cf the human species. In like manner, a slight degree of disgust
often reiterated with regularity, grows into the habit of aversion,
which commonly subsists for life.
Objects of taste that are delicious, far from tending to become
habitual, are apt, by indulgence, to produce satiety and disgust : no
man contracts a habit of sugar, honey, or sweetmeats, as he does of
tobacco : * ^
Dulcia non ferimus ; succo renovamur amaro.
Ovid. Art. Amand. I. 3
We tire of sweets — we are renovated by bitter juices.
These violent delights have violent ends,
And in their triumph die. The sweetest honey
Is loatlysome in its own deliciousness, »
And in the taste confounds the appetite ;
Therefore love mod'rately, long love doth so j
Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
komeo and Juliet, Act II. So. 6.
The same observation holds with respect to all objects that being
ertremely agreeable raise violent passions : such passions are in-
Digitized
by Google
196 CUSTOH AND HABIT. [Ch. 14.
compatible with a habit of any sort ; and in particular they never
produce affection nor aversion; a man who at first sight ialls vio-
lently in love, has a strong desire of enjbyment, but no affection for
the woman :• a man who is surprised with an unexpected favor,,
burns for an opportunity to exert his gratitude, without having any
affection for his benefactor : neither does desire of vengeance for an
atrocious inju^}^ involve aversion.
It is perhaps not easy to say why moderate pleasures gather
strength b)r custom : but two causes concur to prevent that effect in
the more intense pleasures. These, by an original Jaw in our
nature, increase quickly to their full growth, and decay with no less
precipitation ;t and custom is too slow in its operation to overcome
that law. The other cause is no less powerful: exquisite pleasure
is extremely fatiguing ; occasioning, as a naturalist would say, great
expense of animal spirits ;+ and of such the mind cannot bear so
frequent gratification, as to superinduce a habit: if the thing that
raises the pleasure return before the mind have recovered its tone
and relish, disgust ensues instead of pleasure.
A habit never fails to admonish us of the wonted time of gratifica-
tion, by raising a pain for want of the object, and a desire to have it.
The pain of want is always first felt; the desire naturally follows:
and upon presenting the object, both vanish instantaneously. Thus,
a man accustomed to tobacco, feels, at the end of the usual. interval,
a confused pain of want ; which at first points at nothing in particu-
lar, though it soon settles upon its accustomed object : and the same
• Violent love without affection is finely exemplifi^ in the following story.
When Constantinople was taken by the Turks, Irene, a young Greek of an illus-
trious family, fell into the hands of Mahomet IL, who was at that time in the
prime of youth and glory. His savage heart being subdued by her charms, he
Bhut himself up with her, denying access even to his ministers. Love obtained
such ascendant, as to make him frequently abandon tlie army, and fly to his
Irene. War relaxed, for victory was no longer the monarch's favorite passion.
The soldiers, accustomed to booty, b^an to murmur ; and the infection spread
even among the commanders. The Basha Mustapba, consulting the fideUty he
owed his master, was the first who durst acquaint him of the discourses neU
publicly to the prejudice of his ^lory.
The sultan, after a gloomy silence, formed his resolution. He ordered Mu»-
iapha to assemble the troops next morning ; and then with precipitation retired to
Irene's apartment. Never before did that princess appear so charming ; never
before did the prince bestow so many warm caresses. To give a new lustre to
her beauty, he exhorted her women, next momina;, to bestow meir utmost art and
care on her dress. He took her by the hand, led her into me middle of the army,
and pulling off her veil, demanded x>f the Bashas, with a fierce look, whether they
had ever beheld such a beauty 1 After an awful pause, Mahomet, with one hand
layino; hold of the young Greek by her beautiful locks, and with the other pulling
out his scimitar, severed the head from the body at one stroke. Then turning to
his grandees, with eyes wild and furious, " This sword," said he, " when it is my
will, knows to cut the bands of love." However strcuig? it may apjt^ar, we learn
iSfom experience, that desire of enjoyment, may consist with the most brutal aver-
sion, directed both to the same woman. Of this we have a noted example in the
first book of Sully's Memoirs ; to which I choose to refer the reader ; for it is too
gross to be transcribed.
t See Chap. 2. Part 3.
t Lady Easy, upon her husband's reformation, expresses to her friend the
following sentiment : " Be satisfied } Sir Charles has made me happy, even to a
pain of joy."
Digitized
by Google
CL 14.] CUSTOM AND HABIT. 197
may be observed in persons addicted to drinking, vrho are often in
an uneasy restless state before they think of the bottle. I» pleasures
indulged regularly, and at equal intervals, the appetite, remarkably
obsequious to custom, returns regularly with the usual time of gratl*
fication; not sooner, even though the object be presented. This
pain of want arising from habit, seems directly opposite to that of
satiety ; and it must appear sin|^ular, that frequency of gratification
should produce effects so opposite, as are the pains of excess and
of want.
The appetites that respect the preservation and propagation of our
species, are attended witn a pain of want similar to that occasioned
by habit : hunger and thirst are uneasy sensations of want, which
always precede the desire of eating or drinking ; and a pain for
Want of carnal enjo3rment precedes the desire of an object. The
pain being thus felt independent of an object, cannot be cured but
by gratification. Very different is an ordinary passion, in which
desire precedes the pain of want : such a passion cannot exist but
while the object is in view; and therefore, by removing the object
out of thought, it vanishes, with its desire, and pain of want.*
The natural appetites above mentioned differ from habit in the
following particular : they have an undetermined direction toward
all objects of gratification in general ; whereas an habitual appetite
is directed to a particular object : the attachment we have by habit
to a particular woman, differs widely from the natural passion which
cofliprehends the whole sex ; and the habitual relish for a particular
dish is far from being the same with a vague appetite for food.
That difference notwithstanding, it is still remarkable, that nature
has enforced the gratification of certain natural appetites essential
to the species, by a pain of the same sort with that which habit
produces.
The pain of habit is less under our power than any other pain
that arises from want of gratification : hunger and thirst are more
eftsily endured, especially at first, than an unusual intermission of
any habitual pleasure : persons are often heard declaring, they would
forego sleep or food, ratter than tobacco. We must not, however,
c<mclude, that the grgitification of an habitual appetite affords the
same delight with the gratification of one that is natural : &r from it ;
4ej)ain of want only is greater.
The slow and reiterated acts that produce a habit, strengthen the
Hand to enjoy the habitual pleasure in greater quantity and more
frequency than originally ; and by that means a habit of intemperate
etification is often formed : after unbounded acts of intemperance,
habitual relish is soon restored, and the pain for want of enjoy-
«tent returns with fresh vigor.
The causes of the present emotions hitherto in view, are either an
iadividual, such as a companion, a certain dwelling-place, a certain
amusement ; or a particular species, such as coffee, mutton, or any
#^ food. But habit is not confined to such. A constant train al
ttiflmg diversions, may form such a habit in the mind, that it cannot
* See Chap. 2. Part 3,
Digitized by LjOOQ IC
198 CUSTOM AND HABIT. [Ck. 14.
be easy a moment without amusement : a variety in the objects pre-
7ents a hftbit as to any one in particular ; but as the train is uniform
with respect to amusement, the habit is formed accordingly; and that
«ort of habit may be denominated a generic habit, in opposition to
the former, which is a specific habit. A habit of a town-life, of
country sports, of solitude, of reading, or of business, where suffi-
ciently varied, are instances of generic habits. Every specific habit
has a mixture of the generic ; for the habit of any one sort of food
makes the taste agreeable, and we are fond of that taste wherever
found. Thus a man deprived of an habitual object, takes up with
what most resembles it ; deprived of tobacco, any bitter herb v/ill do,
rather than want: a habit of punch, makes wine a good resource:
accustomed to the sweet society and coinforts of matrimony, the man,
unhappily deprived of his beloved object, inclines the sooner to a
second. In general, when we are deprived of a habitual object, we
are fond of its qualities in any other object.
The reasons are assigned above, why the causes of intense plea-
sure become not readily habitual : but now we discover, that these
reasons conclude only against specific habits. In the case of a
weak pleasure, a habit is formed by frequency and uniformity of
reiteration, which, in the case of an intense pleasure, produces satiety
and disgust. But it is remarkable, that satiety and disgust have no
effect, except as to that thing singly which occasions them : a surfeit
of honey produces not a loathing of sugar; and intemperance with
one woman produces no disrelish of the same pleasure with others.
Hence it is easy to account for a generic habit in any intense plea-
sure : the delight we had in the gratification of the appetite inflanes
the imagination, and makes us, with avidity, search for the same
gratification in whatever other subject it can be found. And thus
uniform frequency in gratifying the same passion upon different
objects, produces at length a generic habit. In this manner, one
acquires an habitual delight in high and poignant sauces, rich dress,
fine equipages, crowds of company, and in whatever is commonly
termed pleasure. There concurs, at the same time, to introduce this
habit, a peculiarity observed above, that reiteration of acts enlarges
the capacity of the mind, to admit a more plentiful gratification than
originally, with regard to frequency as well as quantity.
Hence it appears, that though a specific habit cannot be formed
but upon a moderate pleasure, a generic habit may be formed upon
any sort of pleasure, moderate or immoderate, that has variety of
objects. The only difference is, that a weak pleasure runs naturally
into a specific habit; whereas an intense pleasure is altogether
averse to such a habit. In a word, it is only in singular cases that
a moderate pleasure produces a generic habit ; but an intense plea-
sure cannot produce any other habit.
The appetites that respect the preservation and propagation of the
species, are formed into habit in a peculiar manner : the time as
well as measure of their gratification are much under the powei'bf
custom ; which, by introducing a change upon the body, occasions
a proportional change in tbe appetites. Thus, if the body bQ gradu-
Digitized by V^OOQ IC
(%. 14.] CUSTOM AND HABXT. 199
ally formed to a certain quantity of food at stated times, the appetite
is regulated accordingly ; and tne appetite is again changed, wnen u
different habit of body is introduced by & different practice. Here
it would seem, that the change is not made upon the mind, which is
commonly the case in passive habits, but upon the body.
When rich food is brought down by ingredients of a plainer taste,
the composition is susceptible of a specific habit. Thus the sweet
taste of sugar, rendered less poignant in a mixture, may, in course
of time, produce a specific habit for such mixture. As moderate
pleasures, by becoming more intense, tend to generic habits; so
intense pleasures, by becoming more moderate, tend to specific habits.
The beauty of the human figure, by a special recommendation of
Datura, appears to us supreme, amid the great variety of beauteous
forms bestowed upon animals. The various degrees in which indi-
viduals enjoy that property, render it an object, sometimes of a
moderate, sometimes of an intense passion. The moderate passion
admittjpg frequent reiteration without diminution, and occupying the
mind without exhausting it, turns gradually stronger till it becomes
a habit. Nay, instances are not wanting, of a face, at first disagree-
able, afterward rendered indifferent by familiarity, and at length
agreeable by custom. On the other hand, consummate beauty, at
the very first glance, fills the mind so a^ to admit no increase.
Enjoyment lessens the pleasure ;* and if often repeated, ends com-
monly in satiety and disgust. The impressions maae by consummate
beauty, in a gradual succession from lively to faint, constitute a series
opposite to that of faint impressions waxing gradually more lively,
till they produce a specific habit. But the mind, when accustomed
to beauty, contracts a relish for it in general, though often repelled
from particular objects by the pain of satiety: and thus a generic
, habit is formed, of which inconstancy in love is the necessary con-
sequence ; for a generic habit, comprehending every beautiful object,
, is an invincible obstruction to a specific habit, which is confined to one.
But a matter which is of great importance to the youth of both
sexes, deserves more than a cursory view. Though the pleasant
emotion of beauty differs widely from the corporeal appetite, yet
when both are directed to the same object, they produce a very strong
complex passion:! enjoyment in that case must be exquisite; and
therefore more apt to produce satiety, than in any other case what-
ever. This is a never-failing effect, where consummate beauty in
the one party, meets with a warm imagination and great sensibility
in the other. What I am here explaining, is true without exaggera-
tion ; and they must be insensible upon whom it makes no impres-
«m : 't deserves well to be pondered by the young and the amorous,
• uto, in forming the matrimonial society, are too often blindly impelled
by the animal pleasure merely, infiamea by beauty. It majr indeed
nippen, after the pleasure is gone, and go it must with a swift pace,
tea new connection is formed upon more dignified and more lasting
frinciples : but this is a dangerous experiment : for even supposing
good sense, good temper, and internal merit of every sort, yet a new
* See Ch^. 2. Part 3. t See Chap. 2. Part 4.
Digitized
by Google
200 CUSTOM AND HABIT. [Ck. 14
connection upon such qualifications is rarely formed : it commonly,
or rather always happens, that such qualifications, the only solid
foundation of an indisscjuhle connection, are rendered altogether
invisible by satiety of enioyment creating disgust. .
One effect of custom, dinerent from any that have been explained,
must not be omitted, because it makes a great figure in human nature:
Though custom augments moderate pleasures, and lessens those
that^are intense, it has a different eflfect with respect to pain : for it
blunts the edge of every sort of pain and distress, faint or acute.
Uninterrupted misery, therefore, is attended vnth one good effect : if
its torments be incessant, custom hardens us to bear them.
The changes made in forming habits, are curious. Moderate
pleasures are augmented gradually by reiteration, till they become
nabitual ; and then are at their height : but they are not long sta-
tionary ; for from that point they gradually decay, till they vanish
altogether. The pain occasioned by want of gratification, runs a
different course : it increases uniformly; and at last becomes extreme,
when the pleasure of gratification is reduced to nothing :
It so falls out,
That what we have we prize not to the worth,
While we enjoy it ; but being lack'd and lost,
Why then we rack the value ; then we find
The virtue that possession would not show us
Whilst it was ours.
IVhu^h Ado aJbovi Nothing ^ Act 4. So. 1.
The effect of custom with relation to a specific habit, is displayed
through all its varieties in the use of tobacco. The taste of that
plant is at first extremely unpleasant : our disgust lessens gradually
till it vanishes altogether ; at which period the taste is neither agree-
able nor disagreeable : continuing the use of the plant, we begin to
relish it ; and our relish improves iy-use, till it arrives at perfection:
from that period it gradually decays, while the habit is in a state of
increment, and consequently the pain of want. The result is, that
when the habit has acquired its greatest vigor, the relish is gone ;
and accordingly, we often smoke and take snuflT habitually, without
so much as being conscious of the operation. We must except gra-
tification after the pain of want ; the pleasure of which gratification
is the greatest when the habit is the most vigorous; it is of the
same kind with the pleasure one feels upon being delivered from the
• rack, the cause of which is explained above.* This pleasure, how-
ever, is but occasionally the effect of habit ; and however exquisite,
is avoided as much as possible because of the pain that precedes it
With regard to the pain of want, I can discover no difference
between a generic and a specific habit. But these habits diflfer widely
with respect to the positive pleasure : I have had occasion to observe
that the pleasure of a specific habit decays gradually till it turn
imperceptible ; the pleasure of a generic habit, on the contrary, being
supported by variety of gratification, suffers little or no decay aft«
it comes to its height. However it may be with other generic habitSi
the observation, I am certain, holds with respect to the pleasoxei
♦ Chap. 2. Part 1. Sect. 3.
Digitized
by Google
C3l 14.] CUSTOM AND HABIT. * 201
of virtue and of knowledge : the pleasure of doing good has an
unbounded scope, and may be so variously gratified, that it can never
decay ; science is equally unbounded ; our appetite for knowledge
laying an ample range of gratification, where discoveries are
recommended by novelty, by variety, by utility, or by all of them.
In this intricate inquiry, I have endeavored, but without success,
to discover by what particular means it is that custom has influence
upon us : and now nothing seems left, but to hold our nature to be
so framed, as to be susceptible of such influence. And supposing it
parposely so framed,' it will not be difficult to find out several import-
ant final causes. That the power of custom is a happy contrivance
for our good, cannot have escaped any one who reflects, that business
is our province, and pleasure our relaxation only. Now satiety is
necessary to check exquisite pleasures, which otherwise would
engross the mind, and unqualify us for business. On the other hand,
as business is sometimes painful, and is never pleasant beyond
moderation, the habituar increase of moderate pleasure, and the con-
version of pain into pleasure, are admirably contrived for disappoint- ,
ing the malice of fortune, and for reconciling us to whatever course
of life may be our lot :
How use doth breed a habit in a man !
This shadowy desert, vmfrequented woods,
I better brook than flourishing peopled towns.
Here I can sit alone, unseen Oi any,
And to the nightingale's complaining notes
Tune my distresses, and record my woes.
Two Gentlemen of Verona^ Act v. Sc. 4.
As the foregoing distfnction between intense and moderate holds
m pleasure only, every degree of pain being softened by time, cus-
tom is a catholicon for pain and distress of every sort ; and of that
regulation the final cause requires no illustration.
Another final cause of custom will be highly relished by every
person of humanity, and yet has in a great measure been overlooked ;
which is, that custom has a greater influence than any other known
cause, to put the rich and the poor upon a level : weak pleasures,
tie share of the latter, become fortunately stronger by custom-
while voluptuous pleasures, the share of the former, are continually
losing ground by satiety. Men of fortune, who possess palaces,
immptuous gardens, rich fields, enjoy them less than passengers do.
The goods of fortune are not unequally distributed : the opulent pos-
W8S what others enjoy.
And indeed, if it be the eflfect of habit, to produce the pain of
want in a high degree, while there is little pleasure in enjoyment, a
voluptuous life is of all the least to be envied. Those who' are
haWtaated to high feeding, easy vehicles, rich furniture, a crowd of
valets, much deference and flattery, enjoy but a small share of hap-
phess, while they are exposed to manifold distresses. To such a
anm, enslaved by ease and luxury, even the petty inconvenience in
IWTelling, of a rough road, bad weather, or homely fare, are serious
^s : he loses his tone of mind; turns peevish, and would wreak his
le^tment even upon the common accidents of life. Better fiar to
Digitized
by Google
802 CUSTOM AND HABIT. [Ch. 14
use the goods of fortune with moderation: a man who by temperanci
and activity has acquired a hardy constitution, is, on the one hand
guarded against external accidents ; and, on the other, is providec
with great variety of enjoyment ever at command.
I shall close this chapter with an article more delicate than abstruse,
namely, what authority custom ought to have over our taste in tk
fine arts. One particular is certain, that we cheerftiUy abandon t<
the authority of custom things that nature has left indifferent. It i-
custom, not nature, that has established a difference between the righ
hand and the left, so as to make it awkward and disagreeable to us^
the left where the right is commonly used. The various colorf
though they affect us differently, are all of them agreeable in thei
purity : but custom has regulated that ibatter in another manner ;
black skin upon a human being, is to us disagreeable ; and a whit
skin is, probably, no less sp to a negro. Thus things, originalh
indifferent, become agreeable or disagreeable, by the force of custonr
Nor will this be surprising after the discovery made above, that th
original agreeableness or disagreeableness of an. object, is, by th
influence of custom, often converted into the opposite quality.
Proceeding to matters of taste, where there is naturally a prefei
ence of one thing before another ; it is certain, in the first place, the
our faint and more delicate feelings are readily susceptible of a bia
from custom j and therofi>re that it is no proof of a defective taste t
find these in some measure influenced by custom : dress and tht-
modes of external behavior are regulated by custom in every cour
try : the deep red or vermilion \vitK vtrkicK the ladies in Pranc
cover their cheeks, appears to them beautiful in spite of nature ; an
strangers cannot ahogether be justified in condemning that practiw
considering the lawful authority of custom, or of the fashion, as iti
called. It is told of the people who inhabit the skirts of the Alp
feeing the north, that the swelling they have universally in the nee
is to them agreeable. So far has custom power to change the natoi
of things, and to make an object originally disagreeable take on a
opposite appearance.
But, as to every particular that can be denominated proper c
improper, right or • wrong, custom has little authority, and ought i
have none. The principle of duty takes naturally placet of evei ,
other ; and it argues a shameful weakness or degeneracy of ram
to find it in any case so far subdued as to submit to custom.
These few hints may enable us to judge in some measure of foreig
manners, whether exhibited by foreign writers or our own. A cot?,
parison between the ancients and the moderns was sometime ago
favorite subject : those who declared for ancient manners thought it a|.
ficient that these manners were supported by custom: their anta#
nists, on the other hand, refusing submission to custom as a standaiok-
taste, condemned ancient manners as in several instances irratioajl
In that controversy, an appeal being made to different principles, y^
out the slightest attempt to establish a common standard, the disMp-
could have no end. The hints above given tend to establi^
standard for judging how far the authority of custom ought to \
Digitized
by Google
2. 14.] CUSTOM AKD HABIT. 201
)dd lawful ; and, for the sake of illustration, w« shall apply that
tondard in a few instances.
Human sacrifices, the most dismal effect of blind and groveling
wperstition, wore gradually out of use by the prevalence of reason
lod humanity. « In the days of Sophocles and Euripides, traces of
kat practice were still recent ; and the Athenians, through the pre-
fidence of custom, could without disgust suffer human sacrifices to
)e represented in their theatre, of which the Iphigenia of Euripides
i a proof But a human sacrifice, being altogether inconsistent with
nodem manners, as producing horror instead of pity, cannot with
my propriety be introduced upon a modern stage. I must therefore
condemn the Iphigenia of Racine, which, instead of the tender and
sympathetic passions, substitutes disgust and horror. Another
)bjection occurs against every fable that deviates so remarkably from
improved notions and sentiments ; which is, that if it should even
»)nDmand our belief by the authoritjr of history, it appears too ficti-
tioas and unnatural to produce a perception of reality:* a human
acrifice is so unnatural, and to us so improbable, that few will be
iffected with the representation of it more than with a fairy tale. The
objection first mentioned strikes also against the Phedra of that
inthor .the dueen's passion for her stepson, transgressing the bounds
of nature, creates aversion and horror rather than compassion. The
author in his preface observes, that the dueen's passion, however
ttnnatural, was the effect of destiny and the wrath of the gods ; and
he puts the same excuse in her own mouth. But what is the wrath
of a heathen god to us Christians ? we acknowledge no destiny in
passion ; and if love be unnatural, it never can be relished. A sup-
position like what our author lays hold of, may possibly cover slight
improprieties ; but it will never engage our sympathy for what
appears to us frantic or extravagant.
Neither can I relish the catastrophe of that tragedy. A man of
taste may peruse, without disgust, a Grecian performance describing
I sea-monster sent by Neptune to destroy Hippolytus : he considers,
that such a story might agree with the religious creed of Greece,
and may be pleased with the story, as what probably had a strong
tflfect upon a Grecian audience. But he cannot have the same indul-
g^ce for such a representation upon a modern stage : because no
Story that carries a violent air of fiction can ever move us in any
considerable degree.
In the Coephores of Eschylus,t Orestes is made to say, that he
was commanded by Apollo to avenge his father*s murder ; and yet
if he obeyed, that he was to be delivered to the furies, or be struck
Widi some horrid malady : the tragedy accordingly concludes with a
eb)rus deploring the fate of Orestes, obliged to take vengeance
(igaiDf c a mother, and involved thereby in a crime against his will
ft 16 impossible for any modern to bend his mind to opinions so irra-
tiotuti and absurd, which must disgust him in perusing even a Gre-
Am TStory. Again, among the Greeks, grossly superstitious, it was
t common opinion, that the report of a man's death was a presage
♦SeeChar. ■; • ■ " rX - 7 ^. if.
Digitized
by Google
M4 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOt'IONS AND PASSIONS. [Gil. 1
of his death: and Orestes, in the first act of Electra, spread ing-
report of his own death, in order to hlind his mother and her adu
terer, is even in that case affected with the presage. Such imbecilit
can never find grace with a modern audience : it may indeed pn
duce some compassion for a people 'afflicted with absurd terrow
similar to what is felt in perusing a description of the Hottentots
but such manners will not interest our affections, nor attach us to th(
personages represented.
CHAPTER XV
EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND J>ASSIONS.
The soul and body intimately connected—Every class of emotions attended with
appearances peculiar to themselves — Signs of external passions, voluntary and
involuntary — Two kinds of voluntary, natural and arbiti*ary — They resemble
the emotions which accompany them — The manifold expressions of the hands
— The difficulty of restraining them under violent emotions — The same with
respect to words — The expression of every vivid passion peculiar to itself—
Every pleasant emotion has a common expression—involuntary signs are tem-
porary and permanent — Temporary disappear with the passion — Permanent
sio^ns formed in youth, remain fixed througn life — Final eause is, to furnish us
with an infallible passage to the heart — Conduct, the most perfect expression
of internal disposition — The impatience to express strong emotions externally
— Involuntary signs unavoidable — No remarkable external signs produced by
quiescent emotions — External signs not beheld with indifference — Signs of plea-
sant passions agreeable; contrary, disagreeable — External signs of a pleasant
passion, produce in the spectator a pleasant emotion ; and external signs of a
painful one, the reverse — Little vjuiety in external si^ns of pleasant passion;
unpleasant, the reverse — Some external signs of painful passions attractire,
some rej»ulsive — Final causes are six : it tends to fix the signification of many I
words — it promotes society — it transfers through a circle the feelings of an indi- I
vidual — Dissocial passions, being hurtful, are very noted— Subservient to mo-
rality—Affliction, exciting sympathy, is the most illustrious of all fixed cauj^ei
— Sympathy prompts us to relieve objects in distress — Accounted for, by being:
resolved in^o the constitution of our nature — Signs of passion indicate thai
man was intended to be open and sincere.
So intimately connected are the soul and body, that every agita-
tion in the former produces a visible effect upon the latter. Tnere i
is, at the same time, a wonderful uniformity in that operation ; each
class of emotions and passions being invariably attended with an
external appearance peculiar to itself.* These external appear- j
ances or signs may liot improperly be considered as a natural
language, expressing to all beholders emotions and passions as
they arise in the heart. Hope, fear, joy, grief, are displayed j
externally : the character of a man can be read in his face ; and '
beauty, which makes so deep an impression, is known to result, not
so much from regular features and a fine complexion, as from gooi
nature, good sense, sprightliness, sweetness, or other mental c iiality,
expressed upon the countenance. Though perfect skill in tti.\t lan-
guage be rare, yet what is generally known is sufficient for the ordi*
* Omnis enim motus animi, suum quendam a natura habet vultum et sonMf^
gestum. Cicero. I. 3. De Oratore.
For every emotion of the mind naturally has its own countenance, soundi add
gesture.
Digitized
by Google
15.] SXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS.
2iJ6
Ty purposes of life. But by what means we come to understand
5 language, is a point of some intricacy: it cannot be by sight
erely ; for, upon the most attentive inspection of the human face,
1 that can be discerned, are figure, color, and motion, which, singly
combined, never can represent a passion, nor a sentiment : the
[ternal sign is indeed visible; but to understand its meaning we
just be able to connect it with the passion that causes it, an opera-
pn far beyond the re^ch of eyesight. Where, then, is the instruc
Br to be found that can unveil this secret connection ? If we apply
I experience, it is yielded, that from long and diligent observation.
I may gather, in some measure in what manner those with whom
! are acquainted express their passions externally : but with respect
[strangers, we are left in the dark ; and yet we are not puzzled
out the meaning of ,these external expressions in a stranger, more
|n in a bosom-companion. Farther, had we no other means but
[)erience for understanding the external signs of passion, we could
[ expect any degree of skill in the bulk of individuals : yet ihat-
s are so much better ordered, thai the external expressions of pas-
1 form a language understood by all, by the young as well as the
, by the ignorant as well as the learnea : I talk of the plain and
pible characters of that language : for undoubtedly we are much
debted to experience in deciphering the dark anS more delicate
pressions. Where then shall we appW for a solution of this intri-
? problem, which seems to penetrate deep into human nature? In
mind it will be convenient to suspend the inquiry, till we are
feter acquainted with the nature of external signs, and with their
perations. These articles, therefore, shall be premised.
i.The external signs of passion are of two kinds, voluntary and
voluntary. The voluntary signs are also of two kinds: some are
bilrary, some natural. Words are obviously voluntary signs : and
ey are also arbitrary ; excepting a few simple sounds expressive of
ortain internal emotions, which sounds being the same in all lan-
lages, must be the work of nature : thus the unpremeditated tones
fadmiration are the same in all men ; as also of compassion, resenl-
cnt, and despair. Dramatic writers ought to be well acquainted
hh this natural language of passion : the chief talent of such a
bter is a ready command of the expressions that nature dictates to
ery person, when any vivid emotion struggles for utterance; and
B chief talent of a fine reader is a ready command of tones suited
[these expressions.
I The other kind of volu\itary signs comprehends certain attitudes
' gestures that naturally accompany certain emotions with a sur-
ising uniformity ; excessive joy is expressed by leaping, dancing,
I some elevation of the body : excessive grief, by sinking or depres-
Hg it : and prostration and kneeling have been employed by all
lions, and in all ages, to signify profound veneration. Another
cumsiance, still more than uniformity, demonstrates these gestures
I be natural, viz. their remarkable conformity or resemblance to the
sions that produce them.* Joy, which is a cheerful elevation of
♦ See Chap. 2. Part 6.
18
Digitized
by Google
S06 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 15.
mind, is expressed bv an elevation of body : pride, magnanimitv;
courage, and the whole tribe of elevating passions, are expressed %
external gestures that are the same as to the circumstance of eleva-
tion, however distinguishable in other respects ; and hence an erect
posture is a sign or expression of dignity :
Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall,
GKxilike erect, with native honor clad,
in naked majesty, seem'd lords of cdl.
Paradise Lost^ book 4.
Grief, on the other hand, as well as respect, which depresses the
mind, cannot, for that reason, be expressed more significantly than
by a similar depression of the body ; and hence, to be cast down^ is
a common phrase, signifying to be grieved or dispirited.*
One would not imagine who has not given peculiar attention, that
the body should be susceptible of such variety of attitude and motioD,
as readily to accompany every different emotion with a corresponding
expression. Humility, for example, is expressed naturally by hang-
ing the head ; arrogance, by its elevation ; and languor or despond-
ence, by reclining it to one side. The expressions of the hands are
manifold: by different attitudes and motions, they express, desire,
hope, fear ; they assist us in promising, in inviting, in keeping one
at a distance; they are made instruments of threatening, of suppli-
cation, of praise, and of horror ; they are employed in approving, in
refusing, in questioning ; in showing our joy, our sorrow, our doubts,
our regret, our admiration. These expressions, so obedient to pas-
sion, are extremely difficult to be imitated in a calm state: the
ancients, sensible of the advantage as well as difficulty of having
these expressions at command, bestowed much time and care in col-
lecting them from observation, and in digesting them into a practical
art, which was taught in their schools as an important branch of
education. Certain sounds are by nature allotted to each passion for
expressing it externally. The actor who has these sounds at com-
mand to captivate the ear, is mighty : if he have also proper ges-
tures at command to captivate the eye, he is irresistible.
The foregoing signs, though in a strict sense voluntary, cannot
however be restrained but with the utmost difficulty when prompted
by passion. We scarcely need a stronger proof than the gestures of
a keen player at bowls : observe only how he writhes his body, in
order to restore a stray bowl to the right track. It is one article tA
good breeding, to suppress, as much as possible, these external signs
of passion, that we may not in company appear too warm, or too
interested. The same observation holds in speech : a passion, it is
true, when in extreme, is silent ;t but when less violent it must be
▼ented in words, which have a peculiar force not to be equalled in a
* Instead of a complimental speech in addressing a superior, the Chinese deliTer
the compliment in writing, the smallness of the letters being proportioned to the
degree of respect; and the highest compliment is, to make the letters so small w
not to be legible. • Here is a clear evidence of a mental connection between resped
and littleness : a man humbles himself before his superior ; and endeavors to cott-
. ract himself and his |;^ahd- writing within the smallest bounds.
' t See Chap. 17.
Digitized by LjOOQ IC
-J
C%. 15.] EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 207
aedate composition. The ease and security we have in a con6dant,
may encourage us to talk of ourselves and of our feelings: but the
cause is more general ; for it operates when we are alone as well as
in company. Passion is the cause ; for in many mstances it is no
slight gratification, to vent a passion externally by words as well as
by gestures. Some passions, when at a certam height, impel us so
strongly to vent them in words, that we speak with an audible voice
even when there is none to listen. It i^ that circumstance in passion
wiich justifies soliloquies; and it is that circumstance which proves
them to be natural.* The mind sometimes favors this impulse of
Mssion, by bestowing a temporary sensibility upon any object at
band, in order to make it a confidant. Thus, in the Winter^ s Talet\
Antigonus addresses himself to an infant whom he was ordered to
expose;
Come, poor babe,
I have heard, but not believ'd, the spirits of the dead
May walk again ; if such things be, thy mother
Appear'd to me last night; for ne'er was dream
So like a waking.
The involuntary signs, which are all of them natural, are either
peculiar to one passion, or common to many. Every vivid passion
nath an external expression peculiar to itself; not excepting pleasant
passions; witness admiration and mirth. The pleasant emotions
that are less vivid have one common expression; from which we
may gather the strength of the emotion, but scarce the kind : we
perceive a cheerful or contented look ; and we can make no more of
tt. Painful passions, being all of them violent, are distingxiishable
from each other by their external expressions : thus fear, shame,
anger, anxiety, dejection, despair, have each of them peculiar expres-
sions; which are apprehended without the least confusion: some
painful passions produce violent effects upon the body, trembling, for
example, starting, and swooning; but these eflTects, depending in a
good measure upon singularity of constitution, are not uniform in all
men.
The involuntary signs, such of them as are displayed upon the
countenance, are of two kinds : some are temporary, making their
appearance with the emotions that produce them, and vanishing with
tnese emotions ; others, being formed gradually by some violent pas-
sion often recurring, become permanent signs oi that passion, and
♦ Though a soliloquy in the perturbation of passion is undoubtedly natural,
and indeed not unfrequent in real life; yet Congreve, who himself has penned
several good soliloquies, yields, with more candor than knowledge, that tliey are
wmatural ; and he only pretends to justify them from necessity. This he does in
Ws dedication of the Double Dealer^ in the following words : " When a man in a
ioUk>quy reasons with himself, and pro^s and con's, and weighs all his designs;
we oi^nt not to imagine, that this man either talks to us, or to himself: he is
pnlv thinking, and thinking (frequently) such matter as it were inexcusable folly
in nim to speak. But because we are concealed spectators of the plot in agita-
tion, and the poet finds it necessary to let us know the whole mystery of his con-
trivance, he is willing to inform us of this person's thoughts ; and to that end it
forced to make use of the expedient of speech, no other better way being yd
invented for the communication of thought."
tAct3. 8C.3.
Digitized
by Google
208 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 15.
serve to denote the disposition or temper. The face of an infant indi-
cates no particular disposition, hecause it cannot be marked with any
character, to which time is necessary. Even the temporary signs
are extremely awkward, being the first rude essays of Nature to dis-
cover internal feelings : thi^s the shrieking of a new born infant,
without tears or sobbings, is plainly an attempt to weep ; and some
of these temporary signs, as smiling and frowning, cannot be
observed for some months after birth. Permanent signs, formed in
youth while the body is soft and flexible, a.fe preserved entire by the
firmness and solidity that the body acquires, and are neyer obliterated
even by a change of temper. Such signs are not produced after the
fibres become rigid ; some violent cases excepted, such as reiterated
fits of the gout or stone through a course of time : but these signs are
not so obstinate as those which are produced in youth ; for when the
cause is removed, they gradually wear away, and* at last vanish.
The natural signs of emotions, voluntary and involuntary, being
nearly the same in all men, form a universal language, which no
distance of place, no difference of tribe, no diversity of tongue, can
darken or render doubtful : even education, though of mighty influ-
ence, has not power to vary nor sophisticate, far less to destroy, their
signification. This is a wise appointment of Providence ; for if these
signs were, like words, arbitrary and variable, the thoughts and
volitions of strangers would be entirely hid from us ; which would
prove a great, or rather invincible, obstruction to the formation ot
societies: but as matters are ordered, the external appearances of
joy, grief, anger, fear, shame, and of the other passions, forming a
universal language, open a direct avenue to the heart. As the arbi-
trary signs vary in every country, there could be no communication
of thoughts among different nations, were it not for the natural signs,
in which all agree: and as the discovering of passions instantly at
their xbirth, is essential to our well-being, and often necessary for
self preservation, the Author oif our nature, attentive to our wantb
has provided a passage to the heart, which never can be obstructed
while eyesight remains.
In an inquiry concer^iing the external signs of passion, actions
must not be overlooked ; for though singly they afford no clear
light, they are, upon the whole, the best interpreters of the heart*
By observing a man's conduct for a course of time, we discover
unerringly the various passions that move him to action, what he
loves, and what he hates. In our younger years, every single action
is a mark, not at all ambiguous, of the temper ; for in childhood
♦ The actions here chiefly in view, are what a passion suggests in order to its
gratification. Beside these, actions are occasionally exerted to give some vent to
a passion, without any view to an ultimate gratification. Such occasional actioa
IS characteristical of the passion in a high degree ; and for that reason, when hap
pily invented, has a wonderfully good effect :
Hamlet. Oh most pernicious woman !
Oh villain, villain, smiling damned villain !
My tables — meet it is I set it down,
That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain
At least I'm sure it may be so in Denmark. [ WrUiiig;.
So, uncle, there you are. HaniUt^ Aa L Sc 5.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 15.] EXTERNAL SI0N8 OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 209
there is little or no disguise : the subject becomes more intricate in
adv^ced age; but even there, dissimulation is seldom earned on
for any length of time. And thus the conduct of life is the most per-
fect expression of the internal disposition. It merits not indeed the
title of a universal language; iN^ause it is not thoroughly under-
stood except by those of penetrating genius or extensive observation :
it is a language, however, which every one can decipher in some
measure ; and which, joined with the other external signs, atfords
sufficient means for the direction of our conduct with regard to
others : if we commit any mistake when such light is afforded, it
can never be the eflfect of unavoidable ignorance, but of rashness
or inadvertence.
Reflecting on the various expressions of our emotions, we recog-
nise the anxious care of Nature to discover men to each other.
Strong emotions, as above hinted, beget an impatience to express
them externally by speech and other voluntary signs, which cannot
be suppressed without a painful eflfort: thus a sudden fit of passion,
is a common excuse for indecent behavior or opprobrious language.
As to involuntary signs, these are altogether unavoidable : no voli-
tion nor eflfort can prevent the shaking of the limbs, nor a pale visage,
m a fit of terror : the blood will fly to the face upon a sudden emotion
of shame, in spite of all opposition.
• Emotions indeed, properly so called, which are quiescent, produce
no remarkable signs externally. Nor is it necessary that the more
deliberate passions should, because the operation of such passions is
neither sudden nor violent. These, however, remain not altogether
in obscurity ; for being more frequent than violent passion, the bulk
of our actions are directed by them. Actions therefore display, with
sufficient evidence, the more deliberate passions ; and complete the
admirable system of external signs, by which we become skilful in
human nature.
What comes next in order is, to examine the eflfects produced upon
a spectator by external signs of passion. None of these signs arc
beheld with indiflference : they are prdductive of various emotions,
tending all of them to ends wise and good. This curious subject
makes a capital branch of human nature : it is peculiarly useful to
writers who deal in the pathetic; and to history painters it is
indispensable.
It is mentioned above, that each passion, or class of passions, has
its peculiar signs ; and, with respect to the present subject, it must
he added, that these invariably make certain impressions on a spec-
tator : the external signs of joy, for example, produce a cheerfnl
potion ; the external signs of grief produce pity ; and the external
•igns of rage produce a sort of terror even in those who are not
aimed at.
Secondly, it is natural to think, that pleasant passions should
express themselves externally by signs that to a spectator appear
agreeable, and painful passions by signs that to him appear dis*
agreeable. This conjecture, which Nature suggests, is confirmed
by experience. Pride possibly may be thought an exception, tb9
J8»
Digitized
by Google
210 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 15
external signs of which are disagreeable, though it is commonly
reckoned a pleasant passion : but pride is not an exception, being in
reality a mixed passion, partly pleasant, and partjy painful; for
when a proud man confines his thoughts to himself, and to his own
dignity or importance, the passion is pleasant, and its external signs
agreeable ; but as pride chiefly consists in undervaluing or contemn-
ing others, it is sp far painful, and its external signs disagreeable.
Thirdly, it is laid down above, that kn agreeable object produces
always a pleasant emotion, and a disagreeable object one that is pain
ful.* According to this law, the external signs of a pleasant passion,
being agreeable, must produce in the spectator a pleasant emotion:
and the external signs of a painful passion, being disagreeable, must
produce in him a painful emotion.
Fourthly, in the present chapter it is observed, that pleasant pas-
sions are, for the most part, expressed externally in one uniform
nanner ; but that all the painful passions are distinguishable from
?ach other by their external expressions. The emotions accordingly
raised in a spectator by external signs of pleasant passions, have little
variety : these emotions are pleasant or cheerful, and we have not
words to reach a nwre particular description. But the external signs
of painful passions produce in the spectator emotions of different
kinds: the emotions, for example, raised by external signs of grid",
of remorse, of anger, of envy, of malice, are clearly distinguishable
from each other.
' Fifthly, external signs of painful passions are some of them
attractive, and some repulsive. Of every painful passion that is also
disafifreeable,t the external signs are repulsive, repelling the specta-
tor from the object : and the passion raised by such external signs
may be also considered as repulsive. Painful passions that are
agreeable produce an opposite effect. Their external signs are
attractive, drawing the spectator to them, and producing in him
benevolence to the person upon whom these signs appear : witness
distress painted on the countenance, which instantaneously inspires
the spectator with pity, and impels him to afford relief And the pas-
sion raised by such external signs may also be considered as attract-
ive. The cause of this difference among the painful passions raised
by their external signs may be readily gathered from what is laid
down, chap. ^. part 7. ^
It is now time to look back to the question proposed in the begin-
ning. How we come to understand external signs, so as to refer each
sign to its proper passion ! We have seen that this branch of know-
ledge cannot be derived originally from sight, nor from experience
Is it then implanted in us by nature? The following considerations
will incline \is to answer the question in the affirmative. In the first
place, the external signs of passion must be natural ; for they are
invariably the same in every country, and among the different tribes
of men : pride, for example, is always expressed by an erect posture,
reverence by prostration, and sorrow by a dejected look. Secondly,
♦ See Chap. 2. Part 7.
* See passions explained as agreeable or disagreeable, Chap. 3. Part S.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 15.] KXTKRNAL 8ION8 OF EMOTIONS AND FA88ION9. 211
we are not eren indebted to experience for the knowledge thai these
expressions are natural and universal ; for we are so framed as lo
ba?e an innate conviction of the fact. Let a man change his habita-
tion to the other side of the globe, he will, from the accustomed signs,
infer the passion of fear among his new neighbors, with as little
hesitation as he did at hoi^e. But why, afler all, involve ourselves
in preliminary observations, when the doubt may be directly solved
as follows ! That, if the meaning of external signs be not derived to
us from sight, nor from e^fperience, there is no remaining source
whence it can be derived but from nature. ,
We may then venture to pronounce, with some degree of assu-
rance, that man is provided by nature with a sense or faculty that
lays open to him every passion by means of its external expressions.
And we cannot entertain any reasonable doubt of this, when we
reflect, that the meaning of external signs is not hid even from
infants. An infant is remarkably afiected with the passions of its
Burse expressed in her countenance: a smile cheers it, a frown
makes it afraid : but fear cannot exist without apprehending danger ;
and what danger can the infant apprehend, unless it be sensible that
its nurse is angry ? We must therefore admit, that a child can read
anger in its nurse's face ; of which it must be sensible intuitively, for
it has no other means of knowledge. I do not affirm, that these par-
ticulars are clearly apprehended by the child ; for to produce clear
and distinct perceptions, reflection and experience are requisite : but
that even an infant, when afraid, must have some notion of its being
in danger, is evident.
That we should be conscious intuitively of a passion from its
external expressions, is conformable to the analogy of nature : the
knowledge of that language is of too great importance to be left upon
experience ; because a foundation so uncertain and precarious, would
prove a great obstacle to the formation of societies. Wisely, there-
fore, is it ordered, and agreeably to the system of Providence, that
we should have nature for our instructor.
Manifold and admirable are the purposes to which the external
«igns of passion are made subservient by the Author of our nature :
those occasionally mentioned above, make but a part. Several final
causes remain to be unfolded ; and to that task I proceed with alac-
rity. In the first place, the signs of internal agitation displayed
externally to every spectator, tend to fix the signification of many
words. The only effectual means to ascertain the meaning of any
doubtful word", is an appeal to the thing it represents : and hence the
ambiguity of words expressive of things that are not objects of exter-
wl sense ; for in that case an appeal is denied. Passion, strictly
ipeaking, is not an object of external sense ; but its external signs
We: and by means of these signs, passions may be appealed to with
tolerable accuracy. Thus the words that denote our passions, next
to those that denote external objects, have the most distmct meaning.
Words signifying internal action and the more delicate feelings,
are less distinct. This defect with regard to internal action, is what
chiefly occasions the intricacy of logic : the terms of that science are
Digitized
by Google
212 BXTERNAL 8ION8 OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 15.
fiir from being sufficiently ascertained, even after much care and
labor bestowed by an eminent writer;* to whom, however, the
world is greatly indebted, for removing a mountain of rubbish, and
moulding the subject into a rational and correct form. The same
defect is remarkable in criticism, which has for its object the more
delicate feelings ; the terms that denote these feelings being not more
distinct than those of logic. To reduce the science of criticism to
any regular form, has never once been attempted : however rich the
ore may be, no critical chemist has been found, to analyze its consti-
tuent parts, and to distinguish each by its own name.
In the second place, society among individuals is greatly promoted
oy that universal language. Looks and gestures give direct access
to the heart, and lead us to select, with tolerable accuracy, the pe^
sons who are worthy of our confidence. It is surprising how quickly,
and for the mpst part how correctly, we judge of character from
external appearance.
Thirdly, after social intercourse is commenced, these external
signs, which diflfuse, through a whole assembly, the feelings of each
individual, contribute above all other means to improve the social
affections. Language, no doubt, is the most comprehensive vehicle
for communicating emotions : but in expedition, as well as in power
of conviction, it falls short of the signs under consideration ; the
involuntary signs especially, which are incapable of deceit. Where
the countenance, the tones, the gestures, the actions, join with the
words in communicating emotions, these united have a force irre-
sistible. Thus all the pleasant emotions of the human heart, with
all the social and virtuous affections, are, by means of these external
signs, not only perceived, but felt. By this admirable contrivance,
conversation becomes that lively and animating amusement, with-
out which life would at best be insipid: one joyful countenance
spreads cheerfulness instantaneously through a multitude of spec-
tators.
Fourthly, dissocial passions, being hurtful by prompting violence
and mischief, are noted by the most conspicuous external signs, in
order to put us upon our guard. Thus anger and revenge, especially
when sudden, display themselves on the countenance in legible cha-
racters.! The external signs again of every passion that threatens
danger raise in us the passion of fear : which frequently operating
• Locke.
t Rough smd blunt manners are allied to anger by an internal feeling, as weD
as by external expressions resembling in a faint degree those of anger : therefore
such manners are easily heightened into anger ; and savages for that reason are
prone to anger. Thus rough and blunt manners are unhappy in two respects*
Jrst, they are readily converted into anger ; and next, the change being imperoa*-
Uble because of the sunilitude of their external si»ns, the person against whom tie
anger is directed is not put upon his guard. It is for these reasons a great obiect
in society, to correct such manners, eind to bring on a habit of sweetness and calm-
ness. This temper has two opposite good effects. First, it is not easily provdced
Id wrath. Next, the interval being great between it and real anger, a person of UmS
temper who receives an affront, has many changes to go through before his anger
be inflamed : these changes have each of them their external sign ; and the offeod-
^S pfti^y is put upon his guard, to retire, or to endeavor a reconciliation.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 15] EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 213
without reason or reflection, moves us by a sudden impulse to
avoid the impending danger.*
In the fifth place, these external signs are remarkably subservient
to morality. A painful passion, being accompanied with disagreea-
ble external signs, must produce in every spectator a painful emo-
tion: but then, if the passion be social, the emotion it produces is
attractive, and connects the spectator with the person who suffers.
Dissocial passions only are productive of repulsive emotions,' involv-
ing the spectator's aversion, and frequently his indignation. This
beautiful contrivance makes us cling to the virtuous, and abhor the
wicked.
Sixthly, of all the external signs of passion, those of affliction or
distress are the most Wlustrious with respect to a final cause. They
are illustrious by the singularity of their contrivance, and also by
inspiring sympathy, a passion to which human society is indebted
for its greatest blessing, that of providing relief for the distressed.
A subject so interesting deserves a leisurely and attentive examina-
tion. The conformity of the nature of man to his external circum-
stances is in every particular wonderful : his nature makes him prone
to society; and society is necessary to his well-being, because in a
solitary state he is a helpless being, destitute of support, and in his
manifold distresses destitute of relief But mutual support, the
sbming attribute of society, is of too great moment to be left depends
ent upon cool reason : it is ordered more wisely, and with greater
conformity to the analogy of nature, that it should be enforced even
instinctively by the passion of sympathy. Here sympathy makes a
capital figure, and contributes, more than any other means, to make
life easy and comfortable. But, however essential the sympathy of
others may be to our well-being, one beforehand would not readily
conceive how it could be raised by external signs of distress:
for considering the analogy of nature, if these signs be agreeable,
they must give birth to a pleasant emotion leading every beholder to
be pleased with human woes : if di^greeable, as they undoubtedly
are, ought they not naturally to repel the spectator from them, in
order td be relieved from pain ? Such would be the reasoning before-
hand; and such would be the effect were man purely a selfish being.
But the benevolence of our nature gives a very different direction to
the painful passion of sympathy, and to the desire involved in it:
mstead of avoiding distress, we fly to it in order to afford relief: and
our sympathy cannot be otherwise gratified but by giving all the suc-
cor in our power. t Thus external signs of distress, though disa-
greeable, are attractive ; and the sympathy they inspire is a powerful
cause, impelling us to afford relief even to a stranger as if he were
OW friend or relation.^
• See Chap. 2. Part 1. Sect. 6. t See Chap. 2. Part 7.
t It is a noted observation, that the deepest tragedies are the most crowded ;
wltteh in a slight view will be thought an unaccountable bias in human nature.
Le^re of novelty, desire of occupation, beauty of action, make us fond of theatrical
Mpresentations ; and, when once engaged, we must follow the story to the conclu-
MD, whatever distress it may create. But we generally become wise by experi-
ence j and when we foresee what pain we sheJl suffer during the course of the
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
214 EXTERNAL SIGNS OF EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. [Ch. 15.
The effects produced in all beholders by external sigfis of passion,
tend so visibly to advance the social state, that I must indulge my
heart with a more narrow inspection of this admirable branch of the
human constitution. These external signs, being all of them resol-
vable into color, figure, and motion, should not naturally make any
deep impression on a spectator : and supposing them qualified for
making deep impressions, we have seen above, that the effects they
produce are not such as might be expected. We cannot, therefore,
account otherwise for the operation of these external signs, but by
ascribing it to the original constitution of human nature : to improve
the social state, by making us instinctively rejoice with the glad ol
heart, weep with the mourner, and shun those who threaten danger,
is a contrivance no less illustrious for its wisdom than for its benevo-
lence. With respect to the external signs of distress in particular, to
judge of the excellency of their contrivance, we need only reflect
upon several other means seemingly more^natural, that would not
have answered the end proposed. What if the external signs of joy
were disagreeable, and the exterrtal signs of distress agreeable?
This is no whimsical supposition, because there appears not any
necessary connection between these sigfns and the emotions produced
by them in a spectator. Admitting then the supposition, the ques*
tion is, how would our sympathy operate 7 There is no occasion to
deliberate for an answer : sympathy would be destructive, and not
beneficial: for, supposing the external signs of joy disagreeable, the
happiness of others would be our aversion ; and supposing the exle^
nat signs of grief agreeable, the distresses of others would be our en-
tertainment. I make a second supposition, that the external signs of
distress were indiflferent to us, and productive neither of pleasure nor
of pain. This would annihilate the strongest branch of sympathy, that
which is raised by means of ^ight : and it is evident that reflective
sympathy, felt by those only who have great sensibility, would not
have any extensive eflfect. I shall di^aw nearer to truth in a third
supposition, that the external signs of distress being disagreeable,
were productive of a painful repulsive emotion. Sympathy upon
that supposition would not be annihilated : but it would be rendered
useless ; for it would be gratified by flying from or avoiding the
object, instead of clinging to it and afTording relief: the condition of
man would in reality be worse than if sympathy w^ere totally
eradicated; because sympathy would only serve to plague those
who feel it, without producing any good to the afflicted.'
Loth to quit so interesting a subject, I add a reflection, with which
I shall conclude. The external signs of passion are a strong indi-
cation, that man, by his very constitution, is framed to be open and
representation, is it not surprising that persons of reflection do not avoid such spec-
tacles altogether 1 J^d yet one who has scarcely recovered from the distress of i
deep trag^y, resolves coolly and deliberately to go to the very next, without the
slightest obstruction from self-love. The whole mystery is explained by a single
observation — that sympathy, though painful, is attractive, smd attaches us toW
object in distress, the opposition of self-love notwithstanding, which should promf*
us to fly from it. And by this curious mechanism it is, that persons of any degwt
of sensibility are attra'^ted bv aflliction still more than by joy.
Digitized
by Google
CL 16.] BSkTIMBNTS. 215
fincere. A child, in all things ohedient to the impulses of nature,
h^es none of its emotions : the savage and clown, who have no
g:uide but pure nature, expose their hearts to view, hy giving way
to all the natural signs. And even when men learn to dissemble
tfaeir sentiments, and when behavior degenerates into art, tht're still
remain checks, that keep dissimulation within bounds, and prevent
a great part of its mischievous effects. The total suppression of the
voluntary signs during any vivid passion, begets the utmost uneasi^
ness, which cannot be endured for any considerable time : this ope*
ration becomes, indeed, less painful by habit ; but, luckily, the invo*
luntary signs cannot; by any effort, be suppressed, nor even dissem-
bled. An absolute hypocrisy, by which the character is concealed,
and a fictitious one assumed, is made impracticable ; and nature has
thereby prevented much harm to society. We may pronounce,
therefore, that Nature, herself sincere ana candid, intends that man-
kind should preserve the same character, by cultivating simplicity
and truth, and banishing every sort of dissimulation that tends to
mischief.
CHAPTER XVI.
SENTIMENTS.
!9entiraent is a thought prompted b)r passion — In dramatic composition adjust the
passion to the character, the sentiment to the passion, the language to the senti-
ment— Dialogue, the most difficult kind of composition — The difference between
the French and the English, owing to this : French formed on Corneille's decla-
mation, English, on Shakspeare's language of nature — Passion does not long
continue in the same tone : the sentiment should rise and fall with the passion,
and the language correspond with both — When the mind vibrates between two
passions, the sentiments should also vibrat^ — Passion to be subject to reason —
Immoderate passions, when represented, to be distinguished as much as possi-
ble— Six faulty sentiments — Sentiments that accord not with the passion — those
that may belong to an ordinary passion, but unsuitable to it — thoughts in
description — sentiments introduced too early or too late — vicious sentiments
exposed in their natural garb — Unnatural sentiments are of three kinds — when
they are unsuited to the nature of man — when inconsistent — when too artificial
fcr a serious passion.
Every thought prompted by passion, is termed a sentiment*
To have a general notion of the different passions, will not alone
mMe an artist to make -a just representation of any passion : he
ought, over and above, to know the various appearances of the same
passion in different persons. Passions receive a tincture from every
peculiarity of character ; and for that reason it rarely happens, that
a"* passion, in the different circumstances of feeling, of sentiment,
wad of expression, is precisely the same in any two persons. Hence
the following rule concerning dramatic and epic compositions.
That a passion be adjusted to the character, the sentiments to the
Esion, and the language to the sentiments. If nature be not faith-
Y copied in each of these, a defect in execution is perceived :
dbere may appear some jesemblance ; but the picture, upon the
* See Appendix, § 38.
Digitized
by Google
216 8BNTIMSNTS. [Ch. 6.
whole, will be insipid, through want of grace and deli y. A
painter, in order to represent the various attitudes of the body, ought
to be intimately acquainted with ntuscular motion :. no less intimately
acquainted with emotions and characters ought a writer to be, in
order to represent the various attitudes of the mind. A. general
notion of the passions, in their grosser differences of strong and
weak, elevatedf and humble, severe and gay, is far from being suffi-
cient : pictures formed so superficially have little resemblance, and
no expression ; yet it will hereafter appear, that in many instances
our artists are deficient, even in that superficial knowledge.
In handling the present subject, it would be endless to trace even
the ordinary passions through their nice and minute differences.
Mine shall be an humbler task; which is, to select from the best
writers instances of faulty sentiments, after paving the way by some
general observations.
To talk in the language of music, each passion has a certain tone,
to which every sentiment proceeding from it ought to be tuned with
the greatest accuracy : which is no easy work, especially where such
harmony ought to be supported during the course of a long thea-
trical representation. In order to reach such delicacy of execution,
it is necessary that a writer assume the precise character and passion
of the personage represented ; which requires an uncommon ge-
nius. But it is the only difficulty; for the writer, who, annihilating
himself, can thus become another person, need be in no pain about
the sentiments that belong to the assumed character : these will flow
without the least study, or even preconception ; and will frequently
be as delightfully new to himself as to his reader. But if a lively
picture even of a single emotion requires an effort of genius, how
mucli greater the effort to compose a passionate dialogue with as
many different tones of passion as there are speakers? With what
ductility of feeling must that writer be endowed, who approaches ^
perfection in Such a work ; when it is necessary to assume different
and even opposite characters and passions, in the quickest succes-
sion ? Yet this work, difficult as it is, yields to that of composing a
dialogue in genteel comedy, exhibiting charactei's without passion.
The reason is, that the different tones of character are more delicate
and less in sig^ht, than those of passion ; and, accordingly, many
writers, who have no genius for drawing characters, make a shift to
represent, tolerably well, an ordinary passion in its simple move-
ments. But of all works of this kind, what is truly the most diffi-
cult, is a characteristical dialogue upon any philosophical subject,
to interweave characters with reasoning, by suiting to the character
of each speaker, a peculiarity not only of thought, but of expres-
sion, requires the perfection of genius, taste, and judgment.
How nice dialogue-writing is, will be evident, even without rea-
soning, from the miserable compositions of that kind found without
number in all languages. The art of mimicking any singularity
in gesture or in voice, is a rare talent, though directed by sight and
hearing — the acutest and most lively of our external senses : how
much more rare must the talent be, of imitating characters and internal
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 16J SENTIMENTS, 2IT
emotions, tracing all their different tints, and representing them in a
lively manner by natural sentiments properly expressed ? The troth
is, such execution is too delicate for an ordinary genius ; and for
that reason, the bulk of writers, instead of expfessinof a passion as
one does who feels it, content themselves with describing it in the
language of a spectator. To awaken passion by an internal effort
merely, without any external cause, requires great sensibility : and
yet that operation is necessary, no less to the writer than to the
actor; because none but those who actually feel a passion, can repre-
sent it to the life. The writer's part is the more complicated : he
must add composition to passion ; and must, in the quickest succes-
sion, adopt every different character. But a very humble flight of
imagination, may serve to convert a writer into a spectator ; so as to
figure, in some obscure manner, an action as passing in his sight
and hearing. In that figured situation, being led naturally to write
like a spectator, he entertains his readers with his own reflections,
with cool description, and florid declamation; instead of making
them eye-witnesses, as it were, to a real event, and to every move
ment of genuine passion.* Thus most of our plays appear to be
cast in the same mould ; personages without character, the mere out-
lines of passion, a tiresome monotony, and a pompous declamatory
style, t /^
This descriptive manr^er of representing passion, is a very cold
entertainment : our sympathy is not raised by description ; we must
first be lulled into a dream of reality, and every thing must appear
as passing in our sight.J Unhappy is the player of genius who
acts a capital part in what may be termed sl descriptive tragedy;
after assuming tte very passion that is be represented, how is he
cramped in action, when he must utter, not the sentiments of the
passion he feels, but a cold description in the language of a by-
stander ? It is that imperfection, I am persuaded, in tne bulk of our
phys, which confines our stage almost entirely to Shakspeare, not-
withstanding his many irregularities. In our late English trage-
dies, we sometimes find sentiments tolerably well adapted to a plain
passioc*. but we must not, in any of them, expect a sentiment
expressive of character ; and, upon that very account, our late per-
formances of the dramatic kind are, for the most part, intolerably
insipid.
* In the JEneid. the hero is made to describe himself in the following words :
Sum plus ^neaSifama super athera notus. Virgil could never have been guilty
of an impropriety so gross, had he assumed the personage of his hero, instead of
uttering the sentiments of a spectator. Nor would Xenophon have made the fol-
lowing speech for Cyrus the younger, to his Grecian auxiliaries, whom he wai
leading against his brother Artaxerxes : " I have chosen you, O Greeks ! my
auxiliaries, not to enlarge my "army , for I have Barbarians without number ; but
beeause you surpass all the Barbarians in valor and military discipline." This
sentiment is Xenophon's : for surely Cyrus did not reckon his countrymen Bar-
barians.
t " Chez Racine tout est sentiment; il a su faire parler chacwn, pour soi^ et c'est
en eela qu'il est vraiment unique parmi les auteurs djramatiques de sa nation."
'^Ro^sseau,
t See Chap. 2. Part 1. aect 7.
19
Digitized
by Google
1^18 uimiiBifTa IGL 1&
Looking back upon wiiat is said, I am in somo apprehension of
not being perfectly understood; for it is not easy to avoid obscurity
in handling a matter so complicated : but I promise to set it in the
dearest light, by adding example to precept The first examples
shall be of sentiments that appear the legitimate ofispring of pas-
sion ; to which shall be opposed what are descriptive only, and ille-
gitimate: and in making this comparison, I borrow my instances
from Shakspeare and Coraeille, who for genius in dramatic compo-
sition stand uppermost in the rolls of fame.
Shakspeare shall furnish the first example, being of sentiments
dictated by a violent and perturbed passion :
Lear. Filial ingratitude
Is it not, as if this mouth should tear this hand
For liftine food to't 1— But I'll punish home ;
No, I will weep no more. In such a night,
To shut me out ! Pour on, I will endure.
In such a night as this ! O Eegan, Groneril,
Your old kind father, whose fi^nk heart gave all —
O ! that way madness lies ; let me shun that ;
No more of that. ■
KefU. Good, my lord, enter here.
Lear. Pr'ythee, go in thyself, seek thine own ease,
This tempest will not give me leave to ponder
On things would hurt me more :— but HI go in ;
In, boy, go first. You houseless poverty
Nay, get thee in ; I'll pray, and tken I'll sleep-
Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you we.
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm !
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your looped and window'd raggedness defend you
From seasons such as these 1 — —O I have ta'en
Too little care of this ! take physic. Pomp ;
Expose thyself to fed what wretches feel,
Thiea thou may'st shake the superflux to them,
And show the heavens more just
King L^ar^ A*^ III. Sc 4.
I rive another example of the same kind, expressing sentimeott
ansing from remorse and despair :
Othello. Lo ! I have a weapon :
A better never did itself sustain
Upon a soldier's thigh. I've seen the day,
Tnat with this little arm, and this good sword,
I've made my way through more impediments
Than twenty times your stop. But, oh vain boast !
Who can control his fate 1 'tis not so now.
Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon'd;
Here is my journey's end, here is my butt,
The very sea-marK of my utmost sail.
Do yol go back dismay'd '{ 'tis a lost fear.
Man but a rush against OtheUo's breast,
And he retires. Where should Othello goT
Now — how dost thou look now 1 Oh ill-starrVlwettcht-
Pale as thy smock ! When we ^all meet at oemfit,
This look of thine will hurl my soul from heav'n,
» And fiends will snateh at it. 6old, cold, my girl;
Ev'n like thy chastity. O ciorsed slave t
Whip me, ye devils,
From the possession of this heaVnly sight;
Digitized
by Google
Ql 16J 8BNTIMBNT8. 2t9
Blow me about in winds, roast meiin sulphtir,
Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid Are- —
Uh, Desdemona < Desdemona! dead! dead! oh I oh!
Othello, Ac\Y. Be. ±
The sentiments here displayed flow so naturally from the passiona
represented, that we cannot confeeive any 'imitation more perfect.
With regard to the French author, truth obliges me to acknow-
ledge, that he describes in the style of a spectator, instead of express-
ing passion like one who feels it ; which naturally betrays him into
a tiresome monotony, and a pompous declamatory style.* It is
scarcely necessary to gives examples, for he never varies from that
tone. I shall, however, take two passages at a venture, in order to be
confronted with those transcribed above. In the tragedy of CinnOt
Emilia, after the conspiracy was discovered, having nothing in view
but racks and death to herself and her lover, receives a pardon from
Augustus, attended with the brightest circumstances of magnanimity
and tenderness. This is a lucky situation for representing the pas-
sions of surprise and gratitude in their different stages, which se6m
naturally to be what follow. These passions, raised at once to the
utmost pitch, and being at first too big for utterance, must, for some
moments be expressed by violent gestures only : as soon as there is
* This criticism reaches the French dramatic writers in general, with very few
exceptions : their traffedies, excepting those of Racine, are mostly, if not totally,
descriptive. Comeilfe led the way; and later writers, imitating ms manner, have
accustomed the French ear to a style, formal, pompous, declamatory, which suits
not with any passion. Hence, to burlesque a French tragedy, is not more diffi-
cult than to burlesque a stiff solemn fop. The facility of the operation has in
Paris introduced a singular amusement, which is, to burlesque the more successful
tragedies in a sort of farce, called a parody. La Motte, who himself appears to
have been sorely galled by some of these productions, acknowledges that no more
is necessary to give them currency but barely to vary the dramatis persona, and
instead of kings and heroes, queens and princesses, to substitute tinkers and tai-
lors, milkmaids and seamstresses. The declamatory style, so different from the
genuine expression of passion, passes in some measure unobserved, when great
personages are the speakers ; but in the mouths of the vulgar the impropriety
with regard to the speaker as well as to the passion represented, is so remarkable
^ to become ridiculous. A tragedy, where every passion is made to speak in its
natural tone, is not liable to be thus burlesqued : the same passion is by all men
expressed nearly in the same manner; and, therefore, the genuine expressions of
a passion cannot be ridiculous in the mouth of any man who is susceptible of the
passion.
It is a well known fact, that to an English ear, the French actors appear to
pronounce with too great rapidity; a complaint much insisted on by Gibber m par-
ticular, who had frequently heard the famous Baron upon the French stage.
This may in some measure be attributed to our want of facility in the French
tongue ; as foreigners generally imagine that every language is pronounced too
quick by natives. But that it is not the sole causft, will be probable from a fact
(firectly opposite, that the French are not a little disgusted with the languidnesa,
as they term it, of the English pronunciation. May not this difference of tasta
be derived from what is observed above ] The pronunciation of the genuine lanp-
guage of a passion is necessarily directed by the nature of the passion, partic»-
larly by the slowness or celerity of its progress : plaintive passions, which are
the most frequent in tragedy, having a slow motion, dictate a slow pronunciation;
in declamation, on the contrary, the speaker warms gradually ; ancf, as he warms,
he naturally accelerates his pronunciation. But, as the French have formed their
tone of pronunciation upon Corneille's declamatory tragedies, and the English
upon the more natural language of Shakspeare, it is not surprising thai custcmi
should produce such difference of taste in the two nations
Digitized
by Google
t{20 SENTIMENTS. [Oil. IG.
vent for words, the first expressions are broken and interrupted: at
iast we ought to expect a tide of intermingled sentiments, occasioned
hy the fluctuation of the mind between the two passions. uEmilia
IS made to behave in a very different manner : with extreme coolness
she describes her own situation, as if she were merely a spectator, or
rather the poet takes the task off her hands :
Et je me rens, Seigneur, a ces hautes bont^s :
Je recouvre la vue aupr4s de leurs claries.
Je connois mon forfait qui me semblo it justice;
Et ce que n'avoit pA la terreur du supplice,
Je sens naitre en raon ame un repentir puiSsant,
Et mon ccBur en secret me dit, qu il y consent.
Le ciel a resolu Totre grandeur suprdme ;
Et pour preuve, Seigneur, je n'e/i veux que moi-m6me.
J'ose avec vanite me donner cet 6clat,
Puisqu'il change mon coeur, c[u'U veut chan^r l'6tat,
Ma haine.va mourir, que j'ai crue immortelle ;
Elle est morte, et ce coeur devient sujet fidfele ;
Et prenant d6sormais cette haine en horreur,
L'aixleur de vous servir succkle a sa fureur.
ActV.Sc.3.
In the tragedy of Sertorius, the queen, surprised with the news
that her lover was assassinated, instead of venting any passion,
degenerates into a cool spectator, and undertakes to instruct tho
bystanders how a queen ought to behave on such an occasion:
Viriate. II m'en fait voir ensemble, et I'auteur, et la cause.
Par cet assassinat c'est de moi qu'on dispose,
C'est m9n trone, c'est moi qu'on pretend conqu^rir;
Et c'est mon juste choix qui seul Va fait perir.
MadamQ apres sa perte, et panni ces alarmes,
N'attendez point de moi de soupirs, ni de larmes;
Ce sont amusemcns que d^aigne ais^ment
Le prompt et noble orgueil d'un vif ressentiment.
Clui pleure, I'affoiblit; qui soupire, I'exhale:
II faut plus de fierte dans une ame royale ;
Et ma douleur soumise aux soins de le venger, &c.
Act V. Sc. 3.
So much in general upon the genuine sentiments of passion. 1
proceed to particular observations. And, first, passions seldoin con-
tinue uniform any considerable time : they generally fluctuate, swell-
ing and subsiding by turns, often in a quick succession ;* and the
sentiments cannot be just unless they correspond to such fluctuation.
Accordingly, climax never shows better than in expressing a swelling
passion : the following passages may sufiice for an illustration.
Oroonoko.-^ Can you raise the dead ?
Pursue and overtake the wings of time 1
And bring about again, the hours, the days,
The years, that made me happy 1
Broonoko^ Act II. Sc. 2.
Alrneria: How hast thou charm'd
The wildness of the waves and rocks to this 1
That thus relenting they have giv'n thee back
To earth, to light and life, to love and me 1
Mourning Bride, Act I. Sc- 7.
* See Chap. 3. Part 3.
Digitized
by Google
Gh. 16^1 SENTI £NTll. 23l
I would not be the villain that thou think'st
For the-wbole space that's in the tyrant's grasp
And the rich East to boot
Macbeth, Act IV. Sc. 3.
The following passage expresses finely the progress of conriction.
Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve
That tender, lovely form, of painted air,
, So like Almeria. Ha ! it sinks, it falls ;
rU catch it ere it goes, and grasp her shade. •
'Tis life ! 'tis warm ! 'tis she ! 'tis she herself I
It is Almeria, 'tis, it is my wife !
MoumiTig Bride, Act II. Sc. 6.
Id the progress of thought, our resolutions become more vigorous
as well as our passioDS :
If ever I do yield or give consent,
By any action, word, or thought, to wed
Another lord; may then just heav'n show'r down, &c.
Mourning Bride, Act I. Sc. 1.
And this leads to a second observation, that the different stages of
a passion, and its different directions, from birth to extinction, must be
carefully represented in their order; because otherwise the senti-
ments, by being misplaced, will appear forced and unnatural. Resent-
ment, for example, when provoked by an atrocious injury, ^discharges
itself first upon the author : sentiments therefore of revenge come
always first, and must, in some measure, be exhausted before the per-
son injured thinks of grieving for himself In the Cid of Corneille,
Don Diegue having oeen affronted in a cruel manner, expresses
scarcely any sentiment of revenge, but is totally occupied in contem-
plating the low situation to which he is reduced by the affront :
O rage ! 6 d^sespoir! 6 vieillesse ennemie !
N'ai-je done tant vecu que pour cette infamie 1
Et ne suis-je blanchi dans les travaux siierrierH,
Clue pour voir en un jour fl^trir tant de lauriers 1
Mon oras, qu'avec respect toute I'Espagne admire, *
Mon bras, qui tant de fois a sauv6 cet empire,
Tant de fois affermi le trdne de son Roi,
Trahit done ma querrelle, et ne fait rien pour moi !
O cruel souvenir de ma gloire pass6e !
CEuvre de tant de Jours en un jour effacde !
Nouvelle dignity mtale a mon bonheur !
Pr6cipice 61ev6 d'otit tombe mon honneur !
Faut-il de votre 6clat voir triompher le Comte.
Et mourir sans vengeance, ou vivre dans la hontel
• Comte, sois de mon Prince k present gouverneur,
Ce haut rang n'admet point un homme sans honneur ;
Et ton jaloux orgueil par cet affront insigne,
Malg^6 le choix du Hoi, m*en a sA rendre indigne.
Et toi, de mes exploits glorieux instrument,
Mais d'un corps tout de glace inutile ornement,
Fer jadis tant a craindre, et qui dans cette offense
M'as servi de parade, et non pas tie defense,
Va, quitte d^sormais le dernier des humains,
Passe pour me venger en de meilleures mains.
Le Cid, Act I. Sc. 7.
These sentiments are certainly not the first that are suggested by
die passion of resentment As the first movements of resentment
19*
Digitized
by Google
222 ^ SENTIMENTS. [C3l 1&
are alivays directed to its object, the very same is the case of grief.
Yet with relation to the sudden and severe distemper that seized
Alexander bathing in the river Cydnus, Q,uintus Curtias describes
the first emotions of the army as directed to themselves, lamenting
that they were left without a leader, far from home, and had scarcely
any hopes of returning in safety: their king's distress, which must
naturally have been their first concern, occupies them but in the
8econ(} place, according to that author. In the Aminta of Tasso,
Sylvia, upon a report of her lover's death, which she believed cer-
tain, instead of bemoaning the loss of her beloved, ^urns her thoughts
upon herself, and wonders her heart does not break.
In the tragedy of Jane Shore, Alicia, in the full purpose of destroy-
ing her rival, has the following reflection :
Oh Jealousy ! thou bane of pleasing friendship.
Thou worst invader of our tender bosoms ;
HoW does thy rancor poison all our softness,
And turn our gentle natures into bitterness 1
See where she comes ! once my heart's dearest blessing,
Now my chang'd eyes are blasted with her beauty,
Loathe that known face, and sicken to behold her.
Act III. Sc. 1.
These are the reflections of a cool spectator. A passion while it
has' the ascendant, and is freely indulged, suggests not to the person
who feels it any sentiment to his own prejudice: reflections like the
foregoing occur not readily till the passion has spent its vigor.
A person sometimes is agitated at once by different passions; and
the mind, in that case, vibrating like a pendulum, vents itself in
sentiments that partake of the same ^vibration. This I give as a
hird observation :
Queen. 'WouW I had never trod this English earth,
Or felt the flatteries that »row upon it !
Ye've angels' faces, but Heaven knows your hearts.
What shall become of me now 1 wretched lady I
I am the most unhappy woman living.
Alas ! poor wenches, where are now your fortunes 1 [To her Vf(nHm,
Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity,
No friends, no hope ! no kindred weep for me !
Abnost no grave allow'd me.
Henri/ VIIL Act III. Sc. I.
Othello. Oh devil, devU !
If that the earth could teem with woman's tears,
Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile. *
Out of my sight!
Desderiuma. I will not stay t'offend you. Is^f^*
Lodovico, Truly, an obedient lady :
I do beseech your Lordship, call her back.
Olh. Mistress
Des. My Lord.
Oth. What would you with her, Sir?
Lod. Who, I, my Lord 1
Oth. Ay; you did wish that I would make her tnni;
Sir, she can turn and turn, and yet go on j
And turn afain. And she can weep. Sir, weepr
And she's obedient: as you 'say, obedient;
Very obedient — ^proceed you in your tears—
Digitized
by Google
Oh. IG.} 8£NTIMXNT8. SSS
Conceniing this, Sir — oh well painted passion I
I am commanded home — ^et you away,
I'll send for you anon — Sir, 1 obey the mandate^
And will return to Venice. HAice, ayaunt ! [ExU Desdematm,
Othello, Act IV. 3c. 1.
JEmilia. Oh ! my good Lord, I would speak a word with JWL
Othello. Yes, 'tis Amilia— By and by— She's dead.
*Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio's death ;
The noise was high — Ha ! no more moving 1
Still as the grave. Shall she come in 1 were't good 7
I think she stirs again — No — What's the best 1
If she come in, she'll sure speak to my wife ;
My wife ! my wife ! What wife I I have no wife ;
Oh insupportable ! O heavy hour !
Othello, Act V. Sc. 3.
A fourth observation is, that nature, which gave us passions, and
made them extremely beneficial when moderate, intended, undoubt-
edly, that they should be subjected to the government of reason and
conscience.* It is, therefore, against the order of nature, that passion
in any case should take the lead in contradiction to reason and con-
science: such a state of mind is a sort of anarchy, of which every
one is ashamed, and endeavors to hide or dissemble. Even love,
however laudable, is attended with a conscious shame when it
becomes immoderate: it is covered from the world, and disclosed
only to the beloved object :
Et que I'amour souvent de remors combattu,
Paroisse une foiblesse, et non une vertu.
Boileau, VArt Poet. Chant. 3. 1. 101.
O, (hey love least that let men know their love.
Two Gentlemen of VeroTuiy Act I. Se. 2,
Hence a capital rule in the representation of immoderate passions,
that they ought to be hid or dissembled as much as possible. And
this holds in an especial manner with respect to criminal passions :
one never counsels the commission of a crime in plain terms : guilt
must not appear in its native colors, even in thought : the proposal
must be made by hints, and by representing the action in some
favorable light. Of the propriety of sentiment upon such an occasion,
Shakspeare, in the Tempest, has given us a beautiful example, in a
speech by the usurping Duke of Milan, advising Sebastian to murder
lus brother the King of Naples :
Antonio, What might,
Worthy Sebastian, — O, what might — no more.
And yet, methinks, I see it in thy face,
What thou shouldst be : th' occasion speaks thee, and
My strong imagination sees a crown
Dropping upon thy head.
Tempest, Act II. Sc. 1.
There never was drawn a more complete picture of this kind, than
that of King John soliciting Hubert to murder the young Prince
Arthur :
K.John. Come hither, Hubert O mv gentle Hubert,
1 fl<
We owe thee much ; within tliis wall of flesh
• See Chap. 2. Part 7.
Digitized
by Google
^1
984 ■KNTI1l£NTi. [Ch. i&
There is a fcral eounto thee her creditor,
And with advantage means to pay thy loTe.
And, my eood friend, thy voluntary oath '
* Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished.
Give me thy hand, I had a thing to say
But I will fit it with some better time.
By Heav'n, Hubert, I'm almost asham'd
To say what good respect I have of thee.
Hubert. I am much bounden to your Majesty.
K. John. QooA friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet
But thou shalt have — and creep time ne*er so slow,
Yet it shall come for me to do thee good.
I hod a thin^ to say — -but let it go ;
The sun is m the heaven ; and the proud day,
Attended with the pleasures of the world.
Is all too wanton, and too full of gawds.
To give me audience. If the midnight bell
Did with his iron-tongue and brazen mouth
Sound one into the drowsy race of night ;
Ifthissame were a church-yard where we stand, '
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs ;
Or if that surly spirit Melancholy
Had bak'd thy blood, and made it heavy-thick.
Which else runs tickling up and down the veins.
Making that idiot Laugnter keep men's eyes,
And strcdn their cheeks to idle merriment,
'A passion hateful to my purposes ;)
)r if thajt thou couldst see me without eyes,
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit alone,
Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words;
Then, in cfespite of broad-ey'd watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts.
But ah, I will not — Yet I love thee well ;
And, by my troth, I think thou lov'st me well.
Hubert. So well, that what you bid me undertake,
Thouffh that my death were adjunct to my act,
By Heav'n I'd do't
K. John. Do not I know thou wouldsf?
Gtood Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye
On yon young boy. I'll tell thee what, my mend ;
He IS a very serpent in my way.
And, wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread,
He lies before me. Dost thou understand me ?
Thou art his keeper. King John^ Act IlL Sc 3.
. As things are best illustrated by their contraries, I proceed to
faulty sentiments, disdaining to be indebted for examples to any bat
the most approyed authors. The first class shall consist of senti-
ments that accord not with the passion ; or, in other words, senti-
ments that the passion does not naturally suggest. In the second
class, shall be ranged sentiments that may belong to an ordinary
passion, but unsuitable to it as tinctured by a singular character
Thoughts that properly are not sentiments, but rather descriptions,
make a third. Sentiments that belong to the passion represented,
but are feulty as bemg introduced too early or too late, makes
fourth. Vicious sentiments exposed in their natiye dress, instead of
being concealed or disguised, make a fifth. And in the last class,
shall be collected sentiments suited to no character nor passion, and
therefore unnatural.
Digitized
by Google
Ck 16.] SENTIMENT. 2M
The first class contains faulty sentiments of various kinds, which
I shall endeavor to distinguish from each other ; beginning with
sentiments that are faulty by being above the tone of the passion :
OtheUo. O my soul's joy !
If after every tempest come such calms,
May the M'inds blow till they have waken'd death !
And let the laboring bark clmib hills of seas
Olympus high, and duck again as low-
As heirs* from heaven. ^
OtkeUo^ Act II. Sc. 1.
This sentiment may be suggested by violent and inflamed passion,
bat is not suited to the calm satisfaction that one feels upon escaping
danger.
Philaster. Place me, some ^od, upoh a pyramid
Higher than hills of earth, and lend a voice
Loud as your thunder to me, that from thence
I may discourse to all the under- world
The worth that dwells in him.
Philaster of Beaumont and Fletcher, Act IV.
Second. Sentiments below the tone of the passion. Ptolemy,
by putting Pompey to death, having incurred the displeasure oif i
Csfesar, was in the utmost dread of being dethroned : in that agitating
situation, Corneille makes him utter a speech full of cool relection,
that is in no degree expressive of the passion.
Ah ! si je t'avois cru, je n'aurois pas de maitre,
Je serois dans le troneou le*Ciel m'a fait naitre ;
Mais c'est une imprudence assez commune aux rois,
D'6couter trop d'avis, et se tromper aux choix.
Le Destin les aveugle au bord du precipice,
Oil si quelque lunuiSrc en leur ame se glisse,
Cette fausse clart6 dont il Ics ^blouit.
Lesplonge dans une gouifre, et puis a^evanouit.
La Mori de Pompee, Act IV. Sc. 1.
In Les Preres ennemis of Racine, the second act is opened with a
love-scene. Hemon talks to his mistress of the torments of absence,
of the lustre of her eyes, that he ought to die no Avhere but at her
feet, and that one moment of absence is a thousand years. Antigone
on her part acts the coquette ; pretends she must be gone to wait on
h«r mother and brother, and cannot stay to listen to his courtship.
This is odious French gallantry, below the dignity of the passion
of love: it would scarcely be excusable in painting modern French
Jianners ; and is insufferable where the ancients are brought upon
the stage. The manners painted in the Alexandre of the same
author are not more just. French gallantry prevails there throughouL
Third. Sentiments that agree not with the tone of the passion ;
as where a pleasant sentiment is grafted upon a painful passion, or
the contrary. In the following instances the sentiments are too gay
for a serious passion :
No happier task these faded eyes pursue;
To read and weep is all they now can do.
Eloisa to Abelardj 1. 47.
Digitized
by Google
SKHTIMKNTd. (C9l Mi
Again,
HeaVn first taught letters for some wretch's aid,
Some banish'd lover, or some captiye maid ;
They Uye, they speak, they breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires ;
The virgin's wish without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart ;
Speed the jsofl intercourse from soul to soul.
And waft a sigh from Indus to the pole.
Eloisa to Abelard, 1. 51.
These thoughts are pretty : they suit Pope, but not Eloisa.
Satan, enraged by a threatening of the angel Gabriel, answers
thus :
Then when I am thy captive talk of chains.
Proud limitary cheruti ; W ere then
Far heavier load thyself expect to feel
From my prevailing arm, tnou^h Heaven's King
Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy compeers,
Cs'd to the yoke, draw'st his triumphant wheels
In progress through the road of heav'n star-pav^d.
Paradise Lost, Book IV.
The concluding epithet forms a grand and delightful image, which
cannot be the genuine ofispring of rage.
Fourth. Sentiments too artificial for a serious passion. I give
for the first example a speech of Percy expiring :
O, Hcurry, thou hast robb'd me of my youth:
I better brook the loss of brittle life,
Than those proud titles thou hfist won of me ;
They wound my thoughts, worse than thy sword my flesh.
But thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool ;
And time, that takes survey of all the world,
Must have a stop.
First Part, Henry IV. Act V. Sc. 4.
Livy inserts the following passage in a plaintive oration of the Lo
crenses, accusing Pleminius the Roman legate of oppression.
In hoc legato vestro, nee hominis quicquam est, Patres Conscripti, praeter fi^
ram et speciem ; neque Romani civis, prseter habitum vestitumque, et sonum lin-
gusB Latime. Pestis et bellua immanis, quales fretum, quondam, quo ab Sicilia
dividimur, ad pemiciem navigantium circumsedisse, fabuLe ferunt.*
The sentiments of the Mourning Bride, are for the most part, no
less delicate than just copies of nature : in the following exception
the picture is beautiful, but too artful to be suggested by severe grief
Almeria. O no ! Time gives increase to my afflictions.
The circling hours, that gather all the woes
Which are difiiis'd through the revolving year,
Come heavy laden with ui' oppressive weight
To me; with me, successively they leave
The sis^hs, the tears, the groans, the resdess cares.
And all the damps of grief, that did retard their flight.
Conscnpt fathers ! in this your legate there is nought of man save his figure and
species ; nor is there ought of a Roman citizen save his habit and dress, and the
sound of the Latin tongue. He is a pest and a great brute, such as those whkh
the sea that drives us from Sicily is fabled to have engendered for the destmctioa
of sailors. Titus lAvius, 1. 29. § 17.
Digitized
by Google,
They shake their downy wings, and scatter aD
The dire collected dews on my poor head ;
They fly with joy and swiftness from me.
Act L Sc. 1.
In the same play, Almeria, seeing a dead body, which she took to
be Alphonso's, expresses sentiments strained and, artificial, which
nature suggests not to any person upon such an occasion.
Had they, or hearts, or eyes, that did this deed 1
Could eyes endure to guide such cruel hands 1
Are not my eyes guilty alike with theirs,
That thus can gaze, and yet not turn to stone 1
—I do not weep ! The springs of tears are dry'd,
Andt)f a sudden I am calm, as if '
All things were well ; and yet my husband's murder'd I
Yes, yes, I know to mourn : I'll sluice this heart,
The source of wo, and let the torrent loose.
Act V. Sc. 2.
Lady Trueman, How could you be so cr»iel to defer giving me that joy which
Cknew I must receive from your presence 1 You have robb'd my life of somt
8 of happiness that ought to have been in it. Drummer j Act V.
Pope^s Elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady, expresses
delicately the most tender concern and sorrow that one can feel for
the deplorable fate of a person of worth. Such a poem, deeply seri-
ous and pathetic, rejects with disdain all fiction. Upon that account,
the following passage deserves no quarter ; for it is not the language
of the heart ; but of the imagination indulging its flights at ease ; and
by that means is eminently discordant with the subject. It would be
a still more severe censure, if it should be ascribed to imitation, copy-
ing indiscreetly what has been said by others :
What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face % '
What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallowed dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb 1
Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow ;
While angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by they reliques made.
Fifth. Fanciful or finical sentiments. Sentiments that degenerate
mto point or conceit, however they may amuse in an idle hour, can
never be the offspring of any serious or important passion. In the
Jerusalem of Tasso, Tancred, after a single combat, spent with fatigue
and loss of blood, falls into a swoon ; in which situation, understood
to be dead, he is discovered by Erminia, who was in love with him
0 distraction. A more happy situation cannot be imagined, to raise
grief in an instant to its height; and yet, in venting her sorrow, she
descends most abominably into antithesis and conceit, eren oi the
lowest kind:
E in lui versdd^inessicabilireiLa
Lacrime^^e voce di sospiri mista.
In che misero punto or qui me mena
Fortuna ! ache veduta amara e trista I
Digitized
by Google
9S9 SKlTTIMKNTtf. ^Ck )&
Dopo gran tempo i' ti ritroTo k pena
Tancredi, e ti nveg^, e non son viita,
Vista non son da te, benche presente
E trovando ti perdo eternamente.
/ Canto 19. St 105.
Her springs of teares she looseth foorth, and cries
Hither why bring'st thou me, ah fortune blindel
Where dead, for whom I lived, m^ comfort lies,
Where warrc for peace, travel! for rest I find ;
Tancred, I have thee, see thee, yet thine eies
Lookt not u^n thy love and handmaide kinde,
Undoetheu'doores, their lids fast closed sever
Alas, I find thee for to lose thee ever.
Fairfax,
Armida^s lamentation respecting her lover Rinaldo,* is in the same
vicious taste.
Queen. Giye me no help in lamentation,
I am not barren to bring forth complaints :
All springjB reduce their currents to mine eyes
That I, being govem'd by the wat'ry moon.
May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world,
Ah, for my husband, for my dear Lord Ekiward.
King Richard III. Act II. Sc. 2.
Jane Shore. Let me be branded for the public scorn,
Turn'd forth, and driven to wander like a vagabond,
Be friendless and forsaken, seek my bread
Upon the barren wiW, and desolate waste,
jFeed on my sighs and drink my falling tears:
Ere I consent to teach my lips injustice.
Or wrong the Orphan who nas none to save him.
Jane Shore^ Act IV.
Give me your drops, ye soft-descending rains.
Give nje your streams, ye never-ceasing springs,
That my sad eyes may still supply my duty,
And feed an everlasting flood of sorrow.
Jan£ Shore, Act V.
Jane Shore utters her last bredth in a witty conceit.
Then all is well, and I shall sleep in peace —
*Tis very dark, and I have lost you now —
' Was there not something I would have bequeathed you 1
But I have nothing left me to bestow,
Nothing but one sad sigh. Oh mercy, Heav*n ! [Dies.
ActV.
Qjlford to Lady Jane Gray, when both were condemned to die '
Thou 8tand*st unmoved ;
Calm temper sits upon thy beauteous brow;
Thy eyes that flowM so fast for Edward's loss,
Gaze unconQem'd upon the ruin round thee,
As if thou hadst resolv'd to brave thy fate,
And triumph in the midst of desolation.
Ha I see, it swells, the liquid crystal rises^
It starts in spite of thee— -but I will catch it,
Nor let the earth be wet with dew so rich.
Lady Jane Gray, Act IV. near the end.
• Canto 20. Stan. 124, 125, and 126.
Digitized by LjOOQ IC
d. 16.] flBNTlMSMTfl. Mt
Tlie concluding sentiment is altogether finicali unsuitable to the
importance of the occasion, and even to the dignity of the passiaii
of love.
Corneille, in his Ezamen of the Ci/f/ answering an objection, that
his sentiments are sometimes too much refined for persons in deep
(iistress, observes, that if poets did not indulge sentiments more
ingenious or refined than are prompted by passion, their performan-
ces would often be low, and extreme grief would never suggest but
exclamations inerely. This is in plain language to assert, that forced
thoughts are more agreeable than those that are natural, and ought
to be preferred.
The second class is of sentiments that may belopg to an ordinary
passion, but are not perfectly concordant with it, as tinctured by a
singular character.
In the last act of that excellent comedy. The Careless Husband^
Lady Easy, upon Sir Charles's reformation, is made to express more
violent and turbulent sentiments of joy, than are consistent with the
mildness of her character :
La^ Easy. — O the soft treasure ! O the dear reward of long-desiring love. —
Thus ! thus to have you mine, is something more than happiness ; 'tis double life,
and madness of abounding joy.
If the sentiments of a passion ought to be suited to a, peculiar charac-
ter, it is still more necessary that actions be suited to the charaeter.
In the fifth act of the Drummer, Addison makes his gardener act
even below the character of an ignorant credulous rustic : he giveft
• him the behavior of a gaping idiot.
The following instances are descriptions rather than sentiments^
which compose a third class.
Of this descriptive manner of painting the passions, there is in the
Hippolytus of Euripides, Act V. an illustrious instance, namely, the
speech of Theseus, upon hearing of his son's dismal exit. In Ra-
cine's tragedy of Esther, the Glueen hearing of the decree issoea
against her people, instead of expressing sentiments suitable toJhe
occasion, turns her attention upon herself, and describes with metiB'
racy her own situation :
Juste Ciel ! tout mon sang dans mes veines se glace.
Act I. Sc. 3.
Again,
Aman. C*en est fait. Mon orgueil est forc6 de plicr. L'inexorable Aman est
reduit a prier. Esther , Act III. Sc ft,
Athahe. Gtud prodige nouveau me trouble et m'embarrassel
• La douceur de sa voix, son enfance, sa grace,
Font ittsensiblement k mon inimiti6
Succeder — ^Je serois sensible k la piti6 1
4/AaZt«, Actll. Sc.7.
TU/us, O de ma passion fureur desesper^e !
^ Brutus of Voltaire, Act III.'Sc 6.
IVhat other are the foregoing instances but describing the pasdoft
another feels %
♦ Page 316.
20
Digitized
by Google
^SO SSNTIM BNTS. [CL it
A man stabbed to the heart in a combat with his enemy, expresses
* himself thus :
So, now I am at rest :
I feel death rising higher still, and higher,
Within my bosom j every breath I fetch
Shuts up my life within a shorter compass :
And like the vanishing sound of bells, grows leas
And less each pulse, 'till it be lost in air. Dryden.
Captain Flash, in a farce composed by Garrick, endeavors to hide
his fear by saying, " What a damn'd passion I am in^"
An example is given above of remorse and despair expressed by
fenuine and natural sentiments. In the fourth book of Paradise
iOst, Satan is made to express his remorse and despair in sentiments,
which, though beautiful, are not altogether natural : they are rather
ahe sentiments of a spectator, than of a person Avho actually is tor-
mented with these passions.
The fourth class is of sentiments introduced too early or too late.
Some examples mentioned above belong to this class. Add the
following from Venice Preserved, Act V. at the close of the scene
between Belvidera and her father Priuli. The account given by
Belvidera of the danger she was in^ and of her husband's threatening
to murder her, ought naturally to have alarmed her relenting father,
,ai>d to have made him express the most perturbed sentiments. Ipstead
I pf which he dissolves into tenderness and. love for his daughter, as
>if he had already delivered her from danger, and as if there were a
perfect tranquillity:
Canst thou forgive me all my follies pasti
I'll henceforth be indeed a fatlier; never,
Never more thus expose, but cherish thee,
Dear as the vital warmth that feeds my life,
Dear as those eyes that weep Jn fondness o'er thee :
Peace to thy heart.
Immoral sentiments exposed in their native colors, instead of being
concealed or disguised, compose the fifth class.
The Lady Macbeth, projecting the death of the King, has the fol-
lowing soliloquy : .
-The raven himsdf is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements. Come all you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,
And fill me from the crown to th* toe, t(^fidl
Of direst cruelty ; make thick my blood.
Stop up th' access and passage to remorse *
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose.
Macbeth, Act I. Sc. 5.
This speech is not natural. A treacherous murder was never per-
petrated, even by the most hardened miscreant, without compunction:
and that the lady here must have been in horrible agitation, appears
from her invoking the infernal spirits to fill her with cruelty, and to
stop up .all avenues to remorse. But in that state of mind, it is a
never-failing artifice of self-deceit, to draw the thickest veil over the
wicked action, and to extenuate it by all the circumstances tba»
Digitized
by Google
rCL 16.1 SSNXIMfeNTS. *2II
imagination can suggest: and if the crime cannot bear disguise, the
next attempt is to thrust it out of mind altogether, and to rush oa to
action without thought. This last was the husband's method:
Strange things I have in head, that will to hand ;
Whicm must be acted ere they must be scann*d.
Act III. Sc. 4.
The lady ibllows -neither of these courses, but in a deliberate maniier
todeavors to fortify her heart in the commission of an execrable
crime, without even attempting to color it. This, I think, is not
natural ; I hope there is no such wretch to be found as is here rep-
resented. In the Pompey of Corneille,* Photine counsels a wicked
action in the plainest terms without disguise :
Seigneur, n'attirez point le tonnerre en ces lieux,
Rangez vous du parti des destins et des dieux,
Et sans les accuser d' injustice, ou d'outrage ;
Puis flu'ils font les heurcux, adorez leur ouvragc;
duels que soient leurs d^crets, d^clarez-vous pour eux,
Et pour leur ob6ir, perdez le malheureux.
PressSdetoutes parts des colferes celestes,
n en yient dessus vous faire fondre les restes ;
Et sa tftte qu'a peine il a pil derobcr,
Toutpr6tead6choir,cherche avec qui tomber.
Sa retraite chez vous en effet n'est qu'un crime ;
EUe marque sa haine, et non pas son estime ;
II ne vient que vous perdre en venant prendre port,
Et vous pouvez douter s'il est digne de mortl
n devoit mieux remplir nos voeux et notre attente,
Paire voir sur ses nefs la victoire flottante ;
II n'etit ici trouv6 que joye et que festins ;
Mais puisc|u'il est vaincu, qu'u s'en prenne aux destins.
J*en veux a sa disgrace et non a sa personne,
Pcxecutfr a regret ce que le ciel ordonne,
Et du m6me poi^nard, pour C6sar destin6,
Je perceen soupirant son coeur infortun6,
Vous ne nouvez enfin qu'aux d^pens de sa tdte
Mettle h. Vabri la v6tre, et parer la tempdte.
Liaissez nommet sa mort un injuste attentat,
^ La justice n'est pas une vertu d'6tat.
Le choix des actions, ou mauvaises, ou bonnes,
Ne fait qu'an^antir la force des couronnes ;
Le droit des rois consiste a ne rien 6pargner ;
Latimide equity detruit I'art der^gner;
Ctuand on craint d'etre injuste on a toujours acraindre;
Et qui veut tout pouvoir doit oser tout enfreindre
Puir comme un deshonneur la vertu qui le perd,
Et voler sans scrupule au crime qui lui sert.
In the tragedy of Esther,^ Haman acknowledges, without disguise,
his cruelty, insolence, and pride. And there is another 'example of
the same kind in the Agamemnon of Seneca.J In the tragedy of
Atkalie,^ Mathan, in cool blood, relates to his friend many black
crimes of which he had been guilty, to satisfy his ambition.
In Congreve's Double-dealer, Maskwell, instead of disguising or
coloring his crimes, values himself upon them in a soliloquy :
Cynthia, let thy beauty gild my crimes ; and whatsoever I commit of treachery
* Act I. Sc. I. t Act II. Sc. I.
t Beginning of Act II. S Act 111. Sc. 3. at the cloise.
Digitized
by Google
tm 8SHTIMKNYK. |0b. !&
01 deceit, shall be imputed to me as a merit Treachery ! what treachery 1 Lore
cancels all the bonds of friendship, and sets men right upon their first foundaUons.
Act II. So. a
In French plays, love, instead of being hid or disguised, is treated
88 a serious concern, and of greater importance than fortune, £imily,
or dignity. I suspect the reason to be, that, in the capital of France,
love, by the easiness of intercourse, has dwindled down from a real
Cssion to be a connection that is regulated entirely by the mode or
ihion.* This may in some measure excuse their writers, but will
never make their plays be relished {imong foreigners :
Maxime. Ciuoi, trahir mon ami 1
Euphorbe, L'amour rend tout permis,
Tin veritaUe amant ne eonnoit point d'amis.
Ciniui^ Act III. Sc. 1.
*^ Cesar. Reine, tout est paisible, et la ville calm6e,
Gtu'un trouble assez l^ger evoit trop alarm6e,
N'a plus a redouter le divorce inlestin
Pu soldat insolent, et du peuple mutin. *
Mais, 6 Dieux ! ce moment que je vous ai qnitt^
D'un trouble bien plus grand a mon ame agit^e,
Et ces soins importuns qui m'arrachoient de vous
Contre ma grandeur m^me allumoient mon comroux.
Je lui voulois du mal de m'dtre si contraire,
J>e rendre ma presence ailleurs si,n6cessaire,
Mais je lui pardonnois au simple souvenir
Du bonheur qu'a ma flamme elle a fait obtenir.
C*est elle dont je tiens cette haute esp^rance,
Clui flatte mes d^sirs d'une illustre apparence,
Et fait croire a Cesar qu'il peut former des vauz,
QmW n'est pas toiit-a fait indigne de vos feox,
Et qu'il peut en pretendre une juste conqudte,
N'fiyant plus que les Dieux au dessus de sa tdte.
Qui, Reine, si quelqu'un dans ce vaste univers
Pouvoit jwrter plus haut la gloire de vos fers;
S'il 6toit quelque trone ou vous puissiez paroltre
Plus di^nement assise en captivant son maitre,
JMrois, j'irois a lui, moins pour le lui ravir^
due pour lui disputer le droit de vous seryir;
Et je n'aspirerois au bonheur de vous plaire,
Clu aprds avoir mis bas un si grand aaversaire.
C'^loit pour acquerir un droit si pr^cieux,
Q,ue combattoit partout mon bras ambitieux, '
Et dans Pharsale mdme il a tire I'epee
Plus pour le con server, que pour vaincre Pomp^
Je I'ai vaincu, princesse, et le Dieu des combats
M'y favorisoit moins que vos divins appas.
Us conduisoient ma main, ils enfloient mon courage,
Cette pleine victoire est leur dernier ouvrage,
C'est t'effet des ardeurs qu'ils daignoient m'inspirer;
Et vos beaux yeux enfin m'ayant fait soupirer,
, Pour faire que votre ame avec gloire y r6ponde,
M'ont rendu le premier, et de Rome, et du monde
C'est ce ^lorieux titre, a present effectif ;
due je viens ennoblir par celui de captif j
Heureux, si mon esprit gagne tant sur le vdtre,
du'il en estime I'un, et me permette I'autre.
Pompie, Act IV. Sc. 3.
• A certain author says humorously, " Les mots ipdmes d'amour et d'amant
■ont bannis de Tintime soci^te des deux sexes, et releeu^s avec ceux de chai:te et
de JUmme dans les Romans qu'on ne lit plus." And where nature is once banish*
jbd. ft fair field is open to every fantastic imitation, even the most extravagant.
Digitized
by Google
€%. 16. SENTIMENTS. .283
The last class comprehends sentiments that are unnatural, as being
suited to no character nor passion. These may be subdivided into
three branches : first, sentiments unsuitable to the constitution of
man, and to the laws of his nature^ second, inconsistent sentiments;
third, sentiments that are pure rant and extravagance.
When the fable is of human affairs, every event, every incident,
and every circumstance, ought to be natural, otherwise the imitation
is imperfect. But an imperfect imitation is a venial fault, compared
with that of running contrary to nature. In the Hippolylus of
Euripides,* Hippolytus, wishing for another self in his own situa-
tion, How much (says .he) should I be touched with his misfortune*
as if it were natural to grieve more for the misfortunes of another
than for one's own.
Osmyn. Yet I behold her — yet — and now no more.
Turn your lights inward, eyes, and view my thought.
So shall you still behold her — 'twill not be.
O impotence of sight ! mechanic sense
"Which to exterior objects ow'st thy faculty,
Not seeing of election, but necessity.
Thus do our eyes, as do all common mirrors,
Successively reflect succeeding images.
Nor what they would, but must ; a star or toad ;
Just as the hemd of chance administers !
Mourning Bride^ Act II. Sc. 8.
No man, in his senses, Bver thought of applying his eyes to dis-
cover what passes in his mind ; far less of blaming his eyes for not
seeing a thought or idea. In Moliere's VAcare,\ Harpagon being
robbed of his money, seizes himself by the arm, mistaking it for that
of the robber. And again he expresses himself as follows :
Je veux allcr au^rir la justice, et faire donner la question a toute ma maison;
i servantes, a valets, a fils, a.fille, et a moi aussi.
This is so absurd as scarcely to provoke a smile, if it be not at
the author.
Of this second branch the following are examples.
-Now bid me run,
And I will strive with things impossible,
Yea get the better of them.
Julius Casar, Act II. Sc. 3.
Vos mains seules ont droit de vaincre un invincible.
Le Cid, Act V. Sc. last
Clue son nom soil b^ni. due son nom i^oit chants,
Clue I'on celebre ses ouvrages
Au dela dc l*dtemit6. .
Esther, Act V. Sc. laat
Me miserable ! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath and infinite despair 1
Which way I fly is hell: myself am hell;
And in the lowest deep, a loioer deep
Still threatnin? to devour me, opens wide;
To which the nell I suffer seems a heav'n.
Paradise Lost, Book IV.
• Act IV. Sc. 5. t Act IV. Sc 7.'
Digitized
by Google
iM SBlTTUfBVrS. ((%. tt
Of the third branch, take the following samples.
