Wmm Book_. / ABRIDGMENT OF & O ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. BY THE HONORABLE HENRY HOME OF KAMES. EDITED BY JOHN FROST, A. M. TOUKTH EDITION. PHILADELPHIA: HASWELL, BARRINGTON & HASWELL, 293 MARKET STBEET. NEW ORLEANS: ALEXANDER TO WAR, 183 9. TNzi -/(as IV 3 f Eastern District of Pennsylvania, to wit: ****** BE IT REMEMBERED, That on the twenty- second day of * T Q * O ctoDer » in the fifty-fifth year of the Independence of the United t * States of America, A. D. 1830, Towar, J. & D. M. Hogan, of ****** the said District, have deposited in this office the title of a Book, the right whereof they claim as Proprietors, in the words following, to wit : "An Abridgment of Elements of Criticism. By the Honorable Henry Home of Karnes. Edited by John Frost, A. M." In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, entitled, 4i An Act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts and books to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned." And also to the Act entitled, "An Act supplementary to an Act, entitled, 4 An Act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts and books to the authors and proprietors of such co- pies, during the times therein mentioned,' and extending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving, and etching historical and other prints." D. CALDWELL, Clerk of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania, ADVERTISEMENT THE AMERICAN EDITOR. In preparing the present abridgment of Lord Karnes's Elements of Criticism for publication, free use has been made of Jamieson's abridg- ment, published in London in 1823. It has been found necessary, however, to deviate from his plan in several particulars. The size of the book has been considerably- reduced, by omitting portions of which the prac- tical utility was not sufficiently apparent to jus- tify their being retained in a work intended for general use. All quotations of which the delicacy was in the slightest degree questionable, have been omit- ted, as also quotations in the ancient and foreign languages. Certain of the terms used by Lord Karnes in explaining the passions and emotions, have been altered with reference to the advanced state of intellectual philosophy* IV ADVERTISEMENT. Questions have been attached to the whole work, with a view to direct the attention of the student to the leading principles and their illus- trations. Some instructers, of course, will dis- pense with these in examining their pupils, and question them, in their own way, on the text: but it is presumed that the value of the work will not be diminished, even for these instructers, by the addition of the questions. The mode, in which the examples are to be recited, and their fitness pointed out, by the pupil, must of course be left to the judgment of the instructer. The Editor indulges the hope, that the present attempt to bring a standard work of criticism within reach of the inmates of our common schools and academies, may meet with the ap- probation of those of his fellow-citizens who feel interested in the important subject of general education. CONTENTS. Page Chap. 1. Association of Ideas. 11 2. Emotions and passions 16 Part 1. Causes unfolded of the Emotions and Passions: Sect. i. Difference between Emotion and Passion. — Causes that are the most common and the most general. — Passion considered as productive of Action ib. 2. Power of Sounds to raise Emotions and Passions 20 3. Causes of the Emotions of Joy and Sorrow 21 4. Sympathetic Emotion of Virtue, and its Cause. . 22 5. In many instances one Emotion is productive of another. — The same of Passions 23 6. Causes of the Passions of Fear and Anger 25 7. Emotions caused by Fiction 27 Part 2. Emotions and Passions as pleasant and painful, agreeable and disagreeable. — Modification of these Qualities 31 3. Interrupted Existence of Emotions and Passions. — Their Growth and Decay 36 4. Coexistent Emotions and Passions 40 5. Influence of Passions with respect to our Percep- tions, Opinions, and Belief 42 6. Resemblance of Emotions to their causes 45 7. Final Causes of the more frequent Emotions and Passions 46 Chap. 3. Beauty 50 4. Grandeur and Sublimity 55 5. Motion and Force 64 6. Novelty, and the unexpected appearance of ob- jects 67 7. Risible Objects 71 8. Resemblance and Dissimilitude 72 9. Uniformity and Variety 76 10. Congruity and Propriety 80 1 1. Dignity and Grace 84 a 2 Chap. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. Sect , 1. VI CONTENTS. Page Ridicule 87 Wit 92 Custom and Habit 99 External Signs of Emotions and Passions 103 Sentiments 105 Language of Passion. 123 Beauty of Language 133 Beauty of Language with respect to Sound ib. 2. Beauty of Language with respect to Significa- t tion 134 3. Beauty of Language from a resemblance between Sound and Signification 145 4. Versification 147 Chap. 19. Comparisons 161 20. Figures 181 Sect. 1. Personification. 182 2. Apostrophe 196 3. Hyperbole 198 4. The Means or Instrument conceived to be the Agent 201 5. A Figure, which, among relative objects, extends the Properties of one to another 202 6. Metaphor and Allegory 206 7. Figure of Speech 218 Chap. 21. Narration and Description 222 22. Epic and Dramatic Composition 242 23. The Three Unities 265 24. Gardening and Architecture . - 275 25. Standard of Taste --.-. .- 295 INTRODUCTION. The design of the present undertaking is, to examine the sen- sitive branch of human nature, to trace the objects that are natu- rally 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 foun- dation 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. Manifold are the advantages of criticism, when thus studied as a rational science. In the first place, a thorough acquaintance with the principles of the fine arts, redoubles the pleasure we derive from them. To the man who resigns himself entirely to sentiment or feeling, without interposing any sort of judgment, poetry, music and painting, are mere pastime : in the prime of life, indeed, they are delightful, being supported by the force of novelty and the heat of imagination : but in time they lose their relish, and are generally neglected in the maturity of life, which dis- poses to more serious and more important occupations. To those who deal in criticism as a regular science, governed by just prin- ciples, and giving scope to judgment as well as to fancy, the fine arts are a favorite entertainment; and in old age they maintain that relish which they produce in the morning of life. In the next place, a philosophic inquiry into the principles of the fine arts, inures the reflecting mind to the most enticing sort of logic : the practice of reasoning upon subjects so agreeable, tends to a habit ; and a habit, strengthening the reasoning facul- ties, prepares the mind for entering into subjects more intricate and abstract. To have, in that respect, a just conception of the importance of criticism, we need but reflect upon the common method of education ; which, after some years spent in acquiring languages, hurries us, without the least preparatory discipline, Vlll INTRODUCTIOiV. into the most profound philosophy. A more effectual method to alienate the tender mind from abstract science, is beyond the reach of invention : and accordingly, with respect to such speculations, Jhe bulk of our youth contract a sort of hobgoblin terror, which is 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 more difficult ; and are not permitted to make a new motion till they are per- fected in those which go before. Thus the science of criticism may be considered as a middle link, connecting the different part3 of education into a regular chain. This science furnishes an in- viting opportunity to exercise the judgment : we delight to reason upon subjects that are equally pleasant and familiar: we proceed gradually from the simpler to the more involved cases : and in a due course of discipline, custom, which improves all our facul- ties, bestows acuteness on that of reason, sufficient to unravel all the intricacies of philosophy. Nor 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 tendency to improve social intercourse ; 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 con- versation, and prepares us for acting in the social state with dig- nity and propriety. The science of rational criticism tends to improve the heart no less than the understanding. It tends, in the first place, to mode- rate the selfish affections : by sweetening and harmonizing the temper, it is a strong antidote to the turbulence of passion and violence of pursuit : it procures to a man so much mental enjoy- ment, 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 formi- dable than a delicate and discerning taste : the man upon whom nature and culture have bestowed this blessing, feels great de- light 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 not 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 INTRODUCTION". IS beauties make but a feint impression, indulges pride or envy with- out control, and loves to brood over errors and blemishes ; in a word, there are other passions, that, upon occasion, may disturb the peace of society more than those mentioned ; but not another pas- sion is so unwearied an antagonist to the sweets of social inter- course : pride and envy put a man perpetually in opposition to others, and dispose him to relish bad more than good qualities, even in a companion. How different that disposition of mind, where every virtue in a companion or neighbor, is, by refinement of taste, set in its strongest light, and defects or blemishes natural to all are suppressed, or kept out of view 1 ? In the next place, delicacy of taste tends not less to invigorate the social affections, 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 ; and of 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 satisfactory in itself, is necessarily productive of mutual good-will and affection. One other advantage of criticism is reserved to the last place, being of all the most important ; which is, that it is a great sup- port 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 for what is beautiful, proper, elegant, and ornamental, in writing or painting, in archi- tecture or gardening, is a fine preparation for the same just relisn of these qualities in character and behavior. To the man who has acquired a taste so acute and accomplished, every action, wrong or improper, must be highly disgustful : if, in any instance, the overbearing power of passion sway him from his duty, he re- turns to it with a doubled resolution never to be swayed a second time : he has now an additional motive to virtue, a conviction de- rived from experience, that happiness depends on regularity and order, and that disregard to justice or propriety never fails to be punished with shame and remorse. 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, X INTRODUCTION. oy that circumstance, are distinguished from the useful arts : but in order to make pleasant impressions, we ought, as above hinted, to know what objects are naturally agreeable, and what naturally disagreeable. That subject is here attempted, so far as necessary for unfolding the genuine principles of the fine arts ; and the au- thor assumes no merit from his performance, but that of evincing, perhaps more distinctly than hitherto has been done, that these principles, as well as every just rule of criticism, are founded upon the sensitive part of our nature. What the author has dis- covered or collected upon that subject, he chooses to impart in the gay and agreeable form of criticism ; imagining that this form will be more relished, and perhaps be not less instructive, than a regular and labored disquisition. His plan is, to ascend gradually to principles, from facts and experiments ; instead of beginning with the former, handled abstractedly, and descending to the latter. But though criticism be thus his only declared aim, he will not disown, that all along it has been his view to ex- plain 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. REVIEW. What is the design of this work ? What is requisite in order to become a critic in the fine arts ? What do the fine arts thus become? What is the first advantage which arises from an acquaintance with the principles of the fine arts ? To whom are the fine arts a favorite entertainment? What habit is acquired by philosophic inquiry into the principles of the fine arts ? liow may the science of criticism be considered ? Of what kind are the reasonings employed on the fine arts ? What does a just taste for the fine arts furnish ? How does the science of criticism tend to improve the heart ? To w T hat vices is a discerning taste an enemy ? In what does the man of taste delight ? What does delicacy of taste invigorate ? What is the last and most important advantage of criticism? What occupation particularly attaches a man to his duty ? What additional motive to virtue has the man of taste ? From what are the fundamental principles of criticism drawn ? Upon what is every just rule of criticism founded ? What is the author's plan ? What other object besides the science of criticism has the author kept in view ? ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. CHAPTER I. Association of Ideas. While awake we are conscious of a continued train of perceptions passing in our minds. It requires no activity to carry on, nor can we at will add an idea to this train, which is not regulated by chance. The notions by which things are linked have great influence in directing the train of thought. The inhe- rent properties of external objects are not more re- markable than the various relations that connect them together. Cause and effect, contiguity in time and place, high and low, prior and posterior, resem- blance, contrast, and a thousand other relations, con- nect things without end. No single object appears solitary and devoid of connexion ; some are intimate- ly, some slightly connected; some near, others remote. The train of thought is chiefly regulated by these relations. An external object suggests to the mind others with which it is related : thus the train of thoughts is composed. Such is the law of succession, which must be natural because it governs all human things. Sometimes, however, as after a profound sleep, an idea arises in the mind without any perceived connexion. We can attend to some ideas and dismiss others. Among objects connected, one suggests many of its re- lations; choice is afforded; we can elect one and re- ject others. We can insist on what is commonly the slighter connexion. Ideas left to their natural course are continued through the strictest connexions: the 12 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 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. We cannot, however, dissolve the train, though we may vary the order. So far our power extends ; and it is sufficient for all useful pur- poses. A subject that accords with the tone of the mind is always welcome ; thus, in good spirits a cheerful sub- ject will be introduced by the slightest connexion; and one that is melancholy, in low spirits: an interest- ing subject is recalled from time to time, by any con- nexion indifferently strong or weak, as in this finely touched relation to a rich cargo at sea : — My wind, cooling my broth, Would blow me to an ague, when I thought What harm a wind too great might do at sea. I should not see the sandy hour-glass run, But I should think of shallows and of flats, And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand Vailing her high top lower than her ribs, To kiss her burial. Should I go to church. And see the holy edifice of stone, And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks ? Which touching but my gentle vessel's side, Would scatter all the spices on the stream, Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks ; And, in a word, but even now worth this, And now worth nothing. Merch. of Venice, Act I. Sc. 1. In the minds of some persons, thoughts and circum- stances crowd upon each other by the slightest con- nexions. I ascribe this to a bluntness in the discern- ing faculty; and such a person has usually a great flow of ideas, because they are introduced by any re- lations indifferently. This doctrine is in a lively man- ner illustrated by Shakspeare. Falstajf. What is the gross sum that I owe thee ? Hostess. Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself and thy money too. Thou didst swear to me on a parcel gilt goblet sit- ting in my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday in Whitsun-week, when the Prince broke thy bead for liking his father to a singing man of Windsor, thou didst swear to me then, as 1 was washing thy wound, to marry me, and juake me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny it ? Did not Good- ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 13 wife Keech, the butcher's wife, come in then and call me Gossip Quickly ? coming in to borrow 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 Jbr 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 madam ? And didst thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch thee thirty shillings? I put thee now to thy book oath; deny it if thou canst ? Second Part, Hen. IV. Act II. Sc. % On the other hand, a man of an accurate judgment cannot have a flow of ideas ; because the slighter re- ; lations, making no figure in his mind, have no power to introduce ideas ; thence an accurate judgment is not friendly to eloquence. A comprehensive memory is seldom connected with a good judgment. Wit and judgment are seldom united. Wit joins things by distant and fanciful relations, that occur only to those who make every relation equally welcome. Hence wit is incompatible with a solid judgment. Memory and wit are often conjoined; solid judgment seldom with either. There is order as well as connexion in the succes- sion of our ideas. The principle of order governs the arrangement of perceptions, ideas and actions. Sheep in a fold, trees in a field, may be indifferently survey- ed, because they are equal in rank. In things of un- equal rank, we descend from the principal subject to its accessories ; we enter not into a minute considera- tion of constituent parts till the thing be surveyed as a whole. Our ideas are governed by the same prin- ciple. The principle of order is conspicuous with regard to natural objects, as bodies in motion; the mind falls with a heavy body, descends with a river, rises with smoke. In tracing a family, we begin with the found- er; musing on an oak, we begin at the trunk and mount to the branches. In historical facts we proceed in the order of time, and through the chain of causes and effects. In science we proceed from effects to causes ; from B 14 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. particular propositions to general ones. In an histori- cal chain every event is particular ; there is nothing to bias the mind from the order of nature. In science, many experiments come under one cause ; many causes come under one more general. From particu- lar effects to general causes, we feel an expansion of mind, more pleasing than what arises from following the order of nature. These observations furnish ma- terials for instituting a comparison between the syn- thetic and analytic methods of reasoning. The syn- thetic, descending from principles to consequences, is more agreeable to the strictness of order; in the analytic we feel the pleasure of mounting upwards, which is very agreeable to the imagination. We are framed by nature to relish order and con- nexion ; and the influence of order greatly sways the mind of man. Grandeur makes a deep impression, and inclines us to proceed from small to great. But order prevails over that tendency, and affords pleasure as well as facility in passing from a whole to its parts, from a subject to its ornaments. Elevation touches the mind, which, in rising to elevated objects, derives pleasure. The course of nature has a greater influ- ence than elevation; hence the pleasure of falling with rain and descending with a river prevails over that of mounting upward. The beauty of smoke as- cending in a calm morning is delightful, because the course of nature is joined with elevation. Every work of art conformable to the natural course of our ideas is so far agreeable ; every work of art that reverses that order is so far disagreeable. In every such work, orderly arrangement and mutual connexion are requisite. As these prevail, the com- position pleases us. Homer is defective in order and connexion, and Pindar more remarkably. In Horace there is no fault more conspicuous than want of con- nexion. Of Virgil's Georgics the parts are ill connect- ed; the transitions are neither sweet nor easy; as, for example, the description of the five zones in Book I. ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 15 In the Lutrin, the goddess of Discord is introduced without any connexion. The two prefaces of Sallust will suit any subject as well as history. Episodes in narrative poems demand some degree of union, as between principal and accessory. The de- scent of ./Eneas into Tartarus is neither necessary nor natural, for the principal action is too long suspended. The same objection lies against the elaborate descrip- tion of Fame in the JEneid. New objects introduced in description are made more or less welcome in proportion to the degree of their connexion with the principal subject. Rela- tions make no capital figure in the mind, some being transitory, others trivial; they are links that unite perceptions and produce connexion of action. An original propensity provides for the regular order of our actions; and order and connexion introduce method in the management of our affairs. For without them our conduct would be fluctuating and desultory, and we should be constantly at the mercy of chance. REVIEW. Of what are we conscious while awake ? What are some of the relations, by which things are connected in the mind ? What is regulated by these relations ? What does an external object suggest ? How far does our power over trains of ideas extend ? What sort of subject is always welcome ? Give examples ? What is the course of thoughts and circumstances, crowding upon each other in the mind ? What illustration is given ? Why cannot a man of accurate judgment have a flow of ideas. Why is wit incompatible with solid judgment ? What in the mind does the principle of order govern ? Give examples of this principle with regard to natural objects? With respect to science and history ? How are the synthetic and analytic methods of reasoning com- pared ? Give examples of the influence of order on the mind ? What works of art are agreeable, and what are disagreeable? W r hat are requisite in every such work ? 16 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. Give examples of the violation of this rule ? What is the rule concerning episodes? Why do relations make no capital figure ? Why are order and connexion necessary in our affairs ? CHAPTER II. Emotions and Passions. We give the names of passion and emotion to those feelings raised in us by external objects, which have addressed the eye or the ear. Hence the connexion of emotions and passions with the fine arts, which give pleasure to the eye and ear, and never once con- descend to gratify any of the inferior senses. We shall now delineate that connexion, to ascertain what power the fine arts have to raise emotions and passions. To those who desire to excel in the fine arts, that branch of knowledge is indispensable: without it criti- cism is abandoned to chance. The principles of the fine arts open a direct avenue to the heart; they disclose its desires, motives, and actions. We shall divide the subject into several sections, for the sake of perspicuity. Part I. Causes unfolded of the Emotio?is and Passions. Section L — Difference between Emotion and Passion* — Causes most general and common. — Passion considered as productive of Action. No emotion or passion springs up in the mind with- out a cause. If I love a person, it is for good qualities or good offices; if I have resentment against any one, it must be for an injury he has done me ; and I cannot pity one who is under no distress of body or of mind. These circumstances are not indifferent ; the good qualities or good offices that attract my love, are an- EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 17 tecedently agreeable ; if an injury did not give unea siness, it would not occasion resentment against the author ; nor would the passion of pity be raised by an object in distress, if that object did not give pain. We love what is agreeable; we hate what is disa- greeable. Certain external objects instantaneously give us pleasure or pain ; a gently flowing river, a smooth extended plain, a spreading oak, a towering hill, are objects of sight that raise pleasant emotions; a barren heath, a dirty marsh, a rotten carcass, raise painful emotions. Of these emotions, thus produced, we inquire for no other cause, but merely the pres- ence of the object. And these things raise emotions by means of their properties and qualities, as the size, force, fluency of a river. The internal qualities, power, discernment, wit, mildness, sympathy, courage, benevolence, are agreea- ble in a high degree, and instantaneously excite plea- sant emotions. The opposite qualities, dullness, peev- ishness, inhumanity, cowardice, occasion painful emo- tions. Graceful motion, genteel behavior, excite plea- sant emotions instantaneously. This true character, intention, is discovered by reflection. A purse given in discharge of a debt excites less pleasure, than if given out of charity to relieve a virtuous family in want. Actions are qualified by intention, not by the event. Human actions are perceived to be right or wrong, and that perception qualifies the pleasure or pain resulting from them. Emotions also are raised in us by the feelings of our fellow-creatures. We share the pain of a man in distress ; in joy we partake of our neighbor's pleasure. The recollection of actions, whether pleasant or painful, excites in us correspondent emotions. We re- member with pleasure a field laid out with taste, a generous action, a gracious speech ; but in this case our emotion is fainter than in the former. Desire follows some emotions, not others. We desire to reward or to imitate a virtuous action ; a beautiful B2 18 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. garden, a magnificent building, may be viewed without being desired ; and we long to punish the author of a wicked deed. Inanimate objects often raise emotions accompanied by desire, as the goods of fortune ; and the desire, when immoderate, obtains the name of ava- rice. We desire to possess a picture exposed to sale, not that in the possession of a prince. A passion differs from an emotion in this respect ; passion follows desire, and emotion passes away without exciting any desire. By desire, we mean that internal act influencing the will, and in this respect it differs from a wish. We proceed now to consider passion with respect to its power of producing action. No man proceeds to action but by means of an an- tecedent desire or impulse ; therefore, where there is no desire there is no action. This opens another dis- tinction between emotions and passions. The former, being without desire, are in their nature quiescent ; the desire included in the latter, prompts one to act in order to fulfil that desire, in other words, to gratify passion. The object of passion is that which excites it ; a man who injures me becomes the object of my resentment. An emotion may have a cause, but not an object. The objects of our passions are either general or particular ; fame, honor, &c. are general; a house, a garden, &c. are particular objects. The passions di- rected to general objects are termed appetites; direct- ed to particular objects they retain their proper name : hence we say, an appetite for glory, the passion of friendship. A passion comes after its object has been presented, an appetite exists before it ; thus the appe- tite of hunger is directed to food. We act calmly when moved without violent impulse; we hurry to action when inflamed by a strong impulse. The actions of brutes are dictated by instinct, with- out any view to consequences: man is governed by reason ; he acts with deliberation, his actions have an EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 19 end in view ; yet are there human actions not govern- ed by reason, nor done with any view to consequences, as in the case of infants, who are mostly governed by instinct ; and even of grown persons famishing with hunger, without regard to its salutary effects. The miser converts means into an end, in accumulating wealth without the least view of use. An instinctive passion impels us to act blindly with- out any view to consequences ; it is deliberative when subject to reason, and prompting with a view to an end. Desire to bring about an end is termed a motive with respect to its power of determining one to act. Passion' is the cause of instinctive actions, which have no motive, because they are done without any view to consequences. The gratification of desire is pleasant ; the foresight of that pleasure becomes often an additional motive for acting. The child eats from the impulse of hun- ger ; a young man has the additional pleasure of gratification ; an old man, because eating contributes to health, has an additional motive. These premises determine what passions and actions are selfish, and what social. The end ascertains the class to which they belong. Where the end in view is my own good, they are selfish ; where the end in view is the good of another, they are social. Instinc- tive actions are neither social nor selfish ; thus eating when prompted by nature, is neither social nor selfish ; but add the motive that it will contribute to my health, and it becomes in a measure selfish. When affection moves me to act for my friend's happiness, without re- gard to my own gratification, the action is social; it my own happiness be consulted, it is partly selfish. A just action prompted by the principle of duty, is neither social nor selfish ; performed with a view to the pleasure of gratification, it is selfish. Love and gratitude to a benefactor, are purely social. An ac- tion done to gratify my ambitious views, is selfish. Resentment from the gratification of passion is selfish ; 20 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. it is dissocial when revenge aims at the destruction of the object. All motives to action do not then spring from self-love. Every one, however, has a direct per- ception of self. Some circumstances make beings or things fit ob- jects for desire, others not. A thing beyond our reach is not desired. No man desires to walk on the clouds, because the desire would be absurd. Where the prospect of attainment is faint, the object seldom raises strong desire. The beauty of a princess, rarely excites love in a peasant. REVIEW. To what do we give the name of passion or emotion ? With what arts are they connected ? What are the causes of emotion or passion ? Give examples of the causes of agreeable emotions. By what means do they raise emotions ? Give examples of the causes of painful emotions. How are actions qualified ? What degree of emotion is raised by recollection ? Does desire always follow emotion ? How does a passion differ from an emotion ? What is always the cause of action? What is the object of passion ? What are appetites ? How are the actions of brutes directed ? Of man ? What is the difference between an instinctive and a deliberative passion ? What is a motive ? What is the difference between selfish and social actions and passions ? Between these and instinctive ? Illustrate this. What circumstances are inconsistent with desire ? Section II. — The Power of Sounds to raise Emotions and Passions. Of all external objects, rational beings have the most powerful influence in raising emotions and pas- sions ; and as speech is the most powerful of all the means by which one human being can display itself to another, the objects of the eye must yield preference to those of the ear. Sounds may raise terror or mirth. EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 21 Music in conjunction with words has a commanding influence over the mind. It commands a variety of emotions, and may be made to promote luxury and ef- feminacy. But with respect to its refined pleasures, music goes hand in hand with gardening and architec- ture, her sister arts, in humanizing and polishing the mind. Section III. — Causes of the Emotions of Joy and Sorrow. An emotion accompanied with desire is called a pas- sion ; when the desire is fulfilled, the passion is grati- fied ; the gratification is pleasant, and affects us with joy. The exception is, a man stung with remorse, who desires to chastise and punish himself. The joy of gratification is called an emotion, because it makes us happy in our present situation ; on the contrary, sor- row is the result of an event opposite to what we de- sired. An event fortunate or unfortunate, that falls out by accident, and concerns us or our connexions, gives us joy or sorrow, according to its result. Joy arises to a great height upon the removal of any violent distress of mind or body ; in no situation does sorrow rise to a greater height than upon the removal of what makes us happy. The sensibility of our nature accounts for these effects. The principle of contrast is another cause ; joy arising upon the removal of pain is in- creased by contrast, when we reflect upon our former distress ; an emotion of sorrow, upon being deprived of any good, is increased by contrast, when we reflect upon our former happiness. Jqffier. There 's not a wretch who lives on common charity But 's happier than me. For I have known The luscious sweets of plenty ; every night Have slept with soft content about my head, And never waked 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. 22 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. Section IV. — Sympathetic Emotion of Virtue, and its Cause. A signal act of gratitude produces in the spectator or reader, love or esteem for the author, and a desire to perform acts of gratitude, without reference to any one object. In this state the mind, wonderfully bent upon an object, neglects no opportunity to vent itself. In such a state, favors are returned double. A courageous action produces in the spectator the passion of admiration directed to the author, and also a separate feeling, which may be called an emotion of courage, because when under its influence, he is con- scious of boldness and intrepidity, and longs for proper objects upon which to exert this emotion. So full of valor, that they smote the air For breathing in their faces. Tempest. — Act IV. Sc. l v The emotions raised by martial music are all of this nature : they have no object; so also the grief or pity raised by melancholy music is without an object. In this consists also the extreme delight every one has in the histories of conquerors and heroes. This singular feeling we term the sympathetic emo- tion of virtue : it resembles the appetites of nature, hunger, thirst, animal love, and in no case is the mind more solicitous for a proper object, than when under the influence of any of these appetites. This feeling is raised in the mind only by virtuous actions. No man has a propensity to vice as such ; a wicked deed disgusts us ; and this abhorrence is a strong antidote against vice, as long as any impression remains of the wicked action. This emotion bestows upon good example the utmost influence by prompting us to imitate what we admire ; and every exercise of virtue, mental or external, leads to habit. A disposition of the mind, like a limb of the body, becomes stronger by exercise. Every person may therefore acquire a settled habit of virtue. Intercourse with men of worth, histories of generous and disinterested actions, EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 23 and frequent meditation upon them, keep the sympa- thetic emotion in constant exercise, which, by degrees, introduces a habit and confirms the authority of virtue. With respect to education in particular, what a spa- cious and commodious avenue is here opened to the heart of a young person ! REVIEW. What are the uses of music ? What kind of events afford the greatest joy ? The greatest sor- row ? What are the causes of these effects ? Give an example? Describe the effect of an act of gratitude? Of courage? Of martial music ? What is this feeling called ? How is it raised ? What are its effects ? How may "a settled habit of virtue be acquired ? Section V. — In many instances one Emotion is productive of another. The same of Passions. The relations by which things are connected have a remarkable influence in the production of emotions and passions. An agreeable object makes every thing connected with it appear agreeable. The mind, gliding sweetly and easily through related objects, carries along the agreeable properties it meets in its passage, and bestows them on the present object, which thereby appears more agreeable than when considered apart. -This propensity 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. So did the satellites of Hotspur ; for which see what the Lady Piercy saith of her lord. The same communication of passion obtains in the relation of principal and accessory. Pride, of which self is the object, expands itself upon a house, a garden, servants, equipage, and every accessory. A lover addresses the glove belonging to his mistress as a Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine. 24 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. Veneration for relics has the same natural founda- tion. A temple is in a proper sense an accessory to the deity to which it is dedicated. Diana is chaste — so is her temple, and the very icicle which hangs on it. The noble sister of Publicola, The moon of Rome; chaste as the icicle That 's curded by the frost from purest snow, And hangs on Dian's temple. Coriolanus. — Act V. Sc. 3. The respect and esteem which the great, powerful, and opulent command, give currency to what is called the fashion, in dress, manners, connexions, and taste. By the same easiness of communication, every bad quality of an enemy is spread to all its connexions^ Thus the house in which Ravaillac was born was rased to the ground ; the Swiss suffer no peacocks to live, because the Duke of Austria, their ancient enemy, wears a peacock's tail in his crest. Even the bearer of bad tidings, because an object of aversion, cannot escape : — Fellow, begone ; I cannot brook thy sight, This news hath made thee a most ugly man. King John. — Act III* Sc. 1. Yet the first messenger of unwelcome news Hath but a losing office ; and his tongue Sounds ever after, as a sullen bell Remember'd, tolling a departed friend. Second Part, Henry IV. — Act I. Sc. 1. The object, however, from which such properties are borrowed, must be such as to warm the mind and inflame the imagination. But these emotions are sec- ondary, being occasioned by antecedent, and primary emotions and passions. A secondary emotion may readily swell into a passion from the accessory object, provided the accessory be a proper object for desire. Thus it often happens that one passion is productive of an- other. Self-love generates love to children. Remorse for betraying a friend or murdering an enemy in cold blood, makes a man hate himself; in that state, he is not conscious of affection to his children, but rather EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 25 of disgust or ill-will. The hatred he has for himself, is expanded upon his children. Self-love is expanded to blood relations, and the pas- sion communicates itself in proportion to the degree of connexion. Self-love extends even to things inani- mate, the property a man calls his own. Friendship, less vigorous than self-love, is less apt to communicate itself to the friend's children or other relations. There are, however, instances of this. The more slight and transitory relations are not fa- vorable to the communication of passions. Sudden and violent anger is an exception. The sense of order influences this passion in nature to descend from parents to children by an easy transi- tion ; the ascent to a parent, contrary to that order, makes the transition more difficult. Gratitude to a benefactor is readily extended to his children ; but not so readily to his parents. REVIEW. Do the relations of things produce passions similar to those pro- duced by the things themselves ? Give examples. What is the origin of fashion ? Give examples of the bad qualities of an enemy spread to its connexions. What are the emotions caused by relations called ? Give examples of one passion producing another. What sort of relations are most favorable to the communication of passions ? Section VI. — Causes of the Passions of Fear and Anger. Fear and anger, to answer the purposes of nature, ope- rate sometimes instinctively, sometimes deliberative- ly, according to circumstances. Deliberatively, where reason suggests means to avoid a threatened danger. If a man be injured, the first thing he thinks of is what revenge he shall take, and what means he shall em- ploy. These particulars are no less obvious than natu- ral; but, as the passions of fear and anger, in their C 26 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. instinctive state, are less familiar to us, it may be ac- ceptable to the reader to have them accurately de- lineated. I begin with fear. Self-preservation is not wholly left to the conduct of reason. Nature acts here with her usual foresight. Fear and anger, moving us to act instinctively, afford security when the slower operations of deliberate rea- son would be too late ; we avoid danger by the impulse of fear, before reflection places us in safety. If my horse stumble, my hands and knees are instantly at work to prevent him from falling. Fear provides for self-preservation by flying from harm ; anger by repelling it. Where anger impels one suddenly to return a blow, the passion is instinctive ; and it is chiefly in such a case that it acts blindly and ungovernably. Instinctive anger is frequently raised by pain, and a man thus beforehand disposed to anger, is not nice in giving a blow if he be touched on a ten- der part. The child is violently excited to crush to atoms the stone it has hit its toe against. An instance of blind and absurd anger is finely illus- trated in No. 439 of the Spectator, in a story, the dramatis persona of which are, a cardinal and a spy retained in pay for intelligence. The cardinal is repre- sented as minuting down the particulars. The spy begins with a low voice, " Such an one, the advocate, whispered to one of his friends within my hearing, that your eminence was a very great poltroon;" and after having given his patron time to take it down, adds, " That another called him a mercenary rascal in a public conversation." The cardinal replies, "Very 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. In these examples anger appears irrational and ab surd; but it was given us to prevent or repel injuries and it is not wonderful to find it exerted irregularly and capriciously : but all the harm that can be done EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 27 by the passion in that state is instantaneous ; for the shortest delay sets all to rights; and circumstances are seldom so unlucky as to put it in the power of a pas- sionate man to do much harm in an instant. Social passions, like 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 by Fiction. Hitherto fiction has not been assigned as the cause of any emotion or passion ; but passions are moved by fiction as well as by truth. The objects of our external senses really exist in the way and manner we perceive, and nature deter- mines us to rely on the veracity of our senses ; and the power of memory recalls objects to the mind with dif- ferent degrees of accuracy. Interesting objects make a strong impression. For example, I saw yesterday a beautiful woman in tears for the loss of an only child, and was greatly moved w T ith her distress : not satisfied with a slight recollection or bare remembrance, I pon- der upon the melancholy scene : conceiving myself to be in the place where I was an eye-witness, every cir- cumstance appears to me as at first : I think I see the woman in tears, and hear her moans. Hence it may be justly said, that in a complete idea of memory there is no past nor future: a thing recalled to the mind with the accuracy I have been describing, is perceived as in our view, and consequently as existing at present. Past time makes part of an incomplete idea only : I remember or reflect, that some years ago I was at Ox- ford, and saw the first stone laid of the RatclifF library. This act of the mind is called conception. The thing exists, and I am a spectator of its existence, and I have a perception of the object similar to what a real spec- tator has. Many rules of criticism depend on conception. To 28 ELEMENTS OP CRITICISM. distinguish conception from reflective remembrance, 1 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 complete image of it, I perceive it as passing in my presence ; and this perception is an act of intuition, into which reflection enters not, more than into an act of sight. Let us now consider the idea of a thing we never saw, raised in us by speech, writing, or painting. That idea, with respect to the present subject, is of the same nature with an idea of memory, being either complete or incomplete. Lively and accurate description raises in us ideas no less distinct than if we had been origin- ally spectators. Slight and superficial narrative pro- duces faint and incomplete ideas, of which conception makes no part. Past time enters into this idea, as into an incomplete idea of memory; as when we have spread out before our minds a lively and beautiful description of the battle of Zama, in which Scipio overcame Han- nibal. Ideas, both of memory and speech, produce emotions similar to those produced by an immediate view of the object ; only fainter, in proportion as an idea is fainter than an original perception. Conception supplies the want of real presence ; and in idea we perceive per- sons acting and suffering precisely as in an original survey : hence the pleasure of a reverie, the objects of which we conceive to be actually existing in our presence, precisely as if we were eye-witnesses of them. If then, in reading, conception be the means by which our passions are moved, it makes no differ- ence whether the subject be fable or true history. When the conception is complete, the mind finds no leisure for reflection. The meeting of Hector and An- dromache, the passionate scenes in Lear, give an im- pression of reality no less distinct than that given fey Tacitus of the death of Otho. EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 29 Even genuine history has no command over our pas- sions but by conception only : in this respect it stands upon the same footing with fable. History reaches not the heart when we indulge in reflection upon the facts ; for if reflection be laid aside, it stands upon the same footing with fable. What effect either may have to raise sympathy depends on the vivacity of the ideas they raise, and fable is thence generally more success- ful than history. Of all the means for making an im- pression of conception, theatrical representation is the most powerful. Words, independent of actiori, have the same power in a less degree ; for a tragedy will extort tears in private. This power belongs also to painting : a good historical painting makes a deeper impression than words can, but still inferior to theatri- cal action. Painting possesses a middle place between reading and acting. Painting, however, cannot raise our passions like words : a painting is confined to a single instant, its impression is instantaneous ; passions require a succession of impressions ; hence the effect of reading and acting, which reiterate impressions without end. The machinery of imaginary beings in an epic poem amuses by its novelty and singularity ; but they never move the sympathetic passions, be- cause they cannot impose on the mind by any percep- tion of reality. A burlesque poem may employ ma- chinery with success, because it is not the aim of that poem to raise our sympathy. The more extravagant the fiction, the better. Having assigned the means by which fiction com- mands our passions, our task is accomplished by assign- ing the final cause. Fiction, by means of language, has the command of our sympathy for the good of others. By the same means our sympathy may also be raised for our own good. Examples both of virtue and vice raise virtuous emotions; which becoming stronger by exercise, tend to make us virtuous by habit, as well as by principle. Examples confined to real C2 30 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. events are not so frequent as without other means to produce a habit of virtue. We are formed in such a manner as to be susceptible of the same improvement from fable that we receive from genuine history. By that contrivance examples to improve us in virtue may be multiplied without end. No other sort of discipline contributes more to make virtue habitual, and no other sort is so agreeable in the application. I add another final cause with thorough satisfaction; because it shows that the Author of our nature is not less kindly provi- dent for the happiness of his creatures than for the regularity of their conduct : the power that fiction has over the mind, affords an endless variety of refined amuse- ment always at hand to employ a vacant hour : such amusements are a fine resource in solitude ; and, by cheering and sweetening the mind, contribute greatly to social happiness. REVIEW. How do fear and anger operate ? Give examples of their deliberative action. Give an example of the instinctive action of fear — of anger. How is instinctive anger frequently raised ? Give the instance of blind and absurd anger from the Spectator. For what purpose was anger given us ? What prevents mischief arising from absurd passion. Are passions moved by fiction ? Give examples of past scenes made present to the mind ? What is this act of the mind called ? How is conception distinguished from reflective remembrance ? What kind of ideas are raised in us by lively description ? By slight and superficial narrative ? Of what does conception supply the want ? How ? Does fiction impress us as strongly as history ? Why ? Give examples. How does history command the passions ? What is the most powerful means of making an impression by conception ? What else possesses this power ? Why is painting less effective in raising the passions than words ? Give examples. W hat are the uses of fiction ? EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 31 Part II. Emotions and Passions, as pleasant and painful. Agreeable and disagreeable modifications of these Qualities. It will naturally occur at first, that a discourse upon the passions ought to commence with explaining the qualities now mentioned : hut upon trial, I found that this explanation could not he made distinctly, till the difference should first be ascertained between an emo- tion and a passion, and their causes unfolded. Great obscurity may be observed among writers with regard to the present point ; particularly, no care is taken to distinguish agreeable from pleasant, disa- greeable from painful ; or rather these terms are deem- ed synonymous. This is an error not at all venial in the science of ethics. Some painful passions, we af- firm, are agreeable; some pleasant passions are dis- agreeable. Viewing a fine garden, I perceive it to be beautiful or agreeable as belonging to the object, or one of its qualities. When I turn my attention from the garden to what passes in my mind, I am conscious of a plea- sant emotion, of which the garden is the cause. This pleasure is a quality of the emotion produced, not of the garden. A rotten carcass is disagreeable, and raises a painful emotion ; the disagreeableness is a quality of the object, the pain the quality of the emo- tion. Agreeable and disagreeable are qualities of the objects we perceive ; pleasant and painful are quali- ties of the emotions we feel : the former belongs to the objects, the latter exist within us. But a passion or emotion, beside being felt, is fre- quently 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 ap- pear the different significations of the terms under 32 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. consideration, as applied to passion ; when a passion is termed pleasant or painful, we refer to the actual feeling ; when termed agreeable or disagreeable, we re- fer to it as an object of thought or reflection: a pas- sion 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 contemplation. In the description of emotions and passions, these terms do not always coincide : to make which evident, we must endeavor to ascertain, 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 trust to induction, admit not a single exception. The nature of an emotion or passion, as pleasant or painful, de- pends entirely on its cause : the emotion produced by an agreeable object is invariably pleasant ; and the emotion produced by a disagreeable object is invaria- bly painful. Thus a lofty oak, a generous action, a valuable discovery in art or science, are agreeable objects that invariably produce pleasant emotions. A treacherous action, an irregular, ill-contrived edifice, being disagreeable objects, produce painful emotions. Selfish passions are pleasant; for self is always an agreeable object, or cause. A social passion directed upon an agreeable object is always pleasant ; directed upon an object in distress, is painful. Lastly, all dis- social passions, such as envy, resentment and malice, caused by disagreeable objects, are painful. A general rule for the agreeableness or disagreea- bleness of emotions and passions is, a sense of a com- mon nature in every species of animals, particularly our own, and a conviction that this common nature is right or perfect, and that individuals ought to be made conformable to it. # A passion that deviates from the common nature, by being too strong or too weak, is wrong and disagreeable ; but as far as conformable to * This is explained, Chap. XXV. Standard of Taste EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 33 common nature, every emotion and passion is per- ceived to be right, and thence agreeable. But the painful are no less natural, as of grief and pity, and therefore they are agreeable and applauded by all the world. Another rule more simple and direct for as- certaining the agreeableness or disagreeableness of a passion as opposed to an emotion, is f derived from the desire that accompanies it. If the desire be to per- form 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. These rules by the wisdom of providence coincide : a passion that is conformable to our common nature must tend to good ; and a passion that deviates from our common nature must tend to ill. A passion that becomes an object of thought, may have the effect to produce a passion or emotion in the spectator ; for it is natural, that a social being should be affected with the passions of others. Passions or emotions thus generated, submit, in common with others, to the general law above-mentioned, namely, that an agreeable object produces a pleasant emotion, and a disagreeable object a painful emotion. Thus gratitude produces love to the grateful person; malice, the painful passion of hatred, to the malicious person. We are now prepared for examples of pleasant passions that are disagreeable, and of painful passions that are agreeable. Self-love, as long as confined within just bounds, is a passion both pleasant and agreeable: in excess it is disagreeable, though it continues to be still pleasant. Our appetites are pre- cisely in the same condition. Resentment, on the other hand, is, in every stage of the passion, painful ; but is not disagreeable unless in excess. Pity is al- ways painful, yet always agreeable. Vanity, on the contrary, is always pleasant, yet always disagreeable. But however distinct those qualities are, they coincide, 34 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. I acknowledge, in one class of passions: all vicious passions tending to the hurt of others, are equally- painful and disagreeable. We come now to the modifications of these passions as respects the science of criticism. The pleasure or pain of one passion differs from that of another, as of revenge gratified from that of love. In discerning different sweets, sours, bitters ; honey is never mista- ken for sugar ; and we distinguish smells in flowers different and endless. The differences too as to plea sant and painful emotions and passions have no limits ; though we want acuteness of feeling for the more delicate modifications. There is an analogy here be- tween our internal and external senses, and with re- lation to the fine arts, the qualification most essential is termed delicacy of taste. Some passions are gross, some refined ; the pleasures of external sense are corporeal or gross ; those of the eye and ear are felt to be internal, and for that reason pure and refined. The social affections are more refined than the selfish. Sympathy and humanity are universally esteemed the finest temper of mind. A savage knows little of social affection : he cannot com- pare selfish and social pleasure. The social passions rise highest in our esteem. There are differences not less remarkable among the painful passions. Some are voluntary, some in- voluntary: the pain of the gout is an example of the latter ; grief, of the former, which in some cases is so voluntary as to reject all consolation. One pain softens the temper — pity is an instance : one tends to render us savage and cruel, which is the case of re- venge. I value myself upon sympathy: 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 excruciating and tor* EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 85 meriting, and tend to a habit of peevishness and dis- content. Social pains have a very different tendency: the pain of sympathy, for example, is not only volun- tary, but softens my temper, and raises me in my own esteem. Refined manners, and polite behavior, must not be deemed altogether 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 concep- tion. Ridicule, which chiefly arises from pride, a selfish passion, is at best but a gross pleasure ; a people, it is true, must have emerged out of barbarity before they can have a taste for ridicule ; but it is too rough an entertainment for the polished and refined. Cicero discovers in Plautus a happy talent for ridicule, and a peculiar delicacy of wit; but Horace declares against the lowness and roughness of that author's raillery. The modifications of high and low will be handled in the chapter of> grandeur and sublimity; and the modi- fications of dignified and mean, in that of dignity and grace. REVIEW. Ave pleasant and agreeable, painful and disagreeable, respec- tively synonymous ? What is affirmed in order to prove that they are not ? Is the pleasure produced by viewing an agreeable object, a quality of the emotion produced, or of the object ? How are agreeable and disagreeable distinguished from pleasant and painful ?~f How are these terms applied to a passion ?+- On what does the nature of an emotion or passion depend ? Illustrate this. What is the general rule for the agreeableness or disagreeable- ness of emotions and passions ? How is the rule applied ? From what is another rule denved ? How is this applied ? How is the spectator of a passion in another person affected ? Give examples. Give examples of pleasant passions that are disagreeable, and painful ones that are agreeable ? 36 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. In what do these qualities coincide f Do the pleasures or pains arising from the passions differ ? Illustrate this. What is the most essential qualification with respect to the fine arts ? What passions are gross, and what refined ? Give examples of voluntary and involuntary passions, and their effects. What advantages have social over selfish passions ? How is this illustrated in manners ? How with respect to ridicule ? Part III. Interrupted existence of Emotions and Passions ; their growth and decay. Did an emotion continue like color or figure, the condition of man would be deplorable ; it is wisely or- dered that emotions and passions should only subsist while their cause is present, and have no independent existence. They are thus felt at intervals, and no emotion raised by an idea is the same as that raised by the sight of the object. A passion is always reck- oned the same, as long as it is fixed upon the same ob- ject ; thus love and hatred are said to continue for life. Many passions are reckoned the same even after a change of object, as envy directed to the same person, or many persons at once ; pride and malice are exam- ples of the same. So much for the identity of pas- sions ; we now proceed to examine their growth and decay. Some emotions are produced in their utmost perfec- tion, and have a very short duration, as surprise, won- der, terror. Emotions raised by inanimate objects, trees, rivers, buildings, arrive at perfection almost in- stantaneously ; and they have a long endurance, a sec- ond view producing nearly the same pleasure as the first. Love, hatred, &c. swell and then decay. Envy, malice, pride, scarce ever decay. Some passions, such as gratitude and revenge, are often exhausted by a single act of gratification : other EMOTIOXS AXD PASSIOXS. 