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LECTURES 
 
 ON 
 
 RHETORIC 
 
 AND \ 
 
 BELLES LETTRES. 
 
 BY HUGH BLAIR, D.D. F.R.S. E. 
 
 ONE OF THE MINISTERS OF THE HIGH CHURCH, AND PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC 
 AND BELLES LETTRES IN THE UNIVERSITY OE EDINBURGH. 
 
 THIRTEENTH AMERICAN, 
 FROM THE LAST LONDON EDITION. 
 
 TO WHICH IS NOW ADDED 
 
 THE LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 PRINTED BY JAMES AND JOHN HARPER, 
 
 FOR MESSRS. E. DUYCKINCK, COLLINS & HANNAV, COLLINS & CO. 
 E. BLISS & E. WHITE, AND VALENTINE SEAMAN- 
 
 1824, 
 
*& 
 
 
 By 
 
 NOV 3 ^25 
 

 PREFACE 
 
 The following Lectures were read in the University of Edin- 
 burgh for twenty-four years. The publication of them, at present, 
 was not altogether a matter of choice. Imperfect copies of them, 
 in manuscript, from notes taken by students who heard them read, 
 were first privately handed about ; and afterward frequently expo- 
 sed to public sale. When the author saw them circulate so cur- 
 rently, as even to be quoted in print,* and found himself often 
 threatened with surreptitious publications of them, he judged it to 
 be high time that they should proceed from his own hand, rather 
 than come into public view under some very defective and erro- 
 neous form. 
 
 They were originally designed for the initiation of youth into the 
 study of Belles Lettres, and of Composition. With the same inten- 
 tion they are now published ; and therefore, the form of Lectures, 
 in which they were at first composed, is still retained. The author 
 gives them to the world, neither as a work wholly original, nor as a 
 compilation from the writings of others . On every subj ect contained 
 in them, he has thought for himself. He consulted his own ideas 
 and reflections : and a great part of what will be found in these 
 Lectures is entirely his own. At the same time, he availed himself 
 of the ideas and reflections of others, as far as he thought them 
 proper to be adopted. To proceed in this manner, was his duty 
 as a public professor. It was incumbent on him, to convey to his 
 pupils all the knowledge that could improve them ; to deliver not 
 merely what was new, but what might be useful, from whatever 
 quarter it came. He hopes, that to such as are studying to culti- 
 vate their taste, to form their style, or to prepare themselves for 
 public speaking or composition, his Lectures will afford a more com- 
 prehensive view of what relates to these subjects, than, as far as he 
 knows, is to be received from any one book in our language, 
 
 * Biographia Britannica. Article Addisobt, 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 In order to render his work of greater service, he has generally 
 referred to the books which he consulted, as far as he remembers 
 them ; that the readers might be directed to any farther illustration 
 which they afford. But as such a length of time has elapsed since 
 the first composition of these Lectures, he may, perhaps, have adopt- 
 ed the sentiments of some author into whose writings he had then 
 looked, without now remembering whence he derived them. 
 
 In the opinions which he has delivered concerning such a variety 
 of authors, and of literary matters, as come under his considera- 
 tion, he cannot expect that all his readers will concur with him* 
 The subjects are of such a nature, as allow room for much di- 
 versity of taste and sentiment : and the author will respectfully 
 submit to the judgment of the public. 
 
 Retaining the simplicity of the lecturing style, as best fitted for 
 conveying instruction, he has aimed, in his language, at no more than 
 perspicuity. If, after the liberties which it was necessary for him to 
 take, in criticising the style of the most eminent writers in our lan- 
 guage, his own style shall be thought open to reprehension, all that 
 he can say is, that his book will add one to the many proofs 
 already afforded to the world, of its being much easier to give in- 
 struction, than to set example . 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Lect. page 
 
 I. Introduction -'■■*.■•-?-,■- 9 
 
 II. Taste - 15 
 
 III. Criticism— Genius — Pleasures of taste — Sublimity in 
 
 objects -25 
 
 - IV. The sublime in writing --34 
 
 V. Beauty, arid other pleasures of taste ------ 45 
 
 VI. Rise and progress of language - 53 
 
 VII. Rise and progress of language, and of writing - - - 62 
 
 VIII. Structure of language 71 
 
 IX. Structure of language — English tongue 81 
 
 X. Style — Perspicuity and precision 91 
 
 XI. Structure of sentences -- 101 
 
 XII. Structure of sentences ----- 110 
 
 XIII. Structure of sentences — Harmony 120 
 
 XIV. Origin and nature of figurative language 131 
 
 XV. Metaphor - 141 
 
 XVI. Hyperbole — Personification — Apostrophe 152 
 
 XVII. Comparison, Antithesis, Interrogation, Exclamation, and 
 
 other figures of speech -- -163 
 
 XVIII. Figurative Language— General Characters of Style — 
 Diffuse, Concise— Feeble, Nervous— Dry, Plain, Neat, 
 Elegant, Flowery 172 
 
 XIX. General characters of Style — Simple, Affected, Vehe- 
 ment — Directions for forming a proper style - - - 183 
 XX. Critical examination of the Style of Mr. Addison, in No. 
 
 411 of the Spectator - - 193 
 
 XXI. Critical examination of the Style in No. 412 of the 
 
 Spectator - - - - 203 
 
 XXII. Critical Examination of the Style in No. 413 of' the 
 
 Spectator --- 210 
 
 XXIII. Critical Examination of the Style in No. 414 of the 
 
 Spectator - ' 217 
 
 XXIV. Critical Examination of the Style in a Passage of Dean 
 
 Swift's writings -.-,-_- 224 
 
 XXV. Eloquence, or Public Speaking — History of Eloquence- 
 Grecian Eloquence — Demosthenes 234 
 
 XXVI. History of Eloquence continued— Roman Eloquence- 
 Cicero — Modem Eloquence - - - ■..- = -'■ - - 24 f 
 
VI CONTENTS* 
 
 i 
 
 LECT. PAGE 
 
 XXVII. Different Kinds of Public Speaking — Eloquence of Po- 
 pular Assemblies — Extracts from Demosthenes - <»_ 255 
 XXVIII. Eloquence of the Bar — Analysis of Cicero's Oration 
 
 for Cluentius - - - 267 
 
 XXIX. Eloquence of the Pulpit 280 
 
 XXX. Critical Examination of a Sermon of Bishop Atterbury's 292 
 XXXI. Conduct of a Discourse in all its Parts— Introduction — 
 
 Division — Narration and Explication - - - - - 305 
 XXXII. Conduct of a Discourse — The Argumentative Part' — 
 
 The Pathetic Part— The Peroration 316 
 
 XXXIII. Pronunciation or Delivery - - 326 
 
 XXXIV. Means of improving in Eloquence ' - . - - - - - 337 
 XXXV. Comparative Merit of the Ancients and the Moderns — 
 
 Historical Writing 346 
 
 XXXVI. Historical Writing 356 
 
 XXXVII. Philosophical Writing — Dialogue — Epistolary Writing 
 
 — Fictitious History 366 
 
 XXXVIII. Nature of Poetry — Its Origin and Progress— Versifica- 
 tion - - ------- 376 
 
 XXXIX. Pastoral Poetry— Lyric Poetry - - 387 
 
 XL. Didactic Poetry — Descriptive Poetry ----- 399 
 
 XLI. The Poetry of the Hebrews - - 410 
 
 XLII. Epic Poetry 420 
 
 XLIII. Homer's Iliad and Odyssey — Virgil's ^Eneid - - - 430 
 XLIV. Lucan's Pharsalia — Tasso's Jerusalem — Camoens's Lu- 
 said — Fenelon's Telemachus — Voltaire's Henriade — 
 
 Milton's Paradise Lost --- 440 
 
 XLV. Dramatic Poetry — Tragedy -- 452 
 
 XLVI. Tragedy — Greek, French, English Tragedy - - - - 464 
 XLVII. Comedy — Greek and Roman — French — English Co- 
 medy ------- 476 
 
 i 
 
THE 
 
 LIFE OF DR. HUGH BLAIR. 
 
 DR. HUGH BLAIR was born in Edinburgh on the 7th of April, 1718. He was 
 descended from the ancient and respectable family of Blair, in Ayrshire. His great 
 grandfather, Mr. Robert Blair, minister of St. Andrews, and chaplain to Charles I. 
 was distinguished by his firm attachment to the cause of freedom, and his zealous 
 support of the Presbyterian form of church government, in the time of the civil wars. 
 The talents of this worthy man seem to have descended as an inheritance to his pos- 
 terity. Of the two sons who survived him, David the eldest, was one of the Minis- 
 ters of the Old Church in Edinburgh, and father of Mr. Robert Blair, minister of 
 Athelstaneford, the celebrated author of the poem, entitled " The Grave," and 
 grandfather of Lord President Blair, distinguished by his masculine eloquence, pro- 
 found knowledge of law, and hereditary love of literature. From his youngest son 
 Hugh, sprung Mr. John Blair, who was a respectable merchant, and one of the Magis- 
 trates of Edinburgh. He married Martha Ogston ; and the first child of this mar- 
 riage was the excellent person who is the subject of this narrative. 
 
 In consequence of some misfortunes in trade, his father retired from mercantile 
 business, and obtained an office in the excise ; yet his fortune was not so much 
 impaired as to prevent him from giving his son a liberal education. 
 
 From his earliest youth his views were turned towards the clerical profession, and 
 his education received a suitable direction. After going through the usual gramma- 
 tical course at the High-school, he entered the Humanity class, in the University of 
 Edinburgh, in October, 1730, and spent eleven years in that celebrated seminary in 
 the study of literature, philosophy, and divinity. In all the classes he was dis- 
 tinguished among his companions, both for diligence and proficiency ; but in the 
 Logic class he attained particular distinction, by an Essay On the Beautiful; which 
 had the good fortune to attract the notice of Professor Stevenson, and was appointed 
 to be read publicly at the end of the session, with the most flattering marks of the 
 Professor's approbation. This mark of distinction made a deep impression on his 
 mind, and determined the bent of his genius towards polite literature. 
 
 At this time he formed a plan of study which contributed much to the accuracy 
 and extent of his knowledge. It consisted in making abstracts of the most important 
 works which he read, and in digesting them according to the train of his own thoughts. 
 History, in particular, he resolved to study in this manner, and constructed a very 
 comprehensive scheme of chronological tables for receiving into its proper place every 
 important fact that should occur. This scheme has been given to the world in a more 
 extensive and correct form by his learned friend Dr. John Blair, Prebendary of 
 Westminster, in his " Chronology and History of the World." 
 
 In 1739, he took the degree of Master of Arts ; and on that occasion, printed and 
 defended a thesis, De fundamentis et obligatione Legis Natural, which exhibits an 
 outline of the moral principles by which the world was afterward to profit in his 
 Sermons. 
 
 At this period he was engaged as a tutor in the family of Lord Lovat, and spent 
 one summer in the north country, attending his Lordship's eldest son, afterward Ge- 
 neral Fraser. When his pupil was appointed to the command of the 7lst Regiment, 
 
Vlll THE LIFE OF 
 
 he testified his respect for his old tutor, by making him chaplain to one of its bat- 
 talions. 
 
 On the completion of his academical course, he was licensed to preach the Gospel 
 by the Presbytery of Edinburgh, on the 21st of October, 1741 . His first appearances 
 in the pulpit fully justified the expectations of his friends, and, in a few months, the 
 fame of his eloquence procured for him a presentation to the church of Colessie, in 
 Fifeshire, where he was ordained minister on the 23d September, 1742. 
 
 He was not permitted to remain long in the obscurity of a country parish. In 
 consequence of a vacancy in the second charge of the Cannongate of Edinburgh, which 
 was to be supplied by popular election, his friends were enabled to recall him to a 
 station more suited to his talents. Though Mr. Robert Walker, a popular and 
 eloquent preacher, was his competitor, he obtained a majority of votes, and was 
 admitted on the 14th of July, 1743. In this station he continued eleven years, 
 assiduously devoted to the attainment of professional excellence, and the regular dis- 
 charge of his parochial duties. 
 
 In 1748, he married his cousin, Catharine Bannatyne, daughter of the Rev. 
 James Bannatyne, one of _ the ministers of Edinburgh ; a woman distinguished 
 for the strength of her understanding, and the prudence of her conduct. In con- 
 sequence of a call from the Town Council of Edinburgh, he was translated from 
 the Cannongate to Lady Yester's church, in the city, on the 11th of October, 1754; 
 and from thence to the first charge in the High Church, on the 15th of June, 
 175S, the most respectable clerical situation in the kingdom. The uniform prudence, 
 ability, and success, which for a period of more than fifty years, accompanied all 
 his ministerial labours ra that conspicuous and difficult charge, sufficiently evince 
 the wisdom of their choice. His discourses from the pulpit were composed with 
 uncommon care, and attracted universal admiration. 
 
 In June, 1757, the University of St. Andrews showed its discernment by conferring 
 on him the degree of Doctor in Divinity ; an academical honour which at that time 
 was very rare in Scotland. 
 
 His fame as a preacher was by this time established, but no production of his pen 
 had yet been given to the world except two Sermons, preached on particular occa- 
 sions, some translations, in verse, of passages of Scripture for the Psalmody of the 
 church, and the article on Dr. Hutcheson's " System of Moral Philosophy," in the 
 41 Edinburgh R-eview ;" a periodical work begun in 1755. Of this paper two numbers 
 only appeared, in which his learned friends Dr. Adam Smith, Dr. Robertson, and 
 Mr. Wedderburn, afterward Earl of Roslin, had a principal share. 
 
 At an early period of his life, while he, and his cousin Mr. George Bannatyne, 
 were students in Divinity, they wrote a poem entitled The Resurrection, copies of 
 which were handed about in manuscript. JSTo one appearing to claim the perform- 
 ance, an edition of it was published in 1749, in folio, to which the name William 
 Douglas, M.D. was appended as the author. 
 
 Besides the compositions above mentioned, he was supposed to have repelled an 
 attack on his friend Lord Kaimes, by Mr. George Anderson, in his " Analysis of the 
 Essays on Morality," &c. in a pamphlet entitled Observations on the Analysis, &c. 
 8vo. 1755, and was believed likewise to have lent his aid in a formal reply made by 
 Lord Kaimes himself, under the title of Obsemations against the Essays on Morality 
 and Natural Religion, examined, 8vo. 1756." 
 
 Having now found sufficient leisure, from the laborious duties of his profession, to 
 turn his attention to general literature, he began seriously to think on a plan for 
 teaching to others that art which had contributed so much to the establishment of his 
 own fame. Encouraged by the success of his predecessors, Dr. Smith, and Dr Wat- 
 son, and the advice of his friend Lord Kaimes, he prepared with this view, a course 
 of Lectures on Composition, and having obtained the approbation of the University, 
 he began to read them in the College on the 11th of December, 1 759. To this under- 
 taking he brought all the qualifications requisite for executing it well ; and along with 
 them a weight of reputation which could not fail to give effect to the lessons he should 
 teach. Accordingly, his first course of Lectures was well attended, and received with 
 great applause. 
 
 In August, 1760, the Town Council of Edinburgh instituted a Rhetorical class in 
 the University under his direction, as an addition to the system of academical educa- 
 tion. And, in April, 1762, on a representation to his Majesty, setting forth the advan- 
 tages of the institution, as a branch of academical education, the King, "• in considera- 
 tion of his approved qualifications," erected and endowed his establishment in the 
 
 * Lord Woodhouselee's Life of Lord Kaimes, Vol.1, p. 142, 
 
DR. BLAIR. <\ 
 
 ersity, by appointing him the first Regius Professor of Rhetoric and Belles 
 Lettres, with a salary of 70/. 
 
 In 1760, he was made the instrument of introducing; into the world, " Fragments 
 ©f Ancient Poetry, collected in the Highlands of Scotland, and translated from the 
 Gaelic or Erse language," 12mo. to which he prefixed a Pre/act. These " Fragments" 
 were communicated by Mr. Macpherson, and followed in the same year, by " FingaP 
 and "Teniora," published by him as translations of complete and regular epic 
 poems, the production of Ossian, a Highland bard, of remote antiquity. Being 
 himself persuaded of their being completely genuine, he published in 1762, A Cri- 
 tical Dissertation on the Poems of Ossian, &c. 4to. in proof of their antiquity, and 
 illustrative of their beauties, which spread the reputation of its author throughout 
 Europe. Of those who attended to the subject, a greater number were disposed to 
 agree with him as to the beauty of the Poems, than as to their authenticity. At the 
 head of this set of critics was Dr. Johnson, who in his " Journey to the Western 
 Islands," strenuously maintained their being altogether a forgery. Mr. Macpherson, 
 the pretended translator, carefully reserved his latent claims to the rank and merit 
 of an original poet, and did not conceal from those with whom he was particularly 
 intimate, that the poems were entirely his own composition.* 
 
 In 1773, it fell to his share to form the first uniform edition of the Works of the 
 British Poets, which appeared in these kingdoms, printed at Edinburgh, in 42 vols. 
 12mo. for Messrs. Creech and Balfour. The eleg'ance of this edition is no compen- 
 sation for its incompleteness ; the contracted list of authors, marked out by the 
 ■editor, including none of those who have been denominated our older classics, except 
 Milton and Cowley. Plis industry and taste were also exercised, about this time, in 
 superintending an edition of the Works of Shakspeare, printed at Edinburgh, by 
 Martin and Wotherspoon, in 10 vols. 12mo. 
 
 Though his productions for the pulpit had long furnished instruction and delight 
 to his own congregation, } r et it was not till the year 1777 that he gave to the world 
 the first volume of his Sermons, which was printed at London in 8vo. for Messrs. 
 Strahan and Cadell, London, and had a very extensive sale. 
 
 It is remarkable, that when he transmitted his manuscript to Mr. Strahan the 
 printer, after keeping it by him for some time, he wrote a letter to him, declining the 
 publication. Having, however, sent one of the sermons to Dr. Johnson, for the sake 
 of his opinion, he received from him, after the unfavourable letter was despatched, 
 the following note : 
 
 " I have read over Dr. Blair's first Sermon with more than approbation; to say it 
 is good, is to say too little. It is excellently written, both as to doctrine and 
 language."! 
 
 Soon after, Mr. Strahan had a conversation with Dr. Johnson concerning the pub- 
 lication, and very candidly wrote again to Dr. Blair, enclosing Dr. Johnson's note, 
 and agreeing to purchase the volume for one hundred pounds. 
 
 This volume of discourses was followed, at different intervals, by three other 
 volumes, each succeeding volume increasing the sale of the former volumes. One 
 hundred pounds were given for theirs/ volume, which, in consequence of the ex- 
 tensive sale, the proprietors doubled. They gave him 300/. for the second, and 600/. 
 for each of the third and fourth volumes. 
 
 These discourses experienced a success unparalleled in the annals of pulpit elo- 
 quence. They circulated rapidly and widely wherever the English tongue extends, 
 were soon translated into almost all the languages of Europe, and were judged wor- 
 thy of a public reward by his Majesty, who, in the year 1780, was graciously pleased 
 to grant the author a pension of 200/. which continued till his death. It is said, that 
 they were read to the R,oyal family by the Earl of Mansfield, and that her Majesty 
 honoured them with her approbation, and took an active part in procuring him this 
 proof of the Royal favour. 
 
 Hitherto, the writers of sermons, among the Scottish preachers, had produced no 
 models of a refined and polished eloquence. Their discourses abounded in cold 
 divisions, metaphysical discussion, or loose and incoherent declamation. Among his 
 contemporaries, some preachers had distinguished themselves by the good sense, 
 sound reasoning, and manly simplicity of their pulpit compositions. " But the polish 
 of Dr. Blair, which gave elegance to sentiments not too profound for common com- 
 prehension, nor too obvious to be uninteresting, was wanting to render this species 
 of composition popular, and generally pleasing. By employing the utmost exertions 
 
 * Anderson's Life of Johnson, 3d edition, p. 342. 
 ; Boswell'e Life of Johnson, Vol. III. p. 100. 
 
X • THE LIFE OF 
 
 of a vigorous mind, and of patient study, to select the Lest ideas, and to prune off 
 every superfluous thought, by taking pains to embellish them by all the beauties of 
 language and elegant expression, and by repeatedly examining, with the severity of 
 an enlightened critic, every sentence, and erasing every harsh and uncouth phrase, 
 he has produced the most elegant models of pulpit composition that have yet appeared 
 in these kingdoms."* 
 
 In the enjoyment of the praise of polished eloquence, there are other men who 
 participate with Dr. Blair ; but in the application of talents and of learning, to render 
 mankind wiser or better, there are few literary characters who can claim an equal 
 share ; and, though the highest praise is due to his compositions for the pulpit, con- 
 sidered as the productions of genius and of taste, yet, when they are regarded in 
 this more important light, they entitle him to that still more honourable fame, 
 which is the portion of the wise and good alone, and before which all literary splen- 
 dour disappears. 
 
 After reading his course of Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in the Univer- 
 sity above twenty years, he retired from the discharge of his academical duties in 
 1783. His academical prelections constitute an era in the history of the progress oi" 
 taste and elegance in Scotland. His classical taste, his aversion from refinement and 
 skepticism, his good intentions, his respect for received opinions, his industry, and his 
 experience in the art of teaching, enabled him to present to young men, aiming at 
 literary composition, a most judicious, elegant, and comprehensive system of rules for 
 forming their style, and cultivating their taste. 
 
 The same year, he published his Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres, in 2 vols, 
 4to. which brought him a considerable accession of emolument and fame. They 
 have been frequently reprinted in 3 vols. 8vo. and deservedly occupy a place in our 
 schools and Universities, as an excellent elementary treatise on the studies of compo- 
 sition and eloquence. They contain an accurate analysis of the principles of literary 
 composition^ in all the various species of writing; a happy illustration of those 
 principles by the most beautiful and apposite examples, drawn from the best authors, 
 both ancient and modern, and an admirable digest of the rules of elocution, as ap- 
 plicable to the oratory of the pulpit, the bar, and the popular assembly. They do 
 not aim at a work purely original ; for this would have been to circumscribe their 
 \itility ; neither in point of style are they polished with the same degree of care 
 as his Sermons : yet, so useful is the object of these Lectures, so comprehensive their 
 plan, and such the excellence of the matter they contain, that, if not the most splendid, 
 they will perhaps prove the most durable monument of his reputation. 
 
 From this period his talents were consecrated solely to the instruction of his con- 
 gregation, and the private and unseen labours. of his office ; preparing for the world 
 the blessings of elegant instruction, and tendering to the mourner the lessons of 
 divine consolation. From that part of his professional duty, which regarded the go- 
 vernment of the church, he was prevented by his timidity and diffidence in his abilities, 
 from taking any active part ; but he was steadily attached to the cause of moderation, 
 and his opinion was eagerly courted by Dr. Robertson, Dr. Drysdale, Dr. Hill, Dr. 
 Finlayson, and others, who managed ecclesiastical business. The outline of the pas- 
 toral admonition, which the General Assembly, in 1799, addressed to the people 
 under their charge, proceeded from his pen. 
 
 In the course of his life he had frequently visited London, and had been introduced 
 to the acquaintance of Dr. Johnson, Dr. Percy, afterward Bishop of Dromore, and 
 other distinguished literary character.- in England. On the recommendation of Dr. 
 Percy, the Duke and Dutchess of Northumberland committed to him the care of their 
 second son, Lord Algernon Percy, afterward Earl of Beverley, when he prosecuted 
 his studies at the University of Edinburgh. Among his countrymen, Lord Karnes, 
 David Hume, Dr. Smith, Dr. Robertson, Dr. Fei gusson, Mr. John Home, and Dr. 
 Carlyle, were the persons with v» hem he' lived in habits of intimacy, and with 
 whom, during the greater part of his life, he maintahled social intercourse. 
 
 Upon the death of Dr. Robertson, Principal of the University of Edinburgh, in 
 the year 1793, the unanimous voice of the country acknowledged his claim to be 
 appointed the successor of that illustrious man. "When the Magistrates and Council 
 ' f Edinburgh gave the appointment to another, it is certain that be felt the oversight 
 as injurious to his pretensions. Flattered with the respect of the world, and unac- 
 •ustomed to disappointments during a long life, that had been devoted to literary pur- 
 swits, he could ill brook any neglect when that life was drawing to a close. 
 
 ' Andersous Life of l,<wr, : Work.? of thePritisli I'oet?. Yd. XL r- J05? 
 
DR. BLAIR, XI 
 
 lu the year 1795, he suffered a heavy domestic calamity by the death of Mrs. Blair, 
 -who had shared, with the tenderest affection, in all his fortunes, and contributed near 
 half a century to his happiness and comfort. By her he had a son, who died in 
 infancy, and a daughter, of a most amiable disposition, and elegant accomplishments, 
 who died at the age of twenty. 
 
 For some years he had felt himself unequal to the fatigue of instructing his congre- 
 gation from the pulpit, yet he continued to the end of his life in the active and cheer- 
 ful discharge of all his other official duties. At the solicitation of his friends, he 
 preached the annual Sermon for the benefit of the Sons of the Clergy of Scotland in 
 1797, which produced a liberal collection, and closed the labours of the pulpit. 
 
 Though his bodily constitution was not robust, yet he enjoyed a general state of 
 good health, and, through habitual cheerfulness, temperance, and ease, survived the 
 usual term of human life. During the summer before his death, he was employed 
 in preparing the last volume of his Sermons for the press, and evinced his usual vigour 
 of understanding, and capacity of exertion. A few days before lie died he had no 
 complaint ; but on the 24th of December, 1800, he felt a pain in his bowels, which was 
 not then suspected to proceed from an inguinal hernia, which he considered as trifling. 
 On the afternoon of the 26th, the pain increased, and the symptoms became violent 
 and alarming. In consequence of an incarceration of the hernia, it produced a com- 
 plete stoppage in the bowels, and an inflammation commenced, which it was impossi- 
 ble to resist. Retaining to the last moment the full possession of his mental facul- 
 ties, he expired on the morning of the 27th, with the composure and hope of a 
 Christian pastor, in the 33d year of his age, and the 59th of his ministry. 
 
 He bequeathed his house in Argyle-Square, which had been his residence above 
 thirty years, and his personal property, which was considerable, to his relation, Mr. 
 PuchardBarinatyne,merchantin Edinburgh, with an explicit injunction,, suggested by 
 an excusable solicitude for his reputation, that all his manuscript sermons and letters 
 should be destroyed. 
 
 The Sermons which he had transcribed, and, in many parts, re-composed for the 
 press, after he had completed his eighty-second year, were delivered to the publishers 
 aboutsixweeks before his death, and printed in 1301, with a short account of his life, 
 written by his friend and colleague, Dr. Finlayson ; who himself now needs a similar 
 memorial of his talents and virtues. He had himself paid a similar tribute to the 
 memory of his colleague Mr. Robert Walker, by prefixing a candid and affectionate 
 Preface to the last volume of his Sermons. A more ample and elaborate account of 
 his life and writings, drawn up at his request, by Dr. John Hill, Professor of Hu- 
 manity in the University of Edinburgh, was printed in 1807, when the writer himself 
 was beyond the reach of praise or censure. 
 
 The name of Dr. Blair needs no panegyric. His literary honours are a trophy 
 v/hich he has erected for himself, and which time will not destroy. Posterity will 
 justly regard him as a benefactor of the human race, and as no ordinary instrument, 
 in the hand of God, for refining the taste, improving the morality, and promoting the 
 religion of the Christian world. 
 
LECTURE I. 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 One of the most distinguished privileges which Providence ha9 cdn ; 
 Ferred upon mankind, is the power' of communicating their thoughts to 
 one another. Destitute of this power, reasou would be a solitary, and, 
 in some measure, an unavailing principle. Speech is the great instru- 
 ment by which man becomes beneficial to man : and it is to the inter- 
 course and transmission of thought, by means of speech, that we are 
 chiefly indebted for the improvement of thought itself. Small are the 
 advances which a single unassisted individual can make towards perfect- 
 ing any of his powers. What we call human reason, is not the effort or 
 ability of one, so much as it is the result of the reason of many, arising 
 from lights mutually communicated, in consequence of discourse and 
 writing. 
 
 It is obvious, then, that writing and discourse are objects entitled to 
 the highest attention. Whether the influence of the speaker,or the enter- 
 tainment of the hearer, be consulted ; whether utility or pleasure be 
 the principal aim in view, we are prompted, by the strongest motives, 
 to study how we may communicate our thoughts to one another with 
 most advantage. Accordingly we find, that in almost every nation, a3 
 soon as language had extended itself beyond that scanty communication 
 which was requisite for the supply of men's necessities, the improvement 
 of discourse began to attract regard. In the language even of rude un- 
 cultivated tribes, we can trace some attention to the grace and force of 
 those expressions which they used, when they sought to persuade or to 
 affect. They were early sensible of a beauty in discourse^ and endea- 
 voured to give it certain decorations, which experience had taught them 
 it was capable of receiving, long before the study of those decorations 
 was formed into a regular art. 
 
 But, among nations in a civilized state, no art has been cultivated with 
 more care, than that of language, style, and composition. The attention 
 paid to it, may, indeed, be assumed as one mark of the progress of soci- 
 ety toward its most improved period. For, according as society im- 
 proves and flourishes, men acquire more influence over one another by 
 means of reasoning and discourse ; and in proportion as that influence is 
 felt to enlarge, it must follow, as a natural consequence, that they will be- 
 stow more care upon the methods of expressing their conceptions with 
 propriety and eloquence. Hence we find, that in all the polished nation^ 
 of Europe, this study has been treated as highly important, and hae 
 possessed a considerable place in every plan of liberal education, 
 
10 INTRODUCTION, [LECT. S, 
 
 Indeed, when the arts of speech and writing are mentioned, I am sen- 
 sible that prejudices against them are apt to rise in the minds of many. 
 A sort of art is immediately thought of, that is, ostentatious and deceitful ; 
 the minute and trifling study of words alone ; the pomp of expression ; 
 the studied fallacies of rhetoric ; ornament substituted in the room of use. 
 We need not wonder, that, under such imputations, all study of discourse ? 
 as an art, should have suffered in the opinion of men of understanding ; 
 and I am far from denying, that rhetoric and criticism have sometimes 
 been so managed as to tend to the corruption, rather than to the improve- 
 ment, of good taste and true eloquence. But sure it is equally possible to 
 apply the principles of reason and good sense to this art, as to any other 
 that is cultivated among men. If the following Lectures have any merit, 
 it will consist in an endeavour to substitute the application of these prin- 
 ciples in the place of artificial and scholastic rhetoric ; in an endeavour 
 to explode false ornament, to direct attention more towards substance 
 than show, to recommend good sense as the foundation of all good com- 
 position, and simplicity as essential to all true ornament. 
 
 When entering on this subject, I may be allowed, on this occasion, to 
 suggest a few thoughts concerning the importance and advantages of such 
 studies, and the rank they are entitled to possess in academical edu- 
 cation.* I am under no temptation, for this purpose, of extolling their 
 importance at the expense of any other, department of science. On the 
 contrary, the study of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres supposes and requires 
 a proper acquaintance with the rest of the liberal arts. It embraces 
 them all within its circle, and recommends them to the highest regard. 
 The first care of all such as wish either to write with reputation, or to 
 speak in public so as to command attention, must be, to extend their 
 knowledge ; to lay in a rich store of ideas relating to those subjects of 
 which the occasions of life may call them to discourse or to write. Hence* 
 among the ancients, it was a fundamental principle, and frequently incul- 
 cated, " Quod omnibus disciplinis et artibus debet esse instructus orator ;' 7 
 that the orator ought to be an accomplished scholar, and conversant 
 in every part of learning. It is indeed impossible to contrive an art, 
 and very pernicious it were if it could be contrived, which should give 
 the stamp of merit to any composition rich or splendid in expression, but 
 barren or erroneous in thought. They are the wretched attempts to- 
 wards an art of this kind, which have so often disgraced oratory, and de- 
 based it below its true standard. The graces of composition have been 
 employed to disguise or to supply the want of matter ; and the temporary 
 applause of the ignorant has been courted, instead of the lasting appro- 
 bation of the discerning. But such imposture can never maintain its 
 ground long. Knowledge and science must furnish the materials that 
 form the body and substance of any valuable composition. Rhetoric 
 serves to add the polish ; and we know that none but firm and solid bo- 
 dies can be polished well. 
 
 Of those who peruse the following Lectures, some, in conse- 
 quence either of their profession, or of their prevailing incli- 
 
 * The author was the first who read lectures on this subject in the University of 
 Edinburgh. He began with reading them in a private character, in the year 1759. 
 In the following year, he was chosen Professor of Rhetoric by the Magistrates and 
 Town-Council of Edinburgh; and, in 1762, Ins Majesty was pleased to erect and 
 endow a Profession of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in that University ; and thp 
 author was appointed the first Regius Professor. 
 

 LECT.L] INTRODUCTION. 11 
 
 nation, may have the view of being employed in composition, or in 
 public speaking. Others, without any prospect of this kind, may wish 
 only to improve their taste with respect to writing and discourse, and to 
 acquire principles which will enable them to judge for themselves in 
 that part of literature called the Belles Lettres. 
 
 With respect to the former, such as may have occasion to communicate 
 their sentiments to the public, it is abundantly clear that some prepara- 
 tion of study is requisite for the end which they have in view. To 
 speak or to write perspicuously and agreeably, with purity, with grace, 
 and strength, are attainments of the utmost consequence to all who pro- 
 pose, either by speech or writing, to address the public. For without 
 being master of those attainments, no man can do justice to his own con- 
 ceptions ; but how rich soever he may be in knowledge and in good sense, 
 will be able to avail himself less of those treasures, than such as possess 
 not half his store, but who can display what they possess with more pro- 
 priety. Neither are these attainments of that kind for which we are in- 
 debted to Nature merely. Nature has, indeed, conferred upon some a 
 very favourable distinction in this respect beyond others. But in these, 
 as in most other talents she bestows, she has left much to be wrought out 
 by every man's own industry. So conspicuous have been the effects of 
 study and improvement in every part of eloquence ; such remarkable 
 examples have appeared of persons surmounting, by their diligence, the 
 disadvantages of the most untoward nature ; that, among the learned, it 
 has long been a contested, and remains still an undecided point, whether 
 nature or art confer most towards excelling in writing and discourse. 
 
 With respect to the manner in which art can most effectually furnish 
 assistance for such a purpose, there may be diversity of opinions. I by 
 no means pretend to say, that mere rhetorical rules, how just soever, are 
 sufficient to form an orator. Supposing natural genius to be favourable, 
 more, by a great deal, will depend upon private application and study, 
 than upon any system of instruction that is capable of being publicly com- 
 municated. But at the same time, though rules and instructions cannot 
 do all that is requisite, they may, however, do much that is of real use. 
 They cannot, it is true, inspire genius ; but they can direct and assist it. 
 They cannot remedy barrenness ; but they may correct redundancy. 
 They point out proper models for imitation. They bring into view the 
 chief beauties that ought to be studied, and the principal faults that 
 ought to be avoided ; and thereby tend to enlighten taste, and to lead 
 genius, from unnatural deviations, into its proper channel. What would 
 not avail for the production of great excellencies, may at least serve to 
 prevent the commission of considerable errors. 
 
 All that regards the study of eloquence and composition, merits the 
 higher attention upon this account, that it is intimately connected with 
 the improvement of our intellectual powers. For I must be allowed to 
 say, that when we are employed, after a proper manner, in the study of 
 composition, we are cultivating reason itself. True rhetoric and sound 
 logic are very nearly allied. The study of arranging and expressing 
 our thoughts with propriety, teaches to think, as well as to speak accu- 
 rately. By putting our sentiments into words, we always conceive 
 them more distinctly. Every one who has the slightest acquaintance 
 with composition knows, that when he expresses himself ill on any 
 subject, when his arrangement is loose, and his sentences become fee- 
 hie, the defects of his style can. almost on everv occasion, be traced 
 
JJ lYniODUCTION. [UBCT.I, 
 
 back to bis indistinct conception of the subject ; so close is the connexion 
 between thoughts, and the words in which they are clothed. 
 
 The study of composition, important in itself at all times, has acquired 
 additional importance from the taste and manners of the present age. 
 It is an age wherein improvements, in every part of science, have been 
 prosecuted with ardour. To all the liberal arts much attention has been 
 paid ; and to none more than to the beauty of language, and the grace 
 and elegance of every kind of writing. The public ear is become re- 
 fined. It will not easily bear what is slovenly and incorrect. Every 
 author must aspire to some merit in expression, as well as in sentiment, 
 \f he would not incur the danger of being neglected and despised. 
 
 I will not deny that the love of minute elegance, and attention to infe- 
 rior ornaments of composition, may at present have engrossed too great 
 a degree of the public regard. It is indeed my opinion, that we lean to 
 this extreme ; often more careful of polished style, than of storing it 
 with thought. Yet hence arises a new reason for the study of just and 
 proper composition. If it be requisite not to be deficient in elegance or 
 ornament in times when they are in such high estimation, it is still more 
 requisite to attain the power of distinguishing false ornament from true 3 
 in order to prevent our being carried away by that torrent of false and 
 frivolous taste, which never fails, when it is prevalent, to sweep along 
 with it the raw and the ignorant. They who have never studied elo- 
 quence in its principles, nor have been trained to attend to the genuine 
 and manly beauties of good writing, are always ready to be caught by the 
 mere glare of language ; and when they come to speak in public, or to 
 compose, have no other standard on which to form themselves, except 
 what chances to be fashionable and popular, how corrupted soever, and 
 erroneous, that may be. 
 
 Put as there are many who have no such objects as either composition 
 or public speaking in view, let us next consider what advantages may be 
 derived by them, from such studies as form the subject of these Lectures, 
 To them rhetoric is not so much a practical art as a speculative science ; 
 and the same instructions which assist others in composing, will assist 
 them in discerning and relishing the beauties of composition. Whatever 
 enables genius to execute well, will enable taste to criticise justly. 
 
 When we name criticising, prejudices may perhaps arise, of the same 
 kind with those which I mentioned before with respect to rhetoric. As 
 rhetoric has been sometimes thought to signify nothing more than the 
 scholastic study of words, and phrases, and tropes, so criticism has been 
 considered as merely the art of finding faults ; as the frigid application 
 of certain technical terms, by means of which persons are taught to cavil 
 and censure in a learned manner. But this is the criticism of pedants 
 only. True criticism is a liberal and humane art. It is the offspring of 
 good sense and refined taste. It aims at acquiring a just discernment of 
 the real merit of authors. It promotes a lively relish of their beauties, 
 while it preserves us from that blind and implicit veneration which 
 would confound their beauties and faults in our esteem. It teaches us, 
 in a word, to admire and to blame with judgment, and not to follow the 
 crowd blindly. 
 
 In an age when works of genius and literature are so frequently the 
 subjects of discourse, when every one erects himself into a judge, and 
 when we can hardly mingle in polite society without bearing some share 
 in such discussions : studies of this kind, it is not to he doubted, will ap- 
 

 JJ2CT.I.J INTRODUCTION. io 
 
 pear to derive part of their importance from the use to which they may 
 be applied in furnishing materials for those fashionable topics of discourse, 
 and thereby enabling us to support a proper rank in social life. 
 
 But I should be sorry if we could not rest the merit of such studies on 
 somewhat of solid and intrinsical use, independent of appearance and show. 
 The exercise of taste and of sound criticism is, in truth, one of the most 
 improving employments of the understanding. To apply the principles 
 of good sense to composition and discourse ; to examine what is beauti- 
 ful, and why it is so ; to employ ourselves in distinguishing accurately 
 between the specious and the solid, between affected and natural orna- 
 ment, must certainly improve us not a little in the most valuable part of 
 all philosophy, the philosophy of human nature. For such disquisitions 
 are very intimately connected with the knowledge of ourselves. They 
 necessarily lead us to reflect on the operations of the imagination, and 
 the movements of the heart : and increase our acquaintance with some 
 of the most refined feelings which belong to our frame. 
 
 Logical and ethical disquisitions move in a higher sphere, and are con- 
 versant with objects of a more severe kind ; the progress of the under- 
 standing in its search after knowledge, and the direction of the will in 
 the proper pursuit of good. They point out to man the improvement of 
 his nature as an intelligent being ; and his duties as the subject of moral 
 obligation. Belles Lettres and criticism chiefly consider him as a being 
 endowed with those powers of taste and imagination, which were 
 intended to embellish his mind, and to supply him with rational and use- 
 ful entertainment. They open a field of investigation peculiar to them- 
 selves. AlLthat relates to beauty, harmony, grandeur, and elegance ; 
 all that can soothe the mind, gratify the fancy, or move the affections, be- 
 longs to their province. They present human nature under a different 
 aspect from that which it assumes when viewed by other sciences. They 
 bring to light various springs of action, which, without their aid, might 
 have passed unobserved ; and which, though of a delicate nature, fre- 
 quently exert a powerful influence on several departments of human life. 
 
 Such studies have also this peculiar advantage, that they exercise our 
 reason without fatiguing it. They lead to inquiries acute, but not pain- 
 ful ; profound, but not dry nor abstruse. They strew flowers in the 
 path of science ; and while they keep the mind bent in some degree, and 
 active, they relieve it at the same time, from that more toilsome laoour 
 to which it must submit in the acquisition of necessary erudition, or the 
 investigation of abstract truth. 
 
 The cultivation of taste is farther recommended by the happy effects 
 which it naturally tends to produce on human life. The most busy man, 
 in the most active sphere, cannot be always occupied by business. Men 
 of serious professions cannot always be on the stretch of serious thought. 
 Neither can the most gay and flourishing situations of fortune afford any 
 man the power of filling all bis hours with pleasure. Life must always 
 languish in the hands of the idle. It will frequently languish even in the 
 hands of the busy, if they have not some employment subsidiary to that 
 which forms their main pursuit. How then shall these vacant spaces, 
 those unemployed intervals, which, more or less, occur in the life of 
 every one, be filled up ? How can we contrive to dispose of them in any 
 way that shall be more agreeable in itself, or more consonant to the dig- 
 nity of the human mind, than in the entertainments of taste, and the study 
 of polite literature ? He who is so happy as to have acquired a relish 
 
14 INTRODUCTION. jLECT. L 
 
 for these, has always at hand an innocent and irreproachable amusement 
 for his leisure hours, to save him from the danger of many a pernicious 
 passion. He is not in hazard of being a burden to himself. He is not 
 obliged to fly to low company, or to court the riot of loose pleasures, in 
 order to cure the tediousness of existence. 
 
 Providence seems plainly to have pointed out this useful purpose to 
 which the pleasures of taste may be applied, by interposing them in a 
 middle, station between the pleasures of sense and those of pure intel- 
 lect. We were not designed to grovel always among objects so low as 
 the former ; nor are we capable of dwelling constantly in so high a re- 
 gion as the latter. The pleasures of taste refresh the mind after the 
 toils of the intellect, and the labours of abstract study ; and they gradually 
 raise it above the attachments of sense, and prepare it for the enjoyments 
 of virtue. 
 
 So consonant is this to experience, that, in the education of youth, 
 no object has in every age appeared more important to wise men, 
 than to tincture them early with a relish for the entertainments of taste. 
 The transition is commonly made with ease from these to the discharge 
 of the higher and more important duties of life. Good hopes may be en- 
 tertained of those whose minds have this liberal and elegant turn. It is 
 favourable to many virtues. Whereas, to be entirely devoid of relish 
 for eloquence, poetry, or any of the fine arts, is justly construed to be an 
 unpromising symptom of youth ; and raises suspicions of their being 
 prone to low gratifications, or destined to drudge in the more vulgar and. 
 illiberal pursuits of life. 
 
 There are indeed few good dispositions of any kind with which the 
 improvement of taste is not more or less connected. A cultivated taste 
 increases sensibility to all the tender and humane passions, by giving 
 them frequent exercise ; while it tends to weaken the more violent and 
 fierce emotions. 
 
 ■— Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes 
 
 Emollit mores, nee sinit esse feros.* 
 
 The elevated sentiments and high examples which poetry, eloquence, 
 and history, are often bringing under our view, naturally tend to nourish 
 in our minds public spirit, the love of glory, contempt of external fortune, 
 and the admiration of what is truly illustrious and great. 
 
 I will not go so far as to say that the improvement of taste and of vir- 
 tue is the same ; or that they may always be expected to coexist in an 
 equal degree. More powerful correctives than taste can apply, are ne- 
 cessary for reforming the corrupt propensities which too frequently pre- 
 vail among mankind. Elegant speculations are sometimes found to float 
 on the surface of the mind, while bad passions possess the interior regions 
 of the heart. At the same time this cannot but be admitted, that the 
 exercise of taste is, in its native tendency, moral and purifying. From 
 reading the most admired productions of genius, whether in poetry or 
 prose, almost every one rises with some good impressions left on his 
 mind ; and though these may not always be durable, they are at least to 
 be ranked among the means of disposing the heart to virtue. One thing 
 is certain, and I shall hereafter have occasion to illustrate it more fully, 
 that, without possessing the virtuous affections in a strong degree, no 
 
 These polish'd arts hare humaniz'd mankind, 
 ^o.ften'd the rude, and oalm'd the boistTOiis mind. 
 
LECT.II.] TASTE. la 
 
 man can attain eminence in the sublime parts of eloquence. He must 
 feel what a good man feels, if he expects greatly to move, or to interest 
 mankind. They are the ardent sentiments of honour, virtue, magnani- 
 mity, and public spirit, that only can kindle that fire of genius, and cal! 
 up into the mind those high ideas, which attract the admiration of ages ; 
 and if this spirit be necessary to produce the most distinguished efforts 
 of eloquence, it must be necessary also to our relishing them with proper 
 taste and feeling. 
 
 On these general topics I shall dwell no longer j but proceed directly 
 to the consideration of the subjects which are to employ the following 
 Lectures. They divide themselves into five parts. First, Some intro- 
 ductory dissertations on the Nature of Taste, and upon the Sources of its 
 Pleasures : Secondly, The consideration of Language :■ Thirdly, Of 
 Style : Fourthly, Of Eloquence properly so called, or Public Speaking 
 in its different kinds : Lastly, A critical examination of the most distin- 
 guished Species of Composition, both in prose and verse. 
 
 LECTURE II. 
 
 TASTE. 
 
 The nature of the present undertaking leads me to begin with some 
 inquiries concerning taste, as it is this faculty which is always appealed 
 to in disquisitions concerning the merit of discourse and writing. 
 
 There are few subjects on which men talk more loosely and indistinctly 
 than on taste ; few which it is more difficult to explain with precision ; 
 and none which in this course of Lectures will appear more dry or ab- 
 stract. What I have to say on the subject, shall be in the following order, 
 I shall first explain the Nature of Taste as a power of faculty in the hu- 
 man mind. I shall next consider how far it is an improveable faculty. I 
 shall show the sources of its improvement, and the characters of taste in 
 its most perfect state. I shall then examine the various fluctuations to 
 which it is liable, and inquire whether there be any standard to which we 
 can bring the different tastes of men, in order to distinguish the corrupted 
 from the true. 
 
 Taste may be defined, " The power of receiving pleasure from the 
 beauties of nature and of art." The first question that occurs concern- 
 ing it is, whether it is to be considered as an internal sense, or as an ex- 
 ertion of reason ? Reason is a very general term ; but if we understand 
 by it that power of the mind which in speculative matters discovers truth, 
 and in practical matters judges of the fitness of means to an end, I appre- 
 hend the question may be easily answered. For nothing can be more 
 clear, than that taste is not resolvable into any such operation of reason. 
 It is not merely through a discovery of the understanding, or a deduction 
 of argument, that the mind receives pleasure from a beautiful prospect or 
 a fine poem. Such objects often strike us intuitively, and make a strong 
 impression, when we are unable to assign the reasons of our being pleased . 
 They sometimes strike in the same manner the philosopher and the 
 
tt> TASTE, [LECTiUi 
 
 peasant ; the boy and the man. Hence the faculty by which we relish 
 such beauties, seems more clearly allied to a feeling of sense, than to a 
 process of the understanding ; and accordingly, from an external sense 
 it has borrowed its name ; that sense by which we receive and distin- 
 guish the pleasures of food having, in several languages, given rise to the 
 word taste* in the metaphorical meaning under which we now consider it 
 However, as in all subjects which regard the operations of the mind, 
 the inaccurate use of words is to be carefully avoided, it must not be in- 
 ferred from what I have said, that reason is entirely excluded from the 
 exertions of taste. Though taste, beyond doubt, be ultimately founded 
 on a certain natural and instinctive sensibility to beauty, yet reason, as I 
 shall show hereafter, assists taste in many of its operations, and serves to 
 enlarge its power.* 
 
 Taste, in the sense in which I have explained it, is a faculty common 
 in some degree to all men. Nothing that belongs to human nature is 
 more general than the relish of beauty of one kind or other ; of what 
 is orderly, proportioned, grand, harmonious, new, or sprightly. In chil- 
 dren, the rudiments of taste discover themselves very early in a thousand 
 instances : in their fondness for regular bodies, their admiration of pic- 
 tures and statues, and imitations of all kinds ; and their strong attach- 
 ment to whatever is new or marvellous. The most ignorant peasants are 
 delighted with ballads and tales, and are struck with the beautiful appear- 
 ances of nature in the earth and heavens. Even in the deserts of America, 
 where human nature shows itself in its most uncultivated state, the sava- 
 ges have their ornaments of dress, their war and their death songs, their 
 harangues and their orators* We must, therefore, conclude the princi- 
 ples of taste to be deeply founded in the human mind. It is no less es- 
 sential to man to have some discernment of beauty, than it is to possess 
 the attributes of reason and of speech.! 
 
 But although none be wholly devoid of this faculty, yet the degrees in 
 which it is possessed are widely different. In some men only the feeble 
 glimmerings of taste appear : the beauties which they relish are of the 
 Coarsest kind ; and of these they have but a weak and confused impres- 
 
 * See Dr. Gerard's Essay on Taste.— D'Alembert's Reflections on the Use and 
 Abuse of Philosophy in matters which relate to Taste.— Reflexions Critiques sur la 
 Poesie et sur la Peinture, tome ii. ch. 22 — 31. Elements of Criticism, c. 25. — Mr. 
 Hume's Essay on the Standard of Taste. — Introduction to the Essay on the Sublime 
 and Beautiful. 
 
 t On the subject of taste, considered as a power or faculty of the mind, much less 
 is to be found among the ancient than among the modern rhetorical and critical wri- 
 ters. The following remarkable passage in Cicero serves, however, to show, that his 
 ideas on this subject agree perfectly with what has been said above. He is speaking 
 of the beauties of style and numbers : " Illud autem nequis admiretur quonam modo 
 haec vulgus imperitorum in audiendo, notet ; cum in omni genere, turn in hoc ipso, 
 magna quaedam est vis, incredibilisque naturae. Omnes enim tacito quodam sensu, 
 sine ulla arte aut ratione, quae sint in artibus de rationibus recta et prava dijudicant : 
 idque cum faciunt in picturis, et in signis, et in aliis cperibus, ad quonam intelligentiam 
 a natura minus habent instrumenti, turn multo ostendunt magis in verborum, numero- 
 rum, vocumque judicio ; quod ea sunt in communibus infixasensibus ; neque earum re- 
 rum quenquam funditus natura voluit esse expertem." Cic. de Orat. lib. iii. cap. 
 50. edit. Gruteri. — Quinctilian seems to include taste (for which, in the sense which 
 we now give to that word, the ancients appear to have had no distinct name) under 
 what he calls judicium. a Locus de judicio, mea quidem opinione, adeo partibus hu- 
 j us operis omnibus connectus ac mistus est, ut ne a sententiis quidem aut verbis sal 
 tern singulus possit separari, nee magis arte traditur, quam gustus aut odor. — Ut 
 contraria vitemus et communia, ne quid in eloquendo corruptum obscurumque sit, 
 ,-r»fpratur oportet ad census qui non docentuv." Institute lib. vi, cap. 3, edit Obrechtj. 
 
LECT.ILj TASTE, fj 
 
 sion ; while in others, taste rise? to an acute discernment, and a lively 
 enjoyment of the most refined beauties. la general, we may observe, 
 that in the powers and pleasures of taste, there is a more remarkable in- 
 equality among men, than is usually found in point of common sense, rea- 
 son, and judgment. The constitution of our nature in this, as in all other 
 respects, discovers admirable wisdom. In the distribution of those talents 
 which are necessary for man's well-being, Nature hath made less distinc- 
 tion among her children. But in the distribution of those which belong 
 only to the ornamental part of life, she hath bestowed her favours with 
 more frugality. She hath both sown the seeds more sparingly, and 
 rendered a higher culture requisite for bringing them to perfection. 
 
 This inequality of taste among men is owing, without doubt, in part, to 
 the different frame of their natures ; to nicer organs, and finer internal 
 powers, with which some are endowed beyond others. But if it be owing 
 in part to Nature, it is owing to education and culture still more. The 
 illustration of this leads to my next remark on this subject, that taste is a 
 most improvable faculty, if there be any such in human nature ; a 
 remark which gives great encouragement to such a course of study as we 
 are now proposing to pursue. Of the truth of this assertion we may 
 easily be convinced, by only reflecting on that immense superiority 
 which education and improvement give to civilized above barbarous 
 nations, in refinement of taste : and on the superiority which they give in 
 the same nation to those who have studied the liberal arts, above the rude 
 and untaught vulgar. The difference is so great, that there is perhaps 
 no one particular in which these two classes of men are so far removed 
 from each other, as in respect of the powers and the pleasures of taste ; 
 and assuredly, for this difference no other general cause can be assigned 
 but culture and education. — I shall now proceed to show what the means 
 are by which taste becomes so remarkably susceptible of cultivation and 
 progress. 
 
 Reflect first upon that great law of our nature, that exercise is the chief 
 source of improvement in all our faculties. This holds both in our 
 bodily, and in our mental powers. It holds even in our external senses ; 
 although these be less the subject of cultivation than any of our other 
 faculties. We see how acute the senses become in persons whose trade 
 or business leads to nice exertions of them. Touch, for instance, 
 becomes infinitely more exquisite in men whose employment requires 
 them to examine the polish of bodies, than it is in others. They who deal 
 in microscopical observations, or are accustomed to engrave on precious 
 stones, acquire surprising accuracy of sight in discerning the minutest 
 objects ; and practice in attending to different flavours and tastes of 
 liquors, wonderfully improves the power of distinguishing them, and of 
 tracing their composition. Placing internal taste, therefore, on the fool- 
 ing of a simple sense, it cannot be doubted that frequent exercise and 
 curious attention to its proper objects, must greatly heighten its power. 
 Of this we have one clear proof in that part of taste which is called an 
 ear for music. Experience every day shows, that nothing is more im- 
 provable. Only the simplest and plainest compositions are relished at 
 first ; use and practice extend our pleasure ; teach us to relish finer 
 melody, and by degrees enable us to enter into the intricate and com- 
 pounded pleasures of harmony. So an eye for the beauties of painting 
 is never all at once acquired. It is gradually formed by being conversant; 
 among pictures, and studying the works of the best masters. 
 
18 TAStE. [LECT. U. 
 
 Precisely in the same manner, with respect to the beauty of composi- 
 tion and discourse, attention to the most approved models, study of the 
 best authors, comparisons of lower and higher degrees of the same beau- 
 ties, operate towards the refinement of taste. When one is only begin- 
 ning his acquaintance with works of genius, the sentiment which attends 
 them is obscure and confused. He cannot point out the several excel- 
 lencies or blemishes of a performance which he peruses ; he is at a loss 
 on what to rest his judgment : all that can be expected is, that he should 
 tell in general whether he be pleased or not. But allow him more ex- 
 perience in works of this kind, and his taste becomes by degrees more 
 exact and enlightened. He begins to perceive not only the character of 
 the whole, but the beauties and defects of each part ; and is able to 
 describe the peculiar qualities which he praises or blames. The mist 
 is dissipated which seemed formerly to hang over the object ; and he can 
 at length pronounce firmly, and without hesitation, concerning it. Thus, 
 in taste, considered as mere sensibility, exercise opens a great source of 
 improvement. 
 
 But although taste be ultimately founded on sensibility, it must not be 
 considered as instinctive sensibility alone. Reason and good sense, as I 
 before hinted, have so extensive an influence on all the operations and 
 decisions of taste, that a thorough good taste may well be considered as 
 a power compounded of natural sensibility to beauty, and of improved un- 
 derstanding. In order to be satisfied of this, let us observe, that the 
 greater part of the productions of genius are no other than imitations of 
 nature ; representations of the characters, actions, or manners of men. 
 The pleasure we receive from such imitations or representations is found- 
 ed on mere taste ; but to judge whether they be properly executed, 
 belongs to the understanding, which compares the copy with the original. 
 
 In reading, for instance, such a poem as the iEneid, a great part of 
 our pleasure arises from the plan or story being well conducted, and all 
 the parts joined together with probability and due connexion ; from the 
 characters being taken from nature, the sentiments being suited to the 
 characters, and the style to the sentiments. The pleasure which arises 
 from a poem so conducted, is felt or enjoyed by taste as an internal sense ; 
 but the discovery of this conduct in the poem is owing to reason ; and the 
 more that reason enables us to discover such propriety in the conduct, the 
 greater will be our pleasure. We are pleased, through our natural sense 
 of beauty. Reason shows us why, and upon what grounds, we are plea- 
 sed. Wherever, in works of taste, any resemblance to nature is aimed at ; 
 wherever there is any reference of parts to a whole ; or of means to an 
 end, as there is iudeed in almost every writing and discourse ; there the 
 understanding must always have a great part to act. 
 
 Here then is a wide field for reason's exerting its powers in relation to 
 the objects of taste, particularly with respect to composition, and works 
 of genius ; and hence arises a second and a very considerable source of 
 the improvement of taste, from the application of reason and good sense 
 to such productions of genius. Spurious beauties, such as unnatural 
 characters, forced sentiments, affected style, may please for a little ; but 
 they please only because their opposition to nature and to good sense has 
 not been examined, or attended to. Once show how nature might have 
 been more justly imitated or represented ; how the writer might have 
 managed his subject to greater advantage ; the illusion will presently be 
 dissipated, and these false beauties will please no more. 
 
LECT.H.j TASTE. 19 
 
 Prom these two sources then, first, the frequent exercise of taste, and 
 next the application of good sense and reason to the objects of taste, taste 
 as a power of the mind receives its improvement. In its perfect state, 
 it is undoubtedly the result both of nature and of art. It supposes our 
 natural sense of beauty to be refined by frequent attention to the most 
 beautiful objects, and at the same time to be guided and improved by the 
 light of the understanding;- 
 
 I must be allowed to add, that as a sound head, so likewise a good heart, 
 is a very material requisite to just taste. The moral beauties are not 
 only in themselves superior to all others, but they exert an influence, 
 either more near or more remote, on a great variety of other objects of 
 taste. Wherever the affections, characters, or actions of men are con- 
 cerned (and these certainly afford the noblest subjects to genius,) there 
 can be neither any just or affecting description of them, nor any thorough 
 feeling of the beauty of that description, without our possessing the vir- 
 tuous affections. He whose heart is indelicate or hard, he who has no 
 admiration of what is truly noble or praise-worthy, nor the proper sympa- 
 thetic sense of what is soft and tender, must have a very imperfect relish 
 of the highest beauties of eloquence and poetry. 
 
 The characters of taste, when brought to its most improved state, are 
 all reducible to two, Delicacy and Correctness. 
 
 Delicacy of taste respects principally the perfection of that natural sen- 
 sibility on which taste is founded. It implies those, finer organs or powers 
 which enable us to discover beauties that lie hid from a vulgar eye. One 
 may have strong sensibility, and yet be deficient in delicate taste. He 
 may be deeply impressed by such beauties as he perceives ; but he per- 
 ceives only what is in some degree coarse, what is bold and palpable ; 
 while chaster and simpler ornaments escape his notice. In this state 
 taste generally exists among rude and unrefined nations. But a person 
 of delicate taste both feels strongly and feels accurately. He sees dis= 
 tinctions and differences where others see none ; the most latent beauty 
 does not escape him, and he is sensible of the smallest blemish. Delicacy 
 of taste is judged of by the same marks that we use in judging of the deli- 
 cacy of an external sense. As the goodness of the palate is not tried by 
 strong flavours, but by a mixture of ingredients, where, notwithstanding 
 the confusion, we remain sensible of each ; in like manner, delicacy of 
 internal taste appears, by a quick and lively sensibility to its finest, most 
 compounded, or most latent objects. 
 
 Correctness of taste respects chiefly the improvement which that 
 faculty receives through its connexion with the understanding. A man 
 of correct taste is one who is never imposed on by counterfeit beauties ; 
 who carries always in his mind that standard of good sense which he 
 employs in judging of every thing. He estimates with propriety the 
 comparative merit of the several beauties which he meets with in any 
 work of genius ; refers them to their proper classes ; assigns the prin- 
 ciples, as far as they can be traced, whence their power of pleasing 
 flows ; and is pleased himself precisely in that degree in which he ought, 
 and no more. 
 
 It is true that these two qualities of taste, delicacy and correctness, 
 mutually imply each other. No taste can be exquisitely delicate with- 
 out being correct ; nor can be thoroughly correct without being delicate. 
 But still a predominancy of one or other quality in the mixture is often 
 visible. The power of delicacy is chiefly seen in discerning the true 
 
20 TASTE. [LECT.U. 
 
 merit of a work ; the power of correctness, in rejecting false preten- 
 sions to merit. Delicacy leans more to feeling ; correctness more to 
 reason and judgment. The former is more the gift of nature ; the latter, 
 more the product of culture and art. Among the ancient critics, Lon- 
 ginus possessed most delicacy ; Aristotle, most correctness. Among the 
 moderns, Mr. Addison is a high example of delicate taste ; Dean Swift, 
 had he written on the subject of criticism, would perhaps have afforded 
 the example of a correct one. 
 
 Having viewed taste in its most improved and perfect state, I come 
 next to consider its deviations from that state, the fluctuations and changes 
 to which it is liable ; and to inquire whether, in the midst of these, there 
 be any means of distinguishing a true from a corrupted taste. This 
 brings us to the most difficult part of our task. For it must be acknow- 
 ledged, that no principle of the human mind is, in its operations, more 
 fluctuating and capricious than taste. Its variations have been so great 
 and frequent, as to create a suspicion with some, of its being merely 
 arbitrary ; grounded on no foundation, ascertainable by no standard, but 
 wholly dependent on changing fancy ; the consequence of which would 
 be, that all studies or regular inquiries concerning the objects of taste 
 were vain. In architecture, the Grecian models were long esteemed 
 the most perfect. In succeeding ages, the Gothic architecture alone 
 prevailed, and afterward the Grecian taste revived in all its vigour, and 
 engrossed the public admiration. In eloquence and poetry, the Asiatics 
 at no time relished any thing but what was full of ornament, and splen- 
 did in a degree that we should denominate gaudy ; whilst the Greeks 
 admired only chaste and simple beauties, and despised the Asiatic os- 
 tentation. In our own country, how many writings that were greatly 
 extolled two or three centuries ago, are now fallen into entire disre- 
 pute and oblivion ? Without going back to remote instances, how very 
 different is the taste of poetry which prevails in Great Britain now, 
 from what prevailed there no longer ago than the reign of king Charles 
 II. with the authors too of that time deemed an Augustan age : when 
 nothing was in vogue but an affected brilliancy of wit ; when the simple 
 majesty of Milton was overlooked, and Paradise Lost almost entirely 
 unknown ; when Cowley's laboured and unnatural conceits were admired 
 as the very quintessence of genius ; Waller's gay sprightliness was mis- 
 taken for the tender spirit of love poetry ; and such writers as Suckling 
 and Etheridge were held in esteem for dramatic composition. 
 
 The question is, what conclusion we are to form from such instances 
 as these ? Is there any thing that can be called a standard of taste, by 
 appealing to which we may distinguish between a good and a bad taste 'I 
 Or is there in truth no tuch distinction ; and are we to hold that, accord- 
 ing to the proverb, there is no disputing of tastes ; but that whatever 
 pleases is right, for that reanon, that it does please ? This is the question, 
 and a very nice and subtle one it is, which we are now to discuss. 
 
 I begin by observing, that if there be no such thing as any standard 
 of taste, this consequence must immediately follow, that all tastes are 
 equally good ; a position which, though it may pass unnoticed in slight 
 matters, and when we speak of the lesser differences among the tastes 
 of men, yet when we apply it to the extremes, presently shows its absur- 
 dity. For is there any one who will seriously maintain that the taste 
 of a Hottentot or a Laplander is as delicate and as correct as that of a 
 Longinus or an Addison ? or, that he can be charged with no defect or 
 
LECT.II.J TASTE, 21 
 
 incapacity, who thinks a common news-writer as excellent an historian 
 as Tacitus ? As it would be held downright extravagance to talk in this 
 manner, we are led unavoidably to this conclusion, that there is some 
 foundation for the preference of one man's taste to that of another ; or 
 that there is a good and a bad, a right and a wrong, in taste, as in other 
 things. 
 
 But to prevent mistakes on this subject, it is necessary to observe 
 next, that the diversity of tastes which prevails among mankind, does 
 not in every case infer corruption of taste, or oblige us to seek for some 
 standard in order to determine who are in the right. The tastes of 
 men may differ very considerably as to their object, and yet none of them 
 be wrong. One man relishes poetry most ; another takes pleasure in 
 nothing but history. One prefers comedy; another tragedy. One 
 admires the simple ; another the ornamented style. The young are 
 amused with gay and sprightly compositions. The elderly are more 
 entertained with those of a graver cast. Some nations delight in bold 
 pictures of manners, and strong representations of passion. Others in- 
 cline to more correct and regular elegance both in description and senti- 
 ment. Though all differ, yet all pitch upon some one beauty which 
 peculiarly suits their turn of mind ; and therefore no one has a title to 
 condemn the rest. It is not in matters of taste, as in questions of mere 
 reason, where there is but one conclusion that can be true, and all the 
 rest are erroneous. Truth, which is the object of reason, is one ; 
 beauty, which is the object of taste, is manifold. Taste, therefore, admits 
 of latitude and diversity of objects, in sufficient consistency with goodness 
 or justness of taste. 
 
 But then, to explain this matter thoroughly, I must observe farther, 
 that this admissible diversity of tastes can only have place where the 
 objects of taste are different. Where it is with respect to the same 
 object that men disagree, when one condemns that as ugly, which another 
 admires as highly beautiful, then it is no longer diversity, but direct 
 opposition of taste, that takes place ; and therefore one must be in the 
 right, and another in the wrong, unless that absurd paradox were allowed 
 to hold, that all tastes are equally good and true. One man prefers Virgil 
 to Homer. Suppose that I, on the other hand, admire Homer more 
 than Virgil. I have as yet no reason to say that our tastes are contra- 
 dictory. The other person is more struck with the elegance and tender- 
 ness which are the characteristics of Virgil ; I, with the simplicity and 
 fire of Homer. As long as neither of us deny that both Homer and 
 Virgil have great beauties, our difference falls within the compass of that 
 diversity of tastes, which I have shown to be natural and allowable. But 
 if the other man shall assert that Homer has no beauties whatever ; that 
 be holds him to be a dull and spiritless writer, and that he would as soon 
 peruse any old legend of knight-errantry as the Iliad ; then 1 exclaim, 
 that my antagonist either is void of all taste, or that his taste is corrupted 
 in a miserable degree ; and I appeal to whatever I think the standard of 
 taste, to show him that he is in the wrong. 
 
 What that standard is, to which, in such opposition of tastes, we are 
 obliged to have recourse, remains to be traced. A standard properly 
 signifies, that which is of such undoubted authority as to be the test of 
 other things of the same kind. Thus a standard weight or measure is 
 that which is appointed by law to regulate all other measures and weights. 
 
22 TASTE. [LECT.II. 
 
 Thus the court is sain to be the standard of good breeding ; and the Scrip- 
 ture, of theological truth. 
 
 When we say that nature is the standard of taste, we lay down a prin- 
 ciple very true and just, as far as it can be applied. There is no doubt, 
 that in all cases where an imitation is intended of some object that exists 
 in nature, as in representing human characters or actions, conformity to 
 nature affords a full and distinct criterion of what is truly beautiful. 
 Reason hath in such cases full scope for exerting its authority ; for ap- 
 proving or condemning, by comparing the copy with the original. But 
 there are innumerable cases in which this rule cannot be at all applied ; 
 and conformity to nature, is an expression frequently used without any 
 distinct or determinate meaning. We must therefore search for some- 
 what that can be rendered more clear and precise, to be the standard of 
 taste. 
 
 Taste, as I before explained it, is ultimately founded on an internal 
 sense of beauty, which is natural to men, and which, in its application to 
 particular objects, is capable of being guided and enlightened by reason. 
 Now, were there any one person who possessed in full perfection all the 
 powers of human nature, whose internal senses were in every instance 
 exquisite and just, and whose reason was unerring and sure, the determi- 
 nations of such a person concerning beauty, would, beyond doubt, be a 
 perfect standard for the taste of all others. Wherever their taste differed 
 from his, it could only be imputed to some imperfection in their natural 
 powers. But as there is no such living standard, no one person to 
 whom all mankind will allow such submission to be due, what is there of 
 sufficient authority to be the standard of the various and opposite tastes 
 of men ? most certainly there is nothing but the taste, as far it can be 
 gathered, of human nature. That which men concur the most in admi- 
 ring must be held to be beautiful. His taste must be esteemed just and 
 true, which coincides with the general sentiments of men. In this stand- 
 ard we must rest. To the sense of mankind the ultimate appeal must 
 ever lie, in all works of taste. If any one should maintain that sugar was 
 bitter, and tobacco was sweet, no reasonings could avail to prove it. The 
 taste of such a person would infallibly be held to be diseased, merely 
 because it differed so widely from the taste of the species to which he 
 belongs. In like manner, with regard to the objects of sentiment or 
 internal taste, the common feelings of men carry the same authority, and 
 have a title to regulate the taste of every individual. 
 
 But have we then, it will be said, no other criterion of what is beauti- 
 ful than the approbation of the majority ? Must we collect the voices of 
 others, before we form any judgment for ourselves, of what deserves ap- 
 plause in eloquence or poetry ? By no means ; there are principles of 
 reason and sound judgment which can be applied to matters of taste as 
 well as to the subjects of science and philosophy. He who admires or 
 censures any work of genius, is always ready, if his taste be in any degree 
 improved, to assign some reasons for his decision. He appeals to prin- 
 ciples, and points out the grounds on which he proceeds. Taste is a sort 
 of compound power, in which the light of the understanding always min« 
 gles, more or less, with the feelings of sentiment. 
 
 But, though reason can carry us a certain length in judging concerning 
 works of taste, it is not to be forgotten that the ultimate conclusions to 
 which our reasonings lead, refer at last to sense and perception. We may 
 speculate and argue concerning propriety of conduct in a tragedy, or an. 
 
LECT. II.] TASTE. $% 
 
 epic poem. Just reasonings on the subject will correct the caprice of 
 unenlightened taste, and establish principles for judging of what deserves 
 praise. But, at the same time, these reasonings appeal always, in the 
 last resort, to feeling. The foundation upon which they rest, is what has 
 been found from experience to please mankind universally. Upon this 
 ground we prefer a simple and natural, to an artificial and affected style ; 
 a regular and well-connected story, to loose and scattered narratives ; a 
 catastrophe which is tender and pathetic, to one which leaves us un- 
 moved. It is from consulting our own imagination and heart, and from 
 attending to the feelings of others, that any principles are formed which 
 acquire authority in matters of taste.* 
 
 When we refer to the concurring sentiments of men as the ultimate 
 test of what is to be accounted beautiful in the arts, this is to be always 
 understood of men placed in such situations as are favourable to the pro- 
 per exertions of taste. Every one must perceive, that among rude and 
 uncivilized nations, and during the ages of ignorance and darkness, any 
 loose notions that are entertained concerning such subjects carry no 
 authority. In those states of society, taste has no materials on which to 
 operate. It is either totally suppressed, or appears in its lowest and most 
 imperfect form. We refer to the sentiments of mankind in polished and 
 flourishing nations ; when arts are cultivated and manners refined ; when 
 works of genius are subjected to free discussion, and taste is improved 
 by science and philosophy. 
 
 Even among nations, at such a period of society, I admit, that accidental 
 causes may occasionally warp the proper operations of taste ; sometimes 
 the state of religion, sometimes the form of government, may for a while 
 pervert it ; a licentious court may introduce a taste for false ornaments 
 and dissolute writings. The usage of one admired genius may procure 
 approbation for his faults, and even render them fashionable. Some- 
 times envy may have power to bear down, for a little, productions of 
 great merit ; while popular humour, or party spirit, may, at other times, 
 exalt to a high, though short-lived reputation, what little deserved it. 
 But though such casual circumstances give the appearance of caprice to 
 the judgments of taste, that appearance is easily corrected. In the 
 course of time, the genuine taste of human nature never fails to disclose 
 itself, and to gain the ascendant over any fantastic and corrupted modes of 
 taste which may chance to have been introduced. These may have cur- 
 
 * The difference between the authors who found the standard of taste upon the 
 common feelings of human nature ascertained by general approbation, and those who 
 found it upon established principles which can be ascertained by reason, is more an 
 apparent than a real difference. Like many other literary controversies it turns chiefly 
 on modes of expression. For they who lay the greatest stress on sentiment and 
 feeling, make no scruple of applying argument and reason to matters of taste. They 
 appeal, like other writers to established principles, in judging of the excellencies of 
 eloquence or poetry; and plainly show, that the general approbation to which they 
 ultimately recur, is an approbation resulting from discussion as well as from senti- 
 ment. They, on the other hand, who, in order to vindicate taste from any suspicion, 
 of being arbitrary, maintain that it is ascertainable by the standard of reason, ad- 
 mit, nevertheless, that what pleases universally, must, on that account be held to be 
 truly beautiful ; and that no rules or conclusions concerning objects of taste, can 
 have any just authority if they be found to contradict the general sentiments of men. 
 These two systems, therefore, differ in reality very little from one another. Senti- 
 ment and reason enter into both ; and by allowing to each of these powers its due 
 place, both systems may be rendered consistent. Accordingly, it is in this light 
 that I have endeavoured to place the subject, 
 
24 TASTE. [LECT.II. 
 
 rency for a while, and mislead superficial judges ; but being subjected to 
 examination, by degrees they pass away ; while that alone remains which 
 is founded on sound reason, and the native feelings of men. 
 
 I by no means pretend, that there is any standard of taste, to which, in 
 every particular instance, we can resort for clear and immediate deter- 
 mination. Where, indeed, is such a standard to be found for deciding 
 any of those great controversies in reason and philosophy, which per- 
 petually divide, mankind ? In the present case, there was plainly no oc- 
 casion for any such strict and absolute provision to be made. In order 
 to judge of what is morally good or evil, of what man ought, or ought not 
 in duty to do, it was fit that the means of clear and precise determination 
 should be afforded us. Bat to ascertain in every case with the utmost 
 exactness what is beautiful or elegant, was not at all necessary to the 
 happiness of man. And therefore some diversity in feeling was hero 
 allowed to take place ; and room was left for discussion and debate ; con- 
 cerning the degree of approbation to which any work of genius is entitled. 
 
 The conclusion which it is sufficient for us to rest upon is, that taste 
 is far from being an arbitrary principle, which is subject to the fancy of 
 every individual, and which admits of no criterion for determining 
 whether it be false or true. Its foundation is the same in all human minds. 
 It is built upon sentiments and perceptions which belong to our nature ; 
 and which, in general, operate with the same uniformity as our other 
 intellectual principles. When these sentiments are perverted by igno- 
 rance and prejudice, they are capable of being rectified by reason. Their 
 sound and natural state is ultimately determined, by comparing them with 
 the general taste of mankind. Let men declaim as much as they please, 
 concerning the caprice and the uncertainty of taste, it is found by expe- 
 rience, that there are beauties, which, if they be displayed in a proper 
 light, have power to command lasting and general admiration. In every 
 composition, what interests the imagination, and touches the heart, 
 pleases all ages and all nations. There is a certain string to which, when 
 properly struck, the human heart is so made as to answer. 
 
 Hence the universal testimony which the most improved nations of the 
 earth have conspired, throughout a long tract of ages, to give to some 
 few works of genius; such as the Iliad of Homer and the iEneid of 
 Virgil. Hence the authority which such works have acquired as stand- 
 ards, in some degree, of poetical composition ; since from them we are 
 enabled to collect what the sense of mankind is, concerning those beau- 
 ties which give them the highest pleasure, and which therefore poetry 
 ought to exhibit. Authority or prejudice may, in one age or country, 
 give a temporary reputation to an indifferent poet, or a bad artist ; but 
 when foreigners, or when posterity, examine his works, his faults are dis- 
 cerned, and the genuine taste of human nature appears. " Opinionum 
 comment*- delet dies ; naturae judicia confirmat." Time overthrows 
 the illusions of opinion, but establishes the decisions of nature. 
 
2.3 
 
 LECTURE III 
 
 CRITICISM—GENIUS— PLEASURES OF TASTE- 
 SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. 
 
 Taste, criticism, and genius, are words currently employed, without 
 distinct ideas annexed to them. In beginning a course of lectures where 
 such words must often occur, it is necessary to ascertain their meaning 
 with some precision. Having in the last lecture treated of taste, I pro- 
 ceed to explain the nature and foundation of criticism. True criticism is 
 the application of taste and of good sense to the several fine arts. The 
 object which it proposes, is to distinguish what is beautiful and what is 
 faulty in every performance ; from particular instances to ascend to 
 general principles ; and so to form rules or conclusions concerning the 
 several kinds of beauty in works of genius. 
 
 The rules of criticism are not formed by any induction, d priori, as it 
 is called ; that is, they are not formed by a train of abstract reasoning, in- 
 dependent of facts and observations. Criticism is an art founded wholly 
 on experience ; on the observations of such beauties as have come near- 
 est to the standard which I before established : that is, of such beauties 
 that have been found to please mankind most generally. For example ; 
 Aristotle's rules concerning the unity of action in dramatic and epic com- 
 position, were not rules first discovered by logical reasoning, and then 
 applied to poetry ; but they were drawn from the practice of Homer 
 and Sophocles ; they were founded upon observing the superior plea- 
 sure which we receive from the relation of an action which is one and en- 
 tire, beyond what we receive from the relation of scattered and uncon- 
 nected facts. Such observations taking their rise at first from feeling 
 and experience, were found on examination to be so consonant to reason 
 and to the principles of human nature* as to pass into established rules, 
 and to be conveniently applied forjudging of the excellency of any per- 
 formance. This is the most natural account of the origin of criticism. 
 
 A masterly genius, it is true, will of himself, untaught, compose in such 
 a manner as shall be agreeable to the most material rules of criticism : 
 for as these rules are founded in nature, nature will often suggest them 
 in practice. Homer, it is more than probable, was acquainted with no 
 systems of the art of poetry. Guided by genius alone, he composed in 
 ■verse a regular story, which all posterity has admired. But this is no 
 argument against the usefulness of criticism as an art. For as no human 
 genius is perfect, there is no writer but may receive assistance from 
 critical observations upon the beauties and faults of those who have gone 
 before him. No observations or rules can indeed supply the defect of 
 genius, or inspire it where it is wanting. But they may often direct it 
 into its proper channel ; they may correct its extravagancies, and point 
 out to it the most just and proper imitation of nature. Critical rules 
 are designed chiefly to show the faults that ought to be avoided. To 
 nature we must be indebted for the production of eminent beatifies. 
 
 D 
 
£6 CRITICISM. [LECT. Ill, 
 
 From what has been said, we are enabled to form a judgment concern- 
 ing those complaints which it has long been fashionable for petty authors 
 to make against critics and criticism. Critics have been represented as 
 the great abridgers of the native liberty of genius ; as the imposers of 
 unnatural shackles and bonds upon writers, from whose cruel persecu- 
 tion they must fly to the public, and implore its protection. Such suppli- 
 catory prefaces are not calculated to give very favourable ideas of the 
 genius of the author. For every good writer will be pleased to have his 
 work examined by the principles of sound understanding and true taste. 
 The declamations against criticism commonly proceed upon this supposi- 
 tion, that critics are such as judge by rule, not by feeling ; which is so far 
 from being true, that they w 7 ho judge after this manner are pedants, not cri- 
 tics. For all the rules of genuine criticism I have shown to be ultimately 
 founded on feeling ; and taste and feeling are necessary to guide us in the 
 application of these rules to every particular instance. As there is no- 
 thing in which all sorts of persons more readily affect to be judges than 
 in works of taste, there is no doubt that the number of incompetent critics 
 will always be great. But this affords no more foundation for a general 
 invective against criticism, than the number of bad philosophers or rea- 
 soners affords against reason and philosophy. 
 
 An objection more plausible may be formed against criticism, from the 
 applause that some performances have received from the public, which, 
 when accurately considered, are found to contradict the rules established 
 by criticism. Now, according to the principles laid down in the last lec- 
 ture, the public is the supreme judge to whom the last appeal must be made 
 in every work of taste ; as the standard of taste is founded on the senti- 
 ments that are natural and common to all men. But with respect to this, 
 we are to observe, that the sense of the public is often too hastilyjudged 
 of. The genuine public taste does not always appear in the first applause 
 given upon the publication of any new work. There are both a great 
 vulgar and a small, apt to be catched and dazzled by very superficial beau - 
 ties, the admiration of which in a little time passes away ; and sometimes 
 a writer may acquire great temporary reputation merely by his compli- 
 ance with the passions or prejudices, with the party spirit or supersti- 
 tious notions that may chance to rule for a time almost a whole nation . 
 In such cases, though the public may seem to praise, true criticism may 
 with reason condemn ; and it will in progress of time gain the ascendant : 
 for the judgment of true criticism, and the voice of the public, when 
 once become unprejudiced and dispassionate, will ever coincide at last 
 
 Instances, I admit, there are, of some works that contain gross trans- 
 gressions of the laws of criticism, acquiring, nevertheless, a general, and 
 even a lasting admiration. Such are the plays of Shakspeare, which, 
 considered as dramatic poems, are irregular in the highest degree. But 
 then we are to remark, that they have gained the public admiration, not 
 by their being irregular, not by their transgressions of the rules of art, 
 but in spite of such transgressions. They possess other beauties which 
 are conformable to just rules ; and the force of these beauties has 
 been so great as to overpower all censure, and to give the public a 
 degree of satisfaction superior to the disgust arising from their blem- 
 ishes. Shakspeare pleases, not by his bringing the transactions of many 
 years into one play ; not by his grotesque mixtures of tragedy and 
 comedy in one piece, nor by the strained thoughts and affected wit- 
 ticisms, which he sometimes employs. These we consider as blem- 
 
LECT. III.] GENIUS, £7 
 
 ishes, and impute them to the grossness of the age in which he lived, 
 "But he pleases by his animated and masterly representations of charac- 
 ters, by the liveliness of his descriptions, the force of his sentiments, 
 and his possessing, beyond all writers, the natural language of passion : 
 beauties which true criticism no less teaches us to place in the highest 
 rank, than nature teaches us to feel. 
 
 I proceed next to explain the meaning of another term, which there 
 will be frequent occasion to employ in these lectures ; that is, Genius. 
 
 Taste and genius are two words frequently joined together ; and 
 therefore by inaccurate thinkers, confounded. They signify, however, 
 two quite different things. The difference between them can be clear- 
 ly pointed out ; and it is of importance to remember it. Taste consists 
 in the power of judging ; genius, in the power of executing. One may 
 have a considerable degree of taste in poetry, eloquence, or any of the 
 fine arts, who has little or hardly any genius for composition or execution 
 in any of these arts : but genius cannot be found without including taste 
 also. Genius, therefore, deserves to be considered as a higher power 
 of the mind than taste. Genius always imports something inventive or 
 creative ; which does not rest in mere sensibility to beauty where it is 
 perceived, but which can, moreover, produce new beauties, and exhi- 
 bit them in such a manner as strongly to impress the minds of other?. 
 Refined taste forms a good critic ; but genius is farther necessary to 
 form the poet, or the orator. 
 
 It is proper also to observe, that genius is a word, which, in common 
 acceptation, extends much farther than to the objects of taste. It is 
 used to signify that talent or aptitude which we receive from nature, for 
 excelling in any one thing whatever. Thus we speak of a genius for 
 mathematics, as well as a genius for poetry ; of a genius for war, for 
 politics, or for any mechanical employment. 
 
 This talent or aptitude for excelling in some one particular, is, I have 
 said, what we receive from nature. By art and study, no doubt, it may 
 be greatly improved ; but by them alone it cannot be acquired. As 
 genius is a higher faculty than taste, it is ever, according to the usual 
 frugality of nature, more limited in the sphere of its operations. It is 
 not uncommon to meet with persons who have an excellent taste in 
 several of the polite arts, such as music, poetry, painting, and elo- 
 quence, altogether : but, to find one who is an excellent performer in all 
 these arts, is much more rare ; or rather, indeed, such an one is not 
 to be looked for. A sort of universal genius, or one who is equally and 
 indifferently turned towards several different professions and arts, is not 
 likely to excel in any. Although there may be some few exceptions, 
 yet in general it holds, that when the bent of the mind is wholly directed 
 towards some one object, exclusive in a manner of others, there is the 
 fairest prospect of eminence in that, whatever it be. The rays must 
 converge to a point, in order to glow intensely. This remark I here 
 choose to make, on account of its importance to young people ; in lead- 
 ing them to examine with care, and to pursue with ardour, the current 
 and pointing of nature towards those exertions of genius in which they 
 are most likely to excel. 
 
 A genius for any of the fine arts, as I before observed, always sup~ 
 poses taste ; and it is clear, that the improvement of taste will serve 
 both to forward and to correct the operations of genius, In proportion 
 
2$ PLEASURES OF TASTE. j LECT. 0$. 
 
 as the taste of a poet, or orator, become? more refined with respect to 
 the beauties of composition, it will certainly assist him to produce the 
 more finished beauties in his work. Genius, however, in a poet or 
 orator, may sometimes exist in a higher degree than taste ; that is, 
 genius may be bold and strong, when taste is neither very delicate, nor 
 very correct. This is often the case in the infancy of arts ; a period, 
 when genius frequently exerts itself with great vigour, and executes 
 with much warmth ; while taste, which requires experience, and im- 
 proves by slower degrees, hath not yet attained to its full growth. Homer 
 and Shakspeare are proofs of what I now assert ; in whose admirable 
 writings are found instances of rudeness and indelicacy, which the more 
 refined taste of later writers, who had far inferior genius to them, 
 would have taught them to avoid. As all human perfection is limited, 
 this may very probably be the law of our nature, that it is not given to 
 one man to execute with vigour and fire, and at the same time, to attends 
 to all the lesser and more refined graces that belong to the exact per- 
 fection of his work : while on the other hand, a thorough taste for those 
 inferior graces is, for the most part, accompanied with a diminution of 
 sublimity and force. 
 
 Having thus explained the nature of taste, the nature and importance 
 of criticism, and the distinction between taste and genius ; I am now 
 to consider the sources of the pleasures of taste. Here opens a 
 very extensive field ; no less than all the pleasures of the imagi- 
 nation, as they are commonly called, whether afforded us by na- 
 tural objects, or by the imitations and descriptions of them. But 
 it is not necessary to the purpose of my lectures, that all these should 
 be examined fully ; the pleasure which we receive from discourse, or 
 writing, being the main object of them. All that I propose is to give 
 some openings into the plepiSures of taste in general ; and to insist more 
 particularly upon sublimity and beauty. 
 
 We are far from having yet attained to any system concerning this 
 subject. Mr. Addison was the first who attempted a regular inquiry, in 
 his Essay on the Pleasures of the Imagination, published in the sixth 
 volume of the Spectator. He has reduced these Pleasures under three 
 beads ; beauty, grandeur, and novelty. His speculations on this subject 
 if not exceedingly profound, are, however, very beautiful and enter- 
 taining ; and he has the merit of having opened a track, which was before 
 unbeaten. The advances made since his time in this curious part of 
 philosophical criticism, are not very considerable ; though some ingenious 
 writers have pursued the subject. This is owing, doubtless, to that 
 thinness, and subtilty, which are found to be properties of all the feelings 
 of taste. They are engaging objects ; but when we would lay firm 
 hold of them ; and subject them to a regular discussion, they are always 
 ready to elude our grasp, It is difficult to make a full enumeration of the 
 several objects that give pleasure to taste : it is more difficult to define 
 all those which have been discovered and to reduce them under proper 
 classes ; and, when we would go farther, and investigate the efficient 
 causes of the pleasure which we receive from such objects, here, 
 above all, we find ourselves at a loss. For instance ; we all learn by 
 experience, that certain figures of bodies appear to us more beautiful 
 than others. On inquiring farther, we find that the regularity of some 
 figures, and the graceful variety of others, are the foundation of the 
 beauty which we discern in them ; but when we attempt to go a step 
 
EECT. III.;; SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS, 29 
 
 beyond this, and inquire what is the cause of regularity and variety 
 producing in our minds the sensation of beauty, any reason we can as- 
 sign is extremely imperfect. These first principles of internal sensation 
 nature seems to have covered with an impenetrable veil. 
 
 It is some comfort, however, that although the efficient cause be 
 obscure, the final cause of those sensations lies in many cases more 
 open : and, in entering on this subject, we cannot avoid taking notice 
 of the strong impression which the powers of taste and imagination 
 are calculated to give us of the benignity of our Creator. By endow- 
 ing us with such powers, he hath widely enlarged the sphere of the 
 pleasures of human life ; and those, too, of a kind the most pure and 
 innocent. The necessary purposes of life might have been abundantly 
 answered, though our senses of seeing and hearing had only served to 
 extinguish external objects, without conveying to us any of those re- 
 fined and delicate sensations of beauty and grandeur, with which we 
 are now so much delighted. This additional embellishment and glory, 
 which, for promoting our entertainment, the Author of Nature hath 
 poured forth upon his works, is one striking testimony, among many 
 others, of benevolence and goodness. This thought, which Mr. Addison 
 first started, Dr. Akenside, in his poem on the Pleasures of the Imagina 
 tion,has happily pursued. 
 
 Not content 
 
 With every food of life to nourish man, 
 By kind illusions of the wondering sense, 
 Thou mak'st all nature beauty to his eye, 
 Or music to his ear.— — — 
 
 I shall begin with considering the pleasure which arises from sub- 
 limity or grandeur, of which I propose to treat at some length ; both, 
 as this has a character more precise and distinctly marked than any 
 other of the pleasures of the imagination, and as it coincides more di- 
 rectly with our main subject. For the greater distinctness, I shall, first, 
 treat of the grandeur or sublimity of external objects themselves, which 
 will employ the rest of this lecture ; and, afterward, of the descrip- 
 tion of such objects, or of what is called the sublime in writing, which 
 shall be the subject of a following lecture. I distinguish these two 
 things from one another, the grandeur of the objects themselves when 
 they are presented to the eye, and the description of that grandeur in 
 discourse or writing ; though most critics, inaccurately, 1 think, blend 
 them together ; and I consider grandeur and sublimity as terms synony- 
 mous, or nearly so. If there be any distinction between them, it arises 
 from sublimity's expressing grandeur in its highest degree.* 
 
 It is not easy to describe, in words, the precise impression which 
 great and sublime objects make upon us when we behold them, but 
 every one has a conception of it. It produces a sort of internal eleva- 
 tion and expansion ; it raises the mind much above its ordinary state : 
 and fills it with a degree of wonder and astonishment, which it cannot 
 well express. The emotion is certainly delightful ; but it is altogether 
 of the serious kind ; a degree of awfulness and solemnity, even ap- 
 proaching to severity, commonly attends it when at its height ; very dis- 
 tinguishable from the more gay and brisk emotion raised by beautiful 
 objects. 
 
 * See a Philosophical Inquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beaw- 
 iWul , Dr. Gerard. on Taste, Section II. Elements of Criticism, Chap. IV, 
 
 
SO SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS, [LECT. II. 
 
