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if;  If 


LfBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO       . 


rf 


\tL  lib 


ELEMENTS 


Of 


CRITICISM. 


HENRY  HOME  OF  KAMES, 

om  or  no  lokm  commbsiokkbs  op  jiTtnctixT  nr  uoonhun. 


BEVISKD,   WITH  OMIBSIOKS,  ADDITIONS,   LSJ>  A  KEW  ANALYSUL 


BY  KEY.  JAMES  R.  BOYD, 

Aonos  or  rnxxiosm  or  hhetokio,  xoixcno  icokal  nmotormtf 

XOITOB  or  KKOUSB  POKIt  WITK  K^>m,  R«L 


NEW    YORK: 
A.  S.  BARNES  &  BURR,  51  &  58  JOHN  STREET. 

■OLD  BT  BOOKSKLUUS,  azHUAIXT,  THXOUOKOirr  THX  TmiTKD  WXTtM. 

1865. 


Digitized  by  tlie  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2007  witli  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/elementscriticisOOI<ameiala 


CONTENTS. 


iHTBODnonOK— 

Terms  defined  or  explained * 

The  Nature,  Design,  and  Utility  of  the  present  work 23 

Chap.  I.  Perceptions  and  Ideas  in  a  train 29 

"    II.  Emotions  and  Passions ** 

Past  I.   Causes  unfolded  of  the  Emotions  and  Passions : 
Sect.  1.  Difference  between  Emotion  and  Passion.— Causes 
that  are  the  most  common  an  J  the  most  general. — 

Passion  considered  as  productive  of  Action 85 

"    2.   Power  of  Sounds  to  raise  Emotions  and  Passions ....    4r» 

"    8.  Causesof  the  Emotions  of  Joy  and  Sorrow 47 

*    4.   Sympathetic  Emotion  of  Virtue,  and  its  cause 49 

"    5.  In  many  instances  one  Emotion  is  productive  of  an- 
other.—The  same  of  Passions  52 

««    «.  Causes  of  the  Passions  of  Fear  and  Anger 5'J 

♦'    7.  Emotions  caused  by  Fiction - 6* 

Pixt  II.  Emotions  and  Passions  as  pleasant  and  piunful,  agree- 
able and  disagreeable.— Modification  of  these  quali- 


ties 


71 


"  III.   Interrupted  Existence  of  Emotions  and  Passions.— 

Their  Growth  and  Decay 76 

"   IV.  Coexistent  Emotions  and  Passions 81 

•*     V.  Influence  of  Passion  with  respect  to  our  Perceptions, 

Opinions,  and  Belief 8^ 

Appmdix.   Methods  that  Nature  hath  aflforded  for  computing 

Time •* 

Pabt  VI.  Besemblance  of  Emotions  to  their  Causes 100 

"    VII.  Final  Causes  of  the  more  frequent  Emotions  and 

Passions ^^2 


Chat.  III.  Beauty 


108 


Part  II.  Theory  of  the  Beautiful 118 

IV.   Grandeur  and  Sublimity !*• 

V.  Motion  and  Force • 1** 

VI.  Novelty,  and  the  unexpected  appearance  of  Objecta 152 

VII.   Kisible  Objects 158 

VIII.  Besemblance  and  Dissimilitude 160 

IX.   Uniformity  and  Variety • 1^ 

Appendix.    Concerning  the  works  of  Nature,  chiefly  with  re- 
spect to  Uniformity  and  Variety  180 

X.  Congruity  and  Propriety •  1®* 

XL  Dignily  and  Graoe I** 


10  INTKODUCrnON. 

ing,  resolutiofl,  willing,  consenting,  which  are  internal  actions. 
Passions  and  emotions,  which  are  internal  agitations,  are  also  attri- 
butes. 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  head :  of 
passions  and  emctions  as  in  the  heart. 

8.  Many  actions  may  be  exerted  internally,  and  many  eft'ects 
produced  of  which  we  are  unconscious :  Avhen  we  investigate  the 
ultimate  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  uncon- 
scious of  the  operations  of  that  power.  But  consciousness  being 
implied  in  the  very  meaning  of  deliberating,  reasoning,  resolving, 
willing,  consenting,  such  operations  cannot  escape  our  knowledge. 
The  same  is  the  case  of  passions  and  emotions;  for  no  intei'nal 
agitation  is  denominated  a  passion  or  emotion,  but  what  we  are  con- 
scious of. 

9.  The  mind  is  not  always  the  same ;  by  turns  it  is  cheerful, 
melancholy,  calm,  peevish,  <fec.  These  differences  may  not  impro- 
perly be  denominated  to7ies. 

10.  Perception  and  sensation  are  commonly  reckoned  synony- 
mous terms,  signifying  that  internal  act  by  which  external  objects 
are  made  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  animal,  a  certain  color,  sound,  taste, 
emell,  <kc.  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  aiising  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  sen- 
sation, it  is  directed  to  the  pleasure  or  pain  I  feel. 

The  tenns  percq}tion  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  tenn  for  every  pleasure  and  pain  felt  at  the  organ 
of  sense. 

11.  Conception  is  different  from  perception.  The  latter  includes 
a  conviction  of  the  reality  of  its  object ;  the  former  does  not ;  for 
I  can  conceive  the  most  extravagant  stories  told  in  a  romance,  with- 
out having  any  conviction  of  their  reality.  Conception  differs  also 
from  imagination.  By  the  power  of  fancy  I  can  imagine  a  golden 
mountain,  or  an  ebony  ship  with  sails  and  ropes  of  silk.  When  I 
describe  a  picture  of  that  kind  to  anothei",  the  idea  he  forms  of  it  is 
termegl  -i  conception.     Imagination  is  active,  (conception  is  passive. 


ikte'odtjctioh.  1^ 


12.  Feeling,  besides  denoting  one  of  the  external  sens^  is  a 
general  term,  sifjnifying  that  internal  act  by  which  we  are  made 
conscious  of  our  pleasures  and  our  pains;  for  it  is  not  limited,  as  sensa- 
tion is,  to  any  one  sort.  Thus  feeling  being  the  genus  of  which  sen- 
sation  is  a  species,  their  meaning  is  the  same  when  applied  to  pleasure 
and  pain  felt  at  the  organ  of  sense  :  and  accordingly  we  say  indit- 
ferently,  "I  feel  pleasure  from  heat,  and  pain  from  cold,  or,  -1 
have  a  sensation  of  pleasure  from  heat,  and  of  pain  from  co^d. 
But  the  meaning  of  feeling,  as  is  said,  is  much  more  extensivo.  It 
is  proper  to  say,  I  feel  pleasure  in  a  sumptuous  buildmg,  in  love,  in 
friendship ;  and  pain  in  losing  a  child,  in  revenge,  m  envy:  sensa- 
tion is  not  properly  applied  to  any  of  these. 

The  term  feeling  is  frequently  used  in  a  less  proper  sense,  to 
sicrnify  what  we  feel  or  are  conscious  of:  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  impres- 
sion is  made  upon  our  body,  is  probable  fi-om  reason,  and  is  ascer- 
tained 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  heanng. 
We  know  indeed  from  experiments,  that  before  we  perceive  a  visible 
object,  its  image  is  spread  upon  the  retina  tunica  ;  and  that  betore 
we  perceive  a  sound,  an  impression  is  made  upon  the  drum  of  the 
"  ear  -but  we  are  not  conscious  either  of  the  organic  image  or  ot  the 
or^ranic  impression ;  nor  are  we  conscious  of  any  other  operation 
preparatoiy  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  mina  oy 
ihe  power  of  memory.  When  I  recall  an  object  of  sight  in  that 
manner,  it  appears  to  me  precisely  the  same  as  in  the  original  sur- 
vey, only  less  distinct.  Fof  example,  having  seen  yesterday  a 
spreading  oak  growing  on  the  brink  of  a  river,  I  endeavor  to  recall 
these  objects  to  my  mind.  How  is  this  operation  performed  ?  Do 
I  endeavor  to  form  in  my  mind  a  picture  of  them,  or  a  representative 
mage  ?  Not  so.  I  transport  myself  ideally  to  the  place  where  1 
iaw  the  tree  and  river  yesterday:  upon  which  I  have  a  perception 
of  these  objects  similar  in  all  respects  to  the  perception  I  had  when 
L  viewed  them  with  my  eyes,  only  less  distinct.  And  in  this  re- 
collection, I  am  not  conscious  of  a  picture  or  representative  image, 
more  than^in  the  original  survey;  the  perception  is  of  the  tree  and 

♦  Yet  a  Pingnlar  opinion  that  impressions  are  the  only  o^J««ts  of  perception, 
has  been  espoused  fey  some  philosophers  of  no  '"^an  rank ;  not  attending  to 
the  foregoing  peculiarity  in  the  senses  of  seeing. and  hearing,  that^^e  per 
ceive  objects  without  being  conscious  of  an  organic  ""P^^^  ?"'  Lthr.lund 
pression  [except  in  cases  where  the  object  of  siglit  is  very  brilliant,  or  the  sound 
«xce«.«lToly  lond  and  gtnting]. 


12  INTEODUCnON, 

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  bu* 
that  it  is  less  distinct  than  formerly.*  This  indistinct  secondary 
perception  of  an  object,  is  termed  an  idea.    And  therefore  the  precise 


*  This  experiment,  which  every  one  may  reiterate  till  entire  satisfaction  be 
obtaiued,  is  of  greater  imporUince  than  at  first  view  may  appear ;  for  it  strikes 
at  the  root  of  a  celebrated  doctrine,  which  for  more  than  two  thousand  years 
has  misled  many  philosophers.  This  doctrine,  as  delivered  by  Aristotle,  is  in 
substance,  "That  of  every  object  of  thought  tnere  must  be  in  the  mind  some 
form,  nhantasm,  or  species ;  that  things  sensible  are  perceived  and  remem- 
bered by  means  of  sensible  phantasms,  and  things  intelligible  by  intelligible 
pliauiaiims  ;  and  that  these  phantasms  have  the  form  of  the  object  without  the 
matter,  as  the  impression  of  a  seal  upon  wax  has  the  form  of  a  seal  without 
its  nui-Uer."  The  followers  of  Aristotle  add,  "That  the  sensible  and  intelligi- 
ble forms  of  thinM,  are  sent  forth  from  the  things  themselves,  and  make  im- 
ptessions  upon  the  passive  intellect,  which  impressions  are  perceived  by  the 
active  intellect."  This  notion  differs  very  little  from  that  of  Epicurus,  which 
is,  "Tiiat  all  things  send  forth  constantly  and  in  every  direction,  slender 
ghosts  or  films  of  themselves  {tenu'ui  simulacra,  as  expressed  by  his  commen- 
tator Lucretius);  which  striking  upon  the  mind,  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 
image  either  in  tlie  brain  or  in  the  mind :  and  these  images  he  terms  ideas 
According  to  these  philosophers,  we  perceive  nothing  immediately  but  phan 
tasms  or  ideas  ;  and  from  these  we  mfer,  by  reasoning,  the  existence  of  ex 
terual  objects.  Locke,  adopting  this  doctrine,  employs  almost  the  whole  o 
his  book  about  ideas.  He  holds,  that  we  cannot  perceive,  remember,  noj 
imagine  any  thing,  but  by  having  an  idea  or  image  of  it  in  the  mind.  lit 
agrees  with  Des  Cartes,  that  we  can  have  no  knowledge  of  things  external, 
but  what  we  acquire  by  reasoning  upon  their  ideas  or  images  in  the  mind; 
taking  it  for  granted,  that  we  are  conscious  of  tliese  ideas  or  images,  and  oi 
nothing  else.  Those  who  talk  the  most  iiitolligihly  explain  the  doctrine  thus  ; 
When  1  seein  a  mirror  a  man  standing  behind  me,  the  immediate  object  of  my 
sight  is  his  image,  without  wliich  I  could  not  see  him  :  in  like  manner,  when  I 
see  a  tree  or  a  house,  there  mus^  be  an  image  of  these  objects  in  my  brain  or  it 
my  mind:  which  image  is  the  laimediate  object  of  my  perception;  and  by 
means  of  that  image  I  perceive  the  external  oijject. 

One  would  not  readily  suspect  any  harm  in  this  ideal  system,  other  than  the 
leading  us  into  u  labyrinth  of  metaphysical  errors,  in  order  to  account  for  our 
knowledge  of  external  objects,  which  is  inorQ,truIy  and  more  simplv  accounted 
for  hy  direct  perception.  And  yet  some  late  writers  have  been  able  to  extract 
from  it  death  and  destruction  to  the  whole  world,  levelling  all  down  to  a  mero 
chaos  of  ideas.  Dr.  Berkeley,  upon  authority  of  the  philosophers  named, 
taking  for  granted  that  we  Ciinnot  perceive  any  object  but  what  is  in  the  mind, 
discovered  tiiat  the  reasoning  emploved  by  Des  Cartes  and  Locke  to  infer  the 
uxistence  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  Berkeley's  arguments  might  with  equal  success  be 
•pplied  against  immaterial  beings,  ventures  still  more  boldly  to  reject  by  the 
lump  the  immaterial  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 
system,  it  might  have  been  expected,  that  no  man  who  is  not  crazy  would  have 
ventured  to  erect  such  a  superstructure,  till  he  should  first  be  certain  beyond 
all  doubt  of  a  solid  foundation.  And  yet  upon  inquiry,  we  find  the  founda- 
tion of  this  terrible  doctrine  to  be  no  better  than  a  shallow  metaphysical  argu- 
meat,  narmly,  "  That  no  beiaj  can  act  but  where  It  u ;  aud  oojwequontly,  that 


INTRODUOTIOW. 


la 


and  accurate  definition  of  an  idea,  in  contradistinction  to  an  origi- 
nal perception,  is,  "That  perception  of  a  real  object  which  is  raised 
in  the  mind  by  the  power  of  memory."  Every  thing  we  have  any 
knowledge  of,  whether  internal  or  external,  passions,  emotions,  think- 
ing, resolving,  willing,  heat,  cold,  &c.,  as  well  as  external  objects, 
may  be  recalled  as  above  by  the  power  of  memory  * 

It  cannot  aa  upon  any  subject  at  a  distance."    This  argument  possesses  indeed 
one  eminent  advantage,  that  its  obscurity,  lilce  that  of  an  oracle,  is  apt  to  im- 
pose upon  the  reader,  who  is  willing  to  consider  it  as  a  demonstnition,  because 
he  docs  not  clearly  see  the  fallacy.    The  best  way  to  give  it  a  ftur  trial,  is  to 
draw  it  out  of  its  obscurity,  and  to  state  it  in  a  clear  light,  as  follows:      sso 
Bubject  can  bo  perceived  unless  it  act  upon  the  mind,  but  no  distapt  subjeci 
can" act  upon  the  mind,  because  no  being  can  act  but  where  it  is :  and,  tlicre 
fore,  the  immediate  obiect  of  perception  must  be  something  united  to  the  mind 
80  as  to  be  able  to  act  upon  it."     Here  the  argument  is  completed  in  all  ^r^ 
parts ;  and  from  it  is  derived  the  supposed  necessity  of  phantasms  or  ldefa•^ 
united  to  the  mind,  as  the  only  objects  of  perception.     It  is  singularly  ua 
"V  lucky,  that  this  argument  concludes  directly  agaiust  the  very  system  ot  wliica 
it  is  the  only  foundation ;  for  how  can  phantasms  or  ideas  be  raised  in  the  mina 
by  things  at  a  distance,  if  things  at  a  distance  cannot  act  upon  the  >"'"<*,^    * 
Buy  more,  that  it  assumes  a  proposition  as  true,  without  evidence,  nanuLi/,  inat 
no  distant  subject  can  act  upon  the  mind.    This  proposition  undoubtedly  re- 
quires evidence,  for  it  is  not  intuitively  certain.    And,  therefore,  till  the  propo- 
sition bo  demonstrated,  every  man  without  scruple  may  rely  upon  the  conviction 
of  his  senses,  tliat  he  hears  and  sees  tilings  at  a  distance.  _  _ 

But  I  venture  a  bolder  step,  which  is,  to  show  that  the  proposition  is  false. 
Admitting  that  no  being  Ciiii  act  but  where  it  is,  is  there  any  thing  more  simple 
or  more  common,  than  tlie  acting  upon  subjects  at  a  distance  by  intermediate 
means  ?  Tliis  holds  in  fact  with  respect  both  to  seeing  and  hearing.  \V  hen  1 
see  a  tree,  for  example,  rays  of  light  are  reflected  from  the  tree  to  my  eye,  form- 
ing a  picture  r.pon  the  retina  tunica ;  but  the  object  perceived  is  the  tree  itselt, 
not  the  rr.ys  of  light,  nor  the  picture.  In  this  manner  distant  objects  are  per- 
ceived, without  any  action  of  the  object  upon  the  mind,  or  of  the  mind  upon 
tlie  object.  Hearing  is  in  a  similar  case;  the  air,  put  in  motion  by  thunder, 
makes'  an  impression  upon  the  drum  of  the  ear ;  but  tliis  impression  is  not  what 
I  hear,  it  is  tlio  thun.ier  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 
Bight  of  the  object.  One  thing  onlv  is  clear,  that  as  wo  have  no  knowledge  ot 
that  picture,  it  is  as  natural  to  conceive  that  it  should  bo  made  the  instrument 
of  discovering  the  external  object,  and  not  itself,  as  of  discovering  itself  only, 
and  not  the  external  object.  ,     . ,    ,  tin      ,i,» 

Upon  the  chimerical  consequences  drawn  from  tlie  ideal  system,  I  sliall  maK. 
but  a  single  reflection.  Nature  determines  us  necessarily  to  rely  on  the  vera- 
city of  our  ronses;  and  upon  their  evidence  the  existence  of  external  objects 
is  to  lis  a  mater  of  intuitive  knowledge  and  absolute  certainty.  Vam  there- 
fore is  the  attempt  of  Dr.  Berkeley  and  of  his  followers  to  deceive  us,  by  a 
metaphysic'il  subtilty,  into  a  disbelief  of  what  we  cannot  entertain  even  the 
slightest  doubt.    [See  also  Beattie's  Moral  Science,  104-106.] 

*  From  this  definition  of  an  idea,  the  following  proposition  must  bo  evident, 
That  thera  can  be  no  such  thing  as  an  innate  idea.  If  the  original  perception 
of  an  obiect  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  self-evident  proposition,  Locke  has  bestowed  a  whole  book  o*  his 
treatise  upon  Human  Understaiuliiiir.  So  necessary  it  is  to  give  accurate  det»- 
nitions,  and  so  preventive  of  dispute  are  definitions  when  accurate.  J>r. 
Berkeley  has  taken  great  pains  to  prove  another  proposition  equally  evident, 
That  tliere  can  bo  no  such  thins:  as  a  general  idea :  all  our  original  percep- 
tions are  of  particular  objects,  aj  ci  our  secondary  perceptions  or  ide>i»  uu»«t  b« 
•qaally  so.    . 


14  INTKODUCTIOK, 

1 5.  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  aie  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  is  composed  of  a  trunk,  branches, 
leaves  :  it  has  color,  figure,  size.  But  as  an  action  is  not  resolva- 
ble into  parts,  a  perception,  being  an  act  of  sense,  is  always  simple. 
The  color,  figure,  umbrage  of  a  spreading  oak,  raise  not  different 
perceptions  :  the  perception  is  one,  that  of  a  tree,  colored,  figured, 
&c.  A  quality  is  never  perceived  separately  from  the  subject ; 
nor  a  part  from  the  whole.  There  is  a  mental  power  of  abstraction, 
of  which  afterward  ;  but  the  eye  never  abstracts,  nor  any  other  ex- 
ternal sense. 

16.  Many  particular  besides  those  rrtentioned  enter  into  the  per- 
ception of  visible  objects,  motion,  rest,  place,  space,  time,  number, 
(fee.  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  eveiy  perception  of  a  visible  object :  the  object  is 
perceived  to  exist,  and  to  exist  somewhere,  on  the  right  hand  or  on 
the  left,  and  where  it  exists  is  termed  2>l(^<^^-  -'^sk  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  httle  box  is  filled  with  playthings,  there  is 
no  room  or  space  for  more.  Space  is  also  applied  to  signify  the  dis 
tance  of  visible  objects  from  each  other;  and  such  space  accordingly 
can  be  measured.  Dinner  comes  after  breakfast,  and  supper  after 
dinner  :  a  child  perceives  au  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  sistei-s 
It  perceives  a  difference  between  many  and  few ;  and  that  difference 
it  is  taught  to  call  number. 

17.  ^liQ  primary  perception  of  a  visible  object  h  mora  complete, 
hvely,  and  distinct  than  that  of  any  other  object.  And  for  that 
reason,  an  idea,  or  secondary  perception  of  a  visible  object,  is  also 
more  complete,  lively,  and  distinct  than  that  of  any  other  ob- 
ject. A  fine  passage  in  music  may  for  a  moment  be  recalled 
to  the  mind  with  tolerable  accuracy:  but  after  the  shortest  in 
terval,  it  becomes  no  less  obscure  than  the  ideas  of  the  other  objects 
mentioned. 

18.  As  the  range  of  an  individual  is  commonly  within  a  narrow 
space,  it  rarely  happens  that  eveiy  thing  necessary  to  be  known 
comes  under  our  own  perceptions.     Language  is  au  admirable  oour 


INTRODTTCnON.  1* 

trivance  for  supplying  that  deficiency ;  for  by  language  every  man's 
perceptions  may  be  communicated  to  all:  and  the  sanv!  may  be 
done  by  painting  and  other  imitative  arts.  The  facility  ot  com- 
rnunication  depends  on  the  liveliness  of  the  ideas;  especially  m  lan- 
2ua<re,  ^^hich  hitherto  has  not  airived  at  greater  perfection  than  to 
txw^L  clear  ideas:  hence  it  is,  that  poets  and  orators,  who  are 
extremely  successful  in  describing  objects  of  sight,  find  objecte  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  memorj^  though  their  resemblance  has  occasionecl 
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  conception.  Thus  Nature  hath  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.  .  v,    ^„„ 

19  Further,  man  is  endued  with  a  sort  of  creative  power :  he  can 
fabricate  images  of  things  that  have  no  existence  The  materials 
-mployed  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  hath  no  such 
power  over  any  of  his  other  ideas,  whether  of  the  external  or  internal 
senses:  he  cannot,  after  the  utmost  eff-ort,  combine  these  into  new 
forms  being  too  obscure  for  that  operation.  An  image  thus  tabn- 
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  fabncating 
images  without  any  foundation  in  reality,  is  distinguished  by  the 
nanie  imagination.  ,       ,  .  •  j 

20  As  ideas  are  the  chief  materials  employed  in  reasoning  and 
reflectin<r,  it  is  of  consequence  that  their  nature  and  difi"erences  be 
underst(X)d  It  appeal's  now  that  ideas  may  be  distingwshed  tnio 
three  kinds  :  fii-st,  Ideas  derived  from  original  perceptions,  properly 
termed  ideas  of  memory ;  second,  Ideas  communicated  by  language 
or  other  signs;  and  third,  Ideas  of  imagination.  These  ideas  difter 
from  each  other  in  many  respects;  but  chiefly  in  respect  of  their 
proceeding  from  different  causes:  The  first  kind  is  denved  from  real 

•  ["Memory  is  double :-not  only  do  I  remember  that  I  l?*);^  b««?  jf^^' 
nresence  of  a  certain  object,  but  I  represent  to  myself  this  absent  object  as  it 
^as  ^  I  have  seen,  felt,  and  judged  lt:-tho  remembrance  is  then  an  'ma^«- 
Tnth^  last  case,  memory  has  been  called  by  some  philosophers  imaginative 
memory    Sudi  is  the  foundation  of  imagination;  but  imagination  is  something 

"""The  mind,  applying  itself  to  the  images  furnished  by  "|5™°/^' ^J^^^^'eT 
them,  chooses  between  their  ditierent  trails,  and  forms  ot  the™  new  image^. 
Without  this  new  power  imujrination  would  be  captive  in  Uie  circle  of  memoi>  . 
— CbM*m'*  Ltd,  «m  Ih*  JiMut-ful,  p.  !«. 


1 6  INTKODUCnON. 

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  scarce  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  afterwards  recalled  to  the 
mind,  beco  nes  in  that  circumstance  an  idea  of  memory. 

21.  We  are  not  so  constituted  as  to  perceive  objects  with  indif- 
ference :  these  with  very  few  exceptions  appear  agreeable  or  dis- 
agreeable ;  and  at  the  same  time  raise  in  us  pleasant  or  painful 
emotions.  With  respect  to  external  objects  in  particular,  we  dis- 
tinguish 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  feeling 
we  distinguish  not,  at  least  not  accurately,  from  the  agreeableness 
of  the  body  itself;  and  the  same  holds  in  general  with  regard  to  all 
organic  impressions.  It  is  otherwise  in  hearing  and  seeing :  a  sound 
is  perceived  as  in  itself  agreeable,  and  raises  in  the  hearer  a  pleasant 
emotion  ;  an  object  of  sight  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  agreeableness 
of  the  object  is  placed  upon  the  object,  and  is  perceived  as  one  of 
its  qualities  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  thougli  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 : 
tliey  are  sometimes  applied  even  to  abstract  terms ;  for  it  is  not 
unusual  to  say,  a  beautiful  theorem,  a  beautiful  constitution  of 
government. 

23.  A  line  composed  by  a  single  rule  [or  prescribed  mode],  is 
perceived  and  said  to  be  regular :  a  straight  line,  a  parabola,  an 
hyperbola,  the  circumference  of  a  circle,  and  of  an  ellipse,  are  all  of 
them  regular  lines.  A  figure  composed  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  single  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  mentioned,  and  the  case  of  a  straight 
line  and  of  the  (liicumfeience  of  a  circle.  A  figure  and  a  line  that 
require  moie  than  one  rule  for  their  construction,  or  that  have  any 
of  their  parts  left  ar.bitiary,  are  not  perfectly  regular :  a  parallelo- 
giam  and  a  rhomb  are  less  regular  than  a  square ;  the  parallelogram 
Deitig  subje  :tsd  to  qo  rule  i«  to  the  length  of  .sides,  other  tliau  tkat 


iNTRODucrnoir. 


17 


the  opposite  sides  be  eaual ;  the  rhomb  being  subjected  to  no  nile 
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 
b  suscxjptible  of  much  vanety,  is  :iess  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  mvMC,  and,  regular  discipline. 

25.  When  two  figures  are  composed  of  similar  parts,  they  are 
said  to  be  unifonn.  Perfect  uniformity  is  where  the  constituent 
parts  of  two  figures  are  equal :  tlms  two  cubes  of  the  same  dimen- 
sions are  pedectly  uniform  in  all  their  parts.  Uniformity  less  per- 
fect is,  where  the  parts  mutually  conespond,  but  without  being 
equal :  the  uniformity  is  imperfect  between  two  squares  or  cubes  of 
unequal  dimensions ;  and  still  more  so  between  a  squai-e  and  a  par- 
allelogram. 

26.  Uniformity  is  also  applicable  to  the  constituent  parts  of  the 
same  figure.  The  constituent  paits  of  a  square  are  perfectly  uni- 
form ;  its  sides  are  equal  and  its  angles  are  equal.  Wherein  then 
differs  regulaiity  from  uniformity  ?  for  a  figure  composed  of  unifonn 
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  sav,  a  square  is  a  regular,  not  a  unitbrm  figure ;  but  with  respect 
to  the"  constituent  parts  of  a  square,  we  say  not,  that  they  are  regular, 
but  that  they  are  uniform. 

27.  In  things  destined  for  the  same  use,  as  legs,  arms,  eyes, 
windows,  spoons,  we  expect  uniformity.  Proportion  ought  to 
govern  parts  intended  for  difierent  uses  :  we  require  a  certain  pro- 
portion between  a  leg  and  an  arm ;  in  the  base,  the  shaft,  the  capital 
of  a  pillar;  and  in  the  length,  the  breadth,  the  height  of  a  room: 
some  proportion  is  also  required  in  different  things  intimately  con- 
nected, as  between  a  dwelling-house,  the  garden,  and  tlie  stables; 
but  we  require  no  proportion  among  things  slightly  connected,  as 
between  the  table  a  man  writes  on  and  the  dog  that  follows  him. 
Proportion  and  uniformity  never  coincide ;  things  equal  are  uniform; 
but  proportion  is  never  applied  to  them  :  the  four  sides  and  angles 
of  a  square  are  equal  and  perfectly  unifonn  ;  but  we  say  not  that 
they  are  proportional.  Thus,  proportion  always  implies  inequality 
or  difference ;  but  then  it  implies  it  to  a  certain  degree  only  :  the 
most  agreeable  proportion  resembles  a  maximum  in  mathematics ;  a 
greater  or  less  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 
accessories,  and  from  a  whole  to  its  parts,  than  in  the  contrary 
direction.     Next,  with  reapeot  to  the  pobitiou-  of  things,  a  «ease  of 


18  IKTRODircnON. 

order  directs  us  to  place  together  things  intimately  connected. 
Thirdly,  in  placing  things  that  have  no  natural  connection,  that 
order  appeai-s  the  most  perfect,  where  the  particulars  are  made  to 
bear  the  strongest  relation  to  each  other  that  position  can  give  them. 
Thus  parallelism  is  the  strongest  relation  that  position  can  bestow 
upon  straight  lines  :  if  they  be  so  placed  as  by  production  to  inter- 
sect, 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  susceptible  of  by 
position :  the  relation  between  the  two  equal  bodies  would  bo 
stronger  by  juxtaposition ;  but  they  would  not  both  have  the  same 
relation  to  the  third. 

29.  The  heaiity  or  agreeableness  of  a  visible  object,  is  perceived 
as  one  of  its  qualities;  which  holds,  not  only  in  the  piimary  per- 
ception, but  also  in  the  secondaiy  perception  or  idea :  and  hence 
the  pleasure  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  reason,  that  the  former  is  more  distinct  and  lively  than  tho 
latter.  But  this  inferiority  in  ideas  of  imagination,  is  more  than 
compensated  by  their  greatness  and  variety,  which  are  boundless  ; 
for  by  the  imagination,  exerted  without  control,  we  can  fabricate 
ideas  of  finer  visible  objects,  of  more  noble  and  heroic  actions,  of 
greater  wickedness,  of  more  surprising  events,  than  ever  in  fact 
existed  :  and  in  communicating  such  ideas  by  words,  painting, 
sculpture,  &c.,  the  influence  of  the  imagination  is  no  less  extensive 
than  great. 

30.  In  the  nature  of  every  man,  there  is  somewhat  original,  which 
distinguishes  him  from  others,  which  tends  to  form  Lis  character, 
and  to  make  him  meek  or  fiery,  candid  or  deceitful,  resolute  or 
timorous,  cheerful  or  morose.  This  original  bent,  termed  disposition, 
must  be  distinguished  from  a  principle  :  the  latter  signifjang  a  law 
of  human  nature,  makes  part  of  the  common  nature  of  man ;  the 
former  makes  part  of  the  nature  of  this  or  that  man.  Propensity 
is  a  name  common  to  both  ;  for  it  signifies  a  principle  as  well  as  a 
disposition. 

31.  Affection,  signifying  a  settled  bent  of  mind  towards  a  particular 
being  or  thing,  occupies  a  middle  place  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  afiection  can  never  be  original,  because, 
having  a  special  relation  to  a  particular  object,  it  cannot  exist  till 
the  oQect  have  once  at  least  been  presented.  It  is  no  less  clearly 
distinguishable  from  passion,  which,  depending  on  the  real  or  ideal 
presence  of  its  object,  vanishes  with  its  object :  whereas  aflfectiou  is 
ft  lasdog  couujBctiou ;  and  like  otber  oooMectiiWfi,  eubsisU  ev«a  whon 


nJTKODTTCTIOJ?.  1© 

we  do  not  think  of  tie  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  therefore 
is  unknown  even  to  myself.  Another  who  has  the  same  disposition, 
meets  with  a  kindly  office  which  makes  him  grateful  to  his  bene- 
factor; 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  circum- 
stance, it  is  converted  into  the  passion  of  gratitude ;  and  the  oppor- 
tunity is  greedily  seized  of  testifying  gratitude  in  the  wannest  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  do  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  become  conscious  of  external  objects. 
It  is  not  consciousness  of  an  internal  action,  such  as  thinking,  sus- 
pending thought,  incHning,  resolving,  willing,  <fec.  Neither  is  it  the 
conception  of  a  relation  among  objects ;  a  conception  of  that  kind 
beinw  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 
mipressions.  According  to  the  degree  of  attention,  objects  make  a 
strong  or  weak  impression.  Attention  is  requisite  even  to  the  simple 
act  of  seeing ;  the  eye  can  take  in  &  considerable  field  at  one  look ; 
but  no  object  in  the  field  is  seen  distinctly,  but  that  singly  which 
fixes  the  attention :  in  a  profound  reverie  that  totally  occupies  the 
attention,  we  scarce  see  what  is  directly  before  us.  In  a  train  of 
perceptions,  the  attention  bein^  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,  there  being  nothir^ 
to  divert  the  attention : 

Horror  ubique  animos,  simnl  ipsa  sUentia  terrent. — ^Tuid,  ii. 
Zara.  Silence  and  solitude  are  everywhere 
Through  all  the  gloomy  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,  which  enter'd  here  from  groan* 
And  howls  of  slaves  condemn'd,  from  clink  of  chains, 
And  crash  of  rusty  bars  and  creaking  hinges  ; 
And  ever  and  anon  the  sight  was  dash'd 
"With  frightful  faces  and  the  meager  looka 
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 
view,  is  more  agreeable  than  when  seen  in  a  group  with  the  soT' 
rounding  objects : 


'*^  DfTRODtrcnON. 

^M°  *^''°^.  '^^''^  ^'^^^  *•■'  sweetly  as  the  lark 

When  neither  is  attended  ;  aiid  I  think 

The  nightingale,  ifsho  should  sing  bv  dav 

JJ  hen  every  goose  is  cackling,  would  be  thought 

JN  0  better  a  nmsieiau  than  the  wmn.— Merchant  of  F,  nice. 

So.  In  matters  of  slight  importance,  attention  is  mostly  directed 
by  will;  and  for  that  reason,  it  is  our  own  fault  if  trifling  obiecth 
make  any  deep  impression.  Had  we  power  equally  to  withliold  ouv 
attention  from  mattei-s  of  importance,  we  might  be  proof  against  any 
deep  impression.  But  our  power  fails  us  he.e  :  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  re- 
garded.  Ihus  a  small  misfortune  is  scarce  felt  in  presence  of  a 
greater :  ^ 

Lear.  Thou  think'st  'tis  much,  that  this  conteutious  storm 
Invades  us  to  the  skin  :  so  'tis  to  thee  : 
But  where  the  greater  malady  is  fix'd 
The  lesser  is  scarce  felt.     Thou'dst  shun  a  bear ; 
rnl"^   ,  t^'  "'^''"^  '"^'  toward  the  roaring  sea, 
rhou  dst  nieet  tiie  bear  i'  th'  mouth.     When  the  mind's  free. 
Ihe  body's  delicate :  the  tempest  in  my  mind 
i)oth  from  my  senses  take  all  feelincr  else 
Save  wliat  beats  there.  King  Lear,  Act  III.  Sc.  5. 

36.  Genus,  species,  modification,  are  terms  invented  to  distinguish 
beings  from  each  other.  Individuals  are  distinguished  by  their 
quaities:  a  number  of  individuals  considered  Avith  respect  to 
qualities  that  distmguish  them  from  others,  is  termed  a  species :  a 
plurality  ot  species  considered  with  respect  to  their  distinguishintr 
qualities,  is  termed  a  yenns.  That  quality  which  distm^ruisheth  one 
genus,  one  species,  or  even  one  individual,  from  another" is  termed  a 
modification  :  thus  the  same  particular  that  is  termed  a  property  or 
qtmlity,  vihQu  considered  as  belonging  to  an  individual,  or  a  class 
ot  individuals,  is  termed  a  modification  when  considered  as  distin- 
guishing the  individual  or  the  class  fiom  another :  a  black  skin  an/1 
soft  curled  hair,  are  properties  of  a  Negro  :  the  same  ciieumstanc-s 
considered  as  marks  that  distinguish  a  Negro  from  a  man  of  a  dif- 
ferent 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  of  them  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  Howino-  river 
I  distinguish  color,  figure,  and  constant  motion;  a  dye  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,  mav  be  so  simple  as  not  to  be  distinguish- 


INTEODUCnOK.  ** 


able  into  parts :  others  are  perceived  to  be  compounded  of  different 
rounds,  ditfereut  tastes,  and  different  smells.  .    ,.    .     „„  „/ 

38  The  eye  at  one  look  can  grasp  a  number  of  objects,  as  ot 
trees  in  afield,  or  men  in  a  crowd:  these  objects  having  each  a 
separate  and  independent  existence,  are  distmguishable  in  the  mind, 
as  veil  as  in  reality;  and  there  is  nothing  more  easy  than  to  ab- 
straci  from  some  and  to  confine  our  contemplation  to  others.  A 
lar.re  oak  with  its  spreading  branches  fixes  our  attention  upon  itsell, 
and  abstracts  us  from  Uie  shrubs  that  surround  it  In  the  same 
manner,  with  respect  to  compound  sounds,  tastes,  or  smells,  we  can 
fix  our  thoughts  upon  any  of  the  component  parts,  abstracting  our 
attention  from  the  rest.  The  power  o/abstractton  is  not  confined  to 
objects  that  are  separable  in  leaUty  as  well  as  mentally;  but  a  so 
takes  place  where  there  can  be  no  real  separation:  the  size,  the 
fiffure,  the  color  of  a  tree,  are  inseparably  connected,  and  have  no 
independent  existence  ;  the  same  of  length,  breadth,  and  thickness, 
and  vet  we  can  mentally  confine  our  observations  to  one  ot  tbese, 
abstracting  from  the  rest.     Here  abstraction  takes  place  where  there 

cannot  be  a  real  separation.  .    ,     •    i  •„ „  . 

39    Space  and  time  have  occasioned  much  metaphysical  jargon  , 
but  after  the  power  of  abstraction  is  explained  as  above,  tiiere  re- 
mains no  difficulty  about  them.     It  is  mentioned  above,  that  space 
as  well  as  place  enter  into  the  perception  of  eveiy  visible  object :  a 
tree  is  perceived  as  existing  in  a  certain  place,  and  as  occupying  a 
certain  space.     Now,  by  the  power  of  abstraction,  space  may  be 
considered  abstractedly  from  the  body  that  occupies  it ;  and  hence 
the  abstract  term  space.     In  the  same  manner,  existence  may  be 
considered  abstractedly  from  any  particular  thing  that  exists ;  and 
place  may  be  considered  abstractedly  from  any  paiticular  thing  that 
may  be  in  it.     Every  series  or  succession  of  things  suggests  the 
idea  of  time;  and  time  maybe  considered  abstractedly  trom  any 
series  of  succession.     In  the  same  manner,  we  acquire  the  absU-act 
term  motion,  rest,  number,  and  a  thousand  other  abstract  terms;  an 
excellent  contrivance  for  improving  speech,  as  without  it  speec^tx 
would  be  wofully  imperfect.     Bmte  animals  may  have  some  ob- 
scure notion  of  these  circumstances,  as  connected  with  particiUar 
obiects:  an  ox  probably  perceives  that  he  takes  longer  time  to  go 
round  a  long  ridge  in  the  plough,  than  a  short  one  ;  and  he  proba- 
bly perceive!  when  he  is  one  of  four  in  the  yoke,  or  only  one  of 
two     But  the  power  of  abstraction  is  not  bestowed  on  brute  ani- 
mals; because  to  them  it  would  be  altogether  useless,  as  they  are 
incapable  of  speech. 

40  This  power  of  abstraction  is  of  great  utility.  A  carpenter 
considers  a  log  of  wood  with  regard  to  hardness,  firmness,  co  or, 
and  texture  :  A  philosopher,  neglecting  these  properties,  makes  the 
log  undergo  a  chemical  anal3-sis  ;  and  examines  its  taste  its  smell, 
and  its  component  principles  :  the  geomeUician  confines  Ins  reason- 


22 


DjrRODUCTION. 


mg  to  the  figure,  the  Jength,  breadth,  and  thickness.  In  ffeneral 
every  artist  abstracting  from  all  other  properties,  confines  hit  obser- 
vations to  those  which  have  a  more  immediate  connection  with  hia 
profession. 

41.  It  is  observed  above  [14,  note],  that  tliere  can  be  no  such 
thing  as  a  general  idea ;  that  all  our  peiceptions  are  of  particular 
objecte,  and  that  our  secondary  perceptions  or  ideas  must  be  equally 
so.  Precisely,  for  the  same  reason,  there  can  be  no  such  thing  dg 
an  abstract  idea.  We  cannot  form  an  idea  of  a  part  without  tak- 
ing m  the  whole;  or  of  motion,  color,  figure,  independent  of  a 
body.  No  man  will  say  that  he  can  form  any  idea  of  beauty,  till 
he  think  ot  a  person  endued  with  that  quality;  nor  that  he  can  form 
an  Idea  of  weight,  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  efiect  and  its  cause,  are  so  intimately  con- 
nected as  that  an  idea  cannot  be  formed  of  the  one  independent  of 
the  other,  yet  we  can  reason  upon  the  one  abstracting  from  the 

^  This  is  done  by  words  signifying  the  thing  to  which  the  reason- 
ing IS  confaned  ;  and  such  words  are  denominated  abstract  terms 
Ihe  meaning  and  use  of  an  abstract  term  are  well  undei-stood 
though  ot  Itself,  unless  other  particulars  be  taken  in,  it  raises  no' 
image  nor  idea  m  the  mind.  In  language  it  serves  an  excellent  pur- 
pose ;  by  It  different  figures,  different  colors,  can  be  compared,  with- 
out the  trouble  of  conceiving  them  as  belonging  to  any  particular 
subject ;  and  they  contribute  with  words  significant  to  raise  images 
or  ideas  in  the  mind. 

•  42.  The  power  of  abstraction  is  bestowed  on  man  for  the  pur- 
pose solely  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  confine  our  attention  to  the  single  property  we 
desire  to  investigate.  o     r    tr     j 

43.  Abstract  terms  mat/ be  separatedinto  three  different  kinds 
all  equally  subservient  to  the  reasoning  faculty.  Individuals  ap-' 
pear  to  have  no  end ;  and  did  we  not  possess  tlie  faculty  of  dis- 
tributing them  into  classes,  the  mind  would  le  lost  in  an  endless 
maze,  and  no  progress  be  made  in  knowledge.  It  is  by  the  faculiy 
of  abstraction  that  we  distribute  beings  into  genera  and  species  : 
finding  a  number  of  individuals  connected  by  certain  qualities  com- 
mon to  all,  we  give  a  name  to  these  individuals  considered  as  thus 
connected,  which  name,  by  gathering  them  together  into  one  class, 
serves  to  express  the  whole  of  these  individuals  as  distinct  from 
others.  Thus  the  word  animal  serves  to  denote  every  beino-  that 
can  move  voluntarily ;  and  the  words  man,  horse,  lion,  <fec.,  msvutt 


INIKOUUCTION. 


2a 


amilar  purposes.  This  is  the  first  and  most  common  sort  of  ab- 
straction;  and  it  is  of  the  most  extensive  use,  by  enabling  us  to 
comprehend  in  our  reasoning  whole  kinds  and  sorts,  instead  of  in- 
dividuals without  end.  The  next  sort  of  abstract  terms  compreliends 
a  number  of  individual  objects,  considered  as  connected  by  some 
occasional  relation.  A  great  number  of  pei-sons  collected  in  one 
place,  without  any  other  relation  but  merely  that  of  contiguity,  are 
denominated  a  crowd  :  in  forming  tliis  term  we  absti-act  from  sex, 
from  age,  from  condition,  from  dress,  &c.  A  number  of  i^ei-sons 
connected  by  the  same  laws  and  by  the  same  government,  are 
tei-med  a  nation;  and  a  number  of  men  under  the  same  military 
command,  are  termed  an  army.  A  third  sort  of  abstraction  ia, 
where  a  single  property  or  part,  which  may  be  common  to  many 
individuals,  is  selected  to  be  the  subject  of  our  contemplation ;  for 
example,  whiteness,  heat,  beauty,  length,  roundness,  head,  arm. 

44.  Ahstract  terms  are  a  happy  invention  :  it  is  by  their  means, 
chiefly,  that  the  particulars  which  make  the  subject  of  our  reason- 
in»-,  are  brought  into  close  union,  and  separated  from  all  others 
however  naturally  connected.  Without  the  aid  of  such  terms,  the 
mind  could  never  be  kept  steady  to  its  proper  subject,  but  be  per- 
petually in  hazard  of  assuming  foreign  circumstances,  or  neglecting 
what  are  essential.  We  can,  without  the  aid  of  language,  com- 
pare real  objects  by  intuition,  when  these  objects  are  present ;  and 
when  absent,  we  can  compare  them  in  ideju  But  when  we  ad- 
vance farther,  and  attempt  .to  make  inferences  and  draw  conclusions, 
we  always  employ  abstract  terms,  even  in  thinking :  it  would  be 
as  diflBcult  to  reason  without  them,  as  to  perform  operations  in 
algebra  without  signs;  for  there  is  scarce  any  reasoning  without 
some  degree  o^  abstraction,  and  we  cannot  easily  abstract  without 
using  abstract  terms.  Hence  it  follows,  that  without  language  man 
would  scarce  be  a  rational  being.* 

45.  The  same  thing,  in  diflerent  respects,  has  different  names. 
With  respect  to  certain  qualities,  it  is  tenned  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  witl:  respect  to 
an  action  exeited  upon  it ;  an  object  \vith  respect  to  a  percipient : 
a  cattse  with  respect  to  the  effect  it  produces ;  and  a^i  effect  with 
respect  to  its  cause. 

*  [Cbmpwe  Strron's  Lectures,  vol.  ii.  877-8*  )  % 


THE  NATURE,  DESIGN,  AND  UTILITY  OF  THE  PRESENT  WORK. 


46.  That  nothing  external  is  perceived  till  fii-st  it  makes  an  im- 
pression upon  the  organ  of  sense,  is  an  observation  that  holds 
equally  in  every  one  of  the  external  senses.  But  there  is  a  differ- 
ence as  to  our  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  I  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  (13).  That  difference  in  the 
manner  of  perceiving  external  objects,  distinguisheth  remarkably 
hearing  and  seeing  from  the  other  senses;  and  I  am  ready  to 
show,  that  it  distinguisheth  still  more  remarkably  the  feelings  of 
the  former  from  that  of  the  latter ;  every  feeling,  pleasant  or  pain- 
ful, 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  feel- 
ing caused  by  that  impression  ;*  but,  with  respect  to  seeing  and 
hearing,  being  insensible  of  the  organic  impression,  we  are  not 
misled  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  spiiitual,  than  what  are  derived 
from  tasting,  touching,  and  smelling;  for  the  latter  feelings,  seem- 
ing to  exist  externally  at  the  oigan  of  sense,  are  conceived  to  be 
merely  corporeal. 

The  pleasures  of  the  eye  and  the  ear,  being  thus  elevated  above 
those  of  the  other  external  senses,  acquire  so  much  dignity  as  to 
become  a  laudable  enteitainment.  They  are  not,  however,  set  on 
a  level  with  the  purely  intellectual ;  being  no  less  inferior  in  dig- 
nity to  intellectual  pleasures,  than  superior  to  the  organic  or  cor- 
poreal :  they  indeed  resemble  the  latter,  being,  like  them,  produced 
by  external  objects ;  but  they  also  resemble  the  former,  being,  like 

*  After  the  utmost  efforts,  vro  find  it  beyond  our  power  to  conceive  the* 
flavor  of  a  rose  to  exist  in  the  mind:  we  are  necessarily  led  to  conceive  tli.it 
pleasure  as  existing  in  tlio  nostrils  along  with  the  impression  made  by  the  rose 
upon  that  organ.  And  the  sanie  will  be  ^lie  result  of  experiments  with  respect 
to  every  feeling  of  t;istc,  touch,  and  smell.  Toucli  atfords  the  most  satisfactory 
experiments.  Were  it  not  that  the  delusion  is  detected  bv  philosophy,  no 
person  would  hesitate  to  pronounce,  that  the  pleasure  arising  from  touching  a 
sniooth,  soft,  and  velvet  surface,  has  its  existence  at  the  ends  of  the  fliigeri, 
without  once  dreaming  of  its  existing  anywhere  e\se,\ 


NATUKE,  DESIGN,  ETC.,  OF  TUE  PRESENT  WORK.  25 

them,  produced  without  any  sensible  organic  impression.  Their 
mixed  nature  and  middle  place  between  organic  and  intellectual 
pleasures,  qualify  them  to  associate  with  both. 

The  pleasures  of  the  eye  and  the  ear  have  ether  valuable  proper- 
lies  besides  those  of  dignity  and  elevation  :  being  sweet  and  moder- 
a<^ly  exhilarating,  they  are  in  their  tone  equally  distant  from  the 
tiu-bulence  of  passion,  and  the  languor  of  indolence :  and  by  that 
tone  are  perfectly  well  qualified,  not  only  to  revive  the  spirits  when 
sunk  by  sensual  gratification,  but  also  to.  relax  them  whan  over- 
strained in  any  violent  pursuit.  Here  is  a  remedy  provided  for 
many  distresses ;  and,  to  be  convinced  of  its  salutary  efiects,  it  will 
be  sufiicient  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  ovei-straining  the  mind:  cessation  from  such  exercise 
gives  not  instant  relief;  it  is  necessary  that  the  void  be  filled  with 
some  amusement,  gently  relaxing  the  spirits. 

47.  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  pleasures  of  morality  and  religion.  We  stand  therefore  en- 
gaged in  honor,  as  well  as  interest,  to  second  the  puiposes  of  nature, 
by  cultivating  the  pleasures  of  the  eye  and  ear,  those  especially  that 
require  extraordinary  culture,f  such  as  arise  from  poetiy,  painting, 
sculpture,  music,  gardening,  and  architecture.  This  especially  is  the 
duty  of  the  opulent,  whohave  leisure  to  improve  their  minds  and 
their  feelings.     The  fine  arts  are  contrived  to  give  pleasure  to  the 

*  ["  Now  this"  (says  Dr.  Murk  Hopkins)  "  is  precisely  the  use,  and  all  the  use 
Ihat  many  make  of  the  fine  arts,  and  I  may  add,  to  some  extent  of  the  beauties 
of  nature  too.  How  many  wealthy  sensualists  are  there  in  our  cities  who  pive 
an  appearance  of  elevation  and  refinement  to  their  low  and  selfish  mode  of  life, 
by  collecting  about  them  specimens  of  the  arts  !  These  men  may  be  best  com- 
pared to  that  amphibious  animal,  the  fro?.  They  come  up  occasionally  from 
that  lower  element  in  which  they  live,  into  a  region  of  light  and  beauty;  bnt 
no  sooner  are  they  a  little  refreshed,  than  they  plunge  again  into  the  mud  of 
sensual  gratification.  It  is  men  like  these,  who,  when  their  capacity  for  the 
lower  pleasures  is  exhausted,  drive  in  theii  carriages  about  the  cities  of  the  Old 
World  (perhaps  we  are  not  yet  sufficiently  corrupt),  and  set  up  to  be  virtuosi. 
It  is  easy  to  see  how  such  a  taste  must  bear  upon  morals. "J 

t  A  taste  for  natural  objects  is  born  with  us  in  perfection;  for  relishing  a 
tine  countenance,  a  rich  landscape,  or  a  vivid  color,  culture  is  necessary.  The 
observation  holds  equally  in  natural  sounds,  such  as  the  singing  of  birds,  or  the 
murmuring  of  a  brook.  Naturehere,  the  artificer  of  the  object  as  well  as  of  tho 
percipient,  hath  accurately  suited  them  to  each  other.  But  of  a  poem,  a  can- 
tata, a  pictnre,  or  other  artificial  production,  a  true  relish  is  not  commonly  at- 
tained, without  some  study  and  much  practice. 

46,  What  precedes  the  perception  of  an  external  object — ^Tho  difference  noticed  with 
regard  to  the  various  senses. — The  location  of  pleasant  or  painful  feelings.— The  rank  to  be 
afisigned  to  the  pleasures  of  the  eve  and  ear.  Their  salutary  influence. — Comparison  wltn 
Ui^iuiic  or  corporeal  piea.<i»ros. — The  u.>se  that  profligate  men  often  make  of  the  fine  arts. 


26  NATURE,  DESIGN,  ETC.,  OF  TUK   PRESENT  WOKK. 

eye  and  the  ear,  disregarding  the  inferior  senses.  A  taste  for  these 
arts  is  a  plant  that  grows  naturally  in  many  soils  ;  but,  without 
culture,  scarce  to  perfection  in  any  soil :  it  is  susceptible  of  much 
refniement ;  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  ;  foshion,  temper  and  education 
have  an  influence  to  vitiate  both,  or  to  preserve  them  pure  and 
untainted  :  neither  of  them  is  arbitrary  or  local :  being  rooted  m 
human  nature,  and  governed  by  principles  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  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 
whimsical.  Thus  the  fine  arts,  like  morals,  become  a  rational 
science ;  and,  like  morals,  may  be  cultivated  to  a  high  degree  of 
refinement.! . 

*  [Tho  followiiiff  observations  of  Dr.  Mark  Hopkins  arc  appropriate  and 
important :  "  Tlie'fine  arts  may  be  made  to  pander  directly  to  vice.  From  the 
middle  rank,  which  the  pleasures  derived  from  them  hold,  they  readily  associate, 
as  has  been  said,  both  with  the  higher  and  the  lower.  Thus  music  may  quicken 
the  devotions  of  a  seraph,  and  lend  its  strains  to  cheer  the  carousals  of  the 
bacchanal ;  and  poetrj',  painting,  and  sculpture,  while  they  have  power  to  ele- 
vate, and  charm,  and  purify  tho  mind,  may  be  made  direct  stimulants  to  the 
vilest  and  lowest  passions.  It  is  indeed  from  this  quarter  that  we  are  to  look 
for  danger  from  the  prevalence  of  these  arts.  It  was  thus  that  they  corrupted 
the  ancient  cities  ;  and  those  who  have  seen  the  abominable  statuary  of  Hercu- 
laneum  and  Pompeii,  do  not  wonder  that  they  were  buried  under  a  sea  of  tire. 
The  same  process  of  corruption  through  these  artSj  has  gone  to  a  iea"ul  extent 
on  the  eastern  continent,  and  has  commenced  in  tnis  country.  Clothed  in  tins 
garment  of  light,  vice  finds  access  where  it  otherwise  could  not.  Under  the 
pretence  of  promoting  the  fine  arts,  modesty  is  cast  aside,  and  indecent  pic- 
tures are  exhibited,  and  respectable  people  go  to  see  them.  If  I  might  utter  s 
word  of  warning  to  the  younor,  it  would  be  to  beware  of  vice  dressed  in  the 
garments  of  taste.  The  beauties  of  nature  are  capable  of  no  such  perversion 
All  tho  associations  connected  with  them  tend  to  elevate  and  to  purity  tho 
mind.  No  case  can  be  adduced  in  which  a  taste  for  gardening  or  for  natural 
objects  has  corrupted  a  people.  While,  therefore,  I  believe  that  the  cultivation 
of  the  arts,  in  their  genuine  spirit  of  beauty  and  of  purity,  has  a  tendency  to 
improve  the  character,  it  would  appear  that  they  are  greatly  liable  to  abuse, 
and  that  they  have  been  extensively  abused."]  . 

t  [Upon  the  subject  of  Taste  and  Geniua,  Cousin  thus  remarks:      ihree 

47  The  easy  transition  from  corporeal  plaasures  to  those  of  a  higher  order.— The  arta 
•     which  it  is  our  interest  to  cultivate— Value  of  the  fine  .-vrts.     A  tnfte  for  these  alUed  to 
what  ?— The  great  liability  of  the  fine  arts  to  pcrvci  hion  and  abuse.- Design  of  the  preseni 
volume. — Cousin's  account  of  Taste  ami  Genius. 


NATUKE,  DESIGN,  ETC.,  OF  THE  PBESE^TT  WORK.  27 

48.  Manifold  are  the  advantage^  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  plesvsure  we  dorive 
from  them.  To  the  man  .vho  resigns  himself  to  feeling  without  iu- 
teiposing  any  judgment,  poetry,  music,  painting  are  mere  pastime. 
In  the  prime  of  lite,  inde(^d,  they  are  delightful,  being  supported  by 
the  force  of  novelty,  and  ihe  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  deal  in  criticism  as  a  regular  science,  governed  by  just 
principles,  and  giving  scope  to  judgment  as  well  as  to  fancy,  the  fine 
arts  are  a  favorite  entertainment ;  and  in  old  age  maintain  that  rel- 
ish which  they  produce  in  the  morning  of  life. 

In  the  next  place  (2),  a  philosophic  inquiry  into  the  principles  of 
the  fine  arts  inures  the  reflecting  mind  to  the  most  enticing  sort  ot 
logic  :  the  practice  of  reasoning  upon  subjects  so  agreeable,  tends  to 
a  habit ;  and  a  habit,  strengthening  the  reasoning  faculties,  prepares 
the  mind  for  entering  into  subjects  more  intricate  and  abstract.  To 
have,  in  that  respect,  a  just  conception  of  the  importance  of  criti- 
cism, wo  need  but  reflect  upon  the  ordinary  method  of  education ; 
which,  after  some  years  spent  in  acquiring  languages,  hurries  us, 
without  the  least  preparatory  discipline,  into  the  most  profound  phi- 
losophy. A  more  effectual  method  to  alienate  the  tender  mind  from 
abstract  science,  is  beyond  the  reach  of  invention  ;  and  accordingly, 
with  respect  to  such  speculatioas,  our  youth  generally  conti'act  a 
Bort  of  hobgoblin  terror,  seldom  if  ever  subdued.  Those  who  apply 
to  the  arts,  are  trained  in  a  very  different  manner :  they  are  led, 
step  by  step,  from  the  easier  parts  of  the  operation,  to  what  are  moi-e 
difficult ;  and  are  not  permitted  to  make  a  new  motion,  till  they  are 
perfected  in  those  which  go  before.  Thus  the  S(;ience  of  criticism 
may  be  considered  as  a  middle  link,  connecting  the  different  parts 
of  education  into  a  regular  chain.  This  science  furnisheth  an  inviting 
opportunity  to  exercise  the  judgment :  we  delight  to  reason  upon 
subjects  that  are  equally  pleasant  and  familiar;  we  proceed  grad- 

facultics  enter  into  that  complex  faculty  that  is  called  tiiste : — imagination,  sen- 
timent, reason.  Besides  imagination  and  reason,  the  man  of  taste  ought  to 
possess  an  enlightened  but  ardent  love  of  beauty:  ho  must  take  delight  in 
meeting  it,  must  search  for  it,  must  summon  it.  To  comprehend  and  demon- 
strate that  a  thing  is  not  beautiful,  is  an  ordinary  pleasure — an  ungrateful  task ; 
but  to  discern  a  beautiful  thing,  to  make  it  evident,  and  make  others  participatfi 

in  our  sentiment,  is  an  exquisite  joy,  a  generous  ta«k 

"  After  having  spoken  ot  taste  which  appreciates  beauty,  shall  we  say  nothing 
of  genius  which  makes  it  live  again  ?  Genius  is  nothmg  else  than  taste  in 
action,  that  is  to  say,  the  three  powers  of  taste  carried  to  their  culmination,  and 
armed  with  a  new  and  mysterious  power,  the  power  of  execution.  What  essen- 
tially distinguishes  genius  from  taste,  is  the  attribute  of  creative  power.  Taat« 
feels,  judges,  discusses,  analyzes,  but  does  not  invent.  Genius  is,  before  all, 
inventive  and  creative.  The  man  of  genius  is  not  the  master  of  the  power  that 
is  in  him :  it  is  bv  the  ardent,  irresistible  need  of  expressing  what  he  feeU, 
that  ho  Js  a  man  ot' genius." — Lect.  vii.,  Applctou's  Ed.] 


28  NATURE,  DESIGN,  ETC.,  OF  THE  PRESENT  WORK. 

ually  fiom  the  simple  to  the  more  involved  cases ;  and  in  a  duo 
course  of  discipline,  custom,  which  improves  all  our  faculties,  bestows 
acuteness  on  that  of  reason,  sufficient  to  unravel  all  the  intricacies 
of  philosophy.* 

Nor  (3)  ought  it  to  be  overlooked,  that  the  reasonings  employed 
on  the  fine  arts  are  of  the  same  kind  with  those  which  regulate  our 
conduct.  Mathematical  and  metaphysical  reasonings  have  no  ten- 
dency to  improve  our  knowledge  of  man ;  nor  are  they  applicable 
to  the  common  affairs  of  life :  but  a  just  taste  of  the  fine  arts,  de- 
rived from  rational  principles,  furnishes  elegant  subjects  for  conver- 
Bation,  and  prepares  us  for  acting  in  the  social  state  with  dignity 
and  propriety. 

The  science  of  rational  criticism  (4)  tends  to  improve  the  heart 
no  less  than  the  understanding.  It  tends,  in  the  first  place,  to 
moderate  the  selfish  aftections  :  by  sweetening  and  harmonizing  the 
temper,  it  is  a  strong  antidote  to  the  turbulence  of  passion,  and  vio- 
tence  of  pui-suit;  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  his  old  age  to  avarice.  Pride  and  envy,  two  disgustful  passions, 
find  in  the  constitution  no  enemy  more  formidable  than  a  delicate 
and  discerning  taste  :  the  man  upon  whom  nature  and  culture  have 
bestowed  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 
beauties  make  but  a  faint  impression,  indulges  pride  or  envy  without 
control,  and  loves  to  brood  over  errors  and  blemishes. 

In  the  next  place,  (5)  delicacy  of  taste  tends  no  less  to  invigorate^ 
the  social  aff"ections,  than  to  moderate  those  that  are  selfish.  To  be 
convinced  of  that  tendency,  we  need  only  reflect,  that  delicacy  of 
taste  necessarily  heightens  our  feeling  of  pain  and  pleasure;  andot 
course  our  sympathy,  which  is  the  capital  branch  of  every  social 
passion.  Sympathy  invites  a  communication  of  joys  and  sorrows, 
hopes  and  fears  :  such  exercise,  soothing  and  satisfactoiy  in  itself,  is 
necessarily  productive  of  mutual  good-will  and  affection. 

One  other  advantage  of  rational  criticism  is  reserved  to  the  last 
(6)  place,  being  of  all  the  most  important ;  which  is,  that  it  is  a 
great  support  to  morality.  I  insist  on  it  with  entire  satisfaction,  that 
no  occupation  attaches  a  man  more  to  his  duty,  than  that  of  culti- 
vating a  taste  in  the  fine  arts :  a  just  relish  of  what  is  beautiful, 

*  FThe  rules  of  criticism  are  no  more  than  the  deductiona  of  sound  logio 
concemin<:'  beauty  and  deformity,  from  the  permanent  prmcii^les  and  feehngs 
of  human  nature;  and  without  a  knowledge  of  these  rules  it  is  not  to  be  ex- 
pected that  any  performance  will  be  so  successful  as  to  obtain  any  great  or  lasting 
portion  of  the  public  approbation.— Barron's  Lect.  vol.  i.  r  16.] 


NATURE,  DESIGN,  KIC,  OF  THE  PKESENT  WORK.  *^J 

proper,  elegant,  and  ornamental,  in  wiiting  or  painting,  in  architec- 
ture or  gardening,  is  a  fine  preparation  foi>»the  same  just  relish  of 
these  qualities  in  character  and  behavior.  To  the  man  who  hjis 
acquired  a  tasto  so  acute  and  accomplished,  every  action  wrong  or 
improper  must  be  highly  disgustful ;  if,  in  any  instance,  the  over- 
bearing power  of  passion  sway  him  from  his  duty,  he  returns  to  it 
with  redoubled  resolution  never  to  be  swayed  a  second  time :  he  has 
now  an  additional  motive  "to  virtue,  a  conviction  derived  fiom  ex- 
perience, that  happiness  depends  on  regularity  and  order,  and  that 
disregard  to  justice  or  propriety  never  fails  to  be  punished  with 
shame  and  remorse.* 

49.  Rude  ages  exhibit  the  triumph  of  authority  over  reason. 
Philosophers  anciently  were  divided  into  sects,  being  Epicureans, 
Platonists,  Stoics,  Pythagoreans,  or  Skeptics :  the  speculative  relied 
no  farther  on  their  own  judgment  but  to  choose  a  leader,  whom  they 
implicitly  followed.  In  later  times,  happily,  reason  hath  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.  Bossuet,  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,  » 
supjwrted  by  the  autliority  of  xiristotle.  Strange !  that  in  so  long  a 
work,  he  should  never  once  have  stumbled  upon  the  question. 
Whether,  and  how  far,  do  these  rules  agi'ee  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 
now  remains,  but  blind  obedience  to  their  arbitrary  will.  If  in  writing 
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  ? 

50.  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  exhibit  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 


*  Genius  is  allied  to  a  warm  and  inflamraablo  constitution;  delicacy  of  tasto 
to  calmness  and  sedateness.  Hence  it  is  common  to  find  genius  in  one  who  is 
a  prey  to  every  passion ;  but  seldom  delicacy  of  taste.  Upon  a  man  possessed 
of  that  blessinor,  the  moral  duties,  no  less  than  the  fine  arts,  make  a  deep 
impression,  and  counterbalance  every  irresfular  desire ;  at  the  same  lime,  a 
temper  calm  and  sedate  is  not  easily  moved,  even  by  a  strong  temptation. 

48.  Six  advnr.tflges  of  n  fhorongh  acquaintance  wUh  the  principles  of  the  fine  arts. 

49.  Wlicnce  the  rules  of  criticism  should  be  derived.— A  coinp.ul8on  of  former  tgoa  wltk 
the  present  on  this  poin'. 


30  NATURE,  DESIGN,  ETC.,  OF  THE  TRESENT  WORK. 

order  to  make  pleasant  impressions,  we  ought,  as  above  hinted,  to 
know  what  objects  ai'e  liaturally  agreeable,  and  what  naturally  dis- 
agreeable. That  subject  is  here  attempted,  as  far  as  necessaiy  for 
unfolding  the  genuine  principles  of  the  fine  aits ;  and  the  author 
assumes  no  merit  from  his  pertbrmance,  but  that  of  evincing,  perhaps 
more  distinctly  than  hitherto  has  been  done,  that  these  principles,  as 
well  as  every  just  i-ule  of  criticism,  are  founded  upon  the  sensitive 
part  of  our  nature.  What  the  author  b'ath  discovered  or  collected 
upon  tbat  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  labored  dis- 
quisition. His  plan  is,  to  ascend  gradually  to  principles,  from  facts 
and  experiments ;  instead  of  beginning  with  the  fonner,  handled 
abstractedly,  and  descending  to  the  latter.  But,  though  criticism  is 
thus  his  only  declared  aim.  he  will  not  disoAvn,  that  all  along  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  difficulty,  to  undertake  it 
professedly,  or  to  avow  it  as  the  chief  purpose  of  the  present  work. 

51.  To  censure  works,  not  men,  is  the  just  prerogative  of  criticism  ; 
and  accordingly  all  personal  censure  is  here  avoided,  unless  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.  Writers,  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  meriting  no  censure,  entertains  not  even  the 
slightest  hope  of  such  perfection.  Amusement  was  at  first  the  sole 
Aim  of  his  inquiries  :  proceeding  from  one  particular  to  anothei",  the 
subject  grew  under  his  hand ;  and  he  was  far  advanced  before  the 
thought  struck  him,  that  his  private  meditations  might  be  publicly 
useful. 

N.  B.  The  Elements  of  Criticism,  meaning  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  propei-, 
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. 

50.  More  pnrtifular  accf>imt  of  the  plan  of  the  present  work.— Beslcn  of  tlio  fine  arts: 
how  (lisiiDKiiishol  from  the  useful.— The  peculiar  merit  wliicli  Ibia  work  claims  to  possess. 
Whiit,  beiiles  cri  icisin,  it  alias  at, 

51.  Tlie  title  of  the  work. 


ELEMENTS   OF  CRITICISM. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PERCBPTIONS    AND    IDEAS   IN    A    TRAIN. 

62.  A  Man,  while  awake,  is  conscious  of 'a  continued  train  of 
perceptions  and  ideas  passing  in  his  mind.  It  requires  no  activity 
on  his  part  to  carry  on  the  train.*  At  the  same  time,  we  learn 
from  daily  experience,  that  the  train  of  our  thoughts  is  not  regu- 
lated 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  gieat  importance  in  the  fine  arts. 

53.  It  appears,  that  the  relations  by  which  things  are  linked  to- 
gether, have  a  great  influence  in  directing  the  ti-ain  of  thought. 
Taking  a  view  of  external  objects,  their  inherent  properties  are  not 
more  remarkable  than  the  various  relations  that  connect  them  to- 
gether. 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  altogether  devoid  of  connection  ;  the  only  dif- 
ference is,  that  some  are  intimately  connected,  some  more  slightly ; 
some  near,  some  at  a  distance. 

54.  Experience  will  satisfy  us  of  what  reason  makes  probable, 
that  the  ti-ain  of  our  thoughts  is  in  a  gi-eat  measure  regulated  by 
the  foregoing  relations :  an  external  object  is  no  sooner  presented 
to  us  in  idea,  than  it  suggests  to  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 


*  For  how  should  this  be  done  ?  what  idea  is  it  that  wo  arc  to  add  ?  If  we 
can  specify  the  idea,  fhat  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  tliere  be  nothing  in  view  ?  Wo  cannot 
form  a  conception  of  such  a  tiling.  If  this  argument  need  confirmation,  I  urg« 
experience:  whoever  makes  a  trial  will  find,  that  ideas  arc  linked  together  m 
the  mind,  forming  a  connected  chain;  and  that  we  have  not  the  command  of 
any  idea  independent  of  the  chain. 

62.  St«t«  of  tbf  mind. 68.  What  dirtcts  the  train  of  thought  T 


32  I'ERCEPTIONS   AND  IDKAS  IN    A.TIlAm._ 

governs  all  Imman  beings.  The  law,  however,  seems  not  to  be  in- 
violable :  it  sometimes  happens  that  an  idea  arises  in  the  niiud^ 
witliont  any  perceived  connection  ;  as,  for  example,  after  a  profound 
sleep. 

65.  *^ut,  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  Avhat  are  connected  with  many  others ; 
and  when  a  thing  thus  connected  becomes  a  subject  of  thought,  it 
commonly  suggests  many  of  its  connections ;  among  these  a  choice  is 
afforded  ;  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  natural  train,  we  cannot  dissolve  the  train 
altoo-ether,  by  carrying  on  our  thoughts  in  a  loose  manner  without 
any  connection.  So  far  doth  our  power  extend  ;  and  that  power  is 
sufficient  for  all  useful  purposes  :  to  have  more  powei-,  would'  proba- 
bly be  hurtful,  instead  of  being  salutary. 

56.  Will  is  not  the  only  cause  that  prevents  a  train  of  thought 
from  being  continued  through  the  strictest  connections  :  much  de- 
pends on  the  present  tone  of  mind  :  for  a  subject  that  accords  with 
that  tone  is  always  welcome.  Thus,  in  good  spirits,  a  cheerful  sub- 
ject will  be  introduced  by  the  slightest  connection  ;  and  one  that  is 
melancholy,  no  less  readily  in  low  spirits  :  an  interesting  subject  is 
recalled,  from  time  to  time,  by  any  connection  indifferently,  strong 
or  weak ;  which  is  finely  touched  by  Shakspeare,  with  relation  to  a 
richi  cargo  at  sea  : 

My  wind,  cooling  my  broth, 

"Would  blow  me  to  an  ague,  wlicn  I  thought 

What  harm  a  wind  too  great  might  do  at  soa. 

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  straight  of  dangerous  rocks  1 

Which  touching  but  my  gentle  vessel's  side, 

Would  scatter  all  her  spices  on  the  stream, 

Enrobe  the  roaring  waters  with  my  silks ; 

And,  in  a  word,  but  even  now  worth  this,   • 

And  now  worth  nothing.  Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  I.  Sc.  i. 

ST.  Another  cause  clearly  distinguishable  from  that  now  men- 
tioned, hath  also  a  considerable  influence  to  vaiy  the  natural  train  of 

64.  Illustrate  how  the  train  of  thought  Is  regtilated  by  rclatjons. 

55.  The  power  wo  have  over  our  trains  of  tliouglits.    The  natural  course  of  Woaa, 

6G.  Train  of  thouitlit  affected  by  tlie  present  tone  of  mind.    Cargo  at  soa. 


PERCEPTIONS  AND  IDEAS  IN  A  TKAIN.  33 

ideas ;  which  is,  that,  ia  the  minds  of  some  persons,  thoughts  and 
circumstances  crowd  upon  each  other  by  the  slightest  connections. 
I  ascribe  this  to  a  bhmtness  in  the  discerning  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  per- 
son must  necessarily  have  a  great  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. 

FaUtaff.  What  is  the  gross  sum  that  I  owe  thee  ? 

Ilustess.  Marry,  if  thou  wert  an  lionest  man,  thyself  aud  thy  money  too. 
Thou  didst  swear  to  mo  on  a  parcel  gilt-goblet,  sitting  in  my  Dolphin-chamber, 
at  the  round  table,  by  a  sea-coal  Arc,  on  Wednesday  in  A\  hitsun-week,  when 
the  Prince  broke  thy  head  for  likening  him  to  a  singmg  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?  Did  not  Good  wife  Keech,  tlio 
butcher's  wife,  come  in  then,  and  call  me  Gossip  Quickly  ?  coming  in  to  bor- 
row a  mess  of  vinegar ;  telling  us  she  had  a  good  dish  of  prawns  ;  whereby 
thou  didst  desire  to  eat  some ;  whereby  I  told  thee  they  were  ill  for  a  green 
•wound.  And  didst  not  thou,  when  she  was  gone  down  stairs,  desire  me  to  be 
no  more  so  familiarity  with  such  poor  people,  saying,  that  ere  long  they  should 
call  me  Madame  ?  And  didst  thou  not  kiss  me,  and  bid  mo  fetch  thee  thirty 
•hillings  ?    I  put  thee  now  to  thy  book-oath,  deny  it  if  thou  canst? 

SecotuiPart,JIenrylV.A<i%ll.%c.'2,. 

58.  On  the  other  hand,  a  man  of  accurate  judgment  cannot  have 
a  great  fiow  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  copi- 
ous eloquence.  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. 

69.  As  an  additional  coufirmation,  I  appeal  to  another  noted  ob- 
servation, 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  in- 
compatible 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. 

60.  Every  man  who  attends  to  his  oAvn  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  atiange- 
meut  of  his  perceptions,  of  his  ideas,  and  of  his  actions.  With  re- 
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  indift'erent  in  what 
order  they  be  surveyed.     But,  in  things  of  unequal  rank,  our  ten- 

67.  Order  of  Ideas,  in  some  lulnds,  varied  by  the  slightest  connections.    Explain  m>4 
Illustrate. 
8S.  Accuracy  of  Judgment  not  favorable  to  a  flow  of  ideas. 
69.  Wit  and  judgment,  wliy  so  seldom  united. 

o* 


34  PEECEFnONS  AUD  IDEAS  IN  A  TEAIN. 

dency  is,  to  view  the  principal  subject  before  we  descend  to  itt 
accessories  or  oruamentsj  and  the  superior  before  the  inferior  or  de 
pendent ;  we  are  equally  averse  to  enter  into  a  minute  consideration 
of  constituent  parts,  till  the  thing  be  first  surveyed  as  a  whole.  It 
need  scarce  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. 

61.  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  ascendh 
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  tlie  trunk,  and 
mount  from  it  to  the  branches:  as  to  historical  facts,  we  love  to 
proceed  in  the  order  of  time ;  or,  which  comes  to  the  same,  to  pro- 
ceed along  the  chain  of  causes  and  eftects. 

62.  But  though  in  following  out  an  historical  chain,  our  bent  is 
to  proceed  orderly  from  causes  to  their  effects,  we  find  not  the  same 
bent  in  matters  of  science  :  there  we  seem  rather  disposed  to  pro- 
ceed from  eftects  to  their  causes,  and  from  particular  propositions  to 
those  which  are  more  general.     Why  this  difference  in  matters  that 
appear  so  nearly  related  ?     I  answer,  The  cases  are  similar  m  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  :  m  our  pro- , 
gress  from  particular  effects  to  general  causes,  and  from  particular 
propositions  to  the  moie  comprehensive,  we  feel  a  gradual  dilatation 
or  expansion  of  mind,  like  what  is  felt  in  an  ascending  series  which 
is  extremely  pleasing :  the  pleasure  here  exceeds  what  anses  from 
folbwing  the  course  of  nature  ;  and  it  is  that  pleasure  which  regu- 
lates our  train  of  thought  in  the  case  now  mentioned,  and  m  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  regukrly 
from  principles  to  their  consequences,  is  more  agreeable  to  tliestnct- 
ness  of  order  ;  but  in  following  the  opposite  course  in  the  analytic 
method  we  have  a  sensible  pleasure,  like  mounting  upward,  which  is 
not  telt  in  the  other  :  the  analytic  method  is  more  agreeable  to  the 

eo  The  principle  of  order  governing  perceptions  and  ideas.— Things  of  equal  and  of  un 
Afiti&l  r&ntc* 
61.  Instances  of  Ideas  following  in  the  order  of  nattvro. 


PEECEPTI0N8  AND  IDEAS  IN  A  TRAIN.  85 

imagination ;  the  other  method  will  be  preferred  ty  those  only 
who  with  rigidity  adhere  to  order,  and  give  no  indulgence  to  natural 
emotions. 

63.  It  now  appears  that  we  are  framed  by  nature  to  relish  order 
and  connection.  When  an  object  is  introduced  by  a  proper  con- 
nection, we  are  conscious  of  a  certain  pleasure  arising  from  that 
circumstanpc.  Among  objects  of  equal  rank,  the  pleasure  is  propor- 
tioned to  the  degree  of  connection :  but  among  unequal  objects 
where  we  require  a  certain  order,  the  pleasure  arises  chJtfly  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 : 
the  mind  proceeds  with  alacrity  down  a  flowing  river,  and  with  the 
same  alacrity  from  a  whole  to  its  parts,  or  from  a  principal  to  .its 
accessories ;  but  in  the  contrary  direction,  it  is  sensible  of  a  sort  of 
retrograde  motion,  which  is  unpleasant.  And  here  may  be  remarked 
the  great  influence  of  order  upon  the  mind  of  man ;  gi-andeur,  which 
makes  a  deep  impression  inclines  ua,  in  running  over  any  series,  to 
proceed  from,  small  to  great,  rather  than  from  great  to  small ;  but 
order  prevails  over  that  tendency,  and  affords  pleasure  as  well  as 
facility  in  passing  from  a  whole  to  its  parts,  and  from  a  snbject  to 
its  ornaments,  which  are  not  felt  in  the  ojjposite  course.  Elevation 
touches  the  mind  no  less  than  gi-andeur  doth ;  and  in  raising  the 
mind  to  elevated  objects,  there  is  a  sensible  pleasure :  the  course  of 
nature,  however,  hath  still  a  gi-eater  influence  than  elevation  ;  and 
therefore,  the  pleasure  of  falling  with  rain,  and  descending  gradually 
with  a  river,  prevails  over  that  of  mounting  upward.  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. 

64.  Every  work  of  art  that  is  confonnable  to  the  natural  coui-se 
of  our  ideas,  is  so  far  agreeable ;  and  every  work  of  art  that  reverses 
that  course,  is  so  far  disagreeable.  ITflnce  it  is  required  in  every 
such  work,  that,  like  an  organic  sjrstem,  its  parts  be  orderly  arranged 
and  mutually  connected,  beaiing  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  cona- 
position,  and  so  far  arc  pleased  with  the  performance.  Homer  is 
defective  in  order  and  connection ;  and  Pindar  more  remarkably. 
Regularity,  order,  and  connection  are  painful  restraints  on  a  bold 
and  fertile  imagination;  and  are  not  patiently  submitted  to,  but 
afler  much  culture  and  discipline.  In  Horace  there  is  no  fault  more 
eminent  than  want  of  connection :  instances  are  without  number. 
Of  Virgil's  Georgics,  though  esteemed  the  most  complete  work  of 
that  author,  the  parts  are  ill  connected,  and  the  transitions  far  from 

63.  Why,  In  matters  of  science,  we  reverse  the  order  of  nature  in  onr  srmngeinent,— Th« 
Mulytlc  and  synthetic  modes  of  reasoning. 
«J.  The  relish  of  the  mind  for  order  and  connection.    Instances. 


36  PEECEPTIOXS  AND  IDEAS  IN  A  TEAIX. 

being  sweet  and  easy.  The  two  prefaces  of  Sallust  look  as  if  by 
some  blunder  they  had  been  prefixed  to  his  two  histories ;  they  wiU 
suit  any  other  history  as  well,  or  any  subject  as  well  as  histoiy. 
Even  members  of  the*e  prefaces  are  but  loosely  connected :  they 
look  more  like  a  number  of  maxims,  or  observations,  than  a  con- 
nected discourse. 

Co.  An  episode  in  a  narrative  poem,  being  in  effect  an  accessory, 
demands  not  that  strict  union  with  the  pnncipal  subject,  which  is 
requisite  between  a  whole  and  its  constituent  parts :  it  demands, 
however,  a  degree  of  union,  such  as  ought  to  subsist  between  a 
principal  and  accessory ;  and  therefore  will"  not  be  graceful  if  it  be. 
loosely  connected  .with  the  principal  subject.  I  give  for  an  example 
,  the  descent  of  JEneas  into  hell,  which  employs  the  sixth  book  of 
the  ^neid  :  the  reader  is  not  prepared  for  that  important  event : 
no  cause  is  assigned  that  can  make  it  appear  necessary,  ov  even 
natural,  to  suspend  for  so  long  a  time  the  principal  action  in  its  most 
interesting  peiiod  :  the  poet  can  find  no  pretext  for  an  adventure  so 
extraordinaiy,  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  "loses  his  ardor.  Pity  it  is  that  an  episode  so  extremely 
beautiful,  were  not  more  happily  introduced.  I  must  observe,  at  the 
same  time,  that  full  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  connection  ought  to  be  still  more  intimate. 

6(3.  In  a  natural  landscape,  we  every  day  perceive  a  multitude  of 
objects  connected  by  contiguity  solely;  which  is  not  unpleasant, 
because  objects  of  sight  make  an  impression  so  lively,  as  that  a 
relation  even  of  the  slightest  kind  is  relished.  This,  however,  ought 
not  to  be  imitated  in  description :  words  are  so  far  short  of  the  eye 
in  liveliness  of  impression,  that  in  a  description  connection  ougl't  to 
be  carefully  studied ;  for  new  objects  introduced  in  description  are 
made  more  or  less  welcome  in  proportion  to  the  degree  of  th<^r 
connection  Avith  the  principal  subject.  In  the  following  passage, 
different  things  are  brought  together  without  the  slightest  connec- 
tion, if  it  be  not  what  may  be  called  verbal,  i.  e.  taking  the  same 
word  in  different  meanings. 

Surgamus :  solet  esse  gravis  cantantibus  umbra. 

Juniperi  gravis  umbra :  nocent  et  frugibus  umbras. 

Ite  domum  saturse,  venit  Hesperus,  ite  capcllse. 

Firg.  Buc.  x.  75. 

67.  The  relations  among  objects  have  a  considerable  influence  in 

the  gratification  of  our  passions,  and  even  in  their  production.     Bui 

that  subject  is  reserved  to  be  treated  in  the  chapter  of  emotions  and 

passions.    (Chap.  ii.  part  i.  sect.  4.) 

61.  The  requisites,  accordingly,  In  every  work  of  art— rvomarks  upon  IXomer,  Plnlw 
norace,  Virsril,  and  Sallust 

65.  Episodes.    Example  from  the  JJnMrt. 

66,  Rule  fbr  descFiptlim. 


JiMOTIONS  AKD  P^VSSIONS.  37 

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  perceptions 
into  one  connected  chain,  produce  connection  of  action,  because 
perception  and  action  have  an  intimate  correspondence.  But  it  is 
not  suflScient  for  the  conduct  of  life,  that  our  actidns  be  linked 
togetlier,  however  intimately :  it  is.besides  necessary  that  they  pro- 
ceed in  a  certain  order;  and  this  is  also  provided  for  by  an  original 
propensity.  Thus  order  and  connection,  while  they  admit  sufficient 
variety,  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  n. 


EMOTIONS    AND    PASSIONS. 


68.  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 
emotion;  the  most  pleasing  feelings  of  taste,  or  touch,  or  smell, 
aspire  not  to  that  honor.  From  this  observation  appears  the  con- 
nection of  emotions  and  passions  with  the  fine  arts,  which,  as  ob- 
served in  the  introduction,  are  all  of  them  calculated  to  give  pleasure 
to  the  eye  or  the  ear ;  never  once  condescending  to  gratify  any  of 
the  inferior  senses.  The  design  accordingly  of  this  c^japter  is  to 
delineate  that  connection,  with  the  view  chiefly  to  ascertain  what 
po^er  the  fine  arts  have  to  raise  emotions  and  passions.  To  those 
who  would  excel  in  the  fine  arts,  that  branch  of  knowledge  is  in- 
dispensable ;  for  without  it  the  critic,  as  well  as  the  undertitker, 
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. 

C9.  Human  nature  is  a  complicated  machine,  and  is  unavoidably 
80  in  order  to  answer  its  various  purposes.  The  public  indeed  have 
been  entertained  with  many  system.s  of  human  nature  that  flatter 
the  mind  by  their  simplicity :  according  to  some  writei's,  man  is 
entirely  a  selfish  being ;  according  to  othere,  univei-sal  benevolence 

«7.  The  relations  ntnong  objects  affect  onr  conduct  „         . .  ..^ 

6ft.  Feelinas  that  arc  disthiguUl-ed  by  the  name  of  p»s8iona.    Tholr  oonnecUon  wWi  U» 
floe  arta. — Object  of  .lie  cliapter. 


38  EM0TI0N8  AND  PASSIONS. 

is  liis  duty :  one  founfls  morality  upon  sympathy  solely,  and  one 
upon  utility.  If  any  of  these  systems  were  copied  from  nature,  the 
present  subject  might  be  soon  discussed.  But  the  vaiiety  of  nature 
is  not  so  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,  facts  as  they  really  exist. 


PART  I. 

CAUSES    UNFOLDED    OF    THE    EMOTIONS    AND    PASSIONS. 

SECTION  I. 

Difference  between  Emolion  and  Passion. —  Causes  that  are  the 
mo^t  common  and  the  most  general, — Passion  considered  as  pro- 
ductive of  action. 

VO.  It  is  a  fact  univereally  admitted,  that  no  emotion  or  passion 
ever  starts  up  in  the  mind  without  a  cause :  if  I  love  a  person,  it  is  for 
good  qualities  or  good  oflSces  :  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. 

71.  The  circumstimces  now  mentioned,  if  they  raise  an  emotion 
or  pa-ssion,  cannot  be  entirely  indifferent ;  for  if  so,  they  could  not 
make  any  impression.  And  we  find,  upon  examination,,  that  they 
are  not  indifferent :  looking  back  upon  the  foregoing  examples,  the 
good  qualities  or  good  offices  that  attract  my  love,  are  antecedeiltly 
agreeable :  if  an  injury  did  not  give  uneasiness,  it  would  not  occa 
sion  resentment  against  the  author :  nor  would  the  passion  of  pity 
be  raised  by  an  object  in  distress,  if  that  object  did  not  give  pain. 

72.  What  is  now  said  about  the  production  of  emotion  or  passion, 
resolves  itself  into  a  very  simple  proposition,  That  we  love  what  is 
agreeable,  and  hate  what  is  disagreeable.  And  indeed  it  is  evident, 
that  a  thing  must  be  agreeable  or  disagreeable,  before  it  can  be  the 
objec!;  either  of  love  or  of  hatred. 

73.  This  short  hint  about  the  causes  of  passion  and  emonon,  leads 
to  a  more  extensive  view  of  the  subject.  Such  is  our  nature,  that 
ui)on  })ercei\'ing  certain  external  objects,  we  are  instantaneously 

69.  Theories  of  hainRn  nature. 

70.  Emotions  or  passions  »re  not  without  oause.    Examples. 

71.  Remarks  on  foresroing  examples. 

72.  What  V.  i  lovf— wh:it  «•<?  bnte. 


E>I0TI0N3  AND  PASSIONS. 


39 


conscious  of  pleasure  or  pain:  a  gently-flovnng  river  a  smooth  ex- 
tended plain,  a  spreading  oak,  a  towering  lull,  are  objects  of  sight 
that  raise  pleasant  euwtions :  a  barren  heath,  a  dirty  marsh,  a 
rotten  carcass,  raise  painful  emotions.  Of  the  emotions  thus  produced, 
we  inquire  for  no  other  cause  but  merely  the  presence  ot  the  object. 
74  The  things  now  mentioned  raise  emotions  by  means  ot  tlieir 
properties  and  qualities  :  to  the  emotion  raised  by  a  large  nver,  its 
sizef  its  force,  and  its  fluency,  contribute  each  a  share :  the  regu- 
larity, propriety,  and  convenience  of  a  fine  building,  contnbute  each 
to  the  emotion  raised  by  the  building. 

75.  If  external  properties  be  agreeable,  we  have  reason  to  expect 
the  same  from  those  which  are  internal ;  and,  accordingly,  power, 
discernment,  wit,  mildness,  sympathy,  courage,  benevolence,  are 
agreeable  in  a  high  degree :  upon  perceiving  these  q"ahties  in 
others,  we  instantaneously  feel  pleasant  emotions,  without  the  slightest 
act  of  reflection,  or  of  attention  to  consequences.  It  is  almost  un- 
necessary to  add,  that  certain  qualities  opposite  to  .the  former,  such 
as  dullness,  peevishness,  inhumanity,  cowardice,  occasion  in  the  same 
manner  painful  emotions.  ,    .         .  „ 

76  Sensible  beings  affect  us  remarkably  by  their  actions,  borne 
actions  raise  pleasant  emotions  in  the  spectator,  without  the  least 
reflection;  such  as  graceful  motion,  and  genteel  behavior.  But  as 
intention,  a  capital  civcumstance  in  human  actions,  is  not  visible,  it 
requires  reflection  to  discover  their  tme  character.  I  see  one  deliver- 
ing a  purse  of  money  to  another,  but.  I  can  make  nothing  ot  tliat 
action,  till  I  learn  with  what  intention  the  money  is  given :  it  it  be 
ffiven  to  discharge  a  debt,  the  action  pleases  me  m  a  slight  degree; 
ff  it  be  a  grateful  return,  I  feel  a  stronger  emotion  ;  and  the  pleas- 
ant emotion  rises  to  a  great  height,  when  it  is  the  intention  ot  the 
eiver  to  relieve  a  virtuous  family  from  want.  Thus  actions  are 
qualified  bv  intention;  but  they  are  not  qualified  by  the  event;  tor 
an'action'well  intended  gives  pleasure,  whate^'er  the  event  be. 
Further,  human  actions  are  perceived  to  be  riffht  ov  wron<j  ;  and 
that  perception  qualifies  the  pleasure  or  pain  that  results  from  them. 
Emotions  are  raised  in  us,  not  only  by  the  qualities  and  actions  of 
othei-s,  but  also  by  their  feelings  :  I  cannot  behold  a  man  m  distress, 
without  partaking  of  his  pain  ;  nor  in  joy,  without  partaking  ot  his 

pleasure.  .,    ,  .  *•  „»  :„ 

77  The  beino^  or  things  above  descnbed  occasion  emotions  m 
us,  not  only  in  the  original  survey,  but  also  when  recalled  to  tlio 
memory  in  idea:  a  field  laid  out  with  taste  is  pleasant  in  the  recol- 
lection,' as  well  as  when  under  our  eye :  a  generous  action  descnbed 

7a  Amotions  on  percelvin?  certain  externnl  objects    The  cause  of  such  emotions. 

74   How  the  external  oblccts  mentioned  raise  cmotlona. 

75.  rntertial  or  mental  causes  of  pleasant  and  painfnl  emotions.  „„anaed  by  In- 

emotion. 


40  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

in  words  or  coioi's  occasions  a  sensible  emotion,  as  well  as  when  we 
BO'S  it  performed ;  and  when  we  reflect  upon  the  distress  of  any  per- 
son, our  pain  is  of  the  same  kind  with  what  we  felt  when  eye-Avit- 
nesses.  In  a  word,  an  agreeable  or  disagreeable  object  recalled  to 
the  mind  in  idea,  is  the  occasion  of  a  pleasant  or  painful  emotion,  of 
the  same  kind  with  that  produced  when  the  object  was  present :  the 
only  difference  is,  that  an  idea  being  fainter  than  an  original  percep- 
tion, the  pleasure  or  pain  produced  by  the  fonner  is  proportionably 
fainter  than  that  produced  by  the  latter. 

78.  Having  explained  the  nature  of  an  emotion,  and  mentioned 
several  causes  by  which  it  is  produced,  we  proceed  to  an  observa- 
tion of  considerable  importance  in  the  science  of  human  nature, 
which  is.  That  desire  follows  some  emotions,  and  not  othere.  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 ;  emo- 
tions, for  example,  raised  by  human  actions  and  qualities:  a  vir- 
tuous action  raiseth  in  eveiy  spectator  a  pleasant  emotion,  which  is 
commonly  attended  with  desire  to  reward  the  author  of  the  action : 
a  vicious  action,  on  the  contrary,  produceth  a  painful  emotion,  at- 
tended with  desire  to  punish  the  dehnquent.  Even  things  inanimate 
often  raise  emotions  accompanied  with  desire  :  witness  the  goods  of 
fortune,  which  are  objects  of  desire  almost  universally  :  and  the 
desire,  Avhen  immoderate,  obtains  the  name  of  avarice.  The  pleasant 
emotion  produced  in  a  spectator  by  a  capital  picture  in  the  pos- 
session 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. 

79.  It  is  a  truth  verified  by  induction,  that  every  passion  is  ac- 
companied with  desire ;  and  if  an  emotion  be  sometimes  accompanied 
with  desire,  sometimes  not,  ]<■  comes  to  be  a  material  inquiry,  in 
what  respect  a  passion  difters  from  an  emotion.  Is  passion  in  its 
nature  or  feeling  distinijuishable  from  emotion  ?  An  internal  mo- 
tion  or  agitation  of  the  mind,  ■R'hen  it  passeth  away  without  desire, 
is  denominated  an  emotion :  when  desire  follows,  the  motion  or 
agitation  is  denominated  a  passion,  A  fine  face,  for  example, 
raiseth  in  me  a  pleasant  feeling  :  if  that  feeling  vanish  without  pro- 
ducing any  effect,  it  is  in  proper  language  an  emotion  ;  but  if  the 
feeling,  by  reiterated  views  of  the  object,  become  sufiiciehtly  strong 
to  occasion  desire,  it  loses  its  names  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  injmy  done  to  a  stranger, 
being  accompanied  with  no  desire  of  rejcnge,  is  termed  an  emotion : 
but  that  injury  raiseth  in  a  stranger  a  stronger  emotion,  which,  being 
accompanied  with  desire  of  revenge,  is  a  passion :    external  ex- 

77.  Emotions  of  memory.    How  they  differ  from  those  of  ori^nal-pcrooitiou. 
TS- Som-*  emotions  acoomp.inipd  with  (ieslre;  others  not.     E\-nmi>!es. 


KMOTIONS  AND  I'ASSTONS.  41 

press! ons  of  Jistress  produce  in  the  spectator  a  painful  feeling,  which 
being  sometimes  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  ^7y  ;  envy  is  emula- 
tion in  excess ;  if  the  exaltation  of  a  competitor  be  barely  disagiee- 
able,  the  painful  feeling  is  an  emotion  ;  if  it  produce  desire  to  de- 
press him,  it  is  a  passion. 

80.  To  prevent  mistakes,  it  must  be  observed,  that  desire  here  is 
tak(!n  in  its  proper  sense,  namely,  that  internal  act,  which,  by  influ- 
encing 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 
countiy  may  flourish  in  arts  and  sciences :  but  such  internal  act  is 
more  properly  termed  a  wish  than  a  desire. 

.81.  Having  distinguished  passion  from  emotion,  we  proceed  to 
consider  passion  more  at  large,  with  respect  especially  to  its  power 
of  producing  action. 

We  have  daily  and  constant  experience  for  our  authority,  that  no 
man  ever  proceeds  to  action  but  by  means  of  some  antecedent  desire 
or  impulse.  So  well  established  is  this  observation,  and  so  deeply 
rooted  in  the  mind,  that  we  can  scarce  imagine  a  difterent  system  of 
action  :  even  a  child  will  say  familiarly.  What  should  itiake  me  do 
this  or  that,  when  I  have  no  desire  to  do  it  ?  Taking  it  then  for 
granted,  that  the  existence  of  action  depends  on  antecedent  desire, 
it  follows  that  where  there  is  no  desire,  there  can  be  no  action.  This 
opens  another  shining  distinction  between  emotions  and  passions. 
The  foi-mer,  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. 

82.  The  cause  of  a  passion  is  sufficiently  explained  above :  it  is 
that  being  or  thing,  which,  by  raising  desire,  converts  an  emotion  into 
a  passion.  When  we  consider  a  passion  with  respect  to  its  power  of 
prompting  action,  that  same  being  or  thing  is  termed  its  ohject :  a 
fine  woman,  for  example,  raises  the  passion  of  love,  which  is  directed 
to  her  as  its  object :  a  man,  by  injuring  me,  raises  ray  resentment, 
and  becomes  thereby  the  object  of  my  resentment.  Thus  the  cause 
of  a  passion  and  its  object  are  the  same  in  difiereut  respects.  An 
emotion,  on  the  other  hand,  being  in  its  nature  quiescent,  and  merely 
a  pjissive  feeling,  must  have  a  cause ;  but  cannot  be  said,  properly 
speaking,  to  have  an  object.* 

*  [Tho  came  of  a  passion  is  that  which  raises  it ;  the  obJ€4i  is  that  toward* 
which  it  prompts  us  to  act,  or  on  which  it  inclines  us  to  fix  our  attention.    The 

79.  Distinction  between  passion  and  emotion.— How  some  emotions  get  the  n»me  «t 
pu»sion8.     Illustrations. 

80.  Definition  of  Dp«lre.  ,         , 

81.  Passion  as  prodKcli\K  nction.— Another  distinction  between  emotions  and  [lasslons. 

83.  Whether  Uie  cause  of  a  passion  is  identical  with  Its  vbject.—\s  tho  same  true  of  \M 
eanso  of  an  emotion  f— Bealtle^s  remarks. 


4r2  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

83.  The  objects  of  our  passions  maybe  distinguished  into  two 
kinds,  general  and  pailicuhir.  A  man,  a  house,  a  garden,  is  a  par- 
ticuhir  object :  fame,  esteem,  opulence,  honor,  are  general  objects, 
because  each  of  them  comprehends  many  particulai's.  The  passions 
directed  to  general  objects  are  commonly  termed  appetites,  in  con- 
tradistinction to  passions  directed  to  particular  objects,  which  retain 
their  proper  name  :  thus  we  say  an  appetite  for  fame,  for  glory,  for 
conquest,  for  riches ;  but  we  say  the  passion  of  friendship,  of  love,  of 
gratitudi},  of  envy,  of  resentment.  And  there  is  a  material  difference, 
between  appetites  and  passions,  which  makes  it  proper  to  distinguish 
them  hy  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  men- 
tioned. 

84.  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  poweiful,  so  as  not  to  inflame  the  mind, 
nothing  is  felt  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  impoi'tance  of  the  object,  in  that  case  desire  of  doing  our 
duty  becomes  a  Avarm  passion, 

85.  The  actions  of  brute  creatures  are  generally  directed  by  in- 
stinct, meaning  blind  impulse  or  desire,  without  any  view  to  conse- 
quences. 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  perform  a  grateful  action  as  a  duty  incumbent  on  me ;  and  I 
light  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  any  view  to  consequences.  Infants,  like  brutes,  are 
mostly  governed  by  instinct,  without  the  least  \\q\v  to  any  end, 
good  or  ill.  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 

cause  and  the  object  of  a  passion  are  often,  but  not  always,  oneand  the  same 
thing.  Thus  present  good  is  both  the  eause  and  the  object  o^  joy  ;  we_ rejoice 
in.  it,  and  we  rejoice  on  account  of  it.  But  of  love  or  esteem,  the  cause  is  some 
ajrreeable  qunhty,  and  the  object  is  some  person  supposed  to  possess  that  agree- 
able quahty ;  of  resentment,  in  like  manner,  injury  is  the'  cause,  and  the  in- 
jurious person  the  object. — Beatti-e.] 

88.  Objects  of  passion,  particular  and  generaL    Instances. — How  appetite  differs  ttitm 
pMa.  on.    Instances. 
84.  Influence  of  an  obj<»et  of  duty. 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  48 

wealth,  without  the  least  view  of  ase ;  and  thereby  absurdly  con- 
verts means  into  an  end :  and  animal  love  often  huiries  to  fruition, 
without  a  thought  even  of  gratification. 

86.  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  imtinctive  ;  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. 

87.  With  respect  to  actions  exerted  as  means  to  an  end,  desire  to 
biing  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  done  with  any  view  to  consequences. 

We  learn  from  experience,  that  the  gi-atification  of  desire  is 
pleasant ;  and  the  foresight  of  that  pleasure  becomes  often  an  addi- 
tional motive  for  acting.  Thus  a  child  eats  by  the  mere  impulse  of 
hunger :  a  young  man  thinks  of  the  pleasm-e  of  gratification,  which 
being  a  motive  for  him  to  eat,  fortifies  the  original  impulse :  and  a 
man  further  advanced  in  life,  hath  the  additional  motive  that  it 
will  contnbute  to  his  health, 

88.  From  these  premises,  it  is  easy  to  deteirnine  with  accuracy, 
what  passions  and  actions  are  selfish,  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 
gootl  of  another,  they  are  social.  Ilence  it  follows,  that  instinctive 
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  afi'ection 
moves  me  to  exert  an  action  to  the  end  solely  of  advancing  my 
friend's  happiness,  without  regard  to  my  own  gi-atification,  the  action 
is  justly  denominated  social ;  and  so  is  also  the  atfection  that  is  ita 
cause  :  if  another  motive  be  added,  that  gratifying  the  affection  will 
also  contribute  to  ray  own  happiness,  the  action  becomes  partly  sel- 
fish. 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.* 

*  A  selfish  motive  proceeding  from  a  social  principle,  such  as  tliat  men- 
tioned, is  the  most  respectable  of  all  selfish  motives.    To  enjoy  the  pleasure 

85.  Action"  prompted  by  instinct  snd  by  reason.— Actions  of  bnites,  of  Infants,  of  adalta. 
86    Instinctive  passions. — Delib  ^ratlve  passions. 

S7.  The  same  mental  act  termed  a  desire  and  amotlr«.— The  foresight  of  the  gndiflcation 
it  desire,  a  motlre. 


44  EMOriONS  AN1>  PASSIONS. 

A  just  action,  when  prompted  by  the  principle  of  duty  solely,  is 
neither  social  nor  selfish.  When  I  perform  an  act  of  justice  with  a 
view  to  the  pleasure  of  gratification,  the  action  is  selfish :  1  pay  a 
debt  for  my  own  sake,  not  with  a  view  to  benefit  my  creditor.  But 
suppose  the  money  has  been  advanced  by  a  fiiend  without  interest, 
purely  to  oblige  me  :  in  that  case,  t(^ether  with  the  motive  of  grati- 
fication, there  arises  a  motive  of  gratitude,  which  respects  the  creditoi 
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  my  own  pleasure  m 
gratifying  the  desire,  vanisheth  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  \iew. 

89.  When  this  analvsis  of  human  nature  is  considered,  not  one 
article  of  which  can  with  truth  be  controverted,  there  is  reason  to 
be  sui-prised  at  the  blindness  of  some  philosophers,  who,  by  dark  and 
confused  notions,  are  led  to  deny  all  motives  to  action  but  what  arise 
fi-om  self-love.  Man,  for  aught  appears,  might  possibly  have  been 
so  fi-amed,  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  constitution,  partly  selfish,  partly  social,  fits  him  much  better  for 
his  present  situation.* 

90  Of  self,  every  one  hath  a  direct  perception ;  of  other  thmga 
we  have  no  knowledge  but  bv  means  of  their  attributes :  and  hence 
it  is,  that  of  self  the  perception  is  more  Kvely  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  ?t 

91.  In  the  foregoing  part  of  this  chapter  it  is  suggested,  that  some 
circumstances  make  beings  "or  things  fit  objects  for  desire,  others 

of  a  virtuous  action,  oue  must  be  virtuous ;  and  to  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  a  char- 
itable action,  one  must  think  charity  laudable  at  least  if  not  a  duty.  It  la 
otherwise  where  a  man  gives  charity  merely  for  the  sake  of  ostentation ;  tor 
this  he  may  do  without  having  any  pity  or  benevolence  in  his  temper. 

*  As  the  benevolence  of  many  human  actions  is  beyond  the  possibihty  or 
doubt,  the  argument  commonly  insisted  on  for  reconciling  such  actions  to  the 
Belflsh  Bvstem,  is,  that  the  only  motive  I  can  have  to  perform  a  benev-olent 
action,  o'r  an  action  of  any  kind,  is  the  pleasure  that  it  affords  me.  So  much 
then  is  yielded,  that  we  are  pleased  when  we  do  good  to  others;  which  is  a 
fair  admission  of  the  principle  of  benevolence ;  for  without  that  prmciple,  what 
pleasure  could  one  have  in  doing  good  to  others  ?  And  admitting  a  nrinciple 
of  benevolence,  why  may  it  not  6e  a  motive  to  action,  as  well  as  selHsliness  is, 
or  any  other  principle  ? 

t  [Consult  Beattie's  Moral  Science,  2S6-9.J . 

8«  Passions  and  actions  that  are  selfish;  social;  neither.  Illnstraaoni-KcitArks « 
chaHtv  ;  on  an  act  of  justice ;  on  meeting  wit!,  an  act  ot  generosity. 

89,  'The  error  of  referriD|  all  actions  to  self-love.    Its  refuuUon. 

90.  Tbe  predominance  of  self-love  accounted  for. 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 


45 


not    This  hint  ought  to  be  pursued.     It  is  a  truth  ascertained  by 
univereal  experience,  that  a  thing  which  in  our  apprehension  is 
beyond  reach,  never  is  the  object  of  desire;  no  man  m  his  right 
senses  desires  to  walk  on  the  clouds,  or  to  descend  to  the  centre  ot 
the  earth :  we  may  amuse  ourselves  in  a  revene,  with  building 
castles  in  the  air,  and  wishing  for  what  can  never  happen ;  but  sucb 
things  never  move  desire.     And  indeed  a  desire  to  do  what  we  are 
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  at- 
tainment is  faint,  and  the  event  extremely  uncertain,  the  object, 
however  agreeable,  seldom  raiseth  any  strong  desire  :  thus  beauty, 
or  any  other  good  quality,  in  a  woman  of  rank,  seldom  raises  love 
in  a  man  greatly  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  propoitioned  to  that  of  its  cause.    Hence  the  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  wliat  is  caused  by  any 
thintr  inanimate.     There  is  a  separate  reason  why  desire  of  which 
a  rafional  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  witliout  end : 
desire  directed  to  an  inanimate  being,  susceptible  neither  of  pleasure 
nor  pain,  is  not  capable  of  a  higher  gratification  than  that  of  ac- 
quiring the  property.     Hence  it  is,  that  though  every  emotion  ac- 
companied with  desire,  is,  strictly  speaking,  a  passion;  yet,  com- 
monly, none  of  these  are  denominated  passioiw,  but  where  a  sensible 
being,  capable  of  pleasure  and  pain,  is  the  object. 


SECTION   II. 
Power  of  Sounds  to  raise  Emotions  and  Fasstons. 

92.  Upon  a  review,  I  find  the  foregoing  section  almost  wholly 
employed  upon  emotions  and  passions  raised  by  objects  of  sight, 
though  they  are  also  raised  by  objects  of  hearing.  As  this  happened 
without  intention,  merely  because  such  objects  are  famihar  above 
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  respect  to 
their  influence  upon  the  inind.     It  has  already  been  observed,  that 

91.  What  is  said  of  things  beyond  onr  re»ch ;  of  tbinw  dlfflcalt  to  attain ;  of  «fferont 
tt^cets  equally  witliiu  reaoh  ?— Desires  directed  t»  beings  iimuitiiat*    Rnitn«t« ;  raUouaL 


4G  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

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  whi(;h  one 
human  being  can  display  itself  to  another,  the  objects  of  the  eye 
must  so  for  yield  preference  to  tliose  of  the  ear.  With  respect  to 
inanimate  objects  of  sight,  sounds  may  be  so  contiived  as  to  laise 
both  terror  and  miith  beyond  what  can  be  done  by  any  such  object. 
Musip  has  a  commanding  influence  over  the  mind,  especially  in 
conjunction  with  words.  Objects  of  sight  may  indeed  contiibute 
to  the  same  end,  but  more  faintly ;  as  where  a  love  poem  is  re- 
liearsed  in  a  shady  grove,  or  on  the  bank  of  a  purling  stream.  But 
sounds,  which  are  vastly  more  ductile  and  various,  readily  accom- 
pany all  the  social  affections  expressed  in  a  poem,  especially  emotions 
of  love  and  pity. 

93.  Music,  having  at  command  a  great  variety  of  emotions,  may, 
like  many  objects  of  sight,  be  made  to  promote  luxury  and  effemi- 
nacy ;  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  architect ui'e,  her  sister 
arts,  in  humanizing  and  polishing  the  mind ;  of  which  none  can 
doubt  who  have  felt  the  chamis  of  music.  But,  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  Cynsetha,  an  Arcadian  tribe,  has  the  fol- 
lowing train  of  reflections :  "  As  the  Arcadians  have  always  been 
celebrated  for  their  piety,  humanity,  and  hospitality,  we  are  naturally 
led  to  inquire,  how  it  has  happened  that  the  Cynaetheans  are  distin- 
guished from  the  other  Arcadians,  by  savage  mannere,  wickedness, 
and  cruelty.  I  can  attribute  this  difference  to  no  other  cause,  but 
a  total  neglect  among  the  people  of  Cynaitha,  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  in  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." 

No  one  will  be  surprl'sed  to  hear  such  influence  attributed  tc 
music,  when,  with  respect  to  another  of  the  fine  arts,  he  finds  a  hving 
instance  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  in  purifying  those  ot 
Arcadia. 

94.  The  licentious  court  of  Charles  IL,  among  its  many  disorders, 
engendered  a  pest,  the  virulence  of  which  subsists  to  this  day.     The 

92.  Comparative  influence  of  sounds  and  of  visible  objects  to  raise  e'notlons  and  pa£sion& 
— InJauenco  of  rational  beings ;  of  speech  ;  of  musia 
1*8.  Music  and  ber  (Jstu-  arts.— Polybius'  aooouut  oftbe  audout  Aioadlaus. 


EMOTIONS  AKD  PASSIONS.  47 

English  comedy,  copying  the  manners  of  the  court,  bccawe  abomi- 
nably licentious;  and  continues  so  (1763)  with  very  little  softening. 
It  is  there  an  established  rule,  to  deck  out  the  chief  characters  with 
eveiy  vice  in  fashion,  however  gross.  But,  as  such  charactei"s  viewed 
in  a  true  light  would  be  disgustful,  care  is  taken  to  disguise  their 
deformity  under  the  embellishnxents  of  wit,  sprightliness,  and  good 
humor,  which  in  mixed  company  makes  a  capital  figiire.  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 
off,  to  make  way  for  new  notions,  more  liberal  in  his  opinion  ;  by 
which  a  sovereign  contempt  for  religion,  and  a  declared  war  upon 
the  chastity  of  wives,  maids,  and  widows,  are  converted  from  being 
infamous  vices  to  be  -fashionable  virtues.  The  infection  spreads 
gradually  through  all  ranks,  and  becomes  univereal.  How  gladly 
would  I  listen  to  any  one  who  should  undertake  to  prove,  that  what 
I  have  been  describing  is  chimerical !  But  the  dissoluteness  of  our 
young  men  of  birth  will  not  suffer  me  to  doubt  of  its  reality.  Sir 
Harry  Wildair  has  completed  many  a  rake  ;  and  in  the  Suspicious 
Husband,  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  from  their  Maker  most  traitorously 
against  himself,  by  endeavoring  to  corrupt  and  disfigure  his  crea- 
tures !  If  the  comedies  of  Congreve  did  not  rack  him  with  remoi-se 
in  his  last  moments,  he  must  have  been  lost  to  all  sense  of  virtue. 
Nor  will  it  aftbrd  any  excuse  to  such  writers,  that  their  comedies  are 
entertaining :  unless  it  could  be  maintained,  that  wit  and  sprightli- 
ness are  better  suited  to  a  vicious  than  a  virtuous  character.  It 
would  grieve  me  to  think  so ;  and  the  direct  contrarj'  is  exemplified 
in  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  where  we  are  highly  entertained 
with  the  conduct  of  two  ladies  not  more  remarkable  for  mirth  and 
spirit  than  for  the  strictes*  purity  of  manners. 


SECTION  III.    -h 

Causes  of  the  Emotion  of  Joy  and  Sorrow. 

95.  This  subject  was  purposely  reserved  for  a  separate  section, 
because  it  could  not,  witli  perspicuity,  be  handled  under  the  general 

94,  Tb«  oorruptlsig  Influcne*  of  En|;lisU  come Jy.    Ilirw  tbonra 


4» 


48  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

head.  An  emotion  accompanied  with  desii-e  is  termed  a  passion  ; 
and  when  the  desire  is  fulfilled,  the  passion  is  said  to  be  gratified. 
Now,  the  gratification  of  eveiy  passion  must  be  pleasant ;  for  noth- 
ing can  be  more  natural,  than  that  the  accomplishment  of  any 
wish  or  desire  should  afiect  us  with  joy  :  I  know  of  no  exception  but 
when  a  man  stung  with  remorse  desires  to  chastise  and  punish  him- 
self.  The  joy  of  gratification  is  properly  called  a?i  emotion ;  be- 
cause it  makes  us  happy  in  our  present  situation,  and  is  ultimate  iu 
its  nature,  not  haviug  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, 
without  being  foreseen  or  thought  of,  and  which  therefore  could  not 
be  the  object  of  desire,  raiseth  an  emotion  of  the.  same  kind  with 
that  now  mentioned  ;  but  the  cause  must  be  different ;  for  there  can 
be  no  gTatification  where  there  is  no  desire.  We  have  not,  how- 
ever, far  to  seek  for  a  caik>e  :  it  is  involved  in  the  nature  of  man, 
that  he  cannot  be  inditferent  to  an  event  that  concerns  him  or  any 
of  his  connections ;  if  it  be  fortunate,  it  gives  him  joy ;  if  unlbrtu- 
nate,  it  gives  hira  sorrow. 

96.  In  no  situation  doth  joy  rise  to  a  greater  height,  than  vipon 

the  removal  of  any  violent  distress  of  mind  or  body ;  and  in  no 

situation  doth  soitow  lise  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  eftects.     Other  causes  concur.     One  is, 

that  violent  distress  always  raises  an  anxious  desire  to  be  fi-ee  from 

it ;  and  tlierefore  its  removal  is  a  high  gi-atification :  nor  can  we  be 

possessed  of  any  thing  that  makes  us  happy,  without  washing  its 

continuance ;  and  therefore  its  removal,  by  crossing  our  wishes,  must 

create  sorrow.     The  principle  of  contrast  is  another  cause :    an 

emotion  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  w-e  reflect  tipon  our  former  happiness  : 

Jaffier.  Tliere's  not  a  wretch  that  lives  on  common  charity, 
But's  happier  than  me.     For  I  liave  known 
The  luscious  sweets  of  plenty :  every  night 
Have  slept  with  soft  content  about  my  head, 

And  never  wak'd  but  to  a  joyful  morning.  / 

Yet  now  must  fall  like  a  full  ear  of  corn, 
Whose  blossom  'scap'd,  yet's  wither'd  in  the  ripening. 

Venice  Preserved,  Act  I.  Sc.  1. 

It  hath  always  been  reckoned  diflBcult  to  account  for  the  extreme 
pleasure  that  follows  a  cessation  of  bodily  pain  ;  as  when  one  is  le- 

95.  When  an  emotion  is  called  a  passion. — "Why  gratified  passion  is  pleasant  Excep- 
tion.— Why  the  joy  of  gratification  is  termed  an  emotion. — Tlie  enaotion  raised  by  a* 
accidental  ovcnt,  whether  fortunate  or  unfortunate. 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 


49 


lieved  from  the  rack,  or  from  a  violent  fit  of  the  stone.  What  is 
said  explains  this  difficulty,  in  the  easiest  and  simplest  manner : 
cessation  of  bodily  pain  is  not  of  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  ^e  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  con- 
tinues after  the  pain  is  gone,  and  produceth  a  very  pleasant  emotion. 
Sickness  hath  not  that  effect,  because  it  is  always  attended  with  a 
depression  of  spirits. 

9*7.  Hence  it  is,  that  the  gradual  diminution  of  acute  pain,  occa- 
sions a  mixed  emotion,  partly  pleasant,  partly  painful :  the  partial 
diminution  produceth  joy  in'  proportion ;  but  the  remaining  pam 
balanceth  the  joy.  This  mixed  emotion,  however,  hath  no  long  en- 
durance ;  for  the  joy  that  ariseth  upon  the  diminution  of  pain  soon 
vanisheth,  and  leaveth  in  the  undisturbed  possession  that  degree  of 
pain  which  remains. 

What  is  above  observed  about  bodily  pain,  is  equally  apphcable 
to  the  distresses  of  the  mind ;  and  accordingly  it  is  a  common  arti- 
fice, to  prepare  us  for  the  reception  of  good  news  by  alarming  our 
fears. 

SECTION  IV. 

Sympathetic  Emotion  of  Virtue,  and  its  catise, 

98.  One  feeling  there  is  that  merits  a  deliberate  view,  for  its 
singularity  as  well  as  utility.  Whether  to  call  it  an  emotion  or  a 
passion,  seems  uncertain :  the  former  it  can  scarce  be,  because  it  in- 
volves desire ;  the  latter  it  can  scarce  be,  because  it  has  no  object 
But  this  feeling,  and  its  nature,  will  be  best  understood  from  ex- 
amples. A  signal  act  of  gratitude  produceth  in  the  spectator  or 
reader,  not  only  love  or  esteem  for  the  author,  but  also  a  separate 
feeling,  being  a  vagu?  feeling  of  gratitude  without  an  object ;  a 
feeling,  however,  that  aisposes  the  spectator  or  reader  to  acts  of 
gratitude,  more  than  upon  an  ordinary  occasion.  This  feeling  is 
overlooked  by  writers  upon  ethics ;  but  a  man  may  be  convinced  of 
its  reality,  by  attentively  watching  his  own  heart  when  he  thinks 

9C.  In  what  cases  do  joy  and  sorrow  rise  to  the  greatest  height?  The  causes  assigned. 
Quotation  from  Venic«  Preserved.— Aceoxmt  for  the  pleasure  that  follows  a  cessation  of 
bodilvpain.  .  ,. 

9T.  Emotion  prt^lnced  by  the  gradnal  diminution  of  acute  pain.  Distresses  or  »• 
tulnd. 


50  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

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 
grateful  person.  The  feeling  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,  won- 
derfully 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  con- 
verted into  a  real  passion  of  gratitude :  in  such  a  state,  favors  are 
returned  double. 

99.  In  like  manner,  a  courageous  action  produceth  in  a  spectator 
the  passion  of  admiration  directed  to  the  author :  and  besides  this 
well-known  passion,  a  separate  feehng  is  raised  in  the  spectator, 
which  may  be  called  an  emotion  of  courage  ;  because,  while  under 
its  influence,  he  is  conscious  of  a  boldness  and  intrepidity  beyond 
what  is  usual,  and  longs  for  proper  objects  upon  which  to  exert  this 
emotion : 

Spuraantemqae  dari,  pecora  inter  inertia,  votis 
Optataprum,  aut  fulvum  descendere  monte  leonem. 
^     ^        '  .^Eneid,  iv.  158. 

Non  altramente  ill  tauro,  ove  I'irriti 
Geloso  amor  con  stimoli  pungenti, 
Horribilmente  mugge,  e  co'muggiti 
Gli  spirti  in  se  risveglia,  e  I'ire  ardenti : 
E'l  corno  aguzza  ai  tronchi,  a  par  ch'  inviti 
Con  vani  colpi  a'la  battaglia  i  venti. 

Tasso,  Canto  vii.  st.  55. 

So  full  of  valor  tliat  they  smote  the  air 
For  breatliing  in  their  races. 

Tempest,  Act  rV.  So.  4. 

The- emotions  raised  by  music,  independent  of  words,  must  be  all 
of  this  nature :  courage  roused  by  martial  music  performed  upon 
instruments  without  a  voice,  cannot  be  directed  to  any  object ;  nor 
can  grief  or  pity  raised  by  melancholy  music  of  the  same  kind  have 
an  object. 

100.  For  another  example,  let  us  figure  some  grand  and  heroic 
action,  highly  agreeable  to  the  spectator :  besides  veneration  for  the 
author,  the  spectator  feels  in  himself  an  unusual  dignity  of  character, 
which  disposeth  him  to  great  and  noble  actions ;  and  herein  chiefly 
consists  the  extreme  dehght  every  one  hath  in  the  histories  of  con- 
querors and  heroes. 

This  singular  feeling,  which  may  be  termed  the  sympathetic  emo- 
tion of  virtue^  resembles,  in  one  respect,  the  well-known  appetites 
that  lead  to  the  propagation  and  preservation  of  the  species.  The 
appetites  of'hunger,  thirst,  and  animal  love,  arise  in  the  mind  before 
they  are  directed  to  any  object ;  and  in  no  case  whatever  is  the 

98.  Peelings  produced  by  contemplating  a  signal  act  of  gratitude.  In  -what  does  their 
Binpnlarity  consist?  , 

99.  The  effect  of  contemplf  ring  a  courageous  action.— Tlie  effect  of  martial  and  of  iiu«J» 
annholy  music 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 


51 


mind  more  solicitous  for  a  orroper  object,  than  -when  under  the  in- 
fluence of  any  of  these  appetites. 

The  feeling  I  have  endeavored  to  unfold,  may  well  be  termed  th£ 
sympathetic  emotion  of  virtue ;  for  it  is  raised  in  the  spectator,  or 
in  a  reader,  by  virtuous  actions  of  every  kind,  and  by  no  other  sort. 
When  we  contemplate  a  virtuous  action,  which  fails  not  to  prompt 
our  love  for  the  author,  our  propensity  at  the  same  time  to  such 
actions  is  so  much  enlivened,  as  to  become  for  a  time  an  actual 
emotion.  But  no  man  hath  a  propensity  to  vice  as  such :  on  the 
contrary,  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. 

101.  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 
punishments,  from  which  the  guilty  never  escape ;  to  perform  noble 
and  generous  actions,  a  warm  sense  of  their  dignity  and  superior 
excellence  is  a  most  efficacious  incitement.  And  to  leave  virtue  in 
no  quarter  unsupported,  here  is  untblded  an  admirable  contrivance, 
bv  which  good  example  commands  the  heart,  and  adds  to  virtue  the 
force  of  habit.  We  approve  eveiy  virtuous  action,  and  bestow  our 
affection  on  the  author ;  but  if  virtuous  actions  produced  no  other 
effect  upon  us,  good  example  would  not  have  great  influence  :  the 
sympathetic  emotion  under  consideration  bestows  upon  good  ex- 
ample the  utmost  influence,  by  prompting  us  to  imitate  what  we 
admire.  This  singular  emotion  will  readily  find  an  object  to  exert 
itself  upon  :  and  at  any  rate,  it  never  exists  without  producing  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,  internal  and  external, 
leads  to  habit ;  for  a  disposition  or  propensity  of  the  mind,  hko  a 
hmb  of  the  body,  becomes  stronger  by  exercise.  Proper  means,  at 
the  same  time,  being  ever  at  hand  to  raise  this  sympathetic  emotion, 
its  frequent  reiteration  may,  in  a  good  measure,  supply  the  want  of 
a  more  complete  exercise.  Thus,  by  proper  discipline,  every  person 
may  acquire  a  settled  habit  of  virtue :  intercoms  with  men  of  worth, 
histories  of  generous  and  disinterested  actions,  and  frequent  medita- 
tion upon  them,  keep  the  sympathetic  emotion  in  constant  exercise, 
which  by  degrees  introduceth  a  habit,  and  confinns  the  autliority  of 
virtue  :  vnth  respect  to  education  in  particular,  what  a  spacious  and 
commodious  avenue  to  the  heart  of  a  young  person  is  here  opened ! 

100.  WTience  the  delight  taken  in  reatUng  the  history  of  heroes  and  conqncrort.— E»- 
•Yiarks  npon  the  sympathetic  emotion  of  virtue. — Has  man  a  propensity  to  vice  <u  vueh  T 

101.  Incitements  to  virtue  In  the  human  frame.— The  effect  of  every  oxerdae  of  Tlrto* 
—How  babits  of  virtue  may  be  acquired. 


63  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 


SECTION  V. 

Jn  many  instances  one  Emotion  is  productive  of  another.    The  saiM 
of  Passions. 

102.  In  the  first  chapter  it  is  observed,  that  the  relations  by 
which  things  are  connected,  have  a  remarkable  influence  on  the 
ti-ain  of  our  ideas.  I  here  add,  that  they  have  an  influence,  no  less 
remarkable,  in  the  production  of  emotions  and  passions.  Beginning 
•with  the  former,  an  agreeable  object  makes  every  thing  connected 
■with  it  appear  agreeable  ;  for  the  mind  ghding  sweetly  and  easily 
through  related  objects,  cari-ies  along  the  agreeable  properties  it 
meets  with  in  its  passage,  a'nd  bestows  them  on  the  present  object, 
which  thereby  appears  more  agreeable  than  when  considered  apart. 
No  relation  is  more  intimate  than  that  between  a  being  and  its 
qualities:  and  accordingly,  every  quality  in  a  hero,  even  the  slightest, 
makes  a  greater  figure  than  more  substantial  qualities  in  others.  The 
propensity  of  carrying  along  agreeable  properties  fi'om  one  object  to 
another,  is  sometimes  so  vigorous  as  to  convert  defects  into  properties: 
the  wry  neck  of  Alexander  was  imitated  by  his  courtiers  as  a  real 
beauty,  without  intention  to  flatter:  Lady  Percy,  speaking  of  her 
husband  Hotspur, 


•  By  his  light 


Did  all  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  practised  not  his  gait : 

And  speaking  thick,  which  Nature  made  his  blemish, 

Became  the  accents  of  the  valiant: 

For  those  who  could  speak  slow  and  tardily, 

Would  turn  their  own  perfection  to  abuse, 

To  seem  hko  him. 

Second  PaH,  Henry  IV.  Act  II.  So.  6. 

103.  The  same  communication  of  passion  obtains  in  the  relation 
of  principal  and  accessory.  Pride,  of  which  self  is  the  object,  ex- 
pands itself  upon  a  house,  a  garden,  servants,  equipage,  and  every 
accessory.     A  lover  addresseth  his  fair  one'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  Maiy,  or  the  supposed  blood  of  St. 

102.  Influence  of  the  relations  of  things  in  producing  emotions  and  passions.— The  In- 
fluence of  an  agreeable  object  on  connected  objects.— The  relation  of  a  being  and  Its  qu»U- 
Um.— The  propensity  of  carrying  along  agreeable  properties  from  one  o^ect  to  another.— 
Tli»  wry  nwk  of  AU!Tan''.<>r.— The  speech  of  La-iy  Percy  concerning  Hot»imT. 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  53 

Januarius*  A  temple  is  in  a  proper  sense  an  accessory  of  the 
deity  to  which  it  is  dedicated :  Diana  is  rhasie,  and  not  only  her 
temple,  but  the  very  icicle  which  hangs  on  it,  must  partake  of  that 

property : 

The  noble  sister  of  Poplicola, 
The  moon  of  Rome  ;  cnaste  as  the  icicle 
That's  curdled  by  the  frost  from  purest  snow, 
And  hangs  on  Dian's  temple. 

Coriolanus,  Act  V.  Sc.  8. 

Thus  it  is,  that  the  respect  and  esteem  which  the  great,  the  pow 
erful,  the  opulent  naturally  command,  are  in  some  measure  com 
municated  to  their  dress,  to  their  manners,  and  to  all  their  connec- 
tions :  and  it  is  this  communication  of  properties,  which,  prevailing 
even  over  the  natural  taste  of  beauty,  helps  to  give  currency  to  what 
is  called  the  fashion. 

104.  By  means  of  the  same  easiness  of  communication,  every  bad 
quality  in  an  enemy  is  spread  upon  all  his  connections.  The  sen- 
tence pronounced  against  Ravaillac  for  the  a.ssassination  of  Henry 
IV.  of  France  ordains  that  the  house  in  which  he  was  bom  should 
be  razed  to  the  ground,  and  that  no  other  building  should  ever  be 
erected  on  that  spot.  Enmity  will  extend  passion  to  objects  still 
less  connected.  The  Swiss  suflfer  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,  beg'one ;  I  cannot  brook  thy  sight ; 
This  news  hath  made  theo  a  most  ugly  man. 

Mng  John,  Act  III.  So.  1. 

Yet  the  first  bringer  of  unwelcome  news 
Hath  but  a  losing  office :  and  his  tongue 
Sounds  ever  after,  as  a  sullen  bell 
Kemember'd  tolling  a  departed  friend.  ,      ,  „     „ 
Second  Fart,  Henry  IV.  Act  I.  Sc.  8. 

In  borrowing  thus  properties  from  one  object  to  bestow  them  on 
another,  it  is  not  anv  object  indifferenUy  that  will  answer.  The  ob 
iect  from  which  properties  are  borrowed,  must  be  such  as  to  warm 
the  mind  and  enliven  the  imagination.  Thus  the  beauty  of  a  woman, 
which  inflames  the  imagination,  is  readily  communicated  to  a  glove, 
as  above  mentioned  ;  but  the  greatest  beauty  a  glove  is  susceptible 

•  But  wliv  worship  the  cross  which  is  supposed  to  'b?  that  upon  which  our 
Saviour  sutfered  ?  T^hut  cross  ought  to  bo  the  object  of  hatred,  not  ot  venera- 
Uou  [f  be  urged,  that  as  an  instrument  of  Christ  s  suffering  it  was  saluta^ 
to  mMnkind,  I  uuswor,  Why  is  not  also  Pontius  Pilate  reverenced,  Caiuphaa 
the  high-priest,  and  .ludas  Iscariot  ?  ^^^^^^^ 

103.  The  communication  of  pa.ssion  in  the  relation  of  principal  and  fc3ces*oiy.-Pri<to^ 
Love.— Veneration  for  relics.— A  temple.— Diana. -The  Jasbion. 


54  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

o^  touches  the  mind  so  little,  as  to  be  entirely  dropped  in  passing 
from  it  to  the  owner.  In  general,  it  mcvy  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  remarkable 
effect  in  mending  her  appearance.* 

105.  The  emotions  produced  as  above  may  properly  be  termed 
secondary,  being  occasioned  either  by  antecedent  emotions  or  ante- 
cedent 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  hap- 
pens 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  hath  to  generate  love  to  children. 
Every  man,  besides  making  part  of  &.  greater  system,  like  a  comet,  a 
planet,  or  satellite  only,  hath  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,  fundamentally  that  of  cause  and  effect,  be- 
comes, by  the  addition  of  other  circumstances,  the  completest  that 
can  be  among  individuals  ;  and  therefore  self-love,  the  most  vigor- 
ous of  all  passions,  is  readily  expanded  upon  children.  The  second- 
aiy  emotion  they  produce  by  means  of  their  connection,  is  sujBB- 
ciently  strong  to  move  desire  even  from  the  beginning ;  and  the 
new  passion  swells  by  degrees,  till  it  rivals  in  some  measure  self-love, 
the  primary  passion.  To  demonstrate  the  trath  of  this  theory,  I 
urge  the  following  argument.  Remorse  for  betraying  a  friend,  or 
murderino-  an  enemy  in  cold  blood,  makes  a  man  even  hate  himself: 
in  that  state,  he  is  not  conscious  of  affection  to  his  children,  but 
rather  of  disgust  or  ill-will.  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  ? 

106.  The  aftection  a  man  bears  to  his  blood  relations,  depends 

*  A  house  and  gardens  surrounded  with  pleasant  fields,  all  in  good  order, 
bestow  greater  lustre  upon  the  o^vner  than  at  firet  will  be  imagined.  The 
beauties  of  the  former  are,  by  intimacy  of  connection,  readily  communicated 
to  the  latter ;  and  if  it  have  been  done  at  the  expense  of  the  owner  himself,  we 
naturally  transfer  to  him  whatever  of  design,  art,  or  taste  appears  in  the  per- 
fornianee.  Should  not  this  be  a  strong  motive  with  proprietors  to  embellish 
and  improve  their  fields  ? 

104.  Bad  qualities  in  an  enemy  (iiffused.— Sentence  against  Eavaillac.— The  Swiss  against 
peacoclcs.— The  Hearer  of  bad  tidings.  Illustrations  from  Shakspeare.— In  borrowing 
properties  from  one  object  to  bestow  tliem  on  another,  not  every  object  will  answer.  Il- 
lustrate. -  .  t     f      ^1 

105.  Distinction  between  seconJary  and  primary  emotions.— One  passion  proMuctiv-e  oi 
•notier.— Self-love  produces  love  to  childem.— Man  compared  to  tie  solar  system.— b«ir- 
hi»t>  td,  ariaing  froai  a  base  act,  is  extended  to  his  children. 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 


&b 


partly  jn  the  same  principle :  self-love  is  also  expanded  upon  them ; 
and  tie  communicated  passion  is  more  or  less  vigorous  in  proportion 
to  the  degree  of  connection.  Nor  doth  self-love  rest  here  :  it  is,  by 
Uie  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  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  state  than  in  any  other  condition  ;  and  Otway, 
in  Venice  Preserved,  takes  advantage  of  that  circumstance :  in  the 
scene  where  Belvidera  sues  to  her  father  for  pardon,  she  is  repre- 
sented as  pleading  her  mother's  merits,  and  the  resemblance  she 
bore  to  her  mother  : 

Priuli.  'iS.j  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  yoa 
"When  in  her  blooming  years  she  was  your  treasuro, 
Look  kindly  on  me ;  in  my  face  behold 
The  lineaments  of  hers  y'  nave  kissed  so  often. 
Pleading  the  cause,  of  your  poor  cast-off  child. 

And  again, 

Belvidera.  Lay  me,  1  beg  you,  lay  me 
By  the  dear  ashes  of  my  tender  mother : 
She  would  have  pitied  me,  had  fate  yet  spard'd  her. 

Act  V.  So.  1. 

This  explains  why  any  meritorious  action,  or  any  illustrious  qualifi- 
cation, 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 Avith  him,  it  is  still  more  natural  that  I  should  value  myself 
upon  account  of  my  connection  with  him. 

107.  Friendship,  or  any  other  social  affection,  may,  by  chan^ng 
the  object,  produce  opposite  effects. 

Pity,  by  interesting  us  strongly  for  the  person  in  distress,  must  of 
consequence  inflame  our  resentment  against  the  author  of  the  dis- 
tress :  for,  in  general,  the  affection  we  have  for  any  man,  generates 
in  us  good-will  to  his  friends,  and  ill-will  to  his  enemies.  Shaks- 
peai-e  shows  great  art  in  the  funeral  oration  pronounced  by  Antony 
over  the  body  of  Caesar.  He  first  endeavors  to  excite  grief  in  the 
hearers,  by  dwelling  upon  the  deplorable  loss  of  so  great  a  man  : 
this  passion,  interesting  them  strongly  in  Caesar's  fate,  could  not  fail 
to  produce  a  lively  sense  of  the  treachery  and  cruelty  of  the  con- 

106.  The  RffecOon  a  man  bears  to  blood  relations,  and  even  to  thlnsp  Inanimate^epends 
on  what?— Communicated  passion  arising  from  friendship;  especially  in  'he  matrimonial 
state.  Instance  from  VeniiM  Preserc«d.—Tho  eflfect  upon  us  of  any  meritorious  quaun- 
■Wtion  in  a  son  or  friencL 


5 (J  ■  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

spiratoi-s;  an  infallible  method  to  inflame  the  resentment  of  tli« 
people  beyond  all  bounds : 

Antony.  If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  sbed  them  now 

You  all  do  know  this  mantle.    1  remember 

The  first  time  ever  Caesar  put  it  on ; 

'Twas  on  a  summer's  evenmg,  in  his  tent, 

That  day  he  overcame  the  Kervii—         .,  ^^„  ,  , 

Look  !  in  this  place  ran  Cassius'  dagger  through,— 

See  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made. 

Throuo-h  this  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabb  d, 

And,  at  he  pluck'd  his  cursed  steel  away, 

Mark  how  the  blood  of  Cajsar  follow'd  it ! 

Ae  rushing  out  of  doors,  to  be  resolved, 
'    If  Brutus  so  unkindly  knock'd  or  no: 

For  Brutus,  as  you  know,  was  Ciesar  s  angel. 

Judge'oh  you  &ods !  how  dearly  Cjesar  loved  him  1 

This,  this,  was  the  unkindest  cut  ot  all ; 

For  when  the  noble  Ctesar  saw  him  stab. 

Ingratitude,  more  strong  than  traitor  s  arms. 

Quite  vanquish'd  him ;  then  burst  Ins  mighty  heart, 

And,  in  his  mantle  muffling  up  his  face,  . 

Which  all  the  while  ran  olood,  great  Cajsar  tell. 

Even  at  the  base  of  Pompey's  statue. 

0  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen  1 

Then  I,  and  you,  and  all  of  us,  fell  down. 

Whilst  bloody  treason  flourish'd  over  us. 

0,  now  you  weep ;  and  I  perceive  you  tecl 

The  dint  of  pity :  these  are  gracious  drops. 

Kind  souls  !  what!  weep  you  when  you TDut  behold 

Our  tesar's  vesture  wounded  ?  look  you  here ! 

Here  is  himself,  marr'd  as  you  .ee,  ^Vj^^^^^^  ^^,  i„.  g,.  g. 

Had  Antony  endeavored  to  excite  his  audience  V'^^'i^''*'";  w 
out  pfving  the  way  by  raising  their  grief,  his  speech  would  not  have 

"toV'Hrel'XTe^-dissocial  passions,  produce  effects  directly 
opposle  to  thos'e  above  mentioned.  If  I  hate  a  man  his  cMdre^ 
Sations,  nay  his  property,  become  to  me  objects  of  aversion .  his 
enemies,  on  the  other  hand,  I  am  disposed  to  esteem. 

The  more  slight  and  transitoiy  relations  are  not  favorable  to  the 
commuration^of  passion.  Anger,  when  sudden  and  indent  is  one 
SSption  :  for,  if  the  person  who  did  the  injury  be  removed  out  of 
3  tha  passion  will  vent  itself  against  any  related  object,  how- 
ever si  Xt  the  relation  be.  Another  exception  makes  a  greater 
Ture  a  2T0UP  of  beings  or  things  becomes  often  the  object  of  a 
SmuntcSed  mssion,  ef  en  where  the  relation  of  the  individuals  to 
rrerSpfentirbut  slight.  Thus,  though  I  V^-o.^^^^^^^^ 
single  man  for  living  in  the  same  town  with  myself ,  my  ^^^^^i!'^^^ 
however,  considered  in  a  body,  are  preferred  before  othe  s.  Th  s  is 
still  more  remarkable  with  .  respect  to  h^J  countrymen  in  gene  a  . 
the  grandeur  of  the  complex  objects  swells  the  passion  of  i.elf-love 

fttlapted  to  eicite  to  vengetnce. 


EMOTIONS  AMD  PASSIONS.  67 

lythe  relation  I  have  to  my  native  country;  and  every  passion, 
when  it  swells  beyond  its  ordinary  bounds,  hath  a  peculiar  tendency 
to  expand  itself  along  related  objects.  In  fact,  instances  are  not 
rare,  of  persons,  who  upon  all  occasions  are  willing  to  sacrifice  their 
lives  and  fortunes  for  their  countiy.  Such  influence  upon  the  mind 
of  man  hath  a  complex  object,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  a  general 
term. 

109.  The  sense  of  order  hath  influence  in  the  communication  of 
passion.  It  is  a  common  observation,  that  a  man's  affection  to  his 
parents  is  less  vigorous  than  to  his  children :  the  order  of  iiature  in 
descending  to  children,  aids  the  transition  of  the  affection :  the 
ascent  to  a  parent,  contrary  to  that  order,  makes  the  transition  more 
diflicult.  Gratitude  to  a  benefactor  is  readily  extended  to  his 
children  ;  but  not  so  readily  to  his  parents.  The  difference,  how- 
ever, between  the  natural  and  inverted  order,  is  not  so  considerable, 
but  that  it  may  be  balanced  by  other  circumstances.  Pliny  gives 
an  account  of  a  woman  of  rank  condemned  to  die  for  a  ciime ; 
and,  to  avoid  public  shame,  detained  in  prison  to  die  of  hunger : 
her  life  being  prolonged  beyond  expectation,  it  was  discovered  that 
she  was  nourished  by  sucking  milk  from  the  breasts  of  her  daughter. 
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  Androcles  and 
the  lion  may  be  accounted  for  in  the  same  manner :  the  admira- 
tion, of  which  the  lion  was  the  object  for  his  kindness  and  grati- 
tude to  Androcles,  produced  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  children  who  make  part  of  his  family;  not  so  readily 
against  children  who  are  foris-familiated,*  especially  by  mairiage. 
This  difference  is  also  more  remarkable  in  daughters  than  in  sons. 
These  are  curious  focts ;  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  mind  is  not  stationary,  but  passeth  and  repasseth 
from  the  one  to  the  oilier,  viewing  the  relation  from  each  of  them 

[*  Foris-famUiated  ; — person?,  who  luiving  received  a  portion  of  the  paternal 
estate,  give  up  all  title  to  a  further  sliaro.] 

108.  Operation  of  hatred  and  other  Ussocial  affections.— Transitory  relatlcLt,  mt  fcvoi* 
itblo  to  tuo  ooniinnnUatlon  of  passioD,     Two  exceptionit. 

3* 


58  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

perhaps  oftener  than  once ;  which  holds  more  especially  in  consider- 
fng  a  relation  between  things  of  unequal  rank,  as  between  the  cause 
and  the  effect,  or  between  a  principal  and  an  accessory :  in  contem- 
platincr,  for  example,  the  relation  between  a  building  and,  its  orna- 
ments°the  mind  is  not  satisfied  with  a  single  transition  from  the 
former  to  the  latter ;  it  must  also  view  the  relation,  beginning  at  the 
latter,  and  passing  from  it  to  the  former.  This  vibration  of  the  mind 
in  passing  and  repassing  between  thing's  related,  explains  the  facts 
above  mentioned  :  the  mind  passeth  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  any  circumstance  that  obstructs 
the  mind  in  passing  and  repassing  between  its  objects,  occasions  a 
like  obsti-uction  in  the  communication  of  passion.  The  marnage  ot 
a  male  obstructs  less  the  easiness  of  transition,  because  a  male  is 
less  sunk  by  the  relation  of  marriage  than  a  female. 

110.  The  foregoing  instances  are  of  pa^ion  commumcated  trom 
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  m  their  tone,  whether 
directed  to  the  same  or  to  a  different  object;  for  the  mmd,  heated 
by  any  passion,  is,  in  that  state,  more  susceptible  of  a  new  im- 
pression in  a  similar  tone,  than  when  cool  and  quiescent.     It  is  a 
common  observation,  that  pity  generally  produceth  friendship  for  a 
person  in  distress.     One  reason  is,  that  pity  interests  us  in  its  ob- 
ject   and  recommends  all  its  virtuous   quahties:    female   beauty 
accordingly  shows  best  in  distress ;  being  more  apt  to  inspire  love 
than  upon  an   ordinary  occasion.     But  the  chief  reason  is,  that 
pity,  warming  and  melting  the  spectator,  prepares  him  for  the  recep- 
fion  of  other  tender  aftections;  and  pity  is  readily  improved  into 
love  or  friendship,  by  a  certain  tenderness  and  concern  for  tlie  ob- 
ject, which  is  the  tone  of  both  passions.     The  aptitude  of  pity  to 
produce  love,  is  beautifully  illustrated  by  Shakspeare : 
Othelh.  Her  father  loved  me  ;  oft  invited  me 
Still  questioii'd  me  the  story  of  my  life, 
From  year  to  year ;  the  battles,  sieges,  fortunes, 
That  1  had  past. 

I  ran  it  through,  even  from  my  boyish  days, 
To  th'  very  moment  that  he  bade  me  tell  it : 
Wherein  I  spoke  of  most  disastrous  chances. 
Of  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field  \  ^  , 

Of  hair-breadth  'scapes  in  th'  imminent  deadly  bread! , 
Of  being  taken  by  the  insolent  foe. 
And  sold  to  slavery  ;  of  my  redemption  thcnoe, 

109.  Communication  of  passion  modified  by  the  sense  °' "J^er^-^ffc^f"^"  to  p^^^^^^^^ 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  99 

And  with  it  all  my  travel's  history. 

All  these  to  hear 

Would  Desdemona  seriously  incline ; 

Bu ;  Etill  the  house-aflFaira  would  draw  her  thencis, 

Whicli  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  dispatch, 

She'd  come  again,  and,  with  a  preedv  ear, 

Devour  up  my  discourse :  which  I  ooserving, 

Took  once  a  pliant  hour,  and  found  good  means 

To  draw  from  her  a  prayer  of  earnest  heart. 

That  1  would  all  my  pilgrimage  dilate. 

Whereof  by  parcels  sne  had  something  heard, 

But  not  distinctively.    1  did  consent, 

And  often  did  beguile  her  of  her  tears. 

When  1  did  speak  of  some  distressful  stroke 

That  my  youth  suffer'd.    My  story  being  done. 

She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world  of  signs : 

She  swore,  in  faith,  'twas  strange,  '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  loved  her, 

I  should  but  teach  him  how  to  tell  my  story, 

And  that  would  woo  her.    On  this  hint  I  spake ;  ' 

She  loved  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  past. 

And  I  loved  her,  that  she  did  pity  them  :    . 

This  only  is  the  witchcraft  I  have  used. 

OtheUo,  Act  I.  Sc.  8. 

In  this  instance  it  will  be  observed  that  admiration  concurred  with 
pity  to  produce  love. 


SECTION  VI. 
Causes  of  the  Passions  of  Fear  and  Anger. 

111.  Fear  and  anger,  to  answer  the  purposes  of  nature,  are  hap 
pily  so  contrived  as  to  operate  sometimes  instinctively,  sometimes 
deliberately,  according  to  circumstances.  As  far  as  deliberate,  they 
fall  in  with  the  general  system,  and  require  no  particular  explanation : 
if  any  object  have  a  threatening  ap}>carance,  reason  suggests  means 
to  avoid  the  danger :  if  a  man  be  injured,  the  first  thing  he  thinks 
of,  is  what  revenge  he  shall  take,  and  wliat  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  accurately 
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. 

112.  Self-preservation  is  a  matter  of  too  great  importance  to  be 
left  entirely  to  the  conduct  of  reason.  Nature  hath  acted  here  with 
her  usual  foresight.     Fear  and  anger  are  passions  that  move  us  to 

110.  One  passion  generated  by  another  without  change  of  object— Pity  frivM /j^,  ^ 
what  '—When  female  beauty  sh  )W8  to  best  advantage.    Why  ?— Quotation  from  OVifUa. 
\\\.  Fear  and  anpar  openiiiiig  tnstiucHvply  and  ilfllberBtelv. 


00  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

act  sometimes  deliberately,  sometimes  instinctively,  according^  to 
circumstances;  and  by  operating  in  the  ^^^^^er  manner,  they  fre- 
quently afford  security  when  the  slower  operations  of  dehberate 
reason  would  be  too  late:  we  take  nourishment  commonly  not  by 
the  direction  of  reason,  but  by  the  impulse  ot  hunger  and  thirst; 
and  in  the  same  manner,  we  avoid  danger  by  the  impulse  ot  tear, 
which  often,  before  there  is  time  for  reflection,  placeth  us  m  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  thmg 
more'  ailfully  contrived  to  answer  its  purpose,  than  the  mstmctive 
passion  of  fear,  which,  upon  the  fii^t  surmise  of  danger,  operates  in- 
stantaneously. So  little  doth  the  passion,  in  such  instances,  depend 
on  reason,  that  it  frequently  operates  in  contradiction  to  if  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  him,  though  conscious  that  he  is  in  no 
dano-er.  And  it  also  operates  by  impelling  us  to  act  even  ^^dlere  we 
are  "conscious  that  our  interposition  can  be  of  no  service  :  if  apas- 
sao-e-boat,  in  a  brisk  gale,  bear  much  to  one  side,  I  cannot  amd 
applyino-  the  whole  force  of  my  shouldei^  to  set  it  upright:  and,  if 
my  hoi?e  stumble,  my  hands  and  knees  are  instantly  at  work  to 

prevent  him  from  faUing.  ■,      r,  ■       e         i.o^.v,  . 

113  Fear  provides  for  self-preservation  by  flying  from  harm, 
anger,  by  repelling  it.  Nothing,  indeed,  can  be  better  contrived  to. 
repel  or  prevent  injuiy,  than  anger  or  resentment :  destitute  of  that 
p^sion,  men,  like  defenceless  lambs,  would  he  constantly  open  to 
mischief*  Dehberate  anger  caused  by  a  voluntaiy  injury,  is  too 
well  known  to  require  any  explanation:  if  my  desire  be  to  resent 
an  affront,  I  must  use  means  ;  and  these  means  must  be  discovered 
by  reflection:  deliberation  is  here  requisite ;  and  m  that  case  tlie 
pLion  seldom  exceeds  just  bounds  But  where  anger  impels  one 
Suddenly  to  return  a  blow,  even  without  thinking  of  doing  mischief, 
the  pas/ion  is  instinctive  :  and  it  is  chiefly  m  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, 
for  example,  on  a  tender  part,  which,  ruffling  the  temper  and  un- 
hindng  the  mind,  is  in  its  tone  similar  to  anger  j  and  when  a  man 
is  thus  beforehand  disposed  to  anger,  he  is  not  mce  nor  scrupulous 
about  an  object ;  the  person  who  gave  the  stroke,  however  accident, 
ally  is  by  an  inflammable  temper  held  a  proper  object,  merely  for 
having  occasioned  the  pain.     It  is  still  more  remarkable,  that  a 

•  Pr^^Wiis  beincr  bit  by  a  mouse  he  had  canght,  let  it  riip  out  of  his  lirgers : 
"  Jo""":  U  r.J"  s^-s 'ho?''  i.  oonte,.ptible  hut  what  may  provide  for  Us  own 
Bafcty,  if  it  haVe  courage."-P^»<a/-c^  Apothepnaia. 

112.  The  advantages  of  the  Instinctive  action  of  fear.-Wisdom  of  IniplantlDg  to  m« 
the  prlnclpU  offear. 


EMOTIONS  A3SD  PASSIONS. 


61 


stock  or  a  stone  by  which  I  am  hurt,  becomes  an  object  of  my  re- 
sentment :  I  am  violently  excited  to  crush  it  to  atoms.  The  pa-i- 
sion,  indeed,  in  that  case,  can  be  but  a  single  flash ;  for  bemg 
entirely  irrational,  it  must  vanish  with  the  fii-st  rtflection.  Nor  is 
that  irrational  eflect  confined  to  bodily  pain  :  internal  distress,  when 
excessive,  may  be  the  occasion  of  effects  equally  irrational :  pertur- 
bation of  mind,  occasioned  by  the  apprehension  of  having  lost  a  dear 
friend,  will,  in  a  fiery  temper,  prodiice  momentary  sparks  of  anger 
against  that  very  friend,  however  innocent :  thus  Shakspeare,  in  the 

Tempest, 

Alomo.  ■ •  Sit  down  and  rest. 

Even  here  I  will  put  off  my  ho^e,  and  keep  it 
No  longer  for  my  flatterer ;  he  is  drown'd 
"Whom  thus  we  stray  to  find,  and  the  seajmock* 
Our  frustrate  search  on  land.    Well,  let  him  go. 

Act  III.  So.  8. 

The  final  words.  Well,  let  Mm  go,  are  an  expression  of  impatience 
and  ano-er  at  Ferdinand,  whose  absence  greatly  distressed  his  father, 
dreadii^  that  he  was  lost  in  the  stoi-m.  This  nice  operation  of  the 
human  mind,  is  by  Shakspeare  exhibited  upon  another  occasion, 
and  finely  painted  in  the  tragedy  of  Othello :  lago,  by  dark  hmte 
and  suspicious  circumstances,  had  roused  Othello's  jealousy ;  which, 
however,  appeared  too  slightly  founded  to  be  vented  upon  Desde- 
monji,  its  proper  object.  The  perturbation  and  distress  of  mind 
thereby  occasioned,  produced  a  momentary  resentment  against  lago, 
considered  as  occasioning  the  jealousy,  though  innocent : 
Olhdlo.  Villain,  be  sure  thou  prove  my  love  a  whore ; 

Be  sure  a£  it ;  give  mc  the  ocular  proof. 

Or  by  the  wrath  of  man's  eternal  soul, 

Thou  liadst  been  better  have  been  born  a  dog. 

Than  answer  my  waked  wrath. 
lago.  Is't  come  to  this  ? 
OiheUo.  Make  me  sec't ;  or,  at  the  least,  so  prove  it, 

That  the  probation  bear  no  hinge  or  loop 

To  hang  a  doubt  on :  or  woe  upon  thy  life  I 

laao.  Mv  noble  lord 

Othello,  "if  thou  dost  slander  her,  and  torture  me, 

Never  pray  more ;  abandon  all  remorse ; 

On  horror's  head  horrors  accumulate  ; 

Do  deeds  to  make  heaven  weep,  all  earth  amazed ; 

For  nothing  canst  thou  to  damnation  add 

Greater  than  that.  .  .  tt  c„  a 

Othell\  Act  II.  Sc  8. 

114.  This  blind  and  absurd  effect  of  anger  is  more  gayly  illustra- 
ted  by  Addison,  in  a  story,  the  dramatis  pirsonce  of  which  are,  a 
cardinal,  and  a  spy  retained  in  pay  for  intelligence.  The  cardinal 
is  represented  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 

113.  How  do  fear  and  anger,  respectively,  provide  for  the  8elf-pre^e"«"»"  "Z  ™^^-; 
Operations  of  deliberate  anger;  also,  of  Instinctive  an?er  Not  P^rt^fn'^V' J^^Sl  ta 
Uonal  about  iU  objects.— Effects  of  mental  perturbaUon,  Ulustratod  In  ihe  TempMt  wxl  « 
OlfiMe. 


C2  EMOTIONS  AlH)  PASSIONS. 

poltroon ;"  and  after  having  given  his  patron  time  to  take  it  down, 
adds,  That  another  called  him  "  a  mercenaiy  rascal  in  a  public  con- 
versation." The-  cardinal  replies,  "  Yerj  well,"  and  bids  him  go  on. 
The  spy  proceeds,  and  loads  him  with  reports  of  the  same  nature, 
till  the"  cardinal  rises  in  a  fury,  calls  him  an  impudent  scoundrel, 
and  kicks  him  out  of  the  room. — Spectator,  No.  439. 

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  : 

Gonsalez.  Have  comfort, 

Almeria.  Cursed  be  that  toncrue  that  bids  me  be  of  comfort, 
Cursed  my  own  tongue  that  could  not  move  his  pity, 
Cursed  these  weak  hands  that  could  not  hold  him  here. 
For  lie  is  crone  to  doom  Alphonso's  death. 

Act  IV.  So.  8. 

115.  I  have  chosen  to  exhibit  anger  in  its  more  rare  appearances, 
for  in  these  we  can  best  trace  its  nature  and  extent.  In  the  exam- 
ples above  given,  it  appears  to  be  an  absurd  passion,  and  altogether 
iiTational.  But  we  ought  to  consider,  that  it  is  not  the  intention  of 
nature  to  subject  this  passion,  in  every  instance,  to  reason  and  reflec- 
tion :  it  was  given  us  to  prevent  or  to  repel  injuries  ;  and,  hke  fear, 
it  often  operates  blindly  and  instinctively,  without  the  least  view  to 
consequences  :  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  threatening  appearance,  and  be  insuflacient  to  guard 
us  against  \dolenc6.  When  such  is  and  ought  to  be  the  nature  of  the 
passion,  it  is  not  wonderfiil  to  find  it  exerted  iiTegularly  and  capri- 
ciously, as  it  sometimes  is  where  the  mischief  is  sudden  and  unfore- 
seen. All  the  harm  that  can  be  done  by  the  passion  in  that  state 
!s  instantaneous  ;  for  the  shortest  delay  sets  all  to  rights ;  and  cir- 
cumstances are  seldom  so  unlucky  as  to  put  it  in  the  power  of  a 
passionate  man  to  do  much  harm  in  an  instant 

Social  passions,  hke  the  selfish,  sometimes  drop  their  character 
and  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. 
Emotions  caused  hy  Mction. 

116.  The  attentive  reader  will  observe,  that  hitherto  no  fiction 
hath  been  assigned  as  the  cause  of  any  passion  or  emotion  :  whether 

114.  The  lUnd  and  absurd  effect  of  anger  illustrated  by  Addison.— Resentment  on  losing 
bv  plav. 

"115. 'The  nsefnl  purpose  of  tbeprlRCipIc  of  instinctive  «n?er.- SocirI  pa-islons  eomctimei 
b<vxiuic  instinottvB. 


EMCniONS  AND  PASSIONS.  63 

it  be  a  being,  action,  or  quality,  that  moveth  us,  it  is  supposed  lo  be 
IX  eSg.  This  observation  shows  that  we  have  not  yet  com- 
pffl  oiStik;  because  passions,  as  all  the  world  know,  aje  moved 
Ty  fiction  as  well  as  by  truth.  In  judging  beforehand  o  man,  so 
reWkably  addicted  to  truth  and  reality,  one  should  little  dream 
thrfiction  can  have  any  effect  upon  him;  but  man's  intellectual 
£wes  are  not  sufficiently  perfect  to  dive  far  even  into  his  own 
^ture  I  lall  take  occasion  afterwards  to  show,  that  the  power  o 
Sn  to  generate  passion  is  an  admirable  contnvance  subsej-vient 
to  excellenf  purposes :  in  the  mean  time,  we  must  try  to  unfold  the 
mpans  that  ffive  fiction  such  influence  over  the  mind. 

That  the^objects  of  our  extemal  senses  really  exist  m  the  way 
and  manner  we  perceive,  is  a  branch  of  intmtive  knowledge  :^v  hen 
I  see  a  man  wKking,  a  tree  growing,  or  cattle  S^^^S,  j^^^^^' 
doubt  but  that  these  objects  are  really  what  they  appear  tx)  be .  if 
I  be  a  spectator  of  any  transaction  or  event,  I  have  a  conviction  of 
'the  rearexistence  of  L  persons  engaged,  of  their  -rds^-/!  ^ 
their  actions.  Nature  determines  us  to  rely  on  the  veracity  of  our 
senL  for  otherwise  they  could  not  in  any  degree  answer  their 
end  that  of  laving  open  things  existing  and  passing  around  us. 

By  the  pow4  ?f  memory,  a  thing  formerly  seen  may  be  recalled 
tolhe  mind  with  different  degrees  of  accuracy.     We  conimon  y  are 
satisfied  with  a  slight  recollection  of  the  capital  circumstances    and 
Tn  such  recollection,  the  thing  is  not  figured  as  in  our  ^ew,  nor  a^^^^ 
imaffe  formed :  we  retain  the  consciousness  of  our  present  situation, 
^dC  r  remember  that  formerly  we  saw  that  thing.     But  wuh 
Jipect  to  an  interesting  object  or  event  that,  made  a  strong  im- 
preLon,!  am  not  satisfied  with  ^  «"^^«T^  ^f!'^^^^"^  ^"f  ^^,7^1 
Spon  every  circumstlhce.    I  am  imperceptibly  converted  into  a 
Sator  and  perceive  every  particular  passing  m  my  presence,  as 
w^en     was  in  reality  a  spec^tor.     For  example,  I  saw  yesterday  a 
Wiful  woman  in  teaA  for  the  loss  of  an  only  child,  and  was 
greatly  moved  with  her  distress:  not  satisfied  with  a  slight  recol- 
fell  or  bare  remembrance,  I  ponder  upon  the  -lanchdy  scen^ 
conceiving  myself  to  be  in  the  place  where  I  was  an  eJe-^vlt^es^ 
every  circnmstance  appears  to  me  as  at  fii.t:  I  t^^nk  I  see  the 
woman  in  tears,  and  hear  her  moans.    Hence  it  "^^X  ^ J"^  ^  ^^^^ 
that  in  a  complete  idea  of  memory  there  is  no  past  noi  future .  a 
t^bg  recalled  to  the  mind  wnth  the  accuracy  I  have  been  describing 
is  perceived  as  in  our  view,  and  consequently  ^  .«^«l'°g  «,*  P^^^J^ 
PiSt  time  makes  part  of  an  incomplete  idea  only  :  I  [^member  or 
feflect,  that  some  fea.^  ago  I  was  at  Oxford,  and  saw  the  first  stone 
laid  of  the  Ratcliff  library ;  and  I  remember  that  at  a  st.U  grea  er 
distance  of  time,  I  heard  a  debate  in  the  House  of  Commons  about  a 
standing  araiy. . 

116.  P«sions  moved  by  flction.-To  what  fl<=«°'»  °^^,J^  P°J*;Jee'^Thrn''grf^^^ 
tnow  tbat  exterual  object?  eslst  In  the  way  and  manner  wo  perce»e.  f. 


64  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

llY.  Lamentable  is  the  imperfection  of  language,  almost  in  every 
particular  that  falls  not  under  external  sense.  I  am  talking  of  a  mat- 
ter exceedingly  clear  in  the  perception :  and  yet  I  find  no  small  diffi- 
culty to  express  it  cleai'ly  in  words ;  for  it  is  not  accurate  to  talk  of 
incidents  long  past  as  passing  in  our  sight,  nor  of  hearing  at  present 
what  we  really  heard  yesterday,  or  at  a  more  distant  time.  And 
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 
form  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  hath. 

As  many  rales  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  remembrance.  In  contradistinction 
to  real  presence,  ideal  presence  may  properly  be  termed  a  waking 
dream  ;  because,  like  a  dream,  it  vanisheth  the  moment  we  reflect 
upon  our  present  situation :  real  presence,  on  the  contrary,  vouched 
by  eyesight,  commands  our  belief,  not  only  during  the  direct  per- 
ception,  but  in  reflecting  afterwards  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  mv  presence ;  and  this 
perception  is  an  act  .of  intuition,  into  whiclr  reflection  enters  not, 
more  than  into  an  act  of  sight. 

Though  ideal  presence  is  thus  distinguished  from  real  presence  on 
the  one  side,  and  from  reflective  remembrance  on  the  other,  it  is 
however  variable  without  any  precise  limits ;  rising  sometimes  towards 
the  former,  and  often  sinking  towards  the  latter.  In  a  vigorous  ex- 
ertion of  memory,  ideal  presence  is  extremely  distinct :  thus,  when 
a  man,  entirely  occupied  with  some  event  that  made  a  deep  im- 
pression, forgets  himself,  he  perceives  every  thing  as  passing  before 
him,  and  hath  a  consciousness  of  presence  similar  to  that  of  a  spec- 
tator; with  no  difference  but  that  in  the  former  the  perception  of 
presence  is  less  firm  and  clear  than  in  the  latter.  But  such  vigorous 
exertion  of  memory  is  rare :  ideal  presence  is  oftener  faint,  and  the 
image  so  obscure  as  not  to  differ  widely  from  reflective  remem- 
brance. 

seen,  recalled  by  memory  with  various  decrees  of  exactness.    Whether  paat  or  ftiture  is 
thmiglit  of  in  a  very  vivid  memory  of  snch  objeots. 

117.  Explain  ideal  presence  as  distinguished  from  real  presence,  and  also  from  a  super, 
flcial  or  reflective  remembrance.  Ideal  presence  soiaetinies  vergis*  towards  the  ona  or  tJije 
other  of  ibeM 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  66 

118.  Hitherto  of  an  idea  of  memory.  I  proceed  to  consider  the 
idea  of  a  thing  I  never  saw,  raised  in  me  by  speech,  by  writing,  or 
by  painting.  That  idea,  witli  respect  to  the  piesent  sulject,  is  of 
the  same  nature  with  an  idea  of  memoiy,  being  either  complete  or 
incomplete.  A  lively  and  accurate  description  of  an  important  event, 
raises  in  me  ideas  no  less  distinct  than  if  I  had  been  originally  an 
eye-witness :  I  am  insensibly  transformed  into  a  spectator,  and  have 
an  impression  that  every  incident  is  passing  in  my  presence.  On 
the  other  hand,  a  slight  or  superficial  nan-ative  produceth  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  doth  into 
an  incomplete  idea  of  memory :  I  believe  that  Scipio  existed  about 
2000  years  ago,  and  that  he  overcame  Hannibal  in  the  famous  bat- 
tle 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 
livelv  and  beautiful  description,  I  am  insensibly  transformed  into  a 
spectator :  I  perceive  these  two  heroes  in  act  to  engage :  I  perceive 
them  brandishing  their  swords,  and  cheering  their  troops ;  and  in 
tliat  manner  I  attend  them  through  the  battle,  every  incident  of 
which  appears  to  be  passing  in  my  sight. 

I  have  had  occasion  to  observe  (Part  I.  sect.  i.  of  the  present 
chapter)  that  ideas,  both  of  memory  and  of  speech,  produce  emotions 
of  the  same  kind  with  what  are  produced  by  an  immediate  view  of 
the  object ;  only  fainter,  in  proportion  as  an  idea  is  fainter  than  an 
original  perception.  The  insight  we  have  now  got  unfolds  that 
mystery :  ideal  presence  supples  the  want  of  real  presence  ;  and  in 
idea  we  perceive  persons  acting  and  suffering,  precisely  as  in  an  origi- 
nal 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,  forgetting  himself,  is  totally- 
occupied  with  the  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  entirely  on  the  raising  such 
.ively  and  distinct  images  as  are  here  described  :  the  reader's  passions 
are  never  sensibly  moved,  till  he  be  thrown  into  a  kind  of  reverie  ; 
in  which  state,  forgetting  that  he  is  reading,  he  conceives  every 
incident  as  passing  in  his  presence,  precisely  as  if  he  were  an  eye- 
witness. A  general  or  reflective  remembrance  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  hke  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  difterent  periods  of 
birth  and  increment ;  and  to  give  opportunity  for  these  difl'erent 
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 


QQ  EMOTIONS    AND   PASSION?. 

but  by  reiterated  impressions.  We  know  that  to  be  tbe  case  of 
emotions  arising  from  objects  of  siglit;  a  quick  succession,  even  of 
the  most  beautiful  objects,  scajce  making  any  impression ;  and  if 
this  hold  in  the  succession  of  original  perceptions,  how  much  more 
in  the  succession  of  ideas  ! 

119    Though  all  this  while  I  have  been  only  descnbmg  what 
passeth  in  the  mind  of  every  one,  and  what  every  one  must  be 
conscious  of,  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  im- 
portance, hath  scarce  ever  been  touched  by  any  wnter ;  and  how- 
ever difficult  the  explication,  it  could  not  be  avoided  m  accounting 
for  the  effects  produced  by  fiction.     Upon  that  pomt,  the  reader  i 
euess  has  prevented  me:  it  already  must  have  occurred  to  him,  that 
if,  in  reading,  ideal  presence  be  the  means  by  which  our  passions 
are  moved,  it  makes  no  difference  whether  the  subject  be  a  table  or 
a  true  history:  when  ideal  presence  is  complete,  we  perceive  every 
obiect  as  in  our  sight;  and  the  mind,  totally  occupied  with  an  in- 
teresting event,  finds  no  leisure  for  reflection.     This  reasomng  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  lacitus 
describing  the  death  of  Otho:  we  never  once  reflect  whether  the 
story  be  true  or  feigned ;  reflection  comes  afterwards,  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  narrative;  which  ideas  being  taint,  obscure,  and  imperfect, 
leave  a  vacuity  in  the  mind,  which  solicits  reflection.     And  accord- 
ingly, a  curt  narrative  of  feigned  incidents  is  never  rehshed  :  any 
shght  pleasure  it  affords  is  more  than  counterbalanced  by  the  disgust 
it  inspires  for  want  of  truth.  ,      -r       ,  j     ■  • 

To  support  the  foregoing  theor}^  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,  io  ine 
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  eftect,  for  exanriple,  can  the 
belief  of  the  story  of  Lucretia  have  to  raise  our  sympathy  when  she 
died  above  2000  years  ago,  and  hath  at  present  no  painful  feeling 

~118.  The  Idea  of  a  thins  I  never  saw,  raised  by  speed.,  ^Y"""S;  oj  P»\"^'^f^^fl\feJ 
Arc  emotions  instantaneous? 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  67 

of  the  injury  done  her  ?  The  effect  of  history,  in" point  of  instruction, 
depends  in  some  measure  upon  its  veracity.  But  history  cannot 
reach  the  haart,  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, 
histoiy  stands  upon  the  same  footing  with  fable :  what  eflect  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. 

120.  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 
private,  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 
single  instant  of  time,  and  cannot  take  in  a  succession  of  incidents  : 
its  impression  indeed  is  the  deepest  that  can  be  made  instantaneous- 
ly ;  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 
hnprcssions  ;  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  our  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  stranger,  makes  a  less  impression  than  one 
happening  to  a  man  we  know,  even  where  we  are  no  way  interested 
in  him :  our  acquaintance  with  this  man,  however  slight,  aids  the 
conception  of  his  sufiering  in  our  presence.  For  the  same  reason, 
we  are  little  moved  by  any  distant  event ;  because  we  have  more 
diflBculty  to  conceive  it  present^  than  an  event  that  happened  in  our 
neighborhood. 

119.  How  does  the  doctrine  of  Idenl  presence  aoconnt  for  the  equal  Impresslvenesa  of 
fiction  and  true  history  y  Beference  to  the  Iliad,  and  King  Lear. — Ideal  presence  con- 
trasted with  Ideas  raised  by  a  cursory  narrative. — When  only  does  even  real  history  ejcert 
a  command  over  oar  passions  ?— What  destroys  the  emotive  power  of  history? 

120.  The  most  powerful  means  of  makins  an  Impression  of  ideal  presence.  The  next 
most  powerful. — C<imparative  influence  of  painting,  reading,  and  actin?,  in  awakening 
Wrong  feeling. — What  is  required  even  for  real  events,  entitled  to  boliet  to  move  ns?— 
Misfortunes  happening  to  strangers  or  to  acquaintances. — Kvents  distant  or  near. 


gg  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

121  Every  one  is  sensible,  that  describing  a  past  event  as  pres- 
ent  haL  a  fine  effect  in  language  :  for  what  other  reason  than  that  i 
La;  tS  conception  of  ideal  presence  ?   Take  the  following  example : 

And  now-B-ith  shouts  the  shocking  armies  closed, 
To  lances  lances,  shields  to  shields  opposed  ; 
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  slippery  field  is  dyed, 
And  slaughter'd  heroes  swell  the  dreadtul  tide. 

In  this  passage  we^may  observe  how  the  writer,  inflamed  with  the 
ubject,  insensibly  advances  from  the  past  time  to  the  Present  •  1^ 
to  that  foi^  of  narration  by  conceiving  every  circmiytance  a^  pa^ 
ing  in  his  own  sight :  which  at  the  same  time  ha.  ^  f  ^^^f  \"^P^^^ 
the  reader,  by  presenting  things  to  him  as  a  spectator  But  «^a°§« 
from  the  past  to  the  present  requires  some  P^'^Pf  t°°' ^'^.^^^^^^ 
sweet  where  there  is  no  stop  in  the  sense:  witness  the  foUowmg 

passage : 

Thy  fate  was  next,  0  Phsestus  !  doom'd  to  feel 

The  great  Idomeneus'  protended  steel ; 

"Whom  Borus  sent  (his  son  and  only  joy) 

From  fruitful  Tame  to  the  fields  of  Troy. 

The  Cretan  iav'lin  reach'd  him  from  atar. 

And  pierced  his  shoulder  as  he  rrwunts  his  c&r.-llmd,  v.  57. 

it  is  still  worse  to  fall  back  to  the  past  in  the  same  period ;  for 
that  is  an  antichmax  in  description : 

Through  breaking  ranks  his  furious  course  he  bends, 

And  at  the  goddess  his  broad  lance  extends : 

Through  he^r  bright  veil  the  daring  weapon  drove, 

Th'  ambrosial  veil,  which  all  the  graces  wove  : 

Her  snowy  hand  the  razing  steel  protaneci 

And  the  transparent  skin  with  crimson  stain  d..-llvut,  v.  41d. 

Again,  describing  the  shield  of  Jupiter  : 

Here  all  the  Terrors  of  grim  ^arappear, 

Here  rages  Force,  here  tremble  Flight  and  tear, 

Hero  storm'd  Contention,  and  here  ^  "^J;;? J^j^;^^  ^.  gu.  • 

And  the  dire  orb  portentous  Gorgon  crown  d.—Uiaa, 

Nor  is  it  pleasant  to  be  carried  backward  and  forward  alternately  in 

a  rapid  succession ; 

Then  died  Scamandrius,  expert  in  the  chace. 

In  woods  and  wilds  to  wound  the  savage  race , 

Diana  taught  him  all  her  sylvanarts. 

To  bend  the  bow  and  aim  unerring  darts . 

But  vainly  here  Diana's  arts  he  tries, 

The  fatiJ  lance  arrests  him  as  he  flies  ; 

From  Menelaus'  arm  the  wcnpon  sent,  _ 

Throuf'h  his  broad  back  and  lieavmg  bosom  went . 

Down^sinks  the  warrior  with  a  thund'ring  sound^ 

His  brazen  armor  rings  against  th^groumW^^^^ 

121.  The  effect,  In  language  of  'le-^'J'^^I^^Cle'frot  fhe^'K^'t-TL'^"^^^^ 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 


09 


122.  It  is  wonderful  to  observe,  upon  what  slight  foundations 
^atu^e  erects  some  of  her  most  solid  and  magnificent  woiks.     In 
appearance  at  least,  what  can  be  more  slight  than  ideal  presence  -. 
And  yet  from  it  is  derived  that  extensive  influence  which  language 
hath  over  the  heart;  an  influence  which,  more  than  any  other 
means,  strengthens  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,  confined  to  the  heart:  it  reacheth  also  the  under- 
standing, and  contributes  to  belief.     For  when  events  are  related  in 
a  lively  manner,  and  every  circumstance  appears  as  passing  before 
us  we  suffer  not  patiently  the  truth  of  the  fac*  to  be  questioned. 
An  historian,  accordinglv,  who  hath  a  genius  for  narration,  seldom 
fails  to  engage  our  behef.     The  same  facts  related  in  a  manner  cold 
and  indistinct,  are  not  suffered  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  manner  in  which  an  event  passed,  not  only  enlivens  the 
stoiy,  but  makes  it  appear  more  credible.     For  that  reason,  a  poet 
who  can  warm  and  animate  his  reader,  may  employ  bolder  fictions 
than  ought  to  be  ventured  by  an  inferior  genius :  the  reader  once 
thorou<rhly  engaged,  is  susceptible  of  the  strongest  impressions.     A 
masterfy  painting  has  the  same  effect :  Le  Brun  is  no  small  support 
to  Quiutus  Curtius;  and  among  the  vulgar  in  Italy,  the  belief  of 
scripture  history  is,  perhaps,  founded  as  much  upon  the  authonty  of 
Raphael,  Michael  Angelo,  and  other  celebrated  painters,  as  upon 
that  of  the  sacred  writers.  . 

123.  From  the  foregoing  theory  are  derived  many  useful  rules  in 
criticism,  which  shall  be  mentioned  in  their  proper  places.  One 
specimen  shall  be  our  present  entertainment.  Events  that  surpnse 
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  improbable  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  admittance  into  the  mind ;  and  a  lively  narrative 
of  such  incidents  occasions  complete  images,  or  in  other  words,  ideal 
presence :  but  our  judgment  revolts  against  an  improbable  incident; 

122.  The  advantages  to  a  speaker  or  writer  in  making  use  of  itieal  presence.  I«J"fln- 
cnce  not  only  on  the  heart,  but  on  the  understanding  -The  support  which  B..iniat«Kl  poetry 
tcuds  to  fiction,  and  whloh  a  niartcriy  painting  l«nd#  to  hi:^ory. 


70  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

and,  if  w  e  once  begin  to  doubt  of  its  reality,  farewell  relist  and 
concern — an  unhappy  effect ;  for  it  will  require  more  than  an  ordi- 
nary 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  improbable 
facts  :  fictions  of  that  nature  may  amuse  by  their  novelty  and  sin- 
gularity; 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  Dispensaiy,  may  employ  machineiy  with  success;  for  these 
poems,  though  they  assume  the  air  of  histoiy,  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  sympathy ; 
and  for  that  reason  a  strict  imitation  of  nature  is  not  required.  A 
poem  professedly  ludicrous,  may  employ  machinery  to  great  advan- 
tage ;  and  the  more  extravagant  the  better. 

124.  Having  assigned  the  means  by  which  fiction  commands  our 
passions,  what  only  remains  for  accomplishing  our  present  task  is 
to  assign  the  final  cause.  I  have  already  mentioned,  that  fiction, 
by  means  of  language,  has  the  command  of  om*  sympathy  for  the 
good  of  othere.  By  the  same  means,  our  sympathy  may  also  be 
raised  for  our  own  good.  In  the  fourth  section  of  the  present  chap- 
ter, it  is  observed,  that  examples  both  of  virtue  and  of  vice  raise 
virtuous  emotions ;  which  becoming  stronger  by  exercise,  tend  to  make 
us  virtuous  by  habit,  as  well  as  by  principle.  I  now  further  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  fi-om  genuine  history.  By  that  contri- 
vance, examples  to  improve  us  in  virtue  may  be  multiplied  without 
end :  no  other  sort  of  discipHne  contributes  more  to  naake  virtue 
habitual,  and  no  other  sort  is  so  agreeable  in  the  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  regularity  of  their  conduct. 
The  power  that  fiction  hath  over  the  mind  affords  an  endless  variety 
of  refined  amusements  always  at  hand  to  employ  a  vacant  hour . 

123.  One  useful  rule  in  criticism  upon  epic  poetry,  derived  from  the  foregoing  theory; 
-«s  to  the  Incidents  to  be  introduced.— Objections  to  the  use  of  machinery  In  sn  «pio 
poem.  What  ia  meant  h«re  by  niachluery.— Wbat  sort  of  poem  may  employ  macUi'wnr 
U)  advwilago. 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 


n 


such  amusements  are  a  fine  resource  in  solitude ;  and,  by  cheering 
and  sweetening  the  mind,  contribute  mightily  to  social  happiness. 

[To  the  above  remarks  of  Lord  Kames,  it  seems  important  to  add, 
that  they  give  but  a  partial,  and  what  might  prove  a  hurtful,  view 
of  an  important  subject.  He  gives  no  intimation  that  a  large  pro- 
portion of  novels  is  adapted  to  corrupt  the  sentiments  of  the  mind 
and  the  affections  of  the  heart :  he  writes  as  if  all  novels  were  un- 
exceptionable in  their  moral  tendency ;  but  since  his  day,  nearly  a 
century  ago,  it  is  painful  to  reflect  what  polluting  streams  of  fiction 
have  flowed  from  the  press.  Hence  Lord  Kames'  remarks  must  be 
taken  as  true  only  within  certain  limits — on  the  supposition  that  the 
works  of  fiction  are  of  good  moral  tendency. 

It  is  (says  Dr.  Beattie  in  his  Moral  Science)  the  duty  of  poets, 
and  other  writers  of  fiction,  to  cherish,  by  means  of  sympathy,  in 
those  who  read  them,  those  affections  only  which  invigorate  the 
mind  and  are  favorable  to  virtue,  as  patriotism,  valor,  benevolence, 
piety,  and  the  conjugal,  parental,  and  filial  charities.  Scenes  of 
exquisite  distress,  too  long  continued,  enervate  and  overwhelm  the 
soul ;  and  those  representations  are  still  more  blamable,  which  kindle 
licentious  passion,  or  promote  indolence,  aftectation,  or  sensuality. 
Of  the  multitude  of  novels  now  published,  it  is  astonishing  and  most 
provoking  to  consider  how  few  are  not  chargeable  with  one  or  other 
of  these  faults,  or  with  them  all  in  conjunction. 