37 passions, such as pride, malice, envy, love, hatred, are not so exhausted ; but having a long continuance, de- mand frequent gratification. With respect to emotions which are quiescent, be- cause not productive of desire, their growth and decay are easily explained : an emotion caused by an inani- mate object, cannot, naturally take longer time to ar- rive at maturity than is necessary for a leisurely sur- vey : such emotion also must continue long stationary without any sensible decay, a second or third view of the object being nearly as agreeable as the first : this is the case of an emotion produced by a fine prospect, an impetuous river, or a towering hill ; while a man remains the same, such objects ought to have the same effect upon him. Familiarity, however, hath an influ- ence here, as it hath everywhere : frequency of view, after short intervals especially, weans the mind gradu- ally from the object, which at last loses all relish : the noblest object in the material world, a clear and serene sky, is quite disregarded, unless perhaps after a course of bad weather. An emotion raised by human virtues, qualities, or actions, may, by reiterated views of the object, swell imperceptibly till it become so vigorous as to generate desire : in that condition it must be han- dled as a passion. When nature requires a passion to be sudden, it is commonly produced in perfection ; as fear, anger, won- der, and surprise. Reiterated impressions made by their cause exhaust these passions, instead of inflaming them. This will be explained in Chapter VI. When a passion has for its foundation an original propensity peculiar to some men, it generally comes soon to maturity, as pride, envy, malice ; — the propen- sity, upon presenting a proper object, is immediately inflamed into a passion. The growth of love and hatred is slow or quick, ac- cording to circumstances. Good qualities in a person raise in us a pleasant emotion ; reiterated views swell it into a desire of that person's happiness : this desire, D 38 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. freely indulged, works a gradual change internally and at last settles into an affection for that person, now my friend. Affection thus produced, operates like an original propensity. The habit of aversion or hatred is brought on in the same manner. Passions generally have a tendency to excess, occa- sioned by the following means. The mind, affected by any passion, is not in a proper state for distinct per- ception, nor for cool reflection : it hath always a strong bias to the object of an agreeable passion, and a bias no less strong against the object of a disagreeable pas- sion. The object of love, for example, however indif- ferent to others, is to the lover's conviction a paragon; and the object of hatred, is vice itself without alloy. Hatred, as well as other passions, must run the same course. Thus, between a passion and its object there is a natural operation, resembling action and reaction in physics : a passion acting upon its object, magnifies it greatly in appearance ; and this magnified object react- ing upon the passion, swells and inflames it mightily. The growth of some passions depend often on occa- sional circumstances:/ o bstacles to g^a tificalion^never { u i.-jk., faji jo inflame a passio n^; and the mind distressed by obstacles becomes impatient for gratification, and con- sequently more desirous of it. All impediments in fancy's course Are motives of mere fancy. Shakspeare. So much upon the growth of passions ; their continu- ance and decay come next under consideration. And, first, it is a general 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 : novelty soon degenerates into familiarity ; and the unexpectedness of an object is soon sunk in the pleasure that the object affords. Fear, which is a passion of greater importance as tending to self-pre- EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 39 serration, is often instantaneous, and yet is of equal duration with its cause ; nay, it frequently subsists after the cause is removed. In the next place, a passion founded on a peculiar propensity, subsists generally for ever ; which is the case of pride, envy, and malice : objects are never wanting to inflame the propensity into a passion. Thirdly, it may be laid down as a general law of nature, that every passion ceases upon attaining its ultimate end. To explain that law, we must distin- guish between a particular and a general end. I call a particular end what may be accomplished by a single act : a general end, on the contrary, admits acts with- out number ; because it cannot be said, that a general end is ever fully accomplished while the object of the passion subsists. Gratitude and revenge are examples of the first kind: the ends they aim at may be accom- plished by a single act ; and, when that act is perform- ed, the passions are necessarily at an end. Love and hatred are examples of the other kind : desire of doing good, or of doing mischief to an individual, is a gen- eral end, admitting acts without number, and which is seldom accomplished. Lastly, we are to consider the difference between an original propensity, and affection or aversion produced by custom. The former adheres too closely to the consti- tution ever to be eradicated; hence the passions it gives birth to continue during life with no diminution. The latter, which owe their birth and increase to time, owe their decay to the same cause : affection and aversion decay gradually as thej ' grow ; and hatred as well as love are extinguished by long absence. In short, man with respect to this life is a temporary being : he grows, becomes stationary, decays ; and so must all his powers and passions. 40 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. REVIEW. Are emotions permanent? How ong does a passion continue the same ? What emotions are immediately perfected, and of short dura- tion? What passions are exhausted by a single act ? What passions continue long ? How long does an emotion caused by an inanimate object take to arrive at maturity ? How long does it last? Give examples. What passions are produced in perfection ? What sort of passions come to maturity soon? Illustrate the growth of affection. By what means have passions a tendency to excess ? What is the effect of obstacles ? What is the general law with respect to growth and decay ? Give examples. What kind of passion subsists for ever ? When does a passion cease ? How are general and particular ends distinguished ? Give examples. Illustrate the difference between an original propensity and a passion or affection produced by custom. Part IV. Coexistent Emotions and Passions. For a thorough knowledge of the human passions and emotions, it is not sufficient that they be examined singly and separately : as a plurality of them are some- times felt at the same instant, the manner of their co- existence, 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 end- less variety of cases : if such an undertaking can be brought to perfection, it must be by degrees. The fol- lowing hints may suffice for a first attempt. We begin with emotions raised by different sounds, as the simplest case. Two sounds that mix, and, as it were, incorporate before they reach the ear, are saia to be concordant. That each of the two sounds, even after their union, produceth an emotion of its own. EMOTIONS AXD PASSIONS. 41 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 conjunc- tion. Two sounds that refuse incorporation or mix- ture, are said to be discordant ; and when heard at the same instant, the emotions produced by them are unpleasant in conjunction, however pleasant separately. Similar to the emotion raised by mixed sounds, is the emotion raised by an object of sight with its sev- eral qualities; as a tree with its qualities of color, figure, size, &c. The emotion it produces is one com- plex emotion. In coexistent emotions produced by different objects of sight, there cannot be a concordance among them like what is perceived in some sounds. Emotions are similar when they produce the same tone of mind, — cheerful emotions are similar, so are melancholy emotions. Dissimilar emotions are pride and humility, gaiety and gloominess. Emotions perfectly similar, readily combine and unite, so as in a manner to become one complex emo- tion ; witness the emotions produced by a number of flowers in a parterre, or of trees in a wood. Emotions that are opposite, or extremely dissimilar, never com- bine or unite ; the mind cannot simultaneously take an opposite tone ; it cannot at the same instant be both joyful and sad, angry and satisfied, proud and humble ; dissimilar emotions may succeed each other with ra- pidity, but they cannot exist simultaneously. Between these two extremes, emotions unite more or less, in proportion to the degree of their resem- blance, and the degree in which their causes are con- nected. Thus the emotions produced by a fine land- scape and the singing of birds, being similar in a con- siderable 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 mistress in distress, whose beauty D2 42 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. gives pleasure, and her distress pain : These two emo- tions, proceeding from different views 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 painful. This clearly explains some expres- sions common in poetry, as a sweet distress, a pleasant pain. REVIEW. What sounds are concordant ? What is their effect ? What sort of emotion is produced by objects of sight? When are emotions similar ? What are dissimilar ? What are their respective effects ? In what proportion do emotions unite ? Give examples. Do dissimilar emotions unite? What does this fact explain ? Part V. Influence of Passion with respect to our Perceptions, Opin ions and Belief. Our actions are influenced by our passions; our {mssions influence our perceptions, opinions, and be- lief; and our opinions 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 underrates danger; and to the indolent the slightest obstacle ap- pears insurmountable. This doctrine is of great use in logic ; and of still greater use in criticism, by serving to explain several principles in the fine arts that will be unfolded in the course of this work. A few general observations shall at present suffice, leaving the subject to be prosecuted more particularly afterward, when occasion offers. EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 43 There is no truth more universally known, than that tranquillity and sedateness are the proper state of mind for accurate perception 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, as observed above, hath such influence over^us, as to give a false light to all its objects. Agreeable passions prepossess 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 rival beauty, she is awkward and disagreeable ; when the passion of love is gone, beauty vanishes with it. Arguments of a favorite opinion pervert the judg- ment; and those that are disagreeable to the mind, are passed over as erroneous intruders. Anger raised by an accidental stroke upon a tender part of the body, is sometimes vented upon the unde- signing cause. The passion in that case is absurd ; there is no solid gratification in punishing the innocent; the mind, prone to justify, as to gratify its passion, de- ludes itself into a conviction of the action's being vol- untary. The conviction is momentary: the first re- flection shows it to be erroneous; and the passion vanishes with the conviction. But anger, the most violent of all passions, has still greater influence: it forces the mind to personify a stock or stone, if it hap- pen to occasion bodily pain, and even to believe it a voluntary agent,/ in order to be a proper object of re- sentment. Of such personification, involving a conviction of reality, there is one illustrious instance. When the first bridge of boats over the Hellespont was destroyed by a storm, Xerxes fell into a transport of rage, so excessive, that he commanded the sea to be punished with 300 stripes, and a pair of fetters to be thrown into it, enjoining the following words to be pronounced : " O thou salt and bitter water ! thy master hath con- demned thee to this punishment for offending him with 44 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. out cause ; and is resolved to pass over thee in spite of thy insolence : with reason all men neglect to sacrifice to thee, because thou art both disagreeable and treacherous." Herodotus, B. 7. Shakspeare exhibits beautiful examples of the irre- gular influence of passion in making us believe things to be otherwise than they are. King Lear, in his distress, personifies the rain, wind, and thunder; and, in order to justify his resentment, believes them to be taking part with his daughters : Lear, Spit, fire ! spout, rain ! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters. I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness ; I never gave you kingdoms, call'd you children ; You owe me no subscription ; why then let fall Your horrible pleasure — Here I stand, your slave; A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man : — But yet I call you servile ministers, That have with two pernicious daughters join'd Your high-engender'd battles 'gainst a head So old and whi te as this. Oh ! oh ! 'tis foul ! Act III. Sc. 2. King Richard, full of indignation against his favorite horse for carrying Bolingbroke, is led into the convic- tion of his being rational : Groom, O, how it yearn'd my heart, when I beheld In London streets, that coronation-day, When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary, That horse that thou so often hast bestrid, That horse that I so carefully have dress'd. K. Rich, Rode 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 hath eat bread from my royal hand ; This hand hath made him proud with clapping him : Would he 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 II. — Act V Sc. 5. REVIEW. What are influenced by our passions ? Give examples. What is the proper state of mind for criticism ? What disturbs this state of mind ? EMOTIONS ASD PASSIONS. 45 How does anger affect our judgment ? To what does anger sometimes force the mind? Give an example. What fine instance of the influence of passion does Shakspeare give in Lear? — in King Richard II. ? Part VI. The resemblance of Emotions to their Causes. That many emotions have some resemblance to their causes, is a truth that can be made clear by in- duction ; though, as far as I know, the observation has not been made by any writer. Motion, in its different circumstances, is productive of feelings that resem- ble it: sluggish motion produces a languid feeling; slow motion, a calm feeling; brisk motion, a lively feeling. A large object swells the heart: an elevated object makes the spectator stand erect. Sounds also produce emotions or feelings that resem- ble them ; a low sound brings down the mind ; a full tone communicates solemnity ; a sharp sound elevates or swells the mind. A wall or pillar declining from the perpendicular produces a painful feeling; a column with a base looks firm, and though the cylin- der is a more beautiful figure, yet the cube for a base is preferred ; its angles being extended to a greater distance from the centre than the circumference of a cylinder. This excludes not a different reason, that the base, the shaft, and the capital of a pillar, ought, for the sake of variety, 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 46 ELEMENTS OP CRITICISM. ridiculous, because the constraint is assumed as a grace. 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 sen- sible 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 re- markable in emotions raised by human actions : a sig- nal instance of gratitude, beside procuring esteem for the author, raises in the spectator a vague emotion of gratitude, which disposes him to be grateful ; and this vague emotion has a strong resemblance to its cause, the passion that produced the grateful action. Hence the choice of books and of company. Grief, as well as joy, is infectious ; so is fear, as in an army when struck with a sudden panic. Pity is similar to its cause ; the anguish of remorse produces a harsh pity : if extreme, the pity is mixed with hor- ror. Covetousness, cruelty, and treachery, raise no similar emotions in a spectator; they excite abhor- rence, and fortify the beholder in his aversion to such actions. Part VII. Final Causes of the more frequent Emotions and Passions. It is a law in our nature, that we never act but by the impulse of desire ; which, in other words, is saying, that passion, by the desire included in it, is what de- termines the will. Hence in the conduct of life, it is of importance, that our passions be directed to proper objects, tend to just and rational ends, and, with rela- tion 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 per- EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 47 verse, on a slight view, they may appear, they are by nature modelled and tempered with perfect wis- dom, for the good of society as well as for private good. The subject, treated at large, would be too extensive for the present work; all there is room for, are a few general observations upon the sensitive part of our nature, without regarding that strange irregularity of passion discovered in some individuals. Such topical irregularities cannot fairly be held an objection to the present theory: we are frequently misled by inordi- nate passion ; but less frequently by wrong judgment. An agreeable cause produces a pleasant emotion ; a disagreeable cause a painful emotion; and this law admits not a single exception. Many inanimate ob- jects, considered as the causes of emotion, are made agreeable, to promote our happiness. This proves the benignity of the Deity, that we are placed among ob- jects, for the most part agreeable, and the bulk of such objects are of real use in common life ; hence they are agreeable to excite our industry. On the other hand, it is not easy to name a disagreeable object that is not hurtful ; some are disagreeable because they are nox- ious ; others, a dirty marsh for example, or a barren heath, are made disagreeable, in order, as above, to excite our industry. And with respect to the few things that are neither agreeable nor disagreeable, their be- ing left indifferent is not a work of chance, but ot wisdom ; of such I shall have occasion to give several instances. Because inanimate objects that are agreeable fix our attention, and draw us to them, they in that re- spect are termed attractive; such objects inspire pleasant emotions, which are gratified by adhering to the ob- jects, and enjoying them. Because disagreeable objects of the same kind repel us from them, they in that re- spect are termed repulsive ; and the painful emotions raised by such objects are gratified by flying from them. Thus, in general, with respect to things inanimate, the tendency of every pleasant emotion is to prolong the 48 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. pleasure ; and the tendency of every painful emotion is to end the pain. Sensible beings, considered as objects of passion, lead into a more complex theory. A sensible being that is agreeable by its attributes, inspires us with a pleasant emotion accompanied with desire; and such objects being of real use in life, are made agreeable in order to excite our industry. To the man of feeling every amiable being gives pleasure; every sensible being gives pleasure ; and their happiness becomes the grati- fication of his desire. Sensible beings in distress raise a painful emotion, and, were man purely a selfish being, he would desire to be relieved from that pain, by turning from the ob- ject. But the principle of benevolence gives an op- posite direction to his desire : it makes him desire to afford relief; and by relieving the person from distress, his passion is gratified. The painful passion thus di- rected, is termed sympathy ; which, though painful, is yet in its nature attractive. And, with respect to its final cause, we can be at no loss : it not only tends to relieve a fellow-creature from distress, but in its grati- fication is considerably more pleasant, than if it were repulsive. We, in the last place, bring under consideration per- sons hateful by vice or wickedness. Imagine a wretch who has lately perpetrated some horrid crime : he is disagreeable to every spectator; and consequently raises in every spectator a painful passion. But a principle common to all, prompts us to punish those who do wrong ; an envious, a malicious, or a cruel action, be- ing disagreeable, raises in the spectator the painful emotion of resentment, which frequently swells into a passion ; and the natural gratification of the desire in- cluded in that passion, is to punish the guilty person: I must chastise the wretch by indignation at least, and hatred, if not more severely. Here the final cause is self-evident. An injury done to myself, touching me more than EMOTIONS AND PASS10XS. 49 when done to others, raises my resentment to a higher degree. The desire, accordingly, included in this pas- sion, is not satisfied with so slight a punishment as in- dignation or hatred ; it is not fully gratified with re- taliation; and the author must by my hand suffer mischief, 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 in- justice and oppression of others. 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 delin- quent, is distinguished by the name of remorse; which naturally excites him to punish himself. There can- not 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 Otway. Monimia. Let mischiefs multiply ! let every hour Of my loath'd life yield me increase of horror! Oh, let the sun to these unhappy eyes Ne'er shine again, but be eclips'd for ever! May every thing I look on seem a prodigy, To fill my soul with terror, till I quite Forget I ever had humanity, And grow a curser of the works of nature! Orphan. — Act IV. Nothing can be more entertaining to a rational mind than the economy of the human passions, of which we have attempted to give some faint notion. It must, however, be acknowledged, that our pas- sions, when they happen to swell beyond proper limits, take on a less regular appearance i reason may pro- claim our duty, but the will, influenced by passion, makes gratification always welcome. Hence the power of passion, which, when in excess, cannot be resisted but by the utmost fortitude of mind : it is bent upon gratification ; and where proper objects are wanting, it clings to any object at hand without distinction. E 50 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. REVIEW. Do emotions sometimes resemble their causes ? Give an example. Give examples of the effect of sound — of form — of attitude. To what besides still life does the observation apply ? What is the effect of an instance of gratitude ? What other passions are infectious ? What determines the will ? What results from hence ? Are the passions created for the public and for private good ? Why are some inanimate objects made agreeable? What does this prove ? Why are other inanimate objects made disagreeable ? Why are certain objects called attractive? Why are others called repulsive? What effect is produced by an agreeable sensible being? What principle is the origin of sympathy ? Does it afford gratification to the person that feels it ? What emotion is raised by the sight of vice and wickedness ? — > what desire ? For what is the principle of personal resentment implanted with- in us? What is the origin of remorse ? » What is its use ? What results from passion which has passed the proper limits? CHAPTER III. Beauty. Beauty, the most noted of all the qualities that be- long to single objects, is a term which, in its native signification, is appropriated to objects of sight. A tree, the simplest object of external sense, pre- sents to us color, figure, size, and sometimes motion. The beauty of the human figure is extraordinary, be- ing a composition of numberless beauties, arising from the parts and qualities of the objects ; various colors, various motions, figures, size, &c. all unite in one com- plex object, and strike the eye with combined force. Hence it is, that beauty, a quality so remarkable in visible objects, lends its name to express every thing BEAUTY. 51 that is eminently agreeable : thus, by a figure of speech, we say a beautiful sound, a beautiful thought or ex- pression, a beautiful theorem, a beautiful event, a beautiful discovery in art or science. But, as figura- tive expression is the subject of a following chapter, this chapter is confined to beauty in its proper signifi- cation. 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 various emotions of beauty maintain one common character, that of sweet- ness and gaiety. Considering-attentively the beauty of visible objects, we discover two kinds : first, intrinsic beauty, because it is discovered in a single object viewed apart with- out relation to any other: the examples above given are of that kind. The other, relative beauty, being founded on the relation of objects. The purposed dis- tribution would lead me to handle these beauties sep- arately; but they are frequently so intimately con- nected, that, for the sake of connexion, I am forced to vary the plan, and to bring them both into the same y chapter. 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 but singly an act of vision. -The perception of relative beauty, is accom- panied with an act of understanding and reflection, and of means relating to some good end or purpose. Intrinsic beauty is ultimate ; and the beauty of effect is transferred to the cause. A subject void of beauty, appears beautiful from its utility, as an old gothic tower, considered as a defence against an enemy ; a dwelling-house, from its conveniences. When these beauties coincide in any object, it appears delightful. The beauty of utility requires no illustration. The beauty of color is too familiar to need explanation. Let us inquire into the beauty of figure, as arising 52 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. from regularity, uniformity, proportion, order and sim- plicity. To inquire why an object, by means of these par- ticulars, appears beautiful, would be a vain attempt : it seems that the nature of man was originally framed with a relish for them, to answer wise and good pur- poses. To explain these purposes or final causes, though a subject of great importance, has scarce been at- tempted by any writer. One thing is evident, that our relish for the particulars mentioned adds beauty to the objects that surround us, and 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 over- looked, that regularity, uniformity, order and simpli- city, contribute each of them to readiness of appre- hension ; enabling us to form more distinct images of objects, than can be done with the utmost attention where these particulars are not found. With respect to proportion, it is in some instances connected with a useful end, as in animals, where the best proportioned are the strongest and most active ; but instances are still more numerous, where the proportions we relish have no connexion with utility. Writers on architecture insist much on the proportions of a column, and assign different proportions to the Doric, Ionic, and Corinth- ian ; but no architect will maintain, that accurate pro- portions contribute more to use than several that are less accurate and less agreeable. With respect to the beauty of figures, we confine ourselves to the simplest. A circle and a square are cast perfectly regular ; yet a square is less beautiful than a circle, because a circle is a single object, and makes one entire impression, whereas a square is composed of four sides or objects. A square is more BEAUTY. 53 beautiful than a hexagon; though each is perfectly- regular. 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 utility ; and here the beauty of utility pre- vails over that of regularity and uniformity! A parallelogram again depends, for its beauty ,von the proportion of its sides : a great inequality of sides annihilates its beauty. Approximation 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 pro- portion contributes to beauty. An equilateral triangle yields not to a square in reg- ularity, nor in uniformity of parts, and it is more sim- ple. But an equilateral triangle is less beautiful than a square, which must be owing to inferiority of order in the position of its parts"; the sides of an equilateral 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. 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, utility requires uniformity : but a scrupulous uniformity of parts in a large garden or ffeld, is far from being agreeable. Uniformity among connected objects belongs not to the present subject : it is handled in the chapter of uniformity and variety. In all the works of Nature, simplicity makes an illustrious figure. It also makes a figure in works of E2 54 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM:. art : profuse ornament in painting, gardening, or archi tecture, as well as in dress or in language, shows a mean or corrupted taste : — Poets, like painters, thus imskilFd 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 Criticism. Simplicity in behavior has an enchanting effect, and never fails to gain our affection. And we take great delight in the laws of motion, which, with the greatest simplicity, are boundless in their operations. In the fine arts, simplicity has degenerated into ar- tificial refinement. In literary productions and music, the degeneracy is much greater. REVIEW. To what is the term beauty originally applied ? Give examples. To what things is it extended by a figure of speech ? Give examples. What is the common character of all the emotions of beauty ? What is intrinsic beauty ? — relative beauty ? How do they differ ? Is the relish for beauty of figure inherent ? What is its use? How do regularity, &c. aid the mind? What is the use of proportion ? Why is a square less beautiful than a circle ? When is a square less beautiful than a parallelogram ? On what does the beauty of a parallelogram depend? Why is an equilateral triangle less beautiful than a square ? Does order contribute to beauty ? In what is uniformity singular ? Illustrate this. Is simplicity important ? Quote Pope's remark on the want of simplicity. What is the effect of simplicity in behavior ? What is the present state of the fine arts and literature with re spect to simplicity ? Oi GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY, 55 CHAPTER IV. Grandeur and Sublimity, Nature hath not more remarkably distinguished us from other animals by an erect posture, than by a ca- pacious and aspiring mind, attaching us to things great and elevated. The ocean, the sky, seize the attention, and make a deep impression S robes of state are made large and full to draw respect : we admire an elephant for its magnitude, notwithstanding its unwieldiness. The elevation of an object affects us no less than its magnitude : a high place is chosen for the statue of a deity or hero ; a tree growing on the brink of a pre- cipice looks charming when viewed from the plain be- low : 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 complicated impression : the Alps and the Peak of Teneriffe are proper examples ; with the following difference, that in the former greatness seems to pre- vail, elevation in the latter. Great and elevated objects, considered with relation to the emotions produced by them, are termed grand and sublime. Grandeur and sublimity have a double signification: they commonly signify the quality or cir- cumstance in objects by which the emotions of grandeur and sublimity are produced ; sometimes the emotions themselves. St. Peter's at Rome, the great pyramid of Egypt, the Alps, an arm of the sea, a clear sky, are all grand and beautiful. A regiment in battle array is grand, a crowd of people not so. Greatness or magnitude dis- tinguishes grandeur from beauty ; agreeableness is the genus of which beauty and grandeur are species. The 56 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. emotion of grandeur is pleasant, and is serious rather than gay. A large object is not so agreeable by Its regularity, as a small one ; nor so disagreeable by its irregulari- ties. A towering hill is delightful, a chain of moun- tains no less so; and the bulk of objects in a natural landscape are beautiful ; some of them are even grand, as a flowing river, a spreading oak, an extended plain, which all raise emotions of grandeur. We range at large amidst the magnificence of Nature, and overlook slight beauties or deformities. In a small building, ir- regularity is disagreeable ; but in a magnificent palace, or a large gothic church, irregularities are less regard- ed ; in an epic poem we pardon many negligences that would not be permitted in a sonnet or an epigram. Not- withstanding such exceptions, it may be justly laid down for a rule, that in works of art, order and regularity ought to be governing principles : and hence the ob- servation of Longinus: "In works of art, we have re- gard to exact proportion; in those of nature, to gran- deur and magnificence." The same reflections are in a great measure appli- caple to sublimity ; particularly, that, like grandeur, it is a species of agreeableness ; that a beautiful ob- ject placed high, appearing more agreeable than for- merly, produces in the spectator a new emotion, term- ed the emotion of sublimity ; and that the perfection of order, regularity, and proportion, is less required in objects placed high, or at a distance, than at hand. The pleasant emotion raised by large objects, has not escaped the poets : He doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus ; and we petty men Walk under his huge legs. Julius Cesar. — Act I. Sc. -Majesty Dies not alone, but, like a gulf, doth draw What's near it with it. It is a massy wheel Fix'd on the summit of the highest mount, To whose huge spokes, ten thousand lesser things GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 67 Are mortis'd and adjoin'd; which, when it falls, Each small annexment, petty consequence, Attends the boist'rous ruin. Hamlet.— Act III. Sc. 3. The poets have also made good use of the emotion produced by the elevated situation of an object : O thou, the earthly author of my blood, Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate, Doth with a twofold vigor lift me up. To reach at victory above my head. Richard II.— Act I. Sc. 3 Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne. Richard II.— Act V. Sc. 1. Antony, Why was I rais'd the meteor of the world, Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travell'd, Till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward, To be trod out by Caesar ? Dryden, All for Love. — Act I. The description of Paradise, in the fourth 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 inclosure 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 over-head up grew Insuperable height of loftiest shade, Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, A sylvan scene; and as the ranks ascend, Shade above shade, a woody theatre Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops The verd'rous wall of Paradise up-sprung; Which to our general sire gave prospect large Into his nether empire neighb ; ring 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 say enamell'd colors mix'd. B. IV. 1. 131. A mental progress from the capital of a kingdom to that of Europe — to the whole Earth — to the solar system — to the universe, is extremely pleasant: the heart swells, the mind is dilated at every step. Re- 58 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. turning in an opposite direction, the descent is plea- sant from a different cause. Looking down upon ob- jects makes a part of the pleasure of elevation. It becomes painful when the object is so far below as to create dizziness ; and even when that is the case, we feel a sort of pleasure mixed with the pain : witness Shakspeare's description of Dover cliffs : -How fearful And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low ! The crows and choughs, that wing the midway-air, Show scarce so gross as beetles. Half-way down Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head. The fishermen that walk upon the beach Appear like mice ; and yon tall anchoring bark Diminish'd to her cock ; her cock, a buoy Almost too small for sight : The murm'ring surge, That on th' unnumber'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. KiisG Lear.— Act IV. Sc. 6. Grandeur and sublimity, have hitherto been con- sidered as applicable to objects of sight ; we now proceed to consider them in relation to the fine arts, and in their figurative signification. The term beauty is also extended to intellectual and moral objects, as well as to objects of sight. Generosity is an elevated emotion ; firmness of soul, when superior to misfortune, is called magnanimity. , 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 familiarly of an elevated genius, of a great man, and equally so of littleness of mind : some actions are great and elevated, and others are little and grovelling. Sentiments, and even expressions, are characterized in the same manner : an expression or sentiment that raises the mind is denominated great or C elevated; and hence the sublime in poetry. In such -GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 59 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. A gradual progress from small to great is no less remarkable in figurative, than in real grandeur or elevation ; and when the thoughts rise in an ascending series, the period is termed a climax. Within certain limits, grandeur ana sublimity pro- duce 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 grand- est 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 elevation is where the object is seen distinctly; a greater ele- vation lessens in appearance the object, till it vanishes out of sight with its pleasant emotion. The same is equally remarkable in figurative grandeur and eleva- tion, because, as observed above, they are scarcely distinguishable. Objects of sight that are not remarkably great nor high, scarce raise any emotion of grandeur or of sublimity: the same holds in other objects; for we find the mind roused and animated, without being carried to that height. This difference may be dis- cerned in many sorts of music, as well as in some musical instruments : a kettle-drum rouses, a hautboy animates ; but neither of them inspires an emotion of sublimity : revenge animates ; but never produces an emotion grand or sublime. I am willing to put this to the test, by placing before my reader a most spirited picture of revenge : it is a speech of Antony, wailing over the body of Cassar : — Woe to the band 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,) 60 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. A curse shall light upon the limbs 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 chok'd with custom of fell deeds ; And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge, With Ate by his side come hot from hell, Shall in these confines, with a monarch's voice, Cry, Havoc ! and let slip the dogs of war. Julius C^sar. — Act III. Sc. lr A capital rule for reaching the sublime in sucb works of art as are capable of it, is, to present those parts or circumstances only which make the greatest figure, keeping out of view every thing low or trivial : for the mind, elevated by an important object, cannot, without reluctance, be forced down to bestow any share of its attention upon trifles. Such judicious selection of capital circumstances, is styled grandeur of manner. 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 are specta- tors, 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 judicious taste in thus selecting the most interesting incidents, to give them an united force, accounts for a fact that may appear surprising ; which is, that we are more moved by a spirited narrative at second- hand, than by being spectators of the event itself, in all its circumstances. 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, to- ward each other approached the heroes: as two dark streams from high rocks meet and roar on the plain, loud, rough, and dark in ^battle, meet Lochlin and Inisfail. Chief mixes his strokes with chief, and man with man : steel sounds on steel, and helmets are cleft on high : blood bursts and smokes around ; strings mur- GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 61 mur on the polished yew : darts rush along the sky : spears fall like sparks of flame that gild the stormy face of night. As the noise of the troubled ocean when roll the waves on high, as the last peal of thundering heaven, such is the noise of battle. Though Cormac's hundred bards were there, feeble were the voice of a hundred bards to send the deaths to future times ; for many were the deaths of the heroes, and wide poured the blood of the valiant. FlNGAL. This rule is applicable to other fine arts, especially painting. Smaller parts are suppressed, folds of dra- pery are few and large ; fore-shortenings are bad, and all muscles ought to be entire. Every one at present subscribes to that rule as applied to gardening, in 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 rule in all their works. Another rule chiefly regards the sublime, though it is applicable to every sort of literary performance intended for amusement; and that is, to avoid as much as possible abstract and general terms. Such terms, similar to mathematical signs, are contrived to express our thoughts in a concise manner ; but images, which are the life of poetry, cannot be raised in any perfec- tion but by introducing particular objects. General terms that comprehend a number of individuals, must be excepted from that rule; our kindred, our clan, our country, and words of the like import, though they scarce raise any image, have, however, a won- derful power over our passions : the greatness of the complex object overbalances the obscurity of the image. 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 ap- plied 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 : F 62 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. The cloud-capt 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. Sc. 1. The elevation of the mind in the former part of this beautiful passage, makes the fall great in proportion, when the most hufribling of all images is introduced, that of an utter dissolution of the earth and its inhab- itants. 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. 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 writers of more fire than judgment commonly split on ; and therefore a collection of examples may be of use as a beacon to fu- ture adventurers. One species of false sublime, 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 ridicu- lous. I am extremely sensible how prone the mind is, in some animating passions, to magnify its objects be- yond natural bounds ; but such hyperbolical descrip- tion has its limits ; and, when carried beyond the im- pulse of the propensity, it degenerates into burlesque^ Take the following examples : Sejanus. Great and high The world knows only two, that's Rome and I. My roof receives me not; 'tis air I tread, And at each step I feel my advanc'd head Knock out a star in heaven. Sejanus, Ben Jonson. — Act V. A writer, who has no natural elevation of mind, de- viates readily into bombast : he strains above his natu- ral powers ; and the violent effort carries him beyond the bounds of propriety. GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 63 Another species of false sublime, still more faulty than bombast, is to force elevation by introducing ima- ginary beings without preserving any propriety in their actions^ as if it were lawful to ascribe every extrava- gance and inconsistence to beings of the poet's crea- tion. No writers are more licentious in that article than Jonson and Dryden. / When the sublime is carried to its due height, and circumscribed within proper bounds, it enchants the mindj and raises the most delightful emotions: the reader, engrossed by a sublime object, feels himself raised to a higher rank. Considering that effect, it is not wonderful that the history of conquerors and he- roes should be universally the favorite entertainment. And this accounts for what I once erroneously suspect- ed to be a wrong bias originally in human nature ; which is, that the grossest acts of oppression and in- justice scarce blemish the character of a great con- queror : we, nevertheless, warmly espouse his interest, accompany him in his exploits, and are anxious for his success ; the splendor and enthusiasm of the hero trans- fused into the readers, elevate their minds far above the rules of justice, and render them in a great mea- sure insensible of the wrongs that are committed. REVIEW. What is the effect of great and elevated objects ? Give examples of the effect of elevated objects. Explain the double signification of grandeur and sublimity. Give examples of objects which are grand and beautiful. How is grandeur distinguished from beauty ? What are the effects of regularity in large and in small objects ? Give examples. What are the effects of irregularity ? What rule is laid down ? What emotion is produced by an agreeable object placed high ? Give examples of the pleasant emotions raised by large objects. Exemplify the pleasant effect of elevated objects? Give an example of the mingled emotion produced by looking down on distant objects far below us. Is the term beauty extended to intellectual and moral objects ? What is a low emotion ? What is the effect of a great sentiment or expression on the mind ? 64 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. What arises hence ? What is a climax ? What is the effect of excessive grandeur or sublimity? Of excessive elevation ? Does revenge produce a sublime emotion ? Give a picture of revenge. Give a rule for reaching the sublime. What is this judicious selection called? Where is the greatest scope for this rule Give an example. To what other arts is the rule applicable? What other rule is given ? What is the exception to this rule ? What principle is illustrated by the quotation from the Tempest? What observations are made on it ? What is bombast ? Give an example. What is another species of false sublime ? What writers use it ? What is the natural effect of the sublime on the mind ? For what fact does this account ? CHAPTER V. Motion and Force. Motion is agreeable to the eye ; yet is a body at rest not disagreeable, because the bulk of things we see are at rest. Motion is agreeable in all its varieties ; the quickest for an instant is delightful, but soon ap- pears too rapid, and becomes painful by accelerating the course of our perceptions. Regular motion is pre- ferred to irregular motion ; and uniformly accelerated motion is more agreeable than when uniformly retard- ed. Motion upward is agreeable by tending to eleva- tion ; in a straight line it is agreeable, but more so when undulating, and the motion of fluids is preferred to that of solid bodies. It is agreeable to see a thing exert force ; but it makes not the thing either agreeable or disagreeable, to see force exerted upon it. Though motion and force are each of them agree- able, the impressions they make are different. This MOTION AXD FORCE. 65 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 car- ried along : the emotion raised by force exerted, re- sembling also its cause, is felt as if force were exerted within the mind. When great force is exerted, the effort felt is ani- mating ; and when the effort overpowers the mind, as the explosion of gunpowder, the violence of a torrent, in the weight of a mountain, and the crush of an earth- quake, astonishment is created rather than pleasure. No quality or circumstance contributes more to grandeur than force, especially where exerted by sen- sible beings. I cannot make the observation more evi- dent than by the following quotations : -Him the Almighty Power Hurl'd headlong flaming from the 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 arms. Paradise Lost. — Book I. Sow storming fury rose, And clamor such as heard in heaven till now Was never : arms on armor clashing bray'd Horrible discord, and the madding wheels Of brazen chariots rag'd ; dire was the noise Of conflict ; over-head the dismal hiss Of fiery darts in flaming volleys flew, And flying vaulted either host with fire. So under Uery cope together rush'd Both battles main, with ruinous assault And inextinguishable rage ; all heaven Resounded ; and had earth been then, all earth Had to her centre shook. Ibid. — Book VI The planetary system presents us with the finest view of motion and force in conjunction ; but motion and force are also agreeable by their utility, when em- ployed as means to accomplish some beneficial end. Hence the superior beauty of some machines, where force and motion concur to perform the work of num- berless hands. Hence the beautiful motions, firm and regular, of a horse trained for war : everv single step F2 66 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. is the fittest that can be for obtaining the purposed end. But the grace of motion is visible chiefly in man, because every gesture is significant. The power how- ever 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 dig- nity, others meanness. But the pleasure here, arising not singly from the beauty of motion, but from indi- cating character and sentiment, belongs to different chapters. I should conclude with the final cause of the relish we have for motion and force, were it not so evident as to require no explanation. We are placed here in such circumstances as to make industry essential to our well-being ; for without industry the plainest ne- cessaries of life are not obtained. When our situation, therefore, in this world requires activity and a constant exertion of motion and force, Providence indulgently provides for our welfare by making these agreeable to us : it would be a gross imperfection in our nature, to make any thing disagreeable that we depend on for existence ; and even indifference would slacken greatly that degree of activity which is indispensable. REVIEW. Is motion agreeable to the eye ? What sorts of motion are most agreeable ? Is force agreeable ? Describe the emotion caused by it. What is the effect of great and overpowering force ? Give examples of the sublime effect of force. What affords the finest view of united motion and force ? Give examples of the agreeable effect of useful force. Where is grace chiefly visible ? Why has Providence made motion and force agreeable ? NOVELTY. 67 CHAPTER VI. Novelty and the unexpected Appearance of Objects, Except beauty and greatness, novelty has the most powerful influence to raise emotions. A new object produces an emotion of wonder, w r hich is different from admiration, because this last is directed to the person who performs any thing wonderful. We cease to won- der at objects with which we are familiarized by time. When any thing breaks unexpectedly upon the mind, it raises an emotion 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 will not surprise a traveller who goes to see one ; and yet its novelty will raise his wonder : an Indian in Britain would be much surprised to stumble upon an elephant feeding at large in the open fields ; but the creature itself, to which he was accustomed, would not raise his wonder. Surprise thus in several respects differs from won- der : unexpectedness is the cause of the former emo- tion ; novelty is the cause of the latter. They per- fectly agree in the shortness of their duration; for things soon decay that come soon to perfection. New objects are sometimes terrible, sometimes de- lightful; and a threatening object adds to our terror by its novelty ; but from that experiment it does not follow, that novelty is in itself disagreeable ; for it is perfectly consistent, that we be delighted with an ob- ject in one view, and terrified with it in another : a river in flood swelling over its banks, is a grand and delightful object; and yet it may produce no small de- gree of fear when we attempt to cross it : courage and 68 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. magnanimity are agreeable ; and yet, when we view these qualities in an enemy, they serve to increase our terror. In the same manner, novelty may produce two effects clearly distinguishable from each other : it may, directly and in itself, be agreeable ; and it may have an opposite effect indirectly, which is, to inspire terror ; for when a new object appears in any degree dangerous, our ignorance of its powers and qualities affords ample scope for the imagination to dress it in the most frightful colors. The first sight of a lion, for example, may at the same instant produce two oppo- site feelings, the pleasant emotion of wonder, and the painful passion of terror: the novelty of the object produces the former directly, and contributes to the latter indirectly. Thus, when the subject is analyzed, we find, that the power which novelty hath indirectly to inflame terror, is perfectly consistent with its being in every circumstance agreeable. Surprise may be pleasant or painful, for its sole effect is to swell the emotion raised by the object. A tide of connected ob- jects gliding gently into the mind, produces no perturba- tion : but an object breaking in unexpectedly, sounds an alarm, rouses the mind, and directs its whole at- tention to the object, which, if agreeable, becomes doubly so. The pleasure of novelty is distinguishable from that of variety ; to produce the latter, a plurality of ob- jects is necessary: the former arises from a circum- stance 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 proportion. The lowest degree is found in ob jects 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 build- NOVELTY. 69 ing of many parts variously adorned, or an extensive field embellished with trees, lakes, temples, statues, and other ornaments, will appear new oftener than once : the memory of an object so complex is soon lost, of its parts at least, or of their arrangement. Absence will give an air of novelty to an object once familiar The mind balances between two things equally new and singular ; but when told one of them is from a dis- tant quarter of the world, it soon makes its election* Hence the preference for foreign luxuries and curiosi- ties. The next degree of novelty, mounting upwards, is found in objects of which we have some information at second-hand ; for description never comes up to ac- tual sight. A new object that bears some distant resemblance to a known species, is an instance of a third degree of novelty: a strong resemblance among individuals of the same species, prevents almost entirely the effect of novelty, unless distance of place, or some other cir- cumstance, concur ; but where the resemblance is faint, some degree of wonder is felt, and the emotion risei in proportion to the faintness of the resemblance. The highest degree of wonder arises from unknown objects that have no analogy to any species we are ac- quainted with. Shakspeare, 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 fall back to gaze on him When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, And sails upon the bosom of the air. Romeo and Juliet. Love of novelty prevails in children, in idlers, and in men of shallow understanding. It reigns chiefly among persons of mean taste, who are ignorant of refined and elegant pleasures. One final cause of wonder is, that this emotion is intended to stimulate our curiosity : another is, to 70 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. prepare our mind for receiving deep impressions of new objects. Now, in order to make a deep impression, it is wisely contrived, that things should be introduced to our acquaintance with a certain pomp and solemnity, pro- ductive of a vivid emotion. When the impression is once fairly made, the emotion of novelty, being no longer necessary, vanisheth almost instantaneously, 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 impres- sions would be so slight as scarcely to be of any use in life : on the other hand, did objects continue to af- fect us as deeply as at first^he mind would be totally engrossed with them, and have no room left either for action or reflection.) The final cause of surprise is still more evident than of novelty. Self-love makes us vigilantly attentive to self-preservation; but self-love, which operates by means of reason and reflection, and impels not the mind to any particular object, or from it, is a principle too cool for a sudden emergency. An object breaking in unexpectedly, affords no time for deliberation ; and, in that case, the agitation of surprise comes in sea- sonably ^to rouse self-love into action; surprise give's the alarm, and if there be any appearance of danger, our whole force is instantly summoned up to shun 01 prevent it. REVIEW. What are the effects of novelty ? When does a familiar object produce surprise ? What is the difference between surprise and wonder? Does novelty increase our terror at a threatening object? Does this prove novelty itself to be disagreeable ? What opposite effect does novelty produce? Illustrate this. RISIBLE OBJECTS. 71 How is the pleasure of novelty distinguished from that of variety? In what is the lowest degree of novelty found? What are the effects of absence and distance ? Where is the second degree of novelty found?— the third? — the highest ? In what sort of persons does the love of novelty prevail ? What are the final causes or uses of wonder? Why does it not last ? What is the use of surprise ? CHAPTER VII. Risible Objects. To amuse us in our waking hours, nature has kindly- provided many objects distinguished by the epithet ?isible, because they raise in us a peculiar emotion, expressed externally by laughter, or pleasant and mirthful exertion, that unbends the mind, and recruits the spirits. Ludicrous signifies what is playsome, sportive, or jocular ; and it is the genus of which risible is the species. No object is risible but what appears slight, little, or trivial ; for we laugh at no- thing that is of importance to our own interest, or to that of others. A real distress raises pity, and there- fore cannot be risible ; but a slight or imaginary distress, which moves not pity, is risible. The adven- ture of the fulling-mills in Don Quixote is extremely risible ; so is the scene where Sancho, in a dark night, tumbling into a pit, and attaching himself to the side by hand and foot, hangs there in terrible dismay till the morning, when he discovers himself to be within a foot of the bottom. A nose remarkably long or short, is risible; to want it is horrible. Hence nothing just, proper, decent, beautiful, proportioned or grand, is risible. The laugh of derision or of scorn, is occasioned by improper acts replete with blunders and absurdities. Hence objects that cause laughter are either risible 12 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. or ridiculous ; the former is mirthful, the latter both mirthful and contemptible. The first raises an emo- tion altogether pleasant; the pleasant emotion of laughter raised by the other, is blended with the pain- ful emotion of contempt, and the mixed emotion is termed the emotion of ridicule. The pain a ridiculous object gives me is resented and punished by a laugh of derision. A risible object, on the other hand, gives me no pain: it is altogether pleasant by a certain sort of titillation, which is expressed externally by mirthful laughter. Ridicule will be more fully ex- plained afterward: the present chapter is appropri- ated to the other emotion. Risible objects are so common, and so well under- stood, that it is unnecessary to consume paper or time upon them. REVIEW. What is the meaning of risible? — of ludicrous? What objects are risible ? Give an example from Don Quixote. Explain the emotion of ridicule. CHAPTER VIII. Resemblance and Dissimilitude. Nature has given us a vigorous propensity to com- pare new objects and discover their resemblance and difference. We are gratified most by discovering difference among things where resemblance prevails, and resemblance where difference prevails. A com- parison may be too far stretched ; when difference or resemblance are carried beyond certain bounds, they appear slight and trivial, and cannot be relished by a man of taste. That resemblance and dissimilitude have an en- livening effect upon objects of sight, is sufficiently RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. 