Lucan, talking of Poropey's sepulchre,
— Romanum nomen, ct omne
Imperiiun Magno est tumuli modus. Obrue saxa
Cnmine plena deum. Si tota est Herculis Oete,
Et juga tota vacant Bromio Nyseia ; quare
Unas in Egypto Ma^no lapis 1 Omnia Lag;i
Rura tenere potest, si nuUo cespite nomen
Haeserit. Eirremus populi, cinerumque tuorum,
Magne, metu nullas rnli calcemus arenas. L. 8. L 7961
Thus ill Howe's translation :
Where there are seas, or air, or earth, or skies,
Where-e'er Rome's empire stretches, Pompey lies.
Far be the vile memorial then convey'd !
Nor let this stone the partial gods upbraid
Shall Hercules all Oeta's heights demand,
And Nysa's hill for Bacchus only stand.
While one poor pebble is the warrior's doom
That fought the cause of liberty and Romel
If fate decrees he must in E^pt lie.
Let the whole fertile realm his grave supply,
Yield the wide country to his awful shade
Nor let us dare on any part to tread,
Fearful we violate the mighty dead.
The following passages are pure railt. Coriolanus, speaking to
his mother,
-What is this 1
]
Your knees to me 1 to your corrected son 1 ,
Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach
Fillip the stars : then let the mutinous winds
Strike the proud cedars 'gainst the fiery sun :
Murd'ring impossibility, to make
What cannot oe, slight work.
CoriolanuSj Act V. Sc 3.
Casar. — | Danger knows full well,
That Cssar is more dangerous than he.
We were two lions litter d in one day.
And I the elder and more terrible.
Julius CasaTj Act II. Sc. 4.
AlnwMde. This day
I gave my faith to him, he his to me.
Almanzor, Good heaven, thy book of fate before me lay
But to tear out the journal of this day.
Or if the order of tne world below,
Will not the gap of o/ie whole day allow,
Give me that minute when she made that vow, '
That minute e*en the happy from their bliss mifi^ht give,
And those who Xive in grief a shorter time woiud live,
So small a link if broke, th' eternal chain,
Would like divided waters join again.
Conquest of GTenada, Act IIL
Almanzor. I'll hold it fast
As life : M'hen life's gone, I'll hold this last,
And if thou tak'st after I am slain,
m send my ghost to fetch it back again.
Conquest of Grenada^ Part 3. Act III.
Ijundiraza. A crown is come, and will not fate allow,
And yet I feel something like death is near.
My guardi, my guards
Digitized
by Google
CL 17.] LAKOVAGB OF P4«8I0N. 895
Let not that ugly skdeton appear.
Sure destiny mistakes ; this death's not mine;
She doats, and means to cut another line.
Tell her I am a queen — ^but 'tis too late j
■ Dying, I charge rebellion on my fate ;
Bow down, ye slaves
Bow quickly down and your submission show ;
I'm pleas'd to taste an 'empire ere I go. [Ihes. .
Ccmquesi of Grenada^ Part 3. Act V
Ventidius. But you, ere love misled your wand'ring eyes
"Were, sure, the chief and best of human race,
Fram'd in the very pride and boast of nature,
So perfect, that the gods who formed you wonder*d
At their own skill, and cry'd, a lucky hit
Has mended our design.
Drydeut All for Love, Act I.
Not to tallc; of the impiety of this sentiment, it is ludicrous insteaid
of being lofty.
The famous epitaph on Raphael is no less ahsurd than any of the
foregoing passages :
Raphel, timuit, quo sospite, vinci
Rerum magna parens, et moriente mori. ,
Imitated by Pope in his Epitaph on Sir Godfrey Kneller :
Living, great nature fear'd he might outvie
Her works ; and dying, fears herself might die.
Such is the force of imitation ; for Pope, of himself, would never
have been guilty of a thought so extravagant.
So much upon sentiments ; the language proper for expressing
them, comes next in order.
CHAPTER XVII.
LANGUAGE OF PASSION.
Man has a propensity to communicate his passions and emotions — Venting a
passion gives relief— Immoderate grief is silent, because it fills the mind — fin-
moderate love and reven^ silent — Surprise and terror silent — They express in
words, only the capital circumstances — Langua^ should be adopted to the sen-
timent and pcussion — Elevated sentiments require elevated language — Tender
sentiments, soft and flowing lan^age — Figures give an agreeable character to
8entiment---Gross errors, of passions expressed in flowing in an unec|ual course
—The language of violent passion, interrupted and broken, soliloquies particu-
larly— Aumors apt to use language above their tone of mind— To use lan-
Cage too figurative for the dignity and importance of the subject, an error —
inguage too li^ht and airy for a serious pstssion-^A thought that turns upon
one expression instead of the subject — Expressions which have no distinct
meaning.
Among the particulars that compose the social part of our nature,
a propensity to communicate our opinions, our emotions, and every
thing that affects us, is remarkable. Bad fortune and injustice affect
08 greatly ; and of these we are so prone to complain, that if we
hare no friend nor acquaintance to take part in our sufferings, we
sometimes utter our complaints aloud, even where there are none to
listen.
Digitized
by Google
.236 LANOVAOB or PA88ION. [Ch. 17.
But this propensity operates not in every state of mind. A man
immoderately grieved, seeks to afflict himself, rejecting all consola-
tion : immoderate grief accordingly is mute : complaining is strug-
gling for consolation
It is the wretch's comfort still to have
Some small reserve df near and inward wo,
Some unsuspected hoard of inward grief,
Which they unseen may wail, and weep, and mourn,
And glutton-like alone devour.
Mourning Bride ^ Act I. Sc. 1.
When grief subsides, it then and no sooner finds a tongue : we
complain, because complaining is an effort to disburden the mind of
its distress.*
Surprise and terror are silent passions for a different reason : they
agitate the mind so violently as, for a time, to suspend the exercise of
its faculties, and among others the faculty of speech.
liOve and revenge, when immoderate, are not more loquacious than
immoderate grief But when these passions become moderate, they
set the tongue free, and, like moderate grief, become loquacious:
moderate love, when unsuccessful, is vented in complaints; when
successful, is full of joy expressed by words and gestures.
As no passion has any long uninterrupted existence,t nor beats
aiways with an equal pulse, the language suggested by passion is not
only unequal, but frequently interrupted: and even during an unin-
terrupted fit of passion, we only express in words the more capital
sentiments. In familiar conversation, one who vents every single
thought is justly branded with the character of loquacity ; because
sensible people express no thoughts but what make some figure : in
the same manner, we are only disposed to express the strongest pulses
of passion, especially when it returns with impetuosity afler inter-
ruption.
I formerly had occasion to observe,| that the sentiments ought to
be turned to the passion, and the language to both. Elevated senti-
ments require elevated language : tender sentiments ought to be
clothed in words that are soft and flowing: when the mind is depressed
with any passion, the sentiments must be expressed in words that are
humble, not low. Words being intimately connected with the ideas
♦ This observation is finely illustrated by a story which Herodotus records, b.3.
Cambyses, when he conquered Egypt, made Psammenitus the kinff prisoner; and
for trying his constancv, ordered his daughter to be dressed in the habit of a sla?e,
and to be employed in bringing water from the river ; his son also was led to exe-
cution with a halter about his neck. The Egyptians vented their sorrow in tears
and lamentations; Psammenitus only, with a downcast eye, remained silent
Afterward meeting one of his companions, a man advanced m years, who, being
plundered of all, was begging alms, he wept bitterly, calling him by his name.
Cambyses, struck with wonder, demanded an answer to the following question;
" Psammenitus, thy master, Cambyses, is desirous to know, why, after thou hadsi
seen thy daughter so ignominiouslv treated, and thy son led to execution, without
exclaiming or weeping, thou shouldst be so highly concerned for a poor man, no
way related to -thee 1" Psammenitus returned the following answer: "Son of
Cyrus, the calamities of my family are too great to leave me the power of weep-
ing ; but the misfortunes of a companion, reduced in his old age to want of bread,
is a fit subject for lamentation.''
t See Chap. 2. Part 3. t Chap. 16.
Digitized
by Google
CL 17.] LANOVAOB OF PA8SI01I. 507
they represent, the greatest harmony is required between them : to
express, for example, an humble sentiment in high sounding words,
is disagreeable by a discordant mixture of feelings ; and the discoid
is not less when elevated sentiments are dresst^d in low words :
Yersibus exponi tragicis res comica noh vult.
Indignatur item privatis ac prope soccO
Dignis corminibus narrari coena Thyestse.
Horace^ Ars Poet. 1. 89.
A comic subject will not hold
If 'tis in tragic measure ti>ld ;
Besides, it would an audience shock,
In verses fitter for the sock
The Thyeste«ui feast to tell.
This, however, excludes not figurative expression, which, within
moderate bounds, communicates to the sentiment an agreeable eleva-
tion. We are sensible of an effect directly opposite, where figura-
tive expression is indulged beyond a just measure: the opposition
.between the expression and the sentiment, makes the dispord apnear
greater than it is in reality.*
At the same time, figures are not equally the language of every
passion : pleasant emotions, which elevate or swell the mind, vent
themselves in strong epithets and figurative expression ; but hum-
bling and dispiriting passions affect to speak plam :
Et trafficus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri.
Telepnus et Peleus, cum pauper et exul uterque ;
Projicit ampuUas et sesquipedalia verba,
Si curat cor spectantis tetigisse querela.
Horace^ Ars Poet. 1. 95.
. And sometimes in the tragic scene
You've waitings, melancholy — mean.
Peleus and Telepnus, when poor.
And exiles, will no more endure
Their rants and raving ten feet high
If they would to the heart apply.
Figurative expression, being the work of an enlivened imagina-
tion, cannot be the language of anguish or distress. Otway, sensible
of this, has painted a scene of distress in colors finely adapted to the
subject: there is scarcely a figure in it, except a short and natural
sihiile with which the speech is introduced. Belvidera talking to
her father of her husband :
Think you saw what past at our last parting
Think you beheld him like a raging lion.
Pacing the earth, and tearing up his steps.
Fate in his eyes, and roaring with the pain
Of burning fury ; think you saw his one hand
Pix'd on my throat, while the extended other
Grasp'd a keen threat'ning dagger , oh, 'twas thus
We last embrac'd, when, trfemWing with revenge,
' He dragg'd me to the ground, and at my bosom
Presented horrid death : cried^out. My friends !
Where are my friends % swore, wept, rag'd, threaten'd, IotM
For he yet lov'd, and that de€ur love preserv'd me
To this last trial of a father's pity.
• See this explained more particularly in Chap. 8.
Digitized
by Google
LANOV AGS OF. PASSION. {Ol 17.
I fear not death, but cannot bear a thoug;fat
That that (lear hand should do th' unfriendly office;
If I was ever then your care, now hear me ;
Fly to the senate, save the promised lives
Or his deigr friends, ere mine be made the sacrifice.
Venice Preseru'd^ Act V.
To preserve the foresaid resemblance between words and tbeir
^neaning, the sentiments of active and hurrying passions ought to b^
dressed in words where syllables prevail that are pronounced short
or fast ; for these make an impression of hurry and precipitation.
Emotions, on the other hand, that rest upon their objects, are best
expressed by words where syllables prevail that are pronounced long
or slow. A person affected with melancholy has a languid and slow
train of perceptions : the expression best suited to that state of mind,
is where words, not only of long but of many syllables, abound in
the composition ; and, for that reason, nothing can be finer than the
following passage.
In those deep solitudes, and awfiil cells.
Where heav'nly-pensive Contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns. '
Pope, Eloisa to AJbelard.
To preserve the same resemblance, another circumstance is requi-
site, that the language, like the emotion, be rough or smooth, broken
or uniform. Calm and sweet emotions are best expressed by words
that glide softly : surprise, fear, and other turbulent passions, require
an expression both rough antl broken.
It cannot have escaped any diligent inquirer into nature, that, in
the hurry of passion, one generally expresses that thing first which
is most at heart :* which is beautifully done in the following pas-
sage.
Me, me ; adsum qui feci : in me convertite ferrum,
O Rutuli, mea firaus omnis.«
JBneidf IX. 427.
Me — ^me — I'm here, I did it— turn your swords
On me, oh Rutuleans — ^mine was fidl the fraud.
Passion has oflen the effect of redoubling words, the better to
make them express the strong conception of the mind. This is finely
imitated in the following examples.
-l*hou sun, said I, fair light !
And thou enlighten'd earth, so fresh and gay !
Ye hills and dales, ye rivers, woods, and plains !
And ye that live, and move, fair creatures ! tell.
Tell if ye saw, how came I thus, how here-
Paradise Lost^ book VIII. 9To
-Both have sinn'd ! but thou
Against God only ; I, 'gainst God and thee :
And to the place of judgment will return.
There with my cries in^rtune Heaven, that all
* Demetrius Phalereus (of Elocution, sect. 28.) justly observes, that an accurate
adjustment of the words to the thought, so as to make them correspond in evoy
particular,' is only proper for sedate subjects*, for that passion speaks plain, >nd
rejects all refinements.
Digitized
by Google
Ql I7.J * I,AlfGUAGB OF PASSIOH. M
The lentenoe, from thy head remoY^, may light
On me, sole cause to thee of all chis wo ; *
* Me ! me ! only just object of his ire.
Paradise JLost, book X. 990.
Shakspeare is superior to all other writers in delineating passion.
It is difficult to say m what part he most excels, whether in moulding
every passion to peculiarity of character, in discovering the senti-
ments that proceed from various tones of passion, or in expressing
properly every different sentiment : he disc^usts not his reader with
general declamation and unmeaning words, too common in other
writers : his sentiments are adjusted to the peculiar character and
circumstances of the speaker : and the propriety is no less perfect
between his sentiments and his diction. That this is no exaggera-
tion, will he evident to every one of taste, upon comparing S^hakspeare
with other writers in similar passages. If upon any occasion he
falls below himself it is in those scenes where passion enters not : by
endeavoring in that case to raise his dialogue above the style of
ordinary conversation, he sometimes . deviates into intricate thought
and obscure expression :* sometimes, to throw his language out of
the familiar, he employs rhyme. But may it not, in some measure,
excuse Shakspeare, I shall not say his works, that he had no pattern,
in his own or in* any living language, of dialogue fitted for the thea-
tre? At the same time, it ought not to escape observation, that the
stream clears in its progress, and that in his later plays he has
attained the purity and perfection of dialogue ; an observation that,
with greater certainty than tradition, will direct us to arrange bis
plays in the order of time. This ought to be considered by those
who rigidly exaggerate every blemish of the finest genius for the
drama ever the world enjoyed : they ought also for their own sake
to consider, that it is easier to discover his blemishes, which lie>
generally at the surface, than his beauties, which can be truly relished
by those only who dive deep into human nature. One thing must
be evident to the meanest capacity, that wherever passion is to be
• Of this take the following specimen :
They depe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase
Soil our ambition ; and, indeed it takes
From our achievements, though perform'd at height,
The pith and marrow of our attribute.
So, oft it chances in particular men,
That for some vicious mole of nature in them,
As, in their birth, (wherein they are not guilty,
Since nature cannot choose his origin,)
By the o'ergrowth of some complexion
Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason
. Or by some habit, that too much o'er-leavens *
The form of plausive manners ; that these men
Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,
(Being nature's livery, or fortune's scar,)
Their virtues else, be they as pure as grace,
As infinite as man may undergo.
Shall in the general censure take corruption
From that particular fault
Hamlet, Acil,8cZ
Digitized
by Google
440 UkNOUAOB OF PAfflOK. « [Gk. l7.
displayed, nature shows itself mighty in him, and is conspicnous by
the most delicate propriety of sentiment and expression.*
I return to my subject, from a digression from which I cannot repent
That perfect harmony which ought to subsist among all the consti-
tuent parts of a dialogue, is a beauty no less rare than conspicuous:
as to expression in particular, were I to give instances, where, in one
or other 6f the respects above mentioned, it corresponds not precisely
to the characters, passions, and sentiments, I might from different
authors collect volumes. Following, therefore, the method laid down
in the chapter of sentiments, I shall confine my quotations to the
grosser errors, which every writer ought to avoid.
And, first, of passion expressed in words flowing in an equal
course without interruption.
In the chapter above cited, Com^ille is censured for the impro-
priety of his sentiments: and here, for the sake of truth, I am obliged
to attack him a second time. Were I to give instfinces from that
author of the fault under consideration, I might transcribe whole
tragedies ; foi* he is no less faulty in this particular, than in passing
upon us his own thoughts as a spectator, mstead of the genuine sen-
timents of passion. Nor would a comparison between him and
Shakspeare, upon the present article, redound more to his honor, than
the former upon the sentiments. Racine is here less incorrect than
Corneille ; and from him, therefore, I shall gather a few instances.
The first shall be the description of the sea-monster in his Phadra,
given by Theramene, the companion of Hippolytus. Theramene is
represented in terrible agitation, which appears from the following
passage, so boldly figurative as not to be excused but by violent per-
turbation of mind :
Le ciel avec horreur voit ce monstre sauvage,
• Laterre s'en 6meut, I'air en est infect^,
Le Hot, qui I'apporta, recule ^pouvant^.
Y^ Theramene gives a long pompous connected description of
that «vent, dwelling upon every minute circumstance, as if he had
been only a cool spectator :
A peine nous sortions des portes de Tr^zene,
II etoit sur son char. Ses gardes afflig^s
. Imitoient son silence, autour de lui ranges.
n suivoit tout pensif le chemin de MycSnes.
Sa main sur les chevaux laissoit flotter les rdftiBS.
Sessuperbescoursiers qu'on voyoit autrefois
Pleins d'une ardeur si noble ob€ir a sa voix,
L'oeil mome maintenant et la tdte baissSe,
Sembloient se conformer si sa triste pens^e, &e.
Act V. Sc. 6.
* The critics seem not perfectly to comprehend the genuis of Shakspeare. His
plays are defective in the mechanical part ; which is less the work of genius than
©f experience, and is not otherwise brought to perfection but by diligently obserr-
ing the errors of former compositions. Shakspeare excels all the an'cients uod
mcNiems in knowledge ©f human nature, and in unfolding even the'most obscaie
and refined emotions. This is a rare faculty, and of the greatest importance in a
dramatic author ; and it is that faculty which makes him surpass all other writen
in the comic as well as tragic vein.
Digitized
by Google
CSl 17.] LAN017AOB OF PASSION. 241
The last speech of Atalide, in the tragedy of Bajaztt, of the same
author, is a continued discourse; and but a faint representation of
the yiolent passion which forced her to put an end to her own hb '
Enfin, e'en est done fait. Et par mes anihces,
Mes injustes soup^ns, mes fiincstes caprices,
Je suis done arriv6e au doulcnireux moment,
On je voi«, par mon crime, expirer mon amant
TT^toit-ce pas asscz, crueile destin6e,
du'i lui wirvivre, hfilas ! je fusse condamn^e 1
Et falkdt-il encor que, pour comble d'horreurs,
Je ne pusse imputer sa mort qu'& mes f\ireur8 !
Oui, c*est moi, cher amant, ani t'airache la vie;
Roxane, ou le Sultan, ne to 1 ont point ravie.
Moi seule, j'ai tissu le lien mulheureux
Dont tu viens d'6prouver les d^lestables noeuds.
Et je puis, sans mourir, en souflfrir la pens^ 1
Moi, c]^ui n'ai pu tantot, de ta mort menac^e,
Retentir mes esprits, prompts a ni'abandonnei
AliJ n'ai-je eu de I'amour que pour t'assassiner 1
Mats e'en est trop. II faut par un prompt sacrifice,
due ma fidelle main te venge, et me punisse.
Vous, de qui j'ai trouble la gloire et le repos,
H6ros, qui deviez tons re%''ivr<', eu ce h6ro8,
Toi, mhre malheureuse, et qui otfes notre enfance,
Me confias son cceur dans une autre esp^rance,
Infortun^ Visir, amis desesp6res,
Roxane, venez tous contrc moi conjures,
Tourmenter a la fois une omante epei-due; [EUe se tue,
"■ Et prenez la vengeance enfin qui vois est dAe.
Act V. Sc. last.
Though works, not authors, are the professed subject of this criti-
cal undertaking, I am tempted, by the present speculation, to trans-
gress, once again, the limits prescribed, and to venture a cursory
reflection upon that justly celebrated author; that he is always
sensible, generally correct, never falls low, maintains a moderate
degree of dignity, without reaching the sublime, paints delicately
the tender aflfections, but is a stranger to the genuine language of
enthusiastic or fervid passion.
If, in general, the language of violent passion ought to be broken
and interrupted, soliloquies ought to be so in a peculiar manner:
language is intended by nature for society : and a man when alone,
though he always clothes his thoughts in words, seldom gives his
words utterance, unless when prompted by some strong emotion ;
and even then by starts and intervals only.* Shakspeare's solilo-
quies may be justly established as a moael; for it is not easy to
conceive any model more perfect r of his many incomparable solilo-
quies, I confine myself to the two following, being dincrent in their
manner
Hamlet. Oh, that this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew !
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd
His canon 'gainst self-slauehter ! O God! O God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable,
Seem to me all the uses of this world !
Fie on't ! O fie ! 'tis an unweeded garden,
* Soliloquies accounted for, Chap. 15.
21
Digitized
by Google
•42 LANOVAOB OF PASSION. [Ch. 17.
Thai grows to seed : tlrings rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely. That it should come to this I
But two months dead ! nay, not so much; not two;— >
So excellent a king, that was, to this,
Hyperion to a satyr : so lovine to my mother,
Tnat he permitted not the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heav'n and earth f
Must I remember — why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on ; Vet, within a month
Let me not think — Frailty, thy name is Womaml
A little month \ or ere those shoes were old.
With which she followed my poor father's body,
Like Niobe, all tears Why she, ev'n she —
(O heav'n ! a beast that wants discourse of reason,
Would have moum'd longer) — ^married with mine unde.
My father's brother ; but no more like my father,
Than I to Hercules. Witliin a month !
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her ^auled eyes, •
She married Oh, most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sneets !
It is not, nor it cannot come to good.
But break, my heart, for I must hold my ton£^e.
Hanuet, Act 1. Sc. 3.
Ford. Hum ! ha ! is this a vision 1 is this a dream 1 do I sleep 1 Mr. Ford,
awake ; awake, Mr. Ford ; there's a hole made in your best coat, Mr. Ford !
this 'tis to be married ! this 'tis to have linen and buck-baskets ! Well, I will
proclaim myself what I am ; I will now take the leacher ; he is at Qny house ; he
cannot 'scape me ; 'tis impossible he should ; he cannot creep into a halfpenny*
furse, nor mto a pepper-box. But lest the devil that guides him should aid him,
will search impossible places, though what I am I cannot avoid, yet to be what
I iKOuld not, shall not make me tame.
Merry Wives of Windsor^ Act III. Sc. last
These soliloquies are accurate and bold copies of nature : in a pas«
sionate soliloquy one begins with thinking aloud ; and the strongest
feelings only, are expressed ; as the speaker warms, he begins to ima-
gine one listening, and gradually slides into a connected discourse.
How far distant are soliloquies generally from these models!
Bo far, indeed, as to give disgust instead of pleasure. Thp first
wc/eme oi Iphigenia in Tauris discovers that princess, in a soliloquy,
ffravely reporting to herself her own history. There is the same
impropriety in the first scene of Alcestes, and in the other introduc-
tions of Euripides, almost without exception. Nothing can be more
ridiculous : it puts one in mind of a most curious device in Gothic
Ciintings, that of making every figure explain itself by a written
bel issuing from its mouth. The description which a parasite, in
the Eunuch of Terence,* gives of himself, makes a sprightly solilo-
quy : but it is not consistent with the rules of propriety ; for no man,
in his ordinary state of mind, and upon a familiar subject, ever thinks
of talking aloud to himself The same objection lies against a solilo-
auy in the Adelphi of the same author, t The soliloquy which makes
le third scene, act third, of his Heicyra, is insu^rable; for there
Pamphilus, soberly and circumstantially, relates to himself an adven-
ture which had happened to him a moment before.
»ActU.Sc.2. ActLScl
Digitized
by Google
CL 17.] LANCIUAGS aF P48ftI0ir. %tt
Corneille is not more happy in hia soliloquies than in h\a dialogui.
Take for a specimen the first scene of Cinna,
Racine also is extremely faulty in the same respect. His soliU-
quies are regular harangues, a chain completed in every link,
without interruption or interval : thai of Antiochus in Berenict*
resemhles a regular pleading, where the parties pro hnd con display
their arguments at full length. The following soliloquies are equally
faulty : Bajazet, act 3. sc. 7 ; Milhridate, act 3. sc. 4. and act 4
sc. 5 ; Iphigenia, act 4. sc. 8.
Soliloquies upon lively or interesting subjects, but without any
turbulence of passion, may be carried on in a continued chain ot
thought. If for example, the nature and sprightliness of the subject
prompt a roan to speak his thoughts in the form of a dialogue, the
expression must be carried on without break or interruption, as in
a dialogue between two persons ; which justifies Falstaff's soliloquy
upon honor.
What need I be so forward with Death, that calls not on me 1 Well, 'tis no
matter, Honor pricks me on. But how if Honor prick me oiF, when 1 come on 1
how then 1 Can Honor set a leg 1 No : or an arm 1 No : or take away the
giefofawoundl No. Honor hath no skill in surgery then 1 No. What it
onor 1 A word.— -What is that word hoTior ? Air ; a trim reckoning.-"- —
Who hath it 1 He that dy'd a Wednesday. Doth he feel it 1 No. Doth ht
hear it 1 No. Is it insensible then 1 Yes, to the dead. But will it not live
with the living 1 No. Why 1 Detraction will not suffer it Therefore I'll none
of it ; honor is a mere scutcheon ; and so ends my catechism.
rirsi Part Henry IV. Act V. Sc. 1.
And even without dialogue, a continued discourse may be justified,
where a man reasons in a soliloquy upon an important subject ; fgr
if in such a case it be at all excusable to think aloud, it is necessary
that the reasoning be carried on in a chain ; which justifies that
admirable soliloquy in Hamlet upon life and immortality, being a
serene meditation upon the most interesting of all subjects. And
the same consideration will justify the soliloquy that introduces the
5th act of Addison's Cato.
The next class of the grosser errors which all writers ought to
avoid, shall be of language elevated above the tone of the sentiment;
of which take the following instances : .
Zara. Swift as occasion, I
Myself will fly ; and earlier than the mom
Wake thee to freedom. Now 'tis late ; and yet
Some news few minutes past arriv'd, which seem'd
To shake the temper of the Kin^. Who knows
What racking cares disease a monarch's bed %
Or love, that late at night still lights his lamp,
And strikes his rays through dusk, and foldcxl lids,
Forbidding rest, may stretch his eyes awake,
And force their balls abroad at this dead hour.
Ill try. Mourning Bride, Act HI. Sc 4.
The language here is undoubtedly too pompous and labored foi
describing so simple a circumstance as absence of sleep. In th«
following passage, the tone of the language, warm and plaintive, is
well suited to the passion, which is recent grief: but every one will
• Act I. Sc. 3.
Digitized
by Google
i44 LANOVAOS OF PAMIOK. Cb. 17.
be sonsiUe, that in the last couplet save one, the tone is changed,
and the mind suddenly elevated to he let fall as suddenly in the lait
eouplet :
nd^teste a jamais sa coupaUe vietoire,
n renonce a la cour, aux humains, a la gloire
Et se fuiant lui-mdme, au milieu des deserts,
n va cacher sa peine au bout de I'uniyers ;
La, soil que le soleil rendit lejour au monde,
SoU qu^UJintt sa course au vasie sein de Vonde
Sa Toix faisoit redire aux ^cbos attendris,
Xje nom, le triste nom, de son malbeureux fils.
Henriade, Cbant. VIII. 22?.
Language too artificial or too figurative for the gravity, dignity,
or importance, of the occasion, may he put in a third class.
Chimene demanding justice against Rodrigue who killed her
bther, instead of a plain and pathetic expostulation, makes a speecli
•tufied with the most artificial flowers of rhetoric :
Sire, mon pfere est mort, mes yeux ont rd son sang
■ Couler a gros bouillons de son ^en^reux flanc ;
Ce sang qui tant de fois garantit vos murailles.
Ce sang qui tant de fois vous gagna des batailles,
Ce sang qui, tout sorti, fume encore de courroux
De se voir r^pandu pour d'autres que pour vous,
Clu'au milieu des bazards n'osoit verser la gnerrei
Rodrigue en votre cour vient d'en couvrir la terre.
J'ai couru sur le lieu sans force, et sans couleur:
Je I'ai trouv6 sans vie. Excusez ma douleur,
Sire ; la voix me manque a ce r^cit funeste,
Mes pleurs et mes soupirs vous diront mieux le reste.
And again,
Son flanc 6toit ouvert, et, pour mieux m'^mouvoir,
Son san? sur la poussidre 6crivoit mon devoir;
Ou pliltot sa valeur en cat ^tat r^duite
Me parloit par sa plaie, et batoit ma poursuite,
Et (K)ur se faire entendre au plus juste des Rois,
Ptfr cette triste boucbe elle empruntoit ma Yoix.
Act II. Sc. 9.
Nothing can be contrived in language more averse to the tone of the
passion than this florid speech : I should imagine it more apt to pro
voke laughter than to inspire concern or pity.
In a fourth class shall be given specimens of language too light
or airy for a severe passion.
Imagery and figurative expression are discordant, in the highest
degree, with the agony of a mother, who is deprived of two hopeful
sons by -a brutal murder. Therefore the following passage is un-
doubtedly in a bad taste.
Queen. Ah, my poor princes ! ah, my tender babes !
My unblown flow'rs, new appearing sweets!
If yet your eende souls fly in the air,
And be not fixt in doom perpetual.
Hover about me with your airy wings,
•And hear your mother s lamentation.
Richard III Act IV. Se.4.
Again,
K, Philip. You are as fond of grief as of your child.
d by Google
Digitized b
CL 17.] LANOUAGB OF PAtSION. !tl|
Constance. GhrieffillttheroomnpofmyalMeiitdiiUi^
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garmmit with his form ;
Then hare 1 reason to be fond of grief.
King j0kny Act llhSc 4, .
A thought that turns upon the expression instead of the subject,
commonly called a plap of words, being low and childish, is un-
worthy of any composition, whether gay or serious, that pretends to
aay degree of elevation : thoughts of this kind make a fifth class.
In the Amynta of Tasso,* the lorer falls into a mere play of
words, demanding how he who had lost himself, could find a mis-
tress. And for the same reason, the following passage in Corneille
has been generally condemned :
Chimene. Men pfere est mort, Elvire, et la premi6r6 h p6e
Oont s'est arm6 Kodrigue a sa trame coupee.
Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux, et fondez-vous en eau:
La moiti6 de ma vie a mis Tautre au tombeau,
Et m'obli^ a veneer, aprds ce coup funeste,
Celle que je n'ai plus, sur celle qui me reste.
Cu2,ActIII.Sc3.
To die is to be banish'd from myself:
And Sylvia is myself; banish'd from her,
Is self from self; a deadly banishment !
Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act III. Sc 1.
Cowniess. I pray thee, lady, have a better cheer ;
^ If thou engrossest all the ^iefs as thine,
Thou robb'st me of a moiety.
AlCs well that ends well. Act IIL Sc 9l
K. Henry. O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows I
When that my care could not withhold thy riots,
What wilt thou do when riot is thy care 1
O, thou wilt be a wilderness again,
Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants.
Second Part Henry IV. Act IV. 8c 4.
Antony, speaking of Julius Caesar :
0 world ! thou wast the forest of this hart
And this, indeed, O world, the heart of thee.
How like a deer, stricken by many princes,
Dost thou here lie !
Julius Casar, Act HI. Sc 1.
Plapng thus with the sound of words, which is still worse than a
puQ, is the meanest of all conceits. But Shakspeare, when he
descends to a play of words, is not always in the wrong : for it is
done sometimes to denote a peculiar character, as in the hUowiatg
K. PhUip. What say'st thou, boy 1 look in th&lady's iacc
Lewis, I do, my lord, and in her eye I find
A wonder, or a wond'rous miracle ;
The shadow of myself formed in her eye;
Which being but tne shadow of your son.
Becomes a sun, and makes your son a shadow.
1 do protest, I never lov'd myself *.
Till now infixed I beheld myself
« Act 1. Sc 2.
2i»
Digitized
by Google
t46 ANOVAOB OV PAfflON. [CL 17
Drawn in the flatt'ring table of her eye.
Faulconbridge. Drawn in the flau^ring table of her eye !
Hang'd in the frowning wrinkle of her brow
And quartered in her heiart ! he doth espy
Himself Love's traitor : this is pity now,
That hanf 'd, and drawn, and quartered, there should be,
In such a love so vile a lout as he.
King John, Act II. So. 2
A jingle of words is the lowest species of that low wit ; which is
Bcarcely sufierahle in any case, and least of all in an heroic poem:
and yet Milton, in some instances, has descended to that puerility :
And brought into the world a world of wo.
bc£:irt th* Almighty throne
Beseeching or besieging
Which tempted our attempt •
At one slignt bound high overleap'd all bound.
W ith a sliout
Loud as from number without numbers.
One should think it unnecessary to enter a caveat against an ex-
pression that has no meaning, or no distinct meaning; and yet some-
what of that kind may he found even among good writers. Such
make a sixth class.
Sebastian. 1 beg no pity for this mould'ring clay ;
For if jrou give it burial, there it takes
Possession of your earth :
If burnt and scatter'd in the air : the winds
That strew my dust, diffuse my royalty,
And spread me o'er your clime ; for wnere one atom
Of mine shall light, know there Sebastian rei&:ns.
Dry deny Don Sebastian King ojPorbiigal, Act I.
Cleopatra. Now, what news, my Charmion 1
Will he be kind 1 and will he not ^rsake me %
Am I to live or die 1 nay, do I live 1
Or am I dead 1 for when he gave his answer
Fa|e took the word, and then I liv'd or dy'd.
Dryden, All for Love^ Act li
If she be coy, and scorn ray noble fire,
If her chill heart I cannot move ;
Why, I'll enjoy the very love.
And make a mistress of my own desire.
Cowley, poem inscribed, The Request
His whole poem, inscrihed, My Picture, is a jargon of the same kind.
• 'Tis he, they cry, by whom
Not men, but war itself is overcome.
, Indian QUieen,
Buch emptr expressions are finely ridiculed in the Rehearsal:
Was't not unjust to ravish hence her breath.
And in life's stead to leave us nought but death.
Act IV. Se. L
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 18.] BBAUTY OF LANOUAOB. 247
CHAPTER XVIII.
BEAUTY OP LANGUAGE.
Painting and sculpture alone of the fine arts, imitative— A beauty ot lanf^uage,
distinct from the beauty of the thought it expresses — Of different words conveying
the same thought, that which best answers the end is most beautiful-;-Beautiet
of language arising from sound — Beauty of sound — Beauty of signification —
The resemblance tetween sound and signification — Beauty of verse.
Of all the fine arts, painting and sculpture only, are in their nature
imitative. An ornamented field is not a copy or imitation of nature,
but nature itself embellished. Architecture is productive of originals,
and copies not from nature. Sound and motion may, in some mea-
sure, be imitated by music ; but for the most part music, like archi-
lecture, is productive of originals. Language copies not from nature,
more than music or architecture; unless, where, like music, it is
imitative of sound or motion. Thus, in the description of particular
sounds, language sometimes furnishes words, which, besides their
customary power of exciting ideas, resemble, by their soilness or
harshness, the sounds described ; and there are words which, by the
;Celerity or slowness of pronunciation, have some resemblance to the
motion they signify. The imitative power of words goes one step
farther : the loftiness of some words makes them proper symbols of
lofty ideas ; a rough subject is imitated by harsh-sounding words ;
and words of many syllables pronounced slow and smooth, are
expressive of grief and melancholy. Words have a separate effect
on the mind abstracted from their signification and from their imita-
tive power : they are more or less agreeable to the ear, by the fulness,
sweetness, faintness, or roughness of their tones.
These are but feint beauties, being known to those only who have
more than ordinary acuteness of perception. Language possesses a
Deauty superior greatly in degree, of which we are eminently sensi-
ble when a thought is communicated with perspicuity and sprightli-
ness. This beauty of language, arising from its power of expressing
thought, is apt to be confounded with the beauty of the thougnt itself:
the beauty of thougbt, transferred to the expression, makes it appear
more beautiful* But these beauties, if we wish to think accurately,
must be distinguished from each other. They are in reality so dis-
tinct, that we sometimes are conscious of the highest pleasure lan-
guage can afford, when the subject expressed is disagreeable : a thing
that is loathsome, or a scene of horror to make one*s hair stand on
end, may be described in a manner so lively, as that the disagreeable-
ness of the subject shall not even obscure the agreeableness of the
♦ Chap. 2. Part 1. Sect. 5. Demetrius Phalereus (of Elocution, sect. 75.) makes
the same observation. We are apt, says that author, to confound the language
with the subject ; and if the latter be nervous, we judge the same of the former.
But they are clearly distinguishable ; and it is not uncommon to find subjects of
great di;pity dressed in mean lan^age. Theopompus is celebrated for the force
of his diction; but erroneously: his subject indeed nas great force, but his style.
Tcry little.
Digitized
by Google
848 BBAVTT OF LANGVAOK. [Ch. 18.
description. The causes of the original beauty of language, con-
sidered as significant, which is a branch of the present subject, will
be explained in their order. I shall only at present observe, that this
beauty is the beauty of means fitted to an end, that of communicating
thought: and hence it evidently appears, that of several expressions
all conveying the same thought, the most beautiful, in the sense now
mentioned, is that which in the most perfect manner answers it end
The several beauties of language above mentioned, being of dif-
ferent kinds, ought to be handled separately. I shall begin with
those beauties of language that arise from sound ; after which will
follow the beauties of language considered as significant : this order
appears natural ; for the sound of a word is attended to, before we
consider its signification. In a third section come those singular
beauties of language that are derived from a resemblance between
sound and signification. The beauties of verse are handled in the
last section : for though the foregoing beauties are found in verse as
well as in prose, yet verse has many peculiar beauties, which, for
the sake of connection, must be brought under one view ; and versi-
fication, at any rate, is a subject of so great importance as to deserve
a place by itself.
SECTION I.
Sounds of different letters— Syllables— Woidfr— A period or sentenee^-Discoune
— The manner in which tne vowels are sounded — The vowels form a regular
series of sounds from high to low — All agreeable — The medium vowels most so
— 'A consonant has no sound — Syllables into which consonants enter, have
more than one sound — The sounds of syllables as many as the letters — A double
sound more agreeable than a single — Difference between pronunciation and
music, with respect to sound— The source of the agreeableness or disagreeable-
ness of words — The most agreeable successions formed, when the cavity of the
' mouth is alternately incree^ed and dimuiished, within moderate limits, and
where long and short syllables follow one another— A standard to all nations of
the comparative merit of their languages — Not possible, however, to form a com-
plete standard — A rough language preferable to a smooth one, when it has a
sufficient number of smooth sounds — The English tongue originally harsh, but
At present much softened — Remarks on the dropping in of words that end in ed
— The effect of ascending and descending in a series varying by aaiall differea-
ces — The effect where it varies by large differences, wlire contrast prevails-
The effect of a strong impulse succe^ing a weak one j and also of a weak
impulse succeeding a strong one — The maxim founded on this — Direction for
arranging the different naembers of a sentence.
This subject requires the following order : The sounds of the
difiTerent letters come first: next, these sounds as united in syllables:
third, syllables united in words: fourth, words united in a period:
and, in the last place, periods united in a discourse.
With respect to the first article, every vowel is sounded with a
single expiration of air from the wind-pipe, through the cavity of the
mouth. By varying this cavity^ the diflerent vowels are sounded }
bx the air in passing through cavities difiering in size, produces
^»ariou8 sounds, some nigh or sharp, some low or fiat: a small cavi^
oceasions a high sound, a large caTity a low sound. The five vow-
els accordingly, pronounced with the same extension of the wind-
pipe, but with dinerent openings of the mouth, form a regular seriet
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 1$.] BBA17TT OF LANOUAOB. 2i9
of sounds, descending from high to low, in the following order,
i e, a, 0, u.* Each of these sounds is agreeable to the ear: and if
it be required which of them is the most agreeable, it is, perhaps
safest to hold, that those vowels which are the farthest removed from
the extremes, will be the most relished. This is all I have to remark
upon the first article: for consonants being letters that of themselves
have no sound, serve only in conjunction with vowels to form articu-
late sounds ; and as every articulate sound makes a syllable, conso-
nants come naturally under the second article ; to which we proceed.
A consonant is pronounced with a less cavity than a vowel ; and
consequently every syllable into which a consonant enters, must have
more than one sound, though pronounced with one expiration of air,
or with one breath as commonlv expressed : for however readily two
sounds may unite, yet where they differ in tone, both of them must
be heard ii neither of them be suppressed. For the same reason,
vvery syllable must be composed of as many sounds as there are let-
ters, supposing every letter to be distinctly pronounced.
We next inquire, how far syllables are agreeable to the ear. Few
tongues are so polished, as entirely to have rejected sounds that are
pronounced with difficulty; and it is a noted observation, that such
sounds are to the ear harsh and disagreeable. But with respect to
agreeable sounds, it appears, that a double sound is always mora
agreeable than a single sound : every one who has an ear must be
sensible, that the diphthong oi or ai is more agreeable than any of
these vowels pronounced singly : the same holds where a consonant
enters into the double sound ; the syllable le has a more agreeable
8.)und than the vowel e, or than any vowel. And in support of
experience, a satisfactory argument may be drawn from the wisdom
of Providence : speech is bestowed on man, to qualify him for soci-
ety; and his provision of articulate sounds is proportioned to the
use he has for them ; but if sounds that are agreeable singly, were
not also agreeable in conjunction, the necessity of a painful selection
would render language intricate and difficult to be attained in any
perfection ; and this selection, at the same 4ime, would abridge the
number of useful sounds, so as, perhaps, not to leave sufficient for
answering the different ends of language.
In this view, the harmony of pronunciation differs widely from
that of music properly so called. In the latter are discovered many
sounds singly agreeable, which in conjunction are extremely disa-
greeable ; none but what are called concordant sounds having a good
effect in conjunction. In the former, all sounds, singly agreeable,
are in conjunction concordant ; and ought to be, in order to fulfil the
purposes of language.
Having discussed syllables, we proceed to words ; which make
the third article. Monosyllables belong to the former head ; poly-
syllables open a different scene. In a cursory view, one would ima-
gine, that the agreeableness or disagreeableness of a word with
• In this scale of sounds, the letter i must be pronounced as in the word irUer-
esty and as in other words l>eginning with the syllable in ; the letter e as in ^#r-
svasion ; the letter a as in ^ ; and the letter « as in fwmber.
Digitized
by Google
950 BIAUTT OF LAMOV AOm [Ck 18
respect to its sound, should depend upon the agreeableness or dis-
agreeableness of its component s /llables : which is true in part, but
not entirely ; for we must also taxe under consideration, the effect of
syllables in succession. In the first place, syllables in immediate suc-
cession, pronounced each of them, with the same, or nearly the same
aperture of the mouth, produce a succession of weak and feeble sounds;
witness the French words dit-il, pathetique : on the other hand, a syl-
lable of the greatest aperture succeeding one of the smallest, or the
contrary, makes a succession, which, because of its remarkable disa-
greeableness, is distinguished by a proper name, hiatus. The most
agreeable succession is, where the cavity is increased and diminisheu
alternately within moderate limits : examples, alternative, longevity,
pusillanimous. Secondly, words consistins^ wholly of syllables pro-
nounced slow, or of syllables pronouncea quick, commonly called
long and short syllables, have little melody in them; witness the words
petitioner, fruiterer, dizziness: on the other hand, the intermixture of
long and short syllables is remarkably agreeable; for example, de-
gree, repent, wonderfuV, altitude, rapidity, independent^ impetuosity.*
The cause will be explained hereafter, in treating of versification.
Distinguishable from the beauties above mentioned, there is a
beauty of some words which arises from their signification : when
the emotion raised by the length or shortness, the roughness or
smoothness, of the sound, resembles, in any degree, what is raised
by the sense, we feel a very remarkable pleasure. But this subject
belongs to the third section.
The foregoing observations afibrd a standard to every nation, for
estimating, pretty accurately, the comparative merit of the words that
enter into their own language : but they are not equally useful iis
comparing the words of diflferent languages ; which will thus appear.
DiiSerent nations judge differently of the harshness or smoothness of
articulate sounds ; a sound, for example, harsh and disagreeable to
an Italian, may be abundantly smooth to a northern ear : here every
nation must judge for itself; nor can there be any solid ground for
a preference, when there is no common standard to which we can
appeal. The case is precisely the same as in behavior and manners:
plain-dealing and sincerity, liberty in words and actions, form the
character of one people ; politeness, reserve, and a total disguise of
every sentiment that can give offence, form the character of another
people : to each the manners of the other are disagreeable. An
effeminate mind cannot bear the least of that roughness and severity
which is generally esteemed manly, when exerted upon proper occa-
sions : neither can an effeminate ear bear the harshness of certain
words, that are deemed nervous and sounding by those accustomed
to a rougher tone of speech. Must we then relinquish all thoughts
of comparing languages in point of roughness andf smoothness, as a
* Italian words, like those of Latin and Greek, have this property almost ani-
versally : English and French words are generally deficient. In the former, the
long syllable is removed from the end, as far as the sound will permit; and in (he
letter, the last syllable is generally long. For example, Sdnator in English, Sen&-
tor in Latin, and Senatdur in French.
Digitized
by Google
CL 18.] BBAVTT or LANaUAai. 2^1
frdtless inquiry? Not altogether; for we may proceed a certain
kagth, though without hope of an ultimate decision. A language
pronounced with difficulty even by natives, must yield to a smoother
langoage: and supposing two languages pronounced with equa.
^Oity by natives, the rougher language, in my judgment, ought to
be preferred, provided it be also stored with a competent share ot
more mellow sounds ; which will be evident from attending to the
different effects that articulate sound has on the mind. A smooth
gliding sound is agreeable, by calming the mind, and lulling it to
rest : a rough bold sound, on the contrary, animates the mind ; the
efibrt perceived in pronouncing, is communicated to the hearers,
who feel in their own minds a similar effort, rousing their attention,
and disposing them to action. I add another consideration: the
agreeableness of contrast in the rougher lancfuage, for which the
great variety of sounds gives ample opportunity, must, even in an
efieminate ear, prevail over the more uniform sounds of the smoother
language.* This appears all that can be safely determined upon the
present point. Wilh respect to the other circumstances that consti-
tute the beauty of words, the standard above mentioned is infallible
when applied to foreign languages as well as to our own : for every
man, whatever be his mother^ongue, is equally capable to judge of
the length or shortness of words, of the alternate opening and closing
of the mouth in speaking, and of the relation that the sound bears to
the sense: in these particulars, the judgment is susceptible of no
prejudice from custom, at least of no invincible prejudice.
That the English tongue, originally harsh, is at present much
softened by dropping in the pronunciation many redundant conso-
nants, is undoubtedly true : that it is not capable of being farther
mellowed without suffering in its force and energy, will scarcely be
thought by any one who possesses an ear ; and yet such in Britain
is the propensity for dispatch, that, overlooking the majesty of words
composed of many syllables aptly connected, the prevailing taste is
to shorten words, even at the expence of making tnem disagreeable
to the ear, and harsh in the pronunciation. But I have no occasion
to insist upon this article, being prevented by an excellent writer,
who possessed, if any man ever did, the true genius of the English
tongue.f I cannot, however, forbear urging one observation, bor
rowed from that author : several tenses of our verbs are formed by
adding the final syllable ed, which, being a weak sound, has remark-
ably the worse effect^by possessing the most conspicuous place in the
word : upon which account, the vowel in common speech is generally
suppressed, and the consonant added to the foregoing syllable;
whence the following rugged sounds, drud^d, disturbed, rebu^d,
fledged. It is still less excusable to follow this practice in writing;
for the hurry of speaking may excuse what would be altogether
* That the Italian tongue is too smooth, seems probable, from considering, that
in versification, vowels ore firequently suppressed, in order to prdduoe a roughor
and bolder tone.
t See Swift's proposal for correcting the English tongue, in a letter to the Eari
of Oxford.
Digitized
by Google
S^2 BBAUTT 07 LANOVAeB. [Ch. 18'
improper in composition : the 8}'llable ed, it is true, sounds poorl^r
at the end of a word ; but rather that defect, than multiply the nun^
ber of harsh words, which, after all, bear an over-proportion in oar
tongue. The author above mentioned, by showing a good example,
did all in his power to restore that syllable; and he well deserves to
be imitated. Some exceptions however I would make. A woi'd that
signifies labor or any thing harsh or rugged, ought not to be smooth;
therefore /orc'ii with an apostrophe, is better ihdia forced, without it
Another exception is where the penult syllable ends with a vowel;
in that case the final syllable ed may be apostrophized without
making the word harsh: examples, betrat/d, carry^d, destrot/d,
employed.
The article next in order, is the music of words as united in a
period. And as the arrangement of words in succession so as to
afford the greatest pleasure to the ear, depends on principles remote
from common view, it will be necessary to premise some general
observations upon the appearance that objects make, when placed in
an increasing or decreasing series. Where the objects vary br
small differences, so as to have a mutual resemblance, we, in ascend*'
ing, conceive the second object of no greater size than the first, the
third of no greater size than the second, and so of the rest ; which
diminishes, in appearance, the size of every object except the firstr
but when, beginning at the greatest object, we proceed gradually ta
the least, resemblance makes us imagine the second as great as tho
first, and the third as great as the second ; which in appearance
magnifies every object except the first. . On the other hand, in a
series varying by large differences, where contrast prevails, the
effects are directly opposite : a great object succeeding a small one
of the same kind, appears greater than usual ; and a little object sue
ceeding one that is great, appears less than usual.* Hence a
remarkable pleasure in viewing a series ascending by large dife-
rences ; directly opposite to what we feel when the differences are
•mall. The least object of a series asqending by large differences
has the same effect upon the mind, as if it stood single without mak*
ing a part of the series : but the second object, by means of contrast,
appears greater than when viewed singly and apart ; and the same
effect is perceived in ascending progressively, till we arrive at the
last object. The opposite effect is produced in descending; for in
this direction, every object, except the first, appears less than when
viewed separately and independent of the series. We may then
assume as a maxim, which will hold in the composition of language
as well as of other subjects, that a strong impulse succeeding a weak,
makes double impression on the mind; and that a weak impulse
succeeding a strong, makes scarcely any impression.
After establishing this maxim, we can be at no loss about its
application to the subject in hand. The following rule is laid down
by Diomedes.t " In verbis observandum est, ne a majoribus ad
minora descendat oratio ; melius enim dicitur, Vir est opUmus,
quam, Vir optimus est." This rule is also applicable to entire mem*
* See the reason, Chap. 8. t De structura perfects orationis, 1. 3.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 18.} BKAVTV OF LANOUAGS. SM
bers of a period, which, according to our author's expression, oughl
not, more than single words, to proceed from the greater to the leaa^
but from the less to the greater.* In arranging the members of a
period^ no writer equals Cicero : the beauty of the following exam-
ples out of many, will not suffer me to slur them over by a reference
Ctnicum quaestor fueram,
Ctaicum me sors consuetudoque majonim,
GLuicum me deonun hominumqtie judicium ooiiju]izerat.t'
Again:
Habet konorem quern petimus,
Habet spem quom prKpositam nobis habemua^
Habet existimationem, multo sudore, labore, vi^isque, collectam.t
Again:
Eripite nos ex miseriis,
Eripite nos ex faucibus eorum,
Q,uonuzi cnidelitas nostro sanguine non potest expleri.f
De Oratore, 1. 1. f 53.
This order of words or members gradually increasing in length,
may, as far as concerns the pleasure of sound, be denoihinated a
climax in sound.
The last article is the mqsic of periods as united in a discourse ;
which shall be dispatched in a very few words. By no other human
means is it possible to present to the mind, such a number of objects,
and in so swift a succession, as by speaking or writing; and for that
reason, variety ought more to be*studied in these, than in any other
sort of composition. Hence a rule for arranging the members of
different periods with relation to each other, that to avoid a tedious
uniformity of sound and cadence, the arrangement, the cadence, and
the length of the members, ou^ht to be diversified as much as pos-
sible : and if the members of different periods be sufficiently diver-
sified, the periods themselves will be e<]^ally so.
♦ Sec Demetrius Phalereus of Elocution, 5 18.
t Witk whom I was qusestor — with whom the fortunes and the customs of ost
ancestors — ^with whom the judgment of gods and men had j6ined me.
X He, whom we seek, hath honor — he hath the hope which we have set befoft
us— he hath esteem, gained b}r much sweat, labor and vigils.
* Snatch us from our miseries — snatch us from the jaws of those whose cruelty
cannot be satisfied, but with our blood.
Digitized
by Google
ft54 BBAVTT OF LANOVA^K [Ch. X^
SECTION II.
Beauty of langua^ with respect to sisiiification, divided into words, and arrange
meat — Perspicuity not to be sacrificed to any other beauty — Want of perspi-
cuity arising from defect in arrangement — Giving different names to the same
thing in the same sentence, another error — The language to accord with the sub-
ject— An accordance of a peculiar kind — The impression made by the word
and by the thought to be the same — The conjunction and disjunction contained
in the sentiment to be imitated in the expression — Connected members of a
thought, to be expressed by connected members of a sentence— AU iteration— A
connection in words, when there is none in thought, a deformity — A verbal an-
tithesis— The union of a negative and an affirmative proposition, unpleasant-
Two distinct ideas not to te put in the same sentence — ^To crowd them into a
member of a sentence still worse — In describing resembling objects, a resem-
blance in tlie members of the sentence to be studied — In words also — Opposition
to be studied, in words that express contrasted objects — The scene not to be
changed — Remarks on the use of the copulative — ^Arrangement, the second kind
of b^uty — Words that import relation, to be distinguished from those that do
not — Declension and juxtaposition used by the Greeks and the Latins to express
relation — Juxtaposition, the principal method used in English — The relation
between substantives expressed by particles — The same true with respect to
qualities — Difference between natural and inverted order — When the natural
order may be departed from — Remarks on inversion, and its advantages — The
two kinds of ambiguities, occasioned by wrong arrangement — Examples illus-
trative of these errors, with the observations upon ihem — A pronoun to b^
placed as ne«ur as possible to its noun — The depression or elevation of as
object — Many circumstances not to be used — A circumstance to be disposed of
as soon as possible — A sentence to be closed with the most important word—
The longest member of a sentence to brin* up the rear — When liveliness of
expression is demanded, the sense to be brought out at the end — Why an inverted
style is pleasing — A short period lively, a long solemn — A sentence to be closed
with the former — Long and short syllables to be intermixed — Natural order
beautiful ; inverted not.
It is well said by a noted writer,* " That by means of speech we
«an divert our sorrows, mingle our mirth, impart our secrets, com-
municate our counsels, and make mutual compacts and agreements
to supply and assist each other." Considering speech as contri-
buting to so many good purposes, words that convey clear and distinct
ideas, must be one of its capital beauties. This cause of beauty, is
too extensive to be handled as a branch of any other subject : for to
ascertam with accuracy even the proper meaning of words, not to
talk of their figurative power, would require a large volume ; an
useful work indeed, but not to be attempted without a large stock oi
time, study, and reflection. This branch, therefore, of the subject, I
humbly decline. Nor do I propose to exhaust all the other beauties
of language that relate to signification : the reader, in a work like
the present, cannot fairly expect more than a slight sketch of those
that make the greatest figure. This task is the more to my taste, as
being connected with certain natural principles ; and the rules I
shall have occasion to lay down, will, if I judge rightly, be agreeabh*.
illustrations of these principles. £very subject must be of import-
ance that tends to unfold the human heart ; for what other science is
of grea'.er use to human beings 1
* Scot's Christian Life.
Digitized
by Google
Sec 2.] BBAITTT OF LA.1IG17A0B. MS
The present subject is too extensive to 'be discussed without di-
viding it into parts ; and what follows suggests a division into two
parts. In every period, two things are to be regarded: first, the*
words of which it is composed ; next, the arrangement of these
words ; the former resembling the stones that compose a building,
and the latter resembling the order in which they are placed.
Hence the beauties of language with respect to signification, may
aot improperly be distinguished into two kinds : first, the beauties
that arise from a right choice of words or materials for constructing
the period ; and next, the beauties that arise from a due arrangement
of these words or materials. I begin with rules that direct us to a
right choice of words, and then proceed to rules that concern their
arrangement.
And with respect to the former, communication of thought being
the chief end of language, it is a rule, that perspicuity ought not to
be sacrificed to any other beauty whatever. If it should be doubted
whether perspicuity be a positive beauty, it cannot be doubted that
the want of it is the greatest defect. Nothing, therefore, in language
ought more to be studied, than to prevent all obscurity in the expres-
sion ; for to have no meaning, is but one degree worse, than to havcj
a meaning that is not understood. Want of perspicuity from a
wrong arrangement, belongs to the next branch. I shall here give a
few examples where the obscurity arises from a wrong choice of
words; and as this defect is too common in the ordinary herd of
writers to make examples from them necessary, I confine myself to
the most celebrated authors.
Livy, speaking of a rout after a battle,
Multique in ruina majore qudm fuga oppress! obtruncatique.
L. 4. f 46
And many in a ruin greater than flight were crushed and slain.
This author is frequently obscure, by expressing but part of his
thought, leaving it to be completed by his reader. His description
of the sea-fight, 1. 28. cap. 30. is extremely perplexed.
Unde tibi reditum certo svbtemine Parcae
Rupere. Horace, Epod. XIII. 23.
From whence (the Pates have spun it so,)
You shall not be allowed to go
Home.
Q,ui perssepe cava testudine flevit amorem,
Non elaboratum ad pedem. Horace, Epod. XIV. 11.
Who oflen lamented his love on the hollow shell, to no labored fi>ot
Me fabulosee Vulture in Appulo,
Altricis extra limen Apuliae,
Ludo, fatigatumque somno,
Fronde nova puerum palumbes
Texere. Horace, Carm. 1. 3. ode 4.
Me tired with sleep, and yet a child
From kind Apulia^s bounds beguiled,
Up in mount Vultur, now so famed and known,
The woodland doves concealed with foliage newly blown.
Digitized
by Google
t56 BSAVTT OF LANGUAOE. {Ch. IS.
Purtt riTus aqus silTaque jugerum
Piiuconim, et segetis certa &&b me»,
Fulgentem imperio fertilis Africs
FaUU sorte beattor. H^au^ CarwL 1. 3. ode IGi
A wood of moderate extent,
And stream of purest element,
And harvest home secure,
Make me more happy than the weight
Of Africa's precarious state
Of empire, could ensure.
Cum fas atque nefas exig^o^n^ libidinura
Discemunt avidi. Horau, Carm, 1. 1. ode 18.
— 'Ri^bt and wrong
Confoimding in their lust
Ac spem fronte serenat. Mneid. lY. 477.
And makes hope serene on his forehead.
I am in greater pain about the foregoing passages, than about
any I have ventured to criticise, being aware that a vague or
obscure expression, is apt to gain favor with those who neglect to
examine it with a critical eye. To some it carries the sense that
they relish the most : and by suggesting various meanings at once,
tt is admired by others as concise and comprehensive : which by the
way fairly accounts for the opinion generally entertained with respect
to most languages in their infant state, of expressing much in few
words. This observation may be illustrated by a passage from
Quintilian, quoted in the first volume for a different purpose.
At quae Pol]^cleto defuerunt, Phidise atc^ue Alcameni dantur. Phidias tamen
diis quam hominibus efficiendis melior artifex traditur : in ebore vero, longe citni
ttmulum, vel si nihil nisi Minerram Athenis, aut Olympium in EHide JoTem
fecisset, cuj%ls pulchrUudo adjecisse aliquid etiam recepta religioni videlur; ad£0
majestas operis Deum aquavit*
The sentence in the Italic characters appeared to me abundantly
perspicuous, before I gave it peculiar attention. And yet to examine
It independent of the context, its proper meaning is not what is
intended : the words naturally import, that the beauty of the statues
mentioned, appears to add some new tenet or rite to the established
religion, or appears to add new dignity to it ; and we must consuh
the context before we can gather the true meaning; which is, that
the Greeks were confirmed in the belief of their established religion
by these majestic statues, so like real divinities.
There may be a defect in perspicuity proceeding even from the
•lightest ambiguity in construction ; as where the period commences
with a member conceived to be in the nominative case, which after-
ward is found to be in the accusative. Example : " Some emotions
more peculiarly connected with the fine arts, I propose to handle in
•eparate chapters."! Better thus : " Some emotions more peculiarly
* But Phidias and Alcamenes possess those qualities which were denied to
Polycletus. Phidias, however, is said to be a better artificer of gods than of
«i«ti— in ivory, indeed, he is far beyond his rival, even if he had made nothing
except his Minerva at Athens, or nis Olympian Jove in Elis, whose beauty
•eems to have even added something to the received religion ; so much has tw
maiesty of the work represented a god.
f Elemenu of Criticism, Vol. I. p. 43. edit. 1.
Digitized
by Google
Sec 2.] BEAUTY OF LANOUAOB. 257
connected with the fine arts, are proposed to be handled in Separate
chapters."
I add another error agaipst perspicuity, which I mebtion, the
rather, because with some writers it passes for a beauty. It is the
giving of different names to the same object, mentioned oftener than
once in the same period. Example : Speaking of the English adven^
turers who first attempted the conquest of Ireland, " and instead of
reclaiming the natives from their uncultivated manners, they were
gradually assimilated to the ancient inhabitants, and degenerated
from the customs of their own nation." From this mode of expres-
sion, one would think the author meant to distinguish the ancient
hihahitants from the natives; and we cannot discover otherwise than
from the sense, that these are only different names given to the same
object for the sake of variety. But perspicuity ought never to b^
sacrificed to any other beauty, which leads me to think that the pas- .
sage may be improved as follows : " and degenerating from the cus-
toms of their own nation, they were gradually assimilated to the
natives, instead of reclaiming them from their uncultivated manners."
The next rule in order, because next in importance is, that th^
language ought to correspond to the subject. Heroic actions or
sentiments require elevated language ; tender sentiments ought to be
expressed in words soft and flowing; and plain language void of
ornament, is adapted to subjects grave and diaactic. Language may
be considered as the dress of thought ; and where the one is not
suited to the other, we are sensible of incongruity, in the same
manner as where a judge is dressed like a fop, or a peasant like a
man of quality. Where the impression made by the words resem*
bles the impression made by the thought, the similar emotions mix
sweetly in the mind, and double the pleasure ;* but where the im-
pressions made by the thought and the words are dissimilar, the
unnatural union into which they are forced, is disagreeable. t
This concordance between the thought and the words has been
observed by every critic, and is so well understood as not to require
any illustration. But there is a concordance of a peculiar kind,
that has scarcely been touched in works of criticism, though it con-t
tributes to neatness of composition. It is what follows. In a
thought of any extent, we commonly find some parts intimately
united, some slightly, some disjoined, and some directly opposed to
each other. To find these conjunctions and disjunctions imitated in
the expression, is a beauty ; because such imitation makes the words
concordant with the sense. This doctrine may be illustrated by a
femiliar example. When we have occasion' to mention the intimate
connection that the soul has with the body, the expression ought to
be, the soul and body ; because the particle the, relative to both,
makes a connection in the expression, resembling, in some degree-
the connection ip the thought : but when the soul is distinguished
tiom the body, it is better to say the soul and the body ; because th^
disjunction in the words resembles the disjunction in the thought
I proceed to 'other examples, beginning vrfth conjunctions.
♦ ChM).3.P«fft4 + Ibid
22* ^
Digitized by V^OOQ IC
^8 BEAUTY OF LANOUAOB. fCh. 18
Constituit agmen : et expedire tela aniraosque, equitibus jussis * &c.
^ . I J x^iry, L 38. « 25.
Here the words that express the connected ideas are artificially con
uecled by subjecting them both to the regimen of one verb. And
the two following are of the same kind.
Q,uum ex paucis quotidie alic^ui eorum caderent aut vulnerarentur, et qui supe-
rarent, fessi et corporibus et animis essent,t &c. Livy^ 1. 3o. § 29.
Post acer Mnestheus adducto conatitit arcu,
Alta petens, pariterque oculos telumque tetendit. JEneid^ r. 607.
Then Mnestheus to the head his arrow drove
With lifted eyes, and took his aim above.
But to justify this artificial connection among the words, the ideas
Ihey express ought to be intimately connected ; for otherwise that
concordance which is required between the sense and the expression
will be impaired. In that view, a passage from Tacitus is excep-
tionable; where words that signify ideas very little connected,' are,
however, forced into an artificial union. Here is the passage:
Germania omnis a Galliis, Rhstiisque, et Pannoniis, Rheno et Danubio flumi-
nibus ; a Sarmatis Dacisque, mutuo metu aut montibus separatur.t
De Moribus Germanorum.
Upon the same account, I esteem the following passage equally ex-
ceptionable.
The fiend looked up, and knew
His mounted scale aloft ; nor more, but fled
Murm'ring, and with him fled the shades of night.
Paradise Lost, B. 4. at the end.
There is no natural connection between a person's flying or retiring,
and the succession of daylight to darkness ; and therefore to con-
nect artificially the terms that signify these things cannot have a
•weet effect.
Two members of a thought connected by their relation to the
same action, will naturally be expressed by two members of the
period governed by the same verb; in which case these members,
m order to improve their connection, ought to be constructed in the
same manner. This beauty is so common among good writers, as
to have been little attended to ; but the neglect of it is remarkably
disagreeable : For example, " He did not mention Leonora, nor that
her father was dead." Better thus : " He did not mention Leonora,
nor her father's death."
Where two ideas are so connected, as to require but a copulative,
it is pleasant to find a connection in the words that express these
ideas, were it even so slight as where both begin with the same
letter :
♦ He put his army in order — and the horsemen wereordered to have their
l^eapons and their minds readjr.
t When some of the few daily fell or were wounded, aiid those who remained
were sick in body and mind.
t Germany is separated from the Gauls, the Rhetians, and the Pannonians, by
Uie Rhine and the Danube j from the Sarmatians and the Datians, by mutual fttf
and the mountains.
Digitized
by Google
^eC. 2.] BEAUTY OF LANQUAOE. 299
The peacpck, in all his pride, does not display half the colour that appears in
the garments of a British lady, when she is either dressed for a ball or a birth-day
SpecUUor, No. 265.
Had not my do^ of a steward run away as he did, without making up h^'
ftccounts, I had still been immersed in sin and sea-coal. Snd. No. 5j0.
My life's companion, and my bosom-friend,
One faith, one fame, one fate shall both attend.
Dryderij Translation of jEneid.
There is sensibly a defect in neatness when uniformity in this case
is totally neglected ;* witness the following example, where the con-
struction of two members connected by a copulative is unnecessarily
Yaried.
For it is confidently reported, that two young gentlemen of real hopes, bright
wit, and profound judgment, who, upon a thorough examination of causes and
effects, and by the mere force of natural abilities, without the least tincture of
learning, have made a discovery that there was no GKkI, and generously commu-
nicaling their thoughts for the good of the public, were some time ago, bv an
unparalleled severity, and upon I know not what obsolete law, broke for bias*
fhemy .t [Better thus :] — having made a discovery tliat there was no Gkxi, and
navin^ generously communicatol their thoughts for the good of the public, were
some time ago, &c.
He had been guilty of a fault, for which his master would have put him to
death, had he not found an opportunity to escape out of his hands, and fled into
the deserts of Numidia. Guardian^ No. 139.
If all the ends of the Revolution are already obtained, it is not only impertinent
to argue for obtaining any of them, but factious designs might be imputed^ and
the name of incendiary be applied with some colour, perhaps, to any one who
should persist in pressing this point. Dissertation upon Parties. Dedication.
Next as to examples of disjunction and opposition in the parts of
the thought, imitated in the expression ; an imitation that is distin^
fifuished by the name of antithesis.
Speaking of Coriolanus soliciting the people to be made consul:
With a proud heart he wore his humble weeds. Coriolanus.
Had you rather Cssar were living, and die all slaves, than that Caesar wew
dead, to live all free men 1 Julius Cassar.
He hath cool'd my friends and heated mine enemies. Shdkspeare.
An artificial connection among the words, is undoubtedly a beauty
when it represents any peculiar connection among the constituent
parts of the thought ; but where there is no such connection, it is a
positive deformity, as above observed, because it makes a discordance
between the thought and expression. For the same reason we ought
also to avoid every artificial opposition of words where there is none
in the thought. This last, termed verbal antithesis, is studied by
low writers, because of a certain degree of liveliness in it. They
do not consider how incongruous it is, in a grave composition, to
cheat the reader, and to make him expect a contrast in the thought,
which upon examination is not found there.
A light wife doth make a heavy husband. MercharU of Venice,
Here is a studied opposition in the words, not only without any
opposition in the sense, but even where there is a very intimate con-
♦ See Girard's French Grammar, Discourse 13.
t An argument against abolishing Christianity. Smft,
Digitized
by Google
260 BEAUTY OF LANOUAOE. iCL 18
ncction, that of cause and effect; for it is the levity of the wife thtt
torments the husband.
' ■■ Will maintain
Upon his bad life to make all this good.
King Richard II. Act I. Sc 1.
iMcetta. What, shall these papers lie like tell-tales here ?
JtUia. If thou respect them, best to take them up.
L/ucetta. NAy, I was taken up for laying them aovm.
Two OeiUlemen of Verona^ Act I. Sc. 3.
A fault directly opposite to that last mentioned, is to conjoin arti-
ficially words that express ideas opposed to each other. This is a
fault too gross to be in common practice ; and yet writers are guilty
of it in some degree, when they conjoin, by a copulative, things
transacted at different periods of time. Hence a want of neatness in
the following expression.
The nobility too, whom the king had no means of retaining by suitable oiSces
and preferments, had been seized with the general discontent, and unwarily threw
themselves into the scale which began already too much to preponderate.
History of Great Britain^ vol. I. p. 250.
In periods of this kind, it appears more neat to express the past
time by the participle passive, thus :
The nobility having been seized with the general discontent, unwarily threw
themselves, &c. (or) The nobility, who had been seized, &c. unwarily threw
themselves, &c.
It is unpleasant to find even a negative and affirmative proposition
connected by a copulative :
Nee excitatur classico miles truci,
Nee horret iratum mare ;
Forumque vitat, et superba civium
Potentiorum limina. Horace j Epod. 2. L 5.
Him no dread trump alarms
To take the soldierls arms.
Nor need he fear the stormy main —
The noisy bar he shuns
Nor to the levy runs
Of men whose station makes them vain.
If it appear not plain, and prove untrue,
Deadly divorce step between me and you. Shakspeare.
In mirth and drollery it may have a good effect to connect verbally
things that are opposite to each other in the thought. Example:
Henry IV. of France introducing the Mareschal Biron to some ol
his friends, " Here, gentlemen," says he, " is the Mareschal Brron,
whom I freely present both to my friends and enemies."
This rule of studying uniformity between the thought and expres-
sion, may be extended to the construction of sentences or periods.
A sentence or period ought to express one entire thought or mental
proposition; and different thoughts ought to be separated in the
expression by placing them in different sentences or periods. It is
therefore offending against neatness, to crowd into one period entire
thoughts requiring more than one; which is joining in language
things that are separated in reality. Of errors against this rule taki
the following examples.
Digitized
by Google
Sect 2.] BEAUTY OF LANOVAGB. S61
Behold, thou art fair, my beloTed, yea pleasant ; also our bed is green.
Cffisar, describing the Suevi :
Atque in earn se consuetudinem adduxerunt, ut locis frigidissimis, neque ve*-
Utas, prster pelles, habeant quidquam, quanim propter exiguitatem, magna est
coipons pars aperta, et laventur in fluminibus.* CammefUaria^ 1. 4. prin.
Burnet, in the history of his own times, giving Lord Sunderland's
character, says,
ELis own notions were always good ; but he was a man of great expense.
I have seen a woman's face break out in heats, as she has been talking against
t great lord, whom she had never seen in her life; and indeed never knew a party-
woman that kept her beauty for a twelvemonth. Spectator, No. 57.
Lord Bolingbroke, speaking of Strada :
I sin^o^le him out among the moderns, because he had the foolish presumption to
censure Tacitus, and to write history himself; and your lordship will forgive this
short cxcui'sion in honor of a favorite writer.
Letters on History, Vol. I. Let. 5.
It seims to me, that in order to maintain the moral system of the world at a
certain point, far below that of ideal perfection, Tfor we are made capable of con-
ceiving what we are incapable of attaining,) out however sufficient upon the
whole to constitute a state easy and happy, or at the worst tolerable ; I say, it
seems tome, that the Author of nature has thought fit to mingle from time to tmie,
among the societies of men, a few, and but a few, of those on whom he is gra-
ciously pleased to bestow a larger proportion of the ethereal spirit than is given
in the ordinary course of his providence to the sons of men.
Bolingbroke, on the Spirit of Patriotism, Let. I.
To croT/d into a single member of a period different subjects, is
still wiusiv than to crowd them into one period:
Trojam, genitore Adamasto
Paupere (mansissetque utinam fortuna) profectus.
JEneid, III. 614.
1 came
To Troy, and Achamenides my name,
Me, my poor father with Ulysses sent,
(Oh, hacf I stayed, with poverty content t)
From 6 injunctions and disjunctions in general, we proceed to com-
parisons, which make one species of them, beginning with similes.
And heie also, the intimate connection that words have with their
meaning, requires that in describing two resembling objects, a resem-
blance iu the two members of the period ought to be studied. To
illustrate the rule in this case, I shall give various examples of
deviatiouj. from it ; beginning with resemblances expressed in words
that have no resemblance.
I have ol>«erved of late, the style of some great ministers very much to exceed
that of any overproductions. Letter to the Lord High Treasurer. Swift
This, instead of studying the resemblance of words in a period
that expresses a comparison, is going out of one's road to avoid it.
Instead 01 productions, which resemble not ministers great nor small,
the proper word is writers or authors.
If men of eminence are exposed to censure on the one hand, they are as much
liable to flattery on the other. If they receive reproaches which are not <Jue to
them, they likewise receive praises which they do not deserve. Spectator.
♦ And they had been led into this custom, that in the coldest places thev used
BO garments save sf ins, which were so short that a great part of the bocfy was
exposed; an<2 they bathed in the rivers.
Digitized
by Google
362 BEAUTY or LANOITAGB. [Ch. 18.
Here (he subject plainly demands uniformity in expression instead
of variety ; and therefore it is submitted, whether the period would
not do better in the following manner:
If men of eminence be exposed to censure on the one hand, they are as much
exposed lo flattery on the other. If they receive reproaches that are not due, they
likewise receive praises that are not due.
I cannot but fancy, however, that this Unitation, which passes so currently with
other judgments^ must at some time or other have stuck a little with youriofd-
ship.* [Better thus :] I cannot but fancy, however, that this imitation, which
passes so currently with others^ must at some time or other have stuck a little with
your lordship.
A glutton or mere sensualist is as ridiculous as the other two characters.
Shaftesbury, Vol. I. p. 129.
They wisely prefer the generoui efforts of good-will and affection, \o the reluc-
tant compliances of such as obey by force.
JRemarks on the History of England, Letter 5. Bolingbroke.
Titus Livius, mentioning a demand made by the people of Enna
of the keys from the Roman governor, makes him say.
Gluas simul tradiderimus, Carthaginiensium extemplo Enna erit, fcediusque hie
trucidabimur, quara Murgantiae praesidium interfectum est.t L. 24. § 38.
Cluintus Curtius, speaking of Porus mounted on an elephant, and
leading his army to battle :
Magnitudini Pori adjicere videbatur belluaqua vehebatur, tantum inter caeteras
eminens, quanto aliis ipse prsestabat.t L. 8. cap. 14.
It is Still a greater deviation from congruity, to affect not only
variety in the words, but also in the construction. Describing Ther-
mopylsB, Titus Livius says,
Id jugum, sicut Apennini dorso Italia dividitur, itamediam Grseciam diremit.§
L. 36. § 15.
Speaking of Shakspeare :
There may remain a suspicion that we over-rate the greatness of his genius, in
the same manner as bodies appear more gigantic on account of their beinff dis-
proportioned and misshapen. History of G. Britain, Vol. I. p. 138.
' This is studying variety in a period where the beauty lies in uni-
formity. Better thus :
There may remain a suspicion that we over-rate the greatness of hie genuis, in
the same manner as we over-rate the greatness of bodies that are disproportioned
and misshapen.
Next as to the length of the members that signify the resembling
objects. To produce a resemblance between such members, they
ought not only be constructed in the same manner, but as nearly as
possible be equal in length. By neglecting this circumstance, the
following example is defective in neatness :
As the performance of all other religious duties will not avail in the sight of
* Letter conceminff Enthusiasm. Shaftesbury,
t As soon as we snail have delivered tnem (the keys) Enna forthwith becomes
Carthaginian, and in this we shall be more basely butchered than the Murgantian
guard.
t The brute that carried Porus, seemed to add to his magnitude, towering as
much over the other beasts, as he (Porus) towered above other men.
5 That ridge, as Italy is divided by tlie back of Uie Appenines, so it divid9
middle Greece.
Digitized
by Google
Sect. 2.J BXAUTT OF LANGUAOS. S68
Ood, wt^oul chariifu; so neither will the discharee of all o^er ministerial duties
• avail in the sight of men, without afaithfiU discAarge of this principal dut'^.
Dissertation upon Parties, Dedication.
In the following passage are accumulated all the errors that a
period expressing a resemblance can well admit.
Ministers are answerable for every thing done to the prejudice of the constitu-
tion, in the same proportion as the preservation of the constitution in its purity
and vigor, or the perverting and weakening it, are of greater consequence to tfe
nation, than any other instances of good or bad government.
Dissertation upon Parties. Dedication.
Next of a comparisoq where things are opposed to each other.
And here it must be obvious, that if resemblance ought to be studied
in the words which express two resembling objects, there is equal
reason for studying opposition in the words which express contrasted '
objects. This rule will be best illustrated by examples of deviationa
from it :
A friend exaggerates a man's virtues, an enemy inflames his crimes.
Spectator, No. 399.
Here the opposition in the thought is neglected in the words,
which at first view seem to import, that the friend and the enemy are
employed in difierent matters, without any relation to each other,
whether of resemblance or of opposition. And, therefore, the con-
trast or opposition will be better marked by expressing ^he thought
as follows :
A friend exaggerates a man's virtues, an enemy his crimes.
The following are examples of the same kind.
The wise man is happy when he gains his own approbation ; the fool when he
recommends himself to the applause of tho^e about him. Ibid. No. 73.
Better :
The wise man is happy when he gains his own approbation ; the fool when he
gains that of others.
Sicut in frugibus pecudibusque,- non tantum semina ad servandam indolem
valcnt, quantum terrae proprietas ccelique, sub quo aluntur, mutat.*
Livy, lib. 38. Sect. 17.
We proceed to a rule of a different kind. During the course of a
period, the scene ought to be continued without variation: the chang-
ing from person to person, from subject to subject, or from person to
subject, within the bounds of a single period, distracts the mind, and
affords no time for a solid impression. I illustrate this rule by giv-
ing examples of deviations from it.
Hdtios alit artes, ovinesque incenduntur ad studia gloria ; jacentque ea semper
quiB apud quosque improbantur.t Cicero, Tii^cul. quast. 1. 1.
Speaking of the distemper contracted by Alexander bathing in the
river Cydnus, and of the cure offered by Philip the physician :
Inter haec a Parmenione fidissimo purpuratorum, literas accipit, quibus ei
demmciabat, ne salutem suam Philippo committeret.t
QuiiUtt^s Curtius, 1. 3. cap. 6.
* As in fruits and cattle the seed not only serves to preserve the breed, as mack
Mthcproperties of soil and climate change, by which they are nourished.
t Honor nurses the arts — we are all ambitious of glorious studies — those are
ahrmvs disregarded which are condemned by every one.
^ In the midst of these thines, he receives lessons from Parmenio the roovt
fiuthful of his courtiers, ia which he warned him not to trust his health to Philip.
Digitized
by Google
264 BBAITTY 07 LAMOUAOS. [Ck 18.
Hook, in his Roman history, speaking of Eumenes, who had been
beat to the ground with a stone, says.
After a short time ke came to himself; and the next day they put hin\ on board
his ship, which conveyed him first to Corinth, and thence to the island of iEgina.
I give another example of a period which is unpleasant, even by
a very slight deviation from the rule.
That sort of instruction which is acquired by inculcating an important moral
truth, &c.
This expression includes two persons, one acquiring and one
inculcating ; and the scene is changed without necessity. To ayoid
this blemish, the thought may be expressed thus :
That sort of instruction which is afforded by inculcating, d&c.
The bad effect of such change of person is remarkable in the
following passage :
The BritonSy daily harassed by cruel inroads from the Picts, were forced to
call in the Saxons for their defence, who consequently reduced the greatest part of
the island to their own power, drove the Britons into the most remote and moun-
tainous parts, and the rest of the country, in customs, religion, and language,
became wholly Saxon. Letter to the Lord High 'Treasurer. Swift.
The following passage has a change from subject to person:
'This prostitution of praise is not only a deceit upon the gross of mankind, who
take their notion of characters from the learned ; but also the better sort must by
this means lose some part at least of that desire of fame which is the incentive to
generous actions, when they find it promiscuously bestowed on the meritorious
and uiuieserving. Guardian, No. 4.
Even so slight a change as to vary the construction in the same
period, is unpleasant :
Annibal luce prima, Balearibus levique alia armatura prsmissa, transgressus
flumen, ut quosque traduxerat, ita in acie locabat ; Gallos Hispanosque equites
prope ripam laevo in comu adversus Romanum equitatum ; dextrum cornu Nu-
midis equitibus datum.* Tit. Liv. I. 22. § 46.
Speaking of Hannibal's elephants drove back by the enemy upon
his own army :
Eo magis mere in suos belluse, tantoque majorem stragem edere quam inter
hostes ediderant, quanto acrius pavor constematam agit, quam insidentis masistii
unperio regitur.t Liv. 1. 27. § 14.
This passage is also faulty in a diflerent respect, that there is no
resemblance between the members of the sentence, though they
express a simile.
The present head, which relates to the choice of materials, shall
be closed with a rule concerning the use of copulatives. Longinus
observes, that it animates a period to drop the copulatives ; and he
gives the following example from Xenophon :
Closing their shields together, they were push'd, they fought, they slew, they
were slain. TVeatise of the Sublime, cap. 16.
♦ Annibal, early in the morning having sent over the slineers andiOther ligl»t
troops, crossed the river to place in battSion those whom he had led over; the
Qallic and Spanish horsemen near the bank in the left wing, opposite the RconaA
cavalry-rthe right wing was given to the Numidian horse.
t The more the brutes rushed upon their own men, the greater slaughttf they
made amongst them than amongst tne enemies, by as much as their constemalioa
was greater Ui^in the power of their riders to govern them.
Digitized
byGoogie
Sect. 2.] BXAUTT OF LANOUiOB. 265
The reason I take to be what follows. A continued sound, if not
loud, tends to lay us asleep : an interrupted sound rouses and ani-
mates by its repeated impulses. Thus feet composed of syllables,
being pronounced with a sensible interval between each, make more
lively impressions than can be made by a continued sound. A
period of which the members are connected by copulatives, produces
an efllct upon the mind approaching to that of a continuea sound ;
and, therefore, the suppressing of copulatives must animate a descrip-
tion. It produces a difierent effect akin to that mentioned : the mem-
bers of a period connected J)y proper copulatives, glide smoothly and
gently along ; and are a proof of sedateness and leisure in the
speaker: on the other hand, one in the hurry of passion, neglecting
copulatives and other particles, expresses the principal image only ;
and for that reason, hurry or quick action is best expressed without
copulatives :
Veni, vidi, vici.*
; ■ Ite:
Ferte citi flammas, date vela, impellite remos.
Haste — haul my galleys out ! pursue the foe !
Bring flaming brands t set sail, and swifUy row ! jEneid. IV. 593.
Q.uis globus, O civis, caligine volvitur atra 1
Ferte citi ferrum, dete tela, scandite muros.
Hostis adest, eja.
What rolling clouds, my friends, approach the wall 1
Arm ! arm ! and man the works — prepare your spears
And pointed darts, the Latian host appears ! uEnetd. IX. 37.
In this view Longinus t justly compares copulatives in a period to
strait tying, which in a race obstructs the freedom of motion.
It follows, that a plurality of copulatives in the same period ought
to be avoided : for if the laying aside of copulatives give force and
liveliness, a redundancy of them must render the period languid. I
appeal to the following instance, though there are but two copula-
tives :
Upon looking^ over the letters of my female correspondents, I find several from
women complaming of jealous husbands ; and at tne same time protesting their
own innocence, and desiring my advice upon this occasion. Spectator ^ No. 170.
I except the case where the words are intended to express tne
coldness of the speaker ; for there the redundancy of copulatives is
a beauty •
Dining one day at an alderman's in the city, Peter observed him expatiatmf .
after the manner of his brethren, in the praises of his surloin of beef " Beef;**
said the sage magistrate, " is the king of meat : Beef comprehends in it Uie
quintessence of partridge, and quail, and venison, and pheasant, and plum-pudding
1 plum-pud
9j a Tub, {
and custard." Tale ej a Tub, § 4
And the author shows great delicacy of taste by varying the expres-
sion in the mouth of Peter, who is represented more animated :
" Bread," says he, " dear brothers, is the staff of life ; in which bread it
^ntained, iridusive, the quintessence of beef, mutton, veai, venison, partridges,
phun-pudding, and custard."
* I camft — saw — conquered !
t Treatise of the Sublime, cap. 16.
23
Digitized
by Google
266 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18.
A.nother case must also be excepted: copulatives have a good
effect where the intention is to give an impression of a great multi-
tude consisting of many divisions ; for example ; " The army was
composed of Grecians, and Carians, and Lycians, and PamphylianSi
and Phrygians." The reason is, that a leisurely survey, which is
expressed by the copulatives, makes the parts appear more numerous
than they would do by a hasty survey : in the latter case the army
appears in one group ; in the former, we take as it were an accurate
survey of each nation and of each division.*
We proceed to the second kind of beauty ; which consists in a
dile arrangement of the words or materials. This branch of the
subject is no less nice than extensive ; and I despair of setting it in
a clear light, except to those who are well acquainted with the gene-
ral principles that govern the structure or composition of language.
-In a thought, generally speaking, there is, at least, one capital
object considered as acting or as suffering. This object is expressed
by a substantive noun ; its action is expressed by an active verb ; and
the thing affected by the action is expressed by another substantive
noun : its suffering or passive state is expressed by a passive* verb;
and the thing that acts upon it, by a substantive noun. Beside these,
which are the capital parts of a sentence or period, there are, gene-
rally, under-parts; each of the substantives, as well as the verb, may
be qualified : time, place, purpose, motive, means, instrument, and a
thousand other circumstances, may be necessary to complete the
thought. And in what manner these several parts are connected ia
the expression, will appear from what follows.
In a complete thought or mental proposition, all the members
and parts are mutually related, some slightly, some intimately. To
put such a thought in words, it is not sufficient that the component
ideas be clearly expressed ; it is also necessary, that all the relations
contained in the thought be expressed according to their different
degrees of intimacy. To annex a certain meaning to a certain
sound or word, requires no art : the great nicety in all languages is,
to express the various relation? that connect the parts of the thought.
Could we suppose this branch of language to be still a secret, it
would puzzle, I am apt to think, the most acute grammarian, to
invent an expeditious method : and yet, by the guidance merely of
nature, the rude and illiterate have been led to a method so perfect,
as to appear not susceptible of any improvement ; and the next step
in our progress shall be to explain that method.
Words that import a relation, must be distinguished from such as
do not. Substantives commonly imply no relation ; such as animal,
man, tree, river. Adjectives, verbs, imd adverbs, imply a relation;
the adjective good must relate to some being possessed of that quality;
the verb write is applied to some person who writes; and the
adverbs moderately, diligently, have plainly a reference to some
action which they modify. When a relative word is introduced, it
must be signified by the expression to what word it relates, without
which the sense is not complete. For answering that purpose, I
♦ See Demetrms Phalereus of Elocution, sect. 63.
Digitized
by Google
Sect 2.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 267
observe in Greek and Latin two different methods. Adjectives are
declined as well as substantives ; and declension serves to ascertain
their connection : If the word that expresses the subject be, for ex-
ample, in the nominative i:ase, so also must the word be that expresses
its quality ; example, vir bonus. Again, verbs are related, on the
one hand, to the agent, and, on the other, to the subject upon which
the action is exerted : and a contrivance similar to that now men-
tioned, serves to express the double relation : the nominative case is
appropriated to the agent, the accusative to the passive subject ; and
the verb is put in the first, second, or third person, to intimate its
tonnection with the word that signifies the agent : examples. Ego
(mo TuUiam; tu amas Semproniam ; Brutus amat Portiam* The
other method is by juxtaposition, which is necessary with respect to
such words only as are not declined ; adverbs, for example, articles,
prepositions, and conjunctions. In the English language there are
few declensions ; and therefore juxtaposition is our chief resource :
adjectives accompany their substantives;! an adverb accompanies
the word it qualifies ; and the verb occupies the middle place be-
tween the active and passive subjects, to which it relates.
It must be obvious^ that those terms which have nothing relative
ia their signification, cannot be connected in so easy a manner.
When two substantives happen to be connected, as cause and effect,
as principal and accessory, or in any other manner, such connection
cannot be expressed by contiguity solely ; for words must often, in
a period, be placed together which are not thus related : the relation
between substantives, therefore, cannot otherwise be expressed than
by particles denoting the relation. Latin indeed and Greek, by
their declensions, go a certain length to express such relations,
without the aid of particles. The relation of property for example,
between Cassar and his horse, is expressed by putting the latter in
the nominative case, the former in the genitive ; equus Casaris : the
same is also expressed in English without the aid of a particle,
Call's horse. But in other instances, declensions not being used
in the English language, relations of this kind are commonly ex-
pressed by prepositions. Examples : That wine came from Cyprus.
He is gomg to Paris. The sun is below the horizon.
This form of connecting by prepositions, is not confined to substan-
tives, dualities, attributes, manner of existing or acting, and all
other circumstances, may, in the same manner, be connected with
the substances to which they relate. This is done artificially by
converting the circumstance into a substantive ; in which condition
it is qualified to be connected with the principal subject by a prepo-
sition, in the manner above described. For example, the adjective
* I love Tullia — ^thou lovest Sempronia — Brutus lo^es Portia.
t Taking advantage of a declension to separate an adjective from its substantive,
•« is commonly practised in Latin, though it detract not from perspicuity, is
certainly less neat than the English method of juxtaposition. Contiguity is more
expressive of an intimate relation, than resemblance merely of the final syllables.
Latin indeed has evidently the advantage when the adjective and substantive.
Happen to be connected by contiguity, as well as by resemblance of the final
>yll»bl^
Digitized
by Google
^68 BEAUTl OF LANOUAOB. fCb. 18.
wise being converted into the substantive wisdom, gives opportunity
for the expre|sion " a man of wisdom," instead of the more simple
expression, a toise man: this variety in the expression enriches
language. I observe, beside, that the using of a preposition in this
case, is not always a matter of choice : it is indispensable with
respect to every circumstance that cannot be expressed by a single
adjective or adverb.
To pave the way for the rules of arrangement, one other pre-
liminary is necessary ; which is, to explain the difference between
a natural style, and that where transposition or inversion prevails.
There are, it is true, no precise boundaries between them, for they
run into each other like the shades of different colors. No person,
however, is at a loss to distinguish them in their extremes : and it
is necessary to make the distinction : because though some of the
rules I shall have occasion to mention are common to both, yet each
has rules peculiar to itself In a natural style, relative words are
by juxtaposition connected with those to which they relate, going
before or after, according to the peculiar genius of the language.
Again, a circumstance connected by a preposition, follows naturally
the word with which it is connected. But this arrangement may
be varied, when a different order is more beautiful ; ar circumstance
may be placed before the word with which it is connected by a pre-
position ; and may be interjected even between a relative word and
that to which it relates. When vsuch liberties are frequently taken,
the style becomes inverted or transposed.
But as the liberty of inversion is a capital point in the present
subject, it will be necessary to examine it more narrowly, and in
particular to trace the several degrees in which an inverted style
recedes more and more from that which is natural. And first, as to
the placing of a circumstance before the word with which it is con-
nected, I observe, that it is the easiest of all inversion, even so easy
as to be consistent with a style that is properly termed natural;
witness the following examples. *
In the sincerity of my heart, I profess, &c.
By our own ill management, we are brought to so low an ebb of wealth and
credit, that, &c.
On Thursday morning there was little or nothing transacted in Change-alley.
At St. Bride's church in Fleet-street, Mr. Woolston, (who writ againrt the
miracles of our Savior,) in the utmost terrors of conscience, made- a public re>-
cantation.
The interjecting of a circumstance between a relative word, and
that to which it relates, is more properly termed inversion ; because,
by a disjunction of words intimately connected, it recedes farther
from a natural style. But this license has degrees; for the dis-
junction is more violent in some instances than in others. And to
give a just notion of the difference, there is a necessity to enter a
little more into an abstract subject, than would otherwise be my
inclination.
In nature, though a subject cannot exist without its qualities, nor
Digitized
by Google
fkct 2.] BEAUTY OF LANOVAGB. 269
Equality without a subject ; yet in our conception of these, a materia]
dinerence may be r.emarked. I cannot conceive a quality but as
belonging to some subject : it makes, indeed, a part of the idea i^hich
is formed of the subject. But the opposite holds not ; for though I
cannot form a conception of a subject void of all qualities, a partial
conception may be formed of it, abstracting from any particular
quality : I can, for example, form the idea of a fine Arabian horse
without regard to his color, or of a white horse without regard to
his size. Such partial conception of a subject, is still more easy
with respect to action or motion ; which is an occasional attribute
only, and has not the same permanency with color or figure: I
cannot form an idea of motion independent of a body ; but there is
nothing more easy than to form an idea of a body at rest. Hence
it appears, that the degree of inversion depends greatly on the order
in which the related words are placed : when a substantive occupies
the first place, the idea it suggests must subsist in the mind at least
for a moment, independent of the relative words afterward intro-
duced; and that moment may without difficulty be prolonged by
interjecting a circumstance between the substantive and its connec-
tions. This liberty, therefore, however frequent, will scarcely alone
be sufficient to denominate a style inverted. The case is very dif-
ferent, where the word that occupies the first place denotes a quality
or an action ; for as these cannot be conceived without a subject, '
they cannot, without greater violence, be separated from the subject
that follows; and for that reason, every such separation, by means
of an interjected circumstance, belongs to an inverted style.
To illustrate this doctrine, examples are necessary ; and I shall
begin with those where the word first introduced does not imply a
relation.
— ^ Nor Eve to iterate
Her former trespass fear'd.-
Hunger and thirst at once,
Powerful persuaders, quicken'd at the scent
Of that alluring fruit, urg'd me so keen.
Moon that now meet'st the orient sun, now fli'st
With the fix'd stars, fix'd.in their orb that flies,
And ye five other wand'ring fires that move
In mystic dance not without song, resoimd
Elis praise.
In the following examples, where the word first introduced imports
a relation, the disjunction will be found nnore violent.
Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world, and all our wo,
With loss of Elden, till one ffreater man
Restore us, and regain the blissfVd seat,
Sing heav'nly muse.
• Upon the firm opacous globe
Of this round world, whose first convex divides
The luminous inferior orbs inclos'd
From chaos and th' inroad of darkness old,
Satan alighted walks.
Digitized
by Google
270 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 1&
— -^ On a sudden open fly
"With impetuous recoil and jarring sound,
Th' infernal doors.
- Wherein remained,
For what could elsel to our almighty foe
Clear victory, to our part loss and rout.
Forth rush'd, with whirlwind sound,
The chariot of paternal Deity,
Language would have no great power, were it confined to the
natural order of ideas. I shall soon have opportunity to make it
evident, that hy inversion a thousand beauties may be compassed,
which must be relinquished in a natural arrangement. In the
mean time, it^ought not to escape observation, that the mind of man
is happily so constituted as to relish inversion, though in one respect
unnatural; and to relish it so much, as in many cases to admit a
separation between words the most intimately connected. It can
scarcely be said that' inversion has any limits ; though I may ven-
ture to pronounce, that the disjunction of articles, conjunctions, or
prepositions, from the words to which they belong, has very seldom
a good effect. The following example with relation to a preposition,
is, perhaps, as tolerable as any of the kind:
He would neither separate /r^Tm., nor act againfAikem.
I give notice to the reader, that I am now ready to enter on the
rules of arrangement ; beginning with a natural style, and proceed- •
ing, gradually, to what is the most inverted. And in the arrange-
ment of a period, as well as in a right choice of words, the first and
great object being perspicuity, the rule above laid down, that perspi-
cuity ought not to be sacrificed to any other beauty, holds equally in
both. Ambiguities occasioned by a wrong arrangement are of two
sorts ; one where the arrangement leads to a wrong sense, and one
where the sense is left doubtful. The first, being the more culpable,
shall take the lead, beginning with examples of words put in a wrong
place.
How much the imagination of such a presence must exalt a genius, we may
observe merely from the influence which an ordinary presence has over men.
Characteristics^ Vol. i. p. 7.
This arrangement leads to a wrong sense : the adverb merely seems
by its position to affect the preceding word ; whereas it is intended
to affect the following words, an ordinary presence ; and therefore
the arrangement ought to be thus :
How much the imagination of such a presence must exalt a genius, we may
observe from the influence which an ordinary presence merely has over men.
[Or, better,] — which even an ordinary presence has over men.
The time of the election of a poet-laureat being now at hand, it may be proper
to ffive some account of the rites and ceremonies anciently used at that solemnity,
and only discontinued through the neglect and degeneracy of later times.
Guardian,
The term only is intended to qualify the noun degeneracy, and not
tk e participle discontinued ; and therefore the arrangement ought to
be as follows :
Digitized
by Google
Sect 2.] BEAUTY or language. 271
and discontinued through the neglect and degeneracy only
of later times.
Sixtus the Fourth was, if I mistake not, h great collector of books at least.
Letters on History, Vol. I. Let. 6. Bolingbroke
The expression here leads evidently to a wrong sense ; the adverb
at least, ought not to be connected with the substantive books, but
with collector, thus r
Sixtus the Fourth was a great collector at least of books.
Speaking of Lewis XIV.
If he was not the greatest king, he was the best actor of majesty at least, that
CTer filled a throne. Mnd. Letter 7.
Better thus :
If he was not the greatest king, he was at least th% best actor of majesty, &c.
This arrangement removes the wrong sense occasioned by the juxta-
position of majesty and at least.
The following examples are of a wrong arrangement of members :
I have confined myself to those methods for the advancement of piety, which are
in the power of a prince limited like ours by a strict execution of the laws.
A Project for the Advancement of Religion. Swift,
The structure of this period leads to a meaning which is not the
author's, viz. power limited by a strict execution of the laws. That
wrong sense is removed by the following arrangement:
, I have confined myself to those methods for the advancement of piety, which,
Dy a strict execution of the laws, are in the power of a prince limited like ours.
This morning, when one of Lady Lizard's daughters was looking over some
hoods and ribands brought by her tirewoman, with great care and diligence, I
employed no less in examining the box which containS them. Guardian, No. 4.
The wrong sense occasioned by this arrangement, may be easily
prevented by varying it thus :
This morning when, with great care and diligence, one of Lady Lizard's
daughters was looking over some hoods ^d ribands, &c.
A great stone that I happened to find after a long search by the sea-shore, served
me for an cmchor. Gulliver's Travels, Part I. Chap. 8.
One would think that the search was confined to the sea-shore ; but
as the meaning is, that the great stone was found by the sea-shore,
the period ought to be arranged thus :
A great stone, that, after a long search, I happened to find by the sea-shore,
served me for an anchor.
Next of a wrong arrangement where the sense is left doubtful ;
beginning, as in the former sort, with examples of wrong arrange-
ment of words in a member.
These forms of conversation by degrees multiplied and grew troublesome.
Spectator, No. 119.
Here it is left doubtful whether the modification by degrees relates
♦o the preceding member or to what follows : it should be.
These forms of conversation multiplied by degrees.
Nor does this false modesty expose us only to such actions as are indiscreet, but
very often to such as are hignly criminal. ' Spectator, No. 466.
Digitized
by Google
272 BBAVTY 07 LANeVAOK. [Ch. IS.
The ambiguity is removed by the following arrangement :
Nor does this false modesty expose us to such actions only as are indiscreet, &c
The empire of Blefuscu is an island situated to the north-east side of Lilliput,
from whence it is parted only by a channel of 800 yards wide.
Chdlivtr's TVavels, Part I. Chi^. 5.
"Hio ambiguity may be removed thus :
from whence it is parted by a channel of 800 yards wide
only.
In the following examples the sense is left doubtful by wrong*
arrangement of members.
The minister who ffrows les^ by his elevation, like a litUe statue placed on a
mighty pedfstaZ, will always have his jealousy strong about him.
Dissertation upon Parties, Dedication. Boli'^broke.
Here, as far as can be gathered from the arrangement, it is doubtful,
whether the object introduced by way of simile, relate tq what goes
before or to what follows : the ambiguity is removed by the follow-
ing arrangement :
The minister, who, like a little statue placed on a mighty pedestal, grows less
by his elevation, will always, &c.
Since this is too much to ask of freemen, nay of slaves, if his expectation be not
answered^ shall he form a lasting division upon such transient motives ? Ibid,
Better thus :
Since this is too much to ask of freemen, nay of slaves, shall he, if his expecta-
tions be not answered, form, &c.
Speaking of the superstitious practice of locking up the room where
a person of distinction dies :
The kniffht seeing his habitation reduced to so small a compass, and himself in
a inanner shut out of his own house, upon the death of his mother j order^ all the
apartments to be flung open, and exorcised by his chaplain.
Spectator^ No. 110.
Better thus :
The knight seeing his habitation redded to so small a compass, and himself in
a nlanner shut out of his own house, oraered, upon the deathof his mother, all the
apartments to be flung open.
Speaking of some indecencies in conversation :
As it is impossible for such an irrational way ofconversation to last long among
a people that make any profession of religion, or show of modesty, if the cowUff
gentlemen get itUo it, they will certainly be left in the lurch.
Spectator, No. 119.
The ambiguity vanishes in the following arrangement :
— the country gentlemen, if they get into it, will certamly be left in
the lurch.
Speaking of a discovery in natural philosophy, that color is not a
quality of matter :
As this is a truth which has been proved incontestably by many modem philo-
sophers, and is indeed one of the finest speculations in tnat science, t/'^A« English
reader would see the notion explained at targe, he may find it in the eighth chapter
of the second book of Mr. Locke's Essay on Human Understandhig.
Spectator, No. 413.
Better thus :
As this is a truth, &c the English i^eader, if he would see the notion eiplained
at Htrge, may find it, &<c.
Digitized
by Google
See. 2.] BBA17TY OF LANOVAQB. • 273
A woman seldom asks advice before she has bought her wedding-dothes.
When she has made her own choice, for formh sake she sends a conge d'elire to
her friends. Ibid. No. 475.
Better thus :
she sends, for form's sake, a conge d^elire to her friends.
And since it is necessary that there should be a perpetual intercourse of buying
and selling, and dealing upon credit, where fraud is permitted or connived at^or
hath Tto law to ptmish itj the honest dealer is always undone, and the knave gets .
the advantage. Gulliver's TravelSj Part I. Chap. 6.
Better thus :
And since it is necessary that there should be a perpetual intercourse of buying
and selling, and dealing upon credit, the honest dealer, where fraud is permitted or
connived at, or hath no law to punish it, is always undone, and the knave gets the
advantage.
From these examples, the following observation will occur, that a
circumstance ought never to be placed between two capital members
of a period ; for by such situation it must always be doubtful, as far
as we gather from the arrangement, to which of the two members
it belongs : where it is interjected, as it ought to be, between parts of
the member to which it belongs, the ambiguity is removed, and the
capital members are kept distinct, which is a great beauty in compo-
sition. In general, to preserve members distinct that signify things
distinguished in the thought, the best method is, to place iirst in the
consequent member, some word that cannot connect with what pre-
cedes it.
If it shall be thought, that the objections here are too scrupulous,
and that the defect of perspicuity is easily supplied by accurate punc-
tuation ; the answer is, that punctuation may remove an ambiguity,
but will never produce that peculiar beauty which is perceived when
the sense comes out clearly and distinctly by means of a happy
arrangement. Such influence has this beauty, that by a natural
transition of perception it is communicated to the very ^ound of the
words, so as in appearance to improve the music of the period. But
as this curious subject comes in more properly afterward, it is suffi-
cient at present to appeal to experience, that a period so arranged as
to bring out the sense clear, seems always more musical than where
the sense is left in any degree doubtful.
A rule deservedly occupying the second place, is, that words
expressing things connected in the thought, ought to be placed as
near together as possible. This rule is derived immediately from
human nature, prone in every instance to place together things in any
manner connected :* where things are arranged according to their
connections, we have a sense of order; otherwise we have a sense of
disorder, as of things placed by chance: and we naturally place words
in the same order in which we would place the things they signify.