In  another  place  he  remarks  further : — To  contract  a  habit  of 
reading  romances  is  extremely  dangerous.  They  who  do  so  lose  all 
relish  for  history,  philosophy,  and  other  useful  knowledge ;  acquire  a 
superficial  and  frivolous  way  of  thinking,  and  never  fail  to  form  false 
notions  of  life,  which  come  to  be  very  hurtful  to  young  people  when 
they  go  out  into  the  worid.  I  speak  not  rashly,  but  with  too  much 
evidence,  when  I  affirm,  that  many  young  persons  of  both  sexes 
have,  by  reading  romances,  been  ruined;  and  that  many  of  the 
follies,  and  not  a  few  of  the  crimes,  now  prevalent,  may  be  traced 
to  the  same  source.] 


PART  II. 

BMOTIONS  ^ND   PASSIONS,    AS    PLEASANT    AND    PAINFUL,    AGREEAHLK 
AND    DISAGKEEABLE. — MODIFICATIONS    OF   THESE    QUALITIES. 

125.  Great  obscurity  may  be  observed  among  wiitei-s  with  re- 
gard to  the  present  point :  particularly  no  care  is  taken  to  distinguish 

124  Tbe  final  c«use(ordeslgn)of  our  bein<?  so  constituted  as  to  have  oar  pnsslons  moved 
by  flction.— Tbe  good  effects  that  may  be  stnured  by  flotlun.— Strictures  npon  Lord  Kaium 
rcu^irto.— Dr.  Beattle's  ob»erv^llloIl^ 


72  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

agi-eeable  from  pleasant,  disagreeable  from  painftil ;  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  he  given,  of 
painful  passions  that  are  agreeable,  and  of  pleasant  passions  that  are 
disagreeable.  These  terms,  it  is  trae,  are  used  indifferently  in  fa- 
miliar conversation,  and  in  compositions  for  amusement;  but  greater 
accuracy  is  required  from  those  who  profess  to  explain  the  passions. 

I  shall  endeavor  to  explain  these  terms  by  familiar  examples. 
Viewing  a  fine  garden,  I  perceive  it  to  be  beautiful  or  agreeable ; 
and  I  consider  the  beauty  or  agreeableness  as  belonging  to  the  object, 
or  as  one  of  its  qualities.  When  I  turn  my  attention  from  the 
garden  to  what  passes  in  my  mind,  I  am  conscious  of  a  pleasant 
emotion,  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. 
I  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  quahties  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. 

126.  But  a  passion  or  emotion,  besides  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  ap- 
plied to  passi<Jn  ;  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  disagreeable  to  the  person  who  makes  it  a  subject  of  contem- 
plation. 

In  the  description  of  emotions  and  passions,  these  terms  do  not 
always  coincide  :  to  make  which  evident,  we  must  endeavor  to  as- 
certain, first,  what  passions  and  emotions  are  pleasant,  what  painful ; 
and  next,  what  are  agreeable,  what  disagreeable.  With  respect  to 
both,  there  are  general  rules,  which,  if  I  can  tmst  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  invaiiably  pleasant;  and  the 
emotion  produced  by  a  disagreeable  object  is  invariably  painful. 
(See  Part  vii.  of  this  chapter.)  Thus  a  lofty  oak,  a  generous  ac- 
tion, a  valuable  discovery  in  art  or  science,  are  agreeable  objects 
that  invariably  produce  pleasant  emotions.    A  stinking  puddle,  a 

125.  What  distinction  writers  have  failed  to  make.— The  meaning  of  agreeable  and  dis- 
agreeable, pleasant  and  painful,  illastratoa  by  the  instance  of  a  fine  gard«n  and  of  a  roiusn 
carcass. 


[  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  73 

treacherous  action,  an  iiregiilar,  ill-contrived  edifice,  being  disagreea- 
ble objects,  produce  painful  emotions.  Selfish  passions  are  pleasant, 
for  they  arise  from  self,  an  agi-eeable  object  or  cause.  A  social  pas- 
sion directed  upon  an  agreeable  object  is  always  pleasant ;  directed 
upon  an  object  in  distress,  it  is  painful.  (See  Pait  vii.  of  this  chapter.) 
Lastly,  all  dissocial  passions,  such  as  envy,  resentment,  malice,  being 
caused  by  disagreeable  objects,  cannot  fail  to  be  painful. 

127.  A  general  rule  for  the  agrecableness  or  disagreeableness  of 
emotions  and  passions  is  a  more  difficult  enterprise :  it  must  be 
attempted,  however.  We  have  a  sense  of  a  common  nature  in  every 
species  of  animals,  particularly  in  our  own  ;  and  we  have  a  convio- 
lion  that  this  common  nature  is  riffht,  or  perfect,  and  that  individuals 
ought  to  be  made  conformable  to  it.  To  every  faculty,  to  every 
passion,  and  to  every  bodily  member,  is  assigned  a  proper  oflBce  and 
a  due  proportion  :  if  one  limb  be  longer  than  the  other,  or  be  dis- 
proportioned  to  the  whole,  it  is  wrong  and  disagreeable :  if  a  pas- 
sion deviate  from  the  common  nature,  by  being  too  strong  or  too 
weak,  it  is  also  wrong  and  disagreeable :  but  as  far  as  comformable 
do  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  emotion  raised  by  a  monstrous  birth  or  brutal  ac- 
tion, is  no  less  agreeable  upon  reflection,  than  the  pleasant  emotion 
raised  by  a  flowing  river  or  a  lofly  dome  ;  and  the  painful  passions 
of  grief  and  pity  are  agreeable,  and  applauded  by  all  the  world. 

128.  Another  rule  more  simple  and  direct  for  ascertaining  the 
agrecableness  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  effect, 
the  passion  is  agreeable  :  if  the  desire  be  to  do  a  wrong  action  in 
order  to  produce  an  ill  effect,  the  passion  is  disagreeable.  Thus, 
passions  as  well  as  actions  are  governed  by  the  moral  sense.  Theso 
rules  by  the  wisdom  of  Provndence  coincide  :  a  passion  that  is  con- 
formable 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  aflfected  with  the  passions 

126.  Passions  and  emoUons  as  objects  of  thought  or  reflection.— When  a  passion  is 
lenne<I  pleasant  or  painful,  and  when  atrreeable  or  dtsi^reeablo. — On  what  the  nature  of 
in  emotion  as  pleasant  or  painful  depends.  Illustrations. — Selfish  passions.— Social  ps»- 
Sions. — Dissocial  passions. 

12T.  Itulc  for  deterniining  the  agrecableness  or  disasrceablcness  of  emotion*  and  ptl- 
lioii.H.— Biiiccl  on  llie  seiist  of  a  coii:uii>n  uature  %hicli  we  dueiu  perfect  or  rixht 

4 


74  EMOTIONS  AND  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,  produceth  in  him  the  pleasant  passion 
of  love  to  the  grateful  person ;  and  malice  being  to  a  spectator  a 
disagreeable  object,  produceth  in  him  the  painful  passion  of  hatred 
to  the  malicious  person. 

129.  We  are  now  prepared  for  examples  of  pleasant  passions 
that  are  disagreeable,  and  of  painful  passions  that  are  agreeable. 
Self-love,  as  long  as  confibed  within  just  bounds,  is  a  passion  both 
pleasant  and  agreeable  :  in  excess  it  is  disagreeable,  though  it  con- 
tinues to  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  ahvays  agreeable.  Vanity,  on  the  contrary,  is 
always  pleasant,  yet  always  disagreeable.  But  however  distinct 
these  qualities  are,  they  coincide,  I  acknowledge,  in  one  class  of  pas- 
sions".  all  vicious  passions  tending  to  the  hurt  of  others,  are  equally 
painful  and  disagreeable.  \ 

The  foregoing  qualities  of  pleasant  and  paiuful,  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 
modifications  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  differs  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  quahty  of  pleasure  should  be  so  differ- 
ently modified  in  different  passions,  will  not  be  surprising,  when  we 
reflect  on  the  boundless  variety  of  agreeable  sounds,  taste?,  and 
smells  daily  perceived.  Our  discernment  reaches  differences  stih 
more  minute,  in  objects  even  of  the  same  sense  :  we  have  no  diffi- 
culty to  distinguish  different  sweets,  different  sours,  and  different 
bitters :  honey  is  sweet,  so  is  sugar,  and  yet  the  one  never  is  mis- 
taken for  the.  other ;  our  sense  of  smelling  is  sufficiently  acute,  to 
listinguish  varieties  in  sweet-smelling  flowers  without  end.  With 
respect  to  passions  and  emotions,  their  differences  as  to  pleasant  and 
painful  have  no  limits ;  though  we  want  acuteness  of  feeling  for  tho 
more  dehcate  modifications.  There  is  here  an  analogy  between  our 
internal  and  external  senses  :  the  latter  are  sufficiently  acute  for  all 
the  useful  purposes  of  life,  and  so  are  the  former.  Some  pereons 
indeed,  Nature's  favorites,  have  a  wonderful  acuteness  of  sense,  which 
to  them  unfolds  many  a  delightful  scene  totally  hid  from  vulgar 

12S.  Another  rule  for  ascertaining  the  agreeableness  or  disagreeableness  of  »  p«s- 
sAoB. — Rule  for  passions  or  emotions,  generated  by  thinking  of  the  passions  or  emotions 
In  others.—  lustMi'j-e?  of  gratitM'.le  and  malirc 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  T6 

eyes.  But  if  such  refined  pleasure  be  confined  to  a  small  number, 
it  is  however  wisely  ordered  that  others  are  not  sensible  of  the  de- 
fect ;  nor  detracts  it  from  their  happiness  that  otliers  secretly  are 
more  happy.  With  relation  to  the  fine  arts  only,  that  quaUfication 
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  poverty  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  hitherto  has  reached  that  perfection.  We  must  therefore 
rest  satisfied  with  an  explanation  of  the  more  obvious  modifications. 

130.  In  forming  a  comparison  between  pleasant  passions  of  difier-  • 
ent  kinds,  we  conceive  some  of  them  to  be  gross,  some  refined. 
Those  pleasures  of  external  sense  that  are  felt  as  at  the  organ  of 
sense,  are  conceived  to  be  coi^poreal  or  gross  (see  the  Introduction) : 
the  pleasures  of  the  eye  and  the  ear  are  felt  to  be  internal,  and  for 
that  reason  are  conceived  to  be  more  pure  and  refined. 

The  social  affections  are  conceived  by  all  to  be  more  refined  than 
the  selfish.  Sympathy  and  humanity  are  universally  esteemed  the 
finest  temper  of  mind  ;  and  for  that  reason,  the  prevalence  of  the 
social  aifections  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  pref- 
erence to  social  pleasures  as  more  sweet  and  refined.  In  fact  they 
maintain  that  character,  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. 

131.  There  are  differences  not  less  remarkable  among  the  painful 
passions.  Some  are  voluntary,  some  involuntaiy :  the  pain  of  the 
gout  is  au  example  of  the  latter ;  grief  of  the  former,  which  in  some 
cases  is  so  voluntary  as  to  reject  all  consolation.  One  pain  softens 
the  temper ;  pity  is  an  instance  :  one  tends  to  render  us  savage 
and  cruel,  which  is  the  case  of  revenge.  I  value  myself  upon  sym- 
pathy :  I  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  other  selfish  pains,  are  cruciating  and  tormenting, 

129.  Examples  of  pleasant  passions  that  are  disagreeable,  and  of  nainftil  passions  that 
are  aijepable. — Self-love;  appetites:  resentment;  pity;  vanity;— all  vicious  passions.— 
Modi^cations  of  the  qualities  already  considered.— Why  should  the  quality  of  pleasure 
be  so  differently  modilied  In  different  passions? — Minuto  differences  in  objects  even  of 
the  same  sens*.  Analogy  here  between  our  external  and  internal  senses.— What  is  meant 
by  delicacy  of  taste? 

130.  Pleasant  passions,  as  gross  or  reflntd.— Pleasures  of  exiernai  sense. — ^The  .<M>ciaI 
alTeotttfn*. 


76  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

and  tend  to  a  babit  of  peevishness  and  discontent.  Social  pains 
have  a  very  different  tendency:  the  pain  of  sympathy,  for  example, 
is  not  only  voluntarj,  but  softens  my  temper,  and  raises  me  m  my 

own  esteem.  .  ,       ^  •.      j         j    u„ 

Refined  manners  and  poHte  behavior  must  not  be  deemed  alto- 
gether 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,  scarce  have  a  con- 

^^Scule,  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  ndicule  ;  butit  is 
too  rough  an  entertainment  for  the  polished  and  refined.  Cicero 
discovers  in  Plautus  a  happy  talent  for  ridicule,  and  a  peculiar 
delicacy  of  wit;  but  Horace,  who  made  a  figure  in  the  court  of 
Augustus,  where  taste  was  considerably  punfied  declares  against 
the  lowness  and  roughness  of  that  author's  raillery.  Ridicule  is 
banished  France,  and  is  losing  ground  in  England.         ^ 

Other  modifications  of  pleasant  passions  will  be  occasionally  men- 
tioned  hereafter.  Particulariy  the  modifications  of  hiffh  and  low 
are  to  be  handled  in  the  chapter  of  grandeur  and  sublimity ;  and 
the  modifications  of  dignijied  and  mean,  in  the  chapter  ot  dignitv 
and  grace. 


PART  III.      V 

INTKRRUPTED    EXISTENCE    OF   EMOTIONS    AND    PASSIONS.— THEIR 
GROWTH    AND    DECAY. 

182  Were  it  the  nature  of  an  emotion  to  continue,  like  color 
and  fiffure,  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 
subsist  by  means  of  an  idea,  though  in  a  fainter  manner;  but  the 
moment  another  thought  breaks  in  and  engrosses  the  mind,  the 
emotion  is  gone,  and  is  no  longer  felt :  if  it  return  with  its  cause 
or  an  idea  of  its  cause,  it  again  vanisheth  with  them  when  other 

181.  Pataful  passions.  «.  voluntary  or  inToluntary.-A(ly«nta<p«  of  *odd  affcctloM  ora 
Of  Mlflsb.— Rollued  jjuMirers.— BWJcul*. 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  Y7 

thoughts  crowd  in.  The  reason  is,  that  an  emotion  or  passion  is 
connected  with  the  perception  or  idea  of  its  cause  so  intimately  as 
not  to  have  any  independent  existence  :  a  strong  passion,  it  is  tnie, 
hath  a  mighty  influence  to  detain  its  cause  in  the  mind ;  but  not  so 
as  to  detain  it  tbrever,  because  a  succession  of  perceptions  or  ideas 
is  unavoidable.  Further,  even  while  a  passion  subsists,  it  seldom 
continues  long  in  the  same  tone,  but  is  successively  vigorous  and 
faint :  Uie  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  interesting  object,  it  attracts  our  whole  attention  : 
its  impression  is  slighter  when  our  attention  is  divided  between  it 
and  other  objects ;  and  at  that  time  ihe  passion  is  fainter  in  pro- 
portion. 

133.  The  growth  and  decay  of  passions  and  emotions,  traced 
through  all  their  mazes,  is  a  subject  too  extensive  for  an  undertaking 
like  the  present :  I  pretend  only  to  give  a  cursory  ^^ew  of  it,  such  as 
may  be  necessary  for  the  purposes  of  criticism.     Some  emotions  are 
produced  in  their  utmc^t  perfection,  and  have  a  very  short  endurance; 
which  is  the  case  of  surprise,  of  wonder,  and  sometimes  of  terror. 
Emotions  raised  by  inanimate  objects,  trees,  rivers,  buildings,  pic- 
tures, arrive  at  perfection  almost  instantaneously ;  and  they  have  a 
long  endurance,  a  second  view  producing  nearly  the  same  pleasure 
with  the  fii-st.     Love,  hatred,  and  some  other  passions,  swell  gradu- 
ally to  a  certain  pitch,  after  which  they  decay  gradually.    Envy, 
malice,  pride,  scarce  ever  decay.     Some  passions,  such  as  gratitude 
and  revenge,  are  often  exhausted  by  a  single  act  of  gratification : 
other  passions,  such  as  pride,  malice,  envy,  love,  hatred,  are  not  so 
exhausted,  but  having  a  long  continuance,  demand  frequent  gratifi- 
cation.    And  with  respect  to  emotions  which  are  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  necessary  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  agi-eeable  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  to  have  the  same  effect  upon 
him.     Familiarity,  however,  hath  an  influence  here,  as  it  hath  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  worid,  a  clear  and  serene  sky,  is  quite 
disregarded,  unless  perhaps  after  a  coui-se  of  bad  weather.     An 
emotion  raised  by  human  virtues,  qualities,  or  actions,  may,  by 
reiteraied  views  of  the  object,  swell  imperceptibly,  till  it  become  so 

132.  Ematlons  require  the  presence  of  an    i?er«tlng  cause.— The  same  passion  rarlei  !• 
•trengtli  at  different  times.    Why  7 


78  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  » 

vigorous  as  to  generate  desire :  in  that  condition  it  must  be  handled 
as  a  passion. 

134.  As  to  passion,  I  observe,  first,  that  when  nature  requires  a 
passion  to  be  sudden,  it  is  commonly  produced  in  perfection ;  which 
is  the  case  of  fear  and  of  anger.  Wonder  and  surprise  are_  always 
produced  in  perfection :  reiterated  impressions  made  by  their  cause 
exhaust  these  passions  instead  of  inflaming  them.  This  will  be  ex- 
plained in  chap.  vi. 

In  the  next  place,  when  a  passion  hath  for  its  foundation  an  oi-igi- 
nal  propensity  peculiar  to  some  men,  it  generally  comes  soon  to 
maturity :  the  propensity,  upon  presenting  a  proper  object,  is  imme- 
diately enlivened  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 
raise  in  me  a  pleasant  emotion,  which,  by  reiterated  views,  is  swelled 
into  a  passion  involving  desire  of  that  person's  happiness :  this  de- 
sire, he'atg  freely  indulged,  works  gradually  a  change  internally, 
and  at  last  produceth  in  me  a  settled  habit  of  affection  for  that 
person  now  my  friend.  Affection  thus  produced  operates  precisely 
like  an  original  propensity ;  for  to  euUven  it  into  a  passion,  no  more 
is  required  but  the  real  or  ideal  i^resence  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  com- 
monly affection  and  aversion,  not  passion.  The  bulk  of  our  passions 
are  indeed  affection  or  aversion  inflamed  into  a  passion  by  different 
circumstances  :  the  aftection  I  bear  to  my  son  is  inflamed  into  the 
passion  of  fear  when  he  is  in  danger ;  becomes  hope  when  he  hath 
a  prospect  of  good  fortune ;  becomes  admiration  when  he  performs 
a  laudable  action ;  and  shame  when  he  commits  any  wronc  '  aver- 
sion becomes  fear  when  there  is  a  prospect  of  good  fortune  lO  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 
hath  always  a  strong  bias  to  the  object  of  an  agreeable  passion,  and 
a  bifls  no  less  strong  against  the  object  of  a  disagreeable  pjission. 
The  object  of  love,  for  example,  however  indift'erent  to  othei-s,  is  to 
the  lover's  conviction  a  paragon  ;  and  of  hatred,  is  vice  itself  without 
alloy.  What  less  can  such  delusion  operate,  than  to  swell  the  pas- 
sion beyond  what  it  was  at  first?  for  if  the  seeing  or  conversing  with 


138  Growth  and  decay  of  various  emotions  and  passions.— Emotions  raised  by  tnani- 
mttc  'objects.  Love,  hatred,  &c.— Further  remarks  concerning  emotions  caused  by  inan- 
imate objects.— Effect  of  familiarity  with  them.— Emotions  raised  by  reiterated  views  ol 
buman  virtues. 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  T9 

a  fine  woman  has  had  the  effect  to  carry  me  fi-om  indifference  to 
love,  how  much  stronger  must  her  infiuence  be,  when  now  to  my 
conviction  she  is  an  angel!  and  hatred  as  well  as  other  passions 
must  run  the  same  course.  Thus  between  a  passion  and  its  objett 
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  an* 
inflames  it  mightily. 

Fifthly,  the  growth  of  some  passions  depends  often  on  occasional 
circumstances :  obstacles  to  gratification,  for  example,  never  fail  to 
augment  and  inflame  a  passion,  because  a  constant  endeavor  to  re- 
move an  obstacle  preserves  the  object  of  the  passion  ever  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 : 

Quod  licet,  ineratnm  est :  quod  non  licet,  acrius  urit 
Si  nunquam  Dauaen  liabuisset  ahenea  turris, 
Nou  esset  DanaS  de  Jove  facta  parens. 

Ocid,  Amor.  I.  2. 

At  Uie  same  time,  the  mind,  distressed  with  the  obstacles,  becomes 
impatient  for  gratification,  and  consequently  more  desirous  of  it. 
Shakspeare  expresses  this  <5bservation  finely  : 

All  impediments  in  fancy's  course, 
Are  motives  of  more  fancy. 

We  need  no  better  example  than  a  lover  who  hath  many  rivals. 
Even  the  caprices  of  the  one  beloved  have  the  effect  to  inflame  love ; 
these  occasioning  uncertainty  of  success,  tend  naturally  to  make  the 
anxious  lover  overvalue  the  happiness  of  fmition. 

135.  So  much  upon  the  growth  of  passions:  their  continuance 
and  decay  come  next  under  consideration.  And,  first,  it  is  a  gen- 
eral law  of  nature.  That  things  sudden  in  their  growth  are  equally 
sudden  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  duration :  nov- 
elty soon  degenerates  into  familiarity ;  and  the  unexpectedness  of 
an  object  is  soon  sunk  in  the  pleasure  that  the  object  aftbrds.  Fear, 
which  is  a  passion  of  gi-eater  importance  as  tending  to  self-preserva- 
tion, is  often  instantaneous ;  and  yet  is  of  equal  duration  with  it* 
cause :  nay,  it  frequently  subsists  after  the  cause  is  removed. 

lu  the  next  -place,  a  pjission  founded  on  a  peculiar  propensity, 
subsists  generally  forever ;  which  is  the  case  of  pride,  envy,  and 

1S4.  (1.)  What  is  said  of  any  passion  which  nHtnre  requires  to  be  sudden  ?    (2.)  y'b"'  "' 
pjissions  founded  on  an  original  propensity  peculiar  to  souio  persons?    (?•).«  lint  otino 
growth  of  love  and  hatred  »    Oilier  passions  to  wliicli 
Bivo  rise;  mk,  liope,  ic.    (4.)  Whence  the  tendency 
The  action  and  reaction  between  a  passion  and  Its 
moted  by  obstructions  to  gratification.     Illustrations  piven. 


80  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

malioe :  objects  are  never  wanting  to  inflame  the  propensity  in:o  a 
passion. 

Thirdly,  it  may  be  laid  down  as  a  general  law  of  nature,  That 
eveiy  passion  ceases  upon  attaining  its  uUimate  end.  To  explain 
that  law,  we  must  distinguish  between  a  particular  and  a  geueial 
end.  I  call  a  particular  end  what  may  be  accomplished  by  a  single 
ftct :  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  re- 
venge 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  examples 
of  the  other  kind ;  desire  of  doing  good  or  doing  mischief  to  an 
individual,  is  a  general  end  which  admits  acts  without  number,  and 
which  seldom  is  fully  accomplished  :  therefore  these  passions  have 
frequently  the  same  duration  with  their  objects. 

Lastly,  it  will  aff"ord  us  another  general  view,  to  consider  the 
diflerence  between  an  original  propensity,  and  affection  or  aversion 
produced  by  custom.  The  former  adheres  too  close  to  the  constitu- 
tion ever  to  be  eradicated ;  and,  for  that  reason,  the  passions  to 
which  it  gives  birth  continue  during  life  with  no  remarkable  dimi- 
nution. 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  occasionto  testify 
mutually  their  good-will  and  kindness :  and,  when  affection  is  de- 
cayed, habit  supplies  its  place  ;  for  it  makes  these  pei-sons  necessary 
to  each  other,  by  the  pain  of  separation.  (See  Chapter  xiv.)  Affec- 
tion to  children  hath  a  long  endurance,  longer  perhaps  than  any 
other  affection :  its  growth  keeps  pace  with  that  of  its  objects :  they 
display  new  beauties  and  qualifications  daily,  to  feed  and  augment 
the  affection.  But  whenever  the  affection  becomes  stationaiy,_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  hia 
powers  and  passions.  

185  The  continuance  and  decay  of  passions.  (1.)  Law  concerning  those  of  smlden 
erow  h-  an-er  &C.  (2.)  Concerning  those  founded  on  a  peculmr  propensity  (3.)  The 
feSn  of  "a  pafsfon  on  attaining  it?  ultimate  end.  Distinguish  between  particular  and 
atnori?  end  Examples  of  each  kind.  (4.)  Difference  between  an  original  propensity  and 
ISction-orafeSfon  produced  by  custom-Effect  of  absence -Aff..ct,ou  between  per- 
ions  living  together.— Att'ection  to  cliildi'en. 


BMOnONS  AND  PASSIONS.  81 

PART  IV. 

COEXISTENT   EMOTIONS    >lfO    PASSIONS. 

136.  For  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  hum? n  passions  and 
•Amotions,  it  is  not  sufficient  that  they  be  examined  singly  and  sep- 
arately :  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  difficult  to  trace  all  the  laws  that  govern  its  endless 
variety  of  cases :  if  such  an  undertaking  can  be  brought  to  perfec- 
tion, it  must  be  by  degrees.  The  following  hints  may  suffice  for  a 
first  attempt. 

We  begin  with  emotions  raised  by  different  sounds,  as  the  sim- 
plest case.  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,  produceth  an  emotion  of  its  own,  must 
be  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  ex- 
ample, with  ita  quahties  of  color,  figure,  size,  &c.,  is  perceived  to  be 
one  object ;  and  the  emotion  it  produceth  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  sight,  meaning 
objects  that  can  exist  each  of  them  independent  of  the  others,  never 
mix  or  incorporate  in  the  act  of  vision  :  each  object  is  perceived 
as  its  exists  separately  from  others ;  and  each  raiseth  an  emotion 
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. 

137.  To  explain  the  manner  in  which  such  emotions  exist,  similar 
emotions  must  be  distinguished  from  those  that  are  dissimilar.  Two 
emotions  are  said  to  be  similar,  when  they  tend  each  of  them  to  pro- 
duce the  same  tone  of  mind :  cheeriul  emotions,  however  difieren* 

186.  Concordont  and  discordant  sounds,  and  the  emotions  they  raise— Emotion  raised 
by  an  object  of  sigbt,  w.th  Its  several  c  u&llles.— Coexistent  emotions  proUucetl  by  different 
•vj*ct«  of  »igbt 

4* 


82  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

their  causes  may  be,  are  similar ;  and  so  are  those  which  are  melan- 
choly. 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  m 
ft  manner  to  become  one  complex  emotion :  witness  the  emotions 
produced  by  a  number  of  flowers  in  a  parterre,  or  of  trees  m  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  satis- 
fied, 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  winch 
their  causes  are  connected.  Thus  the  emotions  produced  by  a  fine 
landscape  and  the  singing  of  birds,  being  sitoilar  in  a  considerable 
degree,  readily  unite,  though  their  causes  are  little  connected.  And 
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  loved  one  in  distress,  whose  beauty  gives  pleas- 
ure, and  her  distress  pain:  these  two  emotions,  proc«eding  from 
different  ^'iews  of  the  object,  have  very  little  resemblance  to  each 
other ;  and  yet  so  intimately  connected  are  their  causes,  as  to  force 
them  into  a  sort  of  complex  emotion,  partly  pleasant,  partly  paintul. 
This  clearly  explains  some  expressions  common  in  poetry,  a  sweet 
distress,  a  pleasant  pain. 

138.  It  was  necessai-v  to  describe  with  some  accuracy  in  what 
manner  similar  and  dissimilar  emotions  coexist  in  the  mind,  in  order 
to  explain  their  difl^rent  effects,  both  internal  and  external.  This 
subject,  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  Bernnning  with  internal  effects,  I  discover  two,  clearly  dis- 
tinguishabTe  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  pleasant 
amotions  that  are  similar,  readily  unite  when  they  are  coexistent ; 
and  the  pleasure  felt  in  the  union  is  the  sum  of  the  two  pleasures  : 
the  same  emotions  \n  succession,  are  far  from  making  the  same 
fio-iire :  because  the  mind,  at  no  instant  of  the  succession,  is  conscious 

♦  It  is  easier  to  conceive  the  manner  of  coexistence  of  similar  emotions  than 
10  describe  it.  They  cannot  be  i^aid  to  mix  or  incornorato,  l.kc  concordant 
Bounds:  their  union  is  rather  of  agreement  or  concord ;  and  therefoi e  1  ha\ o 
chosen  the  words  in  the  text,  not  as  sufficient  to  express  clearly  the  n.nuer  ot 
Iheir  coexistence,  but  only  as  less  liable  to  exception  than  any  other  I  can  ,ind. 

I8T.  Similar  emotions  to  be  distinsuished  from  dlMlmllar.  Their  rwpective  ten  lendee. 
—If.  what  proportion  emotion*  un'te,  i«ort<  or  U-jw, 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  83 

ot  more  than  a  single  emotion.  This  doctrine  may  aptly  be  illus- 
trated 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  eftect  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 
efiect  must  be  the  greatest  where  the  causes  are  intimately  connected 
and  the  emotions  perfectly  similar.  The  same  rule  is  obviously  ap- 
plicable to  painful  emotions  that  are  similar  and  coexistent. 

139.  The  other  pleasure  arising  from  pleasant  emotions  similtu- 
and  coexistent,  cannot  be  better  explained  than  by  the  foregoing 
example  of  a  landscape,  where  the  sight,  hearing,  and  smelling  are 
employed:  besides  the  accumulated  pleasure  above  mentioned,  of  so 
many  different  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  emo- 
tions occasioned  by  the  visible  objects ;  but  it  is  felt  still  more  sen- 
sibly in  the  emotions  occasioned  by  the  objects  of  different  senses, 
as  where  tlie  emotions  of  the  eye  are  combined  with  those  of  the 
sar.  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  pro- 
portion to  the  degree  of  connection -between  the  causes:  to  feel  this 
pleasure  in  perfection,  the  resemblance  between  the  emotions  cannot 
be  too  strong,  nor  the  connection  between  their  causes  too  slight. 
The  former  condition  is  self-evident ;  and  the  reason  of  tlie  latter  is, 
that  the  pleasure  of  harmony  is  felt  from  vaiious  similar  emotions, 
distinct  from  each  other,  and  yet  sweetly  combining  in  the  mind ; 
whi(;h  excludes  causes  intimately  conuL'('ied,  for  the  emotions  pro- 
duced by  them  are  forced  into  one  complex  emotion.  This  pleasure 
of  concQid  or  harmony,  which  is  the  result  of  [.leasing  emotions,  and 
cannot  have  place  with  respect  to  those  "that  are  painful,  will  be 
further  illustrated,  when  the  emotions  produced  by  the  sound  of 
words  and  their  meaning  -ax^  taken  under  consideration.  (Chap, 
xviii.  sect.  3.) 

The  pleasure  of  concord  from  conjoined  emotions,  is  felt  even 
where  the  emotions  are  not  peifectly  similar.    Though  love  be  a 


ISS.  The  effects  of  similar  and  dissimilar  emoUons.— Two  internal  effccU  produced  by 
pleasant  emotions  that  are  similar.    Illustrations.  ,  ,i    v    ..v 

189.  Concord  of  similar  emotions  produced  by  objects  in  a  landscape,  e^^pec  ally  bvot- 
Jects  of  the  different  senses.  Tiie  pleasure  of  this  harmony,  proportional  to  wiiat?— wny 
»  slight  cornection  between  the  causes  of  the  emotions  iiicrea.'es  the  pleasure  'e^-—*"* 
picnsure  of  concord  from  conjo'  »ed  emotions,  even  wh»n  the  emotions  arc  not  penecti* 
sbuUar. 


g4  EMOTIONS  AND  'PASSIONS. 

pleasant  passion,  yet  by  its  softness  and  tenderness  it  resembles  in  a 
considerable  degree  the  painful  passion  of  pity  or  of  grief ;_  and  for 
tliat  reason,  love  accords  better  with  these  passions  than  Avith  what 
are  gay  and  sprightly. 

140.  Next  as  to  the  effects  of  dissimilar  emotions,  which  we  may 
guess  will  be  opposite  to  what  are  above  described.  Dissimilar  co- 
existent emotions,  as  said  above,  never  fail  to  distress  the  mind  by 
the  difference  of  their  tones ;  from  which  situation  a  feeling  of  har- 
mony 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  being  forcea 
into  an  unnatural  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  fonnei 
case,  subtraction  must  be  used  instead  of  addition ;  which  willbe 
evident  from  what  follows.  Dissimilar  emotions  forced_  into  unioL 
by  the  connection  of  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.  Dissimilai 
emotions  proceeding  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  hath  an  oppor- 
tunity to  make  a  complete  impi'ession. 

This  curious  theory  requires  to  be  illustrated  by  examples.  In 
reading  the  description  of  the  -flismal  waste.  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, 
B»ve  what  the  glimmering  of  these  livid  flanaes 
Casts  pale  and  dreadful  ? 

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. 
P'or  the  same  reason,  ascending  smoke  in  a  calm  morning,  which 
inspires  stillness  and  tranquillity,  is  improper  in  a  picture  full  of  vio- 
lent action.  A  parterre,  partly  ornamented,  partly  in  diso-^der  pro- 
duces a  mixed  feeling  of  the  same  sort.  Two  great  armies  in  act  to 
engage,  mix  the  dissimilar  emotions  of  grandeur  and  of  terrcr. 

Suppose  a  virtuous  man  has  drawn  on  himself  a  great  misfortune 
by  a  fault  incident  to  human  nature,  and  somewhat  venial :  tlie  re- 
morse he  feels  aggravates  his  distress,  and  consequently  raises  oui 
pity  to  a  high  pitch  :  we  at  the  same  time  blame  the  man ;  and  the 
indignatioa°rai3ed  by  the  fault  he  has  committed,  is  dissimilar  *o 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  83 

pitv.  These  Nvo  passions,  however,  proceeding  from  the  same  object, 
are  forced  into  a  sort  of  union;  but  the  indignation  is  so  shght  aa 
scarce  to  be  felt  in  the  mixture. with  pity.  Subjects  of  this  kind  are 
of  all  the  fittest  for  tragedy ;  but  of  that  afterwards.   (Chapter  xxii.) 

141  Opposite  emotions  are  so  dissimilar  as  not  to  admit  any  sort 
of  union,  even  where  they  proceed  from  causes  the  most  intimately 
connected.  A  succession  [to  an  estate]  opens  to  me  by  the  death 
of  a  worthy  man,  who  was  my  friend  as  well  as  my  busman :  when 
I  think  of  my  fi-iend,  I  am  grieved  ;  but  the  succession  gives  me  joy. 
These  two  causes  are  intimately  connected ;  for  the  succession  is  the 
direct  consequence  of  my  friend's  death:  the  emotions  however, 
being  opposite,  do  not  mix  ;  they  prevail  alteraately,  perhaps  for  a 
course  of  time,  till  grief  for  my  friend's  death  be  banished  by  the 
pleasures  of  opulence.  A  virtuous  man  suffenng  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 
neariy  connected;  but,  being  directed  to  different  objects,  they  are 
not  forced  into  union ;  their  opposition  preserves  them  disUnct,  and 
accordingly  they  are  found  to  prevail  alternately.       "        _ 

142  I  proceed  to  examples  of  dissimilar  emotions  arising  from 
unconnected  causes.  Good  and  bad  news  of  equal  importance  ar- 
riving at  the  same  instant  from  different  quarters,  produce  opposite 
emotions,  the  discordance  of  which  is  not  felt,  because  they  are  not 
forced  into  union :  they  govern  alternately,  commonly  m  a  quick 
succession,  till  their  force  be  spent : 

Shyloch.  How  now,  tubal,  what  news  from  Genoa?  hast  thou  found  my 

^"rfSrl  often  came  where  I  did  hear  of  her,  but  cannot  ^^^^f-   ,,„„,„_. 

l^r  Why,  there,  there,  there,  there !  a  diamond  gone,  cost  me  two  thousand 
dncau  in/r'ankfortl  the  curse  never  fell  upon  our  nat.on  till.now;  1  never 
fetlt  tni  now:  two  thousand  ducats  in  that,  and  other  precious  precious 
ewds  !  I  "voTi  d  my  daughter  were  dead  at  my  foot  and  tlie  jewels  m  her 
'eaT;  0  would  she  were  Hears'd  at  my  foot  and  the  ducats  '"  I'fjoffi'?-  |No 
news  of  them;  why,  so!  and  I  know  not  what's  spent  m  ^^^c  search  why 
thou  lo<s  upon  loss !  the  thief  gone  with  so  much,  and  so  much  to  Jnl  the 
thief:  and  no  satisfaction,  no  revenge,  nor  no  ill  luck  «t>mng  but  what  l.ghta 
o'  my  shoulders ;  no  sighs  but  o'  my  breathing,  no  tears  but  o  my  sledding. 

Tuh.  Yes,  other  men  have  ill  luck  too ;  Antomo,  a.s  I  heard  m  Genoa 

Shy.  What,  what,  what?  ill  luck,  ill  luck? 

■Tab.  Hath  an  Argosie  cast  away,  coming  from  rnpolis. 

Shv.  I  thank  God,  I  thank  God ;  is  it  true?  is  it  true? 

Tub.  I  spoke  with  some  of  the  sailors  that  escaped  the  ^recfc. 

Sfiy.l  thank  thee,  good  Tubid;  good  news,  good  news,  ha,  ha.  where,  in 

^  r^Vour  daughter  spent  in  Genoa,  as  I  heard,  one  night,  fourscore  dncate. 
Shy.  Thou  stick'st  a  Sagger  in  mc ;'  I  shall  never  see  my  gold  again  ;  four- 
score  ducats  at  a  sitting,  fourscore  ducats  ! 

140.  The  effocts  of  dissimilar  coexistent  emotion?,  especially  when  the  ^aases  are  co^ 
ncctei  -nie  conumrntive  force  of  dis-similar  coexJ^-tent  emotions  v.lien  vr<'ct%'^'''?  ^« 
connected  ami  «^ln  Prom  uncounectc-d  causes.    Ilustrated  by  tl.e  de.cr.ptKn  of  a  dUma 

^41*:  OpS^'em^iis''S.ough  arising  from  causes  closely  ccan.^.  do  not  ualU 
RxoinplMi 


86  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

7\il.  There  camo  divers  of  Antonio's  creditors  in  my  company  to  Venice, 
that  swear  he  cannot  choose  but  break.- 

6"%.  I  am  gkd  of  it ;  I'll  plague  him,  I'll  torture  him ;  I  am  glad  of  it. 

Tub.  One  of  them  showed  me  a  ring  that  he  had  of  your  daughter  for  a 
monkey.  * 

SfiT/.  'Out  upon  her  !  thou  torlurest  me.  Tubal,  it  was  my  Turquoise :  I  had 
it  of  Leah  when  1  was  a  bachelor ;  1  would  not  have  given  it  for  a  wilderness 
of  monkeys. 

Tub.  But  Antonio  is  certainly  undone. 

Shj/.  Nay,  that's  trup,  that's  very  true ;  go,  fee  me  an  officer,  bespeak  him 
a  fortnight  before.  1  will  have  the  lieart  of  him,  if  he  forfeit ;  for.  were  he  out 
of  Venice,  I  can  make  what  merchandise  I  will.  Go,  go,  Tubal,  and  meet  me 
at  our  synagogue ;  go,  good  Tubal ;  at  our  svnagogue.  Tubal. 

Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  111.  Sc.  1. 

In  the  same  manner,  good  ncvs  arriving  to  a  man  laboiing  under 
distress,  occasions  a  vibration  in  his  mind  from  the  one  to  the  other. 
If  the  emotions  be  unequal  in  force,  the  stronger  after  a  conflict  -will 
extinguish  the  weaker.  Thus  the  loss  of  a  house  by  fire,  or  of  a  sura 
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 
forgot. 

143.  The  foregoing  observations  will  be  found  of  great  use  in  the 
fine  arts.  Many  practical  rules  are  derived  from  them,  which  shall 
afterwards  be  mentioned ;  but  for  instant  gratification  in  part  the 
reader  will  accept  the  following  specimen,  being  an  application  of 
these  observations  to  music.  It  must  be  premised  that  no  dis- 
ngreeable  combination  of  souuds  is  entitled  to  the  name  of  music ; 
or  all  music  is  resolvable  into  melody  and  harmony,  which  imply 
agreeableness  in  their  very  conception.  Sounds  may  be  so  contrived 
as  to  produce  horroi  and  several  other  painful  feeling-s,  which,  in  a 
tragedy  or  in  an  opera,  may  be  introduced  with  advantage  to  ac- 
company the  representation  of  a  dissocial  or  disagreeable  passion. 
But  such  sounds  must  in  themselves  be  disagreeable,  and  upon  that 
account  cannot  be  dignified  with  the  name  of  music.  Secondly, 
the  agreeableness  of  vocal  music  dift'ers  from  that  of  instrumental ; 
the  former,  being  intended  to  accompany  words,  ought  to  be  ex- 
pressive of  the  sentiment  that  they  convey ;  but  the  latter,  having 
no  connection  wilh  words,  may  be  agreeable  without  relation  to  any 
sentiment:  harmony,  properly  so  called,  though  delightful  when  in 
perfection,  hath  no  relation  to  sentiment ;  and  we  often  find  melody 
without  the  least  tincture  of  it.  It  is  beyond  the  power  of  music  to 
faise  a  passion  or  a  sentiment ;  but  it  is  in  the  power  of  music  U 
raise  emotions  similar  to  what  are  raised  by  sentiments  expressed  in 
words  pronoimced  with  propriety  and  grace  ;  and  such  music  may 
justly  be  termed  sentimental.  Thirdly,  in  vocal  music,  the  intimate 
connection  of  sense  and  sound  rejects  dissimilar  emotions,  those 
especially  that  are  opposite.      Similar  emotions  produced  by  the 

142.  Examples  of  dissimilar  emotions  arising  from  unconnected  c»a:?os.— Good  and  !k** 
lews,  &c.--Case  where  tlie  emotioas  .ire  an»iiual  in  forca. 


EMO-nONS  AND  PASSIONS.  ^7 


Bense  and  the  sound,  go  naturally  into  union,  and  at  the  same  t  me 
TrHoucordant  or  harmonious;  but  dissimilar  emotions  forced  into 
union  by  these  causes  intimately  connected,  obscure  each  other,  and 
are  also  unpleasant  by  discordance.  ,    ,      .    e       t\ 

144   These  premises  make  it  easy  to  determine  what  sort  of  poeti- 
cal compositions  are  fitted  for  music.     In  general,  as  music  in  all  ita 
varior  tones  ought  to  be  agreeable,  it  never  can  be  concordant 
IkhTny  composftion  in  language  expressing  a  disagreeable  passion 
Tr  desciibing  a  disagreeable  object:  for  here  the  emotions  raised  by 
JL  inL  and  by  the  sound  are  not  only  dissimilar  but  opposite 
and  S  emotions  forced  into  union  produce  always  an  unpleasant 
mixture.    Un.h-,  accordingly  is  a  very  improper  companion  for  sen- 
tontTof  malice,  cruel tyreivy,  peevishness,  or  o  any  other  d.^.a 
nassion-  witness  among  a  thousand  King  John's  speech  in  bhak 
Se  £ting  Hubert  to  murder  Prince  Arthur,  which,  even  m 
ZLTclZyyie..,y>i\l  appear  incompatible  with  any  sor    of 
musir  Music  is  a  companion  no  less  improper  for  the  description 
SaTy  disagreeable  object,  such  as  that  of  Polyphemus  in  the  hi^ 
book  of  the  ^neid,  or  that  of  Sin  in  the  second  book  of  Pat  adise 
I^t:  the  horror  of  the  object  described  and  the  pleasure  of  the 
music  would  be  highly  discordant. 

T45    With  regard  to  vocal  music  there  is  an  additional  reason 
against  associating  it  with  disagreeable  passions      The   externa 
.ians  of  such  parous  are  painful-the  looks  and  gestures  to  the 
eye  and  the  toL  of  pronunciation  to  the  ear:  such  tones  therefore 
can  never  be  expressed  musically,  for  music  must  be  pleasant,  or  it 


IS  not  music.                                             „    ,       ,  ,              .1  „.  x._  j 
On  the  other  hand,  music  associates  finely  with  poems  tliat  tend 
to  inspire  pleasant  emotions:  music,  for  example  m  a  cheerful  tone 
is  perfectly  concordant  with  everj-  emotion  in  the  same  tone ;  and 
heL  our  taste  for  airs  expressive  of  mirth  and  jolhty.     Sjmpa- 
thetic  joy  associates  finely  with  cheerful  music ;  and  sy^npathetic 
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  niusic;  and 
accordingly   a  pereon   in   love,   even  when   unkindly   treated,    s 
Boothed  bv  music ;  for  the  tenderness  of  love  still  prevailing  accords 
widi  a  miinchoi;  strain.     This  is  finely  exemplified  by  Shakspeare 
in  the  fourth  act  of  Othello,  where  Desdemona  calls  for  a  song  expres- 
sive of  her  distress.    Wonderful  is  the  delicacy  of  that  writer  s  taste, 
which  foils  him  not  even  in  the  most  refined  emotions  of  human 
nature.  Melancholy  music  is  suited  to  slight  grief,  which  requires  or 
admits  consolation;  but  deep  grief,  which  refuses  all  coasolation, 
rejects  for  that  reason  even  melancholy  music.       ^ 

U1  Foresolng  observations  applied  to  tntwlc  —Three  tilings  to  be  preml9e<1. 
\u.  The  fort  of  p^llc*!  compositions  fltted  for  a.U5i<v-Ii.  «bat  senttoentt  Is  onusio  w 
h'vprorer  compiinion ;  for  what  objects  alsot 


88  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

Where  the  same  person  is  both  the  actor  and  the  singer,  as  in  an 
opera, -there  is  a  separate  reason  why  music  should  not  be  associated 
with  the  sentiments  of  any  disagreeable  passion,  nor  the  descnption 
of  any  disagreeable  object ;  which  is,  that  such  association  is  alto* 
gether  unnatural :  the  pain,  for  example,  that  a  man  feels  who  is 
agitated  with  malice  or  unjust  revenge,  disqualifies  him  for  relishing 
music,  or  any  thing  that  is  pleasing ;  and  therefore  to  represent 
such  a  man,  contrary  to  nature,  expressing  his  sentiments  in  a  song, 
cannot  be  agreeable  to  any  audience  of  taste. 

146,  For  a  different  reason  music  is  improper  for  accompanying 
pleasant  emotions  of  the  more  important  land  ;  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  wliere  hope  prevails  and  the  prospect  of 
success  is  great :  Alexander  attacking  the  Indian  town,  and  mount- 
ing 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  considered  as  an  argument  against  the  foregoing 
doctrine.  But  the  general  taste  for  operas  is  no  argument :  in  these 
compositions  the  passions  are  so  imperfectly  expressed  as  to  leave 
the  mind  free  for  relishing  music  of  any  sort  indifferently ;  and  it 
cannot  be  disguised  that  the  pleasure  of  an  opera  is  derived  chiefly 
from  the  music,  and  scarce  at  all  from  the  sentiments :  a  happy 
concordance  of  the  emotions  raised  by  the  song  and  by  the  music 
is  extremely  rare  ;  and  I  venture  to  affii-m  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. 

147.  Next  in  order,  according  to  the  method  proposed,  come  ex- 
ternal effects,  Avhich  lead  us  to  passions  as  the  causes  of  external 
efiects.  Two  coexistent  passions  that  have  the  same  tendency,  must 
be  similar ;  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  female  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  resent- 

145.  Additional  reason  in  rejrard  to  vocal  music  ajrtiinst  asgoolatine  it  with  4i?a£:reeablo 
pa'^ions. —  With  what  sort  of  poein<=  music  well  associates — The  vitrioiis  emotions  that 
accord  with  music. — Desilsmoaa— Case  of  a  person  who  is  at  the  same  time  singer  and 
actor,  as  in  an  opera. 

14C.  Why  music  U  improper  for  accompanying  pleasant  emotions  of  the  mere  important 
kind. 


EMOnONS  AND  PASSI0N8.  89 

ment  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  ol 
which  must  be,  either  that  the  passions  will  balance  each  other  and 
prevent  exteraal  action,  or  that  one  of  them  will  prevail  and  accom- 
plish its  end.  Guarini,  in  his  Pastor  Fido,  describes  beautifully  the 
strugo-le  between  love  and  resentment  directed  to  the  same  object, 
(Actl  Sc.  3.) 

Ovid  paints  in  lively  colors  the  vibration  of  mind  between  two 
opposite  passions  directed  to  the  same  object.  Althea  had  two 
brothers  much  beloved,  who  were  unjustly  put  to  death  by  her  son 
Meleager  in  a  fit  of  passion :  she  was  strongly  impelled  to  revenge  ; 
but  the  criminal  was  her  own  son.  This  ought  to  have  withheld 
her  hand  ;  but  the  story  is  more  interesting,  by  the  violence  of  the 
struggle  between  resentment  and  mateinal  love.    [Met.  lib.  8. 1.  445.) 

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  gi-atification  of  the  prevailing  passion, 
which  moderates  it  in  some  degree ;  and  that  circumstance  tends  to 
give  a  superioiity  to  the  opposite-  passion :  another  circumstance  also 
concurs,  that  this  opposite  passion  has,  by  restraint,  acquired  in  the 
interim  some  additional  force. 

148.  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  pre- 
vails. A  situation  of  that  kind  affords  great  scoj^e  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  exciting  its  whole  force,  but  without  any  struggle. 
Othello  was  naturally  inflexible ;  and  the  tenderest  love  could  not 
divert  him  from  a  purpose  he  approved  as  right,  not  even  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  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  : 

OiheUo.  It  is  the  cause,  it  is  the  cause,  ray  soul  :— 
Let  me  not  name  it  to  you,  you  chnsto  stars  I 

It  is  the  cause. Yet  I'll  not  shed  her  blood, 

Nor  scar  that  whiter  skin  of  hers  than  snow, 

And  smooth  as  monumental  alabaster.    {Lays  down  the  twtrd. 

Yet  she  must  die ;  else  she'll  betray  more  men. 

Put  out  the  light,  and  then— Put  out  the  light!— 

If  I  quench  thee,  thou  flaming  minister, 

I  can  again  thy  former  light  restore, 

Should  I  repent :  but  once  put  out  thy  light, 

Thou  cuuniug'st  pattern  of  excelling  nature, 

14T.  Coexistent  passions  as  tlie  causes  of  eottemal  effects. -Two  coexistent  passioM 
havinsr  the  same  tendency.— Two  paasioi  s  of  opposite  tendencies  proceedluK  rrom  IM 
•ftme  cAuse,  considered  in  different  views.    Their  effect  upon  action.    InsUnco  irom  uvw. 


90  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

I  know  not  where  is  that  Promethean  heat 

That  can  thy  light  rehiinine. [Sets  dawn  the  taper. 

"When  I  have  pluek'd  thy  rose, 

I  cannot  give  it  vital  growth  aeain ;  -  _.    .      . 

It  needs  must  wither.— I'll  smell  thee  on  the  tree  :  [Kmmg  her. 

O  balmy  breath,  that  dost  almost  persuade 

Justice" to  break  her  sword  I— One  more  ;  one  more; 

Be  tluis  when  thou  art  dead,  and  I  will  kill  thee, 

And  love  thee  after. One  more,  that's  the  last ; 

So  sweet  was  ne'er  so  fiital !  I  must  weep. 

But  they  are  cruel  tears  !  this  sorrow's  heavenly ; 

It  strikes  where  it  doth  love. Act  V.  Sc.  6. 


PARTY. 

INFLUENCE      OF     PASSION     -WITn     RESPECT     TO     OUR     PERCEPTIONS, 
OPINIONS,    AND    BELIEF. 

149.  Considering  how  intimately  our  perceptions,  passions,  and 
actions  are  mutually  connected,  it  would  be  wonderful  if  they  should 
have  no  mutual  influence.  That  our  actions  are  too  much  influenced 
by  passion,  is  a  known  truth  ;  but  it  is  not  less  certain,  though  not 
BO  well  known,  that  passion  hath  also  an  influence  upon  our  percep- 
tions, opinions,  and  belief.  For  example,  the  opinions  we  form  of 
men  and  things,  are  generally  directed  by  affection :  an  advice  given 
by  a  man  of  figure,  hath  great  weight ;  the  same  advice  from  one 
in  a  low  condition  is  despised  or  neglected ;  a  man  of  courage  un- 
derrates danger ;  and  to  the  indolent  the  slightest  obstacle  appears 
insurmountable. 

150.  There  is  no  truth  more  univei-sally  known,  than  that  tran- 
quillity and  sedateness  are  the  proper  state  of  mind  for  accurate  per- 
ception and  cool  deliberation ;  and  for  that  reason,  we  never  regard 
the  opinion  even  of  the  wisest  man,  when  we  discover  prejudice  or 
passion  behind  the  curtain.  Passion  hath  such  influence  over  us, 
as  to  give  a  false  light  to  all  its  objects.  Agreeable  passions  pre- 
posses's  the  mind  in  favor  of  their  objects,  and  disagreeable  passions, 
no  less  against  their  objects :  a  woman  is  all  perfection  in  her  lover's 
opinion,  while  in  the  eye  of  a  rival  beauty,  she  is  awkward  and  dis- 
agreeable :  when  the  passion  of  love  is  gone,  beauty  vanishes  ^yith 
it, — nothing  left  of  that  genteel  motion,  that  sprightly  convei-sation, 
those  numberless  graces,  which  formerly,  in  the  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  per- 
dition :  the  talent  of  speaking  in  a  friend  is  more  regarded  than 

148.  Love  and  jealousy  in  relation  to  the  same  object     Othello. 

149.  Influence  of  passion  upon  onr  perceptions  opinions,  and  belief    Examploa. 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  91 

prudent  conduct  in  any  other.  Nor  will  tbis  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  susceptible  of  a  bias  from  passion. 

151.  With  that  natural  biiis  another  circumstance  concurs,  to  give 
passion  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.  Uence  the  foundation  of  self-deceit,  where  a  man 
imposes  upon  himself  innocently,  and  even  without  suspicion  of  a 
bias. 

There  are  subordinate  means  tliat  contribute  to  pervert  the  judg- 
ment, and  to  make  us  form  opinions  contrary  to  truth ;  of  which  I 
shall  mention  two.  Fii-st,  it  was  fonnerly  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 
sUght  connection :  the  arguments  for  a  favorite  opinion  are  always 
at  hand,  while  we  often  search  in  vain  for  those  that  cross  our  in- 
clination. Second,  The  mind  taking  delight  in  agreeable  circum- 
stances or  ai'guments,  is  deeply  impressed  with  them ;  while  those 
that  are  disagreeable  are  hurried  over  so  as  scarce  to  make  an  im- 
pression :  the  same  ai'gument,  by  being  relished  or  not  relished, 
weighs  so  diflferently,  as  in  truth  to  make  conviction  depend  more 
on  passion  than  on  reasoning.  This  observation  is  fully  justified  by 
experience :  to  confine  myself  to  a  single  instance ;  the  numberless 
absurd  religious  tenets  that  at  difiereut  times  have  pestered  the 
world,  would  bo  altogether  unaccountable  but  for  that  irregular  bias 
of  passion. 

152.  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.  (See  part  i. 
tfect.  i.  of  the  present  chapter.)  The  passion  in  this  case  being  ex- 
erted for  the  sake  of  the  benefactor,  requires  no  peculiar  excellence 
in  his  children :  but  the  practice  of  doing  good  to  these  children 
produces  afiection  for  them,  which  never  fails  to  advance  them  in 
our  esteem.  By  such  means,  strong  connections  of  affection  are 
jften  formed  among  individuals,  upon  the  sHght  foundation  now 
mentioned. 

Envy  is  a  passion,  which,  being  altogether  unjustifiable,  cannot 
be  excused  but  by  disguising  it  under  some  plausible  name.    At  the 

150.  The  proper  state  of  mind  for  accurate  perception  and  just  deliberation. — How  agree" 
able  and  dlsjigreoaMe  passions  prepossess  tlie  mlna.     Instance  of  a  lover ;  also  of  a  zealot, 

151.  Tendency  to  Justify  our  own  passions.  Influence  of  such  a  tendency. — Two  »ubor* 
4inale  means  that  serve  to  perrert  our  judgment 


72  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIuNS. 

«ame  time,  no  passion  is  more  eager  than  en\7,  to  give  its  object  a 
disagreeable  appearance :  it  magnifies  every  bad  quality,  and  faxes 
or  the  most  humbling  circumstances  : 

Cassius.  I  cannot  tell  wliat  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  born  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, 
Cffisar  says  to  me,  Dar'st  thou,  Cassias,  now 
Leap  in  with  me  into  this  angry  flood. 
And  swim  to  yonder  point?— Upon  the  word, 
Accoutred  as  I  was,  1  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  controvem. 
But  ere  we  could  arrive  the  point  proposed, 
Csesar  cried.  Help  me,  Cassius,  or  I  sink. 
I,  as  jEneas,  our  great  ancestor, 
Did  from  the  flames  of  Troy  upon  his  shoulder 
The  old  Anchises  bear ;  so  from  the  waves  of  Tyber 
Did  I  the  tired  Csesar ;  and  this  man 
Is  now  become  a  god,  and  Cassius  is 
A  wretched  creature,  and  must  bend  his  body 
If  Cfesar  carelessly  but  nod  on  him. 
He  had  a  fever  when  he  was  in  Spain, 
And  when  the  fit  was  on  him,  I  did  mark 
How  he  did  shake.     'Tis  true  this  god  did  shake  ; 
His  coward  lips  did  from  their  color  fly. 
And  that  same  eye  whose  bend  doth  awe  the  world, 
Did  lose  its  lustre ;  I  did  hear  him  groan  ; 
Ave,  and  that  tongue  of  his,  that  bade  the  Komans 
Mark  hi  _—,...:„.,,„;,  Wl,o 


him,  and  write  his  speeches  in  their  books, 
Alas!  it  cried Give  me  some  drink,  Titmius,- 


As  a  sick  girl.    Ye  gods,  it  doth  amaze  me, 

A  man  of  such  a  feeble  temper  should 

So  get  a  start  of  this  majestic  world,  .    ^  ,   „     - 

And  bear  the  palm  eloao.— Julius  Gctsar,  Act  1.  bo.  ». 

Gloster,  inflamed  with  resentment  against  his  son  Edgar,  could 
even  force  himself  into  a  momentary  conviction  that  they  were  not 
related : 

O  strange  fasten'd  villain !  . 

Would1.e  deny  his  letter  l-I  never  ghim.^^^  ^^^  ^^  g^_  ^ 

153    When  by  great  sensibility  of  heart,  or  other  means,  grief 
becomes  immoderate,  the  mind,  in  order  to  justify  it^lf,  is  prone  to 
magnify  the  cause :  and  if  the  real  cause  admit  not  of  bemg  magni- 
fied; the  mind  seeks  a  cause  for  its  giief  in  imagined  future  events : 
Busby.  Madam,  your  Majesty  is  much  too  sad ; 
You  promised  when  you  parted  with  the  King, 
To  lay  aside  self-harming  heaviness, 
And  entertain  a  cheerful  disposition. 

162  Operation  of  gratitude:  often  productire  of  aflfection.-Envy,  how  escuted.  Iti 
action  towards  Its  objects.— Speech  of  Ca»nv. 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  9* 

Queen.  To  please  the  King,  I  did  ;  to  please  myself, 
I  cannot  do  it.    Yet  I  know  no  cause 
Why  1  should  welcome  such  a  guest  as  gnet; 
Save  bidding  farewell  to  so  sweet  a  guest 
As  my  sweet  Kicliard :  yet  again,  methinks, 
Some  unborn  sorrow,  ripe  in  Fortune  s  womb, 
Ib  coming  tow'rd  me ;  and  my  inward  soul 
With  something  trembles,  yet  at  nothing  grieves, 
More  than  with  parting  from  my  lord  the^^i^.^  ^^  ^^^  ^^  g^_  ^^ 

Resentment  at  firet  is  vented  on  the  relations  of  the  offender,  in 
order  to  punish  him :  but  as  resentment,  when  so  outrageous,  is 
contrary  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  owu 

demerits.  ^  j.    f  lU 

Anger  raised  by  an  accidental  stroke  upon  a  tender  part  ot  tbe 
body  is  sometimes  vented  upon  the  undesigning  cause.     But  as  the 
passion  in  that  case  is  absurd,  and  as  there  can  be  no  solid  gratiti- 
cation  in  punishing  the  innocent,  the  mind,  prone  to  justify  as  well 
as  to  gratify  its  passion,  deludes  itself  into  a  conviction  ot  the  ac-  • 
lion's  being  voluntary.    The  conviction,  however,  is  but  momentary: 
the  fii-st  reflection  shows  it  to  be  erroneous;  and  the  passion  van- 
isheth  almost  instantaneously  with  the  conviction.     But  anger,  the 
most  violent  of  all  passions,  has  still  greater  influence  :  it  sometimes 
forces  the  mind  to  Jyereonify  a  stock  or  a  stone,  if  it  happen  to  oc- 
casion 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 
momentary  conviction  of  its  being  a  voluntary  agent,  mustbe  evi- 
dent from  considering,  that,  without  such  conviction,  the  passion  can 
neither  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  an  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  storn^ 
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 : 
«  0  thou  salt  and  bitter  water !  thy  master  hath  condemned  thee  to 
tliis  punishment  for  offending  him  without  cause  ;  and  is  resolved  to 
pass  over  thee  in  despite  of  thy  insolence  :  with  reason  all  men  neg- 
lect to  sacrifice  to  thee,  because  thou  art  both  disagreeable  and 
treacherous."     (Herodotus,  Book  vii.) 

164.  Shakspeare  exhibits  beautiful  examples  of  the  irregular  in- 
fluence of  passion  in  making  us  believe  things  to  be  otherwise  than 

158.  Immoderate  grief  justifies  itself.  how?-When  entertained  tow^i;^*,^^,"^ J^'**-^?"' 
«n  offender,  liow  resentment  justtfles  iteolC -Anger,  raised  by  an  acddental  strofee,  ttow 
iU^mptea  to  bo  iuRtifl*'!?— X«rx«»  »i»d  tb«  H«Uc»ixJut 


94  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

tbey  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  : 

Lmr.  Eiimble  thy  bellyfall,  spitfire,  spout  raial 
Nor  rain,  wind,  thunder^  fire,  are  my  dauo^hters. 
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  iiorrible  pleasure. Here  I  st<ind,  your  slave  ; 

A  poor,  infirm,  weak,  and  despised  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  f  oh  !  'tis  foul  I 

Act  III.  Sc.  2. 

Bang  Richard,  full  of  indignation  against  his  fiivorite  hoi-se  for  car- 
rying Bolingbroke,  is  led  into  the  conviction  of  his  being  rational : 

Groom.  0,  how  it  yearn'd  my  heart,  when  I  beheld 
In  London  streets  that  coronation  day, 
When  Bolingbroke  rode  on  Koan  Barbary, 
That  horse  that  thou  so  often  hast  bestrid. 
That  horse  that  I  so  carefully  have  dress'd. 

K.  Bich.  Eode  he  on  Barbary  !  tell  me,  gentle  friend, 
How  went  he  under  him  ? 

Groom.  So  proudly  as  he  had  disdain'd  the  ground. 

K.  Rich.  So  proud  that  Bolingbroke  was  on  his  back ! 
That  jade  had  eat  bread  from  my  royal  hand. 
This  "hand  hath  made  him  proud  with  clapping  him. 
Would  be  not  stumble  ?  would  he  not  fall  down 
(Since  pride  must  have  a  fall),  and  break  the  neck 
Of  that  proud  man  that  did  usurp  his  back  ? 

Richard,  11.  Act  V.  Sc.  11. 

Hamlet,  swelled  with  indignation  at  his  mother's  second  man-iage, 
was  strongly  inclined  to  lessen  the  time  of  her  widowhood,  the 
shortness  of  the  time  being  a  violent  circumstance  against  her ; 
and  he  deludes  himself  by  degrees  into  the  opinion  of  an  interval 
shorter  than  the  real  one  : 

Hamlet.  That  it  should  come  to  this  ! 

But  two  months  dead  !  nay,  not  so  much ;  not  two ; — 

So  excellent  a  king,  that  was  to  this, 

Hyperion  to  a  satyr:  so  loving  to  my  mother, 

That  ho  permitted  not  the  wmds  of  heaven 

Visit  her  face  too  roughly.    Heaven  and  earth  ! 

Must  I  remember — why,  she  would  hang  on  him, 

As  if  increase  of  appetite  had  grown 

By  what  it  fed  on  ;  yet,  within  a  month, — 

Let  me  not  think — Frailty,  thy  name  is  Woman! 

A  little  month  !  or  ere  these  shoes  were  old. 

With  which  she  foUow'd  my  poor  father's  body, 

Like  Niobe,  all  tears Why  she,  e'en  she 

(0  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  month  ! 

Ere  yet  the  salt  of  most  unrighteous  tears 
Had  left  the  flusluiig  iu  btr  gauled  eyes. 


EMOTIONS  AND  FASSIONS.  ^* 

She  married Oh,  most  wicked  speed,  to  post 

With  8nch  dexterity  to  incestuous  shoeta  ! 

It  is  not,  nor  it  cannot  corae  W  good  a^h   <!«  « 

But  break,  my  heart,  for  I  must  hold  my  tongue.        Act  1.  be.  8. 

The  power  of  passion  to  falsify  the  computation  of  time  is  remarka- 
ble in  this  instance  ;  because  time,  which  hath  an  accurate  measure, 
is  less  obsequious  to  our  desires  and  wishes,  than  objects  which  have 
no  precise  standard  of  less  or  more. 

155.  Good  news  is  greedily  swallowed  upon  very  slender  evi- 
dence :  our  wishes  magnify  the  probability  of  the  event,  as  well  as 
the  veracity  of  the  relater ;  and  we  believe  as  certain,  what  at  best 
is  doubtful : 

Quel,  3hc  I'huom  vede,  amor  li  fa  invisible 

El  I'iuvisibil  fa  veder  amore 

Qnesto  creduto  fu,  che  '1  miser  suole 

Dar  facUe  credenza  a'  quel,  che^^J^^^.^,,  ^ant.  I.  St.  56. 

For  the  same  reason,  bad  news  gains  also  credit  upon  the  slight^l 
evidence  :  fear,  if  once  alarmed,  has  the  same  effect  with  hope,  to 
roaffuify  every  circumstance  that  tends  to  conviction,  bhakspeare, 
who  shows  more  knowledge  of  human  nature  than  any  of  our  phi- 
losophers, hath  in  his  Ci/mbeline  (Act  ii.  Sc.  6)  represented  this  bias 
of  the  mind ;  for  he  makes  the  person  who  alone  was  aflected  with 
the  bad  news,  yield  to  evidence  that  did  not  convince  any  of  his  com- 
panions. And  Othello  (Act  iii.  Sc.  8)  is  convinced^  of  his  wife  s  in- 
fidelity from  circumstances  too  light  to  move  any  person  less 
interested.  .        , 

If  the  news  interest  us  in  so  low  a  degree  as  to  give  place  to  rea- 
son, the  effect  will  not  be  altogether  the  same :  judging  of  the  prol>- 
ability  or  improbability  of  the  story,  the  mind  settles  in  a  rational 
conviction  either  that  it  is  tnie  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  un- 
favorable, by  fear.  ., 

This  observation  holds  equally  with  respect  to 'future  events:  if  a 
future  event  be  either  much  wished  or  dreaded,  the  mind  never  tails 
to  augment  the  probability  beyond  truth. 

156.  That  easiness  of  belief  with  respect  to  wonders  and  prodi- 
gies, even  the  most  absurd  and  ridiculous,  is  a  strange  phenomenon; 
because  nothing  can  be  more  evident  than  the  following  proposition, 
that  the  more  singular  an  event  is,  the  more  evidence  is  required  to 
produce  belief;  a  familiar  event  daily  occuiring,  being  in  itself  ex- 
tremely probable,  finds  ready  credit,  and  therefore  is  vouched  by 
the  slightest  evidence;    but  to  overcome  the  improbability  of  a 

154  Examples,  where  passion  makes  us  believe  things  to  be  otherwise  than  thej  f.— 
^1M.  wSy^e°^news  an-1  bad  nc^  rcoolved  npon  slight  evidence?  E«tnpla. 
—Belief  of  ftitnrr  e-.-ents. 


96  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

Rtrange  aud  rare  event,  contrary  to  the  course  of  nature,  the  very 
strongest  evidence  is  required.  Jjt  is  certain,  however,  that  wonders 
and  prodigies  are  swallowed  by  the  vulgar,  upon  evidence  that 
would  notice  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,  raiseth  an  emotion  of  wonder,  and  perhaps  of 
dread ;  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,  that 
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- 
pensity. 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  certainly 
two  happy  lovers.  Not  at  all,  replies  the  curate,  they  are  two  stee- 
ples of  a  cathedral. 


APPENDIX  TO  PART  V. 
Methods  that  Nature  hath  afforded  for  computing  Time  and  Space. 

157.  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  hath  an 
jifluence  so  universal  to  make  us  wander  from  truth  as  well  as  from 
jUstice. 

The  question  is.  What  was  the  measure  of  time  before  artificial 
measures  were  invented ;  and  what  is  the  measure  at  present,  when 
these  are  not  at  hand  ?  I  speak  not  of  months  and  days,  which  are 
computed  by  the  moon  and  sun ;  but  of  hours,  or  in  general  of  the 
time  that  passes  between  any  two  occun-ences  when  there  is  not  ac- 
cess 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  pro- 

156.  Facility  of  belief  with  respect  to  wonders:  how  explained.— Opinion  and  belief  in- 
fluenced  by  propensity;  e.  g.  to  believe  the  uniformity  of  nature's  operations.— Opinion 
B«<1  belief  luilu«uc«d  by  affettlou.— Story  of  the  lidy  end  the  t-uratt. 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  97 

portion  to  the  number  of  perceptions  and  ideas  that  have  passed 
during  that  interval.  This  measure  is  indeed  far  from  being  accu- 
rate ;  because  in  a  quick  and  in  a  slow  succession,  it  must  evidently 
produce  different  computations  of  the  same  time :  but,  however  in- 
accurate, it  is  the  only  measure  by  which  we  naturally  calculate 
time ;  and  that  measure  is  applied,  on  all  occasions,  without  regard 
to  any  casual  vaiiation  in  the  rate  of  succession. 

That  measure  would,  however,  be  tolerable,  did  it  labor  under  no 
other  imperfection  besides  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  pe- 
riods ;  one  while  it  is  passing,  another  after  it  is  past :  these  compu- 
tations 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  eveiy  case  where  we  long 
for  a  distant  event ;  as  where  one  is  in  expectation  of  good  news,  or 
where  a  profligate  heir  watches  for  tlie  death  of  an  old  rich  miser. 
Opposite  to  these  are  instances  not  fewer  in  number :  to  a  criminal 
tlie  interval  between  sentence  and  execution  appears  woefully  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  al- 
lowed him  for  play,  moves,  in  his  apprehension,  with  a  very  smft 
pace ;  before  he  is  thoroughly  engaged,  the  hour  is  gone.  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  slow,  or  rather  that  it  will  never  come :  every  minute 
is  thought  of  an  intolerable  length.  Here  is  a  fair,  and,  I  hope,  sat- 
isfactoiy  reason,  why  time  is  thought  to  be  tedious  when  we  long 
for  a  future  event,  and  not  less  fleet  when  >ve  dread  the  event  The 
I'eason  is  confirmed  by  other  instances.  Bodily  pain,  fixed  to  one 
part,  produceth  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  hiis  the  opposite  appearance ;  and 
the  reason  is,  that  bodily  pain  is  always  attended  with  a  degree  of 
impatience,  which  makes  us  think  eveiy  minute  to  be  an  hour.  The 
same  holds  where  the  pain  shifts  from  place  to  place  ;  but  not  so  re- 
markably, because  such  a  pain  is  not  attended  with  the  same  degree 

167.  The  natural  measure  of  time.— Its  Inaccuracy.— Time  computed  (1)  when  It  I»P«-'«- 
Ing.  Instance  or  absent  lovers;  of  longing  fur  a  distant  event  Opposite  instances — When 
an  approaching  event  Is  dreaded.— Tho  computation  of  time  while  siilfering  bodily  pain : 
».co  li'  travelling  a  Ixwl  road. 


98  EMOTIONS  AN!   PASSIONS. 

of  impatience.  The  impatience  a  man  hath  in  travelling  through  a 
barren  country,  or  in  a  bad  road,  makes  him  think,  during  the  jour- 
ney, that  time  goes  on  with  a  very  slow  pace.  We  shall  see  after- 
wards, that  a  very  different  computation  is  made  when  the  journey 
IS  over. 

153!  How  ought  it  to  stand  witli  a  person  who  apprehends  bad 
news  ?  It  will  probably  be  thought  that  the  case  of  this  person  re- 
sembles that  of  a  criminal,  who,  terrified  at  his  approaching  execu- 
tion, 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 
determined ;  in  the  case  under  consideration,  the  person  is  still  m 
suspense.  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  Avho  is  acquainted  with  every 
maze  of  the  human  heart,  and  who  bestows  ineffable  graCe  and  or- 
nament upon  every  subject  he  handles  : 

^osaZznia.  I  pray  you,  what  is't  a-clock  ?  .!,„<.„,„„* 

Orlando.  You  sliould  ask  me,  what  time  0'  day ;  there's  no  clock  in  the  forest. 
Ros   Then  there  is  no  true  lover  in  the  forest ;  else,  sighing  every  minute, 

and  ffroanin?  every  hour,  would  detect  the  lazy  foot  of  Time,  as  well  as  a  clock. 
Orla   And  why  not  the  swift  foot  of  Time  ?    Had  not  that  been  as  proper  ? 
Jios.'By  no  means,  Sir.    Time  travels  in  divers  paces  with  divers  persons. 

rU  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  withal  ?  ^      *    <- 1  ^, 

Jios.  Marry,  he  trots  hard  with  a  young  maid  between  the  contract  ot  her 

marria'^e  and  the  day  it  is  solemnized :  if  the  interim  be  but  a  se  ennight, 

Time's  pace  is  so  hard,  that  it  seems  the  length  of  seven  year. 

Orla.  Who  ambles  Time  withal  ?  ,    . ,    .,       ^  ^.i,  » . 

Jios.  With  a  priest  that  lacks  Latin,  and  a  rich  man  that  hath  not  the  gout, 

for  the  one  sleeps  easily,  because  he  cannot  study:  the  other  lives  merrily. 

because  he  feels'^no  pain :  the  one  lacking  the  burthen  of  lean  and  wastehxl 

learning ;  the  other  knowing  no  burthen  ol  heavy  tedious  penury,    ihese  iime 

ambles  withal. 

CrZa.  Who  doth  he  gallop  withal?         ,        ,,  „,,    „„  ^„„.  „,„  fi,ii 

Jios.  With  a  thief  to  the  gallows :  for,  though  he  go  as  softly  as  foot  can  fall, 

he  thinks  himself  too  soon  there. 

OrZa.  Who  stays  it  still  withal  ?  »  >_  „„/i  to,^ 

Jios.  With  lawyers  in  the  vacation :  for  they  sleep  between  tenn  and  term, 

and  then  they  perceive  not  how  Time  moves.— ^s  You  Like  It,  Aci  iii.  oc.  0. 

169.  The  natural  method  of  computing  present  time,  shows  how 
for  from  the  trath  we  may  be  led  by  the  irregular  influence  of  pas- 
sion ;  nor  are  our  eyes  immediately  opened  v/hen  the  scene  is  past ; 
for  the  deception  continues  while  there  remain  any  traces  of  the 
passion.     But  looking  back  upon  past  lime  when  the  joy  or  distress 

158.  Computation  by  a  person  who  apprehends  bad  news.-Hpw  this  case  differs  fro« 
tbat  of  a  crUnlual  approacblii?  the  lime  of  exfcution. 


EMOTION^  AND  PASSIONS.  99 

is  no  longer  remembered,  the  computHtion  is  very  different :  in  tbat 
condition  we  coolly  and  dt^-Iiberalely  make  use  of  tbe  ordinary  meas- 
ure, namely,  tbe  course  of  our  perceptions.  And  I  shall  now  pro- 
ceed to  the  errors  tbat  this  measure  is  subjected  to.  Here  wo  must 
distinguish  between  a  tivain  of  perceptions  and  a  train  of  ideas: 
real  objects  make  a  strong  impression,  and  are  faithfully  remembered : 
ideas,  on  the  contrary,  however  entertaining  at  the  time,  are  apt  to 
escape  a  subsequent  recollection.  Hence  it  is,  that  in  retrospection, 
the  time  tbat  was  employed  upon  real  objects,  appears  longer  than 
that  employed  upon  ideas :  the  former  are  mor^  accurately  recol- 
lected 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  traveller,  makes  the 
time  spent  in  the  journey  appear  to  him  longer  than  it  was  in  reality ; 
which  is  chiefly  remarkable  in  the  first  journey,  when  eveiy  object 
is  new,  and  makes  a  strong  impression.  On  the  other  hand,  after 
finishing  a  journey  through  a  barren  country  thinly  peopled,  the  time 
appears  short,  being  measured  by  the  number  of  objects,  which  were 
few,  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  populoiis :  the  trav- 
eller has  no  natural  measure  of  the  miles  he  has  travelled,  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  com- 
pute that  the  time  has  been  short,  and  consequently  that  the  miles 
nave  been  few :  by  the  same  method  of  computation,  the  great  num- 
ber of  perceptions,  from  the  quantity  of  objects  in  a  populous  coun- 
try, make  the  traveller  conjecture  that  the  time  has  been  long,  and 
the  miles  many.  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. 

160.  Again,  the  travelling  with  an  agreeable  companion,  pro- 
duceth  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 
^  joyous  company  over  a  bottle :  the  ideas  with  which  they  have 
been  entertained,  being  transitory,  escape  the  memory :  after  the 
journey  and  the  entertainment  are  over,  they  reflect  that  they  have 
been  much  diverted,  but  scarce  can  say  about  what. 

159.  (2.)  'Wheii  the  time  of  an  event  has  passed;  how  we  compute. — ^The  retrosr«ctlon  ot 
time  employed  upon  real  objects,  and  upon  ideas.  Examples.— Oompatation  of  di.«tanoe 
and  uf  time  in  pat'tinfr  tLroii^'h  »  vopulous  oiintry ;  and  throngli  a  barren  ou*. 


100  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

When  one  is  totally  occupied  with  any  agreeable  work  that  ad- 
mits not  many  objects,  time  runs  on  without  observation ;  and  upon 
a  subsequent  recollection,  must  appear  short,  in  proportion  to  the 
paucity  of  objects.  This  is  still  more  remarkable  in  close  contem- 
plation and  in  deep  thinking,  where  the  train,  composed  wholly  of 
ideas,  proceeds  with  an  extreme  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  im- 
pression, 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  inay  in  gen- 
eral 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  pro- 
duceth  so  false  a  reckoning  of  time  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  instantly  ban- 
ished, so  as  scarce  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. 


PART  VI. 

THB  RESEMBLANCE  OF  EMOTIONS  TO  THEIR  CAUSES. 

161.  That  many  emotions  have  some  resemblance  to  their  causes 
18  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  feehngs  that  resemble 
it:  sluggish  motion,  for  example,  causeth  a  languid,  unpleasant 
feehng;  slow  uniform  motion,  a  feeling  calm  and  pleasant;  and 
brisk  motion,  a  lively  feeling  that  rouses  the  spirits  and  promotes 
activity.  A  fall  of  water  through  rocks  raises  in  the  mind  a  tumul- 
tuous confused  agitation,  extremely  similar  to  its  cause.  Wheu  force 
is  exerted  with  any  effort,  the  spectator  feels  a  similar  effort,  as  of 

160.  Computation  of  road  and  time  when  travellins:  witln  an  agreeable  companion.— Com- 
jntation  of  time  passed  at  a  ball ;  or  wlien  occupied  with  any  agreeable  worlj,  admitting 
few  objects ;  after  a  process  of  deep  thinking ;  after  a  reverie ;  false  reckoning  arising  frona 

"m  EmotSns  resemble  their  causes— Effect  on  the  mind  of  various  degrees  of  motion 
md  of  force.— Vl«-w  of  a  larjf»object;  of  nn  ele'-atod  one. 


EMOTIONS  AND  PAS810N8.  1 01 

force  exerted  withiu  his  mind.    A  large  object  swells  in  the  heart :  an 
elevated  object  makes  the  spectator  stand  erect. 

1G2.  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  hath  a  certain  solemnity,  which  it  communicates  to 
the  feeling  produced  by  it  A  sound  in  a  high  key  cheers  the  mina. 
by  raising  it :  such  a  sound  in  a  full  tone  both  elevates  and  s^elL 
the  mind. 

Again,  a  wall  or  pillar  that  declines  from  the  perpendicular  pro- 
duceth  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 
ba§e  looks  more  firm  and  stable  than  upon  the  naked  ground,  and 
for  that  reason  is  more  agreeable;  and  though  the  cylinder  is  a 
more  beautiful  figure,  yet  ^e  cube  for  a  base  is  prefeixed,  its  angles 
being  extended  to  a  greater  distance  from  the  centre  than  the  cir- 
cumference 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,  to  differ  from  each  other :  if  the  shaft  be  round,  the  base 
and  capital  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 
appear  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. 

163.  The  foregoing  observation  is  not  confined  to  emotions  or 
feelings  raised  by  still  life  :  it  holds  also  in  what  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  hath  already  been  re- 
marked, that  any  single  instance  of  gratitude,  besides  procuring 
esteem  for  the  author,  raiseth  in  the  spectator  a  vague  emotion  of 
gratitude,  which  disposeth  him  to  be  grateful ;  and  I  now  further 
remark,  that  this  vague  emotion  hath  a  strong  resemblance  to  its 
cause,  namely,  the  passion  that  produced  the  grateful  action.  Cour- 
age exerted  inspires  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  emotioas  resembling  the  passions  that  pro- 

162.  Emotions  pro-lnccd  by  various  sounds:  also  by  a  view  of  a  wall  or  pillar  declining 
from  a  perpendicular. — Column  resting  on  a  base  or  on  the  ground. — Proper  form  of  the 
base  of  a  column. — A  constrained  posture  disagreeable.    Hence  a  rule  in  painting. 

163.  Emotions  raised  by  tlie  qualities,  actions,  and  passions  of  a  sensible  being.— Effect 
of  observing  or  reading  of  an  Instance  of  gratitude,  &&    Practical  Inference, 


102  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSI0N8. 

duo^tli  these  actions.    And  hence  the  advantage  of  choice  books 
and  choice  company.  .  .      . 

164  Grief  as  well  as  joy  is  infectious :  the  emotions  they  raise  m 
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  a  universal  panic.  Pity  is  simi- 
lar *  its  cause ;  a  parting  scene  between  lovers  or  friends  produceth 
in  the  spectator  a  sort  of  pity,  which  is  tender  like  the  distress ;  the 
anguish  of  remorse  produceth  pity  of  a  harsh  kind ;  and  if  the 
remoi-se  be  extreme,  the  pity  hath  a  mixture  of  horror.  Anger  1 
think  is  singular ;  for  even  where  it  is  moderate,  and  causeth  no 
disgust,  it  disposeth  not  the  spectator  to  anger  in  any  degree.  Cov- 
etousness,  cruelty,  treachery,  and  other  vicious  passions,  are  so  .tar 
from  raising  any  emotion  similar  to  themselves,  to  incite  a  spectator 
to  imitation,  that  they  have  an  opposite  effect:  they  raise  abhor- 
rence, and  fortify  the  spectator  in  his  aversion  to  such  actx)ns. 
When  anger  is  immoderate,  it  cannot  fail  to  produce  the  same  effect. 


PART  VII. 

FINAL    CAUSES    OF   THE   MORE    FREQUENT    EMOTIONS   AND    PASSIONS. 

165.  It  is  a  law  in  our  nature,  that  we  never  act  but  by  the  im- 
pulse of  desire ;  which  in  other  words  is  saying,  that  passion,  by  the 
desire  included  in  it,  is  what  determines  the  will.  Hence  m  the 
conduct  of  life,  it  is  of  the  utmost  importance  that  our  passions  be 
directed  to  proper  objects,  tend  to  just  and  rational  ends,  and  with 
relation  to  each  other  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, 
in  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. 

In  order  to  fulfil  my  engagement,  it  must  be  premised,  that  an 
agreeable  cause  produceth  always  a  pleasant  emotion  ;  and  a  disar 
greeable  cause,  a  painful  emotion.  This  is  a  general  law  of  nature 
which  admits  not  a  single  exception  :  agreeableness  in  the  causeis 
indeed  so  essentially  connected  with  pleasure  in  the  emotion,  its 
eftect,  that  an  agreeable  cause  cannot  be  better  defined,  than  by  its 

164.  Remarks  on  grief  and  J07 ;  fear;  pity;  anger;  covetousnoss ;  cruelty,  and  otbei 
vioioas  passions. 


"EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 


loa 


powe.-  oi  producing  a  pleasant  emotion  ;  and  disagreeableness  in  the 
cause  has  the  same  necessary  connection  with  pain  in  the  emotion 
produced  by  it. 

166.  From  this  pre.iminary  it  appears,  that  in  order  to  know  for 
what  end  an  emotion  is  made,  pleasant  or  painful,  wo  must  begin 
with  inquiring  for  what  end  its  cause  is  made  agreeable  or  disagree- 
able. And,  with  respect  to  inanimate  objects,  considered  as  the 
causes  of  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.  But  that  is  not  all :  the  bulk  of  such  objects  being 
of  real  use  in  life,  are  made  agreeable  in  order  to  excite  our  indus- 
try ;  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  disagi-eeable,  such  as  a  rotten 
carcass,  because  they  are  noxious ;  others,  a  dirty  mai-sh,  for  exam- 
ple, or  a  ban-en  heath,  are  made  disagreeable,  in  order,  as  above,  to 
excite  our  industry.  And,  with  respect  to  the  few  thin^  that  are 
neither  agreeable  nor  disagreeable,  it  will  bo  made  evident,  thai 
their  being  left  indifferent  is  not  a  work  of  chance  but  of  wisdom  : 
of  such  I  shall  have  occasion  to  give  several  instances. 

167.  Because  inanimate  objects  that  are  agreeable  fix  our  atten- 
tion, and  draw  us  to  them,  they  in  that  respect  are  termed  attractive : 
such  objects  inspire  pleasant  emotions,  which  are  gratified  by  ad- 
hering to  the  objects  and  enjoying  them.  Because  disagreeable 
objects  of  the  same  kind  repel  us  from  them,  they  in  that  respect 
are  termed  repulsive;  and  the  painful  emotions  raised  by  such 
objects  are  gi-atified  by  flying  from  them.  Thus,  in  general,  with 
respect  to  things  inanimate,  the  tendency  of  every  pleasant  emotion 
is  to  prolong  the  pleasure ;  and  the  tendency  of  every  painful  emo- 
tion is  to  end  the  pain. 

168.  Sensible  beings,  considered  as  objects  of  passion,  lead  into 
a  more  complex  theory.  A  sensible  being  that  is  agreeable  by  its 
attributes,  inspires  us  with  a  pleasant  emotion  accompanied  with 
desire ;  and  the  question  is.  What  is  naturally  the  gratification  of 
that  desire  ?  As  man  is  endued  with  a  principle  of  benevolence  as 
well  as  of  selfishness,  ho  is  prompted  by  his  nature  to  desire  the 
good  of  every  sensible  being  that  gives  him  pleasure ;  and  the  hap- 
piness of  that  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  aftbrding  him  means  of  gratification  beyond  what 
selfishness  can  afford ;  and,^t  the  same  time,  it  tends  eminently  to 

163.  What  impels  to  action. — Rule  In  regard  to  our  passloDS. — Agreeable  and  disagree* 
able  cause  defined. 

166.  Inanimate  objects  as  causes  of  cmoUons.— "Why  the  bulk  of  such  objects  are  agree- 
able.   Why  some  things  are  made  disagreeable. 

167.  Why  certain  objecti  are  tcrmo<)  attractiva,  others  repulsive^ 


104  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

advance  the  happiness  of  othei-s.     This  lays  open  a  beautiful  theory 
m  the  nature  of  man  :  a  selfish  action  can  oply  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 
refined  selfishness;  which. by  the  way,  ought  to  silence  certam  shal- 
low philosophers,  who,  ignorant  of  human  nature,  teach  a  disgustlul 
docti-ine— that  to  serve  others,  unless  with  a  view  to  our  own  hap- 
piness, is  weakness  and  folly  ;  as  if  selt-love  only,  and  not  benevo- 
lence, contributed  to  our  happiness.     With  shallow  thmkers,  the 
selfish  system  naturally  prevails  in  theory,  I  do  not  say  m  practice 
During  infancy,  our  desires  centre  mostly  in  ourselves :  every  one 
perceives  intuitively  the  comfort  of  food  and  raiment,  of  a  snug 
dwelling,  and  of  every  convenience.     But  that  the  domg  good  to 
others  will  make  us  happy,  is  not  so  evident ;  feeding  the  hungiy, 
for  example,  or  clothing  the  naked.    This  truth  is  seen  but  obscurely 
by  the  gross  of  mankind,  if  at  all  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  telt. 
To  perceive  the  social  principle  in  its  triumphant  state,  a  man  must 
forget  himself,  and  turn  his  thoughts  upon  the  character  and  con- 
duct 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  indifierent  to  the  happiness  and 
distress  of  others.     In  a  word,  it  is  but  too  common  for  nien  to  m 
dulge  selfishness  in  themselves ;  but  all  men  abhor  it  in  others. 

169  Next  in  order  come  sensible  beings  that  are  m  distress.  A 
person"in  distress,  being  so  far  a  disagreeable  object,  must  raise  in  a 
spectator  a  painful  passion ;  and,  were  man  purely  a  selfish  being, 
he  would  desire  to  be  relieved  from  that  pain  by  turning  from  the 
obiect.  But  the  principle  of  benevolence  gives  an  opposite  direction 
to  his  desire;  it  makes  him  desire  to  aflFord  relief,  and,  by  relieving 
the  person  from  distress,  his  passion  is  gi-atified.  The  painful  pas- 
sion thus  directed,  is  termed  sympathy;  which,  though  painfiil,  is 
vet  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  it  it 

were  repulsive.  ,  . ,      ^• 

170  We  in  the  last  place,  bring  under  consideration  persons 
hateful  by  ^ce  or  wickedness.  Imagine  a  wretch  who  has  lately 
perpetrated  some  horrid  crime ;  he  is  disagi-eeable  to  every  spectator 
and  consequently  raiseth  in  every  spectator  a  painful  passion.  What 
is  the  natural  gratification  of  that  passion  ?  I  must  here  again  ob- 
serve that,  supposing  man  to  be  entirely  a  selfish  being,  he  would 

168.  sensible  beings  considered  as  ot^e<3^  of  pa.s|on.-^^^^^^ 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  105 

be  prompted  by  his  nature  to  relieve  himself  from  the  pain  by  avert- 
ing his  eye  and  banishing  the  criminal  from  h's  thoughts.  But 
man  is  not  so  constituted;  he  is  composed  of  many  principles, 
which,  though  seemingly  contradictoiy,  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  ques- 
tion, I  must  introduce  a  third  principle,  no  less  remai-kable  in  its 
influence  than  either  of  these  mentioned  :  it  is  that  principle,  com- 
mon to  all,  which  prompts  us  to  punish  those  who  do  wrong.  An 
envious,  a  malicious,  or  a  cruel  action,  being  disagreeable,  raiseth  in 
the  spectator  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  guilty  person :  I  must  chas- 
tise the  wretch  by  indignation  at  least,  and  hatred,  if  not  more 
severely.     Here  the  final  cause  is  self-evident. 

171.  An  injury  done  to  myself,  touching  me  more  than  when 
done  to  others,  raises  my  resentment  to  a  higher  degree.  The 
desire,  accordingly,  included  in  this  passion,  is  not  satisfied  with  so 
slight  a  punishment  as  indignation  or  hatred  :  it  is  not  fully  grati- 
fied with  retaliation ;  and  the  author  must  by  my  hand  suffer  mis- 
chief as  great  at  least  as  he  has  done  to  me.  Neither  can  we  be  at 
any  loss  about  the  final  cause  of  that  higher  degree  of  resentment: 
the  whole  vigor  of  the  passion  is  required  to  secure  individuals 
from  the  injustice  and  oppression  of  others. 

172.  A  wicked  or  disgraceful  action  is  disagreeable,  not  only  to 
others,  but  even  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  by  the  name  of  re- 
morse, which  naturally  excites  him  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  desire 
of  self-punishment  derived  from  it,  are  touched  delicately  by  Terence 
{^Heautontimorumenos,  Act  I.  Sc.  l). 

Otway  reaches  the  same  sentiment : 

Monimia.  Let  mischiefs  multiply !  let  every  hour 
Of  my  loathed  life  vield  me  increase  of  horror  I 
Oh  let  the  suu  to  these  unhappy  eyes 
Ne'er  shine  n^ain,  but  be  eclipsed  forever ! 
May  every  Xh\n^  I  look  on  seem  a  prodigy, 
To  fill  my  soul  with  terror,  till  I  quite 
Forget  1  over  had  humanity, 
And  grow  a  cursor  of  the  works  of  nature ! —  Orphan,  Act  IV. 

173.  In  the  cases  mentioned,  benevolence  alone,  or  desire  of  pun 
ishment  alone,  governs  without   a  rival ;    and  it  was  necessary  to 

170.  Persons  hateful  by  vice.  M»n  inflnonced  In  view  of  them  by  selfishness  or  by 
l»enevolence. — A  tliird  principle  active  Ir.  Bucli  cases.     Its  final  cause. 

til.  Emotion  exclteJ  by  an  injury  done  to  myself.    The  final  cause. 

172.  A  wicked  action  (llsagreeable  to  the  dellnqu«nt  as  well  as  to  others  Emotiou 
txcitv<l ;  its  use.— Quotatiuo  ft^>ra  Otway '•  Orphan. 

.5* 


lOt)  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

handle  these  cases  separately,  in  order  to  elucidate  a  subject  which 
by  writera  is  left  in  great  obscurity.  But  neither  of  these  principles 
operates  always  without  rivalship :  cases  may  be  figured,  and  cases 
actually  exist,  where  the  same  pei-son  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  fixes  my  attention,  sympathy  prevails; 
out  as  soon  as  I  think  of  his  profligacy,  hatred  prevails,  accompanied 
sometimes  with  a  desire  to  punish,  this,  in  general,  is  the  case  of 
distress  occasioned  by  immoral  actions  that  are  not  highly  ciiminal ; 
and  if  the  distress  and  the  immoral  action  make  impressions  equal 
or  nearly  so,  sympathy  and  hatred,  counterbalancing  each  other, 
will  not  suffer  me  either  to  aff"ord  relief  or  to  inflict  punishment 
What  then  will  be  the  result  ?  The  principle  of  self-love  solves  the 
question :  abhorring  an  object  so  loathsome,  I  naturally  avert  my  eye, 
and  walk  off  as  fast  as  I  can,  in  order  to  be  relieved  from  the  pain. 
174.  No  action,  right  or  wrong,  is  indifferent  even  to  a  mere 
spectator  :  if  right,  it  inspires  esteem  ;  disgust,  if  wrong.  But  it  is 
remarkable,  that  these  emotions  seldom  are  accompanied  with  de- 
sire :  the  abilities  of  man  are  limited,  and  he  finds  sufficient  em- 
ployment in  relieving  the  distressed,  in  requiting  his  benefactors, 
and  in  punishing  those  who  wrong  him,  without  moving  out  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  quali- 
ties in  myself  must  produce  a  similar  effect  in  a  superior  degree, 
upon  account  of  the  natural  partiality  every  man  hath  for  himself ; 
and  this  increases  self-love.  If  these  qualities  be  of  a  high  rank, 
they  produce  a  conviction  of  superiority,  which  excites  me  to  assume 
some  sort  of  government  over  others.  Mean  qualities,  on  the  other 
hand,  produce  in  me  a  conviction  of  inferiority,  which  makes  me 
submit  to  others.  These  convictions,  distributed  among  individuals, 
by  measure  and  proportion,  may  justly  be  esteemed  the  solid  basis 
of  government ;  because  upon  them  depend  the  natural  submission 
of  the  many  to  the  few,  without  which  even  the  mildest  govern- 
ment would  be  in  a  violent  state,  and  have  a  constant  tendency  to 
dissolution. 

175.  No  other  branch  of  the  human  constitution  shows  more 
visibly  our  destination  for  society,  nor  tends  more  to  our  ini- 
provement,  than  appetite  for  fame  or  esteem:  for  as  the  whole 
conveniences  of  life  are  deiived  from  mutual  aid  and  support 
in  society,  it  ought  to  be  a  capital  aim  to  secure  these  conveni- 

1T3.  Cases  where  benevolence  and  desire  of  punishment  alternately  operate.  "When 
thev  counterbalance  each  other,  what  is  the  result?  .  , 

1?4  No  actton  ri"ht  or  v^rong  is  indifferent-Emotions  raised  by  a  view  of  good 
quaUd^  in  othe«:  In  myself  fn  view  of  mean  qualities  in  mysclf.-The  h«.s  of  gov 
•rnmeut. 


EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  l($l 

eDces,  by  gaining  the  esteem  and  affection  of  others.  Reason,  in- 
deed, dictates  that  lesson :  but  reason  alone  is  not  sufficient  in  a 
matter  of  such  importance ;  and  the  appetite  mentioned  is  a  motive 
more  powerful  than  reason,  to  be  active  in  gaining  esteem  and  affec- 
tion. That  appetite,  at  the  same  time,  is  finely  adjusted  to  tlie 
moral  branch  of  our  constitution,  by  promoting  all  the  moral  vir- 
tues ;  for  what  means  are  there  to  attract  love  and  esteem  so  effec- 
tual as  a  virtuous  course  of  life  ? — if  a  man  be  just  and  beneficent,  if 
he  be  temperate,  modest,  and  pradent,  he  will  infallibly  gain  the  es- 
teem and  love  of  all  who  know  him.* 

lYG.  Communication  of  passion  to  related  objects,  is  an  illus- 
trious instance  of  the  care  of  Providence  to  extend  social  connec- 
tions as  fai-  as  the  limited  nature  of  man  can  admit.  That  com- 
munication is  so  far  hurtful,  as  to  spread  the  malevolent  passions 
beyond  their  natural  bounds:  but  let  it  be  remaiked,  that  this 
unhappy  effect  regards  savages  only,  who  give  way  to  malevolent 
passions ;  for  under  the  discipline  of  society,  tliese  passions  being 
subdued,  are  in  a  good  measuie  eradicated ;  and  in  their  place 
succeed  the  kindly  affections,  which,  meeting  with  all  encourage- 
ment, take  possession  of  the  mind,  and  govern  all  our  actions.  In 
that  condition,  the  progress  of  passion  along  related  objects,  by 
spreading  the  kindly  aftections  through  a  multitude  of  individuals, 
liath  a  glorious  effect 

111.  Nothing  can  be  more  entertaining  to  a  rational  mind,  than 
the  economy  of  tlie  human  passions,  of  which  I  have  attempted  to 
give  some  faint  notion.  It  must,  however,  bo  acknowledged,  that 
our  passions,  when  they  happen  to  swell  beyond  proper  limits,  take 
on  a  less  regular  appearance  :  leason  may  proclaim  our  duty,  but 
the  vnW,  influenced  by  passion,  makes  gratification  always  welcome. 
Hence  the'  power  of  passion,  which,  when  in  excess,  cannot  be  re- 
sisted but  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  fortimate 
event,  is  diffused  upon  every  person  around  L>y  acts  of  benevolence ; 
and  resentment  for  an  atiocious  injury  done  by  one  out  of  reach, 
seizes  the  first  object  that  occurs  to  vent  itself  upon.  Those  who 
beheve  in  prophecies,  even  wish  the  accoifiplishment ;  and  a  weak 
mind  is  disposed  voluntarily  to  fulfil  a  prophecy,  in  order  to  gratify 
its  wish.     Shakspeare,  whom  no  particle  of  human  nature  hath 

*  [The  author  presents  here  ratlier  a  low  standard  of  moral  virtue.  Tho 
motive  assigned  may  have  a  good  effect  in  securing  an  external  morality ;  but 
if  moral  virtues  have  no  higher  origin  than  a  regard  to  human  applause,  they 
are,  in  the  view  of  the  Divine  Law,  only  brilliant  sins ;  for  that  requires  su- 
preme regard  and  love  to  God,  as  the  basis  of  all  true  virtue.] 

175.  Tendency  and  uses  of  an  appetite  for  fame  or  e»t«era.— Crldcism  on  the  Mithor'i 
iFa  Communiration  of  pnssion  tt>  i<>l«t^d  obj#cts:  tii  pun  hurtful ;  In  part  leiie9cti.L 


108  BEAUTT. 

escaped,  however  remote  fiom  common  obser ration,  describes  tliat 
weakness : 

King  Henry.  Doth  any  name  particular  belong 
Unto  that  lodging  where  I  fin^t  did  swoon  ? 

Warwick.  'Tis  eall'd  Jerusalem,  my  noble  lord. 

King  Henry.  Laud  be  to  God !  e'en  there  my  life  must  end. 
It  hath  been  prophesied  to  me  many  years, 
I  should  not  die  but  in  Jerusalem, 
Which  vainly  I  supposed  the  Holy  Land. 
But  bear  me  to  that  chamber,  there  I'll  lie : 
In  that  Jerusalem  shall  Henry  die. 

Second  Part,  Henry  IV.  Act  IV.  So.  last. 


CHAPTER  III. 

BEAUTY. 

178.  Having  discoursed  in  general  of  emotions  and  passions,  1 
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 :  I 
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  Avell  as  ot 
taste.  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  ai-ts  are  chiefly 
employed  to  raise  agreeable  emotions.  Attributes  of  single  ob- 
jects, as  the  most  simple,  shall  take  the  lead  ;  to  be  followed  with 
particulars,  which,  depending  on  relations,  are  not  found  in  single 
objects.  I  begin  with  Beauty,  the  most  noted  of  all  the  qualities 
that  belong  to  single  objects. 

1V9.  The  term  heauty,  in  its  native  signification,  is  appropriated 
to  objects  of  sight :  objects  of  the  other  senses  may  be  agreeable, 
such  as  the  sounds  of  musical  instruments ;  the  smoothness  and  soft- 
ness 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 

177.  Power  of  passion  when  expressive ;  joy ;  resentment — ^The  wish  to  accomplish  a 
prophecy  illustrated  from  Shakspeare. 

178.  What  the  ethical  writer  has  to  say  of  the  passions.— To  what  does  Lord  Kame* 
propoM  to  oonfia-!  bis  Inquiries  t 


BEAUTY.  1 09 

beautiful ;  how  much  more  so,  when  they  are  all  united  together  I 
The  beauty  of  the  human  figure  is  extraordinaiy,  being  a  coniposi- 
tion  of  numberless  beauties  arising  from  the  parts  and  qualities  of 
the  object,  various  colors,  various  motions,  figures,  size,  &c.,  all  uni- 
ted 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  : 
thus,  by  a  figure  of  speech,  we  say  a  beautiful  sound,  a  beautiful 
thought  or  expression,  a  beautiful  theorem,  a  beautiful  event,  a  beau- 
tiful discovery  in  art  or  science.  But,  as  figiirative  expression  is  the 
subject  of  a  following  chapter,  this  chapter  is  confined  to  beauty  in 
its  proper  signification,* 

180.  It  is  natural  to  suppose,  that  a  perception  so  various  as  that 
of  beauty,  comprehending  sometimes  many  particulars,  sometimes 
few,  should  occasion  emotions  equally  various ;  and  yet  all  the  vari- 
ous emotions  of  beauty  maintain  one  common  character,  that  of 
sweetness  and  gayety.f 

Considering,  attentively,  the  beauty  of  visible  objects,  we  discovei 
two  kinds.     The  fii'st  may  be  termed  intrinsic  beauty,  because  it  b 

*  [Cousin  (in  his  Lectures  on  the  Beautiful)  oftere  some  discriminating  re- 
marks upon  this  topic :  ,       ^- -  i       j 

"  Experience  testifies  that  all  agreeable  things  do  not  appear  beautifuJ,  and 
that,  among  agreeable  things,  those  which  are  most  so  are  not  the  most  beau- 
tiful ;  a  suro^gn  that  the  agreeable  is  not  the  beautiful,  for  if  one  is  identical 
with  the  other,  they  should  never  bo  separated,  but  should  always  be  commen- 
surate with  each  other. 

"Fur  from  this,  whilst  all  our  senses  give  us  agreeable  sensations,  only  two 
have  the  privilege  of  awakening  in  us  the  idea  of  beauty.  Docs  one  ever  say: 
This  is  a  beautiful  taste— This  is  a  beautiful  smell  ?  Nevertheless  one  should 
say  it,  if  the  beautiful  is  the  agreeable.  On  the  other  hand,  there  are  certain 
pleasures  of  odor  and  taste,  that  move  sensibility  more  than  the  greatest  beau- 
ties of  nature  and  art ;  and  even  among  the  perceptions  of  hearmg  and  sightj 
those  are  not  always  the  most  vivid  that  most  excite  in  us  the  idea  ot  beauty. 
—  Cousin''s  Lectures,  Yl.]  ,.i_i.  u 

t  [Cousin  has  the  following  just  observations :  "  Place  yourself  before  an  ob- 
ject of  nature,  wherein  men  recognize  beauty,  and  observe  what  takes  place 
within  you  at  the  sight  of  this  object.  Is  it  not  certain  that  at  the  same  Ume 
that  you  judge  that  it  is  beautiful,  you  also  feel  its  beauty,  that  is  to  say,  that 
you  experience  at  the  sight  of  it  a  delightful  emotion,  and  that  you  are  attracted 
■towards  this  object  by  a  sentiment  of  sympathy  and  love  ?  In  other  cases  you 
judge  otherwise  and  feel  an  opposite  sentiment.  Aversion  accompanies  the 
judgment  of  the  ugly,  as  love  accompanies  the  judgment  of  the  beauuful.  And 
this  sentiment  is  awakened  not  only  in  presence  of  the  objects  of  nature :  all 
objects,  whatever  they  may  be,  that  we  judge  to  be  ugly  or  beautiful,  have  the 
power  to  excite  in  us  this  sentiment.  Vary  the  circumstances  us  much  as 
you  please,  place  me  before  an  admirable  edifice,  or  before  a  beautiful  land- 
scape :  represent  to  my  mind  the  great  discoveries  of  Descartes  and  Newton, 
the  exploits  of  the  great  Conde,  the  virtue  of  St.  Vincent  do  Paul ;  eleyuto  mo 
Btill  higher;  awaken  in  me  the  obscure  anl  too  much  forgotten  idea  ol  the  in- 
finite Being ;  whatever  you  do,  as  often  as  you  give  birth  within  me  to  the  idea 
of  the  beautiful,  you  give  me  an  internal  and  exquisite  joy,  always  tollowed  by 
a  sentiment  of  love  for  the  object  that  caused  it."J 

179.  To  what  class  of  objects  is  the  term  Beauty  appropriated  '—The  complex  st"»ctM« 
of  object*  of  external  senao.— A  tree;  the  human  figure.— To  what,  flguraUvely,  the  term 
Bewity  i«  ^>plied.— Coosla's  remarkn. 


110  »  BEAUTY. 

discovered  in  a  tjingle  object  viewed  apart  without  relation  to  any 
other :  the  examples  above  given  are  of  that  kind.  The  other  may 
be  tei-med  relative  beauty,  being  founded  on  the  relation  of  objects. 
Intrinsic  beauty  is  an  object  of  sense  merely  :  to  perceive  the  beauty 
of  a  spreading"  oak,  or  of  a  flowing  river,  no  more  is  required  bu 
singly  an  act  of  vision.  The  perception  of  relative  beauty  is  accora 
panied  with  an  act  of  understanding  and  reflection ;  for  of  a  fine  ir 
strument  or  engine,  we  perceive  not  the  relative  beauty,  until  we  h. 
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  different  beauties  agree  in  one  capital 
circumstance,  that  both  are  equally  perceived  as  belonging  to  the 
object.  This  is  evident  with  respect  to  intiinsic  beauty ;  but  will 
not  be  so  readily  admitted  Avith  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  natu- 
ral propensity  mentioned  (Chapter  ii.  part  i.  sect.  5)  will  explair 
that  doubt :  the  beauty  of  the  effect,  by  an  easy  transition  of  ideas, 
is  transferred  to  the  cause,  and  is  perceived  as  one  of  the  qualities 
of  the  cause.  Thus  a  subject  void  of  intrinsic  beauty  appears  beau- 
tiful from  its  utility  :  an  old  Gothic  tower,  that  has  no  beauty  in  it- 
self, appears  beautiful,  considered  as  proper  to  defend  against  an  en- 
emy ;  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  appearing  beautiful,  if  it  be  known  to  pro- 
duce good  fruit.* 

181.  When  these  two  beauties  coincide  in. any  object,  it  appears 
delightful :  every  member  of  the  human  body  possesses  both  in  a 
high  degree  :  the  fi^ne  proportions  and  slender  make  of  a  horse  des- 
tined 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  col- . 

*  [Cousin,  in  his  Lecture  on  The  BeiuUiful  in  Objects,  ignores  the  obvious 
distinction  which  Lord  Karnes  makes  between  intrinsic  and  relative  beauty. 
He  says:— "No  great  effort  of  observation  orreasonirj?  is  necessary  to  convince 
us  that  utility  lias  nothing  to  do  with  beauty.  What  is  useful  is  not  always 
beautiful.  What  is  'jeautiful  is  not  always  useful,  and  what  is  at  once  useful 
and  beautiful  is  beautiful  for  some  other  reason  than  its  utility.  Observe  a 
lever  or  a  pulley:  surelv  nothing  is  more  useful.  Nevertheless  you  are  not 
tempted  to  say  that  this  is  beautiful.  Have  you  dissovered  an  antique  vase 
admirably  worked?  You  exclaim  that  this  va.-*e  is  bcf.atiful,  without  thinking 
to  seek  of  what  use  it  may  be  to  you."j 

ISO.  The  fommon  character  of  all  the  eiEotions  of  beauty.— Twofold  beauty  of  visible 
objects:  intrinsic;  relative.— How  these  differ  as  to  manner  of  perception;  in  what  they 
,,4ee  —Why  should  the  utiiitv  of  a  plouah  make  it  appear  beautiful  ?—InPtBiices  where  • 
ribject  void  of  intrli  sic  l-.esntv  appear?  bca  itifiil  from  ito  utility.— CouMn  s  ohS4?rv»ti.in«. 


BEAUTf. 


Ill 


or  its  fio-ure,  its  size,  its  motion,  it  is  in  reality  possessed  of  so  many 
different" beauties,  which  ought  to  be  examined  separately,  m  order 
to  have  a  clear  notion  of  them  when  combined.    The  beauty  ot  col- 
or is  too  familiar  to  need  explanation  *      Do  not  the  bright  and 
cheerful  colors  of  gold  and  silver  contribute  to  preserve  these  metals 
in  high  estimation !     The  beauty  of  figure,  arising  from  vanous  cir- 
cumstances and  different  views,  is  more  complex :  for  example,  \aew- 
ms  any  body  as  a  whole,  the  beauty  of  its  figure  arises  from  regu- 
larity and  simplicity;  viewing  the  parts  with  relation  to  each  other, 
uniformity,  proportion,  and  order  contribute  to  its  beauty.      Iho 
beauty  of  motion  deserves  a  chapter  by  itself;  and  another  chapter 
is  destined  for  grandeur,  being  distinguishable  from  beauty  in  its 
proper  sense.     Upon  simplicity  I  must  make  a  few  cursory  observa- 
Sous,  such  as  may  be  of  use  in  examining  the  beauty  of  single  objects. 
182    A  multitude  of  objects  crowding  into  the  mind  at  once,  d.s- 
turb  the  attention,  and  pass  without  making  any  impression  or  any 
distinct  impression;  in  a  group,  no  single  object  makes  the  bgure  it 
would  do  apart,  when  it  occupies  the  whole  attention.    For  the  same 
reason,  the  impression  made  by  an  object  that  divides  the  attention 
by  the  multiplicity  of  its  parts,  equals  not  that  of  a  more  simple  ob- 
ject 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  simpUcity  in  works  of  art,  as  opposed  to  com- 
plicated circumstances  and  crowded  ornaments.     There  is  an  addi- 
tional reason  for  simplicity  in  works  of  dignity  or  elevation ;  which 
is,  that  the  mind  attached  to  beauties  of  a  high  rank  cannot  descend 
to  inferior  beauties.     The  best  artists  accordingly  have  m  all  ages 
been  governed  by  a  taste  for  simplicity.     How  comes  it  then  that 
we  find  profuse  decoration  prevailing  in  works  of  art?     Ihe  reason 

•  f  Colors  are  beitutlful.  first,  wlien  they  convey  to  the  mind  ''li^'elj'  sensa- 
tion, a,  white  nnd  red;  (2)  when  they  chensh  the  organ  of  fJ?^/;,  f*/^^""' 
.  (S)  when  they  have  that  character  which  ^,6  te™  dehcacy,  and  j.eld  a^^^^^^^^ 
tion  both  lively  and  gentle,  as  pale  red  and  light  blue.  But  (4)  the  beauty  oi 
rcolo?depenL  chitfly  on  the  agrecableness.of  the  ideas  it  conveys  to  the 
mind;  for  the  snme  color,  which  in  one  thing  '*  very  bcautifuN  may  ^  another 
be  very  ugly.  The  verdure  of  the  field;.,  for  example,  is  delightful,  l^ecauM  it 
leads  us  to\hiuk  of  fruitfulnesB,  fragrance,  and  manv  other  plea^mt  thin^ , 
bat  greenness  in  the  human  face  would  be  horrible,  because  it  would  euggcst 
the  noUon  of  pain,  of  disease,  or  of  something  unnatural.  agreeable 
"In  general  every  color  is  beautiful,  that  brings  a bng  with  it  the  o?re«iWO 
idea  of  perfection,  of  health,  of  convenience,  of  intellectual  or  moral  virtue  or 
of^ny  other  sort  of  excellence.  Negroes  love  their  own  <^^0' f.^^''^'^^^^ '^^^ 
Bon  tliat  we  love  ours ;  because  they  always  see  it;  because  'Jl  tlie  Peon  o  t^>^ 
love  have  it;  and  because  none  are  without  it  but  those  who  are  thought  to  be 
strangers  and  enemies." — BeattU.]  

181.  Effect  of  the  colnctdenco  of  intrinsic  and  '«1*"7«  ^,''°*?:  Jj'r^S'tto  wK' 
beanty  of  utility  requires  no  lllnstratlon.-lntrtnslc  beauty  must  ^'^^Jlfa^^^^"'' 
«nt  parts.    KxainplV  ofa  tre*  -Pr.  Beattie"*  roniark.  on  color -Be«iity  or  njiire. 


112  BEAUTY. 

plainly  is,  that  authors  and  architects,  who  cannot  reach  the  higher 
beauties,  endeavor  to  supply  want  of  genias  by  multiplying  those 
that  are  inferior. 

Y'188.  These  things  premised,  I  proceed  to  examine  the  beauty  of 
figure  as  arising  from  the  above-mentioned  particulars,  namely,  reg- 
ularity, uuifonnity,  proportion,  order,  and  simplicity.  To  inquire 
why  an  object,  by  means  of  the  particulars  mentioned,  appeal's  beau- 
tiful, would,  I  am  afraid,  be  a  vain  attempt :  it  seems  the  most  prob- 
able opinion,  that  the  nature  of  man  was  originally  framed  with  a 
relish  for  them,  in  order  to  answer  wise  and  good  purposes.  To  ex- 
plain these  purposes  or  final  causes,  though  a  subject  of  great  im- 
portance, has  scarce  been  attempted  by  any  writer.  One  thing  is  evi- 
dent, that  our  relish  for  the  particulars  mentioned,  adds  much  beauty 
to  the  objects  that  surround  us,  which  of  course  tends  to  our  hap- 
piness ;  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  reg- 
ularity, 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 
mstances  connected  with  a  useful  end,  as  in  animals,  where  the  bes' 
proportioned  are  the  strongest  and  most  active ;  but  instances  are 
still  more  numerous,  where  the  proportions  we  relish  have  no  con- 
nection with  utility.  Writers  on  architecture  insist  much  on  the 
proportions  of  a  column,  and  assign  different  proportions  to  the 
Doric,  Ionic,  and  Corinthian ;  but  no  architect  will  maintain,  that 
the  most  accurate  proportions  contribute  more  to  use,  than  several 
that  are  less  accurate  and  les^a  agreeable ;  neither  will  it  be  main- 
tained, that  the  length,  breadth,  and  height  of  rooms,  assigned  as  the 
most  beautiful  proportions,  tend  also  to  make  them  the  more  com- 
modious. 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  men- 
tioned, namely,  its  contributing  to  our  happiness,  by  increasing  the 
beauty  of  visible  objects.* 

*  [Some  remarks  of  Cousin  throw  considerable  light  on  this  subject: 
"Symmetry  and  order  are  beautiful  things,  and  at  the  same  time  are  useful 
things,_  because  they  economize  space,  because  objects  symmetrically  disposed 
are  easier  to  find  when  one  wants  them ;  but  that  is  not  what  makes  for  us  the 
beauty  of  symmetry,  for  we  immediately  seize  this  kind  of  beaut}',  and  it  is 
often  late  enough  before  we  recognize  the  utility  that  is  found  in 'it.  It  even 
sometimes  liappens,  that  after  having  admired  the  beauty  of  an  object,  we  aro 

182.  Eoasons  for  simplicity  in  works  of  art. — Additional  reason  for  It  in  works  of  dignity 
and  elevation. — Why  profnse  decoration  prevails  in  works  of  art 

188.  Why  an  object  appears  beautiful,  on  account  of  its  regularity,  uniformity,  Aa 
What  beneficial  purposes  ar«  answered  by  the  relish  wo  naturally  have  for  these  p«rtici>* 
lars. — Consio's  remarks 


BEAUTY.  118 

184.  And  now  with  respect  to  tbo  beauty  of  figune,  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  a  single  object,  makes  one  entire  impression.  And  this  sim- 
plicity 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  is  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  beautiful.  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  util- 
ity ;  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  ;  ap- 
proximation towards  equality  hath  the  same  effect,  for  proportion 
there  degenerates  into  imperfect  uniformity,  and  the  figure  appears 
an  unsuccessful  attempt  towards  a  square ;  and  thus  proportion  con- 
tributes to  beauty. 

185.  An  equilateral  tnangle  yields  not  to  a  square  m  regularity 
nor  in  unifonnity  of  pai-ts,  and  it  is  more  simple.    But  an  equilateral 

not  able  to  divine  its  use,  although  it  may  have  one.    The  useful  is,  then,  en- 
tirely different  from  the  beautiful,  far  from  being  ita  foundation. 

»  A  celebrated  and  very  ancient  theory  makes  the  beautiful  consist  m  the 
perfect  suitableness  of  means  to  their  end.    Here  the  beautifu  is  no  longer  the 
useful ;  it  is  the  suitable.   These  two  ideas  must  be  distinguished.    A  machine 
produces  excellent  effects,  economy  of  time  work,  &o. :  it  is  tbcreforc  uscf^. 
If,  moreover,  examining  its  construction  I  find  that  each  piece  is  in  >ts  P  aw, 
mnd  that  all  kro  skilfully  disposed  for  the  result  which  they  should  produce . 
,ven  without  regarding  the  Atility  of  this  result,  as  ^h^'^eans  are  welf  adapted 
to  their  end,  I  jSdge  that  there  i>  suitableness  in  it.    We  arc  already  approach- 
ing the  idea  of  the  beautiful;  for  we  are  no  longer  jonsidering  what  «  "seM, 
but  what  is  proper.    Now  wo  have  not  yet  atUiued  the  true  character  of  beau- 
tv  •  there  are.  in  fact,  objects  very  well  adapted  to  their  end,  which  we  do  not 
Sll  beautiful    ...  .  .  .  Theri  is  here  .Sways  this  difference  between  suit- 

ablencss  and  utility,  that  an  object  to  be  beautiful  has  no  "^ed  of  being  use  ul, 
but  that  it  is  not  beautiful  if  it  does  not  possess  su.tubloness,  '^  there  is  in  it  a 
disagreement  between  the  eud  and  the  means."— Lcct.  V II.  p.  Ul.  Appletoa  a 
Ed.] 

184.  Beauty  of  a  circle  and  square  compared.-Cou  parisoa  of  a  square  with  •  he» 
(00,  &a. 


114  BEAUTY. 

triangle  is  less  beautiful  than  a  square,  which  must  be  owing  to  in- 
ferionty  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  they  are  susceptible  of ;  but  this  order  is  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  sim- 
plicity, it  is  less  beautiful.    ♦  • 

186^  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 ; 
for  supposing  their  figure  to  be  good,  utiHty  requires  uniformity  : 
but  a  scrupulous  uniformity  of  parts  in  a  large  garden  or  field,  is 
far  from  being  agreeable.  Uniformity  among  connected  objects  be- 
longs 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  unskill'd  to  trace 
The  naked  nature  and  the  living  grace, 
With  gold  and  jewels  cover  every  part, 
And  hide  with  ornaments  their  want  of  art. 

Pope's  Essay  on  OriticUm. 

187.  No  single  property  recommends  a  machine  more  than  its 
simplicity ;  not  solely  for  better  answering  its  purpose,  but  by  ap- 
pearing in  itself  more  beautiful.  Simplicity  in  behavior  and  man- 
ners has  an  enchanting  efiect,  and  never  fails  to  gain  our  afiection  : 
veiy  different  are  the  artificial  manners  of  modem  times.  General 
theorems,  abstracting  from  their  importance,  are  delightful  by  their 
simplicity,  and  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. 

188.  A  gradual  progress  from  simplicity  to  complex  forms  and 
profuse  ornament,  seems  to  be  the  fate  of  all  the  fine  arts :  in  that 
progress  these  arts  resemble  behavior,  which,  from  original  candor 
and  simplicity,  has  degenerated  into  artificial  refinements.  At  pres- 
ent, literaiy  productions  are  crowded  with  words,  epithets,  figures : 
in. music,  sentiment  is  neglected  for  the  luxury  of  harmony,  and  for 
difficult  movement :  in  taste,  properiy  so  called,  poignant  sauces, 


185.  An  equilateral  triangle  compared  with  a  square,  and  wltli  a  parallelogram. 

186.  "When  uirifbrmlty  disgusts,  and  wiien  It  pleases.— Simplicity  ii  the  works  of  ita 
tare,  and  of  art. 

187.  Simplicity  in  manners    in  general  theorems  •  In  laws  of  moUon. 


BEAUTY.  115 

with  complicated  mixtures  of  different  savors,  prevail  among  peoj)le 
of  condition :  the  French,  accustomed  to  artificial  red  on  a  female 
cheek,  think  the  modest  coloiiug  of  nature  altogether  insipid. 

The  same  tendency  is  discovered  in  the  progress  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  favoiite  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 
Ilomans  got  footing  there.  ■  At  last  caatB  the  Composite,  with  all  its 
extravagances,  where  simplicity  is  sacrificed  to  finery  and  crowded 
ornament. 

But  what  taste  is  to  prevail  next  ?  for  fashion  is  a  continual  flux, 
and  taste  must  vary  with  it.  After  rich  and  profuse  ornaments  be- 
come familiar,  simplicity  appears  hfeless  and  insipid  ;  which  would 
be  an  insuimountable  obstruction,  should  any  person  of  genius  and 
taste  endeavor  to  restore  ancient  simplicity. 

189.  The  distinction  between  primary  and  secondary  qualities  in 
matter,  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  a  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  nowhere  but  in  the  mind  of  the  spectator,  its  beauty 
must  exist  there  also.  This  conclusion  equally  holds  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 
some  good  end  or  purpose.    The  question  is  more  intricate  with  re- 


*  [Dr.  James  Beattie  takes  a  more  just  and  enlarj^ed  view  of  this  topic,  lu 
Baying :  "  Colors  inhere  not  in  the  colored  body,  bnt  in  the  light  that  falls  upon 
't ;  and  a  body  presents  to  our  eye  that  color  which  predominates  in  the  rays 
of  light  reflected  by  it ;  and  different  bodies  reflect  different  sorts  of  rays,  ac- 
cording to  the  texture  and  consistency  of  their  minute  parts.  Now  the  com- 
ponent parts  of  bodies,  and  the  rays  of  light,  are  not  in  the  mind  ;  and  thero- 
fore  colors,  as  well  as  bodies,  are  things  external ;  and  the  word  color  denotes 
always  an  external  thing,  and  never  a  sensation  in  the  mind." 

Again,  he  justly  remarks :  "  Wo  perceive  colors  and  figures  by  the  eye ;  we 
also  perceive  that  some  colors  and  figures  are  btauti/ul,  and  others  not.  This 
power  of  perceiving  beauty,  which  the  brutes  have  not,  though  they  see  as  well 
as  we,  I  call  a  secondarj-  sense."] 

188.  ProgriES  from  simplicity  to  complex  forms  and  profbM  ornament,  illustnted  ia 
Wts,  eon<*  ct,  lUerary  style,  &A.    Also,  among  the  ancients,  in  arcbitectur^ 


116  BEAUTY. 

spect  to  the  beauty  of  regulaiity ;  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  appeai-s  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  per- 
ceived, cannot  be  an  inherent  property  in  either.  And  hence  it  is 
wittily  observed  by  the  poet,-  that  beauty  is  not  in  the  person  be- 
loved, but  in  the  lover's  eye. 

190.  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  ordi- 
nary means.  For  the  beauty  of  some  objects  we  are  indebted  en- 
tirely to  nature ;  but,  with  respect  to  the  endless  variety  of  objects 
that  owe  their  beauty  to  art  and  culture,  the  perception  of  beauty 
greatly  promotes  industiy ;  being  to  us  a  strong  additional  incite- 
ment to  enrich  oiu-  fields,  and  improve  our  manufactures.  These 
however  are  but  slight  effects,  compared  with  the  connecrions  that 
are  formed  among  individuals  in  society  by  means  of  this  singular 
mechanism :  the  qualifications  of  the  head  and  heart  form  undoubt- 
edly the  most  solid  and  most  permanent  connections ;  but  external 
beauty,  which  lies  more  in  view,  has  a  more  extensive  influence  in 
forming  these  connections;  at  any  rate,  it  concurs  in  an  eminent 
degree  with  mental  qualifications  to  produce  social  intercourse,  mu- 
tual good-will,  and  consequently  mutual  aid  and  support,  which  are 
the  life  of  society. 

["  That  which  in  the  smallest  compass  exhibits  the  greatest  variety 
of  beauty,  is  a  fine  human  face.  The  features  are  of  various  sizes  and 
forms;  the  corresponding  ones  exactly  uniform;  and  each  has  that 
shape,  size,  position,  and  proportion^  which  is  most  convenient. 
Here  too  is  the  greatest  beauty  of  colors,  which  are  blended,  varied, 
and  disposed  with  marvellous  delicacy.  But  the  chief  beauty  of  the 
countenance  arises  from  its  expression,  of  sagacity,  good-nature, 
cheerfulness,  modesty,  and  other  moral  and  intellectual  virtues. 
Without  such  expression,  no  face  can  be  truly  beautiful,  and  with 
it,  none  can  be  really  ugly.  Human  beauty,  therefore,  at  least  that 
of  the  face,  is  not  merely  "a  corporeal  quality ;  but  derives  its  oi  igin 


189  Do  heat  and  cold,  smell,  taste,  and  color,  exist  In  material  bodies?— Dr.  Beatties 
remarks  on  color.— Secondary  qnalities  aud  primary  dlstinguislie.l.  -TV  hether  beauty  \t 
kDrimarv  or  secondary  quality  of  bodies.- What  is  said  of  beauty  of  color;  of  beauty  of 
utility  •  of  beauty  of  regularity.— What  beauty,  in  lU  ?ery  coooeption,  refers  ta 


BBAUTT.  117 

and  essential  characters  from  the  soul ;  and  almost  any  person  may, 
in  some  degree,  acquire  it,  who  is  at  pains  to  improve  his  under- 
standing, to  repress  criminal  thoughts,  and  to  cheiish  good  affec- 
tions ;  as  every  one  must  lose  it,  whatever  features  or  complexion 
there  may  be  to  boast  of  who  leaves  the  mind  uncultivated,  or  a 
prey  to  evil  passions,  or  a  slave  to  trifling  pursuits," — Beattie. 

Cole,  the  distinguished  American  painter,  speaks  thus  of  beauty : 

"  Irving  was  rather  disappointed  in  the  scenes  in  which  Scott  so 
much  delighted.  After  all,  beauty  is  in  the  mind.  A  scene  is 
rather  an  index  to  feelings  and  associations.  Histoiy  and  poetry 
made  the  barren  hills  of  Scotland  glorious  to  Scott :  Irving  remem- 
bered the  majestic  forests  and  the  rich  luxuriance  of  his  own  coun- 
try. What  a  beautiful  exemplification  of  the  power  of  poetry  was 
that  remark  of  the  old  carpenter  who  had  been  a  companion  of 
Burns :  '  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  country  had  grown  more 
beautiful  since  Burns  had  written  his  bonnie  little  san^  about  it.' " 

To  the  remarks  made  by  our  author  on  the  subject  of  beauty, 
the  following  from  Cousin  make  a  valuable  addition : 

"  Above  real  beauty,  is  a  beauty  of  another  order — ideal  beauty. 
The  ideal  resides  neither  in  an  individual,  nor  in  a  collection  of  in- 
dividuals. Nature  or  experience  furnishes  us  the  occasion  of  con- 
ceiving it,  but  it  is  essentially  distinct.  Let  it  once  be  conceived, 
and  all  natural  figures,  though  never  so  beautiful,  are  only  images 
of  a  superior  beauty  which  they  do  not  realize.  Give  me  a  beautiful 
action,  and  I  will  imagine  one  still  more  beautiful.  The  Apollo 
itself  is  open  to  criticism  in  more  than  one  respect.  The  ideal  con- 
tinually recedes  as  we  approach  it  Its  last  termination  is  in  the 
infinite,  that  is  to  say,  in  God ;  or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  the  true 
and  absolute  ideal  is  nothing  else  than  God  himself." 

"  God  is,  par  excellence,  the  beautiful — for  what  object  satisfies 
more  all  our  faculties,  our  reason,  our  imagination,  our  heart !  He 
ofiers  to  reason  the  highest  idea,  beyond  which  it  has  nothing  more 
to  seek ;  to  imagination  the  most  ravishing  contemplation ;  to  the 
heart  a  sovereign  object  of  love.  He  is,  then,  perfectly  beautiful ; 
but  is  he  not  sublime,  also,  in  other  ways?  If  he  extends  the  hori- 
zon of  thought,  it  is  to  confound  it  in  the  abyss  of  his  greatness.  If 
the  soul  blooms  at  the  spectacle  of  his  goodness,  has  it  not  also 
reason  to  be  affrighted  at  the  idea  of  his  justice,  which  is  not  less 
present  to  it  ?  At  the  same  time  that  he  is  the  lite,  the  light,  the 
movement,  the  ineffable  grace  of  visible  and  finite  nature,  he  is  also 
called  the  Eternal,  the  Invisible,  the  Infinite,  tlie  Absolute  Unity, 
and  the  Being  of  beings." — Lect  vii.  p.  151,  Appleton's  Ed.] 

190.  What  lesson,  on  this  subject,  our  senses  teach.— The  ends  answered  by  this  refer* 
ence  of  beauty  to  the  object  a^d  not  to  the  percipient— Connections  formed  among  Indl- 
Tiduata  in  society.— Remarks  on  the  human  ace.— Cole's  remarks  on  beauty. — Coasln* 
niutfkt  on  Idei^  Veauty. 


118  BEATJlT. 


PART  II. 


THE  THEORY  OF  BEAUTY. 
(Condensed  from  Lord  Jeffrey's  Keview  of  Alison  on  Taste,  1841.) 

191.  There  are  some  decisive  objections  against  the  notion  of 
beauty  being  a  simple  sensation,  or  tlie  object  of  a  separate  and 
peculiar  faculty. 

The  Jirst,  is  the  want  of  agi-eement  as  to  the  presence  and  existence 
of  beauty  iu  particular  objects,  among  men  whose  organization  is 
perfect,  and  who  are  plainly  possessed  of  the  faculty,  whatever  it 
may  be,  by  which  beauty  is  discerned.  Now  no  such  thing  happens, 
or  can  be  conceived  to  happen,  in  the  case  of  any  other  simple  sen- 
sation, or  the  exercise  of  any  other  distinct  faculty.  Where  one 
man  sees  light,  all  men  who  have  eyes  see  light  also.  All  men 
allow  grass  to  be  green,  and  sugar  to  be  sweet.  With  regard  to 
beauty,  however,  the  case  is  entirely  different.  One  man  sees  it 
perpetually,  where  to  another  it  is  quite  invisible,  or  even  where  its 
reverse  seems  to  be  conspicuous.  But  how  can  we  believe  that 
beauty  is  the  object  of  a  peculiar  sense  or  faculty,  when  persons  un- 
doubtedly possessed  of  the  faculty,  and  even  in  an  eminent  degree, 
can  discover  nothing  of  it  in  objects  where  it  is  distinctly  felt  and 
perceived  by  others  with  the  same  use  of  the  faculty  ?  This  con- 
sideration seems  conclusive  against  the  supposition  of  beauty  being 
a  real  property  of  objects,  addressing  itself  to  the  power  of  Taste,  as 
a  separate  sense  or  faculty ;  and  it  suggests  that  our  sense  of  it  is 
the  result  of  other  more  elementary  feelings  into  which  it  may  be 
resolved. 

192.  A  second  objection  arises  from  the  almost  infinite  variety  of 
things  to  which  the  property  of  beauty  is  ascribed,  and  the  impossi- 
bility of  imagining  any  one  inherent  quality  which  can  belong  to 
them  all,  and  yet  at  the  same  time  possess  so  niuch  unity  as  to  pass 
universally  by  the  same  name,  and  be  recognized  as  the  pecuhar 
object  of  a  separate  sense  or  faculty.  The  form  of  a  fine  tree  is 
beautiful,  and  the  form  of  a  fine  woman,  and  the  form  of  a  column, 
and  a  vase,  and  a  chandelier ;  yet  how  can  it  be  said  that  the  form 
of  a  woman  has  any  thing  in  common  with  that  of  a  tree  or  a  tem- 
ple ?  or  to  which  of  the  senses,  by  which  forms  are  distinguished, 
can  it  appear  that  they  have  any  resemblance  or  afiinity  ? 

The  matter,  however,  becomes  still  more  inextricable  when  we 


191.  The  flnt  obj«ction  urged  «<falust  tl»  noUou  of  bc»uty  beluga  sSmpJ*  stnsatJoii. 


BEAUTT.  H9 

recollect  that  beauty  does  not  belong  merely  to  forms  or  colore,  but 
to  sounds,  and  perhaps  to  the  objects  of  other  senses ;  nay,  that  in  all 
languages  and  in  all  nations  it  is  not  supposed  to  reside  exclusively 
in  material  objects,  but  to  belong  also  to  sentiments  and  ideas,  and 
intellectual  and  moral  existences.  But  if  things  intellectual  and 
totally  segregated  from  matter  may  thus  possess  beauty,  how  can  it 
possibly  be  a  quality  of  material  objects  ?  or  what  sense  or  faculty 
can  that  be  whose  proper  office  it  is  to  intimate  to  us  the  existence 
of  some  property  which  is  common  to  a  flower  and  a  demonstration, 
a  valley  and  an  eloquent  discourse  ? 

193.  If,  in  reply,  i^be  said  that  all  these  objects,  however  various 
and  dissimilar,  agree  at  least  in  being  agreeable,  and  that  this  agree- 
ableness,  Avhich  is  the  only  quality  they  possess  in  common,  may 
probably  be  the  beauty  which  is  ascribed  to  them  all,  we  answer : — 
thai  though  the  agi-eeableness  of  such  objects  depends  plainly  enough 
upon  their  beauty,  it  by  no  means  follows,  but  quite  the  contrary, 
that  their  beauty  depends  upon  their  agreeableness,  the  latter  being 
the  more  comprehensive,  or  generic  term,  under  which  beauty  must 
rank  as  one  of  the  species. 

(1)  Agreeableness,  in  general,  cannot  be  the  same  with  beauty, 
because  there  are  very  many  things  in  the  highest  degree  agreeable 
that  can  in  no  sense  be  called  beautiful.  We  learn  nothing  of  the 
nature  of  beauty,  therefore,  by  merely  classing  it  among  our  pleasura- 
ble emotions. 

(2)  Among  all  the  objects  that  are  agreeable,  whether  they  are 
also  beautiful  or  net,  scarcely  any  two  are  agreeable  on  account  of 
the  same  qualities,  or  even  suggest  their  agreeableness  to  the  same 
faculty  or  organ.  The  truth  is,  that  agreeableness  is  not  properly  a 
quality  of  any  object  whatsoever,  but  the  effect  or  result  of  certain 
qualities,  the  nature  of  which,  in  any  particular  instance,  we  can 
generally  define  pretty  exactly,  or  of  which  we  know  at  least  with 
certainly  that  they  manifest  themselves  respectively  to  some  one 
pai'ticular  sense  or  faculty,  and  to  no  other ;  and  consequently,  it 
would  be  just  as  obviously  ridiculous  to  suppose  a  faculty  or  organ, 
whose  office  it  was  to  perceive  agreeableness  in  general,  as  to  sup- 
pose that  agreeableness  was  a  distinct  quality  that  could  thus  be 
perceived.  The  words  beauty  and  beautiful  are  universally  felt  to 
mean  something  much  more  definite  than  agreeableness  or  gratifica- 
tion in  general ;  and  the  force  and  clearness  of  our  perception  of  that 
something  is  demonstrated  by  the  readiness  with  which  we  deter- 
mine, in  any  particular  instance,  whetlier  the  object  of  a  given 
pleasurable  emotion  is  or  is  not  properly  described  as  beauty. 

194.  In  our  opinion,  our  sense  of  beauty  depends  entirely  on  our 

192.  The  second  objecHon.~"WTietlicr  beauty  belong  to  forms  or  colors  alone. 

193.  It  Is  replied  that  various  objects  of  beauty  are  alike  in  one  respect,  that  of  agree* 
bleness,  and  that  this  may  be  the  beauty  which  Is  afcribe-l  to  them  all.  Two  anjwera  to  Ui» 
atat«uieut 


120  BEAUTT. 

previous  expeiience  of  simpler  pleasures  or  emotions,  and  consists  in 
the  suggestion  of  agreeable  or  interesting  sensations  with  which  we 
had  formerly  been  made  familiar  by  the  direct  and  intelligible 
agency  of  our  common  sensibilities ;  and  that  vast  variety  of  ob- 
jects to  which  we  give  the  common  name  of  beautiful,  become 
entitled  to  that  appellation  merely  because  they  all  possess  the 
power  of  recalling  or  reflecting  those  sensations  of  which  they  have 
been  the  accompaniments,  or  with  which  they  have  been  associated 
in  our  imagination  by  any  other  more  casual  bond  of  connection. 

According  to  this  view  of  the  matter,  therefore,  beauty  is  not  an 
inherent  property  or  quality  of  objects  at  all,  but  the  result  of  the 
accidental  relations  in  which  they  may  stand  to  our  experience  of 
pleasures  or  emotions,  and  does  not  depend  on  any  particular  con- 
figuration of  parts,  proportions,  or  colore  in  external  things,  nor  upon 
the  unity,  coherence,  or  simplicity  of  intellectual  creations,  but 
merely  upon  the  associations  which,  in  the  case  of  every  individual, 
may  enable  these  inherent,  and  otherwise  indifferent  qualities,  to 
suggest  or  recall  to  the  mind  emotions  of  a  pleasurable  or  interesting 
description.  It  follows,  therefore,  that  no  object  is  beautiful  in  itself, 
or  could  appear  so,  antecedent  to  our  experience  of  direct  pleasures 
or  emotions ;  and  that,  as  an  infinite  variety  of  objects  may  thus 
reflect  interesting  ideas,  so  all  of  them  may  acquire  the  title  of 
beautiful,  although  utterly  diverse  in  their  nature,  and  possessing 
nothing  in  common  but  this  accidental  power  of  reminding  us  of 
other  emotions. 

195.  This  theory  serves  to  explain  how  objects  which  have  no 
inherent  resemblance,  nor  indeed  any  one  quality  in  common,  should 
yet  be  united  in  one  common  relation,  and  consequently  acquire  one 
common  name ;  just  as  all  the  things  that  belonged  to  a  beloved  in- 
dividual may  serve  to  remind  us  of  him,  and  thus  to  awake  a  kin- 
dred class  of  emotions,  though  just  as  unlike  each  other  as  any  of 
the  objects  that  are  classed  under  the  general  name  of  beautiful. 

We  thus  get  rid  of  all  the  mystery  of  a  peculiar  sense  or  faculty 
imagined  for  the  express  purpose  of  perceiving  beauty,  and  discover 
that  the  power  of  taste  is  nothing  more  than  the  habit  of  tracing 
those  associations  by  which  almost  all  objects  may  be  connected 
with  interesting  emotions. 

196.  The  basis  of  our  theory  is,  that  the  beauty  which  we  im- 
pute to  outward  objects,  is  nothing  more  than  the  reflection  of  our 
own  inward  emotions,  and  is  made  up  entirely  of  certain  little  por- 
tions of  love,  pity,  or  other  affections  which  have  been  connected  with 
these  objects,  and  still  adhere,  as  it  were,  to  them,  and  move  us  anew 
whenever  they  are  presented  to  our  observation.     Two  things  here 

194.  On  what  oar  sense  of  beauty  depends.— Beauty  not  an  inherent  property  of  objects, 
but  the  result  of  accidental  relations. 

195.  What  does  this  theory  explain  concerning  objects  that  have  no  inherent  resem- 
blance ?  What  mystery  do  wc  thus  get  rid  of?— What  thus  appears  to  be  tbe  iH)wcr  of 
tast«? 


BEAUTY.  121 

require  explanation.  First,  what  are  the  primary  affections,  by  the 
suggestion  of  which  we  think  the  sense  of  beauty  is  produced  f 
and,  secondly,  what  is  the  nature  of  the  connection  by  which  we 
suppose  that  the  objects  we  call  beautiful  are  enabled  to  suggest  these 
affections  ? 

With  regard  to  the  firet  of  these  points — all  sensations  that  are 
not  absolutely  indifferent,  and  are  at  the  same  time  either  agreeable 
when  experienced  by  oui-selves,  or  attractive  when  contemplated 
in  others,  may  form  the  foundation  of  the  emotions  of  sublimity  or 
beauty.  The  sum  of  tlie  whole  is,  that  every  feeling  which  it  is 
agreeable  to  experience,  to  recall,  or  to  witness,  may  become  the 
source  of  beauty  in  external  objects,  when  it  is  so  connected  with 
them  as  that  their  appearance  reminds  us  of  that  feeling.  Our  pro- 
position is,  that  the  emotions  of  sublimity  or  beauty  are  not  original 
emotions,  nor  produced  directly  by  any  material  qualities  in  the  ob- 
jects that  excite  them,  but  are  reflections,  or  images,  of  the  more 
radical  and  famihar  emotions  to  which  we  have  alluded ;  and  are 
occasioned,  not  by  any  inherent  virtue  in  the  objects  before  us,  but 
by  the  accidents,  if  we  may  so  express  ourselves,  by  which  these  may* 
have  been  enabled  to  suggest  or  recall  to  us  our  own  past  sensations 
or  sympathies.  It  might  almost  be  laid  down  as  an  axiom,  that, 
except  in  the  plain  and  palpable  case  of  bodily  pain  or  pleasure, 
we  can  never  be  interested  in  any  thing  but  the  fortunes  of  sentient 
beings,  and  that  every  thing  partaking  of  the  nature  of  mental  emo- 
tion, must  have  for  its  object  ihQ  feelings,  past,  present,  or  possible, 
of  something  capable  of  sensation.  Independent,  therefore,  of  all 
evidence,  we  shoiild  have  been  apt  to  conclude,  that  the  emotions  of 
beauty  and  sublimity  must  have  for  their  objects  the  sufferings  or 
enjoyments  of  sentient  beings. 

197.  Secondly,  as  to  the  connection  of  our  feelings  with  external 
objects  by  which  they  become  beautiful — objects  are  sublime  or 
beautiful,  (1)  when  they  are  the  natural  signs  and  perpetual  con- 
comitants of  pleasurable  sensations ;  or,  at  any  rate,  of  some  hvely 
feeling  or  emotion  in  ourselves  or  in  some  other  sentient  beings ;  or, 
(2)  when  they  are  the  ai-bitrary  or  accidental  concomitants  of  such 
feelings ;  or,  (3)  when  they  bear  some  analogy  or  fanciful  resem- 
blance to  things  with  which  these  emotions  are  naturally  connected. 

198.  The  most  obvious  and  the  strongest  association  between  in- 
ward feelings  and  external  objects  is,  where  the  object  is  necessarily 
and  universally  connected  with  the  feeling  by  the  law  of  nature,  so 
that  it  is  always  presented  to  the  senses  when  the  feeling  is  impressed 
upon  the  mind — as  the  sight  or  sound  of  laughter,  with  the  feeling 
of  gayety — of  weeping  with  distress — of  the  sound  of  thunder  with 

W6.  Tlie  basis  ol  our  tlieory.— Two  things  requiring  explanation.— What  sensaUons 
may  form  the  foundation  of  emotions  of  sublimity  and  beauty  ?  Those  emoUona  more 
particularly  defined.     How  occasioned.— The  axiom  referred  to. 

197.  Wlion  objpcts  are  sublime;  wlion  beautiful.. 

G 


12%  BEAUTY. 

ideas  of  danger  and  power.  In  the  last  instance,  it  is  obrious  that 
the  sense  of  suWimity  is  produced,  not  by  any  quality  that  is  per- 
ceived by  the  ear,  but  altogether  by  the  impression  of  power  and 
of  danger  that  is  necessarily  made  upon  the  mind,  Avhenever  that 
sound  is  heard.  The  noise  of  a  cart  rattling  over  the  stones,  is  often 
mistaken  for  thunder ;  and  as  long  a?  the  mistake  lasts,  this  veiy 
vulgar  and  insignificant  noise  is  actually  felt  to  be  prodigiously 
sublime,  merely  because  it  is  then  associated  with  ideas  of  prodigious 
power  and  undefined  danger ;  and  the  sublimity  is  accordingly  de- 
stroyed, the  moment  the  association  is  dissolved,  though  the  sound 
itself,  and  its  eftect  on  the  organ,  continue  exactly  the  same.  This, 
therefore,  is  an  instance  in  which  sublimity  is  distinctly  proved  to 
consist,  not  in  any  physical  quality  of  the  object  to  which  it  is  as- 
cribed, but  in  its  necessary  connection  with  that  vast  and  uncontrolled 
Power  which  is  the  natural  object  of  awe  and  veneration. 
-  199.  The  most  beautiful  object  in  nature,  perhaps,  is  the  counte- 
nance of  a  young  and  beautiful  woman  :  and  we  are  apt  at  first  to 
imagine,  that,  independent  of  all  associations,  the  form  and  colors 
which  it  displays  are,  in  themselves,  lovely  and  engaging;  and 
would  appear  channing  to  all  beholders,  with  whatever  other  quali- 
ties or  impressions  they  might  happen  to  be  connected.  But  reflec- 
tion will  satisfy  us,  that  what  we  admire  is  not  a  combination  of 
forms  and  colors  (which  could  never  excite  any  mental  emotion), 
but  a  collection  of  signs  and  tokens  of  certain  mental  feelings  and 
afiections  which  are  univei-sally  recognized  as  the  proper  objects  of 
love  and  sympathy.  Among  the  ingredients  of  female  beauty,  we 
should  trace  the  signs  of  two  different  sets  of  qualities,  neither  of 
them  the  object  of  sight,  but  of  a  far  higher  faculty :  in  the  first 
place,  of  youth  and  health  ;  and,  in  the  second  place,  of  innocence, 
gayety,  sensibihty,  intelligence,  delicacy,  or  vivacity. 

200.  It  is  easy  enough  to  understand  how  the  sight  of  a  picture 
or  statue  should  affect  us  nearly  in  the  same  way  as  the  sight  of  the 
original ;  nor  is  it  much  more  difficult  to  conceive,  how  the  sight 
of  a  cottage  should  give  us  something  of  the  same  feeling  as  the 
sight  of  a  peasant's  family ;  and  the  aspect  of  a  town  raise  many 
of  the  same  ideas  as  the  appearance  of  a  multitude  of  persons. 
Take  the  case  of  a  common  English  landscape— green  meadows 
with  grazing  and  ruminating  cattle—canals  or  navigable  nvers— 
well-fenced,  well-cultivated  fields— neat,  clean,  scattered  cottages- 
humble,  antique  churches,  with  church-yard  elms  and  crossmg  hedge- 
rows—all  seen  under  bright  skies  and  in  good  weather :  there  is 
much  beauty  in  such  a  scene.  But  in  what  does  the  beauty  consist  t 
Not,  certainly,  in  the  mere  mixture  of  colors  and  forms  ;  for  coloi-s 

19S.  The  most  obvions  association  between  inward  feelings  and  external  objecU.-fie- 

marks  on  tlie  sound  of  thunder.  „,      .         ,t       nff„,„„t  ■>/^ta  nf  mmlitlBS  iB 

109.  The  most  beantifa!  object  in  nature.-The  siyns  of  two  diffeieiit  sets  orqualiuos  » 

(fejuale  beauty. 


BEAUTY.  123 

more  pleasing  and  lines  more  graceful  might  be  spread  upon  a 
board,  or  a  painter's  pallet,  without  engaging  the  eye  to  a  second 
glance,  or  raising  the  least  emotion  iu  the  mind  ;  but  in  the  picture 
of  human  happiness  that  is  presented  to  our  imaginations  and  aftec- 
tious — in  the  visible  and  unequivocal  signs  of  comfort,  and  cheeiful 
and  peaceful  enjoyment — and  of  that  secure  and  successful  industry 
that  insures  its  continuance — and  of  the  piety  by  which  it  is  ex- 
alted— and  of  the  simplicity  by  which  it  is  contrasted  with  the  guilt 
and  the  fever  of  a  city  life ;  in  the  images  of  health,  and  temper- 
ance, and  plenty  which  it  exhibits  to  every  eye — and  in  the  glimpses 
which  it  affords  to  warmer  imaginations,  of  those  primitive  or 
fabulous  times  when  man  was  uncorrupted  by  luxury  and  ambition, 
and  of  those  humble  retreats  in  which  we  still  delight  to  imagine 
that  love  and  philosophy  may  find  an  unpolluted  asylum.  At  all 
events,  however,  it  is  human  feeling  that  excites  our  sympathy,  and 
forms  the  true  object  of  our  emotions.  It  is  man,  and  man  alone, 
that  we  see  in  the  beauties  of  the  earth  which  he  inhabits ;  or,  if  a . 
more  sensitive  and  extended  sympathy  connect  us  with  the  lower 
families  of  animated  nature,  and  make  us  rejoice  with  the  lambs  that 
bleat  on  the  uplands,  or  the  cattle  that  repose  in  the  valley,  or  even 
with  the  living  plants  that  drink  the  bright  sun  and  the  balmy  air 
beside  them,  it  is  still  the  idea  of  enjoyment — of  feelings  that  ani- 
mate the  existence  of  sentient  beings — that  calls  forth  all  our  emo- 
tions, and  is  the  parent  of  all  the  beauty  with  which  we  proceed  to 
invest  the  inanimate  creation  around  us. 

201.  Instead  of  this  quiet  and  tame  English  landscape,  let  us 
now  take  a  Welsh  or  a  Highland  scene,  and  see  whether  its  beauties 
will  admit  of  being  explained  on  the  same  principle.  Here  we  shall 
have  lofty  mountains,  and  rocky  and  lonely  recesses — tufted  woods 
hung  over  precipices — lakes  intersected  with  castled  promontories — 
ample  solitudes  of  unploughed  and  untrodden  valleys — nameless 
and  gigantic  ruins — and  mountain  echoes  repeating  the  scream  of 
the  eagle  and  the  roar  of  the  cataract.  This,  too,  is  beautiful ;  and, 
to  those  who  can  interpret  the  language  it  speaks,  far  more  beautiful 
than  the  prosperous  scene  with  which  we  have  contrasted  it.  Yet, 
lonely  as  it  is,  it  is  to  the  recollection  of  man  and  the  suggestion  of 
human  feelings  that  its  beauty  also  is  owing.  The  mere  forms  and 
colors  that  compose  its  visible  appearance,  are  no  more  capable  of 
.  exciting  any  emotion  in  the  mind  than  the  forms  and  cojors  of  a 
Turkey  carpet.  It  is  sympathy  with  the  present  or  the  past,  or  the 
imaginary  inluibitants  of  such  a  region,  that  alone  gives  it  either 
interest  or  beauty ;  and  the  delight  of  those  who  behold  it,  will  al- 
ways be  found  to  be  in  exact  proportion  to  the  force  of  their  imagi- 
nations, and  the  wannth  of  their  social  affections.     The  leading 

200.  The  ea  otions  es«itod  by  a  picture,  by  right  of  »  cotta^  of  a  towD*  of  an  Engliib 
tondacap*. 


124  BKAUTY. 

impressions  here  ai-e  those  of  romantic  seclusion  and  primeval  sim- 
plicity ;  lovers  sequestered  in  these  blissful  solitudes,  "  from  towns 
and  toils  remote," — and  rustic  poets  and  philosophers  communing 
■with  nature,  and  at  a  distance  from  the  low  pursuits  and  selfish 
malignity  of  ordinary  mortals  ;  then  there  is  the  sublime  impression 
of  the  Mighty  Power  which  piled  the  massive  clitFs  upon  each  other, 
and  rent  the  mountains  asunder,  and  scattered  their  giant  fragments 
at  their  base ;  and  all  the  images  connected  with  the  monuments 
of  ancient  magnificence  and  extinguished  hostility — the  feuds,  and 
the  combats,  and  the  triumphs  of  its  wild  and  primitive  inhabitants, 
contrasted  with  the  stillness  and  desolation  of  the  scenes  where  they 
lie  interred  ;  and  the  romantic  ideas  attached  to  their  ancient  tradi- 
tions, and  the  peculiarities  of  the  actual  life  of  their  descendants— 
their  wild  and  enthusiastic  poetry — their  gloomy  superstitions— their 
attachment  to  their  chiefs — the  dangers  and  the  hardships  and  en- 
joyments of  their  lonely  hunting-s  and  fishings — their  pastoral 
sheilings  on  the  mountains  in  summer — and  the  tales  and  the  sports 
that  amuse  the  little  groups  that  are  frozen  into  their  vast  and 
trackless  valleys  in  winter. 

202,  The  forms  and  colors  that  are  peculiar  to  childhood,  are  not 
necessarily  or  absolutely  beautiful  in  themselves ;  for,  in  a  gro^yn 
person,  the  same  forms  and  colore  would  be  either  ludicrous  or  dis- 
gusting. It  is  their  indestructible  connection  with  the  engaging 
ideas  of  innocence— of  careless  gayety — of  unsuspecting  confidence ; 
made  still  more  tender  and  attractive  by  the  recollection  of  help- 
lessness, and  blameless  and  happy  ignorance— of  the  anxious  aftec- 
tion  that  watches  over  all  their  waya— and  of  the  hopes  and  fears 
that  seek  to  pierce  futurity  for  those  who  have  neither  fears  nor  cares 
nor  anxieties  for  themselves.  - 

_  203.  But  our  general  theoiy  must  be  very  greatly  confirmed  by 
considering  the  second  class  of  cases,  or  those  in  which  the  external 
object  is  not  the  natural  and  necessary,  but  only  the  occasional  or 
accidental  concomitant  of  the  emotion  which  it  recalls.  In  the 
former  instances  (already  given),  some  conception  of  beauty  seems 
to  be  inseparable  from  the  appearance  of  the  objects ;  and  being 
impressed,  in  some  degi'ee,  upon  all  persons  to  whom  they  are  pre- 
sented, there  is  evidently  room  for  insinuating  that  it  is  an  indepen- 
dent and  intrinsic  quality  of  their  nature,  and  does  not  arise  from 
association  with  any  thing  else.  In  the  instances,  however,  to  which 
we  now  Allude,  this  perception  of  beauty  is  not  univereal,  but  en- 
tirely dependent  on  the  opportunities  which  each  individual  has  had 
to  associate  ideas  of  emotion  with  the  object  to  which  it  is  ascribed ; 
the  same  thing  appearing  beautiful  to  those  who  have  been  exposed 

201.  How  the  beauties  of  a  "Welsh  or  Highland  landscape  are  to  be  esplained. 

202.  The  forms  and  colors  that  seem  beautiful  in  childhood.  v       4.. 
208.  Our  theory  conttrmcd  by  the  66cond  class  of  cases.    What  these  we;  bow  tliey 

differ  from  thoM  already  consldcro'l. 


BEAUTY.  125 

to  the  influence  of  such  &s.iBOciations,  and  indifferen    to  those  who 
have  not. 

204.  The  accidental  or  arbitrary  relations  that  mar/  thus  be  es- 
tablished between  natural  sympathies  or  emotions,  and  external  ob- 
jects, may  be  either  such  as  occur  to  whole  classes  of  men,  or  are 
confined  to  particular  individuals.  Among  the  former,  those  that 
apply  to  different  nations,  or  races  of  men,  are  the  most  important 
and  remarkable,  and  constitute  the  basis  of  those  peculiarities  by 
which  national  tastes  are  distinguished.  Take  again,  for  example, 
the  instance  of  female  beauty,  and  think  what  ditterent  and  incon- 
sistent standards  would  be  fixed  for  it  in  the  different  regions  of  the 
world  :  in  Africa,  in  Asia,  and  in  Europe  ;  in  Tartary  and  in  Greece  : 
in  Lapland,  Patagonia,  and  Circassia.  If  there  was  any  thing  abso- 
lutely or  intrinsically  beautiful  in  any  of  the  forms  thus  distinguished, 
it  is  inconceivable  that  men  should  differ  so  outrageously  in  their 
conceptions  of  it :  if  beauty  were  a  real  or  independent  quality,  it 
seems  impossible  that  it  should  be  distinctly  and  clearly  felt  by  one 
set  of  persons,  where  another  set  altogether  as  sensitive,  could  see 
nothing  but  its  opposite  ;  and  if  it  were  actually  and  inseparably 
attached  to  certain  forms,  colors,  or  proportions,  it  must  appear 
utterly  inexplicable  that  it  should  be  felt  or  perceived  in  the  nriost 
opposite  forms  and  proportions,  in  objects  of  the' same  description. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  all  beauty  consist  in  reminding  us  of  certain 
natural  sympathies,  and  objects  of  emotion,  with  which  they  have 
been  habitually  connected,  it  is  easy  to  perceive  how  the  most  dif- 
ferent forms  should  be  felt  to  be  equally  beautiful.  If  female  beauty, 
for  instance,  consist  in  the  visible  signs  and  expressions  of  youth  and 
health,  and  of  gentleness,  vivacity,  and  kindness,  then  it  will  neces- 
sarily hapjien,  that  the  forms,  "and  coloi-s,  and  proportions  which 
nature  may  have  connected  with  those  qualities,  in  the  different 
climates  or  regions  of  the  world,  will  all  appear  equally  beautiful  to 
those  who  have  been  accustomed  to  recognize  them  as  the  signs  of 
such  qualities ;  while  they  will  be  respectively  indifferent  to  those 
who  have  not  learned  to  interpret  them  in  this  sense,  and  displeasing 
to  those  whom  experience  has  led  to  consider  them  as  the  signs  of 
opposite  qualities. 

205.  The  case  is  the  same,  though  perhaps  in  a  smaller  degree, 
as  to  the  peculiarity  of  national  taste  in  other  particulare.  The  style 
of  dress  and  architecture  in  every  nation,  if  not  adopted  from  mere 
want  of  skill,  or  peiuiry  of  materials,  always  appears  beautiful  to  the 
natives,  and  somewhat  monstrous  and  absurd  to  foreigners ; — and 
the  general  character  and  aspect  of  their  landscape,  in  like  manner, 
if  not  associated  with  substalitial  evils  and  inconveniences,  always 
appears  more  beautiful  and  enchanting  than  the  scenery  of  any 

204  Accidontal  relaUons  either  occur  to  classes  of  men  or  to  IndlvlduaU.— Natload 
tfcat«<,-Diver»lQr  of  opinion  respecting  female  beauty.    Kemarks  upon  tiila  <UT«r»itT 


126  BEADTY. 

Other  region.  The  fact  is  still  more  striking,  perhaps,  in  the  case  ol 
music;  in  the  effects  of  those  national  airs,  with  which  even  the  most 
uncultivated  imaginations  have  connected  so  many  interesting  reed- 
lections ;  and  in  the  delight  with  which  all  persons  of  sensibility 
catch  the  strains  of  their  native  melodies  in  strange  or  i':  distant 
lands.  It  is  owing  chiefly  to  the  same  sort  of  arbitrary  and  national 
association,  that  white  is  thought  a  gay  color  in  Europe,  where  it  is 
used  at  weddings ;  and  a  dismal  color  in  China,  where  it  is  used  for 
mourning ;  that  we  think  yew-trees  gloomy,  because  they  are  planted 
in  church-yards,  and  large  masses  of  powdered  horse-hair  majestic, 
because  we  see  them  on  the  heads  of  judges  and  bishops. 

206.  Again,  our  ideas  of  beauty  are  modified  by  the  differences 
of  instriiction  or  education.  If  external  objects  were  sublime  or 
beautiful  in  themselves,  it  is  plain  that  they  would  appear  equally 
so  to  those  who  were  acquainted  with  their  origin,  and  to  those  to 
whom  it  Avas  unknown.  Yet  it  is  not  easy,  perhaps,  to  calculate  the 
degree  to  which  the  notions  of  beauty  and  sublimity  are  now  in- 
fluenced all  over  Europe,  by  the  study  of  classical  literature  ;  or  the 
number  of  impressions  of  this  sort  which  the  well-educated  conse- 
quently receive,  from  objects  that  are  utterly  indifferent  to  unin- 
structed  persons  of  the  same  natural  sensibility.  [See  Alison  on 
Taste,  pp.  39-41.] 

207."  The  influences  of  the  same  studies  may  be  traced,  indeea, 
through  almost  all  our  impressions  of  beauty — and  especially  in  the 
feelings  which  we  receive  from  the  contemplation  of  rural  scenery  ; 
where  the  images  and  recollections  which  have  been  associated  with 
such  objects,  in  the  enchanting  strains  of  the  poets,  are  perpetually 
recalled  by  their  appearance,  and  give  an  interest  and  a  beauty  to 
.  the  prospect,  of  which  the  uninstructed  cannot  have  the  slightest 
perception.  Upon  this  subject,  also,  Mr.  AUson  has  expressed  him- 
self with  his  usual  warmth  and  elegance.  After  observing  that  in 
childhood,  the  beauties  of  nature  have  scarcely  any  existence  for 
those  who  have  as  yet  but  little  general  sympathy  with  mankind,  he 
proceeds  to  state,  that  they  are  usually  fii-st  recommended  to  notice 
by  the  poets,  to  whom  we  are  introduced  in  the  course  of  education ; 
and  who,  in  a  manner,  create  them  for  us,  by  the  associations  which 
they  enable  us  to  form  with  their  visible  appearance.  [See  Alison 
on  Taste,  Mills'  Edition,  pp.  63-4.] 

208.  Before  leaving  this  branch  of  the  subject,  let  us  pause  for  a 
moment  on  the  familiar  but  very  striking  instance  of  our  varying 
and  contradictory  judgments,  as  to  the  beauty  of  the  successive 
fashions  of  dress  that  have  existed  within  our  own  remembrance. 
All  persons  who  still  continue  to  find  amusement  in  society,  and  are 

205.  Peculiarities  of  national  taste  In  regard  to  dress,  architecture,  mnsic,  colors  afpro. 
priatcd  to  mourning,  &c  .     ,      i, 

206.  Ideas  of  beauty  modified  by  instruction  ana  eancatlon. 
Vfi.  Contamplation  of  rural  scenery.— Influence  of  the  poota. 


BEAUTY.  127 

not  old  enough  to  enjoy  only  the  recollections  of  their  youth,  think 
the  prevailing  fashions  becoming  and  graceful,  and  the  fashions  <rf 
twenty  or  twenty-five  years  old  intolerably  ugly  and  lidiculous.  It 
is  plain,  then,  that  there  is,  in  the  general  case,  no  intrinsic  beauty 
or  deformity  in  any  of  those  fashions ;  and  that  the  forms,  and 
colors,  and  materials,  that  are,  we  may  say,  universally  and  very 
strongly  felt  to  be  beautiful  while  they  are  in  fashion,  are  sure  to 
lose  all  theii-  beauty  as  soon  as  the  fashion  has  passed  away. 

Hitherto  we  have  spoken  of  the  beauty  of  external  objects  only. 
But  the  whole  difficulty  of  the  theory  consists  in  its  application  to 
them.  If  that  be  once  adjusted,  the  beauty  of  immaterial  objects 
can  occasion  no  perplexity.  Poems  and  other  compositions  in 
words,  are  beautiful  in  proportion  as  tliey  are  conversant  with  beau- 
tiful objects — or,  as  they  suggest  to  us,  in  a  more  direct  way,  the 
moral  and  social  emotions  on  which  the  beauty  of  all  objects  de- 
pends. Theorems  and  demoiistrations  again  are  beautiful,  according 
as  they  excite  in  us  emotions  of  admiration  for  the  genius  and  in- 
tellectual power  of  their  inventor's,  and  images  of  the  magnificent 
and  beneficial  ends  to  which  such  discoveries  may  be  applied ; — 
and  mechanical  contrivances  are  beautiful  when  they  remind  us  of 
similar  talents  and  ingenuity,  and  at  the  same  time  impress  us  with 
a  more  direct  sense  of  their  vast  utility  to  mankind,  and  of  the 
gi-eat  additional  conveniences  with  which  life  is  consequently  adorned. 
In  all  cases,  therefore,  there  is  the  suggestion  of  some  interesting 
conception  or  emotion  associated  with  a  present  perception,  in  which 
it  is  apparently  confounded  and  embodied — and  this,  according  to 
the  whole  of  the  preceding  deduction,  is  the  distinguishing  charac- 
teiistic  of  Beauty. 

Necessanj  consequences  of  the  adoption  of  this  Theory. 

(1.)  We  conceive  that  it  establishes  the  substantial  identity  of  the 
Sublime,  the  Beautiful,  and  the  Picturesque ;  and  consequently  puts 
jjn  end  to  all  controversy  that  is  not  purely  verbal,  as  to  the  differ- 
ence of  these  several  qualities.  Every  material  object  that  interests 
us,  without  actually  hurting  or  gratifying  our  bodily  feelings,  must 
do  so,  according  to  this  theoiy,  in  one  and  the  same  manner, — that 
is,  by  suggesting  or  recalling  some  emotion  or  affection  of  oui-selves, 
or  some  other  sentient  being,  and  presenting,  to  our  imagination  at 
least,  some  natural  object  of  love,  pity,  admiration,  or  awe.  Though 
material  objects  have  but  one  means  of  exciting  emotion,  the  emo- 
tions they  do  excite  are  infinite.  They  ai-e  mirrors  that  may  reflect 
all  shades  and  all  colore ;  and,  in  point  of  fact,  do  seldom  reflect  the 
same  hues  twice.  No  two  interesting  objects,  perhaps,  whether  known 
by  the  name  of  Beautiful,  Sublime,  or  Picturesque,  ever  produced  ex- 
actly the  same  emotion  in  the  beholder ;  and  no  one  object,  it  is  most 
probable,  ever  moved  any  two  pei-sons  to  the  very  same  conceptions. 

208.  Varying  juclsments  on  snccesslve  fashions  of  dress.— Remarks  on  Uie  bctuty  of  to- 
msterial  objects.— Two  consequencM  resuIUng  from  this  theory. 


128  BEAUTY. 


(2  )  Our  theory  seems  calculated  to  put  an  end  to  all  the  i>erplexing 
questions  about  the  Standard  of  Taste.     If  things  are  not  beautitul 
in  themselves,  bufonly  as  they  serve  to  suggest  mteresting  concep- 
tions to  the  mind,  then  every  tldng  which  does  in  point  of  Jact  mg- 
nest  such  a  conception  to  any  individual,  is  heaiitifvl  to  that  mdi- 
vidual ;  and  it  is  not  only  quite  true  that  there  is  no  room  for  dis- 
putino-  about  tastes,  but  that  all  tastes  are  equally  just  and  correct, 
in  solar  as  each  individual  speaks  his  own  emotions.    What  a  man 
feels  distinctly  to  be  beautiful,  is  beautiful  to  1^™' 7^'^^^:^ .  ^^^^^^^ 
people  may  think  of  it.     All  this  follows  clearly  from  the  theory 
now  in  question;  but  it  does  not  follow  from  it  that  all  tastes  me 
equally  good,  or  desirable,  or  that  there  is  any  difficulty  m  describing    ^ 
that  which  is  really  the  best,  and  the  most  to  be  envied     Ihe  only 
use  of  the  faculty  of  Taste,  is  to  afford  an  innocent  delight,  and  to 
List  in  the  cultivation  of  a  finer  morahty;  and  that  man  certainly 
will  have  the  most  delight  from  this  faculty,  who  has  the  most  nu- 
merous and  the  most  powerful  perceptions  of  Beauty.    But,_it  beauty 
consist  in  the  reflection  of  our  aftections  and  sympathies,  at  is  plain 
that  he  will  always  see  the  most  beauty  whose^  affections  are  the 
warmest  and  the  most  exercised-whose  imagination  is  the  most 
powerful,  and  who  has  most  accustomed  himself  to  attend  to  tbe 
obiects  by  which  he  is  surrounded.    The  best  taste,  therefore,  must  be 
that  which  belongs  to  the  best  affections,  the  most  active  fancy,  and 
the  most  attentive  habits  of  observation.     It  wi  1  follow  pretty  ex- 
actly too,  that  all  men's  perceptions  of  beauty  will  be  nearly  m  pio. 
portion  to  the  degree  of  their  sensibility  and  social  sympathies;  and 
that  those  who  have  no  affections  towards  sentient  ^emg^' ^"'^ J^^ 
as  certainly  insensible  to  beauty  in  external  objects,  as  he  who  can- 
not hear  the  sound  of  his  friend's  voice,  must  be  deat  to  its  echo 

If,  however,  we  aspire  to  be  creators  as  well  as  observers  of  Beauty, 
and  place  any  part  of  our  happiness  in  ministering  to  the  gratifaca- 
tion  of  other's-as  artists,  or  poets,  or  authors  of  any  «ort,-then  a 
more  laborious  system  of  cultivation  will  be  necessary.  We  must 
be  cautious  to  employ  only  such  objects  as  are  the  2^";;^  2^-^ 
the  inseparable  concomitants  of  emotions  of  which  the  g'-eater  part - 
of  mankind  are  susceptible  ;  and  our  taste  will  tl^^JJ^d^erve  to  b^ 
called  bad  or  false,  if  we  intrude  upon  the  public  as  beautift  1,  objecte 
that  are  not  likely  to  be  associated  in  common  minds  with  any  in- 
teresting impressions.  A.  all  men  must  have  some  peculiar  associa. 
tions,aU  men  must  have  some  peculiar  notions  of  beauty,  and,  c^^ 
cour^,  to  a  certain  extent,  a  taste  that  the  pubhc  would  be  entitled 

to  consider  as  false  or  vitiated.  ,  ^     c,     i„..^  ^f  TcctA 

[Notwithstanding  all  that  is  here  said  about  the  Standard  of  fa^te, 
it  is  thought  best,  for  the  sake  of  those  who  may  not  adopt  Loid 
Jeffrey's  Theory  to  give,  in  chap,  xxvi.  Dr.  Blair's  views  on  that 
Sbeirg  for  su^peri^r  to  what  Lord  Karnes  had  furmshed.- 
AnD.  Ed.l 


«EANDEUR  AND  BUBLIMITT. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

GRANDKUR  AND  SUBLIMITT. 


129 


209.  Nature  hath  not  more  remaikably  distinguished  us  from 
other  animals  by  an  erect  posture,  than  by  a  capacioas  and  aspiring 
mind,  attaching  us  to  things  great  and  elevated.  The  ocean,  the 
skv,  seize  the  attention,  and  make  a  deep  impression;  robes  of  state 
are  made  large  and  ftill,  to  draw  respect:  we  admu-e  an  elephant 
for  its  magnitude,  notwithstanding  its  unwieldmess. 

The  elevation  of  an  object  aflfects  us  no  less  than  its  magnitude  : 
a  high  place  is  chosen  for  the  statue  of  a  deity  or  hero :  a  tree  grow- 
ing on  the  brink  of  a  precipice  looks  charming  when  viewed  from 
the  plain  below:  a  throne  is  erected  for  the  chief  magistrate;  and 
a  chair  with  a  high  seat  for  the  president  of  a  court.  Among  all 
nations,  heaven  is  placed  far  above  us,  hell  far  below  us. 

In  some  objects,  greatness  and  elevation  concur  to  make  a  com- 
plicated impression :  the  Alps  and  the  Peake  of  Teneriflfe  are  proper 
examples ;  with  the  following  difference,  that  in  the  foimer  greatness 
seems  to  prevail,  elevation  in  fhe  latter.  ,     , .    , 

210  The  emotions  raised  by  great  and  by  elevated  objects  are 
clearly  distinguishable,  not  only  in  internal  feeling,  but  even  in  their 
external  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  object,  they 
naturally  expand  themselves  by  drawing  in  air  with  all  their  force. 
An  elevated  object  produces  a  different  expression;  it  makes  the 
spectator  stretch  upward  and  stand  a-tiptoe. 

Great  and  elevated  objects  considered  with  relation  to  the  emo- 
tions produced  by  them,  are  termed  grand  and  suhltnu.  Grandeur 
and  sublimit^/  have  a  double  signification ;  they  commonly  signify 
the  quality  or  circumstance  in  objects  by  which  the  emotions  of 
grandeur  and  sublimity  are  produced;    sometimes  the   emotions 

themselves.  .  i.^i.    a  i,r 

[The  sentiment  of  the  Beautiful,  and  the  sentiment  of  the  Sublimv 
are  thus  distinguished  by  Cousin  : 

«  When  we  have  before  our  eyes  an  object  whose  forms  are  per 
fectiy  determined,  and  the  whole  easy  to  embrace,— a  beautifu. 
flower,  a  beautiful  statue,  an  antique  temple  of  moderate  size,— eacb 
of  our  fiiculties  attiiches  itself  to  this  object,  and  rests  upon  it  witb 
unalloyed  satisfaction.  Our  senses  easily  perceive  its  details :  our 
reason  seizes  the  happy  harmony  of  all  its  parts.    Should  this  object 

m  How  nature  has  distinguished  us  from  other  .nlmri^-Th.  intad  »ffecl«d  by  Ow 
ol«TftUo&  M  well  aa  by  the  magnitude  of  an  object 


130  OBANDEUB  AND  SUBLIMITY. 

disappear,  we  can  distinctly  represent  it  to  ourselves,  so  precise  and 
fixed  are  its  forms.  The  soul  in  this  contemplation  feels  again  a 
sweet  and  tranquil  joy,  a  sort  of  efflorescence. 

Let  us  consider,  on  the  other  hand,  an  object  with  vague  and  in- 
definite forms,  Avhich  may  nevertheless  be  very  beautiful :  the  im- 
pression which  we  expeiience  is  without  doubt  a  pleasure  still,  but  it 
is  a  pleasure  of  a  ditierent  order.  Thi^  object  does  not  call  forth  all 
our  powers  like  the  first.  Reason  conceives  it,  but  the  senses  do  not 
perceive  the  whole  of  it,  and  imagination  does  not  distinctly  repre- 
sent it  to  itself.  The  senses  and  the  imagination  try  in  vain  to 
attain  its  last  limits  :  our  faculties  are  enlarged,  are  inflated,  thus  to 
speak,  in  order  to  embrace  it,  but  it  escapes  and  surpasses  them. 
The  pleasure  that  we  feel  comes  from  the  very  magnitude  of  the 
object ;  but  at  the  same  time,  this  magnitude  produces  in  us  I 
know  not  what  melancholy  sentiment,  because  it  is  disproportionate 
to  us.  At  the  sight  of  the  starry  heavens,  of  the  vast  sea,  of  gigantic 
mountains,  admiration  is  mingled  with  sadness.  These  objects,  in 
reality  finite,  like  the  world  itself,  seem  to  us  infinite,  in  our  want  of 
power  to  comprehend  their  immensity,  and,  resembling  what  is 
truly  without  bounds,  they  awaken  in  us  the  idea  of  the  infinite, 
that  idea  which  at  once  elevates  and  confounds  our  intelligence." — 
Lect.  vi.] 

211.  In  handling  the  present  subject,  it  is  necessaiy  that  the  im- 
pression made  on  the  mind  by  the  magnitude  of  an  object,  abstract- 
ing from  its  other  qualities,  should  be  ascertained.  And  becauss 
abstraction  is  a  mental  operation  of  some  difficulty,  the  safest  method 
for  judging  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  rubbish,  the  ruins,  perhaps,  of  some  extensive  build- 
ing, or  a  large  heap  of  stones,  such  as  are  collected  together  for 
keeping  in  memory  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  sup- 
posing it  so  large  as  to  fill  the  eye,  and  to  prevent  the  attention  fi'om 
wandering  upon  other  objects,  the  impression  it  makes  will  be  so 
much  the  deepei". 

212.  But,  though  a  plain  object  of  that  kind  be  agreeable,  it  is 
not  termed  grand;  it  is  not  entitled  to  that  character  unless,  to- 
gether with  its  size,  it  be  possessed  of  other  qualities  that  contribute 
to  beauty,  such  as  regularity,  proportion,  order,  or  color ;  and  ac- 
cording 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  of  Egypt,  the  Alps  towering  above  the  clouds,  a  great 

210.  Emotions  raised  bv  great  and  by  elevated  objects  distinguishable. — Double  sisjnlfl- 
eat.lon  of  grandeur  and  sublimity.— How  the  beautiful  and  the  sublime  are  distinguished 
by  Cousin. 

211.  Impressions  made  on  the  mind  by  the  magniittdt  of  an  object  simply.  lUustro- 
Uons;  those  of  the  plainest  sort 


GRANDEUE  AUD  SUBLIMITy.  131 

arm  of  the  sea,  and,  above  all,  a  clear  and  serene  stf,  are  grand, 
becaitee,  besides  their  size,  they  are  beautiful  in  an  eminent  degi-ee. 
On  the  other  hand,  an  overgrown  whale,  having  a  disagreeable  ap- 
pearance, is  not  grand.  A  large  building,  agreeable  by  its  regularity 
and  proportion,  is  grand,  and  yet  a  much  larger  building  destitute 
of  regularity,  has  not  the  least  tincture  of  grandeur.  A  single  regi- 
ment in  battle  array,  makes  a  grand  appearance ;  which  the  sur- 
rounding crowd  does  not,  though  perhaps  ten  for  one  in  number. 
And  a  regiment  where  the  men  are  all  in  one  livery,  and  the  horses 
of  one  color,  makes  a  grander  appearance,  and  consequently  strikes 
more  terror  than  where  there  is  confusion  of  colors  and  of  diess. 
Thus  greatness  or  magnitude  is  the  circumstance  that  distinguishes 
grandeur  from  beauty :  agreeableness  is  the  genus  of  which  beauty 
and  grandeur  are  species. 

213.  The  emotion  of  grandeur,  duly  examined,  will  be  found  an 
additional  proof  of  the  foregoing  doctiine.  That  this  emotion  is 
pleasant  in  a  high  degree,  requires  no  other  evidence  but  once  to 
have  seen  a  grand  object ;  and  if  an  emotion  of  grandeur  be  pleas- 
ant, its  cause  or  object,  as  observed  above,  must  infallibly  be  agreea- 
ble in  proportion.  ,   . 