 The simplest form of external grandeur appears in the vast and 
 boundless prospects presented to us by nature ; such as wide extended 
 plains, to which the eye can see no limits ; the firmament of Heaven ; 
 or the boundless expanse of the ocean. All vastness produces the im- 
 pression of sublimity. It is to be remarked, however, that space, ex- 
 tended in length, makes not so strong an impression as height or depth. 
 Though a boundless plain be a grand object, yet a high mountain, to 
 which we look up, or an awful precipice or tower whence we look 
 down on the objects which lie below, is still more so. The exces- 
 sive grandeur of the firmament arises from its height, joined to its 
 boundless extent ; and that of the ocean, not from its extent alone, but 
 from the perpetual motion and irresistible force of that mass of waters. 
 Wherever space is concerned, it is clear, that amplitude or great- 
 ness of extent, in one dimension or other, is necessary to grandeur. 
 Remove all bounds from any object, and you presently render it sublime. 
 Hence infinite space, endless numbers, and eternal duration, fill the mind 
 with great ideas. 
 
 From this some have imagined, that vastness or amplitude of extent, 
 is the foundation of all sublimity. But 1 cannot be of this opinion, be- 
 cause many objects appear sublime which have no relation to space at all. 
 Such, for instance, is great loudness of sound. The burst of thunder, or 
 of cannon, the roaring of winds, the shouting of multitudes, the sound of 
 vast cataracts of water, are all incontestably grand objects. " I heard 
 the voice of a great multitude, as the sound of many waters, and of 
 mighty thunderings, saying, Allelnjah." In general we may observe, 
 that great power and force exerted, always raise sublime ideas ; and 
 perhaps the most copious source of these is derived from this quarter. 
 Hence the grandeur of earthquakes and burning mountains ; of great 
 conflagrations ; of the stormy ocean, and overflowing waters ; of tem- 
 pests of wind ; of thunder and lightning ; and of all the uncommon vio- 
 lence of the elements. Nothing is more sublime than mighty power and 
 strength. A stream that runs within its banks is a beautiful object ; but 
 when it rushes down with the impetuosity and noise of a torrent, it pre- 
 sently becomes a sublime one. From lions and other animals of strength, 
 are drawn sublime comparisons in poets. A race-horse is looked upon 
 with pleasure ; but it is the war-horse, " whose neck is clothed with 
 thunder," that carries grandeur in its idea. The engagement of two 
 great armies, as it is the highest exertion of human might, combines a 
 variety of sources of the sublime ; and has accordingly been always 
 considered as one of the most striking and magnificent spectacles that 
 can either be presented to the eye, or exhibited to the imagination in 
 description. 
 
 For the farther illustration of this subject, it is proper to remark, that 
 all ideas of the solemn and awful kind, and even bordering on the terrible, 
 tend greatly to assist the sublime ; such as darkness, solitude, and silence. 
 What are the scenes of nature that elevate the mind in the highest de- 
 gree, and produce the sublime sensation ? Not the gay landscape, the 
 flowery field, or the flourishing city ; but the hoary mountain, and the soli- 
 tary lake ; the aged forest, and the torrent falling over the rock. Hence, 
 too, night scenes are. commonly the most sublime. The firmament, when 
 filled with stars, scattered in such vast numbers, and with such magnifi- 
 cent profusion, strikes the imagination with a more awful grandeur, than 
 when we view it enlightened with all the splendour of the sun. The deep 
 
LECT.IU.] SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. $[ 
 
 sound of a great bell, or the striking of a great clock, are at any time 
 grand ; but when heard amid the silence and stillness of the night, they 
 become doubly so. Darkness is very commonly applied for adding sub- 
 limity to all our ideas of the Deity. " He maketh darkness his pavilion ; 
 he dvvelleth in the thick cloud." So Milton : 
 
 How oft, amidst 
 
 Thick clouds and dai*k> does heaven's all-ruling Sire 
 
 Choose to reside, his glory unobscur'd, 
 
 And, with the majesty of darkness, round 
 
 Circles his throne Book II. 263. 
 
 Observe, with how much art Virgil has introduced all those ideas of 
 silence, vacuity, and darkness, when he is going to introduce his hero to 
 the infernal regions, and to disclose the secrets of the great deep. 
 
 Dii quibus imperium est animarum,umbra3que silentes, 
 Et Chaos, et Phlegethon, loca nocte silentia late, 
 Sit mihi fas audita loqui ; sit numine vestro 
 Pandere res alta terra, et caligne niersas. 
 Ibant obscuri, sola sub nocte, per umbram, 
 Perque domos Ditis vacuos, et inania regna ; 
 Quale per incertam lunam, sub luce maligna, 
 Est iter in silvis .* 
 
 These passages I quote at present, not so much as instances of sublime 
 writing, though in themselves they truly are so, as to show, by the effect 
 of them, that the objects which they present to us, belong to the class of 
 sublime ones. 
 
 Obscurity, we are farther to remark, is not unfavourable to the sublime. 
 Though it render the object indistinct, the impression, however, may be 
 great ; for, as an ingenious author has well observed, it is one thing to 
 make an idea clear, and another to make it affecting to the imagination ; 
 and the imagination may be strongly affected r and, in fact, often is so, by 
 objects of which we have no clear conception. Thus we see, that almost 
 all the descriptions given us of the appearances of supernatural beings, 
 carry some sublimity, though the conceptions which they afford us be 
 confused and indistinct. Their sublimity arises from the ideas, which 
 they always convey, of superior power and might, joined with an awful 
 obscurity. We may see this fully exemplified in the following noble pas- 
 sage of the book of Job : " In thoughts from the visions of the night, 
 when deep sleep falleth upon men, fear came upon me, and trembling, 
 which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit passed before my 
 face ; the hair of my flesh stood up : it stood still ; but I could not dis- 
 cern the form thereof; an image was before mine eyes , there was 
 silence ; and I heard a voice saying, Shall mortal man be more just than 
 
 * Ye subterranean gods, whose awful sway 
 The gliding ghosts and silent shades obey : 
 O Chaos, hear ! and Phlegethon profound ! 
 Whose solemn empire stretches wide around I 
 Give me, ye great tremendous powers ! to tell 
 Of scenes and wonders in the depths of hell ; 
 Give me your mighty secrets to display, 
 From those black realms of darkness to the day. pitt. 
 
 Obscure they went ; through dreary shades, that led 
 
 Along the waste dominions of the dead ; 
 
 As wander travellers in woods by night, 
 
 By the moon's doubtful and malignant ijghtt bUydf^ 
 
S'2 SUBLIMITY IX OBJECTS:. [LECT. I If. 
 
 God V s * Job. iv. 15. No ideas, it is plain, are so sublime as those 
 taken from the Supreme Being; the most unknown, but the greatest of ail 
 objects ; the infinity of whose nature, and the eternity of whose duration, 
 joined with the omnipotence of his power, though they surpass our con- 
 ceptions, yet exalt them to the highest. In general, all objects that are 
 greatly raised above us, or far removed from us, either in space or in 
 time, are apt to strike us as great. Our viewing them as through the 
 mist of distance or antiquity, is favourable to the impressions of their sub- 
 limity. 
 
 As obscurity, so disorder too, is very compatible with grandeur ; nay 
 frequently heightens it. Few things that are strictly regular and metho- 
 dical appear sublime. We see the limits on every side ; we feel our- 
 selves confined ; there is no room for the mind's exerting any great effort. 
 Exact proportion of parts, though it enters often into the beautiful, is 
 much disregarded in the sublime. A great mass of rocks, thrown to- 
 gether by the hand of nature with wildness and confusion, strike the mind 
 with more grandeur than if they had been adjusted to one another with 
 the most accurate symmetry. 
 
 In the feeble attempts which human art can make towards producing 
 grand objects (feeble, I mean in comparison with the powers of nature,) 
 greatness of dimensions always constitutes a principal part. No pile of 
 building can convey any idea of sublimity, unless it be ample and lofty. 
 There is too in architecture what is called greatness of manner ; which 
 seems chiefly to arise from presenting the object to us in one full point 
 of view ; so that it shall make its impression whole, entire, and undivided, 
 upon the mind. A Gothic cathedral raises ideas of grandeur in our minds, 
 by its size, its height, its awful obscurity, its strength, its antiquity, and 
 its durability. 
 
 There still remains to be mentioned one class of sublime objects, which 
 may be called the moral, or sentimental sublime ; arising from certain ex- 
 ertions of the human mind ; from certain affections, and actions, of our 
 fellow-creatures. These will be found to be all, or chiefly, of that class 
 which comes under the name of magnanimity, or heroism ; and they pro- 
 duce an effect extremely similar to what is produced by the view of 
 grand objects in nature ; filling the mind with admiration, and elevating 
 it above itself. A noted instance of this, quoted by all the French critics, 
 is the celebrated Qu'z7 mourut of Corneille, in the tragedy of Horace. 
 In the famous combat betwixt the Horatii and the Curiatii, the old Hora- 
 tius, being informed that two of his sons are slain, and that the third had 
 betaken himself to flight, at first will not believe the report ; but being 
 thoroughly assured of the fact, is fired with all the sentiments of high 
 honour and indignation at this supposed unworthy behaviour of his survi- 
 ving son. He is reminded, that his son stood alone against three, and 
 
 * The picture which Lucretius has drawn of the dominion of superstition over man- 
 kind, representing it as a portentous spectre showing its head from the clouds, and 
 dismaying the whole human race with its countenance, together with the magnani* 
 mity of Epicurus in raising himself up against it, carries all the grandeur of a sublime, 
 obscure, and awful image. 
 
 Humana ante oculos fosde cum vita jaceret 
 
 In terris, oppressa gravi sub religione, 
 
 Quae caput cosli regionibus ostendebat, 
 
 J lorribili super aspectu mortalibus instans. 
 
 Prknum Graius homo mortales tollere contra 
 
 V.?\ nr*uV- aUSUS— — — — « Tjjv. >, 
 
LECT. Ilf.j SUBLIMITY LN OBJECTS. , SB 
 
 asked what he would have had him to have done ? " To have died," he 
 answers. In the same manner Porus, taken prisoner by Alexander, after 
 a gallant defence, and asked in what manner he would be treated ? an- 
 swering, " Like a king ;" and Caesar chiding the pilot who was afraid to 
 set out with him in a storm, " Quid times ? Cassarem vehis ;" are good 
 instances of this sentimental sublime. Wherever, in some critical and 
 high situation, we behold a man uncommonly intrepid, and resting upon 
 himself ; superior to passion and to fear ; animated by some great prin- 
 ciple to the contempt of popular opinion, of selfish interest, of dangers, 
 or of death ; there we are struck with a sense of the sublime.* 
 
 High virtue is the most natural and fertile source of this moral sublimity. 
 However, on some occasions, where virtue either has no place, or is but 
 imperfectly displayed, yet if extraordinary vigour and force of mind be 
 discovered, we are not insensible to a degree of grandeur in the charac- 
 ter ; and from the splendid conqueror, or the daring conspirator whom 
 we are far from approving, we cannot withhold our admiration.! 
 
 I have now enumerated a variety of instances, both in inanimate objects 
 and in human life, wherein the sublime appears. In all these instances 
 the emotion raised in us is of the same kind, although the objects that 
 produce the emotion be of widely different kinds. A question next arises* 
 whether we are able to discover some one fundamental quality in which 
 all these different objects agree, and which is the cause of their producing 
 an emotion of the same nature in our minds ? Various hypotheses have 
 been formed concerning this ; but, as far as appears to me, hitherto un- 
 satisfactory. Some have imagined that amplitude, or great extent, joined 
 with simplicity, is either immediately, or remotely, the fundamental 
 
 * The sublime, in natural and in moral objects, is brought before us in one view, 
 and compared together, in the following beautiful passage of Akenside's Pleasures 
 of the Imagination. 
 
 Look then abroad through nature, to the range 
 
 Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres, 
 
 Wheeling, unshaken, thro' the void immense; 
 
 And speak, O man ! does this capacious scene, 
 
 With half that kindling majesty, dilate 
 
 Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose, 
 
 Refulgent, from the stroke of Caesar's fate, 
 
 Amid the crowd of patriots ; and his arm 
 
 Aloft extending, like eternal Jove, 
 
 When guilt brings down the thunder, call'd aloud 
 
 On Tully's name, and shook his crimson steel. 
 
 And bade the father of his country bail ! 
 
 For, lo ! the tyrant prostrate on the dust ; 
 
 And Rome again is free. Book I. 
 
 r t SiKus Raiicus has studied to give an august idea of Hannibal, by representing 
 him as surrounded with all his victories, in the place of guards. One who formed 
 a design of assassinating him in the midst of a feast, is thus addressed : 
 
 Fallit te, mensas inter quod credis intermem; 
 
 Tot bellis queesita viro, tot csedibus, armat 
 
 Majestas Eeterna ducem. Si admoveris ora 
 
 Cannas, et Trebiam ante oculos, Trasymenaque busta 
 
 Et Pauli stare ingentem miraberis umbram. 
 A thought somewhat of the same nature occurs in a French author, " II se cache ; 
 mais sa reputation ledecouvre ; II marche sans suite et sans equinpage j mais chacun) 
 dans son esprit, le metsur un char de triomphe, On compte, en le voiant, les enemis 
 qu'il a vaincus, non pas les serviteurs qui le suivent Tout seul qu'il est, on se figure, 
 autour de lui, ses vertus, et ses victoires, que 1'accompagnent. Moins il est superbe' 
 plus il devient venerable." Oraison Funebre de M. de Turenne, par M. Flechier , 
 Both these passages are splendid, rather than sublime. In the first, there is a wan*' 
 *f justness in the thought : in the second, of simplicity in the expression. 
 
34 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING [LECX-HC 
 
 quality of whatever is sublime ; but we have seen that amplitude is con- 
 fined to one species of sublime objects, and cannot, without violent strain- 
 ing, be applied to them all. The author of " A Philosophical Inquiry into 
 ♦he origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful," to whom we are 
 indebted for several ingenious and original thoughts upon this subject, 
 proposes a formal theory upon this foundation, that terror is the source 
 of the sublime, and that no objects have this character, but such as pro- 
 duce impressions of pain and danger. It is indeed true, that many tec- 
 rible objects are highly sublime ; and that grandeur does not refuse an 
 alliance with the idea of danger. But though this is very properly illus- 
 trated by the author (many of whose sentiments on that head 1 have adopt- 
 ed) yet he seems to stretch his theory too far, when he represents the 
 sublime as consisting wholly in modes of danger, or of pain. For the pro- 
 per sensation of sublimity appears to be very distinguishable from the 
 sensation of either of these ; and on several occasions, to be entirely 
 separated from them. In many grand objects, there is no coincidence with 
 ♦error at all ; as in the magnificent prospect of wide extended plains, and 
 of the starry firmament ; or in the moral dispositions and sentiments, 
 which we view with high admiration ; and in many painful and terrible 
 objects also, it is clear, there is no sort of grandeur. The amputation of a 
 limb, or the bite of a snake, are exceedingly terrible ; but are destitute 
 of all claim whatever to sublimity. I am inclined to think, that mighty 
 force or power, whether accompanied with terror or not, whether em- 
 ployed in protecting, or in alarming us, has a better title, than any thing 
 that has yet been mentioned, to be the fundamental quality of the sub- 
 lime ; as after the review which we have taken, there does not occur to 
 me any sublime object, into the idea of which, power, strength, and 
 force, either enter not directly, or are not, at least, intimately associated 
 with the idea by leading our thoughts to some astonishing power, as 
 concerned in the production of the object. However, I do not insist 
 upon this as sufficient to found a general theory : it is enough, now to 
 have given this view of the nature and different kinds of sublime ob- 
 jects ; by which I hope to have laid a proper foundation for discussing, 
 with greater accuracy, the sublime in writing and composition. 
 
 LECTURE IV 
 
 THE SUBLIME IN WRITING. 
 
 Having treated of grandeur or sublimity in external objects, the 
 way seems now to be cleared, for treating, with more advantage, of the 
 description of such objects ; or, of what is called the sublime in writing. 
 Though I may appear to enter early on the consideration of this subject ; 
 yet, as the sublime is a species of writing which depends less than any 
 other on the artificial embellishments of rhetoric, it may be examined 
 with as much propriety here, as in any subsequent part of the lectures. 
 
 -Many critical terms have unfortunately been employed in a sense too 
 
LECT. IV.] SUBLIMITY IN WRITING §g 
 
 loose and vague ; none more go, than that of the sublime. Every one £s 
 acquainted with the character of Caesar's Commentaries, and of the style 
 in which they are written ; a style, remarkably pure, simple, and elegant ; 
 but the most remote from the sublime, of any of the classical authors. 
 Yet this author has a German critic, Johannes Gulielmus Bergerus, who 
 wrote no longer ago than the year 1720, pitched upon as the perfect mo- 
 del of the sublime, and has composed a quarto volume, entitled De natn- 
 rali Pukhritudine Orationis ; the express intention of which is to show, 
 that Caesar's Commentaries contain the most complete exemplification of 
 all Longinus's rules relating to sublime writing. This I mention as a 
 strong proof of the confused ideas which have j r vailed concerning this 
 subject. The true sense of sublime writing, undoubtedly, is such a de 
 scription of objects, or exhibition of sentiments, which are in themselves 
 of a sublime nature, as shall give us strong impressions of them. But 
 there is another very indefinite, and therefore very improper, sense, 
 which has been too often put upon it ; when it is applied to signify any re- 
 markable and distinguishing excellency of composition : whether it raise 
 in us the ideas of grandeur, or those of gentleness, elegance, or any 
 other sort of beauty. In this sense, Caesar's Commentaries may indeed be 
 termed sublime, and so may many sonnets, pastorals, and love elegies, as 
 well as Homer's Iliad. But this evidently confounds the use of words, 
 and marks no one species, or character, of composition whatever. 
 
 I am sorry to be obliged to observe, that the sublime is tor>often used 
 in this last and improper sense, by the celebrated critic Longinus, in his 
 treatise on this subject. He sets out, indeed, with describing it in itsjust 
 and proper meaning ; as something that elevates the mind above itself, 
 and fills it with high conceptions, and a noble pride. But from this view 
 ef it he frequently departs ; and substitutes in the place of it, whatever, 
 in any strain of composition, pleases highly. Thus, many of the passages 
 which he produces as instances of the sublime, are merely elegant, with- 
 out having the most distant relation to proper sublimity ; witness Sappho's 
 famous ode, on which he descants at considerable length. He points out 
 five sources of the sublime. The first is boldness or grandeur in the 
 thoughts ; the second is, the pathetic ; the third, the proper application 
 of figures ; the fourth, the use of tropes and beautiful expressions ; the 
 fifth, musical structure and arrangement of words. This is the plan of 
 one who was writing a treatise of rhetoric, or of the beauties of writing in 
 general ; not of the sublime in particular. For of these five heads, only 
 the two first have any relation to the sublime ; boldness and gran- 
 deur in the thoughts, and in some instances, the pathetic, or strong exer- 
 tions of passion ; the other three, tropes, figures, and musical arrange^ 
 ments, have no more relation to the sublime, than to other kinds of good 
 writing ; perhaps less to the sublime, than to any other species what- 
 ever ; because it requires less the assistance of ornament. From this it 
 appears, that clear and precise ideas on this head are not to be expected 
 from that writer. I would not, however, be understood, as if I meant, by 
 this censure, to represent his treatise as of small value. I know no critic* 
 ancient or modern, that discovers a more lively relish of the beauties of 
 fine writing, than Longinus ; and he has also the merit of being himself 
 an excellent, and, in several passnges, a truly sublime, writer. But as 
 his work has been generally considered as a standard on this subject, it 
 was incumbent on me to give my opinion concerning the benefit to be de- 
 rived from it. II deserves to be consulted, not so much for. distinct i$, 
 
36 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. [LEGS'. IV. 
 
 struction concerning the sublime, as for excellent general ideas concern ■ 
 ing beauty in writing. 
 
 I return now to the proper and natural idea of the sublime in compo- 
 sition. The foundation of it must always be laid in the nature of the 
 object described. Unless it be such an object as, if presented to our 
 eyes, if exhibited to us in reality, would raise ideas of that elevating, that 
 awful, and magnificent kind, which we call sublime ; the description, 
 however finely drawn, is not entitled to come under this class. This 
 excludes all objects that are merely beautiful, gay, or elegant. In the 
 next place, the object must not only, in itself, be sublime, hut it must be 
 set before us in sflch a light as is most proper to give us a clear and full 
 impression of it ; it must be described with strength, with conciseness, 
 and simplicity. This depends principally, upon the lively impression 
 which the poet, or orator, has of the object which he exhibits ; and 
 upon his being deeply affected, and warmed, by the sublime idea which 
 he would convey. If his own feeling be languid, he can never inspire 
 us with any strong emotion. Instances, which are extremely necessary 
 on this subject, will clearly show the importance of all those requisites 
 which I have just now mentioned. 
 
 It is, generally speaking, among the most ancient authors, that we are 
 to look for the most striking instances of the sublime. I am inclined to 
 think that the early ages of the world, and the rude unimproved state of 
 society, are peculiarly favourable to the strong emotions of sublimity, 
 The genius of men is then much turned to admiration and astonishment. 
 Meeting with many objects, to them new and strange, their imagination 
 is kept glowing, and their passions are often raised to the utmost. They 
 think and express themselves boldly, and without restraint. In the pro- 
 gress of society, the genius and manners of men undergo a change more 
 favourable to accuracy, than to strength or sublimity. 
 
 Of all writings, ancient or modern, the Sacred Scriptures afford us 
 the highest instances of the sublime. The descriptions of the Deity, 
 in them, are wonderfully noble ; both from the grandeur of the object, 
 and the manner of representing it. What an assemblage, for instance, 
 of awful and sublime ideas is presented to us, in that passage of the 
 xviiith Psalm, where an appearance of the Almighty is described ? " In 
 my distress I called upon the Lord, he heard my voice out of his temple, 
 and my cry came before him. Then, the earth shook and trembled ; 
 the foundations also of the hills were moved ; because he was wroth. 
 He bowed the heavens, and came down, and darkness was under his 
 feet ; and he did ride upon a cherub, and did fly ; yea, he did fly upon 
 the wings of the wind. He made darkness his secret place ; his pavi- 
 lion round about him were dark waters, and thick clouds of the sky.'" 
 Here, agreeably to the principles established in the last lecture, we see 
 with what propriety and success the circumstances of darkness and ter- 
 ror are applied for heightening the sublime. So, also, the prophet Ha- 
 bakkuk, in a similar passage : " He stood and measured the earth ; he 
 beheld, and drove asunder the nations. The everlasting mountains 
 were scattered ; the perpetual hills did bow ; his ways are everlasting. 
 The mountains saw thee ; and they trembled. The overflowing of the 
 water passed by. The deep uttered his voice, and lifted up his hands 
 on high." 
 
 The noted instance given by Longinus, from Moses, " God said, Let 
 there be light, and there was light j" is not liable to the censure which I 
 
I.ECT.IV.] SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. ^ 
 
 passed on some of his instances, of being foreign to the subject. It be- 
 longs to the true sublime ; and the sublimity of it arises from the strong 
 conception it gives of an exertion of power, producing its effect with the 
 utmost speed and facility. A thought of the same kind is magnificently 
 amplified in the following passage of Isaiah : (chap. xliy. 24. 27. 28.) 
 " Thus saith the Lord, thy Redeemer, and he that formed thee from the 
 womb ; I am the Lord that maketh all things, that stretcheth forth the 
 heavens alone, that spreadeth abroad the earth by myself— that saith to 
 the deep, Be dry, and 1 will dry up thy rivers ; that saith of Cyrus, He 
 is my shepherd, and shall perform all my pleasure; even, saying to 
 Jerusalem, Thou shalt be built ; and to the temple, Thy foundation shalt 
 be laid." There is a passage in the Psalms, which deserves to be men- 
 tioned under this head ; " God," says the Psalmist "stilleth the noise of 
 the seas, the noise of their waves, and the tumults of the people." The 
 joining together two such grand objects, as the raging of the waters, and 
 the tumults of the people, between which there is so much resemblance 
 as to form a very natural association in the fancy, and the representing 
 them both as subject, at one moment, to the command of God, produces 
 a noble effect. 
 
 Homer is a poet, who, in all ages, and by all critics, has been greatly 
 admired for sublimity ; and he owes much of his grandeur to that native 
 and unaffected simplicity which characterizes his manner. His descrip- 
 tions of hosts engaging ; the animation, the fire, and rapidity, which he 
 throws into his battles, present to every reader of the Iliad frequent 
 instances of sublime writing. His introduction of the gods, tends often 
 to heighten, in a high degree, the majesty of his warlike scenes. — 
 Hence Longinus bestows such high and just commendations on that 
 passage, in the xvth book of the Iliad, where Neptune, when preparing 
 to issue forth into the engagement, is described as shaking the moun- 
 tains with his steps, and driving his chariot along the ocean. Minerva, 
 arming herself for fight in the fifth book ; and Apollo, in the xvth, lead- 
 ing on the Trojans, and flashing terror with his iEgis on the face of the 
 Greeks, are similar instances of great sublimity added to the description 
 of battles, by the appearances of those celestial beings. In the xxth 
 book, where all the gods take part in the engagement, according as they 
 severally favour either the Grecians, or the Trojans, the poet seems to 
 put forth one of the highest efforts, and the description rises into the 
 most awful magnificence. All nature is represented as in commotion. 
 Jupiter thunders in the heavens ; Neptune strikes the earth with his 
 trident ; the ships, the city, and the mountains shake ; the earth trem- 
 bles to its centre ; Pluto starts from his throne, in dread, lest the secrets 
 of the infernal region should be laid open to the view of mortals, The 
 passage is worthy of being inserted. 
 
 Aoto§ CTrei ^ccsQ* Q/ut\ov 'Oxv/unici »\v8ov ov/p^v, 
 Ave /' 'Ap»g ivtgtoQfv, i^t/uvn \ai\itni tiros, — 
 
 C £2? Tt»? afAtyOTtglSS (AOMAgti figG/ 0TgVV0VTi$ } 
 
 2yAt/2aAov, h P avrois t^tf*. pnyvvvro ^xgCiay 
 Auvov <J' i$bv<r»<ri ircfrvi^ avfeZv re StZv <rs 
 'T^oSiV rtiiTag hieQe noo-ufdcvv iTlVd^i 
 Tctictv a7HSpz<ri»v, hpkonv t' euTruva. jcagnvae. 
 riaWes <f ' itro-tiovro -noia 7roxu7rtJ"ecK.B "lfm. 
 Kai KOfuQzh T§w«v te W5A/?, aa) vws? 'A^atZv. 
 "ES'SiiTiv (T vir'tnefitv ava.% htpasv, 'AtfuiViuc, 
 Aiifa? <T* %k fl^ove a\ro xai ttt^r u» oi i/VsgS; 
 
a8 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. [LEC T. IV 
 
 Taiav avappngui TJoo-zifauv hos-i^Brev, 
 
 Torero? ag*. ktvttos w|T0 6«wV sgftf; ^uviovrav.* 
 
 Iliad xx. 47, &c. 
 
 The works of Ossian (as I have elsewhere shown) abound with exam- 
 ples of the sublime. The subjects of that author, and the manner in 
 which he writes, are particularly favourable to it. He possesses all the 
 plain and venerable manner of the ancient times. He deals in no su- 
 perfluous or gaudy ornaments ; but throws forth his images with a rapid 
 conciseness, which enables them to strike the mind with the greatest 
 force. Among poets of more polished times we are to look for the 
 graces of correct writing, for just proportion of parts, and skilfully 
 conducted narration. In the midst of smiling scenery and pleasurable 
 themes, the gay and the beautiful will appear, undoubtedly, to more 
 advantage. But amidst the rude scenes of nature and of society, such 
 as Ossian describes ; amidst rocks and torrents, and whirlwinds, and 
 battles, dwells the sublime ; and naturally associates itself with that 
 grave and solemn spirit which distinguishes the author of Fingal. " As 
 autumn's dark storms pour from two echoing hills, so toward each other 
 approached the heroes. As two dark streams from high rocks meet 
 and mix, and roar on the plain ; loud, rough, and dark in battle, met 
 LfOchlin and Inisfail : chief mixed his strokes with chief, and man with 
 man. Steel clanging sounded on steel. Helmets are cleft on high ; 
 blood bursts, and smokes around. As the troubled noise of the ocean 
 when roll the waves on high ; as the tast peal of the thunder of heaven ; 
 such is the noise of battle. The groan of the people spread over the 
 hills. It was like the thunder of night, when the cloud bursts on Cona, 
 and a thousand ghosts shriek at once on the hollow wind." Never 
 were images of more awful sublimity employed to heighten the terror of 
 battle. 
 
 * But when the powers descending swell'd the fight, 
 Then tumult rose, fierce rage, and pale affright; 
 Now through the tremhling shores Minerva calls. 
 And now she thunders from the Grecian walls. 
 Mars, hov'ring o'er bis Troy, his terror shrouds 
 In gloomy tempests and a night of clouds ; 
 Now through each Trojan heart he fury pours, 
 With voice divine, from IHon's topmost towers- 
 Above, the Sire of Gods his thunder rolls, 
 And peals on peals redoubled rend the poles; 
 Beneath stern Neptune shakes the solid ground, 
 The torests wave, the mountains nod around ; 
 Through all her summits tremble Ida's woods, 
 And from their sources boii her hundred floods, 
 Troy"s turrets totter on the rocking plain, 
 And the toss'd navies beat the heaving main. 
 Deep in the dismal region of the dead, 
 Th' infernal monarch rear'd his horrid head, 
 Leapt from his throne, lest Neptune's arm should lay 
 His dark dominions open to the day; 
 And pour in light on Pluto's drear abodes, 
 Abhorr'd by men, and dreadful ev'n to gods, 
 Such wars the immortals wage; such horrors rend 
 The world's vast concave, when the gods contend. Pope 
 
LECT.IV.] SUBLIMITY IN WRITING 39 
 
 I have produced these instances, in order to demonstrate how essential 
 conciseness and simplicity are to sublime writing. Simplicity I place 
 in opposition to studied and profuse ornament ; and conciseness, to su- 
 perfluous expression. The reason why a defect, either in conciseness 
 or simplicity, is hurtful in a peculiar manner to the sublime, I shall endea- 
 vour to explain. The emotion occasioned in the mind by some great or 
 noble object, raises it considerably above its ordinary pitch. A sort of 
 enthusiasm is produced, extremely agreeable while it lasts ; but from 
 which the mind is tending every moment to fall down into its ordinary 
 situation. Now, when an author has brought us, or is attempting to 
 bring us, into this state ; if he multiplies words unnecessarily ; if he 
 decks the sublime object which he presents to us, round and round, with 
 glittering ornaments ; nay, if he throws in any one decoration that sinks 
 in the least below the capital image, that moment he alters the key ; he 
 relaxes the tension of the mind ; the strength of the feeling is emascu- 
 lated, the beautiful may remain, but the sublime is gone. When Julius 
 Caesar said to the pilot who was afraid to put to sea with him in a storm, 
 *' Quid times ? Caesareni vehis ;" we are struck with the daring mag- 
 nanimity of one relying with such confidence on his cause and his 
 fortune. These few words convey every thing necessary to give us the 
 impression full. Lucan resolved to amplify and adorn the thought, 
 Observe how every time he twists it round, it departs farther from the 
 sublime, till it ends at last in tumid declamation. 
 
 Sperne minas, inquit, pelagi, ventoque furenti 
 
 Trade sinus ; Italiam, si coelo auctore, recusas, 
 
 Me, pete. Sola t bi causa haec est justa timoris 
 
 Victorein non nosse tuum ; quern nuraina nunquam 
 
 Destituunt ; de quo male tunc Fortuna merelur, 
 
 Cum post vota venit. Medias perrumpe procellas 
 
 Tutela secure ruea\ Coeli iste fretique 
 
 Non puppis nostra labor est. Hanc Caesare pressaia 
 
 A fluctu defendet onus : nam proderit undis 
 
 Iste ratis ....Quid tanta strage paretur 
 
 Ignoras? quaerit pelagi, coelique tumultu 
 
 Quid praestet fortuna mihi.* Phars. V. olis, 
 
 On account of the great importance of simplicity and conciseness, 
 * conceive rhyme, in English verse, to be, if not inconsistent with the 
 
 * But Caesar still superior to distress, 
 Fearless, and confident of sure success, 
 Thus to the pilot loud : — The seas despise, 
 And the vain threat'ning of the noisy skies ; 
 Though gods deny thee yon Ausoniats strand 
 Yet go, I charge you, go, at my command, 
 Thy ignorance alone can cause thy fears, 
 Tbou know'st not what a freight thy vessel bears ; 
 Thou know'st not I am he to whom 'tis given, 
 Never to want the care of watchful heaven. 
 Obedient fortune waits my humble thrall, 
 And always ready comes before I call. 
 Let winds, and seas, loud wars at freedom wage. 
 And waste upon themselves their empty rage, 
 A stronger, mightier daemon is thy friend, 
 Thou, and thy bark, on Caesar's fate depend. 
 Thou stand'st amaz'd to view this dreadful scent. 
 And wonder'st what the gods and fortune mean : 
 But artfully their bounties thus they raise, 
 And from my danger arrogate new praise : 
 Amidst the fears of death they bid me live, 
 And still enhance what they are sure to give Howe 
 
40 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. [LECT.H . 
 
 sublime, at least very unfavourable to it. The constrained elegance of 
 this kind of verse, and studied smoothness of the sounds, answering regu- 
 larly to each other at the end of the line, though they be quite consis- 
 tent with gentle emotions, yet weaken the native force of sublimity ; 
 besides, that the superfluous words which the poet is often obliged to in- 
 troduce in order to fill up the rhyme, tend farther to enfeeble it. Ho- 
 mer's description of the nod of Jupiter, as shaking the heavens, has been 
 admired in all ages, as highly sublime. Literally translated, it runs 
 thus : '* He spoke, and bending his sable brows, gave the awful nod ; 
 while he shook the celestial locks of his immortal head, all Olympus 
 was shaken." Mr. Pope translates it thus : 
 
 He spoke ; and awful bends his sable brows, 
 Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod, 
 The stamp of fate, and sanction of a god. 
 High heaven with trembling the dread signal took, 
 And all Olympus to its centre shook. 
 
 The image is spread out, and attempted to be beautified ; but it is, in 
 truth, weakened. The third line — " The stamp of fate, and sanction of 
 a god," is merely expletive, and introduced for no other reason but to 
 fill up the rhyme ; for it interrupts the description, and clogs the image. 
 For the same reason, out of mere compliance with the rhyme, Jupiter 
 is represented as shaking his locks before he gives the nod : — " Shakes 
 his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod," which is trifling, and without 
 meaning : whereas, in the original, the hair of his head shaken, is the 
 effect of his nod, and makes a happy picturesque circumstance in the de- 
 scription.* 
 
 The boldness, freedom, and variety of our blank verse, is infinitely 
 more favourable than rhyme to all kinds of sublime poetry. The full- 
 est proof of this is afforded by Milton ; an author whose genius led him 
 eminently to the sublime. The whole first and second books of Para- 
 dise Lost, are continued instances of it. Take only, for an example, the 
 following noted description of Satan, after his fall, appearing at the head 
 of the infernal hosts : 
 
 -He, above the rest 
 
 In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 
 
 Stood like a tower ; his form had not yet lost 
 
 All her original brightness, nor appear'd 
 
 Less than archangel ruin'd; and the excess 
 
 Of glory obscur'd : As when the sun, new risen. 
 
 Looks through the horizontal misty air, 
 
 Shorn of his beams ; or, from behind the moon. 
 
 In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 
 
 On half the nations, and with fear of change 
 
 Perplexes monarchs. Darken'd so, yet shone 
 
 Above them all th' Archangel. : 
 
 Here concur a variety of sources of the sublime : the principal object 
 eminently great ; a high superior nature, fallen indeed, but erecting 
 itself against distress ; the grandeur of the principal object heightened, 
 by associating it with so noble an idea as that of the sun suffering an 
 eclipse ; this picture shaded with all those images of change and trouble, 
 of darkness and terror, which coincide so finely with the subiime emotion ; 
 and the whole expressed in a style and versification, easy, natural and 
 simple, but magnificent. 
 
 See Webb on the Beauties of Poetrv , 
 
1ECT. IV.] SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 42 
 
 I have spoken of simplicity and conciseness, as essential to sublime 
 writing. In my general description of it^ I mentioned strength, as ano- 
 ther necessary requisite. The strength of description arises, in a great 
 measure, from a simple conciseness ; but it supposes also something 
 more ; namely, a proper choice of circumstances in the description, so 
 as to exhibit the object in its full and most striking point of view. For 
 every object has several faces, so to speak, by which it may be presented 
 to us according to the circumstances with which we surround it ; and it 
 will appear eminently sublime, or not, in proportion as all these cir- 
 cumstances are happily chosen, and of a sublime kind. Here lies the 
 great art of the writer; and, indeed, the great difficulty of sublime de- 
 scription. If the description be too general, and divested of circumstan- 
 ces, the object appears in a faint light ; it makes a feeble impression, or 
 no impression at all, on the reader. At the same time, if any trivial or 
 improper circumstances are mingled, the whole is degraded. 
 
 A storm or tempest, for instance, is a sublime object in nature. But, 
 to render it sublime in description, it is not enough either to give us mere 
 general expressions concerning the violence of the tempest, or to de- 
 scribe its common vulgar effects, in overthrowing trees and houses. It 
 must be painted with such circumstances as fill the mind with great and 
 awful ideas. This is very happily done by Virgil, in the following pas- 
 sage : 
 
 Tpse Pater, media nimborum in nocte, corusca 
 
 Fulmina molitur dextra ; quo maxima motu 
 
 Terra tremit ; fugere ferae ; et mortaliacorda 
 
 Per gente* humilis stravit pavor : Ille, flagranti 
 
 Aut Atho, aut Rhodopen, aut alta Ceraunia telo 
 
 Dejicit .* geor. I. 
 
 Every circumstance in this noble description is the production of an 
 imagination heated and astonished with the grandeur of the object. If 
 there be any defect, it is in the words immediately following those I have 
 quoted : " Ingeminant Austri, et densissimus irnber ;" where the transi- 
 tion is made too hastily, I am afraid, from the preceding sublime images, 
 to a thick shower, and the blowing of the south wind ; and shows how 
 difficult it frequently is to descend with grace, without seeming to fall. 
 
 The high importance of the rule which I have been now giving, con- 
 cerning the proper choice of circumstances, when description is meant t© 
 be sublime, seems to me not to have been sufficiently attended to. It 
 has, however, such a foundation in nature, as renders the least deflexion 
 from it fatal. When a writer is aiming at the beautiful only, his descrip- 
 tions may have improprieties in them, and yet be beautiful still. Some 
 
 * The father of the gods his glory shrouds, 
 Involv'd in tempests, and a night of clouds ; 
 And from the middle darkness flashing out, 
 By fits he deals his fiery bolts about. 
 Earth feels the motions of her angry God, 
 Her entrails tremble, and her mountains nod ; 
 And flying beasts in forests seek abode. 
 Deep horror seizes every human breast ; 
 Their pride is humbled, and their fears confest J 
 While he, from high, his rolling thunders throws, 
 And fires the mountains with repeated blows; 
 The rocks are from their old foundations rent, 
 The winds redouble, and the rains augment dryden. 
 
42 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. [LECT. IV 
 
 trivial, or misjudged circumstances, can be overlooked by the reader ; 
 they make only the difference of more or less : the gay, or pleasing emo- 
 tion, which he has raised subsists still. But the case is quite different 
 with the sublime. There, one trifling circumstance, one mean idea, is 
 sufficient to destroy the whole charm. This is owing to the nature of the 
 emotion aimed at by sublime description, which admits of no mediocrity* 
 and cannot subsist in a middle state ; but must either highly transport 
 us, or, if unsuccessful in the execution, leave us greatly disgusted and 
 displeased. We attempt to rise along with the writer ; the imagination 
 is awakened, and put upon the stretch ; but it requires to be supported ; 
 and if, in the midst of its efforts, you desert it unexpectedly, down it 
 comes with a painful shock. When Milton, in his battle of the angels, 
 describes them as tearing, up the mountains, and throwing them at one 
 another : there are, in his description, as Mr. Addison has observed, no 
 circumstances but what are properly sublime : 
 
 From their foundations loos'ning to and fro, 
 They pluck'd the seated hills, with all their load, 
 Rocks, waters, woods ; and by the shaggy tops 
 Uplifting, bore them in their hands. 
 
 Whereas Claudian, in a fragment upon the wars of the giants, has con- 
 trived to render this idea of their throwing the mountains, which is in 
 itself so grand, burlesque, and ridiculous ; by this single circumstance, of 
 one of his giants with the mountain Ida upon his shoulders, and a river 
 which flowed from the mountain, running down along the giant's back, as 
 he held it up in that posture. There is a description too in Virgil, which, 
 I think, is censurable ; though more slightly in *his respect. It is that 
 ®f the burning mountain iEtna ; a subject certainly very proper to be 
 worked up by a poet into a sublime description : 
 
 -Horrificis justa tonat iEtna minis. 
 
 Interdumque atram prorumpit ad a^thera nubem, 
 
 Turbine fumantem piceo, et candente favilla ; 
 
 Attollitque globos flammarum, et sidera lambit. 
 
 Interdum scopulos, avulsaque viscera montis 
 
 Erigit eructans, liquefactaque saxa sub auras 
 
 Cum gemitu glomerat. fundoque exsestuat imo/ 3 m$. hi. 5*71. 
 
 Here, after several magnificent images, the poet concludes with personi- 
 fying the mountain under this figure, " eructans viscera cum gemitu," 
 ^elching up its bowels with a groan ; which, by likening the mountain 
 to a sick or drunk person, degrades the majesty of the description. It is 
 to no purpose to tell us, that the poet here alludes to the fable of the 
 giant Enceladus lying under mount iEtna ; and that he supposes his mo- 
 tions and tossings to have occasioned the fiery eruptions. He intended 
 the description of a sublime object ; and the natural ideas, raised by a 
 burning mountain, are infinitely more lofty, than the belchings of any gi- 
 
 * The port capacious, and secure from wind, 
 Is to the foot of thundering iEtna join'd. 
 By turns a pitchy cloud she rolls on high, 
 By turns hot embers from her entrails fly, 
 And flakes of mounting flames that lick the sky. 
 Oft from her bowels massy rocks are thrown, 
 And shiver'd by the force come piece-meal down. 
 Oft liquid lakes of burning sulphur flow, 
 
 Fed from the fiery springs that boil below. dbyben. 
 
 la this translation of Dryden's the debasing circumstance to which I object in 
 the original, is?, with propriety, omitted. 
 
XECT. IV.] SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 43 
 
 ant, how huge soever. The debasing effect of the idea which is here 
 presented, will appear in a stronger light, by seeing what figure it makes 
 in a poem of Sir Richard Blackmore's, who, through a monstrous perver- 
 sity of taste, had chosen this for the capital circumstance in his descrip- 
 tion, and thereby (as Dr. Arbuthnot humorously observes, in his treatise 
 on the Art of Sinking) had represented the mountain as in a fit of the 
 cholic. 
 
 iEtna, and all the burning mountains find 
 Their kindled stores with inbred storms of wind 
 Blown up to rage, and roaring out complain, 
 As torn with inward gripes, and torturing pain ; 
 Labouring, they cast their dreadful vomit round, 
 And w-ith their melted bowels spread the ground. 
 
 Such instances show how much the sublime depends upon a just se- 
 lection of circumstances ; and with how great care every circumstance 
 must be avoided, which by bordering in tiie least upon the mean, or 
 even upon the gay or the trifling, alters the tone of the emotion. 
 
 If it shall be now inquired, what are the proper sources of the sub- 
 lime ? my answer is, that they are to be looked for every where in na- 
 ture. It is not by hunting after tropes, and figures, and rhetorical assis- 
 tances, that we can expect to produce it. No : it stands clear, for the 
 most part, of these laboured refinements of art. It must come unsought, 
 if it comes at all ; and be the natural offspring of a strong imagination. 
 
 Est deus in nobis ; agitante calescimus ill©. 
 Wherever a great and awful object is presented in nature, or a ve- 
 ry magnanimous and exalted affection of the human mind is displayed ; 
 thence, if you can catch the impression strongly, and exhibit it warm 
 and glowing, you may draw the sublime. These are its only proper 
 sources. In judging of any striking beauty in composition, whether it 
 is, or is not, to be referred to this class, we must attend to the nature 
 of the emotion which it raises ; and only, if it be of that elevating, 
 solemn, and awful kind, which distinguishes this feeling, we can pro- 
 nounce it sublime. 
 
 From the account which I have given of the nature of the sub- 
 lime, it clearly follows, that it is an emotion which can never be long 
 protracted. The mind, by no force of genius, can be kept, for any 
 considerable time, so far raised above its common tone ; but will, of 
 course, relax into its ordinary situation. Neither are the abilities of 
 any human writer sufficient to supply a continued run of unmixed sub- 
 lime conceptions. The utmost we can expect is, that this fire of ima- 
 gination should sometimes flash upon us like lightning from heaven, and 
 then disappear. In Homer and Milton, this effulgence of genius breaks 
 forth more frequently, and with greater lustre, than in most authors. 
 Shakspeare also rises often into the true sublime. But no author what- 
 ever is sublime throughout. Some, indeed, there are, who by a 
 strength and dignity in their conceptions, apd a current of high ideas 
 that runs through their whole composition, preserve the reader's 
 mind always in a tone nearly allied to the sublime ; for which reason 
 they may, in a limited sense, merit the name of continued sublime wri- 
 ters ; and, in this class, we may justly place Demosthenes and Plato. 
 
 As for what is called the sublime style, it is, for the most part, a very 
 bad one ; and has no relation, whatever, to the real sublime. Persons 
 are apt to imagine, that magnificent words, accumulated epithets, and 
 
44 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. [LECT. IV. 
 
 a certain swelling kind of expression, by rising above what is usual or 
 vulgar, contributes to, or even forms, the sublime. Nothing can be 
 more false. In all the instances of sublime writing, which I have given, 
 nothing of this kind appears. " God said, let there be light, and there 
 e< was light."' This is striking and sublime. But put it into what is 
 commonly called the sublime style : " The sovereign arbiter of nature, 
 " by (he potent energy of a single word, commanded the light to exist ;" 
 and, as Boileau has well observed, the style indeed is raised, but the 
 thought is fallen. In general, in all good writing, the sublime lies in the 
 thought, not in the words ; and when the thought is truly noble, it will 
 for the most part, clothe itself in a native dignity of language. The sub- 
 lime, indeed, rejects mean, low, or trivial expressions ; but it is equally 
 an enemy to such as are turgid. The main secret of being sublime, is 
 to say great things in few and plain words. It will be found to hold, 
 without exception, that the most sublime authors are the simplest in their 
 style ; and wherever you find a writer, who effects a more than ordinary 
 pomp and parade of words, and is always endeavouring to magnify his 
 subject by epithets, there you may immediately suspect, that feeble in 
 sentiment, he is studying to support himself by mere expression. 
 
 The same unfavourable judgment we must pass on all that laboured 
 apparatus with which some writers introduce a passage, or description, 
 which they intend shall be sublime ; calling on their readers to attend, 
 invoking their muse, or breaking forth into general, unmeaning exclama- 
 tions, concerning the greatness, terribleness, or majesty of the object, 
 which they are to describe. Mr. Addison, in his Campaign, has fallen 
 into an error of this kind, when about to describe the battle of Blen- 
 heim. 
 
 But ! O my muse ! what numbers wilt thou find 
 To sing the furious troops in battle join'd ? 
 Methinks, I hear the drum's tumultuous sound, 
 The victor's shouts, and dying groans, confound ; &c. 
 
 Introductions of this kind, are a forced attempt in a writer, to spur up 
 himself, and his reader, when he finds his imagination flagging in vigour. 
 It is like taking artificial spirits in order to supply the want of such as 
 are natural. By this observation, however, I do not mean to pass a gen- 
 eral censure on Mr. Addison's Campaign, which, in several places, is 
 far from wanting merit ; and in particular, the noted comparison of his 
 hero to the angel who rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm, is a 
 truly sublime image. 
 
 The faults opposite to the sublime are chiefly two : the frigid, and the 
 bombast. The frigid consists in degrading an object or sentiment, which 
 is sublime in itself, by our mean conception of it ; or by our weak, 
 low, and childish description of it. This betrays entire absence, or at 
 least, great poverty of genius. Of this, there are abundance of exam- 
 ples, and these commented upon with much humour, in the Treatise on 
 the Art of Sinking, in Dean Swift's works ; the instances taken chiefly 
 from Sir Richard Blackmore. One of these, I had occasion already 
 to give in relation to mountiEtna, and it were needless to produce any 
 more. The bombast lies, in forcing an ordinary or trivial object out of 
 its rank, and endeavouring to raise it into the sublime ; or, in attempting 
 to exalt a sublime object beyond ail natural and reasonable bounds. In- 
 to this error, which is but too common, writers of genius may some- 
 times fall by unluckily losing sight of the true point of the sublime. 
 
LECT.V.] BEAUTY. 45 
 
 This is also called fustian, or rant. Shakspeare, a great but incorrect 
 genius, is uot unexceptionable here. Dryden and Lee, in their trage- 
 dies abound with it. 
 
 Thus far of the Sublime, of which 1 have treated fully, because it is 
 so capital an excellency in tine writing, and because clear and precise 
 ideas on this head are, as far as know, not to be met with in critical 
 writers. 
 
 Before concluding this lecture, there is one observation which I choose 
 to make at this time ; 1 shall make it once for all, and hope it will be af- 
 terward remembered. It is with respect to the instances of faults, or 
 rather blemishes and imperfections, which, as I have done in this lecture, 
 I shall hereafter continue to take, when I can, from writers of reputa- 
 tion. I have not the least intention thereby to disparage their character 
 in the general. I shall have other occasions of doing equal justice to 
 their beauties. But it is no reflection on any human performance, that 
 it is not absolutely perfect. The task would be much easier for me, to 
 collect instances of faults from bad writers. But they would draw no at- 
 tention, when quoted from books which nobody reads. And I conceive, 
 that the method which 1 follow, will contribute more to make the best 
 authors be read with pleasure, when one properly distinguishes their 
 beauties from their faults ; and is led to imitate and admire only what is 
 worthy of imitation and admiration. 
 
 
 LECTURE V. 
 
 BEAUTY, AND OTHER PLEASURES OF TASTE. 
 
 As sublimity constitutes a particular character of composition, and 
 forms one of the highest excellencies of eloquence and of poetry, it was 
 proper to treat of it at some length. It will not be necessary to discuss 
 so particularly all the other pleasures that arise from taste, as some of 
 them have less relation to our main subject. On beauty only I shall 
 make several observations, both as the subject is curious, and as Attends 
 to improve taste, and to discover the foundation of several of the graces 
 of description and of poetry.* 
 
 Beauty, next to sublimity, affords, beyond doubt, the highest pleasure 
 to the imagination. The emotion which it raises, is very distinguishable 
 from that of sublimity. It is of a calmer kind ; more gentle and soothing ; 
 does not elevate the mind so much, but produces an agreeable serenity. 
 Sublimity raises a feeling, too violent, as 1 showed, to be lasting ; the plea- 
 sure arising from beauty admits of longer continuance. It extends also 
 to a much greater variety of objects than sublimity ; to a variety indeed 
 so great, that the feelings which beautiful objects produce, differ consid- 
 erably, not in degree only, but also in kind, from one another. Hence, 
 no word in the language is used in a more vague signification than beauty. 
 It is applied to almost every external object that pleases the eye, or the 
 
 " See Hutchinson's Inquiry concerning Beauty and Virtue. Gerard on Taste, 
 chap. iii. Inquiry into the Origin of the Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful. Ele- 
 ments of Criticism, chap. iii. Spectator, vol. vi. Essay on the Pleasures of Taste.. 
 
4(J BEAUTY. [LECT. V 
 
 ear ; to a great number of the graces of writing ; to many dispositions of 
 the mind : nay, to several objects of mere abstract science. We talk cur- 
 rently of a beautiful tree or flower ; a beautiful poem ; a beautiful cha- 
 racter ; and a beautiful theorem in mathematics. 
 
 Hence we may easily perceive, that, among so great a variety of ob- 
 jects, to find out some one quality in which they all agree, and which is 
 the foundation of that agreeable sensation they all raise, must be a very 
 difficult, if not. more probably, a vain attempt. Objects denominated 
 beautiful, are so different, as to please, not in virtue of any one quality 
 common to them all, but by means of several different principles in hu- 
 KriD nature. The agreeable emotion which they all raise, is somewhat 
 of the same nature ; and therefore, has the common name of beauty 
 given to it ; but it is raised by different causes. 
 
 Hypotheses, however, have been framed by ingenious men, for assign- 
 ing the fundamental quality of beauty in all objects. In particular, uni- 
 formity amidst variety, has been insisted on as this fundamental quality. 
 For the beauty of many figures, I admit that this accounts in a satisfacto- 
 ry manner. But when we endeavour to apply this principle to beautiful 
 objects of some other kind, as to colour, for instance, or motion, we shall 
 soon find that it has 410 place. And even in external figured objects it 
 does not hold, that their beauty is in proportion to their mixture of va- 
 riety with uniformity ; seeing many please us as highly beautiful, which 
 have almost no variety at all, and others, which are various to a degree 
 of intricacy. Laying systems of this kind, therefore, aside, what 1 now 
 propose is, to give an enumeration of several of those classes of objects 
 in which beauty most remarkably appears ; and to point out, as far as I 
 can, the separate principles of beauty in each of them. 
 
 Colour affords, perhaps, the simplest instance of beauty, and therefore 
 the fittest to begin with. Here, neither variety, nor uniformity, nor any 
 other principle that I know, can be assigned, as the foundation of beauty. 
 We can refer it to no other cause but the structure of the eye, which de- 
 termines us to receive certain modifications of the rays of light with more 
 pleasure than others. And we see accordingly, that, as the organ of sen- 
 sation varies in different persons, they have their different favourite co- 
 lours. It is probable, that association of ideas has influence, in some 
 cases, on the pleasure which we receivefrom colours. Green, for instance, 
 may appear more beautiful, by being connected in our ideas with rural 
 prospects and scenes ; white, with innocence ; blue, with the serenity 
 of the sky. Independent of associations of this kind, all that we can fur- 
 ther observe concerning colours is, that those chosen for beauty are, 
 generally, delicate, rather than glaring. Such are those paintings with 
 which nature hath ornamented some of her works, and which art strives 
 in vain to imitate ; as the feathers of several kinds of birds, the leaves 
 of flowers, and the fine variation of colours exhibited by the sky at the 
 rising and setting of the sun. These present to us the highest instances 
 of the beauty of colouring ; and have accordingly been the favourite 
 subjects of poetical description in all countries. 
 
 From colour we proceed to figure, which opens to us forms of beauty 
 more complex and diversified. Regularity first occurs to be noticed as 
 a source of beauty. By a regular figure, is meant, one which we per- 
 ceive to be formed according to some certain rule, and not left arbitrary 
 or loose, in the construction of its parts. Thus, a circle, a square, a 
 triangle, or a hexagon, please the eye, by their regularity, as beautiful 
 
LECT. V.] BEAUTY. 47 
 
 figures. We must not, however, conclude, that all figures please in pro- 
 portion to their regularity ; or that regularity is the sole, or the chief, 
 foundation of beauty in figure. On the contrary, a certain graceful varie- 
 ty is found to be a ranch more powerful principle of beauty ; and is 
 therefore studied a great deal more than regularity, in all works that 
 are designed merely to please the eye. I am, indeed, inclined to thuik, 
 that regularity appears beautiful to us, chiefly, if not only, on account 
 of its susgesting the ideas of fitness, propriety, ane use, which have 
 always a greater connexion with orderly and proportioned forms, than 
 with those which appear not constructed according to any certain rule. 
 It is clear, that nature, who is undoubtedly the most graceful artist, hath, 
 in all her ornamental works, pursued variety with an apparent neglect of 
 regularity. Cabinets, doors, and windows, are made after a regular form, 
 in cubes and parallelograms, with an exact proportion of parts ; and by 
 being so formed they please the eye : for this good reason, that, being 
 works of use, they are, by such figures, the better suited to the ends for 
 which they were designed. But plants, flowers, and leaves are full of 
 variety and diversity. A straight canal is an insipid figure, in comparison 
 of the meanders of rivers. Cones ain't! pyramids are beautiful ; but trees 
 growing in their natural wildness, are infinitely more beautiful than when 
 trimmed into pyramids and cones. The apartments of a house must be 
 regular in their disposition, for the convenience of its inhabitants ; but 
 a garden which is designed merely for beauty, would be exceedingly 
 disgusting, if it had as much uniformity and order in its parts as a dwel- 
 ling-house. 
 
 Mr. Hogarth, in his Analysis of Beauty, has observed, that figures 
 bounded by curve lines are, in general, more beautiful than those bound- 
 ed by straight lines, and angles. He pitches upon two lines, on which, 
 according to him, the beauty of figure principally depends ; and he has 
 illustrated and supported his doctrine, by a surprising number of instan- 
 ces. The one is the waving line, or a curve bending backwards and 
 forwards, somewhat in the form of the letter S. This he calls the line 
 of beauty ; and shows how often it is found in shells, floivers, and such 
 other ornamental works of nature ; as is common also in the figures de- 
 signed by painters and sculptors, for the purpose of decoration. The 
 other line, which he calls the line of grace, is the former waving curve, 
 twisted round some solid body. The curling worm of a common jack is 
 one of the instances he gives of it. Twisted pillars, and twisted horns, 
 also exhibit it. In all the instances which he mentions, variety plainly 
 appears to be so material a principle of beauty, that he seems not to err 
 much when he defines the art of drawing pleasing forms, to be the art 
 of varying well. For the curve line, so much the favourite of painters, 
 derives, according to him, its chief advantage, from its perpetual bending 
 and variation from the stiff regularity of the straight line. 
 
 Motion furnishes another source of beauty, distinct from figure. Mo- 
 tion of itself is pleasing ; and bodies in motion are, " caeteris paribus," 
 preferred to those in rest. It is, however, only gentle motion that be- 
 longs to the beautiful ; for when it is very swift, or very forcible, such as 
 that of a torrent, it partakes of the sublime. The motion of a bird gliding 
 , through the air, is extremely beautiful; the swiftness with which 
 lightning darts through the heavens, is magnificent and astonishing. 
 And here, it is proper to observe, that the sensations of sublime and 
 beautiful are not always distinguished by very distant boundaries : but 
 
43 BEAUTY. [LECT. V. 
 
 are capable, in several instances, of approaching towards each other. 
 Thus, a smooth running stream is one of the most beautiful objects in 
 nature : as it swells gradually into a great river, the beautiful, by degrees, 
 is lost in the sublime. A young tree is a beautiful object ; a spreading 
 ancient oak, is a venerable and a grand one. The calmness of a fine morn- 
 ing is beautiful ; the universal stillness of the evening is highly sublime. 
 But to return to the beauty of mocion, it will be found, I think, to hold 
 very generally, that motion in a straight line is not so beautiful as in an un- 
 dulating waving direction ; and motion upwards is, commonly too, more 
 agreeable than motion downwards. The easy curling motion of flame 
 and smoke may be instanced, as an object singularly agreeable : and here 
 Mr. Hogarth's waving line recurs upon us as a principle of beauty. That 
 artist observes, very ingeniously, that all the common and necessary mo- 
 tions for the business of life, are performed by men in straight or plain 
 lines : but that all the graceful and ornamental movements are made in 
 waving lines : an observation not unworthy of being attended to, by all 
 who study the grace of gesture and action. 
 
 Though colour, figure, and motion, be separate principles of beauty ; 
 yet in many beautiful objects they all meet, and thereby render the beau- 
 ty both greater, and more complex. Thus, in flowers, trees, animals, we 
 are entertained at once with the delicacy of the colour, with the grace- 
 fulness of the figure, and sometimes also with the motion of the object. 
 Although each of these produce a separate agreeable seasation, yet they 
 are of such a similar nature, as readily to mix and blend in one general 
 perception of beauty, which we ascribe to the whole object as its cause : 
 for beauty is always conceived by us, as something residing in the object 
 which raises the pleasant sensation ; a sort of glory which dwells upon, 
 and invests it. Perhaps the most complete assemblage of beautiful objects 
 that can any where be found, is presented by a rich natural landscape, 
 where there is a sufficient variety of objects ; fields in verdure, scatter- 
 ed trees and flowers, running water, and animals grazing. If to these 
 be joined, some of the productions of art, which suit such a scene ; as 
 a bridge which arches over a river, smoke rising from cottages in the 
 midst of trees, and the distant view of a fine building seen by the rising 
 sun; we then enjoy, in the highest perfection, that gay, cheerful, and 
 placid sensation which characterizes beauty. To have an eye and a taste 
 formed for catching the peculiar beauties of such scenes as these, is a ne- 
 cessary requisite for all who attempt poetical description. 
 
 The beauty of the human countenance is more complex than any that 
 we have yet considered. It includes the beauty of colour, arising from 
 the delicate shades of the complexion, and the beauty of figure, arising 
 from the lines which form the different features of the face. But the 
 chief beauty of the countenance depends upon a mysterious expression, 
 which it conveys of the qualities of the mind ; of good sense, or good 
 humour ; of sprightliness, candour, benevolence, sensibility, or other 
 amiable dispositions. How it comes to pass, that a certain conformation 
 of features is connected in our idea with certain moral qualities ; whether 
 we are taught by instinct, or by experience, to form this connexion, and 
 to read the mind in the countenauce, belongs not to us now to inquire, nor 
 is indeed easy to resolve. The fact is certain, and acknowledged, that 
 what gives the human countenance its most distinguishing beauty, is 
 what is called its expression ; or an image, which it is conceived to 
 show of internal moral dispositions. 
 
LECT. V.J BEAUTY. ty 
 
 This leads us to observe, that there are certain qualities of the mind 
 which, whether expressed in the countenance or by words, or by ac- 
 tions, always raise in us a feeling similar to that of beauty. There 
 are two great classes of moral qualities ; one is of the high and the great 
 virtues, which require extraordinary efforts, and turn upon dangers and 
 sufferings ; as heroism, magnanimity, contempt of pleasures, and con- 
 tempt of death. These, as I have observed in a former lecture, excite 
 in the spectator an emotion of sublimity and grandeur. The other class 
 is generally of the social virtues, arid such as are of a softer and gentler 
 kind ; as compassion, mildness, friendship, and generosity. These raise 
 in the beholder a sensation of pleasure, so much akin to that produced 
 by beautiful external objects, that though of a more dignified nature, it 
 may, without impropriety, be classed under the same head. 
 
 A species of beauty, distinct from any I have yet mentioned, arises 
 from design or art ; or in other words, from the perception of means be- 
 ing adapted to an end ; or the parts of any thing being well fitted to an- 
 swer the design of the whole. When, in considering the structure of a 
 tree or a plant, we observe, how all the parts, the roots, the stem, the 
 bark and the leaves, are suited to the growth and nutriment of the whole ; 
 much more when we survey all the parts and members of a living animal j 
 or when we examine any of the curious works of art ; such as a clock, 
 a ship, or any nice machine ; the pleasure which we have in the survey 9 
 is wholly founded on this sense of beauty. It is altogether different 
 from the perception of beauty produced by colour, figure, variety, or any 
 of the causes formerly mentioned. When I look at a watch, for instance, 
 the case of it, if finely engraved, and of curious workmanship, strikes 
 me as beautiful in the former sense ; bright colour, exquisite polish, 
 figures finely raised and turned. But when I examine the construction, 
 of the spring and the wheels, and praise the beauty of the internal ma- 
 chinery, my pleasure then arises wholly from the view of that admirable 
 art, with which so many various and complicated parts are made to 
 unite for one purpose. 
 
 This sense of beaut}', in fitness and design, has an extensive influence 
 over many of our ideas. It is the foundation of the beauty which we 
 discover in the proportion of doors, windows, arches, pillars, and all the 
 orders of architecture. Let the ornaments of a building be ever so fine 
 and elegant in themselves, yet if they interfere with this sense of fitness 
 and design, they lose their beauty, and hurt the eye, like disgreeabie 
 objects. Twisted columns, for instance, are undoubtedly ornamental ; 
 but as they have an appearance of weakness, they always displease 
 when they are made use of to support any part of a building that is 
 massy, and that seems to require a more substantial prop. We cannot 
 look upon any work whatever, without being led by a natural association 
 of ideas, to think of its end and design, and of course to examine the 
 propriety of its parts, in relation to this design, and end. When their 
 propriety is clearly discerned, the work seems always to have some 
 beauty ; but when there is a total want of propriety, it never fails of ap- 
 pearing deformed. Our sense of fitness and design, therefore, is so pow- 
 erful, and, holds so high a rank among our perceptions, as to regulate, in 
 a great measure, our other ideas of beauty ; an observation which I the 
 rather make, as it is of the utmost importance, that all who study com- 
 position should carefully attend to it. For, in an epic poem, a history, 
 an oration, or any work of genius, we always require, 41s we do in other 
 
,50 PLEASURES OF TASTE. [LECT. V. 
 
 works, a fitness, or adjustment of means to the end which the author is 
 supposed to have in view. Let his descriptions be ever so rich, or his 
 figures ever so elegant, yet if they are out of place, if they are not pro- 
 per parts of that whole, if they suit not the main design, they lose all 
 their beauty ; nay, from beauties they are converted into deformities. 
 Such power has our sense of fitness and congruity, to produce a total 
 transformation of an object whose appearance otherwise would have 
 been beautiful. 
 
 After having mentioned so many various species of beauty, it now only 
 remains to take notice of beauty as it is applied to writing or discourse ; 
 a term commonly used in a sense altogether loose and undetermined. 
 For it is applied to all that pleases, either in style or in sentiment, from 
 whatever principle that pleasure flows ; and a beautiful poem or oration 
 means, in common language, no other than a good one, or one well com- 
 posed. In this sense, it is plain, the word is altogether indefinite, and 
 points at no particular species or kind of beauty. There is, however, 
 another sense, somewhat more definite, in which beauty of writing cha- 
 racterizes a particular manner ; when it is used to signify a certain grace 
 and amenity in the turn either of style or sentiment for which some au- 
 thors have been peculiarly distinguished. In this sense, it denotes a 
 manner neither remarkably sublime, nor vehemently passionate, nor 
 uncommonly sparkling ; but such as raises in the reader an emotion of 
 the gentle placid kind, similar to what is raised by the contemplation of 
 beautiful objects in nature ; which neither lifts the mind very high, nor 
 agitates it very much, but diffuses over the imagination an agreeable and 
 pleasing serenity. Mr. Addison is a writer altogether of this character ; 
 and is one of the most proper and precise examples that can be given 
 of it. Fenelon, the author of the Adventures of Telemachus, may be 
 given as another example. Virgil too, though very capable of rising on 
 occasions into the sublime, yet, in his general manner, is distinguished 
 by the character of beauty and grace, rather than of sublimity. Among 
 orators, Cicero has more of the beautiful than Demosthenes, whose 
 genius led him wholly towards vehemence and strength. 
 
 This much it is sufficient to have said upon the subject of beauty. 
 We have traced it through a variety of forms ; as next to sublimity, it 
 is the most copious source of the pleasures of taste ; and as the con- 
 sideration of the different appearances, and principles of beauty, tends 
 to the improvement of taste in many subjects. 
 
 But it is not only by appearing under the forms of sublime or beau- 
 tiful, that objects delight the imagination. From several other princi- 
 ples also, they derive their power of giving it pleasure. 
 
 Novelty, for instance, has been mentioned by Mr. Addison, and by 
 every writer on this subject. An object which has no merit to recom- 
 mend it, except its being uncommon or new, by means of this quality 
 alone, produces in tire mind a vivid and an agreeable emotion. Hence 
 that passion of curiosity, which prevails so generally among mankind. 
 Objects and ideas which have been long familiar, make too faint an im- 
 pression to give an agreeable exercise to our faculties. New and strange 
 objects rouse the mind from its dormant state, by giving it a quick and 
 pleasing impulse. Hence in a great measure, the entertainment afford- 
 ed us by fiction and romance. The emotion raised by novelty is of 
 a more lively and pungent nature, than that produced by beauty ; but 
 rm?ch shorter in its continuance* For if the object have in itself irq 
 
LECT.V.J IMITATION AND DESCRIPTION. •>! 
 
 charms to hold our attention, the shining gloss thrown upon it by novelty 
 soon wears off. 
 
 Besides novelty, imitation is another source of pleasure to taste. 
 This gives rise to what Mr. Addison terms the secondary pleasures of 
 imagination ; which form, doubtless, a very extensive class. For all 
 imitation affords some pleasure ; not only the imitation of beautiful or 
 great objects, by recalling the original ideas of beauty or grandeur which 
 such objects themselves exhibited ; but even objects which have nei- 
 ther beauty nor grandeur, nay, some which are terrible or deformed, 
 please us in a secondary or represented view. 
 
 The pleasures of melody and harmony belong also to taste ; there is 
 no agreeable sensation we receive either from beauty or sublimity, but 
 what is capable of being heightened by the power of musical sound. 
 Hence the delight of poetical numbers, and even of the more conceal- 
 ed and looser measures of prose. Wit, humour, and ridicule likewise 
 open a variety of pleasures to taste, quite distinct from any that we have 
 yet considered. 
 
 At present it is not necessary to pursue any further the subject of the 
 pleasures of taste. I have opened some of the general principles ; it is 
 time now to make the application to our chief subject. If the question 
 be put, to what class of those pleasures of taste which I have enume- 
 rated, that pleasure is to be referred, which we receive from poetry, 
 eloquence, or fine writing ? My answer is, not to any one, but to them 
 all. This singular advantage, writing and discourse possess, that they 
 encompass so large and rich a field on all sides, and have power to ex- 
 hibit, in great perfection, not a single set of objects only, but almost the 
 whole of those which give pleasure to taste and imagination ; whether 
 that pleasure arise from sublimity, from beauty in its different forms, from 
 design and art, from moral sentiment, from novelty, from harmony, from 
 wit, humour, and ridicule. To whichsoever of these the peculiar bent 
 of a person's taste lies, from some writer or other, he has it always in his 
 power to receive the gratification of it. 
 
 Now this high power which eloquence and poetry possess, of supply- 
 ing taste and imagination with such a wide circle of pleasures, they de- 
 rive altogether from their having a greater capacity of imitation and 
 description than is possessed by any other art. Of all the means which 
 human ingenuity has contrived for recalling the images of real objects, 
 and awakening, by representation, similar emotions to those which are 
 raised by the original, none is so full and extensive as that which is ex- 
 ecuted by words and writing. Through the assistance of this happy 
 invention, there is nothing, either in the natural or moral world, but what 
 can be represented and set before the mind, in colours very strong and 
 lively. Hence it is usual among critical writers, to speak of discourse 
 as the chief of all the imitative or mimetic arts ; they compare it with 
 painting and with sculpture, and in many respects prefer it justly before 
 them. 
 
 This style was first introduced by Aristotle in his Poetics ; and, since 
 his time, has acquired a general currency among modern authors. But 
 as it is of consequence to introduce as much precision as possible into 
 critical language, I must observe, that this manner of speaking is not 
 accurate. Neither discourse in general, nor poetry in particular, can 
 be called altogether imitative arts. We must distinguish betwixt imitation 
 and description, which are ideas that should not be confounded. Imita- 
 tion is performed by means of somewhat that has a natural likeness and 
 
52 IMITATION AND DESCRIPTION. [LECT.V. 
 
 resemblance to the thing imitated, and of consequence is understood by 
 all : such are statues and pictures. Description, again, is the raising in 
 the mind the conception of an object by means of some arbitrary or in- 
 stituted symbols, understood only by those who agree in the institution of 
 them ; such are words and writing. Words have no natural resemblance 
 to the ideas or objects which they are employed to signify ; but a statue 
 or a picture has a natural likeness to the original. And therefore imita- 
 tion and description differ considerably in their nature from each other. 
 
 As far indeed, as a poet or a historian introduces into his work persons 
 actually speaking ; and, by the words which he puts into their mouths, 
 represents the discourse which they might be supposed to hold ; so far 
 his art may more accurately be called imitative ; and this is the case in 
 all dramatic composition. But, in narrative or descriptive works, it can 
 with no propriety be called so. Who, for instance, would call Virgil's 
 description of a tempest, in the first JEneid, an imitation of a storm ? If 
 we heard of the imitation of a battle, we might naturally think of some 
 mock fight, or representation of a battle on the stage, but would never 
 apprehend, that it meant one of Homer's descriptions in the Iliad. I 
 admit, at the same time, that imitation and description agree in their 
 principal effect, of recalling, by external signs, the ideas of things which 
 we do not see. But though in this they coincide, yet it should not be for- 
 gotten, that the terms themselves are not synonymous ; that they import 
 different means of effecting the same end ; and of course make different 
 impressions on the mind.* 
 
 Whether we consider poetry in particular, and discourse in general, 
 as imitative or descriptive : it is evident, that their whole power, in re- 
 calling the impressions of real objects, is derived from the significancy 
 of words. As their excellency flows altogether from this source, we 
 must, in order to make way for further inquiries, begin at this fountain- 
 head. I shall therefore, in the next lecture, enter upon the considera- 
 tion of language : of the origin, the progress, and construction of which 
 I purpose to treat at some length., 
 
 * Though in the execution of particular parts, poetry is certainly descriptive rathei' 
 than imitative, yet there is a qualified sense in which poetry, in the general, may be 
 termed an imitative art. The subject of the poet (as Dr. Gerard has shown in the 
 appendix to his Essay on Taste) is intended to be an imitation, not of things really 
 existing, but of the course of nature ; that is, a feigned representation of such events, 
 or such scenes, as though they never had a being, yet might have existed ; and 
 which, therefore, by their probability, bear a resemblance to nature. It was proba- 
 bly in this sense that Aristotle termed* poetry a mimetic art. How far either the 
 imitation or the description which poetry employs, is superior to the imitative pow- 
 ers of painting and music, is well shown by Mr. Harris, in his treatise on music, 
 painting and poetry. The chief advafitage which poetry, or discourse in general, 
 enjoys, is that whereas, by the nature of his art, the painter is confined to the repre- 
 sentation of a single moment, writing and discourse can trace a transaction through 
 Us whole progress. That moment, indeed, which the painter pitches upon for the 
 subject of his picture, he maybe said to exhibit with more advantage than the poet 
 or the orator; inasmuch as he sets before us, in one view all the minute concur- 
 rent circumstances of the event which happens in one individual point of time, as 
 they appear in nature ; while discourse is obliged to exhibit them in succession, and 
 by means of a detail, which is in danger of becoming tedious, in order to be clear; 
 or, if not tedious, is in danger of being obscure. But to that point of time which 
 he has chosen, the painter being entirely confined, he cannot exhibit various stages 
 of the same action or event; and he is subject to this farther defect that he can only 
 exhibit objects as they appear to the eye, and can very imperfectly delineate cha- 
 racters and sentiments, which are the noblest subjects of imitation or description. 
 The power of representing these with full advantage, gives a high superiority tn 
 ^course artd wmtifis, above all other imilative arts.. 
 
(53) 
 
 LECTURE VI. 
 
 RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 Having finished my observations on the pleasures of taste, which were 
 meant to be introductory to the principal subject of these lectures, I now 
 begin to treat of language ; which is the foundation of the whole power 
 of eloquence. This will lead to a considerable discussion ; and there 
 are few subjects belonging to polite literature, which more merit such 
 a discussion. I shall first give a history of the rise and progress of lan- 
 guage in several particulars, from its early to its more advanced periods ; 
 which shall be followed by a similar history of the rise and progress of 
 writing. I shall next give some account of the construction of language, 
 or the principles of universal grammar ; and shall, lastly, apply these 
 observations more particularly to the English tongue.* 
 
 Language, in general, signifies the expression of our ideas by certain 
 articulate sounds, which are used as the signs of those ideas. By articu- 
 late sounds, are meant those modulations of simple voice or of sound 
 emitted from the thorax, which are formed by means of the mouth and its 
 several organs, the teeth, the tongue, the lips, and the palate. How far 
 there is any natural connexion between the ideas of the mind and the 
 sounds emitted, will appear from what I have afterward to offer. But 
 as the natural connexion can upon any sj^stem, affect only a small part 
 of the fabric of language ; the connexion between words and ideas may, 
 in general, be considered as arbitrary and conventional, owing to the 
 agreement of men among themselves ; the clear proof of which is, that 
 different nations have different languages, or a different set of articulate 
 sounds, which they have chosen for communicating their ideas. 
 
 This artificial method of communicating thought, we now behold car- 
 ried to the highest perfection. Language is become a vehicle by which 
 the most delicate and refined emotions of one mind can be transmitted, 
 or, if we may so speak, transfused into another. Not only are names giv- 
 en to all objects around us, by which means an easy and speedy inter- 
 course is carried on for providing the necessaries of life, but all the 
 relations and differences among these objects are minutely marked, the 
 invisible sentiments of the mind are described, the most abstract notions 
 and conceptions are rendered intelligible ; and all the ideas which science 
 can discover, or imagination create, are known by their proper names. 
 Nay /language has been carried so far, as to be made an instrument of 
 the most refined luxury. Not resting in mere perspicuity, we require orna- 
 ment also ; not satisfied with having the conceptions of others made known 
 
 * See Dr. Adam Smith's Dissertation on the Formation of Languages — Treatise 
 on the Origin and Progress of Language, in 3 vols. — Harris's Hermes, or a Philoso- 
 phical Inquiry concerning Language and Universal Grammar. — Essai sur 1'Origine 
 des Connoissances Humaines, par l'Abbe Condillac. — Principes de Grammaire, par 
 Marsais. — Grammaire General et Raisonnee. — Traite de la Formation Mechanique 
 des Langues, par le President de Brosses. — Discours sur Tlnegalite parmi les Hom- 
 ines, par Rousseau. — Grammaire Generale, par Beauzee. — Principes de la Traduc- 
 tion, par Batteux. — Warburton's Divine Legation of Moses, vol. iii. — Sanctii 
 Minerva, cum notis Perizonil.— Les Vrais Principes de le Langue Francoise. par l'Ab= 
 be Crira;-' 1 
 
54 RISE AND PROGRESS [LECT. VI. 
 
 to us, we make a farther demand, to have them so decked and adorned as 
 to entertain our fancy, and this demand, it is found very possible to gra- 
 tify. In this state, we now find language. In this state, it has been found 
 among many nations for some thousand years. The object is become 
 familiar ; and, like the expanse of the firmament, and other great objects, 
 which we are accustomed to behold, we behold it without wonder. 
 
 But carry your thoughts back to the first dawn of language among men. 
 Reflect upon the feeble beginnings from which it must have arisen, and 
 upon the many and great obstacles which it must have encountered in its 
 progress ; and you will find reason for the highest astonishment, on view- 
 ing the height which it has now attained. We admire several of the 
 inventions of art ; we plume ourselves on some discoveries which have 
 been made in latter ages, serving to advance knowledge, and to render 
 life comfortable ; we speak of them as the boast of human reason. 
 But certainly no invention is entitled to any such degree of admiration as 
 that of language ; which, too, must have been the product of the first and 
 rudest ages, if, indeed, it can be considered as a human invention at all. 
 
 Think of the circumstances of mankind when language began to be 
 formed. They were a wandering scattered race ; no society among 
 them except families ; and the family society too very imperfect, as 
 their method of living by hunting or pasturage must have separated them 
 frequently from one another. In this situation, when so much divided* 
 and their intercourse so rare, how could anyone set of sounds, or words, 
 be generally agreed on as the signs of their ideas ? Supposing that a fe-^v, 
 whom chance or necessity threw together, agreed by some means upon 
 certain signs, yet by what authority could these be propagated among 
 other tribes or families, so as to spread and grow up into a language ? 
 One would think, that in order to any language fixing and extending itself, 
 men must have been previously gathered together in considerable num- 
 bers ; society must have been already far advanced ; and yet, on the 
 other hand there seems to have been an absolute necessity for speech, 
 previous to the formation of society. For, by what bond could any mul- 
 titude of men be kept together, or be made to join in the prosecution of 
 any common interest, until once, by the intervention of speech, they could 
 communicate their wants and intentions to one another ? So that, either 
 how society could form itself, previously to language, or how words 
 could rise into a language, previously to society formed, seem to be 
 points attended with equal difficulty. And when we consider farther, that 
 curious analogy which prevails in the construction of almost all lan- 
 guages, and that deep and subtle logic on which they are founded, diffi- 
 culties increase so much upon us, on all hands, that there seems to be no 
 small reason for referring the first origin of all language to divine teach- 
 ing or inspiration. 
 
 But supposing language to have a divine original, we cannot, however, 
 suppose, that a perfect system of it was all at once given to man. It is 
 much more natural to think that God taught our first parents only such 
 language as suited their present occasions ; leaving them, as he did in 
 other things, to enlarge and improve it as their future necessities should 
 require. Consequently, those first rudiments of speech must have been 
 poor and narrow ; and we are at full liberty to inquire in what manner, 
 and by what steps, language advanced to the state in which we now find 
 it. The history which 1 am to give of this progress, will suggest several 
 things, both curious in themselves, and useful in our future disquisitions 
 
LEC'T. VI.j QF LANGUAGE- S£ 
 
 If we should suppose a period before any words were invented or 
 known, it is clear, that men could have no other method of communicat- 
 ing to others what they felt, than by the cries of passion, accompanied 
 with such motions and gestures as were farther expressive of passion. 
 For these are the only signs which nature teaches all men, and which 
 are understood by all. One who saw another going into some place where 
 he himself had been frightened, or exposed to danger, and who sought to 
 warn his neighbour of the danger, could contrive no other way of doing 
 so than by uttering those cries, and making those gestures, which are the 
 signs of fear : just as two men, at this day, would endeavour to make 
 themselves be understood by each other, who should be thrown together 
 on a desolate island, ignorant of each other's language. Those excla- 
 mations, therefore, which by grammarians are called interjections, utter- 
 ed in a strong and passionate manner, were, beyond doubt, the first ele- 
 ments or beginnings of speech. 
 
 When more enlarged communications became necessary, and names be- 
 gan to be assigned to objects, in what manner can we suppose men to 
 have proceeded in this assignation of names, or invention of words ! Un- 
 doubtedly, by imitating, as much as they could, the nature of the object 
 which they named, by the sound of the name which they gave to it. As 
 a painter who would represent grass, must employ a green colour ; so in 
 the beginnings of language, one giving a name to any thing harsh or bois- 
 terous, would of course employ a harsh or boisterous sound . He could not 
 do otherwise, if he meant to excite in the hearer the idea of that thing 
 which he sought to name. To suppose words invented, or names given 
 to things, in a manner, purely arbitrary, without any ground or reason, is 
 to suppose an effect without a cause. There must have always been some 
 motive which led to the assignation of one name rather than another ; 
 and we can conceive no motive which would more universally operate up- 
 on men in their first efforts towards language, than a desire to paint by 
 speech, the objects which they named, in a manner more orless^complete, 
 according as the vocal organs had it in their power to affect thi^tmitation. 
 
 Wherever objects were to be named, in which sound, noise, or motion 
 were concerned, the imitation by words was abundantly obvious. Nothing 
 was more natural, than to imitate, by the sound of the voice, the quality 
 of the sound or noise which any external object made ; and to form its 
 name accordingly. Thus, in all languages, we find a multitude of words 
 that are evidently constructed upon this principle. A certain bird is 
 termed the the cuckoo, from the sound which it emits. When one sort of 
 wind is said to whistle, and another to roar; when a serpent is said to 
 hiss ; a fly to buzz, and falling timber to crash ; when a stream is said to 
 flow, and hail to rattle ; the analogy between the word and the thing sig- 
 nified is plainly discernible. 
 
 In the names of objects which address the sight only, where neither 
 noise nor motion are concerned, and still more in the terms appropriated 
 to moral ideas, this analogy appears to fail. Many learned men, however, 
 have been of opinion, that though in such cases, it becomes more ob- 
 scure, yet it is not altogether lost ; but that throughout the radical words 
 of all languages, there may be traced some degree of correspondence 
 with the object signified. With regard to moral and intellectual ideas, 
 they remark, that in every language, the terms significant of them, are 
 derived from the names of sensible objects to which they are conceived 
 
5Q RISK AND PROGRESS [LECT.VL 
 
 to be analogous ; and with regard to sensible objects pertaining merely to 
 sight, they remark, that their most distinguishing qualities have certain 
 radical sounds appropriated to the expression of them, in a great variety 
 of languages. Stability, for instance, fluidity, hollowness, smoothness, 
 gentleness, violence, &c. they imagine to be painted by the sound of cer- 
 tain letters or syllables, which have some relation to those different states 
 of visible objects, on account of an obscure resemblance which the or- 
 gans of voice are capable of assuming to such external qualities. By 
 this natural mechanism, they imagine all languages to have been at first 
 constructed, and the roots of their capital words formed.* 
 
 As far as this system is founded in truth, language appears to be not 
 altogether arbitrary in its origin. Among the ancient Stoic and Platonic 
 philosophers, it was a question much agitated, " Utrum nomina rerum 
 sint natura, an impositione ? tpva-si j? fart ;" by which they meant, whether 
 words were merely conventional symbols ; of the rise of which no ac- 
 count could be given, except the pleasure of the first inventors of lan- 
 guage ? or, whether there was some principle in nature that led to the 
 assignation of particular names to particular objects ? and those of the 
 Platonic school favoured the latter opinion.! 
 
 This principle, however, of a natural relation between words and ob- 
 
 * The author who has carried his speculations on this subject the farthest, is the 
 President Des Brosses, in his " Traite de la Formation Mechanique des Langues." 
 Some of the mdical letters or syllables which he supposes to carry this expressive 
 power in most known languages are, St, to signify stability or rest ; Fl, to denote 
 fluency; CI, a gentle descent : R, what relates to rapid motion; C, to cavity or 
 hollowness, &.c. A century before his time, Dr. Waliis, in his Grammar of the Eng- 
 lish Language, had taken notice of these significant roots, and represented it as a pe- 
 culiar excellency of our tongue, that beyond all others, it expressed the nature of 
 the objects which it named, by employing sounds sharper, softer, weaker, stronger, 
 more obscure, or more stridulous, according as the idea which is to be suggested re- 
 quires. He gives various examples. Thus, words, formed upon St, always denote 
 firmness and strength, analogous, to the Latin s/o • as stand, stay, statf, stop, stout, 
 steady, staj*-- stamp, staition, stately, &c. Words beginning with Str, intimate vio- 
 lence, force and energy, analogous to the Greek fTgovvvpi ; as, strive, strength, strike, 
 stripe, stress,strugg!e, stride, stretch,strip,&c. Thr,impliesforcible,motion: as, throw, 
 throb, thrust, through, threaten, thraldom. Wr, obloquity or distortion ;. as, wry, 
 w T rest, wreath, wrestle, wring, wrong, wrangle, wrath, wrack, &c. Sw, silent agita- 
 tion, or lateral motion; as, sway, swing, swerve, sweep, swim. SI, a gentle fall 
 or less observable motion ; as, slide, slip, sly, slit, slow, slack, sling. Sp, dissipa- 
 tion or expansion ; as spread, sprout, sprinkle, split, spill, spring. Terminations in 
 ash, indicate something acting nimbly and sharply ; as, crash, gash, rash, flash, lash, 
 slash. Terminations in ush, something acting more obtrusely and dully ; as, crush, 
 brush, hush, gush, blush. The learned author produces a great many more exam- 
 ples of the same kind, which seem to leave no doubt, that the analogies of 3ound 
 have had some influence on the formation of words. At the same time, in all spe- 
 culations of this kind, there is so much room for fancy to operate, that they ought 
 to be adopted with much caution in forming any general theory. 
 
 t Vid. Plat, in Cratylp. " Nomina verbaque non posita fortuito, sed quadam viet 
 ratione naturae facta esse, P. Nigidius in Grammaticis Commentariis docet ; rem sane 
 in philosopbiaj dissertationibus celebrem. Jn earn rem multa argumenta dicit, cur 
 videri possint, verba esse naturalia, magis quam arbitraria. Vos y iuiquit, cum dici- 
 mus, motu quodam oris conveniente, cum ipsius verbi demonstratione utiinur,et labi- 
 as sensim primores emovemus, ac spiritum atque animam porro versum, et ad eos 
 quibus consermo cinamur intendimus. At contra cum diciraus Nos, neque profuso 
 intentoque flatu vocis, neque projectis labiis pronunciamus; sed et spiritum et labi- 
 as quasi intra nosinet ipsos coercemus. Hoc sit idem et in eo quod dicimus, lu, 
 etego, etmihiet tibi. Nam sicuti cum adnuitnuset abnuimus, motus quodam illo vet 
 capitis, vel oculorum, a natura rei quam significat, non abhorret, itaia his vocibus 
 quasi gestus quidam oris et spiritus naturalis est. Eadem ratio est in Graacis quoque 
 Vocibus quam esse in nvstris animadvertimus." A. Gellius,NocL Attic*., lib. x. cap. 4. 
 
LECT. "VXj Of LANGUAGE. 57 
 
 jeets, can only be applied to language in its most simple and primitive 
 state. Though in every tongue, some remains of it, as I have shown 
 above, can be traced, it were utterly in vain to search for it throughout 
 the whole construction of any modern language. As the multitude of 
 terms, increase in every nation, and the immense field of language is filled 
 up, words, by a thousand fanciful and irregular methods of derivation and 
 composition, come to deviate widely from the primitive character of their 
 roots, and to lose all analogy or resemblance in sound to the things signifi- 
 ed. In this state we now find language. Words, as we now employ 
 them, taken in the general, may be considered as symbols, not as imita- 
 tions ; as arbitrary, or instituted, not natural signs of ideas. But there 
 can be no doubt, 1 think, that language, the nearer we remount to its rise 
 among men, will be found to partake more of a natural expression. As 
 it could be originally formed on nothing but imitation, it would, in its 
 primitive state, be more picturesque ; much more barren indeed, and 
 narrow in the circle of its terms, than now ; but as far as it went, more 
 expressive by sound of the thing signified. This, then, may be assumed 
 as one character of the first state, or beginnings of language, among every 
 savage tribe. 
 
 A second character of language, in its early state, is drawn from the 
 manner in which words were at first pronounced, or uttered, by men. 
 Interjections, I showed, or passionate exclamations, were the first ele- 
 ments of speech. Men laboured to communicate their feelings to one 
 another, by those expressive cries and gestures which nature taught 
 them. After words, or names of objects, began to be invented, this 
 mode of speaking, by natural signs, could not be all at once disused. 
 For language, in its infancy, must have been extremely barren ; and 
 there certainly was a period among all rude nations, when conversation 
 was carried on by very few words, intermixed with many exclamations 
 and earnest gestures. The small stock of words which men as yet pos- 
 sessed, rendered these helps absolutely necessary for explaining their 
 conceptions; and rude, uncultivated men not having always at hand 
 even the few words, which they knew, would naturally labour to make 
 themselves understood, by varying their tones of voice, and accompany- 
 ing their tones with the most significant gesticulations they could make. 
 At this day, when persons attempt to speak in any language which they 
 possess imperfectly, they have recourse to all these supplemental me- 
 thods, in order to render themselves more intelligible. The plan, too, 
 according to which I have shown, that language was originally construct- 
 ed, upon resemblance or analogy, as far as was possible, to thethingsig- 
 nified, would naturally lead men to utter their words with more empha- 
 sis and force, as long as language was a sort of painting by means of 
 sound. For all those reasons this may be assumed as a principle, that 
 the pronunciation of the earliest languages was accompanied with more 
 gesticulation, and with more and greater inflections of voice, than what 
 we now use : there was more action in it ; and it was more upon a cry- 
 ing or singing tone. 
 