73 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 charac- ters contrasted make a greater figure by the opposi- tion : Iago, 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 warrior, are nowhere more successfully contrasted than in Shakspeare's First Part of Henry IV. Act L Sc. 3. Passions and emotions are also inflamed by com- parison. A man of high rank humbles the bystand- ers, even to annihilate them in their own opinion: Caesar, beholding the statue of Alexander, was greatly mortified that now, at the age of thirty-two, when Alexander died, he had not performed one memorable action. Our opinions also are much influenced by compari- son. A man whose opulence exceeds the ordinary standard, is reputed richer than he is in reality; and wisdom or weakness, if at all remarkable in an indi- vidual, is generally carried beyond the truth. The opinion a man forms of his present distress is heightened by contrasting it w 7 ith his former happi- ness. The distress of a long journey makes even an in- different inn agreeable; and in travelling when the road is good, and the horseman well covered, a bad day may be agreeable by making him sensible how snug he is. The 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 makes him unhappy, by giving him a lively notion ot his unhappiness. The appearance of danger gives sometimes pleasure, sometimes pain. A timorous person upon the battle- 74 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. ments of a high tower, is seized with fear, which even the consciousness of security cannot dissipate. But upon one of a firm head the appearance of danger heightens, by opposition, the consciousness of security, and, consequently, the satisfaction that arises there- from : here, the feeling resembles that above-men- tioned, occasioned by a ship laboring in a storm, The effect of magnifying or lessening objects by means of comparison, is so familiar, that no philoso- pher has thought of searching for a cause ; which is simply the influence of passion over our opinions. The greatest disparity between objects of different kinds, is so common as to be observed with perfect in- difference; but such disparity between objects of the same kind, being uncommon, never fails to produce surprise : and may we not fairly conclude, that sur- prise, in the latter case, is what occasions the decep- tion, when we find no deception in the former? In the next place, if surprise be the sole cause of the deception, it follows necessarily, that the deception will vanish as soon as the objects compared become familiar. This holds so unerringly, as to leave no reasonable doubt that surprise is the prime mover. Our surprise is great the first time a small lap-dog is seen with a large mastiff; but when two such animals are constantly together, there is no surprise, and it makes no difference whether they be viewed sepa- rately or in company : we set no bounds to the riches of a man who has recently made his fortune, the sur- prising disproportion between his present and his past situation being carried to an extreme ; but with re- gard to a family that for many generations hath en- joyed great wealth, the same false reckoning is not made. It is equally remarkable, that a trite simile has no effect; a lover compared to a moth scorching itself at the flame of a candle, originally a sprightly simile, has, by frequent use, lost all force ; love can- not now be compared to fire, without some degree of disgust: it has been justly objected against Horner! UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 75 that the lion is too often introduced into his similies all the variety he is able to throw into them not being sufficient to keep alive the reader's surprise. Emotions make the greatest figure when contrasted in succession ; but the succession ought neither to be rapid, nor immoderately slow : if too slow, the effect of contrast becomes faint by the distance of the emo- tions; 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. What is above laid down, will enable us to deter- mine 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 regu- lated as much as possible by contrast. This holds confessedly in epic and dramatic compositions ; and the best writers, led perhaps more by taste than by rea- soning, have generally aimed at that beauty. It holds equally in music ; in the same cantata, all the variety of emotions that are within the power of music may not only be indulged, but, to make the greatest figure, ought to be contrasted. In gardening, there is an additional reason for the rule : the emotions raised by that art are at best so faint, that every artifice should be employed to give them their utmost vigor : a field may be laid out in grand, sweet, gay, neat, wild, mel- ancholy scenes ; and when these are viewed in suc- cession, grandeur ought to be contrasted with neatness, regularity with wildness, and gaiety with melancholy, so as that each emotion may succeed its opposite: nay, it is an improvement to intermix in the succession rude uncultivated spots as well as unbounded views, which in themselves are disagreeable, but in succes- sion heighten the feeling of the agreeable objects; and we have nature for our guide, which in her most beautiful landscapes often intermixes rugged rocks, 76 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. dirty marshes, and barren stony heaths. The greatest masters of music have the same view in their compo- sitions : the second part of an Italian song seldom con- veys any sentiment; and, by its harshness, seems purposely contrived to give a greater relish for the interesting parts of the composition. REVIEW. Why are we gratified by the discovery of resemblance and dis- similitude ? What is the effect of carrying a comparison too far ? What is the effect of contrasting characters ? Give examples. What is the effect of comparison on the passions ? — on opinions ? Give an example. Exemplify the effect of contrast. The opposite effects of an appearance of danger on a timid anr> a bold person. Where does disparity strike us strongly ? Give examples. What is the effect of frequently repeating comparisons and similies? How do emotions make the greatest figure ? How should their succession be regulated ? Give examples. What additional reason is there for the rule in gardening ? Illustrate this. How is contrast applied to musical composition ? CHAPTER IX. Uniformity and Variety. The necessary succession of our perceptions re- I gards order and connexion, uniformity and variety. The world is replete with objects as remarkable for their variety as for their number ; and these, unfolded by the wonderful mechanism of external sense, furnish the mind with innumerable perceptions, which, joined with ideas of memory, imagination and reflection, form a complete train that has no gap or interval. This train depends little on the will; by artificial means it may be retarded or accelerated, rendered UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 77 more various, or more uniform, but in one shape or other it is unavoidable. The natural causes which accelerate or retard this successfon are these: 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 occasions dullness of apprehension, and sluggishness in action : to a warm temper, on the contrary, belongs a quick course of perceptions, which occasions quickness of apprehension and activity in business. In youth is observable a quicker succession of perceptions than in old age ; and hence, in youth, a remarkable avidity for variety of amusements, which in riper years give place to more uniform and more sedate occupations. This qualifies men of middle age for business where activity is required, but with a greater proportion of uniformity than variety. In old age, a slow and lan- guid succession makes variety unnecessary ; and for that reason, the aged, in all their motions, are gene- rally governed by an habitual uniformity. Whatever be the cause, we may venture to pronounce, that her t in the imagination and temper is always connected with a brisk flow of perceptions. The natural rate of succession depends also, in some degree, upon the particular perceptions that compose the train. Agreeable objects take a strong hold of the mind; grandeur and novelty exclude a'l other ideas; the mind bears a quick succession of related ideas ; the present occupation has most influence : a roving disposition embraces new objects with avidity : and the passions of love and hatred cause the mind to brood over its object. The power that nature hath given us over our train of perceptions, may be greatly strengthened by prop- er discipline, and by an early application to business ; witness some mathematicians, who go far beyond com- mon nature in slowness and uniformity : and still more, persons devoted to religious exercises, who pass whole G2 78 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. days in contemplation, and impose upon themselves long and severe penances. With respect to celerity and variety, it is not easily conceived what length a habit of activity in affairs will carry some men. Let a stranger, or let any person to whom the sight is not familiar, attend the chancellor of Great Britain through the labors but of one day, during a session of parlia- ment: how great will be his astonishment ! what mul- tiplicity of law business, what deep thinking, and what elaborate application to matters of government ! The train of perceptions must in that great man be accelerated far beyond the ordinary course of nature; yet no confusion or hurry, but in every article the greatest order and accuracy. Such is the force of habit. How happy is man, to have the command of a principle of action that can elevate him so far above the ordinary condition of humanity ! In considering uniformity and variety in relation to the fine arts, when either ought to prevail, we may observe, that in a /picture of an interesting event which strongly attaches us to a single object, the mind relishes not a multiplicity of figures, nor of ornaments ; a picture representing a gay subject, admits great variety of figures and ornament^; because these are agreeable to the mind in a cheerful tone. The same observation is applicable to poetry and music. It must at the same time be remarked, that one can bear a greater variety of natural objects, than of objects in a picture ; and a greater variety in a picture than in a description. A real object presented to view, makes an impression more readily than when represented in colors, and much more readily than when represented in words. Hence it is, that the pro- fuse 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 picture than in a poem. A picture, however, like a building, ought to be so simple as to be compre- hended in one view. Whether every one of Le Bran's UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 79 pictures of Alexander's history will stand this test, is submitted to judges. From these general observations, I proceed to par- ticulars. In works exposed continually to public view, variety ought to be studied. It is a rule accordingly in sculpture, to contrast the different limbs of a statue, in order to give it all the variety possible. Though the cone, in a single view, be more beautiful than the pyramid ; yet a pyramidal steeple, because of its va- riety, is justly preferred. For the same reason, the oval is preferred before the circle; and painters, in copying buildings or any regular work, give an air of variety, by representing the subject in an angular view : w T e are pleased with the variety, without losing sight of the regularity. In a landscape representing animals, those especially of the same kind, contrast ought to prevail ; to draw one sleeping, another awake ; one sitting, another in motion : one moving toward the spectator, another from him, is the life of such a per- formance. In every sort of w r riting intended for amusement, variety is necessary in proportion to the length of the work. Want of variety is sensibly felt in Da vi la's his- tory of the civil wars of France ; the events are in- deed important and various ; but the reader languishes by a tiresome monotony of character, every person engaged being figured a consummate politician, gov- erned by interest only. It is hard to say, whether Ovid disgusts more by too great variety, or too great uni- formity ; his stories are all of the same kind, concluding invariably with the transformation of one being into another ; and so far he is tiresome by excess in uni- formity : 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 just bounds of variety: not satisfied, like Ovid, with a succession in his stories, he distracts the reader, by jumbling together a multitude of them without any connexion. Nor is the Orlando Furioso less tiresome 80 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. by its uniformity than the Metamorphoses, though in a different manner : after a story is brought to a crisis, the reader, intent on the catastrophe, is suddenly snatched away to a new story, which makes no im- pression so long as the mind is occupied with the for- mer. This tantalizing method, besides its uniformity, prevents that sympathy which is raised by an inter- esting event when the reader meets with no interrup- tion. REVIEW. Describe the train of our perceptions. Does it depend on the will? May it be modified at will ? What causes accelerate or retard it ? How are its effects apparent at different ages ? On what else does the rate of succession depend ? How may the power over our train of. perceptions be strength- ened ? Give examples. What is the rule respecting uniformity and variety in painting? What respecting natural objects and descriptions ? Which admits of the greater variety of ornament, a picture or a poem ? What is the rule with respect to works exposed continually to public view ? Give examples. What should prevail in a landscape ? Give examples. In writing intended for amusement ? Give examples. What is observed of Ovid and Ariosto? CHAPTER X. Congruity and Propriety. Man is superior to the brute, not more by his ra- tional faculties, 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, uni- formity, and congruity, being connected with morality CONGRUITY AND PROPRIETY. 81 and religion* are reserved to dignify the chief of the terrestrial creation. Upon that account, no discipline is more suitable to man, nor more congruous to the dig- nity of his nature, than that which refines his taste, and leads him to distinguish, in every subject, what is regular, what is orderly, what is suitable, and what is fit and proper. 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 signify a particular relation between different objects,; and the perception we have of this relation, proceeds from a sense of congruity or propriety ; that congruity or propriety, wherever perceived, is agreeable ; and in- congruity or impropriety, disagreeable. The only diffi- culty is, to ascertain what are the particular objects that suggest these relations ; for there are many ob- jects that do not: the sea, viewed in conjunction with a picture, or a man in conjunction with a mountain, suggest not either congruity or incongruity. We never perceive congruity nor incongruity, but among things connected by some relation ; as a man and his actions, a principal and its accessories, a subject and its orna- ments. We are indeed so framed by nature, among things so connected, to require a certain suitableness or correspondence termed congruity or propriety ; and to be displeased when we find the opposite relation of incongruity or impropriety. The degree of congruity is proportioned to the con- nexion in things connected, as in behavior and manner of living ; the relation between an edifice and the ground it stands on : the congruity among members of a club ought to be as obvious as among things placed for show in the same niche. Congruity is so nearly allied to beauty, as commonly to be held a species of it ; and yet they differ so essen- tially, 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 82 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. to other things, produce the strongest sense of incon- gruity. Congruity and propriety are commonly reckoned synonymous terms ; and hitherto, in opening the sub- ject, they have been used indifferently : but they are distinguishable ; and the precise meaning of each must be ascertained. Congruity is the genus, of which pro- priety is a species ; for we call nothing propriety, but that congruity or suitableness which ought to subsist between sensible beings and their thoughts, words, and actions. The relation of a part to the whole, being extremely intimate, demands the utmost degree of congruity. even the slightest deviation is disgustful. Examples of congruity and incongruity are furnished in plenty by the relation between a subject and its or- naments. A literary performance intended merely for amusement, is susceptible of much ornament, as well as a music-room or a play-house ; for in gaiety the mind has a peculiar relish for show and decoration. Gorgeous apparel is not unsuitable among opera act- ors ; grave subjects need little ornament, and a person of mean appearance in such dress, is a complete in- congruity. Sweetness of look and manner require sim- plicity of dress : For loveliness Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most. Congruity regulates both the quantity and the kind of ornament ; the decorations for a dancing-rooir^ must be gay ; for a church, grave ; for a shield, warlike^ though the shield of Achilles has in general the arts"of peace, joy, and festivity. Nothing is more intimately related to a man than his sentiments, words, and actions j and therefore we require here the strictest conformity. When we find what we thus require, we have a lively sense of pro- priety ; when we find the contrary, our sense of im- propriety is no less lively. Hence the universal dis- CONGRUITY AND PROPRIETY. 83 taste of affectation, which consists in making a show of greater delicacy and refinement, than is suited either to the character or circumstances of the person. A gross impropriety is punished with contempt and indignation,\which are vented against the offender by external expressions ; nor is even the slightest impro- priety suffered to pass without some degree of con- tempt. But there are improprieties of the slighter kind, that v provoke laughter ; of which we have ex- amples without end in the blunders and absurdities of our own species : such improprieties receive a different punishment, as will appear by what follows. The emotions of contempt and of laughter, occasioned by an impropriety of that kind, uniting intimately in the mind of the spectator, are expressed externally by a peculiar sort of laugh, termed a laugh of derision , or scorn. An impropriety that thus moves not only con- tempt, but laughter, is distinguished by the epithet of ridiculous ; and a laugh of derision or scorn is the pun- ishment 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, swelling with pride, and strutting with displayed feath- ers, whicl> in a gay mood is apt to provoke a laugh of derision. tThe sense of impropriety with respect to mistakes, blunders, and absurdities, is calculated for the good of mankind.; In the spectators it is produc- tive of mirth and laughter, excellent recreation in an interval from business. But this is a trifle compared with what follows. It is painful to be the subject of ridicule ; and to punish with ridicule the man who is guilty of an absurdity, tends to put him more on his guard in time to come. It is well ordered, that even the most innocent blunder is not committed with im- punity ; because, were errors licensed where they do no hurt, inattention would grow into habit, and be the occasion of much hurt. 84 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. REVIEW. In what senses is man superior to the brute ? What inference is drawn from this ? What do congruity and propriety imply ? Among what objects is there no congruity ? Among what objects does it exist? Is the perception of congruity and propriety natural ? To what is congruity proportioned ? How is it distinguished from beauty ? How from propriety ? What relation furnishes many examples of congruity ? Give examples. Does congruity regulate the kind of ornament ? Give examples. Where do we require the strictest conformity ? What is affectation ? How is a gross impropriety punished ? How slighter ones ? To what is the epithet ridiculous applied ? What are the uses of the sense of impropriety ? CHAPTER XI. Dignity and Grace. Dignity and meanness are terms applied to man in point of character, sentiment and behavior, and are never applicable to inanimate objects : a palace may be lofty or grand, but it is not said to have dignity ; a shrub is little, but not mean. Human actions are grand or little, as they appear in different lights : with respect to their author, they are proper or improper ; with respect to those affected by them, just or unjust; and they are further distinguished by dignity or mean- ness ; the former coincides with grandeur, the latter with littleness. The difference will be evident, upon reflecting that an action may be grand without being virtuous, and little without being faulty ; but that we never attribute dignity to any action but what is vir- tuous, nor meanness to any but what is faulty. Every action of dignity creates respect and esteem for the DIGN1TV AXD GRACE. 85 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 ac- tion of Caesar passing the Rubicon, was grand ; but there was no dignity in it, considering that his purpose was to enslave his country : Caesar, in a march, taking opportunity of a rivulet to quench his thirst, did a low action, but the action was not mean. As it appears to me, dignity and meanness are founded on a natural principle not hitherto mentioned. Man is endowed with a Sexse 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 dignity is appropriated. Further, to behave with dignity, and to refrain from all mean action?, is felt to be, not a virtue only, but a duty: it is a duty every man owes to himself. By acting in that manner, he attracts love and esteem : by acting meanly, or be- low himself, he is disapproved and contemned. Dignity and meanness are a species of impropriety, for actions may be proper or improper, to which dig- nity or meanness cannot be applied. There is no dig- nity in eating : revenge fairly taken is improper, but not mean. Every action of dignity is proper ; and every mean action is improper. The sense of dignity reaching to our pleasures and amusements, makes some manly, others childish. Corporeal pleasures are low ; those of the eye and ear, rise to dignity where their objects are grand and elevated. Sympathy gives its owner dignity ; gratitude animates the soul, but scarce rises to dignity. Joy bestow r s dignity where it proceeds from an elevated cause. Vanity is mean ; shame and remorse are not mean ; and pride bestows no dignity in the eye of a spectator. The final cause may be resolved into this : — In point of dignity, the social emotions rise above the selfish, H 86 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. and much above those of the eye and ear : man is by his nature a social being ; and to qualify him for so- ciety, it is wisely contrived, that he should value him- self more for being social than selfish. The excellency of man is chiefly discernible in the great improvements he is susceptible of in society ; these, by perseverance, may be carried on progressively above any assignable limits ; and, even abstracting from revelation, there is great probability, that the progress begun here, will be completed in some future state. Now, as all valu- able improvements proceed from the exercise of our rational faculties, the Author of our nature, in order to excite us to a due use of these faculties, hath as- signed a high rank to the pleasures of the understand- ing : their utility, with respect to this life as well as a future, entitles them to that rank. We proceed to analyze grace. Graceful is an attri- bute ; grace and gracefulness express that attribute in the form of a noun. This attribute is agreeable : and as grace is displayed externally, it must be an object of one or other of our five senses. It is an object of sight and of hearing ; for some music is graceful ; sweet and easy ; and grace, like beauty, makes its constant appearance in company with our own species. Grace is inseparable from motion, as opposed to rest, and com- prehends speech, looks, gestures. Dignity alone, with- out motion, may produce a graceful appearance ; but still more graceful with the aid of exalted qualities. But this is not all. The most exalted virtues may be the lot of a person whose countenance has little expression : such a person cannot be graceful. There- fore, 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 dig- nity. Expressions of other mental qualities are not RIDICULE. 87 essential to that appearance, but they heighten it greatly. Of all external objects, a graceful person is the most agreeable. Dancing affords great opportunity for displaying grace, and haranguing still more. In vain will a person attempt to be graceful, who is de- ficient 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 these qualities by looks and gestures ; but such studied ex- pression will be too faint and obscure to be graceful. REVIEW. To what are the terms dignity and meanness applied ? With what do they coincide? How does a difference appear ? Give examples. To what sense is dignity appropriated ? Is it a duty to behave with dignity? Distinguish between dignity and propriety. Give examples. How are selfish and social emotions ranked ? In what is the chief excellence of man discernible ? Of what is grace an object? How is it defined ? What is most necessary m order to be graceful ? CHAPTER XII. Ridicule. A risible object produceth an emotion of laughter merely;* a ridiculous object is improper as well as risible, and produceth a mixed emoticn, which is vented by a laugh of derision or scorn.j- Burlesque, a great engine of ridicule, is distinguish- able into burlesque that excites laughter merely, and burlesque that provokes derision or ridicule. A grave * See Chap. VII. t See Chap. X. 88 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. subject in which there is no impropriety, may be brought down by a certain coloring so as to be risible ; which is the case of Virgil Travestied and also the case of the Secchia Rapita :f the authors laugh first in order to make their readers laugh. The Lutrin is a burlesque poem, laying hold of a low and trifling in- cident, to expose the luxury, indolence, and conten- tious spirit of a set of monks. Boileau, the author, gives a ridiculous air to the subject, by dressing it in the heroic style, and affecting to consider it as of the utmost dignity and importance. In a composition of this kind, no image professedly ludicrous ought to find quarter, because such images destroy the contrast; and, accordingly, the author shows always the grave face, and never once betrays a smile. In burlesque that aims at ridicule, the poet ought to confine himself to such images as are lively, and readily apprehended : a strained elevation, soaring above an ordinary reach of fancy, makes not a plea- sant impression : the reader, fatigued with being al- ways upon the stretch, is soon disgusted : and if he persevere, becomes thoughtless and indifferent. Fur- ther, a fiction gives no pleasure unless it be painted in colors so lively as to produce some perception of reality; which never can be done effectually where the images are formed with labor or difficulty. 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. The Rape of the Lock, clearly distinguishable from those now mentioned, is not properly a burlesque per- formance, but a heroi-comical poem: it treats a gay and familiar 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 Tas * Scarron t Tassoni. RIDICULE. 89 soni. The Rape of the Lock is a genteel species of writing, pleasant or ludicrous without having ridicule for its chief aim; giving way however to ridicule where it arises naturally from a particular character, such as that of Sir Plume. Addison's Spectator upon the exercise of the fan* is extremely gay and ludi- crous, resembling in its subject the Rape of the Lock. Humor belongs to the present chapter, because it is connected with ridicule. Humor in writing is very different from humor in character. When an author insists upon ludicrous subjects with a professed pur- pose to make his readers laugh, he may be styled a ludicrous ur iter ; but is scarce entitled to be styled a writer of humor. This quality belongs to an author, who, affecting to be grave and serious, paints his ob- jects in such colors as to provoke mirth and laughter. A writer that is really an humorist in character, does this without design: if not, he must affect the charac- ter 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 drol- lery and humorous painting ; which shows a great genius, because he had nothing of that peculiarity in his character. There remains to show by examples the manner of treating subjects, so as to give them a ridiculous ap- pearance. Orleans. I know him to be valiant. Constable. I was told that by one that knows him better than you. Orleans. What's he? Constable. Marry, he told me so himself; and he said he car'd not who knew it. Hezsry V. Shakspeare. He never broke any man's head but his own, and that was against a post when he was drunk. Ibid. 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 * No. 102. H2 90 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. fling away, and consequently is apt to snarl most when there are the fewest bones. Tale of a Tub. 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 he can 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 ! ha ! look ye, look ye, you do ? nay, 'tis like you may here are choice of pastime here in town, as plays and the like ; that must be confess'd indeed. Millament. Ah l'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 that can't relish the town, and others can't away with the country 'tis like you may be one of these, cousin. Way of the World. — Act IV. Sc. 4. Lord Froth. I assure you, Sir Paul, I laugh at nobody's jests but my own, or a lady'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 laughed at ? Lord Froth. O foy, don't misapprehend me, I don't say so, for I often smile at your conceptions. But there is nothing more unbe- coming a man of quality than to laugh ; 'tis such a vulgar expres- sion of the passion ! every body can laugh. Then especially to laugh at the jest of an inferior person, or when any body else of the same quality does not laugh with one ; ridiculous. To be pleased with what pleases the crowd ! Now, when I laugh, I al- ways laugh alone. Double Dealer. — Act I. Sc. 4. Irony turns things into ridicule in a peculiar man ner : it consists in laughing at a man under disguise of appearing to praise or speak well of him. Swift af fords us many illustrious examples of that species oi ridicule. Take the following : By these methods, in a few weeks, there starts up many a wri- ter, capable of managing the profoundest and most universal sub- jects. For what though his head be empty, provided his common place book be full ! And if you will bate him but the circumstances of method, and style, and grammar, and invention ; allow him hut the common privileges of transcribing from others, and digressing from himself, as often as he shall see occasion ; he will desire n« RIDICULE. 91 more ingredients towards fitting up a treatise that shall make a very comely figure on a bookseller's shelf, there to be preserved neat and clean, for a long eternity, adorned with the heraldry of its title, fairly inscribed on a label ; never to be thumbed or greased by students, nor bound to everlasting chains of darkness in a library ; but when the fullness of time is come, shall happily under- go the trial of purgatory, in order to ascend the sky.* A parody must be distinguished from every species of ridicule : it enlivens a gay subject by imitating some important incident that is serious. It is ludicrous, and may be risible; but ridicule is not a necessary ingre- dient. Take the following examples, the first of which 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 for ever wear. He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread The long-contended honors of her head. Rape of the Lock. — Canto IV. 133. The following imitates the history of Agamemnon's sceptre in Homer : Now meet thy fate, incens'd Belinda cried, And drew a deadly bodkin from her side, (The same, his ancient personage to deck Her great-great grandsire wore about his neck, In three 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 grac'd her mother's hairs, Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) Ibid. — Canto V. 87. REVIEW. What are the kinds of burlesque ? Give examples. What is to be observed in the first kind of burlesque ? In the second ? What is the character given of Pope's Rape of the Lock? What is meant by a writer of humor ? Give examples. * Tale of a Tub, sect. 7. 92 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. Give examples where the ridicule arises from absurd concep tions in the persons introduced. What is irony ? Give an example. What is a parody ? Give examples. CHAPTER XIII. Wit. 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. The term wit is appropriated to such thoughts and expressions as are ludicrous, and occasion some degree of surprise by their singularity. Wit, in a figurative sense, expresses a talent for inventing ludicrous thoughts or expres- sions : hence we say, a witty man, or a man of wit. Wit is distinguished 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. Wit in the thought may be defined " a junction of things by distant and fanciful relations, which surprise because they are unexpected." The following is a proper example : We grant, although he had much wit, He was very shy of using it, As being loath to wear it out; And therefore bore it not about, Unless on holidays, or so, As men their best apparel do. Hudibras. — Canto I. Wit is of all the most elegant recreation : the image enters the mind with gaiety, and gives a sudden flash, which is extremely pleasant. Wit thereby gently ele- vates without straining, raises mirth without dissolute ness, and relaxes while it entertains. wit. 93 I proceed to examples of wit in the thought ; and first, of ludicrous images. FalstafF, speaking of his taking Sir John Coleville of the Dale : — Here he is, and here I yield him ; and I beseech your Grace, let it be book'd with the rest of this day's deeds ; or I will have it in a particular ballad else, with mine own picture on the top of it, Coleville kissing my foot : to the which course if I be en- forc'd, if you do not all show like gilt twopences to me; and I, in the clear sky of fame, o"ershine you as much as the full moon doth the cinders of the element, which show like pins' heads to her ; believe not the word of the noble. Therefore let me have right, and let desert mount. Secoxd Part He>-ry IV.— Act. IV. Sc. 3. I knew, when seven justices could not take up a quarrel, but when the parties 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 brothers. Your if is the only peace-make** ; much vir- tue is in if. Shakspeare. The war hath introduced abundance of polysyllables, which will never be able to live many more campaigns. Speculations, ope- rations, preliminaries, ambassadors, palisadoes, communication, circumvallation, battalions, as numerous as they are, if they attack us too frequently in our coffee-houses, we shall certainly put them to flight, and cut off the rear. Tatler, No. 230. Speaking of Discord : She never went abroad, but she brought home such a bundle of monstrous lies, as would have amazed any mortal, but such as knew her; of a whale that had swallowed a fleet of ships; of the lions bein£ let out of the Tower to destroy the Protestant Religion ; of the P'ope's being seen in a brandy-shop at Wapping, &c. History of Jony Bull. — Part I. Ch. 16. Wit in the thought, or ludicrous combinations and oppositions, may be traced through various ramifica- tions. And, first, fanciful causes assigned that have no natural relation to the effects produced : The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty, For want of fighting was ^rown rusty, And ate into iFself, for lack Of somebody to hew and hack. The peaceful scabbard where it dwelt, The rancor of its edge had felt : For of the lower end two handful It had devoured, 'twas so manful; And so much scorn'd to lurk in case As if it durst not show its face. Hudibras.— Canto I. 94* ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. Belinda. He has so pester'd me with flames and stuff— I think I sha'n't endure the sight of a fire this twelvemonth. Old Bachelor. — Act II. Sc. 8. Fanciful reasoning : Falstaff. Embowell'd ! if thou embowel me to-day, I'll give you leave to powder me, and eat me too, to-morrow! 'Sblood, 'twas time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit ! I lie, I am no counterfeit ; to die is to be a counterfeit ; for he is but the counterfeit of a man who hath not the life of a man ; but to counterfeit dying, when a man there- by liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeed. First Part Henry IV. — Act V. Sc. 4. Clown. And the more pity that great folk should have counte- nance in this world to drown or hang themselves, more than their even Christian. Hamlet. — Act V. Sc. 1. Pedro. Will you have me, Lady ? Beatrice. No, my Lord, unless I might have another for work- ing-days. Your Grace is too costly to wear every day. Much ado about Nothing. — Act II. Sc. 1. In western climes there is a town, To those that dwell therein well known ; Therefore there needs no more be said here, We unto them refer our reader : For brevity is very good When w' are, or are not understood. Hudibras. — Canto I. Ludicrous junction of small things with great, as of equal importance : This day black omens threat the brightest fair That e'er deserv'd a watchful spirit's care : Some dire disaster, or by force, or slight ; But what, or where, the fates have wrapt in night : Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law ; Or some frail china jar receive a flaw ; Or stain her honor, or her new brocade ; Forget her pray'rs, or miss a masquerade ; Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball ; Or whether heav'n has doom'd that Shock must fall. Rape of the Lock. — Canto II. 101. One speaks the glory of the British queen, And one describes a charming Indian screen. Ibid.— Canto III. 13 Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes, And screams of horror rend th r affrighted skies. Not louder shrieks to pitying heav'n are cast, When husbands, or when lapdogs, breathe their last, Or when rich china vessels, fall'n from high, In glitt'ring dust and painted fragments lie ! Ibid. — Canto III. 155. wit. 95 Not youthful kings in battle seiz'd alive. Not scornful virgins who their charms survive, Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss, Not ancient ladies when refus'd a kiss, Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die, Not Cynthia when her manteau 's pinn'd awry, E'er felt such rage, resentment and despair, As thou, sad virgin ! for thv ravish'd hair. Ibid.— Canto IV. 3. We proceed now to what is verbal only, a play of words. This sort of wit depends, for the most part, upon choosing a word that hath different significations; by that artifice, tricks are played in language, and plain thoughts take a different appearance. Play is necessary for man, in order to refresh him after labor ; and man loves play, even to a play of words : and it is happy for us, that words can be employed for our amusement. This amusement unbends the mind, and is relished by some at all times, and by all at some times. This low species of wit has among all nations been a favorite entertainment, in a certain stage of their progress toward refinement of taste and manners, and has gradually gone into disrepute. As soon as a lan- guage is formed into a system, and the meaning of words is ascertained with tolerable accuracy, opportu- nity 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 England deemed a reputable amusement, during the reigns of Elizabeth and James L, is vouched by the works of Shakspeare, and even by the writings of grave divines. But it cannot have any long endur- ance ; for as language ripens, and the meaning 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 van- isheth with the novelty. 90 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. The following examples are distributed into differ- ent classes. A seeming resemblance from the double meaning of a word : Beneath this stone my wife doth lie ; She 's now at rest, and so am I. Other seeming connexions from the same cause : Will you employ your conqu'ring sword, To break a fiddle, and your word ? Hudibras, Canto 2. To whom the knight with comely grace Put off his hat to put his case. Ibid. Part III. Canto 3, Here thou, great Anna ! whom three realms obey, Dost sometimes counsel take — and sometimes tea. Rape of the Lock, Canto 3. 1. 5. O'er their quietus where fat judges doze, And lull their cough and conscience to repose. Dispensary, Canto 1. Speaking of Prince Eugene : This general is a great taker of snuff as well as of towns. Pope, Key to the Lock. A seeming opposition from the same cause : 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. Waller* What new-found witchcraft was in thee, With thine own cold to kindle me ? Strange art ; like him that should devise To make a burning-glass of ice. Cowley. Wit of this kind is unsuitable in a serious poem ; as in the following line in Pope's Elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady : Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before. This sort of writing is finely burlesqued by Swift : Her hands, the softest ever felt, Though cold would burn, though dry would melt. Stkephon and Chloe. wit. 97 Taking a word in a different sense from what is meant, comes under wit, because it occasions some slight degree of surprise : Falstqff. My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about. Pistol. Two yards and more. Faistaff. No quips, now, Pistol: indeed I am in the waist two yards about ; but I am now about no waste ; I am about thrift. Merry Wives op Windsor. — Act I. Sc. 3. Sands. By your leave, sweet ladies, If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me : I had it from my father. Anne Bullen. Was he mad, sir? Sands. O, very mad, exceeding mad, in love too; But he would bite none King Henry VIII. — Act I. Sc. 4. 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 spurious wit, which is distinguished from all others by the name pun. For example, Chief Justice. Well ! the truth is, Sir John, you live in great infamy. Faistaff. He that buckles him in my belt cannot live in less. Chief Justice. Your means are very slender, and your waste is great. Faistaff. I would it were otherwise : I would my means were greater, and my waist slenderer. Second Part Henry IV. — Sc. 2. 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 ? Hudibras, Part II. Canto 2. Though playing with words is a mark of a mind at ease, and disposed to any sort of amusement, we must not thence conclude that playing with words is always ludicrous. Words are so intimately connected with thought, that if the subject be really grave, it will not appear ludicrous even in that fantastic dress. I am, however, far from recommending it in any serious performance: on the contrary, the discordance be- tween the thought and expression must be disagree- able ; witness the following specimen. I yo ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. He hath abandoned his physicians, madam, under whose prac- tices he hath persecuted time with hope ; and finds no other ad- vantage in the process, but only the losing of hope by time. All's well that ends well. — Act I. Sc. I. K. Henry. O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows ! When that my care could not withhold thy riots, What wilt thou do when riot is thy care ? Second Part Henry IV. — Act IV. Sc. 4. There is a third species of wit, different from those mentioned, consisting in sounds merely. Many of Hu- dibras's double rhymes come under the definition of wit given in the beginning of this chapter : they are ludicrous, and their singularity occasions some degree of surprise. Swift is no less successful than Butler in this sort of wit : witness the following instances : God- dess — Bodice. Pliny — JVicolini. Iscariots — Chariots. Mi- tre— -Nitre. Dragon — Suffragan. A repartee may happen to be witty ; but it cannot be considered as a species of wit, because there are many repartees extremely smart, and yet extremely serious. REVIEW. How is the term wit applied ? How many kinds of wit are there ? How may wit in the thought be denned? Give an example. What is the effect of wit ? Give examples of ludicrous imager. Give an example of fanciful causes assigned that have no natu- ral relation to the effects produced. Give examples of fanciful reasoning. Give examples of the ludicrous junction of small things with great, as of equal importance. Upon what does the wit of a play of words depend ? In what period in a nation's literature, does this kind of wit be- come popular ? Give an example of a seeming resemblance from a double meaning — of other seeming connexions from the same cause — of seeming opposition from the same cause. Is wit of this kind suitable in a serious poem ? Give examples of taking a word in a different sense from what is meant ? Give examples of the pun. Is this genuine wit ? Is the play upon words always ludicrous ? CUSTOM AND HABIT. 99 Is it proper in serious writing ? What is the third species of wit mentioned ? Is a repartee always witty ? CHAPTER XIV. Custom and Habit. (Custom respects the action, habit the agent. By cmtom we mean a frequent reiteration of the same act ; and by habit, the effect that custom has on the agent. This effect may be either active, witness the dexterity produced by custom in performing certain exercises ; or passive, as when a thing makes an im- pression on us different from what it did originally. The latter only, as relative to the sensitive part of our nature, comes under the present undertaking. This subject is intricate : some pleasures are forti- fied by custom ; and yet custom begets familiarity, and consequently indifference ; in many instances, sa- tiety and disgust are the consequences of reiteration : again, though custom blunts the edge of distress and of pain, yet the want of any thing to which we have been long accustomed, is a sort of torture. A clew 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 actions, and even upon our thoughts 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, we eat at a certain hour, take exercise at a certain hour, go to rest at a certain hour — all by the direction of habit. A walk upon the quarter-deck, though intolerably con- fined, becomes however so agreeable by custom, that a sailor, in his walk on shore, confines himself commonly 100 ELEMENTS OP CRITICISM. within the same bounds. I knew a man who had relinquished the sea for a country life : in the corner of his garden he reared an artificial mount with a level summit, resembling most accurately a quarter- deck, not only in shape but in size; and here he generally walked. In Minorca, Governor Kane made an excellent road the whole length of the island ; and yet the inhabitants adhere to the old road, though not only longer but extremely bad.* Play and gaming, at first an amusement, grow into a habit ; but to intro- duce an active habit, length of time is necessary. Affection and aversion, as distinguished from passion, and original disposition, are habits respecting particu- lar objects, acquired in the manner above set forth. The pleasure of social intercourse, originally faint, but frequently reiterated, establishes the habit of af- fection. Affection thus generated, whether it be friend- ship or love, seldom swells into any tumultuous passion; but is the strongest cement that can bind two indi- viduals of the human species. In like manner, a slight degree of disgust often reiterated 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. And the same observation holds with respect to all objects that being disagreeable raise violent passions. A variety in the objects of amusement prevents a habit as to any one in particular ; but as the train is uniform with respect to amusement, the habit is formed accordingly : we call it generic, as opposed to the former, which is * Custom is a second nature. Formerly, the merchants of Bristol had no place for meeting but the street, open to every va- riety of weather. An Exchange was erected for them with con- venient piazzas: but so riveted were they to their accustomed place, that in order to dislodge them, the magistrates were forced to break up the pavement, and to render the place a heap of rough stones. CUSTOM AND HABIT. 101 said to be specific habit. These, however, are closely blended. Satiety and disgust have no effect, except as to that thing singly which occasions them ; hence it is easy to account for a generic habit in any intense pleasure. The changes made in forming habits are curious. Moderate pleasures are augmented by reiteration, till they become habitual ; and then are at their height ; but they are not long stationary ; for from that point they gradually decay, till they vanish altogether. The pain occasioned by want of gratification, runs a differ- ent course : it increases uniformly ; and at last be- comes extreme, when the pleasure of gratification is reduced to nothing : It so falls out, That what we have we prize not to the worth, While we enjoy it ; but being lack'd and lost, Why then we rack the value ; then we find The virtue that possession would not show us Whilst it was ours. Much ado about Nothing. — Act IV. Sc. 1. The effect of custom, with relation to a specific habit, is displayed through all its varieties in the use of tobacco. The taste of that plant is at first ex- tremely unpleasant : our disgust lessens gradually, till it vanish altogether; at which period the taste is neither agreeable nor disagreeable : we continue to relish it till we arrive at perfection. When the habit is acquired in its greatest vigor, the relish is gone. We take snuff without being conscious of the operation. The power of custom is a happy contrivance for our good; satiety checks pleasures that would dis- qualify us for business ; and custom puts the rich and poor on a level ; for all abandon to the authority of custom things that Nature hath left indifferent. Pro- ceeding to matters of taste, where there is naturally a preference of one thing before another, it is certain that our faint and more delicate feelings are readily susceptible of a bias from custom ; and it is no proof 4sf a defective taste to find these in some measure in- 12 102 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. fluenced by custom. Dress, and the modes of exter- nal behavior, are regulated by custom in every coun- try : the deep red or vermilion with which the ladies in France cover their cheeks, appears to them beauti- ful in spite of nature : and strangers cannot altogether be justified in condemning that practice, considering the lawful authority of custom, or of the fashion, as it is called : it is told of the people who inhabit the skirts of the Alps facing the north, that the swelling they have universally in the neck is to them agreeable;. So far has custom power to change the nature of things, and to make an object originally disagreeable, take on an opposite appearance. But, as to every particular that can be denominated proper or improper, right or wrong, custom has little authority, and ought to have none. The principle of duty takes place of every other; and it r^rgues a shameful weakness of mind, to find it in\N|pcase so far subdued as to submit to custom. These few hints may enable us to judge in some measure of foreign manners, whether exhibited by foreign writers or our own. A comparison between the ancients and the moderns was some time ago a fa- vorite subject ; those who declared for ancient man- ners thought it sufficient that these manners were supported by custom : their antagonists, on flie other hand, refusing submission to custom as a standard of taste, condemned ancient manners as in several in- stances irrational. REVIEW. How is custom distinguished from habit? What does custom effect ? What are the effects of habit at different ages ? Give examples of the power of long habit. What are affection and aversion ? How are they respectively formed ? How do you distinguish generic and specific habits? What is the effect of habit on moderate pleasures ? What is the effect of habit with relation to the taking of tobacco? What is the use of custom ? SIGNS AND EMOTIONS. 103 Does the influence of custom or fashion on our feelings prove a defective taste ? Give examples of the power of custom on taste. Should custom influence morals ? CHAPTER XV. External Signs of Emotions and Passions. So intimately connected are the soul and body, that every agitation in the former produceth a visible effect "upon the latter. The external signs of passion are of two kinds ? vol- untary and involuntary. The voluntary signs are also of two kinds : some are arbitrary, some natural. Words are obviously voluntary signs : and they are also arbi- trary; 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 unpremeditated tones of admiration are the same in all men; as also of resentment, compassion, and despair. • The other kind of voluntary signs comprehend those attitudes and gestures which accompany certain emo- tions with uniformity; excessive joy is expressed by leaping ; grief by depression ; prostration and kneel- ing, imply veneration. Hence grief is cast down ; hu- mility droops ; arrogance elevates the head ; despon- dency reclines it on one side. The expressions of the hands are manifold i bv different attitudes and motions, they express desire, hope, fear ; they assist us in prom- ising, in inviting, in keeping one at a distance ; they are made instruments of threatening, of supplication, of praise, and of horror; they ?re employed in ap- proving, 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, 104 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. sensible of the advantage as well as difficulty of hav- ing 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 an important branch of education. Certain sounds are by nature allotted to each passion for expressing it externally. The actor who has these sounds at command to captivate the ear, is mighty: if he also have proper gestures at command to captivate the eye, he is irresistible. The involuntary signs are of two kinds, some being temporary, others permanent signs of passion): and the natural signs and emotions are common to all men, and form an universal language, which influence cannot sophisticate, nor education render doubtful. Provi- dence has conferred them upon all men, as direct ave- nues to all hearts. The effects produced upon the spectator by exter- nal signs of passion, are productive of various emo- tions, tending to wise and good ends. Thus joy produces a cheerful emotion ; grief produces pity, rage, terror. Pleasant passions express themselves to the spectator externally, by agreeable signs ; and the external signs of a painful passion being disagreeable, produce a pain- ful emotion. The external signs of painful passions are some of them attractive, some repulsive. Of every painful passion that is also disagreeable, the external signs are repulsive. Painful passions that are agreea- ble, have external signs that are attractive ; drawing the spectator to them, and producing in him benevo- lence to the person upon whom these signs appear. Man is provided, by nature, with a faculty that lays open to him every passion, by means of its external expressions. External signs fix the signification of spoken language ; looks and gestures show whether the speaker be worthy of our confidence — we judge of character from external appearance; involuntary signs are incapable of deceit — the tones of the voice are irresistible. The dissocial passions, being hurtful by SIGNS OF EMOTIONS. 105 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 sud- den, display themselves on the countenance in legible characters. The external signs again of every passion that threatens danger, raise in us the passion of fearf whicn frequently operating without reason or reflec- tion, moves us, by a sudden impulse, to avoid the im- pending danger. These external signs are subservient to morality, and this beautiful contrivance makes us cling to the virtuous, and abhor the wicked. Finally, the external signs of passion are a strong indication, that man is, by his very constitution, framed to be open and sincere. Nature herself, candid and sincere, intends that mankind should preserve the same char- acter, by cultivating simplicity and truth, and banish- ing every sort of dissimulation that tends to mischief. REVIEW. What is the effect of the intimate connexion of soul and body ? How are the external signs of passion divided? — the voluntary signs ? Are words all arbitrary ? What are the other voluntary signs ? Give examples. How are the hands used in expressing passions ? What did the ancients teach? How are the involuntary signs of passions distinguished ? How do pleasant passions express themselves ? How do painful ones ? What is the effect of the external signs of bad passions ? What do they prove with respect to the intentions of Nature ? CHAPTER XVI. Sentiments. Every thought, prompted by passion, is termed a sentiment. To have a general notion of the different passions, will not alone enable an artist to make a just representation of any passion : he ought, over and 106 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. above| to know the various appearances of the same passion in different persons/ Passions receive a tincture from every peculiarity of character ; and for that reason it rarely happens, that a passion, in the differ- ent circumstances of feeling, of sentiment, and of ex- pression, is precisely the same in any two persons. Hence the following rule concerning dramatic and epic compositions. That a passion he adjusted to the char- acter, the sentiments to the passion, and the language to the sentiments. If nature be not faithfully copied in each of these, a defect in execution is perceived : there may appear some resemblance ; but the picture, upon the whole, will be insipid, through want of grace and delicacy. Each passion has a certain tone, to which every sentiment proceeding from it, ought to be tuned with the greatest accuracy. To awaken passion, a writer must be something more than an eye-witness of what he describes. 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. Unhappy is the player of genius who acts a capital part in what may be termed a descriptive tra- gedy ; after assuming the very passion that 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 description 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 irregularities. In our late English tragedies, we sometimes find senti- ments tolerably well adapted to a plain passion ; but we must not, in any of them, expect a sentiment ex- pressive of character ; and, upon that very account, our late performances of the dramatic kind are for the most part intolerably insipid. To set this matter in the clearest light, I shall add SENTIMENTS. 107 example to precept. The first examples shall be of sentiments that appear the legitimate offspring of pas- sion ; to which shall be opposed what are descriptive only, and illegitimate : and in making this comparison, [ borrow my instances chiefly from Shakspeare, who for genius in dramatic composition stands uppermost in the rolls of fame. Sentiments dictated by a violent and perturbed pas- sion: Lear, Filial ingratitude ! Is it not, as if this mouth should tear this hand For lifting food to 't? — But I will punish home; No, I will weep no more. In such a night To shut me out ! Pour on, I will endure. In such a night as this ! O Regan, Goneril ! Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all — O ! that way madness lies ; let me shun that ; IS o more of that. Kent, Good, my Lord, enter here. / Lear, Pr'ythee, go in thyself, seek thine own ease; This tempest will not give me leave to ponder On things would hurt me more : — but I'll go in ; In, boy; go first. You houseless poverty Nay, get thee in ; FI1 pray, and then I'll sleep — Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, 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. Kixg Lear. — Act III. Sc. 4. Sentiments arising from remorse and despair : Othello, Behold ! 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 impediments Than twenty times your stop. But, oh vain boast ! 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 ?— 108 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. Now — how dost thou look now ? O ill starr'd wench ! ***** When we shall meet at compt, This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, And fiends will snatch at it. Othello. — Act V. Sc. 2. The sentiments here displayed flow so naturally from the passions represented, that we cannot conceive any imitation more perfect. In the tragedy of Cinna, ^Emilia, after the conspir- acy was discovered, having nothing in view but racks and death to herself and her lover, receives a pardon from Augustus, attended with the brightest circum- stances of magnanimity and tenderness. This is a lucky situation for representing the passions of sur- prise and gratitude in their different stages. These passions, raised at once to the utmost pitch, and being at first too big for utterance, must, for some moments, be expressed by violent gestures only : as soon as there is vent for words, the first expressions are broken and interrupted : at last we ought to expect a tide of in- termingled 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 that takes the task off her hands. In the tragedy of Sertorius, the queen, surprised with the news that her lover w T as assassinated, instead of venting any passion, degenerates into a cool specta- tor, and undertakes to instruct the bystanders how a queen ought to behave on such an occasion. So much in general upon the genuine sentiments of passion. I proceed to particular observations. Pas- sions seldom continue uniform any considerable time : they generally fluctuate, swelling and subsiding in a quick succession ; and the sentiments cannot be just unless they correspond to such fluctuation. Accordingly, climax never shows better than in expressing a swel- ling passion : thus — SENTIMENTS. 109 Oroonoko. Can you raise the dead ? Pursue and overtake the wings of time ? And bring about again, the hours, the days, The years, that made me happy ? Oroonoko. — Act II. Sc. 2. Almeria. How hast thou charm'd The wildness of the waves and rocks to this ? That thus relenting they have giv'n thee back To earth, to light and life, to love and me ? Mourning Bride. — Act I. Sc. 7. I would not be the villain that thou think'st For the whole space that 's in the tyrant's grasp, And the rich earth to boot. Macbeth. — Act IV. Sc. 3. The following passage expresses finely the progress of conviction : Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve That tender, lovely form, of painted air, So like Almeria. Ha! it sinks, it falls; I'll catch it e'er it goes,, and grasp her shade. 'Tis life ! 'tis warm? 'tis she ! 