The  qualities  of  grandeur  and  beauty  are  not  more  distmct  than 
the  emotions  are  which  these  qualities  produce  in  a  spectator.*  It 
is  observed  in  the  chapter  immediately  foregoing,  that  all  the  various 
emotions  of  beauty  have  one  common  character,  that  of  sweetness 
and  gayety.  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 
pleasant,  is  rather  serious  than  gay.  And  this  affords  a  good  reason 
for  distinguishing  in  language  these  different  emotions.  The  emo- 
tions raised  by  color,  by  regularity,  by  proportion,  and  by  order, 

*  {DeAnUion  of  UiTm.—QHKAT  simply  de^itr-itites  extent:  Grand  indudoe 
likewise  the  idea  of  excellence  and  supcrnritv.  A  (jreat  undertaking  charac- 
terizes only  the  extent  of  tlie  undertaking  ;  a  gni.  -.  undertaking  bespeaks  its 

'"K^'aafsuB^^mK  are  both  superior  to  v-"t ;  In.t  the  former  marks  the 
dimension  of  greatims;  tlie  latter,  from  the  Luiin  sublim,^,  designates  that  of 
height.  A  scene  mav  be  either  grand-  or  mhhrru:  it  is  grand  as^_  it  "'1^  he 
Imagination  with  its  "immensity ;  it  is  subUrrui  as  it  elevatos  the  "n«»?»"^»l3 
Zfond  the  surrounding  and  le.s  important  objects.  There  «  Bome  hmg  grand 
in  the  sight  of  a  vast  army  moving  forvvard  its  it  were  by  one  impulse ,  there 
is  something  peculiarly  sablime  in  the  sight  ot  huge  '"O""^'^^'?* /"?,  °I^« 
cliffs  of  ice,  shaped  into  various  fantastic  forms.  Gmnd  may  bo  said  either 
of  the  works  of  art  or  nature.  The  Egyptian  pyramids,  or  the  ocean,  are  both 
grand  objects :  a  tempestuous  ocean  is  a  mUiine  object.  Grand  i^f  "'-J'"^^ 
applied  to  the  mind  :  *«W//n^  is  applied  both  to  tlie.thonghts  and  the  expro.v. 
sions.  There  is  a  graful^ur  of  conception  in  the  writings  of  Milton ,  ti>cre  '» 
V^UimUy  in  the 'inspired  writings,  which  far  surpass  ^^^^^^^^^^^'^^^^ 

219.  Wliat  b«sUlo«  mflsmllu.le  Is  necessary  to  miike  an  object  (jruud.    Ktami.l**.— H«w 
fr««id«nr  Is  JUtlngiUsbei  from  l»«*utf . 


133  GRANDEUR  AND  8UBLIMITT. 

have  such  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  different  from  these  mentioned,  as  to  merit  a  pecuhar 
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.  In 
the  next  place,  two  similar  objects  appear  not  similar  when  viewed 
at  different  distances  ;  the  similar  parts  of  a  very  large  object  cannot 
be  seen  but  at  diflferent  distances ;  and  for  that  reason,  its  regularity, 
and  the  proportion  of  its  parts,  are  in  some  measure  lost  to  the  eye; 
neither  are  the  iriegularities  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  irregularities. 

214.  These  considerations  make  it  evident,  that  grandeur  is  satis- 
fied with  a  less  degree  of  regularity  and  of  the  other  qualities 
mentioned,  than  is  requisite  for  beauty ;  which  may  be  illustrated 
by  the  following  experiment.  Approaching  to  a  small  conical  hill, 
we  take  an  accurate  survey  of  eveiy  part,  and  are  sensible  of  the 
slightest  deviation  from  regularity  and  proportion.  Supposing  the 
hill  to  be  considerably  enlarged,  so  as  to  make  us  less  sensible  of  its 
regularity,  it  will  upon  that  account  appear  less  beautiful.  It  will 
not,  however,  appear  less  agreeable,  because  some  slight  emotion  oi 
grandeur  comes  in  place  of  what  is  lost  in  beauty.  And  at  last, 
when  the  hill  is  enlarged  to  a  great  mountain,  the  small  degree  ot 
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 ;  but  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,  that,  in  passing  from  small  to  great,  they  are  nob  required 
in  the  same  degree  of  perfection.  This  remark  serves  to  explain 
the  extreme  delight  we  have  in  viewing  the  face  of  nature,  when 
sufficiently  em-iched  and  diversified  Avith  objects.  The  bulk  of  the 
objects  in  a  natural  landscape  are  beautiful,  and  some  of  them 
grand  :  a  flowing  river,  a  spi'eading  oak,  a  round  hill,  an  extended 

#18.  Emotions  of  grandeur  and  beauty  distinguished.— "Why  regularity,  proportion,  Ac., 
are  not  so  essential  to  grnadeur  as  to  beauty. — Terms  great,  gratid-,  and  tubHme,  deUned 
and  IUustrat(Hl. 


GRANDEUR  AND  BTJBLIMrrT.  133 

plain,  are  delightful ;  and  even  a  rugged  rock  or  barren  heath, 
though  in  themselres  disagreeable,  contribute  by  contrast  to  the 
beauty  of  the  whole  :  joining  to  these  the  verdure  of  the  fields,  the 
mixture  of  light  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  ot 
regularity  and  order :  he  loves  to  range  at  large ;  and  is  so  en- 
chanted with  magnificent  objects,  as  to  overlook  slight  beauties  or 
deformities. 

215.  The  same  obsei"vation  is  applicable  in  some  measure  to 
works  of  art :  in  a  small  building,  the  slightest  irregularity  is  dis- 
agreeable ;  but,  in  a  magnificent  palace,  or  a  large  Gothic  church, 
irregularities  are  less  regarded  ;  in  an  epic  poem  we  pardon  many 
negligences  'that  would  not  be  permitted  in  a  sonnet  or  epigram. 
Notwithstanding  such  exceptions,  it  may  be  justly  laid  down  for  a 
rule.  That  in  works  of  art,  order  and  regularity  ought  to  be  govern- 
ing principles :  and  hence  the  observation  of  Longinus  (chapter 
XXX.),  "  In  works  of  art  we  have  regard  to  exact  proportion ;  in  those 
of  nature,  to  grandeur  and  magnificence." 

The  same  reflections  are  in  a  good  measure  applicable  to  sub- 
limity ;  particularly,  that,  hke  grandeur,  it  is  a  species  of  agreeable- 
ness  ;  that  a  beautiful  object  placed  high,  appearing  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. 

216.  The  pleasant  emotion  raised  by  large  objects,  has  not  escaped 
U'e  poets : 

•  He  doth  bestride  the  narrow  world 


Like  a  Colossus  ;  and  we  petty  men 

Walk  under  his  huge  legs.  Juliut  Oassar,  Act  I.  Sc.  8. 

OUopatra.  I  dreamt  there  was  an  Emp'ror  Antony  : 
Oh  such  another  sleep,  that  I  might  see 
Bnt  such  unotlier  man  I 

His  face  was  as  the  Iieavens :  and  therein  stuck 
A  sun  and  moon,  which  kept  their  course,  and  lighted 
The  little  0  o'  the  earth. 
His  legs  bestrid  the  ocean,  his  rear'd  arm 
Crested  the  world.  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  Act  V.  Sc  S. 


•  Majesty 


Dies  not  alone,  but,  like  a  gulf,  doth  draw 
What's  near  it  with  it.  It's  a  mnssy  wheel 
Fix'd  on  the  summit  of  the  liighest  mount ; 


214  Illustrated  by  the  experiment  of  nnproachlne  n  hill. — How  It  is  in  passing  from 
the  sight  of  small  to  that  of  great  objects.— Tho  rioliglit  found  in  viewing  the  face  of  nator*^ 
•xplained. 

vis  Observation*  In  regard  to  works  of  art    AUio  In  regard  to  •ubUiuity. 


134  GRANDEUR  AND  SUBLIMITT. 

To  wl.ose  htige  spokes,  ten  thousand  lesser  things 

Are  mortised  and  adjoin'd  ;  which  when  it  falls, 

Each  small  annexment,  petty  consequence, 

Attends  the  boisterous  ruin.'  Hamlet,  Act  III.  Sc.  8. 

The  poets  have  also  made  good  use  of  the  emotion  produced  by  the 
elevated  situation  of  an  object : 

Quod  si  me  lyricis  vatibus  inseres, 
Sublimi  feriam  sidera  vertice. 

Bm-at.  Carm.  L.  I.  Ode  I. 

Oh  thou !  the  earthly  author  of  my  blood, 
Whose  youthful  spiritj  in  me  regenerate, 
Doth  with  a  twofold  vigor  lift  me  up, 
To  reach  at  victory  above  mv  head. 

Richard  II.  Act  1.  Sc.  4. 

Northuiirberland,  thou  ladder  wherewithal 
The  mounting  Bolingbroke  ascends  my  throne. 

Richard  II.  Act  V.  Sc.  2. 
Antony.  "Why  was  I  raised  the  meteor  of  the  world. 
Hung  in  the  skies,  and  blazing  as  I  travell'd. 
Till  all  rav  fires  were  spent ;  and  then  cast  downward, 
To  be  trod  out  by  Csesar  '{—Dryden,  All  for  Love,  Act  I. 

The  description  of  Paradise  in  the  fourtli  book  of  Paradise  Lost^ 
is  a  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  iuclosure  green, 

As  with  a  rural  mound,  the  champain  head 

Of  a  steep  wilderness  ;  whose  hairy  sides, 

With  thicket  overgrown,  grotesque  and  wild. 

Access  denied  ;  and  overhead  up  grew 

Insuperable  height  of  loftiest  shade. 

Cedar,  and  pine,  and  fir,  and  branching  pahn, 

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  large 

Into  his  nether  empire  neighb'rmg  round. 

And  higher  than  that  wall  a  circling  row_ 

Of  goodliest  trees,  loaden  with  fairest  fruit. 

Blossoms  and  fruits  at  once  of  golden  hue, 

Appeard  with  guy  enamcU'd  colors  mix'd. — B.  iv.  1. 131. 

217.  Though  a  grand  object  is  agreeable,  we  must  not  infer  that 
a  little  object  is  disagi-eeable ;  which  would  be  unhappy  for  man, 
considering  that  he  is  suiTounded  with  so  many  objects  of  that  kind. 
The  same  holds  with  respect  to  place :  a  body  placed  high  is  agree- 
able ;  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  circum- 
stances T  were  littleness  and  lowness  of  place  agreeable,  greatness 

216.  Pleasant  emotions  raised  by  large  objects  illnstrated  from  ihi  poets ;  th<iM  »»«> 
l»i»ed  by  bigb  t  vect»,  specially  f-?m  Paradlje  Lort 


QRANDECB  AND  SUBLIMITT.  136 

and  elevation  could  not  be  so    were  littleness  and  lowness  of  place 
disagreeable,  they  would  occasion  perpetual  uneasiness. 

The  dift'erence  between  great  and  little  with  respect  to  agreeable- 
ness,  is  remaikably  felt  in  a  series,  when  we  pass  gradually  ti'oin  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  plan- 
etary system — to  the  universe,  is  extremely  pleasant;  the  heart 
swells  and  the  mind  is  dilated  at  every  step.  The  retiuiiing  in  an 
opposite  direction  is  not  positively  painful,  though  our  pleasure 
lessens  at  every  step  till  it  vanish  into  indifference :  such  a  progiess 
may  sometimes  produce  pleasure  of  a  different  sort,  which  arises 
from  taking  a  nan-ower  and  naiTower  inspection.  The  same  obser- 
vation holds  in  a  progress  upward  and  downward.  Ascent  is  pleas- 
ant because  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 
agreeable  by  its  accelerated  motion.  I  feel  it  pleasant  to  descend 
from  a  mountain,  because  the  descent  is  natural  and  easy.  Neither 
is  looking  downward  painful ;  on  the  contrary,  to  look  down  upon 
objects  makes  part  of  the  pleasure  of  elevation.  Looking  down  be 
comes  then  only  painful  when  the  object  is  so  far  below  as  to  create  diz- 
ziness ;  and  even  when  that  is  the  case  we  feel  a  sort  of  pleasure  mixed 
with  the  pain.     Witness  Shakspeare's  description  of  Dover  Chffs : 

. How  fearful 

And  dizzy  'tis  to  cast  one's  eyes  so  low ! 
The  crows  and  ehoaghs,  that  wing  the  midway  air, 
•  Show  scarce  so  gross  as  beetles.     Half-%vay  doT^Ti 
Hangs  one  that  gatliers  samphire ;  dreadful  trade  1 
Methinks  he  seems  no  bigger  tlian  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  the  unnuraber'd  idle  pebbles  chafes, 
Cannot  be  heard  so  high.    I'll  look  no  more, 
Lest  my  brain  turn,  and  the  deficient  sight 
Topple  down  headlong. — King  Lear,  Act.  IV.  Sc.  6. 

218.  A  remark  is  made  above  that  the  emotions  of  grandeur  and 
sublimity  are  neaily  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  up- 
ward, is  commonly  termed  an  ascending  series  ;  a  series  of  numbera 
gradually  decreasing,  producing  an  emotion  similar  to  that  of  going 
downward,  is  commonly  termed  a  descending  series.  We  talk  fa- 
miliarly of  going  up  to  the  capital,  and  of  going  doion  to  the  coun- 
try :  from  a  lesser  kingdom  we  talk  of  going  up  to  a  greater ;  whence 
the  anabasis  in  the  Greek  language,  when  one  travels  from  Greece 

217.  Cooiparison  between  great  and  small,  high  and  low  objects,  as  to  agTeenbleness.— 
ProgrMS  in  an  advancing  series  from  one  extreme  to  another,  and  in  reverse  onler.w  to 
•gracablaDess. — Progress  upward  and  downward.- -Shnkspeare's  desoriplonMl>«v«rCitff». 


136  GRANDETJR  AND  SUBLIMITY. 

to  Persia.  We  dis«over  the  same  way  of  speaking  in  the  language 
even  of  Japan  ;*  and  it  universally  proves  it  the  offspring  of  a  nat- 
ural feeling. 

219.  The  foregoing  observation  leads  us  to  consider  gi-andeur  and 
sublimity  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 
Bome  pains  upon  that  article,  because,  generally  speaking,  the  fig- 
urative sense  of  a  word  is  derived  from  its  proper  sense,  which  holds 
remarkably  at  present.  Beauty,  in  its  original  signification,  is  con- 
' fined  to  objects  of  sight;  but  as  many  other  objects,  intellectual  as 
well  as  moral,  raise  emotions  resembling  -that  of  beauty,  the  resem- 
blance of  the  effects  prompts  us  to  extend  the  term  beauty  to  these 
objects.!  This  equally  accounts  for  the  terms  grandeur  and  suh- 
limiUj  taken  in  a  figurative  sense.  Every  emotion,  from  whatever 
cause  proceeding,  that  resembles  an  emotion  of  grandeur  or  eleva- 
tion, 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  fixeth  it  upon  things  trivial  or  of  no  importance,  is  termed 
low,  by  its  resemblance  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  familiariy  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  characterized  in  the  same  manner ;  an  expression  or  sentiment 

»  Kempfer's  History  of  Japan,  b.  V.  chap.  2.         ,.   ,     .,      , 
+  fCousin  jrives  the  following  d-assification  of  the  ofyects  of  beauty : 
"  Among  sensible  objects,  colors,  sounds,  figures,  movements,  are  capable 
of  producing  the  idea  and  the  sentiment  of  the  beautiful.    All  these  beauties 
arc  arranged  under  that  species  of  beauty,  which,  right  or  wrong,  is  called 

^  Tif "from^tL  world  of  sense,  we  elevate  ourselves  to  that  of  mind,  truth, 
and  science,  we  shall  find  there  beauties  more  severe,  but  not  less  real.  Ihe 
universal  laws  that  govern  bodies,  those  that  govern  intelligences,  the  great 
principles  that  contain  and  produce  long  deductions,  the  genius  that  crea  cs 
In  the  artist,  poet,  or  philosopher,-all  these  are  beautiful^as  well  as  nature 
hersdf:  this,  is  v/hatiac-dWed  intellectual  beautt/.  «/^  i;u»,f, 

"Finally,  if  we  consider  the  moral  world  and  its  laws,  the  idea  of  liberty, 
virtue,  and  devotedness;  here  the  austere  justice  of  an  Aristides,  there  the 
heroism  of  a  Leonidas,  the  prodigies  of  charity  or  of  patriotism,  we  shall  cer- 
tainly  find  a  Miird  order  of  beauty  that  still  surpasses  the  other  two,  to  wit, 

'""NeftSet  us  forget  to  apply  to  all  these  beauties  t^^e  distinct  on  between 
the  beautiful  and  the  sublime.  There  are,  then,  the  beautiful  and  the  subluno 
at  once  in  nature,  in  ideas,  in  sentiments,  in  actums.  What  an  almost  mtinite 
variety  in  beauty !"— Lcct.  vi.  pp.  148-4.] 

219.  Emotions  of  grandeur  and  sublimity  nearly  »llied.-lncre«»ing  series  of  numlxiW 
Urtncd  atctndiny,  ic. 


GRANDEUR  AND  SUBLIMITY.  18t 

that  raises  the  mind  is  denominated  great  or  elevated,  and  hence  the 
SUBLIME*  in  poetry.  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 
application.  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  in- 
ferior parts,  of  inferior  taste,  and  such  like.  The  veneration  we 
have  for  our  ancestors,  and  for  the  ancients  in  general,  being  similar 
to  the  emotion  produced  by  an  elevated  object  of  sight,  jusfifies  the 
figurative  expression  of  the  ancients  being  raised  above  us,  or  pos- 
sessing a  svperior  place.  And  we  may  remark  in  passing,  that  as 
words  are  intimately  connected  with  ideas,  many,  by  this  form  of 
expression,  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.  ,„   „     , 

^  Jiwhard  III.  Act  IV.  Sc.  6. 

Tlie  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 
note,  a  low  note. 

220.  Such  is  the  resemblance  in  feeling  between  real  and  figura- 
tive grandeur,  that  among  the  nations  on  the  east  coast  of  Africa, 
who  are  directed  purely  by  nature,  the  oflScers  of  state  are,  with  re- 
spect to  rank,  distinguished  by  the  length  of  the  batoon  each  can-ies 
in  his  hand ;  and  iu  Japan,  princes  and  great  lords  show  their  rank 
by  the  length  and  size  of  their  sedan-poles.t  Again,  it  is  a  nile  m 
painting,  that  figmes  of  a  small  size  are  proper  for  a  grotesque  piece; 
but  that  an  historical  subject,  grand  and  important,  requires  figures 
as  great  as  the  life.  The  lesemblance  of  these  feelings  is  in  reality 
BO  strong,  that  elevation,  in  a  figurative  sense,  is  observed  to  have 
the  same  effect,  even  externally,  with  real  elevation. 

K  Henry.    This  day  is  call'd  the  feast  of  Crispian. 
He  that  outlives  this  day,  and  comes  safe  home, 
Will  stand  a-tiptoe  when  this  day  is  named,  ^^    .  ,  ttt   c     <> 

And  rouse  him  at  the  name  of  Crispian.— ifenry  V.  Act  IV.  Bo.  8. 


from 

BO  8ensi-_,  

heard.or  read  were  its  own  invention.' 
i  Kempfcr's  History  of  Japan 


219.  Grandeur  and  sublimity  In  a  flRnrative  sense,  as  applied  to  t»ie  flne.^^'^-r^^iJ^S^- 
originuU,,  conHnea  to  what?-Cousin's  classification  of  the  objecU  of  *'e»^y;-^™°"°^ 
resembling  those  of  (frandeur  or  sublimity  are  called  by  the  same  nft«fe-V'PP°!i^*,„*'?^ 
tlons,  how  called.-CharacteRS  actions.  senOmeuts,  and  e^'P'-esslons  charicterizecl  m  um 
ume  manner.— How  we  speak  of  ancestors  and  of  the  ancients— Notes  of  the  gacauu 


188  GRANDEUR  AND  8DBLIMITY. 

The  lesemMance  in  feeling  between  real  and  figurative  grandeur, 
is  humorously  illustrated  by  Addison  in  criticising  upon  English 
tragedy :  "  The  ordinary  method  of  making  a  hero,  is  to  clap  a 
huge  plume  of  feathei's  upon  his  head,  which  rises  so  high,  that  there 
is  often  a  greater  length  from  his  chin  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  orna- 
ments upon  the  head  make  a  great  man,  a  princess  generally  re- 
ceives her  grandeur  from  those  additional  incumbrances  that  fall  into 
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."  (Spectator,  No. 
42.)  The  Scythians,  impressed  with  the  fame  of  Alexander,  were 
astonished  when  they  found  him  a  httle  man. 

221.  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  efiect  of  a  number  of  thoughts  or  sen- 
timents artfully  disposed  like  an  ascending  series,  and  making  im- 
pressions deeper  and  deeper  :  such  disposition  of  members  in  a  pe- 
riod is  termed  a  climax. 

Within  certain  limits,  grandeur  and  sublimity  produce  their 
strongest  effects,  which  lessen  by  excess  as  well  as  by  defect.  This 
is  remarkable  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  :*  in  like  manner,  the  strongest  emotion  produced  by  ele- 
vation, is  where  the  object  is  seen  distinctly ;  a  greater  elevation 
lessens  in  appearance  the  object,  until  it  v?inishes  out  of  sight  with 
its  pleasant  emotion.  The  same  is  equally  remarkable  in  figurative 
grandeur  and  elevation,  which  shall  bo  handled  together,  because, 
as  observed  above,  they  are  scarce  distinguishable.  Sentiments  may 
be  so  strained  as  to  become  obscure,  or  to  exceed  the  capacity  of  the 
human  mind  :  against  such  license  of  imagination,  every  good 
writer  will  be  upon  his  guard ;  and  therefore  it  is  of  greater  im- 
portance to  observe,  that  even  the  ti-ue  sublime  may  be  carried  be- 
yond that  pitch  which  produces  the  highest  entertainment.  We  aie 
undoubtedly  susceptible  of  a  greater  oievation  than  can  be  inspired 

♦  It  is  justly  observed  by  Addison,  that  perhaps  a  man  would  have  been 
more  astonished  with  the  majestic  air  that  appeared  in  one  of  Lysippus's 
Btatues  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  of  Phidiiis,  with  a  river  in  one  hand,  and  a  city  in  the  other.— 
Spectator,  No.  415. 

220.  How  superiority  of  rank  is  expressed  in  Africa  and  Japan.— Enle  in  p.iinting  as  to 
size  of  figures.— The  resemblance  in  feeling  between  real  and  figurative  grandeur,  illof- 
trate<l  by  Addison. 


GRANDEUR  AND  SUBLIMITY.  189 

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  const^mt  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  CaeSai-,  of  a 
Brutus  or  an  Epamiuondas ;  he  accompanies  these  heroes  in  their 
sublimest  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  if 
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 
conception,  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 
m  a  strained  elevation,  finds  itself  more  at  ease  in  asing  the  inter- 
cession of  some  saint  whose  piety  and  penances  while  on  earth  are 
supposed  to  have  made  him  a  favorite  in  heaven. 

222.  A  strained  elevation  is  attended  with  another  inconvenience, 
that  the  author  is  apt  to  fall  suddenly  as  well  as  the  reader  :  because  it 
IS  not  a  little  diflScult  to  descend  sweetly  and  easily  from  such  ele- 
vation to  the  ordinary  tone  of  the  subject.  The  following  passage 
IS  a  f<'A  illustration  of  that  observation  : 

^  Ssejio  ctiam  immenaum  coelo  venit  agmen  aqanrum, 

Et  I'oedani  glomeraiit  tempestatem  inibribus  atris 
Conlectffi  ex  alto  nubcs.    Knit  arduus  cethcr, 
Et  pluvia  ingenti  sata  la;ta  boumque  laborea 
Diluit.    Inplentur  fusste,  ot  cava  flutnina  crescunt 
Cum  sonitu,  fervctq^ne  fretis  spirantibus  aequor. 
Ipse  Fater,  media  nmiborum  in  nocto,  corruscd 
Fulmina  molitur  dextra.    Quo  maxima  motu 
Terra  tremit :  fu|j6re  ferae !  ct  mortalia  corda 
Per  gentes  humilis  stravit  pavor.    llle  flagranti 
Aut  Atho,  aut  Rodopen,  aut  alta  Cerauuia  telo 
Dejicit :  ingeminant  austri,  et  densmimus  imher.—  Virg.  Georg.  1. 1. 

In  the  description  of  a  storm,  to  figure  Jupiter  throwing  down  huge 
mountains  with  his  thunderbolts,  is  hyperbolically  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  remaikably  great  or  high,  scarce 
raise  any  emotion  of  grandeur  or  of  sublimity :  and  tlie  same  holds 
in  other  objects ;  for  we  often  fimL  the  mind  roused  and  animated, 

221.  Climax. — Grandcnr  and  snblitnity  produce  their  greatest  effects  only  within  certain 
Uniits.— Sentiments  may  be  strained  too  far.— Elevation  Inspired  by  the  actions  of  super 
mu*i»n  beings,  conipwed  wth  that  inspired  by  onr  own  species. 


140  GRANDEUR  AND  SDBLIMITY. 

without  being  carried  to  that  height.  This  difference  may  be  dis- 
cerned  in  many  soils  of  music,  as  well  as  in  some  musical  instru- 
ments: a  kettle-drum  rouses,  and  a  hautboy  is  animating;  but  nei- 
ther of  them  inspires  an  emotion  of  sublimity  :  revenge  animates  the 
mind  in  a  considerable  degree ;  but  I  think  it  never  produceth  an 
emotion  that  can  be  termed  grand  ox  sublime ;  and  I  shall  have 
occasion  afterwards  to  observe,  that  no  disagreeable  passion  ever  has 
that  effect.  I  am  willing  to  put  this  to  the  test,  by  placing  beforq 
my  reader  a  most  spirited  picture  of  revenge :  it  is  a  speech  of  An- 
tony wailing  over  the  body  of  Caesar  : 

Woe  to  the  hand  that  shed  this  costly  blood ! 
Over  thy  wounds  now  do  I  prophesy, 
(Which  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 ; 
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  choked  with  custom  of  fell  deeds. 
And  Casar's  spirit,  ranging  for  revenge, 
*  With  Ate  by  his  side  come  hot  from  hell. 

Shall  in  these  confines,  with  a  monarch's  voice, 
Cry,  Havoc!  and  let  slip  the  dogs  of  war.  .„  o     ^ 

•''  Julius  Ccesar,  Act  III.  So,  4. 

223.  No  desire  is  more  general  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 
be  thought  that  our  attachment  to  things  grand  and  lofty  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  deeper  root  in  human  nature,  will  appear 
from  considering,  that  many  bestow  their  time  upon  low  and  trifling 
amusements,  without  having  the  least  tincture  of  this  favorite  pas- 
sion ;  yet  these  very  persons  talk  the  same  language  with  the  rest  of 
mankind,  and  prefer  the  more  elevated  pleasures :  they  acknowledge 
a  more  refined  taste,  and  are  ashamed  of  their  own  as  low  and  grov- 
elling.    This  sentiment,  constant  and  universal,  must  be  the  work 
of  nature;  and  it  plainly  indicates  an  original  attachment  m  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  things 
grand  and  sublime :  and  they  are  sensible  that  their  peeuhar  taste 
ought  to  yield  to  the  general  taste.  

222.  Inconvenience  of  a  strained  elevation.  Ko  disagreeable  passion  raises  an  emotion 
of  sni)limity.    Revenge  does  not— Speech  of  Antony.  v„„„„  ~i_^  fh. 

m  Tb/desWe  to  be  honored.  Its  effects.-The  preference  of  the  human  mind  ft* 
tbiugs  grand  and  lofty. 


GRANDEUR  AND  SUBLIMITY.  141 

/-224.  What  is  said  above  suggests  a  capital  rule  for  reaching  the 
BUblime  in  such  works  of  art  as  are  susceptible  of  it:  and  that  is,  to 
present  those  pails  or  circumstances  only  which  make  the  greatest 
figure,  keeping  out  of  view  eveiy  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 
qrandeur  of  manner  (Spectator,  No.  415).  In  none  of  the  fine  arts  is 
there  so  great  scope  for  that  rule  as  in  poetry ;  which,  by  that  means, 
enjoys  a  remarkable  power  of  bestowing  upon  objects  and  events  an 
air  of  grandeur :  when  we  ai"e  spectators,  every  minute  object  presents 
itself  in  its  order :  but,  in  describing  at  second  hand,  these  are  laid 
aside,  and  the  capital  objects  are  brought  close  together.  A  judi- 
cious taste  in  thus  selecting  the  most  interesting  incidents,  to  give 
them  a  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  spectatora  of  the  event  itself,  in  all  its  circum- 
stances. 

Longinus  exemplifies  the  foregoing  rule  by  a  comparison  of  two 
passages  (Chapter  viii.  of  the  Sublime).  The  first,  from  Aristaeus, 
is  thus  translated : 

Ye  powers,  what  madness !  how  on  ships  so  frail 
(Tremendous  thought !)  can  thoughtless  mortals  sail  ? 
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  woe. 
No  ease  their  hearts,  no  rest  their  eyes  can  find. 
On  heaven  their  looks,  and  on  the  waves  their  mind, 
Sunk  are  their  spirits,  while  their  arms  they  rear. 
And  gods  are  wearied  with  their  fruitless  prayer. 

IJI^e  other,  from  Homer,  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,  tremhling,  tired,  the  sailors  freeze  witii  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  anti- 
theses 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  the  fewest  words,  those  circumstances  which 
make  the  greatest  figure. 

Like  Autumn's  dark  storms  pouring  from  two  echoing  hills,  towards  each 
othor  approached  the  heroes ;  u  two  dark  streams  frova  bijfb  roeks  meet  umI 


142  GRANDEUR  AKD  STJBMMITT. 

roar  on  the  plain,  loud,  roup:h,  and  dark  in  battle,  meet  Lorh.ir  and  Inisfal. 
Chief  mixes  his  strokes  with  chief,  and  man  with  man  :  steel  sounds  on  steel, 
and  helmets  are  deft  on  high :  blood  bursts  and  smokes  around ;  strings  mur- 
mur on  the  polished  yew  :  darts  rash  along  the  sky  :  spears  fall  like  sparks  of 
ilame  that  gild  tlio  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.  Though  Cormac's  hun- 
dred 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  vaViant.—iFlri^al. 

The  following  passage  in  the  4th  book  of  the  Iliad  is  a  descriptioa 
of  a  battle,  wonderfully  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  floating 
round  with  blood.  As  when  two  rushing  streams  from  twr  moun- 
tains come  roaring  down,  and  throw  together  their  rapid  waters 
below,  they  roar  along  the  gulfy  vale  :  the  startled  shepherd  bears 
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  catalogue 
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  description  of 
eveiy  wound,  which  for  accuracy  may  do  honor  to  an  anatomist, 
but  in  an  epic  poem  is  tiresome  and  fatiguing.  There  is  no  relief 
from  hornd  languor  but  the  beautiful  Greek  language  and  melody 
of  Homer's  versification.  ^. 

225.  In  the  twenty-first  book  of  the  Odyssey,  there  is  a  passage 
which  deviates  widely  from  the  rule  above  laid  down  :  it  conceins 
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  dexterous 
in  shooting  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  diviijo, 
(With  polish'd  oak  the  level  pavements  shine ;) 
The  folding  gates  a  dazzling  light  display'd, 
"With  pomp  of  various  architrave  o'erlay'd. 
The  bolt,  obedient  to  the  silken  string. 
Forsakes  the  staple  as  she  pulls  the  rin^: ; 
The  wards  respondent  to  the  key  turn'a  round ; 
The  bars  fall  back  ;  the  flying  valves  resound. 
Loud  as  a  bull  makes  liilland  valley  ring; 
So  roar'd  the  lock  when  it  released  the  spring. 

224.  Rule  for  reaching  the  sublime  in  works  of  art    Scope  for  this  rule  in  po«tr]r. — B> 
foct  of  A  spirited  narration.    Exampla  from  Flngal :  iirom  the  lliaA. 
223.  Vtolfittou  of  the  rule  abovs  given,  in  the  Odywey . 


GRANDEUR  AND  SUBLIMITT.  1  iZ 

She  moves  majestic  through  tlie  wealthy  room, 
Where  treasured  garments  cast  a  rich  perfume ; 
There  from  the  column  where  aloft  it  hung, 
Eeach'd,  in  its  splendid  case,  the  bow  unstrung 

226.  This  rule  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 
most  in  view,  and  in  suppressing  the  smaller  parts  as  much  as  pos- 
sible ;  that  the  folds  of  the  drapery  must  be  few  and  large;  that 
fore-shoilenings  are  bad,  because  they  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,  iu  opposition  to  parterres  split 
into  a  thousand  small  parts  in  the  stiffest  regularity  of  figure.  The 
most  eminent  architects  have  governed  themselves  by  the  same  mle 
in  all  their  works. 

227.  Another  rule  chiefly  regards  the  sublime,  though  it  is  ap- 
plicable to  every  soit  of  literary  peifonnance  intended  for  amuse- 
ment ;  and  that  is  to  avoid  as  much  as  possible  abstract  and  gen- 
eral terms.  Such  tenns,  similar  to  mathematical  signs,  arexpntrived 
to  express  our  thoughts  in  a  concise  manner ;  but  ima^,  which 
are  the  life  of  poetry,  cannot  be  raised  in  any  perfection  but  by  in- 
troducing particular  objects.  General  terms  that  comprehend  a 
number  of  individuals,  must  be  excepted  from  that  rule  :  our  kin- 
dred, our  clan,  our  country,  and  words  of  the  like  import,  though 
they  scarce  raise  any  image,  have,  however,  a  wonderful  power  over 
our  passions :  the  greatness  of  the  complex  object  overbalances  the 
obscurity  of  the  image.     (See  chap,  xxii.) 

228.  Grandeur  being  an  extremely  vivid  emotion,  is  not  readily 
produced  iu  perfection  but  by  reiterated  impressions.  The  effect  of 
a  single  impression  can  be  but  raomentaiy ;  and  if  one  feel  sudden- 
ly somewhat  like  a  swelling  or  exaltation  of  mind,  the  emotion 
vanisheth  as  soon  as  felt.  Single  tho\ights  or  sentiments,  I  know, 
arc  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  Thermopylje,  where  Leonidas,  the  Spartan 
king,  with  his  chosen  band  fighting  for  their  country,  were  cut  off 
to  the  last  man,  a  saying  is  reported  of  Dieneces,  one  of  the  band, 
which,  expressing  cheerful  and  undisturbed  bravery,  is  well  entitled 
to  the  first  place  in  examples  of  that  kind.  Respecting  the  number 
cf  their  enemies,  it  was  observed,  that  the  arrows  shot  by  such  a 
multitude  would  intercept  the  light  of  the  sun.  So  much  the 
better,  says  he,  for  we  shall  then  fight  in  the  shade.  (Herodotm, 
Book  vii.) 


226.  Grandear  of  manner  illnstrated  In  ]vaiiitlngand  gardentug. 
927.  Abstract  ant]  g«u«ra1  t«rin«     An  excoptlun 


144  GKANDEUB  AND  STTBLIMITT. 

Sonurget.  Ah !  "Warwick,  Warwick,  wert  thou  as  we  are, 
We  might  recover  all  our  loss  again. 
Tiie  Queen  from  France  hath  brought  a  puissant  power, 
Even  now  we  heard  the  news.    Ah  !  couldst  thou  fly  ! 
Warwick.  Why,  then  I  would  not  fly. 

Third  Part,  Henry  VI.  Act  V.  So.  8 

Such  a  sentiment  from  a  man  expiring  of  his  wounds,  is  truly  herOic, 
und  must  elevate  the  mind  to  the  greatest  height  that  can  be  done 
by  a  single  expression :  it  will  not  sufier  in  a  comparison  with  the 
famous  sentiment  Qu'il  mourut  of  Corneille  :  the  latter  is  a  senti- 
ment 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 
scarce  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  grandeiir 
in  perfection  : 

The  cloud-capp'd  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 
^       Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve,  &c. 

The  cloud-capp'd  towers  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 
image  can  do. 

229.  As,  on  the  one  hand,  no  means  directly  applied  have  more 
influence  to  raise  the  mind  than  grandeur  and  sublimity ;  so,  on  the 
other,  no  means  indirectly  applied  have  more  influence  to  sink  and 
depress  it ;  for  in  a  state  of  elevation,  the  artful  introduction  of  an 
humbling  object,  makes  the  fall  great  in  proportion  to  the  elevation. 
Of  this  observation  Shakspeare  gives  a  beautiful  example  in  tha 
passage  last  quoted  : 

The  cloud-capp'd  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 

The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself. 

Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve, 

And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  a  vision. 

Leave  not  a  rack  behind. Tempest,  Act  IV.  So.  4. 

The  elevation  of  the  mind  in  the  fonner  part  of  this  beautiful  pas- 
sage, makes  the  fall  great  in  proportion,  when  the  most  humbling 
of  all  images  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  melancholy 
object  listened  to,  makes  the  strongest  impression  when  it  reaches 
the  mind  in  its  highest  state  of  elevation  or  cheerfulness. 

But  an  humbling  image  is  not  always  necessary  to  produce  that 

288.  Grandeur  produced  by  reiterated  impressions.— Effect  of  a  grand  subject  displayed 
In  tt(  capital  part& — Tbe  saying  of  Dienecas.— Examplo  of  climax  n'om  Sbok&peare. 


OBAITOEUB  AUD  SUBLIMnT.  145 

effect :  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 
cannot  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  scarce  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  this  image  is  but  momentary;  and  that  the 
mind,  unable  to  support  itself  in  an  elevation  so  much  above  nature, 
immediately  sinks  down  into  humility  and  veneration  for  a  being  so 
far  exalted  above  grovelling  mortals.  Every  one  is  acquainted  with 
a  dispute  about  that  passage  between  two  French  critics  (Boileau 
and  Huet),  the  one  positively  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  justifies  Boileau ;  but  then  every  one  must 
be  sensible,  that  the  emotion  is  merely  a  flash  which,  vaniSiing  in- 
stantaneously, ^ves  way  to  humility  and  veneration.  That  indirect 
effect  of  sublimity  jtistifies  Huet,  who,  being  a  man  of  true  piety, 
and  probably  not  much  carried  by  imagination,  felt  the  humbling 
passion  more  sensibly  than  his  antagonist  did.  And,  laying  aside 
difference  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  endurance. 

230.  The  straining  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  that  \vriters  of  more  fire  than  judgment 
commonly  split  on  ;  and,  therefore,  a  collection  of  examples  may  be 
of  use  as  a  beacon  to  future  adventurers.  One  species  of  false  sub- 
lime, known  by  the  name  of  bombast,  is  common  among  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  sublime,  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 
degenerates  into  burlesque.     Take  the  following  examples  : 

Sejanus.  Great  and  high 

The  world  knows  only  two,  that's  Kome  and  I. 

My  roof  receives  me  not;  'tis  air  I  tread, 

And  at  each  step  I  feel  my  advanced  head 

Knock  out  a  star  in  heaven. — Sejanus,  Ben  Jontooy  Ajt  V. 

229.  The  effect  of  introdncins;  an  humbling  object  when  the  mind  is  in  a  state  of  elevation. 
The  renders  imadnation  unable  long  to  sustain  itself  in  a  strained  eleraUon,  falls.— Bemarfci 
•W  Uut  j>M8aj'e  "Let  tbor*  bt  li^ht,* *<s.     Dispute  upon  It  bet-»-«->u  Bulloau  uid  Uuet 


146  GEANDETJB  AKD  SDBLIMnT. 

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  ^  peur  de  tamper,  il  se  pertl  dans  la  nue. 
The  same  author,  Ben  Jonson,  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  amazed. 

Crying  to  heaven,  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 

Kun  backward  to  the  east ;  nay,  make  the  old 

Deformed  chaos  rise  again  t'  overwhelm 

Them  (us  and  all  the  world),  she  fills  the  air. 

Upbraids  the  heavens  with  their  partial  dooms. 

Defies  their  tyrannous  powers,  and  demands 

What  she  and  those  poor  innocents  have  transgress'd, 

That  they  must  suffer  such  a  share  in  vengeance. 

iSejanus,  Act  V,  So.  last. 

I  am  sorry  to  observe  that  the  following  bombast  stuff  dropt  from 
11  e  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. 

231.  Another  species  of  false  sublime  is  still  more  faulty  than 
bombast ;  and  that  is,  to  force  elevation  by  introducing  imaginaiy 
beings  without  preserving  any  propriety  in  their  actions,  as  if  it 
were  lawful  to  ascribe  every  extravagance  and  inconsistence  to 
beings  of  the  poet's  creation.  No  writers  are  more  licentious  in 
that  article  than  Jonson  and  Dryden  : 

Methinks  I  see  Death  and  the  Furies  waiting 
What  we  will  do,  and  all  the  heaven  at  leisure 
For  the  great  spectacle.    Draw  then  your  swords  1 
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.  .     ^ 

^  Catiline,  Act  V. 

^The  Furies  stood  on  hill 

Circling  the  place,  and  trembled  to  see  men 

Do  more  than  they ;  whilst  Piety  left  the  field. 

Grieved  for  that  side  that  in  so  bad  a  cause 

They  knew  not  what  a  crime  their  valor  was. 

The  sun  stood  still,  and  was,  behind  the  cloud 

The  batUe  made,  seen  sweatmg  to  drive  up 

His  frighted  horse,  whom  still  the  noise  drpve  backward. 

Ibid.  Act  V 


botul»«5t    Esiuiples  from  Ben  Joustrn ;  froin  T>iyixw^ 


GRANDEUR  AND  8UBLIM1TT.  147 

An  &ctor  on  the  stage  may  be  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  forc^  in  the  ex- 
pression, is  ridiculous  where  the  sentiment  is  mean,  and  the  expres- 
sion flat. 

232.  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  universally  the  favorite  entertainment.  And  this  fairly  accounts 
for  what  I  once  eiToneousIy  suspected  to  be  a  wrong  bias  originally 
in  human  nature  ;  which  is,  that  the  grossest  acts  of  oppression  and 
injustice  scarce  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  splendor  and  enthu- 
siasm of  the  hero,  transfused  into  the  readers,  elevate  their  minds 
far  above  the  rules  of  justice,  and  render  them  in  a  great  measure 
insensible  of  the  wrongs  that  are  committed  : 

For  in  those  days  might  only  shall  be  admired, 

Aud  valor  an  heroic  virtue  call'd ; 

To  overcome  in  battle,  and  subdue 

Nations,  and  brinjy  home  spoils  with  infinite 

Manslaughter,  shall  be  held  the  highest  pitch 

Of  human  glory,  aud  for  glory  done 

Of  triumph,  to  be  styled  great  conquerors, 

Patrons  of  mankind,  gods,  and  sons  of  gods, 

Destroyers  rightlier  call'd,  and  plagues  of  men. 

Thus  fame  shall  be  achieved,  renown  on  earth, 

And  what  most  merits  fame  in  silence  hid.  Milton,  B.  xi. 

The  in-egular  influence  of  grandeur  reaches  also  to  other  mat- 
ters :  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  dis- 
guised, that  the  remoi-se  which  attends  breach  of  engagement,  is  in 
a  great  measure  proportioned  to  the  figure  that  the  injured  person 
makes :  the  vows  and  protestations  of  lovers  are  an  illustrious  ex- 
ample ;  for  these  commonly  are  little  regarded  when  made  to 
women  of  inferior  rank. 

28t.  False  snblime  in  introducing  imaginary  beings.  Examples  from  Jouon  and 
Drydon. — Bombast  in  an  actor. 

232.  Closing  oiwervations.—Wljy  the  history  of  conquerors  and  heroes  fascinates ;  why 
their  crimes  are  palllitted.  Milton  quoted.— The  irregular  inflaence  of  tlie  aaotiment  of 
grandeur  In  other  instances. 


148  MOTION  AND  FOEOB. 


CHAPTER  V. 


MOTION    AND    FOKCE. 


233.  That  motion  is  agreeable  to  the  eye  without  relation  to 
purpose  or  design,  may  appear  from  the  amusement  it  gives  to  in- 
fants :  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  circum- 
stances that  are  neither  agreeable  nor  disagreeable,  being  viewed 
with  perfect  indifferency.  And  happy  is  it  for  mankind  to  have  the 
matter  so  ordered  :  if  rest  were  agreeable,  it  would  disincline  us  to 
motion,  by  which  all  things  are  performed :  if  it  were  disagreeable, 
it  would  be  a  soiu-ce  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.  (See  chapter  iv.) 
Even  in  the  simplest  matters,  the  finger  of  God  is  conspicuous : 
the  happy  adjustment  of  the  internal  nature  of  man  to  his  external 
circumstances,  displayed  in  the  instances  here  given,  is  indeed 
admirable. 

234.  Motion  is  agreeable  in  all  its  varieties  of  quickness  and 
slowness ;  but  motion  long  continued  admits  some  exceptions. 
That  degree  of  continued  motion  which  corresponds  to  the  natural 
course  of  our  perceptions  is  the  most  agreeable.  The  quickest  mo- 
tion is  for  an  instant  delightful ;  but  soon  appears  to  be  too  rapid : 
it  becomes  painful  by  forcibly  accelerating  the  course  of  our  per- 
ceptions. Slow  continued  motion  becomes  disagreeable  from  an 
opposite  cause,  that  it  retards  the  natural  course  of  our  perceptions. 
(See  chapter  ix.) 

There  are  other  varieties  in  motion,  besides  quickness  and  slow- 
ness, that  make  it  more  or  less  agreeable :  regular  motion  is  pre- 
feiTed  before  what  is  irregular ;  witness  the  motion  of  the  planets 
in  orbits  nearly  circular :  the  motion  of  the  comets  in  orbits  less 
regular,  is  less  agreeable. 

Motion  uniformly  accelerated,  resembling  an  ascending  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  accelerat^^y  the  force  of 

288.  Motion  In  itsolf  agrccab1e.~B«st,  n  maltor  of  Indifforeuoft.— Advantage  of  Uiia 
arrss^ment 


MOTION  AND  FORCE.  149 

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 
motion,  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  ser- 
pentine 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  upon  the  following  circumstance,  that  the  motion  is  per- 
ceived, not  as  of  one  body,  but  as  of  an  endless  number  moving 
together  with  order  and  regularity.  Poets,  stnxck  with  that  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  disa- 
greeable. 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  independent  of  the  other.  Both  of 
them  are  agreeable,  because  both  of  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  agi'eeable  or  disagreeable  to  see 
force  exerted  upon  it. 

Though  motion  and  force  are  each  of  them  agi-eeable,  the  im 
pressions  they  make  are  ditferent.  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.  If 
has  been  explained  why  smoke  ascending  in  a  calm  day,  suppose 
fi'om  a  cottage  in  a  wood,  is  an  agreeable  object  (chapter  i.) ;  so 
remarkably  agreeable,  that  landscape-painters  introduce  it  upon  all 
occasions.  The  ascent  being  natural,  and  without  effort,  is  pleasant 
in  a  calm  state  of  mind  :  it  resembles  a  gently-flowing  river,  but  is 
more  agreeable,  because  ascent  is  more  to  our  taste  than  descent. 
A  fire-work,  or  a  jet  cTeau,  rouses  the  mind  more ;  because  the 
beauty'^of  force  visibly  exerted  is  superadded  to  that  of  upwwd 
motion.  To  a  man  reclining  indolently  upon  a  bank  of  flowers, 
ascending  smoke  in  a  still  morning  is  cluuming ;  but  a  fire-work, 
or  a  jet  d'cau,  rouses  him  from  that  supine  posture,  and  puts  him  in 
motion. 

A.  jet  cfeau  m^es  an  impression  distinguishable  from  that  of  a 
waterfall.  Downward  motion  being  natural  and  without  effort, 
tends  ratlier  to  quiet  the  mind  than  to  rouse  it :  upward  motion,  on 


160  MOTION  AND  FORCE. 

the  contrary,  overcoming  the  resistance  of  gravity,  makes  an  impres- 
sion of  a  great  effort,  and  thereby  rouses  and  enlivens  the  mind. 

235.  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  gunpowder,  the  violence  o'^  • 
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  when  exerted  by  sensible  beings.  I  cannot  make 
the  observation  more  evident  than  by  the  following  quotations : 

•  Him  tho  almighty  power 


Hurl'd  headlong  flaming  from  th'  ethereal  sky, 
With  hideous  ruin  and  combustion,  down 
To  bottomless  perdition,  there  to  dwell 
In  adamantine  chains  and  penal  fire, 
Who  durst  defy  th'  Omnipotent  to  arUiS. 

Paradise  Loit,  Book  L 

■  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  raged ;  dire  was  the  noiao 
Of  conflict;  overhead  the  dismal  hiss 
Of  fiery  darts  in  flaming  volleys  flew,  ^ 
■     And  flying,  vaulted  either  host  with  fire. 
So  under  fiery  cone  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.  Jiid.  Book  vi. 

They  ended  parle,  and  both  address'd  for  fight 
Unspeakable ;  for  who,  though  with  the  tongue 
Of  angels,  can  relate,  or  to  what  things 
Liken  on  earth  conspicuous,  that  may  lift 
Human  imagination  to  such  height 
Of  godlike  power?  for  likest  gods  they  seem'd, 
Stood 'they  or  moved,  in  stature,  motion,  arms, 
Fit  to  decide  the  empire  of  great  Heaven. 
Now  waved  their  fiery  swords,  and  in  the  air 
Made  horrid  circles :  two  broad  suns  their  shields 
Blazed  opposite,  while  Expectation  stood 
In  horror :  from  each  hand  with  speed  retired, 
Where  erst  was  thickest  fight,  th'  angelic  throng, 
And  left  large  field,  unsafe  within  the  wind 
Of  such  commotion ;  such  as,  to  set  forth  * 

Great  things  by  small,  if  Nature's  concord  broke, 
Among  the  constellations  war  were  sprung, 

2Si.  Motion  rapid  and  slow.  Regular  and  irregular.  Uniformly  accelerated,  and  nnl- 
formiy  retarded.  In  p.  straight  line,  and  undulating.— Fluids  in  motion.— Force ;  quiescent 
and  in  motion.— Motion  and  fo-ce  make  diiferent  impressions  on  tlie  mind.— Ascent  ol 
•moke  ft-om  a  cottage  In  a  wood.— A  fire-work  or  Jet  d'eau.  The  latter  in  its  effect  dls- 
Ungnished  from  a  waterfall 

285.  Force  exerted  at  Roman  and  Grecian  games.— Forces  that  overpower  tho  mlui— 
Force  exerted  by  intolUgnnt  beings.— Quotations. 


MOnON  AND  FOECE.  151 

Two  planets,  rushing  from  aspect  malign 

Of  fiercest  opposL",ion,  in  mid  sljy 

Should  combat,  and  their  jarring  spheres  confound. 

Ibid.  Bock  vi. 

230.  We  shall  next  consider  tlie  effect  of  motion  and  force  in 
conjunction.  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 
bulk  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  supeiior  beauty  of  some  machines,  where  force  and 
motion  concur  to  perform  the  work  of  nunjberless  hands.  Hence 
the  beautiful  motions,  firm  and  regular,  of  a  hoi"se  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,  othere  meanness.  But  the  pleasure  here, 
arising,  not  singly  from  the  beauty  of  motion,  but  from  indicating 
character  and  sentiment,  belongs  to  different  chapters.  (Chaptere  xi. 
and  XV.) 

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  essen- 
tial to  our  well-being;  for  without  industry  the  plainest  necessaries 
of  life  are  not  obtained.  When  our  situation,  therefore,  in  this 
world  requires  acti^^ty  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  indifference  would  slacken  greatly  that  degree  of  activity  which 
is  indispensable. 

286.  The  effect  of  motion  nnd  ftree  conjoined.  The  planetary  system. — Motion  and 
force  also  agreeable  from  their  uUlity. — Beauty  of  some  machines. — Motion  of  the  war> 
horse. — Grace  of  motiot  in  man.  Not  a  common  talent — Final  cause  of  our  relish  for 
motion  and  force. 


152  NOTELTT,  Era 

CHAPTER  VL 

KOVEl.TT,  AND  THE  UNEXPECTED  APPEAI.AKCE  OF  0UECT8. 

237.  Of  all  the  circumstances  that  raise  emotions,  not  excepting 
beauty,  nor  even  gi-eatness,  novelty  liath  tlie  most  powerful  influence. 
A  new  object  produceth  instantaneously  an  emotion  termed  icondcr, 
which  totally  occupies  the  mind,  and  for  a  time  excludes  all  other 
objects.  Conversation  among  the  vulgar  never  is  more  interesting 
than  when  it  turns  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  fetigues  and 
even  perils  of  travelling.  To  what  cause  shall  we  ascribe  these  sin- 
gular appearances  ?  To  curiosity  undoubtedly,  a  principle  implanted 
in  human  nature  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  diflferent  from  admiration :  novelty,  wherever  found,  whether  in  a 
quality  or  action,  is  the  cause  of  wonder ;  admiration  is  directed  to 
the  person  who  performs  any  thing  wonderful. 

During  infancy,  every  new  object  is  probably  the  occasion  of 
wonder,  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  appear- 
ances, if  they  have  any  resemblance  to  what  we  are  acquainted  with  • 
for  a  thing  must  be  singular  as  well  as  new,  to  raise  our  wonder. 
To  save  multiplying  words,  I  would  be  understood  to  comprehend 
both  circumstances  when  I  hereafter  talk  of  novelty. 

238.  In  an  ordinary  train  of  perceptions,  where  one  thmg  intro- 
duces another,  not  a  single  object  makes  its  appearance  unexpect- 
edly (see  chap,  i.) :  the>  mind,  thus  prepared  for  the  reception  of  its 
objects,  admits  them  one  after  another  without  perturbation.  But 
when  a  thing  breaks  in  unexpectedly,  and  without  the  preparation 
of  any  connection,  it  raises  an  emotion,  known  by  the  name  of 
surprise.  That  emotion  may  be  produced  by  the  most  familiar 
object,  as  when  one  unexpectedly  meets  a  friend  who  was  reported 
to  be  dead ;  or  a  man  in  high  life  lately  a  beggar.  On  the  other 
hand,  a  new  object,  however  strange,  will  not  produce  the  emotion, 
if  the  spectator  be  prepared  for  the  sight :  an  elephant  in  India  wi 
not  surprise  a  traveller  who  goes  to  see  one ;  and  yet  its  novelty  will 
raise  his  wonder :  an  Indian  in  Lritain  would  be  much  surprised  to 

28T.  Emotion  excited  by  a  new  object  Conversation  that  most  «°tereste  the  vuW.- 
Motive  for  travelling.— Curiosity  beneflcUl.-Wonder  and  admiration  distinguished.- 
Wonder  In  Infancy;  m  advancing  years. 


KOVELTT,  ETC.  153 

stumble  upon  an  elephant  feeding  at  large  in  the  open  fields :  bul 
the  creature  itself  to  which  he  was  accustomed,  would  not  raise  hlr 
wonder. 

Sui-prise  thus  in  several  respects  differs  from  wonder :  unexpect- 
edness is  the  cause  of  the  former  emotion ;  novelty  is  the  cause  oi 
the  latter.  Nor  differ  they  less  in  their  nature  and  circumstances, 
as  will  be  explained  by  and  by.  With  relation  to  one  circumstance 
they  perfectly  agree ;  which  is,  the  shortness  of  their  duration :  the 
instantaneous  production  of  these  emotions  in  perfection  may  contri 
bute  to  that  effect,  in  conformity  to  a  general  la>v,  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. 

239.  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  suflBciently  calm  for  speculation,  it  is  not  easy  to  recall  the 
emotion  with  accuracy.  New  objects  are  sometimes  terrible,  some- 
times delightful :  the  terror  which  a  tiger  inspires  is  greatest  at  first, 
and  weare  off  gradually  by  familiarity :  on  the  other  hand,  even 
women  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 
hath  a  threatening  appearance,  adds  to  our  terror  by  its  novelty : 
but  from  that  experiment  it  doth  not  follow  that  novelty  is  in  itself 
disagreeable ;  for  it  is  perfectly  consistent  that  we  be  delighted  with 
an  object  in  one  view,  and  teirified  with  it  in  another:  a  river  in 
flood,  swelling  over  its  banks,  is  a  grand  and  delightful  object ;  and 
yet  it  may  produce  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  teiTor.  In 
the  same  manner,  novelty  may  produce  two  effects  clearly  distin- 
guishable from  each  other :  it  may,  directly  and  in  itself,  be  agi-ee- 
able ;  and  it  may  have  an  opposite  effect  indirectly,  which  is,  to  in- 
spire terror :  for  when  a  new  object  appears  in  any  degfree  dangerous, 
our  ignorance  of  its  ix)wers  and  qualities  affords  ample  scope  for  the 
imagination  to  dress  it  in  the  most  frightful  colors.  The  fii"st  sight 
of  a  lion,  for  example,  may  at  the  same  instant  produce  two  opposite 
feelings, — the  pleasant  emotion  of  wonder,  and  the  painful  passion 

888.  Emotion  ot  iurprise,  how  it  arises.    IIow  It  differs  from  wonder.  In  It*  natur*  Hid 
cireamstaocee. 

■7* 


154  KOVELTY,  ETC. 

of  terror :  the  novelty  of  the  object  produces  the  former  directly, 
and  contributes  to  the  latter  indirectly.  Thus,  when  the  subject  is 
analyzed,  Ave  "find  that  the  power  which  novelty  hath  indirectly  to 
inflame  terror,  is  perfectly  consistent  with  its  being  in  every  circum- 
stance 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  dangerous  animal,  our  terror  may  be  So  great  as  quite  to  ex- 
clude any  sense  of  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,  froni  his  own 
experience,  that  wonder  raised  by  a  new  object  which  is  inofi'ensive 
is  always  pleasant ;  and  Avith  respect  to  oft'eusive  objects,  it  appears 
from  the  foregoing  deduction,  that  the  same  must  hold  as  long  as 
the  spectator  can  attend  to, the  novelty. 

240.'  Whether  surprise  be  in  itself  pleasant  or  painful,  is  a  ques- 
tion no  less  intricate  than  the  former.  It  is  certain  that  surprise  in- 
flames our  joy  when  unexpectedly  we  meet  with  an  old  friend,  and 
our  terror  when  we  stumble  upon  any  thing  noxious.  To  clear  that 
question,  the  first  thing  to  be  remarked  is,  that  in  some  instances  an 
unexpected  object  overpowers  the  mind,  so  as  to  produce  a  moment- 
ary 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  moveat 
all,  is  as  like  to  run  upon  the  danger  as  fi'om  it.  Surprise  carried 
to  such  a  height  cannot  be  either  pleasant  or  painful ;  because  the 
mind,  during  such  a  raomentaiy  stupefaction,  is  in  a  good  measure, 
if  not  totally,  insensible. 

K  we  then  inquire  for  the  character  of  this  emotion,  it  must  be 
where  the  unexpected  object  or  event  produceth  less  violent  effects. 
When  a  man  meets  a  friend  unexpectedly,  he  is  said  to  be  agreeably 
surprised  ;  and  when  he  meets  an  enemy  unexpectedly,  he  is  said  to 
be  disagreeably  surprised.  It  appear^,  then,  that  the  sole  effect  of 
surprise  is  to  swell  the  emotion  raised  by  the  object.  And  that  effect 
can  be  clear.y  explained:  a  tide  of  connected  perceptions  glide 
gently  into  the  mind,  and  produce  no  perturbation ;  but  an  object 
breaking  in  unexpectedly,  sounds  an  alarm,  rouses  the  mind  out  of 
its  calm  state,  and  directs  its  whole  attention  to  the  object,  which, 
if  agreeable,  becomes  doubly  so.  Several  circumstances  concur  to 
produce  that  eftect :  on  the  one  hand,  the  a^tation  of  the  mind, 

"^r. 

♦  Hence  the  Latin  names  for  surprise,  torpor,  ammi  stupor. 


239  New  objects  sometimes  terrible— sometimes  agreeable:  yet  novelty  not  In  itself 
disagreeable.  Novelty  may  pro<luce  t  tto  efifects-an  agreeable  one  directly,  a  disagrce*bte 
one  indirectly. 


NOVELTY,  ETC,  166 

and  its  keen  attention,  prepare  it  in  the  most  eflfectual  manner  for 
receiving  a  deep  impression :  on  the  other  hand,  the  object,  by  its 
sudden  and  unforeseen  appearance,  irakes  an  impression,  not  grad- 
ually, 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.* 

241.  The  pleasure  of  novelty  is  easily  distinguished  fiom  that  of 
variety:  to  produce  the  latter,  a  plurality  of  objects  is  necessary;  the 
fonner  arises  from  a  circumstance  found  in  a  single  object.  Again, 
where  objects,  whether  coexistent  or  in  succession,  are  sufficiently 
diversified,  the  pleasure  of  variety  is  complete,  though  every  single 
object  of  the  train  be  familiar ;  but  the  pleasure  of  novelty,  directly 
opposite  to  familiarity,  requires  no  diversification. 

There  are  different  degrees  of  novelty,  and  its  effects  are  in  pro- 
portion. The  lowest  degree  is  found  in  objects  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  em- 
bellished with  trees,  lakes,  temples,  statues,  and  other  ornaments, 
will  appear  new  oftener  than  once :  the  memorj'  of  an  object  so 
complex  is  soon  lost,  of  its  parts  at  least,  or  of  their  ariangement. 
But  experience  teaches,  that  even  without  any  decay  of  remembrance, 
absence  alone  will  give  an  air  of  novelty  to  a  once  familiar  object ; 
which  is  not  surprising,  because  familiarity  wears  off"  gradually  by 
absence  :  thus  a  person  with  whom  we  have  been  intimate,  return- 
ing after  a  long  interval,  appears  like  a  new  acquaintance.  And  dis- 
tance of  jJace  contributes  to  this  appearance,  no  less  than  distance 
of  time  :  a  friend,  for  example,  after  a  short  absence  in  a  remote 
country,  has  the  same  air  of  novelty  as  if  he  had  returned  after  a 
longer  interval  from  a  place  near  home  :  the  mind  fonns  a  connec- 
tion between  him  and  the  remote  country,  .and  bestows  upon  him 

*  What  Marshal  Saxe  tcmis  le  cmur  Jiumain  is  no  other  than  fear  occa- 
sioned hy  surprise.  It  is  owinw  to  that  cause  that  an  ambush  is  generally  so 
destrucUvo:  iutelliprence  of  it  boforohand  renders  it  harmless.  The  Marshal 
gives  from  Cassiar's  Commentaries  two  examples  of  wlint  he  calls  le  cceur  hurnain. 
At  the  siege  of  Amiens  bv  the  Gauls,  Ctesar  came  up  with  his  army,  which  did 
not  exceed  7000  men,  and  began  to  intrench  himself  in  such  hurry,  that  the 
Darbarians,  judging  him  to  be  afraid,  attacked  his  intrenchments  with  great 
spirit.  Dunng  the  time  they  were  filling  up  the  ditch,  ho  issued  out  with  his 
cohorts ;  and,  oy  attacking  tncra  unexpectealy,  struck  a  panic  that  made  them 
fly  with  precipitation,  not  a  single  man  otfering  to  make  a  stand.  At  the  siego 
of  Alesia,  the  Gauls,  infinitely  superior  in  number,  attacked  the  Roman  linea 
of  circumvallation,  in  order  to  raise  the  siege.  Csesar  ordered  a  body  of  hi» 
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  expectedAdefence  only,  put  the  Gauls  into  disorder,  and  gave  an 
easy  victory  to  CsBSttrT 

2W.  "Whether  surprise  bo  pleasant  or  painful:  (1)  when  it  produces  violent  effect* 
(2)  when  effects  are  less  violont  Wbv  surprls*  has  tlie  effect  of  twelllng  tho  eniotS* 
raiwd  by  '\xf.  obiect. 


156  NOVELTY,  ETC. 

the  singularity  of  the  objects  he  has  seen.  For  the  same  reason, 
when  two  things,  equally  new  and  singular,  are  presented,  the  spec- 
tator balances  between  thera ;  but  when  told  that  one  of  them  is 
the  product  of  a  distant  quarter  of  the  world,  he  no  longer  hesi- 
tates, but  clings  to  it  as  the  more  singular.  Hence  the  prefeience 
given  to  foreign  luxuries,  and  to  foreign  curiosities,  which  appear 
rare  in  proportion  to  their  original  distance. 

242.  The  next  degree  of  novelty,  mounting  upward,  is  found  in 
objects  of  which  we  have  some  information  at  second  hand ;  for 
description,  though  it  contribute  to  familiarity,  cannot  altogether  re- 
move the  appearance  of  novelty  when  the  object  itself  is  pre- 
sented :  the  first  sight  of  a  lion  occasions  some  wonder  after  a 
thorough  acquaintance  with  the  correctest  pictures  and  statues  oi 

that  animal.    .  > 

A  new  object  that  bears  some  distant  resemblance  to  a  known 
species,  is  an  instance  of  a  third  degree  of  novelty :  a  strong  re- 
semblance among  individuals  of  the  same  species,  prevents  almost 
entirely  the  eft'ect  of  novelty,  unless  distance  of  place  or  some  other 
circumsiance  concur;  but  where  the  resemblance  is  faint,  some  de- 
gree of  wonder  is  felt,  and  the  emotion  rises  in  proportion  to  the 
faintness  of  the  resemblance. 

The  highest  degree  of  wonder  ariseth  from  unknown  objects  that 
have  no  analogy'to  any  species  we  are  acquainted  with.  Shak- 
speare,  in  a  simile,  introduces  that  species  of  novelty : 

As  glorious  to  the  sight 
As  is  a  winged  messenger  from  heaven 
Unto  the  white  up-turned  wond'ring  eye 
Of  mortals,  that  full  back  to  gaze  on  him  » 

When  he  bestrides  the  lazy-pacing  clouds, 
And  sails  upon  the  bosoni  of  the  air.  ,  ,  ,.  ^ 

Borneo  and  Juliet. 

One  example  of  that  species  of  novelty  deserves  peculiar  atten- 
tion ;  and  that  is,  when  an  object,  altogether  new,  is  seen  by  one 
person  only,  and  but  once.  These  circumstances  heighten  re- 
markably the  emotion :  the  singularity  of  the  spectator  concurs 
with  the  singularity  of  the  object,  to  inflame  wonder  to  its  highest 

243.  In  explaining  the  eflfects  of  novelty,  the  place  a  being  oc- 
cupies in  the  scale  of  existence,  is  a  circumstance  that  must  not  be 
omitted.  Novelty  in  the  individuals  of  a  low  class  is  perceived 
with  indiflference,  or  with  a  very  slight  emotion  :  thus  a  pebble,  how 
ever  singular  in  its  appearance,  scarce  moves  our  wonder.  The 
emotion  rises  with  the  rank  of  the  object ;  and,  other  circumstancetj 

S41.  Pleasure  of  novelty  distinguished  from  that  of  variety.-Different  degrees  of 
novelty  and  their  effects.    The  lowest  degree.-Objects  surveyed  a  second  ume  after  a 

^^sl/^ThrLt  higher  degree  of  novelty;  the  nest;  the  highest -Simile  from  Sl«*. 
WKMira.— A  »p©c!«»  of  novelty  demanding  pecuilar  attenlion. 


NOVELTY,  ETO.  1 67 

being  equal,  is  strongest  in  the  highest  order  of  existence :  a  strange 
insect  affects  us  more  than  a  strange  vegetable ;  and  a  strange  quad- 
ruped more  than  a  strange  insect. 

However  natural  novelty  may  be,  it  is  a  matter  of  experience, 
that  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  shallow  uuderstanding ;  and  yet,  after  all,  why  should  one  be 
ashamed  of  indulging  a  natural  propensity?  A  distinction  will 
afford  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,  which  one 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of:  vanity  is  commonly  at  the  bottom,  which 
leads  those  who  are  deficient  in  taste  to  prefer  things  odd,  rare,  or 
singular,  in  order  to  distinguish  themselves  from  others.  And  in 
fact,  that  appetite,  as  above  mentioned,  reigns  chiefly  among  pei-sons 
of  a  mean  taste,  who  are  ignorant  of  refined  and  elegant  pleasures. 

244.  One  final  cause  of  wonder,  hinted  above,  is,  that  this  emo- 
tion is  intended  to  stimulate  our  curiosity.  Another,  sonaewhat 
different,  is,  to  prepaie  the  mind  for  receiving  deep  impressions  of 
new  objects.  An  acquaintance  with  the  various  things  that  may 
affect  us,  and  with  their  properties,  is  essential  to  our  well-being : 
nor  will  a  slight  or  supei-ficial  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  impres- 
sion, 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  emo- 
tion of  novelty,  being  no  longer  necessary,  vanisheth  almost  instan- 
taneously ;  never  to  return,  unless  where  the  impression  happens 
to  be  obliterated  by  length  of  time  or  other  means ;  in  which 
case  the  second  introduction  hath  nearly  the  same  solemnity  with 
the  first 

Designing  wisdom  is  nowhere  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  scarce  to  be  of  any 
use  in  life :  on  the  other  hand,  did  objects  continue  to  affect  us 
deeply  as  a1  first,  the  mind  would  be  totally  engrossed  with  them, 
and  have  nc  room  left  either  for  action  or  reflection. 

The  final  cause  of  surprise  is  still  more  e^^dent  than  of  novelty 
Self-love  makes  us  vigilantly  attentive  to  self-preservation ;  but  self- 
love,  which  operates  by  means  of  reason  and  reflection,  and  impel? 
not  the  mind  to  any  particular  object  or  fi-om  it,  is  a  principle  too 
cool  for  a  sudden  emergency :  an  object  breaking  in  unexpectedly 
affords  no  time  for  deliberation ;  and,  in  that  case,  the  agitation  ol 


243.  EmoUon  of  wonder  rises  with  Iho  rank  nt  its  object— Why  and  wh«m  ar*  »•■ 
Mhaioed  of  <>i"iosity- 


15b 


RISIBLB  OBJECTS. 


surprise  comes  in  seasonaby  to  rouse  self-love  into  action:  surprise 
gives  the  alarm ;  and,  if  tliere  be  any  appearance  of  danger,  oui- 
whole  force  is  instantly  summoned  up  to  shun  or  to  prevent  it. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

RISIBLE    OBJECTS. 

245.  Such  is  the  nature  of  man,  that  his  powers  and  faculties  are 
soon  blunted  by  exercise.  The  returns  of  sleep,  suspending  all  ac- 
tivity, are  not  alone  sufficient  to  preserve  him  in  vigor;  during  his 
waking  hours,  amusement  by  intervals  is  requisite  to  unbend  his 
mind  from  serious  occupation.  To  that  end,  nature  hath  kindly 
made  a  provision  of  many  objects,  which  may  be  distinguished  by  the 
epithet  of  risible,  because  they  raise  in  us  a  peculiar  emotion  ex- 
pressed externally  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. 

246.  However  easy  it  may  be,  concerning  any  particular  object, 
to  say  whether  it  be  risible  or  not,  it  seems  difficult,  if  at  all  prac- 
ticable, 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  reviev/,  v/e  find  the  same  difficulty  in  most  of  the  articles 
already  handled.  There  is  nothing  more  easy,  viewing  a  particular 
object,  than  to  pronounce  that  it  is  beautiful  or  ugly,  grand  or  little ; 
but  were  we  to  attempt  general  rules  for  ranging  objects  under  dif- 
ferent 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  af- 
fected by  risible  objects,  nor  the  same  man  at  all  times ;  for,  in  liigh 
spirits,  a  thing  will  make  him  laugh  outright,  which  scarce  provokes 
a  smile  in  a  grave  mood.  Risible  objects,  however,  aie  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 

244.  Final  caifses  of  wonder.— Designing  wisdom  here  shown.— Final  cnuse  of  suriiri'^f. 

245.  The  us«  of  risible  objecte.    How  n-'jltiplied.- Ludicrous  and  ri^ble  obieots  distin- 
gnlsheU. 


EISIBLE  OBJECTS. 


159 


that  is  of  importance  to  our  own  interest  or  to  that  of  others.     A 
real  distress  raises  pity  and  therefore  cannot  be  insible ;  but  a  shght 
or  imaginaiy  distress,  which  moves  not  pity,  is  risible.     The  adven- 
ture of  the  fuUing-nirl-ls  in  Don  Quixote,  is  extremely  risible ;  so  la 
the  scene  where  Sancho,  in  a  dark  night,  tumbling  into  a  pit,  and, 
attaching  liimself  to  the  side  by  hand  and  foot,  hangs  there  m  terri- 
ble dismay  till  the  morning,  when  he  discovers  himself  to  be  withm 
a  foot  of  the  bottom.     A  nose  remarkably  long  or  short,  is  nsible ; 
but  to  want  it  altogether,  far  from  provoking  laughter,  raises  horror 
in  the  spectator.     Secondly,  With  respect  to  works  both  of  nature 
and  of  art,  none  of  them  are  risible  but  what  are  out  of  rule,  some 
remarkable  defect  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.  •    .      j 
247    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  scarce  to  find  place  while  the  mind  is  occupied  with  any  other 
passion  or  emotion ;  and  the  conjecture  is  verified  by  experience  for 
we  scarce  ever  find  that  emotion  blended  with  any  other.     Une 
emotion  I  must  except;  and  that  is,  contempt  raised  by  certain  im- 
proprieties :  every  improper  act  inspires  us  with  some  degree  of 
contempt  for  the  author ;  and  if  an  improper  act  be  at  the  same  time 
risible  to  provoke  laughter,  of  which  blundei-s  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  ov  of  scorn.     Hence  objects  that  cause  laughter 
may  be  distinguished  into  two  kinds ;  they  are  either  risible  or  rtdic- 
ulous.     A  risible  object  is  mirthful  only ;  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  tlie  emotion  ofndicule.     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  bv  a  certain  sort  of  titillation,  which  is  expressed 
externally  by  mirthful  laughter.     Ridicule  will  be  more  fully  ex- 
plained afterwards;  the  present  chapter  is  appropnated  to  the  other 

^'^Risibie  objects  are  so  common,  and  so  well  understood,  that  it  is 
unnecessary  to  consume  paper  or  time  upon  them.  Take  the  tew 
following  examples :  '^, 

FaUkif.  I  do  reu  ember  bim  at  fement's  inn,  like  a  twin  made  after  supFvr 
of  a  chZe-paring.  When  he  was  naked,  he  was  for  all  the  world  like  a  forked 
rad-.h.  with  a  head  fantastically  «^«--«dupc^«Kl,Xry  i/^  Act  III.  Sc^ 

m  my  dTfflcul7t7flIs»h  risible  objects  ^-^^  |«n««<^);^^f  ^Xl,^"!'?!",^ 
Mgnad  to  risible  objects.-Don  Qolsote.— A  nose-When  ar«  wor«  poiu  « 
HtrixlUlof 


160  EESEMBLANCE  AND  DISSIMILITUDE. 

The  foregoing  is  of  disproportion.     The  following  examples  are 
of  slight  or  imaginary  misfortunes  : 

Falsta^.  Go  fetch  me  a  quart  of  sack ;  put  a  toast  in  't.  Have  I  lived  to  bo 
carried  in  a  basket,  like  a  barrow  of  butcher's  offal,  and  to  be  tiirown  into  the 
Thames  !  Well,  if  I  be  served  such  anothertrick,  I'll  have  my  brains  ta'en  out 
and  butter'd  and  give  them  to  a  dog  for  a  new-year's  gift.  The  rogues  slided 
me  into  the  river  with  as  little  remorse  as  they  would  have  drown'd  a  bitch's 
blind  puppies,  fifteen  i'  th'  litter :  and  you  may  know  by  my  size  that  I  have 
A  kind  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  shefvy  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  swcll'd  i  1  should  have  been  a  mountain  of  mum- 
'Tiy.  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  Act  III.  Sc.  15. 

Falstaff.  Nay,  you  shall  hear,  Master  Brook,  what  I  have  suffered  to  bring 
this  woman  to  evil  for  your  good.  Being  thus  crammed  in  the  basket,  a  couple 
of  Ford's  knaves,  his  hinds,  were  called  forth  by  their  mistress,  to  carry  me  in 
the  name  of  foul  clothes  to  Datchet-lane.  They  took  me  on  their  shoulders, 
met  the  jealous  knave  their  master  in  the  door,  who  asked  them  once  or  twice 
what  they  bad  in  their  basket.  I  quaked  for  fear,  lest  the  lunatic  knave  would 
have  searched  it ;  but  Fate,  ordaining  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  sequel,  Master  Brook.  I  suffered  the  pangs  of  three  egregious  deaths ; 
first,  an  intolerable  fright,  to  be  detected  by  a  jealous  rotten  bell-wether; 
next,  to  be  compassed  like  a  good  bilbo,  in  the  circumference  of  a  peck,  hilt  to 
point,  heel  to  head  ;  and  then  to  be  stopped  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  contin- 
aal  dissolution  and  thaw ;  it  was  a  miracle  to  'scape  suffocation.  And  in  the 
height  of  this  bath,  when  I  was  more  than  half  stewed  in  grease,  like  a  Dutch 
dish,  to  be  thrown  into  the  Thames,  and  cooled  glowing  hot,  in  that  surge, 
like  a  horse-shoe;  think  of  that;  hissing  hot;  think  of  that,  Master  Brook. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  Act  III.  Sc.  17. 


CHAPTER  Vltl. 

RESEMBLANCE    AND   DISSIMILITUDE. 

248.  Having  discussed  those  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  th* 
relations  of  objects,  beginning  with  the  relations  of  resemblance  and 
dissimilitude. 

The  connection  that  man  hath  ^vith  the  beings  around  him,  re- 
quires some  acquaintance  with  their  nature,  their  powere,  and  their 
qualities,  for  regulating  his  conduct.  For  acquiring  a  branch  of 
knowledge  so  essential  to  our  well-suing,  motives  alone  of  reason 
and  interest  are  not  sufficient :  natui-e  hath  providently  superadded 
curiosity,  a  vigorous  propensity,  which  never  is  at  rest.     This  pro- 

847.  Emotion  raised  by  rlslblo  objects  not  blended  with  other  emotions ;  exc«pt  wliat?— 
Two  kinds  ofobjocts  causing  laugiiter.— Define  eiootioa  excited  tjr  a  ritiliU  objAct;  by  a 
ridiouknu  «D«.    Example*  fr»iB  Sbakspeare. 


EESEMBLAJ7CE  A3HD  DISSIMILITUDE.  161 

pensity  attaches  us  to  every  new  object  (see  chapter  vi.) ;  and  in- 
cites us  to  compare  objects,  in  order  to  discover  their  differences  and 
resemblances. 

Resemblance  among  objects  of  the  same  kind,  and  dissimilitude 
among  objects  of  ditferent  kinds,  are  too  obvious  and  familiar  to 
gratify  our  curiosit)*  in  any  degi'ee :  its  gratification  lies  in  discover- 
ing difierences  among  things  where  resemblance  prevails,  and  re- 
semblances where  difference  prevails.  Tlius  a  difference  in  individ- 
uals of  the  same  kind  of  plants  or  animals  is  deemed  a  discovery ; 
while  the  many  particulai-s  in  which  they  agree  are  neglected :  and 
in  differen*  kinds,  any  resemblance  is  greedily  remarked,  without  at- 
tending to  the  many  particulars  in  which  they  differ. 

249.  A  comparison,  however,  may  be  too  far  stretched.  When 
differences  or  resemblances  are  carried  beyond  ceitain  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  gratiiy  passion, 
curiosity  in  particular,  that  even  among  good  writers  we  find  many 
comparisons  too  slight  to  afford  satisfaction.  Hence  the  frequent 
instances  among  logicians  of  distinctions  without  any  solid  differ- 
ence ;  and  hence  the  frequent  instances  among  poets  and  orators,  of 
similes  without  any  iust  resemblance.  Shakspeare,  with  uncommon 
humor,  ridicules  such  disposition  to  simile-making,  by  putting  in  the 
mouth  of  a  weak  man  a  resemblance  that  will  illustrate  the  point 
before  us : 

FlueUen.  I  think  it  is  in  Macedon  where  Alexander  is  pom  :  I  tell  yon,  Cap- 
tain, if  you  look  in  the  maps  of  the  orld,  I  warrant  that  you  sail  find,  in  the 
comparisons  between  Macedon  and  Monmouth,  that  tlic  situations,  look  you, 
is  both  alike.  There  is  a  river  in  Macedon,  there  is  also  moreover  a  river  in 
Monmouth:  it  is  cidlcd  Wye  at  Monmouth,  but  it  is  out  of  my  pruins  what  is 
the  name  of  the  other  river :  but  it  is  all  one,  'tis  as  like  as  my  fiujfcrs  to  my 
fingers,  and  there  is  salmons  in  both.  If  yon  mark  Alexjmdcr's  life  well,  Harrv 
of  Monmouth's  life  is  come  after  it  inditlcrent  well ;  for  there  is  figures  in  all 
things.  Alexander,  God  knows,  and  you  know,  in  his  rages,  and  liis  furies, 
«nd  his  wraths,  and  his  cholars,  and  his  moods,  and  his  displeasures,  aiid  his 
indignations ;  and  also  being  a  little  intoxicates  in  his  prains,  did,  in  his  ales 
and  his  angers,  look  you,  kill  his  pest  friend  Clytus. 

Oower.  Our  king  is  not  like  him  in  that ;  he  never  killed  any  of  his  friends. 

Flueilen.  It  is  not  well  done,  mark  you  now,  to  take  the  tales  out  of  my 
month,  ere  it  is  made  and  finished.  1  speak  but  in  figures,  and  comparisons 
of  it:  as  Alexander  killed  his  friend  Clytus,  beinff  in  his  ales  and  his  cups;  so 
also  Harry  Monmouth,  being  in  liis  riffht  wits  and  his  good  judgments,  turned 
away  the  fat  knight  with  the  great  belly  doublet;  ho  was  full  of  jests,  and 
gypes,  and  knaveries,  and  nu)c& ;  I  have  forgot  his  name. 
'  (xvwer.  sir  John  Falstaff. 

Flueilen.  That  is  he  :  I  tell  you  there  is  good  men  porn  at  Monmouth. 

King  Hmry  V,  Act  IV.  Sc.  18. 

if  , 

250.  Instiuction,  no  doubt,  is  the  chief  end  of  companson ;  but 
that  it  is  not  the  only  end  will  be  evident  from  considering,  that  a 

248.  What  rclaUons  of  objects  to  be  conslderea.— What  provision  is  made  for  g«curin| 
our  acquaintance  wiUi  surrounding  objects?- Why  does  curiosity  Incite  us  to  conipM*  ol>. 
lects?— Where  does  curiosity  prompt  us  to  look  for  differences  and  reMmbUacMI 

M9.  k.  comparUon  may  b«  strctcaed  too  far.    £.^uiple. 


163  RESEMBLANCE  AND  DISSIMILITUDB. 

comparison  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  im- 
agination, by  comparing  it  to  a  river  overflowing  its  banks,  and  in- 
volving all  in  its  impetuous  course.  The  same  etfect  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. 
Thu<*,  comparison  is  subservient  to  poetry  as  well  as  to  philosophy : 
and,  with  respect  to  both,  the  foregoing  observation  holds  equally, 
that  resemblance  among  objects  of  the  same  kind,  and  dissimilitude 
among  objects  of  different  kinds,  have  no  effect :  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- 
ments  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  pi-oduce  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  just  taste,  draw  all  their 
similes  from  things  that  in  the  main  differ  widely  from  the  principal 
subject ;  and  they  never  attempt  the  contrast  but  where  the  things 
have  a  common  genus  and  a  resemblance  in  the  capital  circum- 
stances :  place  together  a  large  and  a  small  sized  animal  of  the  same 
species,  the  one  will  appear  greater,  the  other  less,  than  when  viewed 
separately :  when  we  oppose  beauty  to  deformity,  each  makes  a 
greater  figure  by  the  comparison.  We  compare  the  dress  of  differ- 
ent nations  with  curiosity,  but  without  sui-prise ;  because  they  have 
no  such  resemblance  in  the  capital  parts  as  to  please  us  by  contrast- 
ing the  smaller  parts.  But  a  new  cut  of  a  sleeve  or  of  a  pocket  en- 
chants by  its  novelty,  and  in  opposition  to  the  former  feshion,  raises 
some  degree  of  surprise. 

251.  That  resemblance  and  dissimilitude  have  an  enlivening  effect 
upon  objects  of  sight,  is  made  sufficiently  evident ;  and  that  they 
have  the  same  effect  upon  objects  of  the  other  senses,  is  also  certain. 
Nor  is  that  law  confined  to  the  external  senses  ;  for  characters  con- 
trasted make  a  greater  figure  by  the  opposition :  lago,  in  the  tragedy 
of  Othello,  says, 

He  hath  a  daily  beauty  in  his  life  , 

That  makes  me  ugly. 

The  character  of  a  fop,  and  of  a  rough  wanior,  are  nowhere  more 
successfully  contrasted  than  in  Shakspeare  : 


250.  Th«  chief  end  of  comparison:  what  other  end '--How  do  we  convey  a  stroiig  id«i 
»f  a  man's  courage :  of  a  man's  eloquence  ?— Eesemblance  among  objects  of  ihe  same  kind, 
tnd  dissimiUtndc  among  objects  of  a  different  kind.    The  converse  of  this. 


RESEMBLANCE  AND  DISSIMIUTUDB.  163 

Eotspur,  My  liege,  I  did  deny  no  prisoners ; 
But  1  remember,  when  the  fight  was  done, 
When  1  was  drjr  with  rage,  iiud  extreme  toil, 
Breathless  and  faint,  leaning  upon  my  sword, 
Came  there  a  certain  lord,  neat  trimly  dresa'd, 
Fresh  as  a  bridegroom ;  and  his  chin,  uew-reap'd, 
Sliow'd  like  a  stubble-land  at  harvest-home, 
lie  was  perfumed  like  a  milliner ; 
And  'twixt  bis  finger  and  hia  thumb  he  held 
A  pouncet-box,  which  ever  and  aaon 
He  gave  his  nose ;— and  still  he  smiled,  and  talk'd : 
And  as  the  soldiers  bare  dead  bodies  by, 
He  eall'd  them  untaught  knaves,  unmannerly, 
To  bring  a  slovenly  unhandsome  corse 
Betwixt  the  wind  and  his  pobility ! 
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  wound,  being  gall'd 
To  be  so  pestcr'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  aurk  1) 
And  telling  me,  the  sov'reignest  thing  on  earth 
Was  parmacity,  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  earth, 
Which  many  a  good  tall  fellow  had  destroy'd 
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  bystiinders,  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. 

252.  Our  opinions  also  are  much  influenced  by  companson.  A 
man  whose  opulence  exceeds  the  ordinary  standard,  is  reputed  richer 
tlian  he  is  in  reality  ;  and  wisdom  or  weakness,  if  at  all  remarkable 
in  an  individual,  is  generally  earned  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  destined  to.    I'm  not  the  first 

That  have  been  wretched :  but  to  think  how  much 

I  have  been  happier.  Southern.  I. 

The  distress  of  a  long  journey  makes  even  an  indifierent  inn 
agreeable ;  and  in  travelling,  when  the  road  is  goofl,  and  the  horse- 
man well  covered,  a  bad  day  may  be  agreeable  by  making  him 
sensible  how  snuff  he  is. 


961.  Cliaracters  contrasted  make  a  greater  flgnre  by  the  opposttinn.    Erampl**,— ?■»• 
•Sons  and  emoti  >ns  Inflamed  by  comparison. — Cwsar  beholding  Alexander's  statue. 


^64  EESEMBLANCE  AND  DI8SIMILITDDB. 

Tlio  same  effect  is  equally  remarkable  when  a  man  opposes  his 
condition  to  that  of  others.  A  ship  tossed  about  in  a  storm,  makes 
the  spectator  reflect  upon  his  own  ease  and  security,  and  puts  these 
in  the  strongest  light.  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  ter- 
restrial paradise,  has  the  following  exclamation  : 

With  what  delight  could  I  have  walk'd  thee  round, 

If  I  could  icy  in  aught,  sweet  interchange 

Of  hill  and  valley,  rivers,  woods,  and  plains, 
•    Now  land,  now  sea,  and  shores  with  forest  crown  d, 

Kocks,  dens,  and  caves  !  but  I  in  none  of  these 

Find  place  or  refuge ;  and  the  more  1  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  heaven  much  worse  would  be  my  state. 

Paradise  Lost,  Book  IX.  1.  114. 

Gaunt.  All  places  that  the  eye  of  heaven  visits. 
Are  to  the  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  lionor ; 
And  not,  the  King  exiled  thee.    Or  suppose, 
Devouring  pestilence  hangs  in  our  air. 
And  thou  art  flying  to  a  fresher  clime. 
Look  what  thy  soul  holds  dear,  imagine  it 
To  lie  that  way  thou  go'st,  not  whence  thou  comest. 
Suppose  the  singing  birds,  musicians; 
The  grass  whereon  thou  tread'st,  the  presence-floor  ; 
The  flowers,  fair  hxdies  ;  and  thy  steps,  no  more 
Than  a  delightful  measure,  or  a  dance. 
For  snarling  Sorrow  hath  less  power  to  bite 
The  man  that  mocks  it,  and  sets  it  light. 

BoUnghroke.  Oh,  who  can  hold  a  fire  in  his  hand, 
By  thinking  on  the  frosty  Caucasus  ? 
Or  cloy  the  hungry  edge  of  Appetite, 
By  bare  imagination  of  a  feasts 
Or  wallow  naked  in  December  snow. 
By  thinking  on  fantastic  summer's  lieat? 
Oh,  no  !  the  apprehension  of  the  good 

Gives  but  the  greater  feehng  to  the  worse.        ,„..-,  q,„  c 

King  Jiichard  II.  Act  I.  be.  o. 

253  The  appearance  of  danger  gives  sometimes  pleasure,  some- 
times pain.  A  timorous  person  upon  the  battlements  of  a  high 
tower,  is  seized  with  fear,  which  even  the  consciousness  of  secunty 
cannot  dissipate.  But  upon  one  of  a  firm  head,  this  situation  has  a 
contrary  effect;  the  appearance  of  danger  heightens,  by  opposition 
the  consciousness  of  security,  and  consequently,  the  satisfaction  that 
arises  from  security :  here  the  feeling  resembles  that  above  men- 
tioned, occasioned  by  a  ship  laboring  in  a  storm. 

~^2.  Opinions  influenced  by  comparison  -Opinion  «V™ITn'«riti-Sat^'"sS?VS^ 
Effect  of  opposing  our  condition  to  that  of  other3.-A  man  In  gnet-batan  surveyin* 
Paradise,— Qaotation  from  Eichard  II, 


RESEMBLAN^CE  AND  DISSIMILmTDE.  165 

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  object  may  possibly  have  con- 
tributed to  their  silence ;  but  luckily,  we  discover  the  caase  to  be  a 
principle  unfolded  above,  which  is  the  influence  of  passion  over  our 
opinions.     (Chapter  ii.  part  v.) 

254.  We  have  had  occasion  to  see  many  illustrious  efiects  of  that 
singular  power  of  passion  ;  and  that  the  magnifying  or  diminishing 
objects  by  means  of  comparison  proceeds  from  the  same  cause,  will 
evidently  appear  by  reflecting  in  what  manner  a  spectator  is  atFected 
when  a  very  large  animal  is  for  the  first  time  placed  beside  a  veiy 
small  one  of  the  same  species.  The  fiist  thing  that  strikes  the  mind 
is  the  difference  between  the  two  animals,  which  is  so  great  as  to 
occasion  surprise ;  and  this,  like  other  emotions,  magnitying  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 
aie  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  per- 
ception so  indistinct  and  vague  as  to  facilitate  the  effect  described  : 
we  have  no  mental  standard  of  great  and  Uttle,  nor  of  the  several 
degrees  of  any  attribute ;  and  the  mind  thus  unrestrained,  is  naturally 
disposed  to  indulge  its  surprise  to  the  utmost  extent. 

255.  To  explain  the  influence  of  comparison  upon  the  mind,  by 
a  familiar  example :  take  a  piece  of  paper,  or  of  linen  tolerably 
white,  and  compare  it  with  a  pure  white  of  the  same  kind :  the 
judgment  we  formed  of  the  fii"st  object  is  instantly  varied  ;  and  the 
sui-prise  occasioned  by  finding  it  less  white  than  was  thought,  pro- 
duceth  a  hasty  conviction  that  it  is  much  less  white  than  it  is  in 
reality :  withdrawing  now  the  pure  white,  and  putting  in  its  place 
a  deep  black,  the  surprise  occasioned  by  that  new  circumstance  car- 
ries us  to  the  other  extreme,  and  makes  us  conceive  the  object  first 
mentioned  to  be  a  pure  white :  and  thus  experience  compels  us  to 
acknowledge  that  our  emotions  have  an  influence  even  upon  our 
eyesight.  This  experiment  leads  to  a  general  observation.  That 
whatever  is  found  more  sti'ange  or  beautiful  than  was  expected,  is 
judged  to  be  more  strange  or  beautiful  than  it  is  in  reality.  Hence 
a  common  artifice,  to  depreciate  beforehand  what  we  wish  to  make 
a  figure  in  the  opinion  of  others. 

256.  The  comparisons  employed  by  poets  and  orators  are  of  the 

253.  Appearance  of  danger. 

254.  Tlie  effect  of  magnifying  or  lessening  objects  by  comparison,  explained. — Effect  ol 
seeing,  for  the  first  time.  •  very  larce  animal  placed  beside  a  very  small  one  of  the  sun* 
•pecies.— The  emotion  of  surprise  arising  from  any  unusual  resemblance. 

868.  Inflaenoe  of  comruiriaon  on  the  mind  Illustrated.— General  ob«en.-atlon  ;  cominoB 
•MiflCA 


166  EESEMBLANCE  AND  DISSIMILITUDE. 

kind  lasljncntioned  ;  for  it  is  al^s-ays  a  known  object  that  is  to  be 
magnified  or  lessened.  The  former  is  effected  by  likenjng  it  to  some 
grand  object,  or  by  contrasting  it  n^th  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  Hkened  to 
something  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  effects  that  any  unusual  resemblance  or 
dissimilitude  hath  upon  the  mind,  no  cause  has  been  mentioned  but 
surprise ;  and  to  prevent  confusion,  it  Avas  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  human  nature  that  lies  still  in  obscuiity,  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  himself 
or  others,  must  be  sensible  of  a  tendency  or  propensity  in  the  mind, 
to  complete  every  work  that  is  begom,  and  to  carry  things  to  their 
full  perfection.  There  is  little  opportunity  to  display  that  propensity 
upon  natural  operations,  which  are  seldom  left  imperfect ;  but  in 
the  operations  of  art,  it  hath  great  scope  :  it  impels  us  to  persevere 
in  our  own  work,  and  to  wish  for  the  completion  of  what  another  is 
doing  :  we  feel  a  sensible  pleasure  when  the  work  is  brought  to  per- 
fection ;  and  our  pain  is  no  less  sensible  when  we  are  disappointed. 
Hence  our  uneasiness,  when  an  interesting  story  is  broke  oft"  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  pei-son  attempted  to  collect  prints  of  all  the 
capital  paintings,  and  succeeded  except  as  to  a  tew.  La  Bruyere 
remarks,  that  an  anxious  search  was  made  for  these  ;  not  for  their 
value,  but  to  complete  the  set.* 

25Y.  The  final  cause  of  the  propensity  is  an  additional  proof  of 
its  existence  :  human  works  are  of  no  significancy  till  they  be  com- 
pleted ;  and  reason  is  not  always  a  sufficient  counterbalance  to 
indolence :  some  pr  nciple  over  and  above  is  necessary,  to  excite 
our  industry,  and  to  prevent  our  stopping  short  in  the  middle  of  the 
course. 

*  The  examples  above  given,  are  of  things  that  can  be  carried  to  an  end  or 
conchision.  But  the  same  uneasiness  is  perceptible  with  respect  to  things  that 
admit  not  any  conclusion  :  witness  a  series  that  has  no  end,  commonly  called 
an  infinite  series.  The  mind  moving  along  such  a  series,  begins  soon  to  fee. 
an  uneasiness,  which  becomes  more  and  more  sensible,  in  continuing  its  pro- 
gress without  hope  of  an  end. 

256.  How  poets  and  orators  magnify  a  known  object ;  how  they  depress  it — Surprise, 
not  the  only  cause  of  the  effect  which  any  unusual  resemblance  or  dissimilitude  bas\ipou 
Qit  mitad. — AQ0th«r  caam  described. — Great  scopo  in  oporAttoos  of  art.    EramplM, 


KESEMBLANOE  AND  DISSIMILITITDE.  167 

We  need  not  lose  time  to  describe  the  co-operation  of  the  fore- 
going propensity  with  surprise,  in  producing  the  effect  that  follows 
any  unusual  resemblance  or  dissimilitude.  Suqjrise  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  resem- 
blance or  dissimilitude  is  complete.  We  need  no  better  illustration, 
than  the  resemblance  that  is  fancied  in  some  pebbles  to  a  tree  or  an 
insect ;  which  resemblance,  however  faint  in  reality,  is  conceived  to 
be  wonderfully  perfect.  The  tendency  to  complete  a  resemblance 
acting  jointly  with  surprise,  cairies  the  mind  sometimes  so  far,  as 
even  to  presume  upon  future  events.  In  the  Greek  tragedy  entitled 
Phineides,  those  unhappy  women,  seeing  the  place  where  it  was  in- 
tended they  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." 
{Aristotle,  Toet  cap.  17.) 

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. 
Unumquodqiie  eodem  modo  dissolvitur  quo  colligatum  est,  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  perfoi-med  by  opposite  means :  but  when  these  acts  are 
connected  by  their  relation  to  the  same  subject,  their  connection 
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  loolr  the  most  agreeable  in  white ;  that  a  face 
which  is  overflushed  rtppears  to  advantage  in  the  deepest  scarlet ; 
and  that  a  dark  complexion  is  not  a  little  alleviated  by  a  black 
hood."  (Spectator,  No.  265.)  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. 

^5%.  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  resemblance  or  dissimilitude.  If  this  appeal-  obscure, 
it  will  be  made  clear  by  the  following  instances.  Upon  what  prin- 
ciple is  the  lex  talionis  founded,  other  than  to  make  the  punishment 

257.  Final  cause  of  this  tendency  of  mind. — Its  co-operntion  with  surprise  to  deoelT* 
Uio  mind.— The  same  effect  without  (ho  aid  of  surprise.— Maxim  of  Roman  law.— Liittanoe 
of  contrast  given  by  Addisoo. 


168  RESEMBLANCE  AND  DISSTMILITtrDE. 

resemble  the  mischief?  Reason  dictates,  that  there  ought  to  be  a 
couformity  or  resemblance  between  a  crime  and  its  punishment ; 
and  the  foregoing  propensity  impels  us  to  make  the  resemblance  as 
complete  as  possible.  Titus  Livius,  imder  the  influence  of  that  pro- 
pensity, accounts  for  a  certain  punishment  by  a  resemblance  between 
it  and  the  crime,  too  subtile  for  common  apprehension.  Treating  of 
Mettus  Fuffetius,  the  Alban  general,  who,  for  treachery  to  the 
Romans  his  allies,  was  sentenced  to  be  torn  in  pieces  by  horses,  ho 
puts  the  following  speech  in  the  mouth  of  Tullus  Hostilius,  who 
decreed  the  punishment.  "Mette  Fufieti,  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  humanum  genus,  ea  sancta  credere,  quae  a  te  violata 
sunt.  Ut  igitur  paulo  ante  animum  inter  Fidenatem  Romanamque  rem 
ancipitem  gessisti,  ita  jam  corpus  passim  distrahendum  dabis."  (Lib. 
i.  sect.  28.)*  By  the  same  influence,  the  sentence  is  often  executed 
upon  the  very  sj^ot  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.  Shakspeare,  whose  knowledge  of  nature^  is  no  less 
profound  than  extensive,  has  not  overlooked  this  propensity : 

Oilielh.  Get  me  some  poison,  lago,  this  night ;  I'll  not  expostulate  with  her, 
lest  her  body  and  her  beauty  unprovide  my  mind  again ;  this  night,  lago. 

logo.  Do  it  HOt  with  poison  ;  strangle  her  in  bed,  even  in  the  bed  she  hath 
contanunated. 

Othdlo.  Good,  good :  The  justice  of  it  pleases  :  very  good. 

Othello,  Act  IV.  So.  5. 

Warwick.  From  off  the  gates  of  York  fetch  down  the  head, 
Your  father's  head,  which  Clifford  placed  there. 
Instead  whereof  let  his  supply  the  room. 
Measure  for  measure  must  be  answered. 

Third  Part  of  Henry  71.  Act  II.  Sc.  9. 

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  wolf,  expresses  a 
desire  to  die  the  same  death.     (Act  iv.  Sc.  2.) 

259.  Upon  the  subject  in  general  I  have  two  remarks  to  add. 
The  first  concerns  resemblance,  which,  when  too  entire,  hath  no 
effect,  however  different  in  kind  the  things  compared  may  be.     The 

*  ["  Mettus  Fuffetius,  if  you  were  capable  of  learning  to  preserve  folth,  and 
a  regard  to  treaties,  I  should  suffer  you  to  live  and  supply  you  with  instruo- 
tions ;  but  your  disposition  is  incurable.  Let  your  punishment,  then,  teach 
mankind  to  consider  those  things  as  sacred  which  you  have  dared  to  violate. 
As,  therefore,  you  lately  kept  your  mind  divided  between  the  interests  of  the 
Fidenatians  and  of  the  Komans,  so  shall  you  now  have  your  body  divided  and 
torn  in  pieces." — Baker''a  Livy,  B.  i.  sec.  28.] 

2.58.  This  propensity  often  prompts  to  action;  to  complete  a  resemblance  or  dissimlU* 
mde.— Punlshnient  of  Mettus  Fuffetius.— Case  of  Egistheus;  words  of  Othello;  ol 
Wr'arwiolc. 


EE8EMBLAN0E  AND  DI8SIMILITUDB.  169 

remark  is  applicable  to  works  of  art  only ;  for  natural  objects  of 
ditierent  kinds  have  scarce  ever  an  entire  resemblance.  To  give  an 
example  in  a  work  of  art,  marble  is  a  sort  of  matter  veiy  different 
from  what  composes  an  animal ;  and  marble  cut  into  a  human 
figure  produces  great  pleasure  by  the  resemblance  ;  but,  if  a  marble 
statue  be  colored  like  a  picture,  the  resemblance  is  so  entire,  as  at  a 
distance  to  make  the  statue  appear  a  person  :  we  discover  the  mis- 
take when  we  approach  ;  and  no  other  emotion  is  raised,  but  sur- 
prise 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  re- 
semblance can  never  be  so  entire  as  to  disguise  the  imitation. 

The  other  remark  relates  to  contrast.  Emotions  make  the  great- 
est figure  when  con-trasted  in  succession ;  but  the  succession  ought 
neither  to  be  rapid,  nor  immoderately  slow :  if  too  slow,  the  eftect 
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  stifled,  as  it  were,  in  the  birth,  by  a  succeeding  emotion.  The 
funeral  oration  of  the  Bishop  of  Meaux,  upon  the  Duchess  of  Or- 
leans, is  a  perfect  hodge-podge  of  cheerful  and  melancholy  repre- 
sentations, following  each  other  in  the  quickest  succession.  Opposite 
emotions  are  best  felt  in  succession ;  but  each  emotion  separately 
should  be  raised  to  its  due  pitch,  before  another  be  introduced. 

260.  What  is  above  laid  down  will  enable  us  to  determine  a  very 
important  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  possi- 
ble by  contrast.  This  holds  confessedly  in  epic  and  dramatic  com- 
positions ;  and  the  best  writers,  led  perhaps  by  taste  more  than  by 
reasoning,  have  generally  aimed  at  that  beauty.  It  holds  equally  in 
nmsic :  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  conti-asted.  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  field  may  be  laid  out  in  grand,  sweet, 
gay,  neat,  wild,  melancholy  scenes ;  and  when  these  are  viewed  in 
succession,  grandeur  ought  to  be  contrasted  with  neatne&s,  regulanty 
with  wildness,  and  gayety  with  melancholy,  so  as  that  each  emotion 
may  succeed  its  opposite  :  nay,  it  is  an  improvement  to  intermix  in 
file  succession  rude  uncultivated  spots  as  well  as  unbounded  views, 
which  in  themselves  are  disagreeable,  but  in  succession  hei^-hten  the 

259.  Remark  concerning  resemblance.    Example. — Remark  concerning  oontrMt— KuU 

tor  the  succession  of  emotions  in  oontraat 


170  EESEMBLANCB  AND  DISSIMTLITUDE. 

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  ban-en  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  hareh- 
ness,  seems  purposely  contrived  to  give  a  greater  relish  for  the  inter- 
esting parts  of  the  composition. 

261.  A  small  garden  comprehended  under  a  single  view,  affords 
little  opportunity  for  that  embellishment.  Dissimilar  emotions  re- 
quire different  tones  of  mind,  and  therefore  in  conjunction  can  never 
be  pleasant  (see  chapter  ii.  part  iv.) :  gayety  and  sweetness  may  be 
combined,  or  wildness  and  gloominess,  but  a  composition  of  gayety 
and  gloominess  is  distasteful.  The  rude  uncultivated  compartment 
of  furze  and  broom  in  Richmond  garden  hath  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-pot.  A  garden,  there- 
fore, if  not  of  great  extent,  admits  not  dissimilar  emotions  ;  and  in 
ornamenting  a  small  garden,  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  subject  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  garden  ;  no 
temples,  no  obscure  walks ;  but  jets  d'eau,  cascades,  objects  active, 
gay,  and  splendid.  Nay,  such  a  garden  should  in  some  measure 
avoid  imitating  nature  by  taking  on  an  extraordinaiy  appearance  of 
regularity  and  art,  to  show  the  busy  hand  of  man,  which,  in  a  waste 
country,  has  a  fine  effect  by  contrast. 

262.  It  may  be  gathered  from  what  is  said  above  (chapter  n. 
part  iv.),  that  wit  and  ridicule  make  not  an  agreeable  mixture  with 
grandeur.  Dissimilar  emotions  have  a  fine  effect  in  a  slow  suc- 
cession ;  but  in  a  rapid  succession,  which  approaches  to  coexistence, 
they  will  not  be  relished :  in  the  midst  of  a  labored  and  elevated 
description  of  a  battle,  Vii-gil  introduces  a  ludicrous  image,  which  is 
certainly  out  of  its  place.   {^Emid,  vii.  298.) 

It  would,  however,  be  too  austere  to  banish  altogether  ludicrons 
images  from  an  epic  poem.  In  its  more  familiar  tones  a  ludicrous 
scene  many  be  introduced  without  impropriety.  This  is  done  by 
Virgil  in  a  foot-race  (u£n.  lib.  v.) ;  the  circumstances  of  which,  not 
excepting  the  ludicrous  part,  are  copied  from  Homer.  {Ihad, 
Book  xxiii.  1.  789.)     Afler  a  fit  of  merriment  Ave  are,  it  is  true,  the 

260.  Oneht  similar  or  dissimilar  emotions  (raised  by  the  fine  arts)  to  succeed  each  other  » 
—Snccessi'on  by  contrast  sought  by  epic  and  dramatic  writers  ;  by  composers  ot  music, 
by  jfardeners.— Italian  songs.  ,  j  „.tv  .  ,.--ii -..» 

•261.  Emotions  proper  to  be  excited  in  embellishing  a  Inv^e  compared  with  a  small  gar- 
en.—  A  Kiirden  In  a  city ;  in  a  solitary  recioii. 


/ 

UICirOK^nTT   AND  VARTETT.  171 

l«te  dispcsed  to  the  serious  and  sublime ;  but  then  a  ladicrous  scene, 
by  unbending  the  mind  from  severe  application  to  more  interesting 
-•ubjects,  may  prevent  jatigue  and  preserve  our  relish  entire. 


CHAPTER  rX. 

tJNIFORMITY  AND  VARIETT. 

263.  The  necessary  succession  of  perceptions  may  be  examined 
in  two  diflferent  views ;  one  with  respect  to  order  and  connection, 
and  one  with  respect  to  uniformity  and  variety.  In  the  first  view  it 
is  handled  above  (chapter  i.),  and  I  now  proceed  to  the  second. 
The  world  we  inhabit  is  replete  with  things  no  less  remarkable  for 
thfir  variety  than  for  their  number ;  these,  unfolded  by  the  wonder- 
ful mechanism  of  external  sense,  ftirnish  the  mind  with  many  per- 
ceptions, 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  perceptions  and  ideas  depends  very  little  on  will.  The 
mind,  as  has  been  observed  (Locke,  Book  ii.  chap,  1 4),  is  so  consti- 
tuted "  that  it  can  by  no  effort  break  off  the  succession  of  its  ideas, 
nor  keep  its  attention  long  fixed  ujwn  the  same  object :"  we  can  ar- 
rest a  perception  in  its  course  ;  we  can  shorten  its  natural  duration 
to  make  room  for  another ;  we  can  vaiy  the  succession  by  change 
of  place  or  of  amusement ;  and  we  can  in  some  measure  prevent 
variety  by  fi<iquently  recalling  the  same  object  after  short  intervals ; 
but  still  there  must  be  a  succession  and  a  change  from  one  percep- 
tion to  another.  By  artificial  means  the  succession  may  be  retarded 
or  accelerated,  may  be  rendered  more  various  or  more  unifonn,  but 
m  one  shape  or  another  is  unavoidable. 

264.  The  train,  even  when  left  to  its  ordinary  course,  is  not  alwayo 
uniform  in  its  motion ;  there  are  natural  causes  that  accelerate  or 
retard  it  considerably.  The  first  I  shall  mention  is  a  peculiar  con- 
fetitution  of  mind.  One  man  is  distinguished  from  another  by  no 
circumstance  more  remarkably  than  his  train  of  perceptions :  to  a 
cold  languid  temper  belongs  a  slow  course  of  perceptions,  which  oc- 
casions a  dullness  of  apprehension  and  sluggishness  in  action ;  to  a 
warm  temper,  on  the  contrary,  belongs  a  quick  course  of  percep» 
tious,  which  occasions  quickness  of  apprehension  and  activity  in 
business.     The  Asiatic  nations,  the  Chinese  especially,  are  obser^'ed 

262.  Wit  iHid  rldicnle  -with  respect  to  gnmdeur.— Remarks  on  Virgil. 

263.  How  the  necesyiry  succession  of  perceptions  may  be  examined. — How  onr  train  of 
perceptions  and  Ideas  Is  acquired.    Whether  It  depends  on  the  will ;  and  how  l«r.- 
r<»5iou  and  change  of  Ideas  onaToidable. 


172  UNIFOEMITY  AND  VARIETY. 

to  be  more  cool  and  deliberate  than  the  Europeans :  may  oot  tho 
reason  be  that  heat  enervates  by  exhausting  the  spirits  ?  and  that  a 
certain  degree  of  cold,  as  in  the  middle  regions  of  Eilrope,  bracing 
the  fibres,  rouseth  the  'mind,  and  produceth  a  brisk  circulation  of 
thought,  accompanied  with  vigor  in  action  ?  In  youth  is  obsei-vable 
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  qualifies  men  of  middle  age  for  business,  where  activity  is  re- 
quired, but  with  a  greater  proportion  of  uniformity  than  variety. 
In  old  age,  a  slow  and  languid  succession  makes  variety  unnecessary  ; 
and  for  that  reason  the  aged,  in  all  their  motions,  are  genei-ally  gov- 
erned by  an  habitual  uniformity.  Whatever  be  the  cause,  we  may 
venture  to  pronounce  that  heat,  in  the  imagination  and  temper,  is 
always  connected  with  a  brisk  flow  of  perceptions. 

265.  The  natural  rate  of  succession  depends  also  in  some  degree 
upon  the  particular  perceptions  that  compose  the  train.  An  agree- 
able object,  taking  a  strong  hold  of  the  mind,  occasions  a  slower  suc- 
cession than  when  the  objects  are  indifferent :  gi-andeur  and  novelty 
fix  the  attention  for  a  considerable  time,  excluding  all  other  ideas ; 
and  the  mind  thus  occupied  is  sensible  of  no  vacuity.  Some  emo- 
tions, by  huiTying  the  mind  from  object  to  object,  accelerate  the 
succession.  Where  the  train  is  composed  of  connected  perceptions 
or  ideas,  the  succession  is  quick ;  for  it  is  ordered  by  nature  that  the 
mind  goes  easily  and  sweetly  along  connected  objects.  (See  chap- 
ter i.)  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  adm'itted  without  a  struggle,  appears  from  the  unsettled  state  of 
the  mind  for  some  moments  after  such  an  object  is  presented,  waver- 
ing between  it  and  the  former  train  :  during  that  short  period  one 
or  other  of  the  former  objects  will  intrude,  perhaps  oftener  than 
once,  till  the  attention  be  fixed  entirely  upon  the  new  object.  The 
same  observations  are  applicable  to  ideas  suggested  by  language : 
the  mind  can  bear  a  quick  succession  of  related  ideas ;  but  an  un- 
related 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  story  connected  in  all  its  pails,  may  be  penised  in  a  shorter 
time  than  a  book  of  maxims  or  a^thegras,  of  which  a  quick  suc- 
cession creates  both  confusion  and  fatigue. 

266.  Such  latitude  hath  nature  indulged  in  the  rate  of  succession ; 
what  latitude  it  indulges  with  respect  to  uniformity,  we  proceed  to 

264.  Natural  causes  that  accelerate  or  retard  the  train.  (1)  A  )>ecullar  constitution  of 
mind.    (2)  Effect  of  climate.    (3)  Period  of  life.  .,        ,i.  » 

265.  Natural  rate  of  8ucces.Mon  depends  on  the  particular  perceptions  that  compos* 
the  train.— Op  tho  degree  of  connection  between  th»  idea*  Hence  an  epic  poem,  <fcc,  can 
Ve  read  more  rajrfdly  than  a  book  ■if  ma.'^iuia. 


UKIFOBMITk  ^.tiI)  VAKIETY.  178 

examine.  The  uniformity  or  variety  of  a  train,  so  far  as  composed 
of  perceptions,  depends  on  the  particular  objects  that  surround  the 
percipient  at  the  time.  The  present  occupation  must  also  have  an 
influence,  for  one  is  sometimes  engaged  in  a  multiplicity  of  aflaii-s, 
sometimes  altogether  vacant  A  natural  train  of  ideas  of  memoiy 
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,  afford  scope  for  a  sufficient  degree 
of  variety,  and  at  the  same  time  prevent  that  degree  which  is  un- 
pleasant 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  temper,  admits  not  willingly  any  idea  but  what  is  regularly 
introduced  by  a  proper  connection  ;  one  of  a  roving  disposition  em- 
braces with  avidity  every  new  idea,  however  slender  its  relation  be 
to  those  that  preceded  it.  Neither  must  we  overlook  the  nature  of 
the  perceptions  that  compose  the  train  ;  for  their  influence  is  no  less 
with  respect  to  uniformity  and  variety,  than  with  respect  to  the  rate 
of  succession.  The  mind  engrossed  by  any  passion,  love  or  hatred, 
hope  or  fear,  broods  over  its  object,  and  can  bear  no  interruption ; 
and  in  such  a  state,  the  train  of  perceptions  must  not  only  be  slow, 
but  extremely  uniform.  Anger  newly  inflamed  eageily  grasps  ita 
object,  and  leaves  not  a  cranny  in  the  mind  for  another  thought  but 
of  revenge.  In  the  character  of  Hotspur,  that  state  of  mind  ia 
represented  to  the  life  ;  a  picture  remarkable  for  hkeness  v^  "I'eU  as 
for  high  coloring : 

Worcefter.  Peace,  cousin,  say  no  more. 
And  now  I  will  unclasp  a  secret  book, 
And  to  j'our  quick  conceiving  discontents 
I'll  read  you  mutter,  deep  and  dangerous ; 
As  full  of  peril  and  adventurous  spirit 
As  to  o'erwalk  a  current  roaring  loud. 
On  the  uusteadfast  footing  of  a  spear. 

Jlotspur.  If  he  fall  in,  good  night.    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 

Hutspur.  I'll  keep  them  all ; 
By  heaven  he  shall  not  have  a  Scot  of  them : 
No :  if  a  Scot  would  save  his  soul,  ho  shall  not ; 
I'll  keep  them,  by  this  hand. 
Worcester.  You  start  away. 
And  lend  no  ear  unto  my  purpose : 
Those  pris'ners  you  shall  keep. 

Hotxpur.  I  will,  that's  flat: 
He  said  he  would  not  ransom  Mortimer: 
Forbade  my  tonttne  to  speak  of  Mortimer: 
But  1  will  lind  him  when  he  lies  asleep. 
And  in  his  ear  I'll  holla  Mortimer  ! 
Nay,  1  will  have  a  starling  taught  to  speak 


MG.  XJulformity  or  variety  of  a  train  of  p^rccptioiu  depeniU  on  wkitf 


174  UNIFORMITY  AND  VAKIKTT. 

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  how  to  gall  and  pinch  this  Bolingbroke  : 
And  that  same  sword-and-buckler  Prince  of  Wales 
(But  that  1  think  his  father  loves  liim  not, 
And  would  bo  glad  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 
"When  you  are  better  temper'd  to  attend. 

•'  King  Henry  IV.  Az%\.&Q.^. 

267.  Having  viewed  a  train  of  perceptions  as  directed  by  nature, 
and  the  variations  it  is  susceptible  of  from  different  necessary  causes, 
we  proceed  to  examine  how  far  it  is  subjected  to  will ;  for  that  this 
faculty  hath  some  influence,  is  observed  above.  And  first,  the  i-ate 
of  succession  riiay  be  retarded  by  insisting  upon  one  object,  and 
propelled  by  dismissing  another  before  its  time.  But  such  voluntary 
mutations  in  the  natural  course  of  succession,  have  limits  that  can- 
not be  extended  by  the  most  painful  efforts  :  which  will  appear  from 
considering,  that  the  mind  circumscribed  in  its  capacity,  cannot,  at 
the  same  instant,  admit  many  perceptions ;  and  when  replete,  that 
it  hath  not  place  for  new  perceptions,  till  others  are  removed ;  con- 
sequently, that  a  voluntary  change  of  perceptions  cannot  be  instan- 
taneous, as  the  time  it  requires  sets  bounds  to  t"he  velocity  of  succes- 
sion. 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  insurmountable,  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.  (See  chapter  i.)  But  a  train  of  ideas  suggested  by 
reading  may  be  varied  at  will,  provided  we  have  books  at  hand. 

268.  The  power  that  nature  hath  given  us  over  our  train  of  per- 
ceptions, 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  exei'cises,  who  pass  whole  days  in 
contemplation,  and  impose  upon  themselves  long  and  severe  penan- 
ces. 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,  at- 
tend the  Chancellor  of  Great  Britain  through  the  labors  but  of  one 

26T.  How  far  the  train  of  percept-.on8  Is  subjected  to  wllL— Various  trains,  and  th« 
^wer  w«  li»v«  over  tbem. 


UNIFORMITY,  AND  VAKIBTT.  175 

day,  during  a  session  of  parliament :  how  great  will  be  his  aston- 
ishment !  what  multiplicity  of  law  business,  what  deep  thinking, 
and  what  elaborate  application  to  matters  of  government !  The 
train  of  perceptions  must  in  that  gi'eat  man  be  accelerated  far  be- 
yond the  ordinary  couree  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 
liumanity  !*  * 

2G9.  We  are  now  ripe  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- 
fonnity  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  hand,  the  accelerating  or  retarding  the  natural  course,  excites 
a  pain,  which,  though  scarcely  telt  in  small  removes,  becomes  con- 
siderable towards  the  extremes.  Aversion  to  fix  on  a  single  object 
for  a  long  time,  or  to  take  in  a  multiplicity  of  objects  in  a  shoit 
time,  is  remarkable  in  children,  and  equally  so  in  men  unaccustomed 
to  business  :  a  man  languishes  when  the  succession  is  very  slow  ; 
and,  if  he  grow  not  impatient,  is  apt  to  fall  asleep  :  during  a  rapid 
succession,  he  hath  a  feeling  as  if  his  head  were  turning  round  ;  he 
is  fatigued,  and  his  pain  resembles  that  of  weariness  after  bodily 
labor. 

But  a  moderate  course  will  not  satisfy  the  mind,  unless  the  per- 
ceptions be  also  diversified  :  number  without  variety  is  not  sufficient 
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  mthin  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,  much 
more  of  unrelated  perceptions,  which  gain  not  admittance  without 
effort :  the  effort,  it  is  true,  is  scarce  perceptible  in  a  single  instance ; 
but  by  frequent  reiteration  it  becomes  exceedingly  painful.  What- 
ever 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  pleas- 
ure that  arises  from  a  train  of  connected  ideas,  is  remarkable  in  a 
reverie  ;  especially  where  the  imagination  interposeth,  and  is  activft 
in  coining  new  ideas,  which  is  done  with  wonderful  facility :  one 
must  be  sensible  that  the  serenity  and  ease  of  the  mind,  in  that 

•  Thia  chapter  was  composed  in  the  year  1758. 
S68L  TIm  train  varied  by  dUdplin*  and  attention  to  businosa.    Illastratlnna. 


176  UNIFORMITY  AND  VARIETV. 

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. 

270.  To  alter,  by  an  act  of  will,  that  degree  of  vanety  which  na- 
ture requires,  is  not  less  painful  than  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  per- 
ception :  curiosity,  and  the  pros-pect  of  useful  discoveries,  may  fortify 
one  to  bear  that  pain ;  but  it  is  deeply  felt  by  the  bulk  of  mankind, 
and  produceth  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  complains  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,  m 
physic,  or  in  trafiic,  distresses  and  distracts  the  mind,  unless  where 
a  habit  of  application  is  acquired  by  long  and  constant  exercise : 
the  excessive  variety  is  the  distressing  circumstance ;  and  the  mmd 
sufters  grievously  by  being  kept  constantly  upon  the  stretch. 

271.  With  relation  to  involuntary  causes  disturbing  that  degree 
of  variety  which  nature  requires,  a  sfight  pain  affecting  one  part  of 
the  body  without  variation,  becomes,  by  its  constancy  and  long  du- 
ration, almost  insupportable :  the  patient,  sensible  that  the  pam  is 
not  increased  in  degree,  complains  of  its  constancy  more  than  of  its 
severity,  of  its  engrossing  his  whole  thoughts,  and  admitting  no  other 
object.  A  shifting  pain  is  more  tolerable,  because  change  of  place 
contributes  to  variety;  and  an  intermitting  pain,  suftering  other 
objects  to  intervene,  still  more  so.  Again,  any  single  color  or  sound, 
often  returning,  becomes  unpleasant;  as  may  be  observed  in  viewing 
a  train  of  similar  apartments  in  a  great  house  painted  with  the  same 
color  and  in  hearing  the  prolonged  toUings  of  a  bell.  Color  and 
sou^d  varied  within  certain  limits,  though  without  any  order  are 
pleasant ;  witness  the  various  colors  of  plants  and  flowers  lu  a  field, 
and  the  various  notes  of  birds  in  a  thicket:  increase  the  number  of 
variety,  and  the  feeling  becomes  inpleasant;  thus  a  great  vanety  of 
colors,  crowded  upon  a  small  canvas,  or  in  quick  succession,  create 

269  Tlie  train,  with  respect  to  pleasure  and  pain  \yben  natural  When  greatly  ac- 
celerated When  retarded.-Nuinber  of  ideas  without  variety,  not  .agreeabie.-W  hen 
uniform  ty  is  pleasant;  when  unpleasant-E.xccss  in  vanety.-fecverie. 

'4o  The  m;t  of  altering,  by  will,  the  degree  of  variety  which  "f  «V<1""^!»:-C°if*": 
plationlong  confined  to  one  object-Where  operations  are  simple  and  reiterated.-Effe<* 
of  action*  exceeslt'o  in  number  and  variety. 


TJNIFORMITT  AND  VAKIETY.  177 

an  Tiueasy  feiling,  which  is  prevented  by  putting  the  colors  at  a 
greater  distance  from  each  other,  either  of  place  or  of  time.  A 
number  of  voices  in  a  crowded  assembly,  a^number  of  animals  col- 
lected in  a  market,  produce  an  unpleasant  feeling;  though  a  few  of 
them  together,  or  all  of  them  in  a  moderate  succession,  would  be 
pleasant.  And  because  of  the  same  excess  in  variety,  a  number  of 
pains  felt  in  different  parts  of  the  body,  at  the  same  instant  or  in  a 
rapid  succession,  are  an  exquisite  torture. 

272.  It  is  occasionally  obseiTcd  above,  that  persons  of  a  phleg- 
matic temperament,  having  a  sluggish  train  of  perceptions,  are  in- 
disposed to  action ;  and  that  activity  constantly  accompanies  a  brisk 
flow  of  perceptions.  To  ascertain  that  fact,  a  man  need  not  go 
abroad  for  experiments :  reflecting  on  things  passing  in  his  own 
mind,  he  will  find  that  a  brisk  circulation  of  thought  constantly 
prom|)ts  him  to  action ;  and  that  he  is  averse  to  action  when  his 
perceptions  languish  in  their  coui"se.  But  as  a  man  by  nature  is 
formed  for  action,  and  must  be  active  in  order  to  be  happy,  nature 
hath  kindly  provided  against  indolence,  by  annexing  pleasure  to  a 
moderate  course  of  perceptions,  and  by  making  any  remarkable  re- 
tardation painful.  A  slow  course  of  perceptions  is  attended  with 
another  bad  effect :  man,  in  a  few  capital  cases,  is  governed  by  pro- 
pensity or  instinct ;  but  in  matters  that  admit  deliberation  and 
choice,  reason  is  assigned  him  for  a  guide :  now,  as  reasoning  re- 
quires often  a  great  compass  of  ideas,  their  succession  ought  to  be 
80  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. 

273.  Nature  hath  guarded  man,  her  favorite,  against  a  succession 
too  rapid,  no  less  carefully  than  against  one  too  slow :  both  are 
equally  painful,  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  faculties  Is  by  certain  painful  sensations  confined 
within  proper  limits.  Nature  is  equally  provident  with  respect  to  the 
nobler  faculties  of  the  mind :  the  pain  of  an  accelerated  coui-se  of 
perceptions  is  Nature's  admonition  to  relax  our  pace,  and  to  admit 
a  more  gentle  exertion  of  thought  Another  valuable  purpose  is 
dibcovered  upon  reflecting  in  what  manner  objects  are  imprinted  on 
the  mind  :  to  give  the  memory  finn  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  eftect :  a  rapid  succession,  accord- 
ingly, must  prevent  objects  from  making  an  impression  so  deep  as 
to  be  of  real  service  in  life ;  and  Nature,  for  the  sake  of  memory, 

2T1.  Involuntary  causes  disturbing  that  degree  nf  variety  which  nature  requires.— Slleht 
but  unvaryins  pain  ;  a  shifting  pain. — Any  single  color  or  souml  ofU-u  returning. — C*Aot 
and  sound'  varied  within  certafn  limits. 

272.  A  sluggish  train  indisposes  to  action  —What  provision  Is  made  n^inst  Indolenoc.— 
Divd  effect  018  slow  courM  or  perception*.  In  mattetn  th.it  require  dclii-enttloa  »ld  ebototk 

8'' 


178  UNIFORMITY  AND  VARIETY. 

has,  by  a  painful  feeling,  guarded  against  a  rapid  succession.  But 
a  still  more  valuable  purpose  is  answered  by  the  contrivance :  as,  on 
the  one  hand,  a  sluggish  course  of  perceptions  indisposeth  to  action ; 
80,  on  the  other,  a  course  too  rapid  impels  to  rash  and  precipitant 
action :  /"prudent  conduct  is  the  child  of  deliberation  and  clear  con- 
ception, for  which  there  is  no  place  in  a  rapid  course  of  thought. 
Nature  therefore,  taking  measures  for  prudent  conduct,  has  guarded 
us  eftectually  from  precipitancy  of  thought  by  making  it  painful. 

274.  Nature  not  only  provides  against  a  succession  too  slow  or 
too  quick,  but  makes  the  middle  course  extremely  pleasaut.  Nor  is 
that  course  confined  within  narrow  bounds:  every  man  can  naturally, 
without  pain,  accelerate  or  retard  in  some  degree  the  rate  of  his 
perceptions.  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  practice,  makes 
acceleration  pleasant. 

Concerning  the  final  cause  of  our  taste  for  variety,  it  will  be  con- 
sidered, that  human  aflfaii-s,  complex  by  variety  as  well  as  number, 
require  the  distributing  our  attention  and  activity  in  measure  and 
proportion.  Nature  therefore,  to  secure  a  just  distribution  coire- 
sponding  to  the  variety  of  human  affairs,  has  made  too  great  unifor- 
mity or  too  great  variety  in  the  course  of  perceptions,  equally  un- 
pleasant :  and,  indeed,  were  we  addicted  to  either  extreme,  our 
internal  constitution  would  be  ill  suited  to  our  external  circumstan- 
ces. At  the  same  time,  where  gi-eat  uniformity  of  operation  is 
required,  as  in  several  manufactures,  or  great  variety,  as  in  law  or 
physic.  Nature,  attentive  to  all  our  wants,  hath  also  provided  for  these 
cases,  by  implanting  in  the  breast  of  every  person  an  efficacious 
principle  that  leads  to  habit :  an  obstinate  perseverance  in  the  same 
occupation,  relieves  from  the  pain  of  excessive  uniformity ;  and  the 
like  perseverance  in  a  quick  circulation  of  different  occupations,  re- 
lieves from  the  pain  of  excessive  variety.  And  thus  we  come  to 
take  delight  in  several  occupations,  that  by  nature,  without  habit, 
ai-e  not  a  little  disgustful. 

2*75.  A  middle  rate  also  in  the  train  of  perceptions  between  uni- 
formity and  variety,  is  no  less  pleasant  than  between  quickness  and 
slowness.  The  mind  of  man,  so  framed,  is  wonderfully  adapted  to 
the  couree  of  human  affaire,  which  are  continually  changing,  but 
not  without  connection  :  it  is  equally  adapted  to  the  acquisition  of 
knowledge,  which  results  chiefly  from  discovering  resemblances 
among  differing  objects,  and  difterences  among  resembhng  objects  : 
such  occupation,  oven  abstracting  from  the  knowledge  we  acquire. 


278.  "We  are  guarded  against  a  snccesslon  too  rapid.— Good  effects  of  this  to  body  aiid 

""stV  a  moderate  rate  of  succ«6sion  agreeable ;  yet  tho  rate  may  without  pain  b*  varied 
\>v  force  of  habit— Final  cause  of  oar  taste  for  variety.— Where  praat  uniforroily  or  gri>t.t 
wi«ty  of  actios  la  r«quir«d,  what  provUlon  I*  inado  for  ear  eorafart 


UNiFOEMrrr  and  vabiety.  179 

is  in  itself  delightful,  by  preserving  a  middle  rate  between  too  great 
unifcrmity  and  too  great  variety. 

We  are  now  arrived  at  the  chief  purpose  of  the  present  chapter ; 
which  is  to  consider  uniformity  and  variety  with  relation  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  every 
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  ait  admit 
more  or  less  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  relisheth  not  a  multiplicity  of  figures 
nor  of  ornaments :  a  picture  representing  a  gay  subject,  admits 
g^'eat  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. 

27G.  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  rep 
resented  in  colors,  and  much  more  readily  than  when  representt.-d 
in  woids.  Hence  it  is  that  the  profuse  variety  of  objects  in  some 
natural  landscapes  neither  breeds  confusion  nor  fatigue  ;  and  for  the 
same  reason,  there  is  place  for  greater  variety  of  ornament  in  a  pic- 
ture than  in  a  poem.  A  picture,  however,  like  a  building,  ought  to 
be  so  simple  as  to  be  comprehended  in  one  view. 

From  these  general  observations,  I  proceed  to  particulars.  In 
works  exposed  continually  to  public  view,  variety  ought  to  be 
studied.  It  is  a  mle  accordingly  in  sculpture,  to  contrast  the  differ- 
ent limbs  of  a  statue,  in  order  to  give  it  all  the  variety  possible. 
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  towards  the  spectator, 
another  from  him,  is  the  life  of  such  a  pertbi*mance. 

277.  In  every  sort  of  writing  intended  for  amusement,  variety  is 
necessary  in  proportion  to  the  length  of  the  work.  Want  of  variety 
is  sensibly  felt  in  Davila's  histoiy  of  the  civil  wars  of  France  :  the 
events  are  indeed  important  and  various ;  but  the  reader  languishes 
by  a  tiresome  monotony  of  character,  every  person  engaged  being 
figured  a  consummate  politician,  governed  by  interest  only.    It  w 

2T5.  A  train  between  nniformUy  and  varietr.  asfreeable;  adapted  to  the  cours«  of  hu- 
man afifairs,  and  acquisition  of  knowledge.  'VVliat  degree  of  variety  Is  agreeable  in  every 
work  of  art 

•2T<5.  We  can  bear  a  greater  variety  of  natural  objects  than  In  a  picture,  or  description. 
Id  worts  exposed  always  to  public  view,  var'»ty  should  battudied— Rule  la  sculptaia; 
IV  painting  aalniaU  on  a  luidscap*.  "^  '■    ■"   —    "  ■   -■ 


180  J  UNIFORMITY  AND  VARIETY. 

hard  to  say,  whether  Ovid  disgusts  more  by  too  great  variety,  or  too 
great  uniformity :  his  stones  are  all  of  the  same  kind,  concluding 
invariably  with  the  transformation  of  one  being  into  another ;  and 
so  tar  he  is  tiresome  by  excess  in  unifonnity  :  he  is  not  less  fatiguing 
by  excess  in  variety,  hurrying  his  reader  incessantly  from  story  to 
story.     Ariosto  is  still  more  fatiguing  than  Ovid,  by  exceeding  the 

{*ust  bounds  of  variety :  not  satistied,  like  Ovid,  with  a  succession  in 
lis  stories,  he  distracts  the  reader,  by  jumbling  together  a  nmltitude 
of  them  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  cnsis,  the  reader, 
intent  on  the  catastrophe,  is  suddenly  snatched  a>vdy  to  a  new 
stoiy,  which  makes  no  impression  so  long  as  the  mind  is  occupied 
with  the  former. 


A     APPENDIX  TO  CHAPTER  IX. 

Concerning  the  Works  of  Nature,  chiefly  with  respect  to  Uniformity 
and  Variety. 

278.  In  things  of  Nature's  workmanship,  whether  we  regard 
their  internal  or  external  structure,  beauty  and  design  are  equallv 
conspicuous.  We  shall  begin  with  the  outside  of  nature,  as  what 
fii'st  presents  itself. 

The  figure  of  an  organic  body  is  generally  regular.  The  tnmk 
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  nowhere  more  remarkable  than  in  the  leaves, 
which,  in  the  same  species,  have  all  the  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  charming 
object. 

In  an  animal,  the  trunk,  which  is  much  larger  than  the  other 
partSj  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  ofi 
in  pairs,  and  the  two  individuals  of  each  pair  are  accurately  uni- 
form ;  the  single  paits  are  placed  in  the  middle ;  the  limbs,  bearing 
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, 

877.  In  writing  «  work,  how  for  variety  is  necessary.    EemarkB  on  Davlla,  Ovid,  Uia 
(>r)an4o  Furloco. 


UNIFOEMITY  AND  VAKIETY.  I8l 

possesses,  with  great  propriety,  the  chief  place.  Hence,  the  heauty 
of  the  whole  figure  is  the  result  of  many  equal  and  proportional 
parts  orderly  disposed  ;  and  the  smallest  variation  in  number,  equality, 
proportion,  or  order,  never  fails  to  produce  a  perception  of  deformity. 

279.  Nature  in  no  particular  seems  more  profuse  of  ornament 
than  in  the  beautiful  coloring  of  her  works.  The  flowers  of  plants, 
the  furs  of  beasts,  and  the  feathers  of  birds,  vie  with  each  other  in 
the  beauty  of  their  colors,  Avhich  in  lustre  as  well  as  in  hai-mony  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  inefi'able  art  of  nature,  in  adapting  and  pi-oportioning 
its  colors  to  the  magnitude,  figure,  and  position  of  the  parts.  In  a 
word,  color  seems  to  live  in  nature  only,  and  to  languish  under  the 
finest  touches  of  art. 

When  we  examine  the  internal  structure  of  a  plant  or  animal,  a 
wonderful  subtilty  of  mechanism  is  displayed.  Man,  in  his  me- 
chanical operations,  is  confined  to  the  surface  of  bodies ;  but  the 
operations  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  discover.  This  power  of  diffusing  mechanism  through  the  most 
intimate  parts,  is  peculiar  to  nature,  and  distinguishes  her  operations 
most  remarkably  from  every  Avork  of  art.  Such  texture  continued 
from  the  grosser  parts  to  the  most  minute,  preserves  all  along  the 
stiictest  regularity:  the  fibres  of  plants  are  a  bundle  of  cylindric 
canals,  lying  in  the  same  direction,  and  parallel,  or  nearly  parallel 
to  each  other :  in  some  instances,  a  most  accurate  arrangement  ol 
parts  is  discovered,  as  in  onions,  formed  of  concentric  coats  one 
within  another,  to  the  very  centre.  Au  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  hath  not  one  corresponding  to  it  on  the  opposite  side ; 
and  the  same  order  is  carried  through  the  most  minute  parts  :  the 
lung3  are  con^posed  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  siugle,  the  henrt  is  advan- 
tageously situated  near  the  middle  ;  the  liver,  stomach,  and  spleen, 
are  disposed  in  the  upper  region  of  tlie  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  convolutiona^ 

280.  The  mechanical  power  of  nature,  not  confined  to  small 
bodies,  reacheth  equally  those  of  the  greatest  size ;  witness  tlie  bodies 

278.  The  flgniro  of  organic  bodies.  The  trunk  of  a  tree.  Us  branches,  &c  In  an  animal, 
the  trunk,  &c.     In  whut  Ihe  beauty  of  the  whole  figure  consists. 

279.  Coloring  of  nature ;  of  plants.  &c.— Subtile  or  minute  roeclianlsm  of  plants  and  anl. 
mals  in  tholr  Interior  structure.— Fibres  of  plant*.— In  animals,  corr«sii«adence  aaa  oappy 
arrftngenicnt  of  parts. 


182  uNTFOBMrnr  aj/td  variktt. 

that  compose  the  solar  system,  which,  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 
ft  precise  rule,  corresponding  to  their  quantity  of  matter.  The 
superior  dignity  of  the  central  body,  in  respect  to  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  others 
fitted  for  regular  motion.  Each  planet  revolves  about  its  own  axis 
in  a  given  time ;  and  each  moves  round  the  sun  iu  an  orbit  nearly 
circular,  and  in  a  time  proportioned  to  its  distance.  Their  velocities, 
directed  by  an  established  law,  are  perpetually  changing  by  regular 
acceloiatious  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  iu  every  one  who  is  sensible  of  design, 
power,  or  beauty. 

281.  Nature  hatu  a  wonderful  power  of  connecting  systems  with 
each  other,  and  of  propagating  that  connection  through  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  lym- 
phatic and  lacteal  ducts,  the  blood-vessels  and  nerves,  the  muscles 
and  glands,  the  bones  and  cartilages,  the  membranes  and  bowels, 
wiih  the  other  organs,  form  distinct  systems,  which  are  united  into 
one  whole.  There  are  at  the  same  time,  other  connections  less  inti- 
mate: every  plant  is  joined  to  the  earth  by  its  roots:  it  requires 
rain  and  dews  to  furnish  it  Avith  juices ;  and  it  requires  heat  to  pre- 
fserve  these  juices  in  fluidity  and  motion :  eveiy  animal,  by  its  gi'avity, 
is  connected  with  the  earth,  with  the  element  in  which  it  breathes, 
and  with  the  sun,  by  deriving  from  it  cherishing  and  enlivening 
heat :  the  earth  furnisheth  aliment  to  plants,  these  to  animals,  and 
these  again  to  other  anfraals,  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  towards  one 
common  centre,  is  now  thoroughly  explored.  Such  a  regular  and 
uniform  series  of  connections,  piopagated  through  so  great  a  number 
of  beings,  and  through  such  wide  spaces,  is  wondert'ul;  and  our 
wonder  must  increase,  when  we  observe  these  connections  propa- 
gated from  the  minutest  atoms  to  bodies  of  the  most  enormous  size, 
and  so  widely  diffused  as  that  we  can  neither  perceive  their  begin- 
ning nor  their  end.  That  these  connections  are  not  confined  within 
_pur  own  planetary  system,  is  ceitain :  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  arc  conducted  by 
one  plan,  to  answer  unerringly  one  great  end. 

250.  The  solar  system.    Its  variety  and  regularity. 

251.  Systems  wtmderfuUy  couoecied  with  each  other:  the  constituent  parts  of  plants i 
to  of  aDimals. — Other  less  iDtia)!it«  connections. — Some  not  confined  to  our  own  plaiittai; 

l>'fct«Bl. 


TJNnrOEMTTY  AND  VA.BIKTT.  188 

282.  But  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.     Unifor- 
mity and  variety  are  interwoven  in  the  works  of  nature  with  surpris- 
ing art:  variety,  however  great,  is  never  without  some  degree  of  uni- 
formity ;  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  difierent  plants,  especially 
of  the   same  kind,  there   is  discovered  a  surprising  uniformity: 
again,  where  nature  seems  to  have  intended  the  most  exact  unitbrm- 
ity,  as  among  individuals  of  the  same  kind,  there  still  appears  a 
diversity,  which  serves  readily  to  distinguish  one  individual  from 
another.     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  cleariy  perceived,  are  generally  so  delicate,  that 
words  cannot  be  found  to  describe  them.     A  correspondence  so  per- 
fect between  the  human  mind  and  the  works  of  nature,  is  extremely 
remarkable.     The  opposition  between  variety  and  uniformity  is  so 
great  that  one  would  not  readily  imagine  they  could  both  be  relished 
by  the  same  palate :  at  least  not  in  the  same  object^  nor  at  the 
same  time  :  it  is  however  true,  that  the  pleasures  they  aflbrd,  being 
happily  adjusted  to  each  other,  and  readily  mixing  in  intimate 
union,  are  frequently  produced  by  the  same  individual  object    Nay, 
further,  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  foim  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  rauHTiuring  of  a  biook,  are  in  conjunction  delightful ;  though 
they  stiike  the  ear  without  modulation  or  hannony.    In  short,  noth 
ing  can  be  more  happily  accommodated  to  the  inward  constitution 
of  man,  than  that  mixture  of  uniformity  with  variety,  which  tlie 
eye  discovei-s  in  natural  objects;  and,  accordingly,  the  mind  is  never 
more  highly  gi-atified  than  in  contemplating  a  natural  landscape. 

2S2.  The  wonderfnl  connection  of  our  internal  frame  with  the  works  of  nature.  These 
afforil  pleasure  to  man  from  mingling  uniformity  with  variety.  For  ir»t»nee.  'ni;'!""; 
In  inHvi.lua!s  of  the  fame  kind.— The  human  fece— Variety  ami  uni|onnity  relisUM  at 
the  same  time  and  in  the  same  oljject.— Natural  objects  form  themselves  Into  groups.— 
Natural  landscape  d  illgbtfuL 


184  CX)NGKUITY  AND  PROPKIETT. 


CHAPTER  X. 


CONGRUITY    AND    PROPRIETY. 


283.  Man  is  superior  to  the  brute,  not  more  by  bis  rational  facul- 
ties, than  by  his  senses.  With  respect  to  external  senses,  brutes 
probably  yield  not  to  men  ;  and  they  may  also  have  some  obscure 
perception  of  beauty :  but  the  more  delicate  senses  of  regularity, 
order,  uniformity,  and  congruity,  being  connected  with  morality  and 
religion,  are  reserved  to  dignify  the  claief  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  distinguish,  in  every  subject,  what  is  reguhir, 
what  is  orderly,  what  is  suitable,  and  what  is  fit  and  proper.  {Cicero 
de  Officiis,  1.  i.) 

It  is  clear  from  the  very  conception  of  the  terms  congruity  and 
propriety,  that  they  are  not  applicable  to  any  single  object :  they 
imply  a  plurality,  and  obviously  signify  a  particular  relation  between 
different  objects.  Thus  we  say  currently,  that  a  decent  garb  is 
suitable  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 
is  unsuitable  or  incongruous  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 
in  a  mean  style,  a  firet  minister  darning  his  wife's  stocking,  or  a 
reverend  prelate  in  lawn  sleeves  dancing  a  hornpipe. 

284.  The  perception  we  have  of  this  relation,  which  seems  pe- 
culiar to  man,  cannot  proceed  from  any  other  cause,  but  from  a 
sense  of  congruity  or  propriety ;  for,  supposing  us  destitute  of  that 
sense,  the  terms  would  be  to  us  unintelligible.* 

*  From  many  thinsrs  that  pass  current  in  the  world  without  being  generally 
condemned,  one  at  first  view  would  imagine,  that  the  sense  of  congruity  or 
propriety  hath  scarce  any  foundation  in  nature,  and  that  it  is  rather  an  artifi- 
cial refinement  of  those  who  affect  to  distinguish  themselves  from  others.  The 
fulsome  panegyrics  bestowed  upon  the  great  and  opulent,  in  epistles  dedicatory 
and  other  such  compositions,  would  incline  us  to  think  so.  Did  there  prevail 
in  the  world,  it  will  be  said,  or  did  nature  suggest,  a  taste  of  what  is  suitable, 
decent,  or  proper,  would  any  good  writer  deal  in  such  compositions,  or  any  xaivn 
of  sense  receive  them  without  disgust?  Can  it  bo  supposed  that  Louis  XIV. 
of  France  was  endued  by  nature  with  any  sense  of  propriety,  when,  in  a  dra- 
matic performance  purposely  composed  for  his  entertainment,  he  suffered 
himself,  publicly  and  in  his  presence,  to  be  styled  the  greatest  king  ever  the 
earth  produced?  These,  it  is  true,  are  strong  facts;  but  luckily  they  do  not 
pr(tve  the  sense  of  propriety  to  be  artificial :  they  only  prove,  that  the  sense 
of  propriety  is  at  limes  overpowered  by  pride  and  vanity  ;  which  is  no  singu- 
lar case,  for  that  sometimes  is  the  fate  even  of  the  sense  of  justice. 

288.  Points  la  which  man  is  superior  to  the  brute. — Discipline  suitable  for  man.— Terms 
congnnty  and  propriety,  not  uppllciblc  to  a  single  object— Instances  of  what  U  proper  ; 
«f  wbst  te  ineongritoua. 


OONGHTJITY  AND  PROPRIETY.  185 

It  is  a  matter  of  expenence,  that  congniity  or  propriety,  wherever 
perceived,  is  agreeable  ;  and  that  incongruity  or  impropriety  where- 
ever  perceived,  is  disagreeable.  The  only  difficulty  is,  to  ascertain 
what  ai*e  the  particular  objects  that  in  conjunction  suggest  these 
relations  ;  for  there  are  many  objects  that  do  not :  the  sea,  for  ex- 
ample, viewed  in  conjunction  with  a  picture,  or  a  man  viewed  in 
conjunction  with  a  mountain,  suggest  not  either  congruity  or  incon- 
gruity. It  seems  natural  to  infer,  what  will  be  found  true  by  in- 
duction, that  we  never  perceive  congruity  nor  incongruity  but 
among  things  that  are  connected  by  some  relation  ;  such  as  a  man 
and  his  actions,  a  principle  and  its  accessories,  a  subject  and  its  or- 
naments. We  are  indeed  so  framed  by  nature,  as,  among  things 
60  connected,  to  require  a  certain  suitableness  or  con-espondence, 
termed  congruity  ov  propriety ;  and  to  he  displeased  when  we  find 
the  opposite  relation  of  iiiconyruity  or  impropriety* 

285.  If  things  connected  be  the  subject  of  congruity,  it  is  reason- 
able beforehand  to  expect  a  degree  of  congruity  proportioned  to  the 
degree  of  the  connection.  And,  upon  examination,  we  find  our  ex- 
pectation to  be  well  founded :  where  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  it  stands 
upon  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  the  propinquity  only,  demands  but  a 
small  share  of  congruity.  Among  members  of  the  same  club,  the 
congruity  ought  to  be  considerable,  as  well  as  among  things  placed 
for  show  in  the  same  niche  :  among  pagsengere  in  a  stage-coach  we 
require  very  little  congruity ;  and  less  still  at  a  public  spectacle. 


•  In  the  chapter  of  beauty,  qnaliti&<  are  distinguished  into  primary  and 
secondary :  and  to  clear  some  obscurity  that  may  appear  in  the  text,  it  is 
proper  to  be  observed,  that  the  same  distinction  is  applicable  to  relations. 
Kesemblance,  equality,  uniformity,  proximity,  are  relations  that  depend  not 
on  us,  but  exist  equally,  whether  perceived  or  not ;  and  upon  that  account 
may  justly  bo  termed  primary  relations.  But  there  are  other  relations,  that 
only  appear  such  to  us,  and  that  have  not  any  external  existence  like  primary 
relation?  ;  which  is  the  case  of  congruity,  incongruity,  propriety,  impropriety; 
these  may  be  properly  termed  secondary  T(i\aX\o\\&.  liius  it  appears,  from  what 
is  said  in  tho  text,  that  the  secondary  relations  mentioned  arise  from  objecU 
connected  by  some  primary  relation.  Property  is  an  example  of  a  secondary 
relation,  as  it  exists  nowhere  but  in  the  mind.  I  piircliuse  a  field  or  a  horse: 
the  covenant  makes  the  primary  relation  ;  and  the  secondary  relation  built  on 
it,  is  property. 

284.  The  sense  of  conerulty  a  constituent  of  our  nature.  ObjecUons  ■n*'*'«''«^~£°"' 
KTultyand  propriety,  agreonble,  &c.- Among  what  thing*  only  congruity  or  incongmltf 
to  poroeWed. — Prim'iuy  and  secondary  rebitions. 


186  coNGRurrY  and  propriety. 

Congruity  is  so  nearly  allied  to  beauty  as  commonly  to  be  held  a 
species  c^  it ;  and  yet  they  differ  so  essentially  as  never  to  coincide  * 
beauty,  like  color,  is  placed  upon  a  single  subject ;  congruity  upon 
a  plurality.  Further,  a  thing  beautiful  in  itself  may,  with  relation 
to  other  things,  produce  the  strongest  sense  of  incongruity. 

286.  Congruity  and  propriety  are  commonly  reckoned  synony- 
mous 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  propriety  is  a  species ;  for  we  call  nothing  propriety  but  that 
congruity  or  suitableness  which  ought  to  subsist  between  sensible 
beings  and  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  de\nation 
is  disgustful ;  witness  die  Lutrin,  a  burlesque  poem,  which  is  closed 
with  a  serious  and  warm  panegync  on  Lamoignon,  one  of  the  king's 
judges : 

^ ■_ Amphora  coepit 

lustitui ;  currente  rota,  cur  urceus  exit? 

287.  Examples  of  congruity  and  incongruity  are  furnished  in 
plenty  by  the  relation  between  a  subject  and  its  ornaments.  A  lit- 
eraiy  performance,  intended  merely  for  amusement,  is  susceptible  of 
much  ornament,  as  well  as  a  music-room  or  a  playhouse  ;  for  in 
gayety  the  mind  hath  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  which 
are  accessoiy.  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  and 
grandeur,  appears  best  in  a  diess  altogether  plain. 

To  a  pei-son  of  a  mean  appearance,  gorgeous  apparel  is  unsuit- 
able ;  which,  besides  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 
f;tately  and  majestic  air  requires  sumptuous  apparel,  which  ought 

*  Contrary  to  this  rale,  the  introduction  to  the  third  volume  of  the  Olujr' 
aeteristics,  is  a  continued  chain  of  metaphors :  tliese  in  such  profusion  are  too 
florid  for  the  subject ;  and  have  besides  the  bad  etfect  of  removing  oar  attention 
from  the  principal  subject,  to  fix  it  upon  splendid  triflcB. 

'285.  Congruity  ia  expected  in  what  degree?  Instances. — Congruity  nearly  allied  to 
beauty. 

2S8.  Congruity  and  propriety  distinguishable.— Relation  of  a  part  to  tho  whole  demand! 
congruity. 


CONGRUITY  AMD  PKOPMETY.  187 

not  to  be  gaudy,  nor  crowded  with  little  oruaments.  A  woman  of 
consummate  beauty  can  bear  to  be  highly  adorned,  and  yet  shows 
best  in  a  plain  dress, 

For  loveliness 

Needs  not  the  foreign  aid  of  ornament, 
But  i3,  when  unadorn'd,  adorn'd  the  most. 

Thomson'' t  Autumn. 

288^.  Congruity  regulates  not  only  the  quantity  of  ornament,  but 
Also  the  kind.  The  decoiations  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  sliould  relate  to  war ; 
and  Virgil,  with  gi-eat  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  aits  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  atr 
tend,  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 
worship;  and  the  same  person  ought 'to  dress  differently  for  a  mar- 
riage-feast and  for  a  funeral. 

289.  Nothing  is  more  intimately  related  to  a  man  than  his  senti- 
ments, words,  and  actions ;  and  therefore  we  require  here  the  strictest 
conformity.  When  we  find  what  we  thus  require,  we  have  a  lively 
sense  of  propriety ;  when  we  find  the  contrary,  our  sense  of  impro- 
priety is  no  less  lively.  Hence  the  universal  distaste  of  aftectation, 
which  consists  in  making  a  show  of  greater  delicacy  and  refinement 
than  is  suited  either  to  the  character  or  circumstances  of  the  persop. 
Nothing  in  epic  or  dramatic  compositions  is  more  disgustfi  i  than 
impropriety  of  manners.  In  Comeille's  tragedy  of  Cinna,  ^Emilia, 
a  favorite  of  Augustus,  receives  daily  marks  of  his  affection,  and  is 
loaded  with  benefits;  yet  all  the  while  is  laying  plots  to  assa-ssinata 
her  benefactor,  directed  by  no  other  motive  "than  to  avenge  her 
Other's  death  (see  Act  I.  Sc.  2).  Revenge  against  a  benefactor, 
founded  solely  upon  filial  piety,  cannot  be  directed  by  any  prin- 
ciple but  that  of  justice,  and  therefore  never  can  suggest  unlaw- 
ful means ;  yet  the  crime  here  attempted,  a  treacherous  murder, 
is  what  even  a  miscreant  will  scarce  attempt  against  his  bitterest 
enemy. 


2ST.  Instances  of  congruity  and  Incongrnlty  In  a  subject  and  Its  ornaments.— Dress  re- 
quiicil  for  .lifferent  classes. 

2S8.  C«n>.'nii.y  rosriilates  not  only  the  quantity  of  ornament,  but  the  kind :  in  a  dancing- 
''"*J"''  *;;-~*^"'C"'"SUincfs  are  to  be  considered  in  judaing  of  propriety. 

1  ».  1  '^'"*^  relaiit.n  of  a  man  to  liis  sentimonta,  worcb,  and  actions.— AfTecUtlon,  what, 
ana  wliy  detested— In  epic  or  dranaatio  composition,  what  is  most  disgustine  ?— Kemaita 
on  the  tracedv  of  niiin/L  -w         » 


on  the  tragedy  of  Cinna. 


188  CX)xNGRUl'fY  AND  PKOPKIKTY. 

290.  T^Tiat  is  said  might  be  thought  sufficient  to  explain  the  re- 
lations of  congmity  and  propnety  ;  and  yet  the  subjev^t  is  not  ex- 
hausted ;  on  the  contrary,  the  prospect  enlaiges  upon  us  when  we 
take  under  view  the  effects  these  relations  produce  m  the  mmd 
Congruity  and  propriety,  wherever  perceived,  appear  agreeable  ;  and 
every  agi-eeable  object  prod"ceth  in  the  mind  a  pleasant  emotion: 
inconoTuity  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- 
gniity  aaer  a  momentaiy  existence,  vanisheth  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  esteem  ;  when  improper,  we 
punish  him  with  our  contempt.     Let  us  suppose,  for  example,  a  gen- 
erous action  suited  to  the  character  of  the  author,  which  raises  in 
him  and  in  every  spectator  the  pleasant  emotion  of  propriety  :  this 
emotion  generates  in  the  author  both  self-esteem  and  joy ;  the  for- 
mer 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  produceth  in  the  spectators  esteem 
for  the  author  of  the  action  ;  and  when  they  think  of  themselves,  it 
also  produceth  by  contrast  an  emotion  of  humility.    To  discover  the 
effects  of  an  unsuitable  action,  we  must  invert  each  of  these  circum- 
stances :  the  painful  emotion  of  impropriety  generates  m  the  author 
of  the  action  both  humility  and  shame  ;  the  former  when  he  con- 
siders his  relation  to  the  acrion,  and  the  latter  when  he  considers 
what  others  will  think  of  him :  the  same  emotion  of  impropriety 
produceth  in  the  spectators  contempt  for  the  author  of  the  action ; 
and  it  also  produceth,  by  contrast  when  they  think  of  themselves, 
an  emotion  of  self-esteem.     Here,  then,  are  many  different  emotions, 
derived  from  the  same  action  considered  in  diffeient  views  by  ditter- 
ent  pei-sons ;  a  machine  provided  with  many  spnngs,  and  not  a  httle 
complicated.     Propriety  of  action,  it  would  seem,  is  a  favorite  ot 
Nature,  or  of  the  Author  of  Nature,  when  such  care  and  solicitude 
is  bestowed  on  it.    It  is  not  left  to  our  own  choice  ;  but  like  justice 
is  required  at  our  hands:  and,  like  justice,  is  enforced  by  natural 
rewards  and  punishments ;  a  man  cannot,  with  impumty,  do  any 
thing  unbecoming  or  improper ;  he  suffers  the  chastisement  of  con- 
tempt inflicted  by  others,  and  of  shame  inflicted  by  himself.     An 

290  The  effects  of  the  relaticns  of  oor.pruity  and  propriety  upon  ^^e  mind  of  the  be- 
holder -The  effect  of  Incongruity  different  from  that  of  impropriety.  Case  of  sight  in- 
„^lirnir,r  •  nf  nronrietv  and  Imnrobriety.— Effects  <t  a  suitable  generous  action,  in  the 
S^cft  aaS  Wec^t^?    Kt^aKf  aa  Unsuitable  action.~Proprlety  of  «:tl<«,  bow  en- 


<X)NOKTJITT  AND  PROPRIETY.  189 

apparatus  so  complicated,  and  so  singular,  ought  to  rouse  our  atten- 
tion :  for  nature  doth  nothing  in  vain  ;  and  we  may  conclude  with 
certainty,  that  this  cunous  branch  of  the  human  constitution  is  in- 
tended for  some  valuable  purpose. 

291.  A  gross  impropriety  is  punished  with  contempt  and  indig- 
nation, which  are  vented  against  the  offender  by  external  expressions ; 
nor  is  even  the  slightest  impropriety  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  im- 
proprieties 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  jjeculiar  sort  of  laugh, 
termed  a  laugh  of  derision  or  scorn.  (See  chapter  vii.)  An  im 
propriety  that  thus  moves  not  only  contempt  but  laughter,  is  distin- 
guished by  the  epithet  of  ridiculous  ;  and  a  laugh  of  derision  oi 
scorn  is  the  punishment  provided  for  it  by  nature.  Nor  ought  it  to 
escape  observation,  that  we  are  so  fond  of  inflicting  that  punishment, 
as  sometimes  to  exert  it  even  against  creatures  of  an  inferior  species ; 
witness  a  turkey-cock  swelling  with  pride,  and  sti-utting  with  dis- 
played feathers,  which  in  a  gay  mood  is  apt  to  provoke  a  laugh  of 
derision. 

We  must  not  expect  that  these  different  improprieties  are  sepa- 
rated by  distinct  boundaries ;  for  of  improprieties,  from  the  slightest 
to  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,  the 
spectator  feels  a  sort  of  mixed  emotion,  partaking  both  of  derision 
and  of  auger ;  which  accounts  for  an  expression,  common  with  respect 
to  the  impropriety  of  some  actions.  Thus  we  know  not  whether  to 
laugh  or  be  angry. 

292.  It  cannot  fail  to  be  observed,  that  in  the  case  of  a  risible 
impropriety,  which  is  always  slight,  the  contempt  we  have  for  the 
offender  is  extremely  faint,  though  derision,  its  gratification,  is  ex- 
tremely pleasant.  This  disproportion  between  a  passion  and  ita 
gratification,  may  seem  not  conformable  to  the  analogy  of  nature. 
In  looking  about  for  a  solution,  I  reflect  upon  what  is  laid  down 
above,  that  an  improper  action  not  only  moves  our  contempt  for  the 
author,  but  also,  by  means  of  contrast,  swells  the  good  opinion  we 
have  of  ourselves.  This  contributes,  more  than  any  other  paiticular, 
to  the  pleasure  we  have  in  ridiculing  follies  and  absurdities ;  and 
accordingly,  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, 

291.  How  m  groes  iroproprioty  is  punished  ;  how  that  of  a  sliKbter  kind.    Dcp'c^s  at 


190      '  CONGEtJfTY  AND  PROf»RIETT, 

would  singly  be  sufficient  to  account  for  the  pleasure  of  ridicule, 
without  borrowing  any  aid  fiom  contempt.  Hence  appears  the 
reason  of  a  noted  observation,  That  vre  are  the  most  disposed^  to 
ridicule  the  blunders  and  absurdities  of  others,  when  we  are  iu  high 
spirits;  for  in  high  spirits,  self-conceit  displays  itself  with  more  than 
ordinary  vigor. 

293.  Having  with  wary  steps  traced  an  intricate  roac',  not  with- 
out danger  of  wandering,  Avhat  remains  to  complete  our  jouniey,  ia 
to  account  for  the  final  cause  of  congmity  and  propriety,  whieh 
makes  so  great  a  figure  in  the  human  constitution.  One  final  cause, 
regarding  congruity,  is  pretty  obvious,  that  the  sense  of  congi-uity, 
as'oue  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  (see  chapter  iii.),  and  need  not  be  enlarged 
upon  here.  Congruity,  indeed,  with  respect  to  quantity,  coincides 
with  proportion ;  when  the  parts  of  a  building  are  nicely  adjusted 
to  each  other,  it  may  be  said  indiff"erently,  that  it  is  agreeable  by 
the  congmity  of  its  parts,  or  by  the  proportion  of  its  parts.  But 
propiiety,  which  regards  voluntary  agents  only,  can_  never  be  the 
same  with  proportion  :  a  very  long  nose  is  disproportioned,  but  can- 
not be  tei-med  improper.  In  some  instances,  it  is  true,  impropriety 
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  the  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. 

294.  The  sense  of  improprietv  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  com- 
pared 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  coming.  It  is  well 
6rdered,  that  even  the  most  innocent  blunder  is  not  committed  with 
impunity ;  because,  were  errors  licensed  where  they  do  no  hurt,  in- 
attention 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 
others  must  be  distinguished  from  those  that  respect  ourselves.  _  Fi- 
dehty,  gratitude,  and  abstinence  from  injury,  are  examples  of  the 
first  sort;  temperance,  modesty,  firmness  of  mind,  are  examples  of 
the  other  :  the  former  are  made  duties  by  the  sense  of  justice  ;  the 
latter  by  the  sense  of  propriety.  Here  is  a  final  cause  of  the  sense 
of  propriety  that  will  rouse  our  attention.     It  is  undoubtedly  the 

292.  Case  of  «  risible  Impropriety.— Why  derisioa  Is  pleasant  nmnor. 

898.  Final  can»«  of  coDgrulty  and  P^Prfe^y;    C*®?™**^  *'r'?,^''^^wl^SSS^ 
Mw ;  vruprloty  uev»r.    I»rtau(4-Iu8t«iic«  of  lmi>roprlety  oolncWmg  M\h  dJsproportiou. 


CONGRmTT  AND  1»R01»RIE1T.  J  91 

interest  of  everr  man  to  suit  his  behavior  to  the  di-mity  of  his 
nature,  and  to  the  station  allotted  him  by  Providence  :  for  such  ra- 
tional conduct  contributes  in  every  respect  to  happiness,  by  pre- 
serving health,  by  procuring  plenty,  by  gaining  the  esteem  of  others, 
and,  which  of  all  is  the  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  authority  of  duty  is  super- 
added to  the  motive  of  interest.  The  God  of  Nature,  in  all  things 
essential  to  our  happiness,  hath  observed  one  uniform  method  :  to 
keep  us  steady  in  our  conduct,  he  hath  fortified  us  with  natural  laws 
and  principles,  preventive  of  many  aberrations,  which  would  daily 
happen  were  we  totally  surrendered  to  so  fallible  a  guide  as  is  hu- 
man reason.  Propriety  cannot  rightly  be  considered  in  another 
light  tlian  as  the  natural  law  that  regulates  our  conduct  with  respect 
to  oui"selves ;  as  justice  is  the  natural  law  that  regulates  our  conduct 
with  respect  to  others.  I  call  propriety  a  law,  no  less  than  justice  ; 
because  both  are  equally  rules  of  conduct  that  ought  to  be  obeyed  : 
propriety  includes  that  obligation  ;  for  to  say  an  action  is  proper,  is 
in  other  words  to  say,  that  it  ought  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  should  which  makes  justice  a 
law  to  us ;  and  the  same  character  is  applicable  to  propriety,  though 
perhaps  more  faintly  than  to  justice ;  but  the  difference  is  in  degree 
only,  not  in  kind  ;  and  we  ought,  without  hesitation  and  reluctance, 
to  submit  equally  to  the  government  of  both. 

295.  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  pun- 
ishments ;  which  evidently  prove  the  one  to  be  a  law  as  well  as  the  other. 
The  satisfaction  a  man  hath  in  doing  his  duty,  joined  to  the  esteem 
and  good-will  of  othei-s,  is  the  reward  that  belongs  to  both  equally. 
The  punishments  also,  though  not  the  same,  are  nearly  allied  ;  and 
differ  in  degi'ee  more  than  in  quality.  Disobedience  to  the  law  of 
justice  is  punished  with  remorse ;  disobedience  to  the  law  of  pro- 
priety, with  shame,  which  is  remorse  in  a  lower  degree.  Every 
transgression  of  the  law  of  justice  raises  indignation  in  the  beholder ; 
and  so  doth  every  flagrant  transgression  of  the  law  of  propriety. 
Slighter  improprieties  receive  a  milder  punishment:  they  are  always 
rebuked  with  some  degree  of  contempt,  and  frequently  with  derision. 
In  general,  it  is  true,  that  the  rewards  and  punishments  annexed  to 
the  sense  of  propriety  are  slighter  in  degree  than  those  annexed  to 
the  sense  of  justice  ;  which  is  wisely  ordered,  because  duty  to  otliei-s 
is  still  more  essential  to  society  than  duty  to  ourselves  :  society,  in- 

294.  Sense  of  Improprltsty  with  respect  to  blunders,  Ac.,  beneficial. — Final  c»u3«  of  proi 
priety  as  to  mora)  duties;  tliose  that  respect  others  and  ourselves  distinguished. — ^Th» 
conduct  which  self-lnt«rest  prompts. — AVhat  motive  is  added  to  self-lnteresL— Propriety 
and  justice,  natural  laws  of  conduct. 

295.  Sanctions  of  rewards  and  puiii.slin)e»ts,  appended  to  proprety  and  ]aatle«.  Tb«ir 
ktnd»  and  d«>gi-e«9k 


192  DIGNITT  AND  GRACE. 

4eed,  could  cot  subsist  a  moment,  were  individuals  not  protected 
from  the  headstrong  and  turbulent  passions  of  their  neighbors. 

296.  The  final  cause  now  unfolded  of  the  sense  of  propriety,  must, 
to  every  diocerning  eye,  appear  delightful ;  and  yet  this  is  but  a 
partial  view ;  for  that  sense  reaches  another  illustrious  end,  which  is, 
in  conjunction  with  the  sense  of  justice,  to  enforce  the  performance 
of  social  duties.  In  fact,  the  sanctions  visibly  contrived  to  compel  a 
man  to  be  just  to  himself,  are  equally  serviceable  to  compel  him  to 
be  just  to  otliers ;  which  will  be  evident  from  a  single  reflection, 
that  an  action,  by  being  unjust,  ceases  not  to  be  improper :  an  action 
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  duty  to  one's  self. 
This  is  a  plain  truth  without  exaggeration ;  and  it  opens  a  new  and 
enchanting  view  in  the  moral  landscape,  the  prospect  being  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  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:  considered  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  imj^ropriety  of  the  action.  When  the  action  is 
considered  as  unjust,  it  occasions  another  set  of  feelings :  in  the 
author  it  produces  remorse,  and  a  dread  of  merited  punishment; 
and  in  othei-s,  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  punishments  provided  by  nature  for  injustice. 
Stupid  and  insensible  must  he  be,  who,  in  a  contrivance  so  exquisite, 
perceives  not  the  benevolent  hand  of  our  Creator. 


CHAPTER  XL 


DIGNriY   AND    GRACE. 


297.  The  terms  dignity  and  meanness  are  applied  to  man  in  point 
of  character,  sentiment,  and  behavior :  we  say,  for  example,  of  one 

296.  Sense  of  propriety  and  of  justice  enforces  social  duties. — Duty  to  otiiere  is  also  Mlf- 
dnty.    KTomplo;  nn  AOtoTln^stitnda 


DiaNTTT  AND  GBACE.  198 

man,  that  he  hath  natural  dignity  in  his  air  and  manner ;  of  another, 
that  he  makes  a  mean  figure :  we  perceive  dignity  in  every  action 
and  sentiment  of  some  persons ;  meanness  and  vulgarity  in  the  ac- 
tions and  sentiments  of  others.  With  respect  to  the  fine  arts,  some 
performances  are  said  to  be  manly,  and  suitable  to  the  dignity  of 
human  nature  ;  others  are  termed  low,  mean,  trivial.  Such  expres- 
sions 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  what  these  terms  truly  import ;  which  possibly  may  enable 
us  to  rank  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 
built  may  be  lofty,  may  be  grand,  but  it  has  no  relation  to  dignity : 
the  most  diminutive  shrub  may  be  little,  but  it  is  not  mean.  These 
teiTOS  must  belong  to  sensitive  beings,  probably  to  man  only ;  which 
will  be  evident  when  we  advance  in  the  inquiry. 

298.  Human  actions  appear  in  many  different  lights :  in  them- 
selves they  appear  grand  or  little ;  with  respect  to  the  author,  they 
appear  proper  or  improper ;  \sath  respect  to  those  affected  by  them, 
just  or  unjust;  and  I  now  add,  that  they  are  also  distinguished  by 
dignity  and  meanness.  If  any  one  incline  to  think,  that,  with  re- 
spect to  human  actions,  dignity  coincides  witli  grandeur,  and  mean- 
ness with  littleness,  the  difference  will  be  evident  upon  reflecting, 
that  an  action  may  be  grand  without  being  virtuous,  and  little  with- 
out being- faulty  ;  but  that  we  never  attribute  dignity  to  any  action 
but  what  is  virtuous,  nor  meanness  to  any  but  what  is  faulty.  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  frequently  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  coun- 
try :  Caesar,  in  a  march,  taking  opportunity  of  a  rivulet  to  quench 
his  thirst,  did  a  low  action,  but  the  action  was  not  mean. 

299.  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  more 
perfect  than  that  of  the  other  beings  around  him ;  and  he  perceives 
that  the  perfection  of  his  nature  consists  in  virtue,  particularly  in 
virtues  of  the  highest  rank.  To  express  that  sense,  the  term  dignitij 
is  appropriated.  Further,  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 

297.  In  what  respects  the  terms  dignity  and  meanness  are  applied  to  roan  ;  and  to  th* 
fine  arts.    Not  applicable  to  inanlmnte  things. 

298.  Different  lights  In  wliicli  human  actions  may  b«  Tiewed.— The  dignity  of  an  nctloo 
»ot  coincident  with  grandeur. — Otesar. 


194  DIGNITY  AKD  GEACE. 

duty  every  man  owes  to  himself.  By  acting  in  that  manner,  bo  at- 
tracts love  and  esteem :  by  acting  meanly,  or  below  himself,  he  ia 
disapproved  and  contemned. 

According  to  the  description  here  given  of  dignity  and  meanness, 
they  appear  to  be  a  species  of  propriety  and  impropriety.  Many 
actions  may  be  proper  or  improper,  to  which  dignity  or  meanness 
cannot  be  applied :  to  eat  when  one  is  hungry,  is  proper,  but  there 
is  no  dignity  in  that  action :  revenge  fairly  taken,  if  against  law,  is 
improper,  but  not  mean.  But  every  action  of  dignity  is  also  proper, 
and  every  mean  action  is  also  improper. 

300.  This  sense  of  the  dignity  of  human  nature  reaches  even  our 
pleasures  and  amusements :  if  they  enlarge  the  mind  by  raising 
grand  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  tenned  manly  ;  and  every 
occupation  below  his  nature,  is  termed  childish. 

To  those  who  study  human  nature,  there  is  a  point  which  has  al- 
ways 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  contribute  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 
make  on  us.  Justice  and  good-nature  are  a  sort  of  negative  virtues, 
that  scarce  make  any  impression  but  when  they  are  transgressed : 
courage  and  generosity,  on  the  contraiy,  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  jn 
higher  regard  than  the  other  virtues  mentioned :  we  describe  them 
as  grand  and  elevated,  as  of  greater  dignity,  and  more  praiseworthy. 

301.  This  leads  us  to  examine  more  directly  emotions  and  pas- 
sions with  respect  to  the  present  subject ;  and  it  will  not  be  difficult 
to  form  a  scale  of  them,  beginning  with  the  meanest,  and  ascending 
gradually  to  those  of  the  highest  rank  and  dignity.  Pleasure  felt  at 
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,  pereons  of  any  delicacy  dissemble  the  pleasure  they  take  in 
eating  and  drinking.     The  pleasures  of  the  eye  and  ear,  having  no 

299.  Dignity  and  meanness  founded  on  a  certain  natural  principle. — Dignity  and  mean- 
ness are  a  species  of  propriety  and  impropriety. 

300.  Pleasures  and  amupements,  when  dignified  and  manly.— How  it  happens  that  gen- 
erosity and  courage  are  more  esteemed  and  bestow  more  dignity  than  good-nature,  or  er«» 
Justice. 


DIONrrY  AND  GRACE.  195 

organic  feeling  (see  the  Introduction),  find  being  free  from  any  sense 
of  meanness,  are  indulged  without  any  shame :  they  even  rise  to  a 
certain  degree  of  dignity  when  their  objects  are  gi-and  or  elevated. 
The  same  is  the  case  of  the  sympathetic  passions :  a  virtuous  pei-son 
behaving  with  fortitude  and  dignity  under  cruel  misfortunes,  makes 
a  capital  figure ;  and  the  sympathizing  spectator  feels  in  himself  the 
same  dignity.  Sympathetic  distress  at  the  same  time  never  is  mean : 
on  the  contrary,  it  is  agreeable  to  the  nature  of  a  social  being,  and 
has  general  approbation.  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  be 
stowed  on  a  person  of  inferior  rank  without  any  extraordinary  quali- 
fication :  but  when  founded  on  the  more  elevated  internal  properties, 
it  assumes  a  considerable  degree  of  dignity.  The  same  is  the  case 
of  friendship.  Wlien  gratitude  is  warm,  it  animates  the  mind ;  but 
it  scarce  rises  to  dignity.  Joy  bestows  dignity  when  it  proceeds 
from  an  elevated  cause. 

302.  If  I  can  depend  upon  induction,  dignity  is  not  a  property 
of  any  disagreeable  passion :  one  is  slight,  another  severe ;  one  de- 
presses the  mind,  another  animates  it ;  but  there  is  no  elevation,  far 
less  dignity,  in  any  of  them.  Revenge  in  particular,  though  it  in- 
flame and  swell  the  mind,  is  not  accompanied  with  dignity,  nor  even 
with  elevation :  it  is  not,  however,  felt  as  mean  or  grovelling,  unless 
when  it  takes  indirect  measures  for  gratification.  Shame  and  re- 
mote, though  they  sink  the  spirits,  are  not  mean.  Piide,  a  disagree- 
able passiouj  bestows  no  dignity  ju  the  eye  of  a  spectator.  Vanity 
always  appears  mean;  and  extremely  so  where  founded,  as  com- 
monly happens,  on  trivial  qualifications. 

303.  I  proceed  to  the  pleasures  of  the  understanding,  which  pos- 
sess a  high  rank  in  point  of  dignity.  Of  this  every  one  will  be  sen- 
sible, 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  worids.  The  pleasures  of  the 
understanding  are  suited  to  man  as  a  rational  and  contemplative  be- 
ing; and  they  tend  not  a  little  to  ennoble  his  nature:  even  to  the 
Deity  he  stretcheth  his  contemplations,  which,  in  the  discovery  of 
infinite  power,  wisdom,  and  benevolence,  afibrd  delight  of  the  most 
exalted  kind.  Hence  it  appeare  that  the  fine  arts,  studied  as  a  ra- 
tional science,  afford  entertainment  of  great  dignity ;  superior  fer  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 
than  a  contemplative  being.  He  accordingly  shows  more  dignity  in 
action  than  in  contemplation:  generosity,  magnanimity,  heroism, 

801.  Scale  of  emotions  and  passions  with  respect  to  dimity 
?02.  Dignity  does  not  belong  to  any  disagreeable  passion. 


196  DIGNITT  AND  GRACE. 

raise  his  character  to  the  highest  pitch ;  these  best  express  the  dig^ 
nity  of  his  nature,  and  advance  him  nearer  to  divinity  than  any  other 
of  his  attiibutes. 

304.  By  every  production  that  shows  art  and  contrivance,  our 
cuiiosity  is  excited  upon  two  points:  first,  how  it  was  made ;  and 
next,  to  what  end.  Of  the  two,  the  latter  is  tlie  more  important  in- 
quiry, because  the  means  are  ever  subordinate  to  the  end  ;  and,  in 
fact,  our  cuiiosity  is  always  more  inflamed  by  the  Jinal  than  by  the 
efficient  cause.  This  preference  is  nowhere  more  visible  than  in 
contemplating  the  works  of  nature  :  if  in  the  efficient  cause  wisdom 
and  power  be  displayed,  wisdom  is  no  less  conspicuous  in  the  final 
cause ;  and  from  it  only  can  we  infer  benevolence,  which,  of  all  the 
divine  attributes,  is  to  man  the  most  important. 

305.  Having  endeavored  to  assign  the  efficient  cause  of  dignity 
and  meanness,  by  unfolding  the  principle  on  which  they  are  founded, 
we  proceed  to  explain  the  final  cause  of  the  dignity  or  meanness  be- 
stowed upon  the  several  particulars  above  mentioned,  beginning  with 
corporeal  pleasures.  These,  as  far  as  usual,  are,  like  justice,  fenced 
with  sufiicient  sanctions  to  prevent  their  being  neglected  :  hunger 
and  thirst  are  painful  sensations ;  and  we  are  incited  to  animal  love 
by  a  vigorous  propensity :  were  corporeal  pleasures  dignified  over 
and  above  with  a  place  in  a  high  class,  they  would  infallibly  disturb 
the  balance  of  the  mind  by  outweighing  the  social  affections.  This 
is  a  satisfactory  final  cause  for  refusing  to  these  pleasures  any  degit^e 
of  dignity ;  and  the  final  cause  is  no  less  evident  of  their  meanness 
when  they  are  indulged  to  excess..  The  more  refined  pleasures  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  dignitj',  and  the  very  lowest  pleasures  of  the  kind  are 
never  esteemed  mean  or  groveUing.  The  pleasure  arising  fi-om  wit, 
humor,  ridicule,  or  from  what  is  simply  ludicrous,  is  useful,  by  re- 
laxing the  mind  after  the  fatigue  of  more  manly  occupation ;  but 
the  mind,  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 


*  Nequo  enim  ita  generati  i  natura  sumus,  ut  ad  ludum  et  jocum  facti  esse 
videamur,  sed  ad  severitatem  potius  et  ad  qusedam  studia  graviora  atque  ma- 
jora.  Ludo  autem  et  joco,  uti  illis  qnidem  licet,  sed  sicut  Romno  et  quietibiiB 
cscteris,  turn  cum  gravibus  seriibque  rebus  satisfecerimus. — Cicero  de  ojjic.  lib.  1- 

803.  The  pleasures  of  the  understanding.— Man  shows  mor«  dignity  in  action  than  ii 
•ontemplalion. 

804.  iSxiA  and  eSQcteot  c»ums. 


DIGNITY  AND  ORACK.  197 

if  it  have  engrossed  more  of  his  time  than  is  requisite  for  relaxation, 
he  looks  back  with  some  degree  of  shame. 

30(5.  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  selfish. 