 To this manner of speaking, necessity first gave rise. But we must 
 observe, that after this necessity had, in a great measure, ceased, by lan- 
 guage becoming in process of time more extensive and copious, the an- 
 cient manner of speech still subsisted among many nations ; and what had 
 arisen from necessity, continued to be used for ornameut. Wherever 
 there was much fire and vivacity in the genius of nations, thev were natu- 
 
 H 
 
«W l«h* AiVil PMtikESS 
 
 [-LECT. VI, 
 
 rally inclined to a mode of conversation which gratified the imagination 
 so much; for an .magmation which is warm, is always pronTo throw 
 both a great deal of action, and a variety of tones, into discourte Upon 
 this principle, Dr Warburton accounts for so much speaking by action 
 as we find among the Old Testament prophets ; as when Jeremhfh breaks 
 the potter's vessel m sight of the people ; throws a book inlo the Eu 
 pirates ; puts on bonds and yokes ; and carries out his househo d stuff ■ 
 
 in' iL ' mag,ne f' m ' Sht besi 8 Dific »' •node* ofexpression.very uutul 
 ral in those ages, when men were accustomed to explain themselves so 
 much by actions and gestures. I„ h ke manner, among the northern 
 
 as exX", "X e l}T™ m0ti0nS aml acti ° nS weref0UDd ^ be much Zi 
 as explanatory of their meaning, on all their great occasions of inter- 
 course with each other • and by the belts and strings of wampum which 
 they gave and received, they were accustomed to declare S££ni£r 
 as much as by their discourse. meaning, 
 
 rJIi? -?f rd '° inflec 1 tions of ™me, thes e are so natural, that to some 
 lt*',l v l P F, eared eaS ' er t0 eX P' ess different ideas, by varying the 
 for alTlh/ . thfi y P r0n0U u Ced lhe Same word ' th ™ to coVi/e Z7 S 
 tor all their ideas 1 his ,s the practice of the Chinese in particular 
 
 The number of words m their language is said not to be great but in 
 speaking, they vary each of their words on no less than five different 
 
 Tn?. S, J f*r " ,ey ^^ the Same W ° rd Si « nif y fiTe -fferenltmgs 
 This must give a great appearance of music or singing to their speech 
 
 For those inflections of voice which, in the infancy of language were do 
 more than harsh or dissonant cries, m ust, as ianguage gradually pushes 
 pass into more smooth and musical sounds ; and hence is foS what 
 we call the prosody of a language. at 
 
 R„ I l!r* W fi a ° d deserves attention, that, both in the Greek and 
 Roman languages, this musical and gesticulating pronunciation was reiaTn- 
 ed ,n a very high degree. Without having attended to this, we shall be 
 l^hV,' Und " sta » di "^everal passages of the classics, whkh rela t to 
 the public speaking, and the theatrical entertainments of the ancients, it 
 appears from many circumstances, that the prosody both of the Greek" 
 and Romans was carried much farther than ours ; or that they spoke 
 with more and stronger inflections of voice than we use. Thequautky 
 of their syllables was much more fixed than in any of the mooem la£ 
 guages, and rendered mnch more sensible to the ear in pronouncing them 
 Besides qnan .ties or the difference of short and long, accents we enlaced 
 upon syllables, the acute, grave, and circumflex; the Z of which 
 accents we have now entirely lost, but which, we know, determined the 
 
 ZZ I t V T '° rrT ° r fa "- ° Ur modern Pronunciation Zthavl 
 appeared to them a lifeless monotony. The declamation of their orators 
 
 natreo^rrr'; " of their actors upon ,he st »^ -pp™** t0 ,£. 
 
 na ure of a rec tative in music ; was capable of being marked in notes 
 and supported with instruments ; asseverallearned menhave fully prove, ' 
 And it this was the case, as they have shown, among the Roman 
 the Greeks, it is well known, were still a more musical 'people than the 
 Romans, and carried their attention to tone and pronunciation much far 
 ther id every public exhibition. Aristotle, in his poetics, considers the 
 music of tragedy as one of its chief and most essential parts 
 ,„ W T* ,"" ParaUel Wi ' h re S ard t0 S estn re ; for strong tones, aod 
 
 TZ ■£ *%T BS ' ^ ^ ° bSerVe> alwa y^° l0 ^ ther - A <=ti0D is treat- 
 ed of by all the ancient critics, as the chief quality in every public speak- 
 
I.ECT. VI.] 0F LANGUAGE. 
 
 59 
 
 R r ; m 7 he a ° tion > botl \ of the orators and the players in Greece and 
 Rome, was far more vehement than what we are accustoLiM -. P 
 r e „I 0Uld T Seemed a """man to os! W G a el r a e CC , Tft h £fe 
 qoence upon the anc.ent stage, that there is reason for believ ,1 thTot 
 *™e° cc f°nMhe speaking and the actin § P ar ' "ere divided which 
 Z«t? r ' deaS ' W ° Uld f ° rm a Stran S e exhibi 'ion ; one plaver spoke 
 
 for under the rei gns of Augustus and Tiberios, the favourite en ertain' 
 
 Tat traiZ Th' ,K Pe ° p1 / Were moved > and we P t *< «f. «« much 
 obltedfot m 2 r P T'° tt f ° r u" b6Came so ^roug, that laws were 
 
 guid as ours. 
 
 When the barbarians spread themselves over the Roman Pmnirp tw. 
 : uiediricai action. Both conversation and public «Deakin<r h* 
 
 ^v^ 
 
 J.S c ,n proportion to the liveliness and sensibility of the people A 
 iSnct^Tf Italy DC,a " 0n "* ^^^ f*™ a,e > <° &• ** the 
 
 ■ ^^Kterf h of lansuag f' ,€t ,,s procefid - io the third ^. 
 
 this respect also y °f J^*"* 6 ,n ' s «»! fly state, and its progres 
 ords an!?™;; ,. ' 6 manner ,n whlch me ° at 6rst uttered Their 
 
 « r mnerWM conT ?"» ,I <»'. was st ™ng and expressive, enfo cin « 
 
 S t^vu P H eX Tr d ' dea l byCrieSand S estures i sothelan/uag? 
 
60 StlSE AND PROGRESS fLECT. VI. 
 
 We are apt, upon a superficial view, to imagine, that those modes of 
 expression which are called figures of speech, are among the chief re- 
 finements of speech, not invented till after language had advanced to its 
 latter periods, and mankind were brought into a polished state ; and that, 
 then, they were devised by orators and rhetoricians. The quite contra- 
 ry of this is the truth. Mankind never employed so many figures of 
 speech, as when they had hardly any words for expressing their meaning. 
 
 For, first the want of proper names for every object obliged them to 
 use one name for many ; and, of course, to express themselves by com- 
 parisons, metaphors, allusions, and all those substituted forms of speech 
 which render language figurative. Next, as the objects with which they 
 were most conversant, were the sensible, material objects around them, 
 names would be given to those objects, long before words were invented 
 for signifying the dispositions o( the mind, or any sort of moral and in- 
 tellectual ideas. Hence, the early language of men being entirely made 
 up of words descriptive of sensible objects, it became of necessity ex- 
 tremely metaphorical. — For, to signify any desire or passion, or any act 
 or feeling of the mind, they had no precise expression which was appro- 
 priated to that purpose, but were under a necessity of painting the 
 emotion or passion which they felt, by allusion to those sensible objects 
 which had most relation to it, and which could render it, in some sort, 
 visible to others. 
 
 But it was not necessity alone, that gave rise to this figured style. 
 Other circumstances also, at the commencement of language, contributed 
 to it. In the infancy of all societies, men are much under the dominion of 
 imagination and passion. They live scattered and dispersed ; they are 
 unacquainted with the course of things ; they are, every day, meeting 
 with new and strange objects. Fear and surprise, wonder and astonish- 
 ment, are their most frequent passions. Their language will necessarily 
 partake of this character of their blinds. They will be prone to exag- 
 geration and hyperbole. They will be given to describe every thing 
 with the strongest colours, and most vehement expressions ; infinitely 
 more than men living in the advanced and cultivated periods of society, 
 when their imaginations are more chastened, their passions are more 
 tamed, and a wider experience has rendered the objects of life more fa- 
 roiliartothem. Even the manner in which I before showed that the first 
 tribes of men uttered their words, would have considerable influence on 
 their style. Wherever strong exclamations, tones, and gesture, enter 
 much into conversation, the imagination is always more exercised; a 
 greater effort of fancy and passion is excited. — Consequently, the fancy 
 kept awake, and rendered more sprightly by this mode of utterance, 
 operates upon style, and enlivens it more. 
 
 These reasonings are confirmed by undoubted facts. The style of all 
 the most early languages, among nations who are in the first and rude 
 periods of society, is found, without exception, to be full of figures ; hy- 
 perbolical and picturesque in a high degree. We have a striking instance 
 of this in the American languages, which are known, by the most au- 
 thentic accounts, to be figurative to excess. The Iroquois and Illinois 
 carry on their treaties, and public transactions with bolder metaphors, 
 and greater pomp of style, than we use in our poetical productions.^ 
 
 * Thus,to give an instance of the singular style of these nations, the Five Nations, 
 of Canada, when entering on a treaty of peace with us, expressed themselves by 
 
, 
 
 LECT. VI. j OF LANGUAGE. (J 1 
 
 Another remarkable instance is, the style of the Old Testament, which 
 is carried on by constant allusions to sensible objects. Iniquity, or guilt, 
 is expressed by " a spotted garment ;" misery, by "drinking the cup of 
 astonishment ;" vain pursuits, by '• feeding on ashes ; ? a sinful life, by 
 *' a crooked path ;" prosperity, by " the -candle of the Lord shining on 
 our head;" and the like, in innumerable instances. Hence we have 
 been accustomed to call this sort of style the oriental style ; as fancying 
 it to be peculiar to the nations of the east ; whereas, from the Ameri- 
 can style, and from many other instances, it plainly appears not to have 
 been peculiar to any one region or climate ; but to have been common 
 to all nations in certain periods of society and language. 
 
 Hence we may receive some light concerning that seeming paradox, 
 that poetry is more ancient than prose. I shall have occasion to discuss 
 this point fully hereafter, when I come to treat of the nature and origin, 
 of poetry. At present, it is sufficient to observe, that, from what has 
 been said, it plainly appears that the style of all language must have been 
 originally poetical ; strongly tinctured with that enthusiasm, and that 
 descriptive metaphorical expression, which distinguishes poetry. 
 
 As language, in its progress, began to grow more copious, it gradually 
 Ipst that figurative style, which was its early character. When men 
 were furnished with proper and familiar names for every object, both 
 sensible and moral, they were not obliged io use so many circumlocu- 
 tions. Style became more precise, and, of course more simple. Ima- 
 gination, too, in proportion as society advanced, had less influence over 
 mankind. The vehement manner of speaking by tones and gestures 
 became not so universal. The understanding was more exercised ; the 
 fancy less. Intercourse among mankind becoming more extensive and 
 frequent, clearness of style, in signifying their meaning to each other, 
 was the chief object of attention. In place of poets, philosophers be- 
 came the instructers of men ; and in their reasonings on all different 
 subjects, introduced that plainer and simpler style of composition which 
 we now call prose. Among the Greeks, Pherecydes of Scyros, the 
 master of Pythagoras,- is recorded to have been the first, who, in this 
 sense, composed any writing in prose. The ancient metaphorical and 
 poetical dress of language was now Maid aside from the intercourse of 
 men, and reserved for those occasions only, on which ornament was pro- 
 fessedly studied. 
 
 Thus I have pursued the history of language through some of the 
 variations it has undergone ; I have considered it, in the first structure 
 
 their chiefs, in the following language : " We are happy in having buried under 
 ground the red axe, that has so often been died with the blood-of our brethren. Now, 
 in this fort, we inter the axe, and plant the tree of peace. We plant a tree, whose 
 top will reach the sun, and its branches spread abroad, so that it shall be seen afaroff. 
 May its growth never be stifled and choaked; but may it shade both your country and 
 ours with its leaves ! Let us make fast its roo'S, and extend them to the utmost of 
 our colonies. If -the French should come to shake this tree, we should know it by 
 the motion of its roots reaching into our country. May the Great Spirit allow us to 
 rest in tranquillity upon our mats, and never again dig up the axe to cut down the 
 tree of peace ! Let the earth be trod hard over it, where it lies buried. Let a 
 strong stream run under the pit, to 'wash the evil away out of our sight and remem- 
 brance. The fire that had long burned in Albany is extinguished. The bloody bed is 
 washed clean, and the tears are wiped from our eyes. We now renew the covenant 
 chain of friendship. Let it be kept bright and clean as silver, and not suffered to 
 contract any rust. Let not any one. pull away his arm from it. ,; These passages are 
 extracted from Cadwallader Colden's History of the five Indian Nations: where it 
 nppears, from the authentic documents he produces, that such is their genuine style 
 
63 RISE AND PROGRESS [LECT.VU. 
 
 and composition of words ; io the manner of uttering or pronouncing 
 words; and ,n the style and character of speech. I have vet to con 
 wh«« r n h /7 ieW ' res P flctin ^ he o^er and arrangement words 
 b^ Z: m" t itr* resS t0 ha - take " P-ce. iimi&r to what Ihte 
 
 been now illustrating. 
 
 LECTURE VII. 
 
 RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE, AND OP WRITING. 
 
 w7rv^Sdi d rt h e T h dern ^ ?KaMSE 
 
 I now spe'lUetr^ h t " Cly '^T^' ° f that a,teration of which 
 «W,? 8 S t <■ tUS SgUr , e t0 °' ,rse1 ^ a savage, who beholds some 
 
 toiive Uto him s'„ Wb ' Ch ^ ^ '*»#* ™« who "quest! another 
 io .ve it to him. Supposing our savage to be unacquainted with word, 
 he would, id that case, labour to make himself be understood bv poS 
 earnestly at the object which he desired, and uttering at Kme"™ 
 a passionate cry. Supposing him to have acquired words the fc t wZt 
 which he uttered would, of course, be thelame of that objec H f 
 
 But though not the most logical, it is, however, in one view, the mosTnatu ' 
 might therefore conclude, a priori, that this would be theorder.u whkh 
 
 "L n "her 6 "' h Ti 5 , " iD the G ^^IZ **%£ 
 Amerlran ,olguel USS ' aD ' ?? ***"** the Gaelic ' and ^ "1 of Z 
 
 a te rfl» a l n }™S™Z e > the ""angement which most commonly obtain, 
 s, to place first in the sentence, that word which esnr« e « !£. • '' 
 
 ew^V* the diSC ° UrSe ' l °^ ther wl Us cir u^ nce e a P „d n 'f: 
 erward the person or the thing that acts upon it, Th„s' SaHust 
 
LECT. VH.] OP LANGUAGE. ($ 
 
 comparing together the mind and body : " Animo imperio, corporis 
 servitio, magis utimur," which order certainly renders the sentence 
 more lively and striking, than when it is arranged according to our Eng- 
 lish construction ; " we make most use of the direction of the soul, and 
 of the service of the body." The Latin order gratifies more the rapi- 
 dity of the imagination, which naturally runs first to that which is its 
 chief object ; and having once named it, carries it in view throughout 
 the rest of the sentence. In the same manner in poetry : 
 
 Justura et tenacem propositi virum, 
 fion civiura ardor prava jubentium, 
 Non vultus instantis tyranni, 
 Mente quatit solida 
 
 Every person of taste must be sensible, that here the words are arranged 
 with a much greater regard to the figure which the several objects 
 make in the fancy, than our English construction admits ; which would 
 require the " Justum et tenacem propositi virum," though undoubtedly, 
 the capital object in the sentence, to be thrown into the last place. 
 
 I have said, that, in the Greek and Roman languages, the most com- 
 mon arrangement is, to place that first which strikes the imagination of 
 the speaker most. I do not, however, pretend, that this holds without 
 exception. Sometimes regard to the harmony of the period requires a 
 different order ; and in languages susceptible of so much musical beauty, 
 and pronounced with so much tone and modulation as were used by those 
 nations, the harmony of periods was an object carefully studied. Some- 
 times, too, attention to the perspicuity, to the force, or to the artful sus- 
 pension of the speaker's meaning, alter this order ; and produce such 
 varieties in the arrangement, that it is not easy to reduce them to any one 
 principle. But, in general, this was the genius and character of 
 most of the ancient languages, to give such full liberty to the collocation 
 of words, as allowed them to assume whatever order was most agreeable 
 to the speaker's imagination. The Hebrew, i?, indeed, an exception ; 
 which though not altogether without inversions, yet employs them less 
 frequently, and approaches nearer to the English construction, than 
 either the Greek or the Latin. 
 
 All the modern languages of Europe have adopted a different arrange- 
 ment from the ancient. In their prose compositions, very little variety 
 is admitted in the collocations of words ; they are mostly fixed to one 
 order, and that order is, what may be called, the order of the under- 
 standing. They place first in the sentence, the person or thing which 
 speaks or acts ; next, its action ; and lastly, the object of its action. 
 So that the ideas are made to succeed to one another, not according to 
 the degree of importance which the several objects carry in the imagf- 
 nation, but according to the order of nature and of time. 
 
 An English writer, paying a compliment to a great man, would say thus ; 
 " it is impossible for me to pass over in silence, such remarkable mild- 
 ness, such singular and unheard-of clemency, and such unusual mode- 
 ration in the exercise of supreme power." Here we have first pre- 
 sented to us, the person who speaks. *•' It is impossible for me ;" next, 
 what that person is to do, " impossible for him to pass over in silence ;" 
 and lastly, the object which moves him so to do, " the mildness, clemen- 
 cy, and moderation of his patron." Cicero, from whom I have trans- 
 lated these words, just reverses this order ; beginning with the object, 
 placing that first which was the exciting idea in the speaker's mind, and 
 
64 RISE AND PROGRESS [LEO!. V(I 
 
 ending with the speaker and his action. " Tantam mansuetudinem, tam 
 inusitatem inauditamque cletnentiam, tantumque in summa potestate 
 rerum omnium modum, tacitus nullo modo prasterire possum." (Orat. 
 pro Marcell.) 
 
 The Latin order is more animated ; the English more clear and dis- 
 tinct. The Romans generally arranged their words according to the 
 order in which the ideas rose in the speaker's imaginalion. — We arrange 
 them according to the order in which the understanding directs those 
 ideas to be exhibited, in succession, to the view of another. Our ar- 
 rangement, therefore, appears to be the consequence of greater refine- 
 ment in the art of speech ; as far as clearness in communication is 
 understood to be the end of speech. 
 
 In poetry, where we are supposed to rise above the ordinary style, 
 and to speak the language of fancy and passion, our arrangement is not 
 altogether so limited ; but some greater liberty is allowed for transpo- 
 sition and inversion. Even there, however, that liberty is confined within 
 narrow bounds, in comparison of the ancient languages. The different 
 modern tongues vary from one another in this respect. The French 
 language is, of them nil, the most determinate in the order of its words, 
 and admits the least of inversion, either in prose or poetry. The 
 English admits it more. But the Italian retains the most of the ancient 
 transpositive character ; though one is apt to think it attended with a 
 little obscurity in the style of some of their authors, who deal most in 
 these transpositions. 
 
 It is proper, next, to observe, that there is one circumstance in the 
 structure of all the modern tongues, which, of necessity, limits their 
 arrangement, in a great measure, to one fixed and determinate train. 
 We have disused those differences of termination, which, in the Greek 
 and Latin, distinguished the several cases of nouns, and tenses of verbs ; 
 and which, thereby, pointed out the mutual relation of the several words 
 in a sentence to one another, though the related words were disjoined, 
 and placed in different parts of the sentence. This is an alteration in 
 the structure of language, of which I shall have occasion to say more 
 in the next lecture. One obvious effect of it is, that we have now, for 
 the most par*, no way left us to show the close relation of any two 
 word? to each other in meaning, but by placing them close to one another 
 in the period. For instance ; the Romans could, with propriety, express 
 themselves thus : 
 
 Extinctum nymphs crudeli funere Daphnim 
 Fiebant 
 
 Because " extinctum et Daphnim," being both in the accusative case, 
 this showed, that the adjective and the substantive were related to each 
 other, though placed at the two extremities of the line ; and that both 
 are governed by the active verb " fiebant," to which " nymphae" 
 plainly appeared to be the nominative. The different terminations here 
 reduced all into order, and made the connexion of the several words 
 perfec;'y clear. But let us translate these, words literally into English, 
 according to the Latin arrangement ; " dead the nymphs by a cruel fate 
 Daphnis lamented ;" and they become a perfect riddle, in which it is 
 impossible to find any meaning. 
 
 It was by means of this contrivance, which obtained in almost all the 
 ancient languages, of varying the termination of nouns and verbs, and 
 
E.ECX. VII. j OF WfUTfKS. ^5 
 
 thereby pointing out the concordance and the government of the words, 
 in a sentence, that they enjoyed so much liberty of transposition, and 
 could marshal and arrange their words in any way that gratified the ima- 
 gination, or pleased the ear. When language came to be modelled by 
 the northern nations, who overran the empire, they dropped the cases 
 of nouns ; and the different terminations of verbs, with the more ease, 
 because they placed no great value upon the advantages arising from such 
 a structure of language. They Were attentive only to clearness, and 
 copiousness of expression. They neither regarded much the harmon}^ 
 of sound, nor sought to gratify the imagination by the collocation of 
 words. They studied solely to express themselves in such a manner as 
 should exhibit their ideas to others in the most distinct and intelligible 
 order. And hence, if our language, by reason of the simple arrangement 
 of its words, possesses less harmony, less beauty, and less force, than the 
 Greek or Latin ; it is, however, in its meaning, more obvious and plain. 
 
 Thus I have shown what the natural progress of language has been, in 
 several material articles : and this account of the genius and progress of 
 language, lays a foundation for many observations, both curious aad use- 
 ful. From what has been said in this, and the preceding lecture, it appears 
 that language was at first barren in words, but descriptive by the sound 
 of these words ; and expressive in the manner of uttering them, by the 
 aid of significant tones and gestures : style was figurative and poetical : 
 arrangement was fanciful and lively. It appears, that, in all the suc- 
 cessive changes which language has undergone, as the world advances, 
 the understanding has gained ground on the fancy and imagination. The 
 progress of language* in this respect, resembles the progress of age in 
 man. The imagination is most vigorous and predominant in youth ; with 
 advancing years, the imagination cools, and the understanding ripens* 
 Thus language, proceeding from sterility to copiousness, hath, at the 
 same time, proceeded from vivacity to accuracy ; from fire and enthu- 
 siasm, to coolness and precision. Those characters of early language, 
 descriptive sound, vehement tones and gestures, figurative style, and 
 inverted arrangement, all hang together, have a mutual influence on each 
 other, and have all gradually given place to arbitrary sounds, calm pro- 
 nunciation, simple style, plain arrangement. Language has become, ia 
 modern times, more correct, indeed, and accurate ; but, however, less 
 striking and animated ; in its ancient state, more favourable to poetry 
 and oratory ; in its present, to reason and philosophy. 
 
 Having finished my account of the progress of speech, I proceed to 
 give an account of the progress of writing, which next demands our 
 notice ; though it will not require so full a discussion as the former 
 subject. 
 
 Next to speech, writing is, beyond doubt, the most useful art of which 
 men are possessed. It is plainly an improvement upon speech, and 
 therefore must have been posterior to it in order of time. At first, 
 men thought of nothing more than communicating their thoughts to one 
 another, when present, by means of words, or sounds, which they 
 uttered. Afterward, they devised this further method, of mutual com- 
 munication with one another, when absent, by means of marks or 
 characters presented to the eye, which we call writing. 
 
 Written characters are of two sorts. They are either signs for things, 
 or signs for words. Of the former sort, signs for things, are the pictures, 
 hieroglyphics, and symbols, employed by the ancient nations ; of the 
 
Q& RISE AND PROGRESS [LEC1VVJI. 
 
 latter sort, signs for words, are the alphabetical characters, now employed 
 by all Europeans. These two kinds of writing are generically and 
 essentially distinct. 
 
 Pictures were, undoubtedly, the first essay towards writing. Imitation 
 is so natural to man, that, in all ages, and among all nations, some methods 
 have obtained, of copying or tracing the likeness of sensible objects. 
 Those methods would soon be employed by men for giving some imper- 
 fect information to others, at a distance, of what had happened ; or for 
 preserving the memory of facts which they sought to record. Thus, to 
 signify that one man had killed another, they drew the figure of one man 
 stretched upon the earth, and of another standing by him with a deadly 
 weapon in his hand. We find, in fact, that when America was first dis- 
 covered, this was the only sort of writing known in the kingdom of 
 Mexico. By historical pictures, the Mexicans are said to have trans- 
 mitted the memory of the most important transactions of their empire. 
 These, however, must have been extremely imperfect records ; and the 
 nations who had no other, must have been very gross and rude. — Pic- 
 tures could do no more than delineate external events. They could 
 neither exhibit the connexions of them, nor describe such qualities 
 as were not visible to the eye, nor convey any idea of the dispositions 
 or words of men. 
 
 To supply, in some degree, this defect, there arose, in process of 
 time, the invention of what are called hieroglyphical characters ; which 
 may be considered as the second stage of the art of writing. Hiero- 
 glyphics consist in certain symbols, which are made to stand for invisi- 
 ble objects, on account of an analogy or resemblance which such symbols 
 were supposed to bear to the objects. Thus, an eye was the hiero- 
 glyphical symbol of knowledge ; a circle, of eternity, which has nei- 
 ther beginning nor end. Hieroglyphics, therefore, were a more refined 
 and extensive species of painting. Pictures delineated the resemblance 
 of external visible objects. Hieroglyphics painted invisible objects, by 
 analogies taken from the external world. 
 
 Among the Mexicans, were found some traces of hieroglyphical cha- 
 racters, intermixed with their historical pictures. But Egypt was the 
 country where this sort of writing was most studied, and brought into a 
 regular art. In hieroglyphics was conveyed all the boasted wisdom of 
 their priests. According to the properties which they ascribe to ani- 
 mals, or the qualities with which they supposed natural objects to be 
 endowed, they pitched upon them to be the emblems, or hieroglyphics 
 of moral objects; and employed them in their writing for that end. 
 Thus, ingratitude was denominated by a viper ; imprudence, by a fly ; 
 wisdom, by an ant ; victory, by a hawk ; a dutiful child, by a stork ; a 
 man universally shunned, by an eel ; which they supposed to be found 
 in company with no other fish. Sometimes they joined together two or 
 more of these hieroglyphical characters ; as, a serpent with a hawk's 
 head, to denote nature, with God presiding over it. But, as many of 
 those properties of objects which they assumed for the foundation of 
 their hieroglyphics, were merely imaginary, and the allusions drawn 
 from them were forced and ambiguous : as the conjunction of their cha- 
 racters rendered them still more obscure, and must have expressed very 
 indistinctly the connexions and relations of things ; this sort of writing 
 could be no other than enigmatical, and confused in the highest degree ; 
 and roust have been a very imperfect vehicle of knowledge of any kind- 
 
"MECT. VII.] OF -WRITING. ft 
 
 It has been imagined, that hieroglyphics were an invention of the 
 Egyptian priests, for concealing their learning from common view ; and 
 that, upon this account, it was preferred by them to the alphabetical 
 method of writing. But this is certainly a mistake. Hieroglyphics 
 were, undoubtedly, employed at first from necessity, not from choice or 
 refinement ; and would never have been thought of, if alphabetical cha- 
 racters had been known. The nature of the invention plainly shows it 
 to have been one of those gross and rude essays towards writing, which 
 were adopted in the early ages of the world, in order to extend farther 
 the first method which they had employed of simple pictures, or repre- 
 sentations of visible objects. Indeed, in after times, when alphabetical 
 writing was introduced into Egypt, and the hieroglyphical was, of course, 
 fallen into disuse, it is known, that the priests still employed the hiero- 
 glyphical characters, as a sacred kind of writing, now become peculiar to 
 themselves, and serving to give an air of mystery to their learning and 
 religion. In this state, the Greeks found hieroglyphical writing, when 
 they began to have intercourse with Egypt ; and some of their writers 
 mistook this use, to which they found it applied, lor the cause that had 
 given rise to the invention. 
 
 As writing advanced from pictures of visible objects, to hieroglyphics, 
 or symbols of things invisible ; from these latter, it advanced among 
 some nations, to simple arbitrary marks which stood for objects though 
 without any resemblance or analogy to the objects signified. Of this 
 nature was the method of writing practised among the Peruvians. They 
 made use of small cords, of different colours ; and by knots upon these, 
 of various sizes, and differently ranged, they contrived signs for giving 
 information, and communicating their thoughts to one another. 
 
 Of this nature, also, are the written characters, which are used to this 
 day throughout the great empire of China. The Chinese have no al- 
 phabet of letters, or simple sounds, which compose their words. But 
 every single character which they use in writing is significant of an idea ; 
 it is a mark which stands for some one thing, or object. By consequence, 
 the number of these characters must be immense. It must correspond to 
 the whole number of objects, or ideas, which they have occasion to ex- 
 press ; that is, to the whole number of words which they employ in 
 speech ; nay, it must be greater than the number of words ; one word, by 
 varying the tone, with which it is spoken, may be made to signify several 
 different things. They are said to have seventy thousand of those writ- 
 ten characters. To read and write them to perfection, is the study of a 
 whole life ; which subjects learning, among them, to infinite disadvan- 
 tage ; and must have greatly retarded the progress of all science. 
 
 Concerning the origin of these Chinese characters, there have been 
 different opinions, and much controversy. According to the most pro- 
 bable accounts, the Chinese writing began, like the Egyptian, with pic- 
 tures and hieroglyphical figures. These figures being, in progress, ah^- 
 breviated in their form, for the sake of writing them easily, and greatly 
 enlarged in their number, passed, at length, into those marks or charac- 
 ters which they now use, and which have spread themselves through se- 
 veral nations of the east. For we are informed, that the Japanese, the 
 Tonquinese, and the Corceans, who speak different languages from one 
 another, and from the inhabitants of China, use, however, the same 
 written characters with them ; and by this means correspond intelligibly 
 with each other in writing, though ignorant of the language spoken in 
 
08 RISE AND PROGRESS [LECT.YIL 
 
 their several countries ; a plain proof, that the Chinese characters are 
 like hieroglyphics, independent of language : are signs of things, not of 
 words. 
 
 We have one instance of this sort of writing in Europe. Our ci- 
 phers, as they are called, or arithmetical figures, 1, 2, 3, 4, &c. which 
 we have derived from the Arabians, are significant marks, precisely of 
 the same nature with the Chinese characters. They have no depen- 
 dence on words ; but each figure represents an object ; represents the 
 number for which it stands, and accordingly, on being presented to the 
 eye, is equally understood by all the nations who have agreed in the use 
 of these ciphers ; by Italians, Spaniards, French, and English, however 
 different the languages of those nations are from one another, and what- 
 ever different names they give, in their respective languages, to each 
 numerical cipher. 
 
 As far, then, as we have j r et advanced, nothing has appeared which 
 resembles our letters, or which can be called writing, in the sense we 
 now give to that term. What we have hitherto seen, were all direct 
 signs for things, and made no use of the medium of sound, or words ; 
 either signs by representation, as the Mexican pictures ; or signs by ana- 
 logy, as the Egyptian hieroglyphics ; or signs by institution, as the Peru- 
 vian knots, the Chinese characters, and the Arabian ciphers. 
 
 At length, in different nations, men became sensible of the imperfection, 
 the ambiguity, and the tediousnessof each of these methods of commu- 
 nication with one other. They began to consider, that by employing 
 signs which should stand not directly for things, but for the words which 
 they used in speech for naming these things, a considerable advantage 
 would be gained. For they reflected farther, that though the number of 
 words in every language be, indeed, very great, yet the number of articu- 
 late sounds, which are used in composingthese words, is comparatively 
 small. The same simple sounds are continually recurring and repeated ; 
 and are combined together, in various ways for forming all the variety of 
 words which we utter. They bethought themselves, therefore, of in- 
 venting signs, not for each word by itself, but for each of those simple 
 sounds which we employ in forming our words ; and, by joining to- 
 gether a few of those signs, they saw that it would be practicable to ex- 
 press, in writing, the whole combinations of sounds which our words 
 require. 
 
 The first step, in this new progress, was the invention of an alphabet of 
 syllables, which probably preceded the invention of an alphabet of let- 
 ters among some of the ancient nations ; and which is said to be retained 
 to this day, in ^Ethiopia, and some countries of India. By fixing upon 
 a particular mark, or character, for every syllable of the language, the 
 number of characters, necessary to be used in writing, was reduced with- 
 in a much smaller compass than the number of words in the language. 
 Still, however, the number of characters was great ; and must have con- 
 tinued to render both reading and writing very laborious arts. Till, at 
 last, some happy genius arose, and tracing the sounds made by the human 
 voice, to their most simple elements, reduced them to a very few vowels 
 and consonants ; and, by affixing to each of these the signs which we 
 now call letters, taught men how, by their combinations, to put in writing 
 all the different words, or combinations of sound, which they employed in 
 speech. By being reduced to this simplicity, the art of writing was 
 brought to its highest state of perfection ; and in this state, we now en 
 joy it in all the countries of Europe, 
 
LEGT. VII. j OF WRITING. (j9 
 
 To whom we are indebted for this sublime and refined discovery, does 
 not appear. Concealed by the darkness of remote antiquity, the great 
 inventor is deprived of those honours which would still be paid to his 
 memory by all the lovers of knowledge and learning. It appears from 
 the books which Moses has written, that among the Jews, and proba- 
 bly among the Egyptians, letters had been invented prior to his age. The 
 universal tradition among the ancients is, that they were first imported in- 
 to Greece by Cadmus the Phoenician ; who, according to the common 
 system of chronology, was contemporary with Joshua ; according to Sir 
 Isaac Newton's system, contemporary with King David. As the Phoeni- 
 cians are not known to have been the inventors of any art or science, 
 though by means of their extensive commerce, they propagated the dis- 
 coveries made by other nations, the most probable and natural account of 
 the origin of alphabetical characters is, that they took rise in Egypt, the 
 first civilized kingdom of which we have any authentic cocouius, and 
 the great source of arts and polity among the ancients. In that country, 
 the favourite study of hieroglyphical characters, had directed much at- 
 tention to the art of writing. Their hieroglyphics are known to have 
 been intermixed with abbreviated symbols, and arbitrary marks ; whence 
 at last they caught the idea of contriving marks, not for things merely , 
 but for sounds. Accordingly Plato (in Phasdo) expressly attributes the 
 invention of letters to Theuth, the Egyptian, who is supposed to have 
 been the Hermes, or Mercury, of the Greeks. Cadmus himself, though 
 he passed from Phoenicia to Greece, yet is affirmed, by several of the 
 ancients, to have been originally of Thebes in Egypt. Most probably, 
 Moses carried with him the Egyptian letters into the land of Canaan ; and 
 there being adopted by the Phoenicians, who inhabited part of that coun- 
 try, they were transmitted into Greece. 
 
 The alphabet which Cadmus brought into Greece was imperfect, and 
 is said to have contained only sixteen letters. The rest were afterward 
 added, according as signs for proper sounds were found to be wanting. 
 It is curious to observe, that the letters which we use at this day, can be 
 traced back to this very alphabet of Cadmus. The Roman alphabet* 
 which obtains with us, and with most of the European nations, is plainly 
 formed on the Greek, with a few variations. And all learned men ob- 
 serve, that the Greek characters, especially according to the manner in 
 which they are formed in the oldest inscriptions, have a remarkable conv 
 formit}' with the Hebrew or Samaritan characters, which, it is agreed, are 
 the same with the Phoenician, or the alphabet of Cadmus. Invert the 
 Greek characters from left to right, according to the Phoenician and He- 
 brew manner of writing, and they are nearly the same. Besides the con- 
 formity of figure, the names or denominations of the letters, alpha, beta, 
 gamma, &c. and the order in which the letters are arranged in all the 
 several alphabets, Phoenician, Hebrew, Greek and Roman, agree so 
 much as amounts to a demonstration, that they were all derived origi- 
 nally from the same source. An invention so useful and simple was 
 greedily received by mankind, and propagated with speed and facility 
 through many different nations. 
 
 The letters were, originally, written from the right hand towards the 
 left ; that is, in a contrary order to what we now practise. This man- 
 ner of writing obtained among the Assyrians, Phoenicians, Arabians, and 
 Hebrews ; and from some very old inscriptions, appears to have obtained 
 hIso among theGreeks. Afterward, the Greeks adopted a new method. 
 
70 RISE AND PROGRESS, ETC. [LECT.VH, 
 
 writing their lines alternately from the right to the left, and from the left 
 to the right, which was called Boustrophedon ; or, writing after the man- 
 ner in which oxen plough the ground. Of this, several specimens still 
 remain ; particularly, the inscription on the famous Sigaean monument ; 
 and down to the days of Solon, the legislator of Athens, this continued 
 to be the common method of writing. At length, the motion from the 
 left hand to the right being found more natural and commodious, the 
 practice of writing, in this direction, prevailed throughout all the coun- 
 tries of Europe. 
 
 Writing was long a kind of engraving. Pillars and tables of stone, 
 were first employed for this purpose, and afterward plates of the softer 
 metals, such as lead. In proportion as writing became more common, 
 lighter and more portable substances were employed. The leaves and 
 the bark of certain trees were used in some countries : and in others, 
 tablets of wood, covered with a thin coat of soft wax, on which the im- 
 pression was made with a stylus of iron. In later times, the hides of 
 animals, properly prepared and polished into parchment, were the most 
 common materials. Our present method of writing on paper, is an in- 
 vention of no greater antiquity than the fourteenth century. 
 
 Thus I have given some account of the progress of these two great 
 arts, speech and writing ; by which men's thoughts are communicated 
 and the foundation laid for all knowledge and improvement. Let us 
 conclude the subject, with comparing in a few words, spoken language, 
 and written language ; or words uttered in our hearing, with words, re- 
 presented to the eye ; where we shall find several advantages and disad- 
 vantages to be balanced on both sides. 
 
 The advantages of writing above speech are, that writing is both the 
 more extensive, and a more permanent method of communication. 
 More extensive, as it is not confined within the narrow circle of those 
 who hear our words, but, by means of written characters, we can send our 
 thoughts abroad, and propagate them through the world ; we can lift our 
 voice, so as to speak to the most distant regions of the earth. More 
 permanent also ; as it prolongs this voice to the most distant ages ; it 
 gives us the means of recording our sentiments of futurity, and of per- 
 petuating, the instructive memory of past transactions. It likewise 
 affords this advantage to such as read, above such as hear, that, having 
 the written characters before their eyes, they can arrest the sense of the 
 writer. They can pause, and revolve, and compare, at their leisure, 
 one passage with another : whereas, the voice is fugitive and passing ; 
 yon must catch the words the moment they are uttered, or you lose 
 them for ever. 
 
 But, although these be so great advantages of written language, that 
 speech, without writing, would have been very inadequate for the in- 
 struction of mankind ; yet we must not forget to observe, that spoken 
 language has a great superiority over written language, in point of 
 energy or force. The voice of the living speaker makes an impression 
 on the mind, much stronger than can be made by the perusal of any 
 writing. The tones of voice, the looks and gesture, which accompany 
 discourse, and which no writing can convey, render discourse, when it is 
 well managed, infinitely more clear, and more expressive, than the most 
 accurate writing. For tones, looks, and gestures, are natural interpreters 
 of the sentiments of the mind. They remove ambiguities ; they enforce 
 impressions ; they operate on us by means of sympathy, whhich is one of 
 
EiECT.VUI.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. % 
 
 the most powerful instruments of persuasion. Our sympathy is always 
 awakened more, by hearing the speaker, than by reading his works in 
 our closet. Hence, though writing may answer the purposes of mere 
 instruction, yet all the great and high efforts of eloquence must be made 
 by means of spoken, not of written language. 
 
 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 
 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE, 
 
 After having given an account of the rise and progress of language, 
 I proceed to treat of its structure, or of general grammar. The struc- 
 ture of language is extremely artificial ; and there are few sciences, in 
 which a deeper, or more refined logic, is employed, than in grammar. 
 It is apt to be slighted by superficial thinkers as belonging to those rudi- 
 ments of knowledge, which were inculcated upon us in our earliest youth. 
 But what was then inculcated before we could comprehend its principles, 
 would abundantly repay our study in maturer years ; and to the igno- 
 rance of it, must be attributed many of those fundamental defects which 
 appear in writing. 
 
 Few authors have written with philosophical accuracy on the princi- 
 ples of general grammar ; and, what is more to be regretted, fewer still 
 have thought of applying those principles to the English language. 
 While the French tongue has long been an object of attention to many 
 able and ingenious writers of that nation, who have considered its con- 
 struction, and determined its propriety with great accuracy, the genius 
 and grammar of the English, to the reproach of the country, have not 
 been studied with equal care, or ascertained with the same precision. 
 Attempts have been made, indeed, of Jate towards supplying this de- 
 fect ; and some able writers have entered on the subject ; but much re- 
 mains yet to be done. 
 
 I do not propose to give any system, either of grammar in general, or 
 of English grammar in particular. A minute discussion of the niceties 
 of language would carry us too much off from other objects, which de- 
 mand our attention in this course of lectures. But I propose to give a 
 general view of the chief principles relating to this subject, in observa- 
 tions on the several parts of which speech or language is composed ; re- 
 marking, as I go along, the peculiarities of our own tongue. After 
 which, I shall make some more particular remarks on the genius of the 
 English language. 
 
 The first thing to be considered is, the division of the several parts of 
 speech. The essential parts of speech are the same in all languages. 
 There must always be some words which denote the names of objects, or 
 mark the subject of discourse ; other words which denote the qualities 
 of those objects, and express what we affirm concerning them ; and other 
 words, which point out their connexions and relations. Hence, sub- 
 stantives, pronouns, adjectives, verbs, prepositions, and conjunctions, 
 must necessarily be found in all languages. The most simple and com- 
 prehensive division of the parts of speech is, into substantives, attribii- 
 
12 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. L LECf. Vllf, 
 
 tives, and connectives.* Snbstantives,are all the words which express the 
 names of objects, or the subjects of discourse ; attributives, are all the 
 words which express any attribute, property, or action of the former ; 
 connectives, are what express the connexions, relations, and dependen- 
 cies, which take place among them. The common grammatical division 
 of speech into eight parts ; nouns, pronouns, verbs, participles, adverbs, 
 prepositions, interjections, and conjunctions, is not very logical, as might 
 be easily shown ; as it comprehends, under the general term of nouns, 
 both substantives and adjectives, which are parts of speech generically 
 and essentially distinct ; while it makes a separate part of speech of 
 participles, which are no other than verbal adjectives. However, as 
 these are the terms to which our ears have been most familiarized, and, 
 as an exact logical division is of no great consequence to our present 
 purpose, it will be better to make use of these known terms than of any 
 other. 
 
 We are naturally led to begin with the consideration of substantive 
 nouns, which are the foundation of all grammar, and may be considered 
 as the most ancient part of speech. For, assuredly, as soon as men had 
 got beyond simple interjections, or exclamations of ^passion, and began 
 to communicate themselves by discourse, they would be under a necessity 
 of assigning names to the objects they saw around them, which in gram- 
 matical language, is called the invention of substantive nouns. t And 
 here, at our first setting out, somewhat curious occurs. The individual 
 objects which surround us, are infinite in number. A savage, wherever 
 he looked, beheld forests and trees. To give separate names to every 
 
 * Quintilian informs us. that this was the most ancient division. " Turn videbit 
 quot et quae sunt partes orationis. Quanquam de numero parum convenit. Veteres 
 enitn, quorum fuerant Aristoteles atque Theodictes, verba modo, et nomina, et con- 
 vinctiones tradiderunt. Videlicet, quod in verbis vim sermonis, in nominibus mate- 
 riem, (quiaalterum est quod loquitnur, alterum dequoloquimur) in convinctionibus 
 autem complexum eorum esse judicarunt ; quas conjunctiones a plerisque dici scio ; 
 sed haec videtur ex a-uvSsT/uat magis propria translatio. Paulatim a philosophicis ac 
 maxime a stoicis, auctus est numerus ; ac primum convinctionibus articuli adjecti ; 
 post praepositiones ; nominibus. appellatio, deinde pronornen ; deindemistum verbo 
 participium; ipsis verbis, adverbia." Lib. i. cap. iv. 
 
 t I do not mean to assert, that among all nations, the first invented words were 
 simple and regular substantive nouns. Nothing is more difficult and uncertain, than 
 to ascertain the precise steps by which men proceeded in the formation of language. 
 Names for objects must, doubtless, have arisen in the most early stages of speech. 
 But, it is probable, as the learned author of the Treatise on the Origin and Progress 
 of Language has shown (vol. i. p. 371, 395) that, among several savage tribes, some 
 of the first articulate sounds that were formed, denoted a whole sentence, rather 
 than the name of a particular object ; conveying some information, or expressing 
 ^ome desires or fears suited to the circumstances in which that tribe was placed, or 
 relating to the business they had most frequent occasion to carry on ; as, the lion is 
 coming, the river is swelling, &c. Many of their first words, it is likewise probable, 
 were not simple substantive nouns, but substantives, accompanied with some of those 
 attributes, in conjunction with which they were most frequently accustomed to be- 
 hold them as the great bear, the little hut, the wound made by the hatchet, &c. Of 
 all which, the author produces instances from several of the American languages : 
 and it is, undoubtedly, suitable to the natural course of the operations of tue hu- 
 man mind, thus to begin with particulars the most obvious to sense, and to proceed, 
 from these, to more general expressions. He likewise observes, that the words or" 
 those primitive tongues are far from being, as we might suppose them, rude and short, 
 and crowded wiih consonants; but, on tbe contrary, are, for the most part, long: 
 words, and full of vowels. 
 
 This is the consequence of their being formed upon the natural sound which the. 
 voice utters with most ease, a little varied and distinguished by articulation ; and he 
 shows this to hold, in fact, among most of the barbarous languages which are knowo- 
 

 LECT, VIII,] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 73 
 
 tine Of those trees, would have been an endless and impracticable under- 
 taking. His first object was to give a name to that particular tree, whose 
 fruit relieved his hunger, or whose shade protected him from the sun. 
 But observing that though other trees were distinguished from this by- 
 peculiar qualities of size or appearance, yet that they also agreed and 
 resembled one another, in certain common qualities, such as springing 
 from a root, and bearing branches and leaves, he formed in his mind some 
 general idea of those common qualities, and ranging all that possessed 
 them under one class of objects, he called that whole class a tree. 
 Longer experience taught him to subdivide this genus into the several 
 species of oak, pine, ash, and the rest, according as his observation 
 extended to the several qualities in which these trees agreed or differed. 
 
 But, still he made use only of general terms in speech. For the oak,^ 
 the pine, and the ash, were names of whole classes of objects ; each oi 
 which included an immense number of undistinguished individuals. 
 Here then it appears, that though the formation of abstract, or general 
 conceptions, is supposed to be a difficult operation of the mind ; such 
 Conceptions must have entered into the very first formation of language. 
 For, if we except only the proper names of persons, such as Caesar, John, 
 Peter, all the other substantive nouns which we employ in discourse, are 
 the names, not of individual objects, but of very extensive genera, or 
 species of objects ; as man, lion, house, river, &c. We are not, how- 
 ever, to imagine that this invention of general, or abstract terms, requires, 
 any great exertion of metaphysical capacity : for, by whatever steps 
 the mind proceeds in it, it is certain that vfl!ien men have once observed 
 resemblances among objects, they are naturally inclined to call all those 
 which resemble one another, by one common name ; and, of course, t& 
 class them under one species. We may daily observe this practised by 
 children in their first attempts towards acquiring language. 
 
 But now, after language had proceeded as far as I have described, the 
 notification which it made of objects was still very imperfect : for, when 
 one mentioned to. another in discourse any substantive noun ; such as 
 man, lion, or tree, how was it to be known which man, or which lion, or 
 which tree he meant, among the many comprehended under one name ? 
 Here occurs a very curious, and a very useful contrivance for specifying 
 the individual object intended, by means of that part of speech called the 
 article. 
 
 The force of the article consists in pointing or singling out from the 
 common mass the individual of which we mean to speak. In English we 
 have two articles, a and the ; a is more general and unlimited ; the more 
 definite and special. A is much the same with one, and marks only any 
 one individual of a species ; that individual being either unknown or left 
 undetermined ; as, a lion, a king. — The, which possesses more property 
 the force of the article, ascertains some known or determined individual 
 of the species ; as, the lion, the king. 
 
 Articles are words of great use in speech. In some languages, how- 
 ever, they are not found. The Greeks have but one article, o 'n to, 
 which answers to our definite, or proper article, the. They have no word 
 which answers to our article a, but they supply its place by the absence 
 of their article: thus, Bxntevs signifies a king; o BctrsXevg the king. 
 The Latins have no article. In the room of it they employ pronouns ; 
 as, hie, ilie, iste, for pointing out the objects which they want to distin- 
 guish. " Xoster sermo," savs Quintilian, " articulos non desiderata 
 
 K i 
 
STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. YliL 
 
 ideoque in alias partes orationis sparguntur." This, however, appears 
 tome a defect in the Latin tongue : as articles contribute much to the 
 clearness and precision of language. 
 
 In order to illustrate this, remark what difference there is in the mean- 
 ing of the following expressions in English, depending wholly on the dif- 
 ferent employment of the articles ; "the son of a king. The son of 
 the king. A son of the king's." Each of these three phrases has an 
 entirely different meaning, which I need not explain, because any one 
 who v understands the language, conceives it clearly at first hearing, through 
 the different application of the articles a and the. Whereas, in Latin, 
 " filius regis," is wholly undetermined; and to explain in which of 
 these three senses it is to be understood, for it may bear any of them, 
 a circumlocution of several words must be used. In the same manner. 
 - e are you a king?" "are you the king?" are questions of quite separate 
 import : which, how r ever, are confounded together in the Latin phrase, 
 •' esne tu rex ?" "thou art a man," is a very general and harmless posi- 
 tion; but, "thou art the man," is an assertion capable, we know, of 
 striking terror and remorse into the heart. These observations illustrate 
 the force and importance of articles ; and at the same time, I gladly lay 
 hold of any opportunity of showing the advantages of our own language. 
 
 Besides this quality of being particularized by the article, three affec- 
 tions belong to substantive nouns, number, gender, and case, which 
 require our consideration. 
 
 Number distinguishes them as one, or many, of the same kind, called 
 the singular and plural ; a distinction found in all languages, and which 
 must, indeed, have been coeval with the very infancy of language; as 
 there were few things which men had more frequent occasion to express, 
 than the difference between one and many. For the greater facility of 
 expressing it, it has, in all languages, been marked by some variation 
 made upon the substantive noun ; as we see in English, our plural is 
 commonly formed by the addition of the letter s. In the Hebrew, Greek, 
 and some other ancient languages, we find not only a plural, but a dual 
 number ; the rise of which may very naturally be accounted for, from 
 separate terms of numbering not being yet invented, and one, two, and 
 many, being all, or at least, the chief numeral distinctions which men, 
 at first, had any occasion to take notice of. 
 
 Gender, is an affection of substantive nouns, which will lead us into 
 more discussion than number. Gender, being f3unded on the distinction 
 of the two sexes, it is plain, that in a proper sense, it can only find place 
 in the names of living creatures, which admit the distinction of male and 
 female ; and, therefore, can be ranged under the masculine or feminine 
 genders. All other substantive nouns ought to belong to what grammarians 
 call the neuter gender, which is meant to imply the negation of either 
 sex. But with respect to this distribution, somewhat singular hath ob- 
 tained in the structure of language. For, in correspondence to that dis- 
 tinction of male and Female sex, which runs through all classes of 
 animals, men have, in most languages, ranked a great number of inani- 
 mate objects also, under the like distinctions of masculine and feminine. 
 Thus we find it both in the Greek and Latin tongues. Gladius, a sword, 
 for instance, is masculine ; sagitia, an arrow, is feminine ; and this 
 assignation of sex to inanimate objects, this distinction of them into mas- 
 culine and feminine, appears often to be entirely capricious ; derived from 
 no other principle tfran the casual structure of the language, which 
 
LECT. VIII.j STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 75 
 
 refers to a certain gender, words of a certain termination. In the Greek 
 and Latin, however, all inanimate objects are not distributed into mascu- 
 line and feminine ; but many of them are also classed, where all of them 
 ought to have been, under the neuter gender; as, templum, a church ; 
 sedile, a seat. 
 
 But the genius of the French and Italian tongues differs, in this respect, 
 from the Greek and Latin. In the French and Italian,, from whatever 
 cause it has happened, so it is, that the neuter gender is wholly unknown, 
 and that all their names of inanimate objects are put upon the same 
 footing with living creatures ; and distributed, without exception, into 
 masculine and feminine. The French have two articles, the masculine 
 h, and the feminine la; and one or other of these is prefixed to all sub- 
 stantive nouns in the language, to denote their gender. The Italians 
 make the same universal use of their articles il, and Id, for the mascu- 
 line ; and la, for the feminine. 
 
 In the English language, it is remarkable that there obtains a pecu- 
 liarity quite opposite. In the French and Italian, there is no neuter 
 gender. In the English, when we use common discourse, all substantive 
 nouns, that are not names of living creatures, are neuter without excep- 
 tion. He, she, and it, are the marks of the three genders ; and we always 
 use it, in speaking of any object where there is no sex, or where the 
 sex is not known. The English is, perhaps, the only language in the 
 known world (except the Chinese, which is said to agree with it in this 
 particular) where the distinction of gender is properly and philoso- 
 phically applied in the use of words, and confined, as it ought to be, to 
 mark the real distinctions of male and female. 
 
 Hence arises a very great and signal advantage of the English tongue, 
 which it is of consequence to remark.* Though in common discourse, 
 as I have already observed, we employ only the proper and literal dis- 
 tinction of sexes ; yet the genius of the language permits us, whenever 
 it will add beauty to our discourse, to make the names of inanimate 
 objects masculine and feminine in a metaphorical sense ; and when we 
 do so, we are understood to quit the literal style, and to use one of the 
 figures of discourse. 
 
 For instance ; if I am speaking of virtue, in the course of ordinary 
 conversation, or of strict reasoning, I refer the word to no sex or gender; 
 I say, "virtue is its own reward ;" or, "it is the law of our nature." 
 But if I choose to rise into a higher tone ; if I seek to embellish and 
 animate my discourse, I give a sex to virtue ; I say, " she descends from 
 heaven;" "she alone confers true honour upon man;" "her gifts are 
 the only durable rewards." By this means we have it in our power to 
 vary our style at pleasure. By making a very slight alteration, we can 
 personify any object that we choose to introduce with dignity ; and by 
 this change of manner, we give warning that we are passing from the 
 strict and logical, to the ornamented and rhetorical style. 
 
 This is an advantage which, not only every poet, but every good 
 writer and speaker in prose, is, on many occasions, glad to lay hold of> 
 and improve ; and it is an advantage peculiar to our tongue ; no other 
 language possesses it. For, in other languages, every word has one fixed 
 gender, masculine, feminine, or neuter, which can, upon no occasion, 
 be changed ; ccpsrtj, for instance, in Greek, virtus, in Latin, and la vertu, 
 
 * The following observations on the metaphorical use of gender?, in the English 
 language, are 1?iken from Mr< Karri?'? Herme& 
 
7G STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. VITi - 
 
 in French, are uniformly feminine. She, must always be the pronoun 
 answering to the word, whether you be writing in poetry or in prose, 
 whether you be using the style of reasoning, or that of declamation ; 
 whereas, in English, we can either express ourselves with the philoso- 
 phical accuracy of giving no gender to things inanimate ; or by giving 
 them gender, and transforming them into persons, we adapt them to the 
 style of poetry, and, when it is proper, we enliven prose. 
 
 It deserves to be further remarked on this subject, that when we em- 
 ploy that liberty which our language allows, of ascribing sex to any in- 
 animate object, we have not, however, the liberty of making it of what 
 gender we please, masculine or feminine ; but are, in general, subjected 
 to some rule of gender which the currency of language has fixed to that 
 object. The foundation of that rule is imagined, by Mr. Harris, in his 
 44 Philosophical Inquiry into the Principles of Grammar," to be laid in 
 a certain distant resemblance, or analogy, to the natural distinction of 
 the two sexes. 
 
 Thus, according to him, we commonly give the masculine gender to 
 those substantive nouns used figuratively, which are conspicuous for 
 the attributes of imparting or communicating ; which are by nature 
 strong and efficacious, either to good or evil ; or which have a claim to 
 some eminence, whether laudable or not. Those again, he imagines. 
 to be generally made feminine, which are conspicuous for the attributes 
 ©f containing, and of bringing forth ; which have more of the passive 
 in their nature, than of the active ; which are peculiarly beautiful, or 
 amiable ; or which have respect to such excesses as are rather feminine 
 than masculine. Upon these principles he ipkes notice, that the sun is 
 always put in the masculine gender with us, the moon in the feminine, 
 as being the receptacle of the sun's light. The earth is, universally, 
 feminine. A ship, a country, a city, are likewise made feminine, as 
 receivers, or containers. God, in all languages, is masculine. Time, 
 we make masculine, on account of its mighty efficacy ; virtue, feminine, 
 from its beauty and its being the object of love. Fortune is always 
 feminine. Mr. Harris imagines, that the reasons which determine the 
 gender of such capital words as these, hold in most other languages, 
 as well as the English. This, however, appears doubtful. A variety of 
 circumstances, which seem casual to us, because we cannot reduce them 
 to principles, must, unquestionably, have influenced the original forma- 
 tion of languages : and in no article whatever does language appear to 
 have been more capricious, and to have proceeded less according to fixed 
 rule, than in the imposition of gender upon things inanimate ; especially 
 among such nations as have applied the distinction of masculine and 
 feminine to all substantive nouns. 
 
 Having discussed gender, I proceed next to another remarkable pecu- 
 liarity of substantive nouns, which, in the style of grammar, is called 
 their declension by cases. Let us first consider what cases signify. In 
 order to understand this', it is necessary to observe, that, after men had 
 given names to external objects, had particularized them by means of the 
 article, and distinguished them by number and gender, still their language 
 remained extremely imperfect, till they had devised some method of 
 expressing the relations which those objects bore, one toward another. 
 The} r would find it of little use to have a name for man, lion, tree, river, 
 without being able, at the same time, to signify how these stood with 
 respect to fach other : whether; as approaching to, receding from, joined. 
 
LECT. VIII.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 J i 
 
 with, and the like. Indeed, the relations which objects bear to one 
 another, are immensely numerous ; and therefore to devise names for 
 them all, must have been among the last and most difficult refinements of 
 language. But, in its most early periods, it was absolutely necessary to 
 express, in some way or other, such relations as were most important, 
 and as occurred most frequently in common speech. Hence the geni- 
 tive, dative, and ablative cases of nouns, which express the noun itself, 
 together with those relations of, to, from,, with, and by ; the relations which 
 we have the most frequent occasion to mention. The proper idea then 
 of cases in declension, is no other than an expression of the state, or 
 relation which one object bears to another, denoted by some variation 
 made upon the name of that object ; most commonly in the final 
 letters, and by some languages, in the initial. 
 
 All languages, however, do not agree in this mode of expression. 
 The Greek, Latin, and several other languages, use declension. The 
 English, French, and Italian, do not; or at most, use it very imperfectly. 
 In place of the variations of cases, the modern tongues express the 
 relations of objects, by means of the words called prepositions, which 
 denote those relations, prefixed to the name of the object. English 
 nouns have no case whatever except a sort of genitive, commonly form- 
 ed by the addition of the letter s to the noun ; as when we say " Dry 
 den's Poems," meaning the Poems of Dryden. Our personal pro- 
 nouns have also a case, which answers to the accusative of the Latin, 
 I, me; he, him; who, whom. There is nothing, then, or at least very 
 little, in the grammar of our language, which corresponds to declension 
 in the ancient languages. 
 
 Two questions, respecting this subject, may be put. First, Which of 
 these methods of expressing relations, whether that by declension, or 
 that by prepositions, was the most ancient usage in language ? And next, 
 Which of them has the best effect ? Both methods, it is plain, are the same 
 as to the sense, and differ only in form. For the significancy of the 
 Roman language would not have been altered, though the nouns, like 
 ours, had been without cases,' provided they had employed prepositions: 
 and though, to express a disciple of Plato, they had said, " Discipulus 
 de Plato," like the modern Italians, in place of " Discipulus Platonis." 
 
 Now, with respect to the antiquity of cases, although they may, on 
 first view, seem to constitute a more artificial method than the other, of 
 denoting relations, yet there are strong reasons for thinking that this was 
 the earliest method practised by men. We find, in fact, that declensions 
 and cases are used in most of what are called the mother tongues, or 
 original languages, as well as in the Greek and Latin. And a very 
 natural and satisfying account can be given why this usage should have 
 early obtained. Relations are the most abstract and metaphysical ideas 
 of any which men have occasion to form, when they are considered by 
 themselves, and separated from the related object. It would puzzle any 
 man, as has been well observed by an author on this subject, to give a 
 distinct account of what is meant by such a word as of or from, when it 
 stands by itself, and to explain all that may be included under it. The 
 first rude inventors of language, therefore, would not, for a long while, 
 arrive at such general terms. In place of considering any relation in the 
 abstract, and devising a name for it, they would much more easily con- 
 ceive it in conjunction with a particular object ; and they would express 
 their conceptions of it, by varying the name of that object through all the 
 
78 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. VIII. 
 
 different cases ; hominis, of a man ; homini, to a man ; homine, with a 
 man, &c. 
 
 But though this method of declension was, probably, the only method 
 which men employed, at first, for denoting relations, yet, in progress of 
 time, many other relations being observed, besides those which are sig- 
 nified by the cases of nouns, and men also becoming more capable of 
 general and metaphysical ideas, separate names were gradually invented 
 for all the relations which occurred, forming that part of speech which 
 we now call prepositions. Prepositions, being once introduced, they 
 were found to be capable of supplying the place of cases, by being pre- 
 fixed to the nominative of the noun. Hence, it came to pass, that as 
 nations were intermixed by migrations and conquests, and were obliged 
 to learn and adopt the languages of one another, prepositions supplanted 
 the use of cases and declensions. When the Italian tongue, for instance, 
 sprung out of the Roman, it was found more easy and simple, by the Gothic 
 nations, to accommodate a few prepositions to the nominative of every 
 noun, and to say, di Roma, al Roma, di Carthago, al Carthago, than to 
 remember all the variety of terminations, Romce, Rom am, Carthaginis, 
 Carthaginem, which the use of declensions required in the ancient nouns. 
 By this progress we can give a natural account how nouns, in our modern 
 tongues] become to be so void of declension : a progress which is fully 
 illustrated in Dr. Adam Smith's ingenious Dissertation on the Formation 
 of Languages. 
 
 With regard to the other question on this subject, Which of these two 
 methods is of the greater utility and beauty ? we shall find advantages* 
 and disadvantages to be balanced on both sides. There is no doubt that, 
 by abolishing cases, we have rendered the structure of modern languages 
 more simple. We have disembarrassed it of all the intricacy which arose 
 from the different forms of declension, of which the Romans had no fewer 
 than five ; and from all the irregularities in these several declensions. 
 We have thereby rendered our languages more easy to be acquired, and 
 less subject to the perplexity of rules. But, though the simplicity and 
 ease of language be great and estimable advantages, yet there are also 
 such disadvantages attending the modern method, as leave the balance, on 
 the whole, doubtful, or rather incline it to the side of antiquity. 
 
 For, in the first place, by our constant use of prepositions for express- 
 ing the relations of things, we have filled language with a multitude of 
 those little words, which are eternally occurring in every sentence, and 
 may be thought thereby to have encumbered speech, by an addition of 
 terms; and by rendering it more prolix, to have enervated its force. In 
 the second place, we have certainly rendered the sound of language less 
 agreeable to the ear, by depriving it of that variety and sweetness, which 
 arose from the length of words, and the change of terminations occa- 
 sioned by the cases in the Greek and Latin. But in the third place, the 
 most material disadvantage is, that, by this abolition of cases, and by 
 a similar alteration, of which I am to speak in the next lecture, in the con- 
 jugation of verbs, we have deprived ourselves of that liberty of transpo- 
 sition in the arrangement of words, which the ancient languages enjoyed. 
 
 In the ancient tongues, as I formerly observed, the different termina- 
 tions produced by declension and conjugation, pointed out the reference 
 of the several words of a sentence to one another, without the aid of 
 juxtaposition ; suffered them to be placed, without ambiguity, in whatever 
 order was most suited to give force to the meaning, or harmony to 
 
1JECT. VIII.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 79 
 
 the sound. But now, having none of those marks of relation incorpo- 
 rated with the words themselves, we have no other w ay left us, of show- 
 ing what words in a sentence are most closely connected in meaning, than 
 that of placing them close by one another in the period. The meaning 
 of the sentence is brought put in separate members and portions ; it is 
 broken down and divided. Whereas the structure of the Greek and 
 Roman sentences, by the government of their nouns, and verbs, presented 
 the meaning so interwoven and compounded in all its parts, as to make us 
 perceive it in one united view. The closing words of the period ascer- 
 tained the relation of one member to another ; and all that ought to be 
 connected in our idea, appeared connected in the expression. Hence, 
 more brevity, more vivacity, more force. That luggage of particles, 
 (as an ingenious author happily expresses it,) which we are obliged al- 
 ways to carry along with us, both clogs style, and enfeebles sentiment.* 
 
 Pronouns are the class of words most nearly related to substantive 
 nouns; being, as the name imports, representatives, or substitutes, of 
 nouns. /, thou, he, she, and it, are no other than an abridged way of nam- 
 ing the persons, or objects, with which we have immediate intercourse, 
 or to which we are obliged frequently to refer in discourse. Accord- 
 ingly, they are subject to the same modifications with substantive nouns, 
 of number, gender, and case. Only, with respect to gender, we may 
 observe, that the- pronouns of the first and second person, as they are 
 called, / and thou, do not appear to have had the distinctions of gender 
 given them in any language ; for this plain reason, that, as they always 
 refer to persons who are present to each other when they speak, their 
 sex must appear, and therefore needs not be marked by a masculine or 
 feminine pronoun. But, as the third person may be absent, or unknown, 
 the distinction of gender there becomes necessary ; and accordingly, in 
 English, it hath all the three genders belonging to it ; he, she, it. As to 
 cases, even those languages which have dropped them in substantive 
 nouns, sometimes retain more of them in pronouns for the sake of the 
 greater readiness in expressing relations ; as pronouns are words of such 
 frequent occurrence in discourse. In English, most of our grammarians 
 hold the personal pronouns to have two cases, besides the nominative ; 
 a genitive, and an accusative ; I, mine, me ; thou, thine, thee ; he, his, him ; 
 who, whose, whom. 
 
 In the first stage of speech, it is probable that the places of those pro- 
 nouns were supplied by pointing to the object when present, and naming 
 it when absent. For one can hardly think that pronouns were of early 
 invention ; as. they are words of such a particular and artificial nature. 
 
 * m T/he various terminations of the same word, whether verb or noun, are always 
 conceived to be more intimately connected with the term which they serve to lengthen, 
 than the additional, detached, and in themselves insignificant particles, which we are 
 obliged to employ as connectives to our significant words. Our method gives almost 
 the same exposure to the one as to the other, making the signiiicant parts, and the in- 
 significant, equally conspicuous ; theirs much ofteuer sinks, as it were, the former 
 into the hitter, at once preserving their use and hiding their weakness. Our modem 
 languages may, in this respect, l>e compared to the art of the carpenter in its rudest 
 slate ; when the union of the materials employed by the artizan, could be effected 
 only by the help of those external and coarse implements, pins, nails, and cramps. — 
 The ancient languages resemble the same art in its most improved state, after the in- 
 vention of dovetail joints, grooves, andmortices ; when thus all the principal junctions 
 ;ue effected, by forming properly, the extremities or terminations of the pieces to be 
 joined. For, by means of these, the union of the parts is rendered closer, while that 
 by which that union is produced, is scarcely perceivable," The Philosophy of fthe 
 "fir. by Dr. Campbell, vol. ii. p. 4 I 2. 
 
50 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. Vfifc 
 
 I, J/iou, fte, ?'£, it is to be observed, are not names peculiar to any single 
 object, but so very general, that they may be applied to all persons, of 
 objects, whatever, in certain circumstances. It, is the most general term 
 that can possibly be conceived, as it may stand for any one tiling in the 
 universe of which we speak. At the same time, these pronouns have 
 this quality, that in the circumstances in which they are applied, they 
 never denote more than one precise individual ; which they ascertain 
 and specify, much in the same manner as is done by the article. So that 
 pronouns are, at once, the most general, and the most particular words 
 in language. They are commonly the most irregular and troublesome 
 w T ords to the learner, in the grammar of all tongues ; as being f he words 
 most in common use, and subjected thereby to the greatest varieties. 
 
 Adjectives, or terms of quality, such as great, litttb, black, white, yours, 
 ours, are the plainest and simplest of all that class of words which are 
 termed attributive. They are found in ail languages ; and, in all lan- 
 guages, must have been very early invented ; as objects could not be 
 distinguished from one another, nor any intercourse be carried on con- 
 cerning them, till once names were given to their different qualities. 
 
 I have nothing to observe in relation to them, except that singularity 
 which attends them in the Greek and Latin, of having the same form 
 given them with substantive nouns ; being declined, like them, by cases, 
 and subjected to the like distinctions of number and gender. Hence it 
 has happened that grammarians have made them belong to the same part 
 of speech, and divided the noun into substantive and adjective ; an ar- 
 rangement founded more on attention to the external form of words, than 
 to their nature and force. For adjectives, or terms of quality, have not, 
 by their nature, the least resemblance to substantive nouns, as they 
 never express any thing which can possibly subsist by itself; which is 
 the very essence of the substantive noun. They are, indeed, more akin 
 to verbs, which, like them, express the attribute of some substance. 
 
 It may, at first view, appear somewhat odd and fantastic, that adjec- 
 tives should, in the ancient languages, have assumed so much the form of 
 substantives ; since neither number, nor 'gender, nor cases, nor relations, 
 have auj fehmg to do, in a proper sense, with mere qualities, such as 
 good, or great, soft, or, hard. And yet, bonus, and magnus, and tener, 
 have their singular and plural, their masculine and feminine, their geni- 
 tives and datives, like any of the names of substances, or persons. But 
 this can be accounted for, from the genius of these tongues. They 
 avoided, as much as possible, considering qualities separately, or in the 
 abstract. They made them a part, or appendage of the substance which 
 they served to distinguish ; they made the adjective depend on its sub- 
 stantive, and resemble it in termination, in number and gender, in order 
 that the two might coalesce the more intimately, and be joined in the 
 form of expression, as they were in the nature of things. The liberty of 
 transposition, too, which those languages indulged, required such a 
 method as this to be follpwed. For allowing the related words of a sen- 
 tence to be placed at a distance from each other, it required the relation 
 of adjectives to their proper substantives to be pointed out, by such simi- 
 lar circumstances of form and termination, as, according to the grammati- 
 cal style, should show their concordance.' When I say in English, the 
 w ' Beautiful wife of a brave man," the juxtaposition of the words prevents 
 all ambiguity. But when I say in Latin, " Formosa fortis viri uxor ;" 
 it is only the agreement, in gender, number, and case, of the adjective 
 
LECT. lX.j STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. Si 
 
 "formosa" which is the first word of the sentence, with the substan= 
 live " uxor" whjch is the last word, that declares the meaning. 
 
 LECTURE IX 
 
 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE.— ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 
 
 Of the whole class of words that are called attributive, indeed* of all 
 the parts of speech, the most complex, by far, is the verb. It is chiefly 
 in this part of speech, that the subtile and profound metaphysic of lan- 
 guage appears ; and* therefore, in examining the nature and different 
 variations of the verb, there might be room for ample discussion. But, 
 as I am sensible that such grammatical discussions, when they are pur- 
 sued far, become intricate and obscure* I shall avoid dwelling any longer 
 on this subject than seems absolutely necessary. 
 
 The verb is so far of the same nature with the adjective, that it ex- 
 presses, like it, an attribute, or property, of some person or thing. But 
 it does more than this. For, in all verbs, in every language, there are 
 no less than three things implied at once ; the attribute of some sub- 
 stantive, an affirmation concerning that attribute, and time. Thus, 
 when I say, " the sun shineth ;" shining is the attribute ascribed to the 
 sun ; the present time is marked ;, and an affirmation is included, that 
 this property of shining belongs, at that time, to the sun. The partici- 
 ple " shining," is merely an adjective, Which denotes an attribute or pro- 
 perty, and also expresses time ; but carries no affirmation. The infini- 
 tive mood, " to shine," may be called the name of the verb ; it carries 
 neither time nor affirmation ; but simply expresses that attribute, action* 
 or state of things, which is to be the subject of the other moods and 
 tenses. Hence the infinitive often carries the resemblance of a sub- 
 stantive noun ; and both in English and Latin is sometimes constructed 
 as such. As, " scire tuum nihil est." " Dulce et decorum est pro patria 
 mori." And, in English, in the same manner : " To write well is diffi- 
 cult ; to speak eloquently is still more difficult. 5 ' But as, through all the 
 other tenses and moods, the affirmation runs, and is essential to them i 
 " the sun shineth, was shining, shone, will shine* would have shone," &c. 
 the affirmation seems to be that which chiefly distinguishes the verb 
 from the other parts of speech, and gives it its most conspicuous power.. 
 Hence there can be no sentence, or complete proposition, without a verb 
 either expressed or implied. For, whenever we speak, we always mean 
 to assert, that something is, or is not ; and the word which carries this 
 assertion, or affirmation, is a verb. From this sort of eminence belong- 
 ing to it, this part of speech hath received its name, verb, from the La- 
 tin verbum* or the word, by way of distinction^ 
 
 Verbs, therefore, from their importance and necessity in speech, musi; 
 have been coeval with men's first attempts towards the formation of lan- 
 guage : though, indeed, it must- have been the work of long time, to 
 rear them up to that accurate and complex structure which they now 
 possess. It seems very probable, as Dr. Smith has suggested, that the 
 radical verb, or the first form of it, in most languages, would be, what 
 
 L 
 
WZ STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. 1%. 
 
 we now call the impersonal verb. " It rains ; it thunders ; it is light ; 
 it is agreeable j" and the like ; as this is the very simplest form of the 
 verb, and merely affirms the existence of an event, or of a state of 
 things. By degrees, after pronouns were invented, such verbs became 
 personal, and were branched out into all the variety of tenses and moods. 
 
 The tenses of the verb* are contrived to imply the several distinctions 
 of time. Of these I must take some notice, in order to show the admi- 
 rable accuracy with which language is constructed. We think commonly 
 of no more than the three great divisions of time, into the past, the 
 present, and the future ; and we might imagine, that if verbs had been 
 so contrived, as simply to express these, no more was needful. But 
 language proceeds with much greater subtilty. It splits time into its se- 
 veral moments. It considers time as never standing still, but always 
 flowing ; things past, as more or less perfectly completed ; and things 
 future, as more or less remote, by different gradations. Hence the great 
 variety of tenses in most tongues. 
 
 The present may, indeed, be always considered as one indivisible 
 point, susceptible of no variety. " I write, or, I am writing; scribo." 
 But it is not so with the past. There is no language so poor, but it hath 
 two or three tenses to express the varieties of it. Ours hath no fewer 
 than four. 1. A past action may be considered as left unfinished ; which 
 makes the imperfect tense, " I was writing ; scribebam." 2. A-s just 
 now finished. This makes the proper perfect tense, which, in English, 
 is always expressed by the help of the auxiliary verb, " I have writ- 
 ten." 3. It may be considered as finished some time ago ; the particu- 
 lar time left indefinite. " I wrote, scripsi ;" which may either signify, 
 ct I wrote yesterday, or I wrote a twei vemonth ago." This is what gram- 
 marians call an aorist, or indefinite past. 4. It may be considered as 
 finished before something else*, which is also past. This is the plusquam- 
 perfect. " I had written ; scripseram. I had written before I received 
 his letter." 
 
 Here we observe, with some pleasure, that we have an advantage over 
 the Latins, who have only three varieties upon the past time. They 
 have no proper perfect tense, or one which distinguishes an action just 
 now finished, from an action that was finished some time ago. In both 
 these cases, they must say, " scripsi." Though there be a manifest dif- 
 ference in the tenses, which our language expresses, by this variation, '* I 
 have written," meaning, I have just now finished writing ; and, " I 
 wrote," meaning at some former time, since which, other things have 
 intervened. This difference the Romans have no tense to express ; and 
 therefore, can only do it by a circumlocution. 
 
 The chief varieties in the future time are two ; a simple or indefinite 
 future ; " I shall write ; scribam:" and a future, relating to something 
 else, which is also future. " I shall have written ; scripsero." I shall 
 have written before he arrives.* 
 
 Besides tenses, or the power of expressing time, verbs admit the dis- 
 tinction of voices, as they are called, the active and the passive ; accord- 
 ing as the affirmation respects something that is done, or something 
 
 * On the tenses of verbs, Mr. Harris's Hermes may be consulted, by such as de- 
 sire to see them scrutinized with metaphysical accuracy ; and also the Treatise on 
 ?he Origin and Progress of Language,, vol. ii. p. 125, 
 
TECT. IX.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. §§ 
 
 tibat is suffered ; " I love, or I am loved." They admit also the distinc- 
 tion of moods, which are designed to express the affirmation, whether 
 active or passive, under different forms. The indicative mood, for in- 
 stance, simply declares a proposition, " I write; I have written;" the im- 
 perative requires, commands, threatens, "write thou ; let him write." 
 The subjunctive expresses the proposition under the form of a condition, 
 or in subordination to some other thing, to which a reference is made, 
 "I might write, I could write, I should write, if the case were so and so." 
 This manner of expressing an affirmation, under so many different forms, 
 together also with the distinction of the three persons, J, thou, and he, 
 constitutes what is called the conjugation of verbs, which makes so great 
 apart of the grammar of all languages. 
 
 It now clearly appears, as I before observed, that, of all the parts of 
 speech, verbs are, by far, the most artificial and complex. Consider only, 
 how many things are denoted by this single Latin word " amavissem, I 
 would have loved." First, The person who speaks, "I." Secondly, An 
 attribute or action of that person, " loving." Thirdly, An affirmation con- 
 cerning that action. Fourthly, The past time denoted in that affirmation, 
 ", have loved:" and, Fifthly, A condition, on which the action is suspend- 
 ed, " would have loved." It appears curious and remarkable, that words 
 of this complex import, and with more or less of this artificial structure, 
 are to be found, as far as we know, in ali languages of the world. 
 
 Indeed the form of conjugation, or the manner of expressing all these 
 varieties in the verb, differs greatly in different tongues. Conjugation is 
 esteemed most perfect in those languages which, by varying either the 
 termination or the initial syllable of the verb, express the greatest num- 
 ber of important circumstances, without the help of auxiliary words. 
 In the original tongues, the verbs are said to have few tenses, or expres- 
 sions of time : but then their moods are so contrived as to express a 
 great variety of circumstances and relations. In the Hebrew* for in- 
 stance, they say, in one word, without the help of any auxiliary, not 
 only " I have taught," but, " I have taught exactly, or often: I have been 
 commanded to teach ; I have taught myself." The Greek, which is the 
 most perfect of all the known tongues, is very regular and complete in all 
 the tenses and moods. The Latin is formed on the same model, but more 
 imperfect ; especially in the passive voice, which forms roost of the ten- 
 ses by the auxiliary verb " s«m." 
 
 In all the modern European tongues, conjugation is very defective. 
 They admit i'ew varieties in the termination of the verb itself; but have 
 almost constant recourse to their auxiliary verbs, throughout all the 
 moods and tenses, both active ; and passive. Language has undergone a 
 change in conjugation, perfectly similar to that which I showed, in the 
 last lecture, it underwent with respect to declension. As prepositions, 
 prefixed to the noun, superseded the'use of cases ; so the two great auxi- 
 liary verbs, to have, and to be, with those other auxiliaries which we use 
 in English, do, shall, will, may, and can, prefixed to the participle, super- 
 sede, in a great measure, the different terminations of moods, and tenses, 
 which formed the ancient conjugations. 
 
 The alteration, in both cases, was owing to the same cause, and will be 
 easily understood, from reflecting on what was formerly observed. The 
 auxiliary verbs are, like prepositions, words of a general and abstract na- 
 ture. They imply the different modifications of simple existence, con- 
 sidered alone, and without reference to any particular thing. In the 
 
34 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE, « LECT. LV, 
 
 early state of speech, the import of them would be incorporated, so to 
 speak, with every particular verb in its tenses and moods, long before 
 words were invented for denoting such abstract conceptions of existence., 
 alone, and by themselves. But after those auxiliary verbs came, in the 
 progress of language, to be invented and known, and to have tenses and 
 moods given to them like other verbs ; it was found, that as they carried 
 in their nature the force of that affirmation which distinguishes the verb, 
 they might, by being joined with the participle which gives the meaning 
 of the verb, supply the place of most of the moods and tenses. Hence, as 
 the modern tongues began to rise out of the ruins of the ancient, this 
 method established itself in the new formation of speech. Such words, 
 for instance ; as, am, was, have, shall, being once familiar, it appeared 
 more easy to apply these to any verb whatever ; as, I am loved ; I was 
 loved ; I have loved ; than to remember that variety of terminations 
 which were requisite in conjugating the ancient verbs, amor, nmabar, 
 amavi, &c. Two or three varieties only, in the termination of the verb, 
 were retained, as, love, loved, loving; and all the rest were dropt. The 
 consequence, however, of this practice, was the same as that of abolish- 
 ing declensions. It rendered language more simple and easy in its struct- 
 ure, but withal, more prolix, and less graceful. This finishes all that 
 seemed most necessary to be observed with respect to verbs. 
 
 The remaining parts of speech, which are called the indeclinable 
 parts, or that admit of no variations, will not detain us long. 
 
 Adverbs are the first that occur. These form a very numerous class 
 of words in every language, reducible, in general, to the head of attri^ 
 butives ; as they serve to modify, or to denote some circumstance of an 
 action, or of a quality, relative to its time, place, order, degree, and the 
 other properties of it, which we have occasion to specify. They are, for 
 the most part, no more than an abridged mode of speech, expressing, 
 by one word, what might, by a circumlocution, be resolved into two or 
 more words belonging to the other parts of speech. " Exceedingly," for 
 instance, is the same as " in a high degree ;" "bravely," the same as v 
 " with bravery or valour;" "here," the same as, " in this place;" "often, 
 andseldom," the same as, " for many and for few times," and so of the rest. 
 Hence, adverbs may be conceived as of less necessity, and of later in- 
 troduction into the system of speech, than many other classes of words ; 
 and accordingly, the great body of them are derived from other words 
 formerly established in the language. 
 
 Prepositions and conjunctions, are words more essential to discourse 
 than the greatest part of adverbs. They form that class of words, 
 called connectives, without which there could be no language; serving to 
 express the relations which things bear one to another, their mutual in- 
 fluence, dependencies, and coherence ; thereby joining words together 
 into intelligible and significant propositions. Conjunctions are generally 
 employed for connecting sentences, or members of sentences ; as, and, 
 because, although, and the like. Prepositions are employed for connect- 
 ing words, by showing the relation which one substantive noun bears to 
 another ; as, of, from, to, above, below, &c. Of the force of these I had 
 occasion to speak before, when treating of the cases and declensions of 
 substantive nouns. 
 
 It is abundantly evident, that all these connective particles must be of 
 the greatest use in speech ; seeing they point out the relations and tran- 
 sitions by which the mind passes from one idea to another. They are 
 
LECT. IX. ] THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 85 
 
 the foundation of all reasoning, which is no other thing than the connex- 
 ion of thoughts. And, there/ore, though among barbarous nations, and 
 in the rude uncivilized ages of the world, the stock of these words might 
 be small, it must always have increased, as mankind advanced in the arts 
 of reasoning and reflection. The more that any nation is improved by 
 science, and the more perfect their language becomes, we may naturally 
 expect that it will abound more with connective particles ; expressing 
 relations of things, and transitions of thought which had escaped a gross- 
 er view. Accordingly, no- tongue is so full of them as the Greek, in con- 
 sequence of the acute and subtile genius of that refined people. In 
 every language, much of the beauty and strength of it depends on the 
 proper use of conjunctions, prepositions, and those relative pronouns, 
 which also serve the same purpose of connecting the different parts of 
 discourse. It is the right, or wrong management of these, which chiefly 
 makes discourse appear firm and compacted, or disjointed and loose ; 
 which causes it to march with a smooth and even pace, or renders its 
 progress irregular and desultory. 
 
 I shall dwell no longer on the general construction of language. Al- 
 low me, only, before I dismiss the subject, to observe, that dry and intri- 
 cate as it may seem to some, it is, however, of great importance, and 
 very nearly connected with the philosophy of the human mind. For, if 
 speech be the vehicle, or interpreter, of the conceptions of our minds, an 
 examination of its structure and progress cannot but unfold many things 
 concerning the nature and progress of our conceptions themselves, and 
 the operations of our faculties ; a subject that is always instructive to 
 man. " Nequis," says Quintilian, an author of excellent judgment, "ne- 
 quis tanquam par? a fastidiat grammatices elementa. Non quia magna? sit 
 operae consonantes a vocalibus discernere, easque in semivocalium nu- 
 merum,mutarumque partiri,sed quia interiora velut sacri hujus adeunti- 
 bus, apparebit multa rerum subtilitas, quse non modo acuere ingenia pueri- 
 lia, sed exercere altissimam quoque eruditionem ac scientiampossit."* i.4. 
 
 Let us now come nearer to our own language. In this, and the pre- 
 ceding lecture, some observations have already been made on its struc- 
 ture. But it is proper that we should be a little more particular in the 
 examination of it. 
 
 The language which is, at present, spoken throughout Great Britain, 
 is neither the ancient primitive speech of the island, nor derived from 
 it ; but is altogether of foreign origin. The language of the first in-, 
 habitants of our island, beyond doubt, was the Celtic, or Gaelic, com- 
 mon to them with Gaul ; from which country, it appears, by many cir- 
 cumstances, that Great Britain was peopled. This Celtic tongue, which 
 is said to be very expressive and copious^, and is, probably, one of the 
 most ancient languages in the world, obtained once in most of the west- 
 ern regions of Europe. It was the language of Gaul, of Great Britain, 
 of Ireland, and very probably, of Spain also ; till in the course of those 
 revolutions which by means of the conquests, first, of the Romans, and 
 afterward, of the northern nations, changed the government, speech, 
 
 * "Let no man despise, as inconsiderable, the elements of grammar, because it may- 
 seem to him a matter of small consequence, to show the distinction between vowels 
 and consonants, and to divide the latter into liquids and mutes. But they who pene- 
 trate into the innermost partsof this temple of science, will there discover suchrefine- 
 ment and subtiUyofmatter,as is not onlyproper to sharpen the understandings of young 
 men, but sufficient to give exercise for the most profound knowledge and erudition," 
 
36 THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. [LECT.IX. 
 
 and, in a manner, the whole face of Europe, this tongue was gradually 
 obliterated ; and now subsists only in the mountains of Wales, in the 
 Highlands of Scotland, and among the wild Irish. For the Irish, the 
 Welch, and the Erse, are no other than different dialects of the same 
 tongue, the ancient Celtic. 
 
 This, then, was the language of the primitive Britons, the first inha- 
 bitants that we know of in our island y and continued so till the arrival 
 of the Saxons in England, in the year of our Lord 450 ; who, having 
 conquered the Britons, did not intermix with them, but expelled them 
 from their habitations, and drove them, together with their language, into 
 the mountains of Wales. The Saxons were one of those northern na- 
 tions that overran Europe ; and their tongue, a dialect of the Gothic or 
 Teutonic, altogether distinct from the Celtic, laid the foundation of the 
 present English tongue. With some intermixture of Danish, a language, 
 probably, from the same root with the Saxon, it continued to be spoken 
 throughout the southern part of the island, till the time of William the 
 Conqueror. He introduced his Norman, or French, as the language of 
 the court, which made a considerable change in the speech of the nation; 
 and the English which was spoken afterward, and continues to be spoken 
 now, is a mixture of the ancient Saxon, and this Norman French, together 
 with such new and foreign words as commerce and learning have, in pro- 
 gress of time, gradually introduced. 
 
 The history of the English language can, in this manner, be clearly 
 traced. The language spoken in the Low Countries of Scotland, is now, 
 and has been for many centuries, no other than a dialect of the English. 
 How, indeed, or by what steps, the ancient Celtic tongue came to be 
 banished from the Low Country in Scotland, and to make its retreat into 
 the Highlands and islands, cannot be so well pointed out, as how the like 
 revolution was brought about in England. Whether the southernmost 
 part of Scotland was once subject to the Saxons, and formed a part of 
 the kingdom of Northumberland ; or, whether the great number of En- 
 glish exiles that retreated into Scotland, upon the Norman conquest, and 
 upon other occasions, introduced into that country their own language, 
 which afterward, by the mutual intercourse of the two nations, prevail- 
 ed over the Celtic, are uncertain and contested points, the discussion of 
 which would lead us too far from our subject. 
 
 From what has been said, it appears that the Teutonic dialect is the 
 basis of our present speech. It has been imported among us in three 
 different forms, the Saxon, the Danish, and the Norman ; all which have 
 mingled together in our language. A very great number of our words, 
 too, are plainly derived from the Latin. These we had not directly 
 from the Latin, but most of them, it is probable, entered into our 
 tongue, through the channel of that Norman French, which William the 
 Conqueror introduced. For, as the Romans had long been in full pos- 
 session of Gaul, the language spoken in that country, when it was in- 
 vaded by the Franks and Normans, was a sort of corrupted Latin p 
 mingled with Celtic, to which was given the name of Romanshe : and 
 as the Franks and Normans did not, like the Saxons in England, expel 
 the inhabitants, but, after their victories, mingled with them ; the lan- 
 guage of the country became a compound of the Teutonic dialect im- 
 ported by these conquerors, and of the former corrupted Latin, Hence, 
 the French language has always continued to have a very considerable 
 affinity with the Latin ; and hence, a great number of words of Latin 
 
liECtf. IX.] THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE, «57 
 
 origin, which were in use among the Normans in France, were intro- 
 duced into our tongue at the conquest ; to which, indeed, many have 
 since been added, directly from the Latin, in consequence of the great 
 diffusion of Roman literature throughout all Europe. 
 
 From the influx of so many streams, from the junction of so many 
 dissimilar parts, it naturally follows that the English, like every com- 
 pounded language, must needs be somewhat irregular. We cannot expect 
 from it that correspondence of parts, that complete analogy in structure, 
 which may be found in those simpler languages, which have been formed 
 in a manner within themselves, and built on one foundation. Hence, as 
 I before showed, it has but small remains of conjugation or declension ; 
 and its syntax is narrow, as there are few marks in the words themselves, 
 that can show their relation to each other, or in the grammatical style, 
 point out either their concordance, or their government, in the sentence. 
 Our words having been brought to us from several different regions, 
 straggle, if we may so speak, asunder from each other ; and do not 
 coalesce, so naturally in the structure of a sentence, as the words in the 
 Greek and Roman tongues. 
 
 But these disadvantages, if they be such, of a compound language, 
 are balanced by other advantages that attend it ; particularly, by the 
 number and variety of words with which such a language is likely to be 
 enriched. Few languages are, in fact, more copious than the English. 
 In all grave subjects, especially, historical, critical, political, andmoral 3 
 no writer has the least reason to complain of the barrenness of our 
 tongue. The studious, reflecting genius of the people, has brought 
 together great store of expressions, on such subjects, from every quar- 
 ter. We are rich too in the language of poetry. Our poetical style 
 differs widely from prose, not in point of numbers only, but in the very- 
 words themselves ; which shows what a stock and compass of words we 
 have it in our power to select and employ, suited to those different occa- 
 sions. Herein we are infinitely superior to the French, whose poetical 
 language, if it were not distinguished by rhyme, would not be known to 
 differ from their ordinary prose. 
 
 It is chiefly, indeed, on grave subjects, and with respect to the strong- 
 er emotions of the mind, that our language displays its power of expres- 
 sion. We are said to have thirty words, at least, for denoting all the 
 varieties of the passion of anger.* But, in describing the more delicate 
 sentiments and emotions, our tongue is not so fertile. It must be con- 
 fessed, that the French language far surpasses ours, in expressing the 
 nicer shades of character ; especially those varieties of manner, temper> 
 and behaviour, which are displayed in our social intercourse with one 
 another. Let any one attempt to translate, into English, only a few pages 
 of one of Marivaux's novels, and he will soon be sensible of our defi- 
 ciency of expression on these subjects. Indeed, no language is so co- 
 pious as the French for whatever is delicate, gay, and amusing. It is y 
 perhaps, the happiest language for conversation in the known world ; but, 
 on the higher subjects of composition, the English may be justly esteemed 
 to excel it considerably. 
 