The bad effect of a violent separation of words or member's thus
mtimately connected, will appear from the following examples.
For the English are naturally fanciful, and very often disposed, by that gloomi-
ness and melancholy of temper which is so frec^uent in our nation, to many wild
notions and visions, to which others are not so liable. Spectator ^ No. 419.
♦ See Chap. I.
Digitized
by Google
274 . BKAUTY OF LANeUAQX. [CL 18.
Here the verb or assertion is, by a pretty long circumstance, vio-
lently separated from the subject to which it refers : this makes a
harsh arrangement; the less excusable as the fault is easily pre-
vented by placing the circumstance before the verb, after the follow-
ing manner :
For the English are naturally fanciful, and, by that gloominess and melancholy
of temper which is so frequent in our nation, are often disposed to many wild
notions, Ac.
For as no mortal author, in the ordinary *ute and vicissitude of things, knows to
what use his works may, some time or othei be applied, &c.
Spectator, No. 85.
Better thus :
For as, in the ordinary fate and vicissitude of things, no mortal author knows
to what use, some time or other, his works may be applied, &c.
From whence we may date likewise the rivalship of the house of France, for
we may reckon that of Valois and that of Bourbon as one up'>n this occasion, and
the house of Austria, that continues at this day, and has ofl e^st so«much blood
and so much treasure in the course of it.
Letters on History^ Vol. I. Let 6. Bolinghroke.
It cannot be impertinent or ridiculous therefore in such a country, whatever it
might be in the Abbot of St. Real's, which was Savoy I think ; or m Peru, under
the Incas, where Garsilasso de la Vega says it was lawful for none but the nobi-
lity to study — for men of all degrees to instruct themselves, in those affairs wherein
they may be actors, or judges of those that act, or controllers of those that judge.
Letters on History , Vol. I. Let. 5. Bolinghroke,
If Scipio, who was naturally given to women, for which anecdote we have, if I
mistake not, the authority of jPolybius, as well as some verses of Nevius, pre-
served by Aulus Gtellius, had been educated by Olympias at the court of Philip, it
is improbable that he would have restored the beautiful Spaniard. Ibid. Let 3.
If any one have a curiosity for more specimens of this kind, they
will be found, without number, in the works of the same author.
A pronoun, which saves the naming of a person or thing a second
time, ought to be placed as near as possible to the name of that person
or thing. This is a branch of the foregoing rule ; and with the
reason there given another concurs, viz. that if other ideas intervene,
it is difficult to recall the person or thing by reference :
If I had leave to print the Latin letters transmitted to me from foreign parts,
they would fill a volume, and be a full defence against all that Mr. Partridge, or
his accomplices of the Portugal inquisition, will be ever ^ble to obiect ; who, by
the way, are the only enemies my predictions have ever met with at home or
abroad.
Better thus :
and be a full defence against all that can be objected by Mr. Part-
ridge, or his accomplices of the Portugal inquisition; who, by the way, are, &c.
There being a round million of creatures in human figure, throughout this king-
dom, whose whole subsistence, &c. A Mode^ Proposal, 4*c. Smifi.
Better:
There being throughout this kingdom, a round million of creatures in human
figure, whose whole subsistence, &c.
Tom is a lively impudent clown, and has wit enough to have made him a plea?
sant companion, had it been polished and rectified by good manners.
Guardian, No. 162.
It is the custom of the Mahometans, if they see any printed or written paper upoa
the ground, to take it up, and lay it aside carefully, as not knowing but it may
contain some piece of their Alcoran. S^ctator, ^o, f^
Digitized
by Google
Sect 2.] BEAUTY or lanovaob. 275
The artangement here leads to a wrong sense, as if the grouid
were taken up, not the paper, — ^Better thus : •
It is the custom of the Mahometans, if they see upon the ground any printed or
written paper, to take it up, &c.
The following rule depends on the communication of emotions to
related objects 3 a principle in human nature that has an extensive
operation: and we find this operation, even where the objects are
not otherwise related than by juxtaposition of the words that express
them. Hence, to elevate or depress an object, one method is, to join
it in the expression with another that is naturally high or low : wit-
ness the following speech of Eumenes to the Roman Senate.
Causam veniendi sibi Romam fuisse, prseter cupiditatem visendi d£os homines-
qji£, quorum beneficio in ea fortuna esset, supra quam ne optare quidem auderet,
etiam ut coram monerct senatum ut Persei conatus obviam iret.*
Livy^ 1. 42. cap. 11.
To join the Romans with the gods in the same enunciation, is an
artful stroke of flattery, because it tacitly puts them on a level. On
the other hand, the degrading or vilifying of an. object, is done suc-
cessfully by ranking it with one that is really low :
I hope to have this entertainment in a readiness for the next winter ; and doubt
not but it will please more than the opera or puppet-show. Spectator ^ No. 28.
Manifold have been the judgments which Heaven from time to time, for the
chastisement of a sinful people, has inflicted upon whole nations. I^r when the
degeneracy becomes common, 'tis but just the punishment should be general. Of
this kind, in our pwn unfortunate country, was that destructive pestilence, whose
mortality was so fatal as to sweep away, if Sir "William Petty may be believed,
five millions of Christian souls, besides women and Jews.
God^s Revenge against Punning. ArbtUhnot.
Such also was that dreadful conflagration ensuing in this famous metropolis of
London, which consumed, according to the computation of Sir Samuel Moreland,
100,000 houses, not to mention churches and stables. Md.
But on condition it might pass into a law, I would gladly exempt both lawyers
of all ages, subaltern and field officer*, young heirs, dancing-masters, pick-pockets,
and players. An infallible Scheme to pay the Public Debt. Swift.
Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall.
Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all.
Rape of the Lock.
Circumstances in a period resemble small stones in a building,
employed to fill up vacuities among those of a larger size. In the
arrangement of a period, such under-parts crowded together make
a poor figure ; and never are graceful but when interspersed among
the capital parts. I illustrate this rule by the following example.
It is likewise urged, that there are, by computation, in this kingdom, above
10,000 parsons, whose revenues, added to those of my Lords the Bishops, would
suffice to maintain, &c. Argument against abolishing Christianity. Swift.
Here two circumstances, viz. by computation, and in this kingdom^
are crowded together unnecessarily ; they make a better appearance
separated in the following manner :
* His cause for coming to Rome, in addition to his desire of seeing ^ods and
men, by whose kindness he had such g;ood fortune, and more than which he dared
not wjsh for, was that he might openly assure the senate that he was opposed to
Pearaeos.
Digitized
byrGoogle
276 BBAUTT OF LANeVAQE. [Ch. 1&
It is likewise urged, that in this kiogdom there are, by computation, aboye
10,000 parspns, &c
If there be room for a choice, the sooner a circumstance is intro-
duced, the better ; because circumstances are proper for that coolness
of mind, with which we begin a period as well as a volume : in the
progress, the mind warms, and nas a greater relish for matters of
importance. When a circumstance is placed at the beginning of the
period, or near the beginning, the transition from it to the principal
subject is agreeable : it is like ascending, or going upward. On the
other hand, to place it late in the period has a bad effect : for afker
being engaged in the principal subject, one is with reluctance
brought down to give attention to a circumstance. Hence evidently
the preference of the following arrangement :
"Whether in any country a choice altogether unexceptionable has been made,
seems doubtful.
Before this other,
Whether a choice altogether unexceptionaUe has in any country been made, doc
For this reason the following period is exceptionable in point of
arrangement.
I have considered formerly, with a good deal of attention, the subject upon
which you command me to communicate my thoughts to you.
Bolingbroke of the Study of History ^ Letter 1.
which, with a slight alteration, may be improved thus :
I have formerly, with a good deal of attention, considered the subject, &c.
Swift, speaking of a virtuous and learned education :
And although they may be, and too often are drawn, by the temptations of
youth, and the opportunities of alar^ fortune, into some irregularities, when they
comefonoard iiUo the great world ; it is ever with reluctance and compunction of
mind, because their bias to virtue still continues. The JrUeUigencer^ No. 9.
Better: •
And although, when they come forward into the great world, they may be, and
too often, &c.
The bad effect of placing a circumstance last or late in a period,
will appear from the following examples.
Let us endeavor to establish to ourselves an interest in him who holds the reins
of the whole creation in his hand. Spectator j No. 12.
Better thus :
Let us endeavor to establish to ourselves an interest in him, who, in his hand,
holds the reins of the whole creation.
Virgil, who has cast the whole system of Platonic philosophy, so far as it
relates to the soul of man, into beautiml allegories, in the sixth book of his jEntH
gives us the punishment, &c Spectator, No. 90.
Better thus :
Virgil, who in the sixth book of his iEneid, has cast, die.
And Philip the Fourth was obliged at last to conclude a peace on terms rqMi^
nant to his inclination, to that of his people, to the interest of Spain, and to thit
of all Europe, in the Pyrenean treaty.
LeUers on History, YolLheL 6. Bolingbrde.
Digitized
by Google
Sec. 2.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 277
Better thus :
And at last, in the Pjrrenean treaty, Philip the Fourth was oblige^ to conclude
a peace, &c.
In arranging a period, it is of importance to determine in what
part of it a word makes the greatest figure ; whether at the begin-
ning, during the course, or at the close. Breaking silence rouses
the attention, and prepares for a deep impression at the beginning :
the beginning, however, must yield to the close ; which being suc-
ceeded by a pause, affords time for a word to make its deepest
impression.* Hence the following rule, that to give the utmost
force to a period, it ought, if possible, to be closed with that word
which makes the greatest figure. The opportunity of a pause
should not be thrown away upon accessories, but reserved for the
principal object, in order that it may make a full impression : which
is an additional reason against closing a period with a circumstance.
There are, however, periods that admit not such a structure ; and in
that case, the capital word ought, if possible, to be placed in the
front, which next to the close is the most advantageous for making
an impression. Hence, in directing our discourse to a man of
figure, we ought to begin with his name ; and one will be sensible
of a degradation, when this rule is neglected, as it frequently is for
the sake of verse. I give the following examples.
Integer vita, scelerisque purus,
Non eget Mauri jaculis, neque arcu, /
Nee venenatis gravidd sagittis,
Fusee, pharetra. Herat. C^rjn. 1. 1. ode 33. ,
One sound and pure of wicked arts *
Leaves to the blocks their spear and bow,
Nor need the deadly tinctured darts
"Within his quiver stow.
Je crains Dieu, cher Abner, et n'ai point d'autre crainte.
In these examples, the name of the person addressed to makes a
mean figure, being like a circumstance slipt into a corner. That
this criticism is well founded, we need no other proof than Addison's
translation of the last example :
O Abner ! I fear my GKxl, and I fear none but him.
ChiardicmfNo, in,
O father, what intends thy hand, she cry'd,
Againstthy only*son 1 What fury, O son,
Possesses thee to bend that mortal dart
Against thy father's head 1 Paradise Lostj B. 2. L 727.
Every one must be sensible of a dignity in the invocation at the
beginning, which is not attained by that in the middle. I mean not,
however, to censure this passage : on the contrary, it appears beau-
ful, by distinguishing the respect that is due to a father from that
which is due to a son.
The substance of what is said in this and the foregoing section,
♦ To give force or elevation to a period, it ought to begin and end with a lone
tillable. For a long syllable makes naturally the strongest impression : and ot
ttU tile syllables in a period, we are chiefly moved with the first and last.
Demetrius Phalereus of Eloouiwn^ Sect 39.
24
Digitized by V^OOQ I€
278 BEATTTY OF LANOVAOB. [CL 18.
upon the method of arranging words in a period, so as to make the
deepest impression with respect to sound as well as signification, is
comprehended in the following observation : That order of words
in a period will always be the most agreeable, where, without obscu-
rinfi^ the sense, the most important images, the most sonorous words^
and the longest members, bring up the rear.
Hitherto of arranging single words, single members, and single
circumstances. But the enumeration of many particulars in the
same period is often necessary ; and the question is, In what order
they should be placed ? It does not seem easy, at first view, to bring
a subject apparently so loose under any general rule : but luckily,
reflecting upon what is said in the first chapter about order, we find
rules laid down to our hand, which leave us no task but that of ap-
plying them to the present question. And, first, with respect to the
enumerating particulars of equal rank, it is laid down in the place
quoted, that as there is no cause for preferring any one before the
rest, it is indifferent to the mind in what order they be viewed.
And it is only necessary to be added here, that for the . same
reason, it is indifferent ih what order they be named. 2dly,
If a number of objects of the same kind, difiering only in size,
are to be ranged along a straight line, the most agreeable order to
the eye is that of an increasing series. In surveying a number of
such objects, beginning at the least, and proceeding to greater and
greater, the mind swdls gradually with the successive objects, and
m its progress has a very sensible pleasure. Precisely for the same
reason, words expressive of such objects ought to be placed in the
same order. The beauty of this figure, which may be termed a
climax in sense, has escaped Lord Bolingbroke in the first member
of the following period.
Let but one great, brave, disinterested, active man arise, and he will be received,
followed, and almost adored.
The following arrangement has sensibly a better effect
Let but one brave, great, active, disinterested man arise, &c.
Whether the same rule ought to be followed in enumerating men ot
different ranks, seems doubtful : on the one hand, a number of per-
sons presented to the eye in form of an increasing series is undoubt-
edly the most agreeable order : on the other hand, in every list of
names, we set the person of the greatest dignity at the top, and
descend gradually through his inferiors. Where the purpose is to
honour the persons named according to their rank, the latter order
ought to be followed ; but every one. who regards himself only, or
hia reader, will choose the former order. 3dly, As the sense o»
order directs the eye to descend from the principal to its greatest
accessory, and from the whole to its greatest part, and in the same
order through all the parts and accessories till we arrive at the
minutest ; the same order ought to be followed in the enumeration
of such particulars. I shall give one familiar example. Talking
of the parts of a column, the base, the shaft, the capital, these are
capable of six different arrangements, and the question is, Which is
Digitized by VorOOQ IC
Sec. 2.| BBAVTY OF LANOUAOB. 879
the best? When we have in view the erecting of a column, we arc
naturally led to express the parts in the order above mentioned ;
which at the same time is agreeable by ascending. But considering
the column as it stands, without reference to its erection, the senae
of order, as observed above, requires the chief part to ,be named
first: for that reason we begin with the shaft; and the base comes
next in order, that we may ascend from it to the capital. Lastly, In
tracing the particulars of any natural operation, order requires that
we follow tne course of nature : historical facts are related in the
order of time : we begin at the founder of a family, and proceed
from him to his descendants : but in describing a lofty oak, we begin
with the trunk, and ascend to the branches.
When force and liveliness of expression are demanded, the rule
is, to suspend the thought as long as possible, and to bring it out
full and entire at the close : which cannot be done but by inverting
the natural arrangement. By introducing a word or member before
its time, curiosity is raised about what is to follow ; and it is agree-
able to have our curiosity gratified at the close of the period : the
pleasure we feel resembles that of seeing a stroke exerted upon a
body by the whole collected force of the ageht. On the other nand,
where a period is so constructed as to admit more than one complete
close in the sense, the curiosity of the reader is exhausted at the first
close, and what follows appears languid or superfluous : his disap-
pointment contributes also to that appearance, when he finds, con-
trary to expectation, that the period is not yet finished. Cicero, and
after him Cluintilian, recommend the verb to the last place. This
method evidently tends to suspend the sense till the close of the
period ; for without the verb the sense cannot be complete : and
when the verb happens to be the capital word, which it frequently is,
it ought at any rate to be the last, according to another rule, above
llaid down. I proceed as usual to illustrate this rule by examples.
The following period is placed in its natural order.
Were instruction an essential circumstance in epic poetry^ I doubt whether a
single instance could be given of this species of composition, in any language.
The period thus arranged admits a full close upon the word comp(h
sition; after which* it goes on languidly, and closes without force.
This blemish will be avoided by the following arrangement :
Were instruction an essential circumstance in epic poetry, I doubt whether, in
any language, a single instance could be given of this species of composition.
Some of our most eminent divines have made use of this Platonic notion, as
far as it res^ards the subsistence of our passions after death, with great beauty and
strength of reason. Spectator ^ No. 90.
Better thus :
Some of our most eminent divines have, with great beauty and strength of
reason, made use of this Platonic notion, &c.
Men of the best sense have been touched, more or less, with these groundl^
horrors and presages of futurity, upon surveying the most indifferent works of
nature. Spectator j No. 505.
Better,
Upon surveying the most indifferent works of nature, men of the best sense, &«.
Digitized
by Google
280 BEAUTY OF LANOUAeS. [Ch 18.
She soon infonn«i him of the place he was in, which, notwithstanding all its
horrors, appeared to him more sweet than the bower of Mahomet, in the company
of his Balsora. Guardiiutf No. lo7.
Better,
She soon, &c. appeared to him, in the company of his Balsora, more sweet, &c
The Emperor was so intent on the establishment of his absolute power in Hun-
gary, that ne exposed the empire doubly to desolation and ruin for the sake of it
Letters on History ^ Vol. I. Let 7. Bolingbroke.
Better
N
that for the sake of it he exposed the empire doubly to desolation
and ruin.
None of the rules for the composition of periods are more liable
to be abused, than those last mentioned ; witness many Latin wri-
ters, among the moderns especially, whose style, by inversions too
violent, is rendered harsh and obscure. Suspension of the thought
till tbe close of the period, ought never to be preferred before per-
spicuity. Neither ought such suspension to be attempted iif a long
period ; because in that case the mind is bewildered amidst a profu-
sion of words: a traveller, while he is puzzled about the road,
relishes not the £nest prospect:
All the rich presents which Astyages had given him at parting, keeping onl^
some Median horses, in order to propagate the breed of them in Persia, he distri-
buted among his friends whom he left at the court of Ecbatana.
Travels of Cyrus^ l^odk L
The foregoing rules concern the arrangement of a single period:
I add one rule more concerning the distribution of a discourse into
different periods. A short period is lively and familiar: a long
period, requiring more attention, makes an impression grave and
solemn.* In general, a writer ought to study a mixture of long and
short periods, which prevent an irksome uniformity, and entertain
the mind with variety of impressions. In particular, long periods
ought to be avoided till the reader's attention be thoroughly engaged;
and therefore a discourse, especially of the familiar kind, ought never '
to be introduced with a long period. For that reason, the commence-
ment of a letter to a very young lady on her marriage is faulty :
Madam, Ttie hurry and impertinence of receiving and paying visits on account
of your marriage, being now over, you are beginning to enter into a course of life,
where you will want much advice to divert you from falling into many errors, f<q[>-
peries, and follies, to which your sex is subject. Sunfl.
See another example still more faulty, in the commencement of
Cicera's oration. Pro Archia Poeta.
' Before proceeding farther, it may be proper to review the rules
laid down in this and the preceding section, in order to make some
general observations. That order of the words and members of a
period is justly termed natural, which corresponds to the nataral
order of the ideas that compose the thought The tendency of many
• Demetrius Phalereus (of Elocution, sect. 44.) observes, that long members in
a period make an impression of gravity and unportance. The same observatioB
is applicable to periods.
Digitized
by Google
JSklct. ^] BBAUTY OF LANOUAOB. 281
of' the foregoing rules is to substitute an artificial arrangement, in
order to catch some beauty either of sound or meaning for which
there is no place in the natural order. But seldom it Jiappens, that
in the same period there is place for a plurality of these rules : if
one beautjr can be retained, another must be relinquished ; and the
only question is. Which ought to be preferred 1 This question can-
not be resolved by any general rule : if the natural order be not
relished, a few trials will discover that arti^cial order which has the
best effect ; and this exercise, supported by a good taste, will in time
make the choice easy. All that can be said in general is, that in
making a choice, sound ought to yield to signification.
The transposing words and members out of their natural order,
so remarkable in the learned languages, has been the subject of
much speculation. It is agreed on all hands, that such transposition
or inversion bestows upon a period a very sensible degree of force and
elevation ; and yet writers seem to be at a loss how to account for this
effect. Cerceau* ascribes so much power to inversion, as to make it
the characteristic of French verse, and the single circumstance which
m that language distinguishes verse from prose ; and yet he pretends
not to say, that it nath any other effect but to raise surprise ; he must
mean curiosity, which is done by suspending the thought during the
period, and bringing it out entire at the close. This indeed is one
effect of inversion ; but neither its sole effect, nor eveji that which is
the most remarkable, as is made evident above. But waving censure,
which is not an agreeable task, I enter into the matter ; and begin
with observing, that if conformity between words and their meaning
be agreeable, it must of course be agreeable to find the same order or
arrangement in both. Hence the beauty of a plain or natural style,
where the order of the words corresponds precisely to the order of the
ideas. Nor is this the single beauty of a natural style : it is also agree-
able by its simplicity and perspicuity. This observation throws light
upon the subject : for if a natural style be in itself agreeable, a trans-
posed style cannot be so ; and therefore its agreeableness must arise
from admitting some positive beauty that is excluded in a natural stylg.
To be confirmed in this opinion, we need but reflect upon some of
the foregoing rules, which make it evident, that language by means
of inversion, is susceptible of many beauties that are totally excluded
in a natural arrangement. From these premises it clearly follows,
chat inversion ought not to be indulged, unless in order to reach
some beauty superior to those of a natural style. It may with great
certainty be pronounced, that every inversion which is not governed
by this rule, will appear harsh and strained, and be disrelished by
every one of taste. Hence the beauty of inversion when happily
conducted ; the beauty, not of an end, but of means, as furnishing
opportunity for numberless ornaments that find no place in a naturdi
style : hepce the force, the elevation, the harmony, the cadence, of
some compositions: hence the manifold beauties of the Greek aiid
Roman tongues, of which living languages afford but faint imitations.
* Reflections sur la Po6sie Franfoise.
Digitized by LjOOQ IC
S83 BKAUTT OF LANOUAOB« CHl 13.
SECTION III.
Resemblance between articulate sounds and the tning^ they represent — The beauty
of this resemblance— A concord may exist without a resemblance — Eliamples
given by critics of sense, may be resolved into a resemblance of effects— Slow
motion miitated by long syllables ; quick, by a succession of short ones — Inter-
rupted motion, by monosyllables — Rough motion, rou^h sounds — Smooth, equa-
ble, smooth sounds — Prolonffed motion, Alexandrian Ime— Gravity or solemmty,
a period of long syllables— Melancholy, a period of polysyllables — Hard labor,
long syllables made short — Rough words pronounced with difficulty — A climax
of sound and sense, delightful — An anticlimax — The pleasure of a weak resem-
blance— The efiect of pronunciation, or the resemblance between-sense and sound
— Difference between notes in singing and reading — The key note in readings
Cadence — Direction for pronunciation — In Greek, the tones marked — The com-
parison between pronunciation and singing — The former fixed ; the latter, arbi-
trary— The notes of music, with respect to the first, agreeable — With respect to
the second, music has its greatest variety — In pronunciation, in the third, tke
voice confined within three and a half notes — Last two equal singing.
A RESEMBLANCE between the sound of certain words and their sig-
nification, is a beauty that has escaped no critical writer, and yet it
18 not^ handled with accuracy by any of them. T||oy have probably
been of opinion, that a beauty so obvious to the feeling, requires no
explanation. This is an error ; aiyi to avoid it, I shall give exam*
pies of the various resemblances between sound and significatiou,
accompanied v/ith an endeavor to explain why such resemblances
are beautiful. 1 shall begin with examples where the resemblance
between the sound and signification is the most entire; and shall
next give ejcamples where the resemblance is less and less so.
There being frequently a strong resemblance of one sound tc
another, it will not be surprising to find an articulate sound resem-
bling one that is not articulate: thus the sound of a bow-string is
imitated by the words that express it .
■ The string let fly,
Thoang^d short atid sharp^ like the shrill swallow's cry.
Odyssey, XXL 449.
The sound of felling trees in a wood :
Loud sounds the axe, redoubling strokes on strokes,
On all sides round the forest hurls her oaks
Headlong. Deep echoing groan the thickets brown,
Then rustling , crackling, crashing, thunder down.
Iliad, XXm. 144.
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar.
Pope^s Essay on Criticism, 369.
Dire Scylla there a scene of horror forms.
And here Charybdis fills the deep with storms :
When the tide rushes from her rumbling caves.
The rough rock roars : tumultuous boil the waves. Pope.
No person can be at a loss about the cause of this beauty: it ia
obviously that of imitation.
That there is any other natural resemblance of sound to signifi-
cation, must not be taken for granted. There is no resemblance of
«ound to motion, nor of sound to sentiment We are however apt to
Digitized
by Google
Sec 3.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 28S
be deceived by artful pronunKriatioa : the same passage may be pro*
bounced in many tiifferent tones, elevated or humble, sweet or harsh,
brisk or melancholy, so as to accord with the thought or sentiment :
such concord must be distinguished from that concord between sound
and sense, which is perceived in some expressions independent of art-
ful pronunciation : the latter is the poet's work ; the former must be
attributed to the reader. Another thing contributes still more to the
deceit In language, sound and sense being intimately connected,
the properties of the one are readily communicated to the other : for
example, the quality of grandeur, of sweetness, or of melancholy,
though belonging to the thought solely, is transferred to the words,
which by that means resemble, in appearance, the thought that is
expressed by them.* I have great reason to recommend these obser-
vations to the reader, considering how inaccurately the present sub-
ject is handled by critics : not one of them distinguishes the natural
resemblance of sound and signification, from the artificial resemblan-
ces now described ; witness Vida in particular, who in a very long
passage has given very few examples but what are of the latter kind.T
That there may be a resemblance of articulate sounds to some
that are not articulate, is self-evident ; and that in fact there exist
such resemblances successfully employed by writers of genius, is
clear from the foregoing examples, and from many others that might
be given. B ut we may safely pron ounce, that this natural resemblance
can be carried no farther : the objects of the different senses, difier
so widely from each other, as to exclude any resemblance. Sound
in particular, whether articulate or inarticulate, resembles not in any
degree taste, smell, or motion: and as little can it resemble any
internal sentiment, feeling or emotion. But must we then admit,
that nothing but sound can be imitated by sound ? Taking imitation
in its proper sense, as importing a resemblance between two objects,
the proposition must be admitted : and yet in many passages that
are not descriptive of sound, every One must be sensible of a peculiar
concord between the sound of the words and their meaning. As there
can be no doubt of the fact, what remains is to inquire into its cause.
Resembling causes may produce effects that have no resemblance;
and causes that have no resemblance may produce resembling effects.
A magnificent building, for example, resembles not, in any degree,
an heroic action; and yet the emotions thev produce, are concordant,
and bear a resemblance to each other. We are still more sensible
of this resemblance in a song, when the music is properly adapted
to the sentiment: there is no resemblance between thought and
sound; but there is the strongest resemblance between the emo-
tion raised by music tender and pathetic, and that raised by the
complaint of an unsuccessful lovet. Applying this observation
to the present subject, it appears, that in some instances, the sound,
erven of a single word, makes an impression resembling that which
is made by the thing it signifies : witness the word running, com-
posed of two short syllables; and more remarkably the words
rapidity, impetuosity, precipitation. Brutal manners produce, in the
* See Chap. 2. Part I. sect 5 t Poet. L. 3. L 36&-454.
Digitized
by Google
{84 BEAUTY OF LANOVAOS. [Ch. 18.
upectator, an emotion not unlike what is produced by a harsh and
rough sound; and hence the beauty of the figurative expression
'^ugged manners. Again, the word little, being pronounced with a
tery small aperture of the mouth, hatf a weak and faint sound, which
makes an impression resembling^ that made by a diminutive object
This resemblance of effects is still more remarkable where a number
of words are connectefin a period : words pronounced in succession
make often a strong impression ; and when this impression happens
to accord with that made by the sense, we are sensible of a complex
emotion, peculiarly pleasant; one proceeding from the sentiment,
and one from the melody or sound of the words. But the chief
pleasure proceeds froYn having these two concordant emotions cpmi
Dined in perfect harqaony, and carried bn in the mind to a full close.*
Except in the single case where sound is described, all the exam}Jles
given by critics of sense being imitated in sound, resolve into a
resemblance of effects : emotions raised by sound and signification
may have a resemblance; but sound itself cannot have a resemblance
to any thing but sound.
Proceeding now to particulars, and beginning with those cases
where the emotions have the strongest resemblance, I observe, first,
that by a number of syllables in succession, an emotion is sometimes
raised extremely similar to that raised by successive motion ; which
may be evident even to those who are defective in taste, from the fol-
owing fact, that the term movement in all languages is equally applied
0 both. In this manner, successive motion, such as walking, run-
ning, galloping, can be imitated by a succession of long or short syl-
lables, or by a due mixture of both. For example, slow motion may
be justly imitated in a verse where long syllables prevail ; especially
when aided by a sloW pronunciation.
lUi inter sese magna vi brachia tollunt Geor. IV. 174.
On the other hand, swift motion is imitated by a succession pf short
syllables :
Ctuadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum.
Agam:
Radii iter liquidum, celeres heque commovet alas.
Thirdly; a line composed of monosyllables, makes ^n impression,
by the frequency of its pauses, similar to what is made by laborious
interrupted motion :
With many a weary step, and many a groan,
Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone.
Odyssey, XL 736.
SHrst march the heavy mules securely slow ;
O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er craggs, o'er rocks they go.
• Iliad, XXlll. 128,
Fourthly; the impression made by rough sounds in succession,
jresembles that made by rough or tumultuous motion : on the other
hand, the impression of smooth sounds resembles that of gentk
motion. The following is an example of both.
* See Chap. 2. Paft4
Digitized
by Google
Sec 3.] BIIUTT bF LANOVAOK. 289
Two craggy rocks projecting to the main,
The roaniig wind's tempestuous rage restram;
Within, the waTes in sof^r murmurs glide,
And ships secure without their halsers ride.
Odyssey, III. 118.
Another example of the latter
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows
Essay on CrUicism, 366.
FiAhly ; prolonged motion is expressed in an Alexandrine lineL
The first example shall be of slow motion 'prolonged.
A needless Alexandrine ends the song ;
That like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
Essay on Criticism, 356.
The next example is of forcible motion prolonged :
The waves behind impel the waves before.
Wide-rolling, foaming high, and tumbling to the shore.
% niad, XIII. 1004.
The last shall be of rapid motion prolonged :
Not SQ when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er th' unbending com, and skims along the main.
Essay on Criticism^ 373.
Again, speaking of a rock torn from the brow of a mountain :
Still gath'ring force, it smokes, and m'g'd amain,
Whirld, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to the plain.
Iliad, XIIL 197.
Sixthly ; a period consisting mostly of long syllables, that is, af
SUables pronounced slow„ produces an emotion resembling faintly
at which is produced by gravity and solemnity. Hence the beauty
of the following verse :
Olli sedato respondit corde Latinus.
It resembles equally an object that is insipid and uninteresting.
Taedet quotidianarum harum formarum.
Terence^ Eurmchus, Act II. Sc. 3.
Seventhly; a slow succession of ideas is a circumstance that
belongs equally to settled melancholy, and to a period composed of
polysyllables^ pronounced slowly : and hence by similarity of emo-
tions, the latter is imitative of the former :
In those deep solitudes, and awful cells,
Where heav'nly pensive Contemplation dwells.
And ever-musing melancholy reigns. Pope, Eloisa to Abelard,
. Eighthly ; a long syllable made short, or a short syllable made
long, raises, by the difficulty of pronouncing contrary to custom, a
feeUng similar to that of hard labor :
When Ajeoc strives some rock's vast weiffht to throw,
The line too labors, and the words move slow. Essay on Crit. 370.
Ninthly ; harsh or rough words pronounced with difficulty, excite
a feeling similar to that which proceeds from the labor of thought to
a dull writer :
Digitized
by Google
BBAUTT OF LAM GUAOX. [Ql IflL
Just writes to make his barrenness appear,
And strains fix»m hanl-bonnd brains eight lines s-year.
P^s EpisOe to Dr. AflnUkfutt, L 181.
I shall close with one example more, which of all makes the finest
figure. In the first section mention is made of a climax in sound;
and in the second, of a climax in sense. It belongs to the present
subject to observe, that when these coincide in the same passage, the
concordance of sound and sense is delightfiil : the reader is conscioos
not only of pleasure from the two climaxes separately, but of an addi-
tional pleasure from their concordance, and from finding the sense so
justly imitated by the sound. In this respect, no periods are more
perfect than those borrowed from Cicero in the first section.
The concord between sense and sound is no less agreeable in
what may be termed an anticlimax, where the progress is from great
to little ; for this has the eflfect to make diminutive objects appear
still more diminutive. Horace afifords a striking example :
Paituriunt montes, nascetur ridiculus mus.
The arrangement here is singularly artful : the first place is occupied
by the verb, which is the capital word by its sense as well as sound:
the close is reserved for the word that is the meanest in sense as
well as in sound. And it must not be overlooked, that the resem-
blingf sounds of the two last syllables give a ludicrous air to the
whole.
Reviewing the foregoing examples, it appears to me, contrary to
expectation, that, in passing from the strongest resemblances to those
that are fainter, every step affords additional pleasure. Renewing
the experiment again and again, I feel no wavering, but the greatest
pleasure constantly from the &intest resemblances. And yet how
can this be 1 foV if the pleasure lie in imitation, must not the strong-
est resemblance afford the greatest pleasure? From this vexing
dilemma I am happily relieved, by reflecting on a doctrine established
in the chapter of resemblance and contrast, that the pleasure of
resemblance is the greatest, where it is least expected, and where the
objects compared are in their capital circumstances widely different.
Nor will this appear surprising, when we descend to iamiliar exam-
ples. It raises no degree of wonder to find the most perfect resem-
blance between two eggs of the same bird : it is more rare to find
such resemblance between two human faces ; and upon that account
such an appearance raises some degree of wonder : but this emotion
rises to a still greater height, when we find in a pebble, an agate, or
other natural production, any resemblance to a tree or t6 any organ-
ised body. We cannot hesitate a moment, in applying these obser-
vations to the present subject : what occasion of wonder can it be to
find one sound resembling another, where both are of the same kind?
It is not so common to find a resemblance between an articulate sound
and one not articulate ; which accordingly affords some slight plea-
sure. But the pleasure swells greatly, when we employ sound to
imitate things it resembles not otherwise than by the effects produced
in the mind.
Digitized
by Google
Sec 3.] BBAVTT OF LANOVAOB. ^SBI
I have had occasion to observe, that to complete the reflemblance
between sound and sense, artful pronunciation contributes not a lit-
de. Pronunciation therefore may be considered as a branch of the
present subject ; and with some observations upon it the section shall
be concluded.
In order to give a just idea of pronunciation, it must be distin-
guished from singing. The latter is carried on by notes, requiring
each of them a different aperture of the windpipe : the notes properly
belonging to the former, are expressed by difierent apertures of the
mouth, without varying the aperture of the windpipe. This, how-
ever, does not hinder pronunciation to borrow from singing, as
one sometimes is naturally led to do, in expressing a ^^ement
passion.
In reading, as in singing, there is a key-note : above this note the
voice is frequently elevated, to make the sound correspond to the ele-
vation of the subject : but the mind in an elevated state, is disposed
to action ; therefore, in order to a rest, it must be brought down to
the key-note. Hence the term cadence.
The only general rule that can be given for directing the pronun-
ciation, is, to sound the words in such a manner as to imitate the
things they signify. In pronouncing words signifying what is ele-
vated, the voice ought to be raised above its ordinary tone ; and words
signifying dejection of miijd, ought to be pronounced in a low note.
To imitate a stern and impetuous passion, the words ought to be
pronounced rough and loud ; a sweet and kindly passion, on the
contrary, ought to be imitated by a sofl and melodious tone of voice:
in Dryden's ode of Alexander's Feast, the line Fain, fain, fain, fain,
represents a gradual sinking of the mind ; and therefore is pro-
nounced with a falling voice by every one of taste, without instruc-
tion. In general, words that make the. greatest figure ought to be
marked with a peculiar emphasis. Another circumstance contributes
to the resemblance between sense and sound, which is slow or quick
pronunciation : for though the length or shortness of the syllables
with relation to each other, be in prose ascertained in some measure,
and in verse accurately: yet taking a whole line or period togfether,
it may be pronounced slow or fast. A period, accordingly, ought to
be pronounced slow, when it expresses what is solemn or deliberate ;
and ought td be pronounced quick, when it expresses what is brisk,
lively, or impetuous.
The art of pronouncing with propriety and grace, beinff intended
to make the sound an echo to the sense, scarcely admits oi any other
general rule than that above mentioned. It may indeed be branched
out into many particular rules and observations : but without much
success ; because no language furnishes words to signify the differ-
ent degrees of high and low, loud and soft, fast and slow. Before
these differences can be made the subject of regular instruction; notes
must be invented, resembling those employed in 'music. We have
reason to believe, that in Greece every tragedy was accompanied
with such notes, in order to ascertain the pronunciatioi^ j but the
moderns hitherto have not thought of this refinement. Cicero,
Digitized
by Google
BBAUTT OF LAHGUAGS. [CL 18.
indeed** without the help of notes, pretends to give rales for ascer-
taining the Yarioos tones of voice that are proper in expressing the
' different passions ; and it must be acknowledged, that in this attempt
he has exhausted the whole power of language. At the same time,
every person of discernment will perceive, that these rules avail
little in point of instruction : the very words he emplo3rs, are not
inteligifole, except to those who beforehand are acquainted with
the subject
To vary the*scene a little, I propose to close with a slight com-
parison, between singing and pronouncing. In this comparison, the
five following circumstances relative to articulate sound, must be
kept in yiew. 1st, A sound or syllable is harsh or smooth. 2d, It
is long or short 3d, It is pronounced high or low. 4th, It is pro-
nounced loud or soft. And, lastly, A number of words in succession,
constituting a period or member of a period, are pronounced slow or
quick. Of these five the first depending on the component letters,
and the second being ascertained by custom, admit not any varietv
in pronouncing. The three last are arbitrary, depending on the will
of the person who pronounces ; and it is chiefly in the artful man-
agement of these that just pronunciation consists. With respect to
the first circumstance, music has evidently the advantage ; for all its
notes are agreeable to the ear; which is not always the case of
articulate sounds. With respect to the second, long and short sylla-
bles variously combined, produce a great variety of feet; yet fer
inferior to the variety that is found in the multiplied combinations of
musical notes. With respect to high and low notes, pronunciation
is still more inferior to singing ; for it is observed by Dionysius of
Halicamassus.t that in pronouncing, i. e. without altering the aper-
ture of the windpipe, the voice is confined within three notes and a
half: singing has a much greater compass. With respect to the two
last circumstances, pronunciation equals singing.
In this chapter, I have mentioned none of the beauties of Ian-
guage but what arise from words taken in their proper sense. Bean-
ties that depend on the metaphorical and figurative power of words;
are reserved to be treated, Chap. XX.
* De Oratore, L ilL cao. 58. t De Stractara Oratioms, sect 2.
Digitized
by Google
Sect 4] BEAUTY OF LANOVAOB. 289
SECTION IV.
VERSIFICATION.
tbe different impressions of poetry and prose bn the ear — The distinction between
Terse and prose — The laws to whicn verse is subject — Latin Hexameter and
English heroic verse only, to be examined — The five things premised as of
importance — The purposes for which pauses are necessary — The different rules
to be olwerved in different cases— The heads under which Latin and Greek
Hexameter are to be treated — Substitutes for Dactyles and Spondees — Excep-
tion to the rule tliat finds the pause after the fifth syllable — One syllable always
distinguished by a capital accent — English heroic examined — Number — duan-
tity — Arrangement— jPause— Accent— Heroic, commonly Iambic — Exception
— ^melody in neroic verse, arises from pause and accent — One capital pause in a
line — Two inferior pauses — A full pause not to divide a word — A pause inter-
jected between a noun and an adjective — Between a verb and an adverb—
"Between an agent and his actions — Between an active verb and the subject of
the action — ^When the pause may be inserted — Concluding pause — Words sepa-
rated in an inverted order — When a musical pause may be inserted — Double
effect of accents — The effect of accenting a low word-r Accent confined to long
syllables^-The most important accent — It is of two kinds — In expressing dejec-
tion, the capital accent excluded — The effect of the position of the accent on the
sense — Different powers denoted by the lines from the different position of the
pause — The first order — The second order— The third order — Tn? fourth oi-der
— Each order distinguished by its final accent and pause — The sentiment in
' each order — Blank verse — Its advantages — The pauses and accents of blank
verse — Its superior melody — Advantages of Hexameter over English rhyme —
Blank verse unites the properties of both — The number and varietyof pauses
. and accents of English rhyme — Other advantages of blank verse — ^The defects
of French heroic verse — Not possible to introduce Hexameter into English—
The foundation of rhyme in nature — Its effect in a couplet — ^Not fit for a lofty
subject — Its effect on a low subject — Not fit for anguish or deep distress — Not >
suited to serious subjects.
The music of verse, though handled by every grammarian, merits
more attention than that with which it has been honored. It is a
subject intimately connected with human nature ; and to explain it
thoroughly, several nice and delicate feelings must be employed.
But before entering upon it, we must see what verse is, or, in other ,
words, by what mark it is distinguished from prose — ^a point not so
easy as may at first be apprehended. It is true, that the construc-
tion of verse is governed by precise rules ; whereas prose is more .
loose, and scarcely subjected to any rules. But are the many who
have no rules, left without means to make the distinction ? and even
with respect to the learned, ipust they apply the rule before they can
with certainty pronounce whether the composition be prose or verse /
This will hardly be maintained ; and therefore instead of rules, the
ear must be appealed to as the proper judge. But by what mark
does the ear distinguish verse from prose? The proper and satis-
factory answer is, that thesp make different impressions upon every
one who has an ear. This advances us one step in our inquiry.
Taking it then for granted, that verse and prose make upon the
ear different impressions ; nothing remains but to explain this diffe-
itence, and to assign its cause. To this end, I call to my aid, an
observation made above upon the sound of words, that they are
more agreeable to the ear when composed of long and short sylla-
bles, than when all the €yllables are of the same sort : a continued
25
Digitized
by Google
1390 BKAUTT OF LANOVAai. [Cfa. 18.
sound ia the same tone, makes not a musical impression : the same
note successively renewed by intervals, is more agreeable ; but still
• makes not a musical impression. . To produce that impression,
variety is necessary as well as number : the successive eounds or
syllables, must be some of them long, some of them short : and il
also high and low, the' music is the more perfect. The musical
impression made by a period consisting of long and short syllables
arranged in a certain order, is what the Greeks call rythmus, the
Latins numerus, and we melody or measure. Cicero jusriy observes
that in one continued sound there is no melody: " Numerus in con-
tinuatione nuUus est." But in what follows he is wide of the truth,
if by numerus he means melody or musical measure : " Distinctio,
et aequalium et saBpe variorum intervallorum percussio, numerum
•conficit ; quern in cadenlibus guttis, quod intervallis distinguuntur,
notare possumus."* Falling drops, whether with equal or unequal
intervals, are certainly not music: we are not sensible of a musical
impression but in a succession of long and short notes. And this
also was probably the opinion of the author cited, though his expres-
sion be a little unguarded.t
It will probably occur, that melody, if it depend on long and short
syllables combined in a sentence, may be found in prose as well as
in verse ; considering especially, that in both, particular words arc
accented or pronounced in a higher tone than the rest ; and there-
fore that verse cannot be distinguished from prose by melody merely
The observation is just ; and it follows, that the distinction between
them, since it depends not singly on melody, must arise from the
difference of the melody : which is precisely the case ; though that
difference cannot with any accuracy be explained in words ; all that
can be said is, that verse is more musical than prose, and its melody
more perfect. The difference between verse and prose, resembles
the difference, in music properly so called, between the spng and
. the recitative: and the resemblance is not the least complete, that
these differences, like the shades of colors, approximate sometimes
so nearly as scarcely to be discernible : the melody of a recitative
approaches sometimes to that of a song ; which, on the other hand,
degenerates sometimes to that of a' recitative. Nothing is more
distinguishable from prose, than the bulk of Virgil's Hexameters:
many of those composed by Horace, are very little removed from
C3e : Sapphic verse has a very sensible melody : that, on the odier
d, of an Iambic, is extremely faint. J
* The distinction (of sounds) and (its) percussion (on the ear) at equal, and
^^quently at varying intervals, produce a measured cadence^ which we may
remark in the falling of drops, because they are repeated by intervals.
t From this passage, however, we discover the etymology of the Latin term fcf
musical impression. Every one being sensible that there is no music in a con*
tinued sound j the first inquiries were probably carried no farther than to disco-
Ycr, that to produce a musical impression a number of sounds is necessary. A
musical impression obtained the name of wumertiSj before it was clearly aacO'
tained, that variety is necessary as well as number.
t Music, properly so called, is analyzed into melody and harmony. A succet*
■ion of sounds so as to be agreeable to the ear, constitutes melody : harmony arises
from co-existing sounds. Vene therefore can only reach melody, and not baimoiiy*
Digitized
by Google
Sec. 4.] BBA17TT OF LANOTJAOm 291
This more perfect melody of articulate sounds, is what distin-
fishes verse from prose. Verse is subjected to certain infloxible
laws; the number and variety of the component syllables being
ascertained^ and in some measure the order of success.'on. Such
restraint makes it a matter of difficulty to compose in verse — d diffi-
culty that is not to be surmounted but by a peculiar genius. Useful
lessons conveyed to us in verse, are agreeable by the union of music
with instruction : but 'are we for that reason to reject knowledge
ofiered in a plainer dress ? That iirould be ridiculous : for know-
ledge is of intrinsic merit, independent of the means of acquisition ;
and there are many, not less capable than willing to instruct us, who
have no genius for verse. H'Qnce the use of prose ; which, for the
reason now given, is not confined to precise rules. There belongs
to it, a certain melody of an inferior kind, which ought to be the aim
of every writer ; but for succeeding in it, practice is necessary more
than genius. Nor do we rigidly insist for melodious prose : pro-
vicjed the work donvey instruction, its chief end, we are the less
solicitous about its dress.
Having ascertained the nature and limits of our subject, I pro-
ceed to the laws by which it is regulated. These would be endless,
were verse of all different kinds to be taken under consideration. I
propose therefore to confine the inquiry, to Latin or Greek Hexa-
meter, and to French and English heroic verse ; which, perhaps,
may carry me .farther than the reader will choose to follow. The
observations I shall have occasion to make, will at any rate be suf-
&cient for a specimen ; and these, with proper variations, may easily
be transferred to the composition of other sorts of verse.
Before I enter upon particulars, it must be premised in general,
that to verse of every kind, ^ five things are of importance. 1st,
The number of syllables that compose a verse line. 2d, The diffe-
rent lengths of syllables, i. e the* difference of time taken in pro-
nouncing. 3d, The arrangement of these syllables combined in
words. 4th, The pauses or stops in pronouncing. 5th, The pro-
nouncing of syllables in a high or a low tone. The three first men-
tioned are obviously essential to verse: if any of them be wanting,
there cannot be that higher degree of melody which distinguishes
verse from prose. To give a just notion of the fourth, it must be
observed, that pauses are necessary for three different purposes :
one, to separate periods, and members of the same period, according
to the sense ; another, to improve the melody of verse; and the last, to
afCoTd opportunity for drawing breath in reading. A pause of the first
kind is variable, being long or short, frequent or Jess frequent, as the
sense requires. A pause of the second kind, being determined by the
melody, is in no degree arbitrary. The last sort is in a measure arbi-
trary, depending on the reader's command of breath. But as one can-
not read with grace, unless, for drawing breath, opportunity be taken
* of a pause in the sense or in the melody, this pause ought never to be
distinguished from the others; and for that reason shall be laid aside.
With respect then to the pauses of sense and of melody, it may be
Affirmed without hesitation, that their coincidence in verse is a capital
Digitized
by Google
29^^ BKAUTT OF LAN61TA6S. [Ch. l8
beaaty: but as it cannot be expected, in a long work especially, tha.
every line should be so perfect ; we shall afterward have occasion to
see, that the pause necessary for the sense must often, in some degr^
be sacrificed to the verse-pause, and the latter sometimes to the
former.
The pronouncing of syllables in a high or low tone, contributes also
to melody. In readinfi^ whether verse or prose, a certain tone is assum
ed, which may be called the key-note; and in tliat tone the bulk of the
words are sounded. Sometimes to humor the sense, and sometimes
the melody, a particular syllable is sounded in a higher tone ; and this
is termed accenting a syllable, or gracing it with an accent Opposed
to the accent, is the cadence, which I have not mentioned as one ol
the requisites of verse, because it is entirely regulated by the sense,
and has no peculiar relation to verse. The cadence is a falling oi
the voice below the key-note at the close of every period ; and so
little is it essential to verse, that in correct reading the final syllable
of every line is accented, that syllable only excepted which closes
the period, where the sense requires a cadence. The reader may
be satisfied of this by experiments ; and for that purpose I recom-
mend to him the Rape of the Lock, which, in point of versification,
is the most complete performance in the English language. Let
him consult in a particular period, canto 2, beginning at line 47,
and closed line 52, with the word gay, which only of the whole final
syllables is pronounced with a cadence. He may also examine ano-
ther period m the 5th canto, which runs from line 45 to line 52.
Though the five requisites above mentioned, enter into the compo-
sition of every species of verse, they ar?, however, governed by dif-
ferent rules, peculiar to each species. Upon quantity only, one
general observation may be premised, because it is applicable to
every species of verse — ^that syllables, with respect to the time taken
in pronouncing, are long or short ; two short syllables, with respect
to time, being precisely equal to a long one. These two lengths
are essential to verse of all kinds ; and to no verse, as far as I know,
is a greater variety of time necessary in pronouncing syllables. The
voice, indeed, is frequently made to rest longer than usual upon a
word that bears an important signification ; but this is done to
humor the sense, and is not necessary for melody. A thing not
more necessary for melody occurs with respect to accenting, similar
to that now mentioned : A word signifying any thing humble, low,
or dejected, is naturally, in prose, as well as in verse, pronounced in
a tone below the key-note.
We are now sufliciently prepared for particulars; beginning
with Latin or Greek Hexameter, which are the same. What I
have to observe upon this species of verse, will come under the four
following heads ; number, arrangement, pause, and acc'ent : for as
to quantity, what is observed above may suflice.
Hexameter lines, as to time, are all of the same length ; being
equivalent to the time taken in pronouncing twelve long syllables or
twenty-four short. An Hexameter line may consist of ^seventeen
syllables ; and when regular and not Spondiac, it never has fewer
Digitized
by Google
See. 4.] BEA17TT OF LANOVAOE. 293
than thirteen : whence it follows, that where the syllables are many,
the plurality must be short ; where few, the plurality must be long.
This li\ie is susceptible of much variety as to the succession of
long and short syllables. It is, however, subjected to laws that con-
fine its variety within certain limits; and for ascertaining these
limits^ grammarians have invented a rule by Dactyles and Spondees,
which they denominate feet. One at first view is led to think, that
these feet are also intended to regulate the pronunciation : which is
far from being the case ; for were one to pronounce according to
these feet, the melody of an Hexameter line would be destroyed, or at
best be much inferior to what it is when properly pronounced.*
These feet must be confined to regulate the arrangement, for they
serve no other purpose. They are withal so artificial and complex,
that I am tempted to substitute in their stead, other rules more sim-
ple and of more easy application ; for example, the following : —
1st, The line must always commence with a long syllable, and
close with two long preceded by two short. 2d, More than two
short can never be found together, nor fewer than two. And, 3d,
Two long syllables which have been preceded by two short, cannot
♦ After giving some attention to this subject, and weighing deliberately everv
circumstance, I was necessarily led to the foregoing conclusion, That the DactJyle
and Spondee are no other than artificial measures, mvented for trying the accu-
racy of composition. Repeated experiments have convinced me, that though the
sense should be neglected, an Hexameter line read by Dactyles and Spondees will
not be melodious. And the composition of an Hexameter line demonstrates this
to be true, without necessity of an experiment; for, as will appear afterward,
there must always, in this line, be a capital pause at the end of the fifth long
syllable, reckoning, as above, two short for one long, and when we measure this
Ime by Dactyles, and Spondees, the pause now mentioned divides always a Dac-
tyle or a Spondee, without once fallmg in after either of these feet. Hence it is
evident, that if a line be pronounced as it is scanned, by Dactyles and Spondees,
the pause must utterly be neglected ; which destroys the melody, because this
pause is essentia to the melody of an Hexameter verse. If, on the other hand, the
melody be preserved by making that pause, the pronouncing by Dactyles or
Spondees must be abandoned.
"What has led grammarians into the use of Dactyles and Spondees, seems
not beyond the reach of conjecture. To produce melody, the Dactyle and the
Spondee, which close every Hexameter line, must be distinctly expressed in the
pronunciation . This discovery joined with another, that the foregoing part of the
verse could be measured by the same feet, probably led grammarians to adopt these
artificial measures, and perhaps rashly to conclude, that the pronunciation is di-
reoted by these feet as the composition is : the Dactyle and the Spondee at the close,
serve indeed to regulate the pronunciation as well as the composition ; but in the
foregoing part of the line, they regulate the composition only, not the pronunciation.
If we must have feet in verse to regulate the pronunciation, and consequently
the melody, these feet must be determined by the pauses. All the syllables inter-
je^sted between two pauses ought to be deemed one musical foot ; because, to pre-
serve the melody, they must dl be pronounced together, without any stop. And
therefore, whatever number there are of pauses in an Hexameter line, the parts into
which it is divided by these pauses, make just so many musical feet.
Connection obliges me here to antidpate, and to observe, that the same doctrine is
applicable to English heroic verse. Cfonsidering its composition merely, it is of
two kinds ; one composed of five Iambi ; and one of a Trochseus followed by
ifafur Iambi : but these feet afford no rule for pronouncing ; the musical feet being
obviously those parts of the line that are interjected tetween two pauses. To
bring out the melody, these feet must be expressed in the pronunciation ; or, whicli
eomes to the same, the pronunciation must be directed by the pauses, witboUl
ri^ard to the Iambus or Trochseus.
25*
Digitized
by Google
294 BBAVTT OF LANOVAOS. [Ch. 18.
also be followed by two short These few rules fulfil all the con-
ditions of an Hexameter line, with relation to order or arrangement.
To these again a single rule may be substituted, for which I have a
still greater relish, as it regulates more affirmatively the construc-
tion of every part. That I -may put this rule into words with per-
spicuity, I take a hint from the twelve long syllables that compose
an Hexameter line to divide it into twelve equal parts or portions,
being each of them one long syllable or two short A portion being
thus defined, I proceed to the rale. The 1st, 3d, 5th, 7th, 9th, Uth,
and 12th portions, must eaph of them be one long syllable ; the 10th
must always be two short sylldbles ; the 2d, 4th, 6th, and 8th, may
either be one long or two short. Or to express the thing still more
curtly. The 2d, 4th, 6th, and 8th portions may be one long syllable
or two short ; the 10th must be two short syllables ; all the rest must
consist each of one long syllable. This fulfils all the conditions of
an Hexameter line, and comprehends all thef combinations of Dae-
tyles and Spondees that this line admits.
Next in order comes the pause. At the end of every Hexameteir
line, every one must be sensible of a complete close or full pause;
the cause of which follows. The two long syllables preceded by
two short, which always close an Hexameter line, are a fine prepa- '
ration for a pause: for long syllables, or syllables pronounced
slow, resembling a slow and languid motion, tending to rest, naturally
incline the mind to rest, or to pause ; and to this inclination the two
preceding short syllables contribute, which by contrast, make the slow
pronunciation of the final syllables the more conspicuous. Beside
this complete close or full pause at the end, others are also requisite
for the sake of melody ; of which I discover two clearly, and perhaps
there may be more. The longest and most remarkable, succeeds the
5th portion : the other, which, being shorter and more faint, maybe
called the semipause^ succeeds the 8th portion. So striking is the
pause first mentione J, as to be distinguished even by the rudest ear.:
the monkish rhymes are evidently built upon it ; in which by an
invariable rule, the final word always chimes with that which
immediately precedes the said pause :
De planctu cudo II metruhi cum carmine nudo
Mingere cum bumbis II res est saluberrima lumbis.
The difference of time in the pausle and semipause, occasions
another difference no less remarkable, that it is lawful to divide a
word by a semipause, but never by a pause, the bad effect of which
IS sensibly felt in the following examples :
Efiusus labor, at II que immitis rupta Tyramii.
Again:
Again:
Observans nido im II plumes detraxit ; at ilia.
Loricam quam De II moleo detraxerat ipse.
The dividing of a word by a semipause has not the same bad effect;
Jamque pedem referens II casus e j vaserat omnes.
Again:
Glualis populea II mcerens Philo | meld sub umbra.
Digitized
by^oogle
Sect 4] BSAUTY OF ULNOVAOS. TK
Again:
Ludere que vellem II calamo per | misit agresti.
Lines, however, where words are left entire, without cieing divided
even hy a semipause, run by that means much the more sweetly :
Nee gemere adrea II cessabit | ^urtur ab ulmo.
Again:
duadnxpedantepotrem II sonitu quatit | ungula campum.
Again:
Eurydicen toto II referebant flumine ripsB.
The reason of these observations will be evident upon the slightest
reflection. Between things so intimately connected m reading aloud,
as are sense and sound, every degree of discord is unpleasant : and
for that reason, it is a matter of importance, to make the musical
pauses coincide as much as possible with those of sense ; which is
requisite, more especially, with respect to the pause, a deviation
from the rule being less remarkable in a semipause. Considering
the matter as to melody solely, it is indifferent whether the pauses
be at the end of words or in the middle ; but when we carry the
sense alon^", it is disagreeable to find a word split into two by a
pause, as if there were really two words: and though the disagree-
ableness here be connected with the sense only, it is by an easy
transition of perceptions transferred to the sound ; by which means,
we conceive a line to be barsh and grating to the ear, when in
reality it is only so to the understanding.*
To the rule that fixes the pause after the fifth portion, there is
one eiteption, and no more : If the syllable succeeding the 6th
portion be short, the pause is sometimes postponed to it.
Papillis quos dura II premit custodia matruin.
Again :
In terras oppressa II gravi sub religione.
Again:
Et quorum pars magna II fui ; quis talia fando.
This contributes to diversify the melody; ^nd where the words
are smooth and liquid, is not ungraceful; as in the following
examples :
Formosam resonare lldoces Amaryllida sylvas.
Again:
Agricolas, quibus ipsa II procul discordibus armis.
If this pause, placed as aforesaid after the short syllable, happen
also to divide a word, the melody by these circumstances is totally
annihilated. Witness the following line of Ennuis, which is plain
prose : •
Rom» mcenia terruliit impiger | Hanibal armis.
Hitherto the arrangement of the long and short syllables of an
Hexameter line and its different pauses, have been considered with
respect to melody: but to have a just notion of Hexameter verse, these
particulars must also be considered with respect to sense. There is
not, perhaps, in any other sort of verse, such latitude in the long and
short syllables ] a circumstance that contributes greatly to that nck-
* See Chap. 2 Part 1. sect. 5.
Digitized
by Google
296 BEAVTT OF LANOVAOB. [Ch. 18.
ness of melody which is remarkable in Hexameter verse, and whicli
made Aristotle pronounce, that an epic poem in any other Terse
would not succeed.* One defect, however, mast not be (fissembled,
that the same means which contribute to the richness of the melody,
render it less fit than several other sorts for a narrative poem. There
cannot be a more artful contrivance, as above observed, than to close
an Hexameter line with two long syllables preceded by two short:
but unhappily this construction proves a great embarrassment to the
sense ; which will thus be evident. . As in general, there ought to be
a strict concordance between a thought and the words in which it is
dressed ; so in particular, every closenn the sense ought to be accom-
panied with a close in the sound. In prose, this law may be strictly
observed ; but in verse, the same strictness would occasion insupera-
ble difficulties. Willing to sacrifice to the melody of verse some
share of the concordance between thought and expression, we freely
excuse the separation of the musical pause from that of the sense,
during the course of a line ; but the close of an Hexameter line is
too conspicuous to admit this liberty : for which reason there ought
always to be some pause in the sense at the end of every Hexameter
line, were it but sucn a pause as is marked with a comma ; and for the
same reason, there ought never to be a full close in the sense but at the
end of a line, because there the melody is closed. An. Hexameter line,
to preserve its melody, cannot well admit any greater relaxation; and
yet in a narrative poem, it is extremely difficult to adhere strictly to the
rule even with these indulgences. Virgil, the chief of poets for versi-
fication, is forced often to end a line without any close in the sense, and
as often to close the^ense during the running of a line; though a close
in the melody during the movement of the thought, or a close in the
thought during the movement of the melody, cannot be agreeable
The accent, to which we proceed, is no less essential than the
other circumstances above handled. By a good ear it will be dis-
cerned, that in every line there is one syllable distinguishable from
the rest by a capital accent : that syllable, being the seventh portion,
is invariably long.
Nee bene promeritis li capittir nee j tangitur ira.
Again :
Non sibi sed toto II genitilm se j credere mundo.
Again :
Ctualis spelunca II subito comjmota columba.
In these examples, the accent is laid upon the last syllable of a word;
which is favorable to the melody in the following respect, that the
pause, which for the sake of reading distinctly must follow every word,
gives opportunity to prolong the accent. And for that reason, a line
thus accented, has a more spirited air, than when the accent is placed on
any other syllable. Compare the foregoing lines with the foUowing:
Alba neque Assyrio II fncatur | lana veneno.
Again:
Panditur interea II domus dmnipoltentis Olympi
Again:
* Poet ci^. 2b,
Digitized
by Google
Sec 4] BBAimr of lanouaob. ' 297
Olli aedato II respdndit | corde Latinos.
In lines where the pause comes after the short syllable succeed-
ing the fifth portion, t^e accent i^ displaced, and rendered less sen-
sible : it seems to be split into two, and to be laid partly on the 5th
portion, and partly on the 7th, its usual place ; as in
Nuda genu nodoque II sinus coljlecta fluentes.
Again :
Formosam resonare II docds Amar|yllida sylvas.
Beside this capital accent, slighter accents are laid upon other
portions ; particularly upon the fourth, unless where it consists of
two short syllables ; upon the ninth, which is always a long sylla-
ble ; and upon the eleventh, where the line concludes with a mono-
syllable. Such conclusion, by the by, impairs the melody, and for
mat reason is not to be indulged, unless where it is expressive of
the sense. The following lines are marked with all the accents.
Ludere qus vSllem calamd permisit agresti.
Again:
Again:
£t duree qudrcus sudabuht roscida mella. C
Parturiunt mdntes, nasc^tur ridiculiis mus.
Reflecting upon the melody of Hexameter verse, we find, that
order or arrangement doth not constitute the whole of it ; for when
we compare Afferent lines, equally regular as to the succession of
long andshort syllables, the melody is found in very diflferent degrees
of perfection ; which is not occasioned by any particular combina-
tion of Dactyles and Spondees, or of long and short syllables, because
we find lines where Dactyles prevail, and lines where Spondees pre-
vail, equally melodious. Of the former take the following instance*
^neadum genetrix hominum divumque voluptas.
Of the latter : ^
MoUi paulatim flavescet campus arista
What can be more diiSerent as to melody than the two following
lines, which, however, as to the succession of long and short sylla-
bles, are constructed precisely in the same manner ?
Bpond. DacL Spond. Spond. Dact Spond.
Ad talos stola dimissa et circumdata palla. Hbr.
Spond. Dact Spond. Spond. Dact. Spond.
Placatumque nitet diffuso lumine coelum. iMcr.
In the former, the pause falls in the middle of a word, which is a
great blemish, and the accent is disturbed by a harsh elision of the'
▼owel a upon the particle et. In the latter, the pauses and the accent
are all of them distinct and full : there is no elision ; and the words
are more liquid and sounding. In these particulars consists the
beauty of an Hexameter line with respect to melody: and by neglect-
ing these, many lines in the satires and epistles of Horace are less
agreeable than plain prose ; for they are neither the one nor the
other in perfection. To draw melody from these lines, they must
be pronounced without relation to the sense: it must not be regarded,
that words are divided by pauses, nor that harsh elisions are multi-
Digitized
byGodgle
298 BXAUTT OF LANOUAGX. [Ch. 18^
plied To add to the account, prosaic low-sounding words are intro-
duced ; and which is still worse, accents are laid on them. Of such
&nlty lines take the following instances.
Candida rectaque sit, rnunda hactenus sit neque longa.
Jupiter exclamat simul atqueaudirit ; at in sa
Custodes, lectica, ciniflones, parasite
Optimus, est modulator, ut Alfenus V afer omni
Nunc illud tantum quaeram, meritone tibi sit
Next in order comes English heroic verse, which shall be exam-
ined under the whole five heads, of number, quantity, arrange-
ment, pause, and accent. This verse is of two kinds ; one named
rhyme or metre, and one blank verse. In the former, the lines are
connected two and two by similarity of sound in the final syllables:
and two lines so connected are termed a couplet: similarity of souna
being avoided in the latter, couplets are banished. These two sorts
must be handled separately, because there are many peculiarities in
each. Beginning with rhyme or metre, the first article shall be
discussed in a few words. Every line consists of ten syllables, five
short and five long ; from which there are but two exceptions, both
of them rare. The first is, where each line of a couplet is made
eleven syllables, by an additional syllable at the end :
There heroes' wits are kept in pond'rous vases,
And beaus' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases.
The piece, you thii^, is incorrect % Why, take it ;
I'm all submission ; what you'd have it, make it.
This license is sufierablein a single couplet; but if frequent, would
give disgust.
The other exception concerns the second line of a couplet, which is
sometimes stretched out to twelve syllables, termed an Alexan
drine line :
A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
It does extremely well when employed to close a period with a cer-
tain pomp and solemnity, where the subject makes that tone proper.
With regard to quantity, it is unnecessary to mention a second
time, that the quantities employed in verse are but two, the one dou-
ble of the other ; that every syllable is reducible to one or other of
these standards ; and that a syllable of the larger quantity is termed ^
long, and of the lesser quantity short. It belongs more to the pre-
sent article, to examine what peculiarities there may be in the
English language as to long and short syllables. Every language
has syllables that may be pronounced long or short at pleasure; but
the Eng^lish above all abounds in syllables of that kind : in words
of three or more syllables, the quantity for the most part is invaria-
ble : the exceptions are more frequent in dissyllables: but as to mono-
syllables, they may, without many exceptions, be pronounced either
long or short; nor is the ear hurt by a liberty that is rendered
familiar by custom. This sho\Vs, that the melody of English verst
Digitized
by Google
CL 18.] BEAUTY OF LANQUAOB. 299
must depend less upon quantity, than upon other circumstances : in
which it differs widely from Latin verse, where every syllable, hav-
ing but one sound, strikes the ear uniformly with its accustomed
impression ; and a reader must be delighted tchiind a number of such
syllables, disposed so artfully as to be highly melodious. Syllables
variable in quantity cannot possess this power : for though custom
may render familiar, both a long and a short pronunciation of the *
same word ; yet the mind wavering between the two sounds, cannot
be so much affected as where every syllable has one fixed sound.
What I have farther to say upon quantity, will come more properly
under the following head, of arrangement.
And with respect to arrangement, which may be brought within
a narrow compass, the English heroic line is commonly Iambic, the
first syllable short, t^e second long, and so on alternately through '
the whole line. One exception there is, pretty frequent, of lirfes
commencing with a TrochsBus, i. e. a long and a short syllable : but
this affects not the order of the following syllables, which go on
alternately as usual, one short and one long. The following couplet
affords an example of each kind.
Some in thS fields of ptirdst ethSr plfty,
and bask and whltdn In thS blaze of day.
It is a great imperfection in English verse, that it excludes the
bulk of polysyllables, which are the most sounding word? in our
language ; for very few of them have such alteration of long and
short syllables as to correspond to either of the arrangements men-
tioned. English verse accordingly is almosft totally reduced to dis-
syllables and monosyllables: magnanimity, is a sounding word
totally excluded : impetuosity is still a finer word, by the resemblance
of the sound and sense ; and yet a negative is put upon it, as well as
upon numberless words of the same kind. Polysyllables composed
of syllables long and short ahernately, make a good figure in verse ;
for example, observance, opponent, ostensive, pindaric, productive,
prolific, and such others of three syllables. Imitation, imperfection^
misdemeanor, mitigation, moderation, ohservator, ornamental, regu-
lator, and others similar of four syllables, beginning with two short
syllables, the third long, and jthe fourth short, may find a place in a
Jne commencing with a Trochaeus. I know not if there be any of
^\e syllables. One I know of six, viz. misinterpretation: but
words so composed are not frequent in our language.
One would not imagine without trial, how uncouth false quantity
appears in verse ; not less than a provincial tone or idiom. The
article the is one of the few monosyllables that is invariably short ;
observe how harsh it makes a line where it must be pronounced long:
This n^ph, to the destruction Of mankind.
Again,
Th' adventurous baron the bright locks admlr'd.
Let it be pronounced short, and it reduces the melody almost to
nothing : better so however than false quantity. In the following
eacamples we perceive the same defect :
Digitized
by Google
800 BXAUTT OV LANOUAGX. [Ck 18.
And old impertinence U expel by new
With Tarjring yanities II from ey'ry part
Love in these laybrinths il his slaves detains
New stratagems It the radiant lock to gain
Her eyes half languishing U half drown'd in tears
Roar'd for the handkerchief II that caus'd his pain
Passions like elemehts II though bom to fight
The great variety of melody conspicuous in English verse, arises
chiefly from the pauses and accents ; which are of greater import-
ance than is commonly thought. There is a degree of intricacy io
this branch of our subject, and it will be difficult to give a distinct
view of it ; but it is too late to think of difficulties afler we are en-
ffaged. The pause, which paves the way to the accent, oflfers itself
first to our examination ; and from a very short trial, the following
facts will be verified. 1st, A line admits but one capital pause. 2a,
In different lines, we find this pause after the fourth syllable, after
the fifth, after the sixth, and after the seventh. These four places of
the pause lay a solid foundation for dividing English heroic lines into
four kinds ; and I warn the reader beforehand, that unless he attend
to this distinction, he cannot have any just notion of the richness and
variety of English versification. Each kind or order has a melody
peculiar to itself readily distinguishable by a good ear : and I am
not without hopes to make the cause of this peculiarity sufficiently
evident. It must be observed, at the same time, that the pause cannot
be made indifferently at any of the places mentioned : it is the sense
that regulates the pause, as will be seen afterward ; and conseqaendy,
it is the sense that determines of what order every line must be:
there can be but one capital musical pause in a line ; and that pause
ought to coincide, if possible, with a pause in the sense, in order that
the sound may accord with the sense.
What is said shall be illustrated by examples of each sort or
order. And first of the pause after the fourth syllable :
Back through the paths II of pleasing sense I ran.
Again,
Profuse of bliss II and pregnant with delight
After the 5th:
So when an angel II by divine command,
With rising tempests II shakes a guilty land.
After the 6th:
Speed the soft intercourse II firom soul to soul
Again,
Then ftom his closing eyes II thy form shall part.
After the 7th:
And taught the doubtful battle U where to rage.
A«ittfl,
And in the smooth description I murmur stiB.
Digitized
by Google
Sec. 4.] BEATTTT OF LANGTTAGE. 301
Besides the capital pause now mentioned, inferior pauses will be
discovered by a nice ear. Of these there are commoxily two in each
line : one before the capital pause, and one after u. The formei*
comes invariably after the first long syllable, whether the line begin
with a long syllable or a short one. The other in its variety imi-
tates the capital pause : in some lines it comes after the 6th syllabi^
in some after the 7th, and in some after the 8tL Of these semi-
pauses take the following examples.
1st and 8th :
Led I through a sad II variety | of wo.
Istand 7th:
Still I on that breast II enamor'd | let me lie.
2d and 8th :
From storms | a shelter II and from heat | a shade.
2d and 6th:
Let wealth | let honor II wait | the wedded dame.
2d and 7th :
Above I ail pain U all passion | and all pride.
Even from* these few examples it appears, that the place of the
last semipause, like that of the full pause, is directed in a good mea-
sope by the sense. Its proper place with respect to the melody is
after the eighth syllable, so as to finish the line with an Iambus dis-
tinctly pronounced, which, by a long syllable after a short, is a
preparation for rest : but sometimes it comes after the 6th, and some-
times after the 7th syllable, in order to avoid a pause in the middle
of a word, or between two words intimately connected ; and so far
melody is justly sacrificed to sense.
In discoursing of Hexameter verse, it was laid down as a rule,
that a full pause ought never to divide a word : such licence deviates
too far from the coincidence that ought to be between the pauses of
sense and of melody. The same rule must obtain in an English
line ; and we shall support reason by experiments :
A noble superllfluity it craves
Abhor, a perpdituity should stand.
Are these lines distinguishable from prose? Scarcely, I think.
The same rule is not applicable to a semipause, wnich being short
and faint, is not sensibly disagreeable when it divides a word: •
Relentjless walls II whose darksome roimd j contains
For her | white virgins II hymejneals sing
fn these | deep solitudes II and aw|ful cells.
It must, however, be acknowledged, that the melody here suffers
in some degree : a word ought to be pronounced without any res^
between its component syllables : a semipause that bends to this rule,
is Scarcely perceived.
The capital pause is so essential to the melody, that one cannot be
too nice in the choice of its place, in order to have it clear and dis-
26
Digitized
by Google
/
^02 BBAUTT OF LANGUAGE. [CL 18
tinct It cannot be in better company than with a pause in the
sense; and if the sense require but a comma after the fourth; fifth,
sixth, or seventh syllable, it is sufficient for the musical pause. But
to make such coincidence essential, would cramp versification too
much ; and we have experience for our authority, that there may be
a pause in the melody where the sense requires none. We must
not, however, imaging, that a musical pause may come after any
word indiflferently : some words, like syllables of tne same word, are
so intimately connected, as not to bear a separation even by a pause.
The separating, for example, of a substantive from its article would
be harsh and unpleasant : witness the following line, which cannot
be pronounced with a pause as marked.
If Delia smile, the il flow'n begin to spring.
But ought to be pronounced in the following manner,
If Delia smUe, 11 the flow'rs begin to spring.
If then it be not a matter of indiflference where to make the pause,
there ought to be rules for determining what words may be sepa-
rated by a pause, and what are incapable of such separation. I shall
endeavor to ascertain these rules ; not chiefly for their utility, but in
order to unfold some latent principles, that tend to regulate our taste
even where we are scarcely sensible of them : and to that end, the
method that appears the most promising, is to run over the verba]
relations, beginning with the most intimate. The first that presents
itself is that of adjective and substantive, being the relation of sub-
ject and quality, the most intimate of all : and with respect to such
intimate companions, the question is, whether they can bear to be
separated by a pause. What occurs is, that a quality cannot exist
independent of a subject ; nor are they separable even in imagina-
tion, because they make parts of the same idea : and for ihat reason,
with respect to melody as well as sense, it must be disagreeable, to
bestow upon the adjective a sort of independent existence, by inter-
jecting a pause between it and its substantive. I cannot therefore
approve the following lines, nor any of the sort ; for to my taste
they are harsh and unpleasant.
Of thousand bright II inhabitants of air \
The sprites of fiery II termagants inflame /
The rest, his many-colour'd II robe conceal'd\
The same, his ancient II personage to deck ^
Ev'n here, where frozen II Chastity retires
I sit, with sad II civility, I read
Back to my native II moderation slide
Or shall we ev'ry II decency confound
Time was, a sober II Englishman would'knbA
And place, on good II security, his gold
Taste, that eternal II wanderer, which flies
But ere the tenth II revolving day was run
First let the just 11 equivalent be paid.
Digitized
by Google
Sect 4.] BEAUTY OF LANOVAQE. 308
Go, threat thy earth-born It Myrmidons ; but here
Haste to the fierce II Achilles' tent (he cries)
All but the eyer- wakeful II eyes of JoTe
Vour own resistless U eloquence employ. \
I have upon this article multiplied examples, that in a case where I
have the misfortune to dislike what passes current in practice, every
man upon the spot may judge by his own taste. And to taste f
appeal j for though the foregoing reasoning appears to me just, it is,
however, too subtle to afford conviction in opposition to taste.
Considering this matter superficially, one might be apt to imagine,
that it must be the same, whether the adjective go first, which is the
natural order, or the substantive, which is indulged by the laws of
inversion. But we soon discover this to be a mistake : color, for
example, cannot be conceived independent of the surface colored ;
but a tree may be conceived, as growing in a certain spot, as of a
certain kind, and as spreading its extended branches all around^
without ever thinking of its color. In a word, a subject may be
considered with some of its qualities independent of others ; though
we cannot form an image of any single quality independent of the
subject. Thus then though an adjective namea first be inseparable
from the substantive, the proposition does not reciprocate : an image
can be formed of the substantive independent of the adjective ; and
for that reason, they may be separated by a pausie, when the sub-
stantive takes the lead.
For thee the fates II severely kind ordain
And curs'd with hearts II unknowing how to yield.
The verb and adverb are precisely in the s^me condition with the
substantive and adjective. An adverb, which modifies the action
expressed by the verb, is not separable from the verb even in imagi-
nation ; ana therefore I must also give up the following lines :
And which it much il becomes you to forget
'Tis one thing madly II to disperse my store.
But an action may be conceived with some of its modifications,
leaving out others ; precisely as a subject may be conceived with
some of its qualities, leaving out others : and, therefore, when by
inversion the verb is first introduced, it has no bad effect to interject
a pause between it and the adverb that follows. This may be done
at the close of a line, where the pause is at least as full as that is
which divides the line :
While yet he spoke, the Prince advancing drew
Nigh to the lodge, 4*c.
The agent and its action come next, expressed in grammar by
the active substantive and its verb. Between these, placed in their
natural order, there is no difficulty of interjecting a pause : an active
being is not always in motion, and therefore it is easily separable it^
idea from its action : when in a sentence the substantive takes the
lead, we know not that action is to follow ; and as rest must precedp
Digitized
by Google
804 BEAUTY OF ULNODAOl. [CL 18.
the commencement of motion, this interval is a proper opportmuty
* for a pause.
^ But when hy inversion the verb is placed first, is it lawful to
Vkeparate it by a pause from the active substantive 7 I answer, No ;
because an action is not an idea separable from the agent, more than
a quality from the subject to which it belongs. Two lines of the
first rate for beauty, have always appeared to me exceptionable,
upon account of the pause thus interjected between the verb and the
consequent substantive; and I have now discovered a reason to
support my taste :
9 In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heav'nly pensive II Contemplation dwells,
• And ever musing II Melancholy reigns.
The point of the greatest delicacy regards the active verb and the
passive substantive placed in their natural order. On the one hand,
It will be observed, that these words signify things which are not
separable in idea. Killing cannot be conceived without a being
that is put to death, nor painting without a surface upon which the
colors are spread. On the other hand, an action and the thing on
which it is exerted, are not, like subject and quality, united in one
individual object: the active substantive is perfectly distinct from
that which is passive ; and they are connected by one circumstance
only, that the action of the former is exerted upon the latter. This
makes it possible to take the action to pieces, and to consider it first
with relation to the agent, and next with relation to the patient
But after all, so intimately c6nnected are the parts of the thought,
that it requires an efibrt to make a separation even for a moment :
the subtilizing to such a degree is not agreeable, especially in works
of imagination. The best poets, however, taking advantage of this
subtlety, scruple not to separate, by a pause, an active verb from the
thing upon which it is exerted. Such pauses in a long work may
be indulged ; but taken singly, they certainly are not agreeable ;
and I appeal to the following examples :
The peer now spreads II the ^litt'ring forfex wide
As ever sully'd II the fair face of light
Repaired to search II the gloomy cave of Spleen
Nothing, to make II Philosophy thy friend
Shou'd chemce to make II the well dress'd rabble stare
Or cross, to plunder II provinces, the main
These madmen ever hurt II the church or state
How shall we fill II a library with wit
What better teach II a foreigner the tongue
Sure, if I spare 11 the minister, no rules
Of honour bind me, not to maul his tools.
On the other hand, when the passive substantive is by inversion
first named, there is no difficulty of interjecting a pause between it
and the verb, more than when tne active substantive is first named.
The same reason holds in both, that though a verb cannot be sepa-
Digitized
by Google
Beet 4] BXAVTT OF LANGVAOK. 805
rated in idea from the substantive which governs it, and scarcely
from the substantive it governs ; yet a subistantive may always be
conceived independent of the verb: when the passive substantive is
introduced before the verb, we know not that an action is, to be
exerted upon it ; therefore we may rest till the action commences.
For the sake of illustration take the following examples :
Shrines ! where their vigils II pale-ey'd virgins keep
Soon as thy letters II trembling I unclose
No happier task II these faded eyes pursue.
What is said about the pause, leads to a general observation, that
Ike natural order of placing the active substantive and its verb, is
more friendly to a pause than the inverted order ; but that in all th«
other connections, inversion affords a far better opportunity for a
pause. And hence one great advantage of blank verse over rh3rme ;
Its privilege of inversion giving it a much greater choice of pauses
than can be had in the natural order of arrangement.
We now proceed to the slighter connections, which shall be dis-
cussed in one general article. Words connected by conjunctions
and prepositions admit freely a pause between them, which will be
clear from the following instances :
Assume what sexes II and what shape they please
The light militia II of the lower sky.
Connecting particles were invented to unite in a period two sub-
stances signifying things occasionally united in the thought, but
which have no natural union: and between two things not only
separable in idea, but really distinct, the mind, for the sake of
melody, cheerfully admits by a pause % momentary disjunction of
their occasional union.
One capital branch of the subject is still upon hand, to which I
am directed by what is just now said. It concerns those parts of
Sjpeech which, singly represent no idea, and which become not sig-
nificant till tney are joined to other words. I mean conjunctions,
prepositions, articles, and such like accessories, passing^ under th«
name of particles. Upon these the question occurs, whether they
can be separated by a pause from the words that make them signin*
cant 1 Whether, for example, in the ibllowing lines, the separation
of the accessory preposition from the principal substantive bp accord-
ing to rule ?
The goddess with II a discontented air
And heighten'd by II the diamond's circling rays
When victims at II yon altar's foot we lay ♦
So take it in II the very words of Creech
I An ensign of II the delegates of Jove
' Two ages o'er II his native realm he reign'd
^ While angels with II their silver wings o'ershade.*^
Or the separation of the conjunction irom the word that is connected
by it with the antecedent word:
26* n }
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
306 BEAUTY OF LANOUAOl. [CL 18.
Talthybios and II Eurybates the good
It will be obyious at the first glance, that the foregoing reasoning
upon objects naturally connected, is not applicable to words which
of themselves are mere ciphers : we must, therefore, have recourse
to some other principle for solving the present question. These
particles out of their place are totally insignificant : to give them a
meaning, they must be joined to certain words ; and the necessity
of this ji^nction, together with custom, forms an artificial connection
that has a strong influence upon the mind : it cannot bear even a
momentary separation, which destroys the sense, and is at the same
time contradictory to practice. Another circumstance tends still
more to make this separation disagreeable in lines of the first and
third order, that it bars the accent, which will be explained after-
ward, in treating of the accent.
Hitherto we have spoken of that pause only which divides the
line. W^ proceed to the pause that concluded the line ; and tha
question is, whether Ihe same rules are applicable to both ? This
must be answered by making a distinction. In the first line of a
couplet, the concluding pause diflfers little, if at all, from the pause
that divides the line ; and for that reason, the rules are applicable to
both equally. The concluding pause of the couplet is in a diflferent
condition : it resembles greatly the concluding pause in an Hex-
ameter line. Both of them indeed are so remarkable, that they
never can be graceful, unless where they accompany a pause in the
sense. Hence it follows, that a couplet ought always to be finished
with some close in the sense ; if not a point, at least a comma. The
truth is, that this rule is seldom transgressed. In Pope's works, I
find very few deviations from the rule. Take the following in-
stances :
Another :
Nothing is foreign : parts relate to whole ;
One all-extending, all-preserving soul
Connects each being
To draw fresh colors from the vernal flow'rs,
To steal from rainbows ere they drop in show'rs
A brighter wash
I add, with respect to pauses in general, that supposing the con-
nection to be so slender as to admit a pause, it follows not that a
pause may in ev^ry such case be admitted. There is one rule to
which every other ought to bend, that the seiise must never be
wounded or obscured by the music ; and upon that account I con-
demn the following lines :
Ulysses, first II in public csires, she found
And,
Who rising, high II th' imperial sceptre rais'd.V
With respect to inversion, it appears, both from reason ana ex
periments, that many words which cannot bear a separation in their
, natural order, admit a pause when inverted. And it may be add^
that when two words, or two members of a sentence, in their natural
order, can be separated by a pause, such separation can never bo
Digitized by VoiOOQlC^
Sect 4 Beauty of lanouaob. 307
amiss in an inverted order. An inverted period, which deviates from
the natural train of ideas, requires to be marked in some measure
even by pause's in the sense, that the parts may be distinctly known.
Take the following examples :
As with cold lips II I kiss'd the sacred veil
With other beauties il charm my partial eyes
Full in my view II set all the bright abode
With words like these II the troops Ulysses rul'd
Back to th' assembly roll II the thronging train
Not for their grief II the Grecian host I blame.
The same where the separation is made at the close of the first line
of the couplet :
For spirits, fireed from mortal laws, with ease,
Assume what sexes and what shapes they please.
The pause is tolerable even at the close of the couplet, for the
reason just now suggested, that inverted members require some
slight pause in the sense :
'Twas where the plane tree spreads its shades around :
The sJtars heav'd ; and from the crumbling ground
A mighty drsigon shot.
Thus a train of reasoning has insensibly led us to conclusions
with regard to the musical pause, very different from those in the
first section, concerning the separating by a circumstance of words
intimately connected. One would conjecture, that wherever words
are separable by interjecting a circumstance, they should be equally
separable by interjecting a pause : but, ypon a more narrow inspec-
tion, the appearance of analogy vanishes. This will be evident
from considering, that a pause in the sense distinguishes the difier-
ent members of a period from each other; whereas, when two
words of the same member are separated by a circumstance, all the
three make still but one member ; and therefore that words may be
separated by an interjected circumstance, though these words are
not separated by a pause in the sense. This sets the matter in a
cleat light; for, as observed above, a musical pause is intimately
connected with a pause in the sense, and ought, as far as possible,
to be governed by it : particularly a musical pause ought never to
be placed where a pause is excluded by the sense ; as, for example,
between the adjective and following substantive, which make parts
of the saine idea ; and still less between a particle and the word that
makes it significant.
Abstracting at present from the peculiarity of melody arisin?,
from the different pauses, it cannot fail to be observed in general,
that they introduce into our verse no slight degree of variety. A
number of uniform lines having all the same pause, are extremely
fetiguing; which ils remarkable in French versification. This
imperfection will be discerned by a fine ear even in the shortest suc-
cession, and becomes intolerable in a long pbem. Pope excels in the^
Digitized by VorOOQIC^
308 BBAITTt OF LANGVAOI. [Ch. 18.
Turiety of his melody; which, if different kinds can be compared, i^
indeea no less perfect than that of Virgil.
From what is last said, there ought to be one exception. Uni-
formity in the members of a thought demands equal uniformity in
the verbal members which express that thought. When therefore
resembling objects or things are expressed in a plurality of verse-
lines, these lines in their structure ought to be as uniform as possible;
and the pauses in particular ought all of them to have the same
place. Take the following examples :
Again:
By foreign hands li thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands li thy decent limbs composed,
By for^gn hands U thy humble grave adom'd.
Briffht as the sun li her eyes the gazers strike ;
And, like the sun, II they shine on all alike.
Speaking of Natureror the God of Nature:
Warms in the sun li refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars 11 and blossoms in the trees ;
Lives through all life 11 extends through all extent.
Spreads undivided II operates unspent.
Pauses will detain us longer than was foreseen ; for the subject is
not yet exhausted. It is laid down above, that English heroic verse
admits no more than four capital pauses ; and that the capital pause
of every line is determined by the sense to be after the fourth, the
fifth, the sixth, or seventh syllable. That this doctrine holds true
as far as melody alone is concerned, will be testified by every good
ear. At the same time, I admit, that this rule may be varied where
the sense or expression requires a variation, and that so &r the
melody may justly be sacrificed. Examples accordingly are not
unfrequent, in Milton especially, of the capital pause being after the
first, the second, or the third syllable. And that this license may
be taken, even gracefully, when it adds vigor to the expression, win
be clear from the following example. Pope, in his translation of
Homer, describes a rock broke oflf from a mountain, and hurling to
the plain, in the following words :
From steep to steep the rolling ruin bounds ;
At every shock the crackling wood resounds ;
Still cath'ring force, it smokes ; and urg'd amain,
Whins, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to the plain:
There stops. H So Hector. Their whole force he proVd,
Kefflstless when he m^d ; and when he stopt, unmaVd.
In the penult line, the proper place of the musical pause is at the end
of the fifth syllable ; but it enlivens the expression by its coincidence
with that of the sense at the end of the second syllable : stopping
short before the usual pause in the melody, aids the impression that
is made by the description of the stone's stopping short ; and what
is lost to the melody by this artifice, is more than compensated by
the force that is added to the description. Mihon makes a happy
vse of this license : witness the following examples from his Par(i-
dUe Lost :
Digitized
by Google
Sect. 4. J SEAUTT OF LANOUAOE^
-Thus with the year
Seasons return, but not to me returns
Day li or the sweet approaeh of even or morn.
Celestial voices to the midnight-air
Sole II or responsive each to other's note.
And over them triumphant Death his dart
Shook II but delay'd to strike.
-And wild uproar
Stood rul'd II stood vast infinitude confin'd.
And hard'ning in his strength
Glories II for never since created man
Met such embodied force.
Prom his slack hand the garland wreath'd for Eve
Down dropp'd II and all me faded roses shed.
Of unessential night, receives him next,
Wide gaping II and with utter loss of being,
Threatens hmi, &c.
For now the thought
Both of lost happiness and lasting pain
Torments him II round he throws his baleful eyes, &c.
'If we consider the foregoing passages with respect to melody
singly, the pauses are undoubtedly out of their proper place; but
being united with those of the sense, they enforce the expression,
and enliven it greatly ; for, as has been more than once observed,
the beauty of expression is communicated to the sound, which by
a natural deception, makes even the melody appear more perfect
than if the musical pauses were regular.
To explain the rules of accenting, two general observations must
be premised. The first is, that accents have a double effect : they
contribute to the melody, by giving it air and spirit ; they contribute
no less to the sense, by distinguishing important words from others.*
These two effects never can be separated, without impairing the
concord that ought to subsist between the thought and the melody : an
accent, for example, placed on a low word, has the effect to burlesque
it, by giving it an unnatural elevation ; and the injury thus done to
the sense does not rest there, for it seems also to injure the melody.
Let us only reflect what a ridiculous figure a particle must make
with an accent or emphasis put upon it — a particle that of itself has
no meaning, and that serves only, like cement, to unite words sig-
nificant. The other general observation is, that a word of whatever
number of syllables, is not accented upon more than one of them.
The reason is, that the object is set in its best light by a single accent,
80 as to make more than one unnecessary for the sense : and if
another be added, it must be for the sound merely ; which would b^
a transgression of the foregoing rule, by separating a musical accent
firom that which is requisite for the sense.
Keeping in view the foregoing observations, the doctrine of
accenting English heroic verse is extremely simple. In the first
place, accenting is confined to the long syllables ; for a short sylla-
Me is not capable of an accent. In the next place, as the melody is
♦ An accent considered with respect to sense is termed emphasis.
Digitized
by Google
310 KBAtTTT OF LANOUAOl. [Ch. 18L
enriched in proportion to the number of accents, every word that has
a long syllable may be accented ; unless the sense interpose, which
rejects the accentmg of a word that makes no figure by its signifi-
cation. According to this rule, a line may admit five accents — a case
by no means rare.
But supposing every long syllable to be accented, there is, in every
line, one accent that makes a greater figure than the rest, being that
which precedes the capital pause. It is distinguished into two
kinds ; one that is immediately before the pause, and one that is
divided from the pause by a short syllable. The former belongs to
lines of the first and third order ; the latter to those of the second •
and fourth. Examples of the first kind :
Smooth flow the w&vcs il the zephyrs gently play,
Belinda smil'd II and all the world was gay.
He rais'd his azure wand II and thus began.
Examples of the other kind :
There lay three garters II half a pair of gloves,
And all the trdphies II of his former loves.
Our humble province II is to tend the fair,
Not a less pleasing II though less glorious care.
And hew triumphal arches II to the ground
These accents make difierent impressions on the mind, which will
be the subject of a following speculation. In the mean time, it may
be safely pronounced a capital defect in the composition of verse, to
put a low word, incapable of an accent, in the place where this accent
should be: this bars the' accent altogether; than which I know no
fault more subversive of the melody, if it be not the barring of a
pause altogether. I may add affirmatively, that no single circum-
stance contributes more to the energy of verse, than to put an import-
ant word where the accent should be, a word that merits a peculiar
emphasis. To show the bad eflfect of excluding the capital accent, I
refer the reader to some instances given above,* where particles are
separated by a pause from the capital words that make tnem signifi-
cant ; and which particles ought, for the sake of melody, to be
accented, were they capable of an accent. Add to these the follow-
ing instances from the Essay on Criticism.
Of leaving what U is natural and fit line 448.
Not yet purg'd off, II of spleen and sour disdain L 538.
No pardon vile II obscenity should find , L 531.
When love was all It an easy monarch's care L 537.
For 'tis but half II a judge's task td know 1. 5G^
'Tis not enough, U taste, judgment, learning, join L 563.
That only makes II superior sense belov'd 1. 578.
Whose right it is, II uncensur'd, to be dull 1. 590.
'Tis best sometimes, II your censure to restrain. 1. 597.
When this fault is at the end of a line that closes a couplet, it
leaves not the slightest trace of melody :
* Pages 308, 309
Digitized
by Google
Sec. 4.] BBAUTT OF LANOVAOI. 311
But of this frame the bearings, and the ties, ,
The strong connections, nice dependencies.
la a line expressive of what is humble or dejected, it improyes the
resemblance between the sound and sense to exclude the capital
accent. This, to my taste, is a beauty in the following lines.
In tbdse deep s61itudes il and &wful cells
The p6or inhabitant II beholds in vain.
To conclude this article, the accents are not, like the syllables, con-
fined to a certain number : some lines have no fewer tnan five, and
there are lines that admit not above one. This variety, as we have
seen, depends entirely on the different powers of the component words:
particles, even where they are long by position, cannot be accented ;
and polysyllables whatever space they occupy, admit but one accent.
Polysyllables have another defect, that they generally exclude the
fall pause. It is shown above, that few polysyllables can find place
in the construction of English verse ; and here are reasons for exclu-
ding them, could they find place.
I am now ready to fulfil a promise concerning the four sorts of
lines that enter into English heroic verse. That these have, each of
them, a peculiar melody distinguishable by a good ear, I ventured to
suggest, and promised also to account for it : and though the subject
is extremely delicate, I am not without hopes of making good my en-
gagement. But first, by way of precaution, I warn the candid reader
not to expect this peculiarity of modulation in every instance. The
reason why it is not always perceptible has bfeen mentioned more
than once, that the thought and expression have a great influence
upon the melody ; so great, as in many instances to make the poorest
melody pass for rich and spirited. This consideration makes me
insist upon a concession or two that will not be thought unreasonable:
first, that the experiment be tried upon lines equal with respect to
the thought and expression ; for otherwise one may easily be misled
in judging of the melody: and next, that these lines be regularly
accented before the pause ; for upon a matter abundantly refined in
itself, I would not willingly be embarrassed with faulty and irregular
lines.
These preliminaries adjusted, I begin with some general observa-
tions, that will save repeating the same thing over and over upon
every example. And first, an accent succeeded by a pause, as in
lines of the first and third order, makes a much greater figure than
where the voice goes on without a stop. The fact is so certain, that
no person who has an ear can be at a loss to distinguish that accent
from others. Nor have we far to seek for the efficient cause : the
elevation of an accenting tone produces in the mind a similar eleva-
tion, which continues during the pause ;* but where the pause is sepa*
* Hence the liveliness of the French language as to sound, above the English ;
ihclast syllable in the former beinff generally long and accented, the long syllable
in the latter being generally as far oack in the word as possible, and often with an
aecent. For this difference I find no cause so probable as temperament and dia-
position ; the French being brisk and lively, the English sedate and reserved : and
this, if it hold, is a pre^ant instance of a resemblance between the character of*
people uid that of their language.
Digitized
'zed by Google
312 BBAUTT OF LANGUAOI. [Ch. 18
rated from the accent by a short syllable, as in lines of the second and
fourth order, the ijfnpression made by the accent is more slight when
there is no stop, and the elevation of the accent is c^one in a moment
by the falling of the voice in pronouncing the short syllable thaf
follows. The pause also is sensibly afieeted by the position of the
accent In lines of the first and third order, the close conjunction
of the accent and pause, occasions a sudden stop without prepara-
tion, which rouses the mind, and bestows on the melody a spirited
air. When, on the other hand, the pause is separated from the
accent by a short syllable, which always happens in lines of the
second and fourth order, the pause is sou and gentle : for this short
unaccented syllable, succeeding one that is accented, must of course
be pronounced with a falling voice, which naturally prepares for a
pause ; and the mind falls gently from the accented syllable, and
slides into rest as it were insensibly. Farther, the lines themselves
derive difierent powers from the position of the pause, which will
thus appear. A pause afler the fourth syllable divides the line into
two unequal portions, of which the larger comes last: this circum-
stance resolving the line into an ascending series, makes an impres-
sion in pronouncing like that of ascending ; and to this impression
conthbute the redoubled effort in pronouncing the larger portion,
which is last in order. The mind has a different feeling when the
pause succeeds the fifth syllable, which divides the line into two
equal parts : these parts, pronounced with equal effort, are agreeahle
by their uniformity. A line divided by a pause after the sixth sjl
lable, makes an impression opposite to that first mentioned : being
divided into two unequal portions, of which the shorter is last in
order, it^ appears like a slow descending series; and the second por-
tion being pronounced with less effort than the first, the diminished
effort prepares the mind for rest. And this preparation for rest is
still more sensibly felt where the pause is after the seventh syllable,
as in lines of the fourth order.
To apply these observations is an easy task. A line of the first
order is of all the most spirited and lively : the accent, being fol-
lowed instantly by a pause, makes an illustrious figure : the elevated
tone of the accent elevates the mind : the mind is supported in its
elevation by the sudden unprepared pause, which ro\ises and ani-
mates: and the line itself, representing by its unequal division an
ascending series, carries the mind still higher, making an impres-
sion-similar to that of going upward. The second order has a
modulation sensibly sweet, soft, and flowing ; the accent is not so
sprightly as in the former, because a short syllable intervenes be-
tween it and the pause : its elevation, by the same means, vanishes
instantaneously : the mind, by a falling voice, is gently prepred for
a stop : and the pleasure of uniformity from the division of the line
into two equal parts, is calm and sweet. The third order has a
modulation not so easily expressed in words : it in part resembles
the first order, by the liveliness of an accent succeeded instantly by
a full pause : but then the elevation occasioned by this circumstance.
is balanced in some degree by the remitted effort in pronouncing the
Digitized
by Google
Sect 4.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. .313
second portion, which remitted effort has a tendency to rest. Another
circumstance. distinguishes it remarkably: its capital accent comes
late, being placed on the sixth syllable: and this circumstance
bestows on it an air of gravity and solemnity. The last order
resembles the second in the mildness of its accent, and softness of
its pause; it is still more solemn than the third, by the lateness of
its capital accent : it also possesses in a higher degree than the third,
the tendency to rest : and by that circumstance is of all the best
qualified for closing a period in the completest manner.
But these are not all the distinguishing characters of the different
orders. Each order, also, is distinguished by its final accent and
pause : the unequal division in the first order, makes an impression
of ascending ; and the mind at the close is in the highest elevation,
which naturally prompts it to put. a strong emphasis upon the con-
cluding syllable, whether by raising the voice to a sharper tone, or
by expressing the word in a fuller tone. This order accordingly is
of all the least proper for concluding a period, where a cadence is
proper and not an accent. The second order being destitute of the
impression of ascent, cannot rival the first order in the elevation of
its concluding accent, nor consequently in the dignity of its conclud-
ing pause ; for these have a mutual influence. This order, however,
with respect to its, close, maintains a superiority over the third and
fourth orders: in these, the close is more humble, being. brought
down by the impression of descent, and by the remitted effort in
pronouncing; considerably in the third order, and still more consi-
derably in the last. According to this description, the concluding
accents and pauses of the four orders being reduced to, a scale, will
form a descending series probably in an ^arithmetical progression.
After what is said, will it be thought refining too much to suggest,
that the different orders are qualified for different purposes, and that
a poet of genius will naturally be led to make a choice accofdingly?
I cannot think this altogether chimerical. As it appears to me, the
first order is proper for a sentiment that is bold, lively, or impetuous;
the third order is proper for what is grave, solemn, or lofty; the
second for what is tender, delicate, or melancholy, and in general
for all the sympathetic emotions ; and the last for subjects of the same
kind, when tempered with any degree of solemnity. I do not con-
tend, that any one order is fitted for no other task out that assigned
it ; for at that rate, no sort of melody would be left for accompanying
thoughts that have nothing peculiar in them. I only venture to
suggest, and I do it with diffidence, that each of the orJers is pecu-
liarly adapted to certain subjects, and better qualified than the others
for expressing them. The best way to judge is by experiment ; and
to avoid the imputation of a partial isearch, I shall confine my
instances to a single poem, beginning with the
First order.
On her white breast, a sparkling cross she wore,
Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore.
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,
Cluick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those :
27
Digitized
by Google
SM BEAUTY OF tANGUAOK. [Ch. M.
FaTors to hone, to all she smiles extends;
Oil she rejects, but never once offends.
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike.
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.
Yet eraceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide
If to her share some female errors fall,
Lo<^ on her face, and youll forget 'em alL
Rape of tM Lock.
In accounting for the remarkable liveliness of this passage, it will
be acknowledged by every one who has an ear, that the melody
must come in for a share. The lines, all of them, are of the first
order : a very unusual circumstance in the author of this poem, so
eminent for variety in his versification. Who can doubt, that he
^BLS been led by delicacy of taste to employ the first order preferably
to the others ?
Second order.
Our humble province is to tend the fair,
Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care;
To save the powder from too rude a gale,
Nor let th' imprisoned essences exhale ;
To draw fresh colors from thfe vernal flowers ;
To steal from rainbows, ere they drop their show'rs, &€.
Again:
Oh, thoughtless mortals I ever blind to late,
Too soon dejected, and too soon elate.
Sudden, these honors shall be snatch'd away,
And curs'd for ever this victorious day.
Third order.
Again
To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note.
We trust th' important charge, the petticoat
Oh say what stranger cause, yet unexplored,
Could make a gentle belle reject a lord 1
A plurality of lines of the fourth order, would not have a good effect
kk succession ; because, by a remarkable tendency to rest, their pro-
per oflice is to close a period. The reader, therefore, must be satia-
ted with instances where this order is mixed with others.
Again:
Again:
Again:
Not louder slurieks to pitying Heav'n arc cast,
When husbands, or when lapdogs, breathe their last
Steel could the works of mortal pride confound,
And hew triumphal arches to the ground.
She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill,
Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille.
With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face.
He first the snuff-box open'd, then the case.
And this suggests another experiment, which is, to set the difie
rent orders more directly in opposition, by giving examples where
they are mixed in the same passage.
Digitized
by Google
Again:
Sect 4] BKAUTT or lanovaox. SM
First and second orders.
Sol through white curtains shot a tim'rous ray,
And op'd those eyes that must eclipse the day.
Not youthful kings i|rbattle seized alive,
Not scornful virgins who their charms survive,
Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss,
Not ancient ladies when rqfus'd a kiss,
Not grants fierce that unrepenting die,
Not Cynthia when her mantua's pinn'd awry.
E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair.
As thou, sad virgin ! for thy ravish'd hair.
First and third.
Again:
Again:
Again:
Think what an equipage thou hast in air,
And viey ^ith scorn two pages and a chair.
What guards the purity of melting maids,
In courtly balls^ and midm^ht masquerades.
Safe' from the treach'rous friend, the daring spark,
The glance by day, the whisper in the dark 1
With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre.
And breathes three am'rous sighs to raise the fire ;
Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes,
Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize.
Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around.
Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound.
Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives way.
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day !
Second and third.
Again:
Sunk'in Thalestris' arms, the nymph he found,
Her eyes dejected, and her hair unoound..^
On her heav'd bosom hun^ her drooping head,
Wliich with a ^gh she raised ; and thus she said.
Musing on the foregoing subject, I begin to doubt whether all this
while I have been in a reverie, and whether the scene before me,
full of objects new and singular, be not mere fairy-land. Is there
any truth in the appearance, or is it wholly a work of imagination ?