The  excellency  of  man  is  chiefly  discernible  in  the  great  im- 
provements he  is  susceptible  of  in  society ;  these,  by  perseverance, 
may  be  carried  on  progiessively  above  any  assignable  limits ;  and, 
even  abstracting  from  revelation,  there  is  great  probability  that  tlie 
progress  begun  here  will  be  con/pleted  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  Sense  of  these  faculties,  hath  assigned  a  high  rank  to  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  understanding  :  tWir  utility,  with  respect  to  this  life  as 
well  as  a  future,  entitles  them  <o  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  different  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 
society  ;  and  magnanimity,  heroism,  undaunted  courage,  rise  still 
higher  in  our  esteem.  One  would  readily  think  that  the  moral 
virtues  should  be  esteemed  according  to  their  importance.  Nature 
has  here  deviated  from  her  ordinary  path,  and  great  wisdom  is  shown 
in  the  deviation  :  the  efficient  cause  is  explained  above,  and  the 
final  cause  explained  in  the  Essays  of  Morality  and  Natural  Re^ 
ligion.   (Part  I.  Essay  ii.  chapter  iv.) 

307.  We  proceed  to  analyze  grace,  which,  being  in  a  good  meas- 
ure an  uncultivated  field,  requires  more  than  ordinary  labor. 

Graceful  is  an  attribute  :  grace  and  gracefulness  express  that  attii- 
bute  in  the  form  of  a  noun. 

That  this  attribute  is  agreeable,  no  one  doubts. 

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,  ap- 
pears from  induction  ;  for  it  is  not  an  object  of  smell,  nor  of  taste, 
nor  of  touch.  Is  it  an  object  of  heanng  ?  Some  music,  indeed,  is 
termed  graceful ;  but  that  expression  is  metaphorical,  as  when  we 
say  of  othei-  music  that  it  is  beautiful :  the  latter  metaphor,  at  the 
satne  time,  is  more  sweet  and  easy,  whif;h  shows  how  little  applica- 

30\  Final  cause  of  the  meanness  of  corporeal  pleasures;  especially  when  Indulged  to 
excess. — Plonsuns  of  the  ej'e  and  ear,  how  to  be  regarded.  Those  from  wit,  humor,  «to., 
when  are  tlioy  digniflfd? 

8''(5.  Why  the  social  emotions  rise  in  onr  estiniHtion  shove  the  selfish. — Why  a  hijrh 
rank  is  u:>sigDed  to  the  i>leasures  of  the  understanding.— Tlie  rauk  which  virtaoob  actiuDi 
occupy. 


198    '  D13NITT  AND  GEACE. 

ble  to  music  or  to  sound  tlie  former  is  wlien  taken  in  its  proper 
sense. 

That  it  is  an  attribute  of  man,  is  beyond  dispute.  But  of  what 
other  beings  is  it  also  aa  attribute  ?  We  perceive  at  fii-st  sight  that 
nothing  inanimate  is  entitled  to  that  epithet.  What  animal,  then, 
besides  man,  is  entitled  ?  Surely  not  an  elephant,  nor  even  a  Hon.  A 
horse  may  have  a  dehcate  shape  with  a  lofty  mien,  and  all  his  mo- 
tions may  be  exquisite  ;  but  he  is  never  said  to  be  graceful.  Beauty 
and  grandeur  are  common  to  man  with  some  other  beings ;  but  dig- 
nity is  not  applied  to  any  being  inferior  to  man ;  and,  upon  the 
strictest  examination,  the  same  appears  to  hold  in  grace. 

308.  Confining  then  grace  to  man,  the  next  inquiry  is  whether, 
like  beauty,  it  makes  a  constant  appearance,  or  in  some  circum- 
stances only.  Does  a  person  display  this  attribute  at  rest  as  well  as 
in  motion,  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 
fi'om  motion  as  opposed  to  rest,  and  as  comprehending  speech,  looks, 
gestures,  and  locomotion. 

As  some  motions  are  homely,  the  opposite  to  graceful,  the  next 
inquiry  is,  with  what  motions  is  this  attribute  connected  ?  No  man 
appears  graceful  in  a  mask;  and,  therefore,  laying  aside  the  ex- 
pressions of  the  countenance,  the  other  motions  may  be  genteel, 
may  be  elegant,  but  of  themselves  never  are  graceful.  A  motion 
adjusted  in  the  most  perfect  manner  to  answer  its  end,  is  elegant ; 
but  still  somewhat  more  is  required  to  complete  our  idea  of  grace 
or  gracefulness. 

What  this  unknown  more  may  be,  is  the  nice  point.  One  thing 
is  clear  from  what  is  said,  that  this  more  must  arise  from  the  ex- 
pression of  the  countenance  :  and  from  what  expressions  so  naturally 
■Jis  from  those  which  indicate  mental  qualities,  such  as  sweetness, 
benevolence,  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. 

309.  The  next  step  is,  to  examine  what  are  the  mental  qualities, 
that,  in  conjunction  with  elegance  of  motion,  produce  a  gracefiil 
appearance.  Sweetness,  cheerfulness,  affability,  are  not  separately 
fiufficient,  nor  even  in  conjunction.  As  it  appears  to  me,  dignity 
alone,  with  elegant  motion,  may  produce  a  graceful  appearance  ;  but 
6till  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 

807.  Grace  an  object  of  slslit    Applicable  only  to  man. 

808.  Grace  inseparable  from  motion.    Definition  given.— Not  all  motions  are  graceful 
Tljosa  )f  the  countenance  indicating  mental  qualities. 


RIDICULE.  199 

person  whose  countenance  has  little  expression  :  such  a  person  can- 
not be  graceful.  Therefore,  to  produce  this  appearance,  we  must 
add  another  circumstance,  namely,  an  expressive  countenance,  dis- 
playing 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  heio-ht- 
en  it  greatly. 

Of  all  external  objects,  a  graceful  person  is  the  most  agreeable. 

Dancing  aftbrds  great  opportunity  for  displaying  grace,  and  ha- 
ranguing still  more. 

1  conclude  with  the  following  reflection  :  That  in  vain  will  a  per- 
son attempt  to  be  gi-aceful,  who  is  deficient  in  amiable  qualities.  A 
man,  it  is  true,  may  form  an  idea  of  qualities  he  is  destitute  of;  and, 
by  means  of  that  idea,  may  endeavor  to  express  those  qualities  by 
looks  and  gestures ;  but  such  studied  expression  will  be  too  faint  and 
obscure  to  be  graceful. ' 


CHAPTER  Xn. 


RIDICULE. 


310.  To  define  ridicule  has  puzzled  and  vexed  every  critic.  The 
definition  given  by  Aristotle  is  obscure  and  imperfect.  (Poet.  cap.  v.) 
Cicero  handles  it  at  great  length  (L.  ii.  De  Oratore),  but  without 
giving  any  satisfaction :  he  wanders  in  the  dark,  and  misses  the 
distinction  between  risible  and  ridiculous.  Quintilian  is  sensible 
of  the  distinction,*  but  has  not  attempted  to  explain  it.  Luck- 
ily this  subject  lies  no  longer  in  obscurity :  a  risible  object  pro- 
duceth  an  emotion  of  laughter  merely  (see  chapter  vii.) :  a  ridicu- 
lous object  is  improper  as  well  as  risible,  and  produceth  a  mixed 
emotion,  which  is  vented  by  a  laugh  of  derision  or  scorn.  (See 
chapter  x.) 

Having,  therefore,  happily  unravelled  the  knotty  part,  I  proceed 
to  other  particulars. 

Burlesque,  though  a  great  engine  of  ridicule,  is  not  confined  to 


*  Ideoque  nnceps  ejus  rei  ratio  est,  quod  a  derisu  non  procul  abost  risnc  — 
Lib.  VL  cap.  iii.  sect.  1. 


809.  "What  mental  qualities.  Joined  with  ele^nce  of  motion,  prodaco  «  gitkceftil  spixMU" 
«ncc— Grace  ieflnod.— Concluding  reflection. 


200  RIDICULE. 

that  subject ;  for  it  is  clearly  distinguisliable  into  burlesque  that 
excites  laughter  merely,  and  burlesque  that  provokes  deiision  or  rid- 
icuile.  A  grave  subject  in  which  there  is  no  impropriety,  may  be 
brought  down  by  a  certain  coloiing  so  as  to  be  risible  ;  which  is  the 
case  of  Virgil  Travestie,  and  also  the  case  of  the  Secchia  Rapita : 
the  authors  laugh  first,  in  order  to  make  their  readers  laugh.  The 
Lutrin  is  a  burlesque  poem  of  the  other  sort,  laying  hold  of  a  low 
aud  trifling  incident,  to  expose  the  luxury,  indolence,  and  contentious 
spii-it  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  compo- 
sition of  this  kind,  no  image  professedly  ludicrous  ought  to  find 
quarter,  because  such  images  destroy  the  contrast ;  and,  accord- 
ingly, the  author  shows  always  the  grave  face,  and  never  once  betrays 
a  smile. 

311.  Though  the  burlesque  that  aims  at  ridicule  produces  its 
effect  by  elevating  the  style  far  above  the  subject,  yet  it  has  limits 
beyond  which  the  elevation  ought  not  to  be  carried  :  the  poet,  con- 
sulting the  imagination  of  his  readers,  ought  to  confine  himself  to 
such  images  as  are  lively,  and  readily  apprehended  :  a  strained  ele- 
vation, soaring  above  an  ordinary  reach  of  fancy,  makes  not  a  pleasant 
impression  :  the  reader,  fatigued  with  being  always  upon  the  stretch, 
is  soon  disgusted  ;  and  if  he  persevere,  becomes  thoughtless  and  in 
different.  Further,  a  fiction  gives  no  pleasure  unless  it  be  painted 
in  colors  so  lively  as  to  produce  some  perception  of  reality  ;  whicl 
never  can  be  done  effectually  where  the  images  are  formed  witl 
iabor  or  difficulty.  For  these  reasons,  I  cannot  avoid  condemning 
the  Batrachomuomachia,  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  form  a  conception  of  the  reality  of  such  an 
action,  in  any  manner  so  distinct  as  to  interest  our  affections  even  in 
the  slightest  degi-ee. 

The  Rape  of  the  Lock  is  of  a  character  clearly  distinguishable 
from  those  now  mentioned  :  it  is  not  properly  a  burlesque  perform- 
ance, but  what  may  rather  be  termed  a  heroi-comical  poem :  it 
treats  a  gay  and  famihar  subject  with  pleasantry,  and  with  a  mod- 
erate degree  of  dignity ;  the  author  puts  not  on  a  mask  like  Boileau, 
nor  professes  to  make  us  laugh  like  Tassoni.  The  Rape  of  the  Lock 
is  a  genteel  species  of  writing,  less  strained  than  those  mentioned  ; 
and  is  pleasant  or  ludicrous  without  having  ridicule  for  its  chief  aini ; 
giving  way,  however,  to  ridicule  where  it  arises  naturally  from  a 
particular  character,  such  as  that  of  Sir  Plume.     Addison's  Specta- 

810.  A  risible  distinguished  from  a  ridiculous  object— Burlesque  of  two  kinds.  Ex- 
wiiples. 

811.  Of  the  burlesquo  that  alms  at  ridicule,  its  appropriate  style.— Jfop«  ofiinUck 
criticised. 


KHjictn^K.  201 

fc>r  "apon  the  exercise  of  the  fan  (No.  102),  is  extremely  gay  and  lu- 
dicrous, resembling  in  its  subject  the  Rape  of  the  Lock, 

812.  Humor  belongs  to  the  present  chapter,  because  it  is  connect^ 
ed  with  ridicule.  Congreve  defines  humor  to  be  "a  singular  and 
unavoidable  manner  of  doing  or  saying  any  thing,  peculiar  and 
natural  to  one  man  only,  by  which  his  speech  and  actions  are  dis- 
tinguished from  those  of  other  men."  Weie  this  definition  just,  a 
majestic  and  commanding  air,  which  is  a  singular  property,  is  hu- 
mor ;  as  also  a  natural  flow  of  correct  and  commanding  eloquence, 
which  is  no  less  singular.  Nothing  just  or  proper  is  denominated 
humor ;  nor  any  singularity  of  character,  words,  or  actions,  that  is 
valued  or  respected.  When  we  attend  to  the  character  ©f  a  humor- 
ist, we  find  that  it  arises  from  circumstances  both  risible  and  im- 
proper, and  therefore  that  it  lessens  the  man  in  our  esteem,  and 
makes  him  in  some  measure  ridiculous,  [Wordsworth  gives  the 
following  representation  of  a  true  English  ploughboy  : 

Hi8  joints  are  stiff; 
Beneath  a  cumbrous  frock,  that  to  the  knees 
Invests  the  thriving  churl,  his  legs  appear, 
Fellows  to  those  which  lustily  upheld 
The  wooden  stools,  for  everlasting  use. 
On  which  our  fulliers  sate.    And  mark  his  broflr  I 
Under  whose  shaggy  canopy  are  set 
Two  eyes,  not  dim,  but  of  a  healthy  stare ; 
Wide,  sluggish,  blank,  and  ignorant,  and  strange ; 
Proclaiming  boldly  that  they  never  drew 
A  look  or  motion  of  intelligence 
From  infant  conning  of  the  Christ-cross  row, 
Or  puzzling  through  a  primer,  line  by  line, 
Till  perfect  mastery  crown  the  pains  at  last.  Secursion. 

There  is,  says  Prof  Wilson,  in  the  above  lines,  a  kind  of  forcible 
humor  which  may  remind  the  reader  of  Cowper's  manner  in  the 
Task.  The  versification  is  good,  and  gives  so  much  point  to  the 
thoughts,  that  it  should  seem  as  if  custom,  rather  than  necessity, 
had  caused  all  satires,  from  Donne  to  Churchill,  to  be  written  in 
rhyme.] 

Humor  in  writing  is  very  diflferent  from  humor  in  character. 
When  an  author  insists  upon  ludicrous  subjects  with  a  professed 
purpose  to  make  his  readers  laugh,  he  may  be  styled  a  ludicrous 
writer;  but  is  scarce  entitled  to  be  styled  a  writer  of  humor.  This 
quality  belongs  to  an  author,  who,  aftecting  to  be  grave  and  serious, 
paints  his  objects  in  such  colors  as  to  provoke  mirth  and  laughter. 
A  writer  that  is  really  a  humorist  in  character,  does  this  without 
design  :  if  not,  he  must  affect  the  character  in  order  to  succeed. 
Swift  and  Fontaine  were  humorists  in  character,  and  their  writings 
are  full  of  humor.  Addison  was  not  a  humorist  in  character  ;  and 
yet  in  his  prose  writings  a  most  delicate  and  refined  humor  prevails. 
Arbuthnot  exceeds  them  all  in  drollery  and  humorous  painting; 
which  shows  a  great  genius,  because,  if  I  am  not  misinformed,  he 
had  nothing  of  that  pewuliarity  in  his  charajter. 

9'- 


202 


EIDICULE. 


TLere  remains  to  show  by  examples  the  manner  of  treating  sub 
jects,  so  as  to  give  them  a  ridiculous  appearance. 

II  ne  dit  jamais,  je  vous  donno,  mais,  je  vous  pr6te  lo  bon  jour. — MoUere. 

Orleans.  I  know  him  to  be  valiant. 

Constable.  I  was  told  that  by  one  that  knows  him  better  than  you. 

Orleans.  What's  he  ? 

ComtaUe.  Marry,  he  told  me  so  himself;  and  he  said  he  car'd  not  who 
knew  it.  Henry  V.  ShaJcspeare. 

He  never  broke  any  man's  head  but  his  own,  and  that  was  against  a  post 
when  he  was  drunk.  jud. 

Millam^nt.  Sententious  Mirabell !  Pr'ythee  don't  look  with  that  violent  and 
flexible  wise  face,  like  Solomon  at  the  dividing  of  the  child,  in  an  old  tapestry 
hanging.       .  ]P^aj,  <,/  the  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  guests  fling  away,  and  consequently 
is  apt  to  snarl  most  when  there  are  the  fewest  bones.  Tale  of  a  Tub. 

313.  In  the  following  instances,  the  ridicule  arises  from  absurd 
conceptions  in  the  persons  introduced : 

Valentine.  Your  blessing,  Sir. 

Sir  Sampson.  You've  had  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  great  deal  of  money  for  a  young  man  ; 
I  wonder  what  can  he  do  with  it.  Love  for  Love,  Act  II.  Sc.  7. 

Millament.  I  nauseate  walking ;  'tis  a  country-diversion ;  I  loathe  the  country, 
and  every  thing  that  relates  to  it. 

Sir  Wilful.   Indeed !   hah  !   look  ye,  look  ye,  you  do  ?   nay,  'tis  like  you 

"lay here  are  choice  of  pastimes  here  in  town,  as  plays  and  the  like  :  that 

must  be  confess'd  indeed. 

Millament.  Ah  I'etourdie  !  I  hate  the  town  too. 

Sir  Wilful.  Dear  heart,  that's  much hah  !   that  you  should  hate  'em 

both  !  hah  !  '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  Frotli.  I  assure  you.  Sir  Paul,  I  laugh  at  nobody's  jests  but  my  own,  or 
a  ladj^'s :  I  assure  you.  Sir  Paul. 

Brisk.  How?  how,  my  lord?  what,  affront  my  wit?  Let  me  perish,  do  I 
never  say  any  thing  worthy  to  be  laugh'd  at  ? 

Lo7-d  Froth.  0  foy,  don't  misapprehend  me,  I  don't  say  so,  for  I  often  smile 
at  your  conceptions.  But  there  is  nothing  more  unbecoming  a  man  of  quality 
than  to  laugh  ;  'tis  such  a  vulgar  expression  of  the  passion  1  everybody  can 
laugh.  Then  especially  to  laugh  at  the  jest  of  an  inferior  person,  or  when 
anybody  else  of  the  same  quality  does  not  laugh  with  one ;  ridiculous  !  To 
be  pleas'd  with  what  pleases  the  crowd  !  Now,  when  I  laugh  I  alwavs  laugh 
nione.  Double  Dealer,  Act  I.'Sc.  4. 

So  sharp-sighted  is  pride  in  blemishes,  and  so  willing  to  be  grati- 
fied, that  it  takes  up  with  the  very  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. 

Cains.  What  shall  de  honest  man  do  in  my  closet  ?  dere  is  no  honest  man 
dat  shall  come  in  my  closet.  '        Merry  Wives  of  WinUsor. 

312.  Humor  (in  character)  defined. — A  ludicrous  writer  distinguished  from  awiter  o( 
bumor. — Swift,  For'Ainc,  Addison,  Arbuthnot, — Examplpt. 


RIDICULE.  208 

Lore  speeches  are  fiuely  ridiculed  in  the  following  passage : 

Quoth  ho,  My  faith  as  adamantine, 

As  cliains  of  destiny,  I'll  maintain  ; 

Tlrue  as  Ai)ollo  ever  spoke. 

Or  oracle  irom  lieart  of  oak ; 

And  if  you'll  give  my  flame  but  vent, 

Now  in  close  hugger  munrger  pent, 

And  shine  upon  mc  but  benignly. 

With  that  one  and  that  other  pigsney, 

The  sun  and  day  shall  sooner  part, 

Than  love,  or  you,  shake  off  my  heart; 

The  sun  that  shall  no  more  dispense 

His  own  but  your  briglit  influence : 

I'll  carve  your  name  on  barks  of  trees, 

With  true  love-knots,  and  flourishes ; 

That  shall  infitRe  eternal  spring, 

And  everlasting  flourishing : 

Drink  ev'ry  letter  on't  in  stum. 

And  make  it  brisk  champaign  become. 

Where'er  you  tread,  your  foot  shall  sot 

The  primrose  and  tlic  violet ; 

All  spices,  perfumes,  and  sweet  powders. 

Shall  borrow  from  your  breath  their  odora 

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  loves  shall  still  survive. 

New  worlds  and  natures  to  outlive ; 

And,  like  to  herald's  moons,  remain 

All  crescents,  without  change  or  wane. 

Hudibras,  Part  II.  canto  1. 

3 1 4.  Irony  turns  things  into  ridicule  in  a  peculiar  manner ;  it 
consists  in  laughing  at  a  man  under  disguise  of  appearing  to  prai.'^ 
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  o( 
managing  the  profoundest  and  most  universal  subjects.  For  what  though  his 
head  be  empty,  provided  his  common-place  book  be  full !  And  if  you  will 
bate  him  but  tne  circumstances  of  method,  and  style,  and  grammar,  and  inven- 
tion ;  allow  him  but  the  common  privileges  of  transcribing  from  others,  and 
digressing  from  liimself,  as  often  as  he  sTuill  see  occasion ;  he  will  desire  no 
more  ingredients  towards  fitting  up  a  trentise  that  shall  make  a  very  comely 
figure  on  a  bookseller's  shelf,  there  to  bo  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  fullness  of  time  is  come,  shall  happily  under- 
go the  trial  of  purgatorj',  in  order  to  ascend  the  sky. — Tale  of  a  Tuh,  sect.  vii. 

I  cannot  but  congratulate  our  age  on  this  peculiar  felicity,  that  though  we 
have  indeed  made  great  progress  in  all  other  branches  of  lu.\ury,  wo  are  not 
yet  debauched  with  any  high  relish  in  poetry,  but  are  in  this  one  taste  lc88  nic» 
than  our  ancestors. 

If  the  reverend  clergy  showed  more  concom  than  others,  I  charitably  impnto 
it  to  their  great  charge  of  souls:  and  what  eonlinned  me  in  this  opinion  wa-s 
tliat  tho  degrees  of  apprehension  and  terror  could  be  distinguished  to  be  great- 
er or  less,  according  to  their  ranks  and  degrees  in  tho  church.* 

*  A  true  and  faithful  narrative  of  what  passed  in  London,  during  tho  gen- 
eral consternation  of  all  ranks  and  degrees  of  mankind. 

813.  Qnotaaonat— -314.  I»on.v.    KxamplM  from  STrift. 


204  RIDICULE. 

315.  A  parody  must  be  distinguished  from  every  species  of  ridi- 
cule :  it  enlivens  a  gay  subject  by  imitating  some  important  incident 
that  is  senous :  it  is  ludicrous,  and  may  be  risible ;  but  ridicule  is 
not  a  necessary  ingredient.  Take  the  following  examples,  the  first 
of  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. 

Eape  of  the  Lock,  Canto  iii.  45. 

The  next  is"  in  imitation  of  Achilles'  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), 

That  while  my  nostrils  draw  the  vital  air. 

This  hand  which  won  it,  shall  forever  wear. 

He  spoke,  and  speaking,  in  proud  triumph  spread 

The  long-contended  honors  of  her  head.' — Ibid.  Canto  iv.  If  3. 

The  following  imitates  the  history  of  Agamemnon's  sceptre  in 
Homer : 

Now  meet  thy  fate,  incensed  Belinda  cried, 
And  drew  a  deadly  bodkin  from  her  side, 
(The  same,  his  ancient  personage  to  deck. 
Her  grcat-great-grandsire  wore  about  his  neck. 
In  three  seal  rings :  which  after,  melted  down,' 
Form'd  a  vast  buckle  for  his  widow's  gown : 
Her  infant  grandame's  whistle  next  it  grew. 
The  bells  she  jingled,  and  the  whistle  blew: 
Then  in  a  bodkin  graced  her  mother's  hairs. 
Which  long  she  wore  and  now  Belinda  wears'). 

Ibid.  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  successfully  employed  in  a  parody ;  and  a  parody  may  be  em- 
ployed to  promote  ridicule. 

The  interposition  of  the  gods,  in  the  manner  of  Homer  and  Vir- 
gil, ought  to  be  confined  to  ludicrous  subjects,  which  are  much  en- 
livened by  such  interposition  handled  in  the  form  of  a  parody ;  wit- 
ness the  Cave  of  Spleen,  Rape  of  the  Lock^  canto  iv. ;  the  goddess 
of  Discord,  Lutrin,  canto  i.;  and  the  goddess  of  Indolence,  canto  ii. 

["The  secret  of  parody  lies  merely  in  transposing  or  applying  at 
a  venture  to  any  thing,  or  to  the  lowest  objects,  that  which  is  ap- 
plicable only  to  certain  given  things,  or  to  the  highest  matters. 
'From  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous  there  is  but  a  step.'  The 
slightest  want  of  unity  of  impression  destroys  the  sublime ;  the  de-  . 
te  .-tion  of  the  smallest  incongruity  is  an  infallible  ground  to  rest  the 
ludicrous  upon.  But  in  serious  poetry,  which  aims  at  riveting  our 
aff"i:-ctions,  every  blow  must  tell  home.  The  missing  a  single  time  is 
fatal,  and  undoes  the  spell.  We  see  how  difficult  it  is  to  sustain  a 
••ontinued  flight  of  impressive  sentiment :  how  easy  it  must  be  then 
.o  travesty  or  burlesque  it,  to  flounder  into  nonsense,  and  be  witty 
by  playing  the  fool.     It  is  a  common  mistake,  however,  to  suppose 


ErDICULE.  205 

that  parodies  degrade,  or  imply  a  stigma  on  tlie  subject ;  on  the 
contrary,  they  in  general  imply  something  serious  or  sacred  in  the 
originals.  Without  this  they  would  be  good  for  nothing;  for  the 
immediate  contrast  would  be  wanting,  and  with  this  they  are  sure  tP 
tell.  The  best  parodies  are,  accordingly,  the  best  and  most  strikinp 
things  reversed.  Witness  the  common  travesties  of  Homer  and 
WvgiV'—Hazlitt,  Lect.  I.] 

316.  Those  who  have  a  talent  for  ridicule,  which  is  seldom  united 
with  a  taste  for  delicate  and  refined  beauties,  are  quick-sighted  in 
improprieties ;  and  these  they  eagerly  grasp  in  order  to  gratify  their 
favorite  propensity.  Persons  galled  are  provoked  to  maintain,  that 
ridicule  is  improper  for  grave  subjects.  Subjects  really  grave  are 
by  no  means  tit  for.  ridicule :  but  then  it  is  urged  against  them,  that 
when  it  is  called  in  question  whether  a  cerUiin  subject  be  rt-ally 
grave,  ridicule  is  the  only  means  of  determining  the  controversx 
Hence  a  celebrated  question,  Whether  ridicule  be  or  be  not  a  test  oi 
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 
ridicule  be  the  proper  test  for  distinguishing  ridiculous  objects,  from 
what  are  not  so.  Taking  it  for  granted,  that  ridicule  is  not  a  sub- 
ject of  reasoning,  but  of  sense  or  taste  (see  chap.  x.  compared  with 
chap,  vii.),  I  proceed  thus.  No  person  doubts  but  that  our  sense  of 
beauty  is  the  true  test  of  what  is  beautiful ;  and  our  sense  of  gran- 
deur, of  what  is  gi-eat  or  sublime.  Is  it  more  doubtful  whether 
our  sense  of  ridicule  be  the  true  test  of  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  fashion  or  custom,  have 
acquired  a  degree  of  veneration  to  which  naturally  it  is  not  entitled, 
what  are  the  proper  means  for  wiping  off  the  artificial  coloring,  and 
displaying  the  subject  in  its  true  light?  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  artificial  connections, 
and  exposes  it  naked  with  all  its  native  improprieties. 

317.  But  it  is  urged,  that  the  gravest  and  most  serious  matters 
may  be  set  in  a  ridiculous  light.  Hardly  so ;  for  where  an  object 
is  neither  risible  nor  irapropei",  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  bur- 
lesque a  great  or  lofty  subject.  Such  irregular  use  made  of  a  talent 
for  wit  or  ridicule,  cannot  long  impose  upon  mankind :  it  cannot 
stand  the  test  of  correct  and  delicate  taste ;  and  ti-uth  will  at  last 


316.  A  parody.  Example  from  the  Rape  of  the  Lock.— RemarkB  of  Hazlitt 
816.  Wbether  ridicolo  U  a  test  of  truth.    Queatloa  ttated  in  i  evarsta  tennc    TM  •» 
thor'a  wgnmeDt. 


200  EmicuLE. 

prevail  even  with  the  vulgar.  To  condemn  a  talent  for  ridicule  be- 
cause it  may  be  peiveiled  to  wrong  pui-poses,  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  fi-equently  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  tribes  passing  for  matters  of  importance,  and 
show  and  form  for  substance,  and  superetition  or  enthusiasm  for  pure 
religion. 

318.  [While  there  is  much  truth  in  the  statements  above  made 
concerning  Ridicule,  there  is  also  much  and  dangerous  error. 

As  Dr.  Blair  observes :  "  Many  vices  might  be  more  successfully 
exploded  by  employing  ridicule  against  them,  than  by  serious  attacks 
and  arguments.  At  the  same  time  it  must  be  confessed,  that  ridicule 
is  an  instrument  of  such  a  nature,  that  when  managed  by  unskilful 
or  improper  hands,  there  is  hazard  of  its  doing  mischief,  instead  of 
good,  to  society.  For  ridicule  is  far  from  being,  as  some  have 
maintained  it  to  be,  a  test  of  truth.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  apt  to 
mislead  and  seduce,  by  the  colore  which  it  throws  upon  its  objects ; 
and  it  is  often  more  difficult  to  judge  whether  these  colore  be  natural 
and  proper,  than  it  is  to  distinguish  between  simple  trath  and  en-or. 
Licentious  writers,  therefore,  of  the  comic  class,  have  too  often  had 
it  in  their  power  to  cast  a  ridicule  upon  charactere  and  objects  which 
did  not  deserve  it." 

319.  Lord  Shaftesbuiy  advocated  tlie  same  false  doctrine  as  Lord 
Kames ;  but  Dr.  Leland  has  clearly  exposed  his  en-or,  in  the  follow- 
ing remarks :  "  The  best  and  wisest  men  in  all  ages  have  always 
recommended  a  calm  attention  and  sobriety  of  mind,  a  cool  and 
impartial  examination  and  inquiry,  as  the  proi^erest  disposition  for 
finding  out  truth,  and  judging  concerning  it.  But  according  to  his 
lordship's  representation  of  the  case,  those  that  apply  themselves  to 
the  searching  out  of  truth,  or  judging  Avhat  is  really  true,  serious, 
and  excellent,  must  endeavor  to  put  themselves  in  a  raeny  humor, 
to  raise  up  a  gayety  of  spirit,  and  seek  whether  in  the  object  they  are 
examining  they  cannot  find  out  something  that  may  be  justly  laughed 
at.  And  it  is  great  odds  that  a  man  who  is  thus  disposed  will  find 
out  something  fit,  as  he  imagines,  to  excite  his  mirth,  in  the  most 
serious  and  important  subject  in  the  world.  Such  a  temper  is  so 
far  from  being  a  help  to  a  fair  and  unprejudiced  inquiry,  that  it  is 

P.17.  Objection  stated  and  replied  to.— Is  ridicule  to  be  abandone.l?— Importance  ol  a 
fcilent  for  ridicule.  ,  ,  ,. 

i;lS.  lieinark  on  Kames'  doctrine  concerning  ridicnlc— Br.  Bla'r  s  otJ'ervalians. 


WIT.  207 

one  of  the  greatest  hindrances  to  it.  A  strong  turn  to  ridicule  has 
a  tendency  to  disqualify  a  man  for  cool  and  sedate  reflection,  and  to 
render  him  impatient  of  the  pains  that  are  necessary  to  a  rational 
and  deliberate  search."  *  *  *  * 

320.  Dr.  Leland  proceeds  to  say: — "Our  noble  author,  indeed, 
frequently  observes  that  truth  cannot  be  hurt  by  ridicule,  since,  when 
the  ridicule  is  wrong  placed,  it  will  not  hold.  It  will  readily  be 
allowed  that  truth  and  honesty  cannot  be  the  subject  o(  just  ridi- 
cule ;  but  then  this  supposes  that  ridicule  itself  must  be  brought  to 
the  test  of  cool  reason ;  and  accordingly  his  lordship  acknowledges, 
tliat  it  is  in  reality  a  serious  study  to  temper  and  regulate  that 
humor.  And  thus,  after  all,  we  are  to  return  to  gravity  and  serious 
reason,  as  the  ultimate  test  and  criterion  of  ridicule,  and  of  every 
thing  else.  But  though  the  most  excellent  things  cannot  be  justly 
ridiculed,  and  ridicule,  when  thus  applied,  will,  in  the  judgment  of 
thinking  men,  render  him  that  uses  it  ridiculous;  yet  there  are 
many  persons  on  whom  it  will  have  a  different  effect  The  ridicule 
will  be  apt  to  create  prejudices  in  their  minds,  and  to  inspire  them 
with  a  contempt,  or  at  least  a  disregard  of  things,  which,  when  rep- 
resented in  a  proper  light,  appear  to  be  of  the  greatest  worth  and 

importance Weak  and  unstable  minds  have  been  driven  into 

atheism,  profaneness,  and  vice,  by  the  force  of  ridicule,  and  have 
been  made  ashamed  of  that  which  they  ought  to  esteem  tlieir 
glory."] 


CHAPTER  Xin. 
ynr. 


321.  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  teim  wit  is  appropriated  to  such 
dioughts  and  expressions  as  are  ludicrous,  and  also  occasion  some 
Jegree  of  surprise  by  their  singuhirity.  Wit,  also,  in  a  figurative 
sense,  expresses  a  talent  for  inventing  ludicrous  thoughts  or  expres- 
iions :  we  say  commonly  a  loitly  man,  or  o  man  of  wit. 

819.  Dr.  Leland's  strictures  upon  Shaftesbnnr.— The  method  of  sewrhlnj  •»"*  *™* 
ngsested  by  the  wisest  men— Lord  Shaftesbnrj's  proposed  method.  Ot-JecUons  to  B.' 
tietluxl.— Effect  of  a  strong  turn  for  ridicule.  .     ^   _,  .       ...     ,       »„.„«  ,w«  „ih 

820.  Bemark:>  on  the  statement  that  trntli  cannot  be  hurt  by  ridicule.— K«a»on  »•  nic- 
cat*  tc«t,  of  what  ?— Bad  effect  of  ridlciiiinjr  sacred  thinif'. 


208  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 
ludicrous  combinations  of  things  that  have  little  or  no  natural 
relation. 

Ludicrous  images  that  occasion  surpiise  by  their  singularity,  as 
having  little  or  no  foundation  in  nature,  are  fabiicated  by  the 
imagination:  and  the  imagination  is  well  qualified  for  the  office; 
being  of  all  our  faculties  the  most  active,  and  the  least  under  re- 
straint.    Take  the  following  example : 

Shylock.  You  knew  (none  so  well,  none  bo  well  as  yon)  of  my  daughter's 
flight. 

fSallno.  That's  certain:  I  for  my  part  knew  the  tailor  that  made  the  winga 
she  flew  withaJ.  Merchant  of  Venice^  Act  111.  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. 

[According  to  Hazlitt,  "  the  ludicrous  is  where  there  is  a  contra- 
diction between  the  object  and  our  expectations,  heightened  by  some 
deformity  or  inconvenience,  that  is,  by  its  being  contrai-y  to  what  is 
customary  or  desirable ;  as  the  ridiculous,  which  is  the  highest  de- 
gree of  the  laughable,  is  that  which  is  contrary  not  only  to  custom, 
but  to  sense  and  reason,  or  is  a  voluntary  departure  from  what  we 
have  a  right  to  expect  from  those  who  are  conscious  o/  absurdity 
and  propriety  in  words,  looks,  and  actions."] 

322.  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."  (B. ::.  ch.  xi.  sect.  2.)  It  may  be  defined 
more  concisely,  and  perhaps  more  accurately,  "  A  junction  of  things 
by  distant  and  fanciful  relations,  which  surprise  because  they  are 
unexpected."   (See  chapter  i.)    The  following  is  a  proper  example  : 

Wc  grant,  although  he  had  much  wit, 

He  was  very  shy  of  using  it, 

As  being  loth  to  wear  it  out; 

And,  therefore,  bore  it  not  about, 

Unless  on  holidays,  or  so, 

As  men  their  best  apparel  do. — Hudibraa,  Canto  i. 

Wit  is  of  all  the  most  elegant  recreation :  the  image  enters  tte 
mind  with  gayety,  and  gives  a  sudden  flash,  which  is  extremely 
pleasant.  Wit  theieby  gently  elevates  without  straining,  raises 
mirth  without  dissoluteness,  and  relaxes  while  it  entertains. 

SZi.  To  w>!<<.t  the  term  wit  Is  appropriateA— In  a  figurative  sense,  to  what  applied.— 
Two  ktnd»  of  wit  In  tlie  proper  sense.  Two  kinds  of  wit  in  thougat— The  •owe*  ol 
•.ndlsrou*  images.— Hazlltt'j  acconnt  of  the  ladlcrou*. 


wrr.  209 

[Wit  and  humor  compared.— '"'ELvimoT  is  describing  the  ludi- 
crous as  it  is  in  itself;  wit  is  the  exposing  it,  by  comparing  or  con- 
trasting it  with  something  else.  Humor  is  the  growth  of  nature  and 
accident ;  wit  is  the  protluct  of  art  and  fancy.  Humor,  as  it  is 
shown  in  books,  is  an  imitation  of  the  natural  or  acquired  absur- 
dities of  mankind,  or  of  the  ludicrous  in  accident,  situation,  and 
character ;  wit  is  the  illustrating  and  heightening  the  sense  of  tliat 
absurdity  by  some  sudden  and  unexpected  likeness  or  opposition  of 
one  thing  to  another,  which  sets  oft'  the  quality  we  laugh  at  or  de- 
spise in  a  still  more  contemptible  or  striking  point  of  view.  'Wit,  a» 
distinffimked  from  poetry,  is  the  imagination  or  fancy  inverted,  and 
80  applied  to  given  objects  as  to  make  the  Httle  look  less,  the  mean 
more  light  and  worthless ;  or  to  divert  our  admiration  or  wean  our 
affections  from  that  which  is  lofty  and  impressive,  instead  of  pro- 
ducing a  more  intense  admiration  and  exalted  passion,  as  poetry 
does.  Wit  hovere  round  the  borders  of  the  light  and  tiifling, 
whether  in  matters  of  pleasure  or  pain ;  for  as  soon  as  it  describes  the 
serious  seriously,  it  ceases  to  be  wit,  and  passes  into  a  difterent  form. 
The  favorite  employment  of  wit  is  to  add  littleness  to  littleness,  and 
heap  contempt  on  insignificance  by  all  the  arts  of  petty  and  inces- 
sant warfare ;  or  if  it  ever  affects  to  aggrandize  and  use  the  lan- 
guage of  hyperbole,  it  is  only  to  betray  into  derision  by  a  fatal  com- 
parison, as  in  the  mock-heroic ;  or  if  it  treats  of  serious  passion,  it 
must  do  so  as  to  lower  the  tone  of  intense  and  high-wrought  senti- 
ment by  the  introduction  of  burlesque  and  familiar  circumstances." — 
ffazlitt.] 

323.  Wit  in  the  expression,  commonly,  called  a  play  of  words, 
being  a  bastard  sort  of  wit,  is  reserved  for  the  last  place.  I  proceed 
to  examples  of  wit  in  the  thought;  and  first  of  ludicrous  images. 

Falstaflf,  speaking  of  his  taking  Sir  John  Coleville  of  the  Dale  : 

Here  he  is,  and  here  I  yield  him ;  and  I  beseech  vour  Grace,  let  it  be  book'd 
with  the  rest  of  this  day's  deeds :  or,  by  the  Lordj  I  will  have  it  in  a  particular 
ballad  else,  with  mine  own  picture  on  the  top  of  Jt,  Coleville  kissing  "ly  fi>ot : 
to  the  which  course  if  1  be  enforced,  if  you  do  not  all  show  like  gilt  iwopcDCO* 
to  me :  and  I,  in  the  clear  sky  of  fume,  o'ershine  you  as  much  as  the  full  moon 
doth  tlie  cinders  of  the  element,  which  show  like  pin's-heads  to  her  :  believe 
not  the  word  of  the 'Noble.  Therefore  let  me  have  right,  and  let  desert  mount. 
— Second  Fart  Benry  IV.  Act  IV.  Se.  6. 

I  knew,  when  seven  justices  could  not  take  np  a  quarrel,  but  when  the  par- 
ties were  met  themselves,  one  of  them  thought  but  of  an  if;  as,  If  you  said  so, 
then  I  said  so ;  and  they  shook  hands,  and  swore  brotfaen*.  Your  »/i«  the  only 
peacemaker ;  much  virtue  m  if. — Shaksptare. 

An  I  have  forgotten  what  the  inside  of  a  church  is  made  of,  I  am  a  papper- 
corn,  a  brewer's  horse:  The  inside  of  a  church!  Company,  villaco as  oom- 
pany,  hath  been  the  spoil  of  me. — lb. 

The  war  hath  introduced  abundance  of  polysyllables,  which  will  never  be 
able  to  live  many  more  campaigns.     Speculations,  operations,  preliminariea, 


822.  Deflnltions  of  the  other  branch,  of  wit  In  the  thoneht    Example  Jhan  HimUUm,— 
Wit,  as  a  recreation.— Wit,  diatinguisbod  team  bamor,  and  from  \o»iiy. 


210  WIT. 

ambassadors,  piilisadoes,  commuiucation,  circumvallatior.,  battalions,  as  nu 
merous  as  they  are,  if  they  attack  us  too  frequently  in  our  coffee-houses,  wc 
shall  certainly  put  them  tc  flight,  and  cut  off  the  rear.— Tatler,  No.  330. 

Speaking  of  Discord  : 

She  never  went  abroad  but  she  brought  home  such  a  bundle  of  monstrous 
lies  as  would  have  amazed  any  mortal  but  siicli  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  religion ;  of  the  Pope's  being  seen  in  a  brandy-shop 
at  Wa'pping,  Sz,Q.— History  of  John  Hull,  part  1.  ch.  xvi. 

324.  The  other  branch,  of  wit  in  the  thought,  namely,  ludicrous 
combinations  and  oppositions,  may  be  traced  through  various  rami- 
fications. And,  first,  fanciful  causes  assigned  that  have  no  natural 
relation  to  efiects  produced  : 

Lomcast.  Fare  you  well,  Falstaff;  I,  in  my  condition,  shall  better  speak  of 
you  than  you  deserve.  [^Exit. 

Fahtaf.  I  would  you  had  but  the  wit;  'twere  better  than  your  dukedom. 
Good  faith,  this  same  young  sober-blooded  boy  doth  not  love  me ;  nor  a 
man  cannot  make  him  lau^h ;  but  that's  no  marvel,  he  drinks  no  wine. 
There's  never  any  of  these  demure  boys  come  to  any  proof;  for  thin  drink 
doth  so  overcool  their  blood,  and  making  many  flsli-meals,  that  they  fall  into 
a  kind  of  male  green-sickness  ;  and  then,  when  they  marry,  they  get  wenches. 
They  are  generally  fools  and  cowards ;  which  some  of  us  should  be  too,  biit 
for  inflammation.  A  good  sherris-sack  hath  a  twofold  operation  in  it:  it 
ascends  me  into  the  brain;  dries  me  there  all  the  foolish,  dull,  and  crudy 
vapors  which  environ  it;  makes  it  apprehensive,  quick,  forgetive,  full  of  nim- 
ble, fiery,  and  delectable  shapes ;  which  delivered  o'er  to  the  voice,  the  tongue, 
which  is  the  birth,  becomes  excellent  wit.  The  second  property  of  your  ex- 
cellent sherris  is,  the  warming  of  the  blood ;  which,  before  cold  and  settled,  left 
the  liver  white  and  pale  ;  which  is  the  badge  of  pusillanimity  and  cowardice  : 
but  the  sherris  warms  it,  and  makes  it  course  from  the  inwards  to  the  parts  ex- 
treme ;  it  illuminateth  the  face,  which,  as  a  beacon,  gives  warning  to  all  the 
rest  of  this  little  kingdom,  man,  to  arm ;  and  then  the  vital  commoners  and 
inland  petty  spirits  muster  me  all  to  their  captain,  tlie  heart,  who,  great  and 
puff'd  np  witli  this  retinue,  doth  any  deed  of  courage  :  and  thus  valor  comes 
of  sherris.  So  that  skill  in  the  weapon  is  nothing  without  sack,  for  that  sets 
it  a-work  ;  and  learning  a  mere  hoard  of  gold  kept  by  a  devil,  till  sack  com- 
mences it,  and  sets  it  in  act  and  use.  Hereof  comes  it  that  Prince  Harry  is 
valiant ;  for  the  cold  blood  he  did  naturally  inherit  of  his  father,  he  hath,  like 
lean,  sterile,  and  bare  land,  manured,  husbanded,  and  till'd,  with  excellent 
endeavor  of  drinking  good  and  good  store  of  fertile  sherris,  that  he  is  be- 
come very  hot  and  valiant.  If  I  had  a  thousand  sons,  the  first  human  princi- 
ple I  would  teach  them,  should  be  to  forswear  thin  potations,  and  to  addict 
themselves  to  sack. — Second  Fart  Henry  IV.  Act  IV.  Sc.  7. 

The  trenchant  blade  Toledo  trusty, 
For  want  of  fighting  was  grown  rusty. 
And  ate  into  itself,  for  lack 
Of  somebody  to  hue  and  hack. 
The  peaceful  scabbard  where  it  dwelt, 
The  rancor  of  its  edge  ha^  felt; 
For  of  the  lower  end  two  handful 
It  had  devour'd,  'twas  so  manful ; 
And  so  much  scorn'd  to  lurk  in  case. 
As  if  it  durst  not  show  its  face. — Hudibra^'.  Canto  i 

Speaking  of  Physicians : 

Le  bon  de  cette  profession  est,  qu'il  y  a  parmi  les  morts  une  honn6tet6,  and 


823.  Examples  of  ludicrous  images. 


^n.  211 

discretion  la  plus  erande  dn  monde :  jamaJB  on  n'cn  volt  so  plaindro  da  mid*^ 

em  qui  I'a  tuo. — Le  medecin  malgre  lui. 

325.  To  account  for  effects  by  such  funUistical  causes,  being 
highly  ludicrous,  is  quite  improper  in  any  serious  composition. 
Therefore  the  following  passage  from  Cowley,  in  his  poem  on  the 
death  of  Sir  Henry  Woo  ton,  is  in  a  bad  taste  : 

He  did  the  utmost  bounds  of  knowledge  find, 
He  found  them  not  so  largo  as  was  his  rnind. 
But,  like  the  brave  Pellsean  youth,  did  moon. 
Because  that  art  had  no  more  worlds  than  one. 
And  when  ho  saw  that  he  through  all  had  past, 
He  dyed,  lest  he  should  idle  grow  at  last. 

Fanciful  reasoning : 

Fahtaff.  Imbowell'd  ! if  thou  imbowel  me  to-day,  I'll  give  yon  Jeavo  to 

f)owder  me,  and  eat  me  to-morrow  I  'Sblood  *twas  time  to  counterfeit,  or  that 
lot  termagant  Scot  had  paid  me  scot  and  lot  too.  Counterfeit !  1  lie,  I  am  no 
counterfeit ;  to  die  is  to  oe  a  counterfeit ;  for  he  is  but  the  counterfeit  of  a  mat 
who  hath  not  the  life  of  a  man  ;  but  to  counterfeit  dyin^,  when  a  man  thereby 
livetii,  is  to  be  no  counterfeit,  but  tlie  true  and  perfect  image  of  life  indeed. — 
First  Part  Henry  IV.  Act  I.  Sc.  10. 

Jessica.  I  shall  be  saved  by  my  husband ;  he  hath  made  me  a  Christian. 

Launcelot.  Truly  the  more  to  "blame  he;  we  were  Cliristians  cnougli  before, 
e'en  as  man^  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  i.ot  have  a 
rasher  on  the  coals  for  money. — Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  III.  Sc.  6. 

In  western  clime  there  is  a  town, 

To  those  that  dwell  therein  well  known  ; 

Therefore  there  needs  no  more  bo  said  hero, 

We  unto  them  refer  our  reader : 

For  brevity  is  very -good 

When  we  are,  or  are  not  understood. 

Hudibras,  Canto  i. 

326.  L'ldicrous  junction  of  small  things  with  great,  as  of  equal 
portance : 


importance 


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  nvmpn  shall  break  Diana  s  law; 

Or  some  frail  cliina  jar  receive  a  flaw; 

Or  stain  her  honor,  or  her  new  brocade ; 

Forget  her  prayers,  or  miss  a  masquerade ; 

Or  lose  her  neart,  or  necklace,  at  a  ball ; 

Or  whether  Heaven  has  doom'd  that  Shock  muBt  fall. 

Rap«  of  tht  Lock,  Canto  ii.  101. 

One  speaks  the  glory  of  the  British  queen, 
And  one  describes  a  charming  Indian  acreen. 

Ibid.  Canto  ili.  IS. 


824.  Firet  class  «f  ludicrous  combinations  and  oppositlona.— ExtmplM  of  fcnclful  ( 

32.5.  Asu:«mlng  effects  to  fantastical  causes  improper  In  a  8«rlous  composition.— Esmmp** 
»f  Cowleys  bad  taste.— Examples  of  fanciful  reasoning. 


212  WIT. 

Then  flash'd  the  living  lightt.  ng  from  her  eyes, 
And  screams  of  horror  rend  tL'  aflfrighted  skies. 
Not  louder  shrieks  to  pitying  heaven  are  cast, 
When  husbands,  or  when  lapdogs,  breathe  their  last; 
Or  wlien  rich  china  vessels  fallen  from  high. 

In  fflittering  dust  and  painted  fragments  lie  !  

*  Ibid.  Canto  lu.  155. 

327.  Joining  things  that  in  appearance  are  opposite.     As,  for 

example,  where  Sir  Roger  de  Coverly,  in  the  Spectator,  speaking  of 

his  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  of  his  richest  acres. 

Premises  that  promise  much  and  perform  notliing.  Cicero  upon 
that  article  says, 

Sed  scitis  esse  notissimum  ridiculi  genus,  cum  aliud  expectamns,  aliud  dici- 
tur :  hie  nobismetipsis  noster  error  risum  movet.— Z'e  Oratcre,  1.  n.  cap.  bd. 

Beatrv:e. With  a  good  leg  and  a  good  foot,  uncle,  and  money  enough 

in  his  purse,  such  a  man  would  win  any  woman  in  the  world,  it  he  could  gel 
her  good-will.— irf/<:A  Ado  about  Nothing,  Act  II.  Sc.  1. 

Beatrice.  I  have  a  good  eye,  uncle,  I  can  see  a  church  by  daylight.— iZ^ti. 

Le  medicin  que  Ton  m'indique 
Salt  le  Latin,  le  Grec,  I'Hebreu, 
Les  belles  lettres,  la  physique, 
La  chimie  et  la  botaniqne. 
Chacun  lui  donne  son  aveu  : 
II  auroit  aussi  ma  pratique ; 
Mais  je  veux  vivre  encore  un  peu. 

[Example  (adduced  by  Hazlitt)  of  lowering  the  tone  of  high- 
wrought  sentiment  by  introducing  burlesque  and  familiar  circum- 
stances. Butler,  in  his  "  Hudibras,"  compares  the  change  of  night 
into  day  to  the  change  of  color  in  a  boiled  lobster : 

The  sun  had  long  since,  in  the  lap 
Of  Thetis,  taken  out  his  nap ; 
And  like  a  lobster  boil'd,  the  morn 
From  black  to  red  began  to  turn, 
When  Hudibras,  &c. 

^it,  or  ludicrous  invention,  produces  its  effect  oftenest  by  cornpan^ 
son,  but  not  always.  It  frequently  effects  its  purposes  hx  unexpected 
and  subtile  distirictims.  A  happy  instance  of  the  kind  of  wit  wlncb 
consists  in  sudden  retorts,  in  turns  upon  an  idea,  and  diverting  tlie 
train  of  your  adversary's  argument  abi-uptly  and  adroitly  into  some 
other  channel,  may  be  seen  in  the  sarcastic  reply  of  Poison,  wiio 
hearing  some  one  observe,  that "  certain  modem  poets  would  be  read 
and  admired  when  Homer  and  Virgil  were  forgotten,"  made  answer 
— "  And  not  till  then  !"  . 

Voltaire's  saying,  in  answer  to  a  stranger  who  was  observing  how 
tall  his  trees  grew—"  that  they  had  nothing  else  to  do,"  was  a  quaint 

89&  Ludicrous  Junction  of  8m»ll  things  with  great  as  of  equal  taport»n««. 


WIT.  21S 

mixture  of  wit  and  humor,  making  it  out  as  if  they  really  led  a  lazy, 
laborious  life ;  but  there  was  here  neither  allusion  nor  metaphor. 
The  same  principle  of  nice  distinction  must  be  allowed  to  prevjiil  in 
those  lines  of  "  Hudibras,"  where  he  is  professing  to  expound  the 
dreams  of  judicial  astrology  : 

There's  but  a  twinkling  of  a  star 

Betwixt  a  man  of  pence  and  war, 

A  tliicf  and  justice,  fool  and  knave, 

A  huflSng  officer  and  a  slave, 

A  crafty  lawyer  and  pickpocket ; 

A  great  philosopher  and  a  blockhead  ; 

A  fonnal  preaclier  and  a  player; 

A  learned  physician  and  man-slayer. 

HadUt,  Lcct.  I.] 

328.  Having  discussed  wit  in  the  thought,  we  proceed  to  what  is 
rerbal  only,  commonly  called  a  play  of  words.  This  sort  of  wit  de- 
pends, for  the  most  part,  upon  choosing  a  word  that  hath  different  sig- 
nifications :  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  after  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  amusement, 
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 
towards  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,  oppor- 
tunity  is  afforded  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  true  sense  disguised  under  the  double  meaning.  That  this  sort 
of  wit  was  in  Engl^and  deemed  a  reputable  amusement,  during  the 
reigns  of  Elizabeth  and  James  I.,  is  vouched  by  the  works  of  Shak- 
speare,  and  even  by  the  writings  of  grave  divines.  But  it  cannot 
have  any  long  endurance  :  for  as  language  ripens,  and  the  meaning 

•  [Hazlitt  observes:— "Man  is  the  only  animal  that  laughs  and  wccp«;  for 
Jie  is  the  only  animal  that  is  struck  with  'the  difference  between  what  things 
are,  and  what  they  ought  to  be.  We  weep  at  what  thwarts  or  exceed.*  our 
desires  in  serious  matters ;  we  laugh  at  what  only  disappoints  our  expectitioiii 
in  trifles.  Wo  shed  tears  from  sympathy  with  real  and  necessary  di»ire.«8:  as 
we  burst  into  laugliter  from  want  of  sympathy  with  that  which  is  unreasonable 
and  unnecessary,  the  absurdity  of  which  provokes  our  spleen  or  uiirth,  rattier 
than  any  serious  reflections  on  it."] 

827.  Joining  things  that  in  appearance  are  opposite.  Example— Premise*  that  V^''* 
mucU  and  perform  nothing.— lntro<Iucing  burlesque  clrcumsUnces.— L'nejtp«cl«<i  sad  «»• 
tile  distinctions. 

W&  Plaj  of  words :  lU  natnro  and  advantage.    When  In  rcpnU. 


214  WIT. 

of  words  is  more  and  more  ascertained,  words  held  to  be  synony- 
mous diminish  daily ;  and  when  those  that  remain  have  been  more 
than  once  employed,  the  pleasure  vanisheth  with  the  novelty. 

329.  I  proceed  to  examples,  which,  as  in  the  former  case,  shall  be 
distributed  into  different  classes. 

A  seeming  resemblance  from  the  double  meaning  of  a  word : 

Beueatli  this  stone  mv  wife  dotli  lie ; 
Slie's  now  at  rest,  and  so  am  I. 

A  seeming  contrast  from  the  same  cause,  termed  a  verbal  anti 
thesis,  which  hath  no  despicable  effect  in  ludicrous  subjects : 

Whilst  Iris  his  cosmetic  wash  would  try 
To  make  her  bloom  revive,  and  lovers  die. 
Some  ask  for  charms,  and  others  philters  choose, 
To  gain  Corinna,  and  their  quartans  lose. 

Dispensary^  Canto  iL 

And  how  frail  nymphs,  oft  by  abortion,  aim 

To  lose  a  substance,  to  preserve  a  name. — Ibid.  Canto  iii. 

While  nymphs  take  treats,  or  as-signations  give. 

Eape  of  the  Lock 

Other  seeming  connections  from  the  same  cause : 

Will  you  employ  your  conquering  sword, 

To  break  a  fiddle,  and  your  word  ? — Hudiira*,  Canto  ii. 

To  whom  the  knight  with  comely  grace 

Put  off  his  hat  to  put  his  cs&Q.—Ibid.  Fart  III.  Canto  ili. 

Here  Britain's  statesmen  oft  the  fall  foredoom 
Of  foreign  tyrants,  and  of  nymphs  at  home ; 
Here  thou,  great  Anna !  whom  three  realms  obey. 
Dost  sometimes  counsel  take — and  sometimes  tea. 

Eape  of  the  Lock,  Canto  iii.  1.  5 

O'er  their  quietus  where  fat  judges  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  the  Lock. 

Esul  mentisque  domusque. — Metamorphosis,  1.  ix.  409. 

A  seeming  opposition  from  the  same  cause : 

Hie  quiescit  qui  nunquam  quievit. 

Again, 

So  like  the  chances  are  of  love  and  war. 

That  they  alone  in  this  distinguish'd  are ; 

In  love  the  victors  from  the  vanquish'd  fly, 

They  fly  that  wound,  and  they  pursue  that  die. —  WaUer. 

What  new-found  witchcraft  was  in  theo. 
With  thine  own  cold  to  kindle  me  ? 
Strange  art;  like  him  that  should  devise 
To  make  a  burning-glass  of  ice. — Cowley. 

330.  Wit  of  this  kind  is  unsuitable  in  a  serious  poem ;  witness 
the  following  hue  in  Pope's  Elegy  to  the  memory  of  an  unfortunate 
lady: 

329.  Examples  of  seeming 'Geemblonco;  seeming  contrast ;  seeming  connecHons;  scow* 
lug  oppositiou. 


WIT.  215 

Cold  is  that  breast  which  warm'd  the  world  oefore. 
This  sort  of  writing  is  finely  burlesqued  by  Swift : 
Her  hands  the  softest  ever  felt, 
Though  cold  would  burn,  though  dry  would  melt. 

Strephon  and  Chlot. 

Taking  a  word  in  a  different  sense  from  what  is  meant,  comes 
under  wit,  because  it  occasions  some  slight  degree  of  surprise : 

Beatrice.  I  may  sit  in  a  corner,  and  cry  Jlei^h  ho  !  for  a  husband. 

Fedro.  Lady  Beatrice,  1  v/ill  get  you  one. 

Beatrice.  I  would  rather  have  one  of  your  father's  (retting.  Hath  your  grace 
ne'er  a  brother  like  you  ?  Your.fathcr  got  excellent  husbands,  if  a  maid  could 
come  by  them.  Muck  Ado  about  Nothiny,  Act  11.  Sc.  5. 

FaUtaff.  My  honest  lads,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  am  about. 
Pistol.  Two  yards  and  more. 

Falstaff.  No  quips,  now.  Pistol ;  indeed  I  ara  in  the  waist  two  yards  about ; 
but  I  am  now  about  no  waste ;  I  am  about  thrift. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  Act  I.  .Sc.  7. 

331.  An  assertion  that  bears  a  double  meaning,  one  right,  one 
wrong,  but  so  introduced  as  to  direct  us  to  the  wrong  meaning,  is  a 
species  of  bastard  Avit,  which  is  distinguished  from  all  others  by  the 
name  pun.     For  example : 

Paris.  Sweet  Helen,  I  must  woo  you, 

To  help  unarm  our  Hector:  his  stubborn  buckles. 
With  these  your  white  enchanting  fingers  touch'd, 
Shall  more  obey,  than  to  the  edge  of  steel. 
Or  force  of  Greekis^h  sinews ;  you  shall  do  more 
Than  all  the  island  kings,  disarm  great  Hector. 

Troilus  and  Cressida,  Act  III.  Sc.  2. 

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 : 

Chief  Justice.  Well  I  the  truth  is,  Sir  John,  you  live  in  great  infamy. 
FaUtaff.  He  that  buckles  him  in  my  belt,  cannot  live  in  less. 
Chief  Justice.  Your  means  are  very  slender,  and  your  waste  is  great. 
Falstaff.  I  would  it  were  otlierwise  :  I  would  my  means  were  greater,  and 
my  waist  slenderer.  Second  Part  Henry  IV.  Act  1.  Sc.  1. 

Celia.  I  pray  you  bear  with  me,  I  can  go  no  further. 

Clown.  For  mv  part,  I  hnd'rather  bear  with  you  than  bear  you ;  yet  I  Bhouia 
boar  no  cross  if 'l  did  bear  you ;  for  1  think  you  have  no  money  in  your  purse. 

As  You  Like  It,  Act  11.  Sc.  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  ? 

Iludibras,  Part  II.  Canto  ii. 

[The  greatest'  single  production  of  wit,  in  England,  is  Butler's 
"  Hudibras."  It  contains  specimens  of  every  variety  of  droUerj-  antl 
satire,  and  those  specimens  crowded  together  in  almost  every  page. 
Butler  is  equally  in  the  hands  of  the  learned  and  the  vulgar,  for  tho 

830.  Wit  of  this  kind,  wl.ere  «n8uit*ble.-Taklng  a  word  In  a  dlfleront  ••w*  »«•«  wW 
to  luuant. 


216  WIT. 

sense  is  generally  as  solid  as  the  images  are  amusing  and  grotesque. 
Though  his  subject  was  local  and  temporary,  his  fame  was  not  cir- 
cumscribed within  his  own  age.     He  was  admired  by  Charles  II., 

and  has  been  rewarded  by  posterity He  in  general  ridicules 

not  persons,  but  things ;  not  a  party,  but  their  principles,  which  may 
belong,  as  time  and  occasion  serve,  to  one  set  of  solemn  pretenders 
or  another.  He  has  exhausted  the  moods  and  figures  of  satire  and 
sophistry.  It  would  be  possible  to  deduce  the  different  foims  of  syl- 
logism in  Anstotle,  from  the  different  violations  or  mock  imitations 
of  them  in  Butler.  He  makes  you  laugh  or  smile,  hy  comparina  the 
high  to  the  low  : 

No  Indian  prince  has  to  his  palaco 

More  followers  than  a  thief  to  the  gallows. 

Or,  hy  pretending  to  raise  th£  low  to  the  lofty : 

And  in  his  nose,  like  Indian  king, 
He  (Bruin)  wore  for  ornament  a  ring. 

He  succeeds  equally  in  the  familiarity  of  his  illustrations  : 

Whose  noise  whets  valor  sharp,  like  beer 
By  thunder  turned  to  vinegar. 

Or,  their  incredible  extravagance,  by  comparing  things  that  are  alike 

or  not  alike : 

Keplete  with  strange  hermetic  powder, 

That  wounds  nine  miles  point-blank  would  solder. 

He  surprises  equally  by  his  coincidences  or  conti'adictions,  by 

spinning  out  a  long-winded  flimsy  excuse,  or  by  turning  short  upon 

you  with  the  point-blank  truth.     His  rhymes  are  as  witty  as  his 

reasons,  equally  remote  from  what  common  custom  would  suggest : 

That  deals  in  destiny's  dark  counsels, 
And  sage  opinions  of  the  moon  sells. 

He  startles  you  sometimes  by  an  empty  sound  like  a  blow  upon  a 

drum-head : 

The  mighty  Totipotimoy 
Sent  to  our  elders  an  envoy. 

Sometimes,  also,  by  a  j^un  upon  one  word  : 

For  Hebrew  roots,  although  they  ar-i  found 
To  flourish  most  in  barren  ground. 

Sometimes,  by  splitting  another  in  two  at  the  end  of  a  verse,  with 

the  same  alertness  and  power  over  the  odd  and  unaccountable,  in 

the  combinations  of  sounds  as  of  images  : 

Those  wholesale  critics,  that  in  coflfee- 
Houses  cry  down  all  philosophy. 

There  are  as  many  shrewd  aphorisms  in  his  works,  clenched  by 
as  many  quaint  and  individual  allusions,  as  perhaps  in  any  author 
whatever.  He  makes  none  biit  palpable  hits,  that  may  be  said  to 
give  one's  understanding  a  rap  on  the  knuckles  : 


WIT.  317 

ThJB  we  amouff  ourselves  may  »peak, 
But  to  the  wicked  or  the  weak, 
We  must  be  cautious  to  declare 
Perfection- truths,  such  as  these  are. 

He  is,  indeed,  sometimes  too  prolific,  and  spins  his  antithetical  sen- 
tences out,  one  after  another,  till  the  reader,  not  the  author,  is  wearied 

The  vulgarity  and  meanness  of  sentiment  which  Butler  complains 
of  in  the  Presbyterians,  seems  at  last,  fi'om  long  familiarity  and 
close  contemplation,  to  have  tainted  his  own  mind.  Their  worst 
vices  appear  to  have  taken  root  in  his  imagination.  He  has,  indeed, 
carried  his  private  grudge  too  far  into  his  general  speculations.  He 
even  makes  out  the  rebels  to  be  cowards,  and  well  beaten,  which 
does  not  accord  with  the  history  of  the  times.  In  an  excess  of  zeal 
for  Church  and  State,  he  is  too  much  disposed  to  treat  religion  as  a 
cheat,  and  liberty  as  a  farce. 

There  are  (in  "  Hudibras")  occasional  indications  of  poetical  fancy, 
and  an  eye  for  natural  beauty  ;  but  these  are  kept  uuder,  or  soon 
discarded,  judiciously  enough,  but  it  should  seem,  not  for  lack  of 
power,  for  they  are  certainly  as  masterly  as  they  are  rare.  Such  is  the 
description  of  the  moon  going  down  in  the  early  morning,  which  is 
as  pure,  original,  and  picturesque  as  possible  : 

The  queen  of  night,  whoso  large  command 

Rules  all  the  sea  and  half  the  land, 

And  over  moist  and  crazy  brains 

In  high  spring-tides  at  midnight  reigns, 

'VVas  now  declining  to  the  we;*!, 

To  go  to  bed  and  take  her  rest. 

Butler  is  sometimes  scholastic,  but  he  makes  his  learning  tell  to 
good  account ;  and  for  tlie  purposes  of  burlesque,  nothing  can  be 
better  fitted  than  the  scholastic  style." — Hazlitt,  Lect  III,] 

332.  Though  playing  with  words  is  a  mark  of  a  mind  at  ease, 
and  disposed  to  any  sort  of  amusement,  we  must  not  thence  con- 
clude that  playing  with  words  is  always  ludicrous.  Words  are  so 
intimately  connected  with  thought,  that  if  the  subject  bo  really 
grave,  it  will  not  appear  ludicrous  even  in  tlmt  fantastic  dress.  I 
am,  however,  far  from  recommending  it  in  any  serious  performance  : 
on  the  contrary,  the  discordance  between  the  thought  and  expression 
must  be  disagreeable  :  witness  the  following  specimen  : 

He  hath  abandoned  his  physicians,  madam,  under  wlio.se  practices  he  hath 
persecuted  time  with  hope  :  and  finds  no  other  advantage  ia  the  process,  but 
only  the  losing  of  hope  by  time. 

AWs  Well  thai  Endt  WeU,  Act  I.  Sc  1. 

jr.  Emry.  O  my  poor  kingdom,  sick  with  civil  blows ! 
When  that  my  care  could  not  wituhold  thy  riots, 
What  wilt  thou  do  when  riot  is  thy  care  I  ,         ,„ 

Second  Pari  K.  Henry  IV. 


881.  Define  the  pun.    Examples.— Butler's  HmlibrM.    Ito  p«jultaritk«.-Bp«cliii«n»  rf 

»lt.— Faults. 

10 


218  WIT. 

If  any  one  shall  observe,  that  there  is  a  third  species  of  wit,  dif- 
ferent from  those  mentioned,  consisting  in  sounds  merely,  I  am  will- 
ing to  give  it  place.  And  indeed  it  'must  be  admitted,  that  many 
of  Hudibras's  double  rhymes  come  under  the  definition  of  wit  given 
in  the  beginning  of  this  chapter ;  they  are  ludicrous,  and  their  sin- 
gularity occasions  some  degree  of  surprise.  Swift  is  no  less  success- 
ful than  Butler  in  this  sort  of  wit ;  witness  the  following  instances  : 
Goddess— Boddice.  Pliny— Mcolina.  Iscariots— Chariots.  Mi- 
tre— jViire.     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  serious.  I  give  the  following  example  : 
A  certain  petulant  Greek,  objecting  to  Anacharsis  that  he  was  a 
Scythian— True,  says  Anacharsis,  ray  country  disgraces  me,  but  you 
disgrace  your  countiy.  This  fine  'turn  gives  surprise,  but  it  is  far 
from  being  ludicrous. 

[Lastly,*  there  is  a  wit  of  sense  and  observation,  which  consists  in 
the  acute  illustration  of  good  sense  and  practical  wisdom,  by  means 
of  some  far-fetched  conceit  or  quaint  imagery.  Thus  the  lines  in 
Pope — 

'Tis  with  our  judgments  as  our  watches  ;  none 
Go  just  aUke,  yet  each  believes  his  own — 

are  Avitty  rather  than  poetical,  because  the  truth  they  convey  is  & 
mere  dry  observation  on  human  life,  without  elevation  or  enthusi- 
asm, and  the  illustration  of  it  is  of  that  quaint  and  familiar  kind 
that  is  merely  curious  and  fanciful.  Cowley  is  an  instance  of  the 
same  kind  in  almost  all  his  writings.  Many  of  the  jests  and  witti- 
cisms in  the  best  comedies  are  moral  aphorisms  and  rules  for  the 
conduct  of  life,  sparkling  witji  wit  and  fancy  in  the  mode  of  ex- 
pression. The  ancient  philosophers  also  abounded  in  the  same  kind 
of  wit,  in  telling  home  truths  ia  the  most  unexpected  manner. _  In 
this  sense  uEsop  was  the  greatest  wit  and  moralist  that  ever  lived. 
■  Ape  and  slave,  he  looked  askance  at  human  nature,  and  beheld  its 
weaknesses  and  eiTors  transfeired  to  another  species.  Vice  and 
virtue  were  to  him  as  plain  as  any  objects  of  sense.  He  saw  m 
man  a  talking,  atsurd,  obstinate,  proud,  angry  animal,  and  clothed 
these  abstractions  with  wings,  or  a  beak,  or  tail,  or  claws,  or  long 
ears,  as  they  appeared  embodied  in  these  hieroglyphics  in  the  brute 
creation.  His  moral  philosophy  is  natural  history.  He  makes  an 
ass  bray  wisdom,  and  a  frog  croak  humanity.  The  store  of  mora) 
truth,  and  the  fund  of  invention  in  exhibiting  it  in  eternal  forms, 
palpable,  and  intelligible,  and  delightful  to  children  and  grown  per- 
sons, and  to  all  ages  and  nations,  are  almost  miraculous.     The  m- 

832.  Playing  with  words  not  ftlwavs  ludicrous.— Wit,  consisting  In  so'onds.-Eepanee^ 
The  last  kind  of  wit  described.-W'ittlclsms  of  the  best  comedlea.-Eemarks  on  ^Bopi 
Fables. 


CUSTOM  AND  UABIT.  219 

vention  of  a  fable  is  to  me  the  most  enviable  exertion  of  human 
genius :  it  is  the  discovering  a  truth  to  which  there  is  no  clue,  and 
"which,  when  once  found  out,  can  never  be  forgotten.  I  would  rather 
have  been  the  author  of  '-^opV  Fables,'  than  of  '  Euclid's  Ele- 
ments.' " — Hazlitt,  Lect  T.] 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

CUSTOM    AND    HABIT. 

838.  Viewing  man  as  under  the  influence  of  novelty,  would  on* 
suspect  that  custom  also  should  influence  him  ?  and  yet  our  nature 
is  equally  susceptible  of  each ;  not  only  in  different  objects,  but  fre- 
quently in  the  same.  When  an  object  is  new,  it  is  enchanting ; 
familiarity  renders  it  indifierent ;  and  custom,  after  a  longer  famili- 
arity, makes  it  again  disagreeable.  Human  nature,  diversified  with 
many  and  various  springs  of  action,  is  wondei  fully,  and,  indulging 
the  expression,  intricately  constructed. 

Custom  respects  the  action,  hahit  the  agent.  By  custom  we 
mean  a  frequent  reiteration  of  the  same  act ;  and  by  habit,  the  effect 
that  custom  has  on  the  agent.  This  eft'ect  may  be  either  active, 
witness  the  dexterity  produced  by  custom  in  perfoiTning  certain  ex- 
ercises ;  or  passive,  as  when  a  thing  makes  an  impression  on  us 
different  from  what  it  did  originally.  The  latter  only,  as  relative  to 
the  sensitive  part  of  our  nature,  comes  under  tlie  present  under- 
taking. 

334.  This  subject  is  intricate :  some  pleasures  are  fortified  by 
custom  ;  and  yet  custom  begets  familiarity,  and  consequently  indif- 
ference :*  in  many  instances,  satiety  and  disgust  are  the  conse- 
quences of  reiteration  ;  again,  though  custom  blunts  the  edge  of  dis- 
tress and  of  pain,  yet  the  want  of  any  thing  to  which  we  have  been 
long  accustomed,  is  a  sort  of  torture.  A  clue  to»guide  us  through 
all  the  intricacies  of  this  labyrinth,  would  be  an  acceptable  present. 

Whatever  be  the  cause,  it  is  certain  that  we  are  much  influenced 
by  custom  :  it  hath  an  effect  upon  our  pleasures,  upon  our  acticus, 


If  all  the  year  were  playing  holidays, 

To  sport  would  be  aa  tedious  as  to  work ; 

But  when  they  seldom  come,  they  wish'd  for  come, 

And  nothins:  pleaseth  but  rare  accidents. 

First  Part  Etnry  IF.  Act  I.  So.  «. 


833.  Influence  of  novelty  and  custom.— Cxstom  and  bablt  dUtlngiiis?i«d— AcUt« 
iioesive  effeeto  of  h»bit 


220  CUSTOM  AND  HABrT. 

and  even  upon  our  tliouglits  and  sentiments.  Habit  makes  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,  "vvS  eat  at  a  certain  hour,  take  exercise  at  a  cer- 
taia  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  imeasiness. 

8  lis.  Any  slight  or  ♦moderate  pleasure  frequently  reiterated  for  a 
long  tthie,  forms  a  peculiar  connection  between  us  and  the  thing 
that  causes  the  pleasure.  This  connection,  termed  habit,  has  the 
effect  to  awaken  our  desire  or  appetite  for  that  thing  when  it  returns 
not  as  usual.  During  the  course  of  enjoyment,  the  pleasure  rises 
insensibly  higher  and  higher  till  a  habit  be  estabhshed  ;  at  which 
time  the  pleasure  is  at  its  height.  It  continues  not  however  sta- 
tionary :  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  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. 
Spirituous  liquors,  at  first  scarce  agreeable,  readily  produce  an  ha- 
bitual appetite :  and  custom  prevails  so  far,  as  even  to  make  us 
fond  of  things  oiiginally  disagreeable,  such  as  coffee,  asafcetida,  and 
tobacco;  which  is  pleasantly  illustrated  by  Congreve.  {The  Way 
of  the  World,  Act  I.  Sc.  3.) 

A  walk  upon  the  quarter-deck,  though  intolerably  confined,  be- 
comes 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,  re- 
sembling most  accurately  a  quarter-deck,  not  only  in  shape  but  in 
size  ;  and  here  he  generally  walked.  In  Minorca,  Governor  Kane 
made  an  excellent  road  the  whole  length  of  the  island ;  and  yet  the 
inhabitants  adhered  to  the  old  road,  though  not  only  longer  but  ex- 
tremely bad.*  Play  or  gaming,  at  first  barely  amusing  by  the 
occupation  it  affords,  becomes  in  time  extremely  agreeable  ;  and  is 
fi-equently  prosecuted  with  avidity,  as  if  it  were  the  chief  business 
of  life.  The  same  observation  is  applicable  to  the  pleasures  of  the 
internal  senses,  those  of  knowledge  and  virtue  in  particular :  chil- 
dren have  scarce  any  sense  of  these  pleasures ;  and  men  very  little 
who  are  in  the  state  of  nature  without  culture  :  our  taste  for  virtue 


*  Custom  is  second  nature.  Formerly,  the  merchants  of  Bristol  had  no 
place  for  meeting  but  the  street,  open  to  every  variety  of  weather.  An  ex- 
change was  erected  for  them  with  convenient  piazzas.  But  so  riveted  were 
they  to  their  accustomed  place,  that  in  order  to  dislodge  them,  the  magis- 
trates were  forced  to  break  up  the  pavement,  and  to  render  the  place  a  heap 
of  rough  stones. 

8S4  Effect  of  curtom  npoc  our  pleasures,  &c.— Habit  In  youth,  midtUe  age,  old  age. 


CUSTOM  AND  HABIT.  221 

and  knowledge  improves  slowly  ;  but  is  capable  of  growing  stronger 
than  any  other  appetite  in  human  nature. 

336.  To  introduce  an  active  habit,  frequency  of  acts  is  not  suffi- 
cient without  length  of  time :  the  quickest  succession  of  acts  in  a 
short  time,  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  ftom  each  other  by  short  in- 
tervals. Nor  are  these  sufficient  Avithout  regularity  in  the  time, 
place,  and  other  circumstances  of  the-  action  :  the  more  unifonii 
any  operation  is,  the  sooner  it  becomes  habitual.  And  this  holds 
equally  in  a  passive  habit ;  variety  in  any  remarkable  degree,  pre- 
vents the  effect :  thus  any  particular  food  will  scarce  ever  become 
habitual,  where  the  manner  of  dressing  is  varied.  The  circumstan- 
ces then  requisite  to  augment  a  moderate  pleasure,  and  at  the  long 
run  to  foim  a  habit,  are  weak  uniform  acts,  reiterated  during  a 
long  course  of  time  without  any  considerable  interruption :  c\ery 
agreeable  cause  that  operates  in  this  manner,  will  grow  habitual. 

331.  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  pei-son  mast 
originally  be  faint,  and  frequently  reiterated,  in  order  to  establish 
the  habit  of  affection.  Mection  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  of  the  human  species.  In  like  manner,  a  slight  de- 
gree 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  doth  of 
tobacco : 

Dnicia  non  ferimus :  succo  renovannir  amnro. 

Ovid,  Art.  Amand.  1.  iii. 

Insipido  d  quel  do'.ce,  che  condito 
Non  e  di  qualche  amor  a,  e  tosto  satia. 

Ammla  di  J(U*o, 

These  violent  delights  have  violent  ends, 
And  in  their  triumph  die.    The  sweetest  honey 
Is  loathsome  in  its  own  dclifiousness, 
And  in  the  taste  confounds  the  appetite  ;■ 
Therefore  love  mod'rately,  long  love  doth  60 ; 
Too  swift  arrives  as  tardy  as  too  slow. 

Jiomeo  and  Juliet,  Act  II.  oc  o. 


835.  Desire  awakened  by  habit-Effect  of  babit  on  our  P'«'«"'''«-™".f„ 'P*,'?^^ 
como  habitnal.     Instances.- Walk  upon  a  quarter.deck.-Governi.r  Kane  s  new  loM. 
Exxhanjre  at  Bristol,  &c.  ,    .  .      w  wi*  i.  A^.n,..t 

836.  llow  an  acUve  habit  must  bo  introduced ;  now  a  pastlve  habit  is  formea 


222  CUSTOM  AND  HABIT. 

The  same  observation  holds  with  respect  to  all  objects,  that  being 
extremely  agreeable,  raise  violent  passions :  such  passions  are  in- 
cohipatible  with  a  habit  of  any  sort ;  and  in  particular  they  never 
produce  affection  or  avei-sion.  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  atrocions  injury  involve  aversion. 
/  338.  It  is  perhaps  not  easy  to  say  why  moderate  pleasures  gather 
strength  by  custom ;  but  two  causes  concur  to  prevent  that  effect  in 
the  more  intense  pleasures.  These,  by  an  original  law  in  our  nature, 
increase  quickly  to  their  full  growth,  and  decay  with  no  less  pre- 
cipitation (see  chap.  ii.  part  iii.) ;  and  custom  is  too  slow  in  its  opera- 
tion to  overcome  that  law.  The  other  cause  is  no  less  powerful : 
exquisite  pleasure  is  extremely  fatiguing;  occasioning,  as  a  naturahst 
would  say,  great  expense  of  animal  spirits  ;*  and  of  such  the  mind 
cannot  bear  so  frequent  gratifi^rtXion,  as  to  superinduce  a  habit :  ii 
the  thing  that  raises  the  pleasure  return  before  the  mind  have  re- 
covered its  tone  and  relish,  disgust  ensues  instead  of  pleasure. 

A  habit  never  fails  to  admonish  us  of  the  wonted  time  of  gi'atifica- 
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  pi-esenting  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  par- 
ticular, though  it  soon  settles  upon  its  accustomed  object :  and  the 
same  may  be  observed  in  persons  addicted  to  drinking,  who  are 
often  in  an  uneasy  restless  state  before  they  think  of  the  bottle.  In 
pleasures  indulged  regularly,  and  at  equal  intervals,  the  appetite, 
remarkably  obsequious  to  custom,  returns  regularly  with  the  usual 
time  of  gratification ;  not  sooner-,  even  though  the  object  be  pre- 
sented. This  pain  of  want  arising  from  habit,  seems  directly  oppo- 
site to  that  of  satiety ;'  and  it  must  appear  singular-,  that  frequency 
of  gratification  should  produce  effects  so  opposite,  as  are  the  pains 
of  excess  and  of  want. 

339.  The  appetites  that  respect  the  preservation  of  our  species, 
are  attended  with  a  pain  of  want  similar  to  that  occasioned  by  habit : 
hunger  and  thirst  are  uneasy  sensations  of  want,  which  always  pre- 
cede the  desire  of  eating  or  drinking.  The  natural  appetites  differ 
from  habit  in  the  following  particular  :  they  have  an  undetermined 
direction  towards  all  objects  of  gratification  in  general ;  whereas  an 

*  Lady  Easy,  upon  her  husband's  reformation,  expresses  to  her  friend  the 
foUowinsr  sentiment:  "Be  satisfied:  Sir  Charles  has  made  me  happy,  even  to 
u  pain  of  joy." 


837.  How  flffifction  or  avprsion  is  formed  into  k  habit.— What  is  said  of  delicious  objects 
of  taste;  what  of  agreesble  objects  that  raise  violent  passions. 

388.  Two  causes  preventing  intense  pleasures  from  gaining  strength  by  custom. — A.  habit 
sdmonisbes  of  what  ? — Kogular  return  of  appetite. 


CUSTOM  AND  HABIT.  223 

hjibitual  appetite  is  dire«ted  to  a  particular  object.  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  "re- 
markable that  nature  hath  enforced  the  gratification  of  ceitain  nat- 
ural appetites  essential  to  the  species,  by  a  pain  of  the  same  sort 
with  that  which  habit  producoth.' 

340.  The  pain  of  habit  is  less  under  our  power  than  any  other 
pain  that  arises  from  want  of  gratification ;  hunger  and  thirst  are 
more  easily  endured,  especially  at  first,  than  an  unusual  intermission 
of  any  habitual  pleasure :  persons  are  often  heard  dcclaiing  they 
would  forego  sleep  or  food,  rather  than  tobacco.  We  must  not, 
however,  conclude  that  the  gratification  of  an  habitual  appetite 
aflbrds  the  same  delight  with  the  gratification  of  one  that  is  natural ; 
far  from  it ;  the  pain  of  want  only  is  greater. 

The  slow  and  reiterated  acts  tliat  produce  a  habit,  strengthen  llie 
mind  to  enjoy  the  habitual  pleasure  in  gi-eater  quantity  and  more 
frequency  than  originally ;  and  by  that  means  a  habit  of  intemperate 
gratification  is  often  formed  :  after  unbounded  acts  of  intemperance, 
the  habitual  relish  is  soon  restored,  and  the  pain  for  want  of  enjoy- 
ment returns  with  fi-esh  vigor. 

341.  The  causes  of  the  present  emotions  hitherto  in  view  are 
either  an  individual,  such  as  a  companion,  a  ceilain  dwelling-place, 
I  certain  anmseraent,  or  a  particular  species,  such  as  cofiee,  mutton, 
or  any  other  food.  But  habit  is  not  confined  to  such.  A  constant 
train  of  trifling  divereions,  may  fonn  such  a  habit  in  the  mind,  that 
.t  cannot  be  easy  a  moment  without  amusement:  a  variety  in  the 
objects  prevents  a  habit  as  to  any  one  in  particular ;  but  as  the 
train  is  uniform  with  respect  to  amusement,  the  habit  is  formed  ac- 
cordingly; and  that  sort  of  habit  may  be  denominated  a  gemric 
Iiabit,  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  busi- 
ness, where  sufficiently  varied,  are  instances  of  generic  habits.  Every 
specific  habit  hath  a  mixture'  of  the  generic ;  for  the  habit  of  any 
one  sort  of  food  makes  the  taste  agreeable,  and  we  are  foud  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  will  do,  rather  than  want :  a  habit  of  punch,  makes  wine 
a  good  resource :  accustomed  to  the  sweet  society  and  comforts  of 
matrimony,  the  man,  unhappily  deprived  of  his  beloved  object,  in- 
clines the  sooner  to  a  second.  In  general,  when  we  are  deprived  of 
an  habitual  object,  we  are  fond  of  its  qualities  in  any  other  object. 

342.  The  reasons  are  assigned  above,  why  the  causes  of  intense 
pleasure  become  not  readily  habitual ;  but  now  we  discover  that 


339.  The  natural  appetites  attende  \  with  the  pain  of  want    How  they  differ  from  h»blt 
840.  The  pain  of  habit— How  a  habit  of  Intemperate  grrttiflcaaon  Is  formed. 
.S41.  Difference  between  a  generic  »nd  a  specitto  habit     InsUnces.— Kvory  «pecitic  Haw* 
pvtakas  of  the  gtaeric— The  effeot  of  bein^f  deprived  of  an  habitual  object. 


224  CDSTOM  AJS'D  HABIT. 

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,  produceth 
satiety  and  di^ust.  But  it  is  remarkable,  that  satiety  and  disgust 
have  no  effect,  except  as  to  that  thing  singly  Avhich  occasions  them : 
a  smfeit  of  honey  produceth  not  a  loathing  of  sugar ;  and  intem- 
perance with  one  woman  produceth  no  disrelish  of  the  same  pleasure 
with  others.  Hence  it  is  easy  to  account  for  a  generic  habit  in  any 
intense  pleasure :  the  delight  we  had  in  the  gratification  of  the  ap- 
petite inflames  the  imagination,  and  makes  us,  with  avidity,  search 
for  the  same  gi'atification  in  whatever  other  subject  it  can  be  found. 
And  thus  uniform  fi-equency  in  gratifying  the  same  passion  upon 
difierent  objects,  produceth  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  com- 
monly termed  pleasure.  There  concurs,  at  the  same  time,  to  intro- 
duce this  habit,  a  peculiarity  observed  above,  that  reiteration  of  acts 
enlarges  the  capacity  of  the  mind  to  admit  a  more  plentiful  grati- 
fication than  originally,  with  regard  to  frequency  as  well  as  quantity. 

343.  Hence  it  appears,  that  though  a  specific  habit  cannot  be 
formed  but  upon  a  moderate  pleasure,  a  generic  habit  may  be  forined 
upon  any  sort  of  pleasure,  moderate  or  immoderate,  that  hath  variety 
of  objects.  The  only  difference  is,  that  a  weak  pleasure  runs  natu- 
rally 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  pleas- 
ure cannot  produce  any  other  habit. 

The  appetites  that  respect  the  preservation  of  the  species,  are 
formed  into  habit  in  a  peculiar  manner :  the  time  as  well  as  meas- 
ure of  their  gratification  are  much  under  the  power  of  custom,  which, 
by  introducing  a  change  upon  the  body,  occasions  a  proportional 
change  in  the  appetites.  Thus,  if  the  body  be  gradually  formed  to 
a  certain  quantity  of  food  at  stated  times,  the  appetite  is  regulated 
accordingly ;  and  the  aj^petite  is  again  changed,  when  a  different 
habit  of  body  is  introduced  by  a  different  practice.  Here  it  would 
seem,  that  the  change  is  not  made  upon  the  mind,  which  is  com- 
monly the  case  in  pjissive  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  in- 
tense pleasures,  by  becoming  more  moderate,  tend  to  specific  habits. 

842.  Weak  pleasures  produce  a  habit :  intense  pleasures  produce  satiety  and  disgust. 
How  far  tiiis  satiety  extends.— How  a  generic  habit  in  any  intense  pleasure  is  accounted 
for. — Reiteration  of  acts  attended  with  what  eifect? 

8-18.  Specific  habit  peculiar  to  a  moderate  pleasure :  ger  eric,  to  any  sort  of  pleasure.— 
The  appetites  under  the  power  of  custom.    Instance  of  foo  I,  as  to  time,  quantity,  quality. 


CUSTOM  AND  HABIT.  225 

844.  One  effect  of  custom,  different  from  any  that  have  been  ex- 
plained, must  not  be  omitted,  becftusc  it  makes  a  great  figure  in  hu- 
man nature :  Though  custom  augments  moderate  pleasures,  and 
lessens  those  that  are  intense,  it  has  a  differeni  effe<;t  with  respect  to 
pain ;  for  it  bluuts  the  edge  of  every  sort  of  pain  and  distress,  faint 
or  acute.  Uninterrupted  miseiy,  therefore,  is  aitended  with  one  good 
effect :  if  its  torments  be  incessant,  custom  hardens  us  to  bear  tliem. 

The  changes  made  in  forming  habits  are  curious.  Moderate 
pleasures  are  augmented  gradually  by  reiteraion,  till  they  become 
habitual ;  and  then  are  at  their  height :  but  liiey  are  not  long  sta- 
tionary ;  for  from  that  point  they  gradually  d  ecay,  till  they  vanish 
altogether.  The  pain  occasioned  by  want  ol  gratification,  runs  a 
different  course :  it  increases  uniformly ;  and  at  last,  becomes  ex- 
ti-eme,  when  the  pleasure  of  gratification  is  redtced  to  notUing: 
— ' It  so  falls  out, 


That  what  we  have  we  prize  not  to  the  worth, 

"While  we  enjoy  it;  but  being  luck'd  and  lost, 

Why  then  we  rack  the  value;  then  we  find 

The  virtue  that  possession  would  not  show  us 

"Whilst  it  was  ours.— Much  Ado  about  N'othing,  Act  IV.  So.  2. 

The  effect  of  custom  with  relation  to  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  gi-adually 
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  by  use,  till  it  arrives  at  perfection  : 
from  that  period  it  gradually  decays  while  the  habit  is  in  a  state  ot 
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  snuff  habitually,  without 
so  much  as  being  conscious  of  the  operation.  We  must  except  grat- 
ification 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. 
This  pleasure,  however,  is  but  occasionally  the  effect  of  habit ;  and, 
however  exquisite,  is  avoided  as  much  as  possible  because  of  the  pain 
that  precedes  it. 

345.  With  regard  to  the  pain  of  want,  I  can  discover  no  differ- 
ence between  a  generic  and  a  specific  habit.  But  these  habits  differ 
widely  with  respect  to  the  posiUvo  pleasure.  I  have  had  occasion  to 
observe,  that  the  pleasure  of  a  specific  habit  decays  gradually  till  it 
turns  imperceptible :  the  pleasure  of  a  generic  habit,  on  the  con- 
trary, being  supported  by  variety  of  gratification,  suffers  little  or  no 
decay  after  it  comes  to  its  height.  However  it  may  be  with  other 
generic  habits,  the  observation,  I  am  certain,  holds  with  respect  to 

W4.  Effect  of  cuslom  with  reap*  :^  to  pain.— Changes  made  In  fonnlnR  b»Wu.— KffN«^ 
euMom  in  the  nse  of  tobacco. 

10* 


220  CUSTOM  AND  HABIT. 

the  pleasures  of  virtue  and  of  knowledge :  the  pleasure  of  doing 
good  has  an  unl>ounded  scope,  and  may  be  so  variously  gratified, 
that  it  can  never  decay ;  science  is  equally  unbounded ;  our  appe- 
tite for  knowledge  having  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  hath  in- 
fluence upon  us  ;  and  now  nothing  seems  left  but  to  hold  our  nature 
to  be  so  framed  as  to  be  susceptible  of  such  influence.  And  sup- 
posing it  purposely  so  framed,  it  will  not  be  diflicult  to  find  out 
several  important  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  pleasure,  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  habitual  increase  of  moderate  pleasure  and 
the  conversion  of  pain  into  pleasure,  are  admirably  contrived  for 
disappointing  the  malice  of  Fortune,  and  for  reconciling  us  to  what- 
ever course  of  life  may  be  our  lot : 

How  use  doth  breed  a  habit  in  a  man  ! 
This  shadowy  desert,  unfrequented  woods, 
I  better  brook  than  flourishing  peopled  towns. 
Here  I  can  sit  alone,  unseen  of  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  distinction  between  intense  and  moderate  holds 
in  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. 

346.  Another  final  cause  of  custom  will  be  highly  relished  by 
every  person  of  humanity,  and  yet  has  in  a  great  measure  been  over- 
looked ;  which  is,  that  custom  hath  a  greater  influence  than  any 
other  known  cause  to  put  the 'rich  and  the  poor  upon  a  level :  weak 
pleasures,  the  share  of  the  latter,  become  fortunately  stronger  by 
custom  ;  while  voluptuous  pleasures,  the  sliai'e  of  the  former,  are 
continually  losing  ground  by  satiety.  Men  of  fortune,  who  possess 
palaces,  sumptuous  gardens,  rich  fields,  enjoy  them  less  than  passen- 
gers do.  The  goods  of  Fortune  are  not  unequally  distributed  :  the 
opulent  possess  what  others  enjoy. 

And  indeed,  if  it  be  the  effect  of  habit  to  produce  the  pain  of  want 
in  a  high  degree,  while  there  is  little  pleasure  in  enjoyment,  a  volup- 
tuous life  is  of  all  the  least  to  be  envied.  Those  who  are  habituated 
to  high  feeling,  easy  vehicles,  rich  furniture,  a  crowd  of  valets,  much 

345.  The  pleasure  of  a  specific  habit,  compare  1  with  that  of  a  generic  one— Fiaal  cause* 
afthe  power  of  coatom. 


CUSTOM  AND  HABIT.  227 

deference  and  flattery,  enjoy  but  a  small  share  of  liappiness,  whilo 
they  arc  exposed  to  manifold  distresses.  To  such  a  man.  enslaved 
by  ease  and  luxury,  even  the  petty  inconvenience  in  travelling,  of  a 
rough  road,  bad  weather,  or  homely  fare,  ai'c  serious  evils :  he  loses 
his  tone  of  mind,  turns  peevish,  and  would  wieak  his  resentment 
even  upon  the  common  accidents  of  lite.  Better  far  to  use  tlie  goods 
of  Fortune  with  moderation :  a  man  who  by  temperance  and  ac- 
tivity hath  acquired  a  hardy  constitution,  is,  on  the  one  hand, 
guarded  against  external  accidents ;  and,  on  the  other,  is  provided 
with  great  variety  of  enjoyment  ever  at  command. 

347.  I  shall  close  this  chapter  with  an  article  more  delicate  than 
abstruse,  namely,  what  authority  custom  ought  to  have  over  our 
taste  in  the  fine  arts.  One  particular  is  certain,  that  we  cheerfully 
abandon  to  the  authority  of  custom  things  that  nature  hath  lef\  in- 
different. It  is  custom,  not  nature,  that  hath  established  a  difference 
between  the  right  hand  and  the  left,  so  as  to  make  it  awkward  and 
disagreeable  to  use  the  left  where  the  right  is  commonly  used.  The 
various  colors,  though  they  affect  us  differently,  are  all  of  them 
agreeable  in  their  purity ;  but  custom  has  regulated  that  matter  in 
another  manner  :  a  black  skin  upon  a  human  being  is  to  us  disagree- 
able, and  a  white  skin  probably  no  less  so  to  a  negro.  Thus  things, 
oiiginally  indifferent,  become  agreeable  or  disagreeable  by  the  force 
of  custom.  Nor  will  this  be  surprising  after  the  discovert'  made  above, 
(hat  the  original  agreeableness  or  disagreeableness  of  an  object  is,  by 
the  influence  of  custom,  often  converted  into  the  opposite  quality. 

Proceeding  to  mattei-s  of  taste,  where  there  is  naturally  a  prefer- 
en<',e  of  one  thing  before  another,  it  is  certain,  in  the  firet  i)lace,  that 
our  faint  and  more  delicate  feelings  are  readily  susceptible  of  a  bias 
from  custom  ;  and  therefore  that  it  is  no  proof  of  a  defective  taste  to 
find  these  in  some  measuie  influenced  by  custom :  dress  and  the 
modes  of  external  behavior  are  regulated  by  custom  in  eveiy  coun- 
try :  the  deep  red  or  vermilion  with  which  the  ladies  in  France 
cover  their  cheeks,  appears  to  them  beautiful  in  spite  of  nature  ;  and 
strangers  cannot  altogether  be  justified  in  condemning  that  practice, 
considering  the  lawful  authority  r.f  custom,  or  of  the /asAion,  as  it  is 
called.  It  is  told  of  the  peoi)le  who  inhabit  the  skirts  of  the  Alps 
facing  the  north,  that  the  swelling  they  have  universally  m  the  neck 
is  to  them  agi-eeable.  So  far  has  custom  power  to  change  the  nature 
of  things,  and  to  make  an  object  originally  disagreeable  take  on  au 
opposite  appearance.* 

«  [PerhaM  a  in^satisfectory  accouirt  of  this  matter  vrill  be  found  in  the 
following  observations  from  the  pen  of  Dr.  Mark  Hopkins: 

"Association  is  the  m\e  foiuidution  of  tho  vaue  which  we  put  upon -.m^^^^^ 
articles,  and  of  the  beauty  whichjvo_fimnn^e^jrhu^  a,  lock_on'«»r. 

~846.  Power  of  custom  to  pu~t7l^^poor  on  a  l««'--V„tCBnVifi^-T..W^°«ii^- 
S4-.  The  authority  that  custom  oueht  to  ).8ve  «>v«''»"'-,tt»'«  lVX-«^  -J>re'«.  aT-I  h. 
n*\ly1n<limTent,  bewme  agrce«ble  or  di«»s;r9««ble  by  force  of  cn».i.n>.    vrtf*,  «. 

•Sect  of  a«f o<'liU!on. 


228  CUSTOM  AND  HABIT. 

348.  But,  as  to  every  particular  that  can  be  denominated  proper 
or  improper,  right  or  wrong,  custom  has  Uttle  authority,  and  ought 
to  have  none.  The  pi'iuciple  of  duty  takes  naturally  place  of  every 
other  ;  and  it  argues  a  shameful  weakness  or  degeneracy  of  mind  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  for- 
eign manners,  whether  exhibited  by  foreign  writers  or  our  own.  A 
comparison  between  the  ancients  and  the  moderns  was  some  time 
ago  a  favorite  subject :  those  who  declared  for  ancient  manners 
thought  it  sufficient  that  these  manners  were  supported  by  custom : 
.heir  antagonists,  on  the  other  hand,  refusing  submission  to  custom 
as  a  standard  of  taste,  condemned  ancient  manners  as  in  several  in- 
stances irrational.  In  that  controversy,  an  appeal  being  made  to 
dift'erent  principles,  without  the  slightest  attempt  to  establish  a  com- 
mon standard,  the  dispute  could  have  no  eud.  The  hintu  above 
given  tend  to  establish  a  standard  for  judging  how  far  the  authority 
of  custom  ought  to  be  held  lawful ;  and,  for  the  sake  of  illustration, 
we  shall  apply  that  standard  in  a  few  instances. 

349.  Buman  sacrifices,  the  most  dismal  eflfect  of  blind  and  grov- 
elling superstition,  wore  gradually  out  of  use  by  the  prevalence  of 
reason  and  humanity.  In  the  days  of  Sophocles  and  Euripides, 
traces  of  that  practice  were  still  recent ;  and  the  Athenians,  through 
the  prevalence  of  custom,  could  without  disgust  suffer  human  sacri- 
fices to  be  represented  in  their  theatre,  of  which  the  Ipkigerda  of 
Euripides  is  a  proof  But  a  human  sacrifice,  being  altogether  incon- 
sistent with  modern  manners  as  producing  hoiTor  instead  of  pity, 
cannot  with  any  propriety  be  introduced  upon  a  modern  stage.  I 
must  therefore  condemn  the  Ijihiffenia  of  Racine,  which,  instead  of 
the  tender  and  sympathetic  passions,  substitutes  disgust  and  horror. 
Another  objection  occurs  against  every  fable  that  deviates  so  remark- 
ably from  improved  notions  and  sentiments;  which  is,  that" if  it 
should  even  command  our  belief  by  the  authority  of  history,  it  ap- 
pears too  fictitious  and  unuatui'al  to  produce  a  perception  of  reality 
(see  chapter  ii.  part  i.  sec.  7)  :  a  human  sacrifice  is  so  unnatural, 
and  to  us  so  improbable,  that  few  will  be  affected  with  the  represen- 
tation of  it  more  than  with  a  imvy-  tale. 

valueless  in  itself,  may,  from  associations  connected  with  it,  liave  a  value 
which  money  cannot  measure;  and  articles  of  dress,  which  would  otherwise  ba 
to  us  indifferent  or  odious,  become  beautiful  by  their  association  with  those 
persons  whom  we  have  been  accustomed  to  consider  as  models  of  elegance. 
It  is  indeed  astonishing  wliat  an  effect  this  principle  will  liave  upon  our  feel- 
ings ;  and  from  looking  too  exclusively  at  tacts  connected  with  it,  some  have 
been  led  to  doubt  wliether  there  is  any  such  thing  as  a  permanent  principle  ot 
taste.  It  would  really  seem  that,  within  the  bounds  of  comfort  and  decency, 
both  of  which  are  often  outraged  by  fashion,  one  mode  of  dress  may  come  tc 
be  a.s  becoming  as  another."] 

348.  Authority  of  cnstom  in  matters  of  rigiit  and  wrong, — Of  ancient  manners  as  com- 
pared with  motiern. — How  far  custom  ought  to  justify  certain  manners. 

849.  Human  sacrifices  represented  before  tiie  Atlieniaaa. — The  Iphigenia  of  Etfrii^deo 
i»d  that  of  Bacine. 


IXTEENAL  SIGNS  OF  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS  229 

CHAPTER  XV. 

EXTERNAL   SIGNS    OF    EMOTIONS    AND    PASSIONS. 

350.  So  intimately  connected  are  the  soul  and  body,  that  every 
agitation  in  the  fonner  produceth  a  visible  effect  upon  the  latter. 
There  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- 
ances or  signs  may  not  improperly  be  considered  as  a  natural  lan- 
guage, expressing  to  all  beholdei-s  emotions  and  passions  as  they 
arise  in  the  heart.  Hope,  fear,  joy,  grief,  are  displayed  externally : 
the  character  of  a  man  can  l)e  read  in  his  face :  and  beauty,  which 
makes  so  deep  an  impression,  is  known  to  result,  not  so  much  from 
regular  features,  or  a  fine  complexion,  as  from  good-nature,  good 
sense,  sprighthness,  sweetness,  or  other  mental  quality,  expressed 
upon  the  countenance.  Though  perfect  skill  in  that  language  be 
rare,  yet  what  is  generally  known  is  sufficient  for  the  ordinarj'  pur- 
poses of  life.  But  by  what  means  we  come  to  understand  the 
language,  is  a  point  of  some  intricacy  :  it  cannot  be  by  sight  merely ; 
for  upon  the  most  attentive  inspection  of  the  human  face,  all  that 
can  be  discerned,  are  figure,  color,  and  motion,  which,  singly  oi 
combined,  never  can  represent  a  passion,  nor  a  sentiment :  the  ex- 
ternal sign  is  indeed  visible ;  but  to  understand  its  meaning  w« 
must  be  able  to  connect  it  with  the  passion  that  causes  it,  an  opera- 
tion far  beyond  the  reach  of  eyesight.  Where,  then,  is  the  instruc- 
tor to  be  found  that  can  unveil  this  secret  connection  ?  If  we  apply 
to  experience,  it  is  yielded,  that  from  long  and  diligent  observation, 
we  may  gather,  in  some  measure,  in  what  manner  those  we  are  ac- 
quainted with  express  their  passions  extenially ;  but  with  respect  to 
strangere,  we  are  left  in  the  dark  ;  and  yet  we  are  not  puzzled  about 
the  meaning  of  these  external  expressions  in  a  stranger,  more  than 
in  a  bosom-companion.  Further,  had  we  no  other  means  but  ex- 
perience for  understanding  the  external  signs  of  passion,  we  could 
not  expect  any  degree  of  skill  in  the  bulk  of  individuals  :  yet  mat- 
ters are  so  much  better  ordered,  that  the  external  expressions  of 
passions  forna  a  language  undei-stood  by  all,  by  the  young  as  well  a» 
the  old,  by  the  ignorant  as  well  as  the  learned  :  I  talk  of  tlie  plain 


•  Omnis  enim  motns  animi,  suum  quemdBm  a  imtura  lisbet  vultum  et  sonam 
et  gestum.-  •Cicero,}.  iii..Z>«  Oratore. 

860.  Effect  of  the  mind  tipon  the  body.— Natural  Unguupe  of  j>M»1on.- -Wfcst  b»«oty 
resnlts  from.— How  w»  come  to  nnder«t«nd  thto  nnfnral  I»nri«ff^  — "  *m»in>  i^tnon.* 


230  EXTERNAL  SIGNS  OF  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

and  legible  charactei-s  of  that  language  ;  for  undoubtedly  we  are 
much  indebted  to  experience  iu  deciphering  the  dark  and  more 
delicate  expressions.* 

■351.  The  external  signs  of  passion  are  o^  two  kinds,  voluntary 
and  involuntary.  The  voluntary  signs  are  also  of  two  kinds : 
some  are  arbitraiy,  some  natural.  Words  are  obviously  voluntary 
signs;  and  they  are  also  arbitrary;  excepting  a  few  simple  sounds 
expressive  of  certain  internal  emotions,  which  sounds  being  the 
same  in  all  languages,  must  be  the  work  of  nature :  thus  the  un- 
premeditated tones  of  admiration  are  the  same  in  all  men  ;  as  also 
of  compassion,  resentment,  and  despair.  Dramatic  writers  ought  to 
be  well  acquainted  with  this  natural  language  of  passion :  the  chief 
talent  of  such  a  writer  is  a  ready  command  of  the  expressions  that 
nature  dictates  to  every  person,  when  any  vi\ad  emotion  struggles 
for  utterance  ;  and  the  chief  talent  of  a  fine  reader  is  a  ready  com- 
mand of  tones  suited  to  these  expressions. 

352.  The  other  kind  of  voluntaiy  signs  comprehends  certain  atti- 
tudes or  gestures  that  naturally  accompany  certain  emotions  with  a 
surprising  uniformity :  excessive  joy  is  expressed  by  leaping,  dan- 
cing, or  some  elevation  of  the  body ;  excessive  ginef,  by  sinking  or 
depressing  it ;  and  prostration  and  kneeling  have  been  employed  by 
all  nations,  and  in  all  ages,  to  signify  profound  veneration.  Another 
circumstance,  still  more  than  unifoiinity,  demonstrates  these  gestures 
to  be  natural,  viz.  their  remarkable  conformity  or  resemblance  to 
the  passions  that  produce  them.  (See  chapter  ii.  part  vi.)  Joy, 
which  is  a  cheerful  elevation  of  mind,  is  expressed  by  an  elevatiou 
of  body :  pride,  magnanimity,  courage,  and  the  whole  tribe  of  ele- 
vating passions,  are  expressed  by  exteinal  gestures  that  are  the  same 
as  to  the  circumstance  of  elevation,  however  distinguishable  i» 
other  respects ;  and  hence  an  erect  posture  is  a  sign  or  expression 
of  dignity : 

Two  of  far  nobler  shape,  erect  and  tall, 
Godlike  erect,  with  native  lionor  clad, 
In  naked  majesty,  seem'd  lords  of  nil. — Paradise  Lost,  Book  iv. 

*  [Well  has  Cousin  remarked : — "  Instead  of  a  statue,  observe  a  real  and 
living  man.  Kegard  that  man  who,  solicited  by  the  strongest  motives  to  sacri- 
fice duty  to  fortune,  triumphs  over  interest,  auer  a  heroic  struggle,  and  sacri- 
fices fortune  to  virtue.  Regard  him  at  the  moment  when  he  is  about  to  take 
this  magnanimous  resolution  ;  his  face  will  appear  to  me  beautiful,  because  it 
expresses  the  beauty  of  his  soul.  Perhaps,  under  all  other  circumstances,  the 
face  of  the  man  is  common,  even  trivial ;  here,  illustrated  by  the  soul  which 
it  manifests,  it  is  ennobled  and  takes  an  imposing  character  of  beauty.  So,  the 
natural  face  of  Socrates  contrasts  strongly  with  the  type  of  Grecian  beauty  ; 
but  look  at  him  on  his  death-bed,  at  the  moment  of  drinking  the  hemlock, 
conversing.with  iiis  disciples  on  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  his  face  will 
appear  to  yoa  sublime." — Led.  vii.  p.  147.] 


851.  E.tternal  sisns  of  -jassion  twofold.— The  voluntary,  cf  two  kinds;  arbitrary  and 
Ditiiral.— The  chief  talent  "ol  dramatic  writers  and  of  flne  reader.-. 
■i52.  Natural  atlitu'**  aj('  gestures. — Their  conformity  to  the  pa-i»ions  producing  ttiem. 


EXTEKNAL  SI0N9  OF  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  23  1 

Grie^  va  the  other  hand,  as  well  as  respect,  which  depress  the  mind, 
canuot,  for  that  reason,  be  expressed  more  significantly  than  by  a 
similar  depression  of  the  body ;  and  hence,  to  be  cast  down,  is  a 
coramoti  phrase,  signifying  to  be  grieved  or  dispirited.* 

353.  One  would  not  imagine,  who  has  not  given  peculiar  atten- 
,ion,  that  the  body  should  be  susceptible  of  such  variety  of  attitude 
and  motion  as  readily  to  accompany  every  different  emotion  with  a 
corresponding  expression.  Humility,  for  example,  is  expressed  nat- 
urally by  hanging  the  head ;  arrogance,  by  its  elevation ;  and  lan- 
guor or  despondence  by  reclining  it  to  one  side.  The  expressions  of 
the  hands  are  manifold :  by  diti"erent  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  threat- 
ening, or  supplication,  of  praise,  and  of  horror  ;  they  are  erai)Ioyed 
in  approving,  in  refusing,  in  questioning;  in  showing  our  joy,  our 
sorrow,  our  doubts,  our  regret,  our  admiration.  These  expressions, 
so  obedient  to  passion,  are  extremely  difficult  to  be  imitated  in  a 
calm  state  :  the  ancients,  sensible  of  the  advantage  as  well  as  dif- 
ficulty of  having  these  expressions  at  command,  bestowed  much  time 
and  care  in  collecting  them  from  observation,  and  in  digesting  them 
into  a  practical  art,  which  was  taught  in  their  schools  as  au  im- 
portant branch  of  education.  Certjiin  sounds  are  by  nature  allotted 
to  each  passion  for  expressing  it  externally.  The  actor  who  has 
these  sounds  at  command  to  captivate  the  ear,  is  mighty ;  if  he  have 
also  proper  gestures  at  command  to  captivate  the  eye,  he  is  irre- 
sistible. 

354.  The  foregoing  si'gns,  though  in  a  strict  sense  voluntary,  can- 
not, however,  be  restrained  but  with  the  utmost  difficulty  when 
prompted  by  passion.  We  scarce  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  of  good-breeding  to  suppress,  as  much  as  possible,  these  ex- 
ternal 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  (see  chap,  xvii.) ;  but 
when  less  violent  it  must  be  vented  in  words,  which  have  a  peculiar 
force  not  to  be  equalled  in  a  sedate  composition.  The  ease  and  se- 
curity we  have  in  a  confidant,  may  encourage  us  to  talk  of  ourselves 
and  of  our  feelings ;  but  the  cause  is  more  general ;  for  it  operates 

•  Instead  of  a  complimental  speech  in  addressinsr  a  superior,  the  Cl.in«»e 
deliver  the  cornpliinent  in  writing,  the  smallncss  of  the  letters  bem^  If''^*}': 
Uoned  to  the  degree  of  respect;  and  the  highest  compliment  u  to  make  tuo 
letters  so  small  as  not  to  be  legible.  Here  is  a  clear  evulcnco  ot  »  ™^'''*' *^'|: 
nection  between  respect  and  littleness :  a  man  hnmbles  himself  before  1  • 
superior,  and  endeavors  to  contract  himself  and  hw  liandwntiug  witlun  t(.e 
8inallcst  b:>uuds. 

868.  The  great  variety  of  attitude  and  (iresture  of  wliich  the  body  Is  tiweeptible  foe  M- 
presaiug  emotion.    What  the  head  and  the  band*  may  eipresa. 


232  EXTERNAL  SIGNS  OF  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

when  we  are  alone  as  well  as  in  company.  Passion  is  the  cause  ; 
for  in  many  instances  it  is  no  slight  gratification  to  vent  a  passion 
externally  by  words  as  well  as  by  gestures.  Some  passions,  Avhen  at 
a  certain  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  is  that  circumstance  in  passion  which  justifies  soliloquies ;  and  it 
is  that  circumstance  which  proves  them  to  be  natural.  The  mind 
sometimes  favoi-s  this  impulse  of  passion,  by  bestowing  a  temporary 
sensibility  upon  any  object  at  hand,  in  order  to  make  it  a  confidant. 
Thus  in  the  Winter's  Tale  (Act  III.  Sc.  6),  Antigonus  addresses 
himself  to  an  infant  whom  he  was  ordered  to  expose  : 

Come,  poor  babe, 

I  have  heard,  but  not  believed,  that  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  walking. 

355.  The  involuntary  signs,  which  are  all  of  them  natural,  are 
either  peculiar  to  one  passion,  or  common  to  many.  Every  vivid 
passion  hath  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  it.  Painful  passions,  being  all  of  them  violent,  are  dis- 
tinguishable from  each  other  by  their  external  expressions ;  thus 
fear,  shame,  anger,  anxiety,  dejection,  despair,  have  each  of  them 
peculiar  expressions,  which  are  apprehended  without  the  least  con- 
fusion :  some  painful  passions  produce  violent  eftects  upon  the  body, 
trembling,  for  example,  starting,  and  swooning ;  but  these  eftects, 
depending  in  a  good  measure  upon  singulaiity  of  constitution,  are 
not  uniform  in  all  men. 

356.  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  these  emotions ;  others,  being  formed  gradually  by  some  vio- 
lent passion  often  recurring,  become  permanent  signs  of  that  passion, 
and  serve  to  denote  the  disposition  or  temper.  The  face  of  an  infant 
indicates  no  particular  disposition,  because  it  cannot  be  marked  with 
any  character,  to  which  time  is  necessary :  even  the  temporary  signs 
ai'e  extremely  awkward,  being  the  fii-st  rude  essays  of  Nature  to 
discover  internal  feelings ;  thus  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  ob- 
served for  some  months  after  birth.     Permanent  signs,  formed  in 


854  The  foregoing  signs  difficult  to  restrain  when  prompted  by  passion.—What  good- 
breeding  requires.— Passion  prone  to  vent  itself  in  words  and  gestures;  even  to  irrationtJ 
objects.— Soliloquy. 

:V>\  Tl)€  involuntnry  .ign^  eitbcr  peonliar  to  one  pasrion,  or  common  to  many. 


EXTERNAL  SIGNS  OF  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  233 

youth  while  the  body  is  soft  and  flexible,  are  preserved  entire  by  the 
firmness  and  solidity  that  the  body  acquires,  and  are  never  obliterated 
even  by  a  change  of  temper.  Such  signs  are  not  produced  after 
the  fibres  become  rigid  ;  some  violent  cases  excepted,  such  as  re- 
iterated fits  of  the  gout  or  stone  through  a  coui-so  of  time :  but  these 
signs  are  not  so  obstinate  as  what  are  produced  in  youth ;  for  when 
the  cause  is  removed,  they  gradually  wear  away,  and  at  last  vanish. 

357.  The  natural  signs  of  emotions,  voluntary  and  involuntary, 
being  nearly  the  same  in  all  men,  form  a  univei-sfd  language,  which 
no  disUmce  of  place,  no  difteience  of  tribe,  no  diversity  of  tongue, 
can  darken  or  render  doubtful :  even  education,  though  of  mighty 
influence,  hath  not  power  to  vary  or  sophisticate,  far  less  to  destroy, 
their  signification.  This  is  a  wise  appointment  of  Providence  ;  for 
if  these  signs  were  like  words,  arbitrary  and  vaiiable,  the  thoughts 
and  volitions  of  strangei-s  would  \xi  entirely  hid  from  us ;  which 
would  prove  a  great,  or  rather  invincible,  obstruction  to  the  forma- 

_^tion  of  societies ;  but  as  matters  are  ordered,  the  external  appear- 
ances of  joy,  grief,  anger,  fear,  shame,  and  of  the  other  passions, 
forming  a  universal  language,  open  a  direct  avenue  to  the  heart. 
As  the  arbitrary  signs  vary  in  every  country,  there  could  be  no 
communication  of  thoughts  among  different  nations,  were  it  not  foi 
the  natural  signs,  in  which  all  agree :  and  as  the  discoveiiug  pas- 
sions instantly  at  their  birth  is  essential  to  our  well-being,  and  often 
necessary  for  self-preservation,  the  Author  of  our  nature,  attentive  to 
our  wants,  hath  provided  a  passage  to  the  heart,  which  never  can 
be  obstructed  while  eyesight  remains. 

358.  In  an  inquiiy  concerning  the  external  signs  of  passion,  ac- 
tions must  not  be  overlooked  :  for  though  singly  tliey  afibrd  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  dis- 
cover unerringly  the  various  passions  that  move  him  to  action,  what 
he  loves  and  what  he  hates.  In  our  younger  yeai-s,  every  single  ac- 
tion is  a  mark,  not  at  all  ambiguous  of  the  temper;  for  in  childhood 
there  is  Httle  or  no  disguise  :  the  subject  becomes  more  intricate  in 
advanced  age ;  but  even  there,  dissimulation  is  seldom  carried  on 
for  any  length  of  time.  And  thus  the  conduct  of  life  is  the  most 
perfect  expression  of  the  internal  disposition.  It  merits  not  indeed 
the  title  of  a  universal  language  ;  because  it  is  not  thoroughly  un- 
derstood but  by  those  of  penetrating  genius  or  extensive  observar 
tion  :  it  is  a  language,  however,  which  eveiy  one  can  decipher  in 
some  measure,  and  which,  joined  with  the  other  external  signs, 
affords  sufficient  means  for  the  direction  of  our  conduct  with  regard 
to  others :  if  we  commit  any  mistake  when  such  light  is  afforded, 


866.  Signs,  temporary  or  permanent    Temporary  signs  In  tnftincy.    Permanent  rigw 
formed  in  youtli.  ^    ,  ___  , .  _,^ 

857.  Tho  natural  signs  form  a  nnlvcrs-u  language.— A  wis*  f\  uolnUnent  or  rrovia«io* 


234  KXTKKNAL  SIGNsJ  OF  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

it  cat.  never  be  the  effect  of  unavoidable  ignorance,  but  of  rashnes* 
or  inadvertence. 

359.  Retiecting  on  the  various  expressions  of  our  emotions,  we 
recognize  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  effort :  thus  a  sudden  fit  of  passion 
vs  a  common  excuse  for  indecent  behavior  or  opprobrious  language. 
A.S  to  involuntary  signs,  these  are  altogether  unavoidable  :  no  voli- 
tion or  effort  can  prevent  the  shaking  of  the  limbs  or  a  pale  vis- 
age, in  a  fit  of  terror :  the  blood  flies  to  the  face  upon  a  sudden 
emotion  of  shame,  in  spite  of  all  opposition  : 

Vergogiia,  clie'n  altrui  stampo  natura, 
Non  si  puo'  rinegar:  cbe  se  tu'  tenti 
Di  cacciarla  dal  cor,  fugge  nel  volto. 

Pastor  Fido,  Act  II.  So.  5. 

Emotions,  indeed,  properly  so  called,  which  are  quiescent,  pro- 
duce no  remarkable  signs  externally.  Nor  is  it  necessary  that  the 
more  deliberate  passions  should,  because  the  operation  of  such  pas- 
sions is  neither  sudden  nor  violent :  these,  however,  remain  not 
altogether  in  obscurity ;  for  being  more  frequent  than  violent  pas- 
sion, the  bulk  of  our  actions  are  directed  by  them.  Actions,  there- 
fore, display,  with  sufficient  evidence,  the  more  deliberate  passions ; 
and  complete  the  admirable  system  of  external  signs,  by  which  we 
become  skilful  in  human  nature. 

360.  What  comes  next  in  order  is,  to  examine  the  efl'ects  produced 
upon  a  spectator  by  external  signs  of  passion.  None  of  these  signs 
are  beheld  with  indifference ;  they  are  productive  of  various  emo- 
tions, 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, 
hath  its  peculiar  signs  ;  and,  with  respect  to  the  present  subject,  it 
must  be  added,  that  these  invariably  make  certain  impressions  on  a 
spectator  :  the  external  signs  of  joy,  for  example,  produce  a  cheerful 
emotion ;  the  external  signs  of  grief  produce  pity ;  and  the  exter- 
nal signs  of  rage  produce  a  sort  of  teiTor  even  in.  those  who  are  not 
aimed  at. 

361.  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- 


858.  Action,  the  best  interpretor  of  the  heart ;   especially  in  our  earlier  years.— Th« 
language  of  action  in  more  advanced  years  not  easily  understood. 

859.  The  care  of  nature  to  discover  men  to  each  other. — Quiescent  emotions  produoo 
no  remarliable  external  sign. — The  m  »re  deliberate  passions,  how  expressed. 

860.  Effects  produced  upon  a  spectator  by  external  signs  of  passiop  ;   by  those  of 
Joy,  «&c  / 


EXTERNAL  SIGNS  OF  KMOTIOXs  AND  PASSIONS.  ^J'^fl 

agreeable.  This  conjecture,  which  Nature  sugirests,  is  confmneil  by 
expenence.  Pride  possibly  niiiy  be  thoii^rht'an  exception,  the  ex- 
ternal signs  of  which  are  disagreeabk',  tiiou<rh  it  Ik)  coiniuoniv 
reck..ned  a  pleasant  paa<ioii ;  but  pride  is  not  a^n  exception,  U-inir  in 
reality  a  mixed  passion,  paitly  pleasant,  partly  painful ;  for  when  a 
proud  raan  confines  his  thoughts  to  himself,  and  to  his  own  dignity 
or  importfince,  the  passion  is  pleasant,  and  its  external  signs  agiecji- 
ble  ;  but  as  piide  chiefly  consists  m  undervaluing  or  conteuininfr 
others,  it  is  so  far  painful,  and  its  exteraal  signs  disagreeable.  ° 

Thirdly,  it  is  laid  down  above,  that  an  agreeable  object  produceth 
always  a  pleasant  emotion,  and  a  disagreeable  object  one  that  if 
painful.  (See  chapter  ii.  part  vii.)  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  painfu'. 
emotion. 

362.  Fourthly,  in  the  presrnt  chapter  it  is  observed,  that  pleasant 
passions  are,  for  the  most  part,  expressed  externally  in  one  uniform 
manner ;  but  that  all  the  painful  passions  are  distinguishable  from 
each  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  more  particular  description.  But  the  external 
signs  of  painful  passions  produce  in  the  spectator  emotions  of  difler- 
ent  kinds :  the  emotions,  for  example,  raised  by  external  signs  of 
grief,  of  remorse,  of  anger,  of  envy,  of  malice,  are  clearly  distin- 
guishable from  each  other. 

363.  Fifthly,  external  signs  of  pMinful  passions  are  some  of  them 
attractive,  some  repulsive.  Of  every  painful  passion  that  is  also 
disagreeable,*  the  external  signs  are  repulsive,  repelling  the  specta- 
tor from  the  object ;  and  the  passion  raised  by  such  exteraal  signs 
may  be  also  considered  as  repulsive.  Painful  passions  that  are 
agreeable  produce  an  opposite  effect:  their  external  signs  are  attrac- 
tive, drawing  the  spectator  to  them,  and  producing  in  him  benevo- 
lence to  the  person  upon  whom  these  signs  appear ;  witness  distress 
painted  on  the  countenance,  which  inst^mtaneously  inspires  the  s]ieo- 
tator  with  pity,  and  impels  "him  to  afford  relief. '  And  the  passion 
raised  by  such  external  signs  may  also  bo  considered  as  attractive. 
The  cause  of  this  difierence  among  the  painful  passions  raised  by 
their  exteraal  signs  may  be  readily  gathered  from  what  is  laid  down, 
chapter  ii.  part  vjL 

*  See  passions  explained  as  agreeable,  chapter  ii.  part  ii. 
• ^ 

361.  Signs  of  pleasant  passions,  apreeable  to  a  spectator,  Ac— Pride,  no  exception.- -An 
Bgreoable  object  produoos  a  pleasant  emotion.  &c. 

862.  Emotions  raised  by  external  signs  of  pleasant  passions  have  little  vtriety ;  not  w  hj 
tnos-'ii  of  painful  passions. 

863.  Kxternal  signs  of  palnfi  p.-issions  either  attractive  or  repulsive. 


236  EXTERNAL  SIGNS  OF  EMOllONS   \ND  PASSIONS. 

364.  It  is  now  time  to  look  back  to  the  question  proposed  in  the 
beginning,  How  we  come  to  understand  external  signs,  so  as  to  refer 
each  sign  to  its  proper  passion  ?  We  have  seen  that  this  bi'anch  of 
knowledge  cannot  be  deiived  originally  from  sight,  nor  from  ex- 
perience. Is  it  then  implanted  in  us  by  nature  ?  The  following 
considerations  will  incline  us  to  answer  the  question  in  the  affirma- 
tive. In  the  first  place,  the  external  signs  of  passion  must  be  nat- 
ural ;  for  they  are  invariably  the  same  in  every  countiy,  and  among 
the  different  tribes  of  men  :  pride,  for  example,  is  always  expressed 
by  an  erect  posture,  reverence  by  prostration,  and  sorrow  by  a  de- 
jected look.  Secondly,  we  are  not  even  indebted  to  experience  for 
the  knowledge  that  these  expressions  are  natural  and  universal  ;  for 
we  are  so  framed  as  to  have  an  innate  conviction  of  the  fact :  let  a 
man  change  his  habitation  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  home.  But  why, 
after  all,  involve  ourselves  in  preliminary  observations,  when  the 
doubt  may  be  directly  solved  as  follows  i!  That,  if  the  meaning  of 
external  signs  be  not  derived  to  us  from  sight,  nor  from  experience, 
there  is  no  remaining  soiu'ce  whence  it  can  be  derived  but  from 
nature. 

365.  We  may  then  venture  to  pronounce,  with  some  degree  of 
assurance,  that  man  is  provided  by  nature  with  a  sense  or  faculty 
that  lays  open  to  him  every  passion  by  means  of  its  external  ex- 
pressions. 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  aftected  with  the  passions  of 
its  nurse  expressed  in  her  countenance  ;  a  smile  cheers  it,  a  frown 
makes  it  afraid  :  but  fear  cannot  be  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  intui- 
tively, for  it  has  no  other  means  of  knowledge.  I  do  not  affirm  that 
these  particulars  are  clearly  apprehended  by  the  child,  for  to  pro- 
duce clear  and  distinct  perceptions,  reflection  and  experience  are 
requisite ;  but  that  even  an  infant,  when  afraid,  must  have  some 
notion  of  its  betng  in  danger,  is  evident. 

That  we  should  be  conscious  intuitively  of  a  passion  from  its  ex- 
ternal expressions,  is  conformable  to  the  analogy  of  nature :  the 
knowledge  of  that  language  is  of  too  great  importance  to  be  left 
upon  expeiience  ;  because  a  foundation  so  uncertain  and  precarious 
would  prove  a  great  obstacle  to  the  formation  of  societies.  Wisely, 
therefore,  is  it  ordered,  and  agreeably  to  the  system  of  Providence, 
that  we  should  have  nature  for  5ur  instructor. 

864  How  we  refer  each  sign  to  Its  proper  passion.    Considerations  wlilch  sbow  that 
this  knowledge  is  implanted  by  nature. 
865.  Infants  atfected  by  external  signs.    Argument  from  analogy. 


EXTERNAL  SIGNS  OF  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  237 

866.  Manifold  and  admirable  are  the  purposes  to  which  the  ex- 
ternal signs  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  pro- 
coed  with  alacrity.  In  the  first  place,  the  signs  of  internal  agitation 
displayed  externally  to  every  spectator,  tend  to  fix  the  signification 
of  many  words.  The  only  etiectual  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  ob- 
jects of  external  sense,  for  in  that  case  an  appeal  is  denied.  Passion, 
strictly  speaking,  is  not  an  object  of  external  sense,  but  its  external 
signs  are ;  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  distinct 
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  far  from  being  sufficiently  ascertained,  even  after  much 
care  and  labor  bestowed  by  Locke ;  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  re- 
markable in  cnticism,  which  has  for  its  object  the  more  delicate 
feelings  ;  the  tenns  that  denote  these  feelings  being  not  more  dis- 
tinct 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  constituent 
parts,  and  to  distinguish  each  by  its  own  name. 

36Y.  In  the  second  place,  society  among  individuals  is  greatly 
promoted  by  that  universal  language.  Looks  and  gestures  give 
direct  access  to  the  heart,  and  lead  us  to  select,  with  tolerable  ac- 
curacy, the  persons  who  are  worthy  of  our  confidence.  It  is  sur- 
prising how  quickly,  and  for  the  most  piU"t  how  correctly,  we  judge 
of  character  from  external  appearance. 

Thirdly,  After  social  intercourse  is  commenced,  these  external 
signs,  which  diffuse  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  in- 
voluntary signs  especially,  which  are  incapable  of  deceit.  Where 
the  countenance,  the  tones,  the  gestures,  tlie  actions,  join  with  the 
words  in  communicating  emotions,  these  united  have  a  force  irresist- 
ible :  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,  conver- 
ge. PurposM  to  which  th»  extornul  t\gnt  of  pisslon  •!*  ror^t  luUtrvWnt 


238  EXTERNAL  SIGNS  OF  EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS. 

sation  ixcomes  that  lively  and  animating  amusement  without  which 
life  would  at  best  be  insipid  ;  one  joyful  countenance  spreads  cheer- 
fulness instantaneously  through  a  multitude  of  spectators. 

368.  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  characters.*  The  external  signs  again  of  every  passion  that 
threatens  danger  raise  in  us  the  passion  of  fear ;  which,  frequently 
operating  without  reason  or  reflection,  moves  us  by  a  sudden  impulse 
to  avoid  the  impending  danger.    (See  chapter  ii.  part  i.  sec.  6.) 

369.  In  the  fifth  place.  These  external  signs  are  remarkably  sub- 
servient to  morality.  A  painful  passion,  being  accompanied  with 
disagreeable  external  signs,  must  produce  in  eveiy  spectator  a  pain- 
ful emotion  ;  but  then,  if  the  passion  be  social,  the  emotion  it  pro- 
duces is  attractive,  and  connects  the  spectator  with  the  person  who 
suffers.  Dissocial  passions  only  are  productive  of  repulsive  emotions, 
involving  the  spectator's  aversion,  and  frequently  his  indignation. 
This  beautiful  contrivance  makes  us  cling  to  the  virtuous,  and  abhor 
the  wicked. 

370.  Sixthly,  Of  all  the  external  signs  of  passion,  those  of  afflic- 
tion or  distress  are  the  most  illustiious  with  respect  to  a  final  cause. 
They  are  illustrious  by  the  singulanty  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 
solitaiy  state  he  is  a  helpless  being,  destitute  of  support,  and  in  his 
manifold  distresses  destitute  of  rehef :  but  mutual  support,  the  shining 
attribute  of  society,  is  of  too  great  moment  to  be  lefl  dependent  upon 

*  Eougli  and  blunt  manners  are  allied  to  anger  by  an  internal  feeling,  as  well 
as  by  external  expressions  resembling  in  a  faint  degree  those  of  anger  ;  there- 
fore 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  :  first,  they  are  readily  converted  into  anger ;  and  next,  the  change 
Deing  imperceptible  because  of  the  similitude  of  their  external  signs,  the  per- 
son against  whom  the  anger  is  directed  is  not  put  upon  his  guard.  It  is  for 
these  reasons  a  great  object  in  society  to  correct  such  manners,  and  to  bring 
on  a  habit  of  sweetness  and  calmness.  This  temper  has  two  opposite  good 
effects.  First,  it  is  not  easily  provoked  to  wrath.  Next,  the  interval  being 
great  between  it  and  real  anger,  a  person  of  that  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  otfen4ing  party  is 
put  upon  his  guard,  to  retire,  or  to  endeavor  a'reconciliation. 

867.  Society  among  individuals  thus  promoted. — The  social  afifections  improved ;  not 
only  by  language,  but  signs. — What  enlivens  conversation. 

868.  Signs  of  dissocial  passions  put  us  on  our  guard. — Rough  and  blunt  manners  nnbftpp; 
In  two  respects.— Opposit*  good  etfects  of  »  sweet  temper. 

860.  External  signs  promote  morality. 


EZTEKNAL  SIGNS  OP  -EMOTIONS  AND  PASSIONS.  239 

c<»ol  reason  ;  it  is  ordered  more  wisely,  and  with  gieater  oonformiU 
to  the  analogy  of  nature,  that  it  should  be  enforced  oven  inRtiuclivcly 
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  sympatly  of  othei-s  niav  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  disagreeable,  as  they  undoubtedly  are,  ought  they 
not  naturally  to  repel  the  spectator  from  them,  in  order  to  be  re- 
lieved from  pain  ?  Such  would  be  the  reasoning  beforehand  ;  and 
such  would  be  the  effect  were  man  purely  a  selfish  being.  But  the 
benevolence  of  our  nature  gives  a  veiy  different  direction  to  the 
painful  passion  of  sympathy,  and  to  the  desire  involved  in  it :  in- 
stead of  avoiding  distress,  we  fly  to  it  in  order  to  afford  relief ;  and 
our  sympathy  cannot  be  otherwise  gratified  but  by  giving  all  the 
succor  in  our  power.  (See  chap.  ii.  part  vii.)  Thus  external  signs 
of  distress,  though  disagreeable,  are  attractive ;  and  the  syu)pathy 
they  inspire  is  a  powerful  cause,  impelling  us  to  aflford  relief  even  to 
a  stranger,  as  if  he  were  our  fnend  or  relation.* 

371.  The  effects  produced  in  all  beholders  by  external  signs  of 
passion,  tend  so  visibly  to  advance  the  social  state,  that  I  must  in- 
dulge my  heart  with  a  more  narrow  inspection  of  this  admirable 
branch  of  the  human  constitution.  These  external  signs,  being  all  of. 
them  resolvable  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 
eftects  they  produce  are  not  such  as  might  be  expected.  We  can- 
not therefore  account  otherwise  for  the  operation  of  these  external 
signs,  but  by  asciibing  it  to  the  original  constitution  of  human  na- 
ture :  to  improve  the  social  state  by  making  us  instinctively  rejoice 

*  It  is  apoted  observation,  tliat  the  deepest  trnrredies  are  the  most  crowded ; 
which  in  a  flight  view  will  be  thought  an  unaccountable  bias  iu  human  nature. 
Love  of  novelty,  desire  of  occupation,  beauty  of  action,  make  us  fond  of  the- 
atrical representations  ;  and,  when  once  engaged,  we  must  follow  the  Btory  to 
the  conclusion,  whatever  distress  it  may  create.  But  we  pcnenillv  become  wise 
by  experience ;  and  when  we  foresee  what  pain  we  shall  autfer  during  the  connse 
of  the  representation,  is  it  not  surprising  that  persons  of  reflection  do  not  avoid 
such  spectacles  altogether  ?  And  yet  one  who  has  scarce  recovered  from  the 
distress  of  a  deep  tragedy,  resolves  coolly  and  deliberately  to  go  to  the  very 
next,  without  the  slightest  obstruction  from  self-love.  The  whole  mysterj-  is 
explained  by  a  single  observation.  That  sympathy,  though  painful,  is  ntlractivo, 
and  attaches  us  to  an  object  in  distress,  the  opposition  of  self-love  notwith- 
standing, which  should  prompt  us  to  iiy  from  it.  And  by  this  curious  incchon 
ism  it  is,  that  persons  of  any  degree  of  sensibility  are  attracted  by  affliction  utiJJ 
more  than  by  joy. 

8T0.  Final  cause  of  external  signs  of  distress.— Nature  of  man  conformed  to  bis  dreom 
stances.— Sympathy.— W^hy  distress  does  not  repel —Why  the  d«*|>cM  tTafKltw  are  at 
tratUve. 


240  SENTlMEJfTS. 

with  the  glad  of  heait,  weep  with  the  mourner,  and  shun  those  who 
threaten  danger,  is  a  contrivance  no  less  illustrious  for  its  wisdom 
than  for  its  benevolence. 

372.  I  add  a  reflection,  with  which  I  shall  conclude.  The  ex- 
ternal signs  of  passion  are  a  strong  indication  that  man,  by  his  very 
constitution,  is  framed  to  be  open  and  sincere.  A  child,  in  all  things 
obedient  to  the  impulse  of  nature,  hides  none  of  its  emotions  :  the 
savage  and  clown,  who  have  no  guide  but  pure  nature,  expose  their 
hearts  to  view,  by  giving  way  to  all  the  natural  signs.  And  even 
■when  men  learn  to  dissemble  their  sentiments,  and  when  behavior 
degenerates  into  art,  there  still  remain  checks  that  keep  dissimula- 
tion 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  uneasiness,  which  cannot  be  endured  for 
any  considerable  time :  this  operation  becomes  indeed  less  painful 
by  habit ;  but,  luckily,  the  involuntary  signs  cannot,  by  any  effort, 
be  suppressed,  nor  even  dissembled.  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  sin- 
cere and  candid,  intends  that  mankind  should  preserve  the  same 
character,  by  cultivating  simplicity  and  truth,  and  banishing  every 
sort  of  dissimulation  that  tends  to  mischief. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

SENTIMENTS. 

3Y3.  Every  thought  prompted  by  passion,  is  termed  a  sentiment 
(see  Introd.  sec.  33).  To  have  a  general  notion  of  the  different  pas- 
sions, will  not  alone  enable  an  artist  to  make  a  just  representation 
of  any  passion :  he  ought,  over  and  above,  to  know  the  various  ap- 
pearances 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  feel- 
ing, of  sentiment,  and  of  expression,  is  precisely  the  same  in  any  two 
persons.  Hence  the  following  iiile  concerning  dramatic  and  epic 
compositions :  that  a  passion  be  adjusted  to  the  character,  the  senti- 
ments to  the  passion,  and  the  language  to  the  sentiments.  If  nature 
be  not  faithfully  copied  in  each  of  these,  a  defect  in  execution  is  per- 

871.  The  operation  of  external  signs  of  emotion,  attributable  to  the  original  constitution 
of  human  nature.    Wisdom  and  benevolence  of  the  contrivance. 

S72.  Concluding  reflection  ;  what  the  external  signs  of  p.vsion  Indicate.  IllnstrattHl  in 
tb?  child  ;  the  savage ;  and  even  in  men  that  have  learned  to  dissemble  their  eontiraeots. 


SENTIMENTS  241 

ceived :  there  may  appear  some  resemblance ;  but  the  picture,  upon 
the  whole,  will  be  insipid,  through  want  of  grace  and  dehcacy.  A 
painter,  in  order  to  represent  the  various  attitudes  of  the  body,  ought 
to  be  intimately  acquainted  with  muscular  motion :  no  leas  intimate- 
ly acquainted  with  emotions  and  characters  ought  a  writer  to  be,  in 
order  to  represent  the  various  attitudes  of  the  mind,  A  general  no- 
tion of  the  passions,  in  their  grosser  differences  of  strong  and  weak, 
elevated  and  himible,  severe  and  gay,  is  far  from  being  suflBcient : 
pictures  foi-med  so  supei-ficially  have  little  resemblance,  and  no  ex- 
pression; yet  it  will  appear  by  and  by,  that  in  many  instances  our 
axlists  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  besf 
writers  instances  of  faulty  sentiments,  after  paving  the  way  by  soow 
general  observations. 

374.  To  talk  in  the  language  of  music,  each  passion  hath  a  cer- 
tain 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  supix)rted  during  tlie  course  of  a 
long  theatrical  representation.  In  order  to  reach  such  delicacy  of 
execution,  it  is  necessary  that  a  writer  assume  the  precise  charjicter 
and  passion  of  the  pei-sonage  represented ;  which  requires  an  un- 
common genius.  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 
Avill  frequently  be  as  delightfully  new  to  himself  as  to  his  reader. 
But  if  a  lively  picture  even  of  a  single  emotion  require  an  effort  of 
genius,  how  much  greater  the  effort  to  compose  a  passionate  dialogue 
with  as  many  different  tones  of  passion  as  there  are  speakers !  With 
what  ductihty  of  feehng  must  that  writer  be  endowed,  who  ap- 
proaches perfection  in  such  a  work :  when  it  is  necessary  to  assume 
different  and  even  opposite  characters  and  passions,  in  tlie  quickest 
succession  !  Yet  this  work,  diflBcult  as  it  is,  yields  to  that  of  com- 
posing a  dialogue  in  genteel  comedy,  exhibiting  characters  without 
passion.  The  reason  is,  that  the  difl^erent  tones  of  character  are  more 
delicate  and  less  in  sight,  than  those  of  passion ;  and  accordindy, 
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 

8T8.  Define  aentiment—Uow  passions  are  modifled.— Rule  for  dnmwUo  ud  epJo  com- 

po$tttons  

•  874  Sentiment  to  be  a<lapted  to  each  passion.— The  writer  must  Msnme  the  cJi»r«e»r 
and  passion  of  the  pcrsu-  reprosente*!.— Difficulty  of  ooinpoatng  diaJogu*.  ThrM  ktao* 
coinpareiL 

I  1 


242  BENTIMENTS. 

of  each  speaker  a  peculiarity,  not  only  of  thought,  but  of  expression, 
requires  the  perfection  of  genius,  taste,  and  judgtnent. 

375.  How  nice  dialogue-writing  is,  will  be  evident,  even  without 
reasoning,  from  the  miserable  compositions  of  that  kind  found  with- 
out numlber  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  in- 
ternal emotions,  tracing  all  their  different  tints,  and  representing 
them  in  a  lively  manner  by  natural  sentiments  properly  expressed ! 
The  truth  is,  such  execution  is  too  delicate  for  an  ordinary  genius : 
and  for  that  reason,  the  bulk  of  writers,  instead  of  expressing  a  pas- 
sion as  one  does  who  teels  it,  content  themselves  with  describing  it 
in  the  language  of  a  spectator.  To  awake  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  rep- 
resent 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  veiy  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 
hke  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 ;  pei-sonages  without  character,  the  mere 
outlines  of  passion,  a  tiresome  monotony,  and  a  pompous  declama- 
tory style.f 

376.  This  descriptive  manner  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  (see  chap.  ii.  part  i.  sect.  7).     Un- 

*  In  the  uSneid,  the  hero  is  made  to  describe  himself  in  the  following  words: 
iiumpius  JEneas,/ama  super  cethera  notvs.  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  following  speech  for  Cyrus  the  younger,  to  his  Grecian  auxiliaries,  whom 
he  was  leading  against  his  brother  Artaxerxes :  "  I  have  chosen  you,  0  Greeks ! 
my  auxiliaries,  not  to  enlarge  my  army,  for  I  have  Barbarians  without  number; 
but  because  y)u  surpass  all  the  Harbariam  in  valor  and  military  discipline." 
This  sentiment  is  Xenophon's,  for  surely  Cyrus  did  not  reckon  his  countrymen 
Barbarians. 

+  "Chez  Racine  tout  est  sentiment;  il  a  su  faire  TpnTlei  chacun  pour  sot,  et 
o'est  en  cela  qu'il  est  vraiment  unique  parmi  les  auteurs  dramatiques  de  sa  na- 
tion."— Rousseau. 

875.  Rare  talent  re<;ulred  In  Imitating  characters  and  Internal  emotions.— Most  wrltoM 
merely  describe  passion.— More  easy  to  write  as  a  spectator  than  to  feol  the  passion  <!•• 
►iribed.—Remarks  on  Virgi!  and  Xeiioplion. 


SENTIMENTS.  34S 

happy  is  the  player  of  genius  who  acts  a  capital  part  in  what  may 
be  tei-med  a  descriptive  tragedij ;  after  assuming  the  very  passion 
tliat  is  to  be  represented,  how  is  he  cramped  in  action,  when  he 
must  utter,  not  the  sentiments  of  the  passion  he  feels,  but  a  cold  de- 
scription in  the  language  of  a  bystander !  It  is  that  imperfection, 
I  am  persuaded,  in  the  bulk  of  our  plays,  which  confines  our  stage 
almost  entirely  to  Shakspeare,  notwithstanding  his  many  irregulari- 
ties. In  our  late  English  tragedies,  we  sometimes  find  sentimenla 
tolerably  well  adapted  to  a  plain  passion:  but  we  must  not,  in  any 
of  them,  expect  a  sentiment  expressive  of  character ;  and,  upon  that 
very  account,  our  late  performances  of  the  dramatic  kind  are  for  the 
most  part  intolerably  insipid. 

377.  Looking  back  upon  what  is  said,  I  am  in  some  apprehen- 
sion of  not  being  perfectly  underetood  ;  for  it  is  not  easy  to  avoid 
obscurity  in  handling  a  matter  so  complicated  ;  but  I  promise  to  set 
it  in  the  clearest  light,  by  adding  example  to  precept.  The  first  ex- 
amples shall,  be  of  sentiments  that  appear  the  legitimate  offspring 
of  passion ;  to  which  shall  be  opposed  what  are  descriptive  only, 
and  illegitimate  :  and  in  making  this  comparison,  I  boiTow  my  in- 
stances from  Shakspeare  and  Corneille,  who  for  genius  in  dramatio 
composition  stand  uppermost  in  the  rolls  of  fame. 

Shakspeare  shall  furnish  the  first  example,  being  of  sentiments  die* 
tated  by  a  violent  and  perturbed  passion  : 

Lear. Filial  ingratitude  i 

Is  it  not,  as  if  this  mouth  should  tear  this  hand 
For  lifting  food  to't  ? — But  I'll  punish  home  ; 

No,  I'll  weep  no  more. In  such  a  night, 

To  shut  me  out ! Pour  on,  I  will  endure. 

In  such  a  night  as  this !  O  Kegan,  Goneril, 
Your  old  kind  father,  whose  frank  heart  (jave  all— 
O  !  that  way  madness  lies  ;  let  me  shun  tiial; 
No  more  of'that. 

Kent.  Good,  my  lord,  enter  here. 

Lear.  I'r'ythee,  go  in  thyself,  seek  thine  own  case, 
This  tempest  will  not  give  me  leave  to  ponder 
On  things  would  hurt  me  more : — but  I'll  go  in  ; 

In,  boy,  go  first.     Yon  houseless  povertv 

Nay,  get  thee  in  ;  I'll  pray,  and  then  I'll  sleep- 
Poor  naked  wretches,  whcresoe'er  you  arc, 
That  bide  the  pelting  of  this  pitiless  storm  ! 
How  shall  your  houseless  heads,  and  unfed  sides, 
Your  loop'd  and  window'd  ruggedncss  defend  you 

From  seasons  such  as  these  ? O  I  have  ta'en 

Too  little  care  of  this  !  Take  physic.  Pomp ; 
Expose  thyself  to  feel  what  wretches  feel. 
That  thou  may'st  shake  the  superflux  to  them. 
And  show  the  heavens  more  just. 

Xing  Lear,  Act  III.  8«.  8. 

I  give  another  example  of  the  same  kind,  expressing  sentinoent* 
arising  from  remorse  and  despair  : 

878.  Defects  of  the  doscrlpUve  muiDer  of  repreaentiiic  p«B(toii.~ll6rtt  of  SbaktpMre^ 


214  sEjrriMEirra. 

OtMlo.  I.J  1  I  have  a  weapon  : 
A  better  never  did  itself  sustain 
Upon  a  soldier's  thigh.    I've  seen  the  day, 
That  with  this  little  arm,  and  this  good  sword, 
I've  made  my  way  through  more  impediment 
Than  twenty  times  your  stop.     But,  oh  vain  boast  1 
Who  can  control  his  fate  ?  '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  you  go  back  dismay'd  ?  'tis  a  lost  fear. 
Man  but  a  rush  against  Othello's  breast. 
And  he  retires.     Where  should  Othello  go? 
Now — how  dost  thou  look  cow  ?  Oh  ill-starr'd  wench 
Pale  as  thy  smock !     When  we  shall  meet  at  compt. 
This  look  of  tliine  will  hurl  my  soul  from  heaven. 
And  fiends  will  snatch  at  it.    Cold,  cold,  my  girl ; 
Ev'n  like  thy  chastity.    O  cursed  slave  !  , 

Whip  me,  ye  devils. 

From  the  possession  of  this  heavenly  sight ; 
Blow  me  about  in  winds,  roast  me  in  sulphur. 

Wash  me  in  steep  down  gulfs  of  liquid  fire 

Oh,  Desdemona !  Desdemona  I  dead  !  dead  !  oh  !  q1i  ! 

OtIieUo,  Act  V.  So. ». 

The  seiitiments  here  displayed  flow  so  naturally  from  the  passions 
represented,  that  we  cannot  conceive  any  imitation  more  perfect. 

378.  With  regard  to  the  French  author,  truth  obliges  me  to  ac- 
knowledge, that  he  describes  in  the  style  of  a  spectator,  instead  of 
expressing  passion  like  one  who  feels  it;  which  naturally  betrays  him 
into  a  tiresome  monotony,  and  a  pompous  declamatoiy  style.*  It 
is  scarce  necessary  to  give  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 
Cinna,  Emilia,  after  the  conspiracy  Avas  discovered,  having  nothing 
in  view  but  racks  and  death  to  herself  and  her  lover,  receives  a  par- 
don from  Augustus,  attended  with  the  biightest  circumstances  of 

*  This  criticism  reaches  the  French  dramatic  writers  in  general,  with  very 
few  exceptions :  their  tragedies,  excepting  those  of  Racine,  are  mostly,  if  not 
totallv,  descriptive.  Corneille  led  the  way ;  and  later  writers,  imitating  his 
manner,  have  accustomed  the  French  ear  to  a  style,  formal,  pompous,  de- 
clamatory, which  suits  not  with  any  passion.  Hence,  to  burlesque  a  French 
tragedy,  IS  not  more  difficult  than  to  burlesque  a  stiflf  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  aparodij.  La 
Motte,  who  himself  appears  to  have  been  sorely  galled  by  some  of  these  pro- 
ductions, 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  tailors,  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  m 
well  as  to  the  passion  represented,  is  so  rem.irkable  as  to  become  ridiculous. 
A  tragedy,  where  every  passion  is  made  to  speak  in  its  natural  tone,  is  not  lia- 
ble to  be  thus  burlesqued  :  tlie  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  wlio  is  susceptible  of  the  passion. 

87T.  Ezunpk  of  eentlments  dktatci!  by  passtor ;  by  remorse  and  d«^»»r. 

I 


SEN-flMKNTO.  245 

magnanimity  and  tendeniess.  Tliis  is  a  Incky  situation  foi  repre- 
senting the  psissions  of  surprise  and  gratitude  in  their  different 
stages,  which  seem  naturally  to  be  what  follow.  These  passionn, 
raised  at  once  to  the  utmost  pitch,  and  being  at  first  too  big  for 
utteiance,  must,  for  some  moments,  be  expressed  by  violent  gestures 
only :  as  soon  as  there  is  vent  for  words,  the  fii-st  expressions  are 
broken  and  interrupted  :  at  last  Ave  ought  to  expect  a  tide  of  in- 
toiTOingled  sentiments,  occasioned  by  the  fluctuation  of  the  mind 
between  the  two  passions.  ^Emilia  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.     (Act  V.  Sc.  3.) 

In  the  tragedy  of  Sertorius,  the  queen,  sui"pnsed  with  the  news  that 
her  lover  was  assassinated,  instead  of  venting  any  passion,  degener- 
ates into  a  cool  spectator,  and  undertakes  to  instruct  the  bystanders 
how  a  queen  ought  to  behave  on  such  an  occasion,   (Act  V.  Sc.  3.) 

3*79.  So  much  in  general  upon  the  genuine  sentiments  of  passion. 
I  proceed  to  particular  observations.  And,  fii-st,  passions  seldom 
continue  uniform  any  considerable  time :  they  generally  fluctuate, 
swelling  and  subsiding  by  turns,  often  in  a  quick  succession  (see 
chapter  ii.  part  iii.)  ;  and  the  same  sentiments  cannot  be  just  unless 
they  correspond  to  such  fluctuation.  Accordingly,  climax  never 
shows  better  than  in  expressing  a  swelling  passion  :  the  following 
passages  Jiiay  suffice  for  an  illustration  : 

Oroonoko. Can  vou  raise  the  dead  ? 

Pursue  and  overtake  tlie  winjrs  of  time  ? 

And  bring  about  again  the  liours,  the  davs, 

The  years  that  made  me  happy  "i— Oroonoko,  Act  II.  8c.  3. 

Almeria. How  liast  thou  charm'd 

The  wildness  of  the  waves  and  rocks  to  this  ? 
That  thus  relenting  they  have  given  thee  back 
To  earth,  to  light  and  life,  to  love  and  me  ? 

Mourning  Bride,  Act  I.  8a  T. 

I  would  not  be  the  villain  that  thou  thiuk'st 
For  the  whole  space  that's  in  the  tyrant's  grasp. 
And  the  rich  earth  to  boot. — Macbeth,  Act  iV.  So.  4. 

The  following  passage  expresses  finely  tlie  progress  of  conviction : 

Let  me  not  stir,  nor  breathe,  lest  I  dissolve 

That  tender,  lovely  form  of  painted  air, 

So  like  Almeria.     Ha  1  it  sinks,  it  falls  ; 

I'll  catch  it  ere  it  goes,  and  grasp  her  shade. 

'Tis  life!  'tis  warm!  'tis  she!  'tis  she  herself!  ,,  «    - 

It  is  Almeria,  'tis,  :t  is  my  wife  '.—Mourning  MruU,  Act  II.  8c. ». 

In  the  progress  of  thought,  our  resolutions  become  more  vigorous 
as  well  as  our  passions  : 

878.  Peculiarities  of  Corneille.-Frencl.  trafteJies  easily  burlesqueA    How  tbb  U  4oM 
—Remarks  on  tlie  trnsedies  of  Cinna  and  Arrtoriii».  .-.1iIb» 

379.  Passions  seWom  uniform  for  a  long  time.— CliiMX.  expretsiv*  of*  »w«inii« 
Examples. 


246  SKNTIMtCNTO. 

If  evci  I  do  J  ield  or  give  consent, 

By  an  action,  word,  or  thought,  to  wed 

Another  L)rd ;  may  then  just  heaven  shower  down,  &c. 

Ibid.  Act  I.  Sc.  1. 

380.  And  this  leads  to  a  second  observation.  That  the  different 
stages  of  a  passion,  and  its  different  directions,  from  birth  to  extinc- 
tion, must  be  carefully  represented  in  their  order ;  because  otherwise 
the  sentiments,  by  being  misplaced,  will  appear  forced  and  unnat- 
ural. Resentment,  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  ex- 
hausted before  the  person  injured  thinks  of  grieving  for  himself.  In 
the  Old  of  Corneille,  Don  Diegue,  having  been  affronted  in  a  cruel 
manner,  expresses  scarce  any  sentiment  of  revenge,  but  is  totally 
occupied  in  contemplating  the  low  situation  to  which  he  is  reduced 
by  the  affront : 

0  rage !  6  desespoir!  6    vieillesso  ennemie  ! 
N'ai-je  done  tant  vecu  que  pour  cette  infamie? 
Et  ne  suis-je  blanehi  dans  les  trauvaux  guerriers. 
Que  pour  voir  en  un  jour  fl6trlr  taut  do  lauriers  ? 
Mon  oras,  qu'avec  respect  toute  I'Espagne  admire, 
Mon  bras,  qui  tant  de  fois  a  suave  cet  empire, 
Tant  do  fois  aifermi  le  trone  de  son  Koi, 
Trahit  done  ma  querelle,  et  no  fait  rien  pour  moi  I 
0  cruel  souvenir  de  ma  gloire  passee  ! 
(Euvre  de  tant  de  jours  en  un  jour  effaede ! 
Nouvelle  dignite  fatale  ii  mon  bonheur  ! 
Precipice  elevd  d'ou  tombe  mon  honneur ! 
Faut-il  de  votre  eclat  voir  triompher  le  Comte. 
Et  mourir  sans  vengeance,  ou  vivro  dans  la  honte? 

Le  Old,  Act  I.  Sc.  7. 

These  sentiments  are  certainly  not  the  first  that  are  suggested  by 
the  passion  of  resentment.  As  the  first  movements  of  resentment 
are  always  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,  Quintus  Curtius  describes 
the  first  emotions  of  the  army  as  directed  to  themselves,  lamenting 
that  they  were  left  without  a  leader,  far  from  home,  and  had  scarce 
any  hopes  of  returning  in  safety :  their  king's  distress,  Avhich  must 
naturally  have  been  their  first  concern,  occupies  them  but  in  the 
second  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,  turns  her  thoughts 
upon  herself,  and  wonders  her  heart  does  not  break : 

Ohime,  ben  son  di  sasso, 

Poi  che  questa  novella  non  m'uccid.e. — Act  IV.  Sc.  2. 

381.  A  person  sometimes  is  agitated  at  once  by  different  passions ; 
and  the  mind,  in  that  case,  vibrating  like  a  pendulum,  vents  itself 

880.  The  different  stages  of  a  passion  to  be  represented  In  order.  For  Instance,  resent* 
ment— The  Oid  of  Corneille. — Kesentmeut  first  directeil  to  its  object;  so  with  griet— 
Description  of  Alexander's  death,  by  Q.  Curtius,  faulty.— Sylvia,  &c 


SENTIMEN'Ili.  247 

in  sentiraei.ts  that  partake  of  the  same  nbration.     This  I  give  as  a 
third  observation  : 

Queen.  Would  I  had  ne'er  trod  this  English  earth, 
Or  felt  the  flatteries  that  grow  upon  it ! 
Y's've  angels'  faces,  but  heaven  knows  your  hearts. 
What  shall  become  of  me  now  ?  wretched  lady ! 
I  am  the  most  unhappy  woman  living. 

Alas  1  poor  wenches,  where  are  now  your  fortunes  ?  [2b  htr  tMWMt. 
Shipwreck'd  upon  a  kingdom,  wlicre  no  pity, 
No  friends,  no  hope  !  no  kindred  ween  for  me ! 
Almost  no  grave  allow'd  me.  Umry  VIII.  Act  III.  Sc.  I. 

OlMlo.  Oh  devil,  devil ! 
If  that  the  earth  could  teem  with  woman's  tears, 
Kach  drop  she  fulls  would  prove  a  crocodile. 
Out  of  my  sight! 

Desdemona.  I  will  not  stiiy  t'  offend  you.     [Gomg. 

Ludovico.  Truly,  an  obedient  lady  : 
I  do  beseech  your  lordship,  call  her  back. 

0th.  Mistress 

•    Des.  My  lord. 

0th.  What  would  vou  with  her,  sir  ? 

Lxid.  Who,  I,  my  lord  ? 

0th.  Aye ;  you  did  wish  that  I  would  make  her  tarn : 
Sir,  she  can  turn  and  turn,  and  yet  go  on  ; 
And  turn  again.    And  she  can  weep,  sir,  weep : 
And  she's  obedient :  as  you  say,  obedient ; 
Very  obedient — proceed  you  in  your  tears- 
Concerning  tills,  sir— oh  well  painted  passion  I 
I  am  commanded  home— get  you  jiway, 
I'll  send  for  you  anon— sir,  1  obey  the  mandate. 

And  will  return  to  Venice. Ilence,  avaunt  I    [Exit  DMdenuma. 

OtheUo,  Act  IV.  So.  ft. 

Emilia.  Oh,  my  good  lord,  I  would  speak  a  word  with  you. 

OtheUo.  Yes,  'tis  Emilia— I5y  and  by— She's  dead. 
'Tis  like  she  comes  to  speak  of  Cassio'a  death : 
The  noise  was  high— Ha !  I'o  more  moving  I 
Still  as  the  grave.    Sh.all  8»«  come  in  i  were't  good  ? 
I  think  she  stirs  again— Ni— What's  the  best! 
If  she  come  in,  she'll  sur'.  speak  to  my  wife  ; 
My  wife !  my  wife !    WKat  wife  ?  I  have  no  wife ; 
Oh,  insupportable!  Oh.  tieavy  honrl— Othello,  Act  IV.  Sc.  7. 

3«^.  A  fourth  observati'O  is,  That  nature,  which  gave  us  pa^ion.\ 
and  made  them  extrercely  beneficial  when  moderate,  intended  un- 
doubtedly that  they  should  be  subjected  to  the  government  of  reason 
and  conscience.  (See  chap.  ii.  part  vii.)  It  is  therefore  against  the 
order  of  nature,  that  passion  in  any  case  should  take  the  lead  m 
contradiction  to  reason  and  conscience :  such  a  sUte  of  nund  is  a 
sort  of  anarchy,  which  every  one  is  ashamed  of,  and  endeavors  to 
hide  or  dissemble.  Even  love,  however  laudatie,  is  attended  with 
a  conscious  shame  when  it  becomes  immoderate:  it  is  covered  from 
the  world,  and  disclosed  only  to  the  beloved  object : 

Et  quo  I'amour  souvont  do  romors  combuttu, 

Paroisse  une  foible.sse,  et  "^"^.XI^lw  PoH.  Chant,  iii.  1. 101. 

SSI   The  mind,  aititated  St  01)00  by  different  pM«loM.-//-«n'  ^V//.-Oa**to. 


248  SENTIMENTS. 

Oh,  they  love  least  that  let  men  know  their  love. 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  Act  I.  Sc.  8. 

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  sorae_  fa- 
vorable light.  Of  the  propriety  of  sentiment  upon  such  an  occasion, 
Shakspeare,  in  the  Temj^est,  has  given  us  a  beautiful  example,  in  a 
speech  by  the  usurping  Duke  of  Milan,  advising  Sebastian  to  murder 
his  brother,  the  King  of  Naples  : 

Antonio. What  might, 

Worthy  Sebastian— 0,  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.  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.     0  my  gentle  Hubert, 

We  owe  thee  much  ;  within  this  wall  of  flesh 

There  is  a  soul  counts  thee  her  creditor, 

And  with  advantage  means  to  pay  thy  love. 

And,  my  good  friend,  thy  voluntary  oath 

Lives  in  this  bosom,  dearly  cherish'd. 

Give  me  thy  hand,  I  had  a  thing  to  say 

But  I  will  At  it  with  some  better  time. 

By  Heaven,  Hubert,  I'm  almost  ashamed 

To  sav  what  good  respect  I  have  of  thee. 

Robert.  I  am  much  bounden  to  your  majesty. 
K.  John.  Good  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  had  a  thing  to  say but  let  it  go  ; 

The  sun  is  in  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  in  the  drowsy  race  of  night ; 

If  this  same  were  a  church-yard  where  we  stand. 

And  thou  possessed  with  a  thousand  wrongs  ; 

Or  if  that  surly  spirit  Melancholy 

Had  baked  thy  blood,  and  made  it  heavy-thick. 

Which  else  runs  tickling  up  and  down  the  vems. 

Making  that  idiot  Laughter  keep  men's  eyes. 

And  strain  their  checks  to  idle  merriment, 

(A  passion  hateful  to  my  purposes ;) 

Or  if  that  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  sounds  of  words; 

Then,  in  despite  of  broad-eyed  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  lovest  mo  welL 


SENTIMENT*.  JM0 

ffulfrt.  So  well,  that  what  you  bid  mo  undeitake, 
Tliongh  that  my  dciith  were  adjunct  to  my  act, 
By  heaven  I'd  do  it. 

if.  John.  Uo  not  I  know  thou  wouKbt? 
Good  Hubert,  Hubert,  Hubert,  tiirow  tliiuo  cyo 
On  yon  young  boy.     I  tell  thee  what,  my  Irieud  : 
He  is  a  very  serpent  in  my,  way, 
And  wiicresoe'er  tliiH  foot  of  niino  doth  tread, 
He  lies  before  me.     Dost  thou  understand  me  ? 
Thdu  art  his  keeper.  Xiny  John,  Act  III.  He.  5. 

■*  383.  As  things  are  best  illustrated  by  their  contraries,  I  proceed 
to  faulty  sentiments,  disdaining  to  be  indebted  for  examples  to  any 
but  the  most  approved  authors.  The  first  class  shall  consist  of  sen- 
timents that  accord  not  with  the  passion ;  or,  in  other  words,  senti- 
ments that  the  passion  docs  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  faulty  as  being  introduced  too  eariy  or  too  late,  make  a 
fourth.  Vicious  sentiments  exposed  in  their  native  dress,  instead  of 
being  concealed  or  disguised,  make  a  fifth.  And  in  the  last  class 
shall  be  collected  sentiments  suited  to  no  character  or  passion,  and 
therefore  unnatural. 

384.  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  : 

Othello. O  my  soul's  joy  ! 

If  after  every  tempest  come  such  calms, 

May  the  winds  blow  till  they  have  waken'd  death  1 

And  let  the  laboring  bark  climb  hills  of  seas 

Olympus  high,  and  duck  again  as  low 

As  hell's  from  heaven.  Othello,  Act  II.  Sc.  8. 

This  sentiment  may  be  suggested  by  violent  and  inflamed  passion, 
but  is  not  suited  to  the  calm  satisfoction  that  one  feels  upon  escaping 
danger. 

Philast-er.  Place  me,  some  god,  upon  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  Fletchtr,  Act  IV. 

385.  Second.  Sentiments  below  the  tone  of  the  p.Tasion.  Ptolemy, 
by  putting  Pompey  to  death,  having  incuri'e<l  tiie  displeasure  of 
Cfesar,  was  in  the  utmost  dread  of  being  dethroned  :  in  that  agitating 
situation,  Corneille  makes  him  utter  a  .speech  full  of  cool  reflection, 
that  is  in  no  degree  expressive  of  the  pa.ssion  : 

8S2.  Passion  slioiiUl  be  stiljccted  to  reason  and  conscienco,— The  frcllnir  that  attcnclatlM 
Immoflenite  indulgenct  of  passion.— Kalo  for  rcprescnUng  Inimo-leral  ?  p*'«jloi«.  ExatnplM 
fl'om  the  TempeKt.  Ac. 

883.  Faulty  sentiments :  those  that  do  not  accord  with  the  passion,  Ac 

A&4.  eoBtlments  abov«  the  tout  of  the  passion.     OthtUo,  Ji«. 


250  SENTIMENTS. 

Ah !  si  je  t'avois  ert,  je  n'aurois  pas  de  maftre, 
Je  scrois  dans  le  trone  oA  le  Ciel  m'a  fait  naltre  ; 
Mais  c'est  nne  imprudence  assez  commune  aux  rois, 
D'ecouler  trop  d'avis,  et  se  tromper  aux  choix. 
Le  Destin  les  aveujrle  an  bord  du  precipice, 
OH  si  quelque  lumiere  en  leur  ame  so  glisse, 
Cette  fausse  clarte  dont  il  les  eblouit, 
Le  plonge  dans  une  gouffre,  et  puis  s'cvanouit. 

La  jforte  de  Fompee,  Act  IV.  Sc.  1. 

In  Les  Freres  enneinis  'of  Racine,  the  second  act  is  opened  with  a 
love-scene  :  Hemon  talks  to  his  mistress  of  the  tonnents  of  absence, 
of  the  lustre  of  her  eyes,  that  he  ought  to  die  nowhere  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  her  mother  and  brother,  and  cannot  stay  to  listen  to  his  courtship. 
This  is  odious  French  gallantry,  below  the  dignity  of  the  paswon 
of  love :  it  would  be  excusable  in  painting  modern  French  maor 
ners ;  and  is  insufferable  where  the  ancients  are  brought  upon  the 
stage. 

386.  Third.  Sentiments  that  agi-ee  not  with  the  tone  of  the 
passion ;  as  where  a  pleasant  sentiment  is  grafted  upon  a  painful 
passion,  or  the  contrary.  la  the  following  instances  the  sentiments 
are  too  gay  for  a  serious  passion  : 

No  happier  task  these  ftdod  ej'cs  pursue ; 
To  read  and  weep  is  all  they  now  can  do. 

Eloisa  to  Abelard,  1.  47. 

Again : 

Heaven  first  taught  letters  for  some  wretch's  aid, 

Some  banish'd  lover,  or  some  captive  maid  ; 

They  live,  they  speak,  they  breathe  what  love  inspires, 

Warm  from  the  soul,  and  faithful  to  its  iircs  ; 

The  virgin's  wish  without  her  fears  impart, 

Excuse  the  blush,  and  pour  out  all  the  heart ; 

Speed  the  soft  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,  answera 

ihtis : 

Then  when  I  am  thy  captive,  talk  of  chains, 

Proud  limitary  cherub ;  but  ere  then, 

Far  heavier  load  thyself  expect  to  feel 

From  mj  prevailing  arm,  though  Heaven's  King 

Kide  on  thy  wings,  and  thou  with  thy  compeers. 

Used  to  the  yoke,  draw'st  his  triumphant  wheels 

In  progress  through  the  road  of  heaven  star-paved. 

Paradise  Lost,  Book  iv. 

The  concluding  epithet  forms  a  grand  and  delightful  image,  whiJi 
cannot  be  the  genuine  offspnng  of  rage. 

885.  Santlments  below  the  tone  of  the  passion     Ptolemy's  spocch, 
3S6.  Sentimenti  that  agree  not  with  the  tome  of  the  passion,  as  to  gaysty  or  s«rloa»> 
aeM.    SMse  t«  Abelard,  dec. 


BENIIMKNTS.  851 

387.  Fourth.  Sentiments  too  artifinial  for  a  serious  passion.  I 
give  for  the  firet  example  a  si)eech  of  Percy  expiring : 

0  Horry,  thou  liast  robb'd  me  of  my  growth  ; 

1  better  brook  the  loss  of  brittle  life, 

Than  those  proud  titles  thou  hast  won  of  mo ; 

They  wound  my  tlioitghts,  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  of  Henry  IV\  Act  V.  Sc.  •. 

The  sentiments  of  tlie  Mourning  Bride  are,  for  the  most  part, 
no  less  delicate  than  just  copies  of  nature  :  in  the  following  excep- 
tion the  picture  is  beautiful,  but  too  artful  to  be  suggested  by  severe 
grief: 

Almeria.  0  no  I  Time  gives  increase  to  my  afflictions. 
The  circling  hours,  that  gather  all  the  woes 
Which  are  diffused  through  the  revolving  year, 
Come  heavy  laden  with  th'  oppressive  weight 
To  me ;  with  me,  successively  they  leave 
The  sighs,  the  tears,  the  groans,  the  restless  cares, 
And  all  the  damps  of  grief,  that  did  retard  their  flight ; 
They  shake  their  downy  wings,  and  scatter  all 
The  dire  collected  dews  on  my  poor  head ; 
They  fly  with  joy  and  swiftness  from  mo.  Act  I.  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  ? 

Could  eyes  endure  to  guide  such  cruel  hands  f 

Are  not  my  eyes  guilty  alike  with  theirs, 

That  thus  can  gaze,  and  yet  not  turn  to  stone  ?  ' 

— I  do  not  weep  !    The  springs  of  tears  are  dried, 

And  of  a  sudden  I  am  calm,  as  if 

All  things  were  well ;  and  yet  my  husband's  mnrder'd  ! 

Yes,  yes,  1  know  to  mourn :  I'll  sluice  this  heart, 

The  source  of  woe,  and  let  the  torrent  loose.  Act  V.  Sc       ^ 


Lady  Trueman.  How  could  you  be  so  cruel  to  defer  giving  me  that  joy  which 
you  knew  I  must  receive  from  your  presence  ?  You  have  robbed  my  life  of 
some  hours  of  happiness  that  ought  to  have  been  in  it. — Drumnur,  Act  V. 

Pope's  Elegy  to  the  memory  of  an  unfortunate  lady,  expresses 
delicately  the  most  tender  concern  and  sorrow  that  one  can  teel  for 
the  deplorable  fate  of  a  pei-son  of  worth.  Such  a  poem,  deeply 
serious  and  pathetic,  rejects  with  disdain  all  fiction.  Upon  that 
account,  the  following  passage  deserves  no  quarter ;  for  it  is  not  tli«> 
language  of  the  heart,  but  of  the  imagination  indulging  its  flights  al 
ease,  and  by  that  means  is  eminently  discordant  with  the  subject. 
It  would  be*  still  more  severe  censure',  if  it  should  be  ascribed  to 
imitation,  copying  indiscreetly  what  has  been  said  by  others : 

What  though  no  weeping  loves  thy  t»\\t&  grace, 
Nor  polish'd  marble  emulate  thv  face  ? 
What  though  no  sacred  earth  allow  thco  room, 
Nor  hallow'd  dirge  be  mutter'd  o'er  thv  tomb  ? 
Yet  shall  thy  grave  with  rising  flow'rs  be  dre«l. 
And  the  grwn  turf  lie  lightly  on  thy  breast  • 


252  SENTIMENTS. 

There  shall  the  morn  her  earliest  tears  l:)e8to-,y, 
There  the  first  roses  of  the  year  shall  blow  ; 
While  angels,  with  their  silver  wings,  o'ershade. 
The  ground,  now  sacred  by  tliy  relics  made. 

388.  Fifth.  Fanciful  or  fiuical  sentiments.  Sentirricut^  that  de- 
generate into  point  or  conceit,  however  they  may  araube  in  an  idle 
hour,  can  never  be  the  offspiing  of  any  serious  or  iinportant  pas- 
sion. In  the  Jerusalem  of  Tasso,  Tancred,  after  a  smgle  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  to  distraction.  A  more  happy  situation  can- 
not 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  even  of  the  lowest  kind.  (Canto  xix.  stan.  105.)  Armi- 
da's  lamentation  respecting  her  lover  Rinaldo,  is  in  the  same  vicious 
taste.   (Canto  xx.  stan.  124,  125,  aud  126.) 

Queen.  Give  me  no  helj)  in  lamentation, 
I  am  not  barren  to  bring  forth  complaints : 
All  springs  reduce  theif  currents  to  mine  eyes, 
That  I,  being  govern'd  by  the  wat'ry  moon, 
May  send  forth  plenteous  tears  to  drown  the  world, 
Ah,  for  my  husband,  for  my  dear  Lord  Edward. 

'       ■    ■>  Xing  Richard  III.  Act  II.  Sc,  2. 

Jam  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  wild,  and  desolate  waste  ;  ■ 
Feed  on  my  siglis  and  drink  my  falling  tears, 
Ere  I  consent  to  teach  ray  lips  injustice, 
*'  Or  wrong  the  orphan  who  has  none  to  save  him. 

Jane  Shore,  Act  IV. 

Give  me  your  drops,  ye  soft-descending  rains ; 
Give  me  your  streams,  ye  never-ceasing  springs. 
That  my  sad  eyes  may  still  supply  my  duty, 
\  And  feed  an  everlasting  flood  of  sorrow.^va/w  Shore,  Act  V. 

Jane  Shore  utters  her  last  breath  in  a  Avitty  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  bequeath'd  you  t 
But  I  have  nothing  left  me  to  bestow, 
Nothing  but  one  sad  sigh.    Oh  mercy.  Heaven  !        [Ihes. 

Act  V 

Gilford  to  Lady  Jane  Gray,  when  both  were  condemned  to  die  : 

Thou  stand'st  unmoved ;  '        - 

Calm  temper  sits  upon  thy  beauteous  brow  : 
Thy  eyes,  that  flow'd  so  /ast  for  Edward's  loss. 
Gaze  unconcern'd  upon  the  ruin  round  thee, 
As  if  thou  hadst  resolved  to  brave  thy  fate, 
And  triumph  in  the  midst  of  desolation. 
Ha  !  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. 


867,  SenUm«nt8  too  artificial  for  a  serious  passion.    Spjoch  of  Percy,  Sk. 


SENTIMENTS.  253 

Tlie  concluding  sentiment  is  altogether  finical,  unsuitable  to  the 
importance  of  the  occasion,  and  even  to  the  dignity  of  the  passion 
of  love. 

389.  Corneille,  in  his  Examen  of  the  Cid,  answering  an  objection, 
That  his  sentiments  are  sometimes  too  much  refined  for  persons  in 
deep  distress,  observes,  that  if  poets  did  not  indulge  sentiments  more 
ingenious  or  refined  than  are  prompted  by  passion,  their  perfonn- 
ances  would  often  be  low,  and  extreme  grief  would  never  suggest 
but  exclamations  merely.  This  is,  in  plain  language,  to  assert  that 
forced  thoughts  are  more  agreeable  than  those  that  are  natural,  and 
ought  to  be  preferred. 

390.  The  second  class  is  of  sentiments  that  may  belong  to  an 
ordinaiy  passion,  but  are  not  perfectly  concordant  with  it,  as  tine 
tured  by  a  singular  character. 

In  the  last  act  of  that  excellent  comedy.  The  Careless  Hushar'% 
Lady  Easy,  upon  Sir  Charles's  reformation,  is  made  to  express  more 
violent  and  turbulent  sentiments  of  joy  than  are  consistent  with  tlie 
mildness  of  her  character  : 

Lady  Easy.  O  the  soft  treasure !  0  the  clear  reward  of  lon^-desiring  lo^e-— 
Thus  !  thus  to  have  you  mine,  is  something  more  than  happmcss;  tis  double 
life,  and  madness  of  abounding  joy. 

If  the  sentiments  of  a  passion  ought  to  be  suited  to  a  peculiar  char- 
acter, it  is  still  more  necessary  that  actions  be  suited  to  the  character. 
In  the  fifth  act  of  the  Drummer,  Addison  makes  his  gardener  act 
even  below  the  character  of  an  ignorant,  credulous  rustic :  he  give* 
him  the  behavior  of  a  gaping  idiot.  i       u  • 

391.  The  following  instances  are  descriptions  rather  than  sentJ 
ments,  which  compose  a  third  class.  .   •     v 

Of  this  descriptive  manner  of  painting  the  passions,  there  is  m  thfr 
Hippolytus  of  Euripides  (Act  V.)  an  illustrious  instance,  namely, 
the  speech  of  Theseus,  upon  hearing  of  his  son's  dismal  exit.  In 
Racine's  tragedy  of  Esther,  the  queen,  hearing  of  the  decree  issued 
against  her  people,  instead  of  expressing  sentiments  suitable  to  the 
occasion,  turns  her  attention  upon  herself,  and  describes  with  accu 
racy  her  own  situation  : 

Juste  Ciel !  tout  mon  sang  dans  mcs  veines  se  g'»ce^^^  j  g^  ^ 

A  man  stabbed  to  the  heart  in  a  combat  with  his  enemy,  ex 

presses  himself  thus : 

So,  now  I  am  at  rest :- ■  ..... 

I  feel  death  rising  higher  still,  and  higher, 
Within  my  bosom;  every  breath  I  retell 
Shuts  up  my  life  within  a  shorter  compass: 


3S8.  FRncift»l8entiment8.-J«ru«(T?«»  .fTnsso-    ^lt!^,^t{U;\^„ti^ii. 

889.  Corneille's  answer  to  the  objection  that.  Ws  '^•'''J^T'*"*'?™^'^^^"".' Action.  .bca.VJ 

890.  Sentiments  not  concordant  with  an  ordinary  passion. -Zarfy  E<i»U- 

be  suited  to  tlie  oliaracter.  „,!„•„».     ■Kr«innl«  from  DrydM;  &«■» 

891.  InsUnces  of  descrtpUons  rather  U»an  »eiitiin«nt».    txnuipJ*  wm  w  j 


PftradiM  I.««t 


254  SENTIMENTS. 

And  like  the  vanishing  sound  of  bells,  grows  less 
And  less  each  pulse,  till  it  be  lost  in  air. — Drydtn, 

All  example  is  given  above  of  remoi-se  and  despair  expressed  by 
genuine  and  natural  sentiments.  In  the  fouith  book  of  Paradise 
Lost,  Satan  is  made  to  express  bis  remorse  and  despair  in  sentiments 
which,  though  beautiful,  are  not  altogether  natural :  they  are  rather 
the  sentiments  of  a  spectator,  than  of  a  person  who  actually  is  tor- 
mented with  these  passions. 