 * Anger, wrath, passion, rage,fury,outrage,fiereeness, sharpness, animosity, choler^ 
 resentment, heat, heart-burning ; to fume, storm, inflame, be incensed, to vex, kindle^ 
 irritate, enrage, exasperate, provoke, fret; to be sullen, hasty, hot, rough, sour, 
 n^evish, &c. Preface to Greenwood's Grammar, 
 
3S THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. [LECT. IX 
 
 Language is generally understood to receive its predominant tincture 
 from the national character of the people who speak it. We must not, 
 indeed, expect that it will carry an exact and full impression of their 
 genius and manners ; for, among all nations, the original stock of words 
 which they received from their ancestors, remain as the foundation of 
 their speech throughout many ages, while their manners undergo, perhaps, 
 very great alterations. National character will, however, always have 
 some perceptible influence on the turn of language : and the gayety and 
 vivacity of the French, and the gravity and thoughtfulness of the English^ 
 are sufficiently impressed on their respective tongues. 
 
 From the genius of our language, and the character of those who 
 speak it, it may be expected to have strength and energy. It is, indeed* 
 naturally prolix : owing to the great number of particles and auxiliary 
 verbs which we are obliged constantly to employ : and this prolixity 
 must, in some degree* enfeeble it. We seldom can express so tnuch by 
 one word as was done by the verbs, and by the nouns, in the Greek and 
 Roman languages, Our style is less compact ; our conceptions being 
 spread out among more words, and split, as it Were, into more parts, 
 make a fainter impression when we utter them. Notwithstanding this 
 defect, by our abounding in terms for expressing all the strong emotions 
 of the mind, and by the liberty which we enjoy, in a greater degree 
 than most nations, of compounding words, our language may be esteem- 
 ed to possess considerable force of expression ; comparatively at leasts 
 with the other modern tongues, though much below the ancient. The 
 style of Milton alone, both in poetry and prose, is a sufficient proof, that 
 the English tongue is far from being destitute of nerves and energy. 
 
 The flexibility of a language, or its power of accommodation to dif- 
 ferent styles and manners, so as to be either grave and strong, or easy 
 and flowing, or tender and gentle, or pompous and magnificent, as occa- 
 sions require", or as an author's genius prompts, is a quality of great 
 importance in speaking and writing. It seems to depend upon three 
 things; the copiousness of a language: the different arrangements of 
 which its words are susceptible ; and the variety and beauty of the sound 
 of those words, so as to correspond to many different subjects. Never 
 did any tongue possess this quality so eminently as the Greek, which 
 every writer of genius could so mould, as to make the style perfectly 
 expressive of his own manner and peculiar turn. It had all the three 
 requisites, which I have mentioned as necessary for this purpose. It 
 joined to these the graceful variety of its different dialects ; and thereby 
 readily assumed every sort of character which an author could wish, 
 from the most simple and most familiar, up to the most majestic. The 
 Latin, though a very beautiful language, is inferior, in this respect, to the 
 Greek. It has more of a fixed character of stateliness and gravity. It 
 is always firm and masculine in the tenourof its sound ; and is supported 
 by a certain senatorial dignity, of which it is difficult for a writer to divest 
 it wholly, on any occasion. Among the modern tongues, the Italian 
 possesses a great deal more of this flexibility than the French. By its 
 copiousness, its freedom of arrangement, and the, great beauty and har- 
 mony of its sounds, it suits itself very happily to most subjects either in 
 prose or in poetry ; is capable of the august and the strong, as well as 
 the tender ; and seems to be, on the whole, the most perfect of all the 
 modern dialects which have arisen out of the ruins of the ancient. Our 
 own language, though not equal to the Italian in flexibility, yet is not 
 
fcECT. L\. : THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. g$ 
 
 destitute of a considerable degree of this quality. If any one will con- 
 sider the diversity of style which appears in some of our classics, that 
 great difference of manner, for instance, which is marked by the style of 
 Lord Shaftesbury, and that of Dean Swift, he will see, in our tongue, such 
 a circle of expression, such a power of accommodation to the different 
 taste of writers, as redounds not a little to its honour. 
 
 What the English has been most taxed with, is its deficiency in har- 
 mony of sound. But though every native is apt to be partial to the 
 sounds of his own language, and may, therefore, be suspected of not 
 being a fair judge in this point; yet, I imagine, there are evident grounds 
 on which it may be shown, that this charge against our tongue has been 
 carried too far. The melody of our versification, its power of support- 
 ing poetical numbers, without any assistance from rhyme, is alone a 
 sufficient proof that our language is far from being unmusical. Our verse 
 is, after the Italian, the most diversified and harmonious of any of the 
 modern dialects; unquestionably far beyond the French verse, in variety, 
 sweetness, and melody. Mr. Sheridan has shown, in his lectures, that 
 we abound more in vowel and diphthong sounds, than most languages ; and 
 these too, so divided into long and short, as to afford a proper diversity 
 in the quantity of our syllables. Our consonants, he observes, which 
 appear so crowded to the eye on paper, often form combinations, not 
 disagreeable to the ear in pronouncing, and, in particular, the objection 
 which has been made to the frequent recurrence of the hissing conso- 
 nant s in our language, is unjust and ill-founded. For, it has not been 
 attended to, that very commonly, and in the final syllables especially, this 
 letter loses altogether the hissing sound, and is transformed into a z-, 
 which is one of the sounds on which the ear rests with pleasure ; as in 
 has, these, those, loves, hears, and innumerable more, where, though the 
 letter s be retained in writing, it has really the power of z, not of the 
 common s. 
 
 After all, however, it must be admitted, that smoothness, or beauty of 
 sound, is not one of the distinguishing properties of the English tongue. 
 Though not incapable of being formed into melodious arrangements, yet 
 strength and expressiveness, more than grace, form its character. We 
 incline, in general, to a short pronunciation of our words, and have 
 shortened the quantity of most of those, which we borrow from the 
 Latin, as orator, spectacle, theatre, liberty, and such like. Agreeable to 
 this, is a remarkable peculiarity of English pronunciation, the throwing 
 the accent farther back, that is, nearer the beginning of the word than is 
 done by any other nation. In Greek and Latin, no word is accented far T 
 ther back than the third syllable from the end, or what is called the ante- 
 penult. But, in English, we have many words accented on the fourth, 
 some on the fifth syllable from the end, as memorable, conveniency, ambu- 
 latory, profitableness. The general effect of this practice of hastening 
 the accent, or placing it so near the beginning of the word, is to give a 
 brisk and a spirited, but at the same time, a rapid and hurried, and not a 
 very musical, tone to the whole pronunciation of a people. 
 
 'The English tongue possesses, undoubtedly, this property, that it is the 
 most simple in its form and construction, of all the European dialects. It- 
 is free from all intricacy of cases, declensions, moods and tenses. T 
 words are subject to fewer variations from their original form than f 
 of any other language. Its substantives have no distinction of y 
 except what nature has made, find but one variation in case, V 
 
 M 
 
00 y THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. [LECT,E£, 
 
 lives admit of no change at all, except what expresses the degree of coh*= 
 parison. Its verbs, instead of running through all the varieties of ancient 
 conjugation, suffer no more than four or five changes in termination. By 
 the help of a few prepositions and auxiliary verbs, all the purposes of 
 significancy in meaning are accomplished ; while the words for the most 
 part preserve their form unchanged. The disadvantages in point of ele- 
 gance, brevity and force, which follow from this structure of our lan- 
 guage, I have before pointed out. But, at the same time, it must be ad- 
 mitted, that such a structure contributes to facility. It renders the acqui- 
 sition of our language less laborious, the arrangement of our words 
 more plain and obvious, the rules of our syntax fewer and more simple* 
 
 I agree, indeed, with Dr. Lowth, (Preface to his Grammar) in think- 
 ing that this very simplicity and facility of our language proves a cause of 
 its being frequently written and spoken with less accuracy. It was neces- 
 sary to study languages which were of a more complex and artificial form, 
 with greater care. The marks of gender and case, the varieties of con- 
 jugation and declension, the multiplied rules of syntax, were all to be 
 attended to in speech. Hence language became more an object of art. 
 Ft was reduced into form ; a standard was established ; and any depar- 
 tures from the standard became conspicuous. Whereas, among us, lan- 
 guage is hardly considered as an object of grammatical rule. We take it 
 for granted, that a competent skill in it may be acquired without any 
 study ; and that in a syntax so narrow and confined as ours, there is 
 nothing which demands attention. Hence arises the habit of writing in 
 a loose and inaccurate manner. 
 
 I admit that no grammatical rules have sufficient authority to control 
 the firm and established usage of language. Established custom in speak- 
 ing and writing, is the standard to which we must at last resort for deter- 
 mining every controverted point in language and style. But it will not 
 follow from this, that grammatical rules are superseded as useless. In 
 every language, which has been in any degree cultivated, there prevails 
 a certain structure and analogy of parts, which is understood to give foun- 
 dation to the most reputable usage of speech ; and which, in all cases, 
 when usage is loose or dubious, possesses considerable authority. In 
 every language, there are rules of syntax, which must be inviolably ob- 
 served by all who would either write or speak with any propriety. For 
 syntax is no other than that arrangement of words, in a sentence, which 
 renders the meaning of each word, and the relation of all the words to 
 one another, most clear and intelligible. 
 
 All the rules of Latin syntax, it is true, cannot be applied to our lan- 
 guage. Many of these rules arose from the particular form of their lan- 
 guage, which occasioned verbs or prepositions to govern, some the geni- 
 tive, some the dative, some the accusative or ablative case. But 
 abstracting from these peculiarities, it is to be always remembered, that 
 the chief and fundamental rules of syntax are common totheEnglish as well 
 as the Latin tongue; and indeed, belong equally to all languages. For, in 
 all languages, the parts which compose speech are essentially the same ; 
 substantives, adjectives, verbs, and connecting particles : and wherever 
 these parts of speech are found, there are certain necessary relations 
 among them which regulate their syntax, or the place which they ought 
 to possess in a sentence. Thus, in English, just as much as in Latin, the 
 adjective must, by position, be made to agree with its substantive ; and 
 the verb must agree with its nominative in person and number; because. 
 
LECT.X.] STYLE. %\ 
 
 from the nature of things, a word, which expresses either a quality or 
 an action, must correspond as closely as possible with the name of that 
 thing whose quality, or whose action it expresses. Two or more sub- 
 stantives, joined by a copulative, must always require the verbs or 
 pronouns, to which they refer, to be placed in the plural number ; other- 
 wise, their common relation to these verbs or pronouns is not pointed out. 
 An active verb must, in every language, govern the accusative ; that is, 
 clearly point out some substantive noun, as the object to which its action 
 is directed. A relative pronoun must, in every form of speech, agree 
 with its antecedent in gender, number and person ; and conjunctions, or 
 connecting particles, ought always to couple like cases and moods ; that 
 is, ought to join together words which are of the same form and state with 
 each other. f mention these, as a few exemplifications of that funda- 
 mental regard to syntax, which, even in such a language as ours, is abso- 
 lutely requisite for writing or speaking with any propriety. 
 
 Whatever the advantages or defects of the English language be, as it 
 is our own language, it deserves a high degree of our study and attention, 
 both with regard to the choice of words which we employ, and with re- 
 
 fard to the syntax, or the arrangement of these words in a sentence. 
 Ve know how much the Greeks and Romans, in their most polished and 
 flourishing times, cultivated their own tongues. We know how much 
 study both the French and the Italians have bestowed upon theirs. 
 Whatever knowledge may be acquired by the study of other languages, 
 it Can never be communicated with advantage, unless by such as can 
 write and speak their own language well. Let the matter of an author 
 be ever so good and useful, his compositions will always suffer in the pub- 
 lic esteem, if his expression be deficient in purity and propriety. At 
 the same time the attainment of a correct and elegant style, is an object 
 which demands application and labour. If any imagine they can catch it 
 merely by the ear, or acquire it by a slight perusal of some of our good 
 authors, they will find themselves much disappointed. The many errors, 
 even in point of grammar, the many offences against purity of language* 
 which are committed by writers who are far from being contemptible, 
 demonstrate, that a careful study of the language is previously requisite, 
 in all who aim at writing it properly.* 
 
 LECTURE X. 
 
 STYLE.— PERSPICUITY AND PRECISION. 
 
 Having finished the subject of language, I now enter on the considera- 
 tion of style, and the rules that relate to it. 
 
 * On this subject the reader ought to peruse Dr. Lowth's Short Introduction to 
 English Grammar, with Critical Notes; which is the grammatical performance of 
 highest authority that has appeared in our time, and in which he will see, what I 
 have said, concerning the inaccuracies in language of some of our best writers, ful- 
 ly verified. In Dr. Campbell's Philosophy of Rhetoric, he will likewise find many 
 acute and ingenious observations, both on the English language, and on style in 
 general. And Dr. Priestly's Rudiments of English Grammar will also be useful, 
 toy pointing out several of the errors into which writers are apt to fall. 
 
9 1 PERSPICUITY IL~£CT. X 
 
 It is not easy to give a precise idea of what is meant by style. The 
 best definition I can give of it, is, the peculiar manner in which a man ex- 
 presses his conceptions, by means of language. It is different from mere 
 language, or words. The words which an author employs, may be pro- 
 per and faultless ; and his style may, nevertheless, have great faults : it 
 may be dry, or stiff, or feeble, or affected. Style has always some refer- 
 ence to an author's manner of thinking. It is a picture of the ideas 
 which arise in his mind, and of the manner in which they rise there ; 
 and hence, when we are examining an author's composition, it is, in 
 many cases, extremely difficult to separate the style from the sentiment. 
 No wonder these two should be so intimately connected, as style is no- 
 thing else than that sort of expression which our thoughts most readily 
 assume. Hence, different countries have been noted for peculiarities of 
 style, suited to their different temper and genius. The eastern nations 
 animated their style with the most strong and hyperbolical figures. The 
 Athenians, a polished and acute people, formed a style accurate, clear, 
 and neat. The Asiatics, gay and loose in their manners, affected a style 
 florid and diffuse. The like sort of characteristical differences are com- 
 monly remarked in the style of the French, the English, and the Span- 
 iards. In giving the general characters of style, it is usual to talk of a 
 nervous, a feeble, or a spirited style ; which are plainly the characters of 
 a writer's manner of thinking, as well as of expressing himself: so diffi- 
 cult it is to separate these two things from one another. Of the genera! 
 characters of style, I am afterward to discourse ; but it will be necessary 
 to begin with examining the more simple qualities of it ; from the as- 
 semblage of which, its more complex denominations, in a great measure, 
 result. 
 
 All the qualities of a good style may be ranged under two heads, per- 
 spicuity and ornament. For all that can possibly be required of language, 
 is, to convey our ideas clearly to the minds of others, and, at the same 
 time in such a dress, as by pleasing and interesting them, shall most effec- 
 tually strengthen the impressions which we seek to make. When both 
 these ends are answered, we certainly accomplish every purpose for 
 which we use writing and discourse. 
 
 Perspicuity, it will be readily admitted, is the fundamental quality of 
 style j* a quality so essential in every kind of writing, that, for the want 
 of it, nothing can atone. Without this, the richest ornaments of style 
 only glimmer through the dark ; and puzzle, instead of pleasing the 
 reader. This, therefore, must be our first object, to make our meaning 
 clearly and fully understood, and understood without the least difficulty. 
 G Oratio,' says Quiniilian, * debet negligenter quoque audientibus esse 
 aperta ; ut in animum audientis, sicut sol in oculos, etiamsi in eum non 
 intendatur, occurrat. Quare, non solum ut intelligere possit, sed ne om- 
 nino possit non intelligere curandum.'t If we are obliged to follow a 
 writer with much care, to pause, and to read over his sentences a second 
 time in order to comprehend them fully, he will never please us long. 
 Mankind are too indolent to relish so much labour. They may pretend 
 
 * "Nobis prima sit virtus, perspicuitas propria verba, rectus ordo, non in longum 
 dilata conclusio ; nihil neque desit,neque superfluat," 
 
 Quintix. lib. viii. 
 
 f '* Discourse ought always to be obvious, even to the most careless and negligent 
 hearer : so that the sense shall strike his mind, as the light of the sun does our eyes, 
 though they are not directed upwards to it. We must study not only that every hear- 
 tr may understand us, but that it shall be impossible for him not to understand irs." 
 
LECT. X.] PERSPICUITY, 93 
 
 to admire the author's depth, after they have discovered his meaning ; 
 but they will seldom be inclined to take up his work a second time. 
 
 Authors sometimes plead the difficulty of their subject, as an excuse 
 for the want of perspicuity. But this excuse can rarely, if ever, be admit- 
 ted. For whatever a man conceives clearly, that it is in his power, if 
 he will be at the trouble, to put into distinct propositions, or to express 
 clearly to others ; and upon no subject ought any man to write, where he 
 cannot think clearly. His ideas, indeed, may, very excusably, be on some 
 subjects incomplete or inadequate ; but still, as far as they go, they 
 ought to be clear ; and wherever this is the case, perspicuity, in ex- 
 pressing them, is always attainable. The obscurity which reigns so 
 much among many metaphysical writers, is, for the most part, owing to 
 the indistinctness of their own conceptions. They see the object but in 
 a confused light ; and, of course, can never exhibit it in a clear one to 
 others. 
 
 Perspicuity in writing is not to be considered as only a sort of negative 
 virtue, or freedom from defect. It has higher merit : It is a degree of 
 positive beauty. We are pleased with an author, we consider him as 
 deserving praise, who frees us from all fatigue of searching for his mean- 
 ing ; who carries us through his subject without any embarrassment or 
 confusion ; whose style flows always like a limpid stream, where we see 
 to the very bottom. 
 
 The study of perspicuity requires attention, first, to single words and 
 phrases, and then to the construction of sentences. I begin with treat- 
 ing of the first, and shall confine myself to it in this lecture. 
 
 Perspicuity, considered with respect to words and phrases, requires 
 these three qualities in them, purity, propriety, and precision. 
 
 Purity and propriety of language, are often used indiscriminately for 
 each other ; and, indeed, they are very nearly allied. A distinction, 
 however, obtains between them. Purity is the use of such words, and 
 such constructions, as belong to the idiom of the language which we 
 speak ; in opposition to words and phrases that are imported from other 
 languages, or that are obsolete, or new coined, or used without proper 
 authority. Propriety, is the selection of such words in the language, as 
 the best and most established usage has appropriated to those ideas which 
 we intend to express by them. It implies the correct and happy appli« 
 cation of them, according to that usage, in opposition to vulgarisms or 
 low expressions ; and to words and phrases, which would be less signi- 
 ficant of the ideas that we mean to convey. Style may be pure, that is, 
 it may all be strictly English, without Scoticisms or Gallicisms, or un- 
 grammatical irregular expressions of any kind, and may, nevertheless, 
 be deficient in propriety. The words may be ill chosen ; not adapted 
 to the subject, nor fully expressive of the author's sense. He has taken 
 all his words and phrases from the general mass of English language ; 
 but he has made his selection among these words unhappily. Whereas, 
 style cannot be proper without being also pure 3, and where both purity 
 and propriety meet, besides making style perspicuous, they also render 
 it graceful. There is no standard, either of purity or of propriety, but 
 the practice of the best writers and speakers in the country. 
 
 When I mentioned obsolete or new-coined words, as incongruous with 
 purity of style, it will be easily understood, that some exceptions are to 
 be made. On certain occasions, they may have grace. Poetry admits of 
 greater latitude than prose, with respect to coining, or, at least, new 
 
94 PRECISION IN STYLE. 
 
 compounding words ; yet, even here, this liberty should be used with a 
 sparing hand. In prose, such innovations are more hazardous, and have 
 a worse effect. They are apt to give style an affected and conceited 
 air ; and should never be ventured upon, except by such, whose esta- 
 blished reputation gives them some degree of dictatorial power over lan- 
 guage. 
 
 The introduction of foreign and learned words, unless where necessity 
 requires them, should always be avoided. Barren languages may need 
 such assistances : but ours is not one of these. Dean Swift, one of our 
 most correct writers, valued himself much on using no words but such 
 as were of native growth ; and his language may, indeed, be considered 
 as a standard of the strictest purity and propriety, in the choice of words. 
 At present, we seem to be departing from this standard. A multitude of 
 Latin words have, of late been, poured in upon us. On some occasions, 
 they give an appearance of elevation and dignity to style. But often, 
 also, they render it stiff and forced : and, in general, a plain, native 
 style, as it is more intelligible to all readers, so, by a proper manage- 
 ment of words, it may be made equally strong and expressive with this 
 Latinised English. 
 
 Let us now consider the import of precision in language, which, as it 
 is the highest part of the quality denoted by perspicuity, merits a full ex- 
 plication ; and the more, because distinct ideas are, perhaps, not com- 
 monly formed about it. 
 
 The exact import of precision, may be drawn from the etymology of 
 the word. It comes frome ' praecidere,' to cut off : it imports retrench- 
 ing all superfluities, and pruning the expression, so as to exhibit neither 
 more nor less than an exact copy of his idea who uses it. I observed 
 before, that it is often difficult to separate the qualities of style from the 
 qualities of thought ; and it is found so in this instance. For, in order 
 to write with precision, though this be properly a quality of style, one 
 must possess a very considerable degree of distinctness and accuracy in 
 his manner of thinking. 
 
 The words which a man uses to express his ideas, may be faulty in 
 three respects : they may either not express that idea which the author 
 intends, but some other which only resembles, or is a-kin to it ; or, they 
 may express that idea, but not quite fully and completely ; or, they may- 
 express it, together with something more than he intends. Precision 
 stands opposed to all these three faults ; but chiefly to the last. In an 
 author's writing with propriety, his being free of the two former faults 
 seems implied. The words which he uses are proper ; that is, they ex- 
 press that idea which he intends, and they express it fully j but to be 
 precise, signifies, that they express that idea, and no more. There is 
 nothing in his words which introduces any foreign idea, any superfluous 
 unseasonable accessary, so as to mix it confusedly with the principal ob- 
 ject, and thereby to render our conception of that object loose and indis- 
 tinct. This requires a writer to have, himself, a very clear apprehension 
 of the object he means to present to us ; to have laid fast hold of it in his 
 mind ; and never to waver in any one view he takes of it ; a perfection, 
 indeed, to which few writers attain. 
 
 The use and importance of precision, may be deduced from the nature 
 of the human mind. It never can view, clearly and distinctly, above 
 one object at a time. If it must look at two or three together, especially 
 objects among which there is resemblance or connexion, it finds itself 
 
L«ECT. X ? j PRECISION IN STYLE, 95 
 
 confused and embarrassed. It cannot clearly perceive in what they 
 agree, and in what they differ. Thus, were any object, suppose some 
 animal, to be presented to me, of whose structure I wanted to form a dis- 
 tinct notion, I would desire all its trappings to be taken off, I would re- 
 quire it to be brought before me by itself, and to stand alone, that there 
 might be nothing to distract my attention. The same is the case with 
 words. If, when you would inform me of your meaning, you also tell 
 me more than what conveys it ; if you join foreign circumstances to the 
 principal object ; if by unnecessarily varying the expression, you shift 
 the point of view, and make me see sometimes the object itself, and 
 sometimes another thing that is connected with it ; you thereby oblige 
 me to look on several objects at once, and I lose sight of the principal. 
 You load the animal you are showing me, with so many trappings and 
 collars, and bring so many of the same species before me, somewhat re- 
 sembling, and yet somewhat differing, that I see none of them clearly. 
 
 This forms what is called a loose style ; and is the proper opposite 
 to precision. It generally arises from using a superfluity of words. 
 Feeble writers employ a multitude of words to make themselves under- 
 stood, as they think, more distinctly ; and they only confound the reader. 
 They are sensible of not having caught the precise expression, to con- 
 vey what they would signify ; they do not, indeed, conceive their own 
 meaning very precisely themselves ; and therefore help it out, as they 
 can, by this and the other word, which may, as they suppose, supply 
 the defect, and bring you somewhat nearer to their idea : they are al- 
 ways going about it, and about it, but never just hit the thing. The 
 image, as they set it before you, is always seen double ; and no double 
 image is distinct. When an author tells me of his hero's courage in the 
 day of battle, the expression is precise, and 1 understand it fully. But 
 if, from the desire of multiplying words, he will needs praise his cou- 
 rage and fortitude ; at the moment he joins these words together, my 
 idea begins to waver. He means to express one quality more strongly ; 
 but he is, in truth, expressing two. Courage resists danger ; fortitude 
 supports pain. The occasion of exerting each of these qualities is dif- 
 ferent ; and being led to think of both together, when only one of thena 
 should be in my view, my view is rendered unsteady, and my conception 
 of the objects indistinct. 
 
 From what I have said, it appears that an author may, in a qualified 
 sense, be perspicuous, while yet he is far from being precise. He uses 
 proper words, and proper arrangement ; he gives you the idea as clear 
 as he conceives it himself; and so far he is perspicuous ; but the ideas 
 are not very clear in his own mind ; they are loose and general ; and, 
 therefore, cannot be expressed with precision. All subjects do not 
 equally require precision. It is sufficient, on many occasions, that we 
 have a general view of the meaning. The subject, perhaps, is of the 
 known and familiar kind ; and we are in no hazard of mistaking the 
 sense of the author, though every word which he uses be not precise 
 and exact. 
 
 Few authors, for instance, in the English language, are more clear and 
 perspicuous, on the whole, than Atchuishop Tdlotson, and Sir William 
 Temple ; yet neither of them are remarkable for precision. They are 
 loose and diffuse ; and accustomed to express their meaning by several 
 words, which show you fully whereabouts it lies, rather than to single 
 out those expressions, which would convey clearly the idea which they 
 
f»6 PRECISION m STYLE. [LECT. X, 
 
 have in view, and no more. Neither, indeed, is precision the prevail- 
 ing character of Mr* Addison's style ; although he is not so deficient in 
 this respect as the other two authors. 
 
 Lord Shaftesbury's faults, in point of precision, are much greater 
 than Mr. Addison's ; and the more unpardonable, because he is a pro- 
 fessed philosophical writer : who, as such, ought, above all things, to 
 have studied precision. His style has both great beauties and great 
 faults ; and on the whole, is by no means a safe model for imitation. 
 Lord Shaftesbury was well acquainted with the power of words ; those 
 which he employs are generally proper and well sounding ; he has 
 great variety of them; and his arrangement, as shall be afterward 
 shown, is commonly beautiful. His defect, in precision, is not owing so 
 much to indistinct or confused ideas, as to perpetual affectation. He is 
 fond, to excess, of the pomp and parade of language ; he is never 
 satisfied with expressing any thing clearly and simple ; he must always 
 give it the dress of state and majesty. Hence perpetual circumlocutions, 
 and many words and phrases employed to describe somewhat, that would 
 have been described much better by one of them. If he has occasion 
 to mention any person or author, he very rarely mentions him by his 
 proper name. In the treatise, entitled, Advice to an Author, he des- 
 cants for two or three pages together upon Aristotle, without once 
 naming him in any other way, than, the master critic, the mighty genius, 
 and judge of art, the prince of critics, the grand master of art, and con- 
 summate philologist. In the same way, the grand poetic sire, the phi- 
 losophical patriarch, and his disciple of noble birth and lofty genius, are 
 the only names by which he condescends to distinguish Homer, Socrates, 
 and Plato, in another passage of the same treatise. This method of 
 distinguishing persons is extremely affected ; but it is not so contrary 
 to precision, as the frequent circumlocutions he employs for all moral 
 ideas ; attentive, on every occasion, more to the pomp of language, than 
 to the clearness which he ought to have studied as a philosopher. The 
 moral sense, for instance, after he had once defined it, was a clear term; 
 but, how vague becomes the idea, when in the next page he calls it, 
 * That natural ^ffection, and anticipating fancy, which makes the sense 
 of right and wrong ?' Self-examination, or reflection on our own con- 
 duct, is an idea conceived with ease ; but when it is wrought into all 
 the forms of ' A man's dividing himself into two parties, becoming a 
 self-dialogist, enteriag into partnership with himself, forming the dual 
 number practically within himself; 7 we hardly know what to make of it. 
 On some occasions, he so adorns, or rather loads with words, the plain- 
 est and simplest propositions, as, if not to obscure, at least, to enfeeble 
 them. 
 
 In the following paragraph, for example, of the inquiry concerning 
 virtue, he means to show, that, by every ill action we hurt our mind, as 
 much as one who should swallow poison, or give himself a wound, would 
 hurt his body. Observe what a redundancy of words he pours forth : 
 s Now if the fabric of the mind or temper appeared to us such as it really 
 is ; if we saw it impossible to remove hence any one good or orderly 
 affection, or to introduce any ill or disorderly one, without drawing on, 
 in some degree, that dissolute state which, at its height, is confessed to be 
 so miserable ; it would then, undoubtedly, be confessed, that since no ill, 
 immoral, or unjust action, can be committed, without either a new inroad 
 ^ind breach on the temper and passions, or a further advancing of tha f 
 
LECT. X] PRECISION IN STYLE- §$ 
 
 execution already done : whdever did ill, or acted in prejudice to his 
 integrity, good-nature, or worth, would, of necessity, act with greater 
 cruelly towards himself, than he who scrupled not to swallow what was 
 poisonous, or who, with his own hands, should voluntarily mangle or 
 wound his outward form or constitution, natural limbs or body.'* Here 9 
 to commit a bad action, is, first, ' To remove a good and orderly affection, 
 and to introduce an ill or disorderly one ;' next, it is, ' To commit an 
 action that is ill, immoral, and unjust ;* and in the next line, it is, * To 
 do ill, or to act in prejudice of integrity, good-nature, and worth ;' nay, 
 so very simple a thing as a man's wounding himself, is, ' To mangle, or 
 wound, his outward form or constitution, his natural limbs or body." 
 Such superfluity of words is disgustful to every reader of correct taste ; 
 and serves no purpose but to embarrass and perplex the sense. This 
 sort of style is elegantly described by Q,uintilian, « Est in quibusdam tur- 
 ba inanium verborem, qui dum communemloquendi morem reformidant, 
 ducti specie nitoris, circumeunt omnia copiosa loquacilate quae dicere 
 volunt.'t Lib. vii. cap. 2. 
 
 The great source of a loose style, in opposition to precision, is the 
 injudicious use of those words termed synonymous. They are called 
 synonymous, because they agree in expressing one principal idea ; but, 
 for the most part, if, not always, they express it with some diversity in 
 the circumstances. They are varied by some accessary idea which 
 every word introduces, and which forms the distinction between them. 
 Hardly, in any language, are there two words that convey precisely the 
 same idea •; a person thoroughly conversant in the propriety of the lan- 
 guage, will always be able to observe something that distinguishes them. 
 As they are like different shades of the same colour, an accurate writer 
 can employ them to great advantage, by using them, so as to heighten and 
 to finish the picture which he gives us. He supplies by one, what was 
 wanting in the other, to the force, or to the lustre of the image which 
 he means to exhibit. But, in order to this end, he must be extremely- 
 attentive to the choice which he makes of them. For the bulk of writers 
 are very apt to confound them with each other ; and to employ them 
 carelessly, merely for the sake of filling up a period, or of rounding and 
 diversifying the language, as if their signification were exactly the same, 
 while, in truth, it is not. Hence a certain mist and indistinctness is un- 
 warily thrown over style. 
 
 In the Latin language, there are no two words we should more readily 
 take to be synonymous, than amare and diligere. Cicero, however, has 
 shown us, that there is a very clear distinction betwixt them. •' Quid 
 ergo," says he, in one of his epistles, " tibi commendem eum quern tu ipse 
 diligis ? Sed tamen ut scires eum non a me diligi solum, verum etiam 
 amari, ob earn rem tibi haec scribo."J In the same manner tutus and 
 securus, are words which we should readily confound ; yet their meaning 
 is different. Tutus, signifies out of danger ; securus, free from the 
 dread of it. Seneca has elegantly marked this distinction : " Tuta 
 scelera esse possunt, secura non possunt.'\) In our own language, very 
 
 Characterist. Vol. ii. p. $5. 
 
 v " A crowd of unmeaning words is brought together by some authors, who, afraid 
 of expressing themselves after a common and ordinary manner, and allured by an 
 appearance of splendour surround every thing which they mean to say with a certain 
 copious loquacity/* 
 
 i Ad.FarnU, !, 13. Ep. 47, . § Epis, 97. 
 
£$ PRECISION IN STYLE. [1LECT.S. 
 
 many instances might be given of a difference in meaning among words 
 reputed synonymous ; and, as the subject is of importance, I shall now 
 point out some of these. The instances which I am to give, may them- 
 selves be of use ; and they will serve to show the necessity of attending, 
 with care and strictness, to the exact import of words, if ever we would 
 write with propriety or precision. 
 
 Austerity, severity, rigour. Austerity, relates to the manner of living; 
 severity^ of thinking ; rigour^ of punishing. To austerity, is opposed 
 effeminacy ; to severity, relaxation ; to rigour, clemency. A hermit, 
 is austere in his life ; a casuist, severe in his application of religion or 
 law; a judge, rigorous in his sentences. 
 
 Custom, habit. Custom, respects the action; habit, the actor. By 
 custom, we mean the frequent repetition of the same act ; by habit, the 
 effect which that repetition produces on the mind or body. By the 
 custom of walking often in the streets, one acquires a habit of idleness. 
 
 Surprised, astonished, amazed, confounded. I am surprised, with what 
 is new or unexpected ; I am astonished, at what is vast or great ; I am 
 amazed, with what is incomprehensible ; I am confounded, by what is 
 shocking-or terrible. 
 
 Desist, renounce, quit, leave off. Each of these words implies some pur- 
 suit or object relinquished ; but from different motives. We desist, from 
 the difficulty of accomplishing. We renounce, on account of the disa- 
 greeableness of the object, or pursuit. We quit, for the sake of some 
 other thing which interests us more ; and we leave off because we are 
 weary of the design. A politician desists from his designs, when he 
 finds they are impracticable; he renounces the court, because he has been 
 affronted by it ; he quits ambition for study or retirement ; and leaves off 
 his attendance on the great, as he becomes old and weary of it. 
 
 Pride, vanity. Pride, makes us esteem ourselves ; vanity, makes us 
 desire the esteem of others. It is just to say, as Dean Swift has done, 
 that a man is too proud to be vain. 
 
 Haughtiness, disdain. Haughtiness, is founded on the high opinion we 
 entertain of ourselves ; disdain, on the low opinion we have of others. 
 
 To distinguish, to separate. We distinguish, what we want not to con- 
 found with another thing ; we separate, what we want to remove from it. 
 Objects are distinguished from one another, by their qualities. They are 
 separated, by the distance of time or place. 
 
 To weary, to fatigue. The continuance of the same thing wearies us ; 
 labour fatigues us. I am weary with standing; I am fatigued with walk- 
 ing. A suiter wearies us by his perseverance : fatigues us by his impor- 
 tunity. 
 
 To abhor, to detest. To abhor, imports, simply, strong dislike ; to de- 
 test, imports also strong disapprobation. One abhors being in debt ; he 
 detests treachery. 
 
 To invent, to discover. We invent things that are new ; we discover 
 what was before hidden. Galileo invented the telescope ; Harvey dis- 
 covered the circulation of the blood. 
 
 Only, alone. Only, imports that there is no other of the same kind ; 
 alone, imports being accompanied by no other. An only child, is one who 
 has neither brother nor sister ; a child alone, is one who is left by itself 
 There is a difference, therefore, in precise language betwixt these two 
 phrases, ' virtue only makes us happy;' and, ' virtue alone makes us 
 happy.' Virtue only makes us happy, imports, that nothing else can do 
 
LECT. X.J DECISION IN STYLE. Q$ 
 
 it. Virtue alone makes us happy, imports, that virtue, by itself, or un- 
 accompanied with other advantages, is sufficient to do it. 
 
 Entire, complete. A thing is entire, by wanting none ofits parts ; com^ 
 plete, by wanting none of the appendages that belong to it. A man may 
 have an entire house to himself; and yet not have one complete apart- 
 ment. 
 
 Tranquillity, peace, calm. Tranquillity, respects a situation free from 
 trouble, considered in itself ; peace, the same situation with respect to 
 any causes that might interrupt it ; calm, with regard to a disturbed situ- 
 ation going before, or following it. A good man enjoys tranquillity in 
 himself; peace, with others ; and calm, after the storm. 
 
 A difficulty, an obstacle. A difficulty, embarrasses ; an obstacle, stops 
 us. We remove the one ; we surmount the other. Generally, the first 
 expresses somewhat arising from the nature and circumstances of the af- 
 fair ; the second, somewhat arising from a foreign cause. Philip found 
 difficulty in managing the Athenians from the nature of their dispositions ; 
 but the eloquence of Demosthenes was the greatest obstacle to his de- 
 signs. 
 
 Wisdom, prudence. Wisdom, leads us to speak and act what is most 
 proper. Prudence, prevents our speaking or acting improperly. A wise 
 man employs the most proper means for success ; a prudent man, the 
 safest means for not being brought into danger. 
 
 Enough, sufficient. Enough, relates to the quantity which one wishes 
 to have of any thing. Sufficient, relates to the use that is to be made of 
 it. Hence, enough, generally imports a greater quantity than sufficient 
 does. The covetous man never has enough ; although he has what is 
 sufficient for nature. 
 
 To avow, to acknowledge, to confess. Each of these words imports the 
 affirmation of a fact, but in very different circumstances. To avow, sup- 
 poses the person to glory in it ; to acknowledge, supposes a small degree 
 of faultiness, which the acknowledgment compensates ; to confess, sup- 
 poses a higher degree of crime. A patriot avows his opposition to a bad 
 minister, and is applauded ; a gentleman acknowledges his mistake, and 
 is forgiven ; a prisoner confesses the crime he is accused of, and is pun- 
 ished. 
 
 To remark, to observe. We remark in the way of attention, in order 
 to remember ; we observe, in the way of examination, in order to judge. 
 A traveller remarks the most striking objects he sees : a general observes 
 all the motions of his enemy. 
 
 Equivocal, ambiguous. An equivocal expression, is one which has one 
 sense open, and designed to be understood ; another sense concealed and 
 understood only by the person who uses it. An ambiguous expression is 
 one which has apparently two senses, and leaves us at a loss which of 
 them to give it. An equivocal expression is used with an intention to de- 
 ceive ; an ambiguous one, when it is used with design, is, with an inten- 
 tion not to give full information. An honest man will never employ an 
 equivocal expression ; a confused man may often utter ambiguous ones, 
 without any design. I shall only give one instance more. 
 
 With, by. Both these particles express the connexion between some 
 instrument, or means of effecting an end, and the agent who employs it ; 
 but with, expresses a more close and immediate connexion ; by, a more 
 remote one. We kill a man with a sword ; he dies by violence. The 
 criminal is bound with ropes by the executioner. The proper distinction 
 
^00 PRECISION IN STYLE. [LECT. X 
 
 in the use of these particles, is elegantly marked in a passage of Dr. Ro- 
 bertson's History of Scotland. When one of the old Scottish kings was 
 making an inquiry into the tenure by which his nobles held their lands, 
 they started up, and drew their swords ; " By these," said they, u we ac- 
 quired our lands, and with these we will defend them." " By these we ac- 
 quired ourland ;" signifies the more remote means of acquisition by force 
 and martial deeds ; and, " with these we will defend them ;" signifies the 
 immediate direct instrument, the sword which they would employ in 
 their defence. 
 
 These are instances of words, in our language, which, by careless wri- 
 ters, are apt to be employed as perfectly synonymous, and yet are not so. 
 Their significations approach, but are not precisely the same. The more 
 the distinction in the meaning of such words is weighed and attended to, 
 the more clearly and forcibly shall we speak or write.* 
 
 From all that has been said on this head, it will now appear,that, in or- 
 der to write or speak with precision, two things are especially requisite : 
 one that an author's own ideas be clear and distinct ; and the other, that 
 we have an exact and full comprehension of the force of those words 
 which he employs. Natural genius is here required ; labour and atten- 
 tion still more. Dean Swift is one of the authors, in our language, most 
 distinguished for precision of style. In his writings, we seldom or never 
 iind vague expressions, and synonymous words carelessly thrown toge- 
 ther. His meaning is always clear and strongly marked. 
 
 I had occasion to observe before, that though all subjects of writing or 
 discourse demand perspicuity, yet all do not require the same degree of 
 that exact precision which I have endeavoured to explain. It is, indeed, 
 in every sort of writing, a great beauty to have, at least, some measure of 
 precision, in distinction from that loose profusion of words which imprints 
 no clear idea on the reader's mind. But we must, at the same time, be 
 on our guard, lest too great a study of precision, especially in subjects 
 where it is not strictly requisite, betray us into a dry and barren style ; 
 lest, from the desire of pruning too closely, we retrench all copiousness 
 and ornament. Some degree of this failing may, perhaps, be remarked 
 in Dean Swift's serious works. Attentive only to exhibit his ideas clear 
 and exact, resting wholly on his sense and distinctness, he appears to re- 
 ject, disdainfully, all embellishment, which, on some occasions, may be 
 thought to render his manner somewhat hard and dry. To unite copious- 
 ness and precision, to be flowing and graceful, and at the same time cor- 
 rect and exact in the choice of every word, is, no doubt, one of the highest 
 and most difficult attainments in writing. Some kinds of composition may 
 require more of copiousness and ornament ; others, more of precision 
 and accuracy ; nay, in the same composition, the different parts of it may 
 demand a proper variation of manner. But we must study never to 
 
 * In French there is a very useful treatise on this subject, the Abbe Girard's Syno- 
 n'gmes Frangoises, in which he has made a large collection of such apparent syno- 
 nymes in the language, and shown, with accuracy, the difference in their significa- 
 tion. It is much to be wished, that some such work were undertaken for our tongue., 
 and executed with equal taste and judgment. Nothing would contribute more to 
 precise and elegant writing. In the mean time, this French Treatise may be per- 
 used with considerable profit. It will accustom persons to weigh, with attention, 
 the force of words ; and will suggest several distinctions betwixt synonymous terms 
 in our own language, analogous to those which he has pointed out in the French ; 
 and, accordingly, several of the instances above given, were suggested by the 
 work of this author. 
 
LECT.XI.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 101 
 
 sacrifice, totally, any one of these qualities to the other ; and by a pro- 
 per management, both of them may be made fully consistent, if our own 
 ideas be precise, and our knowledge and stock of words be, at the same 
 time, extensive. 
 
 LECTURE XL 
 
 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 
 
 Having begun to treat of style in the last lecture, I considered its fun- 
 damental quality, perspicuity. What I have said of this, relates chiefly 
 to the choice of words. Trom words I proceed to sentences ; and as, in 
 all writing and discourse, the proper composition and structure of senten- 
 ces is of the highest importance, I shall treat of this fully. Though 
 perspicuity be the general head under which I, at present, consider lan- 
 guage, I shall not confine myself to this quality alone, in sentences, but 
 shall inquire also, what is requisite for their grace and beauty : that I 
 may bring together, under one view, all that seems necessary to be at- 
 tended to in the construction and arrangement of words in a sentence. 
 
 It is not easy to give an exact definition of a sentence, or period, farther, 
 than as it always implies some one complete proposition or enunciation of 
 thought. Aristotle's definition is, in the main, a good one : " Aej>is e%v<r» 
 £tg%qv kui reXevrw ku$ osyrajv, kui peye8os evrvvoirrov : A form of speech which 
 hath a beginning and an end within itself, and is of such a length as to be 
 easily comprehended at once." This, however, admits of great latitude. 
 For a sentence, or period, consists always of component parts, which are 
 called its members ; and as these members may be either few or many, 
 and may be connected in several different ways, the same thought, or men- 
 tal proposition, may often be either brought into one sentence, or split 
 into two or three, without the material breach of any rule. 
 
 The first variety that occurs in the consideration of sentences, is the 
 distinction of long and short ones. The precise length of sentences, as 
 to the number of words, or the number of members, which may enter into 
 them, cannot be ascertained by any definite measure. Only, it is ob- 
 vious, there may be an extreme on either side. Sentences, immoderate- 
 ly long, and consisting of too many members, always transgress some one 
 or other of the rules which I shall mention soon, as necessary to be ob- 
 served in every good sentence. In discourses that are to be spoken, re- 
 gard must be had to the easiness of pronunciation, which is not consistent 
 with too long periods. In compositions where pronunciation has no place, 
 still, however, by using long periods too frequently, an author overloads 
 the reader's ear, and fatigues his attention. For long periods require, 
 evidently, more attention than short ones, in order to perceive clearly 
 the connexion of the several parts, and to take in the whole at one view. 
 At the same time, there may be an excess in too many short sentences 
 also ; by which the sense is split and broken, the connexion of thought 
 weakened, and the memory burdened,, by presenting to it a long succes« 
 sion of minute objects. 
 With regard to the length and construction of sentences, the French 
 
103 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT.Xf, 
 
 eritics'make a very just distinction of style, into style periodique, and style- 
 coupe. The style periodique is, where the sentences are composed of se- 
 veral members linked together, and hanging upon one another; so that the 
 sense of the whole is not brought out till the close. This is the most 
 pompous, musical, and oratorical manner of composing ; as in the fol- 
 lowing sentence of Sir William Temple; " If you look about you, and 
 consider the lives of others as well as your own ; if you think how few 
 are born with honour, and how many die without name or children ; 
 how little beauty we see, and how few friends we hear of; how many 
 diseases, and how much poverty there is in the world ; you will fall down 
 upon your knees, and, instead of repining at one affliction, will admire 
 so many blessings which you have received from the hand of God." 
 (Letter to Lady Essex.) Cicero abounds with sentences constructed afc 
 ter this manner. 
 
 The style coupe is, where the sense is formed into short independent 
 propositions, each complete within itself; as in the following of Mr. 
 Pope : " I confess it was want of consideration that made me an author. 
 I writ, because it amused me. I corrected, because it was as pleasant to 
 me to correct as to write. I published, because, I was told, I might 
 please such as it was a credit to please." (Preface to his works.) This 
 is very much the French method of writing ; and always suits gay and 
 easy subjects. The style periodique, gives an air of gravity and dignity 
 to composition. The style coupe, is more lively and striking. According 
 to the nature of the composition, therefore, and the general character it 
 ought to bear, the one or other may be predominant But, in almost 
 every kind of composition, the great rule is to intermix them. For the 
 ear tires of either of them when too long continued ; whereas, by a 
 proper mixture of long and short periods, the ear is gratified, and a cer- 
 tain sprightliness is joined with majesty in our style. " Non semper," 
 says Cicero (describing very expressively, these two different kinds of 
 styles, of which I have been speaking) " non semper utendum est per- 
 petuitate, et quasi conversion© veiborum ; sed saepe carpenda membris 
 minutioribus oratio est' 7 * 
 
 This variety is of so great consequence, that it must be studied, not 
 only in the succession of long and short sentences, but in the structure of 
 our sentences also. A train of sentences, constructed in the same man- 
 ner, and with the same number of members, whether long or short, 
 should never be allowed to succeed one another. However musical 
 each of them may be, it has a better effect to introduce even a discord, 
 than to cloy the ear with the repetition of similar sounds : for, nothing is 
 so tiresome as perpetual uniformity. In this article of the construction 
 and distribution of his sentences, Lord Shaftesbury has shown great art. 
 In the last lecture 1 observed that he is often guilty of sacrificing pre- 
 cision of style to pomp of expression ; and that there runs through his 
 whole manner a stiffness and affectation, which render him very unfit 
 to be considered as a general model. But as his ear was fine, and as he 
 was extremely attentive to every thing that is elegant, he has studied the 
 proper intermixture of long and short sentences, with variety and har- 
 mony in their structure, more than any other English author ; and for 
 this part of composition he deserves attention. 
 
 * " It is not proper always to employ a continual train, and a sort of regular com- 
 pass of phraises ; but style ought to be often brokeu down into smaller numbers." 
 
fcECT. XI.j STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. fQg 
 
 Prom these general observations, let us now descend to a more par- 
 ticular consideration of the qualities that are required to make a sentence 
 perfect. So much depends upon the proper construction of sentences,, 
 that, in every sort of composition, we cannot be too strict in our attention 
 to it. For, be the subject what it will, if the sentences be constructed in 
 a clumsy, perplexed, or feeble manner, it is impossible that a work, com* 
 posed of such sentences, can be read with pleasure, or even with profit. 
 Whereas, by giving attention to the rules which relate to this part of style* 
 we acquire the habit of expressing ourselves with perspicuity and ele- 
 gance ; and, if a disorder chance to arise in some of our sentences, we 
 immediately see where it lies and are able to rectify it.* 
 
 The properties most essential to a perfect sentence seem to me, the 
 four following: 1. Clearness and precision. 2. Unity. 3. Strength. 
 4. Harmony. Each of these I shall illustrate separately, and at some 
 length. 
 
 The first is, clearness and precision. The least failure here, the least 
 degree of ambiguity, which leaves the mind in any sort of suspense as to 
 the meaning, ought to be avoided with the greatest care ; nor is it so easy 
 a matter to keep always clear of this, as one might, at first, imagine. Am- 
 biguity arises from two causes : either from a wrong choice of words, or 
 a wrong collocation of them. Of the choice of words, as far as regards 
 perspicuity, I treated fully in the last lecture. Of the collocation of them s 
 I am now to treat. The first thing to be studied here, is to observe ex- 
 actly the rules of grammar, as far as these can guide us. But as the gram- 
 mar of our language is not extensive, there may often be an ambiguous 
 collocation of words, where there is no transgression of any grammatical 
 rule. The relations which the words, or members of a period, bear to 
 one another, cannot be pointed out in English, as in the Greek or Latin., 
 by means of termination ; it is ascertained only by the position in which 
 they stand. Hence a capital rule in the arrangement of sentences is 3 
 that the words or members most nearly related, should be placed in the 
 sentence, as near to each other as possible ; so as to make their mutual 
 relation clearly appear. This is a rule not always observed, even by good 
 writers, as strictly as it ought to be. It will be necessary to produce some 
 instances, which will both show the importance of this rule, and make 
 the application of it to be understood. 
 
 First, in the position of adverbs, which are used to qualify the signi- 
 fication of something which either precedes or follows them, there is oftes 
 a good deal of nicety. " By greatness," says Mr. Addison, in the Spec- 
 tator, No. 412, "I do not only mean the bulk of any single object, but 
 the largeness of a whole view." Here the place of the adverb only ren- 
 ders it a limitation of the following word mean. " I do not only mean." 
 The question may then be put, What does he more than mean ? Had he 
 placed it after bulk, still it would have been wrong. " I do not mean the 
 bulk only of any single object." For we might then ask, What does he 
 
 * On the structure of sentences, the ancients appear to have bestowed a great deal 
 of attention and care. The Treatise of Demetrius Phalereus irigt E^unmns, abounds 
 with observations upon the choice and collocation of words, carried to such a degree 
 of nicety, as would frequently seem to us minute. The Treatise of Dionysius of 
 Halicarnassus, :rsg/ <ruvQt<rviK ovo/unrcev , is more masterly : but it is chiefly confined to 
 the musical structure of periods ; a subject for which the Greek language afforded 
 much more assistance to their writers than our tongue admits. On the arrange- 
 ment of words in English sentences, the xviiith chap, of Lord Kaim's Elements ot 
 Criticism ought to be consulted j and also the 2d volume of Dr, Campbell's Philoso- 
 phy of Rhetoric, 
 
104 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES, [LECT. XI. 
 
 mean more than the bulk ? Is it the colour ? Or any other property ? 
 Its proper place, undoubtedly, is, after the word object. By greatness, 
 I do not mean the bulk of any single object only ;" for then, when we put 
 the question, What more does he mean than the bulk of a single object ; 
 The answer comes out exactly as the author intends, and gives it ; " The 
 largeness of a whole view." " Theism," says Lord Shaftesbury, " can 
 only be opposed to polytheism or atheism." Does he mean that theism is 
 capable of nothing else, except being opposed to polytheism or atheism ? 
 This is what his words literally import, through the wrong collocation of 
 only. He should have said, * Theism can be opposed only to polytheism 
 or atheism." In like maner, Dean Swift, (Project for the advancement of 
 Religion,) " The Romans understood liberty, at least, as well as we." 
 These words are capable of two different senses, according as the em- 
 phasis, in reading them, is laid upon liberty, or upon at least. In the first 
 case, they will signify, that whatever other things we may understand 
 better than the Romans, liberty, at least, was one thing, which they un- 
 derstood as well as we. In the second case, they will import, that liber- 
 ty was understood, at least as well by them as by us ; meaning that by 
 them it was better understood. If this last, as I make no doubt, was 
 Dean Swift's own meaning, the ambiguity would have been avoided, and 
 the sense rendered independent of the manner of pronouncing, by arrang- 
 ing the words thus : " The Romans understood liberty as well, at least, 
 as we." The fact is, with respect to such adverbs, as only, wholly at 
 least, ana* the rest of that tribe, that in common discourse, the tone and 
 emphasis we use in pronouncing them, generally serves to show their 
 reference, and to make the meaning clear ; and hence we acquire a 
 habit of throwing them in loosely in the course of a period. But, in 
 writing, where a man speaks to the eye, and not to the ear, he ought to be 
 more accurate ; and so to connect those adverbs with the words which 
 they qualify, as to put his meaning out of doubt, upon the first inspection. 
 
 Secondly, when a circumstance is interposed in the middle of a sen- 
 tence, it sometimes requires attention how to place it, so as to divest it 
 of all ambiguity. For instance ; " Are these designs," says Lord Boling- 
 broke, Disser. on Parties, Dedicat. " Are these designs, which any man, 
 who is born a Briton, in any circumstances, in any situation, ought to be 
 ashamed or afraid to avow ?" Here we are left at a loss, whether these 
 words, " in any circumstances, in any situation" are connected with, " a 
 man born in Britain, in any circumstances, or situation," or with that 
 man's " avowing his designs, in any circumstances, or situation into which 
 he may be brought !" If the latter, as seems most probable, was intended 
 to be the meaning, the arrangement ought to have been conducted thus ; 
 u Are these designs which any man who is born a Briton, ought to be 
 ashamed or afraid, in any circumstances, in any situation, to avow ?" But, 
 
 Thirdly, still more attention is required to the proper disposition of the 
 relative pronouns, who^ which, what, whose, and of all those particles 
 which express the connexion of the parts of speech with one another. 
 As all reasoning depends upon this connexion, we cannot be too accurate 
 and precise here. A small error may overcloud the meaning of the. 
 whole sentence 5 and even where the meaning is intelligible, yet, where 
 these relative particles are out of their proper place, we always find 
 something awkward and disjointed in the structure of the sentence. Thus, 
 in the Spectator, (No. 54.) " This kind of wit." says Mr. Addison " was 
 very much in vogue among our countrymen, about an age or two ago 
 
LECT. XL] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. JQ3 
 
 who did not practise it for any oblique reason, but purely for the sake of 
 being witty.' We are at no loss about the meaning here ; but the con- 
 struction would evidently be mended by disposing of the circumstance^ 
 % about an age or two ago,' in such a manner as not to separate the rela- 
 tive who, from its antecedent our countrymen ; in this way : * About ari 
 age or two ago, this kind of wit was very much in vogue among our coun- 
 trymen, who did not practise it for any oblique reason, but purely for the 
 sake of being witty.' Spectator, No. 412. * We nowhere meet with a 
 more glorious and pleasing show in nature, than what appears in the 
 heavens at the rising and setting of the sun* which is wholly made up of 
 those different stains of light, that show themselves in clouds of a different 
 situation.' Which is here designed to connect with the word show, as its 
 antecedent ; but it stands so wide from it, that without a careful attention 
 to the sense, we should be naturally led, by the rules of syntax, to refer 
 it to the rising and setting of the sun, or to the sun itself; and hence, an 
 indistinctness is thrown over the whole sentence. The following passage 
 in Bishop Sherlock's sermons, (vol. ii. serm. 15.) is still more censura- 
 ble : « It is folly to pretend to arm ourselves against the accidents of life 9 
 by heaping up treasures, which nothing can protect us against, but the 
 good providence of our heavenly Father,' which, always refers gram- 
 matically to the immediately preceding substantive, which here is ' trea- 
 sures ;' and this would make nonsense of the whole period. Every one 
 feels this impropriety. The sentence ought to have stood thus : \ It is 
 folly to pretend * by heaping up treasures, to arm ourselves against the 
 accidents of life, which nothing can protect us against, but the good 
 providence of our heavenly Father.' 
 
 Of the like nature is the following inaccuracy of Dean Swift's. He is 
 recommending to young clergymen, to write their sermons fully and dis- 
 tinctly. i Many,' says he, ' act so directly contrary to this method, that, 
 from a habit of saving time and paper, which they acquired at the uni- 
 versity, they write in so diminutive a manner, that they can hardly read 
 what they have written *' He certainly does not mean, that they had ac- 
 quired time and paper at the university, but they had acquired this habit 
 there ; and therefore his words ought to have run thus , ' From a frabit* 
 which they have acquired at the university, of saving time and paper, they 
 write in so diminutive a manner. 5 In another passage, the same author 
 has left his meaning altogether uncertain, by misplacing a relative. It is 
 in the conclusion of his letter to a member of parliament, concerning the 
 sacramental test : * Thus I have fairly given you^ Sir, my own opinion^ 
 as well as that of a great majority of both houses here, relating to this 
 weighty affair ; upon which I am confident you may securely reckon. 9 
 Now I ask, what it is he would have his correspondent to reckon upon 
 securely ? The natural construction leads to these words, ' this weighty . 
 affair.' But, as it would be difficult to make any sense of this, it is more 
 probable he meant that the majority of both houses might be securely 
 reckoned upon ; though certainly this meaning, as the words are arrang- 
 ed, is obscurely expressed. The sentence would be amended by arrang- 
 ing it thus : ' Thus, Sir, I have given you my own opinion, relating to 
 this weighty affair, as well as that of a great majority of both houses 
 here ; upon which I am confident you may securely reckon.' 
 
 Several other instances might be given ; but I reckon those which I 
 have produced sufficient to make the rule understood ; that in the con* 
 struction of sentences, one of the first things to be attended to* is thg 
 
 O 
 
]0£ STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. Xf.- 
 
 marshalling of the words in such order as shall most clearly mark the 
 relation of the several parts of the sentence to one another ; particularly,, 
 that adverbs shall always be made to adhere closely to the words which 
 they are intended to qualify ; that, where a circumstance is thrown in, it 
 shall never hang loose in the midst of a period, but be determined by its 
 place to one or other member of it ; and that every relative word which 
 is used, shall instantly present its antecedent to the mind of the reader, 
 without the least obscurity. I have mentioned these three cases, because 
 I think they are the most frequent occasions of ambiguity creeping into 
 sentences. 
 
 With regard to relatives, I must farther observe, that obscurity often 
 arises from the too frequent repetition of them, particularly of the 
 pronouns ze?/io, and they, and them, and theirs, when we have occasion to 
 refer to different persons ; as, in the following sentence of Archbishop 
 Tillotson ; (vol. i. serm. 42.) * Men look with an evil eye upon the 
 good that is in others ; and think that their reputation obscures them, and 
 their commendable qualities stand in their light ; and therefore they do 
 what they can to cast a cloud over them, that the bright shining of their 
 virtues may not obscure them.' This is altogether careless writing. It 
 renders style often obscure, always embarrassed and inelegant. When 
 we find these personal pronouns crowding too fast upon us, we have 
 often no method left, but to throw the whole sentence into some other 
 form, wliich may avoid those frequent references to persons who have 
 before been mentioned. 
 
 All languages are liable to ambiguities. Quintilian gives us some in- 
 stances in the Latin, arising from faulty arrangements. A man, he tells use, 
 ordered by his will, to have erected for him, after his death, ' Statuam 
 auream hastam tenentem ;' upon which arose a dispute at law, whether 
 the whole statue, or the spear only, was to be of gold ? The same au- 
 thor observes, very properly, that a sentence is always faulty, when the 
 collocation of the words is ambiguous, though the sense can be gathered. 
 If any one should say, " Chremetem audivi percussisse Demeam,' this i§ 
 ambiguous, both in sense and structure, whether Chremes or Demea gave 
 the blow. But if this expression were used, ' Se vidisse hominem li- 
 brum scribentem,' although the meaning be clear, yet Quintilian insists 
 that the arrangement is wrong. * Nam,' says he, ' etiamsi librum ab 
 homine scribi pateat, non certe hominem a libro, male tamen composuerat, 
 feceratque ambiguum quantum in ipso fuit.' Indeed, to have the relation 
 of every word and member of a sentence marked in the most proper and 
 distinct manner, gives not clearness only, but grace and beauty to a sen- 
 tence, making the mind pass smoothly and agreeably along all the parts 
 of it. 
 
 I proceed now to the second quality of a well-arranged sentence, which 
 I termed its unity. This is a capital property. In every composition , 
 of whatever kind, some degree of unity is required, in order to render 
 it beautiful. There must be always some connecting principle among 
 the parts. Some one subject must reign and be predominant. This, as I 
 shall hereafter show, holds in history, in epic and dramatic poetry, and in 
 all orations. But most of all, in a single sentence, is required the strict- 
 est unity. For the. very nature of a sentence implies one proposition to 
 be expressed. It may consist of -parts, indeed ; but these parts must be 
 so closely bound together, as to make the impression upon the mind, of 
 one object, not of many. Now, in order to preserve this unity of a sen- 
 fence, the following rules must he observed-: 
 
L£€T. XL] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 107 
 
 In the first place, during the course of the sentence, the scene should 
 he changed as little as possible. We should not be hurried by sudden 
 transitions from person to person, nor from subject to subject. There is 
 commonly, in every sentence, some person or thing, which is the govern- 
 ing word. This should be continued so, if possible, from the beginning 
 to the end of it. Should I express myself thus : * After we came to an- 
 chor, they put me on shore, where 1 was welcomed by all my friends, 
 who receive me with the greatest kindness.' In this sentence, though 
 the objects contained in it have a sufficient connexion with each other, 
 yet, by this manner of representing them, by shifting so often both the 
 place and the person, we, and they, and /, and who, they appear in such 
 a disunited view, that the sense of connexion is almost lost. The sen- 
 tence is restored to its proper unity, by turning it after the following 
 manner : ' Having come to au anchor, I was put on shore, where I was 
 welcomed by all my friends, and received with the greatest kindness.' 
 Writers, who transgress this rule, for the most part transgress, at the 
 same time, 
 
 A second rule ; never to crowd into one sentence things which have so 
 little connexion, that the}' could bear to be divided into two or three sen- 
 tences. The violation of this rule never fails to hurt Und displease a 
 reader. Its effect, indeed,issobad,that ofthetwo,itis the safer extreme, 
 to err rather by two many short sentences, than by one that is overloaded 
 and embarrassed. Examples abound in authors. I shall produce some 
 to justify what I now say. ' Archbishop Tillotson,' says an author of the 
 History of England, ' died in this year. He was exceedingly beloved both 
 by king William and queen Mary, who nominated Dr. Tennison, Bi- 
 shop of Lincoln, to succeed him.' Who would expect the latter part of 
 this sentence to follow, in consequence of the former ? ' He was exceed- 
 ingly beloved by both king and queen,' is the proposition of the sentence, 
 we look for some proof of this, or at least something related to it to follow; 
 when we are on a sudden carried off to a new proposition, ' who nomina- 
 ted Dr. Tennison to succeed him.' The following is from Middieton's 
 Life of Cicero : ' In this uneasy state, both of his public and private life, 
 Cicero was oppressed by a new and cruel affliction, the death of his be- 
 loved daughter Tullia ; which happened soon after her divorce from Dola- 
 bella ; whose manners and humours were entirely disagreeable to her.' 
 The principal object in this sentence is, the death of Tullia, which was 
 the cause of her father's affliction ; the date of it, as happening soon after 
 her divorce from Dolabella, may enter into the sentence with propriety : 
 but the subjunction of Dolabella's character is foreign to the main object ; 
 and breaks the unity and compactness of the sentence totally, by setting 
 a new picture before the reader. The following sentence, from a 
 translation of Plutarch, is still worse : ' Their march,' says the author, 
 speaking of the Greeks under Alexander, ' their inarch, was through an 
 uncultivated country, whose savage inhabitants fared hardly, having no 
 other riches than a breed of lean sheep, whose flesh was rank and un- 
 savoury, by reason of their continually feeding upon sea-fish.' Here the 
 scene is changed upon us again and again. The march of the Greeks, 
 the description of the inhabitants through whose country they travelled, 
 the account of their sheep, and the cause of their sheep being ill-tasted 
 food, form a jumble of objects, slightly related to each other, which the 
 reader cannot, without much difficulty, comprehend under one view. 
 
I OS STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. Xh 
 
 These examples have been taken from sentences of no great length, 
 yet over-crowded. Authors who deal in long sentences, are very apt 
 to be faulty in this article. One need only open Lord Clarendon's his- 
 tory, to find examples everywhere. The long, involved, and intricate 
 sentences of that author, are the greatest blemish of his composition ; 
 though, in other respects, as a historian, he has considerable merit. In 
 later, and more correct writers than Lord Clarendon, we find a period 
 sometimes running out so far, and comprehending so many particulars, 
 as to be more properly a discourse than a sentence. Take, for an in- 
 stance, the following, from Sir William Temple, in his Essay upon Po~ 
 etry. ' The usual acceptation takes profit and pleasure for two different 
 things ; and not only calls the followers or votaries of them by the se- 
 veral names of busy and idle men ; but distinguishes the faculties of the 
 mind, that are conversant about them, calling the operations of the first, 
 wisdom ; and of the other, wit ; which is a Saxon word, used to express 
 what the Spaniards and Italians call ingenio, and the French, esprit, both 
 from the Latin ; though I think wit more particularly signifies that of 
 poetry, as may occur in remarks on the Runic language.' When one 
 arrives at the end of such a puzzled sentence, he is surprised to find 
 himself got to so great a distance from the object with wh, h he at first 
 set out. 
 
 Lord Shaftesbury, often betrayed into faults by his love of magnifi- 
 cence, shall afford us the next example. ■ It is in his rhapsody, where he 
 is describing the cold regions : ' At length,' says he, ' the sun approach- 
 ing, melts the snow, sets longing men at liberty, and affords them means 
 and time to make provision against the next return of cold ;' The first 
 sentence is correct enough ; but he. goes on : 'It breaks the icy fetters 
 of the main, where vast sea-monsters pierce through floating islands, with 
 arms which can withstand the crystal rock ; whilst others, who of them- 
 selves seem great as islands, are by their bulk alone armed against all 
 but man, whose superiority over creatures of such stupendous size and 
 force, should make him mindful of his privilege of reason, and force him 
 humbly to adore the great composer of these wondrous frames, and the 
 author of his own superior wisdom.' Nothing can be more unhappy or 
 embarrassed than this sentence ; the worse, too, as it is intended to be 
 descriptive, where every thing should be clear. It forms no distinct 
 image whatever. The it, at the beginning, is ambiguous, whether itmean 
 the sun or the cold, The object is changed three times in the sentence ; 
 beginning with the sun, which breaks the icy fetters of the main ; then 
 the sea-monsters become the principal personages ; and lastly, by a 
 very unexpected transition, man is brought into view, and receives a long 
 and serious admonition, before the sentence closes. I do not at present 
 insist on the impropriety of such expressions as, God*s being the compo- 
 ser of frames ; and the sea-monsters having arms that withstand rocks. 
 Shaftesbury's strength lay in reasoning and sentiment, more than in de- 
 scription ; however much his descriptions have been sometimes admired. 
 
 I shall only give one instance more on this head, from Dean Swift ; 
 in his proposal, too, for correcting the English language : where, in 
 place of a sentence, he has given a loose dissertation upon several sub- 
 jects. Speaking of the progress of our language, after the time of 
 Cromwell : ' To this succeeded,' says he, ' that licentiousness which 
 entered with the restoration, and from infecting our religion, and morals, 
 fell to corrupt our language ; which last was not likely to be much im- 
 
LECT.XI.J STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 109 
 
 proved by those, who at that time made up the court of king Charles the 
 Second ; either such as had followed him in his banishment, or who had 
 been altogether conversant in the dialect of these fanatic times ; or 
 young men, who had been educated in the same country : so that the 
 court, which used to be the standard of correctness and propriety of 
 speech, was then, and I think has ever since continued, the worst school 
 in England for that accomplishment ; and so will remain, till better care 
 be taken in the education of our nobility, that they may set out into the 
 world with some foundation of literature, in order to qualify them for 
 patterns of politeness.' — How many different facts, reasonings, and ob- 
 servations, are here presented to the mind at once ! and yet so linked 
 together by the author, that they all make parts of a sentence, which 
 admits of no greater division in pointing, than a semicolon between any 
 of its members ? Having mentioned pointing, I shall here take notice, 
 that it is in vain to propose, by arbitrary punctuation, to amend the de- 
 fects of a sentence, to correct its ambiguity, or to prevent its confusion. 
 For, commas, colons, and points, do not make the proper divisions of 
 thought ; but only serve to mark those which arise from the tenour of the 
 author's expression ; and, therefore, they are proper or not, just ac^ 
 cording as they correspond to the natural division of the sense. When 
 they are inserted in wrong places, they deserve, and will meet with, no 
 regard. 
 
 I proceed to a third rule, for preserving the unity of sentences ; which 
 is, to keep clear of all parenthesis in the middle of them. On some oc- 
 casions, these may have a spirited appearance ; as prompted by a cer- 
 tain vivacity of thought, which can glance happily aside, as it is going 
 along. But, for the most part, their effect is extremely bad ; being a 
 sort of wheels within wheels ; sentences in the midst of sentences ; the 
 perplexed method of disposing of some thought, which a writer wants 
 art to introduce in its proper place. It were needless to give many in- 
 stances, as they occur so often among incorrect writers. I shall pro-> 
 duce one from Lord Bolingbroke ; the rapidity of whose genius, and 
 manner of writing, betrays him frequently into inaccuracies of this sort. 
 It is in the introduction to his idea of a patriot king, where he writes 
 thus : ' It seems to me, that in order to maintain the system of the world, 
 at a certain point, far below that of ideal perfection, (for we are made 
 capable of conceiving what we are incapable of attaining) but, how- 
 ever, sufficient, upon the whole, to constitute a state easy and happy, or, 
 at the worst, tolerable ; I say, it seems to me, that the Author of Nature 
 has thought fit to mingle, from time to time, among the societies of men, 
 a few and but a few, of those on whom he is graciously pleased to 
 bestow a larger portion of the etherial spirit, than is given, in the or- 
 dinary course of his government, to the sons of men.' A very bad 
 sentence this ; into which, by the help of a parenthesis, and other 
 interjected circumstances, his lordship had contrived to thrust so many 
 things, that he is forced to begin the construction again with the phrase., 
 J say : which, whenever it occurs, may always be assumed as a sure 
 mark of a clumsy, ill-constructed sentence; excusable in speaking, 
 where the greatest accuracy is not expected, but in polished writing, 
 unpardonable. 
 
 I shall add only one rule more for the unity of a sentence, which is, 
 to bring it always to a full and perfect close. Every thing that is one, 
 should have a beginning, a middle, and an end, I need not take notice, 
 
HO STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XXL 
 
 that an unfinished sentence is no sentence at all,, according to any gram- 
 matical rule. But very often we meet with sentences that are, so to 
 speak, more than finished. When we have arrived at what we expect- 
 ed was to be the conclusion, when we have come to the word on which 
 the mind is naturally led, by what went before, to rest ; unexpectedly, 
 some circumstance pops out, which ought to have been omitted, or to have 
 been disposed of elsewhere ; but which is left lagging behind, -like a 
 tail adjected to the sentence ; somewhat that, as Mr. Pope describes the 
 Alexandrian line, 
 
 " Like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along." 
 All these adjections to the proper close, disfigure a sentence extreme- 
 ly. They give it a lame, ungraceful air, and, in particular, they break 
 its unity. Dean Swift, for instance, in his Letter to a Young Clergyman, 
 speaking of Cicero's writings, expresses himself thus : ' With these 
 writings, young divines are more conversant, than with those of De- 
 mosthenes., who, by many degrees, excelled the other ; at least as an 
 orator.* Here the natural close of the sentence is at these words, 
 * excelled the other.' These words conclude the propositions ; we 
 look for no more ; and the circumstance added, ' at least as an orator," 
 comes in with a very halting pace. How much more compact would the 
 sentence have been, if turned thus : c With these writings, young divines 
 are more conversant, than with those of Demosthenes, who, by many 
 degrees, as an orator at least, excelled the other.' In the following 
 sentence, from Sir William Temple, the adjection to the sentence is 
 altogether foreign to it. Speaking of Burnet's Theory of the Earth, and 
 Fontenelle's Plurality of Worlds, ' The first,' says he, ' could not end 
 bis learned treatise without a panegyric of modern learning, in compari- 
 son of the ancient ; and the other, falls so grossly into the censure of the 
 old poetry, and preference of the new, that I could not read either of 
 these strains without some indignation ; which no quality among men is 
 so apt to raise in me as self-sufficiency.' The word ' indignation,' con- 
 cluded the sentence ; the last member, i which no quality among men 
 is so apt to raise in me as self-sufficiency,' is a proposition altogether 
 new. added after the proper close. 
 
 LECTURE XII. 
 
 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 
 
 Having treated of perspicuity and unity, as necessary to be studied 
 in the structure of sentences, I proceed to the third quality of a correct 
 sentence, which I termed strength. By this, I mean such a disposition of 
 the several words and members, as shall bring out the sense to the best 
 advantage ; as shall render the impression, which the period is designed to 
 make, most full and complete ; and give every word, and every member, 
 their due weight and force. The two former qualities of perspicuity and 
 unity are, no doubt, absolutely necessary to the production of this effect ; 
 but more is still requisite. For a sentence may be clear enough ; it may 
 
JLECT. XII ,] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. \-ft 
 
 also be compact enough, in all its parts, or have the requisite unity ; and 
 yet, by some unfavourable circumstance in the structure, it may fail in that 
 strength or liveliness of impression, which a more happy arrangement 
 would have produced. 
 
 The first rule which I shall give, for promoting the strength of a sen- 
 tence is, to divest it of all redundant words. These may, sometimes, 
 be consistent with a considerable degree both of clearness and unity ; but 
 they are always enfeebling. They make the sentence move along tardy 
 and encumbered : 
 
 Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, neu se 
 Impediat verbis, lassas onerantibus aures.* 
 
 It is a general maxim, that any words which do not add some importance to 
 the meaning of a sentence, always spoil it. They cannotbe superfluous, 
 without being hurtful. ' Obstat,' says Quintilian, ' quicquid non adjuvat.' 
 All that can be easily supplied in the mind, is better left out in the expres- 
 sion. Thus : ' Content with deserving a triumph, he refused the hon- 
 our of it,' is better language than to say, \ Being content with deserving 
 a triumph, he refused the honour of it.' I consider it, therefore, as one 
 of the most useful exercises of correction, upon reviewing what we have 
 written or composed, to contract that round-about method of expression,, 
 and to lop off those useless excrescences which are commonly found in a 
 first draught. Here a severe eye should be employed ; and we shall 
 always find our sentences acquire more vigour and energy when thus re- 
 trenched : provided always that we run not into the extreme of pruning 
 so very close, as to give a hardness and dryness to style. For here, as 
 in all other things, there is a due medium. Some regard, though not the 
 principal, must be had to fulness and swelling of sound. Some leaves 
 must be left to surround and shelter the fruit. 
 
 As sentences should be cleared of redundant words, so also of redundant 
 members. As every word ought to present a new idea, so every member 
 ought to contain a new thought. Opposed to this, stands the fault we 
 sometimes meet with, of the last member of a period being no other than 
 the echo of the former, or the repetition of it in somewhat a different 
 form. For example ; speaking of beauty, * The very first discovery of 
 it,' says Mr. Addison, ' strikes the mind with inward joy, and spreads de- 
 light through all its faculties.' (No. 412 ) And elsewhere, " It is impossi- 
 ble for us to behold the divine works with coldness or indifference, or to 
 survey so many beauties, without a secret satisfaction and complacency.' 
 (No 413.) In both these instances, little or nothing is added by the se- 
 cond member of the sentence to what was already expressed in the first j 
 and though the free and flowing manner of such an author as Mr. Addi- 
 son, and the graceful harmony of his periods, may paliate such negli- 
 gences ; yet, in general, it holds that style, freed from this prolixity., 
 appears both more strong and more beautiful. The attention becomes 
 remiss, the mind falls into inaction, when words are multiplied without a 
 corresponding multiplication of ideas. 
 
 After removing superfluities, the second direction I give, for promoting 
 the strength of a sentence, is to attend particularly to the use of copula- 
 tives, relatives, and all the particles employed for transition and 'connex- 
 
 *■'■ Concise your diction, let your sense be clear, 
 Nor with a weight of words fatigue the ear," erastc i - 
 
\VZ STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XIl 
 
 ion. These little words, but, and, which, whose, where, kc. are frequent- 
 ly the most important words of any ; they are the joints or hinges upon 
 which all sentences turn, and of course, much, both of their gracefulness 
 and strength must depend upon such particles. The varieties in using 
 them are, indeed, so infinite, that no particular system of rules, respect- 
 ing them, can be given. Attention to the practice of the most accurate 
 writers, joined with frequent trials of the different effects produced by a 
 different usage of those particles, must here direct us.* Some obser- 
 vations, I shall mention, which have occurred to me as useful, without 
 pretending to exhaust the subject* 
 
 What is called splitting of particles, or separating a preposition from 
 the noun which it governs, is always to be avoided. As if I should saj r , 
 ' Though virtue borrows no assistance from, yet it may often be accom- 
 panied by, the advantages of fortune.' In such instances, we feel a sort 
 of pain, from the revulsion, or violent separation of two things, which, 
 by their nature, should be closely united. We are put to a stand in 
 thought ; being obliged to rest for a little on the preposition by itself, 
 which at the same time, carries no significancy, till it is joined to its 
 proper substantive noun. 
 
 Some writers needlessly multiply demonstrative and relative particles, 
 by the frequent use of such phraseology as this : ' There is nothing which 
 disgusts us sooner than the empty pomp of language.' In introducing a 
 subject, or laying down a proposition, to which we demand particular at- 
 tention, this sort of style is very proper ; but, in the ordinary current of 
 discourse, it is better to express ourselves more simply and shortly ; 
 'Nothing disgusts us sooner than the empty pomp of language.' 
 
 Other writers make a practice of omitting the relative, in a phrase of a 
 different kind from the former, where they think the meaning can be un- 
 derstood without it. As, ' The man I love.' ' The dominions we pos- 
 sessed, and the conquests we made.' But though this eliptical style be 
 intelligible, and is allowable in conversation and epistolary writing, yet in 
 all writings of a serious or dignified kind, it is ungraceful. There, the rela- 
 tive should always be inserted in its proper place, and the construction 
 filled up : * The man whom I love.' ' The dominions which we possess- 
 ed,, and the conquests which we made.' 
 
 With regard to the copulative particle, and, which occurs so frequently 
 in all kinds of composition, several observations are to be made. First, 
 it is evident, that the unnecessary repetition of it enfeebles style. It 
 has the same sort of effect, as the frequent use of the vulgar phrase, 
 and sot when one is telling a story in common conversation. We shall 
 take a sentence from Sir William Temple, for an instance. He is speak- 
 in 0, of the refinement of the French language : ' The academy set up 
 by Cardinal Richelieu, to amuse the wits of that age and country, and 
 divert them from raking into his politics and ministry, brought this into 
 vogue ; and the French wits have, for this last age, been wholly turned 
 to the refinement of their style and language ; and, indeed, with such 
 success, that it can hardly be equalled, and runs equally through their 
 verse and their prose.' Here are no fewer than eight ands in one sen- 
 tence. This agreeable writer too often makes his sentences drag in this 
 manner, by a careless multiplication of copulatives. It is strange how a 
 
 *On this head, Dr. Lowth's Short Introduction to English Grammar tfe's&ves to 
 be constated j where several niceties of the language are well pointed out. j 
 
LECT. XlL] sTKUCT URE OF SENTENCES, f.f| 
 
 writer, so accurate as Dean Swift, should have stumbled on so improper 
 an application of this particle, as he has made in the following sentence j 
 Essay on the Fates of Clergymen. *' There is no talent so useful towards 
 rising in the world, or which puts men more out of the reach of fortune, 
 than that quality generally possessed by the dullest sort of people, andis^; 
 in common language, called discretion ; a species of lower prudence, by 
 the assistance of which, &c." By the insertion of, and is, in place of, 
 -which is, he has not only clogged the sentence, but even made it ungram- 
 matical. 
 
 But, in the next place, St is worthy of observation, that though the 
 natural use of the conjunction and, be to join objects together, and thereby, 
 as one would think, to make their connexion more close ; yet, in fact, by 
 dropping the conjunction, we often mark a closer connexion, a quicker 
 succession of objects, than when it is inserted between them. Longinus 
 makes this remark ; which; from many instances, appears to be just : 
 " Veni, vidi, vici,"* expresses, with more spirit, the rapidity and quick 
 succession of conquest, than if connecting particles had been used. So, in 
 the following description of a route, in Caesar's Commentaries: u Nostri, 
 emissis pilis, gladiis rem gerunt; repente post tergum equitatus cernitur ; 
 cohortes alias appropinquant. Kostes terga vertunt ; fugientibus equiteS 
 occurrunt ; fit magna casdes.' 5 ! Bell. Gail. lib. 7. 
 
 Hence it follows, that when, 6n the other hand, we seek to prevent & 
 cjuick transition from one object to another, when we are making some 
 enumeration, in which we wish that the objects should appearas distinct 
 from each other as possible, and that the mind should rest for a moment 
 on each object by itself; in this case, Copulatives may be multiplied with 
 peculiar advantage and grace. As when Lord Bolingbroke says, * s Such a 
 man might fall a victim to power; but truth, and reason, and liberty, would 
 fall with him." In the same manner, Caesar describes an engagement with 
 the Nervii ; " His equitibus facile pulsis ac proturbatis, incredibili celeri- 
 tate ad flumen decurrerunt ; ut pene uno tempore, et ad silvas, etin flu- 
 mine, et jam in manibus nostris, hostes viderentur."| Bell. GalL lib. 2„- 
 Here, although he is describing a quick succession of events, yet as it 
 is his intention to show in how many places the enemy seemed to be at 
 one time, the copulative is very happily redoubled, in order to pain£ 
 more strongly the distinction of these several places. 
 
 This attention to the several cases, when it is proper to omit and wheri 
 to redouble the copulative, is of considerable importance to all who study 
 eloquence. For it is a remarkable particularity in language, that the 
 omission of a connecting particle should sometimes serve to make objects 
 appear more closely connected; and that the repetition of it should distin- 
 guish and separate them, in some measure, from each Other. Hence, the 
 omission of it is used to denote rapidity ; and the repetition of it is designed 
 to retard and to aggravate. The reason seems to be, that, in the former 
 case, the mind is supposed to be hurried so fast through a quick sue 
 cession of objects, that it has not leisure to point out their connexion, 
 
 * " I came, I saw, I conquered." 
 
 t " Our men, after having discharged their javelins, attack with sword in hand : 
 of a sudden, the cavalry make their appearance behind ; other bodies of men aref 
 seen drawing near; the enemies turn their backs ; the horse meet them in their 
 flight ; a great slaughter ensues." 
 
 \ " The enemy, having easily beat off, and scattered this body of horse, fan down 
 with incredible celerity to the river ; so that, almost at one moment of time,, they 
 appeared to be in the woods, and in the river, and in the midst of our troops " 
 
114 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCE* ['LECT.XIU 
 
 it drops the copulatives in its hurry ; and crowds the whole series to- 
 gether, as if it were but one object. Whereas, when we enumerate, 
 with a view to aggravate, the mind is supposed to proceed with a more 
 slow and solemn pace ; it marks fully the relation of each object to that 
 which succeeds it; and, by joining them together with several copulatives, 
 makes you perceive, that the objects, though connected, are yet, in them- 
 selves, distinct ; that they are many, not one. Observe, for instance 
 in the following enumeration, made by the apostle Paul, what additional 
 weight and distinctness is given to each particular, by the repetition of 
 a conjunction, ** I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, 
 nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, 
 nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate 
 us from the love of God." Rom. viii. 38, 39. So much with regard to 
 the use of copulatives. 
 
 I proceed to a third rule for promoting the strength of a sentence, 
 which is, to dispose of the capital word or words, in that place of the 
 sentence, where they will make the fullest impression. That such 
 capital words there are in every sentence, on which the meaning prin- 
 cipally rests, every one must see ; and that these words should possess 
 a conspicuous and distinguished place, is equally plain. Indeed, that 
 place of the sentence where they will make the best figure, whether the 
 beginning, or the end, or sometimes, even in the middle, cannot, as far 
 as I know, be ascertained by any precise rule. This must vary with 
 the nature of tbe sentence. Perspicuity must ever be studied in- the 
 first place ; and the nature of our language allows no great liberty in the 
 choice of collocation. For the most part, with us, the important words 
 are placed in the beginning of the sentence. So Mr. Addison : " The 
 pleasures of the imagination, taken in their full extent, are not so gross 
 as those of sense, nor so refined as those of the understanding." And 
 this, indeed, seems the most plain and natural order, to place that in the 
 front which is the chief object of the proposition we are laying down. 
 Sometimes, however, when we intend to give weight to a sentence, 
 it is of advantage to suspend the meaning for a little, and then bring it 
 out full at the close : "Thus," says Mr. Pope, " on whatever side we 
 contemplate Homer, what principally strikes us. is, his wonderful inven- 
 tion." (Pref. to Homer.) 
 
 The Greek and Latin writers had a considerable advantage above us, 
 in [this part of style. By the great liberty of inversion, which their 
 languages permitted, they could choose the most advantageous situation 
 for every word ; and had it thereby in their power to give their sen- 
 tences more force. Milton, in his prose works, and some other of our 
 old English writers, endeavoured to imitate them in this. But the 
 forced constructions which they employer', produced obscurity ; and the 
 genius of our language, as it is now written and spoken, will not admit 
 such liberties. Mr. Gordon, who followed this inverted style, in his 
 translation of Tacitus, has sometimes done such violence to the language, 
 as even to appear ridiculous ; as in this expression: "Into this hole 
 thrust themselves, three Roman senators." He has translated so simple 
 a phrase as, " Nullum ea tempestate bellum," by, " War at that time 
 there was none." However, within certain bounds, and to a limited de- 
 gree, our language does admit of inversions ; and they are practised 
 with success by the best writers. So Mr. Pope, speaking of Homer, 
 - : The praise of judgment Virgil has justly contested with him, but his- 
 
LECT.XU-1 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES; J 15 
 
 invention remains yet unrivalled." It is evident, that in order Jo give 
 the sentence its due force, by contrasting properly the two capital words, 
 "judgment and invention," this is a happier arrangement than if he had 
 followed the natural order, which was, " Virgil has justly contested with 
 him the praise of judgment, but his invention remains yet unrivalled." 
 
 Some writers practise this degree of inversion, which our language 
 bears, much more than others; Lord Shatfesbury, for instance, much more 
 than Mr. Addison ; and to this sort of arrangement, is owing, in a great 
 measure, that appearance of strength, dignity, and varied harmony, which 
 Lord Shaftesbury's style possesses. This will appear from the following 
 sentences of his Inquiry into Virtue; where all the words are placed, 
 not strictly in the natural order, but with that artificial construction, 
 which may give theperiod most emphasis and grace. He is speaking 
 of the misery of vice. "This, as to the complete immoral state, is, 
 what of their own accord, men readily remark. Where there is this 
 absolute degeneracy, this ttKal apostacy from all candour, trust, or equi- 
 ty, there are few who do not see and acknowledge the misery which is 
 consequent. Seldom is the case misconstrued, When at worst. The 
 misfortune is, that we look not on this depravity, nor consider how it 
 stands, in less degrees. As if, to be absolutely immoral, were, indeed, 
 the greatest miserv; but, to be so in a little degree, should be no misery 
 or harm at all. Which to allow, is just as reasonable as to own, that 
 'tis the greatest ill of a body to be in the utmost manner maimed or dis- 
 torted ; but that to lose the use only of one limb, or to be impaired in 
 some single organ or member, is no ill worthy the least notice." (Vol. ii. 
 p. 82.) Here is no violence done to the language, though there are 
 many inversions. All is stately, and arranged with art ; which is the 
 great characteristic of this author's style. 
 
 We need only open any page of Mr. Addison, to see quite a different 
 order in the construction of sentences. " Our sight is the most perfect, 
 and most delightful of all our senses. It fills the mind with the largest 
 variety of ideas, converses with its objects at the greatest distance, 
 and continues the longest in action, without being tired, or satiated with 
 its proper enjoyments. The sense of feeling can, indeed, give us a no- 
 tion of extension, shape, and all other ideas that enter at the eye, ex- 
 cept colours ; but at the same time, it is very much straitened and con- 
 fined in its operations, &c." (Spectator No. 411.) In this strain, he 
 always proceeds, following the most natural and obvious order of the 
 language : and if, by this means, he has less pomp and majesty than 
 Shaftesbury, he has, in return, more nature, more ease and simplicity ; 
 which are beauties of a higher order. 
 
 But whether we practise inversion or not, and in whatever part of 
 the sentence we dispose of the capital words, it is always a point of 
 great moment, that these capital words shall stand clear and disentan- 
 gled from any other words that would clog them. Thus, when there 
 are any circumstances of time, place, or other limitations, which the 
 principal object of our sentence requires to have connected with it, we 
 must take especial care to dispose of them, so as no.t to cloud that prin- 
 cipal object, nor to bury it under a load of circumstances. This will 
 be made clearer by an example. Observe the arrangement of the 
 following sentence in Lord Shaftesbury's Advice to an Author. He is 
 speaking of modern poets, as compared with the ancient: "If, whilst 
 they profess only to please, they secretly advise, and give instruction, 
 
{}$ STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES [LECT. All. 
 
 they may now, perhaps, as well as formerly, be esteemed, with justice^ 
 the best and most honourable among authors." This is a well-construct-? 
 ed sentence. It contains a great many circumstances and adverbs, ne- 
 cessary to gualify the meaning: only, secretly, as well, perhaps, now, with 
 justice, formerly : yet these are placed with so much art, as neither to 
 embarrass, nor weaken the sentence ; while that which is the capital 
 object in it, fv#. " Poets being justly esteemed the best and most honour- 
 able among authors," comes out in the conclusion clear and detached, and 
 possesses its proper place. See, now, what would have been the effect 
 of a different arrangement. Suppose him to have placed the members 
 of the sentence f,hus : " If, whilst they profess to please only, they adr 
 vise and give instruction secretly, they may be esteemed the best and 
 most honourable among authors, with justice, perhaps, now, as well as 
 formerly." Here we have precisely the same words and the same sense: 
 but, by means of the circumstances being so intermingled as to clog the 
 capital wQrdSjthe jf^oje becomes perplexed* without grace, and without 
 strength. 
 
 A fourth rule, for constructing sentences with proper strength, is, to 
 make the members of them goon rising and growing in their importance 
 above one another. This sort of arrangement is called a climax, and is al- 
 ways coasidered as a beauty in composition. From what cause it pleases, 
 is abundantly evident In all things, we naturally love to ascend to what 
 is more and more beautiful, rather than to follow the retrograde order. 
 Having had once some considerable object set before us, it is with pain ? 
 we are pulled back tQ attend to an inferior circumstance. *' Cavendum 
 est," says Quintilian, whose authority I always willingly quote, " ne de- 
 crescat oratio, et fortiori subjungatur aliquid infirmius ; sicut, sacrilegio, 
 fur ; aut latroni petulans. Augeri enim debent sententiae et insurgere."* 
 Of this beauty, in the construction of sentences, the orations of Cicero 
 furnish many examples. His pompous manner naturally led him to 
 study it ; and, generally, in order to render the climax perfect, he makes 
 both the sense and the sound rise together, with a very magnificent 
 swell. So, in his oration for Milo, speaking of a design of Clodius's for 
 assassinating Pompey : " Atque si res, si vir, si tempus ullum dignum 
 fait, certe haec ilia causa summa omnia fuerunt. Insidiator erat in Foro 
 collocatus, atque in yestibulo ipso Senatus ei viro autem mors paraba- 
 tur cujus in vita nitebatur salus civitatis ; eo porro reipublicae tempore, 
 quo si unus ille occidisset, non haec solum civitas, sed gentes omnes con- 
 cidissent." The following instance, from Lord Bolingbroke, is also 
 beautiful : " This decency, this grace, this propriety of manners to 
 character, is so essential to princes in particular, that, whenever it is 
 peglected, their virtues lose a great degree of lustre, and their defects 
 acquire much aggravation. Nay, more ; by neglecting this decency and 
 this grace, and for want of a sufficient regard to appearances, even their 
 virtues may betray them into failings, their failings into vices, and their 
 ^ices into habits unworthy of princes, and unworthy of men." (Idea of 
 a Patriot King.) 
 