We cannot doubt of its reality ; and we may with assurance pronounce,
.hat great is the merit of finglish heroic verse : for though unifor-
mity prevails in the arrangement, in the equality of the lines, and in
vhe resemblance of the final sounds ; variety is still more conspicu-
Dus in the pauses and in the accents, which are diversified iii a
surprising manner. Of the beauty that results from a due mixture
of uniformity and variety,* many instances have already occurred,
but none more illustrious than English versification ; however rude
it may be in the simplicity of its arrangement, it is highly melodious
by its pauses and accents, so as already to rival the most perfect
species known in Greece or Rome ; and it is no disagreeable pros-
pect to find it susceptible of still greater refinement.
We proceed to blank verse, which has so many circumstances in
♦ See Chap. 9.
Digitized
by Google
316 BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. [Ch. 18.
common with rhyiue, tha* its peculiarities may be brought within a
narrow compass. With respect to form, it difiers from rhyme in
rejecting the jingle of similar sounds, whicH purifies it from a
childish pleasure. But this improvement is a trifle compared with
what follows. Our verse is extremely cramped by rhyme ; and the
peculiar advantage of blank verse is, that it is at liberty to attend
the imagination in its boldest flights. Rhjrme necessarily divides
verse into couplets ; each couplet makes a complete musical period,
the parts of which are dividea by pauses, and the whole summed
up by a full close' at the end : the melody begins anew with the
next couplet : and in this manner a composition in rhyme proceeds
couplet after couplet. I have often had occasion to mention the
correspondence and concord that ought to subsist between sound
and sense : from which it is a plain inference, that if a couplet be a
complete period with regard to melody, it ought regularly to be the
same with regard to sense. As it is extremely difficult to support
such strictness of composition, licenses are indulged, as explained
above ; which, however, must be used with discretion, so as to pre
serve some degree of concord between the sense and the music:
there ought never to be a full close in the sense but at the end of a
couplet ; and there ought always to be some pause in the sense at
the end of every couplet: the same period as to sense may be
extended througn several couplets ; but each couplet ought to con
tain a distinct member, distinguished by a pause in the sense as well
as in the sound ; and the whole ought to be closed with a complete
cadence.* Rules such as these, must confine rhyme within very
narrow bounds : a thought of any extent, cannot be reduced within
its compass : the sense must be curtailed and broken into parts, to
make it square with the curtness of the melody; and beside, short
periods aflford no latitude for inversion.
I have examined this point witTi the stricter accuracy, in order to
give a just notion of blank verse ; and to show, that a slight diflference
in form may produce a great difference in substance. Blank verse
has the same pauses and accents with rhyme, and a pause at the
end of every line, like what concludes the first line of a couplet. In
a word, the rules of melody in blank verse, are the same that obtain
with respect to the first line of a couplet ; but being disengaged from
rhyme, or from couplets, there is access to make every line run into
another, precisely as to make the first line of a couplet run into
the second. There must be a musical pause at the end of every
line; but this pause is so slight as not to require a pause in the
sense : and accordingly the sense may be carried on with or without
pauses, till a period of the utmost extent be completed by a full close
both in the sense and the sound : there is no restraint, other than
that this full close be at the end of a line; and this restraint is
necessary, in order to preserve a coincidence between sense and
♦ This rule is quite neglected in French versification. Even Boileau makes no
difficulty, to close one subject with the first line of a couplet, and to begin a new
sabject with the second. Such license, however sanctioned by practice, is un-
pleasant by the discordance between the pauses of the sense and of the mdody
Digitized
by Google
Sec. 4.] BEAUTY OF LANGUAGK. 817
sound, which ou^ht to be aimed at in general, and is indispensable
in the case of a full close, because it has a striking effect Hencft
the fitness of blank verse for inversion : and consequently the lustre
of its pauses and accents ; for which, as observed above, there is
greater scope in inversion, than when words run in their natural
order.
In the second section of this chapter it is shown, that nothing
contributes more than inversion to the force and elevation of lan-
guage: the couplets of rhyme confine inversion within narrow
limits: nor would the elevationof inversion, were there access for
it in rnyme, readily accord with the humbler tone of that sort of
verse. It is universally agreed, that the loftiness of Milton^s style
supports admirably the sublimity of his subject ; and it is not less
certain, that the loftiness of his style arises chiefly from inversion.
Shakspeare deals little in inversion; but his blank verse being a'
sort of measured prose, is perfectly well adapted to the stage, where
labored inversion is highly improper, because in dialogue it never
can be natural.
Hitherto I have considered that superior power of expression
which verse acquires by laying aside rhyme. But this is not .the
only ground for preferring blank verse : it has another preferable
quality not less signal; and that is, a more extensive and more
complete melody. Its music is nckt, like that of rhyme, confined to a
single couplet ; but takes in a gcfeat compass, so as in some measure
to rival music properly so called. The interval between its
cadences may be long or short at pleasure ; and, by that means, its
melody, with respect both to richness and variety, is superior fer
to that of rhyme, and superior even to that of the Greek and Latin
Hexameter. Of this observation no person can doubt who is
acquainted with the Paradise Lost: in which work there are
indeed many careless lines ; but at every turn the richest melody
as well as tlie sublimest sentiments are conspicuous. Take the
, following specimen :
Now Morn her rosy steps in th' eastern clime
Advancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl ;
When Adam wak'd, so customed for his sleep
Was aSry light from pure digestion bred
And temp'rate vapors bland, which th' only sound
Of leaves and fuminff rills, Aurora's fan,
Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill matin song
Of birds on every bough ; so much the more
His wonder was to find unwaken'd Eve
With tresses discomposed, and glowing cheek,
As through unquiet rest: he on his side
Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial love
Hung over her enamor'd, and beheld
Beautv, which, whether waking or asleep,
Shot forth peculiar graces ; then with voice
Mild, as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes,
Her hand soft touching, whisper'd thus : Awake,
My fairest, my espous d, my latest found,
Heaven's last best gift, my ever-new delight.
Awake ; the morning shines, and the fresh fidd
Calls us : we lose the prime, to mark how spring
27*
Digitized
by Google
818 BEAUTT OF LANGUAGE. . [C3l 18
Our tended plants, how blows the citron grove,
"What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed,-
How nature paints her colors, how the bee
Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet. Book V. L 1.
Comparing Latin Hexameter with English heroic rhyme, the
former has obviously the advantage in the following particulars. It
is greatly preferable as to arrangement, by the latitude it admits in
placing the long and short syllables. Secondly, the length of
an Hexameter line hath a majestic air : ours, by its shortness, is
indeed more brisk and lively, but much less fitted for the sublime.
And, thirdly, the long high-sounding words that Hexaaieter admits,
add greatly to its majesty. To compensate these advantages,
English rhyme possesses a greater number and greater variety both
of pauses and of accents. These two sorts of verse stand indeed
pretty much in opposition : in Hexameter, great variety of arrange-
ment, none in the pauses nor accents ; in English rhyme, great
variety ^n the pauses and accents, very little in the arrangement.
In blank verse are united, in a good measure, the several proper-
ties of Latin Hexameter and English rhyme ; and it possesses beside
many signal properties of its own. It is not confined, like Hexa-
meter, by a full close at the end of every line ; nor, like rhyme,
by a full, close at the end of every couplet. Its construction,
which admits the lines to run into each other, gives it a still greater
majesty than arises from the length of an Hexameter line. By the
same means, it admits inversion even beyond the Latin or Greek
Hexameter ; for these suffer some confinement by the regular closes
at the end of every line. In its music it is illustrious above all :
the melody of Hexameter verse is circumscribed to a linej and ol
English rhyme, to a couplet : the melody of blank verse is under
no confinement, but enjoys the utmost privilege, of which melody
of verse is susceptible ; which is to run hand in hand with the
sense. In a word, blank verse is superior to Hexanfeter in many
articles ; and inferior to it in none, save in the freedom of arrange- .
ment, and in the use of long words.
In French heroic verse, there are found, on the contrary, all the
defects of Latin Hexameter and the English rhyme, without the
beauties of either : subjected to the bondage of rhyme, and to the
full close at the end of every couplet, it is also extremely fatiguing by
uniformity in its pauses and accents: the line invariably is divided
by the pause into two equal parts, and the accent is invariably placed
before the pause.
Jeune et vaillant heros 11 dont la haute sagesse
N'est point la fruit tardif II d'une lente vieillesse.
Here every circumstance contributes to a tiresome uniformity: a
constant return of the same pause and of the same accent, as well
as an equal division of every line ; which fatigue the ear without
intermission or change. I cannot set this matter in a better lijfht,
than by presenting to the reader a French translation of the follow-
ing passage of Milton :
Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall,
Grodlike erect, with native honor dad.
Digitized
by Google
C3l 18.]^ BBAVTT OF LANGUAOK. 819
In naked majesty, seem'd lords of all :
And worthy seem'd ; for in their looks divinft,
The ima^ of their glorious Maker, shone
Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure;
Severe, but in true filial freedom plac'd;
Whence true authority in men : though both
Not equal, as their sex not eaual seemed ;
For contemplation he and valor form'd.
For softness she and sweet attractive grace ;
He for God only, she for God in him.
Were the pauses of the sense and sound in this passcfge but a littlu
better assorted, nothing in verse could be more melodious. In gene-
ral, the great defect in Milton's versification, in other respepts admira-
ble, is the want of coincidence between the pauses of the sense and
Bound. The translation is in the following words :
Ce lieux d61icieux, ce paradis charmant,
Re9oit de deux objets son plus bel ornement
Leur port majestueux, et leur demarche aUierc,
Semble leur m^riter sur la nature enfidre
Ce droit de commander que Dieu leur a donn6.
Sur leur au^ste front de gloire couronn^,
Du souveram du ciel brille la ressemblance :
Dansleurs simples regards delate I'innocence,
L'adorable candeur, I'aimable v6rit6
La raison, !a sagesse, et la s6v6rit6
Glu'adoucit la prudence, et c«t air de droiture
Du visage des rois respectable panue.
Ces dpux objets divin n'ont pas les mdmes traits,
lis paroissent formes, quoique tous deux parfaits;
L'un pour la majpsf6, la force, et la ncblesse;
L'autre pour la douceur, la grace, et la tcndresse;
Celui-ci pour Dieu seul, l'autre pour I'homme encor.
Here the sense is fairly translated, the words are of equal power,
and yet how inferior the melody !
Many attempts have been made to introduce Hexameter verse into
the living languages, but without success. The English language,
I am inclined to think, is not susceptible of this melody." and my
reasons are these. First, the polysyllables in Latin and Greek are
finely diversified by long and short syllables, a circumstance that qua-
lifies them for the melody of Hexameter verse : ours are extremely
ill qualified for that service, because they superabound in short
syllables. Secondly, the bulk of our monosyllables are arbitrary
with regard to length, which is an unlucky circumstance in Hexa-
meter : for although custom, as observed above, may render familiar
a long or a short pronunciation of the same word, yet the mind
wavering between the two sounds, cannot be so much aflfected with
either, as with a word that has always the same sound ; and for that
reason, arbitrary soqnds are ill fitted for a melody which is chiefly-
supported by quantity. In Latin and Greek Hexameter, invariable
sounds direct and ascertain the melody. English Hexameter would
be destitute of melody, unless by artful pronunciation ; because of
necessity the bulk of its sounds must be arbitrary. The pronuncia-
tion is easy in a simple movement of alternate lon^ and short sylla-
bles; but would be perplexing and unpleasant m the diversified
movement of Hexameter verse.
Digitized
by Google
890 BBAUTT or LANOVAOB. ^ [Cfa. 18.
Rhjrme makes so great a figure in modem poetry, as to deserve
a solemn trial. I have for that«reason reserved it to be examined
whh deliberation ; in order to discover, if I can, its peculiar beau-
ties, and its degree of merit The first view of this subject leads
naturally to the following reflection : ** That rhyme having no rela-
tion to sentiment, nor any effect upon the ear other than a mere
jingle, ought to be banished all compositions of any dignity, as
affording but a trifling and childish pleasure." It will also be ob-
served, " Thut a jingle of words hath in some measure a ludicrous
effect; Witness the double rhymes of Htidibras, which contribute no
small share to its drollery : that in a serious work this ludicrous
effect would be equally remarkable, were it not obscured by the
prevailing gravity of the subject : that having however a constant
tendency to give a ludicrous air to the composition, more than ordi-
nary fire is requisite to support the dignity of the sentiments against
such an undermining antagonist."*
These argiunents are specious, and hkve undoubtedly some
weight. Yet, on the other nand, it ought to be considered, that in
modern tongues rhyme has become universal among men as well
as children ; and that it cannot have such a currency without some
foundation in human nature. In fact, it has been successfully em-
ployed by poets of genius, in their serious and grave compositions,
as well as in those which are more light and airy. Here in weighing
authority against argument, the scales seem to be upon a level ; and
therefore, to come at any thing decisive, we must pierce a little deeper.
Music has great power over the soul ; and may successfully be
employed to inflame or soothe passions, if not actually to raise them.
A single sound, however sweet, is not music ; but a single sound
repeated after intervals, may have the effect to rouse attention, and
to keep the hearer awake : and a variety of similar sounds, succeed-
ing each other after regular intervals, must have a still stronger
effect. This consideration is applicable to rhjrme, which jconnects
two verse-lines by making them close with two words similar in
sound. And considering attentively the musical effect of a couplet,
we find, that it rouses the mind, and produces an emotion moderately
gay without dignity or elevation : like the murmuring of a brook
gliding througn pebbles^ it calms the mind when jperturbed, a^d
gently raises it when sunk. These effects are scarcely perceived
when the whole poem is in rhyme ; but are extremely remarkable
by contrast, in the couplets that close the several acts of our later
tragedies ; the tone of the mind is sensibly varied by them, from
anguish, distress, or melancholy, to some degree of ease and alacritj.
For the truth of this observation, I appeal to the speech of Jane
Shore in the fourth act, when her doom was pronounced by Glo'ster j
to the speech of Lady Jane Gray at the end of the first act ; and lo
that of Calista, in the Fair Penitent, when she leaves the stage,
fibout the middle of the third act. The speech of Alicia, at the clc«e
gf the fourth act of Jane Shore^ puts the matter beyond doubt: m a
• YosBios, De PoenuUum CaiU/ii^ p. 26. says, '< Nihil aeque gravitati
tffici, quam in sono ludere syllabarum."
Digitized
by Google ,
I^t 4.] ^ BEAUTY OF LANOVAGS. d2l
scene of deep distress, the rhymes which finish the act, produce a
certain eayety and cheerfulness, far from according with the tone of
the passion :
Alicia, For ever 1 Oh! Forever!
Oh ! who can bear to be a wretch for ever !
My rival too I his last thoughts hunsr on her :
And, as he parted, left a blessing for ner :
Shall she be bless'd, and I be curs'd, for ever !
No ; since her fatal beauty was the cause
Of all my sufT'rinffs, let her sharfe my pains ;
Let her, like me of ev'ry joy forlorn.
Devote the hour when such a wretch was born !
Like me to deserts and to darkness run.
Abhor the day, and curse the golden sun ;
Cast ev'ry good and ev'ry hope behind ;
Detest the works of nature, loathe mankind :
Like me with cries distracted fill the air, )
Tear her poor bosom, and her frantic hair, >
And prove the torments of the last despair. )
Having described, in the best way I can, the impression that rhyme
makes on the mind, I proceed to examine whether there be any sub-
jects to which rhyme is peculiarly adapted, and for what subjects it
is improper. Grand and lofty subjects, which have a powerful
influence, claim precedence in this inquiry. In the chapter of Gran-
deur and Sublimity, it is established, that a grand or sublime object,
inspires a warm enthusiastic emotion disdaining strict regularity and
order ; which emotion is very different from that inspired by the
moderately enlivening music of rhyme. Supposing then an elevated
subject to be expressed in rhyme, what must be the effect? The inti-
mate union of the music with the subject, produces an intimate union
of their emotions ; one inspired by the subject, which lends to elevate
and expand the mind ; and one inspired by the music, which, con-
fining the mind within the narrow limits of regular cadence and
similar sound, tends to prevent all elevation above its own pitch.
Emotions so little concordant, cannot in union have a happy effect.
But it isr scarcely necessary to. reason upon a case that never did,
and probably never will happen, viz. an important subject 'clothed in
rhyme, and yet supported in its utmost elevation. A happy thought
or warm expression, may at times give a sudden bound upward j
but it requires a genius greater than has hitherto existed^ to support
a poem of any length in a tone elevated much above that of the
melody. Tasso and Ariosto ought not to be made exceptions, and
still less Voltaire. And after all, where the poet has the dead weight
of rhyme constantly to struggle with, how can we expect an uniform
elevation in a high pitch ; when such elevation, with all the support
it can receive from language, requires the utmost effort of the human
genius ?
But now, admitting rhyme to be an unfit dress for grand and lofty
images ; it has one advantage however, which is, to raise a low sub-
ject to its own degree of elevation. Addison* observes, " That rhyme,
without any other assistance, throws the language off from prose,
aad very oilen makes an indifferent phrase pass unregarded ; but
♦ Spectator, No. 285.
Digitized
by Google
322 BKAUTT or LANOVAOX. [Ch. 1&
where the verse is not built upon rhymes, there, pomp of sound, and
energy of expression are indispensably necessary, to support the style,
and keep it from falling into the flatness of prose." This effect of
rhyme is remarkable in French verse: which, being simple, and
little qualified for inversion, readily sinks down to prose Where not
artificially supported : rhyme is, therefore, indispensable in French
tragedy, and may be proper even in French comedy. Voltaire*
assigns that very reason for adhering to rhyme in these composi-
tions. He indeed candidly owns, that, even with the support of
rhyme, the tragedies of his country are little better than conversa-
tion-pieces ; which seems to infer, that the French language is weak,
and an improper dress for any grand subject. Voltaire was sensible
of the imperfection ; and yet Voltaire attempted an epic poem in that
language.
The cheering and enlivening power of rhyme, is still more
remarkable in poems of short lines, where the rhymes return upon
the ear in a quick succession ; for which reason rhyme is perfectly
well adapted to gay, light, and airy subjects. Witness the following:
O the pleasing, pleasing anguish,
When we love and when we languish !
Wishes rising,
Thoughts surprising,
Pleasure courting,
Charms transporting,
Fancy viewing,
Joys ensuing,
O the pleasing, pleasing anguish ! Rosamond^ Act I. Sc. 2.
For that reason, such frequent rhymes are very improper for any
severe or serious passion : the dissonance between the subject and
the melody is very sensibly felt. Witness the following :
Now under hanging mountains,
Beside the fall of fountains,
Or where Hebrus wanders,
Rolling^ in meanders
ATI alone,
Unheard, unknown.
He makes his moan,
And calls her ghost,
For ever, ever, ever lost ;
Now with furies surrounded,
Despairing, confounded,
He trembles, he glows,
Amidst Rodope's snows. Pope^ Ode for Music^ 1. 97.
Rhyme is not less unfit for anguish or deep distress, than for sub-
< jects elevated and lofty ; and for that reason has been long disused
in the ^nglish and Italian tragedy. In a work where the subject is
serious though not elevated, rhyme has not a good eflfect ; because
the airiness of the melody agrees not with the gravity of the subject:
the Essay on Man, which treats a subject great and important, would
make a better figure in blank verse. Sportive love, mirth, gayety,
humor, and ridicule, are the province of rhyme. The boundaries
assigned it by nature, were extended in barbarous and illiterate ages;
* preface to his Oedipus, and in his discourse upon tragedy, prefixed to the tri»
^y of Brutus.
Digitized
by Google
Sbct 4] BBAITTT OF LANGUAOIE. 823
and in its usurpations it has long been protected by custom : but
taste in the fine arts, as well as in morals, improves daily ; and
makes a progress toward perfection, slow indeed but uniform ; and
there is no reason to doubt, that rhyme, in Britain, will in time be
forced to abandon its unjust conquest, and to confine itself within its
natural limits.
Having said what occurred upon rhyme, I close the section with
a general observation, that the melody of verse so powerfully
enchants the mind, as to draw a veil over very gross faults and
imperfections. Of this power a stronger example cannot be given
than the episode of Aristaeus, which closes the fourth book of the
Georgics. To renew a stock of bees when the former is lost, Vir-
gil asserts, that they may be produced in the entrails of a bullock,
slain and managed in a certain manner. This leads him to say, .
how this strange receipt was invented ; which is as follows. Aristaeus
having lost his bees by disease and famine, never dreams of employ-
ing the ordinary means for obtaining a new stock ; but, like a fro-
ward child, complains heavily to his mother Gyrene, a water-nymph.
She advises him to consult Proteus, a sea-god, not how he was to
dbtain a new stock, but only by what fatality he had lost his former
■stock ; adding, that violence was necessary, because Proteus would
say nothing voluntarily. AristaBus,, satisfied with this advice, though
ti gave him no prospect of repairing his loss, proceeds to execution.
Proteus is caught sleeping, bound w4th cords, and compelled to speak.
He declares, that Aristae us was punished with the loss of his bees,
jbr attempting the chastity of Eurydice the wife of Orpheus ; she
ftav^ng been stung to death by a serpent in flying his embraces.
Proteus, whose sullenness ought to have been converted into wrath
oy the rough treatment he met with, becomes on a sudden courteous
md communicative. He gives the whole history of the expedition
*o hell which Orpheus undertook in order tc recover his spouse : a
fery entertaining story, but without the least relation to what was in
/iew. Aristaeus, returning to his mother, is advised to deprecate by
sacrifices the wrath of Orpheus, who was now dead. A bullock is
sacrificed, and out of the entrails spring miraculously a swarm of
dees. Does it follow, that the same may be obtained without a mira-
cle, as is supposed in the receipt ?
A LIST of the different FEET, and of their NAMES,
1. Phyrrhicus, consists of two short syllables. Examples, Deus
given, cannot, hillock, running.
2. Spondeus, consists of two long syllables: omnes, possess, fore-
warn, mankind, sometime.
3. Iambus, composed of a. short and a long: pios, intent, degree^
appear, consent, repent, demand, report, suspect, affront, event,
4. Trochjeus, or Choreus, a long and short: fervat, whereby
after, legal, measure, burden, holy, lofty.
5. Tribrachys, three short: melius, property.
6. MoLossus, three long : delectant.
T. Anapastus, two short and a long : animos, condescend, apprt^
Digitized
by Google
S24 BEAUTY or LANOUAGS. [Ch. 18.
. hend, overheard, acquiesce, immature, overcharge, serenade,
opportune.
8. Dactylus, a long and two short : carmina, evident, excellence,
estimate^ wonderful, altitude, burdened, minister, tenement!
9. Bacchius, a short and two long : dolores.
10. Hyppobacchius or Antibacchius, two long and a short:
velluntur,
11. Ureticvs, or A|ifhimacer, a short syllable between two long :
insito, afternoon
12. Amphibrachys, a long syllable between two short: honore,
consider, imprudent, procedure, attended, proposed, respondeiU,
' concurrence, apprentice, respective, revenue.
13. Proceleusmaticvs, four short syllables: hominibus, necessary.
14. DispoNDEUs, four long syllables: infinitis.
15. Diiambvs, composed of two Iambi: severitas.
16. Ditrochjeus, of two Trochsei: permanere, procurator.
17. loNicus, two short syllables and two long: properabant.
18. Another foot passes under the same name, composed of two long
syllables and two short : calcaribtbs, possessory.
. 19. Choriambus, two short syllables between two long: nobilitas.
20. Antispastus, two long syllables between two short: Alexander.
21. Pjeon 1st, one long syllable and three short: temporibus,
ordinary, inventory, temperament.
22. Pjson 2d, the second syUable long, and the other three short:
rapidity, solemnity, minority, considered, imprudently, extrava-
gant, respectfully, accordingly.
23. Pjeon 3d, the third syllable long and the other three short:
animatus, independent, condescendence, sacerdotal, reimburse-
merit, manufacture.
24. Pjeon 4th, the last syllable long and the other three short:
celeritas.
25. Epitritus 1st, the first syllable short and the other three long:
voluptates.
26. Epitritus 2d, the second syllable short and the other three
long : pcsniientes.
27. Epitritus 3d, the third syllable short and the other three long*
discordias.
28. Epitritus 4th, the last syllable short and the other three long:
fortunatus.
29. A word of ^ve syllables composed of a Pyrrhichius and Dac-
tylus: ministerial.
30. A word of five syllables composed of a Trochaeus and Dactylus :
singularity.
31. A word of five syllables, composed of a Dactylus and Trochaeus :
precipitation, examination.
32. A word of five syllables, the second only long : significancy.
33. A word of six syllables composed of two Dactyles : impetuosity.
34. A word of six syllables composed of a Tribrachys and Dac-
tylsB: pusillanimity.
N. B, Every word may be considered as a prose foot, becaaae
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 19.1 COMPARISONS, 3115 X
every word is distinguished by a pause ; and every foot in vent
may be considered as a verse word, composed of syllables pro-
nounced at once without a pause.
CHAPTER XIX.
COMPARISONS.
Comparisons serve to instruct and to please — They suggest some unusual <^trast
or resemblance — They set objects m their proper light — They associaff them
with other objects that are agreeable — They elevate objects — They depress
them — Objects of different senses not to be compared — Things of the same kind
not to be compared — Things of different kinds not to be contrasted — Abstrad
terms not the subject of comparison, unless personified — Two kinds of compari-
sons—Comparisons not proper for every occasion— Illustrated — Not disposed
to pathetic flights, when cool and sedate, or when oppressed with care — Similes
delightful, when the mind is elevated or animated by passion — The mind often
in a tone to relish embellishing comparisons — The severe passions enemies to
comparisons — A comparison faulty, though properly introduced— By being too
iaint — By being too low — By being too high — A comparison not to be drawn
from a disagreeable object — Comparisons existing in words only, the most
objectionable — A species of comparison that excites gayety.
Comparisons, as observed above,* serve two purposes; when
addressed to the understanding, their purpose is to instruct;' when
to the heart, their purpose is to please. Various means contribute
to the latter; first, the suggesting of some unusual resemblance or
contrast; second, the setting of an object in' the strongest light;
third, the associating of an object with others that are agreeable;
fourth, the elevating of an object; and, fifth, the depressing of it
And that comparisons may give pleasure by these various meant,
appears from what is said in the chapter above cited ; and will be
made still more evident by examples, which shall be given afler
premising some general observations.
Objects of diflferent senses cannot be compared together ; for such
objects, being entirely separated from each other, have no circum-
stance in common to admit either resemblance or contrast. , Objects
of hearing may be compared together, as also of taste, of smell, and
of touch: but the chief fund of comparison are objects of si^ht;
because, in writing or speaking, things can only be compared in
idea, and the ideas of sight are more distinct and lively than those
of any other sense.
Wnen a nation emerging out of barbarity begins to think of the
fine arts, the beauties of language cannot long lie concealed ; and
when discovered, they are generally, by the force of Novelty, carried
beyond moderation. Thus, in the early poems of every nation, wc
find metaphors and similes founded on slight and distant resemr
blances, which, losing their grace with their novelty, wear gradually
out of repute ; and now, by the improvement of taste, none but cor-
rect metaphors and similes are admitted into any polite composition^
♦ Chap. 8.
28
Digitized
by Google
iiS OOMPAKIffOlffl. [Ch. 19.
To illustrate this observation, a specimen shall be given afterward
of such metaphors as I have been describing; with respect to similes,
take the following specimen :
Behold, thou art fair, my love : thy hair is as a flock of ffoats that appear from
Mount Gtilead : thy teeth are like a flock of sheep from the washing, every one
bearing twins : thy lips are like a thread of scarlet : thy neck like the tower of
David built for an armory, whereon hang ^ thousand shields of mighty men :
thy two breasts like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies :
thy eves like the fish-pools in Heshbon, by the gate of Bath-rabbim : thy nose
like the tower of Lebanon, lo<ddng toward Damascus.
Song of Solomon.
Tl^u art like snow on the heath ; thy hair like the mist of Cromla, when it
eoris on the rocks, and shines to the beam of the west : thy breasts are like two
smooth rocks seen from Branno of the streams ; thy arms like two white pillars
ta tl» hall of the mighty Fingal. Pingal.
It has no good efiect to compare things by way of simile that are
«f the same kind ; nor to compare by contrast things of different
kinds. The reason is given in the chapter quoted above ; and the
reason shall be illustrated by examples. The first is a comparison
built upon a resemblance so obvious as to make little!>E)r no impression.
This just rebuke inflamed the Lycian crew.
They join, they thicken, and th assault renew
Unmov'd th' embody'd Greeks their fury dare,
And fix'd support the weight of all the war ;
Nor could the Greeks repel the Lycian pow'rs,
Nor the bold Lycians force the Grecian tow'rs.
As on the confines of adjoining grounds.
Two stubborn swains with blows dispute their bounds;
They tug, they sweat ; but neither gam, nor yield,
One foot, pne inch, of the contended field:
Thus obstinate to death, they fight, they fall ;
Nor tliese can keep, nor those can win the wall.
Biad, XII. 505.
Another, from Milton, lies open to the same objection. Speaking of
tho feUen angels searching for mines of gold,
A numerous brigade hasten'd : as when bands
Of pioneers with spade and pick-ax aim'd,
Forerun the royal camp to trench a field
Or cast a rampart.
The next shall be of things contrasted that are of different kinds.
Q^aeen, What, is my Richard both in shape and mind
Transform'd and weak 1 Hath Bolingbroke depos'd
Thine intellect 1 H&th he been in thy heart ?
The lion thrusteth forth his paw,
And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage
To be o'erpower'd : and wilt thou, pupil-like,
Take thy correction mildly, kiss the rod,
And fawn on rage with base humility 1
jRtcA^rd 77. Act V. Sc 1.
Tbis comparison has scarcely any force : a man and a lion are of
different species, and therefore are proper subjects for a simile ; but
there is no such resemblance between them in general, as to pro-
duce any strong effect by contrasting particular attributes or circum-
stances. ^
A third general observation is, that abstract terms can nevef be
Digitized
by Google
CL 19.^ coMPAEisoirt. dSf
tlie subject of comparison, otherwise than by beingf personified.
Shakspeare compares adversity to a toad, and slander to the bite of
a crocodile ; but in such comparisons these abstract terms must be
imagined sensible beings.
To hav^ a just notion of comparisons, they must be distinguished
mto two kinds; one common and familiar, as where a. man is com
pared to a lion in courage, or to a horse in speed ; the other mor«
distant and refined, where two things that have in themselves no
resemblance or opposition, are compared with respect to their effects.
This sort of comparison is occasionally explained above ;* and for
&rther explanation take what follows. There is no resemblance
between a flower-pot and a cheerful song; and yet they may be
compared with respect to their effects, the emotions they produce
being similar. There is as little resemblance between fraternal
concord and precious ointment ; and yet observe how successfully
they are compared with respect to the impressions they make :
Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity,
h is like the precious ointment upon the head, that ran down upon Aaron's beard,
and descended to the skirts of his garment. Psalm 133.
For illustrating this sort of comparison, I add some more ex-
amples :
Delightful is thy presence, O Fingal ! it is like the sun on Cromla, when the
hunter mourns his absence for a season, and sees him between the clouds.
Did not Ossian hear a voice 1 or is it the sound of days that are no morel
Often, like the evening sun, comes the memory of former times on my soul.
His countenance is settled from was; and is calm as the evening-beam, that
from the cloud of the west looks on Cona's silent vale.
Sorrow, like a cloud on the sun, shades the soul of Clessammor.
The music was like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant and mournful to
the soul.
Plefisant are the words of the song, said CuchuUin, and lovelv are the tales of
other times. They are like the calm dew of the morning on the hill of roes, when
the sun is faint on its side, and the lake is settled and blue in the vale.
These quotations are from the poems of Ossian, who abounds
withr comparisons of this delicate kind, and appears singularly happy
in them.t
I proceed to illustrate by particular instances the different means.
by which comparisons, whether of the one sort or the other, can
afford pleasure; and, in the order above established, I begin with
such instances as are agreeable, by suggesting some unusual res^m-
Mance or contrast :
Sweet are the uses of Adversity,
Which lUce the toad, u^ly and venomous.
Wears yet a precious jewel in her head.
As You Like U, Act II. Sc 1.
Crordenen Bolipe^broke hath seized the wasteful King.
What pity is't that lie had not so trimm'd
And dress'd his land, as we this garden dress,
• Page 72.
t The nature and merit of Ossian*s comparisons is fully illustrated, in a Dis-
sertation on the poems of that Author, by Dr. Blair, Professor of Rhetoric in the
CoUege of Edinburgh; a delicious morsd of criticism.
Digitized
by Google
I2S coMPAftisoNf. [Ch. 19.
•
And wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trMs;
Iiest, being over prowd with sap and blood.
With too much riches it confound itself.
Had he done a^ to ^^reat and growing men,
They mi^ht have liv'd to bear, and he to taste
Their fruits of duty. All superfluous branches
We lop away, that bearing boughs may live:
Had he done so, himself had borne the crown,
Which waste and idle hours have quite thrown down.
Richard ILAciim So, i.
See, how the Morning; opes her golden sates,
And takes her farewell of the glorious Sun ;
How well resembles it the prime of youth,
Trimm'd like a younker prancing to his love!
Seamd Part, Henry IV, Act II. Sc. 1.
Bruius. O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb,
That carries aneer as the flint bears fire :
Who, much en^rced, shows a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again. Julius Casar, Act lY. Sc 3.
Thus they their doubtful consultations dark
Ended, rejoicing in their matchless chief:
As when from mountain-tops, the dusky clouds
Ascending, while the North-wind sleeps, o'erspread
Heav'n's cheerful face, the lowering element
Scowls o'er the darken'd landscape, snow and show'i
If chance the radiant sun with farewell sweet
Extends his ev*ning-beam, the fields revive.
The birds their notes renew, and bleating herds
Attest their joy, that hill and valley rinss.
Paradise Lost^ Book t.
As the bright stars, and milky way,
Show'd by the night, are hid oy day :
So we in that accomplish'd mind,
Heip'd by the night, new graces find.
Which by the splendor of her view.
Dazzled before, we never knew. Waller.
The last exertion of courage compared to the blaze of a lamp
before extinc^uishing, Tasso Gierusalem, canto 19. st. 22.
None of the foregoing similes, as they appear to me, tend to illus-
trate the principal subject : and therefore the pleasure they afibrd
must arise from suggesting resemblances that are not obvious : I
mean the chief pleasure ; for undoubtedly a beautiful subject intro-
duced to form the simile affords a separate pleasure, which is felt in
the similes mentioned, particularly in that cited from Milton.
The next effect of a comparison in the order mentioned, is to place
an object in a strong point of view; which effect is remarkable in
the following similes :
As when two scales are charged with doubtful loads,
From side to side the trembling balance nods,
(Whilst some laborious matron, just and«poor,
W ith nice exactness weigjhs her wOolly store,)
Till pois'd aloft, the resting beam suspends
EUich equal weight ; nor this nor that descends
So stood the war, till Hector's matchless niieht.
With fates prevailing, tum'd the scale of fight,
Pierce as a whirlwind up the wall he flies.
And fires his host with loud repeated cries. JUad, b. Xll SQL
Digitized
by Google
Gh. Idj ooMPARTsoirk UB
Ut flofl in sepds secretis nascitur hoitii,
Ignotus pecori, nullo contusus aratro,
• Claem malcent aurs, firmat sol, educat imber,
Multi aium pueri, multse cupidre puellse ;
Idem, cum tenui carptus denoruit un^ii,
NuHi ilium pu^ri, nulls cupidre pueuffi :
Sic Tirgo, dum intacta manet, dnm cara suis; sed
Cum castum amisit, poUuto corpore, florem,
Nee pueris jucunda manet, nee cara puellis. CaMha.
As the fair flower doth in the garden grow
Safe from the flock, and touched not by the plotiglr,
Soothed by the wind and stren^hened by the sun,
Nursed by the shower, sought for by every one,
But rudely plucked, its beauty doth expire,
Nor longer boys and ^rls the flower desire,
So is the untouched virgin very dear,
But virtue lost, she worthless doth appear.
The imitation of this beautiful simile hy Ariosto, cemto 1. st. 42. fiillt
short of the original. It is also in part imitated by Pope.*
LMcetta. I do not seek to quench your love's hot ilte,
But qualify the fire's extreme rage,
Lest It should bum above the bounds of reason.
Julia. The more thou damm'st it up, the more it titirhs:
The current, that with gentle murmur glides,
Thou know'st, beii^ stopped, impatiently doth rage ;
But when his fair course is not hindered,
He makes sweet music with th' enamel'd stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overt£^eth in his pilgrima^ :
And so by many winding nooks he strays
With willing sport to the wild ocean.
Then let me go, and hinder not my course :
I'll be as patient as a gentle stream.
And make a pastime of each weary step,
Till the last step have brought me to my love ;
And there I'll rest, as, after much turmoil,
A blessed soul doth in Elysium.
i\oo Gentlemen of Verona^ Act IL Sc 7.
' She never told her love ;
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek : she pin'd in thought;
And with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like Patience on a ml:)nument,
Smiling at Grief Twelflh^Night, Act U. Se. 4
York. Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed.
Which his aspiring rider seem'^l to know.
With slow but stately pace, kept on his course :
While all tongues cry'd, God save thee, Bolingbroke. ^ ,
Dutchess. Alas! poor Richard, where rides he the Whitel
York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men.
After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious :
Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did scowl on Richard ; no man cry'd, QoA save hidi:
No joyful tonffue gave him his welcome home;
But dust was thrown i^n his isacred head : .
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
♦ Dunciad, b. IV. 1. 406
28*
Digitized by LjOOQ IC
MO doMPAEISOMf. \(3l 19
His iaoe still combating with tears and smiles,
The badses of his eprief and patience ;
That had not Gkxl, for some strong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they mustper£rce have melted,
And barbarism itself nave pitied him.
Richard 11, Act V. Sc. 2.
NortkuMberland. How doth my son and brother 1
Thou tremblest, and the whiteness in thy cheek
Is apter than thy tongue to teilthy errand.
Eyen such a man, so faint, so spiritless
8o dull, so dead in look, so wo-be-sone, ^
Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night.
And would have told him, half his Troy was bum'd:
But Priam found the fire, ere he his toneue:
And I my Percy's death, ere thou reporTst it
Second Part, Henry IV, Act I. Sc 1.
Why, then I do but dream on sov'reignty,
Like one that stands upon a promontory.
And spies a far-off shore where he would tread,
Wishing his foot were equal with his eye,
And chides the sea that sunders him fironi thence,
Say ins, he'll lave it dry to have his way:
So do I wish, the crown being so far on,
And so I chide the means that keep me from it,
And so (I say) I'll cut the causes off,
Flatt'ring my mind with things impossible.
Third PaH, Henry VL Act IIL Sc 2.
-Out, out, brief candle !
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player.
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more.
MoiAdh, Act v. Sc&.
O thou (3oddess,
Thou divine Nature ! how thyself thou blazon'st
In these two Lvincely boys ! tney are as gentle
As zephyrs blowing below the violet.
Not wagginff his sweet head ; and yet as rou^h,
(Their royal blood inchaf 'd) as the rudest wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And make him stoop to th' vale.
Cymbeline, Act IV. Sc. 2.
Why did not I pass away in secret, like the flower of the rock that lifts its fair"
head unseen, and strows its withered leaves on the blast 1 Pingal.
There is a joy in grief when peace dwells with the sorrowful. But they are
wasted with mourning, O daughter of Toscar, and their days are few. They fall
away like the flower on which the sun looks in his stren^, after the mildew has
passed over it, and its head is heavy with the drops of mght Fingal.
The sight obtained of the city of Jerusalem by the Christian army,
compared to that of land discovered after a long voyage, Tasso's
Crierusalem, canto 3. st. 4. The fury of Rinaldo subsiding when
not opposed, to that of wind or water when it has a free passage,
canto 20. st 58.
As words convey but a faint, and obscure notion of great numbers,
a poet, to give a lively notion of the object he describes with regard
to number, does well to compare it to what is familiar and commonly
known. Thus Homer* compares the Grecian army in point of
♦Book ILL 111.
Digitized
by Google
Gh 19.] COMPARISONS. 891
number to a swarm of bees : in another passage* he compares it to
that profusion of leaves and flowers which appear in the spring, or
of insects in a summer's evening : and Milton,
As when the potent rod
Of Amram*8 son, in Egypt's evil dajr,
Wav'd' round the coast, up call'd a pitchy cloud
Of locusts, warping on the eastern wincf.
That o'er the realm of impious Pharao hung
Like niffht, and darkened all the land of Nile:
So numberless were those bad angels seen,
Hovering on win» under the cope of Ml,
'Twixt upper, neUier, and surrounding fires.
Paradise Last, B. I.
Such comparisons have, by some writers,! been condemned for the
lowness of the images introduced : but surely without reason ; for,
with regard to numbers, they put the principal subject in a strong
light.
The foregoing comparisons operate by resemblance ; others have
the same eflect by contrast.
York. I am the last of noble Edward's sons.
Of whom thy father. Prince of Wales, was first;
In war,' was never lion rag'd more fierce j
In peace, was never gentle lamb more mild ;
Than was that young and princely ffenUeman.
His face thou hast, for even so look'd he,
Accomplished with the number of thy hours.
But when he firown'd it was asainst the French,
And not against his friends. His noble hand
Did win what he did spend ; and spent not that
Which his triumphant father^s hand had won.
His hands were guilty of no kindred's blood,
< But bloody with the enemies of his kin.
Oh, Richard ! York is too far gone with grief.
Or else he never would compare between.
, Richard II. Act 11. Sc. 1.
Milton has a peculiar talent in embellishing the principal subject
by associating it with others that are agreeable ; which is the third
end of a comparison. Similes of this kind have, beside, a separate
effect : they diversify the narration by new images that are not
strictly necessary to the comparison : they are short episodes, which,
without drawing us from the principal subject, affora great delight
by their beauty and variety :
He scarce had ceas'd, when the superior fiend
Was moving toward the shore ; his pond'roi^s shi^d,
Ethereal temper, massy, large, and roi;md.
Behind him cast ; the broad circumference
Hung on' his shoulders like the moon, whose orb-
Through optic glass the Tuscan artist -views ,
At ev'ning from the top of Fesole,
Or in Vaidarno, to descry new lands.
Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globev MiUon, B. L
Thus far these, beyond
Compare of mortal prowess, yet observ'd
Their dread commander. He, above the rest
In shape and gesture proudly eminent,
«BookILL551. t See Vidv Poetic, lib. ILS8SL
Digitized by LjOOQ IC
8tood Uke a towV ; his fonn had yet not k>il
AU her original bri«;htne8S, nor appeared
Less than archan^T ruin'd and th' excess
Of clory obscur'ci : as when the sun new-risen
Looks tnrough the horizontal misty air
Shorn of his beams ; or from behind the mo6li
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilights sheds
On half the nations, and with fear of change
Perplexes monarchs. JUStt^fi, B. L
As when a vulture on Imaus bred,
Whose snowy ridge the roving Tartar bounds,
Dislodging from a region scarce of prey
To gorge the flesh of lambs, or yeanling kids.
On hills where flocks are fed, flie towards the springs
Of Ganges or Hydaspes, Indian streeuns, '
But in his way lights on the barren plains
Of Sericana, where Chineses drive
With sails and wind their cany wagons light :
So on this windy ^ea of land, the fiend
Walk'd up and down alone, bent on his prey. MUUm, B. HI
' ^Yet higher than their tops
The verdurous wall of paradise up sprung:
Which to our general sire gave prospect large
Into this nether empire neighbonn^ round.
And hieher than that wall, a circlmg row
Of goodliest trees loaden with fairest fruit,
Blossoms and fruits at once of eolden hue,
Appear'd, with gay cnamel'd colours mix'd.
On which the sun more glad impress'd his beams
Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow,
When God had show'r'd the earth; so lovely seem'd
That landscape : and of pure now purer air
Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive
All sadness but despair ; now gentle gales
Fanning their odonferous wings, dispense
Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole
Those balmy spoils. As when to them who sail
Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past ,
Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow
Sabean odour from the spicy shore '
Of Araby the blest; with such delay
Well-pleas'd they slack their course, and many a league
Cheer d with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles.
Mttcn, 6. IV.
With regard to similes of this kind, it will readily occur to the
reader, that when a resembling subject is once properly introduced
in a simile, the mind is transitorily amused with the new object,
and is not dissatisfied with the slight interruption. Thus, in fine
weather, the momentary excursions of a traveller for agreeable
prospects or elegant buildings, cheer his mind, relieve him from the
languor of uniforitiity, and without much lengthening his journey,
in reality, shorten it greatly in appearance.
N*xt of comparisons that aggrandize or elevate. These affect us
more than any other sort : the reason of which may be gathered
from the chapter of Grandeur and Sublimity; and, withoiit reasoning,
will be evident from the following instances .
' As when a flame the winding valley fills,
And hiAB OH b^ttttklii^g shrubs betwi^ tte hflfil^
Digitized
by Google
CSl 19.] 0OMPA&I8ON8. M9
Then o'er the stubble, up the mountain flies,
Fires the high woods, and blazes to the skies,
This way and that, the spreading torrent roars;
So sweeps the hero through the wasted shores.
Around nim wide, immense destruction pours.
And earth is ddug'd with the sanguine show'rs.
niad, XX. 669.
I'hrough blood, through death, Achilles still proceeds,
O'er slaughtered heroes, and o'er rolling steeds.
As when avenging flames with funr dnv'n
On guilty towns exert the wrath of Heav'n,
The pale inhabitants, some fall, some fly,
And the red vapors purple all the sky :
So raged Achilles ; Death and dire dismay.
And toils, and terrors, filled the dreadful day. Iliad, XXI. 606.
Methinks. King Richard and myself should meet
With no less terror than the elements
Of fire and water, when their thund'ring shock,
At meeting, tears the cloudy cheeks of heav'n.
Richard II. Ad III. Sc 3.
As rusheth a foamy stream from the dark shady steep of Gromla, when thunder
is rolling above, and dark brown night rests on the hill : so fierce, so vast, so ter-
rible, rush forward the sons of Erin. The chief, like a whale of Ocean followed
by all its billows, pours valor forth as a stream, rolling its might along the shore.
Fingalj b. I.
As roll a thouscmd waves to a rock, so Swaran's host came on ; as meets a rock
a thousand waves, so Intsfail met Swaran. Ibid,
I beg peculiar attention to the following simile for a reason that
shall be mentioned :
Thus breathing death, in terrible arra3r.
The close compacted legions urg'd their way •
Fierce they drove on, impatient to destroy ;
Troy charg'd the first, and Hector first of Troy
• As from some mountain's craggy forehead torn,
A rock's round fragment flies with fury borne,
(Which from the stubborn stone a torrent rends)
Frecipitate the pond'rous mass descends ;
^ From steep to steep the rolling ruin bounds ;
At every shock the crackling wood resounds ;
Still gath'ring force, it smokes ; and urg'd amain,
Whirls, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to the plain :
There stops — So Hector. Their whole force he prov'd :
Resistless when he rag'd : and when he stopt, unmov'd.
Iliad, XIIl. 187.
The image of a falling rock is certainly not eleyating;* and yet
undoubtedly the foregoing simile fires and swells the mind : it is
grand therefore, if not sublime. And the following simile will
afford additional evidence, that there is a real, though nice, distinc-
tion between these two feelings :
So saying, a noble stroke he lifted high,
Which hung not, but so swift with tempest fell
On the proud crest of Satan, that no sight.
Nor motion of swift thought, less could bis shield
Such ruin intercept. Ten paces huge
He back recoil'd ; the tenth on bendS knee
His massy spear upstaid ; as if on euth
♦ See Chap. IV.
Digitized
by Google
tti COKPAftlSOVS. IQl Sv
Wii^cls under ground or waters forciitf; way,
Sidelong had push'd a mountain firom nis seat
Half-sunk with all his pines. D^Uon^ b. YL
A comparison by contrast nlay contribute to grandeur or elevation,
vo less than by resemblance ; of which the following comparison
of Lucan is a remarkable instance :
Victrix causa diis placuit, sed victa Catoni.* *
Considering that the Heathen deities possessed a rank but one
degree above that of mankind, I think it would not be easy, bj^ a
single expression, to exalt more one of the human species, than is
done in this comparison. I am sensible, at the same time, that
such a comparison among Christians, who entertain more exalted
notions of the Deity, would justly be reckoned extravagant and
absurd.
The last article mentioned, is that of liessening or depressing a
hated or disagreeable object ; which is effectually done by resem
bling it to any thing low or despicable. Thus Milton, in his
description of the rout of the rebel-angels, happily expresses their
terror and dismay in the following simile :
As a herd
Of goats or timorous flock together throng'd,
Drove them before him thunder-struck, pursu'd
With terrors and with furies to the bounds
♦ And crystal wall of heav*n, which op'nin^ wide,
Roird mward, and a spacious gap disclosed
Into the wasteful deep : the monstrous sight
Struck them with horror backward, but far worse
Urg'd them behind ; headlong themselves they threw
Down from the verge of heav'n. MUtanl b. VI.
In the same view. Homer, I think, may be justified in comparing
the shouts of the Trojans in battle to the noise of cranesif ancf to the
bleating of a flock of sheep:^ jt is no objection that these are low
images ; for it was his intention to lessen the Trojans by opposing
their noisy march to the silent .and manly march of the Greeks.
Addison,^ describing the figure that men make in the sight of a
superior being, takes opportunity to mortify their pride by com-
paring them to a swarm of pismires. , '
A comparison that has none of the good eflects mentioned in this
discourse, but is built upon common and trifling circumstances,
makes a mighty silly figure:
Non sum nescius, g^andia consilia a myitis plerumque causis, ceu magna
navigia a plurimis remis, impelli.li Strada^ de hello Belgico.
By this time, I imagine the diflerent purposes of comparison, and
the various impressions it makes on the mind, are sufliciently illus-
trated by proper examples. This was an easy task. It is more
difficult to lay down rules about the propriety or impropriety of
♦ The victorious cause pleased the gods, but the vanquished, Cato.
. t Beginning of book III.
t Book IV. 1. 498.
$ Guardian, No. 153.
II I am not ignorant that grea^ designsi are impelled by many cauaes, ag m
igctal ships by many oars.
Digitized
by Google
CSl 19.] OOMPAKI8019& 335
camparlson ; in what circumstances they may be introduced, and
in what circumstances they are out of place. It is evident that a
comparison is not proper on every occasion : a man when cool
and sedate, is not disposed to poetical flights, nor to sacrifice
truth and reality to imaginary beauties : far less is he so dis-
posed when oppressed with care, or interested in some important
transaction that engrosses him totally. On the other hand, a man,
wh^n elevated or animated by passion, is disposed to elevate or
animate all his objects : he avoids familiar names, exalts objects by
circumlocution and metaphor, and gives even life and voluntary
action to inanimate beings. In this heat ofmind, the highest poetical
flights are indulged, and the boldest similes and metaphors relished *
But without sraring so high, the mind is frequently in a tone to
relish chaste and moderate ornament ; such as comparisons that set
the principal object in a strong point of view, o» that embellish and
diversify the narration. In general, when by any animating pas-
sion, whether pleasant or painful, an impulse is given to the imagi-
nation ; we are in that condition disposed to every sort of figurative
expression, and in particular to comparisons. This in a great
measure is evident from the comparisons already mentioned ; and
shall be farther illustrated by other instances. Love, for example,
in its infancy, rousing the imagination, prompts the heart to display
itself in figurative language, and in similes :
Troilus. Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne's love,
What Cressid is, what Fandar, and what we 1
Her bed is, India ; there she lies, a pearl :
Between our Ilium, and where she resides,
Let it be call'd the wild and wandering flood ;
Ourself the merchant ; and the sailing Pandar
Our doubtful hope, our convoy, and our bark.
Troilus and Cressida, Act I. Sc. 1.
Again:
Come, gentle Night ; come, loving black-brow'd Night !
Give me my Romeo ; and when he shall die,
Take him, and cut him out in little stars.
And he will make the face of heav'n so fine.
That all the world shall be in love with Night,
And pay no worship to the garish Sun.
Borneo and JuMet, Act III. Sc. 3.
The dread of a misfortune, however imminent, involving always some
doubt and uncertainty, agitates the mind and excites the imagination ;
Wolsey. Nay, then, farewell:
ve touch'd the highest point of all
And from that full meridian of my
I've touch'd the highest point of all my greatness,
And from that full meridian of my gloiy
I haste now to my setting. I shall fall.
Like a bright exhalation in the evening.
And no man see me more. Henry VIII. Act III. Sc. 2.
But it will be a better illustration of the present head, to give
examples where comparisons are improperly introduced. I have
}iad already occasion to observe, that similes are not the language
♦ II is accordingly observed by Longinus, in his Treatise of the Sublime, that
jtihd proper time for metaphor, is when the passions are so swelled as to huxiy on
like a torrent
Digitized
by Google
836 ' COMPAEI90N8. [Ch. 19.
of a man in his ordinary state of mind, dispatching his daily and
usual work. For that reason, the following speech of a gardener
to his servants, is extremely improper :
Qo, bind thou up yon dangling apricots,
Which, like unruly children, make their sire
Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight :
Give some supportance to the bending twigs,
'Qo thoti ; and like an executioner,
Cut off the heads of too fast growing sprays,
That look too lofty in our commonwealth ;
All must be eyen in our govemment.
Richard 11 Act III. Sc. 4.
The fertility of Shakspeare's vein hetrays him frequently into this
error. There is the same impropriety in another snnile of his :
Hero. QooA Margaret, run thee into the parlor;
There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice ;
Whisper her ear, and tell her, I a»d Ursula
Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse
Is all of her ; say that thou overheard'st us :
And bid her steal into the pleached bower,
Where honeysuckles, ripen'd by the sun,
Forbid the sun to enter ; like to favorites,
Made proud by princes that advance their pride
Against that power that bred it.
Much Ado about Nothing y Act III. Sc. 1.
Rooted grief, deep an^fuish, terror, remorse, despair, and all the
sevree dispiriting passions, are declared enemies, perhaps not to
figurative language in general, but undoubtedly to the pomp and
solemnity of comparison. Upon that account, the simile pronounced
by young Rutland, under terror of death from an inveterate enemy,
and praying mercy, is unnatural :
So looks the pent-up lion o*er the wretch
That trembles under his devouring paws ;
And so he walks insulting^ o'er his prey,
And so he comes to rend nis limbs asunder.
Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword,
And'not with such a cruel threat'ning look.
Third Part Henry VI. Act I. Sc 3.
Nothing appears more out of place, nor more awkwardly introduced,
than the f<Hlowing simile :
iMcia. Farewell, my Fortius,
Farewell, though death is in the word, for-ever!
Fortius. Stay, Lucia, stay; what dost thou a&y 1 for-ever?
lAicia. Have I not sworn 1 If, Fortius, thy success
Must throw thy brother on his fate, farewell.
Oh, how shall I repeat the word, for-ever?
Fortius. Thus, o'er the dying lamp th' unsteady flame
Hangs quivering on a point, lea|)s off by fits,
And falls again, as loath to quit its hold.*
Thou must not go, my soul still hovers o'er thee,
And can't get loose. Cato, Act III. Sc 58.
Nor does the simile which closes the first act of the same tragedy
make a better appearance ; the situation there represented being too
• This simile would have a fine effect pronounced by the chorus in a Greek
tragedy.
Digitized
by Google
Gh. 19.] COMPARISONS. 337
dispiriting for a simile. A simile is improper for one who dreads
the discovery of a secret machination :
2^ra. The mute not yet return'd ! Ha! Was the King,
The Kin» that parted hence ! frowning he went;
His eyes like meteors roll'd, then darted down
Their red and angry beams ; as if his sight
Would, like the raging Dog-star, scorch the earth,
And kindle ruin in its course.
Mourning Bride^ Act V. Sc 3.
A man spent and dispirited after losing a battle, is not disposed to
heighten or illustrate his discourse by similes :
York. With this WAcharg'd again; but out, alas !
We bodg'd again ; as I have seen a swan
With b<Kitless labor swim against the tide,
And spend her strength with over-matching waves,
Ah ! hark, the fatal followers do pursue ;
And I aw faint and cannot fly their fury.
The sands are number'd that make up my life ;
Here must I stay, and here my life must end. '
Third Part Henry VI. Act I. Sc. 4.
Far less is a man disposed to similes who is not only defeated in a
pitched battle, but lies at the point of death mortally wounded :
Warwick. My mangled body shows
My blood, my want of strength; my sick heart shows
That I must yield my body to the earth.
And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe.
Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge, «
Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle ;
Under whose shade the ramping lion slept,
Whose top-branch over-peer'd Jove's spreading tree,
And kept low shrubs from winter's pow'rful wind.
Third Part Henry VI. Act V. Sc. 2.
ftueen Katherme, deserted by the King, and in the deepest afflic-
tion on her divorce, could not be disposed to any sallies of imagina-
tion : and for that reason, the following simile, however beautiful in
the mouth of a spectator, is scarcely proper in her own :
I am the most unhappy woman living,
Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity,
No friends, no hope ! no kindred weep for me !
Ahnost no grave allow'd me ! like the lily.
That once was mistress of the field, and flourish'd,
I'll hang my head, and perish.
King Henry VIII Act III. Sc. 1.
Similes thus unseasonably introduced, are finely ridiculed in the
Rehearsal. ,
Bayes. Now here she must make a simile. "^
Smith. Where's the necessity of that, Mr. Bayes 1
Bayes. Because she's surprised; that's a general rule; you must ever make «
simile whep you are surprised ; 'tis a new way of writing. ,
A comparison is not always faultless, even where it is proptsrly
intro4uced. I have endeavored above to give a general view of the
difierent ends to which a comparison may contribute : a comparison,
like other human productions, may fall short of its aim ; of which
defect instances ar6 not rare even among good writers ; and to com-
29
Digitized
by Google
M8 COMPARISONS. [Oh; 19
plete the present subject, it will be necessary to make some obser-
Tations upon such faulty comparisons. I begin with observing, that
nothing can be more erroneous than to institute a comparison too
feint : a distant resemblance or contrast fatigues the mind with its
obscurity, instead of amusing it : and tends not to fulfil any one end
of a comparison. The following similes seem to labor under this
defect.
Albas lit obscuro deterget nubila codo
Sspe Notofi, neqiie parturit imbres
Perpetuos : sic tu sapiens finire memento
Tristitiam, ritaeque labores,
Molli, Plance, mero. • Borat. Carm, 1. 1, ode 7.
As the white south at times serenes the skies,
Nor are his gathering showers for ever rife.
So thou, oh Pl€uacus, 'gainst thy cares be wiae;
With mellow wine dismiss the toils of life.
- Medio dux agmine Tumus
Vertitur arma tenens, et toto vertice supra est
Ceu septem surgens sedatis anmibus aUus
Per taciturn Ganges : aut pingui flumine Nilus
Cum refluit campis, et jam se condidit alreo. JEneid, EK. SSIH
In the main battle, with his flaming crest,
The mighty Tumus towers above the rest —
Silent they move, majestically slow.
Like ebbing Nile, or Ganges in his flow.
Talibus orabat, talesque miserrima fletus
Fer^ue refertque soror : sed nullis ille movetur
Fletibus, aut voces uUas traetabilis audit.
Fata obstant: placidasque viri Deus obstruit aures.
Ac veluti annoso validam cum robore quercum
Alpini Bores, nunc hinc, nunc flatibus illinc
Eruere inter se certant ; it stridor, et alte
Constemunt terram concusso stipite firondes :
Ipsa hsret scopulis : et quantum vertice ad auras
^thereas, tantum radice in Tartara tendit.
Haud secus assiduis hinc atque hinc vocibus heros
Tunditur, et magno persentit pectore curas :
Mens immota manet, lacryms volvuntur inanes.
J^neid, IV. 4^/.
This mournful message pious Anna bears
And seconds, with her own, her sister's tears;
But all her arts are still employed in vain,
A^ain she comes, and is refused again.
His hardened heart, nor prayers nor threatnings move,
Fate and the Gods had stopped his ears to love.
As when the winds their airy quarrel try
Justling from every quarter of the sky.
This way and that the mountain oak they bend,
His boughs they shatter, and his branches rend,
With leaves and falling masts they spread the ground.
The hollow vallies echo to the soi^nd :
Unmoved the royal plant their fury mocks,
Or, shaken, clings more closely to the rocks :
Far as he shoots his towering head on high,
So deep in earth his iix'd foundations lie.
No less a storm the Trojan hero bears,
Thick messages and loud complaints he hears/
And bandied words still beating cm his ears.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 19.] COMPARISONS. StO
Sighs, groans, and tears, proclaim his inward pains,
But the firm purpose of his heart remains.
K. Rich. Give me the crown. — Here, Cousin, seize the crown,
Here, on this side, my hand : on that side, thine.
Now is this golden crown like a deep well,
That owes two buckets, filling one another;
The emptier ever dancing in ine air.
The other down, unseen and full of water:
That bucket down, and full of tears, am I,
Drinkinfi: my firic^, whilst you mount up on high.
Richarl II Act IV. Sc. 1.
K. John. Oh ! Cousin, thou art come to set mine eye ;
The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burnt;
And all the shrowds wherewith my life should sail.
Are turned to one thread, one little hair :
Mv heart hath one poor string to stay it by,
Which holds but till thy news be uttered.
King JbA«, Act V. Sc. 7.
York. My uncles both are slain in rescuing me : '
And all my followers, to the eager foe
Turn back,, and fly like ships before the wind.
Or lambs pursu'd by hunger-starved wolves.
Third PaH, Henry VI. Act I. Sc. 4.
The latter of the two similes is g<^4 : the former, by its faintness of
resemblance, has no efifect but to load the narration with an useless
image.
The next error I shall mention is a capital one. In an epic poem«
or in a poem upon any elevated subject, a writer ought to avoid rais-
ing a simile on, a low image, which never fails to bring down the
principal subject. In general, it is a rule, that a grand object ought
never to be resembled to one that is diminutive, however delicate
the resemblance may be; for it is the peculiar character of a grand
object to fix the attention, and swell the mind ; in which state, to
contract it to a minute object, is unpleasant. The resembling of an
object to one that is greater, has, on the contrary, a good effect, by
raising or- swelling the mind : for one passes with satisfaction from
a small to a great object; but cannot be drawn down, without reluc-
tance. from great to small. Hence the following similes are &ulty:
Meanwhile the troops beneath Patroclus' care.
Invade the Trojans, and commence the war.
As wasps, provok'd by children in their play,
Pour from their mansions by the broad highway,
In swarms the guildess traveller engage.
Whet all their stings, and call forth all their rage
All rise in arms, and with a general cry
Assert their waxen domes, and buzzing progeny:
Thus from the tents the fervent legion swarms,
So loud their clamors, and so keen their arms.
Jliad, XVI. 312.
So bums the vengeful hornet (soul all o'er)
Repuls'd in vain, and thirsty still of gore ;
(Bold son of air and heat) on angry wings
Untam'd, untir'd, he turns, attacks, and stings.
Fir'd with like ardor fierce Atrides flew,
And sent his soul with ev'ry lance he threw. ,
i^tflii, XVII. 642.
Digitized
by Google
3M COMPARISONS., fCh. 19l
Instant ardentes Tyrii : pars ducere muros,
Molirique arcem, et manibus subvolvere saxa:
Pars aptare locum tecto, et concludere sulco.
Jura magistratusque legunt, sanctumque senatum.
Hie portus alii enodiunt : hic alia theatris
Fundamenta locant a]ii, immanesque columnas
Rupibus excidunt, scenis decora alta futuris.
Gtualis apes 8sstate nova per florea nira
Exercet sub sole labor, cum gentis adultos
Educunt foetus, aut cum liquentia mella
Stipant, et dulci distendunt nectare cellas,
Aut onera accipiunt venientum, aut agmine facto
Ifi;navum fucos pecus a pnesepibus arcent.
Fervet opus, retiolentque thymo fragrantia mella.
JSneidf I. 427.
The toiling Tyrians on each other call.
To ply their labor; some extend the wall ;
Some build the citadel ; the brawny thong
Or dig or push unwieldy stones along.
Some for tneir dwelling choose a spot of ground,
Which, first design'd, with ditches they surround.
Some laws ordain — and some attend the choice
Of holy senate, and elect by voice.
Here, some design a mole, while others there
Lay deep foundations for a theatre,
From marble quarrieat^ighty columns hew
For ornaments of scenes and future view.
Such is their toil, and such their busy pains,
As exercise the bees in flowery plains,
When winter past, and summer scarce begun,
Invites them forth to labor in the sun :
Some lead tfheir youth abroad, while some condense
Their liquid store, and some in cells dispense:
Some at the gate stand ready to receive
The golden burden, and their friends relieve:
All with united force combine to drive
The lazy drones from the laborious hive.
With envy siung the)r view each other's deeds;
The fragrant work with diligence proceeds.
To describe bees gathering honey as resembling the builders of
Carthage, would have a much better effect*
Tum vero Teucri incumbunt, et littore celsaa
Deducunt toto naves: natat uncta carina: ^
Frondentesque ferunt remos, et robora syivis
Infabricata, fugs studio.
Migrantes cemas, totaque ex urbe ruentes.
Ac veluti ingentem formicae farris acervum
Cum populant, hyemis memores, tectoque reponunt:
It nigrum campis agmen, prsedamque per herbas
Convectant calle angusto : pars grandia trudunt
Obnixae frumenta humeris : pars agmina cogunt,
Castigantque moras : opere omnifi semita fervet
^neid, IV. 397.
— : They with early care
Unmoor their vessels, and for sea prepare.
The fleet is soon afloat, in all its pride ;
And well caulked galleys in the harbor ride.
Then oaks for oars they felled ; or, as they stood.
Of its green arms despoiled the growing wood,
• And accordingly Demetrius Phalerius (of Elocuti^^, sect 85.) observes, that
it has a better eflect to compare small things to great than great things to smalt
Digitized
by Google
Oh. 19.] ooMPARisoms. 941
Studious of flight The beach \b coTered o'er
WiUi Trojan bands that blacken all the shore
On every side are seen, descending down,
Thick swarms of soldiers, loaden from the town. '
Thus, in battalia, march embodied ants,
Fearless of winter, and of future wants —
TMnvade the com, and to their cells convey
The plundered forage of their yellow prey.
The sable troops, cJong the narrow trucics.
Scarce bear the weighty burden on their backs.
Some set their shouklers to the pond'rous grain ;
Some guard 'the spoil, some lasn the lago^ing train :
All ply their several tasks, and equal tou sustain.
The following simile has not any One beauty to recommend k.
The subject is Amata, the wife of King Latinus.
Turn vero infelix, ingentibus excita monstris,
Immensam sine more furit lymphata per urbem :
C5eu quondam torto volitans sub verbere turbo,
Gtuem pueri magno in evro vacua atria circum
Intent! ludo exercent. Ille actus habena
Curvatis fertur spatiis : stupet inscia tiurba,
Im{)ubesque raanus, mirata volubile buxum ;
Dant animos plagae. Non cursu segnior illo
Per medias urbes agitur, populosque feroces.
^neid, VU. 376.
She flew to rage ; for now the snake possessed
Her vital parts, and poisoned all her breast.
She raves — she runs with a distracted pace,
And fills, with horrid howls, the public place.
And, as young striplings whip the top for sport,
On the smooth pavement of an empty court;
The wooden engine flies and whirls about,
Admired, with damors, of the beardless rout:
They Isush aloud — each other they provoke,
And lend their little souls at every stroke :
Thus fares the queen ; and thus her fury blows
Amidst the crowd, and kindles as she goes.
This simile seems to border upon the burlesque.
An error, opposite to the former, is the introducing of a resem-
bling image, so elevated or great as to bear no proportion to the
principal subject. Their remarkable disparity, seizing the mind,
never fails to depress the principal subject by contrast, instead of
raising it by resemblance : and if the disparity be very great, the
simile degenerates into burlesque ; nothing bemg more ridiculou*
than to force an object out of its proper rank in nature, by equalling
it w^th one greatly superior or greatly inferior. This will be en-
dent, from the following comparisons.
Fervet opus, redolentque thymo fragrantia mella.
Ac veluti lentis Cyclopes fulmina massis
Glim properant: alii taurinis foUibus auras
Accipiunt, redduntque : a^ii stridentia tingunt
^ra lacu; gemit impositis incudibus JStna:
Illi inter sese magna vi brachia tollunt
In numerum ; versantque tenaci forcipe ferrum.
Non aliter (si parva licet componere magnis)
Cecropias innatus apes amor urget habendi,
Munere quamque suo. Grandsevis oppida cunB|
£t munire favos, et Dodala fingere tecta.
29*
Digitized
by Google
•342 COMPARISONS. Ch. )1
At fesss mulUl referant se node minores,
Crura thymo plenae : pascuntur et arbuta passim,
Et glaucas salices, casiamque crocumque rubenCem,
Et pinguem tiliam, et femigineos hyacinthos.
Oinnibus una quies operum, labor omnibus unus.
Georgic. IV. 169.
With diligence the fragrant work proceeds,
As when the Cyclopes, at th' ahnighty nod,
New thunder hasten for their angry god,
Subdued in fire the stubborn meial lies ;
One brawny smith the puffing bellows plies,
And draws and blows reciprocating air;
Others to auench the hissing mass prepare ;
With lifted arms they order every blow.
And chime their sounding hammers in a row,
With labored anvils £tna groans below.
Strongly they strike, huge mikes of flames expire,
With ton^ they turn the steel, and vex it in the fire.
If little things with great we may compare.
Such are the bees, and such their busy care.
Studious of honeyj each in his degree
The youthful swam, the grave experienced bee —
That, in the field, this, in affairs of state,
Emplojred at home, abides within the ^ate.
To fortify the combs, to build the wall.
To prop the ruins lest the fabric full :
But, late at night, with weary pinions come
The laboring youth, and heavy-laden home.
Plains, meads, and orchards, all the day he plie«.
The gleans of yellow thyme distend his thighs:
He spoils the saffron flowers, he sips the blUes
Of violets, wilding blooms, and willow dews.
Their toil is common, common is their sleep.
The Cyclopes make a better figure in the following simile:
■ The Thracian leader prest,
With eager courage, far before the rest ;
Him Ajax met, inflam'd with equal rage :
Between the wond'ring hosts the chiefs engage ;
Their weighty weapons round their heads they throw.
And swift, and heavy, falls each thund'ring blow.
As when in Etna's caves the giant brood.
The one-eyed servants of the Lemnian god,
In order round the burning anvil stand,
And forffe, with weighty strokes, the forked brand
The shewing hills their fervid toils confess.
And echoes rattling through each dark recess:
So rag'd the fight.
Epigontad^ B. 8
Tum Bitian ardentem oculis animisque frementem ;
Non jaculo, neque enim jaculo vitam ille dedisset;
Sed ma^um stridens contorta falarica venit
Fulmims acta modo, quam nee duo taurea terga,
Nee duplici squama lorica fidelis et auro
Sustinuit : coUapsa ruunt immania membra :
Dat tellus gemitum, et clypeum super intonat ingens.
GLualis in Euboico Baiarum littore ouondam
Saxea pila cadit, magnis quam molibus ante
Constructam jaciunt ponto : sic ilia ruinam
Prona trahit, penitusque vadis illisa recumbit:
Miscent se maria, et nigrse attoUuntur orens:
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 19.1 * COMPARISONS. 343
Turn sonitu Prochyta alta tremit, durumque cubile
Inarime Jovis imperils imposta TyphoCo.
Mneid.lX.'m.
■ The eigontic size
Of Bitias, threatening with his ardent eyes.
Not by tlie feeble dart he fell oppressed,
(A dart was lost within that roomy breast,)
But from a knotted lance, large, heavy, strong,
"Which roared like thunder as it whirl'd along;
Not two bull-hides the impetuous force withhold,
Nor coat of double mail with scales of gold.
Down sunk the monster-bulk, and press'd the around,
(His arms and clattering shield on the vast body sound,)
Nor with less ruin than the Baian mole.
Raised on the seas, the surges to control.
At once come tumbling down the rocky wall —
Prone to the deep the stones disjointed fall
Of the vast pile — the scattered ocean flies.
Black sands, discolored froth, and mingled mud arise ;
The frighted billows roll, and seek the shores —
Then trembles Prochyta, then Ischia roars,
Typhoeus, thrown beneath by Jove's command,
Astonished at the flaw that snakes the land.
Soon shifts his weary side, and scarce awake.
With wonder feels the weight press lighter on his back.
Loud as a bull makes hill and valley rin^.
So roar'd the lock when it releas'd tne spring.
Odyssey, XXI. 51.
Such a, simile upon the simplest of all actions, that of opening a door,
is pure burlesque.
A writer of delicacy will avoid drawing his comparisons from
any image that is nauseous, ugly, or remarkably disagreeable : for,
however strong the resemblance may be, more will be lost than
gained by such comparison. Therefore I cannot help condemning,
though with some reluctance, the following simile, or rather meta-
phor:
O thou fond many ! with what loud applause
Didst thou beat heav'n with blessing Bolingbroke
Before he was what thou would'st have him be 1
And now being trimm'd up in thine own desires.
Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him,
That thou provok'st thyself to cast him up.
And so, thou common dog, didst thou disgorge
Thy glutton bosom of the royal Richard,
And now thou would'st eat thy dead vomit up,
And howl'st to find it.
SecoTid Part Henry IV. Act I. So. 3.
The strongest objection that can lie against a comparison is, that
it consists in words only, not in sense. Such false coin, or bastard
wit, does extremely well in burlesque ; but is far below the dignity
of the epic, or of any serious composition :
The noble sister of Publicola,
The moon of Rome ; chaste as the icicle '
That's curled by the frost from purest snow.
And hangs on Dian's temple.
CoriolaimSf Act V . Sc 3.
There is evidently no resemblance between an icicle and a woman.
Digitized
by Google
S44 C0HPARI80N& • (Ch. 1^.
chaste or unchaste : but chastity is cold in a metaphorical sense,
and an icicle is cold in a proper sense: and this verbal resemblance,
in the hurry and glow ofcomposingr, has been thought a sufficient
foundation for the simile. Sucn phantom similes are mere witticisms,
which ought to have no quarter, except where purposely introduced
to provoke laughter. Lucian, in his dissertation upon history, talking
of a certain author, makes the following comparison, which is verbal
merely :
This author's descriptions are so cold that they surpass the Caspian snow, and
all the ice of the north.
Virgil has not escaped this puerility :
Galathsea thymo mihi dulcior Hyblae.
Bucol. VII. 37.
Qalatea, sweeter to me than Hyblean thyme.
Ego Scurdois videar tibi amarior herbis.
Ibid. 41,
I may appear more bitter to thee than Sardian herbs.
Gallo, cujus amor tantum mihi crescit in horas,
Quantum vere novo viridis se subjicit ainus.
Bucol. X. 37
Gollus, for whom my love increases hourly, as the green alder subjects itself to
the new spring.
Nor Boileau, the chastest of all writers ; and that even in his art of
poetry :
Ainsi tcl autrefois, qu'on vit avec Faret
Charbonner de ses vers les murs d'un cabaret,
S'en va mal k propos d'une voix insolente,
Chanter du peuple Hebrev la fuite triomphant«
Et poursuiyant Moise au travers des deserts,
Court avec Pharaon se noyer dans les mers.
Chant 1. 1.31.
Mais aliens voir le Vrai, jusqu*en sa source mdme.
Un d6vot aux yeux creux, et d'abstinence bldme, '
S'il n'a point le coeur juste, est affreux devant Dieu.
L*Evangile au Chr6tien ne dit, en aucun lieu,
Sois devot: elle dit, Sois doux, simple, Suitable:
Car d*un devot souvent au Chrdtien veritable
La distance est deux fois plus longue, a mon avis,
due du P61e Antarctique au D6troit de Davis. '
BoiieaUf Satire Xt
• But for their spirits and souls
This word rebellion had froze them up
As fish are in a pond.
Second Pari Henry IV, Act I. Sc 1.
^Qnuen. The pretty vaulting sea refiis'd to drown me ;
Knowing, that thou would'st liavc me drown'd on shdre ;
With tectfs as salt as sea, through thy unkindness.
Second Pari Henry VI, Act III. Sc 2.
Here there is no manner of resemhlance hut in the word drown ;
for there is no real resemblance between heing drowned at sea, and
dying of grief at land. But perhaps this sort of tinsel wit may have
propriety in it, when used to express an aiSected, not a real passion,
was the Clueen's case.
'^fidpe has teveral similes of thesaMe^i^t). I shall traiMrlbe
a propr
' which
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 19.] COMPARISONS. 345
one or two from the Essay on Man, the gravest and most instructiye
of all his performances :
And hence one master passion in the breast,
Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest. , Epist. II. 1. 131.
And again, talking of this same ruling or master passion :
Nature its mother, habit is its nurse ;
Wit, spirit, facilities, but make it worse ;
Reason itself but gives it edge and power ;
As heav'n's bless'd beam turns vinegar more sour. R. I. 145.
Lord Bolinghroke, speaking of historians :
Where their sincerity as to fact is doubtful, we strike out truth by the confronta^
lion of different accounts ; as we strike out sparks of fire by the collision of flints
and steel.
Let us vary the phrase a very little, and there will not remain a
shadow of resemblance. Thus,
We discover truth by the confrontation of different accounts j as we strike out
sparks of fire by the collision of flints and steel.
Racine makes Pyrrhus say to Andromaque,
Vaincu, charge de fers, de regrets consume,
Brul6 de plus de feux c|ue je n'en allumai,
H^las ! fus-je jamais si cruel que vous I'dtes !
And Orestes in the same strain :
due les Scythes sont moinscruelsqu' Hermoine.
Similes of this kind put one in mind of a ludicrous French song:
Je croyois Janneton
Aussi douc« que belle :
Je croyois Janneton
Plus douce qu'un mouton ;
Helas! Helas!
Elle est cent fois, mille fois, plus cruelle
due n'est le tigre aux bois.
Again :
Helas ! I'amour m'a pris,
Comme le chat fait la souris.
A vulgar Irish hallad begins thus :
I have as much love in store
As there's apples in Portmore.
Where the subject is burlesque or ludicrous, such similes are iar
from being improper. Horace says pleasantly,
duanquam tu levior cortice.* L. 3. Ode 9.
And Shakspeare,
In breaking oaths he's stronger than Hercules.
And this leads me to observe, that beside the foregoing compari-
sons, which are all serious, there is a species, the end and purpose
rf which is to excite gayety or mirth. Take the following examples :
Falstaffi speaking to his page :
I do here walk before thee, like a sow that hath overwhelmed all her litter
but one. Second Part Henry IV. Act I. Sc. 2.
♦ Although you are of less vedue than the rind.
Digitized
by Google
JM COMPARISONf. [Oh. 1^
I Jiink he is not a pick-pune, nor a horse-fttealer ; but for his verity in lora, I
do think him as concave as a covered goblet, or a worm-eaten nut.
As You Like M, Act in, 8c 4,
This sword a das'ger had his page,
That was but litSe for his age;
And therefore waited on him so,
As dwarfs upon knights-errant do.
HudibraSf Canto L
Description of Hudibras's horse :
He was well 8tay*d, and in his gait
Preserv'd a grave, majestic state.
At spur or switch no more he skipt.
Or mended pace than Spaniard whipt:
And yet so fiery, he would bound
As if he griev'd to touch the groimd :
That CsBsar's horse, who, as fame goes,
Had corns upon his feet and toes,
Was not by half so tender hoofL
Nor trod upon the ground so sofL
And as that beast would kneel and stoop,
' (Some write) to take his rider up ;
So Hudibras his ('tis well known)
Would often do to set him down. Canto I.
Honor is, like a widow won
With brisk attempt and putting on,
With entering manfully and urging;
Not slow approaches, like a virgin. Canto I.
The sun had long since in the lap
Of Thetis taken out his nap ;
And, like a lobster boil'd, the mom
' From black to red began to turn. Part II. Canto IL
Books, like men their authors, have but one way of coming into the world;
but there are ten thousand to go out of it, and return no more. Tale of a 7V&.
And in this the world may perceive the difference between the integrity of a
generous author, and that of a common frienc* The latter is observed to adhere
dose in prosperity ; but on the decline of fortune, to drop suddenly off: whereas
the generous author, just on the contrary, finds his hero on the dunghill, firom
thence by gradual steps raises him to a throne, and then immediately withdraws,
expecting not so much as thanks for his pains. Jbid,
The most accomplish'd way of using books at present is, to serve them as _
do lords, learn their titles^ and then brag of their acquaintance. Bid,
Box'd in a chair, the beau impatient sits.
While spouts run clatt'rinff o er the roof by fits
And ever and anon with mghtful din
The leather sounds ; he trembles from within.
So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed,
Pregnant with Greeks, impatient to be freed,
(Those bully Greeks, who, as the modems do,
Instead of paying chairmen mn them through,)
Laocoon stmck 3ie outside with his spear,
And each imprison'd hero quak'd for fear.
Description of a City Shower,
Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder seen,
With throngs promiscuous strow the level green.
Thus when dispers'd a routed army runs,
Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons.
With like confusion, different nations fly.
Of various habit, and of various dye^
Digitized
by Google
OL 20.] vxauRBs. S47
The pierc'd battalions disunited, fall
In heaps on heaps ; one fate o'erwhelms th^n all.
Rkpe of the Lock J Canto III.
He does not consider that sincerity in love is as much out of fashion as swett
snuff; nobody takes it now. ^ Careless Husband,
Ltady Easy. My dear, I am afraid you have provoked her a little too far.
Sir Charles. O ! not at all You shall see, Fll sweeten her, and she'll cool like
a dish of tea. JBnd,
CHAPTER XX.
FIGURES.
The bestowing of sensibility and voluntary motion upon inanimate things, a bold
figure — Illustrations — Personification of two kinds — The former attended with
conviction — Abstract terms not well adapted to poetry — The difficulty of dis-
tin^ishing between descriptive personification and a fi^re of speech — Dis-
piriting passions unfavorable to passionate personification — Passionate per-
sonification to be exclusively confined to the gratification of the passion —
Descriptive personification — The writer always to confine himself to easy
personification — Personification of low objects, ridiculous — The same remark
applicable to abstract terms — Tei-ms of dimity excepted — Preparation neces-
sary to personification — Descriptive personification to be especially restrained
within due bounds — Descriptive personification to be dispatcned in few words.
Thb endless variety of expressions brought under the head of
tropes and figures by ancient critics and grammarians, makes it
evident, that they had no precise criterion for distinguishing tropes
and figures from plain language. It was, accordingly, my opinion,'
that little could be made of them in the way of rational criticism ;
till discovering, by a sort of accident, that many of them depend on
principles formerly explained, I gladly embrace the opportunity to
show the influence of these principles where it would be the least
expected. Confining myself, therefore, to such figures, I am luckily
freed from much trash; without dropping, as far as I remember,
any trope or figure that merits a proper name. And I begin with
Prosopopoeia or personification, which is justly entitled to the first
{dace.
SECTION I. PERSONIFICATION.
The bestowing of sensibility and voluntary motion upon things
inanimate, is so bold a figure, as to require, one should imagine,
very peculiar circumstances for operating the delusion : and yet, in
the language of poetry, we find variety of expressions, which, though
commonly reduced to that figure, are used without ceremony, or
any sort of preparation ; as, for example, thirsty ground, hungry
church-yard, furious dart, angry ocean. These epithets, in th«r
proper meaning, are attributes of sensible beinffs: what is their
meaning when applied to things inanimate 1 do they make us con-
cetve the ground, the churchyard, the dart, the ocean, to be endued
with animal functions % This is a curious inquiry ; and whether
80 or not, it cannot be deeliiied in handling the present subject
Digitized
by Google
348 FIOURB8. [CL i'b.
The mind, agitated hj certain passions, is prone to bestow sensi-
bility, upon things inanimate.* This is an additional instance of
the influence of passion upon our opinions and belieff I give
examples. Antony, mourning over the body of Caesar murdered in
the senate-house, vents his passion in the following words :
Antony. O pardon me thou bleeding piece of earth,
Tliat I am meek and gentle with these butchers.
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man
That ever lived in the tide of time.
Julius Casar, Act III. Sc 1.
Here Antony must have been impressed with a notion, that the body
of CsBsar was listening to him, without which the speech would be
foolish and absurd. Nor will it appear strange, considering what
is said in the chapter above cited, that passion should have such
power over the mind of man. In another example of the same kind,
the earth, as a common mother, is animated to give refuge against a
father's unkindness :
Almena. O Earth, behold, I kneel upon thy bosom,
And bend my flowing eyes to stream upon
Thy face, imploring thee that tl;iou wilt yield !
Open thy bowels of compassion, take
Into thy womb the last and most forlorn
Of all thy race. Hear me, thou common parent;
1 have no parent else. Be thou a mother,
And step between me and the curse of him, ,
Who was — who was, but is no more a father ;
But brands my innocence with horrid crimes ;
And for the tender names ofckUd and daughter j
Now calls me murderer and parricide.
Mourning Bride^ Act IV. Sc. 7.
Plaintive passions are extremely solicitous for vent ; and a solilo-
quy commonly answers the purpose : but when such passion
becomes excessive, it cannot be gratified but by sympathy from
others ; and if denied that consolation in a jiatural way, it wiir con-
vert even things inanimate into sympathising beings. Thus Phi-
loctetes complains to tbe rocks and promontories of the isle of Lem-
nos ; X and Alcestes dying, invokes the sun, the light of day, the
clouds, the earth, her husband's palace, &c.^ Moschus, lamenting
the death of Bion, conceives, that the birds, the fountains, the trees,
lament with him. The shepherd, who in Virgil bewails the death
of Daphnis, expressetlT hiitiself thus :
Daphni, tuum Poenos etiam ingemuisse leones
Interitiun, montesque feri sylvaeque loquuntur. Eclogue V. 97.
Again:
The death of Daphnis woods and hills deplore,
They cast the sound to Lybia's desert shore;
The Lybian lions hear, and hearing roar.
nium etiam lauri, ilium etiam flevere myricsB. t
Pinifer ilium etiam sola sub rupe jacentem
Maenalus, et gelidi fleverunt saxa Lycsl Eclogue X. 13.
• Page 335. t Philoctetes of Sophocles, Act IV. Sc Si
t Chap. 2. part 5. f Alcestes of Euripides, Ad II. Se. 1.
Digitized
by Google
Sect 1.] FIOURB8. 349
For him the lofty laurel stands in tears,
And hun^ with humid pearls the lowly shrub appears.
Maenalean pines the godlike swain bemoan,
When spread beneath a rock, he sighed alone ;
And cold Lycseus wept from every dropping stone.
That such personification is derived from nature, will not admit
the least remaining doubt, after finding it in poems of the darkest
ages and remotest countries. No figure is more frequept in Ossiui's
works ; for example :
The battle is over, said the kingr, and 1 behold the blood of my friends. Sad is
the heath of Lena, and mournful the oaks of Cromla.
Again:
The sword of Gaul trembles at his side, and longs to glitter in his hand.
King Richard having got intelligence of Bolingbroke's invasion,
says, upon land^ing in England from his Irish expedition, in a mixture
of joy and resentment :
1 weep for joy
To stand upon my kingdom once again.
Dear earth, 1 do salute thee with my hand.
Though rebels wound thee with their horses' hoofs.
As a long parted mother with her child
Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meeting;
So weeping, smiling, ereet I thee, my earth.
And do thee favor with my royal hands.
Feed not thy sovereign's foe, my gentle earth,
Nor with thy sweets comfort his rav'nous sense
But let thy spiders that suck up thy venom,
And heavy-gaited toads, lie in their way ;
Doin» annoyance to the treach'rous feet,
Whicn with usurping steps do trample thee.
Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies ;
And, when they from thy bosom pluck a flower,
Guard it, I pr'y thee, with a lurking adder ;
Whose double tongue may with a morttd touch
Guard it, I pr'y thee, with a lurking adder ;
Whose double tongue may with a morttd toi
Throw death upon thy sovereign's enemies.
Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords :
This earth shall have a feeling ; and these stones
Prbve armed soldiers, ere her native king
Shall falter under foul rebellious arms. *
Richard 11. Act III. So. 1.
After a long voyage it was customary among the ancients to
salute the' natal soil. A long voyage being of old a greater enter-
prise than at present, the safe return to one's country after much
fatigue and danger, was a delightful circumstance ; and it was
natural to gjive the natal soil a temporary life, in order to sympa-
thise with the traveller. See an example, Agamemnon of .^Ischilus,
Act lit. in the beginning. Regret for leaving a place to which one
has been accustomed, has the same efiect.*
Terror produces the same effect : it is communicated in thought
to every thing around, even to things inanimate :
Speaking of Poljrphemus,
Glamorem immensum toUit, quo pontus et omnes
Intremuere undae, penitusque ezterrita tellus
Italic. JEneid^ III. 679L
30
Digitized
by Google
850 riouREs. [Ch. 20,
With that he roared aloud, the dreadful cry
Shakes earth, and air, and seas ; the billows fly
Before the bellowing noise to distant Italy.
— ^— — ^^— As when old Ocean roars,
And heaves huge surges to the trembling shores. Iliads II. 249.
Go riew the settling sea. The stormy wind is laid ; but the billows still trem-
ble on the deep, and seem to fear the blast. PingtU.
Racine, in the tragedy of Phe'dra, describing the sea-monster that
destroyed Hippolytus, conceives the sea itself to be struck with ter-
ror as well as the spectators :
Le flot qui I'apporta recule epouvantS.
A man also naturally communicates his joy to all objects around,
animate or inanimate :
As when to them who sail
Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past
Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow
Sabean odor from the spicy shore
Of Araby the Blest ; with such delay
Well pleas'd, they slack their course, cmd many a league
Cheerd with the grateftil smell old Ocean smiles. Paradise Lost, b. IV.
I have been profuse of examples, to show what power many pas-
sions have to animate their objects. In all the foregoing examples,
the personification, if I mistake not, is so complete as to afford con-
viction, momentary indeed, of life and intelligence. But it is evi-
dent, from numberless instances, that personification is not always so
complete : it is a common figure in descriptive poetry, understood to
be the language of the writer, and not of the persons ne describes : in
this case, it seldom or never comes up to conviction, even momentary,
of life and intelligence. I give the following examples.
^ First in his east the glorious lamp was seen,
Regent of day, and fiul th' Ijorizon round
Invested with bright rays ; iocund to run
His longitude through heav n's high road : the gray
Dawn and the Pleiades before him danc'd.
Shedding sweet influence. Less bright the moon.
But opposite, in levell'd west was set
His mirror, with full face borrowing her light ^
From him ; for other flight she needed none.
Paradise Lost, b. VII. I. 370.1
Night's canflles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on theVnisty mountam-tops.
Romeo and Juliet, Act III. Sc. 5.
But look, the morn, in russet mantle clad.
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eafitward hill.
Hamlet, Act I. Sc. I.
It may, I presume, be taken for granted, that in the foregoing instan^
ces, the personification, either with the poet or his reader, amounts
not to a conviction of intelligence : that the sun, the moon, the day,
the morn, are not here understood to be sensible beings. What then
♦ Philoctetes of Sophocles, at the close.
t The chastity of the English language, which in common usa^ distinguishes
by genders no words but what signify beings male and female, gives thus a fine
opportunity for the prosopopoeia ; a beauty unknown in other languages, where
every word is masculine or feminine.
Digitized
by Google
Sect 1.] FIGURES. 351
is the nature of .this personification ? I think it must be referred to
the imagination : the inanimate object is imagined to be a sensible
being, but without any conviction, even for a moment, that it really
is so. Ideas or fictions of imagination have power to raise emotions
in 'the mind;* and when any thing inanimate is, in imaginatibn,
supposed to be a sensible being, it makes by that means a greater
figure than when an idea is formed of it according to truth. This
sort of personification, however, is far inferior to the other in eleva-
tion. Thus personification is of two kinds. The first, being more
noble, may be termed passionate personification: the other, more
humble, descriptive personification ; because seldom or never is pe**-
sonification in a description carried to conviction.
The imagination is so lively and active, that its images are raised
with very little effort ; and this justifies the frequent use of descrip-
tive personification. This figure abounds iu Milton's Allegro, and
Penseroso.
Abstract and general terms, as well as particular objects, are often
necessary in poetry. Such terms, however, are not well adapted to
poetry, because they suggest not any image : I can readily form an
image of Alexander or Achilles in wrath ; but I cannot form an
image of wrath in the abstract, or of wrath independent of a person.
Upon that account, in works addressed to the imagination, abstract
terms are frequently personified ; but such personification rests upoB
imagination merely, not upon conviction.
Sed mihi vel Tellus optem prius ima dehiscat ;
Vel Pater omnipotens adigat me fulmine ad umbras,
Pallentes umbras Erebi, noctemque profundam,
Ante pvdor quam te violo, aut tua jura resolvo.
^neid.lYA.^.
But first let yawning earth a passage rend,
And let me through the dark abyss descend ;
First let avenffin^ Jove with flames from high
Drive down this body to the nether sky,
* Condemned with ghosts in endless night to lie —
Before I break the plighted faith I gave !
Thus, to explain the effects of slander, it is imagined to be a volum
tary agent.
' No, 'tis Slander ;
Whose edge is sharper than the sword ; whose tongue .
Out- venoms all the worms of Nile ; whose breath
Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie
All corners of the world, kings, queens, and states,
Maids, matrons : nay, the secrets of the grave
This viperous Slander enters.
Shakspeare, Cymbeline^ Act III. So. 2.
As also human passions : take the following example :
- For Pleasure and Revenge
Have ears more deaf than adders, to the voice
Of any true decision. Troilus and Cressida, Act II. Sc. 4.
Virgil explains fame and its effects by a still greater variety of action, t
• See Appendix, containing definitions and explanations of terms § 28.
t -Eneid, IV. 173.
Digitized
by Google
852 riovREs. |;C1l 20
And Shakspeare personifies death and its operations in a manner
singuUurly fanciful:
^Within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king^ *
Keeps Death his court ; and there the antic sita,
Scomng his state, and grinning at his pomp ;
Allowing him a breath, a litde scene
To monarchize, be fcar'd, and kill with looks;
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable ; and humored thus,
* Com«6 at the last, and with a little pin
Bores through his castle-walls, and farewell king.
RicUrd IL Act III. Sc. 2.
Not less successfully is life and action given even to sleep:
King Henry. How many thousands of my poorest subjects
Are at this hour asleep ! O gentle Sleep^
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eye-lids down,
And steep my senses in forgetfulness 1
Why rather. Sleep, ly'st thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee.
And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great.
Under the canopies of costly state.
And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody 1
O thou dull god, why ly'st thou with the vile
In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kindy couch, ^
A watch-case to a common larum-belll
Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy mast,
« Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge,
And in the visitation of the winds.
Whd take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curlinff their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf 'ninff clamors in the slippery shrouds,
That, with the nurly. Death itself awakes?
Can'st thou, O partial Sleep, give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude ;
And, in the cahnest and the stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a King 1 Then, happy low ! lie down
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
Second Part Henry IV. KfX HI. Sc. 1.
I shall add one example more, to show that descriptive personifica-
tion may be used with propriety, even where the purpose of the
discourse is instruction merely :
Oh ! let the steps of youth be cautious,
How they advance into a dangerous world j
Our duty only can conduct us safe.
^ . Our passions are seducers : but of aH
The strongest Love. He first approaches us
In childish play, wantoninff in our walks :
•If heedlessly we wander after him,
As he will pick out all the dancing- way.
We're lost, and hardly to return a^ain.
We should take warning: he is painted blind,
To show us, if we fond^ follow him.
The precipices we may tall into.
Digitized
by Google
Sect. 1 ] FIGURES. 358
Therefore let Virtue take him by the hand :
Directed so, he leads to certain joy. « Southern.
Hitherto success has attended our steps: but whether we shall com-
plete our progress with equal success, seems doubtful ; for when we
look back to the expressions mentioned in the beginning, thirsty
ground, furious dart, and such like, it seems no less difficult than
at first, to say whether there is in them any sort of personification.
Such expressions evidently raise not the slightest conviction of sen-
sibility: nor do I think they amount to descriptive personification}
because, in them, we do not even figure the ground or the dart to
be animated. If so, they cannot at all come under the present sub-
ject. To show which, I shall endeavor to trace the effect that such
expressions have in the mind. Does not the expression angry ocean;
for example, tacitly compare the ocean in a storm to a man in wrath 1
By this tacit comparison, the ocean is elevated above its rank in
nature; and yet personification is excluded, because, by the very
nature of comparison, the things compared are kept distinct, and
the native appearance of each is preserved. It will be shown after-
ward, that expressions of this kind belong to another figure, which
I term a figure of speech^ and which employs the seventh section
jf the present chapter.
Though thus in general we can distinguish descriptive personifi-
cation from what is merely a figure of speech, it is, however, often
difficult to say, with respect to some expressions, whether they are
of the one kind or of the other. Take the following instances :
The moon shines bright : in such a night as this,
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,
And they did make no noise ; in such a niffht,
Troilus methinks mounted the Trojan wall,
And sigh'd his soul towards the Grecian tents,
Where Cressid lay that night.
Merchant of Venice^ Aa V. Sc. 1.
1 have seen
Th' ambitious ocean swell, and rage, and foam,
To be exalted with the threat'ning clouds.
Julius Casar^ Act I. Sc. 3.
With respect to these, and numberless other examples of the eamo
kind, it must depend upon the reader, whether they are examples of
personification, or of a figure of speech merely : a sprightly imagi-
nation will advance them to the former class ; with a plain reader
they will remain in the latter.
Having thus at large explained the present figure, its different
kinds, and the principles upon which it is founded ; what comes
next in order, is, to show in what cases it may be introduced with
propriety, when it is suitable, when unsuitable. I begin with observ-
ing, that passionate personification is not promoted by every passion
indifferently. All dispiriting passions are averse to it ; and lemorse,
in particular, is too serious and severe to be gratified with a phantom
of the mind. I cannot therefore approve of the following speech of
Enobarbus, who had deserted his master Antony :
Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon,
When men revolted shsdl upon record
30*
Digitized by VjOOQIC »
154 nouRBs. [Ch. 2a
Bear hateful memory, poor Enoborbus did
Before thy face repent
Oh soyereign Mistress of true melancholy,
The poisonous damp of night dispunge upon me,
That life, a very rebel to my will,
May hang no longer on me.
Anthony and, Cleopatra, Act IV. Sc. 9.
If this can be justified, it must be upon the Heathen system of theo-
logy, which converted into deities the sun, moon, and stars.
BcM^ondly, after a passionate personification is properly introduced,
it ought to be confined to its proper province, that of gratifying the
passion, without giving place to any sentiment or action but what,
answers that purpose ; for personification is at any rate a bold figure,
and ought to oe employed with great reserve. The passion of love;
for example, in a plaintive tone, may give a momentary life to woods
and rocks, in order to make them sensible of the lover's distress ;
but no passion will support a conviction so far-stretched, as that
Ihese woods and rocks should be living witnesses to report the dis
tress to others :
Ch' i' t'ami piu de la mia vita
Se tu nol sai, crudele,
Chiedilo d queste selve
Che te'l diranno, et te'l diran con esse
Le fere loro e i duri sterpi, e i tassi
Di questi alpestri monti,
Ch' i' ho si spesse volte
Inteneriti al suon de' miei lamenti.
Pastor Fido, Aa III. Sc 3.
No lover who is not crazed will utter such a sentiment : it is plainly
the operation of the writer, indulging his inventive faculty without
regard to nature. The same observation is applicable to the follow-
ing passage.
In winter's tedious nights sit by the fire
WiUi good old folks, and let them tell their tales «
Of woful ages, long ago betid :
And ere thou bid gcxKl night, to quit their grict;
Tell them the lamentable fall of me,
And send the hearers weeping to their beds.
For why ! the senseless brands will sympathise
The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,
And in compassion weep tl'ac fire out.
Richard II. Act V. Sc. 1.
One must read this passage very seriously to avoid laughing. The
following passage is quite extravagant : the difierent parts of the
human body are too intimately connected with self, to be personified
by the power of any passion ; and after converting such a part into
a sensible being, it is still worse to make it be conceived as risings
va rebellion against self:
CUopaira. Haste, bare my arm, and rouse the serpent's fury.
Coward flesh '
Would'st thou conspire with Caesar, to betray me,
Asthou wertnoneof min^l 111 force thee tox ^
Dryden, AU for Love, AfiiVt
> - Digitized by V^OOQIC
Sect 1.] FIGURES. 855
Next comes descriptive personification : upn which I mutt
observe, in general, that it ought to be cautiously used. A person-
age in a tragedy, agitated by a strong passion, deals in warm senti-
ments; and the reader, \ catching fire by sympathy, relishes the
boldest personifications: but a writer even in the most lively descrip-
tion, taking a lower flight, ought to content himself with such easy
personifications as agree with the tone of mind inspired by the
description. Nor is even such easy personification always admitted;
' for in plain narrative, the mind, serious and sedate, rejects personi-
fication altogether. Strada, in his history of the Belgic wars, has
the following passage, which, by a strained elevation above the tone
of the subject, deviates into burlesque.
Vix descenderat a prsetoria navi Cassar ; cum foeda illico exorta in portu tem-
pestas, classem impetu disjecit, prsetoriam hausit ; quasi non vecturam amplius
Caesarem, Caesarisque fortunam.* Dec. I. L. 1.
Neither do I approve, in Shakspeare, the speech of King John,
gravely exhorting the citizens of Angiers to a surrender ; though a
tragic writer has much greater latitude than a historian. Take the
following specimen :
The cannons have their bowels full of wrath ;
And ready mounted are they to spit forth
Their iron-indignation 'gainst your walls. Act II. Sc. 1.
Secondly, if extraordinary marks of respect to a person of low
rank be ridiculous, no less so is the personification of a low subject
This rule chiefly regards descriptive personification ; for a subject
can hardly be low that is the cause of a violent passion ; in that
circumstance, at least, it must be of importance. But to assign any
Tule other than taste merely, for avoiding things below even descrip-
tive personification, will, I am afraid, be a hard task. A poet of
superior genius, possessing the power of inflaming the mind, may
take liberties that would be too bold in others. Homer appears not
extravagant in animating his darts and arrows : nor Thomson in
animating the seasons, the winds, the rains, the dews ; he even
Tentures to animate the diamond, and does it with propriety :
That polish'd bright
And all its native lustre |gt abroad,
Dares, as it spsirkles on tne fair one's breast,
With vain ambition emulate her eyes.
But there are things familiar and base, to which personification
cannot descend. In a composed state of mind, to animate a lump
of matter even in the most rapid flight of fancy, degenerates into
burlesque :
How now ! What noise ! that spirit's ]30ssessed with haste,
That wounds th' unresisting postern with these stroked.
Shakspeare^ Meamrefor Measfu/rCy Act IV. Sc. 2.
' Or from the shore
The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath,
And sing their wild notes to the list'ning waste.
Thomson, Spring , 1. 23.
* Scarcely had Caesar descended from the^rsetorian ship, when a boisterom
tanpest bnMce out in that harbor, scattered the fleet by its violence, and sunk the
Pn^rion, as if it was no more to carry Cesar and Cesar'iNbrtune*.
Digitized by V^OOQ IC
356 FiovREs. [Ch. 20.
Speaking cf a man's hand cut oflf in battle :
Te decisa suum, Laride, dextera quaerit:
Semianimesque micant digiti : ferromque retractant
.Eneid, X. 395.
Laris' hand
Dismembered, sought its owner on the strand,
The trembling fingers yet the falchion strain,
And threaten still the extended stroke in vain.
The personification here of a hand is insufferable, especially in a
plain narration : not to mention that such a trivial incident is too
minutely described.
The same observation is applicable to abstract terms, which ought
not to'be animated unless they nave some natural dignity. Thomson,
in this article, is licentious ; witness the following instances out of
many:
O vale of bliss ! O softly swelling hills !
On which the power of cultivation lies,
And joys to see the wonders of his toil. Summer^ 1. 1435.
Then sated Hunger bids his brother 7%trst
Produce the mighty bowl :
Nor wanting is the brown October, drawn
Mature and perfect, from his daric retreat
• Of thirty years, and now his honest froni
Flames in the light refulgent. Autumn^ 1. 516.
Thirdly, it is not sufficient to avoid improper subjects: some
preparation is necessary, in order to rouse the mind : for the ima^-
nation refuses its aid, till it be warmed at least, if not inflamed.
Yet Thomson, without the least ceremony or preparation, introduces
each season as a sensible being :
From brightening fields pf aether fair disclos'd,
Child of me sun, refulgent Summer comes,
In pride of youth, and felt through Nature's depth.
He comes attended by the sultry hours,
And ever fanning breezes, on his way ;
While from his ardent look, the turning Spring
Averts her blushful face, and earth and skies
All smiling to his hot dominion leaves. Summer^ 1. 1.
See Winter comes, to rule the vary*d year,
Sullen and sad with all his rising train,
Vapors, and clouds, and storms. Winter, 1. 1.
This has violently the air of writing mechanically without taste.
It is not natural that the imagination of a writer should be so much
heated at the very commencement ; and, at any rate, he cannot expect
such ductility in hiaf readers. But if this practice can be justified by-
authority, Thomson has one of no mean ilote : Vida begins his fort
eclogue in the following words :
Dicite, vos Musse, et juvenum memorate querelas
Dicite ; nam motas ipsas ad carmina cautes
Et requiesse suos perhibent vaga flimiina cursus.