392.  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  Piiuli.  The  account  given 
by  Belvidera  of  the  danger  she  was  in,  and  of  her  husband's  threat- 
ening to  murder  her,  ought  naturally  to  have  alarmed  her  relenting 
father,  and  to  have  made  him  express  the  most  perturbed  senti- 
ments. Instead  of  which  he  dissolves  into  tenderness  and  love  for 
his  daughter,  as  if  he  had  already  delivered  her  from  danger,  and  as 
if  there  weie  a  perfect  tranquillity : 

Canst  thou  forgive  rne  all  my  follies  past  ? 
I'll  henceforth  be  indeed  a  father  ;  never, 
Never  more  thus  expose,  but  cherish  thee, 
Dear  as  the  vital  warmth  that  feeds  my  life, 
Dear  as  those  eyes  that  weep  in  fondness  o'er  thae : 
Peace  to  thy  heart. 

393.  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  himself  is  hoarse 

That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan 

Under  my  battlements.     Come,  all  you  spirits 

That  tend  on  mortal  thoughts,  unscx  me  here, 

And  fill  me  from  the  crown  to  th'  toe,  top-full 

Of  direst  cruelty  ;  make  thick  my  blood. 

Stop  up  th'  acceris  and  passage  to  remorse, 

That  no  compunctious  visitiriga  of  nature 

Shake  my  fell  purpose.  2Iacbe'.\  Act  I.  So.  7. 

This  speech  is  not  natural.  A  treacherous  murder  was  never 
perpetrated  even  by  the  most  hardened  miscreant,  without  com- 
punction :  and  that  the  lady  here  must  have  been  iu  horrible  agita- 
tion, appears  from  her  invoking  the  internal  spirits  to  fill  her  with 
ci'uelty,  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  circum- 
stances that  imagination  can  suggest ;  and  if  the  crime  cannot  bear 
disguise,  the  next  attempt  is  to  thrust  it  out  of  mind  altogether,  and 
to  rush  on  to  action  without  thought.  This  last  was  the  husband's 
method : 

892.  S«uUiDent8  iotr«da«ed  onseasooaUy. —  Vtnic*  Pretei-rtcL 


SENTIMENTS.  255 

Strange  tnin^  I  have  in  head,  that  will  to  hand ; 

Which  muat  be  acted  ere  tlicy  must  be  scaan'd. — Act  III.  8c.  5. 

Tbe  lady  follows  neither  of  these  courses,  but  iu  a  deliberate  manner 
endeavors  to  fortify  her  heart  iu  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  represented. 

In  Congreve's  Double-dealer,  Ma<«kwell,  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  or  deceit,  shall  be  imputed  to  me  as  a  merit. Treachery- !  what 

trcacliery  ?  Love  cancels  all  the  bonds  of  friendship,  and  seta  men  right  upon 
their  firs't  foundations. 

In  French  plays,  love,  instead  of  being  hid  or  disguised,  is  treated 
as  a  serious  concern,  and  of  greater  importance  than  fortune,  family,  or 
dignity.  I  suspect  the  reason  to  be,  that,  in  the  capital  of  France,  love, 
by  the  easiness  of  intercoui-se,  has  dwindled  down  from  a  real  passion 
to  be  a  connection  that  is  regulated  entirely  by  the  mode  or  fashion. 
394.  The  last  class  comprehends  sentiments  that  are  unnatural, 
as  being  suited  to  wo  character  or  passion.  These  may  be  sub- 
divided into  three  branches  :  first,  sentiments  unsuitable  to  the  con- 
•stitution  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  eveiy  circumstance,  ought  to  be  natural,  otherwise  the  imitation 
is  imperfect.  But  an  imperfect  imitation  is  a  venial  fault,  compared 
with  that  of  running  cross  to  nature.  In  the  Hijypohjtus  of  Euripides 
(Act  IV.  Sc.  5),  Hippolytus,  wishing  for  another  self  in  his  own 
situation,  "How  much,"  says  he,  "should  I  be  touched  with  hw 
misfortune !"  as  if  it  were  natural  to  grieve  more  for  the  misfortimea 
of  another  than  for  one's  own. 

0$myn.  Yet  I  behold  her— yet— and  now  no  more. 
Turn  your  lights  inward,  eyes,  and  view  my  thought 
So  siiall  yon  still  behold  her— 'twill  not  be. 
O  impotence  of  sight !  mechanic  sentie 
Which  to  exterior  objects  owest  thy  faculty. 
Not  seeing  of  election,  but  necessity. 
Thus  do  our  eye?,  as  do  all  common  mirrors, 
Successively  reflect  succeeding  images. 
Nor  what  they  would,  but  must ;  a  star  or  toad ; 
Just  as  the  hand  of  chance  administers!  .^  it  a«  » 

Mourning  Bride,  Act  11.  oc.  o. 

No  man  in  his  senses,  ever  thought  of  applying  his  eyes  to  discover 
what  parses  in  his  mind ;  far  less  of  blaming  his  eyes  fornot  seeing  a 
thought  or  idea.  In  MoliSre's  VAvare  (.\ct  IV.  Sc.  7),  Ilarpagon 
being  robbed  of  his  money,  seizes  himself  by  the  arm,  mistaking  it 
for  that  of  the  robber.     And  again  ho  expresses  himself  as  follows : 

89S.  Immoral  sentiments  exposed  lnstoa.l  of  bein?  conce.ilc<l-La<1y  Macbeth",  wllloqar. 
N't  natnTTil—Komiirlts  on  French  plays.  #„„,im.n»«  an«ttlt»b>  to  lk« 

.W4.  Sentiments  uunatnrftl.    Tbreo  brMi.:he».-KMmp'«»  of  senLment.  un»«iui>.« 
e<i!!*'U:»t!iin  of  mnn. 


256  LA.NGUAGE  OF  PASSION. 

Je  vcux  aller  querir  la  justice,  etfaire  donner  la  questioE  i  toute  mamiuson: 
a  eervantes,  k  valets,  a  fils,  k  fiUe,  et  a  moi  aussi. 

395.  Of  the  second  branch  the  following  are  examples. 

Now  bid  me  run, 

Aud  I  will  strive  with  things  impossible, 

Yea,  get  the  better  of  them.— Julius  GcBsar,  Act  11.  Sc.  8. 

Vos  mains  seule  sont  droit  de  vaiucre  un  invincible. 

Le  Cid,  Act  V.  Sc.  last. 
Que  son  nom  soit  b^ni.    Que  son  nom  soit  chant6, 
Que  I'on  celebre  ses  ouvrages 
Au  de  lu  de  I'eternite.— J'«iAer,  Act  V.  Sc.  last. 

Me  miserable  1  which  way  shall  I  fly 
Infinite  wrath  and  infinite  despair? 
Which  way  I  fly  is  hell :  myself  am  hell; 
And  in  the  lowest  deep,  a  loioer  deep 
Still  threatening  to  devour  me,  opens  wide; 
To  which  the  hell  I  sufi'er  seems  a  heaven. 

Paradise  Zost,  Book  IV. 

396.  Of  the  thiVd  branch,  take  the  following  samples,  which  are 
pure  rant.     Coriolanus,  spealiing  to  his  mother — 

What  is  this  ? 

Your  knees  to  me  ?  to  your  corrected  son  ? 

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  be,  slight  work.— Coriolanus,  Act  V.  Sc.  8. 

Ccesar. Danger  knows  full  well, 

That  Caesar  is  more  dangerous  than  he. 
We  were  two  lions  litter'd  in  one  day, 
Aiiil  I  the  elder  and  more  terrible. 

Julitis  Coisar,  Act  II.  Sc.  4. 

Ahna/nzor. I'll  hold  it  fast 

As  life :  and  when  life's  gone,  I'll  hold  this  last. 
And  if  thou  tak'st  it  after  I  am  slain, 
I'll  send  my  ghost  to  fetch  it  back  again. 

Conquest  of  Granada,  Part  II.  Act  3. 

So  much  upon  sentiments;  the  language  proper  for  expressing 
them,  comes  next  in  order. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

4 

LANGUAGE    OF   PASSION. 

397.  Among  the  particulars  that  compose  the  social  part  of  our 
•lature,  a  propensity  to  communicate  our  opinions,  our  emotions,  and 
every  thing  that  affects  us,  is  remarkable.  Bad  fortune  and  injustice 
affect  us  greatly ;  and  of  these  we  are  so  prone  to  complain,  that  il 
we  have  no  fiiend  or  acquaintance  to  take  part  in  our  suffenngs, 

89C.  Examples  of  inconsistent  sentiments. 

39S.  Examples  ofMntiinents  tbat  ar«  pore  rast 


LANGUAGE  OP  PASSION.  257 

we  sometimes  utter  our  complaints  aloud,  even  where  there  are  none 
to  listen. 

But  this  propensity  operates  not  in  every  state  of  mind.  A  man 
immoderately  grieved,  seeks  to  afflict  himself,  rejecting  all  conwla- 
tion :  immoderate  grief  accordingly  is  mute :  complaining  is  stniff^ 
ghng  for  consolation. 

It  is  the  wretch's  comfort  still  to  have 
Sortie  small  reserve  of  near  and  inward  woe, 
Some  unsuspected  hoard  of  inward  grief, 
Which  they  unseen  may  wail,  and  weep,  and  mourn, 
And  glutton-like  alone  devour.— J/o(/j«win^  Bride,  Act  I.  Sc.  1. 
When  gnef  subsides,  it  then,  and  no  sooner,  finds  a  tongue :  wo 
complain,  because  complaining  is  an  eftbrt  to  disburden  the  mind  of 
its  distress,* 

398.  Surprise  and  terror  are  silent  passions  for  a  different  reason  : 
they  agitate  the  mind  so  violently  as  for  a  time  to  suspend  the  ex- 
ercise of  its  faculties,  and  among  others  the  faculty  of  speech. 

Love  and  reveng'e,  when  immoderate,  are  not  Thoie  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  hath  any  long  uninterrupted  existence  (see  chap, 
ii.  part  iii.),  nor  beats  away  with  an  equal  pulse,  the  language  sug- 
gested by  passion  is  not  only  unequal,  but  frequently  interrupted  : 
and  even  during  an  uninterrupted  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,  esj>ecially  when  it  returns 
with  impetuosity  after  interruption. 

*  This  observation  is  finely  illustrated  by  a  story  which  Herodotus  records, 
b.  iii.  Cambyscs,  when  lie  conquered  Egypt,  made  Psammenitus,  the  kin^, 
prisoner ;  and  'or  tryin»  his  constancy,  orclered  his  daughter  to  bo  dressed  m 
the  habit  of  a  siave,  ana  to  bo  employed  in  bringing  water  from  the  river ;  hi* 
son  also  was  led  to  execution  with  a  halter  about  his  neck.  The  Kgyptians 
vented  their  sorrow  in  tears  and  lamentations-  Psammenitus  only,  with  a 
downcast  eye,  remained  silent.  Afterwards  meeting  one  of  his  companions,  a 
man  advanced  in  years,  who,  being  plundered  of  all,  was  begging  alms,  no 
wept  bitterly,  calling  him  ))y  his  name.  Cambyscs,  struck  with  wonder,  de- 
manded an  answer  to  the  following  question:  " Psammenitus,  thy  master, 
Cambyses,  is  desirous  to  know  wliy,  after  thou  hadst  seen  thy  dniightcr  so 
ignominiously  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?"  Psammenitus  returned  the  following  answer :  "Son  of  Cjrus,  the 
calamities  of  my  family  are  too  great  to  leave  me  the  iwwer  of  weeping ;  but 
the  misfortunes  of  a  companion,  retluced  in  his  old  ago  to  want  of  bread,  L»  a 
fit  subject  for  lamentation." 

897.  Man'a  propensity  to  coinninnicate  opinions  and  emotions  Not  In  every  (tate  rf 
mind.    Illustrate.— Wliy  we  utter  complaint*.    Story  from  Herodotui.  ^^ 

898.  Surprise  and  terror,  silent  passions ;  why  ?— Love  and  revenge  when  eUeat— T»» 
language  euggested  by  passion.— Loquacity. 


258  LANGUAGE  OF  PASSIOX. 

399.  I  had  occasion  to  observe  (chap,  xvi.),  that  the  sentiments 
ought  to  be  tuned  to  the  passion,  and  the  language  to  both.  Ele- 
vated sentiments  require  elevated  lang-uage :  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  con- 
nected with  the  ideas  they  represent,  the  greatest  harmony  is  re- 
quired between  them :  to  express,  for  example,  an  humble  sentiment 
in  high  sounding  words,  is  disagreeable  by  a  discordant  mixture  of 
feelings ;  and  the  discord  is  not  less  when  elevated  sentiments  are 
dressed  in  low  words : 

Versibus  exponi  tragicis  res  coinica  non  vult. 

Indignatur  item  privatis  ac  prope  socco 

Dignis  carininibiis  uarrari  coena  Thjestae. — Horace^  Ars  Poet.  1.  89. 

This,  however,  excludes  not  figurative  expression,  which,  within 
moderate  bounds,  communicates  to  the  sentiment  an  agreeable  ele- 
vation. We  ai^  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  discord  appear 
greater  than  it  is  in  reality.  (See  chap,  ^nii.) 

400.  At  the  same  time,  figures  are  not  equally  the  language  of 
every  passion  :  pleasant  emotions,  Avhich  elevate  or  swell  the  mind, 
vent  themselves  in  strong  epithets  and  figurative  expression  •,  but 
humbling  and  dispiriting  passions  affect  to  speak  plain  : 

Et  tragicus  plerumque  dolet  sermone  pedestri. 

Telephus  et  Pelcus,  cum  pauper  et  exul  uterque  ; 

Projicit  ampullas  et  sesquipedalia  verba, 

Si  curat  cor  spectantis  tetigisse  querela. — Horace,  Ars  Poet.  1.  95. 

Figurative  expression,  being  the  work  of  an  enlivened  imagination, 
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  scarce  a  figure  in  it,  except  a  short  and  natural 
simile  with  which  the  speech  is  introduced.  Belvidera  talking  to 
her  father  of  her  husband  : 

Think  you  saw  what  pass'd  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 

Fix'd  on  my  throat,  while  the  extended  other 

Grasp'd  a  keen  threat'ning  dagger;  oh,  'twas  thus 

We  last  embraced,  when,  trembling  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,  raged,  threaten'd,  loved; 

For  he  yet  loved,  and  that  dear  love  preserved  me 

To  this  la.st  trial  of  a  father's  pity. 

899.  The  sentiments  should  be  suited  to  the  passion,  and  the  Lingnagf  to  both. — ^Tbe  OM 
«f  fl^r»tive  expression. 


LOi'QCAOK  OF  PASSION.  2ft9 

~  I  ftar  not  deatli,  but  cannot  bear  a  thoui^ht 

That  thai  derir  hand  should  do  the  unfriendly  office  ; 

If  I  was  ever  then  your  care,  now  hear  nie  ; 

Fly  to  the  senate,  save  the  promised  lives 

01  his  dear  friends,  ere  mine  be  made  the  saerificc. 

Venice  Frestrved,  Act  V. 

4t  1.  To  preserve  the  aforesaid  resemblance  between  words  and 
their  meaning,  lue  sentiments  of  active  and  hurrying  passions  ought 
to  )>e  dressed  in  words  where  syllables  prevail  that  are  pronounced 
Bhort  or  fast ;  for  these  make  an  impression  of  hurry  and  precipita- 
tion. 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  aflected  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  notliing  can  be  finer  than 
the  following  passage : 

In  those  deep  solitudes,  and  awful  cells. 

Where  heavenly  pensive  Contemplation  dwells^ 

And  ever-musing  melancholy  leigas.— Pope,  LloUa  to  Ahelard. 

To  preserve  the  same  resemblance,  another  circumstance  is  requisite, 
that  the  language,  like  the  emotion,  be  rough  or  smooth,  broken  or 
uniform.  Calm  and  sweet  emotions  ai-e  best  expressed  by  words 
that  glide  softly :  surprise,  fear,  and  otlier  turbulent  passions,  require 
an  expression  both  rough  and  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  passage : 

Me,  me ;  adsnm  qui  feci :  in  me  convertite  ferrum, 
0  Kutuli,  mea  fraus  omnis. — uEiuid,  ix.  427. 

402.  Passion  has  also  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  : 

-Thou  sun,  said  I,  fair  light ! 


And  thou  enlighten'd  earth,  so  fresh  and  eay  ! 

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.  27. 

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  importune  heaven,  that  all 

The  sentence,  from  thy  head  removed,  may  light 

On  me,  sole  cause  to  thee  of  all  tl^is  woe  ; 

Me!  me!  only  just  object  of  his  ire.  .       _    . 

^  ■'  ■'  ParadiM  LoH,  Book  x.  9S0. 


400.  Figures  not  equally  Uje  language  of  every  passion.    Not  the  language  of  anguish. 
Oticay. 

401.  Class  of  words  Adapted  to  sentiments  of  harrying  passions:  to  i)asiIons  that  r*|l  »» 
Ihelr  objects ;  to  melancholy.— Laneuage  should  resemble  the  emoUon,  as  rough  or  amoou, 

^. — Wh»*.  we  exprees  first  In  iho  hurry  of  pas«loo. 


260  LANGUAGE  OF  PASSION. 

Shakspeare  is  superior  to  all  other  writers  ir  delineating  passion. 
It  is  difncult  to  say  in  what  part  he  most  excels,  whether  in  moulding 
eveiy  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  disgusts  not  his  reader  with 
general  declamation  and  unmeaning  words,  too  common  in  other 
winters ;  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  be  evident  to  every  one  of  taste,  upon  comparing  Shak- 
speare with  other  writers  in  similar  passages.  If  upon  any  occasion 
he  fall  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  convei"sation,  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  the- 
atre ?  At  the  same  time  it  ought  not  to  escape  obsen'ation,  that 
the  stream  cleare  in  its  progress,  and  that  in  his  later  plays  he  has 
attained  to  purity  and  perfection  of  dialogue  :  an  observation  that, 
with  greater  certainty  than  tradition,  will  direct  us  to  arrange  his 
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  con- 
sider, that  it  is  easier  to  discover  his  blemishes,  which  lie  generally 
at  the  surface,  than  his  beauties,  which  cannot  be  truly  relished 
but  by  those  who  dive  deep  into  human  nature.  One  thing  must 
be  evident  to  the  meanest  capacity,  that  wherever  pa.ssion  is  to  be 
displayed,  Nature  shows  itself  mighty  in  him,  and  is  conspicuous 
by  the  most  delicate  propriety  of  sentiment  and  expression.f 

*  Of  this  take  the  following  specimen  : 

They  clepe  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,  1  say^  the  stamp  of  one  defect 
(Beiiig  Suture'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 
For  that  partieiilar  fault.  JlaiiiUt,  Act  I.  Sc.  7. 

t  The  critics  seem  not  pcrfectlv  to  comprehend  the  genius  of  Sliakspear*. 
His  plays  are  defective  in  the  mechanical  part;  which  islesa  the  work  ofgenJ'* 


LANGUAGE  OF  PASSION.  261 

pt  would  please  us  to  introduce  here  neaily  all  of  HazlitCs  obser- 
vations ipon  Shakspeare;  but  we  have  space  only  for  the  following : 

"  The  striking  peculiarity  of  Shakspeare's  mind  was  its  power  of 
communication  with  all  other  minds — so  that  it  contained  a  uni- 
verse of  thought  and  feeling  within  itself,  and  had  no  one  peculiar 

bias,  or  exclusive  excellence  more  than  another He  not  only  had 

in  himself  the  germs  of  every  faculty  and  feeling,  but  he  could 
follow  them  by  anticipation,  intuitively,  into  all  their  conceivable 
ramifications,  through  every  change  of  fortune  or  conflict  of  pa!>sion, 
or  turn  of  thought.  He  '  had  a  mind  reflecting  ages  past,'  and  pres- 
ent :  all  the  people  that  ever  lived  are  there.  He  turned  the  globe 
round  for  his  amusement,  and  surveyed  the  generations  of  men,  and 
the  individuals  as  they  passed,  with  their  difierent  conceras,  passions, 
follies,  vices,  virtues,  actions,  and  motives — as  well  those  that  they 
knew,  as  those  which  they  did  not  know  or  acknowledge  to  them- 
selves  He  had  only  to  think  of  any  thing  in  order  to  become 

that  thing  with  all  the  circumstances  belonging  to  it In  reading 

this  author,  you  do  not  merely  learn  what  his  characters  say ;  you 

see  their  pei-sons A  word,  an  epithet  paints  a  whole  scene,  or 

throws  us  back  whole  years  in  the  history  of  the  person  represented." 

"  That  which,  perhaps,  more  than  any  thing  else  distinguishes  the 
dramatic  productions  of  Shakspeare  from  all  others,  is  this  wonder- 
ful truth  and  individuality  of  conception.  Each  of  his  characters 
is  as  much  itself,  and  as  absolutely  independent  of  the  lest,  as  well 
as  of  the  author,  as  if  they  were  living  persons,  not  fictions  of  the 
mind.  The  poet  may  be  said,  for  the  time,  to  identify  himself  with 
the  character  he  wishes  to  represent,  and  to  pass  from  one  to  an- 
other, like  the  same  soul  successively  animating  difierent  bodies. 
His  plays  alone  are  properly  expressions  of  the  passions,  not  descrip- 
tions of  them.  His  characters  are  real  beings  of  flesh  and  blood  ; 
they  speak  like  men,  not  like  authoi-s," 

"  The  passion  in  Shakspeare  is  of  the  same  nature  as  his  delinea- 
tion of  character.  It  is  not  some  one  habitual  feeling  or  sentiment, 
praying  upon  itself,  growing  out  of  itself:  it  is  passion  modified  by 
passion,  by  all  the  other  feelings  to  which  the  individual  is  liable, 
and  to  which  others  are  liable  with  him  ;  subject  to  all  the  fluctu- 
ations of  caprice  and  accident ;  calling  into  play  all  the  resources 
of  the  undei"standing,  and  all  the  energies  of  the  will ;  imtated  by 
obstacles,  or  yielding  to  them  ;  rising  from  small  beginnings  to  its 

than  of  experience,  and  is  not  otherwise  brought  to  perfection  but  by  diligently 
observing  the  errors  of  former  compositions.  Shakspeare  excels  all  the  ancients 
and  moderns  in  knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  in  uufoldinff  even  the  most 
obscure  and  refined  emotions.  This  is  a  rare  faculty,  which  maKOH  him  surpass 
all  other  writers  in  the  comic  as  well  as  tragic  vein. 


402.  Passion  redoubles  words.  Paradi»e  £o«t.— Shakspeare  excels  in  delineating  p«> 
slon.  Sometime:)  fails  ip  scenes  where  passion  enters  not  Apologies  fcr  bim.  In  wliM 
he  «xcel8  sU  tbe  anctrats  and  moderns.    Uazlitt's  ot>*ervation& 


^62  LANGrAGK  OF  PASSION. 

Utmost  height ;  now  Jrunk  Avitli  hope,  now  stung  to  madness,  notr 
sunk  in  despair,  now  blown  to  air  with  a  breath,  now  raging  like  a 
torrent."] 

403.  I  return  to  my  subject.  That  perfect  harmony  which  ought 
lb  subsist  among  all  the  coustituont  parts  of  a  dialogue,  is  a  beauty 
Do  less  rare  than  conspicuous :  as  to  expression  in  particular,  were 
I  to  give  instances,  where,  in  one  or  other  of  the  respects  above 
mentioned,  it  corresponds  not  precisely  to  the  characters,  passions, 
and  sentiments,  I  might  from  different  authors  collect  volumeSi 
Following  therefore  the  method  laid  down  in  the  chapter  of  senti- 
ments, I  shall  confine  my  quotations  to  the  grosser  errore,  which 
every  writer  ought  to  avoid. 

And,  first,  of  passion  exprcvssed  in  words  flowing  in  an  equal 
oOurse  without  interruption. 

In  the  chapter  above  cited,  Corneille  is  censured  for  the  impro- 
pnety  of  his  sentiments ;  and  here,  for  the  sake  of  truth,  I  am 
obliged  to  attack  him  a  second  time.  Were  I  to  give  instances 
from  that  author  of  the  fault  under  consideration,  I  might  transcribe 
whole  tragedies  ;  for  he  is  no  less  faulty  in  this  particular,  than  in 
passing  upon  us  his  own  thoughts  as  a  spectator,  instead  of  the 
genuine  sentiments  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. 

.  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  lie  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.  (Chapter  xv.)  Shak- 
speare's  soliloquies  may  justly  be  established  as  a  model ;  for  it  is 
not  easy  to  conceive  any  model  more  perfect :  of  his.  many  incom-. 
parable  soliloquies,  I  confine  myself  to  the  two  following,  IkiUij;  di& 
fe;-ent  in  their  manner  : 

Hamht.  Oh,  that  tliis  too  solid  flesh  would  melt, 
Thaw,  and  resolve  itself  into  a  dew  ! 
Or  that  the  Everlasting  had  not  fix'd 
His  canon  'gainst  self-slauL'liter !  0  God !  0  God ! 
How  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable 
Seem  to  me  all  the  uses  of  this  world  ! 
Fie  on't!  0  fie!  'tis  an  unweeded  garden, 
That  grows  to  faeed :  things  rank  and  gross  in  nature 

Possess  it  merely. That  it  should  como  to  this  1 

But  two  months  dead  1  nay,  not  so  much;  not  two;— 
So  excellent  a  king,  that  was,  to  this, 
Hyperion  to  a  satyr :  so  loving  to  my  mother, 
Tnat  he  permitted  not  the  winds  of  heaven 
Visit  her  face  too  roughly.     Heavan  and  earth ! 
Must  I  remember — whjy^,  she  would  hang  on  him, 
As  if  increase  of  appetite  had  grown 

By  what  it  fed  on :  yet,  within  a  month 

I^et  me  not  think— Frailty,  thy  name  i«  Woman  t 


LANGUAGE  OF  PASSION.  268 

A  little  monti.  I  or  cro  those  shoes  wore  old, 
"With  which  she  followed  my  poor  father's  body, 

Like  Niobo,  all  tears Why  she,  even  she— 

(O  heuven !  o.  beast  that  wants  discourse  of  reason, 
Would  have  monrn'd  longer)—  married  with  mine  ancle, 
My  father's  brother;  but  no  more  like  my  father, 
Than  I  to  Hercules.     Witliin  a  month  ! 
Ere  yot  the  salt  of  most  tinrighteous  tears 
Had  left  the  flushing  in  her  gaulcd  eyes, 

She  married Oh,  most  wicked  speed,  to  post 

With  such  dexterity  to  incestuous  siieets  ! 

It  is  not,  nor  it  cannot  come  to  good. 

But  break,  my  heart,  for  I  must  hold  my  tongue. 

Hamlet,  Act  I.  Sc.  8. 

Ford.  Hum!  ha!  is  this  a  vision?  is  this  a  dream?  do  I  sleep?  Mr.  Ford, 
awake ;  awake,  Mr.  Ford ;  there's  a  hole  made  in  your  best  coat,  Mr.  Ford  I 
this  'tis  to  be  married !  this  'tis  to  have  linen  and  buck-baskets  1  Well,  I  v.ill 
proclaim  myself  what  I  am  ;  I  will  now  take  the  lecher ;  he  is  at  my  house ;  he 
cannot  'scape  me :  'tis  impossible  he  should ;  he  cannot  creep  into  a  halfpenny 
purse,  nor  into  a  pepper-box.  But  lest  the  devil  that  guides  him  should  aid 
him,  I  will  search  impossible  places,  though  what  I  am  I  cannot  avoid,  yet  to 
be  what  I  would  not,  shall  not  make  me  taine. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  Act  HI.  8c.  last. 

404.  These  soliloquies  are  accurate  and  bold  copies  of  nature :  in 
a  passionate  soliloquy  one  begins  with  thinking  aloud;  and  the 
strongest  feelings  only  are  expressed ;  as  the  speaker  warms,  he  be- 
gins to  imagine  one  listening,  and  gradually  slides  into  a  connected 
discourse. 

How  far  distant  are  soliloquies  generally  from  these  models  ?  So 
far,  indeed,  as  to  give  disgust  instead  of  pleasure.  The  first  scene  of 
Iphigmia  in  Tauris  discovers  that  pnncess,  in  a  soliloquy,  gravely 
reporting  to  herself  her  own  history.  There  is  the  same  impropiiety 
in  the  first  scene  of  Alccstes,  and  in  the  other  introductions  of  Eu- 
ripides, almost  without  exception.  Nothing  can  be  more  ridiculous: 
it  puts  one  in  mind  of  a  most  curious  device  in  Gothic  paintings, 
that  of  making  every  figure  explain  itself  by  a  written  label  issuing 
from  its  mouth. 

Corneille  is  not  more  happy  in  his  soliloquies  than  in  liis  dia- 
logues.    Take  for  a  specimen  the  first  scene  of  Cinna. 

Racine  also  is  extremely  faulty  in  the  same  respect.  His  solilo- 
quies are  regular  harangues,  a  chain  completed  iii  every  link,  with- 
out inteiTuption  or  interval. 

Soliloquies  upon  Uvely  or  interesting  subjects,  but  without  any 
tiu'bulence  of  passion,  may  be  carried  on  in  a  continued  chain  of 
thought.  If,  for  example,  the  nature  and  sprightliucss  of  the  subject 
prompt  a  man  to  speak  his  thoughts  in  the  form  of  a  dialogue,  the 
expression  must  be  carried  on  without  break  or  interrujjtion,  as  in  a 
dialogue  between  two  persons;  which  justifies  FalstafF's  soliloquy 
upon  honor : 

408.  Perfect  harmony  In  parts  of  a  dUlopie  a  rare  beauty.    Errors  »o  \^  aroMed ;  flnt, 
wurda  flowing  too  e^Tiably.— SoUlo<jnJe«<.    Pbftk»^«»re*^  a  mod^i. 


264  LANGUAGE  OF  PASSION. 

What  need  I  be  so  forward  with  Death,  that  calls  not  on  me  ?  Well,  'tis  no 
:nattcr.  Honor  pricks  me  on.  But  how  if  Honor  prick  me  ofl',  when  I  come  on  ? 
iiow  then?  Can  Honor  set  a  leg?  No:  or  an  arm?  No:  or  take  away  the 
crief  of  a  wound?  No.  Honor  hath  no  skill  in  surgery  then ?  No.  What  is 
honor?  a  word.'  What  is  that  word  honor?  Air:  a  trim  reckoning.  Who 
hath  it?  He  that  died  a  Wednesday.  Doth  he  feel  it?  No.  Doth  he  hear  it? 
No.  Is  it  insensible  then?  Yea,  to  the  dead.  But  will  it  not  live  with  the  liv- 
ing ?  No.  Why  ?  Detraction  will  not  suffer  it.  Therefore  I'll  none  of  it ;  hon- 
or is  a  mere  scutcheon ;  and  so  ends  my  catechism. 

First  Fart  of  Henry  IV.  Act  V.  Sc.  2. 

And  even  without  dialogue,  a  continued  discourse  may  be  justified, 
where  a  man  reasons  in  a  soliloquy  upon  an  important  subject ;  for 
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  ad- 
mirable soliloquy  in  Hamlet  upon  life  and  immortality,  being  a  se- 
rene meditation  upon  the  most  interesting  of  all  subjects.  And  the 
same  consideration  will  justify  the  sohloquy  which  introduces  the 
5th  act  of  Addison's  Cato. 

405.  The  next  class  of  the  grosser  errors  which  all  writers  ought 
to  avoid,  shall  be  of  language  elevated  above  the  tone  of  the  sent;- 
mr)nt ;  of  which  take  the  following  instances : 

Zara.  Swift  as  occasion,  I 
Myself  will  %  ;  and  earlier  than  the  inorn 
Wake  thee  to  freedom.     Now  'tis  late ;  and  yet 
Some  news  few  minutes  past  arrived,  which  seem'd 

To  shake  the  temper  of  the  King 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  folded  lids, 

Forbidding  rest,  may  stretch  his  eyes  awake. 

And  force  their  balls  abroad  at  this  dead  hour. 

I'll  try.  Mourning  Bride,  Act  III.  Sc.  4. 

The  language  here  is  undoubtedly  too  pompous  and  labored  for  da- 
scribing  so  simple  a  circumstance  as  absence  of  sleep. 

40G.  Language  too  artificial  or  too  figurative  for  the  gravity,  dig- 
nity, or  importance  of  the  occasion,  may  be  put  in  a  third  class. 

Chimene  demanding  justice  against  Rodrigue  who  killed  her  fa- 
ther, instead  of  a  plain  and  pathetic  expostulation,  makes  a  speech 
stufied  with  the  most  artificial  flowers  of  rhetoric : 

Sire,  mpn  p6re  est  mort,  mes  ycux  ont  vu  son  sang 
Couler  a  gros  bouillons  do  son  genereux  flanc : 
Ce  sang  qui  tant  de  fois  garantit  vos  murailles, 
Ce  sang  qui  taut  de  fois  vous  gagna  des  batailles, 
Ce  sang  qui,  tout  sorti,  fume  encore  de  courroux 
De  se  voir  repandu  pour  d'autres  que  pour  vous, 
Qu'au  milieu  des  hasards  n'osait  verser  la  guerre, 
Eodrigue  en  votre  cour  vient  d'en  couvrir  la  terre. 
J'ai  courn  snr  le  lieu  sans  force,  et  sans  couleur : 
Je  I'ai  trouvd  sans  vie.     Excusez  ma  douleur, 
Sire ;  la  voix  me  manque  a  ce  recit  funeste, 
Mes  pleurs  et  mes  soupirs  vous  diront  mieux  le  reste. 

404.  Properties  of  s  natural  soliloquy.    Authors  that  fail  in  tiiis.— Soliloquies  without 
turbulence  of  passion  how  constructed.    Falsiaff.    Hamlet. 
4(V>.  Error  of  language  elevated  above  the  tone  of  the  sentiment    3foumir>{;  Bride. 


LANGUAGK  CF  PASSIOK.  265 

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 
provoke  laughter  than  to  inspire  concern  or  pity. 

407.  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  I  nh,  my  tender  babes  ! 
My  unblown  flowers,  new  appearing  sweets  ! 
If  yet  your  gentle  souls  fly  m  the  air. 
And  be  not  flxt  in  doom  perpetual, 
Hover  about  me  withyour  airy  wings. 
And  hear  your  mother's  lamentation. — Richard  III.  Act  IV. 

Again: 

K.  Philip.  You  are  as  fond  of  grief  as  of  your  child. 
Constance.  Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 
Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me. 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 
Eemembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garment  with  his  form  ; 
Then  have  I  reason  to  be  fond  of  grief. 

King  John,  Act  III.  So.  6. 

408.  A  thought  that  turns  upon  the  expression  instead  of  the 
subject,  commonly  called  a  play  of  words,  being  low  and  childish,  is 
unworthy  of  any  composition,  whether  gay  or  serious,  that  pretends 
to  any  degree  of  elevation :  thoughts  of  this  kind  make  a  fifth  class. 

To  die  is  to  be  banish'd  from  myself: 
And  Sylvia  is  myself:  banish'd  from  her, 
Is  self  from  self;  a  deadly  banishment! 

l^v}o  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  Act  III.  So.  8. 

Countess.  I  pray  thee,  lady,  have  a  better  cheer : 
If  thou  eugrossest  all  the  griefe  as  thine, 
Thou  robb'st  me  of  a  moiety. 

AWs  Well  that  Ends  WOl,  Act  lU.  So.  ». 

K.  Henry.  0  my  poor  kingdom,  sick  with  civil  blows ! 
When  that  my  care  could  not  withhold  thy  riot, 
What  wilt  thou  do  when  riot  is  thy  care ! 
Oh,  thou  wilt  be  a  wilderness  again. 
Peopled  with  wolves,  thy  old  inhabitants. 

Second  Part  Henry  IV.  Act  IV.  Sc.  4.  | 

Cruda  Amarilla,  che  col  nome  ancora 
D'amar,  ahi  lasso,  amaramente  insegni. 

Pastor  Fido,  Act  I.  So.  1 

Antony,  speaking  of  Julius  Caesar : 

O  world  1  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  hero  lie  !  Julius  Ccesar,  Act  III.  Sc.  S. 

406.  Language  too  artiflcial  or  fignratire  for  the  occasion. 

«0T.  Too  light  or  airv  for  a  severe  passion.— if/oAard  ///.    Ainff  ^Mm» 


266  LANGUAGE  OF  PASSION. 

Playing  thus  with  the  sound  of  -words,  whieh  is  still  worse  than  a 
pun,  is  the  meanest  of  all  conceits.  But  Shakspeare,  when  he  de- 
scends to  a  play  of  words,  is  not  always  in  the  wrong ;  for  it  is  done 
Rometiraes  to  denote  a  peculiar  character,  as  in  the  following  passage  : 

K.  Philip.  What  say'st  thou,  boy  ?  look  in  tlie  lady's  face. 

Leiois.  1  do,  my  lord,  and  in  her  eye  I  find 
A  wonder,  or  a  wond'rous  miracle ; 
The  shadow  of  myself  forni'd  in  her  eye  ; 
Which,  being  but  the  shadow  of  your  son, 
Becomes  a  sun,  and  makes  your  son  a  shadow. 
I  do  protest,  I  never  loved  myself 
Till  now  infixed  I  beheld  myself 
Drawn  in  the  flatt'ring  table  of  her  ej^e. 

Faulconhridge.  Drawn  in  the  flatt'nng  table  of  her  eye ! 
Ilang'd  in  the  frowning  wrinkle  of  her  orow ! 
And  quarter'd  in  her  heart !  he  doth  espy 
Himself  Love's  traitor :  this  is  pity  now  ; 
That  hang'd,  and  drawn,  and  quarter'd,  there  should  be 
In  such  a  love  so  vile  a  lout  as  he. — King  John,  Act  II.  Sc.  5. 

409.  A  jingle  of  words  is  the  lowest  species  of  that  low  wit : 
which  is  scarce  sufFerable  in  any  case,  and  least  of  all  in  an  heroic 
poem ;  and  yet  Milton,  in  some  instances,  has  descended  to  that 

puerihty : 

And  brought  into  the  world  a  world  of  woe. 

begirt  th'  Almighty  throne 

Beseeching  or  besieging 

Which  tempted  our  attempt 

At  one  slight  bound  high-overleap'd  all  bound. 

— With  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 
somewhat  of  that  kind  may 'be  found  even  among  good  writers. 
Such  make  a  sixth  class. 

Cleopatra.  Now,  what  news,  my  Charmion  ? 
Will  he  be  kind  ?  and  will  he  not  forsake  me  1 
Am  I  to  live  or  die  ?  nay,  do  I  live  ? 
Or  am  I  dead  ?  for  when  he  gave  his  answer. 
Fate  took  the  word,  and  then  I  lived  or  died.  .   ,  „ 

Dryden,  AUfor  Love,  Act  II. 

If  she  be  cov,  and  scorn  my  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  Meqiust. 

His  whole  poem,  inscribed  My  Picture,  is  a  jargon  of  the  same  kind. 


-'Tis  he,  they  cry,  by  whom 


Not  men,  but  war  itself  is  overcome.— //K^iaa  Queen. 

Such  empty  expressions  are  finely  ridiculed  in  the  Rehearsal : 

Was't  not  unjust  to  ravish  hence  her  breath,  _ 

And  in  life's  stead  to  leave  us  naught  but  death.— Act  IV.  be.  1. 


408.  Play  of  words.    Examples  from  Sbakspeare.     When  jnstlflable. 

409.  Jingle  of  words.    Instance  from  Milton.— Expressions  that  Imvo  no  distinct  miMr 
\\\S  to  l>e  avoided. 


BEAUrr  OF  LANGUAGE.  867 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

BEAUTY    OF   LANGUAGE. 

410.  Of  all  the  fine  arts,  painting  only  and  sculpture  are  in  their 
nature  imitative.*     An  ornamented  field  is  not  a  copy  or  imitation 

*  [This  remark  of  onr  author  requires  some  qualification.  A  ma.sterly  view 
of  the  case  is  presented  in  the  Third  Discourse  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  from 
which  the  foUowinj?  extracts  are  taken. — Ed. 

"  Nature  herself  is  not  to  be  too  closely  copied.  There  are  excellencies  in 
the  art  of  painting  beyond  what  is  commonly  called  the  imitation  of  nature.  .  . 
.  .  .  A  mere  copier  of  nature  can  never  produce  any  thing  great;  can  never 
raise  and  enlarge  the  conceptions,  or  warm  the  heart  of  the  spectator. 

^  "The  principle  now  laid  down,  that  the  perfection  of  this  art  does  not  con- 
sist in  mere  imitation,  is  far  from  being  new  or  singular.  It  is,  indeed,  sup- 
ported by  the  general  opinion  of  the  enlightened  part  of  mankind.  The 
poets,  orators,  and  rhetoriciMis  of  antiquity  are  continually  enforcing  this 
position,  that  all  the  arts  receive  their  perfection  from  an  ideal  beauty,  su- 
perior to  what  is  to  be  found  in  individual  nature." 

'J  All  the  objects  which  are  exhibited  to  our  view  bv  nature,  upon  close  ex- 
amination will  be  found  to  have  their  blemishes  and  defects.  The  most  beau- 
tiful forms  have  soniething  about  them  like  weakness,  minuteness,  or  imper- 
fection. But  it  is  not  every  eye  that  perceives  these  blemishes.  It  must  bo 
an  eye  long  used  to  the  contemplation  and  comparison  of  these  forms ;  and 
which^  by  a  long  habit  of  observing  what  any  set  of  olyects  of  the  same  kind 
have  m  common,  has  acquired  the  power  of  discerning  what  each  wants  in 
particular.  This  long  laborious  comparison  should  bo  the  first  study  of  the 
painter  who  aims  at  the  "great  style"  (the  leau  ideal  of  the  French).  By  this 
means  he  acquires  a  just  idea  of  beautiful  forms;  he  corrects  nature  bv  her- 
self, her  imperfect  state  by  her  more  perfect.  His  eve  being  enabled  to  distin- 
guish the  accidental  deficiencies,  excrescences,  and  deformities  of  things  from 
their  general  figures,  he  makes  out  an  abstract  idea  of  their  forms  more  per- 
fect than  any  one  original ;  and,  what  may  seem  a  paradox,  he  learns  to  design 
naturally  hy  dramng  his  figures  unlike  to  any  one  object.  This  idea  of  the  per- 
fect state  of  nature,  which  the  artist  calls  the  Ideal  lieauty,  is  the  great  leacliiig 
j)rinciplo  by  which  work.*  of  genius  are  conducted.  By  this  Phidias  acquired 
liis  fame." 

"  Tl;uB  it  is  from  a  reiterated  experience  and  a  close  comparison  of  the  objects 
in  nature,  that  an  artist  becomes  possessed  of  the  idea  of  that  central  form, 
if  I  may  so  express  it,  from  which  every  deviation  is  deformity.  But  the  in- 
vestigation of  this  form,  I  grant,  is  painful,  and  I  know  but  of  one  method  of 
shortening  the  road ;  that  is  by  a  careful  study  of  the  works  of  the  ancienl 
sculptors ;  who,  being  indefatig'uble  in  the  school  of  nature,  have  left  models 
of  that  perfect  form  oehind  them  which  an  artist  would  prefer  as  supremely 
beautiful,  who  had  spent  his  whole  life  in  that  single  contemplation."—  Worki^ 
vol.  i.  discourse  iii. 

Upon  statuary,  the  same  critical  writer,  in  a  similar  strain,  remarks : 

"  In  strict  propriety,  the  Grecian  statues  only  excel  nature  by  bringing  to- 
gether such  an  assemblage  of  beautiful  parts  as  nature  was  never  known  to 
bestow  on  one  object : 

For  earth-born  graces  sparinfdy  impart 
Tbe  symmetry  supreme  of  perfect  art 

It  must  be  remembered  that  the  component  parts  of  the  most  perfect  statas 
never  can  excel  nature, — that  we  can  form  no  idea  0/  beauty  beyon  1  her  works ; 
we  can  only  make  this  rare  assemblage  an  flssetiibL-^re  ^o  rare  that  if  we  are  to 


268  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

of  nature,  but  nature  itself  embellished.  Architecture  is  productive 
of  originals,  and  copies  not  from  nature.  Sound  and  motion  may  in 
some  measure  be  imitated  by  music ;  but  for  the  most  part  music, 
like  architecture,  is  productive  of  originals.  Language  copies  not 
from  nature  more  than  music  or  architectuie ;  unless  where,  like 
music,  it  is  imitative  of  sound  or  motion.  Thus,  in  the  description 
cf  particular  sounds,  language  sometimes  furnisheth  words,  which, 
besides  their  customary  power  of  exciting  ideas,  resemble  by  their 
softness  or  harshness  the  sounds  described ;  and  there  are  words 
which,  by  the  celerity  or  slowness  of  pronunciation,  have  some  re- 
semblance to  the  motion  they  signify.  The  imitative  power  of  woi'ds 
goes  one  step  farther  :  the  loftiness  of  some  words  makes  them  proper 
symbols  of  lofty  ideas  ;  a  rough  subject  is  imitated  by  harsh-sound- 
ing words;  and  words  of  many  syllables,  pronounced  slow  and 
smooth,  are  expressive  of  gnef  and  melancholy.  Words  have  a 
separate  eflfect  on  the  mind,  abstracting  from  their  signification  and" 
from  their  imitative  power:  they  are  more  or  less  agreeable  to  the 
ear  by  the  fulness,  sweetness,  faintness,  or  roughness  of  their  tones. 

411.  These  are  but  faint  beauties,  being  known  to  those  only 
who  have  more  than  ordinary  acuteness  of  perception.  Language 
possesseth  a  beauty  superior  greatly  in  degree,  of  which  we  ai'e  emi- 
nently sensible  when  a  thought  is  communicated  with  perspicuity 
and  sprightliness.  This  beauty  of  language,  arising  from  its.  power 
of  expi'essing  thought,  is  apt  to  be  confounded  with  the  beauty  of 
the  thought  itself:  the  beauty  of  thought,  transferred  to  the  expres- 
sion, 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  distinct  that  we  sometimes  are  conscious  of 
the  highest  pleasure  language  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  disagreeableness  of  the  subject  shall  not  even  ob- 
scure the  agreeableness  of  the  description.  The  causes  of  the  origi- 
nal beauty  of  language,  considered  as  significant,  which  i»  a  branch 


give  the  name  of  Monster  to  what  is  uncommon,  we  might,  in  the  words  of  the 
Duke  of  Buckingham,  call  it 

A  faultless  Monster  which  the  world  ne'er  saw." 

Sir  J.  Reynolds'  Works,  vol.  ii.  p.  811.] 

*  Chapter  ii.  part  i.  sec.  .5.  Demetrius  Phalereus  (of  Elocution,  sec.  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  arc  clearly  distinguishable  ;  and  it  is  not  uncommon  to  find  subjects 
of  great  dignity  dressed  in'mean  language.  Theopompus  is  celebrated  for  the 
force  of  his  diction,  but  erroneously  ;  liis  subject  indeed  has  great  force,  but 
his  stylo  very  little. 

410.  The  fine  arts  that  are  Imitative.  Sir  Joshua  Reynold's  observations  on  this  point 
—The  author's  remarks  on  gardening,  arcliitcctiirc,  langnage,  music. — Imitative  power  of 
words. — AgreoabliJueM  to  the  ear. 


BEAUTY  OF  LANGDAOK.  269 

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  couiinunicating  thought ;  and  hence  it  evidently  appears, 
that  of  several  expressions  all  conveying  the  same  thought,  tlie  most 
beautiful,  in  the  sense  now  mentioned,  is  that  which  in  the  most 
perfect  manner  answere  its  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  souuu  ;  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  w€ 
consider  its  signification.  In  a  third  section  come  those  singular 
beauties  of  language  that  are  derived  from  a  resemblance  betweer: 
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  versifica- 
tion, at  any  rate,  is  a  subject  of  so  great  importance  as  to  deserve  a 
place  by  itself. 


'  SECTION  I. 

Beauty  of  Language  with  respect  to  Sound. 

412.  This  subject  requires  the  following  order :  The  sounds  of  the 
different  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  firet  article,  every  vowel  is  sounded  with  a 
single  expiration  of  air  from  the  windpipe  through  the  cavity  of  the 
mouth.  By  varying  this  cavity,  the  different  vowels  are  sounded : 
for  the  air  in  passing  through  cavities  diflfering  in  size,  produceth 
various  sounds,  some  high  or  sharp,  some  low  or  flat :  a  small  cavity 
occasions  a  high  sound,  a  large  cavity  a  low  sound.  The  five  vow- 
els accordingly,  pronounced  with  the  same  extension  of  tlie  wind- 
pipe, but  with  different  Openings  of  the  mouth,  form  a  regular  series 
of  sounds,  descending  from  high  to  low,  in  the  following  order,  t,  e, 
o,  o,  «.*  Each  of  these  sounds  is  agreeable  to  the  ear ;  and  if  it  be 
required  which  of  them  is  the  most  agreeable,  it  is  jierhaps  safest  to 
hold  that  those  vowels  which  are  the  farthest  removed  from  the  ex- 


•  In  this  scale  of  sounds,  the  letter  »  must  be  pronounced  an  in  the  word 
interest,  and  as  in  other  words  beginnins  witli  tlie  syllable  in  ;  the  letter  <  as  in 
persuasion ;  the  letter  a  as  in  bat;  and  the  letter  u  as  in  numher. 

411.  A  superior  beauty  of  language;  apt  to  b«  confounded  with  what?— Remark  • 
Demetrius  Pbalereus. — Beauty  of  language  and  of  thought  to  be  dlatingulshed.— Th«  Mv 
eral  beauties  of  language  that  are  to  be  handled. 


270  BEAUTY  OF  LANGtrAGK. 

tremes  will  be  tie  most  relished.  This  is  all  I  have  to  remark  upon 
the  fii-st  article  :  for  consonants  being  letters  that  of  themselves  have 
no  sound,  serve  only  in  conjunction  with  vowels  to  form  articulate 
sounds  ;  and  as  every  articulate  sound  makes  a  syllable,  consonants 
come  naturally  under  the  second  article,  to  which  we  proceed. 

A  consonant  is  pronounced  with  a  less  cavity  than  any  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  commonly  expressed;  for  however 
readily  two  sounds  may  unite,  yet  where  they  differ  in  tone,  both  of 
them  must  be  heard  if  neither  of  them  be  suppressed.  For  the  same 
reason,  every  syllable  must  be  composed  of  as  many  sounds  as  there 
a.'e  letters,  supposing  every  letter  to  be  distinctly  pronounced. 

413.  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  more 
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  ibe  double  sound  ;  the  syllable  le  has  a  more  agreeable 
sound  than  the  vowel  e,  or  than  any  other  vowel. 

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  im- 
agine, that  the  agreeableness  or  disagreeableness  of  a  word  with 
respect  to  its  sound,  should  depend  upon  the  agreeableness  or  dis- 
agreeableness of  its  component  syllables,  which  is  true  in  part,  but 
not  entirely ;  for  we  must  also  take  under  consideration  the  effect 
of  syllables  in  succession.  In  the  first  place,  syllables  in  immediate 
succession,  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  syllable  of  the  greatest  aperture  succeeding  one  of  the  small- 
est, on  the  contrary,  makes  a  succession  which,  because  of  its  I'e- 
markable  disagreeableness,  is  distinguished  by  a  proper  name,  hiatus. 
The  most  agreeable  succession  is,  where  the  cavity  is  increased  and 
diminished  alternately  within  moderate  limits.  Examples,  alterna- 
tive, longevity,  pusillanimous.  Secondly,  words  consisting  wholly 
of  syllables  pronounced  slow,  or  of  syllables  pronounced  quick,  com- 
monly called  long  and  short  syllables,  have  little  melody  in  them  : 
witness  the  viorda petitioner,  fruiterer,  dizziness:  on  the  other  hand, 
the  intermixture  of  long  and  short  syllables  is  remarkably  agreeable  ; 
for  example,  degree,  repent,  wonderful,  altitude,  rapidity,  independent, 

412.  The  order  of  the  subject.— The  vowel  sounds.    How  pronounced.    The  consonant 
•ound. 


BKAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE.  271 

impiituositt/*  The  cause  will  be  explained  afterwards,  i»  treating 
of  vei"sification. 

Distinguishable  from  the  beauties  above  mentioned,  there  is  a 
beauty  of  some  woids  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. 

414.  "J'he  foregoing  observations  afford  a  standard  to  every  nation, 
for  estimating,  pretty  accurately,  the  comparative  merit  of  tho  words 
that  enter  into  their  own  language ;  but  they  are  not  equally  useful 
in  comparing  the  words  of  diii'erent  languages,  which  will  thus 
appear.  Different  nations  judge  differently  of  the  harshness  or 
smoothness  of  articulate  sounds ;  a  sound,  for  example,  hai-sh  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  be- 
havior 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  mannere  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  occasions ;  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  tlieu 
relinquish  all  thoughts  of  comparing  languages  in  point  of  rough- 
ness and  smoothness,  as  a  fi'uitless  inquiry  ?  Not  altogether ;  for 
we  may  proceed  a  certain  length,  though  without  hope  of  an  ulti- 
mate decision.  A  language  pronounced  with  difficulty  even  by 
natives,  must  yield  to  a  smoother  language;  and  supposing  two 
languages  pronounced  with  equal  facility  by  natives,  the  rougher 
language,  in  my  judgment,  ought  to  be  preferred,  provided  it  be 
also  stored  with  a  competent  share  of  more  mellow  sounds,  which 
will  be  evident  from  attending  to  the  different  effects  that  articulate 
sound  hath  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  effect  perceived  in  pronouncing, 
is  communicated  to  the  heareis,  who  feel  in  their  own  minds  a  suni- 


*  Italian  words,  like  those  of  Latin  and  Grook,  have  this  property  almost 
univoisully :  English  and  French  words  are  generally  deficient,  n  the  former, 
the  long  pliable  is  removed  from  tiie  end,  as  fur  as  the  sound  will  pcmut;  wia 
in  the  latter,  the  last  syllable  is  generally  long.  For  ex:iinple,  b6nutor,  in  tag- 
lish;  Senator,  in  Latin;  and  Seuateur  in  French. 

413.  How  far  syllables  are  acrecablo  to  U.e  ear.--Tl.e  agrceableness  of  worts  not  dcpwd- 
*nt  on  that  of  tl.-e  component  syllatlei-Effect  of  syllables  In  »accp«lon.-\  •rious  kinds  or 
inccessionR. 


273  BEAUTY  OP  LANGUAGE. 

lar  effort,  rousing  their  attention,  and  disposing  them  to  action.  I 
add  another  consideration :  the  agreeableness  of  contrast  in  the 
rougher  language,  for  which  the  great  variety  of  sounds  gives  ample 
opportunity,  must,  even  in  an  effeminate  ear,  prevail  over  the  more 
uniform  sounds  of  the  smoother  language.*  This  appears  all  that 
can  be  safely  determined  upon  the  present  point. 

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  further 
mellowed  without  suffering  in  its  force  and  energy,  will  scarce  be 
thought  by  any  one  who  posse^es  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  expense  of  making  them  disagreeable 
to  the  ear,  and  harsh  in  the  pronunciation. 

["  There  is  little  reason  to  doubt  that  the  guttural  sounds  formerly 
made  a  part  of  the  most  approved  pronunciation  of  English.  The 
analog}',  in  this  respect,  of  the  German,  Swedish,  Danish,  and  Saxon, 
the  prevalence  of  these  soimds  in  some  of  the  provinces  of  England, 
and  their  general  use  in  the  Lowland  part  of  Scotland,  which  cer- 
tainly derived  its  language  from  England,  concur  to  support  this 
opinion.  The  expulsion  of  the  guttural  sounds  from  the  polite  pro- 
nunciation of  English,  whilst  they  are  retained  in  all  the  other 
tongues  of  Saxon  original,  cannot  be  accounted  for  so  plausibly  Jis 
from  the  superior  refinement  of  the  English  ear,  to  that  of  the  other 
nations  who-  employ  languages  descended  from  the  same  source. — 
Barron's  Led.  vol.  i.  p.  35."] 

415.  The  article  next  in  order,  is  the  music  of  words  as  united  in 
a  period.  We  may  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  scarce  any  im- 
pression. 

After  establishing  this  maxim,  we  can  be  at  no  loss  about  its  ap- 
plication to  the  subject  in  hand.  The  following  rule  is  laid  down 
by  Diomedes.  "  In  verbis  observandum  est,  ne  a  majoribus  ad  mi- 
nora descendat  oratio ;  melius  enim  dicitur,  Vir  est  optimus,  quam 
Vir  optimus  esi."  This  rule  is  also  applicable  to  entire  membere  of 
a  period,  which,  according  to  our  author's  expression,  ought  not, 
more  than  single  words,  to  pi'oceed  from  the  greater  to  the  less,  but 
from  the  less  to  the  greater. "  ■  In  arranging  the  members  of  a  period, 

*  That  the  Italian  tongue  is  too  smooth,  seems  probable,  from  considering 
that  in  versiflcation,  vowels  are  frequently  suppressed,  in  order  to  produce  a 
rougher  and  bolder  tone. 


414  A  national  standard  for  comparative  merit  of  words  that  compose  a  languages. — 
Advantage  of  smooth  sounds;  of  rough  sounds.— The  Eng.lsh  language  less  rough  tlum 
formerly. 


BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAOK.  .      ,        '  278 

no  writer  equals  Cicero :  the  beauty  of  the  following  examples,  out 
of  many,  will  not  suffer  me  to  slur  them  over  by  a  reference : 

Quicum  qujestor  fueram, 

Quicum  me  sors  cousuetudoquoinajorum, 

Quicum  mo  dcorum  liominumquo  judicium  conjunxeraC 

• 
Habet  honorem  qucm  petimus. 
Habet  spem  qunm  praepositam  nobis  habemns, 
Habet  existimationem,  cnulto  sudore,  labore,  vigiliisque,  collectain. 


Again: 
Again : 


Eripite  nos  ex  miseriis, 

Eripite  nos  ex  faucibus  eorum, 

Quorum  crudelitas  nostra  sanguine  non  potest  expleri. 

I>e  Oratore,  1.  i.  sect.  62. 


This  order  of  words  or  members  gradually  increasing  in  length,  may, 
as  far  as  concerns  the  pleasure  of  sound,  be  denominated  a  climax 
in  sound. 

416.  The  last  article  is  the  music  of  periods  as  united  in  a  dis- 
course ;  which  shall  be  dispatched  in  a  very  few  words.  By  no  oth- 
er 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 
iu  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,  ought  to  be  diversified 
as  much  as  possible :  and  if  the  merabere  of  different  periods  be  suf- 
ficiently diversified,  the  periods  themselves  will  be  equally  so. 


SECTION  II. 
Beauty  of  Language  with  respect  to  SigniJUation. 

417.  It  is  well  said  by  a  noted  writer  (Scott's  Christian  Life), 
"That  by  means  of  speech  we  can  divert  our  sorrows,  mingle  our 
mirth,  impart  our  secrets,  communicate  our  counsels,  and  make  mu- 
tual compacts  and  agreements  to  supply  and  assist  each  other." 
Considering  speech  as  contiibuting  to  so  many  good  purposes,  words 
that  convey  clear  and  distinct  ideas,  must  bo  one  of  its  capital  beau- 
ties. 

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  compoHj  a  building,  and  the  latter 
resembling  the  order  in  which  they  are  placed.  Uence  the  beauties 
of  language,  Avith  respect  to  signification,  may  not  inipruiK'rIy  be 

415.  Music  of  words  in  a  period.— Maxim  concerning  strong;  or  weak  ImpalMe  tooOMd* 
Ing  each  otiier.— Arrangement  of  the  membem  of  a  period.—  Climax  In  touDvL 
41tt.  Kulo  for  arranjlLg  member*  of  different  i>*rlod»  in  dlMOurM. 

I'i* 


274        •      -  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

distinguished  into  two  kinds :  first,  the  beauties  that  anse  from  a 
right  choice  of  words  or  materials  for  constructing  the  period ;  and 
oext,  the  beauties  that  arise  from  a  due  arrangement  of  these  words 
or  materials.  I  begin  with  riiles  that  direct  us  to  a  light  choice  of 
words,  and  then  proceed  to  rules  that  concern  their  arrangement. 

418.  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  there- 
fore in  language  ought  more  to  be  studied,  than  to  prevent  all  ob- 
scurity in  the  expression ;  for  to  have  no  meaning,  is  but  one  de- 
gree worse  than  to  have  a  meaning  that  is  not  understood.  AVant 
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  or- 
dinary 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  qimm  fuga  oppress!  obtruiicaticiue. 

L.  iv.  sect.  46. 

This  author  is  frequently  obscure,  by  expressing  but  part  of  his 
thought,  leaving  it  to  be  completed  by  his  reader.  His  description 
of  tie  sea-fight  (1.  xxviii.  cap.  30)  is  extremely  perplexed. 

Unde  tibi  reditum  certo  suhtemin«  I'arcse 

Rupere.  Hot-ace,  epod.  xiii.  22. 

Qui  persiJRpe  cava  testudinc  flevit  amorem, 

Non  elaboratum  ad  pedeni.  Horace,  epod.  xiv.  U. 

Me  ftibulosse  Vulture  in  Appnlo, 
Altricis  extra  limen  Apulia?, 

Ludo,  fatigatumque  somno, 

Fronde  nova  puerum  pal  umbos 

Texere.        Horace,  Carm.  1.  iii.  ode  4. 

419.  There  may  be  a  defect  in  perspicuity  proceeding  even  from 
the  slightest  ambiguity  in  construction  ;  as  where  the  period  com- 
men(!es  with  a  member  conceived  to  be  in  the  nominative  case, 
which  afterwards  is  found  to  be  in  the  accusative.  Example :  "Some 
emotions  more  peculiarly  connected  with  the  fine  arts,  I  propose  to 
handle  in  separate  chapters."*  Better  thus:  "Some  emotions  more 
peculiarly  connected  with  the  fine  arts  are  proposed  to  be  handled 
in  separate  chapters." 

i  add  another  error  against  perspicuity ;  which  I  mention  the 

*  Elements  of  Criticism,  vol.  i.  p.  48,  first  edition. 


417  Purposes  answered  by  speech.— One  of  the  capital  beauties  of  8p€ech.--In  every  i«- 
riod,  two  things  to  be  regarded.— Beauties  of  language  with  respect  to  signification :  two 
kinds. 

4ia  Eule  In  regard  to  p«rsi>lcuity. 


BKAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE.  275 

rather  because  with  some  writers  it  pjisses  for  a  beauty.  It  is  the 
giving  different  names  to  the  same  object,  mentioned  oflener  tFian 
once  in  the  same  period.  Example  :  speaking  of  the  Enghsh  ad- 
venturer 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,"  Fi-om  this  mode  of  expres- 
sion, one  would  think  the  author  meant  to  distinguish  tlce  ancient 
inhabitants  fi'om  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  be 
sacrificed  to  any  other  beauty,  which  leads  me  to  think  that  the 
passage  may  be  improved  as  follows  :  "  and  degenerating  from  the 
customs  of  their  own  nation,  they  were  gradually  assimilated  to  the 
natives,  instead  of  reclaiming  them  from  their  uncultivated  manners." 

420.  The  next  rule  in  order,  because  next  in  importance,  is,  That 
the  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  didactic.  I>anguage 
may  be  considered  Jis  the  dress  of  thought ;  and  where  the  one  is 
not  suited  to  the  other,  wo  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  resembles 
the  impression  made  by  the  tliought,  the  similar  emotions  mix  sweetly 
in  the  mind,  and  double  the  pleasure  (chapter  ii.part  iv.) ;  but  where 
the  impressions  made  by  the  thought  and  the  words  are  dissimilar, 
the  unnatural  union  they  are  forced  into  is  disagreeable. 

421.  This  concordance  between  the  thought  and  the  words  has 
been  observed  by  every  critic,  and  is  so  well  und'erstoo<.l  as  not  to 
require  any  illustration.  But  there  is  a  concordance  of  a  pculiar 
kind,  that  "has  scai'cely  been  touched  in  works  of  criticism,  iliough 
it  contributes  to  neatness  of  composition.  It  is  what  follows.  In  a 
thought  of  any  extent,  we  commonly  find  some  parts  intimatel}-  united, 
some  slightly,  some  disjointed,  and  some  directly  opposed  to  each 
other.  To  find  these  conjuiiclions  and  disjunctions  imitated  in  the 
expi-ession,  is  a  beauty ;  because  such  imitation  makes  the  words 
concordant  with  the  sense.  This  doctrine  may  be  illustrated  by  a 
familiar  example.  When  we  have  occasion  to  mention  the  intimate 
connection  that  the  soul  hath  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  sonie  degree 
the  connection  in  the  thought ;  but  when  the  soul  is  distinguishetl 

419.  Ambiguity  In  construeUon.     Example.— AnoU er  error  ag»in«t  ponplcuity.    Eji 

'  m.  Nest  rule  fbr  latgnago.— The  dreffl  of  thoDght-Tmpr<>»slon  ni»<l.>  by  tha  word*  mkA 
•he  thought 


276  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

from  the  body,  it  is  better  to  say  the  soul  and  the  body ;  because 
the  disjunctiou  in  the  words  resembles  the  disjunction  in  the 
thought. 

422.  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, 
in  order  to  improve  their  connection,  ought  to  be  constructed  in  the 
same  manner.  This  beauty  is  so  common  among  good  writere,  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 : 

The  peacock,  in  all  his  pride,  does  not  display  )ialf  the  color  that  appears  in 
the  garments  of  a  British  lady,  when  she  is  either  dressed  for  a  ball  or  a  birth- 
day. Spectator,  No.  265. 

Had  not  my  dog  of  a  steward  run  away  as  he  did,  without  making  up  hi» 
accounts,  1  had  still  been  immersed  in  sin  and  sea-coal.  Ibid.  No.  630. 

My  life's  companion,  and  my  bosom-friend, 
One  faith,  one  fame,  one  fate  shall  both  attend. 

Dry  den,  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  membere  connected  by  a  copulative  is  unnecessarily 
varied. 

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  God,  and  generously  com- 
municatin^j  their  thoughts  for  the  good  of  the  public,  were  some  time  ago,  by 
an  unparalleled  severity,  and  upon  I  know  not  what  obsolete  law,  broke  for 
blasphemy.  {Swift.)  [Better  thus  :] — having  made  a  discovery  that  there  was 
no  God,  and  having  generously  communicated  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  flid 
into  the  deserts  of  Numidia.  Guardian,  No.  139. 

If  all  the  ends  of  the  Eevolution  are  already  obtained,  it  is  not  only  imper- 
tinent to  argue  for  obtaining  any  of  them,  hni  factious  designs  might  he  imputed^ 
and  the  name  of  incendiary  be  applied  with  some  color,  perhaps,  to  any  one 
who  should  persist  in  pressing  this  point. 

Dissertation  upon  Pat  ties,  Dedication. 

421.  A  peculiar  concordance  of  word  and  thought. — Example. 

423.  Two  members  of  a  thought  relating  to  the  same  action.  Example.—Connectetl 
Ideas,  expressed  by  words  wmowhat  related  to  each  otber. — Two  members  connected  by 
copulative.    Example*. 


BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE.  277 

423.  Next  as  to  examples  of  disjunction  and  opposition  in  the 
parts  of  the  thought,  imitated  in  the  expression ;  an  imitation  that 
JS  distinguished  by  the  name  of  antithesis. 

Speaking  of  Coriolanus  sohciting  the  people  to  be  made  consul : 

With  a  proud  lieart  he  wore  his  humble  weeds.— Cbrwianrw. 

Had  you  rather  Caesar  were  living,  and  die  all  slaves,  than  that  Ctesar  were 
dead,  to  live  all  freemen  ?  ^„;ii^  Ccuar. 

He  hath  cool'd  my  friends  and  heated  mine  6X\em\es.—Shahpeare. 
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  discord- 
ance between  the  thought  and  expression.  For  the  same  reason 
we  ought  also  to  avoid  eveiy  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  compo- 
sition, 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. 

Merchant  of  Venice. 

Here  is  a  studied  opposition  in  the  words,  not  only  without  any  op- 
position in  the  sense,  but  even  where  there  is  a  very  intimate  con- 
nection, that  of  cause  and  effect ;  for  it  is  the  levity  of  the  wife  that 
torment^  the  husband. 


-  Will  maintain 


Upon  his  bad  life  to  make  all  this  good. 

King  Richard  II.  Act  I.  So.  8. 
Lucetta.  What,  shall  these  papers  lie  like  tell-tales  here  ? 
Julia.  If  thou  respect  them,  best  to  take  them  up. 
Lucetta.  Nay,  I  was  taken  up  for  laying  them  down. 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  Act  I.  Sc.  8. 

424.  A  fault  directly  opposite  to  that  last  mentioned,  is  to  con 
join  artificially  words  that  express  ideas  opposed  to  each  other. 
This  is  a  fault  too  gi-oss  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  ol 
neatness  in  the  following  expression  : 

The  nobility  too,  whom  the  king  had  no  means  of  retaining  by  suitable  offl- 
ces  and  preferments,  had  been  seized  with  the  general  discontent,  and  unwaril> 
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  ap])cai"s  more  neat  to  express  the  past  time 
by  the  participle  passive,  thus : 

428.  Examples  of  disjunction  and  opposition  in  tb«  parts  of  tba  thoogjit— TartM* 
antitheait  where  there  U  none  In  thought    Exampldb 


278  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

Tlie  nobility  liaviug  been  seized  with  the  general  discontent,  unwarily  threw 
themselves,  &c.  (or)  The  nobility,  who  had  been  seized,  &c.,  unwarily  throw 
themselves,  &c. 

It  is  unpleasant  to  find  even  a  negative  and  affirmative  pro{)Osi- 
tion  connected  by  a  copulative  : 

If  it  appear  not  plain,  and  prove  untrue. 

Deadly  divorce  step  between  me  and  yoa.—Shai'^jyeare. 

In  mirth  and  drollery  it  may  have  a  good  effect  to  connect  ver- 
bally things  that  are  opposite  to  each  other  in  the  thought.  Ex- 
ample :  Henry  IV.,  of  France,  introducing  the  Mareschal  Biron  to 
some  of  his  fiiends,  "Here,  gentlemen,"  says  he,  "is  the  Mareschal 
Biron,  whom  I  freely  present  both  to  my  friends  and  enemies." 

425.  This  rule  of  studying  uniformity  between  the  thought  and 
expression,  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  lan- 
guage things  that  are  separated,  in  reality.  Of  errors  against  this 
rule  take  the  following  examples  : 

Behold,  thou  art  fair,  my  beloved,  yea,  pleasant ;  also  our  bed  is  green. 

Burnet,  in  the  History  of  his  own  Times,  giving  Lord  Sunderland's 
character,  says, 

His  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 
1  great  lord,  whom  she  had  never  seen  in  her  life ;  and  indeed  never  knew  a 
party-woman  that  kept  her  beauty  for  a  tv/e\\emonih.— Spectator,  No.  57. 

Lord  Bolingbroke,  speaking  of  Strada  : 

I  single  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  excursion  in  honor  of  a  favorite  writer. 

Letters  on  History,  vol.  i.  Let.  v. 

To  crowd  in  a  single  member  of  a  period  different  subjects,  is  still 
worse  than  to  crowd  them  into  one  period. 

426.  From  conjunctions  and  distinctions  in  general,  we  proceed 
"10  comparisons,  which  make  one  species  of  them,  beginning  with 
«iniles.  And  here,  also,  the  intimate  connection  that  words  have 
with  their  meaning,  requires  that  in  describing  two  resembling  ob- 
«ects,  a  resemblance  in  the  two  membei-s  of  the  period  ought  to  be 
'Studied.  To  illustrate  the  rule  in  this  case,  I  shall  give  various  ex- 
amples of  deviations  fi-om  it;  beginning  with  resemblances  expressed 
•n  words  that  have  no  resemblance. 


424.  Conjoining  artificially  words  that  express  opposite  Ideas.    Example.— Negative  and 
tfnriuaiive  propositions. 
42.5.  Rule  for  tlie  distribution  of  thougliL     Violations  of  this  rule. 


BKAirnr  of  lanouaok.  279 

I  have  observed  of  late,  the  style  of  some  great  r/ii"ni*fcr*  very  much  to  exceed 
that  of  any  other  productions. — "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.  In- 
stead of  prodtictions,  which  resemble  not  ministers  great  or  small, 
the  proper  word  is  writers  or  authors. 

If  men  of  eminence  are  exposed  to  censure  on  the  one  hand,  they  are  as  much 
.table  to  flattery  on  the  other.  If  they  receive  reproaches  which  are  not  due 
to  them,  they  likewise  receive  praises  which  they  do  not  di^ieTs^.— Spectator. 

Here  the  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  e.xposed  to  censure  on  the  one  hand,  they  are  as  much 
exposed  to  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  imitation,  which  passes  so  currently 
with  other  judgments,  must  at  some  time  or  other  have  stuck  a  little  with  your 
lordship.  (Shaftesbury.)  [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. 

They  wisely  prefer  the  aenerous  efforts  of  good-will  and  affection  to  the  re- 
luctant compliances  o/"  *«cA  aw  obey  by  force.  ^  ,.     ,     , 

Semarks  on  the  Miston/ of  England,  letter  V.    Bolingbroke. 

Speaking  of  Shakspeare : 

There  may  remain  a  suspicion  that  we  overrate  the  greatness  of  his  genius, 
<n  the  same  manner  as  bodies  appear  more  gigantic  on  account  of  their  being 
disproportioned  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  overrate  the  greatness  of  his  genius, 
in  the  same  manner  as  we  overrate  the  greatness  of  bodies  that  are  dispropor- 
tioned  and  misshapen. 

427.  Next  as  to  the  length  of  the  members  that  signify  the  re- 
sembling objects.  To  produce  a  resemblance  between  such  mem- 
bers, they  ought  not  only  to  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  :n  the  »«|bt  of 
God,  wiOwat  charUy;  so  neither  will  the  discharge  of  nil  other  mmistenal  duties 
avail  in  the  sight  of  men,  without  a  faithful  discharge  of  tins  principal  duty. 
"  J)issertation  upon  Partus,  Dedication. 

In  the  following  passage  are  accumulated  all  the  errors  that  a 
period  expressing  a  resemblance  can  well  admit : 

Ministers  are  answerable  fbr  everything  done  to  the  prejudice  of  the  consti- 
tntion,  in  the  same  proportion  as  the  preservation  of  the  constitution  m  lU 
puritv  and  vigor,  or  the  perverting  and  weakening  it,  are  of  greater  cjnscquenc* 
to  the  nation,  than  any  ether  instances  of  good  or  bad  g«^;«"\'ncnt. 

'  '  dissertation  upon  Parties,  Dedieatic-t*. 

426.  Rule  for  dt^criWng  res^mbUng  objects.    Example*  "'.''•^•"""l       Vi^nol** 

427.  Rule  for  the  letgth  of  Uio  memb«r»  Uuit  signify  resembling  object*    i  lunpie* 


280  BEAUTY  OF  LAKGUAGE. 

428.  Next  of  a  comparison  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 
deviations  from  it : 

A  friend  exaggerates  a  man's  virtues,  an  enemy  inflames  his  crimes. 

Spectaior,  No.  899. 

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  contrast 
or  opposition  will  be  better  marked  by  expressing  the  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  himselt  to  the  applause  of  those  about  h\m.—Ibld.  No.  73. 

Better : 

Tlie  wise  man  is  happy  when  he  gains  his  own  approbation ;  the  fool  when 
he  gains  that  of  otliers. 

429.  We  proceed  to  a  rule  of  a  difierent  kind.  During  the  coui-se 
of  a  period,  the  scene  ought  to  be  continued  without  variation :  the 
changing  from  pcreon  to  person,  from  subject  to  subject,  or  from 
person  to  subject,  within  the  bounds  of  a  single  peiiod,  distracts  the 
mind,  and  afibrds  no  time  for  a  solid  impression.  I  illustrate  thia 
rule  by  giving  examples  of  deviations  from  it. 

Hook,  in  his  Roman  history,  speaking  of  Eumenes,  who  had  been 
beat  to  the  ground  with  a  stone,  says, 

After  a  short  time  he  came  to  himself;  and  the  next  day  (hey  put  him  on 
board  his  ship,  which  conveyed  him  first  to  Corinth,  and  thence  to  the  island 
of  ..Egina. 

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.  ./or 

This  expression  includes  two  persons,  one  acquiring  and  one  incul- 
cating ;  and  the  scene  is  changed  without  necessity.     To  avoid  this 
blemish,  the  thought  may  be  expressed  thus  : 
That  sort  of  instruction  which  is  aflforded  by  inculcating,  <fec. 

The  bad  effect  of  such  change  of  person  is  remarkable  -n  the  follow- 
ing passage : 

The  BAtons,  daily  harassed  by  cruel  inroads  from  the  Picte,  were  forced  to 
aall  in  the  Saxons  for  their  de'fence,  who  consequently  reduced  the  greatest 

«  42S.  ComparlsoD  where  tlilii{^  are  opposed. 


BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE.  281 

part  of  the  island  to  taeir  own  power,  drove  the  Briton«  into  the  most  remota 

and  mountainous  parts,  and  the  rest  of  the  country,  in  customs,  rclidon  and 
language,  became  wholly  Saxon.— Zt<<er  to  the  Lord  Hujh  Treiuurer.  'Switl. 

•  430.  The  present  head,  which  relates  to  the  choice  of  materials, 
shall  be  closed  with  a  rule  concerniug  the  use  of  cojjulatives.  Lon- 
ginus  observes,  that  it  animates  a  period  to  drop  the  copulatives ; 
and  he  gives  the  following  example  from  Xenophon  : 

Closing  their  shields  together,  they  were  pushed,  they  fought,  they  slew 
they  were  slain.  TreatUe  of  the  SubUme,  cap.  xvi.   * 

The  reason  I  take  to  be  what  folloAvs.  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  peri- 
od of  which  the  members  are  connected  by  copulatives,  produceth  an 
eflfect  upon  the  mind  approaching  to  that  of  a  continued  sound ;  and 
therefore  the  suppressing  of  copulatives  must  animate  a  description. 
It  produces  a  difierent  effect  akin  to  that  mentioned  :  the  members 
of  a  period  connected  by  proper  copulatives,  glide  smoothly  and 
gently  along ;  and  are  a  proof  of  sedateness  and  leisure  in  the  speak- 
er :  on  the  other  hand,  one  in  the  huny  of  passion,  neglecting  cop- 
ulatives and  other  pailicles,  expresses  the  principal  image  only ;  and 
for  that  reason,  huiry  or  quick  action  is  best  expressed  without  cop- 
ulatives : 

Veni,  vidi,  vici. 


-Ite: 


Ferte  citi  flammas,  date  vela,  impellite  rexaoa.—uEneid^  iv.  59& 

Qnis  globus,  0  civis,  oaligine  volvitur  atra? 
Ferte  citi  ferrum,  dete  tela,  scandite  muros. 
Hostis  adest,  eja.  ^mid,  ix.  87. 

431.  It  follows  that  a  plurality  of  copulatives  in  the  same  period 
ought  to  be  avoided ;  for  if  the  laying  aside  copulatives  gives  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  complaining  of  jealous  husbands ;  and  at  the  same  time  proteat- 
ing  their  own  innocence,  ana  desiring  my  advice  upon  this  occasion. 

Spectator,  No.  170. 

I  except  the  case  where  the  words  are  intended  to  express  the 

coldness  of  the  speaker ;  for  there  the  redundancy  of  copulatives  is 

a  beauty. 

Dining  one  day  at  an  alderman's  in  tlie  city,  Peter  observed  him  expatiating 
after  the  manner  of  liis  brethren,  in  the  praises  of  a  sirloin  of  beef.  "  Beef," 
said  the  sage  magistrate,  "  is  the  king  of  meat :  Beef  comprehends  in  it  the 
quintessence  of  partridge,  and  quail,  and  venison,  and  plieasant,  and  plumb- 
pudding,  and  custard."  7aU  of  a  Tub,  sect.  4. 

429.  In  a  period  the  scene  should  not  Tarjr. 

480.  Bule  for  use  of  copulatives. — Remark  of  LonglniUL 


382  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

And  the  author  shows  great  deUcacy  of  taste  by  varying  the  ex- 
pression in  the  mouth  of  Peter,  who  is  represented  more  animated : 

"Bread,"  says  he,  "  dear  brothers,  is  the  staff  of  life,  iu  which  bread  is  con- 
tainedj  inclusive^  the  quintessence  of  beef,  mutton,  veal,  venison,  partridges, 
plum-pudding,  and  custard." 

Another  case  must  also  be  excepted :  copulatives  have  a  good  ef- 
fect where  the  intention  is  to  give  an  impression  of  a  great  multi- 
tude consisting  of  many  dinsions ;  for  example,  "  The  army  was 
composed  of  Grecians,  and  Carians,  and  Lyciaus,  and  Pamphylians, 
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 
appeai-s  in  one  group  ;  in  the  former,  we  take  as  it  were  an  accurate 
survey  of  each  nation  and  of  each  division.  (See  Demetrius  PJm- 
lereus,  Of  Elocution,  sect.  63.) 

432.  We  proceed  to  the  second  kind  of  beauty ;  which  consists 
in  a  due  arrangement  of  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  gen- 
eral principles  that  govern  the  structure  or  composition  of  language. 

In  a  thought,  generally  speaking,  there  is  at  least  one  capital  ob- 
ect  considered  as  acting  or  as  suffering.  This  object  is  expressed 
Dy  a  substantive  noun ;  its  action  is  expressed  by  an  active  verb ; 
and  the  thing  affected  by  the  action  is  expressed  by  another  sub- 
stantive noun :  its  suffering  or  passive  state  is  expressed  by  a  passive 
verb ;  and  the  thing  that  acts  upon  it,  by  a  substantive  noun.  Be- 
sides these,  which  are  the  capital  parts  of  a  sentence  or  period,  there 
are  generally  under-parts ;  each  of  the  substantives,  as  well  as  the 
verb,  may  be  qualified :  time,  place,  purpose,  motive,  means,  instru- 
ment, and  a  thousand  other  circumstances,  may  be  necessary  to  com- 
plete the  thought.  And  in  what  manner  these  several  parts  are 
connected  in  the  expression,  will  appear  from  what  follows. 

In  a  complete  thought  or  mental  proposition,  all  the  members  and 
paits  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  necessar)--  that  all  the  relations  con- 
tained in  the  thought  be  expressed  according  to  their  different  de- 
grees of  intimacy.  To  annex  a  certain  meaning  to  a  certain  sound 
or  word,  requires  no  art :  the  great  nicety  in  all  languages  is,  to  ex- 
press the  various  relations  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  acutest  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 


I' 


431.  Eedandancy  of  copulatives  In  the  same  period.    Csses  where  it  is  proper. 
482.  Due  arrangement  of  words.— The  capital  and  nnder-parts  of  a  sentence.— Membert 
«nd  parts  of  a  complete  tlioiifcht  mutna!ly  related.— The  great  nicety  in  all  UngiiiJKcs. 


BEAirrY  OK  LAXOIIAGE.  2S>S 

ppear  not  susceptible  of  auy  improvement;  and  the  next  step  in 

our  progress  shall  be  to  explain  that  method. 

433.  Wo'ds  that  import  a  relation  must  ha  distinguished  from 
such  as  do  not.     Substantives  commonly  imply  no  relation  •  such 
as  ammal,  man,  tree,  river.     Adjectives,  verbs,  and  adverbs  'imply 
a  relation ;  the  adjective  pood  must  relate  to  some  being  poasessed 
of  that  quality ;  the  verb  write  is  applied  to  some  person  who  wiites  • 
and  the  adverbs  moderately,  diligently,  have  plainly  a  reference  to 
some  actiou  which  they  modify.     When  a  relative  word  is  intro- 
duced. It  must  be  signified  by  the  expression  to  what  word  it  relates 
without  which  the  sense  is  not  complete.     For  answering  that  pur- 
po.se,  I  observe  in  Gi'eek  and  Latin  two  .different  methods.     Adjec- 
tives are  declined  as  well  as  substantives ;  and  declensions  serve  to 
ascertain  their  connection  :  K  the  word  that  expresses  the  subject  be, 
for  example,  in  the  nominative  case,  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 
mentioned,  serves  to  ex-press  the  double  relation :  the  nominative 
(iase  is  appropriated  to  the  agent,  the  accusative  to  the  passive  sub- 
ject ;  and  the  verb  is  put  in  the  first,  second,  or  third  pei-son  to  inti- 
mate the  connection  with  the  word  that  signifies  the  agent :  exam- 
ples, ^yo  amo  Tulliam;    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,  fo'r 
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  ad- 
verb accompanies  the  word  it  qualifies ;  and  the  verb  occupies  the 
middle  place  between  the  active  and  passive  subjects  to  which  it 
relates. 

434.  It  must  be  ob\'ious  that  those  terms  which  have  nothing 
relative  in  their  signification,  cannot  be  connected  in  so  easy  a  man- 
ner. When  two  substantives  happen  to  be  connected,  as  cause  and 
effect,  as  principal  and  accessory,  or  in  any  other  manner,  such  con- 
nection 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  Imj 
expressed  but  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  Caesar  and  his  horse,  is  expressed  by  putting  tlie 
latter  in  the  nominative  case,  the  former  in  the  genitive :  equus 
Ccesaris ;  the  same  is  also  expressed  in  English  without  the  aid  of 
a  particle,  Ccesar's  horse.     But  in  other  instances,  declensions  not 

483.  Words  implying  •  elation.    Two  methods  of  indicating  relation. 


284  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

being  used  in  the  English  language,  relations  of  this  kind  are  com- 
monly expressed  by  prepositions.  Examples  :  That  wine  came  from 
Cyprus.     He  is  going  to  Paris.     The  sun  is  below  the  horizon. 

This  form  of  connecting  by  prepositions  is  not  confined  to  sub- 
stantives. Qualities,  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 
toise  being  converted  into  the  substantive  wisdom,  gives  opportunity 
for  the  expression  "  a  man  0/ wisdom,"  instead  of  the  more  simple 
expression  a  wise  man  ;  this  variety  in  the  expression  enriches  lan- 
guage. I  observe,  besides,  that  the  using  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. 

435.  To  pave  the  way  for  the  rules  of  arrangement,  one  other 
preliminary  is  necessary  ;  which  is,  to  explain  the  difierence  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.  Agam,  a 
circiunstance  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 :  a  circumstance  may  be 
placed  before  the  word  with  which  it  is  connected  by  a  preposition  ; 
and  may  be  interjected  even  between  a  relative  word  and  that  to 
which  it  relates.  When  such  liberties  are  frequently  taken,  the 
style  becomes  inverted  or  transposed.* 

*  [The  imagination  and  the  understanding  are  the  powers  of  the  mind  that 
chiefly  influence  the  arrangement  of  words  in  sentences.  The  grammatical 
order  is  dictated  by  the  understanding ;  the  mverted  order  resu  ts  fromtho 
prevalence  of  the  imagination.  In  the  grammatical  order  of  words  it  is  required 
that  the  agent  or  nominative  shall  first  make  its  appearance ;  the  agent  is  suc- 
ceeded by  the  action,  or  the  verb;  and  the  verb  is  followed  by  the  object  or 
accusative,  on  which  the  action  is  exerted.  The  other  parfc*  of  speech,  consmt- 
inff  of  adiectives,  &c.,  are  intermixed  with  these  capital  parts,  and  are  asso- 
ciated with  them  respectively,  according  as  they  are  necessary  to  restrict  or 
explain  them.  .  ,  ,        .  \,l\- 

The  inverted  order  is  prompted  by  the  imagmation,  a  keen  and  sprightly 

434.  The  relation  between  substantives,  how  expressed —Qualities  and  attributes,  Ac, 
aow  connected  with  the  subsunces  to  whicli  tbev  relate.  ,„„„^^  .»_(-  ,„d  th«  lut 

485.  Difference  between  a  natural  and  inverted  style.  The  Inverted  styte  md  the  ii« 
■ral  explained  in  the  Note. 


BKAUTY  OP  LANGUAGE.  285 

436.  But  as  the  liberty  of  inversion  is  a  capital  point  in  the  pres- 
ent 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,  an 
to  the  placing  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  hincerity  of  ray  heart,  I  profess,  &e. 

By  our  own  ill  management  we  are  brought  to  so  low  an  ebb  of  wealth  and 
creclit,  that,  &c. 

On  Thursday  morning  there  was  little  or  nothing  transacted  in  Change- 
alley. 

At  St.  Bride's  church  in  Fleet-street,  Mr.  Woolston  (wlio  writ  against  the 
miracles  of  our  Saviour),  in  the  utmost  terrors  of  conscience,  made  a  public 
recantation. 

The  interjecting  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. 

The  degree  of  invei-sion  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  afterwards  introduced ; 
and  that  moment  may  without  difficulty  be  prolonged  by  interjecting 
a  circumstance  between  the  substantive  and  its  connections.  This 
liberty,  therefore,  however  frequent,  will  scarce  alone  be  sufficient  to 
denominate  a  style  inverted.  The  case  is  very  different,  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  great  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 

faculty,  which  attaches  itself  strongly  to  its  objects,  and  to  those  the  most  that 
affect  it  most  forcibly.  A  sentence  constructed  according  to  the  order  dictited 
by  this  faculty,  presents  the  object  or  accusative  first,  the  agent  or  recipient 
next,  and  the  action  or  verb  last.  The  other  parts  of  speech  are  interwoven,  as 
in  the  former  case,  with  these  capitiil  words  with  which  they  are  naturally  con- 
nected. The  reason  of  this  arrangement  is,  that  the  imagination  attaches  it»clf 
principally  to  the  object,  in  an  inferior  degree  to  the  subject  or  recipient,  least 
of  all  to  the  action;  and  they  are  accordingly  disposed  agreeably  to  these  de- 
grees of  attachment. 

In  the  early  periods  of  society,  and  even  in  the  early  part  of  life,  we  observe 
the  mind  disposed  to  inversion,  because  in  those  times  the  imagination  is  more 
vivid  and  active,  and  the  powers  of  reason  are  more  languid  and  ineffectual  — 
Barron^ 8  Led.  8.] 

488,  Several  degrees  of  departure  from  a  natural  style ;  In  the  placing  of  •  clrcumitane* 
•On  what  the  degree  of  inversion  depaads.    Ex»i.-^)Ie». 


286  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

begiu  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,  urged  me  so  keen. 

Moon  that  now  meet'st  tlie  orient  sun,  now  fliest 
With  the  flx'd  stars,  fix'd  in  tlieir  orb  that  flies, 
And  ye  five  other  wand'ring  fires  that  move 
In  mystic  dance  not  without  song,  resound 
His  praise. 

In  the  following  examples,  where  the  word  first  introduced  im- 
ports a  relation,  the  disjunction  will  be  found  more  violent : 

Of  man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  tlie  world,  and  all  our  woe, 
"With  loss  of  Eden,  till  one  greater  man 
Kestore  us,  and  regain  the  blissful  seat, 
Sing,  heavenly  muse. 

-Upon  the  firm  opacous  globe 


Of  this  round  world,  whose  first  convex  divides 
The  luminous  inferior  orbs  inclosed 
From  chaos  and  th'  inroad  of  darkness  old, 
Satan  alighted  walks. 

— ; On  a  sudden  open  fly 

With  impetuous  recoil  and  jarring  sound, 
Th'  infernal  doors. 

Wherein  remain'd, 

For  what  could  else?  to  our  almighty  foe 
Clear  victory,  to  our  part  loss  and  rout. 

Forth  rush'd,  with  whirlwind  sound, 


The  chariot  of  paternal  Deity. 

437.  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  by  invereion  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 
scarce  be  said  that  inversion  has  any  hmits  ;  though  I  may  venture 
to  pronounce,  that  the  disjunction  of  articles,  conjunctions,  or  prepo- 
sitions, from  the  words  to  which  they  belong,  has  very  seldom  a 
good  efiect.  The  following  example  with  relation  to  a  preposition, 
is  perhaps  as  tolerable  as  any  of  the  kind : 

Ho  would  neither  sep&T&tG  from,  nor  act  against  them. 

4S7.  Effect  of  inversion  upon  laneuaga  —Effect  of  separating  articles,  conjunctioMi,  «Dd 
prepositions,  ft'om  the  words  to  which  they  belong. 


BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAOE.  287 

438.  I  give  notice  to  the  reader,  that  I  am  now  ready  to  enter 
on  the  rules  of  arrangement :  beginning  with  a  natural  style,  and 
proceeding  gradually  to  what  is  the  most  inverted.  And  in  the  ar- 
rangement of  a  period,  as  well  as  in  a  right  choice  of  words,  the  first 
and  great  object  being  perspicuity,  the  nile  above  laid  down,  that 
perspicuity  ought  not  to  be  sacrificed  to  any  other  beauty,  hoId« 
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  more  cul- 
pable, 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  nwrtly  from  the  influence  which  an  ordinary  presence  has  over  men. 

CharacUriilics,  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  give  some  account  of  the  rites  and  ceremonies  anciently  used  at  that  solem- 
nity, and  only  discontinued  through  the  neglect  and  degeneracy  of  later  times. 

Gvardian. 

The  tenn  only  is  intended  to  qualify  the  noun  degeneracy,  and  not 
the  participle  discontinued;  and  therefore  the  arrangement  ought 
to  be  as  follows : 

-and  discontinued  through  the  neglect  and  degeneracy  only  of 


later  times. 

Sixtus  the  Fourth  was,  if  I  mistake  not,  a  great  collector  of  books  at  least. 
Letters  on  JlUtory,  vol.  i.  Lcct.  6. — Bolingbroko. 

The  expression  here  leads  evidently  to  a  wrong  sense ;  the  adverb 
at  least,  ought  not  to  be  connected  with  the  substanjive  books,  but 
with  collector,  thus : 

Sixtus  the  Fourth  was  a  great  collector  at  least  of  books. 

Speaking  of  Louis  XIV. 

If  he  was  not  the  greatest  king,  he  was  the  best  actor  of  m^esty  at  le««t 
that  ever  filled  a  throne.— 3id.  Letter  vii. 

Better  thus : 

If  ho  was  not  the  greatest  king,  he  was  at  least  the  best  actor  of  majesty,  Ao 

This  arrangement  removes  the  wrong  sense  occasioned  by  the  juxta- 
position of  majesty  and  at  least. 

488,  Tw>  sorts  of  anibiguUy  from  a  wroiif  »rr8nB*ment    Ftn>t,  of  worda. 


288  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

439.  The  following  examples  are  of  a  wrong  arrangement  of 
inembei's : 

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  l&ws. 
A  Project  for  ih«  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, 
by  a  strict  execution  of  the  laws,  are  iu  the  power  of  a  prince  limited  Uke  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  contained  them. 

Guardian,  No.  4. 
The  wrong  sense  occasioned  by  this  arrangement,  may  be  easily  pre- 
rented  by  varying  it  thus  : 

This  morning  when,  with  great  care  and  diligence,  one  of  Lady  Lizard's 
daughters  was  looking  over  some  hoods  and  ribands,  &c. 

A  great  stone  that  I  happened  to  find  after  a  long  search  by  the  seashore, 
served  me  for  an  anchor. — GulUver^s  Travels,  part  i.  chap.  viii. 

One  would  think  that  the  search  Avas  confined  to  the  seashore  ;  but 
as  the  meaning  is,  that  the  great  stone  was  found  by  the  seashore, 
the  period  ought  to  be  arranged  thus  : 

A  great  stone,  that,  after  a  long  search,  I  happened  to  find  by  the  seashore, 
served  me  for  an  anchor. 

440.  Next  of  a  wrong  arrangement  where  the  sense  is  left  doubt- 
ful ;  beginning,  as  in  the  former  sort,  with  examples  of  wrong  ar 
rangement  of  words  in  a  member. 

These  forms  of  conversation  by  degrees  multiplied  and  grew  troublesome. 

Spect<Uor,  No.  119. 

Here  it  is  left  doubtful  whether  the  modification  by  decrees  relates 
to  the  preceding  member  or  to  what  follows :  it  should  be, 
These  forms  of  conversation  multiplied  by  degrees. 

Nor  docs  this  false  modesty  expose  us  only  to  such  actions  as  are  indiscreet, 
but  very  often  to  such  as  are  highly  crimiuaL — Spectator,  No.  45S. 

The  ambiguity  is  removed  by  the  following  arrangement : 

Nor  does  this  false  modesty  expose  us  to  such  actions  only  as  are  indis> 
creet,  &c. 

The  empire  of  Blefuscu  is  an  island  situated  to  tho  northeast  side  of  Lillipnt, 
from  whence  it  is  parted  only  by  a  channel  of  800  yards  wide.— 6^u«i»«r'# 
Travels,  part  i.  chap.  v. 

The  ambiguity  may  be  removed  thus  : 

from  whence  it  is  parted  by  a  channel  of  800  yards  wide  only. 


489.  Of  *  wrong  arrangement  of  members. 


BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE.  289 

In  the  following  examples  the  sense  is  left  doubtful  by  wrong 
arrangement  of  members : 

The  minister  wlio  grows  less  by  his  elevation,  lilt  a  little  statue  placed  on  « 
mightypedettal,  will  always  have  his  jealousy  strong  about  h\m.—Di»8«rtatian 
vpoa  Partus.  Dedication. — Boliugbroke. 

Here,  as  far  as  can  be  gatliered  from  the  arrangement,  it  is  doubt- 
fiil  whether  tlie  object,  introduced  by  way  of  simile,  relates  to  what 
goes  before  or  to  what  follows  :  tlie  ambiguity  is  removed  by  the 
following  arrangement : 

The  minister,  who,  like  a  little  statne  placed  on  a  mighty  pedestal,  grows  leM 
by  his  elevation,  will  always,  <fec. 

Since  this  is  too  much  to  ask  of  freemen,  nay  of  slaves,  if  his  expectation  U 
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  ex 
pectations  be  not  answered,  form,  &c. 

Speaking  of  the  superstitious  practice  of  locking  up  the  room  where 
a  person  of  distinction  dies  : 

The  knight,  seeing  his  habitation  reduced  to  so  small  a  compass,  and  him- 
self in  a  manner  shut  out  of  his  own  house,  upon  the  death  of  his  mother^ 
ordered  all  the  apartments  to  be  flung  open,  and  exorcised  by  his  chaplain.— 
Spectator,  No.  110.  =>    r     ,  j  y 

Better  thus : 

The  knight,  seeing  his  habitation  reduced  to  so  small  a  compass,  and  him 
self  in  a  manner  shut  out  of  his  own  house,  ordered,  upon  the  death  of  his 
mother,  all  the  apartments  to  be  flung  open. 

Speaking  of  some  indecencies  in  conversation : 

As  it  is  impossible  for  such  an  irrational  way  of  conversation  to  last  long 
among  a  people  that  make  any  profession  of  religion,  or  show  of  modesty, 
if  the  country  gentlemen  get  into  it,  they  will  certainly  be  left  in  the  lurch.— 
Spectator,  No.  119. 

The  ambiguity  vanishes  in  the  following  aiTangement : 

the  country  gentlemen,  if  they  get  into  it,  will  certainly  be  left 

m  the  lurch. 

Speaking  of  a  discovery  in  natural  philosophy,  tliat  color  is  not 
a  quality  of  matter : 

As  this  is  ft  truth  which  has  been  proved  ineontestably  by  many  modern  phi- 
losophers,  and  is  indeed  one  of  the  finest  speculations  in  that  science,  if  the 
English  reader  would  see  the  notion  es^lained  at  large,  he  may  find  it  in  the  eighth 
chapter  in  the  second  book  of  Mr.  Locke's  Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding. 
—/Spectator,  No.  413. 

Better  thus : 

As  this  is  a  truth,  &c.,  the  English  reader,  if  he  would  8e«  the  notion  ex- 
plained at  largo,  may  find  it,  «fec. 

A  woman  seldom  asks  advio  before  tthe  Los  bcught  hor  wcddia^'Iothco. 


290  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

When  she  has  made  her  own  dhoidi,  for  form'' s  sake,  she  sends  a  conge  d'eUrt 
to  her  friends. — Ibid.  No.  475, 

Better  thus : 

she  sends,  for  fonn's  sake,  a  conge  £elire  to  her  friends. 

And  since  it  is  necessary  that  there  should  be  a  perpetual  intercourse  of  buy- 
ing and  selling,  and  dealing  upon  credit,  xoliere  fraud  is  ■permitted  or  connived  at, 
or  hath  no  law  to  punish  it,  the  honest  dealer  is  always  undone,  and  the  knave 
gets  the  advantage. — Gidliver''s  Traveh,  part  i.  chap.  vi. 

Jietter  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  advantiige. 

441.  From  tliese  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  inteijected,  as  it  ought  to  be, 
between  parts  of  the  member  to  which  itjbelongs,  the  ambiguity  is 
removed,  and  the  capital  members  are  kept  distinct,  which  is  a  great 
beauty  in  composition.  In  general,  to  preserve  members  distinct 
that  signify  things  distinguished  in  the  thought,  the  best  method  is, 
to  place  first  in  the  consequent  member,  some  word  that  cannot 
connect  with  what  precedes  it. 

If  it  shall  be  thought,  that  the  objections  here  are  too  scrupulous, 
and  that  the  defect  of  perepicuity  is  easily  supplied  by  accurate 
punctuation  ;  the  answer  is,  That  punctuation  may  remove  an  ambi- 
guity, but  will  uev^er  produce  that  peculiar  beauty  which  is  per- 
ceived when  the  sense  comes  out  clearly  and  distinctly  by  means  of 
a  happy  arrangement. 

442.  A  rule  deservedly  occupying  the  second  place,  is,  That 
words  expressing  things  connected  in  the  thought,  ought  to  be 
placed  as  near  together  as  jjossible.  This  rule  is  derived  immediately 
from  human  nature,  prone  in  every  instance  to  place  together  thing's 
in  any  manner  connected  (see  chapter  i.) :  where  things  are  an-anged 
according  to  their  connections,  we  have  a  sense  of  order :  other- 
wise 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  separa- 
tion of  words  or  members  thus  intimately  connected  will  appear 
from  the  following  examples  : 

For  the  English  are  naturally  fanciful,  and  very  often  disposed,  by  that 
gloominess  and  melancholy  of  temper  which  is  so  frequent  in  our  nation,  to 
many  wild  notions  and  visions,  to  which  others  are  not  so  liable. 

S2>ectator,  No.  419. 

440.  WTjere  thus  the  sense  Is  left  (iouV)tfnl.    Examplrs. 

*41.  Where  a  cai)ital  circumstance  should  not  be  placed.    The  best  method 


BEAOTY  OF  LANQUAOE.  291 

Here  the  verb  or  assertion  is,  by  a  pretty  long  circumstance,  vie 
lently  separcated  from  the  subject  to  which  it  refere  :  this  makes  a 
harsh  arrangement ;  the  less  excusable  that  the  fault  is  easily  pre- 
vented by  placing  the  circumstances  before  the  verb,  after  the  fol- 
lowing manner : 

For  the  English  are  naturally  fanciful,  and,  by  that  gloominess  and  melan- 
ciioly  of  temper  which  m  so  frequent  in  our  nation,  are  often  disposed  to  many 
wild  notions,  &c.  ' 

For  as  no  mortal  author,  in  the  ordinary  fate  and  vicissitude  of  things,  knows 
to  what  use  his  works  may,  some  time  or  other,  be  applied,  &o. 
Better  thus:  A>^^r,  No.  85. 

For  as,  in  the  ordinary  fate  and  vicissitude  of  things,  no  mortal  author  knows 
to  what  use,  some  time  or  other,  liis  works  may  bo  applied,  &o. 

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  upon  tliis  occasion, 
and  the  house  of  Austria  that  continues  at  this  day,  and  has  oft  cost  so  much 
blood  and  so  much  treasure  in  the  course  of  it. 

Letters  on,  History,  vol.  i.  let.  x'u—BoUngbroie. 

It  cannot  be  impertinent  or  ridiculous,  therefore,  in  such  a  country,  whatever 
It  might  be  in  the  Abbot  of  St.  Keal's,  which  was  Savoy,  I  think  ;  or  in  Peru, 
under  the  Incas,  where  Garcilasso  de  la  Vega  says  it  wiis  lawful  for  none  but 
the  nobility  to  study— for  men  of  all  degrees  to  instruct  themselves,  in  those 
affairs  wherein  they  may  be  actors,  or  judges  of  those  who  act,  or  controllers  of 
those  that  judge. — Ibid.  let.  v. 

If  Scipio,  who  was  naturally  given  to  women,  for  which  anecdote  we  have,  if 
I  mistake  not,  the  authority  of  Polybius.  as  well  as  some  verses  of  Nevius, 
preserved  by  Aulus  Gellius,  had  been  educated  bv  Olynipias  at  the  court  of 
PJiilip,  it  is  improbable  that  he  would  have  restored  the  beautiful  Spaniard. 

P>ia.  let.  iii. 

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. 

443.  A  pronoun,  which  saves  the  naming  a  pei-son  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  nrint  the  I.atin  letters  transmitted  to  me  from  foreign  parta, 
they  would  fill  a  volume,  and  be  a  full  defence  against  all  that  Mr.  Partriage  or 
his  accomplices  of  the  Portugal  inquisition,  will  be  ever  able  to  object;  vm,  by 
the  way,  are  the  only  enemies  my  predictions  liave  ever  met  with  at  home  or 
abroad. 

Better  thus : 

; -and  be  a  full  defence  against  all  that  can  bo  objected  by  Mr. 

Partridge,  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 
kingdom,  whose  whole  subsistence,  &c. — A  Modest  Frojmal,  <te.    Swift 

442.  Second  rule ;  relating  to  words  expressing  things  eoiUMCt«d  ia  tboogUL  Tbo  bui( 
uf  tbls  rulei    Examples  of  s  vioiation  of  this  rule. 


292  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

Better:  • 

There  being  tJ-.roughout  this  kingdom  a  round  million  of  creatures  inliaman 
figure,  whose  whole  subsistence,  &c. 

Tom  is  a  lively  impudent  clown,  and  has  wit  enough  to  have  made  him  a 
pleasant  companion,  had  it  been  polished  and  rectified  by  good  manners. 

Gvardian,  No.  162. 

It  is  the  custom  of  the  Mahometans,  if  they  sec  any  printed  or  written  paper 
upon  the  ground,  to  take  it  up,  and  lay  it  aside  carefully,  as  not  knowing  but 
It  may  contain  some  piece  of  their  Alcoran.— Spectator,  No.  85. 

The  arrangement  here  leads  to  a  wrong  sense,  as  if  the  ground  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.       ' 

444.  The  follow-ing  rule  depends  on  the  communication  of  emo- 
tions to  related  objects,  a  principle  in  human  nature  that  hath  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  expi'ession  with  another  that  is  naturally 
high  or  low  :  witness  the  following  speech  of  Eumenes  to  the  Roman 
Senate : 

Causam  veniendi  sibi  Eomam  fuisse,  praster  eupiditatem  visendi  deos  Tiomi- 
nesque,  quorum  beneficio  in  ea  fortuna  esset,  supra  quam  ne  optare  quidem 
auderet,  etiam  at  coram  moneret  senatum  ut  Persei  conatus  obviam  iret. 

Ziv^,  1.  xiii.  cap.  xi. 

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  vihfying  an  object,  is  done  success 
fully  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.  For 
when  the  degeneracy  becomes  common,  'tis  but  just  the  punishment  should  be 
general.  Of  this  kind,  in  our  own  unfortunate  country,  was  that  destructive 
pestilence,  whose  mortalit^rwas  so  fatal  as  to  sweep  away,  if  Sir  William  Petty 
may  be  believed,  five  milhons  of  Christian  souls,  besides  women  and  Jews. 
God^«  Bevenge  against  Funning.    Arbuthnot. 

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  aud  stables. — Ibid. 

But  on  condition  it  miglit  pass  into  a  law,  I  would  gladly  exempt  both  law- 
yers of  all  ages,  subaltern  and  field-officers,  young  heirs,  dancing-masters,  pick 
pockets,  and  players. — An  infallible  Sclieme  to  pay  the  Public  Debt.    Swift. 

443.  The  proper  place  for  the  pronoun. 

444.  Knle  depending  on  the  commanicaUon  of  einotious  to  related  objects. — How  to 
i^vatc  or  depress  an  object. 


BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE.  293 

Sooner  let  earth,  air,  sea,  to  chaos  fall, 
Men,  monkeys,  lap-dogs,  parrots,  perish  all. 

liape  of  the  Lack. 

44  J.  Circumstances  in  a  period  resemble  small  stones  iu  a  build- 
ing, employed  to  fill  up  vacuities  among  those  of  a  larger  size.  Iu 
the  arrangement  of  a  peiiod,  such  underparts  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,  b}'  computation,  in  this  kingdom,  above 
10,000  parsons,  whose  revenues,  added  to  those  of  my  lords  the  bisLops, 
would  suffice  to  maintain,  Ac. 

Argument  a/jainst  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 : 

It  is  likewise  urged  that  in  this  kingdom  there  are,  by  computation,  above 
10,000  parsons,  &c. 

If  there  be  room  for  a  choice,  the  sooner  a  circumstance  is  intro- 
duced the  better ;  because  circumstances  are  proper  for  that  cool- 
ness of  mind  with  which  we  begin  a  period  as  well  as  a  volumo :  in 
the  progress,  the  mind  warms,  and  has  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  prin- 
cipal 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  after  being  engaged  in  the  principal  subject,  one  is  with  reluc- 
tance 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  boen  made, 
aeems  doubtful. 

Before  this  other, 

Whether  a  choice  altogether  unexceptionable  has  in  any  country  been 
made,  &q. 

For  this  reason  the  following  period  is  exceptionable  in  point  of 

arrangement : 

I  have  considered  formerly,  with  a  good  deal  of  attention,  the  6nbje<*t  upon 
which  you  command  me  to  communicate  my  thoughts  to  you. — £olingbrolt  oh 
the  Study  of  History,  Letter  I. 

Which,  with  a  slight  alteration,  may  be  improved  thus  : 

I  have  formerly,  with  a  good  deal  of  attention,  considered  the  subject,  Ac. 

Swift,  speaking  of  a  virtuous  and  learned  education : 

And  although  they  may  be,  and  too  often  are  drawn,  by  the  temptations  o 
youth,  and  the  opportunities  of  a  large  fortune,  into  some  irregularities,  tch^n 
they  come  forward  into  the  great  world;  it  is  ever  with  reluctance  and  com- 
punction of  mind,  be-aiuse  their  bias  to  virtue  still  continues. — Tkt  Intdligen«tr^ 
Nrt.  9. 


294  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

Better : 

And  although,  wTun  they  come  fm'voard  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,  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  re- 
lates to  the  soul  of  mau,  into  beautiful  allegories,  in  the  sixth  hook  ofhisuSneid, 
gives  us  the  punishment,  &c. — Spectator,  No.  90. 

Better  thus : 

Virgil,  who,  in  the  sixth  book  of  his  iEneid,  has  cast,  &c. 

And  Philip  the  Fourth  was  obliged  at  last  to  conclude  a  peace  on  terms  lo- 
pugnant  to  his  inclination,  to  that  of  his  people,  to  the  interest  of  Spain,  and 
to  that  of  all  Europe,  in  the  Pyrenean  treaty. — Letters  on  History,  vol.  i.  let.  vi. 
Bolin^h'oke. 

Better  thus : 

And  at  last  in  the  Pyrenean  treaty,  Philip  the  Fourth  was  obliged  to  con 
elude  a  peace,  &c. 

r>  446.  In  an-anging  a  period,  it  is  of  importance  to  determine  in 
what  part  of  it  a  word  makes  the  greatest  figure  ;  whether  at  the 
beginning,  duiing  the  course,  or  at  the  close.  The  breaking  silence 
rouses  the  attention,  and  prepares  for  a  deep  impression  at  the  be- 
ginning :  the  beginning,  however,  must  yield  to  the  close ;  which 
being  succeeded  by  a  pause,  affords  time  for  a  word  to  make  its 
deepest  impreasion.  Hence  the  following  rule,  That  to  give  the 
utmost  force  to  a  peiiod,  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  structui-e  ;  and  in 
that  case,  the  Capital  word  ought,  if  possible,  to  be  placed  in  the 
front,  vhich  next  to  the  close  js  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  tho 
sake  of  vei-se.     I  give  the  following  examples  : 


446,  Clrcnmstances,  how  to  be  disposed  of.    Example.    The  best  plan  for  them.    Trwi 
■<UoQ  from  it  to  the  principal  subject,  agreeable.    Example. 


BEAUTY  OF  LANOUAOE.  295 

Integer  viue,  scelerisque  purn*, 
Non  eget  Muuri  jaculis,  ueque  arcu , 
Nee  venenatis  gravid&  eagittis, 

Fusee,  pharetra.  Bbrat.  Carm.  1.  i.  ode  2S. 

Je  crains  Dieu,  cher  Abncr,  et  n'ai  point  d'autre  erainte. 

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  further  proof  than  Addi- 
son's translation  of  the  last  example : 

0  Abner !  I  fear  my  God,  and  I  fear  none  but  him. 

Guardian,  No.  117. 

O  father,  what  intends  thy  hand,  she  cried, 
Against  thy  only  son  ?    What  fury,  O  son. 
Possesses  thee  to  bend  that  mortal  dart 
Against  thy  father's  head  ? 

Paradise  Loit,  book  ii.  1.  727. 

Eveiy  one  must  be  sensible  of  a  dignity  in  the  invocation  at  the 
beginning,  which  is  not  attained  by  that  in  tlie  middle.  I  mean 
not,  however,  to  censure  this  passage :  on  the  contrary,  it  appears 
beautiful,  by  distinguishing  the  respect  that  is  due  to  a  father  fron 
that  which  is  due  to  a  son.  - 

447.  The  substance  of  what  is  said  in  this  and  the  foregoing  sec- 
Hon,  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  agi'eeable,  where,  without  ob- 
scuring 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  singl* 
circumstances.  But  the  enumeration  of  many  particulars  in  tlie 
same  period  is  often  necessary ;  and  the  question  is.  In  what  onier 
they  should  bo  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  fii-st  chapter  about  order, 
we  find  mles  laid  down  to  our  hand,  which  leave  us  no  task  but 
that  of  applying  them  to  the  present  question.  And,  first,  with 
respect  to  the  enumerating  particulars  of  equal  rank,  it  is  laid  tlown 
in  the  place  quoted,  that  as  there  is  no  cause  for  pi-oferring  any  one 
before  the  rest,  it  is  indifferent  to  the  mind  in  what  order  they  be 
viewed.  And  it  is  only  necessarj-  to  be  added  here,  that  for  the  sanu 
reason,  it  is  indifteren't  in  what"  order  they  bo  named.  2dly,  If  a 
number  of  objects  of  the  same  kind,  differing  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  ob- 


446.  How  to  plve  the  utmost  force  to  a  period.— Tho  •econd  best  pl»pe  f.*  the  etpttal 
word.— How  to  begin  «  discourse  to  «  person  of  conseqnenee.  ■ 


296  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

jects,  beginning  at  the  least,  and  proceeding  to  greater  and  greater, 
the  mind  swells  gradually  with  the  successive  objects,  and  in  its  pro- 
gress 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  fii'st  member  of  the 
following  period  : 

Let  but  one  great,  brave,  disin-erested,  active  man  arise,  and  he  will  be  re- 
ceived, 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 
of  different  ranks,  seems  doubtful :  on  the  one  hand,  a  number  of 
persons  presented  to  the  eye  in  form  of  an  increasing  series,  is  un- 
doubtedly 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  inferiore.  Where  the  purpose  is 
to  honor  the  pereons  named  according  to  their  rank,  the  latter  order 
ought  to  be  followed  ;  but  every  one  who  regards  himself  only,  or 
his  reader,  will  choose  the  former  order.  3dly,  As  the  sense  of  order  di- 
rects 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. 

448.  When  force  and  hveliness  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  in- 
verting the  natural  arrangement.  By  introducing  a  word  or  member 
before  its  time,  curiosity  is  raised  about  what  is  to  follow ;  and  it  is 
agreeable  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  agent.  On  the  oUier 
hand,  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  disappointment  contributes  also  to  that  appearance,  when  he 
finds,  contrary  to  expectation,  that  the  period  is  not  yet  finished. 
Cicero,  and  after  him  Quintilian,  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  com- 
plete; 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  an- 

447   The  best  order  of  words  In  a  period.— Knle  for  enumerating  pariicuJar*  of  equal 
rank  In  a  period.— 2d,  Where  they  differ  in  size.— Order  when  enumerating  men  ol 
different  ranks.— 8d,  What  the  sense  qf  order  direct*, 
operation. 


BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE.  297 

other  rule,  above  laid  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  compo- 
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  poetrj^,  I  doubt  whether, 
in  any  language,  a  single  instance  could  be  given  ot  this  species  of  composition. 

Some  of  our  most  eminent  divines  have  made  use  of  this  Platonic  notion, 
as  far  as  it  regards  the  subsistence  of  our  passions  after  death,  with  great  beauty 
and  strength  of  reason. — Sj)ectator,  No.  90. 

Better  thus : 

Some  of  our  most  eminent  divines  have,  with  great  beaaty  and  strength  of 
reason,  made  use  of  this  Platonic  notion,  &c. 

Men  of  the  best  sense  have  been  touched  more  or  less  with  these  groundless 
horrors  and  presages  of  futurity,  upon  surveying  the  most  indifferent  works 
of  nature. — Ibid.  No.  505. 

Better, 

Upon  surveying  the  most  indifferent  works  of  nature,  men  of  the  best 
sense,  &c. 

She  soon  informed  him  of  the  place  ho  was  in,  which,  notwithstanding  all 
its  horrors,  appeared  to  him  more  sweet  than  the  bower  of  Mahotnet,  in  the 
company  of  his  Balaora,.— Guardian,  No.  167. 

Better, 

She  soon,  &c.,  appeared  to  him,  in  the  company  of  his  Balsora,  more 
sweet,  «fec. 

The  emperor  was  so  intent  on  the  establishment  of  his  absolute  power  in 
Hungarjr,  that  he  exposed  the  empire  doubly  to  desolation  and  ruin  fur  the 
sake  of  it. — Letters  on  History,  vol.  i.  let.  vii.    Bolingbroke. 

Better, 

that  for  the  sake  of  it  he  exposed  the  empire  doubly  to  desolation  ano 

ruin. 

None  of  the  rules  for  the  composition  of  periods  are  more  liab.b 
to  be  abused,  than  those  last  mentioned  ;  witness  many  Latin  writers, 
among  the  modems  especially,  whose  style,  by  inversions  too  violent, 
is  rendered  harsh  and  obscure.  Suspension  of  the  thought  till  the 
close  of  the  period,  ought  never  to  be  preferred  before  perspicuity. 
Neither  ought  such  suspension  to  be  attempted  in  a  long  period ; 
because  in  that  case  the  mind  is  bewildered  amidst  a  profusion  of 
words :  a  traveller,  while  he  is  puzzled  about  the  road,  relishes  not 
the  fmest  prospect : 

448.  Rule,  when  force  and  liveliness  of  expression  are  demanded. — DlsadranU^  of  ooa» 
structing  a  period  with  more  than  one  complete  close  In  the  sense.  Exaioplea. — Wb«a 
>h«  suspeoslou  of  thooxht  to  th«  cIom  of  a  period  should  not  be  attempted. 

13* 


298  BEAUTY  OF  LANGrAGE. 

All  the  rich  presents  which  Astyages  had  given  him  at  parting,  keeping 
only  some  Median  horses,  in  order  to  propagate  the  breed  of  them  in  Persia> 
he  distributed  among  his  friends  whom  he  left  at  the  court  of  Ecbatana. 

2'ravels  of  Op'us,  Book  i. 

449.  The  foregoing  rules  concern  the  arrangement  of  a  single 
period :  I  add  one  rule  moi'e  concerning  the  distribution  of  a  dis- 
course into  different  periods.  A  short  peiiod  is  lively  and  familiar : 
a  long  period,  requiring  more  attention,  makes  an  impression  grave 
and  solemn.  In  general,  a  Avriter  ought  to  study  a  mixture  of  long 
and  short  periods,  which  prevent  an  irksome  uniformity,  and  enter- 
tain the  mind  with  a  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 
commencement  of  a  letter  to  a  very  young  lady  on  her  marriage  is 
faulty : 

Madam,  the  hurry  and  impertinence  of  receiving  and  paying  visits  on  ac- 
count of  vour  riiarriage,  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,  fopperies,  and  follies,  to  which  your  sex  is  subject. — Swift. 

See  another  example  still  more  faulty,  in  the  commencement  of 
Cicero's  oration,  Pro  Archia  Poeta. 

450.  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  membei'S 
of  a  period  is  justly  termed  natural,  which  corresponds  to  the  natural 
order  of  the  ideas  that  compose  the  thought.  The  tendency  of  many 
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  happens,  that 
in  the  same  period  there  is  place  for  a  plurality  of  these  rales :  if 
one  beauty  can  be  retained,  another  must  be  relinquished ;  and  the 
only  question  is.  Which  ought  to  be  preferred?  This  question  can- 
not be  resolved  by  any  general  rule :  if  the  natural  order  be  not 
relished,  a  few  trials  will  discover  that  artificial  order  which  has  the 
best  effect;  and  this  exercise,  supported  by  a  good  taste,  will  in 
time  make  the  choice  easy.  AH  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  agieed  on  all  hands,  that  such  transposi- 

*  [The  very  great  diflference  of  the  genius  of  the  ancient  and  modern  lan- 
guages in  this  respect  has  been  thus  illustrated  by  Prof.  Barron,  Lcct.  III. : 

"Suppose  an  English  historian  were  to  address  his  readers,  in  the  introduc- 
tion ot  a  work  from  which  he  expected  high  literary  fame,  in  the  following 
Btyle: — 'All  men  who  themselves  wish  to  exceed  the  inferior  animals,  by  ev- 
ery effort  to  endeavor  ought,'  he  would  find  himself  disappointed ;  as  few  read- 

449.  Rule  for  the  distribution  of  discourse  Into  different  periods.   Long  and  short  periods. 


BKAUrr  OF  LANGUAGE.  299 

«aon  or  inversion  bestows  upon  a  period  a  very  sensible  d^ee  of 
force  and  elevation  ;  and  yet  -writers  seem  to  be  at  a  loss  how  to  ac- 
count for  this  effect  Cerceau  ascribes  so  much  power  to  inversion, 
as  to  make  it  the  characteristic  of  French  veree,  and  the  single  cir- 
cumstance which  in  that  language  distinguishes  vei^se  from  prose : 
and  yet  he  pretends  not  to  say,  that  it  hath  any  other  eflect  but  to 
raise  surprise ;  he  must  mean  curiosity,  wliich  is  done  by  suspend- 
ing the  thought  during  the  period,  and  bringing  it  out  entire  at  the 
close.  This  indeed  is  one  effect  of  inversion ;  but  neither  its  solo 
effect,  nor  even  that  which  is  the  most  remarkable,  as  is  made  evi 
dent  above.  But  waiving  censure,  which  is  not  an  agreeable  task,  1 
enter  into  the  matter ;  and  begin  with  obseiTing,  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  sin- 
gle beauty  of  a  natural  style :  it  is  also  agreeable  by  its  simplicity 
and  perspicuity.  This  observation  throws  light  upon  the  subject 
for  if  a  natural  style  be  in  itself  agi'eeable,  a  transposed  style  cannot 
be  so;  and  therefore  its  agreeableness  must  arise  from  admitting 
some  positive  beauty  that  is  excluded  in  a  natural  style.  To  be 
confirmed  in  this  opinion,  we  need  but  reflect  upon  some  of  the  fore- 
going rules,  which  make  it  evident,  that  language  by  means  of  in- 
version, is  susceptible  of  many  beauties  that  are  totally  excluded  in 
a  natural  arrangement.  From  these  premises  it  clearly  follows,  that 
invei'sion  ought  not  to  be  indulged,  unless  in  order  to  reach  some 
beauty  superior  to  those  of  a  natural  style.  It  may  with  great  cer- 
tainty be  pronounced,  that  every  inversion  which  is  not  governed  by 
this  iTjle,  will  appear  harsh  and  strained,  and  be  disrelished  by  every 
one  of  taste.  Hence  the  beauty  of  inversion  when  happily  conduct- 
ed ;  the  beauty,  not  of  an  end,  but  of  means,  as  furnishing  opportu- 
nity for  numberless  ornaments  that  find  ho  place  in  a  natural  style : 
hence  the  force,  the  elevation,  the  liannoiiy,  the  cadence,  of  some 
compositions :  hence  the  manifold  beauties  of  the  Greek  and  Roman 
tongues,  of  which  living  languages  afford  but  faint  imitations. 

["If  we  attend  to  the  history  of  our  own  language,"  says  Prof. 
Barron,  "  we  may  discover  a  strong  disposition  in  some  of  our  pro«e 

era,  I  believe,  unless  to  indulge  a  little  mirth,  would  be  induced  to  proceed 
farther  than  the  first  sentence ;  yet  a  Eoman  historian  could  express  thcso 
ideas  in  that  very  arrangement  with  full  energy  and  propriety :  '  pmnes  ho- 
mines, qui  sese  student  prsestare  ceteris  animaUDus,  summa  ope  niti  dccct. 

"  Little  less  surprising  and  uncouth  would  be  the  following  cxordiam  on  a 
similar  occasion :  ^  Whether  I  shall  execute  a  work  of  merit,  if,  from  the  bulg- 
ing of  the  city,  the  affairs  of  the  people  of  Rome  I  shsUl  relate,  neither  suHl- 
eiently  know  I,  nor  if  I  knew  declare  durst  1.'  The  reader  perhaps  would  not 
suspect  such  language  to  be  a  literal  translation  of  the  first  .sentence  ol  the 
most  finished  historical  production  of  antiquity,  whicli  runs  thus  in  the  ciegani 
diction  of  Livv :  '  Facturusne  sum  opine  pretium  si  a  prlmordio  urbw,  r«  po- 
puli  Bomani  perecripserim ;  nee  satis  scio,  nee,  si  scircm,  Uiccre  nusim.      | 


300  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

writers,  to  accommodate  its  arrangement  to  that  of  the  languages  of 
Greece  and  Rome.  But,  in  executing  the  design,  they  disfigured 
our  language  in  every  respect.  They  Latinized  our  words  and  oui 
terminations.  They  introduce!  inversions  so  violent,  as  to  render 
the  sense  often  obscure,  in  some  cases  unintelligible ;  and  they  ex- 
tended their  peidods  to  a  length  which  extinguished  every  spark  of 
patience  in  the  reader.  Hobbes,  Clarendon,  and  even  Milton  in  his 
prose  writings,  afford  numberless  instances  of  this  bad  taste ;  and  it 
is  remarkable,  that  it  prevailed  chiefly  during  the  latter  part  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  In  the  beginning  of  that  century,  and  in  the 
end  of  the  preceding  one,  during  the  reigns  of  Queen  Elizabeth  and 
James  I.,  the  purity  of  the  English  language,  and  a  correct  taste  in 
writing  it,  were  perhaps  farther  advanced,  both  in  England  and  Scot- 
land, than  in  the  succeeding  period.  The  works  of  Shakspeare 
Hooker,  Melvil,  and  the  translation  of  the  Bible,  have  scarcely  beet 
equalled  for  good  style,  by  any  productions  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury ;  and,  in  point  of  grammatical  correctness,  have  not  yet  been 
often  surpassed.  The  fanaticism  and  violence  of  the  civil  wai-s  cor- 
rupted the  taste,  and  the  imitation  of  Latin  composition  in  theologi- 
cal controversy,  seems  to  have  disfigured  the  language  of  England." 
— Lect.  IIL]* 


SECTION  III. 

Beauty  of  Language  from  a  Resemblance  between  Sound  and  Sig- 
nification. 

451.  A  RESEMBLANCE  between  the  sound  of  certain  words  and 
their  signification,  is  a  beauty  that  has  escaped  no  critical  writer, 
and  yet  is  not  handled  with  accuracy  by  any  of  them.  They  have 
probably  been  of  opinion,  that  a  beauty  so  obvious  to  the  feeling 
requires  no  explanation.  This  is  an  error ;  and  to  avoid  it,  I  shall 
give  examples  of  the  various  resemblances  between  sound  and  sig- 
nification, accompanied  with  an  endeavor  to  explain  why  such  re- 
semblances are  beautiful.  I  begin  with  examples  where  the  resem- 
blance between  the  sound  and  signification  is  the  most  entire ;  and 
next  examples  where  the  resemblance  is  less  and  less  so. 

There  being  frequently  a  strong  resemblance  of  one  sound  to  an- 
other, it  will  not  be  surprising  to  find  an  articulate  sound  resembling 

*  [In  connection  with  the  above,  may  be  read  with  great  advantage,  the  first 
of  chap.  xxii.  on  tlie  Philosophy  of  Style.] 

450.  The  order  of  words  and  members  that  may  be  called  natural.  Enle  for  choice  be- 
tween it  and  an  artificial  order.— Transposition  In  the  learned  languages.  Illustration  — 
Whence  the  beauty  of  a  natural  style.  Whence,  then,  the  agre«»bleness  of  a  transposed 
style.  When,  only  such  a  style  should  be  used.— Style  of  the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth 
Bontnry. 


BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE.  801 

one  that  is  not  articulate :  thus  the  sound  of  a  bowstring  is  iniitated 
by  the  words  that  express  it : 

The  string  let  fly, 

Twang' d  short  atid  sharp,  like  the  shrill  swallow's  cry. 

Ody»»ey,  xxi.  4i9. 

The  sound  of  felling  trees  in  a  wood : 

Loud  sounds  the  ajfe,  redoubling  strokes  on  strokes, 
On  all  sides  round  the  forest  hurls  her  oaks 
Headlong.     Deep  echoing  groan  tlie  thickets  brown, 
Then  rustling,  crackling,  crashing,  thunder  down. 

lUad,  xxiij.  144. 
jBnt  when  lond  surges  lash  the  sounding  shore, 
TChe  hoarse  rough  verse  should  like  the  torrent  roar. 

Pope's  Essay  on  Criticism,  889. 
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  vr&vea.—jPope. 

No  person  can  be  at  a  loss  about  the  cause  of  this  beauty :  it  i« 
obviously  that  of  imitation. 

452.  That  there  is  any  other  natural  resemblance  of  sound  to  sig- 
nification, must  not  be  taken  for  granted.  There  is  no  resemblance 
of  sound  to  motion,  nor  of  sound  to  sentiment.  We  are  however 
apt  to  be  deceived  by  artful  pronunciation ;  the  same  passage  may 
be  pronounced  in  many  difierent  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  in- 
dependent of  artful  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  inti- 
mately connected,  the  properties  of  the  one  are  readily  communica- 
ted to  the  other ;  for  example,  the  quality  of  grandeur,  of  sweetness, 
or  of  melancholy,  though  belonging  to  the  thought  solely,  is  trans- 
ferred to  the  words,  which  by  that  means  resemble  in  appearance 
the  thought  that  is  expressed  by  them  (see  chap.  ii.  part  i.  sec.  5). 

["  Wordsworth  has  not  only  presented  the  hues  of  nature  to  the 
eye,  but  has  also  imitated  her  harmonies  to  the  ear.  Of  this  I  wiB 
adduce  an  instance : 

Astounded  in  tke  mountain  gap 
By  peals  of  thunder,  clap  on  clap, 
Aid  many  a  terror-striking  flash. 
And  somewhere,  as  it  seems,  a  crash 
Among  the  rocks;  with  weight  of  rain, 
And  svUen  motions,  lon^  and  slow. 
That  to  a  dreary  distance  go — 
Till  breaking  in  upon  the  dying  strain, 
A  rending  o'er  his  head  begins  the  fray  again. —  n'agoner. 

4M.  Besemblances  between  sound  anri  siKnIOcation.    It*  b«mat7.— ArtlcalUx  Mma£  r» 
wmbUng  OTM  that  1*  not  sa    The  cauM  of  tbi*  bcantf. 


802  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

Surely  the  four  lines  marked  by  the  italic  character  would  alouo 
be  sufficient  to  decide  the  questiou,  whether  such  a  grace  as  imita- 
tive harmony  really  exists.  I  own  that  it  is  difficult  to  determine 
how  nmch  of  the  eftect  upon  the  mind  depends  upon  the  meaning 
associated  with  the  words ;  but  let  it  be  remembered,  that  words 
designative  of  sound  have  naturally  derived  their  birth  from  an  at* 
tempt,  in  the  infancy  of  language,  actually  to  imitate  the  sounds  oi 
which  they  are  symbolical.  After  God's  own  language — the  Hebrew 
— and  the  affluent  Greek,  there  is  probably  no  tongue  so  rich  in 
imitative  harmonies  as  our  own.  Let  any  person  with  a  true  ear, 
observe  the  difterence  between  the  two  words  snow  and  rain.  The 
hushing  sound  of  the  sibilant,  in  the  first,  followed  by  the  soft  liquid 
and  by  the  round  full  vowel,  is  not  less  indicative  of  the  still  descent 
of  snow,  than  the  harsher  liquid  and  vowel,  in  the  second,  are  of  the 
falling  shower.  I  fear  that  I  shall  be  considered  fanciful,  yet  I  can- 
not help  remarking  that  the  letter  R,  the  sound  of  which,  wheu 
lengthened  out,  is  so  expressive  of  the  mui'mur  of  streams  and  brooks, 
is  generally  to  be  found  in  words  relating  to  the  element  of  water, 
and  in  such  combinations  as,  either  single  or  rcduphcated,  suit  pie- 
cisely  its  difterent  modifications.  The  words  "fon^"  and  '■^ slow'''' 
are,  if  pronounced  in  a  natural  manner,  actually  of  a  longer  time 
than  the  words  short  and  quick.  There  is  a  drag  upon  the  nasal  N 
and  O]  there  is  a  protracted  eftect  in  the  vowel  followed  by  a 
double  vowel  in  the  first  two  words,  not  to  be  found  in  the  two  last." 
—Prof.  Wilson^^ 

-453.  Resembling  causes  may  produce  eft'ects  that  have  no  resem- 
blance ;  and  causes  that  have  no  resemblance  may  produce  resem- 
bling effects.  A  magnificent  building,  for  example,  resembles  not 
in  any  degree  an  heroic  action  :  and  yet  the  emotions  they  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  prop- 
erly adapted  to  the  sentiment:  there  is  no  resemblance  between 
thought  and  sound  ;  but  there  is  the  strongest  resemblance  between 
the  emotion  raised  by  music  tender  and  pathetic,  and  that  raised  by 
the  complaint  of  an  unsuccessful  lover.  Applying  this  observation 
to  the  present  subject,  it  appears  that,  in  some  instances,  the  sound 
even  of  a  single  word  makes  an  impression  resembling  that  which  is 
made  by  the  thing  it  signifies  :  witness  the  word  runnim/^  composed 
of  two  short  syllables ;  and  more  i-eniarkably  the  Avords  rapidity, 
trapetuosity,  jyrecipitaticm.  Brutal  manners  produce  in  the  specta- 
tor an  emotion  not  unlike  what  is  pi'oduced  by  a  harsh  and  rough 
sound ;  and  hence  the  beauty  of  the  figurative  expression  rugged 
manners.  Again,  the  word  Utile,  being  pronounced  with  a  very 
email  aperture  of  the  mouth,  has  a  weak  and  faint  sound,  which 


452.  Concord  between  words  and  thought,  sometimes  due  to  pronnndatlon. — Sound  and 
■cniK  being  connected,  the  properties  of  the  one  are  "endily  sttributed  to  the  other 


BEAUIT  OF  LANGUAGE.  308 

mates  an  impression  resembling  that  made  by  a  diminutive  object. 
This  resemblance  of  effect  is  still  more  remarkable  where  x  number 
of  words  are  connected  in  a  period  :  words  pronounced  in  successiou 
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  plejisant;  one  proceeding  from  the  sentiment, 
and  one  fiom  the  melody  or  sound  of  the  words.     But  the  chief 

{)leasure  proceeds  from  having  these  two  concordant  emotions  com- 
)ined  in  perfect  harmony,  and  carried  on  in  the  mind  to  a  full  close 
(see  chap.  ii.  part  iv.).  Except  in  the  single  case  where  sound  Is 
described,  all  the  examples  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.* 
^454.  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  mo- 
tion ;  which  may  be  evident  even  to  those  who  are  defective  in 
taste,  from  the  following"  fact,  that  the  term  movement  in  all  lan- 
guages is  equally  applied  to  both.  In  this  manner  successive  mo- 
tion, such  as  walking,  running,  galloping,  can  be  imitated  by  a  suc- 
cession of  long  or  short  syllables,  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  magnd  vi  brachia  tollunt. — Qeorg.  iv.  174. 
On  the  other  hand,  swift  motion  is  imitated  by  a  succession  of 
short  syllables : 

Quadrunedante  putrem  sonitu  quatit  ungula  campum. 

Again : 

Radit  iter  liquiduni,  celeres  neqne  commovet  ala«. 

Thirdly,  A  line  composed  of  monosyllables,  makes  an  impression, 

by  tlie  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  liill  he  heaves  a  huge  round  stone.— CWy«#*y,  xi.  < 8». 

First  march  the  heavy  mules  securely  slow; 

O'er  hills,  o'er  dales,  o'er  crags,  o'er  rocks  they  eo. 

'  /OaJ,  xxiii.  13d. 

Fourthly,  the  impression  made  by  rough  sounds  in  succession,  re- 
sembles that  made  by  rough  or  tumultuous  motion :  on  the  other 

*  [See  an  excellent  chapter  on  the  Poetry  of  Language  in  Mrs.  Ellis's  "  Po- 
etry of  Life."]  

— • ■ 

453.  Resembling  causes  and  their  effects.-Non-re!«embllng  «»•<*.  ^^P'li.'^"*!!^" 
Ing  and  an  heroic  action  produce  concordant  emotions.  A  foni^  and  tBe  »*^"»>™^  •V; 
Example:  Keseinblance  of  effects  from  wonis  connected  In  a  pcrUKl— I.«mirK  on  exam- 
ples of  sense  inilcaU^d  in  sound. 


304  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

hand,  the  impression  of  smooth  sounds  resembles  that  of  gentle  mo 
tion.     The  following  is  an  example  of  both : 

Two  craggy  rocks  projecting  from  the  main, 

The  roaring  wind's  tempestuous  rage  restrain ; 

Within,  the  waves  in  softer  murmurs  glide. 

And  ships  secure  without  the  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  Orit.  866. 

Fifthly,  Prolonged  motion  is  expressed  in  an  Alexandrine  line. 
The  firet  example  shall  be  of  slow  motion  prolonged  : 

A  needless  Alexandrine  ends  the  song ; 

That  like  a  wounded  snake,  drags  its  slow  length  along. 

Ibid.  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. 

IHad,  xiiL  1004. 
The  last  shall  be  of  rapid  motion  prolonged  : 

Not  so  when  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain, 

Flies  o'er  the  unbending  corn,  and  skims  along  the  main. 

£ssay  on  Grit.  878. 

Again,  speaking  of  a  rock  torn  from  the  brow  of  a  mountain : 

StiU  gath'ring  force,  it  smokes,  and  urged  amain. 
Whirls,  leaps,  and  thunders  down,  impetuous  to  the  plain. 

Iliad,  xiii.  197. 

Sixthly,  A  period  consisting  mostly  of  long  syllables,  that  is,  of 
syllables  pronounced  slow,  produceth  an  emotion  resembling  faintly 
that  which  is  produced  by  gravity  and  solemnity.  Hence  the  beauty 
of  the  following  vei'se : 

0111  sedato  raspondit  corde  Latinus. 
It  resembles  equally  an  object  that  is  insipid  and  uninteresting. 

Tsedet  quotidiauarum  harum  formarum. 

Terence,  Eunuchus,  Act  ii.  Sc.  8. 

Seventhly,  A  slow  succession  of  ideas  is  a  circumstance  that  be- 
longs equally  to  settled  melancholy,  and  to  a  peiiod  composed  of 
polysyllables  pronounced  slow  ;  and  hence  by  similarity  of  emotions, 
the  latter  is  imitative  of  the  former : 

In  those  deep  solitudes,  and  awful  cells. 

Where  heavenly  pensive  Contemplation  dwells, 

And  ever-musing  Melancholy  reigns. — Pope,  ELosva  to  Abelard. 

Eighthly,  A  long  syllable  made  short,  or  a  short  syllable  made 
long,  raises,  by  the  difficulty  of  pronouncing  contrary  to  custom,  a 
feeling  similar  to  that  of  hard  labor  :  • 

When  Ajax  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight  to  throw, 
The  line  too  labors,  and  the  words  move  slow. 

EsMp  on  OriL  870. 


BEAUTY  OP  LANGUAGE.  80{ 

Ninthly,  Harsh  or  rough  words  pronounced  with  diflSculty,  exciU 
a  feeling  similar  to  that  which  proceeds  from  the  labor  of  thought 
to  a  dull  writer : 

Just  writes  to  make  his  barrenness  appear, 

And  strains  from  hard-bound  brains  eight  lines  a  year. 

fope's  £plstU  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot,  I.  181. 

456.  I  shall  close  with  one  example  more,  which  of  all  make* 
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  delightful:  the 
reader  is  conscious  not  only  of  pleasure  from  the  two  climaxes  sepa- 
rately, but  of  an  additional  pleasure  fiom  their  concordance,  and  fi-om 
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  effect  to  make  diminutive  objects  appear  still 
more  diminutive.     Horace  affords  a  striking  example  : 

Parturiunt  montcs,  nascetur  ridiculus  mus. 

The  arrangement  here  is  singularly  artful :  the  first  place  is  occu- 
pied 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  overiooked  that  the 
resembling  sounds  of  the  two  last  syllables  give  a  ludicrous  air  to 
the  whole. 

I  have  had  occasion  to  observe,  that  to  complete  the  resemblance 
between  sound  and  sense,  artful  pronunciation  contributes  not  a 
httle.  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  prop- 
erly belonging  to  the  fonner,  are  expressed  by  different  apertures  of 
the  mouth,  without  varying  the  aperture  of  tlie  windpipe.  This, 
however,  doth  not  hinder  pronunciation  to  borrow  from  singing,  as 
o^e  sometimes  is  naturally  led  to  do  in  expressing  a  veliement 
passion. 

In  reading,  as  in  singing,  there  is  a  key-note  :  above  this  note  the 
voice  is  fiequently  elevated,  to  make  tlie  sound  correspond  to  the 

4B4.  Emotions  raised  by  a  succession  of  syl!»bles.— Successive  motion  Imitated  Stew 
motion.  Swift  motion.  Laborions  Interrupted  motion.  Koush  or  tumnltuoo*  ip^tML 
Prolonged  motion.— Gravity  and  solemnity.— Melancholy.— Feeling  of  hard  labor.— L«flr 
of  thought  imitated. 


300  BEAL'TY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

elevation  of  the  subject :  but  the  mind  in  an  elevated  state  is  dis- 
posed to  action ;  therefore,  in  order  to  a  rest,  it  must  be  brought 
down  to  the  key-note.     Hence  the  terra  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  mind,  ought  to  be  pronounced  in  a  low 
note.  To  imitate  a  stern  <ind  impetuous  passiou,  the  words  ought 
to  be  pronounced  rough  and  load  ;  a  sweet  and  kindly  passion,  on  the 
contrary,  ought  to  be  imitated  by  a  soft  and  melodious  tone  of  voice. 
In  Dryden's  ode  of  Alexander'' s  Feast,  the  line  FaVn,  faVn,  faVn, 
faVn,  represents  a  gradual  sinking  of  the  mind  ;  and  therefore  is  pro- 
nounced with  a  failing  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  penod  together, 
it  may  be  pronounced  slow  or  fa.st.  A  peiiod,  accordingly,  ought  to 
be  pronounced  slow  when  it  expresses  what  is  solemn  or  deliberate ; 
and  ought  to  be  pronounced  quick  when  it  expresses  what  is  brisk, 
lively,  or  impetuous. 

In  this  chapter  I  have  mentioned  none  of  the  beauties  of  language 
but  what  arise  from  w^ords  taken  in  their  proper  sense.  Beauties 
that  depend  on  the  metaphorical  and  figurative  power  of  words,  are 
reserved  to  be  treated  chapter  xx. 

[It  seems  desirable  here  to  introduce  some  fine  thoughts  and  il- 
lustrations from  Hazlitt,  upon  topics  treated  in  this  chapter. — Ed. 

456,  Poetiy,  in  its  matter  and  form,  is  natural  imagery  or  feeling 
combined  with  passion  and  fancy.  In  its  mode  of  conveyance  it 
combines  the  ordinary  use  of  language  with  musical  expression. 
There  is  a  question  of  long  standing — in  what  the  essence  of  poetry 
consists ;  or  what  it  is  that  determines  why  one  set  of  ideas  should 
be  expressed  in  prose,  another  in  verse.  Milton  has  told  us  his  idea 
of  poetr}'  in  a  single  line  : 

Thoughts  tlint  voluntary  move 
Harmonious  numbers. 

As  there  are  certain  sounds  that  excite  certain  movements,  and 
the  song  and  dance  go  together,  so  there  are,  no  doubt,  ceitain 
thoughts  that  lead  to  certain  tones  of  voice,  or  modulations  of  sound, 
and  change  "the  words  of  Mercury  into  the  songs  of  Apollo." 
There  is  a  striking  instance  of  this  adaptation  of  the  moveraeut  of 

455.  Coincidence  of  climax  of  sound  and  of  sense  in  a  passage. — Effect  of  anticlimav.— 
Pronunciation;  distingui>'hed  from  singing.  General  rule  for  pronnnciation.  Illtistiation9> 
How  U  contribufei  to  a  rp.-c-inlilanco  between  siiiind  and  sense. 


liRAUTV  OF  LANOUAQE, 


307 


«)und  aud  rhythm  to  the  subject,  in  Spen.ser's  description  of  the 
Satyrs  accompanying  Una  to  tlie  cav«  of  Sylvanus  :       ^    ° '  °'  "*« 

So  from  the  ground  she  fearless  doth  arise 

And  wulketh  forth  without  suspect  of  crime 
They,  all  as  g  ad  as  birda  of  joyous  prime, 

Ihenee  lead  her  forth,  about  tJie  dancing  round 
bhouting  and  singing  all  a  shepherd's  rhyme  •       ' 

And  with  green  brajiches  strewing  all  the  ground 
L>o  wors  up  her  as  oueen  with  olive  garland  crown'd. 

And  all  the  wav  tlicir  merry  pipes  thev  sound, 
ihat  all  the  woods  and  doubled  echoes  rino-  • 

And  with  their  horned  feet  do  wear  the  ground 
Leaping  like  wanton  kids  in  pleasant  spriiig  •        ' 

bo  towards  old  Sylvanus  they  her  bring, 
\\  ho  with  the  noise  awaked,  cometh  out. 

Faery  Queen,  b.  i.  c.  vi. 

On  the  contrary,  there  is  nothing  either  musical  or  natural  in  the 
ordmary  construction  of  language.  It  is  a  thing  altogether  arbitrary 
and  conventional.  Neither  in  the  sounds  themselves,  which  are  the 
voluntary  signs  of  certain  ideas,  nor  in  their  grammatical  arranrre- 
ments  m  common  speech,  is  there  any  principle  of  natural  imitatfon 
or  coiTespondence  to  the  individual  ideas,  or  to  the  tone  of  feelinj: 
with  which  they  are  conveyed  to  others.  The  jerks,  the  breaks  the 
mequalities,  and  harshnesses  of  piose,  are  fatal  to  the  How  of  a 
poetical  miagmation,  as  a  jolting  road  or  stumbling  horse  disturbs  the 
revene  of  an  absent  man.  But  poetry  makes  these  odds  all  even. 
It  IS  the  music  of  language  answering  to  the  music  of  the  mind  • 
untying,  as  it  were,  "  the  secret  soul  of  harmony."  Wherever  any 
object  takes  such  a  hold  of  the  mind,  bv  which  it  seeks  to  prolonir 
and  repeat  the  emotion,  to  bring  all  other  objects  into  accord  witK 
It,  and  to  give  the  same  movement  of  harmony,  sustained  and  con- 
tinuous, or  gradually  varied  according  to  the  occasion,  to  the  sounds 
that  express  it— this  is  poetry.  Tiiere  is  a  deep  connection  between 
music  and  deep-rooted  passion.  In  ordinaiy  speech  wo  ari-ive  at  a 
certain  harmony  by  the  modulations  of  the  voice :  in  poetiy  the 
same  thing  is  done  systematically  by  a  regular  collocation  of  syl- 
lables.—Lect.  i.] 


'  SECTION  IV. 

Versification. 

451.  The  music  of  verse,  though  handled  by  everj'  grammanan, 
merits  more  attention  than  it  hsis  been  honored  with.  It  is  a  sub- 
ject 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  oilier 

456.  Poetry  In  its  matter  and  form.   In  Its  mode  of  con vey«nc«.— Mllfoi  t  dc«  of  noctiT 
—i  ne  ordinary  construction  of  laoeuage.    Illuttratjon  of  poetry. 


308  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

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  scarce  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,  must  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 
mles,  the  ear  must  be  appealed  to  as  the  proper  judge.  But  by 
what  mark  does  the  ear  distinguish  verse  from  prose  ?  The  proper 
and  satisfactory  answer  is,  That  these  make  different  impressions 
upon  every  one  who  hath  an  ear.  This  advances  us  one  step  in 
our  inquiry. 

["  Poetry,"  remarks  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  "  addresses  itself  to  the 
same  faculties  and  the  same  dispositions  as  painting,  though  by  dif- 
ferent means.    The  object  of  both  is  to  accommodate  itself  to  all  the 
natural  propensities  and  inclinations  of  the  mind.     The  very  ex- 
istence of  poetry  depends  on  the  license  it  a^umes  of  deviating  fi-om 
actual  nature,  in  order  to  gratify  natural  propensities  by  other  means, 
which  are  found  by  experience  full  as  capable  of  affording  such 
gratification.     It  sets  out  with  a  language  in  the  highest  degree 
artificial,  a  construction  of  measured  words,  such  as  never  is,  and 
never  was,  used  by  man.    Let  this  measure  be  what  it  may,  whether 
hexameter  or  any  other  metre  used  in  Latin  or  Greek — or  rhyme, 
or  blank  verse,  varied  with  pauses  and  accents,  in  modem  languages, 
— they  are  all  equally  removed  from  nature,  and  equally  a  violation 
of  common  speech.     When  this  artificial  mode  has  been  established 
as  the  vehicle  of  sentiment,  there  is  another  principle  in  the  human 
mind  to  which  the  work  must  be  referred,  which  still  renders  it 
more  artificial,  carries  it  still  further  from  common  nature,  and  de- 
viates only  to  render  it  more  perfect.    That  principle  is  the  sense  of 
congmity,  coherence,  and  consistency,  Avhich  is  a  real  existing  prin- 
ciple in  man,  and  it  must  be  gratified.     Therefore,  having  once 
adopted  a  style  and  a  measure  not  found  in  common  discourse,  it  is 
required  that  the  sentiments  also  should  be  in  the  same  proportion 
elevated  above  common  nature,  from  the  necessity  of  there  being  an 
agreement  of  the  parts  among  themselves,  that  one  uniform  whole 
may  be  produced.  ,    , 

To  correspond,  therefore,  with  this  general  system  of  de\nation 
from  nature,  the  manner  in  which  poetiy  is  offered  to  the  ear,  the 
tone  in  which  it  is  recited,  should  lo  as  far  removed  from  the  tone 
of  conversation,  as  the  words  of  which  that  poetry  is  composed,  &c. 
—  Works,  vol.  ii.  Discourse  xiii.] 

Taking  it  then  for  granted,  that  verse  and  prose  make  upon  the 

45T  Veree  as  distinguished  from  prose.  The  ear  discriminates.— Eca  arks  of  Sir  Joshua 
Eeynolds.— How  a  musical  impression  is  jroduced  by  language.  The  names  given  to  a 
period  producing  such  Impression. 


BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE.  300 

eai  diflfereut  impressions,  nothing  remains  but  to  explain  this  dif- 
ference, and  to  assign  its  cause.  To  tliis  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  syl- 
lables, than  when  all  the  syllables  are  of  the  same  sort :  a  continued 
sound  in  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,  va- 
riety is  necessary  as  well  as  number :  the  successive  sounds  or  svl- 
lables  must  be  some  of  them  long,  some  of  them  short ;  and  if  also 
high  and  low,  the  music  is  the  more  perfect  The  musical  impres- 
sion made  by  a  period  consisting  of  long  and  short  syllables  arrantred 
in  a  certain  order,  is  what  the  Greeks  call  rhytkmm,  the  Latins  nu- 
merits,  and  we  melody  or  measure.  Cicero  justly  observes,  that  in 
one  continued  sound  there  is  no  melody :  "  Numerus  in  continua- 
tione  nullus  est." 

^58.  It  will  probably  occur,  that  melody,  if  it  depend  on  long 
and  short  syllables  combined  in  a  sentence,  may  be  tbund  in  prose 
as  well  as  in  verse ;  considering  especially,  that  in  both,  particular 
words  are  accented  or  pronounced  in  a  higher  tone  than  the  rest ; 
and  therefore  that  vei-se  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 
ill  words ;  all  that  can  be  said  is,  that  verse  is  more  musical  than 
prose,  and  its  melody  more  perfect.  The  difference  between  verae 
and  piose  resembles  the  difference  in  music,  properly  so  called,  be- 
tween the  song  and  the  recitative;  and  the  resemblance  is  not  the 
less  complete,  that  these  differences,  like  the  shades  of  colors,  ap- 
proximate so'.netimes  so  nearly  as  scarce  to  be  discernible  :  the 
melody  of  a  n-citative  approaches  sometimes  to  that  of  a  song; 
which,  on  the  other  hand,  degenerates  sometimes  to  that  of  a  reci- 
tative. Nothing  is  inoi-e  distinguishable  from  prose,  tlian  the  bulk 
of  Virgil's  Hexameters :  many  of  those  composed  by  Horace  are 
very  little  removed  from  prose  :  Sapphic  vei-se  has  a  very  sensible 
melody  :  that,  on  the  other  hand,  of  an  Iambic,  is  extremely  faint.* 

This  more  perfect  melody  of  articulate  sounds,  is  what  distinguish- 
etli  verse  from  prose.  Verse  is  subjected  to  certain  inflexible  laws ; 
the  number  ami  variety  of  the  component  syllables  being  ascertained, 

•  Music,  properly  so  called,  is  analyzed  into  melody  and  harmony.  A  «no- 
tession  of  sounds  so  as  to  be  agreeable  to  the  car  constitutes  melody':  harmony 
mses  from  co-existing  sounds.  Verse  therefore  can  only  roach  melody,  and 
not  harmony. 

458.  Verse  not  to  be  dIsting:uUhed  from  proM  by  the  melody  alone ;  but  from  the  dilTer- 
enoe  of  the  melody.  Compared  to  song  and  recitative.  Verae,  subjected  to  certain  l«w& 
Vene  requires  peculiar  gei'aa  The  oso  and  office  of  prose.  Note  ud  Wasbingtoo  Irrtiif^ 
proso. 


310  BKAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

'and  iu  some  measure  the  order  of  succession.  Such  restraint  makes 
it  a  matter  of  difficulty  to  compose  iu  verse  ;  a  difficulty  that  is  not 
to  be  surmounted  but  by  a  peculiar  genius.  Useful  lessons  con- 
veyed to  us  in  verse,  are  agreeable  by  the  union  of  music  with  in- 
struction :  but  are  we  for  that  reason  to  reject  knowledge  offered  in 
a  pbuner  dress  ?  That  would  be  ndiculous ;  for  knowledge  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.  Hence  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- 
vided the  work  convey  instruction,  its  chief  end,  we  are  httle  so- 
licitous about  its  dress.* 

459.  Having  ascertained  the  nature  and  limits  of  our  subject,  I 
proceed  to  the  laws  by  which  it  is  regulated.  These  would  be  end- 
less, were  verse  of  all  different  kinds  to  be  taken  under  consideration. 
I  propose  therefore  to  confine  the  inquiry  to  Latin  or  Greek  Hex- 
ameter, and  to  French  and  English  Heroic  vei-se ;  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- 
ficient 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 

*  [Prose  and  Poetry :  A  writer  in  the  N.  A.  Meview,  speaking  of  tlie  style  of 
Washington  Irving,  remarks  that  "  its  attraction  lies  in  the  charm  of  finished 
elegance,  which  it  never  loses.  The  most  harmonious  and  poetical  words  are 
carefully  selected.  Every  period  is  measured  and  harmonized  with  nice  pre- 
cision. The  length  of  the  sentences  is  judiciously  varied ;  and  the  tout  ensemble 
produces  on  the  car  an  effect  very  little,  if  at  all  inferior  to  that  of  the  finest 
versification.  Indeed  such  prose,  while  it  is  from  the  nature  of  the  topics  sub- 
stantially poetry,  does  not  appear  to  us,  when  viewed  merely  as  a  form  of  lan- 
guage, to  differ  essentially  from  verse.  The  distinction  between  verse  and 
prose  evidently  does  not  lie  in  rhijnie,  taking  the  word  in  its  modern  sense,  or 
m  any  particular  species  of  rhythm,  as  it  was  understood  by  the  ancients. 
Rhyme,  however  pleasing  to  accustomed  ears,  is,  we  fear,  but  too  evidently  a 
remnant  of  the  false  taste  of  a  barbarous  age ;  and  of  rhythm  there  are  a  thou- 
sand varieties  in  the  poetry  of  every  cultivated  language,  which  agree  in  nothing 
but  that  they  are  all  harmonious  arrangements  of  words.  If  then  we  mean  by 
-Jiythm  or  verse  merely  the  form  of  poetry,  and  not  any  particular  measure  or 
<ec  of  measures  to  which  we  are  accustomed,  it  seems  to  imply  nothing  but 
(iucli  a  disposition  of  words  and  sentences  as  shall  strike  the  ear  with  a  regular 
melodious  flow ;  and  elegant  prose,  like  that  of  Mr.  Irving  for  instance,  conies 
clearly  within  the  definition.  Nor  are  we  quite  sure  that  this  delicate  species 
of  rhythm  ought  to  be  regarded  as  inferior  in  beautj  to  the  more  artificial  ones. 
The  latter,  which  are  obvious,  and,  as  it  were,  coarse  methods  of  aiTangement, 
are  perhaps  natural  to  the  ruder  periods  of  language,  and  arc  absolutely  neces- 
sary in  poems  intended  for  music ;  but  for  every  other  purpose,  it  would  seem 
that  the  most  perfect  melody  is  that  which  is  most  completely  unfettered,  and 
in  which  the  traces  of  art  are  best  concealed.  There  is  something  more  ex- 
quisitely sweet  in  the  natural  strains  of  the  -iEolian  harp,  as  they  swell  and  fall 
upon  the  ear,  under  the  inspiration  of  a  gentle  breeze,  on  a  fine  moonligbt 
evening,  than  in  th4  measured  Aow  of  any  arti£eid  music."J 


BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE.  8H 

to  verse  of  every  kind,  five  things  are  of  importance.  1st,  The  num- 
ber of  sylla'jles  that  compose  a  verse  Hue.  2d,  The  diflerent  leugtha 
of  syllables,  i.  e.  the  difierence  of  time  taken  in  pronouncing.  3d, 
The  arrangement  of  these  syllables  combined  in  words.  4th,  The 
pauses  or  stops  in  pronouncing.  5th,  The  pronouncing  syllables  in 
a  high  or  low  tone.  The  three  first  mentioned  are  obviously  essential 
to  verse :  if  any  of  them  be  wanting,  there  cannot  be  that  higher 
degi-ee  of  melody  which  distinguisheth  verse  from  prose.  To  give  a 
just  notion  of  the  fourth,  it  must  be  observed,  that  pauses  are  neces- 
sjuy  for  thi-ee  diflferent  purposes  :  one  to  separate  periods  and  mem- 
bei-s  of  the  same  period,  according  to  the  sense ;  another,  to  improve 
the  melody  of  vei-se ;  and  the  last,  to  aftbrd  opportunity  for  drawing 
breath  in  reading.  A  pause  of  the  first  kind  is  variable,  being  long 
or  short,  frequent  or  less  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  arbitrary,  depending  on  the 
reader's  command  of  breath.  But  as  one  cannot  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  tor  that  reason  shall  be  laid  aside.  With 
,  respect  then  to  the  pauses  of  sense  and  of  melody,  it  may  be  af- 
finned  without  hesita.tion,  that  their  coincidence  in  verse  is  a  capital 
beauty;  but  as  it  cannot  be  expected,  in  a  long  work  especially,  that 
eveiy  line  should  be  so  perfect,  we  shall  afterwards  have  occasion  to 
see  that  the  pause  necessaiy  for  the  sense  must  often,  in  some  de- 
gree, be  sacrificed  to  the  verse-pause,  and  the  latter  sombtimes  to 
the  former. 

400.  The  pronouncing  syllables  in  a  high  or  low  tone,  contribute* 
also  to  melody.  In  reading,  whether  verse  or  prose,  a  certain  tone 
is  assumed,  which  may  be  called  the  key-note  ;  and  in  that  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  of  the  requisites  of  verse,  because  it  ia  entirely 
regulated  by  the  sense,  and  hath  no  peculiar  relation  to  verse.  The 
cadence  is  a  falling  of  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  eveiy  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  recommend  to  him  the  Rape  of  the  Lock,  which,  in  point 
of  vei-sification,  is  the  most  complete  performance  in  the  English 
language. 

Though  the  five  requisites  above  mentioned  enter  the  compoeition 

459.  Five  things  Important  to  veise  of  every  kind.— Pai"«s  h*ve  three  purpoMB.    P«H« 
of  eense  and  molod;*,  when  oolncUent,  arc  bcautUUl. 


312  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

of  every  species  of  verse,  they  are  however  governed  by  diflferent 
rules,  peculiar  to  each  species.  Upon  quantity  only,  one  general 
observation  may  be  premised,  because  it  is  applicable  to  every 
species  of  vei-se,  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. 

461.  We  are  now  sufficiently  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  fol- 
lowing heads :  number,  arrangement,  pause,  and  accent ;  for  as  to 
quantity,  what  is  observed  above  may  suflfice. 

Hexameter  lines,  as  to  tune,  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  Spondiao,  it  never  has  fewer 
than  thirteen :  whence  it  follows,  that  where  the  syllables  are  many, 
the  plurality  must  be  short  ;  where  few,  tlie  plurahty  must  be  long. 

This  line  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  firet  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 
simple  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  also  be 
followed  by  two  short.     These  few  rules  fulfil  all  the  conditions  oi 

460.  The  tones  of  pronunciation.— Accent— Cadence.— Quantity.— "When  a  low  tone  to 
used. 


BKAUTr  OF  LAKOUAOB.  818 

*n  Hexameter  line,  with  relation  to  order  or  arran^ment  To  theae 
greater  relish,  as  it  regulates  more  •  affirmatively  the  construction  of 
every  part.  That  I  may  put  this  rule  into  words  with  perspicuity, 
I  take  a  hint  from  the  twelve  long  syllables  that  compose  an  Hex- 
ameter line,  to  divide  it  into  twelve  equal  parts  or  portions,  being 
each  of  them  one  long  syllable  or  two  short,  A  portion  being  thou 
defined,  I  proceed  to  the  rule.  The  1st,  3d,  5th,  7tB,  9th,  11th,  and 
12  th  portions,  must  each  of  them  be  one  long  syllable ;  the  10th 
must  always  be  two  short  syllables  ;  the  2d,  4th,  7th,  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  condi- 
tions of  an  Hexameter  line,  and  comprehends  all  the  combinations 
of  Dactyles  and  Spondees  that  this  line  admits. 
}^  462.  Next  in  order  comes  the  pause.  At  the  end  of  every  Hex- 
ameter line,  every  one  must  be  sensible  of  a  complete  close,  or  full 
pause ;  the  cause  of  which  follows.  The  two  long  syllables  pre- 
ceded by  two  short,  which  always  close  an  Hexameter  line,  are  a 
fine  preparation  for  a  pause :  for  long  syllables,  or  syllables  pro- 
nounced slow,  resembling  a  slow  and  languid  motion,  tending  to  rest, 
naturally  incline  the  mind  to  rest,  or  to  pause  ;  and  to  this  inolina- 
tion  the  two  preceding  short  syllables  contribute,  which,  by  contrast, 
make  the  slow  pronunciation  of  the  final  syllables  the  more  cx>n- 
spicuous.  ^Besides  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  6th  portion ;  the  other,  which  being  shorter 
and  more  faint,  may  be  called  the  semi-pause,  succeeds  the  8th  por- 
tion. So  striking  is  the  pause  first  mentioned,  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. 

The  difference  of  time  in  the  pause  and  semi-pause,  occaaon* 
another  difference  no  less  remarkable,  that  it  is  lawful  to  dinde  a 
word  by  a  semi-pause,  but  never  by  a  pause,  the  bad  effect  of  which 
is  sensibly  felt  in  the  following  examples : 


Again: 
Again: 


Eflfiisus  labor,  atlque  immitis  rupU  Tytanni 
Obserrans  nido  im|plun»«»  detnxU ;  •*  **^ 
Loricam.quam  De|moloo  detraxerat  ipee 


•trnplomlMofMrongement. '  "'"""«' <»' »yM*l>l»-D«ctylM  and  SpoadM*. 

14 


314  BEAurr  of  language. 

The  dividing  a  word  by  a  semi-pause  has  not  the  same  bad  effect : 

Jamque  pedem  referens  5  casus  e|vaserat  omnes. 

Again : 

Qualis  populea  I  moerens  Philo[mela  sub  umbra 

Again : 

Ludere  quo  vellem  I  calamo  pcr|miBit  agresti. 

Lines,  however,  where  words  are  left  entire,  without  being  divided 
even  by  a  semi-pause,  run  by  that  means  much  the  more  sweetly : 

Nee  gemere  aerea  J  eessabit  |  turtur  ab  ulmo. 

Again : 

Quadrupodante  putrem  J  sonitu  quatit  |  ungula  campum. 

Again : 

Eurydicen  toto  \  referebant  |  fiumine  ripiB. 

The  reason  of  these  observations  will  be  evident  upon  the  slightest 
reflection.  Between  things  so  intimately  connected  in  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 
fi-om  the  rule  being  less  remarkable  in  a  semi-pause.  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  along,  it  is  disagreeable  to  find  a  word  split  into  two  by  a 
pause,  as  if  there  were  really  two  words  :  and  though  the  disagreea- 
bleness  here  be  connected  with  the  sense  only,  it  is  by  an  easy  tran- 
sition of  perceptions  transferred  to  the  sound  ;  by  which  means  we 
conceive  a  line  to  be  harsh  and  grating  to  the  ear,  when  in  reality 
it  is  only  so  to  the  understanding..  (See  chapter  ii.  part  i.  sec.  5.) 
-+-  463.  To  the  rule  that  fixes  the  pause  after  the  fifth  portion  there 
is  one  exception,  and  no  more  :  If  the  syllable  succeeding  the  6th 
portion  be  shorty  the  pause  is  sometimes  postponed  to  it 


Again: 
Again : 


Pupillis  quos  dura  J  prcmit  custodia  matruin 

In  terras  oppressa  |  gravi  sub  religiono 

Et  quorum  pars  magna  B  fui ;  quia  talia  fando 


Thio  contributes  to  diversify  the  melody  ;  and  where  the  words  are 
smooth  and  liquid,  ja  not  ungraceful ;  as  in  the  following  examples : 

Formosam  resonare  J  doees  Amaryllida  sylvas 
Again: 

Agricolns,  viuiVna  insa  [  procul  discordibus  arinia        -" 

■ ■ ■  ~  „         ,1,^,  nonw^  —The  dividing  of  ft 

462.  Pause;  complete  at  tl.e  -^^  "^  t\ "rdh^drwor^Se  for  musical  pau.es 
word  by  a  pause  or  scmS-pause.    Better  not  w  un  lu 
The  reason  for  it 


BEAtTTT  OF  LANGUAGE.  315 

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  Ennius,  which  is  plain 
prose  : 

Bomae  moeaia  terruiit  impiger  |  Ilanaibal  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  particulara  must  also  be  considered  with  respect  to  sense.  There 
is  not  perhaps  in  any  other  sort  of  vei-se,  such  latitude  in  the  long 
and  short  syllables ;  a  circumstance  that  contributes  greatly  to  that 
richness  of  melody  which  is  remarkable  in  Hexameter  verse,  and 
which  made  Aristotle  pronounce  that  an  epic  poem  in  any  other 
verse  would  not  succeed.  (Poet.  cap.  25.)  One  defect,  however, 
must  not  be  dissembled,  that  the  same  means  which  contribute  to 
the  richness  of  the  melody,  render  it  less  fit  than  several  other  sorts 
for  a  narrative  poem.  Theie  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.  Virgil,  the  chief  of  poets 
for  verification,  is  forced  often  to  end  a  line  without  any  close  in  the 
sense,  and  as  often  to  close  the  sense  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,  can- 
not be  agi'eeable. 

464.  The  accent,  to  which  we  proceed,  is  no  less  essential  than 
the  other  circumstances  above  handled.  By  a  good  ear  it  will  be 
discerned  that  in  every  line  there  is  one  syllable  distinguishable 
from  the  rest  by  a  capital  accent :  that  syllable,  being  the  7th  por- 
tion, is  invariably  long. 

Neo  bene  promeritis  |  capitiir  noo  |  tangitur  ira. 


Non  sibi  sed  to+'>  |  genitdm  so  |  credere  mundo. 


Again* 

Again: 

Qualia  spelunoa  |  subit6  com|mota  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  following : 

Alba  neque  Assyrio  I  facAtnr  |  lana  veneno. 

Again: 

Panditur  interea  |  domas  Amnipc  [tentis  Olympl. 

46&  Szoeptkm  to  rul«  Biveu  tat  pMM  ttUft  Uit  flftb  purUtia 


^Lgain : 
A.gain : 


316  BEAUTY  OF  LANGTTAGE. 

Again : 

Olli  sedato  1  refspondit  |  corde  Latiniis. 

In  lines  where  the  pause  comes  after  the  short  syllable  succeeding 
the  fifth  portion,  the  accent  is  displaced  and  rendered  less  sensible : 
it  seems  to  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  { tsinus  coljlecta  fluentes 
Again  : 

Formosam  ransoiiSre  |  doc6s  Amar|yllida  sylvas 

Besides  this  capital  accent,  slighter  accents  are  laid  upon  other 
portions ;  particularly  upon  the  4th,  unless  where  it  consists  of  two 
«hort  syllables  ;  upon  the  9th,  which  is  always  a  long  syllable  ;  and 
flpon  the  1 1th,  where  the  line  concludes  with  a  monosyllable.  Such 
conclusion,  by  the  by,  impairs  the  melody,  and  for  that  reason  is  not 
to  be  indulged,  unless  where  it  is  expressive  of  the  sense.  The  fol- 
/owing  lines  are  marked  with  all  the  accents  : 

Ludere  quas  vdllem  calamo  permisit  agresti. 
Et  dursa  qudrcus  sudabunt  roscida  mella. 

Parturiunt  m6ntes,  naseStur  ridiculiis  mus. 

465.  Beflecting  upon  the  melody  of  Hexameter  verse,  we  find 
that  order  or  arrangement  doth  not  constitute  the  whole  of  it ;  for 
when  we  compare  different  lines,  equally  regular  as  to  the  succession 
of  long  and  short  syllables,  the  melody  is  found  in  very  different  de- 
grees of  perfection ;  which  is  not  occasioned  by  any  particular  com- 
bination of  Dactyles  and  Spondees,  or  of  long  and  short  syllables, 
because  we  find  lines  where  Dactyles  prevail,  and  lines  where 
Spondees  prevail,  equally  melodious.  Of  the  former  take  the  fol- 
lowing instance : 

jEneadum  genetrix  homiuum  divumque  voluptas. 
Of  the  latter : 

Molli  paulatim  flavescet  campus  arista. 

What  can  be  more  different  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  ? 

Spond.  Dact.        Spond.  Spond.        Duct.  Spond. 

Ad  talos  Btola  dimissa  et  circumdata  palla. — Eor. 

Spond.  Dact.  Spond,    Spond.        Dact.         Spond. 

Placatnmque  nitet  diflfuso  lumine  ccelum. — Lucr. 

In  the  fonner,  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 

AfA,  The  captUl  »cc«nt.    Tbe  sligl)t«r  scoontB, 


BEAUTY  OF  LANOUAOK.  317 

vowel  a  upon  the  particle  eL  In  the  latter,  the  pauses  and  the  ac- 
cent are  all  of  them  distinct  and  full :  there  is  no  elision  ;  and  the 
words  are  more  liquid  and  sounding.  In  these  particulai"s  consistB 
the  beauty  of  an  Hexameter  line  with  respect  to  melody  :  and  by 
neglecting  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  multiplied.  To  add  to  the  account,  prosaic  low-sounding  words 
are  introduced ;  and,  which  is  still  worse,  accents  are  laid  on  them. 
Of  such  faulty  lines  take  the  following  instances : 

Candida  rectaqiio  sit,  muuda  hactenus  sit  nequo  longa. 
Jupiter  exclamat  simnl  al<}ue  audirit ;  at  in  so 
Custodes,  lectica,  ciniflonfis,  paraait© 
Optimus,  est  modulator,  ut  Alfenus  Vafer  otnni 
Nunc  illud  tantum  qurorain,  meritone  tibi  sit. 

466.  Next  in  order  comes  English  Heroic  verse,  which  shall  be 
examined  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  hlank  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  sound 
being  avoided  in  the  latter,  couplets  are  banishal.  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  fii-st  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  think,  is  incorrect?    Why,  take  it; 
I'm  £ul  submission  ;  what  you'd  liave  it,  make  it. 

This  license  is  sufi'erable  in  a  single  couplet ;  but  if  frequent  would 
give  disgust. 

The  other  exception  concerns  the  second  Ime  of  a  couplet,  which 
is  sometimes  stretched  out  to  twelve  syllables,  termed  an  Alexan- 
drine line : 

A  needless  Alexandrine  ends  the  sonjr,         ,     _^.     , 
That,  like  a  wounded  snake,  drags  its  slow  length  along.. 

It  doth  extremely  well  when  employed  to  close  a  period  with  a  cer- 
tain pomp  and  solemnity,  where  the  subject  makes  that  tone  proper. 

465.  Order  or  (UTangement,  not  the  whole  of  melody.  HUMii«il«h«L    BkrM: 

466.  English  heroic  verse ;  two  kinds.— Rhyme  and  blank  T»»t  dWluguttlwa  lajwm, 
number  of syllablea.    Two  exoepUcr  J. 


818  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

467.  With  regard  to  quantity,  it  is  unnecessary  to  mention  a  second 
tame,  that  the  quantities  employed  in  verse  are  but  two,  the  one 
double  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  present  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  English  above  all  abounds  in  syllables  of  that  kind  :  in  words 
of  three  or  more  syllables,  the  quantity  for  tlie  most  part  is  invaria- 
ble :  the  exceptions  are  more  frequent  in  dissyllables ;  but  as  to 
monosyllables,  they  may,  without  many  exceptions,  be  pronounced 
either  long  or  short ;  nor  is  the  ear  hurt  by  a  liberty  that  is  rendered 
femiliar  by  custom.  This  shows  that  the  melody  of  English  verse 
must  depend  less  upon  quantity  than  upon  other  circumstances :  in 
•which  it  diffei-s  widely  from  Latin  vei-se,  where  every  syllable  having 
but  one  sound,  strikes  the  ear  uniformly  with  its  "accustomed  im- 
pression ;  and  a  reader  must  be  delighted  to  find  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 
samo  word,  yet  the  mind,  wavering  between  the  two  sounds,  can- 
not be  so  much  afiected  as  where  every  syllable  has  one  fixed 
sound.  What  I  have  further  to  say  upon  quantity,  will  come  more 
property  imder  the  following  head  or  arrangement. 

468.  And  with  respect  to  arrangement,  Avhich  may  be  brought 
■within  a  narrow  compass,  the  English  Heroic  line  is  commonly 
Iambic,  the  first  syllable  short,  the  second  long,  and  so  on  alter- 
nately through  the  whole  line.  One  exception  there  is,  pretty  fre- 
quent, of  lines  commencing  with  a  Trochseus,  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  fol- 
lowing couplet  affords  an  example  of  each  kind  : 

Some  In  the  fields  of  purSst  ether  play, 
and  bask  and  whitgn  in  the  blaze  ofdaj-. 

It  is  a  great  imperfection  in  English  verse,  that  it  excludes  the 
bulk  of  polysyllables,  which  are  the  most  sounding  words  in  our 
language  ;  for  very  few  of  them  have  such  alternation  of  long  and 
short  syllables  as  to  correspond  to  either  of  the  arrangements  men- 
tioned. English  verse  accordingly  is  almost  totally  reduced  to 
dissyllables  and  monosyllables :  magnanimity,  is  a  sounding  word 
totally  excluded  :  impetuosity  is  still  a  finer  word,  by  the  resem- 
blance of  the  sound  and  sense ;  and  yet  a  negative  is  put  upon  it, 
as  well  as  upon  numberless  words  of  the  same  kind.     Polysyllables 

i»^'  Qo^'t'ty'— P«°'i«""'UM  as  to  the  pronunciation  of  long  and  short  syllables.— Melody 
or  English  verse  not  dependent  on  quantity.    Differs  from  Latin  verse  herein. 


BEAUTY  OF  LANQVAQK.  319 

composed  of  syllables  long  and  short  alternately,  make  a  good 
figure  in  verse  :  for  example,  observance,  opponent,  ostentive,  ptJi- 
daric,  productive,  prolific,  and  such  others  of  three  syllables.  Imi- 
iation,  imperfection,  misdemeanor,  mitigation,  moderation,  observatory 
ornamental,  regulator,  and  others  similar,  of  four  syllables,  beginning 
with  two  short  syllables,  the  third  long,  and  the  fourth  short,  may 
find  a  place  in  a  line  commencing  with  a  Trochaeus.  I  know  not 
if  there  be  any  of  five  syllables.  One  I  know  of  six,  viz.,  misin- 
terpretation: but  words  so  composed  are  not  frequent  in  our 
language. 

469.-lOne  -would  not  imagine,  without  trial,  how  uncouth  false 
quantity  appeara  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  hai-sh  it  makes  a  hne  where  it  must  be  pro- 
noimced  long : 

Thi3  nymph  td  tbe  dgstrfiction  6f  mankind. 

Again, 

Th'  advgnt'rSus  baron  the  bright  locks  Sdmired. 

Let  it  be  pronounced  short,  and  it  reduces  the  melody  ahnost  to 
nothing :  better  so  however  than  false  quantity.  In  the  following 
examples  we  perceive  the  same  defect : 

Ajid  old  impertinence  |  expel  by  new 

"With  varying  vanitieB  \  from  every  part 

Love  in  these  labyrinths  |  his  slaves  detains 

New  stratagems  i  the  radiant  lock  to  gjun 

Her  eyes  half  languishing  1  half  drown'd  in  tears 

Roar'd  from  the  handkerchief  i  that  caused  his  pain 

Passions  like  elements  I  though  born  to  fight. 

The  great  variety  of  melody  conspicuous  in  English  verse,  arises 
chiefly  from  the  pauses  and  accents ;  which  are  of  gixjater  impor- 
tance than  is  commonly  thought.  There  is  a  degree  of  intricacy  in 
this  branch  of  our  subject,  and  it  will  be  difiicult  to  give  a  distinct 
view  of  it ;  but  it  is  too  late  to  think  of  difficulties  atkr  we  are  en- 
gaged. The  pause,  which  paves  the  way  to  the  accent,  oflers  itself 
fii-st  to  our  examination  ;  and  from  a  very  short  trial,  the  following 
facts  wnll  be  verified.  1st,  A  line  admits  but  one  capital  pause. 
2d,  In  diflferent  lines,  we  find  this  pause  after  the  fourth  syllable, 
after  the  fifth,  after  the  sixth,  and  after  the  seventh.  Th^  four 
places  of  the  pause  lay  a  solid  foundation  for  dividmg  English 
Heroic  lines  into  four  kinds ;  and  I  warn  the  reader  beforehand,  that 
unless  he  attend  to  this  distinction,  he  cannot  have  any  just  noUon 
of  the  richness  and  variety  of  English  versificaUon.  Each  kmd  or 
order  hath  a  melody  peculiar  to  itself,  readily  distinguishable  by  a 

4«8.  Arrangement;  commonly  IimWc    Ono  exf«paoo.~An  ImpwfteWon  ia  BafttA 

Terso  with  rrspect  to  polysyllnble*. 