'tis she herself! It is Almeria, 'tis, it is my wife ! Mourning Bride. — Act II. Sc. 6. In the progress of thought, our resolutions become more vigorous as well as our passions : If ever I do yield or give consent, By any action, word, or thought, to wed Another lord, may then just heav'n shower down, Sec. Mourning Bride. — Act I. Sc. 1. The different stages of a passion, and its different directions, from birth to extinction, must be carefully represented in their order; because otherwise the sentiments, by being misplaced, will appear forced and unnatural. Resentment, when provoked by an atro- cious injury, discharges itself first upon the author: sentiments therefore of revenge come always first, and must in some measure be exhausted before the person injured thinks of grieving for himself. In the Cid 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 situa- tion to which he is reduced by the affront. K 110 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 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, Qaintus 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, which must naturally have been their first concern, occupies them but in the second place, according to that author. In the Amynta of Tasso, Sylvia, upon a report of her lover's death, which she believed certain, instead of bemoaning the loss of her beloved, turns her thoughts upon herself, and wonders her heart does not break. In the tragedy of Jane Shore, Alicia, in the full pur- pose of destroying her rival, has the following re- flection : — Oh Jealousy ! thou bane of pleasing friendship, Thou worst invader of our tender bosoms : How does thy rancor poison all our softness, And turn our gentle natures into bitterness ! See where she comes ! once my heart's dearest blessing, Now my chang'd eyes are blasted with her beauty, Loathe that known face, and sicken to behold her. Act III. Sc. 1. These are the reflections of a cool spectator. A passion, while it has the ascendant, and is freely in- dulged, suggests not to the person who feels it any sen- timent to its own prejudice ; reflections like the fore going occur not readily till the passion has spent its vigor. A person sometimes is agitated at once by different passions ; and the mind, vibrating like a pen- dulum, vents itself in sentiments that partake of the same vibration. Queen. Would I had never trod this English earth, Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it ! Ye 've angels' faces, but Heaven knows your hearts. What shall become of me now ? wretched lady ! I am the most unhappy woman living. SENTIMENTS. Ill Alas ! poor wenches, where are now your fortunes ? [to her women Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity, No friends, no hope ; no kindred weep for me, Almost no grave allowed me ! Henry VIII.— Act III. Sc. 1. Othello. Oh devil, devil! If that the earth could teem with woman's tears, Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile. Out of my sight ! Desdemona. I will not stay t' offend you. Lodovico. Truly, an obedient lady : I do beseech your Lordship, call her back. Oth. Mistress Des. My Lord. Oth. What would you with her, Sir ? Lod. Who, I, my Lord? Oth. Ay ! you did wish that I would make her turn : 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 this, Sir — oh well-painted passion ! I am commanded home — get you away, I'll send for you anon — Sir, I obey the mandate, And will return to Venice. Hence, avaunt ! [Exit Desdemona. Othello. — Act IV. Sc. 1. JEmilia. Oh ! my good Lord, I would speak a word with you. Othello. Yes, 'tis Emilia— By and by— She 's dead. 'Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio's death ; The noise was high — Ha ! no more moving ? Still as the grave. — Shall she come in ? — were 't good ? I think she stirs again — Xo — What's the best? If she come in, she '11 sure speak to my wife ; My wife ! my wife ! A\ hat wife ! I have no wife ; Oh insupportable ! O heavy hour! Othello. — Act V. Sc. 2. Nature, which gave us passions, and made them ex- tremely beneficial when moderate, intended undoubt- edly that they should be subjected to the government of reason and conscience. It is therefore against the order of nature, that passion in any case should take the lead in contradiction to reason and conscience : such a state of mind is a sort of anarchy, which every one is ashamed of, and endeavors to hide or dissemble. Even love, however laudable, is attended with a con- 112 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. scious shame when it becomes immoderate ; it is cov- ered from the world, and disclosed only to the beloved object : O, they love least that let men know their love. Two Gentlemen of Verona. — Act I. Sc. 2. Hence a capital rule in the representation of im- moderate passions, that they ought to be hid or dis- sembled 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 ; the proposal must be made by hints, and by representing the action in some favorable light. Of the propriety of sentiment upon such an occasion, Shakspeare, in the Tempest, has given us a beautiful example, in a speech by the usurping Duke of Milan, advising Sebastian to murder his brother the King of Naples : Antonio, What might, Worthy Sebastian — O, what might — no more. And yet, methinks, I see it in thy face, What thou shouldst be : th' occasion speaks thee, and My strong imagination sees a crown Dropping upon thy head. Act II. Sc. 1. There never was drawn a more complete picture of this kind, than that of King John soliciting Hubert to murder the young Prince Arthur : K. John. Come hither, Hubert. O 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 cherished. Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say But I will fit it with some better time. By Heaven, Hubert, I'm almost asham'd To say what good respect I have of thee. Hubert. I am much bounden to your Majesty. K. John. 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, SENTIMENTS. 113 To give me audience. If the midnight bell Did with his iron tongue and brazen mouth Sound one unto 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 bak'd thy blood, and made it heavy thick, Which else runs tickling up and down the veins, Making that idiot Laughter keep men's eyes, And strain their cheeks 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 sound 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 lov'st me well. Hubert. So well, that what you bid me undertake, Though that my death were adjunct to my act, By Heaven I'd do't. K. John. Do not I know thou wouldst ? Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye On yon young boy. I'll tell thee what, my friend ; He is a very serpent in my way ; And, wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread, He lies before me. Dost thou understand me ? Thou art his keeper. King John. — Act III. Sc. 3. As things are best illustrated by their contraries, I proceed to faulty sentiments. The first class contains faulty sentiments of various kinds ; I begin with sentiments that are faulty by be- ing 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 ! 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. 1. This sentiment may be suggested by violent and in- flamed passion, but is not suited to the calm satisfac- tion that one feels upon escaping danger. Philaster. 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 Fletcher. — Act IV. K2 114 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. Second. Sentiments below the tone of the passion. Ptolemy, by putting Pompey to death, having incurred the displeasure of Caesar, was in the utmost dread of being dethroned : in that agitated situation, Corneille makes him utter a speech full of cool reflection, that is in no degree expressive of the passion. In Les Freres Ennemies of Racine, the second act is opened with a love-scene : Hemon talks to his mistress of the torments of absence, of the lustre of her eyes, that he ought to die 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 passion of love : it would scarce be excusable in painting modern French manners ; and is insufferable where the ancients are brought upon the stage. The manners painted in the Alexandre of the same author are not more just: French gallantry prevails there throughout. Third. Sentiments that agree not with the tone of the passion ; as where a pleasant sentiment is grafted upon a painful passion, or the contrary. In the fol- lowing instances, the sentiments are too gay for a se rious passion : No happier task these faded eyes 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 fires ; 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 tnoughts are pretty: they suit Pope, but no* Eloisa. SENTIMENTS. 115 Satan, enraged by a threatening of the angel Ga- briel, answers thus : Then when I am thy captive talk of chains, Broud limitary cherub : but ere then Far heavier load thyself expect to feel From my prevailing arm, though Heaven's King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy compeers, Us'd to the yoke, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the road of heaven star-patfd. Paradise Lost. — Book IV. The concluding epithet forms a grand and delightful image, which cannot be the genuine offspring of rage. Fourth. Sentiments too artificial for a serious pas- sion. I give for the first example a speech of Percy, expiring : Harry, thou hast robb'd me of my growth : 1 better brook the loss of brittle life, Than those proud titles thou hast won of me ; They wound my thoughts, worse than thy sword my flesh. But thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool ; And time, that takes survey of all the world, Must have a stop.' First Part Henry IV. — Act V. Sc. 4. The sentiments of the Mourning Biide are, for the most part, no less delicate than just copies of nature : in the following exception the picture is beautiful, but too artful to be suggested by severe grief. Almeria. O no ! Time gives increase to my afflictions. The circling hours, that gather all the woes Which are difFus'd 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 me. 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 ? 116 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 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 murdered. Yes, yes, I know to mourn : I'll sluice this heart, The source of woe, and let the torrent loose. Act V. Sc. 11. 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 robb'd my life of some hours of happiness that ought to have been in it. Drummer. — Act V. Pope's Elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady, expresses delicately the most tender concern and sor- row that one can feel for the deplorable fate of a per- son of worth. Such a poem, deeply serious and pa- thetic, rejects with disdain all fiction. Upon that ac- count, the following passage deserves no quarter ; for it is not the language of the heart, but of the ima- gination indulging its flights at ease ; and thence emi- nently discordant with the subject. It would be a still more severe censure, if it should be ascribed to imita- tion, copying indiscreetly what has been said by others : What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace, Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face ? What though no sacred earth allow thee room, Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb? Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be drest, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast : There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, There the first roses of the year shall blow ; While angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground, now sacred by thy relics made. Fifth. Fanciful or finical sentiments-r-sentiments that degenerate into point or conceit, may* amuse in an idle hour, but can never be the offspring of any serious or important passion., Armida's lamentation respecting her lover Rinaldo, is of this vicious taste : Queen. Give me no help in lamentation, I am not barren to bring forth complaints : All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes, That I, being govern'd by the wat'ry moon, SENTIMENTS. 117 May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world ! Ah ! for my husband, for my dear lord Edward. Richard III.— Act II. Sc. 2. Jane Shore. Let me 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 sighs and drink my falling tears ; Ere I consent to teach my 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. Ibid. Act V Jane Shore utters her last breath in a witty con- ceit. 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 ? But I have nothing left me to bestow, Nothing but one sad sigh. Oh mercy, heav'n ! [Dies. Jane Shore. — Act V. Guilford to Lady Jane Grey, when both were con- demned to die : Thou stand'st unmov'd ; Calm temper sits upon thy beauteous brow ; Thy eyes, that flow'd so fast for Edward's loss, Gaze unconcern'd upon the ruin round thee, As if thou hadst resolv'd 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 Grey. — Act IV. near the end. The concluding sentiment is altogether finical, un- suitable to the importance of the occasion, and even to the dignity of the passion of love. Corneille ob- serves, that if poets did not indulge sentiments more ingenious or refined than are prompted by passion, their performances would often be lowland extreme grief would never suggest but exclamations merely. This is in plain language to assert, that forced thoughts 118 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. are more agreeable than those that are natural, and ought to be preferred ! ! ! The second class is of sentiments that may belong to an ordinary passion, but are not perfectly concord- ant with it| as tinctured by a singular character. If the sentiments of a passion ought to be suited to a peculiar character, it is still more necessary that actions be suited to the character. In the 5th Act of the Drummer, Addison makes his gardener act even below the character of an ignorant credulous rustic ; he gives him the behavior of a gaping idiot. The following instances are descriptions rather than sentiments, which compose a third class. Of this descriptive manner of painting the passions, there is in the Hippolytus of Euripides, Act V., an illustrious in- stance, 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 accuracy her own situation. A man stabbed to the heart in a combat with his enemy, expresses himself thus : So, now I arn at rest : I feel death rising higher still, and higher, Within my bosom ; every breath I fetch Shuts up my life within a shorter compass, And like the vanishing sound of bells, grows less And less each pulse, till it be lost in air. Dryden. The fourth class is of sentiments introduced too early or too late. Some examples mentioned above belong to this class. Add the following from Venice Preserved, Act V. at the close of the scene between Belvidera and her father Priuli. The account given by Belvidera of the danger she was in, and of her husband's threatening to murder her, ought naturally to have alarmed her relenting father, and to have made him express the most per- SENTIMENTS. 119 turbed sentiments. Instead of which he dissolves into tenderness and love for his daughter, as if he had al- ready delivered her from danger, and as if there was a perfect tranquillity : Canst thou forgive me 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 thee : Peace to thy heart ! Immoral sentiments exposed in their native colors, instead of being concealed or disguised, compose the fifth class. The Lady Macbeth, projecting the death of the King, has the following soliloquy : The raven himself 's not hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. Come all you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, And fill me from the crown to th' toe, top-full Of direst cruelty : make thick my blood, Stop up th' access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitiogs of nature Shake my fell purpose. Macbeth. — Act I. Sc. 5. This speech is not natural. A treacherous murder was never perpetrated without compunction : and that the lady here must have been in horrible agitation, appears from her invoking the infernal spirits to fill her with cruelty, and to stop up all the 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 wick- ed action, and to extenuate it by all the circumstances that imagination can suggest : and if the crime can- not 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: Strange things I have in head, that will to hand ; Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd. Act III. Sc. 4. The lady follows neither of these courses, but in a deliberate manner endeavors to fortify her heart in the commission of an execrable crime, without even 120 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. attempting to color it. This is not natural. In the Pompey of Corneille,* Photine counsels a wicked ac- tion in the plainest terms without disguise. In the tragedy of Esther,-\ Haman acknowledges, without disguise, his cruelty, insolence, and pride. And there is another example of the same kind in the Aga- memnon of Seneca. J In the tragedy of Athalie,^ Ma than, in cool blood, relates to his friend many black crimes he had been guilty of, to satisfy his ambition. In Con- greve's Double-dealer, Maskwell, instead of disguising or coloring his crimes, values himself upon them in a soliloquy : Cynthia, let thy beauty gild my crimes ; and whatsoever I com- mit of treachery or deceit, shall be imputed to me as a merit. Treachery ! what treachery ? Love cancels all the bonds of friend- ship, and sets men right upon their first foundations. Act II. Sc. 8. In French plays, love, instead of being hid or dis- guised, is treated as a serious concern, and of greater importance than fortune, family, or dignity. The rea- son is, that, in the capital of France, love, by the easi- ness of intercourse, has dwindled down from a real passion to be a connexion that is regulated entirely by the mode or fashion. || This may in some measure ex- cuse their writers, but will never make their plays be relished among foreigners. The last class comprehends sentiments that are un- natural, as being suited to neither character nor pas- sion. When the fable is of human affairs, every event, every incident, and every circumstance, ought to be natural, otherwise the imitation is imperfect. But an imperfect imitation is a venial fault, compared with that of running cross to nature. In the Hippolytus of * Act. I. Sc. 1. f A ct II. Sc. 1. t Beginning of Act II. $ Act III. Sc. 3. at the close. II A certain author says humorously, " Les mots memes d'amour efe d'amant sont bannis de l'intime societe des deux sexes, et relegues avee ceux de chaine et de jiamme dans les Romans qu'on ne lit plus." And where nature is once banished, a fair field is open to every fantastic imi- tation, even the most extravagant. SENTIMENTS. 121 Euripides,* Hippolytus, wishing for another self in his own situation, "How much," says he, "should I be touched with his misfortune !" as if it were natural to grieve more for the misfortunes of another than for one's own. In Moliere's VAvare,} Harpagon, being robbed of his money, seizes himself by the arm, mistaking it for that of the robber. This is so absurd as scarce to provoke a smile, if it be not at the author. Of inconsistent sentiments the following are exam- ples : Now bid me run, And I will strive with things impossible, Yea, get the better of them. Julius Cesar. — Act II. Sc. 2. Me miserable ! 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 lower deep Still threatening to devour me, opens wide; To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. Paradise Lost. — Book IV. The following passages are pure rant. Coriolanus, speaking 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. 3. Ccesar. Danger knows full well, That Caesar is more dangerous than he. We were two lions litter'd in one day, And I the elder and more terrible. Julius Cesar. — Act II. Sc. 2. Ahnahide. This day I gave my faith to him, he his to me. Almanzor. Good Heav'n, thy book of fate before me lay, But to tear out the journal of this day. * Act IV. Sc. 5. f Act IV. Sc. 7. 122 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. Or if the order of the world below, j Will not the gap of one whole day allow, > Give me that minute when she made that vow ; ' That minute ev'n the happy from their bliss might give, And those who live in grief a shorter time would live, So small a link if broke, th 5 eternal chain, Would like divided waters join again. Conquest of Grenada. — Act III. Ventidius. But you, ere love misled your wandering eyes, Were, sure, the chief and best of human race, Fram'd in the very pride and boast of Nature, So perfect, that the gods who form'd you, wonder'd At their own skill, and cried, A lucky hit Has mended our design. Dryden, All for Love. — Act I. Not to talk of the impiety of this sentiment, it is ludicrous instead of being lofty. The famous epitaph on Raphael is no less absurd than any of the foregoing passages. It is thus imitated by Pope, in his epitaph on Sir Godfrey Kneller : Living, great Nature fear'd he might outvie Her works ; and dying, fears herself might die. Such is the force of imitation; for Pope of himself would never have been guilty of a thought so extrava- gant. So much upon sentiments : the language proper for expressing them, comes next in order. REVIEW. What is a sentiment ? What is necessary to a just representation of any passion ? What is the rule in dramatic and epic compositions ? What is the effect of the descriptive style in tragedy? What renders the later British drama insipid ? What character does Lord Karnes give of Shakspeare ? What is the example given of violent and perturbed passion? — of sentiments arising from remorse and despair? What is the author's criticism on the tragedy of Cinna ? — on Sertorius ? How do passions operate ? What does climax best express ? Give examples, -r To what are the first feelings of resentment directed ? How does Corneille violate the rule which results from this ? To what are the first feelings of grief directed ? Where does Quintus Curtiu^ disregard this ? Where does Tasso? LANGUAGE OF PASSION". 123 How is it disregarded in Jane Shore ? Give examples~of vibrating passions. What is the intention of Nature with respect to passions? Are they generally concealed when violent ? What rule results hence ? How does one instigate the commission of a great crime ? Give an example. What is the finest picture of this kind? Give examples of overstrained sentiments — of sentiments below the tone of passion. Give examples of sentiments that agree not with the tone of the passion. What fault is found with the quotation from Pope ? — from Para- dise Lost ? Give examples of sentiments too artificial for a serious passion What is the criticism on the passage from Pope's Elegy ? Give an example of fanciful or finical passions. What is Corneille's observation ? — is it jusj? What is the second class of sentiments?- Give some examples of the descriptive manner of painting pas- sions. What is the criticism on the passage from Venice Preserved? — on Lady Macbeth's speech? What are the other examples of this fault ? Give examples of unnatural sentiments. Give examples of inconsistent sentiments. Give examples of pure rant. CHAPTER XVII. Language of Passion, Among the particulars that compose the social part of our nature, a propensity (£p communicate our opin- ions, 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 if we have no friend nor acquaintance to take part in our sufferings, we sometimes utter our complaints aloud, even where there are none to listen. This propensity operates not in every state of mind. A man immode- rately grieved, afflicts himselfjj' ejecting all consolation: immoderate grief is mute: complaining is struggling for consolation : — 124 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. It is the wretch's comfort still to have Some 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. Mournixg Bride.— -Act I. Sc. ] . When grief subsides, it then finds a tongue : we com- plain, because complaining disburdens the mind of its distress. (^Surprise and terror jare silent passions: 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 revenge, when immoderate, are not more loquacious than immoderate grief>, When moderate, they set the tongue free, and moderate grief becomes loquacious: moderate love, when unsuccessful, com- plains ; when successful, it is full of joy, expressed by words and gestures. No passion has any long uninterrupted existence; thence language suggested by passion is unequal, in- terrupted : and 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 loqua- city ; because sensible people express no thoughts but what make some figure : in the same manner, we are only disposed to express the strongest pulses of passion, especially when it returns with impetuosity after in terruption. The sentiments ought to be tuned to the passion, and the language to both. Elevated sentiments require elevated language : l tender sentiments, words that are soft and flowing ; when the mind is depressed, the sen- timents are expressed in words that are humble, not low. Words being connected with the ideas they re- present, the greatest harmony is required between them : to express an humble sentiment in high-sound- ing words, is disagreeable by a discordant mixture of LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 125 feelings ; and the discord is not less when elevated sen- timents are dressed in low words. This however excludes not figurative expression, which communicates to the sentiment an agreeable elevatiofWs, We are sensible of an effect directly oppo- site, where figurative 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. At the same time, figures are not equally the language of every passion : pleasant emo- tions elevate the mind, and vent themselves in figura- tive expressions ; but humbling and dispiriting passions speak plain. Figurative expressions, the work of an enlivened imagination, cannot be the language of anguish or distress. To preserve the aforesaid resemblance between words and their meaning, the sentiments of active pas- sions ought to be dressed in words where syllables pre- vail that are pronounced short or fast : for these make an impression of hurry and precipitation. Emotions, on the other hand, that rest upon their objects, are best expressed by words where syllables prevail that are pronounced long or slow. A person affected with melancholy, has a languid train of perceptions: the expression best suited to that state of mind, is, where words, not only of long, but of many syllables, abound in the composition ; and, for that reason, nothing can be finer than the following passage : In those deep solitudes, and awful cells. Where heavenly-pensive Contemplation dwells, And ever-musing Melancholy reigns. Pope. — Eloisa to Abelard. To preserve the same resemblance, another circum- stance is requisite, that the language, like the emotion, be rough or smooth, broken or uniform. Calm and sweet emotions are best expressed by words that glide softly ; surprise, fear, and other turbulent passions, re- quire an expression both rough and broken. In the L2 126 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. hurry of passion, one generally expresses that thing first which is most at heart. Passion has the effect of redoubling words, 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 gay ! Ye hills and dales, ye rivers, woods, and plains ! And ye that live, and move, fair creatures ! tell, Tell, tell if ye saw, how came I thus, how here- Paradise Lost.— Book VIII. 273 Both have sinn'd ! but thou Against God only; I, 'gainst God and thee; And to the place of judgment will retufn. There with my cries importune Heaven, that all The sentence, from thy head remov'd, may light On me, sole cause to thee of all this woe ; Me ! me! only just object of his ire. Paradise Lost. — Book X. 930* Shakspeare, superior to all other writers in deline- ating passion, excels most in moulding every passion to peculiarity of character, and in expressing properly every different sentiment : he disgusts not his reader with declamation and unmeaning words; his sentiments are adjusted to the character and circumstances of the speaker; and the propriety is no less perfect between his sentiments and his diction. If upon any occasion he fall below himself, it is in those scenes where pas- sion enters not :; by endeavoring fcMraise his dialogue above the style of ordinary conversation, he sometimes deviates into intricate thought and obscure expression ; sometimes, to throw his language out of the familiar, he employs rhyme. But he had no pattern, in his own or in any living language, of dialogue fitted for the theatre. At the same time, the stream clears in its progress, and in his latter plays he has attained the purity and perfection of dialogue. One thing must be evident to the meanest capacity, that wherever pas- sion is to be displayed, nature shows itself mighty in him, and is conspicuous by the most delicate propriety of sentiment and expression LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 127 That perfect harmony which ought to subsist among all the constituent parts of a dialogue, is a beauty no less rare than conspicuous. I shall therefore confine my quotations to the grosser errors, which every wri- ter ought to avoid. And, first, of passion expressed in words flowing in an equal course without interruption. In the chapter above cited, Corneille is censured for the impropriety 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 specta- tor, 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. Racine is here less incorrect than Corneille ; and from him therefore I shall gather a few instances. The first shall be the description of the sea-monster in his Phxzdra, given by Theramene, the companion of Hippolytus^Theramene is represented in terrible agitation. Yet he gives a long, pompous, connected description of that event, dwelling upon every minute circumstance, as if he had been only a cool spectator. The last speech of Atalide, in the tragedy of Bajazet, of the same author, is a continued discourse ; and but a faint representation of the violent passion which forced her to put an end to her own life. Corneille, however, is always sensible, generally cor- rect, never falls low, maintains a moderate degree of dignity, without reaching the sublime, paints delicately the tender affections, but is a stranger to the genuine language of enthusiastic or fervid passion. If, in general, the language of violent passion ought to be broken and interrupted, soliloquies ought to be so in a peculiar manner : language is intended by nature for society ; and a man when alone, though he always clothes his thoughts in words, seldom gives his words 128 ELEMENTS OF CFJTICISM. utterance, unless when prompted by some strong emo- tion; and even then by starts and intervals only. Shakspeare's soliloquies may be justly established as a model ; for it is not easy to conceive any model more perfect. Corneille is not more happy in his soliloquies than in his dialogue. Take for a specimen the first scene of Cinna. Racine also is faulty in the same respect. His soliloquies are regular harangues, a chain completed in every link, without interruption or interval ; that of Antiochus in Berenice* resembles a regular plead- ing, where the parties display their arguments at full length. The following soliloquies are equally faulty : Bajazet, Act III. Sc. 7 ; Mithridate, Act III. Sc. 4, and Act IV. Sc. 5 ; Jphigenia, Act IV. Sc. 8. Soliloquies upon lively subjects, without any turbu- lence of passion, may be carried on in a continued chain of thought. If the sprightliness of the subject prompt a man to speak his thoughts in the form of a dialogue, the expression must be carried on without interrup- tion, as in a dialogue between two persons ; which jus- tifies FalstafPs "Soliloquy upon honor: What need I be so forward with Death, that calls not on me? Well, 'tis do matter, Honor pricks me on. But how if Honor prick me off, when I come on ? how then ? Can Honor set a leg ? No: or an arm? No: or take away the grief 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 living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I '11 none of it : Honor is a mere scutcheon ; and so ends my catechism. Firt Part Henry IV. — Act V. Sc. 2. Even without a 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 ex- cusable to think aloud, it is necessary that the reason- ing be carried on in a chain ; which justifies that ad * Act I. Sc. 2. LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 129 mirable soliloquy in Hamlet upon life and immortality, being a serene meditation upon the most interesting of all subjects. And the same consideration will justify the soliloquy that introduces the 5th Act of Addison's Cato. The next class of the grosser errors which all writers ought to avoid, shall be of language elevated above the tone of the sentiment ; of which take the following instances : Zara. Swift as occasion, I Myself will fly ; and earlier than the morn Wake thee to freedom. Now 'tis late ; and yet Some news few minutes past arriv'd which seem'd To shake the temper of the 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 too pompous and labored for describing so simple a circumstance. Language too artificial or too figurative for the gravity, dignity, or importance, of the occasion, may be put in a third class. Chimene demanding justice against Rodrigue who killed her father, instead of plain and pathetic ex- postulation, makes a speech stuffed with the most arti- ficial flowers of rhetoric ; — than which nothing can be contrived in language more averse to the tone of the passion: it is more apt to provoke laughter than to inspire concern or pity. In a fourth class shall be given specimens of lan- guage too light or airy for a severe passion. Imaginary and figurative expressions are discordant, in the highest degree, with the agony of a mother, who is deprived of two hopeful sons by a brutal mur- der. The following passage is in a bad taste. Queen, Ah, my poor princes ! ah, my tender babes ! My unblown flowers, new- appearing sweets ! If yet your gentle souls fly in the air, 130 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. And be not fixt in doom perpetual, Hover about me with your airy wings, And hear your mother's lamentation. Richard III. — Act IV. Sc. 4. 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, Remembers 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. Sc. 4. A thought that turns upon the expression instead of the subject, commonly called a play of words^Xs un- worthy of a composition that pretends to any degree of elevation : thoughts of this kind make a fifth class. In the Amynta of Tasso,* the lover falls into a mere play of words, demanding how he, who had lost himself, could find a mistress. To die is to be banish'd from myself: And Sylvia is myself; banish'd from her, Is self from self; a deadly banishment ! Two Gentlemen of Verona. — Act III. Sc. 1. Countess. I pray thee, lady, have a better cheer : If thou engrossest all the griefs as thine, Thou robb'st me of a moiety. All's well that ends well. — Act III. Sc 2. K. Henry. O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows ! When that my care could not withhold thy riots, What wilt thou do when riot is thy care ? O, thou wilt be a wilderness again, Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants. Second Part Henry IV. Act IV. Sc. 4. Antony, speaking of Julius Cassar : O world ! thou wast the forest of this hart : And this, indeed, O world, the heart of thee. How like a deer, stricken by many princes, Dost thou here lie ! Julius (Lesar. — Act III. Sc. 1. Playing thus with the sound of words is worse than a pun, and the meanest of all conceits. But Shak- * Act I. Sc. 2. LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 131 speare, when he descends to a play of words, is not al- ways in the wrong; for it isdone sometimes to denote a peculiar character, as in the following passage : K. Philip. What say'st thou boy ? look in the lady's face. Lewis. I do, my lord, and in her eye I find A wonder, or a wondrous miracle ; The shadow of myself form'd in her eye ; Which being but the shadow of your sod, Becomes a sun, and makes your son a shadow. I do protest, I never lov'd myself Till now infixed I beheld myself Drawn in the flatt'ring table of her eye. Falconbridge. Drawn in the flatt'ring table of her eye ! Hang'd in the frowning wrinkle of her brow! 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 Joh>-. — Act II. Sc. 2. A jingle of words is the ^lowest species of that low wit, which is scarce sufferaKIe in any case, and least of -all in an heroic poem; and yet Milton, in some in- stances, has descended to that puerility : 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 shout Loud as from number without numbers. One would think it unnecessary to enter a caveat against an expression that has no meaning, or no dis- tinct meaning ; and yet somewhat of that kind may be found even among good writers. Such make a fifth class. Sebastian. I beg no pity for this mould'ring clay: For if you give it burial, there it takes Possession of your earth : If burnt and scatter'd in the air ; the winds That strew my dust, diffuse my royalty, And spread me o'er your clime ; for where one atom Of mine shall light, know there Sebastian reigns. Dryden, Don Sebastian King of Portugal, Act I. 132 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 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 nought but death. Act IV. Sc. I. REVIEW. What remarkable propensity is noticed ? Is it the most immoderate grief which complains most? What passions are silent ? How is it with love and revenge ? Why should the language of passion be interrupted ? To what should the sentiments and language be tuned ? Give examples. What is the effect of figurative expressions? — what is their ef- fect when exaggerated ? What sort of words are used in expressing the active passions? — what sort for the expression of melancholy ? What other circumstance is requisite to preserve the resem- blance between the sound and the sense ? Give examples of passion redoubling words to express strong conceptions. In what is Shakspeare superior to all other writers ? In what does he excel most others ? Where does he occasionally fall below himself? What is Corneille's great fault? What is the criticism on a passage of Phaedra? What are Corneille's merits ? What should be the character of soliloquies ? Who furnishes the best models ? What is observed of the soliloquies of Corneille and Racine ? How should soliloquies on lively subjects be carried on ? Give an example. i How should soliloquies where a man reasons on an important subject be carried on ? What is the next class of errors noticed ? Give examples. What is the third class of errors ? Give an example. Give specimens of language too light for a severe passion ? What is remarked concerning a play of words ? How is Shakspeare's playing on the sound of words sometimes justified? Give an example. Give an example of a jingle of words — of words with no distinct meaning. BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 133 CHAPTER XVIII. Beauty of Language. Painting and sculpture are imitative fine arts; architecture and music are productive of originals : language resembles these last, and like them copies but little from nature. The beauty of language arises from its power of expressing thought; the beauty of thought makes it appear more beautiful. This beauty is the beauty of means fitted to an end. The beauty of language arises from sound; signification; resemblance between sound and signification ; and the beauties of verse and prose. Section I. — Beauty of Language -with respect to Sound. 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. The vowels are sounded with a single respiration; each of the vowels, a, e, i, o, u, sound agreeably to the ear. Consonants have no sound of themselves, but serve with vowels to form articulate sounds ; every syllable into which a conso- nant enters has more than one sound, though pro- nounced with one expiration of breath : every sylla- ble is composed of as many sounds as there are letters, supposing every letter to be distinctly pronounced. In inquiring how far syllables are agreeable to the ear, we find a double sound more agreeable than a sin- gle sound ; for the diphthong oi, or ai, is more agreeable than either of these vowels pronounced singly. Thus, the harmony of pronunciation differs widely from that of music ; since in the latter we find many sounds which are singly agreeable, but in conjunction dis- agreeable. M 134 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. From syllables we proceed to words, of which the agreeableness or disagreeableness depends partly upon the effect of syllables in succession ; and principally from the agreeableness or disagreeableness of their component syllables. But different nations judge dif- ferently of the harshness or smoothness of articulate sounds. The English language is rough : the Italian so smooth, that vowels are frequently suppressed to produce a rougher and bolder tone. We come next to the music of words as united in a period. Periods may be constructed to ascend, or to descend, in musical harmony. The rising series, or a strong impulse succeeding a weak, makes double im- pression on the mind ; the falling series, or a weak im- pulse succeeding a strong, scarce any impression. The last article, the music of periods as united in a discourse, shall be dispatched in few words. By no other human means is it possible to present to the mind such a number of objects, and in so swift a suc- cession, as by speaking or writing ; and for that reason variety ought more to be studied in these, than in any other sort of composition. Hence a rule for arranging the members of different periods with relation to each other, that to avoid a tedious uniformity of sound and cadence, the arrangement, the cadence, and the length of the members, ought to be diversified as much as possible : and if the members of different periods be sufficiently diversified, the* periods themselves will be equally so. Section II. — The Beauty of Language with respect to Signification. The present subject divides itself into parts ; and what follows suggests a division into two parts. In every period, two things are to be regarded : first, the words of which it is composed ; next, the arrangement of these words; the former resembling the stones that compose a building, and the latter resembling the order BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 135 in which they are placed. Hence the beauty of lan- guage with respect to signification may be distinguished into two kinds: first, the beauties that arise from a right choice of words for constructing the period; and next, the beauties that arise from a due arrangement of these words. I begin with rules that direct us to a right choice of words, and then proceed to rules that concern their arrangement. And with respect to the former, communication of thought being the chief end of language, it is a rule that perspicuity ought not to be sacrificed to any other beauty whatever: if it should be doubted whether perspicuity be a positive beauty, it cannot be doubted that the want of it is the greatest defect. Nothing therefore in language ought more to be studied, than to prevent all obscurity in the expression ; for to have no meaning, is but one degree worse than to have a meaning that is not understood. Want of perspicuity from a wrong arrangement, belongs to the next branch. Obscurity from a wrong choice of words is a common error among the herd of writers; and there maybe a defect in perspicuity proceeding even from the slightest ambiguity in con- struction ; as where the period commences with a member conceived to be in the nominative case, which afterward is found to be in the objective. Another error against perspicuity, and which passes with some writers for a beauty, is the giving different names to the same object, mentioned oftener than once in the same period. The next rule, because next in importance, is, that language ought to correspond with the subject. Heroic actions or sentiments require elevated language ; ten- der sentiments ought to be expressed in words soft and flowing ; and plain language void of ornament, is adapted to subjects grave and didactic. Language is the dress of thought : and where the one is not suited to the other, we are sensible of incongruity; as where a judge is dressed like a fop, or a peasant like a man of 136 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. quality. Where the impression made by the words resembles the impression made by the thought, the similar emotions mix sweetly in the mind, and double the pleasure ; but where the impressions made by the thought and the words are dissimilar, the unnatural union they are forced into is disagreeable. This concordance between the thought and the words has been observed by every critic, and is so well understood as not to require any illustration. But there is a concordance of a peculiar kind, that has scarcely been touched upon in works of criticism, though it contributes to neatness of composition. It is what follows. In a thought of any extent, we com- monly find some parts intimately united, some slightly some disjoined, and some directly opposed to each other. To find these conjunctions and disjunctions imitated in the expression, is a beauty ; because such imitation makes the words concordant with the sense. Two members of a thought, connected by their relation to the same action, will be expressed by two members of the period governed by the same verb ; in which case these members, to improve their connexion, ought to be constructed in the same manner. This beauty is common among good writers. Where two ideas are so connected, as to require but a copulative, it is pleasant to find a connexion in the words that express these ideas, were it even so slight as where both begin with the same letter. Next as to examples of disjunction and opposition in the parts of the thought, imitated in the expression; an imitation that is distinguished by the name of an- tithesis. Speaking of Coriolanus soliciting the people to be made consul : With a proud heart he wore his humble weeds. Coriolanus. Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all free men? Julius Cesar. Artificial connexion among words is a beauty when it represents any peculiar connexion among the con- BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 137 stituent parts of the thought ; hut we ought to avoid every artificial opposition of words, where there is none in the thought. This is termed verbal antithesis, and is much studied by low writers. A fault directly opposite to that last mentioned, is to conjoin artificially, words that express ideas opposed to each other. This is a fault too gross to be in com- mon practice ; and yet writers are guilty of it in some degree, when they conjoin by a copulative things transacted at different periods of time. 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 language things that are separated in reality. To crowd into a single member of a period different subjects, is still worse than to crowd them into one period. From conjunctions and disjunctions in general, we proceed to comparisons, which make one species of them, beginning with similies. And here, also, the in- timate connexion that words have with their meaning, requires that in describing two resembling objects, a resemblance in the two members of the period ought to be studied.; Next, as to the length of the members that signify the resembling objects. To produce a re- semblance between such members, they ought not only to be constructed in the same manner, but as nearly as possible to be equal in length. Of a com- parison where things are opposed to each other, it must be obvious, that if resemblance ought to be stu- died in the words which express two resembling objects, there is equal reason for studying opposition in the words which express contrasted objects. We proceed to a rule of a different kind. During M2 138 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. the course of a period, the scene ought to be continued without variation : the changing from person to person, from subject to subject, or from person to subject, within the bounds of a single period, distracts the mind, and affords no time for a solid impression. I illustrate this rule by giving an example of a deviation from it. This prostitution of praise is not only a deceit upon the gross of mankind, who take their notion of characters from the learned; but also the better sort must, by this means, lose some part at least of that desire of fame which is the incentive to generous actions, when they find it promiscuously bestowed on the meritorious and undeserving. Guardian, No. 4. A plurality of copulatives in the same period ought to be avoided, except where the words are intended to express the coldness of the speaker ; for there the re- dundancy of copulatives is a beauty : Dining one day at an alderman 'sin the city, Peter observed him expatiating after the manner' of in> brethren, in the praises of his 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 pheasant, and plum-pudding, and custard." Tale of a Tub. § 4. And the author shows great delicacy of taste by varying the expression in the mouth of Peter, who is represented more animated : " Bread," says he, " dear brothers, is the staff of life; in which bread is contained, inclusive, the quintessence of beef, mutton, veal, venison, partridges, plum-pudding, and custard." The next beauty consists in a due arrangement of the words. In every thought there is at least one capital object considered as acting and suffering. This object is expressed by the substantive, and its action by the verb. Its suffering, or passive state, is ex- pressed by a passive verb; and the thing that acts upon it, by a substantive-noun. Words that import a relation, must be distinguished from such as do not. Substantives commonly imply no relation; such as animal, man, tree, river. Adjectives, verbs, and adverbs, imply a relation; the adjective good must relate to some being possessed of that quality; the verb write is BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 139 applied to some person who writes ; and the adverbs moderately, diligently, have plainly a reference to some action which they modify. When a relative word is introduced, it must be signified by the expression to w T hat word it relates, without which the sense is not complete. When two substantives happen to be con- nected, as cause and effect, as principal and accessory, such connexion cannot be expressed by contiguity solely; for words must often in a period be placed together which are not thus related : the relation between sub- stantives, therefore, cannot otherwise be expressed but by particles denoting the relation. These words are called prepositions. Transposition and inversion, change the natural or- der of words in a sentence, and this license is illus- trated by the following examples : Moon that now meet'st the orient sun, now fliest With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies, And ye five other wand'ring fires that move In mystic dance not without song, resound His praise. In the following example, where the word first in- troduced imports 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 the world, and all our woe, With loss of Eden, till one greater man Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, Sing, heavenly muse. In entering on the rules of arrangement, we begin with the natural style, and proceed to the most in- verted. And in the arrangement of a period, as well as in a right choice of words, the first and great object being perspicuity, the rule above laid down, that per- spicuity ought not to be sacrificed to any other beauty, holds equally in both. Ambiguities occasioned by a wrong arrangement are of two sorts ; one where the arrangement leads to a wrong sense, and one where the sense is left doubtful. The first, being the more 140 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. culpable, shall take the lead, beginning with examples of words put in a wrong place. How much the imagination of such a presence must exalt a genius, we may observe merely from the influence which an ordi- nary presence has over men. Characteristics, Vol. I. p. 7. This arrangement leads to a wrong sense : the ad- verb merely seems by its position to affect the prece- ding word : whereas it is intended to affect the follow- ing words, an ordinary presence ; and therefore the ar- rangement 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 pre- sence merely has over men. [Or, better,] — which even an ordi- nary presence has over men. Example of wrong arrangement of members : I have confined myself to those methods for the advancement of piety, which are in the power of a prince limited like ours by a strict execution of the laws. A project for the advancement of religion. Swift. The structure of this period leads to a meaning which is not the author's, viz. power limited by a strict execution of the laws. That wrong sense is lemoved 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 in the power of a prince limited like ours. •' Doubtful sense from wrong arrangement of mem- bers : The empire of Blefuscu is an island situated to the north-east side of Lilliput, from whence it is parted only by a channel of 800 yards wide. Gulliver's Travels, Part 1, Chap. 5. The ambiguity may be removed thus : from whence it is parted by a channel of 800 yards wide only From these examples it is plain, that a circumstance ought never to be placed between two capital mem- bers of a period. To preserve these distinct, the best BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 141 method is, to place first in the consequent member, some word that cannot connect it with what precedes. If it be thought that the defect of perspicuity is re- moved by punctuation ; the answer is, that punctua- tion may remove an ambiguity, but will never produce that peculiar beauty which is perceived when the sense comes out clearly and distinctly by means of a happy arrangement. Such influence has this beauty, that by a natural transition of perception it is commu- nicated to the very sound of the words, so as in ap- pearance to improve the music of the period. But as this curious subject comes in more properly afterwards, it is sufficient at present to appeal to experience, that a period so arranged as to bring out the sense clear, seems always more musical than where the sense is left in any degree doubtful. A second rule is, that words expressing things con- nected in the thought, ought to be placed as near to- gether as possible. This rule is derived immediately from human nature, prone in every instance to place together things in any manner connected : where things are arranged according to their connexions, we have a sense of order ; otherwise we have a sense of disorder, as of things placed by chance : and we natu- rally place words in the same order in which we would place the things they signify. The bad effect of a violent separation of words or 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. Spectator, No. 419. Here the verb or assertion is, by a pretty long cir- cumstance, violently separated from the subject to which it refers : this makes a harsh arrangement the less excusable, for the fault is easily prevented by placing the circumstance before the verb, after the following manner. 142 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. For the English are naturally fanciful, and, by that gloominess and melancholy of temper which is so frequent in our nation, are often disposed to many wild notions, &c. A pronoun, which saves the naming a person or thing a second time, ought to be placed as near as possible to the name of that person or thing. This is a branch of the foregoing rule . and with the reason there given another concurs,— viz. That if other ideas intervene, it is difficult to recall the person or thing by reference: If I had leave to print the Latin letters transmitted to me from foreign parts, they would fill a volume, and be a full defence against all that Mr. Partridge, or his accomplices of the Portugal inqui- sition, will be ever able to object; who, by the way, are the only enemies my predictions have ever met with at home or abroad. Better thus : and be a full defence against all that can be ob- jected by Mr. Partridge, or his accomplices of the Portugal in- quisition ; who, by the way, are, &c. To elevate or depress an object, one method is, to join it in the expression w T ith another that is naturally- high or low. Circumstances in a period resemble small stones in a building, employed to fill up vacuities among those of a larger size. In the arrangement of a period, such under-parts crowded together make a poor figure ; and never are graceful but when interspersed among the capital parts. Example. — It is likewise urged, that there are, by computation, in this kingdom, above 10,000 parsons, whose revenues, added to those of my Lords the Bishops, would suffice to maintain, &c. Argument against abolishing Christianity. Swift. Here two circumstances, viz. by computation, and in this kingdom, are crowded together unnecessarily : they make a better appearance separated in the following manner : It is likewise urged, that in this kingdom there are, by compu- tation, above 10,000 parsons, &c. If there be room for a choice, the sooner a circum- stance is introduced, the better; because circumstances are proper for that coolness of mind with which we BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 143 begin a period as well as a volume : 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 principal subject is agreeable: it is like ascending, or going upward. On the other hand, to place it late in the period has a bad effect. Example. — And Philip the Fourth was obliged at last to con- clude a peace on terms repugnant 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. 6. Bolingbroke. Better thus : And at last, in the Pyrenean treaty, Philip the Fourth was obliged to conclude a peace, &c. In arranging a period, it is of much importance to determine in what part of it a word makes the great- est figure ; whether at the beginning, during the course, or at the close. The breaking silence rouses the atten- tion, and prepares for a deep impression at the begin- ning: the beginning, however, must yield to the close; which being succeeded by a pause, affords time for a word to make its deepest impression. Hence the fol- lowing rule : That to give the utmost force to a pe- riod, 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; and the capital word should be placed in the front : as the name of a person. The substance of what is said in this and the fore- going section, 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 compre- hended in the following observation : That order of words in a period will always be the most agreeable, where, without obscuring the sense, the most impor- tant images, the most sonorous words, and the longest members, bring up the rear. Inversion ought not to be indulged, unless in order 144 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM* to reach some beauty superior to those of a natural style. It may with great certainty be pronounced, that every inversion which is not governed by this rule, will appear harsh and strained, and be disrelished by every one of taste. Hence the beauty of inversion when happily conducted; the beauty, not of an end, but of means, as furnishing opportunity for numberless orna- ments that find no place in a natural style : hence the force, the elevation, the harmony, the cadence, of some compositions; hence the manifold beauties of the Greek and Roman tongues, of which living languages afford but faint imitations. REVIEW. What two things are to be regarded in every period ? What is the first rule concerning perspicuity ? What should chiefly be studied in language ? What error against perspicuity passes with some writers for a beauty ? What rule is next in importance ? What concordance is mentioned which contributes to neatness of composition ? Give examples of antithesis. What is verbal antithesis, and by whom is it studied ? What is the opposite fault ? How should a sentence be constructed with reference to thought and expression ? How should sentences containing similies be constructed? What is the next rule ? Give an example of a deviation from it. ^^l^tt When should many copulatives be used? — when avoided t^sJt* a. What does the next beauty consist in .aft-* l& Vi r %**<*<**>*" *] What words commonly imply no relation? What words imply relation ? What words express relation ? Give examples of transposition. ■ What are the two kinds of ambiguities occasioned by a wrong arrangement ? Give an example of the first — correct it. Give an example of wrong arrangement of members — correct it. Of doubtful sense — correct it. What is obvious from these examples ? Will punctuation entirely remedy the defect ? What is the second rule ? Give an example of its violation — correct it. W r hat is a branch of the foregoing rule ? Give an example of its violation — correct it. What is the rule respecting circumstances'* BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 145 Give an example of its violation — correct it. In what part of a sentence should a circumstance be placed ? Give an example of its violation — correct it. What is the rule respecting the close of a sentence? _ Give the substance of this and the foregoing sections in a single observation. W hat is the rule concerning inversion ? What is observed of inversion in the Greek and Roman tongues ? Section III. — Beauty of Language from a resemblance between Sound and Signification. This beauty has escaped none of our critical writers. There being frequently a strong resemblance of one sound to another, it will not be surprising to find an articulate sound resembling one that is not articulate : thus the sound of a bow-string is imitated by the words that express it : The string let fly, Twanged short and sharp, like the shrill swallow's cry. Odyssey, xxi. 449. On this principle, falling timber is said to crash, and wind to whistle; thus, causes that have no resemblance, may produce resembling effects ; and by a number of syllables in succession, an emotion is sometimes raised similar to that caused by successive motion ; as walk- ing, galloping, running, can be imitated by a succession 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. A line composed of monosyllables makes an impression, by the frequency of its pauses, similar to what is made by laborious, in- terrupted motion : With many a weary step, and many a groan, Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone. Odyssey, xi. 736. First march the heavy mules securely slow ; O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er crags, o'er rocks, they go. Iliad, xxiii. 138. The impression made by rough sounds in succession, resembles that made by rough or tumultuous motion : on the other hand, the impression of smooth sounds N 146 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. resembles that of gentle motion. The following is an example of both : Two craggy rocks projecting to the main, The roaring wind's tempestuous rage restrain ; Within, the waves in softer murmurs glide, And ships secure without their halsers ride. Odyssey, iii. 118. Prolonged motion is expressed in an Alexandrine line, and forcible prolonged motion in the same ; and a pe- riod consisting mostly of long syllables, produces an emotion resembling faintly that which is produced by gravity and solemnity. A slow succession of ideas is a circumstance that be- longs equally to settled melancholy, and to a period 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. — Eloisa to Melard. 