 I must observe, however, that this sort of full ana* oratorial climax s 
 pan neither , be always obtained, nor ought to be always sought after. 
 
 * " Care must be taken, that our composition shall not fall off, and that a weaker 
 exjpassion shall pot follow one of more strength : as if, after sacrilege we should 
 brifjg In theft ; or, having mentioned a robbery, we should subjoin petulance, 
 fyf.nfmces ought always to rise and grow.'- 
 
&ECT. XII.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. H7 
 
 £>nly some kinds of writing admit such sentences ; and to study them 
 too frequently, especially if the subject require not so much pomp, is 
 affected and disagreeable. But there is something approaching to a cli- 
 max, which it is a general rule to study, ' ne decrescat oratjo,' as Quinti- 
 lian speaks, ' et ne fortiori subjungatar aliquid infirmius.' A weaker 
 assertion or proposition should never come after a stronger one : and 
 when our sentence consists ef two members, the longest should, gene- 
 rally, be the concluding one. There is a twofold reason for this last 
 direction. Periods, thus divided, are pronounced more easily ; and the 
 shortest member being placed first, we carry it more readily in our me- 
 mory as we proceed to the second, and see the connexion of the two 
 more clearly. Thus, to say, ' when our passions have forsaken us, we 
 Hatter ourselves with the belief that we have forsaken them,' is both 
 more graceful and more clear, than to begin with the longest part of the 
 proposition ; ' we flatter ourselves with the belief that we have forsaken 
 our passions, when they have forsaken us.' In general, it is always 
 agreeable to find a sentence rising upon us, and growing in its impor- 
 tance to the very last word, when this construction can be managed with- 
 out affectation or unseasonable pomp. * If we rise yet higher,' says 
 Mr. Addison, very beautifully, 4 and consider the fixed stars as so manv 
 oceans of flame, that are each of them attended with a different 
 set of planets ; and still discover new firmaments and new lights, that 
 are sunk farther in those unfathomable depths of aether : we are lost in 
 such a labyrinth of suns and worlds, and confounded with the magnify 
 cence and immensity of Nature.' (Spect. No. 420.) Hence follows 
 clearly, 
 
 A fifth rule for the strength of sentences, which is, to avoid conclu- 
 ding them with an adverb, a preposition, or any inconsiderable word. 
 Such conclusions are always enfeebling and degrading. There are sen- 
 tences indeed, where the stress and significancy rests chiefly upon some 
 words of this kind. In this case, they are not to be considered as cir- 
 cumstances, but as the capital figures ; and ought, in propriety, to have 
 4he principal place allotted them. No fault, for instance, can be found 
 with this sentence of Bolingbroke's : * in their prosperity, my friends 
 shall never hear of me ; in their adversity, always.' Where never and 
 always, being emphatical words, were to be so placed, as to make a 
 strong impression. But I speak now of those inferior parts of speech, 
 when introduced as circumstances, or as qualifications of more important 
 words. In such case they should always be disposed of in the least 
 conspicuous parts of the period ; and so classed with other words of 
 greater dignity, as to be kept in their proper secondary station. 
 
 Agreeably to this rule, we should always avoid concluding with any 
 of those particles, which mark the cases of nouns, of, to, from, witk^, 
 by. For instance, it is a great deal better to say, 'Avarice is a crime 
 of which wise men are often guilty,' than to say, ' Avarice is a crime 
 which wise men are often guilty of.' This is a Phraseology which all 
 correct writers shun, and with reason. For besides the want of dignity 
 which arises from those monosyllables at the end, the imagination can- 
 not avoid resting, for a little, on the import of the word which closes the 
 sentence : and as those prepositions have no import of their own, but 
 only serve to point out the relations of other words, it is disagreeable 
 for the mind to be left pausing on a word, which does not, by itself, pro- 
 duce any idea, nor form any picture in the fancy. 
 
*J 1$ STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XII 
 
 For the same reason, verbs which are used in a compound sense, with 
 some of these prepositions, are, though not so bad, yet still not so beau- 
 tiful conclusions of a period ; such as, bring about, lay hold of, come over 
 to, char up, and many other of this kind ; instead of which, if we can 
 employ a simple verb, it always terminates the sentence with more 
 strength. Even the pronoun it, though it has the import of a substantive 
 noun, and indeed often forces itself upon us unavoidably, j^et, when we 
 want to give dignity to a sentence, should, if possible, be avoided in the 
 conclusion ; more especially, when it is joined with some of the prepo- 
 sitions, as, with it, in it, to it. In the following sentence of the Spectator, 
 which otherwise is abundantly noble, the bad effect of this close is sensi- 
 ble ; ' There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and triumphant con- 
 sideration in religion, than this, of the perpetual progress which the 
 soul makes towards the perfection of its nature, without ever arriving at 
 a period in it.' (No. 111.) How much more graceful the sentence, if 
 it had been so constructed as to close with the word, period. 
 
 Besides particles and pronouns, any phrase which expresses a circum- 
 stance only, always brings up the rear of a sentence with a bad grace. 
 We may judge of this, by the following sentence from Lord Bolingbroke: 
 (Letter on the State of Parties at the Accession of King George I.) 
 ' Let me, therefore, conclude by repeating, that division has caused all 
 the mischief we lament; that union alone can retrieve it ; and that a great 
 advance towards this union, was the coalition of parties, so happily 
 begun, so successfully carried on, and of late so unaccountably neglected; 
 to say no worse.' This last phrase, to say no worse, occasions a sad 
 falling off at the end ; so much the more unhappy, as the rest of the 
 period is conducted after the manner of a climax, which we expect to 
 find growing to the last. 
 
 The proper disposition of such circumstances in a sentence, is often 
 attended with considerable trouble, in order to adjust them so, as shall 
 consist equally with the perspicuity and the grace of the period. Though 
 necessary parts, they are, however, like unshapely stones in a building, 
 which try the skill of an artist, where to place them with the least of- 
 fence. * Jungantur,' says Quintilian, 'quo congruunt maxime ; sicut in 
 structura saxorum rudium, etiam ipsa enormitas invenit cui applicari, et 
 in quo possit insistere.'* 
 
 The close is always an unsuitable place for them. When the sense 
 admits it, the sooner they are despatched, generally speaking, the better; 
 that the more important and significant words may possess the last place, 
 quite disencumbered. It is a rule, too, never to crowd too many cir- 
 cumstances together, but rather to intersperse them in different parts of 
 the sentence, joined with the capital words on which they depend ; pro- 
 vided that care be taken, as I before directed, not to clog those capital 
 words with them. For instance, when Dean Swift says, ' What I had 
 the honour of mentioning to your Lordship, some time ago, in conversa- 
 tion, was not a new thought.' (Letter to the Earl of Oxford.) These 
 two circumstances, some time ago, and in conversation, which are here 
 put together, would have had a better effect disjoined thus : * What I 
 bad the honour, sometime ago, of mentioning to your Lordship in con- 
 
 * " Let them be inserted wherever the happiest place for them can be found ; as 
 in a structure composed of rough stones, there are always places where the mos.t 
 irregular and unshapely may find some adjacent one to which it can be joined, and 
 some basis on which it may rest.'' 
 
LECT. XII.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 219 
 
 versation.' And in the following sentence of Lord Bolingbroke's ; 
 (Remarks on the History of England.) 'A monarchy, limited like ours 7 
 may be placed, for ought I know, as it has been often represented, just 
 in the middle point, from whence a deviation leads, on the one hand, to 
 tyranny, and on the other, to anarchy/ The arrangement would have 
 been happier thus; ' A monarchy, limited like ours, may, foF aught I 
 know, be placed, as it has often been represented, just in the middle 
 point,' &c. 
 
 I shall give only one rule more, relating to the strength of a sentence, 
 which is, that in the members of a sentence, where two things are com- 
 pared or contrasted to one another : where either a resemblance or an 
 opposition is intended to be expressed, some resemblance, in the lan- 
 guage and construction, should be preserved. For when the things 
 themselves correspond to each other, we naturally expect to find the 
 words corresponding too. We are disappointed when it is otherwise ; 
 and the comparison, or contrast, appears more imperfect. Thus, when 
 Lord Bolingbroke says, 'The laughers will be for those who have most 
 wit; the serious part of mankind, for those who have most reason on their 
 side ;' (Dissert, on Parties, Pref.) the opposition would have been more 
 complete, if he had said, ' The laughers will be for those who have most 
 wit ; the serious, for those who have most reason on their side.' 
 
 The following passage from Mr. Pope's preface to his Homer, fully 
 exemplifies the rule I am now giving : ' Homer was the greater genius; 
 Virgil, the better artist : in the one, we most admire the man ; in the 
 other, the work. Homer hurries us with a commanding impetuosity 5 
 Virgil leads us with an attractive majesty. Homer, scatters with a gen- 
 erous profusion ; Virgil bestows with a careful magnificence. Homer, 
 like the Nile, pours out his riches with a sudden overflow ; Virgil, like 
 a river in its banks, with a constant stream. And when we look upon 
 their machines, Homer seems like his own Jupiter, in his terrors, shaking 
 Olympus, scattering the lightnings, and firing the heavens ; Virgil, like 
 the same power, in his benevolence, counselling with the gods, laying 
 plans for empires, and ordering his whole creation.' Periods thus con- 
 structed, when introduced with propriety, and not returning too often, 
 have a sensible beauty. But we must beware of carrying our attention 
 to this beauty too far. It ought only to be occasionally studied, when 
 comparison or opposition of objects naturally leads to it. If such a con- 
 struction as this be aimed at in all our sentences, it leads to a disagree- 
 able uniformity ; produces a regularly returning clink in the period, 
 which tires the ear ; and plainly discovers affectation. Among the an- 
 cients, the style of Isocrates is faulty in this respect ; and, on that ac- 
 count, by some of their best critics, particularly by Dionysius of Hali- 
 carnassus, he is severely censured. 
 
 This finishes what 1 had to say concerning sentences, considered, with 
 respect to their meaning, under the three heads of perspicuity, unity, 
 and strength. It is a subject on which I have insisted fully, for two rea- 
 sons: First, because it is a subject, which, by its nature, can be rendered 
 more didactic, and subjected more to precise rule, than many other sub- 
 jects of criticism ; and next, because it appears to me of considerable im- 
 portance and use. 
 
 For though many of these attentions which I have been recommend- 
 ing, may appear minute, yet their effect, upon writing and style, is much 
 greater than might, at first, be imagined. A sentiment which is express 
 
\20 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LE(Cf . Kill 
 
 ed in a period, clearly, neatly, and happily arranged, makes always a 
 stronger impression on the mind, than one that is feeble or embarrassed., 
 Every one feels this upon a comparison : and if the effect be sensible 
 in one sentence, how much more in a whole discourse, or composition, 
 that is made up of such sentences ? 
 
 The fundamental rule of the construction of sentences, and into which: 
 all others might be resolved, undoubtedly is, to communicate, in the 
 clearest and most natural order, the ideas which we mean to transfuse 
 into the minds of others. Every arrangement that does most justice 
 to the sense, and expresses it to most advantage, strikes us as beautiful. 
 To this point have tended all the rules I have given. And, indeed, did 
 men always think clearly, and were they, at the same time, fully mas- 
 ters of the language in which they write, there would be occasion for 
 few rules. Their sentences would then, of course, acquire all those 
 properties of precision, unity, and strength, which I have recommended. 
 For we may rest assured, that whenever we express ourselves ill, there 
 is besides the mismanagement of language, for the most part, some mis- 
 take in our manner of conceiving the subject. Embarrassed, obscure, 
 and feeble sentences, are generally, if not always, the result of embar- 
 rassed, obscure, and feeble thought. Thought and language act and re- 
 act upon each other mutually. Logic and rhetoric have here, as in 
 many other cases, a strict connexion ; and he that is learning to arrange 
 his sentences with accuracy and order, is learning, at the same time, to 
 think with accuracy and order ; an observation which alone will justify 
 all the care and attention we have bestowed on this subject. 
 
 LECTURE XIII 
 
 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES.— HARMONY. 
 
 Hitherto we have considered sentences, with respect to their meao^ 
 Ing, under the heads of perspicuity, unity, and strength. We are now 
 to consider them, with respect to their sound, their harmony, or agree- 
 ableness to the ear ; which was the last quality belonging to them that I 
 proposed to treat of. 
 
 Sound is a quality much inferior to sense ; yet such as must not be dis- 
 regarded. For as long as sounds are the vehicle of conveyance for 
 our ideas, there will be always a very considerable connexion be- 
 tween the idea which is conveyed, and the nature of the sound which 
 conveys it. Pleasing ideas can hardly be transmitted to the mind, by 
 means of harsh and disagreeable sounds. The imagination revolts as soon 
 as it hears them uttered. ' Nihil,' says Quintilian, * potest intrare in 
 affectum, in aure, velut quodam vestibulo, statim offendit.'* Music has 
 naturally a great power over all men to prompt and facilitate certain emo- 
 tions ; insomuch that there are hardly any dispositions, which we wish 
 to raise in others, but certain sounds may be found concordant to those 
 
 * « Nothing can enter into the affections which stumbles at the threshold, by ofc 
 tending the eai\' 
 
L-ECT. XIII.] HARMONY OF SENTENCED, 121 
 
 dispositions, ami tending to promote them. Now, language may, in some 
 degree, be rendered capable of this power of music ; a circumstance 
 which must needs heighten our idea of language as a wonderful inven- 
 tion. Not content with simply interpreting our ideas to others, it can 
 give them those ideas enforced by corresponding sounds ; and, to the 
 pleasure of communicating thought, can add the new and separate plea- 
 sure of melody. 
 
 In the harmony of periods, two things may be considered. First, 
 agreeable sound, or modulation in general, without any particular ex- 
 pression : Next, the sound so ordered, as to become expressive of the 
 sense. The first is the more common ; the second the higher beauty. 
 
 First, let us consider agreeable sound, in general, as the property of 
 a well-constructed sentence : and, as it was of prose sentences we have 
 hitherto treated, we shall confine ourselves to them under this head. 
 This beauty of musical construction in prose, it is plain, will depend 
 upon two things ; the choice of words, and the arrangement of them. 
 
 I begin with the choice of words ; on which head, there is not much 
 to be said, unless I were to descend into a tedious and frivolous detail 
 concerning the powers of the several letters, or simple sounds, of which 
 speech is composed. It is evident, that words are most agreeable to the 
 ear which are composed of smooth and liquid sounds, w r here there is a 
 proper intermixture of vowels and consonants ; without too many harsh 
 consonants rubbing against each other ; or too many open vowels in sue* 
 cession, to cause a hiatus, or disagreeable aperture of the mouth. It 
 may always be assumed as a principle, that whatever sounds are difficult 
 in pronunciation, are, in the same proportion, harsh and painful to the 
 ear. Vowels give softness ; consonants strengthen the sound of words. 
 The music of language requires a just proportion of both ; and will 
 be hurt, will be rendered either grating or effeminate by an excess of 
 either. Long words are commonly more agreeable to the ear than mo- 
 nosyllables. They please it by the composition, or succession of sounds 
 which they present to it : and accordingly the most musical languages 
 abound most in them. Among words of any length, those are the most 
 musical, which do not run wholly either upon long or short syllables, 
 but are composed of an intermixture of them ; such as repent, produce , 
 velocity, celerity, independent, impetuosity, i 
 
 The next head, respecting the harmony which results from a proper 
 arrangemant of the words and members of a period, is more complex, 
 and of greater nicety. For, let the words themselves be ever so well 
 chosen, and well sounding, yet, if they be ill-disposed, the music of the 
 sentence is utterly lost. In the harmonious structure and disposition of 
 periods, no writer whatever, ancient or modern, equals Cicero. He had 
 studied this with care ; and was fond, perhaps to excess, of what he calls 
 the " Plena ac numerosa oratio." We need only open his writings to 
 find instances that will render the effect of musical language sensible to 
 every ear. What, for example, can be more full, round, and swelling, 
 than the following sentence of the 4th Oration against Catiline ? " Co- 
 gitate quantis laboribus fundatum imperium, quanta virtute stabilitam li« 
 bertatem, quanta Deorum benignitate auctas exaggeratasque fortunas, 
 una nox pene delerit." In English, we may take, for an instance of a 
 musical sentence, the following from Milton, in his treatise on Educa- 
 tion : " We shall conduct you to a hill-side, laborious indeed, at the first 
 ascent ; but else, so smooth, so green, so full of goodly prospects, and 
 
 Q. 
 
12a HARMONY OF SENTENCE?, [LECT. X1H, 
 
 melodious sounds on every side, that the harp of Orpheus was not more 
 charming." Every thing in this sentence conspires to promote the har- 
 mony. The words are happily chosen ; full of liquid and soft sounds ; 
 laborious, smooth, green, goodly, melodious, charming : and these words 
 so artfully arranged, that were we to alter the collocation of any one of 
 them, we should, presently, be sensible of the melody suffering. For, 
 let us observe, how finely the members of the period swell one above 
 auother. *' So smooth, so green," — " so full of goodly prospects, and 
 melodious sounds on every side ;" — till the ear, prepared by this gradual 
 rise, is conducted to that full close on which it rests with pleasure ; — 
 -''* that the harp of Orpheus was not more charming." 
 
 The structure of periods, then, being susceptible of a melody very 
 sensible to the ear, our next inquiry should be, how this melodious struc- 
 ture is formed, what are the principles of it, by what laws is it regulated? 
 And, upon this subject, were I to follow the ancient rhetoricians, it would 
 be easy to give a great variety of rules. For here they have entered into 
 a minute and particular detail ; more particular, indeed, than on any 
 other head that regards language. They hold, that to prose as well as to 
 verse, there belong certain numbers, less strict, indeed, yet such as can 
 be ascertained by rule. They go so far as to specify the feet as they are 
 called, that is, the succession of long and short syllables, which should 
 enter into the different members of a sentence, and to show what the ef- 
 fect of each of these will be* Wherever they treat of the structure of 
 sentences, it is always the music of them that makes the principal object, 
 Cicero and Quintilian are full of this. The other qualities of precision,* 
 unity, and strength, which we consider as of chief importance, they 
 handle slightly ; but when they come to the "junctures, et numerus" the 
 modulation and harmony, there they are copious. Dionysius of Hali- 
 carnassus, one of the most judicious critics of antiquity, has written a 
 treatise on the Composition of Words in a Sentence, which is altogether 
 confined to their musical effect. He makes the excellency of a sentence 
 to consist in four things ; first, in the sweetness of single sounds ; se- 
 condly, in the composition of sounds, that is, the numbers or feet ; third- 
 ly, in change or variety of sound ; and fourthly, in sound suited to the 
 sense. On all these points he writes with great accuracy and refine- 
 ment ; and is very worthy of being consulted ; though were one now to 
 write a book on the structure of sentences, we should expect to find the 
 subject treated of in a more extensive manner. 
 
 In modern times, this whole subject of the musical structure of dis- 
 course, it is plain, has been much less studied ; and indeed, for several 
 reasons, can be much less subjected to rule. The reasons, it will be ne- 
 cessary to give, both to justify my not following the tract of the ancient 
 rbe oricians on this subject, and to show how it has come to pass, that a 
 part of composition, which once made so conspicuous a figure, now 
 drawls much less attention. 
 
 In the first place, the ancient languages, I mean the Greek and the Ro- 
 man, were much more susceptible than ours, of the graces, and the 
 powers of melody. The quantities of their syllables were more fixed 
 and determined ; their words were longer and more sonorous; their 
 method of varying the terminations of nouns and verbs, both introduced 
 a greater variety of liquid sounds and freed them from that multiplicity 
 of little auxiliary words which we are obliged to employ ; and, what is 
 of the greatest consequence, the inversions which their languages allow 
 
fcECr. XIII.] HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 12;> 
 
 ed, gave them the power of placing their words in whatever order was 
 mosr suited to a musical arrangement. All these were great advantages 
 which they enjoyed above us, for harmony of period. 
 
 In the next place, the Greeks and Romans, the former especially, 
 were, in truth, much more musical nations than we ; their genius was 
 more turned to delight in the melody of speech. Music is known t© 
 have been a more extensive art among them than it is with us ; more 
 universally studied, and applied to a greater variety of objects. Several 
 learned men, particularly the Abbe du Bos, in his Reflections on Poetry 
 and Painting, have clearly proved, that the theatrical compositions of the 
 ancients, both their tragedies and comedies, were set to a kind of music. 
 Whence the modus fecit, and the tibiis dextris et sinistris, prefixed to the 
 editions of Terence's plays. All sort of declamation and public speak- 
 ing, was carried on by them in a much more musical tone than it is among 
 us. It approached to a kind of chanting or recitative. Among the Athe- 
 nians, there was what was called the Nomic melody ; or a particular mea- 
 sure prescribed to the public officers, in which they were to promulgate 
 the laws to the people ; lest, by reading them with improper tones, the 
 laws might be exposed to contempt. Among the Romans, there is a noted 
 story of C. Gracchus, when he was declaiming in public having a musi- 
 cian standing at his back, in order to give him the proper tones with a pipe 
 or flute. Even when pronouncing those terrible tribunitial harangues, by 
 which he inflamed the one half of the citizens of Rome against the other - 
 this attention to the music of speech was, in those times, it seems,, 
 thought necessary to success. Quintilian, though he condemns the ex- 
 cess of this sort of pronunciation, yet allows a "■ cantus obscurior" to be 
 a beauty in a public speaker. Hence, that variety of accents, acute, 
 grave, and circumflex, which we find marked upon the Greek syllables, 
 to express not the quantity of them, but the tone in which they were to 
 be spoken ; the application of which is now wholly unknown to us. And 
 though the Romans did not mark those accents in their writing, yet it ap- 
 pears from Quintilian, that they used them in pronunciation : " Quant am 
 quale" says he, " comparantes gravi, interrogates acuto tenore conclu- 
 dunt." As music then was an object much more attended to in speech, 
 among the Greeks and Romans than it is with us ; as, in all kinds of pub- 
 lic speaking, they employed a much greater variety of notes, of tones or 
 inflections of voice, than we use ; this is one clear reason of their paying 
 a greater attention to that construction of sentences, which might best 
 suit this musical pronunciation. 
 
 It is farther known, that, in consequence of the genius of their lan- 
 guages, and of their manner of pronouncing them, the musical arrange- 
 ment of sentences, did, in fact, produce a greater effect in public speak- 
 ing among them, than it could possibty do in any modern oration ; ano- 
 ther reason why it deserved to be more studied. Cicero, in his treatise, 
 entitled, Orator, tells us, "Conciones siepe exclamare vidi, cum verba 
 apte cecidissent. Id enim expectant aures."* And he gives a remarka- 
 ble instance of the effect of a harmonious period upon a whole assem- 
 bly, from a sentence of one of Carbo's orations, spoken in his hearing. 
 The sentence was, " Patris dictum sapiens temeritatistiiii comprobravir." 
 By means of the sound of which, alone, he tells us, " Tantus clamor con- 
 
 * .." I have often been witness to bursts of exclamation in the public assemblies, 
 when sentences closed musically : for that is a pleasure which the ear expects." 
 
124 HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XIIL 
 
 cionis excitatus est, ut prorsus admirabile esset." He makes us remark 
 the feet of which these words consist, to which he ascribes the power of 
 the melody ; and shows how, by altering the collocation, the whole ef- 
 fect would be lost ; as thus : ** patris dictum sapiens comprobravit teme- 
 ritas filii." Now though it be true that Carbo's sentence is extremely 
 musical, and would be agreeable, at this day, to an audience, yet I can- 
 not believe that an English sentence, equally harmonious, would, by its 
 harmony alone, produce any such effect on a British audience, or excite 
 any such wonderful applause and admiration, as Cicero informs us this of 
 Carbo produced. Our northern ears are too coarse and obtuse. The 
 melody of speech has less power over us ; and by our simpler and plainer 
 method of uttering words, speech is, in truth, accompanied with less 
 melody than it was among the Greeks and Romans.* 
 
 For these reasons, I am of opinion, that it is vain to thjnk of bestowing 
 the same attention upon the harmonious structure of our sentences, that 
 was bestowed by these ancient nations. The doctrine of the Greek and 
 Roman critics, on this head, has misled some to imagine, that it might be 
 equally applied to our tongue ; and that our prose writing might be re- 
 gulated by spondees and trochees, and iambuses and paeons, and other 
 metrical feet. But first, our words cannot be measured, or, at least, can 
 be measured, very imperfectly by any feet of this kind. For the quantity, 
 the length and shortness of our syllables, is not, by any means, so fixed 
 and subjected to rule, as in the Greek and Roman tongues ; but very 
 often left arbitrary, and determined by the emphasis, and the sense. 
 Next, though our prose could admit of such metrical regulation, yet 
 from our plainer method of pronouncing all sorts of discourse the effect 
 would not be at all so sensible to the ear, nor be relished with so much 
 pleasure, as among the Greeks and Romans : and, lastly, this whole doc- 
 trine about the measures and numbers of prose, even as it is delivered 
 by the ancient rhetoricians themselves, is, in truth, in a great measure, 
 loose and uncertain. It appears, indeed, that the melody of discourse 
 was a master of infinitely more attention to them, than ever it has been 
 to the moderns. But, though they write a great deal about it, they have 
 never been able to reduce it to any rules which could be of real use in 
 practice. If we consult Cicero's Orator, where this point is discussed 
 with the most minuteness, we shall see how much these ancient critics dif- 
 fered from one another, about the feet proper for the conclusion, and 
 other parts of a sentence ; and how much, after all, was left to the judg- 
 ment of the ear. Nor, indeed is it possible to give precise rules con- 
 cerning this matter, in any language ; as all prose composition must be 
 allowed to run loose in its numbers ; and according as the tenour of a dis- 
 course varies, the modulation of sentences must vary infinitely. 
 
 But, although I apprehend, that this musical arrangement cannot be 
 reduced into a system, I am far from thinking that it is a quality to be 
 neglected in composition. On the contrary, 1 hold its effect to be very 
 considerable ; and that every one who studies to write with grace, much 
 more, who seeks to pronounce in public, with success, will be obliged to 
 attend to it not a little. But it is his ear, cultivated by attention and prac- 
 
 * 'In versu quidem, theaira tota exclarnant si fuit una syllaba aut brevioraut Ion- 
 gior. Nee vero multitude pedes novit. nee ullos numeros tenet ; nee illud quod oi- 
 fendit, aut cur, aut in quo offendat intelligit ; et tatneti omnium longitudinuni et 
 breviutum in souis sicut acutarum, graviumque vocum, judicium ipsa natura in 
 aurjbus noslris coliocavlt,' Cicero. Orator, c. 51. 
 
LECT. XIII.] HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 1&5 
 
 tice, that must chiefly direct him. For any rules that can be given, on 
 this subject, are very general. Some rules, however, there are, which 
 may be of use to form the ear to the proper harmony of discourse. I 
 proceed to mention such as appear to me most material. 
 
 There are two things on which the music of a sentence chiefly depends. 
 These are the proper distribution of the several members of it ; and, 
 the close or cadence of the whole. 
 
 First, I say, the distribution of the several members is to be carefully 
 attended to. It is of importance to observe, that whatever is easy and 
 agreeable to the organs of speech, always sounds grateful to the ear. 
 While a period is going on, the termination of each of its members forms 
 a pause or rest, in pronouncing : and these rests, should be so distributed 
 as to make the course of the breathing easy, and, at the same time, should 
 fall at such distances, as to bear a certain musical proportion to each 
 other. This will be best illustrated by examples. The following sen- 
 tence is from Archbishop Tillotson : " This discourse concerning the 
 easiness of God's commands, does, all along, suppose and acknowledge 
 the difficulties of the first entrance upon a religious course : except only 
 in those persons who have had the happiness to be trained up to religion 
 by the easy and insensible degrees of a pious and virtuous education." 
 Here there is no harmony ; nay, there is some degree of harshness and 
 unpleasantness ; owing principally to this, that there is, properly, no 
 more than one pause or rest in the sentence, falling betwixt the two 
 members into which it is divided, each of which is so long as to occasion 
 a considerable stretch of the breath in pronouncing it. 
 
 Observe, now, on the other hand, the ease with which the following sen- 
 tence, from Sir William Temple, glides along, and the graceful intervals 
 at which the pauses are placed. He is speaking sarcastically of man : 
 " But, God be thanked, his pride is greater than his ignorance, and what 
 he wants in knowledge, he supplies by sufficiency. When he has looked 
 about him, as far as he can, he concludes there is no more to be seen ; 
 when he is at the end of his line, he is at the bottom of the ocean ; when 
 he has shot his best, he is sure none ever did, or ever can, shoot better, 
 or beyond it. His own reason he holds to be the certain measure of 
 truth ; and his own knowledge, of what is possible in nuture."*' Here 
 every thing is, at once, easy to the breath, and grateful to the ear ; and, 
 it is this sort of flowing measure, this regular and proportional division of 
 the members of his sentences, which renders Sir William Temple's style 
 always agreeable. I must observe at the same time that a sentence,, 
 with too many rests, and these placed at intervals too apparently mea- 
 sured and regular, is apt to savour of affectation. 
 
 The next thing to be attended to, is, the close or cadence of the whole 
 sentence, which, as it is always the part most sensible to the ear, de- 
 mands the greatest care. So Quintilian ; u Non igi'ur durum sit, 
 
 * On Ibis instance. He is addressing himself to lady Essex, upon the death of her 
 child : '• I was once in hope that what was so violent could not be long : but. when I 
 observed your grief to %row stronger with age, and to increase, like a stream, the 
 fartherit ran ; when I saw it draw outtO Such unhappy consequences, and to threaten, 
 no les- man your child, your aeiith, aid your life, I could no longer forbear this 
 endeavour, nor end it without begging of you for God's sake and for your own, for 
 your children and your friends, y6ur country and your family, that you would -no 
 longer abandon yourself to a disconsolate pa-sion ; but that you would at length 
 awaken your piety, give way to your prudence, or, at least, rouse the invincible 
 spirit of the Perceys, that never yet shrunk at any disaster.' 
 
120 HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XIIL 
 
 neque abruptum, quo animi, velut, respiFant ac reficiuntur. Hasc est 
 series orationis ; hoc auditor expectat ; hie laus oranis declamat."* The 
 only important rule that can be given here, is, that when we aim at dignity 
 or elevation, the sound should be made to grow to the last ; the longest 
 members of the period, and the fullest and most sonorous words, should 
 be reserved to the conclusion. As an example of this, the following 
 sentence of Mr. Addison's may be given : " It fills the mind (speaking of 
 sight) with the largest variety of ideas ; converses with its objects at 
 the greatest distance ; and continues the longest in action, without being 
 tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments." Every reader must be 
 sensible of a beauty here, both in the proper division of the members 
 and pauses, and the manner in which the sentence is rounded, and con- 
 ducted to a full and harmonious close. 
 
 The same holds in melody, that I observed to take place with respect 
 to significancy : that a falling off at the end, always hurts greatly. For 
 this reason, particles, pronouns, and little words, are as ungracious to 
 the ear, at the conclusion, as I formerly showed they were inconsistent 
 with strength of expression. It is more than probable, that the sense 
 and the sound have here a mutual influence on each other. That which 
 hurts the ear seems to mar the strength of the meaning : and that 
 which really degrades the sense, in consequence of this primary effect, 
 appears also to have a bad sound. How disagreeable is the following 
 sentence of an author, speaking of the Trinity ! " It is a mystery which 
 we firmly believe the truth of, and humbly adore the depth of." And how 
 easily might it have been mended by this transposition ! " It is a mystery, 
 the truth of which we firmly believe, and the depth of which we 
 humbly adore." In general it seems to hold, that a musical close, in our 
 language, requires either the last syllable, or the penult, that is, the last 
 but one, to be a long; syllable. Words which consist mostly of short syl- 
 lables, as, contrary, particular, retrospect, seldom conclude a sentence 
 harmoniously, unless a run of long syllables, before has rendered them 
 agreeable to the ear. 
 
 It is necessary, however, to observe, that sentences so constructed as 
 to make the sound always swell and grow towards the end, and to rest, 
 either on a long or a penult long syllable, give a discourse the tone of 
 declamation. The ear soon becomes acquainted with the melody, and 
 is apt to be cloyed with it. If we would keep up the attention of the 
 reader or hearer, if we would preserve vivacity and strength in our com- 
 position, we must be very attentive to vary our measures. This regards 
 the distribution of the members, as well as the cadence of the period. 
 Sentences constructed in a similar mariner, with the pauses falling at equal 
 intervals, should never follow one another. Short sentences should be 
 intermixed with long and swelling ones, to render discourse sprightly, as 
 well as magnificent. Even discords, properly introduced, abrupt sounds, 
 departures from regular cadence, have sometimes a good effect. Mono- 
 tony is a great fault into which writers are apt to fall, who are fond of 
 harmonious arrangement : and to have only one tune, or measure, is not 
 much better than having none at all. A very vulgar ear w 7 ill enable a 
 writer to catch some one melody, and to form the run of his sentences 
 
 * ' Let there be nothing harsh or abrupt in the conclusion of the sentence, on 
 which the mind pauses and rests. This is the most material part in the structure of 
 discourse. Here every hearer expects to be gratified ; here his applause breaks forth." 
 
iiiSCT. XIII.] HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 127 
 
 according to it ; which soon proves disgusting. But a just, a correct ear 
 is requisite for varying and diversifying the melody ; and hence we so 
 seldom meet with authors, who are remarkably happy in this respect. 
 f Though attention to the music of sentences must not be neglected, yet 
 it must also be kept within proper bounds : for all appearances of an au- 
 thor's affecting harmony, are disagreeable : especially when the love of 
 it betrays him so far, as to sacrifice, in any instance, perspicuity, preci- 
 sion, or strength of sentiment, to' sound. All unmeaning words, intro- 
 duced merely to round the period, or fill up the melody, complement a 
 numerorum, as Cicero calls them, are great blemishes in writing. They 
 are childish and puerile ornaments, by which a sentence always loses 
 more in point of weight, than it can gain by such additions to the beauty 
 of its sound. Sense has its own harmony, as well as sound ; and, where 
 the sense of a period is expressed with clearness, force, and dignity, it 
 will seldom happen but the words will strike the ear agreeably; at least ? 
 a very moderate attention is all that is requisite for making the cadence 
 of such a period pleasing : and the effect of greater attention is often no 
 other, than to render composition languid and enervated. After all the la- 
 bour which Quintilian bestows on regulating the measures of prose, he 
 comes at last, with his usual good sense, to this conclusion : ' In univer- 
 sum, si sit necesse, duram potius atque asperam compositionem malim es- 
 se, quam effeminatam ac enervem, qualts apud multos. Ideoque, vincta 
 quaedam de industria sunt solvenda, ne laborata videantur ; neque ullum 
 idoneum aut aptum verbum pragtermittamus, gratia lenitatis.*(Lib.ix.c.4.) 
 
 Cicero, as I before observed, is one of the most remarkable patterns 
 of a harmonious style. His love of it, however, is too visible ; and the 
 pomp of his numbers sometimes detracts from his strength. The noted 
 close of his, essevideatur, which, in the Oration Pro Lege Manilia, occurs 
 eleven times, exposed him to censure among his contemporaries. We 
 must observe, however, in defence of this great orator, that there is a 
 remarkable union, in his style, of harmony with ease, which is always a 
 great beauty ; and if his harmony be studied, that study appears to 
 have cost him little trouble. 
 
 Among our English classics, not many are distinguished for musical 
 arrangement. Milton, in some of his prose works, has very finery 
 turned periods ; but the writers of his age indulged a liberty of inver- 
 sion, which now would be reckoned contrary to purity of style ; and 
 though this allowed their sentences to be more stately and sonorous, yet 
 it gave them too much of a Latinised construction and order. Of later 
 writers, Shaftesbury is, upon the whole, the most correct in his numbers- 
 As his ear was delicate, he has attended to music in all his sentences ; 
 and he is peculiarly happy in this respect, that he has avoided the mo- 
 notony into which writers, who study the grace of sound, are very apt 
 to fall ; having diversified his periods with great variety. Mr. Addison 
 has also much harmony in his style ; more easy and smooth, but less va- 
 ried, than Lord Shaftesbury. Sir William Temple is, in general, very 
 flowing and agreeable. Archbishop Tillotson is too often careless and 
 
 * 'Upon the whole,! would rather choose, that composition should appear rough 
 and harsh, if that be necessary, than that it should be enervated and effeminate such 
 as we find the style of too many. Some sentences, therefore, which we have studi- 
 ously formed into melody, should be thrown loose, that they may not seem too much 
 laboured : nor ought we ever to omit any proper or expressive word, for the sake 
 of smoothing a period.' 
 
128 HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XW 
 
 languid ; and is much outdone by Bishop Atterbury in the music of his 
 periods. Dean Swift despised musical arrangement altogether. 
 
 Hitherto I have discoursed of agreeable sound, or modulation, in 
 general. It yet remains to treat of a higher beauty of this kind ; the 
 sound adapted to the sense. The former was no more than a simple 
 accompaniment, to please the ear ; the latter supposes a peculiar ex- 
 pression given to the music. We may remark two degrees of it : First,, 
 the current of sound, adapted to the tenour of a discourse; next, to a par- 
 ticular resemblance effected between some object, and the sounds that 
 are employed in describing it. 
 
 First, I say, the current of sound may be adapted to the tenour of a 
 discourse. Sounds have, in many respects, a correspondence with our 
 ideas; partly natural, partly the effect of artificial associations. Hence 
 it happens, that any one modulation of sound continued, imprints on our 
 style a certain character and expression. Sentences constructed with 
 the Ciceronian fulness and swell, produce the impression of what is im- 
 portant, magnificent, sedate ; for this is the natural tone which such a 
 course of sentiment assumes. But they suit no violent passion, no eager 
 reasoning, no familiar address. These always require measures 
 brisker, easier, and often more abrupt. And, therefore, to swell, or to 
 let down the periods, as the subject demands, is a very important rule 
 in oratory. No one tenour whatever, supposing it to produce no bad effect 
 from satiety, will answer to all different compositions ; nor even to all 
 the parts of the same composition. It were as absurd to write a panegy- 
 ric, and an invective, in a style of the same cadence, as to set the words 
 of a tender love song to the air of a warLke march. 
 
 Observe, how finely the following sentence of Cicero is adapted 
 to represent the tranquillity and ease of a satisfied state. ' Etsi homini 
 nihil est ma^is optandum qu improspera, aequabdis, perpetuaque fortuna, 
 secundo vitse sine ulla offensione cursu ; tamen, si mihi tranquilla et 
 placata omnia fuissent incredibili quadam et pene divina, qua nunc 
 vestro beneficio fruor, lastitise voluptate caruissem.'* Nothing was ever 
 more perfect in its kind : it paints, if we may so speak, to the ear. 
 But who would not have laughed, if Cicero had employed such periods, 
 or such a cadence as this, in inveighing against Mirk Antony, or Cata- 
 line? What is requisite, therefore, is, that we previously fix, in our 
 mind, a just idea of the general tone of sound which suits our subject ; 
 that is, which the sentiments we are to express most naturally assume, 
 and in which they most commonly vent themselves ; whether round or 
 smooth, or stately and solemn, or brisk and quick, or interrupted and 
 abrupt. This general idea must direct the modulation of our periods ; 
 to speak in the style of music, must give us the key note, must form the 
 ground of the melody ; varied and diversified in parts, according a$ 
 either our sentiments are diversified, or as is requisite for producing a 
 suitable variety to gratify the ear. 
 
 It may be proper to remark, that our translators of the Bible have 
 often been happy in suiting their numbers to the subject. Grave, 
 solemn, and majestic subjects undoubtedly require such an arrangement 
 of words as runs much on long syllables ; and, particularly, they require 
 the close to rest upon such. The very first verses of the Bible, are 
 remarkable for this melody ; ' In the beginning, God created the heavens 
 
 * Oral, ad Quiriteis, post Reditom. 
 
LECT. XIH.ij HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 129 
 
 and the earth ; and the earth was without form and void ; and darkness 
 was upon tbe face of the deep ; and the Spirit of God moved upon the 
 face of the waters." Several other passages, particularly some of the 
 Psalms, afford striking examples of this sort of grave, melodious con- 
 struction. Any composition that rises considerably above the ordinary 
 tone of prose, such as monumental inscriptions, and panegyrical charac- 
 ters, naturally runs into numbers of this kind. 
 
 But, in the next place, besides the general correspondence of the 
 current of sound with the current of thought, there may be a more 
 particular expression attempted, of certain objects, by means of resem- 
 bling sounds. This can be, sometimes, accomplished in prose composi- 
 tion ; but there only in a more faint degree ; nor is it so much expected 
 there. In poetry, chiefly, it is looked for ; where attention to sound 
 is more demanded, and where the inversions and liberties of poetical 
 style give us a greater command of sound ; assisted, too, by theversifi- 
 cation, and that cantus obscurior, to which we are naturally led in read- 
 ing poetry. This requires a little more illustration. 
 
 The sounds of words may be employed for representing, chiefly,, 
 three classes of objects ; first, other sounds ; secondly, motion j and 
 thirdly, the emotions and passions of the mind. 
 
 First, I say, by a proper choice of words, we may produce a resem- 
 blance of other sounds which we mean to describe, such as, the noise of 
 waters, the roaring of winds, or the murmuring of streams. This is 
 the simplest instance of this sort of beauty. For the medium through 
 which we imitate here is a natural one ; sounds represented by other 
 sounds ; and between ideas of the same sense, it is easy to form a con- 
 nexion. No very great art is required in a poet, when he is describ- 
 ing sweet and soft sounds, to make use of such words as have most li- 
 quids and vowels, and glide the softest ; or, when he is describing harsh 
 sounds, to throw together a number of harsh syllables, which are of 
 difficult pronunciation. Here the common structure of language assists 
 him ; for it will be found, that in most languages, the names of many 
 particular sounds are so formed, as to carry some affinity to the sound 
 which they signify ; as with us, the whistling of winds, the buzz and /mm 
 of insects, the hiss of serpents, the crash of falling timber ; and many 
 other instances, where the word has been plainly framed upon the 
 sound it represents. I shall produce a remarkable example of this 
 beauty from Milton, taken from two passages in Paradise Lost, describ- 
 ing the sound made, in the one, by the opening of the gates of hell ; in 
 the other, by the opening of those of heaven. The contrast between 
 the two displays, to great advantage, the poet's art. The first is the 
 opening of hell's gates : 
 
 On a sudden open fly, 
 
 With impetuous recoil, and jarring sound 
 
 Th' infernal doors ; and on their hinges grate 
 
 Harsh thunder. B, j, 
 
 Observe, now, the smoothness of the other 
 Heaven opened wide 
 
 Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound, 
 
 On golden hinges turning B. ij, 
 
 The following beautiful passage from Tasso's Gierusalemme, has often 
 been admired on account of the imitation effected by sound of the thing: 
 represented : 
 
130 HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XIII, 
 
 Chiama gli habitator de 1'ombre eterne 
 
 11 rauco suon de la Tartareo tromba ; 
 
 Treman le spaciose atre caverne, 7 
 
 Et l'aer cieco a quel rumor rimbomba ; 
 
 Ni stridendo cosi de la superne 
 
 Regioni dele cielo, il folgor piomba ; 
 
 Ne si scossa giammai la terra, 
 
 Quandi vapori in sen gravida serra. Cant. iv. Stanz. 4. 
 
 The second class of objects, which the sound of words is often em- 
 ployed to imitate, is. motion ; as it is swift or slow, violent or gentle, 
 equable or interrupted, easy or accompanied with effort. Though 
 there be no natural affinity between sound, of any kind, and motion, yet, 
 in the imagination, there is a strong one ; as appears from the connex- 
 ion between music and dancing. And, therefore, here it is in the poet's 
 power to give us a lively idea of the kind of motion he would describe, 
 by means of sounds which correspond, in our imagination with that 
 motion. Long syllables naturally give the impression of slow motion ; 
 as in this line of Virgil : 
 
 I Olli inter sese magna vi brachia tollunt. 
 
 A succession of short syllables f presents quick motion to the mind ; as, 
 Quadrupedan te putrSfe^lHtu quatit ungula campum. 
 Both Homer and Virgil are great masters of this beauty ; and their 
 works abound with instances of it ; most of them, indeed, so often 
 quoted, and so well known, that it is needless to produce them. I shall 
 give one instance, in English, which seems happy. It is the description 
 of a sudden calm on the seas, in a poem, entitled, The Fleece. 
 
 — With easy course 
 
 The vessels glide ; unless their speed be stopp'd 
 By dead calms, that oft lie on these smooth seas 
 When every zephyr sleeps ; then the shrouds drop; 
 The downy feather, on the cordage hung, 
 Moves not ; the flat sea shines like yellow gold 
 Fus'd in the fire, or like the marble floor 
 Of some old temple wide. 
 
 The third set of objects which I mentioned the sound of words as ca- 
 pable of representing, consists of the passions and emotions of the mind, 
 Sound may, at first view, appear foreign to these : but, that here also, 
 there is some sort of connexion, is sufficiently proved by the power 
 which music has to awaken, or to assist certain passions, and, according 
 as its train is varied, to introduce one train of ideas, rather than another. 
 This, indeed, logically speaking, cannot be called a resemblance between 
 the sense and the sound, seeing long or short syllables have no natural 
 resemblance to any thought or passion. But if the arrangement of syl- 
 lables, by their sound alone, recall one set of ideas more readily than 
 another, and dispose the mind for entering into that affection which the 
 poet means to raise, such arrangement may, justly enough, be said to 
 resemble the sense, or be similar and correspondent to it. I admit, that 
 in many instances, which are supposed to display this beauty of accom- 
 modation of sound to the sense, there is much room for imagination to 
 work ; and, according as a reader is struck by a passage, he will often 
 fancy a resemblance between the sound and the sense, which others 
 cannot discover. He modulates the numbers to his own disposition of 
 mind ; and, in effect, makes the music which he imagines himself to 
 hear. However, that there are real instances of this kind, and that 
 
LECT.XIV.j FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 1#1 
 
 poetry is capable of some such expression, cannot be doubted. Dryden's 
 Ode on St. Cecilia's Day, affords a very beautiful exemplification of it, 
 in the English language. Without much study or reflection, a poet 
 describing pleasure, joy, and agreeable objects, from the feeling of his 
 subject, naturally runs into smooth, liquid, and flowing numbers. 
 
 Namque ipsa decoram 
 
 Caesariem nato genetrix,lumenque juventae 
 
 Purpureum, et laetos oculis afflarat honores. /En. I. 
 
 Or, 
 
 Devenere locos laetos et amoena vireta 
 
 Fortunatorura, raeraorura sedesque beatas j 
 
 Largior hie campos aether, et lumine vestit. 
 
 Purpure, soleraque su um, sua sidera norant. Ms. VI. 
 
 Brisk and lively sensations, exact quicker and more animated numbers. 
 
 — . Juvenura manus emicat ardens 
 
 Littus in Hesperium. JE$. VII. 
 
 Melancholy and gloomy subjects, naturally express themselves in slow 
 measures, and long words : 
 
 In those deep solitudes and awful cells, 
 Where heavenly pensive contemplation dwell.?. 
 
 Et caligantem nigra formidine lucum. 
 I have now given sufficient openings into this subject : a moderate 
 acquaintance with the good poets, either ancient or modern, will suggest 
 many instances of the same kind. And with this, I finish the discussion 
 of the structure of sentences : Having fully considered them under all 
 the heads I mentioned; of perspicuity, unity, strength, and musical 
 arrangement. 
 
 LECTURE XIV 
 
 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 
 
 Having now finished what related to the construction of sentences, I 
 proceed to other rules concerning style. My general division of the 
 qualities of style, was into perspicuity and ornament. Perspicuity, both 
 in single words and in sentences, I have considered. Ornament, as far 
 as it arises from a graceful, strong, or melodious construction of words, 
 has also been treated of. Another, and a great branch of the ornament 
 of style, is, figurative language ; which is now to be the subject of our 
 consideration, and will require a full discussion. 
 
 Our first inquiry must be, what is meant by figures of speech ? * 
 
 In general, they always imply some departure from simplicity of ex- 
 
 * On the subject of figures of speech, all the writers who treat of rhetoric or com- 
 position, have insisted largely. To make references, therefore, on this subject were 
 endless. On the foundations of figurative language, in general, one of the most sen- 
 sible, and instructive writers appears to me, to be M. Marsais, in his Traili des Tropes 
 pour servir oV Introduction a la Rhetor ique et a laLogique. For observations on par- 
 ticular figures, the Elements of Criticism may be consulted, where the subject is 
 fully handled, and illustrated by a great variety of examples. 
 
132 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [LECT. XIV. 
 
 pression; the idea which we intend to convey, not only enunciated to 
 others, but enunciated, in a particular manner, and with some circum- 
 stance added, which is designed to render the impression more strong and 
 vivid. When I say, for instance, ' That a good man enjoys comfort in 
 the midst of adversity •' I just express my thought in the simplest man- 
 ner possible. But when I say, * To the upright there ariseth light in 
 darkness ;' the same sentiment is expressed in a figurative style ; a 
 new circumstance is introduced ; light is put in the place of comfort, 
 and darkness is used to suggest the idea of adversity. In the same man- 
 ner, to say, ' It is impossible, by any search we can make, to explore 
 the divine nature ful!y,' is to make a simple proposition. But when we 
 say, 'Canst thou, by searching, find out God? Canst thou find out the 
 Almighty to perfection ? It is high as heaven, what canst thou do ? 
 deeper than hell, what canst thou know V This introduces a figure into 
 style ; the proposition being not only expressed, but admiration and 
 astonishment being expressed together with it. 
 
 But, though figures imply a deviation from what may be reckoned the 
 most simple form of speech, we are not thence to conclude, that they 
 imply any thing uncommon or unnatural. This is so far from being the 
 case, that, on very many occasions, they are both the most natural, and 
 the most common method of uttering our sentiments. It is impossible to 
 compose any discourse without using them often ; nay, there are few 
 sentences of any length, in which some expression or other, that may 
 be termed a figure, does not occur. From what causes this happens, 
 shall be afterward explained. The fact, in the mean time, shows, that 
 they are to be accounted part of that language which nature dictates to 
 men. They are not the inventions of the schools, nor the mere product 
 of study : on the contrary, the most illiterate speak in figures, as of- 
 ten as the most learned. Whenever the imaginations of the vulgar are 
 much awakened, or their passions inflamed against one another, they 
 will pour forth a torrent of figurative language as forcible as could be 
 employed by the most artificial declaimer. 
 
 What then is it, which has drawn the attention of critics and rhetori- 
 cians so much to these forms of speech ? It is this : They remarked, 
 that in them consists much of the beauty and the force of language, and 
 found them always to bear some characters, or distinguishing marks, by 
 the help of which they could reduce them under separate classes and 
 heads. To ttiis, perhaps, they owe their name of figures. As the 
 figure, or shape of one body, distinguishes it from another, so these forms 
 of speech have, each of them, a cast or turn peculiar to itself, which 
 both distinguishes it from the rest, and distinguishes it from simple 
 expression. Simple expression just makes our idea known to others ; 
 but figurative language, over and above, bestows a particular dress 
 upon that idea ; a dress, which both makes it to be remarked, and adorns 
 it. Hence, this sort of language became early a capital object of atten- 
 tion to those who studied the powers of speech. 
 
 Figures, in general, may be described to be that language, which is 
 prompted either by the imagination, or by the passions. The justness of 
 this description will appear, from the more particular account I am 
 afterward to give of them. Rhetoricians commonly divide them into 
 two great classes ; figures of words, and figures of thought. The 
 former, figures of words, are commonly called tropes, and consist in a 
 word's being employed to signify something that is different from its 
 
LECT. XIV.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 130 
 
 original and primitive meaning ; so that if you alter the word, you destroy 
 the figure. Thus, in the instance I gave before ; ' Light ariseth to 
 the upright in darkness.' The trope consists in ' light and darkness' 
 being not meant literally, but substituted for comfort and adversity, on 
 account of some resemblance or analogy which they are supposed to bear 
 to these conditions of life. The other class, termed figures of thought, 
 supposes the words to be used in their proper and literal meaning, and 
 the figure to consist in the turn of the thought ; as is the case in excla- 
 mations, interrogations, apostrophes, and comparisons ; where, though 
 you vary the words that are used, or translate them from one language 
 into another, you may, nevertheless, still preserve the same figure in the 
 thought. This distinction, however, is of no great use ; as nothing can 
 be built upon it in practice ; neither is it always very clear. It is of lit- 
 tle importance, whether we give to some particular mode of expression 
 the name of a trope, or of a figure ; provided we remember, that figu- 
 rative language always imports some colouring of the imagination, or 
 some emotion of passion, expressed in our style : and, perhaps, figures 
 of imagination, and figures of passion, might be a more useful distribu- 
 tion of the subject. But without insisting on any artificial divisions, it 
 will be more useful, that I inquire into the origin and the nature of 
 figures. Only, before I proceed to this, there are two general observa- 
 tions which it may be proper to premise. 
 
 The first is, concerning the use of rules with respect to figurative 
 language. I admit, that persons may both speak and write with propriety, 
 who know not the names of any of the figu roc: of Speech, nor ever 
 studied any rules relating to them. Nature, as was before observed, 
 dictates the use of figures ; and, like Mons. Jourdain, in Moliere, who 
 had spoken for forty years in prose, without ever knowing it, many a one 
 uses metaphorical expressions for good purpose, without any idea of 
 what a metaphor is. It will not, however, follow thence, that rules are 
 of no service. All science arises from observations on practice. Prac- 
 tice has always gone before method and rule ; but method and rule have 
 afterward improved and perfected practice in every art. We every 
 day meet with persons who sing agreeably, without knowing one note of 
 the gamut. Yet, it has been found of importance to reduce these notes 
 to a scale, and to form an art of music ; and it would be ridiculous to 
 pretend, that the art is of no advantage, because the practice is founded 
 in nature. Propriety and beauty of speech are cert.iinly as improvable 
 as the ear or the voice ; and to know the principles of this beauty, or 
 the reasons which render one figure, or one manner of speech preferable 
 to another, cannot fail to assist and direct a proper choice. 
 
 But I must observe, in the next place, that although this part of style 
 merits attention, and is a very proper object of science and rule ; al- 
 though much of the beauty of composition depends on figurative lan- 
 guage ; yet we must beware of imagining that it depends solely, or 
 even chiefly, upon such language. It is not so. Thereat place which 
 the doctrine of tropes and figures has occupied in systems of rhetoric ; 
 the over-anxious care which has been shown in giving names to a vast 
 variety of them, and in ranging them under different classes, has often 
 led persons to imagine, that if their composition was well bespangled with 
 a number of these ornaments of speech, it wanted no other beauty : 
 whence has arisen much stiffness and affectation. For it is, in truth, the 
 sentiment or passion, which lies under the figured expression, that gives 
 
|34 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [LECT.&IV, 
 
 it any merit. The figure is only the dress ; the sentiment is the body 
 and the substance. No figures will render a cold or an empty composi- 
 tion interesting ; whereas, if a sentiment be sublime or pathetic, it can 
 support itself perfectly well without any borrowed assistance. Hence 
 several of the most affecting and admired passages of the best authors, 
 are expressed in the simplest language. The following sentiment from 
 Virgil, for instance, makes its way at once to the heart, without the help 
 of any figure whatever. He is describing an Argive, who falls in battle, 
 in Italy, at a great distance from his native country : 
 
 Sternitur, infeiix, alieno vulnere, coelurnque 
 
 Aspicit, etdulces moriens reminiscitur Argos.* Mn. X. 781. 
 
 A single stroke of this kind, drawn as by the very pencil of nature, is 
 worth a thousand figures. In the same manner, the simple style of Scrip- 
 ture : ' He spoke, and it was done ; he commanded, and it stood fast,' 
 'God said, let there be light ; and there was light,' imparts a lofty con- 
 ception to much greater advantage, than it it had been decorated by the 
 most pompous metaphors. The fact is, that the strong pathetic, and the 
 pure sublime, not only have little dependence on figures of speech, but 
 generally reject them. The proper region of these ornaments is, where 
 a moderate degree of elevation and passion is predominant ; and there 
 they contribute to the embellishment of discourse, only when there is a 
 basis of solid thought and natural sentiment ; when they are inserted in 
 their proper place ; and when they rise, of themselves, from the subject 
 without being sought after. 
 
 Having premised these observations, I proceed to give an account of 
 the origin and nature of figures ; principally of such as have their de- 
 pendence on language ; including that numerous tribe which the rheto- 
 ricians call tropes. 
 
 At the first rise of language, men would begin with giving names to 
 the different objects which they discerned, or thought of. This nomencla- 
 ture would, at the beginning, be very narrow. According as men's ideas 
 
 * '•' Anthares had from Argus travell'd far, 
 
 Alcides' friend, and brother of the war; 
 
 Now falling, by another's wound, his eyes 
 
 He casts to Heaven, on Argos thinks and dies." 
 In this translation, much of the beauty of the original is lost. l On Argos thinks 
 and dies,' is by no means equal to ' dulcis moriens reminiscitur Argos.' ' As he dies 
 he remembers his beloved Argos.' It is indeed observable, that in most of those 
 tender and pathetic passages, which do so much honour to Virgil, that great po»t 
 expresses himself with the utmost simplicity: as 
 
 Te, dulcis conjux,te solo in littore seeum. 
 
 Te veniente die, te decedente canebat. Georg. IV. 
 
 And so in that moving prayer of Evander, upon his parting with his son Pallas : 
 At vos O Superi ! et Diviun tu maxime rector, 
 
 Jupiter, Arcadii quseso miserescite regis, 
 
 Et patrias audite preces. Si numina vestra 
 
 Incolumem Pallanta mihi, si fata reservant. s 
 
 Si visurus eum vivo,et venturus in unum, 
 
 Vitarn oro : patiar quemvis durare laborein ! 
 
 Sin aliquem infandum casum, Fortuna, minaris, 
 
 Nunc, O nunc liceat crudelem abrumpere vitam I 
 
 Dura curse ambiguse, dum spes incerta futuri ; 
 
 Dum te, care Puer ! mea sera et sola voluptas ! 
 
 Amplexu teneo : gravior ne nuncius aures 
 
 Vulneret. m N . VII. 572. 
 
LECT. XIV .] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 135 
 
 multiplied, and their acquaintance with objects increased, their stockof 
 names and words would increase also. But to the infinite variety of ob- 
 jects and ideas, no language is adequate. No language is so copious, as 
 to have a separate word for every separate idea. Men naturally sought 
 to abridge this labour of multiplying words in infinitum; and, in order 
 to lay less burden on their memories, made one word, which they had 
 already appropriated to a certain idea or object, stand also for some other 
 idea or object ; between which and the primary one, they found or fan- 
 cied some relation. Thus, the preposition, in, was originally invented 
 to express the circumstance of place : " The man was killed in the 
 wood." Jn progress of time, words were wanted to express men's be- 
 ing connected with certain conditions of fortune, or certain situations of 
 mind ; and some resemblance, or analogy, being fancied between these, 
 and the place of bodies, the word in, was employed to express men's be- 
 ing so circumstanced; as one's being in health, or in sickness, in pros- 
 perity, or in adversity, in joy, or in grief, in doubt, or in danger, or in 
 safety. Here we see this preposition, in, plainly assuming a tropical sig- 
 nification, or carried off from its original meaning, to signify something 
 else, which relates to, or resembles it, 
 
 Tropes of this kind abound in all languages, and are plainly owing to 
 the want of proper words. The operations of the mind and affections, 
 in particular, are, in most languages, described by words taken from sen- 
 sible objects. The reason is plain. The names of sensible objects were, 
 in all languages, the words most early introduced ; and were, by degrees, 
 extended to those mental objects, of which men had more obscure con- 
 ceptions, and to which they found it more difficult to assign distinct names, 
 They borrowed, therefore, the name of some sensible idea, where their 
 imagination found some affinity. Thus, we speak of a piercing judgment, 
 and a clear head ; a soft or a hard heart ; a rough or a smooth behaviour. 
 We say, inflamed by anger, warmed by love ; swelled with pride, melted 
 into grief; and these are almost the only significant words which we 
 have for such ideas. 
 
 But, although the barrenness of language, and the want of words be 
 doubtless one cause of the invention of tropes ; yet it is not the only, 
 nor perhaps, even the principal source of this form of speech. Tropes 
 have arisen more frequently, and spread themselves wider, from the in- 
 fluence which imagination possesses over language. The train on which 
 this has proceeded among all nations, I shall endeavour to explain. 
 
 Every object which makes any impression on the human mind, is con- 
 stantly accompanied with certain circumstances and relations that strike 
 us at the same time. It never presents itself to our view, isole, as the 
 French express it ; that is, independent on, and separated from, every 
 other thing ; but always occurs as somehow related to other objects.: 
 , going before them, or following them ; their effect or their cause ; re- 
 sembling them or opposed to them ; distinguished by certain qualities, or 
 surrounded with certain circumstances. By this means, every idea or 
 object carries in its train some other ideas, which may be considered 
 as its accessories. These accessories often strike the imagination more 
 than the principal idea itself. They are, perhaps, more agreeable ideas ; 
 or they are more familiar to our conceptions ; or they recall to our mem- 
 ory a greater variety of important circumstances. The imagination is 
 more disposed to rest upon some of them ; and therefore instead of using 
 the proper name of the principal idea which it means to express, it em- 
 
Igg ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [LECT. XIV, 
 
 ploys, in its place, the name of the accessory or correspondent idea j 
 although the principal have a proper and well known name of its own. 
 Hence a vast variety of tropical or figurative words obtain currency in 
 all languages, through choice, not necessity ; and men of lively imagina- 
 tions are every day adding to their number. 
 
 Thus, when we design to intimate the period, at which a state enjoyed 
 most reputation or glory, it were easy to employ the proper words for ex- 
 pressing this ; but as this is readily connected, in our imagination, with 
 the flourishing period of a plant or a tree, we lay hold of this correspon- 
 dent idea, and say, ' The Roman empire flourished most under Augustus/ 
 The leader of a faction is plain language ; but because the head is the 
 principal part of the human body, and is supposed to direct all the ani- 
 mal operations, resting upon this resemblance, we say, ' Cataline was the 
 head of the party.' The word, voice, was originally invented to signify 
 the articulate sound, formed byr the organs of the mouth ; but, as by 
 means of it men signify their ideas and their intentions to each other, 
 voice soon assumed a great many other meanings, all derived from this 
 primary effect. ' To give our voice' for any thing, signified, to give our 
 sentiment in favour of it. Not only so ; but voice was transferred to sig- 
 nifv any intimation of will or judgment, though given without the least 
 interposition of voice in its literal sense, or any sound uttered at all. 
 Thus we speak of listening to the voice of conscience, the voice of na- 
 ture, the voice of God. This usage takes place, not so much from bar- 
 renness of language, or want of a proper word, as from an allusion which 
 we choose to make to voice, in its primary sense, in order to convey our 
 idea, connected with a circumstance which appears to the fancy to give it 
 more sprightliness and force. 
 
 The account which I have now given, and which seems to be a full and 
 fair one, of the introduction of tropes into all languages, coincides with 
 what Cicero briefly hints, in his third book, De Oratore. "Modus 
 transferendi verba late patet ; quam necessitas primum genuit, coacta 
 inopia et angustias ; post aute-n delectatio, jucunditasque celebravit. 
 Nam ut vestis, frigoris depellendi causa reperta primo, post adhiberi coep- 
 ta est ad ornatum etiam corporis et dignitatem, sic verbi translatio insti- 
 tuta est inopiae causa, frequent <ta delectationis."* 
 
 From what has been said, it clearly appears, how that must come to 
 pass which I had occasion to mention in a former lecture, that all lan- 
 guages are most figurative in their early state. Both the causes to which 
 I ascribed the origin of figures, concur in producing this effect at the be- 
 ginnings of society. Language is. then most barren ; the stock of pro- 
 per names which have been invented for things, is small ; and, at the 
 same time, imagination exerts great influence over the conceptions of 
 men and their method of uttering them ; so that, both from necessity and 
 from choice, their speech will, at that period, abound in tropes. For the 
 savage tribes of men are always much given to wonder and astonishment. 
 Every new object surprises, terrifies, and makes a strong impression on 
 their mind ; they are governed by imagination and passion, more than by 
 
 * " The figurative usage of words is very extensive ; an usage to which necessity 
 first gave rise on account of the paucity of words, and barrenness of language; 
 but which the pleasure that was found in it afterward rendered frequent. For as 
 garments were first contrived to defend our bodies from the cold, and afterward, 
 were employed for the purpose of ornament and dignity, so figures of speech, in- 
 troduced t>y want ? were cultivated for the sake of entertainment." 
 
li:CT. XlY\j HUbKAXlVE LANGUAGE. \$% 
 
 reason ; and, of course, their speech must be deeply tinctured by their 
 genius. In fact, we find, that this is the character of the American and 
 Indian languages ; bold, picturesque, and metaphorical ; full of strong al- 
 lusions to sensible qualities, and to such objects as struck them most in 
 their wild and solitary life. An Indian chief makes a harangue to his 
 tribe, in a style full of stronger metaphors than a European would use 
 in an epic poem. 
 
 (As language makes gradual progress towards refinement, almost every 
 object comes to have a proper name given to it, and perspicuity and pre- 
 cision are more studied. But still for the reasons before given, borrowed 
 words, or as rhetoricians call them, tropes must continue to occupy a con- 
 siderable place. In every language, too, there are a multitude of words, 
 which, though they were figurative in their first application to certain ob- 
 jects, yet, by long use, lose their figurative power wholly, and come to 
 be considered as simple and literal expressions. In this case, are the. 
 terms which I remarked before, as transferred from sensible qualities to 
 the operations or qualities of the mind, a piercing judgment, a clear 
 head, a hard heart, and the like. There are other words which remain 
 in a sort of middle state ; which have neither lost wholly their figurative 
 application, nor yet retain so much of it, as to imprint any remarkable 
 character of figured language on our style ; such as these phrases, * ap- 
 prehend one's meaning :' 'enter on a subject :' ' follow out an argument j* 
 * stir up strife •' and a great many more, of which our language is full. 
 In the use of such phrases, correct writers will always preserve a re- 
 gard to the figure or allusion on which they are founded, and will be care- 
 ful not to apply them in any way that is inconsistent with it. One may 
 be ' sheltered under the patronage of a great man ;' but it were wrong 
 to say, ' sheltered under the mask of dissimulation,' as a mask con- 
 ceals, but does not shelter. An object, in description, may be ' clothed,* 
 if you will, ' with epithets ;' but it is not so proper to speak of its being 
 ' clothed with circumstances, 9 as the word « circumstances,' alludes to 
 standing round, not to clothing. Such attentions as these are requisite 
 in the common run of style. 
 
 What has been said On this subject, tends to throw light on the uature 
 of language in general, and will lead to the reasons, why tropes or figures 
 contribute to the beauty and grace of style. 
 
 First, They enrich language, and render it more copious. By their 
 means, words and phrases are multiplied for expressing all sorts of ideas ; 
 for describing even the minutest differences ; the nicest shades and co- 
 lours of thought ; which no language could possibly do by proper words 
 alone, without assistance from tropes. 
 
 Secondly, They bestow dignity upon style. The familiarity of common 
 words, to which our ears are much accustomed, tends to degrade style. 
 When we want to adapt our language to the tone of an elevated subject, 
 ■ we should be greatly at a loss, if we could not borrow assistance from 
 figures; which, properly employed, have a similar effect on language, 
 With what is produced by the rich and splendid dress of a person of 
 rank ; to create respect, and to give an air of magnificence to him who 
 wears it. Assistance of this kind js often needed in prose compositions ; 
 but poetry could not subsist without it. Hence, figures form the constant 
 language of poetry. To say, that ' the sun rises,' is trite arid common j 
 but it becomes a magnificent image when expressed, as Mr, Thompson 
 has done : 
 
jects 
 
 138 ©RI&IN AND NATURE OF fLECT. XIV* 
 
 Bui yonder comes the powerful king of day, 
 Rejoicing in the east. — 
 
 To say that * all men are subject alike to death,' presents only a vulgar 
 idea ; but it rises and fills the imagination, when painted thus by Horace ; 
 
 Pallida mors aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas 
 Regumque turres. 
 Or, 
 
 Omnes eodem cogimur; omnium 
 
 Versatur urna, serius, ocyus, 
 
 Sors exitura, et nos in eternum 
 
 Exilium impositura cymbae.* 
 
 In the third place, figures give us the pleasure of enjoying two obje 
 presented together to our view, without confusion ; the principal idea 
 which is the subject of the discourse, along with its accessory, which 
 gives it the figurative dress. We see one thing in another, as Aristotle 
 expresses it ; which is always agreeable to the mind. For there is 
 nothing with which the fancy is more delighted, than with comparisons, 
 and resemblances of objects ; and all tropes are founded upon some rela- 
 tion or analogy between one thing and another. When, for instance, in 
 place of ' youth,' I say the ' morning of life ;' the fancy is immediately 
 entertained with all the resembling circumstances which presently occur 
 between these two objects. At one moment, I have in my eye a certain 
 period of human life, and a certain time of the day, so related to each 
 other, that the imagination plays between them with pleasure, and con- 
 templates two similar objects, in one view, without embarrassment or 
 confusion. Not only so, but, 
 
 In the fourth place, figures are attended with this farther advantage of 
 giving us frequently a much clearer and more striking view of the princi- 
 pal object, than if we could have if it were it expressed in simple terms, 
 and divested of its accessory idea. This is, indeed, their principal advan- 
 tage, in virtue of which, they are very properly said to illustrate a sub- 
 ject, or to throw a light upon it. For they exhibit the object, on which 
 they are employed, in a picturesque form ; they can render an abstract 
 conception, in some degree, an object of sense ; they surround it with ijl 
 such circumstances, as enable the mind to lay hold of it steadily, and to 
 contemplate it fully. * Those persons,' says one, ' who gain the hearts 
 of most people, who are chosen as the companions of their softer hours, 
 and their reliefs from anxiety and care, are seldom persons of shining 
 qualities, or strong virtues : it is rather the soft green of the soul, on which 
 we rest our eyes, that are fatigued with beholding more glaring objects.' 
 Here, by a happy allusion to a colour, the whole conception is conveyed 
 clear and strong to the mind in one word. By a well chosen figure, even 
 conviction is assisted, and the impression of a truth upon the mind, made 
 more lively and forcible than it would otherwise be. As in the following 
 illustration of Dr. Young's : ' When we dip too deep inpleasure,we always 
 stir a sediment that renders it impure and noxious ;' or in this, ' A heart 
 
 * With equal pace, impartial fate 
 
 Knocks at the palace, as the cottage gate. 
 
 On 
 
 We all must tread the paths of fate j 
 
 And ever shakes the mortal urn ; 
 
 Whose lot embarks us soon or late, 
 
 f>n Charon's boat : ah ! never to return Francis. 
 
LECT. XIV.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 139 
 
 boiling with violent passions, will always send up infatuating fumes to the 
 head.' An image that presents so much congruity between a moral and a 
 sensible idea, serves like an argument from analogy, to enforce what the 
 author asserts, and to induce belief. 
 
 Besides, whether we are endeavouring to raise sentiments of pleasure 
 or aversion, we can always heighten the emotion by the figures which we 
 introduce ; leading the imagination to a train, either of agreeable or 
 disagreeable, of exalting or debasing ideas, correspondent to the impres- 
 sion which we seek to make. When we want to render an object beau- 
 tiful, or magnificent, we borrow images from all the most beautiful, or 
 splendid scenes of nature ; we thereby naturally throw a lustre over our 
 object: we enliven the reader's mind ; and dispose him to go along with 
 us, in the gay and pleasing impressions which we give him of the subject. 
 This effect of figures is happily touched in the following lines of Dr. 
 Akenside, and illustrated by a very sublime figure : 
 
 Then th' expressive strain 
 
 Diffuses its enchantment. Fancy dreams 
 
 Of sacred fountains and Elysian groves, 
 
 And vales of bliss; the intellectual power, 
 
 Bends from his awful throne, a wond'ring ear, 
 
 And smiles. — Pleas, of Imaginat. I. 124. 
 
 What I have now explained, concerning the use and effects of figures, 
 naturally leads us to reflect on the wonderful power of language ; and, 
 indeed we. cannot reflect on it without the highest admiration. What a 
 fine vehicle is it now become for all the conceptions of the human mind ; 
 even for the most subtile and delicate workings of the imagination ? 
 What a pliant and flexible instrument in the hand of one who can em- 
 ploy it skilfully ; prepared to take every form which he chooses to give 
 it ! Not content with a simple communication of ideas and thoughts, it 
 paints those ideas to the eye ; it gives colouring and relievo, even to the 
 most abstract conceptions. In the figures which it uses, it sets mirrors 
 before us, where we may behold objects, a second time, in their likeness. 
 It entertains us, as with a succession of the most splendid pictures : 
 disposes, in the most artificial manner, of the light and shade, for viewing 
 every thing to the best advantage ; in fine, from being a rude and im- 
 perfect interpreter of men's wants and necessities, it has now passed 
 into an instrument of the most delicate and refined luxury. 
 
 To make these effects of figurative language sensible, there are few 
 authors in the English language, whom I can refer to with more advan- 
 tage than Mr. Addison, whose imagination is, at once, remarkably rich, 
 and remarkably correct and chaste. When he is treating, for instance, 
 of the effect which light and colours have to entertain the fancy, consi- 
 dered in Mr. Locke's view of them as secondary qualities, which have 
 no real existence in matter, but are only ideas in the mind, with what 
 beautiful painting has he adorned this philosophic speculation? 'Things,' 
 says he, ' would make but a poor appearance to the eye,*if we saw them 
 only in their proper figures and motions. Now, we are every where 
 entertained with pleasing shows and apparitions ; we discover imaginary 
 glories in the heavens, and in the earth, and see some of this visionary 
 beauty poured out upon the whole creation. But what a rough unsightly 
 sketch of nature should we be entertained with, did all her colouring 
 disappear, and the several distinctions of light and shade vanish ? In 
 short, our souls are, at present, delightfully lost, and bewildered in a 
 pleasing delusion : and we walk about like the enchanted hero of a 
 
140 ORIGIN AN© NATURE OF, &c, [&ECT. XIV, 
 
 romance, who sees beautiful castles, woods, and meadows ; and at the 
 same time hears the warbling of birds, and the purling of streams ; but, 
 upon the finishing of some secret spell, the fantastic scene breaks up, 
 and the disconsolate knight finds himself on a barren heath, or in a soli- 
 tary desert. ,It is not improbable, that something like this may be the 
 state of the soul after its first separation, in respect of the images it will 
 receive from matter.' - No. 413, Spectator. 
 
 Having thus explained, at sufficient length, the origin, the nature, and 
 the effects of tropes, I should proceed next to the several kinds and 
 divisions of them. But, in treating of these, were I to follow the com- 
 mon track of the scholastic writers on rhetoric, I should soon become 
 tedious, and, I apprehend, useless, at the same time. Their great 
 business has been, with a most patient and frivolous industry, to branch 
 them out under a vast number of divisions, according to all the several 
 modes in w T hich a word may be carried from its literal meaning, into one 
 that is figurative, without doing any more ; as if the mere knowledge of 
 the names and classes of all the tropes that can be formed, could be of 
 any advantage towards the' proper, or graceful use of language. All that 
 I propose is, to give, in a few words, before finishing this lecture, a 
 general view of the several sources whence the trophical meaning of 
 words is derived ; after which I shall, in subsequent lectures, descend to 
 a more particular consideration of some of the most considerable figures 
 of speech, and such as are in most frequent use ; by treating of which , 
 I shall give all the instruction I can, concerning the proper employment 
 of figurative language, and point out the errors and abuses w T hichareapt 
 to be committed in this part of style. 
 
 All tropes, as I before observed, are founded on the relation which 
 one object bears to another ; in virtue of which, the name of the one can 
 be substituted instead of the name of the other, and by such a substitu- 
 tion, the vivacity of the idea is commonly meant to be increased. These 
 relations, some more, gome less intimate, may all give rise to tropes. 
 One of the first and most obyious relations is, that between a cause and 
 its effect. Hence in figurative language, the cause is sometimes put for 
 the effect. Thus, Mr. Addison writing of Italy ; 
 
 Blossoms, and fruits, arid flowers, together rise, 
 And the \yhole year in gay confusion lies. 
 
 Where the c whole year' is plainly intended, to signify the effects or 
 productions of all the seasons of the year. At other times, again, the 
 effect is put for the cause ; as, ' gray hairs' frequently for old age which 
 causes gray hairs ; and * shade,' for trees that produce the shade. The 
 gelation between the container and the thing contained, is also so intimate 
 god obvious, as naturally to give rise to tropes ? 
 
 _ -Jlle impiger hausit 
 
 Spumantem pateram et pleno se proluit auro. 
 
 Where every one sees, that the cup and the gold are put for the liquor, 
 that was contained in the golden cup. In the same manner, the name of 
 any country is often used to denote the inhabitants of that country ; and 
 Heaven very commonly employed to signify God, because he is con- 
 ceived as dwelling in heaven- To implore the assistance of Heaven, is 
 the same as to implore the assistance of God. The relation betwixt any 
 established sign and the thing signified, is a further, source of tropes. 
 Hence, 
 
LECT. XV.] METAPHOR, J4J 
 
 Cedant arma togae : concedat laurea linguae. 
 The < toga,' being the badge of the civil professions, and the « laurel' of 
 military honours, the badge of each is put for the civil and military cha- 
 racters themselves. To ' assume the sceptre,' is a common phrase for 
 entering on royal authority. To tropes, founded on these several rela- 
 tions, of cause and effect, container and contained, sign and thing signifi- 
 ed, is given the name of Metonymy. 
 
 When the trope is founded on the relation between an antecedent and 
 a consequent, or what goes before, and immediately follows, it is then 
 called a Metalepsis ; as in the Roman phrase of ' Fuit,' or ' Yixit,' to 
 express that one was dead. ' Fuit Illium et ingens gloria Dardanidum,' 
 signifies, that the glory of Troy is now no more. 
 
 When the whole is put for a part, or a part for the whole ; a genus 
 for a species, or a species, for a genus ; the singular for the plural, or 
 the plural for the singular number ; in general, when any thing less, or 
 any thing more, is put for the precise object meant ; the figure is then 
 called a Synecdoche. It is very common, for instance, to describe a 
 whole object by some remarkable part of it ; as when we say, ' a fleet 
 of so many sail,' in the place of ' ships ;' when we use the * head' for 
 the ' person,' the ' pole' for the * earth,' the * waves' for the ' sea.' In 
 like manner, an attribute may be put for a subject ; as, * youth andbeau- 
 t}%' for 'the young and beautiful :' and sometimes a subject for its attri- 
 bute. But it is needless to insist longer on this enumeration, which 
 serves little purpose. I have said enough, to give an opening into that 
 great variety of relations between objects, by means of which the mind 
 is assisted to pass easily from one to another ; andj by the name of the 
 one, understands the other to be meant. It is always some accessory 
 idea, which recals the principal to the imagination ; and commonly re- 
 cals it with more force, than if the principal idea had been expressed. 
 
 The relation which, of all others, is by far the most fruitful of tropes, 
 I have not yet mentioned ; that is, the relation of similitude and resem- 
 blance. On this is founded what is called the metaphor ; when, in place 
 of using the proper name of any object, we employ, in its place, the 
 name of some other which is like it ; which is a sort of picture Of it, and 
 which thereby awakens the conception of it with more force or grace. 
 This figure is more frequent than all the rest put together ; and the lan- 
 guage, both of prose and verse, owes to it much of its elegance and 
 grace. This, therefore, deserves very full and particular consideration ; 
 and shall be the subject of the next lecture. 
 
 LECTURE XV, 
 
 METAPHOR. 
 
 After the preliminary observations 1 have made, relating to figurative 
 language in general, I come now to treat separately of such figures of 
 speech, as occur most frequently, and require particular attention ; and 
 1 begin with metaphor. This is a figure founded entirely on the resem- 
 blance which one object bears to another. Hence, it is much allied to 
 simile, or comparison, and is indeed no other than a comparison expressed 
 jn an abridged form. When I say of some great minister, 6 that he up- 
 
142 METAPHOR. [LECT. XV. 
 
 holds the state, like a pillar which supports the weight of a whole edifice,' 
 I fairly make a comparison ; but when I say of such a minister, ' that 
 he is the pillar of the state,' it is now become a metaphor. The com- 
 parison betwixt the minister and a pillar is made in the mind ; but is ex- 
 pressed without any of the words that denote comparison. The com- 
 parison is only insinuated, not expressed : the one object is supposed to 
 be so like the other, that, without formally drawing the comparison, the 
 name of the one may be put in the place of the name of the other. * The 
 minister is the pillar of the state.' This, therefore, is a more lively and 
 animated manner of expressing the resemblances which imagination traces 
 among objects. There is nothing which delights the fancy "more, than 
 this act of comparing things together, discovering resemblances between 
 them, and describing them by their likeness. The mind, thus employed, 
 is exercised without being fatigued ; and is gratified with the conscious- 
 ness of its own ingenuity. We need not be surprised, therefore, at find- 
 ing all language tinctured strongly with metaphor. It insinuates itself 
 even into familiar conversation ; and unsought, rises up of its own ac- 
 cord in the mind. The very words which I have casually employed in de- 
 scribing this, are a proof of what I say ; tinctured, insinuates, rises up, are 
 all of them metaphorical expressions, borrowed from some resemblance 
 which fancy forms between sensible objects, and the internal operations 
 of the mind ; and yet the terms are no less clear, and perhaps, more ex- 
 pressive, than if words had been used, which were to be taken in the 
 strict and literal sense. 
 
 Though all metaphor imports comparison, and, therefore, is, in that 
 respect, a figure of thought ; yet, as the words in a metaphor are not 
 taken literally, but changed from their proper to a figurative sense, the 
 metaphor is commonly ranked among tropes or figures of words. But, 
 provided the nature of it be well understood, it signifies very little whether 
 we call it a figure or a trope. I have confined it to the expression of 
 resemblance between two objects. 1 must remark, however, that the 
 word metaphor is sometimes used in a looser and more extended sense ; 
 for the application of a term in any figurative signification, whether the 
 figure be founded on resemblance, or on some other relation, which two 
 objects bear to one another. For instance ; when gray hairs are put for 
 old age ; as, ' to bring one's gray hairs with sorrow to the grave ;' some 
 writers would call this a metaphor, though it is not properly one, but what 
 rhetoricians call a metonymy ; that is, the effect put for the cause ; ' gray 
 hairs' being the effect of old age, but not bearing any sort of resemblance 
 to it. Aristotle, in his Poetics, uses metaphor in this extended sense, for 
 any figurative meaning imposed upon a word ; as a whole put for the 
 part, or a part for a whole ; the species for the genus, or a genus for the 
 species. But it would be unjust to tax this most acute writer with any 
 inaccuracy on this account ; the minute subdivisions, and various names 
 of tropes, being unknown in his days, and the invention of later rhetori- 
 cians. Now, however, when these divisions are established, it is inac- 
 curate to call every figurative use of terms, promiscuously, a metaphor. 
 
 Of all the figures of speech, none comes so near to painting as me- 
 taphor. Its peculiar effect is to give light arid strength to description ; 
 to make intellectual ideas, in some sort, visible to the eye, by giving them 
 colour, and substance, and sensible qualities. In order to produce this 
 effect, however, a delicate hand is required : for, by a very little inac- 
 curacy, we are in hazard of introducing confusion, in place of promoting 
 
LECT.XV.j METAPHOR, 14$ 
 
 perspicuity. Several rules, therefore, are necessary to be given for the 
 proper management of metaphors. But, before entering on these, I shall 
 give one instance of a very beautiful metaphor, that I may show the 
 figure to full advantage. I shall take my instance from Lord Boling- 
 broke's Remarks on the History of England. Just at the conclusion of 
 his work, he is speaking of the behaviour of Charles I. to his last parlia- 
 ment ; ' In a word,' says he, 'about a month after their meeting, he 
 dissolved them ; and, as soon as he had dissolved them, he repented : 
 but he repented too late of his rashness. Well might he repent for the 
 vessel was now full, and this last drop made the waters of btterness 
 overflow.' * Here,' he adds, ' we draw the curtain, and put ai end to 
 our remarks.' Nothing could be more happily thrown off. Tie meta- 
 phor, we see is continued through several expressions. The vessel is 
 put for the state, or temper of the nation already full, that is, provoked 
 to the highest by former oppressions and wrongs ; this last drop, stands 
 for the provocation recently received by the abrupt dissolutioi of the 
 parliament ; and the overflowing of the waters of bitterness, beautiully ex- 
 presses all the effects of resentment, let loose by an exasperatedpeople. 
 
 On this passage, we may make two remarks in passing. The >ne,that 
 nothing forms a more spirited and dignified conclusion of a subjiet, than 
 a figure of this kind happily placed at the close. We seethe eftfct of it, 
 in this instance. The author goes off with a good grace ; and eaves a 
 strong and full impression of his subject on the reader's mird. My 
 other remark is, the advantage which a metaphor frequently hasabove a 
 formal comparison. How much would the sentiment here have leen en- 
 feebled, if it had been expressed in the style of a regular similt, thus : 
 4 Well might he repent ; for the state of the nation, loaded witl griev- 
 ances and provocations, resembled a vessel that was now full, md this 
 superadded provocation, like the last drop infused, made their lage and 
 resentment, as waters of bitterness, over-Blow.' It has infinitely more 
 spirit and force as it now stands, in the form of a metaphor. ' Well 
 might he repent : for the vessel was now full ; and this last drcp made 
 the waters of bitterness overflow. 
 
 Having mentioned, with applause, this instance from Lord Bolingbroke r 
 I think it incumbent on me here to take notice, that though I may have 
 recourse to this author, sometimes, foi- examples of style, it is his style 
 only, and not his sentiments, that deserve pryise. It is indeed my opinion, 
 that there are few writings in the English language, which, forthematter 
 contained in them, can be read with less profit or fruit, than Lo^d Bo- 
 lingbroke's works. His political writings have the merit of a very lively 
 and eloquent style ; but they have no other ; being, as to the substance, 
 the mere temporary productions of faction and party ; no better, indeed, 
 than pamphlets written for the day. His posthumous, or, as they are 
 called, his philosophical works, wherein he attacks religion, ha\e still 
 less merit ; for they are as loose in the style as they are flimsy in the 
 reasoning. An unhappy instance, this author is, of parts and genius so 
 miserably perverted by faction and passion, that, as his memory will de- 
 scend to posterity with little honour, so his productions will soon pass, 
 and are, indeed, already passing into neglect and oblivion. 
 
 Returning from this digression to the subject before us, I proceed to 
 lay down the rules to be observed in the conduct of metaphors ; and 
 which are much the same for tropes of every kind. 
 
 The first which I shall mention, is, that they be suited to the nature of 
 
144 METAPHOR, [mCT: XV 'j 
 
 the subject of which we treat ; neither too many, nor too gay, nor too 
 elevated for it ; that we neither attempt to force the subject, by means of 
 them, into a degree of elevation which is not congruous to it ; nor, on the 
 other haid, allow it to sink below its proper dignity. This is a direction 
 which belongs to all figurative language, and should be ever kept in view. 
 Some metaphors are allowable, nay, beautiful, in poetry, which it would 
 fee absurd and unnatural to employ in prose ; some may be graceful in 
 orations, which would be very improper in historical, or philosophical 
 ^composition. We must remember, that figures are the dress of our sen- 
 timents. As there is a natural congruity between dress, and the charac- 
 ter or rmk of the person who wears it, a violation of which congruity 
 never fals to hurt ; the same holds precisely as to the application of 
 figures t» sentiment. The excessive, or unseasonable employment of 
 them, ismere foppery in writing. It gives a boyish air to composition ; 
 and instead of raising a subject^ in fact, diminishes its dignity. For as in- 
 life, truedignity must be founded on character, not on dress and appear- 
 ance, so the dignity of composition must arise from sentiment and thought, 
 not fromornament. The affectation and parade of ornament, detract as 
 much fr»m an author, as they do from a man. Figures and metaphors, 
 therefore should,' on no occasion, be stuck on too profusely ; and never 
 should be such as refuse to accord with the strain of our sentiment. 
 Nothingcan be more unnatural than for a writer to carry on a train of 
 reasoning, in the same sort of figurative language, which he would use 
 in descrption. When he reasons, we look only for perspicuity ; when 
 he descibes, we expect embellishment ; when he divides, or relates, we 
 desire painness and simplicity. One of the greatest secrets in composi- 
 tion is, to know when to be simple. This always gives a heightening to 
 ornameit, in its proper place., The right disposition of the shade makes 
 the lighi and colouring strike the more : c Is enim est eloquens,' says 
 Cicero,' qui et humilia subtiliter, et magna graviter, et mediocria tempe- 
 rate potest dicere. Nam qui nihil potest tranquille, nihil leniter, nihil 
 definite) distincte, potest dicere, is, cum non praeparatis auribus inflam- 
 mare rem ccepit, furere apud sanos, et quasi inter sobrios bacchari temu- 
 lentus vtdetur.'* This admonition should be particularly attended to by 
 young fractitioners in the art of writing, who are apt to be carried away 
 by an ^distinguishing admiration of what is showy and florid, whether in 
 its place or not.f 
 
 Thesecond rule, wbieh I give, respects the choice of objects, from 
 whence metaphors and other figures, are to be drawn. The field for 
 figurative language is very wide. All nature, to speak in the style of 
 
 * " Heistrulyeloquent,who can discourse of humble subjects in a plain style, who 
 can trei important ones with dignity, and speak of things which are of a middle na- 
 ture, in * temperate strain. For one who, upon no occasion, can express himself in a 
 calm, osderly, distinct manner,when he begins to be on fire before his readers are pre- 
 pared to kindle along with him, has the appearance of raving like a madman among 
 persons who are in their senses, or of reeling like a drunkard in the midst of sober 
 company." 
 
 t What person of the least taste, can bear the following passage in a late historian. 
 He is giving an account of the famous act of parliament against irregular marriages 
 in Engknd : " The bill," says he, " underwent a great number of alterations and 
 amendments which were not effected without violent contest." This is plain lan- 
 guage,suitedto the subject; and we naturally espect,that he should go on in the same 
 strain ; to tell us, that, after these contests, it was carried by a great majority of 
 voices, and obtained the royal assent. But how does he express himself in finishing 
 the period ? v At length, however, it was floated through both houses, on the tide of 
 a great majority, and steered into the safe harbour of royal approbation." Nothing 
 can be more puerile than such language. Smollet's History of England, as quoted 
 In Critical Review for Oct 1751, p.. 251- 
 
LECT. XV.] METAPHOR, 1 45 
 
 figure, opens its stores to us, and admits us, to gather from all sensible ob- 
 jects, whatever can illustrate intellectual or moral ideas. Not only the 
 gay and splendid objects of sense, but the grave, the terrifying, and even 
 the gloomy and dismal, may on different occasions, be introduced into 
 figures with propriety. But we must beware of ever using such allusions 
 as raise in the mind disagreeable, mean, vulgar, or dirty ideas. Even 
 when metaphors are chosen in order to vilify and degrade any object, an 
 author should study never to be nauseous in his allusions. Cicero blames 
 an oratorof his time, for terming his enemy ' Stercus Curias ;' ' quamvis 
 sit simile,' says he, ' tamen est deformis cogitatiosimilitudinis.' But, in 
 subjects of dignity, it is an unpardonable fault to intrbduce mean and vul- 
 gar metaphors. In the treatise on the Art of Sinking, in Dean Swift's 
 works, there is a full and humorous collection of instances of this kind, 
 wherein authors, instead of exalting, have contrived to degrade, their 
 subjects by the figures they employed. Authors of greater note than 
 those which are there quoted, have, at times, fallen into this error. Arch- 
 bishop Tillotson, for instance, is sometimes negligent in his choice of me- 
 taphors ; as, when speaking of the day of judgment, he describes the 
 world, as, ' cracking about the sinners' ears.' Shakspeare, whose ima- 
 gination was rich and bold, in a much greater degree than it was delicate, 
 often fails here. The following, for example, is a gross transgression ; 
 in his Henry V. having mentioned a dunghill, he presently raises a meta= 
 phor from the steam of it ; and on a subject too, that naturally led to 
 much nobler ideas : 
 
 And those that leave their valiant bones in France, 
 
 Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills, 
 
 They shall be fam'd ; for there the sun shall greet them, 
 
 And draw their honours reeking up to heaven. Act IV. Sc. 6. 
 