Sing, ye Muses, and record the repinings of youth — sing, for song hat movied
the rodcs and stopped the course of the wandering rivers.
Digitized by VorOOQ IC
Sect l.J riouREt. 357
Even Shakspeare is not always careful to prepare the mind for thia
bold figure. Take the following instance:
n these taxations,
Upon tl
The clothiers all, not able to maintain
The many to them 'longing, have put off
The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers ; who,
Unfit for other life, compell'd by hunger,
And lack of other means, in desp'rate manner
Daring th' event to th' teeth, are all in uproar,
And Danger serves among them. Henry VIII. Act I. So. 3.
Fourthly, descriptive personification, still more than what is pas-
sionate, ought to be kept within the bounds of moderation. A reader
warmed with a beautiful subject, can imagine, even without passion,
the winds, for example, to be animated : but still the winds are the
subject ; and any action ascribed to them beyond or contrary to their
usual operation, appearing unnatural, seldom fails to banish the illu-
sion altogether : the reader's imagination, too, far strained, refuse
its aid ; and the description becomes obscure, instead of being more
lively and striking. In this view, the following passage, describing
Cleopatra on shipboard, appears to me exceptionable :
The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,
Burnt on the water: the poop was beaten gold.
Purple the sails, and so perftim'd, that
The winds were love-sick with 'em.
Antony and Cleopatra^ Act II. Sc. 2.
The winds in their impetuous course have so much the appearance
pf fury, that it is easy to figure them wreaking their resentment
against their enemies, by destroying houses, ships, &c. ; but to
figure them love-sick, has no resemblance to them in any circum-
stance. In another passage, where Cleopatra is also the subject,
the personification of the air is carried beyond all bounds :
• The city cast
Its people out upon her ; and Antony
Intnron'd i' th* market-place, did sit alone.
Whistling to th' air, which but for vacancy,
Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too,
And made a gap in nature.
Antony atid Cleopatra^ Act II. Sc. 2.
The following personification of the earth or soil is not less wild
She shall be dignified with this hiffh honor.
To bear my lady's train ; lest the bdse earth
Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss j
And of so great a favor grow in or proud,
Disdain to root the summer-swelhno; flower,
And make rough winter everlastingly.
Two Gentlemen of Verona^ Act II. Sc. 4.
Shakspeare, far from approving such intemperance of imagination,
puts this speech in the mouth of a ranting lover. Neither can I
relish what follows :
Omnia quae, Phoebo quondam meditante, beatus
Audit Eurotas, jussitque ediscere lauros,
lUe canit. VirgU, Bw. VI. 82.
Digitized
by Google
858 riouRss. [Ch. 2a
Whateyer songs besides the Delphian god
Had taught the laurels and the Spartan flood
Silenus sung.
The cheerfulness singly of a pastoral song, will scarcely support
personification in the lowest degree. But admitting, that a river
gently flowing may be imagined a sensible being listening to a
song, I cannot enter into the conceit of the river's ordering his
laurels to learn the song : here all resemblance to any thing real
is quite lost This however is copied literally by one of our greatest
♦ poets ; early indeed, before maturity of taste or judgment :
Thames heard the numbers as he flow'd along,
And bade his willows learn the moving song.
Pope's Pastorals, Past IV. 1. 13.
This author, in riper years, is guilty of a much greater deviation
from the rule. Dulness may be imagined a deily or idol, to be wor-
shipped by bad writers ; but then some sort of disguise is requisite,
some bastard virtue must be bestowed, to make such worship in
some degree excusable. Yet in the Dunciad, Dulness, without the
least disguise, is made the object of worship. The mind rejects
such a fiction as unnatural ; for dulness is a defect, of which even
the dullest mortal is ashamed :
Then he : Great tamer of all human cut !
First in my care, and ever at my heart ;
Dulness ! whose good old cause I yet defend,
With whom my Muse began, with whom shall end,
E'er since Sir Fopling's periwig was praise,
To the last honors of the Bull and Bays !
O thou ! of bus'ness the directing soul !
To this our head, like bias to the bowl.
Which as more pond'rous, made its aim more true,
Obliquely waddlmg to the hiark in view :
O ! ever gracious to perplex'd mankind^
Still spread a healing mist before the mind :
And, lest we err by Wit's wild dancing light,
Secure us kindly in our native night.
Or, if to wit a coxcomb make pretence.
Guard the sure barrier between that and sense;
I Or quite unravel all the reas'nin^ thread.
And hang some curious cobweb m its stead !
As, forc'd from wind-guns, lead itself can fly,
And pond'rous slugs cut swiftly through the sky ;
As clocks to weight their nimble motion owe.
The wheels above urg'd by the load below :
Me Emptiness and Dulness could inspire,
And were my elasticity, and fire. B. 1. 163.
Fifthly, the enthusiasm of passion may have the eflfect to prolong
passionate personification : but descriptive personification cannot b«
dispatched in too few words : a circumstantiate description dissolves
the charm, and makes the attempt to personify appear ridiculous.
Homer succeeds in animating his darts and arrows : but such pe^
sonification, spun out in a French translation, is»mere burlesque:
Et la fl^che en furie, avide de son sang.
Part, vole a lui, I'atteint, et lui perce le flanc
Digitized
by Google
Sect 2.] FIGURES. 859
Horace says happily,
Post cquitem sedet atra Cura. ,
Dark Care sits behind the horseman.
Observe how this thought degenerates by being divided, like the
former, into a number of minute parts :
Un fou rempli d'erreurs, que le trouble accompagne
lEt malade a la ville cunsi qu' a la campagne, ^
• En vain monte a cheval pour tromper son ennui,
Le Chagrin monte en croupe, et galope avec lui.
A poet, in a short and lively expression, may animate his muse, his
genius, and even his verse : but to animate his verse, and to address
a whole epistle to it, as Boileau does,* is insupportable.
The following passage is not less faulty :
Her fate is whisper'd by the gentle breeze,
And told in sighs to all the trembling trees ;
The trembling trees, in ev'ry plain and wood,
Her fate remurmur to the silver flood ;
The silver flood, so lately calm, appears
SwcU'd with new passion, and o'erflows with tears ;
The winds, and trees, and floods, her death deplore,
Daphne, our grief! our glory ! now no more.
Pope's Pastorals, IV. 61.
Let grief or love have the power to animate the winds, the trees,
the floods, provided the figure be dispatched in a single expression :
even in that case, the figure seldom has a good effect ; because grief
or love of the pastoral kind, are causes rather too faint for so violent
an effect as imagining the winds, trees, or floods, to be sensible beings.
But when this figure is deliberately spread out, with great regularity
and accuracy, through many lines, the reader, instead of relishing it,
is struck with its ridiculous appearance.
SECTION II.
APOSTROPHE.
Apostrophe, the bestowing of a momentary presence on an absent person — Illustra-
tions— The mind to be agitated.
This figure and the former are derived from the same principle.
If, to humor a plaintive passion, we can bestow a momentary sensi-
bility upon an inanimate object, it is not more difficult to bestow a
momentary presence upon a sensible being who is absent :
Hinc Drepani me portus et illaetabilis ora.
Accipit. Hie, pelagi tot tempestatibus actus,
Heu ! genitorem, omnis curae casusque levamen,
Amitto Anchisen : hie me pater optime fessum
Deserts, heu ! tantis nequicauam erepte periclis.
Nee vates Helenus, cum multa horrenda moneret
- Hos mihi prsedixit luctus ; non dira Oelseno. JEneid, ill. 707.
At length on shore the weary fleet arrived.
Which Drepanum's unhappy port receiv^.
* Epistle 10.
Digitized
by Google
860 FIGURES. fCh. 90.
Here after endless labors, often tossed
By ra^n^ storms and driven on every coast,
** My father 1 thou didst leave me— thee I lost''
Ease of my cares and solace of my pain,
Saved through a thousand toils, but saved in vain.
The prophet who my future woes revealed
Yet tnis the matest and the worst concealed,
And dire Cefsno, whose foreboding skill
Denounced all else, was silent of this ill.
Strike the harp in praise of Brasela, whom I left in the isle of mist, the spouse
of my love. Dost thou raise thy fair face ftt>m the rock to find the sails of Cu-
chullin 1 The sea is rolling far distant, and its white foam shall deceive thee for
my sails. ' Retire, for it is night, my love, and the dark winds sigh in th^r hair.
Retire to the hall of my feasts, and think of the times that are past ; for I will not
return till the storm of war is gone. O Connal, t^ak of wars and arms, and send
her from my mind ; for lovely with her raven-hair is the white-bosom'd daughter
of Sorglan. PingaX^ B. I.
Speaking of Fingal absent : *
Happy ara thjr people, O Fingal ; thine arm shall fight their battles. Thou
art the first in their dangers ; the wisest in the days of their peace : thou speakest,
and Uiy thousands obey ; and armies tremble at the sound of thy steel. Happy
arc thy people, O Fingal.
This figure is sometimes joined with the former : things inanimate,
to qualify them for listening to a passionate expostulation, are not
only personified, but also conceived to be present : ^
Et si fata Deilm,simensnon Isva fuisset,
Impulerat ferro Argolicas fcedare latebras :
Trojaque fvwnc sthres, Priamique arx ciU-a maneres.
JEiuid^ IL 54.
And had not Heaven the fall of Troy designed.
Or had not men been fated to be blind,
Then had our lances pierced the treacherous wood.
And Ilion's towers and Priam's empire stood.
Helena. Poor Lord, is't I
That chase thee from thy country, and expose
Those tender limbs of thine to the event,
Of non-sparing war 1 And is it I *
That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou
Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark
Of smoky muskets 1 O you leaden messengers^
That ride upon Uie violent speed of fire.
Fly with false aim ; pierce the still moving air
That sings with piercing ; do not touch my Lord.
AlVs WeU that Ends WfW, Actlll. Sc
And let them lift ten thousand swords, said Nathos, with a smile : the sons of
car-borne Usnoth»will never tremble in danger. Why dost thou roll with all thy
fbam, thou roaring sea of Ullin 1 why do ye rustle on your dark wings, ye whist-
ling tempests of the sky 1 DO ye thifik, ye storms, that ye keep Nathos -on the
coast 1 r^o; his soul detains him; children of the night! Althos, bring my
father's arms, &c. PingaL
Whither hast thou fled, O wind, said the King of Morven ! Dost thou rustle in
the chambers of the south, aiid pursue the shower in other lands 1 Why comest
not thou to my sails, to the blue face of my seas 1 The foe is in the land of Moi^
▼en, and the King ii absent. FingaiL
Hast thou left thy blue course in heaven, golden-hair'd son of the sky ! The
west hath opened its ^ates ; the bed of thy repose is there. The waves gather to
behold thy beauty : they lift their trembling heads ; they see thee lovdy in thy
•leep ; but they shrink away with fear. Rest in thy shadowy cave, O Sun ! and
kt tny return be in joy. Fi^goL
Digitized
by Google
|ect
3.] FIGURES. 361
Daughter of Heaven, fair art thou ! the silence of thy face is pleasant. Thou
!^ comest forth in loveliness : the stars attend thy blue steps in the east. The clouds
rejoice in thy presence, O Moon I and brighten their dark brown sides. Who is
like thee in neaven, daughter of the night ? The stars are ashamed in thy pre-
sence, and turn aside their sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou retire from thy
course, when the darkness of thy countenance ctows 1 Hast thou thy hall like
Ossian 1 DwcUest thou in the snadow of griefl Have thy sisters fallen firom
heaven 1 and are they who rejoiced with thee at night no more 1 ^Yes, they
have fallen, fair light; and often dost thou retire to mourn. rBut thou thyself
shalt, one night, fail ; and leave thy blue path in heaven. The stars will then
lift their heads : Uiey, who in thy presence were ashamed, will rejoice.
FHngal.
This figure, like all others, requires an agitation of mind. In
plain narrative, as, for example, in giving the genealogy of a family,
It has no good effect:
-Fauno Picus pater; isque parentem
Te, Satume, refert; tu sanguinis ultimus auctor.
JBneid, Ylh^
But Paunus came from Picus — ^Picus drew
His birth from Saturn, if records be true ;
Thus king Latinus in the third degree
Had Saturn author of his family.
SECTION 111.
HYPERBOLE.
%
Magnifying or diminishing an object beyond due .bounds, an hyperbole — Objects
more successfully magnified than diminished — Hyperbole proper when the
subject exceeds the common measure — An hyperbole not to be introduced in the
description of an ordinary thing — Not suitable to a dispiriting passion — Not to
be introduced till the reader is warmed — ^Not to be overstrained — To comprehend
the fewest words possible.
In this figure, by which an object is magnified or diminished
beyond truth, we have another effect of the foregoing principle. An
object of an uncommon size, either very great of its kind or very
little, strikes us with surprise; and this emotion produces a mo-
mentary conviction that the object is greater or less than it is in
reality :* the same effect, precisely, attends figurative grandeur or
littleness ; and hence the hyperbole, which expresses that momentary
conviction. A writer, taking advantage of this natural delusion,
warms his description greatly by the hyperbole : and the reader,
even in his coolest moments, relishes the figure, being sensible that
it is the operation of nature upon a glowing fency.
It cannot have escaped observation, that a writer is commonly
more successful in magnifying by an hyperbole than in diminishing.
The reason is, that a minute object contracts the mind, and fetters
its power of imagination ; but that the mind, dilated and infiamed
with a grand object, moulds objects for its gratification with great
fecility. Longinus, with respect to diminishing hyperbole, quotes
the following ludicrous thought from a comic poet: **He was
owner of a bit of ground no larger than a' LiacedeBmonian letter." t
But, for the reason now given, the hyperbole has by far {he greater
force in magnifying objects ; of which take the following examples :
• See Chap. VIII. t Chap. XXXI. of his Treatise on the Sublime.
31
Digitized
by Google
362 FiGUEBs. [Ch. 2A
For all the land which thou seest, to thee will 1 give it, and (o thy seed for ever.
And I will make thy seed as the dust of the earth; so that if a man can number
Ihedust of the earth, then shall thy seed also be numbered.
Genesis.Xm. 15, 16.
Dla Tel intacts segetis per summa Tolaret
Ghramina : nee teneras cursu laesisset arista*. JE^ntid, YII. 806.
* Outstripped the winds in speed upon the plain,
Flew o'er the field, nor hurt tne bearded grain.
- Atque imo barathri ter gurgite Tastos
Soibet in abruptum finctus, rursusque sub auras
Erigit altemos, et sidera yerberat und&. JEnnd^ III. 421.
And in her greedy whirlpool sucks the tides.
Then spouts them from below ; with fury driven,
The waves mount up, and wash the face of heaven.
Horificis juxta tonat .£tna minis,
Interdumque atram prorumpit ad sethera nubem,
Turbine fumantem piceo et candente favilla : *
Attollitque globos flammarum, et sidera lambit. JEneid, in. 571
The port capacious and secure from wind
Is to the foot of thundering ^tna joined,
By turns a patchy cloud she rolls on hi^h,
By turns hot embers from her entrails ny.
And fli^es of mountain flames that lick the sky.
Speaking of Pol3rphemus :
Ipse arduus, altaquepulsat
Siden^ ^neid,lU,6l9.
Erects his head, and stares within the skies.
— When he speaks.
The air, a charter'd libertine, is still. Heiiry V. Act I. Sc. 1.
Now shield with shield, with helmet helmet clos'd.
To armor armor, lance to lance oppos'd.
Host against host with shadowy squadrons drew,
Th^ sounding darts in iron tempests flew.
Victors and vanquish'd join promiscuous cries,
And shrilling shouts and dying groans arise ;
With streaming blood the slippery fields are dy'd,
And slaughter'd heroes swell the dreadful tide. Iliadf TV. 506.
The following may also pass, though far stretched :
E conjuno;endo a temerario ardire
Estrema forza, e infaticabil lena
Vien che si'impetuoso il ferro gire,
Che ne trema la terra, e'l ciel balena. Gierusalem, Cant, VI. st, 46.
Uniting force extreme, with endlesse wrath.
Supporting both with youth and strength untired,
ECis thimdering blows so fast about he la'th,
That skies and earth the flying sparkles fired. Fairfax,
Cluintillian t is sensible that this figure is natural : ** For," says
he, ** not contented with truth, we naturally incline to augment or
dimkiish beyond it ; and for that reason the hyperbole is familiar
even among the vulgar and illiterate :" and he adds very justly,
" That the hyperbole is then proper, when the subject of itselt
exceeds the common measure." From these premises, one would
not expect the following inference, the only reason he can find for
justifying this figure of speech, " Conceditur enim amplius dicere
* Camilla, the Volscian heroine. t L. VIII. cap. 6. in fin.
Digitized
by Google
Sect. 8.] FIGURES. 363
quia dici quantum est non potest : raeliusque ultra quam citra stat
oratio." (We are indulged to say more than enough, because we
canpot say enough ; and it is better to be above than under.) In
the name of wonder, why this childish reasoning, after observing'
that the hyperbole is founded on human nature 7 . I could not resist
this personal stroke of criticism ; intended not against our author,
for no human creature is exempt from error, but against the blind
veneration that is paid to the ancient classic writers, without distin-
guishing their blemishes from their beauties.
Having examined the nature of this figure, and the principle on
which it is erected, I proceed, as in the first section, to the rules by
which it ought to be governed. And, in the first place, it is a
capital fault, to introduce an hyperbole in the description of any
thing ordinary or familiar; for in such a case, it is altogether
unnatural, being destitute of surprise, its only foundation. Take
the following instance, where the subject is extremely familiar, viz.
swimming to gain the shore after a shipwreck.
I saw him beat the surges under him,
And ride upon their backs ; he trode the water,
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted
The surge most swohi that met him : his bold head
*Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd
Himself with his good arms, in lusty strokes
To th' shore, that o'er his wave-borne basis bow'd,
As stooping to relieve him. Tempest, Act II. Sc. I.
In the next place, it may be gathered from what is said, that an
hyperbole can never suit tne tone of any dispiriting passion : sorrow,
in particular, will never prompt such a figure ; for which reason the
following hyperboles must be condemned as unnatural :
K. Rich. Aumerle, thou weep'st, my tender-hearted cousin!
We'll make foul weather with despised tears :
Our sighs, and they, shall lodge the summer-corn,
And make a dearth in this revolting land.
Richard 11. Act III. Sc. 3.
Draw them to Tyber's bank, and weep your tears
Into the channel, till the lowest stream
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. Julius Casar, Act I. Sc. L
Thirdly, a writer, if he wish to succeed, ought always to have the
reader in his eye : he ought in Articular never to venture a bold
thought or expression, till the reader be warmed and prepared. For
that reason, an hyperbole in the beginning of a work can never be
in its place. Example :
Jata pauca aratro jugera regiae
Moles relinquent. Horat. Carm. 1. 2. ode 15.
^ So great our palaces are now.
They'll leave few acres for the plqugh.
The nicest point of all, is to ascertain the natural limits of an
hyperbole, beyond which being overstrained it has a bad efilect.
Xonginus, in the above-cited chapter, with great propriety of thought,
enters a caveat against an hyperbole of this kind : he compares it to
a bow-st.ing, which relaxes by overstraining, and produces an efib^t
Digitized
by Google
364 riouRis. [C!Il 2a
directly opposite to what is intended. To ascertain any precise bonn-
dary, would be difficult, if not impracticable. Mine shall be an
humbler task, which is, to give a specimen of what I reckon over-
strained hyperbole; and I shall be brief upon them, because exam-
ples are to be found every where ; no fault is more common amonp^
writers of inferior rank ; and instances are found even among classi-
cal writers ; witness the following hyperbole, too bold even for an
Hotspur.
Hotspur talking of Mortimer :
In single opposition hand to hand,
He did confound the best part of an hour
In chan^ng hardiment with great Qlendower.
Three tunes they breath'd, ami three times did they drink,
Upon agreement, of swift Severn's flood,
Who then affrighted with their bloody looks,
* Ran fearfully amonff the trembling r^s,
And hid his crisp'd head in the hoUow bank,
Blood-stained with these valiant combatants.
nrsi Part Henry IV. Act I. Sc 3.
Speaking of Henry V.,
England ne'er had a king until his time :
Virtue he had, deserving to command :
His brandish'd sword did. blind men with its beams:
His arms spread wider than a dragon's wings : ^
His sparkling eyes, replete with awful lire,
More dazzled, and drove hack his enemies,
Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces.
What should I say 7 his deeds exceed all speech : '
He never lifted up his hand, but conquer'd.
Mrst Part Henry VI. Act I. Sc. L
Lastly, an hyperbole, after it is introduced with all advantages,
ought to be comprehended within the fewest words possible: as it
cannot be relished but in the hurry and swelling of the mind, a
leisurely view dissolves the charm, and discovers the description to
be extravagant at least, and perhaps also ridiculous. This fault is
palpable in a sonnet which passes for one of the most complete in
the French language. Phillis, in a long and florid description, is
made as far to outshine the sun as he outshines the stars.
Le silence r^^noit sur la terre et sur I'onde,
L'air devenoit serein et I'Olympe vermeil,
Et Tamoipreux 2j^phir affranchi du sommcil,
Resuuscitoit les fleurs d'une haleine ,f6conde.
L'Aurore d^plojroit I'or de sa tresse blonde,
Et semoit de rubis le chemin du soleil ;
Enfin ce Dieu venoit au plus grand appareil
Clu'il soit jamais venu pour dclairer le mon^e.
duand la jeune Phillis au visage riant,
Sortant de ^on palais plus clair que I'orient,
Fit voir une lumi^re et plus vivc et plus belle.
Sacr^ flambeau du jour, n'en soyez point jaloux.
Vous pardtes alors aussi peu devant die.
Clue les feux de la nuit avoient fait devant vous. MaUeviOe,
There is in Chaucer a thousfht expressed in a single line, which
gives more lustre to a young beauty, than the whole of this madi-
hbored poem :
Up rose the sun, and up rose Elmdie.
Digitized
by Google
Sect 5 riGtRB& 365
SECTION IV.
The means or instrument, conceived to be the agent— Examples.
When we survey a number of connected objects, that which m&lces
the greatest figure employs chiefly our attention ; and the emotion it
raises, if lively, prompts us even to exceed nature in the conception
we form of it. Take the following examples :
For Neleus' son Alcides' rage had slain.
A broken rofck the force of Pirus threw.
In these instances, the rage of Hercules and the force of Pirus, being
the capital circumstances, are so far exalted as to be conceived the
agents that produce the effects.
In the following instances, hunger being the chief circumstance
in the description, is itself imagined to be the patient
, Whose hunger has not tasted food these three days. Jane Shore.
■ As when the force
Of subterranean wind transports a. hill. Paradise Loa.
As when the poteni rod
Of Amtam's son, in Egypt's evil day
Wav'd round the coast, upcall'd a pitchy cloud
Of locusts. Paradise Lost.
SECTION v.
A figure which^ among related objects, extends the properties of one to another —
Without a name — The foundation of this figure— Not warrantable, except
zunong things intimately connected— An attribute of a cause for an attribute of
an effect — An effect as of a cause — An effJect expressed as an attribute of a
caiise — An attribute of a subject bestowed on one of its parts — A quality of an
agent ascnbed to an instrument — The object on which it operates — (duality one
subject gives another — Circumstances expressed as a quality of a subject — Th«
property of one object transferred to anotner.
This figure is not dignified with a proper name, because it has
been overlooked by writers. It merits, however, a place in this
work ; and must be distinguished from those formerly handled, as
depending on a different principle. Giddy brink, jovial wine, daring
wound, are examples of this figure. Here are adjectives that cannot
be made to signify any quality of the substantives to which they are
joined : a brink, for example, cannot be termed giddy in a sense,
either proper or figurative, that can signify any of its qualities or
attributes. When we examine attentively the expression, we dis-
cover, that a brink is termed giddy from producing that effect in
those who stand on it. In the same manner a wound is said to be
daring, not with respect to itself, but with respect to the boldness of
the person who inflicts it : and wine is said to be jovial, as inspiring
.mirth and jollity. Thus the attributes of one subject are extended
to another with which it is connected ; and the expression of such a
thought must be considered as a figure, because the attribute is not
applicable to the subject in any proper sense.
Digitized
by Google
366 n^VKUB. iCb. 20.
How are we to account for this figure, which we see lies in the
ihought, and to what principle shall we refer it ? Have poets a privi-
lege to alter the nature of things, and at pleasure to bestow attributes
upon a subject to which they do not belong ? We have had often
occasion to inculcate, that the mind passes easily and sweetly along
a. train of connected objects; and, where the objects are intimately
connected, that it is disposed to carry along the good or bad proper-
ties of one to another ; especially when it is in any degree inflamed
with these properties.* From this principle is derived the figure
under consideration. Language, invented for the communication of
thought, would be imperfect, if it were not expressive even of the
. slighter propensities and more delicate feelings : but language cannot
Remain so imperfect among a people who have received any polish ;
because language is regulatea by internal feeling, and is gradually
improved to express whatever passes in the mind. Thus, for
example, when a sword in the hand of a coward, is termed a coward
noord, the expression is significative of an internal operation ; for the
mind, in passing from the agent to its instrument, is disposed to
extend to the latter the properties of the former. Governed by the
same principle, we say listening fear, by extending the attribute
listening of the man who listens, to the passion with which he is
moved. In the expression, hold deed, or avdax f acinus, we extend
to the effect what properly belongs to the cause. But not to waste
time by making a commentary upon every expression of this kind,
the best way to give a complete view of the subject, is to exhibit a
table of the different relations that may give occasion to this figure.
And in viewing the table, it will be observed, that the figure can
iiever have any grace but where the relations are of the most inti
mate kind.
1. An attribute of the cause expressed as an attribute of the effect
Audax facinus.t
Of yonder fleet a hold, discovery m^ke.
An impious mortal gave the daring wound.
To my adven^rous song,
That with no middle flight intends to soar. Paradise Lost,
^ An attribute of the effect expressed as an attribute of the cause.
GtvMs periisse ambos misera censebam in mari.t Plauius.
No wonder, fallen such a. pernicious height. - Paradise Lost,
3. An effect expressed as an attribute of the cause.
. Jovial wine, Giddy brmk, Drowsy night, Musing midnight, Panting heigltf,
Astonish'd thought, Mournful gloom.
Casting a dim religious light. MUtonf Coma,
And the merrtf bells ring round,
And the joomid rebecks sound. MiUon^ ASegro,
4, An attribute of a subject bestowed upon one of its parts or
OKmibers.
' • See Chap. 2. Part 1. Sect 5. t A bold deed.
t Bot^ of whom perished in the nUserahle ocean.
Digitized
by Google
tBect 5.] riovBBs. M7
Longing arms.
It was the nigrhtingale and not the lark,
That pierc'd me fearful hollow of thine ear.
Jiomeo and Juliet^ Act III. St ft.
— Oh, lay by
Those most ungentle looks and angry weapons ;
Unless you mean my griefs and killing fears
Should stretch me out at your relentless feet.
F\iir Penitent J Act 111.
And ready now
■ To stoop with wearied wing and willing feet,
On the bare outside of this world. Paradise Lost^ B. III.
5. A quality of the agent given to the instrument with which it
operates.
Why peep your coward swords half out their shells !
6. An attribute of the agent given to the subject upon which it
operates.
Hlgh-dimbing hill. MiUon,
7. A quality of one subject given.to another.
Icci, b^tis nunc Arabiun invides
Oazis.* Horat. Carm. 1. 1. ode S9.
When sapless age, and weak unable limbs,
Should bring thy &ther to his drooping chair. Skakspean,
J&y cut, the pilot through the boiling deep
And howling tempest, steers the fearless ship.
Biad, XXIIL 385.
Then, nothing loath, th' enamourM fair he led.
And sunk transported on the amscious bed. Odyssey^ VIII. 337.
A st/upid moment motionless she stood. Summer^ 1. 1336.
8. A circumstance connected with a subject, expressed as a quality
of the subject.
Breezy summit.
'Tis ours the chance of fighting fields to try. ILiad^ I. 301.
Oh ! had I dy'd before that well-fought wall. Odyssey, V. 395.
From this table it appears, that the adorning of a cause with an
attribute of the effect, is not so agreeable as the opposite expression.
The progress from cause to effect is natural and easy : the opposite
•progress resembles retrograde motion;! and therefore panting
height^ astonish! d thought, are strained and uncouth expressions,
'which a writer of taste will avoid.
It is not less strained to apply to a subject in its present state, an
epithet that may belong to it in some future state:
Suimersasque obrue puppes.t JEneid. I. 73.
And mighty rui'ns Ml, Miad, Y. 411.
Impious sons their mangled fathers wound.
Another rule regards this figure, that the property of one subject
ought not to be bestowed upon another with which that property it
incongruous ;
• Iccus, you now envy the happy treasures of the Arabians.
t See Chap. 1. t Overwfadm this nmicen ship.
Digitized
by google
868 f louRis. [Ch. 20.
Khig Rick. ^How dare thy joints forget
To pay their <»i0/mZ duty to our presence 1
Richard II. Act III. Sc. 3.
The connection between an awful superior and his submissive de-
pendent is so intimate, that an attribdte may readily be transferred
from the one to the other ; but awfulness cannot be so transferred,
because it is inconsistent with submission.
SECTION VI.
METAPHOR AND ALLEGORY.
The difference between a metaphor and a simile— The meaning of metaphor —
The meaning of allegory — The two rules that govern metaphor and allegory —
Of construction — Not agreeable where the resemblance is too faint or too
strong — not agreeable if not proportionable — Not to be crowded with minute
circumstances — Words literally applicable to the imagined nature of the subject
to be used — Different metaphors not to be jumbled — ^Plain language and meta-
phor not to be jumbled — Metaphors excluded from common conversation — Im-
proper in severe passions that wholly occupy the mind— Proper when a man
struggles to bear up against misfortunes.
#
A METAPHOR^ differs from a simile, in form only, not in sub-
stance: in a simile, the two subjects are kept distinct in the
expression, as well as in the thought ; in a metaphor, the two sub-
jects are kept distinct in the thought only, not in tne expression. A
hero resembles' a lion, and, upon that resemblance, many similes
have been raised by Homer and other poets. But instead of resem-
bling a lion, let us take the .aid of the imagination, and feign or
figure the hero to be- a lion : by that variation the simile is con-
verted into a metaphor ; which is carried on by describing all the
qualities of a lion that resemble those of the hero. The fundamental
pleasure here, that of resemblance, belongs to the thought. An
additional pleasure arises from the expression : the poet, by figuring
his hero to be a lion, goes on to describe the lion in appearance, but
in reality the hero ; and his description is peculiarly beautiful, by
expressing the virtues and qualities of the hero in new terms, which,
properly speaking, belong not to him, but to the lion. This will bet-
ter be understood by examples. A family connected with a common
parent, resembles a tree, the trunk and branches of which are con-
nected with a common root: but let us suppose, that a family is
figured, not barely to be like a tree, but to be a tree ; and then the
simile will be converted into a metaphor, in the following manner :
Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one,
Were sev'n fair branches, springmg; from one root;
Some of these branches by the destinies cut : i
But Thoma?, my dear lord, my life, my GHo'st^,
One flourishing branch of his most royal root,
Is hack'd down, and his summer-leaves all faded,
By Envy's hand and Murder's bloody axe.
Richard, IT. Act L Se.fl.^
Figuring human life to be a voyage at sea:
There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, lefids on to fortune;
Digitized
by Google
Sect 6.] FIOURB8. 669
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat,
And we must take the current while it serves,
Or lose our ventures. Julius Casar^ Act IV. Sc 3.
Figuring glory and honor to be a garland of flowers.
Hotspur Wou'd to heav'n,
Thy name in arms were now as great as mine !
Pr. Henry. I'll make it greater, ere I part from thee,
And all the budding honors on thy crest
ril crop, to make a garland for my head.
JFHrst Part Henry IV. Act V. Sc 4
Figuring a man who hath acquired great reputation and honour to
be a tree full of fruit:
Oh, boys, this story ^
The world may read in me: ray body's mark'd
With Roman swords ; and my report was once
First with the best of note. Cymoeline lov'd me ;
And when a soldier was the theme, my name
Was not far off: then was I as a tree.
Whose boughs did bend with fruit. But in one night,
A storm or robbery, call it what you will.
Shook down my mellow hangings, nay my leaves ;
And left me bare to weather. CymbelinCj Act III. Sc. 3.
Blest be thy soul, thou king of shells, said Swaran of the dju-k-brown shield.
In peace thou cut the gale of spring ; in war, the mountain-storm. Take now
my hand in friendship, thou noble king of Morven. Pingal.
Thou dwellest in the soul of Malvina, son of mighty Ossian. My sighs aris6
with the beam of the east : my tears descend with the drops of ni^ht. I was a
lovely tree in thy presence, Oscar, with all my branches round me : but thy death
came like a blast from^the desert, and laid my green head low : the spring returned
with its showers, but no leaf of mine arose. Fingal.
I am aware that the term metaphor has been used in a more ex-
tensive sense than I give it ; but I thought it of consequence, in a
disquisition of some intricacy, to confine the term to its proper sense,
and to separate from it things that are distinguished by difl^erent
names. An allegory differs from a metaphor ; and what I would
choose "to call a figure of speech, diflfers from both. I proceed to
explain these differences. A metaphor is defined above to be an act
of the imagination, figuring one thing to be another. An allegory
requires no such operation, nor is one thing figured to be another :
it consists in choosmg a subject having properties or circumstances
resembling those of the principal subject ; and the former is described
in such a manner as to represent the latter ; the subject thus repre-
sented is kept out of view; we are left to discover it by reflection ;
and we are pleased with the discovery, because it is our own work,
duintilian* gives the following instance of an allegory :
O navis, referent in mare te novi
Fluctus. O quid agis % fbrtiter occupa portum.
HoratMh.hoAQU.
New floods of strife that swell the main
Oh ship, shall bring thee out again —
Oh, wherefore venture 1 'tis your fort
To keep your station in the port.
* L. 8. cap. 6. sect 3.
Digitized
by Google
B70 FI017RE8. [Ch. 20.
and explains it elegantly in the following words : " Totusque ille
Horatii locus, quo navim pro republica, fluctuum teropestates pro
bellis civilibus, portum pro pace, atque concordia, dicit.''
A finer or more correct allegory is not to be found than the fol-
lowing, in which a vineyard is made to represent God's own people
the Jews.
Thou hast brought a vine out of Egypt : thou hast cast out the heathen, and
planted it. Thou didst cause it to take deep root, and it filled the land. The hills
were covered with its shadow, and the boughs' thereof were like the goodly cedars.
Why hast ihou then broken down her hedges, so that all which pass do pluck her ?
The boar out of the wood doth waste it, and the wild beast doth devour it. Return,
we beseech thee, O Grod of hosts : look down from heaven, and behold and visit
diis vine, and the vineyard thy right hand hath planted, and the branch thou
madest strong for thyself PsaXm LXXX.
In a word, an allegory is in every respect similar to an hiero-
glyphical painting^, excepting only that words are used instead of
colors. Their ef[ects are precisely the same : a hieroglyphic raises
two images in the mind ; one seen, which represents one not seen :
an allegory does the same; the representative subject is described;
and resemblance leads us to apply the description to the subject
represented. In a figure of speech, there is no fiction of the
imagination employed, as in a metaphor, nor a representative sub-
ject introduced, as m an allegory. This figure, as its name implies,
regards the expression only, not the thought ; and it may be defined,
the using of a word in a sense different from what is proper to it
Thus youth, or the beginning of life, is expressed figuratively by
morning of life: morning is the beginning of the day; and in that
view it is employed to signify the beginning of any other series, life
especially, the progress of which is reckoned by days.
Figures of speech are reserved for a separate section ; but meta-
phor and allegory are so much connected, that they must be handled
together : the rules particularly for distinguishing the good from the
bad, are common to both. We shall therefore proceed to these rules,
after adding some examples to illustrate the nature of an»allegory.
Horace, speaking of his love to Pyrrha, which was now extin-
guished, expresses himself thus :
-Me tabula sacer
Again:
Votivd paries indicat uvida
Suspendisse potenti
Yestimenta maris Deo. Carm. 1. 1. ode 5.
For me the temple witness bears
Where I my dropping weeds have hung,
And left my votive chart behind
To him that rules both wave and wind.
Phoebus volentem prselia me loqui,
Victas et urbes, increpuit lyr4 :
, Ne parva Tyrrhenum per aequor
Vela darem. Carm* 1. 4^ ode 15.
Willine to sing upon my lyre,
The fights we dare, the towers we scale,
Apollo bade me check my fona desire,
Nor on the vast Tyrrhenian spread my little sail.
Digitized
by Google
Sect 6.] netrRBs: 871
Qiieen. Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss,
But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.
What though the mast be now thrown overboard,
The cable broke, the holding anchor lost,
And half our sailors swallowed in the flood ;
Yet lives our pilot still. Is't meet, that he
Should leave the helm, and, like a fearful lad,
With tearful eyes, add water to the sea,
And give more strength to that which hath too much ;
While in his moan the ship splits on the rock,
Which industry and courage mi»ht have sav'd 1
Ah, what a shame ! ah, what a fault were this !
I Third PaH Hmry VI. Act V. Sc.4.
OrooTwko. Ha ! thou hast rous'd
The lion in his den : he stalks abroad,
And the wide forest trembles at his roar.
I find the danger now. OrooTtdko^ Act III. Sc. 9.
My well-beloved hath a vineyard in a very fruitful hill. He fenced it, fathered
out tne stones thereof, planted it with the choicest vines, built a tower in the midst
of it, and also made a wine-press therein : he looked that it should bring forth
grapes, and it brought forth wild grapes. And now, O inhabitants of Jerusalem,
and men of Judah, judge, I pray you, betwixt me and my vineyard. What could
have been done more to my vineyard, that I have not done 1 Wherefore, when I
looked that it should bring forth grapes, brought it forth wild grapes '\ And now
ffo to ; I will tell you what I wiff do to my vmeyurd : I will take away the hedffe
Uiereof, and it shall be eaten up ; and break down the wall thereof, and it shall be
trodden down. And I will lay it waste : it shall not be pruned, nor digged, but
there shall come up briers and thorns : I will also command the clouds that they
rain no rain upon it. For the vineyard of the Lord of hosts is the house of Israel,
and the men of Judah his pleasant plant. Isaiah, Y. 1.
The rules that govern metaphors, and allegories, are of two kinds ;
the construction of these figures comes under the first kind : the pro-
priety or impropriety of introduction comes under the other. I
begin with rules of the first kind ; some of which coincide with those
already given for similes ; some are peculiar to metaphors and alle-
gories.
And, in the first place, it has been observed, that a simile cannot
be agreeable where the resemblance is either too strong or too faint.
This holds equally in metaphor and allegory ; and the reason is the
same in all. In the following instances, the resemblance is too faint
to be agreeable.
Malcolm. But there's no bottom, none '
In my voluptuousness : your wives, your daughters,
Your matrons and your maids, could not fill up
The cistern of my lust. Macbeth j Act IV. Sc. 3.
The best way to judge of this metaphor, is to convert it into a simile ;
which would, be bad, because there is scarcely any resemblance be-
tween lust and a cistern, or betwixt enormous lust and a large cistern.
Again:
He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause
Within th^ belt of rule. MacMh, Act V. Sc. 2.
There is no resemblance between a distempered cause and any body
that can be confined within a belt.
Again :
Steep me in poverty to the very lips. OtheUo^ Act IV. Sc ft
Digitized
by Google
Poverty here must be conceiyed a fluid, which it resembles not in
any manner.
Speaking to Bolingbroke banished for six years :
The sullen passage of thy weary steps
Elsteem a soil wherein thou art to set
The precious jewel of thy home-return.
Again:
Richard U.Acil,ScZ.
Here is a letter, lad3r,
And every word in it a gapinff wound
Issuinor life-blood. * MBrM,n
ant of Venice, Act HI. Sc. 3.
Tants molis erat Romanam condere gentem.* JEneid, h 37.
The following metaphor is strained beyond all endurance : Tiipur-
bee, known to us by the name of Tamerlane the Great, writes to
Bajazet, Emperor of the Ottomans, in the following terms :
Where is the monarch who dares insist us 1 where is the potentate who doth
not glory in being nimibered among our attendants 1 As for thee, descended firom
a Turcoman sailor, since the vessel of thy unboiinded ambition hath been wrecked
in the gulf of thy self-love, it would be proper, that thou should'st take in the sails
of thy temerity, and cast the anchor of repentance in the port of sincerity and jus-
tice^ which is the port of safety ; lest the tempest of our vengeance make thee
pensh in the sea of the punishment thou deservest.
Such Strained figures, as observed above,t are not unfrequent in the
first dawn of refinement : the mind in a new enjoyment knows no
bounds, and is generally carried to excess, till taste and experience
discover the proper limits.
Secondly, whatever resemblance sul^ts may have, it is wrong to
put one for another, where they bear no mutual proportion : upon
comparing a very high to a very low subject, the simile takes on an
air of burlesque : and the same will be the effect, where the one is
imagined to be the other, as in a metaphor ; or made to represent the
other, as in an allegory.
Thirdly, these figures, a metaphor especially, ought not to be
crowded with many minute circumstances; for in that case it is
scarcely possible to avoid obscurity. A metaphor above all ought
to be short : it is difficult, for any time, to support a lively image of
a thing being what we know it is not ; and for that reason, a meta-
phor drawn out to any length, instead of illustrating or enlivening
the principal subject, becomes disagreeable by overstraining the
mind. Here Cowley is extremely licentious* take the following
instance.
Great and wise conqu'ror, who where-e*er
Thou com'st, doth fortify and settle there^!
Who canst defend as well as get,
And never hadst one quarter beat up yet;
Now thou art in, thou ne'er will part
With one inch of my vanquish'd heart ;
For since thou took'st it by assault from me,
'Tis garrison'd so strong with thoughts of thee,
It fears no beauteous enemy.
For the same reason, however agreeable long allegories may at first be
by their novelty, they never afford any lasting pleasure : witness Hm
* So great a weight was it to build up the Roman nation.
t Ch4>* 19. CJomparisons.
Digitized
by Google
S«ct. 6.1 vieuRss. 07S
Fairi/'Queen, which with great power of expression, vanety of
images, and melody of versification, is scarcely ever read a second
time.
In the fourth place, the comparison carried on in a simile, heing
in a metaphor sunk by imagining the principal subject to be that
very thing which it only resembles ; tin opportunity is furnished to
describe it in terms taken strictly or literally with respect to its
imagined nature. This suggests another ruie, that in constructing
a metaphor, the writer ought to make use of such words only as are
applicable literally to the imagined nature of his subject : figurative
words ought car^uUy to be avoided ; for such complicated figures,
instead of setting the principal subject in a strong light, involve it in
a cloud ; and it is well if the reader, without rejecting by the lump,
endeavors patiently to gather the plain meaning regaraless of the
figures :
A stubborn and unconquerable flame
Creeps in his veins, and drinks the streams of life.
Ladf Jdne Cfrey, Act I. Sc. 1.
Copied from Ovid,
Sorbent avidse prsecordia flamm^. Mstamorph. Lib. IX. 172.
The greedy flames drink his heart.
Let us analyze this expression. That a fever may be imagined a
flame, I admit ; though more than one step is necessary to come at the
resemblance: a fever, by heating the body, resembles fire; and it is
no stretch to imagine a fever to be a fire : again, by a figure of speech,
flame may be put for fire, because they are commonly conjomed ;
and, therefore, a fever may be termed a flame. But now admitting
a fever to be a flame, its effects ought to be explained in words that
agree literally to a flame. This rule is not observed here ; for a
fliame drinks figuratively only, not properly.
King Henry to his son Prince Henry :
Thou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts,
Which thou hast whetted on thy stony h^art
To stab at half an hour of my frail life.
Second Part Henry IV. Act IV. Sc. 2.
Such faulty metaphors are pleasantly ridiculed in the Rehearsal:
Physician. Sir, to conclude, the place you fill has more than amply exacted the
talents of a wary pilot; and all these threatening storms, which like impregnate
(douds, hover o'er our heads, will, when they on ceare grasp'd but by the eye of
reason, melt into fruitful showers of blessings on the people.
Bayes. Pray mark that allegory. Is not that good %
Johnson. Yes, that grasping of a storm with the eye is admirable.
Act II. Sc. 1.
Fifthly, the jumbling of different metaphors in the same sentence,
beginning with one metaphor and ending with another, commonly
called a mixt metaphor, ought never to be indulged. Quintilian
bears testimony agamst it in the bitterest terms : " Nam id quoque in
Srimis est custodiendum, ut quo ex genere coeperis translationis, hoc
esinas. Multi enim, cum initium a tempestate sumpserunt, incen-
die aut ruina finiunt : quse est inconsequentia rerum fcsdissima."*
L. 8. cof. 6. ^ 2.
« This also must be most cautiously observed, that you end with theldnd of
32
• Digitized
by Google
374 noumsf. [Ch. SO.
JC iSffify. ^WiU you man mikiiit
This ehurhsh knot M all-abhorred war,
. And move in that (HMdient orb again,
Where you did give a fair and natural light 1
First Part Benry FJ. Act V. Sc 1.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The stings and arrows of ontra^'ous fortune;
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them. Hamlet, Act III. Sc. 1.
In the sixth place, it is unpleasant to join different metaphors ii
the same period, even where they are preserved distinct : for when
the subject is imagined to be first one thing, and then another in the
tame period with6ut interval, the mind is distracted by the rapid
transition ; and when the imagination is put on such hard duty, its
images are too fkiai to produce any good effect :
At regina gravi jamdudum saucia cura,
Yulnus alit venis, et cseco carpitur igni. JEneid, I V»
But anxious cares already seize the queen,
* She fed within her veins a flame unseen.
Motum ex Metello consule civicum,
Bellique causas, et vitia, et m6dos,
Luaum<}ue fortunae, gravesque
Principum amicitias, et arma
Nondum expiatis uncta cruoribus,
PericulossB plenum opus ales,
Tractas, et incedis per ignes
Subpositos cinen doloso. Horat. Cam, L ii. Ode I.
The war that rose from civil hate,
In that Metellian consulate,
Our vices, measures, and the sport of chance,
The famous triple lea^e, the Roman shield and lance.
With ffore unexpiated, smeared,
A wo]£ whose fate is to be feared.
You treat, and on those treacherous ashes tread.
Beneath whose seeming surface glow the embers dead.
In the last place, it is still worse to jumble together metaphorical
and natural expression, so as that the period must be understood in
part metaphorically, in part literally ; for the imagination cannot fol-
low with sufficient ease changes so sudden and unprepared : a meta-
phor begun and not carried on has no beauty ; and instead of light
there is nothing but obscurity and confusion. Instances of such
incorrect composition are without number. I shall^ for a specimen,
select a few from different authors.
Speaking of Britain,
This precious stone set in the sea,
Whicn serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house
Against the envy of less happier lands. Richard II. Act I. Sc 1.
In the first line Britain is figured to be a precious stone : in the M-
towing lines, Britain, divested of her metaphorical dress, is preseolcd
to the reader in her natural appearance.
These growing feathers, pluck'd from Caesar's wing,
■Aetaphor with which you be^n. For many, when they have commenced with •
storm, end with a conflagration, or the fall of a building; which infiongroity if
— -tvile.
Digitized
by Google
Sict 6i riouRBs. 375
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch,
Who else would soar above the view of men,
And keep us all in servile fearfulness.
Julius CasaTf Act I. So. 1.
Rebus ang^stfs animosus aique
Fortis adpare : sapienter idem
Contrahes vento nimium secundo
Turgida vela. Hor.
When times are hardest, then a face
Of constancy and spirit wear;
But wise contract your sails apace
When once the wind's too fair.
The following" is a miserable jumble of expressions, arising from an
unsteady view of the subject, between its figurative ana natural
appearance :
But now from ^ath'ring clouds destruction pours,
Which ruins with mad rage our halcyon hours :
Mists from black jealousies the tempest form,
Whilst late divisions reinforce the storm. Dispensary^ canto 3.
• To thee, the world it present homage pays,
The harvest early, but mature the praise.
Pope's Imitation of Horace ^ b. ii
Oui, sa pudeur n'est que franche grimace,
du'une ombre de vertu qui garde mal la place,
Et qui s*evanouit, comme Ton pent savoir,
Aux rayons du soleil qu'une bourse fait voir.
Moliere, VEtourdi, Act III. Sc. 2.
Et son feu, depourvu de sens et de lecture,
S'Steint a chaque pas, faute de nourriture.
BoiUau, VArt Poetique, Chant 3. 1. 319.
Dryden, in his dedication of the translation of Juvenal, says,
When thus, as I may say, before the use of thejoad-stone, or knowledge of the
compass, I was sailing in a vast ocean, without other help than the pole-star of tht
iU3icients, and the rules of the French stage among the modems, &c.
There is a time when factions, by the vehemence of their own fermentation,
stun and disable one another. Bolingbroke.
This fault of jumbling the figure and plain expression into one
confused mass, is not less common in allegory than in metaphor.
Take the following examples!
■ Heu ! quoties fidem,
Mutatosque Deos flebit, et aspera
Niffris sequora ventis
Emirabitur insolens,
Glui nunc te fruitur credulus aured.
Qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem
Sperat, nescius aurse
Fallacis. Horat. Cam. 1. 1. ode 5.
Alas ! how oft shall he protest
Against his confidence misplaced.
And love's inconstant powers deplore,
And wondrou* winds, which, as they roar,
Throw black upon the altered scene —
Who now so well himself deceives,
And thee all sunshine, all serene
For vi ant of better skill believes. '
Digitized
by Google
876 FIGURES. fCh. 20l
Pour moi sur cette racr, qu*ici bas nous courons,
Je songe h me pourvoir cresquif et d'aTirons,
A r6gler mes d€sirs, a pr6veiiir I'orage,
Et saurer, s'D se peut, ma Raison du naufrage.
* BaUeaUj Epiire 5.
Lord Halifax, speaking of the ancient fabulists : " They (says he)
wrote in signs, and spoke in parables : all their fables carry a double
meaning; the story is one and entire; the characters the same
throughout ; not broken or changed, and always conformable to the
nature of the creature they introduce. They never tell you, thqt the
dog which snapp'd at a shadow, lost his troop of horse ; that would
be unintelligible. This is his (Dryden's) new way of telling a story,
and confounding the moral and the fable together. After instancing
from the hind and panther, he goes on thus : " What relation has
the hind to our Saviour ; or what notion have we of a panther's
Bible ? If you say he means the church, how does the church feed
on lawns, or range in the forest 1 Let it be always a church, or
always a cloven-footed beast, for we cannot bear his shifting the
scen^ every line."
A few words more upon allegory. N<5thing gives. greater plea-
sure than this figure, when the representative subject bears a strong
analogy, in all its circumstances, to that which is represented : but
the choice is seldom so lucky ; the analogy being generally so faint
and obscure, as to puzzle and not please. An allegory is still more
difficult in painting than in poetry: the former can show no resem-
blance but what appears to the eye ; the latter has many other resour-
ces for showing the resemblance. And therefore, with respect to
what the Abbe du Bos* terms mixt allegorical compositions, these
may do in poetry .; because, in writing, the allegory can easily be
distinguished from the historical part : no person, for example, mis-
takes Virgil's Fame for a real bemg. But such a mixture in a pic-
ture is intolerable ; because in a picture the objects must appear all
of the same kind, wholly real or wholly emblematical. For this rea-
son, the history of Mary de JViedicis, in the palace of Luxembourg,
painted by Rubens, is unpleasant by a perpetual jumble of real and
allegorical personages, which produce a discordance of parts, and an
obscurity upon the whole : witness, in particular, the tablature repre-
senting the arrival of Mary de Medicis at Marseilles ; where, together
with the real personages, the Nereids and Tritons appear sounding
their shells : such a mixture of fiction and reality in the same group,
is strangely absurd. The picture of Alexander and Roxana, described
by Lucian, is gay and fanciful; but it suffers by the allegorical
figures. It is not in the wit of man to invent an allegorical repre-
sentation deviating farther from any shadow of resemblance, tlian
one exhibited by Lewis 3^1 V. anno 1664; in which an enormous
chariot, intended to represent that of the sun, is dragg'd along, sur-
rounded with men and women, representing the four ages of the
World, the celestial signs, the seasons, the hours, &c. ; a monstrous
composition, suggested probably by Guide's tablature of Aurora, and
still more absurd.
♦ Reflections svir la Poeaie, vol. I. sect. 24.
Digitized
by Google
Sect 6.] FiovRXs. 377
In an allegory as well as in a metaphor, terms ought U> be chosen
that properly and literally are applicable to the representative sub*
ject : nor ought any circumstance to be added that is not proper to
the representative subject, however justly it may be applicable pro-
perly or figuratively to the principal. The following allegory i«
therelbre faulty :
Ferus et Capido,
'Semper ardentes acuens sagjttas
Cote cruerUd. Hbrab. 1. II. ode 8.
And love, still whetting on a stone
His darts in crimson dyed.
For though blood may suggest the cruelty of love, it is an improper
or immaterial circumstance in the representative subject : water, not
blood, is proper for a whetstone.
We proceed to the next head, which is, to examine in what cir-
cumstance these figures are proper, in what improper. This inquiry
is not altogether superseded by what is said upon the same subject
in the chapter of Comparisons ; because upon trial it will be found,
that a short metaphor or allegory may be proper, where a simile,
drawn out to a greater length, and in its nature more solemn, would
scarcely be relished.
And, first, a metaphor, like a simile, is excluded from common
conversation, and from the description of ordinary incidents.
Second, in expressing any severe passion that wholly occupies the
mind, metaphor is improper. For which reason, the following
speech of Macbeth is faulty.
Methought I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more !
Macbeth doth murder sleep ; the innocent sleep j
Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of Care,
The birth of each ^ay's life, sore Labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, ffrcat Nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in Life's feast. Act 11. Sc. 3.
The following example, of deep despair, beside the highly figuratiy«
style, has more the air of raving than of sense :
Calista. Is it the voice of thunder, or my father 1
Madness ! Confusion ! let the storm come on,
Let the tumultuous roar drive all upon me.
Dash my devoted bark ; ye surges, break it;
'Tis for my ruin that the tempest rises.
When I am lost, sunk to the Ibottom low.
Peace shall return, and all be calm again. Fair Penitent^ Act IV.
The metaphor I next introduce, is sweet and lively, but it suits not
a fiery temper infiamed with passion : parables are not the language
of wrath venting itself without restraint :
Chamont. You took her up a little tender flower,
Just sprouted on a bank, which the next firost
Had nip'd ; and with a careful loving hand,
Transplanted her into your own fair garden,
Where the sun always shines : there long she flourishM,
Grew sweet to sense and lovely to the eye.
Till at the last a cruel spoiler came,
Cropt this fair rose, and rifled all its sweetness,
Then cast it like a loathsome weed away. Orphem^ Act
32*
i
Digitized by ^^OOQlC^
378 FIGURES. [Ch. 20,
The following speech, full of imagery, is not natural in grief and
dejection of mind :
QonsaUz. O my son ! from the blind dotage
Of a father's fondness these ills arose.
* For thee I've been ambitious, base and bloody :
For thee Fve plung'd into this sea of sin ;
Stemming the tide with only one weak hand,
While t'other bore the crown (to wreathe thy brow,)
Whose weight hrfS sunk me ere I reach'd the shore.
Mourning Bride^ Act V. Sc. 6.
There is an enchanting picture of deep distress in Macbeth,* where
Macduff is represented lamenting his wife and children, inhumanly
murdered by the tyrant. Stung to the heart with the news, he ques-
tions the messenger over and over : not that he doubted the fact, but
jthat his heart revolted against so cruel a misfortune. After strug-
gling some time with his grief, he turns from his .wife and children
to their savage butcher : and then gives vent to his resentment, but
still with manliness ana dignity :
O, I could play the woman with mine eyes,
And braggart with my tongue. But, gentle Heav'n !
Cut short all intermission ; front to front
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself;
Within my sword's len^h set him — If he 'scape.
Then Heav'n forgive him too.
The whole scene is a delicious picture of human nature. One*
expression only seems doubtful : in examining the messenger, Mac-
duff expresses himself thus :
He hath no children — all my pretty ones !
Did you say, alii what, alii Oh, hell-kite! alii
What, all my pretty little chickens and their dam,
At one fell swoop !
Metaphorical expression, I am sensible, may sometimes be used with
grace, where a regular simile would be intolerable : but there are
situations so severe and dispiriting, as not to admit even the slightest
metaphor. It requires great delicacy of taste to determine with firm-
ness, whether the present case be of that kind : I incline to think it
is; and yet I would not willingly alter a single word of this admi-
rable scene.
But metaphorical language is proper when a man struggles to
bear with dignity or decency a misfortune however great : the strug-
gle agitates and animates the mind :
WoUcy. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness !
This is the state of man ; to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms.
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him ;
The thijd day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening, nips his root.
And then he falls as I do. Henry VIIL Act III. Sc % ^
* Act IV. Se. 3.
Digitized
by Google
Sect 7.] FIGURES. 379
SECTION VII.
FIGURE OF SPEECH.
The using of a word in a sense which is not proper to it— Two objects presented,
the principal and the accessory — Aggrandizes its object — Prevents the fami-
liarity of proper names — Enriches and renders language more copious.
In the section immediately foregoing, a figure of speech is defined,
" The using of a word in a sense different from what is proper to
it;" and the new or uncommon sense of the word is iermea the figu-
ralive sense. The figurative sense must have a relation to that which
is proper ; and the more intimate the relation is, the figure is the
more happy. How ornamental this figure is to language, will not
be readily imagined by any one who has not given peculiar attention;
and therefore I shall endeavor to unfold its capital beauties and advan-
tages. In the first place, a word used figuratively or in a new sense,
suggests at the same time the seiise it commonly hears: and thus it
has the effect to present two objects ; one signified hy the figurative
sense, which may he termed the principal object; and one signified
by the proper sense which m£^y be termed accessory : the principal
makes a part of the thought ; the accessory is merely ornamental.
In this respect, a figure of speech is precisely similar to concordant
sounds in music, which without contributing ,to the melo.dy, makes
it harmonious. I explain myself hy examples. Youth, by a figure
of speech, is termed the morning of life. This expression signifies
youth, the principal object, which enters into the thought: it suggests,
at the same time, the proper sense of morning; and this accessory
object, being in itself heautiful, and connected by resemblance to the
principal object, is not a little ornamental. Imperious ocean is an
example of a different kind, where an attribute is expressed figura-
tively : together with stormy, the figurative meaning of the epithet
imperious, there is suggested its proper meaning, viz. the stern
authority of a despotic prince ; and these two are strongly connected
by resemblance. Upon this figurative power of words, Vida des-
cants with elegance :
Nonne vides, verbis ut veris saepe relictis
Accersant simulata, aliundeque nomina porro
Transportent, aptentque aliis ea rebus ; ut ipsae,
Exuviasque novas, res, insolitosque colores
Indutse, ssepe externi mirentur amictus
Unde illi, laetseque aliena luce fruantur,
Mutatoque habitu, nee jam sua nomina malent 7
Saepe ideo, cum bella canunt, incendia credas
Cernere, diluviuipque ingens surgentibus undis
Contra etiam Martis pugnais imitabitur ignis,
Cum furit accensis acies Vulcania campis.
Nee turbato oritur quondanl minor aequore pugna:
Confiigunt animosi Euri certamine vasto
Inter se, pugnantque adversis molibus unds.
Usque adeo passim sua res insignia laetae
Permutantque, juvantque vicissim ; et mutua seae '
Altera in alterius transformat protinus ora.
Digitized
by Google
tSO FievRifl. [CIl 2D.
Turn npecie oapti saudent spectare legentes : ^
Nam (liTerea Bunm datur h re cern^re eadexni
Multarum simulacra animo subeuntia rerum.
Poet. lib. III. I. U.
See how the poet banishes with grace
A native term to give a stranger place !
From different images with just success
He clothes his matter in the oorrowed dress :
The borrowed dress the things themselves admire,
And wonder whence they drew the strange attire ;
Proud of their ravished spoils, ihej now disclaim
Their former color, and their genuine name, ^
And in another garb more beauteous grown,
Prefer the foreign habit to their own.
Oft as he paints a battle on the plain,
The battle's imaged by the roaring main ;
Now he the fight a fiery deluge names.
That pours along the nelds a flood of flames;
In airy conflict now the winds appear.
Alarm the deeps, and wa^e the stormy war ;
To the fierce snock th' embattled tempests pour.
Waves charge on waves, th' encountering billows roar.
Thus in a varied dress the subject shines.
By turns the objects shift their proper signs ; ^
From shape to shape alternately they run.
To borrow others' charms, and lend their own ;
Pleased with the borrowed charms, the readers find
A crowd of different images combined.
Rise from a single object to the mind.
In the next place, this figure possesses a signal power of aggran-
dizing an object, by the following means. Words which have no
original beauty but what arises from their sound, acquire an adventi-
tious beauty from their meaning : a word signifying any thing that
is agreeable, becomes by that means agreeable; for the agreeableness
of the object is communicated to its name.* This acquired beauty
by the force of custom, adheres to the word even when used figura-
tively ; and the beauty received from the thing it properly signifies,
is communicated to the thing which it is made to signify figuratively.
Consider the foregoing expression Imperious ocean, how much more
elevated it is than Stormy ocean.
Thirdly, this figure has a happy effect by preventing the familiarity
of proper names. The familiarity of a proper name, is communi-
cated to the thing it signifies by means of their intimate connection ;
and the thing is thereby brought down in our feeling.f This bad
effect is prevented by using a figurative word instead of one that is,
proper ; as, for example, when we express the sky by terming it ike
blue vault of heaven; for though no work of art can compare with
the sky in grandeur, the expression however is relished, because it
prevents the object from being brought down by the familiarity of its
proper name. With respect to the degrading familiarity of proper
names, Vida has the following passage :
♦ See Chap. 2. Part 1. Sect. 5.
1 1 have often regretted, that a factious spirit of opposition to the reigning
fiimily makes it necessary in public worship to distinguish the king by his proper
name. One will scarce imag^me who has not mi^ &e trial, how mach Mttiv il
MKinds to pray for our sovereign lord the king, without any addition.
Digitized
by google
Bact 7.] navRES. 3Si
Hine si dura mihi pcissus dicendus UlYSseSy
Non ilium vero memorabo nomine, sea qui
Et mores hominum multorum vidit, et urbes,
Naufraffus eversse post saeva incendia Trojae.
Port. lib. n. 1. 46.
ITius great Ulysses' toils were I to choose,
For the main theme that should employ my muse ;
By his long labors of immortal fame,
Should shine my hero, but conceal his name ;
As one, who lost at sea, had nations seen,
And marked their towns, their manners, and their men,
Since Troy was levelled to the dust by Greece. —
Lastly, by this figure language is enriched, anf rendered more
copious ; in which respect, were there no' other, a figure of speech is
a happy invention. This property is finely touched by Vida :
Gtuinetiam agricolas ea fandi nota voluptas
Exercet, dum laeta seges, dum trudere ffenmias
Incipiunt vites, sitientiaque letheris imbrem
Prata bibunt, ridentque satis surgentibus agrL
Hanc vulgo speciem propriae penuria vocis
Intulit, indictisque urgens in rebus e^estas.
Cluippe ubi se vera ostendebant nomina nusquam,
Fas erat hinc atque hinc transferre simillima veris.
Poet. lib. III. 1. 90.
Ev'en the rough hinds delight in such a strain,
When the glad harvest waves with ffolden grain,
And thirsty meadows drink the peany rain ;
On the j)roud vine her purple ^ems appear ;
The smiling fields rejoice, and hail the pregnant year.
First from necessity the figure spnmg,
For, things, that would not suit our scanty tongue,
When no true names were offered to the view,
Those they transferred that bordered on the true ; ,
Thence by degrees the noble license grew.
The beauties I have mentioned belong to every figure of speech.
Several other beauties peculiar to one or other sort, I shall have occa-
sion to remark afterwar'^^
Not only subjects, but qualities, actions, effects, may be expressed
figuratively. Thus, as to subjects, the gates of breath for the lips,
the watery kingdom for the ocean. As to qualities, fierce for stormy,
in the expression Pierce mw^cr ; Altus for profundus ; AltusputeuSt
Altummare; Breathing for perspiring ; Breathing plants. Again,
as to actions, the sea rages, Time will melt her frozen thoughts,
Time kills grief An effect is put for the cause, as lux for the sun ;
and a cause for tlip effect, as bourn labor es for corn. The relation of
resemblance is one plentiful source of figures of speech ; and nothing
is more common than to apply to one object the name of another that
resembles it in any respect: height, size, and worldly greatness,
resemble not each other ; but the emotions they produce resemble
each other, and prompted by this resemblance, we naturally express
worldly greatness by height or size : one feels a certain uneasiness
in seeing a great depth ; and hence depth is made to express any
thing disagreeable by excess, as depth of grief, depth of despair :
again, height of place, and time long past, produce similar feelings;
tnd hence the expression, Ut altius repetam : distance in past timfi,
Digitized
by Google
38S novRES. [Ch. 20.
producing a strong feeling, is put for any strong feeling. Nihil mihi
ajUiquius nostra amicitia: shortness with relation to space, for short-
ness with relation to time, Brevis esse laboro, obscurusfio : sufifering
a punishment resembles paying a debt ; hence pendere pcBuas. In
the same manner light may be put for glory, sunshine for prosperity,
and weight for importance.
Many words, originally figurative, having by long and constant
use, lost their figurative power, are degraded to the inferior rank of
proper terms. Thus the words that express the operations of the
mind, have in all languages been originally figurative: the reason
holds in all, thfl when these operations came first under considera-
tion, there was no other way of describing them than by what they
resembled : it was not practicable to give them proper names, as
may be done tp objects that can be ascertained by sight and touch.
A soft nature, jarring tempers, weight of wo, pompous phrase, begei
compassion, assuage grief, break a vow, bend the eye downward,
shower down curses, drowned in tears, wrapt in joy, warmed with
eloquence, loaded with spoils, and- a thousand other expressions of
the like nature, have lost their figurative sense. Some terms there
are, that cannot be said to be either altogether figurative or altogether
proper: originally figurative, they are tending to simplicity, without
having lost altogether their figurative power. Virgil's Regina sau-
da cura, is perhaps one of these expressions : with ordinary readers,
saucia will be considered as expressing simply the eflfect of grief;
but one of a lively imagination will exalt the phrase into a figure.
For epitomising this subject, and at the same time for giving a
clear view of it, I cannot think of a better method, than to present
to the reader a- list of the several relations upon which figures of
speech are commonly founded. This list I divide into two tables •
one of subjects expressed figuratively, and one of attributes.
FIRST TABLE.
Subjects expressed figuratively.
1. A word proper to one subject employed figuratively to express
a resembling subject.
There is no figure of speech so frequent, as what is derived fi^m
the relation of resemblance. Youth, for example, is signified figu-
ratively by the morning of life. The life of a man resembles a
natural day in several particulars : the morning is the beginning of
day, youth the beginning of life ; the morning is cheerful, so ift
youth, &.C. By another resemblance, a bold warrior is termed the
thunderbolt of war ; a multitude of troubles, a sea of troubles.
This figure, above all others, aflTords pleasure to the mind by va-
riety of beauties. Besides the beauties above mentioned, commoQ
to all sorts, it possesses in particular the beauty of a metaphor or of
a simile: a figure of speech built upon resemblance, suggests
always a comparison between the principal subject and the acces-
sory; whereby every good eflfect of a metaphor or. simile, may in a
abort ani lively manner, be produced by this figure of speech.
Digitized by V^OOQIC
Sect 7.] FiouRss. 888
2. A word proper to ths effect employed figuratiyely to express
the cause.
. hu,z for the sun. Shadow for cloud. A helmet is signified by
the expression glittering terror, A tree by shadow or umbrage.
Hence the expression:
Nee habet Pelion umbras.* Ooid.
Where the dun umbra^ hangs. ~ Spring f 1. 1033.
A wound is made to signify an arrow :
Vulnere non pedibus te consequar.t Ovid,
There is a peculiar force and beauty in this figure : the word
whioji signifies figuratively the principal subject, denotes it to be a
cause by suggesting the effect.
3. A word proper to the cause, employed figuratively to express
the effect.
• Boumque labor es^ for corn. Sorrow or griefs for tears.
Again, Ulysses veil'd his pensive head ;
Again, unmann'd, a show r of sorrow shed.
Streaming Grief his faded cheek b^w'd.
Blindness for darkness :
Caecis erramus in undis.t jEneidf III. 200.
There is a peculiar energy in this figure, similar to that in the
former : the figurative name denotes the subject to be an effect, by
suggesting its cause.
4. Two things being' intimately connected, the proper name of
the one employed figuratively to signify the other.
Day for light. Night for darkness ; and hence, A sudden night.
Winter for a storm at sea :
Interea magno misceri murmure pontum, ^
Emissamque Hyemem sensit Neptunus. JEnnd, 1. 128.
Meantime imperial Neptune heard the soiind
Of raging winter breaking on the ground.
This last figure would be too bold for a British writer, as a storip
at sea is not inseparably connected with winter in this climate.
5.* A word proper to an attribute, employed figuratively to denote
the subject.
Youth and beauty for those who are young and beautiful :
Youth and beauty shall be laid in dust.
Majesty for the King :
What art thou,>that usurp'st this time of night,
Together with that fair and warlike form, '
In which the Majesty of buried Denmark
Did sometime march 1 HamUt^ Act I. Sc. 1.
-Or have ye chosen this place
After the toils of battle, to repose
Your weary'd virtue. Paradise Lm$,
* Nor hath Pelion sh&dows.
t I will follow thee with a wound, not with feet
* We wander midst the blind waves.
Digitized
by Google
S84 rxoussf. [CL 9a
Verdure for a green field. Summer^X 301.
Speaking of cranes,
The pigmy nations wounds and death they bring,
And allthe trar descends upon the wing. Hiadj III. 10.
Cool age advances venerably wise. Iliad, III. 149.
The peculiar beauty of this figure arises from suggesting an
attribute that embellishes the subject, or puts it in a stronger light
6. A complex term employed figuratively to denote one of the
eoinponent parts. '
Funus* for a dead body. Burial for a grave.
7. The name of one of the component parts instead of the com-
plex term.
T(Bda^ for a marriage. The East for a country situated east
ftom us. Jovis vestigia $ervat,X for imitating Jupiter in general.
8. A word signifying time or place, employed figuratively to de-
note what is connected with it.
Clime for a nation, or for a constitution of government : hence the
expression Merciful clime^ Fleecy winter for snow, Seculum felix.^
* 9. A part for the whole.
The Pole for the earth. The head for the person :
Triginta miitas pro capite tuo dedi.ll Pla/utus,
Tergum for the man :
Fugiens tergum.lT OpuL
Vultus for the man :
Jam fulgor armorum fugaces
Terret equos, equitumque vultus. Bomt.
-Men in armor bright,
The routed horse and horsemen with their lightnings fright
etuis desiderio sit pudor aut modus
Tarn chari capitis 7 - HoraJL
What can abash the mournful strains
Or bounds prescribe to grief like this
For those most precious dear remains.
Dumque virent gcrma?**
Bofat,
Thy growing virtues justiiy'd my cares,
And promised comfort to my silver hairs, JUad^ IX. 616.
-Forthwith from the pool he rears
His mighty stature. Paradise Lost.
The silent heart with grief assails PameU.
The peculiar beauty of this figure consists in marking that part
which makes the greatest figure.
10. The name of the container, employed figuratively to signify
what is contained.
Orove for the birds in it, Vocal grove. Ships for the seamen,
• A funeral. t A marriage torch. t He follows the steps of Jove.
I A happy age. II I gave thirty pounds for tny head.
T Fleeing from his back. • ** Whilst my knees have strength.
Digitized
by Google
Sect 7.] FIGURES. 885
•
Agonizing shipsi Mountains for the sheep pasturing upon them.
Bleating mountains. Zacynthus, Ithaca, &c. for the inhabitants.
Ex mcsstis domibus, Livy.
1 1. The name of the sustainer, employed figuratively to signify
what is sustained.
Altar for the sacrifice. Field for the battle fought upon it, Well-
fought ^«/i.
12. The name of the materials, employed figuratively to signify
the things made of them.
Ferrum for gladius.
13. The names of the Heathen deities, employed figuratively to
signify what they patronise.
Jove for the air, Mars for war, Venus for beauty, Owpid for love,
Ceres for com, Neptune for the sea, Vulcan for fire.
This figure bestows great elevation upon the subject ; and there-
fore ought to be confined to the higher strains of poetry.
SECOND TABLE.
Attributes expressed figuratively. *
When two attributes are connected, the name of the one may b^
employed figuratively to express the other. ,
1. Purity and virginity are attributes of the same person: hence
the expression. Virgin snow, for pure snow.
2. A word signifying properly an attribute of one subject, em-
ployed figuratively to express a resembling attribute of another
subject.
Tottering state. Imperious ocean. Angry flood. Raging
tempest. Shallow fears.
My sure diyinity shall bear the shield,
And edge thy sword to reap the glorious field. Od/yssey, XX. 61.
Black omen, for an omen that portends bad fortune.
Ater odor. Vtrgii.
The peculiar beauty of this figure arises from suggesting a com-
parison.
3. A word proper to the subject, employed to express one of its
attributes.
Mens for intellectus. Mens for a resolution :
Istam, oro, exue mentem.
4 When two subjects have a resemblance by a common quality,
the name of the one subject may be employed nguratively to denote
that quality in the other.
Summer life for agreeable life.
5. The name of the instrument made to signify the power of
employing it.
Melpomene, cui liquidam pater
•Vocem cum cUhera, dedit ' »
The ample field of figurative expression displayed in these tablei^
33
Digitized
bySoogle
966 nouRB& [Ch. 20
kShrda great scope for reasoning. Several of the observations relating
to metaphor, are applicable to figures of speech : these I shall slightly
retouch, with some additions peculiarly adapted to the present
tulject.
In the first place, as the figure under consideration is buik upon
relation, we find from experience, and it must be obvious firom reason,
that the beauty of the figure depends on the intimacy of the relation
between the figurative and proper sense of the word. A slight resem-
blance, in particular, will never make this figure agreeable: the
expression, for example. Drink down a secret, for listening to a secret
with attention, is harsh, and uncouth, because there is scarcely any
resemblance between listening and drinking. The expression
weighty crack, used by Ben Jonson for loud cracky is worse if possi-
ble : a loud sound has not the slightest resemblance to a piece of
matter that is weighty. The following expression of Lucretius is
not less &ulty, " £t lepido quae sunt fucata sonore." i. 645.
Sed magis
Pugnas et exactos tvrannos
Densum hnmeris bihU aure vulgus.
Horat, Cam, 1. 2. Ode 13.
' But most
The attention and the tbick'nin^ throng augment,
To hear of patriot fights, and kings in exile sent
Phemius ! let acts of gods and heroes oM, ^
What ancient bards in hall and bow'r have told,
Attemper'd to the lyre, your voice employ, '
Such the pleas'd ear will drink with silent joy. Odyssey ^ I. 435
Strepitumque exterritus kausit. JEneid, VL 559
And terrified, drank the tumult.
, I Write, my Clueen,
And with mine eyes I'U drink the words you send.
Cymbelinej^ci I. Sc. 2.
As thus th' effulgence tremulous I drink. Summer^ 1. 1684.
Neque audit cturus habenas. Oeorg. I. 514.
Nor does the chariot hear the reins.
O Prince ! (Lycaon's raliant son rcply'd),
As thine the steeds, be thine the task to guide.
The horses practis'd to their lord's command,
Shall 1t£ar tliie rein, and answer to thy hand. lliadi V> 268.
The following figures of speech seem altogether wild and extr*
vagant, the figurative and .proper meaning having no connection
whatever. Moving softness. Freshness breathes. Breathing pros-
pect. Flowing spring, Dewy light. Lucid coolness, and many others
of this false com, may be found in Thomson's Seasons.
Secondly, the proper sense of the word ougbt to bear some pro-
portion to the figurative sense, and not soar much above it, nor sink
much below it. This rule, as well as the foregoing, is finely illus-
trated by Vida :
Hsec adeo cum sint, cum fas audere poetis
Multk modis multis ; tamen observare memento
Si quando haud propriis rem mavis dicere verbis,
Digitized
by Google
Sect 7.] FIGURB8. 387
Translatisque aliunde notis, longe^ue petitit,
Ne nimiam ostendas, quaerendo tali a, curam.
Namque aliqui exercent vim duroin, et rebus inique
Nativam eripiunt formam, indignantibus ipsis
Invitasque jubent alienos sumere vultus
Haud magis imprudens mihi erit, et luminis txpetBf
etui puero ingentes habitus del ferre gigantis,
Gtuam siquis stabula alta lai*es ap{)ellet equinos,
Aut crines magns genitricis gramina dicat. Poet. III. 148.
But though our fond indul^nce grants the muse
A thousaind liberties in diflerent views,
Whene'er you choose an image to express
In foreign terms, and scorn the native dress;
Yet be discreet, nor strain the point too far,
Let the transition still enforced appear,
Nor e'er discover an excess of care :
For some, wc know, with awkward violence
Gtuite change the genuine figure, and deface
The native shape with every living grace;
And force unwilling objects to put on
An alien face, and features not their own.
A low conceit in disproportioned terms,
Looks like a boy dress^ up in giant's arms ;
Blind to the truth, all reason they exceed,
I Who name a stall the palace of the steed,
Or grass the tresses of great Rhsea's head.
Thirdly, in a figure of speech, every circumstance ought to be
avoided that agrees with the proper sense only, not the figurative
sense ; for it is the latter that expresses the thought, and the former
serves for no other purpose than to make harmony :
Zacvnthus green with ever-shady groves.
And Ithaca, presiunptuous boast their loves ;
Obtruding on my choice a second lord.
They press the Hymenean rite abhorr'd. Od/yssey, XIX. 15S.
Zacynthus here standing figuratively for the inhabitants, the descnp-
tion of the island is quite out of place : it puzzles the reader, by
making him doubt whether the word ought to be taken in its proper
or figurative sense. •
- Write, my Clueen,
And with mine eyes I'll drink the words you send.
Though ink be made of gall. Cymbeline^ Act I. Sc. f .
The disgust one has to drink ink in reality, is not to the purpose
where the subject is drinking ink figuratively.
In the fourth place, to draw consequences from a figure of speech,
as if the word were to be understood literally, is a gross absurdity,
&r it is confounding truth with fiction. <
Be Moubray^s sins so heavy in his bosom.
That they may break his foaming courser s back.
And throw the rider headlong in the lists,
A caitiff recreant to my cousin Herefi>rd.
Richard II. Act I. Sc.%
Sin may be imagined heavy in a figurative sense : but weight in a
proper sense belongs to the accessory only ; and therefore to describe
the effects of weight, is to desert the principal subject, and to convert
the accessory into a principal
Digitized
by Google
888 PIGURB8. iCh. 2a
CromweU. How does your Qrace 7
Wolsty. Why, well;
Never so truly nappy, my good CromweU.
I know myself now, and I feel within me
A peace above all earthly dignities,
A still and quiet conscience. The King has cur'd roe,
I humbly thank his Grace ; and from these shoulders,
These ruin*d pillars, out of pity, taken
A load would sink a navy, too much honor.
Henry VIU, Act HI. Sc ^
Olysses speaking of Hector :
I wonder now how yonder city stands.
When we have here the base and pillar by us.
TVifilus and tressida, Act lY. So. &•
Oikdh, No : my heart is tum'd to stone : I strike it, and it hurts my hand.
Othello, Act IV. Sc 1.
Not less, even in this despicable now.
Than when my name fill'd Afric with ai&ights,
And froze your hearts beneath your torrid zone.
Don Sebastian, King of Portugal^ Act I
^ow Ion? a space, since first I lov'd, it is I
To look into a glass I fear,
And am surpris'd with wonder when I miss
Gray hairs and wrinkles there. Cowley , VoL L p. B&
I chose the flourishing'st tree in all the park.
With freshest boughs and fairest head ;
1 cut my love into his gentle bark.
And m three days behold 'tis dead ;
My vqry written names so violent be,
Tney've burnt and wither*d up the tree
Cowley, Vol. I, ]p. 136.
Ah, mighty Love, that it were inward heat
Which mtbde this precious limbeck sweat 1
But what, alas ! ah what does it avail,
That she weeps tears so wondrous cold,
As scarce the ass's hoof can hold,
So coM, that I admire they fall not hail.
Cowley, Vol. L p. 132.
Sach a play of words is pleasant in a ludicrous ppem.
Almeria. O Alphonso, Alphonso I
Devouring seas have wash'd thee from my sight.
No time shall rase thee from my memory ;
No, I will live to be thy monument:
The cruel ocean is no more thy tomb ; •
But in my heart thou art interrd.
Mourning Bride, Act I. Sc 1.
This vfould be very right, if there were any inconsistence, in being
interred in one place really, and in another place figuratively.
Je crains que cette saison
Ne nous amdne la peste ;
La gueule du chicn celeste
Vqmit feu sur I'horison.
Afin que je m'en d^livre,
Je veux lire ton gros livre
Jusquesau dernier feuillet:
Tout ce que ta plume trace,
Robinet, a de la ^ace
A faire trembler JuiUet. Maynard,
Digitized
by Google
Feet. 7.] FIGVRBi. tt9
In me tola mens Venus
Cyprum deseruit. HortU. Carm. 1. 1. Ode 19.
Her CypTVLE now deserting quite,
Venus on me careers with au her might
From considering that a word used in a figurative sense suggests
at the same time its proper meaning, we discover a fifth rule, that we
ought not to employ a word in a figurative sense, the proper sense of
which IS inconsistent or incongruous with the subject : for evenr
inconsistency, and even incongruity, though in the expression only
and not real, is unpleasant : *
[nterea genitor Tyberini ad fluminis undam
Vulnera sUcabat lymphis
MneU, X. 833.
Meantime his father, now no father stood,
And dried Ids wounds by Tyber's yellow flood. ^
Tres adeo incertos caeca caligine soles
EIrramus pelago, totidem sine sidere noctes.
MneU, III. 903.
Three starless nights the doubtful navy stays
"Without distinction, and three sunless days.
The foregoing rule may be extended to form a sixth, that no epi-
thet ought to be given to the figurative sense of a word that agrees
not also with its proper sense :
Dicat Opuntis
Frater Megillse, quo beat/us
Vulnere. Horat. Carm. lib. I. Ode 37.
Let the brother of the Opuntian fair ^
Rather his lovesick joys, and darling flame declare.
Parens deorum cultor, et infrequens,
insanientis dum sapientis
Consultus erro. Horat. Carm. lib. I. Ode 3i.
A sparine and unfrequent guest,
' In Jove's high temple at the best,
"While mad philosophy my mind pursued.
ocv«.^..Jy, the crowding into one period or thought of different
figures of speech, is not less faulty than crowding metaphors in that
manner: the mind is distracted in the quick transition from one
image to another, and is puzzled instead of being pleased :
I am of ladies most deject and wretched.
That suck'd the honey of his music^vows. HamiH.
My bleeding bosom sickens at the sound. Odyssey^ 1. 439.
Ah miser,
Gtuant4 laboras in Charybdi!
Digne puer mtWoie fiarmnA.
Glue saga, quis te solvere Thessalis
Magus vencniSj quis poterit deus ?
Vix illigatum te trifom^i
Pegasus expediet Ckimerd,.
Horat. Carm. lib. I. Ode 97.
^Ah wretch, how thou art hampered in a strait —
*A lad whose matchless worth deserved a better ikt««
"What sorceress, what magic art,
What power divine can ease thy smart !
33»
Digitized
by Google
4K) FIGURES. . (Ch. 20
E'en Pef;asu8 to clear thee will be loth
From one composed of whimsy, wantonness and wrath.
Eighthly, if crowding figures be bad, it is still worse to graft one
figure upon another : for instance.
While his keen falchion drinks the warriors' lives. Jliadj XI. 211.
A &lchion drinking the warriors' blood is a figure built upon resem-
blance, which is passable. But then in the expression, lives is again
put for blood ; and by thus grafting one figure upon another, the
expression is rendered ohfccure and unpleasant.
Ninthly, intricate and involved figures that can scarcely be ana*
lyzed, or reduced to plain language, are least of all tolerable :
Votis incendimus aras. JEineid, IIL 279.
We inflame the altars with vows.
Onerantque canistris
Dona laboratae Cereris^ . JEneid, YIU. 180.
They load the baskets with the gifts of labored Ceres.
Yolcan to the Cyclopes :
Arma acri facienda viro : nunc viribus ususj
Nunc manibus rapidis, omni nunc arte magistra:
PracipitaU moras. ^neid, YIII. i/ih
Arms for a hero forge — arms that require
Your force— hasten delay — ^prepeure your fire.
Huic gladio, perque aerea suta
Per tunicam squalentem auro, latus haurit apertum.
JSnHd, X. 313L
But armor scaled with gold was no defence
Against the' fated sword which opened wide
Hts plated shield and drank his open side.
Semotique prius tarda necessitas
Lethi, corripuit gradum. Horat. Cam. lib. 1. Ode 3.
And for a long delay at first designed
The last extremity advanced
And urged the march of death, and all his pangs enhanced.
Scribdris Yario fortis, et hostiimi
Yictor, M»onii carminis alUe.
Horat, Carm. lib. L Ode
Brave and victorious in the fight
Our Yarius with M aeonian flight
Shall thine achievements blaze.
Else shall our fates be numbered with the dead. Utad, Y. 29s
Commutual death the fate of war confounds.
i^ww«,YIII.85.andXL117.
Speaking of Proteus,
Instant he wears, elusive of the rape,
The mimic force of every savage wiape. Odyssey ^ lY. 563.
• Rolling convulsive on the floor, is seen
The piteous object of a prostrate queen. Ibtd. TV, 958.
The mingling tempest waves iu gloom. AutumHf 837.
A various sweetness swells the gentle race. * Ibid. 640.
A sober calm fleeces unboimded ether. Md, 967.
The distant waterfall swells in the breeze Winter^ 738.
Digitized by V^OOglC
Ch. 21.] NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 391
In the tenth place, when a subject is introduced by its proper
name, it is absurd to attribute to it the properties of a different sub*
ject to which the word is sometimes applied in a figurative sense :
Hear, me, oh Neptune ! thou whose arms are hurl'd
Prom shore to shore, and gird the solid world.
Odyssey, IX. 617.
Neptune is here introduced personally, and not figuratively for the
ocean : the description therefore, which is only applicable to the lat-
ter, is altogether improper.
It is not sufficient, that a figure of speech be regularly constructed,
and be free from blemish : it requires taste to discern when it is pro-
per, and when improper; and taste, I suspect is our onjy guide.
'^One, however, may gather from reflection and experience, that orna-
ments and graces suit not any of the dispiriting passions, nor are
proper for expressing any thing grave and important. • In familiar
conversation, they are in some measure ridiculous: Prospero, in
the Tempest J speaking to his daughter Miranda, says,
The fringed curtains of thine eyes advance,
And say what thou seest yond.
No exception can be taken to the justness of the figure ; and cir-
cumstances may be imagined to make it proper ; but it is certainly
not proper in familiar conversation.
In the last place, though figures of speech have a charming effect
when accurately constructed and properly introduced, they ought,
however, to be scattered with a sparing hand: nothing is more
luscious, and nothing consequently more satiating, thah redundant
ornaments of any kind.
CHAPTER XXL
NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION.
Writers-should choose subjects adapted to their genius — In history, the reflections
to be chaste and solid— The commencement of an epic poem to be modest —
Subjects intended for entertainment solely, to be described as they appear, and
not as they really are — Objects in both nturration and description, to be painted
with great accuracy — A useless circumstance to be suppressed — The power of
a simple circumstance happily selected — The drawing of characters, the master
stroke in description — In this Tacitus, Shakspeare, and Ossian excel — Vert)al
dress — The emotion raised by the sound and the sense to be concoi-dant — A
stronger impression made by an incident upon an eye-witness than when heard
at second hand — The effect of abstract or general terms in composition for
amusement, not good^-In the fine arts, the capital object to be placed in the
strongest point of view — A concise comprehensive style, a great ornament in
narration — Tautology to be avoided — An object ugly to the sight, not so
when represented Dy cobrs or by words — Illustrated, from painting, and from
language.
Horace, and many critics after him, exhort writers to choose a
subject adapted to their genius. Such observations would multiply
rules of criticism without end ; and at any rate belong not to the
Digitized by VorOOQlC
I
I
392 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. [Ch. 21
{tresent work, the object of which is human nature in general, and
what is common to the species. But though the choice of a subject
comes not under such a plan, the manner of execution comes
under it'; because the manner of execution is subjected to general
rules, derived from principles common to the species. These rules,
as they concern the things expressed as well as the language oi
expression, require a division of this chapter into two parts ; first
of thoughts, and next of words. I pretend not to justify this divisioti
as entirely accurate : for in discoursing of thoughts, it is difficult to
abstract altogether from the words ; and still more difficult, in dis-
coursing of words, to abstract altogether from the thought.
The first rule is, that in history the reflections ought to be chaste
and solid : for while the mind is intent upon truth, it is little dis-
posed to tne operations of the imagination. Strada's Belgic History
is full of poetical images, which discording with the subject, 'are
unpleasant ;' and they have a still worse eflfect, bv giving an air of
fiction to a genuine history. Such flowers ought to be scattered
with a sparing hand, even in epic poetry; and at no rate are they
proper, till the reader be warmed, and by an enlivened imagination
be prepared to relish them : in that state of ipind thev are agreeable ;
but while we are sedate and attentive to an historical chain of facts,
we reject with disdain, every fiction. This Belgic History is indeed
wofully vicious both in matter and in form: it is stufied with frigid
and unmeaning reflections; and its poetical flashes, even laying
aside their impropriety, are mere tinsel.
Second, Vida,* following Horace, recommends a modest com-
mencement of an epic poem ; giving for a reason, that the writer
ought to husband his fire. This reason has weight ; but what is
said above suggests a reason still more weighty : bold thoughts and
figures are never relished till the mind be heated and thoroughly
engaged, which is not the reader's case at the commencement
Homer introduces not a single simile in the first iook of the Iliad,
nor in the first book of the Odyssey. On the diher hand, Shak-
speare begins one of his plays with a sentiment too bold for the
most healed imagination :
Bedford. Hung be the heav'ns with black, yield day to night !
Comets, importing change of times and states,
Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky,
And with them scourge the bad revolting stars,
That have consented unto Henry's ^deau !
Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long !
England ne'er lost a king of so much worth.
First Part Bewry VL
The passage with which Strada begins his history, is too poetical .
for a subject of that kind ; and at any rate too high for the beginniog
of a grave performance. A third reason ought to have no less
influence than either of the former, that a man, who, upon his first
appearance, strains to make a figure, is too ostentatious to be relished.
Hence the first sentences of a work ought to be short, natural and
simple. Cicero, in his oration pro Archia foeta, errs against Ikii
• Poet. Ub. ILL 30.
Digitized
by Google
Oh. 21.] NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. ^ 393
rale : his reader is out of breath at the very first ]^riod ; which
seems never to end. Burnet begins the History of his Own Times
with a period long and intricate.
A third rule or observation is, that where the subject is intended
for entertainment solely, not for instruction, a thing ought to be
described as it appears, not as it is in reality. In running, for
example, the impulse upon the ground is proportioned, in some
degree, to the celerity of motion : though in appearance it is other-
wise for a person in swift motion seems to skim the ground, and
scarcely to touch it. Virgil, with great taste, describes quick
running according to appearance; and raises an image far more
lively than by adhering scrupulously to truth :
Hos super advenit Volsca de gente Camilla,
Agmen agens equitum et florentes sere catervas,
Bdlatrix : non ilia colo calathisve Minervas
Foemineas assueta manus ; sed prselia virgo
Dura pati, cursuque pedum preevertere ventos.
Ilia vel intacts segetis per summa volaret
Gramina : nee teneras cursu Isesisset aristas :
Vel mare per medium, fluctu suspensa tumenti,
Ferret iter ; celeres nee tingeret sequore plantas.
jEneU, VII. 803.
• Last from the Volscians fair Camilla came
And led her warlike troops, a warrior dame,
Unbred to spinning, in the loom unskilled,
She chose the nobler Pallas of the field.
Mixed with the first the fierce virago fought
Sustained the toils of arms, the danger sought,
Outstripped the winds in speed upon the plain,
Flew 0 er the field, nor hurt the bearded grain.
She swept the seas, and as she skimmed along.
Her flying feet unbathed on billows hung.
This example is copied by the author of Telemackus :
Leg Brutiens sont legeres a la coarse eomme les cerfs, et comme les daims;
On croiroit que I'herbe mdme la plus tendre n'est point foul6e sous leurs pieds.
h peine laissent-ils dans le sable quelques traces de leurs pas. Liv. X.
Again '
D6ja il avoit abattu Eusilas si leger a la course, qu'a peine il imprimoit la
trace de ses pas dansle sable, et qui devan9oit dans son pays les plus rapides flots
de I'Eurotas et de I'Alph^e. Liv. XX.
Fourth, In narration as well as in description, objects ought to be
painted so accurately as to form in the mind of the reader distinct
and lively images. Every useless circumstance ought indeed to be
suppressed, because every such circumstance loads the narration ;
but if a circumstance be necessary, however slight, it cannot be
described too minutely. The force of language consists in raising
complete images ;* wnich have the effect to transport the reader as
by magic into the very place of the important action, and to convert
him as it were into a spectator, beholding every thing that passes.
The narrative in an epic poem ought to rival a picture in the liveli-
ness and accuracy of its representations: no circumstance must be
omitted that tends to make a complete image ; because an imperfect
- image, as well as any other imperfect conception, is cold and unin-
* Chap. 2. Part 1. Sect. 7.
Digitized
by Google
894 VAERATION ▲ND'DESORIPTieff. [CSl. 21.
teresting. I shall illustrate this rule by seyeral examples, gintkg
the first place to a beautiful passage from Virgil :
dualis popuUd moerens Philomela stlb umbrll
Amissos queritur fietus^^quos dunis artUor
Observans nido implumex detraxit. Cfeorg. lib. IV. 1. 511.
So close in poplar shades, her children gone,
The mother nightingale laments alone,
Whose nest some prying churl had found, and thence
By stealth conveyed the imfealKered innocence.
The poplar, ploughman, and unfledged young, though not essiential
in the description, tend to make a complete image, and upon that
account are an embellishment.
Again:
Hie viridem JEneoafrondenti ex ilice metam
Constituit, signum nautis. JEneid, Y. 129.
On this, the hero fixed an oak in sij^
The mark to guide the mariners angfat
Horace, addressing to Fortune :
Te pauper ambit soUicita prece
Runs.colonus : te dominam sequoris,
Quicumciue Bythina lacessit «
Carpathiiun pelagus carincL Carm. lib. I. ode 3&.
Thee the poor fanner's anxious prayer
Solicits, that his fields may bear —
Thee, mistress of the main, the sailor hails,
As his Bythinian bark o'er Cretan billows sails.
Blum ex moenibus hosticis
Matrona bellantis tyranni
Prospiciens, et adulta yirgo, '
Suspiret : Eheu, ne rudis agminum
Sponsus lacessat regius asperum
Tactu leonem, quem cruenta
Per medias rapit ira caedes. Carm. lib. III. ode %
Him firom the wall the tyrant's consort spies.
And marriageable virgin sends her broken sighs.
Ah me for fear my royal spouse
Should this ungoverned lion rouse.
And with inferior skill provoke his rag^,
Which breaks through thickest ranks the midmost war to wage.
Shakspeare says,* " You may as well go about to turn the sun to
ice by fiinning in his face with a peacocks feather." The peacock's
feather, not to mention the beauty of the object, completes the image:
an accurate image cannot be formed of that fanciful operation, with-
out conceiving a particular featber ; and one is at a loss when this
is neglected in the description. Again, " the rogues slighted me
into the river with as little remorse as they would have drown'd a
bitch's blind puppies, fifteen i' th' fitter." t
Old Lady. You would not be a queen 1
Avme. No, not for all the riches imder heav'n.
Old Lady. 'Tis strange : a threepence bow'd would hire me, old as I am, to
queen it. , Henry VIIL Act II. Sc 3.
In the following passage, the action, with all its material circum*
stances, is represented so much to the life, that it would scarcely ,
♦ Henry V. Act IV. Sc. 4. t Merry Wives of Windsor, Act lU. Sc 5.
Digitized
by Google
dl. 21.] NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 8^5
appear more distinct to a real spectator ; and it is the manner of
description that contributes greatly to the sublimity of the passage.
He spake j' and to confirm his words, out flew
Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs
Of mighty chenibim ; the sadden blaze
Far round illumined heU: highly they rag*d
Against the Highest, and fiel^ with grasped arms
Clash'd on their sounding shields the din of war,
Hurling defiance toward the vault of heav'n. MUioUf B. 1.
A passage I am to cite from Shakspeare, falls not much short of
that DOW mentioned in particularity of description :
O you hard hearts ! you cruel men of Rome !
Knew you not Pompey 1 JVIany a time and oft
Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,
Your infimts in your arms ; and there have sat
The live-long day with patient expectation
To see greed Pompey pass the strieets of Rome j
And when you saw hts chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tyber trembled underneath his banks,
To hear the replication of your sounds,
Made in his concave shores 1 Julius Casar, Act I. Sc. 1.
The following passage is scarcely inferior to either of those men-
tioned :
Far before the rest, the son of Ossian comes ; bright in the smiles of youth,
fair as the first beams of the sun. His long; hair waves on his back : his dark
brow is half beneath his helmet. The sword h m^s loose on the hero's side ; and
hi;^ spear glitters tis he moves. I fled from his teirOdle eye. King of high Temora.
Fingal.
The Henriade of Voltaire errs greatly against the foregoing rule :
every incident is touched in a summary way, without ever descend-
ing to circumstances. This manner is good in a general history,
the purpose of which is to record important transactions : but in a
fable it is cold and uninteresting ; becanse it is impracticable to form
distinct images of persons or things represented in a manner so
superficial.
It is observed above, that every useless circumstance ought to be
suppressed. The crowding of such circumstances, is, on the one
hand, no less to be avoided, than the conciseness for which Voltaire
IS blamed, on the other. In the JEneid,^ Barce, the nurse of Sichaeus,
whom we nevey hear of before nor after, is introduced for a purpose
not more important than to call Anna to her sister Dido: and that
It might not be thought unjust in Dido, even in this trivial circum-
stance, to prefer her husband's nurse before her own, the poet takes
care to inform his reader, that Dido*s nurse was dead. To this I
must oppose a beautiful passage in the same book, where, after
Dido's last speech, the poet, without detaining his readers by describ-
ing the manner of her death, hastens to the lamentation of her
attendants : ^
Dixerat: atque Ulam media inter talia ferro
CoUapsam aspiciunt comites, ensemque cruore
• Lib. iv. 1. 632.
*.
Digitized by'VjOOQlC
* NAERATIOir AND DBiCRIPTIOV. [Oh. ft
Spmnantem, sparaasque manas. It clamor ad aka
Atria, concussam bacchatur fama per urbem ;
Lamentis gemituque et fcBmineo ululatu
Tecta firemunt, resonat magnis plangoribus aether.
Lib. lY, I m.
She said and struck ; deep entered in her side
The piercing steel, with reekin? purple dyed,
Clogged in the wound the cruel weiq)on stands,
The spouting blood came streaming o'er her hands.
Her sad attendants saw the deadly stroke,
And with loud cries the sounding palace shook.
Distracted from the fatal sisht they fled.
And through the town the dismal rumor spread.
First from the frighted court the yell be|gan,
Redoubled thence, from house to nouse it ran ;
The ^ans Qf men, with' shrieks, laments, and cries
Of mixing women, mount the vaulted skies.
As an appendix to the foregoing rule, I add the following obser-
ration, that to make a sudden and strong impression, some single
circumstance happily selected, has more power than the roost labored
description. Macbeth, mentioning to his lady some voices he heard
while he was murdering the King, says,
There's one did lauffh in's sleep, and one cry*d Murder !
They wak'd each oUier; and Istood and heard them;
But they did say their prayers, and address than
Again to sleep.
» Ladv. There are two lodg'd together.
Macbeth. One cry'd, Crod bless us ! and Amen the other;
As they had seen me with these hangman's hands.
Listenmg their fear, I could not say Amen,
When they did sa^r, Grod bless us.
Ladyt Consider it not so deeply.
Macbeth. But wherefore could not I pronounce Amen ^
I had most need of blessing, and Amen ^
Stuck in my throat ,
Lady, ifneae deeds must not be thought
After these ways ; so, it will make us mad.
Macbeth. MeChought I heard a voice cry, •
Sleep no more !
Macbeth doth murder sleep, &c. Act II. Sc 3.
Alphonso, in the Mourning Bride, shut up in the same prison
where his father had been confined : "^
In a dark comer of my cell I found
This paper, what it is this light will show.
" If my Alphonso" Ha ! r [Reading.
" If my Alphonso live, restore him, Heav'n ;
Give more weight, crush my declining years
With bolts, with chains, imprisonment and want;
But bless my son, visit not him for me."
It is his hand ; this was his pray'r — Yet more:
" Lict ev'ry hair, which sorrow by the roots [Reaiimg-
Tears from my hoary and devoted head,
Be doubled in thy mercies to my son :
Not for myself, but him, hear me, all-gracious" —
'Tis wantmg what should follow Heav'n should foUow,
But 'tis torn off— Why should that word alone
Be tonf from his petition 1 'Twas to Heav'n,
But Heav'n was deaf, Heav'n heard him not; but thaii
Thus as the name of Heav'n from this is torn,
So did it tear the ears of mercy from
Digitized
by Google
C3l 21.] NARRATION AND DKiORIPTIOK. 897
His voice, shutting the sates of pra/r against him.
If piety be thus debarred access
On high, and of good men the very best
Is singled out to bleed, and bear the scour|e,
What is reward 1 or what is punishment 1
But who shall dare to tax eternal justice 1
MmnUng Bride^ Act III. Sc 1.
This incident is a happy invention, and a mark of uncommoti
genius.
Describing Prince Henry:
I saw young Harry, with his beaver on.
His cuisses on his thif hs, valiantly arm'd,
Rise from the ^und like feather'd Mercury ;
And vaulted with such ease into his seat.
As if an angel dropt down from the clouds.
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,
And witch the world with noble horsemanship.
First Part Henry IV. Act IV. Sc I.
King Henry, Lord Cardinal, if thou think'st on Heaven's bliss.
Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope.
He dies, and makes no sign !
Second Part Henry VI. Act III. Sc 3.
The same author, speaking ludicrously of an army debilitated with
diseases, says,
Half of them dare not shake the snow from off their cossocks, lest they shake
themselves to pieces.
I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. The flames had
resounded in the halls ; and the voice of the people is heard no more. The stream
of Clutha was removed from its place by the fall of the wcdls. The thistle shook .
there its lonely head : the moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from
the windows : and the rank grass of the wall waved round his head. Desolate
is the dwelling of Moma : silence is in the house of her fathers. Pingal.
To draw a character is the master-stroke of description. In this
Tacitus excels : his portraits are natural and lively, not a feature
wanting nor misplaced. Shakspeare, however, exceeds Tacitus in
liveliness, some characteristipal circumstance being generally in-
vented or laid hold of, which paints more to the life than many words.
The following instances will explain my meaning, and at the same
time prove my observation to be just :
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster 1
Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice,
By being peevish 1 1 tell thee what, Antonio,
n love thee, and it is my love that speaks,)
There are a sort of men, whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond ;
And do a wilful stillness entertain,
With purpose-to be dress'd in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
As who should say, I am Sir Oracle.
And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark !
O my Antonio, I do know of those.
That therefore only are reputed wise, •
For saying nothing. MerchwiU of Venice^ Aet L Se. 1.
Again:
Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more th^ any man ki aD VWm:
34
Digitized
by Google
996 MARKATION AND DESCRIPTIOIT. [Ch. 21.
Ilis reasons are two erains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff; you shall seek
all day ere you find them, and when you have them they are not worth the search.
IHd.
In the following passage a character is completed by a single
itroke.
ShaUow. O the mad days that I have spent ; and to see how many of mine old
•couaintance are aead.
Silence. We shall all follow, Cousin.
SkaUaw. Certain, 'tis certain, very sure, very sure ; Death (as the Psalmist
•aith) is certain to all : all shall die. How a good yoke of bullocks at Stamford
fairl
Slender. Truly, Cousin, I was not there.
Shallow. Deatn is certain. Is old Dovhle of your town living yetl
Silence. Dead, Sir.
fallow. Dead ! see, see ; he drew a good bow : and dead. He shot a fine
•hoot. How a score of ewes now 1
Silence. Thereafter as they be. A score of good ewes may be worth ten
pounds.
Shallow. And is old Double dead 1 Second Part Henry IV. Act III. Sc. 2.