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. Essay on Crit. 370. Harsh or rough. words pronounced with difficulty, excite 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. Pope's Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, 1. 181. It belongs to the present subject to observe, that when these coincide in the same passage, the concord- ance of sound and sense is delightful : the reader is conscious not only of pleasure from the two climaxes separately, but of an additional pleasure from their concordance, and from finding the sense so justly imi- tated by the sound. The concord between sense and sound is no less BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 147 agreeable in what may be termed an anticlimao^where the progress is from great to littld ; for this has the effect tojjnake diminutive objects appear still more di- minutive! Pronunciation, therefore, may be considered as a branch of the present subject ; and with some obser- vations upon it, the section shall be concluded. In order to give a just idea of pronunciation, it must be distinguished from singing. The latter is carried on by notes, requiring each of them a different aper- ture of the windpipe : the notes properly belonging to the former, are expressed by different apertures of the mouth, without varying the aperture of the windpipe. This, however, doth not hinder pronunciation to bor- row from singing, as one sometimes is naturally led to do, in expressing a vehement passion. In reading, as in singing, there is a key-note. Above this note the voice is frequently elevated, to make the sound correspond to the elevation of the subject : but the mind in an elevated state is disposed to action; therefore, in order to a rest, it must be brought down to the key-note. Hence the term cadence. The only general rule that- can be given for direct- ing the pronunciation, is^To sound the words in such a manner as to imitate the things they signify^ REVIEW. Give examples of resemblance between sound and signification. How is slow motion imitated ? — laborious, interrupted motion ? — rough, tumultuous motion ? — prolonged motion ? — a slow succession of ideas ? — hard labor ? — labor of thought ? What is anticlimax ? — what is its effect ? What is the general rule for pronunciation ? Section - IV. — Versification. To explain the music of verse, several nice and deli- cate feelings must be employed, and the distinction between it and prose arises from the difference of the melody, though that difference cannot with any accu- 148 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. racy be explained in words ; all that can be said, is, that verse is more musical than prose, and its melody- more perfect. The difference between verse and prose, resembles the difference, in music properly so called, between the song and the recitative : and the resem- blance is not the least complete, that these differences, like the shades of colors, approximate sometimes so nearly as scarce to be discernible : the melody of a recitative approaches sometimes to that of a song; which, on the other hand, degenerates sometimes to that of a recitative. Nothing is more distinguishable from prose, than the bulk of Virgil's hexameters: many of those composed by Horace, are very little removed from prose : Sapphic verse 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 distinguisheth verse from prose. Verse is sub- jected to certain inflexible laws : the number and va- riety of the component syllables being ascertained, and in some measures the order of succession. To verse of every kind, five things are of impor- tance. 1st. The number of syllables that compose a verse line. 2d. The different lengths of syllables, i. e. the difference of time taken in pronouncing. 3d. The arrangement of these syllables combined in words. 4th. The pauses or stops in pronouncing. 5th. The pro- nouncing syllables in a high or low tone. The three first mentioned are essential to verse : if any of them be wanting, there cannot be that melody which dis- tinguisheth verse from prose. To give a just notion of the fourth, it must be observed, that pauses are ne- cessary for three different purposes : one, to separate periods, and members of the same period, according to the sense ; another, to improve the melody of verse ; and the last, to afford 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 deter- BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 149 mined by the melody, is not arbitrary. The last sort is arbitrary, depending on the reader's command of breath. With respect then to the pauses of sense and of melody, it may be affirmed that their coincidence in verse is a capital beauty ; but as it cannot be ex- pected that every line should be so perfect, the pause necessary for the sense must often be sacrificed to the verse pause, and the latter sometimes to the former. The pronouncing syllables in a high or low tone, contributes also to melody. In reading either prose or verse, 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 some- times 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, one of the requisites of verse, because it is regulated by the sense, and hath no peculiar rela- tion 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 every line is accented, that sylla- ble only excepted which closes the period, where the sense requires a cadence. Though the five requisites above-mentioned are gov- erned by different rules, peculiar to each species, upon quantity only one general observation may be premised, because it is applicable to every species of verse : That syllables, with respect to the time taken in pronounc- ing, 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 is a greater variety of time necessary in pro- nouncing syllables. The voice is frequently made to rest longer than usual upon a word that bears an im- portant 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 ac- centing, similar to that now mentioned: A word signi^ N2 150 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. I fying any thing humble, low, or dejected, is naturally, in prose, as well as verse, pronounced in a tone below the key-note. We are now sufficiently prepared for particulars ; beginning with English heroic verse, which shall be examined under the live heads, of number, quantity, arrangement, pause, and accent. This verse is of two kinds ; one named rhyme, or metre, and one blank verse. In the former, the lines are connected two and two by similarity of sound in the final syllables ; and two lines so connected are termed a couplet: similarity of sound being avoided in the latter, couplets are banished. These two sorts must be handled separately, because there are many peculiarities in each. Metre, the first article, shall be discussed in a few words. Every line consists of ten syllables, five short and five long ; from which there are but two exceptions, both of them rare. The first is, where each line of a couplet is made eleven syllables, by an additional syllable at the end : There heroes' wits are kept in pond'rous vases, And beaux' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases. The piece, you think, is incorrect? Why take it; I'm all submission ; what you'd have it, make it. This license is sufferable in a single couplet ; but if frequent, disgusts. The other exception concerns the second line of a couplet, which is sometimes stretched out to twelve syllables, termed an Alexandrine line : A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. It doth well when employed to close a period with pomp and solemnity, where the subject makes that tone proper. With regard to quantity, it is unnecessary to mention a second time, that the quantities employed in verse are but two, the one 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. The English BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 151 language abounds in long and short syllables in words of three or more syllables ; the quantity, for the most part, is invariable : the exceptions are more frequent in dissyllables ; but as to monosyllables, they may, with- out many exceptions, be pronounced either long or short. This shows, that the melody of English verse must depend less upon quantity than upon other cir- cumstances. And with respect to arrangement, the English he- roic line is commonly Iambic, the first syllable short, the second long, and so on alternately through the whole line. One exception there is, pretty frequent, of lines commencing with a trochaeus, i. e. a long and a short syllable ; but this affects not the order of the fol- lowing syllables, which go on alternately, one short and one long. The following couplet affords an ex- ample of each kind : Some in the fields of purest ether play, and bask and whiten in the blaze of day. It is an imperfection in English verse, that it excludes the bulk of polysyllables, which are the most sounding words in our language, and it is accordingly almost to- tally reduced to dissyllables and monosyllables : mag- 7ia?iimity is a sounding word totally excluded ; impetu- osity is still a finer word, by the resemblance of the sound and sense : and yet a negative is put upon it, as well as upon numberless words of the same kind. Poly- syllables composed of syllables long and short alter- nately, make a good figure in verse ; for example, 06- semance, opponent, and such others of three syllables. Imitation, imperfection, and others of four syllables, be- ginning with two short syllables, the third long, and the fourth short, may find a place in a line commenc- ing with a trochaeus. One would not imagine, without trial, how uncouth false quantity appears in verse ; not less than a pro- vincial tone or idiom. The article the is one of the few monosyllables that is invariably short : observe 152 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. how harsh it makes a line where it must be pronounced long : This nymph, to the destruction of mankind. Again — Th' advenfrous baron the bright locks admzr'd. Let it be pronounced short, and it reduces the melody almost to nothing. The great variety of melody conspicuous in English verse, arises chiefly from the pauses and accents, which are of greater importance than is commonly thought. The pause, which paves the way to the accent, offers itself first to our examination ; and from a very short trial, the following facts will be verified: 1st. A lint admits but one capital pause. 2d. In different lines, we find this pause after the fourth syllable, after the fifth, after the sixth, and after the seventh. These four places of the pause lay a solid foundation for di- viding English heroic lines into four kinds. Each kind hath a melody peculiar to itself, readily distinguishable by a good ear ; but the pause cannot be made indif- ferently at any of the places mentioned : it is the sense that regulates the pause, 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 possible, with a pause in the sense, in order that the sound may ac- cord with the sense. First, the pause after the fourth syllable : Back through the paths || of pleasing sense I ran. After the 5th : So when an angel || by divine command, With rising tempests jj shakes a guilty land. After the 6th : Speed the soft intercourse || from soul to soul. After the 7th : And taught the doubtful battle || where to rage. Besides the capital pause, inferior pauses will be dis- covered by a nice ear. Of these there are commonly BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 153 two in each line: one before the capital pause, and one after it. The former comes after the first long syllable, whether the line begin with a short or a long syllable. The other in its variety imitates the capital pause : in some lines it comes after the 6th, in some after the 7th, and in some after the 8th syllable. In Hexameter verse, a full pause ought never to divide a word : such license deviates too far from the coincidence that ought to be between the pauses of sense and melody. The same rule is not applicable to a semi-pause, which, being short and faint, is not sensibly disagree- able when it divides a word : Relent I less walls || whose darksome round | contains. For her | white virgins [] hyme J neals sing. In these | deep solitudes || and aw | ful cells. The capital pause is so essential to the melody, that one cannot be too nice in the choice of its place, in order to have it clear and 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 essen- tial, 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 that a musical pause may come after any word indifferently : some words, like syllables of the same word, are so intimately con- nected, as not to bear a separation even by a pause. The separating, for example, a substantive from its article would be harsh and unpleasant. To explain the rules of accenting, we premised first, — That accents have a double effect : they contribute to the melody, by giving it air and spirit ; and to the sense, by distinguishing important words from others.* These two effects never can be separated, without im- * An accent considered with respect to sense is termed emphasis 154 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. pairing the concord that ought to subsist between the thought and the melody ; an accent placed on a low word, has the effect to burlesque it, by giving it an unnatural elevation ; and the injury thus done to the sense does not rest there, for it seems also to injure the melody. Secondly, a word, of whatever number of syllables, is not accented upon more than one of them; because the object is set in its best light by a single accent, so as to make more than one unnecessa- ry 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. The doctrine of accenting English heroic verse is extremely simple. In the first place, accenting is con- fined to the long syllables ; for a short syllable is not capable of an accent. In the next place, as the melo- dy is enriched in proportion to the number of accents, every word that has a long syllable may be accented ; unless the sense interpose, which rejects the accenting a word that makes no figure by its signification. Ac- cording to this rule, a line may admit five accents. But supposing every long syllable accented, there is, in every line, one accent that makes a greater figure than the rest, being that which precedes the capital pause. It is distinguished into two kinds ; one imme^ diately before the pause, and one divided from the pause by a short syllable. The former belongs to lines of the first and third order : the latter to those of the second and fourth. Examples of the first kind. Smooth flow the waves || the zephyrs gently play, Belinda smil'd || and all the world was gay. He rais'd his azure wand || and thus began. Examples of the other kind. There lay three garters || half a pair of gloves, And all the trophies || of his former loves. Our humble province || is to tend the fair, Not a less pleasing H though less glorious care. And hew triumphal arches || to the ground. BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 155 It may be safely pronounced a capital defect in the composition of verse, to put a low word, incapable of an accent, in the place where this accent should be : this bars the accent altogether. No single circumstance contributes more to the energy of verse, than to put an important word where the accent should be, a word that merits a peculiar emphasis. In a line expressive of what is humble or dejected, it improves the resemblance between the sound and sense to exclude the capital accent. In these deep solitudes || and awful cells The poor inhabitant || beholds in vain. Accents are not, like syllables, confined to a certain number: some lines have no fewer than five, and there are lines that admit not above one. This variety de- pends entirely on the different powers of the compo- nent words: particles, even where they are long by position, cannot be accented ; and polysyllables, what- ever space they occupy, admit but one accent. Poly- syllables have another defect, they exclude the full pause, and few of them can find place in the construc- tion of English verse. Blank verse has so many circumstances in common with rhyme, that its peculiarities may be brought within a narrow compass. With respect to form, it differs from rhyme in rejecting the jingle of similar sounds, which purifies it from a childish pleasure. The peculiar advantage of blank verse is, that it is at liberty to attend 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 compo- sition in rhyme proceeds couplet after couplet. From the correspondence and concord that subsist between sound and sense, it is a plain inference, that if a cou- plet be a complete period, with regard to melody, it 156 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. ought regularly to be the same with regard to sense. As it is difficult to support such strictness of composi- tion, licenses are indulged, which must be used with discretion, to preserve some degree of concord between the sense and the music : there ought never to be a full close in the sense, but at the end of a couplet; and there ought always to be some pause in the sense at the end of every couplet: the same period, as to sense, may be extended through several couplets ; but each couplet ought to contain a distinct member, distin- guished by a pause in the sense as well as in the sound; and the whole ought to be closed with a complete ca- dence. Rules such as these confine rhyme within nar- row bounds : a thought of any extent, cannot be re- duced within its compass; the sense must be curtailed and broken into parts, to make it square with the curtness of the melody; and beside, short periods af- ford no latitude for inversion. I have examined this point with the stricter accu- racy, 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 that which concludes the first line of a couplet. In a word, the rules of melody in blank verse, are the same that obtain with respect to the first line of a couplet; but being disengaged from couplets, there is access to make every line run into another, precisely so 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 ac- cordingly the sense may be carried on with or without pauses, till a period of the utmost extent be completed by a full close both in the sense and the sound : there is no restraint, other than that this full close be at the end of a line. Hence the fitness of blank verse for inversion; and consequently the lustre of its pauses and accents. BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 157 In the second section of this chapter it is shown, that nothing contributes more than inversion to the force and elevation of language : the couplets of rhyme confine inversion ; nor would the elevation of inver- sion, in rhyme, accord with the humbler tone of that sort of verse. The loftiness of Milton's style supports admirably the sublimity of his subject : and this lofti- ness arises chiefly from inversion. Shakspeare deals little in inversion : his blank verse is a sort of measured prose, perfectly well adapted to the stage, where la- bored inversion is highly improper, because in dialogue it never can be natural. That superior power of expression which verse ac- quires by laying aside rhyme, is not the only ground for preferring blank verse: it possesses more extensive and complete melody. Its music is not confined to a single couplet ; but takes in a great compass, so as to rival music properly so called. The interval between its cadences may be long or short; and, by that means, its melody, with respect both to richness and variety, is far superior to that of rhyme, and superior even to that of the Greek and Latin hexameter. Of this ob- servation no person can doubt who is acquainted with the Paradise Lost: in which work there are indeed many careless lines; but at every turn the richest melody as well as the sublimest sentiments are con- spicuous. English hexameter w r ould be destitute of melody, unless by artful pronunciation; because of necessity the bulk of its sounds must be arbitrary. The pro- nunciation is easy in a simple movement of alternate long and short syllables ; but would be perplexing and unpleasant, in the diversified movement of hexameter verse. In modern tongues, rhyme has become universal among men as w r ell as children ; and it cannot have such currency without some foundation in human na- ture. In fact, it has been successfully employed by 158 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. poets of genius, in their serious and grave compositions, as well as in those which are more light and airy. Rhyme, which connects two-verse lines by making them close with two words similar in sound, rouses the mind, and produces an emotion moderately gay without dignity or elevation ; like the murmuring of a brook gliding through pebbles, it calms the mind when per- turbed, and gently raises it when sunk. These effects 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, distress, or melancholy, to some degree of ease and alacrity. Having described the impression 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 sub- jects, which have a powerful influence, claim prece- dence in this inquiry. In the chapter of Grandeur and Sublimity, it is established that a grand or sublime ob- ject inspires a warm enthusiastic emotion, disdaining strict regularity and order. This emotion is different from that inspired by the moderately enlivening music of rhyme. Supposing then an elevated subject to be expressed in rhyme, what must be the effect ? The in- timate union of the music with the subject, produces an intimate union of their emotions ; one inspired by the subject, tends to elevate and expand the mind; and one inspired by the music, which tends to prevent all elevation above its own pitch. 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. For that reason, such frequent rhymes are very im- proper for any severe or serious passion : the di* c/ ~ BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 159 nance between the subject and the melody is very sen- sibly felt. Rhyme is not less unfit for anguish or deep distress, than for subjects elevated and lofty ; and for that rea- son 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, as in the Essay on Man, Sportive love, mirth, gaiety, humor, and ridicule, are the province of rhyme. The bound- aries assigned it by Nature, were extended in barba- rous 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 toward perfection, slow indeed, but uniform; and there is no reason to doubt that rhyme, in Britain, will in time be forced to abandon its unjust conquest, and to confine itself within its natural limits. REVIEW. From what does the distinction between prose and verse arise ? What does the difference between them resemble ? What five things are important to verse ? Which are essential to it ? For what three things are pauses important? What is meant by the key-note ? What by accenting a syllable ? What is cadence ? How are syllables classified ? What is their relative length ? Upon what word does the voice rest longer than usual ? What sort of word sinks below the key-note in pronunciation ? What are the two kinds of English heroic verse ? How is the former distinguished ? What is a couplet ? How is the latter distinguished ? What does every line consist of? What are the exceptions ? Give examples of the first exception — of the other. What is an Alexandrine line? — its use? May most monosyllables be pronounced long or short ? What is the arrangement of English heroic verse ? What is the exception ? Give an example. What imperfection in English verse is mentioned ? What is the effect of making a short syllable long in verse ? Give an example. 160 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. From what does the great variety and melody of English verse arise ? Where may the capital pause in a line fall? With what should it coincide ? Give an example of its falling after the 4th syllable — after the 5th —after the 6th— after the 7th. What other pauses are there ? What rule is given concerning the full pause ? Does it apply to the semi-pause? May there be a pause in the melody where the sense requires none ? May a musical pause come after any word indifferently ? What effect have accents ? What is the effect of placing an accent on a low word? Can a word be accented on more than one syllable ? To what syllables is accenting confined? What words may be accented ? What accent makes the greatest figure? Into what two kinds is it distinguished? Give examples of the first — of the second. What capital defect in verse is mentioned ? From what lines should the capital pause be excluded? Are accents confined to a certain number ? What words exclude the full pause ? How does blank verse differ from rhyme with respect to form? What is its peculiar advantage? How does rhyme prevent this ? What rules of melody apply to blank verse ? What pause is required, and what is not ? What is the only restraint upon blank verse ? To what does inversion greatly contribute ? What does Milton's loftiness of style arise from? In what is labored inversion unnatural? What is observed of the melody of blank verse ? What is necessary to the melody of English hexameter ? What sort of rhyme rouses the mind, and produces a gay emo tion ? Is rhyme suited to grand and lofty subjects ? — why not ? To what subjects is" rhyme perfectly adapted? To what subjects is it not adapted ? (fo+VUisiA*? &- V COMPARISONS. 161 CHAPTER XIX. Comparisons. Comparisons serve two purposes : when addressed to the understanding, their purpose is to instruct ; when to the heart, to please. The means which contribute to the latter, are, suggesting some unusual resemblance or contrast, setting an object in the strongest light, as- sociating an object with others that are agreeable, elevating or depressing an object. Objects of different senses cannot be compared to- gether ; for being separated from each other, they have no circumstance in common to admit resemblance or contrast. Objects of hearing, of taste, of smell, and of touch, may be compared; but the chief fund of comparison are objects of sight; because, in writing or speaking, things can only be compared in idea, and ideas of sight are more distinct than those of any other sense. When a nation, emerging out of barbarity, begins to think of the fine arts, the beauties of language can- not long lie concealed ; and when discovered, they are, by the force of novelty, carried beyond moderation. In the early poems of every nation, we find metaphors and similies founded on slight and distant resemblances, which, losing their grace and their novelty, wear gradu- ally out of repute ; by the improvement of taste, none but correct metaphors and similies are admitted in po- lite composition. With respect to similies, take the following specimen : 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 arms are like two white pillars in the hall of the mighty Fingal. Fi>gal. 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 2 162 ELEMENTS OP CRITICISM. in the chapter quoted above; and the reason shall be illustrated by examples. The first is a comparison built upon a resemblance so obvious as to make little or no impression. This just rebuke infkm'd the Lycian crew, They join, they thicken, and th' assault renew . Unmov'd the embodied Greeks their fury dare, And, fix'd, support the weight of all the war; Nor could the Greeks repel the Lycian pow'rs, Nor the bold Lycians force the Grecian tow'rs. As on the confines of adjoining grounds, Two stubborn swains with blows dispute their bounds ; They tug, they sweat ; but neither 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. Iliad, xii. 505. Another, from Milton, lies open to the same objec- tion. Speaking of the fallen angels searching for mines of gold : A numerous brigade hasten'd : as when bands Of pioneers with spade and pick-ax 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 weak ? Hath Bolingbrokery VI.— Act V. Sc. 3. Queen Katharine, 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 kingdom where no pity. No friends, no hope ! no kindred weep for me ! Almost no grave allow'd me ! like the lily, 176 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. That once was mistress of the field, and flourish'd, I'll hang my head, and perish. King Henry VIII.— Act III. Sc. 1. Similies thus unseasonably introduced, are finely ridi culed in the Rehearsal. Bayes. Now here she must make a similie. Smith. Where's the necessity of that, Mr. Bayes? Bayes. Because she's surprised; that's a general rule; you must ever make a similie when you are surprised ; 'tis a new way of writing. A comparison is not always faultless, even where it is properly introduced. I have endeavored above to give a general view of the different ends to which a comparison may contribute. A comparison, like other human productions, may fall short of its aim; of which defect, instances are not rare even among good wri- ters; and to complete the present subject, it will be necessary to make some observations upon such faulty comparisons. I begin with observing, nothing can be more erroneous than to institute a compari- son too faint: a distant resemblance, or contrast, /fa- tigues the mind with its obscurity, instead of amusing it ; and tends not to fulfil any one end of a comparison. The following similies seem to labor under this defect : K. Rich. Give me the crown. — Here, cousin, seize the crown. Here, on this side, my hand ; on that side, thine. Now is this golden crown like a deep well, That owes two buckets, filling one another ; The emptier ever dancing in the air, The other down, unseen and full of water: That bucket down, and full of tears, am I, Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high. Richard II.— Act IV. Sc. 3. 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. King John. — Act V. Sc. 10. York. My uncles both are slain in rescuing me : And all my followers to the eager foe COMPARISONS. 177 Turn back, and fly like ships before the wind, Or lambs pursu'd by hunger-starved wolves. Third Part Hemiy VI. — Act I. Sc. 6. The latter of the two similies is good ; the former, by its faintness of resemblance, has no effect but to load the narration with an useless image. The next error is a capital one. In an epic poem, or in a poem upon an elevated subject, a writer ought to avoid raising a simile on a low image, which never fails to bring down the principal subject: A grand object ought never to be resembled to one that is diminutive, however delicate the resemblance ; for it is the peculiar character of a grand object to fix the attention, and swell the mind; to contract it to a mi- nute object, is therefore unpleasant. The resembling an object to one that is greater, has a good effect, by raising the mind: for one passes with satisfaction from small to great; but cannot be drawn down, without reluctance, from great to small. Hence the following similies are faulty : Meanwhile the troops beneath Patroclus' care Invade the Trojans, and commence the war. As wasps, provok'd by children in their play, Pour from their mansions by the broad highway, In swarms the 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 progenjr. Thus from the tents the fervent legion swarms, So loud their clamors, and so keen their arms. Iliad, xvi. 312. So burns the vengeful hornet (soul all o'er) Repuls'd in vain, and thirsty still of gore ; (Bold son of air and heat) on angry wings, Untam'd, untir'd, he turns, attacks and stings. Fir'd with like ardor fierce Atrides flew, And sent his soul with ev'ry lance he threw. Iliad, xvii. 642. An error, opposite to the former, is the introducing a resembling image, so elevated or great as to bear no proportion to the principal subject. Their re- markable disparity never fails to depress the principal subject by contrast, instead of raising it by resem- 178 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. blance : if the disparity be great, the simile degene- rates into burlesque; nothing being more ridiculous than to force an object out of its proper rank in na- ture, by equalling it with one greatly superior or greatly inferior. A writer of delicacy will avoid drawing his com- parisons from any image that is nauseous, ugly, or re- markably disagreeable; for, however strong the resem- blance may be, more will be lost than gained by such comparison. O thou fond many ! with what loud applause Did'st thou beat heav'n with blessing Bolingbroke Before he was what thou would'st 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. Sc. 6. The strongest objection that can lie against a com- parison is, that it consists in words only, not in sense. Such false coin, or spurious wit, does extremely well in burlesque; but 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 curdled by the ,fi»6st from purest snow, And hangs on Dian's temple. CORTOLANUS. — ACT V. Sc. 3. There is evidently no resemblance between an icicle and a woman, chaste or unchaste ; but chastity is cold in a metaphorical sense, and an icicle is cold in a proper sense ; and this verbal resemblance, in the hurry and glow of composing, has been thought a suf- ficient foundation for the simile. Such phantom simi- lies are mere witticisms, which ought to have no quar- ter, except where purposely introduced to provoke laughter. This author's descriptions are so cold, that they surpass the Caspian snow, and all the ice of the north. COMPARISONS. 179 ■ But for their spirits and souls, This word rebellion had froze them up As fish are in a pond. Second Part Henry IV. — Act I. Sc. 2. Queen. The pretty vaulting sea refus'd to drown me ; Knowing, that thou wouldst have me drown'd on shore, With tears as salt as sea, through thy unkindness. Second Part Henry VI. — Act I. Sc. 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 have a proprie- ty in it, when used to express an affected, not a real passion, which was the queen's case. Pope has several similies of the same stamp in his Essay on Man, the most instructive of all his per- formances. And hence one master passion in the breast, Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest. Epist. 2. 1. 131. And, again, talking of this same ruling or master passion : Nature its mother, Habit is its nurse r Wit, spirit, faculties, but make it worse ; Reason itself but gives it edge and power ; As heav'n's bless'd beam turns vinegar more sour. Ibid. 1. 145. Lord Bolingbroke, speaking of historians : Where their sincerity as to fact is doubtful, we strike out truth by the confrontation of different accounts; as we strike out sparks of fire by the collision of flints and steel. Let us vary the phrase a very little, and there will not remain a shadow of resemblance. Thus : We discover truth by the confrontation of different accounts ; as we strike out sparks of fire by the collision of flints and steel. Beside the foregoing comparisons, which are all serious, there is a species, the purpose of which is to excite gaiety or mirth. Take the following examples : I think he is not a pick-purse, nor a horse-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. 10 180 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. This sword a dagger had his page, That was but little for his age ; And therefore waited on him so, As dwarfs upon knights-errant do. Hudibras, Canto I* Description of Hudibras's horse : He was well stay'd, and in his gait Preserv'd a grave majestic state. At spur or switch no more he skipt, Or mended pace, than Spaniard whipt : And yet so fiery, he would bound As if he griev'd to touch the 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 2. The most accomplished way of using books at present, is tc serve them as some do lords, — learn their titles, and then brag of their acquaintance. Ibid. Box'd in a chair the beau impatient sits, While spouts run clatt'ring o'er the roof by fits ; And ever and anon with frightful din The leather sounds ; lie trembles from within. So when Troy's chairmen bore the wooden steed, Pregnant with Greeks, impatient to be freed (Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, Instead of paying chairmen, run them through,) Laocoon struck the outside with his spear, And each imprison d hero quak'd for fear. Description of a City Shower. Swift. REVIEW. What are the purposes of comparisons ? What objects cannot be compared ? What occurs in the early poems of every nation? What are proper subjects for a simile ? What are the two kinds of comparisons ? Give an example of the latter kind. Give examples of comparisons which suggest some unusual re- semblance or contrast. FIGURES. jt'A 181 Jpe Give examples of comparisons which pla^l^e object in a strong point of view. How does a poet convey the idea of vast lumbers. e What is the third end of comparison ? Who excels in it ? Give an example. When are comparisons improper ? When are the boldest similies and metaphors relished ? When are we disposed to figurative expression ? Give examples of similies improperly introduced. What passions are enemies to the pomp and solemnity of com- parison? Give an example of a disregard of this principle. How is the improper introduction of similies ridiculed in the Rehearsal ? What is the effect of a faint resemblance in a comparison ? Why should not a simile be raised on a low image ? What is the fault opposite to this ? What is the strongest objection that can lie against a compari- son? Give specimens of these similies. Give examples of humorous comparisons. CHAPTER XX. Figures. The endless variety of expression brought under the head of tropes and figures by ancient critics and gram- marians, makes it evident that they had no precise criterion for distinguishing tropes and figures from plain language. It was accordingly my opinion, that little could be made of them in the way of rational criti- cism, 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 ex- pected. Confining myself therefore to such figures, I am luckily freed from much trash, without dropping, as far as I remember, any trope or figure that merits a proper name. And I begin with Prosopopoeia, or Per- sonification, which is justly entitled to the first place. Q 182 .ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM, lEctiojv I. — Personification. The bestowing sensibility and voluntary motion upon things inanimate, is so bold a figure, as to require, one should imagine, very peculiar circumstances for ope rating the delusion : and yet, in the language of po- etry, we find a variety of expressions, which, though commonly reduced to that figure, are used without ceremony, or any sort of preparation : as, for example, thirsty ground, hungry church-yard, furious dart, angry ocean. These epithets, in their proper meaning, are attributes of sensible beings. What is their meaning when applied to things inanimate ? Do they make us conceive the ground, the church-yard, the dart, the ocean, to be endued with animal functions ? This is a curious inquiry ; and whether so or not, it cannot be declined in handling the present subject. The mind, agitated by certain passions, is prone to bestow sensibility upon things inanimate. This is an additional instance of the influence of passion upon our opinions and belief. I give examples : Antony, mourning over the body of Caesar, murdered in the senate-house, vents his passion in the following words : Antony. O pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth. That I am meek and gentle with these butchers. Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times. Julius Caesar. — Act III. Sc. 1. Here Antony must have been impressed with a no- tion that the body of Caesar was listening to him, with- out which the speech would be foolish and absurd. Nor will it appear strange, considering what is said in the chapter above cited, that passion should have such power over the mind of man. Plaintive passions are extremely solicitous for vent ; and a soliloquy commonly answers the purpose : but when such a 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 FIGURES. 183 things inanimate into sympathizing beings. Thus, Philoctetes complains to the rocks and promontories of the isle of Lemnos ;* and Alcestes, dying, invokes the sun, the light of day, the clouds, the earth, her hus- band's palace, &c.f Moschus, lamenting the death of Bion, conceives that the birds, the fountains, the trees, lament with him. 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 ex- ample : The battle is over, said the king, and I behold the blood of my friends. Sad is the heath of Lena, and mournful the oaks of Cromla. Again : The sword of Gaul trembles at his side, and longs to glitter in his hand. King Richard, having got intelligence of Bolingbroke's invasion, says, upon landing in England from his Irish expedition, in a mixture of joy and resentment — I weep for joy To stand upon my kingdom once again. Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand, Though rebels wound thee with their horses' hoofs. As a long-parted mother with her child Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meeting; So weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth, And do thee favor with my loyal hands. Feed not thy sov'reign's foe, my gentle earth, JN"or with thy sweets comfort his rav'nous sense : But let thy spiders that suck up thy venom, And heavy-gaited toads, lie in their way; Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet, Which with usurping steps do trample thee. Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies ; And, when they from thy bosom pluck a flower, Guard it, I pr'ythee, with a lurking adder ; Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch Throw death upon thy sov'reign's enemies. Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords : This earth shall have a feeling ; and these stones * Philoctetes of Sophocles, Act 4. Sc. 2. f Alcestes of Euripides, Act 2. Sc. 1. 184 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. Prove armed soldiers, ere her Dative king Shall falter under foul rebellious arms. Richard II. — Act 3. Sc. 2. After a long voyage, it was customary among the ancients to salute 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 was natural to give the natal soil a temporary life, in order to sym- pathize with the traveller. See an example, Agamem- non of JEschylus, Act 3, in the beginning. Regret for leaving a place one has been accustomed to, has the same effect.* Terror produces the same effect ; it is communi- cated in thought to every thing around, even to things inanimate : As when old Ocean roars, And heaves huge surges to the trembling shores. Iliad, ii. 249. Go, view the settling sea. The stormy wind is laid ; but the bil- lows still tremble on the deep, and seem to fear the blast. Fingal. A man also naturally communicates his joy to all objects around, animate or inanimate : As when to them who sail Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow Sabean odor from the spicy shore Of Araby the Blest ; with such delay Well pleas'd, they slack their course, and many a league, Cheer'd with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles. Paradise Lost. — Book IV. I have been profuse of examples, to show what power many passions have to animate their objects. In all the foregoing examples, the personification, if I mis- take not, is so complete as to afford conviction, momen- tary indeed, of life and intelligence. But it is evident, from numberless instances, that personification is not always so complete: it is a common figure in descrip- * Philoctetes of Sophocles, at the close. FIGURES. 185 tive poetry, understood to be the language of the wri- ter, and not of the persons he describes :, in this case, it seldom or never comes up to conviction, even mo- mentary, of life and intelligence. I give the following examples : First in his east the glorious lamp was seen, Regent 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 danc'd, Shedding sweet influence. Less bright the moon, But opposite, in levell'd west was set, His mirror, with full face borrowing her light From him; for other light she needed none. Paradise Lost. Book 7. 1. 370.* Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund Day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops. Romeo and Juliet. — Act 3. Sc. 7. But look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill. Hamlet. — Act 1. Sc. 1. It may, I presume, be taken for granted, that in the foregoing instances, the personification, either with the poet or his reader, amounts not to a conviction of in- telligence ; that the sun, the moon, the day, the morn, are not here understood to be sensible beings. What then is the nature of this personification? I think it must be referred to the imagination. The inanimate object is imagined to be a sensible being, but without any conviction, even for a moment, that it really is so. Ideas, or fictions of imagination, have power to raise emotions in the mind ; and when any thing inanimate is, in imagination, supposed to be a sensible being, it makes, by that means, a greater figure than when an idea is formed of it according to truth. This sort of personification, however, is far inferior to the other in * The chastity of the English language, which in common usage distinguishes by genders no words but what signify beings male and female, gives thus a fine opportunity for the prosopopoeia; a beauty unknown in other languages, where every word is mascu* line or feminine. Q2 186 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. elevation. Thus personification is of two kinds. The first, being more noble, may be termed passionate per- sonification: the other, more humble, descriptive per- sonification ; because seldom or never is personification in a description carried to conviction. The imagination is so lively and active, that its images are raised with very little effort; and this jus- tifies the frequent use of descriptive personification. This figure abounds in Milton's Allegro and Penseroso. Abstract and general terms, as well as particular objects, are often necessary in poetry. Such terms, however, are not well adapted to poetry, because they suggest not any image. I can readily form an image of Alexander or Achilles in wrath ; but I cannot form an image of wrath in the abstract, or of wrath inde- pendent of a person. Upon that account, in works addressed to the imagination, abstract terms are fre- quently personified; but such personification rests upon imagination merely, not upon conviction. Thus, to explain the effects of slander, it is imagined to be a voluntary agent. No, 'tis Slander ; Whose edge is sharper than the sword ; whose tongue Out-venoms all the worms of Nile \ whose breath Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie All corners of the world, kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons : nay, the secrets of the grave This viperous Slander enters. Shakspeare. — Cymbeline, Act III. Sc. 4. As also human passions. Take the following ex- ample : For Pleasure and Revenge Have ears more deaf than adders, to the voice Of any true decision. Troilus and Cressida. — Act II. Sc. 4, Virgil explains fame and its effects by a still greater variety of action.* And Shakspeare personifies death and its operations in a manner singularly fanciful. Within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king, * jEneid, iv. 173. FIGURES. 187 Keeps Death his court ; and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp ; Allowing him a breath, a little scene To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks ; Infusing him with self and vain conceit, As if his flesh, which walls about our life, Were brass impregnable : and, humor d thus, Comes at the last, and with a little pin Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king. Richard II. Act 3. Sc. 4. Not less successfully is life and action given even to sleep : King Henry. How many thousands of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep ! Sleep, gentle Sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness : Why rather, Sleep, ly'st thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody ? O thou dull god, why ly'st 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 deaf'ning clamors in the slippery shrouds, That, with a hurly, Death itself awakes ? Canst thou, O partial Sleep, give thy repose To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude ; And, in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king ? Then, happy low ! lie down ; Uneasy lies a head that wears a crown. Second Part Henry IV. Act III. Sc. 1. I shall add one example more, to show that descrip- tive personification may be used with propriety, even where the purpose of the discourse is instruction merely : Oh ! let the steps of youth be cautious, How they advance into a dangerous world : 188 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. Our duty only can conduct us safe. Our passions are seducers ; but of all, The strongest Love. He first approaches us In childish play, wantoning io 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 take him by the hand: Directed so, he leads to certain joy. Southern. Hitherto success has attended our steps ; but whe- ther we shall complete our progress with equal suc- cess, seems doubtful ; for when we look back to the expressions mentioned in the beginning, thirsty ground, furious dart, and such like, it seems no less difficult than at first, to say whether there be in them any sort of personification. Such expressions evidently raise not the slightest conviction of sensibility ; nor do I think they amount to descriptive personification : be- cause, in them, we do not even figure the ground or the dart to be animated. If so, they cannot at all come under the present subject. To show which, 1 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 in a storm to a man in wrath ? By this tacit comparison, the ocean is elevated above its rank in nature ; and yet personi- fication is excluded, because, by the very nature of comparison, the things compared are kept distinct, and the native appearance of each is preserved. It will be shown afterward, that expressions of this kind be- long to another figure, which I term a figure of speech, and which employs the seventh section of the present chapter. Though thus in general we can distinguish descrip- tive personification from what is merely a figure of speech, it is, however, often difficult to say, with re- spect to some expressions, whether they are of the one kind or of the other. Take the following instances : FIGURES, 189 The moon shines bright : in such a night as tint,, When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, And they did make no noise ; in such a night, Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls, And sighed his soul toward the Grecian tents Where" Cressid lay that night. Merchant of Venice. — Act V. Sc. 1. I have seen Th' ambitious ocean swell, and rage, and foam, To be exalted with the threatening clouds. Julius C^sar. — Act 1. Sc. 6. With respect to these and numberless other exam- ples 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 imagination will advance them to the former class, with a plain reader they will remain in the latter. Having thus at large explained the present figure, its different kinds, and the principles upon which it is founded ; what comes next in order is, to show in what cases it may be introduced with propriety, when it is suitable, when unsuitable. I begin with observing, that passionate personification is not promoted by eve- ry passion indifferently. 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 me, 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 dispunge upon me ; That life, a very rebel to my will, May hang no longer on me. Antony and Cleopatra. — Act 4. Sc. 7. If this can be justified, it must be upon the heathen system of theology, which converted into deities the sun, moon, and stars. 190 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. Secondly, After a passionate personification is prop- erly introduced, it ought to be confined to its proper province, that of gratifying the passion, without giving place to any sentiment or action but what answers that purpose ; for personification is at any rate a bold figure, and ought to be employed with great reserve. The passion of love, for example, in a plaintive tone, may give a momentary life to woods and rocks, in or- der to make them sensible of the lover's distress ; but no passion will support a conviction so far stretched, as that these woods and rocks should be living wit- nesses to report the distress to others. It is plainly the operation of the writer, indulging his inventive faculty without regard to nature. The same observation is applicable to the following pas- sage : In winter's tedious nights, sit by the fire With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales, Of woful ages, long ago betid : And ere thou bid good-night, to quit their grief, Tell thou the lamentable fall of me, And send the hearers weeping to their beds. For why ? the senseless brands will sympathize The heavy accent of thy moving tongue, And in compassion weep the fire out. Richard II — Act V. Sc. 2. One must read this passage very seriously, to avoid laughing. The following passage is quite extravagant. The different parts of the human body are too inti- mately connected with self, to be personified by the power of any passion; and after converting such a part into a sensible being, it is still worse to make it be conceived as rising in rebellion against self: Cleopatra. Haste, bare my arm, and rouse the serpent's fury. Coward flesh ! Wouldst thou conspire with Caesar to betray me, As thou wert none of mine ? I '11 force thee to 't. Dryden. — All for Love, Act V. Next comes descriptive personification ; upon which I must observe, in general, that it ought to be cau- tiously used. A personage in a tragedy, agitated by a FIGURES. iyl strong passion, deals in warm sentiments; and the reader, catching fire by sympathy, relishes the boldest personifications. But a writer, even in the most lively description, taking a lower flight, ought to content himself with such easy personifications as agree with the tone of mind inspired by the description. Nor is even such easy personification always admitted; for, in plain narrative, the mind, serious and sedate, rejects personification altogether. I do not approve, in Shakspeare, the speech of King John, gravely exhorting the citizens of Angiers to a surrender ; though a tragic writer has much greater latitude than an historian. Take the following speci- men: The cannons have their bowels full of wrath ; And ready-mounted are they to spit forth Their iron indignation 'gainst your walls. Act II. Sc. 3. Secondly, If extraordinary marks of respect to a person of low rank be ridiculous, no less so is the per- sonification of a low subject. This rule chiefly re- gards descriptive personification ; for a subject can hardly be low that is the cause of a violent passion; in that circumstance, at least, it must be of importance. But to assign any rule other than taste merely, for avoiding things below even descriptive personification, will, I am afraid, be a hard task. A poet of superior genius, possessing the power of inflaming the mind, may take liberties that would be too bold in others. Homer appears not extravagant in animating his darts and arrows ; nor Thomson in animating the seasons, the winds, the rains, the dews; he even ventures 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 the fair one's breast, With vain ambition emulate her eyes. But there are things familiar and base, to which personification cannot descend. In a composed state 192 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. of mind, to animate a lump of matter, even in the most rapid flight of fancy, degenerates into burlesque : How now? What noise ! that spirit's possess'd with haste, That wounds th' unresisting postern with these strokes. Shakspeare. — Measure for Measure, Act IV. Sc. 6. The same observation is applicable to abstract terms, which ought not to be animated unless they have some natural dignity. Thomson, in this article, is licentious; witness the following instances, out of many : O vale of bliss ! O softly-swelling hills ! On which the power of cultivation lies, And joys to see the wonders of his toil. Summer, 1. 1435. Then sated Hunger bids his brother 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. Thirdly, It is not sufficient to avoid improper sub- jects. Some preparation is necessary, in order to rouse the mind ; for the imagination refuses its aid till it be warmed at least, if not inflamed. Yet Thomson, without the least ceremony or preparation, introduceth each season as a sensible being : From brightening fields of ether fair disclos'd, 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 All smiling to his hot dominion leaves. Summer, I. 1» See Winter comes, to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train, Vapors, and clouds, and storms. Winter, 1. 1. This has violently the air of writing mechanically, without taste. It is not natural that the imagination of a writer should be so much heated at the very com- mencement ; and, at any rate, he cannot expect such ductility in his readers. But if this practice can be FIGURES. 193 justified by authority, Thomson has one of no mean note. 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 'longing, have put off The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers ; who, Unfit for other life, compelPd by hunger, And lack of other means, in desp'rate manner Daring the event to th' teeth, are all in uproar, And Danger serves among them. He>ry VIII.— Act I. Sc. 2. Fourthly, Descriptive personification, still more than what is passionate, ought to be kept within the bounds of moderation. A reader, warmed with a beautiful subject, can imagine, even without passion, the winds, for example, to be animated ; but still the winds are the subject ; and any action ascribed to them beyond or contrary to their usual operation, appearing un- natural, seldom fails to banish the illusion altogether. The reader's imagination, too far strained, refuses its aid ; and the description becomes obscure, instead of being more lively and striking. In this view, the fol- lowing passage, describing Cleopatra on shipboard, appears to me exceptionable. The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne. Burnt on the water: the poop was beaten gold, Purple the sails, and so perfum'd, that The winds were love-sick with 'em. Antony and Cleopatra. — Act II. Sc. 3. 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, &c. ; but to figure them love- sick has no resemblance to them in any circumstance. In another passage, where Cleopatra is also the sub- Iject, the personification of the air is carried beyond 1 all bounds : R 194 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. The city cast Its people out upon her; and Antony Enthron'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 Cleopatra. — Act II. Sc. 3. The following personification of the earth, or soil is not less wild : She shall be dignified with this high honor, To bear my Lady'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-swelling flower, And make rough winter everlastingly. Two Gentlemen of Verona. — Act II. Sc. 7. Shakspeare, far from approving such intemperance of imagination, puts this speech in the mouth of a ranting lover. Dullness may be imagined a deity or idol, to be wor- shipped by bad writers ; but then some sort of disguise is requisite, some bastard virtue must be bestowed, to make such worship in some degree excusable. Yet, in the Dunciad, Dullness, without the least disguise, is made the object of worship. The mind rejects such a fiction as unnatural ; for dullness is a defect, of which even the dullest mortal is ashamed. Then he, great tamer of all human art ! First in my care, and ever at my heart ; Dullness ! whose good old cause I yet defend, With whom my Muse began, with whom shall end. E'er since Sir Fopling's periwig was praise To the last honors of the Bull and Bays ! O thou ! of bus'ness the directing soul, To this our head, like bias to the bowl, Which, as more pond'rous, made its aim more true, Obliquely 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 : Or quite unravel all the reas'ning thread, And hang some curious cobweb in its stead! FIGURES. 195 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 Dullness could inspire, And were my elasticity and fire. Book I. 163. Fifthly, The enthusiasm of passion may have the ef- fect to prolong passionate personification ; but descrip- tive personification cannot be dispatched in too few words. A circumstantial description dissolves the charm, and makes the attempt to personify appear ridiculous. Her fate is whisperd by the gentle breeze, And told in sighs to all the trembling trees ; The trembling trees, in ev'ry plain and wood, Her fate remurmur to the silver flood : The silver flood, so lately calm, appears Swell'd with new passion, and overflows with tears ; The winds, and trees, and floods, her death deplore, Daphne, our grief! our glory ! now no more. Pope's Pastorals, iv. 61. Let grief or love have the power to animate the winds, the trees, the floods, provided the figure be dis- patched in a single expression : even in that case, the figure seldom has a good effect ; because grief or love of the pastoral kind, are causes rather too faint for so violent an effect as imagining the wind, trees, or floods, to be sensible beings. But when this figure is delibe- rately spread out, with great regularity and accuracy, through many lines, the reader, instead of relishing it, is struck with its ridiculous appearance. REVIEW. What is personification ? Give examples of it. When does the mind bestow sensibility on inanimate things? In what manner do the plaintive passions find vent? Give examples. Is personification natural ? What evidence have we of this fact ? What examples from Ossian are given? What example from Shakspeare ? Does terror bestow sensibility on inanimate objects ? Give examples. What is the eflect of joy ? 