 In the third place, as metaphors should be drawn from objects of some 
 dignity, so particular care should be taken that the resemblance, which is 
 the foundation of the metaphor, he clear and perspicuous, not far fetch- 
 ed- nor difficult to discover. The transgression of this rule makes what 
 are called harsh or forced metaphors, which are always displeasing, be- 
 cause they puzzle the reader, and, instead of illustrating the thought, ren- 
 der it perplexed and intricate. With metaphors of this kind, Cowley 
 abounds. He, and some of the writers of his age, seem to have con- 
 sidered it as the perfection of wit, to hit upon likenesses between objects 
 which no other person could have discovered ; and at the same time, to 
 pursue those metaphors so far, that it requires some ingenuity to follow 
 them out and comprehend them. This makes a metaphor resemble an 
 enigma : and is the very reverse of Cicero's rule on this head ; * Vere- 
 cunda debet esse translatio ; ut deducta esse in alienum locum non irruis- 
 se, atque ut voluntario non vi venisse videatur.'* How forced and ob- 
 scure, for instance, are the following verses of Cowley, speaking of his 
 mistress : 
 
 Wo to her stubborn heart, if once mine come 
 Into the self-same room, 
 'Twill tear and blow up all within, 
 
 Like a grenado shot into a magazine. 
 
 * "Every metaphor should be modest, so that it may Carry the appearance o( 
 having been led, not of having forced itself into the place of that word whose 
 room it occupies ; that it may seem to have come thither of its own accord, and 
 not by constraint." De Oratore, Lib. iii. c. 53. 
 
 T 
 
14G METAPHOR,- [LECT.XV, 
 
 Then shall love keep the ashes and torn parts 
 Of both our broken hearts ; 
 Shall out of both one new one make ; 
 From her's th' alloy, from mine the metal take ; 
 For of her heart, he from the flames will find 
 But little left behind ; 
 Mine only will remain entire, 
 No dross was there to perish in the fi re. 
 
 In tfjis manner he addresses sleep : 
 
 In vain, thou drowsy god, I thee invoke : 
 For thou, who dost from fumes arise, 
 Thou who man's soul dost overshade « 
 With a thick cloud by vapours made 5 
 Canst have no power to shut his eyes, 
 Whose flame's so pure that it sends up no smoke 
 Yet how do tears but from some vapours rise ! 
 Tears that bewinter all my year ; 
 The fate of Egypt I sustain, 
 And never feel the dew of rain, 
 From clouds which in the head appear. 
 But all my too much moisture owe 
 To overflowings of the heart below.* 
 
 Trite and common resemblances should indeed be avoided in our'tueta 
 phors. To be new, and not vulgar, is a beauty. But when they are 
 fetched from some likeness too remote, and lying too far out of the road 
 f>f ordinary thought, then, besides their obscurity, they have also the 
 disadvantage of appearing laboured, and, as the French call it, ' recher- 
 ehe :' whereas metaphor, like every other ornament, loses its whole 
 grace, when it does not seem natural and easy. 
 
 It is but a bad and ungraceful softening which writers sometimes use for 
 n harsh metaphor, when the palliate it with the expression, as it were. 
 This is but an awkward parenthesis ; and metaphors, which need this 
 apology of an as it were, would, generally, have been better omitted. 
 Metaphors, too, borrowed from any of the sciences, especially such of 
 them as belong to particular professions, are almost always faulty by 
 their obscurity. 
 
 In the fourth place, it must be carefully attended to, in the conduct of 
 metaphors, never to jumble metaphorical and plain language together ; 
 never to construct a period so, that part of it must be understood meta- 
 phorically, part literally ; which always produces a most disagreeable 
 confusion. Instances, which are but too frequent, even in good authors, 
 will make this rule, and the reason of it, be clearly understood. In Mr. 
 Pope's translations of the Odyssey, Penelope, bewailing the abrupt de- 
 parture of her son Telemachus, is made to speak thus : 
 
 Long to my joys my dearest lord is lost, 
 
 His country's buckler, and the Grecian boast ; 
 
 Now from my fond embrace by tempests torn, 
 
 Our other column of the state is borne, 
 
 Nor took a kind adieu, nor sought consent, t iv. 963. 
 
 * See an excellent criticism on this sort of metaphysical poetry, in Dr. Johnson's 
 &ife of Cowley. 
 f In the original, there is no allusion to a column, and the Metaphor is regularly 
 
 supported. __ " 
 
 'H ftp tv piv uocrtv i<rB\ov &r:»>y.i<ra. Stf/xoteovra, 
 TLavrows dgtr'ij<ri Kiv.aa-y.tVGV tv Axva.oi<rt 
 E<r6Aop, th xhtoe tvgu KstS' 'EWuxJk k&i fxivov 'Afyas' 
 Nwv J' av Trotto' Ayuirxrov uvu^ti-^avro &vift,ctt 
 
LECT. XV.j METAPHOR, 147 
 
 Here, in one line, her son is figured as a column ; and in the next, he 
 returns to be a person, to whom it belongs to take adieu, and to ask con- 
 sent. This is inconsistent. The poet should either have kept himself to 
 the idea of man in the literal sense ; or, if he figured him by a column, 
 he should have ascribed nothing to him, but what belonged to it. He 
 ivas not at liberty to ascribe to that column the actions and properties of 
 a man. Such unnatural mixtures render the image indistinct : leaving it 
 to waver in our conception, between the figurative and the literal sense. 
 Horace's rule, which he applies to characters, should be observed by all 
 writers who deal in figures : 
 
 Servelur ad imum, 
 
 Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet,. 
 
 Mr. Pope, elsewhere, addressing himself to the king, says, 
 
 To thee the world its present homage pays, 
 The harvest early, but mature the praise. 
 
 This, though not so gross, is a fault, however, of the same kind. It is 
 plain, that, had not the rhyme misled him to the choice of an improper 
 phrase, he would have said, 
 
 The harvest early, but mature the crop ; 
 And so would have continued the figure which he had begun. Whereas, 
 by dropping it unfinished, and by employing the literal word praise, when 
 we were expecting something that related to the harvest, the figure is 
 broken, and the two members of the sentence have no proper correspon 
 dence with each other : 
 
 The harvest early, but mature the praise. 
 
 The works of Ossian abound with beautiful and Correct metaphors j 
 such as that on a hero ; * In peace, thou art the gale of spring; in war the 
 mountain storm.' Or this, on a woman : ' She was covered with the light 
 of beauty ; but her heart was the house of pride.' They afford, how- 
 ever, one instance of the fault we are now censuring: ' Trothal went forth 
 with the stream of his people, but they met a rock : for Fingal stood 
 unmoved ; broken, they rolled back from his side. Nor did they roll in 
 safety ; the spear of the king pursued their flight.' At the beginning, the 
 metaphor is very beautiful. The stream, the unmoved rock, the. waves, 
 rolling back broken, are expressions employed in the proper and con- 
 sistent language of figure ; but, in the end, when we are told, < they did 
 not roll in safety, because the spear of the king pursued their flight,' the 
 literal meaning is improperly mixed with the metaphor : they are, at 
 one and the same time, presented to us as waves that roll, and men that 
 may be pursued and wounded with a spear. If it be faulty to jumble 
 together, in this manner, metaphorical and plain language, -it is still 
 more so, 
 
 In the fifth place, to make two different metaphors meet on one object. 
 This is what is called mixed metaphor, and is indeed one of the grossest 
 abuses of this figure ; such as Shakspeare's expression, ' to take arms 
 against a sea of troubles.' This makes a most unnatural medley, and 
 confounds the imagination entirely. Quintilian has sufficiently guarded 
 us against it. ' Id imprimis est custodiendum, ut quo genere coeperis 
 translations, hoc finias. Miilti autem cum initium 3 tempestate sumse- 
 runt, incendio aut ruina finiunt ; quoe est inconsequentia rerum foedis^U 
 
148 METAPHOR. [LECT.XV. 
 
 ma.'* Observe for instance, what an inconsistent groupe of objects is 
 brought together by Shakspeare, in the following passage of the Tem- 
 pest ; speaking of persons recovering their judgment after the enchant* 
 meof. which held them 5 was dissolved : 
 
 : The charm dissolves apace, 
 
 And as the morning steals upon the night, 
 Melting the darkness, so their rising senses 
 Begin to chase the ignorant fum-s that mantle 
 Their clearer reason.— ■ 
 
 rio many ill-sorted things are here joined, that the mind can see nothing 
 clearly ; the morning stealing upon the darkness, and at the same time 
 melting it ; the senses of men chasing fumes, ignorant fumes, and/wraes 
 that mantle. So again in Romeo and Juliet : 
 
 As glorious, 
 
 As is a winged messenger from heaven,^ 
 Unto the white upturned wondering eyes 
 Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him, 
 When he bestrides the lazy pacing clouds. 
 And sails upon the bosom of the air. 
 
 Here the angel is represented, as at one moment, bestriding the clouds, 
 and sailing upon the air ; and upon the bosom of the air too ; which 
 forms such a confused picture, that it is impossible for any imagination 
 to comprehend it. 
 
 Blore correct writers than Shakspeare, sometimes fall into this error of 
 mixing metaphors. It is surprising how the following inaccuracy should 
 have escaped Mr. Addison, in his Letter from Italy ; 
 
 I bridle in my struggling Muse with pain, 
 That longs to launch into a bolder strain.t 
 
 The Muse, figured as a horse, may be bridled ; but when we speak of 
 launching, we make it a ship ; and, by no force of imagination can it be 
 supposed both a horse and a ship at one moment ; bridled to hinder it 
 from launching. The same author, in one of his numbers in the Spec- 
 tator, says, ' There is not a single view of human nature, which is not 
 sufficient to extinguish the seeds of pride.' Observe the incoherence of 
 the things here joined together, making ' a view extinguish, and extin- 
 guish seeds.' 
 
 Horace also, is incorrect, in the following passage: 
 
 Urit enim fulgore suo qui praegravat artes 
 Infra se positas. 
 
 Urit qui pr&gravat. He dazzles who bears down with his weight ; 
 makes plainly an inconsistent mixture of metaphorical ideas. Neither 
 can this other passage be altogether vindicated : 
 
 Ah ! quanta laboras in Charybdi ; 
 Digne puer meliore flamm& ! 
 
 Where a whirlpool of water, Charybdis, is said to be a flame not good 
 enough for this young man ; meaning that he was unfortunate in the 
 object of his passion. Flame is, indeed, become almost a literal word 
 for the passion of love : But as it still retains, in some degree, its figura- 
 
 * "We must be particularly attentive to end with the same kind of metaphor 
 with which we have begun. Some when they begin the figure with a tempest, con- 
 clude it with a conflagration ; which forms a shameful inconsistency." 
 
 t In my observation on this passage, I find that I had coincided with Dr. Johnson- 
 Who passes a similar censure upon it, in his Life of Addison, 
 
&ECT.XV.J METAPHOR, 149 
 
 tive power, it should never have been used as synonymous with water, 
 and mixed with it in the same metaphor. When Mr. Pope (Eloisa to 
 Abelard) says, 
 
 All then is full possessing and possest, 
 No craving void left aching in the breast; 
 
 A void may, metaphorically, be said to crave ; but can a void be said to 
 ache ? 
 
 A good rule has been given for examining the propriety of metaphors, 
 when we doubt whether or not they be of the mixed kind ; namely, that 
 we should try to form a picture upon them and consider how the parts 
 would agree, and what sort of figure^he whole would present, whea 
 delineated with a pencil. By this paeans, we should become sensible 
 whether inconsistent circumstances were mixed, and a monstrous image 
 thereby produced, as in all those faulty I instances, have now been giv- 
 ing ; or whether the object was all along, presented in one natural and 
 consistent point of view. 
 
 As metaphors ought never to be mixed, so, in the sixth place, we 
 should avoid crowding them together on the same subject. Supposing 
 each of the metaphors to be preserved distinct, yet, if they be heaped 
 on one another, they produce a confusion somewhat of the same kind 
 with the mixed metaphor. We may judge of this by the following pas- 
 sage from Horace : 
 
 Motum ex Metello consule civicum, 
 Bellique causas, et vilia, et modos, 
 
 Ludnmque fortunae, gravesque 
 
 Prinoipum amicitias, et arma 
 Nondurn ex iatis uncta cruoribus, 
 Periculosae plenum opus aleae, 
 
 Tractds, et incedis per ignes 
 
 Suppositos cineri doloso.* Lib. h\ I» 
 
 This passage, though very poetical, is, however, harsh and obscure ; 
 owing to no other cause but this, that three distinct metaphors are 
 crowded together, to describe the difficulty of Pollio's writing a history 
 of the civil wars. First, < Tractas arma uncta cruoribus nondum ex- 
 piatis ;' next, ' opus plenum periculosae aleae ;' and then ; 'Incedis per 
 sgnes suppositos doloso cineri.' The mind has difficulty in passing 
 readily through so many different views given it, in quick succession, of 
 the same object. 
 
 The only other rule concerning metaphors which I shall add, in the 
 seventh place, is, that they be not too fur pursued. If the resemblance, 
 on which the figure is founded, be long dwelt upon, and carried into all 
 its minute circumstances, we make an allegory instead of a metaphor; we 
 
 * Of warm <:ommotions, wrathful jars, 
 
 The growing seeds of civil wars; 
 
 Of double fortune's erne' games, 
 
 The -pecious means, the private aims, 
 And fatal friendships of the guilty great, 
 Alas ! how fatal to the Roman state 1 
 
 Of mighty legions late subdu'd, 
 
 And arms with Latian blood embru'd ; 
 
 Yet unaton'd, (a labour vast ! 
 
 Doubtful the die, and dire the cast !) 
 You treat adventurous, and incautious tread 
 On fires with faithless embers overspread. Francis. 
 
150 ALLEGORY. [LECT. XS'* 
 
 tire the reader, who soon becomes weary of this play of fancy ; and we 
 render our discourse obscure. This is called straining a metaphor. Cow- 
 ley deals in this to excess; and to this error is owing, in a great measure, 
 that intricacy and harshness, in his figurative language, which I before 
 remarked. Lord Shaftesbury is sometimes guilty of pursuing his meta- 
 phors too far. Fond, to a high degree, of every decoration of style, when 
 once he had hit upon a figure that pleased him, he was extremely loath to 
 part with it. Thus, in his Advice to an Author, having taken up soliloquy 
 or meditation, under the metaphor of a proper method of evacuation for 
 an author, he pursues this metaphor through several pages, under all the 
 forms ■ of discharging crudities, throwing off froth and scum, bodily ope- 
 ration, taking phytic, curing indigestion, giving vent to choler, bile, flatu- 
 lencies, and tumours;' till at last, the idea becomes nauseous. Dr. Young, 
 also, often trespasses in the same way. The merit, however, of this wri- 
 ter, in figurative language, is great, and deserves to be remarked. No 
 writer, ancient or modern, had a stronger imagination than Dr. Young, or 
 one more fertile in figures of every kind. His metaphors are often new, 
 and often natural and beautiful. But, as his imagination was strong and 
 rich, rather than delicate and correct,hesometimes gives it too loose reins. 
 Hence, in his Night Thoughts, there prevails an obscurity, and a hardness 
 i in big style. The metaphors are frequently too bold, and frequently too 
 far pursued; the reader is dazzled, rather than enlightened ; and kept 
 constantly on the stretch to comprehend, and keep pace with the author. 
 We may observe, for instance, how the following metaphor is spun out, 
 
 Thy thoughts are vagabond ; all outward bound, 
 
 Midst sands and rocks, and storms, to cruise for pleasure ; 
 
 It gain'd dear bought : and better miss'd than gain'd, 
 
 Fancy and sense, from an infected shore, 
 
 Thy cargo brings ; and pestilence the prize : 
 
 Then such the thirst, insatiable thirst, 
 
 By fond indulgence butinflam'dthe more, 
 
 Fancy still cruises, when poor sense is tir'd. 
 
 Speaking of old age, he says, it should 
 
 Walk thoughtful on the silent solemn shore 
 
 Of that vast ocean, it must sail so soon ; 
 
 And put good works on board ; and wait the wind 
 
 That shortly blows us into worlds unknown. 
 
 The two first lines are uncommonly beautiful ; « walk thoughtful on 
 the silent,' &c. but when he continues the metaphor, ' to putting good 
 works on board, and waiting the wind,' it plainly becomes strained, and 
 sinks in dignity. Of all the English authors, I know none so happy in 
 his metaphors as Mr. Addison. His imagination was neither so rich nor 
 so strong as Dr. Young's; but far more chaste and delicate. Perspicuity, 
 natural grace, and ease, always distinguish his figures. They are neither 
 harsh nor strained ; they never appear to have been studied or sought 
 after ; but seem to rise of their own accord from the subject, and con- 
 stantly embellish it. 
 
 I have now treated fully of the metaphor, and the rules that should 
 govern it, a part of style so important, that it required particular illustra- 
 tion. I have only to add a few words concerning allegory. 
 
 An allegory may be regarded as a continued metaphor ; as it is the 
 representation of some one thing by another that resembles it, and that is 
 
LECT. XV.] ALLEGORY. J5J 
 
 made to stand for it. Thus in Prior's Henry and Emma, Emma, in the 
 following allegorical manner, describes her constancy to Henry; 
 
 Did I but propose to embark with thee 
 On the smooth surface of a summer's sea, 
 While gentle zephyrs play with prosperous gales, 
 And fortune's favour fills the swelling sails; 
 But would forsake the ship, and make the shore, 
 When the winds whistle, and the tempests roar ; 
 
 We may take also from the Scriptures a very fine example of an alle- 
 gory, in the 80th Psalm ; where the people of Israel are represented 
 tinder the image of a vine, and the figure is supported throughout with 
 great correctness and beauty ; ' Thou hast brought a vine out of Egypt, 
 thou hast cast out the heathen, and planted it. Thou preparedst room 
 before it, and didst cause it to take deep root, and it filled the land. The 
 hills were covered with the shadow of it ; and the boughs thereof were 
 like the goodly cedars. She sent out her boughs into the sea, and her 
 branches into the river. Why hast thou broken down her hedges, so that 
 all they which pass by the way do pluck her ? The boar out of the wood 
 doth waste it ; and the wild beasts of the field doth devour it. Return, 
 we beseech thee, O God of Hosts, look down from heaven, and behold, 
 and visit this vine !' Here there is no circumstance, (except perhaps one 
 phrase at the beginning, 4 thou hast cast out the heathen') that does not 
 strictly agree to a vine, whilst, at the same time, the whole quadrates hap- 
 pily with the Jewish state represented by this figure. This is the first 
 and principal requisite in the conduct of an allegory, that the figurative 
 and the literal meaning be not mixed inconsistently together. For in- 
 stance, instead of describing the vine, as wasted by the boar from the 
 wood, and devoured by the wild beast of the field, had the Psalmist said, 
 it was afflicted by heathens, or overcome by enemies, (which is the real 
 meaning) this would have ruined the allegory, and produced the same 
 confusion, of which I gave examples in metaphors, when the figurative 
 and literal sense are mixed and jumbled together. Indeed, the same rules 
 that were given for metaphors, may also be applied to allegories, on ac- 
 count of the affinity they bear to each other. The only material differ- 
 ence between them, besides the one being short and the other being pro- 
 longed, is, that a metaphor always explains itself by the words that are 
 connected with it in their proper and natural meaning ; as when I say 
 * Achilles was a lion ;' an ' able minister is the pillar of the state.' My 
 lion and my pillar are sufficiently interpreted by the mention of Achilles 
 and the minister, which I join to them ; but an allegory, is, or may be 
 allowed to stand more disconnected with the literal meaning ; the inter- 
 pretation not so directly pointed out, but left to our own reflection. 
 
 Allegories were a favourite method of delivering instructions in an- 
 cient times ; for what we call fables or parables are no other than alle- 
 gories ; where by \vords and actions attributed to beasts or inanimate 
 objects, the dispositions of men are figured ; and what we call the moral, 
 is the unfigured sense or meaning of the allegory. An enigma or 
 riddle is also a species of allegory ; one thing represented or imagined 
 by another ; but purposely wrapt up under so many circumstances, as 
 to be rendered obscure. Where a riddle is not intended, it is always 
 a fault in allegory to be too dark. The meaning should be easily seen 
 through the figure employed to shadow it. However, the proper 
 mixture of light and shade in such compositions, the exact adjustment 
 of all the figurative circumstances with the literal sense, so as neither to 
 
 II 
 
2o2 HYPERBOLE. [LECT. XVf. 
 
 lay the meaning too bare and open, nor to cover and wrap it up too 
 much, has ever been found an affair of great nicety ; and there are 
 few species of composition in which it is more difficult to write so as to 
 please and command attention, than in allegories. In some of the 
 visions of the Spectator, we have examples of allegories very happily 
 executed. 
 
 LECTURE XVI, 
 
 HYPERBOLE— PERSONIFICATION.— APOSTROPHE. 
 
 The next figure concerning which I am to treat, is called hyperbole, 
 or exaggeration. It consists in magnifying an object beyond its natural 
 bounds. It may be considered sometimes as a trope, and sometimes as 
 a figure of thought : and here indeed the distinction between these two 
 classes begins not to be clear, nor is it of any importance that we 
 should have recourse to metaphysical subtilties, in order to keep them 
 distinct. Whether we call it trope or figure, it is plain that it is a mode 
 of speech which hath some foundation in nature. For in all languages, 
 even in common conversation, hyperbolical expressions very frequently 
 occur : as swift as the wind ; as white as the snow ; and the like : and 
 our common forms of compliment are almost all of them extravagant 
 hyperboles. If any thing be remarkably good or great in its kind, we 
 are instantly readj' to add to it some exaggerating epithet ; and to make 
 it the greatest or best we ever saw. The imagination has always a 
 tendency to gratify itself, by magnifying its present object, and carrying 
 it to excess. More or less of this hyperbolical turn will prevail in lan- 
 guage, according to the liveliness of imagination among the people who 
 speak it Hence young people always deal much in hyperboles. — 
 Hence the language of the Orientals was far more hyperbolical than 
 that of the Europeans, who are of more phlegmatic, or, if you please, of 
 more correct imagination. Hence, among all writers in early times, 
 and in the rude periods of society, we may expect this figure to abound. 
 Greater experience, and more cultivated society, abate the warmth of 
 imagination, and chasten the manner of expression. 
 
 The exaggerated expressions, to which our ears are accustomed in 
 conversation, scarcely strike us as hyperboles. In an instant we make 
 the proper abatement, and understand them according to their just value. 
 But when there is something striking and unusual in the form of a hy- 
 perbolical expression, it then rises into a figure of speech which draws 
 our attention : and here it is necessary to observe, that, unless the 
 reader's imagination be in such a state as disposes it to rise and swell 
 along with the hyperbolical expression, he is always hurt and offended by 
 it. For a sort of disagreeable force is put upon him ; he is required to 
 strain and exert his fancy, when he feels no inclination to make any such 
 effort. Hence the hyperbole is a figure of difficult management; and 
 ought neither to be frequently used, nor long dwelt upon. On r-ome oc- 
 casions, it is undoubtedly proper ; being, as was before observed, the na- 
 
KEC'f. XVI.': HYPERBOLE. iod 
 
 tural style of a sprightly and heated imagination, but when hyperboles 
 are unseasonable, or too frequent, they render a composition frigid and 
 unaffecting. They are the resource of an author of feeble imagination ; 
 of one. describing objects which either want native dignity in them- 
 selves, or whose dignity he cannot show by describing them simply and 
 in their just proportions, and is therefore obliged to rest upon tumid and 
 exaggerated expressions, 
 
 Hyperboles are of two kinds ; either such as are employed in descrip- 
 tion, or such as are suggested by the warmth of passion. The best, 
 by far, are those which are the effect of passion ; for if the imagination 
 has a tendency to magnify its objects beyond their natural proportion, 
 passion possesses this tendency in a vastly stronger degree ; and there- 
 fore not only excuses the most daring figures, but very often renders 
 them natural and just. All passions, without exception, love, terror, 
 amazement, indignation, anger, and even grief, throw the mind into con- 
 fusion, aggravate their objects, and, of course, prompt a hyperbolical 
 style. Hence the following sentiments of Satan in Milton, as strongly 
 as they are described, contain nothing but what is natural and proper ; 
 exhibiting the picture of a mind agitated with rage and despair. 
 
 Me, miserable ! which way shall T fly 
 
 Infinite wrath and infinite despair ? 
 
 Which way I fly is hell, myself am helf, 
 
 And in the lowest depth ; a lower deep, 
 
 Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide. 
 
 To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. E. iv. 1. 7& 
 
 In simple description, though hyperboles are not excluded, yet they 
 must be used with more caution, and require more preparation, in order 
 to make the mind relish them. Either the object described must be of 
 that kind, which of itself seizes the fancy strongly, and disposes it to run 
 beyond bounds ; something vast, surprising, and new ; or the writer's 
 art must be exerted in heating the fancy gradually, and preparing it to think 
 highly of the object which he intends to exaggerate. When a poet is 
 describing an earthquake or a storm, or when he has brought us into the 
 midst of a battle, we can bear strong hyperboles without displeasure. 
 But when he is describing only a woman in grief, it is impossible not to 
 be disgusted with such wild exaggerations as the following, in one of our 
 dramatic poets : 
 
 - I found her on the floor 
 
 In all the storm of grief, yet beautiful : 
 
 Pouring forth tears at such a lavish rate, 
 
 That were the world on (ire, they might have drown'd 
 
 The wrath of Heaven, andquench'd the mighty ruin. Lee. 
 
 This is mere bombast. The person herself, who was under the dis- 
 tracting agitations of grief, might be permitted to hyperbolize strongly ; 
 but the spectator, describing her, cannot be allowed an equal liberty ; for 
 this plain reason, that the one is supposed to utter the sentiments of pas- 
 sion, the other speaks only the language of description, which is always, 
 according to the dictates of nature, on a lower tone ; a distinction, which., 
 however obvious, has not been attended to by many writers. 
 
 How far a hyperbole, supposing it properly introduced, may be safely 
 carried without overstretching it ; what is the proper measure and bound- 
 ary of this figure, cannot, as far as I know, be ascertained by any pre- 
 cise rule. Good sense and just taste must determine the point, bevon^, 
 
 U 
 
|54 PERSONIFICATION, [LECT. XVI 
 
 which, if we pass, we become extravagant. Lucan may be pointed out 
 as an author apt to be excessive in his hyperboles. Among the compli- 
 ments paid by the Roman poets to their Emperors, it had become fash- 
 ionable to ask them, what part of the heavens they would choose for 
 their habitation , after they should have become gods ? Virgil had already 
 earried this sufficiently far in his address to Augustus: 
 
 Tibi brachia contrahit ingens 
 
 Seorpius, et Cceli justa plus parte relinquit.* Geor. I. 
 
 But this did not suffice Lucan. Resolved to outdo all his predecessors, 
 in a like address to Nero, he very gravely beseeches him not to ch6ose 
 his place near either of the poles, but to be sure to occupy just the middle 
 of the heavens, lest, by going either to one side or the other, his weight 
 should overset the universe : 
 
 Sed neque in Arcioo sedem tibi legeris orbe, 
 
 Nee polus adversi calidus qua mergitur austri; 
 
 JEtheris immensi partem si presseris unam 
 
 Sen tie t axis onus. Librati pondera Cceli 
 
 Orbe tene medio.t Phars. I* 53. 
 
 Such thoughts as these are what the French call outres, and always pro- 
 ceed from a false fire of genius. The Spanish and African writers, as 
 Tertullian, Cyprian, Augustin, are remarked for being fond of them, 
 As in the epitaph on Charles V. by a Spanish writer : 
 
 Pro 'tumulo ponas orbem, protegraine caelum,, 
 Sidera pro facibus, pro lacrymis maria. 
 
 Sometimes they dazzle and impose by their boldness ; but wherever 
 reason and good sense are so much vioIated r there can be no true beauty. 
 Epigrammatic writers are frequently guilty in this respect ; resting the 
 whole merit of their epigrams ou some extravagant hyperbolical turn ; 
 such as the following of Dr. Pitcairn's, upon Holland's being gained from 
 the ocean ; 
 
 Tellurem fecere Dii ; sua littora Belgse ~, 
 Immensaeque raolis opus utruraque fuit ; 
 
 Dii vacuo sparsas glomerarunt seth ere terras. 
 Nil ibi quod operi possit obesse fuit. 
 At Belgis maria et cceli naturaque reruui 
 Obstitit ; obstantes hi domuere Deos. 
 
 So much for hyperbole. We proceed now to those figures which lie al- 
 together in the thought j where the words are taken in their common and 
 literal sense. 
 
 Among these, the first place is unquestionably due to Personification, 
 or that figure by which we attribute life and action to inanimate objects. 
 The technical term for this is Prosopopoeia ; but as Personification is of 
 
 * ' The Scorpion, ready to receive ,thy laws, 
 
 Yields half his region, and contracts his paws.' Dryben. 
 
 t ' But oh ! whatever be thy Godhead great, 
 
 Fix not in regions too remote thy seat ; 
 
 Nor deign thou near the frozen bear to shine, 
 
 Nor where the sultry southern stars decline. 
 
 Press not too much on any part the sphere, 
 
 Hard were the task thy weight divine to bear ; 
 
 Soon would the axis feel th' unusual load, 
 
 And, groaning, bend beneath th' incumbent God ; 
 
 O'er the mid orb more equal shalt thou rise, 
 
 fcnd witfi-a juster balance fit the skies. llowr 
 
££CT. XVI. j PERSONIFICATION, 15J 
 
 the same import, and more allied to our own language, it will be better 
 to use this word. 
 
 It is a figure, the use of which is very extensive, and its foundation laid 
 deep in human nature. At first view, and when considered abstractly, it 
 would appear to be a figure of the utmost boldness, and to border on the 
 extravagant and ridiculous. For what can seem more remote from the 
 track of reasonable thought, than to speak of stones and trees, and fields 
 and rivers, as if they were living creatures, and to attribute to them 
 thought and sensation, affections and actions ? One might imagine this 
 to be no more than childish conceit, which no person of taste could relish. 
 In fact, however, the case is very different. No such ridiculous effect is 
 produced by personification, when properly employed ; on the contrary, 
 it is found to be natural and agreeable, nor is any very uncommon degree 
 of passion required, in order to make us relish it. All poetry, even in 
 its most gentle and humble forms, abounds with it. From prose, it is far 
 from being excluded ; nay, in common conversation, very frequent ap- 
 proaches are made to it. When we say, the ground thirsts for rain, or 
 the earth smiles with plenty ; when we speak of ambition's being restless^ 
 or a disease being deceitful, such expressions show the facility with which 
 the mind can accommodate the properties of living creatures to things 
 that are inanimate, or to abstract conceptions of its own forming. 
 
 Indeed, it is very remarkable, that there is a wonderful proneness in 
 human nature to animate all objects. Whether this arises from a sort of 
 assimilating principle, from a propension to spread a resemblance of our- 
 selves over all other things, or from whatever other cause it arises, so it is, 
 that almost every emotion, which in the least agitates the mind, bestows 
 upon its object a momentary idea of life. Let a man, by an unwary step, 
 sprain his ankle, or hurt his foot upon a stone, and, in the ruffled discom- 
 posed moment, he will, sometimes, feel himself disposed to break the 
 stone in pieces, or to utter passionate expressions against it, as if it had 
 done him an injury. If one has been long accustomed to a certain set of 
 objects, which have made a strong impression on his imagination ; as to a 
 house where he has passed many agreeable years ; or to fields, and trees, 
 and mountains, among which he has often walked with the greatest de- 
 light ; when he is obliged to part with them, especially if he has no pros- 
 pect of ever seeing them again, he can scarce avoid having somewhat of 
 the same feeling as when he is leaving old friends. They seem endowed 
 with life. They become objects of his affection ; and in the moment of 
 his parting, it scarce seems absurd to him to give vent to his feeling in 
 words, and to take a formal adieu. 
 
 So strong is that impression of life which is made upon us, by the more 
 magnificent and striking objects of nature especially, that I doubt not, in 
 the least, of this having been one cause of the multiplication of divinities 
 in the heathen world. The belief of Dryads and Naiads, of the genius of 
 the wood, and the god of the river, among men of lively imaginations, in the 
 early ages of the world, easily arose from this turn of mind. When their 
 favourite rural objects had often been animated in their fancy, it was an 
 easy transition to attribute to them some real divinity, some unseen power 
 or genius which inhabited them, or in some peculiar manner belonged to 
 them. Imagination was highly gratified, by thus gaining somewhat to 
 rest upon with more stability ; and when belief coincided so much with 
 imagination, very slight causes would be sufficient to establish it. 
 
 From this deduction, may be easily seen how it comes to pass, that 
 
156 PERSONIFICATION. [LECT. XVL 
 
 personification makes so great a figure in all compositions, where imagi- 
 nation or passion have any concern. On innumerable occasions, it is the 
 very language of imagination and passion, and therefore deserves to be 
 attended to, and examined with peculiar care. There are three different 
 degrees of this figure ; which it is necessary to remark and distinguish, 
 in order to determine the propriety of its use. The first is, when some 
 of the properties or qualities of living creatures are ascribed to inani- 
 mate objects : the second, when those inanimate objects are introduced 
 as acting like such as have life ; and the third, when they are represent- 
 ed either as speaking to us, or as listening to what we say to them. 
 
 The first and lowest degree of this figure, consists in ascribing to in- 
 animate objects some of the qualities of living creatures. Where this 
 is done, as is most commonly the case, in a word or two, and by way of 
 an epithet added to the object, as, ' a raging storm, a deceitful disease, 
 a cruel disaster,' &c. it raises the style so little, that the humblest dis- 
 course will admit it without any force. This, indeed, is such an obscure 
 degree of personification, that one may doubt whether it deserves the 
 name, and might not be classed with simple metaphors, which escape in 
 a manner unnoticed. Happily employed, however, it sometimes adds 
 beauty and sprightliness to an expression : as in this line of Virgil : 
 
 Aut conjurato descendens Dacus ab Istro. Geor. II. 474. 
 
 Where the personal epithet conjurato, applied to the river Istro, is infi- 
 nitely more poetical than if it had been applied to the person, thus : 
 Aut conjuratus descendens Dacus ab Istro. 
 
 A very little taste will make any one feel the difference between these 
 two lines. 
 
 The next degree of this figure is, when we introduce inanimate objects 
 acting like those that have life. Here we rise a step higher, and the 
 personification becomes sensible. According to the nature of the action, 
 which we attribute to those inanimate objects, and the particularity with 
 which we describe it, such is the strength of the figure. When pursued 
 to any length, it belongs only to studied harangues, to highly figured and 
 eloquent discourse ; when slightly touched, it may be admitted into sub- 
 jects of less elevation. Cicero, for instance, speaking of the cases where 
 killing another is lawful in self-defence, uses the following words : " Ali- 
 quando nobis gladius ad occidendum hominem ab ipsis porrigitur legibus." 
 (Orat. pro. Milone.) The expression is happy. The laws are personi- 
 fied, as reaching forth their hand to give us a sword for putting one to 
 death. Such short personifications as these may be admitted even into 
 moral treatises, or works of cool reasoning ; and provided they be easy 
 and not strained, and that we be not cloyed with too frequent returns of 
 them, they have a good effect on style, and render it both strong and 
 lively. 
 
 The genius of our language gives us an advantage in the use of this 
 figure. As, with us, no substantive nouns have gender, or are masculine 
 and feminine, except the proper names of male and female creatures ; 
 by giving a gender to any inanimate object, or abstract idea, that is, in 
 place of the pronoun it, using the personal pronouns, he, or she, we 
 presently raise the style, and begin personification. In solemn discourse, 
 this may often be done to good purpose, when speaking of religion, 
 or virtue, or our country, or any such object of dignity. I shall give 
 n remarkably fine example, from a sermon of Bishop Sherlock's, where 
 
I.ECT. XVI.} PERSONIFICATION. 1 57 
 
 we shall see natural religion beautifully personified, and be able to 
 judge from it, of the spirit and grace which this figure, when well 
 conducted, bestows on a discourse. I must take notice, at the same 
 time, that it is an instance of this figure, carried as far as prose, even 
 in its highest elevation, will admit, and therefore, suited only to com- 
 positions where the great efforts of eloquence are allowed. The au- 
 thor is comparing together our Saviour and Mahomet : ' Go.' says he, 
 6 to your natural religion ; lay before her Mahomet, and his disciples, ar- 
 rayed in armour and blood, riding in trjumph over the spoils of thousands 
 Who fell by his victorious sword. Show her the cities which he set on 
 flames, the countries which he ravaged and destroyed, and the miserable 
 distress of all the inhabitants of (he earth. When she has viewed him 
 in this scene, carry her into his retirement ; show her the prophet's 
 chamber ; his concubines and his wives ; and let her hear him allege 
 revelation, and a divine commission, to justify his adultery, and lust. 
 When she is tired with this prospect, then show her the blessed Jesus, 
 humble and meek, doing good to all the sons of men. Let her see him 
 In his most retired privacies : let her follow him to the mount and hear 
 his devotions and supplications to God. Carry her to his table, to view 
 his poor fare, and hear his heavenly discourse. Let her attend him to 
 the tribunal, and consider the patience with which he endured the scoffs 
 and reproaches of his enemies. Lead her to his cross ; let her view 
 him in the agony of death, and hear his last prayer for his persecutors : 
 Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do! When natural re- 
 ligion has thus viewed both, ask her, which is the Prophet of God ? But 
 her answer we have already had, when she saw part of this scene 
 through the eyes of the centurion who attended at the cross. By him 
 she spoke, and said, 'Truly, this man was the Son of God.'' "* This is more 
 than elegant ; it is truly sublime. The whole passage is animated ; and 
 the figure rises at the conclusion, when natural religion, who, before was 
 only a spectator, is introduced as speaking by the centurion's voice. It 
 has the better effect too, that it occurs at the conclusion of a discourse 
 where we naturally look for most warmth and dignity. Did Bishop Sher- 
 lock's sermons, or, indeed any English sermons whatever, afford us 
 many passages equal to this, we should oftener have recourse to them 
 for instances of the beauty of composition. 
 
 Hitherto we have spoken of prose ; in poetry, personifications of this 
 kind are extremely frequent, and are, indeed, the very life and soul of it. 
 We expect to find every thing animated in the descriptions of a poet 
 who has a lively fancy. Accordingly Homer, the father and prince of 
 poets, is remarkable for the use of this figure. War, peace, darts, 
 spears, towns, rivers, every thing, in short, is alive in his writings. The 
 same is the case with Milton and Shakspeare. No personification, in 
 any author, is more striking or introduced on a more proper occasion 
 than the following of Milton's on occasion of Eve's eating the forbidden 
 fruit : 
 
 So saying, her rash hand, in evil hour 
 
 forth reaching to the fruit, she pluck'd, she ate ; 
 
 Earth felt the wound : and Nature from her seat 
 
 Sighing, through all her works, gave signs of wo, 
 
 That all was lost. ix. 780, 
 
 Bishop Sherlock's Sermons, Vol, I. Disc, ix, 
 
1 58 PERSONIFICATION . {J,ECT. X\ I 
 
 All the circumstances and ages of men, poverty, riches, youth, old age ? 
 all the dispositions and passions, melancholy, love, grief, contentment, 
 are capable of being personified in poetry, with great propriety. Of 
 this we meet with frequent examples in Milton's Allegro and Penseroso, 
 Parnell's Hymn to Contentment, Thompson's Seasons, and all the good 
 poets : nor, indeed, is it easy to set any bounds to personifications of 
 this kind, in poetry. 
 
 One of the greatest pleasures we receive from poetry, is, to find our- 
 selves always in the midst of our fellows ; and to see every thing think- 
 ing, feeling, and acting, as we ourselves do. This is, perhaps, the princi- 
 pal charm of this sort of figured style, that it introduces us into society 
 with all nature, and interests us even in inanimate objects, by forming a 
 connexion between them and us, through that sensibility which it ascribes 
 to them. This is exemplified in the following beautiful passage of Thomp- 
 son's Summer, wherein the life which he bestows upon all nature, when 
 describing the effects of the rising sun, renders the scenery uncommonly 
 gay and interesting : 
 
 But yonder comes the powerful king of day, 
 Rejoicing in the East The lessening cioud ? 
 The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow 
 Tipt with setherial gold, his near approach 
 
 Betoken glad. 
 
 By tbee refin'd, 
 
 In brisker measures, the relucent stream 
 Frisks o'er the mead. The precipice abrupt. 
 Projecting horror on the blacken 'd flood, 
 Softens at thy return. The desert joys, 
 Wildly, through all his melancholy bounds 
 Rude ruins glitter ; and the briny deep, 
 Seen from some pointed promontory's top, 
 Reflects from every fluctuating wave, 
 A glance extensive as the day — — 
 
 The same effect is remarkable in that fine passage of Milton i 
 
 -To the nuptial bower, 
 
 I led her blushing like the morn. All heaven 
 And happy constellations, On that hour, 
 Shed their selectest influence. The earth 
 Gave signs of gratulation, and each hill. 
 Joyous the birds ; fresh gales and gentle airs 
 Whisper'd it to the woods, and from their "wings 
 Flung rose, flung odour from the spicy shrub, 
 Disporting. — 
 
 The third and highest degree of this figure remains to be mentioned^ 
 when inanimate objects are introduced, not only as feeling and acting, 
 but as speaking to us, or hearing and listening when we address our- 
 selves to them. This, though on several occasions far from being unnatu- 
 ral, is, however, more difficult in the execution, than the other kinds of 
 personification. For this is plainly the boldest of all rhetorical figures ; 
 it is the style of strong passion only ; and, therefore, never to be at- 
 tempted, unless when the mind is considerably heated and agitated. A 
 slight personification of some inanimate thing, acting as if it had life, can 
 be relished by the mind, in the midst of cool description, and when its 
 ideas are going on in the ordinary train. But it must be in a state of 
 violent emotion, and have departed considerably from its common track of 
 thought, before it can so far realize the personification of an insensible 
 object, as to conceive it listening to what we say, or making any return to 
 *is. All strong passions, however, have a tendency to use this figure ; 
 

 LECT. XVi.j PERSONIFICATION . io& 
 
 not only love, anger, and indignation, but even those which are seem- 
 ingly more dispiriting, such as grief, remorse, and melancholy. For all 
 passions struggle for vent, and if they can find no other object, will, 
 rather than be silent, pour themselves forth to woods, and rocks, and the 
 most insensible things ; especially, if these be in any degree connected 
 with the causes and objects that have thrown the mind into this agitation,, 
 Hence, in poetry, where the greatest liberty is allowed to the language 
 of passion, it is easy to produce many beautiful examples of this figureo 
 Milton affords us an extremely fine one, in that moving and tender ad- 
 dress which Eve makes to Paradise, just before she is compelled to leave it 
 
 Oh ! unexpected stroke, worse than of death ! 
 
 Must I thus leave thee, Paradise ! thus leave 
 
 Thee, native soil, these happy walks, and shades. 
 
 Fit haunt of gods ! where I had hope to spend 
 
 Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day 
 
 Which must be mortal to us both. O flowers ! 
 
 That never will in other climate grow, 
 
 My early visitation and my last 
 
 At ev'n, which I bred up with tender hand, 
 
 From your first op'ning buds, and gave you names I 
 
 Who now shall rear you to the sun, or rank 
 
 Your tribes, and water from th' ambrosial fount ? Book II. I. 268.- 
 
 ^Fhis is altogether the language of nature, and of female passion. It is 
 observable, that all plaintive passions are peculiarly prone to the use of 
 this figure. The complaints which Philoctetes, in Sophocles, pours out 
 to the rocks and caves of Lemnos, amidst the excess of his grief and 
 despair, are remarkably fine examples of it.* And there are frequent 
 examples, not in poetry only, but in real life of persons, when just about 
 to suffer death, taking a passionate farewell of the sun, moon, and stars, 
 or other sensible objects around them. 
 
 There are two great rules for the management of this sort of personi- 
 fication. The first rule is, never to attempt it, unless when prompted by 
 strong passion, and never to continue it when the passion begins to flag. 
 It is one of those high ornaments which can only find place in the most 
 warm and spirited parts of composition ; and there, too, must be em- 
 ployed with moderation. 
 
 The second rule is, never to personify any object in this way, but such 
 as has some dignity in itself, and can make a proper figure in this eleva 
 tion to which we raise it. The observance of this rule is required, even 
 in the lower degrees of personification ; but still more, when an address 
 is made to the personified object. To address the corpse of a deceased 
 friend, is natural ; but to address the clothes which he wore, introduces 
 mean and degrading ideas. So also, addressing the several parts of one's 
 body, as if they were animated, is not congruous to the dignity of passion, 
 For this reason, I must condemn the following passage, in a very beauti- 
 ful poem of Mr. Pope's, Eloisa to Abelard. 
 
 TfAtv TOtTi * y*g ctAAov 6iJ ora> xryce. 
 ''AvcutXitio/AaiTrc/^trt roistiaiQsriV; &c. 
 
 " O mountains, rivers, rocks, and savage herds, 
 
 To you I speak ! to you alone I now 
 
 Must breathe my sorrows ! you are wont to hear 
 
 My sad complaints, and I will tell you all 
 
 That I have sutfer'd from Achilles' son I" Feahkii>: 
 
160 PERSONIFICATION [LECT. XVI 
 
 Dear fatal name ! rest ever unreveal'd, 
 Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd. 
 Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, 
 Where, mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies. 
 O write it not my hand ! — his name appears 
 Already written : — Blot it out, my tears ! 
 
 Here are several different objects and parts of the body personified ; 
 and each of them is addressed or spoken to ; let us consider with what 
 propriety. The first is the name of Abelard ; " Dear fatal name ! rest 
 ever," &c. To this no reasonable objection can be made. For, as the 
 name of a person often stands for the person himself, and suggests the 
 same ideas, it can bear this personification with sufficient dignity. Next, 
 Eloisa speaks to herself; and personifies her heart for this purpose: 
 " Hide it, my heart, within that close," &c. As the heart is a dignified 
 part of the human frame, and is often put for the mind or affections, this 
 also may pass without blame. But when from her heart she passes to 
 her hand, and tells her hand not to write his name, this is forced and un- 
 natural ; a personified hand is low, and not in the style of true passion ; 
 and the figure becomes still worse, when, in the last place, she exhorts 
 her tears to blot out what her hand had written, " Oh ! write it not," &c. 
 There is, in these two lines, an air of epigrammatic conceit, which 
 native passion never suggests ; and which is altogether unsuitable to the 
 tenderness which breathes through the rest of that excellent poem. 
 
 In prose compositions, this figure requires to be used with still greater 
 moderation and delicacy. The same liberty is not allowed to the imagi- 
 nation there, as in poetry. The same assistances cannot be obtained for 
 raising the passion to its proper height by the force of numbers, and the 
 glow of style. However, addresses to inanimate objects are not exclu- 
 ded from prose ; but have their place only in the higher species of ora- 
 tory. A public speaker may on some occasions very properly address 
 religion or virtue ; or his native country, or some city or province, which 
 has suffered perhaps great calamities, or been the scene of some memo- 
 rable action. But we must remember, that as such addresses are among 
 the highest efforts of eloquence, they should never be attempted, unless 
 by persons of more than ordinary genius. For if the orator fails in his 
 design of moving our passions by them, he is sure of being laughed at. 
 Of all frigid things, the most frigid are the awkward and unseasonable 
 attempts sometimes made towards such kinds of personification, especial- 
 ly if they be long-continued. We see the writer or speaker toiling and 
 labouring, to express the language of some passion which he neither feels 
 himself, nor can make us feel. We .remain not only cold, but frozen ; 
 and are at full leisure to criticise on the ridiculous figure which the per- 
 sonified object makes, when we ought to have been transported with a 
 glow of enthusiasm. Some of the French writers, particularly Bossuet 
 and Flechier, in their sermons and funeral orations, have attempted and 
 executed this figure, not without warmth and dignity. Their works are 
 exceedingly worthy of being consulted, for instances of this, and of se- 
 veral other ornaments of style. Indeed, the vivacity and ardour of the 
 French genius is more suited to this bold species of oratory, than the 
 more correct, but less animated genius of the British, who, in their prose 
 works, very rarely attempt any of the high figures of eloquence.* So 
 much for personifications, or prosopopoeia, in all its different forms. 
 
 * Inthe "Oraisons Funebres de M. Bossuet," which I consider as one of the master- 
 piecesolmoderneloquence, apostrophes and addressestoper»onifiedobjeets frequently 
 
LCCT. XVI.] APOSTROPHE. 161 
 
 Apostrophe is a figure so much of the same kind, that it will not 
 require many words. It is an address to a real person ; but one who is 
 either absent or dead, as if he were present, and listening to us. It is so 
 much allied to an address to inanimate objects personified, that both these 
 figures are sometimes called apostrophes. However, the proper apos- 
 trophe is in boldness one degree lower than the address to personified 
 objects ; for it certainly requires a less effort of imagination to suppose 
 persons present w T ho are dead or absent, than to animate insensible beings, 
 and direct our discourse to them. Both figures are subject to the same 
 rule of being prompted by passion, in order to render them natural ; for 
 both are the language of passion or strong emotions only. Among the 
 poets, apostrophe is frequent, as in Virgil : 
 
 -Pereunt Hypanisque Dymasque 
 
 Confixi a sociis ; nee te, tua piurima, Pantheu, 
 Labentum pietas, nee Apoilinis insula texit !"* 
 
 The poems of Ossian are full of the most beautiful instances of this 
 figure : " Weep on the rocks of roaring winds, O maid of Inistore ! 
 Bend thy fair head over the waves, thou fairer than the ghosts of the 
 hills when it moves in a sunbeam at noon over the silence of Morven ! 
 He is fallen ! Thy youth is low ; pale beneath the sword of Cuthullin !"}" 
 Quintilian affords us a very fine example in prose ; when, in the begin- 
 ning of his sixth book, deploring the untimely death of his son, which 
 had happened during the course of the work, he makes a very moving 
 and tender apostrophe to him. " Nam quo ille animo, qua medicorum 
 admiratione, mensium octo valitudinem tulit ? ut me in supremis con- 
 solatus est? quam etiam jam deficiens, jamque non noster, ipsuni 
 ilium alienatse mentes errorem circa solas literas habuit ? Tuosne ergo, 
 
 quently occur, and are supported with much spirit. Thus, for instance, in the funeral 
 oration of Mary of Austria, Queen of France, the authoraddresses Algiers, in the pros- 
 pect of the advantage which the arms of Louis XIV. were to gain over it : " Avant lui 
 la France, presque sans vaisseaux, tenoit en vain aux deux mers. Maintenant, on les 
 voit couvertes, depuis le Levant jusqu'aucouchant, de nos flottes victorieuses ; et ia 
 hardiesseFrancoise port par toutlaterreur avec le nom de Louis. Tu cederas, tu tom- 
 beras sousle vanqueur, Alger ! riche des depouilles da la chretiente. Tu disois en ton 
 cceur avare, je tiens le mer sous ma loi, et les nations sont ma proie. La legerete de 
 tes vaisseaux te donnoit de la confiance. Mais tu te verras attaque dans tes murailles, 
 comme un oisseau ravissant, qu'on iroit chercher parmi ses rochers, et dans son nid, 
 ou il partage son butin a ses petits. Tu rends deja tes esclaves. Louis a brise les fers 
 donttuacabloisses sujets, &c." In another passage of the same oration, he thusapos- 
 trophizes the Isle of Pheasants, which had been rendered famous by being the scene 
 of those conferences, in which the treaty of the Pyrenees between France and Spain, 
 and the marriage of this princess with the'king of France, were concluded. " Isle 
 pacifique, ouse doivent terminer les differends de deux grands empires ilquitu sers 
 de limites ! isle eternellement memorable par les conferences de deux grands minis- 
 tres. Auguste journee ou deux fieres nations, long terns enemis, et alors reconciles par 
 Marie Therese, s'avancent sur leurs confins, leurs rois a leur tete, non plus pour se 
 combattre, mais pour s'embrasser. Fetes sacre, et marriage fortune, voile nuptial 3 
 benediction, sacrifice, puis-je meler ajourdhui vos ceremonies, et vos pompes avec 
 ces pompes funebres, et le comble des grandeurs avec leurs ruines !" In the funeral 
 oration of Henrietta, Queen of England, (which is perhaps the noblest of all his 
 compositions) after recounting all she had done to support her unfortunate husband, 
 he concludes with this beautiful apostrophe : " O mere ! O femuie ! O reine admi- 
 rable, et digne d'une meilleure fortune, si les fortunes de la terre etoient quelqne 
 chose i Enfin il faut ceder a votre sort. Vous avez assez soutenu l'etat, qui est 
 attaque par une force invincible et divine. II ne reste plus deformans, si non que 
 vous teniez ferme parmi ses ruines." 
 
 * Nor Pantheus ! thee, thy mitre, nor the bands 
 
 Of awful Phoebus sav'd from impious hands Dryde.y, 
 
 - Finsal. B. T. 
 
 X 
 
162 Al'OSTHQrHL\ , [LECT. XW. 
 
 O meae spes inanes ! labentes oculos tuum fugientem spiritum vidi ? 
 Tuum corpas frigidum, exangue complexus, animam recipere, auramque 
 communem haurire arnplius potui ? Tene, consulari nuper adoptione ad 
 omnium spes honorum patris admotum, te, avunculo praetori generum 
 tlestinatum ; te, omnium spe Attic ae eloqnentiae candidatum, parens su~ 
 perstes tantum ad poenas amisi '"* In this passage Quintilian shows the 
 true genius of an orator, as much as he does elsewhere that of the critic. 
 For such bold figures of discourse as strong personifications, addresses 
 to personified objects, and apostrophes, the glowing imagination of the 
 ancient oriental nations was particularly tilted. Hence in the sacred 
 Scriptures, we find some very remarkable instances : " O thou sword 
 of the Lord ! how long will it be ere thou he quiet ? put thyself up into 
 the scabbard, rest and be still i How can it be quiet, seeing the Lord 
 hath given it a charge against Ashkelon, and against the sea-shore ? 
 there he hath appointed it."t There is one passage in particular, 
 which 1 must not omit to mention, because it contains a greater assem- 
 blage of sublime ideas, of bold and daring figures, than is perhaps any 
 where to be met with. It is in the fourteenth chapter of Isaiah, where 
 the prophet thus describes the fall of the Assyrian empire : " Thou 
 shalt take up this proverb against the king of Babylon, and say, How 
 hath the oppressor ceased ! the golden city ceased ! The Lord hath 
 broken the staff of the wicked, and the sceptre of the rulers. He who 
 smote the people in wrath with a continual stroke : he that ruled the 
 nations in anger, is persecuted, and none hindereth. The whole earth 
 is at rest, and is quiet ; they break forth into singing. Yea, the fir- 
 trees rejoice at thee, and the cedars of Lebanon, saying, Since thou art 
 laid down, no feller is come up against us. Hell from beneath is moved 
 for thee to meet thee at thy coming ; it stirreth up the dead for thee ? 
 even all the chief ones of the earth : it hath raised up from their 
 thrones all the kings of the nations. All they shall speak, and say unto 
 thee, Art thou also become weak as we ? art thou become like unto us ? 
 Thy «pomp is brought down to the grave, and the noise of thy viols ; the 
 worm is spread under thee, and the worms cover thee. How art thou 
 fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning ! how art thou cut 
 down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations ! For thou hast said 
 in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above 
 the stars of God : I will sit also upon the mount of the congregation, 
 in the sides of the north. I will ascend above the heights of the clouds, 
 I will be like the Most High. Yet thou shalt be brought down to 
 hell, to the sides of the pit. They that see thee shall narrowly 
 look upon thee, and consider thee, saying, Is this the man which made the 
 earth to tremble, that did shake kingdoms ? that made the world as a 
 
 * "With what spirit, and how much to the admiration of the physicians did he 
 bear throughout eight months his lingering distress ! With what tender attention 
 did he study, even in the last extremity, to comfort me ! And when no longer him- 
 self, how affecting was it to behold the disordered efforts of his wandering mind, 
 wholly employed on subjects of literature? Ah! my frustrated and fallenhopes I 
 Have I then beheld your closing eyes, and heard the last groan issue from your lips. 
 After having embraced your cold and breathless body, how was it in my power t'q 
 draw the vital air or continue to drag a miserable life. When I had just beheld you 
 raised by consular adoption to the prospect of all your father's honours, destined to 
 be son iii-law to your uncle the Praetor, pointed out by general expectation as the suc- 
 cessful candidate for the prize of Attic eloquence, in this moment of your opening 
 honours must I lose you for ever, &nd remain an unhappy parent, surviving only to* 
 suffer wo. 
 
 t Jer. xlvii. 6; 7. 
 
LECT, XVII.] COMPARISON. yfe 
 
 wilderness, and destroyed the cities thereof; that opened not. the house 
 of his prisoners ? All the kings of the nations, even all of them lie in 
 glory, every one in his own house. But thou art cast out of thy grave, 
 like an abominable branch : and as the raiment of those that are slain, 
 thrust through with a sword, that go down to the stones of the pit, as a 
 carcass trodden under feet." This whole passage is full of sublimity. 
 Every object is animated ; a variety of personages are introduced ; we 
 hear the Jews, the fir-trees, and cedars of Lebanon, the ghosts of depart- 
 ed kings, the king of Babylon himself, and those who look upon his body ,. 
 all speaking in their order, and acting their different parts without confu- 
 sion. 
 
 LECTURE XVIL 
 
 COMPARISON, ANTITHESIS, INTERROGATION, EXCLAMATION, AN1> 
 OTHER FIGURES OF SPEECH. 
 
 We are still engaged in the consideration of figures of speech ; which, 
 'as they add much to the beauty of style when properly employed, and 
 are, at the same time, liable to be greatly abused, require a careful dis- 
 cussion. As it would be tedious to dwell on all the variety of figurative 
 expressions which rhetoricians have enumerated, I chose to select the 
 capital figures, such as occur most frequently, and to make my remarks 
 on these ; the principles and rules laid down concerning them, will suffi- 
 ciently direct us to the use of the rest, either in prose or poetry. Of 
 metaphor, which is the most common of them all, I treated fully ; and in 
 the last lecture I discoursed of hyperbole, personification, and apostro- 
 phe. This lecture will nearly finish what remains on the head of figures. 
 
 Comparison, or simile, is what I am to treat of first ; a figure frequent- 
 ly employed both by poets and prose writers, for the ornament of com- 
 position. In a former lecture, I explained fully the difference betwixt 
 this and metaphor. A metaphor is a comparison implied, but not express- 
 ed as such • as when I say, " Achilles is a lion," meaning, that he re- 
 sembles one in courage or strength. A comparison is, when the resem- 
 blance between two objects is expressed in form, and generally pursued 
 more fully than the nature of a metaphor admits ; as when I say, " the 
 actions of princes are like those great rivers, the course of which every 
 one beholds, but their springs have been seen by few." This slight in- 
 stance will show, that a happy comparison is a kind of sparkling ornament, 
 which adds not a little lustre and beauty to discourse ; and hence such 
 figures are termed by Cicero, " Orationis lumina." 
 
 The pleasure we take in comparisons is just and natural. We may re- 
 mark three different sources whence it arises. First, from the pleasure 
 which nature has annexed to that act of the mind by which we compare 
 any two objects together, trace resemblances among those that are dif- 
 ferent, and differences among those that resemble each other ; a plea- 
 sure, the final cause of which is, to prompt us to remark and observe, 
 and thereby to make us advance in useful knowledge. This operation 
 of the mind is naturally and universally agreeable ; as appears from the 
 
164 COMPARISON. [LECT. XVII. 
 
 delight which even children have in comparing things together, as soon 
 as they are capable of attending to the objects that surround them. Se- 
 condly, the pleasure of comparison arises from the illustration which the 
 simile employed gives to the principal object : from the clearer view of 
 it which it presents : or the more strong impression of it which it stamps 
 upon the mind : and thirdly, it arises from the introduction of a new, 
 and commonly a splendid object, associated to the principal one of which 
 we treat ; and from the agreeable picture which that object presents to 
 the fancy ; new scenes being thereby brought into view, which, without 
 the assistance of this figure, we could not have enjoyed. 
 
 All comparisons whatever may be reduced under two heads, explaining 
 and embellishing comparisons. For when a writer likens the object of 
 which he treats to any other thing, it always is, or at least always should 
 be, with a view either to make us understand that object more distinctly, 
 or to dress it up, and adorn it. All manner of subjects admit of explain- 
 ing comparisons. Let an author be reasoning ever so strictly, or treating 
 the most abstruse point in philosophy, he may very properly introduce 
 a comparison, merely with a view to make his subject better understood. 
 Of this nature, is the following in Mr. Harris's Hermes, employed to ex- 
 plain a very abstract point, the distinction between the powers of sense 
 and imagination in the human mind. " As wax," says he, " would not be 
 adequate to the purpose of signature, if it had not the power to retain 
 as well as to receive the impression ; the same holds of the soul, with ' 
 respect to sense and imagination. Sense is its receptive power ; imagi- 
 nation its retentive. Had it sense without imagination, it would not be 
 as wax, but as water, where though all impressions be instantly made, 
 yet as soon as they are made, they are instantly lost." In comparisons 
 of this nature, the understanding is concerned much more than the fan- 
 cy ; and therefore the only rules to be observed, with respect to them, 
 are, that they be clear, and that they be useful ; that they tend to ren- 
 der our conception of the principal object more distinct : and that they 
 do not lead our view aside, and bewilder it with any false light. 
 
 But embellishing comparisons, introduced not so much with a view to 
 inform and instruct, as to adorn the subject of which we treat, are, those 
 with which we are chiefly concerned at present, as figures of speech : 
 and those, indeed, which most frequently occur. Resemblance, as I be- 
 fore mentioned, is the foundation of this figure. We must not, however, 
 take resemblance, in too strict a sense, for actual similitude or likeness of 
 appearance. Two objects may sometimes be very happily compared to 
 one another, though they resemble each other, strictly speaking, in no- 
 thing ; only, because they agree in the effects which they produce upon 
 the mind ; because they raise a train of similar, or what may be called, 
 concordant ideas ; so that the remembrance of the one, when recalled^ 
 serves to strengthen the impression made by the other. For example, 
 to describe the nature of soft and melancholy music, Ossian says, " The 
 music of Carryl was, like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant and 
 mournful to the soul." This is happy and delicate. Yet, surely, no kind 
 of music has any resemblance to a feeling of the mind, such as the me- 
 mory of past joys. Had itbeen compared to the voice of the nightingale, 
 or the murmur of the stream, as it would have been by some ordinary 
 poet, the likeness would have been more strict ; but, by founding his 
 simile upon the effect which Carryl's music produced, the poet, while he 
 conveys a very tender image, gives us.at the same time, a much stronger 
 
LECT. XVII.j C0Mi J AR|S0N. jtfj 
 
 impression of the nature and strain of that music : "Like the memory of 
 joys that are past, pleasant and mournful to the soul." 
 
 In general, whether comparisons be founded on the similitude of the 
 two objects compared, or on some analogy and agreement in their effects, 
 the fundamental requisite of a comparison is, that it shall serve to illus- 
 trate the object, for the sake of which it is introduced, and to give us a 
 stronger conception of it. Some little excursions of fancy may be per- 
 mitted, in pursuing the simile ; but they must never deviate far from the 
 principal object. If it be a great and noble one, every circumstance in 
 the comparison must tend to aggrandize it ; if it be a beautiful one, to 
 render it more amiable ; if terrible, to fill us with more awe. But to be 
 a little more particular : The rules to be given concerning comparisons 
 respect chiefly two articles ; the propriety of their introduction, and the 
 nature of the objects whence they are taken. First, the propriety of 
 their introduction. From what has already been said of comparisons, it 
 appears, that they are not, like the figures of which I treated in the last 
 lecture, the language of strong passion. No ; they are the language of 
 imagination rather than of passion ; of an imagination sprightly indeed, 
 and warmed ; but undisturbed by any violent or agitating emotion . Strong 
 passion is too severe to admit this play of fancy. It has no leisure to cast 
 about for resembling objects ; it dwells on that object which has seized 
 and taken possession of the soul. It is too much occupied and filled by 
 it, to turn its view aside, or to fix its attention on any other thing. An 
 author, therefore, can scarcely commit a greater fault, than in the midst 
 of passion to introduce a simile. Metaphorical expression may be allow- 
 able in such a situation ; though even this may be carried too far ; but 
 the pomp and solemnity of a formal comparison is altogether a stranger to 
 passion. It changes the key in a moment; relaxes and brings down the 
 mind ; and shows us a writer perfectly at his ease, while he is personating 
 some other, who is supposed to be under the torment of agitation. Our 
 writers of tragedies are very apt to err here. In some of Mr. Rowe's 
 plays, these flowers of similes have been strewed unseasonably. Mr. 
 Addison's Cato, too, is justly censurable in this respect ; as when Portius, 
 just after Lucia had bid him farewell forever, and when he should natu- 
 rally have been represented as in the most violent anguish, makes his 
 reply in a studied and affected comparison : 
 
 Thus o'er the dying lamp th' unsteady flame 
 Hangs quiv'ring on a point, leaps off by fits, 
 And falls again, as loth to quit its hold. 
 Thou must not go ; my soul still hovers o'er thee, 
 And can't get loose. 
 
 Every one must be sensible, that this is quite remote from the language 
 of nature on such occasions. 
 
 However, as comparison is not the style of strong passion, so neither, 
 when employed for embellishment, is it the language of a mind wholly 
 unmoved. It is a figure of dignity, and always requires some elevation 
 in the subject, in order to make it proper : for it supposes the imagination 
 to be uncommonly enlivened, though the heart be not agitated by passion. 
 In a word, the proper place of comparisons lies in the middle region 
 between the highly pathetic, and the very humble style. This is a wide 
 field, and gives ample range to the figure. But even this field we must 
 take care not to overstock with it. For, as we before said, it is a spark - 
 ling ornament ; and all things that sparkle, dazzle and fatigue, if thev 
 
166 - COMPARISON. [LECT.XVH. 
 
 recur too often. Similes should, even in poetry, be used with modera- 
 tion ; but in prose writings, much more ; otherwise the st}4e will become 
 disagreeably florid, and the ornament lose its virtue and effect. 
 
 I proceed, next, to the rules that relate to objects whence comparisons 
 should be drawn ; supposing them introduced in their proper place. 
 
 In the first place, they must not be drawn from things which have too 
 near and obvious a resemblance to the object with which we. compare 
 them. The great pleasure of the act of comparing lies in discovering 
 likenesses among things of different species, where we would not, at the 
 first glance, expect a resemblance. There is little art or ingenuity in 
 pointing out the resemblance of two objects, that are so much akin, or 
 lie so near to one another in nature, that every one sees they must be 
 alike. When Milton compares Satan's appearance, after his fall, to that 
 of the sun suffering an eclipse, and affrighting the nations with portentous 
 darkness, we are struck with the happiness and the dignity of the simili- 
 tude. But when he compares Eve's bower in'Paradise, to the arbour of 
 Pomona ; or Eve herself, to a driad, or wood-nymph, we receive little 
 entertainment ; as every one sees that one arbour must, of course, in 
 several respects, resemble another arbour, and one beautiful woman 
 another beautiful woman. 
 
 Among similes, faulty through too great obviousness of the likeness,, 
 we must likewise rank those which are taken from objects become trite 
 and familiar in poetical language. Such are the similes of a hero to a 
 lion, of a person in sorrow to a flower drooping its head, of violent pas- 
 sion to a tempest, of chastity to snow, of virtue to the sun or the stars, 
 and many more of this kind, with which we are sure to find modern 
 writers, of second rate genius, abounding plentifully; handed down 
 from every writer of verses to another, as by hereditary right. These 
 comparisons were, at first, perhaps, very proper for the purposes to^ 
 which they are applied. In the ancient original poets, who took them 
 directly from nature, not from their predecessors, they had beauty. But 
 they are now beaten ; our ears are so accustomed to them, that they give 
 no amusement to the fancy. There is, indeed, no mark by which we 
 can more readily distinguish a poet of true genius, from one of a barren 
 imagination, than by the strain of their comparisons. All who call them- 
 selves poets, affect them : but, whereas a mere versifier copies no new 
 image from nature, which appears, to his uninventive genius, exhausted 
 by those who have gone before him, and, therefore, contents himself 
 with humbly following their track ; to an author of real fancy, nature 
 seems to unlock, spontaneously, her hidden stores ; and the eye, *' quick 
 glancing from earth to heaven," discovers new shapes and forms, new 
 likenesses between objects unobserved before, which render his similes- 
 original, expressive, and livery. 
 
 But in the second place, as comparisons ought not to be founded on 
 likenesses too obvious, still less ought they to be founded on those which 
 are too faint and remote. For these, in place of assisting, strain the 
 fancy to comprehend them, and throw no light upon the subject. It is 
 also to be observed, that a comparison, which, in the principal circum- 
 stances, carries a sufficiently near resemblance, may become unnatural 
 ;md obscure, if pushed too far. Nothing is more opposite to the design 
 of this figure, than to hunt after a great number of coincidences in minute 
 points, merely to show how far the poet's wit can stretch the resem- 
 blance. This is Mr; C 6wley's common fault j whose comparisons gene- 
 
IECT. XVII.] ANTITHESIS. J 6? 
 
 rally run out so far, as to become rather a studied exercise of wit, than 
 an illustration of the principal object. We need only open his works, 
 his odes especially, to find instances every where. 
 
 In the third place, the object from which a comparison is drawn, should 
 I never be an unknown object, or one which few people can form clear 
 I ideas : " Ad inferendam rebus lucem," says Quintilian, " repertas sunt 
 similitudinis. Praecipue, igitur, est custodiendum ne id quodsimilitudinis 
 gratia ascivimus, aut obscurum sit, aut ignotum. Debet enim id quod 
 illustrandae alterius rei gratia assumitur, ipsum esse clarius eo quod 
 illuminator.' '* Comparisons, therefore, founded on philosophical dis- 
 coveries, or on any thing with which persons of a certain trade only, or 
 a certain profession, are conversant, attain not their proper effect. 
 They should be taken from those illustrious noted objects, which most 
 of the readers either have seen, or can strongly conceive. This leads 
 me to remark a fault of which modern poets are very apt to be guilty. 
 The ancients took their similes from that face of nature, and that clasi* 
 of objects, with which they and their readers were acquainted. Hence 
 lions, and wolves, and serpents were fruitful, and very proper sources of 
 similes, among them ; and these having become a sort of consecrated, 
 classical images, are very commonly adopted by the moderns ; injudi- 
 ciously, however, for the propriety of them is now in a great measure 
 lost. It is only at secondhand, and by description, that we are acquainted 
 with many of those objects ; and, to most readers of poetry, it were more 
 to the purpose, to describe lions or serpents, by similes taken from men, 
 than to describe men by lions. Nowadaj^s, we can more easily form 
 the conception of a fierce combat between two men, than between a 
 bull and a tiger. Every country has a scenery peculiar to itself, and 
 the imagery of every good poet will exhibit it. The introduction of 
 unknown objects, or of a foreign scenery, betrays a poet copying, not 
 after nature, but from other writers. I have only to observe further, 
 
 In the fourth place, that, in compositions of a serious or elevated 
 kind, similes should never be taken from low or mean objects. These 
 are degrading : whereas, similes are commonly intended to embellish, 
 and to dignify : and therefore, unless in burlesque writings, or where 
 similes are introduced purposely to vilify and diminish an object, mean 
 ideas should never be presented to us. Some of Homer's comparisons 
 have been taxed, without reason, on this account. For it is to be re- 
 membered, that the meanness or dignity of objects, depends, in a great 
 degree, on the ideas and manners of the age wherein we live. Many 
 similes, therefore, drawn from the incidents of rural life, which appear 
 low to us, had abundance of dignity in those simpler ages of antiquity. 
 
 I have now considered such of the figures of speech as seemed most 
 to merit a full and particular discussion ; metaphor, hyperbole, personi- 
 fication, apostrophe, and comparison. A few more yet remain to be 
 mentioned ; the proper use and conduct of which will be easily under- 
 stood from the principles already laid down. 
 
 As comparison is founded on the resemblance, so antithesis on the con- 
 trast or opposition of two objects. Contrast has always this effect, to 
 
 *" Comparisons have been introduced into discourse, for the sake of throwing 
 light on the subject. We must therefore, be much on our guard, not to employ, 
 as the ground of our simile any object which is either obscure or unknown. That, 
 surely, which is used for the purpose of illustrating some other thing, ought to be 
 -more obvious and plain, than the thing intended to be illustrated." 
 
16a ANTITHESIS. [LECT. XVII. 
 
 make each of the contrasted objects appear in the stronger light. White, 
 for instance, never appears so bright, as when it is opposed to black ; and 
 when both are viewed together. Antithesis, therefore, may, on man} r 
 occasions, be employed to advantage, in order to strengthen the impres- 
 sion which we intend that any object should make. Thus Cicero in his 
 oration for Milo, representing the improbability of Milo's forming a de- 
 sign to take away the life of Clodius, at a time when all circumstances 
 were unfavourable to such a design, and after he had let other opportu- 
 nities slip when he could have executed the same design, if he had formed 
 it, with much more ease and safet}^ heightens our conviction of this im- 
 probability by a skilful use of this figure : " Quern igitur cum omnium 
 gratia interfice re noluit, hunc voluit cum ali quorum querela ? Quern jure, 
 quern loco, quern tempore, quern impune, non est ausus, hunc injuria, 
 iniquo loco, alieno tempore, periculo capitis, non dubitavit occidere ?* 
 In order to render an antithesis more complete, it is always of advantage, 
 that the words and members of the sentence, expressing the contrasted 
 objects, be, as in this instance of Cicero's, similarly constructed, and made 
 to correspond to each other. This leads us to remark the contrast more ,. 
 by setting the things which we oppose more clearly over against each 
 other : in the same manner as when we contrast a black and a white ob- 
 ject, in order to perceive the full difference of their colour, we would 
 choose to have both objects of the same bulk, and placed in the same light. 
 Their resemblance to each other, in certain circumstances, makes their 
 disagreement in others more palpable. 
 
 At the same time, I must observe, that the frequent use of antithesis, 
 especially where the opposition in the words is nice and quaint, is apt to 
 render style disagreeable. Such a sentence as the following, from Seneca, 
 does very well, where it stands alone : " Si quem volueris essedivitem, 
 non est quod augeas divitias, sed minuas cupiditates."| Or this : " Si ad 
 naturam vives, nunquameris pauper ; si adopinionem, nunquamdives."J 
 A maxim, or moral saying, properly enough receives this form ; both be- 
 cause it is supp osed to be the fruit of meditation, and because it is de- 
 signed to be engraven on the memory, which recalls it more easily by the 
 help of such contrasted expressions. But where a string of such senten- 
 ces succeed each other : where this becomes an author's favourite and 
 prevailing manner of expressing himself, his style is faulty ; and it is upon 
 this account Seneca has been often, and justly, censured. Such a style ap- 
 pears too studied and laboured : it gives us the impression of an author 
 attending more to his manner of saying things, than to the things them- 
 selves which he says. Dr. Young, though a writer of real genius, was too 
 fond of antithesis. In his estimate of Human Life, we find whole pas- 
 sages that run in such a strain as this : " The peasant complains aloud ; 
 the courtier in secret repines. In want, what distress ? in affluence, what 
 satiety ? The great are under as much difficulty to expend with pleasure, 
 
 * " Is it credible that, when he declined putting Clodius to death with the con- 
 sent of all, he would choose to do it with the disapprobation of many ? Can you 
 believe that the person whom he scrupled to slay, when he might have done so 
 with full justice, in a convenient place, at a proper time, with secure impunity, 
 be made no scruple to murder against justice in an unfavourable place, at an 
 unseasonable time, and at the risk of capital condemnation ?" 
 
 t " If you seek to make one rich, study not to increase his stores, but to diminish 
 his desires." 
 
 t "If you regulate your desires according to the standard of nature, you will 
 never be poor ; if according to the standard of opinion, you will never be rich. 
 
LECT. XVI!.] INTERROGATION AND EXCLAMATION - . I0y 
 
 as the means to labour with success. The ignorant, through ill-grounded 
 hope, are disappointed ; the knowing, through knowledge, despond. 
 Ignorance occasions mistake ; mistake disappointment ; and disappoint- 
 ment is misery. Knowledge, on the other hand, gives true judgment ; 
 and true judgment of human things, gives a demonstration of their insuf- 
 ficiency to our peace." There is too much glitter in such a style as this, 
 to please long. We are fatigued, by attending to such quaint and artificial 
 
 r sentences often repeated. 
 There is another sort of antithesis, the beauty of which consists in 
 surprising us by the unexpected contrast of things which it brings toge- 
 ther. Much wit may be shown in this : but it belongs wholly to pieces 
 of professed wit and humour, and can find no place in grave compositions. 
 Mr. Pope, who is remarkably fond of antithesis, is often happy in this 
 use of the figure. So, in his Rape of the Lock : 
 
 Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, 
 
 Or some frail china jar receive a flaw ; 
 
 Or stain her honour or her new brocade ; 
 
 Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade ; 
 
 Or lose her heart or necklace at a ball, 
 
 Or whether heav'n has doom'd that Shock must fall. 
 
 What is called the point of an epigram, consists, for most part, in some 
 antithesis of this kind ; surprising us with the smart and unexpected turn 
 which it gives to thought : and in the fewer words it is brought out, it is 
 always the happier. 
 
 Comparisons and antithesis are figures of a cool nature ; the produc- 
 tions of imagination, not of passion. Interrogations and exclamations, 
 of which I am next to speak, are passionate figures. They are, indeed, 
 on so many occasions, the native language of passion, that their use is 
 extremely frequent; and in ordinary conversation, when men are heated, 
 they prevail as much as in the most sublime oratory. The unfigured 
 literal use of interrogation, is to ask a question ; but when men are 
 prompted by passion, whatever they would affirm, or deny with great 
 vehemence, they naturally put in the form of a question ; expressing 
 thereby the strongest confidence of the truth of their own sentiment, 
 and appealing to their hearers for the impossibility of the contrary. Thus 
 in Scripture : " God is not a man that he should lie, neither the son of 
 man, that he should repent. Hath he said it? and shall he not do it ? 
 Hath he spoken it ? and shall he not make it good ?"* So Demosthenes, 
 addressing himself to the Athenians ; " Tell me, will you still go about 
 and ask one another, what news ? What can be more astonishing news 
 than this, that the man of Macedon makes war upon the Athenians, and 
 disposes of the affairs of Greece ? Is Philip dead ? No, but he is sick. 
 What signifies it to you whether he be dead or alive ? For, if any thing 
 happens to this Philip, you will immediately raise up another." All this, 
 delivered without interrogation, had been faint and ineffectual ; but the 
 warmth and eagerness which this questioning method expresses, awakens 
 the hearers, and strikes them with much greater force. 
 
 Interrogations may often be employed with propriety, in the course of 
 no higher emotions than naturally arise in pursuing some close and earnest 
 
 I reasoning. But exclamations belong only to stronger emotions of the 
 mind ; to surprise, admiration, anger, joy, grief, and the like - 
 * Numbers, chap, xxiii. v. 19. 
 
/1 7 (j EXCLAMATION. LECT. XtlL 
 
 Heu pietas ! heu prisca fides ! invictaque bello 
 Dextra ! 
 
 Both interrogation and exclamation, and indeed, all passionate figures of 
 speech, operate upon us by means of sympathy. Sympathy is a very pow- 
 erful and extensive principle in our nature, disposing us to enter into 
 every feeling and passion, which we behold expressed by others. Hence, 
 a single person coming into company with strong marks, either of melan- 
 choly or joy, upon his countenance, will diffuse that passion, in a moment, 
 through the whole circle. Hence, in a great crowd, passions are so 
 easily caught, and so fast spread, by that powerful contagion which the 
 animated looks, cries, and gestures, of a multitude never fail to carry. 
 Now, interrogations and exclamations, being natural signs of a moved and 
 agitated mind, always, when they are properly used, dispose us to sympa- 
 thize with the dispositions of those who use them, and to feel as they feeL 
 From this it follows, that the great rule with regard to the conduct of 
 such figures is, that the writer attend to the manner in which nature dic- 
 tates to us to express any emotion or passion, and that he give his language 
 that turn, and no other ; above all, that he never affect the style of a 
 passion which he does not feel. With interrogations he may use a good 
 deal of freedom ; these, as above observed, falling in so much with the 
 ordinary course of language and reasoning, even when no great vehe- 
 mence is supposed to have place in the mind. But, with respect to 
 exclamations, he must be more reserved. Nothing has a worse effect than 
 the frequent and unseasonable use of them. Raw, juvenile writers ima- 
 gine, that, by pouring them forth often, they render their compositions 
 warm and animated. Whereas quite the contrary follows. They render 
 it frigid to excess. When an author is always calling upon us to enter 
 into transports which he has said nothing to inspire, we are both dis- 
 gusted and enraged at him. He raises no sympathy ; for he gives us 
 no passion of his own in which we can take part. He gives us words, 
 and not passion ; and of course, can raise no passion, unless that of in- 
 dignation. Hence, I am inclined to think, he was not much mistaken, 
 who said, that when, on looking into a book, he found the pages thick 
 bespangled with the point which is called " Punctum Admirationis," he 
 judged this to be a sufficient reason for his laying it aside. And, indeed, 
 were it not for the help of this "punctum admirationis," with which 
 many writers of the rapturous kind so much abound, one would be often 
 at a loss to discover, whether or not it was exclamation which they 
 aimed at. For, it has now become a fashion, among these writers, to 
 subjoin points of admiration to sentences, which contain nothing but 
 simple affirmations, or propositions ; as if, by an affected method of point- 
 ing, they could transform them in the reader's mind into high figures of 
 eloquence. Much akin to this, is another contrivance practised by some 
 writers, of separating almost all the members of their sentences from 
 each other, by blank lines ; as if, by setting them thus asunder, they 
 bestowed some special importance upon them ; and required us, in 
 going along, to make a pause at every other word, and weigh it well. 
 This, I think, may be called a typographical figure of speech. Neither, 
 indeed, since we have been led to mention the arts of writers for in- 
 creasing the importance of their words, does another custom, which 
 prevailed very much some time ago, seem worthy of imitation ; I mean 
 that of distinguishing the significant words, in every sentence, by italic 
 characters. On some occasions, it is very proper to use such dis* 
 
LECT. XVII.] CLIMAX j;* 
 
 tinctions : but when we carry them so far, as to mark with them every 
 supposed emphatical word, these words are apt to multiply so fast in the 
 author's imagination, that every page is crowded with italics ; which can 
 produce no effect whatever, but to hurt the eye, and create confusion. 
 Indeed, if the sense point not out the most emphatical expressions, a vari- 
 ation in the type, especially when occurring so frequently, will give 
 small aid. And, accordingly, the most masterly writers, of late, have 
 with good reason laid aside all those feeble props of signiiicancy, and 
 trusted wholly to the weight of their sentiments for commanding atten- 
 tion. But to return from this digression. 
 
 Another figure of speech, proper only to animated and warm com- 
 position, is what some critical writers call vision ; when, in place of 
 relating something that is past, we use the present tense, and describe 
 it as actually passing before our eyes. Thus Cicero, in his fourth ora*- 
 tion against Catiline. "Videor enim mihi hanc urbem videre, lucem 
 orbis terrarum atque arcem omnium gentium, subito uno incendio con- 
 cidentem ; cerno animo sepulta in patria miseros atque insepultos acer- 
 vos civium ; versatur mihi ante oculos aspectus Cethegi, et furor, in 
 vestra caede bacchantis."* This manner of description supposes a sort 
 of enthusiasm, which carries the person who describes it in some mea 
 sure out of himself; and when well executed, must needs impress the 
 reader or hearer strongly, by the force of that sympathy which I have 
 before explained. But, in order to a successful execution, it requires 
 an uncommonly warm imagination, and such a happy selection of cir- 
 cumstances, as shall make us think we see before our eyes the scene 
 that is described. Otherwise, it shares the same fate with all feeble 
 attempts towards passionate figures ; that of throwing ridicule upon the 
 author, and leaving the reader more cool and uninterested than he was 
 before. The same observations are to be applied to Repetition, Sus- 
 pension, Correction, and many more of those figurative forms of speech, 
 which rhetoricians have enumerated among the beauties of eloquence. 
 They are beautiful, or not, exactly in proportion as they are native ex- 
 pressions of the sentiment or passion intended to be heightened by them. 
 Let nature and passion always speak their own language, and they will 
 suggest figures in abundance. But when we seek to counterfeit a warmth 
 which we do not feel, no figures will either supply the defect, or conceal 
 the imposture. 
 
 There is one figure (and I shall mention no more) of frequent use 
 among all public speakers, particularly at the bar, which Quintilian insists 
 upon considerably, and calls amplification. It consists in an artful exag- 
 geration of all the circumstances of some object or action which we want 
 to place in a strong light, either a good or a bad one. It is not so pro- 
 perly one figure, as the skilful management of several which we make 
 to tend to one point. It may be carried on by a proper use of magnify- 
 ing or extenuating terms, by a regular enumeration of particulars, or by 
 throwing together, as into one mass, a crowd of circumstances ; by sug- 
 gesting comparisons also with things of a like nature. But the principal 
 instrument by which it works, is by a climax, or gradual rise of one cir- 
 cumstance above another, till our idea be raised to the utmost. I spoke 
 
 * "I seem to myself to behold this city, the ornament of the earth, and the capital 
 of all nations, suddenly involved in one conflagration. 1 see before me the slaugh- 
 tered heaps of citizens lying unburied in the midst of their ruined country. The 
 furious countenance of Cethegus rises to my view, while with a savage joy ha i 
 triumphing in your miseries." 
 
j[72 FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE [LECT. XV'lJf, 
 
 formerly of a climax in sound ; a climax in sense, when well carried on, 
 is a figure which never fails to amplify strongly. The common example 
 of this, is that noted passage in Cicero which every schoolboy knows ; 
 "Facinus est vincere civem Romanum ; scelus verberare, prope parri- 
 cidium, necare ; quid dicam in crucem tollere ?"* I shall give an instance 
 from a printed pleading of a famous Scotch lawyer, Sir George M'Ken- 
 zie. It is in a charge to the jury, in the case of a woman accused of 
 murdering her own child. " Gentlemen, if one man had any how slain 
 another, if an adversary had killed his opposer, or a woman occasioned 
 the death of her enemy, even these criminals would have been capitally 
 punished by the Cornelian law : but, if this guiltless infant, who could 
 make no enemy, had been murdered by its own nurse, what punishments 
 would not then the mother have demanded ? With what cries and excla- 
 mations would she have stunned your ears ? JVhat shall we say then, 
 when a woman, guilty of homicide, a mother, of the murder of her in- 
 nocent child, hath comprised all those misdeeds in one single crime ; a 
 crime, in its own nature detestable ; in a woman, prodigious ; in a mother,, 
 incredible ; and perpetrated against one whose age called for compassion, 
 whose near relation claimed affection, and whose innocence deserved the 
 highest favour." I must take notice, however, that such regular cli- 
 maxes as these, though they have considerable beauty, have, at the same 
 time, no small appearance of art and study ; and, therefore, though they 
 may be admitted into formal harangues, yet they speak not the language 
 of great earnestness and passion, which seldom proceed by steps so regu- 
 lar. Nor, indeed, for the purposes of effectual persuasion, are they 
 likely to be so successful, as an arrangement of circumstances in a less 
 artificial order. For, when much art appears, we are always put on our 
 guard against the deceits of eloquence ; but when a speaker has reasoned 
 strongly, and, by force of argument, has made good his main point, he 
 may then, taking advantage of the favourable bent of our minds, make 
 use of such artificial figures to confirm our belief, and to warm our mino's. 
 
 LECTURE XVIII, 
 
 FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE— GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE- 
 DIFFUSE, CONCISE, FEEBLE, NERVOUS— DRY, 
 PLAIN, NEAT, ELEGANT, FLOWERY. 
 
 Having treated, at considerable length, of the figures of speech, of 
 their origin, of their nature, and of the management of such of them as 
 are important enough to require a particular discussion, before finally 
 dismissing this subject, I think it incumbent on me to make some obser- 
 vations concerning the proper use of figurative language in general. 
 These, indeed, I have, in part, already anticipated. But as great errors 
 are often committed in this part of style, especially by young writers, it 
 
 * " It is a crime to put a Roman citizen in bonds : it is the height of guilt to scourge 
 hrm : little less than parricide to put him to death. What name then shall I give 
 
 to erucifvins; him ?" ' 
 
LECT. XVIII.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. n;> 
 
 may be of use that I bring together, under one view, the most material 
 directions on this head. 
 
 I begin with repeating an observation, formerly made, that neither all 
 the beauties, nor even the chief beauties of composition, depend upon 
 tropes and figures. Some of the most sublime and most pathetic passages 
 of the most admired authors, both in prose and poetry, are expressed 
 in the most simple style, without any figure at all ; instances of which I 
 have before given. On the other hand, a composition may abound with 
 these studied ornaments ; the language maybe artful, splendid, and highly 
 figured, and yet the composition be on the whole frigid and unaffect- 
 ing. Not to speak of sentiment and thought, which constitute the real 
 and lasting merit of any work, if the style be stiff and affected, if it be 
 deficient in perspicuity or precision, or in ease and neatness, all the 
 figures that can be employed will never render it agreeable : they may 
 dazzle a vulgar, but will never please a judicious eye. 
 In the second place, figures, in order to be beautiful, must always rise 
 naturally from the subject. I have shown that all of them are the lan- 
 guage either of imagination, or of passion ; some of them suggested by 
 imagination, when it is awakened and sprightly, such as metaphors and 
 comparisons ; others by passion or more heated emotion, such as per- 
 sonifications and apostrophes. Of course, they are beautiful then only, 
 when they are prompted by fancy or by passion. They must rise of 
 their own accord : they must flow from a mind warmed by the object 
 which it seeks to describe ; we should never interrupt the course of 
 thought to cast about for figures. If they be sought after coolly, and 
 fastened on as designed ornaments, they will have a miserable effect. 
 It is a very erroneous idea, which many have of the ornaments of style, 
 as if they were things detached from the subject, and that could be stuck 
 to it, like lace upon a coat : this is indeed, 
 
 Purpureus late qui splendeat unus aut alter 
 
 Assuitur pannus* Ars Poet. 
 
 And it is this false idea which has often brought attention to the beau- 
 ties of writing into disrepute. Whereas, the real and proper ornaments 
 of style arise from sentiment. They flow in the same stream with the 
 current of thought. A writer of genius conceives his subject strongly ; 
 his imagination is filled and impressed with it ; and pours itself forth in 
 that figurative language which imagination naturally speaks. He puts 
 on no emotion which his subject does not raise in him ; he speaks as he 
 feels ; but his style will be beautiful, because his feelings are lively. 
 On occasions, when fancy is languid, or finds nothing to rouse it, we 
 should never attempt to hunt for figures. We then work, as it is said, 
 " invita Minerva;" supposing figures invented, they will have the ap- 
 pearance of being forced ; and in this case, they had much better be 
 omitted. 
 
 In the third place, even when imagination prompts, and the subject 
 naturally gives rise to figures, they must, however, not be employed too 
 frequently. In all beauty, " simplex munditiis" is a capital quality. No- 
 thing derogates more from the weight and dignity of any composition, 
 than too great attention to ornament. When the ornaments cost labour, 
 that labour always appears ; though they should cost us none, still the 
 reader or hearer may be surfeited with them ; and when they come too 
 
 * " Shreds of purple with broad lustre shine, 
 
 Sew'd on your poem." Francis. 
 