Describing a jealous husband :
Neither press, coffer, chest, trunk, wcU, vault, but he hath an abstract for the
remembrance of such places, and goes to them by his note. There is no hiding
you in the house. Mertf Wives of Windsor, Act IV. Sc. 2.
Congreve has an inimitable stroke of this kind in his comedy of
Lave for Love:
Ben legend. Well, father, and how do all at home 1 how does brother Dick,
and brother V al 1
Sir Sampson. Dick : body o' me, Dick has been dead these two years. I writ
you word when you were at Leghorn.
Ben. Mess, that's true : marry, I had for&fot. Dick's dead, as you say.
^ ^ • ' ^ActirLSc.6.
FalstafT speaking of ancient Pistol :
He's no swaggerer, hostess : a tame cheater i'faith ; you may stroak him as
eently as a puppy-greyhound ; he will not swagger with a Barbary hen, if her f«i-
Uiers turn back in any shew of resistance.
Second PaH Henry IV. Act II. Sc. 4.
Ossian, among his other excellencies, is eminently successful in
drawing characters ; and he never fails to delight his reader with
the beautiful attitudes of his heroes. Take the following instances:
O Oscar ! bend the strong in arm ; but spare the feeble hand. Be thou a stream
of m&ny tides against the foes of thy people ; but like the gale that moves the grass
to those who ask thine aid. — So Tremor lived; such Trathal was *, cmd such has
Fin^al been. My arm was the support of the injured ; and the weak rested behind
the Ughtning of my steel.
We heard the voice of jo)r on the coast, and we thought that the mighty Cath-
more came. Cathmore the friend of straneers, the brothel of red-hairS Cairbar.
But their souls were not the same ; for the li^ht of heaven was in the bosom of
Cathmore. His towers rose on the banks of Atha : seven paths led to his halls :
seven chiefs stood on these paths, and called the stranger to the feast But Cath<
bhoi^ dwelt in the wood to avoid the voice of praise.
Dermid and Oscar were one : they reaped the battle together. Their friend^iip
was strong as their steel ; and death walked between them to the fieW. They rush
on the foe like two rocks falling firom the brow of- Ardven. Their swords arc
•tained with the blood of the valiant : warriors faint^at their name. Who is equal
19 Oscar but Dermid 1 who to Demud but Oscar 1
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 21.1 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 899
Son of Copahal, replied the chief, the strength of Momi's arm has fuled ; I at^
tempt to draw the sword of my youth, but it remains in its place: I throw
the spear, but it falls short of the mark : and I feel the weight of my shield. Wt
decay like the grass of the mountain, and our strength returns no more. I have a
son, O Fingal, his soul has delighted in the actions of Momi's youth ; but hit
sword has not been fitted against the foe, neither has his fame begun. I come with
him to battle, to direct his arm. His renown will be a sun to my soul, in the dark
hour of my departure. O that the name of Mo^rni were forgot among the people !
that the heroes would only say, " Behold the father of Gaul."
Some writers, through heat of imagination, fall into contradiction ;
some are gnilty of downright absurdities ; and some even rave like
madmen. Against such capital errors one cannot be more effectually
warned than by collecting instances; and the first shall be of a con-
tradiction, the most venial of all. Virgil speaking of Neptune,
Interea magno misceri murmure pontiun,
Emissamaue hyemem sensit Neptunus, et imis •
Stagna renisa vadis : graviter commotiis^ et alto
Prospiciens, sxrmmkplacidum caput extulit undd.
.S^neid^ 1. 1281
Meantime imperial Neptune heard the sound
Of raging billows breciking on the ground,
Displeased^ and fearing for his watery reign,
He reared his placid head above the main.
Again:
When first young Maro, in his boundless mind,
A work t' outlast immortal Rome designed.
Essay on CrUicism^ 1. ISOl
The following examples are of absurdities :
Alii pulsis e tormento catenis discerpti sectique, dimidiato corpore puffnabant
^bi superstites, ac perempts partis ultores.* Strada^ Dec. II. 1. 2.
He fled ; but flying, left his life behind. Jliadj XI. 433.
Full through his neck the weighty falchion sped :
Along the pavement roU'd the mutt'ring heacL
Odyssey, XXII. 365.
The last article is of raving like one mad. Cleopatra speaking
to the aspic,
Welcome, thou kind deceiver,
Thou best of thieves : who, with an easy key,
Dost open life, and unperceiv'd by us,
E'en steal us from ourselves ; discharging so
Death's dreadful oflice, better than himself;
Touching our limbs so gently into slumber.
That Death stands by, deceiv'd by his own image.
And thinks himself but sleep. Dryden, AU for Love, Acf. V.
Reasons that are common and known to every one, ought to be
taken for granted : to express them is childish, and interrupts the
narration. Guintus Curtius, relating the battle of Issus,
Jam in conspectu, sed extra teli jactum, utraaue acies erat ; quum priores Perss
inconditura et trucem sustulcre clamorem. Redditur et a Macedonibus major, ex-
ercttus impar numero, sed jugis montium vastisque saltibus repercussus : quippe
• Others, being torn to pieces and divided, by chains-shot driven from
cannon fought with half a body, surviving themselves, and avengers of the limbs
they had lost.
Digitized
by Google
too KARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. {Ch, 2t
semper Hrcumjeda nemora petraqiu, quantwncwnque accepere vocem^ mvUiplicau
tano referwU*
Having discussed what obcrervations occurred upon the thoughts
or things expressed, I proceed to what more peculiarly concern the
languac^e or verbal dress. The language proper for expressing pas-
Ngion being handled in a former chapter, several observations there
made are applicable to the present subject; particularly, that as
words are intimately connected with the ideas they represent, the
emotions raised by tne sound and by the sense ought to be concord-
ant. An elevated subject requires an elevated style ; what is &mi-
liar, ought to be familiarly expressed: a subject that is serious and
important, ought to be clothed in plain nervous language : a descrip-
tion, on the other hand, addressed to the imagination, is susceptible
of the highest ornaments that sounding words and figurative expres-
sion can bestow upon it
I shall give a few examples of the foregoing rules. A poet of any
fi^enius is not apt to dress a high subject in low words ] and yet
blemishes of that kind are found even in classical works. Horace,
observing that men are satisfied with themselves, but seldom with
their condition, introduces Jupiter indulging to each his own choice :
Jam faciam quod vultis ; eris tu, qui modo miles,
Mercator : tu, consultus modo, rusticus : hinc vos,
Yos hinc mutatis discedite partibus : eia,
Gtuid statis 1 nolint : atqui licet esse beatis.
Gtuid causae est, merito quin iUis, Jupiter amboi
Iralas ouccas inflet 7 neque se fore posthac
Tam facilem dicat, votis ut praebeat aurem 1
/S^.Lib.L S^. 1.1.16
1 will to each assign
The part he chooses — I decree
The soldier shall a merchant be ;
And he, a counsellor of late,
Shall have the country sauire's estate^
Do you come here to shift the scene,
Anci you go there, what do you mean !
They hesitate with all their hearts,
Tho'' in their power to change their parts.
"What cause now* therefore can they show
But Jupiter should puff and blow
In wrath, and for the future swear
He'll not consent to hear their prayer.
Jupiter in wrath puffing up both cheeks, is a low and even ludicrous
expression, far from being suitable to tbe gravity and importance of
the subject : every one must feel the discordance. The following
couplet, sinking far below the subject, is no less ludicrous.
Not one looks backward, onward still he goes,
Yet ne'er looks forward farther than his nose.
Essay on Man^ £p. lY. 233.
Le Rhin tremble et fremit a ces tristes nouvelles ;
Le feu sort a travers ses humides prunelles.
• Now both armies were in sight, but not within the cast of an arrow, when the
Persians ffave a rude and fierce shout. A louder was returned by the MacecU>-
ni&ns, although smaller in nmnber, for it was re-echoed from the ridges of tht
mountains and the vast lawns ; because circumjacent groves and rocks alwajfS f»-
hi/m a voice with multiplied sounds.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 21.] NARRATION AND DB8CRIPTI0N. iQI
C'cst done trop peu, dit-il, que I'Escaut en deux mois
Ait appris a couler sous de nouvelies loix ;
Et de mille remparts mon onde environn^e
De ces fleuves sans nom suivra la destinSel
Ah ! p^rissent mes eaux, ou par d'illustres coups
Montrons qui doit ceder des mortels ou de nous.
A ces mois essuyafUsabarbc linumeusej
11 prend d'un vieux guerrier la figure poudreuse.
Son front cicatris^ rend son air mrieux, ,
Et i'ardeur du combat ^tincelle en ses yeux.
BoUemy Epitre IV. 1. 61.
A god wiping his dirty beard is proper for burlesque pociry only ;
and altogether unsuitable to the strained elevation of this {•oem.
On the other hand, to raise the expression above the tone of the
subject, is a fault than which none is more common. Take the fol-
owing instances :
Orcan le plus fiddle d servir ses desseins,
N^ sous le cic! bnllant des plus noirs Africains.
Bajazet, Act III. Sc. 8.
Les ombres par trois fois ont obscurci les cieux
Depuis que le sommeil n'est entr6 dans vos yeux :
Et le jour a trois fois chass6 la nuit obscure
Depuis que votre corps languit sans nourriture.
Pkedra, Act I. Sc. 3.
Assuerus. Ce mortel, qui montra tant de zfele pour moi, Vit-il encore t
Asaph. II voit I'astre qui vous 6claire.
Esther, Act II. Sc. a
Oui, c*est Agamemnon, c'est ton roi qui t*6veille;
Viens, reconnois la voix qui &appe ton oreille. Iphigenie.
No jocund health that Denmark drinks to-day,
But the great cannon to the' clouds shall tell ;
And the King's rowse the heav'ns shall bruit again,
Respeaking earthly thunder. Hamlet, Act I. Sc. 3.
In the inner room
I spy a winking lamp, that weakly strikes
The ambient air, scarce kindling into light.
Southern, Fate of Cajyiia, Act III.
In the funeral orations of the Bishop of Meaux, the following pas-
sages are raised far above the tone of the subject :
L'Oc^an 6tonn6 de se voir traverse tant de fois, en des appareils si divers, ef
pour des causes si differentes, &c. v P'. 6.
Grand Reine, je satisfais i vos plus tendres d^sirs, quand je c^l^bre ce mo-
narque ; et son coeur qui n'a jamais v6cu que pour lui^ si Iveille, tout poudre qu'il
est, et devient sensible, mdme sous ce drap mortuaire, au nom d'un 6poux si
dier. P. 32.
Montesquieu, in a didactic work, U Esprit des Loix, gives too great
indulgence to imagination: the tone of his language swells fre-
quently above his subject. I give an example :
M. le Comte de Boulainvilliers et M. T Abb6 Dubos ont fait chacun un syst^e,
dont Fun semble 6tre une conjuration contre le tiers4tat, et I'autre une conjuration
contre la noblesse. Lorsque le Soleil donna k Pha6ton son char k conduire, il lui
dit, Si vous montez trop haut, vous brulerez la demeure celeste ; si vous descender
trop bas, vous rfiduirez en cendres la terre : n'allez point trop a droite, vous tom-
benez d«ns la constellation du serpent; n'allez point trop li gauche, vous iriet
4ans celle de I'autel : tenez-vous entre les deux. L. 30. ch. Ii0»
34*
Digitized
by Google
402 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. [Ch. 21.
The following pssage, intended, one would imagine, as a receipt to
boil water, is aitogetner burlesque by the labored elevation of the
diction :
A massy caldron of stupendous frame
They brought, and plac d it o'er the rising flame :
Then heu) the lighted wood ; Uie flame dirides
Beneath tne vase, and climbs aroimd the sides :
In its wide womb, they pour the rushing stream :
The boiling water bubbles to the brim. Jliad, XYIII. 405.
In a passage at the beginning of the 4th book of Telemachus, one
eels a sudden bound upward without preparation, which accords not
^ith the subject :
Cal3rpso, qui avoit 6t6 jusqu' k ce moment immobile et transport^e de plaisir en
ecoutant les aventures de Tel^maque, Tinterrompit pour lui faire prendre quelquc
reps, n est terns, lui dit-elle,'qui yous alliez ^uter la douceur du sommeii apres
tant de travaux. Vous n*avez rien k craindre ici ; tout vous est favorable. Aban-
dounez vous done k la iole. Gbutez la paix, et tous les autres dons des dieux
dont TOUS allez dtre comolft. Demain, guand VAurore avec ses doi^ de roses
e/Ur'ouvrira les partes dories de V Orient , et guelesChevaux du Soletl sortans de
Condc amere repandront Usfiammesdu, jmi/r^ pour cAasser devant eux Unites Us
etoiles du ciel^ nous reprendrons, mon cber T616maque, I'histoire de vos malheurs*
This obviously is copied from a similar passage in the -^neid, which
ought not to have been copied, because it lies open to the same cen-
sure ; but the force of autnority is great : '
At regina gravi jamdudum saucia cura
Vulnus alit venis, et coco carpitur Igni.
Multa -viri virtus animo, muUusque recursat
Gentis honos : hserent infixi pectore vultus,
Verbaque ; nee placidam membris dat cum quieteuk
Postera PJuxhea lustrabat lampade terras^
ffwmejUemfue Aurora polo dimoverat umbram s
Cum sic unanimem alloquitur male sana sororem. Lib. lY. 1»
But anxious cares already seized the queen,
She fed within her veins a flame unseen —
The hero's valor, acts, and birth inspire
Her soul with love, and fan the st»xiret fire.
"His words, his looks, im[)rinted in her heart,
Improve the passion and increase the smart. '
Now when the puri)le morn had chased rtway
The dewy shacfows, and restored the day,
Her sister first with early care she soug;ht,
And thus, in mournful accents, eased her thought-
Take another example where the words rise above the subject :
Ainsi les peujjles y accoururent bieutot en fouledc toiUes parts ; le commerce d«
cette vUle 6toit semblable au flux et au reflux de la mer. Les tresors y entroien(
Qomme les flots viennent I'uti sur I'autre. Tout y 6toit. apporte et en sortoit libre-
ment; tout ce qui y entroit, etoit utile; toutce qui en sortoit, laissoit en softant
d'autres richesses en sa place. La justice severe presidoit dans le port au milieu
de tant de nations. La fhinchise, la bonne foi, la candeur, s«nbloient du haue d3
ees superbes tours appelerles marchands des terres les plus 6loignSes : chacun de
ces marchands, soU qu^il vint des rives orietUales oiL le soleil sort chaoue ^dUt du,
tein des ondes^ soit qu^ilfia parti de cette gratide'mer oit le soleil lassi de sor^ aWi
va eteindre ses feuXf vevoit paisibleet ah surety dans Salentecomme dans sa patrfe)
Tilemaque^ 1. 19.
The language of Homer is suited to his subject, no less accurateh
than the actions and sentiments of his heroes are to their characters.
Digitized
by Google
Oh, 21.1 MARRATION AKD DESCRIPTION. 403
Vifgil, in thai particular, falls short of perfection : his language is
stately throughout ; and though he descends at times to the simplest
branches of cookery, roasting and boiling for example, yet he never
relaxes a moment from the high tone.* In adjusting his language
to his subject, no writer equals Swift. I can recollect but one excep-
tion, which at the same time is far from being gross : The journal
of a modern lady is composed in a style blending sprightliness with
^miliarity, perfectly suited to the subject : in one passage, however,
the poet deviating from that style, takes a tone above his subject.
The passage I have in view begms, /. 116. But let me now a while
iurvey, d&c. and ends at I, 135.
It is proper to be observed upon this head, that writers of inferior
rank are continually upon the stretch to enliven and enforce their
subject by exaggeration and superlatives. This unluckily has an
efiect contrary to what is intended ; the reader, disgusted with lan-
guage that swells above the subject, is led bv contrast to think more
meanly of the subject than it may possibly deserve. A man of pru-
dence, beside, will be no less careful to husband his strength in wri-
ting than in walking : a writer too liberal of superlatives, exhausts
his whole stock upon ordinary incidents, and reserves no share to
express, with greater energy, matters of importance.!
Many writers of that kind abound so m epithets, as if poetry
consisted entirely in high-sounding words. Take the following
instance:
When black-brow'd Night her dusky mantle spread,
And wrapt in solemn gloom the sable sky :
When soothing Sleep her opiate dews had shed,
And seal'd in silken slumbers ev'ry eye :
My wakefUl thouffhts admit no balmy rest,
Nor the sweet bliss of soft oblivion share :
But watchful Wo distracts my aching breast,
My heart the subject of corroding care :
From haunts of men with wand'ring steps and slow
I solitary steal, and sooth my pensive wo.
Here eveiry substantive is faithfully attended by some tumid epithet *
like young master, who cannot walk abroad without having a lacM
livery-man at his heels. Thus in reading without taste, an emphasis
is laid on every word ; and in singing without taste, every note is
grac'd. Such redundancy of epithets, instead of pleasing, produce
satiety and disgust.
The power of language to imitate thought, is not confined to the
capital circumstances above mentioned : it reaches even the slighter
modifications Slow action, for example, is imitated by words pro-
nounced slow : labor or toil, by words harsh or rough in tneir
sound. But this subject has been already handled.^
• See jEneid, lib. 1. 188—219.
t Montaigne, reflecting upon the then present modes, observes, that there never
Was at any other time, so abject €md servile prostitution of words in the addresses
made by people of fashion to one another ; the humblest tenders of life and sovl,
•Bo |)rofe8sk>ns under that of devotion and adoration ; the writer constantly dt-
> (Aitring himself a vassal, nay a slave: so that when anymore serious occasion «f
friendship or gratitude requires more genuineprofessions, words are vaaliaf lo
•ipress them. t Chap. 18. Sect a
Digitized
by Google
104 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. [Ch. 31
In dialogue-WTitingi the condition of the speaker is chiefly to be
jegarded in framing the expression. The sentinel in Hamlet, in-
terrogated with relation to the ghost, whether his watch had been
quiet, answers with great propriety for a man in his station, " Not a
mouse stirring."*
I proceed to a second remark, no less important than the former.
No person of reflection but must be sensible, that an incident makes
a stronger impression on an eye-witness, than when heard at second
hand. Writers of genius, sensible that the eye is the best avenue to
the heart, represent every thing as passing in our sight ; and, from
readers or hearers, transform us, as it were, into spectators : a skilful
writer conceals himself, and presents his personages : in a word,
every thing becomes dramatic as much as possible. Plutarch de
gloria Atheniensium, observes, that Thucydides makes his reader a
spectator, and inspires him with the same passions as if he were an
eye-witness ; and the same observation is applicable to our country-
man Swift. From this happy talent arises that energy of style
which is peculiar to him : he cannot always avoid narration ; but
the pencil is his choice, by which he bestows life and coloring upon
his objects. Pope is richer in ornament, but possesses not, in the
same degree, the talent of drawing from the life. A translation of
the sixth satire of Horace, begun by the former and finished by the
latter, affords the fairest opportunity for a comparison. Pope obvi-
ously imitates the picturesque manner of his friend : yet every one of
taste must be sensible, that the imitation, though fine, falls short of
the original. In other instances, where Pope writes in his own
style, t£e difference of manner is still more conspicuous.
Abstract or general terms have no good effect in any composition
for amusement ; because it is only of particular objects that images
can be formed. t Shakspeare's style in that respect is excellent:
©very article in his descriptions is particular, as in nature ; and it
accidentally a vague expression slip m, the blemish is discernible by
the bluntness of its impression. Take the following example : Fal-
ataff, excusing himself for running away at a robbery, says,
By the Lord, I knew y^, as well as he that made ye. Why, hear ye, my mas-
ters ; was it for me to kill the heir-apparent 1 should I twm upon the true prince %
'Why, thou knowest, I am as valiant as Hercules; but beware instinct, tne Hour
will not touch the true prince : instiiut is a great maUer. I was a coward on
instinct : I shall think the better of myself, and thee, during my life ; I for a vio-
lent lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you have
the money. Hostess, clap to the doors, watch to-night, pray to-morrow. GhJ-
lants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to yoo !
What ! shall we be merry 1 shd(l we have a play extempore ?
First Part Henry IV. Act II. Sc. 4.
The sentence I object to isf instinct is a great matter, which makes
but a poor figure, compared with the liveliness of the rest of the
* One can scarcely avoid smiling at the blindness of a certain critic, who, with
an air of self-sufficiency, condemns this expression as low and vulgar. A Frencli
poet, says he, would express the same thought in a more sublime manner: " Mais
tout dort, et l'ann6e, et les vents, et Neptune." And he adds, *^ The English .
poet may please at London, but the French every where else."
t See Chap. 4.
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
Ch. 21.] NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 405
speech. It was one of Homer's advantages, that he wrote before
ffeneral terms were multiplied : the superior genius of Shakspeare
displays itself in avoiding them after tney were multiplied. Addi-
son describes the family of Sir Roger de Coverley in the following
words :
You would take his valet de chambre for his brother, his butler is gray-headed,
his ffroom is one of the gravest men that I have ever seen, and his coachmein has
the looks of a privy counsellor. Spectator^ No. 106.
The description of the groom is less lively than of the others ; plainly
becaase the expression, being vague ana general, tends not to form
any image. " Dives opum variarum,"* is an expression still moro
vague ; and so are the following :
— ^— — ^— Maecenas mearum
Grande decus, columenque rerum.f
Horat. Carm. Lib. II. ode 17.
- et fide Tela
Dices laboranUs in uno
Penelopen, vitreamque Cih^in.t ' Ibtd, Lib. 1. ode 17.
Ridicul\im acri
Fortius et melius magnas plerumque secat res. *
Horat. Satir. Lib. 1. sat 10.
By satire in a pleasant vein,
A weight3r point we oftener ^in
Than talking in severer stram !
In the fine arts it is a rule, to put the capital objects in the strongest
point of view ; and even to present them oftener than once, where it
can be done. In history-painting, the principal figure is placed in
the front, and in the best light : an equestrian statue is placed in a
centre of streets, that it may be seen from many places at once. In
no composition is there greatet opportunity for this rule than in
writing i
— ^— -^^ Sequitur pulcherrimus Astur,
Astur equo fidens et versicoloribus armis.f jEneid^ X. 180.
■ Full many a lady
I've ey'd with best regard, and many a time
Th' harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
Brought my too diligent ear ; for several Virtues
Have I lik'd several women, never any
With so full soul, but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow*d,
And put it to the foil. But you, O you, ♦
So perfect, and so peerless, are created
Of every creature's best. T%e Tempest^ Act III. Sc. 1.
Orlando. ^Whate'er you are
That in this desert inaccessible.
Under the shade of melancholy boughs.
Lose and neglect the creeping iiours of time ;
If ever you have look'd on better days ;
If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church ;
If ever sat at any good man's feast ;
* Qeorg. 2. 468. t Maecenas the glory and the pillar of my affairs.
t And with Teian truth, you shall sing of Penelope, and the fair Circe, con-
1 many-colored i
d by Google
tending for (Ulysses)
% Beautiful Astur follows— Astur trusting to his horse, and many-colored arint.
Digitized b
i06 NARRATION AND l^ESCRIPTION. iCL 21.
If ever firom your eye-lids' wip'd a tear,
And know what 'tis to pity and be pity'd ;
Let gentlneess my strong enforcement be,
In tbB which hope I blusn and hide my sword.
Dtike sen. True is it that we have seen better days;
And have with holy bell b^n knoll'd to church ;
And sat at good men's feasts ; and wip'd our eyes
Of drops that sacred pity had engendered:
And therefore sit you down in s^ntleness.
And take upon command what help wc have,
That to your wanting may be mimstered. As You Like 22.
With thee conversing I forget all time ;
All seasons and their change, all please alike.
Sweet is the breath of mom, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds : pleasant the sun
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams, on herbs, tree, fruit, and fiow'r,
Glist'rine with dew ; fragremt the fertile earth
Afler soft showers ; and sweet the coming on
Of erateful evening mild, the silent ni^ht
Wim this her solemn bird, and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heav'n, her starry train.
But neither breath of mom, when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun
On this delig^htful land, nor herb, fruit, flower,
' Glistering with dew, nor fragrance after showers,
Nor grateAil evening mild, nor silent night.
With this her solemn birdj nor walk by moon
Or glittering star light, without thee is sweet.
Paradise Lost, B. IV. I. 634.
What mean ye, that ye use this proverb, The fathers have eaten sour grapes,
and the children's teeth are set on ed^e '? As I live, saith the Lord God, ye snail
not have occasion to use this proverb in Israel. If a man keep my judgments to
deal truly, he is just, he shall surely live. But if he be a robber, a shedder of
blood ; if he have eaten upon the mountains, and defiled his neighbour's wife ; if
he have oppressed the poor and needy, have spoiled by violence, have not restored
the pledge, have lifl up his eves to idols, have given forth upon usury, and have
■ taken increase : shall he livef he shall not live : he shall surely die ; and his blood
shall be upon him. Now, lo, if he beget a son, that seeth all his father's sins,
and consraereth, and doeth not such like ; that hath not eaten upon the mountains,
hath not lift up his eyes to idols, nor defiled his neighbour's wife, hath not op-
pressed any, nor withheld the pledge, neither hath spoiled by violence, but hath
given his bread to the hungry, and covered the naked with a garment; that hath
not received usury nor increase, that hath executed my judgments, and walked in
my statutes ; he shall not die for the iniquity of his father ; be shall surely live.
The soul that sinneth, it shall die ; the son shall not bear the iniauity of the father,
neither shall Uie father bear the iniquity of the son ; the righteousness of the
righteous shall be upon him, and the wickedness of the wicked shall be upon him.
Have I any pleasure that the wicked should die, soith the Loni Grod ; and not that
he should return from his w^ys and live 1 Ezekiel. XVIII.
The repetitions in Homer, which are frequent, have been the .
occasion of much criticism. Suppose we were at a loss about the
reason, might not taste be sufficient to justify them % At the same
time, we are at no loss about the reason : they evidently make the
narration dramatic, and have an air of truth, by making things
appear as passing in our sight. But such repetitions are unpardon-
able in a didactic poem. In one of Hesiod's poems of that kind, a
long passage occurs twice in the same chapter.
A concise comprehensive style is a great ornament in narration ;
Digitized
by Google
Oh. 21.] NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 407
and a superfluity of unnecessary words, no less than of circumstances,
a great nuisance. A judicious selection of the striking circumstances
clothed in a nervous style, is delightful. In this style, Tacitus exceb
all writers, ancient and modern. Instances are numberless : take the
following specimen.
Crebra hinc prslia, et sspius in modum latrocinii : per saltus, per paludes ; ut
caique fors aut virtus : temere, proviso, ob iram, ob praedam, jussa, et aliquando
ig;naris ducibus. Annal. lib. XII. S 39.
Hence arose, frequent battles, and depredations without number, in the forests,
in the marshes, cu^cording to one's courage or luck — rashly — cautiously — on
account of anger — for plunder, and sometimes by the orders of ignorant leieulers.
After Tacitus, Ossian in that respect justly merits the place of
distinction. One cannot go wrong for examples in any part of the
book ; and at the first opening the following mstance sneeis the eye :
Nathos clothed his limbs in shining steel. The stride of the chief is lovely:
the joy of his eye terrible. The wind rustles in his hair. Darthula is silent at
his side : her look is fixed on the chief. Striving to hide the rising sigh two tears
swell in her eyes.
I add one other instance, which, beside the pronerty under con-
sideration, raises delicately our most tender sympathy.
Son of Fingal ! dost thou not behold the darkness of Crothar's hall pf shells 1
My soul was not dark at the feast, when my people lived. I rejoiced in the pre-
sence of strangers, when my son shone in the hall. But, Ossian, he is a beam
that is departed, a:nd left no streak of light behind. He is fallen, son of Finsal^
in the battles of his father. Rothmar, the chief of grassy TromlOj heard mat
my eyes had failed ; he heard that my arms were fix^ in the hall, and the pride
of his soul arose. He ccune towards Croma : my people fell before him. I took
my arms in the hall, but what could sightless Crothar do? My steps were
unequal ; my ffrief was great. I wished for the days that were past : days I
wherein I fought, and won in the field of blood. My son returned from the chace;
the fair-haired Fovar-gormo. He had not lifted his sword in battle, for his arm
was young. But the soul of the youth was great; the fire of valor burnt in his
eye. He saw the disordered steps of his father, and his sigh arose. King of
Croma, he said, is it because thou hast no son 1 is it for the weakness of Fovar-
gormo's arm that thy sighs arise : I begin, my father, to feel the strength of my
arm ; I have drawn the sword of my youth, and I have bent the bow. Let me
meet this Rothmar, with the youths of Croma : let me meet him, O my father, for
I feel my burning soul.
And mou shalt meet him, I said, son of the sightless Crothar ! But let others
advance before thee, that I may hear the tread of thy feet at thy return ; for my
eyes behold thee not, fair-haired Fovar-gormo ! — He went ; he met the foe ; he fell.
The foe advances towards Croma. He who slew my son is near, with all hi»
pointed spears.
If a concise or nervous style be a beauty, tautology must be a
blemish; ^nd yet writer^ fettered by verse, are not sufficiently
careful to avoid this slovenly practice : they may be pitied, but they
cannot be justified. Take for a specimen the following instances,
from the best poet, for Versification at least, that England has to
boast of.
High on his helm celestial lightnings play>
His beamy shield emits a living ray,
Th' unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies,
Like the red star that fires th' autumnal skies. Iliads Y. 5.
Strength and omnipotence invest thy throne. Ihadf VIII. 576*
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
408 MABKATIOH AND DBSOKIPTI^ir. \CSl 21.
So silent fountains, from a rock's tall head,
In sable streams soft trickling waters shed. Iliad, IX. 19.
Bm clanging armor rung. Iliads JUL 94.
Fear on their cheek, and horror in their eye. Miad, XV. 4.
The blaze of armor flash'd against the day. Iliad, XVU. 736.
As when the piercing blasts of Boreas blow. IHad, XIX. 380.
And like the moon, the broad reful|;ent shield
Blaz*d with long rays, and deam'd athwart the field.
Iluid,XlX.m.
No — could our swiftness o*er the winds preyail,
Or beat the pinions of the western gale.
All were in vain Iliad, XIX. 460
The humid sweat from ev'ry pore descends. lUad, XXIII. 890.
Redundant epithets, such as humid in the ^ast citation, are by Cluin
tikan disallowed to orators, but indulged to poets,* because his
fitYorite poets, in a few instances, are reduced to such epithets for
the sake of versification ; for instance, Praia canis alhicarU pruini$
of Horace, and liquidos fontes df Virgil.
As an apology for such careless expressions, it may well suffice,
that Pope, in submitting to be a translator, acts below his genius.
In a translation, it is hard to require the same spirit or accuracy,
that is cheerfully bestowed on an original work. And to support
the reputation of that author, I shall give some instances from Virgil
and Horace, more faulty by redundancy than any of those above
mentioned :
Sepe etiam immensum ccelo renit agmen aquamm,
£t fcedam glomerant tempestatem imbribus atris
CoUects ex alto nubes : ruit arduus ether,
Et pluvii ingenti sata Ista, boumque labores
Diluit Cfeorg. lib. 1. 399L
And oft whole sheets descend of sluicy rain
Sucked by the spongy clouds from off the main.
The lofty skies at once come pouring down,
The promised crop and golden labors drown.
Postquam altum tenuere rates, nee jam ampUus ull»
Apparent terrae ; coelum undique et undique pontus :
Tum mihi cceruleus supra caput astitit imber,
Noctem hyememque ferens : et inhorruit unda tenebris.
uEneid, Ub. UI. 199L
Now from the sight of land our galleys move,
With only seas around, and skies above,
When o'er our heads descends a burst of rain.
And night with sable clouds involves the main.
The ruffling winds the foamy billows rave—
- Hinc tibi copia
Manabit ad plenum benigno
Buris honorum opulenta comu. Herat. Cami. hb. I. ode 17.
Here you shall fully taste— a welcome guestr—
The born of rural heaped for thee, and prest
Videre fessos vomer^n inversum boves
CoUo trahentes languido. Sorat, epod. IL &,
♦ l4.ynLcap.6.8eqta,
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
C^ 21.] NARRATION AND DE80RIFTI0N. iOO
The invertec^ plous^h to see,
Which oxen o'er the lea,
With languid neck at leisure pull.
Here I can luckily apply Horace's rule against himself.
Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, i^eu se
Impediat verbis lassas oneran^ibus aures. ScUir, lib. I. sat X. 9.
But that the period may run free,
Nor with vam words the ear be tired,
There is a brevity required.
I close this chapter with a curious inquiry. An object, however
ugly to the sight, is far from being so when represented by colors
or by words. What is the cause of this difference? With respect
to painting, the cause is obvious: a good picture, whatever the sub-
ject* be, is agreeable by the pleasure we take in imitation; and this
pleasure overbalancing the disagreeableness of the subject, makes
the picture upon th^jvhole agreeable. With respect to the descrip-
tion of an ugly object, the cause follows. To connect individuals m
the social state, no particular contributes more than language, by
the power it possesses of an expeditious-communication of thought,
and a lively representation of transactions. But nature has not been
satisfied to recommend language by its utility merely : independent
of utility, it is made susceptible of many beauties, Avhich are directly
felt, without any intervening reflection.* And this unfolds the
mystery: for the pleasure of language is so great, as in a lively
descriptioh to overbalance the disagreeableness of the ima^e raised
by it.t This, hpwever, is no encouragement to choose a disagree-
able subject ; for the pleasure is incomparably greater where the
subject and the description are both of them agreeable.
The following description is upon the whole agreeable though
^e subject described is in itself dismal :
Nine times the space Ihat measures day and night
To moiled men, he with his hon-id crew
Lay vanquish'd rolling in the fiery gulf, %
Confounded though immortal ! but his doom
Re^erv'd him to more wrath ; for now the tliought
Both of lost happiness and lasting pain
Tomjents him ; round he throws his baleful eyes
That witness'd huge affliction and dismtfy,
Mix'd with obdurate pride and steadfast hate:
At once as far as angels ken he views
The dismal situation waste and wild :
A dungeon horrible, on all sides round
As one great furnace flam'd ; yet from those flames
No light, but rather darkness visible
Serv'd only to discover siffhts of wo,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all ; but torture without end
Still urges, and fiery deluge, fed
With ever-burnin§ sulphur unconsumed !
Such place eternal justice had prepar'd
For those rebellious. Paradise Lost, book L L 50l
* See Chap. 18. t See Chap. 2. part 4.
85
Digitized
by Google
410 HABEATiOK Alfl» DBSORIPTIOn! [Ck. St
'An unmanly depression of spirits in time of danger is not an acfree-
Hble sight ; and yet a fine description or representation of it wUl be
relished:
JC RUJkard. What must the king do now 1 must he submit 1
' The king shall do it : must he be deposed 1
The king shall be contented : must he lose
The name of King 1 i' God's name, let it go:
I'll give my jewels for a set of beads;
My gorgeous palace for a hermitage ;
My gay apparel, for an almsman's gown;
My Igur'd goblets, for a dish of wood ;
My sceptre, for a palmer's walking-staff;
My subjects, for a pair of carved saints;
And my large kingdom for a litde grave ;
A little, little grave ; an obscure grave.
Or, I'll be bury'd in the king's highway ;
Some way of common treaa, where sumects' feet
May hourly trample on their soverei^ s head ;
For on my heart tnev tread now, whilst I live ;
And bury'd once, why not upon my head 1
Bickard II. Act III. Sc 3.
Objects that strike terror in a spectator, have in poetry and paint-
ing a fine effect. The picture by raising a slight emotion of terrorr
agitates the mind ; and ii\ that condition every beauty makes a deep
impression. May not contrast heighten the pleasure, * by opposing
our present security to the danger of encountering the object repre-
sented?
The other shape,
If shape it misht be.call'd, that shape had none *
Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb ;
Or substance might be call'd that shadoV seem'd
For each seem'd either ; black it stood as nighty
Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell.
And shook a dreadful dart Paradise Lost^ V4K>k II. 1. G$$.
• Now storming fury rose;
And clamor such as heard in heaven tijl now ,
Was never : arms on ann<9r clashing bray'd
Horrible discord, and the madding wheels
Of brazen chariots rag'd ; dire was the noise
Of conflict: overhead the dismal hiss
Of fiery darts in flaming voUies flew.
And flvinff vaulted either host with fire.
So under fiery cope together rush'd ,
Both battles main, with ruinous assault
And inextinguishable rage : all heaven
Resounded ; and had earth been then, all earth
Had to her centre shook. Paradise Lost, book VI. L 907
Ghost. But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison-house,
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thv youn^ bloody
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their qiheres,
Thy knotty and -combined locks to part,
And each particular hair to stand on end.
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine :
But this eternal blazon must not be
To ears of flesh and blood. HanUett, Act I. Ss. 5
Oratiano. Poor Desdemona ! I'm glad thy fatmrs dead:
Thy match was mortal to him ; and pqre gnef
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 2^.] NARRATION AND DEBCRfPTiaN. tl ^
Shore his old thread in twain. Did he live now,
This sight would make him do a desperate turn :
Yea, curae his better angel from his side,
And fall to reprobation. Othello ^ Act V . Sc. H.
Objects of horror must be excepted from the foregoing theory;
for no description, however lively, is sufficient to overbalance the
disgust raised even by the idea of such objects. Every thing hoi-
rible ought therefore to be avoided in a description. Nor is this a
severe law: the poet will avoid such scenes for his own sake, at
well as for that of his reader ; and to vary his descriptions, nature
affords plenty of objects that disgust us, in some decree, Without
raising horror. I am obliged, therefore, to condemn the picture of
Sin, in the second. book, of Para^ we Lost, though a masterly pet-
formance : the original would be a horrid spectacle ; and the horror
is not much sbftened in the copy :
Pensive here I sat
Alone ; but long I sat npj, till my womb,
Pregnant by thee, aiid now excessive grown,
Prodigious motion felt and rueful throes.
At last this odious offspring whom thou seest,
Thine own begotten, breaking violent way,
Tore through my entrails, that with fear and pcun
Distorted, all my nether shape thus grew
Transform'd ; but he my inbred enemy
Forth issu'd, brandishing his fatal dart, ,
Made to destroy : I fled, and cry'd out Death;
Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sigh'd
Prom all her caves, and back resounded Death.
I fled ; but he pursu'd, (though more, it seems,
Inflam'd with lust than rage^ and swifter far,
Me overtook, his mother all dismay'd,
And in embraces forcible and foul
. ^ Ingend'rin^ with me, of that rape begot
These yellmg monsters that with ceaseless cry
Surround me, as thou saw'st, hourly conceiv'd
Ana hourly bom, with sorrow infinite
To me ; for when they list, into the womb
That bred them' they return, and howl and gnaw
Mv bowels, their repast; then bursting forth,
Afresh with conscious terrors vex me round;
That rest or intermission none I find.
Before mine eyes in opposition sits
Grim Death, my son and foe, who sets them on,
And me his/parent would full soon devour
For want of other prey, but that he knows,
His end with mine involv'd ; and knows that 1
Should prove a bitter morsel, and his bane,
Whenever that shall be. • Book 11. 1. 777.
lago's character in the tragedy of Othello, is insufferably monstrous-
and satanical : not even Shakspeare's masterly hand can make the
picture agreeable.
Though the objects introduced in the following scenes are not
altogether so horrible as Sin is in Milton's description ; yet witll
every person of delicacy, disgust will be the prevailing emotion :
Strophades Graio stant nomine dictae
Insulse lonio in magno : ouas dira Celaeno,
Harpyiaeque colunt aliae: Phineia postquam
Digitized
by Google
4t1l NAmmATION AND DESCRIPTION. [Ch 21.
Clansa dnmus, mensasque metu liquere pnores.
Tristius baud illis monstrum, nee saerior iiUa
Pestis ei ira Detlm Sty^is sese extulit undis.
Virffinei volucrum vultus, foedissima ventris
ProTuvies, imceque manus, et pallida semper
Ora fame.
Hue ubi delati portus intrayimus : ecce
Laeta boum passim campis armenta videmus,
Caprigenimique pecus, nullo custode, per herbas.
Imiimus ferro, et Divos ipsumque vocamus
In prsedam partemque Jovem : lunt littore eurvo '
Extruimusque toros, dapibusque epulamur opimis.
At subitSB horrifieo lapsu de montibus adsunt
Harpy !»! et magnis quatiunt elangoribus alas:
Diripiuntque dapes, contactuque omnia fcedant
Immundo : tum vox tetnrai dira inter odorem.
jEneid,\ihAJl.2lO.
At length I land upon the Strophades
Safe from the danger of the stormy seas,
Those isles are eompassed by th' Ionian main,
The dire abode where the foul harpies reign,
Foreed by the winged warriors to repair
To their old homes, and leave their costly fare.
Monsters more fierce offended heaven ne'er sent
From hell's abyss for human punishment —
^ With vwgin-faces, but with wombs obscene, .
Foul paunches, and with ordure still unclean,
With claws for hands, and looks for ever lean.
We landed at the port, and soon beheld
Fat herds of oxen graze the flowery field — ^
And wanton goats without a keeper strayed —
With weeq)ons we the welcome prey invade,
Then call the gods for partners of our feast.
And Jove himself, the chief invited guest
We spread the tables on the greensward ground,
We feed with hunger and the bowls go round ; "
When from the mountain tops with hideous cry
And clattering wings, the hungry harpies fly —
They snatch the meat, defiling all they find,*
And parting, leave a loathsome stench behind.
Sum patria ex Ithaca, comes infelicis Ulyssei,
Nomen Achemenides : Trojam, genitore Adamasto
Paupere rmansissetc^ue utinam fortuna !) profectus.
Hie me, aum trepidi crudelia limina linquunt,
Immemores socii vasto Cyclopis in antro
Deseruere. Domus sanie dapibusque cruentis,
Intus opaca, ingens : ipse arduus, aJtaque pulsat
Sidera : (Dii, talem terris avertite pestem)
Nee visu facilis, nee dictu affabilis uUi.
Visceribus misororum, et sanguine vescitur atro,
Vidi egomet, duo de numero cum corpora nostro,
Prensa manu magna, medio resupinus in antro,
Frangeret ad saxum, sanieque aspema natarent
Limina : vidi, atro cum membra nuentia tabo '
Manderet, et tepidi tremerent sub dentibus artus.
Haud impune quidem : nee talia passus Ulysses,
Oblitusve sui est Ithacus discrimme tanto. <
Nam simul expletus dapibus, vinoque sepultus
Cervieem inflexam posuit, jacuitque per antrumn
Immensus, saniem eructans, ac frusta cruento
Per somnum commixta mero ; nos, magpia precati
Numina, sortitique vices, una undique circum
Digitized
by Google
Cb. 2W NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 413
Fundimur, et telo lumen terebramus acuto
Ingens, quod torva solum sub fronte latebat ^
^7K;ui,Ub.III.613.
From Ithaca, mv native soil, I came
To Troy, and Achaemenides my name,
Me, my poor father with Ulysses sent,
fOh, had I stayed with poverty content !)
But fearful for themselves, my countrymen
Left me forsaken in the Cyclops' den.
The cave, though large, was dark, the dismal floor
Was paved with mangled limbs and putrid gore.
Our monstrous host, of more than human size,
Erects his head, and stares within the skies.
Bellowing his voice and horrid is his hue,
Ye Grods, remove this plague from mortal view !
The joints of slaughtered wretches are Ms food,
' And for his wine he quaffs the streaming blood.
These eyes beheld when with his spacious hand
He seizeid two captives of the Grecian band ;
Stretched on his back he dashed against the stones
Their broken bodies and their crackling bones,
With spouting blood the purple pavement swims,
While the dire ghitton grmds the trembling limbs.
]^ot unrevenffed Ulysses bore his fate.
Nor thoughtless of his own unhappy state—^
For, gorged with flesh and drunk with human wi^e,
While fast asleep the giant lay supine,
Snorinff aloud and belching from his maw
His indigested foam and morsels raw —
We pray, we cast the lots, and then surround
The monstrous body stretched along the ground,
Each as he could approach him lends a hand
To bore his eyeball with a flaming brand. *
Beneath his frowning forehead lay his eye,
For only one did the vast frame suj)ply— »•
But that a globe«o large, his front it filled,
Like the sun's disk, or like a Grecian shieki
. 35»
Digitized
by Google
414 SPIC AND DRAMATIC 00]fIH>8ITI0N. \Gh, 2%
CHAPTER XXIL
^ EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION.
The same end had in view, and the same means employed, in both epic and
dramatic poetry — The advantages of dramatic poetry — Aristotle's division of
tragedy— The Pathetic and the Moral a better division — Farther illustrated—
Facts or circumstances may be invented, but no unaccountable event to be
admitted — Effect of pathetic poems — They excite to what is right, and deter
firom what is wrong-— They miprove our sympathy — They fortify the mind
against misfortunes — The instructions afforded by moral poems, from the moral
truth they convey — Tender passions, the province of tragedy ; grand and heroic
actions, of epic poetry^ Venial faults, the best subjects for tra^y — Aristotle's
four propositions — AlOien a perfect character is fitted to the pathetic — In epic
poetry the subject must be of distant date — In tragedy and comedy, not neces-
sary— In dramatic poetry, a pause in the action necessary at the close of ev«ry
act — The sentiment and tone of language to be subservient to the action —
Machinery to be excluded from epic poetry — The embellishment of allegory
admitted in an historical poem — Alle^rical and real being not to be introduced
co-operating — The character of an episode — To be connected with the principal
subject — To be lively and interesting^ — To be short, and introduced where the
subject relents — Drama has a double plot — The nature of the under-plot —
Violent actions not to be represented on the stage — Speeches in dialogue, to be
connected with each other— Khyme excluded from dialogue — Ordinary facts to
be expressed in plain language.
Tragedy differs not from the epic in substance: in both the
same ends are pursued, namely, instruction and' amusement ; and
in both the same means is employed, namely, imitation of human
aetions. They differ only in the manner of imitating : epic poetry
employs narration ; tragedy represents its facts as passing in our
sight : in the former, the poet introduces himself as an historian ;
in the latter, he presents his actors, ancf never himself*
Thi^ difference regarding form only, may be thought slight : but
the effects it occasions, are oy no means so ; for what we see makes
a deeper impression than what we learn from others. A narrative
poem is a story told by another : facts and incidents passing upon
'the stage,* come under our own observation; and are beside much
* The dialogiie in a dramatic composition distinguishes it so clearly from other
compositions, that no writer has thougrht it necessary to search for any other dis-
tinguishing mark. But much useless labor has been bestowed, to distinguish an
epic poem by some peculicu: marie. Bossu defines it to be, '' A composition in
verse, inten<^ed to form the manners by instructions disguised under the allegories
of an important action ;" which excludes every epic poem founded upon real facts,
and perhaps includes several, of ^sop's fables. Voltaire reckons verse so essen-
tial, as for that single reason to exclude the adventures of Telemachus. See his
Essay^upon Epic Poetry. Others, affected with substance more than with form,
hesitate not to pronounce that poem to be epic. — It is not a little diverting to see
80 many profound critics huntmg for what is not : they take for granted, without
the least toundation, that there must be some precise criterion to disUngui^ epic
poetry from every other specie of writing. Literary compositions run into each
other, precisely like colors : in their strong tints they are easily distinguished ; but
are susceptible of so much variety, and of so many different forms, that we never
can say where one species ends and another begins. As to the general taste,
there is little reason to doubt, that a wo^ where heroic actions are related in an
devated style, will, without farther requisite, be deemed an epic poem.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 22.] EPIO ANP DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 415
enlivened by action and gestum, expressive of many senliniem?
beyond the reach of words.
A dramatic composition has another property, independent alto-
gether of action ; which is, that it makes a deepe^r impression than
narration : in the former, persons express their own sentiments ; \^
the latter, sentiments are related at second hand. For thai reason,
Aristotle, the father of critics, lays it down as a rule, that in an epic
poem the author ought to take every opportunity of introducing his
actors, and of confining the narrative part within the narrowest
bounds.* Homer understood perfectly the advantage of this method • .
and his two poems abound in dialogue. Lucan runs to the ogpposite
extreme, even so far as to stuff his Pharsalia with cold and languid
reflections : the merit of which he assumes to himself, and deigns
not to share with his actors. Nothing can be more injudiciously
timed, than a chain of such reflections, which suspend the battle of
Pharsalia after the leaders had'made their speeches, and the two
armies are ready to engage. t
Aristotle, regarding the fable only, divides tragedy into simple
and complex : but it is of greater moment, with respect to dramatic?
as well as epic poetry, to found a distinction upon the different ends
attained by such compositions. A poem, whether dramatic or epic,
that has nothing in view but to move the passions and to exhibit
pictures of virtue and vice, may be distinguished by the name of
pathetic : but where a story is purposely contrived to illustrate some
moral truth, by showing that disorderly passions naturally lead to
external misfortunes ; such composition may be denominated moral.%
Besides making a deeper impression than can be done by cool rea-
soning, a moral poem does not fall short of reasoning in affording
conviction : the natural connection of vice with misery, and of virtue
with happiness, may be illustrated by stating a fact as well as by
urging an argument. Let us assume, for example, the following,
moral truths ; that discord among the chiefs renders ineffectual all
common measures ; and that the consequences of a slightly-founded
quarrel, fostered by pride and arrogance, are no less fatal than those
of the grossest injury : these triiths may be inculcated, by the quar-
rel between Agamemnon and Achilles at the siege of Troy. If facts
or circumstances be wanting, such as tend to rouse the turbulent pai^
sions, they must be invented ; but no accidental nor unaccountable
event ought to be admitted ; for the necessary or probable connection
between vice and misery is not learned from any events but what
are naturally occasioned by the characters and passions of the per-
sons represented, acting in such and such circumstances. A real
event of which we see not the cause, may afford a lesson, upon the
♦ Poet. chap. 25, sect. 6. t Lib. 7. from line 385 to line 460.
t The saitfie distinction is applicable to that sort of fable which is said to bf ,^
invention of ^sop. A moral, it is true, is by all critics considered as essent^ %o
«uch a fable. But nothing is more common than to be led blindljr by authority ; fbr
of the numerous collections I have seen, the fables that clearly inculcate a mqraL
make a very small part. In many fables, indeed, proper pictures of virtue fioA
yice are exhibited: but the bulk of these collections convey no instruction, ifp».
•ffoni any amusement beyond what a child receives in readmg an ordinary storjr* ■
Digitized by VorOOQlC
4r6 EIIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. [Ch. 22.
presumption that what has happened may again happen: but this
cannot be inferred from a story that is known to be a fiction.
Many are the good effects of such compositions. A pathetic com-
position, whether epic or dramatic, tends to a habit of virtue, by
exciting us to do what is right, and restraining us from what is
wrong.* Its frequent pictures of human woes, produce, besides,
two effects extremely salutary: they improve our sympathy, and
fortify us to bear our own misfortunes. A moral composition obvi-
ously produces the same good effects, because by being moral it
ceases not to be pathetic: it enjoys beside an excellence peculiar
to itself; for it not only improves the heart as above mentioned, but
instructs the" head by the moral it contains. I cannot imagine any
entertainment more suited to a rational being, than a work thus hap-
pily illustrating some moral truth : where a number of persons of
different characters are engaged iu an important action, some retard-
ing, others promoting, the great catastrophe: and where there is
digoity of style as well as of matter. A work of that kind has out
sympathy at command ; and can put in motion the whole train of
the social affections: our curiosity in some scenes is excited, in
others gratified and our delight is consummated at the close, upon
finding from the characters and situations exhibitea at the com-
mencement, that every incident down to the final catastrophe is
natural, and that the whole in conjunction make a regular chain of
causes and effects.
Considering- that an epic and A dramatic poem are the same in
substance, and have the same aim or end, one will readily imagine,
that subjects proper for the one must be equally proper for the other.
But considering their difference as to form, there will be found rea-
son to correct that conjecture at least in some degree. Many sub-
jects may indeed be treated with equal advantage in either form ; but
the subjects are still more numerous for which they are not .equally
qualified ; and there are subjects proper for the one, and not for thie
other. To give some slight notion of the difference, as there is no
room here for enlarging upon every article, I observe, that dialogue
is better qualified for expressing sentiments, and narrative for di»
playing ^cts. Heroism, magnanimity, undaunted courage, and
other elevated virtues, figure best in action : tender passions, and the
whole tribe of sympathetic affections, figure best in sentiment. It
clearly follows, that tender passions are more peculiarly the province
of tn[gedy, grand and heroic actions of epic poetry t
I have no occasion to say more upon the epic, considered as
peculiarly adapted to certain subjects. But as dramatic subjects aw
more complex, I must take a narrower view of them ; which I do
the more willingly, in order to clear a point involved in great
fJbscurity by critics.
In the chapter of Emotions and Passions^ it is occasionally shown*
♦ See Chap. 2. Part 1. Sect. 4.
t In Racine tender sentiments prevail ; in Corneille, grand and heroic mannen*
Hence clearly the preference of the former before the latter, as dramatic poeU^
Corneille would hs ve figured better in an heroic poem. t Part 4.
Digitized by VorOOQIC^
Ch. 22] EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 417
> . (
that the subject best fitted for tragfedy is where a man has himself
heeo the cause of his misfortune; not so as to be deeply guilty, nor
altogether innocent : the misfortune m.ust be occasioned by a fault
incident to human nature, and, therefore, in some degree venial ,
Such misfortune? call forth the social affections, and warmly interest
the spectator. ^A.n accidental misfortune, if not extremely singular,
does not greatly move our pity : the person who suffers, being inno-'
cent, is freed from the greatest of all torments, that anguish of mind
which is occasioned by remorse. An atrocious criminal, on the
other hand, who brings misfortunes upon himself, excites little pity,
for a different reason : his remorse, it is true, aggravates his distress,
and swells the- first emotions of pity ; but th.ese are immediately
blunted by our hatred of him as a cViminal. Misfortunes that are
not innocent, nor highly criminal, partake the advantages of each
extreme: they are attended with remorse to embitter the distress,
which raises our pity to a height ; and the slight ineKgnaiion we
h^ve at a vgnial fault, detracts not sensibly from our pity. The hap-
piest of all subjects accordingly for raising pity, is where a man of
mtegrity falls into a great misfortune by doing an action that is inno-
cent, but which, by some singular means is conceived by him to be
criminal : his remorse aggravates his distress ; and our compassfop,
unrestrained by indignation, knows no bounds. Pity comes thus to
be the ruling passion of a pathetic tragedy; and by proper represeiy
tation, may be raised to a height scarcely exceeded by any thing felt
in real life. A moral tragedy takes in a larger field ; as it not only
exercises our pity, bift raises another passion, which,- though selfish,
deserves to be cherished equally with the social affection. The pas-
sion I have in view is fear or terror ; for when a misfortune is the
natural consequence of some wrong bias in the temper, every spec-
tator who is conscious of such a bias in himself, takes the alarm, and
dreads his falling into the same misfortune : and by the emotion of
f?ar or terror, frequently reiterated in a variety- of moral tragedies,
the spectators are pigt upon their guard against the disorders of pas-
sion.
The commentators upon Aristotle, and other critics, have been
much puzzled about the account given of tragedy by that author:
"That, by means of pity. and terror, it refities or purifies in us all
sorts of passion." But no one who has a clear conception of the
end and effects of a good tragedy, can have any difficulty about Aris-
totle's meaning : our pity is engaged for the persons represented ;
and our terror is upon our own account. Pity indeed is here made
to stand fpr all the sympathetic emotions, because of these it is the
capital. There can be no doubt that our sympathetic emotions are
refined or improved by daily exercise ; and in what manner our
other passions are refinSd by terror, I have just now' said. One
thing is certain, that no other meaning can justly be given to the
foregoing doctrine than that now mentioned ; and that it was really
Aristotle's meaning, appears from his 13th chapter, where he delivers
several propositions conformable to the doctrine as here explained
These, at the same time, I ta^e the liberty to mention ; because, at
Digitized
by Google
418 BPIC AMD DSAVATIO COHPOSITIOK. [Ch. 22.
far as authority can go, they Confirm th«^ foregoing reasoning abcwit
suhjects proper for tragedy. The first proposition is, that it being
the province of tragedy to expite pity and terror, an innocent person
. falling into adversity ought never to be the subject. This proposition
18 a necessary consequence of his doctrine as explained : a subject ct
that nature may indeed excite pity and terror ; but ip the former in
*an inferior degree, and t)ie latter no degree for moral instruction.
The second proposition is, that the .history of a wicked person in a
change from misery to happiness, ought not to be represented. It
excites neither terror nor compassion, nor is agreeable in any res-
pect. The third is, that the misfortunes of a wicked persoil ought
not to be represented. Such representation may be agreeable in
some measure upon'a principle of justice : but it will not move our
pity ; nor -any degree of terror, except in those of the same vicious
disposition with the person represented. The last proposition is,
that the"only*character fit for representation lies in the middle, neither
eminently good nor eminently bad ; where the misfortuqe is not th*
efiect of deliberate vice, but of some involuntary fault, as our author
expresses it.* The only objection I find to Aristotle's account of
tragedy, is, that he confines it within too narrow bdunds, by refus-
ing* admittance to the pathetic kind : for if terror be essential to tra-
gedy, no representation deserves that name but the moral kind, where
ihe misfortunes exhibited are caused by a wrong balance of mind, or
some disorder in the internal constitution : such misfortunes always
. suggest moral instruction^ and by such misfortunes only, can terror ^
be excited for our improvement. •
Thus Aristotle's four propositions above mentioned relate solely
f gedies of the moral kind. Those of the pathetic kind, are not
lacmnned within so narrow limits : subjects fitted for the theatre, are
not in such plenty as to make us reject innocent misfortunes which
rouse our sympathy, though they inculcate no moral. With respect;
indeed, to subjects of that kind, it may be doubted, whether the con-
clusion ought not always to be fortunate. Wh^re a person of inte-
grity is represented as sufl^ering to the end under misfortunes purely
accidental, we depart discontented, and with some obscure sense of
injustice : for seldom is man so submissive to Providence, as not to
revolt against the tyranny and vexations of blind chance ; he will be
tempted to say, this ought not to be. Chance, giving an impression
of anarchy and misrule, produces always a damp upon the mind. I
flfive for an example the Romeo and Juliet of Shakspeare, where the
fetal catastrophe is occasioned by Friar Laurence's coming to the
monument a minute too late : we are vexed at the unlucky chance,
and go away dissatisfied. Such impressions, which ought not te be
cherished, are a sufiipient reason for excluding stories of that kind
from the theatre. The misfortunes.of a virftious person, arising firom
necessary causes or from a chain of unavoidable circumstances, are
considered in a diflferent light. A regular chain of causes and effects
♦ If any one can be amused with a grave discourse which promiseth much and
performs nothing, I refer to Brumoy in his Theatre Cfrec, Preliminary di8C0ivsi&
•n the origin of Tragedy.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 22.] SPIC AJfJ> P^AMATIC C0HP06ITI0ir. 419
directed by the general laws of nature, never fails to suggest the hand
of Providence ; to which we submit without resentment, being con-
scious that submission is our duty.* For that reason, we are not
disgusted with the distresses 6f Yoltaixe^ sMariamne, though redou-
bled on her till her death, without the least fault or failing on her
part: her misfortunes are owing to a cause extremely natural, and
not unfrequent, the jealousy of a barbarous husband. The fate of
Desdemona, in the Moor of yenice^ affects us in the same manner.
We are not so easily reconciled to the fate of Cordelia in King
Lear: the causes, of her misfortune are by no means so evident, as,
to exclude the gloomy notion of chance. In short, a perfect charac-
ter suffering under misfortunes, is qualiheJ for being the subject of
a pathetic tragedy, provided chance be excluded. Nor is a perfect
character altogether inconsistent with a moral tragedy : it may suc-
cessfully be introduced in an under part, if the chief place be occupied
by an imperfect character, from which a moral can be drawn. This
is the case of Desdemona and Mariamne just mentioned ; and it is
the case of Monimia and Belvidera, in Otway's two tragedies, ithe
Orphan, and Venice Preserved.
I had an early opportunity to Unfold a curious doctrine, that fable
operates on our passions, by representing its pvents as passing in oujr
a^fht, and by deluding us into a conviction of reality. f Hence, in
epic and dramatic compositions, every circumstance ought to be
employed that may promote the delusion ; such as the borrowing
from history of some noted event, with the addition of circumstances
that may answer the author's purpose: the principal facts are known
to be true ; and we are disposed to extend our belief to every circum-
stance. But in choosing a subject that makes a figure in history,
greater precaution is necessary than where the whole is a fiction.
In the latter case there is full scope for invention : the author is under
no restraint other than that the characters and incidents be just
copies of nature. But where the story is founded on truth, no cir-
cumstances must be. added, but such as cbnnect naturally with what
a^e known to be true; history may be supplied, but must not be con-
tradicted : farther, the subject chosen must be distant in time, or at
least in place; for the familiarity of recent persons and events ought
to be avoided. Familiarity ought more especially to be avoided in
an epic poem, the peculiar character of which is dignity and eleva-
tion : modern manners make no figure in such a poem.f ,
After Voltaire, no writer, it is probable, will think of rearing an
epic poem upon a recent event in the history of his own country.
But an event of that kind is perhaps not altogether unqualified for
tiagedy : it was admitted in Greece ; and Shakspeare has employed
♦ See Essays on the Principles of Morality, edit. 2. p. 291. ^
t Chap. 2. Part 1. Sect. 7.
I I would not' fixwoa this observation be thought to undervalue modem manners^
The roughness and impetuosity of ancient manners, may be better fitted for an
epic poem, without being better fitted for society. But without regard to that
CMTCumstance, it is the familiarity of modem manners that unqualifies them for a
ki^ subject. The dignity of our present manners^ will be better understood » .
fvAttie ages, when they are no longer familial*.
* Digitized
by Google
420 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. [Ck 22.
it successfully in several of his pieces. One advantage it possesses
above fiction, that of more readily engaging our belief, which tends
above any other circumstance to raise our sympathy. The scene
of comedy is generally laid at home*; familiarity is no objection ;
and we are peculiarly sensible of the ridicule of our own man-
ners.
' After a proper subject is chosen, the dividing of it into parts
requires some art. The conclusion of -a book in an epic poem,
or of an act in a play, cannot be altogether arbitrary; nor be
intended for so slight a purpose ^s to make the parts of equal length.
The supposed pause at the end of every book, and the real pause at
the end of every act, ought always to coincide with some pause in
the action. In this respect, a dramatic or epic poem ought to
resemble a sentence or period in language, divided into members
that are distinguished from each other by proper pauses ; or it ought
to resemble a piece of music, having a full close at the end, preceded
by imperfect closes that contribute to the melody. Every act in a
djr£^atic poem ought, ' therefore, to close with some incident that
makes a pause in the action ; for otherwise there can be no pretext
for interrupting the representation : it would be absurd to break off
in the very heat of actipn ; against which every one would exclaim:
the absurdity still remains where the action relents, if it be not
actually suspended for some time. This rule is also applicable to an
epic poem : though in it a deviation from the rule is less remarka-
ble, because it is in the reader's power to hide the absurdity, by
proceeding instantly to another book. The first book of Parodist
Lost ^ds without any* close, perfect or imperfect: it breaks off
abruptly, where Satan, seated on his throne, is prepared to harangue
the convocated host of the fallen angels ; and the second book
begins with the speech. Milton seems to have- copied the jEneid,
of which the two first books are divided much in the same manner.
Neither is there any proper pause at the end of the fifth book of the
iEneid. .There is no proper pause at the end of the seventh book
of Paradise Lost, nor at the end of the eleventh. In the Iliad, lit^Je
attention is given to this rule.
This branch of the subject shall be closed with a general rule —
that action being the fundamental part of every composition whether
epic or dramatic, the sentiments and tone of language ought to b%
subservient to the action, so as to appear natural, and proper for th€
occasion. The application of this rule to our modern plays, would
reduce the bulk of them to a skeleton.*
■ ♦ " En g6n6ral, il y a beaucoup de discours et peu d'action sur la sc6ne Fran-
^ise. Ctuelqu'un disoit en sortant d'une pi^ce de Denis le Tiran, Je n'ai rien vu,
mais j'ai entendu force paroles. Voila ce qu'on pent dire en sortant des pieces
Francoises. Racine et CforneiUe, avec tout leur ^nie, ne sont eux-mdmes que
des parleurs ; et leur successeur est le premier qui, a Timitation des Anglois, ait
Os6 mettre quelquefois la sc6ne en representation. Commun^ment tout se passa
en beaux dialogues bien agenc^s, bien ronflans, ou Ton voit d'abord que Ic pre-
mier soin de chaque interlocuteur est toujours celui de briller. Presque tCNit
s'enonce en maximes ^^n^rales. Gtuelque agit^s qu'ils puissent dtre, lis sungoifc
toujours plus au public qu'a eux m6mes ; une sentence leur coute moins^ qu'im
sentiment} les pieces de Racine et de Moliere exceptfies, le^ est presque r — ''
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 22.] EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION 421
After carrying on together epic and dramatic composition, I
shall mention circumstances peculiar to each ; beginning with the
epic kin^ In a theatrical entertainment, which employs both the
eye and the ear, it would be a gross absurdity, to introduce upon the
stage superior beings in a visible shape^ There is no place for such
objectiP' in an epic poem ; and Boileau,* with many other critics,
declares strongly for that sort of machinery in an epic poem. But
waving authority, which is apt to impose upon the judgment, let us
draw what light we can from reason. I Jbegin with a preliminary
remark — that this matter is but indistinctly handled by critics : the
poetical privilege of ahimating insensible objects for enlivening a
description, is very differe it from what is termed machinery, where
deities, angel's, devils, o" Jier supernatural powers, are introduced
as real personages, mixing in the action, and contributing to the
catastrophe; and yet these are constantly jumbled together in the
reasoning. The former is founded on a natural principle ;t but can
the latter claim the same authority? far from it; nothing is more
unnatural. Its effects, at the same time, are deplorable. First, it
,gives an ^ir of fiction to the whole ; and prevents that impression
of reality, which is requisite to interest our affections, and to move
otir passions.J This of itself is sufficient to explode machinery,
whatever entertainment it may afford to readeiis of a fantastic taste
or irregular imagination. And, next, were it possible, by disguising
the fiction, to delude us into a notion of reality, which I think cam
hardly be; an insuperable objection would still remain, that the
aim or end of an epic poem can never be attained in any perfection,
where machinery is introduced ; for an evident reason, tliat virtuous
emotions cannot be raised successfully, but by the actions of those
who are endued with passions and affections like our own ; that is,
by human actions : and as for moral instruction, it is clear, that
none can be drawn from beings who act not upon the same princi-
ples with us. ■ A fable in ^Esop^s manner is no objection to this
reasoning : his lions, bulls, and goats, are truly men in disguise :
they act and feel in every respect as human beings ; and the moral
we draw is founded on that supposition. Homer, it is true, intro-
duces the gods into his fable : but the religion of his country autho-
rise'd that liberty; it being an article in the Grecian creed, that the
gods often interpose visibly and bodily in human affairs. I must,
however, observe, t,hat Homer's deities do no honor to his poems :
scrupuleusement banni de la sc^ne Francoise que des 6crits de Port Royal ; ct lea
passions humaines, aussi modestes que l'humilit6 Chretienue, n'y parlent jamaif
que par ^m. II y a encore unc certaine dignite manifiree dans Ic geste et dans )e
propos, q-tti ne permet jamais a la passion de parler exactcment son language, til
a I'autear de rev6tir son personage, ct de se transporter au lieu de la scene ; mais I9
tient toujours enchain6 sur le thf^tre, et sous les yeux des spectatcurs. Aussi les
situations les plus vives ne lui font-elles jamais oublier un bel arruigement dd
phrases, ni des attitudes Elegantes*, et si le d#sespoir lui plonge un poi^nard dans
<e coeui, won content d'observer la d^cence en tombant comme Polix^ne, il netombe
Soint ; la decence le main tient d«bout apres sa mort, et tous ceux qui viennenC
'expirer «'en retournent I'instantd'apr^s sur leuis jambes." Rousseau,
* Third Part of his Art of Poetry.
1 Chap. 20. Sect 1. t See Chap. 2. Part L Sect 7.
36
Digitized
by Google
422 SPIC AND PEAK ATIC COMPOSITIOV. iCL 23
fictions that transgress the bounds of nature, seldom have a good
effect; they may inflame the imagination .for a moment, but will
not be relished by any person of correct taste. They may be of
some use to the lower rank of writers ; but an author of genius has
much finer materials of Nature's production, for elevating his
subject, and making it interesiing.
One would be apt to think, that Boileau, declaring for the
Heathen deities as above, intended them only for embellishing the
diction: but unluckily he banishes angels and devils, who un-'
doubtedly make a figure in poetic language, equal to the Heathen
deities. Boileau, therefore, by pleading for the latter in opposition
to the former, certainly meant, if he had any distinct meaning, that
the Heathen deities may be introduced as actors. And, in fact,
he himself is guilty of that glaring absurdity, where it is not so
pardonable as in an epic poem. In his ode upon the taking of
Namur he demands with a most serious countenance, whether the
walls were built by Apollo or Neptune? and in relating the passage
of the Rhine, arrno 1672, be describes the god of that river as
fighting with all his might to oppose the French monarch ; which
is confounding fiction with reality at a stiange rate. The French
writers in general run into this error: wonderful the effect of
custom, to hide from them how ridiculous such fictions are !
That this is a capital error in the Gierusalemme Liberaia, Tasso's
greatest admirers must acknowledge : a situation can never be intri-
cate, nor the reader ever in pain about the catastrophe, as long as
there is an angel, devil, or magician, to lend a helping hand. Vol-
taire, in his essay upon epic poetry, talking of the Pharsalia, ob-
serves judiciously, " That the proximity of time, the notoriety of
events, the character of the age, enlightened and political, joined
with the solidity of Lucan's subjects, deprived him of poetical fic-
tion.*' Is it not amazing, that a critic who reasons so justly with
respect to others, can be so blind with respect to himself? Voltaire,
not satisfied to enrich his language with images drawn from invisi-
ble and superior beings, introduces them into the action : in the sixth
canto of the Henriade, St. Louis appears in person, and terrifies the
soldiers ; in the seventh canto, St. Louis sends the god of Sleep to
Henry ; and, in the tenth, the demons of Discord, Fanaticism, War,
&rC. assist Aumale in a single combat with Ttirenne, and are driven
away by a good angel brandishing the sword of God. To blend
such fictitious personages in the same action with mortals, makes a
bad figure at any rate ; and is intolerable in a history so recent as
that of Henry I v. But perfection is not the lot of man.*
♦ When I commenced author, my aim was to amuse, and perhaps to instruct,
•but never to give pain. I accordingly avoided every living author, till the Heft-
riade occurred to me as the best instance I could find for illustrating the doctrine in
the text ; and I yielded to the temptation, judging that mv slight criticisms would
never reach M. de Voltaire. They have however reached him ; and have, as I am
infoi-med, stirred up some resentment. lam afflicted at this information; for
what title have I to wound the mind more than the body 1 It would beside show
ingratitude to a celebrated writer, who is highly entertaining, and who has bestowed
on me many a delicious morsel. My only excuse for giving offence is, that it was
vndeaigned } for to plead that the censure is just, is no excuse. As the ofienot
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 22] SFIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 42&
I have tiled serious reasonings upon this subject ; but ridicule, I
suppose, will be found a more successful weapon, which Addison
has applied in an elegant manner : "Whereas the time of a general
peace is, in all appearance, drawing near; being informed that there
are several ingenious persons who intend to show their talents (Jh
so happy an occasion, and being willing, as much as in me lies, to
prevent that efitision of nonsense, which we have good cause to
apprehend; I do hereby strictly require every person who shall
write on this subject, to remember that he is a Christian, and not to
sacrifice his catechism to his poetry. In order to it, I do expect of
him, in the first place, to make his own poem, without depending
upon Phoebus for any part of it, or calling out for aid upon any of
the muses by name. I do likewise positively forbid the sending of
Mercury with any ps^rticular message or dispatch relating to the
peace; and shall by no means suffer Minerva to take upon her the
shape of any plenipotentiary concerned in this great work. I do
farther declare, that I shall not allow the destinies to have had an
hand in the deaths of the several thousands who have been slain in
the late war ; being of opinion that all such deaths may be weH
accounted for by the Christian system of powder and ball. I do
therefore strictly forbid the fates to cut the thread of man's life upon
any pretence whatsoever, unless it be for the sake of the rhyme.
And whereas I have good reason to fear, that Neptune will have A
great deal of business on his hands in several poems which we may
now suppose are upon the anvil, I do also prohibit hi^ appearance,
unless it be done in metaphor, simile, or any very short allusion ;
and that even here he may not be permitted to enter, but with great
caution and circumspection. I desire that the same rule maybe ex-
tended to his whole n-aternity of Heathen gods ; it being my design,
to condemn every poem to the flames in which Jupiter thunders, or
exercises any other act of authority which does not belong to him.
In short, I expect that no Pagan agent shall be introduced, or any
fact related which a man cannot give credit to with a good conscience.
Provided always, that nothing herein contained shall extend, or b6
construed to extend, to several of the female poets in this nation, who
shall still be left in full possession of their gods and goddesses, in
the same manner as if this paper had never been written."*
The marvellous is indeed so much promoted by machinery, that
it is not wonderful to find it embraced by the plurality of writers, and
perhaps of readers. If indulged at all, it is generally indulged to
excess. Homer introduces his deities with no greater ceremony
than though they were mortals : and Virgil has still less modera^
tion : a pilot spent with watching cannot fall asleep, and drop into
the sea by natural means : one bed cannot receive the two lovers,
^neas and Dido, without the immediate interposition of superior
powers. The ridiculous in such fictions, must apppar even through
the thickest vail of gravity apd solemnity.
was public, I take this opportunity to make the apology equally so. I hope it wiD
be satisfactory : perhaps not. — I owe it however to my own character.
• Spectator, No. 523.
Digitized
by Google
4?4 EPIC AND dramatic; composition. fCh. 22.
Angels and devils serve equally with heathen deities as roate-
lials for figurative language; perhaps better among Christians, be-
cause we believe in them, and not in heathen deities. But every
one is sensible, as well as Boileau, that the invisible powers in ouf
^eed make a much worse figure as actors in a modern poem, than
Ihe invisible powers in the heathen creed did in ancient poems ; for
the cause of which we have not far to seek. The heathen deities,
in the opinion of their votaries, were beings elevated one step* only
"l^bove mankind, subject to the same passions, and directed by the
same motives ; therefore not altogether improper to mix with men
in an important action. In our creed, superior beings are placed at
«uch a mighty distance from us, and are of a nature so difierent,
ihat with no propriety can we appear with them upon the same stage:
man, a creature much inferior, loses all dignity in the comparison.
There can be no doubt, that an historical poem admits the embel-
lishment of allegory, as well as of metaphor, simile, or other figure.
Moral truth, in particular, is finely illustrated in the allegorical
manner : it amuses the fancy to find abstract terms, by a sort of
magic, metamorphosed into active beings ; and it is highly pleasing
to discover a general proposition in a pictured event. But allego-
rical beings should be confined within their own sphere, and never
be admitted to mix in the principal action, nor to co-operate in retard-
ing or advancing the catastrophe. This would have a still worse
^flTect than invisible powers ; and I am ready to assign the reason.
The impression of real existence, essential to an epic poem, is incon-
sistent with that figurative existence which is essential to an alle-
gory ;* and therefore no means can more effectually prevent the im-
-pression of reality, than to introduce allegorical beings co-operating
with those whom we conceive to be really existing. The love-
episode, in the Henriade,^ insufferable by the discordant mixture of
allegory with real life, is copied from that of Rinaldo and Armida,
in the Gierusalemme Liberata, which has no merit to entitle it to be
copied. An allegorical object, such as Fame in the JBneid, and the
Temple of Love in the Henriade, may find place in a description:
But to introduce Discord as a real personagej imploring the assist-
ance of Love, as another real personage, to enervate the courage of
the hero, is making these figurative beings act beyond their sphere,
and creating a strange jumble of truth and fiction. The allegory of
Sin and Death in the Paradise Lost, is, I presume, not generally
relished, though it is not entirely of the same nature with what I
have been condemning: in a work comprehending the achievements
of superior beings, there is more room for fancy than where it is con-
fined to human actions.
What is the true notion of an episode ? or how is it to be distin-
guished from the principal action ? Every incident that promotes
or retards the c£|^stropbe, must be part of the principal action. This
clears the nature of an episode; which may be defined, " An 'inci-
dent connected with the principal action, but contributing neither to
advance nor to retard it." The descent of ^Eneas into hell does not
♦ See Chap. 20. Sect. 6. t Canto 9.
Digitized
by Google
C7h 22.] . EPIC AND DRA.MATIC COMPOSITION. '4^
advance nor retard the catastrophe, and therefore is an episode
The story of Nisus and Euryalus, producing an alteration in the
afikirs of the contending parties, is a part of the principal action.
The family scene in the sixth book of the Iliad is of the same
nature ; for by Hector's retiring from the field of battle to visit his
wife, the Grecians had opportunity to breathe, and even to turn upon
the Trojans. The unavoidable effect of an episode, according to
this definition, must be, to break the unity of action ; and, therefore,
it ought never to be indulged, unless to unbend the mind afler the
fatigue of a long narration. An episode, when such is its purpose,
requires the following conditions : it ought to be well connected widi
the principal action: it ought to be lively and interesting: it ought
to be short : and a»time ought to be chosen when the principal action
relents.*
In the following beautiful episode, which closes the second book
of Fingal, all these conditions are united :
Comal was the son of Albion ; the chief of a hundred hills. His deer drank of
a thousand streams ; and a thousand roCks replied to the voice of his dogs. His
face was the mildness of vouth ; but his hand the death of heroes. One was his
love, and fair was she ! tne daughter of mighty Conloch. She appeared like a
sun-beam among women, and her hair was like the wing of the raven. Her sou)
was -fixed on Comal, and she was his companion in the chase. Often fhet their
eyes of love, and happy were their words in secret. But Grormal loved the maid,
the chief of gloomy Ardven. He watched her lone steps on the heath, the foe of
unhappy Comal.
One day tired of the chase, when the mist had concealed their friends, Comal
and the daughter of Conloch met in the cave of Ronan. It was the wonted haunt
of Comal. Its sides were hung with his arms; a hundred shields of thongs wers
there, a hundred helms of sounding steel. Rest here, said, he, my love Galvina,
thou light of the cave of Ronan : a deer appears on Mora's brow ; I go, but soon
will return. I fear, said she, dark Gormal my foe: I will rest here; but soon
return, my love.
He went to the deer of Mora. The daughter of Conloch, to try his love, clothed
her white side with his armor, and strode from the cave of Ronan. Thinking her
his foe, his heart beat high, and his color changed. He drew the bow : the arrow
flew : Galvina fell in blood. He ran to the cave with hasty steps, and called the
daughUjr of Conloch. "Where •art thou, my love 1 but no answer. He
maraed, at length, her heaving heart beating against the mortal arrow. O Con-
loch's daughter, is it thou ! he sunk upon her breast.
The hunters found the hapless pair. Many and silent were his steps round the
dark dwelling of his love. The fleet of the ocean pame : he fought, and the stran-
gers fell : he searched for death over the field ; but who could kill the mightv
Comal 1 Throwing away his shield, an arrow found his manly breast. lie
sleeps with his Galvina : their green tombs are seen by the manner, when he
bounds on the waves of the north.
N'ixt, upon the peculiarities of a dramatic poem. And the first I
shall mention is a double plot; one of which must resemble an epi-
sode in an epic poem ; for it would distract the spectator, instead of
entertaining him, if he were forced to attend, at the same time, to
two capital plots equally interesting. And even supposing it an
under-plot like an episode, it seldom has a good effect in tragedy, of
which simplicity is a chief property; for an interesting subject
* Homer's description of the shield of Achillesis properl]^ introduced at a time
when the action relents, and the reader can bear an interruption. But the author
«f Telemachus describes the shield of that young hero in the heat of battle: a very
improper time for aij interruption.
Z6*
Digitized
by Google
426 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION* [Ch. 22.
that engages our affections, occupies our whole attention, and leaves
no room for any separate concern.* Variety is more tolerable in
comedy, which pretends only to amuse, without totally occupying the
mind. But even there, to make.a double plot agreeable, is no slight
effort of art : the under-plot ought not to vary greatly in its tone
from the principal ; for discordant emotions are unpleasant when
jumbled together ; which, by the way, is an insuperable objection to
tragi-comedy. Upon that account, the Pravoked Husband deserves
censure : all the scenes that bring the family of the Wrougheads
into action, being ludicrous and farcical, are in a very different tone
from the principal scenes, displaying severe and bitter expostulations
between Lord Townley and his lady. The same objection touches
not the double plot of the jJareless Husband; the different subjects
being sweetly connected, and having only so much variety as to
resemble shades of colors harmoniously mixed. But this is not all.
The under-plot ought to be connected with that which is princi-
pal, so much at least as to employ the same persons : the under-plot
otight to occupy the intervals or pauses of the principal action ; and
both ought to be concluded together. This is the case of the Merry
Wives of Windsor.
Violent action ought never to be represented on the stage. While
the dialogue goes on, a thousand particulars concur to delude us
into an impression of reality; genuine sentiments, passionate lan-
guage, and persuasive gesture: the spectator once engaged, is
willing to. be deceived, loses sight of himself, and without scni-
Ele enjoys the spectacle as a reality. From this absent state
e is roused by violent action: he awakes as from a pleasing
dream, and gathering his senses about him, finds all to be a fic-
tion. Horace delivers the same rule, and founds it upon the
same reason :
Ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet ;
Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius Atreus ;
' Aut in avem I*rogne vertatur, Cadmus in an^em :
Gtuodcumque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi.
♦ Racine, in his preface to the tragedy of Berenice j is sensible that simplicity is
a great beauty in tragedy, but mistakes the cause. " Nothing," says he, " W
verisimilitude pleases in tragedy : but where is the verisimilitude, that within the
compass of a day, events should be crowded which commonly are extended
Ihi-ough months 1 ^' This is mistaking the accuracy of imitation for the probabi-
lity or improbability of future events. I explain myself. The verisimilitude
required in tragedy is, that the actions correspond to the manners, and the manners
to nature. When this resemblance is preserved, the imitation is just, because it is
a true copy of nature. But I deny that the verisimilitude of future events, mean-
ing the probability of future events, is any rule in tragedy. % A number of extra-
ordinary events, are, it is true, seldom crowded within the compass of a day: but
what seldom happens may happen ; and when such events fall out, they appear
no less natural than the most oniinary accidents. To make verisimilitude m the
sense of probability, a governing rule in tragedy, would annihilate that sort of
writing altogether ; for it would exclude all extraordinary events, in which the
life of tragedy consists. It is very improbable or unlikely, pitching upon any man
•at random, that he will sacrifice his life and fortune for his mistress or for his
country : yet when that event happens^ supposing it conformable to the character,
we recognize the verisimilitude as to nature," whatever want of verisimilitadeorof
probability there was a priori that such woukl be the event.
Digitized
by Google
CL 22.] EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITION. 427
Nor let Medea's hand destroy
Before the gaping crowd her boy-
Nor wicked Agreus full in view
A dish of human entrails stew,
Or Cadmus turn by char\^e absurd
J A snake, or Progne he a bird.
When thus your scenes you represent,
Disgust forbids me to assent.
The French critics join with Horace in excluding blood from the
stage ; but overlooking the most substantial objection, they urge only
that it is barbarous, and shocking to a polhe audience. The Greeks
had no notion of such delicacy, or rather effeminacy: witness the
murder of Clytemnestra by her son Orestes, passing behind the
scene as represented by Sophodes : her voice is heard calling out for
mercy, bitter expostulations on his part, loud shrieks upon her being
stabbed, and then a deep silence. I appeal to every person of feel-
ing, whether this scene be not more horrible than if the deed had
been committed in sight of the spectators upon a sudden gust of pas-
sion. If Corneille, in representing the affair between Horatius and
his sister, upon which murder ensues behind the scene, had no other
view but to remove from the spectators a shocking action, he was
guilty of a, capital mistake : for murder in cold blood, which in some
measure was the case as represented, is more shocking to a polite
ludience, even where the conclusive stab is not seen, than the same
tct performed in their presence by violent and unpremeditated pas-
sion, as suddenly repented of as committed. I heartily agree with
Addison,* that no part of this incident ought to have been repre-
sented, but reserved for a narrative, with every alleviating circum-
stance in favor of the hero.
A few words upon the dialogue ; which ought to be so conducted
as to be a true representation of nature. I talk not here of the sen-
timents, nor of the language; for these come under different heads:
I talk of what properly belongs to dialogue-writing; where every
single speech, short or long, ought to arise from what is said by the
former speaker, and furnish matter for what comes after, till the end
of the scene. In this view, all the speeches, from first to last, repre-
sent so many links of one continued chain. No author, ancient or
modern, possesses the art of dialogue equal to Shakspeare. Dry-
den, in that particular, may justly be placed as his opposite: he fre-
quently introduces three or four persons speaking upon the same
subject, each throwing out his own notions separately, without regard-
ing what is said by the rest: take for an example the first scene of
Aurenzebe. Sometimes he makes a number club in relating an event,
not to a stranger, supposed ignorant of it ; but to one another, for the
sake merely of speaking : of 'which notable sort of dialogue, we
have a specimen in the first scene of the first part of the Conquest of
Granada. In the second part of the same tragedy, scene second, the
' king, Abenamar, and Zulema, make their separate observations, like
80 many soliloquies, upon the fluctuating temper of the mob. A
dialogue so uncouth, puts one in mind of two shepherds in a pastoral,
* Spectator, No. 44.
Digitized
by Google
423 EPIC AND DRAMATIC COX POSITION. [Ch. 22.
excited by a prize to pronounce verses alternately, each in praise of
his own mistress.
This manner of dialogue-writing, beside an unnatural air, has
another bad effect : it stays the course of the action, because it is not
productive of any consequence. In Congreve's comedies, the action
IS often suspended to make way for a play of wit. But of this more
particularly in the chapter immediately following.
No fault is'more common among writers, than to prolong a speech
after the impatience of the person to whom it is addressed ought to
prompt him or her to break in. Consider only how the impatient
actor is to behave in the mean time. To express his impatience in
violent action without interrupting, would be unnatural; and yet to
dissemble his impatience, by appearing cool where he ought to be
highly inflamed, would be no less so. "
Rhyme being unnatural and disgustful in dialogue, is happily
banished from our theatre : the only wonder is that it ever found
admittance, especially among a people accustomed to the more manly
freedom of Shakspeare's dialogue. By banishing rhyme, we have
gained so much, as never once to dream of any farther improvement
And yet, however suitable blank verse may be to elevated characters
and warm passions, it must appear improper and affected in the
mouths of the lower Sort. Why then should it be a rule, that every
scene in tragedy must be in blank verse? Shakspeare, with great
judgment, has followed a different rule ; which is, to intermix prose
with verse, and only to employ the latter where it is required by the
importance or dignity of the subject. Familia r thoughts and ordinary
feet ought to be expressed in plain language: to hear, for example, a
iootman deliver a simple message in blank verse, must appear ridicu-
lous to every one who is not biassed by custom. In short, that variety
of characters and of situations, which is the life of a play, requires
not only a suitable variety in the sentiments, but also in the dictioa
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 23.] THE THREE UNITIES. 429
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE THREE UNITIES.
An entire action formed, when the incidents are connected by the relation of cauae
and effect — Unity of action, a beauty ; but a plurality of unconnected fables, a
fault — The stating of facts in the order of time to be departed from for the saice
of higher beauties — In a play each scene to hasten or retai-d the catastrophe —
All the facts in an historical fable, to have a natural connection by a relation to
the grand event —The mind satisfied with a slighter degree of unity in a picture
than in a poem — The unities of time and place rigidly adhered to on the ancient
stage, and inculcated by modern critics — Unity of time and place not required in
a narrative poem — The necessary limits of dramatic representation— The refu-
tation of this observation — The origin of tragedy in Greece — The improve-
ments of Thespis and iEschylus — The first scene the prologue — In the second
scene the chorus introduced and continued — The course pursued by Sophocles
and Euripides — The advantages and tlie disadvantages of the chorus — The ad.-
vantages of the chorus supplied in English by the proper use of music — Defects
of the Greek drama on account of its unity of place and of time — The place of
action to be constantly occupied — The stage to be constantly occupied during the
action — Every person intrciduced upon the stage to be connected with those in
possession of it.
In the first chapter, is explained the pleasure we have in a chain
of connected facts. In histories of the world, of a country, of a
people, this pleasure is faint, because the connections are slight or
obscure. We find more entertainment in biography; because the inci«
dents are connected by their relation to a person who makes a figure,
and commands our attention. But the greatest entertainment is in
the history of a single event, supposing it interesting; and the rea^
son is, that the facts and circumstances are connected by the strongest
of all relations, that of cause and effect : a number of facts that give
birth to each other form a delightful train ; and we have great mental
enjoyment in our progress from the beginning to the end.
But this subject merits a more particular discussion. When we
consider the chain of causes and eflTects in the material world, inde-
pendent of purpose, design, or thought, we find a number of incidents
m succession, without beginning, middle, or end : every thing that
happens is both a cause and an effect ; being the effect of what goes
before, and the cause of what follows: one. incident may affect us
more, another less ; but all of them are links in the universal chain:
the mind, in viewing these incidents, cannot rest or settle ultimately
upon any one ; but is carried along in the train without any close.
But when the intellectual world is taken under view, in conjunc-
tion with the material, the scene is varied. Man acts with delibera-
tion, will, and choice: he aims at some end, glory, for example, or
riches, or conquest, the procuring of happiness to individuals, or to
his country in general : he proposes means, and lays plans to attain
the end purposed. Here are a number of facts or mcidents leading
to the end in view, the whole composing one chain by the relation of
cause and eflTect. In running over a series of such facts or incidents,
we cannot rest iipon any one ; because they are presented to us as
means only, leading to some end : but we rest with satisfaction upon
the end* or ultimate event; because there the purpose or aim of the
Digitized
by Google
430 THE THREE UNITIES. [Ch. 23.
chief person or persons is accomplished. This indicates the hegin-
ning, the middle, and the end, of what Arislotle calls an entire actioTL*
The story naturally begins with describing those circumstances
which move the principal person to form a plan, in order tofcompass
some desired event : the prosecution of that plan and the obstruc-
tions, carry the reader into the heat of action : the middle is properly
where the action is the most involved ; and the end is where the
event is brought about, and the plan accomplished.
A plan thus happily accomplished after many obstructions, affords
wonderful delight to the reader; to produce which, a principle men-
tioned abovet mainly contributes, the same that disposes the mind to
complete every work commenced, and in general to carry every
thing to a conclusion.
I have given the foregoing example of a plan crowned with success,
because it affords the clearest conception of a beginning, a middle,
and an end, in which consists uniti/ of action ; and indeed stricter
unity cannot be imagined than in that case. But an action may
have unity, or a beginning, middle, and end, without so intimate a
relation of parts ; as where the catastrophe is different from what is
intended or desired, which frequently happens in our best tragedies.
In the JEneid, the hero, after many obstructions, makes his plan
effectual. The Iliad is formed upon a different model: it begins
with the quarrel between- Achilles and Agamemnon ; goes on to
describe the several effects produced by that cause; and ends in a
reconciliation. Here is unity of action, no doubt, a beginning, a
middle, and an end ; but inferior to that of the ^neid., which will
thus appear. The mind has a propensity to go forward in the chain
of history: it keeps always in view the expected event; and when
the incidents or under-parts are connected by their relation to the
event, the mind runs sweetly and easily along them. This pleasure
we have in the jEneid. It is not altogether so pleasant, as in the
Iliad, to connect effects by their common cause; for such connec-
tion forces the mind to a continual retrospect: looking back is like
Walking backward. •
Homer's plan is still more defective, upon another account, thai
the events described are but imperfectly connected with the wrath
of Achilles, their cause : his wrath did not exert itself in action ;
and the misfortunes of his countrymen were but negatively the
effects of his wrath, by depriving them of his assistance.
If unity of action be a capital beauty in a fable imitative of human
affairs, a plurality of unconnected fables must be a capital deformity.
For the sake of variety, we indulge an under-plot that is connected
with the principal: but two unconnected events are extremely unplea-
sant, even where the same actors are engaged in both. Ariosto is
quite licentious in that particular : he carries on at the same lime a ,
plurality of unconnected stories. His only excuse is, that his plan is
perfectly well adjusted to his subject; for every thing in the Orlando
Furioso is wild and extravagant. ^
Though to state facts in the order of time is natural, yet that order
♦ Poet cnp. 6. See also cap. 7. t Chap. 8.
Digitized
by Google
CL 23.] THE THREE UNITIES. 431
may be varied for the sake of conspicuous beauties.* If, for example,
a noted story, cold and simple in its first movements, be made the
subject of an epic poem, the reader may be hurried into the heat of
action: reserving the preliminaries for a conversation-piece, if thought
necessary; and that method, at the same time, has a peculiar beauty
from being dramatic.f But a privilege that deviates from nature
ought to be sparingly indulged ; and yet romance-writers make no
difficulty of presenting to the reader, without the least preparation,
unknown persons engaged in some arduous adventure equally
unknown. In Cassandra, two personages, who afterward are dis-
covered to be the heroes of the fable, start up completely armed
upon the banks of the Euphrates, and engage in a single combat.]
A play analyzed, is a chain of connected facts, of which each
scene makes a link. Each scene, accordingly, ought to produce
some incident relative to the catastrophe or ultimate event, by
advancing or retarding it. A scene that produces no incident, and
for that reason may be termed barren, ought not to be indulged,
because it breaks the unity of action : a barren scene can never be
entitled to a place, because the chain is complete without it. In the
Old Bachelor, the 3d scene of act 2. and all that follow to the end
of that act, are mere conversation-pieces, productive of no conse-
quence. The 10th and 1 1th scenes, act 3, Double Dealer, the 10th,
11th, 12th, 13th, and I4th scenes, act 1, Love for Love, are of the
same kind. Neither is The Way of the World entirely guiltless
of such scenes. It will be no justification, that they help to display
characters: ifwere better, like Dryden, in his dramatis persona,
to describe characters beforehand, which would not break the chain
of action. But a writer of genius has no occasion for such artifice:
he can display the characters of his personages much more to the
life m sentiment and action. How successfully is this done by
Shakspeare! in whose works there is not to be found a singlle
barren scene.
Upon the whole, it appears, that all the facts in an historical fable,
ought to have a mutual connection, by their common relation to the
grand event or catastrophe. And this relation, in which the unitp
of action consists, is equally essential to epic and dramatic com posy-
tions.
Hi handling unity of action, it ought not to escape observation,
that the mind is satisfied with slighter unity in a picture than in a
poem ; because the perceptions of the former are more lively than
the ideas of the latter. In Hogarth^ s Enraged Musician, we havB
a collection of every grating sound in nature, without any mutual
connection except that of place. But the horror they give to the
delicate ear of an Italian fidler, who is represented almost in
• See Chap. 1. t S^ Chap. 21.
t I am sensible that a commencement of this sort is much relished by readers
disposed to the marvellous. Their curiosity is raised, and they are much tickled
in Its gratification. But curiosity is at an end with the first reading, because tha
personages are no longer unknown ; and therefi>re at the second reading, a con»>
mcncement so artificial loses its power even over the vulgar. A writer 6f genius
prefers lasting beauties.
■Digitized
by Google
432 THE THRBB VNITISS. [CL 23.
convulsions, bestows unity upon the piece, with which the mind
is satisHed.
How far the unities of time and of place are essential, is a ques-'
tion of greater intricacy. These unities were strictly observed in
the Greek and Roman theatres ; and they are inculcated by the
French and English critics, as essential to every dramatic composi-
tion. They are also acknowledged by our best poets, though in
practice they make fre<^uent deviation, ivhich they pretend not to
justify, against the practice of the Greeks and Romans, and against
the solemn decision of their own countrymen. But m the course of
this inquiry it will be made evident, that in this article we are under
no necessity to copy the ancients ; and that our critics are guilty of
a mistake, in admitting no greater latitude of place and time than
was admitted in Greece and Rome.
Suffer me only to premise, that the unities of place and time, are
not, by the most rigid critics, required in a narrative poem. In such
a composition, if it pretend to copy nature, these unities would be
absura; because real events are seldom confined within narrow
limits, either of place or of time. And yet we can follow history,
or an historical fable, through all its changes, with the greatest
fiicility : we never once think of measuring the real time by what
is taken in reading; nor of forming any connection between the
place of action and that which we occupy.
I am sensible, that the drama differs so far from the epic, as to
admit different rules. It will be observed, " That an historical fable,
intended for reading solely, is under no limitation of time nor of
place, more than a genuine history ; but that a dramatic composition
cannot be accurately represented, unless it be limited, as its repre-
sentation is, to one place and to a few hours ; and therefore that it
can adroit no fable but what has these properties ; because it would
be absurd to compose a piece for representation that cannot be justly
represented." This argument, I acknowledge, has at least a plau-
sible appearance; and yet one is apt to suspect some fallacy, con-
sidering that no critic, nowever strict, has ventured to confine the
unities of place and of time within so narrow bounds.*
A view of the Grecian drama, compared with our own, may per-
haps relieve us from this dilemma: if they be differently constructed,
as shall be made evident, it is possible that the foregoing reasoiing
may not be equally applicable to both. This is an article that, with
relation to the present subject, has not been examined by any writer.
All authors agree, that tragedy in Greece was derived from the
hymns in praise of Bacchus, which were sung in parts by a chorus.
Thespis, to relieve the singers and for the sake of variety, introduced
one actor, whose province it was to explain historically the subject '
♦ Bossu, after observing, with wondrous critical sagacity, that winter is an
improper season for an epic poem, and night no less improper for tragedy ; admits
however, that an epic poem may be spread through the whole summer months,
and a tragedy througn the whole sunshine hours of the longest summer-day.
Dupoemeepique^ 1. 3, chap. 12. At that rate an English trag«ly may be longer
than a French tragedy ; and in Nova Zembla the tmie of a tragedy and o( ar
epic poem may be the same.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 23.] THE THREE UNITIES. . 433
of the song, and who occasionally represented one or other personage.
Eschylns, introducing a second actor, formed the dialogue, by which
the performance became dramatic ; and the actors were multiplied
when the subject represented made it necessary. But still, the cho-
rus, which gave a beginning to tragedy, was considered as an essen-
tial part. The first scene, generally, unfolds (he preliminary cir-
cumstances that lead to the grand event : and this scene is by Aris-
totle termed the prologue. In the second scene, where the action
properly begins, the chorus is introduced, which, as originally,
continues upon the stage during the whole performance : the chorus
frequently makes one in the dialogue ; and when the dialogue hap-
pens to be suspended, the chorus, during the interval, is employed
in singing. Sophocles adheres to this plan religiously. Euripides
is not altogether so correct. In some of his pieces, it becomes
nece^ssary to remove the chorus for a little time. But when that
unusual step is risked, matters are so ordered as not to interrupt
the representation . the chorus never leave the sta^e of their own
accord, but at the command of some principal personage, who con-
stantly waits their return.
Thus the Grecian drama is a continued representation without
interruption — a circumstance that merits attention. A continued
representation without a pause, aflfbrds no opportunity to vary the
place of action, nor to prolong the lime of the action beyond that of
the representation. To a representation so confined in place and
time, the foregoing reasoning is strictly applicable : a real or feigned
action that is brought to a conclusion after considerable intervals of
time and frequent changes of place, cannot accurately be copied in
a representation that admits no latitude in either. Hence it is, that
the unities of place and of time, were, or ought to have been, strictly
' observed in the Greek tragedies ; which is made necessary by the
very constitution of their drama, for it is absurd to compose a tragedy
that cannot be justly represented.
Modern critics, who for our drama pretend to establish rules
founded on the practice of the Greeks, are guilty of an egregious
blunder. The unities of place and of time were in Greece, as we
see, a matter of necessity not of choice; and I am now ready to
show, that if we submit to such fetters, it must be from choice, not
necessity. This will be evident upon taking a view of the constitu-
tion of our drama, which diflfers widely from that of Greece : whether
more or less perfect is a different point, to be handled afterward.
By dropping the chorus, opportunity is afforded to divide the repre-
sentation by intervals of time, during which the stage is evacuated,
and the spectacle suspended. This qualifies our drama for subjects
spread through a wide space both of time and of place : the time
supposed to, pass during the suspension of the representation is not
measured by the time of the suspension ; and any place may be sup-
posed when the representation is renewed, with as much facility as
when it commenced: by which means, niany subjects can be justly
represented in our theatres, that were excluded from those of ancient
Greece. This doctrine may be illustrated, by comparing a modem
37
Digitized
by Google
484 THE THREE UNITIES. [Gh. 23
[ay to a set of historical pictures : let us suppose tkem 6ve in num-
5r, and the resemblance will be complete. Each of the pictures
resembles an act in one of our plays : there must necessarily be the
strictest unity of place and of time in each picture ; and the same
necessity requires these two unities duritig each act of a play,
"because during an art there is no interruption in the spectacle.
Now, when we view in succession a number of such historical pic-
tures, let it be, for example, the history of Alexander by Le Brun,
we have no difficulty to conceive, that months or years have passed
"between the events exhibited in two different pictures, though the
interruption is imperceptible in passing o«r eye from the one to the
other ; and we have as little difficulty to conceive a change of place,
however great In which view, there is truly no difference between
five acts of a modern play, and five such pictures. Where the repre-
sentation is suspendea, we can with the greatest facility suppose any
length of time or any change of place: the spectator, it is true, may
be conscious tliat the real time and place are not the same with what
are employed in the representation : but this is a work of reflection ;
and by the same reflection he may also be conscious, that Garrick is
not King Lear, that the playhouse is not Dover Cliffs, nor the noise
be hears thunder and ligntning. In a word, after an interruption of
the represeiitation, it is no more difficult for a spectator to imagine
a new place, or a different time, than at the commencement of the
play, to imagine himself at Rome, or in a period of time two thousand
years back. And indeed, it is abundantly .ridiculous, that a critic,
who is willing to hold candle-light for sun-shine, and some painted
canvasses for a palace or a prison, should be so scrupulous about
admitting any latitude of place or of time in the fable, beyond what
16 necessary in the representation.
There are, I acknowledge, some effects of great latitude in time
that ought never to be indulged in a composition fgtr the theatre.
Nothing can be more absurd, than at the close to exhibit a full-grown
person who appears a child at the beginning : the mind rejects, as
contrary to all probability, such latitude of time as is requisite for a
change so remarkable. The greatest change from place io place
has not altogether the same bad effect. In the bulk of human affairs
place is not material ; and the mind, when occupied with an inter-
esting event, is little regardful of minute circumstances: these 'may
be varied at will, because they scarcely make any impression.
But though I have daken arms to rescue modern poets from the
despotism of modern critics, I would not be understood to justify
liberty without any reserve. An unbounded licence with relation to
place and time, is faulty, for a reason that seems to have been over-
looked, which is, that it seldom fails to break the unity of action.
In the ordinary course of human affairs, single events, such as are
fit to be represented on the stage, are confined to a narrow spot, and
commonly employ no great extent of time : we accordingly seidom
find strict unity of action in a dramatic composition, where any
remarkable latitude is indulged in these particulars. I. say farther,
(hat a composition which employs but one place, and requires not a
Digitized
by Google
€^ 23.] THE TIIRKE UNITIES. 435
greater length of time than is necessary for the representation, is 90
much the more perfect: because the confining of an event within io
narrow bounds, contributes to the unity of action ; and also prevents
that labor, however slight, which the mind must undergo in imagin-
ing frequent changes of place and many intervals of time. But sttU
I must insist, that such limitation of place and time as was necessary
in the Grecian drama, is no rule to us ; and, therefore, that though
such limitation adds one beauty more to the composition, it is at best
but a refinement, which may justly give place to a thousand beauties
more substantial. And I may add, that it is extremely difficult, I
was about to say impracticable, to contract within the Grecian limits,
any fable so fruitful of incidents in number and variety, as to give-
full scope to the fluctuation of passion.
It may now appear, that critics who put the unities of place and
of time upon the same footing with the unity of action, making them
all equally essential, have not attended to the nature and constitution
of the modern drama. If they admit an interrupted representation,
with which no writer finds fault, it is absurd to reject its greatest
advantage — that of representing many interesting subjects excluded
from the Grecian stage. If there needs must be a reformation, why
not restore the ancient chorus and the ancient continuity of action?
There is certainly no medium : for to admit an interruption without
relaxing from the strict unities of place and of time, is in effect to
load us with all the inconveniencies of the ancient drama, and at the
same time to withhold from us its advantages.