196 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. Give an example. Does personification always attribute life and intelligence to the objects personified ? Give examples in which it falls short of this effect. To what is this sort of personification referred ? How many kinds of it are there, and what are they ? In what poems does descriptive personification abound ? Why are abstract terms personified in poetry? Give examples. Js passionate personification promoted by every passion ? What passions are averse to it? What speech is disapproved, on this ground ? To what should passionate personification be confined? How should descriptive personificationhe used ? Give an example of its improper use. *liei>+*^t*~<*'<& What is the effect of personifying familiar and base objects ? Give an example. To what else does the. observation apply? Give examples, i^wi- "ry V. — Act I. Sc. 1. * Chapter 31, of his Treatise on the Sublime. FIGURES. 199 Now shield with shield, with helmet helmet clos'd, To armor armor, lance to lance oppos'd. Host against host with shadowy squadrons drew, The sounding darts in iron tempests flew, Victors and vanquish' d join promiscuous cries, And shrilling shouts and dying groans arise ; With streaming blood the slipp'ry fields are died, And slaughter'd heroes swell the dreadful tide. Iliad, iv. 508. Quintilian is sensible that this figure is natural: u For," says he, " not contented with truth, we natu- rally incline to augment or diminish beyond it ; and for that reason the hyperbole is familiar even among the vulgar and illiterate :" and he adds, very justly, " that the hyperbole is then proper, when the subject of itself exceeds the common measure." Having examined the nature of this figure, and the principle on which it is erected, I proceed, as in the first section, to the rules by which it ought to be gov- erned. And, in the first place, it is a capital fault to introduce an hyperbole in the description of any thing ordinary or familiar; for, in such a case, it is altogether unnatural, being destitute of surprise, its only founda- tion. 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 trod the water ; Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted The surge most swoln that met him : his bold head 'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd Himself with his good arms, in lusty strokes To th' shore that o'er his wave-borne basis bow'd, As stooping to relieve him. Tempest. — Act II. Sc. 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 : IT. Rich. Aumerle, thou weep'st, my tender-hearted cousin ! We '11 make foul weather with despised tears ; 200 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. Our sighs, and they, shall lodge the summer-Corn, And make a dearth in this revolting land. Richard II. — Act III. Sc. 6. Draw them to Tyber's bank, and weep your tears Into the channel, till the lowest stream Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. Julius Cjesar. — Act I. Sc. 1. Thirdly, A writer, if he wish to succeed, ought al- ways to have the reader in his eye;\ he ought, in par- ticular, never to venture a bold thought or expression, till the reader be warned and prepared. For that rea- son, an hyperbole in the beginning of a work can never be in its place. The nicest point of all is to ascertain the natural limits of an hyperbole, beyond which, being over- strained, 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 com- pares it to a bow-string, which relaxes by overstrain- ing, and produces 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, because examples are to be found every- where. No fault is more common among writers of inferior rank; and instances are found even among classical writers. Witness the following hyperbole, too bold even for a Hotspur. Hotspur, talking of Mortimer : In single opposition, hand to hand, He did confound the best part of an hour In changing hardiment with great Glendower. Three times they breath'd, 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 head in the hollow bank, Blood-stained with these valiant combatants. First Part Henry IV. — Act I. Sc. 3. Speaking of Henry V. : England ne'er had a king until his time: Yirtue he had, deserving to command: , ^ FIGURES. 201 His brandish'd sword did blind men with its beams : His arms spread wider than a dragon's wings : His sparkling eyes, replete with awful fire, More dazzled, and drove back his enemies, Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces. What should I say ? His deeds exceed all speech : He ne'er lift up his hand, but conquer'd. First Part He>ry VI. — Act I. Sc. 1. Lastly, An hyperbole, after it is introduced with al advantages, ought to be comprehended within the few- est words possible. As it cannot be relished but in the hurry and swelling of the mind, a leisurely view dis- solves the charm, and discovers the description to be extravagant at least, and perhaps also ridiculous. There is in Chaucer a thought expressed in a single line, which gives more lustre to a young beauty, than the whole of this much-labored poem : Up rose the sun, and up rose Emilie. Section IV. — The means or instrument cojiceixed to be the Agent, When we survey a number of connected objects, that which makes the greatest figure, employs chiefly our attention ; and the emotion it raises, if lively, prompts us even to exceed nature in the conception we form of it. Take the following examples : For Neleus' son Alcides' rage had slain. A broken 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 circumstance in the description, is itself imagined to be the patient. Whose hunger has not tasted food these three days. Ja>e Shore. As when the force Of subterranean wind transports a hill. Paradise Lost. 202 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. As when the potent rod Of Amram's son, in Egypt's evil day Wav'd round the coast, up-calFd a pitchy cloud Of locusts. Ibid. REVIEW. What is an apostrophe ? Give examples of it. Give examples of its union with personification. What does this figure require ? What is hyperbole ? — describe its origin. How is it most successfully used? — why? Give examples. When is hyperbole proper, according to Quintilian ? Where should hyperbole be avoided"? Give an example of the violation of this rule. To what passions is it unsuitable ? Give examples. Point out the faulty expressions in these examples. What caution should the writer observe ? What examples of overstrained hyperbole are given ? Should a hyperbole be expressed concisely ? Give examples of the figure of speech in which the means or instrument is conceived to be the agent. § Section V. — A Figure which, among related objects, ex- tends the properties of one to another. This figure is not dignified with a proper name, be- cause it has been overlooked by writers. It merits, however, a place in this work ; and must be distin- guished from those formerly handled, as depending on a different principle. Giddy brink, jovial wine, daring wound, are examples of this figure. Here are adjec- tives that cannot be made to signify any quality of the substantives to which they are joined : a brink, for ex- ample, 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 ex- pression, we discover that a brink is termed giddy from producing that effect in those who stand on it. In the same manner, a wound is said to be daring, not with respect to itself, but with respect to the boldness of the person who inflicts it ; and wine is said to be jovial, as inspiring mirth and jollity. Thus the attributes of FIGURES. 203 one subject are extended to another with which it is connected ; and the expression of such a thought must be considered as a figure, because the attribute is not applicable to the subject in any proper sense. How are we to account for this figure, which we see lies in the thought, and to what principle shall we re- fer it ? Have poets a privilege to alter the nature of things, and at pleasure to bestow attributes upon a subject to which^they do not belong? We have had often occasion to inculcate, that the mind 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. From this principle is derived the figure under consideration. Language, invented for the communication of thought, would be imperfect, if it were not expressive even of the slighter propensities and more delicate feelings. But language cannot remain so imperfect among a people who have received any polish ; because language is 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 ope- ration ; for the mind, in passing from the agent to its instrument, is disposed to extend to the latter the prop- erties of the former. Governed by the same principle, we say listening fear, by extending the attribute listen- ing of the man who listens, to the passion with which he is moved. In the expression bold deed, we extend to the effect what properly belongs to the cause. But, not to waste time by making a commentary upon every expression of this kind, the best way to give a com- plete view of the subject, is to exhibit a table of the different relations that may give occasion to this figure. And, in viewing the table, it will be observed, that the figure can never have any grace but where the rela- tions are of the most intimate kind. 204 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 1. An attribute of the cause expressed as an attri- bute of the effect : Of yonder fleet a bold discovery make. An impious mortal gave the daring wound. To my advenfrous song, That with no middle flight intends to soar. Paradise Lost* 2. An attribute of the effect expressed as an attri- bute of the cause : No wonder, fallen such a pernicious height. Paradise Lost. 3. An effect expressed as an attribute of the cause : Jovial wine, Giddy brink, Drowsy night, Musing midnight, Panting height, Astonish'd thought, Mournful gloom. Casting a dim religious light. Milton, Comus. And the merry bells ring round, And the 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 pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear. Romeo and Juliet. — Act III. Sc. 7. Oh, lay by Those most ungentle looks and angry weapons ; Unless you mean my griefs and killing fears Should stretch me out at your relentless feet. Fair Penitent. — Act III. And ready now To stoop with wearied wing and willing feet, On the bare outside of this world. Paradise Lost. — Book III. 5. A quality of the agent given to the instrument with which it operates : Why peep your coward swords half out their shells ? 6. An attribute of the agent given to the subject upon which it operates : High-climbing hill. Milton. FIGURES. 205 7. A quality of one subject given to another : When sapless age, and weak unable limbs Should bring thy father to his drooping chair. Shakspeare. By art the pilot, through the boiling deep And howling tempest, steers the fearless ship. Iliad, xxiii. 385. A stupid moment motionless she stood. Summer, 1. 1336. 8. A circumstance connected with a subject, ex- pressed as a quality of the subject. Breezy summit. 'Tis ours the chance of fighting fields to try. Iliad, i. 301. Oh ! had I died before that well-fought wall. Odyssey, v. 395. From this table it appears, that the adorning a cause with an attribute of the effect, is not so agreeable as the opposite expression. The progress from cause to effect is natural and easy ; the opposite progress re- sembles retrograde motion; and therefore panting height, astonished thought, are strained and uncouth expressions, which a writer of taste will avoid. It is not less strained to apply to a subject, in its present state, an epithet that may belong to it in some future state : And mighty ruins fall. Iliad, v. 411. Impious sons their mangled fathers wound. Another rule regards this figure, That the property of one subject ought not to be bestowed upon another with which that property is incongruous : K. Rich, How dare thy joints forget To pay their awful duty to our presence? Richard II. — Act III. Sc. 6. The connexion between an awful superior and his submissive dependant is so intimate, that an attribute may readily be transferred from the one to the other ; but awfulness cannot be so transferred, because it is inconsistent with submission. S 206 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. Section VI. — Metaphor and Allegory. A metaphor differs from a simile in form only, not in substance : in a simile, the two subjects are kept dis- tinct in the expression, as well as in the thought ; in a metaphor, the two subjects are kept distinct in the thought only, not in the expression. 4k hero resembles a lion, and upon that resemblance many similies have been raised by Homer and other 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 va- riation the simile is converted into a metaphor ; which is carried on by describing all the qualities of a lion that resemble those of the hero. The fundamental pleasure here, that of resemblance, belongs to the thought. An additional pleasure arises from the ex- pression : the poet, by figuring his hero to be a lion, goes on to describe the lion in appearance, but in reality the hero; and his description is peculiarly beautiful, by expressing the virtues and qualities of the hero in new terms, which, properly speaking, be- long not to him, but to the lion. This will better be understood by examples. A family connected with a 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 sev'n sons, whereof thyself art one, Were sev'n fair branches, springing from one root : Some of these branches by the dest'nies cut : But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloster, One flourishing branch of his most royal root, Is hack'd down, and his summer-leaves all faded, By Envy's hand and Murder's bloody ax. Richard II. — Act I. Sc. 3. 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 ; FIGURES. 207 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^sar. — Act IV. Sc. 5. Figuring glory and honor to be a garland of flow- ers : Hot-pur. Would to Heav'n Thy name in arms were now as great as mine ! Pr. Henry. I '11 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. Sc. 9. Figuring a man who hath acquired great reputation and honor to be a tree full of fruit : O, boys, this story The world may read in me : my body's mark'd With Roman swords ; and my report was once First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me; And when a soldier was the theme, my name Was not far off; then was I as a tree, Whose boughs did bend with fruit : but in one night, A storm or robbery, call it what you will, Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, And left me bare to weather. Cymbelixe. — Act III. Sc. 3. Blest be thy soul, thou king of shells, said Swaran of the dark- brown shield. In peace thou art the gale of spring; in war, the mountain-storm. Take now my hand in friendship, thou noble king of Morven. Fi> _ gal. Thou dwellest in the soul of Malvina, 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. I am aware that the term metaphor 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, and to separate from it things that are distinguished by different names. An allegory differs 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 above to be an act of the imagination, figuring 208 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. one thing to be another. An allegory requires no such operation, nor is one thing figured to be another : it consists in choosing a subject having properties or cir- cumstances resembling those of the principal subject ; and the former is described 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 re- flection ; and we are pleased with the discovery, be cause it is our own work. A finer or more correct allegory is not to be found than the following, in which a vineyard is made to represent God's own people, the Jews. Thou hast brought a vine out of Egypt : thou hast cast out the Heathen, and planted it. Thou didst cause it to take deep root, and it filled the land. The hills were covered with its shadow, and the boughs thereof were like the goodly cedars. Why hast thou then broken down her hedges, so that all which pass do pluck her ? The boar out of the woods doth waste it, and the wild beast doth devour it. Return, we beseech thee, O God of hosts : look down from heaven, and behold, and visit this vine, and the vineyard thy right hand hath planted, and the branch thou madest strong for thyself. Psalm 80. In a word, an allegory is in every respect similar to a hieroglyphicai painting, excepting only that words are used instead of colors. Their effects are precisely the same. A hieroglyphic raises two images in the mind; one seen, which represents one not seen: an allegory does the same ; the representative subject is described; and resemblance leads us to apply the description to the subject represented. In a fine figure of speech, there is no fiction of the imagination em- ployed, as in a metaphor, nor a representative subject introduced, as in an allegory. This figure, as its name implies, regards the expression only, not the thought ; and it may be defined, the using a word in a sense dif- ferent from what is proper to it. Thus youth, or the beginning of life, is expressed figuratively by morning of life ; \ morning is the beginning of the day; and in that view it is employed to signify the beginning of any other series, life especially ; the progress of which is reckoned by days. FIGURES. 209 Figures of speech are reserved for a separate sec- tion; but metaphor and allegory are so much connect- ed, that they must be handled together; the rules particularly for distinguishing the good from the bad, are common to both. We shall therefore proceed to these rules, after adding some examples to illustrate the nature of an allegory. Queen. Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss, But cheerly seek how to redress their harms. What though the mast be now thrown overboard, The cable broke, the holding anchor lost, And half our sailors swallow'd ia the flood ; Yet lives our pilot still. Is 't meet, that he Should leave the helm, and, like a fearful lad, With tearful eyes, add water to the sea, And give more strength to that which hath too much ; While in his moan the ship splits on the rock, Which industry and courage might have sav'd? Ah, what a shame ! ah, what a fault were this ! Third Part Henry VI. — Act V. Sc. 5 Oroonoko, Ha ! thou hast rous'd The lion in his den : he stalks abroad, And the wide forest trembles at his roar. I find the danger now. Oroonoko. — Act III. Sc. 2. My well-beloved hath a vineyard ia a very fruitful hill. He fenced it, gathered 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 forth wild grapes. And now, O inhabitants of Je- rusalem, and men of Judah, judge, I pray you, betwixt me and my vineyard. What could have been done more to my vineyard, that I have not done ? 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 shall not be pruned, nor digged, but there shall come up briers and thorns ; I will also command the clouds that they rain no rain upon it. For the vineyard of the Lord of hosts is the house of Israel, and the men of Judah his pleasant plant. ISATAH, 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 o£ the first kind ; some of which coincide with those S2 210 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. already given for similies ; some are peculiar to meta- phors and allegories. And, in the first place, it has been observed, that a simile cannot be agreeable where the resemblance is either too strong or too faint* This holds equally in metaphor and allegory ; and the reason is the same in all. In the following instances, the resemblance is too faint to be agreeable : He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause Within the belt of rule. Macbeth. — Act V. Sc. 2. There is no resemblance between a distempered cause and any body that can be confined within a belt. Again : Steep me in poverty to the very lips. Othello. — Act IV. Sc 9. Poverty must here be conceived a fluid, which it resembles not in any manner. Speaking to Bolingbroke, banished for six years : The sullen passage of thy weary steps Esteem a soil, wherein thou art to set The precious jewel of thy home-return. Richard II. — Act I. Sc. 6. Again : Here is a letter, lady, And every word in it a gaping wound, Issuing life-blood. Merchant of Venice. — Act III. Sc. 3. The following metaphor is strained beyond all en- durance. Timurbec, 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 poten- tate who doth not glory in being numbered among our attendants ? As for thee, descended from a Turcoman sailor, since the vessel of thy unbounded ambition hath been wrecked in the gulf of thy self-love, it would be proper that thou shouldst take in the sails of thy temerity, and cast the anchor of repentance in the port of sin- cerity and justice, which is the port of safety; lest the tempest ot our vengeance make thee perish in the sea of the punishment thou deservest. Such strained figures, as observed above, are not unfrequent in the first dawn of refinement. The mind, FIGURES. 211 in a new enjoyment, knows no bounds, and is generally- carried to excess, till taste and experience discover the proper limits. Secondly, Whatever resemblance subjects may have, it is wrong t(\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 bur- lesque ; and the same will be the effect, where the one is imagined to be the other, as in a metaphor; or made to represent the other, as in an allegory. Thirdly, These figures, a metaphor especially, ought not to be crowded with many minute circumstances ; for in that case it is scarcely possible to avoid obscu- rity. A metaphor, above all, ought to be short. It is difficult, for any time, to support a lively image of a thing being what we know it is not ; and, for that rea- son, a metaphor drawn out to any length, instead of illustrating or enlivening the principal subject, be- comes disagreeable by overstraining the mind. Here Cowley is extremely licentious : take the following in- stance : Great and wise conqu'ror, who, where'er Thou com'st, doth fortify, and settle there ! m Who canst defend as well as get, And who never hadst one quarter beat up yet ; Now thou art in, thou ne'er wilt part With one inch of my vanquished heart : For since thou took'st it by assault from me, 1 'Tis garrison'd so strong with thoughts of thee, > It fears no beauteous enemy. ' For the same reason, however agreeable long alle- gories may at first be by their novelty, they never af- ford any lasting pleasure: witness the Fairy Queen, which, with great power of expression, variety of images, and melody of versification, is scarce ever read a second time. In the fourth place, the comparison carried on in 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 strictly or literally with respect to its 212 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. imagined nature. This suggests another rule ; That in constructing a metaphor, the writer ought vto make use of such words only as are applicable literally to the imagined nature of his subject. Figurative words ought carefully to be avoided ; for such complicated figures, instead of setting the principal subject in a strong light, involve it in a cloud ; and it is well if the reader, without rejecting by the lump, endeavor pa- tiently to gather the plain meaning, regardless of its figures : A stubborn and unconquerable flame Creeps in his veins, and drinks the streams of life. Lady Jane Grey. — Act I. Sc. 1. 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 conjoined; and therefore a fever may be termed a flame. But now, admitting a fever to be a flame, its effects ought to be explained in words that agree literally to a flame. This rule is not observed here ; for a flame drinks figuratively only, not prop- erly. King Henry to his son, Prince Henry : Thou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts, Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart, To stab at half an hour of my frail life. Second Part Henry IV. — Act IV. Sc. 11. Such faulty metaphors are pleasantly ridiculed in the Rehearsal: Physician. Sir, to conclude, the place you fill has more than, amply exacted the talents of a wary pilot ; and all these threat- ening storms, which, like impregnate clouds, hover o'er our heads, will, when they once are grasped but by the eye of reason, melt into fruitful showers of blessings on the people. Bayes. Pray, mark that allegory. Is not that good ? Johnson. Yes, that grasping of a storm with the eye is admi- rable. Act II. Sc. 1. Fifthly, The jumhling different metaphors in the FIGURES. 213 same sentence, beginning with one metaphor and end- ing with another, commonly called a mixed metaphor, ought never to be indulged. K. Henri/. Will you again unknit This churlish knot of all-abhorred war, And move in that obedient orb again, Where you did give a fair and natural light ? First Part He>ry VI.— Act V. Sc. L. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune ; Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And, by opposing, end them. Hamlet. — Act III. Sc. 2. In the sixth place, It is unpleasant to join different metaphors in the same period, even where they are preserved distinct; for when the subject is imagined to be first one thing and then another in the same pe- riod 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. In the last place, It is still worse to jumble together metaphorical and natural expression, so as that the period must be understood in part metaphorically, in part literally ; for the imagination cannot 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. Speaking of Britain : This precious stone set in the sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall, Or as a moat defensive to a house Against the envy of less happier lands. Richard II. — Act I. Sc. i. In the first line, Britain is figured to be a precious stone. In the following lines, Britain, divested of her metaphorical dress, is presented to the reader in her natural appearance — 214 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. These growing feathers, pluck' d from Caesar's wing, Will make him fly an ordinary pitch : Who else would soar above the view of men, And keep us all in servile fearfulness. Julius Cesar. — 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 gath'ring clouds destruction pours, Which ruins with mad rage our halcyon hours : Mists from black jealousies the tempest form, Whilst late divisions reinforce the storm. Dispensary. — Canto III. To thee the world its present homage pays, The harvest early, but mature the praise. Pope's Imitation of Horace, B. 2. Dryden, in his dedication of the translation of Ju- venal, says — When thus, as 1 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-star of the ancients, and the rules of the French stage among the moderns, &c. There is a time when factions, by the vehemence of their own fermentation, stun and disable one another. Bolingbroke. This fault of jumbling the figure and plain expres- sion into one confused mass, is not less common in alle- gory than in metaphor. A few words more upon allegory. Nothing gives greater pleasure than this figure, when the representa- tive subject bears a strong analogy, in all its circum- stances, to that which is represented : but the choice is seldom so lucky; the analogy being generally so faint and obscure, as to puzzle and not please. An allegory is still more difficult in painting than in po- etry : the former can show no resemblance but what appears to the eye; the latter has many other resources for showing the resemblance; and, therefore, with re- spect to what the Abbe du Bos terms mixed allegorical compositions, these may do in poetry ; because, in wri- ting, the allegory can easily be distinguished from the historical part ; no person, for example, mistakes Vir- gil's Fame for a real being. But such a mixture in $ FIGURES. 215 picture is intolerable ; because, in a picture, the ob* jects must appear all of the same kind, wholly real, or wholly emblematical. For this reason, the history of Mary de Medicis, in the palace of Luxembourg, painted by Rubens, is unpleasant by a perpetual jum- ble of real and allegorical personages, which produce a discordance of parts, and an obscurity upon the whole; witness, in particular, the tablature represent ing the arrival of Mary de Medicis at Marseilles, where, together with the real personages, the Nereids and Tritons appear sounding their shells; such a mixture of fiction and reality in the same group is strangely absurd. The picture of Alexander and Roxana, de- scribed by Lucian, is gay and fanciful : but it suffers by the allegorical figures. It is not in the wit of man to invent an allegorical representation deviating far- ther from any shadow of resemblance, than one ex- hibited by Lewis XIV. anno 1664: in which an enor- mous chariot, intended to represent that of the sun, is dragged along, surrounded with men and women, re- presenting the four ages of the world, the celestial signs, the seasons, the hours, &c. ; a monstrous composition, suggested, probably, by Guido's tablature of Aurora, and still more absurd. In an allegory, as well as in a metaphor, terms ought to be chosen that properly and literally are applicable to the representative subject ; nor ought any circum- stance to be added that is not proper to the represent- ative subject, however justly it may be applicable, properly or figuratively, to the principal. We proceed to the next head, which is, To examine in what circumstances these figures are proper, and in what improper. This inquiry is not altogether super- seded by what is said upon the same subject in the chapter of Comparisons; because, upon trial, it will be found, that a short metaphor, or allegory, may be proper, where a simile, drawn out to a greater length, and in its nature more solemn, would scarce be relished. And first. A metaphor,. like a simile, is excluded from 216 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. common conversation, and from the description of or- dinary 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, sore Labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course, Chief nourisher in Life's feast. Act II. Sc. 3. The following example of deep despair, beside the highly figurative style, hath more the air of raving than of sense : Calista. Is it the voice of thunder, or my father? Madness ! coDfusion ! let the storm come on, Let the tumultuous roar drive all upon me, Dash my devoted bark ; ye surges, break it : 'Tis for my ruin that the tempest rises. When I am lost, sunk to the bottom low, Peace shall return, and all be calm again. Fair Penitent. — Act IV. The metaphor I next introduce is sweet and lively ; but it suits not a fiery temper inflamed with passion. Parables are not the language of wrath, venting itself without restraint : Chamont. You took her up a little tender flower, Just sprouted on a bank, which the next 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 flourished, Grew sweet to sense, and lovely to the eye, Till at the last a cruel spoiler came, Cropt this fair rose, and rifled all its sweetness, Then cast it like a loathsome weed away. Orphan. — Act IV. The following speech, full of imagery, is not natural in grief and dejection of mind : Gonsalez, O my son ! from the blind dotage Of a father's fondness, these ills arose. For thee I've been ambitious, base, and bloody; For thee I've plung'd into this sea of sin; Stemming the tide with only one weak hand, FIGURES. 217 While t'other bore the crown (to wreath thy brow,) Whose weight has sunk me ere I reach'd the shore. Mourning Bride. — Act V. Sc. 6. There is an enchanting picture of deep distress in Macbeth,* where Macduff is represented lamenting his wife and children, inhumanly murdered by the tyrant. Stung to the heart with the news, he questions the messenger over and over ; not that he doubted the fact, but that his heart revolted against so cruel a misfor- tune. 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. Oh ! I could play the woman with mine eyes, And braggart with my tongue. But, gentle Heav'n ! Cut short all intermission ; front to front Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself: Within nry sword's length set him. If he 'scape, Then Heav'n forgive him too. The whole scene is a delicious picture of human nature. One expression only seems doubtful ; in ex- amining the messenger, Macduff expresses himself thus: He hath no children. All mv pretty ones ! Did you say, all ? what, all ? Oh, hell-kite ! all ? What ! All my pretty little chickens and their dam, At one fell swoop ! Metaphorical expression, I am sensible, may some- times be used with grace, where a regular simile would be intolerable ; but there are situations so severe and dispiriting, as not to admit even the slightest metaphor. It requires great delicacy of taste to determine with firmness, whether the present case be of that kind ; I incline to think it is ; and yet I would not willingly alter a single word of this admirable scene. But metaphorical language is proper when a man struggles to bear with dignity or decency a misfortune * Act IV. Sc. 6 T 218 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. however great : the struggle agitates and animates the mind : Wolsey. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness I This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth 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. In the section immediately foregoing, a figure ol speech is defined, "The using a word in a sense differ- ent from what is proper to it ;" and the , new or uncom- mon 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 who hath not given peculiar attention ; and therefore I shall endeavor to unfold its capital beauties and advantages. In the first place, a word used figu- ratively, 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 ornamental! In this respect, a figure of speech is precisely similar to concordant sounds in music, which, without contributing to the melody, makes it harmonious. I explain myself by examples. Youth, by a figure of speech, is termed the morning of life. This expression signifies youth, the principal object, which enters into the thought : it suggests, at the same time, the proper sense of morn^ ing; and this accessory object, being in itself beautiful, arid connected by resemblance to the principal object, FIGURES. 219 is not a little ornamental. Imperious ocean is an exam- ple of a different kind, where an attribute is expressed figuratively : together with stormy, the figurative mean- ing of the epithet imperious, there is suggested its prop- er meaning, viz. the stern authority of a despotic prince ; and these two are strongly connected by re- semblance. In the next place, this figure possesses a signal pow- er 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 agreeable, becomes, by that means, agreeable ; for the agreeableness of the object is communicated to its name. This acquired beauty, by the force of custom, adheres to the word even when used figuratively ; and the beauty received from the thing it properly signi- fies, is communicated to the thing which it is made to signify figuratively. Consider the foregoing expression, imperious ocean, how 7 much more elevated it is than stormy ocean. Thirdly, this figure hath a happy effect, by prevent- ing the familiarity of proper names. The familiarity of a proper name is communicated to the thing it sig- nifies, by means of their intimate connexion ; and the thing is thereby brought down in our own feeling. This bad effect is prevented by using a figurative word instead of the one that is proper; as, for example., when we express the sky by terming it the blue vault of heaven; for, though no work of art can compare with the sky in grandeur, the expression however is relished, because it prevents the object from being brought down by the familiarity of its proper name. Lastly, by this figure, language is enriched, and ren- dered more copious ; in which respect, were there no other, a figure of speech is a happy invention. The beauties I have mentioned belong to every figure of speech. Several other beauties, peculiar to 220 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. one or other sort, I shall have occasion to remark af- terward. Not only subjects, but qualities, actions, effects, may be expressed figuratively. Thus, as to subjects, the gates of breath for the lips, the watery kingdom for the ocean. As to qualities, fierce for stormy, in the ex- pression Fierce winter: Breathing for perspiring; Breathing plants. Again, as to actions, The sea rages, Time will melt her frozen thoughts, Time kills grief.-*'"' An effect is put for the cause, as light for the sun ; and a cause for the effect, as thejabors of oxen for corn. The rela- tion of resemblance is one plentiful source of figures of speech ; and nothing is more common than to apply to one object the name of another that resembles it in any respect. Height, size, and worldly greatness, resemble not each other ; but the emotions they pro- duce resemble each other ; and, prompted by this re- semblance, we naturally express worldly greatness by height or size : one feels a certain uneasiness in seeing a great depth ; and hence depth is made to express any thing disagreeable by excess, as depth of grief, depth of despair : again, height of place, and time long past, produce similar feelings : distance in past time, producing a strong feeling, is put for any strong feeling: shortness with relation to space, for shortness with relation to time: suffering a punishment resembles paying a debt : in the same manner, light may be put for glory, sunshine for prosperity, and weight for im- portance. Many words, originally figurative, having, by long and constant use, lost their figurative power, are de- graded to the inferior rank of proper terms. Thus, the words that express the operations of the mind, have in all languages been originally figurative : the reason holds in all, that when these operations came first under consideration, there was no other way of describing them, but by what they resembled : it was not practicable to give them proper names, as may be done to objects that can be ascertained by sight and FIGURES. 221 touch. A soft nature, jarring tempers, zceight of woe, pompous phrase, beget compassion, assuage grief, break a vow, bend the eye downward, shower down curses, drowned in tears, wrapt in joy, warmed with eloquence, loaded with spoils, and a thousand other expressions of the like nature, have lost their figurative sense. Some terms there are that cannot be said to he either alto- gether figurative, or altogether proper : originally figu- rative, they are tending to simplicity, without having lost altogether their figurative power. REVIEW. Give examples of the figure which, among related objects, ex- tends the properties of one to another. What remarks are made on them ? From what principle is this figure derived ? Give examples of this figure. Which is the more agreeable species of this figure ? What is the difference between a metaphor and an allegory ? Give an illustration of this. From what does the pleasure arise ? Illustrate this by examples. What is a metaphor ? What is an allegory ? Give an example of an allegory. To what is an allegory compared? How does a figure of speech differ from a metaphor, and how from an allegory? How is a figure of speech defined ? Illustrate this. -^ What examples are given to illustrate the nature of an alle- gory ? To what two figures do the same rules apply ? What is the rule with respect to resemblance ? Give examples of its violation. What is the rule with respect to proportion ? What is the rule with respect to minute circumstances ? What poet violates this rule? What is the rule with respect to the words of a metaphor ? Give an example of its violation. What is a mixed metaphor ? — is it allowable ? Is it proper to join distinct metaphors in one period? What is the effect of jumbling metaphorical and natural ex pressions. Give examples. When is an allegory very attractive ? Why is allegory more difficult in painting than in poetry? T2 222 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. Why are mixed allegories intolerable in a picture ? What examples are mentioned ? When is a metaphor improper ? Why is Macbeth's speech faulty ? Why are the speeches of Calista and Chamont faulty? Point out the metaphors in the speeches of Gonsalez and Mac duff. Why is the metaphor in Wolsey's speech commended ? What is meant by Figure of Speech ? — by figurative sense ? What is the rule concerning the figurative sense? What are the two objects presented by a figurative expression called ? — how are they signified ? Analyze the sentence " youth is the morning of life." — " Imperi ous ocean" What power has this figure? How do words acquire beauty ? Of what use is this acquired beauty in figures ? How may the familiarity of proper names be prevented ? Give an example. What is the effect of this figure on language ? What besides subjects may be expressed figuratively ? Give examples of subjects — of qualities — of actions — of an effect for the cause — of a cause for the effect — of the relation of resem blance. Give examples of words which have lost their figurative power CHAPTER XXI. Nmration and Description. Horace, and many critics after him, exhort writers to choose a subject adapted to their genius. Such ob- servations would multiply rules of criticism without end ; and at any rate belong not to the present work, the object of which is human nature in general, and what is common to the species. But though the choice of a subject comes not under such a^lan, the manner of execution comes under it ; because the manner of execution is subjected to general rules, derived from principles common to the species. These rules, as they concern the things expressed, as well as the language or expression, require a division of this chapter into two parts ; first of thoughts, and next of words. I pre- tend not to justify this division as entirely accurate : IVARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 223 for, in discoursing of thoughts, it is difficult to abstract altogether from the words ; and still more difficult, in discoursing of words, to abstract altogether from the thought. The first rule is, That in history the reflections ought to be chaste and solid; for while the mind is intent upon truth, it is little disposed to the operations of the imagination. Strada's Belgic History is full of poet- ical images, which, discording with the subject, are unpleasant ; and they have a still worse effect, by giv- ing an air of fiction to a genuine history. Such flow- ers 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 agreeable : but while we are sedate and attentive to an historical chain of facts, we reject with disdain every fiction. This Belgic History is indeed wofully vicious both in matter and in form : it is stuffed with frigid andunmeaning reflections; and its poetical flashes, even laying aside their impropriety, are mere tinsel. Second, Vida,* following Horace, recommends a mod- est commencement of an epic poem ; giving for a rea- son, that the writer ought to husband his fire. This reason has weight ; but what is said above suggests a reason still more weighty : bold thoughts and figures are never relished till the mind be heated and tho- roughly 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 in the first book of the Odyssey. On the other hand, Shakspeare begins one of his plays with a sentiment too bold for the most heated imagination ■ Bedford. Hung be the heav'ns with black, yield day to night ! Comets, importing change of times and states, Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky, And with them scourge the bad revolting stars, * Poet. lib. 2. 1. 30. 224 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 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 Henry VI. The passage with which Strada begins his history, is too poetical for a subject of that kind ; and at any rate, too high for the beginning of a grave perform- ance. A third* reason ought to have no less influence than either of the former, That a man, w T ho, upon his first appearance, strains to make a figure, is too osten- tatious to be relished. Hence, the first sentences of a work ought to be short, natural, and simple. Cicero, in his oration for the poet Archias, errs against this rule ; his reader is out of breath at the very first pe- riod ; which seems never to end. Burnet begins the History of his Own Times with a period long and in- tricate. A third rule or observation is, That where the sub- ject is intended for entertainment solely, not for in- struction, a thing ought to be described as it appears, not as it is in reality. In running, for example, the impulse upon the ground is proportioned in some de- gree to the celerity of motion ; though in appearance it is otherwise ; for a person in swift motion seems to skim the ground, and scarcely to touch it. Fourth, In narration as well as in description, ob- jects ought to be painted so accurately as to form in the mind of the reader distinct and lively images. Every useless circumstance ought indeed to be sup- pressed, because every such circumstance loads the narration ; but if a circumstance be necessary, how- ever slight, it cannot be described too minutely. The force of language consists in raising complete images ; which have the effect to transport the reader as by magic into the very place of the important action, and to convert him as it were into a spectator, beholding every thing that passes. The narrative in an epic poem ought to rival a picture in the liveliness and ac- curacy of its representations: no circumstance must NARRATION" AND DESCRIPTION. 225 be omitted that tends to make a complete image ; be- cause an imperfect image, as well as any other imper- fect conception, is cold and uninteresting. I shall illus- trate this rule by several examples. Shakspeare says,* "You may as well go about to turn the sun to ice by fanning in his face with a pea- cock's feather." The peacock's feather, not to mention the beauty of the object, completes the image : an ac- curate image cannot be formed of that fanciful opera- tion, 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 drown'd a bitch's blind puppies, fifteen i' th' litter."f Old Lady. You would 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 VIII. — Act II. Sc. 5. In the following passage, the action, with all its ma- terial circumstances, is represented so much to the life, that it would scarce appear more distinct to a real spectator; and it is the manner of description that contributes greatly to the sublimity of the passage : He spake; and, to confirm his words, out flew Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs Of mighty cherubim ; the sudden blaze Far round illumin'd hell : highly they rag'd Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms Ciash'd on their sounding shields the din of war, Hurling defiance toward the vault of heav'n. Milton, — Book I. A passage I am to cite from Shakspeare, falls not much short of that now mentioned, in particularity of description : O you hard hearts ! you cruel men of Rome ! 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, * Henry V. Act IV. Sc. 4. f Merry "Wives of Windsor, Act III. Sc. 5. 226 ELEMENTS OP CRITICISM. Your infants in your arms ; and there have sat The livelong day, with patient expectation, To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome ; And when you saw his chariot hut appear, Have you not made an universal shout, That Tiber trembled underneath his banks, To hear the replication of your sounds, Made in his concave shores ? Julius Cesar. — Act I. Sc. 1. The following passage is scarce inferior to either of those mentioned : 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 lied from his terrible eye, king of high Temora. FlNGAL. The Henriade of Voltaire errs greatly against the foregoing rule: every incident is touched in a summary way, without ever descending to circumstances. This manner is good in a general history, the purpose of which is to record important transactions: but in a fable it is cold and uninteresting ; because it is imprac- ticable to form distinct images of persons or things re- presented in a manner so superficial. It is observed above, that every useless circumstance ought to be suppressed. The crowding such circum- stances is, on the one hand, no less to be avoided, than the conciseness for which Voltaire is blamed, on the other. In the Mneid^ Barce, the nurse of Sichasus, whom we never hear of before nor after, is introduced for a purpose not more important than to call Anna to her sister Dido ; and that it might not be thought un- just in Dido, even in this trivial circumstance, to pre- fer her husband's nurse before her own, the poet takes care to inform his reader, that Dido's nurse was dead. As an appendix to the foregoing rule, I add the fol- lowing observation, That, to make a sudden and strong impression, some single circumstance, happily selected, has more power than the most labored description. * Lib. 4. 1. 632. NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 227 Macbeth, mentioning to his lady some voices he heard while he was murdering the king, says- There 's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cried Murder! They wak'd each othe^; and I stood and heard them: But they did say their prayers, and address them Again to sleep. Lady. There are two lodg'd together. Macbeth. One cried, God^bless us ! and Amen the other; As they had seen me 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. Macbeth. But wherefore could not I pronounce Amen? I had most need of blessing, and Amen Stuck in my throat. Lady. These deeds must not be thought After these ways ; so, it will make us mad. Macbeth. Methought I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more! Macbeth doth murder sleep ! Szc. Act II. Sc. 3. Alphonso, in the Mourning Bride, shut up in the same prison where his father had been confined : In a dark corner of my cell I found This paper : what it is this light will show. " If my Alphonso" Ha ! [Reading. " If my Alphonso live, restore him Heav'n ; Give me more weight, crush my declining years With bolts, with chains, imprisonment, and want; But bless my son, visit not him for me." It is his hand : this was his pray'r — Yet more : " Let ev'ry hair, which sorrow by the roots [Reading. Tears from my hoary and devoted head, Be doubled in thy mercies to my son : Not for myself, but him, hear me, all-gracious" — 'Tis wanting what should follow Heav'n should follow,. But 'tis torn off — Why should that word alone Be torn from his petition ? 'Twas to Heav'n, But Heav'n was deaf, Heav'n heard him not ; but thus, Thus as the name of Heav'n from this is torn, So did it tear the ears of mercy from His voice, shutting the gates of pray'r against him. If piety be thus debarr'd access On high, and of good men the very best Is singled out to bleed, and bear the scourge, What is reward ? or, What is punishment ? But who shall dare to tax eternal justice ? Mourning Bride. — Act III. Sc. I. This incident is a happy invention, and a mark of uncommon genius. 228 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. Describing Prince Henry : I saw young Harry, with his beaver on, His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm'd, Rise from the ground like feather'd Mercury ; And vaulted with such ease into his seat, As if an angel dropt down from the clouds, To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus, And witch the world with noble horsemanship. First Part Henry VI. — Act IV. Sc. 2. King Henry, Lord Cardinal, if thou think'st on Heaven's bliss, Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope. — He dies, and makes no sign ! Second Part Henry VI. — Act III. Sc. 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 themselves 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 Clutha was removed from its place by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook there its lonely head : the moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from the win- dows : and the rank grass of the wall waved round his head. Deso- late is the dwelling of Morna : silence is in the house of her fathers. Fingal. To draw a character is the master-stroke of descrip- tion. In this Tacitus excels ; his portraits are natural and lively, not a feature wanting nor misplaced. Shak- speare, however, exceeds Tacitus in liveliness; some characteristical circumstance being generally invented, or laid hold of, which paints more to the life than many • words. The following instance will explain my mean- ing, 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 jaundice, By being 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 NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 229 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. Again : Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice ; his reasons are like 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 : Shallow. O the mad days that I have spent ; and to see how many of mine old acquaintance are dead. Silence. We shall all follow, Cousin. Shallow. Certain, 'tis certain, very sure. Death (as the Psalm- ist saith) is certain to all : all shall die. How a good yoke of bul- locks at Stamford fair ? Slender. Truly, Cousin, I was not there. Shallow. Death is certain. Is old Double of your town living yet? Silence. Dead, Sir. Shallow. Dead! see, see ; he drew a good bow: and dead. He shot a fine shoot. How a score of ewes now ? Silence. Thereafter as they be. A score of good ewes may be worth ten pounds. Shallow. And is old Double dead ? Second Part Henry IV. — Act III. Sc. 3. Congreve has an inimitable stroke of this kind in his comedy of Love for Love : Ben Legend. Well, father, and how do all at home ? how does brother Dick, and brother Val ? Sir Sampson. Dick ! body o' me, Dick has been dead these two years. I writ you word when you were at Leghorn. Ben. Mess, that's true: marry, I had forgot. Dick's dead, as vou say. Act III. Sc. 6. Falstaff, speaking of ancient Pistol : He 's no swaggerer, hostess : a tame cheater, i' faith ; you may stroke him as gently as a puppy-greyhound ; he will not swagger with a Barbary hen, if her feathers turn back in any show of re- sistance. Second Part Henry IV. — Act II. Sc. 9. Ossian, among his other excellencies, is eminently- successful in drawing characters : and he never fails U 230 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. to delight his reader with the beautiful attitudes of hi heroes. Take the following instances : O Oscar ! bend the strong in arm ; but spare the feeble hand. Be thou a stream 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 the injured ; and the weak rested be- hind the lightning of my steel. We heard the voice of joy on the coast, and we thought that 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 tow* ers rose on the banks of Atha ; seven paths led to his halls : seven chiefs stood on these paths, and called the stranger to the feast. But Cathmore dwelt in the wood to avoid the voice of praise. Dermid and Oscar were one : they reaped the battle together. Their friendship was strong as their steel : and death walked be- tween them to the field. They rush on the foe like two rocks fall- ing from the brow of Ardven. Their swords are stained with the blood of the valiant : warriors faint at their name. Who is equal to Oscar but Dermid ? Who to Dermid but Oscar ? 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 re- mains in its place : I throw the spear, but it falls short of the mark : and I feel the weight of my shield. We decay like the grass of the mountain, and our strength returns no more. I have a son, O Fingal ! his soul has delighted in the actions of Morni's youth ; but his sword has not been fitted against the foe, neither has his fame begun. I come with him to battle, to direct his arm. His renown will be a sun to my soul in the dark hour of my depar- ture. O that the name of Morni were forgot among the people ! that the heroes would only say, " Behold the father of Gaul." Some writers, through heat of imagination, fall into contradiction ; some are guilty of downright absurdi- ties ; and some even rave like madmen. Against such capital errors, one cannot be more effectually warned than by collecting instances. When first young Maro, in his boundless mind, A work t' outlast immortal Rome design'd. Essay on Criticism, 1. 130. The following are examples of absurdities : He fled; but flying left his life behind. Iliad, xi. 433. Full through his neck the weighty falchion sped ; Along the pavement roll'd the muttering head. Odyssey, xxii. 365. NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 231 The last article is of raving, like one mad. Cleo- patra, speaking to the aspic : Welcome, thou kind deceiver, Thou best of thieves ; who, with an easy key, Dost open life, and unperceiv'd by us, Ev'n steal us from ourselves; discharging so Death's dreadful office, better than himself; Touching our limbs so gently into slumber, That Death stands by, deceiv'd by his own image, And thinks himself but Sleep. Dryden. — All for Love, Act V. Reasons that are common and known to every one, ought to be taken for granted; to express them is child- ish, and interrupts the narration. Having discussed what observations occurred upon the thoughts, or things, expressed, I proceed to what more peculiarly concerns the language or verbal dress. The language proper for expressing passion, being handled in a former chapter, several observations there made are applicable to the present subject; particu- larly, that as words are intimately connected with the ideas they represent, the emotions raised by the sound and by the sense, ought to be concordant. An elevated subject requires an elevated style ; what is familiar, ought to be familiarly expressed; a subject that is se- rious and important, ought to be clothed in plain ner- vous language ; a description, on the other hand, ad- dressed to the imagination, is susceptible of the highest ornaments that sounding words and figurative expres- sion can bestow upon it. I shall give a few examples of the foregoing rules. A poet of any genius is not apt to dress a high subject in low words ; and yet blemishes of that kind are found even in classical works : Not one looks backward, onward still he goes, Yet ne'er looks forward further than his nose. Essay ox Man, Ep. iv. 223. On the other hand, to raise the expression above the tone of the subject, is a fault than which nothing is more common. Take the following instances : 232 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. No jocund health that Denmark drinks to-day, But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell ; And the king's rowse the heav'ns shall bruit again, Bespeaking earthly thunder. Hamlet. — Act I. Sc. 2. In the inner room I spy a winking lamp, that weakly strikes The ambient air, scarce kindling into light. Southern. — Fate of Capua, Act 3. The following passage, intended, one would imagine as a receipt to boil water, is altogether burlesque, by the labored elevation of the diction : A massy caldron of stupendous frame They brought, and plac'd it o'er the rising flame : Then heap the lighted wood ; the flame divides Beneath the vase, and climbs around the sides : In its wide womb they pour the rushing stream : The boiling water bubbles to the brim. Iliad, xviii. 405. The language of Homer is suited to his subject, no less accurately than the actions and sentiments of his heroes are to their characters. Virgil, in that particu- lar, falls short of perfection : his language is stately throughout; and though he descends at times to the simplest branches of cookery, roasting and boiling, for example, yet he never relaxes a moment from the high tone.* In adjusting his language to his subject, no writer equals Swift. I can recollect but one exception, which, at the same time, is far from being gross : The Journal of a Modern Lady is composed in a style blending sprightliness with familiarity, perfectly suited to the subject: in one passage, however, the poet, deviating from that style, takes a tone above his subject. The passage I have in view, begins L 116, But let me now azvhile survey, &c. and ends at /. 135. It is proper to be observed upon this head, that wri- ters of inferior rank are continually upon the stretch to enliven and enforce their subject by exaggeration and superlatives. This unluckily has an effect con- trary to what is intended ; the reader, disgusted with * See ^neid, lib. i. 188—219. NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 233 language that swells above the subject, is led by con- trast to think more meanly of the subject than it may possibly deserve. A man of prudence, beside, will be no less careful to husband his strength in writing than in walking; a writer too liberal of superlatives, ex- hausts his whole stock upon ordinary incidents, and re- serves no share to express, with greater energy, mat- ters of importance.* Many writers of that kind abound so in epithets, as if poetry consisted entirely in high-sounding words. Take the following instance : When black-brow'd Night her dusky mantle spread, And wrapt in solemn gloom the sable sky ; When soothing Sleep her opiate dews had shed, And seal'd in silkea slumber ev'ry eye: My wakeful thoughts admit no balmy rest, Nor the sweet bliss of soft oblivion share ; But watchful woe distracts my aching breast, My heart the subject of corroding care : From haunts of men, with wand'ring steps and slow, I solitary steal, and soothe my pensive woe. Here every substantive is faithfully attended by some tumid epithet ; like young master, who cannot walk abroad without having a laced 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. The power of language to imitate thought, is not confined to the capital circumstances above mentioned; it reacheth even the slighter modifications. Slow ac- tion, 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. * Montaigne, reflecting upon the then present modes, observes that there never was, at any time, so abject and servile prostitu- tion of words in the addresses made by people of fashion to one another ; the humblest tenders of life and soul, no professions un- der that of devotion and adoration; the writer constantly declar ing himself a vassal, nay, a slave ; so that when any more serious occasion of friendship or gratitude requires more genuine profes- sions, words are wanting to express them. U2 234 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. In dialogue-writing, the condition of the speaker is chiefly to be regarded in framing the expression; The sentinel in Hamlet, interrogated with relation to the ghost, Whether his watch had been quiet? answers with great propriety for a man in his station, " Not a mouse stirring."