1 74 FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. [LECT. XVIII, 
 
 thick, they give the impression of a light and frothy genius, that evapo- 
 rates in show, rather than brings forth what is solid. The directions of 
 the ancient critics, on this head, are full of good sense, and deserve care- 
 ful attention. " Voluptatibus maximis," says Cicero, de Orat. 1. hi. 
 " fastidium finitimum est in rebus omnibus, quo hoc minus in oratione 
 miremur. In qua vel ex poetis, vel oratoribus possumus judicare, con- 
 cinnam, ornatam, festivam sine intermissione, quamvis claris sit colori- 
 bus picta, vel poesis, vel oratio, non posse in delectatione esse diuturna. 
 Quare, bene et praeclare, quamvis nobis saepe dicatur, belle et festive 
 nimium saepe nolo.'^* To the same purpose are the excellent directions 
 with which Quintilian concludes his discourse concerning figures, 1. ix. c. 
 3. " Ego illud de iis figuris quae verae fiunt, adjiciam breviter, sicut 
 ornant orationem opportune positae, ita ineptissimas esse cum immodice 
 petuntur. Sunt, qui neglecto rerum pondere et viribus sententiarum, 
 si vel ioania verba in hos modos depravarunt, summos se judicant arti- 
 fices : ideoque non desinunt eas nectere ; quas sine sententia sectare 8 
 tarn est ridiculum quam quasrere habitum gestumque sine corpore. Ne 
 hae quidem quae rectae fiunt, densandae sunt nimis. Sciendum imprimis 
 quid quisque postulet locus, quid persona, quid tempus. Major enim 
 pars harum figurarum posita est in delectatione. Ubi vero, atrocitate, 
 invidia, miseratione pugnandum est ; quis ferat verbis contrapositis, et 
 consimilibus, et pariter cadentibus, irascentem, flentem, rogantem? Cum 
 in his rebus, cura verborum deroget affectibus fidem ; et ubicunque ars 
 ostentatur, Veritas abesse videatur."f After these judicious and useful 
 observations, I have no more to add, on this subject, exceptthis admonition: 
 In the fourth place, that, without a genius for figurative language, 
 none should attempt it. Imagination is a power not to be acquired ; it 
 must be derived from nature. Its redundancies we may prune, its devi- 
 ations we may correct, its sphere we may enlarge ; but the faculty itself 
 we cannot create ; and all efforts towards a metaphorical ornamented 
 style, if we are destitute of the proper genius for it, will prove awkward 
 and disgusting. Let us satisfy ourselves, however, by considering, that 
 without this talent, or at least with a very small measure of it, we may 
 both write and speak to advantage. Good sense, clear ideas, perspi- 
 cuity of language, and proper arrangement of words and thoughts, will 
 
 * " In all human things, disgust borders so nearly on the most lively pleasures, 
 that we need not be surprised to find this hold in eloquence. From reading either 
 poets or orators we may easily satisfy ourselves, that neither a poem nor anoration^ 
 which, without intermission, is showy and sparkling, can please us long. Where* 
 fore, though we may wish for the frequent praise of having expressed ourselves well 
 and properly, we should not covet repeated applause, for being bright and splendid. 
 
 t " 1 must add. concerning those figures which are proper iu themselves, that, as 
 they beautify a composition when they are seasonably introduced, so they deform 
 it greatly, if too frequently sought after. There are some who, neglecting strength 
 of sentiment and weight of matter, if they can only force their empty words into a 
 figurative style, imagine themselves great writers ; and therefore continually string 
 together such ornaments; which is just as ridiculous, where there is no sentiment 
 to support them, as to contrive gestures and dresses for what wants a body. Even 
 those figures which a subject admits, must not come too thick. We must begin 
 with considering what the occasion, the time, and the person who speaks, render 
 proper. For the object aimed at by the greater part of these figures is entertain- 
 ment. But when the subject becomes deeply serious and strong passions are to be 
 moved, who can hear the orator, who in affecting language and balanced phrases, 
 endeavours to express wrath, commiseration, or earnest entreaty ? On all such 
 occasions, a solicitous attention to words weakens passion ; and when so much art 
 is shown, there is suspected to be little sincerity." 
 
LECT. XvHL] GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE, 175 
 
 always command attention. These are, indeed, the foundations of all 
 solid, merit, both in speaking and writing. Many subjects require no- 
 thing more ; and those which admit of ornament, admit it only as a secon- 
 dary requisite. To study and to know our own genius well ; to follow 
 nature; to* seek to improve, but not to force it, are directions which 
 cannot r be \i$$ often given to those who desire to excel in the liberal 
 arts. 
 
 When I entered on the consideration of style, I observed that words 
 being the copied of our ideas, there must always be a very intimate 
 connexion between the manner in which every writer employs words, 
 and his manner of thinking ; and that, from the peculiarity of thought 
 and expression which belongs to him, there is a certain character imprint- 
 ed on his style, which maybe denominated his manner; commonly ex- 
 pressed by such general terms, as strong, weak, dry, simple, affected, 
 or the like. These distinctions carry, in general, some reference to an 
 author's manner of thinking, but refer chiefly to his mode of expression. 
 They arise from the whole tenor of his language ; and comprehend the 
 effect produced by all those parts of style which we have already con- 
 sidered ; the choice which he makes of single words ; his arrangement 
 of these in sentences ; the degree of his precision ; and his embellish- 
 ment, by means of musical cadence, figures, or other arts of speech, 
 Of such general characters of style, therefore, it remains now to speak, 
 as the result of those underparts of which I have hitherto treated. 
 
 That different subjects require to be treated of in different sorts of 
 style, is a position so obvious, that I shall not stay to illustrate it, 
 Every one sees that treatises of philosophy, for instance, ought not to 
 be composed in the same style with orations. Every one sees also, 
 that different parts of the same composition require a variation in the 
 style and manner. In a sermon, for instance, or any harangue, the 
 application or peroration admits more ornament and requires more 
 warmth, than the didactic part. But what I mean at present to remark 
 is, that amidst this variety, we still expect to find, in the compositions 
 of any one man, some degree of uniformity or consistency with himself 
 in manner ; we expect to find some predominant character of style 
 impressed on all his writings, which shall be suited to, and shall mark 
 his particular genius and turn of mind. The orations in Livy differ 
 much in style, as they ought to do, from the rest of his history. The 
 same is the case with those in Tacitus. Yet both in Livy's orations, 
 and in those of Tacitus, we are able clearly to trace the distinguishing 
 manner of each historian ; the magnificent fulness of the one, and the 
 sententious conciseness of the other. The"Lettres Persanes," and 
 " L'Esprit des Loix," are the works of the same author. They requi- 
 red very different composition surely, and accordingly they differ 
 widely ; yet still we see the same hand. Wherever there is real and 
 native genius, it gives a determination to one kind of style rather than 
 another. Where nothing of this appears : where there is no marked 
 nor peculiar character in the compositions of any author, we are apt to 
 infer, not without reason, that he is a vulgar and trivial author, who 
 writes from imitation, and not from the impulse of original genius. As 
 the most celebrated painters are known by their hand, so the best and 
 most original writers are known and distinguished, throughout all their 
 works, by their style and peculiar manner. This will be found to hold 
 almost without exception. 
 
170 CONCISE AND [LECT. XVIII, 
 
 The ancient critics attended to these general characters of style 
 which we are now to consider. Dionysius of Halicarnassus divides them 
 into three kinds ; and calls them the austere, the florid, and the middle. 
 By the austere, he means a style distinguished for strength and firmness, 
 with a neglect of smoothness and ornament ; for examples of which, he 
 gives Pindar and iEschylus among the poets, and Thucydides among the 
 prose writers. By the florid, he means, as the name indicates, a style 
 ornamented, flowing, and sweet ; resting more upon numbers and grace, 
 than strength ; he instances Hesiod, Sappho, Anacreon, Euripides, and 
 principally Isocrates. The middle kind is the just mean between these, 
 and comprehends the beauties of both ; in which class he places Homer 
 and Sophocles among the poets ; in prose, Herodotus, Demosthenes, Pla- 
 to, and (what seems strange) Aristotle. This must be a very wide class, 
 indeed, which comprehends Plato and Aristotle under one article as to 
 style.* Cicero and Qjiintilian make also a threefold division of style, 
 though with respect to different qualities of it ; in which they are fol- 
 lowed by most of the modern writers on rhetoric ; the simplex, tenue, or 
 subtile ; the grave or vehemens ; and the medium, or temperatum genus 
 dicendi. But these divisions, and the illustrations they give of them, 
 are so loose and general, that they cannot advance us much in our ideas 
 of style. I shall endeavour to be a little more particular in what I have 
 to say on this subject. 
 
 One of the first and most obvious distinctions of the different kinds of 
 style, is what arises from an author's spreading out his thoughts more or 
 less. This distinction forms, what are called the diffuse and the con- 
 cise styles. A concise writer compresses his thoughts into the fewest 
 possible words ; he seeks to employ none but such as are most expres- 
 sive ; he lops off as redundant, every expression which does not add 
 something material to the sense. Ornament he does not reject ; he 
 may be lively and figured ; but his ornament is intended for the sake 
 of force, rather than grace. He never gives you the same thought 
 twice. He places it in the light which appears to him the most striking ; 
 but if you do not apprehend it well in that Hght, you need not expect 
 to find it in any other. His sentences are arranged with compactness 
 and strength, rather than with cadence and harmony. The utmost pre- 
 cision is studied in them ; and they are commonly designed to suggest 
 more to the reader's imagination than they directly express. 
 
 A diffuse writer unfolds his thoughts fully. He places it in a variety 
 of lights, and gives the reader every possible assistance for understand- 
 ino- it completely. He is not very careful to express it at first in its 
 full strength ; because he is to repeat the impression ; and what he 
 wants in strength, he proposes to supply by copiousness. Writers of 
 this character generally love magnificence and amplification. Their 
 periods naturally run out into some length, and having room for orna- 
 ment of every kind, they admit it freely. 
 
 Each of these manners has its peculiar advantages ; and each becomes 
 faulty when carried to the extreme. The extreme of conciseness be- 
 comes abrupt and obscure ; it is apt also to lead into a style too pointed, 
 and bordering on the epigrammatic. The extreme of diffuseness becomes 
 weak and languid, and tires the reader. However, to one or other of 
 these two manners, a writer may lean according as his genius prompts 
 
 * De Compositions Verborum. cap. 25. 
 
LECtVXVIIL] DIFFUSE STYLE. 177 
 
 him ; and under the general character of a concise, or of a more open 
 and diffuse style, may possess much beauty in his composition. 
 
 For illustrations of these general characters, I can only refer to the 
 writers who are examples of them. It is not so much from detached 
 passages, such as I was wont formerly to quote for instances, as from 
 the current of an author's style, that we are to collect the idea of a formed 
 manner of writing. The two most remarkable examples that I know, 
 of conciseness carried as far as propriety will allow, perhaps in some cases 
 farther, are Tacitus the historian, and the President Montesquieu in 
 J ' L'Esprit de Loix." Aristotle too holds an eminent rank among didactic 
 writers for his brevity. Perhaps no writer in the world was ever so 
 frugal of his words as Aristotle ; but this frugality of expression fre- 
 quently darkens his meaning. Of a beautiful and magnificent diffuse- 
 ness, Cicero is, beyond doubt, the most illustrious instance that can be 
 given. Addison also, and Sir William Temple, come in some degree 
 under this class. 
 
 In judging when it is proper to lean to the concise, and when to the 
 diffuse manner, we must be directed by the nature of the composition. 
 Discourses that are to' be spoken, require a more copious style, than 
 books that are to be read. When the whole meaning must be catched 
 from the mouth of the speaker, without the advantage which books 
 afford of pausing at pleasure, and reviewing what appears obscure, great 
 conciseness is always to be avoided. We should never presume too much 
 on the quickness of our hearer's understanding ; but our style ought to 
 be such, that the bulk of men can go along with us easily, and without 
 effort. A flowing copious style, therefore, is required in all public 
 speakers ; guarding, at the same time, against such a degree of diffusion, 
 as renders them languid and tiresome ; which will always prove the case, 
 when they inculcate too much, and present the same thought under too 
 many different views. 
 
 In written compositions, a certain degree of conciseness possesses 
 great advantages. It is more lively ; keeps up attention ; makes a brisker 
 and stronger impression ; and gratifies the mind by supplying more 
 exercise to a reader's own thought. A sentiment which, expressed 
 diffusely, will barely be admitted to be just, expressed concisely, will be 
 admired as spirited. Description, when we want to have it vivid and 
 animated, should be in a concise strain. This is different from the com- 
 mon opinion ; most persons being ready to suppose, that upon descrip- 
 tion a writer may dwell more safely than upon other things, and that by 
 a full and extended style, it is rendered more rich and expressive. I 
 apprehend, on the contrary, that a diffuse manner generally weakens it. 
 Any redundant words or circumstances encumber the fancy, and make 
 the object we present to it, appear confused and indistinct. Accordingly, 
 the most masterly describers, Homer, Tacitus, Milton, are almost always 
 concise in their descriptions. They show us more of an object at one 
 glance, than a feeble diffuse writer can show, by turning it round and 
 round in a variety of lights. The strength and vivacity of cfiscription , 
 whether in prose or poetry, depend much more upon the happy choice 
 of one or two striking circumstances, than upon the multiplication of them. 
 
 Addresses to the passions, likewise, ought to be in the concise, rather 
 than the diffuse manner. In these it is dangerous to be diffuse, because 
 it is very difficult to support proper warmth for any length of time,, 
 When we become prolix, we are always in hazard of cooling the reader. 
 
 Z 
 
178 NERVOUS AND FEEBLE' STYLE. 
 
 The heart, too, and the fancy run fast ; and if once we can put them in 
 motion, they supply many particulars to greater advantage than an au- 
 thor can display them. The case is different, when we address ourselves 
 to the understanding ; as in all matters of reasoning, explication, and 
 instruction. There I would prefer a more free and diffuse manner. 
 When you are to strike the fancy, or to move the heart, be concise ; when 
 you are to inform the understanding, which moves more slowly, and 
 requires the assistance of a guide, it is betterto be full. Historical narra- 
 tion may be beautiful, either in a concise or a diffuse manner, according to 
 the writer's genius. Livy and Herodotus are diffuse ; Thucydides and 
 Sallust are succinct ; yet all of them are agreeable. 
 
 I observed that a diffuse style inclines most to long periods ; and a con- 
 cise writer, it is certain, will often employ short sentences. It is not, 
 however, to be inferred from this, that long or short sentences are fully 
 , characteristical of the one or the other manner. It is very possible for 
 one to compose always in short sentences, and to be withal extremely 
 diffuse, if a small measure of sentiment be spread through many of these 
 sentences. Seneca is a remarkable example. By the shortness and 
 quaintness of his sentences, he may appear at first view very concise ; 
 yet he is far from being so. He transfigures the same thought into many 
 different forms. He makes it pass for a new one, only by giving it a new 
 turn. So also, most of the French writers compose in short sentences ; 
 though their style, in general, is not concise ; commonly less so than the 
 bulk of English writers, whose sentences are much longer. A French 
 author breaks down into two or three sentences, that portion of thought 
 which an English author crowds into one. The direct effect of short 
 sentences, is to render the style brisk and lively, but not always concise. 
 By the qnick successive impulses which they make on the mind,' they 
 keep it awake : and give to composition more of a spirited character. 
 Long periods, like Lord Clarendon's, are grave and stately ; but like all 
 grave things, they are in hazard of becoming dull. An intermixture of 
 both long and short ones is requisite, when we would support solemnity, 
 together with vivacity ; leaning more to the one or the other, according 
 as propriety requires that the solemn or the sprightly should be pre- 
 dominant in our composition. But of long and short sentences, I had 
 occasion formerly to treat, under the head of the construction of periods. 
 
 The nervous and the feeble, are generally held to be characters of 
 style, of the same import with the concise and the diffuse. They do 
 indeed very often coincide. Diffuse writers have, for the most part, 
 some degree of feebleness ; and nervous writers will generally be in- 
 clined to a concise expression. This, however, does not always hold ; 
 and there are instances of writers, who in the midst of a full and ample 
 style, have maintained a great degree of strength. Livy is an example ; 
 and in the English language Dr. Barrow. Barrow's style has many 
 faults. It is unequal, incorrect, and redundant ; but withal, for force 
 and expressiveness, uncommonly distinguished. On every subject, he 
 multiplies words with an overflowing copiousness ; but it is always a 
 torrent of strong ideas and significant expressions which he pours forth. 
 Indeed, the foundations of a nervous or a weak style are laid in an 
 author's manner of thinking. If he conceives an object strongly, he will 
 express it with energy ; but if he has only an indistinct view of his 
 subject : if his ideas be loose and wavering ; if his genius be such, or, 
 at the time of his ^writing, so carelessly exerted, that he has no firm 
 
LECT. XVIII.] NERVOUS AND FEEBLE STYLE. v . i79 
 
 hold of the conception which he would communicate to us ; the marks 
 of all this will clearly appear in his style. Several unmeaning words 
 and loose epithets will be found : his expressions will be vague and gene- 
 ral ; his arrangement indistinct and feeble ; we shall conceive somewhat 
 of his meaning, but our conception will be faint. Whereas, a nervous 
 writer, whether he employs an extended or a concise style, gives us 
 always a strong impression of his meaning : his mind is full of his subject, 
 and his words are all expressive ; every phrase and every figure which 
 he uses, tends to render the picture, which he would set before us, more 
 lively and complete. 
 
 I observed, under the head of diffuse and concise style, that an author 
 might lean either to the one or to the other, and yet be beautiful. 
 This is not the case with respect to the nervous and the feeble. Every 
 author, in every composition, ought to study to express himself with 
 some strength, and, in proportion as he approaches to the feeble, he 
 becomes a bad writer. In all kinds of writing, however, the same degree 
 of strength is not demanded. But the more grave and weighty any 
 composition is, the more should a character of strength predominate in 
 the style. Hence in history, philosophy, and solemn discourses, it is 
 expected most. One of the most complete models of a nervous style- 
 is Demosthenes in his orations. 
 
 As every good quality in style has an extreme, when pursued, to 
 which it becomes faulty, this holds to the nervous style as well as others. 
 Too great a study of strength, to the neglect of the other qualities of 
 style, is found to betray writers into a harsh manner. Harshness arises 
 from unusual words, from forced inversions in the construction of a sen- 
 tence, and too much neglect of smoothness and ease. This is reckoned 
 the fault of some of our earliest classics in the English language ; such 
 as Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Francis Bacon, Hooker, Chiilingworth, Milton 
 in his prose works, Harrington, Cudworth, and other writers of con- 
 siderable note in the days of Queen Elizabeth, James I. and Charles I. 
 These writers had nerves and strength in a high degree, and are to this 
 day eminent for that quality in style. But the language in their hands 
 was exceedingly different from what it is now, and was indeed entirely 
 formed upon the idiom and construction of the Latin in the arrangement 
 of sentences. Hooker, for instance, begins the preface to his celebrated 
 work of Ecclesiastical Polity, with the following sentence : " Though 
 for no other cause, yet for this, that posterity may know we have not 
 loosely, through silence, permitted things to pass away as in a dream, 
 there shall be, for men's information, extant this much, concerning the 
 present state of the church of God established among us, and their 
 careful endeavours which would have upheld the same." Such a 
 sentence now sounds harsh in our ears. Yet some advantages certainly 
 attended this sort of style ; and whether we have gained *or lost, upon 
 the whole, by departing from it, may bear a question. By the freedom 
 of arrangement, which it permitted, it rendered the language susceptible 
 of more strength, of more variety of collocation, and more harmony of 
 period. But however this be, such a style is now obsolete ; and no 
 modern writer could adopt it without the censure of harshness and affec- 
 tation. The present form which the language has assumed, has, in 
 some measure, sacrificed the study of strength to that of perspicuity and 
 ease. Our arrangement of words has become less forcible, perhaps, 
 
180 DRY AND PLA1N STYLE. jLEC'T.XVIIL 
 
 but more plain and natural : and this is now understood to be the genius 
 of our language. 
 
 The restoration of Charles II. seems to be the era of the foundation 
 of our present style. Lord Clarendon was one of the first who laid 
 aside those frequent inversions which prevailed among writers of the 
 former age. After him, Sir William Temple polished the language still 
 more. But the author who, by the number and reputation of his works, 
 formed it more than any one, into its present state, is Dryden. Dryden 
 began to write at the restoration, and continued long an author both in 
 poetry and prose. He had made the language his study ; and though 
 he wrote hastily, and often incorrectly, and his style is not free from 
 faults, yet there is a richness in his diction, a copiousness, ease, and 
 variety in his expression, which has not been surpassed by any who 
 have come after him.* Since his time, considerable attention has been 
 paid to purity and elegance of style : but it is elegance, rather than 
 strength, that forms the distinguishing quality of most of the good English 
 writers. Some of them compose in a more manly and nervous manner 
 than others ; but, whether it be from the genius of our language, or 
 from whatever other cause, it appears to me, that we are far from the 
 strength of several of the Greek and Roman authors. 
 
 Hitherto we have considered st}de under those characters that respect 
 its expressiveness of an author's meaning. Let us now proceed to con- 
 sider it in another view, with respect to the degree of ornament employed 
 to beautify it. Here, the style of different authors seems to rise, in the 
 following gradation ; a dry, a plain, a neat, an elegant, a flowery manner. 
 Of each of these in their order : 
 
 First, a dry manner. This excludes all ornament of every kind. 
 Content with being understood, it has not the least aim to please either 
 the fancy or the ear. This is tolerable only in pure didactic writing ; 
 and even there, to make us bear it, great weight and solidity of matter 
 are requisite ; and entire perspicuity of language. Aristotle is the 
 complete example of a dry style. Never, perhaps, was there any author 
 who adhered so rigidly to the strictness of a didactic manner, through- 
 out all his writings, and conveyed so much instruction without the least 
 approach to ornament. With the most profound genius, and extensive 
 views, he writes like a pure intelligence, who addresses himself solely 
 to the understanding, without making any use of the channel of the 
 imagination. But this is a manner which deserves not to be imitated. 
 For, although the goodness of the matter may compensate the dryness 
 or harshness of the style, yet is that dryness a considerable defect : as 
 it fatigues attention, and conveys our sentiments with disadvantage to the 
 reader or hearer. 
 
 A plain style rises one degree above a dry one. A writer g( this 
 character employs very little ornament of any kind, and rests almost 
 entirely upon his sense. But, if he is at no pains to engage us by the 
 
 * Dr. Johnson, in his Life of Dryden, gives the following character of his prose 
 style : " His prefaces have not the formality of a settled style, in which the first 
 half of the sentence betrays the other. The clauses are never balanced, nor the 
 periods modelled ; every word seems to drop by chance, though it falls into its 
 proper place. Nothing is cold or languid ; the whole is airy, animated, and vigo- 
 rous ; what is little, is gay, what is great, splendid. Though all is easy, nothing is 
 feeble; though all seems careless, there isnothing harsh; and though, since hisearlier 
 works m^ve than a century has passed, they have nothing yet uncouth or obsolete." 
 
LECT. XVIII.] NEAT STYLE, 181 
 
 employment of figures, musical arrangement, or any other art of wri- 
 ting, he studies, however, to avoid disgusting us like a dry and a harsh 
 writer. Besides perspicuity, he pursues propriety, purity, and preci- 
 sion, in his language ; which forms one degree, and no inconsiderable 
 one, of beauty. Liveliness, too, and force, may be consistent with a 
 very plain style ; and therefore, such an author, if his sentiments be 
 good, may be abundantly agreeable. The difference between a dry 
 and a plain writer is, that the former is incapable of ornament, and 
 seems not to know what it is ; the latter seeks not after it. He gives us 
 his meaning in good language, distinct and pure ; any further ornament, 
 he gives himself no trouble about ; either, because he thinks it unneces- 
 sary to his subject ; or, because his genius does not lead him to delight 
 in it ; or, because it leads him to despise it.* 
 
 This last was the case with Dean Swift, who may be placed at the head 
 of those that have employed the plain style. Few writers have disco- 
 vered more capacity. He treats every subject*which he handles, whether 
 serious or ludicrous, in a masterly manner. He knew, almost beyond 
 any man, the purity, the extent, the precision of the English language ; 
 and, therefore, to such as wish to attain a pure and correct style, he is 
 one of the most useful models. But we must not look for much orna- 
 ment and grace in his language. His haughty and morose genius made 
 him despise any embellishment of this kind as beneath his dignity. He 
 delivers his sentiments in a plain, downright, positive manner, like one 
 who is sure he is in the right ; and is very indifferent whether you be 
 pleased or not. His sentences are commonly negligently arranged ; 
 distinctly enough as to the sense ; but without any regard to smoothness 
 of sound ; often without much regard to compactness, or elegance. If a 
 metaphor, or any other figure, chanced to render his satire more poig- 
 nant, he would, perhaps, vouchsafe to adopt it, when it came in his way ; 
 but if it tended only to embellish and illustrate, he would rather throw 
 itaside. Hence, in his serious pieces, his style often borders upon the 
 dry and unpleasing ; in his humorous ones, the plainness of his manner 
 gives his wit a singular edge, and sets it off to the highest advantage. 
 There is no froth, nor affectation in it ; it flows without any studied 
 preparation ; and while he hardly appears to smile himself, he makes 
 his reader laugh heartily. To a writer of such a genius as Dean Swift, 
 the plain style was most admirably fitted. Among our philosophical 
 writers, Mr. Locke comes under this class ; perspicuous ana pure, but 
 almost without any ornament whatever. In works which admit, or re- 
 quire, ever so much ornament, there are parts where the plain manner 
 ought to predominate. But we must remember, that when this is the 
 character which a writer affects throughout his whole composition, great 
 weight of matter, and great force of sentiment, are required, in order to 
 keep up the reader's attention, and prevent him from becoming tired of 
 the author. 
 
 What is called a neat style comes next in order ; and here we are 
 got into the region of ornament : but that ornament not of the highest 
 or most sparkling kind. A writer of this character shows, that he does 
 
 * On this head, of the general characters of style, particularly the plain and the 
 simple, and the characters of those English authors who are classed under them, in 
 this and the following lecture, several ideas have beon taken from a manuscript 
 treatise on rhetoric, part of which was shown to me, many years ago, by the 
 learned and ingenious author. Or. Adam Smith ; and which, it is hoped, will be 
 given by him to the public. 
 
i8 2 ELEGANT AND FLORID STYLE. [LECT. XVIIL 
 
 not despise the beauty of language. It is an object of his attention. 
 Butjhis attention is shown in the choice of words, and in a graceful col- 
 location of them, rather than in any high efforts of imagination, or elo- 
 quence. His sentences are always clean, and free from the encum- 
 brance of superfluous words ; of a moderate length ; rather inclining 
 to brevity, than a swelling structure ; closing with propriety ; without 
 any tails, or adjections dragging after the proper close. His cadence is 
 varied; but not of the studied musical kind. His figures, if he uses 
 any, are short and correct, rather than bold and glowing. Such a style 
 as this may be attained by a writer who has no great powers of fancy 
 or genius ; by industry merely, and careful attention to the rules of 
 writing ; and it is a style always agreeable. It imprints a character of 
 moderate elevation on our composition, and carries a decent degree of 
 ornament, which is not unsuitable to any subject whatever. A familiar 
 letter, or a law paper, on the driest subject, may be written with neat- 
 ness ; and a sermon, or a philosophical treatise, in a neat stj'le, will be 
 read with pleasure. 
 
 An elegant style is a character, expressing a higher degree of ornament 
 than a neat one : and, indeed, is the term usually applied to style, when 
 possessing all the virtues of ornament, without any of its excesses or de- 
 fects. From what has been formerly delivered, it will easily be under- 
 stood, that complete elegance implies great perspicuity and propriety ; 
 purity in the choice of words, and care and dexterity in their harmonious 
 and happy arrangement. It implies, farther, the grace and beauty of 
 imagination spread over style, as far as the subject admits it ; and all the 
 illustration which figurative language adds, when properly employed. In 
 a word, an elegant writer is one who pleases the fancy and the ear, while 
 he informs the understanding ; and who gives us his ideas clothed with 
 all the beauty of expression, but not overcharged with any of its misplaced 
 finery. In this class, therefore, we place only the first-rate writers 
 in the language ; such as Addison, Dryden, Pope, Temple, Bolingbroke, 
 Atterbury, and a few more : writers who differ widely from one another 
 in many of the attributes of style, but whom we now class together, un- 
 der the denomination of elegant, as, in the scale of ornament, possessing 
 nearly the same place. 
 
 When the ornaments, applied to style, are too rich and gaudy in pro- 
 portion to the subject ; when they return upon us too fast, and strike us 
 either with a dazzling lustre, or a false brilliancy, this forms what is call- 
 ed a florid style ; a term commonly used to signify the excess of orna- 
 ment. In a 3 r oung composer this is very pardonable. Perhaps it is 
 even a promising symptom in young people, that their style should in- 
 cline to the florid and luxuriant ; " Volo se efferat in adolescente faecun- 
 ditas," says Quintilian, " multumindedecoquent anni, multum ratio lima- 
 bit. aliquid velut usu ipso deteretur ; sit modo unde excidi possit quid et 
 elxscupi. Audeat haec aetas plura, et inveniat et inventis gaudeat ; sint 
 licet ilia non satis interim sicca et severa. Facile remedium est uber- 
 tatis : sterilia nullo labore vincuntur."* But, although the florid style 
 
 * " In youth, I wish to see luxuriancy of fancy appear. Much of it will be dimi- 
 nished by years ; much will be corrected by ripening judgment ; some of it, by the 
 mere practice of composition, will be worn away. Let there be only sufficient matter 
 at first, that can bear some pruning and lopping off. At this time of life, let genius 
 be bold and Inventive, and pride itself in its efforts, though these should not, as yet, 
 he correct. Luxuriancv can easily be cured ; but for barrenness there is no remedy."' 
 
LECT. XIX.j GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE, ' ^3 
 
 may be allowed to youth, in their first essays, it must not receive the 
 same indulgence from writers of maturer years. It is to be expected, 
 that judgment, as it ripens, should chasten imagination, andreject, as juve- 
 nile, all such ornaments as are redundant, unsuitable to the subject, or 
 not conducive to illustrate it. Nothing can be more contemptible than 
 that tinsel splendour of language, which some writers perpetually affect. 
 It were well, if this could be ascribed to the real overflowing of a rich 
 imagination. We should then have something to amuse us, at least, if we 
 found little to instruct us. But theworst is, thatwith those frothy writers, 
 it is a luxuriancy of words, not of fancy. We see a laboured attempt to 
 rise to a splendour of composition, of which they have formed to them- 
 selves some loose idea ; but having no strength of genius for attaining 
 it, they endeavour to supply the defect by poetical words, by cold ex- 
 clamations, by commonplace figures, and every thing that has the ap- 
 pearance of pomp and magnificence. It has escaped these writers, 
 that sobriety in ornament is one great secret for rendering it pleasing ; 
 and that without a foundation of good sense and solid thought, the most 
 florid style is but a childish imposition on the public. The public, how- 
 ever, are but too apt to be so imposed on : at least the mob of readers, 
 who are very ready to be caught, at first, with whatever is dazzling and 
 gaudy. 
 
 I cannot help thinking, that it reflects more honour on the religious 
 turn, and good dispositions of the present age, that on the public taste, 
 that Mr. Hervey's Meditations have had so great a currency. The pious 
 and benevolent heart, which is always displayed in them, and the lively 
 fancy which, on some occasions, appears, justly merited applause: but 
 the perpetual glitter of expression, the swoln imagery, and strained de- 
 scription which abound in them, are ornaments of a false kind. I would, 
 therefore, advise students of oratory to imitate Mr. Hervey's piety rather 
 than his style : and, in all compositions of a serious kind, to turn their 
 attention, as Mr. Pope says, "from sounds to things, from fancy to the 
 heart." Admonitions of this kind, I have already had occasion to give, 
 and may hereafter repeat them ; as I conceive nothing more incumbent 
 on me in this course of lectures, than to take every opportunity of caution- 
 ing my readers against the affected and frivolous use of ornament ; and 
 instead of that slight and superficial taste in writing, which I apprehend 
 to be at present too fashionable, to introduce, as far as my endeavours 
 can avail, a taste for more solid thought, and more manly simplicity in 
 style. 
 
 LECTURE XIX. 
 
 GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE— SIMPLE, AFFECTED, 
 VEHEMENT— DIRECTIONS FOR FORMING A 
 PROPER STYLE. 
 
 Having entered, in the last lecture, on the consideration of the general 
 characters of style, I treated of the concise and diffuse, the nervous 
 and feeble manner, I consider style also, with relation to the different 
 
J 84 SIMPLICITY AND [LLCT. XIX 
 
 degrees of ornament employed to beautify it, in which view, the manner 
 of different authors rises according to the following gradation; dry, 
 plain, neat, elegant, flowery. 
 
 I am next to treat of style under another character, one of great im- 
 portance in writing, and which requires to be accurately examined, that 
 of simplicity, or a natural style, as distinguished from affectation. Sim- 
 plicity, applied to writing, is a term very frequently used ; but, like 
 many other critical terms, often used loosely and without precision. — 
 This has been owing chiefly to the different meanings given to the word 
 simplicity, which, therefore, it will be necessary here to distinguish : 
 and to show in what sense it is a proper attribute of style. We may re- 
 mark four different acceptations in which it is taken. 
 
 The first is, simplicity of composition, as opposed to too great a 
 variety of parts. Horace's precept refers to this : 
 
 Denique sit quod vis simplex duntaxat et unumr 
 
 This is the simplicity of plan in a tragedy, as distinguished from dou- 
 ble plots, and crowded incidents ; the simplicity of the Iliad, or iEneid, 
 in opposition to the digressions of Lucan, and the scattered tales of 
 Ariosto ; the simplicity of Grecian architecture, in opposition to the 
 irregular variety of the Gothic. In this sense, simplicity is the same 
 with unity. 
 
 The second sense is, simplicity of thought, as opposed to refinement. 
 Simple thoughts are what arise naturally ; what the occasion or the sub- 
 ject suggests unsought ; and what, when once suggested, are easily ap- 
 prehended by all. Refinement in writing, expresses a less natural and 
 obvious train of thought, and which it required a peculiar turn of ge- 
 nius to pursue ; within certain bounds very beautiful ; but when carried 
 too far, approaching to intricacy, and hurting us by the appearance of 
 being recherche, or far-sought. Thus, we would naturally say, that Mr. 
 Parnell is a poet of far greater simplicity, in his turn of thought, than 
 Mr. Cowley : Cicero's thoughts on moral subjects are natural ; Seneca's 
 too refined and laboured. In these two senses of simplicity, when it is 
 opposed, either to variety of parts, or to refinement of thought, it has 
 no proper relation to style. 
 
 There is a third sense of simplicity, in which it has respect to style : 
 and stands opposed to too much ornament or pomp of language ; as 
 when we say, Mr. Locke is a simple, Mr. Herveya florid writer; and 
 it is in this sense, that the " simplex ," the " tenue," or " subtile genus 
 dicendi" is understood by Cicero and Quintilian. The simple style, in 
 this sense, coincides with the plain or the neat style, which I before 
 mentioned ; and, therefore, requires no farther illustration. 
 
 But there is a fourth sense of simplicity, also, respecting style ; but 
 not respecting the degree of ornament employed, so much as the easy 
 and natural manner in which our language expresses our thoughts . 
 This is quite different from the former sense of the word just now men- 
 tioned, in which simplicity was equivalent to plainness : whereas, in 
 this sense, it is compatible with the highest ornament. Homer, for 
 instance, possesses this simplicity in the greatest perfection ; and yet no 
 writer has more ornament and beauty, This simplicity, which is what 
 we are now to consider, stands opposed, not to ornament, but to affecta- 
 
 * " Then learn the tvand'ring humour to control, 
 And keen one equal-tenor through the whole Francis 
 
■LECT.XIX.] AFFECTATION IN STYLE. 135 
 
 tion of ornament, or appearance of labour about our style ; and it is a 
 distinguishing excellency in writing. 
 
 A writer of simplicity expresses himself in such a manner, that 
 every one thinks he could have written in the same way ; Horace 
 describes it, 
 
 ■ut sibi q'uivis 
 
 Speret idem, sudet multum, frustraque laboret 
 Ausus idem.* 
 
 There are no marks of art in his expression : it seems the very lan- 
 guage of nature ; you see in the style, not the writer and his labour, 
 hut the man in his own natural character. He may be rich in his 
 expression ; he may be full of figures, and of fancy ; but these flow from 
 him without effort ; and he appears to write in this manner, not because 
 he has studied it, but because it is the manner of expression most natural 
 to him. A certain degree of negligence, also, is not inconsistent 
 with this character of style, and even not ungraceful in it ; for too 
 minute an attention to words is foreign to it : " Habeat ille," says Cicero, 
 (Orat. No. 77) " molle quiddam, et quod indice non ingratam negligen- 
 tiam hominis, de re magis quam de verbo laborantis."t This is the 
 great advantage of simplicity of style, that, like simplicity of manners, 
 it shows us a man's sentiments and turn of mind laid open without dis- 
 guise. More studied and artificial manners of writing, however beau- 
 tiful, have always this disadvantage, that they exhibit an author in form, 
 like a man at court, where the splendour of dress, and the ceremonial of 
 behaviour, conceal those peculiarities which distinguish one man from 
 another. But reading an author of simplicity, is like conversing with a 
 person of distinction at home, and with ease, where we find natural man- 
 ners, and a marked character. 
 
 The highest degree of this simplicity, is expressed by a French term, 
 to which we have none that fully answers in our language, naivete. It 
 is not easy to give a precise idea of the import of this word. It always 
 expresses a discovery of character. ' I believe the best account of it is 
 given by a French critic, M. Marmontel, who explains it thus : That 
 sort of amiable ingenuity, or undisguised openness, which seems to give 
 us some degree of superiority over the person who shows it ; a certain 
 infantine simplicity, which we love in our hearts, but which displays 
 some features of the character that we think we could have art enough 
 to hide ; and which, therefore, always leads us to smile at the person who 
 discovers this character. La Fontaine, in his Fables, is given as the 
 great example of such naivete. This, however, is to be understood, as 
 descriptive of a particular species only of simplicity. 
 
 With respect to simplicity in general, we may remark, that the ancient 
 Original writers are always the most eminent for it. This happens 
 from a plain reason, that they wrote from the dictates of natural genius, 
 and were not formed upon the labours and writings of others, which 
 is always in hazard of producing affectation. Hence, among the 
 
 * " From well-known tales such fictions would I raise, 
 As all might hope to imitate with ease ; 
 Yet while they strive the same success to gain, 
 Should find their labours, and their hopes in vain." Fjsuncis. 
 r " Let this style have certain softness and ease, which shall characterize a neg- 
 ligence, not unpleasing in an author, who appears to be more solicitous about the 
 thought than the expression.'' 
 
 A a 
 
i8 6 ' SIMPLICITY AND [LECT.XIX, 
 
 Greek writers, we have more models of a beautiful simplicity than 
 among the Roman. Homer, Hesiod, Anacreon, Theocritus, Herodotus, 
 and Xenophon, are all distinguished for it. Among the Romans also, we 
 have some writers of this character, particularly Terence, Lucretius, 
 Phaedrus, and Julius Cassar. The following passage of Terence's Andria, 
 is a beautiful instance of simplicity of manner in description. 
 
 Funus interim 
 Procedit : sequimur; ad sepulchrum venimus ; 
 In ignem imposita est ; fletur. Interea bsec soror. 
 Quam dixi,ad flammam accessit imprudentiu s 
 Satis cum pericalo. Ibi turn esanimatus Pamphilus, 
 Bene dissimulatum amorera, et ceiatum indicat ; 
 Occurril praeceps, mulierem ab igne retrahit, 
 ilea Glyceriutn, inquit, quid agis f Cur te is perditum ? 
 Turn ilia, ut consuetum facile amorem cerneres, 
 Rejecit se in eum, flens quam familiariter.* 
 
 All the words here are remarkably happy and elegant ; and convey a 
 most lively picture of the scene described ; while, at the same time, the 
 style appears wholly artless and unlaboured. Let us, next, consider 
 some English writers who come under this class. 
 
 Simplicity is the great beauty of Archbishop Tillotson's manner. 
 Tillotson has long been admired as an eloquent writer and a model for 
 preaching. But his eloquence, if we can call it such, has often been 
 misunderstood. For, if we include, in the idea of eloquence, vehe- 
 mence and strength, picturesque description, glowing figures, or correct 
 arrangement of sentences, in all these parts of oratory the Archbishop 
 is exceedingly deficient. His style is always pure, indeed, and per- 
 spicuous, but careless and remiss, too often feeble and languid ; little 
 beauty in the construction of his sentences, which are frequently suifer- 
 ed to drag unharmoniously ; seldom any attempt towards strength or 
 sublimity. But, notwithstanding these defects, such a constant vein of 
 good sense and piety runs through his works, such an earnest and serious 
 manner, and so much useful instruction conveyed in a style so pure, 
 natural, and unaffected, as will justly recommend him to a high regard, 
 as long as the English language remains ; not, indeed, as a model of 
 the highest eloquence, but as a simple and amiable writer, whose manner 
 is strongly expressive of great goodness and worth. I observed before, 
 that simplicity of manner may be consistent with some degree of negli- 
 gence in style, and it is only the beauty of that simplicity which makes 
 the negligence of such writers seem graceful. But, as appears in the 
 Archbishop, negligence may sometimes be carried so far as to impair 
 the beauty of simplicity, and make it border on a flat and languid man- 
 ner. 
 
 :: " Meanwhile the funeral proceeds ; we follow : 
 Come to the sepulchre : the body's placed 
 Upon the pile ; lamented '; whereupon 
 This sister I was speaking of, all wild, 
 Ran to the flames with peril of her life. 
 There ! there ! the frighted Pamphilius betrays 
 His well-dissembled and long-hidden love ; 
 Runs up and takes her round the waist, and crie*. 
 Oh ! My Glycerium ! what is it you do ? 
 Why, why endeavour to destroy yourself? 
 Then she, in such a manner, that you thence 
 Might easily perceive their long, long love, 
 Threw herself back into his arms, and wept. 
 Oh! howfamiliarlv.' , Colman. 
 
LECT. XIX.] AFFECTATION IN STYLE. 187 
 
 Sir William Temple is another remarkable writer in the style of sim- 
 plicity. In point of ornament and correctness, he rises a degree above 
 Tillotson ; though for correctness, he is not in the highest rank. All is 
 easy and flowing in him ; he is exceedingly harmonious ; smoothness, 
 and what may be called amenity, are the distinguishing characters of his 
 manner ; relaxing, sometimes, as such a manner will naturally do, into 
 a prolix and remiss style. No writer whatever has stamped upon his 
 style a more lively impression of his own character. In reading his 
 works, we seem engaged in conversation with him ; we become thoroughly 
 acquainted with him, not merely as an author, but as a man ; and contract 
 a friendship for him. He may be classed as standing in the middle, 
 between a negligent simplicity, and the highest degree of ornament, which 
 this character of style admits. 
 
 Of the latter of these, the highest, most correct, and ornamented 
 degree of the simple manner, Mr. Addison is', beyond doubt, in the 
 English language, the most perfect example : and therefore, though not 
 withoutsome faults, he is, on the whole, the safest model for imitation, 
 and the freest from considerable defects, which the language affords, 
 Perspicuous and pure he is in the highest degree ; his precision, indeed, 
 not very great ; yet nearly as great as the subjects which he treats of 
 require : the construction of his sentences easy, agreeable, and commonly 
 very musical ; carrying a character of smoothness more than of strength. 
 In figurative language, he is rich ; particularly in similes and metaphors : 
 which are so employed, as to render his style splendid, without being 
 gaudy. There is not the least affectation in his manner ; we see no 
 marks of labour ; nothing forced or constrained : buf great elegance 
 joined with great ease and simplicity. He is, in particular, distinguished 
 by a character of modesty, and of politeness, which appears in all his 
 writings. No author has a more popular and insinuating manner ; and 
 the great regard which he every where shows for virtue and religion, 
 recommends him highly. If he fails in any thing, it is in want of 
 strength and precision, which renders his manner, though perfectly 
 suited to such essays as he writes in the Spectator, not altogether a proper 
 model for any of the higher and more elaborate kinds of composition. 
 Though the public have ever done much justice to his merit, yet the 
 nature of his merit has not always been seen in its true light ; for, 
 though his poetry be elegant, he certainly bears a higher rank among 
 the prose writers, than he is entitled to among the poets ; and, in prose, 
 his humour is of a much higher, and more original strain than his phi- 
 losophy. The Character of Sir Roger de Coverly discovers more genius 
 than the critique on Milton. 
 
 Such authors as those, whose characters I have been giving, one is 
 never tired of reading. There is nothing in their manner that strains 
 or fatigues our thoughts ; we are pleased, without being dazzled by their 
 lustre. So powerful is the charm of simplicity, in an author of real 
 genius, that it atones for many defects, and reconciles us to many a 
 careless expression. Hence, in all the most excellent authors, both in 
 prose and verse, the simple and natural manner may be always remark- 
 ed ; although other beauties being predominant, this forms not thei. 
 peculiar and distinguishing character. Thus Milton is simple in the 
 midst of all his grandeur ; and Demosthenes in the midst of all his 
 vehemence. To grave and solemn writings, simplicity of manner adds 
 the more venerable air. Accordingly, this has often been remarked as 
 
188 SIMPLICITY IN STYLE. [LECT. XIX. 
 
 the prevailing character throughout all the sacred Scriptures ; and in- 
 deed no other character of style was so much suited to the dignity of 
 inspiration. 
 
 Of authors, who, notwithstanding many excellencies, have rendered 
 their style much less beautiful by want of simplicity, I cannot give a 
 more remarkable example than Lord Shaftesbury. This is an author 
 on whom I have made observations several times before, and shall now 
 take leave of him, with giving his general character under this head. 
 Considerable merit, doubtless, he has. His works might be read with 
 profit for the moral philosophy which they contain, had he not filled 
 them with so many oblique and invidious insinuations against the Chris- 
 tian religion ; thrown out, too, with so much spleen and satire, as do no 
 honour to his memory, either as an author or a man. His language 
 has many beauties. It is firm, and supported in an uncommon degree ; 
 it is rich and musical. No English author, as I formerly showed, has 
 attended so much to the regular construction of his sentences, both with 
 respect to propriety, and with respect to cadence. All this gives so 
 much elegance and pomp to his language, that there is no wonder it should 
 have been highly admired by some. It is greatly hurt, however, by 
 perpetual stiffness and affectation. This is its capital fault. His lordship 
 can express nothing with simplicity. He seems to have considered it as 
 vulgar, and beneath the dignity of a man of quality to speak like other 
 men. Hence he is ever in buskins ; full of circumlocution and artificial 
 elegance. In every sentence, we see the marks of labour and art ; 
 nothing of that ease which expresses a sentiment coming naturally and 
 warm from the heart. Of figures and ornament of every kind, he is ex- 
 ceedingly fond ; sometimes happy in them : but his fondness for them is 
 too visible ; and having once laid hold of some metaphor or allusion that 
 pleased him, he knows not how to part with it. What is most wonderful, 
 he was a professed admirer of simplicity ; is always extolling it in the 
 ancients, and censuring the moderns for the want of it ; though he departs 
 from it himself as far as any one modern whatever. Lord Shaftesbury 
 possessed delicacy and refinement of taste, to a degree that we may call 
 excessive and sickly ; but he had little warmth of passion : few strong 
 or vigorous feelings, and the coldness of his character led him to that 
 artificial and stately manner which appears in his writings. He was 
 fonder of nothing than of wit and raillery ; but he is far from being happy 
 in it. He attempts it often, but always awkwardly ; he is stiff, even in his 
 pleasantry ; and laughs in form, like an author, and not like a man.* 
 
 From the account which I have given of Lord Shaftesbury's manner, 
 it may easily be imagined, that he would mislead many who blindly ad- 
 mired him. Nothing is more dangerous to the tribe of imitators, 
 than an author, who, with many imposing beauties, has also some very 
 considerable blemishes. This is fully exemplified in Mr. Blackwall, of 
 Aberdeen, the author of the life of Homer, the Letters on Mythology, 
 and the Court of Augustus ; a writer of considerable learning, and of 
 
 * It may perhaps be not unworthy of being mentioned, that the first edition of 
 bis Inquiry into Virtue was published, surreptitiously I believe, in a separate form a 
 in the year 1699 ; and is sometimes to be met with ; by comparing which, with the 
 corrected edition of the same treatise, as it now stands among his works, we see 
 one of the most curious and useful examples that I know, of what is called Limce 
 labor : the art of polishing language, breaking long sentences, and working up an 
 imperfect draught into a highly finished performance. 
 
LECT. XIX.] VEHEMENT STYLE, 1 39 
 
 ingenuity also ; but infected with an extravagant love of an artificial 
 style, and of that parade of language which distinguishes the Shaftesburean 
 manner. 
 
 Having now said so much to recommend simplicity, or the easy and 
 natural manner of writing, and having pointed out the defects of an oppo- 
 site manner ; in order to prevent mistakes on this subject, it is neces- 
 sary for me to observe, that it is very possible for an author to write 
 simply, and yet not beautifully. One may be free from affectation, and 
 not have merit. The beautiful simplicity supposes an author to possess 
 real genius ; to write with solidity, purity, and liveliness of imagina- 
 tion. In this case, the simplicity or unaffectedness of his manner, is 
 the crowning ornament ; it heightens every other beauty ; it is the dress 
 of nature, without which, all beauties are imperfect. But if mere un- 
 affectedness were sufficient to constitute the beauty of style, weak, trifling, 
 and dull writers might often lay claim to this beauty. And, accordingly, 
 we frequently meet with pretended critics, who extol the dullest writers 
 on account of what they call the "chaste simplicity of their manner ;" 
 which, in truth, is no other than the absence of every ornament, through 
 the mere want of genius and imagination. We must distinguish, there- 
 fore, between that simplicity which accompanies true genius, and which 
 is perfectly compatible with every proper ornament of style, and that 
 which is no other than a careless and slovenly manner. Indeed, the 
 distinction is easily made from the effect produced. The one never fails 
 to interest the reader ; the other is insipid and tiresome. 
 
 I proceed to mention one other manner or character of style, different 
 from any that I have yet spoken of; which may be distinguished by the 
 name of the vehement. This always implies strength ; and is not, by 
 any means, inconsistent with simplicity ; but, in its predominant character, 
 is distinguishable from either the strong or the simple manner. It has a 
 peculiar ardour ; it is a glowing style ; the language of a man, whose 
 imagination and passions are heated, and strongly affected by what he 
 writes; who is therefore negligent of lesser graces, but pours himself 
 forth with the rapidity and fulness of a torrent. It belongs to the 
 higher kinds of oratory ; and indeed is rather expected from a man who 
 is speaking, than from one who is writing in his closet. The orations 
 of Demosthenes furnish the full and perfect example of this species of 
 style. 
 
 Among English writers, the one who has most of this character, though 
 mixed, indeed, wiih several defects, is Lord Bolingbroke. Bolingbroke 
 was formed by nature to be a factious leader ; the demagogue of a popu- 
 lar assembly. Accordingly, the stjde that runs through all his political 
 writings, is that of one declaiming with heat, rather than writing with 
 deliberation. He abounds in rhetorical figures ; and pours himself forth 
 with great impetuosity. He is copious to a fault ; places the same 
 thought before us in many different views ; but generally with life and 
 ardour. He is bold rather than correct ; a torrent that flows strong, 
 but often muddy. His sentences are varied as to length and shortness ; 
 inclining, however, most to long periods, sometimes including parentheses, 
 and frequently crowding and heaping a multitude of things upon one ano- 
 ther, as naturally happens in the warmth of speaking. In the choice 
 of his words, there is great facility and precision. In exact construction 
 of sentences, he is much inferior to Lord Shaftesbury; but greatly 
 
190 DIRECTIONS FOR [LECT. XIX 
 
 superior to him in life and ease. Upon the whole, his merit as a writer 
 would have been very considerable, if his matter had equalled his style. 
 But while we find many things to commend in the latter, in the former, 
 as I before remarked, we can hardly find any thing to commend. In his 
 reasonings, for the most part, he is flimsy and false ; in his political 
 writings, factious ; in what he calls his philosophical ones, irreligious and 
 sophistical in the highest degree. 
 
 I shall insist no longer on the different manners of writers, or the gene- 
 ral characters of style. Some other, besides those which I have men- 
 tioned, might be pointed out ; but I am sensible that it is very difficult 
 to separate such general considerations of the style of authors from their 
 peculiar turn of sentiment, which it is not my business, at present, to 
 criticize. Conceited writers, for instance, discover their spirit so much 
 in their composition, that it imprints on their stjle a character of pert- 
 ness ; though I confess it is difficult to say whether this can be classed 
 among the attributes of style, or rather is to be ascribed entirely to the 
 thought. In whatever class we rank it, all appearances of it ought to 
 be avoided with care, as a most disgusting blemish in writing. Under 
 the generaKieads, which I have considered, I have taken an opportunity 
 of giving the character of many of the eminent classics in the English 
 language. 
 
 From what I have said on this subject, it may be inferred, that to 
 determine, among all these different manners of writing, what is precisely 
 the best, is neither easy nor necessary. Style is a field that admits of 
 great latitude. Its qualities in different authors may be very different : 
 and yet in them all beautiful. Room must be left here for genius ; for 
 that particular determination which every one receives from nature to 
 one manner of expression more than another. Some general qualities, 
 indeed, there are of such importance, as should always, in every kind 
 of composition, be kept in view; and sOme defects we should always 
 study to avoid. An ostentatious, a feeble, a harsh, or an obscure style, 
 for instance, are always faults ; and perspicuity, strength, neatness, and 
 simplicity, are beauties to be always aimed at. But as to the mixture of 
 all, or the degree of predominancy of any one of these good qualities, 
 for forming our peculiar distinguishing manner, no precise rules can be 
 given ; nor will I venture to point out any one model as absolutely 
 perfect. 
 
 It will be more to the purpose, that I conclude these dissertations upon 
 style, with a few directions concerning the proper method of attaining a 
 good style in general ; leaving the particular character of that style to 
 be either formed by the subject on which we write, or prompted by the 
 bent of genius. 
 
 The first direction which I give for this purpose is, to study clear ideas 
 on the subject concerning which we are to write or speak. This is a 
 direction which may at first appear to have small relation to style. Its 
 relation to it, however, is extremely close. The foundation of all good 
 style, is good sense accompanied with a lively imagination. The style 
 and thoughts of a writer are so intimately connected, that, as I have seve- 
 ral times hinted, it is frequently hard to distinguish them. Whenever the 
 impressions of things upon our minds are faint and indistinct, or perplexed 
 and confused, our style in treating of such things will infallibly be so 
 too. Whereas, what we conceive clearly and feel strongly, we shall 
 naturally express with clearness and with strength. This, then, we may be 
 
LECT. XIX.] FORMING A PROPER STYLE, 59| 
 
 assured, is a capital rule as to style, to think closely on the subject, till 
 we have attained a full and distinct view of the matter which wp ore 
 to clothe in words, till we become warm and interested in i' ; then, and 
 not till then, shall we find expression begin to flow. Generally speak- 
 ing, the best and most proper expression? are those which a clear view 
 of the subject suggests, without much labour or inquiry after them. 
 This is Quintilian's observation, lib. viii. c. 1. " Plerumque optima 
 verba rebus cohaerent, et cernunter suo lumine. At nos quaerimus ilia, 
 tanquam lateant, seque subducant. Ita nunquam putamus verba esse 
 circa id de quo dicendum est ; sed ex aliis locis petimus, et inventus 
 vim afferimus."* 
 
 In the second place, in order to form a good style, the frequent practice 
 of composing is indispensably necessary. Blany rules concerning style 
 I have delivered, but no rules will answer the end, without exercise and 
 habit. At the same time, it is not every sort of composing that will im- 
 prove style. This is so far from being the case, that by frequent, care- 
 less, and hasty composition, we shall acquire certainly aver) bad style ; 
 we shall have more trouble afterward in unlearning faults, and correct- 
 ing negligences, than if we had not been accustomed to composition at all. 
 In the beginning, therefore, we ought to write slowly and with much care. 
 Let the facility and speed of writing be the fruit of longer practice. 
 "Moram et solicitudinem," says Quintilian, with the greatest reason, 1. x, 
 c. 3. " initiis impero. Nam primum hoc constituendum ac obtinendum 
 est, ut quam optime scribamus ; celeritatem dabit consuetudo. Paulatim 
 res facilius se ostendent, verba respondebunt, compositio prosequetur. 
 Cuncta denique ut in familia bene instituta in efficio erunt. Summa 
 hasc est rei ; cito scribendo non fit ut bene scribatur ; bene scribendo, 
 fit ut cito.j 
 
 We must observe, however, that there may be an extreme, in too great 
 and anxious a care about words. We must not retard the course of 
 thought, nor cool the heat of imagination, by pausing too long on every 
 word we employ. There is, on certain occasions, a glow of composition 
 which should be kept up, if we hope to express ourselves happily, though 
 at the expense of allowing some inadvertencies to pass. A more severe 
 examination of these must be left to be the work of correction. For, if 
 the practice of composition be useful, the laborious work of correcting is 
 no less so; is indeed absolutely necessary to our reaping any benefit from 
 the habit of composition. What we have written, should be laid by for 
 some little time, till the ardour of composition be past, till the fondness 
 for the expressions we have used, be worn off, and the expressions them- 
 selves be forgotten; and then, reviewing our work with a cool and critical 
 eye, as if it were the performance of another, we shall discern many 
 imperfections which at first escaped us. Then is the season for pruning 
 
 * " The most proper words for the most part adhere to the thoughts which are to 
 "be expressed by them, and may be discovered as by their own light. But we hunt 
 after them, as if they were hidden, and only to be found in a corner. Hence, instead 
 of conceiving the words to lie near the subject, we go in quest of them to some 
 other quarter, and endeavour to give force to the expressions we have found out." 
 
 t " 1 enjoin, that such as are beginning the practice of composition, write slowly, 
 and with anxious deliberation. Their great object at first should be, to write as well 
 as possible ; practice will enable them to write speedily. By degrees matter will 
 offer itself still more readily ; words will be at hand ; composition will flow ; every 
 thing, as in the arrangement of a well-ordered family, will present itself in its proper 
 place. The sum of the whole is this ; by hasty composition, we shall never acquire 
 »he art of composing well ', by writing well, we shall come to write speedily." 
 
192 DIRECTIONS FOR FORMING STYLE. [LECT. XIX. 
 
 redundancies ; for weighing the arrangement of sentences ; for attending 
 to the juncture and connecting particles ; and bringing style into a regu- 
 lar, correct, and supported form. This " Limce Labor'' must be submitted 
 to by all who would communicate their thoughts with proper advantage 
 to others ; and some practice in it will soon sharpen their eye to the most 
 necessary objects of attention, and render it a much more easy and prac- 
 ticable work than might at first be imagined. 
 
 In the third place, with respect to the assistance that is to be gained 
 from the writings of others, it is obvious, that we ought to render our- 
 selves well acquainted with the style of the best authors. This is requi- 
 site both in order to form a just taste in style, and to supply us with a full 
 stock of words on every subject.. In reading authors with a view to style, 
 attention should be given to the peculiarities of their diiferent manners ; 
 and in this, and former lectures, I have endeavoured to suggest several 
 things that may be useful in this view. I know no exercise that will be 
 found more useful for acquiring a proper style, than to translate some 
 passages from an eminent English author into our own words. What I 
 mean is, to take, for instance, some page of one of Mr, Addison's Spec- 
 tators, and read it carefully over two or three times, till we have got a 
 firm hold of the thoughts contained in it ; then to lay aside the book ; to 
 attempt to write out the passage from memory, in the best way we can ; 
 and having done so, next to open the book, and compare what we have 
 written, with the style of the author. Such an exercise will, by com- 
 parison, show us where the defects of our style lie ; will lead us to the 
 proper attentions for rectifying them ; and, among the different ways in 
 which the same thought may be expressed, will make us perceive that 
 which is the most beautiful. But, 
 
 In the fourth place, I must caution, at the same time, against a servile 
 imitation of any author whatever. This is always dangerous. It ham- 
 pers genius ; it is likely to produce a stiff manner ; and those who are 
 given to close imitation, generally imitate an author's faults as well as his 
 beauties. No man will ever become a good writer, or speaker, who has 
 not some degree of confidence to follow his own genius. We ought to be- 
 ware, in particular, of adopting any author's noted phrases, or transcri- 
 bing passages from him. Such a habit will prove fatal to all genuine com- 
 position. Infinitely better it is to have something that is our own, though 
 of moderate beauty, than to affect to shine in borrowed ornaments, which 
 will at last betray the utter poverty of our genius. On these heads of 
 composing, correcting, reading, and imitating, I advise every student of 
 oratory to consult what Quintilian has delivered in the tenth book of his 
 Institutions, where he will find a variety of excellent observations and 
 directions, that well deserve attention. 
 
 In the fifth place, it is an obvious, but material rule, with respect to 
 style, that we always study to adapt it to the subject, and also to the 
 capacity of our hearers, if we are to speak in public. Nothing merits 
 the name of eloquent or beautiful, which is not suited to the occasion, 
 and to the persons to whom it is addressed. It is to the last degree 
 awkward and absurd, to attempt a poetical florid style, on occasions 
 when it should be our business only to argue and reason ; or to speak 
 with elaborate pomp of expression, before persons who comprehend 
 nothing of it, and who can only stare at our unseasonable magnificence. 
 These are defects not so much in point of style, as, what is much 
 worse, in point of common sense. When we begin to write or speak, 
 
LECT. XX.] CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF, &c. 1 93 
 
 we ought previously to fix in our minds a clear conception of the end 
 to be aimed at ; to keep this steadily in our view, and to suit our style 
 to it. If we do not sacrifice to this great object every ill-timed orna- 
 ment that may occur to our fancy, we are unpardonable ; and though 
 children and fools may admire, men of sense will laugh at us and our 
 style. 
 
 In the last place, I cannot conclude the subject without this admo- 
 nition, that in any case, and on any occasion, attention to style must not 
 engross us so much, as to detract from a higher degree of attention to 
 the thoughts ; " Curam verborum," says the great Roman critic, " rerum 
 volo esse solicitudinem."* A direction the more necessary, as the pre- 
 sent taste of the age in writing, seems to lean more to style than to 
 thought. It is much easier to dress up trivial and common sentiments 
 with some beauty of expression, than to afford a fund of vigorous, 
 ingenious, and useful thoughts. The latter requires true genius ; the 
 former may^ be attained by industry, with the help of very super- 
 ficial parts. Hence we find so many writers frivolously rich in style, 
 but wretchedly poor in sentiment. The public ear is now so much 
 accustomed to a correct and ornamented style, that no writer can, with 
 safety, neglect the study of it. But he is a contemptible one, who does 
 not look to something beyond it ; who does not lay the chief stress 
 upon his matter, and employ such ornaments of style to recommend 
 it, as are manly, not foppish: "Majore animo," says the writer whom 
 I have so often quoted, "aggrediendaesteloquentia; quae si toto corpore 
 valet, ungues polire et capillum componere, non existimabit ad curam 
 suam pertinere. Qrnatus et virilis et fortis, et sanctus sit ; nee effe- 
 minatam levitatem, et fuco ementitum coloremamet; sanguine etviribus 
 niteat,"t 
 
 LECTURE XX, 
 
 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE OF MR. ADDISON IN NO. 411 
 OF THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 I have insisted fully on the subject of language and style, both 
 because it is, in itself, of great importance, and because it is more 
 capable of being ascertained by precise rule, than several other parts 
 of composition. A critical analysis of the style of some good author 
 will tend further to illustrate the subject ; as it will suggest observations 
 which I have not had occasion to make, and will show, in the most prac- 
 tical light, the use of those which I have made. 
 
 Mr. Addison is the author whom I have chosen for this purpose. 
 The Spectator, of which his papers are the chief ornament, is a book 
 
 * " To your expression be attentive : but about your matter be solicitous." 
 i *' A higher spirit ought to animate those who study eloquence. They ought to 
 consult the health and soundness of the whole body, rather than bend their attention 
 to such trifling objects as paring the nails, and dressing the hair. Let ornament be 
 manly and chaste, without effeminate gayety, or artificial colouring ; let it shhre 
 with the glow of health and strength." 
 
 B b 
 
1 y4 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XX, 
 
 which is in the hands of every one, and which cannot be praised too 
 highly. T^he good sense, and good writing, the useful morality, and the 
 admirable vein of humour, which abound in it, render it one of those 
 standard books which have done the greatest honour to the English 
 nation. I have formerly given the general character of Mr. Addison's 
 style and manner, as natural and unaffected^ easy and polite, and full of 
 those graces which a flowery imagination diffuses over writing. At the 
 same time, though one of the most beautiful writers in the language, he 
 is not the most correct ; a circumstance which renders his composition 
 the more proper to be the subject of our present criticism. The free 
 and flowing manner of this amiable writer sometimes led him into inac- 
 curacies, which the more studied circumspection and care of far inferior 
 writers have taught them to avoid. Remarking his beauties, therefore, 
 which I shall have frequent occasion to do as I proceed, I must also 
 point out his negligences and defects. Without a free, impartial discus- 
 sion of both the faults and beauties, which occur in his composition, 
 it is evident this piece of criticism would be of no service ; and, from 
 the freedom which I use in criticising Mr. Addison's style, none can 
 imagine, that I mean to depreciate his writings, after having repeatedly 
 declared the high opinion which I entertain of them. The beauties of 
 this author are so many, and the general character of his style is so 
 elegant and estimable, that the minute imperfections I shall have occasion to 
 point out, are but like those spots in the sun which may be discovered 
 by the assistance of art, but which have no effect in obscuringits lustre. 
 It is indeed my judgment, that what Quintilian applies to Cicero, 
 " Ille se profecisse sciat, cui Cicero valde placebit," may with justice 
 be applied to Mr. Addison ; that to be highly pleased with his manner 
 of writing, is the criterian of one's having acquired a good taste in English 
 style. The paper on which we are now to enter, is No. 411, the 
 first of his celebrated Essays on the Pleasures of the Imagination, in the 
 sixth volume of the Spectator. It begins thus : 
 
 " Our sight is the most perfect, and most delightful of all our senses." 
 
 This is an excellent introductory sentence. It is clear, precise, and 
 simple. The author lays down, in a few plain words, the proposition 
 which he is going to illustrate throughout the rest of the paragraph. In 
 this manner, we should always set out. A first sentence should seldom 
 be a long, and never an intricate one. 
 
 He might have said, "Our sight is the most perfect and the most delight- 
 ful.''' But he has judged better, in omitting to repeat the article the. 
 For the repetition of it is proper, chiefly when we intend to point out 
 the objects of which we speak, as distinguished from, or contrasted with, 
 each other ; and when we want that the reader's attention should rest 
 on that distinction. For instance ; had Mr. Addison intended to say, 
 that our sight is at once the most delightful, and the most useful, of all 
 our senses, the article might then have been repeated with propriety, as 
 a clear and strong distinction would have been conveyed. But as 
 between perfect and delightful, there is less contrast, there was no occa- 
 sion for such repetition. It would have had no other effect, but to add a 
 word unnecessarily to the sentence. He proceeds : 
 
 " It fills the mind with the largest variety of ideas, converses with its 
 objects at the greatest distance, and continues the longest in action, with- 
 out being tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments." 
 
 is sentence deserves attention, as remarkablv harmonious., and well 
 
LECT. XX.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, NO. 41 i 19, f 
 
 constructed. It possesses, indeed, almost all the properties of a perfect 
 sentence. It is entirely perspicuous. It is loaded with no superfluous 
 or unnecessary words. For tired or satiated, toward the end of the sen- 
 tence, are not used for synonymous terms. They convey distinct ideas, 
 and refer to different members of the period ; that this sense continues 
 the longest in action without being tired, that is, without being fatigued with 
 its action ; and also, without being satiated with its proper enjoyments. 
 That quality of a good sentence, which I termed its unity, is here per- 
 fectly preserved. It is our sight of which he speaks. This is the object 
 carried through the sentence, and presented to us, in every member of 
 it, by those verbs, fills, converses, continues, to each of which it is clearly 
 the nominative. Those capital words are disposed of in the most proper 
 places ; and that uniformity is maintained in the construction of the sen- 
 tence, which suits the unity of the object. 
 
 Observe, too, the music of the period ; consisting of three members, 
 each of which, agreeably to a rule I formerly mentioned, grows and 
 rises above the other in sound, till the sentence is conducted at last to 
 one of the most melodious closes which our language admits ; without 
 being\ tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments. Enjoyments is a ivord 
 of length and dignity, exceedingly proper for a close which is designed 
 to be a musical one. The harmony is the more happy, as this disposition 
 of the members of the period which suits the sound so well, is no less 
 just and proper with respect to the sense. It follows the order of nature. 
 First, we have the variety of objects mentioned, which sight furnishes to 
 the mind ; next, we have the action of sight on those objects ; and lastly, 
 we have the time and continuance of its action. No order could be more 
 natural or happy. 
 
 This sentence has still another beauty. It is figurative, without being 
 too much so for the subject. A metaphor runs through it. The sense 
 of sight is, in some degree, personified. We are told of its conversing 
 with its objects ; and of its not being tired or satiated with its enjoyments ; 
 all which expressions are plain allusions to the actions and feelings of 
 men. This is that slight sort of personification which, without any ap- 
 pearance of boldness, and without elevating the fancy much above its 
 ordinary state, renders discourse pictureso^e, and leads us to conceive 
 the author's meaning more distinctly, by clothing abstract ideas, in some 
 degree, with sensible colours. Mr. Addison abounds with this beauty 
 of style beyond most authors; and the sentence which we haye been 
 considering, is very expressive of his manner of writing. There is no 
 blemish in it whatever, unless that a strict critic might perhaps object, 
 that the epithet large, which he applies to variety — the largest variety of 
 ideas, is an epithet more commonly applied to extent than to number. 
 It is plain, that he here employed it to avoid the repetition of the word 
 great, which occurs immediately afterward. 
 
 " The sense of feeling can, indeed, give us a notion of extension, 
 shape, and all other ideas that enter at the eye, except colours ; but, at 
 the same time, it is very much straitened and confined in its operations, 
 to the number, bulk, and distance of its particular objects." 
 
 This sentence is by no means so happy as the former. It is, indeed, 
 neither clear nor elegant. Extension and shape can, with no propriety, 
 be called ideas ; they are properties of matter. Neither is it accurate, 
 even according to Mr. Locke's philosophy, (with which our author 
 seems here to have puzzled himself,) to speak of any sense giving us a 
 
Igfr CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XX. 
 
 notion -of ideas ; our senses give us the ideas themselves". The meaning 
 would have been much more clear, if the author had expressed himself 
 thus : " The sense of feeling can, indeed, give us the idea of exten- 
 sion, figure, and all the other properties of matter which are perceived 
 fey the e}'e, except colours." 
 
 The latter part of the sentence is still more embarrassed. For what 
 meaning can we make of the sense of feeling, being confined in its opera- 
 tions, to the number, bulk, and distance of its particular objects? Surely, 
 every sense is confined, as much as the sense of feeling, to the number, 
 bulk, and distance of its own objects. Sight and feeling are, in this 
 respect, perfectly on a level ; neither of them can extend beyond its own 
 objects. The turn of expression is so inaccurate here, that one would 
 be apt to suspect two words to have been omitted in the printing, which 
 were originally in Mr. Addison's manuscript ; because the insertion of 
 them would render the sense much more intelligible and clear. These two 
 words are, with regard : — It is very much straitened and confined in its 
 operations, with regard to the number, bulk, and distance of its particular 
 objects. The meaning then would be, that feeling is more limited than 
 sight in this respect ; that it is confined to a narrower circle, to a smaller 
 number of objects. 
 
 The epithet particular, applied to objects in the conclusion of the sen- 
 tence, is redundant, and conveys no meaning whatever. Mr. Addison 
 seems to have used it in place of peculiar, as indeed he does often in 
 other passages of his writings. But particular, and peculiar, though they 
 are too often confounded, are words of different import from each other. 
 Particular stands opposed to general ; peculiar stands opposed to what is 
 possessed in common with others. Particular expresses what in the lo- 
 gical style is called species ; peculiar, what is called differentia. Its pe- 
 culiar objects would have signified in this place, the objects of the sense 
 of Feeling, as distinguished from the objects of any other sense ; and 
 would have had more meaning than its particular objects. Though, in 
 truth, neither the one nor the other epithet was requisite. It was suffi- 
 cient to have said simply, its objects. 
 
 " Our sight seems designed to supply all these defects, and may be con- 
 sidered as a more delicate and* diffusive kind of touch, that spreads itself 
 over an infinite multitude of bodies, comprehends the largest figures, and 
 brings into our reach some of the most remote parts of the universe." 
 
 Here again the author's style returns upon us in all its beauty. This 
 is a sentence distinct, graceful, well arranged, and highly musical. In 
 the latter part of it, it is constructed with three members, which are 
 formed much in the same manner with those of the second sentence, on 
 which I bestowed so much praise. The construction is so similar, that 
 if it had followed immediately after it, we should have been sensible of 
 a faulty monotony. But the interposition of another sentence between 
 them prevents this effect. 
 
 " It is this sense which furnishes the imagination with its ideas ; so that 
 by the pleasures of imagination or fancy, (which I shall use promiscu- 
 ously) I here mean such as arise from visible objects, either when we 
 have them actually in our view ; or when we call up their ideas into our 
 minds by paintings, statues, descriptions, or any the like occasion." 
 
 In place of It is this sense which furnishes, the author might have said 
 more shortly, This sense furnishes. But the mode of expression which he 
 has irsed, is here more proper, This sort of full and ample assertion, it 
 
LECT. XX.J THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, NO. 411. 397 
 
 is this which, is fit to be used when a proposition of importance is laid 
 down, to which we seek to call the reader's attention. It is like pointing 
 with the hand at the object of which we speak. The parenthesis in the 
 middle of the sentence, which I shall use promiscuously, is not clear. He 
 ought to have said, terms which I shall use promiscuously ; as the verb tise 
 relates not to pleasures of the imagination, but to the terms of fancy 
 and imagination, which he was to employ as synonymous. Any the like 
 occasion. To call a painting or a statue an occasion^ is not a happy ex- 
 pression, nor is it very proper to speak of calling up ideas by occasions. 
 The common phrase, any such means, would have been more natural. 
 
 " We cannot indeed have a single image in the fancy, that did not 
 make its first entrance through the sight ; but we have the power of 
 retaining, altering, and compounding those images which we have once 
 received, into all the varieties of picture and vision that are most agree- 
 able to the imagination ; for, by this faculty, a man in a dungeon is capa- 
 ble of entertaining himselfwith scenes and landscapes more beautiful than 
 any that can be found in the whole compass of nature." 
 
 It may be of use to remark, that in One member of this sentence there 
 is an innaccuracy in syntax. It is very proper to say, altering and com- 
 pounding those images which we have once received, into all the varieties 
 of picture and vision. But we can with no propriety say, retaining them 
 into all the varieties ; and yet according to the manner in which the 
 words are ranged, this construction is unavoidable. For retaining, 
 altering, and compounding, are participles, each of which equally refers 
 to, and governs the subsequent noun, those images; and that noun again 
 is necessarily connected with the following preposition, into. This 
 instance shows the importance of carefully attending to the rules of gram- 
 mar and syntax ; when so pure a writer as Mr. Addison could, through 
 inadvertence, be guilty of such an error. The construction might easily 
 have been rectified, by disjoining the participle retaining from the other 
 two participles in this way : " We have the power of retaining those 
 images which we have once received ; and of forming them into all the 
 varieties of picture and vision." The latter part of the sentence is clear 
 and elegant. 
 
 " There are few words in the English language which are employed in 
 a more loose and uncircumscribed sense than those of the fancy and the 
 imagination." 
 
 There are few 7vords — which are employed. It had been better, if our 
 author here had said more simply, few words in the English language- are 
 employed. Mr. Addison, whose style is of the free and full, rather than 
 the nervous kind, deals, on all occasions, in this extended sort of phrase- 
 ology. But it is proper only when some* assertion of consequence is 
 advanced, and which can bear an emphasis ; such as that in the first sen- 
 tence of the former paragraph. On other occasions, these little words, 
 it is, and there are, ought to be avoided as redundant and enfeebling. 
 Those of the fancy and the imagination. The article ought to have been 
 omitted here. As he does not mean the powers of the fancy and the 
 imagination, but the words only, the article certainly had no proper place ; 
 neither, indeed, was there any occasion for the other two words, those of. 
 Better if the sentence had run thus : " Few words in the English lan- 
 guage are employed in a more loose and uncircumscribed sense, than 
 fancy and imagination . " 
 
 " I therefore thought it necessary to fix and determine the notion of 
 
198 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF . [LECT. XX, 
 
 these two words, as I intend to make use of them in the thread of my 
 following speculations, that the reader may conceive rightly what is the 
 subject which I proceed upon." 
 
 Though fix and determine may appear synonymous words, yet a dif- 
 ference between them may be remarked, and they may be viewed, as 
 applied here, with peculiar delicacy. The author had just said, that the 
 words of which he is speaking were loose and uncircumscribed. Fix 
 relates to the first of these, determine to the last. We fix what is loose ; 
 that is, we confine the word to its proper place, that it may not fluctuate 
 in our imagination, and pass from one idea to another ; and we determine 
 what is uncircumscribed, that is, we ascertain its termini or limits, we 
 draw the circle round it, that we may see its bounduries. For we can- 
 not conceive the meaning of a word, nor indeed of any other thing clearly, 
 till we see its limits, and know how far it extends. These two words, 
 therefore, have grace and beauty as they are here applied ; though a 
 writer more frugal of words than Mr. Addison, would have preferred 
 the single word ascertain, which conveys, without any metaphor, the im- 
 port of them both. 
 
 The notion of these words, is somewhat of a harsh phrase, at least not 
 so commonly used, as the meaning of these words — as I intend to make 
 use of them in the thread of my speculations ; this is plainly faulty. A sort 
 of metaphor is improperly mixed with words in the literal sense. He 
 might very well have said, as I intend to make use of them in my following 
 speculations. This was plain language ; but if he chose to borrow an 
 allusion from thread, that allusion ought to have been supported ; for 
 there is no consistency inmaking use of them in the thread of speculations' ; 
 and indeed, in expressing any thing so simple and familiar as this is, 
 plain language is always to be preferred to metaphorical — the subject 
 which I proceed upon, is an ungraceful close of a sentence ; better the 
 subject upon which I proceed. 
 
 " I must therefore desire him to remember, that, by the pleasures of 
 the imagination, I mean only such pleasures as arise originally from 
 sight, and that I divide these pleasures into two kinds." 
 
 As the last sentence began with, / therefore thought it necessary to fix, 
 it is careless to begin this sentence in a manner so very similar, I must 
 therefore desire him to remember ; especially, as the small variation of 
 using, on this account, or for this reason, in place of therefore, would have 
 amended the style. When he says, J mean only such pleasures, it may be 
 remarked, that the adverb only is not in its proper place. It is not in- 
 tended here to qualify the word mean, but such pleasures ; and therefore 
 should have been placed in as close connexion as possible with the 
 word which it limits or qualifies. The style becomes more clear and 
 neat, when the words are arranged thus ; " By the pleasures of the imagi- 
 nation, I mean such pleasures only as arise from sight." 
 
 " My design being, first of all, to discourse of those primary pleasures 
 of the imagination, which entirely proceed from such objects as are 
 before our eyes ; and in the next place, to speak of those secondary plea- 
 sures of the imagination, which flow from the ideas of visible objects, 
 when the objects are not actually before the eye, but are called up into 
 our memories or formed into agreeable visions of things, that are either 
 absent or fictitious." 
 
 It is a great rule in laying down the division of a subject to study neat- 
 ness and brevity as much as possible. The divisions are then more dis- 
 
LECT. XX] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, NO. 411. 199 
 
 tinctly apprehended, and more easily remembered. This sentence is 
 not perfectly happy in that respect. It is somewhat clogged by a tedious 
 phraseology. My design being first of all, to discourse — in the next place 
 to speak of — such objects as are before our eyes — things that are either absent 
 or fictitious. Several words might have been spared here ; and the style 
 made more neat and compact. 
 
 "The pleasures of the imagination, taken in their full extent, are not 
 so gross as those of sense, nor so refined as those of the understanding." 
 
 This sentence is distinct and elegant. 
 
 " The last are indeed more preferable, because they are founded on 
 some new knowledge or improvement in the mind of man : yet it must 
 be confessed, that those of the imagination are as great and as transport- 
 ing as the other." 
 
 In the beginning of this sentence, the phrase more preferable, is such 
 a plain inaccuracy, that one wonders how Mr. Addison should have 
 fallen into it ; seeing preferable, of itself, expresses the comparative 
 degree, and is the same with more eligible, or more excellent. 
 
 I must observe farther, that the proposition contained in the last mem- 
 ber of this sentence, is neither clear nor neatly expressed — it must be 
 confessed, that those of the imagination are as great and as transporting 
 as the other. In the former sentence, he had compared three things to- 
 gether ; the pleasures of the imagination, those of sense, and those of 
 the understanding. In the beginning of this sentence, he had called the 
 pleasure of the understanding the last ; and he ends the sentence, with 
 observing, that those of the imagination are as great and transporting as 
 the other. Now, besides that the other makes not a proper contrast with 
 the last, he leaves it ambiguous, whether by the other, he meant the 
 pleasures of the understanding, or the pleasures of sense ; for it may 
 refer to either by the construction ; though, undoubtedly, he intended 
 that it should refer to the pleasures of the understanding only. The 
 proposition reduced to perspicuous language, runs thus : " Yet it must 
 be confessed, that the pleasures of the imagination, when compared with 
 those of the understanding, are no less great and transporting." 
 
 " A beautiful prospect delights the soul as much as a demonstration ; 
 and a description in Homer has charmed more readers than a chapter in 
 Aristotle." 
 
 This is a good illustration of what he had been asserting, and is ex- 
 pressed with that happy and elegant turn, for which our author is very 
 remarkable. 
 
 " Besides, the pleasures of the imagination have this advantage above 
 those of the understanding, that they are more obvious, and more easy to 
 be acquired." 
 
 This is also an unexceptionable sentence. 
 
 " It is but opening the eye, and the scene enters." 
 
 This sentence is lively and picturesque. By the gayety and briskness 
 which it gives the style, it shows the advantage of intermixing such a 
 short sentence as this amidst a run of longer ones, which never fails to 
 have a happy effect. I must remark, however, a small inaccuracy. A 
 scene cannot be said to enter : an actor enters ; but a scene appears, or 
 presents itself. 
 
 " The colours paint themselves on the fancy, with very little attention 
 of thought or application of mind in the beholder." 
 
 This is still beautiful illustration ; carried or with that agreeable 
 
200 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XX. 
 
 flowerings of fancy and style, which is so well suited to those pleasures 
 of the imagination, of which the author is treating. 
 
 " We are struck, we know not how, with the symmetry of any thing 
 we see, and immediately assent to the beauty of an object, without 
 inquiring into the particular causes and occasions of it." 
 
 There is a falling off here from the elegance of the former sentences. 
 We assent to the truth of a proposition ; but cannot so well be said to 
 assent to the beauty of an object. Acknowledge would have expressed the 
 sense with more propriety. The close of the sentence too is heavy 
 and ungraceful — the particular causes and occasions of it ; both particular 
 and occasions, are words quite superfluous ; and the pronoun it, is in 
 some measure ambiguous, whether it refers to beauty or to object. It 
 would have been some amendment to the style to have run thus : " We 
 immediately acknowledge the beauty of an object, without inquiring into 
 the cause of that beauty." 
 
 " A man of a polite imagination is let into a great many pleasures that 
 the vulgar are not capable of receiving." 
 
 Polite is a term more commonly applied to manners or behaviour, 
 than to the mind or imagination. There is nothing farther to be ob- 
 served on this sentence, unless the use of that for a relative pronoun, 
 instead of which ; a usage which is too frequent with Mr. Addison. 
 Which is a much more definite word than that, being never employed 
 in any other way than as a relative ; whereas that is a word of many 
 senses ; sometimes a demonstrative pronoun, often a conjunction. Id 
 some cases we are indeed obliged to use that for a relative, in order to 
 avoid the ungraceful repetition of which in the same sentence. But 
 when we are laid under no necessity of this kind, which is always the 
 preferable word, and certainly was so in this sentence. Pleasures which 
 the vulgar are not capable of receiving is much better than pleasures that 
 the vulgar, 4*c. 
 
 " He can converse with a picture, and find an agreeable companion 
 in a statue. He meets with a secret refreshment in a description ; and 
 often feels a greater satisfaction in the prospect of fields and meadows, 
 than another does in the possession. It gives him, indeed, a kind of 
 property in every thing he sees ; and makes the most rude uncultivated 
 parts of nature administer to his pleasures ; so that he looks upon the 
 world, as it were, in another light, and discovers in it a multitude of charms 
 that conceal themselves from the generality of mankind." 
 
 All this is very beautiful. The illustration is happy : and the style 
 runs with the greatest ease and harmony. We see no labour, no 
 stiffness, or affectation ; but an author writing from the native flow of 
 a gay and pleasing imagination. This predominant character of Mr. 
 Addison's manner, far more than compensates all those little negligences 
 which we are now remarking. Two of these occur in this paragraph. 
 The first, in the sentence which begins with, It gives him indeed a kind 
 of property. To this it, there is no proper antecedent in the whole 
 paragraph. In order to gather the meaning, we must look back as far 
 as to the third sentence before, the first of the paragraph, ^which begins 
 with, A man of polite imagination. This phrase, polite imagination, is 
 the only antecedent to which this it can refer ; and even that is an im- 
 proper antecedent, as it stands in the genitive case, as the qualification 
 only of a man. 
 
 The other instance of negligence is towards the end of the para- 
 
LECT. XX.} THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, iNO. 411. 2^1 
 
 graph, so that he looks upon the world, as it mere, in another light. By 
 another light, Mr. Addison means, a light different from that in which 
 other men view the world. But though this expression clearly conveyed 
 this meaning to himself when writing, it conveys it very indistinctly to 
 others : and is an instance of that sort of inaccuracy, into which, in 
 the warmth of composition, every writer of a lively imagination is apC 
 to fall ; and which can only be remedied by a cool, subsequent review. 
 As it were, is upon most occasions no more than an ungraceful pallia- 
 tive ; and here there was not the least occasion for it, as he was not 
 about to say any thing which required a softening of this kind. To 
 say the truth, this last sentence, so that he looks upon the world, and 
 what follows, had better been wanting altogether. It is no more than 
 an unnecessary recapitulation of what had gone before ; a feeble adjec- 
 tion to the lively picture he had given of the pleasures of the imagina- 
 tion. The paragraph would have ended with more spirit at the words 
 immediately preceding ; the uncultivated parts of nature administer to his 
 pleasures. 
 
 " There are, indeed, but very few who know how to be idle and 
 innocent, or have a relish of any pleasures that are not criminal ; 
 every diversion they take, is at the expense of some one virtue or ano- 
 ther, and their very first step out of business is into vice or folly." 
 
 Nothing can be more elegant, or more finely turned, than this sen- 
 tence. It is neat, clear, and musical. We could hardly alter one word, 
 or disarrange one member, without spoiling it. Few sentences are to 
 be found, more finished, or more happy. 
 
 "A man should endeavour, therefore, to make the sphere of his inno- 
 cent pleasures as wide as possible, that he may retire into them with 
 safety, and find in them such a satisfaction as a wise man would not blush 
 to take." 
 
 This also is a good sentence, and gives occasion to no material remark. 
 "Of this nature are those of the imagination, which do not require 
 such a bent of thought as is necessary to our more serious employ- 
 ments, nor, at the same time, suffer the mind to sink into that indolence 
 and remissness, which are apt to accompany our more sensual delights ; 
 but, like a gentle exercise to the faculties, awaken them from sloth and 
 idleness, without putting them upon any labour or difficulty." 
 
 The beginning of this sentence is not correct, and affords an instance 
 of a period too loosely connected with the preceding one. Of this na- 
 ture, says he, are those of the imagination. We might ask, of what na- 
 ture ? For it had not been the scope of the preceding sentence to describe 
 the nature of any set of pleasures. He had said, that it was every man's 
 duty to make the sphere of his innocent pleasures as wide as possible, 
 in order that, within that sphere, he might find a safe retreat, and a 
 laudable satisfaction. The transition is loosely made, by beginning the 
 next sentence with saying, of this nature are those of the imagination. It 
 had been better, if, keeping in view the governing object of the preceding 
 sentence, he had said, " This advantage we gain," or, " This satisfaction 
 we enjoy, by means of the pleasures of imagination." The rest of the 
 sentence is abundantly correct. 
 
 " We might here add, that the pleasures of the fancy are more condu- 
 cive to health -than those of the understanding, which are worked out by 
 dint of thinking, and attended with too violent a labour of the brain." 
 On this sentence, nothing occurs deserving of remark., except that 
 
 Cc 
 
20 4 i CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF, Lc. LECT. XX. 
 
 .■worked out by dint of thinking, is a phrase which borders too much on 
 vulgar and colloquial language, to be proper for being employed in a 
 polished composition. 
 
 " Delightful scenes, whether in nature, painting, or poetry, have a 
 kindly influence on the body, as well as the mind, and not only serve to 
 clear and brighten the imagination, but are able to disperse grief and 
 melancholy, and to set the animal spirits in pleasing and agreeable mo- 
 tions. For this reason, Sir Francis Bacon, in his Essay upon Health, has 
 not thought it improper to prescribe to his reader a poem, or a prospect, 
 where he particularly dissuades him from knotty and subtile disquisitions, 
 and advises him to pursue studies that fill the mind with splendid and 
 illustrious objects, as histories, fables, and contemplations of nature." 
 
 In the latter of these two sentences, a member of the period is alto- 
 gether out of its place ; which gives the whole sentence a harsh and 
 disjointed cast, and serves to illustrate the rules I formerly gave con- 
 cerning arrangement. The wrong placed member which I point at, is 
 this ; where he particularly dissuades him from knotty and subtile disquisi- 
 tions; these words should, undoubtedly, have been placed not where 
 they stand, but thus ; Sir Francis Bacon, in his Essay upon Health, where 
 he particularly dissuades him from knotty and subtile speculations, has not 
 thought it improper to prescribe to him, 4*c. This arrangement reduces 
 every thing into proper order. 
 
 " I have, in this paper, by way of introduction, settled the notion of 
 those pleasures of the imagination, which are the subject of my present 
 undertaking, and endeavoured, by several considerations, to recommend 
 to my readers the pursuit of those pleasures ; I shall, in my next paper, 
 examine the several sources from whence these pleasures are derived." 
 
 These two concluding sentences afford examples of the proper collo- 
 cation of circumstances in a period. I formerly showed, that it is often 
 a matter of difficulty to dispose of them in such a manner, as that they 
 shall not embarrass the principal subject of the sentence. In the sen- 
 tence before us, several of these incidental circumstances necessarily 
 come in — By way of introduction— by several considerations — in this paper 
 — in the next paper. All which are, with great propriety, managed by 
 our author. It will be found, upon trial, that tbere were no other parts 
 of the sentence, in which they could have been placed to equal advan- 
 tage. Had he said, for instance, " I have settled the notion, (rather, the 
 meaning) of those pleasures of the imagination, which are the subject 
 of my present undertaking, by way of introduction, in this paper, and 
 endeavoured to recommend the pursuit of those pleasures to my readers, 
 by several considerations," we must be sensible that the sentence, thus 
 clogged with circumstances in the wrong place, would neither have been 
 so nea<\ nor so clear, as it is b.v the present construction. 
 
^03 
 
 LECTURE XXI. 
 
 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN NO. 412 OF THE 
 
 SPECTATOR. 
 
 The observations which have occurred in reviewingthat paper of Mr, 
 Addison's, which was the subject of the last lecture, sufficiently show, 
 that in the writings of an author, of the most happy genius and distin- 
 guished talents, inaccuracies may sometimes be found. Though such 
 inaccuracies maybe overbalanced by so many beauties, as render style 
 highly pleasing and agreeable upon the whole, j r et it must be desirable 
 to every writer to avoicj, as far as he can, inaccuracy of any kind. As 
 the subject, therefore, is of importance, I have thought it might be 
 useful to carry on this criticism throughout two or three subsequent pa- 
 pers of the Spectator. At the same time, I must intimate, that the lec- 
 tures on these papers are solely intended for such as are applying them- 
 selves to the study of English style. I pretend not to give instruction 
 to those w r ho are already well acquainted with the powers of language. 
 To them my remarks may prove unedifying ; to some they may seem 
 tedious and minute : but to such as have not yet made all the proficiency 
 which they desire in elegance of style, strict attention to the composition 
 and structure of sentences cannot fail to prove of considerable benefit ; 
 and though my remarks on Mr. Addison should, in any instance, be 
 thought ill founded, they will, at least, serve the purpose of leading them 
 into the train of making proper remarks for themselves.* I proceed 
 therefore, to the examination of the subsequent paper, No. 412. 
 