The only proper question, therefore, is, whether our model be or
be not a real improvement. This, indeed, may fairly be called in
question ; and in order to a comparative trial, some particulars must
be premised. When a play begins, we have no difficulty to adjust
our imagination to the scene of action, however distant it may be in
time or in place ; because we know that the play is a representation
only. The case is very different after we are engaged : it is the
perfection of representation to hide itself, to impose on the spectator^
and to produce in him an impression of reality, as if he were a spec
tator of a real event ;* but any interruption annihilates that impres-
sion, by rousing him out of his waking dream, and unhappily
restoring him to his senses. So difficult it is to support the impress
sion of reality, that much slighter interruptions than the interval
between two acts, are sufficient to dissolve the charm: in the fifth
act of the Mourning Bride, the three first scenes are in a room of
state, the fourth in a prison ; and the change is operated by shifting
the scene, which is done in a trice : but however quick the transition
may be, it is impracticable to impose upon the spectators, so as to
make them conceive that they are actually carried from the palace
to the prison;' they immediately reflect, that the palace and prison
art imaginary, and that the whole is a fiction.
From these premises, one will naturally be led, at first view, to
pronounce the frequent interruptions in the modern drama to be aa
imperfection. It will occur, " That every interruption must have
♦ Chap. 2. Part 1. Sect. 7.
Digitized
by Google
436 THE THREE UNITIES. f^L 23.
the effect to banish the dream of reality, and with it to banish our
concern, which cannot subsist while we are conscious that ail is a
fiction ; and, therefore, that in the modern drama sufficient time is
not afforded for fluctuation and swelling of passion, like what is
afforded in that of Greece, where there is no interruption."' This
reasoning, it must be owned, has a specious appearance : but we
must not become faint-hearted upon the first repulse ; let us rally
our troops for a second engagement.
Considering attentively the ancient drama, we find that though the
representation is never interrupted, the principal action is suspended
pot less frequently than in the raodetn drama : there are &ve acts
in each ; and the only difference is, that in the former, when the
action is suspended as it is at the end o,f every act, opportunity* is
taken of the interval to employ the chorus in singing. Hence it
appears, that the Grecian continuity of representation cannot have
the effect to prolong the impression of reality : to banish that im-
pression, a pause in the action while the cnorus is employed in
singing, is no less effectual than a total suspension of the repre-
sentation.
But to open a larger view, I am ready to show, that a repre-
sentation with proper pauses, is better qualified for making a
deep impression, than a continued representation without a pause.
This will be evident from the following considerations. Repre-
sentation cannot very long support an impression of reality ; for
. when the spirits are exhausted by close attention and by the agita-
tion of passion, an uneasiness ensues, which never fails to banish
the waking dream. Now supposing the time that a man can
employ with sti^ct attention without wandering, to be no greater
than is requisite for a single act — a supposition that cannot be far
from truth ; it follows, that a continued representation of longer
endurance than an act, instead of giving scope to fluctuation and
swelling of passion, wpuld overstrain the attention, and produce a
total absence of mind. In that respect, the four pauses have a fine
effect; for by affording to the audience a seasonable respite when
the impression of reality is gone, and while nothing material is in
agitation, they relieve the mind from its fatigue ; and consequently
prevent a wandering of thought at the very time possibly of the
most interesting scenes.
In one article, indeed, the Grecian model has greatly the advan-
tage. Its chorus during an interval not only preserves alive the
impressions made upon the audience, but also prepares their hearts
finely for new impressions. In our theatres, on the contrary, the
audience, at the end of every act, being left to trifle time away, lose
every warm impression ; and they begin the next act cool and
unconcerned, as at the commencement of the representation ; this is
a gross malady in our theatrical representations, but a malady
that luckily is not incurable, /fo revive the Grecian chorus, would
be to revive the Grecian slavery of place and time ; but I can
figure a detached chorus coinciding with a pause in the representa-
tion, as the ancient chorus did with a pause in the principal action.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 23.] THE THREE UNITIES. 437
What objection, for example, can there lie against music between
the acts, vocal and instrumental, adapted to the subject ! Such
detached chorus, without putting us under any limitation of time or
place, would recruit the spirits, and would preserve entire the tone,
if not the tide of passion. The music, after an act, should commenoe
in the tone of the preceding passion, and be gradually varied till it
accord with the tone of the passion that is to succeed in the next act.
The music and the representation would both of them be gainers by
their conjunction ; which will thus appear. Music that accords
with the present tone of mind, is, on that account, doubly agreeable ;
and accordingly, though music- singly has not power to raise a
passion, it tends greatly to support a passion already raised. Far-
th*er, music prepares us for the passion that follows, by making
cheerful, tender, melancholy, or animated impressions, as the subject
requires. Take for an example the first scene- of the Mourning
Bride, where soft music, in a melancholy strain, prepares us for
Almeria's deep distress. In this manner, music and representation
support each other delightfully : the impression made upon the
audieilce by the representation, is a fine preparation for the music
that succeeds; and the impression made by the music, is a fine
'preparation for the representation that succeeds. It appears to me
evident, that, by some such contrivance, the modem drama may be
improved, so as to enjoy, the advantage of the ancient chorus
without its slavish limitation of place and time. And as to music
in particular, I cannot figure any means that would tend more to
its improvement : composers, those for the stage at least, would be
reduced to the happy necessity of studying and imitating nature;
instead of deviating, according to the present mode, into wild, fan-
tastic, and unnatural conceits. But we must return to our subject, and
finish the comparison between the ancient and the modern drama.
The numberless improprieties forced upon the Greek 'dramatic
poets by the constitution of their drama, may be sufficient, one
should think, to make us prefer the modern drama, even abstracting
from th6 improvement proposed. To prepare the reader for this
article, it must be premised, that as in the ancient drama the place
of aciion never varies, a place necessarily must be chosen, to which
every person may have access without any improbability. This
confines the scene to some open place, generally the court or area
l)efore a palace ; which excludes from the Grecian theatre transac-
tions within doors, though these commonly are the most important
Such cruel restraint is of itself sufficient to cramp the most preg
nant invention ; and accordingly Greek writers, in order to preserve
unity of place, are reduced to woful improprieties. In the HipjKh
lytus of Euripides,* Phedra, distressed in mind and body, is carried
without any pretext from her palace to the place of action : is there
laid upon a couch, unable to support herself upon her limbs, and
made to utter many things improper to be heard by a number of
women who form the chorus : and what is still more improper, her
female attendant uses the strongest entreaties to make her reveal the
♦ Act 1. Sc. 6.
37*
Digitized
by Google
'438 tH« TRRn iTHiTim. [Ch. 23.
aecret cause of her anguish; which at last Phedra, contrary to
llecency and probability, is prevailed upon to do in presence of that
Tery chorus.* Alcesies, in Euripides, at the point of death, is
.brought from the palace to the place of action, groaning, and
bmenting her untimely fate.t In the Trachiniens of Sophocles,|
a secret is imparted to Dejanira, the wife of Hercules, in presence
of the chorus. In the tragedy of Iphigenia, the messenger em-
ployed to inform Glitemnestra that Iphigenia was sacriOced, stops
short at the place of action, and with a loud voice calls the Queen
from her palace to hear the news. Again, in the Iphigenia in,
Tauris, the necessary presence of the chorus forces Euripides into a
ffross absurdity, which is to form a secret in their hearing ;§ and to
disguise the absurdity, much court is paid to the chorus, not one
woman but a number, to engage them to secrecy. In the Medea
of Euripides, that princess makes no difficulty, in presence of the
chorus, to plot the death of her husband, of his mistress, and of her
lather the king of Corinth, all by poison. It was necessary to bring
Medea upon the stage, and there is but one place of action, which is
always occupied by the chorus. This scene closes the second act :
and in the end of the third, she frankly makes the chorus her con-
fidants in plotting the murder of her own children. Terence, by
identity of place, is often forced to make a conversation within doors
l>e heard on the open street : the cries of a woman in labor are there
lieard distinctly.
The Greek poets are not less hampered by unity of time than by
ihat of place. In the Hippolytus of Euripides, that prince is banished
at the end of the fourth act ; and in the first scene of the following
act, a messenger relates to Theseus the whole particulars of the death
of Hippolytus by the sea-monster : that remarkable event must have
occupied many hours ; and yet in the representation, it is confined to
the time employed by the chorus upon the song at the end of the
4th act. The mconsistency is still greater in the Iphigenia in Tattr
ris .'H the song could not exhaust half an hour ; and yet the incidents
supposed to have happened during that time, could not naturally
have been transacted in less than half a day.
The Greek artists are forced, no less frequently, to transgress
another rule, derived als(\ from a continued representation. The
jrule is, that as a vacuity, however momentary, interrupts the repre-
sentation, it is necessary that the place of action be constantly occu'
pied. Sophocles, with regard to that rule as well as to others, i?
generally correct. But Euripides cannot bear such restraint: he
often evacuates th^ stage, and leaves it empty for others. Iphigenia
in Tauris, after pronouncing a soliloquy in the first scene, leaves the
place of action, and is succeeded by Orestes and Pylades : they, after
some conversation, walk off; and Iphigenia re-enters, accompanied
mrith the chorus. In the Alcestes, which is of this same author, the
place of action is void at the end of the third act. It is true, that to
♦ Act 2. Sc. 2. t Act 2. Sc. 1.
t Act 2. § Act 4. at the close.
H Act5.Se. 4.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 23.1 THE THREE UNITIES. 439
rover the irregtilarity, and to preserve the representation in motion,
Euripides is careful to fill the stage without loss of time : hut thit
still is an interruption, and a link of the chain hroken ; for during
.the change of the actors, there must be a space of time, during which
the stage is occupied by neither set. It ma ices indeed a more re-
markable interruption, to change the place of actipn as well as the
actors ; but that was not practicable upon the Grecian stage.
It is hard to say upon what model Terence has formed' his plays.
Having no chorus, there is a pause in the representation at the end
.of every act. But advantage is not taken of the cessation, even to
vary the place of action : for the street is always chosen, where every
thing passing may be seen by every person ; and by that choice, the
most sprightly and interesting parts of the Qction, which commonly
-pass within doors, are excluded ; witness the last act of the Eunuch.
He has submitted to the like slavery wit|i respect to time. In a
word, a play with a regular chorus, is not more confined in place
and time than his plays are. Thus a zealous sectary followa
implicitly ancient forms and ceremonies, without once considering
whether their introductive cause be still subsisting. Plautus, of a
bolder genius than Terence, makes good use of the liberty afforded
by an interrupted representation : he varies the place of action upon
all occasions, when the variation suits his purpose.
The intelligent reader will by this time understand, that I plead
for no change of place in our plays but after an interval, nor for any
latitude in point of time but what falls in with an interval. The
unities of place and time ought to be strictly observed during each
act ; for during the representation, there is no opportunity for the
smallest deviation from either. Hence it is an essential requisite,
that during an act the stage l^e always occupied ; for even a momen-
tary vacuity makes an interval or interruption. Another rule is no
less essential : it would be a gross breacn of the unity of action, to
exhibit upon the stage two separate actions at the same time ; and
therefore, to preserve that unity, it is necessary that each personage
introduced during an act, be linked to those in possession of the stage,
so as to join all in one action. These things follow from the very
conception of an act, which admits not the slightest interruption : the
moment the representation is intermitted, there is an end of that act ;
and we have no notion of a new act, but where, after a pause oir
interval, the representation is again put in motion. French writers,
generally speaking, are correct in this particular. The English, on
the contrary, are so irregular, as scarcely to deserve a criticism.
Actors, durmg the same act, not only succeed each other in the same
place without connection ; but what is still less excusable, they fre-
quently succeed each other in different places. This change of place
in the same act, ought never to be indulged ; for, beside breaking the
unity of the act, it has a disagreeable effect. After an interval, the
imagination readily adapts itself to any place that is necessary, aa
readily as at the commencement of the play ; but during the rep-
resentation, we reject change of place. From the foregoing censure
must be excepted the Mourning Bride of Congreve, where regularity
Digitized
by Google
440 THl THRBS UNITIES. [Ch. 23
concurs with the heauty of sentiment and of language, to make it
one of the most complete pieces of which England can boast. 1 must
acknowledge, however, that in point of regularity, this elegant per-
formance is not altogether unexceptionable. In the four first acts,
the unities of place and time are strictly observed: but in the last
act, there is a capital error with respect to unity of place; for in the
first three scenes of that act, the place of action is a room of state
which is changed to a prison in the fourth scene : the chain also of
the actors is broken ; as the persons introduced in the prison, are
different from those who made their appearance in the room of state.
This remarkable interruption of the representation, makes in effect
two acts instead of one : and therefore, if it be a rule that a play
ought not to consist of more acts than five, this performance is so far
defective in point of regularity. I may add, that even admitting six
acts, the irregularity would not be altogether removed, without a
longer pause in the representation than is allowed in the acting; for
more than a momentary interruption is requisite for enabling the
imagination readily to iall in with a new place, or with a wide space
of time. In The Way of the World, of the same author, unity of
§lace is preserved during every act, and a stricter unity of lime
uring the whole play, than is necessary.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 24.] GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 441
CHAPTER XXIV. '
GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE.
Gardening, originally a useful, now a fine art — Architecture also, formerly a use-
ful, now a fine art — Two different views afforded by both — Destined either for
use or beauty — Foundation for criticism in these arts, laid in the emotion they
excite — Poetiy holds the first place — Painting and sculpture confined to objects
of sight — Emotions of beauty, grandeur, and meiancholy, raised by gardening
— The beauties of regularity, ortler, and proportion, more conspicuous in archi-
tecture than in gardening— Advantage of gardening — Two things wanting to
bring architecture to perfection — Simplicity essential to gardening — The bad
effects of profuse ornaments — A smtdl field to be regularly laid out ; not so with
a large garden — A small spot embellished with natural objects, the simplest
plan for a garden — Artificial statues and buildings belong to the more complex
— To pass from a gay object to a ruin has a bad effect — Vice rerm, a good
effect — Similar emotions to be raised together — The best method for replenisb-
ing[ a field — A single garden distinguished from a plurality by its unity — Regu-
larity required in that part of a garden adjoining a dwellinff house — A larger
prosp^ect than can be taken at one view, never to be taken — Uiinatural obiects to
be rejected — Faint imitations of nature to be avoided — Things trivial to be
excluded — A labyrinth not justified — A winding walk — An oblique avenue —
A garden on a flat tabe highly ornamented — A ruin to be in the Gothic form —
An. animal siwuting water unnatural— Summer and winter gardens in hot and
cold countries — The practice of the Chinese — The effect of rough uncultivated
grounds ; and of a garden — A garden necessary to a college — Different kinds of
buildings — Those designed for utility to correspond to that design — A heathen
temple — A palace — A dwelling — The proportions of doors, windows, and steps
— The different forms of the rooms of a dwelling — No resemblance between
musical proportion and architecture — The comparison between proportion in
number, and in quantity absurd — Regularity and proportion essential to build-
ings destined to please the eye — Every building to have an expression corres-
ponding to its destination— Climax to be observed — ^Grandeur to be the chief
study of architecture — Directions for ornaments — Directions about the columns
— The Grecian order — The distinction between the Ionic and the Corinthian —
Columns distinguished by their destination into three kinds — The ornaments
that belong to each — The effect of gardening and architecture upon manners.
The books we have upon architecture and ufon embellishing
ground, abound in practical instruction, necessary for a mechanic:
but in vain should we rummage them for rational principles to
improve our taste. In a general system, it might be thought suffi-
cient to have unfolded the principles that govern these and other fine
arts, leaving the application to the reader : but as I would neglect
no opportunity of showing the extensive influence of these principles,
the purpose of the present chapter is to apply them to gardening and
architecture; but without intending any regular plan of these favor-
ite arts, which would be unsuitable, not only to the nature of this
work, but to the experience of its author.
Gardening was at first a useful art: in the garden of Alcinous,
described by Homer, we find nothing done for pleasure merely.
But gardening is now improved into a fine art ; and when we talk
of a garden without any epithet, a pleasure garden, by way of emi-
nence, is understood. The garden of Alcinous, in modern language,
was but a kitchen-garden. Architecture has run the same course:
it continued many ages a useful art merely, without aspiring to b©
Digitized
by Google
442 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. [Ch. 24.
classed with the fine arts. Architecture, therefore, and gardening,
being useful arts as well as fine arts, affbrd two different views.
The reader, however, will not here expect rules for improving any
work of art in point of utility; it being no part of my plan to treat
of any useful art as such: but there is a beautv" in utility; and in
discoursing of beauty that of utility must not be neglected. This
leads us to consider gardens and buildings in difleaent views : they
may be destined for use solely, for beauty solely, or for both. Such
variety of destination, bestows upon these arts a great command of
beauties, complex no less than various. Hence the difficulty of form-
ing an accurate taste in gardening and architecture; and hence that
difference and wavering of taste in these arts, greater than in any art
that has but a single destination.
Architecture and gardening cannot otherwise entertain the mind,
than by raising certain agreeable emotions or feelings ; with which
we must begin, as the true foundation of all the rules of criticism
that govern these arts. Poetry, as to its power of raising emotions,
possesses justly the first place among the fine arts ; for scarcely any
one emotion of human nature is beyond its reach. Painting and
sculpture are more circumscribed, having the command of no emo-
tions but of what are raised by sight : they are peculiarly success^
ful in expressing painful passions, which are displayed by external
signs extremely legible.* Gardening, besides the emotions of beauty
from regularity, order, proportion, color, and utility, can raise emo-
tions of grandeur, of sweetness, of gayety, of melancholy, of wild-
ness, and even of surprise or wonder. In architecture, the beauties
of regularity, order, and proportion, are still more conspicuous than
in gardening ; but as to the beauty of color, architecture is far infe-
rior. Grandeur can be expressed in a building, perhaps more suc-
cessfully than in a garden ; but as to the other emotions above men-
tioned, architecture hitherto has not been brought to the perfection of
expressing them distinctly. To balance that defect, architecture can
display the beauty of utility in the highest perfection.
Gardening indeed possesses one advantage, never to be equalled in
the other art: in various scenes, it can raise successively all the dif-
ferent emotions above mentioned. But to produce that delicious
eflfect, the garden must be extensive, so as to admit a slow succession :
for a small garden, comprehended at one view, ought to be confined
to one expression ;t it may be gay, it may be sweet, it may be gloomy;
but an attempt to mix these, would create a jumble of emotions not a
little unpleasant.^: For the same reason, a building, even the most
magnificent, is necessarily confined to one expression.
Architecture, considered as a fine art, instead of being a rival to
gardening in its progress, seems not far advanced beyond its infant
state. To bring it to maturity, two things mainly are wanted. First,
a greater variety of parts and ornaments than at present it seems pro-
* See Chap. 15. * t See Chap. 8.
t " The citizen, who in his villa has but an acre for a garden, must have it
diversified with every object that is suited to an extensive gaiSen. There must b«
woods, streams, lawns, statues, and temples to every goddess as well as to CIoa-
tino."
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 24.] GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 443
vided with. Gardening- here has greatly the advantage: it is pro-
vided with plenty of materials for raising scenes without end, affect-
ing the spectator with variety of emotions. In architecture, on the
rontrary, materials are so scanty, that artists hitherto have not been
successful in raising any emotions but of b'eauty and grandeur : with
respect to the former, there are indeed plenty of means, regularity,
order, symmetry, simplicity, utility; and with respect to the latter,
the addition of size is sufficient. But though it is evident, that every
building ought to have a certain character or expression suited to its
destination; yet this refinement has scarcely been attempted by any
artist. A death's head and bones employed in monumental buildf-
ings, will indeed produce an emotion of gloom and melancholy; but
such ornaments, if these can be termed so, ought to be rejected,
because they are, in themselves, disagreeable. The other thing
wanted to bring the art to perfection, is, to ascertain the precise
impression made by every single part and ornament, cupolas, spires,
columns, carvings, statues, vases, &c.: for in vain will an artist
attempt rules for employing these, either singly or in combination,
until the different emotions they produce be distinctly explained.
Gardening in that particular also, has the advantage : the several
emotions raised by trees, rivers, cascades, plains, eminences, and its
other materials, are understood ; and each emotion can be described
with some degree of precision, which is attempted occasionally in
the foregoing parts of this work.
In "gardening as well as in architecture, simplicity ought to be a
ruling principle. Profuse ornament has no better effect than to con-
found the eye, and to prevent the object from making an impression
as one entire whole. An artist destitute of genius for capital beau-
ties, is naturally prompted to supply the defect by crowding his plan
with slight embellishments: hence in a garden, triumphal arches,
Chinese houses, temples, obelisks, cascades, fountains, without end ;
and in a building, pillars, vases, statues, and a profusion of carved
work. Thus some women defective in taste, are apt to overcharge
every part of their dress with ornament. Superfluity of decoration
has another bad effect : it gives the object a diminutive look ; an
island in a wide extended lake makes it appear larger ; but an arti-
ficial lake, which is always little, appears still less by making an
island in it.*
In forming plans for embellishing a field, an artist without taste
vem ploys straight lines, circles, squares; because these look best upon
paper. He perceives not, that to humor and adorn nature, is the
perfection of his art ; and that nature, neglecting regularity, dis-
^ibutes her objects in great variety with a bold hand. A large field
'laid out with strict regularity, is stiff and artificial.t iVatnrA indeed.
♦in organized bodies comprenended unaer one view, studies regu-
kirity, which, for the same reason, ought to be studied in architec-
♦ See Appendix to Part 5. Chap. 2.
t In France and Italy, a garden is disposed like the human body, alleys, liker
legs and arms, answering each other ; the great walk in the middle representing
the trunk of the body. Thus an artist void of taste carries self along into every
operation.
Digitized
by Google
444 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. [Ch. 24
ture: but in large objects, which cannot otherwise be surveyed but
in parts and by succession, regularity and uniformity would be uSe^
less properties, because they cannot be discovered by the eye.*
Nature therefore, in her large works, neglects these properties ; and
in cop3ring nature, the artist ought to neglect them.
H iving thus far carried on a comparison between gardening and
architecture; rules peculiar to each come next in order, beginning
with gardening. The simplest plan of a garden, is that of a spot
embellished with a number of natural objects, trees, walks, polished
parterres, flowers, streams, &c. One more complex comprehends
statues and buildings, that nature and art may be mutually ornamen-
tal. A third, approaching nearer perfection, is of objects assembled
together in order to produce, not only an emotion of beauty, but also
some other particular emotion, grandeur, for example, gayety, or
any other above mentioned. The most complete plan of a garden if
an improvement upon the third, rexjuiring the several parts to be so
arranged, as to inspire all the different emotions that can be raised
by gardening. In this plan, the arrangement is an important cir-
cumstance; for it has been shown, that some emotions figure best in
conjunction, and that others ought always to appear in succession,
and never in conjunction. It is mentioned above,t that when the
most oppositee motions, such as gloominess and gayety, stillness and
activity, follow each other in succession, the pleasure, on the whole,
will be the greatest ; but that such emotions ought not to be united,
because they produce an unpleasant mixture.:^ For this reason, a
ruin affording a sort of melancholy pleasure, ought not to be seen
from a flower-parterre which is gay and cheerful.^ But to pass
from an exhilarating object to a ruin, has a fine effect; for each of
the emotions is the more sensibly felt by being contrasted with the
other. Similar emotions, on the other hand, such as gayety and
sweetness, stillness and gloominess, motion and grandeur, ought to
be raised together ; for their effects upon the mind are greatly
heightened by their conjunction.
Kent's method of embellishing a field is admirable; which is to
replenish it with beautiful objects, natural and artificial, disposed as
they ought to be upon a canvass in painting. It requires indeed more
genius to paint in the gardenmg way: in forming a landscape upon
a canvass, no more is required than to adjust the figures to each other:
an artist who would form a garden in Kent's manner, has an addi-
tional task ; which is, to adjust his figures to the several varieties of
the field.
A single garden must be distinguished from a plurality ; and yet
it is not obvious in what the unity of a garden consists. We have^
indeed, some notiojfi of unity in a garden surrounding a palace^ with
views from each window, and walks leading to every corner : but
there may be a garden without a house ; in which case, it is the
* A square field appears not such to the eye when viewed from any part of it;
and the centre is the only place where a circular field preserves in appearance its
regular figure.
t Chap. 8. t Chap. 2. Part 4. § See the place immediately above cited.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 24.] GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURB. 445
unity of design that makes it one garden ; as where a spot of ground
is so artfully dressed as to make the several portions appear to be
parts of one whole. The gardens of Versailles, properly expressed
in the plural number, being no fewelr than sixteen, are indeed all of
them connected with the palace, but have scarcely any mutual con-
nection : they appear not like parts of one whole, but rather like
small gardens in contiguity. A greater distance between these gar-
dens would produce a better effect; their junction breeds confusion
of ideas, and upon the whole gives less pleasure than would be felt
m a slower succession.
Regularity is required in that' part of a garden which is adjacent
to the dwelling-house ; because an immediate accessory ought to par-
take the regularity of the principal object ;* but in proportion to the •
distance from the house considered as the centre, regularity ought
less and less to be studied ; for in an extensive plan, it has a fine
efiect to lead the mind insensibly from regularity to a bold variety.
Such arrangement tends to make an impression of grandeur : and
grandeur ought to be studied as much as possible, even in a more
confined plan, by avoiding a multiplicity of small parts.f A small
I'arden, on the other hand, which admits not grandeur, ought to be
strictly regular.
Milton, describing the garden of Eden, prefers justly grandeu*
before regularity:
Flowers worthy of paradise, which not nice art
In beds' and curious knots, but Nature boon
Pour'd forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain ;
Both where the morning-sun first warmly smote
The open field, and where the unpierc'd shade
Imbrown a the noontide bow'rs. Paradise Losty B. IV.
A hill covered with trees, appears more beautiful as well as more
lofty than when naked. To distribute trees in a plain requires more
art : near the dwelling-house they ought to. be scattered so distant
from each other, as not to break the unity of the field ; and even at
the greatest distance of distinct vision, they ought never to be so
crowded as to hide any beautiful object. ,
In the manner of planting a wood or thicket, much art may be
displayed. A common centre of walks, termed a star, from whence
are seen remarkable objects, appears too artificial, and consequently
♦ The influence of this connection surpassing all bounds, is still visible in many ■
gardens, formed of horizontal plains forced with great labour and expence, per-
pendicular faces of earth supported by massy stone walls, terrace-walks in stages
one above another, regular ponds and canals without the least motion, and the
whole surrounded, like a prison, with high walls excluding every external object'
At first view it may puzzle one to account for a taste so opposite to nature in every" •
particular. But nothing happens without a cause. Perfect regularity and unir
formity are required in a house ; and this idea is extended to its accessory the gar-
den, especially if it be a small spot incapable of grandeur or of much variety ;
the house is regular, so must the garden be ; the floors of the house are horizontal,
and the garden must have the same position ; in the house we are protected from
every intruding eye, so must we be in the garden. This, it must be confessed, is
carrying the notion of resemblance very far : but where reason and taste are laid^^
asleep, nothing is more common than to carry resemblance beyond proper bounds*
t See Chap. 4.
38
Digitized
by Google
446 OARDBMIMO AND ARCHITSCTURB. [Oh. 24.
too stiff and formal, to be agreeable : the crowding withal of so
many objects together, lessens the pleasure' that would be felt in a
slower succession. Abandoning, therefore, the star, let us try to
substitute some form more natural, that will display all the remark-
able objects in the neighborhood. This may be done by various
apertures in the wood, purposely contrived to lay open successively
every such object ; sometimes a single object, sometimes a plurality
in a line, and sometimes a rapid succession of them : the mind at
intervals is roused and cheered by agreeable objects ; and by sur-
prise, upon' viewing objects of which it had no expectation.
Attending to the influence of contrast, explained in the eighth
chapter, we discover why the lowness of the ceiling increases in
appearance the size of a large room, and why a long room appears
still longer by being very narrow, as is remarkable in a gallery *
by the same means, an object terminating a narrow opening in a
wood, appears at a double distance. This suggests another rule for
distributing trees in some quarter near the dwelling-house; which
is to place a number of thickets in a line, with an opening in each,
directing the eye from one to another ; which will make them appear
raoredistant from each other than they are in reality, and in appear-
ance enlarge the size of the whole field. To give this plan its
utmost eflfect, the space between the thickets ought to be consider-
able : and in order that each may be seen distinctly, the opening
nearest the eye ought to be 'wider than the second, the second wider
than the third, and so on to the end.*
By a judicious distribution of trees, other beauties may be pro-
duced. A landscape so rich as to engross the whole attention, and
so limited as sweetly to be comprehended under a single view, has a
much finer effect than the most extensive landscape that requires a
wandering of the eye through successive scenes. This observation
suggests a capital rule in laying out a field ; which is, never at any
one station to admit a larger prospect than can easily be taken in at
once. A field so happily situated as to command a great extent of
prospect, is a delightful subject for applying this rule: let the pros-
pect be split into proper parts by means of trees ; studying at the
same lime to introduce all the variety possible. A plan of this kind
executed with taste will produce a charming effect : the beauiiful
prospects are multiplied : each of them is much more agreeable
than the entire prospect was originally: and, to crown the whole,
the scenery is greatly diversified. •
As gardening is not an inventive art, but an imitation of nature,
©r rather nature itself ornamented ; it follows necessarily, that every
thing unnatural ought to be rejected with disdain. Statues of wild
beasts vomiting water, a common ornament in gardens, prevail in
those of Versailles. Is that ornament in a good taste ? A jet iTeaztj
being purely artificial, may, nvithout disgust, be tortured into a thou-
* An object will appear more distant than it really is, if different colored ever-
greens be planted between it and the eye. Suppose holly and laurel, and the holly
which is of the deeper color, nearer the feye : the degradation of color in trij
laurel, makes it appear at a great distance from the holly, and consequently re- "
moves the object, m appearance, to a greater distance than it really is.
Digitized
by Google
Vh. 24.J OARDBNING AND ARCHITECTURE. 447
sand shapes : but a representation of what really exists in nature,
admits not any unnatural circumstance. In the statues of Ver-
sailles the artist has displayed his vicious taste without the least color
or disguise. A lifeless statue of an animal pouring out water, may
be endured without much disgust : but here the lions and wolves are
put in violent action, each has seized its prey, ^ deer or a lamb, in act
to devour ; and yet, as by hocus-pocus, the whole is converted into a.
different scene : the lion, forgetting his prey, pours out water plenti-
fully ; and the deer, forgetting its danger, performs the same work :
a representation no less absurd ^han that in the opera, where Alex-
ander the Great, after mounting the wall of a town besieged, turns
his back to the enemy, and entertains his army with a song.*
In gardening, every lively exhibition of what is beautiful in nature
has a fine effect: on the other hand, distant and faint imitations are
displeasing to every one of taste. The cutting of evergreens in the
shape of animals, is very ancient ; as appears from the epistles of
Pliny, who seems to be a great admirer of the conceit. The pro-
pensity to imitation gave birth to that practice ; and has supported
it wonderfully long, considering how faint and insipid the imitation
is. But the vulgar, great and small, are entertained with the oddness
and singularity of a resemblance, however distant, between a tree
and an animal. An attempt in the gardens of Versailles to imitate
a grove of trees by a group of jets (Teau, appears, for the same rea-
son, no l^ss childish.
In designing a garden, every thing trivial or whimsical ought to
be avoided. Is a labyrinth then to be justified ? It is a mere conceit,
like that of composing verses in the shape of an axe or an egg : the
walks and hedges may be agreeable ; but in the form of a labyrinth,
they serve to no end but to puzzle : a riddle is a conceit not so mean ;
because the solution is proof of sagacity, which affords no aid in
tracing a labyrinth.
The gardens of Versailles, executed with boundless expense by
the best artists of that age, are a lasting monument of a taste the
most depraved : the faults above mentioned, instead of being avoided,
are chosen as beauties, and multiplied without end. Nature, it
would seem, was deemed too vulgar to be imitated in the works of a
magnificent monarch : and for that reason preference was given to
things unnatural, which probably were mistaken for supernatural. I
have often amused myself with a fanciful resemblance between these
gardens and the Arabian tales : each of them is a performance in-
tended for the amusement of a great king: in the sixteen gardens
of Versailles there is no unity of design, more than in the thousand
and one Arabian tales: and, lastly, they are equally unnatural;
groves of jets d'eau,, statues of animals conversing in the manner of
^sop, water issuing' out of the mouths of wild beasts, give an im-
* Ulloa, a Spanish writer, describing the city of Lima, says, that the great
square is finely ornamented. " In the centre is a fountain, equally remarkable
for its grandeur and capacity. Raised above the fountain is a bronze statue of
Fame, and four small basons on the angles. The water issues from the trumpet
of the statue, and from the mouths of eight lions surrounding it, which" in his
opinion " greatly heighten the beauty of Sie whole."
Digitized by VjOOQ IC
148 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURK. [Ch. 24.
pression of fairy-land and witchcraft, no less than diamond-palaces,
inirisible rings, spells and incantations.
A straight road is the most agreeable, because it shortens the
journey. But in an embellished field, a straight walk has an air of
formality and confinement: and at any rate is less agreeable than a
windingor waving walk; for in surveying the beauties of an orna-
mented field, we love to roam from place to place at freedom. Wind-
ing walks have another advantage: at every step they open new
Fiews. In short, the walks in pleasure-grounds ought not to have
any appearance of a road : my mtention is not to make a journey/
but to feast my eye on the beauties of art and nature. This rule
excludes not openings directing the eye to- distant objects. Such
openings, beside variety, are agreeable in various respects: first, as
observed above, they extend in appearance the size of the field : next,
an object, at whatever distance, continues the opening, and deludes
the spectator into a conviction, that the trees which confine the view
are continued till they join the object. Straight walks in recesses
do well : they vary the scenery, and are favorable to meditation.
Avoid a straight avenue directed upon a dwelling-house: better
fiur an oblique approach in a waving line, with single trees and other
•cattered objects interposed. In a direct approach, the first appear-
ance is continued to the end : we see a house at a distance, and we
«ee it all along in the same spot without any variety. In an oblique
approach, the interposed objects put the house seemingly in motion:
it moves with the passenger, and appears to direct its course so
as hospitably to intercept him. An oblique approach contributes
also to variety : the house, seen successively in different directions,
assumes at each step a new figure.
A garden on a flat ought to be highly and variously ornamented,
in order to occupy the mind, and prevent our regretting the insipi-
dity of an uniform plain. Artificial mounts in that view are com-
mon : but no person has thought of an artificial walk elevated high
above the plain. Such a walk is airy, and tends to elevate the mind:
it extends and varies the prospect ; and it makes the plain, seen from
a height, appear more agreeable.
Whether should a ruin be in the Gothic or Grecian form ? In
the former, I think ; because it exhibits the triumph of time over
strength ; a melancholy, but not unpleasant thought : a Grecian ruin
auggests rather the triumph of barbarity over taste j a gloomy and
discouraging thought.
There are not many fountains in a good taste. Statues of animals
vomiting water, which prevail every where, stand condemned as
unnatural. A statue of a whale spouting water upward from its
head is in one sense natural, as certain whales have that power;
)>ut it is a sufficient objection, tbat its singularity would make it
appear unnatural; there is another reason against it, that the figure
pf a whale is in itself not agreeable. In many Roman fountains,
statues of fishes are employed to support a large bason of water.
This unnatural conceit is not accountable, unless from the connec-
tion that water has with the fish that swim in it ; which by the way
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 24.] GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 449
shows the influence of even the sh'ghter relations. The best design
for a fountain I have met with, is what follows. In an artificial rock,
rugged and abrupt, there is a cavity out of sight at the top: the water,
conveyed to it by a pipe, pours or trickles down the broken parts
of the rock, and is collected into a bason at the foot : it is so con-
trived, as to make the water fall in sheets or in rills at pleasure.
Hitherto a garden has been treated as a work intended solely for
pleasure, or, in other words, for giving impressions of intrinsic
beauty. What comes next in order, is the beauty of a garden des-
tined for use, termed relative beauty;* and this branch shall be
dispatched in a few words. In gardening, luckily, relative beauty
need never stand in opposition to intrinsic beauty : all the ground
that can be requisite for u.se, makes but a small proportion of an
ornamented field ; and may be put in any corner without obstruct-
ing the disposition of the capital parts. At the same time, a kitchen-
garden or an orchard is susceptible of intrinsic beauty; and may
be so artfully disposed among the other parts, as by variety and
contrast to contribute to the beauty of the whole. In this respect,
architecture requires a greater stretch of art, as will be seen imme-
diately; for as intrinsic and relative beauty must often be blended
in the same building, it becomes a difficult task to attain both in any
perfection.
In a hot country it is a capital object to have what may be termed
a summer-garden ; that is, a spot of ground disposed by art and by"
nature to exclude the sun, but to give free access to the air. In a
cold country, the capital object should be a winter-garden, open to
the sun, sheltered from wind, dry under foot, and taking on the
appearance of summer by variety of evergreens. The relish of a
country life, totally e.xtinct in France, is decaying fast in Britain.
But as still many people of fashion, and some of taste, pass the win-
ter, or part of it, in the country, it is amazing that winter-gardens
should be overlooked. During summer^ every field is a garden ;
but during half of the year, the weather is seldom so good in Britain
as to afford comfort in the open air without shelter ; and yet seldom
so bad as not to afford comfort with shelter. I say more, that beside
providing for exercise and health, a winter-garden may be made
subservient to education, by introducing a habit of thinking. In
youth, lively spirits give too great a propensity to pleasure and
amusement, making us averse to serious occupation. That unto-
ward bias may be corrected in some degree by a winter-garden,
which produces in the mind a calm satisfaction, free from agitation
of passion, whether gay or gloomy; a fine tone of mind for medi-
tation and reasoning.t
♦ Sec these terms defined, Chap. 3.
t A correspondent, whose name I hitherto have concealed, that I might not h%
thought vain, and which I can no longer conceal,* writes to me as follows : " In
life we generally lay our account with prosperity, and seldom, very seldom pre-
pare for adversity. We carry that propensity even into the structure of our gar-
dens : we cultivate the gay ornaments of sunmier, relishing* no plants but what
flourish by mild dews and gracious sunshine : we banisn from our thoughts
* Mn. MontacU'
38»
Digitized
by Google
450 OARDSMIMO AND ARCHITKCTURK. [Ch. 24
QardeniDg being in China brought to greater perfection than in
nny other known country, we shall close our present subject with a
slight view of Chinese gardens, which ai'e found entirely obsequious
to the principles that govern every one of the fine arts. In general,
it is an indispensable law there, never to deviate from nature: but
in order to produce that degree of variety which is pleasing, every
method consistent with nature is put in practice. Nature is strictly
imitated in the banks of their artificial lakes and rivers; which
sometimes are bare and gravelly, sometimes covered with wood
quite to the brink of the water. To fiat spots adorned with flowers
and shrubs, are opposed others steep and rocky. We see meadows
covered with cattle ; rice-grounds that run into lakes ; groves into
which enter navigable creeks and rivulets : these generally conduct
to some interesting object, a magnificent building, terraces cut in a
mountain, a cascade, a grotto, an artificial rock. Their artificial rivers
are generally serpentine; sometimes narrow, noisy, and rapid ; some-
times deep, broad, and slow : and to make the scene still more active,
mills and other moving machines are often erected In the lakes are
interspersed islands; some barren, surrounded with rocks and shoals;
others enriched with everything that art and nature can furnish. Even
in their cascades they avoid regularity, as forcing nature out of its
course : the waters are seen bursting from the caverns and windings of
the artificial rocks, here a roaring cataract, there many gentle falls;
and the stream often impeded by trees and stones, that seem brought
down by the violence of the current. Straight lines are sometimes in-
dulged, in order to keep in view some interesting object at a distance.
Sensible of the influence of contrast, the Chinese artists deal in
sudden transitions, and in opposing to each other, forms, colors, and
sJhades. The eye is conducted, from limited to extensive views,
and from lakes and rivers to plains, hills, and woods : to dark and
gloomy colors, are opposed the more brilliant : the different masses
of light and shade are disposed in such a tnanner, as to render the
composition distinct in its parts, and striking on the whole. In
plantations, the trees are artfully mixed according to their shape
and color; those of spreading branches with the pyramidal, and the
light green with the deep green. They even introduce decayed
trees, some erect, and some half out of .the ground,* In order to
heighten contrast, much bolder strokes are risked : they sometimes
introduce rough rocks, dark caverns, trees ill formed, and seemingly
rent by tempests, or blasted by lightning; a building in ruins, or
half consumed by fire. But to relieve the mind from the harshness
ghastly winter, when the benign influences of the sun cheering us no more, are
doubly regretted by yielding to the piercing north wind and nipping firost. Sag*
is the gardener, m the metaphorical as well as literal sense, who procures a
friendly shelter to protect us from December storms, and cultivates the plants that
adorn and enliven that dreary season. He is no philosopher who cannot retire
Uito tlie Stoic's walk, when the gardens of Epicurus are out of bloom : he is too
9Uich a philosoplier who will rigidly proscribe the flowers and uromatics of sum-
mer, to sit constantly under the cypress-shade."
* Taste has suggested to Kent the same artifice. A decayed tree placed prr^
peijy, contributes to contrast ; and also in a pensive or sedate state pf miJoA
produces a sort of pity, grounded on an imaginary personification.
Digitized
by google
Ch. 24.] GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 451
of such objects, the sweetest and most beautiful scenes always
succeed.
The Chinese study to give play to the imagination : they hide
the termination of their lakes; and commonly interrupt the view of
a cascade by trees, through which are seen obscurely the waters as
they fall. The imagination once roused, is disposed to magnify
every object.
Nothing is more studied in Chinese gardens than to raise wonder
or surprise. In scenes calculated for that end, every thing appears
like fairy-land ; a torrent, for example, conveyed under ground,
puzzles a stranger by its uncommon sound to guess what it maybe;
and to multiply such uncommon sounds, the rocks and buildings
are contrived with cavities and interstices. Sometimes one is led
insensibly into a dark cavern, terminating unexpectedly in a land-
scape enriched with all that nature affords the most delicious. At
other times, beautjful walks insensibly conduct to a rough unculti-
vated field, where bushes, briers, and stones interrupt the passage :
(ooking about for an outlet, some rich prospect unexpectedly opens
to view. Another artifice is, to obscure some capital part by trees,
or other interposed objects:. our curiosity is raised to know what
lies beyond ; and after a few steps, we are greatly surprised with
some scene totally different from what was expected.
These cursory observations upon gardening, shall be closed with
some reflections that must touch every reader. Rough uncultivated
ground, dismal to the eye, inspires peevishness and discontent. May
not this be one cause of the harsh manners of savages? A field
richly ornamented, containing beautiful objects of various kinds,
displays in full lustre the goodness of the Deity, and^the ample
provision he has made for our happiness. Ought not the spectator
to be filled with gratitude to his Maker, and with benevolence to his
- fellow-creatures ? Other fine arts may be perverted to* excite irregu-
Ikr, and even vicious, emotions : but gardening, which inspires the
purest and most refined pleasures, cannot fail to promote every good
affection. The gayety and harmony of mind it produces, inclining
the spectator to communicate his satisfaction to others, and to make
them happy as he is himself, tend naturally to establish in him a
habit of humanity and benevolence.*
. It is not easy to suppress a degree of enthusiasm, when we reflect
on the advantages of gardening with respect to virtuous education.
In the beginning of life the deepest impressions are made ; and it is
a sad truth* that the young student, familiarized to the dirtiness and
disorder or many colleges pent within narrow bounds in populous
cities, is rendered in a measure insensible to the elegant beauties of
art and nature. Is there no man of fortune sufficiently patriotic to
think of reforming this evil ? It seems to me far from an exaggera-
tion, that good professors are not more essential to a college^ than a
♦ The manufactures of silk, flax, and cotton, in their present advaDce towardt
perfection, may be held as inferior branches of the fine arts ; because their produc-
tions in dress and in furniture inspire, like them, gay and kindly emotions fatov-
ftble to morality.
Digitized
by Google
452 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. [Ch. 24.
spacious garden sweetly ornamented, but without any thing glaring
or fantastic, so as upon the whole to inspire our youth with a taste
no less for simplicity than for elegance. In that respect, the univer-
sity of Oxford may justly be deemed a model.
Having finished what occurred on gardening, I proceed to rules
and observations that more peculiarly concern architecture. Archi-
tecture, being a useful as well as a nne art, leads us to distinguish
buildings and parts of buildings into three kinds; namely, what are
intended for utility solely, what fbr ornament solely, and what for
both. Buildings intended for utility solely, such as detached offices,
ought, in every part, to correspond precisely to that intention ; the
slightest deviation from the ena in view will by every person of taste
be thought a blemish. In general, it is the perfection of every work
of art, that it fulfils the purpose for which it is intended; and every
other beauty, in opposition, is improper. But in things intended for
ornament, such as pillars, obelisks, triumphal arches, beauty alone
ought to be regarded. A Heathen temple must be considered as
merely ornamental ; for being dedicated to some deity, and not
intended for habitation, it is susceptible of any figure and any
embellishment that fancy can suggest and beauty admit. The great
difficulty of contrivance, respects buildings that are intended to be
useful as well as ornamental. These ends, employing different and
often opposite means, are seldom united in perfection ; and the only
practicable method in such buildings is, to favor ornament less or
more according to the character of the building : in palaces, and
other edifices sufficiently extensive to admit a variety of useful con-
trivance, regularity justly takes the lead; but in dwelling-houses
that are too small for variety of contrivance, utility ought to prevail,
neglecting regularity as far as it stands in opposition to convenience.*
Intrinsic and relative beauty being founded on difl^erent principles,
must be handled separately. I begin with relative beauty, as it is
of the greater importance.
The proportions of a door are determined by the use to which it
is destined. The door of a dwelling-house, which ought to corres-
pond to the human size, is confined to seven or eight feet in height,
and three or four in breadth. The proportions proper for the door
of a barn or coach-house, are widely different. Another considera-
tion enters. To study intrinsic beauty in a coach-house or barn,
intended merely for use, is obviously improper. But a dwelling-
house may admit ornaments ; and the principal door of a palace
demands all the grandeur that is consistent with the foregoing pro-
portions dictated by utility : it ought to be elevated, and approached
by steps; and it may be adorned with pillars supporting an archi-
trave, or in any other beautiful manner. The door of a church
ought to be wide, in order to afford an easy passage for a multitude:
the width, at the same lime, regulates the heignt, as will appear
hereafter. The size of windows ought to be proportioned to that of
• A building must be laro^e to produce any sensible emotion of regiUarity, pro-
portion, or beauty; which is an additional reason for minding convemenoeonlf
u a* dwelling-house of small size.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 24.] GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 453
the room they illuminate; for if the apertures he not sufBciently
large to convey light to every corner, the room is unequally lightea,
which is a great deformity. The steps of a stair ought to be accom-
modated to the human figure, without regarding any other propor-
tion : they are accordingly the same in large and in small buildings,
because both are inhabited by men of the same size.
I proceed to consider intrinsic beauty blended with that which is
relative. Though a cube in itself is more agreeable than a paral-
lelopipedon, yet a large parallelopipedon set on its smaller base, is
by its elevation more agreeable ; and hence the beauty of a Gothic
tower. But supposing this figure to be destined for a dwelling-
house, to make way for relative beauty, we immediately perceive
that utility ought chiefly to be regarded, and that the figure, incon-
venient by its height, ought to be set upon its larger base : the lofti-
ness is gone ; but that loss is more than compensated by additional
convenience; for which reason, a figure spread more upon the
ground than raised in height, is always preferred for a dwelling-
house, without excepting even the most superb palace.
As to the divisions within, utility requires that the rooms be
rectangular; for otherwise void spaces will be left, which are of no
use. A hexagonal figure leaves no void spaces ; but it determines
the rooms to be all of one size, which is inconvenient. A room of
a moderate size may be a square; but in very large xooms this
figure must, for the most part, give place to a parallelogram, which
can more easily be adjusted, than a square, to the smaller rooms
contrived entirely for convenience. A parallelogram, at the same
time, is the best calculated for receiving light; because, to avoid
cross lights, all the windows ought to b^ in one wall ; and the oppo-
site wall must be so near as to be fully lighted, otherwise the room
will be obscure. The height of a room exceeding nine or ten feet,
has little or no relation to utility; and therefore proportion is the
only rule for determining a greater height.
' As all artists who love what is beautiful, are prone to entertain
the eye, they have opportunity to exert their taste upon palaces and
sumptuous buildings, where, as above observed, intrinsic beauty
ought to have the ascendant over that which is relative. But such
propensity is unhappy with respect to dwelling-houses of moderate
size; because in these, intrinsic beauty cannot be displayed in any
perfection, without wounding relative beauty: a small house admits
not much variety of form ; and in such houses there is no instance
of internal convenience being accurately adjusted to external regu-
larity : I am apt to believe that it is beyond the reach of art. And
yet archit^^cts never give over attempting to reconcile these two
incompatibles. How otherwise should it happen, that of the endless
variety of private dwelling-houses, there is scarcely an instance of
any one being chosen for a pattern ? The unwearied propensity
to make a house regular as well as convenient, forAs the architect,
in some articles, to s<icrifice convenience to regularity, and in others,
regularity to convenience ; and the house, which turns out neither
regular nor convenient, never fails to. displease : the faults ara
Digitized
by Google
454 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. [CL 24.
obvious; and the difficulty of doing better is known to the artist
only.*
Nothing can be more evident, than that the form of a dwelling-
house ought to be suited to the climate: and yet no error is more
common, than to copy in Britain the form of Italian houses ; not
forgetting even those parts that are purposely contrived for air, and
for excluding the sun. I shall give one or two instances. A colon-
nade along the front of a building, has a fine effect in Greece and
Italy, by producing coolness and obscurity — agreeable properties in
warm and luminous climates: but the cold climate of Britain is
altogether averse to that ornament; and iJierefore a colonnade can
never be proper in this country, unless for a portico, or to communi-
cate with a detached building. Again, a logic laying the house open
to the north, contrived in Italy for gathering cool air, is, if possible,
still more improper for this climate: scarcely endurable in summer,
it, in winter, exposes the house to the bitter blasts of the north, and
to every shower of snow and rain.
Having said what appeared necessary upon relative beauty, the
next step is, to view architecture as one of the fine arts ; which will
lead us to the examination of such buildings, and parts of buildings,
as are calculated solely to please the eye. In the works of Nature,
rich and magnificent, variety prevails ; and in works of Art that are
contrived to imitate Nature, the great art is to hide every appearance
of art ; which is done by avoiding regularity, and indulging variety.
But in works of art that are original, and not imitative, the timid
hapd is guided by rule and compass ; and accordingly, in architec-
ture strict regularity and uniformity are studied, as far as consistent
with utility.
Proportion is no less agreeable than regularity and uniformity;
and therefore in buildings intended to please the eye, they are all
equally essential. By many writers it is taken for granted, that in
buildings there are certain proportions that please the eye, as in
sounds there are certain proportions that please the ear ; and that
in both equally the slightest deviation from the precise proportion is
disagreeable. Others seem to relish more a comparison between
proportion in numbers and proportion in quantity; and hold that
the same proportions are agreeable in both. The proportions, for
example, of the numbers 16, 24, and 36, are agreeable; and so, say
they, ajre the proportions of a room, the height of -which is 16 feet,
the breadth 24, and the length 36. May I hope from the reader,
■ that he will patiently accompany me in examining this point, which
is useful as well as curious. To refute the notion of a resemblance
between musical proportions and those of architecture, it might be
sufficient to observe in general, that the one is addressed to the ear,
the other to the eye ; and that objects of different senses have no
resemblance, nor indeed any relation to each other. But more par-
ticularly, whatlpleases the ear in harmony, is not proportion among
the strings of the instrument, but among tne sounds that these strings
* " Houses are built to live in, and not to look on ; therefore let use be preferred
before uniformity, except where both may be had." Ijord VeruUivi^ Essay 45.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 24.1 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 455
produce. In architecture, on the contrary, it is the proportion of
aifferent quantities that please the eye, without the least relation to
sound. Were quantity to be the ground of comparison, we have no
reason to presume, that there is any natural analogy between the
proportions that please in a building, and the proportions of strings
that produce concordant sounds. Let us take for example an octave,
produced by two similar strings, the one double of the other in length.
This is the most perfect of all concords; and yet I know not that the
proportion of one to two is agreeable in any two parts of a building.
I add, that concordant notes are produced by wind-instruments,
which, as to proportion, appear not to have even the slightest resem-
blance to a building.
With respect to the other notion, namely, a comparison between
proportion in numbers and proportion in quantity; I urge, that num-
ber and quantity are so different, as to afford no probability of any
natural relation between them. Gluantity is a real quality of every
body ; number is not a real quality, but merely an idea that arises
upon viewing a plurality of things, whether conjunctly or in succes-
sion. An arithmetical proportion is agreeable in numbers ; but have
we any reason to infer that it must also be agreeable in quantity 7
At that rate, a geometrical proportion, and many others which are
agreeable in numbers, ought also to be agreeable in quantity. In an
endless variety of proportions, it would be wonderful, if there never
should happen a coincidence of any one agreeable proportion in both.
One example is given in the numbers 16^24, and 36 ; but to be con-
vinced that this agreeable coincidence is merely accidental, we need
only reflect, that the same proportions are not applicable to the exter-
nal figure of a house, and far less to a column.
That we are framed by nature to relish proportion as well as regu-
larity, is indisputable; but that agreeable proportion should, like
concord in sounds,' be confined to certain precise measures, is not
warranted by experience. On the contrary, we learn from experi-
ence, that proportion admits more and less ; that several proportions
ire each of them as^reeable ; and that we are not sensible of dispro-
portion, till the difference between the quantities compared become
the most striking circumstance. Columns evidently admit different
proportions, equally agreeable ; and so do houses, rooms, and other
parts of a building. This leads to an interesting reflection : the
foregoing difference between concord and proportion, is an additional
instance of that admirable harmony which subsists among the several
branches of the human frame. The ear is an accurate judge of
sounds, and of their smallest differences ; and that concord in sounds
should be regulated by accurate measures, is perfectly well suited to
this accuracy of perception. The eye is more uncertain about the
size of a large object, than of one that is small ; and at a distance an
object appears less than at hand. Delicacy of perception, therefore,
with respect to proportion in quantities, would be an useless quality;
and it is much better ordered, that there should be such a latitude
with respect to agreeable proportions, as to correspond to the uncer-
tainty of the eye with respect to quantity.
Digitized
by Google
450 OARDENIKG AND ARCHITECT 17 RE. [Ch. 24.
But all the beailties of this subject are not yet displayed ; and it is
too interesting to be passed over in a cursory view. 1 proceed to
observe, that to make the eye as delicate with respect to proportion
as the ear is with respect to concord, would not only be an useless
quality, but be the source of continual pain and uneasiness. 1 need
go no farther for a proof than the very room I occupy at present :
lor every step I take varies to me, in appearance, the proportion o[
length to breadth : at that rate, I should not be happy but in one pre-
cise spot, where the proportion appears agreeable. Let me fartheir
observe, that it would be singular indeed to find, in the nature of
man, Any two principles in perpetual opposition to each other : and
yet this would be the case, if proportion were circumscribed like
concord ; for it would exclude all but one of those proportions that
utility requires in difierent buildings, and in different parts of the
same building.
It provokes a smile to find writers acknowledging the necessity ol
accurate proportions, and yet differing widely about them. Laying
aside reasonmg and philosophy, one fact, universally allowed, ought
to have undeceived them, that the same proportions which are agree-
able in a model, are not agreeable in a large building: a room 40
feet in, length and 24 in breadth and height, is well proportioned;
but a room 12 feet wide and high and 24 long, approaches to a
gallery.
Perault, in his comparison of the ancients and moderns,* is the
only author who runs to the opposite extreme; maintaining, that the
different proportions assigned to each order of columns are arbiti^ary,
and that the beauty of these proportions is entirely the effect of cus-
tom. This betrays ignorance of human nature, which evidently
delights in proportion as well as in regularity, order, and propriety.
But without any acquaintance with human nature, a single reflection
might have convinced him of his error— r-that if these proportions
had not originally been agreeable, they could not have been esta-
blished by custom.
To illustrate the present point, I shall add a few examples of the
agreeableness of different proportions. In a sumptuous edifice, the
capital rooms ought to be large, for otherwise they will not be pro-
portioned to the size of the building : and for the same reason, a
very large room is improper in a small house. But in things thus
related, the mind requires not a precise or single proportion, reject-
inrg all others ; on the contrary, many different proportions are made
equally welcome. In all buildings, accordingly, we find rooms of
different proportions equally agreeable, even where the proportion is
not influenced by utility. With respect to the height of a room, the
proportion it ought to bear to the length and breadth, is arbitrary;
and it cannot be otherwise, considering the uncertainty of the eye as
tQ the height of a room, when it exceeds seventeen or eighteen feet.
In columns again, even architects must confess, that the proportion
of height and thickness varies betwixt eight diameters and ten, and
that every proportion between these extremes is agreeable. But
♦ Page 94.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 24.] GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 457
this is not all. There must certainly be a farther variation of pro-
portion, depending on the size of the column ; a row of columns ten
feet high, and a row twice that height, require different proportions:
the intercolumniations must also differ according to the height of the
row.
Proportion of parts is not only itself a beauty, but is inseparably
connected with a beauty of the highest relish, that of concord or
harmony; which will be plain from what follows. A room of which
the parts are all finely adjusted to each other, strikes us'with the
beauty of proportion. It strikes us at the same time with a pleasure
far superior : the length, the breadth, the height, the windows, raise
each of them separately an emotion : these emotions are similar ;
and though faint when felt separately, they produce in conjunction
the emotion of concord or harmony, which is extremely pleasant*
On the other hand, where the length of a room far exceeds the
breadth, the mind, comparing together parts so intimately connected,
immediately perceives a disagreement or disproportion which dis-
gusts. But this is not all ; viewing them separately, different emotions
are produced, that of grandeur from the great length, and that of mean-
ness or littleness from the small breadth, which in union are disa-
greeable by their discordance. Hence it is, that a long gallery,
however convenient for exercise, is not an ag^reeable figure of a
room : we consider it, like a stable, as destined for use, and expect
not that in any other respect it should be agreeable, t
Regularity and proportion are essential in buildings destined
chiefly or solely to please the eye, because they produce intrinsic
beauty. But a skilftil artist will not confine his view to regularity
and proportion : he will also study congruity, which is perceived
when the form and ornaments of a structure are suited to the pur-
pose for which it is intended. The sense of congruity dictates the
following rule — that every building have an expression correspond-
ing to its destination : a palace ought to be sumptuous and grand ;
a private dwelling, neat and modest; a play-house, gay and splendid;
and a monument, gloomy and melancholy. | A heathen temple has
a double destination : It is considered chiefly as a house dedicated to
some divinity ; and in that respect it ought to be grand, elevated, and
magnificent : it is considered also as a place of worship ; and in that
respect it ought to be somewhat dark or gloomy, because dimness
produces that tone of mind which is suited to humility and devotion.
♦ Chap. 2. Part 4.
t A covered passage connecting a winter garden with the dwelling house, woukI
answer the purpose of walking in bad weather much better than a galle^ry. A
slight roof supported by slender pillars, whether of wood or stone, would be suffi-
cient ; filling up the spaces between the pillars with evergreens, so as to give ver-
dure and exclude wind.
t A house for the poor ought to have an appearance suited to its destination.
The new hospital in Paris for foundlings, errs against this rule ; for it has moro
the air of a palace than of an hospital. Propriety and convenience ought to be
studied in lodging the indigent; but in such houses splendor and magnificence are
out of aJl rule. For the seirae reason, a naked statue or picture, scarce decent any
where, is in a church intolerable. A sumptuous chairity school, beside its impro-
priety, gives the children an unhappy taste for high livmg.
39
Digitized
by Google
458 GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. [Ch. 24.
A Christian church is not considered to be a house for the Deity,
but merely a place of worship: it ought therefore to be decent and
plain, without much ornament : a situation ought to be chosen low
and retired ; because the congregation during worship, ought to be
humble and disengaged from the world. Columns, beside their
chief service of being supports, may contribute to that peculiar
expression which the destination of a building requires : columns
of difierent proportions, serve to express loftiness, lightness, Sue.
as well as strength. Situation also may contribute to expression.
Conveniency regulates the situation of a private dwelling-house; but,
as I have had occasion to observe,* the situation of a palace ought
to be lofty.
And tnis leads to a (Question, whether the situation, where there
happens to be no choice, ought, in any measure, to regulate the form
of tne edifice? The connection between a lar^e house and the
neighboring fields, though not intimate, demanas however some
congruity. It would, for example, displease us to find an elegant
building thrown away upon a wild uncultivated country : congruity
requires a polished field for such a building; and beside the plea-
^re of congruity, the spectator is sensible of the pleasure of con-
cordance from the similarity of the emotions produced by the two
objects. The old Gothic form of building, seems well suited to the
rough uncultivated regions where it was invented : the only mistake
was, the transferrins this form to the fine plains of France and Italy,
better fitted for buildings in the Grecian taste ; but by refining upon
the Gothic form, every thing possible has been done to reconcile it to
its new situation. The profuse variety of wild and grand objects
about Inverary, demanded a house in the Gothic form ; and every
one must approve the taste of the proprietor, in adiusting so finely
iLe appearance of his house to that of the country where it is placea.
The external structure of a great house, leads naturally to its inter-
nal structure. A spacious room, which is the first that commonly
receives us, seems a bad contrivance in several respects. In the first
place, when immediately from the open air we step into such a room.
Its size in appearance is diminished by contrast : it looks little com-
pared with that great canopy the sky. ' In the next place, when it
recovers its grandeur, as it soon does, it gives a diminutive appear-
ance to the rest of the house: jessing from it, every apartment looks
little. This room therefore may be aptly compared to the swoln
commencement of an epic poem.
Bella per Emathios plusquam civilia campos.
In the third place, by its situation it serves only for a waiting-room,
and a passage to the principal apartments; instead of being reserved
as it ought to be, for entertaining company : a great room, which
enlarges the mind, and gives a certain elevation to the spirits, is*
destined by nature for conversation. Rejecting therefore this form,
I take a hint from the climax in writing for another form that appeari
more suitable. A handsome portico, proportioned to the size and
♦ Chap. 10.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 24.] GARPENING AND iK^CHITECTVRE . 459
fashion of the front, leads into a waiting-room of a larger size, and
that to the great room ; all by a progression from small to great. If
the house be very large, there may Jbe space for the following suit of
rooms : first, a portico ; second, a passage within the house, bounaed
by a double row of columns connected by arcades; third, an octagon
room, or of any other figure, about the centre of the building ; and,
lastly, the great room.
A double row of windows must be disagreeable, by distributing
the light unequally : the space in particular between the rows is
always gloomy. For that reason, a room of greater height than
can be conveniently served by a single row, ought regularly to be
lighted from the roof. Artiets have generally an inclination to form
the great room into a double cube, even with the inconvenience of a
double row of windows: they are pleased with the regularity, ovei-
looking that it is mental only, and not visible to the eye, which
seldom can distinguish between the height of 24 feet and that of 30.*
Of all the emotions that can be raised by architecture, grandeur
is that which has the greatest influence on the mind ; and it ought,
therefpre, to be the chief study of the artist, to raise this emotion in
great buildings destined to please the eye. But as grandeur
depends partly on size, it seems so far unlucky for architecture,
that it is governed by regularity and proportion, which never
deceive the eye by making objects appear larger than they are in
reality : such deception, as above observed, is never found but with
some remarkable disproportion of- parts. But though regtilarity
and proportion contribute nothing to grandeur as far as that emotion
depends pn size, they in a different respect contribute greatly to it,
as has been explained above.f
Next of ornaments, which contribute to give buildings a peculiar
expression. It has been doubted whether a building can regularly
admit any ornament but what is useful, or at least has that appear-
ance. But considering the different purposes of architecture, a fine
as well as a useful art, there is no good reason why ornaments
may not be added to please the eye without any iielation to use.
This liberty is allowed m poetry, painting, and gardening, and why
not in architecture considered as a fine art? A private dwelling-
house, it is true, and other edifices where use is the chief aim,
admit not regularly any ornament but what has the appearance, at
least, of use: but temples, triumphal arches, and other buildings,
intended chiefly or solely for show, admit every sort of ornament.
A thing intended merely as an ornament, may be of any figure
and of any kind that fancy can suggest ; if it please the spectator,
the artist gains his end. Statues, vases, sculpture upon stode,
whether basso or alta relievo, arc beautiful ornaments relished in all
civilized countries. The placing of such ornaments so as to pto-
* One who has not given peculiar attention, will scarce imagine how imperfect
our judgment is about distances, without experience. Our looks being generally
•directed to objects upon the ground around us, we judge tolerably of horizontal
distances : but seldom having occasion to look upward in a perpendicular line,
we scarce can form any judgment of distances in that direction.
t Chap. 4.
Digitized
by Google
46U GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. [Ch. 24.
duce the beet effect, is the only nicety. A statue in perfection is an
enchanting work ; and we naturally require that it should be seen
in every direction and at different distances; for which reason,
statues employed as ornaments are proper to adorn the great stair-
case that leads to the principal door of a palace, or to occupy the
void between pillars. But a niche in the external front is not a
proper place for a statue : and statues upon the roof, or upon the
top of a wall, would give pain hy seeming to be in danger of
tumbling. To adorn the top of a wall with a row of vases is an
unhappy conceit, by placing things apparently of use where they
cannot be of any use. As to basso and alto relievo, I observe, that
in architecture as well as in gardening, contradictory expressions
ought to be avoided : for which reason, the lightness and delicacy
of carved work ill suits the firmness and solidity of a pedestal :
upon the pedestal, whether of a statue or a column, the ancients
never ventured any bolder ornament than the basso relievo.
One at first view will naturally take it for granted, that in the
ornaments under consideration beauty is indispensable. It goes a
great way undoubtedly^ but, upon trial, we find many things
esteemed as highW ornamental that have little or no beauty.
There are various circumstances, beside beauty, that tend to make
an agreeable impression. For instance, the reverence we have for
the ancients is a fruitful source of ornaments. Amalthea's horn has
always been a favorite ornament, because of its connection with a
lady who was honored with the care of Jupiter in his infancy. A
fat old fellow and a goat are surely not graceful forms ; and yet
Selinus and his companions are every where fashionable ornaments.
What else but our fondness for antiquity can make the horrid form
of a Sphinx so much as endurable ? Original destination is another
circumstance that has influence to add dignity to things in them-
selves abundantly trivial. In the sculpture of a marble chimney-
piece, instruments of a Grecian or Roman sacrifice are beheld with
pleasure ; original destination rendering them venerable as well as
their antiquity. Let some modern cutlery ware be substituted,
though not less beautiful ; the artist will be thought whimsical, if not
absurd. Triumphal arches, pyramids, obelisks, are beautiful forms ;
but the nobleness of their original destination has greatly enhanced
the pleasure we take in them. A statue, supposed to be an Apollo,
will with an antiquary lose much of its grace when discovered to
have been done for a barber's apprentice. Long robes appear
noble, not singly for their flowing lines, but for their being the *
habit of magistrates; and a scarf acquires an air of dignity by
being the badge of a superior order of churchmen. These examples
may be thought sufficient for a specimen : a diligent inquiry into
human nature will discover other influencing principles ; and hence
it is, that of all subjects ornaments admit the greatest variety, in
point of taste.
Things merely ornamental appear more gay and showy tha8
•hings that take on the appearance of "use. A knot of diamonds in
the hair is splendid ; but diamonds have a more modest appearance
Digitized
by Google
^h. 24.] OARDENINO AND ARCHITEOTURS. 46!
when used as clasps or buttons. The former are more proper for a
young beauty, the latter after marriage.
And this leads to ornaments having relation to use. Ornamenta
of that kind are governed by a different principle, which is, th^t
they ought to be of a form suited to their r^aj or apparent destina-
tion. This rule is applicable as well to ornaments that make a
component part of the subject, as to ornaments that are only acces-
sory. With relation to the former, it never can proceed from a
good tasteto make a tea-spoon resemble the leaf of a tree; for such
a form is inconsistent with the destination of a tea-spoon. An eagle's
paw is an ornament no less improper for the foot of a chair or table :
because it gives it the appearance of weakness, inconsistent with its
destination of bearing weight. Blind windows are sometimes in-
troduced to preserve the appearance of regularity : in which case
the deceit ought carefully to be concealed. If visible, it marks the
irregularity in the clearest manner, signifying, that real windows
ought to have been there, could they have been made consistent with
the internal structure. A pilaster is another example of the same
sort of ornament ; and the greatest error against its seeming desti-
nation of a support, is to sink it so far into the wall as to make it
lose that seeming. A composition representing leaves and branches,
with birds perching upon them, has been long irf fashion for a can-
dlestick ; but none of these particulars is in any degree suited to that
destination.
A large marble bason supported by fishes, is a conceit much
relished in fountains. This is an example of accessory ornaments
in a bad taste ; for fishes here are unsuitable to their apparent
destination. No less so are the supports of a coach, carved in the
figure of Dolphins or Tritons : for what have these marine beings
to do on dry land ? and what support can they be to a coach.
In a column we have an example of both kinds of ornament.
Where columns are employed in the front of a building to support
an entablature, they belong to the first kind : where employed to
connect with detached offices, they are rather of the other kind.
As a column is a capital ornament in Grecian architecture, it well
deserves to be handled at large.
With respect to the form of this ornament, I observe that a circle
is a more agreeable figure than a square, a globe than a cube, and
a cylinder than a parallelopipedon. This last, in the language o.
architecture, is saying that a column is a more agreeable figure
than a pilaster ; and for that reason, it ought to be preferred, all
other circumstances being equal. Another reason concurs, that a
column connected with a wall, which is a plain surface, makes a
greater variety than a pilaster. There is an additional reason for
rejecting pilasters in the external front of a building, arising from a
principle unfolded above,* namely, a tendency in man, to advance
every thing to its perfection, and to its conclusion. If, for example,
i' see a thing obscurely in a dim light and by disjointed parts, tha
tendency prompts me to connect the disjointed parts into a whole.
>w * Chap. 4.
V 39*
• Digitized by VjOOQIC
462 ^ OARDCMINO AND ARCHITEOTURS. [Ch. 24.
I supposed it to be, for example, a horse ; and my eyesight being
bbedient to the conjecture, I immediately perceive a horse, almost as
distinctly as in daylight. This principle is applicable to the case
in hand. The most superb front, at a great distance, appears a plain
surface : approaching gradually, we begin first to perceive inequali
ties, and then pillars ; but whether round or square, we are uncer-
tain : our curiosity anticipating our progress, cannot rest in suspense:
being prompted, by the tendency mentioned, to suppose the most
complete pillar, or that which is the most agreeable to the eye, we
immediately perceive, or seem to perceive, a number of columns :
if upon a near approach we find pilasters only, the disappointment
makes these pilasters appear disagreeable; when abstracted from
that circumstance, they would only have appeared somewhat less
agreeable. But as this deception cannot happen in the inner front
inclosing a court, I see no reason for excluding pilasters from such
a front, when there is any cause for preferring them before c61umns.
With respect now to the parts of a column, a bare uniform cylinder
without a capital, appears naked ; and without a base, appears too
cicklishly placed to stand firm :* it ought therefore to have some
finishing at the top and at the bottom. Hence the three chief parts
of a column, the shaft, the base, and the capital. Nature, undoubt-
edly, requires proportion among these parts, but it admits variety of
proportion. I suspect that the proportions in use have been influ-
enced in some degree by the human figure ; the capital being con-
ceived as the head, the base as the feet. With respect to the base,
indeed, the principle of utility interposes to vary it from the human
figure : the base must be so proportioned to the whole, as to give
the column the appearance of stability.
We find three orders of columns among the Greeks, the Doric,
the Ionic, and the Corinthian, distinguished from each other by^heir
destination as well as by their ornaments. It has been warmly dis-
puted, whether any new order can be added to these. Some hold
the affirmative, and give for instances the Tuscan and Composite :
others deny, and maintain that these properly are not distinct orders,
but only the original orders with some slight variations. Among
writers who do not agree upon any standard for distinguishing the
different orders from each other, the dispute can never have an end.
What occurs to me on this subject is what follows.
The only circumstances that can serve to distinguish one order
from another, are the form of the column, and its destination. To
make the first a distinguishing mark, without regard to the other,
would multiply these orders without end ; for a color is not more
susceptible of different shades, than a column is of different forms.
Destination is more limited, as it leads to distinguish columns into
three kinds or orders; one plain and strong, for the purpose of
supporting plain and massy buildings ; one delicate and graceful,
♦ A column without a base is disagreeable, because it seems in a tottering
condition ; yet a tree without a base is agreeable ; and the reason is, that we know
it to be firmly rooted. This observation shows how much taste is influenced by
reflection.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 24.J GARDENING AND ARCHITECTimE. 463
for supporting buildings of that character ; and between these, one
for supporting buildings of a middle character. This distinction,
which regards the different purposes of a column, is not naturally
liable to any objection, considering that it tends also to regulate the
form, and in some measure the ornaments, of a column. To enlarge
the division by taking in a greater variety of purposes, would be of
little use, and, if admitted, would have no end; for from the very
nature of the foregoing division, there can be no good reason for
adding a fourth order, more than a fifth, a sixth, &c. without any
possible circumscription.
To illustrate this doctrine, I make the following observation.
If we regard destination only, the Tuscan is of the same order with
the Doric, and the Composite with the Corinthian : but if we regard
form merely, they are of different orders.
The ornaments of these three orders ought to be so contrived as
to make them look like what they are intended for. Plain and
rustic ornaments would be not a little discordant with the elegance
of the Corinthian order; and ornaments sweet and delicate no less
so, with the strength of the Doric. For that reason, I am not alto-
gether satisfied with the ornaments of the las( mentioned order : if
they be not too delicate, they are at least too numerous for a pillar
in which the character of utility prevails over that of beauty. The
crowding of ornaments would be more sufferable in a column of an
opposite character. But thi? is a slight objection, and I wish I
could think the same of what follows. The Corinthian order has
been the favorite of two thousand years, and yet I cannot force
myself to relish its capital. The invention of this florid capital is
ascribed to the sculptor Callimachus, who took a hint from the plant
Acanthus, growing round a basket placed accidenta)ly upon it : and
in fact the capital under consideration represents pretty accurately
a basket so ornamented. This object, or its imitation in stone^
placed upon a pillar, may look well ; but to make it the capital of a
pillar intended to support a building, must give the pillar an appear^
ance inconsistent with its destination : an acanthus, or any tender
plant, may require support, but is altogether insufficient to support
any thing heavier than a bee or a butterfly. This capital must also
bear the weight of another objection : to represent a vine wreathing
round a column with its root seemingly in the ground, is natural;
but to represent an acanthus, or any plant, as growing on the top of
a column, is unnatural. The elegance of this capital did probably
at first draw a veil over its impropriety ; and now by fong use it
has gained an establishment, respected by every artist. Such is the
force of custom, even in contradiction to nature \
It will not be gaining much ground to urge, that the basket, or
vase, is understood to be the capital, and that the stems and leaves
of the plant are to be considered as ornaments merely ; for, excepting
a plant, nothing can be a more improper support for a great building
than a basket or vase even of the firmest texture.
With respect to buildings of every sort, one rule, dictated by
utility, is, that they be firm and stable. Another rule, dictated by
Digitized
by Google
464 OARDEMINO AND ARCHITECTURE. [Ch. 24.
beauty, is, that they also appear so : for what appears tottering and
in hazard of tumbling, proauces in the spectator the painful emotion
of fear, instead of the pleasant emotion of beauty; and, accordingly,
it is the great care of the artist, that every part of his edifice appear
to be well supported. Procopius, describing the church of St. Sophia
in Constantinople, one of the wonders of the world, mentions with
applause a part of the fabric placed above the east front in form of
a half moon, so contrived as to inspire both fear and admiration :
for though, says he, itjs perfectly well supported, yet it is suspended
in such a manner *as if it were to tumble down the next moment.
This conceit is a sort of false wit in architecture, which men were
fond of in the infancy of the fine arts. A turret jutting out from an
angle in the uppermost story of a Gothic tower, is a witticism of the
same kind.
To succeed in allegorical or emblematic ornaments, is no slight
effort of genius; for it is extremely difiicult to dispose them so in a
building as to produce any good effect. The mixing them with
realities, makes a .miserable jumble of truth and fiction.* In a
basso-relievo on Antonine's pillar, rain obtained by the prayers of
a Christian legion, is expressed by joining to the group of soldiers
a rainy Jupiter, with water in abundance falling from his head and
beard. De Piles, fond of the conceit, carefully informs his reader,
that he must not take this for a real Jupiter, but for a symbol which
among the Pagans signified rain : he never once considers, that a
symbol or emblem ought not to make part of a group representing
real objects or real events ; but be so detached, as even at first view
to appear an emblem. But this is not all, nor the chief point:
every emblem ought to be rejected that is not clearly expressive of
its meaning ; for if it be in any degree obscure, it puzzles, and does
not please. The temples of Ancient and Modern Virtue in the gar-
dens of Slow, appear not at first view emblematical; and when we
are informed that they are so, it is not easy (o gather their meaning:
the spectator, sees one temple entire, -another in ruins; but without
an explanatory inscription, he may guess, but cannot be certain, that
the former being dedicated to Ancient Virtue, the latter to Modem
Virtue, are intended a satire upon the present times. On the other
hand, a trite emblem, like a trite simile, is disgustful.f Nor ought
an emblem more than a simile to be founded on low or familiar
objects ; for if these be not agreeable as well as their meaning, the
emblem upon the whole will not be relished. A room in a dwelling-
house containing a monument to a deceased friend, is dedicated to
Melancholy: it has a clock that strikes every minute, to signify
how swiftly time passes — upon the monument, weeping figures and
other hackneyed ornaments commonly found upon tombstones, with
a stuffed raven in a corner — verses on death, and other serious sub-
jects, inscribed all around. The objects are too familiar, and the
artifice too apparent, to produce the intended effect.J
♦ See Chap. 20. sect. 5. t See Chap. 8.
t In the city of Mexico, there was a palace termed the house ofaffliclton^ whew
iiontezuma retired upon losing any of his firiends, or upon any public aiamikj.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 24.J GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 465
The statue of Moses striking a rock from which water actually
issues, is also in a false taste ; for it is mixing reality with repre-
sentation. Moses himself may bring water out of the rock, but this
miracle is too much for his statue. The same objection lies against
a cascade where the statue of a water-god pours out of his urn real
water.
I am more doubtful whetner the same objection lies against the
employing statues of animals as supports, that of a negro, for exam-
ple, supporting a dial, statues of fish supporting a bason of water,
Termes supporting a chimney-piece ; for when a stone is used as a
support, where is the incongruity, it will be said, to cut it into the
form of an animal? But leaving this doubtful, another objection
occurs — that such designs must in some measure be disagreeable,
by the appearance of giving pain to a sensitive being.
It is observed above of gardening, that it contributes to rectitude
of manners, by inspiring gayety and benevolence. I add another
observation, that both gardening and architecture contribute to the
same end, by inspiring a taste for neatness and elegance. In Scot-
land, the regularity and polish even of a turnpike-road has some
influence of this kind upon the low people in the neighborhood.
They become fond of regularity and neatness ; which is displayed,
first upon their yards and little inclosures, and next within doors.
A taste for regularity and neatness, thus acquired, is extended by
degrees to dress, and even to behavior and manners. The author
of a history of Switzerland, describing the fierce manners of the
plebeians of Bern three or four centuries ago, continually inured to
success in war, which made them insolently aim at a change of
government in order to establish a pure democracy, observes, that
no circumstance tended more to sweeten their manners, and to make
them fond of peace, than the public buildings carried on by the
senate for ornamenting their capital ; particularly a fine town-house,
and a magnificent church, which to this day, says our author, stands
its ground as one of the finest in Europe.
This house was better adjusted to its destination : it inspired a sort of horror: all
was black and dismcd : small windows shut up with grates, scarce allowing; poa*
sage to the light.
Digitized
by Google
466 STANDARD OF TA8TB. fCL 25.
CHAPTER XXV.
STANDARD OF TASTE.
No disputing about taste, a g:enerally received sajring — The difficulty of sapping
the foundation of this proverb — The proverb m some cases true and in others
not — Nature sparing in her divisions of the scale of pleewures — The difficulties
to be encountered in applying the proverb to subjects of taste in general — Our
conviction of a common nature — Tne common nature of man invariable — This
common nature also perfect — A right and a wrong taste in morals accounted for
on this conviction of a common nature — Opinions in matters of importance
rejected, creates uneasiness — The disgust produced by diffcrino^ fi*om what is
iudgcd to be the common standard — The final causes to which uniformity of
taste leads — To ascertain what the standard of nature is, of importance — The
common sense of mankind, the only standard in the fine arts — The corrupting
effect of voluptuousness — The number qualified to be judges in the fine arts,
few— The difference of taste in the fine arts, less than is commonly imagined.
"That there is no disputing about taste," meaning taste in its
figumtivc as well as proper sense, is a saying so generally received
as to have become a proverb. One thing even at first view is evi-
dent, that if the proverb hold true with respect to taste in its proper
meaning, it must hold equally true with respect to our other exter-
nal senses : if the pleasures of the palate disdain a comparative trial,
and reject all criticism, the pleasures of touch, of smell, of sound, and
even of sight, must be equally privileged. At that rate, a man ia
not within the reach of censure, even where he prefers the Saracen's
head upon a sign-post before the best tablature of Raphael, or a rude
Gothic tower before the finest Grecian building; or where he pre-
fers the smell of a rotten carcass to that of the most odoriferous
flower, or discords before the most exquisite harmony.
But we cannot stop here. If the pleasures of external sense be
exempted from criticism, why not every one of our pleasures, from
whatever source derived 1 if taste in its proper sense cannot be dis-
puted, there is little room for disputing it in its figurative sense. The
proverb accordingly comprehends both ; and in that large sense may-
be resolved into the following general proposition, that with respect
to the perceptions of sense, by which some objects appear agreeable,
some disagreeable, there is not such a thing as a good or a badt a
rigkly or a wrong; that every man's tast,e is to himself an ultimate
standard without appeal; ana consequently that there is no ground
of censure against any one, if such a one there be, who prefers
Blackmore to Homer, selfishness to benevolence, or cowardice to
magnanimity.
The proverb in the foregoing examples is indeed carried very far:
it seems difficult, however, to sap its foundation, or with success to
attack it from any quarter : for is not every man equally a judge of
what ought to be agreeable or disagreeable to himself? does it seem
whimsical, and perhaps absurd, to assert, that a man ought not to be
pleased when he is, or that he lught to be pleased when he is not?
This reasoning may perplex, but will never aflTord conviction,
every one of taste will reject it as false, however unqualified to detect
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 25.] STANDARD OF TASTB. 467
the fiiH^cy. At the same time, tnough no man of taste will assent to
the proverb as holding true in every case, no man will affirm that it
holds true in no case : objects there are, undoubtedly, that we may '
like or dislike indifferently, without any imputation upon our taste.
Were a philosopher to make a scale for human pleasures, he would
not think of making divisions without end ; but would, rank together
many pleasures arising perhaps from diffei;ent objects, either as
equally conducing to happiness, or differing so imperceptibly as to
make a separation unnecessary. Nature has taken this course, at
least it appears so to the generality of mankind. There may be sub-
divisions without end ; but we are only sensible of the grosser divi-
sions, comprehending eacH of them various pleasures equally affect-
ing ; to these the proverb is applicable in the strictest sense ; for with
respect to pleasures of the same rank, what ground can there be for
preferring one to another ? if a preference in fact be given by any
individual, it cannot proceed from taste, but from custom, imitation, or
some peculiarity of mind.
Nature, in her scale of pleasures, has been sparing of divisions :
she has wisely ^nd benevolently filled every division with many
pleasures, in order that individuals may be contented with their own
tot, without envying that of others. Many hands must be employed
to procure us the conveniences of life ; and it is necessary that the
different branches of business, whether more or less agreeable, be
filled with hands : a taste too refined would obstruct that plan ; for
it would crowd some employments, leaving others, no less useful,
totally neglected. In our present condition, lucky it is that the plu-
rality are not delicate in their choice, but fall in readily with the
occupations, pleasures, food, and company, that fortune throws in their
way; and if at first, there be any displeasing circumstance, custom
soon makes it easy.
The proverb will hold true as to the particulars now explained ;
but when applied in general to every subject of taste, the difficulties
to be encountered are insuperable. We need only to mention the
difficulty that arises from human nature itself; do we not talk of a
good and a bad taste? of a right and a wrong taste? and upon that
supposition, do we not, with great confidence, censure writers, painters,
architects, and every one who deals in the fine arts? Are such cri-
ticisms absurd, and void of common sense? have the foregoing
expressions, familiar in all languages and among all people, no sort
of meaning ? This can hardly be ; for what is universal, must have
a foundation in nature. If we can reach that foundation, the stand-
ard of taste will no longer be a secret.
We have a sense or conviction of a common nature, not only in
our own species, but in every species of animals : and our conviction
is verified by experience ; for there appears a remarkable uniformity
among creatures of the same kind, and a deformity no less remarka-
ble among creatures of different kinds. This common nature is con-
ceived to be a model or standard for each individual that belongs to
the kind. Hence it is a wonder to find an individual deviating from
the common nature of the species, whether in its internal or external
Digitized
by Google
468 STANDARD OF TA8TB. [Ck. 25.
construction : a child born with aversion to its mother's milk, is a
wonder, no less than if born without a mouth, or with more than
one.* This conviction of a common nature in every species, paves
the way finely for distributing things into' genera and species; to
whidi we are extremely prone, not only with regard to animals and
vegetables, wljere nature has led the way ; but also with regard to
manv other things, where there is no ground for such distribution,
but rancy merely.
With respect to the common nature of man in particular, we have
a conviction that it is invariable not less than universal ; that it will
be the same hereafter as at' present, and as it was in time past; the
same among all nations and in all corners of the earth. Nor are
we deceived; because, giving allowance for the difference of cul-
ture and gradual refinement of manners, the fact corresponds to our
conviction.
We are so constituted as to conceive this common nature to be
not only invariable, but also perfect or right; and consequently that
individuals ought to be made conformable to it. Every remarkable
deviation firom the standard makes, accordingly, an impression upon
us of imperfection, irregularity, or disorder : it is disagreeable, raises
in us a painful emotion : monstrous births, exciting the curiosity of
a philosopher, fail not at the same time to excite a sort of horror.
This conviction of a common nature or standard and of its perfec-
tion, accounts clearly for that remarkable 'conception we have of a
right and a wrong sense, or taste in morals. It accounts not less
clearly for the conception we have of a right and a wrong sense or
taste in the fine arts. A man who, avoiding objects generally agree-
able, delights in objects generally disagreeable, is condemned as a
monster : we disapprove his taste as bad or wropg, because we have
a clear conception that he deviates from the common standard. If
man were so framed as not to have any notion of a common standard,
the proverb mentioned in the beginning would hold universally, not
only in the fine arts, but in morals : upon that supposition, the taste
of every man, with respect to both, would to himself be an ultimate
standard. But as the conviction of a common standard is universal
and a branch of our nature, we intuitively conceive a taste to be right
or good, if conformable to the common standard, and wrong or bad if
disconformable.
No particular in human nature is more universal, than the unea-
siness a man feels when in matters of importance his opinions «re
rejected by others : why should difference in opinion create uneasi-
ness, miore than difference in stature, in countenance, or in dress %
the conviction of a common standard explains the mystery : every
man, generally speaking, taking it for granted that his opinions agree
with the common sense of mankind, is, therefore, disgusted with
those who think differently, not as differinff from him, but as differ-
ing from the common standard : hence in all disputes, we find the par-
ties, each of them equally appealing constantly to the common sense
of mankind as the ultimate rule or standard. With respect to points
♦ See Essays on Morality and Natural Religion, Part I. Essay 2. ch. 1.
Digitized
by Google
CL 25.] STANDARD OF TASTE. 469
arbitrary or indifferent, which are not supposed to be regulated by
any standard, individuals are permitted to think for themselves with
impunity: the same liberty is not indulged with respect to points
that are reckoned of moment ; for what teason, other than that the
standard by which these are regulated, ought, as we judge, to pro-
duce a uniformity of opinion in all men ? In a word, to this convic-
tion of a common standard must be wholly attributed the pleasure
we take in those who espouse the same principles and opinions with
ourselves, as well as the aversion we have at those who differ from
us. In matters left indifferent by the standard, we find nothing of
the same pleasure or pain : a bookish man, unless svyayed by con-
venience, relishes not the contemplative man more than the active;
his friends and companions are chosen indifferently out of either
class : a painter consorts with a poet or musician, as refadily as with
, those of his own art ; and one is not the piore agreeable to me for
loving beef, as I do, nor the less agreeable for preferring mutton.
I have ventured to say, that my disgust is raised, not by differing
from me, but by differing from what I judge to be the common stand-
ard. This point, being of importance, ought to be firmly established.
Men, it is true, are prone to flatter themselves, by taking it for granted
that their opinions and their taste are in all respects conformable to the
common standard; but there may be exceptions, and experience shows
there are some: there are instances without number, of persons who
are addicted to the grosser amusements of gaming, eating, drinking,
without having any relish for more elegant pleasures; such, for exam-
ple, as are afforded by the fine arts: yet these very persons, talking the
same language with the rest of mankind, pronounce in favor of the
more elegant pleasures, and they invariably approve those who have a
more refined taste, being ashamed of their own as low and sensual.
It is in vain to think of giving a reason for this singular impartiality,
other than the authority of the common standard with respect to the
dignity of human nature :* and from the instances now given, we
discover that the authority of that standard, even upon the most gro-
velling souls, is so vigorous as to prevail over self-partiality, and to
make them despise their own taste compared with the more elevated
taste of others.
Uniformity of taste and sentiment resulting from our conviction of
a common standard, leads to two important final 'causes; the onl&
respecting, our duty, the other our pastime. Barely to mention the
first shall be sufficient, because it does not properly belong to the
present undertaking. Unhappy it would be for us did not uni-
formity prevail in morals: that our actions should uniformly be
directed to what is good and against what is ill, is the greatest bless-
ing in society ; and in order to uniformity of action, uniformity of
opinion and sentiment is indispensable.
W^th respect to,pastime in general, and the fine arts in particular,
the final cause of uniformity is illustrious. Uniformity of taste gives
opportunity fop sumptuous and elegant buildings, for fine gardens,
and extensive embellishments, which please universally; and the rea-
* See Chap. 11.
40
Digitized
by Google
470 STANDARD OF TASTE. [CL 25.
son is, that without uniformity of taste, there could not be any suit-
able reward, either of profit or honor, to encourage men of genius to
labor in. such works, and to advance them toward perfection. The
same uniformity of taste is equally necessary to perfect the art of mu-
sic, sculpture, and painting, and to support the expense they require
after they are brought to perfection. Nature is, in every particu-
lar, consistent with herself: we are framed by Nature to have a high
relish for the fine arts, which are a great source of happiness, and
friendly in a high degree to virtue : we are, at the same time, framed
with uniformity of taste, to furnish proper objects for that high relish ;
and if uniformity did not prevail, the fine arts could never have made
any figure. ^
And this suggests another final cause no less illustrious. The
separation of men into diflferent classes, by birth, office, or occupation,
however necessary, tends to relax the connection that ought to be
among members of the same state; which bad eflTect is in some mea-
sure prevented by the access all ranks of people have to ppblic spec-
tacles, and to amusements that are best enjoyed in company. Such
meetings, where every one partakes of the same pleasures in com-
mon, are no slight support to ihe social a Sections.
Thus, upon a conviction common to. the species is erected a stand-
ard of taste, which without hesitation is applied to the taste of every
individual. That standard, ascertaining what actions are right what
wrong, what proper what improper, has enabled moralists to establish
rules for our conduct, from which no person is permitted to swerve.
We have the same standard for ascertaining in all the fine arts, what
is beautiful or ugly, high or low, proper or improper, proportioned
or disproportioned : and here, as in morals, we justly condemn every
taste that deviates from what is thus ascertained by the common
standard.
That there exists a rule or standard in nature for trying the taste
of individuals, in the fine arts as well as in morals, is a discovery :
but is not sufficient to complete the task undertaken. A branch still
more important remains upon hand ; which is, to ascertain what is
truly the standard of nature, that we may not lie open to have a false
standard imposed on us. But what means shall be employed for
V-:~7inor to light this natural standard? This is not obvious: for
when we have recourse to general opinion and general practice, we
are betrayed into endless perplexities. History informs us, that
nothing is more variable than taste in the fine arts : judging by num-
bers, the Gothic taste of architecture must be preferred before that of
Greece, and the Chinese taste probably before either. It would be
endless to recount the various tastes that have prevailed in dififerent
ages with respect to gardening, and still prevail in diflTerent coun-
tries. Despising the modest coloring of nature, women of fashion
in France daub their cheeks with a red powder ; nay, an unnatural
swelling in the neck, peculiar to the inhabitants of the Alps, is
relished by that people. But we ought not to be discouraged by
such untoward instances, when we find as great variety in moru
opinions : was it not among some nations held lawful for a man to
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 25.] STANDARD OF TASTE. 471
sell his children for slaves, to expose them in their infancy to wild
beasts, and to punish them for the crime of their parents? wa^ any
thing more common than to murder an enemy in cold blood ? nay,
more, did not law once authorise the abominable practice of human
sacrifices, no less impious than immoral? Such aberrations from
the rules of morality prove only, that men, originally savage and
brutal, acquire not rationality nor delicacy of taste till they be long
disciplined in society. To ascertain the rules of morality, we appeal
not to the common sense of savages, but of men in their* more perfect
state : and we make the same appeal in forming the rules that ought
to govern the fine arts: in neither can we safely rely on a local or
transitory taste ; but on what is the most general and the most last-
ing among polite nations. •
In this very manner, a standard for morals has been ascertained
with a good deal of accuracy, and is daily applied by able judges with
general satisfaction. The standard of taste in the fine arts, is not
yet brought to. such perfection ; and we can account for its slower
progress : the sense of right and wrong in actions is vivid and dis-
tinct, because its objects are clearly distinguishable from each other :
whereas the sense of right and wrong in the fine arts is faint and
wavering, because its objects are commonly not so clearly distin-
guishable from each other, and there appears to me a striking final
cause in thus distinguishing the moral sense from the sense of right
and wrong in the fine arts. The former, as a rule of conduct, and
as a law we ought to obey, must be clear and authoritative. The
latter is not entitled to the same privilege, because it contributes to
our pleasure and amusement only : were it strong and lively, it
would usurp upon our duty, and call oflT the attention^froni matters
of greater moment : were it clear and authoritative, it would banish
all diflference of taste, leaving no distinction between a refined taste
and one that is not so: which would put an end to rivalship, and
consequently to all improvement. "
But to return to our subject. However'languid and cloudy the com-
mon sense of mankind may be as to the fine arts, it is rrot withstand*
ing the only standard in these as well as in morals. True it is indeed,
that in gathering the common sense of mankind more circumspec-
tion is requisite with respect to the fine arts than with respect to
morals : upon the latter, any person may be consulted : but in the
former, a wary choice is necessary, for to collect votes indifierently
would certainly mislead us. Those Avho depend for food on bodily
labor, are totally void of taste ; of such a taste at least as can be of
use in the fine arts. This consideration bars the greater part of man-
kind; and of the remaining part, many by a corrupted ikste are
unqualified for voting. The common sense of mankind must then
be confined to the few that fall not under these exceptions. But as
such selection seems to throw matters again into uncertainty, Ve
must be more explicit upon this branch of our subject.
Nothing tends more than voluptuousness to corrupt the whole
internal frame, and to vitiate our taste, not only in the 'fine arts, but
even in morals : voluptuousness never fails, in course of time, to
Digitized
by Google
472 STANDARD OF TA8TB. [Ch. 25.
extinfi^ish all the sympathetic affections, and to bnng on a beastly
selfishness, which leaves nothing of man but the shape: about exclud-
ing such persons there will be no dispute. Let us next bring under
trial, the opulent who delight in expense: the appetite for superiority
and respect, inflamed by riches, is vented upon costly furniture,
numerous attendants, a princely dwelling, sumptuous feasts, every
thing superb and gorgeous, to amaze and humble all beholders:
simplicity, elegance, propriety, and things natural, sweet, or amia-
ble, are despised or neglected : for these are not appropriated to the
rich, nor make a figure in the public eye: in a word, nothing is
relished, but what serves to gratify pride, by an imaginary exaltation
of the possessor above those who surround him Such sentiments
contract the heart, and make every principle give way to self-love:
benevolence and public spirit, with all their refined emotions, are
little felt, and less regarded; and if these be excluded, there can be
no place for the faint and delicate emotions of the fine arts.
The exclusion of classes so many and numerous, reduces within a
narrow compass those who are qualified to be judges in the fine arts.
Many circumstances are necessary to form such a judge: there
, must be a good natural taste ; that is, a taste approaching, at least in
some degree, to the delicacy of taste above described :* that taste
must be improved by education, reflecition, and experience:! it must
be preserved in vigor by living regularly, by using the goods of for*
tune with moderation, and by following the dictates of improvec^
nature, which give welcome to every rational pleasure withou*
indulging any excess. This is the tenor of life which of all con
tributes the most to refinement of taste ; and the same tenor of liff
contributes the most, to happiness in general.
If there appear much uncertainty in a standard that requires sc
painful and intricate a selection, we may possibly be reconciled to i»
by the following consideration, that with respect to the fine arts
there is less difierence of taste than is commonly imagined. Naturt
* Chap. 2. Part 2. ,
t That these particulars are useful, it mav be said necessary, for'^ acquiring »
discerning taste in the fine arts, will appear m)m the following facts, which show
the influence of experience singly. Those who live in the world and in good
compariy, are quick-sighted with respect to every defect or irregularity in l^ha-
vior : the very slightest singularity in motion, in speech, or in dress, which to a
peasant Would be invisible, escaj^es not their observation. Tlie most minute dif-
ferences in the human countenance^ so minute as to be far beyond the reach ol
words, are distinctly perceived by the plainest person : while at the same time,
the generality have very little discernment in the faces of other animals to which
they are less accustomed : sheep, for example, appear to have all the same face,
except to the shepherd, who knows every individual in his flock as he does his
relations and neighbors. The very populace in Athens were critics in lang<ja^,
in pronunciation, and even in eloquence, harangues bein^ their daily entertain-
ment. In Rome, at present, the most illiterate shopkeeper is a better judge 6f sta-
tues and of pictures, than persons of refined education in London. These facts
afford convincing evidence, that a discerning taste depends still more on expe-
rience than on nature. But these facts merit peculiar regard for another reason,
that they open to us a sure method of improving our taste in the fine arts ; which,
with those who have leisure for improvements, ought to be a powerful incitement
to cultivate a taste in these arts : an occupation that cannot fail to embellish their
memners, and to aweeten society.
Digitized
by Google
Ch. 25.] STANDARD OF TA8TE. 473
has marked all h^r works with indelible characters of high or low,
plain or elegant, strong or weak : these, if at all perceived, are sel-
dom misapprehended ; and the same marks are equally perceptible
in works of art. A defective taste is incurable ; and it hurts none
but the possessor, because it carries no authority to impose upon
others. I know not if there be such a thing as a taste naturally bad or
wrong; a taste, for example, that prefers a grovelling pleasure before
one that is high and elegant: grovelling pleasures are never prefer-
red ; they are only made welcome by those who know no better.
DifTerences about objects of taste, it is true, are endless ; but they
generally concern trifles, or possibly matters of equal rank, where
preference may be given either way with impunity : if, on any occa-
sion, persons diflTer where they ought not, a depraved taste will readily
be discovered on one or other side, occasioned by imitation, custom,
or corrupted manners, such as are described above. And consider-
ing that every individual partakes of a common nature, what is there
that should occasion any wide diflference in taste or sentiment ? By
the principles that constitute the sensitive part of our nature, a won-
derful uniformity is preserved in the emotions and feelings of the dif-
ferent races of men ; the same object making upon every person the
same impression, the same in kind, if not in degree. There have
been, as above observed, aberrations from these principles ; but soon
or late they prevail, and restore the wanderer to the right tract.
I know but of one other means for ascertaining the common sense
of mankind; which I mention, not in despair, but in great confidence
of success. As the taste of every individual ought to be governed
by the principles above mentioned, an appeal to these principles must
necessarily be decisive of every controversy that can arise upon
matters of taste. In general, every doubt with relation to the com-
mon sense of man, or standard of taste, may be cleared by the same
appeal; and to unfold these principles is the declared purpose of
the present undertaking.
40«
itized by Google
Digitized
APPENDIX.
TERMS DEFINED OR EXPLAINED.
1. Every thing we perceive or are conscioas of, wh^her a being
or a quality, a passion or an action, is with respect to the percipient
termed an object Some objects appear to be internal, or within the
mind ; passion, for example, thinking, volition : some external ; such
as every object of sight, of hearing, of smell, of touch, of taste.
2. That act of the mind which makes known to me an external
object, is termed perception. That act of the mind which makes
known to me an internal object, is termed consciousness. The power
or faculty from which consciousness proceeds, is termed an internal
$ense. The power or faculty from which perception proceeds, is
termed an external sense. This distinction refers to the objects of
our knowledge; for the senses, whether external or internal, are
all powers or faculties of the mind.*
3. But as self is an object that cannot be termed either external or
internal, the faculty by which I have knowledge of myself, is a sense
that cannot properly be termed either internal or external.
4. By the eye we perceive figure, color, motion, &c. : by the ear
we perceive the different qualities of sound, high, low, loud, soft: by
touch we perceive rough, smooth, hot, cold, &c. : by taste we per-
ceive sweet, sour, bitter, &c.: by smell we perceive fragrant, fetid,
&c.: These qualities partake the common nature of all qualities,
that they are not capable of an independent existence, but must belong
to some being of which they are properties or attributes. A being
with respect to its properties or attributes is termed a subject or sub^
♦ I have complied with all who have gone before me in describing the senses
internal and external to be powers or faculties ; and yet, after much attention, I
have not discovered any thing active in their operations to entitle them to that
character. The foUov/inff chain of thought has led me Vb hesitate. One being
operates on another : the first is active, the other passive. If the first act, it must
have a power to act : if an effect be produced on the other, it must have a capacity
to have that effect produced upon it. Fire meUs wax, ergo fire has a power to
produce that effect ; and wax must be capable to haye that effect produced in it
Now as to the senses. A tree in flourish makes an impression on me, and by that
means I see the tree. But in this operation I do not find that the mind is active ;
•eeing the tree is only^an effect produced on it by intervention of the rays of lighL
What seems to have led us into an error is the word se^ngj which, under the form
of an active veib, has a passive signification. I feel is a similar example ; for to
feel is certainly not to act, but the effect of being acted upon : the feeling of rfca-
■ure is the effect produced in my mind when a beautiful object is presented. Per-
ception, accordingly, is not an action, but an effect produced in the mind. Sensa-
tion is another effect : it is the pleasure I feci upon perceiring what is agreeable.
Digitized
by Google
TERMS DEFINED OR EXPLAINED. 475
Stratum. Every substratum of visible qualities, is termed substance ;
uid of tangible qualities, body.
5. Substance and sound are perceived as existing at a distance
from the organ ; often at a considerable distance. But smell, touch,
and taste, are perceived as existing at the organ ^f sense.
6. The objects of external sense are various. Substances are per-
ceived by the eye ; bodies by the touch. Sounds, tastes, and smells,
passing commonly under the name of secondary qualities, require
more explanation than there is room for here. All the objects of
internal sense are attributes: witness deliberation, reasoning, resolu-
tion, willing, consenting, which are internal actions. Passions and
emotions, which are internal agitations, are also attributes. With
regard to the former, I am conscious of being active ; with regard to
the latter, I am conscious of being passive.
7. Again, we are conscious of internal action as in the hea(J ; of
passions and emotions as in the heart.
8. Many actions may be excited internally, and many effects pro-
duced, of which we are unconscious : when we investigate the ulti-
mate cause of the motion of the blood, and of other internal motions
upon which life depends, it is the most probable opinion that some
internal power is the cause ; and if so, we are unconscious of the
operations of that power. But consciousness being implied in the
very meaning of deliberating, reasoning, resolving, willing, con-
senting, such operations cannot escape our knowledge. The same
is the case of passions and emotions ; for no internal agitation is
denominated a passion or emotion, but those of which we are con-
scious.
9. The mind is not always the same: by turns it is cheerful, melan-
choly, calm, peevish, &c. These differences may not improperly be
denominated tones.
10. Perception and sensation are commonly reckoned synonymous
terms, signifying that internal act by which external objects are
make known to us. But they ought to be distinguished. Perceiving
is a general term for hearing, seeing, tasting, touching, smelling:
and therefore perception signifies every internal act by which we
are made acquainted with external objects. Thus we are said to
perceive a certain anim^, a certain color, sound, taste, smell, &c.
Sensation properly signifies that internal act by which we are made
conscious of pleasure or pain felt at the organ of sense. Thus we have
a sensation of the pleasure arising from warmth, from a fragrant
smell, from a sweet taste ; and of the pain arising from a wound,
from a fetid smell, from a disagreeable taste. In perception, my
attention is directed to the external object : in sensation, it is directed
to the pleasure or pain I feel.