* I proceed to a second remark, no less important than the former. No person of reflection but must be sen- sible, 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, observes, that Thucydides makes his reader a spec- tator, and inspires him with the same passions as if he were an eye-witness ; and the same observation is applicable to our countryman Swift. From thi3 happy talent arises that energy of style which is peculiar to him ; he cannot always avoid narration ; but the pencil is his choice, by which he bestows life and coloring upon his objects. Pope is richer in ornament, but 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, affords the fairest opportu- nity for a comparison. Pope obviously 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 * One can scarce avoid smiling at the blindness of a certain critic, who, with an air of self-sufficiency, condemns this expres- sion as low and vulgar. A French poet, says he, would express the same thought in a more sublime manner : " Mais tout dort, et l'armee, et les vents, et Neptune." And he adds, "The En- glish poet may please at London, but the French everywhere else." NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 235 Pope writes in his own style, the difference of manner is still more conspicuous. Abstract or general terms have no good effect in any composition for amusement ; because it is only of particular objects that images can be formed. Shak- speare'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 blemish is discernible by the bluntness of its expression. In the fine arts, it is a rule to put the capital objects in the strongest point of view ; and even to present them oftener than once, where it can be done. In history-painting, the principal figure is placed in the front, and in the best light: an equestrian statue is placed in 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 ; Full many a lady I Ve ey'd with best regard, and many a time Th' harmony of their tongues hath into bondage Brought my too diligent ear ; for several virtues Have I lik'd several women, never any With so full soul, but some defect in her Did quarrel with the noblest grace she own'd, And put it to the foil. But you, O you, So perfect, and so peerless, are created Of ev'ry creature's best. Tempest. — Act III. Sc. 1 Orlando, Whate'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time ; If ever you have look'd on better days ; If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church ; If ever sat at any good man's feast ; If ever from your eyelids wip'd a tear. And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied ; Let gentleness my strong enforcement be, In the which hope I blush and hide my sword. Duke sen. True is it that we have seen better days ; And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church; And sat at good men's feasts ; and wip'd our eyes Of drops that sacred pity had engender'd : And therefore sit you down in gentleness, And take upon command what help we have, That to your wanting may be minister'd. As you like It. 236 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 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 herbs, tree, fruit, and flow'r, Glist'ning with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth After soft showers ; and sweet the coming on Of grateful evening mild, and silent night With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, And these the gems of heav'n, her starry train. But neither breath of morn, when she ascends With charm of earliest bird, nor rising sun On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit^ flow'r, Glist'ning with dew, nor fragrance after showers, Nor grateful evening mild, nor silent night, With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon Or glitt'ring starlight, without thee is sweet. Paradise Lost. — Book IV 1. 634. The repetitions in Homer, which are frequent, have been the occasion of much criticism. Suppose we were at a loss about the reason, might not taste be sufficient to justify them ? At the same time, we are at no loss about the reason ; they evidently make the narration dramatic, and have an air of truth, by making things appear as passing in our sight. But such repetitions are unpardonable in a didactic poem. In one of Hesiod's poems of that kind, a long passage occurs twice in the same chapter. A concise comprehensive style is a great ornament in narration; and superfluity of unnecessary words, no less than of circumstances, a great nuisance. A judicious selection of the striking circumstances, clothed in a nervous style, is delightful. In this style, Tacitus excels all writers ancient and modern. 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 : Nathos clqthed his limbs in shining steel. The stride of the chief is lovely ; the joy of his eye terrible. The wind rustles in his hair. Carthula is silent at his side : her look is fixed on the chief. Striving to hide the rising sigh, two tears swell in her eye. NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 237 I add one other instance, which, beside the property under consideration, raises delicately our most tender sympathy. Son of Fingal ! dost thou not behold the darkness of Crothar s hall of shells ? My 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 Fingal, in the battles of his father. Rothmar, the chief 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 before him. I took my arms in the hall, but what could sightless Crothar do ? My steps were unequal ; my grief was great. I wished for the days that were past : days ! wherein 1 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 fire of valor burnt in his eye. He saw the disordered steps of his father, and his sigh arose. King of Croma, he said, is it be- cause thou hast no son ? is it for the weakness of Fovar-gormo's arm that thy sighs arise? I begin, my father, to feel the strength of my arm; I have drawn the sword of my youth, and I have bent the bow. Let me meet this Rothmar, with the youths of Croma; let me meet him, O my father, for I feel my burning soul. And thou shalt meet him, I said, son of the sightless Crothar I But let others advance before thee, that I may hear the tread of thy feet at thy return ; for my eyes behold thee not, fair-haired Fovar-gorma ! He went : he met the foe ; he fell. The foe ad- vances towards Croma. He who slew my son is near, with all his pointed spears. If a concise or nervous style be a beauty, tautology must be a blemish : and yet writers, fettered by verse, are not sufficiently careful to avoid this slovenly prac- tice ; they may be pitied, but they cannot be justified. Take for a specimen the following instances, from the best poet, for versification at least, that England has to boast of. High on his helm celestial lightnings play, His beamy shield emits a living ray, Th' unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies, Like the red star that fires the autumnal skies. Iliad v. 5. Strength and omnipotence invest thy throne. Ibid. viii. 576. ^38 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. So silent fountains, from a rock's tall head, In sable streams soft trickling waters shed. Ibid. ix. 19. His clanging armor rung. Ibid. xii. 94. Fear on their cheek, and horror in their eye. Ibid. xv. 4. The blaze of armor flash'd against the day. Ibid. xvii. 736. As when the piercing blasts of Boreas blow. Ibid. xix. 380. And like the moon, the broad refulgent shield Blaz'd with long rays, and gleam'd athwart the field. Ibid. xix. 402. No — could our swiftness o'er the winds prevail, Or beat the pinions of the western gale, All were in vain. Ibid. xix. 460. The humid sweat from ev'ry pore descends. Ibid, xxiii. 829. Redundant epithets, such as humid in the last cita- tion, are hy Quintilian disallowed to orators; but in- dulged to poets, because his favorite poets, in a few instances, are reduced to such epithets for the sake ot versification. 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 of accuracy, that is cheerfully bestowed on an original work. I close this chapter with a curious inquiry. An ob- ject, however ugly to the sight, is far from being so when represented by colors or by words. What is the cause of this difference ? With respect to painting, the cause is obvious : a good picture, whatever the subject be, is agreeable by the pleasure w r e take in imitation ; and this pleasure, overbalancing the disagreeableness of the subject, makes the picture upon the whole agreeable. With 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 NARRATIOX AND DESCRIPTION. 239 communication of thought, and a lively representation of transactions. But nature hath not been satisfied to recommend language by its utility merely ; independ- ent of utility, it is made susceptible of many beauties, which are directly felt, without any intervening reflec- tion. And this unfolds the mystery ; for the pleasure of language is so great, as in a lively description to overbalance the disagreeableness of the image raised by it. This, however, is no encouragement to choose a disagreeable subject; for the pleasure is incompara- bly greater, where the subject and the description are both of them agreeable. The following description is upon the whole agree- able, though the subject described is in itself dismal : Nine times the space that measures day and night To mortal men, he with his horrid crew Lay vanquish'd, rolling in the fiery gulf, Confounded though immortal ! but his doom Reserv'd 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 with obdurate pride and stedfast hate : At once as far as angels' ken he views The dismal situation waste and wild : A dungeon horrible, on all sides round As one great furnace flam'd ; yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible Serv'd only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all ; but torture without end Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed With ever-burning sulphur unconsum'd ! Such place eternal Justice hath prepaid For those rebellious. Paradise Lost. — Book I. 1. 50. An unmanly depression of spirits in time of danger,. is not an agreeable sight ; and yet a fine description or representation of it will be relished : K. Richard. What must the king do now? must he submit? The king shall do it: must he be depos'd? 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 string of beads ; 240 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. My gorgeous palace for a hermitage ; My gay apparel for an almsman's gown ; My figur'd goblets for a dish of wood ; My sceptre Tor 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 II. — Act III. Sc. 6. Objects that strike terror in a spectator have in poetry and painting a fine effect. The picture, by raising a slight emotion of terror, agitates the mind ; and in that condition every beauty makes a deep im- pression. May not contrast heighten the pleasure, by opposing our present security to the danger of en- countering the object represented? The other shape, If shape it might be call'd, that shape had none Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb ; Or substance might be call'd that shadow seem'd, For each seem'd either ; black it stood as night, Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell, And shook a dreadful dart. Paradise Lost. — Book II. 1. 666. Now storming fury rose, And clamor such as heard in heaven till now Was never : arms on armor clashing bray'd Horrible discord, and the madding wheels Of brazen chariots rag'd ; dire was the noise Of conflict : overhead the dismal hiss Of fiery darts in flaming volleys flew, And flying vaulted either host with fire. So under fiery cope together rush'd Both battles main, with ruinous assault And inextinguishable rage : all heaven Resounded ; and had earth been then, all earth Had to her centre shook. Paradise Lost. — Book VI. 1. 207. Ghost But that I am forbid To tell the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 241 Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, Thy knotty and combined locks to part, Ana 1 each particular hair to stand on end, Like quills upon the fretful porcupine: But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood. Hamlet. — Act I. Sc. 8. Gratiano. Poor Desdemona ! I 'm glad thy father 's dead : Thy match was mortal to him ; and pure grief Shore bis old thread in twain. Did he lire now, This sight would make him do a desperate turn ; Yea, curse his better angel from his side, And fall to reprobation. Othello. — Act V. Sc. 8. Objects of horror must be excepted from the fore- going theory; for no description, however lively, is sufficient to overbalance the disgust raised even by the 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 without raising horror. I am obliged, therefore, to condemn the picture of Sin in the second book of Paradise Lost, though a mas- terly performance : the original would be a horrid spectacle ; and the horror is not much softened in the copy. Iago's character, in the tragedy of Othello, is insuf- ferably monstrous and satanical: not even Shakspeare's masterly hand can make the picture agreeable. REVIEW. What is the first rule in the composition of history? — what are the reasons for it ? What is the second rule ? — what are the reasons for it ? What is the effect of straining to make a figure at first ? How should the first sentences of a work be ? What is the third rule ? What is the fourth rule ? In what does the force of language consist ? What should the narrative in an epic poem resemble? Give examples. What is the criticism on Voltaire's Henriade ? How should circumstances be disposed of? What is the effect of a well-chosen circumstance ? V 242 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. Give examples. What writers excel in drawing characters ? Give examples from Shakspeare, Congreve, and Ossian. Give examples of contradictions and absurdities, which some writers fall into ? Should common and well-known reasons be expressed ? What sort of style is required by an elevated subject? — a familiar subject ? — a serious subject ? — a description ? What example is given of a high subject expressed in low words ? — of expression raised above the subject? What is the common error of inferior writers ? What is its effect ? Give an example. What is the remark made on these lines ? How is slow action imitated ? — how is labor ? What is to be regarded in dialogue-writing ? How does an incident make the strongest impression ? How do writers of genuine taste take advantage of this fact ? Give examples. When are repetitions allowable ? Give examples. How are Homer's repetitions justified ? What is observed of a concise style ? What writers excel in it? Give examples from Ossian. What is observed of tautology ? What writer is sometimes guilty of it ? Why is the picture of an ugly object agreeable? Why may the description of a disagreeable object be agreeable? Give examples. How may an object that strikes terror in the spectator, have a fine effect in poetry and painting ? Are objects of horror proper for description ? Why not? CHAPTER XXII. Epic and Dramatic Compositions. Tragedy differs not from epic in substance : in both the same ends are pursued, namely, instruction and amusement ; and in both the same mean is employed, namely, imitation of human actions. They differ only in the manner of imitating ; epic poetry employs nar- ration ; tragedy represents its facts as passing in our EPIG AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 243 sight ; in the former, the poet introduces himself as an historian; in the latter, he presents his actors, and never himself.* This difference, regarding form only, may he thought slight : but the effects it occasions, are by no means so; for what we see makes a deeper impression than what we learn from others. A narrative poem is a story told by another : facts and incidents passing upon the stage, come under our own observation ; and are be- sides much enlivened by action and gesture, expressive of many sentiments beyond the reach of words. A dramatic composition has another property inde- pendent altogether of action ; which is, that it makes a deeper impression than narration : in the former, persons express their own sentiments; in the latter, sentiments are related 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 part within the narrowest bounds.f Ho- * The dialogue in a dramatic composition distinguishes it so clearly from other compositions, that no writer has thought it ne- cessary to search for any other distinguishing mark. But much useless labor has been bestowed, to distinguish an epic poem by some peculiar mark. Bossu defines it to be, " A composition in verse, intended to form the manners by instructions disguised un- der the allegories of an important action;" which excludes every epic poem founded upon real facts, and perhaps includes several of iEsop's fables. Voltaire reckons verse so essential, as for that single reason to exclude the adventures of Telemachus. See his Essay upon Epic Poetry. Others, affected with substance more than with form, hesitate not to pronounce that poem to be epic. It is not a little diverting to see so many profound critics hunting for what is not; they take for granted, without the least founda- tion, that there must be some precise criterion to distinguish epic poetry from every other species of writing. Literary composi- tions run into each other precisely like colors : in their strong tints they are easily distinguished ; but are susceptible of so much va- riety, and of so many different forms, that we never can say where one species ends and another begins. As to the general taste, there is little reason to doubt, that a work where heroic actions are related in an elevated style, will, without further requisite, be deemed an epic poem. t Poet. cap. 25. sect. 6 244 ELEMENTS OP- CRITICISM. mer understood perfectly the advantage of this method; and his two poems abound in dialogue. Lucan runs to the opposite expreme, even so far as to stuff his Pharsalia with cold and languid reflections ; the merit of which he assumes to himself, and deigns not to share "with his actors. Nothing can he more injudiciously timed than a chain of such reflections, which suspend the battle of Pharsalia after the leaders had made their speeches, and the two armies are ready to en- gage.* Aristotle, regarding the fable only, divides tragedy into simple and complex : but it is of greater moment, with respect to dramatic as well as epic poetry, to found a distinction upon the different ends attained by such compositions. A poem, whether dramatic or epic, that has nothing in view but to move the passions and to exhibit pictures of virtue and vice, may be distin- guished 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 ex- ternal misfortunes, such compositions may be denomi- nated raora/.f Beside making a deeper impression than can be done by cool reasoning, a moral poem does not fall short of reasoning in affording conviction: the natural connexion of vice with misery, and of virtue with happiness, may be illustrated by stating a fact, as well as by urging an argument. Let us assume, for example, the following moral truths: that discord among the chiefs renders ineffectual all common measures; and that the consequences of a slightly-founded quarrel, * Lib. 7, from line 385 to line 460. f The same distinction is applicable to that sort of fable which is said to be the invention of jEsop. A moral, it is true, is by all critics considered as essential to such a fable. But nothing is more common than to be led blindly by authority ; for, of the nu- merous collections I have seen, the fables that clearly inculcate a moral make a very small part. In many fables, indeed, proper pictures of virtue and vice are exhibited: but the bulk of these collections convey no instruction, nor afford any amusement, be- yond what a child receives in reading an ordinary story. EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 245 fostered by pride and arrogance, are no less fatal than those of the grossest injury : these truths may be in- culcated by the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles, at the siege of Troy. If facts or circum- stances be wanting, such as tend to rouse the turbu- lent passions, they must be invented; but no accidental nor unaccountable event ought to be admitted ; for the necessary or probable connexion between vice and misery is not learned from any events, but what are naturally occasioned by the characters and passions of the persons represented, acting in such and such cir- cumstances. A real event, of which we see not the cause, may afford a lesson, upon the presumption that what hath happened may happen again : but this can- not be inferred from a story that is known to be a fic- tion. 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 restraining us from what is wrong. Its frequent pictures of human woes produce, besides, two effects extremely salutary : they improve our sympathy, and fortify us to bear our own misfortunes. A moral com- position obviously produces the same good effects, be- cause, 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 imugine any entertainment more suited to a rational being, than a work thus happily illustrating some moral truth ; w T here a number of persons of different charac- ters are engaged in an important action, some retard- ing, others promoting, the great catastrophe; and where there is dignity of style as well as 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 others grati- fied ; and our delight is consummated at the close, upon finding, from the characters and situations exhibited V2 246 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. at the commencement, that every incident down to the! final catastrophe is natural, and that the whole in con- junction makes a regular chain of causes and effects. Considering that an epic and a dramatic poem are I the same in substance, and have the same aim or end, I one will readily imagine, that subjects proper for the one must be equally proper for the other. But con- sidering their difference as to form, there w T ill be found reason to correct that conjecture, at least in some de- gree. 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 quali- fied ; and there are subjects proper for the one, and not for the other. To give some slight notion of the difference, as there is no room here for enlarging upon every article, I observe, that dialogue is better quali- fied for expressing sentiments, and narrative for dis- playing facts. Heroism, magnanimity, undaunted cour- age, and other elevated virtues, figure best in action : tender passions, and the whole tribe of sympathetic affections, figure best in sentiment. It clearly follows, that tender passions are more peculiarly the province of tragedy, grand and heroic actions of epic poetry.* I have no occasion to say more upon the epic, con- sidered as peculiarly adapted to certain subjects. But as dramatic subjects are more complex, I must take a narrower view of them; which I do the more will- ingly, in order to clear a point involved in great obscu- rity by critics. In the chapter of Emotions and Passions, it is occa- sionally shown, that the subject best fitted for tragedy is where a man has himself been the cause of his mis- fortune : hot 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 de- * In Racine, tender sentiments prevail ; in Corneille, grand and heroic manners. Hence clearly the preference of the former be- fore the latter, as dramatic poets. Corneille would have figured better in an heroic poem. fe EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 247 gree venial. Such misfortunes call forth the social affections, and warmly interest the spectator. An ac- cidental misfortune, if not extremely singular, doth not greatly move our pity; the person who suffers, being innocent, is freed from the greatest of all torments, that anguish of mind which is occasioned by remorse. An atrocious criminal, on the other hand, who brings misfortunes upon himself, excites little pity, for a dif- ferent reason ; his remorse, it is true, aggravates his distress, and swells the first emotions of pity; but these are immediately blunted by our hatred of him as a criminal. Misfortunes 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 sen- sibly from our pity. The happiest of all subjects, ac- cordingly, for raising pity, is where a man of integrity falls into a great misfortune by doing an action that is innocent, but which, by some singular means, is con- ceived by him to be criminal : his remorse aggravates his distress ; and our compassion, unrestrained by in- dignation, knows no bounds. Pity comes thus to be the ruling passion of a pathetic tragedy : and, by proper representation, may be raised to a height scarce ex- ceeded by any thing felt in real life. A moral tragedy takes in a larger field ; as it not only exercises our pity, but raises another passion, which, though selfish, de- serves to be cherished equally with the social affection, The passion I have in view is fear or terror ; for when a misfortune 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 emo- tion of fear or terror, frequently reiterated in a va- riety of moral tragedies, the spectators are put upon their guard against the disorders of passion. The commentators upon Aristotle, and other critics, have been much gravelled about the account given 248 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. of tragedy by that author ; " That, by means of pity and terror, it refines or purifies in us all sorts of pas- sion." But no one who has a clear conception of the end and effects of a good tragedy, can have any diffi- culty about Aristotle's meaning : our pity is engaged for the persons represented ; and our terror is upon our own account. Pity indeed is here made to stand for all the sympathetic emotions, because of these it is the capital. There can be no doubt that our sym- pathetic emotions are refined or improved by daily exercise ; and in what manner our other passions are refined by terror, I have just now said. One thing is certain, that no other meaning can justly be given to the foregoing doctrine, than that now mentioned ; and that it was really Aristotle's meaning, appears from his thirteenth chapter, where he delivers several pro- positions conformable to the doctrine, as here explained. These, at the same time, I take the liberty to mention; because, as far as authority can go, they confirm the foregoing reasoning about subjects proper for tragedy. The first proposition is, That it being the province of tragedy to excite pity and terror, an innocent person falling into adversity ought never to be the subject. This proposition is a necessary consequence of his doc- trine as explained : a subject of that nature may in- deed excite pity and terror; but in the former in an inferior degree, and in the latter in no degree for moral instruction. The second proposition is, That the his- tory of a wicked person, in a change from misery to happiness, ought not to be represented. It excites neither terror nor compassion, nor is agreeable in any respect. The third is, That the misfortunes of a wicked person ought not to be represented. Such representation may be agreeable in some measure, upon a principle of justice ; but it will not move our pity, nor any degree of terror, except in those of the same vicious disposition with the person represented. The last proposition is, That the only character fit for representation lies in the middle, neither eminently EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 249 good nor eminently bad : where the misfortune is not the effect of deliberate vice, but of some involuntary fault, as our author expresses it.^ The only objection I find to Aristotle's account of tragedy, is, that he con- fines it within too narrow bounds, by refusing admit- tance to the pathetic kind : for if terror be essential to tragedy, no representation deserves that name but the moral kind, where the misfortunes exhibited are caused by a wrong balance of mind, or some disorder in the internal constitution ; such misfortunes always suggest moral instruction; and by such misfortunes only can terror be excited for our improvement. Thus Aristotle's four propositions above mentioned relate solely to tragedies of the moral kind. Those of the pathetic kind are not confined within so narrow limits: subjects fitted for the theatre are not in such plenty as to make us reject innocent misfortunes, which rouse our sympathy, though they inculcate no moral. With respect indeed to subjects of that kind, it may be doubted whether the conclusion ought not always to be fortunate. Where a person of integrity is represented as suffering to the end under misfortunes purely accidental, we depart discontented, and with some obscure sense of injustice : for seldom is man so submissive to Providence, as not to revolt against the tyranny and vexations of blind chance : he will be tempted to say, This ought not to be. Chance, giving an impression of anarchy and misrule, produces always a damp upon the mind. I give for an example the Romeo and Juliet of Shakspeare, where the fatal ca- tastrophe is occasioned by Friar Laurence's coming to the monument a minute too late ; we are vexed at the unlucky chance, and go away dissatisfied. Such im- pressions, which ought not to be cherished, are a suffi- cient reason for excluding stories of that kind from the theatre. The misfortunes of a virtuous person, arising * If any one can be amused with a grave discourse which .promised much and performs nothing, I refer to Brumoy, in his Theatre Grec, Preliminary Discourse on the Origin of Tragedy. 250 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. from necessary causes, or from a chain of unavoidable circumstances, are considered in a different light. A regular chain of causes and effects directed by the general laws of nature, never fails to suggest the hand of Providence; to which we submit without resent- ment, being conscious that submission is our duty. For that reason, we are not disgusted with the dis- tresses of Voltaire's Mariamne, though redoubled on her till her death, without the least fault or failing on her part ; her misfortunes are owing to a cause ex- tremely natural, and not unfrequent, the jealousy of a barbarous husband. The fate of Desdemona, in the Moor of Venice, affects us in the same manner. We are not so easily reconciled to the fate of Cordelia in King Lear ; the causes of her misfortune are by no means so evident, as to exclude the gloomy notion of chance. In short, a perfect character suffering under misfortunes is qualified for being the subject of a pa- thetic tragedy, provided chance be excluded. Nor is a perfect character altogether inconsistent with a moral tragedy ; it may successfully be introduced in an under part, if the chief place be occupied by an imperfect character, from which a moral can be drawn. This is the case of Desdemona and Mariamne i'ust mentioned ; and it is the case of Monimia and lelvidera, in Otway's two tragedies, The Orphan, and Venice Preserved. I had an early opportunity to unfold a curious doc- trine, That fable operates on our passions, by repre- senting its events as passing in our sight, and by de- luding us into a conviction of reality. Hence, in epic and dramatic compositions, 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 disposed to extend our belief to every circumstance. But in choosing a subject that makes a figure in history, greater precaution is neces- EPIC AffD DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 251 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: farther, the subject chosen must be distant in time, or at least in place : for the fami- liarity of recent persons and events ought to be avoided. Familiarity ought more especially to be avoided in an epic poem, the peculiar character of which is dignity and elevation : modern manners 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 tragedy: it was admitted in Greece ; and Shakspeare has em- ployed it successfully in several of his pieces. One ad- vantage it possesses above fiction, that of more readily engaging our belief, which tends above any other cir- cumstance to raise our sympathy. The scene of comedy is generally laid at home; familiarity is no objection; and we are peculiarly sensible of the ridicule of our own manners. After a proper subject is chosen, the dividing it into parts requires some art. The conclusion of a book in an epic poem, or of an act in a play, cannot be alto- gether arbitrary ; nor be intended for so slight a pur- pose as to make the parts of equal length. The sup- posed pause at the end of every book, and the real pause at the end of every act, ought always to coin- * I would not from this observation be thought to undervalue modern manners. The roughness and impetuosity of ancient manners may be better fitted for an epic poem, without being bet- ter fitted for society. But with regard to that circumstance, it is the familiarity of modern manners that unqualifies them for a lofty subject. The dignity of our present manners will be better understood in future ages, when they are no longer familiar. 252 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. cide with some pause in the action. In this respect, a dramatic or epic poem ought to resemble a sentence or period in language, divided into members that are distinguished from each other by proper pauses ; or it ought to resemble a piece of music, having a full close at the end, preceded by imperfect closes that con- tribute to the melody. Every act in a dramatic poem ought therefore to close with some incident that makes a pause in the action ; for otherwise there can be no pretext for interrupting the representation : it would be absurd to break off in the very heat of 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 ap- plicable to an epic poem ; though in it a deviation from the rule is less remarkable; because it is in the reader's power to hide the absurdity, by proceeding instantly to another book. The first book of Paradise Lost ends without any close, perfect or imperfect : it breaks off abruptly, where Satan, seated on his throne, is pre- pared to harangue the convocated host of the fallen angels; and the second book begins with the speech. Milton seems to have copied the JEneid, of which the two first books are divided much in the same manner. Neither is there any proper pause at the end of the fifth book of the JEneid. There is no proper pause at the end of the seventh book of Paradise Lost, nor at the end of the eleventh. In the Iliad little attention is given to this rule. This branch of the subject shall be closed w T ith a general rule, That action being the fundamental part of every composition, whether epic or dramatic, the sentiments and tone of language ought to be subser- vient to the action, so as to appear natural and proper for the occasion. The application of this rule to our modern plays, would reduce the bulk of them to a skeleton. After carrying on together epic and dramatic com- positions, I shall mention circumstances peculiar to EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 253 each ; beginning with the epic kind. In a theatrical entertainment, which employs both the eye and the ear, it would be a gross absurdity to introduce upon the stage superior beings in a visible shape. There is no place for such objection in an epic poem; and Boileau,* with many other critics, declares strongly for that sort of machinery in an epic poem. But waiving 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, where deities, angels, devils, or other super- natural powers, are introduced as real personages, mixing in the action, and contributing to the catastro- phe ; and yet these are constantly jumbled together in the reasoning. The former is founded on a natural principle ; but, can the latter claim the same authori- ty ? far from it ; nothing is more unnatural. Its effects, at the same time, are deplorable. First, It gives an air of fiction to the whole, and prevents that impres- sion of reality which is requisite to interest our affec- tions, and to move our passions. This of itself is suf- ficient to explode machinery, whatever entertainment it may afford to readers of a fantastic taste or irregu- lar imagination. And, next, were it possible, by dis- guising the 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, where machinery is introduced ; for an evident reason, that virtuous emotions cannot be raised successfully but by the actions of those who are endued with passions and affections like our own, that is, by human actions; and as for moral instruction, it is clear, that none can be drawn from beings who act not upon the same princi- * Third part of his Art of Poetry. W 254 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. pies with us. A fable in iEsop's manner is no objection to this reasoning: his lions, bulls, and goats, are truly men in disguise ; they act and feel in every respect as human beings ; and the moral we draw is founded on that supposition. Homer, it is true, introduces the gods into his fable: but the religion of his country authorized that liberty; it being an article in the Grecian creed, that the gods often interpose visibly and bodily in human affairs. I must however observe, that Homer's deities do no honor to his poems: fictions that transgress the bounds of nature seldom have a good effect ; they may inflame the imagination for a mo- ment, but will not be relished by any person of a cor- rect taste. They may be of some use to the lower rank of writers ; but an author of genius has much finer materials, of nature's production, for elevating his subject and making it interesting. One would be apt to think that Boileau, declaring for the heathen deities as above, intended them only for embellishing the diction; but unluckily he banishes angels and devils, who undoubtedly make a figure in poetic language equal to the heathen deities. Boileau, therefore, by pleading for the latter in opposition to the former, certainly meapt, if he had any distinct meaning, that the heathen deities may be introduced as actors. And, in fact, he himself is guilty of that glaring absurdity, where it is not so pardonable as in an epic poem. In his ode upon the taking of Namur, he demands, with a most serious countenance, whether the walls were built by Apollo or Neptune ? and in relating the passage of the Rhine, anno 1672, he de- scribes the god of that river as fighting with all his might to oppose the French monarch ; which is con- founding fiction with reality at a strange rate. The French writers in general run into this error : wonder- ful the effect of custom, to hide from them how ridicu- lous such fictions are ! That this is a capital error in the Gierusalemme Lib- erata, Tasso's greatest admirers must acknowledge : a EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 255 situation can never be intricate, nor the reader ever in pain about the catastrophe, as long as there is an an- gel, devil, or magician, to lend a helping hand. Vol- taire, in his essay upon epic poetry, talking of the Pharsalia, observes judiciously, " That the proximity of time, the notoriety of events, the character of the age, enlightened and political, joined with the solidity of Lucan's subject, deprived him of poetical fiction." Is it not amazing, that a critic, who reasons so justly with respect to others, can be so blind with respect to him- self ? Voltaire, not satisfied to enrich his language with images drawn from invisible and superior beings, in- troduces them into the action : in the sixth canto ot the Henriade, St. Louis appears in person, and terrifies the soldiers ; in the seventh canto, St. Louis sends the God of Sleep to Henry ; and, in the tenth, the demons of Discord, Fanaticism, War, &c. assist Aumale in a single combat with Turenne, and are driven away by a good. angel brandishing the sword of God. To blend such fictitious personages in the same action with mor- tals, makes a bad figure at any rate; and is intolerable in a history so recent as that of Henry IV. But per- fection is not the lot of man.* I have tried serious reasonings upon this subject ; but ridicule, I suppose, will be found a more successful weapon, which Addison has applied in an elegant man- ner : " Whereas, the time of a general peace is, in all * When I commenced author, my aim was to amuse, and perhaps to instruct, but never to give pain. I accordingly avoided every living author, till the Henriade occurred to me as the best instance I could find for illustrating the doctrine in the text ; and I yielded to the temptation, judging that my slight criticisms would never reach M. de Voltaire. They have however reached him ; and have, as I am informed, stirred up some resentment. I am afflicted at this information ; for what title have I to wound the mind more than the body ? It would besides show ingratitude to a celebrated writer, who is highly entertaining, and who has bestowed on me many a delicious morsel My only excuse for giving offence is, that it was undesigned : for, to plead that the censure is just, is no excuse. As the offence was public, I take this opportunity to make the apology equally so. I hope it will be satisfactory : per- haps not. — I owe it, however, to my own character. 256 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. appearances, 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 nonsense which we have good cause to apprehend, I do hereby strictly require every person who shall write on this subject, to remember that he is a Christian, and not to sacrifice his catechism to his poetry. In order to it, I do expect of him, in the first place, to make his own poem, without depending upon Phoebus for any part of it, or calling out for aid upon any of the muses by name. I do likewise positively forbid the sending of Mercury with any particular message, or dispatch, relating to the peace ; and shall by no means suffer Minerva to take upon her the shape of any plenipo- tentiary 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 have been slain in the late war; being of opinion, that all such deaths may be well accounted for by the Christian system of powder and ball. I do therefore strictly forbid the fates to cut the thread of man's life upon any pretence whatsoever, unless it be for the sake of the rhyme. And whereas, I have good reason to fear, that Neptune will have a great deal of busi- ness on his hands, in several poems which we may now suppose are upon the anvil, I do also prohibit his ap- pearance, unless it be done in metaphor, simile, or any very short allusion : and that even here he may not be permitted to enter, but with great caution and cir- cumspection. I desire that the same rule may be ex- tended to his whole fraternity of heathen gods ; it be- ing my design to condemn every poem to the flames in which Jupiter thunders, or exercises any other act of authority which does not belong to him. In short, I expect that no Pagan agent shall be introduced, or any fact related, which a man cannot give credit to with a good conscience. Provided always, that nothing herein contained shall extend, or be construed to ex- EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 257 tend, to several of the female poets in this nation, who shall still be left in full possession of their gods and goddesses, in the same manner as if this paper had never been written."* The marvellous is indeed so much promoted by ma- chinery, 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. Ho- mer introduces 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. The ridiculous in such fictions must appear even through the thickest veil of gravity and solemnity. 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 every 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 important 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 pro- priety can we appear with them upon the same stage : man, a creature much inferior, loses all dignity in the comparison. There can be no doubt that an historical poem ad- mits the embellishment of allegory, as well as of meta- phor, simile, or other figure. Moral truth, in particular, is finely illustrated in the allegorical manner: it amuses the fancy to find abstract terms, by a sort of magic, * Spectator, No. 523. W2 258 ELEMENTS OP CRITICISM. metamorphosed into active beings : and it is highly pleasing to discover a general proposition in a pictured event. But allegorical beings should be confined with- in their own sphere, and never 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 powers ; and I am ready to assign the reason. The impression of real existence, essential to an epic poem, is inconsistent with that fig- urative existence which is essential to an allegory; and, therefore, no means can more effectually prevent the impression of reality, than to introduce allegorical co-operating with those whom we conceive to be really existing. The love-episode in the Henriade* insuf- ferable by the discordant mixture of allegory with real life, sis copied from that of Rinaldo and Armida, in the Gierusalemme Liberata, which hath no merit to en- title it to be copied. An allegorical object, such as Fame in the JEneid, and the Temple of Love in the Henriade, may find place in a description ; but to in- troduce Discord as a real personage, imploring the as- sistance of Love, as another real personage, to ener- vate the courage of the hero, is making these figurative beings act beyond their sphere, and creating a strange {'umble of truth and fiction. The allegory of Sin and )eath 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 com- prehending the achievements of superior beings, there is more room for fancy than where it is confined to hu- man actions. What is the true notion of an episode ? or how is it to be distinguished from the principal action ? Every incident that promotes or retards the catastrophe, must be part of the principal action. This clears the nature of an episode ; which may be defined, " An incident connected with the principal action, but contributing * Canto 9. EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 259 neither to advance nor to retard it." The descent of iEneas into hell doth not advance nor retard the catas- trophe, and therefore is an episode. The story of Nisus and Euryalus, producing an alteration in the affairs of the contending parties, is a part of the principal ac- tion. The family-scene in the sixth book of the Iliad is of the same nature ; for by Hector's retiring from the field of battle to visit his wife, the Grecians had opportunity to breathe, and even to turn upon the Trojans. The unavoidable effect of an episode, ac- cording 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, re- quires the following conditions : it ought to be well con- nected with the principal action : it ought to be lively and interesting : it ought to be short : and a time ought to be chosen when the principal action relents.* In the following beautiful episode, which closes the second book of Fingal, all these conditions are united: Comal was the son of Albion ; the chief of a hundred hills. His deer drank of a thousand streams ; and a thousand rocks replied to the voice of his dogs. His face was the mildness of youth ; but his hand the death of heroes. One was his love, and fair was she ! the daughter of mighty Conloch. She appeared like a sunbeam among women, and her hair was like the wing of the raven. 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 se- cret. But Gormal loved the maid, the chief of gloomy Ardven. He watched her lone steps on the heath, the foe of unhappy Comal. One day, tired of the chase, when the mist had concealed their friends, Comal and the daughter of Conloch met in the cave of Ronan. It was the wonted haunt of Comal/ Its sides were hung with his arms ; a hundred shields of thongs were there, a hundred helms of sounding steel. Rest here, said he, my love Galvina, thou light of the cave of Ronan : a deer appears on Mora's brow ; 1 go, but soon will return. I fear, said she, dark Gormal my foe : I will rest here ; but soon return, my love. * Homer's description of the shield of Achilles is properly in- troduced at a time when the action relents, and the reader can bear an interruption. But the author of Telemachus describes the shield of that young hero in the heat of battle ; a very im- proper time for an interruption* 260 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. He went to the deer of Mora. The daughter of Conloch, to try his love, clothed her white side with his armor, and strode from the cave of Ronan. Thinking her his foe, his heart beat high, and his color changed. He drew the bow : the arrow flew : Galvina fell in blood. He ran to the cave with hasty steps, and called the daughter of Conloch. Where art thou, my love? but no answer. — He marked, at length, her heaving heart beating against the mortal arrow. O Conloch's daughter, is it thou ? he sunk upon her breast. The hunters found the hapless pair. Many and silent were his steps round the dark dwelling of his love. The fleet of the ocean came; he fought, and the strangers fell: he searched for death over the field ; but who could kill the mighty Comal ? Throwing away his shield, an arrow found his manly breast. He sleeps with his Galvina : their green tombs are seen by the mariner, when he bounds on the waves of the north. Next, upon the peculiarities of a dramatic poem. And the first I shall mention is a double plot ; one of which 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 sup- posing it an under-plot like an episode, it seldom hath a good effect in tragedy, of which simplicity is a chief property ; for an interesting subject that engages our affections, occupies our whole attention, and leaves no room for any separate concern. Variety is more tole- rable in comedy, which pretends only to amuse, with- out totally occupying the mind. But even there, to make a double plot agreeable, is no slight effort of art: the under-plot ought not to vary greatly in its totie from the principal; for discordant emotions are un- pleasant when jumbled together; which, by the way, is an insuperable objection to tragi-comedy. Upon that account, the Provoked Husband deserves censure ; all the scenes that bring the family of the Wrongheads into action, being ludicrous and farcical, are in a very different tone from the principal scenes, displaying se- vere and bitter expostulations between Lord Townley and his lady. The same objection touches not the double plot of the Careless Husband ; the different sub- jects being sweetly connected, and having only so much variety as to resemble shades of colors harmoniously EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 261 mixed. But this is not all. The under-plot ought to be connected with that which is principal, so much at least as to employ the same persons : the under-plot ought to occupy the intervals or pauses of the princi- pal 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 par- ticulars concur to delude us into an impression of re- ality ; genuine sentiments, passionate language, and persuasive gesture : the spectator, once engaged, is willing to be deceived, loses sight of himself, and with- out scruple enjoys the spectacle as a reality. From 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. The French critics join with Horace in excluding blood from the stage ; but, overlooking the most sub- stantial objection, they urge only, that it is barbarous, and shocking to a polite audience. The Greeks had no notion of such delicacy, or rather effeminacy : wit- ness the murder of Clytemnestra by her son Orestes, passing behind the scene as represented by Sophocles : her voice is heard calling out for mercy, bitter expos- tulations on his part, loud shrieks upon her being stab- bed, and then a deep silence. I appeal to every per- son of feeling, whether this scene be not more horrible than if the deed hajl been committed in sight of the spectators upon a sudden gust of passion. If Corneille, in representing the affair between Horatius and his sister, upon which murder ensues behind the scene, had no other view but to remove from the spectators a shocking action, he was guilty of a capital mistake; for murder in cold blood, which in some measure was the case as represented, is more shocking to a polite audience, even where the conclusive stab is not seen, than the same act performed in their presence by vio- lent and unpremeditated passion, as suddenly repented 262 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. of as committed. I heartily agree with Addison,* that no part of this incident ought to have heen represented, but reserved for a narrative, with every alleviating circumstance in favor of the hero. A few words upon the dialogue ; which ought to be so conducted as to be a true representation of nature. I talk not here of the sentiments, nor of the language ; for these come under different heads : I talk of what properly belongs to dialogue-writing ; where every sin- gle speech, short or long, ought to arise from what is said by the former speaker, and furnish matter for what comes after, till the end of the scene. In this view, all the speeches, from first to last, represent so many links of one continued chain. No author, ancient or modern, possesses the art of dialogue equal to Shak- speare. Dryden, in that particular, may justly be placed as his opposite : he frequently introduces three or four persons speaking upon the same subject, each throwing out his own notions separately, without re- garding what is said by the rest : take for an example the first scene of Aurenzebe. Sometimes he makes a number club in relating an event, not to a stranger, supposed ignorant of it, but to one another, for the sake merely of speaking: of which notable sort of dialogue we have a specimen, in the first scene of the first part of the Conquest of Granada. In the second part of the same tragedy, scene second, the King, Abe- namar, 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 verses alternately, each in praise of his own mistress. This manner of dialogue-writing, beside an unnatu- ral air, has another bad effect: it stays the course of the action, because it is not productive of any conse- quence. In Congreve's comedies, the action is often * Spectator, No. 44. EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 263 suspended to make way for a play of wit. But of this more particularly in the chapter immediately following. No fault is more common among writers, than to pro- long a speech, after the impatience of the person to whom it is addressed ought to prompt him or her to break in. Consider only how the impatient actor is to behave in the mean time. To express his impatience in violent action, without interrupting, would be unnatural ; and yet to dissemble his impatience, by appearing cool where he ought to be highly inflamed, would be no less so. Rhyme being unnatural and disgustful in dialogue, is happily banished from our theatre : the only wonder is that it ever found admittance, especially among a people accustomed to the more manly freedom of Shakspeare's dialogue. By banishing rhyme, we have gained so much, as never once to dream of any further improvement. And yet, however suitable blank verse may be to elevated characters and warm passions, it must appear improper and affected in the mouths of the lower sort. Every scene in tragedy need not be in blank verse. Shakspeare, with great judgment, inter- mixes prose with verse, and only employs the latter where it is required by the importance or dignity of the subject. Familiar thoughts and ordinary facts are expressed in plain language : to hear a footman de- liver a simple message in blank verse, must appear ridiculous to every one who is not biassed by custom. In short, that variety of characters, and of situations, which is the life of a play, requires not only a suitable variety in the sentiments, but also in the diction. REVIEW. In what do tragedy and epic poetry resemble each other? How does tragedy differ from epic poetry ? What is the difference in their effects ? Why does dramatic composition make a deeper impression? What rule results from this ? Who understood the advantage of this method? To what sort of poems is the term pathetic applied ? 264 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. To what is the term moral applied ? Give an example of a poem inculcating moral truth by nar- rative. What is the effect of a pathetic composition ? Are subjects always equally fitted for epic or for dramatic com- position ? For which is dialogue better qualified ? For which is narrative ? -*What is peculiarly the province of tragedy ? — what of epic poetry ? ^-4Vhat is the subject best fitted for tragedy ? — why ? •dRThy does not an accidental misfortune greatly move our pity ? a^Vhat is the happiest of all subjects for raising pity ? <*"What passion does a pathetic tragedy raise? — a moral tragedy? """What is the effect of purely accidental misfortunes happening to an innocent person ? Give an example. *What is the effect of misfortunes not accidental ? Give an example. -How does fable operate on our passions ? What rule results hence ? What caution is necessary, in handling historical subjects ? **JWhat is to be observed in dividing an epic poem or tragedy ? What is the rule with respect to action and sentiment? ^^hat sort of beings should be excluded from the stage ? What error is noticed in Jerusalem Delivered ? What remark is made by Voltaire ? Did Voltaire observe his own rule ? •■IVhat is the effect of too frequent introduction of the gods? What author successfully ridicules the modern use of the heathers mythology ? What is the effect of allegory ? What caution should be observed in using it? Give examples of the improper use of allegory. What is an episode ? Give examples. wWhzt is the effect of an episode ? When should l it be used ? — under what circumstances ? *«*What is required in a double plot? How is the requisition answered in the Provoked Husband? How in the Careless Husband ? How in the Merry Wives of Windsor ? Why is violent action not admissible on the stage ? Do the French allow it ? — did the Greeks ? How should the dialogue be conducted? Who excels in this ? -"■What is a common fault ? •■Is rhyme suitable for the drama? In what does Shakspeare show great judgment? THE THREE UNITIES. 265 CHAPTER XXIII. The Three Unities. In the first chapter is explained the pleasure we have in a chain of connected facts. In histories of the world, of a country, of a people, this pleasure is faint because the connexions are slight. We find more en tertainment in biography ; because the incidents are connected by their relation to a person who makes a figure, and commands our attention. But the greatest entertainment is in the history of a single event, sup- posing it interesting ; because the facts and circum- stances are connected by the strongest of all relations, that of cause and effect : a number of facts that give birth to each other form a delightful train ; and we have great mental enjoyment in our progress from be- ginning to end. When we consider the chain of causes and effects in the material world, independent of purpose, design, or thought, we find incidents in succession, without be- ginning, middle, or end : every thing that happens is both a cause and an effect ; being the effect of what goes before, and the cause of what follows : one inci- dent may affect us more, another less ; but all of them are links in the chain : the mind, in viewing these in- cidents, cannot rest ultimately upon any one, but is carried along in the train without any close. But when the intellectual world is taken under view, in conjunction with the material, the scene is varied. Man acts with deliberation 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 at- tain the end purposed. Here are a number of facts or incidents leading to the end, and composing one chain by the relation of cause and effect. In running over a series of such facts, we cannot rest upon any A, 266 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. one ; because they are presented to^us as means only, leading to some end: but we rest with satisfaction upon the ultimate event ; because there the purpose of the chief person is accomplished. This indicates the beginning, the middle, and the end of what Aristo- tle calls an entire action. The story begins with de- scribing those circumstances which move the principal person to form a plan, 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 the most involved; and the end is where the event is brought about, and the plan accomplished. A plan thus happily accomplished after many ob- structions, affords delight to the reader ; to produce which, a principle mentioned above mainly contributes, the same that disposes the mind to complete every work commenced, and in general to carry every thing to a conclusion. The foregoing example of a plan crowned with suc- cess, affords the clearest conception of a^eginning, middle, and end, in which consists unity of action; and stricter unity cannot be imagined. But an action may have unity, or a beginning, middle, and end, without so intimate a relation of parts ; as where the catas- trophe is different from what is intended or desired, which frequently happens in our best tragedies. In the JEneid, the hero, after many obstructions, makes his plan effectual. The Iliad is formed upon a differ- ent model : it begins with the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon ; goes on to describe the several ef- fects produced by that cause; and ends in a recon- ciliation. Here is unity of action, no doubt, a begin- ning, a middle, and an end ; but inferior to that of the JEneid, which will thus appear. The mind has a pro- pensity to go forward in the chain of history : it keeps always in view the expected event; and when the under parts are connected by their relation to the event, the mind runs sweetly and easily along them THE THREE UNITIES. 