320  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

good  ear ;  and  I  am  not  without  hopes  to  make  the  cause  of  thjs 
peculiarity  sufficiently  e-vident.  It  must  b?  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  afterwards ;  and  consequently,  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  possi- 
ble, 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  j  of  pleasing  sense  I  ran. 
Again, 

Profuse  of  bliss  J  and  pregnant  with  delight. 

After  the  5  th : 

So  when  an  angel  J  by  divine  command, 
With  rising  tempests  J  shakes  a  guilty  land. 

After  the  6th  : 

Speed  the  soft  intercourse  I  from  soul  to  soul. 
Again, 

Then  from  his  closing  eyes  j  thy  form  shall  part. 
After  the  Yth : 

And  taught  the  doubtful  battle  |  where  to  rage. 
Again, 

And  in  the  smooth  description  I  murmur  still. 

4Y0.  Besides  the  capital  pause  now  mentioned,  inferior  pauses 
will  be  discovered  by  a  nice  ear.  Of  these  there  are  commonly  two 
in  each  line  :  one  before  the  capital  pause,  and  one  after  it.  The 
former  comes  invariably  after  the  first  long  syllable,  whether  the  line 
begin  with  a  long  syllable  or  a  short.  The  other  in  its  variety  imi- 
tates the  capital  pause  :  in  some  lines  it  comes  after  the  6th  syllable, 
in  some  after  the  'Zth,  and  in  some  after  the  8th.  Of  these  semi- 
pauses  take  the  following  examples  : 

1st  and  8th  : 

Led  I  through  a  sad  j  variety  |  of  woe. 
1st  and  7th  : 

Still  I  on  thy  breast  1  enamor'd  |  let  me  lie. 
2d  and  8th  : 

From  storms  |  a  shelter  J  and  from  heat  |  a  shade. 
2d  and  6th  : 

Let  wealth  |  let  honor  |  wait  |  the  wedded  dame. 

469.  False  qnantity  uncouth. — Variety  of  melody  owing  to  pauses  and  accents. — How 
many  capital  pauses  in  a  line  ?— Places  of  that  pause  '—How  many  kinds  of  English  heroic 
hnos  ?— What  regulates  the  place  of  the  pause  ?    Examples. 


BEAUTY  OP  LANQUAQE.  321 

2d  and  7th : 

Above  I  all  pain  |  all  passion  |  and  al  pride. 

Even  from  these  few  examples  it  appeai-s,  that  the  place  of  the 
last  semi-pause,  like  that  of  the  full  pause,  is  directed  in  a  good 
measure  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 
distinctly  pronounced,  which,  by  a  long  syllable  after  a  short,  is  a 
preparation  for  rest :  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  license  devi- 
ates 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  superlfluity  it  craves 
Abhor,  a  perpejtuity  should  stand 

Are  these  lines  distinguishable  from  prose  ?     Scarcely,  I  think. 

The  same  rule  is  not  applicable  to  a  semi-pause,  wWch,  being  shwt 
and  faint,  is  not  sensibly  disagreeable  when  it  divides  a  word  : 

Relentlless  walls  |  whose  darksome  round  contains 
For  her  |  white  virgins  |  hymejneals  sing 
In  these  |  deep  solitudes  J  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  rest  be- 
tween its  component  syllables  :  a  semi-pause  that  bends  to  this  rule 
is  scarce  perceived. 

471.  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  cleai 
and  distinct  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  imagine,  tliat  a  musical  pause  may  come  after  any 
word  indifferently  :  some  words,  like  syllables  of  the  same  word,  are 
so  intimately  connected,  as  not  to  bear  a  separation  even  by  a  {lause. 
The  separating,  for  example,  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  |  flowers  begin  to  spring ; 

4T0.  Inferior  paas««,  their  aomber.— Bala  in  regard  to  a  fell  jmum^    Emapldi 
14* 


322  •  BEAUTY  OB'  LANGUAGE, 

But  ought  to  be  pronounced  in  the  following  manner : 

If  Delia  smile,  j  the  flowers  begin  to  spring. 
If  then  it  be  not  a  matter  of  indifference  where  to  make  the  pause, 
there  ought  to  be  rules  for  determining  what  words  may  be  separa- 
ted by  a  pause,  and  what  are  incapable  of  separation.  I  shall  en- 
deavor 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  scarce  sensible  of  them ;  and  to  that  end,  the 
method  that  appears  the  most  promising,  is  to  run  over  the  verbal 
relations,  beginning  with  the  most  intimate.  The  fii-st  that  presents 
Itself  is  that  of  adjective  and  substantive,  being  the  relation  of  sub- 
ject and  quahty,  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  separate  even  in  imagination, 
because  they  make  parts  of  the  same  idea :  and  for  that  reason,  with 
re;-.pect  to  melody  as  well  as  sense,  it  must  be  disagreeable  to  bestow 
upon  the  adjective  a  sort  of  independent  existence,  by  interjecting  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  bi'ight  -j  inhabitants  of  air 

The  sprites  of  fiery  5  termagants  inflame 

The  rest,  his  many-color'd  |  robe  eoncoal'd 

The  same,  his  ancient  i  personage  to  deck 

Even  here,  where  frozen  J  Chastity  retires 

I  sit,  with  sad  |  civility,  I  read 

Back  to  my  native  |  moderation  slide 

Or  shall  we  ev'ry  J  decency  confound 

Time  was,  a  sober  J  Englishman  would  knock 

And  place,  on  good  J  security,  his  gold 

Taste,  lliat  eternal  |  wanderer,  which  flies 

But  ere  tlie  tenth  |  revolving  day  was  ran 

First  let  the  just  |i  equivalent  be  paid 

Go,  tlireat  thy  eartli-born  |  myrmidons  ;  but  here 

Haste  to  tlie  fierce  j  Achilles'  tent,  he  cries 

All  but  the  ever-wakeful  1  eyes  of  Jove 

Your  own  resistless  ]  eloquence  employ. 

Considering  this  matter  supei-ficially,  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  aiound, 
without  ever  thinking  of  its  color.  In  a  word,  a  subject  may  bfi 
considered  with  some  of  its  qualities  independent  of  otbere :  though 


BKADTV  OF  LANGUAGE.  .  323 

we  cannot  form  an  image  of  any  single  quality  indejiendent  of  the 
mbject  Thus,  theu,  though  an  adjective  named  first  U  inseparable 
from  the  substantive,  the  proposition  does  not  reciprocate  :  an  image 
can  be  formed  of  the  substantive  independent  of  the  adjective ;  and 
for  tliat  reason,  they  may  be  separated  by  a  pause,  where  the  sub- 
stantive takes  the  lead : 

For  thee  the  fates  |  severely  kind  ordain 

And  cursed  with  hearts  |  unknowing  how  to  yield. 

4V2.  The  verb  and  adverb  are  precisely  in  the  same  condition 

with  the  substantive  and  adjective.    An  adverb  which  modifies  the 

action  expressed  by  the  verb,  is  not  separable  from  the  verb  even  in 

imagination  ;  and  therefore  I  must  also  give  up  the  following  lines  : 

And  which  it  much  |  becomes  you  to  forget 

'Tis  one  thing  madly  |  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  in- 
version the  verb  is  first  introduced,  it  has  no  bad  efiect  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,  &c. 

473.  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  noti  always  in  motion ;  and  therefore  it  is  easily  sep- 
arable in  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  precede  the  commencement  of  motion,  this  interval  is  a  proper 
opportunity  for  a  pause. 

But  when  by  inversion  the  verb  is  placed  first,  is  it  lawful  to  sep- 
arate it  by  a  pause  from  the  active  substanti\ «'  ?  I  answer.  No ;  be- 
cause 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  sup- 
port my  taste : 

In  these  deep  solitudes  and  awful  cells, 

Where  heavenly  pensive  |  Contemplation  dwells, 

And  ever  musing  |  Melancholy  reigns. 


471.  Chotco  of  place  for  the  capital  pause.  Examples.— Rules  fbr  determininc  whal 
words  may  or  may  not  be  separatea  by  a  pause.— Question  respectinf  a4je«tire  tod  —»• 
aUntive  in  their  natural  or  Inverted  order. 

4T5.  Rpspectlii,'  A  pans*  bptTreca  rerb  ind  a^rerb. 


324  ■  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

The  point  of  the  greatest  delicacy  regards  the  active  verb  and  the 
passive  subetantive  placed  in  their  natural  order.  The  best  poets 
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  in- 
dulged ;  but  taken  singly,  they  certainly  are  not  agi'eeable ;  and  T 
appeal  to  the  following  examples : 

The  peer  now  spreads  j  the  glitt'ring  forsex  -wide 

As  ever  sullied  I  the  fair  face  of  light 

Repaired  to  search  |  the  gloomy  cave  of  Spleen 

Nothing,  to  make  |  Philosophy  thy  friend 

Should  chance  to  make  8  the  well-dress'd  rabble  stara 

Or  cross  to  plunder  |  provinces,  the  main 

These  madmen  ever  hurt  J  the  church  or  state 

How  shall  we  fill  I  a  library  with  wit 

What  better  teach  J  a  foreigner  the  tongue 

Sure,  I  if  spare  1  the  minister,  no  rules 

Of  honor  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  inteijecting  a  pause  between  it 
and  the  verb,  more  than  when  the  active  substantive  is  first  named. 
The  same  reason  holds  in  both,  that  though  a  verb  cannot  be  sep- 
arated in  idea  from  the  substantive  which  governs  it,  and  scarcely 
from  the  substantive  it  governs,  yet  a  substantive  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  commen<  es. 
For  the  sake  of  illustration,  take  the  following  examples  : 

Shrines !  where  their  vigils  ]  pale-eyed  virgins  keep 
Soon  as  thy  letters  ]  trembling  I  unclose 
No  happier  task  1  these  faded  eyes  pursue. 

4*74.  What  is  said  about  the  pause,  leads  to  a  general  observation, 
That  the  natural  order  of  placing  the  active  substantive  and  ita 
verb,  is  more  friendly  to  a  pause  than  the  inverted  order ;  but  that  in 
all  the  other  connections,  inversion  affords  a  far  better  opportunity 
for  a  pause.  And  hence  one  great  advantage  of  blank  verse  over 
rhyme ;  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  |  and  what  shape  they  please 
The  light  militia  f  of  the  lower  sky 

478.  Panse  between  the  agent  and  lU  action.    Wi  en  the  verb  Is  placed  first— The  active 
verb  and  Its  objective  sabstantlve. 


BKAUTT  OF  LANGUAOE. 

Connecting  particles  were  invented  to  unite  in  a  period  two  sub- 
stantives, 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  mel- 
ody, cheerfully  admits  by  a  pause  a  momentary  disjunction  of  their 
occasional  union. 

475.  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  speech  which  singly  represent  no  idea,  and  which  become 
not  significant  till  they  be  joined  to  other  words.  I  mean  conjunc 
tions,  prepositions,  articles,  and  such  like  accessories,  passing  under 
the  name  of  particles.  Upon  these  the  question  occui-s,  Whether 
they  can  be  separated  by  a  pause  from  the  words  that  make  them 
significant  ?  whether,  for  example,  in  the  following  lines,  the  sep- 
aration of  the  accessory  preposition  fi-om  the  principal  substantive  be 
according  to  rule  ? 

The  goddess  with  I  a  discontented  air 

And  heighten'd  by  |  the  diamond's  circling  rays 

When  victims  at  |  yon  altar's  foot  we  lay 

So  take  it  in  |  the  very  words  of  Creech 

An  ensign  of  |  the  delegates  of  Jove 

To  agea  o'er  I  his  native  realm  he  reign'd 

While  angels  with  \  their  silver  wings  o'ershade. 

Or  the  separation  of  the  conjunction  from  the  word  that  is  connected 
by  it  with  the  antecedent  word : 

Talthybius  and  |  Eurybates  the  good. 

It  will  be  obvious  at  the  first  glance,  that  the  foregoing  reasoning 
upon  objects  naturally  connected,  is  not  applicable  to  words  which 
of  themselves  ate  mere  ciphers;  we  must  therefore  have  recourse 
to  some  other  principle  by  solving  the  present  question.  These  par- 
ticles out  of  their  place  are  totally  insignificant :  to  give  them  a 
meaning,  they  must  be  joined  to  certain  words ;  and  the  necessity 
of  this  junction,  together  with  custom,  forms  an  artificial  connection 
that  has  a  strong  influence  upon  the  mind  :  it  cannot  hear  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  expUined  after- 
wards in  treating  of  the  accent. 

476.  Hitherto  upon  that  pause  only  which  divides  the  Kne.  We 
proceed  to  the  pause  that  concludes  the  line ;  and  the  question  is, 
Whether  the  same  rules  be  applicable  to  both  ?     This  must  be  an- 

4T4  Advanti^e  of  blank  verse  over  rbyme  as  to  pauses.— Word*  connected  by  eoi^aiM* 
tlons  and  prepositions.  •.     m.       j 

475.  Particles;  whether  separable  \>y  a  pansc  from  the  worde  that  make  tfcem  «lf- 
Qiflcant 


326  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

swered  by  making  a  distinction.     In  the  first  line  of  a  couplet,  the 

concluding  pause  differs  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  different  condition ;  it 
resembles  greatly  the  concluding  pause  in  an  Hexameter  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 
'bllows  that  a  couplet  ought  always  to  be  finished  with  some 
•lose  in  the  sense ;  if  not  a  point,  at  least  a  comma.  The  truth  is, 
♦.bat  this  rule  is  seldom  transgressed.  In  Pope's  works,  I  find  very 
'iivf  deviations  from  the  rule.     Take  the  following  instances : 


Anotner 


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 


4'i  7.  I  add,  with  respect  to  pauses  in  general,  that  supposing  the 
.connection  to  be  so  slender  as  to  admit  a  pause,  it  follows  not  that 
a  pause  may  in  every  such  case  be  admitted.  There  is  one  rule 
to  which  every  other  ought  to  bend,  That  the  sense  must  never  be 
wounded  or  obscured  by  the  music ;  and  upon  that  account  I  con- 
demn the  following  lines : 

Ulj-sses,  first  J  in  public  cares,  she  found 
And, 

Who  rising,  high  |  th'  imperial  sceptre  raised. 

With  respect  to  inversion,  it  appears,  both  from  reason  and  ex- 
periments, that  many  words  which  cannot  bear  a  separation  in  their 
natural  order,  admit  a  pause  when  inverted.  And  it  may  be  added 
that  when  two  words  or  two  members  of  a  sentence,  in  their  natural 
order,  can  be  separated  by  a  pause,  such  separation  can  never  be 
amiss  in  an  inverted  order.  An  inverted  period,  which  deviates 
from  the  natural  ti-ain  of  ideas,  requires  to  be  marked  in  some 
measure  even  by  pauses  in  the  sense,  that  the  parts  may  be  distinctly 
known.     Take  the  following  examples : 

As  with  cold  lips  |I  kiss'd  tlie  sacred  veil 
With  other  beauties  1  charm  my  partial  eyes 
Full  in  ray  view  i  set  all  the  bright  abode 
With  words  like  these  J  the  troops  Ulysses  ruled 
Back  to  th'  assembly  roll !  the  thronging  train 
Not  for  their  grief  S  the  Grecian  host  I  blame. 


476.  The  pause  that  conchidcs  the  line.— Distinction  to  be  made  in  the  first  and  second 
llnfts  of  a  couplet.     How  a  couplet  should  bo  finished. 

47T.  One  rule  respecting  pauses  in  genera!.— Rein.-irks  as  to  words  in  the  inverted  ord«» 
— 'VVhHt  an  interted  p«riod  require* 


BKADTY  OF  LANGUAQK.  ^  327 

The  same  where  the  separation  is  made  at  the  close  of  the  first  line 
of  the  couplet : 

For  spirits,  freed  from  mortal  laws,  with  case 
Assume  what  sexes  and  what  shapes  thfey  pleaae. 

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  altars  heaved ;  and  from  the  crumbling  ground 
A  mighty  dragon  shot. 

478.  Abstracting  at  present  from  the  peculiarity  of  melody  arising 
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 
fatiguing ;  which  is  remarkable  in  French  versification.  This  im- 
perfection will  be  discerned  by  a  fine  ear  even  in  the  shortest  suc- 
cession, and  becomes  intolerable  in  a  long  poem.  Pope  excels  in 
the  variety  of  his  melody ;  which,  if  different  kinds  can  be  com- 
pared, is  indeed  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  membera  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  1  thy  dying  eyes  were  closed  ; 
By  foreign  hands  j  thy  decent  limbs  composed  ; 
By  foreign  liands  j  thy  humble  grave  adorn'd. 

Bright  as  the  sun  1  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike ; 
And,  like  the  sun,  |  they  shine  on  all  alike. 


Speaking  of  Nature,  or  the  God  of  Nature  ; 

Warms  in  the  sun  J  refreshes  in  the  breeze, 
Glows  in  the  stars  !  and  blossoms  in  the  trees ; 
Lives  through  all  life  |  extends  through  all  extent, 
Spreads  undivided  I  operates  unspent. 

479.  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  but  four  capital  pau-ses ;  and  that  the 
capital  pause  of  every  line  is  determined  by  the  sense  to  bo  af^er  the 
fourth,  the  fifth,  the  sixth,  or  the  seventh  syllable.  That  this  doc- 
ti-ine  holds  true  as  far  as  melody  alone  is  concerned,  will  bo  testified 

4T8.  Advantages  to  verso  of  the  different  pau9«».-F«uU  of  P^f  ""=''.  T*^"?*"*?^! 
what  Pope  and  VlrgU  esceL— Uniformity  in  the  membws  of  a  thought  roqnlrta  wnai 
Ki:amplp*. 


328  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

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  far  the  melody  may  justly  be  sacrificed.  Examples  ac- 
cordingly 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,  vrill  be  clear  from  the  following  example.  Pope, 
in  his  translation  of  Homer,  describes  a  rock  broke  ofi"  from  a  moun- 
tain, and  hurling  to  the  plain,  in  the  following  words  : 

From  steep  to  steep  the  rolling  rain  bounds ; 
At  every  shock  the  crackling  wood  resounds ; 
Still  gathering  force,  it  smokes  ;  and  nrged  amain, 
Whirls,  leaps,  and  thunders  down,  impetuous  to  the  plain : 
There  stops,  j  So  Hector.    Their  whole  force  he  proved, 
Resistless  when  he  raged ;  and  when  he  stopp'd,  unmoved. 

In  the  penult  line,  the  proper  place  of  the  musical  pause  is  at  the 
end  of  the  fifth  syllable  ;  but  it  enHvens  the  expression  by  its  coin- 
cidence with  that  of  the  sense  at  the  end  of  the  second  syllable :  the 
stopping  short  of  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.  Milton  makes  a 
happy  use  of  this  license  :  witness  the  following  examples  from  his 
Paradise  Lost  : 

-Thus  with  the  year 


Seasons  return,  but  not  to  me  returns 

Day  1  or  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn. 

Celestial  voices  to  the  midnight  air 
Sole  I  or  responsive  each  to  other's  note. 

And  over  them  triumphant  Death  his  dart 
Shook  !  but  delay'd  to  strike. 

And  wild  uproar 

Stood  ruled  1  stood  vast  infinitude  confined. 

-And  hard'ning  in  his  strength 


Glories  |  for  never  since  created  man 
Met  such  embodied  force. 

From  his  slack  hand  the  garland  wreath'd  for  Eve 
Down  dropp'd  J  and  all  the  faded  roses  shed. 

Of  unessential  night,  receives  him  next, 
Wide  gaping  ||  and  .with  utter  loss  of  being, 
Threatens  him,  &c. 

-For  now  the  thought 


Both  of  lost  happiness  and  lasting  pain 

Torments  him  J  round  he  throws  his  baleful  eyes,  &e. 

If  we  consider  the  foregoing  passages  with  respect  to  melody 
singly,  the  pauses  are  undoubtedly  out  of  their  proper  place ;  but 

4T9.  Rula  for  location  of  pauses  may  b«  varied  when  tbe  iKa»  or  expression  rpqnlTM 
rariation.    Examples. 


BEAUTY  OF  LANGTTAOE.  399 

being  united  with  those  of  the  sense,  they  enforce  the  expression, 
and  enhven  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. 

480.  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,  witliout 
impairing  the  concord  that  ought  to  subsist  between  the  thought 
and  the  melody :  an  accent,  for  example,  placed  on  a  low  word,  hat 
the  effect  to  burlesque  it,  by  giving  it  an  unnatural  elevation ;  and 
the  injury  thus  done  to  the  sease  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  upon  it, 
particle  that  of  itself  has  no  meaning,  and  that  serves  only,  lik 
cement,  to  unite  words  significant.  The  other  general  observatioL 
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,  so  as  to  make  more  than  one 
unnecessaiy  for  the  sense  ;  and  if  another  be  added,  it  must  be  for 
the  sound  merely ;  which  would  be  a  transgression  of  the  foregoing 
rule,  by  separating  a  musical  accent  from  that  which  is  requisite  for 
the  sense. 

481.  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- 
ble is  not  capable  of  an  accent.  In  the  next  place,  as  the  melody 
is  enriched  in  proportion  to  the  number  of  accents,  every  word  that 
has  a  long  syllable  may  be  accented :  unleas  the  sense  interpose, 
which  rejects  the  accenting  a  word  that  makes  no  figure  by  its  sig- 
nification. 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  ev- 
ery 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  di- 
vided 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  wftves  [  the  zephyrs  gently  play, 
Belinda  smiled  |  and  all  tiio  world  was  gay. 


*  An  accent  considered  with  respect  to  sense  is  termed  tmphant. 

480.  Double  effects  of  accent    Should  not  be  separated.— The  number  of  aeeantad  v*- 
Imbles  In  a  word. 


S80  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

He  raised  Iiib  azure  wand  |  and  thus  begun. 
Examples  of  the  other  kind  : 

There  lay  three  garters  j]  half  a  pair  of  gloves, 
And  all  the  trophies  i|  of  his  former  loves. 

Our  hnmble  province  J  is  to  tend  the  fair, 
Not  a  less  pleasing  1  though  less  glorious  care. 

And  hew  triumphant  arches  J  to  the  ground. 

These  accents  make  different  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  ac- 
cent 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  afBrmatively,  that  no  single  circum- 
stance contributes  more  to  the  energy  of  verse,  than  to  put  an  im- 
portant word  where  the  accent  should  be,  a  word  that  merits  a  pe- 
culiar emphasis.  To  show  the  bad  etfect  of  excluding  the  capital 
accent,  I  refer  the  reader  to  some  instances  given  above  (page  325), 
where  particles  are  separated  by  a  pause  from  the  capital  words  that 
make  them  significant ;  and  which  particles  ought,  for  the  sake  of 
melody,  to  be  accented,  were  they  capable  of  an  accent.  Add  to 
these  the  following  instances  from  the  Essay  on  Criticism : 

Of  leaving  what  |  is  natural  and  fit  line  448. 

Not  yet  purged  off,  J  of  spleen  and  sour  disdained  1.  528. 

No  pardon  vile  I  obscenity  should  find  1.  fiSl. 

When  love  was  all  5  an  easy  monarch's  care  I.  537. 

For  'tis  but  half  j  a  judge's  task  to  know  3.  562. 

'Tis  not  enough,  |  taste,  judgment,  learning,  join  1.  563. 

That  only  makes  1  superior  sense  beloved  1.  578. 

Whose  right  it  is,  |  uncensurcd,  to  be  dull  1.  590. 

'Tis  best,  sometimes,  |  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 : 

But  of  this  frame,  the  bearings  and  the  ties, 
The  strong  connections,  nice  dependencies. 

Ih  a  line  expressive  of  what  is  humble  or  dejected,  it  improves 
the  resemblance  between  the  sound  and  sense  to  exclude  the  capital 
accent.     This,  to  my  taste,  is  a  beauty  in  the  following  lines : 

In  thdse  deep  &61itudes  I  and  awful  cells 
The  poor  inhabitant  \  beholds  in  vain. 

To  conclude  this  article,  the  accents  are  not,  like  the  syllables, 
confined  to  a  certain  number :  some  lines  have  no  fewer  than  five, 
and  there  are  lines  that  admit  not  above  one.  This  variety,  as  we 
have  seen,  depends  entirely  on  the  different  powei-s  of  the  component 
words :  particles,  even  where  they  are  long  by  position,  cannot  be 
accented;  and  polysyllables,  whatever  spjice  they  occnpy,  .admit  but 


BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE.  331 

one  accent  Polysylkbles  have  another  defect,  that  fhev  rrenerallv 
exclude  the  full  pause.  It  is  shown  above,  (liat  few  polysvllablti 
can  hnd  place  in  the  construction  of  Enghsh  verse:  and 'here  are 
reasons  for  excluding  them,  could  they  find  place. 

482.  After  what  is  said,  will  it  be  thought  refining  too  much  to 
suggest,  that  the  different  orders  (Art.  470)  are  qualified  for  dif- 
ferent purposes,  and  that  a  poet  of  genius  will  naturally  be  led  Uj 
make  a  choice  accordingly  ?  I  cannot  think  this  altogether  chimeri- 
cal. As  It  appears  to  me,  the  first  order  is  pro{)er  for  a  sentiment 
that  IS  bold,  lively,  or  impetuous  ;  the  third  order  is  proper  for  what 
IS  giave,  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  contend,  that  any  one  order  is  fitted 
for  no  other  task  than  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  diffi- 
dence, that  each  of  the  orders  is  peculiarly  adapted  to  certain  sub- 
jects, and  better  qualified  than  the  othei-s  for  expressing  them.  The 
best  way  to  judge  is  by  experiment;  and  to  avoid  the  imputation 
of  a  partial  search,  I  shall  confine  my  instances  to  a  single  poem, 
beginning  with  the  , 

First  order. 

On  her  white  breast,  a  sparklinpr  cross  she  wore, 

Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  iufidela  adore. 

Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose, 

Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  nnfix'd  as  those : 

Favors  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends ; 

Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 

Brierht  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike, 

And  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 

Yet  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of  pride, 

Might  hide  her  faults,  if  belles  had  faults  to  hide ; 

If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall, 

Look  on  her  face  and  you'll  forget  them  al\.—Iiajuo/th€  loci. 

In  accounting  for  the  remarkable  liveliness  of  this  passage,  it  will 
be  acknowledged  by  everj'  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 
has  been  led  by  delicacy  of  taste  to  employ  the  first  order  prefer- 
ably to  the  others  ? 

Second  order. 

Our  humble  province  is  to  tend  the  ftir, 
Not  a  less  pleasing,  though  less  glorious  care ; 


481.  The  doctrine  of  accenting  English  heroic  verse.— The  number  ofRpcenrt  a  line  miy 
•dniit,  and  on  what  syllables.— The  accent  th.tt  mukes  the  greatest  fi^uro.  Two  kindi  of 
this  accent  Examples. — A  capital  defect  in  the  composition  of  veruc.— What  ^vo»  taetfy 
to  verse. — Uad  elTect  of  excluding  the  capital  accent  One  exoention.--Acc«nts  alluwabl* 
In  a  line.  .       6  t-  i 


332  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

To  save  tlie  powder  from  too  rude  a  gale, 

Nor  let  th'  imprison'd  essences  exhale  ; 

To  draw  fresh  colors  from  the  vernal  flowers: 

To  steal  from  rainbows,  ere  they  drop  their  showers,  fic 

Again :  -,,.   ,  ^  e ^ 

Oh,  thoughtless  mortals  I  ever  blmd  to  tate. 
Too  soon  dejected,  and  too  soon  elate. 
Sudden,  these  honors  shall  be  snatch'd  away, 
And  cursed  forever  this  victorious  day. 

Third  order. 

To  fifty  chosen  sylphs,  of  special  note,    _ 
We  trust  th'  important  charge,  the  petticoat. 

Again :  ,      , 

Oh  say  what  stranger  cause  yet  tinexploretl, 
Could  make  a  gentle  belle  reject  a  lord  J 

A  plurality  of  lines  of  the  fourth  order,  would  not  have  a  good 
effect  in  succession;  because,  by  a  remarkable  tendency  to  rest,  then 
proper  office  is  to  close  a  period.  The  reader,  therefore,  must  be 
satisfied  with  instances  where  this  order  is  mixed  with  others. 

Not  louder  shrieks  to  pitying  Heaven  are  cast. 
When  husbands,  or  when  lapdogs,  breathe  their  last. 

'        Steel  could  the  works  ofmortol  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  snufi"-box  open'd,  then  the  case. 

And  this  suggests  another  experiment,  which  is,  to  set  the  Affer- 
ent orders  moT-e  directly  in  opposition,  by  giving  examples  where 
they  are  mixed  in  the  same  passage. 
First  and  second  orders. 

Sol  through  white  curtains  shot  a  tim'rons  ray, 
And  ope'S  those  eyes  that  must  eclipse  the  day. 

^    '        Not  vouthful  kings  in  battle  seized  alive,     _ 

Not  scornful  virgins  who  their  charms  survive. 

Not  ardent  lovers  robb'd  of  all  their  bhss, 

Not  ancient  ladies  when  refused  a  kiss. 

Not  tyrants  fierce  that  unrepentmg  die, 

Not  Cvnthia  when  her  raantua's  pmn  d  awry,  / 

E'er  felt  such  rage,  resentment,  and  despair, 

As  thou,  sad  virgin !  for  thy  ravish  d  hair. 

First  and  third.  ^ 

Think  what  an  equipage  thou  hast  in  air, 
And  view  with  scorn  two  pages  and  a  chair. 

^^^  '        Jove's  thunder  roars,  heaven  trembles  all  around, 
Blue  Neptune  storms',  the  bellowing  deeps  resound^ 
Earth  shakes  her  nodding  towei^,  the  ground  gives  way, 
A  Dd  the  pale  ghosts  start  at  the  flash  of  day . 


BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE.  333 

Second  and  third. 


Again 


Sunk  in  Thalestris'  amiB,  the  nymph  he  found, 
Her  eyes  dejected,  and  her  hair  unoound. 


On  her  heaved  bosom  hung  her  drooping  head, 
Whiclkwith  a  sigh  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,  fiill  of  objects  new  and  singular,  be  not  mere  fairy-land.  la 
there  any  truth  in  the  appearance,  or  is  it  wholly  a  work  of  imagi- 
nation ?  We  cannot  doubt  of  its  reality,  and  we  may  with  assur- 
ance pronounce  that  great  is  the  merit  of  English  Heroic  verse  ;  for 
though  uniformity  prevails  in  the  arrangement,  in  the  equality  of 
the  hues,  and  in  the  resemblance  of  the  final  sounds,  variety  is  still 
more  conspicuous  in  the  pauses  and  in  the  accents,  which  are  diversi- 
fied in  a  surprising  manner.  Of  the  beauty  that  results  from  a  due 
mixture  of  uniformity  and  variety  (see  chapter  ix.),  many  instances 
have  already  occurred,  but  none  more  illustrious  than  English  versi- 
fication ;  however  rude  it  may  be  in  the  simplicity  of  its  arrange- 
ment, 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  prospect  to  find  it  susceptible  of  still  greater 
refinement. 

483.  We  proceed  to  blank  verse,  which  has  so  many  circum- 
stances in  common  with  rhyme,  that  its  peculiarities  may  be  brought 
within  a  narrow  compass.  With  respect  to  form,  it  diifers  from 
rhyme  in  rejectmg  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  at- 
tend the  imagination  in  its  boldest  flights.  Rhyme  necessarily 
divides  verse  into  couplets ;  each  couplet  makes  a  complete  musical 
period,  the  parts  of  which  are  divided  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  pro- 
ceeds couplet  after  couplet  I  have  often  had  occasion  to  mention 
the  correspondence  and  concord  that  ought  to  subsist  between  sound 
and  sense ;  fi-om  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  ditiicult  to  support 
such  strictness  of  composition,  licenses  are  indulged,  as.explajned 
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 

482.  To  what  sentitnenU  the  Tarion*  orders  of  Enclish  reree  »re  adapted.    E»anipl«a.— 
The  uniformity  and  tb«  variety  of  £i)gl!sti  vers*    The  bciuty  of  a  dac  mUtuf«  «i  t 


384  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

end  of  every  couplet :  the  same  period  as  to  sense  may  be  extended 
through  several  couplets ;  but  each  couplet  ought  to  contain  a  dis- 
tinct member,  distinguished  by  a  pause  in  the  sense  as  well  as  in  the 
6ound  ;  and  the  whole  ought  to  be  closed  with  a  complete  cadence.* 
Rules  such  as  these,  must  confine  ih}me  within  very  nan-ow  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  besides,  short  periods  afford 
no  latitude  for  inversion. 

484.  I  have  examined  this  point  with  the  stricter  accuracy,  in 
order  to  give  a  just  notion  of  blank  verse,  and  to  show  that  a  slight 
difference  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  Avord,  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  canied  on  with 
or  without  pauses,  till  a  period  of  the  utinost  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  re- 
straint is  necessary  in  order  to  preserve  a  coincidence  between  sense 
and  sound,  which  ought  to  be  aimed  at  in  general,  and  is  indispen- 
sable in  the  case  of  a  full  close,  because  it  has  a  striking  effect. 
Hence  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  con- 
tributes more  than  inversion  to  the  force  and  elevation  of  language ; 
the  couplets  of  rhyme  confine  inversion  within  narrow  limits ;  nor 
would  the  elevation  of  inversion,  were  there  access  for  it  in  rhyme, 
readily  accord  with  the  humbler  tone  of  that  sort  of  veree.  It  is  uni- 
versally agreed  that  the  loftiness  of  Milton's  style  supports  admirably 
the  subhraity  of  his  subject ;  and  it  is  not  less  certain  that  the  lofti- 
ness of  his  style  arises  chiefly  from  invei-sion.     Shakspeare  deals  little 

*  This  rule  is  quite  neglected  in  French  versification.  Even  Boilean  makes 
no  difficulty  to  close  one  subject  with  the  first  line  of  a  couplet,  and  to  begin  a 
new  subject  with  the  second.  Such  license,  however  sanctified  by  practice,  is 
unpleasant  by  the  discordance  between  the  pauses  of  the  sense  and  of  the 
melody. 

*^   Dow  blank  verse  differs  from  rhyme,  and  surpasses  It 

484.  The  rules  of  melody  la  blank  VM*e.— Fltnose  for  inverBJon.— Milton  and  5b«k- 
■peanvnyjo. 


MEAUTT  OF  LANGUAGE.  335 

in  inversion  ;  but  his  blank  verse  being  a  sort  of  measured  prose,  is 
perfectly  well  adapted  to  the  stage,  where  labored  inversion  is  hirtly 
improper,  because  in  dialogue  it  never  can  be  natural. 

485.  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  com- 
plete melody.  Its  music  is  not,  like  that  of  rhvme,  confined  to  a 
single  couplet ;  but  takes  in  a  great  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  meIo<]y, 
with  respect  both  to  richness  and  variety,  is  superior  far  to  that  of 
rhyme,  and  superior  even  to  that  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  Hexameter. 
Of  this  obsei-vation  no  pereon  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  the  sublimest 
sentiments  are  conspicuous.     Take  the  following  specimen : 

Now  Mom  her  rosy  steps  in  tli'  eastern  climo 

Advancing,  sow'cl  the  earth  with  orient  pearl ; 

When  Adam  waked,  so  eustom'd,  for  his  sleep 

Was  a6ry  light,  from  pnrc  digestion  bred 

And  temp'ratc  vapors  bland,  which  th'  only  sound 

Of  leaves  and  fuming  rills,  Aurora's  fan, 

Lightly  dispersed,  and  the  shrill  matin  song 

Of  birds  on  every  bough ;  so  much  the  more 

His  wonder  was  to  find  unwakcn'd  Eve, 

With  tresses  discomposed,  and  glowing  cheek, 

As  throucrh  unquiet  rest ;  he  on  his  side 

Leaning  half-raised,  with  looks  of  cordial  love 

Hung  over  her  enamor'd,  and  beheld 

Beauty,  which,  whether  waking  or  asleep, 

Shot  lorth  peculiar  graces ;  then  with  voice 

Mild,  as  when  Zephyrus  on  Flora  breathes, 

Her  hand  soft  touching,  whispor'd  thus  :  Awakt, 

My  fairest,  my  espoused,  my  latest  found, 

Heaven's  last  best  gift,  my  ever-new  delight. 

Awake;  the  morning  shines,  and  the  fresh  field 

Calls  us  :  wo  lose  the  prime,  to  mark  how  spring 

Our  tended  plants,  how  blows  the  citron  grove, 

What  drops  the  myrrh,  and  what  the  balmy  reed, 

How  nature  paints  her  colors,  and  how  the'boe 

Sits  on  the  bloom  extracting  liquid  sweet.— Book  V.  1.  1. 

Comparing  Latin  Hexameter  with  English  Heroic  rhyme,  the  for- 
mer has  obviously  the  advantage  in  the  following  particulars.  It 
is  greatly  preferable  as  to  anangement,  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  Hexameter  admits,  add 
rhyme  possfesses-a=gite&,,^,Tix.liQinpensate  tliese  advantages,  Englwh 
and  of  accents.  T^ese  two  sorts  of  ver°e  stand  indeed  pretty  rau^ 
ui  opposition :  in  Hexameter,  gieat  variety  of  anangement,  none  in 


336  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

the  pauses  nor  accents;  in  English  rhyme,  great  variety  in  the 
pauses  and  accents,  very  little  in  the  arrangement. 

486.  In  blank  veree  are  united,  in  a  good  measure,  the  several 
properties  of  Latin  Hexameter  and  English  rhyme ;  and  it  possesses 
besides  many  signal  properties  of  its  own.  It  is  not  confined,  like 
Hexameter,  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  ma- 
jesty than  arises  from  the  length  of  an  Hexameter  hue.  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  vei"se  is  circumscribed  to  a  line  ;  and  of  Eng- 
lish rhyme  to  a  couplet :  the  melody  of  blank  verse  is  under  no  con- 
finement, 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  Hexameter  in  many  articles,  and 
Inferior  to  it  in  none,  save  in  the  freedom  of  arrangement,  and  in  the 
use  of  long  words. 

48Y.  In  French  Heroic  verse,  there  are  found,  on  the  contraiy,  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  divi- 
ded by  the  pause  into  two  equal  parts,  and  the  accent  is  invariably 
placed  before  the  pause : 

Jeune  et  vaillant  her6s  J  dont  la  haute  sagesse 
N'est  point  la  fruit  tardif  B  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  inter- 
mission or  change.  I  cannot  set  this  matter  in  a  better  light,  than 
by  presenting  to  the  reader  a  French  translation  of  the  following 
passage  of  Milton : 

Two  of  far  nobler  Bhape,  erect  and  tall, 
Godlike  erect,  with  native  honor  clad, 
In  naked  majesty,  seem'd  lords  of  all, 
And  worthy  seem'd ;  for  in  their  looks  divine, 
The  image  of  their  glorious  Maker,  shone 
Truth,  wisdom,  sanctitude  severe  and  pure ; 
Severe,  but  in  true  filial  freedom  placed ; 
Whence  true  authority  in  men ;  though  both 
Not  equal,  as  their  sex  not  equal  seem'd ; 
For  contemplation  he  and  valor  form'd. 
For  softness  she  and  sweet  attractive  grace ; 
.     .  ■  .     , ,  He  for  God  only,  she  for  God  in  him. 

^4^'l^tln  Hexameter  compare.1  with  English  heroic  rbyuie;  compared  with  blauk 
verso,    rccullar  advantages  ol"  tbo  lalt«r 


BEAUTY  OF  LAxiGUAOE.  337 

VVere  the  pauses  of  the  sense  and  sound  in  this  passage  but  a  little 
better  assorted,  nothing  in  verse  could  be  more  melodious.  In  gen- 
eral, the  great  defect  in  Milton's  versification,  in  other  respects  ad- 
mirable, is  the  want  of  coincidence  between  the  pauses  of  tlie  sense 
and  sound. 

The  translation  is  in  the  following  words : 

Ces  lieux  d<51icieux,  ce  paradis  charmant, 
Ke^oit  do  deux  objetH  bou  plus  bel  ornenient; 
Leur  port  majestucux,  et  Icur  demarche  altierc, 
Semble  Icnr  mdriter  sur  la  nature  entiero 
Ce  droit  de  commander  quo  Dieu  leur  a  donne, 
Sur  lour  auguste  front  dc  gloirc  couronne. 
Du  Bouverain  du  ciel  brille  la  ressemblance ; 
Dans  lours  simples  regards  delate  I'innoecncc, 
L'adorablo  canclenr,  I'aimable  verity, 
La  raiflon,  la  sagesse,  et  la  severite, 

gu'adoucit  la  prudence,  et  cot  air  ae  droituro 
u  visago  des  rois  respectable  parurc. 
Ces  deux  objets  divins  n'ont  pas  les  rn^mcs  traita, 
lis  paraissent  formes,  quoique  tous  deux  parfitita ; 
L'un  pour  la  mai'est(5,  la  force,  et  la  noblesse ; 
L'autre  pour  la  aouceur,  la  grSce,  et  la  tendresac ; 
Celui-ci  pour  Dieu  soul,  l'autre  pour  I'honime  encor. 

Here  the  sense  is  fairly  translated,  the  words  are  of  equal  power, 
and  yet  how  inferior  the  melody ! 

488.  Many  attempts  have  been  made  to  introduce  Hexameter 
verse  into  the  lividg  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  polysylkHes  in  Latin  and 
Greek  are  finely  diversified  by  long  and  short  syllables,  a  circum- 
stance that  quahfies  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  ar- 
bitrary with  regard  to  length,  which  is  an  unlucky  circnmstance  in 
Hexameter :  for  although  custom,  as  observed  above,  may  render 
femihar  a  long  or  a  short  pronunciation  of  the  same  word,  yet  the 
mind  wavering  between  the  two  sounds,  cannot  be  so  much  affected 
with  either,  as  with  a  word  that  hath  always  the  same  sound ;  and 
for  that  reason,  arbitrary  sounds  are  ill  fitted  for  a  melody  which  \s 
chiefly  supported  by  quantity.  In  Latin  and  Greek  Hexameter,  in- 
variable sounds  direct  and  ascertain  the  melody.  English  Hexam- 
eter would  be  destitute  of  melody,  unless  by  artful  pronunciation ; 
because  of  necessity  the  bulk  of  its  sounds  must  be  arbitrary.  The 
pronunciation  is  easy  in  a  simple  movement  of  alternate  long  and 
short  syllables ;  but  would  be  perplexing  and  unpleasant  in  tlie  di- 
versified movement  of  Hexameter  verse. 

489.  Rhyme  makes  so  great  a  figure  in  modern  poetry  as  to 
deserve  a  solemn  trial.     I  have  for  that  reason  reser\-ed  it  to  be  ex- 

4S7.  Defects  of  French  heroic  verse.— Defect  In  Milton's  verslfleatlon. 
488.  Attempts  to  introtiuce  Hexameter  verse  into  the  living  lanifuages.    The  EngliM 
luguage  unsuitc^  to  it. 


338  BEAUTY  OF  LANGUAGE. 

amined  with  deliberation ;  in  order  to  discover,  if  I  can,  its  peculiai 
beauties,  and  its  degree  of  merit.  The  first  \-iew  of  {his  subject  leads 
naturally  to  the  following  reflection  :  "  That  rhyme  having  no  rela- 
tion to  sentiment,  nor  any  effect  U2)on  the  ear  other  than  a  mere  jin- 
gle, ought  to  be  banished  all  compositions  of  any  dignity,  as  afibrd- 
ing  but  a  trifling  and  childish  pleasure."  It  will  also  be  observed, 
"  That  a  jingle  of  words  hath  in  some  measure  a  ludicrous  efiect ; 
witness  the  double  rhymes  of  Iludibras,  which  contribute  no  small 
share  to  its  drolleiy ;  that  in  a  serious  work  this  ludicrous  efiect 
would  be  equally  remarkable,  were  it  not  obscured  by  the  prevailing 
gi-a\nty  of  the  subject :  that  having  however  a  constant  tendency  to 
give  a  ludicrous  air  to  the  composition,  more  than  ordinaiy  fiie  is 
requisite  to  support  the  dignity  of  the  sentiments  against  such  an 
undennining  antagonist." 

These  arguments  are  specious,  and  have,  undoubtedly,  some  weight. 
Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  it  ought  to  be  considered  that  in  modem 
tongues  rhyme  has  become  universal  aanong  men  as  well  as  chil- 
dren ;  and  that  it  cannot  have  such  a  cun-ency  without  some  foun- 
dation in  human  nature.  In  fact,  it  has  been  successfully  employed 
by  poets  of  genius,  in  their  serious  and  grave  compositions,  as  well 
as  in  those  which  are  more  light  and  aiiy.  Here  in  weighing  au- 
thority against  argiunent,  the  scales  seem  to  be  upon  a  level ;  and 
therefore,  to  come  at  any  tiling  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  re- 
peated after  inter\'als,  may  have  the  eftect  to  rouse  attention,  and  to 
keep  the  hearer  awake :  and  a  variety  of  similar  sounds,  succeeding 
each  other  after  regular  intervals,  must  have  a  still  stronger  efiect. 
This  consideration  is  appUcable  to  rhjTne,  which  connects  two  verse- 
lines  by  making  them  close  with  two  words  similar  in  sound.  And 
considei-ing  attentively  the  musical  efiect  of  a  couplet,  we  find,  that 
it  rouses  the  mind,  and  produceth.an  emotion  moderately  gay  with- 
out dignity  or  elevation :  like  the  murmuring  of  a  brook  gliding 
through  pebbles,  it  calms  the  mind  when  perturbed,  and  gently 
i^ses  it  when  sunk.  These  efiects  are  scarce  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,  distiess, 
or  melancholy,  to  some  degree  of  ease  and  alacrity.  The  speech  of 
Alicia,  at  the  close  of  the  fourth  act  of  Jane  Shore,  puts  the  matter 
beyond  doubt :  in  a  scene  of  deep  distress,  the  rhymes  winch  finish 
the  act,  produce  a  certain  gayety  and  cheerfulness,  far  from  accord 
ing  with  the  tone  of  the  passion : 

AUcia.  Forever !    Oh    Forever ! 
Ob !  who  can  bear  to  be  a  wTCtcb  forever  I 


BEAUTT  OF  LANGUAGE.  339 

My  rival  too !  his  la«t  thoughts  hun;;  on  her: 
And,  hs  he  ported,  left  a  blessing  for  her: 
Shall  she  be  ble.ss'd,  and  I  be  cursed,  forever  I 
No ;  sinc-e  her  fatal  beauty  was  the  cause 
Of  all  my  suflf 'rings,  let  her  share  my  paina; 
Let  her,  like  mo  of  every  joy  forlorn. 
Devote  the  hour  when  such  a  wretch  was  bom  I 
Like  nie  to  deserts  and  to  darkness  run, 
Abhor  the  day,  and  curse  the  golden  sun ; 
Caat  every  good  and  every  hope  behind ; 
Detest  the  works  of  nature,  loathe  mankind : 
Like  me  with  cries  distracted  fill  tlie  air,      ) 
Tear  her  poor  bosom,  and  her  frantic  hair,  > 
And  prove  the  torments  of  the  last  despair. ) 

•190.  Jl&ving  described,  the  best  way  I  caa,  the  impressioa  that 
rhyme  makes  on  the  mind ;  I  proceed  to  examine  whether  there  be 
any  subjects  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  Grandeur  and  Sublimity  it  is  established,  that  a  grand  or  sublime 
object  inspires  a  warm  enthusiastic  emotion  disdaining  strict  regu- 
larity 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  bo  the  effect  ? 
The  intimate  union  of  the  music  with  the  subject  produces  an  in- 
timate union  of  their  emotions ;  one  inspired  by  the  subject,  which 
tends  to  elevate  and  expand  the  mind  ;  and  one  inspired  by  the 
music,  which,  confining  the  mind  within  the  narrow  Hmits  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  is  scarce  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  up- 
ward ;  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  witli,  how  can  we  expect  a 
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  ? 

491.  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  subject  to  its  own  degree  of  elevation.  Addison  (Spectator, 
No.  285)  observes,  "That  rhyme,  without  any  other  assisUnce, 
throws  the  language  off  from  prose,  and  very  often  makes  an  ia- 

489.  Objections  to  rhyme.    The  answer.— Tlw  music  of  rbymei    Example 
400.  finbjecu  to  which  rbyin*  b  pecniterif  adapted  '*i  '»«r ' 


34.0  liEAUTY  OF  LANOrAOB. 

different  plira<e  pass  unregarded ;  but  where  the  verse  is  not  built 
upon  rhyme,  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  ad- 
hering to  rhyme  in  these  compositions.  He  indeed  candidly  owns, 
that,  even  with  the  support  of  rhyme,  the  tragedies  of  his  countiy 
are  little  better  than  conversation-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. 

492.  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  fol- 
lowing : 

0  the  pleasing,  pleasing  anguish, 
"When  we  love  and  when  we  languish  ! 
^  -  Wishes  rising, 

Thoughts  surprising, 
Pleasure  courting, 
Charms  transporting. 
Fancy  viewing, 
Joys  ensuing, 
0  the  pleasing,  pleasing  anguish ! 

Bosatnond,  Act  I.  Sc  2. 

For  that  reason,  such  frequent  rhymes  are  very  improper  for  any  se- 
vere 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, 

All  alone. 

Unheard,  unknown, 

He  makes  his  moan, 

And  calls  her  ghost. 
Forever,  ever,  ever  lost; 

Now  with  furies  surrounded, 

Despairing,  confounded. 

He  trembles,  he  glows,  ^,    ,     »,     .     ,  «- 

Amidst  Rodopd's  snows.— Po/w,  Ode  for  Music,  L  97. 

Rhyme  is  not  less  unfit  for  anguish  or  deep  distress,  than  for 
subjects  elevated  and  lofty ;  and  for  that  reason  has  been  long  disused 
in  the  English  and  Italian  tragedy.  In  a  work  where  the  subject 
is  serious  though  not  elevated,  rhyme  has  not  a  good  effect ;  be- 
cause the  airiness  of  .the  melody  agrees  not  with  the  gravity  of  the 

401.  Oiie  advantage  of  rliymc— AdtUsou's  remark.— Effect  of  rbjine  in  French  Teiea. 


BEAUTY  OF  LANGCAOE.  341 

subject :  the  Essay  on  Man,  which  treats  a  subject  great  and  im- 
portant, would  make  a  bettep  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  ;  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  towards  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  en- 
chants the  mind  as  to  draw  a  veil  over  very  gross  faults  and  im- 
perfections. 


A  LIST  OF  THE  DIFFERENT  FEET,  AND  OF  THEIR  NAMES. 

1.  PrRRHioHiua,  consists  of  two  short  syllables,  examples :  Detu,  givtn,  eaniwt, 

hillock,  running. 

2.  Spondees,  consists  of  two  long  syllables :  omnes,po»$ttM,  forewarn,  mankind, 

sometime. 

8.  Iambus,  composed  of  a  short  and  a  long :  pics,  inUnt,  degree,  appear,  content, 

repent,  demand,  report,  suepect,  affront,  event. 
4.  TnocH^us,  or  Choreus,  a  long  and  short:  fervat,  whereby,  after,  legal, 

measure,  burden-,  holy,  lofty. 

6.  Tribracuys,  tliree  short :  melius,  property. 

6.  Moj-oasca,  three  long :  delectant. 

7.  ANAP.fiSTCS,  two  short  and  a  long :  animos.  coiukscend,  apprehend,  overheard, 

acquiesce,  immature,  overcharge,  serenade,  opportune. 

8.  Dacttlcs,  a  long  and  two  short :  carmina,  evident,  excellence,  estimate,  von- 

derful,  altitude,  burdened,  minister,  tenement. 

9.  Bacchius,  a  short  and  two  long :  dolores. 

10.  Hyppobacchius,  or  Antibacchius,  two  long  and  a  short :  pelluntur. 

11.  Cbeticus,  or  Akphuiaoer,  a  short  syllable  between  two  long :  intito,  after- 

noon. 

12.  AitPHiBRACHYS,  a  long  syllable  between  two  short:  honore,  consider,  im- 

prudent, procedure,  attended,  proposed,  respondent,  eoncurrente,  apprentice, 
respective,  revenue. 
18.  Pbockleusmaticus,  four  short  syllables :  hominibut,  necessary. 

14.  DispoNDKua,  four  long  syllables :  infinitis. 

15.  DiiAMBUs,  composed  of  two  Iambi :  severitas. 

16.  DrniocH Jius,  of  two  Trochaai :  permanere,  procurator. 

17.  loNious,  two  short  syllables  and  two  long :  properabant. 

18.  Another  foot  passes  under  the  same  name,  composed  of  two  long  tylUblM 

and  two  short :  caicaribus,  possessory. 

19.  CuoRiAiTBus,  two  short  syllables  between  two  long :  nobilitas. 

20.  A^•TISPASTDS,  two  long  syllables  between  two  short :  Alexander, 

492.  Power  of  rhyme  in  poems  of  short  llnea.— Frequent  rhymeN  where  uMnltrfiU. 
Efaay  on  Man.—Subjects  that  form  tho  province  of  rhyme— List  of  FeeU 


34:2  COMPARISONS. 

21.  Pjson  1st,  one  long  syllable  and  three  short :  temporibus,  ordinary,  inven- 

tory, temperament. 

22.  PjioN  2d,  the  second  syllable  long,  and  the  other  three  short :  rapidity, 

solemnity,  minority,  considered,  imprudently,  exti-avagant,  respectfully,  ac- 
cordingly. 
28.  P^JON  8d,  the  third  syllable  long  and  the  other  three  short :  animatvg,  in- 
dependent, condescendence,  sacerdotal,  reimbursement,  manufacture. 

24.  P^oN  4th,  the  last  syllable  long  and  the  other  three  short :  celeritas. 

25.  EprrKrrus  1st,  the  first  syllable  short  and  the  other  three  long :  voluptates. 

26.  EpiTErrus  2d,  the  secoud  syllable  short  and  the  other  three  long :  panifentes. 

27.  Epitritcs  3d,  the  third  syllable  short,  and  the  other  three  long:  discordias. 

28.  EprrErrus  4th,  the  last  syllable  short,  and  the  other  three  long :  fortunatus. 

29.  A  word  of  five  syllables  composed  of  a  Pyrrhichius  and  Dactylus :  7nin- 

isterial. 
80.  A  word  of  five  syllables  composed  of  u  TrochtBus  and  Dactylas :  singularity. 
31.  A  word  of  five  syllables  composed  of  a  Dactylus  and  Trochseus  :  precipita 

Hon,  examination. 

82.  A  word  of  five  syllables,  the  second  only  long :  significancy. 

83.  A  word  of  six  syllables  composed  of  two  Dactyles  :  impetuosity. 

84.  A  word  of  six  syllables  composed  of  a  Tribrachys  and  Dactylse  ;  pusilla- 

nimity. 

a.  B. — Eveiy  word  may  be  considered  Jis  a  prose  foot,  because 
every  word  is  drstinguished  by  a  pause ;  and  every  foot  in  verse 
may  be  considered  as  a  verse  word,  composed  of  syllables  pro- 
nounced at  once  without  a  pause. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

COMPARISONS. 

[Hazlitt  has  some  observations  on  the  subject  of  poetry  that  will 
serve  as  an  introduction  to  the  present  chapter. — Ed. 

493.  Poetry  is  strictly  the  language  of  the  imagination  ;  and  the 
imagination  is  that  faculty  which  represents  objects,  not  as  they  are 
in  themselves,  but  as  they  are  moulded  by  other  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings, into  an  infinite  variety  of  shapes  and  combinations  of  power. 
This  language  is  not  the  less  true  to  nature  because  it  is  false  in 
point  of  fact ;  but  so  much  the  more  true  and  natural,  if  it  conveys 
the  impression  which  the  object  under  the  influence  of  passion  makes 
on  the  mind.  Let  an  object,  for  instance,  be  presented  to  the  senses 
in  a  state  of  agitation  or  fear,  and  the  imagination  will  distort  or 
magnify  the  object,  and  convert  it  into  the  likeness  of  whatever  is 
most  proper  to  encourage  the  fear.  "  Our  eyes  are  made  the  fools  of 
the  other  faculties."     This  is  the  universal  law  of  the  imagination. 

We  compare  a  man  of  gigantic  stature  to  a  tower,  not  that  he  u 


COMPARISONS.  843 

any  thing  like  so  large,  but  because  the  excess  of  his  size  beyond 
what  we  are  accustomed  to  expect,  or  the  usual  size  of  things  of  the 
same  class,  produces  by  contrast  a  greater  feeling  of  magnitude  and 
of  ponderous  strength  than  another  object  of  ten  times  the  same 
dimensions.  The  intensity  of  the  feeling  makes  up  for  the  dispro- 
portion of  the  objects.  Things  are  equal  to  the  imagination  which 
nave  the  power  of  affecting  the  mind  with  an  equal  degree  of  terror, 
admiration,  delight,  or  love.     ♦ 

Poetry  is  only  the  highest  eloquence  of  passion,  the  most  vivid 
form  of  expression  that  can  be  given  to  our  conception  of  any  thing, 
whether  pleasurable  or  painful,  mean  or  dignified,  delightful  or  dis- 
tressing. It  is  the  perfect  coincidence  of  the  image  and  the  words 
with  the  feeling  we  have,  and  of  which  we  cannot  get  rid  in  any 
other  way  that  gives  an  instant  "  satis&ction  to  the  thought."  This 
is  equally  the  origin  of  wit  and  fancy,  of  comedy  and  tragedy,  of 
the  sublime  and  pathetic. — Lect.  i.] 

Comparisons,  as  observed  above  (chapter  viii.),  serve  two  pur- 
poses ;  when  addressed  to  the  understanding,  their  purpose  is  to  in- 
struct ;  when  to  the  heart,  their  pui-pose  is  to  please.  Various  means 
contribute  to  the  latter :  first,  the  suggesting  some  unusual  resem- 
blance or  contrast ;  second,  the  setting  an  object  in  the  strongest 
light ;  third,  the  associating  an  object  with  others,  that  are  agree- 
able ;  fourth,  the  elevating  an  object ;  and  fifth,  the  depressing  it 
And  that  comparisons  may  give  pleasure  by  these  various  means, 
appears  from  what  is  said  in  the  chapter  above  cited  ;  and  will  be 
made  still  more  e\-ident  by  examples,  which  shall  be  given  after 
premising  some  general  observations. 

Objects  of  different  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,  anil 
of  touch ;  but  the  chief  fund  of  comparison  are  objects  of  sight ;  be- 
cause, 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. 

494.  When  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  tlie  force  of  novelty, 
carried  beyond  moderation.  Thus,  in  the  early  poems  of  every 
nation,  wo 'find  metaphora  and  similes  founded  on  slight  and  ihs- 
tant  resemblances,  which,  losing  their  grace  with  their  novelty,  wear 
gradually  out  of  repute;  and  now,  by  the  improvement  of  ta-jte, 
none  but  conect  metaphors  and  similes  are  admitted  into  any  polite 
composition.     To  illustrate  this  observation,  a  specimen  shall  bo 

493.  nazlitt's  remarks  on  poetry. -I* arpo««»  answered  by.«>™P%^'^.,.^VI^^LT!!J!? 
tlie>  give  pleasure  -Ol.jecte  tlmt  cannot  be  coiu'tre.)  ^)lrelher.-Thc  d.lef  mnd  or  chu 


314  COMPARISONS. 

given  afterwards  of  suc^  metaphors  as  I  have  been  describing ;  witL 
respect  to  similes,  take  the  following  specimen  : 

Behold,  thou  art  fair,  my  love ;  thy  hair  is  as  a  flock  of  goats  that  appear 
from  Mount  Gilead :  thy  teeth  are  like  a  flock  of  sheep  from  the  washing,  every 
one  bearing  twins  :  tliy  lips  are  like  a  thread  of  scarlet ;  thy  neck  like  the  tower 
of  David  built  for  an  armory,  whereon  hang  a  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  tlie  tower  of  Lebanon,  looking  towards  Damascus.— /Son^  of  Solomm. 

Thou  art  like  snow  on  the  heath  ;  thy  hair  like  the  mist  of  Cromla,  when  it 
curls  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  in  the  hall  of  the  mighty  Y'mgal.—FinffaL 

495.  It  has  no  good  effect  to  compare  things  by  way  of  simile 
that  are  of  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  com- 
parison built  upon  a  resemblance  so  obvious  as  to  make  little  or  no 
impression. 

This  just  rebuke  inflamed  the  Lycian  crew, 

They  join,  they  thicken,  and  the  assault  renew ; 

Unmoved  th'  embodied  Greeks  their  fury  dare, 

And  fix'd  support  the  weight  of  all  the  war; 

Nor  could  the  Greeks  repel  the  Lycian  powers, 

Nor  the  bold  Lycians  force  the  Grecian  towers. 

As  on  the  confines  of  adjoining  grounds. 

Two  stubborn  swains  with  blows  dispute  their  bounds ; 

They  tug,  they  sweat ;  but  neither  gain,  nor  yield, 

One  foot,  one  inch,  of  the  contended  field  : 

Thus  obstinate  to  death,  they  fight,  they  fall ;  __ 

Nor  these  can  keep,  nor  those  can  win  the  wall.— irtaa,  xn.  505. 

Another,  from  Milton,  lies  open  to  the  same  objection.  Speaking 
of  the  fallen  angels  searching  for  mines  of  gold, 

A  numerous  brigade  hasten'd ;  as  when  bands 
Of  pioneers  with  spade  and  pick-axe  arm'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. 

*  Queen.  What,  is  my  Richard  both  in  shape  and  mind. 

Transform'd  and  weat?    Hath  Bolingbroke  deposed 
Thine  intellect?    Hath  he  been  in  thy  heart ! 
The  lion  thrusteth  forth  his  paw, 
And  wounds  the  earth,  if  nothing  else,  with  rage 
To  be  o'erpowored ;  and  wilt  thou,  pupil-like. 
Take  thy  correction  mildly,  kiss  the  rod, 
And  fawn  on  rage  with  base  humility  ?         ,,,,,,,.£<     i 

Jiichard  II.  Act  V.  Sc.  1. 

This  comparison  has  scarce  any  force ;  a  man  and  a  lion  are  of  dif- 
ferent species,  and  therefore  are  proper  subjects  for  a  simile ;  but 
there  is  no  such  resemblance  between  them  in  general,  as  to  pro- 

494  The  early  poems  of  every  nation.  ,  ,    ,i    .„j  «^„*—.t 

495.  What  things  Bliould  not  be  compared  by  way  of  simUe  and  contrast 


CC  VIPABIbONS.  345 

duce  any  strong  effect  by  contrasting  particular  attributes  or  cir- 
cumstances, 

496.  A  third  genial  observation  is,  That  abstract  terms  can  never 
be  the  subject  of  comparison,  otherwise  than  by  being  personified. 
Shakspeare  compares  adversity  to  a  toad,  and  slander  to  the  bite  of 
a  crocodile ;  but  in  such  comparisons  these  abstract  terras  must  be 
imagined  sensible  beings. 

To  have  a  just  notion  of  comparisons,  they  must  be  distinguished 
into  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  more 
distant  and  refined,  where  two  things  that  have  in  themselves  no 
resemblance  or  opposition,  are  compared  with  respect  U)  their  effects. 
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  obser\'e 
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.  It  is  like  the  precious  ointment  upon  the  head,  that  ran  down  upon 
Aaron's  beard,  and  descended  to  the  skirts  of  his  gr.rment.— Pw^w  133. 

For  illustrating  this  soi-t  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  vf  ice  ?  or  is  it  the  sound  of  days  that  are  no  more  f 
Often,  like  the  evening  sun,  comes  the  memory  of  former  times  on  my  soul. 

His  countenance  is  settled  from  war;  and  is  calm  as  the  evening  beam,  that 
from  the  cloud  of  the  west  looks  on  Crona'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. 

Pleasant  are  the  words  of  the  song,  said  Cuchullin,  and  lovelv  are  the  Uilea 
of  other  times.  They  are  like  the  calm  dew  of  the  morning  on  tlie  hill  of  rocx, 
when  the  sun  is  faint  on  its  side,  and  the  lake  is  settled  and  blue  m  the  vale. 

These  quotations  are  from  the  poems  of  Ossian,  who  abounds  with 
comparisons  of  this  delicate  kind,  and  appears  singularly  happy  in 
them. 

497.  I  proceed  to  illustrate  by  particular  instances  tlie  different 
means  by  which  comparisons,  whether  of  tlje  one  sort  or  the  other, 
can  afford  pleasure ;  and,  in  the  order  above  established,  I  begin 
with  such  instances  as  are  agreeable,  by  suggesting  soino  un  isual 
resemblance  or  contrast : 

Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity, 
Which,  like  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous, 
Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  bead.  ^^  ^^  ^^^  ^^  ^  ^ 


496.  Abstract  terms  -Two  kinds  of  ooinpaTl»on!..-lIow  o  flower-pot  and  »  cb^rfW  I 
nay  l>e  coinpare<l.    Otb«r  exunplef. 

15* 


34-6  COMPARISONS. 

Gardiner.  Bolingbroke  hath  seized  the  wasteful  kinar. 
vV  hat  pity  is't  that  he  had  not  so  trimm'd 
And  dress'd  his  land,  as  we  this  garden  dress, 
And  wound  the  bark,  the  skin  of  our  fruit-trees; 
Lest,  being  over  proud  with  sap  and  blood, 
With  too  much  riches  it  confound  itself. 
Had  he  done  so  to  great  and  growing  men. 
They  might  have  lived  to  bear,  and  he  to  tast« 
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  II.  Act  II.  Sc.  7. 
See,  how  the  Morning  opes  her  golden  gates, 
And  takes  her  farewell  of  the  glorious  Sun ; 
How  well  resembles  it  the  prime  of  youtli, 
Trimm'd  like  a  younker  prancing  to' his  love  ! 

Second  Part  Henry  IV.  Act  11.  Sc.  1. 

Brutus.  O  Cassius,  you  are  yoked  with  a  lamb, 
That  carries  anger  as  the  flint  bears  fire ; 
Who  much  enforced,  shows  a  hasty  spark. 
And  straight  is  cold  again.  Jullm  Cmar,  Act  IV.  So.  8. 

Thus  they_ their  doubtful  consultations  dark 
Ended,  rej'oicing  in  their  matchless  chief; 
As  when  from  mountain-tops,  the  dusky  clouds 
Ascending,  while  the  north-wind  sleeps,  o'erspread 
Heaven's  cheerful  face,  the  low'ring  element 
Scowls  o'er  the  darken'd  landscape,  snow  and  shower; 
If  chance  the  radiant  sun  with  farewell  sweet 
Extends  his  evening  beam,  the  fields  revive, 
The  birds  their  notes  renew,  and  bleating  herds 
Attest  their  joy,  that  hill  and  valley  rinM. 

Paradise  Lost,  Book  ii. 

As  tlie  bright  stars  and  milky  w*ay, 

Sliow'd  by  the  night  are  hid'by  day ; 

So  we  in  that  accomplish'd  mind, 

Ilelp'd  by  the  night,  new  graces  find, 

Which  by  the  splendor  of  her  view, 

Diizzled  before,  we  never  knew.  WaiUr. 

The  last  exertion  of  courage  compared  to  the  blaze  of  a  lamp 
before  extinguishing,  Tasso  Gicruaalem,  Canto  xix.  st.  xxii. 

None  of  the  foiegoing  similes,  as  they  appear  to  me,  tend  to  il- 
lustrate the  principal  subject ;  and  therefore  the  pleasure  they  afford 
must  arise  from  suggesting  resemblances  that  are  not  obvious ;  I 
nean  the  chief  pleasure ;  for  undoubtedly  a  beautiful  subject  intro- 
duced to  form  the  simile  affords  a  separate  pleasure,  which  is  felt  in 
ihe  similes  mentioned,  particularly  in  that  cited  from  Milton. 

498.  The  next  effect  of  a  comparison  in  the  oider  mentioned, 
is  to  place  an  object  in  a  strong  point  of  view;  which  effect  is  re- 
markable in  the  following  similes  : 

As  when  two  scales  are  charged  with  doubtful  loads, 
Frori  side  to  side  tlie  trembling  bal.ance  nods, 
(Whilst  some  laborious  matron,  just  and  poor, 
With  nice  exactness,  weighs  her  woolly  store), 


49T.  Comparisons  aflVrd  pleasure  by  sa^eetloa. 


COMPARISONS.  847 

Till  poised  aloft  the  resting  beam  auspenda 

Each  equal  weight :  nor  this  nor  that  do«cend» ; 

So  stood  the  war,  till  Hector's  matchless  mij^ht, 

With  fates  prevailing,  tum'd  the  scale  of  fight, 

Fierce  as  a  whirlwind  up  the  wall  he  flies. 

And  fires  his  host  with  loud  repeated  cries. — Iliad,  b.  xiii.  681, 

Zvcetta.  I  do  not  seek  to  quench  your  love's  hot  fire. 
But  qualify  the  fire's  extreme  rage, 
Lest  It  should  burn  above  the  bounds  of  reason. 

Julia,  The  more  thon  damm'st  it  up,  the  more  it  bums ; 
The  cun*ent  that  with  gentle  murmur  glides, 
Thou  know'st,  being  stopp'd,  impatiently  doth  rage ; 
But  when  his  fair  course  is  not  hmdered,  • 

He  makes  sweet  music  with  th'  enamell'd  stones, 
Giving  a  gentle  kiss  to  every  sedge 
He  overtaTceth  in  his  pilgrimage ; 
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  hist  step  have  brought  me  to  my  love; 
And  there  I'll  rest,  as,  after  much  turmoil, 
A  blessed  soul  doth  in  Elysium. 

Two  GentUtnen  of  Verona,  Act  II.  Sc.  Itt. 

-  She  never  told  her  love 


But  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud, 

Feed  on  her  damask  cheek ;  she  pined  in  thought 

And  with  a  green  and  yellow  melancholy, 

She  sat  like  Patience  ou  a  monument, 

SmUing  at  grief.  Twel/th-Ni^ht,  Act  II.  So.  ft> 

Fori.  Then,  as  I  said,  the  Duke,  ereat  Bolingbroke, 
Mounted  upon  n  hot  and  fiery  steed. 
Which  his  aspiring  rider  seem'd  to  know. 
With  slow  but  stately  pace  kept  on  his  course : 
While  all  tongues  cried,  God  save  thee,  Bolingbroke. 

Dutchess.  Alas!  poor  Richard,  where  rides  he  the  while  I 

York.  As  in  a  theatre,  the  eyes  of  men. 
After  a  well-graced  actor  leaves  the  stage. 
Are  idly  bent  on  him  wiio  enters  next. 
Thinking  his  prattle  to  be  tedious : 
Even  so,  or  with  much  more  contempt,  men's  eyes 
Did  scowl  on  Richard:  no  man  cried,  God  save  him  I 
No  joyful  tongue  gave  him  his  welcome  home ; 
But  dust  was  thrown  upon  his  sacred  head: 
Which  with  such  gentle  sorrow  ho  shook  oflt. 
His  face  still  combatihjj  with  tears  and  Bmilos, 
The  badges  of  his  grief  and  patience ; 
That  had  not  God,  for  some  strong  purpose,  steel  d 
The  hearts  of  men,  they  must  perforce  have  melted. 
And  barbarism  itself  have  pitied  him^.^^^  ^  ^^  ^,  ^  ^ 

Northurriberland.  How  doth  my  son  and  brotJierl 
Thou  tremblest,  and  the  whiteness  in  thy  cheek 
Is  apter  than  thy  tongue  to  tell  thy  errand. 
Even  such  a  man,  so  faint,  so  spiritless, 
So  dull,  so  dead  in  look,  bo  woe-be-gone. 
Drew  Priam's  curtain  iii  the  dead  of  night, 
And  would  have  told  him,  half  his  Troy  was  bum  d ; 
But  Prism  found  the  fire,  ere  he  his  tongue : 
And  I  my  Percy's  death,  erc^rej^^Jtj^u;^  ^^  Act  1.  8c.  H 


848  COMPARISONS. 

Why,  then  I  do  but  dream  on  sov'reignty, 

Like  one  that  stands  upon  a  promontory, 

And  spies  a  far-offshore  where  he  would  tread. 

Wishing  his  foot  were  equal  with  liis  eye. 

And  chides  the  sea  that  sunders  him  from  thenco, 

Saying,  he'll  lave  it  dry  to  have  his  way : 

So  do  1  wish, the  crown  being  so  far  off, 

And  so  1  chide  the  means  that  keep  me  from  it, 

And  so  (I  say)  I'll  cut  tlie  causes  off, 

Flatt'ring  my  mind  with  things  impos;  'ble. 

Third  Part  Henry  VI.  Act  III.  Sc.  8. 


•  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.  Macbeth,  Act  V.  Sc.  5. 

0  thou  Goddess, 

Thou  divine  Nature !  how  thyself  thou  blazon'st 

In  these  two  princely  boys  !  they  are  as  gentle 

As  zeyhyrs  blowing  below  the  violet, 

Not  wagging  his  sweet  head ;  and  yet  as  rough, 

(Their  royal  blood  inchafed)  as  the  rudest  wind, 

That  by  the  top  doth  take  the  mountain  pine. 

And  make  him  stoop  to  the  vale.  Ct/rnbellnt,  Act  IV.  Sc.  4. 

Why  did  not  I  pass  away  in  secret,  like  the  flower  of  the  rock  that  lifts  iu 
fair  head  unseen,  and  strows  its  withered  leaves  on  the  blast  ? — Fingal. 

There  is  a  joy  in  grief  when  peace  dwells  with  the  sorrowful.  But  they  are 
wasted  with  mourning,  0  daughter  of  Toscar,  and  their  days  are  few.  Tlie> 
fall  away  like  the  flower  on  which  the  sun  looks  in  his  strength,  after  th» 
mildew  has  passed  over  it,  and  its  head  is  heavy  with  the  drops  of  nisht  — 
FingaZ.  f  e> 

The  sight  obtained  of  the  city  of  Jerusalem  by  the  Christian  army, 
compared  to  that  of  land  discovered  after  a  long  voyage,  Tasso's 
Gierusalem,  canto  iii.  st.  4.  The  fury  of  Rinaldo  subsiding  when 
not  opposed,  to  that  of  Avind  or  water  when  it  has  a  free  passage, 
canto  XX.  st.  58. 

499.  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  (book  ii.  1.  Ill)  compares 
the  Grecian  army  in  point  of  number  to  a  swarm  of  bees  :  in  an- 
other passage  (book  ii.  1.  551)  he  compares  it  to  that  profusion  ol 
leaves  and  flowers  which  appear  in  the  spring,  or  of  insects  in  a 
Bummer's  evening :  and  Milton, 


■  As  when  the  potent  rod 


Of  Amram'si  son,  in  Egypt's  evil  day, 

Waved  round  the  coast,  up  call'd  a  pitchy  doad 

Of  locusts,  warping  on  the  eastern  wind, 

That  o'er  the  realm  of  impious  Pharao  hunff 

f-ike  night,  and  darken'd  all  the  land  of  Nile: 

Ho  numoerless  were  those  bad  angels  seen, 

Hovering  on  win^  under  the  cope  of  hell, 

TVixt  upper,  nether,  and  surrounding  fires. — Paradise  Lost,''R.  i 


498  Secood  good  effect  of  a  comparison.    Example*. 


I 


COMPARISOXS.  349 

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  effect  by  contrast 

Torh.  I  am  the  last  of  noble  Edward's  sons, 
Of  whom  thy  father,  Prince  of  Wales,  was  first: 
In  war,  was  never  lion  raged  more  iierce : 
In  peace,  was  never  gentle  lamb  more  mild. 
Than  was  that  young  and  princely  gentleman. 
His  face  thou  hast,  for  even  so  look'd  he, 
Accomplish'd  with  the  number  of  thy  hours. 
But  w^hen  he  frown'd  it  was  against  the  French, 
And  not  again.st  his  friend.    His  noble  hand 
Did  win  what  he  did  spend ;  and  spent  not  that 
Which  his  triumphant  fathers  hand  had  won. 
His  hands  were  guilty  of  no  kindred's  blood, 
But  bloody  with  the  enemies  of  his  kin. 
Ob,  Richard !  York  is  too  far  gone  with  grief, 
Or  else  he  never  would  compare  between. 

Richard  II.  Act  II.  8c.  8. 

500.  Milton  has  a  peculiar  talent  in  embellishing  the  principal 
subject  by  associating  it  with  others  that  are  agreeable ;  which  i» 
the  third  end  of  a  comparison.  Similes  of  this  kind  have,  besides 
a  separate  effect :  they  diversify  the  nairation  by  new  images  thai 
are  not  strictly  necessary  to  the  comparison :  they  are  short  epi- 
sodes, which,  without  drawing  us  from  the  principal  subject,  afford 
great  delight  by  their  beauty  and  variety  : 

He  scarce  had  ceased,  when  the  superior  fiend 

Was  moving  toward  the  shore ;  his  pond'rous  shield 

Ethereal  temper,  massy,  large,  and  round. 

Behind  him  cast;  the  broad  circumference 

Hung  on  his  shoulders  like  the  moon,  whose  orb 

Through  optic  glass  the  Tuscan  artist  views 

At  evening  from  the  top  of  Fesol^, 

Or  in  Valdarno,  to- descry  new  lands, 

Elvers,  or  mountains,  in  her  spotty  globe. — MiUon,  b.  i. 


-Thus  far  these,  beyond 


Compare  of  mortal  prowess,  yet  observed 

Their  dread  commander.    He,  above  the  rest 

In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent. 

Stood  like  a  tower;  his  form  had  yet  not  lo«t 

All  her  original  brifrhtness,  nor  appeared 

Less  than  archansrcT  rnin'd  and  th'  excess 

Of  glory  obscured  :  as  when  the  sun  new-risen 

Looks  through  tho  horizontal  misty  air 

Shorn  of  his  beams ;  or  from  behind  tlio  mo<Mi 

In  dim  eclipse,  disastrous  twilight  sheds 

On  half  the  nations,  and  with  tear  of  ohan^ 

Perplexes  monarchs.  Milton,  b.  L 

As  when  a  vulture  on  Tmaus  bred, 

Whoso  snowy  ridge  the  roving  Tartar  bounds, 

499.  How  thf  t<Ie«  of  a  great  ngubrr  Is  bMt  eonrtfti. 


360  COMPARI3CN8. 

Dislodging  from  a  reerion  scarce  of  prey 

To  gorge  tlie  flesh  of  lamba,  or  yeanling  kids, 

On  hills  where  flocks  are  fed,  fly  towards  the  spring* 

Of  Ganges  or  Hydaspes,  Indian  streams. 

But  in  his  way  lights  on  the  barren  plains 

Of  Sericana,  where  Chincses  drive 

With  sails  and  wind  their  cany  wagons  light : 

So  on  this  windy  sea  of  land,  the  fiend 

Walk'd  up  and  down  alone,  bent  on  his  prey. — Milton,  b.  L 

-Yet  higher  than  their  tops 


The  verdurous  wall  of  Paradise  up  spruno;: 

Which  to  our  general  sire  gave  prospect  large 

Into  this  nether  empire  neighboring  round. 

And  higher  than  that  wall,  a  circling  row 

Of  goodliest  trees  loaden  with  fairest  fruit. 

Blossoms  and  fruits  at  once  of  golden  hue, 

Appear'd,  with  gay  enamell'd  colors  mix'd. 

On  which  the  sun  more  glad  impress'd  his  beams 

Than  in  fair  evening  cloud,  or  humid  bow. 

When  God  had  shower'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  ;  novv  gentle  gales 

Fanning  their  odoriferous  v/ings,  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 

Saboan  odor  from  the  spi<^y  shore 

Of  Araby  tlie  blest ;  with  such  delay 

Well  pleased,  they  slack  their  course,  and  many  a  league, 

Cheer'd  with  the'grateful  smell,  old  Ocean  smiles. 

Milton,  b.  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  pros- 
pects or  elegant  buildings,  cheer  his  mind,  relieve  him  from  the 
languor  of  uniformity,  and  without  much  lengthening  his  journey, 
in  reality,  shorten  it  greatly  in  appearance. 

501.  Next  of  comparisons  that  aggrandize  or  elevate.  These 
afiect  us  more  than  any  other  sort :  the  reason  of  which  may  bo 
gathered  from  the  chapter  of  Grandeur  and  Sublimity  ;  and,  without 
reasoning,  will  be  evident  from  the  following  instances: 

As  when  a  flame  the  winding  valley  fills. 
And  runs  on  crackling  shrubs  between  the  hills, 
Then  o'er  the  stubble,  up  the  mountiiin  flies. 
Fires  the  high  woods,  and  blazes  to  the  skie.^. 
This  way  and  that,  the  spreading  torrent  roars ; 
So  sweeps  the  hero  through  the  wa.sted  shores. 
Aroiind  him  wide,  immense  destruction  pours, 
And  earth  is  deluged  with  the  sanguine  showers. 

Jliad,  XX.  569. 


500.  How  Milton  often  embellishes  tbo  principal  subject    The  separat*  efTect  of  tack 
fiuilles. 


COMPARIBON'R.  851 

Thio  gh  blood,  tlirongh  death,  AchilleB  still  proceed* 

O'er  slanghter'd  heroes,  and  o'er  rollitig  Bteeos. 

As  when  avenging  flames  with  furv  driven 

On  guilty  towns  exert  the  wrath  of  Heaven, 

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,  fiU'd  the  dreadful  day. — Iliad,  rxi.  405. 

Mcthinks.  King  Richard  and  myself  should  meet 
With  no  less  terror  than  the  elements 
Of  flre  and  water,  when  their  thundering  shock, 
At  meeting,  tears  the  cloudy  cheeks  of  heaven. 

Richard  II.  Act  III.  Sc.  5. 

As  nt'heth  a  foamy  stream  from  the  dark  shady  steep  of  Cromla,  when  thun- 
der is  rolling  above,  and  dark  brown  night  rests  on  the  hill :  so  fierce,  so  vast, 
BO  terrible,  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. — Fingal,  b.  i. 

As  roll  a  thousand  waves  to  a  rock,  so  Swaran's  host  cnme  on ;  as  meeta  a 
rock  a  thousand  waves,  so  Inisfail  met  Swaran. — Ibid. 

I  beg  peculiar  attention  to  the  following  simile  for  a  reason  that  shall 
be  mentioned  : 

Thus  breathing  death,  in  terrible  array^ 

The  close  compacted  legions  urged  their  way ; 

Fierce  they  drove  on,  impatient  to  destroy ; 

Troy  charged  the  first,  and  Hector  first  of  Troy. 

As  from  some  mountain's  craggy  forehead  torn, 

A  rock's  round  fragment  flies  witli  fury  borne, 

(Which  from  the  stubborn  stone  a  torrent  rends) 

I*recipitate  the  pond'rous  mass  descends ; 

From  steep  to  steep  the  rolling  ruin  bounds ; 

At  every  snock  the  crackling  wood  resounds  ! 

Still  gath'ring  force,  it  smolies ;  and,  urged  amain. 

Whirls,  leaps,  and  thunders  down,  impetuous  to  tne  plain : 

There  stops— So  Hector.    Their  whole  force  he  proved : 

Eesistless  when  he  raged ;  and  when  he  stopt,  unmoved. 

Iliad,  xliii.  187. 

The  image  of  a  falling  rock  is  certainly  not  elevating  (see  chap- 
ter iv.),  and  yet  undoubtedly  the  foregoing  simile  fires  and  swell* 
the  mind :  it  is  grand,  therefore,  if  not  sublime.  And  the  following 
simile  will  afford  additional  evidence  that  there  is  a  real,  though  nice 
distinction  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  his  shield 

Such  ruin  intercept.    Ten  paces  huge 

He  back  rccoil'd  ;  the  tenth  on  bended  knee 

His  massy  spenr  upstaid  ;  as  if  on  earth 

Winds  Aiuder  ground  or  waters  forcing  way, 

Sidelong  had  push'd  a  mountain  from  his  seat 

Half-sunk  with  all  his  pines.  MUion,  b.  vl 

602.  A  comparison  by  contrast  may  contribute  to  grandeur  or 


ML  ComparlMD*  tb«t  anrudtML 


352  COMPAEISONS. 

elevation,  no  less  than  by  resemblance  ;  of  Avhich  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,  by  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  com- 
parison among  Christians,  who  entertain  more  exalted  notions  of  the 
Deity,  would  justly  be  reckoned  exti-avagant  and  absurd. 

The  last  article  mentioned,  is  that  of  lessening  or  depressing  a  ha- 
ted or  disagreeable  object ;  which  is  effectually  done  by  i-esembling 
it  to  any  thing  low  or  despicable.  Thus  Milton,  in  his  description 
of  the  rout  of  the  rebel  angels,  happily  expresses  their  ten-or  and  dis- 
may in  the  following  simile : 

-As  a  herd 


Of  goats  or  timorous  flock  together  throng'd, 
Drove  them  before  him  thunderstruck,  pursued 
With  terrors  and  with  furies  to  the  bounds 
And  crystal  wall  of  heaven,  which  opening  wide, 
Koll'd  inward,  and  a  spacious  gap  disclosed 
Into  the  wasteful  deep:  the  monstrous  sight 
Struck  them  with  horror  backward,  but  far  worse 
Urged  them  behind ;  headlong  themselves  thev  threw 
Down  from  the  verge  of  heaven.  Milton,  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  cranes  (beginning  of 
book  iii.),  and  to  the  bleating  of  a  flock  of  sheep  (book  iv.  1.  498) : 
it  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  (Guardian,  No.  153), 
describing  the  figure  that  men  make  in  the  sight  of  a  superior  being, 
takes  opportunity  to  mortify  their  pride  by  comparing  them  to  a 
swarm  of  pismires. 

A  comparison  that  has  none  of  the  good  eflects  mentioned  in  tliis 
discourse,  but  is  built  upon  common  and  trifling  circumstances, 
makes  a  mighty  silly  figure : 

Non  sum  ucscius,  grandia  consilia  a  multis  plerumque  causie,  ceu  magna 
navjgia  a  plnrimis  remis,  impelli.  Strada,  de  bello  Belgico. 

503.  By  this  time,  I  imagine  the  difierent  purposes  of  comparison, 
and  the  various  impressions  it  makes  on  the  mind,  are  sufficiently 
illustrated  by  proper  examples.  This  was  an  easy  task.  It  is  more 
difficult  to  lay  down  rales  about  the  propriety  or  impropriety  of 
comparisons ;  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 

602.  Comparison  by  contrast  for  the  purpose  of  elevation,— How  a  hated  object  Is  de 
l>roMc<J.    Miltou'8  root  cf  the  rebel  angels.    Instance*  fk'om  Homer  and  Addtoon. 


COMPARISONS.  353 

Betlate,  is  not  disposed  to  poetical  flights,  nor  to  sacrifice  truth  and 
reality  to  imaginaiy  beauties :  far  less  is  he  so  disposed  when  op- 
pressed with  care,  or  interested  in  some  important  transaction  that 
engrosses  him  totally.  On  the  other  hand,  a  man,  when  elevated  or 
animated  by  passion,  is  disposed  to  elevate  or  animate  all  his  ob- 
jects :  he  avoids  familiar  names,  exalts  objects  by  circumlocution  and 
metaphor,  and  gives  even  life  and  voluntary  action  to  inanimate 
beings.  In  this  heat  of  mind,  the  highest  poetical  flights  are  in- 
dulged, and  the  boldest  similes  and  metaphors  relished.*  But  with- 
out soaring  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,  or  that  embellish  and  diversify  the 
narration.  In  general,  when  by  any  animating  passion,  whether 
pleasant  or  painful,  an  impulse  is  given  to  the  imagination ;  we  are 
in  that  condition  disposed  to  every  sort  of  Aginative  expression,  and 
in  paiticular  to  comparisons.  This  in  a  great  measure  is  evident 
from  the  comparisons  already  mentioned ;  and  shall  be  further  illus- 
trated by  other  instances.  Love,  for  example,  in  its  infancy,  rousing 
the  imagination,  prompts  the  heart  to  display  itself  in  figurative  lan- 
guage, and  in  similes : 

Troilus.  Tell  me,  Apollo,  for  thy  Daphne's  love, 
^  What  Cressid  is,  what  Pandar,  and  what  we? 

"  Her  bed  is,  India ;  there  she  lies,  a  pearl : 

Between  our  Ilium,  and  where  slie  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. 

TrMuB  and  Creuida,  Act  I.  Sc.  1. 

Again: 

Come,  gentle  Night;  come,  loving  black-brow'd  Night  I 

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  heaven  so  line, 

That  all  the  world  shall  be  in  love  with  Night, 

And  pay  no  worship  to  the  garish  Sun. 

Jiomeo  and  Juliet,  Act  III.  Sc  i. 

The  dread  of  a  misfortune,  however  imminent,  involving  always 
Bome  doubt  and  uncertainty,  agitates  the  mind,  and  excites  the 
imagination : 

WoUey. Nay,  then,  farewell : 

I've  touch'd  the  highest  point  ot  all  my  greatnes*, 
,  And  from  that  full  meridian  of  m v  glory 

I  haste  now  to  my  setting.    I  shall  fall, 
Like  a  bright  exhalation  m  the  evening,  .  .  „,  c     a 

And  no  man  see  me  more.  Henry  vllL  Act  111.  bo.  «. 

504.  But  it  will  be  a  better  illustration  of  the  present  head,  to 


•  It  is  accordingly  observed  by  Longinus,  in  his  Treatise  on  tl»»,SnW^"*» 
that  the  proper  time  for  metaphor,  is  when  the  passions  are  so  swelled  m  » 
nurry  on  Tike  a  torrent.  _ 

808.  When  proper  to  Introdnce  •  cornptrtoon.— Genwsl  rwMtfc. 


354:  COMPARISOXS. 

give  examples  where  compansons  are  improperly  introducod.  I  liave 
had  already  occasion  to  observe,  that  similes  are  not  the  language 
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 : 

Go,  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. 
Go  thou ;  and  like  an  executioner, 
Cut  off  the  heads  of  two  fiist-growiug  sprays, 
That  look  too  lofty  in  our  commonwealth  ; 
All  must  be  even  In  our  government. 

Jiichard  11.  Act  III.  So.  1. 

The  fertility  of  Shakspeare's  vein  betrays  him  frequently  into  this 
error.     There  is  the  same  impropriety  in  another  simile  of  his : 

Hero.  Good  Margaret,  run  thee  into  the  parlor ; 
There  shall  thou  find  my  cousin  Beatrice ; 
Whisper  her  car,  and  tell  her,  I  and  Ursula 
Walk  in  the  orchard,  and  our  whole  discourse 
Is  all  of  her :  say  that  thou  ovcrheard'at  us ; 
And  bid  her  steal  into  the  pleached  bower, 
Where  honeysuckles,  ripeu'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«t. 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  Act  III.  Sc.  1. 

Rooted  grief,  deep  anguish,  terror,  remorse,  despair,  and  all  the  se- 
vere dispiriting  passions,  are  declared  enemies,  perhaps  not  to  figu- 
rative language  in  general,  but  undoubtedly  to  the  pomp  and  solem- 
nity of  comparison.  Upon  that  account,  the  simile  pronounced  by 
young  Rutland,  under  a  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  his  limbs  asunder. 
Ah,  gentle  Clifford,  kill  me  with  thy  sword. 
And  not  with  such  a  cruel  tlireat'ning  look. 

'fhird  Fart  of  Henry  VI.  Act  I.  Sc.  5. 

A  man  spent  and  dispirited  after  losing  a  battle,  is  not  disposed  to 
heighten  or  illustrate  his  discourse  by  similes  : 

Yorh.  With  this  we  charged  again;  but  out,  alas! 
We  bodged  again ;  as  I  have  seen  a  swan 
With  bootless  labor  swim  against  the  tide, 
And  spend  her  strength  with  over-matching  waves. 
Ah  !  hark,  the  fatal  followers  do  pursue ; 
And  I  am  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.  e. 

604  Examples  where  simile?  vc  Improperly  introduced     Relation  to  the  dispjritlii* 
passions.  ^ 


COMPAttlSOXS.  355 

Far  less  is  a  man  di^  msed  to  similes  who  i»  not  only  defeated  in  a 
pitched  battle,  but  lies  at  the  point  of  death  mortally  wounded : 

Warwick. My  tnangled  body  shows 

My  blood,  my  want  of  strength ;  my  »jck  lienrt  »Low« 

That  I  must  yield  my  body  to  the  earth, 

And,  by  my  full,  the  conquest  to  my  foe.  "^ 

Thus  yields  the  cedar  to  tlie  axe'a  edge, 

Whose  arms  gave  shelter  to  the  princely  eagle ; 

Under  whose  shade  the  ramping  lion  slept. 

Whose  top  branch  over-pecr'd  Jove's  spreading  tree, 

And  kept  low  shrubs  from  winter's  powerful  wnjd. 

TUird  Fart  Henry  VI.  Act  V.  Sc.  3. 

Queen  Kitherine,  deserted  by  the  king,  and  in  the  deepest  affliction 
on  her  divorce,  could  not  be  disposed  to  any  sallies  of  imagination  : 
and  for  that  reason,  the  following  simile,  however  beautiful  in  the 
mouth  of  a  spectator,  is  scarce  proper  in  her  own  : 

I  am  the  most  unhappy  woman  living, 
Shipwreck'd  upon  a  kmgdom,  where  no  pity, 
No  friends,  no  hope !  no  kindred  weep  for  mc  ! 
Almost  no  grave  allow'd  me !  like  the  lily. 
That  once  was  mistress  of  the  field,  and  iiourish'd, 
I'll  hang  my  head  and  perish. 

King  Henry  VIII.  Act  III.  8c.  1. 

Similes  thus  unseasonably  introduced,  are  finely  ridiculed  in  the 
Rehearsal  : 

Bayeg.  Now  here  she  must  make  a  simile. 
Smith.  Where's  the  necessity  of  that,  Mr.  Bayes? 

Sayea.  Because  she's  surprised;  that's  a  general  rule ;  you  must  ever  maka 
a  simile  when  you  are  surprised ;  'tis  a  new  way  of  writing. 

505.  A  comparison  is  not  always  faultless  even  where  it  is  pro- 
perly introduced.  I  have  endeavored  above  to  give  a  general  view 
of  the  diflferent  ends  to  which  a  comparison  may  contribute :  a  com- 
parison, like  other  human  productions,  may  fall  short  of  itis  aim  ;  of 
which  defect  instances  are  not  rare  even  among  good  writers ;  and 
to  complete  the  present  subject,  it  will  be  necessary  to  make  some 
observations  upon  such  faulty  comparisons.  I  begin  with  obser>ing, 
that  nothing  can  be  more  erroneous  than  to  institute  a  comparison 
too  faint:  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  «}em  to  lal;)or  under 
this  defect : 

Albus  ut  obscuro  dctcrget  nubiia  ccelo 

Ssepo  Notus,  neque  parturit  imbros 

Perpetuos:  sic  tu  sapiens  flniro  memento 

Tristitiam,  vitseque  kbores.  Borat.  Oarm.  1,  L  ode  7. 

K.  ^ich.  Give  me  the  crown. — Hero,  oousiu,  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  tlio  air, 
The  other  down,  unseen  and  full  of  water :  ^^^^^^^ 

60S.  Comparisons  foiling  short  of  their  aim. 


866  Cx-'MPAEISOJf8. 

That  bucket  down,  and  full  of  tears,  am  I, 

Drinking  my  griefs,  whilst  you  mount  up  on  high.         ,.,  „     . 

KicJiard  II.  Act  IV.  Be  8. 

K.  John.  Oh !  cousin,  thou  art  come  to  set  mine  eye ; 
The  tackle  of  my  heart  is  crack'd  and  burnt; 
And  all  the  shrouds  wherewith  my  life  should  sail, 
Are  turned  to  one  thread,  one  little  hair ; 
My  heart  hath  one  poor  string  to  stay  it  by, 
Which  holds  but  till  thy  news  be  uttered. 

Kxng  John,  Act  V.  Sc  10. 

Toi'h.  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  pursued  by  hunger-starved  wolves. 

.'  =•  y^^^^  p^^  j^^^    yj   ^^  J_  s^j^  g_ 

The  latter  of  the  two  similes  is  good  ;  the  former,  by  its  faintness  of 
resemblance,  has  no  effect  but  to  load  the  narration  with  a  useless 
image. 

606.  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  raising  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,  how- 
ever delicate  the  resemblance  may  be ;  for  it  is  the  peculiar  char- 
acter 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  an  object  to  one  that  is  greater,  has,  on  the  contrary,  a 
good  effect,  by  raising  or  sweUing  the  mind ;  for  one  passes  with 
satisfaction  from  a  small  to  a  great  object ;  but  cannot  be  drawn 
down,  without  reluctance,  from  great  to  small.  Hence  the  following 
Bimiles  are  faulty : 

Meanwhile  the  troops  beneath  Patroclus'  care, 

Invade  the  Trojans  and  commence  the  war. 

As  wasps,  provoked  by  children  in  their  play. 

Pour  from  their  mansions  by  the  broad  highway, 

In  swarms  the  guiltless  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  clamor  and  so  keen  their  arms.— iZi«Kf,  xvi.  812. 

So  burns  the  vengeful  hornet  (soul  all  o'er) 

Kepulsed  in  vain,  and  thirsty  still  of  gore ; 

(Bold  son  of  air  and  heat)  on  angry  wings  _ 

Untamed,  untired  he  turns,  attacks  and  stings. 

Fired  with  like  ardor,  fierce  Atrides  flew, 

And  sent  his  soul  with  every  lance  he  threw.— iiMwr,  xvu.  642. 

507.  An  error,  opposite  to  the  former,  is  the  introducing  a  re- 
sembling image,  so  elevated  or  great  as  to  bear  no  proportion  to  the 
principal  subject.  Their  remarkable  disparity,  seizing  the  mmd, 
never  fails  to  depress  the  principal  subject  by  contrast,  instead  of 

Toa.  ABimiloona  low  image.-Tbe  effect  of  resembUng  an  object  to  one  that  U  greater. 


COMPARISONS.  •  357 

raising  it  by  resemblance  :  and  if  the  disparity  be  verj'  great,  the 
simile  degenerates  into  burlesque ;  nothing  being  more  ndiculoua 
than  to  force  an  object  out  of  its  proper  rank  in  nature,  by  equalling 
it  with  one  greatly  superior  or  greatly  inferior.  This  will  be  evident 
fix)m  the  following  comparisons  : 

Fei"vet  opus,  rodolentque  thyino  fragrantin  melU. 
Ac  veluti  Icntis  Cyclopes  fufmina  massis 
Cum  propcrant .  iilii  taurinis  follibus  auras 
Accipiunt,  redtluntque :  alii  stridentia  tingunt 
^ra  lacu  ;  gemit  itnpositis  incudibus  i£tna; 
llli  inter  sese  magna  vi  brachia  tollunt 
In  numerum;  versantque  tenaci  forcipe  ferrum. 
Non  aliter  (si  parva  licet  componere  mugnis) 
Cecropias  innatus  apes  amor  urget  liabendi, 
Munere  quamque  sue.    Grandee  vis  oppida  curse, 
£t  munire  favos,  et  Dsedala  fingere  tecta. 
At  fessse  multft  referunt  se  nocte  minores. 
Crura  thymo  pleniB :  pascuntur  et  arbuta  passim, 
Et  glaucas  salices,  casiamque  crocumquo  rubontcm, 
Et  pinguem  tiUam,  et  ferrugineos  hyacinthos, 
Omnibus  una  quies  operum,  labor  omnibus  unus. 

Gtorgie,  iv.  189. 

A  writer  of  delicacy  will  avoid  drawing  his  comparisons  from  any 
image  that  is  nauseous,  ugly,  or  remarkably  disagreeable  ;  for  how- 
ever 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  metaphor: 

O  thou  fond  many !  with  what  loud  applause 
Didst  thou  beat  heaven  with  blessing  Bolingbroke, 
Before  he  was  what  thou  wouldst  have  him  be  ? 
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,  did'st  thou  disgorge 
Thy  glutton  bosom  of  the  royal  Richard, 
And  now  thou  wouldst  eat  thy  dead  vomit  up, 
And  howl'st  to  find  it. 

Second  Part  Henry  IV.  Act  I.  So.  fl. 

i508.  The  strongest  objection  that  can  lie  against  a  comparisun  is, 
that  it  consists  in  words  only,  not  in  sense.  Such  false  coin,  or 
bastard  wit,  does  extremely  well  in  burlesque  ;  but  it  is  far  below 
the  dignity  of  the  epic,  or  of  any  serious  composition  : 

The  noble  sister  of  Poplicola, 

The  moon  of  Rome ;  chaste  as  the  icicle 

That's  curled  by  the  frost  from  purest  snow, 

And  hangs  on  Dian's  temple.  OorMiMru,  Act  V.  So.  8. 

There  is  evidently  no  resemblance  between  an  icicle  and  a  wo 
man,  chaste  or  unchaste ;  but  chastity  is  cold  in  a  metaphorical 
sense,  and  an  icicle  is  cold  in  a  proper  sense  :  and  this  verbal  re* 
semblance,  in  the  hurry  and  glow  of  composing,  has  been  thought 

60T.  An  iina«t  too  •legated  tat  the  prloelpsl  •abJccU— DlM«i»»«bl«  Imif** 


35.8  COMPAKI&ONS. 

a  sufficient  foundation  for  the  simile.  Such  phantom  similes  are 
mere  witticisms,  which  ought  to  have  no  quarter,  except  where 
purposely  introduced  to  provoke  laughter.  Lucian,  in  his  disserta- 
tion upon  history,  talkifg  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  thytno  mihi  dulcior  Hyblaj. 

Bticol.  vii.  37, 

Ego  Sardois  videar  tibi  amarior  herbis. 


Rid.  41. 

Gallo,  cujus  amor  tantum  mihi  crescit  in  horas, 

Quantum  vere  novo  viridis  se  subjicit  alnus.  Bucol.  x.  87. 

Nor  Tasso,  in  his  Aminta : 

Picciola  e'  1'  ape,  e  fa  col  picciol  morso 

Pur  gravi,  e  pur  moleste  le  ferite  •, 

Maj  qual  cosa  e  piu  picciola  d'  am  ore, 

Se  in  ogni  breve  spatio  entra,  e  s'  asconde 

In  ogni  breve  spatio  ?  hor,  sotto  a  1'  ombru 

De  le  palpebre,  nor  tra  minuti  rivi 

D'un  biondo  crine,  hor  dentro  le  pozzette 

Che  forma  un  dolee  riso  in  bella  guancia ; 

E  pur  fii  tanto  grandi,  e  si  mortah, 

E  cosi  immedicabili  le  piaghe.  Act  II.  Sc.  1. 

Nor  Boileau,  the  chastest  of  all  writers,  and  that  even  in  his  Art  of 
Poetry : 

Ainsi  tel  autrefois,  qu'on  vit  avec  Faret 

Charbonner  de  ses  vers  les  murs  d'un  cabaret, 

S'en  va  mal  a  propos  d'une  voix  insolente, 

Chanter  du  peuple  Hebreu  la  fuito  triomphaute, 

Et  poursuivant  iiloise  au  travers  des  deserts, 

Court  avec  Pharaon  sc  noyer  dans  les  mers. — Chant.  1. 1.  2L 

Mais  allons  voir  le  Vrai,  jusqu'en  sa  source  m6me. 
Un  d^vot  aux  yeux  creux,  ct  d'abstinence  bl6me, 
S'il  n'a  point  le  coeur  juste,  est  affreux  devant  Dieu, 
L'Evangile  au  Chretien  no  dit,  en  aucun  lieu, 
Sois  devot :  elle  dit,  Sois  doux,  simple,  dqnilable : 
Car  d'un  devot  souvcnt  au  Chretien  veritable 
La  distance  est  deux  fois  plus  longue,  a  mon  avis. 
Que  du  Pole  Antarctique  au  Detroit  do  Davis. 

Boileau,  Satire  xi. 

-  But  for  their  spirits  and  souls 


This  word  rebellion  had  froze  them  up 

As  fish  are  in  a  pond.  Second  Part  Henry  I'V.  Act  I.  So.  8. 

Queen.  The  pretty  vaulting  sea  refused  to  drown  me ; 
Knowing,  that  thou  wouldst  have  me  drown'd  on  sliore ; 
With  tears  as  salt  as  sea,  through  thy  unkindness. 

Second  Fart  Henry  IV.  Act  III.  So.  6. 

Here  there  is  no  manner  of  resemblance  but  in  the  word  drown  ; 
for  there  is  no  real  resemblance  between  being  drowned  at  sea,  and 
dying  of  grief  at  land.     But  perhaps  this  sort  of  tinsel  wit  may 


COMPAEBONS.  359 

have  a  propriety  in  it,  when  used  to  express  an  affected,  not  a  real 
passion,  which  was  the  Queen's  case. 

Pope  has  several  similes  of  the  same  stamp.  I  shall  transcribe 
one  or  two  from  the  Essay  on  Man,  the  greatest  and  most  instruc- 
tive of  alLhis  performances : 

And  hence  one  master  pasxion  in  the  breast, 

Like  Aaron's  serpent,  swallows  jip  the  rest.         £put.  ii.  1.  181. 

And  again,  talking  of  this  same  ruling  or  master'passion : 

Nature  its  mother,  Habit  is  its  nurse; 

Wit,  spirit,  faculties,  but  make  it  worse ; 

Reason  itself  but  pives  it  edge  and  power ; 

As  heaven's  blessed  beam  turns  vinegar  more  ionr.— Ibid.  1.  45. 

Lord  Bolingbroke,  speaking  of  historians : 

Where  their  sincerity  as  to  fact  is  doubtful,  we  strike  out  truth  by  the  con- 
frontation of  diflFerent  accounts ;  as  wo  strike  out  sparks  of  fire  by  the  col- 
lision 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  a-^counts ;  as  we  strikfl  out 
sparks  of  firo  by  the  collision  of  flints  and  steol. 

Racine  makes  Orestes  say  to  Hermoino : 

Que  les  Scythes  sont  moins  cruel  qu'  Hennoine. 

Similes  of  this  kind  put  one  in  mind  of  a  ludicrous  French  song : 

Je  croyois  Janneton 
Aussi  douce  que  belle ; 
Je  croyois  Janneton 


Again : 


Plus  douce  qu'un  mouton ; 

H^las !  IWlas ! 
Elle  est  cent  fois,  mille  fois,  plus  cruelU 
Que  n'est  lo  tigre  aux  bois. 

H^las !  I'amour  m'a  pris, 
Commo  Ic  chat  fuit  la  souria. 


Where  the  subject  is  burlesque  or  ludicrous,  such  similes  are  fiir 
from  being  improper.     Horace  says  pleasantly, 

Qnanquam  tu  lovior  oortice.— L.  lii.  od«  9. 
And  Shakspeare, 

In  breaking  oaths  he's  stronger  than  Hercules. 

609.  And  this  leads  me  to  observe,  that  besides  the  foregoing 
comparisons,  which  are  all  serious,  there  is  a  species,  the  end  and 
purpose  of  which  is  to  excite  gayety  or  mirth.  Take  the  following 
examples : 

B08.  Cotnptrison  lu  wonli  only.    Exwnpl**. 


360  COMPARISONS. 

Falstaff,  speaking  to  his  page : 

I  do  here  walk  before  thee  like  a  sow  that  hath  overwhelmed  all  her  httet 
but  one. — Second  Part  Henry  VI.  Act  I.  So.  4. 

I  think  he  is  not  a  pick-purso,  nor  a  horee-stealer ;  but  for  his  verity  in  love, 
I  do  think  him  as  concave  as  a  covered  goblet,  or  a  worm-eaten  nut. 

As  You  Like  It,  Act  III.  Sc.  10. 

This  sword  a  dagger  had  his  page, 

That  was  but  little  for  his  age ; 

And  therefore  waited  ou  him  so, 

As  dwarfs  upon  knights-errant  do. — Hadihras,  canto  i. 

Description  of  Hubibras's  horse : 

He  was  well  stay'd,  and  in  liis  gait 

Preserved  a  grave  majestic  state. 

At  spur  or  switch  no  more  he  skipt, 

Or  mended  pace  than  Spaniard  whipt: 

And  yet  so  hery,  he  would  bound 

As  if  he  grieved  to  touch  the  ground : 

That  Caesar's  horse,  who,  as  fame  goes, 

Had  corns  upon  his  feet  and  toes. 

Was  not  by  half  so  tender  hooft, 

Nor  trod  upon  the  ground  so  soft. 

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. 

The  sun  had  long  since  in  the  lap 

Of  Thetis  taken  out  his  nap ; 

And,  like  a  lobster  boil'd,  the  morn 

From  black  to  red  began  to  turn. — Part  II.  canto  ii. 

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  Tub. 

And  in  this  the  world  may  perceive  the  difference  between  the  integrity  of  a 

f  onerous  author,  and  that  of  a  common  friend.  The  latter  is  observed  to  ad- 
ere  close  in  prosperity ;  but,  on  the  decline  of  fortune,  to  drop  suddenly  oflf: 
whereas  the  generous  author,  just  on  the  contrary,  finds  his  hero  on  tho 
dunghill,  from  thence  by  gradual  steps  raises  him  to  a  throne,  and  then  im- 
mediately withdraws,  expecting  not  so  much  as  thanks  for  his  pains. 

Tale  of  a  Tub. 

Tho  most  accomplished  way  of  using  books  at  present  is,  to  serve  them  as 
some  do  lords,  learn  their  tittes,  and  then  brag  of  their  acquaintance. 

Tale  of  a  Tub. 
Clubs,  diamonds,  hearts,  in  wild  disorder  seen, 
With  throngs  promiscuous  strow  the  level  green. 
Thus  when  dispersed  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. 
The  pierced  battalions  disunited,  fall 
In  heaps  on  heaps ;  one  fate  o'erwhelms  them  all. 

Jiape  of  the  Lock,  canto  iii. 

He  does  not  consider  that  sincerity  in  love  is  as  much  out  of  fashion  as  sweet 
•Quff;  nobody  takes  it  now. — Careless  Husband. 

509.  Mirthful  comparisons. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

FIGURES. 

The  endless  variety  of  expressions  brought  under  the  head  of 
tropes  and  figures  by  ancient  critics  and  grammarians,  makes  it  en- 
dent  that  they  had  no  precise  criterion  for  distinguishing  tropes  and 
figures  from  plain  language.  It  was  accordingly  my  opinion  that 
httle  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. 

SECTIOiX  I. 
Personification. 

610.  The  bestowing  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,  tkirsti/  ground,  hungry 
church-yard,  furious  dait,  angrtj  ocean.  These  epithets,  in  their 
proper  meaning,  are  attributes  of  sensible  beings :  what  is  their 
meaning  when  applied  to  things  inanimate  ?  do  they  make  us  con- 
ceive the  ground,  the  church-yard,  the  dart,  the  ocean,  to  be  endue<: 
with  animal  functions  ?  This  is  a  curious  inquiry ;  and  whether  so 
or  not,  it  cannot  be  declined  in  handling  the  present  subjecL 

The  mind,  agitated  by  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  belief.  (Chapter  ii.  part  v.) 
I  give  examples.  Antony,  mourning  over  the  body  of  Caesar  mur- 
dered in  the  senate-house,  vents  his  passion  in  the  following  words : 

Antony.  0  pardon  me,  thou  blcodiuff  piece  of  earth, 
That  I  am  meek  and  gentle  with  these  Dutchere. 
Thoa  art  the  ruins  of  the  noblest  man 
That  ever  lived  in  the  tide  of  Wma.—JuUvt  Cmot,  Act  III.  So.  4. 

Here  Antony  must  have  been  impressed  with  a  notion  that  the  body 
of  Caesar  was  listening  to  him,  without  which  the  speech  would  b« 
foolish  and  absurd.  Nor  will  it  appear  strange,  considering  wLit  is 
said  in  the  chapter  above  cited,  tluvt  passion  should  have  such  powei 


363  FIGUKE8. 

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 : 

Almeria.  0  Earth,,  behold,  I  kneel  upon  thy  bosom, 
And  bend  my  flowing  eyes  to  stream  upon 
Thy  face,  implorinff  thee  that  thou  wilt  yield  ! 
Open  thy  bowels  of  compassion,  take 
Into  thy  womb  the  last  and  n:ost  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  of  child  and  daugJder, 
Now  calls  mo  murderer  and  parricide.  rtr  o     » 

Mourning  Bride,  Act  IV.  So.  7. 

Plaintive  passions  are  extremely  solicitous  for  vent ;  and  a  solila- 
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  natural  way,  it  will  convert  even 
things  inanimate  into  sympathizing  beings.  Thus  Philoctetes  com- 
plains to  the  rocks  and  promontories  of  the  isle  of  Lemnos  (Phi- 
loctetes of  Sophocles,  Act  iv.  Sc.  2) ;  and  Alcestes  dying,  invokes 
the  sun,  the  light  of  day,  the  clouds,  the  earth,  her  husbands 
palace,  &c.  (Alcestesof  Euripides,  Act  ii.  Sc.  1.)  Moschus,  lament- 
ing 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,  expresseth  himself  thus : 

Daphni,  tuum  Poenos  etiam  ingemuisse  leones 

luteritum,  montesque  feri  sylvseque  loquuntur.— -£cw^m«  v.  27. 


Again: 


Ilium  etiam  lauri,  ilium  etiam  flevere  myrica. 

Pinifer  ilium  etiam  sola  sub  rupe  iacentem 

Msenalus,  et  gelidi  fleverunt  saxa  hya^i.— Eclogue  x.  18. 


511.  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  frequent  in 
Ossian's  works ;  for  example : 

The  batUe  is  over,  said  the  king,  and  I  behold  the  blood  of  ray  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  gUtter  in  his  hand. 
King  Richard  having  got  intelligence  of  Bolingbroke's  invasion, 
says,  upon  landing  in  England  from  his  Irish  expedition,  in  a  mix- 
ture of  joy  and  resentment, 

Bio  Boldness  of  the  figure  of  personmcatlon.  Expressions  iraplyinethat  flK""- '"  ®°^ 
monusT  Whcnweave  dlsposoa  to  use  tbl.  figure.-Antony  over  the  body  of  CasSM.- 
Earth^dr™al  a  ,.K,ther!^-  Plaintive  pn^^lons,  ho-.  oxvro..ed.    Ulu^tra'Kms. 


FIGURES.  1(03 

1  weep  for  joy 

To  stand  upon  my  kingdom  once  Ojarain.    - 
Dear  earth.  I  do  salute  tlieo  witli  my  hand 
Though  rebels  wound  thee  with  their  horses'  hoofc. 
As  a  long-narted  mother  with  lier  child 
Plays  fondly  with  her  tears,  and  smiles  in  meeting: 
60  wcepmg,  smiling,  greet  I  thee,  my  earth, 
And  do  thee  favor  with  my  royal  hands. 
Feed  not  thy  sovereign's  toe,  my  gentle  earth, 
Nor  with  thy  sweets  comfort  his  ravenous  sense: 
But  let  thy  spiders  that  suck  up  thy  venom, 
And  heavy-gaitcd  toads  lie  in  their  way; 
Doing  annoyance  to  the  treacherous  feet, 
Which  with  usurping  steps  do  trample  thee. 
Yield  stinging  nettles  to  )niue  enemies ; 
And,  when  they  from  thy  bosom  pluck  a  flower, 
Guard  it,  I  pr'ythee,  with  a  lurking  adder; 
Whose  double  tongue  may  with  a  mortal  touch 
Throw  death  upon  thy  sovereign's  enemies. 
Mock  not  my  senseless  conjuration,  lords ; 
This  eartli  shall  have  a  feeling ;  and  these  stones 
Prove  armed  soldiers,  ere  her  native  king 
Shall  falter  under  foul  rebellious  arms. 

Bichard  II.  Act  III.  Sc.  2. 

After  a  long  voyage  it  was  customary  among  the  ancients  to  sa- 
lute the  natal  soil.  A  long  voyage  being  of  old  a  greater  enterprise 
than  at  present,  the  safe  return  to  one's  country  after  much  fatigue 
and  danger,  was  a  delightful  circumstance ;  and  it  wa.s  natural  to 
give  the  natal  soil  a  temporary  life,  in  order  to  sympathize  with  the 
traveller.  See  an  example,  Agamemnon,  of  Eschylus,  Act  III.  in  tlie 
beginning.  Regret  for  leaving  a  place  one  has  been  accustomed  to, 
has  the  same  eftect  (Philoctetes  of  Sophocles,  at  the  close). 

TeiTor  produceth  the  same  eftect ;  it  is  communicated  in  thought 
to  every  thing  around,  even  to  things  inanimate.  Speaking  of  Poly- 
phemus : 

Clamorem  immensnm  tollit,  quo  pontus  et  omnes 

Intremucre  undae,  penitusque  exterrita  tellus 

Italise.  ^neid,  iii.  678. 

-As  when  old  Ocean  roars, 


And  heaves  huge  surges  to  the  irembhng  shores. 

IUad,\\.U9. 

Go,  view  the  settling  sea.    The  stormy  wind  is  laid ;    bat  the  billoira  ttUJ 
tTemble  on  the  deep,  and  seem  to  fear  tiie  blast.  Fin^L 

Racine,  in  the  tragedy  of  Phedra,  describing  tlie  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  ^pouvante. 

A  man  also  naturally  communicates  his  joy  to  all  objects  around, 
animate  or  inanimate : 


-As  when  to  them  who  sail 


Beyond  the  Capo  of  Hope,  and  now  are  past 
Mozambic,  off  at  sea  northeast  winds  blow 
Sabeau  odor  from  the  spicy  shore 
Of  Araby  the  blest ;  with  »nch  delay 


364  FIGL'KES. 

Well  pleased,  they  slack  their  course,  and  many  a  league, 
Cheer  d  with  the  grateful  smell,  old  Ocean  smiles. 

Paradise  Lost,  b.  iv. 

512.  1  have  been  profuse  of  examples,  to  show  what  power  many 
passions  have  to  animate  their  objects.  In  ail  the  foregoing  exam- 
ples, the  personification,  if  I  mistake  not,  is  so  complete  as  to  afford 
conviction,  momentary  indeed,  of  life  and  intelligence.  But  it  is  ev- 
ident, from  numberless  instances,  that  personification  is  not  always 
so  complete :  it  is  a  common  figure  in  descriptive  poetr}',  understood 
to  be  the  language  of  the  writer,  and  not  of  the  persons  he  descnbes : 
ra  this  case  it  seldom  or  never  comes  up  to  conviction,  even  momen- 
ary,  of  life  and  intelligence.     I  give  the  following  examples : 

First  in  his  east  the  glorious  lamp  was  seen 

(Kegent  of  day,  and  all  th' horizon  round 

Invested  with  bright  rays) ;  jocund  to  run 

His  longitude  through  heaven's  high  road :  the  gray 

Dawn  and  the  Pleiades  before  him  danced, 

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  light  she  needed  none. 

Paradise  Lost,  b.  vii.  1.  870.* 


Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and  jocund  day 
louutain-tops. 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  Act  III.  Sc.  7 


Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain-tops. 

I  and  Ju 


But  look,  the  mom,  in  russet  mantle  clad. 
Walks  o'er  the  dew  of  yon  high  eastward  hill. 

Hamlet,  Act  I.  Sc.  1. 

It  -uay,  I  presume,  be  taken  for  granted,  that  in  the  foregoing  in- 
svtaces,  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  being's. 
What  then  is  the  natm-e  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 
imagination,  supposed  to  be  a  sensible  being,  it  makes  by  that 
tneans  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  elevation.  Thus  personification  is  of  two  kinds.  The  fii-st, 
being  more  noble,  may  be  termed  passionate  personification  ;  the 
other,  more  humble,  descriptive  personification  ;  because  seldom  or 
never  is  personification  in  a  description  carried  to  conviction. 

*  The  chastity  of  the  English  language,  which  in  common  usage  distinguishea 
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. 

511.  Aoof  of  this  figure  bolng  natural.  Examples  from  Onian;  from  JHehard  IJ.— 
lotror  i<5ujmunicat«s  Usolf    Esample*.    Sodocsjoy' 


FIUUKE8.  865 

The  ima^nation  is  so  lively  and  activfc,  that  its  images  are  raised 
with  very  Tittle  effort ;  and  this  justifies  the  frequent  use  of  descrip- 
tive personification.  This  figure  abounds  in  Milton's  Allegro  and 
jPeruseroso. 

Abstract  and  general  terms,  as  well  as  particular  objects,  are  often 
necessaiy  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  im- 
age of  wrath  in  the  abstract,  or  of  wi-ath  independent  of  a  person. 
Upon  that  account,  in  Avorks  addressed  to  the  imagination,  abstract 
tei-ms  are  frequently  personified ;  but  such  personificaUon  rests  upon 
imagination  merely,  not  upon  conviction : 

Sed  mihi  vel  Tellus  optem  prius  ima  dehiscat ; 
Vel  Pater  omnipotens  adigat  mc  fulinine  ad  umbra.% 
Pallentes  umbras  Erebi,  noctemque  profuiidam, 
Anto  pudor  qiiam  to  violo,  aut  tua  jura  resolve. 

j£neid,  iv.  21. 

Thus,  to  explain  the  effects  of  slander,  it  is  imagined  to  be  a  volun 

tary  agent : 

No,  'tis  Slander; 

Whose  edge  is  sharper  than  the  sword ;  whose  tonguo 

Oulvenoms  all  the  worms  of  Nile:  whose  breath 

Eidcs  on  the  posting  winds,  and  aoth  belie 

All  corners  of  the  world,  kings,  queens,  and  states, 

Maids,  matrons ;  nay,  the  secrets  of  the  grave 

This  viperous  Slander  enters. — Cymbeline,  Act  III.  So.  i. 

As  also  Iiuman  passions ;  take  the  following  example  : 


-For  Pleasure  and  lietenge 


Have  ears  more  deaf  than  adders,  to  the  voice 

Of  any  true  decision. — Troilus  and  Crasida,  Act  II.  Sc.  4. 

Virgil  explains  fame  and  its  effects  by  a  still  greater  variety  of  ac- 
tion (ud-Jneid,  iv.  173).  And  Shakspeare  personifies  death  and  its 
operations  in  a  manner  singularly  fanciful : 

Within  the  hollow  crown 

That  rounds  the  mortal  temples  of  a  king, 

Keeps  Death  his  court ;  and  there  the  antic  sit», 

Scofling  his  state,  and  grinning  at  his  pomp; 

Allowing  him  a  breath,  a  little  scene 

To  monarchize,  be  fenr'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  humor'd  thus, 

Comes  at  the  last,  and  with  a  little  pin 

Bores  through  bis  castle  walls,  and  farewell  king. 

JiicAard  II.  Act  III.  Sa  4. 

Not  less  successfully  is  life  and  action  given  even  to  sleep : 

Kir^  Henry.  How  many  thousands  of  my  poorest  subjeotB 
Are  at  this  hour  asleep  I    0  gentle  5/*y. 
Nature's  soft  nur«e,  how  have  I  frighted  thee, 
That  thou  no  more  wilt  weigh  mv  eyelids  down, 
And  steep  my  senses  in  forgetfulness  ? 
Why  rathei  Sleep,  liest  thou  in  smoky  crib«. 


866  FIGURES. 

Opon  uneasy  pallets  stretchin*  thee, 

AJad  hush'd  with  buzzing  night-flies  to  thy  slamber, 

Than  in  the  perfumed  chamoers  of  the  great, 

Under  the  canopies  of  costly  s^ate, 

And  luU'd  with  sounds  of  sweetest  melody? 

Oh  thou  dull  god,  why  liest  thou  with  the  vile 

In  loathsome  beds,  and  leav'st  the  kingly  couch, 

A  watch-case  to  a  common  'larum-bell  ? 

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, 

Who  take  the  ruffian  billows  by  the  top. 

Curling  their  monstrous  heads,  and  hanging  them 

With  deafening  clamors  in  the  slippery  shrouds, 

That,  with  the  hurly,  death  itself  awakes, — 

Canst  thou,  0  partial  Sleep,  give  thy  repose 

To  the  wet  sea-boy  in  an  hour  so  rude ; 

And  in  the  calmest  and  the  stillest  night, 

With  all  the  appliances  and  means  to  boot. 

Deny  it  to  a  king  ?    Then,  happy  low !  lie  down ; 

Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  crown. 

Second  Part  Henry  IV.  Act  III,  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  dis* 
course  is  instruction  merely : 

Oh !  let  the  steps  of  youth  be  cautious. 

How  they  advance  into  a  dangerous  world ; 

Our  duty  only  can  conduct  us  safe. 

Our  passions  are  seducers :  but  of  all. 

The  strongest  Love.    He  first  approaches  ua 

In  childish  play,  wantoning  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  again. 

We  should  take  warning  :  he  is  painted  blind, 

To  show  us,  if  we  fondly  follow  him. 

The  precipices  we  may  fall  into. 

Therefore  let  Virtue  Uike  him  by  the  hand : 

Directed  so,  he  leads  to  certain  joy. — Southern. 

513.  Hitherto  success  has  attended  our  steps:  but  whether  we 
shall  complete  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  wtietuer  there  be  in  them  any  sort  of  personifi- 
cation. Such  expressions  evidently  raise  not  the  slightest  conviction 
of  sensibility :  nor  do  I  think  they  amount  to  descriptive  personifica- 
tion ;  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  pres- 
ent subject.  To  show  which,  I  shall  endeavor  to  trace  the  effect 
that  such  expressions  have  in  the  mind.  Doth  not  the  expression 
angry  ocean^  for  example,  tacitly  compare  the  ocean  ia  a  storm  to  a 

612.  How  passionate  differ  from  descriptive  personification.  —  Abstract  and  general 
terms  not  adapted  to  poetry  How  they  may  be  advantageoosiy  used  in  p  >etrv.  i<:xAm- 
plea. 


FIGURES.  867 

man  ia  wrath?  By  this  tacit  comparison,  the  ocean  is  elevated 
above  its  rank  in  nature ;  and  yet  personification  is  excluded,  be- 
cause, by  the  very  nature  of  comparison,  the  things  compared  are 
kept  distinct,  and  the  native  appearance  of  each  is  preserved.  It 
will  be  shoM'n  afterwards,  that  expressions  of  this  kind  belong  to  an- 
other figure,  which  I  term  a  figure  of  speech^  and  which  employ* 
the  seventh  section  of  the  present  chapter. 

Though  thus  in  general  we  can  distinguish  descriptive  persouifi* 
cation  from  what  is  merely  a  figure  of  speech,  it  is,  however,  often 
diflScult  to  say,  witb  respect  to  some  expressions,  whether  they  are 
of  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  hits  the  trees, 
And  they  did  make  no  noise  ;  in  such  a  night, 
Troilus  methinks  mounted  the  Trojan  wall, 
And  sigh'd  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents, 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night. 

Merchant  of  Vtnict,  Act  V.  Sc.  I. 


-I  have  seen 


Th'  ambitious  ocean  swell,  and  rage,  and  foam, 
To  be  exalted  with  the  threat'ning  clouds. 

Julius  Qtsar,  Act  I.  Sc.  <. 

With  respect  to  these  and  numberless  other  examples  of  the  same 
kind,  it  must  depend  upon  the  reader,  whether  they  be  examples  of 
personification,  or  of  a  figure  of  speech  merely :  a  sprightly  imagi- 
nation will  advance  them  to  the  former  class ;  >vith  a  plain  reader 
they  will  remain  in  the  latter, 

514.  Having  thus  at  large  explained  the  present  figure,  its  differ- 
ent 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  ob- 
serving, that  passionate  personification  is  not  promoted  by  every 
passion  indifierently.  All  dispiriting  passions  are  averse  to  it ;  and 
remorse,  in  particular,  is  too  serious  and  Severe  to  be  gratified  with 
a  phantom  of  the  mind.  I  cannot  therefore  approve  the  following 
speech  of  Enobarbus,  who  had  deserted  his  master  Antony : 

Be  witness  to  mo,  O  thou  blessed  moon, 
When  men  revolted  shall  upon  record 
Bear  hateful  memory,  poor  Enobarbus  did 

Before  thy  face  repent • 

Oh  sovereign  Mistress  of  true  melancholy, 
The  poisonous  damp  of  night  dispnngo  upon  me. 
That  life,  a  very  rebel  to  my  will, 

May  hang  no  longer  on  mo.  .  .  rtr  o     » 

Antony  and  CUopatra,  Act  IV.  So.  7. 

If  this  can  be  justified,  it  must  be  upon  the  heathen  system  of  the- 
ology, which  converted  into  deities  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars. 

613.  Certain  e.rpreMlons  that  do  not  quite  amonnt  to  descripU/e  Pf'!?"!"^!!;!;,*^^ 
they  we  called.— Sometime*  difficult  to  dlsUngulsh  l>ctween  descriptive  pmvocimmmw 
»n<l  flguros  of  speooh. 


Qgg  FIGURKS. 

rjrg  t  t?beTp  oyedLh  ^.at  ,esevve.     ■H-  P-;""  <J,^f  ^. 

7°       W  no  mi"  m  support  a  conviction  so  far-stretcied  a, 
EVh:r;oKocUsl.ld  be  Jiving. H^^^^^^^ 

sra.ei:s?iSti^x^s„r;?tifp^^i/u.:'^^^^^^^^^ 

£  wrte  Mulging  his  inventive  faculty  w>thont  regard  to  nature. 
The  sTme  ob^rvltion  is  applicable  to  the  tollow.ng  passage : 

^^i  SS  "S,f  aU^°e5?be.r  ..!» 

Of  woeful  ao'es,  long  ago  betid:        .     ,    .       .- 

And  ere  thou  l^id  good  night,  to  qiut  their  gnef, 

Tell  them  the  lamentable  tall  ot  me,   _ 

And  send  the  hearers  weepmg  to  their  beds 

For  why  1  the  senseless  brands  will  sympathize 

The  heavy  accent  of  thy  moving  tongue, 

And  in  compassion  weep  the  fire  o^t^^^^^  ^^  ^^^  ^  g^_  2. 

One  must  read  this  passage  very  seriously  to  avoid  lauglung.  The 
fnttnvim^  DRSsaffe  is  quite  extravagant;  the  different  paits  ot  tne 
Srini  too  intimately  connected  with  self  to  be  persomfied 
hv  the  nowlr  of  any  passion ;  and  after  convertmg  such  a  part  mto 
a'setXbelng^  it  Is'stiU  wse  to  make  it  to  be  concaved  as  nsmg 
in  rebellion  against  self : 

Cleopatra.  Haste,  bare  my  arm,  and  roi^se  the  serpent  s  fury. 

■       wriSt^thou  conspire  with  Caesar  ^  betray  me 

As  thou  wert  none  of  mine?  I'U  force^J^e^to^Jj^^  ^^^^  ^^^^^^ 

descnSn      Nor  is  even  such  easy  personification  al^^'^ys  admitted 
for  in  n  ahi  nan-ative  the  mind,  serious  and  sedate  rejects  pei-somfi- 
lation  altogetren     Strada,  in  his  histoiy  of  the  Belgic  wars,  has  the 
?orwin7p?ssage,  which,  i>y  a  strained  elevation  above  the  tone  of 
the  subject,  deviates  into  buriesque  : 

Vix  descenderat  a  pra^toria  navi  Caesar ;  cum  f<Bda imooexortaJn^^ 

l^T^^^^^^^^^^^^n^^^^^^^^  What  passions  averse  to 

Jt,-Thrproper  province  of  a  pa*sionate  personification. 


FIGURES. 

pestas,  olaiwem  irapctu  disjecit,  prastorinm  hausit ;  luasl  noa  vectanm  amplias 
Caesarem,  Csesansque  fortunam. — Dec.  I.  1.  l. 

Neither  do  I  approve,  in  Shakspcare,  the  speech  of  King  John, 
gravely  exhorting  the  citizens  of  Angiers'  to  a  surrender ;  though  a 
tragic  writer  has  much  greater  latitude  than  an  historian.  Take  tb« 
following  specimen : 

The  cannons  have  their  howels  full  of  wrath ; 

And  ready  mounted  are  thoy  to  spit  forth 

Their  iron  indignation  'gainst  your  walla.— Act  II.  Sc  8. 

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  caase  of  a  violent  passion  ;  in  that  cir 
cumstance,  at  least,  it  must  be  of  importance.  But  to  assign  any 
rule  other  than  taste  merely,  for  avoiding  things  below  even  descrip- 
tive personification,  will,  I  am  afraid,  be  a  hard  task.  A  jx)et  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  daits  and  arrows ;  nor  Thomson  in 
animating  the  seasons,  the  winds,  the  rains,  the  dews ;  he  even  ven- 
tures to  animate  the  diamond,  and  doth  it  with  propriety : 

-That  polish'd  bright, 


And  all  its  native  lustre  let  abroad, 

Dares,  as  it  sparkles  on  tlie  fair  one's  breast, 

"With  vain  ambition  emulate  her  eyes. 

But  there  are  things  familiar  and  base,  to  which  personification  can 
not  descend.     In  a  composed  state  of  mind,  to  animate  a  lump  of 
matter  even  in  the  most  rapid  flight  of  fancy,  degenerates  into  bur- 
lesque : 

How  now !  What  noise !  that  spirit's  possess'd  with  haate, 
That  wounds  th^  unresisting  postern  with  these  strokes. 

Shakspeare,  Measure  for  Measure,  Act  IV.  Sc.  • 


-Or  from  the  shore 


The  plovers  when  to  scatter  o'er  the  heath, 
And  sing  their  wild  notes  to  the  list'iiins  wcuiU. 

Thomson,  Spring,  I.  28. 

Speaking  of  a  man's  hand  cut  oft'  in  battle  : 

Te  decisa  snum,  Laride,  dextera  quasrit : 
Semianimesque  micant  digiti:  ferrumquo  rctractant 

^tuid,  V.  C95. 

The  personification  here  of  a  hand  is  insuflerable,  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  animate  1  unless  they  have  some  natural  dignity.  Thom- 
son, in  this  article,  is  licentious ;  witness  the  tollowing  iastances  out 
of  many : 

16* 


870  FIGURES. 

O  vale  of  bliss  !     0  softly  swelling:  bill*  ! 

Oa  which  the  power  of  cultivation  lies, 

And  joys  to  see  the  wonders  of  his  x.o\\.-^SamTner,  1. 118& 

Then  sated  Hunger  bids  his  brother  Thirst 
Produce  the  mighty  bowl ; 
Nor  wanting  is  the  brown  October,  drawn 
Mature  and  perfect,  from  his  dark  retreat 
Of  thirty  years,  and  now  his  honest  front 
Flames  in  the  light  refulgent. — Autumn,  1.  516. 

516.  Thirdly,  It  is  not  sufficient  to  avoid  improper  subjects  :  some 
preparation  is  necessary  in  order  to  rouse  the  mind ;  for  the  im- 
agination refuses  its  aid,  till  it  be  warmed  at  least,  if  not  inflamed. 
Yet  Thomson,  without  the  least  ceremony  or  preparation,  introduceth 
ei^sh.  season  as  a  sensible  being  : 

From  brightening  fields  of  ether  fair  disclosed. 

Child  of  the  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 

AH  smiling  to  his  hot  dominion  leaves. — Summer,  1. 1. 

See  Winter  comes,  to  rule  the  varied  yea^, 
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  ex- 
pect such  ductility  in  his  readers.  But  if  this  practice  can  be  justi- 
fied by  authority,  Thomson  has  one  of  no  mean  note :  Vida  begins 
his  first  eclogue  in  the  following  words : 

Dicite,  vos  Musse,  et  juvenum  mcniorate  querelas ; 

Dicite ;  nam  motas  ipsas  ad  canniiia  cautes 

Et  roquiesse  suos  perhibent  vaga  tiumina  cursus. 

Even  Shakspeare  is  not  always  careful  to  prepare  the  mind  for  this 
bold  figure.     Take  the  following  instance  : 

•  Upon  these  taxations, 


The  clothiers  all,  not  able  to  maintain 

The  many  to  them  'loughig,  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  Banger  serves  among  them.  —  Henry  VIU.  Act  I.  Sc.  4. 

Fouithly,  Descriptive  pereonification,  still  more  than  what  is 
passionate,  ought  to  be  kept  >vithin  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 

6I&.  How  descriptive  porsonification  should  be  used.    Degrees  of  it. — Personificsttoa 
of  a  low  subject — Things  too  famlllnr  and  base  to  be  personlfl<Hl. 


riGUREB.  871 

are  the  Rubject ;  and  any  action  ascribed  to  them  beyond  or  con- 
trary to  their  usual  operation,  appearing  unnatural,  seldom  fails  to 
banish  the  illusion  altogether :  the  reader's  imagination,  too  far 
strained,  refuses  its  aid  ;  and  the  description  becomes  obacure,  in- 
stead of  being  more  lively  and  striking.  In  this  view  the  following 
passage  describing  Cleopatra  on  shipboard,  appears  to  me  excep- 
tionable : 

The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  burnish'd  tbrone. 
Burnt  on  the  water :  tho  poop  was  beaten  gold, 
Purple  the  sails,  and  so  perfumed,  that 
The  winds  were  love-sick  with  'em. 

Antony  and  CUopatra,  Act  II.  Sc.  8. 

The  winds  in  their  impetuous  course  have  so  much  the  appearance 
of  fury,  that  it  is  easy  to  figure  them  wreaking  their  resentment 
against  their  enemies,  by  destroying  houses,  ships,  «fec.;  but  to  figure 
them  love-sick,  has  no  resemblance  to  them  in  any  circumstance.  In 
another  passage,  where  Cleopatra  is  also  the  subject,  the  personifi- 
cation of  the  air  is  carried  beyond  all  bounds : 

•  The  city  cast 


Its  people  out  upon  her ;  and  Antony 
Inthron'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  and  CUopatra,  Act  IL  Ba  I. 

The  following  pereonification  of  the  earth  or  soil  is  not  less  wild : 

She  shall  be  dignified  with  this  high  honor, 
To  bear  niylady's  train ;  lest  the  base  earth 
Should  from  her  vesture  chance  to  steal  a  kiss ; 
And  of  so  great  a  favor  growing  proud, 
Disdain  to  root  the  summer-swefling  flower, 
And  make  rough  winter  everlastingly.  „  „    « 

Two  OenUemen  of  Verona,  Act  IT.  8c.  7. 

Shakspeare,  far  from  approving  such  intemperance  of  imagination, 
puts  this  speech  in  the  mouth  of  a  ranting  lover.  Neither  can  I 
rehsh  what  follows : 

Omnia  quae,  Phoebo  quondam  meditante,  beatus 

Audit  Eurotae,  jussitque  ediscere  hiurw, 

Ulecanit.  Fwy»A  Buc.  vi.  8S. 

The  cheerfulness  singly  of  a  pastoral  song,  will  scarce  support  per- 
eonification in  the  lowest  degree.  But  admitting,  that  a  nver  genUy 
flowing  may  be  imagined  a  sensible  being  listening  to  n  song,  I 
cannot  enter  into  the  conceit  of  the  river^s  ordering  hjs  laureU  to 
learn  the  song :  here  all  resemblance  to  any  thmg  real  is  quite  lo«L 
This  however  is  copied  literally  by  one  of  our  greatest  poets ;  early 
indeed,  before  maturity  of  taste  or  judgment : 

Thames  heard  the  numbers  as  ho  flow'd  along, 

And  bade  his  willows  learn  the  ^^f  )°Xx»fc,  Pa»t.  Iv.  L  IS. 


372  FIGURIfiS. 

This  author,  in  riper  years,  is  guilty  of  a  much  greater  deviation 
from  the  rule.  ■  Dulness  may  be  imagined  a  deity  or  idol,  to  be 
woi*shipped  b}"-  bad  writers;  but  then  some  sort  of  disguise  is  re- 
quisite, some  bastard  virtue  must  be  bestowed,  to  make  such  wor- 
ship in  some  degree  excusable.  Yet  in  the  Dunciad,  Dulness,  with- 
out 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  tlie  dullest  mortal  is  ashamed : 

Then  he :  Great  tamer  of  all  human  art ! 

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  1 

O  thou  1  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  waddling  to  the  mark  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  j 

Or  quite  unravel  all  the  reasoning  thread, 

And  han^  some  curious  cobweb  in  its  stead ! 

As,  forced  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  urged  by  the  load  below : 

Me  Emptiness  and  Dulness  could  inspire. 

And  were  ray  elasticity,  and  fire.  B.  i.  163. 

517.  Fifthly,  The  enthusiasm  of  passion  may  have  the  effect  to 
prolong  passionate  personification ;  but  descriptive  personificatioD 
cannot  be  dispatched  in  too  few  words :  a  circumstantiate  descrip- 
tion dissolves  the  charm,  and  makes  the  attempt  to  personify  ap- 
pear ridiculous.  Homer  succeeds  in  animating  his  darts  and  arrows ; 
but  such  personification  spun  out  in  a  French  translation,  is  mere 
burlesque  : 

Et  la  fldche  en  furie,  avide  de  son  sang. 
Part,  vole  ^  lui,  I'atteint,  et  lui  perce  lo  flano. 

Horace  says  happily, 

Post  equitem  sedet  atra  Cura. 

Observe  how  this  thought  degenerates  by  being  diviaed,  like  th« 
former,  into  a  number  of  minute  parts  : 

Un  fou  rempli  d'errcurs,  que  le  trouble  accompagne 
Et  malade  a  la  ville  ainsi  qu'a  la  campagno, 
En  vain  monte  h.  cheval  pour  tromper  son  ennui. 
La  Chagrin  monte  en  croupe,  et  galope  avec  lui. 

S16.  Preparation  necessary.— Criticism  on  Thomson.— Limits  to  pextonlficatlon.— JPaalty 
nasiples  n-om  Shaktpeaxe  nnd  Pupe. 


FiouREa,  873 

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  addre« 
H  whole  epistle  to  it,  as  Boileau  doth  {Epistle  x.),  is  insupportable. 
The  following  passage  is  not  less  faulty : 

Her  fute  is  whisper'd  by  the  gentle  breeze, 
And  told  in  sighs  to  all  the  trembling  treea ; 
The  trembling  trees,  in  every  plain  and  wood, 
Her  fate  remurmur  to  the  silver  flood  ; 
The  silver  flood,  so  lately  calm,  appears 
Swell'd  with  new  passion,  and  o'erflows  with  team 
The  winds,  and  trees,  and  floods,  her  death  deplore, 
Daphne,  our  grief !  our  glory  !  now  no  more. 

Popt't  Paatoralt,  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  efiect ;  because  grief 
or  love  of  the  pastoral  kind,  are  causes  rather  too  faint  for  so  violent 
an  eflfect  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. 

618.  This  figure  and  the  former  are  derived  from  the  same  prin 
ciple.  If,  to  humor  a  plaintive  passion,  we  can  bestow  a  momentary 
sensibility  upon  an  inanimate  object,  it  is  not  more  diflScult  to  be- 
stow a  momentary  presence  upon  a  sensible  being  who  is  absent : 

Strike  the  harp  in  praise  of  Bragela,  whom  I  left  in  the  isle  of  mist,  th« 
spouse  of  my  love.  Dost  thou  raise  thy  fair  fuco  from  the  rock  to  And  the  uils 
of  Cuchullin?  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 
thy  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.  0  Connal,  speak  of  wart 
and  arms,  and  send  her  from  my  mind  ;  for  lovely  with  her  raven  hair  is  the 
white-bosoraM  daughter  of  Sorglan. — Fingal,  b.  i. 

Speaking  of  Fingal  absent : 

Happy  are  thy  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  tpMk- 
est,  and  thy  thousands  obey;  and  armies  tremble  at  the  sound  of  thy  ate*!. 
Happy  are  thy  people,  0  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 : 

61T.  DeacrlptJv*  pcnonlflmtUui  (hMld  U  tbcrt    gfiiptW 


374  •  FIGURES 

Et  si  fata  Deiinj,  si  mems  non  Iseva  fuiaset, 
Impulerat  ferro  Argolicas  foedare  latebras ; 
Trojaque  nunc  stares,  Priamique  arx  alta  maneru. 

uSntld,  ii.  54. 

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?  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  ?     0  you  leaden  messengers, 

That  ride  upon  the  violent  speed  of  fire. 

Fly  with  false  aim ;  pierce  the  still  moving  air 

That  sings  with  piercing ;  do  not  touch  my  lord. 

AlPs  Well  that  End's  WeU,  Act  III.  Sc.  4. 

And  let  them  lift  ten  thousand  swords,  said  Nathos,  with  a  smile ;  the  som 
of  car-borne  Usnoth  will  never  tremble  in  danger.  Why  dost  thou  roll  with 
all  thy  foam,  thou  roaring  sea  of  Ullin  ?  why  do  yc  rustle  ou  your  dark  wings, 
ye  whistling  tempests  of  the  sky  ?  Do  ye  think,  ye  storms,  that  ye  keep  Nathos 
on  the  coa.st?  No ;  his  soul  detains  him,  children  of  the  night !  Althos,  bring, 
my  father's  arms,  &c. — Fin^gal. 

Whither  hast  thou  fled,  0  wind,  said  the  king  of  Morven  I  Dost  thou  rustle 
in  the  chambers  of  the  south,  and  pursue  the  shower  in  other  lands?  Why 
comest  not  thou  to  my  sails,  to  the  blue  face  of  ray  seas  ?  The  foe  is  in  the  land 
of  Morven,  and  the  king  is  absent. — Fingal. 

Hast  thou  left  thy  blue  course  in  heaven,  golden-haired  son  of  the  sky !  The 
west  hath  opened  its  gates;  the  bed  of  thy  repose  is  there.  The  wave»  gather 
to  behold  thy  beauty;  they  lift  their  trenibling  heads  ;  they  see  thee  lovely  in 
thy  sleep,  but  they  shrink'away  with  fear.  Eest  in  thy  shadowy  cave,  O  Sun  ! 
and  let  thy  return  be  in  joy. — Fingal. 

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,  0  Moon  !  and  brighten  their  dark-brown  sides. 
— Who  is  like  thee  in  heaven,  daughter  of  the  night!  The  stars  are  ashamed 
in  thy  presence,  and  turn  aside  their  sparkling  eyes.  Whither  dost  thou  re- 
tire from  thy  course,  when  the  darkness  of  thy  countenance  grows?  Hast  thou 
thy  hall  like  Ossian?  Dwellest  thou  in  the  shadow  of  grief?  Have  thy  sisters 
fallen  from  heaven  ?  and  are  they  who  rejoiced  with  thee  at  night  no  more  ? 
Yes,  they  have  fallen,  fair  light ;  and  often  dost  thou  retire  to  mourn. — But 
thou  thyself  shalt  one  night  fail;  and  leave  thy  blue  path  in  heaven.  The 
Ptars  will  then  lift  their  heads ;  they,  who  in  thy  presence  were  ashamed,  wil' 
rejoice. — Fingal. 

This  figure,  like  all  othere,  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  parentera 

Te,  Saturne,  refert ;  tu  sanguini«  ultimua  auctor.— JEWid,  vii.  48. 


SECTION  III. 

Hyperbole^. 

519.  In  this  figure,  by  which  an  object  is  magnified  or  diminished 
beyond  truth,  we  have  another  effect  of  the  foregoing  principle.    An 

618.  Define  apostrophe.    With  what  other  figiiro  Is  It  o^^n  Joined  ?    The  sUte  of  ralnd 
tt  ro(;nirc». 


FIGURES.  875 

object  of  an  uncommon  size,  either  verj'  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  (see  chapter  viii.).  The  same  effect,  precisely,  attends  figura- 
tive grandeur  or  littleness;  and  hence  the  hyperbole,  which  ex- 
presses that  momentary  conviction.  A  writer,  taking  advantage  of 
this  natural  delusion,  warms  his  description  greatly  by  the  hyper- 
bole;  and  the  reader,  even  in  his  coolest  moments,  relishes  th« 
figure,  being  sensible  that  it  is  the  operation  of  nature  upon  :« 
glowing  fancy. 

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 
the  power  of  imagination ;  but  that  the  mind,  dilated  and  inflamed 
with  a  grand  object,  moulds  objects  for  its  gratification  with  great 
facility.  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  Lacedemonian  letter."  (Chapter 
xxxi.  of  his  Treatise  on  the  Subhme.)  But,  for  the  reason  now 
given,  the  hyperbole  has  by  far  the  greater  force  in  magnifying  ob- 
jects ;  of  which  take  the  following  examples : 

For  all  the  land  which  thoa  seest,  to  thee  will  I  ^ive  it,  and  to  thy  wed 
forever.  And  I  will  make  thy  seed  as  the  dust  of  the  earth ;  so  that  if  « 
man  can  number  the  dust  of  the  earth,  then  shall  thy  seed  also  be  num- 
bered.— Oenms,  xiii.  16, 16. 

Ilia  vel  intactffi  segetis  per  summa  volaret  _ 

Gramina :  nee  teneras  cursu  Isesisset  aristas.— ^n«a,  vu.  808. 

Atque  imo  barathri  ter  gur^ite  vasto* 

Sorbet  in  abruptum  fluctus,  rursusque  sub  auraa 
Erigit  alternos,  et  sidera  verberat  umiii.—Ibid.  in.  421. 

-Ilorrificis  juxta  tonat  iEtna  ruinis, 


Interdnmquc  atram  prornmpit  ad  athera  nubem, 

Turbine  fumantem  piceo  et  candente  faviUa : 

AttoUitque  globos  flamraarum,  et  sidera  larabit— /*ui.  ul.  07l. 


Speaking  of  Polyphemus 


Ipse  arduuB,  aJtaque  pulsat  ... 

Sidera.  ^  IbuLnx.i\i. 

When  he  speaks,  „   .      »  o     i 

The  air,  a  chartered  libertine,  is  still.— i&*ry  V.  Act  I.  bo.  I. 

Now  shield  with  shield,  with  helmet  helmet  closed, 

To  armor  armor,  lance  to  lance  opposed. 

Host  against  host  with  shadowy  squadrons  drew, 

The  sounding  darts  in  iron  tempests  flow. 

Victors  and  vanqui.sh'd  join  promiscuous  cries. 

And  shrilling  sliouts  and  dying  grosins  arise : 

With  streaming  blood  the  slipperv  fields  are  dyed. 

And  slaughtcrd  heroes  swell  the  drc;idtul  UAc—IUad,  \s.  6W. 


m.  Deflne  hypwbote.    Why  It  is  •uAm  to  nu^DUy  ibw  to  dlmtotofc  by  fcyp««W:* 
rfa«  figure,  nataml. 


376  FIOUBES. 

•'•20.  Having  examined  the  nature  of  this  figure,  and  tJie  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 
oniinary  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  lie  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.  So.  1. 

In  the  next  place,  it  may  be  gathered  from  what  is  said,  that  an 
hyperbole  can  never  suit  the  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 : 

jr.  Rich.  Aumerle,  thou  weep'st,  my  tender-hearted  consin  ! 
"We'llniake  foul  weather  with  despised  tears : 
Our  sighs,  and  they,  shall  lodge  the  summer-corn, 
And  make  a  dearth  in  this  revolting  \&nd.—Ric1iard  IL  Act  III.  So. «. 

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.— «7«Ziw«  GcRsar,  Act  I.  Sc.  1. 

Thirdly,  A  writer,  if  he  wish  to  succeed,  ought  always  to  have 
the  reader  in  his  eyie  :  he  ought  in  particular  never  to  venture  a  bold 
thought  or  expression  till  the  reader  be  warned  and  prepared.  For 
that  reason  an  hyperbole  in  the  beginning  of  a  work  can  never  be  in 
its  place.     Example  : 

Jam  pauca  aratro  jugera  regise 

Moles  relinquent.  Horat,  Carm.  1.  i.  ode  15. 

521.  The  nicest  point  of  all  is  to  ascertain  the  natural  limits 
of  an  hypei^bole,  beyond  which  being  overstrained,  it  hath  a  bad 
effect.  Longinus,  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-string,  which  relaxes  by  overstraining,  and  pro- 
duceth  an  effect  directly  opposite  to  what  is  intended.  To  ascertain 
any  precise  boundary  would  be  difficult,  if  not  impracticable.  Mine 
shall  be  an  humbler  task,  which  is,  to  give  a  specimen  of  what  I 
reckon  overstrained  hyperbole ;  and  I  shall  be  brief  upon  them,  be- 
cause examples  are  to  be  found  everywhere  :  no  fault  is  more  com- 
mon among  writers  of  inferior  rank,  and  instances  are  found  even 

620.  Capital  fanlt— The  passion  tbat  is  uiu3ait«d  to  hyiierbole.— Wb«n  •  b«ld  thon^bt  of 
•xprssdoD  Biaj  t>«  Tentar«a 


FIGURES.  877 

among  classical  writers :  witness  the  following  hyperbole,  too  bold 
even  for  a  Hotspur. 

!  Hotspur  talking  of  Mortimer  : 

In  single  opposition  linnd  to  hand, 
He  did  confound  the  best  part  of  an  honr 
In  changing  hardiment  with  great  Glendowcr. 
Three  times  they  breatlied,  and  three  times  did  they  drink, 
Upon  agreement,  of  swift  Severn's  flood, 
who  then,  affrighted  with  their  bloody  looks. 
Ran  fearfully  among  the  trembling  reeds, 
And  hid  his  crisp'd  head  in  the  hollow  bank. 
Blood-stained  with  these  valiant  combatants. 

First  Part  Henry  IV.  Act  I.  8c  4. 

Speaking  of  Henry  V. : 

Englanjd  ne'er  had  a  king  until  his  time : 

Virtue  ho  had  deserving  to  conimand ; 

His  bran  dish' d  sword  did  blind  men  with  his  beams: 

His  arms  spread  wider  than  a  dragon's  wings ; 

His  sparkling  eyes,  replete  with  awful  fire. 

More  dazzled,  and  drove  back  his  enemies, 

Than  mid-day  sun  fierce  bent  against  their  faces. 

What  should  T  say  ?  his  deeds  exceed  all  speech ; 

He  never  lifted  up  his  hand,  but  conquer'a. 

Firti  Part  Henry  VI.  Act  I.  Sc  1. 

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  passeth  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^gnoit  sur  la  terre  et  sur  I'onde, 
L'air  devenoit  serein  et  I'Olympe  vermeil, 
Et  I'amoureux  Zephir  affranchi  du  sommeil, 
Eessnscitoit  les  flours  d'une  haleine  feconde, 
L'Anrore  ddployoit  I'or  de  sa  tresse  blonde, 
Et  semoit  de  rubis  le  cheinin  du  soleil ; 
Enfin  ce  Dien  vcnoit  au  plus  grand  appareil 
Qu'il  soit  jamais  venu  pour  dclaircr  le  mondo. 

Quand  la  jeune  Phillis  au  vi-xage  riant, 

Sortant  de  son  palais  plus  clair  que  I'orient, 

Fit  voir  une  lumiere  et  plus  vive  ct  plus  belle. 

Sacrd  flambeau  du  jour,  n'en  soyez  point  jaloux. 

Vous  parvitcs  alors  aus.si  pen  devant  elle, 

Que  les  feux  de  la  nuit  avoient  fait  devant  vous.— Jrff«#r»». 

There  is  in  Chaucer  a  thought  expressed  in  a  single  line,  which 
gives  more  lustre  to  a  youug^beauty  than  the  whole  of  this  much- 
labored  poem : 

Up  rose  the  sun,  and  up  rose  Emclie. 

6«.  The  natnnd  Hrolto  of  hyperbole.    In  wli»t  words  to  b«  eoBTtyO. 


878  FiauEEs. 

SECTION  IV. 
The  Mean$  or  Instrument  conceived  to  he  the  Agent. 

522.  When  we  survey  a  number  of  connected  objects,  that  which 
makes  the  greatest  figure  employs  chiefly  our  attention ;  and  the 
emotion  it  i-aises,  if  hvely,  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  rock  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  circimistance  in 
the  description,  is  itself  imagined  to  be  the  patient : 

Whose  hunger  has  not  Uisted  food  these  three  days. — Jane  Short, 


-As  when  the  force 


Of  subterranean  wind  transports  a  hill. — Paradise  Lost. 


As  when  the  potent  rod 

Of  Amram's  son,  in  Egypt's  evil  day 

Waved  round  the  coast,  upcall'd  a  pitchy  cloud 

Of  locusts.  Paradise  Lott. 


SECTION  V. 

A  Figure  which,  among  Belated  Objects,  extend?  the  Properties  of 
oiie  to  another. 

523.  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  eft'ect  in 
those  who  stand  on  it.     In  the  same  manner  a  wound  is  said  to  bo 

622.  In  surveying  connected  objects,  what  gains  chief  attention  ?— How  tho  capital  elf 
eomstances  are  itOTDetinnes  e.Teltod.    Kzamplait. 


FI0DRK8.  879 

danng,  not  with  respect  to  itself,  but  with  respect  to  the  boldnes*  of 
the  person  who  inflicts  it;  and  wine  is  said  to  h^  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  tlie  attribute  is  not 
applicable  to  the  subject  in  any  proper  sense. 

How  are  we  to  account  for  this  figure,  which  we  see  lies  in  the 
thought,  and  to  what  principle  shall  we  refer  it  ?  Have  poeta  a 
privilege  to  alter  the  nature  of  things,  and  at  pleasure  to  bestow  at- 
tributes upon  a  subject  to  which  they  do  not  belong  ?  We  have 
had  often  occasion  to  inculcate  that  the  mind  passeth  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 
and  bad  properties  of  one  to  another,  especially  when  it  is  in  any 
degree  inflamed  with  these  properties.  (See  chapter  ii.  part  i.  sec.  5.) 
From  this  principle  is  derived  the  figure  under  consideration.  I^an- 
guage,  invented  for  the  communication  of  thought,  would  be  imper- 
fect 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 
regulated  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  sword,  the  expression  is 
significative  of  an  internal  operation  ;  for  the  mind,  in  passing  from 
the  agent  to  its  instniment,  is  disposed  to  extend  to  tiie  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 
bold  deed,  or  audax  facinus,  we  extend  to  the  efl"ect  what  properly 
belongs  to  the  cause.  But  not  to  waste  time  by  mjiking  a  com- 
mentary upon  every  expression  of  this  kind,  the  best  way  to  give  a 
complete  view  of  the  subject,  is  to  exhibit  ajtuble  of  the  ditierent 
relations  that  may  give  occasion  to  this  figure.  And  in  viewing  the 
table,  it  will  be  observed  that  the  figure  can  never  have  any  grace 
but  where  the  relations  are  of  the  most  intimate  kind. 

1.  An  attribute  of  the  cause  expressed  as  an  attribute  of  the 
effect 

Audax  facinus. 

Of  yonder  fleet  a  bold  discovery  make. 

An  impious  mortal  gave  tlio  daring  wound. 

To  my  adventurous  Jonp, 

That  with  uo  middle  flight  inteuds  to  soar.  ParadxM  LoH. 

2.  An  attribute  of  the  effect  expressed  as  an  attribute  of  the 
<»ause. 

Quos  periisso  ambos  tnUera  censebam  in  mari.  Playttu. 

No  wonder,  fallen  such  hptmieumt  height  ParadUt  Itti. 


380  FIGURES. 

3.  An  effect  expressed  as  an  attribute  of  tne  cause. 

Jovial  wine,  Giddy  brink,  Drowsy  night,  Musing  midnight,  Painting  height, 
Astonish'd  thought,  Mournful  gloom. 

Casting  a  dim  religiotis  light.  Milion,  Comua. 

And  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 

And  th&  jocund  rebecks  sound.  Milton,  Allegro. 

4.  An  attribute  of  a  subject  bestowed  upon  one  of  its  parts  or 

members. 

Longing  arms. 

It  was  the  nightingale,  and  not  the  lark, 
,      That  pierced  th^  fearful  hollow  of  thine  car. 

Borneo  and  Juliet,  Act  III.  So.  7. 

Oh,  lay  by 

Those  most  ungentle  locks  and  angry  weapons ; 
Unless  you  mean  my  griefs  and  killing  fears 
Should  stretch  me  out  at  your  relentless  feet. 

Fair  Penitent,  Act  III. 


■  And  ready  now 


To  stoop  with  wearied  wing  and  willing  feet, 
On  the  Dfvre  outside  of  this  world. 

Paradise  Lost,  b.  iii. 

5.  A  quality  of  the  agent  given  to  the  instrument  with  which  U 
operates. 

Why  peep  your  coward  swords  half  out  their  shells  1 

6.  An  attribute  of  the  agent  given  to  the  subject  upon  which  it 
operates. 

Bigh-dimbinghill  KiUon. 

V.  A  quality  of  one  subject  given  to  another. 

Icci,  beatis  nunc  Arabum  invides  ,  .      ,    «„ 

(ja2is.  Horat.  Oarm.  1. 1.  ode  29.  . 

"When  sapless  age,  and  weak  unable  limbs. 
Should  bring  thy  father  to  his  drooping  chair.  Shalapear*. 

By  art,  the  pilot  through  the  boiling  deep 

And  howling  tempest,  steers  the  fearless  ship. 

Iliad,  xxui.  885. 

Then,  nothing  loth,  th'  enamor'd  fair  he  led,  ^ 

And  sunk  transported  on  the  conscious  h&d.— Odyssey,  vui.  887. 

A  stupid  moment  motionless  she  stood.  Summer,  1. 1836. 

8.  A  circumstance   connected  with  a  subject,   expressed   as  a 

quality  cf  the  subject. 

Breezy  s,v:caxa\t. 

'Tis  ours  the  chance  of  fighting  fields  to  try.  Hiad,  i.  801. 

Oh  !  had  I  died  before  that  well-fovgTit  wall.        Odyssey,  v.  895. 


628  The  expressio»  s  giddy  brink,  jovial  wine,  darinff  wound,  explained.  How  tWs 
>^Ve  is  to  ^Iwounied  for!^  Table  cf  the  different  relations  tbat  may  give  occa«i,m  to 
this  figure. 


FIOtTRES.  8S1 

624.  From  this  tablo  it  appears  that  the  adornicg  &  cause  with 
hii  attribute  of  the  effect,  is  not  so  agreeable  as  the  opposite  expres- 
sion. The  progress  from  cause  to  effect  is  natural  and  easy :  the 
opposite  progress  resembles  retrograde  motion  (see  chapter  i.) ;  and, 
therefore,  panting  height,  astonished  thought,  are  strained  and  un- 
couth 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 : 

Submereasqve  obruo  puppes.  ^ntid,  i.  73 

And  mighty  ruins  fall.  Iliad,  v.  41 1. 

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  is 

incongruous : 

Kinjf  Jiich. How  daro  thy  joints  forget 

To  pay  their  awful  duty  to  our  presence  ? 

^  '  Jiichard  IT.  Act  III.  Sc  6. 

-The  connection  between  an  awful  superior  and  his  submissive  d^ 
pendent  is  so  intimate,  that  an  attribute  may  readily  be  transferred 
from  the  one  to  the  other  ;  but  a^vfulness  cannot  be  so  transferred, 
because  it  is  inconsistent  with  submission. 


SECTION  VI. 

Metaphor  and  Allegory. 

625.  A  METAPHOR  differs  from  a  simile  in  form  only,  not  in  sub- 
stance :  in  a  simile,  the  two  subjects  are  kept  distinct  in  the  expnss- 
sion,  as  well  as  in  the  thought ;  in  a  metaphor,  the  two  subjects  are 
kept  distinct  in  the  thought  only,  not  in  the  expression.  A  hero 
resembles  a  lion,  and,  upon  that  resemblance,  many  similes  have 
been  raised  by  Homer  and  otlier  poets.  But  instead  of  resembling 
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  converted  into  a 
metaphor ;  which  is  c;uTied  on  by  describing  all  the  qualities  of  a 
lion  that  resemble  those  of  the  hero.  The  fundjunental  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  apwarance,  but  in  re- 
ality the  hero ;  and  his  description  is  peculiarly  beautiful,  by  ex- 
pressing the  virtues  and  qualities  of  the  hero  in  new  terms,  which, 
properly  speaking,  belong  not  to  him  but  to  tlie  lion.  1  his  wiU 
better  be  undei-stood  by  examples.     A  family  connect^  with  » 


084  Infewoeoi  from  th«  »bore  t«bl«. 


382 


FrGUEf:s. 


common  parent,  resembles  a  tree,  the  trunk  and  branches  of  which 
are  connected  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  seven  fair  branches,  springing  from  one  root: 
Some  of  these  brandies  by  the  dest'nies  cut : 
But  Thomas,  my  dear  lord,  ray  life,  my  Glo'ster, 
One  flourishing  branch  of  his  most  roj'al  root, 
Is  hack'd  down,  and  his  summer-leaves  all  faded, 
By  Envy's  hand  and  Murder's  bloody  axe. 

Richard  II.  Act  I.  So.  8. 
Figuring  human  life  to  be  a  voyage  at  sea  : 

There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men, 

Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune 

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  C^ar,  Act  IV.  So.  6. 

Figuring  glory  and  honor  to  be  a  garland  of  flowers  : 

Hotspur.  — Would  to  heaven. 

Thy  name  in  arms  were  now  as  great  as  mine  I 

Pr.  Henry.  I'll  make  it  greater,  ere  I  part  from  thee, 
And  all  the  budding  honors  on  thy  crest, 
I'll  crop,  to  make  a  garland  for  my  head. 

First  Part  Henry  IV.  Act  V.  So.  9. 

Figuring  a  man  who  hath  acquired  great  reputation  and  honor  to 
be  a  tree  full  of  fruit : 

•  Oh,  boys,  this  story 


The  world  may  read  in  me :  my  body's  mark'd 

With  Eoman  swords ;  and  my  report  was  once 

First  with  the  best  of  note.    Cymbeline  loved  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.  Cymbeline,  Act  III.  Sc.  8. 

Blessed  be  thy  soul,  thou  king  of  shells,  said  Swaran  of  the  dark-brown 
eliield.  In  peace  thou  art  the  gale  of  spring;  in  war,  the  mountain-storm. 
Take  now  my  hand  in  friendship,  thou  noble  king  of  Morven.  Fingal. 

Thou  dwellest  in  the  soul  of  Melvina,  son  of  mighty  Ossian.  My  sighs  arise 
with  the  beam  of  the  east ;  my  tears  descend  with  the  drops  of  night.  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.  Ibid. 

526.  I  am  aware  that  the  term  metapJior  has  been  used  in  a  more 
extensive  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, 

BJ3.  Ulustrato  tlie  dUfcr«Tic«  b«tw«n  metephor  Mid  rtmll*.    Exuavtos. 


FIOITBES.  8d8 

and  to  separate  fi'om  it  things  that  are  distinguished  by  different 
names.  An  allegory  difters  from  a  metaphor,  and  what  I  would 
choose  to  call  a  figure  of  speech,  differs  from  both.  I  proceed  to 
explain  these  differences,  A  metaphor  is  defined  ab<n-e  to  be  an 
act  of  the  imagination,  figuring  one  thing  to  be  another.  An  alle- 
gory requires  no  such  operation,  nor  is  one  thing  figured  to  be  an- 
other :  it  consists  in  choosing  a  subject  having  properties  or  circum- 
stances resembling  those  of  the  pnncipal  subject ;  and  the  former  is 
dssciibed  in  such  a  manner  as  to  represent  the  latter :  the  subject 
thus  represented  is  kept  out  of  view ;  we  are  left  to  discover  it  by 
reflection ;  and  we  are  pleased  with  the  discovery,  because  it  is  oui 
own  work.  Quintilian  (L.  viii.  cap.  vi.  sec.  2)  gives  the  following 
instance  of  an  allegory : 

0  navis,  referent  in  mare  te  novi 

Fluctus.    0  quid  agis  ?  fortiter  occupa  portum. 

Horat.  lib.  i.  ode  1*. 

and  explains  it  elegantly  in  the  following  words:  "Totusque  ille 
Horatii  locus,  quo  navim  pro  republica,  Buctuum  tempestates  pro 
bellis  civllibus,  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  ojwt  out  the  heathen,  and 
planted  it.  Thou  didst  cause  it  to  tJike  deep  root,  and  it  filled  the  land.  Tho 
hills  were  covered  with  its  shadow,  and  the  boughs  thereof  were  like  the  good- 
ly cedars.  Why  hast  thou  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.  Keturn,  we  beseech  thee,  0  God  of  hosts ;  look  down 
from  heaven,  and  behold  and  visit  this  vine,  and  the  vineyard  thv  nght  hand 
hath  planted,  and  the  branch  thou  madest  strong  for  thyself.      FtaUn  IsxJt. 

In  a  word,  an  allegory  is  in  every  respect  similar  to  a  hiero- 
glyphical  painting,  excepting  only  that  words  are  used  instead  of 
colors.  Their  effects  are  precisely  the  same  :  a  hieroglyphic  raise* 
two  images  in  the  mind ;  one  seen,  which  represents  one  not  seen  : 
an  allegoiy  does  the  same:  the  representative  subject  is  described; 
and  resemblance  leads  us  to  apply  the  description  to  the  subject  rep 
resented.  In  a  figure  of  speech,  there  is  no  fiction  of  the  imagina- 
tion employed,  as  in  a  metaphor,  nor  a  representative  subject  intro- 
duced, as  in  an  allegory.  This  figure,  as  its  name  iraplie^  reffwds 
the  expression  only,  not  the  thought;  and  it  may  be  defined Jthe 
using  a  word  in  a  sense  different  from  what  is  proper  to  lU  Tlius 
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. 

B28.  Metaphor  and  allegorv  distlmruifhed.    E«mpIe3.-To  whit  an  •IlifOTT  «•  *•«»»»- 
Distlngulgb  meUpbor  «ud  allegory  from  »  tpir*  of  ajieect. 


S84 


FIGURES. 


521.  Figures  of  speech  are  reserved  for  a  separate  section ;  but 
metaphor  and  allegory  ai-e  so  much  connected,  that  they  must  bo 
iiandled  together ;  the  rules  paiticularly  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 : 

Quten.  Great  lords,  wise  men  ne'er  sit  and  wail  their  losa 
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  swallow'd  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  mach; 
While  in  his  moan  the  ship  splits  on  the  rock, 
Which  industry  and  courage  might  have  saved  ? 
Ah,  what  a  shame  !  ah,  what  a  feult  were  this ! 

Third  Fart  Henri/  VI.  Act  V.  8c  6. 

Orocnoko.  Ha !  thou  hast  rousfed 
The  lion  in  his  den ;  he  stalks  abroad, 
And  the  wide  forest  trembles  at  his  roar. 
I  find  the  danger  now.  Oroonoio,  Act  III.  Sc.  2.    . 

My  well-beloved  hath  a  vineyard  in  a  very  fruitful  hill.  He  fenced  it,  gath- 
ered out  the  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  ibrth  wild  grapes.  And  now,  O  inhabitants 
of  Jerusalem,  and  men  of  Judah,  judge,  I  pray  you,  betwixt  me  and  my  vine- 
?Su  Y'^^^  *^*^"'<i  ^^*^'^  ^^«^  <^""°  '"ore  to  my  vineyard,  that  I  have  not  done  ? 
Wherefore,  when  I  looked  that  it  should  bring  forth  grapes,  brought  it  forth 
wild  grapes?  And  now  go  to;  I  will  tell  you  what  I  will  do  to  my  vineyard: 
I  will  take  away  the  hedge  thereof,  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 
Bhall  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,  v.  1. 

The  rules  that  govern  metaphors  and  allegories  are  of  two  kinds : 
the  construction  of  these  figures  comes  under  the  first  kind ;  the 
propriety  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 
allegories. 

And,  in  th.j  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 : 

He  cannot  buckle  his  distemper'd  cause 

Within  the  belt  of  rule.  Micbeth,  Act  V.  Sc.  2. 

There  is  no  resemblance  between  a  distempered  cause  and  any  body 
that  can  be  confined  within  a  belt 


FIGURES.  &J5 

Again : 

Steep  me  in  poverty  to  the  very  lips.— Othtlic,  Act  IV.  Sc.  9. 

Poverty  here  must  be  conceived  a  fluid,  which  it  resembles  not  in 
any  manner. 

Speaking  to  Bohugbroke  banished  for  six  years : 


Again 


The  sullen  passage  of  thy  weary  steps 
Esteem  a  foil,  wherein  thou  art  to  set 
The  precious  jewel  of  thy  home-return,— J?ic^rrf  //.  Act  I.  Sc  •. 

Here's  a  letter,  lady. 

And  ever^  word  in  it  a  gaping  wound 

Issuing  life-blood.  Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  III.  Sc,  3. 


Tant»  molis  erat  Romanam  condere  gentem, — u£n«id,  i.  87. 

The  following  Aetaphor  is  strained  l^yond  all  endurance ,  Timur- 
bec,  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  resist  us  ?  where  is  the  potentate  who  doth 
not  glonr  in  being  numbered  among  our  attendants  ?  As  lor  thee,  dei«cended 
from  a  Turcoman  sailor,  since  the  vessel  of  tliy  unbounded  ambition  bath  been 
wreck'd  in  the  gulf  of  th^  self-love,  it  would  bo  proper,  tliat  thou  shouidst  uke 
in  the  sails  of  thy  temerity,  and  cast  the  anchor  ot  repentance  in  the  port  of 
sincerity  and  justice,  wliich  is  the  port  of  safety ;  lest  the  tempest  of  our  ven- 
gesmce  make  thee  perish  in  the  sea  of  the  punishment  thou  deservest. 

Such  strained  figures,  as  obsei-ved  above  (chapter  xix.,  Comparisons), 
are  not  unfrequent  in  the  first  dawn  of  refinement ;  the  mind  in  a 
new  enjoyment  knows  no  bounds,  and  is  generally  canied  to  excess, 
till  taste  and  experience  discover  the  proper  limits. 

Secondly,  Whatever  resemblance  subjects  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  efiect  where  the 
one  is  imagined  to  be  the  other,  as  in  a  metaphor ;  or  naade  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  imago  o( 
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  over-straining  the  mind. 
Here  Cowley  is  extremely  licentious ;  take  the  following  instance  : 

Great  and  wise  conqueror,  who  where'er 
Thou  com'st.  doth  fortify,  and  settle  there ! 
Who  canst  aefend  as  well  as  got. 
And  never  hadst  one  quarter  beat  up  yet ; 


627.  Esamples  of  Allegory.— Two  kinds  of  rules  of  ni'-Uplior  and  tllesory.    lit  Aa  I* 
degree  of  resemblanoe.    2d.  As  U- proinTti-n.    3<1.  As  lo  cirrJin!>t3BC«. 


386  FIGURES. 

Now  thou  art  in,  thou  ne'er  wilt  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 
the  Fairy  Queen,  which  with  great  power  of  expression,  vanety  ot 
images,  and  melody  of  versification,  is  scarce  ever  read  a  second  time. 
528  In  the  fourth  place,  the  comparison  earned  on  m  a  simile, 
being  in  a  metaphor  sunk  by  imagining  the  principal  subject  to  be 
that  very  thing  which  it  only  resembles;  an  opportunity  is  furnished 
to  describe  it  in  terms  taken  sti-ictly  or  literally  with  respect  toits 
imagined  nature.  This  suggests  another  rule,  that  m  constructing 
a  metaphor,  the  writer  ought  to  make  use  of  such  w^i'ds  only  as  are 
applicable  literally  to  the  imagined  nature  of  his  subject:  figurative 
wSids  ought  carefully  to  be  avoided  ;  for  such  comphcated  figures, 
instead  of  setting  the  principal  subject  in  a  strong  light,  mvolve  it  m 
a  cloud  ;  and  it  is  well  if  the  reader,  without  rejecting  by  the  lump, 
endeavor  patiently  to  gather  the  plain  meaning  regardless  of  its 

figures: 

A  stubborn  and  nnconquerable  flame 

Creeps  in  his  vems,  and  drinks  the  streams  of  hfe. 

^  Lctdy  Jane  Ch-ay,  Act  I.  be.  1. 

Copied  from  Ovid, 

Sorbent  avidse  praBCordia  f^ammai.—Metamorph.  lib.  ix.  172. 
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  con- 
jiined  and  therefore  a  fever  may  be  termed  a  flame.  But  now 
admitting  a  fever  to  be  a  flame,  its  efi-ects  ought  to  be  explained  m 
words  that  agree  literally  to  a  flame.  This  rule  is  not  observed 
here  ;  for  a  flame  drinks  figuratively  only,  not  properly. 
Kin^  Henry  to  his  son,  Prince  Henrj' : 

Thou  hid'st  a  thousand  daggers  in  tliy  thoughts, 

Which  thou  hast  whetted  on  thy  stony  heart 

To  stab  at  half  an  hour  of -jjailjife^^^  ^^_  ^^^  ^^  ^  ^^ 

Such  faulty  metaphors  are  pleasantly  ridiculed  in  the  Rehearsal  : 

Phy^ian.  Sir,  to  conclude,  the  place  you  fill  has  more  t^'anainply  exacted 
Uie  t^ents  of  a  wary  pilot;  and  all  these  threatening  «to""V„^5^'^Jj\l'^: 
pregnate  clouds,  hov-er  o'er  our  heads,  will,  when  they  once  are  grasped  but  by 
tlie  eye  of  reason,  melt  into  fruitful  showers  of  blessings  on  the  people. 
Bayes.  Pray  mark  that  allegory.     Is  not  that  good  s        ,    .    .  ,„ 
Mnson.  Yes,  that  grasping  of  a  storm  with  the  eye  is  admirable. 


Actll.  Scl. 


62S.  Tko  sort  »f  words  to  be  ciui,.'..)yod  ia  coustructing  a  uieUphw. 


FIGURKS.  387 

529.  Fifthly,  The  jumbling  different  metaphors  in  the  same  sen- 
tence, beginning  with  one  metaphor  and  ending  w-ith  another,  com- 
monly called  a  mixed  metaphor,  ought  never  to  be  indulged.  Quin- 
tilian  bears  testimony  against  it  in  the  bitterest  terms ;  "  Nam  id 
quoque  in  primis  est  custodiendum,  ut  quo  ex  genere  c(Ej)eris  trans- 
lationis,  hoc  desinji.s.  Multi  enim,  cum  initium  a  tempestate  sumpse- 
nmt,  iucendio  aut  ruina  finiunt :  qua;  est  inconsequentia  rerum 
fcedissima." — L.  viii.  cap.  vi.  sect.  2.  ' 

K.  Eenrxj. Will  vou  again  unknit 

This  churlish  knot  of  all  a"hhorred  war, 
And  move  in  that  obedient  orb  again, 
"Where  jou  did  give  a  fair  and  natural  light  ? 

Fint  Part  Henry  VI.  Act  V.  Sc  1. 

whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 

The  stings  and  arrows  of  outraseous  fortune, 

Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 

And  by  opposing,  end  them.  HamUt,  Act  III.  Sc.  2. 

In  the  sixth  place,  It  is  unplejisant  to  join  different  metaphors  iD 
the  same  period,  even  where  they  are  preserved  distinct ;  for  when 
the  subject  is  imagined  to  be  first  one  thing  and  then  another,  in  tlie 
same  period  without  interval,  the  mind  is  distracted  by  the  rapid 
transition  ;  and  when  the  imagination  is  put  on  such  hard  duty,  its 
images  are  too  faint  to  produce  any  good  effect : 

At  regina  gravl  jamdudum  saucia  cnra, 

Vulnus  alit  venis,  et  cseco  carpitur  igni.  ^neid,  iv.  1. 

Est  mollis  flamma  medullas 

Interea,  et  taciturn  vivit  sub  pectore  vulnus.  ^ntid,  iv.  SC 

Motnm  ox  Metcllo  consulc  civicum, 
Belliqae  eausas,  et  vitia,  et  modos, 
Luduinqne  fortunao,  gravcsqne 
Principum  amicitiaa,  et  nnna 
Nondum  cxpiatis  uncta  cruoribus, 
Periculosse  plenum  opus  alero, 
Tractaa,  ot  incedis  per  ignes 
Subpositos  cineri  doloso.  Horat.  Carm.  I.  ii.  ode  1. 

630.  In  the  last  place.  It  is  still  worse  to  jumble  together  meta- 
phorical and  natural  expression,  so  as  that  the  period  must  be  un- 
derstood in  part  metaphorically,  in  part  literally ;  for  the  imagina- 
tion cannot  follow  with  sufficient  ease  changes  so  sudden  and 
unprepared  :  a  metaphor  begun  and  not  carried  on  hath  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. 

539.  The  Jnmbllnz  of  dlfforcnt  metaphors  in  »  seotcflM.    Tbe>>laii>(  of  diftrcDt 
pbors,  Uiou^b  distinct,  iu  tbe  laiue  period. 


388  FIGURES. 

Speaking  of  Britain, 

This  precious  stono  set  in  the  sea, 

Which  serves  it  in  the  office  of  a  wall,  . 

Or  as  a  moat  defensive  to  a  liouse 

Aeainst  the  envy  of  less  happier  lands. 

Bichard  U.  Act  I.  Sc.  1. 