The terms perception and sensation are sometimes employed to
signify the objects of perception and sensation. Perception in that
sense is a general term for every external thing we perceive ; and
sensation a general term for every pleasure and pain felt at the organ
of sense.
11. Conception is different from perception. The latter include*
Digitized
by Google
476 TERHS DEFINED OR EXPLAINED.
a conviction of the reality of its object : the former does not ; for I
can conceive the most extravagant stories told in a romance, without
having any conviction of their reality. Conceptioi\ differs also from
imagination. By the power of fancy I can imagine a golden moun-
tain, or an ebony ship with sails and ropes of silk. When I describe
a picture of that kina to another, the idea he forms of it is termed a
conception. Imagination is active, conception is passive.
1 2. Feelinff, beside denoting one of the external senses, is a general
term, signifying that internal act by which we are made conscious
of our pleasures and our pains; for it is not limited, as sensation is,
to any one sort. Thus, feeling being the genus of which sensation
is a species, their meaning is the same when applied to pleasure and
pain felt at the organ of sense : and accordingly we say indifferently,
*' I feel pleasure from heat, and pain from cold," or, " I have a sensa-
tion of pleasure from heat, and of pain from cold." But the mean-
ing %( feeling, as is said, is much more extensive: it is proper to
sjy, I feel pleasure in a sumptuous building, in love, in friendship ;
and pain in losing a child, in revenge, in envy : sensation is not pro-
perly applied to any of these.
The term feeling is frequently used in a less proper sense, to sig-
nify what we feel or of what we are conscious ; and in that sense it
IS a general term for all our passions and emotions, and for all our
other pleasures and pains.
13. That we cannot perceive an external object till an impression
is made upon our body, is probable from reason, and is ascertained by
experience. But it is not necessary that we be made sensible of the
impression : In touching, in tasting, and in smelling, we are sensible
of the impression ; but not in seeing and hearing. We know,
indeed, from experiments, that before we perceive a visible object, its
image is spread upon the retina tunica ; and that before we per-
ceive a sound, an impression is made upon the drum of the ear : but
we are not conscious, either of the organic image, or of the organic
impression ; nor are we conscious of any other operation preparatory
to the act of perception; all we can say, is, that we see that river,
or hear that trumpet.*
14. Objects once perceived may be recalled to the mind by the
power of memory. When I recal an object of sight in that manner,
it appears to me precisely the same as in the original survey, only
less distinct. For example, having seen yesterday a spreading oak
growing on the brink of a river, I endeavor to recal these objects to
my mind. How is this operation performed ? Do I endeavor to
form in my mind a picture of them or representative image ? Not
* Yet a sino^ar opinion that impressions are the only objects of perception, has
been espoused by some philosophers of no mecm rank ; not attendmg to the fore-
going peculiarity in the senses of seeing and hearing, that we perceive objects
without being conscious of an organic impression, or of any impression. See
the Treatise upon Human Nature : where we find the following passage, book I.
p. 4. sect. 2. " Properly speaking, it is not our body we perceive when we regard
our limbs and members ; so that the ascribing of a real and corporeal existence
to these impressions, or to their objects, is an act of the mind as difficult t»
•jqplain," &c.
Digitized
by Google
TERMS DEFINED OR EXPLAINED. 477
sa I transport myself ideally to the place where I saw the tree and
river yesterday; upon which I have a perception of these objects,
similar in all respects to the perception I had when I viewed them
with my eyes, only less distinct. And ia this recollection, I am not
conscious of a picture or representative image, more than in thfc
original survey ; the perception is of the tree and river themselves,
as at first. I confirm this by another experiment. After attentively
surveying a fine statue, I close my eyes. What follows ? The same
object continues, without any difference but that it is less distinct than
formerly.* This indistm^t secondary perception of an object, is
♦ This experiment, whicn every one may reiterate till entire satisfaction be
obtained, is of greater importance than at first view may appear ; for it strikes at
the root of a celebrated doctrine, which for more than two thousand years has mis-
led many philosophers. Tnis doctrine as delivered by Aristotle is, in substance,
" That of every object of thouffm mere must be in the mind some form, phantasm,
or species ; that things sensible are perceived and remembered by means of sensi-
ble phantasms, and things inteliigibie by intelligible phantasms ; and that these
phantasms have the form of the object without the matter, as the impression of a
seal upon wax has the form ot a seal without its matter." The followers of Aris-
totle add, " That the sensible and intelligible forms of things, are sent forth from
the things themselves, and maice impressions upon the passive intellect, which
impressions are perceived oy the active intellect. This notion differs very little
from that of Epicurus, which is. '• That all things send forth constantly and in
every direction, slender ghosts, or films of themselves, (tenuia simulacra, as
expressed by his commentator Lucretius ;) which striking upon the miad, are the
means of perception, dreaming." &c. Des Cartes, bent to oppose Aristotle, rejects
the doctrine of sensible and intelligible phantasms ; maintaining however the same
doctrine in effect, namely, that we perceive nothing external but by means of some
ima^e either in the brain or in the mind : and these images he terms ideas. Ac-
cording to these philosophers, we perceive nothing immediately but phantasms or
ideas ; and from these we infer, bv reasoning, the existence of external objects.
Locke, adopting this doctrine, employs almost the whole of his book about ideas.
He holds, that we cannot perceive, remember, nor imagine, any thing, but by
having an idea or image oi' it in the mind. He agrees with Descartes, that we
can have no knowledge of tnings external, but what we acquire by reasoning
upK>n their ideas or images in the mind ; taking it for granted, that we are con-
scious of these ideas or images, and of nothing else. Those who talk the most
intelligibly explain the doctrine thus : When I see in a mirror a man stand-
ing behind me, the immediate object of my sight is his image, without which I
could not see him : in like manner, when I see alree or a house, there must be an
imag^ of these objects in my brain or in my mind ; which image is the immediate
dbject of my perception ; and by means of that image I perceive the external
object.
One would not readily suspect any harm in this ideal system, other than the
leading us into a labyrinth ol metaphysical errors, in order to account for our
knowledge of external objects, which is more truly and more simply accounted for
by direct perception. And yet some late writers nave been able to extract from it
death and destruction to the whole world, levellino; all dowri to a mere chaos of
ideas. Dr. Berkeley, upon authority of the philosophers named, taking for granted
that we cannot perceive any object but what is in the mind, discovered, that the
T^asoning employed by Des Cartes and Locke to infer the existence of external
objects, is inconclusive ; and upon that discovery ventured, against common sense,
to annihilate totally the material world. And a later writer, discovering that Berke-
ley's arguments might with equal success be applied against immaterial beings,
ventuifes still more boldly to reject by the lump the imniaterial world as well as
the material ; leaving nothing in nature but images or ideas floating in vacuo^
without affording them a single mind for shelter or support.
When such wild and extravagant consequences can be drawn from the ideal
gystem, it might have been expected, that no man who is not crazy would have
Tentur^ to erect such a superstructure, tiU he should first be certain beyond all
Digitized
by Google
478 tcAms dbfincd or bxplaincd.
tenned an idea. And therefore the precise and accurate definition
of an idea in contradistinction to an original perception, is, '* That
perception of a real object which is raised in the mind by the power
of memory." Every thing, of which we have any knowledge, whe-
ther internal or external, passions, emotions, thinking, resolving,
willing, heat, cold, &c. as well as external objects, may be recallwl
as above, by the power of memory.*
doubt of a solid foundation. And yet upon inquiry, we find the foundation of this
terrible doctrine to be no better than a shallow metaphysical argument, namely^
" That no being can act but where it is ; and, consequently, that it cannot act
upon any subject at a distance." This argument possesses indeed one eminent
advantage, that its obscuritjr, like that of an oracle, is apt to impose upon the reader,
who is willing to consider it as a demonstration, because he does not clearly see
the fallacy. The best way to give it a fair trial, is to draw it out of its obscuritjr,
and to state it in a clear light, as follows. " No subject can be perceived unless it
act upon the mind, but no distant subject can act upon the mind, because no being
can act but where it is : and, therefore, the immediate object of perception must be
something united to the mind, so as to be able to act upon it." Here the argument
is completed in all its parts ; and from it is derived the supposed necessity of
phantasms or ideas united to the mind, as the only objects of perception. It is
singularly unlucky, that this ar^:ument concludes directly against the very system
of which it is the only foundation ; for how can phantasms or ideas be raised in
the mind by thin^ at a distance, if things at a distance cannot act upon the mind 1
I say more, that it assiunes a proposition as true, without evidence, namely ^ That
no distant subject can act upon the mind. This proposition undoubtedly recjuires
evidence, for it is not intuitively certain. And, therefore, till the prop^osition be
demonstrated, every man without scruple may rely upon the conviction of his
senses, that he hears and sees things at a distance.
But I venture a bolder step, which is, to show that the proposition is false.
Admitting that no being can act but where it is, is there any thing more simple or
more common, than the acting upon subjects at a distance by intermediate means ?
This holds in fact with respect both to seeing, and hearing. When I pee a tree,
5>r example, rays of light are reflected from the tree to my eye, forming a picture
upon the retina tunica ; but the object perceived is the tree itself, not the rays of
light, nor the picture. Ift this manner distant objects are perceived, without any
action of the object upon the mind, or of the mind upon the object. Hearing is in
a similar case : the air, put in motion by thunder, makes an impression upon the
drum of the ear ; but this impression is not what I Hear, it is the thunder itself by
means of that impression.
With respect to vision in particular, we are profoundly ignorant by what means
and in what manner the picture on the retina tunica contributes to produce a sig^ht
df the object. One thing only is clear, that as we have no knowledge of that pic-
ture, it is OS natural to conceive that it should be made the instrument of discover- ,
ing the external object, and not itself, as of discotering itself only, and not the
external object.
Upon the chimerical consequences drawn from the ideal system, I shall make
but a single reflection. Nature dejtermines us necessarily to rely on the veracity
of our senses ; and upon their evidence the existence of external objects is to us a
matter of intuitive knowledge and absolute certainty. Vain therefore is the attempt
of Dr. Berkeley and of his followers, to deceive us, by a metaphysical subtlety,
into a disbelief of what we cannot entertain even the slightest douot.
* From this definition of an idea, the following proposition must be evident,
That there can be no such thin^ as an innate idea. If the original perception of
an object be not innate, which is obvious ; it is not less obvious, that the idea or
secondary perception of that object cannot be innate. And yet, to prove this sdf-
evident proposition, Locke has bestowed a whole book of his Treatise upon
Human Understanding. So necessary it is to give accurate definitions, and so
p^^ventive of dispute are definitions when accurate. Dr. Berkeley has taken great
pains to prove another proposition equally evident, That there can be no such
thing as a general idea : all our original perceptions are of particular objects, and
our secondary perceptions or ideas must be equally so.
Digitized
by Google
TERMS DEFINED OR EXPLAINED. 479
15. External objects are distinguishable into simple and complex.
Certain sounds are so simple as not to be resolvable into parts ; and
so are certain tastes and smells. Objects of touch are for the most
part complex : they are not only hard or soft, but also smooth or
rough, hot or cold. Of all external objects, visible objects are com-
monly the most complex: a tree :s composed of a trunk, branches,
leaves : it has color, figure, size. But as an action is not resolvable
into parts, a perception, being an act of sense, is always simple. The
color, figure, umbrage of a spreadinp; oak, raise not difierent percept
tions : the perception is one, that of a tree, colored, figured, &c. A
quality is never perceived separately from the subject ; nor a part
uom' the whole. There is a mental power of abstraction, of which
we shall speak afterward ; but the eye never abstracts, nor any other
external sense.
16. Many particulars besides those mentioned, enter into the per-
ception of visible objects ; motion, rest, place, space, time, number,
&c. These, all of them, denote simple ideas, and for that reason
admit not of a definition. All that can be done, is to point out how
they are acquired. The ideas of motion and of rest, are familiar
even to a child, from seeing its nurse sometimes walking, sometimes
sitting: the former it is taught to call motion ; the latter, rest Place
enters into every perception of a visible object: the object is perceived
to exist, and to exist somewhere, on the right hand or on the ^eft, and
where it exists is termed place. Ask a child where its mother is, or
in what place : it will answer readily, she is in the garden. Space
is connected with size or bulk : every piece of matter occupies room
or space in proportion to its bulk. A child perceives that when its
little box is filled with playthings, tliere is no room or space for more.
Space is also applied to signify the distance of visible objects from
each other ; and such spacf accordingly can be measured. Dinner
comes after breakfast, and supper after dinner : a child perceives an
interval, and that interval it learns to call time. A child sometimes
is alone with its nurse : its mother is sometimes in the room ; and
sometimes also its brothers and sisters. It perceives a difierence
between many and few; and that difference it is taught to call
wumher.
17. The primary perception of a visible object, is more complete,
lively, and distinct, than that of any other object. And for that rea-
son, an idea or secondary perception of a visible object, is also more
complete, lively, and distinct, than that of any other object. A fine
passage in music, may, for a moment, be recalled to the mind with
tolerable accuracy ; but, after the shortest interval, it becomes no less
obscure than the idea^ of the other objects mentioned.
18. As the range of an individual is commonly within a narrow
space, it rarely happens, that every thing necessary to be known
comes under our own perceptions. Language is an admirable con-
trivance for supplying that deficiency ; for b^ language every man's
perceptions may be communicated to all : and the same may be done
oy pamting and other imitative arts. The facility of communication
depends on the liveliness of the ideas; especially in language,
Digitized
by Google
480 TERMS DEFINED OR EXPLAINED.
which hitherto has not arrived at greater perfection than to express
clear ideas : hence it is, that poets and orators, who are extremely sue*
cessful in describing objects of sight, find objects of the other senses
too faint and obscure for language. An idea thus acquired of an object
at second hand, ought to be distinguished from an idea of memory
though their resemblance has occasioned the same term idea to be
applied to both ; which is to be regretted, because ambiguity in the
signification of words is a great obstruction to accuracy of con-
ception. Thus nature has furnished the means of multiplying
ideas without end, and of providing every individual with a sufficient
stock to answer, not only the necessities, but even the elegancies
of life.
19. Farther, man is endued with a sort of creative power : he 2an
fabricate images of things that have no existence. The materials
employed in this operation, are ideas of sight, which he can take to
pieces and combine into new forms at pleasure : their complexity
and vivacity make them fit materials. But a man has no such power
over any of his other ideas, whether of the external or. internal
senses : he cannot, after the utmost effort, combine these into new
forms, being too obscure for that operation. An image thus fabii-
cated cannot be called a secondary perception, not being derived
from an original perception : the poverty of language, however, as
in the case immediately above mentioned, has occasioned the same
term idea to be applied to all. This singular power of fabricating
images without any foundation in reality, is aistinguished by the
name oi imagination.
20. As ideas are the chief materials employed in reasoning and
reflecting, it is of consequence that their nature and differences be
understood. It appears now, that ideas may be distinguished into
three kinds : first, ideas derived fronj original perceptions, pro-
perly termed ideas of memory; second, ideas communicated by ian-
^age or other signs ; and, third, ideas of imagination. These ideas
differ from each other in many respects ; but chiefly in respect of
their proceeding from different causes: the first kind is derived
from real existences that have been objects of our senses : language
is the cause of the second, or any other sign that has the same power
with language : and a man*s imagination is to himself the cause of
the third. It is scarcely necessary to add, that an idea, originally of
imagination, being conveyed to others by language or- any other
vehicle, becomes in their mind an idea of the second kind ; and
again, that an idea of this kind, being afterward recalled to the mind,
becomes in that circumstance an idea of memory.
21. We are not so constituted as to perceive objects with indifler-
ence : these, with very few exceptions, appear agreeable or disagree-
able ; and at the same time raise in us pleasant or painful emotions.
With respect to external objects In particular, we distinguish those
which produce organic impressions, from those which affect us from
a distance. When we touch a soft and smooth body, we have a
pleasant feeling as at the place of contact ; which feehng we distin-
guish not, at least not accurately, from the agreeableness of the hfAj
Digitized
by Google
TERMS DEFINED OR EXPLMNED. 481
itself; and the same hold^ in general with regard to all organic
impressions. It is otherwise in hearing^nd seeing; a sound is per-
ceived as in itself agreeable^ and raises in the hearer a pleasant emo-
tion : an object of siffht appears in itself agreeable, and raises in the
spectator a pleasant emotion. These are accurately distinguished,
the pleasant emotion is felt as within the mind ; the agrecableness of
the object is placed upon the object, and is perceived as one of its qua-
lities or properties. The agreeable appearance of an object of sight
is termed beauty; and the disagreeable appearance of such an object
is termed ugliness.
22. But though beauty and ugliness, in their proper and genuine
'signification, are confined to objects of sight ; yet in a more lax and
figurative signification, they are applied to objects of the other senses •
they are sometimes applied even to abstract terms : for it is not unu-
sual to say, a beautiful theorem, a beautiful constitution of govern'
ment
23. A line composed by a single rule, is j;)erceived and said to b«
regular : a straight line, a'parabola, a hyperbola, the circumference
of a circle, and of an ellipse, are all regular lines. A figure com-
posed by a single rule, is perceived and said to be regular : a circle
a square, a hexagon, an equilateral triangle, are regular figures,
being composed by a sfngle rule, that, determines the form of each.
When the form of a line or of a figure is ascertained by a single
rule that leaves nothing arbitrary, the line and the figure are said to
be perfectly regular ; which is the case of the figures now pientioned,
ana the case of a straight line and of the circumference of a circle.
A figure and a line that require more than one rule for their con-
struction, or that have any of their parts left arbitrary, are not per-
fectly regular : a parallelogram and a rhomb are less regular tnan
a square ; the parallelogram being subjected to no rule as to the
length of sides, otheCgthah that the opposite sides be equal; the
rhomb being' subjecteato no rule as to its angles, other than that the
opposite angles be equal : for the same reason, the circumference of
an ellipse, the form of which is susceptible of much variety, is less
regular than that of a circle.
24. Regularity, properly speaking, belongs, like beauty, to objects
of sight ; and, like beauty, it is also applied figuratively to other
objects : thus we say, a regular government, a regular composition
of music, and regular discipline. \
25. Wh,en two figures are composed of similar parts, they are said
to be uniform. Perfect uniformity is where the constituent parts of
two figures are equal : thus two cubes of the same dimensions are
perfectly uniform in all their parts, dniformity less perfect is, where
the parts mutually correspond, but without being equal: the uni-
forinity is imperfect between two squares or cubes of unequal dimen-
sions ; and still more so between a squai^ and a parallelogram.
26. Uniformity is also applicable to the constituent parts of the
»ame figure. The constituent parts of a square are perfectly uni-
form ; its sides are equal and its angles are equal. ' Wherein then
diflfers regularity from uniformity ? for a figure composed of uniform .
41
Digitized
by Google
482 TIBMS t^UWinMD OR IZPLAIIIBB.
parts must undoubtedly be regular. Regularity is predicated of a
figure considered as a whole composed of uniform parts : uniformity
is predicated of these parts as related to each other by resemblance *
we say, a square is a regular, not an uniform, figure ; but with respect
to the constituent parts of a square, we say not, that they are regu-
lar, but that they are uniform.
27. In things destined for the same use, as legs, arms, eyes, win-
dows, spoons, we expect uniformity. Proportion ought to govern
parts intended for difierent uses : we require a certain proportion
b^ween a leg and an arm : in the base, the shafl, the capital of a
pillar ; and in the length, the breadth, the height of a room : som^
proportion is also required in different things intimately connected,
aa between a dwelling-house, the garden, and the stables ; but we
require no proportion among things slightly connected, as between
the table a man writes on and the dog that follows him. Pfopor^
tion and uniformity never coincide : things equal are uniform ; but
proportion is never apj^ied to them : the four sides and angles of a
square are equal and perfectly uniform ; but we say not that they are
proportional. Thus, proportion always implies inequality or differ-
ence ; but then it implies it to a certain degree only : tte most agree-
able proportion resembles a maximum in mathematics ; a greater or
kss inequality or difference is less agreeable.
28. Order regards various particulars. First, in tracing or sur-
veying objects, we are directed by a sense of order : we perceive it
to be more orderly, that we should pass from a principle to its acces-
sories, and fr(}m a whole to its parts, than in the contrary direction.
Next, with respect to the position of things, a sense of order directs
vs to place together things intimately connected. Thirdly, in placing
things that have no natural connection, that order appears the roost
perfect, where the particulars are made tp bear the strongest relation
to each other that position can give them, ffhus parallelism is the
strongest relation that position can bestow upon strais^ht lines : if
they be so placed as by production to intersect, the relation is less
perfect. A large body in the middle, and two equal bodies of less
size, one on each side, is an order that produces the strongest relation ,
the bodies are suscq^tible of by position : the relation between the
two equal bodies would be stronger by juxtaposition ; but they
would not both have the same relation to the third.
29. The beauty of agreeableness of a visible object, is perceived as
one of its qualities ; which holds, not only in !he primary perception,
but also in the secondary perception or idea : and hence the plea-
sure that arises from the idea of a beautiful object. An idea of
imagination is also pleasant, though in a lower degree than an idea
of memory, where the objects are of the same kind ; for an evident
leason, that the former is more distinct and lively than the latter.
But this inferiority in ideas of imagination, is more than compensated
by their greatness and variety, which are bouYidless ; for by the
imagination, exerted without control, we c^n fabricate^ ideas of finer
visible objects, of more noble and heroic actions, of greater wickotf*
of more surprising events, than ever in fiict existed ; und tn'
Digitized
by Google
TBRM8 &BFINED OR BXFLAINBD. ttfS
communicating such ideas by words, painting, sculpture, &c the
influence of the imagination is no less extensive than great.
30. In the naturae of every man, there is somewhat original, which
distinguishes him from others, which tends to form his character,
and to make him meek or fiery, candid or deceitful,' resolute of
dmorous, cfieerful or morose. This original bent, termed disposi'
iion, must be distinguished from a principle : the latter, signifying a
law of human nature, makes part of the common nature of man ;
the former makes part of the nature of this of that man. Propen-
sity is a name common to both ; for it signifies a principle as well as
a disposition.
31. Affection, signifying a settled bent of mind toward a particu-
lar beirtg or thing, occupies a middle plac^ between disposition on
the one hand, and passion on the other. It is clearly distinguishable
from disposition, which, being a branch of one's nature originally,
must exist before there can be an opportunity to exert it upon any
particular object ; whereas affection can never be original, because,
having a special relatidn to a particular object, it cannot exist till the
object have once at least been presented. It is no less clearly dis-
tinguishable from passion, which depending on the real or ideal pre-
sence of its object, vanishes with its object : whereas affection is a
lasting connection ; and, like other connections, subsists even when
we do not think of the person. A familiar example will clear the
whole. I have from nature a disposition to gratitude, which, through
want of an object, happens never to be exerted ; and which therefprt
is unknown even to myself Another who has the same disposition,
meets with a kindly office which makes him grateful to his benefac-
tor : an intimate connection is formed between them, termed affection;
which, like other connections, has a permanent existence, though not
always in view. The affection, for the most part, lies dormant, till
an opportunity offer for exerting it : in that circumstance, it is con-
verted into the passion of gratitude ; and the opportunity is greedily
seized of testifying gratitude in the warmest manner.
32. Aversion, I think, is opposed to affection ; not to desire, as it
commonly is. We have an affection to one person ; we have an
aversion to another: the former disposes us to a6 good to its object,
the latter to do ill.
33. What is a sentiment? It is not a perception ; for a perception
signifies the act by which we became conscious of external objects.
It is not consciousness of an internal action, such as thinking, sus-
pending thought, inclining, resolving, willing, &c. Neither is it the
conception of a relation among objects ; a conception of that kind
being termed opinion. The term sentiment is appropriated to such
thoughts as are prompted by passion.
34. Attention is that state of mind which prepares one to receive
impressions. According to the degree of attention, objects make a
strong or weak impression.* Attention is requisite even to the sim-
* Bacon, in his Natural History, makes the following observations. Sounds
are meliorated by the intension of the sense, where the common sensois collected
most to the particular sense of hearing, and the sight suspended. Therefore souodt
Digitized
by Google
494 TBRM8 PBriNBD OR EZPLAIHKD. • «
pie act of seeing . the eye can take in a considerable field at one
look : but no object in tne field is seen distinctly, but that singly
whicn ^jea the attention : in a profound reverie that totally occupies
lie attentioq, we scarce see what is directly before us. In a train of
perceptions, the attention being divided among various objects, no
particular object makes such a figure as it would do single and apart
Hence, the stillness of night contributes to terror, th^e l^ing nothing
to divert the attention *
Horror ubique animos, simul ipsa silentia terrent JEiiieid, II.
All things were full of horror and afTright,
And dreadful even the silence of tlie ni^it
Zara. Silence and solitude are eY*ry where !
Through all the g^ocmiy ways and iron doors
That hither lead^ nor human face nor voice
Is seen or heard. A dreadful din was wont
To grate the sense, when enter'd here from groans
And howls of slaves condemned, from clink of chains,
And crash of rusty bars and creakine hinges :
And ever and anon the sight was dash'd
With frightful faces and the meagre looks
Of grim and ghastly executioners.
Yet more this stillness terrifies my soul
Than did that scene of complicated horrors.
Mourning Bride^ Act V. Sc 8. •
And hence it is, that an object seen at the termination of a confined
new, is more agreeable than when seen in a group with the snr*
rounding objects :
The crow doth sing as sweetly as the laik
When neither is attended ; and, I think,
The nightingale, if she should sing by. day,
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren. Merchant of Venice.
35. In matters of slight importance, attention is mostly directed by
will ; and for that reason, it is our own fauh if trifling objects make
any deep impression. Had we power equally to withhold our atten-
tion from matters of importance, we might be proof against any
deep impression. But our power fails us here: an interesting object
seizes and fixes the attention beyond the possibility of control ; and
while our attention is thus forcibly attached to one object, others may
' solicit for admittance ; but in vain, for they will not be regardea
Thus a small misfortune is scarcely felt in presence of a greater :
Lear. Thou think'st 'tis much, that this contentious storm
Invades us to the skin ; so 'tis to thee ;
But where the greater maladv is fix'd, - »
The lesser is scarce felt. Thou'dst snun a bear ;
But if thy flight lay tow'rd the roarinffsea,
Thou'dst meet the bear i' th' mouth. When the mind's free,
The body's delicate : the tempest in my mind
Doth from my senses take all feeling else,
Save what beats there. King Lear, Act III. Sc. 4.
are sweeter, as well as greater, in the night than in the day : and I suppose they
are sweeter to blind men than to others : and it is manifest, that between sleq>iii^
__j — w: V. 11 .1 1- — J __j j-j music is fiu' s^
by Google
and waking, wh6n all the senses are bound and suspended, music is tax
than when one is fully waking
Digitized b
TKRBIS DEFINED OR EXPLAIHBD. '48C
36. Genus, species, modification, are terms invented to distinfmisk
beings from each other. Individaals are distinguished by thei? qaali-
ties. A number of individuals considered with respect to qualities that
distinguish them from others, is termed a species : a plurality of spe-^
rte5 considered with respect to their distinguishing qualities, is termed
a genus. That quality which distinguisheth one genus, one speciesL
or even one individual, from another, is termed a modification : thuts
the same particular thai is termed' a property or quality when con-
sidered as belonging to an individual, or a class of individuals, is
termed a modification when considered as distinguishing the indi-
ridual or the class from another : a black skin and soil curled, hair,
«re properties of a negro : the same circi^mstances considered at
marks that distinguish a negro from a man of a different species,
are denominated modifications.
37. Objects of sight, being complex, are distinguishable into the
several particulars that enter into the composition : these objects are
all colored ; and they all have length, breadth, and thickness. When
. I behold a spreading oak, I distinguish in that object, size, figure,
color, and sometimes motion : in a flowing river, I distinguish color,
^gure, and constant motion ; a die has color, black spots, six plain
surfaces, all equal and uniform. Objects of touch have all of them
extension : some of them are felt rough, some smooth : some of them
are hard, some soft. With respect to the other senses, some of their
objects are simple, some complex. A sound, a taste, a smell, may
be s€^ simple as not to be distinguishable into parts : others are per*
ceived to be compounded of diflerent sounds, diflerent tastes, and -dif-
ferent smells.
38. The eye at one look can grasp a number of objects, as or
trees in a field, or men in a crowd : these objects having each a
separate and independent existence, are distinguishable in the mind»
as well as in reality ; and there is nothing more easy than to abstract
from some and to confine our contemplation to others. A large oak
with its spreading branches fixes our attention upon itseL^ and
abstracts us from the shrubs that surround it. In the same manner,
with respect to compound sounds, tastes, or smells, we can ^x our
thoughts upon any one of the component parts, abstracting our atten*
tion from the rest. The power of abstraction is not confined to
objects tha( are separable in reality as well as mentally ; but also
takes place where there can be no real separation: the size, the
figure, the color, of a tree, are inseparably cohne<:ted, and have no
independent existence; the same of length, breadth, and thickness:'
and yet we can mentally confine our observations to one of these,
abstracting from the rest. Here abstraction takes place where there
cannot be a real separation.
39. Space and«time have occasioned much metaphysical jargon;
but after the power of abstraction is explained as above, there remaini
no difficulty about them. It is mentioned above, that space as well
as place enter into the perception of every visible object : a tree itf
perceived as existing in a certain place, and as occupying a certain
space Now, by the power of abstraction, space may be considercfi
41*
Digitized
by Google
486 rniis bsfiiibd or szplunsb.
abfltractedly from the body that occupies it ; and hence the abstract
term space. In the same manner, existence may be considered
abstractedly firom any particular thing that exists ; and place may be
considered abstractedly firom any particular thing that may be in it
Every series or succession of things, suggests the idea of time; and
time may be considered abstractedly firom any series of succession.
In the same manner, we acquire the abstract term motion, rest, num-
ber, and a thousand other abstract terms ; an excellent contrivance
for improving speech, as without it speech would be wofuUy imper-
fect Brute animals may have some obscure notion of these circum-
stances, as connected with particular objects : an ox, probably per-
ceives that he takes longer time to go round a long ridge m the
plough, than a short one ; and he probably perceives when he is one
of four in the yoke, or only one of two. But the power of abstrac-
tion is not bestowed on brute animals; because to them it would be
altogether useless, as they are incapble of speech.
40. This power of abstraction is of great utility. A carpenter
fonsidere a log of wood with regard to hardness, firmness, color,
and texture : a philosopher, neglecting these properties, makes the
log undergo a cnemical analysis ; and examines its taste, its smell,
and its component principles : the geometrician confines his reason-
ing to the figure, the length, breadth, and thickness. In general,
every artist, abstracting from all other properties, confines his obser-
vations to those which have a more immediate connection with lus
profession.
41. It is observed above, p. 478, that there can be no such thing
as a general idea ; that all our perceptions are of particular objects,
and that our secondary perceptions or ideas must be equally so. Pre-
cisely, for the same reason, there can be no such thing as an abstract
idea. We cannot form an idea of a part without taking in the whole :
nor of motion, color,ifigure, independent of a body. No man will
say that he can form any idea of beauty, till he tnink of a peraon
endued with that quality ; nor that he can form an idea of weifi^ht,
till he takes under consideration a body that is weighty. And when
he takes under consideration a body endued with one or other of the
properties mentioned, the idea he forms is not an abstract or general
idea, but the idea of a particular body with its properties. But though
a part and the whole, a subject and its attributes, an eflfect and its
cause, are so intimately connected, as that an idea cannot be formed
of the one independent of the other ; yet we can reason upon the one
abstracting from the other.
This is done by words signifying the thing to which the reason-
ing is confined ; and such words are denominated abstract terms.
The meaning and use of an abstract term is well understood, though
of itself, unless other particulars be taken in, it raises no image nor
idea in the mind. In language it serves excellent purpose ; by it
different figures, different colors, can be compared, without the trou-
ble of conceiving them as belonging to any particular subject ; and
they contribute with words significant to raise images or ideas in the
mind.
Digitized
by Google
TERMS DSFINBD OR tZPLAINBD. 467
42. Tbepower of abstraction isbestowed on man, for the purpose sole-
ly of reasoning. It tends greatly to the facility as well as clearness of
any process of reasoning, that, laying aside every other circumstance, we
can confineour attention to Ije ir^lt ,»rperty we desire to investigate.
43. Abstract terms may be separated into three different kinds, all
equally subservient to the reasoning faculty. Individuals appear to
have no end ; and did we not possess the faculty of distributing them
into classes, the mind would be lost in an endless maze, and no procuress
be made in knowledge. It is by the faculty of abstraction that we distri-
bute beings into genera and species : finding a number of individuals
connected by certain qualities common to all, we give a name to these
individuals considered as thus connected, which name, by gathering
them together into one class, serv^es to express the whole of these indi-
viduals as distinct from others. Thus the word animal serves to denote
every being that can move voluntarily ; and the words man, horse, lion,
6lc. answer similar purposes. This is the first and most common 'sort
of abstraction ; and it is of the most extensive use, by enabling us to
comprehend in our reasoning whole kinds and sorts, instead of indivi-
duals, without end. The next sort of abstract terms comprehends a
number ofindivi dual objects, considered as connected by some occasion-
al relation. A great number of persons collected in one place, without
any other relation than merely that of contiguity, are cfenominated a
crowd : in forming this term, we abstract from sex, from age, from con-
dition, from dress, &c. A number of persons connected by the same
laws and by the same government, are termed a nation: and a number
ofmen under the same military command, are termed an army. A third
sort of abstraction is, where a single property or part, which may be com-
mon to many individuals, is selected to be the subject of our contempla-
tion ; for example, whiteness, heat, beauty, length, roundness, head, arm.
44. Abstract terms are a happy invention: it is by their means chief
ly, that the particulars which make the subject of our reasoning are
brought into close union, and separated from all others however natu-
rally connected. Without the aid of such terms, the mind could never
be kept steady to its proper subject, but be perpetually in hazard of as-
suming foreign circimstances, or neglecting what are essential. We
can, without the aid of language, compare real objects by intuition,
when these objects are present ; and when absent, we can compare
them in idea. But when we advance farther, and attempt to make in-
ferences and draw conclusions, we always employ abstract t^rms,
even in thinking; it would be as difficult to reason without them, as
to perform operations in algebra without signs; for there is scarcely
any reasoning without some degree of abstraction, and we cannot
easily abstract without usinff abstract terms. Hence it follows, that
without language man would scarcely be a rational being.
45. The same thing, in different respects, has different names. With
respect to certain qualities, it is termed a substance ; with respect to
other qualities, a body ; and with respect to qualities of all sorts, a
subject. It is termed a passive subject with respect to an action exert-
ed upon it; an object with respect to a percipient: a cause with res-
pect to the effect it produces ; and an effect \^ith respect to its cause*
Digitized
by Google
INDEX.
Abstraction, power of, 486. Its use,
487.
Abstract, terms, ought to be aroided in
poetrv, 122, 40^. Cannot be com-
parea but by being personified, 326.
Personified, 351. Defined, 486. The
use of abstract terms, 487.
Accent, defined, 292. The musical ac>
cents that are necessary in an hexam-
eter line, 296. A low word must not
be accented, 310. Rules for accenting
English heroic verse, 309, 310. How
far affected by the pause, 311. Ac-
cent and pause have a mutual influ-
ence 312.
Action, what fillings are raised by hu-
man actions, 27. 115. 172. We are
impelled to action by desire, 29. Some
actions are instinctive, some intended
as means to a certain end, 31. Ac-
tions great and elevated, low and gro-
velling, 1 15. Slowness and quickness
in actinff, to what causes owing, 152.
157. Emotions occasioned by pro-
priety of action, 168. Occasioned by
mipropriety of action, ib. Human
aaions considered with respect to dig-
nity and meanness, 175. Actions the
interpreters of the heart, 208. Action
is the fundamental part of epic and
dramatic compositions, 420. Unity
of action, 429. We are conscious of
internal action as in the head, 475.
Internal action may proceed without
our being conscious of it, ib.
Action and reaction betwixt a passion
and its obiect, 65.
Actor, bombast actor, 126. The chief
talents of an actOr, 206. An actor
should feel the passion he represents,
217. Difference as to pronunciation
betwixt the French and English ac-
tors, 219, note.
Admiration, 65. 131.
.£ncid. See Virgil.
Affectation, 167.
Affection, to children accounted for, 43.
To blood-relations, ib. Affection for
what belongs to us, ib. Social affec-
tions more refined than selfish, 62.
Affection in what manner inflamed
into a passion, 65. Opposed to pro-
pensity, 67. Affection to children,
endures longer than any other affec-
tion, ib. Opinion and belief influx
enced by affection, 88. Affection de-
fined, 195. 484.
Agamemnon, of Seneca censured, 231.
Agreeable emotions and passions, 58,
&c. Things neither agreeable nor
disagreeable. See Object.
Alcestes, of Euripides censured, ^42.
438,439.
Alexandre, of Racine censured, 225.
Alexandrine line, 298.
Allegory, defined, 370. More difficult
in painting than in poetry, 376. In
an nistorical poem, 4^.
All for Love, or Dryden censured, 235.
Alto Relievo, 459.
Ambiguity, occasioned by a wn.mg
choice of words, 255 ; occasioned by
a wrong arrangement, 270.
Amynta, of Tasso censured, 222.
Amor jkUruBj tlccounted for, 45.
Amphibrachys, 324.
Amphimacer, 324.
Ansu^ic and synthetic methods of rea-
soning compared, 22.
Anapestus, 323.
Anger, explained, 47, &c. Frequently
comes to its height instantaneously,
65. Decays suddenly, 66. Some-
times exerted against the innocent, 85.
and even a^inst thin^ inanimate, ib.
Not infectious, 95. Has no dignity
in it, 175.
An^le, la£^t and smallest^ angle of
vision, 92.
Animals, distributed by nature into
classes. 467.
Antibaccniu8^324.
Anticlimax, 286.
Antispastus, 324.
Antithesis, 259. Verbal antithesis, 188.
259.
Apostrophe, 359, Ac.
Appearance, things ought to be described
m poetry, as they Appear, not as they
are in reality, 393.
Appetite, defined, 31. Appetites of hun-
^r, thirst, animal love, arise without
an object, 40. Appetite for fame or
esteem, 100.
Apprehension, dulness and quickness Ol
apprehension, to what causes owii^
Architecture, ch. zirr. Qraiidettf It
Digitized
by Google
INDEX.
489
maimer in architecture, 1 19. The si-
tuation of a great house ought to be
lofty, 166. A playhouse or a music-
room susceptible of much ornament,
167. What emotions can be raised
by architecture, 443. Its emotions
compared with those of gardening, t6.
Every building ought to have an ex-
pression suited to its destination, 444.
457. Simplicity ought to be the go-
verning taste, 443. Regularity to be
studied, 445. 454. External form of
dwelling-houses, 452, 453. Divisions
within, 453. 458, 459. A palace ought
to be regular, but in a small house
convenience ought to be preferred,
452, 453. A dwelling-house ought to
be suited to the climate, 454. Con-
gruity ought to be studied, 457. Ar-
chitecture governed by principles that
produce opposite effects, 459, 460.
Different ornaments employed in it,
459, 460. Witticisms in architecture,
464. Allegorical or emblematical or-
naments, iS. Architecture inspires a
taste for neatness and regularity, 465.
iiriosto, censured, 160. 430.
iiristseus, the episode of Aristseus in the
Gkorgics censured. 323.
Aristotle, censured, 477, note.
Army, defined, 488.
Arrangement, the best arrangement of
words is to place them if possible in
an increasing series, 252. Arrange-
^ment of members, in a period, ib. Of
periods in a discourse, 253. Ambi-
guity from wrong arrangement, 270.
273. Arrangement natural and in-
verted, 280, ^1.
Articulate sounds, how far agreeable,
248.250.
Artificial mount, 448.
Arts. See Pine Arts.
Ascent, pleasant, but descent not pain-
ful, 114.
Athalie, of Racine censured, 231.
Attention, defined, 484. Impression
made by objects depends on the degree
of attention, ib. Attention not always
^ voluntary, 485.
Attractive passions, 210.
Attractive objects, 97.
Attractive signs of passion, 210.
Attributes, transferred by a figure of
speech from one subject to another,
365, &c.
Avarice, defined, 29.
Avenue, to a house, 448.
Aversion, defined, 65. 195.
Bacchius, 324.
Bajazet, of Racine censured, 241. '
Barren scene, defined^ 431.
Base, of a column, 463.
Basso-relievo, 460.
Batrachomuomachia, censured, 179
Beauty, ch. iii. Intrinsic and relative,
103. 449. Beauty of simplicity, 104.
of figure, li,, of the circle, 105. of the
sauare, ih., of a regular polygon, 106,
ot a parallelo^am, ib.j of an equila-
teral triangle, tb. Whether beauty is
a primary or secondary quality of ob-
jects, 107: Beauty distinguished fbom
grandeur, 110. Beauty of natural
colors, 161. Beauty distinguished
from conffruity, 166. Consummate
bea\ity seldom produces • a constant
lover, 199. Wherein consists the
beauty of the human visage, 204.
Beauty proper and figurative, 482.
Behavior, gross and refined, 62.
Belief, of the reality of external. objects,
51. Enforced by a lively> narrative,
or a good historical painting, 56, 57.
Influenced by passion, 87. 361. In-
fiucnced by propensity, 88. Influ-
enced by affection, ib.
Benevolence operates in conjunction
with self-love to make us happy, 97.
Benevolence inspired by gardening,
451.
Berkeley, censured, 477, note.
Blank verse, 298. 315. Its aptitude for
inversion, 317. Its melody, ib. How
far proper in tragedy, 428.
Body, defined, 475.
Boileau, censured, 360.417. .
Bombast, 124. Bombast in action, 126.
Bossu, censured, 432, note.
Burlesque, machinery does well in a
burlesque poem, 57. Burlesque dis-
tinguished mto two kinds, 179.
Business, men of middle age best quali-
fied for it, 152.
Cadence, 287. 992.
Capital, of a column, 463.
Careless husband, its double plot well
contrived, 426.
Cascade, 129.
Cause, resembling causes may produce
effects that have no resemblance ; and
causes that have no resemblance
' may produce resembling efifects, 283.
Cause, defined, 488.
Chance, the mind revolts against misfor-
tunes that happen by chance, 418.
Character, to araw a cheuracter is the
master-stroke of description, 397, 398.
Characteristics, of Shaflsbury criticised,
167, note.
Children, love to them accounted for, 43.
A child can discover a passion from
its external signs, 211. Hides none
of its emotions, 215.
Digitized
by Google
^0
mDBsL
Chinese, gardens, 450. Wonder and
sorpriae studied in them, 451.
Choreus, 323.
Choriambus, 394.
Chorus, an essential part of the Grecian
tragedy, 433.
Church, what ought to be its form and
situation, 458.
Cicero censured, 280. 287. 290.
Cid, of Comeille censured, 221.233.
Cinna, of Comeille censured, 168. 219.
232.
Circle, ite beauty, 105.
Circumstances, in aperiod, where they
should be placed, 273. 275.
Class, all living creatures distributed
into classes, 4*%, 471.
Climax, in sense. 116. 220. 278. In
sound, 253. When these are joined,
the sentence is delightful, 286.
Coephores, of Eschyhis censured, 203.
Coexistent emotions and pas8Tons,67,&c.
Colonnade, where proper, 454.
Color, §old and silver esteemed for their
beautiful colors, 104. A secondary
quality, 59. Natural colors, 161. Co-
loring of the human face, exquisite, ib.
Columns, every column ought to have a
base, 94. .The base ou^ht to be
square, 95. Columns admit different
I>roportions, 456—458. What emo-
tions they raise, 458. Column more
beautiful than a pilaster, 462. Its
form, ib. Five orders of columns, ib.
CapitaLof the Corinthian order cen-
sured, 463.
Comedy, double plot in a comedy, 425,
426. Modem manners do liest in
eomedy, 420. Immorality of English
comedy, 36.
Comet, motion of the comets and planets
compared with respect to beauty, 128.
Commencement, of a work ought to be
modest and simple, 39.
Common nature, in every species of
animals, 60. 467. We have a convic-
tion that this common nature is inva-
riable, 468. Also that it is perfect or
right, 60. 468.
Common sense, 467. 473.
Communication of passion to related
objects. See Passion.
Communication of qualities to related
objects. See Propensity.
Comparison, 140, &£. ch. xix. In the
early composition of all nations, com-
parisons are carried beyond proper
bounds, 325. Comparisons that re-
solve into a play of words, 343.
Complex emotion, 68, &c.
Complex object, its power to generate
passion, 45. 122.
Complex perception, 479.
Complexion, what colour of dreM is the
most suitable to different complezitms,
148.
Concq>t&on, defined, 475.
Concord, or harmony in objects of
sight, 69.
Concordant sounds, defined, 67.
Congreve, censured, 37. 180. 207. note,
m
Congruityand propriety, chap. x. A
secondary relation, 165, n&te. Con-
Suity distinguished from beauty, 166.
istinguish^ fipom propriet)r, iJ. As
to quantity, congruity coincides with
proportion, 170.
Connection essential in all composi-
tions, 23.
Conquest of Ghranada, of Dryden cen-
sured, 234
Consonants, 249.
Constancy, consummate beauty the
cause of incon^ancy, 199.
Construction, of language explained,
264, &c.
Contemplation, when painful, 156.
Contempt, raised by improper action,
138.
Contrast, chap. viii. Its effect in lan-
guage, 251. In a series of objects,
252. Contrast in the thought requuree
contrast in the members of the exprei>
sion, 251. The effect of contrast it
gardening;, 450.
Conviction, intuitive. See Intuitive Con-
viction.
Copulative, to drop the copulative en-
livens the expression, 264, &c.
Coriolanus, of Shakspeare censured,
234.
Coraeilje, censured, 219. 229. 240. 243.
Corporeal pleasure, 11 — 13. Low and
^ sometimes mean, 174.
Couplet, 298. Rules for its composi-
tion, 316.
Courage, of greater dignity than jus-
tice, 174.
Creticus, 324.
Criminal, the hour of execution seems to
him to approach with a swift pace, 89.
Criticism, its advantages, 14, 15. Its^
terms not accurately defined, 213.
Crowd, defined, 485.
Curiosity, 131. 139, &c.
Custom and habit, ch. xiv. Rendm
objects familiar, 131. Custom distin*
guished from habit, 193. Custom
puts the rich and poor upon a levcL
201. Taste in the fine arts . impiovea
by custom, 472, note.
Dactyle, 324.
Daviia, censured, 159.
Declensions, ezplainec
urvu, Luu.
explained, 267.
Digitized
by Google
INDElt.
49!
Dedications. See Epistles Dedicatory.
Delicacy, of taste, 61. 473.
Derisiqn, 169. 179.
Des Cartes, censured, 477, noU,
Descent, not painful, 114.
Description, it animates a description to
represent things past as present, 55.
Tne rules theu ou^ht to g:0Tem it,
392, , &c. A liyeTy description is
afipreeable, though the subject describ-
ed be disagreeable, 4(^. No objects
but those of sight can be well des-
cribed, 480.
Descriptive personiftcations, 351.
Descriptive tragedy, 217.
Desire, defined, 29. It impels us to ac-
tion, 31. It determines the will, 96.
Desire in a criminal to be punished,
99. Desire tends the most to happi-
ness when modereUe, 106.
Dialo°;ue,dialogue writing requires great
genius, 216, &c. In dialogue every
expression ought to be suited to the
character of the speaker, 404. Dia-
logue makes a deeper impression than
narration, 415. Clualified for ei^ress-
ing sentiments, 416. Rules for it,
427, &c.
Dignity and grace, chap. xi. Dignity
of human nature, 469.
Diiambus, 324.
Diphthongs, 249.
Disagreeable emotions and passions,
58, &c.
Discordant sounds, defined, 68.
Dispondeus, 324.
Disposition, defined, 483.
Dissimilar emotions, 68. Their effects
when coexistent, 71. 444. 450. 457.
Dissimilar passions, their effects, 7d.
Dissocial passions, 33. All of them
painful, 59. and also dis€igreeable, 60.
Distance, the natural method of com-
puting the distance of objects, 92, &c.
Errors to which this computation is
liable, 455. 459.
Ditrochseus, 324.
Door, its proportion, 452.
Double action, in an epic poem, 430.
Double Dealer, of Congreve censured,
231. 431.
Double plot, in a dramatic composition,
425.
Drama, ancient and modem compared,
432, &c.
Dramatic poetry, ch. xxii.
Drapery, ought to hang loose, 95.
Press, rules about dress, 167. 443.
Dryden, censured, 375. 427. 431.
JEhities, moral duties distinguished into
those which respect ourselves and
, those which respect others, 170. Foun-
dation of duties that re^ct ourselves,
t&., of those that respect others, t^.
Duty of actine. up to the dignity of
our nature, 173. 175.
Dwellings-house, its external form, 456»
&c. Internal form, 453. 458.
Education, promoted by the fine arts, 14.
451. Means to promote in young per-
sons a habit of virtue, 40.
Effects, resembling effects may be pro-
duced by causes that have no resem-
blance, 283.
Effect, defined, 488.
Efficient cause, of less importance than
the final cause, 175.
Electra, of Sophocles censured, 204.
Elevation, 110, &c. Real and figurative
intimately connected, 114. Figura-
tive elevation d>«tins;uished from figu-
rative grandeur^ 333, 334.
Emotion, what feelings are termed emo-
tions, 26. Emotions defined, 27, &c.
And their causes assigned, 28. Dis-
tinguished from passions, 30. Emo-
tion generated by relations, 41, &c.
Emotions expanded upon related ob-
jects, 41, &c. 275. 288. 309. 349, 350.
380. Emotions distinguished into pri-
mary and secondary, 43. Raised by
fiction, 50, &c. Raised by painting,
54. Emotions divided into pleasant
and painful, agreeable and disagree-
able, 59, &c. 480. The interrupted ex-
istence of emotions, 63, &c. Their
^owth and decay, 64, &c. Their
identity, ib. Coexistent emotions^ 67,
&c. Emotions similar and dissimilar,
68. Complex emotions, 69, 70. Ef-
fects of similar coexistent emotions,
69. 457. Effects of dissimilar coex-
istent emotions, 71, 444. Influence of
emotions upon our perceptions, opi-
nions, and belief, 82, &c. 92, 93. 144.
146. 347. 359. 361. 365, &c. Emo-
tions resemble their causes, 94, &c.
Emotions of grandeur, 109, &c., of
sublimity, 110. A low emotion, 115.
Emotion of laughter, ch, vii., of ridi-
cule, 138. Emotions when contrasted
should not be too slow nor too quick
in their succession, 149. Emotions
raised by the fine arts ought to be con-
trasted in succession, ib. Emotion of
congruity, 165, &c., of propriety, 167.
Emotions produced by human actions,
172. Ranked according to their dig-
nity, 173. External signs of emo-
tions, ch. XV. Attractive and repul-
' sive emotions, 210. What emotions
do best in succession, what in con-
jun(^ion, 444. What emotions are
raised by the productions of manu^
facUires, 451, %oU. Man is passim
Digitized
by Google
491)
INDEX.
with regard to his emotions, 475.
We are conscious of emotions as in
the heart, ifr. '
Emphasis, defined, 909, ntrte, Ou^ht
never to be but upon words of im-
portance, 287. 310.
Bneid, its unity of action. See Virejl.
Elnelish plays, generally irregular. 439.
English comedies generuly licen-
' tious, 36.
Endish tongue, too rough, 251. In
Enelish words the lon^ syllable is put
early, 250, fu^. English tongue more
erave and sedate in its tone than the
French, 311, note. Peculiarly quali-
fied for personification, 350,' note.
Entablature, 461.
Envy, defined, 30. How generated, 65.
Why it is perp^al, 66. It magni-
fies every bad quamy in its object, 84.
Epic poem, no improbable fact ou^ht to
' De admitted, 57. Machinery in it has
a bad effect, ib. It doth not always
reject ludicrous images, 151. Its com-
mencement ouffht to be m.-nJest and
simple, 392. In what respect it dif-
fers from a tragedy, 414. Distin-
euished into pathetic and moral, 415.
Its good effects, 417. Compared with
tra^dy as to the subjects proper for
each, 416. How far it may borrow
firom history, 419. Rule for dividing
it into parts, 420.
Epic poetry, ch. xzii.
Epicurus, censured, 477, note.
Episode, in an historical poem, 424.
Requisites, 425.
Epistles dedicatory, censured, 165,
note.
Epithets, redundant, 407.
Epitritus, 324.
Essays on man, criticised, 322.
Esteem, love of, 101. 118.
Esther, of Racine censured, 231. 233.
Eunuch, of Terence censured, 242. 439.
Euripides, censured, 242. 438.
Everoreens, cut in the shape of animals.
Effect of experience with respect to taste
in the fine arts, 472, note.
Expression, elevated, low, 115. Ex-
pression that has no distinct meaning,
346. Members of a sentence ex-
pressing a resemblance betwixt two
objects, ought to resemble each other,
261, &c. Force of ej^ression by
suspending the thought till the close,
279.
External objects, their reality, 51.
Eixtemal senses, distinguished into two
kinds, 11. External sense, 474.
External signs, of emotions and pas-
sions, ch. XV. External signs of pas-
sion, what emotions they raise in a
spectator, 209. .
Eye-sight, influenced by pas^on, 9$.
144, 145.
Face, though uniformity prevail in tht
human face, yet every face is distin-
guishable from another, 163.
Faculty, by which we know passion
from its external signs, 214.
Fairy Glueen, criticise!, 373.
False Quantity, painful to the ear, 299.
Fame, love of, 101.
Familiarity, its effect, 64. 131. 380., it
wears on by absence, 134.
Fashion, its influence accounted for. 42.
Fashion is in a continual flux, 107.
Fear, explained, 47, &c. Rises often to
its utmost pitch in an instant, 65.
Fear arising firom affection or aver-
sion, ib. Fear is infectious, 95.
Feeling, its different significations, 476.
Fiction, emotions raised by fiction, 50,
&c.
Figure, beauty of, 104. Definition of a,
regular figure, 481.
Fi^vres, some passions fkvourable to
figurative expression, 237. 335.
Fieures, ch. xx. Figure of speedy 353.
370. 379, &c. Figures were of oU
much strained, 325. 372.
Final cause, defined, 175. Final cause
of our sense of order and connection,
26., of the sympathetic emotion of
virtue, 40., of the instinctive passion
of fear, 48., of the instinctive passion
of anger., 50., of ideal presence, 52,
&c., of the power that fiction has over
the mind, 51., of emotions and pas-
sions, 96, &c., of the communication
of passion to related objects, 101., of
regularity, uniformity, order, and sim-
plicity, 104., of proportion, i^., of
beauty, 108. Why certain objects are
neither pleasant nor painful, 113. 127.,
of the pleasure we « have in motion
and force, 130., of curiosity, 131., of
wonder, 136., of surprise, i6., of the
principle tl^at prompts us to perfect
every work, 147., of the pleasure or
pain that results from the different
circumstances of a train of percq>-
tions, 157, &c., of congruity and pro-
priety, 170, &c., of dignity and mean-
ness, 175, &c., of habit, 201, &c, of
the external signs of passion .and emo-
tion, 211, &.C. Why articulate sounds
singly agreeable are always agree-
able in conjunction, 249., or the ple»>
sure we have in language, 409., or oar
relish for various proportions in quan-
tity, 455. Why delicacy of taste it
withhdd from the bulk of mankind,
Digitized
by Google
INDEX.
467., of our <5onviction of a common
standard in every species of beings,
469., of uniformity of taste in the &g
arts, 469, 470. Why the sense of a
hght and a wrong in the fine arts is
less clear than the use of a right and
a wrong in actions, 471. Final cause
of greater importance than the effi-
cient cause, 175.
Fine arts, defined, 12. 16. A subject of
learning, 14. Elducation, promoted
by the fine, arts, 14, 15. 451. The
mie arts a great support to morality,
13. 452. 4&, &c. Their emotions
ought to be contrasted in succession,
149. Uniformity and variet)r in the
fine arts, 159. Considered with res-
pect to dignity, 175. How fai they
may be regulated by custom, 20z.
None of them are imitative but paint-
ing and sculpture, 247. Aberrations
from a true taste in these arts, 470.
Who qualified to be judges in the fine
arts, 472.
Fluid, motion of fluids, 128.
Foot, the effect that syllables collected
into feet have upon the ear, 265.
Musical feet defined, 293, note. A
list of verse-feet, 323, 324.
Force, produces a feeling that resembles
it, 9o, Force, ch. v.
Moving force, 128. Force gives a plea-
sure dififering from that of motion,
129. ^It contributes to grandeur, 130.
Forei^, preference given to foreign cu-
riosities, 135.
Fountains, in what form they ought to
be, 448.
French dramatic writers, criticised, 219.
332. 439, wote.
French verse, requires rhyme, 322.
French language, more lively to the ear
than the Engfish, 31 1, note. In French
words the last syllable generally long
and accented, id. note.
Friendship, considered with respect tb
dignity and meanness, 173.
Gallery, why it appears longer than it is
in reality, 446. Is not an agreeable
figure of a room, 457.
Games, public games of the Greeks, 129.
Gardening, a mie garden gives lustre to
, the owner, 43, note. Grandeur of
manner in gardening, 122. Its emo-
tions ought to be contrasted in succes>
sion, 149. A small gardeti should be
confined to a single expression, 150.
442. A garden near a ^eat city
should have an air of solitude, 150.
A garden in a wild country should be
gay and splendid, ib. Gardening,
ch. zxiv. What emotions can be
raised hj it, 442. Its emotions com-
pared with those of architecture, ib,
SimpUcitv ought to be the governing
taste, 44S. Wherein the unity of a
garden consists, 444. How far should
regularity be studied in it, 445. Re-
semblance ciftrried too far in it, 446,
note. Grandeur in gardening, ib.
Every unnatural object ought to be
rejected, 446. Distant €uid faint imi-
tations displease, 447. Winter7gar-
den, 450. The effect of giving play
to the imagination, 451. Grarden-
ing inspires benevolence, ib. And
contributes to rectitude of manners,
465.
General idea, there cannot be su(^ thing,
478, note.
General terms, should be avoided in com-
positions for amusement, 122. 404.
General theorems, why agreeable, 107.
Generic habit, defined, 19§.
Grenerosity, why of greater dignity than
justice, 174.
Geiius, defined, 485.
Grestures, that accompany the different
passions, 205, &c.
Gierusalemme Liberata, censured, 422,
423. .
Globe, a beautiful figure, 160.
Gbod-nature, why of less dignity than
courage or generosity, 174.
G^othic tower, its bieautv, 458. Gothic
form of buildings, 464.
G^overnment, natural foundation of sub-
mission to ^pvemment, 100.
Grace, ch. xi. Grace of motion, 128.
Grace analyzed, 177, &c.
Grandeur and sublimity, ch. iy. Dis-
tinguished from beauty, 110. Gran-
deur demands not strict regularity,
111. Regularity, order, and propor-
tion, contribute to grandeur, ib. Real
and figurative OTandeur intimately
connected , 114. Grandeur of manner,
149. Grandeur may be em{)loyed in-
directly to humble the mind, 124.
Suits ill with wit and ridicule, IW*
Fixes the attention, 163. Figurative
^andeur distinguished from figura
ti ve elev ation, 3fe. Grandeur in gar
^ening, 445. Irre^larity and dispro-
portion increase in appearance the
size of a building, 459.
Gt-atification, of passion, 32. 35. 80. 86.
348. 359. 361, ic. Obstacles to gra-
tification inflame a passion, 65.
Gratitude, considered with respect to its,
gratification, 64. Exerted upon the
children of the benefactor, 84. Pu-
nishment of ingratitude, 171. Grati-
tude considered with respect to dig'
nity and meanness, 175.
Digitized
by Google
4H
INDEX.
dfodc words, ibiely ooinpoied of long
and short syllables, 319.
Chrief, magnifies its cause, 85. Occa-
sions a false reckoning of time, 92.
Is infectious, 95. When immoderate
is sUent, 236.
Ckoss pleasure, 68.
Group, natural objects readily form
themselves into groups, 160.
Qttido, censored, SK,
Habit, ch. xiT. Prevails in old age,
152. Habit of application to busi-
ness, 155, 156. 157. Converts pain
into pleasure, 158. Distin^ished
from custom, 193. Puts the nch and
poor upon a level, 201, 202. '
Barmony, or concord in objects of
sight, o8, 69. Harmony distinguish-
ecffrom melody, 290, note.
Hatred, how produced, 65. Signifies
more commonly afiection than pas-
sion, ib. Its emlurance, 67.
Hearing, in hearing we feel no impres-
sion, 476.
Henriade, censured, 395. 422. 424.
Hexameter, Virgil's hexameter's ex-
tremity melodious, those of Horace
sddom so, 290. And the reason why
they are not, 292. Structure of an
hexameter line, 294. Rules for its
structure, 294. 297. Musical pauses
in an hexameter line, 293, note^ 296.
Wherein its melody consists, 297.
Hiatus, defined, 250.
olytus, of Euripides censured, 229.
History, why the history of heroes and
conquerors is singularly agreeable,
40. 117. By what means does his-
tory raise our passions, 54. It rejects
poetical images, 392.
History-painting. See Painting.
Homer, defective in order and connec-
tion, 23. His language finely suited
to his subject, 402. His repetitions
defended, 406. His poems in a great
measure dramatic, 415. Censured,
483.
Hope, 65.
Horace, defective in connection, 24.
His hexameters not melodious, 290.
Their defects pointed out, 297.
Horror, objects of horror should be ba-
nished from poetry and painting, 411.
House, a fine house gives lustre to the
. owner, 43, note.
Human nature, a complicated machine,
27.
Humanity, the finest temper of mind, 62.
Humor, defined, 180. Humor in wri-
ting distinguished from humor in cha-
racter j ib.
Hyperbole, 124. 961, Ac.
Hippobachius, 324.
Iambic verse, its modulaticm feist, S90L
Iambus, 323.
Jane Shore, censured, 222. 228.
Idea, not so easily remembered as a per-
ception is, 91, 92. 152. Succession of
ideas, 152. Pleasure and pain of
ideas in a train, 155, 156. Idea of
memory defined, 476. Cannot be in-
nate, 478, note. There are no eeneral
ideas, ib., note. Idea of an object of
si^ht more distinct than of any other
object, 479. Ideas distingniriied into
three kinds, 480. Id^as of imagina-
tion not so pleasant as ideas of me-
m«ry, 482.
Ideal presence, 52, Ac, raised by thea^
trical representation, 54., raised by
painting, ib.
Ideal system, 477, note.
Identity of a passion or of an emotion,
64.
Jet d'eau, 129. 447, 448.
Jingle of woids, 316. 320.
Iliad, criticised, 430.
Imases the life of poetry and iHbetoric,
Imagination, the S^pot instrument of r^
creation, 137. To give play to it ha^
a good effect in gardening, 451. Its
power in fabricating images, 480.489L.
Agreeableness of ideas of imagina-
tion, 482.
Imitation, we naturally imitate viitit-
ous actions, 95. Not those that are
vicious, ib. Inarticulate sounds imi-
tated in words, 282. None of the fine
arts imitate nature except painting
and sculpture, 247. The 'agreeable-
ness of imitation overi)alances thedi^
agreeableness of the subject, 409.
Distant and faint imitations displease,
447.
Impression, made on the organ of sense,
11 . 476. Successive impressions, ^2.
Impropriety in action raises contempt,
138. Its punishment, 169.
Impulse, a strong impiQse succeeding a
weak, makes a douole impression : a
weak impulse succeeding a strong,
makes scarce any impression, 253.
Infinite series, l>ecomes disagreeable
when prolonged, 146, note.
Innate idea, there cannot be such a
thing, 478, note.
Instinct, we act sometimes by instqtel^
31. 47, Ac.
Instrument, the means or in
conceived to be the agent,- 365.
Intellectual pleasure, |£
Internal sense, 475.
Digitized
by Google
INDEX.
lHtfiii8icl>eauty, i03.
Intuitiye conviction, of the veracity of
our senses, 51., of the dignity of hu-
man nature, 174. 469., of a common
nature or standard in every species of
beings, 467., of this standard being in-
yariaUe, 468., and of its being perfect
or right, ib. Intuitive conviction that
the external signs of passion are na-
turd, and also that they are the same
in all men, 211, 313.
Intuitive knowledge of external ob-
jects, 51.
Inversion, and inverted style described,
368, &c. Inversion gives force and
liveliness to the expression by sus-
pending the thought till the close, 377.
Inversion how regulated, ^1. Beau-
ties of inversion, ib. Inversion fa-
vourable to pauses, 306. Full scope
for it in blank verse, 317.
Involuntary signs, of passion, 305 — ^208.
lonicus, 32l4.
Joy, its cause, 37, 38. Infectious, 95.
Considered with respect to dignity
and meanness, 175.
Iphigenia of Racine, censured, 203.
Iphigenia in TaHris, censored, 343. 438.
Irony, defined, 183.
Italian tongue, too smooth, 351, note.
Italian wordd.finely diversified by long
and short syllables, 850, TUfte.
Judgment, and memorv in perfection,
seldom united, 21. Judgment seldom
united with wit, ib.
Julius Caesar, of Shakspeare censured,
333, 334.
Justice, of less dignity than generosity
or courage, 174.
feent, his skill in gardening, 444.
Key-note, 287. 293.
Kitchen-garden, 441.
Knowledge, intuitive knowledge of ex-
ternal o'mects, 51. Its pleasures never
decay, 200.
Labyrinth, in a garden, 447.
Landscape, why so agreeable, 69. 164.
More agreeable when comprehended
under one view, 446. A landscape in
painting ought to be confined to a sin-
gle expression, 150. Contrast ought
to pr«vail in it, 159.
Language, power of language to raise
emotions, whence derivcw, 53, 54.
Lansfuage of passion, chap. xvii.
Ought to be suited to tlie sentiments,
316. 336—238., broken and inteirupt-
ed, 336., of impetuous passion, 338.,
of lan^id passion, tft., of calm emo-
tions, ib.f of turbulent passions, ib.
Examples of language elevated above
the tdae of the sentiment, 349. Of
language too artificial or too fictira-
tive, 344., too light or airy, 345. Lan-
guage how far imitative, 347. Ita
beauty with respect to signification,
348.254, &c. Its beauty with respect
to sound^, 248, &c. It ought to oor-
respond to the subject, 257. 400. Itis
structure explained, 266, &c. Beaiity
of language from a resemblance be>
twixt sound and signification, 366.
248, &c The character of a lan-
guage depends on the character of the
nation whose language it is, 311, note.
The force of language consists in
raising complete images, 57. 409. It»
power of producing pleasant emo-
tions, 408. Without language man
would scarce be a rational being, 487.
Latin tongue, finely diversified with
long and short syllables, 319.
L'Avare, of Molicre censured, 333.
Laughter, 137.
Laugh, of derision or scorn, 138. 169.
Law, defined, 171.
Laws of human nature, necessary suc^
cession of perceptions, 20. '152. Wc
never act but through the impulse oi
desire, 30. 96. An object loses its
relish by familiarity, fy. Passicgfis
sudden m their growth are equally
sudden in their decay, GS. 196. Every
passioik ceases upon obtaining its ul-
timate end, G6. An agreeable cause
produceth always a pleasant emotion,
and a disagreeable cause a painful
emotion, 96.
Laws of motion, a^eeable, 107.
Les Freres ennemies of Racine,' cen-
sured, 225.
Lewis XIV. of France, censured, 1^^
note.
Lex talionis, upon what principle found-
ed, 148.
Line, definition of a re^lar line, 481.
Littleness, is neither pleasant nor pain-
ful, 113. Is connected with respect
and humility, 206; note.
Livy, censured, 256.
Locke, censured, 477, 478, Tiote.
Logic, cause of its obscurity and intri-
cacy, 211.
Logio, improper in this climate, 454.
L<fve, to children accounted for, 43,
The love a man bears to his country
* explained, 45. Love produced by
pity, 46. Love ^adual, 64. It sig-
nifies more commonly affection than
passion, 65. Love mfiamed by the
c&prices of a .mistress, 66. Its endu-
rance, 67. To a lover absence ap-
pears long, 89. Love assumes the
qualities of its object, 95., when ei-
Digitized
by Google
496
INDEX.
eetare beeomes selfish, 106., consi-
dered with respect to dignity and
meanness, 174., seldom constant when
founded on exquisite beauty, 199., ill
Xesented in French plays, ^£32.,
n immoderate is silent, 2S6.
Lots for Love, censured, 431.
Lowness, is neither pleasant nor pain-
ful, 113.
Locan, too minute in his descriptions,
31., censured, 415
Ludicrous, 137., may be introduced into
an epic poem, 151.
Lutrin, censured for incongruity, 166.,
characterised, 179.
Luxury, corrupts our taste, 471, 473.
Machinery, ought to be excluded from
an epic poem, 57. 421., does well in a
burlesque poem, 57.
Malice, bow ^erated, 64. Why it is
perpetual, ^.
Blan, a benevolent as well as a selfish
beinf , 97, 98., fitted for society, 100.
Conformity of the nature of man to
his eiftemal circumstances, 113. 127.
130. 163. 206. Man intended to be
more active than contemplative, 175.
The different branches of his internal
constitution finely suited to each other,
455. 470.
Manners, gr6ss and refined, 62. The
bad tenidency of roueh and blunt man-
ners, 212, fwte. . Modern manners
make a poor figure in an epic poem,
419.
Manufactures, the effect of their produc-
tions with respect to morality, 451,
note.
Marvellous, in epic poetry, 423.
Means, the means or instrument con-
ceived to be the agent, 365, &c.
Measure, natural measure of time, 89,
&c., of space, 92, &c.
• Meaux, Bishop of, censured, 149.
Medea, of Euripides censured, 438.
Melody or modulation defined, 290., dis-
tinguished from harmony, ib., note.
In English heroic verse are four dif-
ferent sorts of melody, 300. 311. Me-
lody of blank verse superior to that of
rhyme, and even to that of hexameter,
317.
Members of m period have a fine effect
placed ih an mcreasing series, 252.
Memory, and judgment in perfection
seldom united, 21. Memory and wit
often united, ^., greater with respect
to perceptions than ideas, 91. Me-
mory, 476—478.
Merry Wives of Windsor, its double
' plot well contrived, 426.
Metaphor, 368, &c. In early composi-
tions of nations we find metaphon
much strained, 372.
Metre, 298.
Mile, the computed miles are longer in
a barren than in a populous coun-
try, 91.
Milton, his style much inverted, 317.
The defect of his versification is the
want of coincidence betwixt the
pauste of the sense and ^sound, 319.
The beauty of Milton's comparisons,
328, Ac f "^
Moderation in our desires contributes
the most to happiness, 106.
Modem manners, make a poor figure in
an epic poem, 419.
Modification, defined, 484.
Modulation, defined, 289.
Molossus, 323.
Monosyllables, English, arbitrary as to
quantity, 298.
Moral duties. See Duties.
Morality, a right and a wrong taste in
morals, 468. Aberrations from its
true standard, 471.
Moral sense, 28. Our passions as well
as actions are governed by it, 60.
Moral tragedy, 415. '
Motion, requires the constant exertion of
an operating cause, 63., productive of
feelings that resemble it, 94 Its laws
ameable, 127. Motion and force,
ch. V. What motions are the most
ameable, 128, &c. Regular motion,
1^. Accelerated motion, ib. Up-
ward motion, ib. Undulating mo-
tion, ib. Motion of fluids, tb, A
body moved neither agreeable nor dis-
agreeable, ib. The pleasure of mo«
, tion differs from that of force, 129.
Grace of motion, 130. Motions of
the human body, tb. Motion explain-
cd, 479.
Motive, defined, 32. A selfish motive
arising from a social principle, 32,
note.
Movement, applied figuratively to me-
lody, 284.
Mount^ artificial, 448.
Mourning Brid^, censured, 226. 233. 243.
435. 439.
Music, emotions raised by instrumental
music have not an object, 39. Music
disposes the heart to various pussions,
437., refined pleasures of music, 35.
Vocal distinguished from instrumen-
tal, 74, 75. What subjects proper for
vocal music, 75, &c. Sentimental
music, 74, note. Sounds fit to accom-
pany disagreeable p^sions cannot be
musical, iS. rwle. What variety pro-
per, 157. Music betwixt the acts of a
play, the advantages that may bt
Digitized
by Google
INDEX.
49t
tlrawki firom it, 437. It refines our
nature, 35.
Musical instruments, their different ef-
Acts upon the mind, 118.
Musical measure, defined, 290.
Narration, it animates a narrative to re-
presenv things past as present, 55.
Narration and description, ch. xxi.
It animates a narrative to make it
dramatic, 4d4, 405. 415, 416.
Nation defined, 187.
Note, a high note and a low note in
music, 115.
Noun, 266.
Novelty soon depitnerates into familiari-
ty, 66. Novehy And the unexpected
appearance of objects, ch. vi, No-
velty a pleasant emotion, 132, &c.,
disunguished firom variety, 134., its
different de^ees, ib., &c., fixes the
attention, 1^.
Number, defined, 455., explained, 479.
Numerus, defined, 290.
Object, of. a passion deilned, 31., distin-
guished into general ana particular, ib.
An agreeable object produces a plea-
sant etnotion, and a disagreeable ob-
ject a painful emotion, 59. Attractive
object, 97. Repulsive object, ib. Ob-
jects of sight the most complex, 103.
Objects that are neither agreeable nor
disagreeable, 113—127. JNatural ob-
jects readily form themselves into
groups, 160. An object terminating
an opening in a wood, appears doublv
distant, 446. Object defined, 474.
Objects of external sense in what
. place perceived, 474, 475. Objects
of internal sense, 475. All objects of
sight are complex, 479. 485. Objects
simple and complex, 485.
Obstacles, to gratification inflame a pas-
aion, 65.
(nd Bachelor, censured, 431.
C^pera, ensured, 167.
Opmion, influenced by passion, 87.361.,
influenced by propensity, SiS., influ-
enced by affection, ift. Why differing
«h)m me in opinion is disagreeable,
469. Opinion defined, 483.
Onition, of Cicero pro Archia poeta
ujisHred, 280. '
Orciiard, 449.
Oidei, 21. 105. 442. Pleasure we have
in order, 22, &c., necessary in all
compositions, 23. Sense of order has
an mfldence upon our passions, 45.
Order and proportion contribute to
grandeur, 111. When a list of many
particulars is brought into a period,
tn what order should th^ be placed,
42*
378, &£. Order in stating i«6t«|
429.
Organ of sense, 11, 12.
Organic pleasure, 12, &c.
Orlando Furioso, censured, 4S0.
Ornament, ought to be suited to the sob- •
ject, 166, 1^. Redundant omamentt
ought to be avoided, 391. Omamants
distinguished into what are merely
such, and what have relation to use,
403. Allegorical or emblematic oma*
ments, 407.
Ossian, excels in drawing characiert,
398.
Othello, censured, 411.
Ovid, censured, 160.
Paeon, 324. -
Pain, cessation of pain extremely j>lea>
sant, 38. Pain, voluntary ana mvo-
luntary, 62. Different eflects of pain
upon the temper, ib. Social pain lest
severe than selfish, ib. Pain of a train
of perceptions in certain circum-
stances, 155. Pain lessens by cus-
tom, 201. 467. Pain of want, 201.
Painful, emotions and passions, 58, &jt.
Painting, power of painting to move
' our passions, 54. Its power to en-
gage our belief, 57. What degree of
variety is requisite, 159. A picture
ought to be so simple as to be seen at
one view, ib. In grotesque painting
the figures ought to be small, in histo-
rical painting as great as the life, 116.
Grandeur of manner in painting, 122.
A landscape admits not variety of ex-
pression, 159. Paintino^ is an imita-
tion of nature, 247. In history-paint-
ing, the principal figure ought to be in
the best light, 405. A ^od picture
agreeable, thaieh the subject oe dis-
agreeable, 4diy Objects that stril^e
terror have a fine efect in painting,
410. Objects of horror ought not to
"' ity of action
amotions eaa
2.
P
I of its melo-
I 106.
I , . , ote.
Particles, 305., not capable of an at>
cent, 309.
Passion, no pleasure of external seaM
denominated a passion, except of see-
ing and hearing, 26. Passion distin-
^ished from emotion, 29, &c. Ob>
jects of passion, 31, 32. Passiona^
distinguished into instinctive and de-
liberative, 33. 47, 48, &c., what are
selfish, what social, S3., what dino-
Digitized
by Google
49B
INDEX.
dal, 33. Passion comnHinicated to
related objects, 42, &€., 375. 283. 295.
309. 349. 380. Generated by a com-
plex object, 45. A passion paves the
way to others of a similar tone, 46,
> 47. A passion paves the way to
others in the same tone, ib. Passion
raised by painting, 54. Passions
considei^Bd as pleasant or painful,
agreeable or disagreeable, 58, dx.
Our passions ^verned by the moral
sense, 60. Social passions more plea-
. sant and less painful than the selfish,
62. Passions are infectious, GO. 95.,
are refined or gross, 61. Their inter-
rupted existence, 63, &c. Their
^wth and decay, 64, &c. The
identity of a passion, .64. The bulk
of our passions are the affections of
love or hatred inflamed into a passion,
6b. Passions have a tendency to ex-
cess, ib. Passions swell by opposi-
tion, 65, 66. A passion sudoen in
growth is sudden in decay, 64. A
passion founded on an original pro-
pensity endures for life, 65., founded
on affection or aversion is subject to
decay, 66. A passion ceases upon
attaining its ultimate end, 66^ 67.
Coexistent passions, 67, &c. Pas-
sions similcur. and dissimilar, 68, &jc.
Fluctuation of passion, 68. 220, &c.
222. Its influence upon our percep-
tions, opinions and belief, 87, &c.,
147. 348. 359. 3(il— 363, &c Pas-
sions attractive and repulsive, 97. 213.
Prone to their gratification, 98. Pas-
sions ranked accord in;^ to their dig-
nity, 174, 17,5. Social passions of
greater dignity than selfish, 176. Ex-
ternal si^ns of passions, chap. xv.
Our passions should be governed by
reason, 223. Language of passion,
chap. xvii. A passion when immo-
derate is silent, 236. Language of
passion broken and interrupted, tb.
What passions admit of figurative
expression, 237. 335. 336. Language
proper for impetuous passion, 237.,
for melancholy, 238., tor calm emo-
tions, ib.f for turbulent passion, ib.
In certain passions the mmd is prone
to bestow sensibility upon things in-
animate, 348. 354. 357. With regard
to passion man is passive, 475. yJ'e
are conscious of passions as in the
heart, ib.
Passionate, personification, 353, &c.
Passive subject, defined, 4^.
Pathetic tragedy, 415.
Pause, pauses necessary for three differ-
pt purposes, 291. Musical pauses
- in an hexameter line, 294. Musical
pauses ovght to coiiicide with those in
the sense, 296, &c What musical
pauses are essential in English heroic
verse, 300. Rules concerning them,
300—302. Pause that includes a
couplet, 307. Pause and accent have
a mutual influence, 312, 313.
Pedestal, ought to be sparingly orna-
mented, 460.
Perceptions, more easily remembered
than ideas, 91, 92. 155. Succession
of perceptions, 19. 152. Unconnect-
ed perceptions find not easy admit-
tance to the mind, 153. 156. "Pleasure
and pain of perceptions in a train,
155, &c Perception defined, 475.,
described, 486. Original and second-
ary, 476, 477, &c. Simple and com-
plex, 476.
Period, has a fine eifect when its mem-
bers proceed in the form of an in-
creasing series, 252. In the periods ot
a discourse variety ought to be studied,
253. Different thoughts ought not to
be crowded into one period, z60. The
scene ought not to be ^shanged in a
period, 263. A period so arranged as
to express the sense clearly, seems
more musical than where the sense is
left doubtful, 273. In what part ot
the period doth a word make the
greatest figure, 277. A period ou^ht
to be closed with that word whieh
makes the greatest figure, ^78. When
there is occasion to mention many
particulars, in what order ought they
to be placed, 278, &c. A short period
is lively and familiar, a lon^ period
grave and solemn, 279. A discourse
ought not to commence with a long
period, 280.
Personification, 347, &c. Passionate
and descriptive, 353, dx.
Perspicuity, a capital requisite in wri-
ting, 25o. Perspicuity in arrange-
ment, 270.
Phantasm, 478, note.
Pharsalia, censured, 415.
Phedra, of Racine censured, 203. 240.
Picture. See Painting.
Pilaster, less beautiful than a column,
462.
Pindar, defective in order and conned
tion, 23.
Pity, defined, 30., apt to produce loTe,
47., always painful, yet always agree-
able, 60., resembles its cause, 95.
What are the proper objects for
raising pity, 417, &c
Place, explained, 486.
Plain, a large plain a beautiful object,
93.
Planetary system, its beauty, 138. 190
Digitized
by Google
INDBX.
499
•Plautas, the liberty he takes as to place
and time, 439.
Play, is a chiiin of connected facts, each
scene making a link, 431
Play of words, 189, &c. 245, &c., gone
into disrepute, 190. Comparisons
that resolve into a play of words,
343, &c.
Pleasant' emotions and passions, 59,
&c. Social passions more pleasant
than the selfish, 176. Pleasant pain
explained, 69.
Pleasure, pleasures of seein? and hear-
ing distinguished from those of the
other senses, 11, &c., pleasure of or-
der, 22, &c., of connection, 22. Plea-
sures of taste, touch, and smell, not
termed emHions or passions^ 26.
Pleasure of a reverie, 53. 156. Plea-
sures refined and gross, 62. Pleasure
of a train of perceptions in certain
circumstances, 155, &c. Corporeal
pleasure low, and sometimes mean,
174. Pleasures of the eye and ear
never low or mean, ib. Pleasures of
the understanding are high in point of
dignity, 175. Custom augments mo-
derate pleasures, but diminishes those
that are intense, 201. Some pleasures
felt internally, some externally, 481.
Poet, the chief talent of a poet who
deals in the pathetic, 205.
Poetical flights, in what state of mind
they are most relished, 335.
Poetry, grandeur of manner in poetry,
119, dSj. How far variety is proper,
■ 159. Objects that strike terror have a
fine eiFect in it, 410. Objects of hor-
ror ought to be banished from it, 411.
Poetry has power over all the human
afiections, 442. The most successful
in describing objects of sight, 486.
Polite behaviour, 62.
Polygon, regular its beauty, 106.
Polysyllables, how far agreeable to the
ear, 253., seldom have place in the
construction of English verse, 299.
311.
Pompe^, of Comeille censured, 225.
331, 232.
Poor, habit puts them on a level with
the rich, 201, 202.
Pope, excels in the variety of his melo-
c^;, 307., censured, 338. 344. 400.
His style compared with that of
Swift, 404.
Posture, constrained posture disagree-
able to the spectator, 95.
Power of abstraction, 485, 486., its use,
387.
Prepositions explained, 270.
■Pride, how erenerated, 64., why it is
perpetual, 66. incites us to ridicule
the blunders and abenidities of others,
169., a pleasant passion, 109, 170..
considered with respect to di&rnity and
meanness, 175. Its external expres-
sions or sighs disagreeable, 210.
Primary, aiKi secondary qualities of
matter, 107. Primary and secondary
relations, 165, note.
Principle of order, 22., of morality,
28. 40. 168, &c., of self-preservation,
47., of selfishness, 97., of benevo-
lence, ib.j &c., of punishment, 100.
169. Principle that makes us fond ot
esteem, 100. 118., of curiosity. 131.
' 139., of habit, 200, 201. Principle that
makes us wish others to be of our
opinion, 468, 469. Principle de-
fined, 483., Sometimes so enlivened as
to become an emotion, 40. See Pro-
pensity.
Pnnciples of the fine arts, 14.
Proceleusmaticus, 324.
Prodigies, find ready credit with tha
vulgar, 88.
Prologue, of the ancient tragedy, 433.
Pronoun, defined, 274.
Pronunciation, rules for it, 283, dec,
287., distinguished from singing, 287.
Singing aiKJ pronouncing cx)mpared,
288.
Propensity, sometimes so enlivened as
to become an emotion, 40. 65., op-
posed to affection, 67. Opinion and
nelief influenced by it, 88. Propen-
sity to iustify our passions and ac-
tions, 83. Propensity to punish guilt
and reward virtue, 100, &c. Pro-'
pensity to carry alon? the good or bad
properties of one subject to another,
42. 95. 103. 247. 275. 283. 295. 309.
366. 380. Propensity to complete
every work that is begun, and to carry
things to perfection, 146. 461. Pro-
pensity to communicate to others every
thing Uiat affects us, 235. Propensity
to place to&;ether thin^ mutually con-
nected, 283. Propensity defined, 483.
See Principle.
Properties, transferred from one subject
to another, 42. % 103. 247. 275. 283.
295. 309. 366. 380. ,
Property, the affecti»»P man bears to hit
property, 43. A rerondary, relation ,
Prophecy, those who believe in prophe-
cies wish the accomplishment, 101.
Propriety, ch. x., a secondary relation
1d5., TMte.y distinguished from con*
gruity, 166., distinguished from pib*
portion, 170. Propriety in buildingt^
Proportion, contributes to grandeuTi
ill., distinguished from propriety.
Digitized by V^OOglC
bOO
mDEX.
1*70. As to quantity coincides with
ivngraity, th.^ exanuned as applied
to architectttre, 454. Proportion de-
fined, 482.
Prose, distinguished from verse, 989, Ac
Prospect, an unbounded prospect dis-
agreeable, 146., noU. By what means
a prospect may be improved, 446.
Provoked Husband, censured, 426.
Pun, defined, 191.
Punishment, in the place where the
crime was committed, 148. Punish-
ment of impropriety. 169, &c.
Public games, of the (ireeks, 199.
Phyrrhichus, 323.
€tualities, primary and secondary, 107.
A qudity cannot be conceived inde-
pendent of the subject to which it be-
longs, 269. Different qualities per-
ceived b^ different senses, 474, 4751
Communicated to related objects.
See Propensity.
€tuantit^, with respect to melody, 291.
Ctuancity n^ith respect to English
verscj 298. False quantity, 299.
Gtuintilian, censured, o62.
€tuintu8 Curtius, censured, 222.
Racine, criticised, 240. Censured, 243.
Rape of the Lock, characterized, 179.
Its verse admirable, 292.
Reading, chief talent of a fine reader,
905. Plaintive passions require a
slow pronunciation, 219, note. Rules
for reading, 286, Ac., compared with
singing, ^7.
Reality, of external objects, 51.
Reaion, reasons to justify a favourite
opinion are always ' at hand, and
much relished, 83.
Recitative, 290.
Refined pleasure, 61.
Regularity, not so essential in great ob-
jects as in small. 111., not in a small
work BO. much as in one that is ex-
tensive, ib. How far to be studied in
architecture, 442. 445. 454. How far
to be studied in a garden, 443, 444.
Regular line defined, 481. Regulfu-
• figure defined, 481. Regularity pro-
per and figurative, 482.
Relations, 19. Have an influence in
generating emotions and passions, 42.
ac. Are the foundation of congruity
and propriety, 165. Primary and
Secondary relations, ib. note. In what
manner are relations expressed in
words, 966, &c. The effect that even
the slis;hter relations have on the
mind, 449.
Relative beauty^ 103. 449.
Remorse, angmsh of remorse, 95., its^
gratification, 99. Punishment pro-
vided by nature for injustice, 178.^
is not mean, 175.
Repartee, 192.
Rq)etitions, 406.
Representation, its perfection lies ia
hiding itself and producing an im-
pression of reality, 435.
Repulsive, object, 97. Rq>ulsive pas-
sions, 97. 213.
Resemblance, and dissimilitude, ch. riii.
Resemblance in a series of ol]jects,
252. The members of a sentence sig-
nifying a resemblance betwixt objects
ought to resemble each other, 261, &c.
Resemblance betwixt sound and ng>
nification, 982 — ^284. No resemblance
betwixt objects of different senses,
983. Resembling causes may pro-
duce effects that have no resemblaBoe,
and causes that have no resemUanoe
may produce resembling effects, ib.^
Ac The faintest resemblance be-
twixt sound and signification gives
the greatest pleasure, 984, &c Re-
semblance carried too far in some
gardens, 445, note.
Resentment, explained, 48, &c. Dis-
agreeable in excess, 61. Extended
against relations of the offender, 85.
Its gratification, 99. When immo-
derate is silent, 936.
Rest, neither agreeable nor disagreeable,
197., explained, 243.
Revenge, animates but doth not elevate
the mind, 118. Has no dignity in it,
175. When immoderate is silent,
236., improper, but not mean, 174.
Reverie, cause of the pleasure we hare
in it, 53. 156.
Rhyme, for what subjects it is oroper,
322, &c. Melody of rhyme, 322.
Rhythmus^ defined, 290.
Rich and poor put upon a level by hs-
bit,901,909.
Riches, love of, corrupts the taste, 472.
Riddle, 447.
Ridicule, a gross pleasure, 62. Is losing
ground in England, ib. Enft>tionot
ridicule, 138. Not concordant witk
grandeur, 150. Ridicule, 169, ch.
xii. Whether it be a test of tmthi
183.
Ridiculous, distinguished from risible,
Right and wrong as to actions, 98.
Risible objects, ch. viL Risible distin-
guished from ridiculous, 138.
Room, its form, 453.
Rubens, censured, 376.
Ruin, ought not to be seen firom a flawii^
parterre. 444. In what fona it om^
to be, 448.
Digitized
by Google
INDEX.
501,
SaBust, censured for want of connec-
tion, 24.
Sapphic verse, has a very agreeable
modulation, 290.
Savage, knows little of social aiTec-
tion, 62.
Scorn, 169. 179.
Sculpture, imitates nature, 247. W|iat
emotions can be raised by it, 442.
Seechia Rapita^ characterized, 179.
Secondary qualities of matter, 107, &c.
Secondary relations, 165, note.
Seeing, in seeing we feel no impression,
476. Objects of sight are all of them
complex, 479.
Self-deceit, 83. 230.
Selfish, passions, 32, 33. Are pleasant,
61. Less refined and less pleasant
than .the social, 62. The pain of self-
ish passions more severe than of so-
cial passions, ib. Inferior in dignity
to the. social, 176. A selfish emotion
arising from a social principle, 32. A
selfish motive arising from a social
pinciple, 32., 7utte.
Selfishness, promoted by luxury, 471.,
and also by love of riches, 472.
Self-love, its prevalence accounted for,
34. In excess disagreeable, 60. Not
inconsistent with benevolence, 97.
Semipause, in an hexameter line, 294.
Wnat semipauses are found in an
English heroic line, 309.
Sensation, defined, 475., described, 479.
Sense, of order, ^, &c., contributes to
generate emotions, 43, Twte.^ and pas-
sions, 45. Sense of right and wrong,
28. The veracity of our senses, 51.
477, note. Sense of con^uity or pro-
priety, 165., of the dignity of human
nature, 173. 469. Sense of ridicule,
179. Sense by which we discover a
passioii from its external si^ns, 211.
Sense of a common nature m every
species of beings, 60. 467. Sense, in-
ternal and external, 474. .In touch-
ing, tasting, and smelling, we feel the
impression at the organ of sense, not
in seeing ^nd hearing, 476.
Senses, whether active or passive, 488.
Sentence, it detracts from neatness to
vary the scene in the same sentence,
263. A sentence so arranged as to
express the sense clearly, seems al-
ways more musical than where the
sense is left in any degree doubtful,
273.
Sentiment, elevated, low, 115. Senti-
ments, ch. XYL, Qught to be suited
to the passion, 216. Sentiments ex-
pressing swelling of passion, .219.,
expressing the dinerent stages of pas-
sion, 220., dictated by coexistent pas-
sions, 221. Sentiments c
sions are hid or dissembled. 222.^
timenis above the tone of the passion,
223., below the tone of the passion,
225. Sentiments too gay for a seri-
ous passion, ib., too artificial for a
serious passion, ib., fanciful or finical,
226., discordant with character, 227.,
misplaced, 229. Immoral sentiments
expressed without disguise, 230— 233.,
unnatural, 233. Sentiments both in
dramatic and epic compositions ou^t
to be subservient to tne action, 420.
Sentiment defined, 480.
Sentimental music, 74, note.
Series, from small to great agreeable,
114. Ascending series, ib. Descend-
ing series, ib. The effect of a num-
ber of objects placed in an increasing
or decreasing series, 252.
Serpentine river, its beauty, 128. 450.
Sertorius, of Comeille censured, 220.
Shaft of a column, 462. ,
Shakspeare, his sentiments just repre-
sentations of nature, 2l8., is superior
to all otlier writers in delineating pas-
sions and sentiments, 239, 240., ex-
cels in the knowledge of human na-
ture, 240, Tiote., deals little in inver-
sion, 317., excels in drawing charac-
ters, 397., his style in what respect
excellent, 404., his dialogue finely
conducted, .427., deals not in barren
scenes, 431.
Shame, arising from affection or aver-
sion, 65., is not mean, 175.
Sight, influenced by passion, 93. 146.
Similar emotions, 68., their effects when
coexistent, 69. 457.
Similar passions, 68, &c. Effects f f co-
existent similar passions, 71.
Simple perception, 480.
Simplicity, taste for simplicity has pro-
duced many Utopian systems of hu-
man nature, 27. Beauty of simpli-
city, 104., abandoned in the fine arts,
107., a great beauty in tragedy, 425.,
ought to be the governing taste in gar-
dening and architecture, 443.
Singing, distinguished from pronoun-
cing or reading, 287. Singing and
pronouncing compared, 288.
Situation, different situations i^ited to
different buildings, 458.
Sky, the relish of it lost by familiarity,
Smelling, in smelling we feel an impres-
sion upon the organ of sense, 11. 476.
Smoke, tne pleasure of ascending smoke
accounted for, 128.
Social passions, 32., more refined and
more pleasant than the selfish, 62.
* The pain of social passions more mild
Digitized
by Google
5fl2
IKDEX.
diaii of selfiah passions, ib. Social
passions are of greater dignity, 176.
Society, advantages of, 101.
Soliloquy, has a foundation in nature,
342. Soliloquies, 341, &c.
Sophocles, generally correct in the dra-
matic rules, 438.
Sounds, Dower of sounds to raise emo-
tions, te, 36.J concordant, 68., dis-
cordant, W.J disagreeable sounds^ 74.,
fit for accompanying certain passions,^
74, 75. Sounds produce emotions
that resemble them, 94., articulate how
for agreeable to the ear, 24&— 250. A
smooth sound soothes the mind, and a
rough sound animates, 251. A con-
tinued sound tends to lay us asleep, an
interrupted sound rouses and ani-
mates, 265.
Space, naturd computation of space,
92, &c. Space explained, 485, 486.
Species, defined, 485.
Specific habit, defined, 196.
Speech, power of 8t)eech to raise emo-
tions, whence derived, 53. 56.
Spondee, 293, 294. 323.
Square, its beauty, 106. 160.
Stairs, their proportion, 453.
Standard of taste, ch. xzv. Standard
of morals, 468— 471.
Star, in gardening, 445.
Statue, Sit reason why a statue is not
coloured, 149. The limbs of a statue
ought to be contrasted, 159. An^
eouestrian statue is placed in a centre
or streets, that it may be seen from
many places at once, 405. Statues
for adorning a building, where to be
placed, 459, 460. Statue of an animal
pouring out water, 448., of a water-
ffod pouring water out of his urn,
465. Statues of animals employed
as supports condemned, ib. Naked
statues condemned, 457, note.
Steeple, ought to be pyramidal, 159.
Strada, censured, 392.
Style, natural and inverted, 270, Ac.
The beauties of a natural style, 281.,
of an inverted style, ib. Concise
style a great ornament, 406.
Subject, may be conceived independent
of any particular quality, 269. Sub-
ject with respect to its qualities, 474.
486. Subject defined, 488.
Sublimity, ch. iv. Sublime in poetry,
1 15. General terms oug[ht to be avoid-
ed where sublimity is intended, 122.
Sublimity may be employed indirectly
to sink the mind, 124. False sub-
lime, 125.
CKibmission, natural foundation of sub-
mission to government, 100, dec.
Substance, defined, 475.
Substratum, defined, 475.
Succession, of nercepUons and idt&S|
19. 152, &c. In a craick succession (Of
the most beautiful objects we are
scarce sensible of any emotion, 53.
Succession of syllaUes in a word,
249., of objects, 252.
Superlatives, inferior writers deal in so^
perlatives, 367.
Surprise, the essence of wit, 21. 185.
Instantaneous, 64, 65. 186., deoajTS
suddenly, 65. 186., pleasant or painnil
according to circumstances, lo3, &<e.
Surprise the cause of contrast, 144.,
has an influence upon our opinions,
and even upon our eye-sif ht, 147.
Surprise a suent passion, 236. studi-
ed in Chinese gardens, 451.
Suspense, an uneasy state, 90.
Sweet distress, explained, 68.
Swift, his languase always suited to
his subject, 403., has a peculiar energy
of style. 404., compared with Pope, ib.
Syllable, 248, &c. Syllables considered
as composing words, 249. Syllables
lone and short, 250. 292. Manysyl-
labies in English are arbitrary, 298.
Sympathy, sympathetic emotion of vir-
tue, 40, &c. The pain of sympathy
is voluntary, 62. It improves the tem-
per, ib.
Sympathy, 98., attractive, 93. 212., ne-
ver low nor mean, 174., the cement
of society, 212.
Synthetic, and anal3rtic methods of rea-
soning compared, 22.
Tacitus, excels in drawing characters,
397., his style comprehensive, 407.
Tasso, censured, 422. 424.
Taste, in tasting we feel an impression
upon the organ of sense, 11. 476.
Taste in the fine arts though natural
requires culture, 13. 472, note. Taste
in the fine arts compared with the
moral sense, 13., its advantages, 14,
15. Delicacy of taste, 61. 472., a low
taste, 115. Taste in some measure
influenced by reflection, 462, nak.
The foundation of a right and wrong
in taste, 466. Taste in the fine avtt
as well as in morals corrupted by vo-
luptuousness, 471., corrupted by love
of riches, 473. Taste never naturally
bad or wrong, 473. Aberrations firom
a tioe taste in the fine arts, 476.
Tautology, a blemish in writing, 407,
Telema(3ius, an epic poem, 414, note.
Censured, 425, nfte.
Temples, of ancient and modem virtue
in the gardens of Stow, 464.
Terence, censured, 5^2. 439.
Terror, arises sometimes to itsutmesft
Digitized
by Google
mDEX.
500
height instimtaneoiidYj 64, &e., a si-
lont passion, 336. Objects that strike
terror have a fine effect in poetry and
painting, 410. The terror raised by
tragedy explained, 418.
Theorem, general theorems agreeable,
Time, past time expressed as present,
55, &c. Natural computation of time,
89, &c. Time explained, 485.
Titus Livius. See Livy.
Tone, of mind, 475.
Touch, in touching we feel an impres-
sion upon the organ of sense^ 11. 476.
Trachiniens, of Sophocles cen8ured,438.
Tragedy, the deepest tragedies are the
most crowded, 213, note. The later
English tragedies censured, 817.
French tragedy censured, 219, note.^
23Q. The Gh^k tragedy accompa-
nied with musical notes to ascertain
the pronunciation, 289. Tra^y,
ch. xxii., in what respect it differs
from an epic poem^ 414, dx., distin-
^ished into pathetic and moral, 415.,
Its good effects, 416., compared with
the epic as to Uie subjects proper for
«ach, 416, 417., how far it may bor-
row from history, 419., rule for di-
viding it into acts, 420, 421., double
plot in it, 425., admits not violent ac-
tion or supernatural events, 426., its
origin, 432. Ancient tracedy a con-
tinued representation without inter-
ruption, 433. Constitution of the
modern drama, 434.
Tragi-comedy, ^.
Trees, the best manner of placing them,
445,446.
Triangle, equilateral, its beauty, 106.
Tibrachys, 323.
Trochsus, 323.
Tropes, ch. xx.
Ugliness, proper and fi^-urative, 482.
Unbounded prospect disagreeable, 146,
note.
Uniformity of the operations of nature,
161, &c. Uniformity- apt to disgust
by excess, 106. Unifortnity and va-
riety, ch. ix., conspicuous in the
works of nature, 163. The melody
of the verse ought to be uniform
where the thincs described ace uni-
form, 308. Uniformity defined, 481.
Unity, the three unities, ch. xxiii., of
actions, 430, &c. Unity of action in
time ought to be strictly observed in
each act of a modern play, 434, dee.
Wherein the unity of a garden con-
sists, 444.
Unumquodque eodem modo dissolviim
quo coUigatwn est^ 147.
Vanity, a disagreeable passion, 61., al-
ways appears ihean, 175.
Variety, distinguished from novelty, 134.
Vanety, ch. ix. Variety in pictUMS,
159., conspicuous in the worics of na-
ture, 163., in gardening, 450.
Veracity of our senses, 51.
Verb, active and passive, 266, 267.
Verbal antithesis, defined, 190. 259.
Versailles, gardens of, 447.
Verse, distinguished from prose, 289
Sapphic verse extremely melodious,
290. Iambic less so, ib. Structure of
an hexameter line, 292, &c. Struc-
ture of English heroic verse, 298,
note., 308. &c. 318.. English mono-
Srllables arbitrary as to quantity, 296.
nglish heroic lines distinguished into
four sorts, 300. 311., they have a due
mixture of unifoi'mity and variety,
315. English rhyme compared with
blank verse, 316. Rules tor compo-
sing each,^ 316, &c. Latin hexameter
compared with English rhyme, 318., ^
compared with blank verse, ib.
French heroic verse compared with
hexameter and rhyme, ib. The En-
glish language incapable of the melo-
dy of hexameter verse, 319. For
what' subject is rhyme proper, 320,
&c. Melody of rhyme, ib. Rhyme
necessary to French verse, 322. Me-
lody of verse is so enchanting as to
draw a veil over gross imperfections,
323. Verses composed in the shape
of an axe or an tgz, 447.
Violent action, oufht to be excluded
from the stage, 426.
Virgil, censured for want of connection,
24., his verse extremely melodious,
296., his versification criticised, 308.,
censured, 323. 399. 402. 408. 411,
412. 423.
Virgil travestiej characterised, 179.
Virtue, the pleasures of virtue never da-
cay, 40.
Vision, the largest and smallest angle ot
vision, 92. 93.
Voltaire, censured, 395. 419. 422. 434.
Voluntaiy signs of passion, 205, 206.
a picture, 431., of time 'and of place, bVoluptuousness lends to vitiate ovr
4^, &c. Unities of time aftd of place
not required in an epic poem, ib.
Strictly observed in the Qjpek tra-
^y, ib. Unity of place rT the an-
cient drama, ib. Umties of place and
taste, 471, 472.
Vowels, 248, 249.
Walk, in a garden, whether it ougbC
to be straight or waving, 448. Am-
Digitized
by Google
8M
INDEX.
£cial walk elevated above the plain,
448.
Wall, that is not perpendicular occa-
sions an uneasy neline, 94.
WatertaU, 94. 1^.
Water-god, statue ot, pouring out wa-
Wa^r of the world, censured, 431., the
unities of place and time strictly ob-
served in it, 440.
Will, how far our train of perceptions
can be regulated by it, 90. 154—156.,
determined by desire, 96.
Windows, their proportion, 452., double
row, 459.
Winter gwden^ 449.
Wish, distinguished from desire, 30.
Wit, defined, 21. 183., seldom united
with judgment, 21., but generally
with memory, tb.jDOt concordant with
grandeur, 150. Wit, ch. xiii. Wit
m sounds, 192. Wit in architecture,
464.
Wonder, instantaneous, 64 , decays sud-
denly, ib. Wonders and prodigies
find ready credit with the vulvar, 88.
Wonder defined, 131., studied m Chi-
nese gardens, 451.
Woids, rules for coining words, 33,
note. Play of words, ,189. 345, Ac
Jingle of words, 246. Words consi-
dered with respect to their sound, 960.
Words of different languages cook!'
pared, 250, Ac. What are their best
arrangement in a period, 252. A con-
junction or disjunction in the mem-
oers of the thought ought to be imi-
tated in the expression, 259, 261, dx.
Words expressing things connected
ought to beplaced as near together as
possible, 27a, &c. In ii hat part of a
sentence doth a word make the great-
est ^ figure, 277. Words acCRir^ a
beauty firom their meaning, 282. 380.
Some words make an impression re-
sembling that of their meaning, 982.
The words ought to accord with the
sentiment, 215. 237, 238. 247. 283.
403. A word is often redoubled to
add force to the expression, 238. 405k
See Language.
Writing, a subject intended for aipuse-
ment may be nigfaly ornamented, 167.
A i^rand subject appears best in a
plam dress, ib.
Youth, requires more variety of amuso*
ment than old age, 152^
Digitized
by Google
I9I.«
IT mi
Digitized
by Google
Digitized
by Google
^
KAMES, Henry Home, lord.
Elements of criticism.
PN
81
.K3
I81t2
Digitized by
Digitized
by Google
Live Music Archive
Librivox Free Audio
Metropolitan Museum
Cleveland Museum of Art
Internet Arcade
Console Living Room
Books to Borrow
Open Library
TV News
Understanding 9/11