267 This pleasure we have in the JEneid. It is not so pleasant, as in the Iliad, to connect effects by their common cause ; for such connexion forces the mind to a continual retrospect : looking back is like walking backward. Homer's plan is still more defective ; the events de- scribed are but imperfectly connected with the wrath of Achilles, their cause : his wrath did not exert itself in action ; and the misfortunes of his countrymen were but negatively the effects of his wrath, by depriving them of his assistance. If unity of action be a capital beauty in a fable imitative of human affairs, a plurality of unconnected fables must be a capital deformity. For the sake of variety, we indulge an under-plot that is connected with the principal ; but two unconnected events are extremely unpleasant, even where the same actors are engaged in both. Ariosto is quite licentious in that par- ticular : 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 natu- ral, that order may be varied, for the sake of con- spicuous beauties. If a noted story, cold and simple in its first movements, be made the subject of an epic poem, the reader may be hurried into the heat of ac- tion, reserving the preliminaries for a conversation piece, if necessary ; and that method has a peculiar beauty from being dramatic. But a privilege that deviates from nature ought to be sparingly indulged ; and yet romance writers make no difficulty of pre- senting to the reader, without preparation, unknown persons engaged in some arduous adventure equally unknown. In Cassandra, two personages, who after- wards are discovered to be the heroes of the fable, start up completely armed upon the banks of the Euphrates, and engage in a single combat. A play analyzed, is a chain of connected facts, of 268 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. which each scene makes a link. Each scene, accord- ingly, ought to produce some incident relative to the catastrophe or ultimate event, by advancing or re- tarding it. A scene that produceth no incident, and for that reason may he termed barre?i, ought not to he indulged, because it breaks the unity of action : a bar- ren scene can never be entitled to a place, because the chain is complete without it. How successfully is this done by Shakspeare ! in whose works there is not to be found a single barren scene. All the facts in an historical fable ought to have a mutual connexion, 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 compositions. The mind is satisfied with slighter unity in a picture than in a poem ; because the perceptions of the for- mer are more lively than the ideas of the latter. In Hogarttis Enraged Musician, we have a collection of every grating sound in nature, without any mutual connexion except that of place. But the horror they give to the delicate ear of an Italian fiddler, who is represented almost in convulsions, bestows unity upon the piece, with which the mind is satisfied. How far the unities of time and of place are essen- tial, is a question of greater intricacy. These unities were observed in the Greek and Roman theatres; and they are inculcated by the French and some En- glish critics, as essential to every dramatic composi- tion. The unities of place and time are not, by the most rigid critics, required in a narrative poem J because, if it pretend to copy nature, these unities would be ab- surd ; real events are seldom confined within narrow limits either of place or of time. And yet we can follow history, or an historical fable, through all its changes, with the greatest facility : we never once think of measuring the real time by what is taken in THE THREE UNITIES. 269 reading ; nor of forming any connexion between the place of action and that which we occupy. The drama diners so far from the epic, as to admit different rules. "An historical fable, intended for reading solely, is under no limitation of time nor of place, more than a genuine history ; but that a dra- matic composition cannot be accurately represented, unless it be limited, as its representation is, to one place and to a few hours ; and therefore that it can admit no fable but what has these properties ; because it would be absurd to compose a piece for represent- ation that cannot be justly represented." This ar- gument has at least a plausible appearance; and yet one is apt to suspect some fallacy, considering that no critic, however strict, has ventured to confine the unities of place and of time within so narrow bounds. A view of the Grecian drama, compared with our own, may perhaps relieve us from this dilemma : if they be differently constructed, as shall be made evi- dent, it is possible that the foregoing reasoning may not be equally applicable to both. This is an article that, with relation to the present subject, has not been examined by any writer. All authors agree, that tragedy in Greece was de- rived from the hymns in praise of Bacchus, which were sung in parts of a chorus. Thespis, to relieve the singers, introduced one actor ; whose province it was to explain the subject of the song, and who represented one or other personage. ^Eschylus, introducing a sec- ond actor, formed the dialogue, by which the per- formance became dramatic ; the actors were multi- plied when the subject represented made it necessary. But still, the chorus, which gave a beginning to tragedy, was considered as an essential part. The first scene, generally, unfolds the preliminary 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 introduced, which X2 270 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. as originally, continues upon the stage during the whole performance : the chorus frequently makes one in the dialogue ; and when the dialogue happens to be sus- pended, the chorus, during the interval, is employed in singing. Sophocles adheres to this plan religiously. Euripides is not altogether so correct. In some of his pieces, it becomes 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 repre- sentation : the chorus never leave the stage of their own accord, but at the command of some principal personage, who constantly waits their return. Thus the Grecian drama is a continued representa- tion without interruption. Hence the unities of place and of time were strictly observed in the Greek trage- dies ; which is made necessary by the constitution of their drama, for it is absurd to compose a tragedy that cannot be justly represented. Modern critics, who for our drama pretend to estab- lish rules founded on the practice of the Greeks, are guilty of an egregious blunder. The unities of place and of time were in Greece a matter of necessity, not of choice ; and if we submit to such fetters, it must be from choice, not necessity. This will be evident upon taking a view of the constitution of our drama, which differs widely from that of Greece; whether more or less perfect is a different point, to be handled afterward. By dropping the chorus, opportunity is afforded to divide the representation by intervals of time, during which the stage is evacuated, and the spectacle suspended. This qualifies our drama for subjects spread through a wide space both of time and of place : the time supposed to pass during the sus- pension of the representation, is not measured by the time of suspension; and any place may be supposed when the representation is renewed, with as much fa- cility as when it commenced : by which means, many subjects can be justly represented in our theatres, that were excluded from those of ancient Greece. This THE THREE UNITIES. 271 doctrine may be illustrated, by comparing a modern play to a set of historical pictures; let us suppose them five in number, and the resemblance will be complete. Each of the pictures resembles an act in one of our plays ; there must necessarily be the strict- est unity of place and of time in each picture ; and the same necessity requires 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 pictures, let it be, for example, the history of Alexander by Le Brun, we have no difficulty to conceive, that months or years have passed between the events exhibited in two dif- ferent pictures, though the interruption is impercepti- ble in passing our eye from the one to the other ; and we have -as little difficulty to conceive a change of place, however great. In which view, there is truly no difference between five acts of a modern play, and five such pictures. Where the representation is sus- pended, 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 be conscious that Garrick is not king Lear, that the play-house is not Dover cliffs, nor the noise he hears thunder and light- ning. In a word, after an interruption of the repre- sentation, it is no more difficult for a spectator to ima- gine a new place, or a different time, than at the com- mencement of the play to imagine himself at Rome, or in a period of time two thousand years back. And indeed, it is abundantly ridiculous, that a critic, who is willing to hold candle-light for sun-shine, and some painted canvases 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 representation. There are some effects of great latitude in time that 272 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. ought never to be indulged in a composition for the theatre : nothing can he more absurd, than at the close to exhibit a full-grown person who appears a child at the beginning: the mind rejects, as contrary to all probability, such latitude of time as is requisite for a change so remarkable. The greatest change from place to place has not altogether the same bad effect. In the bulk of human affairs, place is not material ; and the mind, when occupied with an interesting event, is little regardful of minute circumstances : these may be varied at will, because they scarce make any im- pression. But though I have taken arms to rescue modern poets from the despotism of modern critics, I would not be understood to justify liberty without any re- serve. An unbounded license with relation to time and place, is faulty, because it seldom fails to break the unity of action. In the ordinary course of human affairs, single events, such as are represented on the stage, are confined to a narrow spot, and commonly employ no great extent of time : we accordingly sel- dom find strict unity of action in a dramatic composi- tion, where any remarkable latitude is indulged in these particulars. Further, a composition which em- ploys but one place, and requires not a greater length of time than is necessary for the representation, is so much the more perfect; because the confining an event within so narrow bounds, contributes to the unity of action, and prevents that labor, which the mind must undergo in imagining frequent changes of place and many intervals of time. But such limitation of place and time as was necessary in the Grecian drama, is no rule to us ; and though it adds one beauty more to the composition, it is but a refinement which may justly give place to a thousand beauties more substan- tial. And it is extremely difficult to contract within the Grecian limits, any fable so fruitful of incidents in number and variety, as to give full scope to the fluc- tuation of passion. THE THREE UNITIES. 273 Considering attentively the ancient drama, we find, that though the representation is never interrupted, the principal action is suspended not less frequently than in the modern drama : there are five acts in each ; and the only difference is, that in the former, when the ac- tion is suspended as it is at the end of every act, op- portunity is taken of the interval to employ the chorus in singing. Hence it appears, that the Grecian con- tinuity of representation cannot have the effect to prolong the impression of reality : to hanish that im- pression, a pause in the action while the chorus is em- ployed in singing, is no less effectual than a total sus- pension of the representation. A representation with proper pauses, is better quali- fied for making a deep impression, than a continued representation without a pause. Representation can- not very long support an impression of reality ; for when the spirits are exhausted by close attention and by the agitation of passion, an uneasiness ensues, which never fails to banish the waking dream. Supposing the time that a man can employ with strict attention without wandering, to be no greater than is requisite for a single act; it follows that a continued represent- ation of longer endurance than an act, instead of giving scope to a fluctuation and swelling of passion, would overstrain the attention, and produce a total absence of mind. In that respect, the four pauses have a fine effect; for by affording to the audience a seasonable respite when the impression of reality is gone, and while nothing material is in agitation, they relieve the mind from its fatigue, and prevent a wan- dering of thought at the very time possibly of the most interesting scenes. In one article the Grecian model has the advantage: its chorus during an interval not only preserves alive the impressions made upon the audience, but prepares their hearts finely for new impressions. In our thea- tres, the audience, at the end of every act, being left to trifle time away, lose every warm impression ; and 274 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. they begin the next act cool and unconcerned, as at the commencement of the representation. This is a gross malady in our theatrical representations ; but a malady that luckily is not incurable. The music we enjoy between the acts, and which accords with the present tone of mind, is, on that account, doubly agreeable ; and accordingly, though music singly hath not power to raise a passion, it tends greatly to sup- port a passion already raised.. Further, music pre- pares us for the passion that follows, by making cheer- ful, tender, melancholy, or animated impressions, as the subject requires. Take for an example the first scene of the Mourning Bride, where soft music, in a melan- choly strain, prepares us for Almeria's deep distress. In this manner, music and representation support each other delightfully : the impression made upon the audience by the representation, is a fine preparation for the music that succeeds ; and the impression made by the music, is a fine preparation for the representa- tion that succeeds. REVIEW. Why is the history of a single event more interesting than a general history ? Upon which series of connected events do we dwell with most satisfaction ? Describe the beginning of an entire action — the middle — the end. What principle produces the satisfaction derived from such an action ? In what does unity of action consist? Which possesses the greater unity of action, the JEneid or Iliad? What defect in the plan of the Iliad is pointed out? — in the Or- lando Furioso? What license is used by romance writers ? Give an example. What is required in the several scenes of a play? What is meant by a barren scene? What dramatic writer has none? In what relation does unity of action consist? From what does the unity of Hogarth's Enraged Musician arise ? By whom are the unities of time and place observed ? Why are they not required in a narrative poem ? GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 275 What argument is offered in favor of observing the unities of time and place ? What was the origin of the Greek tragedy ? What improvement did Thespis make ? — what did iEschylus? What part did the chorus perform ? Is the chorus continually on the stage? Was the representation ever interrupted in the Grecian drama? What was the consequence with respect to the unities ? Why is it absurd to found rules for the modern on the Greek drama? How are the moderns enabled to disregard the unities of time and place with propriety ? How is this doctrine illustrated ? Can the unity of time be too much violated ? Give an example. Is a great disregard of the unity of place so injurious ? Why is an unbounded license with respect to the unities of time and place, faulty ? Is a strict compliance with the unities of time and place a beauty ? Is it very important ? How was the representation of the ancient drama suspended? What was the effect of this suspension of the action ? What is the advantage of the pauses between the acts of 3 drama ? What advantage arose from the use of the chorus ? What is the use of music between the acts of a drama? CHAPTER XXIV. Gardening and Architecture. Gardening was at first an useful art : in the garden of Alcinous, described by Homer, we find nothing done for pleasure merely. But gardening is now improved into a fine art ; and when we talk of a garden with- out any epithet, a pleasure-garden, by way of emi- nence, is understood. The garden of Alcinous, in mod- ern language, was but a kitchen-garden. Architec- ture has run the same course : it continued many ages an useful art merely, without aspiring to be classed with the fine arts. Architecture, therefore, and gar- dening, being useful arts as well as fine arts, afford two 4* 276 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. different views. The reader will not here expect rules for improving any work of art in point of utility; it being no part of my plan to treat of any useful art as such: but there is a beauty in utility; and in discours- ing of beauty, that of utility must not be neglected. This leads us to consider gardens and buildings in dif- ferent views : they may be destined for use solely, for beauty solely, or for both. Such variety of destina- tion, bestows upon these arts a/ great command of beau- ties, complex no less than varibus. Hence the difficulty of forming an accurate taste in gardening and archi- tecture : and hence that difference and wavering of taste in these arts, greater than in any art that has but a single destination. Architecture and gardening entertain the mind, by raising agreeable emotions or feelings ; with which we must begin, as the true foundation of all the rules of criticism that govern these arts. Gardening, beside the emotions of beauty from regularity, order, propor- tion, color, and utility, raises the emotions of grandeur, sweetness, gaiety, melancholy, wildness, and even of surprise or wonder. In architecture, the beauties of regularity, order, and proportion, are more conspicuous than in gardening ; but architecture is inferior as to the beauty of color. Grandeur can be expressed in a building more successfully than in a garden ; but as to the other emotions above mentioned, architecture has not been brought to the perfection of expressing them distinctly, To balance that defect, it can display the beauty of utility in the highest perfection. Gardening possesses one advantage, never to be equalled in the other art : in various scenes, it can raise successively all the different emotions above men- tioned. But to produce that delicious effect, the gar- den must be extensive, so as to admit a slow succession: for a small garden, comprehended at one view, ought to be confined to one expression ; it may be gay, or sweet, or gloomy*'; but an attempt to mix these, would create a jumble of emotions not a little unpleasant. GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 277 For the same reason, a building, the most magnificent, is confined to one expression. Architecture, as a fine art, instead of being a rival to gardening in its progress, seems not far advanced beyond its infant state. To bring it to maturity, two things are wanted. First, a greater variety of parts and ornaments than at present it seems provided with. Gardening here has the advantage ; it is provided with plenty of materials for raising scenes without end, af- fecting the spectator with a variety of emotions. In architecture, the materials are so scanty, that artists hitherto have not been successful in raising any emo- tions but of beauty and grandeur : with respect to the former, there are plenty of means, regularity, order, symmetry, simplicity, utility; and with respect to the latter, the addition of size is sufficient. But though every building ought to have a certain character or expression suited to its destination, this refinement has scarce been attempted by any artist. The other thing wanted to bring the art to per- fection, is, to ascertain the precise impression made by every single part and ornament, as cupolas, spires, columns, carvings, statues, vases, &c; for in vain will an artist attempt rules for employing these, either singly or in combination, until the different emotions they produce be distinctly explained. 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 prevent the object from making an impression as one entire whole. An artist destitute of genius for capital beau- ties, is prompted to supply the defect by crowding his plan with slight embellishments : hence in a garden, triumphal arches,Chinese houses, temples, obelisks, cas- cades, fountains, without end ; and in a building, pil- lars, vases, statues, and a profusion of carved work. Superfluity 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 artifi- 278 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. cial lake, which is always little, appears still less by making an island in it. In forming plans for embellishing a field, an artist without taste employs straight lines, circles and 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 distributes her objects in great variety with a bold hand. A large field laid out with strict regularity, is stiff and artificial. Having thus far carried on a comparison between gardening and architecture; rules peculiar to each come next in order, beginning with gardening. The simplest plan of a garden, is that embellished with a number of natural objects, trees, walks, polished par- terres, flowers, streams, &c. One more complex com- prehends statues and buildings, that nature and art may be mutually ornamented. A third, approaching nearer perfection, is of objects assembled together, to produce not only an emotion of beauty, but also some other particular emotion, grandeur, for example, gaiety, or any other above mentioned. The completest plan of a garden is an improvement upon the third, re- quiring the several parts to be so arranged, as to in- spire all the different emotions that can be raised by gardening. In this plan, the arrangement is an im- portant 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. When the most opposite emotions, such as gloominess and gaiety, stillness and activity, follow each other in succession, the pleasure, on the whole, will be the greatest : but such emotions ought not to be united, because they produce an unpleasant mixture.. For this reason, a ruin, affording a melan- choly pleasure, ought not to be seen from a flower par- terre, 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 be- GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 279 mg contrasted with the other. Similar emotions, on the other hand, such as gaiety and sweetness, stillness and gloominess, motion and grandeur, ought to be raised together ; for their effects upon the mind are heightened by their conjunction. Kent's method of embellishing a field is admirable; which is to replenish it with beautiful objects, natural and artificial, disposed as they ought to be upon a can- vas in painting. A single garden must be distinguished from a plu- rality ; yet it is not obvious in what the unity of a garden consists. The gardens of Versailles, properly expressed in the plural number, being no fewer than sixteen, are all of them connected with the palace, but have scarce any mutual connexion : they appear not like parts of one whole, but like small gardens in contiguity. Regularity is required in that part of the garden adjacent to the dwelling-house ; because an immediate accessory ought to partake the regularity of the princi- pal object; but in proportion to the distance from the house considered as the centre, regularity ought to be less studied. A small garden, on the other hand, which admits not grandeur, ought to be strictly regular. A hill covered with trees, appears more beautiful as well as more lofty than when naked. To distribute trees in a plain requires more art : near the dwelling- house they ought to be scattered so distant from each other, as >iot 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 ob- ject. 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 ob- jects, appears too artificial, stiff, and formal, to be agreeable : the crowding objects together, lessens the pleasure that would be felt in a slower succession. An object terminating a narrow opening in a wood, 280 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. appears at a double distance. To place a number of thickets in a line, with an opening in each, directing the eye from one to another, will make them appear more remote than they are in reality, and in appear- ance enlarge the size of the whole field. By a judicious distribution of trees, other beauties may be produced. A landscape so rich as to engross the whole attention, and so limited as sweetly to be comprehended under a single view, has a much finer effect than the most extensive landscape that requires a wandering of the eye through successive scenes. This observation suggests a capital rule in laying out a field ; which is, never at any one station to admit a larger prospect than can easily be taken in at once. As gardening is but an imitation of nature, or ra- ther nature ornamented, every thing unnatural ought to be rejected. Statues of wild beasts vomiting wa- ter], a common ornament in gardens, prevail ki those of Versailles. A jet d'eau, being purely artificial, may, without disgust, be tortured into a thousand shapes. In gardening, every lively exhibition of what is beautiful in nature has a fine effect : but distant and faint imitations are displeasing. The cutting ever- greens in the shape of animals, is very ancient. The propensity to imitation gave birth to that practice; and has supported it long, considering how faint and insipid the imitation is. But the vulgar, great and small, are entertained with the oddness and singularity of a resemblance, however distant, between a tree and an animal. An attempt in the gardens of Versailles to imitate a grove of trees by a group of jets tfeau, ap- pears, for the same reason, no less childish. In designing a garden, every thing trivial or whimsi- cal ought to be avoided. A labyrinth is a mere con- ceit, like that of composing verses in the shape of an ax or an egg : the walks and hedges may be agreea- ble ; but in the form of a labyrinth, they serve to no end but to puzzle : a riddle is a conceit not so mean; GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 281 because the solution is proof of sagacity, which affords no aid in tracing a labyrinth. A straight road is the most agreeable, because it shortens the journey. But in an embellished field a straight walk has an air of formality, and is less agreea- ble than a winding walk ; for in surveying the beauties of an ornamented field, we love to roam from place to place at freedom. Winding walks at every step open new views, and the walks in pleasure-grounds ought not to have any appearance of a road : my intention is not to make a journey, but to feast my eye on the beauties of art and nature. Avoid a straight avenue directed upon a dwelling- house; better far an oblique approach in a waving line, with single trees and other scattered objects in- terposed. In a direct approach, the first appearance is continued to the end ; we see a house at a distance, and we see it all along in the same spot without any variety. A garden on a flat ought to be highly and variously ornamented, in order to occupy the mind, and prevent our regretting the insipidity of an uniform plan. Ar- tificial mounts in that view are common : but no per- son has thought of an artificial walk elevated high above the plain. Such a walk is airy, tending to elevate the mind; it extends and varies the prospect; and it makes the plain, seen from a height, appear more agreeable. A ruin should be in the Gothic form, because it ex- hibits the triumph of time over strength; a melancholy but not unpleasant thought : a Grecian ruin suggests rather the triumph of barbarity over taste : a gloomy and discouraging thought. There are not many fountains in a good taste. Sta- tues of animals vomiting water, stand condemned as unnatural. Hitherto a garden has been treated as a work in- tended solely for pleasure, or giving impressions of in- trinsic beauty. Next in order, the beauty of a gar- 282 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. den destined for use, termed relative beauty, shall be dispatched in few words. In gardening, 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 corner 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 contrast to contribute to the beauty of the whole. In this respect, architecture requires a greater stretch of art, as will be seen immediately : for as intrinsic and relative beauty must often be blended in the same building, it becomes a difficult task to attain both in any perfection. In a hot country, it is a capital object to have what may be termed a summer garden; a spot of ground disposed by art and by nature to exclude the sun, but to give free access to the air. In a cold country, the capital object should be a winter garden, open to the sun, sheltered from wind, dry under foot, and taking on the appearance of summer by variety of ever- greens. The relish of a country life, totally extinct in France, is decaying fast in Britain. But as many people of fashion, and some of taste, pass the winter, or part of it, in the country, it is amazing that winter gardens should be overlooked. During summer, every field is a garden; but during half of the year, the weather is seldom so good in Britain as to afford com- fort in the open air without shelter ; and yet seldom so bad as not to afford comfort with shelter. Beside providing for exercise and health, a winter garden may be made subservient ^education, by introducing a habit of thinking. In youth, lively spirits give too great a propensity to pleasure and amusement, making us averse to serious occupation. That untoward bias may be corrected in some degree by a winter garden, which produces in the mind a calm satisfaction, free GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 283 from agitation of passion, whether gay or gloomy ; a fine tone of mind for meditation and reasoning. I proceed now to rules and observations that more peculiarly concern architecture. Architecture, being an useful as well as a fine art, leads us to distinguish buildings and parts of buildings into three kinds, — namely, what are intended for utility solely, what for ornament solely, and what for both. Buildings in- tended for utility, such as detached offices, ought partly to correspond precisely to that intention ; the slightest deviation from the end in view is a blemish. In gene- ral, it is the perfection of every work of art, that it fulfils the purpose for which it is intended ; and every other beauty, in opposition, is improper. But in things intended for ornament, as pillars, obelisks, triumphal arches, beauty alone ought to be regarded. The great difficulty of contrivance respects buildings that are intended to be useful as well as ornamental. These ends, employing different and often opposite means, are seldom united in perfection ; and the only practica- ble method in such buildings is, to favor ornament less or more according to the character of the building : in palaces, and other edifices sufficiently extensive to ad- mit a variety of useful contrivance, regularity justly takes the lead; but in dwelling-houses, that are too small for a variety of contrivance, utility ought to prevail, neglecting regularity as far as it stands in op- position to convenience. Intrinsic and relative beauty, being founded on dif- ferent principles, must be handled separately. I be- gin with relative beauty, as of the greater importance. The proportions of a door are determined by the use to which it is destined. The door of a dwelling-house is confined to seven or eight feet in height, and three or four in breadth. The proportions proper for the door of a barn or coach-house are different, because to study intrinsic beauty in a coach-house or barn, is improper. The principal door of a palace demands all the grandeur that is consistent with the proportions 284 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. dictated by utility : it ought to be elevated and ap- proached by steps, and adorned with pillars supporting an architrave. The door of a church ought to be wide, to afford an easy passage for a multitude, and the width regulates the height. The size of windows ought to be proportioned to that of the room they illu- minate. The steps of a stair ought to be accommo- dated to the human figure, without regarding any other proportion: they are accordingly the same in large and in small buildings, because both are inhabited by men of the same size. I proceed to consider intrinsic beauty blended with that which is relative. Though a cube in itself is more agreeable than a parallelopipedon, yet a large parallelopipedon set on its smaller base, is by its ele- vation more agreeable ; and hence the beauty of a Gothic tower. But supposing this figure to be destined for a dwelling-house, to make way for relative beauty, we immediately perceive that utility ought chiefly to be regarded, and that the figure, inconvenient by its height, ought to be set upon its larger base : for which reason, a figure spread more upon the ground than raised rn ■■■height* is always preferred for a dwelling- house, without excepting even the most superb palace. As to the divisions within, utility requires that the rooms be rectangular ; for otherwise void spaces would be left. An hexagonal figure leaves no void spaces, but it determines the rooms to be all of one size, which is convenient. A room of a moderate size may be a square; but in very large rooms this figure must give place to a parallelogram, which can more easily be adjusted than a square to the smaller rooms contrived entirely for convenience. A parallelogram^ at the same time, is best calculated for receiving light ; because, to avoid cross lights, all the windows ought to be in one wall ; and the opposite wall must be so near as to be fully lighted, otherwise the room will be obscure. The height of a room exceeding nine or ten feet, has little GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE, 285 or no relation to utility, and therefore proportion is the only rule for determining a greater height. In palaces and sumptuous buildings, intrinsic beauty ou^ht to have the ascendant over that which is rela- tive. But in dwelling-houses of moderate size, in- trinsic beauty cannot be displayed in any perfection, without wounding relative beauty ; and yet architects never give over attempting to reconcile these two in- compatibles; how otherwise should it happen, that of the endless variety of private dwelling-houses, there is scarce an instance of any one being chosen for a pattern ? Nothing can be more evident, than that the form of a dwelling-house ought to be suited to the climate : and yet no error is more common, than to copy in Britain the form of Italian houses ; not forgetting even those parts that are purposely contrived for air, and for excluding the sun. Having said what appeared necessary upon relative beauty, the next step is, to view architecture as one of the fine arts. In the w T orks of nature, rich and magnificent, variety prevails: and in w r orks of art that are contrived to imitate nature, the great art is to hide? every appearance of art; which is done by avoiding regularity, and indulging variety. But in works of art, that are original, and not imitative, the timid hand is guided by rule and compass J and accordingly in architecture strict regularity and uni- formity are studied, as far as is consistent with utility. Proportion of parts is not only itself a beauty, but is inseparably connected with a beauty of the highest relish, that of concord or harmony; which will be plain from what follows. A room of which the parts are all finely adjusted to each other, strikes us with the beauty of proportion. It strikes tts, at the same time, with a pleasure far superior : the length, the breadth, the height, the windows, raise each of them separately an emotion : these emotions are similar, and though faint when felt separately, they produce 286 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. in conjunction the emotion of concord or harmony, which is extremely pleasant. On the other hand, where the length of a room far exceeds the breadth, the mind, comparing together parts so intimately connected, immediately perceives a disagreement or disproportion which disgusts. But this is not all: viewing them separately, different emotions are pro- duced, that of grandeur from the great length, and that of meanness or littleness from the small breadth, which in union are disagreeable by their discordance. Hence it is, that a long gallery, however convenient for exercise, is not an agreeable figure of a room : we consider it, like a stable, as destined for use, and ex- pect not that in any other respect it should be agree- able. Regularity and proportion are essential in buildings destined chiefly or solely to please the eye, because they produce intrinsic beauty. But a skilful artist will not confine his view to regularity and proportion : he will also study congruity, which is perceived when the form and ornaments of a structure are suited to the purpose for which it is intended. The sense of congruity dictates the following rule, That every building have an expression corresponding to its desti- nation : a palace ought to be sumptuous and grand; a private dwelling, neat and modest ; a playhouse, gay and splendid; and a monument, gloomy and melancholy. A heathen temple has a double destination : it is con- sidered chiefly as a house dedicated to some divinity, and in that respect it ought to be grand, elevated, and magnificent ; it is considered also as a place of wor- ship, and in that respect it ought to be somewhat dark or gloomy, because dimness produces that tone of mind which is suited to humility and devotion. A Christian church is not considered to be a house for the Deity, but merely a place of worship : it ought therefore to be decent and plain,! without much ornament: a situa- tion ought to be chosen low and retired ; because the congregation, during worship, ought to be humble and GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 287 disengaged from the world. Columns, beside their chief service of being supports, may contribute to that pe- culiar expression which the destination of a building requires ; columns of different proportions, serve to express loftiness, lightness, &c. as well as strength. Situation also may contribute to expression : conve- niency regulates the situation of a private dwelling- house ; but, as I have had occasion to observe, the situation of a palace ought to be lofty. And this leads to a question, Whether the situation, where there happens to be no choice, ought, in any measure, to regulate the form of the edifice? The connexion between a large house and the neighboring fields, though not intimate, demands, however, some congruity. It would, for example, displease us to find an elegant building thrown away upon a wild unculti- vated country : congruity requires a polished field for such a building ; and beside the pleasure of congruity, the spectator is sensible of the pleasure of concordance from the similarity of the emotions produced by the two objects. The old Gothic form of building seems well suited to the rough uncultivated regions where it was invented ; the only mistake was, the transferring this form to the fine plains of France and Italy, better for buildings in the Grecian taste; but by refining upon the Gothic form, every thing possible has been done to reconcile it to its new situation. The profuse variety of wild and grand objects about Inverary de- manded a house in a Gothic form ; and every one must approve the taste of the proprietor, in adjusting so finely the appearance of his house to that of the country where it is placed. The external structure of a great house, leads naturally to its internal structure. A spacious room, which is the first that commonly receives us, seems a bad contrivance in several respects. In the first place, when immediately from the open air we step into such a room, its size in appearance is diminished by con- trast : it looks littlo compared with that great canopy 288 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. the sky. In the next place, when it recovers its gran- deur, as it soon doth, it gives a diminutive appearance to the rest of the house : passing from it, every apart- ment looks little. A great room, which enlarges the mind and gives a certain elevation to the spirits, is destined by nature for conversation. Rejecting therefore this form, I take a hint from the climax in writing for another form that appears more suitable, by a progression from small to great. If the house be very largp* there may be space for the following suit of roomiufirst, a por- tico ; second, a passage within the house, bounded by a double row of columns connected by arcades ; third, an octagon room, or of any other figure, about the centre of the building ; and lastly, the great room. ., Artists have generally an inclination to form me great room into a double cube, even with the incon- venience of a double row of windows : they are pleased with the regularity, overlooking that it is mental only, and not visible to the eye, which seldom can distinguish between the height of 24 feet and that of 30. Of all the emotions that can be raised by architec- ture, grandeur is that which has the greatest influence on the mind ; and it ought therefore to be the chief study of the artist. But as grandeur depends partly on size, it seems so far unlucky for architecture, that it is governed by ^regularity and proportion. But though regularity and proportion contribute nothing to grandeur as far as that emotion depends on size, they in a different respect contribute greatly to it, as has been explained above. Next of ornaments, which contribute to give build- ings a peculiar expression. A private dwelling-house and other edifices where use is the chief aim, admit not regularly any ornament but what has the appear- ance, at least, of use : but temples, triumphal arches, and other buildings intended chiefly or solely for show, admit every sort of ornament. A thing intended merely as an ornament, may be of GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 289 any figure ; if it please the spectator, the artist gains his end. Statues, vases, sculpture upon stone, whether basso or alto relievo, are beautiful ornaments. A statue in perfection is an enchanting work ; and we naturally require that it should be seen in every di- rection and at different distances ; for which reason, statues employed as ornaments are proper to adorn the great staircase that leads to the principal door of a palace, or to occupy the void between pillars. But a niche in the external front is not a proper place for a statue. To adorn the top of a wall with a row of vases is an unhappy conceit, by placing things appa- rently of use where they cannot be of any use. Upon the pedestal, whether of a statue or a column, the ancients never ventured any bolder ornament than the basso-relievo. Long robes appear noble, not singly for their flowing lines, but for their being the habit of magistrates; and a scarf acquires an air of dignity by being the badge of a superior order of churchmen. These examples may be thought sufficient for a specimen : a diligent inquiry into human nature will discover other in- fluencing principles; and hence it is, that of all sub- jects ornaments admit the greatest variety in point of taste. 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. The only circumstances that can serve to distinguish one order from another, are the form of the column, and its destination. To make the first a distinguishing mark, without regard to the other, would multiply these orders without end ; for a color is not more sus- ceptible of different shades, than a column is of differ- ent forms. Destination is more limited, as it leads to distinguish columns into three kinds or orders: one plain and strong, for the purpose of supporting plain and massy buildings; one delicate and graceful, for Z 290 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM supporting buildings of that character , and between these, one for supporting buildings of a middle charac- ter. This distinction, which regards the different pur- poses of a column, is not naturally liable to any objec- tion, considering that it tends also to regulate the form, and in some measure the ornaments, of a column If we regard destination only, the Tuscan is of the same order with the Doric, and the Composite with the Corinthian ; but if we regard form merely, they are of different orders. The ornaments of these three orders ought to be so contrived as to make them look like what they are intended for. Plain and rustic ornaments would be not a little discordant with the elegance of the Corinthian order ; and ornaments sweet and delicate, no less so with the strength of the Doric. The Corinthian order has been the favorite of two thousand years, and yet I cannot force myself to relish its capital. The in- vention of this florid capital is ascribed to the sculptor Callimachus, who took a hint from the plant Acanthus growing around a basket placed accidentally upon it ; and in fact the capital under consideration represents pretty accurately a basket so ornamented : an Acan- thus, or any tender plant, may require support, but is altogether insufficient to support any thing heavier than a bee or a butterfly. This capital must also bear the weight of another objection: to represent a vine wreathing round a column with its root seemingly in the ground, is natural; but to represent an Acan- thus, or any plant, as growing on the top of a column, is unnatural. The elegance of this capital did proba-l bly at first draw a veil over its impropriety; and now] by long use it has gained an establishment, respected! by every artist. Such is the force of custom, even inl contradiction to nature ! With respect to buildings of every sort, one rule dictated by utility, is, that they be firm and stable.1 Another rule, dictated by beauty, is, that they also appear so : for what appears tottering and in hazard GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 291 of tumbling, produceth in the spectator the painful emotion of fear, instead of the pleasant emotion of beauty ; and, accordingly, it is the great care of the artist, that every part of his edifice appear to be well supported. To succeed in allegorical or emblematic ornaments, is no slight effort of genius; for it is extremely difficult to dispose them so in a building as to produce any good effect. The mixing them with realities, makes a miserable jumble of truth and fiction. The temples of Ancient and Modern Virtue in the gardens of Stowe appear not at first view emblematical; and when we are informed that they are so, it is not easy to gather their meaning : the spectator sees one temple entire, another in ruins ; but without an explanatory inscrip- tion he may guess, but cannot be certain, that the former being dedicated to Ancient Virtue, the latter to Modern Virtue, are intended as a satire upon the present times. On the other hand, a trite emblem, like a trite simile, is disgustful. A room in a dwelling-house containing a monument to a deceased friend, is dedica- ted to Melancholy : it has a clock that strikes every minute, to signify how swiftly time passes — upon the monument, weeping figures and other hackneyed or- naments commonly found upon tomb-stones, with a stuffed raven in a corner — verses on death, and other serious subjects, inscribed all around. These objects are too familiar, and the artifice too apparent, to pro- duce the intended effect.* The statue of Moses striking a rock from which water actually issues, is also in a false taste ; for it is mixing reality with representation. Moses himself may bring water out of the rock, but this miracle is * In the city of Mexico there was a palace termed the house of affliction, where Montezuma retired upon losing any of his friends or upon any public calamity. This house was better adjusted to its destination : it inspired a sort of horror : all was black and dismal ; small windows, shut up with grates, scarce allowing pas- sage to the light. 292 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. too much for his statue. The same objection lies against a cascade where the statue of a water-god pours out of his urn real water. I am more doubtful whether the same objection lies against the employing statues of animals as supports ; that of a negro, for example, supporting a dial, statues of fish supporting a basin of water, Termes supporting a chimney-piece ; for when a stone is used as a sup- port, where is the incongruity, it will be said, to cut it into the form of an animal? But leaving this doubtful, another objection occurs, That such designs must in some measure be disagreeable, by the appearance of giving pain to a sensitive being. It is observed above of gardening, that it contributes to rectitude of manners, by inspiring gaiety and be- nevolence. I add another observation, That both gar- dening 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 poor people in the neighborhood. They become fond of regularity and neatness ; which is displayed, first upon their yards and little inclosures, and next within-doors. A taste for regularity and neatness, thus acquired, is extended by degrees to dress, and even to behavior and manners. The author of a history of Switzerland, describing the fierce manners of the plebeians of Berne I three or four centuries ago, continually inured to sue- 1 cess in war, w T hich made them insolently aim at a I change of government in order to establish a purel democracy, observes, that no circumstance tendedl more to sweeten their manners, and to make them! fond of peace, than the public buildings carried on byl the senate for ornamenting their capital ; particularlj a fine town-house, and a magnificent church, which tc this day, says our author, stands its ground as one of the finest in Europe. GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE, 293 REVIEW. To what are gardening and architecture now improved. Does the author propose to treat them as useful or fine arts ? What are the two different destinations of gardening and archi- tecture ? What does this variety of destination bestow on these arts ? How do they entertain the mind ? What emotions does gardening raise ? In what is architecture superior ? — in what inferior to garden- Which is superior in grandeur? — in utility ? What great advantage does gardening possess ? What Ts necessary for producing this effect ? To what is a building confined ? What is wanted to bring architecture to maturity ? How does it differ from gardening, with respect to materials ? What is the other thing wanted to briDg architecture to perfec- tion ? What should be a ruling principle in gardening and architec- ture ? How is it violated ? What bad effect results from superfluity of decoration ? What mistake is made in forming plans? What is the effect of strict regularity in laying out a large field? What is the simplest plan of a garden? — a more complex? — the third kind ? — the completest plan ? What is important in this plan? What emotions should follow each other ? Should they be united ? — why not ? Give examples. What emotions ought to be raised together ? What is Kent's method of embellishing a field? What is observed of the gardens of Versailles ? Where should regularity be studied, and where should it not be studied ? How should trees be disposed ? What is observed of the star form ? How should thickets be disposed ? What is the rule in laying out a field ? What ornaments should be rejected in gardening? What sort of imitations are displeasing? Give an example. With what are the vulgar entertained ? What should be avoided in designing a garden ? What sort of walks are most agreeable in an embellished field ? —why ? Why is a straight avenue less agreeable than a winding one? Why should a garden on a flat be highly ornamented ? What is the advantage of an elevated walk ? Why is a Gothic preferable to a Grecian ruin ? What kind of fountain is condemned ? Z2 294 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. Is it necessary, in gardening, to oppose relative to intrinsic beauty ? What is a summer garden ? Where is it suitable ? Where is a winter garden desirable ? What are its requisite properties? How may it be made subservient to education ? Into what three kinds are buildings and parts of buildings dis- tributed ? What is required in buildings intended for utility ? Where should beauty alone be regarded ? Where is the great difficulty of contrivance ? Where should regularity prevail? — where utility? What is required in the door of a dwelling-house ? — of a palace ? —of a church ? Whence arises the beauty of a Gothic tower? What sort of figure is preferred for a dwelling-house 1f\/\sL& What is the form of rooms required by utility ? What form is best calculated for receiving light? Where should intrinsic beauty be preferred to relative beauty? Do the British always suit their dwellings to their climate ? What is chiefly necessary in works of art that are intended to imitate nature? ^^pU l ^ftf How is this done? What are chiefly studied in works of art that are original ? What is the effect of a well-proportioned room ? — of an ill-pro- portioned one?'// In what are regularity and proportion, essential ? — why ? ule does congruity dictate ? Give examples. What rule does congruity dictate ? -•< Give examples. What is required in a Christian church? — in its situation ?- why? What do columns express ? Should the situation of a building regulate its form ? Give an example. To what is the Gothic form of building suited ? Why should the room, which first receives us on entering a house, not be large? What suit of rooms is proposed for a very large house ? What is the inconvenience of a double row of windows in the same room ? What should be the chief study of the architect ? What sort of ornament do private dwellings admit?. — temples, triumphal arches, and other buildings intended for show ? Where should statues be placed ? Why should not vases be placed on the top of a wall ? What ornaments did the ancients use for pedestals ? What subjects admit the greatest variety in point of taste? What were the three Grecian orders of architecture ? How are columns distinguished with respect to their destination? With respect to destination, what order is classed with the Doric? —what with the Corinthian ? How should the ornaments of the three orders be contrived ? GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 295 Give examples. Who invented the Corinthian capital ? From what did he take its form ? /^ . What objections are made to it ? What rule with respect to buildings is dictated by utility?— what by beauty ? — why ? What is the great care of the artist? What kind of ornaments is most difficult ? What is the effect of mixing them with realities ? Give examples. What is observed of the statue of Moses striking a rock from which water actually issues ? Why are statues employed for supports disagreeable ? How do gardening and architecture contribute to rectitude of manners ? Give examples. CHAPTER XXIII. Standard of Taste. It is a common proverb that there is no disputing about taste. One thing at first view is evident, that if the proverb holds true with respect to taste in its proper meaning, it must hold equally true with respect to our other external senses : if the pleasures of the palate disdain a comparative trial, and reject all criti- cism, the pleasures of touch, of smell, of sound, and even of sight, must be equally privileged. At that rate, a man is not within the reach of censure, even where he prefers the Saracen's Head upon a sign-post before the best tablature of Raphael, or a rude Gothic tower before the finest Grecian building ; or where he prefers an unpleasant smell before that of the most odoriferous flow T er, or discords before exquisite har- mony. If the pleasures of external sense be exempted from criticism, why not every one of our pleasures, from whatever source derived ? If taste in its proper sense cannot be disputed, there is little room for disputing it in its figurative sense. The proverb accordingly com- 296 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. prehends both; and in that large sense may he re- solved into the following general proposition,/ That with respect to the perceptions of sense, by v T*fhich some objects appear agreeable, some disagreeable, there is no such a thing as a good or a bad, a right or a wrong ; that every man's taste is to himself an ultimate standard without appeal ; and consequently that there is no ground of censure against any one who prefers Blackmore before Homer, selfishness before benevo- lence, or cowardice before magnanimity. The proverb in the foregoing examples is indeed carried very far : it seems difficult, however, to sap its foundation, or attack it successfully from any quar- ter; every man is equally a judge of what ought to be agreeable or disagreeable to himself. Is it not whimsical and absurd, to assert, that a man ought not to be pleased when he is, or that he ought to be pleased when he is not ? This reasoning may perplex, but will never afford conviction : every one of taste will reject it as false, however unqualified to detect the fallacy. Though no man of taste will assent to the proverb as holding true in every case, no man will affirm that it holds true in no case; there are objects that we may like or dis- like indifferently, without any imputation upon our taste. Were a philosopher to make a scale for human pleasures, he would not think of making divisions without end: but would rank together pleasures arising perhaps from different objects, either as conducing to happiness, or differing so imperceptibly as to make a separation unnecessary. Nature has taken this course as to the generality of mankind. There may be sub- divisions without end ; but we are only sensible of the grosser divisions, comprehending pleasures equally af- fecting: to these the proverb is applicable in the strictest sense; for with respect to pleasures of the same rank, what ground can there be for preferring one before another ? If a preference in fact be given I STANDARD OF TASTE. 297 by any individual, it cannot proceed from taste, but from custom, imitation, or some peculiarity of mind. Nature, in her scale of pleasures, has been sparing of divisions; she has wisely and benevolently filled every division with many pleasures, that individuals may be -contented with their own lot, without envying that of others. Many hands must be employed to procure us the conveniences of life ; and it is necessa- ry that the different branches of business, whether more or less agreeable, be filled with hands : a taste too refined would obstruct that plan ; for it would crowd some employments, leaving others, no less use- ful, totally neglected. Fortunately the plurality are not delicate in their choice, but fall in readily with the occupations, pleasures, food, and company, that fortune throws in their w T ay; and if at first there be any dis- pleasing circumstance, custom soon makes it easy. The proverb will hold true as to the particulars now explained ; but when applied in general to every sub- ject of taste, the difficulties to be encountered are in- superable. We need only to mention the difficulty that arises from human nature itself. Do we not talk of a good and a bad taste ? — of a right and a wrong taste ? — and upon that supposition, do we not censure writers, painters, architects, and every one who deals in the fine arts ? Are such criticisms absurd, and void of common sense? — have the foregoing expressions, familiar in all languages and among all people, no sort of meaning? This can hardly be : for what is uni- versal, must have a foundation in nature. If we can reach that foundation, the standard of taste will no longer be a secret. We have a sense or conviction of a common nature in our own species, and in every species of animals : and this common nature is a model or standard for each individual that belongs to the kind. Hence it is a wonder to find an individual deviating from the com- mon nature of the species, whether in its internal or external construction : a child born with aversion to 298 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. its mother's milk, is a wonder, no less than if born with out a mouth, or with more than one. This conviction of a common nature in every species, paves the way for distributing things into genera and species; to which we are prone. With respect to the common nature oi man in par- ticular, we have a conviction that it is invariable not less than universal. Nor are we deceived : because, giving allowance for the difference of culture and gradual refinement of manners, the fact corresponds to our conviction. We are so constituted, as to conceive this common nature to be invariable, perfect or right ; and that in- dividuals ought to be made conformable to it. Every remarkable deviation from the standard makes an im- pression upon us of imperfection, irregularity, or disor- der : it is disagreeable, and raises in us a painful emo- tion ; monstrous births, exciting the curiosity of a phi- losopher, fail not at the same time to excite a sort of horror. This conviction of a common nature or standard, and of its perfection, accounts clearly for that re- markable conception we have of a right and a wrong sense or taste in morals, and also in the fine arts. A man who, avoiding objects generally agreeable, de- lights in objects generally disagreeable, is condemned as a monster ; we disapprove his taste as bad or wrong because we have a clear conception that he deviates from the common standard. Men are prone to flatter themselves, by taking it for granted that their opinions and their taste are in all respects conformable to the common standard ; but there are exceptions without number, of persons who are addicted to gross amusements without having any relish for the more elegant pleasures afforded by the fine arts; yet these very persons, talking the same language with the rest of mankind, pronounce in fa- vor of the more elegant pleasures, and invariably ap- prove those who have a more refined taste, being STANDARD OF TASTE.