In  the  fii-si  line  Britain  is  figured  to  be  a  precious  stone  :  in  the  fol- 
lowing lines,  Bi-itain,  divested  of  her  metaphorical  dress,  is  presented 
to  the  reader  in  her  natural  appearance. 

These  growing  feathers,  pluck'd  from  Csesar'a  wing, 
Will  make  him  fly  an  ordinary  pitch. 
Who  else  would  soar  above  the  view  of  men. 
And  keep  us  all  in  servile  fearfulness. 

Julias  Caesar,  Act  I.  Sc.  1. 

The  following  is  a  miserable  jumble  of  expressions,  arising  from  an 
unsteady  view  of  the  subject,  between  its  figurative  and  natural 
appearance  : 

But  now  from  gathering  clouds  destruction  pours, 
Which  ruins  with  mad  mge  our  lialcyon  hours  : 
Mists  from  black  jealousies  the  tempest  forms, 
Whilst  late  divisions  reinforce  the  storm. 

Dispensary,  canto  ill. 

To  thee,  the  world  its  present  homage  pays, 
The  harvest  early,  but  mature  the  praise. 

Pope's  Imitation  of  Horace,  b.  ii. 

Dryden,  in  his  dedication  of  the  translation  of  Juvenal,  says. 

When  thus,  as  I  may  say,  before  the  use  of  the  loadstone,  or  knowledge  of 
the  compass,  I  was  sailing  in  a  vast  ocean,  without  other  help  than  the  pole- 
Btar  of  the  ancients,  and  the  rules  of  the  French  stage  among  the  moderns,  &c. 

[Upon  this  sentence  Prof.  BaiTon  remarks :  Every  reader  must 
feel  the  incoherence  of  the  transition  from  the  figurative  expression 
in  "  the  polar  star  of  the  ancients,"  to  the  literal  phraseology,  "  the 
rules  of  the  French  stage  among  the  moderns,"  and  the  inconsis- 
tency of  pretending  to  navigate  the  ocean  by  the  laws  of  the 
theatre. 

The  author  of  the  Rehearsal  has,  with  much  poignancy,  ridi- 
culed such  incongruous  figures :  " '  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  clouds,  hang 
over  our  heads,  -will,  when  they  are  once  grasped  by  the  eye  of 
reason,  melt  into  fruitful  showers  of  blessings  on  the  people.'  '  Pray 
mark  that  allegory.  Is  not  that  good  ?'  says  Mr.  Bayes.  '  Yes,' 
replies  Mr.  Johnson,  '  that  grasping  of  a  storm  by  the  eye  is  admira- 
ble.' ''—Barron's  LecQ 

"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  : 

•  lieu  !  quoties  fidem, 


Mutatosque  Deos  flobit,  et  iispera 
Nigris  sequora  ventis 


FIGURES.  869 

Emirabitur  insolens. 
Qui  nunc  te  fruitur  credulas  aureft: 
Qui  semper  vacuani,  semper  Hmabilem 

Sperat,  nescius  aurse 

Fallacis.  Jlorat.  Cam.  1.  i,  Kie  1. 

Pour  moi  sur  cettc  mer,  qu'ici  has  nous  courons, 
Jo  sonpe  i  me  pourvoir  d'csquif  et  d'avirons, 
A  regler  mes  desirs,  d  prdveinr  I'orage, 
Et  sauver,  s'il  se  pcut,  ina  liaison  du  naufrapc. 

JioiUau,  Epltro  v. 

[" There  is  a  time,"  obsen-cs  Loid  Bolingbroke,  "  when  factions, 
by  the  vehemence  of  their  fermentation,  stun  and  disable  one  an- 
otlier."  The  author  represents  factious,  first,  as  discordant  fiuids, 
the  mixture  of  which  produces  violent  fermentation ;  but  he  quickly 
relinquishes  this  view  of  them,  and  imputes  to  them  operations  and 
effects,  consequent  only  on  the  supposition  of  their  being  solid 
bodies  in  motion  :  tliey  maim  and  dismember  one  another  by  forci- 
ble collisions. 

"  Those  whose  minds  are  dull  and  heavy,"  according  to  Swift, 
"  do  not  easily  penetrate  into  the  folds  and  intricacies  of  an  affair, 
and  therefore  can  only  scum  off  what  they  find  at  the  top."  That 
the  writer  had  a  right  to  represent  his  afiair,  whatever  it  was,  either 
as  a  bale  of  cloth  or  a  fluid,  ncbody  can  deny.  But  the  laws  of 
common  sense  and  perspicuity  demanded  of  l»im  to  keep  it  either 
the  one  or  the  other,  because  it  could  not  be  both  at  the  same  time. 
It  was  absurd,  therefore,  after  he  had  penetrated  the  folds  of  it,  an 
operation  competent  only  on  the  supposition  of  its  being  some  plia- 
ble sohd  body,  to  speak  of  scumming  ofi"  Avhat  floated  on  the  sur- 
faclf  which  could  not  be  performed  unless  it  was  a  fluid. — Barron, 
Lect.  17.] 

531.  A  few  words  more  upon  allegory.  Nothing  gives  greater 
pleasure  than  this  figure,  when  the  representative  subject  bearB 
a  strong  analogy,  in  all  its  circumstances,  to  that  which  is  re- 
presented :  but  the  choice  is  seldom  so  lucky ;  the  analogj*  being 
generally  so  faint  and  obscure,  as  to  puzzle  and  not  plejuse.  An 
allegoiy  is  still  more  diflBcult  in  painting  than  in  poetr}- :  the  former 
can  >jhow  no  resemblance  but  what  appears  to  the  eye ;  the  latter 
hath  many  other  resources  for  showing  tlie  resernblunco.  And 
therefore,  with  respect  to  what  the  Abbe  du  Bos  {Reflections  stir  la 
Poesie,  vol.  i.  sect.  24)  terms  mixed  allegorical  compositions,  these 
may  do  in  poetry ;  because,  in  wnting,  the  allegorj-  can  easily  be 
distinguished  from  the  historical  part :  no  person,  fur  example,  niiv 
takes  Virgil's  Fame  for  a  real  being.  But  such  a  mixture  m  a 
picture  is^intolerable ;  because  in  a  picture  the  objects  must  ap|)ear 
all  of  the  same  kind,  whollv  real  or  wholly  emblematical. 

In  an  allegorv,  as  well  as'  in  a  metaphor,  terms  ought  to  Iw  chosen 


880.  The  jumbling  of  metaphorical  and  Datnral  expwMlon.    ExampW*  ft«ii  B»UM*»k« 

tad  Swift. 


8y0  FEFURES. 

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  is 
therefore  faulty  : 
^  Ferus  et  Cupido, 

Semper  ardentes  acuens  sagittas 

Cote  cruenta.  Horat.  1.  ii.  ode  8. 

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. 

532.  We  proceed  to  the  next  head,  which  is,  to  examine  in  what 
circumstance  these  figures  are  proper,  in  what  improper.  This  in- 
quiry is  not  altogether  superseded  by  what  is  said  to  be  the  same 
subject  in  the  chapter  of  Comparisons  ;  because  upon  trial  it  will  be 
found  that  a  short  metaphor  or  allegory  may  be  proper,  v/here  a 
simile,  drawn  out  to  a  greater  length,  and  in  its  nature  more  solemn, 
would  scarce  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 ; 

Sleep  that  knits  up  the  ravell'd  sleeve  of  Care, 

The  birth  of  each  day's  life,  soro  Labor's  bath, 

Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  Nature's  second  course,  <^ 

Chief  nourisher  in  Life's  feast.  Act  II.  So.  3. 

The  following  example  of  deep  despair,  besides  the  highly  figurative 
style,  hath  more  the  air  of  raving  than  of  sense  : 

Callsta.  It  is  the  voice  of  thunder,  or  my  father? 
Madness  !  Confusion  !  let  the  storm  come  on, 
Let  the  tumultuous  roar  drive  all  upon  ine, 
Dash  my  devoted  bark ;  ye  surges,  break  it ; 
'Tis  for  my  ruin  that  the  "tempest  rises. 
When  I  am  lost,  sunk  to  the  bottom  low. 
Peace  shall  return,  and  all  bo  calm  again. — Fair  Penitent,  Act  IV. 

The  metaphor  I  next  introduce  is  sweet  and  lively,  but  it  suits  not 
a  fiery  temper  inflamed  with  passion :  parables  are  not  the  language 
of  wrath  venting  itself  without  restraint. 

Chanwnt.  You  took  her  up  a  little  tender  flower, 
Just  sprouted  on  a  bank,  which  the  next  frost 
Had  nipp'd  ;  and  with  a  careful  loving  hand, 
Transplanted  her  into  your  own  fair  garden, 
Where  the  sun  always  shines :  there  long  she  flourish'd, 

681.  When  allegory  gives  great  pleasure.— More  difflcuit  in  painting  than  in  poetry.— 
Choic«i  of  terms  In  allegory. — Circumstances. 
632  When  those  figures  are  proper  and  when  Improper 


FIQURES.  891 

Grew  sweet  to  sense  and  lovely  to  the  eye, 

Till  at  the  last  a  cruel  spoiler  carae, 

Crept  this  fair  rose,  ana  rifled  all  its  Bweetncsy, 

Then  oast  it  like  a  loathsome  weed  away.        Orphan,  Act  IV, 

The  following  speech,  full  of  imagery,  is  not  natural  in  grief  and 
dejection  of  mind : 

GonsaUz.  O  my  son !  from  the  blind  dotajjo 
Of  a  father's  fondness  these  ills  arose. 
For  thee  I've  been  ambitious,  base,  and  bloody 
For- thee  I've  plunged  into  the  sea  of  sin ; 
Stemming  the  tide  with  only  one  weak  hand, 
While  t'other  bore  the  crown  (to  wreathe  thy  brow), 
Whose  weight  baa  sunk  me  ere  I  reach'd  the  shore.  . 

Mourning  Bri<U,  Act  V.  Sc.  « 

533.  There  is  an  enchanting  picture  of  deep  distress  in  Macbeth 
(Act  IV.  Sc.  6),  where  Macdutf  is  represented  lamenting  his  wife 
and  children,  inhumanly  murdered  by  the  tyrant  Stung  to  the 
heart  with  the  news,  he  questions  the  messenger  over  and  over ;  not 
that  he  doubted  the  fact,  but  that  his  heart  revolted  against  so  cruel 
a  misfortune.  After  struggling  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  and  dignity : 

0,  I  could  play  the  woman  with  mine  eyes, 

And  braggart  with  my  tongue.    But.  gentle  Heaven ! 

Cut  short  all  intermission  ;  front  to  front 

Bring  thou  this  fiend  of  Scotland  and  mv-self ; 

Within  my  sword's  length  set  him.— If  he  'scape. 

Then  Heaven  forgive  him  too. 

The  whole  scene  is  a  delicious  picture  of  numan  nature.  One  ex- 
pression only  seems  doubtful ;  in  examining  the  mes.senger,  Macduff 
expresses  himself  thus : 

He  Ixatb  no  children— all  my  pretty  ones  ! 
Did  you  say  all  ?  what,  all  ?  Oh,  hell-kite,  all  \ 
What!  all  my  pretty  little  chickens  and  their  d.ira, 
At  one  fell  swoop ! 

Metaphorical  expression,  I  am  sensible,  may  sometimes  be  used  with 
grace,  where  a  regular  simile  would  bo  intolerable ;  but  there  are 
situations  so  severe  and  dispiriting,  as  not  to  admit  even  tlie  slightest 
metaphor.  It  requires  great  delicacy  of  taste  to  determine  witli  firm 
ness,  whether  the  present  case  l)e  of  that  kind  :  I  incline  to  thirfk  it 
is ;  and  yet  I  would  not  willingly  alter  a  single  word  of  this  ad- 
mirable scene.  •  , 

But  metaphorical  language  is  proper  when  a  man  struggles  to 
bear  with  dignity  or  decency  a  misfortune  however  great;  Uie  strug- 
gle agitates  and  animates  the  mind : 

Wohey.  Farewell,  a  long  nireweU,  to  afl  m v  greatncjw  ! 
This  is  the  state  of  man ;  to-day  he  puU  forth 

538.  Picture  of  distress  from  itfrtc^rfA.-IlIst*nw•  wher«  iDet«phori««)  cxprMriM  It 
•llowftble. 


392  FIGUEES. 

The  tender  leaves  of  hope ;  to-morrow  blossoms, 

And  bears  his  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him; 

The  third  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  VIII.  Act  III.  Sc.  6. 


SECTION   VII. 
Figure  of  Speech. 

534.  In  the  section  immediately  foregoing,  a  figure  of  speech  is 
defined,  "  The  using  a  word  in  a  sense  different  from  what  is  proper 
to  it ;"  and  the  new  or  uncommon  sense  of  the  word  is  termed  the 
figurative  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  Avho  hath  not  given  peculiar 
attention ;  and  therefore  I  shall  endeavor  to  unfold  its  capital  beauties 
and  advantages.  In  the  first  place,  a  word  used  figuratively  or  in  a 
new  sense,  suggests  at  the  same  time  the  sense  it  commonly  bears ; 
and  thus  it  has  the  effect  to  present  two  objects ;  one  signified  by 
the  figurative  sense,  which  may  be  termed,  the  principal  object ;  and 
one  signified  by  the  proper  sense,  which  may  be  termed  accessory : 
the  principal  makes  a  part  of  the  thought ;  the  accessory  is  merely 
oniamental.  In  this  respect,  a  figure  of  speech  is  precisely  similar 
to  concordant  sounds  in  music,  which,  Avithout  contributing  to  the 
melody,  make  it  harmonious.  I  explain  myself  by  examples. 
Youth,  by  a  figure  of  speech,  is  tenned  the  morning  of  life.T— 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  beautiful,  and  connected  by 
resemblance  to  the  principal  object,  is  not  a  little  ornamental.  Im- 
perious ocean  is  an  example  of  a  different  kind,  where  an  attribute  is 
expressed  figuratively  :  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. 

535.  In  the  next  place,  this  figure  possesses  a  signal  power  of 
aggrandizing  an  object,  by  the  following  means :  Words  which 
have  no  original  beauty  but  what  arises  from  their  sound,  acquire  an 
adventitious  beauty  from  their  meaning :  a  word  signifying  any  thing 
that  is  agi-eeable,  becomes  by  that  means  agreeable  ;  for  the  agreea- 
bleness  of  the  object  is  communicated  to  its  name.  (See  chapter  ii. 
part  i.  sec.  5.)     This  acquired  beauty,  by  the  force  of  custom,  ad- 

684,  The  flguraUve  sense.    To  what  it  mnst  beor  a  close  relaUou.    Two  objects  pre- 
•        Kntcd     Examples.— Youtb,  the  morning  of  Ufa. 


FiGURiiis.  393 

heres  to  the  word  even  when  used  figuratively ;  nnd  the  beauty 
received  from  the  thing  it  properly  signifies,  is  communicated  to  the 
thing  which  it  is  made  to  signify  figuratively.  Consider  the  fore- 
going expression,  imjierious  ocean,  how  much  more  elevated  it  is 
than  atormy  ocean. 

Thirdly,  This  figure  hf^th  a  happy  effect  by  preventing  the  fanuli- 
aiity  of  proper  names.  The  familiarity  of  a  proper  name  is  com- 
municated to  the  thing  it  signifies  by  means  of  their  intimate  con- 
nection ;  and  the  thing  is  therefore  brought  down  in  our  feeling. 
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 
termi4ig  it  the  blue  vault  of  heaven  ;  for  though  no  work  of  art  can 
compare  with  the  sky  in  grandeur,  the  expression  however  is  rel- 
ished, because  it  prevents  the  object  from  being  brought  down  by 
the  familiarity  of  its  proper  name. 

Lastly,  By  this  figure  language  is  enriched,  and  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 : 

Quinetiam  agricolas  ea  fiindi  nota  voluptas 
Exercet,  dum  laeta  scijes,  duin  trudcre  (fcnimas 
Incipinnt  vites,  sitientiaqne  setheris  inibrcm 
Prata  bibunt,  ridcntque  satis  snrsrentibus  agri. 
Hanc  vulgo  sjjeciem  propriae  penuria  vocia 
Intulit,  indictisque  ur;iens  in  rebus  egestas. 
Quippe  ubi  bg  vera  ostcndebant  nomina  nusquam, 
Fas  erat  hinc  atquc  hinc  tninsferre  sitnillima  veri*. 

Pott.  lib.  iii.  1.  90. 

The  beauties  I  have  mentioned  belong  to  every  figure  of  speech. 
Several  other  beauties,  peculiar  to  one  or  other  sort,  I  shall  have 
occasion  to  remark  afterwards. 

536.  Not  only  subjects,  but  qualities,  actions,  effects,  may  be  ex- 
pressed figuratively.  Thus  as  to  subject,  the  gates  of  breath  for  the 
lips,  the  waterij  kingdom  for  the  ocean.  As  to  qualities,  fierce  for 
stormy,  in  the  expression  Fierce  winter :  Alius  for  profundus ; 
Alius  putetcs,  Altum  mare  :  Breathing  for  perspiring  ;  Breathing 
plants.  Again,  as  to  actions.  The  sea  rages;  Time  will  melt  her  fix.zon 
thoughts ;  Time  kills  grief.  -An  effect  is  put  for  the  auise,  ji»  luz 
for  the  sun ;  and  a  cause  for  the  effect,  as  bourn  labores  for  corn. 
The  relation  of  resemblance  is  one  plentiful  source  of  figtiros  of 
speech,  and  nothing  is  more  common  than  to  apply  to  one  object 
the  name  of  another  that  resembles  it  in  any  respect ;  height,  sire, 
and  worldly  greatness,  resemble  not  each  other ;  but  the  emotions 
they  produce  resemble  each  other,  and,  prompted  by  this  resem- 
blance, we  naturally  express  worldly  greatness  by  height  or  »»» : 
one  feels  a  certain  uneasiness  in  seeing  a  great  depth  ;  nnd  h.'nce 
depth  is  made  to  express  any  thing  disagreeable  by  excess,  as  drpth 

685,  By  what  means  this  figure  »«randlie«  an  object.  How  tbl«  Bguro  hu  •  U^V 
effect.    Its  inflnence  on  language. 

17* 


394     .  FIGURES. 

of  gi-ief,  depth  of  despair.  Again,  height  of  place,  and  time  long 
past,  produce  similar  feelings,  and  hence  the  expression,  Ut  altius 
repetam :  distance  in  past  time,  producing  a  strong  feeling,  is  put  for 
any  strong  feeling,  N^ihil  mihi  antiquius  nostra  amicitia  :  shortness 
with  relation  to  space,  for  shortness  with  relation  to  time,  Brevis  esse 
laboro,  obscurus  jio :  suffering  a  punisl«ient  resembles  paying  a 
debt ;  hence  pcndei'e  pocnas.  In  the  same  manner,  light  may  be 
put  for  glory,  sunshine  for  prosperity,  and  weight  for  importance. 

637.  Many  words,  oiiginally  figurative,  having  by  long  and  con- 
stant use  lost  their  figurative  power,  are  degraded  to  the  inferior  rank 
of  proper  terms.  Thus  the  words  that  express  the  operations  of  the 
mind,  haye  in  all  languages  been  oi-iginally  figurative :  the  reason 
holds  in  all,  that  when  these  operations  came  fii"st  under  consideration, 
there  was  no  other  way  of  describing  them  but  by  what  they  resem- 
bled :  it  was  not  practicable  to  give  them  proper  names,  as  may  be 
done  to  objects  that  can  be  ascertained  by  sight  and  touch.  A  soft 
nature,  jarring  tempers,  xceight  of  wpe,  pompous  phrase,  beget  com- 
passion, assuage  gi'ief,  break  a  vow,  bend  the  eye  downward,  shower 
down  curses,  drowned  in  teai-s,  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  altogeriier  figurative  or  altogether  proper : 
oi-iginally  figurative,  they  are  tending  to  simplicity,  without  having 
lost  altogether  their  figurative  power.  Virgil's  Regina  saucia  cura, 
is  perhaps  one  of  these  expressions  :  with  oi'dinary  readers,  saucia 
will  be  considered  as  expressing  simply  the  efiect  of  gnef ;  but  one 
of  a  lively  imagination  will  exalt  the  phrase  into  a  figure. 

["  There  is,"  says  Dr.  Maik  Hopkins,  "  a  natural  correspondence 
between  every  state  of  the  mind  and  some  a-^jxsct,  or  movement,  or 
voice  of  animate  or  inanimate  nature.  How  extensive  and  minute 
this  coiTespondence  is,  will  perhaps  be  best  seen  if  we  observe  how 
that  part  of  human  language  originates  which  is  employed  to  ex- 
press the  affections  of  the  mind.  It  is  a  received  doctrine  among 
men  learned  in  this  department,  that  all  words  of  this  description 
had  fii-st  a  meaning  puiely  physicJij,  and  that  this  meaning  was 
afteiwards  transferred  to  express  some  affection  of  the  mind  analo- 
gous to  the  physical  condition  or  act.  Whether  this  is  strictly  and 
universally  trae  or  not,  it  certainly  is  true  that  the  great  mass  of 
words  of  this  description  are  thus  formed ;  and  if  so,  then  it  will 
follow,  that  for  eveiy  mental  state,  act,  or  affection,  which  we  can 
express  in  words,  there  must  be  some  analogous  state,  act,  or  affec- 
tion in  the  physical  world.  Who  then  can  sufficiently  admire  that 
adjustment  and  correlation  of  parts  by  which  mind  and  matter 
almost  seem  to  be  a  part  of  one  organization  ?****** 


6-36.  What,  besides  subjects,  may  be  expressed  flgnratlvely.    Examples. — When  the  nam* 
ofone  object  may  be  applied  Xf  another. 


FIGLRKS.  395 

"Perhaps  one  reason  (for  this  corresjwndence)  is  to  be  found  in 
what  has  aheady  been  referred  to— the  necessity  of  this  for  the  for- 
mation of  language.  I  would  not  limit  the  resources  of  God  but 
constituted  as  the  human  faculties  now  are,  it  would  seem  uece^r>-' 
if  they  w^re  to  be  fully  developed,  that  words  originally  applicabl.' 
to  natural  objects  should  be  capable  of  being  transferred  ro  as  to  ox- 
^  press  the  whole  range  of  thought  and  emotion,  and  this  would  "be 
impossible  without  the  correspondence  of  which  I  have  spoken.  As 
it  is,  we  speak  of  the  light  of  knowledge,  and  the  darkness  of  igno- 
rance, and  the  sunshine  of  joy,  and  the  night  of  grief,  and  the 
storms  of  passion,  and  the  devious  paths  of  error,  and  the  pitfalls  of 
vice ;  and  we  scarcely  reflect  that  we  are  speaking  in  figures,  or  that 
the  flowers  of  rhetoiic,  not  less  than  the  flowers  of  the  field,  have 
their  origin  in  a  material  soil.  Constituted  as  man  now  is.  we  do 
not  see  how  he  could  have  been  furnished  with  the  symbols  of 
thought,  the  materials  of  language,  in  any  other  way."] 

For  epitomizing  this  subject,  and  at  tlie  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  hst  I  divide  into  two  tables  :  one  of 
subjects  expressed  figuratively,  and  one  of  attributes. 


FIRST  TABLE. 
Subjects  expressed  figurativelt/. 

638.  1.  A  word  proper  to  otfe  subject  employed  figuratively  to 
express  a  resembling  subject. 

There  is  no  figure  of  speech  so  frequent  as  what  is  derived  from 
the  relation  of  resemblance.  Youth,  for  example,  is  signified  figura- 
tively by  the  morning  of  life.  The  life  of  a  man  resembles  a  natural 
day  in  several  particulars ;  the  momiug  is  the  beginning  of  day, 
youth  tlie  beginning  of  lite  ;  the  morning  is  cheerful,  so  is  youth,  «to. 
By  another  resemblance,  a  lx)ld  warrior  is  t<,rme<.l  the  thunderbolt 
of  war ;  a  multitude  of  troubles,  a  sea  of  troubles. 

This  figure,  above  all  others,  affords  pleasure  to  the  mind  by  n 
variety  of  beauties.  Besides  the  beauties  above  mentioned,  common 
taall  sorts,  it  possesses  in  particular  tlie  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  accessory ; 
whereby  every  good  effect  of  a  metaphor  or  simile,  may,  in  a  very 
short  and  lively  manner,  be  produced  by  this  figure  of  speech. 

2.  A  word  proper  to  the  effect  employed  figuratively  to  expreM 
the  cause. 

687.  Word*  thtt  bsxTC  lost  their  flfni«HT«  powr     Kx«»np»«. 


396  FIGURES. 

Lux  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.  Ovid. 

Wliere  the  dun  umbrage  hangs.  Spring,  1. 1023. 

A  wound  is  made  to  signify  an  arrow : 

Vulnere  non  pedibns  te  consequar.  Ovid. 

There  is  a  peculiar  force  and  beauty  in  this  figure :  the  word 
which  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  exprgss 
the  effect. 

Boumque  labor^s,  for  corn.     Sorrow  or  grief,  for  tears. 

Again,  Ulysses  veil'd  his  pensive  head ; 
Again,  unmann'd,  a  shower  of  sorrow  shed. 

Streaming  Gi-ief  his  faded  cheek  bedew'd. 

Blindness  for  darkness : 

CaBcis  erramus  in  undis.  JUneid,  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  murraure  pontum, 
Emissamque  Hyemem  sensit  Neptunus. — uSneid,  i.  128. 

This  last  figure  would  be  too  bold  for  a  British  writer,  as  a  storm 
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 : 

Yojith  and  beauty  shall  be  laid  in  dust. 

Majesty  for  the  King : 

What  art  thou,  that  nsurp'st  this  time  of  night, 

Together  with  that  fair  and  warlike  form, 

In  which  the  Majesty  of  buried  Denmark 

Did  sometimes  march  ?  Hamlet,  Act  I.  Sc.  I. 

-Or  have  ye  chosen  this  place 


Afier  the  toils  of  battle  to  repose 

Your  wearied  virtue.  JParadise  Lott. 

Verdure  for  a  green  field. — Summer,  1.  301. 


FIOURBS.  397 

Speaking  of  cranes : 

The  pigmy  uations,  wounda  and  death  they  bring, 
And  all  tho  tear  descends  \x\  on  the  wing. — Iliad,  iii.  10. 

Cool  age  advances  venerably  wise. — Iliad,  iii.  149, 

The  peculiai-  beauty  of  this  figure  arises  from  suggesting  an  attri- 
bute that  embelHshes  the  subject,  or  puts  it  in  a  stronger  light. 

G.  A  complex  term  employed  figuratively  to  denote  one  «f  the 
component  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. 

Tceda  for  a  marriage.  The  East  for  a  country  situated  east  from 
us.     Jovis  vestigia  servat,  for  imitating  Jupiter  in  general. 

8.  A  word  signifying  lime  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  minas  pro  capite  tuo  dedi.  Plautus. 

Tergum,  for  the  man  : 

Fugiens  tergum.  Ond. 

Vultus  for  the  man : 

Jam  fulgor  armorum  fugaccs 

Terret  equos,  cquitumque  vultus.  Horat. 

Qnis  desiderio  sit  pudor  aut  modus 

Tarn  chari  capitis  f  Horat, 

Dumque  virent  genua  t  Horat. 

Thy  growing  virtues  justified  my  cares, 

And  promised  comfort  to  my  »ilvtr  hairs. — lUcA,  ix.  616. 

-Forthwith  from  tho  pool  he  rears 


His  mighty  stature.  Paradit*  Lost 

The  silent  lieart  with  grief  assails.  ParniiL 

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. 

Grove  for  the  birds  in  it,  Vocal  grove.  Ships  for  the  seamen, 
Agonizing  ships.  Mountains  for  the  sheep  pasturing  upon  them. 
Bleating  mountains.  Zaci/nthus,  Ithaca,  <fec.,  for  the  inhabitants. 
Fx  mcEstis  domibus,  Livy.  , 

11.  The  name  of  the  sustainer,  employed  figuratively  to  signify 
what  is  sustained. 


398  FIGURES. 

Altar  for  the  sacrifice.  Field  for  the  battle  fought  upon  it,  Well- 
fought  Jield. 

12.  The  name  of  the  materials,  employed  figurative.y  to  signify 
the  things  made  of  them. 

Ferrum,  for  gladius. 

13.  The  names  of  the  heathen  deities,  employed  figuratively  to 
signify  what  they  patronize. 

Jove  for  the  air,  Mars  for  war,  Venus  for  beauty,  Cupid  for  love, 
Ceres  for  corn,  Neptune  for  the  sea,  Vulcan  for  fire. 

The  figure  bestows  great  elevation  upon  the  subject ;  and  there- 
fore ought  to  be  confined  to  the  higher  strains  of  poetiy. 


SECOJfD    TABLE. 

Attributes  expressed  figuratively. 

539.  When  two  attributes  are  connected,  the  name  of  the  one 
may  be  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.  Imiyerious  ocean.  Angry  flood.  Raging  tem- 
pest.    Shalloio  fears. 

My  sure  divinity  shall  bear  the  shield, 

And  edge  thy  sword  to  reap  the  glorious  field. 

Odyssey,  xx.  61. 

Black  omen,  for  an  omen  that  portends  bad  fortune. 

Ater  odor,  Virgil. 

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  iutellectus.     Mens  for  a  resolution : 

Istam,  oro,  exnc  mentem. 

4.  When  two  subjects  have  a  resemblance  by  a  common  quality, 
the  name  of  the  one  subject  may  be  employed  figuratively  to  de- 
note that  quality  in  the  other. 

Summer  life  for  aofreeable  life. 


58S.  The  several  relations  on  which  figures  of  speech  are  founded. — First  Table  — Sulu 

eta  expressed  flfraratively. 

589.  Second  table.— Attribute*  expreesr(i  fljrarntlvcly. 


FIGURKS.  390 

6.  The  name  of  the  instrument  made  to  si<fnify  the  power  of  eD>- 

ploying  it. 

Melpomene,  cui  liquidam  pater 

Vocem  cum  cUkera,  dedit. 

640.  The  ample  field  of  figurative  expression  displayed  in  these 
tables,  affords  great  scope  for  refisoning.  Several  of  the  observa- 
tions relating  to  metaphor,  are  applicable  to  figures  of  speech :  these 
I  shall  slightly  retouch,  Avith  some  additions  peculiarly  adapted  to 
the  present  subject. 

In  the  first  place,  as  the  figure  under  consideration  ia  built  upon 

relation,  we  find  from  experience,  and  it  must  be  obvious  from 

reason,  that  the  beauty  of  the  figure  depends  on  the  intimacy  ot 

the  relation  between  the  figurative  and  proper  sense  of  the  word. 

A  slight  resemblance,  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  scarce  any  resemblance  between  listening  and  drinking. 

The  expression  weighty  crack,  used  by  Ben  Jonson  for  loud  crack, 

is  worse  if  possible  :  a  loud  sound  has  not  the  slightest  resemblance 

to  a  piece  of  matter  that  is  weighty.     The  following  expression  of 

Lucretius  is  not  less  faulty :  "  Et  lepido  quae  sunt  fucata  sonore." 

(i.  645.) 

Sed  magia 

Pugnas  et  cxactos  t^yraunos 
Densum  humeris  btbit  auro  valgus. 

Horat.  Qirm.  1.  li.  ode  IS. 

Phemius !  let  acts  of  gods  and  heroes  old, 

What  ancient  bards  in  hall  and  bower  have  told, 

Attemper'd  to  the  lyre,  your  voice  employ, 

Such  the  pleased  ear  will  drink  with  silent  joy.— CWyM«y,  i.  «5. 

Strepitumque  exterritus  Aaiuit.  u£neid,  vl.  559. 

'^        Write,  my  Queen, 

And  with  mine  eyes  I'l'l  drink  the  worda  you  send. 

''  GymbtUnt,  Act  I.  So.  58. 

As  thus  the  effulgence  tremulous  I  drink:    Summtr,  1. 168i. 

Neque  audit  cwrxm  habenas.  Oeorg.  i.  614. 

0  prince !  (Lycaon's  valiant  son  replied), 

As  thine  the  steeds,  be  thine  the  task  to  guide.  • 

The  horses,  practised  to  their  lord's  command, 

Shall  hear  the  rein,  and  answer  to  thy  hand.  llMd,  v.  X88. 

The  following  figures  of  speech  seem  altogether  wild  and  extrava- 
ifant,  figurative  and  proper  meaning  having  no  connection  wlmt- 
ever.  Moving  softness,  Freshness  breathes,  Breathing  prospt-ct. 
Flowing  spring.  Dewy  light,  Lucid  coolness,  and  many  otliors  ol 
this  folse  coin,  may  be  found  in  Thomson's  Seasons. 

f'Of  all  late  writers  of  merit  who  have  indulged  m  remote  or 
unmeanin<r  metnphol•^  Thomson,  in  his  Seasms,  is  perbap-  most 


400  FIGURES. 

exposed  to  reprehension.  His  desire  to  ejfevate  and  recommend  a 
subject  which  had  Httle  in  it  to  interest  the  understanding  or  the 
passions,  ana  which  depended  ahnost  entirely  on  the  imagination, 
and  the  influence  of  picturesque  description  (the  powere  of  which 
were  in  some  measure  untried  and  unknown),  seems  to  have  prompted 
him  to  call  into  his  service  every  poetical  embellishment  of  which  he 
could  with  any  propriety  lay  hold.  He  scruples  not  to  personify  on 
the  most  trivial  occasions ;  but  what  is  much  more  exceptionable,  to 
these  ideal  personages  he  affixes  many  ideal  attributes,  which  have 
little  relation  or  resemblance  to  any  thing  that  exists  in  nature.  He 
enfeebles  his  diction  by  overloading  it  with  epithets,  and  he  ob- 
structs the  impression  by  the  variety  or  tautology  of  his  metaphors. 
What  conception  can  arise,  or  what  impulse  can  result,  from  the 
following  combinations  ?  '  Lone  quiet,'  '  pining  grove,'  '  pale 
dreary,'  '  solid  gloom,'  and  a  thousand  more  of  the  same  species  ? 
Such  figures,  however,  abound  chiefly  in  the  fii-st  editions  of  the 
Seasons  ;  many  of  them  were  afterwards  improved  or  expunged. 
It  is  to  be  regretted,  that  the  author  or  his  friends  had  not  been 
still  more  industrious  to  coirect  or  suppress  them.  They  are  the 
chief  blemishes  of  a  poem,  in  other  respects  one  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful of  its  kind  which  any  age  has  produced." — Barron,  Lect.  1 7.] 

Secondly,  The  pi'oper  sense  of  the  word  ought  to  bear  some  pro- 
portion to  the  figurative  sense,  and  not  soar  much  above  it,  nor  sink 
much  below  it. 

541.  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  fonner 
serves  for  no  other  purpose  but  to  make  harmony : 

Zacynthus  green  with  ever-shady  proves, 

And  Ithaca,  presumptuous  boast  their  loves  ; 

Obtruding  on  my  chf>iee  a  second  lord. 

They  press  the  Hymenean  rite  abhorr'd.  Odyttey,  six.  152. 

Zacynthus  here  standing  figuratively  for  the  inhabitants,  the  descrip- 
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  Queen, 


And  with  mine  eyes  I'll  drink  the  words  yon  send, 

Though  ink  be  made  of  gall.  Ci/mbeline,  Act  I.  So.  8. 

The  disgust  one  has  to  drink  ink  in  reality,  is  not  to  the  purpose 
where  the  subject  is  drinking  ink  figuratively. 

In  th^  fourth  place.  To  draw  consequences  from  a  figure  of  speech, 
as  if  the  word  were  to  be  understood  literally,  :s  a  gross  absurdity, 
for  it  is  confounding  truth  with  fiction. 

640.  On  what  the  beauty  of  figure  of  speech  depends  Examples  of  too  slight  resem- 
blance, and  of  no  resemblance  between  the  figurative  and  proper  sense  of  the  word.— 
Barren's  criticism  on  Thomson. — The  proportion  of  the  proper  to  th«  flpirattre  sense. 


FIQURE8.  401 

Be  Moubray's  sins  bo  heavy  in  his  boAom. 
That  they  inay  break  his  foaming  coursers  back, 
And  throw  the  rider  lieadlong  in  the  lists, 
A  caitiff  recreant  to  my  cousin  Uereford. 

Richard  II.  Act  I.  Sc  8. 

Sin  may  be  imagined  heavy  in  a  figurative  sense  ;  but  weight  in  a 
proper  sense  belongs  to  the  accessory  only ;  at  d  therefore  to  describe 
the  effects  of  weight,  is  to  desert  the  principal  subject,  and  to  convert 
the  accessory  into  a  principal : 

CromtceU.  How  docs  your  Grace  ? 
Wolset/.  Why,  well , 
Never  so  truly  happy,  my  pood  Cromwell. 
I  know  mvseff  now,  and  I  feel  within  me 
A  peace  above  all  earthly  digrnities, 
A  still  and  quiet  conscience.    The  king  has  cured  me, 
I  humbly  thank  his  Grace  ;  and  from  tliese  shoulders, 
These  ruined  pillars,  out  of  pity  taken 
A  load  would  sink  a  navy,  too  much  honor. 

Ileni-i/  VIII.  Act  III.  Sc.  6. 
Ulysses  speaking  of  Hector : 

1  wonder  now  how  yonder  city  stands, 
When  we  have  hero  the  base  ami  pillar  bv  us. 

Troilus  and  Oretsida,  Act  IV.  Sc.  9. 

Othello.  No ;  my  heart  is  turn'd  to  stone :  I  strike  it,  and  it  hurts  my  hand. 
'      •'  Othello,  Act  IV.  Sc.  6. 

Not  less,  even  in  this  despicable  now. 

Than  when  my  name  fill'd  Afric  with  affrights. 

And  froze  your  hearts  beneath  vour  torrid  zone. 

Don  SeSastian,  King  of  Portvgal,  Act  I. 

How  long  a  space,  since  first  I  loved,  it  is 

To  look  into  a  gla.<s  I  fear. 
And  am  surprised  with  wonder  when  I  miss 

Gray  hairs  and  wrinkles  there.  Cowley,  vol.  i.  p.  84. 

I  chose  the  flourishing'st  tree  in  all  the  park, 

With  freshest  boiiglis  and  fairest  head ; 
I  cut  my  love  into  his  gentle  bark, 

And  in  three  days  behold  'tis  dead : 
My  very  written  flames  so  violent  be, 
They've  burnt  and  wither'd  up  the  tree. 

OowUy,  vol.  I.  p.  IM. 

Such  a  play  of  words  is  pleasant  in  a  ludicrous  poem. 

Almeria.  0  Alphonso,  Alnhonso  ! 
Devouring  seas  have  wash'd  thee  from  my  Bight, 
No  time  shall  rase  thee  from  my  memory 
No,  I  will  live  to  bo  thy  monument : 
The  cruel  ocean  is  no  more  thy  tomb ; 
But  in  my  heart  thou  art  interr'd.  ...^tq-i 

Mourning  Bride,  Act  I.  Bo.  1. 

This  would  be  veiy  right,  if  there  were  any  inconsistence  in  being 
interred  in  one  place  really,  and  in  another  place  figuratively. 

In  me  tota  ruens  Venus  i  •   _j«  lo 

Cyprum  deseruit.  Horat.  Carm.  1. 1.  ode  1». 


641.  Circumstance,  to  be  »voided.-Tbe  drawing  of  cons«iaenc«  fttxm  •  tfaxt  Oti^tfh, 
Examples. 


*02  FlOtTRES, 

542.  From  considering  that  a  word  used  in  a  figurative  sense 
suggests  at  the  same  time  its  pi-oper  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  sub- 
ject ;  for  every  inconsistency,  and  even  incongruity,  though  in  the 
expression  only  and  not  real,  is  unpleasant : 

« Interea  genitor  Tybeiinl  ad  fliiniinis  undam 

Vulnera  siccabat  Ij-inpliis ^/leid,  x.  833. 

Tres  adeo  incertos  casoa  caligine  soles 

Erramus  pclago,  totidem  sine  siderc  noctes,        ^iieid,  iii.  203. 

The  foregoing  rule  may  be  extended  to  form  a  sixth,  That  no 
epithet  ought  to  be  given  to  the  figurative  sense  of  a  word  that 
agrees  not  also  with  its  proper  sense : 

-Dicat  Opuntia 


Frater  Megillos,  quo  bealus 

Vulnere.  IIo}-at.  Carm.  lib.  5.  odo  27. 

Parous  deorura  cultor,  et  iufrequens, 
Insanientis  dum  sapientia: 
Consultus  erro.  Eorat.  Carm.  lib.  i.  ode  34. 

643,  Seventhly,  The  crowding  into  one  period  or  thought  differ- 
ent 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  bis  music-vows.  Hamlet. 

My  bleeding  bosom  sickens  at  the  sound.         Odyssey^  i.  439. 

Eighthly,  If  crowding  figjjres  be  bad,  it  is  still  woi-se  to  graft  one 
figure  upon  another  :  for  instance, 

While  his  keen  falchion  drinks  the  warriors'  lives.        Riad,,  xi.  211. 

A  falchion  drinking  the  warrior's  blood  is  a  figure  built  upon  resem- 
blance, which  is  passable.  But  then  in  the  expression,  lives  is  again 
put  for  hlood ;  and  by  thus  grafting  one  figure  upon  another,  the 
expression  is  rendered  obscure  and  unpleasant. 

544.  Ninthly,  Intricate  and  involved  figures  that  can  scarce  be 
analyzed,  or  reduced  to  plain  language,  are  least  of  aU  tolerable  : 

Votis  incendimus  aras.  ^ne'id,  iii.  279. 

-Onerantque  canistris 


Dona  laboratSB  Coreris.  JEneid,  viii.  180. 

Vulcan  to  the  Cyclopes  : 

Arma  acri-facienda  viro  :  nunc  viribus  usus, 
Nunc  manibus  rapidis,  omni  nunc  arte  magistra: 
I'rceoipitate  moras.  ^aeid,  viii.  441. 

642.  What  word  should  not  be  employed  in  a  figurative  sense.— What  epithet  should 
not  be  given  to  the  figurative  sense  of  a  word. 

543.  The  crowding  of  different  figures  of  speech  into  one  period  or  thought.— The  crVV 
Ing  of  one  figure  on  another. 


FiornjEs.  403 

Scribiris  Vario  lortia,  et  Hostiiiui 

Victor,  Mteouii  carminis  aliU.  JUat.  Otrm.  lib.  i.  odo  «. 

Else  shall  our  fates  be  nnmber'd  with  the  da&d.— Iliad,  v.  294, 
Commutual  death  the  fate  of  war  confounds. 

Iliad,  viii.  85,  and  xi.  117. 
Rolling  convulsive  on  the  floor,  la  seen 
The  piteous  object  of  a  prostrate  queen.  Ibid.  iv.  952. 

The  mingling  tempest  waves  ite  gloom.  Autumn,  S87. 

A  sober  calm  fleeces  unbounded  ether.  Ibid.  7S8. 

The  distant  waterfall  swells  in  the  breeze.  WinUr  TS3. 

545.  In  the  tenth  place,  When  a  subject  is  introduced  by  iU 
proper  name,  it  is  absurd  to  attribute  to  it  the  properties  of  a  differ- 
ent subject  to  which  the  word  is  sometimes  appHed  in  a  figurative 
sense : 

Hear  me,  oh  Neptune  I  thou  whose  arms  are  hurl'd 

From  shore  to  shore,  and  gird  the  sohd  world.— Odyssey,  i.x.  617. 

Neptune  is  here  introduced  personally,  and  not  figuratively,  for 
the  ocean  :  the  description,  therefore,  which  is  only  applicable  to 
the  latter,  is  altogether  improper. 

It  is  not  sufficient  that  a  figure  of  speech  be  regulariy  constructed, 
and  be  free  from  blemish :  it  requires  taste  to  discern  when  it  is 
proper,  when  improper ;  and  taste,  I  susi^ect,  is  our  only  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,  speaking  to  his  daughter  Miranda,  says, 

The  fringed  curtains  of  thine  eyes  advance. 
And  say  what  thou  soest  '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  certainlj 
not  proper  in  familiar  conversation. 

In  the  last  place.  Though  figures  of  speech  have  a  charming  ef- 
fect when  accurately  constructed  and  properly  intrinluced,  they  ought 
nowever  to  be  scattered  with  a  sparing  hand ;  nothing  is  more  lus- 
cious, and  nothing  consequently  more  satiating,  than  retlundant  or- 
naments of  any  kind. 

644.  Intricate  and  Involved  figures. 

545.  When  a  subject  is  introduced  ly  its  proper  name,  wliat  is  it  abtard  to  attrlbuU  to 
i  ? — V'tien  a  figure  of  speech  is  not  to  be  used.    To  what  extent  to  b«  naed. 


*^^  NARRATION  AND  DESCRIPTION. 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

NARRATION    AND    DESCRIPTION. 

546.  The  first  rule  is,  That  in  history,  the  reflectioii»  ouoht  to  b« 
chaste  and  sohd ;  for  while  the  mind  is  intent  upon  ti-utn,  it  is  httie 
disposed  to  the  operations  of  the  imagination.  Strada's  Belgic  his- 
tory is  full  of  poetical  images,  which  discording  with  the  subiect 
are  unpleasant;  and  they  have  a  still  worse  effect,  by  giving  an  air 
of  fiction  to  a  genuine  history.  Such  flowei-s  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  mind  they  are  agreea- 
ble ;  but  while  we  are  sedate  and  attentive  to  an  historical  chain  of 
facts,  we  reject  with  disdain  every  fiction. 

647.  Second,  Vida,  following  Horace,  recommends  a  modest 
commencement  of  an  epic  poem ;  giving  for  a  reason,  that  the  wri- 
ter 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  thorough- 
ly  engaged,  which  is  not  the  reader's  case  at  the  commencement 
Homer  introduces  not  a  single  simile  in  the  first  book  of  the  Iliad 
nor  m  the  first  book  of  the  Odyssey.  On  the  other  hand,  Shak- 
speare  begins  one  of  his  plays  with  a  sentiment  too  bold  for  the 
most  heated  imagination : 

Bedford.  Hung  be'the  heavens  with  black,  yield  day  to  niffht  I 
Comets,  importing  change  of  times  and  stateg, 
Brandish  your  crystal  tresses  in  the  sky, 
And  with  them  scourge  the  bad  revolting  stars, 
That  have  consented  unto  Henry's  death  ! 
Henry  the  Fifth,  too  famous  to  live  long! 
England  ne'er  lost  a  king  of  so  much  worth. 

First  Part  Benry  VJ. 

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  poeta,  errs  against  this  rule :  his  reader  is  out  of 
breath  at  the  very  first  period  ;  which  seems  never  to  end.  Burnet 
begins  the  History  of  his  Own  Times  with  a  period  lonj?  and  in- 
tricate. ^ 

548.  A  third  rule  or  observation  is.  That  where  the  subject  is  in- 
tended for  entertainment  solely,  not  for  instruction,  a  thing  ought  to 
be  described  as  it  appears,  not  as  it  is  in  reality.     In  running,  for 

646.  Rale  for  reflections  in  history. 

647.  How  ftn  epic  poem  sb  mid  be  commtnced. 


NARRATION  AND  DESCRIPTION.  405 

example,  the  impulse  upon  the  ground  is  proportioned  in  some  de- 
gree to  the  celerity  of  motion :  though  in  apjKjarance  it  is  otherwise ; 
for  a  person  in  swift  motion  seems  to  skim  the  ground,  and  scarcely 
to  touch  it.  Vii'gil,  with  gieat  taste,  describes  quick  running  ac- 
cording to  appearance ;  and  raises  an  image  far  more  lively  than  bj 
adhering  scrupulously  to  truth : 

Hos  super  advenit  Volsca  de  gente  Camilla, 
Agmen  agens  eqiiitum  et  florentes  aere  catcr\'a», 
Bellatrix :  non  ilia  colo  calathisvc  Minervse 
FcEinineas  assneta  manus  ;  scd  praaiia  virgo 
Dura  pati,  cursuque  pedum  praevertero  ventos. 
lUa  vel  iutactsB  segetis  per  snmma  voluret 
Gramina;  nee  teneras  cursu  laesisset  aristaa; 
Vel  mare  per  medium,  fluctu  suspensa  tumenti. 
Ferret  iter ;  celeres  nee  tingerot  sequore  plantas. 

jEneid,  vil.  308. 

This  example  is  copied  by  the  author  of  Telemachus : 

Lea  BrutienH  sont  legeres  4  la  course  corame  Ics  cerfs,  et  comme  lea  daimt. 
On  croirait  quo  I'herbe  m6me  la  plus  tendre  n'est  point  foul6e  sousleurs  pieds; 
A  peine  laissout-ils  dans  le  sable  quelques  traces  de  leurs  pus.  Lit.  z. 

549.  Fourth,  In  narration  as  well  as  in  description,  objects  ought 
to  be  painted  so  accurately  as  to  form  in  the  mind  of  the  reader  dis- 
tinct and  lively  images.  Every  useless  circumstance  ought  indeed 
to  be  suppressed,  because  every  such  ciicumstauce  loads  the  narra- 
tion ;  but  if  a  circumstance  be  necessary,  however  slight,  it  cannot 
be  described  too  minutely.  The  force  of  language  consists  in  raising 
complete  images  (chap.  ii.  part  i.  sec.  7) ;  which  have  the  eftect  to 
tiansport  the  reader  as  by  magic  into  the  very  place  of  the  import- 
ant action,  and  to  convert  hiin  as  it  were  into  a  spectator,  beholding 
every  thing  that  passes.  The  narrative  in  an  epic  poem  ought  to 
rival  a  picture  in  the  liveliness  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  uninteresting.  I  shall  illustrate  this  rul6  by 
several  examples,  giving  the  fii-st  place  to  a  beautiful  passage  from 
Virgil : 

Qualis  populfa  mcerens  Philomela  sub  umbr4 

Amissos  queritur  foetus,  quos  durus  ara/or 

Observans  nido  vrnplumes  dcVnxW.—Otorg.  lib.  iv.  1.  611. 

The  poplar,  ploughman,  and  unfledged  young,  though  not  essential 
in -the  description,  tend  to  make  a  complete  image,  and  upon  that 
account  are  an  embellishment. 

Again : 

Hie  viridem  ^neaa  frondenti  «x  ilict  meUip 
Constituit,  signum  uautis.— ^ntfui,  v  129. 

Horace,  addressing  to  Fortune : 


MS.  Where  iho  subject  ia  Inlanded  for  entertainment  iolely.  bow  oogfat  a  tkias  \a  W 
dMcribedf 


4(6  NARRATION  AND  DESCRIPTION. 

Te  pauper  ainbit  sollicita  prcce 
Rnris  colomis  :  te  dominam  sequoris, 

Quicumque  Bythina  lacessit 

Carpathium  pelagus  carina.  Carm.  lib.  i.  ode  35. 

Shakspeare  says  (Henry  V.  Act  iv.  sc.  4),  "  You  may  as  well  g^ 
about  to  turn  the  sun  to  ice  by  fanning  in  liis  face  with  a  peacock's 
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,  without  conceiving  a  particular  feather ; 
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  drowned  a  bitch's  blind  puppies,  fifteen  i'  the 
litter."     {Merrrj  Wiven  of  Windsor,  Act  iii.  Sc.  15.) 

Old  Lady.  You  w-ould  not  be  a  queen  ? 
Anne.  No,  not  for  all  the  riches  under  heaven. 

Old  Lady.  'Tis  strange :  a  threepence  bow'd  would  hire  me,  old  as  I  am,  to 
queen  it.  Henry  VIIL  Act  II.  Sc.  5. 

In  the  following  passage,  the  action,  with  all  its  material  circum- 
stances, is  represented  so  much  to  the  hfe,  that  it  would  scarce  ap- 
pear more  distinct  to  a  real  spectator ;  and  it  is  the  manner  of 
description  that  contributes  greatly  to  the  sublimity  of  the  passage  • 

He  spake ;  and  to  confirm  his  words,  out  flew 
Millions  of  flaming  swords,  drawn  from  the  thigh 
Of  mighty  cherubim  ;  the  sudden  blaze 
/  Far  round  illumined  hell ;  highly  they  raged 

Against  the  Highest,  and  fierce  with  grasped  a«-m3 

Clash'd  on  their  sounding  shields  the  din  of  war. 

Hurling  defiance  toward  the  vault  of  heaven.  Milton,  b.  i. 

A  passage  I  am  to  cite  from  Shakspeare,  falls  not  much  short  of  that 
now  mentioned  in  particularity  of  desciiption  : 

0  you  hard  hearts  1  you  cruel  men  of  Eome  ! 

Knew  you  not  Pompey  ?    Many  a  time  and  oft 

Have  you  climb'd  up  to  walls  and  battlements. 

To  towers  and  windows,  yea,  to  chimney-tops, 

Your  Li;}vants  in  your  arms ;  and  there  have  sat 

The  live-long  day  with  patient  expectation 

To  see  great  Pompey  pass  the  streets  of  Eome  ; 

And  when  you  saw  his  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  i— Julius  Cmsar,  Act  I.  Sc.  1. 

The  following  passage  is  scarce  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  hangs  loose  on  the  hero's  side ; 
and  his  spear  glitters  as  he  moves.  I  fled  trom  his  terrible  eye,  King  of  high 
Temora. — Fingal, 

The  Henriade  of  Voltaire  en-s  gi'catly  against  the  foregoing  rule : 


NARRATION  AND  DESCRIPTION.  407 

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  impoitant  transactions ;  but  in  a 
fable  it  is  cold  and  uninteresting ;  because  it  is  impracticable  to 
form  distinct  images  of  pei-sons  or  things  represented  in  a  manner 
so  superficial. 

It  is  observed  abo\e,  that  every  useless  circumstance  ought  to  be 
suppressed.  The  crowding  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  uEneid  (lib,  iv.  1.  632),  Barce,  the 
nurse  of  Sicha^us,  whom  we  never  hear  of  before  nor  after,  is  in- 
troduced for  a  purpose  not  more  important  than  to  call  Anna  to  her 
sister  Dido  :  and  that  it  might  not  be  thought  unjust  in  Dido,  eveu 
in  this  trivial  circumstance,  to  prefer  her  husband's  nurse  before  her 
own,  the  poet  takes  care  to  infonn  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  hia 
readers  by  describing  the  manner  of  her  death,  hastens  to  the  lamen- 
tation of  her  attendants : 

Dixerat:  atqne  illam  media  inter  talia  ferro 
Collapsam  aspiciunt  comites,  euscmquo  cruoro 
Spnmantem,  sparsasquo  mnnus.     It  clamor  ad  alta 
Atria,  concussam  bacchatur  fama  per  urbem ; 
Lamentis  gemituque  et  foemineo  ululatn 
Tecta  fremunt,  resonat  magnis  plangoribus  sethcr. 

Lib.  iv.  1.  663 

550.  As  an  appendix  to  the  foregoing  rule,  I  add  the  following 
observation,  That  to  make  a  sudden  and  strong  impression,  some 
single  circumstance  happily  selected,  has  more  power  than  the  most 
labored  description.  Macbeth,  mentioning  to  his  lady  some  voices 
he  heard  while  he  was  murdering  tlie  king,  says, 

There'&one  did  lauph  in  'b  sleep,  and  one  cried  Mnrder ! 
Thoy  waked  each  other;  and  1  utood  and  heard  them; 
But  they  did  say  their  prayers,  and  address  them 
Again  to  sleep. 

Ladv.  There  arc  two  lodged  together. 

Macbeth.  One  cried,  God  bless  us !  and  Amen  the  other; 
As  they  had  seen  mo  with  these  hangman's  hands. 
Listening  their  fear,  I  could  not  say  Amen, 
When  they  did  say,  God  bless  us. 

Lady.  Consider  it  not  so  deeply. 

MaAeih.  But  wherefore  could  not  I  pronounce  Amen» 
I  had  most  need  of  blessing,  and  Amen 
Stuck  in  my  throat.  .      .        v» 

Lady.  These  deeds  must  not  be  thought 
After  these  w.ays ;  so,  it  will  make  us  mad. 

Macbeth.  Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry,  Sleep  no  mo"? ' 
Macbeth  doth  murder  sleep,  &c.  Act  11.  »c  ». 


549.  In  narration  how  objects  shonld  be  palnteA-Tn  "^^l^^^^JSTX^AU 
guage?-A  circumstanc*  not  to  b«  omitted.  Lxauiples.-ClrcuiwUoo«»  VM  «»«im  m 
lupprcssi'd. 


408  NARRATION  AND  DESCRIPTION. 

Describing  Prince  Henry : 

I  saw  young  Harry  with  his  beaver  on, 

Hia  cuisses  on  his  thighs,  gallantly  arin'd, 

Kise  from  the  ground  like  feather'^d  Mercury ; 

And  vaulted  with  such  ease  into  his  seat, 

As  if  an  an^el  dropp'd  down  from  the  clouds, 

To  turn  and  wind  a  fiery  Pegasus, 

And  witch  the  world  with  noble  horsemanship. 

First  Part  Henry  VI.  Act  IV.  Sc.  2. 

Einff  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  Fart  Henry  VI.  Act  III.  Sc.  10. 

The  same  author,  speaking  ludicrously  of  an  army  debilitated  with 
diseases,  says. 

Half  of  them  dare  not  shake  the  snow  from  off  their  cassocks,  lest  they  shake 
♦hemselves  to  pieces. 

I  have  seen  the  walls  of  Balclutha,  but  they  were  desolate.— The  flame  had 
resounded  in  the  halls ;  and  the  voice  of  the  people  is  heard  no  more.  The 
(Stream  of  ('lutha  was  removed  from  its  place  bv  the  fall  of  the  walls.  Tho 
thistle  shook  there  its  lonely  head ;  the  moss  wliistled  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  Morna :  silence  is  in  the  house  of  her  fathers. 

Fingal. 

551.  To  draw  a  character  is  the  master-stroke  of  description.  In 
this  Tacitus  excels :  his  portraits  are  natural  and  lively,  not  a  feature 
Avanting  or  misplaced.  Shakspeare,  however,  exceeds  Tacitus  in 
liveliness,  some  characteristical  circumstance  being  generally  invent- 
ed or  laid  hold  of,  which  paints  more  to  the  life  than  many  words. 
The  following  instance  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  ? 
Sleep  when  he  wakes,  and  creep  into  the  jaundioa. 
By  bein^  peevish  ?  I  tell  thee  what,  Antonio, 
(1  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.  Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  I.  Sc.  2. 

Agam : 

Gratiano  speaks  an  infinite  deal  of  nothing,  more  than  any  man  in  all  Venice 
his  reasons  are  two  grains  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. — Ibid. 

In  the  following  passage  a  character  is  completed  by  a  single  stroke. 

660.  Well-selected  circumsUnces,    £z&mple& 


NABRATION  AND  DESCKIFHC  N.  409 

ShaUow.  0  the  mad  days  that  I  have  spent;  and  to  see  how  many  of  mioa 
old  acquaintance  are  dead.  "»««7  «•  nuiw 

Silence.  Wo  shall  all  follow,  cousin. 

ShaUow.  Certain,  'tis  certain,  very  sure,  very  sure ;  Death  (as  the  Psalmick 
foTd  kir"?*'""^"'  *°  ^-  "^^  ^^"^^  ^'°-     «°^  ^^^  y°ke  of  bdloclS,  at  Sul2 

Slender.  Truly,  cousin,  I  was  not  there. 

ShaUow.  Death  is  certain.    Is  old  Double  of  your  town  livinir  vet  ? 

Silence.  D'iad,  sir.  *  ' 

ShaUow.  Dead !  see,  see ;  he  drew  a  good  bow :  and  dead.  He  shot  a  fina 
snoot.    Ho(p  a  score  of  ewes  now  ?  ^^ 

.S^eTwe.  Thereafter  aa  they  be.  A  score  of  good  ewes  may  be  worth  ten 
pounds.  •' 

ShallovK  And  is  old  J),;H!'le  dead  i— Second  Part  Eenry  IV.  Act  III.  Sc.  3. 

Descriaiag  a  jealous  husband  : 

Neilh'T  peso,  coffer,  chest,  trunk,  well,  vault,  but  ho  hath  an  abstract  for 
»,be  rerJcmbTOnoe  of  such  places,  and  goes  to  them  by  his  note.  There  is  no 
lnduj£-  you  m  the  house.— ii/irry  Wives  of  Windsor,  Act  I.  So.  3. 

Corgreve  has  an  ininifable  stroke  of  this  kind  in  his  comedy  of 
Loi'ofor  Love : 

Hen  Legend.  Well,  fotl'Z/,  and  how  do  all  at  home?  how  does  brother  Dick. 
STii  brother  Val  ?  ^ 

Sir  Sampson.  Dick :  body  o'  me,  Dick  has  been  dc:;d  these  two  years.  I 
'//lit  you  word  when  you  were  at  Leghorn. 

Ben.  Mess,  that's  true ;  marry,  I  had  forgot.    Dick's  dead,  as  you  sav. 
.,,  ,       „  ,  .  Act  III.  Sc.  6. 

i'alstaflf  speaking  of  ancient  Pistol : 

He's  no  swaggerer,  hostess :  a  tamo  cheater  i'  f;dth ;  you  may  stroke  him  as 
gently  as  a  puppy-greyhound ;  he  will  not  swagger  with  a  Barbary  hiyi,  if  her 
teathers  turn  back  in  any  show  of  resistance. 

Second  Part  Eenry  IV.  Act  II.  So.  9. 

O^ian,  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  instance  : 

O  Oscar !  bend  the  strong  in  arm ;  but  spare  the  feeble  hand.  Be  thou  a 
srream  of  many  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 ;  and  such  has  Fingal  been.  My  arm  was  the  support  of  tlie  injured  ;  and 
the  weak  rested  behind  the  lightning  of  my  steel. 

We  heard  the  voice  of  joy  on  the  coast,  and  we  thought  th.it  the  mighty 
Cathmore  came.  Cathmore  the  friend  of  strangers,  the  brother  of  red-haired 
Cairbar.  But  their  souls  were  not  the  same;  for  the  light  of  heaven  was  in 
the  bosom  of  Cathmore.  His  towers  rose  on  tho  banks  of  Atha:  seven  paths 
led  to  his  halls :  seven  chiefs  stood  on  these  paths,  and  called  the  stranger  to 
the  feast.    But  Cathmore  dwelt  in  the  wood  to  avoid  the  voice  of  praise. 

Dermid  and  Oscar  were  one ;  they  reaped  tho  battle  together.  Their  fticn«l- 
fthip  was  strong  as  their  steel :  and  death  walked  between  them  to  the  field. 
They  rush  on  the  foe  like  two  rocks  falling  from  the  brow  of  Ardven.  Their 
swords  are  stained  with  the  blood  of  the  valiant;  warriors  faint  at  tlioir  name. 
Who  is  equal  to  Oscar  but  Dermid  ?  who  to  Dermid  but  Oscar  I 

Son  of  Comhal,  replied  the  chief,  the  strength  of  Morni's  arm  has  failed ;  I 
attempt  to  draw  the  sword  of  my  youth,  but  it  remains  iu  its  place ;  I  throw 
the  spear,  but  it  falls  short  of  tlie  mark :  and  I  feel  the  weight  of  my  shield. 

N '.  The  master-stroke  of  description  ?    Who  »xc*l  In  R. 


410 


NAKKATION  AND  DESCRIPTION. 


rlnvpfL     n  v°  ^"".^^of  the  monntain,  and  our  strength  returns  uo  more. 
I  have  a  son  O  Fingal  his  soul  has  delighted  in  the  actions  cf  Morni's  vout? 

I  come  wXhi^loTn^'i  J-'^  T^^"*  '^'  ^««'  ""''''''^  h^  h^  fame  legun! 
souHn  tTpyri!    ^"J^'  to /''•ectliis  arm.    His  renown  will  be  a  sun  to  my 

amon^hpiniV;i\''f,°'l^'P^^'''"^-,  ^  ^^^^  ^^'^  "^°^«  ofMorni  were  forgot 
among  the  people !  that  the  heroes  would  only  say,  "  Behold  the  father  of  GarQ.'' 

552.  Some  writers,  througli  heat  of  imagination,  fall  into  con- 
tradiction ;  some  are  guilty  of  downright  absurdities ;  and  some 
even  rave  like  madmen.     Against  such  capital  errors  one  cannot  be 
more  ettectually  warned  than  by  collecting  instances  ;  and  the  fii-st^ 
Shan  be  of  a  contradiction,  tlie  most  venial  of  all.     Virgil  speaking 

Interea  magno  misceri  murmure  pontum, 
Emissamq^uo  hyemem  sensit  Neptunus,  et  imis 
Stagna  retusa  vadis:  graviter  commotus,  et  alto 
Frospiciens,  summa  lyUicidtnn  caput  c.\tulit  nudk.—^neid,  i.  128. 
Again  : 

When  first  young  Maro,  in  his  boundless  mind, 
A  work  t'  outlast  immorUil  Kome  design'd. 

Essay  on  Criticism,  1. 180. 
The  following  examples  are  of  absurdities.: 

«;w l'!,SaM-.*'  tormento  catenis discernti  sectique,  dimidiato  corpore  pngnabant 
Bjbi  superstites,  ac  peremptse  partis  ultores.->6'i;?-aa'ff,  Dec.  il  1.  2. 

II  pover  huomo,  che  non  sen'  era  accorto, 
Andava  combattendo,  ed  era  morto.— ^er»i. 

He  fled ;  but  flying,  left  his  life  behind.— i^ja<f,*xi.  488. 

Full  through  his  neck  the  weighty  falchion  sped  • 
Along  the  pavement  roll'd  the  muttering  head. 

Odyssey,  xxii.  865. 

The  last  article  ife  of  raving  like  one  mad.     Cleopatra  speaking  U> 
the  aspic :  f         i         & 


~ : ^  elcome,  thou  kind  deceiver, 

ihou  best  of  thieves ;  who,  with  an  easy  key. 

Dost  open  life,  and,  unperceived  by  us. 

Even  steal  us  from  ourselves ;  discharging  so 

Death's  dreadful  office,  better  than  himsefi': 

Touching  our  limbs  so  gently  into  slumber, 

That  Death  stands  bv,  deceived  by  his  own  v-nage 

And  thinks  liimself  but  fi\<iQ^.—Dryden,  AU/oti^Vi,  Act  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. 

553.  Having  discussed  what  observations  occurred  upon  the 
thoughts  or  things  expressed,  I  proceed  to  what  more  pecnliariv  con- 
cern the  language  or  verbal  dress.  The  language  proper  for  ex- 
pressing passion  being  handled  in  a  former  chapter,  several  observa- 
tions there  made  are  applicable  to  the  present  subject ;  parricularlv. 
That  as  words  are  intimately  connected  with  the  ideas  they  represent' 

559   Some  wpital  errors  statea  ana  c.\eui])!ifle<l 


NARRATION  AND  r)l>;<'Rirno\.  411 

tLe  emotions  raised  by  the  sound  and  by  tbo  sense  ought  to  be  con- 
cordant. An  elevated  subject  requires  an  elevated  stvle;  what  is 
familiar  ought  to  be  familiarly  expressed ;  a  subject  that  is  serious 
and  important,  ought  to  be  clothed  in  plaia  ner>-ous  language  •  a 
descnption  on  the  other  hand,  addressed  to  the  imagination,  is  sus- 
ceptible of  the  highest  ornaments  th?t  sounding  words  and  figurative 
expression  can  bestow  upon  it. 

I  shall  give  a  few  examples  of  the  foregoing  rules.  A  poet  of 
any  genius  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  qnod  vultis ;  eris  tu,  qui  modo  miles, 
Mercator:  tu,  consultus  moilo,  rusticus ;  liinc  vos 
Vo3  hinc  mutatis  discedite  partibus :  eia,  ' 

Quid  statis  ?  nolint :  atqui  licet  esse  bcatis. 
Quid  causae  est,  merito  quin  illis,  Jupiter  ambaa 
//•<rfa«  &wcc<M  !«)?«<?  ueque  80  fore  posthac 
Tarn  facilem  dicat,  votis  ut  prajbeat  aurein  ? 

Sat.  lib.  i.  SjU.  i.  1.  1«. 

Jupiter  in  wrath  puffing  up  both  cheeks,  is  a  low  and  even  ludicrous 
expression,  far  from  suitable  to  the  gravity  and  importance  of  the 
subject :  every  one  must  feel  the  discordance.  The  following  coup- 
let, 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. 

Esmi/  on  Man,  Ep.  IV.  228. 

554.  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 
following  instances : 

As»tterus.  Ce  mortel,  qui  montra  tant  do  zelo  pour  moi,  Vit-il  encore  ? 
Asaph.- 11  voit  I'astro  qui  vous  ec\&Te.— Esther,  Act  II.  Sc  8. 

No  jocund  health  that  Denmark  drinks  to-day, 

But  the  great  cannon  to  the  clouds  shall  tell ; 

And  the  king's  rowso  the  lieavens  sluJl  bniit  again, 

Eespeakiug  earthly  thunder.  Hamlet,  Act  I.  So.  S. 


-In  the  inner  room 


I  spy  a  winking  lamp,  that  weakly  strikes 
The  ambient  air,  scarce  kindling  into  licrht. 

Southern,  Fate  of  Obpua,  Act  III. 

Montesquieu,  in  a  didactic  work,  L esprit  des  Loix,  gives  too  great 
mdulgence  to  imagination ;  the  tone  of  his  language  swells  frequently 
above  his  subjet,t.     I  give  an  example  : 

M.  le  Comte  de  Bonlainvilliers  ct  M.  I'Abb^  Dnbos  ont  flut  chscnn  na 
eystetue,  dont  I'un  semble  6tre  une  conjuration  centre  le  tiers-*t.it,  ot  raatra 
une  conjuration  contre  la  noblesse.  Lorsque  le  Soleil  donna  i  I'haeton  »on 
char  i.  conduire,  11  lui  dit,  Si  vous  montes  trop  haul,  vous  bnllcrei  la  demeor* 

S68.  Suggestions  as  to  Uie  rerbal  drcM  of  tboogbt— A  bigb  subj*«t  in  low  wmi%. 


412  NARKATIOX  AND  DESCRirTION. 

celeste ;  si  vous  descendez  trop  bas,  vous  r^duirez  en  cendres  la  terre  :  r.'allcs 
point  trop  a  droite,  vous  toniberiez  dans  la  constellation  du  serpent:  n'allez 
point  trop  a  gauche,  vous  iriez  dans  celle  de  I'autel :  tenez-vous  entre  les  deux. 

L.  XXX.  oh.  10. 

The  following  passage,  intended,  one  would  imagine,  as  a  recipe  to 
boil  water,  is  altogether  burlesque  by  the  labored  elevation  of  the 
dictiDn  : 

A  massy  caldron  of  stupendous  frame 

They  brought,  and  placed  it  o'er  the  rising  flame : 

Then  heap  the  lighted  wood  ;  the  flame  divides 

Beneath  me  vtise,  and  climbs  around  the  sides  ; 

In  its  wide  womb  they  pour  the  rushing  stream ; 

The  boiling  water  bubbles  to  the  hrim.— Iliad,  xviii.  405. 

In  a  passage  at  the  beginning  of  the  4th  book  of  Telemachus,  one 
feels  a  sudden  bound  upward  without  preparation,  which  accords 
not  with  the  subject : 


en 

<^Ue](^Ue    lepUa.        -11     oat     LClliO,    AHA    lAAl/-\^lAVy,    VJI.A    .v«Kj    .....^.>    ^ — 

sommeil  apres  tant  dc  travaux.  Vous  u'avezTien  a  craindre  ici ;  tout  vous  est 
favorable.  Abandonnez  vons  done  a  la  joie.  Goutez  la  paix,  et  tous  les  autres 
dons  des  dieux  dont  vous  allez  6tre  comble.  Demain,  quand  VAurore  avec  set 
doigts  de  roses  entr' ouvrira  Us  partes  dories  de  V Orient,  et  que  les  Chevaux  du 
Soleil  sortJ}ns  de  Fonde  amere  repandront  lesflammes  de  jour,  pour  chasser  demnt 
eux  toutes  les  etoiles  du  ciel,  nous  reprendrons,  mon  cher  Telemaque,  I'histoire 
de  vos  malheurs. 

This  obviously  is  copied  from  a  similar  passage  in  the  ..^neid,  whicli 
ought  not  to  have  been  copied,  because  it  lies  open  to  the  same  cen- 
sure ;  but  the  force  of  authority  is  great : 

At  regina  gravi  jamdudum  saucia  cura 

Vulnus  alit  venis,  et  caeco  carpitur  igni. 

Multa  viri  virtus  animo,  muitusque'recursat 

Gentis  houos :  hgerent  inflxi  pectore  vultus, 

Verbaque ;  nee  placidam  membris  dat  cura  quictem. 

Fotstera  Phabealustrdbat  lampade  terras, 

Humentetn^ue  Aurora  polo  dimoverat  umiram  ; 

Cum  sic  unanimem  alloquitur  male  sana  sororem. — Lib.  iv.  1. 

555.  The  language  of  Homer  is  suited  to  his  subject,  no  less  ac 
curately  than  the  actions  and  sentiments  of  his  heroes  are  to  their 
f.haractere.  Virgil,  in  that  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  (see  ^neid,  lib. 
I.  188-219).  In  adjusting  bis  language  to  his  subject,  no  writer 
equals  Swift. 

It  is  proper  to  be  obseiTed  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 
effect  contrary  to  wh^at  is  intended ;  the  reader,  disgusted  with  lan- 
guage that  swells  above  the  subject,  is  led  by  contrast  to  think  more 
meanly  of  the  subject  than  it  may  possibly  deserve.     A  man  of 

654.  Expre«sion  above  tbe  tone  of  the  subject    Examples. 


NAKKATION  AND  I)|.:SCRIPnON.  413 

pi-udence,  besides,  will  be  no  less  careful  to  husband  his  Btrength  in 
writing  than  in  walking :  a  writer  too  liberal  of  superlatives,  ex- 
hausts 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  in  epithets,  as  if  poetry  con- 
gisted  entirely  in  high-sounding  words.    Take  the  following  iastanoe: 

When  black-brow'd  Niglit  her  dusky  mantle  spread, 

And  wrapp'd  in  solemn  gloom  the  sable  sky : 
When  sootning  Sleep  her  opiate  dews  had  shed. 

And  seal'd  in  silken  slumber  every  eye ; 
My  wakeful  thoughts  admit  no  balmy  rest, 

Nor  the  sweet  bliss  of  soft  oblivion  share ; 
But  watchful  woe  distracts  my  aching  breaat. 

My  heart  the  subject  of  corroding  care ; 
From  haunts  of  men  with  wand'ring  steps  and  slow 

I  solitary  steal,  and  soothe  my  pensive  woe. 

Here  every  substantive  is  faithfully  attended  by  some  tumid  epithet ; 
like  young  master,  who  cannot  walk  abroad  without  having  a  lac'd 
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 
graced.  Such  redundancy  of  epithets,  instead  of  pleasing,  produces 
satiety  and  disgust. 

556.  The  power  of  language  to  imitate  thought,  is  not  confined 
to  the  capital  circumstances  above  mentioned  ;  it  reacheth  even  the 
slighter  modifications.  Slow  action,  for  example,  is  imitated  by 
words  pronounced  slow ;  labor  or  toil,  by  words  harsh  or  rough  in 
their  sound.  But  this  subject  has  been  already  handled  (chapter 
xviii,  sect,  iii.) 

In  dialogue-writing,  the  condition  of  the  speaker  is  chiefly  to  be 
regarded  in  framing  the  expression.  The  sentinel  in  Hamlet,  inter- 
rogated with  relation  to  the  ghost,  whether  his  Avatch  had  been 
quiet,  answers  with  great  propriety  for  a  man  in  his  station,  "  Not  a 
mouse  stining." 

I  proceed  to  a  second  remark,  no  less  important  than  the  former. 
No  pei-son  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  Aiheniensium,  observes  that  Thucydides  makes  his  reader 
a  si)ectator,  and  inspires  him  with  the  same  passions  as  if  he  were 
an  eye-witness ;  and  the  same  obsenation  is  applicable  to  our  coun- 

5R\  Remarks  on  the  languflge  of  Homer,  VifKil.  Swia-How  Inferior  writ*™  .nd««Tor 
to  enliven  their  subject  .        .  .     ..       n  »..  .  „„<iMM»iAn«^_ 

656.  The  power  of  lanana-e  to  imitate  thonght.  even  in  «'»  »''«fj"'  "ri'^J"??*^ 
Eule  for  dialogue-writing.— The  eye  being  Uie  bwt  »Tenu«  to  lh«  Uetft,  Jww  wrttm  m 
genius  avail  themselves  of  this  prlnoiplei 


414  NARRATION  AND  DESCRIPTION. 

tryman  Swift.  From  this  happy  taleut  arises  that  energy  of  style 
which  is  pecuhar  to  him  :  he  cannot  always  avoid  narration ;  but 
the  pencil  is  his  choice,  by  which  he  bestows  life  and  coloring  upon 
his  object.  Pope  is  richer  in  ornament,  but  possesseth  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,  aftbrds  the  fairest  opportunity  for  a  comparison.  Pope  ob- 
viously 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 
«tyle,  the  difference  of  manner  is  still  more  conspicuous. 

557.  Abstract  or  general  terms  have  no  good  effect  in  any  com- 
position for  amusement ;  because  it  is  only  of  particular  objects  that 
images  can  be  formed  (see  chapter  iv.).  Shakspeare's  style  in  that 
respect  is  excellent :  every  article  in  his  descriptions  is  particular,  as 
in  nature  ;  and  if  accidentally  a  vague  expression  slip  in,  the  blem- 
ish is  discernible  by  the  bluntness  of  its  impression.  Take  the  fol- 
lowing example :  Falstaff",  excusing  himself  for  running  away  at  a 
robbery,  saysj 

I  knew  ye,  as  well  as  he  tliat  made  ye.  Why,  hear  ye,  my  masters  ;  was  it 
for  me  to  kill  the  heir-apparent  ?  should  I  turn  upon  the  true  prince  ?  Whv, 
thow  knowest,  I  am  as  valiant  as  Hercules  ;  but  Deware  instinct,  the  lion  will 
not  touch  the  true  prince  :  instinct  is  a  git'eat  matter.  I  Avas  a  coward  on  in- 
stinct ;  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. 
Gallants,  lade,  boys,  hearts  of  gold,  all  the  titles  of  fellowship  come  to  you ! 
What  1  shall  we  be  merry  I  shall  we  have  a  play  extempore  f 

First  Fart  Henry  IV.  Act  II.  Sc.  9. 

The  sentence  I  object  to  is,  instinct  is  a  great  matter,  which  makes 
but  a  poor  figure  compared  with  the  liveliness  of  the  rest  of  the 
speech.  It  was  one  of  Homer's  advantages  that  he  wrote  before 
general  terms  were  multiplied :  the  superior  genius  of  Shakspeare 
displays  itself  in  avoiding  them  after  they  were  multiplied.  Addison 
describes  the  family  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverly  in  the  following  words : 

You  would  take  his  valet-de-chambre  for  his  brother,  his  butler  is  gray- 
headed,  his  groom  is  one  of  the  gravest  men  that  I  have  ever  seen,  and  his 
coachman  has  the  looks  of  a  privy-counsellor. — Spectator;  No.  106. 

The  description  of  the  groom  is  less  lively  than  that  of  the  others ; 
plainly  because  the  expression  being  vague  and  general,  tends  not 
to  foim  any  image.  "  Dives  opum  variarum"  (Georg.  ii.  468)  is  au 
expression  still  more  vague ;  and  so  are  the  following  : 

-Maseenas,  mearum 


Grande  decus,  columenque  rerum. — Ilorat.  Carm.  lib.  ii.  ode  17. 
et  fide  Teia 


Dices  laboratites  in  uno 

Penelopen,  vif  ;amque  Circen. — Iliad,  lib.  i.  ode  17. 

rCT.  On  the  use  of  abstract  or  general  terms. — Shakspeare's  style. 


NARRATION  AKB  DESCEIFnON.  41/1 

Ridiculnm  ncrl 

Fortius  et  melius  magnas  pleruinqiie  ucat  ret. 

Horat.  Satir.  lib,  1.  a»t.  10. 

668.  In  the  fine  arts  it  is  a  rule  to  put  the  capital  objecUi  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  the  centre  of  streets,  that  it  may  be  seen  from  many  places 
at  once.  In  no  composition  is  there  greater  opportunity  for  this  rule 
than  in  writing : 

-Seqnitiir  pulchcrrimus  Astur, 


Astnr  equo  fldens  et  versicoloribus  armis. — j£neid,  x.  130. 


— Full  many  a  lady 


I've  eyed  with  best  regard,  and  many  a  time 

Th'  harmony  of  tlieir  tongues  hath  into  bondage 

Brought  my  too  diligent  car ;  for  several  virtues 

Have  I  liked  several  women,  never  any 

With  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 

Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  own'd, 

And  put  it  to  the  foil.    But  you,  O  you, 

So  perfect,  and  so  peerless,  are  created 

Of  ever}'  creature's  best.  The  Temptst,  ^ct  III.  So.  L 

Orlando. 'Whatc'er  vou  are 

That  in  this  desert  inaccessible. 

Under  the  shade  of  melancholy  boughs, 

Lose  and  neglect  the  creeping  hours  of  time : 

If  ever  you  have  look'd  on  better  days ; 

If  ever  been  where  bells  have  knoH'U  to  church  ; 

If  ever  sat  at  any  good  man's  feast ; 

If  ever  from  vour  eyelids  wiped  a  tear. 

And  know  wliat  'tis  to  pity  and  bo  pitied ; 

Let  gentleness  niv  strong  enforcement  be. 

In  the  which  hop'e  I  blush  and  hide  my  sword.— ,<»  Ton  Likt  JL 

With  thee  conversing  I  forget  all  time  ; 
All  seasons  and  their  change,  all  please  alike. 
Sweet  is  the  breath  of  morn,  her  rising  sweet, 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds ;  pleasant  the  sun 
When  first  on  this  delightful  land  he  spreads 
His  orient  beams  on  herb,  tree,  fruit,  and  flower, 
Glist'ning  with  dew  ;  fragrant  tlic  fertile  earth 
After  soft  showers ;  and  sweet  the  coming  on 
Of  grateful  evening  mild,  the  silent  night 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  and  this  fair  moon, 
And  these  the  gems  of  heaven,  her  starry  train. 
But  neither  breath  of  mom,  when  she  ascend* 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds,  nor  rising  sun 
On  this  delightful  land,  nor  herb,  fruit,  flower, 
Glist'ning  with  dew,  nor  fragrance  after  showcrB, 
Nor  grateful  evening  mild,  nor  silent  night. 
With  this  her  solenm  bird,  nor  walk  by  moon 
Or  glittering  star-light,  without  theoJsBWoet. 

^  •*  Paradiu  Lost,  b.  »v.  1.  6M. 

What  mean  ye,  tliat  ve  aso  this  proverb.  The  fcthers  have  eaten  aoar  mpca, 
and  the  children's  teeth  are  set  on  edge  ?  As  1  live,  saith  the  I>ord  Ood,  t« 
shall  not  have  occasion  to  use  this  nroverb  in  Israel.  If  n  man  keep  my  jnof 
ments  to  deal  truly,  he  is  just,  ho  shall  surely  live,  &c.    LutUly  xvm. 

MS.  Knio  of  the  fine  wU  rMpectIng  capital  objMte. 


416  NAKKATION  AND  DESCKIPTION. 

559.  The  repetitions  in  Homer,  which  are  frequent,  have  leen 
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  thing-s 
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  occui-s  twice  in  the  same  chapter. 

A  concise  comprehensive  style  is  a  great  ornament  in  narration ; 
and  a  superfluity  of  unnecessaiy  words,  no  less  than  of  circumstances, 
a  gr6at  nuisance.  A  judicious  selection  of  the  striking  circumstances 
clothed  in  a  nervous  style,  is  delightful.  In  this  style,  Tacitus  ex- 
cels all  waiters,  ancient  and  modern ;  instances  are  numberless :  take 
the  following  specimen : 

Crcbra  hinc  prselia,  et  ssepius  in  modum  latrocinii :  per  saltus,  perpaludes; 
ut  cnique-fors  aut  virtus;  temere,  proviso,  ob  iram,  ob  pradam,  jussa,  et  ali- 
quando  ignaris  ducibus.— ^?tn<J^,  lib.  xii.  s«cl.  39. 

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  instance  meets  the  eye  : 

Nathoa  clothed  bis  limbs  in  shining  steel.  The  stride  of  the  chief  is  lovely : 
the  iov  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  eye. 

I  add  one  other  instance,  which,  besides  the  property  under  con- 
sideration, raises  delicately  our  most  tender  sympathy : 

Son  of  Fin'ral !  dost  thou  not  beliold  the  dai-kncss  of  Crothar's  hall  of  shells  ? 
Mv  soul  was  not  dark  at  the  feast,  when  my  people  lived.  I  rejoiced  in  the 
presence  of  strangers,  when  my  son  shone  in  the  hall.  But,  Ossian,  he  is  a 
beam  that  is  departed,  and  left  no  streak  of  light  behind.    He  is  fallen  son  of 

Fino-al,  in  the  battles  of  his  father. Rothmar,  the  chiet  of  grassy  Tromlo, 

heard  that  my  eyes  had  failed  ;  he  heard  that  my  arms  were  fixed  in  the  hall, 
and  the  pride  of  his  soul  arose.  He  came  towards  Croma:  my  people  fell  be- 
fore him!  1  took  mv  arms  in  the  hall,  but  what  could  sightless  Crothar  do  f 
My  steps  were  unequal ;  my  grief  was  great.  I  wished  for  the  days  that  were 
past;  days  !  wherein  I  fought  and  won  in  the  field  of  blood.  My  son  returned 
from  the  chase :  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  hre 
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?  is  it  tor 
the  weakness  of  Fovar-gormo's  arm  that  thy  sighs  arise  ;  I  begin,  my  fatlier 
'o  feel  the  strength  of  my  arm;  I  have  drawn  the  sword  of  my  youth,  and  I 
,ave  bent  the  bow.  Let  me  meet  this  Eothmar,  with  the  youths  of  Croma ; 
let  me  meet  him,  O  my  father,  for  1  feel  my  burning  soul.  ,     t,   .  i  .  ^.i 

And  thou  shalt  meet  him,  I  said,  son  of  the  sightless  Crothar !  But  let  oth- 
ers advance  before  thee,  that  I  may  hear  the  tread  of  thy  feet  at  thy  return : 

for  mv  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  his  pointed  spears. 

660.  If  a  concise  or  nervous  style  be  a  beauty,  tautology  must  be 

»59.  Eepetitions.— Concise  style  in  narration.— Tacitus.    Osslaii. 


NARKATION  AND  Dti5CRli*'nON.  417 

a  blemish ;  and  yet  writers,  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, 
fi'om  the  best  poet,  for  versification  at  least,  that  England  has  to 
boast  of : 

High  on  his  helm  celestial  lightnings  piny, 

His  beamy  shield  emits  a  living  ray, 

Th'  unwcary  blaze  incessant  streams  supplies. 

Like  the  reel  star  that  fires  th'  autumnal  skies. — Iliad,  v.  5. 

Strength  and  omnipotence  invest  thy  throne. — Iliad,  viij.  676. 

So  silent  fountains,  fron;  a  rock's  tall  head, 

In  sable  streams  soft  trickling  waters  shed. — Iliad,  ix.  19. 

His  clanging  armor  rung. — Iliad,  xii.  94. 

Fear  on  their  cheek,  and  horror  in  their  eye. — Iliad,  xv.  4, 

The  blaze  of  armor  flash'd  against  the  day. — Iliad,  xvii.  788. 

As  when  the  piercing  blasts  of  Boreas  hlovr.— I Uad,  xix.  880. 

And  like  the  moon,  the  broad  refulgent  shield 
Blazed  with  long  rays,  and  gleam'd  athwart  the  field. 

Iliad,  xix.  402. 

No — could  our  swiftness  o'er  the  winds  prevail. 

Or  beat  the  pinions  of  the  western  gale, 

All  were  in  vain Iliad,  xix.  460. 

The  humid  sweat  from  every  pore  descends. 

Iliad,  xxiii.  829. 

Redundant  epithets,  such  as  humid  in  the  last  citation,  are  by 
Quintilian  disallowed  to  orators ;  but  indulged  to  poets,  because  his 
favorite  poets,  in  a  few  instances,  are  reduced  to  such  epithets  for 
the  sake  of  versification ;  for  instance,  Praia  cams  albicant  pniinU 
of  Horace,  and  liquidos  fontes  of  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  V'r- 
gil  and  Horace,  more  faulty  by  redundancy  than  any  of  those  ab<'"« 
mentioned : 

Saepe  etiam  immcnsum  coelo  vcnit  agmen  nquonmi, 

Et  Foedam  glomeraut  tcmpesUtem  imbribus  atris 

Collectaj  ex  alto  nubes ;  ruit  arduns  ether, 

Et  nluvii  ingenti  sata  liota,  boumqne  Inboro* 

Diluit.  WW'V- 1-  822. 

Postquam  altum  tenuere  rates,  neo  jam  aniplius  all» 

Apparent  terra;;  coelum  tindiquo  ct  uudioue  ponlus: 

Turn  mihi  cceruleus  supra  caput  astitit  imber, 

Noctem  hyememque  forens ;  et  inhorruit  uuda  toncbm. 

•^  ^Mtd,  111.  1 


»i. 


-Hinc  tibi  copia 


Manabit  ad  plenum  benigno 
~         ■  lien' 

18 


Ruris  honorum  opulenU  cornu.  ,.,    .      .    ,, 

J/orat.  Qirm.  lib.  i.  ode  17. 


418  NARRATION  AND  DESCRIPTION. 

Videre  fessos  vomerem  inversum  bovea 
Collo  trahentes  languido.  Moral,  epod.  ii.  68. 

Here  I  can  luckily  apply  Horace's  rule  against  himself: 

Est  brevitate  opus,  ut  currat  sententia,  neu  se 
Impediat  verbis  lassas  onerantibus  aures. 

Satir.  lib.  i.  sat.  x.  9. 

561,  I  close  this  chapter  -with  a  curious  inquiry.  An  object, 
however  ugly  to  the  sight,  is  far  from  being  so  when  represente(l 
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  subject  be,  is  agreeable  by  the  pleasure  we  take  in 
imitation ;  and  this  pleasure  overbalancing  the  disagreeableness  of 
the  subject,  makes  the  picture  upon  the  whole  agreeable.  W'ith 
respect  to  the  description  of  an  ugly  object,  the  cause  follows.  To 
connect  individuals  in  the  social  state,  no  particular  contributes  more 
than  language,  by  the  power  it  possesses  of  an  expeditious  commu- 
nication of  thought  and  a  lively  representation  of  transactions.  But 
nature  hath  not  been  satisfied  to  recommend  language  by  its  utility 
merely  :  independent  of  utility,  it  is  made  susceptible  of  many  beau- 
ties, which  are  directly  felt,  without  any  intervening  reflection  (see 
chap,  xviii.).  And  this  unfolds  the  mystery;  for  the  pleasure  of 
language  is  so  great,  as  in  a  lively  desciiption  to  overbalance  the 
disagreeableness  of  the  image  raised  by  it  (see  chap.  ii.  part  iv.). 
This,  however,  is  no  encouragement  to  choose  a  disagreeable  sub- 
ject ;  for  the  pleasure  is  incomparably  greater  Avhere  the  subject  and 
the  description  are  both  of  them  agreeable. 

The  following  description  is  upon  the  whole  agreeable,  though 
the  subject  described  is  in  itself  dismal : 

Nine  times  the  space  tbat  measures  day  and  uiglit 
To  mortal  men,  he  with  his  liorrid  crew 
Lay  vanquish'd,  rolling  in  tlie  fiery  gul^ 
Confounded  though  immortal !  but  his  doom 
Keserved  him  to  more  wrath  ;  for  now  the  thought 
Both  of  lost  happiness  and  lasting  pain 
Torments  him ;  round  he  throws  his  baleful  eyes, 
That  witness'd  huge  affliction  and  dismay, 
Mix'd  witli  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  flamed :  yet  from  those  flames 
No  light,  but  rather  darkness  visible 
Served  only  to  discover  sights  of  woe, 
-  Kegions  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- burning  sulphur  unconsumed  ! 
Such  place  eternal  justice  hath  prepared 
For  those  rebellious.  Paradise  Lost,  book  i.  I.  60. 

660.  Tautology.— Redundant  epithetSL 


NARRATION  AND  DESCRIPTION.  419 

An  unmanly  depression  of  spirits  in  time  of  danger  is  not  an  agree- 
able sight ;  and  yet  a  fine  description  or  representation  of  it  will  bo 
relished : 

K.  Richard.  What  mnst  the  kine  do  now  !  mniit  ho  submit  I 

The  king  sliall  do  it ;  mast  ho  be  deposed  f 
The  king  shall  be  contented ;  must  he  lose 
The  name  of  king  ?  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  figurecl  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  little  grave ; 

A  little,  little  grave ; an  obscure  grave. 

Or,  I'll  be  buried  in  the  king's  highway ; 
Some  way  of  common  tread,  where  subjects'  feet 
May  hourly  trample  on  their  sovereign's  head ; 
For  on  my  heart  they  tread  now,  whilst  I  live ; 
And  buried  once,  why  not  upon  my  head  ? 

Richard  IT.  Act  III.  8a  «. 

Objects  that  strike  terror  in  a  spectator,  have  in  jx)etry  and  paint- 
ing a  fine  effect.  The  picture  by  raising  a  slight  emotion  of  terror, 
agitates  the  mind ;  and  in  that  condition  every  beauty  makes  a  deep 
impression.  May  not  contrast  heighten  the  pleasure,  by  opposing 
our  presenf  security  to  the  danger  of  encountering  the  object  repre- 
sented ? 

-The  other  shape, 


if  shape  it  might  be  call'd,  that  shape  had  none 

Jistinguishamc  in  member,  joint,  or  limb ; 

Or  substance  might  be  call'd  that  shadow  Bcem'd, 

For  each  seem'd  either ;  black  it  stood  as  night, 

Fierce  as  ten  furies,  terrible  as  hell. 

And  shook  a  dreadful  dart.  Paradiae  Lost,  b.  Li.  L  «W. 

-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  raged ;  dire  was  the  noise 

Of  conflict;  overhead  the  dismal  hiss 

Of  iery  darts  in  flaming  volleys  flew, 

And  flying  vaulted  either  host  with  lire. 

So  under  fiery  cope  together  ruslrd 

Both  battles  main,  with  ruinous  assault 

And  inextinguishable  rage ;  all  heaven 

Eesounded ;  and  had  earth  been  then,  all  earth  ,  ,  a^* 

Had  to  her  centre  shook.  ParadiM  Lott,  b.  vj.  I.  WT. 

Qhost. But  that  I  am  forbid 

To  tell  the  secrets  of  my  prison-house, 

I  could  a  tale  unfold,  whoso  lightest  word 

Would  harrow  up  thy  soul,  freeze  thy  young  blood, 

Make  thy  two  eyes,  Uko  stars,  start  from  their  ephcrw, 

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  .too 

To  ears  of  flesh  and  blood.  Ilamltt,  Act  I.  So.  ». 


Ml.  An  \ig1y  obj#c-  reprpf*  "itA  In  colors  or  woHs.    KrtrapK— Tmfbl* 


420  NARRATION  AND  DESCRIPTION. 

. Gratiano.  Poor  Desdemona !  I'm  glad  t)iy  fa.her's  dead; 
Thy  match  was  mortal  to  him ;  and  pure  grief 
Shore  his  old  thread  in  twain.     Did  he  live  now, 
Tills  sight  would  make  him  do  a  desperate  turn : 
Yea,  curse  his  better  angel  from  his  side. 
And  fall  to  reprobation.  Othello,  Act  V.  So.  8. 

562.  Objects  of  horror  must  be  expected  from  the  foregoing 
theory ;  for  no  description,  however  Uvely,  is  sufficient  to  over 
balance  the  disgust  raised  even  by  tlie  idea  of  such  objects.  Every 
thing  horrible  ought  therefore  to  be  avoided  in  a  description.  Nor 
is  this  a  severe  law :  the  poet  will  avoid  such  scenes  for  his  own 
sake,  as  well  as  for  that  of  his  reader ;  and  to  vary  his  descriptions, 
nature  affords  plenty  of  objects  that  disgust  us  in  some  degree  with- 
out raising  horror.  I  am  obliged  therefore  to  condemn  the  picture 
of  Sin  in  the  second  book  of  Paradise  Lost,  though  a  masterly  per- 
formance :  the  original  would  be  a  horrid  spectacle ;  and  the  hoiToi 
is  not  much  softened  in  the  copy : 

-Pensive  here  I  sat 


Alone  ;  but  long  I  sat  not,  till  my  womb, 

Pregnant  by  thee,  and  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  paia 

Distorted,  all  my  nether  shape  thus  grew 

Transform'd  ;  but  he  my  inbred  enemy 

Forth  issued,  brandishing  his  fatal  daft. 

Made  to  destroy ;  I  fled,  and  cried  out  Death ; 

Hell  trembled  at  the  hideous  name,  and  sigh'd 

From  all  her  eaves,  and  back  resounded  Death. 

I  fled  ;  but  he  pursued  (thougli  more,  it  seems, 

Inflamed  with  lust  than  rage),  and  swifter  far. 

Me  overtook,  his  mother  all  dismay 'd, 

And  in  embraces  forcible  and  foul 

Ingend'ring  with  me,  of  that  rape  begot 

These  yelling  monsters,  that  with  ceaseless  cry 

Surround  me,  as  thou  saw'st,  hourly  conceived 

And  hourly  born,  with  sorrow  infinite 

To  me  ;  for  when  they  list,  into  the  womb 

That  bred  them  they  return,  and  howl  and  gnaw 

My  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  involved ;  and  knows  tnat  I 

Should  prove  a  bitter  morsel,  and  his  bane. 

Whenever  that  shall  be.  Book  ii.  1.  777. 

lago's  character  in  the  tragedy  of  Othello,  is  insufferably  monstrous 
and  satanical :  not  even  Shakspeare's  masterly  hand  can  make  the 
pibture  agreeable. 

Though  the  objects  introduced  in  the  following  scene  is  not 

M3.  Objects  of  horror.    Ezamplei, 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  STYLE.  421 

altogether  so  horrible  as  Sin  is  in  Milton's  descriptioD;  yet  with 
every  person  of  delicacy,  disgust  will  be  the  prevailing  emotion : 

-Strophades  Graio  stant  nomine  dicUs 


Insula  lonio  in  niagno :  qnas  dira  CclBno, 
Harpyiseque  colunt  aliso:  Phineia  postquam 
Clausa  domus,  monsasque  metu  liquere  priorea. 
Tristius  baud  illia  monstrum,  nee  saevior  uUa 
Pestis  et  ira  DeAm  Stygiis  seae  extulit  undis. 
Vireinei  volucrum  vu'ltus,  foedissima  ventris 
ProTuvies,  nncseque  manus,  et  pallida  semper 
Ora  fame,  &c.  uEneid,  lib.  iii.  210. 


See  also  JEneid,  lib.  iii.  613. 


CHAPTER  XXn. 

THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF   STYLE. 
[From  the  Westminster  Review  (1652),  somewhst  abridged  and  modifled } 

663.  Dr.  Latham,  condemning  the  incessant  drill  in  Ejiglish 
Grammar,  rightly  observes  that  "  gross  vulgarity  is  a  fault  to  be 
prevented ;  but  the  proper  preventive  is  to  be  got  from  habit,  not 
from  rules."  So  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  excellence  in  com- 
position is  more  dependent  upon  practice  and  natural  talent,  than 
upon  a  mere  acquaintance  with  rhetorical  rules.  He  who  daily 
reads  and  hears,  with  close  attention,  well-framed  sentences,  will 
naturally  more  or  less  be  prompted  to  frame  well  his  own  sentences. 
Some  practical  advantage,  however,  cannot  fail  to  be  derived  from 
a  familiarity  with  the  principles  of  style,  and  from  an  habitual  en- 
deavor to  conform  to  them  in  one's  own  practice. 

The  maxims  contained  in  works  on  rhetoric  and  composition,  are 
not  so  well  apprehended  nor  so  much  respected,  as  they  would  be 
if  they  had  been  arranged  under  some  one  grand  principle  from 
which  they  may  fairly  be  deduced.  We  are  told,  for  example,  that 
"  brevity  is  the  soul  of  wit" — that  every  needless  part  of  a  sentence 
"  interrupts  the  description  and  clogs  the  imago" — that  "  long  sen- 
tences fatigue  the  reader's  attention" — that  "  to  give  the  utmost  force 
to  a  period,  it  ought,  if  possible,  to  be  closed  with  the  word  that 
makes  the  greatest  figure" — tliat "  parentheses  should  be  avoided"— 
that  "  Saxon  words  should  be  used  in  preference  to  those  of  Latin 
origin."  We  have  certain  styles  condemned  as  verbose  or  involved. 
Admitting  these  maxims  to  be  just,  they  lose  much  of  tlieir  intrin- 
sic force  and  influence  from  their  isolated  position,  and  fix)m  the  want 
of  scientific  deduction  from  some  fundamental  principle^^ 

668.  Dr.  Latham's  observation.— Excellence  in  eompodtlon  dependent  on  wfcal?— Ft«H 
Ir  Works  on  rbeturic. 


4:22  PHILOSOPHY  OF  STYLE. 


FIRST  DIVISION  OF  THE  SUBJECT. 

CAUSES  OF  FORCE  IN  LANGUAGE  WHICH  DEPEND  UPON  ECONOMT 
OF  THE  MENTAL  ENERGIES. 

564.  In  seeking  for  the  law  which  underlies  these  common  max- 
ims of  rhetoric,  we  may  see  shadowed  forth  in  many"  of  them 
the  importance  of  economizing  the  reader's  or  hearer's  attention. 
To  present  ideas  in  such  a  form  that  they  may  be  apprehended  with 
the  least  possible  effort,  is  the  aim  of  mo'st  of  the  rules  above 
quoted.  When  we  condemn  writing  that  is  wordy,  or  confused,  or 
intricate ;  when  we  praise  one  style  as  easy,  and  condemn  another 
as  fatiguing,  we  consciously  or  unconsciously  assume  this  as  the 
proper  aim  or  standard  in  writing  or  speaking.  Regarding  lan- 
guage as  an  apparatus  of  symbols  for  the  conveyance  of  thought, 
it  is  proper  to  say,  as  with  reference  to  any  mechanical  apparatus, 
that  the  more  simple  and  the  better  arranged  its  parts,  the  greater 
will  be  the  effect  produced.  In  either  case,  whatever  force  is  ab- 
sorbed by  the  machine  is  deducted  from  the  result.  A  reader  or 
listener  has  at  each  moment  but  a  limited  amount  of  mental  poioer 
available.  To  recognize  and  interpret  the  symbols  presented  tc 
him  requires  part  of  this  power :  to  arrange  and  combine  the  im- 
ages suggested  requires  another  part ;  and  only  that  part  which 
remains  can  be  used  for  the  realization  of  the  "thought  conveyed. 
Hence  the  more  time  and  attention  it  requires  to  receive  and  un- 
derstand each  sentence,  the  less  time  and  attention  can  be  given  to 
the  contained  idea,  and  the  less  vividly  will  that  idea  be  conceived. 

ITiat  language  is  in  some  measure  a  hindrance  to  thought  while 
one  of  the  most  valuable  instruments  of  thought,  is  apparent  when 
we  notice  the  comparatively  greater  force  with  which  some  thoughts 
are  conveyed  by  simple  sign^  and  gestures.  To  say  "  Leave  the 
room"  is  less  expressive  than  to  point  to  the  door.  Placing  a 
finger  upon  the  lips  is  moie  forcible  than  whispering,  "Do  not  speak." 
A  beck  of  the  hand  is  better  than  "  Come  here."  No  phrase  can 
convey  the  idea  of  surprise  so  vividly  as  opening  the  eyes  and  rais- 
ing the  eyebrows.  A  shrug  of  the  shoulders  would  lose  much  by 
translation  into  words. 

565.  Again,  it  may  be  remarked  that  when  oral  language  is  em- 
ployed, the  strongest  effects  are  produced  by  interjections,  which 
condense  entire  sentences  into  syllables  ;  and,  in  other  cases,  where 
custom  allows  us  to  express  thoughts  by  single  words,  as  in  Beware, 
Fudge,  much  force  would  be  lost  by  expanding  them  into  specific 

564.  The  law  which  underlies  the  prominent  maxims  of  rhetoric  —The  aim  of  most  of 
those  maxims. — The  demands  upon  the  ment.il  powfr  of  the  reader  or  listener. — T^ngna^^ 
in  some  II  easure,  a  hindrance  to  thonsht.  -  . 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  STYLE.  423 

verbal  propositions.  Hence,  carrying  out  the  metapho.  that  lan- 
guage is  tlie  vehicle  of  thought,  there  seems  reason  to  think  that 
in  all  cases  the  friction  and  inertia  of  the  vehicle  deduct  from  its 
efficiency ;  and  that  in  composition  the  chief,  if  not  the  sole  thing 
to  be  done,  is  to  reduce  this  friction  and  inertia  to  the  smallest  possi- 
ble amount.  Let  us  then  inquire  whether  economy  of  the  hearer'i 
or  reader's  attention  is  not  the  secret  of  eftbrt,  alike  in  the  choice 
and  collocation  of  words ;  in  the  best  arrangement  of  clauses  in  a 
sentence ;  in  the  jfroper  order  of  its  principal  and  subordinate  propo- 
sitions ;  in  the  judicious  use  of  simile,  metaphor,  and  other  figures  of 
speech ;  and  in  even  the  rhythmical  sequence  of  syllables. 


I.   THE    CHOICE    OF   WORDS. 

666.  (1)  The  superior  forcibleness  of  Saxon  English,  or  rather 
non-Latin  English,  first  claims  our  attention.  The  several  special 
reasons  assignable  for  tliis  may  all  be  reduced  to  the  general  reason — 
economy.  The  most  important  of  them  is  early  association.  A 
child's  vocabulary  is  almost  wholly  Saxon.  He  says,  /  have,  not  / 
possess  ;  I  wish,  not  /  desire :  he  does  not  reflect,  he  thinks  ;  he 
does  not  beg  for  amusement,  but  for  play  ;  ho  calls  things  nice  or 
nasty,  not  pleasant  or  disagreeable.  The  synonyms  which  he 
learns  in  after  years  never  become  so  closely,  so  organically  con- 
nected with  the  ideas  signified,  as  do  these  original  words  used  in 
childhood ;  and  hence  the  association  remains  less  powerful.  But 
in  what  does  a  powerful  association  between  a  word  and  an  idea 
differ  from  a  weak  one  ?  Simply  in  the  greater  rapidity  and  ease 
of  comprehension,  until,  from  its  having  been  a  conscious  efibrt  to 
reahze  their  meanings,  their  meanings  ultimately  come  without  any 
effort  at  all ;  and  if  we  consider  tliat  the  same  process  must  have 
gone  on  with  the  words  of  our  mother  tongue  from  childhood  up- 
ward, we  shall  clearly  see  that  the  eariiest-leamt  and  oftenest-used 
words,  will,  other  things  being  equal,  call  up  images  with  le.^  loss  of 
t-'me  and  energy  than  their  later-learned  synonyms. 

567.  (2)  The  comparative  brevity  of  Saxon  English  is  another 
feature  that  brings  it  under  the  same  generalization.  K  it  be  an  ad- 
vantage to  express  an  idea  in  the  smallest  number  of  words,  then 
will  it  be  an  advantage  to  express  it  in  the  smallest  number  of  sylla- 
bles. If  circuitous  phrases  and  needless  expletives  distract  the 
attention  and  diminish  the  strength  of  the  injpression  produced,  then 
do  surplu.<  articulations  do  so.  A  certain  efibrt,  though  commonly 
an  inappreciable  one,  must  be  required  to  recognize  every  yowcl  and 

565.  InterjecHons.    Single  words.— The  chief  thing  to  be  done  In  comporitlon— In  wb»l 
respects  economy  of  attention  Is  to  be  nr»<?tlsed.  .„„rit 

566.  Superior  fordbleness  of  Saxon  Engltoh.— Fir»t  reason.— In  what  •  powwftjl  mmciv 
tton  between  s  word  ami  lt«  Idea  differs  fh)m  a  wea>  oue. 


424  PHILOSOPHY  OF  STYLE. 

consonant.  If,  as  we  commonly  find,  the  mind  soon  becomea 
fatigued  wlien  we  listen  to  an  indistinct  or  fa;-removed  speaker,  or 
when  we  read  a  badly-written  manuscript ;  and  if,  as  we  cannot 
doubt,  the  fatigue  is  a  cumulative  result  of  the  attention  req  Aired  to 
catch  successive  syllables,  it  obviously  follows  that  attention  is  in 
such  cases  absorbed  by  each  syllable.  And  if  this  be  true  when  the 
syllables  are  difficult  of  recognition,  it  will  also  be  true,  though  in  a 
less  degree,  when  the  recognition  of  them  is  easy.  Hence,  the  short- 
ness of  Saxon  words  becomes  a  reason  for  their  greater  force,  aa 
involving  a  saving  of  the  articulations  to  be  received. 

568.  (3)  Again,  that  frequent  cause  of  strength  in  Saxon  and 
other  pnmitive  words — their  imitative  character — renders  it  a  mat- 
ter of  economy  to  use  them.  Both  those  directly  imitative,  aa 
splash,  bang,  whiz,  roar,  &c.,  and  those  analogically  imitative,  as 
rough,  smooth,  keen,  blunt,  thin,  hard,  crag,  <fec.,  by  presenting  to 
the  perceptions  symbols  having  direct  resemblance  to  the  things  to 
be  imagined,  or  some  kinship  to  them,  save  part  of  the  eftbrt  needed 
to  call  up  the  intended  ideas,  and  leave  more  attention  to  the  ideas 
themselves. 

569.  (4)  It  contributes  to  economy  of  the  hearer's  or  reader's 
mental  energy  to  use  specific  rather  than  generic  words.  That  con- 
crete terms  produce  more  vivid  impressions  than  abstract  ones,  and 
should,  when  possible,  be  used  instead,  is  a  current  maxim  of  com- 
position. As  Dr.  Campbell  says,  the  more  general  the  terms  are, 
the  picture  is  the  fainter ;  the  more  special  they  are,  tlie  bnghter. 
Te  should  avoid  such  a  sentence  as, 

In  proportion  as  the  manners,  customs,  and  amusements  of  a  nation 

are  cruel  and  barbarous,  the  regulations  of  their  penal  code  will  be  severe. 

And  in  place  of  it  we  should  write : 

In  proportion  as  men  delight  in  battles,  tourneys,  bull-fights,  and 

combats  of  gladiatore,  will  thej  punish  by  hanging,  beheading,  burning,  and 
the  rack. 

This  superiority  of  specific  expressions  is  clearly  due  to  a  saving  of 
the  effort  required  to  translate  words  into  thoughts.  As  we  do  not 
think  in  generals  but  in  particulars;  as,  whenever  any  class  of 
things  is  referred  to,  we  represent  it  to  ourselves  by  calling  to  mind 
individual  membei-s  of  it,  it  follows  that  when  an  abstract  word  is 
used,  the  hearer  or  reader  has  to  choose,  from  among  his  stock  of 
images,  one  or  more  by  which  he  may  figure  to  himself  the  genus 
mentioned.  In  doing  this  some  delay  must  arise,  some  force  l«  ex- 
pended ;  and  if,  by  employing  a  specific  term,  an  appropriate  image 
can  be  at  once  suggested,  an  economy  is  achieved,  and  a  more  vivid 
impi-ession  produced. 

567.  Brevity  of  Saxon  English  ;  how  this  contributes  to  effect 
56S.  Elfect  of  the  imitative  character  of  primitive  words. 

669.  Economy  in   using  specific  words.— Dr.  Campbell's  remark.— Why   ipeclSo  er 
preeslons  economize  effort 


PHILOSOPHY  OP  STYLE.  425 


11.    COLLOCATION  OF  WORDS  IN  A  BENTENCK. 

570.  TuiTiing  now  from  the  choice  of  words  to  their  sequence,  we 
shall  find  the  same  general  principle  hold  good.  We  have,  a  priori, 
reason  for  beheving  that  there  is  usually  some  one  order  of  words  in 
a  sentence  more  effective  than  every  other,  and  that  this  order  is  the 
one  which  presents  the  elements  of  the  proposition  in  the  succession 
in  which  they  may  be  most  readily  put  together.  As,  in  a  narra- 
tive, the  events  should  be  stated  in  such  order  that  the  mind  may 
not  have  to  go  backwards  and  forwards  in  order  rightly  to  connect 
them ;  as  in  a  group  of  sentences,  the  arrangement  adopted  should 
be  such  that  each  of  them  may  be  underetood  a-s  it  comes,  without 
waiting  for  subsequent  ones ;  so  in  eveiy  sentence  the  sequence  of 
words  should  be  that  which  suggests  the  component  parts  of  the 
thought  conveyed,  in  the  order  most  convenient  for  building  up  that 
thought.  To  enforce  this  truth,  and  to  prepare  the  way  for  appli- 
cations of  it,  we  must  (1)  briefly  inquire  into  th£  mental  process  bg 
which  the  meaning  of  a  series  of  words  is  apprehended. 

We  cannot  more  simply  do  this  than  by  considering  the  pr(^per 
collocation  of  the  substantive  and  adjective.  Is  it  better  to  place  the 
adjective  before  the  substantive,  or  the  substantive  before  the  adjec- 
tive ?  Ought  we  to  say  with  the  French,  un  cheval  noir  (a  horse 
black) ;  or  to  say  as  we  do,  a  black  horse  ?  Probably  most  persons 
of  culture  would  decide  that  one  is  as  good  as  the  other.  Tiiere  is, 
however,  a  philosophical  ground  for  deciding  in  favor  of  the  English 
arrangement.  If  "  a  horse  black"  be  the  form  used,  immediately  on 
the  utterance  of  the  word  "  horse"  there  arises,  or  tends  to  anse,  m 
.the  mind  a  picture  answering  to  that  word ;  and  as  there  has  been 
nothing  to  indicate  what  kind  of  horse,  any  image  of  a  horse  sug- 
gests itself.  Very  likely,  however,  the  image  will  be  that  of  a  brown 
horse,  brown  horses  being  equally  or  more  familiar.  The  result  is, 
that  when  the  word  "black"  is  added,  a  check  is  given  to  the 
process  of  thought.  Either  the  picture  of  a  brown  hor^e  already 
present  in  the  imagination  has  to  be  suppressed,  and  the  picture  o< 
a  black  one  summoned  in  its  place  ;  or  else,  if  the  picture  ot  a  brown 
horse  be  yet  unformed,  the  tendency  to  form  it  has  to  be  stoppcd- 
Whichever  be  the  case,  a  certain  amount  of  hindrance  results.  Uut 
if,  on  the  other  hand,  "  a  black  horse"  be  the  expression  used,  no 
such  mistake  can  be  made.  The  word  "  black,"  indicating  an  ab- 
stract quality,  arouses  no  definite  idea.  It  simply  prepares  the  mind 
for  conceiving  of  some  object  of  that  color  ;  and  the  attention  is  kept 
,uspended  until  that  object  is  known.  If  then,  by  the  premk-nce  of 
the  adjective,  tlie  idea  is  conveyed  without  the  po:<sibility  of  error, 
whereas  the  precedence  of  the  substantive  is  liable  to  prcHluce  am* 
conception,  it  follows  that  the  one  gives  the  mind  less  double  thap 
the  other,  knd  is  therefore  more  forcible.     The  right  formaUon  of  ^ 


4:26  PHILOSOPHY  OF  STYI-K. 

picture  will  always  be  faoilitatecl  by  presenting  its  elements  in  the 
order  in  which  they  are  wanted. 

571.  What  is  here  said  respecting  the  succession  of  the  adjective 
and  substantive,  is  obviously  applicable,  by  change  of  terms,  to  the 
adverb  and  verb.  And,  without  further  explanation,  it  will  be  at 
once  perceived,  that  in  the  use  of  prepositions  and  other  particles, 
most  languages  spontaneously  conform,  with  more  or  less  complete- 
ness, to  this  law. 

(2)  On  applying  a  like  analysis  to  the  larger  divisions  of  a  sen- 
tence, we  find  not  only  that  the  same  principle  holds  good,  but  that 
there  is  great  advantage  in  regarding  it.  In  the  arrangement  of 
predicate  and  subject,  for  example,  we  are  at  once  shown  that  as  the 
predicate  determines  the  aspect  under  which  the  subject  is  to  be 
conceived,  it  should  be  placed  firet ;  and  the  striking  eftect  produced 
by  so  placing  it  becomes  coitiprehensible. 

Take  the  often-quoted  contrast  between  "  Great  is  Diana,  of  the 
Ephesians,"  and  "  Diana  of  the  Ephesiaus  is  great."  When  the  first 
arrangement  is  used,  the  utterance  of  the  word  "  great"  arouses  those 
vague  associations  of  an  impressive  nature  with  which  it  has  been 
habitually  connected ;  the  imagination  is  prepared  to  clothe  with 
higli  attributes  whatever  follows;  and  when  the  words  "Diana  of 
the  Ephesians"  are  heard,  all  the  appropriate  imageiy  which  can, 
on  the  instant,  be  summoned,  is  used  in  the  forma'tion  of  the  pic- 
ture: the  mind  being  thus  led  directly,  without  error,  to  the  intend- 
ed impression.  When,  on  the  contraiy,  the  reverse  order  is  followed, 
the  idea,  "  Diana  of  the  Ephesians,"  is  conceived  in  any  ordinary 
way,  with  no  special  reference  to  greatness ;  and  wheii  the  words 
"is  great"  are  added,  the  conception  has  to  be  entirely  remodelled; 
whence  arises  a  manifest  loss  of  mental  energy,  and  a  corresponding 
diminution  of  effect. 

The  following  verse  from  Coleridge's  "  Ancient  Mariner,"  though 
somewhat  irregular  in  stmcture,  Avetl  illustrates  the  same  truth  : 

Alone,  alo)ie,  all  alone, 

Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea  ! 
And  never  saint  took  pity  on 

My  sou]  in  agony. 

Of  course  the  principle  equally  applies  when  the  predicate  is  a  verb 
or  a  participle  :  and  as  effect  is  gained  by  placing  first  all  words  in- 
dicating quality,  conduct,  or  condition  of  the  subject,  it  follows  that 
the  copula  should  have  precedence.  It  is  true,  that  the  general 
habit  of  our  language  resists  this  arrangement  of  predicate,  copula, 
and  subject ;  but  we  may  readily  find  instances  of  the  additional 
force  gained  by  conforming  to  it.  Thus,  in  the. line  from  "Julius 
'Caesar," 

670.  The  order  of  words  in  a  sentence  which  seems  a  priori  to  be  more  effective  limn 
another.— Process  by  which  the  meaning  of  a  series  of  words  is  apprehended.— Collocation 
ofsutjituitivo  and  adje'tlve.— French  and  Eng''«h  arrangement    Why  the  latter  is  pr»- 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  STYLE.  427 

Theu  hurst  tUis  mighty  heart, 
priority  is  given  to  a  word  enibodj-ing  both  predicate  aud  copula 

In  a  passage  contained  in  "The  Battle  of  Flodden  Field,"  the  like 
order  is  systematically  employed  with  great  effect : 

The  Border  Blogan  rent  the  sky ! 
A  Home!  a  Gordon!  was  the  cry ; 

Loud  were  the  clanging  blows ; 
Advanced,— forced  back,— now  low,  now  higit, 

Tlie  pennon  sunk  aud  rose ; 
As  bends  the  bark's  mast  in  tlie  gn!e. 
When  rent  are  rigging,  shrouds,  ana  sail, 

It  waver'd  'mid  the  foes. 

572.  (3)  Pursuing  the  principle  yet  further,  it  is  obvious  that 
for  producing  the  greatest  effect,  not  only  should  the  main  divisions 
of  a  sentence  observe  this  order,  but  the  subdivisions  of  a  sentence 
should  be  similariy  arranged.  In  neariy  all  cases  the  predicate  is 
accompanied  by  some  limit  or  qualification  called  its  complement : 
commonly,  also,  the  circumstances  of  the  subject,  ichichform  its  com- 
plement, have  to  be  specified ;  and  as  these  qualifications  and  cir 
cumstances  must  determine  the  mode  in  which  tlie  ideas  tliey  belong 
to  shall  be  conceived,  precedence  should  be  given  to  them.  Lord 
Kames  notices  the  fact,  that  this  order  is  pieferable;  though  with- 
out giving  the  reason.  He  says,  "  When  a  circumstance  is  placed 
at  the  beginning  of  a  perio<l,  or  near  the  begiiming,  the  transition 
from  it  to  the  principal  subject  is  agreeable ;  is  like  ascending  or 
going  upward."  A  sentence  arranged  in  illustration  of  this  may  be 
desirable.     Perhaps  the  following  will  serve : 

-Whatever  it  mav  be  in  theory,  it  is  clear  that  in  practice  the  French 

idea  of  liberty  is— the  right  of  every  man  to  be  master  of  the  reat. 

In  this  case,  were  the  first  two  clauses  xip  to  the  word  "  practice" 
inclusive,  which  qualify  the  subject,  to  be  placed  at  the  end  instead 
of  the  beginning,  much  of  the  force  would  be  lost ;  as  thus : 

The  French  idea  of  liberty  is — the  right  of  every  man  to  be  ma.Hter  of 

the  rest ;  in  practice  at  least,  if  not  in  theory. 

The  effect  of  giving  priority  to  the  comj)lement  of  tlie  predicate, 
as  well  as  the  predicate  itself,  is  finely  displayed  in  the  opening  of 
"  Hyperion :" 

Beep  in  the  ehady  tadntu  of  a  val^ 
Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of  morn. 
Far  from  the  fiery  nooti  and  *w'«  one  star, 
Sat  gray-haired  baturn,  quiet  as  a  stone. 

Here  it  will  be  observed,  not  only  that  the  predicate  "sat"  pre 
cedes  the  subject  "  Saturn,"  and  that  the  three  lines  in  italics  con- 
stituting the  complement  of  the  predicate  come  before  it.  but  that* 

671.  Law  for  other  parts  of  speech. — Arrangement  of  predicate  and  subject  ExampI* : 
•*  Great  is  Diana,"  &c.    Otlier  examples. 

572.  Subdivisions  of  a  sentence.— Complement  of  tha  predicate.— C1rcon»taBc«»  Ks- 
ample  from  "  Hyperion." 


498 

PHILOSOPHY  OF  STYLE. 


lach'lil™?,!."'''  "'  *"'  <^°"Pl™<'"  also,  the  same  order  is  followed  • 

thfraT?aS?f%I^^f^;,rcr  ti^ey^'La^^^^^^^^^^  "^^  ^^^^  ^--  ^«^^<i  o>^t  to 
selves,  are  simp]y  spiritual  paLpers!^  "'''^^  ^"^  ^"""^  "^^^  ^"o''  tbem- 

.!&!::  totiLr  E:f rsti":  '"T^°-^™*e.propo- 

sentence,  almost  wholl/ de.  ™b     .hT'LraZf  oTZ"'   •"  •""'? 

sr-jL-Sii^SaTo^.^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

we  havItS'rJ  K°°'''r  1  "S'^'  ■•"rg™'=nt  in  sentence^  which 

identJy  the  sing  e  words,  the  minor  clauses,  and  the  leading  division. 

lrt^.r?''^'''S'''^''^"^^"^'^fy«^<^^  «^ter.  Se  fort  the 
tune  that  ehipses  between  the  mention  of  any  qualifyinrieLber 
and  the  member  qualified,  the  longer  must  the  mind  Kxe^t^d  in 

mese  suspensions  shall  at  any  moment  be  the  fewest  in  number. 
4fe.-oZ'o?cUu^P""'^'P^  ""^  ""^-^'-^  Proposition,  In  the  same  sentence.  ^ 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  STYLE.  429 

and  shall  also  be  of  the  shortest  duration.    The  following  is  an  in- 
stance  of  defective  combination  : 

A  modern  newspaper  statement,  though  probably  true,  •would  be 

Jaughed  at  if  quoted  in  a  book  as 'testimony ;  but  tne  letter  of  a  court-goaaip  is 
thought  good  nistorical  evidence,  if  written  some  centuries  ago. 

A  rearrangement  of  this,  in  accordance  with  the  principle  indi- 
cated above,  will  be  found  to  increase  the  effect     Thus : 

Though  probably  true,  a  modern  newspaper  statement  quoted  in  a 

book  as  testimony,  would  "be  laughed  at;  but  the  letter  of  a  court-gossip,  If 
written  some  centuries  ago,  is  thought  good  historical  evidence. 

By  making  this  change  some  of  the  suspensioas  are  avoided,  and 
others  shortened ;  whilst  there  is  less  liability  to  produce  premature 
conceptions.  The  passage  quoted  below  from  "Paradise  Lost," 
affords  a  fine  instance  of  sentences  well  airanged,  alike  in  the  priority 
of  the  subordinate  members,  in  the  avoidance  of  long  and  numerous 
suspensions^  and  in  the  correspondence  between  the  order  of  the  clause* 
and  the  sequence  of  the  phenomena  described,  which,  by  the  way,  is 
a  further  prerequisite  to  easy  comprehension,  and  therefore  to  effect : 

As  when  a  prowling  wolf, 
Whom  hunger  drives  to  seek  new  haunt  for  prey, 
Watching  where  slicpherds  pen  their  flocks  at  eve 
In  hurdled  cotes  amid  the  field  secure. 
Leaps  o'er  the  fence  with  ease  into  the  fold : 
Or  as  a  thief  bent  to  unhoard  the  cash 
Of  some  rich  burgher,  whose  substantial  doors, 
Cross-barr'd  and  "bolted  fast,  fear  no  assault. 
In  at  the  window  climbs,  or  o'er  the  tiles  : 
So  clomb  the  first  grand  thief  into  God's  fold ; 
So  since  into  his  church  lewd  hirelings  climb. 

675.*  (7)  The  habitual  use  of  sentences  in  which  all  or  most  of 
the  descriptive  and  limiting  elements  precede  those  described  and 
limited,  give  rise  to  what  is  called  the  inverted  style  ;  a  title  which 
is,  however,  by  no  means  confined  to  this  structure,  but  is  often  used 
where  the  ord'er  of  the  words  is  simply  unusual.  A  more  appropri- 
ate title  would  be  the  direct  style,  as  contrasted  with  the  other  or 
indirect  style  :  the  peculiarity  of  the  one  being  that  it  conveys  each 
thought  into  the  mind  step  by  step,  with  little  liability  to  error;  and 
of  the  other,  that  it  gets  the  right  thought  conceived  by  a  series  of 
approximations.  . 

(8)  The  superiority  of  the  direct  over  the  tndtrect  form  of  sen- 
tence,  implied  by  the  several  conclusions  that  have  been  drawn,  must 
not,  however,  be  affirmed  without  limitation.  Though  up  to  a  cer- 
tain point  it  is  well  for  all  the  quahfying  clauses  of  a  period  to 
precede  those  qualified,  yet,  as  canying  forward  each  quali^'iug 
clause  costs  some  mental  effort,  it  follows  that  when  the  number  of 
them  and  the  time  they  are  carried  become  great,  we  reach  a  limit 

674  Words  to  be  brought  most  clo«>ly  to?ethcr.-Ee«on  for  Juxt.poriUoo.-li««ip». 
of  defecUv*  arrangeuient     Extmple  of  (food  *rT«n«»in*n  t. 


430 


PHILOSOPHT  OF  STYLE. 


beyond  \\[liich  more  is  lost  than  gained.  Other  things  equal,  th€ 
arravgemmt  should  he  such  that  no  concrete  image  shall  be  suggested 
icntil  the  materials  out  of  which  it  is  to  be  made  have  been  pre- 
sented. And  yet,  as  lately  pointed  out,«other  things  equal,  thefeioer 
the  materials  .to  be  held  at  once,  and  the  shorter  the  distance  they 
have  to  he  borne,  the  better.  Hence,  in  some  cases,  it  becomes  a 
question  whether  most  mental  effort  will  be  entailed  by  the  many 
and  long  suspensions,  or  by  the  correction  of  successive  misconcep- 
tions. 

576.  This  question  may  sometimes  be  decided  by  considering  the 
capacity  of  the  persons  addressed.     A  greater  grasp  of  mind  is  re- 
quired for  the  ready  comprehension  of  thoughts  expressed  in  the 
direct  manner,  when  the  sentences  are  in  any  wise  intricate.     To 
recollect  a  number  of  preliminaries  stated  in  elucidation  of  a  coming 
image,  and  to  apply  them  all  to  the  formation  of  it  when  suggested, 
demands  a  cqnsiderable  power  of  concentration,  and  a  tolerably  vig- 
orous imagination.     To  one  possessing  these,  the  direct  method  will 
mostly  seem  the  best,  whilst  to  one  deficient  in  them  it  Avill  seem 
the  worst.     Just  as  it  may  cost  a  strong  man  less  effort  to  cany  a 
hundred-weight  from  place  to  place  at  once,  than  by  a  stone  at  a 
time ;  so  to  an  active  mind  it  may  be  easier  to  bear  along  all  the 
qualifications  of  an  idea,  and  at  once  rightly  form  it  when  named, 
than  to  first  imperfectly  conceive  such  an  idea,  and  then  carry  back 
to  it  one  by  one  the  details  and  limitations  afterwards  mentioned. 
AVhilst,  conversely,  as  for  a  boy  the  only  possible  mode  of  ti-ansfeiring 
a  hundred-weight,  is  that  of  taking  it  in  portions ;  so  for  a  weak 
mind,  the  only  possible  mode  of  forming  a  compound  perception 
may  be  that  of  building  it  up  by  carrying  separately  its  several 
parts. 

That  the  indirect  method — the  method  of  conveying  the  meaning 
by  a  series  of  approximations— zs  best  fitted  for  the  uncultivated, 
may  indeed  be  inferred  from  their  habitual  use  of  it.  The  form  of 
expression  adopted  by  the  savage,  as  in  "  Water,  give  me,"  is  the 
simplest  type  of  the  approximative  arrangement.  In  pleonasms, 
which  are  comparatively  prevalent  among  the  uneducated,  the  same 
essential  structure  is  seen ;  as,  for  instance,  in  "  The  men,  they  were 
there."  Again,  the  old  possessive  case,  "  The  king,  his  crown,"  con- 
forms to  the  like  order  of  thought.  Moreover,  the  fact  that  the  indi- 
rect  mode  is  called  the  natural  one,  implies  that  it  is  the  one  spon- 
taneously employed  by  the  common  people— that  is,  the  one  easiest 
for  undisciplined  minds. 

Before  dismissing  this  branch  of  our  subject,  it  should  be  remarked 
that  even  when  addressing  the  most  vigorous  intellects,  the  direct 
ityle  is  unfit  for  communicating  thoughts  of  a  complex  or  abstract 


6T5.  Inverted  style  described.    A  more  appropriate  tide  for  this  style.    The  proper  llirl- 
Utiou  to  the  direct  style— Rule  where  qualifyingr  clauses  are  numeroua. 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  8TYLK.  431 

character.  So  long  as  the  mind  has  not  much  to  do,  it  may  be  well 
to  grasp  all  the  preparatory  clauses  of  a  sentence,  and  to  use  them 
effectively ;  but  if  some  subtilty  in  the  argument  absorb  the  atten- 
tion— if  every  faculty  be  strained  in  endeavoring  to  catch  the 
speaker's  or  writer's  drift,  it  may  happen  that  the  mind,  unable  to 
carry  on  both  processes  at  once,  will  break  down,  and  allow  all  its 
ideas  to  lapse  into  confusion. 

III.  THE  LAW  OF  EFFECT  IN  USING  FIGURES  OF  SPEECH. 

5*11.  Turning  now  to  consider  Figures  of  Six?ech,  we  may  equally 
discern  the  same  law  of  effect.  Undeilying  all  the  rules  that  may 
be  given  for  the  choice  and  right  use  of  them,  we  shall  find  the 
same  fundamental  requirement — economy  of  attention.  It  is  indeed 
chiefly  because  of  their  great  ability  to  subserve  this  requirement^ 
that  figures  of  speech  are  employed.  To  bring  the  mind  more  easily 
to  the  desired  conception,  is  in  many  CJuses  solely,  and  in  all  cases 
mainly,  their  object. 

(1)  Let  us  begin  with  the  figure  called  Stnecdoche.  The  ad- 
vantage sometimes  gained  by  putting  a  part  for  the  whole  is  due  to 
the  more  convenient,  or  more  accurate,  presentation  of  the  idea  thus 
secured.  If,  instead  of  saying  "  a  fleet  of  ten  ships,"  we  say  "  a  fleet 
of  ten  sail,''  the  picture  of  a  group  of  vessels  at  sea  is  more  readily 
suggested ;  and  is  so  because  the  sails  constitute  the  most  conspicu- 
ous part  of  vessels  so  circumstanced ;  whereas  the  word  ships  would 
more  hkely  remind  us  of  vessels  in  dock. 

Again,  to-say  "All  hands  to  the  pumps!"  is  better  than  to  say 
"All  men  to  the  pumps!"  as  it  suggests  the  men  in  the  special 
attitude  intended,  and  so  saves  effort.  Bringing  "^my  Aatr«  >nth 
soiTOw  to  the  grave,"  is  another  expre&ion  the  eflect  of  which  has 
the  same  cause. 

578.  (2)  The  occasional  increase  of  force  produced  by  Metonvmt 
may  be  similarly  accounted  for. 

"The  low  morality  of  the  bar''  is  a  phrase  both  briefer  and  more 
significant  than  the  literal  one  it  stands  for.  A  belief  in  the  ultimata 
supremacy  of  intelligence  over  brute  force,  is  conveyed  in  a  more 
concrete,  and  therefore  more  realizable  form,  if  we  substitute  Ihf  pen 
and  the  sword  for  the  two  abstract  terms.  To  say  "Beware  of 
drinking!"  is  less  eftective  than  to  say  "  Beware  the  bottle !  and  i» 
so,  clearly  because  it  calls  up  a  less  specific  image. 

(3)  The  Simile,  though  in  many  cases  employed  chiefly  with  a 
view  to  ornament,  yet  whenever  it  increases  the  force  of  a  pas8iig% 
does  so  by  being  an  economy.     Here  is  an  instance  ; 


482 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  STYLE. 


.  — T"^'*®  illusion  that  great  men  and  great  events  came  oftenar  in  early 
times  than  now,  is  partly  due  to  historical  perspective.  As  in  a  ran^e  of  equi- 
distant columns,  the  furthest  off  look  the  cfosest,  so  the  con'spicuous%biectl  of 
tfae  i)ast  seem  more  thickly  clustered  the  more  remote  they  are. 

To  construct,  by  a  process  of  literal  explanation,  the  thought  thus 
conveyed,  would  take  many  sentences ;  and  the  first  elements  of  the 
picture  would  become  faint  whilst  the  imagination  was  busy  in 
adding  the  others.  But  by  the  help  of  a  comparison  all  effort  is 
saved  ;  the  picture  is  instantly  realised,  and  its  full  effect  produced. 
579.  Of  the  positmi  of  the  Simile*  it  needs  only  to  remark,  that 
what  has  been  said  respecting  the  order  of  the  adjective  and  sub- 
stantive, predicate  and  subject,  principal  and  subordinate  proposi- 
tions, &c.,  IS  applicable  here.  As  whatever  qualifies  should  precede 
vvhatever  is  qualified,  force  will  generally  he  gained  by  placing  the 
senile  upon  the  object  to  which  it  is  applied.  That  this  arrangement 
is  the  best,  may  be  seen  in  the  following  passage  from  the  "  Lady  of 
the  Lake :"  "^ 

As  wreath  of  snow  on  mountain  breast, 

Slides  from  the  rock  that  gave  it  rest, 

Poor  Ellen  glided  from  her  stay, 

And  at  the  monarch's  feet  she  lay. 

_  Inverting  these  couplets  will  be  found  to  diminish  the  eflfect  con- 
siderably. There  are  cases,  however,  even  where  the  simile  is  a 
simple  one,  in  which  it  may  with  advantage  be  placed  last ;  as  in 
these  lines  from  Alexander  Smith's  "  Life's  Drama." 

I  see  the  future  stretch 
All  dark  and  barren  as  a  rainy  sea. 

The  reason  for  this  seems  to  be,  that  so  abstract  an  idea  as  that 
attaching  to  the  word  "  future,"  does  not  present  itself  to  the  mind 
m  any  definite  form,  and  hence  the  subsequent  arrival  at  the  simile 
entails  no  reconstruction  of  the  thought. 

Nor  are  such  the  only  cases  in  which  this  order  is  the  most  for- 
cible. As  the  advantage  of  putting  the  simile  before  the  object 
depends  on  its  being  carried  forward  in  the  mind  to  assist  in  forming 
an  image  of  the  object,  it  must  happen  that  if,  from  length  or  conJ 
plexity,  it  cannot  so  be  carried  forward,  the  advantage  is  not  gained 
Jiie  annexed  sonnet,  by  Coleridge,  is  defective  from  this  cau;^  : 

As  when  a  child  on  some  long  winter's  night 
Affrighted,  clinging  to  its  grandam's  knees,' 
With  eager  wondering  and  perturbed  delight 
Listens  strange  tales  of  fearful  dark  decrees, 
Mutter'd  to  wretch  by  necromantic  spell ; 

cf  H.^''t°ir!{'-  ^^^  ^^'""^  "  ^''f'K  is  applicable  only  to  the  entire  figure,  inclusive 
of  the  two  things  compared  and  the  comparison  drawn  between  them  But  as 
ihernS^'i?'""  ^^  '^f.  'l'»!r«^^^-«  '"^"^^er  of  the  figure,  there  seems  n^ 
alternative  but  to  emp  oy  "simile"  to  express  this  also.  The  context  will  in 
each  case  show  in  which  sense  the  word  is  used.  ^""^cau  wm  in 


ftxfm  ■cSeri(^e.''*°"  °'  ^^^  *'"'"^'  ""^  '■^'^"  ^''^°-    ^samplo  from  Scott;  from  Smith; 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  BTTLE.  438 

Or  of  those  hags  who  at  the  witchinfr  time 
Of  murky  iiiidniglit,  ride  the  air  Bublime, 
And  minjjle  foul  embrace  with  fiends  of  hell ; 
Cold  Jiorror  drinks  its  blood !    Anon  the  tear 
More  gentle  starts,  to  hear  the  beldatno  tell 
Of  pretty  babes,  that  loved  each  other  dear, 
Murder'd  by  cruel  uncle's  mandate  fell : 
Ev'n  such  the  shivering  joys  thy  tones  impart, 
Ev'n  so,  thou,  Siddons,  meltest  my  sad  heart. 

Here,  from  the  lapse  of  time  and  accumulation  of  circumstance, 
the  first  part  of  the  comparison  becomes  more  or  less  dim  before  its 
application  is  reached,  and  requires  re-reading.  Had  the  main  idea 
been  first  mentioned,  less  effort  would  have  been  required  to  attain 
it,  and  to  modify  the  conception  of  it  in  conformity  with  the  com- 
parison, and  refer  back  to  the  recollection  of  its  successive  features 
for  help  in  forming  the  final  image. 

580.  (4)  The  superiority  of  the  Metaphor  to  the  Simile  is  a.v 
cribed  by  Dr.  Whately  to  tiie  fact  that  "  all  men  are  more  gratified 
at  catching  the  resemblance  for  themselves  than  in  having  it  pointed 
out  to  them."  But  after  what  has  been  said,  the  great  economy  it 
achieves  will  seem  tlie  more  probable  cause.  If,  drawing  an  analogy 
between  mental  and  physical  phenomena,  we  say, 

—As,  in  passing  through  the  crystal,  beams  of  whito  light  are  decom- 
posed into  the  colors  of  the  rainbow;  so  in  traversing  the  soul  of  the  poet,  the 
colorless  rays  of  truth  are  transformed  into  brightJy-Unted  poetry  ; — 

it  is  clear  that  in  receiving  the  double  set  of  words  expressing  the 
two  portions  of  the  comparison,  and  in  carrying  the  one  portion  to 
the  other,  a  considerable  amount  of  attention  is  absorbed.  Most  of 
this  is  saved,  however,  by  putting  the  comparison  in  a  metaphorical 
form,  thus : 

The  white  light  of  tnith,  in  traversing  the  manynsided  transparent  soul 

of  the  poet,  b  refracted  into  iris-hued  poetry. 

How  much  is  conveyed  in  a  few  words  by  the  help  of  the  Meta- 
phor, and  how  vivid  the  effect  consequently  produced,  may  be  abun- 
dantly exemplified.    From  a  "  Life  Drama"  may  be  quoted  the  phrase, 

I  spcar'd  him  with  a  jest, 

as  a  fine  instance  among  the  many  which  that  poem  contains. 

A  passage  in  the  "  Prometheus  Unbound"  of  Shelley,  displays  the 
power  of  the  Metaphor  to  great  advantage : 

Methonght  among  the  lawns  together, 

We  wander'd  nnderneath  the  young  gray  dawn, 

And  multitudes  of  dense  white  fleecy  clouds 

"Were  wandering  in  thick  flocks  along  the  miunCains, 

Shephtrded  by  the  slow  unwilling  wind. 

5S0.  Snperiority  of  metaphor  to  simile:  reasons  given.— EwmpI*  concentlnc  Trnlh. 
KxsMpIe  from  "Life  Drainn."  Example  from  Shelley.— When  uio:»phoT  ■bou.oftre  pWM 
to  jiimlle. 

t'-i 


434  PHILOSOPHY  OF  STYLE. 

This  last  expression  is  remarkable  for  the  distinotne&s  with  which 
realizes  the  features  of  the  scene ;  bringing  the  mind,  as  it  were, 
a  bound  to  the  desired  conception. 

But  a  limit  is  put  to  the  advantageous  use  of  the  Metaphor,  by  th 
condition  it  must  be  suifficiently  simple  to  he  understood  from  a  hint. 
Evidently,  if  there  be  any  obscurity  in  the  meaning  or  application 
of  it,  no  economy  of  attention  will  be  gained,  but  rather  the  reverse. 
Hence,  wheti  the  comparison  is  complex,  it  is  usual  to  have  recourse 
to  the  Simile. 

581.  (5)  There  is,  however,  a  species  of  figure  sometimes  classed 
under  Allegory,  but  which  might  perhaps  be  better  called  Com- 
pound Metaphor,  that  enables  us  to  retain  the  brevity  of  the  meta- 
phoncal  form  even  where  the  analogy  is  intricate.  This  is  done  by 
indicating  the  application  of  the  figure  at  the  outset,  and  then  leaving 
the  mind  to  continue  the  parallel  itself  Emerson  has  employed  it 
with  great  effect  in  the  firet  of  his  "  Lectures  on  the  Times :" 

The  main  interest  which  any  aspects  of  the  times  can  liave  for  ns,  is  the 
great  spirit  which  gazes  through  them,  the  light  which  they  can  shed  on  the 
wonderful  questions,  What  we  are  ?  and  whither  do  we  tend  ?  We  do  not 
wish  to  be  deceived.  Here  we  drift,  like  white  sail  across  the  wide  ocean,  now 
bright  on  the  wave,  now  darkling  in  the  trough  of  the  sea :  but  from  what  port 
did  we  sail  ?  who  knows  ?  or  to  what  port  are  we  bound  ?  who  knows  ?  There 
is  no  one  to  tell  us  but  such  poor  weather-tossed  mariners  as  ourselves,  whom . 
we  speak  as  -we  pass,  or  who  have  hoisted  some  signal,  or  floated  to  us  some 
letter  in  a  bottle  from  afar.  But  what  know  they  more  than  we  ?  They  also 
found  themselves  on  this  wondrous  sea.  No  :  from  the  older  sailors  nothing. 
()ver  all  their  speaking-trumpets  the  gray  sea  and  the  loud  winds  answer — 
Not  in  us ;  not  in  Time. 

582.  (6)  The  division  of  the  simile  from  the  metaphor  is  by  nc 
means  a  definite  one.  Between  the  one  extreme  in  which  the  two 
elements  of  ■  the  comparison  are  detailed  at  full  length  and  the  anal- 
ogy pointed  out,  and  the  other  extreme  in  which  the  comparison 
is  implied  instead  of  stated,  come  intermediate  forms,  in  which  the 
comparison  is  partly  stated  and  partly  implied.     For  instance  : 

^ — I — Astonished  at  the  performances  of  the  English  plough,  the  Hindoos 
paint  it,  S3t  it  up  and  worship  it ;  thus  turning  a  tool  into  an  idol :  linguists  do 
the  same  with  language. 

There  is  an  evident  advantage  in  leaving  the  reader  or  hearer  to 
complete  the  figure.  And  generally  those  intermediate  forms  are 
good  in  proportion  as  they  do  this,  provided  the  mode  of  completing 
it  be  obvious. 

683.  (7)  Passing  over  much  that  may  be  said  of  like  pm-port 
upon  hyperbole,  personification,  apostrophe,  &C.,  we  close  our  re- 
marks upon  construction  by  a  typical  example. 

The  general  principle  that  has  been  enunciated  is,  that  the  force 
of  all  verbal  forms  and  arrangements  is  great  in  proportion  as  the 

681    Advantage  and  nature  of  the  comi>oiind  inetnphcir.    Example  ftoin  Emcrsoo. 
6Si  Siuiiie  aud  tiietaplior  not  always  distinct.    Example. 


PIIILOSOPIIY  OF  8TTLR.  485 

time  and  mental  eflfort  they  demand  from  the  recipient  ia  small. 
The  special  applications  of  this  general  principle  have  been  several 
times  illustrated  ;  and  it  has  been  shown  that  the  relative  gwxiness 
of  any  two  modes  of  expressing  an  idea  may  be  determined  bv  ob- 
serving which  requires  the  shortest  process  of  thought  for  its  com- 
prehension. But  though  conformity  in  particular  points  has  been 
exemplified,  no  cases  of  complete  conformity  have  yet  been  quoted, 
rt  is,  indeed,  difficult  to  find  them  ;  for  the  English  idiom  scarcely 
permits  the  order  which  theory  dictates.  A  few,  however,  occur  in 
Ossian.     Here  is  one  : 

As  autumn's  dark  storms  pour  from  two  echoing  hills,  so  towards  each 
other  approached  the  heroes.  As  two  dark  streams  from  high  rocks  meet, 
and  mi.\,  and  roar  on  the  plain ;  loud,  rou^h,  and  dark  in  battle  meet  Lochlin 
and  Innisfail.  *  *  ♦  *  As  the  troubled  noise  of  the  ocean  when  rolls  the  wavea 
on  high ;  a.s  the  last  peal  of  the  thunder  of  heaven ; — such  is  the  noise  of  the 
battle. 

Except  in  the  position  of  the  verb  in  the  first  two  similes,  the 
theoretically  best  arrangement  is  fully  carried  out  in  each  of  these 
sentences.  The  simile  comes  be/ore  the  qualified  imaije,  the  adjec- 
tives before  the  substantives,  the  predicate  and  copula  be/ore  the  sub- 
ject, and  tlieir  respective  complements  before  them.  That  the  passage 
is  more  or  less  open  to  the  charge  of  being  bombastic  proves  nothing ; 
or  rather  proves  our  case.  For  what  is  bombast  but  a  force  of  ex- 
pression too  great  for  the  magnitude  of  the  ideas  embodied  \  All 
that  may  rightly  be  inferred  is,  that  only  in  very  rare  cases,  and 
then  only  to  produce  a  climax,  should  all  the  conditioas  of  effective 
expression  be  fulfilled. 


Vf.  CHOICE  AND  ARRANGEMENT  OF  THE  MINOR  IMAGES  OUT  OF  WHICH 
PARTICULAR  THOUGHTS  ARE  BUILT. 

584.  Passing  on  to  a  more  complex  application  of  the  doctrine 
with  which  we  set  out,  it  must  now  be  remarked,  that  not  only  in 
the  structure  of  sentences  and  the  use  of  figures  of  speech,  may  econ- 
omy of  the  recipient's  mental  energy  bo  assigned  as  the  cause  ol 
force,  but  that  in  the  choice  and  arrangement  of  the  minor  imagtty 
out  of  which  some  large  thought  is  to  be  built,  we  may  trace  the 
same  condition  of  effect. 

To  select  from  the  sentiment,  scene,  or  event  described,  thou  typt- 
cal  elements  which  carry  many  others  along  with  them,  and  so  by 
saying  a  few  things  but  suggesting  many,  to  abridge  the  description, 
is  the  secret  of  producing  a  vivid  impression.  Thus  if  we  say,  Real 
nobihty  is   "  not  transferable ;"    besides  the   one   idea  cxpreMed, 

58&  Force  of  verbal  forms  and  arrangements  U  in  proportion  »» ''^^ '.-J**  "SSl!? 
iroodness  of  two  modes  of  expressing  an  Idea,  how  deUrmlned.  KxampM  Tom  vmmn 
Objection  to  tiii*  Instance.    Iniertnc*. 


4-ne 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  STYLE. 


several  are  implied  ;  and  as  these  can  be  thought  much  sooner  than 
thev  can  be  put  in  words,  there  is  gain  in  omitting  them.  How  the 
inind  may  be  led  to  construct  a  complete  picture  by  the  presentation 
of  a  few  parts,  an  extract  from  Tennyson's  "  Mariana"  will  well 
show  : 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house, 
The  door  upon  the  hinc^es  creak'd 
Thetiy  sung  i'  the  pane  ;  the  mouse 
Behind  tlie  mouldering  wainscot  shriek'd, 
Or  from  the  crevice  peer'd  about. 

The  several  circumstances  here  specified  bring  with  them  hosts  of 
appropriate  associations.  Our  attention  is  rarely  drawn  by  the  buz- 
zing of  a  fly  in  the  window,  save  when  every  thing  is  still.  Whilst 
the  inmates  are  moving  about  the  house,  mice  usually  keep  silence  ; 
and  it  is  only  when  extreme  quietness  reigns  that  they  peep  from 
their  retreats.  Hence,  each  of  the  facts  mentioned,  presupposing 
numerous  others,  calls  up  these  Avith  more  or  less  distinctness,  and 
revives  the  feeling  of  dull  solitude  with  which  they  are  connected  in 
our  experience.  Were  all  these  focts  detailed  instead  of  suggested, 
the  attention  w^ould  be  so  frittered  away  that  little  impression  ot 
dreariness  would  be  produced.  And  here,  without  further  explana- 
tion, it  will  be  seen  that,  be  the  nature  of  the  sentiment  convej^ed 
what  it  may,  this  skilful  selection  of  a  few  particulars  which  imply 
the  rest,  is  the  key  to  success.  In  the  choice  of  component  ideas,  as 
in  the  choice  of  expressions,  the  aim  must  be  to  convey  the 

GREATEST  QUANTrrY  OF  THOUGHTS  WITH  THE  SMALLEST  QUANTITY  OF 
WORDS. 


V.    SUPPLEMENTARY  CAUSES  OF  FORCE  IN  EXPRESSION. 

585.  Before  inquiring  whether  the  laAv  of  effect,  thus  far  traced, 
will  account  for  the  supenority  of  poetry  to  prose,  it  will  be  needful 
to  notice  some  supplementary  causes  of  force  in  expression  that  have 
not  yet  been  mentioned.  These  are  not,  properly  speaking,  addi- 
tional causes,  but  rather  secondary  ones,  originating  from  those 
already  specified — reflex  manifestations  of  them. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  we  may  remark  that  mental  excitement 
sponlamously  prompts  the  use  of  those  forms  of  speech  which  Jtave 
been  pointed  out  as  the  most  effective.  "  Out  with  him  !"  ''  Away 
with  hijn  !"  are  the  natural  utterances  of  angry  citizens  at  a  disturbed 
meeting.  A  voyager,  describing  a  terrible  storm  he  had  witnessed, 
would  rise  to  some  such  climax  as,  "  Crack  went  the  ropes,  and  down 
went  the  mjist."  Astonishment  may  be  heard  expressed  in  the 
phrase,  "  Never  was  there  such  a  sight !"  All  which  sentences  are, 
it  will  be  observed,  constructed  after  the  direct  type. 

Mi.  SoleotloD  oftfpkftl  o*Dicula.    Essmplo  from  Tennyson.    Semarksonit 


PHILf>SOPHY  OF  STYLE.  437 

Again,  every  one  will  recogn.ze  the  fact  tW  jcciUd  persons  are 
given  to  figures  of  speech.  The  vituiKiiation  or  .Le  vulgar  abounds 
with  thorn  ;  often,  indeed,  consists  of  little  else.  "  Beast,"  "  bmte," 
"  gallows-rogue,"  "cut-throat  villain,"— these  and  other  like  inetaphom, 
or  metaphorical  epithets,  at  once  call  to  mind  a  street  quarrel. 

580.  Further,  it  may  be  remarked  that  extreme  hrevihj  is  one  of 
the  characteristics  of  passionate  language.  The  sentences  are  generally 
incomplete,  the  particles  are  omitted,  and  frequently  important 
words  are  left  to  be  gathered  from  the  context.  Great  admiration 
does  not  vent  itself  in  a  precise  proposition,  as,  "  It  is  beautiful,"  but 
in  a  simple  exclamation,  "  Beautiful !"  He  who,  when  reading  a 
lawyer's  letter,  should  say  "  Vile  rascal !"  would  be  thought  angry ; 
whilst  "  He  is  a  vile  rascal"  would  imply  comparative  coolness. 
Thus  we  see  that,  alike  in  the  order  of  the  words,  in  the  frequent 
use  of  figures,  and  in  extreme  conciseness,  the  natural  utterances  of 
excitement  conform  to  the  theoretical  conditions  of  forcible  ex-| 
pression. 

Here,  then,  the  higher  forms  of  speech  acquire  a  secondary 
thought  from  association.  Having,  in  actual  life,  habitually  formed 
them  in  connection  with  vivid  mental  impressions  ;  and  having  been 
accustomed  to  meet  with  them  in  the  most  poweiful  writing ;  they 
come  to  have  in  themselves  a  species  of  force.  The  emotions  that 
have  from  time  to  time  been  pioduced  by  the  strong  thoughts 
wrapped  up  in  these  forms,  are  partially  aroused  by  the  forms  them- 
selves. They  create  a  certain  degree  of  animation  ;  they  induce  a 
preparatory  sympathy ;  and  when  the  striking  ideas  looked  for  are 
reached,  tbey  are  the  more  vi\'idly  realized.  , 


VI.    WHY    POETRY    IS    ESPECIALLY    IMPRESSIVE. 

687.  (1)  The  continuous  use  of  those  modes  of  expression  that 
are  alike  forcible  in  themselves,  and  forcible  from  their  associations, 
produces  the  peculiarly  impressive  species  of  composition  which  we 
call  poetry.  Poetry,  we  shall  find,  habitually  adopts  those  tyinboU 
of  thought,  and  those  methods  of  using  them,  which  instinct  and 
analysis  agree  in  choosing  as  most  elective,  and  becomes  poetry  by 
virtue  of  doing  this. 

On  tuining  back  to  the  various  specimens  that  have  been  quoted, 
it  will  be  seen  that  the  direct  or  inverted  form  of  sentence  predomi- 
nates in  them,  and  that  to  a  degree  quite  inadmissible  in  prose. 
And  not  only  in  the  frequency,  but  iu  what  is  termed  the  violence 
of  the  inversions  will  this  distinction  be  remarked. 


6S5.  now  arc  the  most  effecHve  forms  of  speech  prompted.    Kxmmpl*.- Klod  ofta:  *ii«i» 

nsed  by  excited  personi.     Exnmi>le.  ,       j.      _.    j.j,_i  il^^ 

5S6.  CharacterisUc  of  passionate  language.     Example.- --itrength  derirwl  n»«  •«» 


fl'ation. 


4:3&  PHILOSOPHY  OF  STYLP;. 

In  the  abundant  use  of  figures,  again,  we  may  recognize  the  same 
Irutlu  Metaphors,  similes,  hyperboles,  and  personifications,  are  the 
poet's  colors,  which  he  has  liberty  to  employ  almost  without  limit. 
We  characterize  as  "  poetical"  the  prose  which  repeats  these  appli- 
ances of  language  with  any  frequency;  and  condemn  it  as  "over- 
florid"  or  "  affected"  long  before  they  occur  with  the  profusion 
allowed  in  verse. 

Furthei-,  let  it  be  remarked  that  in  brevity — the  other  requisite  of 
forcible  expression  which  theory  points  out,  and  emotion  sponta- 
neously fulfils — poetical  phraseology  similarly  differs  from  ordinary 
phraseology.  Imperfect  periods  are  frequent,  elisions  are  perpetual, 
and  many  of  the  minor  words  which  would  be  deemed  essential  in 
prose  are  dispensed  with, 

588.  Thus  poetry,  regarded  as  a  vehicle  of  thought,  is.especially 
Jmpressive  because  it  obeys  all  the  laws  of  effective  speech,  and  partly 
^because  in  so  doing  it  imitates  the  natural  utterances  of  excitement. 
Whilst  the  matter  embodied  is  idealized  emotion,  the  vehicle  is  the 
ideahzed  language  of  emotion.  As  the  musical  composer  catches 
the  cadences  in  which  our  feelings  of  joy  and  sympathy,  grief  and 
despair  vent  themselves,  and  out  of  these  germs  evolves  melodies 
suggesting  higher  phases  of  these  feelings;  so  the  poet  develops 
from  the  typical  expressions  in  which  men  utter  passion  and  senti- 
ment, those  choice  forms  of  verbal  combination  in  which  concen  • 
trated  passion  and  sentiment  may  be  fitly  presented. 

(2)  There  is  07ie  peculiarity  of  poetry  conducing  much  to  its 
effect — the  peculiarity  which  is  indeed  usually  thought  to  be  its 
characteristic  on« — still  remaining  to  be  considered  :  Ave  mean  its 
rhythmical  structure.  This,  unexpected  as  it  may  be,  will  be  found 
to  come  under  the  same  generalization  Avith  the  others.  Like  each 
of  them,  it  is  an  idealization  of  the  natural  language  of  emotion, 
which  is  knoAvn  to  be  more  or  less  metrical  if  the  emotion  be  not  vio- 
lent ;  and  like  each  of  them,  it  is  an  economy  of  the  reader's  or 
hearer's  attention. 

In  the  peculiar  tone  and  manner  we  adopt  in  uttering  versified 
language,  may  be  discerned  its  relationship  to  the  feelings  ;  and  the 
pleasure  which  its  measured  movement  gives  us  is  ascribable  to  the 
comparative  ease  with  which  words  metrically  arranged  can  be  rec- 
ognized. This  last  position  will  scarcely  be  at  once  admitted ;  but 
a  little  explanation  will  show  its  I'easonableness.  For  itj  as  Ave  have 
seen,  theie  is  an  expenditure  of  mental  energy  in  the  mere  act  of 
listening  to  A^erbal  articulations,  or  in  that  silent  repetition  of  them 
which  goes  on  in  reading — -'if  the  perceptive  faculties  must  be  in 
active  exercise  to  identify  every  syllable — then  any  mode  of  com- 
bining words  so  as  to  present  a  regular  recurrence  of  certain  traits 

687.  Characteristic  of  poetry.— What  fori",  of  sentence  predominates.— Use  of  flgf  res.— 
Brevity. 


IMlII.Oi^OIMIV  UK  STYLE.  439 

which  tlie  mirtd  can  anticipate,  will  dimini  h  that  strain  upon  the 

attention  required  by  the  cold  irregulaiity  of  prose. 

689.  In  the  same  mariner  that  .the  body,  in  receiving  a  series  of 
varying  concussions,  must  keep  the  muscles  ready  to  meet  the  most 
violent  of  them,  as  not  knowing  when  such  may  come ;  so  the 
mind,  in  receiving  unarranged  articulations,  must  keep  its  perception 
active  enough  to  recognize  the  least  easily  caught  sounds.  And  as, 
if  the  concussions  recur  in  a  delinite  order,  tlie  body  may  husband 
its  forces  by  adjusting  the  resistance  needful  for  each  concussion  ; 
so,  if  the  syllables  be  rhythmically  arranged,  the  mind  may  economize 
its  energies  by  anticipating  the  attention  required  for  each  syllable. 
Far  fetched  as  this  idea  will  perhaps  be  thought,  a  little  introspec- 
tion will  countenance  it. 

That  we  do  take  advantage  of  the  metrical  language  to  adjust 
our  perceptive  faculties  to  the  force  of  the  expected  articulations,  i« 
jlear  from  the  fact  that  we  are  balked  by  halting  versification. 
Much  as  at  the  bottom  of  a  flight  of  stairs,  a  step  more  or  less  than 
we  counted  upon  gives  us  a  shock,  so,  too,  does  a  misplaced  accent 
or  a  supernumerary  syllable.  In  the  one  ca.se  we  know  that  there  is 
an  erroneous  pre-adjustment ;  and  we  can  scarcely  doubt  tliat  there 
is  one  in  the  othei'.  liut  if  we  habitually  pre-adjust  our  perceptions 
to  the  measured  movement  of  verse,  the  physical  analog)'  lately 
given  rendei-s  it  probable  that  by  so  doing  we  economize  attention ; 
and  hence  that  metrical  language  is  more  eflective  than  prose, 
simply  because  it  enables  us  to  do  this. 

Were  there  space,  it  might  be  worth  while  to  inquire  whether  the 
pleasure  w-e  take  in  rhyme,  and  also  that  which  wo  take  in  euphony, 
are  not  partly  ascnbable  to  the  .same  general  cause. 


SECOND  DIVISON  OF  THE  SUBJECT. 

CAUSES   OF   FOUCK   IN  LANGUAGE  WHICH  UEPENIj    U"0S  ECOXOMV  OF 
MENTAL  SENSIBILITIES.  i 

590.  A  few  paragraphs  only  can  be  devoted  to  a  second  division 
of  our  subject  that  here  presents  itself.  To  pursue  in  detail  the  laws 
of  effect,  as  seen  in  the  larger  features  of  composition,  would  exceed 
both  our  limits  and  our  purpose.  But  we  may  fitly  indicate  st^me 
further  aspect  of  the  general  principle,  and  hint  a  few  of  its  wider 
applications. 

Thus  far,  then,  we  have  considered  only  those  caiuscs  of  force  m 

688.  Whr  poetry  Is  especially  liiiprc«;ivB.-Poet  compare.!  with  »•'•,  "V"'™'  '[f'^" 
poser.— Ehjthuiical  structure,  resolt  of  the  law  of  economy.— Plouuro  of  Mim  me*»ui*I 
movement  traced  to  wliat?     Explanation  of  this.  , .     ,.    v    i_  .„_i..i«»„— . 

689.  Poetry  more  onsilv  nppreheniled  tlian  prose  lllnstnit*d  by  tho  boJy  rec»l»  inf  »»rr 
tng  ooncussiJns ;  bj  halting  veralfloation  ;  descent  of  tliglit  of  »t«ira. 


440  PHILOSOPHY  OF  STYLE. 

language  which  depend  upon  economy  of  the  mental  energies :  we 
have  now  briefly  to  glance  at  those  whica  depend  upon  economy  of 
mental  sensibilities.  Indefensible  though  this  division  may  be  as  a 
psychological  one,  it  will  yet  serve  roughly  to  indicate  the  remain- 
ing field  of  investigation.  It  will  suggest,  that  besides  considering 
the  extent  to  which  any  faculty  or  group  of  faculties  is  tasked  in  re- 
ceiving a  form  of  words,  and  realizing  its  contained  idea,  we  have  to 
consider  the  state  in  which  this  faculty  or  group  of  faculties  is  left ; 
and  how  the  reception  of  subsequent  sentences  and  images  will  be 
influenced  by  that  state. 

(1)  "Without  going  at  length  into  so  wide  a  topic  as  the  exercise 
of  laculties  and  its  reactive  eifects,  it  will  be  sufficient  here  to  call  to 
mind  that  every  faculty  {when  in  a  state  of  normal  activity)  is  most 
capable  at  the  outset ;  and  that  the  change  in  its  condition,  tohich 
ends  in  what  we  term  exhaustion,  begins  simultaneously  with  its  ex- 
ercise. This  generalization,  with  which  we  are  all  familiar  in  our 
bodily  experiences,  and  which  our  daily  language  recognizes  as  true 
of  the  mind  as  a  whole,  is  equally  true  of  each  mental  power,  from 
the  simplest  of  the  senses  to  the  most  complex  of  the  sentiments. 

If  we  hold  a  flower  to  the  nose  for  a  long  time,  we  become  insen- 
sible to  its  scent.  We  say  of  a  very  brilliant  flash  of  lightning  that 
it  blinds  us ;  which  means  that  our  eyes  have  for  a  time  lost  their 
ability  to  appreciate  light.  After  eating  a  quantity  of  honey,  we 
are  apt  to  think  that  our  tea  is  without  sugar.  The  phrase  "  a  deaf- 
ening roar"  implies  that  men  find  a  very  loud  sound  temporarily  in- 
capacitates them  for  hean'ng  faint  ones.  Now  the  truth  which  we 
at  once  recognize  in  these,  its  extreme  manifestations,  may  be  traced 
throughout ;  and  it  may  be  shown  that  alike  in  the  reflective  facul- 
ties, in  the  imagination,  in  the  perceptions  of  the  beautiful,  the  ludi- 
crous, the  sublime,  in  the  sentiments,  the  instincts,  in  all  the  mental 
powers,  however  we  may  classify  them — action  exhausts ;  and  that  in 
proportion  as  the  action  is  violent,  the  subsequent  prostration  is  gieat. 

591.  (2)  Equally,  throughout  the  whole  nature,  may  be  traced 
■th^l^  that  exercised  faculties  are  ever  tending  to  resume  their  ori- 
gintt^ate.  Not  only  after  continued  rest  do  they  regain  their  full 
power ;  not  only  do  brief  cessations  jiartially  invigorate  them ;  but 
even  whilst  they  are  in  action,  the  resulting  exhaustion  is  ever  being 
neutralized.  The  two  processes  of  u'aste  and  repair  go  on  together. 
Hence,  with  faculties  habitually  exercised,  as  the  senses  in  all,  or  the 
muscles  in  a  laborer,  it  happens  that,  during  moderate  activity,  the 
repair  is  so  nearly  equal  to  the  waste,  that  the  diminution  of  power 
is  scarcely  appreciable ;  and  it  is  only  when  the  activity  has  been 
long  continued,  or  has  been  very  violent,  that  the  repair  becomes  so 
far  in  arrear  of  the  waste  as  to  produce  a  perceptible  prostration.  In 
all  cases,  however,  when  by  the  action  of  a  foculty,  waste  has  been 

590.  Second  Division  of  the  subject — When  each  faculty  is  most  vigoroMS.— Eflcct  of  ex« 
4rclse     Flower  held  to  the  noso.    Flash  of  lightning.    Eating  honey. 


rUILOSOPIIT  OF  STYLE.  441 

incun-ed,  some  hipse  of  time  must  take  place  before  full  effiacncy 
can  be  re-acquired  ;  and  this  time  must  be  long  la  propoition  as  the 
waste  has  been  great. 

592.  Keeping  in  mind  ihese  general  truths,  we  shall  be  in  n  con- 
dition to  understand  certa  n  causes  of  efl'ect  in  composition  now  to 
be  considered.  Every  perception  received,  and  every  conception  re- 
alized, entailing  some  amount  of  waste — or,  as  Liebig  would  say, 
some  changes  of  matter  in  the  brain — and  the  efficiency  of  the  fac- 
ulties subject  to  this  waste  being  thereby  temporarily,  though  often 
but  momentarily,  diminished — the  resulting  partial  inability  must 
affect  the  acts  of  perception  and  conception  that  immediately  suc- 
ceed. And  hence  we  may  expect  that  the  vividness  with  which 
images  are  realized  will,  in  many  cases,  depend  on  the  order  of  thtir 
presentation,  even  when  one  order  is  as  convenient  to  the  under- 
standing as  the  other. 

We  shall  find  sundiy  facts  which  alike  illustrate  this  and  are  ex- 
plained by  it.  Climax  is  one  of  them.  The  marked  effect  obtainetl 
by  placing  last  the  most  stinking  of  any  senes  of  images,  and  the 
weakness — often  the  ludicrous  weakness — produced  by  revei-sing 
this  arrangement,  depends  on  the  general  lav;  indicated.  As  imme- 
diately after  looking  at  the  sun  we  cannot  perceive  the  light  of  a  tire, 
whilst  by  looking  at  the  fire  first  and  the  sun  afterwards  we  can  per- 
ceive both;  so  after  leceiving  a  brijiiant,  or  weighty,  or  terrible 
thought,  we  cannot  appreciate  a  less  brilliant,  less  weighty,  or  less 
terrible  one,  whilst,  by  reversing  the  order,  we  can  appreciate  each. 

593.  In  Antithesis^  again,  we  may  recognize  the  sjime  general 
truth.  The  opposition  of  two  thoughts  that  are  the  reverse  of  each 
other  in  some  prominent  trait  insures  an  impressive  effect ;  and  dot>8 
this  by  giving  a  momentary  relaxation  to  the  faculties  addressed. 
If,  after  a  series  of  images  of  an  ordinaiy  character,  api>caling  in  a 
moderate  degree  to  the  sentiment  of  reverence,  or  appiobalion,  or 
beauty,  the  mind  has  presented  to  it  a  \Qvy  insignificant,  a  very  un- 
worthy, or  a  veiy  ugly  image — the  faculty  of  reverence,  or  approba- 
tion, or  beauty,  as  the  case  may  be,  having  for  the  time  "<]^J1t  '** 
do,  tends  to  resume  its  full  power;  and  will  imineiliHtely  afj^yP-'ds 
appreciate  a  vast,  admirable,  or  beautiful  image  bettor  than  it  would 
otherwise  do.  Improbable  as  those  momentaiy  vaiiations  in  suscep 
tibility  will  seem  to  many,  we  cannot  doubt  their  occurrence  when 
we  contemplate  the  analogous  variations  in  the  Jin-ceptibility  of  the 
senses.  Referring  once  more  to  })henomena  of  vision,  every  one 
knows  that  a  patch  of  black  on  a  white  gi-onnd  looks  blacker,  and  a 
patch  of  white  on  a  black  ground  looks  whiUT  than  elsewhere,  Aa 
the  blackness  and  the  whiteness  must  really  be  the  ssuue,  the  only 


691.  Tendency  of  exerclse<l  facnltiea.— Wn.ste  and  repair  IllaMrttwl         ,_.^_-.,__ 
592.  Tlie  process  of  perception  and  concptlon  atiiniletl  wlUi  eerUIn  en««l»,— ^."•rMi 

6M.  Kffeet  of  aoUUitolt  •splained— Beferenc*  'o  phjr.tnrBa  ofvblact. 

19* 


442  PHILOSOPHY  OF  STYLE. 

assignable  cause  for  this  is  a  difference  in  their  action  upon  us,  cle- 
pendeut_  on  the  difll-rent  states  of  our  facuhies.  It  is  simply  a  visual 
antithesis. 

594.  (3)  But  this  extension  of  the  general  principle  of  economy 
— this  further  condition  of  effect  in  composition,  that  the  power  oi 
the  faculties  must  be  continuously  .husbanded — includes  much  more 
than  has  yet  been  hinted.  It  implies  not  only  that  certain  ari-ange- 
ments  and  certain  juxtapositions  of  connected  ideas  are  best ;  but 
that  some  modes  of  dividing  and  jnesenting  the  subject  will  be  more 
effective  than  others  ;  and  that,  too,  irrespective  of  its  local  cohesion. 
It  shows  why  toe  must  progress  from  the  less  interesting  to  the  morf 
interesting  ;  and  why  not  only  the  composition  as  a  whole,  but  e:«<'h 
of  its  successive  portions,  should  tend  towaids  a  climax.  At  the 
same  time  it  forbids  long  continuity  of  the  same  species  of  thought, 
or  repeated  production  of  the  same  effects.  It  warns  us  against'the 
error  committed  both  by  Pope  in  his  poems  and  by  Bacon  in  his 
essays — the  error,  namely,  of  constantly  employing  "the  most  effec- 
tive forms  of  expression  ;  and  it  points  out,  that  as  the  easiest  posture 
by  and  by  becomes  fatiguing,  and  is  with  pleasure  exchanged  for 
one  less  easy;  so  the  most  perfectly  constructed  sentences  will  soon 
weary ^  and  relief  will  be  given  by  using  those  of  an  inferior  kind. 

595.  Further,  it  involves  that  not  only  should  we  avoid  generally 
combining  our  words  in  one  manner,  hoicever  good,  or  working  out 
our  figures  and  illustratiotis  in  one  way,  however  telling,  but  we 
should  avoid  any  thing  like  uniform  adherence,  even  to  the  wider 
conditions  of  effect.  We  should  not  make  every  section  of  our  sub- 
ject progi'ess  in  interest ;  we  should  not  always  rise  to  a  climax.  As 
we  saw  that,  \i\  single  sentences,  it  is  but  rarely  allowable  to  fulfil 
all  the  conditions  of  strength,  so  in  the  laigei-  portions  of  composi- 
tion we  must  not  often  conform  entirely  to  "the  law  indicated.  We 
must  subordinate  the  component  effects  to  the  total  effect. 

(4)  In  deciding  how  practically  to  carry  out  the  principles  of  ar- 
tistic composition,  ^\e  may  deiive  help  by  bearing  in  mind  a  fact  al- 
r^aBj|ointed  out — the  fitness  of  certain  verbal  arrangements  for 
cer^^ kinds  of  thought.  The  constant  variety  in  the  mode  of  pre- 
senting ideas  which  the  theory  demands,  will  in  a  great  degree  re- 
Bult  from  a  skilful  adaptation 'of  the  form  to  the  matter.  We  saw 
how  the  direct  or  inverted  sentence  is  spontaneously  used  by  excited 
people ;  and  how  their  language  is  also  characterized  by  figures  of 
speech  and  extreme  brevity.  Hence  these  may  with  advantage  pi-e- 
dominate  in  emotional  passages,  and  may  increase  as  the  emotion 
""3es. 

596.  On  the  other,  hand,  for  complex  i^eas  the  indirect  sentence 


nses. 


594.  Mode*  of  dividing:  and  presenting:  a  subject  Tend  to  climax.— Continiiitj'  of  same 
species  of  iliousrlit. — I-.rror  of  Pope  and  B.icon. 

635.  Uniformity  of  a  ceris  t  kind  forbi(Wen.— Tlic  fitnej^s  of  certain  vrtial  arrangcm.-nts 
IS»r  cartidn  kinds  of  thouirht. 


rniLosoPiiY  OF  style.  443 

teems  the  best  vehicle.  In  conversation,  the  exciteraent  produced 
by  the  near  approach  to  a  desired  conclusion  will  often  show  itteif 
in  a  series  of  short,  sharp  sentences ;  whilst,  in  impressing  a  view  al- 
ready enunciated,  we  generally  make  our  j>eriods  voluminous  by  pi- 
Hng  thought  upon  thought.  These  natural  modes  of  procedure  may 
serve  as  guides  in  writing.  Keen  obsenation  and  skilful  analvbi* 
would,  in  like  manner,  detect  many  other  jjcculiarities  of  expression 
produced  by  other  attitudes  of  mind  ;  and  by  paying  due  attention 
to  all  such  traits,  a  writer  possessed  of  sufficient  versatility  might 
make  some  approach  to  a  completely  organized  work 

(5)  This  species  of  composition,  which  the  law  of  effect  points 
out  as  the  peifect  one,  is  the  one  which  high  genius  tends  ivalurally 
to  produce.  As  we  found  that  the  kinds  of  sentence  w  hich  are  the- 
oretically best  are  those  generally  employed  by  superior  minds,  and 
by  inferior  minds  when  excitement  has  raised  them  ;  so  we  shall  find 
that  the  ideal  form  for  a  poem,  essay,  or  fiction,  is  that  which  the 
ideal  writer  would  evolve  spontaneously.  One  in  whom  tlje  poweis 
of  expression  fully  responded  to  the  state  of  mind  would  unconscious- 
ly use  that  variety  in  the  mode  of  presenting  his  thoughts  w  hich  Art 
demands. 

597.  This  constant  employment  of  one  species  of  phraseology, 
which  all  have  now  to  strive  agaiRst,  implies  an  undeveloped  (acuity 
of  language.  To  have  a  spccijic  style  is  to  be  poor  in  speech.  If  we 
glance  back  at  the  pjist,  and  remember  that  men  had  once  only  nouns 
and  veibs  to  convey  their  ideas  Avith,  and  tliat  from  then  to  now  the 
growth  has  been  towards  a  gieater  number  of  implements  of  thouglit, 
and  consequently  towards  a  greater  complexity  and  variety  in  their 
combinations,  we  may  infer  that  we  are  now,  in  our  use  of  sentences, 
much  what  the  primitive  man  was  in  his  use  of  words,  and  that  a 
continuance  of  the  process  that  has  hitherto  gone  on  must  produce 
increasing  heterogeneity  in  our  modes  of  expression.  As  now  in  a 
fine  nature  the  play  of  the  features,  the  tones  of  the  voice  and  its  evi- 
dences, vary  in  harmony  with  every  thoiiLcht  uttered ;  so  in  one  pos- 
sessed  of  a  fully  developed  power  of  ^l>eech,  the  mould  in  wlu^i  each 
combination  of  words  is  cast  will  similarly  v;:  y  with,  and  tif «ppn> 
priate  k),  the  sentiment.  ^  .     . 

598.  That  a  perfectly  endowed  man  must  unconsciously  xcntt  m 
all  styles,  we  may  infer  from  considering  how  all  styles  ori^nale. 
Why  is  Addison  diffuse,  Johnson  pompous.  Goldsmith  wmplel 
Why  is  one  author  abrupt,  another  rhythmical,  another  concise  f 


Tong,  though  unconscious,  discipline  has  made  it  do  this  efficiently, 

39&  The  proper  vehicle  for  complex  lde««.-y8rT«n5  •tructure  of  our  *••!«»<«.  ta  «». 
TOiShUon.— The  kind  of  comp<  Mtion  which  genlu*  tend!,  to  pnxlnr*. 
5y-.  A  spopiflp  style— The  » 'spfatlnn  t    Ve  Jiinxsl  ut 


444 


EPIC  AND  DRAMATIC  a)MPOSITION. 


of  expression  uncIeTo'  k"t VJ  'h     'Vfl'\'""^^     '^'  "^"^^  ^"^^^^'^ 
speech  be  fully  SoDe    l.o  S     '""^ff^'^on.     Let  the  powers  of 

to  convey  the  mot  oT  L  ZnT"/  ^  f-^'^"'^  "^  thi  intellect 

disappear  TA/^iZ  , ',7  ^^N  '  '"^'^"'  ^"^'^^^  «^  ^^^'^  ^vill 
in  iii  Junius  framT5n,ind  U  en  TTf  ^'"T^^  "^  '^""^"^'  -^^^'^ 
like  familiar  speech  and  u-iH  /.  n  ^'  ^f  ''"'^  ^^"^^^  f*^^^'  ^^i"  "«e  a 
when  in  a  Ca?];iean  mood  x\o  h  '  ^,'"¥'1'^^^^  '^  ^^•^-^'^«' 
i'-egular;  here  his  lanTat  m^I  be  plain  «nV  7'^"^^^^^'  '-^"^  "^^^ 
times  his  sentences  AviJl  Kp  ho  f  ^  I  '  "^""^  ^^^^^  ornate;  some- 
ncal;  for  a  Sthe  i  1 11  bl  f  '  '"^  ""Kf"''  ^'"^^'^  ""^^'^'"-t- 
again,  g-reat  variety      1^1 'I'^rr  ^'^^' 

^ponding  to  his  stat^  of  feXg    l^e til?  floTwT-  °^'"""^  •■^- 
position  chanffino-  to  iho  <:nr>.i'  i  .1       ,      "°^"  ^"^  P<^^  a  corn- 

change.  He  wHT  thus  witho  t  XT  '^1  '^'  ^'P^^^  ^^  ^'«  «"bj^^«t 
to  be'the  Jaws  of  effec  And  wf  1  f '""^T  '°  ^'^^^*  ^^''^  ^^^^  ^^^ 
that  variety  needfld  top  reventTo  ^"^  ^^'^'^  P^'^^^ts  to  the  reader 
ulties,  it  will  also  aLwerTo  ttT  """"^  """^'■^^^^  ^^  *^«  ^''"^"^^  ^ac- 
produ'cts,  both  :?  Z::U  0  ttt"t:nil'"  %hly  organized 
parts  simply  placed  in  hZ.L-r^  '  ^"^  '^'^^  ^  ^^nes  of  like 

L  l».ts'.Lf:;°t;i^:i)X' de'nt'"'  °"  ""^  ""'^  "P  °f  "" 


CHAPTER  XXin. 

EPIC  AND  DRAMATIC  COMPOSITION 


boti,  the  samf  means  "reraDirf"''?"''.''™''^™™';  «-<I  ia 

othcr^c;4SL;"tirat'^^^^^^^^^  it  so  clearly  from 

other  di.stmg«ishi.;g  mark.  Bu"  muel '  Si  ,"r°'f '^  ^°  ''^''^  t^or  any 
distinguish  an  epic  poem  by  some  pecul  h.  .^^  rf  u°'  ^'""^.H^^  bestowed  to 
compo.sition  in  verse,  iiUen'Ld  to  C/l  i  "     ^?^-^"et  defines  it  to  be  "A 

>mder  the  allegories  ofan  important^t  on  •''  wh?M    ^^'  "f  "^^^^^^^  disguised 


EPIC  AND  DRAMATIC  COMPOSITION.  i45 

This  difference  regarding  form  only,  may  be  thought  slight ;  but 
:he  effecte  it  occasions  are  by  no  means  so ;  for  what  we  sec  makes 
ft  deeper  impression  than  what  we  learn  frora  others.  A  narrative 
poem  is  a  story  told  by  another :  facts  and  incidents  passing  upon 
the  stage,  come  under  our  own  observation  ;  and  are  besides  much 
enlivened  by  action  and  gesture,  expressive  of  many  sentiments  be- 
yond the  reach  of  words, 

A  dramatic  composition  has  another  property,  independent  alto- 
gether of  action  ;  which  is,  that  it  makes  a  deeper  impression  than 
narration :  in  the  former,  persons  express  their  own  sentiment* ;  in 
the  latter,  sentiments  are  relatr-d  at  second  hand.  For  that  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  pait  withiu  the  narrowest 
bounds.  {Poet,  chapter  xxv.  sec.  vi.)  Homer  understood  perfectly 
-  the  advantage  of  this  method  ;  and  Itts  two  poems  abound  in  dia- 
logue. Lucan  runs  to  the  opposite  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  actom. 
Nothing  can  be  more  injudiciously  timed  than  a  chain  of  such 
reflections,  which  suspend  the  battle  of  Pharsalia  after  the  leader; 
had  made  their  speeches,  and  the  two  armies  are  ready  to  engage 
(Lib.  vii.  from  hne  385  to  line  4G0.) 

600.  Aristotle,  regarding  the  fable  only,  divides  tragedy  into  simple 
and  complex  ;  but  it  is  of  greater  moment,  with  resjject  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.* 

tairc  reckons  verse  so  essential,  as  for  that  sintrle  reason  to  exclude  tlie  ad- 
ventures of  Telemacluis.  See  his  Etsay  upon  Epic  Pottry.  Others,  affected 
with  substance  more  than  with  form,  hesitate  not  to  pronounce  that  poem  to 
be  epic.  It  is  not  a  little  divertincr  to  see  so  many  profound  critics  hunliny 
for  what  is  not:  they  take  forgninted,  without  the  lea.-'t  foundation,  that  there 
must  be  some  precise  criterion  to  distinguish  epic  poetry  from  every  other 
species  of  writing.  Literary  compositions  run  into  each  other  preci»cly  like 
colors  :  in  their  strong  tints' tliey  are  easily  distinguished  ;  but  are  susceptible 
of  so  much  variety,  and  of  so  many  different  forms,  that  we  never  can  mv  where 
one  spec'es  ends  and  another  begins.  As  to  the  genenil  ta-^to,  there  U  little 
reason  to  doubt  that  a  work  where  heroic  actions  are  related  in  au  elevated 
style,  will,  witliout  further  requisite,  l)e  deemed  an  epic  jioem. 

*  The  same  distinction  is  applicable  to  that  sort  ot  fable  which  isanid  to  b« 
the  invention  of  ^Esop.  A  monil,  it  is  true,  is  by  all  critics  conMdereJ  aa 
essential  to  such  a  fable.  But  notliing  is  more  common  than  to  b*;  li-l  blindly 
by  autliority;   tor  of  the  numerous  collections  1   have  seen,  the  fjlW  tlial 

699.  Traaedf  und  epic  poetry  compared.  Ttio  dialogue  of  ih*  (bmwf.— Aa  «!>••  PMMI 
Ittflned.— Coii>parailve  eff«cts  of  dramatic  «<  uip>»liloii  a^d  of  »•  tpic  po** 


4-tt)  EPIC  AND  DRAMATIC  COMPOSITION. 

Besides  making  a  deeper  impression  tLan  can  be  done  by  cool 
reasoning,  a  moral  poem  does  not  fall  sliort  of  leasoning in  affording 
conviction  :  the  natural  connection  of  vice  Avith  misery,  and  of  virtue 
with  happiness,  may  be  illustrated  by  stating  a  fact  as  well  as  by 
urging  an  aigument.  Let  us  assume,  for  example,  the  following 
moral  truths  :  that  discord  among  the  chiefs  rendeis  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  truths  may  be  inculcated  by  the  quarrel 
between  Agamemnon  and  Achilles  at  the  siege  of  Troy.  If  facts 
or  circumstances  be  wanting,  such  as  tend  to  rouse  the  turbulent 
passions,  they  must  be  invented  :  but  no  accidental  nor  unaccount- 
able event  ought  to  be  admitted ;  for  the  necessary  or  probable  con- 
nection betAveen  vice  and  misery  is  not  leained  from  any  events  but 
what  are  naturally  occasioned  by  the  characters  and  passions  of  the 
persons  represented,  actingijin  such  and  such  circumstances.  A 
real  event  of  which  we  see  not  the  cause,  may  afford  a  lesson 
upon  the  presumption  that  what  hath  happened  may  again  hap- 
pen;  but  this  cannot  be  inferred  from  a  story  that  is  "known  to  be 
a  fiction. 

601.  Many  are  the  good  effects  of  such  compositions.  A  pathetic 
composition,  whether  epic  or  dramatic,  tends  to  a  habit  of  virtue,  by 
exciting  us  to  do  what  is  right,  and  lestraining  us  from  what  i"s 
wrong.  (See  chapter  ii.  part  i.  sec.  4.)  Its  frequent  pictures  of 
human  woes  produce,  besides,  two  effects  extremely  salutaiy :  they 
impj'ove  our  sympathy,  and  fortify  us  to  bear  our  own  misfortunes. 
A  moral  composition  obviously  })roduces  the  same  good  effects, 
because  by  being  moral  it  ceaseth  not  to  be  pathetic :  it  enjoys 
besides  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  happily  illustrating  some  moiai 
truth ;  whei'e  a  number  of  persons  of  diffei'ent  chaiacters  are  en- 
gaged in  an  important  action,  some  retarding,  others  promoting  the 
great  catastrophe ;  and  where  there  is  dignity  of  style  as  well  Ss 
of  matter.  A  work  of  that  kind  has  our  sympathy  at  command ; 
and  can  put  in  motion  the  whole  train  of  the  social  affections :  our 
curiosity  in  some  scenes  is  excited,  in  otliers  gratified ;  and  our 
delight  is  consummated  at  the  close,  upon  finding,  from  the  charac- 
tois  and  situations  exhibited  at  the  conunencement,  that  every  inci- 


clearly  inculcate  a  moral,  make  a  very  small  part.  In  many  fables,  indeed, 
proper  pictures  of  virtue  ami  vice  are  exlnibited  ;  but  the  bulk  of  the.<e  collcc 
tions  convey  no  instruction,  nor  aflbrd  any  amusement  beyond  what  a  chilo 
receives  in  reading  an  ordinary  story. 

600.  Aristotle's  division  of  trayoaj- — A  bcttt-r  (livision  of  dramatic  m  well  as  of  epU 
pofrtry.     Illustration. 


EPIC  AND  tllAMATIC  COMPOSmON.  447 

dent  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  pot'tn  are  the  same  in 
eubstance,  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  fonn,  there  will  be 
found  reason  to  correct  that  conjecture  at  least  in  some  degree. 
Many  subjects  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  the  other.  To  give  some  slight  notion  of  the  difference,  ta 
there  is  no  room  here  for  enlarging  upon  every  article,  I  observe, 
that  dialogue  is  better  qualified  for  expressing  sentiments,  and  nar- 
rative for  displaying  facts.  Heroism,  magnanimity,  undaunted 
courage,  and  other  elevated  virtues,  figure  best  in  action :  tender 
passion,  and  the  whole  tribe  of  sympathetic  affections  figure  best  in 
sentiment.  It  clearly  follows,  that  tender  passions  are  more  pe- 
culiarly the  province  of  tragedy,  grand  and  heroic  actions  of  epic 
poetry.   • 

602.  In  this  chapter  of  Emotions  and  Passions*  it  is  occasionally 
shown,  that  the  subject  best  fitted  for  tragedy  is  where  a  man  has 
himself  been  the  cause  of  his  misfortune ;  not  so  as  to  be  deeply 
guilty,  nor  altogether  innocent :  the  misfortune  must  be  occasioned 
by  a  fault  incident  to  human  nature,  and  therefore  in  some  degree 
venial.  Such  misfortunes  call  forth  the  social  afiections,  and  warmly 
interest  the  spectator.  An  accidentiil  misfortune,  if  not  extremely 
singular,  doth  not  greatly  move  our  pity :  the  pei-son  who  suffers, 
being  innocent,  is  freed  from  the  greatest  of  all  torments,  that  an- 
guish of  mind  which  is  occasioned  by  remorse  :  an  atrocious  crimi- 
nal, on  the  other  hand,  who  brings  misfortunes  upon  himself,  excite* 
little  pity,  for  a  diflferent  reason  :  his  remorse,  it  is  true,  aggravate 
his  distress,  and  swells  the  first  emotions  of  pity  ;  but  these  are  im- 
mediately blunted  by  our  hatred  of  him  as  a  criminal.  Misfortune* 
that  are  not  innocent,  nor  highly  criminal,  partake  the  advantages  of 
each  extreme  :  they  are  attended  with  remorse  to  embitter  the  dis- 
tress, which  raises  our  pity  to  a  height ;  and  the  slight  indignation 
we  have  at  a  venial  fault,  detracts  not  sensibly  from  our  pity.  The 
happiest  of  all  subjects  accordingly  for  raising  pity,  is  where  a  man 
of  integrity  falls  into  a  great  misfortune  by  doing  an  action  that  » 
mnocent,  but  which,  by  some  singular  means,  is  conceived  by  him 
to  be  criminal :  his  remorse  aggravates  his  distress ;  and  our  com- 
passion, unrestrained  by  indignation,  knows  no  bounds.  Pity  comes 
thus  to  be  the  ruling  passion  of  a  pathetic  tragedy ;  and  by  proper 

*  [Consult  Spalding's  English  Literature,  pp.  251-4.] 


«01.  Good  effects  o*  epic  und  dramatic  oompasldoiUk    Snbj*ct»  tultwi  to  Mrk 


448  EPIC  AND  DRAMATIC  COMPOSITION. 

representation,  may  be  raised  to  a  height  scarce  exceeded  by  any 
thing  felt  in  real  life.  A  moral  tragedy  takes  in  a  larger  field  ;  as 
it  not  only  exercises  our  pity,  but"  ra'ises  another  passion,  which, 
though  selfish,  deserves  to  be  cherished  equally  with  the  social  aftec- 
tion.  The  passion  I  have  in  view  is  fear  or  terror ;  for  when  a  mis- 
fortune is  the  natural  consequence  of  some  wrong  bias  in  the  temper, 
every  spectator  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  fear  or  terror,  frequently  reiterated  in  a  vaiiety  of  moral 
tragedies,  the  spectators  are  put  upon  their  guard  against  the  disor- 
ders of  passion. 

[There  is  no  principle  relative  to  human  nature  better  established 
than  this,  that  we  can  be  deeply  concerned  for  the  fate  of  no  man, 
whose  character  does  not  in  some  measure  resemble  our  own,  or 
concerning  whose  conduct  we  may  not  reasonably  conclude  that  we 
might  have  acted  the  same  part,  had  we  been  sun-ounded  with  the 
same  circumstances  and  motives.  This  principle  points  out  the 
most  proper  characters  for  tragedy.  They  should  be  possessed  of 
high  virtues,  to  interest  the  spectators  in  their  happiness  ;  but  they 
should  be  exhibited  as  liable  to  errors  and  indiscretions,  arising  from 
the  weakness  of  human  nature,  the  violence  of  passion,  or  the  in- 
temperate pursuit  of  objects  commendable  and  useful.  The  mis- 
fortunes of  such  pei'sons  properiy  painted,  and  ailfully  heightened, 
take  hold  of  the  mind  with  irresistible  effect.  They  engnge  every 
sympathetic  feeling  of  the  soul,  and  they  make  us  tremble,  lest,  by 
our  indiscretion  in  sin^ilar  indulgence  of  our  passions,  we  should 
throw  ourselves  into  similar  distress. — Barron,  Lect.  56.] 

603.  I  had  an  eariy  opportunity  to  unfold  a  curious  doctrine, 
That  fable  operates  on  our  passions,  by  representing  its  events  as 
passing  in  our  sight,  and  by  deluding  us  into  a  conviction  of  reality. 
(Chapter  ii.  part  i.  sect,  vii.)  Hence,  in  epic  and  dramatic  composV 
tions,  every  circumstance  ought  to  be  employed  that  may  promote 
the  delusion ;  such  as  the  borrowing  from  history  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  dis- 
posed to  extend  our  belief  to  every  circumstance.  But  in  choosing 
a  subject  that  makes  a  figure  in  history,  greater  precaution  is  neces- 
sary 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  circumstances  must  be  added 
but  such  as  connect  naturally  with  what  are  known  to  be  true ; 
history  may  be  supplied,  but  must  not  be  contradicted :  further,  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.     Fa- 

602.  The  subje«t  best  fitted  for  Xn^y. 


EPIO  AND  DRAMA'nC  CX)MPC6ITI0K.  449 

miliarity  ought  more  especially  to  be  avoided  in  an  epic  poem,  the 
peculiar  character  of  which  is  dignity  and  elevation ;  modern  man- 
ners make  no  figure  in  such  a  poem* 

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 
ragedy ;  it  was  admitted  in  Greece,  and  Shakspeare  has  employed 
it  successfully  in  several  of  his  pieces.  One  advantage  it  pos6««e* 
above  fiction,  that  of  more  readily  engaging  our  belief,  which  tends 
above  any  oilier  circumstance  to  raise  our  sympathy.  The  scene  of 
comedy  is  generally  laid  at  home ;  familiarity  is  no  objection ;  and 
we  are  pecuharly  sensible  of  the  ridicule  of  our  own  manners. 

604.  After  a  proper  subject  is  chosen,  the  dividing  it  into  part* 
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  as  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  re- 
semble a  piece  of  music,  having  a  full  close  at  the  end,  preceded  by 
impeifect  closes  that  contribute  to  the  melody.  Every  act  in  a 
dramatic  poem  ought  therefore  to  close  with  some  incident  that 
makes  a  pause  in  the  action ;  for  othei*wise  there  can  be  no  pretext 
for  inteiTupting  the  representation ;  it  would  be  absurd  to  break  off 
in  the  very  heat  of  action  ;  against  which  every  one  would  exclaim  : 
the  absurdity  still  remains  where  the  action  relents,  if  it  be  not  ac- 
tually suspended  for  some  time.  This  rule  is  also  Hpj)licable  to  an 
epic  poem ;  though  in  it  a  deviation  from  the  rule  is  less  remark- 
able ;  because  it  is  in  the  reader's  power  to  hide  the  absurdity,  by 
proceeding  instantly  to  another  book.  The  fii-st  book  of  Paradise 
Lout  ends  without  any  close,  perfect  or  impeifect ;  it  breaks  oft"  ab- 
ruptly where  Satan,  seated  on  his  throne,  is  prepared  to  harangue 
the  convocated  hosts  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 
uEmid.     There  is  no  proper  pause  at  the  end  of  the  seventh  book 

*  I  would  not  from  this  observation  bo  tliought  to  undcrvalne  modem  man 
ners.  The^ighnoss  and  impctiiositv  of  nncient  manncr!<,  may  b«  he\l«T  flftcd 
for  nn  epic  poem,  witliont  bcine  better  fitted  for  sooietr.  But  without  n-pird 
to  that  circumstnuce,  it  is  the  fiimiliaritv  of  modern  manners  that  un-juaJiflM 
them  for  tlie  lofky  subject.  The  di;;nity  of  our  present  uianiu-rs  will  be  better 
understood  in  future  ages,  when  they  are  no  longer  familiar. 

603.  How  fable  operates  upon  our  p»sslons.-CircnmsUnce»  that  ara  to  b«  •«np!oy«A-- 
Precautlon  requisite  in  choosing  an  historical  .ubjoct.— An  arlo  poem  fonndaJ  on  r*MM 
•vents. — Subject  for  comedy. 


450  EPIO  AND  DRAMATIC  COMPOSITION. 

of  Piradlse  Lost,  nor  at  the  end  of  the  eleventh.     In  the  Himl^ 
little  attention  is  given  to  this  iiile. 

This  branch  of  the  subject  shall  be  closed  with  a  general  rule, 
That  action  being  the  fundamental  pait  of  every  composition,  whether 
epic  or  dramatic,  the  sentiments  and  tone  of  language  ought  to  be 
.  subservient  to  the  action,  so  as  to  appear  natural,  •and  proper  for 
the  occasion.  The  application  of  this  rule  to  our  modem  plays, 
would  reduce  the  bulk  of  them  to  a  skeleton. 

605.  After  carrying  on  together  epic  and  dramatic  compositions, 
I  shall  mention  circumstances  peculiar  to  each,  beginning  with  the 
epic  kind.     In  a  theatncal  entertainment,  which  employs  both  the 
eye  and  the  ear,  it  would  be  a  gross  absurdity  to  introduce  upon 
the  stage  superiov  beings  in  a  visible  shape.     There  is  no  place  for 
such  objection  in  a  epic  poem  ;  and  Boileau,  with  many  other  critics, 
declares  strongly  for  that  sort  of  machinery  in  an  epic  poem.     Bui 
waving  authority,  which  is  apt  to  impose  upon  the  judgment,  let  us 
draw  what  light  we  can  from  reason.     I  begin  with  a  preliminary 
remark,  That  this  matter  is  but  indistinctly  handled  by  critics ;  the 
poetical  privilege  of  animating  insensible  objects  for  enlivening  a 
description,  is  very  different  from  what  is  termed  machinery,  w^her<> 
deities,  angels,  devils,  or  other  supernatural  powers,  are  introduced 
as  real  personages,  mixing  in  the  action,  and  contributing  to  tht, 
catastrophe ;  and  yet  these  are  constantly  jumbled  together  in  tbt 
reasoning.     The  former  is  founded  on  a  natural  principle  (chaptei 
XX.  sect,  i.) ;  but  can  the  latter  claim  the  same  authority  ?  Par  from 
it :  nothing  is  more  unnatural.     Its  efiects,  at  the  same  time,  are 
deplorable.     First,  it  gives  an  air  of  fiction  to  the  whole ;  and  pre- 
vents that  impression  of  reality  which  is  requisite  to  interest  our 
affections,  and  to  move  our  passions  (see  chapter  ii.  part  i.  sect,  vii.) 
This  of  itself  is  sufficient  to  explode  machinery,  w^hatever  enteitain- 
ment  it  may  afibrd  to  readers  of  a  fantastic  taste  or  iiTegular  imagi- 
nation.    And,  next,  were  it  possible,  by  disguising  tlie  fiction,  to 
delude  us  into  a  notion  of  reality,  which  I  think  can  hardly  be,  an 
insuperable  objection  would  still  remain,  that  the  aim  or  end  of  an 
epic  poem  can  never  be  attained  in  any  perfection,  w  here  machinery 
is  introduced  ;  for  an  evident  reason,  that  ^'irtuous  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  instmction,  it  is  clear  that  none  can  be  drawn  fiom 
beings  who  act  not  upon  the  same  principles  with  us.     A  fable  in 
j^sop's  manner  is  no  objection  to  this  reasoning:  his^ns,  buU^ 
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,  introduces  the  gods  into  his 
fable ;  but  the  religion  of  his  country  authorized  that  liberty ;  it 

604.  The  parts  of  a  subject— Th  3  close  of  an  act  in  a  dramatic  poena.    Also  of  a  book  In 
tn  Epic— Paradisj  Lost— Tlie  JEi  eid.— Genera!  rnle  for  sentiments  aiid  tone  of  l.<)!i);ua([e 


EPIC  ANl    liRAMAin;  COMK»8rriO\,  451 

being  an  article  in  the  Giecian  creed,  that  the  gods  often  interpose 
visibly  and  bodily  in  human  affairs.  I  must,  however,  ol,ser%-c-  that 
Honaer's  deities  do  no  honor  to  his  poems:  fictions  that  trai.cgr.-a 
the  bounds  of  nature,  seldom  have  a  good  effect;  they  may  inflame 
the  imagination  for  a  moment,  but  will  not  be  relished  bv  any 
person  of  a  correct  taste.  They  may  be  of  some  use  to  the'lower 
rank  of  writere,  but  an  author  of  genius  hjus  much  finer  material* 
of  Nature's  production,  for  elevating  his  subject,  and  making  it  in- 
teresting. 

60C.  I  have  tried  serious  reasonings  upon  this  subject ;  but  ridi- 
cule, 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  on  so  happy  an  occasion,  and  being  willing,  as  much  as  in 
me  lies,  to  prevent  that  effusion  of  none^nse,  which  we  have  good 
cause  to  apprehend  ;  I  do  hereby  strictly  require  even-  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  if,  I  do  ex- 
pect of  him,  in  the  first  place,  to  make  "his  own  poem,  without  de- 
pending 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 
sanding  of  Mercury  with  any  particular  message  or  'disi>at<-h  re- 
iMiug  to  the  peace  ;  and  shall  by  no  means  sull'er  Minerva  to  take 
upon  her  tlie  shape  of  any  plenipotentiarj'  concerned  in  this  great 
work.     I  do  further  declare,  that  I  shall  not  allow  the  destinies  to 
have  had  a  hand  in  the  deaths  of  the  several  thousands  who  h:ivo 
been  slain  in  the  late  war ;  being  of  opinion  that  all  such  deaths 
may  be  well  accounted  for  by  the  Christian  system  of  pwdt-r  an«l 
ball.     I  do  therefore  strictly  forbid  the  fates  to  cut  the  thread  of 
man's  life  upon  any  pretence  whatsoever,  unless  it  bo  for  tire  sjike  of 
the  rhyme.     And  whereas  I"  have  gooil  reason  to  fear  that  Neptune 
will  have  a  great  deal  of  business  on  his  hands  in  several  |khmii8 
which  we  may  now  suppose  are  upon  the  anvil,  I  do  also  pn>liihit 
his  appearance,  unless  it  be  done  in  metaphor,  simile,  or  any  very 
short  allusion ;  and  that  even  here  he  may  not  Iw  |>ennitttM|  to 
enter,  but  with  great  caution  and  circumsjx'Ction.     I  d«.*sir('  ih.it  th»» 
same  rule  may  be  extended  to  his  whole  fraternity  of  heathen  pnls* ; 
it  being  my  design  to  condemn  eveiy  poem  to  the  flames  in  which 
Jupiter  thundere,  or  exercises  any  other  act  of  authority  which  docs 
not  belong  lo  him.     In  short,  I  expect  that  no  pagan  agent  shall  l>o 
introduced,  or  any  fact  related  which  a  man  cannot  give  crwlit  to 
with  a  good  conscience.     Provided  always,  that  nothing  hori-in  ron- 
tained  shall  extend,  or  be  construed  to  extend,  to  several  of  the 
female  poets  in  this  nation,  who  shall  still  be  left  in  full  }>oss»-ssion  of 

605.  The  Introduction  upon  the  stage  of  superior  betnp  In  Tblblo  »h»n*. — Eff««U  of  l»v 
crodacinc  sacb  machinery  in  an  epic  poem. — JB»o^'*  fiibles. — Hom»r'»  <l«1ti«& 


452  KI'IC  AND  DPwAMATlC  COMPOSITION. 

their  gods  and  goddesses,  in  the  same  manner  as  if  this  paper  bad 
never  been  written."     (Spectator,  No.  523.) 

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  introduceth  his  deities  with  no  greater  ceremony 
than  as  mortals  ;  and  Virgil  has  still  less  moderation  :  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  ridicu- 
lous in  such  fictions,  must  appear  even  through  the  thickest  veil  of 
gravity  and  solemnity. 

607.  Angels  and  devils  serve  equally  with  heathen  deities  as 
materials  for  figurative  language  ;  perhaps  better  among  Christians, 
because  we  believe  in  them,  and  not  in  heathen  deities.  But  eveiy 
one  is  sensible,  as  well  as  Boileau,  that  the  invisible  powers  in  our 
creed  make  a  much  worse  figure  as  actors  in  a  modern  poem,  than 
the  invisible  powers  in  the  heathen  creed  did  in  ancient  poems ;  the 
cause  of  which  is  not  far  to  seek.  The  heathen  deities,  in  the 
opinion  of  their  votaries,  were  beings  elevated  one  step  only  above 
mankind,  subject  to  the  same  passions  and  directed  by  the  same 
motives  ;  therefore  not  altogether  improper  to  mix  with  men  in  an 
impoitant  action.  In  our  creed,  superior  beings  are  placed  at  such 
a  mighty  distance  from  us,  and  are  of  a  nature  so  different,  that 
with  no  propnety  can  we  appear  Avith  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  em- 
bellishment of  allegory,  as  well  as  of  metaphor,  simile,  or  other 
figure.  Moral  truth,  in  particular,  is  finely  illustrated  in  the  alle- 
gorical manner ;  it  amuses  the  fancy  to  find  abstract  terms,  by  a  sort 
of  magic,  metamorphosed  into  active  beings ;  and  it  is  highly  pleas- 
ing to  discover  a  general  proposition  in  a  pictured  event.  But 
allegorical  beings  should  be  confined  within  their  own  sphere,  and 
nev,er  be  admitted  to  mix  in  the  principal  action,  nor  to  co-operate 
in  retarding  or  advancing  the  catastrophe.  This  would  have  a  still 
worse  effect  than  invisible  powei-s ;  and  I  am  ready  to  assign  the 
reason.  The  impression  of  real  existence,  essential  to  an  epic  poem, 
is  inconsistent  with  that  figurative  existence  which  is  essential  to  an 
allegory  (see  chapter  xx.  sect,  vi.) ;  and  therefore  no  means  can  more 
effectually  prevent  the  impression  of  reality,  than  to  introduce  alle- 
gorical beings  co-operating  with  those  whom  we  conceive  to  be 
really  existing.  The  allegoiy  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 


606.  Addison's  ridicule  of  wac/ane^'V. —E.vccss  of  it  in  Homer  and  Virgil. 

607.  The  figure  which  angels  and  devils  would  make  v  actors  in  a  modern  po«tn,  c?»ii>- 
pared  with  the  heathen  deities  in  ancient  poems. — Alleg  iry  in  historical  poems. 


EPIC  AND  DRAMATIC  COMPOdmON.  458 

comprehending  the  achievpments  of  superior  beings  there  it  moro 
room  for  fancy  than  where  it  is  confined  to  human  actions. 

608.  What  is  the  true  notion  of  an  episode  ?  or  how  is  it  to  be 
distinguished  from  the  principal  action  ?  Every  incident  that  pro- 
motes or  retards  the  catastrophe,  must  be  part  of  the  principal  ac- 
tion. This  clears  the  nature  of  an  episode  ;  which  may  be  defined, 
"An  incident  connected  with  the  principal  action,  but  contributing 
neither  to  advance  nor  to  retard  it."  The  descent  of  ^neas  into 
hell  doth  not  advance  nor  retard  the  catastrophe,  and  therefore  is  an 
episode.  The  .story  of  Nisus  and  Euryalus,  producing  an  altera- 
tion in  the  affairs  of  the  contending  parties,  is  a  part  of  the  princi- 
pal 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  eflfect  of  episode,  accord- 
ing to  this  definition,  must  be,  to  break  the  unity  of  action ;  and 
therefore  it  ought  never  to  be  indulged  unless  to  unbend  the  mind 
after  the  fatigue  of  a  long  narration.  An  episode,  when  such  is 
its  purpose,  requires  the  following  conditions :  it  ought  to  be  well 
connected  with  the  principal  action ;  it  ought  to  be  lively  and  in- 
teresting ;  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  a  son  of  Albion,  the  chief  of  a  hundred  hills.  Ilio  deer  drank  of  ft 
thousand  streams,  and  a  thousand  rocks  replied  to  the  voice  of  his  dojrs.  His 
face  was  the  mildness  of  youth  ;  but  his  hand  the  death  of  heroes.  One  wm 
his  love,  and  fair  was  she!  the  daughter  of  mighty  Conloch.  She  appeared 
like  ;i  sunbeam  among  women,  and  her  hair  was  like  the  wing  of  the  mven. 
Her  soul  was  fixed  on  Comal,  and  she  was  his  companion  in  the  chase.  Often 
met  their  eyes  of  love,  and  happy  were  their  words  in  secret.  But  Gonntl 
loved  tl>e  maid,  the  chief  of  gloomy  Ardvcn.  He  watched  her  lone  steps  on 
the  heath,  tlie  iuo  of  unhappy  Comal. 

One  day  tired  of  the  cha.sej  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  were  there,  a  hundred  helms  of  sounding  steel.  Rest  here,  said  he;,  mj 
love,  Galvina,  thou  light  of  the  cave  of  Ronsin ;  a  deer  appears  on  Mora's  brow; 
I  go,  but  soon  will  return.  I  fear,  said  she,  dark  Coniiul  my  foe :  1  will  rest 
here  ;  but  soon  return,  my  love. 

He  went  to  the  deer  of  Mora.  The  daughter  of  Conloch,  to  try  liis  Ioto, 
clothed  her  white  side  witii  his  armor,  and  strode  from  the  cave  of  Konan. 
Thinking  her  his  foe,  his  heart  beat  high,  and  his  color  changed.  He  drew 
the  bow  :  the  arrow  flew  ;  Galviua  fell  in  blood.  He  ran  to  the  cave  with  hasty 
steps  and  called  the  daughter  of  Conloch.  Where  art  thou,  my  love  F  but  no 
answer. He  marked,  at  length,  her  heaving  heart  beating  airainst  the  mor- 
tal arrow.     0  Conloch's  daughter,  is  it  thou  !     He  sunk  upon  her  brcasU 

The  hu  Iters  found  the  hapless  pair.  Many  and  silent  were  his  steps  round 
the  dark  Iwelling  of  his  love.    The  fleet  of  the  ocean  came :  bo  fought,  and  ih« 


*  HonKr's  description  of  the  slueld  of  .Achilles  is  properly  intnvlnccd  at  a 
time  when  the  action  relents,  and  the  render  can  bear  an  interruption.  B«t 
the  aut!.cr  of  Telemachus  describes  the  shield  of  Uiat  young  hero  in  U>«  baa* 
of  battl«,  a  very  improper  t4m«  for  an  interruption. 


^54  EPIC  AND  DRAMATIC  COMPOSITION. 

Ktrangeis  fell.  He  searched  for  death  over  the  field;  but  who  could  kill  the 
mighty  Comal  ?  Throwing  away  his  shield,  an  arrow  found  his  manlv  breast, 
iic  sleeps  -with  hjs  Galvina  ;  their  green  tombs  are  seen  by  the  mariner,  when 
ho  bounds  on  the  waves  of  the  north. 

609.  Next,  upon  i\\Q  peculiarities  of  a  dramatic  poem.  And  the 
first  I_  shall  mention  is  a  double  plot ;  one  of  Avhich  must  resemble 
an  episode  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  hath  a  good  eftect  in 
tragedy,  of  which  simplicity  is  a  chief  property ;  fdr  an  interesting 
subject  that  engages  our  affections,  occupies  our  whole  attention, 
and  leaves  no  room  for  any  separate  concern.  Variety  is  more  tol- 
erable in  comedy,  which  pretends  only  to  amuse,  without  totally  oc- 
cupying 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  ob- 
jection to  tragi-comedy.  Upon  that  account  the  Provoked  Husband 
deserves  censure  :  all  the  scenes  that  bring  the  ftimily  of  the  Wrong- 
heads  into  action,  being  ludicrous  and  farcical,  are  in  a  very  different 
tone  from  the  principal  scenes,  displaying  severe  and  bitter  expostu 
lations  between  Lord  Townley  and  his  lady.  The  same  objection 
touches  not  the  double-plot  of  the  Careless  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  Avhich  is 
principal,  so  much  at  least  as  to  employ  the  same  pei'sous :  the 
under-plot  ought  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  scruple 
enjoys  the  spectacle  as  a  reality.  Frona  this  absent  state  he  is 
roused  by  violent  action:  he  awakes  as  from  a  pleasing  dream,  and, 
gathering  his  senses  about  him,  finds  all  to  be  a  fiction.  Horace 
delivers  the  same  rule,  and  founds  it  upon  the  same  reason : 

Ne  pueros  coram'populo  Medea  trncidet; 
Aut  humana  palam  coquat  exta  nefarius  Atreus ; 
Aut  in  avem  Progne  vertatur,  Cadmus  in  anguem : 
Quodcumque  ostendis  mihi  sic,  increduhis  odi. 

The  French  critics  join  with  Horace  in  excluding  blood  from  the 

«08.  Episode,  how  designated  from  the  priiicipal  acUou.    Example.— Effect  of  on  «Di- 
KMle ;  when  to  be  indulged ;  couditlon*. 


EPIC  AND  DRAMATIC  COMPOSmON.  465 

Stage ;  but,  overlooking  the  most  substantial  objection,  ♦U^.y  nrire 
only  that  it  is  barbarous  and  shocking  to  a  polite  audience.  ' 

610.  A  few  words  upon  the  dialogue;  which  ought  to  bo  ho 
conducted  as  to  be  a  true  representation  of  nature.  I  talk  not  here 
of  the  sentiments,  nor  of  the  language;  for  these  come  under  diffei 
cnt  heads:  I  talk  of  what  properly  belongs  to  dialogue-writing; 
where  eveiy  single  speech,  short  or  Tong,  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 
fii-st  to  last,  represent  so  many  links  of  one  continued  chain.  No 
author,  ancient  or  modern,  possesses  the  art  of  dialogue  equal  to 
Shakspeare.  Diyden,  in  that  particular,  may  justly  be  placed  as  hi.-* 
opposite  :  he  frequently  introduces  three  or  four  persons  speaking 
upon  the  same  subject,  each  throwing  out  his  own  notions  .s»>j)arale- 
ly,  without  regarding  what  is  said  by  the  rest :  take  for  an  example 
the  first  scene  of  Aurenzebe.  Sometimes  he  makes  a  numl>er  club 
in  relating  an  event,  not  to  a  stranger,  suj)i>osed  ignorant  of  it,  but 
to  one  another,  for  the  sake  merely  of  speaking:  of  which  notable 
sort  of  dialogue,  wo  have  a  specimen  in  the  first  scene  of  the  first 
part  of  the  Conqueat  of  Granada.  In  the  second  part  of  the  same 
tragedy,  scene  second,  the  King,  Abenamar,  and  Zulema,  make  their 
separate  observations,  like  so  many  soliloquies,  upon  the  fluctuating 
temper  of  the  mob.  A  dialogue  so  uncouth,  puts  one  in  mind  of 
two  shepherds  in  a  pastoral,  excited  by  a  prize  to  pronounce  verK-s 
alternately,  each  in  praise  of  his  own  mistress. 

This  manner  of  dialogue-writing,  besides  an  unnatural  air,  has  an- 
other 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. 

No  fault  is  more  common  among  writers,  than  to  prolong  a 
speech  after  the  impatience  of  the  pei-son  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  im- 
patience in  violent  action  without  interrupting,  would  be  unnatund ; 
and  yet  to  dissemble  his  impatience,  by  appearing  cool  whore  h« 
ought  to  be  highly  inflamed,  would  be  no  less  so. 

Rhyme-being  unnatural  and  disgustful  in  dialogue,  is  liappily 
banished  from  our  theatre :  the  only  wonder  is  that  it  ever  found 
admittance,  especially  among  a  ]>eople  accustomed  to  the  mors 
manly  freedom  of  Shakspeare's  dialogue.  By  banishing  rhyme,  w« 
have  gained  so  much  as  never  once  to  dream  of  any  further  im- 
provement. And  yet,  however  suitable  blank  verso  may  be  to  ele- 
vated characters  and  warm  passions,  it  must  appear  improper  and 
aft'ected  in  the  mouths  of  the  lower  sort.  Why  then  should  it  be  m 
rule,  That  every  scene  in  tragedy  must  be  in  blank  verse  I    Suk« 

609.  Double-plot  in  a  dromatic  po«m;  In  •  coniody.— Kul*»  for  Uj«  undw-ptot— VWUit 
BcUon  oil  tb«  stage.  ^ 


4-66  EPIC  AND  DRAMAnc  COMPOSITION. 

cptare,  vnth  great  judgment,  has  followed  a  different  mle ;  which  is, 
to  intermix  prose  with  verse,  and  only  to  employ  the  latter  where  it 
IS  i-equired  by  the  importance  or  dignity  of  the  subject.  Familiar 
tl.oughts  and  ordinary  facts  ought  to'be  expressed  in  plain  language: 
to  hear,  for  example,  a  footman  deliver  a  simple  message  in  blank 
verse,  must  appear  ridiculous  to  every  one  who  is  not  biased  by  cus- 
tom. In  short,  that  variety  of  characters  and  of  situations,  which 
(s  the  life  of  a  play,  requires  not  only  a  suitable  vaiiety  in  the  senti- 
ments, but  also  in  the  diction. 

[Upon  the  conduct  of  the  dialogue,  Lord  Jeffrey  thus  contrasts 
*he  modern  with  the  old  Englisli  drama : 

"  On  the  modern  stage,  every  scene  is  visibli/  studied  and  digested 
beforehand ;  and  every  thing  from  beginning  to  end,  whether  it  be 
descnption,  or  argument,  or  vituperation,  is  veiy  obviously  and  os- 
tentatiously set  forth  in  the  most  advantageous  light,  and  with  all 
the  decorations  of  the  most  elaborate  rhetoric.  Now,  for  mere  rhet- 
oric and  fine  composition,  this  is  veiy  right ;  but  for  an  imitation  of 
nature,  it  is  not  quite  so  well 

"  On  the  old  English  stage,  however,  the  discussions  always  ap- 
pear to  be  casual,  and  the  argument  quite  artless  and  disorderly. 
The  persons  of  the  drama,  in  short,  are  made  to  speak  like  men  and 
women  who  meet  without  preparation  in  real  life.  Their  reasonings 
are  perpetually  broken  by  passion,  or  left  imperfect  for  want  of  skill. 
They  constantly  wander  from  the  point  in  hand,  in  the  most  un- 
business-like  manner  in  the  world  ;  and  after  hitting  upon  a  topic 
that  would  afford  to  a  judicious  playwright  room  for  a  magnificent 
seesaw  of  pompous  declamation,  they  have  generally  the  awkward- 
ness to  let  it  slip,  as  if  perfectly  unconscious  of  its  value ;  and  uni- 
formly leave  the  scene  without  exhausting  the  controversy,  or  stating 
half  the  plausible  things  for  themselves  that  any  ordinary  advisei-s 
might  have  suggested — after  a  few  weeks'  reflection.  As  specimens 
of  eloquent  argumentjition,  we  must  admit  the  signal  infeiiority  of 
our  native  favorites ;  but  as  true  copies  of  nature— as  vehicles  of 
passion,  and  representations  of  character,  we  confess  we  are  tempted 
to  give  them  the  preference.  When  a  dramatist  biings  his  chief 
characters  on  the  stage,  we  readily  admit  that  he  must  give  them 
something  to  say,  and  that  this  something  must  be  inteiesting  and 
characteristic ;  but  he  should  recollect  also,  that  they  aie  supposed 
to  cx>me  there  without  having  anticipated  all  they  were  to  hear,  or 
meditated  on  all  they  were  to  deliver ;  and  that  it  cannot  be  char- 
acteristic therefore,  because  it  must  be  glaringly  unnatural,  that  they 
should  proceed  regularly  through  every  possible  view  of  the  subject, 
and  exhaust,  in  set  order,  the  whole  magazine  of  reflections  that  can 
be  brought  to  bear  upon  their  situation. 

"  It  would  not  be  fair,  however,  to  leave  this  view  of  the  matter, 
without  observing,  that  this  unsteadiness  and  irregularity  of  dialogue, 
which  giveis  such  an  air  of  nature  to  our  older  plays,  is  frequendy 


THE  THKEE  UNITIEa.  457 

carried  to  a  raost  blamable  excess;  and  that,  independent  of  their 
passion  for  verbal  quibbles,  there  is  an  irregularity,  and  a  capriciou* 
uncertainty  m  the  taste  and  judgment  of  these  good  old  wriieiB, 
which  excites  at  once  our  amusement  and  our  compassion.  If  it  be 
true  that  no  other  man  has  ever  written  so  finely  as  Shak»i)eHi  •  has 
done  in  his  happier  passages,  it  is  no  less  true  that  there  is  not  a 
scribbler  now  alive  who  could  possibly  write  worse  than  he  has 
sometimes  written, — who  could,  on  occasion,  devise  more  contemp- 
tible ideas,  or  misplace  them  so  abominably,  by  the  side  of  such  in- 
comparable excellioce." — Review  of  Ford.] 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 


THE   THBKE    UKtriES. 


611.  Man  acts  with  deliberation,  will,  and  choice:  he  aims  at 
some  end — ^glory,  for  example,  or  riches,  or  conquest,  the  procuring 
happiness  to  individuals,  or  to  his  country  in  general :  he  proposes 
means,  and  lays  plans  to  attain  the  end  purposed.  Hero  are  a  num- 
ber of  facts  or  incidents  leading  to  the  end  in  view,  the  whole  com- 
posing one  chain  by  the  relation  of  cause  and  effect  In  running 
over  a  series  of  such  facts  or  incidents,  we  cannot  rest  upon  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  chief  person  or  persons  is 
accomplished.  This  indicates  the  beginning,  the  middle,  and  the 
end,  of  what  Aristotle  calls  an  entire  action.  [Poet.  cap.  vi.  See  also 
cap.  vii.)  The  story  naturally  begins  with  describing  those  circum- 
stances which  move  the  principal  person  to  form  a  plan,  in  order  to 
compass  some  desired  event :  the  prosecution  of  that  plan  and  the 
obstructions,  carry  the  reader  into  the  heat  of  action :  the  middle  is 
properly  where  the  action  is  tlie  most  involved;  and  the  end  is 
where  the  event  is  brought  about,  and  the  plan  accomplislied. 

A  plan  thus  happily  accomplished  after  many  obstructions,  affords 
wonderful  delight  to  the  reader ;  to  produce  which,  a  principle  men- 
tioned above  (chap,  viii.)  mainly  contributes,  the  same  tliat  di»poees 
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  suc- 
cess, because  it  affords  the  clearest  conception  of  a  beginning,  a  mid- 

«I0.  Rules  for  the  dlalojfue.  Shakspeare.  Dryden.  CongrtTe.— Rhjrtn*. -Inttnalrtwj 
•f  blank  verse  and  prof e. — Lord  Jeflrev's  coinpart»m  of  iho  modrrn  aad  U»«  om  KiigllM 
drama. 


4:58  THE  THREE  UNITIES. 

die,  and  an  end,  in  which  consists  unity  of  action ;  and  indeed  stnct 
er  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  u^neid,  the  hero,  after  many  obstructions,  makes  his  plan  ef 
fectual.  The  Iliad  is  formed  upon  a  difieient  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  reconcilia- 
tion. Here  is  unity  of  action,  no  doubt,  a  beginnitg,  a  middle,  and 
an  end ;  but  inferior  to  that  of  the  ^neid,  which  will  thus  appear. 
The  mind  hath  a  propensity  to  go  forwaid  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 
uEneid.  It  is  not  altogether  so  pleasant,  as  in  the  Iliad,  to  connect 
effects  by  their  common  cause ;  for  such  connection  forces  the  miml 
to  a  continual  retrospect :  looking  back  is  like  walking  backward. 

Homer's  plan  is  still  more  defective,  upon  another  account.  That 
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  countiymen  were  but  negatively  the 
effects  of  his  wrath,  by  depriving  them  of  his  assistance. 

612.  If  unity  of  action  be  a  capital  beauty  in  a  fable  imitative  of 
human  affairs,  a  plurality  of  unconnected  fables  must  be  a  capital 
defoi-mity.  For  the  sake  of  variety,  we  indulge  an  under-plot  that 
is  connected  with  the  principal:  but  too  unconnected  events  are 
extremely  unpleasant,  even  where  the  same  actors  are  engaged  in 
both.  Ariosto  is  quite  licentious  in  that  particular :  he  carries  on  at 
the  same  time  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 
may  be  varied  for  the  sake  of  conspicuous  beauties.  (See  chapter  i.) 
If,  for  example,  a  noted  stoiy,  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, 
hath  a  peculiar  beauty  from  being  dramatic.  (See  chapter  xxi.) 
But  a  privilege  that  deviates  from  nature  ought  to  be  sparingly  in- 
dulged ;  and  yet  romance-writers  make  no  difficulty  of  presenting 
to  the  reader,  without  the  least  preparation,  unknown  peisons  en- 
gaged in  some  arduous  adventure  equally  unknown.  In  Cassandra, 
two  personages,  who  afterwards  are  discovered  to  be  heroes  of  the 

<H.  Remarks  on  bntnan  action. — Tho  beginning.  mUV.lle.  and  end  of  a  story.— A  p1s» 
crowned  with  suoces.-".  ajo'ccable — An  action  inav'lmvc  unltv.  tliough  t.lie  catastrophe  di> 
fer  froijMvhat  i.x  intmid«<l     T!i«- xf:neia.     Tli.>  li"i*!. 


Tnv.  -niRKF.  rxiTiTM.  459 

fable,  start  up  completely  armed  upon  tlie  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  ad- 
vancing or  retarding  it.  A  scene  thai-produceth  no  incident,  and 
for  that  rej\son  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. 

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  unity 
of  action  consists,  is  equally  essential  to  epic  and  dramatic  composi- 
tions." 

6 1 3.  How  far  the  unities  of  time  and  of  place  are  essential,  is  a 
question  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  io 
practice  they  make  frequent  deviation,  which  they  pretend  not  to 
justify,  against  the  practice  of  the  Greeks  and  Komans,  and  against 
the  solemn  decision  of  their  own  countrymen.  But  in  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  s 
mistake  in  admitting  no  greater  latitude  of  place  and  time  than  was 
admitted  in  Greece  and  Rome.f 

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  singei-s,  and  for  the  sake  of  variety,  introduced 
one  actor,  whose  province  it  was  to  explain  historically  the  subject 
of  the  song,  and  who  occasionally  represented  one  or  other  person- 
age,    .^chylus,  introducing  a  second  actor,  formed  the  dialogue, 


*  I  am  sensible  that  a  commencement  of  tliis  Bort  is  much  rcli^licd  by 
readers  disposed  to  the  marvellous.  Their  curiosity  is  misod,  »nd  they  ara 
much  tickled  in  its  gratification.  But  curiosity  is  at  an  end  with  the  first 
reading,  because  the  personages  are  no  longer  unknown  ;  and  therefore  at  the 
second  rcadinof,  a  commencement  so  artificial  loses  'ta  power,  even  over  tha 
vulgar.    A  writer  of  genius  prefers  lasting  beauties. 

t  [By  tinitij  of  action  is  meant  that  aH  the  incidents  of  the  poet  shall  point 
to  one  great  catastrophe.  By  the  vnitUs  of  tim«  and  plaot  is  understood  that 
the  actual  performance  of  the  action  may  pass  nearly  during  the  time,  and 
within  the  place  of  the  representation.  Without  unity  of  action  it  is  impossibia 
to  excite  and  agitate  the  passions;  and  without  the  unities  of  time  and  place 
it  i8  impossible  to  preserve  probability,  and  to  persuade  the  snectntom  that  tha 
action  is  not  imaginary.  But  with  all  these  unities  properiv  combined,  tJia 
illusion  will  be  complete,  and  the  passions  will  be  aa  ctfectually  roused  by  the 
feigned  events  as  if  they  were  real. — Barron,  Loct.  55.] 

613.  Capitel  deformttr  In  a  ftbl«.-Ord«r  In  whlob  Ihcts  maf  be  tUtod— A  plyM'ty* 
Bule  At  ««3b  soen*.    UuUy  of  actios  defluad. 


460  THE  THREE  UNITIES. 

by  whicli  tho  performance  became  dramatic ;  and  the  actors  were 
multiplied  when  the  subject  repucsented  made  it  necessary.  But 
still  the  chorus,  whicl  gave  a  beginning  to  tragedy,  was  considered 
as  an  essential  part.  The  first  scene  generally  unfolds  the  pre- 
liminary circumstances  that  lead  to  the  grand  event ;  and  this  scene 
is  by  Aristotle  termed  the  prologue.  In  the  second  scene,  where 
the  action  properly  begins,  the  chorus  is  inti'oduced,  which,  as 
originally,  continues  upon  the  stage  during  the  whole  peiformance : 
the  chorus  frequently  makes  one  in  the  dialogue ;  and  when  the 
dialogue  happens  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  be- 
comes necessary  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  stage  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  with  a  pause,  affords  not  opportunity  to  vary  the  place 
of  action,  nor  to  prolong  the  time  of  the  action  beyond  that  of  the , 
representation.  A  real  or  feigned  action  that  is  brought  to  a  con- 
clusion 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. 

614.  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,  riot 
necessity.  This  will  be  evident  upon  taking  a  view  of  the  constitu- 
tion of  our  drama,  which  difiers  widely  from  that  of  Greece; 
whether  moi-e  or  less  perfect,  is  a  different  point,  to  be  handled 
afterwards.*  By  dropping  the  chorus,  opportunity  is  afforded  to 
divide  the  representation  by  intervals  of  time,  during  which  the  stage 
is  evacuated  and  the  spectacle  suspended.  This  qualifies  our  drama 
for  subjects  spread  through  a  wude  space  both  of  time  and  of  place : 
the  time  supposed  to  pass  during  the  suspension  of  the  representa- 

*  [For  an  interesting  history  of  the  mediaeval  and  modern  drama,  see  Shaw's 
English  Literature,  pp.  97-110.] 

618.  The  ^Diti«ft  of  tiip«  a{l4  placo ;  are  ^uy  essential  ?^^j«das  tragedy  described.  Ib> 

fGfVfiCCN 


THE  THREE  UNTTIES.  461 

hon  is  not  measured  by  the  time  of  the  suspension :  and  any  place 
may  be  supposed  when  the  repi ostentation  is  renewed,  with  as  much 
facility  as  when  it  commencod  :  by  which  means  many  subjects  can 
De  justly  represented  in  our  theatres  that  were  excluded  from  those 
of  ancient  Greece.  This  doctiine  may  be  illustrated  by  comparing 
a  modern  play  to  a  set  of  historical  pictures:  let  us  suppoee  them 
five  in  number,  and  the  resemblance  will  be  complete.  Each  of  the 
pictuies  resembles  an  act  in  one  of  our  plays :  there  must  neces- 
sarily be  the  strictest  unity  of  place  and  of  time  in  each  picture ;  and 
the  same  necessity  lequires  these  two  unities  during  each  act  of  a 
play,  because  during  an  act  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  ycai-s  !)ave  passed 
between  the  events  exhibited  in  two  different  pictures,  though  the 
interiuption  is  imperceptible  in  passing  our  eye  from  the  one  to  the 
other;  raid  we  have  as  little  difficulty  to  conceive  a  change  of 
place,  however  gi-eat  In  which  view  there  is  truly  no  difference 
between  five  acts  of  a  modern  play,  and  five  such  pictures.  Where 
the  representation  is  suspended,  we  can  with  the  greatest  facility 
suppose  any  length  of  time  or  any  change  of  place :  the  spectator,  it 
is  true,  may  be  conscious  that  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  bo  con- 
scious that  Garrick  is  not  King  Lear,  that  the  play-house  is  not 
Dover  Chffs,  nor  the  noise  he  hears  thunder  and  lightning.  In  n 
word,  after  an  interruption  of  the  representation,  it  is  no  more  diflB- 
cult  for  a  spectator  to  imagine  a  new  place,  or  a  diflerent  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  sunshine,  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  is  necessary  in  the  repiesen- 

tation.  1    •    J    • 

615.  There  are,  I  acknowledge,  some  effects  of  gieat  latitude  m 
time  that  ought  never  to  be  indulged  in  a  composition  for  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  ramd  ^eJect^  as 
contrary  to  all  probability,  such  latitude  of  time  as  is  requisite  for 
a  change  so  remarkable.  The  greatest  change  from  p  ace  to  place 
hath  not  altogether  the  same  bad  effect.  In  the  bulk  of  human 
affairs  place  is  not  material ;  and  the  mind,  when  occupied  with  an 
interesting  event,  is  little  regardfttl  of  minute  circumstances:  tliew 
may  be  varied  at  will,  because  they  scarce  make  any  impression. 

614.  Blunder  of  modern  crltic8.-Howthe'En,l|slMlnm|»d^^^  fron  U>«  Or,ci«.    !► 
ferencft— A  modem  pUy  corop«red  to  •  »etof  hl»tori«a  pioturw. 


462  THE  THKEK  UNITIKS. 

But  thoiK^h  I  have  taken  arms  to  rescue  modern  poets  from  the 

despolisni  of  modern   ciitics,  I  would  not  be  understood  to  justity 
hberty  without  anv  reserve.     An  unbounded  license  with  relation 
to  place  and  time;  is  faulty,  for  a  re^ison  that  seems  to  have  be^ 
overlooked,  which  is,  that  it  seldom  fails  to  break  the  unity  of  action 
In  the  ordinary  course  of  human  aftairs,  single  events,  such  as  are  tit 
to  be  represented  on  the  stage,  are  confined  to  a  narrow  spot  and 
commonly  employ  no  great  extent  of  time :  we  accordingly  seldom 
find  strict  unity  of  action  in  a  dramatic  composition,  where  any  re- 
markable latitude  is  indulged  in  these  particulars.     I  say  fiuther, 
that  a  composition  which  employs  but  one  place,  and  leqmres  not  a 
greater  len<rth  of  time  than  is  necessary  for  ^lie  representation  is  so 
much  the  more  perfect ;  because  the  confiaing  an  event  within  so 
narrow  bounds,  contributes  to  the  unity  of  action;  and  also  prevents 
that  labor,  however  slight,  which  the  mind  must  undergo  in  imagui- 
incr  frequent  changes  of  place  and  many  intervals  of  time.     13ut  still 
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  thougli 
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 
diflacult,  I  wixs  about  to  say  impracticable,  to  contract  within  the 
Grecian  limits,  any  fable  so  fruitful  of  incidents  in  number  and  va- 
riety, as  to  give  full  scope  to  the  fluctuation  of  passion.      _ 

616.  [It  would  be  amusing  to  make  a  digest  of  the  irrational  laws 
which  bad  critics  have  framed  for  the  government^  ot  poets,     tivst 
in  celebrity  and  in  absurdity  stand  the  dramatic  unities  of  place  and 
time.     No  human  being  has  ever  been  able  to  find  any  thing  that 
could,  even  by  courtesy,  be  called  an  argument  for  these  unities, 
except  that  they  have  been  deduced  from  the  general  practice  ot   he 
Greeks.     It  requires  no  very  profound  examination  to  discover  that 
the  Greek  dramas,  often  admirable  as  compositions,  are,  as  exhibi- 
tions of  human  character  and  of  human  life,  far  inferior  to  the  Lug  ish 
plays  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth.     Every  scholar  knows  that  the  diva- 
matic  part  of  the  Athenian  tragedies  was  at  first  subordinate  to  the 
lyrical  part.     It  would,  therefore,  be  little  less  than  a  miracle  it  the 
laws  of  the  Athenian  stage  had  been  found  to  suit  plays  in  which 
there  was  no  chorus.     All  the  great  master-pieces  ot  the  dramatic 
art  have  been  composed  in  direct  violation  of  the  unities,  and  could 
never  have  been  composed  if  the  unities  had  not  been  violated.     1 
is  clear,  for  example,  that  such  a  character  as  that  ot  Hamlet  could 
never  have  been  developed  within  the  limits  to  which  Alheri  con- 
fined himself.     Yet  such  was  tlie  reverence  of  Jiterary  men  during 
the  last  century  for  these  uniiies,  that  Johnson,  who,  much  to  his 
honor,  took  the  opposite  side,  was,  as  he  says,  "fnghted  at  his  own 

615.  Great  latitude  of  Ume  not  admissible  In  a  ylay. 


GARDENING  AND  AECHITECTUKE.  468 

tcmentj  ;"  mid  "  afraid  to  stand  against  the  authoritiea  which  might 
l-u  produced  against  him." — Macaulay. 

Lord  Jeffu^y,  upon  the  same  subject,  has  made  the  following 
observations :  "  When  the  modems  tie  themselves  down  to  write 
tragedies  of  the  same  length,  and  on  the  same  simple  plan,  in  other 
respects,  with  those  of  Sophocles  and  -^schylus,  we  shall  not  object 
to  their  adhering  to  the  unities ;  for  there  can,  in  that  case,  be  no 
sufficient  inducement  for  \'iolating  them.  But  in  the  mean  time, 
we  hold  that  English  dramatic  poetry  soars  above  the  unilies,  just 
as  the  imagination  does.  The  only  pretence  for  insisting  on  theru 
IS,  that  we  suppose  the  stage  itself  to  be,  actually  and  really,  the 
very  spot  on  which  a  given  action  is  performed ;  and,  if  so,  this 
space  cannot  be  removed  to  another.  But  the  supposition  is  mani- 
festly quite  contrary  to  truth  and  experience.  The  stage  is  con- 
sidered merely  as  a  place  in  which  any  given  action  ad  libitum  may 
be  performed  ;  and  accordingly  may  be  shifted,  and  is  so  in  imagi- 
nation, as  often  as  the  action  requires  it." — British  Essayist",  vol. 
vi.  p.  820. 

On  this  subject,  consult  also  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds'  Works,  voL 
ii.  13th  discourse  — Ed.] 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


OARDENIXO    AND    ARCHITECTCKK. 


617.  The  books  we  have  upon  architecture  and  upon  ouilx'llish- 
ing  ground,  abound  in  practical  instniction,  necessary  fur  a  me- 
chanic; but  in  vain  should  we  rummage  them  for  rational  principles 
to  improve  our  taste.  In  a  general  system,  it  might  be  thought 
sufficient  to  have  unfolded  the  principles  that  govern  tlicse  and  other 
fine  arts,  leaving  the  application  to  the  reader ;  but  as  I  would  neg- 
lect no  opportunity  of  showing  the  extensive  influence  of  these  prin- 
ciples, the  purpose  of  the  piesent  chapter  is  to  apply  them  to 
gardening  and  architecture  ;  but  without  intending  any  regular  plan 
of  these  favorite  arts,  which  would  be  unsuitable  not  only  to  the 
nature  of  this  work,  but  to  the  experience  of  ita  author. 

Gardening  was  at  firet  a  useful  art :  in  the  garden  of  Alcmous, 
described  by  Homer,  we  find  nothing  done  for  pleasure  merelv 
But  gardening  is  now  improved  into  a  fine  art ;  r.nd  when  we  talk 
of  a  garden  without  any  epithet,  a  pleasnre-garden,  by  way  ol 

«16   Ma«in!»vs  ronmrks  on  iha  Grecian  drama;  upon  tl.«  iiujt»r-pl»e«  of  U»«  iDo4tra 
drama. — lohn>on.-Lord  Jefftff*  remarka  on  Um  nniUa*. 


464  GAEDENING  AND  AKCHITEOTCTRE. 

eminence,  is  understood.  The  garden  of  Alcinous,  in  modern  lan- 
guage, was  but  a  kitchen-garden.  Architecture  has  run  the  same 
course :  it  continued  many  ages  a  useful  art  merely,  without  as- 
piring to  be  classed  with  the  fine  arts.  Architecture,  therefore,  and 
gardening,  being  useful  arts  as  well  as  fine  arts,  aflford  two  different 
views.  The  reader,  however,  will  not  here  expect  rules  for  improv- 
ing 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  beauty  in  utility  ; 
and  in  discoursing  of  beauty,  that  of  utility  must  not  be  neglected! 
This  leads  us  to  consider  gardens  and  buildings  in  different  views  : 
they  may  be  destined  for  use  solely,  for  beauty  solely,  or  for  both. 
Such  variety  of  destination  bestows  upon  these  arts  a  great  com- 
mand of  beauties,  complex  no  less  than  various.  Hence  the  difii- 
culty  of  forming  an  accurate  taste  in  gardening  and  architecture ; 
and  hence  that  difference,  and  wavering  of  taste  in  these  arts,  gi-eater 
than  in  any  art  that  has  but  a  single  destination. 

618.  Architecture  and  gardening  cannot  otherwise  entertain  the 
mind,  but  by  raising  certain  agreeable  emotions  or  feelings ;  with 
which  we  must  begin,  as  the  true  foundation  of  all  the  rules  of  criti- 
cism _  that  govern  these  arts.  Poetry,  as  to  its  power  of  raising 
emotions,  possesses  justly  the  first  place  among  the  fine  arts ;  for 
scarce  any  one  emotion  of  human  nature  is  beyond  its  reach. 
Painting  and  sculpture  are  more  circumscribed,  having  the  com- 
mand of  no  emotions  but  of  what  are  I'aised  by  siglit :  they  are 
peculiariy  successful  in  expressing  painful  passions,  Avhich  are  dis- 
played by  external  signs  extremely  legible.  (See  chapter  xv.) 
Gardening,  besides  the  emotions  of  beauty  from  regularity,  ordei', 
proportion,  color,  and  utility,  can  raise  emotions  of  grandeur,  of 
sweetness,  of  gayety,  of  melancholy,  of  wildness,  and  even  of  sur- 
prise or  wonder.*     In  architectui-e,  the  beauties  of  regularity,  order, 

*["_It  cannot  be  denied  tliat  the  tasteful  improvement  of  a  country  resi- 
dence is  both  one  of  the  most  agreeable  and  the  most  natural  recreations  that 
can  occupy  a  cultivated  mind.     Witli  all  the  interest,  and  to  many,  all  the 
excitement  of  the  more  seductive  amusements  of  society,  it  has  the  incalcula- 
ble advantage  of  fostering  only  the  purest  feelings,  jind  (unlike  many  other 
occupations  of  business  men)  refining  instead  of  hardening  the  heart. 
"  The  great  German  poet,  Goethe,  says- 
Happy  the  man  who  hath  escaped  the  town, 
Him  did  an  angel  bless  when  ho  was  born. 

"With  us,  country  life  is  a  leading  object  of  nearly  all  men's  desires.  The 
wealthiest  merchant  looks  upon  his  country-seat  as  the  best  ultimatum  of  his 
laborious  days  in  the  counting-house.  The  most  indefatigable  statesman 
dates,  in  his  retirement,  from  his  'Ashland,'  or  his  'Lindenwold.'  Webster 
has  his  '  Marshfield,' where  his  scientific  agriculture  is  no  less  admirable  than 
his  profound  eloquence  in  the  Senate.  Taylor's  well-ordered  plantation  is 
not  less  significant  of  the  man,  than  the  battle  of  Buena  Vista.  Washington 
Irving's  cottage,  on  the  Hudson,  is  even  more  poetical  than  any  chapter  in  his 

617.  Gardening  as  an  art.— The  garden  of  Alcinona.  Gardening  and  bnildings  cob- 
ndered  under  two  views. 


GARDENING  ANt  ARCniTKCTURK.  4(J6 

And  proportion,  are  still  more  conspicuous  than  in  ffardeniiR:  but 
as  to  the  beauty  ot  color,  architecture  is  far  inferior.  Grandeur  can 
be  expressed  in  a  building,  perhaps  more  successfully  than  in  a 
garden  ;  but  as  to  the  other  emotions  above  mentioned,  architecture 
hitherto  has  not  been  brought  to  the  perfection  of  expressing  them 
distinctly,  lo  balance  that  defect,  architecture  can  di.pUy  the 
beauty  ot  utility  in  the  highest  perfection. 

Gardening  indeed  possesses  one  advantage,  never  to  be  equalled 
in  the  other  art:  in  various  streiu-s,  it  can  raise  successively  all  the 
different  emotions  above  mentioned.  But  to  produce  that  delicious 
ettect,  the  garden  must  be  extensive,  so  as  to  admit  a  slow  succes- 
sion ;  for  a  small  garden,  comprehended  at  one  view,  ought  to  be 
confined  to  one  expression  (see  chapter  viii.) :  it  may  be  gay,  it  mav 
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. 

619.  In  gardening,  as  well  as  in  architecture,  simplicity  ought  to 
be  a  ruling  principle.  Profuse  ornament  hath  no  better  effect  than 
to  confound  the  eye,  and  to  prevent  the  object  from  making  an  im- 
pression as  one  entire  whole.  An  artist  destitute  of  genius  for 
Cfipitai  beauties,  is  naturally  prompted  to  supply  the  defect  by  crowd- 
ing his  plan  wHth  slight  embellishments  :  hence  in  a  garden,  trium- 
phal arches,  Chinese  houses,  temples,  obelisks,  cascades,  fountains, 
without  end  ;  and  in  a  building,  pillars,  vases,  statues,  and  a  pro- 
fusion of  carved  work.  Thus  some  women  defective  in  taste,  are 
apt  to  overcharge  every  part  of  their  dress  with  ornament.  Super- 
fluity of  decoration  hath  another  bad  effect ;  it  gives  the  object  a 
diminutive  look  :  an  island  in  a  wide  extended  lake  makes  it  appear 
larger ;  but  an  artificial  lake,  which  is  always  little,  appears  still 
less  by  making  an  island  on  it. 

In  forming  plans  for  embellishing  a  field,  an  artist  without  tast« 
employs  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- 
tributes her  objects  in  great  variety  with  a  bold  hand.    A  large  field 

Sketch  Book  ;  and  Cole,  the  grentcst  of  our  landscape  paiDt«rs,  had  his  mral 
nome  under  the  very  shadow  of  the  Cat-skiib. 

"This  is  well.  In  the  United  Suites,  nnturo  and  domcotic  lift  ar«  l>«(ter 
than  society  and  the  manners  of  towns.  Hence  all  sen.oible  men  irladlr  es- 
cape,  euriicr  or  later,  and  paniolly  or  wholly,  from  the  turmoil  of  the  oltie*. 
Hence  tlie  dignity  and  value  of  country  life  is  every  day  augmcntinir.  And 
hence  the  enjoyment  of  landscape  or  ornamental  (faKleninir— which,  when  in 
pure  taste,  may  properly  be  called  <«  more  rtfintii  tin<i  of  naturt—xn  everv  Jay 
beeominsf  more  and  more  widely  ditTuscd."— Z/iw/ii/i/i  Rural  fJt$ity*,  lii"1 


618.  How  they  entertain  the  mind.— Poetry,  patatinf,  seulptuf*,  lanlwilnf  m4  anM 
t«ctur«  oomi>fi«<l,  a»  to  oower  of  raltinj  etiK>tl«niL 

•JO* 


466  GARDENING  AND  ARCHITECTURE. 

laid  out  with  stiict  regularity,  is  stiff  and  artificial*  Nature,  in- 
deed, in  organized  bodies  comprehended  under  one  view,  studies 
regularity,  which,  for  the  same  reason,  ought  to  be  studied  in  archi- 
tecture :  but  in  large  objects,  which  cannot  otherwise  be  surveyed 
but  in  parts  and  by  succession,  regularity  and  uniformity  would  be 
useless  properties,  because  they  cannot  be  discovered  by  the  eye.f 
Nature  therefore,  in  her  lai'ge  works,  neglects  these  properties ;  and 
in  copying  natuie,  the  artist  ought  to  neglect  them. 

620.  Having  thus  far  carried  on  a  comparison  between  gardening 
and  architecturej  rules  peculiar  to  each  come  next  in  order,  begin- 
ning with  gardening.  The  simplest  plan  of  a  garden,  is  that  of  a 
spot  embellished  with  a  number  of  natural  objects,  trees,  walks,  pol- 
ished parterres,  flowers,  streams,  &c.  One  more  complex  compi'c- 
hends  statues  and  buildings,  that  nature  and  ait  may  be  mutually 
ornamental.  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  ex- 
ample, gayety,  or  any  other  above  mentioned.  The  completest  plan 
of  a  gaiden  is  an  improvement  upon  the  third,  requiring  the  several 
parts  to  be  so  arranged  as  to  inspire  all  the  difierent  emotions  that 
can  be  raised  by  gardening.  In  this  plan,  the  arrangement  is  an 
important  circumstance ;  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  (chapter  viii.), 
that  when  the  most  opposite  emotions,  suck  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  mixtui'e. 
(Chapter  ii.  part  iv.)  For  this  reason,  a  ruin  affording  a  sort  of 
melancholy  pleasure,  ought  not  to  be  seen  from  a  flower-pailerre 
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  efi'ects  upoii  the  mind  are  greatly  heightened  by  their  con- 
junction. 

621.  R(^gularity  is  required  in  that  part  of  a  garden  which  is  ad- 

•  In  France  and  Italy,  a  garden  if  disposed  like  the  human  hody,  alleys,  like 
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. 

t  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  uppcai- 
aiice  its  regular  figure. 

<;i9.  Eemarks  of  Mr.  Downing. — A  peculiar  ndvAiitage  of  gardening. — Simplicity  in  grt 
4eoing  and  arciiitectare. — Embellbiliment  of  a  field. 
iiO.  PlAoa  for  a  garden. 


GAKDKNINO  AND  AKOHITBCTrBE.  487 

jacent  to  the  dwelling-house ;  Wause  an  immediate  ncce«ory  ooebt 
o  partake  the  regulanty  of  the  principal  object;  but  in  propo,iL 
to  the  distance  from  the  house  considered  as  the  centre/regularity 
ought  less  and  less  to  be  studied ;  for  in  an  extensive  plan,  it  hath  a 
tine  eftect  to  lead  the  ramd  insensibly  from  regularity  to  a  bold 
vanety.  Such  arrangement  tends  to  make  an  impression  of  irrandeur  • 
and  grandeur  ought  to  be  studied  as  much  as  possible,  even  in  a 
more  confined  plan,  by  avoiding  a  multiplicity  of  small  part*.  (Sco 
chapter  iv.)  A  small  garden,  on  the  other  hand,  which  admits  not 
graudeur,  ought  to  be  strictly  regular. 

Milton,  describing  the  ga'rdeu  of  Eden,  prefers  justly  grandeur 
before  regulanty :  ^  j      .^   & 

Flowers  worthy  of  parndisc,  which  not  nice  art    '^^^ 

In  beds  and  curious  knot^,  but  Nnture  boon  ^^ 

I'our'd  forth  profuse  on  hill,  and  dule,  and  plain: 

Both  where  the  morning  siin  first  warmly  smoto 

The  open  field,  and  where  the  unpierccd  shade 

Imbrowu'd  the  noon-tide  bowers.  Paradite  LoH,  b.  Iv. 

A  hill  covered  with  trees,  appears  more  beautiful  as  well  as  more 
lofly  than  when  naked.  To  distribute  trees  in  a  plain  requirea  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 
too  stifi'  and  formal,  to  be  agreeable :  the  crowding  withal  so  many 
objects  together,  lessens  the  pleasure  that  would  be  felt  in  a  slower 
succession. 

622.  By  a  judicious  distribution  of  trees,  other  beauties  may  bt> 
produced.  A  landscape  so  rich  as  to  engross  the  whole  attention, 
and  so  limited  as  sweetly  to  bo  comprehended  under  a  single  view, 
has  a  much  finer  efiect  than  the  most  extensive  landsca|x;  that  re- 
quires a  wandering  of  the  eye  through  successive  scenes.  Thi» 
observation  suggests  a  capital  rule  in  laying  out  a  field  ;  which  ia, 
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  thia 
rule :  let  the  prospect  be  split  into  proper  parts  by  means  of  tree*, 
studying  at  the  same  time  to  introduce  all  the  variety  possible. 

As  gardening  is  not  an  inventive  art,  but  an  imitation  of  nature, 
or  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  io 
those  of  Versailles.    Is  that  ornament  in  a  good  taste  ?     A  jet  (Ttau^ 

621.  Td  whtt  part  of  r  |Md«D  refularltjr  U  mo»t  to  W  ttaJtod.— AjrufvaKit  •rti««i 


468  GAKDENING  AND  A  RCHITECTrRE. 

being  purely  artificial,  ™y,  ^^*out  f  ^ust,  ^^^"^^  ^„*- 

sa„<f  .hnpes ;  but  a  ^^V'f^^^^l^lJ    L  the  Ltues  of  Versailles 
admits  not  any  unnatural  f  '"'"5"°'* '     '° .,u,„t  ,he  least  color  or 

Z:^vi*rmuS\l«gust;buthe,..l^lio.^^^^^^^^^ 

p„t  in  violent  action  each  '-  --^Xhe'vlSe  is  conver'ted 

not  to  devour ;  and  jet,  aS  D)   ""^"^ P       ' .  ,g  ^ut  watei 

'rt^fir^ndTe^d^erfiSlu^^^^^^^^^^ 

nientitully ;  and  mt  aeei,  luij,^      »  ^  ,     opera,  Avhere 

^sSlL"  to  ■the''  eU,-  and  c|rtai.  his  arn.y  ^^^*^ 
623  In  gardoning  every  -'^  - '  f  -"^^^^^tL  faint  imita- 
nature  has  a  fine  cflect;  on  the  otn«> 'L  The  cuttinff  overffreens 
lions  are  displeasing  to  every  one  of  taste  "'^•'™^8  ,,,  »i,tles 
i„  fte  shape  of  -™* -"^  "■^™°  Sr„rth™oncei..'^  The 
of  Pliny,  who  seems  to  be  a  Ff'-J'"™  ,;       ^^^  ),as  sup- 

propensity  to  imitation  gave  hn;th  t°''^f'/'^^^;'!;„a  insipid  the 

rsi  aS  iiy::^;!  r^,ti;T^  trx^'o? -^ 

IXs  .:  Suatf a  -rr  -eef  flZ^  "'  >='»  ^•-  'PP^ 

for  the  same  reason,  no  less  childish.t  .whimsical  ought  to 

except  just  BO  far  ns  ^nture  ever  free  tuul  no  m^^^  endeavored  to  work  in  her 
of  man's  want  of  taste  or  ''^  P  ^"J^^Jf f,u  of  instruction,  and  in  sueh  fea- 
own  spirit.  But  the  he  ds  and  J^^/and  diversified  country,  must  the  best 
tures  of  our  richest  and  ™f  ^  sm.lm?  .Tnd  dner  ^^^^.^^^^,    ^^^^  ^^^  ^^ 

hints  for  the  embellishment  of  ^^  jf.f^^t^^e  wish  our  finest  pleasure-ground 
not  any  portion  of  thewoods  and  fiel^^^^  g„,,,  ,yl    n  feature, 

scenery  to  resemble.  ^Te  "^^,^[/;"''J°;al3  i  a  choicer  manner,  by  reiecting 
of  nature,  and  to  decompose  the  materials  m  ^i^i^l,  ,i,o„]d  char- 

any  thing  foreign  to  the  spirit  of/.'*^£"^f„f  "o\mt'-V-  residence-a  landscape  in 
acterize  the  landscape  of  the  T^o^^J^l  a  nature  is  preserved-all  her  mos 
which  all  that  is  gracefii  and  b?^>^ti  in  n^^^^-^,  j  1^,  ^  ^,^^ed  refineineni 
perfect  forms  and  ^'^«V''''?-mToJSfe  on  natural  beauty,  without  im- 
bi^ViS\S"|i:^  o^S^i^;  tftth  and  freshness  of  it.  intnnsic 

«82.  Capital  rule  M  to  prospcct-Thlng*  unnstural.-  Verwllk*. 


GARDENING  AND  AECIIITECTCRE.  469 

ceit,  like  that  of  composing  verse  in  the  shape  of  an  axo  or  an  egg: 
the  walks  and  hedges  may  be  agi-ceable ;  but  in  the  form  of  a  laby- 
rinth 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. 

'J'he  gardens  of  Versailles,  executed  with  boundless  expense  by  the 
best  artists  of  that  age,  are  a  lasting  monument  of  a  taste  the  nio«t 
depraved  :  the  faults  above  mentioned,  instead  of  being  avoided,  are 
chosen  as  beauties,  and  multiplied  without  end.  Nature,  it  would 
seem,  was  deemed  too  v.ulgar  to  be  imitated  in  the  works  of  a  mag- 
nificent monarch  ;  and  for  that  reason  preference  was  given  to  things 
unnatural,  which  probably  were  mistaken  for  8up<.'rnatural.  I  have 
often  amused  myself  with  a  fanciful  reseinblance  between  these  gar- 
dens and  the  Arabian  tales  :  each  of  them  is  a  performance  intended 
for  the  amusement  of  a  great  king  :  in  the  sixteen  gardens  of  Ver- 
Bailies  there  is  no  unity  of  design,  more  than  in  the  thousand  and 
one  Arabian  tales  :  and,  lastly,  they  are  equally  unnaiural ;  groves 
of  jets  d'eau,  statues  of  animals  conversing  in  the  manner  of  ./Esop. 
water  issuing  out  of  the  mouths  of  wild  beasts,  give  an  impression 
of  faiiy-land  and  witchcraft,  no  less  than  diamond-palaces,  invisible 
rings,  spells,  and  incantations. 

624.  A  straight  road  is  the  most  agi-eeable,  because  it  shortena 
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  winding  or  waving  walk ;  for  in  surveying  the  beauties  of  an 
ornamented  field,  we  love  to  roam  from  place  to  place  at  freedom. 
Winding  walks  have  another  advantage ;  at  every  step  they  open 
new  views.  In  short,  the  walks  in  a  pleasure-ground  ought  not  to 
have  any  appearance  of  a  road  ;  my  intention  is  not  to  make  a  jour- 
ney, but  to  feast  my  eye  on  the  beauties  of  art  and  nature.  This 
rule  excludes  not  openings  directing  the  eye  to  distant  object*. 

Avoid  a  straight  avenue  directed  upon  a  dwelling-house  :  better 
far  an  oblique  approach  m  a  waving  line,  with  single  trees  and  other 
scattered  objects  interposed.  .     , 

There  are  not  many  fountains  in  a  good  taste.  Statues  of  anima.s 
vomiting  water,  which  prevail  everywhere,  stand  concemncd  as  un- 
natural. In  many  Roman  fountains,  statues  of  fishes  are  etnploycd 
to  support  a  large  basin  of  water.  This  unnatural  conceit »  not 
accountable,  unless  from  the  connection  that  water  hath  with  the 
fish  that  swim  in  it;  which  bv  the  way  shows  the  influence  of  even 
the  slighter  relations.  The  best  design  for  a  fountain  I  have  met  with 
is  what  follows.  In  an  artificial  rock,  rugged  and  abrupt  there  w  a 
cavity  out  of  sijrht  at  the  top :  the  water,  conveyiMl  to  it  by  a  pipe, 
pours  or  trickles^down  the  broken  parts  of  the  rock,  and  is  coUected 

628.  Faint  imitations  of  n»tnre.-Mr.  Downing*.  remarkK—Thlngt  WtI.1  vA  «UM^ 
c«l. — VersaiUe*. 
024.  Walks  ia  •  garden.— FooAtaina. 


4:70  GARDENING  AND  AKCHITECTUEE, 

into  a  basin  at  the  foot:  it  is  so  contrived  as  to  make  the  water  fall 

in  sheets  or  in  rills  at  pleasure. 

C2o.^  Hitheito  a  garden  has  been  treated  as  a  work  intended 
solely  for  pleasure,  or,  in  other  words,  for  giving  impressions  of  in- 
trinsic beauty.  What  comes  next  in  order  is  the  beauty  of  a  gar- 
den destined  for  use,  termed  relative  beauty;  and  this  brancli  shall 
be  dispatched  in  a  few  words.  In  gai'dening,  luckily,  relative  beauty 
need  never  stand  in  opposition  to  intrinsic  beauty :  all  the  ground 
that  can  be  requisite  for  use,  makes  but  a  small  proportion  of  an 
ornamented  field,  and  may  be  put  in  any  coiner  without  obstructing 
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  con- 
trast to  contribute  to  the  beauty  of  the  whole. 

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,  diy  under  foot,  and  taking  on  the 
appearance  of  summer  by  variety  of  evergreens.* 

t>26.  Gardening  being  in  China  brought  to  gTeater  perfection 
than  in  any  other  known  countrj',  we  shall  close  our  present  subject 
with  a  slight  view  of  Chinese  gardens,  which  are  found  entirely  ob- 
sequious to  the  principles  that  govern  every  one  of  the  fine  arts.  In 
general,  it  is  an  indispensable  law  there,  never  to  deviate  from  na- 
ture :  but  in  order  to  produce  that  degree  of  variety  which  is  pleas- 
ing, 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  flat  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  gener- 

*  A  correspondent,  whose  name  I  liitherto  have  concealed,  that  I  might  not 
be  thongrht  vain,  and  which  I  can  no  longer  conceal  (xMra.  Montagu),  writes  to 
me  ns  follows :  "  Jn  life  v,-e  generally  lay  our  account  with  prosperity,  and  sel- 
dom, very  seldom,  prepare  for  adversity.  We  carry  that  propensity  even  into 
the  structure  of  our  gardens  :  we  cultivate  the  gay  ornaments  of  summer,  rel- 
ishing no  plants  but  what  flourish  by  mild  "dews  and  gracious  sunshine : 
we  banish  from  our  thoughts  ghastly  winter,  when  the  benign  influences  of 
the  sun,  cheering  us  no  more,  are  doubly  regretted  bv  yielding  to  the  piercing 
north  wind  and  nipping  frost.  Sage  is  'the  gardener,  in  the  metaphorical  .13 
well  as  literal  sense,  who  procures  a  friendly  shelter  to  protect  us  from  December 
Btoi^ns,  and  cultivates  the  plants  that  adorn  and  enliven  that  drenrv  season, 
lie  IS  no  philosopher  who  cannot  retire  into  the  Stoic's  walk  when  the  gardens 
of  Epicurus  arc  out  of  bloom  :  he  is  too  much  a  philosopher  who  will  rigidly 
proscribe  the  flowers  and  aromatics  of  summer,  to  sit  constantlv  under  the 
cypress-shade.-' 

62.V  Relative  \>M.xxif  ofaparden.    Sumni«»  and  winter  yw(J«nt 


OARDENINO  AND  ARCHITFXTTDRK.  471 

Kl]y  conduct  to  some  interesting  object,  a  magnificent  building,  te^ 
rff.es  cut  in  n  mountain,  a  cascade,  a  grotto,  an  artificial  rock. 
Th-.ir  artificial  rivei's  are  generally  serj)entine ;  sometimes  narrow, 
noisy,  and  rapid ;  sometimes  deep,  broad,  and  slow  :  and  to  make 
the  .iceno  still  more  active,  mills  and  other  moving  machines  are 
often  erected.  In  the  lakes  awe  intei-spersed  islands;  some  barren, 
surroi'Ddcd  with  rocks  and  shoals :  others  enriched  with  even.'  thing 
that  lift  and  nature  can  furnish.  Even  in  their  cascades  ihey  avoid 
regularity,  as  forcing  nature  out  of  its  coui'se :  the  waters  are  seen 
buretin^  ir-om  the  caverns  and  windings  of  the  artificial  rocks,  here 
a  roariu^  cataract,  there  many  gentle  falls ;  and  the  stream  often 
impeded  oy  trees  and  stones,  that  seem  brought  down  by  the  vio- 
lence of  the  current.  Straight  lines  are  sometimes  indulged,  in  or- 
der to  k^jtp  in  view  some  interesting  object  at  a  distance. 

SensiLiu  of  the  influence  of  contrast,  the  Chinese  artists  deal  in 
sudden  t.tnsitions,  and  in  opposing  to  each  other  forms,  colors,  and 
shades.  The  eye  is  conducted  from  limited  to  extensive  views,  and 
from  lakvri;  and  rivers  to  plains,  hills,  and  woods :  to  dark  and  gloomy 
colors,  aie  opposed  the  more  brilHant :  the  different  masses  of  light 
and  shade  .ire  disposed  in  such  a  manner,  as  to  render  the  composi- 
tion distiuci  in  its  parts,  and  striking  on  the  whole.  In  plantations, 
the  trees  i.re  artfully  mixed  according  to  their  shape  and  color; 
those  of  spvoading  branches  with  the  pyramidal,  and  the  light  green 
with  the  dv.3p  green.  They  even  introduce  decayed  trees,  some 
erect,  and  seme  half  out  of  the  ground.*  In  order  to  heighten  con- 
trast, much  bolder  strokes  are  risked:  they  sometimes  introduce 
rough  rocfe,  dark  caverns,  trees  ill  formed,  and  seemingly  rent  by 
tempests,  or  blasted  by  lightning;  a  building  in  mins,  or  half  con- 
sumed by  file.  But  to  relieve  the  mind  from  the  harshness  of  such 
objects,  the  sA^eetest  and  most  beautiful  scenes  always  succeed. 

627.  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  t:dl.  '  The  imagination  once  roused,  is  disposed  to 
magnify  eveiy  object.  . 

Nothing  is' more  studied  in  Chinese  gardens  than  to  raise  wonder 
or  surprise.  In  scenes  calculated  for  that  end,  every  thing  app««' 
like  tairy-land  ;  a  torrent,  for  example,  conveyeil  under  ground  dM- 
zles  a  strano-er  by  its  uncommon  sound  to  guess  what  it  raav  be; 
and  to  multiply  such  uncommon  sounds  the  rocks  and  bujldings 
are  contrived  with  cavities  and  interstices.  Sometimes  one  is  led 
insensibly  into  a  dark  cavern,  terminating  unexpectedly  in  a  land- 

•  Ta-stc  hns  suij^estcd  to  Kent  tl.c  same  artifice.  A  dcoiyc.l  tree  pU«d 
properly,  contributes  to  oontr:,st ;  and  a  so  in  a  peus.ve  or  sc<  ato  ►Ule  of  rnlnd 
produces  a  sort  of  pity  grounded  on  .an  imaginary  pen^omfloat.on. 


tK  CblneM  rirtlen*     >  tfwponJenw  wtU>  n«nj%    UiOm 


472 


GARDENING  AND  A  RCHrrKClTJRE. 


scape  enriched  with  all  that  natui-e  affords  the  most  delicious.  At 
other  times,  beautiful  walks  insensibly  conduct  to  a  rough  unculti- 
vated field,  where  bushes,  briers,  and  stones  interrupt  the  passage : 
looking  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. 

628.  These  cursory  observations  upon  gardening,  shall  be  closed 
\yith  some  reflections  that  must  touch  every  reader.  Rough  uncul- 
tivated ground,  dismal  to  the  eye,  inspires' peevishness  and  discon- 
tent :  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  am 
pie  pi'ovision  he  has  made  for  our  happiness.  Ought  not  the  spec- 
tator to  be  filled  with  gratitude  to  his  Maker,  and  with  benevolence 
lo  his  fellow-creatures  ?  Other  fine  arts  may  be  perverted  to  excite 
irregular,  and  even  vicious  emotions  :  but  gardening,  which  inspiies 
the  purest  and  most  refined  pleasures,  cannot  fail  to  promote  every 
good  affection.  The  gayety  and  harmony  of  mind  it  produceth,  in- 
clining the  spectator  to  communicate  his  satisfaction  to  others,  and 
to  make  them  happy  as  he  is  himself,  tend  naturally  to  establish  in 
hijn  a  habit  of  hun)anity  and  benevolence.* 

It  IS  not  easy  to  suppress  a  degi-ee  of  enthusiasm  when  we  reflect 
on  the  advantages  of  gardening  with  respect  to  viituous  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  of  many  colleges  pent  within  narrow  bounds  in  populous 
cities,  is  rendered  in  a  measure  insensible  to  the  elegant  beauties  of 
art  and  natiue.  Is  there  no  man  of  fortune  sufl3ciently  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 
spacious  garden,  sweetly  ornamented,  but  without  any  thing  glaiing 
or  fantastic,  so  as  upon  the  whole  to  inspire  our  youth  with  a  t<iste 
no  less  for  simplicity  than  for  elegance.  In  that  respect,  the  univer- 
sity of  Oxford  may  justly  be  deemed  a  model. 

629.  Having  finished  what  occurred  on  gardening,  I  proceed  to 
rules  and  observations  that  more  peculiariy  concern  architecture. 
Architecture,  being  a:  useful  as  well  as  a  fine  art,  leads  us  to  distin- 
guish buildings  and  parts  of  buildings  into  three  kinds,  namely,  what 

*  The- manufactures  of  silk,  flax,  and  cotton,  in  tlieir  present  advance  to- 
wards pertuction,  may  be  held  as  infurior  branches  of  the  fine  arts:  because 
theirproductions  m  dress  and  in  furniture  inspire,  like  them,  gay  and  kindly 
emotions  favorable  to  morality. 

627.  The  Chinese  gardens  give  play  to  the  imagination.  Artifices  for  raieiiig  wonda 
and  surprise.  " 

633.  Adv«titag«g  of  (ordMing- 


6AEDENINQ  AND  AECHITECTDRK.  478 

are  intended  for  utility  solely,  what  for  ornament  solely,  «nd  what 
tor  both.  Buildings  intended  for  utility  mMy,  such  as  detached 
oftices,  ought  in  every  part  to  correspond  precisely  to  that  intention: 
the  slightest  deviation  from  the  end  in  view  will' by  ever>-  person  ol 
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.  IJut  in  things  in- 
tended for  ornament,  such  as  pillars,  obelisks,  triumpl  al  arches, 
beauty  ought  alone  to  be  regarded.  A  heathen  temple  mu«t  be 
considered  as  merely  ornamental ;  for  being  dedicated  to  some  dei- 
ty, 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,  resj)ects"building8  that  are  in- 
tended to  be  useful"  as  well  as  ornamental.  These  ends,  employing 
different  and  often  oppasite  means,  are  seldom  united  in  perfection : 
and  the  only  practicable  method  in  such  buildings  is,  to  favor  orna- 
ment less  or  more  according  to  the  character  of  the  building:  in 
palaces  and  other  edifices  sufficiently  extensive  to* admit  a  variety  of 
useful  contrivance,  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  opjX)sition  to  con- 
venience.* 

Intrinsic  and  relative  beauty  being  founded  on  different  principles, 
must  be  handled  separately.  I  begin  with  relative  beauty,  as  of  the 
greater  importance. 

630.  The  proportions  of  a  door  are  determined  by  the  use  to 
which  it  is  destined.  The  door  of  a  dwelling-house,  which  ouglu 
to  correspond  to  the  human  size,  is  confined  to  seven  or  eight  feel  in 
height,  and  three  or  four  in  breadth.  The  proportions  proper  for 
the  door  of  a  barn  or  coach-house,  are  widely  different.  Another 
consideration  enters.  To  study  intrinsic  beauty  in  a  coach-house  or 
bam,  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 
proportions  dictated  by  utility :  it  ought  to  be  elevated,  and  ap- 
proached by  steps;  and  it  may  be  adorned  with  pillat«  supporting 
an  architrave,  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  time,  regulates  tlxe  height,  as  will 
appear  by  and  by.     The  size  of  windows  ought  to  be  proportioned 


*  A  building  mnst  bo  lar>rc  to  proihicc  nnv  sensible  emotion  of  repnlarltr, 
proportion,  or'beauty  ;  wliieli  is  iin  ad.litioiial  reason  for  mindinjr  convenience 
only  in  u  dwelling-houso  of  small  sizo. 


629.  Buildings  and  parts  of  buildings  dlstlnirol»he.1  Into  threo  ktnd«.-Bot!<»tiW  «a»««HM 
fcr  use  solely —Things  li  tended  for  ornanjent— Kule  tor  bulldiOg*  loHixl*!  to  6«  «ii«ll 
M  well  a$  ornamentaL 


i.74 

GARDENING  AND  AECniTKCTUBK, 

Nothing  can  be  more  evadent,  than  that  the  form  nf  o  a     u- 
house  ought  to  be  suited  to  the^Iima  f  and^Sl  error  7^  ^'^" 

SSHS"— ^"-'^ 

ih^^^\^^'''''-^  said  what  appeared  necessaiy  upon  relative  beautv 
Oie  next  step  is,  to  view  architecture  as  one  of  the  C  ate-  wW  :l' 
wil  lead  us  to  the  examination  of  such  building  and  ia^^  of 
buildings,  as  are  calculated  solely  to  please  the  eye^'  L  thf^r^ 
of  Nature,  rich  and  magnificent,  variety  prevails  ;  and  in  wo  W 

m\\JtX         ^  ^''"'^"^  °"^^'  ^•^  "^"^  sumptuous  and  g  and -f 
pmate  d^^ellmg,  neat  and  modest;  a  playhouse,  gay  and  Slendid 
and  a  monumen^t^gloom^^d^^^  hemin  tempTeti' 

MOnthesubject^oiTr^^     consult  Alison  on^Tas^c,  pp.  095-823.] 


OAKDHNLVO  ASD  AKCHITECTDIm.  47J 

that  ,esp„ct  it  o„g:,t  ,„  W  .o,„c.;v    a  d  ,kfc:,rS;,;  "";'  '" 
MJuoH.     A  l.hn.stian  church  is  not  cons  dered  to  be  a  hmL  f„r  .iT 

d.tierent  proportions  serve  to  express  luftinei,  vXZ^  &c    ^  Lu 
as  strengtJi.     Situation  also  may  contribute  t^  exprSn     com-!n 
ency  regu  ates  the  situation  o/a  private  dwell  n^^ToZ--  ZZ 
situation  of  a  palace  ought  to  be  lot\y  *  ' 

G32  And  this  leads  to  a  question,  Whether  the  situation  where 
here  happens  to  be  no  choice,  ought  in  any  measure  to  rZlaVZ 
fomi  of  the  edmce  ?  The  connection  between  a  large  houS^and  U.o 
Sv  r''''H%''°"^^'  ,ot  intimate,  demands  hoCr  Lfcot 
^ru,  y.  It  would,  for  example,  displease  us  to  find  an  elegant  build- 
mg  thrown  away  upon  a  wild  uncultivated  country:  conffruity^ 
quires  a  polished  field  for  such  a  building;  and  besides  xl!^lZ 
ot  congruity,  the  spectator  is  sensible  of  the  pleasure  of  concordance 

Tr.SpT'''r^''*^/^,''"^*'°°^  P'"^"^^^  ^y^^  two  0bK>CtS. 
Ihe  old  Gothic  form  of  building  seems  well  suited  to  the  rough  uu- 

i,«  21"  ■  '^°""*ry'  ^^■'"^'•e  so  many  arc  able  to  ucliicvc  a  home  for  tlicm^Kc, 
than  wf  n«f  "k*"*'  P"'''l"  "  "^"^^  beantiful  and  ta.tef.,1  n,X  Ja  Sn,  on 
than  his  neighbors,  13  a  benefactor  to  the  cause  of  moraJitv  bochI  onlcr  and 

S  ZiT^l^\r^u''^^''''P''T^  arclntccture.  The  rock  on  which  all  no^^ 
SvW,?  Pa,  ^'Tl^H'  counfie-^-this  dangerous  rock  i«  w^nl  o/jitnt**cr 
tor  1  i'o.r  f''T  ''H°  '^"'P'*^^'  churches,  or  cathedrals.     Ut  then  Ik>,  charac- 

larm-l.oiisc  the  villa  a  villa;  and  the  mansion  a  mansion.  Do  not  attempt  to 
frJ  i"^,"^'"^-'.''^  "'T  jour  <arm  after  the  fashion  of  tho  town-honse  of  Uur 
ir  eiul,  the  city  merchant;  do  not  attempt  to  ifive  the  modest  little  eotu«'  th« 
ambitious  a,r  Of  the  ornate  villa.  Be  a*.nred  that  there  i.,  if  yon  willTc.rch 
lor  It,  a  peculiar  I.eaiity  that  bclon«rs  to  each  of  tho->o  clasxes  of'^buiMiiu-*  that 
liei-rhtens  and  adorns  it  almost  inai<ically ;  while,  if  it  borrow*  the  ornamcnU 
01  tlic  other,  it  is  only  deba>ed  and  falsified  in  diameter  and  exnrc^ion.  Th» 
most  expensive  and  elaborate  .structure,  overlaid  wiUi  costiv  om.imcnt»,  will 
i«u  to  give  a  ray  of  pleasure  to  the  mind  of  real  t«--.te,  if  it  ii.  not  ■ppn>pha»>  to 
tae  purpose  1 1  view,  or  the  mcaaa  or  position  of  its  oconpant."! 


476  GAKDENINO  AND  ARCHITECTUKB. 

cultiyated  regions  where  it  was  invented  :  ihe  only  mistake  was  the 
tranrfening  this  form  to  the  fine  plains  of  France  and  Italy,  better 
fitted  for  buildings  in  the  Grecian  tciste ;  but  by  refining  upon  the 
Gothic  form,  every  thing  possible  has  been  done  to  reconcile  it 
\o  its  new  situation.  The  profuse  variety  of  wild  and  grand  objects 
about  Inverary,  demanded  a  house  in  the  Gothic  form ;  and  eveiy 
one  must  approve  the  taste  of  the  pi-oprietor,  in  adjusting  so  finely 
the  appearance  of  his  house  to  that  of  the  country  where  it  is  placed. 

633.  Next  of  07-naments,  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 
appearance.  But  considering  the  diflferent  purposes  of  architecture, 
a  fine  as  well  as  a  useful  art,  there  is  no  good  reason  why  oraaments 
may  not  be  added  to  please  the  eye  without  any  relation  to  use. 
This  liberty  is  allowed  in  poetry,  painting,  and  gardening,  and  why 
not  in  architecture  considered  as  a  fine" art?  A  private  dwelhng- 
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  in- 
tended chiefly  or  solely  for  show,  admit  every  sort  of  ornament. 

A  thing  intended  merely  as  an  ornament,  may  be  of  any  figiu-e 
and  of  any  kind  that  fancy  can  suggest ;  if  it  please  the  spectator, 
the  artist  gains  his  end.  Statues,  vases,  sculpture  upon  stone, 
whether  basso  or  alto  relievo,  are  beautiful  ornaments  relished  in  all 
civilized  countries.  The  placing  such  ornaments  so  as  to  produce 
the  best  eftect,  is  the  only  nicety.  A  statue  in  perfection  is  an  en- 
chanting work ;  and  we  natuially  require  that  it  should  be  seen  in 
every  direction,  and  at  difierent  distances ;  for  which  reason,  statues 
employed  as  ornaments  are  proper  to  adorn  the  great  staircase  that 
leads  to  the  piincipal  door  of  a  palace,  or  to  occupy  the  void  be- 
tween pillars. 

634.  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  tiial,  we  find  many  things  es- 
teemed as  highly  ornamental  that  have  little  or  no  beauty.  There 
are  various  circumstances,  besides  beauty,  that  tend  to  make  an 
agreeable  impression.  For  instance,  the  reverence  we  have  for  the 
ancients  is  a  fruitful  source  of  oniaments.  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  foi  ms ;  and  yet 
Selinus  and  his  companions  are  everywhere  fashionable  ornaments. 
What  else  but  our  fondness  for  antiquity  can  make  the  horrid  form 
of  a  sphinx  so  much  as  endurable  ?     Onginal  destination  is  another 


632.  Whether  situation  should  regulate  the  form  of  the  edifice. 

683.  Ornaments;  whether  any  but  what  are  useftil  may  be  adtnitud.— Tho  fomi  of  tof 
tnlcg  intendeil  merely  for  ornanacnt    Tho  placing  of  such  ornaments.— Stat  tea. 


GARDENING  AND  ABCHITECTUKJE.  477 

Circumstance  that  has  influence  to  add  dignity  to  thinm  in  them- 
selves  abundantly  trivial.  Triumphal  archa^  pyramids  oWliala,  ar« 
beautiful  forms  ;  but  the  nobleoess  of  their  original  destination  has 
greatly  enhanced  the  pleasure  we  take  in  thera.  Long  robes  appear 
noble,  not  smgly  for  their  flowing  lines,  but  for  their  beinj?  the  habit 
of  naagistrates.  These  examples  may  be  thought  sufticient  for  m 
specimen  :  a  diligent  inquiry  mto  human  nature  will  discover  other 
ii^ueneing  pnnciples;  and  hence  it  is,  that  of  all  subjects,  ornamenU 
admit  the  greatest  variety  in  point  of  taste. 

635.  And  this  leads  to  ornaments  having  relation  to  use.  Orna- 
ments of  that  kind  are  governed  by  a  diflerent  principle,  which  is, 
that  they  ought  to  be  of  a  form  suited  to  their  real  or  apparent 
destination.  This  rule  is  applicable  as  well  to  ornaments  that  make 
a  component  ])art  of  the  subject,  as  to  ornaments  that  are  onlv  ac- 
cessory. An  eagle's  paw  is  an  ornament  improper  for  the  foot' of  • 
chair  or  table  :  because  it  gives  it  the  appearance  of  weakness,  in- 
consistent with  its  destination  of  bearing  weight.  Blind  window* 
are  sometimes  introduced  to  preserve  the  appearance  of  regularity : 
in  which  case  the  deceit  ought  carefully  to  be  concealed :  if  visible, 
it  marks  the  iiregularity  in  the  clearest  manner,  signifying,  that  real 
windows  ought  to  have  been  there,  could  they  have  been  made  con- 
sistent with  the  internal  structure.  A  pilaster  is  another  example 
of  the  same  sort  of  ornament ;  and  the  greatest  error  against  its 
seeming  destination  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  in  fashion 
for  a  candlestick ;  but  none  of  these  pailiculars  is  in  any  degree 
suited  to  that  destination. 

A  large  marble  basin  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  desti- 
nation. 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  ? 

636.  With  respect  now  to  the  pails  of  a  column,  a  bare  uniform 
cylinder  without  a  capital  appeai-s  naked;  and  without  a  base,  ap- 
peal's too  ticklishly  placed  to  stand  firm  ;*  it  ought  therefore  to 
nave  some  finishing  at  the  top  and  at  the  bottom,  lleuce  llie  three 
chief  parts  of  a  column,  the  shaft,  the  base,  and  the  capital.    Nature 

*  A  column  without  a  buso  U  dl«ai;rcoable,  becauso  it  »«eins  in  s  totterinf 
condition ;  yet  a  tree  without  a  base  Is  agreeable  ;  aati  the  reason  i»,  that  w« 
know  it  to  he  firmly  rooted.  This  observation  8bo\r«  how  much  ta.«te  ia  infla- 
«nced  by  reflection. 

634.  Things  ornamental  that  hare  little  or  no  l)«aaty.— lUrerMie*  for  Um  ainlfl»  • 
scarce  of  ornninent.<t.     Illustratiors. 

635.  Ornaments  for  bm.  Kale  for  their  fonn.  Violatioii*  of  food  taite  la  UUt  pm- 
Ucular. 


^78  GARDENING  AND  ARCHlTECTtritE- 

umloubtedly  requires  proportion  among  these  parts,  but  it  admits 
variety  of  proportion. 

We  find  three  orders  of  columns  among  the  Greeks,  the  Doric, 
the  Ionic,  and  the  Corinthian,  distinguished  from  each  other  by 
their  destination  as  well  as  by  their  ornaments.  It  has  been  warmly 
disputed,  whether  any  new  order  can  be  added  to  these ;  some  hold 
the  affirmative,  and  give  for  instances  the  Tuscan  and  Composite ; 
othei-s  deny,  and  maintain  that  these  properly  are  not  distinct  orders, 
but  ouly  the  oiiginal  ordei-s  with  some  slight  variations.  Among 
writei's  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. 

637.  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  ordei-s  without  end;  for  a  color  is  not  more 
susceptible  of  difterent  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  sup- 
porting plain  and  massy  buildings ;  one  delicate  and  graceful,  for 
supporting  buildings  of  that  character ;  and  between  these,  one  for 
supporting  buildings  of  a  middle  character. 

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. 

638.  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.  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  accidentally  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  appearance  inconsistent 
with  its  destination. 

639.  With  respect  to  buildings  of  every  sort,  one  rule,  dictated  by 
utility,  is,  that  they  be  firm  and  stable.  Another  rule,  dictated  by 
beauty,  is,  that  they  also  appear  so ;  for  what  appears  tottering  and 
in  hazard  of  tumbling,  produceth  in  the  spectator  the  painful  emo- 

636.  Chief  parts  of  a  column. — Three  orders  of  colnmns. 
63T.  Circam3tanc«s  that  distinguish  one  order  from  anotber. 
C3&  The  oTuanientt  of  the  tliree  <miere.— The  OorintbiM  OTd«& 


OAEDENINO  AND  ARCHITECTUEE.  if^ 

bon  of  fear  instead  of  the  pleasant  emotion  of  beauty;  ami,  accord- 
mgly,  1  ,s  the  great  care  ot"  the  artist,  that  every  part  of  hi,  edifice 
appear  to  be  well  supported.  Procopius,  dencnbiig  the  c-hurch  of 
fc>t.  bophia,  lu  Constantinople,  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  world  men- 
tions with  app  ause  a  part  of  the  fabric  placed  above  the  easi  front 
m  torra  of  a  half-moon,  so  contrived  as  to  inspire  both  fear  and 
admiration;  for  though,  says  he,  it  is  i>erfectlv  well  supported  vet 
It  IS  suspended  in  such  a  manoer  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.  * 

640.  To  succeed  in  allegorical  or  emblematical  ornaments  is  no 
slight  effort  of  genius ;  for  it  is  extremely  difficult  to  dispose  them 
so  m  a  building  as  to  produce  any  good  etfect.  The  mixing  them 
with  realities,  makes  a  mi.serable  jumble  of  truth  and  fiction.  (.See 
chap.  XX.  sect,  v.)  But  this  is  not  all,  nor  the  chief  point ;  every  em- 
blem ought  to  be  rejected  that  is  not  clearly  expressive  of  iu  mcaiiiing ; 
for  if  it  be  in  any  degree  obscure,  it  puzzles,  and  doth  not  please. 

The  statue  of  Moses  striking  a  rock  from  which  water  actually 
issues,  is  in  a  false  taste ;  for  it  is  mixing  reality  with  representation. 
Moses  himself  may  bring  water  out  of  Ihe  rock,  but  this  miracle  is 
too  much  for  his  statue.  The  same  objection  lies  against  the  cascade 
where  the  statue  of  a  water-god  pours  out  of  his  urn  rejjl  water. 

641.  It  is  observed  above  of  gardenitig,  that  it  contributes  to  rec- 
titude of  manners,  by  inspiring  gayety  and  benevolence.  I  add  an- 
other observation.  That  both  gardening  and  architecture  contribute 
to  the  same  end,  by  inspiring  a  taste  for  neatness  and  elegance.  In 
Scotland,  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, 
firet  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. 

[In  concluding  this  chapter,  another  brief  extract  will  be  given 
from  Downing's  Rural  Essays. — £d. 

"Two  grand  errors  are  the  fertile  causes  of  all  the  failures  in  the 
rural  improvements  of  the  United  States  at  the  present  momeoL 
The  first  eiror  lies  in  supposing  tliat  good  taste  is  a  natural  gift 
which  springs  heaven-bom  into  perfect  existence,  needing  no  culli- 
yation  or  improvement.  The  second  is  in  supposing  that  taste  alooe 
is  sufficient  to  the  protluction  of  extensive  or  complete  works  in  ar- 
chitecture or  landscape-gardening. 

"Now,  although  that  delicacy  of  organizatiou,  usually  a«lled  taste, 
is  a  natural  gift,  which  can  no  more  be  acquiroil  than  hearing  cao 

639.  Rnlesfor  bnlMines  of  every  sort. —The  ehur-.h  nfSt  S«>pbl& 
&4Q.  AUe(;orio«]  oretnl>l«mstiflomsin«ot». 


4B0  STANDARD  OF  TASTE. 

be  by  a  deaf  man,  yet,  in  most  persons,  this  sensibility  to  the  Beau- 
tiful may  be  cultivated  and  ripened  into  good  taste  by  the  stvdy  and 
comparison  of  beautiful  productions  in  nature  and  art. 

"  This  is  precisely  what  we  wish  to  insist  upon,  to  all  persons  about 
to  commence  rural  establishments,  who  have  not  a  cultivated  or  just 
taste ;  but  only  sensibility,  or  what  they  would  call  a  natural  taste. 
....  The  study  of  the  best  productions  in  the  fi^ne  arts  is  not  more 
necessary  to  the  success  of  the  young  painter  and  sculptor  than  that 
of  buildings  and  grounds  to  the  amateur  or  professional  improver 
who  desires  to  improve  a  country  residence  Avell  and  tastefully.  In 
both  cases  comparison,  discrimination,  the  use  of  the  reasoning  fac- 
ulty, educate  the  natural  delicacy  of  perception  into  taste,  more  or 
less  just  and  perfect,  and  enable  it  not  only  to  arrive  at  Beauty,  but 
to  select  the  most  beautiful  for  the  end  in  view. 

"  There  are  at  the  present  moment,  without  going  abroad,  oppor- 
tunities of  cultivating  a  taste  in  landscape  gardening,  quite  suflBcient 
to  enable  any  one  of  natural  sensibility  to  the  Beautiful,  combined 
with  good  reasoning  powers,  to  arrive  at  that  point  which  may  be 
considered  good  taste.  .  .  .  The  study  of  books  on  taste  is  by  no 
means  to  be  neglected  by  the  novice  in  rural  embellishment ;  but 
the  practical  illustrations  of  different  styles  and  principles,  to  be 
found  in  the  best  cottage  and  villa  residences,  are  far  more  convincing 
and  instructive  to  most  minds,  than  lessons  taught  in  any  other  mode 
whatever.  .... 

"  We  think,  also,  there  can  scarcely  be  a  question  that  an  exami- 
nation of  the  best  examples  of  taste  in  rural  improvement  at  home, 
is  far  more  instructive  to  an  American,  than  an  inspection  of  the 
finest  country  places  in  Europe ;  and  this,  chiefly,  because  a  really 
successful  example  at  home  is  based  upon  republican  modes  of  lite 
enjoyment  and  expenditure,  which  are  almost  the  reverse  of  those 
of  an  aristocratic  government.  ...  No  more  should  be  attempted 
than  can  be  done  well,  and  in  perfect  harmony  with  our  habits, 
mode  of  life,  and  domestic  institutions." — Rural  Essays,  iii.l 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

STANDARD    OF   TASTE. 

[The  following  chapter  Is  taken  from  one  of  Dr.  Blair's  Lectures,  being  fer  superior  to  the 
one  of  I^rd  Kames,  here  omitted] 

642.  It  must  be  acknowledged,  that  no  principle  of  the  human 
mmd  is,  in  its  operations,  more   fluctuating  and  capricious  than 

641.  How  gardening  and  architecture  contribute  to  rectitude  of  manners.— Scotland.— 
Two  errors. — How  taiXe  may  be  improved. — OpportUEiities  offered 


STANDARD  OF  TASTK.  4g^ 

taste.     Its  variations  have  been  sn  rwoaf  „«^  /„ 

suspicion  with  some  of  Tts^bT^Sl     L^"^"''  «  to  create  . 

foundation,  ascertainaSe  by  no^stTnTalVb^^^^^  "°  "^ 

or  regular  inquiries  concerning  the  objects  of  Li? wi,lt  •        t 
architecture,  the  Grecian  models  wei^Tng  l^^ld  S:  Zi  J^ 

Ind  i'  ^"^r1l°^?^^^*'^  «^^^"«  arcl^tectrSo^p^'reTai^ 
and  afterwards  the  Grecian  taste  revived  in  all  its  vW3 1' 
grossed  the  public  admiration.  In  eloquence  a^dT^tJJ  the 
Asiatics  at  no  time  relished  anv  thing  but  what  w^  fK'oria' 
ment  aad  spJendni  m  a  degree  tfiat  we"  should  denominate  LudV 

I^  J^t  ^f'^^  "^"^^^^^  """^y  «J»^«*«  «°d  simple  ZmtS^JA 
despised  the  Asiatic  ostentation.  In  our  own  oc^fnti^Vhow^^ 
wntm^  tha  were  greatly  extolled  two  or  three  con?u'riesiriS 
now  fallen  into  entire  disrepute  and  oblivion  !  Without  gdnTudk 
to  remold  instances,  how  very  different  is  the  taste  of  p(ltry  which 
prevails  in  Great  Britain  now,  fh>m  what  prevailed  the^n^  lon^r 
Z.^  ^J  '"'^r  ^^  ^'°^  ^^^'^''  "•'  ^-^'^b  the  auUiore  too  of  & 
XltT^-  *""  "^"P-^  ^r-  ^^^'^  ^ll^i«g  >vas  in  vogue  but  an 
affected  bnlhancy  of  wit;  when  the  simple  Sajesty  of  Milton  was 
overlooked,  and  Paradise  Lost  almost  entirely  u^nlcnown ;  wL" 
Cowley  s  labored  and  unnatural  conceits  were  admired  as  the  very 
ouintessence  of  genius ;  Waller's  gay  sprightHness  was  mistaken  (Z 
the  tender  spint  of  love  poetry;  and  such  writers  as  Suckling  and 
fc-thendge  were  held  m  esteem  for  dramatic  composition  ? 

Ihe  question  is,  what 'conclusion  we  are  to  Ibrm  from  such  in- 
stances as  these  ?  Is  there  any  thing  that  can  be  called  a  standaixl 
ot  taste,  by  appealing  to  which  we  may  distinguish  between  a  irood 
and  a  bad  taste  ?  Or,  is  there  in  truth  no  such  distinction  ?  and  are 
we  io  hold  that,  according  to  the  proverb,  there  is  no  disputing  of 
tastes ;  but  tiiat  whatever  pleases  is  right,  for  the  reason  that  it  doe. 
please  ?  this  is  the  question,  and  a  very  nice  and  subUe  one  it  is. 
which  we  are  now  to  discuss. 

643.  I  begin  by  observing,  that  if  there  be  no  such  thing  as  any 
standard  of  taste,  this  consequence  must  immediately  follow,  that  all 
tastes  are  equally  good;  a  position,  which,  though  it  may  pass  un- 
noticed in  slight  matters,  and  when  we  speak  of  the  lesser  differences 
among  the  tastes  of  men,  yet  when  wo  apply  it  to  the  extreme^ 
presently  shows  its  absurdity.  For  is  there  anv  one  who  will 
seriously  maintain  that  the  taste  of  a  Hottentot  or  a  Uj^lander  is  aa 
dehcate  and  as  correct  as  that  of  a  Longinus  or  an  Addison  i  or,  that 
he  can  bo  charged  with  no  defect  or  incapacity  who  thinks  a  com- 
mon news-writer  as  excellent  an  historian  as  Tacitus  i  As  it  would 
be  held  downri^t  extravagance  to  talk  in  this  manner,  we  are  led 

643.  Fluctuations  of  taste.    Inference  tlience  drawn  hy  some  — Ta«tc  In  archltcctorai    la 
Woqucnoc  aiid  poetry.— QuesUons  suggested  by  fluctuaUooa  ia  la«t«k 


482  STANDARD  OF  TASTE. 

unavoidably  to  this  conclusion,  that  there  is  some  foundation  for  the 
preference  of  one  man's  taste  to  that  of  another ;  or,  that  there  is  a 
good  and  a  bad,  a  right  and  a  wrong  in  taste,  as  in  other  things. 

But  to  prevent  mistakes  on  this  subject,  it  is  necessary  to  observe 
next,  that  the  diversity  of  tastes  which  prevails  among  mankind,  does 
not  in  every  case  infer  corruption  of  taste,  or  oblige  us  to  seek  for 
some  standard  in  order  to  determine  who  are  in  the  right.  The 
tastes  of  men  may  differ  very  considerably  as  to  their  object,  and  yet 
none  of  them  be  wrong.  One  man  relishes  poetry  most ;  another 
takes  pleasure  in  nothing  but  history  :  one  prefers  comedy ;  another, 
tragedy :  one  admires  the  simple ;  another,  the  ornamented  style. 
The  young  are  amused  with  gay  and  sprightly  compositions.  The 
elderly  are  more  entertained  with  those  of  a  gi-aver  cast.  Some 
nations  delight  in  bold  pictures  of  manners,  and  strong  representa- 
tions of  passion.  Others  inchne  to  more  con-ect  and  regular  elegance 
both  in  description  and  sentiment.  Though  all  dififer,  yet  all  pitch 
upon  some  one  beauty  which  peculiarly  suits  their  turn  of  mind  ; 
and  therefore  no  one  has  a  title  to  condemn  the  rest.  It  is  not  in 
matters  of  taste,  as  in  questions  of  mere  reason,  where  there  is  but 
one  conclusion  that  can  be  true,  and  all  the  rest  are  erroneous. 
Truth,  which  is  the  object  of  reason,  is  one ;  beauty,  which  is  the 
object  of  taste,  is  manifold.  Taste,  therefore,  admits  of  latitude  and 
diversity  of  objects,  in  suflBcient  consistency  with  goodness  or  justness 
of  taste. 

644.  But  then,  to  explain  this  matter  thoroughly,  I  must  observe 
Either  that  this  admissible  diversity  of  tastes  can  only  have  place 
where  the  objects  of  taste  are  different.  Where  it  is  with  respect 
to  the  same  object  that  men  disagree,  when  one  condemns  that  as 
ugly,  which  another  admires  as  highly  beautiful ;  then  it  is  no  longer 
diversity,  but  direct  opposition  of  taste  that  takes  place ;  and  there- 
fore one  must  be  in  the  right,  and  another  in  the  wrong,  unless  that 
absurd  paradox  were  allowed  to  hold,  that  all  tastes  are  equally  good 
and  true.  One  man  prefers  Virgil  to  Homer.  Suppose  that  I,  on 
the  other  hand,  admire  Homer  more  than  Virgil.  I  have  as  yet  no 
reason  to  say  that  our  tastes  are  contradictory.  The  other  person  is 
more  struck  with  the  elegance  and  tenderness  which  are  the  chaiao- 
teristics  of  Virgil ;  I,  with  the  simplicity  and  fire  of  Homer.  As 
long  as  neither  of  us  deny  that  both  Homer  and  Virgil  have  great 
beauties,  our  difference  falls  within  the  compass  of  that  diversity  of 
tastes,  which  I  have  showed  to  be  natural  and  allowable.  But  if  the 
other  man  shall  assert  that  Homer  has  no  beauties  whatever ;  that 
he  holds  him  to  be  a  dull  and  spiritless  writer,  and  that  he  would  as 
soon  peruse  any  old  legend  of  knight-errantry  as  the  Iliad  ;  then  I 
exclaim,  that  my  antagonist  either  is  void  of  all  taste,  or  that  his 


643.  If  there  Tje  no  standard,  what  absurd  cohsoijiiojicp  will  follow  f— Dlrerslty  of  tast» 

*pes  not  alvays  Infer  corruptlou  of  taste. 


STANDARD  OF  TASTE.  4M 

taste  18  corrupted  in  a  mistrable  deirree  •  anH  I  «n»^«-i  .      u  . 
^..r^^  thinlc  the  standaM  of  ^..Tlo^^'tL'  tKi  L'^t 

Jlrellt^AT"'"'^'''^  "  '°  "^''^^' '°  ^"^'^  oPP«^''on  of  tasted 
we  are  obhged  to  have  recourse,  remains  to  be  traced     A  ^t»^^ 

properly  s,gn,fies  that  which  is  of  such  undoubted  authori^lt 

be  the  test  of  other  things  of  the  same  kind.    Thus  a  "tendl^ 

weight  or  measure,  is  that  which  is  appointed  by  law  to  ^X^M 

dard  of  good  breeding;  and  the  scripture  of  theological  math 
When  we  say  that  nature  is  the  standard  of  tasteT  we  lav  down  . 

ti^t  .;  i  •  /  ""^  '^^"'^  ^'^  ^'"'^^'^^^  ^^  ^°teided  of  some  object 
that  exists  in  nature,  as  m  representing  human  character  or  actiotl 
confomiity  to  nature  affords  a  full  and  distinct  critSon  of  wha^t 
truly  beautiful.     Reason  hath  in  such  cases  full  sco^  for  exeSn^ 

^trS^r"n^'-^'PPRT°f  "'•  '^-^^-^^^S,  by  compa??ng  the  Sp? 
with  the  original.  But  there  are  innumerable  caiea  in  which  tSl 
ru^  cannot  be  at  all  applied;  and  conformity  to  naturejs  an  « 
pression  frequently  used,  without  any  distinct  or  determinate  mZ- 
mf:  1  ""f  therefore  search  for  somewhat  that  can  be  rendered 
more  clear  and  precise,  to  be  the  standard  of  taste, 
infln  I  '  ?u  •^^"^'^  explained  it,  is  ultimately  founded  on  an 

interna  sense  of  beauty,  which  is  natural  to  men,  and  which,  in  ita 
application  to  particular  objects,  is  capable  of  being  guided  and  en- 
ightened  by  reason      Now  were  there  any  one  pei^n  who  po»e«ed 
m  tull  perfection  all  the  powers  of  human  nature,  whose  interMl 
senses  were  m  every;  instance  exquisite  and  just,  and  whose  reason 
was  unemng  and  sure,  the  determinations  of  such  a  person  con- 
cerning beauty,  would,  beyond  doubt,  be  a  perfect  standard  for  the 
tMte  of  all  others.     Wherever  their  taste  differed  from  his,  it  could 
oe  imputed  only  to  some  imperfection  in  their  natural  powers.     But 
M  there  is  110  such  Imng  standard,  no  one  person  to  whom  all  man- 
Jnnd  will  allow  such  submission  to  be  due,  what  is  there  of  sufficient 
authority  to  be  the  standard  of  the  various  and  opposite  tastea  of 
men  ?     Most  certainly  there  is  nothing  but  the  taste,  as  far  as  it  can 
pe  gathered,  of  human  nature.     That  which  men  concur  the  most 
m  admiring,  must  be  held  to  be  beautiful.     Uis  taste  must  be  es- 
teemed just  and  true,  which  coincides  with  the  general  sentimenta 
of  men.     In  this  standard  we  must  rest.     To  the  sense  of  mankind 
the  ultimate  appeal  must  ever  lie,  in  all  works  of  taste.    If  any  om 
should  maintain  that  sugar  was  bitter  and  tobacco  was  sweet,  no 

^^Tu^?^  ^^^^  *^*'^  ^  P''°^®  't-    '^^®  ^^  of  *"ch  a  person  would 
infallibly  be  held  to  be  diseased,  merely  because  it  differed  so  widely 

lllMttitl^n"*  *°  •<lmi«ll>I«  diversity  of  Ustes  cu  h»Te  pI«c».-Hoiii«r  Md  Virgil  d(«4  ftt 
64lx  SUndard  defln«l    Is  it  (offlcient  to  toj  Uitt  oatare  Is  Of  itudard  crtMto  t 


484  STANDARD  OF  TASTE. 

from  the  taste  of  the  species  to  which  he  belongs.  In  like  maimer, 
with  regard  to  the  objects  of  sentiment  or  internal  taste,  the  common 
feelings  of  men  cany  the  same  authority,  and  liave  a  title  to  regulate 
the  taste  of  every  individual. 

647.  But  have  we  then,  it  will  be  said,  no  other  criterion  of  what 
is  beautiful,  than  the  approbation  of  the  majority  ?  Must  we  collect 
the  voices  of  others,  before  we  form  any  judgment  for  ourselves,  of 
what  deserves  applause  in  eloquenee  or  poetry  ?  By  no  means ; 
there  are  principles  of  reason  and  sound  judgment  which  can  be  ap- 
plied to  matters  of  taste,  as  well  as  to  the  subjects  of  science  and 
philosophy.  He  who  admires  or  censures  any  work  of  genius,  is 
always  ready,  if  his  taste  be  in  any  degree  improved,  to  assign  some 
reasons  for  his  decision.  He  appeals  to  principles,  and  points  out 
the  grounds  on  which  he  proceeds.  Taste  is  a  sort  of  compound 
power,  in  which  the  light  of  the  understanding  always  mingles,  more 
or  less,  with  the  feelings  of  sentiment. 

But  though  reason  can  caiTy  us  a  certain  length  in  judging  con- 
cerning works  of  taste,  it  is  not  to  be  forgotten  that  the  ultimate 
conclusions  to  which  our  reasonings  lead,  refer  at  last  to  sense  and 
perception.  We  may  speculate  and  argue  concerning  propriety  of 
conduct  in  a  tragedy,  or  an  epic  poem.  Just  reasonings  on  the  sub- 
ject will  coiTect  the  caprice  of  unenlightened  taste,  and  establish 
principles  for  judging  of  what  deserves  praise.  But,  at  the  same 
time,  these  reasonings  appeal  always  in  the  last  resort  to  feeling. 
The  foundation  upon  which  they  rest,  is  what  has  been  found  from 
experience  to  please  mankind  universally.  Upon  this  ground  we 
prefer  a  simple  and  natural,  to  an  artificial  and  affected  style ;  a 
regular  and  well-connected  story,  to  loose  and  scattered  nan'atives ; 
a  catastrophe  which  is  tender  and  pathetic,  to  one  which  leaves  us 
unmoved.  It  is  from  consulting  our  own  imagination  and  heart,  and 
from  attending  to  the  feelings  of  others,  that  any  principles  are 
formed  which  acquire  authority  in  matters  of  taste. 

648.  When  we  refer  to  the  concuning  sentiments  of  men  as  the 
ultimate  taste  of  what  is  to  be  accounted  beautiful  in  the  arts,  this  is 
to  be  always  understood  of  men  placed  in  such  situations  as  are 
favorable  to  the  proper  exertions  of  taste.  Every  one  must  perceive, 
that  among  rude  and  uncivilized  nations,  and  during  the  ages  of 
ignorance  and  darkness,  any  loose  notions  that  are  entertained  con- 
cerning such  subjects,  carry  no  authority.  In  those  states  of 
society,  taste  has  no  materials  on  which  to  operate.  It  is  either 
totally  suppressed,  or  appears  in  its  lower  and  most  imperfect  form. 
We  refer  to  the  sentiments  of  mankind  in  polished  and  flourishing 
nations ;  when  arts  are  cultivated  and  manners  refined ;  when  works 


6d6.  The  fonndaHon  of  taste.  No  living  standard  of  taste.  The  taste  of  human  natur*, 
the  stundard.    How  ascertained. 

647.  Have  we  no  criterion  but  the  approbation  of  the  mfyority  ?  Princlplea  to  be  ap- 
plied.— 1»  the  ultimate  appeal  made  to  reaton  or  to  feeling  ? 


STANDARD  OF  TA9TR.  4g5 

Even  among  nations,  at  such  a  period  of  society,  I  admit  U.at 
a^idental  causes  may  occasionally  warp  the  proper  ope^  on"  S 
taste;  sometimes  the  taste  of  religion,  sometimls  [he  form  of  go^ 
ernment,  may  for  a  while  pervert;  a  licentious  court  may  intrJuce 
a  taste  for  false  ornaments,  and  di&solute  writings.     The  uwce  of 

r^/  Tt'  f  f  •"'  Tfy  P'''*^"'^  approbation  for  his  faults,  andtven 
render  them  fashionable.  Sometimes  envy  may  have  power  to  bear 
down  for  ah  tie,  productions  of  great  merit ;  while  popular  liumor, 
or  party  spmt,  may,  at  other  times,  exalt  to  a  high,  though  short- 
hved  reputation,  what  little  deserved  it.  But  though  such  casual 
circumstances  give  the  appearance  of  caprice  to  the  judgmentii  ot 
taste,  that  appearance  is  easily  corrected.  In  the  course  of  time,  the 
genmne  tjiste  of  human  nature  never  fails  to  di.*close  itself  and  to 
gam  the  ascendant  over  any  fantastic  and  corruptecl  modes  of  taste 
which  may  chance  to  have  been  introduced.  These  may  have  cur- 
rency for  a  while,  and  mislead  superficial  judges ;  but  being  sub- 
jected to  examination,  by  degrees  they  pass  a,vay  ;  while  that  alone 
remains  which  is  founded  on  sound  reason,  and  the  native  feelinw 
of  men.  * 

640.  I  by  no  means  pretend  that  there  is  any  standard  of  taste, 
to  which,  in  every  particular  instance,  we  can  resort  for  clear  and 
immediate  determination.  Where,  indeed,  is  such  a  standard  to  be 
found  for  deciding  any  of  those  great  controversies  in  reason  and 
philosophy,  which  perpetually  divide  mankind?  In  the  present 
case,  there  was  plainly  no  occasion  for  any  such  strict  and  aWlute 
provision  to  be  made.  In  order  to  judge  of  what  is  morally  good 
or  evil,  of  what  man  ought,  or  ought  not  in  duty  to  do,  it  was  fit 
that  the  means  of  clear  and  precise  determination  should  be  af- 
forded us.  But  to  ascertain  in  ever}'  case  with  the  utmost  exactness 
what  is  beautiful  or  elegant,  was  not  at  all  necessary  to  tlie  happi- 
ness of  man.  And  therefore  some  diversity  in  feeling  was  here 
allowed  to  take  place  ;  and  room  was  left  for  discussion  and  debate, 
concerning  the  degi-ee  of  approbation  to  which  anv  work  of  genius 
is  entitled. 

650.  The  conclusion,  which  it  is  sufficient  for  us  to  rest  upon,  is, 
that  taste  is  far  from  being  an  arbitrary  principle,  which  is  subject  to 
the  fancy  of  every  individual,  and  which  admits  of  no  criterion  for 
determining  whether  it  be  false  or  true.  Its  foundation  is  the  same 
m  all  human  minds.  It  is  built  upon  sentiments  aud  perceptions 
which  belong  to  our  nature,  and  which,  in  general,  operate  with  the 
same  uniformity  as  our  other  intellectual  principles.     When  these 

648.  To  the  sentlmcots  of  what  elsos  ofmendo  we  appeal  In  matters  of  ta«U?—Ae«l«l«» 
tal  caases  affecting  the  correctness  of  taste. 

649.  No  standard  of  taste  for  every  particular  instance.    In  what  other  matten  li  tk«** 
Bonef 


486 


STANDARD  OF  TASTE. 


sentimeuts  are  perverted  by  ignorance  and  prejudice,  they  are  capa. 
ble  of  being  rectified  by  reason.  Their  sound  and  natural  state  is 
ultimately  determined  by  comparing  them  with  the  general  taste  of 
mankind.  Let  men  declaim  as  much  as  they  please  concerning  the 
caprice  and  the  uncertainty  of  taste,  it  is  found,  by  experience, 
that  there  are  beauties,  which,  if  they  be  displayed  in  a  proper 
light,  have  power  to  command  lasting  and  general'admiration.  In 
every  composition,  what  interests  the  imagination,  and  touches 
the  heart,  pleases  all  ages  and  all  nations.  There  is  a  certain 
string  to  which,  when  properly  struck,  the  human  heart  is  so  made 
as  to  answer. 

Hence  the  universal  testimony  which  the  most  improved  nations 
of  the  earth  have  conspired,  throughout  a  long  tract  of  ages,  to  give 
to  some  few  woi-ks  of  genius ;  such  as  the  Ihad  of  Homer,  and  the 
^neid  of  Virgil.  Hence  the  authoiity  which  such  works  have 
acquired,  as  standards  in  some  degree  of  poetical  composition  ;  since 
from  them  we  are  enabled  to  collect  what  the  sense  of  mankind  is 
concerning  those  beauties  which  give  them  the  highest  pleasure,  and 
which  therefore  poetry  ought  to  exhibit.  Authority  or  prejudice 
may,  in  one  age  or  country,  give  a  temporary  reputation  to  an  in- 
different poet  or  a  bad  artist ;  but  when  foreigners,  or  when  pos- 
terity examine  his  works,  his  faults  are  discerned,  and  the  genuine 
taste  of  human  nature  appears.  "  Opinionum  commenta  delet  dies ; 
naturae  judicia  confirmat."  Time  overthrows  the  illusions  of  opinion, 
but  establishes  the  decisions  of  nature. 

050.  The  concQsion  arrlTed  at— What  tast«  is  built  apon.— 'VToriu  of  genlns  tbat  hart 
been  nniversally  approved. 


/ 


HATIOKAL  SERIES  OF  STANDARD  SCHOOL-BOOKS 
r)  AV  I  E  S' 

Complete   Course  of  Matliematics. 

lilemtntarj  Course. 

DAVIES'  I'KIMAHV  AUITHMETIC  AND  TABI.E-BOOK 
DA7IE8'  FIUST  LKSSONS  IN  ABITHMETIC 

DAVIKS'  INTELLECTUAL  ARITHMETIC 

DAVIE8'  NEW  SCIUWL  AUITUMCTIC 

KET  TO  DAVIES-  NEW  SCHOOL  ARITHMETIC  •  ... 
DAVIES'  NEW  UNIVKKSITY   AUITMMKTIC 
KET  TO  DAVIKS-  NKW  UNIVKItSlTV  AIMTIIMETIC  .   . 
DAVIES'  QUA.M.M.\»i:  OF  AKnilMKTlC 

DAVIES'  NKW  kli:mkntai;y  ai-okhua ['. 

KEY  TO  UA VIES' NEW  ELEMENTAKY  ALGEBKA ." 

DAVIES"  ELEMENTARY  OEOMKinV  AND  TniQONOMETRT 
DAVIES'  rii.\CTICAL  M.\TIIEMATICS "' 

0libaarcT>  Coucsre. 

DAVIES*  UNlVEltSlTY  ALGEBUA 

KEY  TO  DAVIES'  UNIVERSITY  ALGEBRA  

DAVIES'  BOURDONS  ALGEBRA 

KEY  TO  DAVIES'  BOURDONS   ALGEBRA   .   .    . 

DAViES'  LEGKNDRES  GEOMEI'IiV 

DAVIES'  ELEMENTS  OF  SURVEYING 

DAVIES'  ANALYTU'AL  GEOMETRY 

DAVIES'  DIFFEIJENTIAL  AND  INTEGRAL  CALCULUS..  .     . 

DAVIES'  ANALYT.'CAL  GEOMETRY  AND  CALCULUS 

DAVIES'  DESCRIPTIVE  OEO.METEV 

DAVIES'  SHADES.  SHADOWS,  AND  PERSPECTIVE 

DAVIES'  LOGIC  OF  MATHEMATICS ,. 

DAVIES'  .MATHEMATICAL  DICTIONARY  

Davibs'  Matiirmaticai.  CiiAKT  (Sheet) 

Tbis  Sciieii,  roinliining  all  that  Is  tno»t  valuable  In  the  raiioiu  methods  of  E«r<>p«ak 
itistruction,  iniprovod  and  matured  by  the  Kuggettions  of  nearly  fortj  j-ean'oxporleiM^ 
now  foiins  the  only  complete  consecutive  Cour»e  of  Motkrmiitiai.  Itn  riiolhatti^ 
hartnonizlng  a»  the  work  ik  oni*  mind,  carry  the  student  onward  l<y  the  aatni;  anaioftiM 
and  Ibe  same  laws  of  aMociation.  and  are  ealcnlated  to  lmf>art  a  oomprelionslve  knowl- 
edge of  the  science,  combining  cIearne^8  In  the  several  branch*^,  and  unity  and  propur- 
Hon  in  the  whole  The  higher  Books — in  connoctmn  wlih  Prof.  Chureh't  CiUcHlu* 
and  Analytical  Geom^try—aiv-  tli«  To.vt-books  in  the  Military  Acadoinles  of  th« 
(Jnltod  Stfltes.  The  Superintendents  of  Pnblic  Insirm-tion  iti  very  many  StaWt 
have  ofllcially  recominendt'd  tlil.<<  Series.  It  U  adopted  and  In  sun^«<•«^lt  u»r  ia  Uk 
Korn)al  Schools  of  New  York.  Michigan,  Connecticut,  and  other  Staloa,  and  in  • 
larjje  proporti-n  of  the  best  Schools.  Acadeiiiie.\  and  Collejrrs  of  the  Union  Tba 
Kevlsed  Edliions  of  the  Aritliioetlcs  e'nb'My  all  the  Iater>t  aiid  iii.*t  «|>|imir<l  pto- 
Cjsme  of  Inipiirti'i::  h  iNnoni.d^e  of  the  koience  of  nuinUsrsi 

h.  S.  BARNm  A  BcKR  have  tl'O  plea>orr  nf  annni:n.-lnz  ax  t-NTHiauv  .\''»  W..««. 
•>y  Profeator  Davik,  entitlfd 

ELEMENTS  OF  ANALYTICAL   GEnMF.TRY.  AND  OF  THE  PIFFEH 
ENTIAL  AND  INTi'G»iAL  <  ALCULUS.  — fonmng  a  compend  »f  (h«  tm 
Jarner  volumes  by  Prof.  Davie*  on  the  respective  braiirhca  treated  oC     It 
complete  In  U«ulf,'uiid  contains  all  t!i:a  is  necesaary  for  the  (p-ntTal  aladeaL 

AI»<i  recently  iaeued — 

NEW  ELEMENTARY  ALGEBRA, 

0NIVEB8ITY  ALGEBRA, 

Forming,  wl'h  the  Author's  Bourdoira  Algebra,  a  complete  and  cc«*ec«lt?a 

•oarw. 

A.  S.  BARNES  &  BURR,  Publishew, 

b\  tiniJ  58  JohD  Street,  Sew  Yoik 


RECOMMENDATIONS  OF  DA  VIES'  MATHEMATICS. 


Davies'  Course  of  Mathematics  are  the  prominent  Text-Books  in  mod 

9/  the  Colleges  of  the  United  States,  and  also  in  the  various  Schocls  aE  1 

Academies  throughout  the  Union. 

YoEK,  Pa.,  Aug.  28, 185a 
Davies''  Series  of  Mathematics  I  deem  the  very  best  I  ever  saw.  From  a  numbei 
of  aiubors  I  selected  it,  after  a  careful  perusal,  as  a  course  of /Study  to  bo  pursued  by 
Ibe  Teachers  attending  the  ses-sioiis  of  the  York  Co.  Normal  School— believing  h  alsii 
to  be  well  adapted  to  tlie  wants  of  the  schools  throuclumt  our  country.  Already  twi 
Jjndred  schools  are  su]>plied  with  Davifs' valuable  Series  of  Arithmetics ;  and  ] 
fully  believe  that  in  a  very  short  time  the  Teachers  of  our  couutrv  en  masse  will  U 
mya^ed  in  imparting  instruction  through  the  medium  of  this  new  and  easy  metio- 
>f  an.Hlysis  of  numbers.  A.  K.  BLAI£, 

Principal  of  York  Co-.  2forinul  Sc/tooi 

Jackson  U.nios  School,  Michigan,  Sept.  25,  1S;>3. 
Mkssks.  A.  S.  Barnes  &  Co.: — I  take  pleasure  in  adding  my  testimony  in  favor  ol 
Varies''  Series  0/ Mathematics,  as  published  by  you.  We  have  used  these  works  ia 
this  school  for  more  than  four  years ;  and  so  well  satisfied  are  we  of  theVr  superiority 
over  any  other  Series,  that  we  neither  contemplate  making,  nor  desire  to  make,  any 
change  in  that  direction.    Tours  truly,  R  L.  KIl'LEY. 

New  Beitaik,  June  12<A,  185S. 
Messrs.  A.  S.  Barnes  &.  Co. :— I  h.ive  examined  Davien''  Series  of  AriVimeiies 
with  some  care.  They  appear  well  adapted  for  the  dilTerent  grades  of  schools  fiu 
which  they  are  designed.  The  lan^'uage  is  clear  and  precise;  each  priaciple  is 
thoroughly  analyzed,  and  the  whole  so  arranged  as  to  facilitate  the  work  of  instruc- 
tion. Having  observed  tbo  salisfHction  and  success  with  which  the  different  books 
have  been  used  by  eminent  teachers,  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  comsaend  them  to  others. 
DAVID  N,  CAMP,  Principal  of  Conn.  State  Normal  School: 

I  have  long  regarded  Davi-es'  Series  of  Mathematical  Tevi-Books  as  far  superio* 
to  any  now  before  the  public  We  ftrd  them  in  every  way  adapted  to  the  wants  oi 
the  JSorma!  School,  and  wc  use  no  other.  A  unity  of  sy.stem  and  method  runs  throneh- 
out  the  series,  and  constitutes  one  of  its  great  excellences.  Kspecially  in  the  ArHl>- 
metics  the  author  has  earnestly  endeavored  to  supply  the  wants  of  our  Common  and 
Union  Schools :  and  his  success  is  complete  and  undeniable.  I  know  of  no  Aritb' 
metics  which  exhibit  so  clearly  the  philosophy  of  numbers,  and  at  the  same  time  lead 
the  pupil  surely  on  to  readiness  and  practice.  A.  S.  WELCH. 

From  Pkof.  G.  W.  Plvmpton,  late  ofiJie  State  Normal  School,  N.  Y. 
Out  of  a  great  number  of  Arithmetics  that  I  have  examined  during  the  past  year,  t 
find  none  that  will  compare  with  Davies'  Intdleetual  and  Davies'  Anuli/tical  and 
Practical  Arithmetics,  in  clearness  of  demonstration  or  philosophical  arrangement. 
I  shall  with  pleasure  recommend  the  use  of  these  two  excellent  works  to  those  whn 
go  from  our  institution  to  teach. 

From  C.  Mat,  Jr.,  Scliool  Commissioner,  Keene,  N.  D. 
I  have  carefully  e.xamined  Davies'  Series  of  Arithmetics,  and  Higher  Mathe- 
matics, and  am  prepared  to  say  that  1  consider  them  far  superior  to  any  with  whieh 
1  am  acquainted. 

From  Joiis  L.  Campbbix,  Professor  of  Mathematics.  Natural  Philosophy,  and 
Astronomy,  in  Wabash  College,  Indiana. 

Wabash  College,  June  22.  ISW 
MvssRS.  A.  S.  Babnes  &  Co. :— Gentlemen:  Every  text-book  on  Science  properly 
Consists  of  two  parts— the  philosophical  and  the  iUustraPive.  A  primer  combinatiW'. 
of  abstract  reasoning  and  practical  illustration  is  the  chief  excellence  in  Prof  Da»i<->' 
Mathematical  Works.  I  prefer  his  Arithmetics.  Algebras,  Geometry,  and  Trigonoin 
etry,  to  all  others  now  in  use.  and  cordially  recommend  them  to  all  who  desire  iht 
advancement  of  sound  learning.    Yours,  very  truly,  JOHN  L.  CAMPBELL. 

PuoriKSOEa  Mahan,  Bartlett,  and  Cdurch,  of  the  United  States  Military  Academy 
West  Point,  any  ol  Davies'  University  Arithmetic: — 
"  In  the  distinctness  with  which  the  various  definitions  are  given,  the  clear  and 
strictly  mi^ematical  demonstration  of  the  rules,  the  conveni«nt  form  and  well-chosen 
mntter  of  the  t.ibles,  as  well  as  in  the  complete  and  mncb-desired  application  of  all  to 
Iho  business  of  the  c  .(untry,  the  University  Arithmetic  of  Pro£  Davies  is  si  perior  U> 
*ny  other  work  of  Hie  kind  with  which  wo  are  acquainted  " 


NATJONAL  8EBIE8  OP  STAHDABP  SCHOOL-BOOKS. 

PAUKER  &  WATSON'S  READING  SERIES. 

CHE  NATIONAL  EIEMENTAEY  SPELLER. 

THE  NATIONAL  PEONOUNCING  SPELLER.    188  pagea. 

A  full   treatise,  with   words  BrmngeJ  and  clanlfled  aceordlnit  to   tbait  »ow* 
sounds,  and  reading  and  dictation  exercises. 

THE  NATIONAL  SCHOOL  PRIMER;  or,  "PRIMARY  WORD-BinLDER." 

(B«auUfully  Illustrated) 

FHE  NATIONAL  FIRST  READER;  or,  "  WORIX-BUILDER." 

(Beautifully  Illustrated) Hg  PagO*. 

fHE  NATIONAL  SECOND  READER 224  page*. 

Containing  Primary  Exercises  in  Artlcnlallon,  I>ronanclaUoa,  and  Puactnatto*, 
(Splendidly  Illustrated.) 

THE  NATIONAL  THIRD  READER 288  paget. 

Containing  Exercises  in  Accent,  Emphasis,  PunctuatloD,  Ac     (lUoitrat^d.) 
IHE  NATIONAL  FOURTH  READER 405  pagea. 

Containing  a  Course  of  Instruction  in  Elocution,  EzerdM*  in  Btt^ing.  Dcdaou- 
tion,  &«. 

THE  NATIONAL  FIFTH  READER 600pag9a 

With  copious  Notes,  and  Biographical  Sketches  of  each  Writer. 


Thau  Sbadcks  have  been  prepared  with  the  greatest  care  and  lab«r,  by  RioiAaa 
6.  Pabkxb,  a.  M.,  of  Boston,  and  J.  Madison  Watson,  an  ezperl«ie«<l  Teaekar  •! 
Kew  York.  No  amount  of  !abor  or  expense  has  been  spared  to  render  tbecn  ■■  naai 
perfect  as  posblble.  The  IlUisirationa,  which  are  from  original  deslgna,  and  tbi 
Typography,  are  unrivalled  by  any  similar  worksw 

The  First  Header,  or  "  Word-Builder,"  being  the  first  isaued,  i«  alread) 
In  extensive  use.  It  is  on  a  plan  entirely  new  and  original,  commencing  with  MnrA 
<lfone  letter,  and  building  up  letter  by  letter,  nntil  sentences  are  formed. 

The  Second,  Third,  and  Fourth  Headers  fuUow  the  same  tnductivi 
plan,  with  a  perfect  and  systematic  gradation,  and  a  strict  claaelficatioD  of  tuttfecta 
The  pronunciation  and  definition  of  dlflicnlt  words  are  given  In  notes  at  the  boUoiB 
of  each  page.  Much  attention  has  been  paid  to  ArticiUdtion  and  OrtMotpy:  tn 
Exercises  on  the  Elementary  Sounds  and  their  combinations  hare  been  so  iatrodunrt 
•a  to  teach  but  one  element  at  a  time,  and  to  apply  this  knowledge  to  immediate  nee, 
nntil  the  whole  is  accurately  and  tliorougbly  acquired. 

The  Fifth  Header  Is  a  full  work  up<in  Heading  and  Elocution.  Too  works  o< 
many  authors,  ancient  and  mo<lom,  have  been  eon»nlle<l,  and  more  than  a  boFdied 
standard  writers  of  the  English  langu.<tgc,  on  both  sides  the  Atlantic  laid  nidrr  eoa- 
tiibution  to  enable  the  authors  to  present  a  collection  rich  in  all  that  can  inl^^rin  tbe 
undereunding.  Improve  the  taste,  and  cultivate  the  heart,  and  which,  at  the  aaina 
Urae,  shall  furnish  every  variety  of  style  and  subject  to  exemplify  the  priBclp)**  tt 
Rhetorical  delivery,  and  form  a  finished  rea.ler  and  elocutlonltt  CtaMteal  and  k\»- 
U»rlcal  allusions,  so  cfiiimon  among  the  b<"St  wrlte^^  have  In  all  caace  been  axiaalnwd; 
and  concise  Biographlca:  Sketches  of  authors  troin  whose  work*  exiracU  have  beca 
selected,  have  also  been  Introduced,  together  with  Alphabetical  Mid  Chroaolnflea. 
Lisu  of  the  Names  of  Authors ;  thus  rendering  this  a  convenient  text-took  to«  Bta- 
teata  in  English  and  American  Literature. 

A.  S.  BAENES  &  BURR,  Pnblishert, 

61  &  63  John  Stre«t.  Naw  7ork 


RECOMMENDATIONS 

OF 

PARKER  &  WATSON'S  READERS 


From  Pi:oF.  Feedkrick  S.  Jk\vki.l,  ofUie  Kexc  York  SUiie  yormul  School. 
It  gives  me  pleasun-  to  find  in  tlie  N.Htional  Scries  of  School  Readcre  ample  u-on 
&)r  commendation.     From  s  brief  f.\«iiiinatii>n  of  them,  I  am  led  to  believe  thft*  *. 
have  none  equal  to  tlieiii.     I  hope  lliey  will  prove  as  popular  as  they  are  excellent 

Frcrni  Hon.  Thkodork  Fkklinghutsen,  Prenitlent  of  Ilulgers'  GoUfge,  N.  J. 
A  cursory  examination  leads  me  to  the  conclusion  that  the  system  contained  Jt 
these  volumes  deservejs  the  patronage  of  our  schools,  and  1  have  no  doubt  that  il  wil 
vecome  extensively  used  in  the  education  of  children  and  youth. 

From  N.  A.  Hamilton,  Pri'xulent  of  Teachern'  Union,  WhiteiBfiter,  H'U. 
The  National  Keaders  and  Speller  J  have  examined,  and  carefullv  compared  >ritb 
others,  and  must  pronounce  them  decidedly  superior,  in   respect  to  literary  merit 
style,  and  price.    The  sradation  is  more  compli-le.  and  the  seric-  much  more  desirablr 
for  use  in  our  schools  than  Sanders"  or  McCHnffey'ii. 

Fiom  PcoF.  T.  F.  TuicKSTi'K,  Prim-ipnl  of  Acxideni;/  aniJ  A^'imnri/.  Sc'ioul, 
Meadrillf,  J'n. 
1  am  much  pleased  with  the  National  Series  of  Headers  after  having  canvassed 
their  meriu  pretty  thoroughly.  The  first  of  the  series  especially  pleases  me,  becau.>ie 
it  aflfords  the  means  of  teaching  the  -  iconl-methocr  in  an  appropriate  and  natural 
manner.  They  all  are  progressive,  the  rules  of  elocution  are  stated  with  clearne*a, 
and  the  selection  of  pieces  is  such  as  to  please  ai  the  same  time  that  they  instruct. 

From  J.  W.  ScHKi:,MKRaoEN,  A.  F..,  Principal  Coll.  JnitUufe,  Middletawn,  N.  J. 
I  consider  them  emphatically  the  Readers  of  the  present  day,  and  I  l>elieve  thtt 
iheir  iutrinsic  merits  will  insure  for  ihem  a  full  measure  of  popularity. 

From  Peter  ItocoKr,  Principal  Puldic  School  No.  1(»,  Brooklyti. 
It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  be  able  to  bear  my  UTiqiiRli(ie<l  testimony  to  the  excel 
lence  of  the  National  Series  of  Readers,  by  Parkkr  and  Watson.  The  gradation  ol 
the  books  of  the  series  is  very  fine :  we  have  reading  in  its  elements  and  in  its  highest 
.«yle.  The  fine  taste  displayed  in  the  selections  and  in  the  collocation  of  the  piecet 
leserves  much  praise.  A  distinguishing  feature  of  the  series  is  the  variety  of  the 
snbject-inatter  and  of  the  style.  The  practical  teacher  knows  the  value  of  this  charac- 
teristic for  the  development  of  the  voice.  The  authors  seem  to  have  kept  constanllv 
in  view  the  fact  that  a  reading-book  is  dtfsigned  for  chihlren,  and  therefore  tiiey  have 
succeeded  in  forming  a  very  interesting  and  improving  collection  of  reading-matter, 
Inghly  adapted  to  the  wants  and  purposes  of  the  school-room.  In  short,  I  look  upon 
the  National  Series  of  Readers  as  a  gnat  success. 

From  A.  P.  Hakrinoton,  Principal  of  Union  Sc/iool,  Marat/ion,  A\  Y. 
These  Readers,  in  my  of)inion,  are  the  best  I  have  ever  examined.  The  rhetorical 
exerci^es,  in  particular,  are  superior  to  any  thing  of  the  kind  1  have  ever  seen.  I  have 
had  better  success  with  m.\  i.  adinsr  oia.-.scs  .-ince  1  coiiinienced  training  them  en  these 
than  I  ever  met  with  ^l•ll>rl■.  The  iimrked  vowels  in  the  reading  exercises  convey  Ki 
the  reader's  mind  at  once  the  asionisliMitf  fact  that  he  has  been  accustomed  to  mispro- 
rioiiiiee  more  than  one-lhird  of  the  wcinK  ^if  the  Knglish  language. 

Fro-ti  Chap.i.es  S.  Hal-ky,  Principal  Colleginte  JnatUute,  Newton,  N.  J. 

In  the  simplicity  am!  clearness  with  which  the  jirincipltw  are  stated,  in  the  anpro 

l>riat<-mss  of  the  selections  for  reading,  and  in  the  happy  adaptation  of  the  ditfeieni 

^urtJ"  or  the  series  to  each  other,  the.^e  works  are  superior  to  any  other  text-books  oa 

Itiia  31  Dject  which  I  have  exauiined. 

From  William  Travis,  Principal  of  Union  Scltool,  Flint,  JficK. 
I  n  vo  examined  the  N.itlonal  Series  of  Readers,  and  am  delighted  to  find  it  »o  fai 
!!i  «'.-  ance  of  most  other  .series  now  in  use,  and  sfi  well  adapted  to  the  wants  of  tb« 
fjyi':  Schools.  It  is  uneqiialed  in  the  skillful  arrangement  of  the  materia!  u.sed 
be<j  tfid  typography,  and  the  general  neat  and  inviting  appearance  of  its  .severa; 
bCM  Ls  I  predict  for  it  a  cordial  welcome  and  a  general  ihtrodnction  by  many  of  orj 
most  <-i.terprisli;g  te  u'hers. 


NATIONAL  SERIES  If  8TAHDARD 


SCHOOL-BOOKS 


ENGLISH  GEAMMAE, 

BY  S.  W.  CLARK  and  A.  S.  WEI>CH, 

OOKBUTINe  Of 

CLARK'S  FIEST  LESSONS  IN  ENGLISH  GRAMMAE 

CLASH'S  NEW  ENGLISH  GEAMMAB ,. 

CLASH'S  GRAMMATICAL  CHART 

CLARK'S  ANALYSIS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE 

WELCH'S  ANALYSIS  OF  THE  ENGLISH  SENTENCE 

A  more  Advanced  Work,  designed  P,t  Higher  Clsssee  In  AeuIemlM  aad  Nomrf 

Schools.    By  A.  8.  Wklch,  A.  M...  Principal  ot  the  State  Normal 

Michigan,  at  Ypstlantl. 


The  First  Lessons  in  Grammar  are  prepared  for  young  pnplU,  and  ■■  «t 
appropriate  Introduction  to  the  larger  work.  The  clemeots  of  Oraaiinar  ar*  b«r« 
presented  lu  a  series  of  gradual  oral  exercises,  and,  as  ftr  at  po•aibl^  in  plain  Baxwt 
words. 

Clark's  Ifew  Qrammar,  It  is  confidently  beliered,  prcaaota  Um  ooly  tra* 
and  successful  method  of  teaching  the  science  of  the  English  Langnaga.  Tha  work  t> 
thoroughly  progressive  and  practical ;  tlie  reUiUons  of  elements  happily  Uliutratw* 
and  their  analysis  thorough  and  simple. 

This  Grammar  has  been  ofBcially  recommended  by  the  Snperintendeots  of  PnblU 
Instruction  of  IllinoLs  Wisconsin,  Michigan,  and  Missouri,  and  is  the  Text-book 
adopted  In  the  State  Normal  SchooU  of  New  York,  and  other  SUtea.    lu  exl«oaltt 
circulation  and  universal  success  Is  good  evidence  of  its  practical  worth  and  soMf* 
ority. 

riofessor  F.  S.  Jbwbll,  ((fth*  Nmc  York  StaU  formal  ScAoot,  aaya: 

"  Clark's  System  of  Grammar  is  worthy  of  the  marked  attention  of  the  friends  cj 
Education.  Its  points  of  excellence  are  of  tjurikoat  decided  character,  and  will  k « 
aoon  be  surpas-sed."  ^^^ 

**  Let  any  clear-beaded.  Independent-minded  teacher  maat«r  the  systam,  and  tb«a 
give  it  a  fair  trial,  and  there  will  be  no  doubt  as  to  hi.'t  tcMlinony.** 

Welch's  Ajialysis  of  the  English  Sentence. -The  prominent  fMana 
of  this  work  have  been  presented  by  LecturM  to  nnnieroiu  IVacbera'  Institotea,  asd 
nnanlroously  approved.  The  classlflcatlon,  founded  np-jo  the  fact  that  there  are  bat 
three  elements  in  the  language,  is  very  simple,  and,  in  many  reapecta,  new.  Tb» 
method  of  disposing  of  connectives  is  entirely  sa  The  author  has  endMTonsd  t« 
study  the  language  atitU,  and  to  analyze  it  without  the  aid  of  aatiqaatcd  ml«a^ 

This  work  Is  highly  recommended  by  the  Superintendents  of  Pnblle  Instmetlo*  •( 
Michigan,  Wisconsin,  and  other  States,  and  Is  being  used  in  many  of  tba  beat  aebasii 
throughout  the  Union.  It  was  Introduced  toon  after  pobUoatloa  into  Ob«rlla  <M- 
taC(e,  add  hu  met  with  deserved  sneeesa. 

A.  S  BABNES  &  BURR.  Publishers, 

61  &  53  John  8tre«t.  New  Tork. 


RECOMMENDATIONS 

or 

CLARK'S  ENGLISH  GRAMMAR. 

We  cannot  bettor  set  forth  the  merits  of  this  work  than  by  qnofSng  a  part  of  a  com- 
munication from  Prof  F.  S.  Jewkll,  of  t!ie  New  Torlc  State  Normal  School,  in  whick 
scbtHil  this  Giammar  is  now  used  as  the  text  book  on  this  subject : — 

"Cla.rk'3  Svstkm  of  Gkammae  is  worthy  of  the  marked  attention  of  the  friends  oi 
iducation.  Its  points  of  excellence  are  of  the  most  decided  character,  and  will  no', 
.sonn  be  surpassed.    Among  them  are^ 

1st  "The  justness  of  its  ground  principle  of  classiflcation.  There  is  no  simple,  pbil- 
osopliical.  and  practical  classification  of  the  elements  of  language,  other  than  that  bnllt 
ill  their  use  or  othce.  Our  tendencies  hitherto  to  follow  the  analogies  of  the  classical 
iaiignages,  and  classify  extensively  according  to  forms,  have  been  mischievous  and  ab- 
surd.    It  is  time  we  corrected  them. 

2d.  "  Its  thorough  and  yet  simple  and  transparent  analysis  of  the  elements  of  the 
language  accordintr  to  its  gronnd  principle.  Without  such  an  analysis,  no  broad  and 
comprehensive  view  of  the  structure  and  power  of  the  langu^e  can  be  attained.  The 
aUsenoe  of  this  analysis  has  hitherto  precipitated  the  study  of  Grammar  npou  a  surface 
of  dry  details  and  bare  authorities,  and  useless  technicalities. 

3d.  "Its  happy  method  of  illustrating  the  relationsof  elements  by  diagrams.  These, 
however  uncouth  they  may  appear  to  the  novice,  are  really  simple  and  philosophii-al. 
Of  their  utility  there  can  be  no  question.  It  is  supported  by  the  usage  of  other  sci- 
ences, and  has  been  demonstrated  by  experience  in  this. 

4th.  "The  tendency  of  th«  system,  when  rightly  taught  and  faithfully  carried  out, 
to  cultivate  habits  of  nice  discrimination  and^lose  reasoning,  together  with  skill  in 
Illustrating  truth.  In  this  it  is  not  excelled  by  anv,  nniess  it  be  the  mathematical  .«ci- 
ences,  and  even  there  it  has  this  advantage,  "that'll  deals  with  elements  more  within 
the  present  grasp  of  the  intellect    On  this  point  I  speak  advisedly. 

5ih.  "The  system  is  thoroughly  progressive  and  practical,  and  as  such,  American  in 
Its  character.  It  does  not  adhere  to  old  usages,  merely  because  they  are  veneral.y 
musty;  and  yet  it  does  not  discard  things  merely  because  they  are  olA,  or  are  in  un- 
important, minutiffi  not  prudishly  perfect  It  does  not  overlook  details  and  technicali- 
ties, nor  does  it  allow  them  to  interfere  with  plain  philosophy  or  practical  utility. 

"Let  any  clear-headed,  independent-minded  teacher  master  the  system,  and  then 
give  it  a  fair  trial,  and  there  will  be  no  doubt  as  to  his  testimony." 

A  Testimonial  from  the  Principals  of  the  Piihlia  Schools  of  Rochester,  2f.  Y. 
We  regard  Clark's  Gramuab  as  the  clearest  in  its  analysis,  the  most  natural  and 

logical  in  its  arrangement,  the  most  concise  and  accurate  in  its  definitions,  the  mos; 

systematic  in  design,  and  the  best  adapted  to  the  use  of  schools  of  any  Grammar  viltb 

which  we  are  acquainted. 

0.  C.  MESERVE,  WM.  C.  FKGLE3, 

M.  D.  ROWLEY,  OIIN  ATWATEE, 

C.  R.  BURBICK,  EDW^ARD  WEBSTER, 

J.  R.  VOSBURG,  S.  W.  8TARKWEATUEE, 

E.  E.  ARMSTRONG       ^^^  PHILIP  CUETISS. 

i^WBEXCK  Ikstitutte,  Brooklyn,  Jan  15,  1859. 
Messrs.  A.  S.  Barnes  &  Co : — Having  used  Clark's  New  Grammar  sinco  its  publica- 
ttoii,  1  do  most  unhesitatingly  recommend  it  as  a  work  of  superior  merit    By  the  us« 
of  no  other  work,  and  I  have  used  several,  have  I  been  enabled  to  advance  my  pupib 
•o  rapidly  and  thoroughly. 

The  author  has,  by  an  Etymological  Chart  and  a  system  of  Diagrams,  made  Gram 
tear  tho  study  that  It  ought  to  be,  interesting  as  well  as  useful. 

MARGARET  S.  LAWRENCE,  Prinoipai, 


WELCH'S  ENGLISH  SEin^ENCE. 

From  Pkof.  J.  E.  Boise,  A.  M.,  Professor  of  the  Latin  and  Greek  Lanffuaget  and 

Literature  in  the  University  of  MicJUgan. 
This  work  belongs  to  a  new  era  in  the  grammatical  study  of  our  own  language.  We 
hazard  nothing,  in  expressing  the  opinion,  that  for  severe,  searching,  and  "exhaustlv* 
analysis,  the  work  of  Professor  Welch  is  second  to  none.  His  book  Is  not  Intended  foi 
beginners,  but  only  for  advanced  students,  and  by  such  only  it  will  bo  understood  and 
■ppredated. 


HATIONAI  8EEIES  Oj?  STAHDAED  SCHOOL-BOOKa 


nOIVTEITII    AWD    ITIcIVALLT'S 


MONTEITH'S  TIHST  LESSONS  IN  OEOGBAPHT 

MONTEITH-S  INTRODtJCTION  TO  MANUAL  OF  OBOORAFHT. 

MONTEITH'S  NEW  MANUAL  OF  OEOOHAFHY 

MaNALLrS  COMPLETE  SCHOOL  OEOOHAFHY 


Monteith's  Flrat  Lessons  In  Oeofcraphy— Introdaotlon  to  Man- 
ual of  Qeography-and  New  Manual  of  Oeosraphy,  m  tmttgti  m 
th«  catechetical  plan,  which  has  been  proven  to  be  the  beM  and  moat  inrnwrfkt 
metijod  of  teaching  thia  branch  of  atndy.  Thi>  qnratlona  and  antwert  are  medcb  «4 
breyJty  and  adaptation,  and  the  Diar«  are  Mmple,  but  accnrau  and  beautiftiL 

McNally'/  QeocTaphy  comi-Ietea  the  Seriea.  and  followa  the  Mme  |M«al 
plan.  The  maps  are  splendidly  engraved,  bt^uUfullr  colored,  and  perfietly  aecarau; 
and  a  profile  of  the  eonntry,  showing  the  elevations  and  depreiatona  of  Und.  la  (ivaa 
at  the  bottom  of  the  mapsL  The  order  and  arrangement  of  map  qneatioaa  la  ak* 
pecaliarly  happy  and  systematic,  and  the  descriptive  matter  Jost  what  U  naailad.  sad 
Dotbing  more.  No  Series  heretofore  published  has  been  so  eitenalTely  IntroJuMd  la 
to  short  a  time,  or  gained  snch  a  wide-spread  popuUrity. 

These  Geographies  are  used  more  extensively  in  the  Public  Seboote  of  New  Tott. 
Brooklyn,  and  Newark,  than  all  otbersL 

war  A.  B.  CiasK,  Principal  of  one  of  the  largest  Pablie  Behoola  to  Br«oklya,  a^a 
"  I  have  nsed  over  a  thousand  copies  of  Monteith's  Maoaal  of  Oeography  tlaee  Mi 
adoption  by  the  Board  of  Edacatlon,  and  am  prepared  to  say  It  Is  tba  beat  w*.<  to 
Iqnior  and  intermediate  classes  in  our  schools  I  have  ever  teeo." 

7^«  Series,  in  lehole  or  in  part,  ha»  leen  adopttd  te  tU 


New  York  State  Normal  School 
New  York  City  Normal  School 
New  Jersey  State  Normal  School. 
Kentucky  State  Normal  School 
Indiana  State  Normal  School 
Ohio  State  Normal  School 
Michigan  State  Normal  School. 
York  County  (Pa)  Normal  Schoo.. 
Brooklyn  Polytechnic  Institute. 
Cleveland  Female  Seminary. 
Public  Schools  of  Milwaukle. 
Public  Schools  of  Pittaburgh. 
Public  Schools  of  Lancaster,  Pa 
Public  Schools  of  New  Orleans. 


Public  Schools  of  New  York. 
Publie  Sobools  of  Brooklyn.  L  L 
Public  ScbooU  of  New  Uavea. 
Public  Schools  of  ToMo,  Okia 
Pablie  SdtooU  of  Norwalk.  Coaa. 
Public  Schools  of  RiehmoBd,  Ta 
Public  Schools  of  MaJlaua,  Wla 
Public  Schoob  of  iBdiMapoHa 
Publie  ScbooU  oTSprlafflM,  MmI 
Publie  ScbouU  otOohmbmt,  Okia 
Public  Scboola  of  Ilartferd.  Ooaa 
Pablie  SdtooU  of  CleT«iaa4.  Otoa^ 
And  other  plaeea  tee  aaoMTMa 
mention. 


They  have  also  been  recommended  by  the  SuU  Superlnleadaatt  af  lUi: 
IxDtAVA,  Wisconsin,  Missouri.  Nurtu  Carouka,  Alabama,  and  by  ai 
Taaektra'  Associations  and  Institatea  throu)(huut  the  nmntry,  and  are  In  •< 
■M  ki     anltitnde  of  Public  and  Private  ScbooU  throughout  the  United  Statoa 

A.  S  BARKES  ft  BURR,  PoblUhen, 

SI  ft  53  John  Straat.  New  T* 


ISONTEITH  AND  filcNALLyS  GEOGRAPHIES 

THK  MOST  SUCCESSFUL  SERIES  EVEE  ISSUED. 


RECOMMENDATIONS. 

A.  B.  Clark,  Principal  of  one  of  the  largest  Public  Schools  In  Brooklyn.  »ys:— 
•*  I  have  used  over  a  thousand  copies  of  Monteith's  Manual  of  Geography  since  id 
adoption  by  the  Board  of  Education,  and  am  prepared  to  say  it  Is  the  best  woik  to» 
Innior  and  intermediate  classes  in  our  sc|fc>ols  1  have  ever  seen." 


The  Series,  in  whole  or  in  piiri.  luiit  been  adopted  in  the 


New  York  State  Normal  School. 
New  York  City  Normal  School. 
New  Jersey  State  Normal  School. 
Kentucky  State  Normal  School. 
Indiana  State  Normal  School. 
Ohio  Srate  Normal  School. 
Michijian  Stale  Normal  School. 
York  County  (Pa.)  Normal  School. 
Brooklyn  Polytechnic  Institute, 
Cleveland  Female  Seminary. 
Public  Schools  of  Milwaukie. 


Public  Schools  of  New  York. 
Public  Schools  of  Brooklyn,  L.  I. 
Public  Schools  of  New  Haven. 
Public  Schdols  of  Toledo,  Ohio. 
Public  Schools  of  Norwatk,  Conn 
Public  Schools  of  Bichmond.  Va. 
Public  Schools  of  Madison,  Wis. 
Public  Schools  of  Indianapolis. 
Public  Schools  of  Si)rlngfield,  Mass. 
Public  Schools  of  Columbus.  Ohio. 
Public  Schools  of  nartf()rd.  Conn. 


Public  Schools  of  Pittsbur^'h.  j      Public  Schools  ol'  Cleveland,  Ohio. 

Public  Schools  of  Lancaster,  Pa.  j  And  other  places  too  numerous  to 

Public  Schools  of  New  Orleans.  1      mention. 

They  have  also  been  recommended  by  the  Stale  Superintendents  of  Illinois, 
Indiana,  Wisconsin,  Missouri,  Nouth  Carolina.  Alabama,  and  by  numerou* 
Teadiers'  Associations  and  Institutes  throughout  the  country,  and  are  in  successful 
U8<;  in  a  multitude  of  Public  and  Private  Schools  throusrhout  the  United  States. 

From  Prof.  W.m.  F.  Phklps.  A.  M.,  Priiicipal  of  the  New  Jersey  State 
Nornuil  Stihool. 

Tbknton,  Jtme  17.  l8.W, 
Mkssrs.  A.  S.  Barnks  <fe  Co.: — Gentlkmkn:  It  gives  me  much  pleasure  to  state 
that  McNally's  Geography  has  been  used  in  this  Institution  from  its  organization  In 
1855,  with  great  acceptance.  The  author  of  this  work  has  avoided  on  one  hand  the 
extreme  of  being  too  meager,  and  on  the  other  of  going  too  much  into  detail,  whllo 
he  has  presented,  in  a  clear  and  concise  manner,  all  those  leading  facts  of  Descriptive 
Geography  which  it  is  important  for  the  young  to  know.  The  m»ps  are  accurate  and 
well  executed,  the  type  clear,  and  indeed  the  entire  work  Is  a  decided  success.  I  most 
cheerfully  commend  it  to  the  profession  throughout  the  country. 

Very  *Tuly  yours,  WM.  F.  PHELPS. 

From  W.  V.  Davis,  Principal  of  Iligh  School,  Laiicaster,  Pa. 

Lanoastkr,  Pa.,  June  26,  1858. 
Dkar  Sirs: — I  have  examined  your  National  Geographical  Sorties  with  much 
care,  and  find  them  most  excellent  works  of  their  kind.  They  have  been  u.scd  in  the 
various  Public  Schools  of  this  city,  ever  since  their  publioation,  with  great  snocees  and 
»atisfaction  to  both  pupil  and  teacher.  All  the  Geographies  embraced  in  your  series 
are  well  adapted  to  school  purposes,  and  admirably  calculated  to  impart  to  the  pupil. 
In  a  very  attractive  manner,  a  complete  knowledge  of  a  science,  annually  becoming 
more  useful  and  important    Their  maps,  illustrations,  and  typography,  are  unsur- 

f Missed.  One  peculiar  feature  of  McNally's  Geography — and  which  will  recommend 
t  at  once  to  every  practical  teacher — it>  the  arrangement  of  its  maps  and  les-oons; 
each  map  fronts  the  particular  lesson  which  it  is  designed  to  illustrate — thus  enabling 
the  scholar  to  prepare  his  task  without  that  constant  turning  over  of  leoN'OS,  or  refcr- 
ence  to  a  separate  book,  as  is  necessary  with  most  othor  Geographies.  Yours.  &c. 
Messrs.  A.  S.  Barnes  i  Co.,  New  York.  V.  W.  DAVIS. 

From  Charles  Barnes,  late  Prenident  State  Teachers'  Association,  and  Superin- 
tendent qftht  Public  Schools  at  New  Albany,  Indiamt. 

MicgSKS.  A.  8.  Barnes  &  Co. : — Dbar  Sirs  :  I  have  examined  with  considerable 
care  the  Series  of  Geographies  published  by  you,  and  have  no  hesitation  in  saying 
that  it  Is  altogether  the  best  with  which  I  am  acquainted.  A  trial  of  more  than  d 
year  in  the  Public  Schools  of  this  city  has  demonstrated  that  Cornell  Is  utterlv  unfit 
Ibr  the  school-room.    Yonrs,  iScc  C.  BARNES. 


NATIONAL  SEBHIB  Of  BTANDABD  SCHOUL-BOOKS 

HISTORY  AND  MYTHOLOGY. 

M0NT£lTH-8  CHILD'S  U18T0BY  OP  THE  UNITED  STATES. 

(DKSiatiXD  roB  Poblio  Scuoou:  oorioo»i.T  iixcrnuTOk) 
WILLAED'8  SCHOOL  HISTOEY  OP  THE  UNITED  8TATE8  

(WlTB  Mam  AND   EMORATISIOfl.) 

WILLABD'8  LAEQE  HISTOEY  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES 

(With  Mats  akd  Enokatino*.) 

WILLABD'S  HISTOEY  OP  THE  UNITED  8TATE8 

(In  Spanish  Lanouaok.) 

WILLAED'8  UNIVEE8AL  HLSTOEY  IN  PEE8PE0TIVE 

(With  Maps  and  ENORAriNoa.) 

BIC0ED8  EOMAN  HISTOEY 

("With  ENoSAviKes.) 

DWIGHTS  GEECIAN  AND  EOMAN   MYTHOLOGY 

(School  Edition.) 

DWIGRT'S   GEECIAN  AND  EOMAN  MYTHOLOGY 

(UsivKBsmr  Edition.) 

MILLS'  HISTOEY  OF  THE  ANCIENT  HEBEEWC 


Monteith'8  History  of  the  United  States  U  designed  for  ronnx  seb«tMB, 
on  the  catechetical  plan,  with  Maps  and  EncraTlngs.  It  has  also  Blofrapblcsl 
Sketches  of  the  most  prominent  men  In  early  history. 

"Willord's  Histories  are  ueed  In  a  large  proportion  of  the  IlifU  SebooK 
Academies,  and  Female  Seminaries  throughout  the  United  Sutea,  and  hare  b««a 
recommended  by  several  State  Superintendents.  Tho  History  ot  the  Unlt*d  Statet 
is  so  highly  esteemed,  as  accurate,  reliable,  and  complete,  that  it  has  been  iraoslated, 
and  published  in  the  German,  Spanish,  and  French  languages. 

The  large  work  is  designed  as  a  Text-book  for  Ac*di¥I«»  and  Fkmaui  Simina- 
am ;  and  also  for  Distkict  Scnoou  and  Familt  LiBEAun.  Tlie  imall  work  betnf 
an  Abridgement  of  the  same,  is  designed  as  a  Tert-boatfor  Common  SeAooU  TUa 
originality  of  the  plan  consists  in  dividing  the  time  Into  period*,  of  which  the  b«f  to- 
nings  and  terminations  are  marked  by  important  events;  and  constniciinf  a  ••rto 
o/map»  ilhittrating  ttie  progress  of  the  teUlenient  qfthe  eountry,  and  tA*  rtffulM 
advance  of  civilUtation.  A  full  Chronological  TabU  will  be  found,  in  which  ai 
the  events  of  the  History  are  arranged  In  the  order  of  time.  There  I*  appended  to 
the  work  the  ConstUution  ifllie  UniUd  Statf,  and  a  series  of  QoeeUons  adapted  to 
each  chapter,  so  that  the  work  may  be  used  In  schools  and  for  private  instmctiea. 

Dwight'S  Mythology  Is  peculiarly  a<lapted  for  one  as  a  aaa»>bo«k  la  Illgk 
Schools,  Academies,  and  Seminaries,  and  Is  indispensable  to  a  thoroogh  a(^aalalaa«a 
with  Ancient  History,  and  to  a  proper  appreciation  of  the  tlaaslcal  allnrtooa  eenstaaUy 
occurring  in  the  writings  of  the  best  antbort.  It  la  alio  very  Talnabl*  for  prlmle 
-eading  and  study. 

Rioord'B  Roman  History  is  also  dedgned  as  a  Text-book  for  School^  aM 
tor  private  reading  and  reference.  It  is  the  most  complete  and  eond»ti»»l  History  at 
the  Homans  before  the  public,  and  will  be  found  exceedingly  interreting.  aod  vary 
ralnable  to  all,  especially  to  those  wishing  to  be  Csmitlar  with  the  claHlca. 

A.  S.  BABNES  &  BURB,  Fnblishen, 

61  &  63  John  Street.  New  Tork 


RECOMMENDATIONS 


OF 


MONTEITH'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES. 


This  volume  is  designed  for  youth,  and  we  think  the  author  has  been  unu£iaV  / 
fuccessful  in  Its  nrrangement  and  entire  preparation.  Books  of  tiie  same  design  a  t 
9o  often  beyond  the  full  understanding  of  the  scholar.  As  history  Is  so  much  ne^- 
jcted  in  all  our  schools,  the  publication  of  sucli  a  work  as  tliis  should  be  hailed  \»lth 
leiisnre;  for  if  scholars  find  their  first  studies  of  history  pleasant,  it  will  become  a 
.leasure  ratlier  than  a  task.  This  is  a  book  of  88  pages,  and  finely  illustrated.  It  is  in 
!very  way  wortliy  of  a  place  in  every  Public  School  in  the  State. — Maine  Teacher. 

This  is  a  most  capital  work  :  just  tlie  thing  for  children.  Our  boy  commenced  ;Le 
fitudy  of  it  the  day  it  came  to  hand.  It  is  arranged  in  the  catechetical  form,  and  is 
finely  illustrated  with  maps,  with  special  reference  to  the  matter  discussed  in  the  text 
It  begins  with  the  first  discoveries  of  America,  and  comes  down  to  the  laying  of  iIm, 
Atlantic  Telegraph  Cable.  Many  spirited  engravings  are  given  to  illustrate  the  work. 
It  also  contains  brief  Biographies  of  all  prominent  men  who  have  identified  them- 
selves with  the  history  of  this  country.  It  Is  the  best  work  of  the  kind  we  have 
seen. — Chester  Count!/  Time^. 


WILLARD'S   HISTORIES. 

From  Kev.  nowABD  Malcolm,  D.  D.,  President  of  the  University  of  Leudaburg. 

I  have  examined,  during  the  thirteen  years  that  I  have  had  charge  of  a  College, 
many  School  Histories  of  the  United  States,  and  have  found  none,  on  the  whole,  so 
proper  for  a  text-book  as  that  of  Mrs.  Willard.  It  Is  neither  too  short  nor  too  long 
•11  the  space  given  to  periods,  events,  and  persons,  is  happily  proportioned  to  their 
Importance.  The  style  is  attractive  and  lucid,  and  the  narrative  so  woven,  as  both 
to  sustain  the  interest  and  aid  the  memory  of  the  student  Candor,  Impartiality,  and 
accuracy,  are  conspicuous  throughout.  I  think  no  teacher  intending  to  commence  a 
history  class  will  be  disappointed  in  adopting  this  book. 

Mrs.  L.  n.  SioonRNKT,  the  distinffuished  Authoress,  writes: 
Mrs.  Willard  should  be  considered  as  a  benefactress  not  only  by  her  own  sex,  of 
whom  she  became  in  early  years  a  prominent  and  permanent  educator,  but  by  the 
country  at  large,  to  whose  good  she  has  dedicated  the  gathered  learning  and  faithful 
labor  of  life's  later  periods.  The  truths  that  she  has  recorded,  and  the  principles  that 
she  has  Impressed,  will  win,  from  a  future  race,  gratitude  tliat  cannot  grow  old,  and  a 
garland  tliat  will  never  fade. 

Daniel  Webstkk  rcrote,  in  a  letter  to  the  Author  : 
1  cannot  better  express  my  sense  of  the  value  of  your  History  of  the  UniUdStatet, 
than  by  saying  I  k«ep  it  near  me  as  a  book  of  reference,  accurate  in  facts  and  dates. 


DWIQHT'S   MYTHOLOGY. 

The  mythology  of  the  Grecians  and  Komans  Is  so  closely  interlinked  with  the  his- 
tory and  literature  of  the  world,  that  some  knowledge  ot  it  is  indispensable  to  any 
ionolarly  familiarity  with  either  that  history  or  literature.  "We  have  seen  no  book  so 
coEvenient  In  size  that  contains  so  full  and  elegant  ai.  exposition  of  mythology  as  th« 
one  before  us.  It  will  be  found  at  once  a  most  interesting  and  a  most  useful  book  t« 
any  one  who  wishes  an  acquaintance  with  the  splendid  myths  and  fables  with  wblck 
the  great  masters  of  ancient  learning  amused  their  leisure  and  cheated  tbMr  (aith  - 
Uichigan  Journal  of  Bduca'^on. 


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