 66 1 shall first consider those pleasures of the imagination, which arise 
 from the actual view and survey of outward objects : and these, I think, 
 all proceed from the sight of what is great, uncommon, or beautiful." 
 
 This sentence gives occasion for no material remark. It is simple and 
 distinct. The two words which he here uses, view and survey, are not 
 altogether synonymous : as the former may be supposed to import mere 
 inspection ; the latter more deliberate examination. Yet they lie so near 
 to one another in meaning, that, in the present case, any one of them, 
 perhaps, would have been sufficient. The epithet actual, is introduced, 
 in order to mark more strongly the distinction between what our author 
 calls the primary pleasures of imagination, which arise from immediate 
 view, and the secondary, which arise from remembrance or description. 
 
 * If there be readers who think any farther apology requisite for my adventuring 
 to criticise the sentences of so eminent an author as Mr. Addison, I must take 
 notice, that I was naturally led to it by the circumstances of that part of the king- 
 dom where these lectures were read ; where the ordinary spoken language often 
 differs much from what is used by good English authors. Hence it occurred to me, 
 as a proper method of correcting any peculiarities of dialect, to direct students of 
 eloquence, to analize and examine, with particular attention, the structure of Mr. 
 Addison's sentences. Those papers of the Spectator, which are the subject of the 
 following lectures, were accordingly given out in exercise to students, to be thus 
 examined and analized ; and several of the observations which follow both on the 
 beauties and blemishes of this author, were suggested by observations given to me 
 »n consequence of the exercise prescribed 
 
2$4 L-RITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XXI 
 
 <: There may, indeed, be something so terrible or offensive, that the 
 horror, or loathsomeness of an object, may overbear the pleasure which 
 results from its novelty, greatness, or beauty ; but still there will be such 
 a mixture of delight in the very disgust it gives us, as any of these three 
 qualifications are most conspicuous and prevailing." 
 
 This sentence must be acknowledged to be an unfortunate one. The 
 sense is obscure and embarrassed, and the expression loose and irregu- 
 lar. The beginning of it is perplexed by the wrong position of the words 
 something and object. The natural arrangement would have been, there 
 ?nay, indeed, be something in an object so terrible or offensive, that the hor- 
 ror or loathsomeness of it may overbear. These two epithets, horror or 
 loathsomeness, are awkwardly joined together, loathsomeness, is, indeed,'a 
 quality which maybe ascribed to an object ; but horror is not; it is a 
 feeling excited in the mind. The language w'ould have been much more 
 correct, had our author said, there may, indeed, be something in an object 
 so terrible or offensive, that the horror or disgust which it excites may over- 
 bear. The two first epithets, terrible or offensive, would then have ex* 
 pressed the qualities of an object ; the latter, horror or disgust, the cor- 
 responding sentiments whch these qualities produce in us. Loathsome- 
 ness was the most unhappy word he could have chosen : for to be loath- 
 some, is to be odious, and seems totally to exclude any mixture of delight, 
 which he afterward supposes may be found in the object. 
 
 In the latter part of the sentence there are several inaccuracies. 
 When he says, there will be such a mixture of delight in the very disgust 
 it gives us, as any of these three qualifications are most conspicuous. The 
 construction is defective, and seems hardly grammatical. He meant 
 assuredly to say, such a mixture of delight as is proportioned to the degree 
 in which any of these three qualifications are conspicuous. We know that 
 there may be a mixture of pleasant and disagreeable feelings excited 
 by the same object : yet it appears inaccurate to say, that there is any 
 delight in the very disgust. The plural verb, are, is improperly joined to 
 any oj these three qualifications ; for as any is here used distributively, 
 and means any one of these three qualifications, the corresponding verb 
 ought to have been singular. The order in which the tw r o last words 
 are placed, should have been reversed, and made to stand, prevailing 
 and conspicuous. They are conspicuous, because they prevail. 
 
 " By greatness, I do not only mean the bulk of any single object, but 
 the largeness of a whole view, considered as one entire piece." 
 
 In a former lecture, when treating of the structure of sentences, I 
 quoted this sentence as an instance of the careless manner in which 
 adverbs are sometimes interjected in the midst of a period. Only, as it 
 is here placed, appears to be a limitation of the following verb, mean. 
 The question might be put, what more does he than only mean ? as the 
 author undoubtedly intended it to refer to the bulk of a single object, it 
 would have been placed with more propriety after these words: I do 
 not mean the bulk of any single object only, but the largeness of a whole 
 view. As the following phrase, considered as one entire piece, seems to 
 be somewhat deficient, both in dignity and propriety, perhaps thisadjeo 
 tion might have been altogether omitted, and the sentence have closed 
 with fully as much advantage as the word view. 
 
 " Such are the prospects of an open champaign country, a vast uncul- 
 tivated desert, of huge heaps of mountains, high rocks and precipices, 
 or a wide expanse of waters, where we are. not struck with the novelty, 
 
LECT. XXL] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, NO, 412, 20o 
 
 or beauty of the sight, but with that rude kind of magnificence which 
 appears in many of these stupendous works of nature." 
 
 This sentence, in the main, is Beautiful. The objects presented are 
 all of them noble, selected with judgment, arranged with propriety, and , 
 accompanied with proper epithets. We must, however, observe, that 
 the sentence is too loosely, and not very grammatically connected with 
 the preceding one. He says, such are the prospects; such, signifies of 
 that nature or quality ; which necessarily presupposes some adjective, 
 or word descriptive of a quality going before, to which it refers. But, 
 in the foregoing sentence there is no such adjective. He had spoken 
 of greatness in the abstract only ; and therefore, such has no distinct 
 antecedent to which we can refer it. The sentence w r ould have been 
 introduced with more grammatical propriety, by saying to this class belong-, 
 or, under this head are ranged the prospect, fyc. The of which is prefixed 
 to huge heaps of mountains is misplaced, and has, perhaps, been an 
 error in the printing ; as, either all the particulars here enumerated 
 should have had this mark of the genitive, or it should have been prefixed 
 to none but the first. When, in the close of the sentence, the 
 author speaks of that rude magnificence, which appears in many of these 
 stupendous works of nature, he had better have omitted the word many, 
 which seems to except some of them. Whereas, in his general propo- 
 sition he undoubtedly meant to include all the stupendous works he had 
 enumerated; and there is no question that, in all of them, a rude mag- 
 nificence appears. 
 
 " Our imagination loves to be filled with an object, or to grasp at any 
 thing that is too big for it's capacity. We are flung into a pleasing asto- 
 nishment at such unbounded views ; and feel a delightful stillness and 
 amazement in the soul, at the apprehension of them." 
 
 The language here is elegant, and several of the expressions remark- 
 ably happy. There is nothing which requires any animadversion except 
 the close, at the apprehension of them. Not only is this a languid 
 enfeebling conclusion of a sentence, otherwise beautiful, but the apprehen- 
 sion of views, is a phrase destitute of all propriety, and indeed, scarcely 
 intelligible. Had this adjection been entirely omitted, and the sentence 
 been allowed to close with stillness and amazement in the soul, it would 
 have been a great improvement. Nothing is frequently more hurtful to 
 the grace or vivacity of a period, than superfluous dragging words at 
 the conclusion. 
 
 " The mind of man naturally hates every thing that looks like a 
 restraint upon it, and is apt to fancy itself under a sort of confinement, 
 when the sight is pent up in a narrow compass, and shortened on every 
 side by the neighbourhood of walls or mountains. On the contrary, a spa- 
 cious horizon is an image of liberty, where the eye has room to range 
 abroad, to expatiate at large on the immensity of its views, and to lose 
 itself amidst the variety of objects that offer themselves to its observation. 
 Such wide and undetermined prospects are as pleasing to the fancy, as 
 the speculations of eternity, or infinitude, are to the understanding." 
 
 Our author's style appears here in all that native beauty which cannot 
 be too much praised. The numbers flow smoothly, and with a grace- 
 ful harmony. The words which he has chosen carry a certain ampli- 
 tude and fulness, well suited to the nature of the subject ; and the 
 members of the periods rise in a gradation accommodated to the rise 
 
208 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [L.ECJ. Xth 
 
 of the thought. The eye first ranges abroad ; then expatiates at large 
 on the immensity of its views ; and, at last, loses itself amidst the variety 
 of objects that offer themselves to its observation. The fancy is elegantly 
 contrasted with the understanding, prospects with speculations, and "wide 
 and undetermined prospects, with speculations of eternity and infinitude. 
 
 *' But if there be a beauty or uncommonness joined with this gran- 
 deur, as in a troubled ocean, a heaven adorned with stars and meteors, 
 or the spacious landscape cut out into rivers, woods, rocks and meadows, 
 the pleasure still grows upon us as it arises from more than a single prin- 
 ciple." 
 
 The article prefixed to beauty, in the beginning of this sentence, 
 might have been omitted, and the st}Te have run, perhaps, to more 
 advantage thus thus: but if beauty, or uncommonness be joined to this gran- 
 deur — a landscape cut out into rivers, woods, &c. seems unseasonably to 
 imply an artificial formation, and would have been better expressed by 
 diversified with rivers, woods, &c. 
 
 " Every thing that is new or uncommon, raises a pleasure in the ima- 
 gination, because it fills the soul with an agreeable surprise, gratifies its 
 curiosity, and gives it an idea of which it was not before possessed. We 
 are, indeed, so often conversant with one set of objects, and tired out 
 with so many repeated shows of the same things, that whatever is new 
 or uncommon contributes a little to vary human life, and to divert our 
 rninds, for a while, with the strangeness of its appearance. It serves us 
 for a kind of refreshment, and takes off from that satiety we are apt to 
 complain of in our usual and ordinary entertainments." 
 
 The style in these sentences flows in an easy and agreeable man- 
 ner. A severe critic might point out some expressions that would bear 
 being retrenched. But this would alter the genius and character of 
 Mr. Addison's style. We must always remember that good composition 
 admits of being carried on under many different forms. Style must 
 not be reduced to one precise standard. One writer may be as agreea- 
 ble, by a pleasing diffuseness, when the subject bears, and his genius 
 prompts it, as another by a concise and forcible manner. It is fit, how- 
 ever, to observe, that in the beginning of those sentences which we 
 have at present before us, the phrase, raises a pleasure in the imagina- 
 tion, is unquestionably too flat and feeble, and might easily be amended, 
 by saying, affords a pleasure to the imagination; and towards the end, 
 there are two of's which grate harshly on the ear, in that phrase, takes 
 off from that satiety we are apt to complain of; where the correction 
 is as easily made as in the other case, by substituting, diminishes that 
 satiety of which we are apt to complain.-'' Such instances show the 
 advantage of frequent reviews of what we have written, in order to give 
 proper correctness and polish to our language. 
 
 " It is this which bestows charms on a monster, and makes even the 
 imperfections of nature please us. It is this that recommends variety, 
 where the mind is every instant called off to something new, and the 
 attention not suffered to dwell too long and waste itself, on any particular 
 object. It is this, likewise, that improves what is great or beautiful, and 
 makes it afford the mind a double entertainment." 
 
 Still the style proceeds with perspicuity, grace, and harmony. The 
 full and ample assertion, with which each of these sentences is intro- 
 duced, frequent on many occasions with our author, is here proper 
 and seasonable ; as it was his intention to magnify, as much as posible, 
 
LECT. XXl.'j THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, NO. 412, 207 
 
 the effects of novelty and variety, and to draw our attention to them . 
 His frequent use of that, instead of which, is another peculiarity of his 
 style ; but, on this occasion in particular cannot be much commended , 
 as, it is this which, seems, in every view, to be better than, it is this that, 
 three times repeated. I must likewise take notice, that the antecedent 
 to, it is this, when critically considered, is not altogether proper. It 
 refers, as we disco v r er by the sense, to whatever is new or uncommon. 
 But as it is not good language to say, whatever is neiv bestows charms on 
 a monster, one cannot avoid thinking that our author had done better to 
 have begun the first of these three sentences, with saying, it is novelty 
 which bestows charms on a monster, &c. 
 
 " Groves, fields, and meadows, are at any season of the year pleasant 
 to look upon ; but never so much as in the opening of the spring, when 
 they are all new and fresh, with their first gloss upon them, and not yet 
 too much accustomed and familiar to the eye." 
 
 In this expression, never so much as in the opening of the spring, there 
 appears to be a small error in grammar ; for when the construction is 
 filled up, it must be read never so much pleasant. Had he, to avoid this, 
 said, never so much so, the grammatical error would have been prevented, 
 but the language would have be?n awkward. Better to have said, but 
 never so agreeable as in the opening of the spring. We readily say, 
 the eye is accustomed to objects ; h^.t to say, as our author has done at 
 the close of the sentence, that objects are accustomed to the eye, can 
 scarcely be allowed in a prose composition. 
 
 " For this reason, there is nothing that more enlivens a prospect than 
 rivers, jetteaus, or falls of water, where the scene is perpetually shifting, 
 and entertaining the sight, every moment, with something that is new. We 
 are quickly tired with looking at hills and valleys, where every thing con- 
 tinues fixed and settled, in the same place and posture, but find our 
 thoughts a little agitated and relieved at the sight of such objects as are 
 ever in motion, and sliding away from beneath the eye of the beholder." 
 
 The first of these sentences is connected in too loose a manner with 
 that which immediately precedes it. When he says, for this reason there 
 is nothing that more enlivens, fyc. we are entirely to look for the reason 
 in what he had just before said. But there we find no reason for what 
 he is now going to assert, except that groves and meadows are most 
 pleasing in the spring. We know that he has been speaking of the 
 pleasure produced by novelty and variety, and our minds naturally recur 
 to this, as the reason here alluded to : but his language does not pro- 
 perly express it. It is, indeed, one of the defects of this amiable writer, 
 that his sentences are often too negligently connected with one another. 
 His meaning, upon the whole, we gather with ease from the tenour of his 
 discourse. Yet his negligence prevents his sense from striking us 
 with that force and evidence, which a more accurate juncture of parts 
 would have produced. Bating this inaccuracy, these two sentences, 
 especially the latter, are remarkably elegant and beautiful. The close, 
 in particular, is uncommonly fine, and carries as much expressive har- 
 mony as the language can admit. It seems to paint, what he is describ- 
 ing, at once to the eye and the ear. Such objects as are ever in motion, 
 and sliding away from beneath the eye of the beholder. Indeed, notwith- 
 standing those small errors, which the strictness of critical examination 
 obliges me to point out, it may be safely pronounced, that the two para- 
 graphs which we haye now considered in this paper, the one concern 
 
208 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XXL 
 
 ing greatness, and the other concerning novelty, are extremely worthy 
 of Mr. Addison, and exhibit a style, which they who can successfully 
 imitate, may esteem themselves happy. 
 
 " But there is nothing that makes its way more directly to the soul 
 than beauty, which immediately diffuses a secret satisfaction and com- 
 placency through the imagination, and gives a finishing to any thing that 
 is great or uncommon. The very first discovery of it strikes the mind 
 with an inward joy, and spreads a cheerfulness and delight through all 
 its faculties." 
 
 Some degree of verbosity may be here discovered, and phrases re- 
 peated, which are little more than the echo of one another ; such as, 
 diffusing satisfaction and complacency through the imagination^— striking 
 the mind with inward joy — spreading cheerftdness and delight through all 
 its faculties. At the same time, I readily admit that this full and flowing 
 style, even though it carry some redundancy, is not unsuitable to the 
 gayety of the subject on which the author is entering, and is more 
 allowable here than it would have been on some other occasions. 
 
 " There is not perhaps, any real beauty or deformity more in one 
 piece of matter than another ; because we might have been so made, 
 that whatever now appears loathsome to us, might have shown itself 
 agreeable ; but we find, by experience, that there are several modifica- 
 tions of matter, which the mind, without any previous consideration, 
 pronounces at first sight beautiful or deformed.' 5 
 
 In this sentence there is nothing remarkable, in any view, to draw our 
 attention. We may observe only that the word more, towards the begin- 
 ning, is not in its proper place, and that the preposition in, is wanting, 
 before another. The phrase ought to have stood thus : Beauty or defar* 
 mity in one piece of matter, more than in another. 
 
 " Thus we see, that every different species of sensible creatures has 
 its different notions of beauty, and that each of them is most affected, 
 with the beauties of its own kind. This is no where more remarkable, 
 than in birds of the same shape and proportion, when we often see the 
 male determined in his courtship by the single grain or tincture of a 
 feather, and never discovering any charms but in the colour of its species." 
 Neither is there here any particular elegance or felicity of language. 
 Different sense of beauty would have been a more proper expression 
 to have been applied to irrational creatures, than as it stands, different 
 notions of beauty. In the close of the second sentence, when the author 
 says, colour of its species, he is guilty of considerable inaccuracy in chan- 
 ging the gender, as he had said in the same sentence, that the male was 
 determined in his courtship. 
 
 " There is a second kind of beauty, that we find in the several pro- 
 ducts of art and nature, which does not work in the imagination with 
 that warmth and violence, as the beauty that appears in our proper 
 species, but is apt, however, to raise in us a secret delight, and a kind of 
 fondness for the places or objects in which we discover it. 
 
 Still, I am sorry to say, we find little to praise. As in his enunciation 
 of the subject, when beginning the former paragraph, he appears to 
 have been treating of beauty in general, in distinction from greatness or 
 novelty ; this second kind of beauty of which he here speaks comes upon 
 us in a sort of surprise, and it is only by degrees we learn, that formerly 
 he had no more in view than the beauty which the different species of 
 sensible creatures find in one another. This second kind of beauty he 
 
I.ECT. XXL] -IHE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, NO. 415. g#fc 
 
 Aays, we find in the several products of art and nature. He undoubtedly 
 means, not in all, but in several of the products of art and nature ; and 
 ought so to have expressed himself: and in the place of products, to 
 have used also the more proper word, productions. When he adds, that 
 this kind of beauty does not work in the imagination with that warmth and 
 violence as the beauty that appears in our proper species ; the language 
 would certainly have been more pure and elegant, if he had said, that it 
 does not work upon the imagination with such warmth and violence, as the 
 beauty that appears in our own species. 
 
 " This consists either in the gayety, or variety of colours, in the sym- 
 metry and proportion of parts, in the arrangement and disposition of 
 bodies, or in a just mixture and concurrence of all together. Among 
 these several kinds of beauty, the eye takes most delight in colours." 
 
 To the language, here, I see no objection that can be made. 
 * ** We nowhere meet with a more glorious or pleasing show in nature, 
 than what appears in the heavens at the rising and setting of the sun, 
 which is wholly made up of those different stains of light, that show 
 themselves in clouds of a different situation." 
 
 The chief ground of criticism on this sentence, is the disjointed situa- 
 tion of the relative which, grammatically, it refers to the rising and 
 setting of the sun. But the author meant, that it should refer to the show 
 which appears in the heavens at that time. It is too common among 
 authors, when they are writing without much care, to make such particles 
 as this, and which, refer not to any particular antecedent word, but to the 
 tenor of some phrase, or perhaps the scope of some whole sentence, 
 which has gone before. This practice saves them trouble in marshalling 
 their words, and arranging a period ; but, though it may leave their 
 meaning intelligible, yet it renders that meaning much less perspicuous, 
 determined, and precise, than it might otherwise have been. The error 
 I have pointed out, might have been avoided by a small alteration in the 
 construction of the sentence, after some such manner as this ; We no- 
 where meet with a more glorious and pleasing show in nature, than what is 
 formed in the heavens at the rising and setting of the sun, by the different 
 stains of light which show themselves in clouds of different situations. Our 
 author writes, in clouds of a different situation, by which he means, clouds 
 that differ in situation from each other. But, as this is neither the obvious 
 nor grammatical meaning of his words, it was necessary to change the 
 expression, as I have done, into the plural number. 
 
 " For this reason, we find the poets, who are always addressing them- 
 selves to the imagination, borrowing more of their epithets from colours 
 than from any other topic." 
 
 On this sentence nothing occurs, except a remark similar to what 
 was made before, of loose connexion with the sentence which precedes. 
 For, though he begins with saying, for this reason, the foregoing sentence, 
 which was employed about the clouds and the sun, gives no reason for the 
 general proposition he now lays down. The reason to which he refers, 
 was given two sentences before, when he observed, that the eye takes 
 more delight in colours than in any other beauty ; and it was with that 
 sentence that the present one should have stood immediately connected. 
 
 " As the fancy delights in every thing that is great, strange, or beautiful, 
 and is still more pleased, the more it finds of these perfections in the 
 same object, so it is capable of receiving a new satisfaction by the assist- 
 ance of another sense." 
 
 D d 
 
210 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XXII. 
 
 Another sense here, means, grammatically, another sense than fancy. 
 For there is no other thing in the period to which this expression, another 
 sense y can at all be opposed. He had not, for sometime, made mention 
 of any sense whatever. He forgot to add, what was undoubtedly in his 
 thoughts, another sense than that of sight. 
 
 " Thus any continued sound, as the music of birds, or a fall of water, 
 awakens every moment the mind of the beholder, and makes him more 
 attentive to the several beauties of the place which lie before him. Thus, 
 if there arises a fragrancy of smells or perfumes, they heighten the 
 pleasures of the imagination, and make even the colours and verdure 
 of the landscape appear more agreeable ; for the ideas of both senses 
 recommend each other, and are pleasanter together, than when they 
 enter the mind separately ; as the different colours of a picture, when 
 they are well disposed, set oif one another, and receive an additional 
 beauty from the advantage of their situation." 
 
 Whether Mr. Addison's theory here be just or not, may be questioned. 
 A continued sound, such as that of a fall of water, is so far from awakening 
 every moment the mind of the beholder, that nothing is more likely to lull 
 him asleep. It may, indeed, please the imagination, and heighten 
 the beauties of the scene ; but it produces this effect; by a soothing, not 
 by an awakening influence. With regard to the style, nothing appears 
 exceptionable. The flow, both of language and of ideas, is very agree- 
 able. The author continues, to the end, the same pleasing train of thought, 
 which had run through the rest of the paper ; and leaves us agreeably 
 employed in comparing together different degrees of beauty. 
 
 LECTURE XXII. 
 
 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN NO. 413, OF 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 " Though in yesterday's paper we considered how everything that is 
 great, new, or beautiful, is apt to affect the imagination with pleasure, we 
 must own, that it is impossible for us to assign the necessary cause of this 
 pleasure, because we know neither the nature of an idea, nor the sub- 
 stance of a human soul, which might help us to discover the conformity 
 or disagreeableness of the one to the other ; and therefore, for want of 
 such a light, all that we can do in speculations of this kind, is, to reflect 
 on those operations of the soul that are most agreeable, and to range, 
 under their proper heads what is pleasing or displeasing to the mind, 
 without being able to trace out the several necessary and efficient causes 
 from whence the pleasure or displeasure arises." 
 
 This sentence, considered as an introductory one, must be acknow- 
 ledged to be very faulty. An introductory sentence should never contain 
 any thing that can in any degree fatigue or puzzle the reader. When 
 an author is entering on a new branch of his subject, informing us of what 
 he has done, and what he proposes farther to do, we naturally expect, 
 that he should express himself in the simplest and most perspicuous man- 
 ner possible. But the sentence now before us is crowded and indistinct ; 
 
LECT. XXII.j THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, NO. 413. 211 
 
 containing three separate propositions, which, as I shall afterward show, 
 required separate sentences to have unfolded them. Mr. Addison's 
 chief excellency, as a writer, lay in describing and painting. There he 
 is great ; but in methodizing and reasoning, he is not so eminent. As, 
 besides the general fault of prolixity and indistinctness, this sentence 
 contains several inaccuracies, I shall be obliged to enter into a minute 
 discussion of its structure and parts ; a discussion which to many readers 
 will appear tedious, and which therefore they will naturally pass over ; 
 but which to those who are studying composition, I hope may prove of 
 some benefit. 
 
 Though in yesterday's paper we considered. The import of though, is, 
 notwithstanding that. When it appears in the beginning of a sentence, its 
 relative generally is yet; and it is employed to warn us, after we have 
 been informed of some truth, that we are not to infer from it some other 
 thing which we might perhaps have expected to follow : as, " Though 
 virtue be the only road to happiness, yet it does not permit the unlimited 
 gratification of our desires." Now it is plain, that there was so much op- 
 position between the subject of yesterday's paper, and what the author 
 is now going to say, between his asserting a fact, and his not being able to 
 assign the cause of that fact, as rendered the use of this adversative par- 
 ticle, though, either necessary or proper in the introduction. We consider- 
 ed how every thing that is great, new, or beautiful, is apt to affect the imagi- 
 nation with pleasure. The adverb how signifies, either the means by 
 which, or the manner in which, something is done. But in truth, neither 
 one nor the other of these had been considered by our author. He had 
 illustrated the fact alone, that they do affect the imagination with plea- 
 sure ; and, with respect to the quomodo or the how, he is so far from 
 having considered it, that he is just going to show that it cannot be ex- 
 plained, and that we must rest contented with the knowledge of the fact 
 alone, and of its purpose or final cause. We must own, thai it is impos- 
 sible/or us to assign the necessary cause (he means, what is more com- 
 monly called the efficient cause) of this pleasure , because we know neither 
 the nature of an idea, nor the substance of a human soul. The substance 
 of a human soul is certainly a very uncouth expression, and there ap- 
 pears no reason why he should have varied from the word nature, which 
 would have been equally applicable to idea and to soul. 
 
 Which might help us, our author proceeds, to discover the conformity or 
 disagreeableness of the one to the other. The which, at the beginning of 
 this member of the period, is surely ungrammatical, as it is a relative, 
 without any antecedent in all the sentence. It refers, by the construc- 
 tion, to the nature of an idea, or the substance of a human soul ; but this is 
 by no means the reference which the author intended. His meaning is, 
 that our knowing the nature of an idea, and the substance of a human 
 soul, might help us to discover the conformity or disagreeableness of the 
 one to the other : and therefore the syntax absolutely required the word 
 knowledge to have been inserted as the antecedentto which. I have before 
 remarked, and the remark deserves to be repeated, that nothing is a more 
 certain sign of careless composition than to make such relatives as which, 
 not refer to any precise expression, but carry a loose and vague relation 
 to the general strain of what had gone before. When our sentences run 
 into this form, we may be assured there is something in the construction 
 of them that requires alteration. The phrase of discovering the confor- 
 mity or disagreeableness of the one to the other is likewise exceptionable ; 
 
212 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XXII. 
 
 for disagreeableness neither forms a proper contrast to the other word, 
 conformity, nor expresses what the author meant here, (as far as any 
 meaning can be gathered from his words,) that is, a certain unsuitable- 
 ness or want of conformity to the nature of the soul. To say the truth, 
 this member of the sentence had much better have been omitted altogether. 
 The conformity or disagreeableness of an idea to the substance of a human 
 soul, is a phrase which conveys to the mind no distinct nor intelligible con- 
 ception whatever. The author had before given a sufficient reason for 
 his not assigning the efficient cause of those pleasures of the imagination, 
 because we neither know the nature of our own ideas nor of the soul ; 
 and this farther discussion about the conformity or disagreeableness of 
 the nature of the one, to the substance of the other, affords no clear nor 
 useful illustration. 
 
 And therefore, the sentence goes on, for want of such a light, all that we 
 can do in speculations of this kind, is, to reflect on those operations of the 
 soul that are most agreeable, and to range under their proper heads what 
 is pleasing or displeasing to the mind. The two expressions in the begin- 
 ning of this member, therefore, and for want of such a light, evidently re- 
 fer to the same thing, and are quite synonymous. One or other of them, 
 therefore, had better have been omitted. Instead of to range under their 
 proper heads, the language would have been smoother, if their had been 
 lei\ out. Without being able to trace out the several necessary and efficient 
 causes from whence the pleasure or displeasure arises. The expression* 
 from whence, though seemingly justified by very frequent usage, is taxed by 
 Dr. Johnson as a vicious mode of speech ; seeing whence alone, has all 
 the power of from whence, which therefore appears an unnecessary re- 
 duplication. I am inclined to think, that the whole of this last member of 
 the sentence had better have been dropped. The period might have 
 closed with full propriety, at the words, pleasing or displeasing to the 
 mind. All that follows , suggests no idea that had not been fully conveyed m 
 the preceding part of the sentence. Itis amore expletive adjection which 
 might be omitted, not only without injury to the meaning, but to the great 
 relief of a sentence already labouring under the multitude of words. 
 
 Having now finished the analysis of this long sentence, I am inclined to 
 be of opinion, that if, on any occasion, we can adventure to alter Mr. 
 Addison's style, it may be done to advantage here, by breaking down this 
 period in the following manner : "In yesterday's paper, we have shown 
 that every thing which is great, new, or beautiful, is apt to affect the 
 imagination with pleasure. We must own, that it is impossible for us to 
 assign the efficient cause of this pleasure, because we know not the na- 
 ture either of an idea, or of the human soul. All that we can do, there- 
 fore, in speculations of this kind, is to reflect on the operations of the 
 soul, which are most agreeable, and to range under proper heads, what 
 is pleasing or displeasing to the mind." We proceed now to the exami- 
 nation of the following sentences. 
 
 "Final causes lie more bare and open to our observation, as there are 
 often a great variety that belong to the same effect : and these, though 
 they are not altogether so satisfactory, are generally more useful than 
 ihe*other, as they give us greater occasion of admiring the goodness and 
 wisdom of the first contriver." 
 
 Though some difference might be traced between the sense of bare 
 and open, yet, as they are here employed, they are so nearly synony- 
 mous, that one of them was sufficient, It would have been enough 
 
LKCT. XXII. j THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, NO. 413. 2Jg 
 
 to have said, Final causes lie more open to observation. One can scarcely 
 help observing here, that the obviousness of final causes does not pro- 
 ceed, as Mr. Addison supposes, from a variety of them concurring in 
 the same effect, which is often not the case ; but from our being able to 
 ascertain more clearly, from our own experience, the congruity of a 
 final cause with the circumstances of our condition ; whereas the con- 
 stituent parts of subjects, whence efficient causes proceed, lie for the 
 most part beyond the reach of our faculties. But as this remark re- 
 spects the thought more than the style, it is sufficient for us to observe., 
 that when he says, a great variety that belong to the same effect, the ex- 
 pression, strictly considered, is not altogether proper. The accessory is 
 properly said to belong to the principal ; not the principal to the acces- 
 sory. Now an effect is considered as the accessory or consequence of 
 its cause; and therefore, though we might well say a variety of effects 
 belong to the same cause, it seems not so proper to say, that a variety of 
 causes belong to the same effect. 
 
 " One of the final causes of our delight in any thing that is great, may 
 be this : The Supreme Author of our being has so formed the soul of 
 man, that nothing but himself can be its last, adequate, and proper hap- 
 piness. Because, therefore, a great part of our happiness must arise 
 from the contemplation of his being, that he might give our souls a just 
 relish of such a contemplation, he has made them naturally delight in the 
 apprehension of what is great or unlimited." 
 
 The concurrence of two conjunctions, because, therefore, forms rather 
 a harsh and unpleasing beginning of the last of these sentences ; and, ire 
 the close, one would think, that the author might have devised a happier 
 word than apprehension, to be applied to what is unlimited. But that I 
 may not be thought hypercritical, I shall make no farther observation 
 on these sentences. 
 
 " Our admiration, which is a very pleasing motion of the mind, im- 
 mediately rises at the consideration of any object that takes up a good 
 deal of room in the fancy, and, by consequence, will improve into the 
 highest pitch of astonishment and devotion, when we contemplate his* 
 nature, that is neither circumscribed by time nor place, nor to be com 
 prehendedby the largest capacity of a created being." 
 
 Here our author's style rises beautifully along with the thought. 
 However inaccurate he may sometimes be when coolly philosophizing, 
 yet, whenever his fancy is awakened by description, or his mind, as 
 here, warmed with some glowing sentiment, he presently becomes great, 
 and discovers in his language the hand of a master. Every one must 
 observe, with what felicity this period is constructed. The words are 
 long and majestic. The members rise one above another, and conduct 
 the sentence, at last, to that full and harmonious close, which leaves 
 upon the mind such an impression, as the author intended to leave, of 
 something uncommonly great, awful, and magnificent. 
 
 " He has annexed a secret pleasure to the idea of any thing that is 
 new, or uncommon, that he might encourage us in the pursuit of know- 
 ledge, and engage us to search into the wonders of creation ; for every 
 new idea brings such a pleasure along with it, as rewards the paihs we 
 have taken in its acquisition, and consequently serves as a motive to put 
 us upon fresh discoveries." 
 
 The language in this sentence is clear and precise : only, we can- 
 not but. observe, in this; and the two following sentences, which are 
 
214 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XXII, 
 
 constructed in the same manner, a strong proof of Mr. Addison's unrea- 
 sonable partiality to the particle thai, in preference to which. Annexed 
 a secret pleasure to the idea of any thing that is new or uncommon, that he 
 might encourage us. Here the first that stands for a relative pronoun, 
 and the next that, at the distance only of four words, is a conjunction. 
 This confusion of sounds serves to embarrass style. Much better, sure, 
 to have said, the idea of any thing which is new or uncommon, that he 
 might encourage. The expression with which the sentence concludes, 
 a mGtive to put us upon fresh discoveries, is flat, and, in some degree, im- 
 proper. He should have said, put us upon making fresh discoveries; 
 or rather, serves as a motive inciting us to make fresh discoveries. 
 
 " He has made every thing that is beautiful in our own species, plea- 
 sant, that all creatures might be tempted to multiply their kind, and fill 
 the world with inhabitants ; for, it is very remarkable, that, wherever 
 nature is crost in the production of a monster, (the result of any unna- 
 tural mixture) the breed is incapable of propagating its likeness, and of 
 founding a new order of creatures ; so that, unless all animals were al- 
 lured by the beauty of their own species, generation would be at an 
 end, and the earth unpeopled." 
 
 Here we must, however reluctantly, return to the emplojment of 
 censure : for this is among the worst sentences our author ever wrote ; 
 and contains a variety of blemishes. Taken as a whole, it is extremely 
 deficient in unity. Instead of a complete proposition, it contains a sort 
 of chain of reasoning, the links of which are so ill put together, that it 
 is with difficulty we can trace the connexion ; and, unless we take the 
 trouble of perusing it several times, it will leave nothing on the mind 
 but an indistinct and obscure impression. 
 
 Besides this general fault, respecting the meaning, it contains some 
 great inaccuracies in language. First, God's having made every thing 
 which is beautiful in our own species, (that is, in the human species,) plea- 
 sant, is certainly no motive for all creatures, for beasts, and birds, and 
 fishes, to multiply their kind. What the author meant to say, though he 
 has expressed himself in so erroneous a manner, undoubtedly was, "In 
 all the different orders of creatures, he has made every thing, which is 
 beautiful, in their own species, pleasant, that all creatures might be 
 tempted to multiply their land. ' ' The second member of the sentence is 
 still worse. For it is very remarkable, that wherever nature is crost in the 
 production of a monster, 4"C. The reason which he here gives, for the 
 preceding assertion, intimated by the casual particle for, is far from be- 
 ing obvious. The connexion of thought is not readily apparent, and 
 would have required an intermediate step, to render it distinct. But 
 what does he mean, by nature being crost in the production of a monster? 
 One might understand him to mean, "disappointed in its intention of 
 producing a monster," as when we say, one is crost in his pursuits, we 
 mean, that he is disappointed in accomplishing the end which he intend- 
 ed. Had he said, crost by the production of a monster, the sense would 
 have been more intelligible. But the proper rectification of the expres- 
 sion would be to insert the adverb as, before the preposition in, after 
 this manner ; wherever nature is crost, as in the production of a monster. 
 The insertion of this particle as, throws so much light on the construc- 
 tion of this member of the sentence, that I am very much inclined to 
 believe, it had stood thus originally, in our author's manuscript ; and 
 that the present reading is a typographical error, which, having crept 
 
L$CT. XXII.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, SO- 413. 33*5 
 
 into the first edition of the Spectator, ran through all the subsequent 
 ones. 
 
 " In the last place, he has made every thing that is beautiful, in all 
 other respects, pleasant, or rather has made so many objects appear beau- 
 tiful, that he might render the whole creation more gay and delightful^ 
 He has given almost every thing about us the power of raising an agree- 
 able idea in the imagination ; so that it is impossible for us to behold his 
 works with coldness or indifference, and to survey so many beauties 
 without a secret satisfaction and complacency." 
 
 The idea, here, is so just, and the language so clear, flowing, and 
 agreeable, that, to remark any diffuseness which may be attributed to 
 these sentences, would be justly esteemed hypercritical. 
 
 " Things would make but a poor appearance to the eye, if we saw 
 them only in their proper figures and motions : and what reason can we 
 assign for their exciting in us many of those ideas which are different 
 from any thing that exists in the objects themselves, (for such are light 
 in colours) were it not to add supernumerary ornaments to the uni- 
 verse, and make it more agreeable to the imagination V 
 
 Our author is now entering on a theory, which he is about to illus- 
 trate, if not with much philosophical accuracy, yet with great beauty of 
 fancy, and glow of expression. A strong instance of his want of accu- 
 racy, appears in the manner in which he opens the subject. For what 
 meaning is there in things exciting in us many of those ideas which are 
 different from any thing that exists in the objects. 9 No. one, sure, ever 
 imagined that our ideas exist in the objects. Ideas, it is agreed on all 
 hands, can exist nowhere but in the mind. What Mr. Locke's philoso- 
 phy teaches, and what our author should have said, is exciting in us many 
 ideas of qualities which are different from any thing that exists in the ob- 
 jects. The ungraceful parenthesis which follows, for such are light and 
 colours, had far better have been avoided, and incorporated with the rest 
 of the sentence, in this manner ; " exciting in us many ideas of qualities, 
 such as light and colours, which are different from any thing that exists 
 in the objects." 
 
 " We are every where entertained with pleasing shows and appari- 
 tions. We discover imaginary glories in the heavens, and in the earth, 
 and see some of this visionary beauty poured out upon the whole crea- 
 tion ; but what a rough, unsightly sketch of nature should we be enter- 
 tained with, did all her colouring disappear, and the several distinctions 
 of light and shade vanish? In short, our souls are delightfully lost and 
 bewildered in a pleasing delusion ; and we walk about like the enchanted 
 hero of a romance, who sees beautiful castles, woods, and meadows; 
 and, at the same time, hears the warbling of birds, and the purling 01 
 streams ; but upon the finishing of some secret spell, the fantastic scene 
 breaks up, and the disconsolate knight finds himself on a barren heath, 
 or in a solitary desert." 
 
 After having been obliged to point out several inaccuracies, I return 
 with much more pleasure to the display of beauties, for which we have 
 now full scope ; for these two sentences are such as do the highest honour 
 to Mr. Addison's talents as a writer. Warmed with the idea he had 
 laid hold of, his delicate sensibility to the beauty of nature is finely 
 displayed in the illustration of it. The style is flowing and full, without 
 being too diffuse. It is flowery, but not gaudy ; elevated, but not 
 ostentatious. 
 
21 e CRITICAL BXAMINATION OF [LECT. X^IL 
 
 Amidst this blaze of beauties, it is necessary for us to remark one er 
 two inaccuracies. When it is said, towards the close of the first of 
 those sentences, what a rough unsightly sketch of nature should rue be enter- 
 tained with, the preposition with should have been placed at the begin- 
 ning, rather than at the end of this member ; and the word entertained, 
 is both improperly applied here, and carelessly repeated from the former 
 part of the sentence. It was there employed according to its more com- 
 mon use, as relating to agreeable objects. We are every where entertained 
 with pleasing shows. Here, it would have been more proper to have 
 changed the phrase, and said, with what a rough unsightly sketch of nature 
 should we be presented. At the close of the second sentence, where it is 
 said, the fantastic scene breaks up, the expression is lively, but not alto- 
 gether justifiable. An assembly breaks up ; a scene closes or disappears. 
 
 Excepting these two slight inaccuracies, the style here is not only 
 correct, but perfectly elegant. The most striking beauty of the passage 
 arises from the happy simile which the author employs, and the fine illus- 
 tration which it gives to the thought. The enchanted hero, the beautiful 
 castles, the fantastic scene, the secret spell, the disconsolate knight, are 
 terms chosen with the utmost felicity, and strongly recall all those ro- 
 mantic ideas with which he intended to amuse our imagination. Few 
 authors are more successful in their imagery than Mr. Addison ; and few 
 passages in his works, or in those of any author, are more beautiful and 
 picturesque, than that on which we have been commenting. 
 
 "It is not improbable, that something like this may be the state of the 
 soul after its first separation, in respect of the images it will receive 
 from matter ; though, indeed, the ideas of colours are so pleasing and 
 beautiful in the imagination, that it is possible the soul will not be de- 
 prived of them, but, perhaps, find them excited by some other occasional 
 cause, as they are, at present, by the different impressions of the subtile 
 matter on the organ of sight." 
 
 As all human things, after having attained the summit, begin to de- 
 cline, we must acknowledge, that, in this sentence, there is a sensible 
 falling off from the beauty of what went before. It is broken, and defi- 
 cient in unity. Its parts are not sufficiently compacted. It contains, 
 besides, some faulty expressions. When it is said, something like this may 
 be the state of the soul, to the pronoun this, there is no determined ante- 
 cedent ; it refers to the general import of the preceding description, 
 which, as I have several times remarked, always renders style clumsy 
 and inelegant, if not obscure — the state of the soul after its first separation, 
 appears to be an incomplete phrase, and first seems a useless, and even 
 an improper word. More distinct if he had said, state of the soul imme- 
 diately on its separation from the body. The adverb perhaps is redundant, 
 after having just before said, it is impossible. 
 
 " I have here supposed that my reader is acquainted with that great 
 modern discovery, which is, at present, universally acknowledged by all 
 the inquirers into natural philosophy : namely, that light and colours, as 
 apprehended by the imagination, are only ideas in the mind, and not quali- 
 ties that have any existence in matter. As this is a truth which has been 
 proved incontestably by many modern philosophers, and is, indeed, one 
 of the finest speculations in that science, if the English reader would see 
 the notion explained at large, he may find it in the eighth chapter of the 
 second book of Mr. Locke's Essay on the Human Understanding." 
 
 In these two concluding sentences, the author, hastening to finish, ap- 
 
(I*. XXlli.j LtiE STYLE IH SPECTATOR, NO. 414. of 7 
 
 pears to write rather carelessly. In the iirst of them , a manifest tautology 
 occurs, when he speaks of what is universally acknowledged by all inqui- 
 rers. In the second when he calls a truth which has been incontestably 
 proved ; first, a speculation, and afterward a notion, the language surely 
 is not very accurate. When he adds, one of the finest speculations in that 
 science, it does not, at first, appear what science he means. One would 
 imagine, he meant to refer to modern philosophers ; for natural philosophy 
 (to which, doubtless, he refers) stands at much too great a distance to 
 be the proper or obvious antecedent to the pronoun that. The circum- 
 stance toward the close, if the English reader would see the notion ex- 
 plained at large, he may find it, is properly taken notice of by the author 
 of the Elements of Criticism, as wrong arranged, and is rectified thus ; 
 the English reader, if he would see the notion explained at large, may 
 find it, 4*c. 
 
 In concluding the examination of this paper, we may observe, that 
 though not a very long one, it exhibits a striking view both of the beau- 
 ties, and the defects, of Mr. Addison's style. It contains some of the 
 best, and some of the worst sentences, that are to be found in his works. 
 But upon the whole, it is an agreeable and elegant essay. 
 
 LECTURE XXIII 
 
 
 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN No, 414, OF THE 
 SPECTATOR. 
 
 If we consider the works of nature and art, as they are qualified to 
 entertain the imagination, we shall find the last very defective in com- 
 parison of the former ; for though they may sometimes appear as beauti- 
 ful or strange, they can have nothing in them of that vastness and im- 
 mensity which afford so great an entertainment to the mind of the be- 
 holder." 
 
 I had occasion formerly to observe, that an introductory sentence 
 should always be short and simple, and contain no more matter than is 
 necessary for opening the subject. This sentence leads to a repetition 
 of this observation, as it contains both an assertion and the proof of that 
 assertion ; two things which, for the most part, but especially at first 
 setting out, are with more advantage kept separate. It would certainly 
 have been better, if this sentence had contained only the assertion, 
 ending with the word former ; and if a new one had then begun, enter- 
 ing on the proofs of nature's superiority over art, which is the subject 
 continued to the end of the paragraph. The proper division of the 
 period I shall point out, after having first made a few observations which 
 occur on different parts of it. 
 
 If we consider the works. Perhaps it might have been preferable if our 
 author had begun, with saying, when we consider the works. Discourse 
 ought always to begin, when it is possible, with a clear proposition. 
 The if, which is here employed, converts the sentence into a supposition, 
 which is always in some degree entangling, and proper to be used only 
 when the course of reasoning renders it necessary. As this observation , 
 however, mav, perhaps, be considered as over-refined, and as the sens* 
 
218 • CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [f/ECT. XXIH. 
 
 would have remained the same in either form of expression, I do not 
 mean to charge our author with any error on this account. We cannot 
 absolve him from inaccuracj r in what immediately follows — the works of 
 nature and art. It is the scope of the author, throughout this whole 
 paper, to compare nature and art together, and to oppose them in seve- 
 ral views to each other. Certainly, therefore, in the beginning, he ought 
 to have kept them as distinct as possible, by interposing the preposition, 
 and saying, the works of nature and of art. As the words stand at pre- 
 sent, they would lead us to thick that he is going to treat of these works, 
 not as contrasted, but as connected ; as united in forming one whole. 
 When I speak of body and soul as united in the human nature, I would 
 interpose neither article nor preposition between them ; ." man is com- 
 pounded of soul and body."' But the case is altered, if I mean to distin- 
 guish them from each other ; then I represent them as separate, and say, 
 "I am to treat of the interest of the soul, and of the body." 
 
 Though they may sometimes appear as beautiful or strange. I cannot 
 help considering this as a loose member of the period. It does not 
 clearly appear at first what the antecedent is to they. In reading on- 
 wards, we see the works of art to be meant ; but from the structure of 
 the sentence, they might be understood to refer to the former, as well as 
 to the last. In what follows, there is a greater ambiguity — may sometimes 
 appear as beautiful or strange. It is very doubtful in what sense we are 
 to understand as, in this passage. For, according as it is accented in 
 reading, it may signify, that they appear equally beautiful or strange, to wit, 
 with the works of nature ; and then it has the force of the Latin tarn : of 
 it may signify no more than that they appear in the light of beautiful and 
 strange ; and then it has the force of the Latin tanquam, without im- 
 porting any comparison. An expression so ambiguous is always faulty ; 
 and it is doubly so here ; because, if the author intended the former 
 sense, and meant (as seems most probable) to employ as for a mark of 
 comparison, it was necessary to have mentioned both the compared ob- 
 jects ; whereas only one member of the comparison is here mentioned, 
 viz. the works of art : and if he intended the latter sense, as was in that 
 case superfluous and encumbering, and he had better have said simply, 
 appear beautiful or strange. The epithet strange, which Mr. Addison 
 applies to the works of art, cannot be praised. Strange works, appears 
 not by any means a happy expression to signify what he here intends, 
 which is new or uncommon. 
 
 The sentence concludes with much harmony and dignity ; they can 
 have nothing in them of that vastness and immensity which afford so 
 great an entertainment to the mind of the beholder. There is here a ful- 
 ness and grandeur of expression well suited to the subject ; though, per- 
 haps, entertainment is not quite the proper word for expressing the effect 
 which vastness and immensity have upon the mind. Reviewing the ob- 
 servations that have been made on this period, it might, I think, with 
 advantage, be resolved into two sentences, somewhat after this manner : 
 " When we consider the works of nature and of art, as they are qualified 
 to entertain the imagination, we shall find the latter very defective in 
 comparison of the former. The works of art may sometimes appear no 
 less beautiful or uncommon than those of nature ; but they can have no- 
 thing of that vastness and immensity which so highly transport the min^ 
 of the beholder. 
 

 LECT. XXIIL] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, NO. 414. 219 
 
 M The one," proceeds our author in the next sentence, " may be as 
 polite and delicate as the other ; but can never show herself so august 
 and magnificent in the design." 
 
 The one and the other, in the first part of his sentence, must unques- 
 tionably refer to the works of nature and of art. For of these he had 
 been speaking immediately before ; and with reference to the plural 
 word works, had employed the plural pronoun they. But in the course 
 of the sentence^ he drops this construction, and passes very incongru- 
 ously to the personification of art — can never show herself. To render 
 his style consistent, art, and not the works of art, should have been made 
 the nominative in this sentence. Art may be as polite and delicate as 
 nature, but can never show herself. Polite is a term oftener applied to 
 persons and to manners, than to things ; and is employed to signify their 
 being highly civilized. Polished, or refined, was the idea which the 
 author had in view. Though the general turn of this sentence be elegant, 
 yet, in order to render it perfect, I must observe, that the concluding 
 words, in the design, should either have been altogether omitted, or 
 something should have been properly opposed to them in the preceding 
 member of the period, thus : " Art may, in the execution, be as polished 
 and delicate as nature ; but, in the design, can never show herself so 
 august and magnificent." 
 
 " There is something more bold and masterly in the rough, careless 
 strokes of nature, than in the nice touches and embellishments of art." 
 
 This sentence is perfectly happy and elegant ; and carries, in all the 
 expressions, that curiosafelicitas, for which Mr. Addison is so often re- 
 markable. Bold and masterly, are words applied with the utmost pro- 
 priety. The strokes of nature, are finely opposed to the touches of art; 
 and the rough strokes to the nice touches ; the former, painting the free- 
 dom and ease of nature, and the other, the diminutive exactness of art ; 
 while both are introduced before us as different performers, and their 
 respective merits in execution very justly contrasted with each other. 
 
 "The beauties of the most stately garden or palace lie in a narrow 
 compass, the imagination immediately runs them over, and requires 
 something else to gratify her ; but in the wide fields of nature, the sight 
 wanders up and down without confinement, and is fed with an infinite 
 variety of images, without any certain stint or number." 
 
 This sentence is not altogether so correct and elegant as the former. 
 It carries, however, in the main, the character of our author's style ; 
 not strictly accurate, but agreeable, easy, and unaffected ; enlivened, 
 too, with a slight personification of the imagination, which gives a gayety 
 to the period. Perhaps it had been better, if this personification of the 
 imagination, with which the sentence is introduced, had been continued 
 throughout, and not changed unnecessarily, and even improperly, into 
 sight 9 in the second member, which is contrary both to unity and elegance. 
 It might have stood thus : the imagination immediately runs them over, 
 and requires something else to gratify her ; but in the wide fields of nature 9 
 she wanders up and down without confinement. The epithet stately, which 
 the author uses in the beginning of the sentence, is applicable, with more 
 propriety, to palaces than to gardens. The close of the sentence, with- 
 out any certain stint or number, may be objected to, as both superfluous 
 and ungraceful . It might perhaps have terminated better in this manner : 
 she is fed with an infinite variety of images, and wanders up and dowai 
 without confinement. 
 
;^0 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XXIII, 
 
 " For this reason, we always find the poet in love with a country life, 
 where nature appears in the greatest perfection, and furnishes out all 
 those scenes that are most apt to delight the imagination." 
 
 There is nothing in this sentence to attract particular attention. One 
 would think it was rather the country, than a country life, on which the 
 remark here made should rest. A country life may be productive of 
 simplicity of manners, and of other virtues : but it is to the country itself, 
 that the properties here mentioned belong, of displaying the beauties of 
 nature, and furnishing those scenes which delight the imagination. 
 
 c 'But though there are several of these wild scenes that are more 
 delightful than any artificial shows, yet we find the works of nature stil! 
 more pleasant, the more they resemble those of art ; for in this case our 
 pleasure rises from a double principle ; from the agreeableness of the 
 objects to the eye, and from their similitude to other objects ; we are 
 pleased, as well with comparing their beauties, as with surveying them,, 
 and can represent them to our minds either as copies or as originals. 
 Hence it is, that we take delight in a prospect which is well laid out, 
 and diversified with fields and meadows, woods and rivers ; in those acci- 
 dental landscapes of trees, clouds, and cities, that are sometimes found 
 in the veins of marble, in the curious fretwork of rocks and grottos ; 
 and, in a word, in any thing that hath such a degree of variety and regu- 
 larity as may seem the effect of design, in what we call the works of 
 chance." 
 
 The style, in the two sentences which compose this paragraph, is 
 smooth and perspicuous. It lies open in some places to criticism ; but 
 lest the reader should be tired of what he may consider as petty remarks, 
 I shall pass over any which these sentences suggest ; the rather, too, 
 as the idea which they present to us of nature's resembling art, of art's 
 being considered as an original, and nature as a copy, seems not very 
 distinct nor well brought out, nor indeed very material to our author's 
 purpose. 
 
 "If the products of nature rise in value, according as they more or 
 less resemble those of art, we may be sure that artificial works receive 
 a greater advantage from the resemblance of such as are natural ; be- 
 cause here the similitude is not only pleasant, but the pattern more per- 
 fect." 
 
 It is necessary to our present design, to point out two considerable 
 inaccuracies which occur in this sentence. If the products (he had bet- 
 ter have said the -productions) of nature rise in value according as they 
 more or less resemble those of art. Does he mean, that these productions 
 rise in value both according as they more resemble, and as they less resem- 
 ble, those of art? His meaning undoubtedly is, that they rise in value 
 only, according as they more resemble them : and, therefore, either these 
 words, or less, must be struck out, or the sentence must run thus — pro- 
 ductions of nature rise or sink in value, according as they more or less 
 resemble. The present construction of the sentence, has plainly been 
 owing to hasty and careless writing. 
 
 The other inaccuracy is towards the end of the sentence, and serves 
 to illustrate a rule which I formerly gave concerning the position of 
 adverbs. The author says, because here the similitude is not only pleasant l „ 
 but the pattern more perfect. Here, by the position of the adverb only : 
 we are led to imagine that he is going to give some other property of the 
 similitude, that h not only pleasant, as he says, but more than pleasant. 
 
LECT. XXIII. j THE STSTLE IN SPECTATOR, NO. 414. ^1 
 
 it is useful, or, on some account or other, valuable. Whereas, he is 
 going to oppose another thing to the similitude itself, and not to this pro- 
 perty of its being pleasant ; and, therefore, the right collocation, beyond 
 doubt, was, because here not only the similitude is pleasant, but the pattern 
 more perfect ; the contrast lying, not between pleasant and more perfect? 
 bat between similitude and pattern. Much of the clearness and neatness 
 of style depends on such attentions as these. 
 
 "The prettiest landscape I ever saw, was one drawn on the walls of 
 a dark room, which stood opposite on one side to a navigable river, and 
 en the other, to a park. The experiment is very common in optics." 
 
 In the description of the landscape which follows, Mr. Addison is 
 abundantly happy ; but in this introduction to it, he is obscure and in- 
 distinct. One who had not seen the experiment of the camera obscura, 
 could comprehend nothing of what he meant. And even, after we un- 
 derstand what he points at, we are at some loss, whether to understand 
 his description as of one continued landscape, or of two different ones 3 
 produced by the projection of two camera obscuras on opposite walls, 
 The scene, which I am inclined to think Mr. Addison here refers to, is 
 Greenwich park ; with the prospect of the Thames, as seen by a camera 
 obscura, which is placed in a small room in the upper story of the ob- 
 servatory ; where I remember to have seen, many years ago, the whole 
 scene here described, corresponding so much to Mr. Addison's account 
 of it in this passage, that, at the time, it recalled it to my memory. 
 
 As the observatory stands in the middle of the park, it overlooks, 
 from one side, both the river and the park ; and the objects afterward 
 mentioned, the ships, the trees, and the deer, are presented in one 
 view, without needing any assistance from opposite walls. Put into 
 plainer language, the sentence might run thus : " The prettiest landscape 
 I ever saw, was one formed by a camera obscura, a common optical in- 
 strument, on the wall of a darkroom, which overlooked a navigable river 
 and a park." 
 
 " Here you might discover the waves and fluctuations of the water in 
 strong and proper colours, with the picture of a ship entering at one 
 end, and sailing by degrees through the whole piece. On another, there 
 appeared the green shadows of trees, waving to and fro with the wind, 
 and herds of deer among them in miniature, leaping about upon the 
 wall." 
 
 Bating one or two small inaccuracies, this is beautiful and lively paint- 
 ing. The principal inaccuracy lies in the connexion of the two senten- 
 ces, here, and on another. I suppose the author meant, on one side, and 
 on another side. As it stands, another is ungrammatical, having nothing 
 to which it refers. But the fluctuations of the water, the ship entering 
 and sailing on by degrees, the trees waving in the wind, and the herds 
 of deer among them leaping about, is all very elegant, and gives a beau- 
 tiful conception of the scene meant to be described. 
 
 " I must confess the novelty of such a sight may be one occasion of 
 its pleasantness to the imagination ; but certainly the chief reason is, its 
 near resemblance to nature ; as it does not only, like other pictures, 
 give the colour and figure, but the motion of the things it repre- 
 sents." 
 
 In this sentence, there is nothing remarkable, either to be praised or 
 blamed. In the conclusion, instead of the things it represents, the regu- 
 larity of correct style requires the things which it represents. In ttu 
 
222 CRITICAL EXAMINATION Oi [LECT. XXIIL 
 
 foeginning, as one occasion and the chief reason, are opposed to one 
 another, I should think it better to have repeated the same word; one 
 reason of its pleasantness to the imagination, but certainly the chief rea- 
 son is, &re. 
 
 " We have before observed, that there is generally, in nature, some- 
 thing more grand and august than what we meet with in the curiosities of 
 art. When, therefore, we see this imitated in any measure, it gives us 
 a nobler and more exalted kind of pleasure, than what we receive from 
 the nicer and more accurate productions of art." 
 
 It would have been better to have avoided terminating these two sen- 
 tences in a manner so familiar to each other ; curiosities of art — produc- 
 tions of art. 
 
 "On this account, our English gardens are not so entertaining to the 
 fancy as those in France and Italy, where we see a large extent of 
 ground covered with an agreeable mixture of garden and forest, 
 which represent every where an artificial rudeness, much more charm- 
 ing than that neatness and elegance which me meet with in those of our 
 own country." 
 
 The expression represent every where an artificial rudeness, is so in- 
 accurate, that I am inclined to think, what stood in Mr. Addison's ma- 
 nuscript must have been, preset every where. For the mixture of gar- 
 den and forest does not represent, but actually exhibits or presents, artifi- 
 cial rudeness. That mixture represents indeed natural rudeness, that is, 
 is designed to imitate it; but it in reality is, and presents, artificial rude- 
 ness. 
 
 " It might indeed be of ill consequence to the public, as well as un- 
 profitable to private persons, to alienate so much ground from pasturage 
 and the plough, in many parts of a country that is well peopled, and cul- 
 tivated to a far greater advantage. But why may not a whole estate 
 be thrown into a kind of garden by frequent plantations, that may turn 
 as much to the profit as the pleasure of the owner ? A marsh overgrown 
 with willows, or a mountain shaded with oaks, are not only more beauti- 
 ful, but more beneficial, than when they lie bare and unadorned. Fields 
 of corn make a pleasant prospect ; and if the walks were a little taken 
 care of that lie between them, and the natural embroidery of the mea- 
 dows were helped and improved by some small additions of art, and the 
 several rows of hedges were set off by trees and flowers that the soil 
 was capable of receiving, a man might make a pretty landscape of his 
 own possessions." 
 
 The ideas here are just, and the style is easy and perspicuous, though 
 in some places bordering on the careless. In that passage;, for instance, 
 if the walks were a little taken care of that lie between them, one member 
 is clearly out of its place, and the turn of the phrase, a little taken care 
 of, is vulgar and colloquial. Much better if it had run thus : if a little 
 care were bestowed on the walks that lie between them. 
 
 " Writers who have given us an account of China, tell us, the inhabi- 
 tants of that country laugh at the plantations of our Europeans, which are 
 laid out by the rule and the line ; because, they say, any one may place 
 trees in equal rows and uniform figures. They choose rather to 
 show a genius in works of this nature, and, therefore, always conceal 
 the art by which they direct themselves. They have a word, it seems, 
 in their language, by which they express the particular beauty of a 
 
LECT. XXIH.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, NO. 414. 223 
 
 plantation, that thus strikes the imagination at first sight, without dis- 
 covering what it is that has so agreeable an effect." 
 
 These sentences furnish occasion for no remark, except that in the 
 last of them, particular is improperly used instead of peculiar ; the 
 peculiar beauty of a plantation that thus strikes the imagination, was the 
 phrase to have conveyed the idea which the author meant ; namely, the 
 beauty which distinguishes it from plantations of another kind. 
 
 " Our British gardeners, on the contrary, instead of humouring nature, 
 love to deviate from it as much as possible. Our trees rise in cones, 
 globes, and pyramids. We see the marks of the scissors on every plant 
 and bush." 
 
 These sentences are lively and elegant. They make an agreeable 
 diversity from the strain of those which went before ; and are marked 
 with the hand of Mr. Addison. I have to remark only, that in the phrase, 
 instead of humouring nature, love to deviate from it — humouring and 
 deviating, are terms not properly opposed to each other ; a sort of 
 personification of nature is begun in the first of them, which is not 
 supported in the second. To humouring, was to have been opposed 
 thwarting ; or if deviating was kept, following, or going along with 
 nature, was to have been used. 
 
 "I do not know whether I am singular in my opinion, but for my own 
 part, I would rather look upon a tree, in all its luxuriancy and diffusion 
 of boughs and branches, than when it is thus cut and trimmed into a 
 mathematical figure ; and cannot but fancy that an orchard, in flower, 
 looks infinitely more delightful, than all the little labyrinths of the most 
 finished parterre." 
 
 This sentence is extremely harmonious, and every way beautiful. It 
 carries all the characteristics of our author's natural, graceful, and 
 flowing language. A tree, in all its luxuriancy and diffusion of boughs 
 and branches, is a remarkably happy expression. The author seems to 
 become luxuriant in describing an object which is so, and thereby renders 
 the sound a perfect echo to the sense. 
 
 " But as our great modellers of gardens have their magazines of plants 
 to dispose of, it is very natural in them, to tear up all the beautiful plan- 
 tations of fruit-trees, and contrive a plan that may most turn to their 
 profit, in taking off their evergreens, and the like moveable plants, with 
 which their shops are plentifully stocked." 
 
 An author should always study to conclude, when it is in his power, 
 with grace and dignity. It is somewhat unfortunate, that this paper did 
 not end, as it might very well have done, with the former beautiful 
 period. 
 
 The impression left on the mind by the beauties of nature, with which 
 he had been entertaining us, would then have been more agreeable. 
 But in this sentence there is a great falling off ; and we return with pain 
 from those pleasing objects, to the insignificant contents of a nursery- 
 man's shop. 
 
 •^ 
 
(324) 
 
 LECTURE XXIV 
 
 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN A PASSAGE OF 
 DEAN SWIFT'S WRITINGS. 
 
 My design in the four preceding lectures, was not merely to appreciate 
 the merit of Mr. Addison's style, by pointing out the faults and the beau- 
 ties that are mingled in the writings of that great author. They were 
 not composed with any view to gain the reputation of a critic : but in- 
 tended for the assistance of such as are desirous of studying the most 
 proper and elegant construction of sentences in the English language. 
 To such, it is hoped, that they may be of advantage ; as the proper 
 application of rules respecting style, will always be best learned by 
 means of the illustration which examples afford. I conceive that 
 examples, taken from the writings of an author so justly esteemed, would 
 on that account, not only be more attended to, but would also produce 
 this good effect, of familiarizing those who study composition with the 
 style of a writer, from whom they may, upon the whole, derive great 
 benefit. With the same view, I shall, in this lecture, give one critical 
 exercise more of the same kind, upon the style of an author of a dif- 
 ferent character, Dean Swift ; repeating the intimation I gave formerly, 
 that such as stand in need of no assistance of this kind, and who, there- 
 fore, will naturally consider such minute discussions concerning the 
 propriety of words, and structure of sentences, as beneath their atten- 
 tion, had best pass over what will seem to them a tedious part of the 
 work. 
 
 I formerly gave the general character of Dean Swift's style. He is 
 esteemed one of our most correct writers. His style is of the plain and 
 simple kind ; free from all affectation, and all superfluity; perspicuous, 
 manly, and pure. These are its advantages. But we are not to look 
 for much ornament and grace in it.* On the contrary, Dean Swift seems 
 to have slighted and despised the ornaments of language, rather than to 
 have studied them. His arrangement is often loose and negligent. In 
 elegant, musical, and figurative language, he is much inferior to Mr. 
 Addison. His manner of writing carries in it the character of one who 
 rests altogether upon his sense, and aims at no more than giving his 
 meaning in a clear and concise manner. 
 
 That part of his writings which I shall now examine, is the beginning 
 of his treatise, entitled, "A Proposal for correcting, improving, and 
 ascertaining the English Tongue," in a letter addressed to the Earl of 
 Oxford, then Lord High Treasurer. I was led, by the nature of the 
 subject, to choose this treatise ; but, in justice to the Dean, I must ob- 
 serve, that, after having examined it, I do not esteem it one of his most 
 
 - I am glad to find that, in my judgment concerning this author's composition, I 
 have coincided with the opinion of a very able critic. " This easy and safe con- 
 veyance of meaning, it was Swift's desire to attain, and for having attained, he 
 certainly deserves praise, though, perhaps, not the highest praise. For purposes 
 merely didactic, when something is to be told that was not known before, it is in 
 the highest degree proper ; but against that inattention by which known truths are 
 suffered to be neglected, it makes no provision : it instructs, bat does not persuade ' 
 Johnson's Lives of the Poet?, in Swift. 
 
or 
 
 LECT.XXIV.] . DEAN SWIFT-S STYLE, §gg 
 
 correct productions ; but am apt to think it has been more hastily com- 
 posed than some other of them. It bears the title and form of a letter ; 
 but it is, however, in truth, a treatise designed for the public ; and 
 therefore, in examining it, we cannot proceed upon the indulgence due 
 to an epistolary correspondence. When a man addresses himself to a 
 friend only, it is sufficient if he makes himself fully understood by him: 
 but when an author writes for the public, whether he employ the form 
 of an epistle or not, we are always entitled to expect, that he shall ex? 
 press himself with accuracy and care. Our author begins thus : 
 
 " What J had the honour of mentioning to your Lordship, some time 
 ago, in conversations was not a new thought, just then started by accident 
 or occasion, but the result of long reflection : and I have been confirm r 
 ed in my sentiments by the opinion of some very judicious persons with 
 whom I consulted." 
 
 The disposition of circumstances in a sentence, such as serve to limit 
 or to qualify some assertion, or to denote time and place, I formerly 
 showed to be a matter of nicety ; and I observed, that it ought to be 
 always held a rule, not to crowd such circumstances together, but rather 
 to intermix them with more capital words, in such different parts of the 
 sentence as can admit them naturally. Here are two circumstances of 
 this kind placed together, which had better have been separated ; " Some 
 time ago in conversation" — better thus : " W'hat I had the honour, some 
 time ago, of mentioning to your lordship in conversation — was not a new 
 thought," proceeds our author, " started by accident or occasion : the 
 different meaning of these two words may not at first occur. They have, 
 however, a distinct meaning, and are properly used : for it is one very 
 laudable property of our author's style, that it is seldom incumbered with 
 superfluous, synonymous words,, " Started by accident," is fortuitously, 
 or at random ; started " by occasion," by some incident, which at that 
 time gave birth to it. His meaning is, that it was not a new thought 
 which either casually sprung up in his mind, or was suggested to him ? 
 for the first time,, by the train of the discourse : but, as he adds, " was 
 the result of long reflection." He proceeds : 
 
 " They all agree, that nothing would be of greater use towards the 
 improvement of knowledge and politeness, than some effectual method 
 for correcting, enlarging, and ascertaining our language ; and they think 
 it a work very possible to be compassed under the protection of a prince 9 
 the countenance and encouragement of a ministry, and the care of pro- 
 per persons chosen for such an undertaking." 
 
 This is an excellent sentence ; clear, and elegant. The words are all 
 simple, well chosen, and expressive ; and arranged in the most pro- 
 per order. It is a harmonious period too, which is a beauty not frequent 
 in our author. The last part of it consists of three members, which 
 gradually rise and swell above one another, without any affected or un- 
 suitable pomp ; " under the protection of a printfe, the countenance and 
 encouragement of a mihistry,and the care of proper persons chosen for such 
 an undertaking." We may remark, in the beginning of the sentence, the 
 proper use of the preposition towards— ■" greater use towards the improve- 
 ment of knowledge and politeness" — importing the pointing or tendency of 
 any thing to a certain end ; which could not have been so well expressed by 
 the preposition/or, commonly employed in place of towards, by authors 
 who are less attentive, than Dean Swift was, to the force of words. 
 
 One fault might, perhaps, be found, both with this and the former «pu 
 
22S CBFHCAL EXAMINATION OF [£E€T. XXIV, 
 
 tenee, considered as introductory ones. We expect, that an introduction 
 is to unfold, clearly and directly, the subject that is to be treated of. In 
 the first sentence, our author had told us, of a thought he mentioned to 
 his lordship in conversation, which had been the result of long reflection, 
 and concerning which he had consulted judicious persons. But what 
 that thought was, we are never told directly. We gather it indeed from 
 the second sentence, wherein he informs us, in what these judicious per- 
 sons agreed ; namely, that some method for improving the language was 
 both useful and practicable. But this indirect method of opening the 
 subject, would have been very faulty in a regular treatise ; though the 
 ease of the epistolary form, which our author here assumes in address- 
 ing his patron, may excuse it in the present case. 
 
 " I was glad to find your Lordship's answer in so different a style from 
 what hath commonly been made use of, on the like occasions, for some 
 time past ; that all such thoughts must be deferred to a time of peace; a 
 topic which some have carried so far, that they would not have us, by 
 any means, think of preserving our civil and religious constitution, be- 
 cause we are engaged in a war abroad." 
 
 This sentence also is clear and elegant; only there is one inaccuracy, 
 when he speaks of his Lordship's answer being in so different a style 
 from what had formerly been used. His answer to what ? or to whom? 
 For from anything going before, it does not appear that any application 
 or address had been made to his Lordship by those persons, whose opi- 
 nion was mentioned in the preceding sentence ; and to whom the answer, 
 here spoken of, naturally refers. There is a little indistinctness, as I 
 before observed, in our Author's manner of introducing his subject here. 
 We may observe too that the phrase, glad to find your answer in so dif- 
 ferent a style, though abundantly suited to the language of conversation , 
 or of a familiar letter, yet, in regular composition, requires an additional 
 Word — " glad to find your answer run in so different a style." 
 
 " It will be among the distinguishing marks of your ministry, my Lord, 
 that you have a genius above all such regards, and that no reasonable 
 proposals, for the honour, the advantage, or ornament of your country, 
 however foreign to your immediate office, was ever neglected by you." 
 
 The phrase, a genius above all such regards, both seems somewhat 
 harsh, and does not clearly express what the author means, namely, the 
 confined -views of those who neglected every thing that belonged to the 
 arts of peace in the time of war. Except this expression, there is no- 
 thing that can be subject to the least reprehension in this sentence, nor 
 in all that follows, to the end of the paragraph. 
 
 "I confess the merit of this candour and condescension is very much 
 lessened, because your Lordship hardly leaves us room to offer our good 
 wishes ; removing all our difficulties, and supplying our wants, faster 
 than the most visionary projector can adjust his schemes. And there- 
 fore, my Lord, the design of this paper is not so much to offer you ways 
 and means, as to complain of a grievance, the Tedressing of which is 
 to be your own work, as much as that of paying the nation's debts, or 
 opening a trade into the South Sea ; and, though not of such immediate 
 benefit as either of these, or any other of your glorious actions, yet, 
 perhaps, in future ages not less to your honour." 
 
 The compliments which the Dean here pays to his patron, are very 
 high and strained ; and show, that, with ail his surliness, he was as 
 .capable, on^some occasions., of making his court to a great man by jftat- 
 
L'ECT. XXTV.J DEAN SWIFT'S STYLE, 227 
 
 tery, as other writers. However, with respect to the style, which is 
 the sole object of our present consideration, everything here, as far as 
 appears to me, is faultless. In these sentences, and, indeed, through- 
 out this paragraph, in general, which we have now ended, our author's 
 style appears to great advantage. We see that ease and simplicity, 
 that correctness and distinctness, which particularly characterize it. 
 It is very remarkable, how few Latinised words Dean Swift employs. 
 No writer, in our language, is so purely English as he is, or borrows s© 
 little assistance from words of foreign derivation. From none can we 
 take a better model of the choice and proper significancy of words. 
 It is remarkable, in the sentences we have now before us, how plain 
 all the expressions are, and yet at the same time, how significant ; and, 
 in the midst of that high strain of compliment into which he rises, how 
 little there is of pomp, or glare of expression. How very few writers 
 can preserve this manly temperance of style ; or would think a com- 
 pliment of this nature supported with sufficient dignity, unless they 
 had embellished it with some of those high-sounding words, whose 
 chief effect is no other than to give their language a stiff and forced ap- 
 pearance ? 
 
 " My Lord, I do here, in the name of all the learned and polite per- 
 sons of the nation, complain to your Lordship, as first minister, that our 
 language is extremely imperfect ; that its daily improvements are by no 
 means in proportion to its daily corruptions ; that the pretenders to 
 polish and refine it, have chiefly multiplied abuses and absurdities 5 
 and that, in many instances, it offends against every part of grammar." 
 
 The turn of this sentence is .extremely elegant. He had spoken be- 
 fore of a grievance for which he sought redress, and he carries on the 
 allusion, by entering here directly on his subject, in the style of a pub- 
 lic -representation presented to the minister of state. One imperfec- 
 tion, however, there is in this sentence, which, luckily for our purpose, 
 serves to illustrate a rule before given, concerning the position of ad- 
 verbs, so as to avoid ambiguity. It is in the middle of the sentence : 
 i l that the pretenders to polish and refine it have chiefly multiplied abuses 
 and absurdities." Now, concerning the import of this adverb, chiefly:, 
 I ask, whether it signifies that these pretenders to polish the language, 
 have been the chief persons who have multiplied its abuses in dis- 
 tinction from others, or, that the chief thing which these pretenders 
 have done, is to multiply the abuses of our language in opposition to their 
 4i doing any thing to refine it ?" These two meanings are really differ- 
 ent ; and yet, by the position which the word chiefly has in the sen- 
 tence, we are left at a loss in which to understand it. The construction 
 would lead us rather to the latter sense ; that the chief thing which 
 these pretenders have done, is to multiply the abuses of our language. 
 But it is more than probable, that the former sense was what the Dean 
 intended, as it carries more of his usual satirical edge ; " that the pre- 
 tended refiners of our language were, in fact, its chief corrupters ;" on 
 which supposition, his words ought to have run thus : " that the pretenders 
 to polish and refine it have been the chief persons to multiply its abuses 
 and absurdities ;" which would have rendered the sense perfectly clear. 
 
 Perhaps, too, there might be ground for observing farther upon this 
 sentence, that as language is the object with which it sets out ; " that our 
 language is extremely imperfect 5" and as there follows an enumeration 
 concerning language, in three particulars, it had been better if language 
 
2^1 Critical examination of _'lect. xxir 
 
 had been kept the ruling word, or the nominative to every verb, without 
 changing the construction; by making pretenders the ruling word, as is 
 done in the second member of the enumeration, and then, in the third, re- 
 turning again to the former word, language. " That the pretenders 
 to polish — and that 5 in manj^ instances, it offends" — I am persuaded, that 
 the structure of the sentence would have been more neat and happy, and 
 its unity more complete, if the members of it had been arranged thus : 
 Si That our language is extremely imperfect ; that its daily improvements 
 are by no means in proportion to its daily corruptions ; that, in many 
 instances, it offends against every part of grammar ; and that the pre- 
 tenders to polish and refine it, have been the chief persons to multiply 
 its abuses and absurdities." This degree of attention seemed proper to 
 be bestowed on such a sentence as this, in order to show how it might 
 have been conducted after the most perfect manner, Our author, after 
 having said, 
 
 w Lest your Lordship should think my censure too severe, I shall take 
 leave to be more particular :" proceeds in the following paragraph : 
 
 " I believe your Lordship will agree with me, in the reason why our 
 language is less refined than those of Italy, Spain, or France." 
 
 I am sorry to say, that now we shall have less to commend in our au- 
 thor. For the whole of this paragraph, on which we are entering, is. 
 in truth, perplexed and inaccurate. Even in this short sentence, we 
 may discern an inaccuracy — " why our language is less refined than those 
 of Italy, Spain, or France ;" putting the pronoun those in the plural ) 
 when the antecedent substantive to which it refers is in the singular. 
 our language. Instances of this kind may sometimes be found in 
 English authors ; but they sound harsh to the ear, and are certainly 
 contrary to the purity of grammar. By a very little attention, this inac- 
 curacy might have been remedied, and the sentence have been made 
 to run much better in this way ; " why our language is less refined than 
 the Italian, Spanish, or French." 
 
 " It is plain, that the Latin tongue, in its purity, was never in this 
 island ; towards the conquest of which, few or no attempts were made 
 till the time of Claudius ; neither was that language ever so vulgar in 
 Britain, as it is known to have been in Gaiil and Spain." 
 
 To say, that " the Latin tongue, in its purity, was never in this island." 
 is very careless style ; it ought to have been, " was never spoken in this 
 island." In the progress of the sentence, he means to give a reason why 
 the Latin was never spoken in its purity among us, because our island 
 Was not conquered by the Romans till after the purity of their tongue 
 began to decline. But this reason ought to have been brought out more 
 clearly. This might easily have been clone, and the relation of the 
 several parts of the sentence to each other much better pointed out by 
 means of a small variation ; thus : " It is plain that the Latin tongue in 
 its purity was never spoken in this island, as few or no attempts towards 
 the conquest of it were made till the time of Claudius." He adds, "neither 
 was that language ever so vulgar in Britain;." Vulgar was one of the 
 worst words he could have chosen for expressing what he means here : 
 namely, that the Latin tongue was at no time so general, or so mUch in 
 vommon use, in Britain as it is known to have been in Gaul and Spain. 
 Vulgar, when applied to language, commonly signifies impure, or de- 
 based language, such as is spoken by the low people, whichis quite opposite 
 to the author's sense here • fe T * instead of meaning to sav. that the Latin 
 
r. XXI\ .] DEAN SWIFT'S STYLE. 229 
 
 spoken in Britain was not so debased, as what was spoken in Gaul and 
 Spain ; he means just the contrary, and had been telling us, that we never 
 were acquainted with the Latin at all, till its purity began to be corrupted. 
 
 " Further, we find that the Roman legions here, were at length all 
 recalled to help their country against the Goths and other barbarous in- 
 vaders." 
 
 The chief scope of this sentence is, to give a reason why the Latin 
 tongue did not strike any deep root in this island, on account of the short 
 continuance of the Romans in it. He goes on : 
 
 " Meantime the Britons, left to shift for themselves, and daily harassed 
 by cruel inroads from the Picts, were forced to call in the Saxons for 
 their defence ; who, consequently, reduced the greatest part of the island 
 to their own power, drove the Britons into the most remote and moun- 
 tainous parts, and the rest of the country, in customs, religion, and lan- 
 guage, became wholly Saxon." 
 
 This is a very exceptionable sentence. First, the phrase " left to shift 
 for themselves," is rather a low phrase, and too much in the familiar style 
 to be proper in a grave treatise. Next, as the sentence advances — 
 4 ' forced to call in the Saxons for their defence, who consequently reduced 
 the greatest part of the island to their own power. " What is the meaning of 
 consequently here ? If it means afterward, or in progress of time, 
 this, certainly, is not a sense in which consequently is often taken ; and 
 therefore the expression is chargeable with obscurity. The adverb, 
 consequently , in its most common acceptation, denotes one thing following 
 from another, as an effect from a cause. If he uses it in this sense, and 
 means that the Britons being subdued by the Saxons, was a necessary 
 consequence of their having called in these Saxons to their assistance; 
 this consequence is drawn too abruptly, and needed more explanation. 
 For though it has often happened, that nations have been subdued by 
 their own auxiliaries, yet this is not a consequence of such a nature that 
 it can be assumed, as it seems here to be done, for a first and self-evident 
 principle. But further, what shall we say to this phrase, " reduced the 
 greatest part of the island to their own power V we say, " reduce to"rule ; 
 reduce to practice :" we can say, that " one nation reduces another to 
 subjection." But w r hep dominion or power is used, we always, as far as I 
 know, say, " reduce under their power." " Reduce to their power," is'so 
 harsh and uncommon an expression, that, though Dean Swift's authority 
 in language be very great, yet in the use of this phrase, I am of opinion 
 that it would not be safe to follow his example. 
 
 Besides these particular inaccuracies, this sentence is chargeable with 
 want of unity in the composition of the whole. The persons and the 
 scene are too often changed upon us. First, the Britons are mentioned, 
 who are harassed by inroads from the Picts ; next, the Saxons appear, 
 who subdue the greatest part of the island, and drive the Britons into 
 the mountains ; and, lastly, the rest of the country is introduced, and a 
 description given of the change made upon it. All this forms a group 
 of various objects, presented in such quick succession, that the mind 
 finds it dimcult to comprehend them under one view. Accordingly, it is 
 quoted in the Elements of Criticism, as an instance of a sentence ren- 
 dered faulty by the breach of unity. 
 
 " This I take to be the reason why there are more Latin words re- 
 maining in the British than the old Saxon ; which, excepting some few 
 variations in the orthography, is the same in most original words with 
 
030 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XXJV, 
 
 our present English, as .well as with the German and other northern 
 dialects." 
 
 This sentence is faulty, somewhat in the same manner with the last. 
 It is loose in the connexion of its parts ; and, besides this, it is also too 
 loosely connected with the preceding sentence. What he had there 
 said concerning the Saxons expelling the Britons, and changing the cus- 
 toms, the religion, and the language of the country, is a clear and good 
 reason for our present language being Saxon rather than British. This 
 is the inference which we would naturally expect him to draw from the 
 premises just before laid down : but when he tells us, that " this is the rea- 
 son why there are more Latin words remaining in the British tongue than 
 in the old Saxon," we are presently at a stand. No reason for this infer- 
 ence appears. If it can be gathered at all from the foregoing deduction, 
 it is gathered only imperfectly. For, as he had told us, that the Britons 
 had some connexion with the Romans, he should have also told us, in 
 order to make^out his inference, that the Saxons never had any. The 
 truth is, the whole of this paragraph concerning the influence of the 
 Latin tongue upon ours, is careless, perplexed, and obscure. His argu- 
 ment required to have been more fully unfolded, in order to make it be 
 distinctly apprehended, and to give it its due force. In the next para- 
 graph, he proceeds to discourse concerning the influence of the French 
 tongue upon our language. The style becomes more clear, though not 
 remarkable for great beauty or elegance. 
 
 "Edward the Confessor, having lived long in France, appears to have 
 been the first who introduced any mixture of the French Tongue with 
 the Saxon ; the court affecting what the Prince was fond of, and others 
 taking it up for a fashion, as it is now with us. William the Conqueror 
 proceeded much further, bringing over with him vast numbers of that 
 nation, scattering them in every monastery, giving them great quantities 
 of land, directing all pleadings to be in that language, and endeavouring 
 to make it universal in the kingdom." 
 
 On these two sentences, I have nothing of moment to observe. The 
 sense is brought out clearly, and in simple, unaffected language. 
 
 " This, at least, is the opinion generally received ; but your Lordship 
 hath fully convinced me, that the French tongue made yet a greater 
 progress here under Harry the Second, who had large territories on that 
 continent both from his father and his wife ; made frequent journeys 
 and expeditions thither ; and was always attended with a number of his 
 countrymen, retainers at court." 
 
 In the beginning of this sentence, our author states an opposition be- 
 tween an opinion generally received, and that of his Lordship ; and in com- 
 pliment to his patron, he tells us, that his Lordship had convinced him of 
 somewhat that differed from the general opinion. Thus one must na- 
 turally understand his words : " This, at least, is the opinion generally re- 
 ceived; butyour Lordship hath fully convinced me" — Now here there must 
 be inaccuracy of expression. For on examining what went before, there 
 appears no sort of opposition betwixt the generally received opinion, 
 and that of the author's patron. The general opinion was, that William 
 the Conqueror had proceeded much farther than Edward the Confessor, 
 in propagating the French language, and 'had endeavoured to make it 
 universal. Lord Oxford's opinion was, that the French tongue had gone 
 on to make a yet greater progress under Harry the Second, than it had 
 done binder his predecessor William : which two opinions are as entirely 
 
LECT.XXIV.] DEAN SWIFT'S STYLE ^i 
 
 consistent with each other, as any can be ; and therefore the opposition, 
 here affected to be stated between them, by the adversative particle but? 
 was improper and groundless. 
 
 " For some centuries after, there was a constant intercourse between 
 France and England, by the dominions we possessed there, and the con- 
 quests we made; so that our language, between two and three hundred 
 years ago, seems to have had a greater mixture with French than at 
 present ; many words having been afterward rejected, and some since 
 the days of Spenser ; although we have still retained not a few, which 
 have been long antiquated in France." 
 
 This is a sentence too long and intricate, and liable to the same objec- 
 tion that was made to a former one, of the want of unity. It consists of 
 four members, each divided from the subsequent by a semicolon. In 
 going along we naturally expect the sentence is to end at the second of 
 these, or at farthest, at the third ; when, to our surprise, a new mem- 
 ber pops out upon us, and fatigues our attention in joining all the parts 
 together. Such a structure of a sentence is always the mark of careless 
 writing. In the first member of the sentence, " a constant intercourse be- 
 tween France and England, by the dominions we possessed there, and the 
 conquest we made," the construction is not sufficiently filled up. In place 
 of" intercourse by the dominions we possessed," it should have been— 
 " by reason of the dominions we possessed ;" or, " occasioned by the 
 dominions we possessed ;" and in place of, " the dominions we possessed 
 there, and the conquests we made," the regular style is — " the dominions 
 which we possessed there, and the conquests which we. made." The 
 relative pronoun which, is, indeed, in phrases of this kind, sometimes 
 omitted. But when it is omitted the style becomes elliptic ; and though in 
 conversation, or in very light and easy kinds of writing, such elliptic style 
 may not be improper, yet in grave and regular writing, it is better to fill 
 up the construction, and insert the relative pronoun. After having said, 
 " I could produce several instances of both kinds, if it were of any use 
 or entertainment," our author begins the next paragraph thus : 
 
 " To examine into the several circumstances by which the language 
 of a country may be altered, would force me to enter into a wide field." 
 
 There is nothing remarkable in this sentence, unless that here occurs 
 the first instance of a metaphor since the beginning of this treatise ; 
 " entering into a wide field," being put for beginning an extensive sub- 
 ject. Few writers deal less in figurative language than Swift. I before 
 observed, that he appears to despise ornaments of this kind ; and though 
 this renders his style somewhat dry on serious subjects, yet his plain- 
 ness and simplicity, I must not forbear to remind my readers, is far pre?- 
 ferable to an ostentatious, and affected parade of ornament. 
 
 " I shall only observe, that the Latin, the French, and the English, 
 seem to have undergone the same fortune. The first, from the days of 
 Romulus to those of Julius Caesar, suffered perpetual changes ; and by 
 what we meet in those authors who occasionally speak on that subject, 
 as well as from certain fragments of old laws, it is manifest that the 
 Latin, three hundred years before Tully, was as unintelligible in his 
 time, as the French and English of the same period are now ; and these 
 two have changed as much since William the Conqueror (which is but 
 little less than seven hundred years) as the Latin appears to have done 
 in the like term." 
 
 The Dean plainly appears to be writing negligently here. This 
 
ggg CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [ LECT. XXIV 
 
 sentence is one of that involved and intricate kind, of which some 
 instances have occurred before ; but none worse than this. It requires 
 a very distinct head to comprehend the whole meaning of the period at 
 first reading. In one part of it we find extreme carelessness of expression, 
 He says, " It is manifest that the Latin, three hundred years before Tully, 
 was as unintelligible in his time, as the English and French of the same 
 period are now." By the English and French of the same period" must 
 naturally be understood, " the English and French that were spoken 
 three hundred years before Tully." This is the only grammatical mean- 
 ing his words will bear ; and yet assuredly what he means, and what it 
 would have been easy for him to have expressed with more precision, is, 
 '•' the English and French that were spoken three hundred years ago f* 
 or at aperiod equally distant from our age, as the old Latin, which he had 
 mentioned, was from the age of Tully. But when an author writes hastily, 
 and does not review with proper care what he has written, many such 
 inaccuracies will be apt to creep into his style. 
 
 " Whether our language or the French will decline as fast as the Ro- 
 man did, is a question that would perhaps admit more debate than it is 
 worth. There were many reasons for the corruptions of the last ; as 
 the change of their government to a tyranny, which ruined the study 
 of eloquence, there being no further use or encouragement for popular 
 orators : their giving not only the freedom of the city, but capacity for 
 employments, to several towns in Gaul, Spain, and Germany, and 
 other distant parts, as far as Asia, which brought a great number of 
 foreign pretenders to Rome ; the slavish disposition of the senate and 
 people, by which the wit and eloquence of the age were wholly turn- 
 ed into panegyric, the most barren of all subjects ; the great corrup- 
 tion of manners, and introduction of foreign luxury, with foreign terms 
 to express it, with several others that might be assigned ; not to men- 
 tion the invasions from the Goths and Vandals, which are too obvious to 
 insist on." 
 
 In the enumeration here made of the causes contributing towards 
 the corruption of the Roman language, there are many inaccuracies—" 
 91 The change of their government to a tyranny ;" Of whose government ? 
 He had indeed been speaking of the Roman language, and therefore we 
 guess at his meaning ; but the style is ungrammatical ; for he had not 
 mentioned the Romans themselves ; and therefore, when he says, " their 
 government," there is no antecedent in the sentence to which the pronoun 
 their can refer with any propriety.—" Giving the capacity for employ- 
 ments to several towns in Gaul," is a questionable expression. For though 
 towns are sometimes put for the people who inhabit them, yet to give a 
 town " the capacity for employments," sounds harsh and uncouth. " The 
 wit and eloquence of the age wholly turned into panegyric," is a phrase 
 which does not well express the meaning. Neither wit nor eloquence can 
 be turned into panegyric ; but they may be turned towards panegyric, or 
 employed in panegyric, which was the sense the author had in view. 
 
 The conclusion of the enumeration is visibly incorrect — " The great 
 corruption of manners, and introduction of foreign luxury, with foreign 
 terms to express it, with several others that might be assigned." — He 
 means, " with several other reasons." The word reasons had indeed been 
 mentioned before ; but as it stands at the distance of thirteen lines back- 
 ward, the repetition of it here became indispensable, in order to avoid 
 ambiguity. " Not to mention," he adds, " the invasions fromtheGoths and 
 
LECT.XXIV.] OF DEAIs SWIFT'S STYLE. <%$$ 
 
 Vandals, which are too obvious to insist on." One would imagine him to 
 mean, that the invasions from the Goths and Vandals, are historical facts 
 too well known and obvious to be insisted on. But he means quite a 
 different thing, though he has not taken the proper method of express- 
 ing it, through his haste, probably, to finish the paragraph : namely, 
 that these invasions from the Goths and Vandals, " were causes of the cor- 
 ruption of the Roman language too obvious to be insisted on." 
 
 I shall not pursue this criticism any further. I have been obliged to 
 point out many inaccuracies in the passage which we have considered. 
 But, in order that my observations may not be construed as meant to 
 depreciate the style or the writings of Dean Swift below their just 
 value, there are two remarks which I judge it necessary to make before 
 concluding this lecture. One is, that it were unfair to estimate an 
 author's style on the whole, by some passage in his writings, which 
 chances to be composed in a careless manner. This is the case with 
 respect to this treatise, which has much the appearance of a hasty pro- 
 duction : though, as I before observed, it was by no means on that ac- 
 count that I pitched upon it for the subject of this exercise. But after 
 having examined it, I am sensible that in many other of his writings, the 
 Dean is more accurate. 
 
 My other observation, which applies equally to Dean Swift and Mr* 
 Addison, is, that there may be writers much freer from such inaccura- 
 cies, as I have had occasion to point out in these two, whose style, 
 however, upon the whole, may not have half their merit. Refinement 
 in language has, of late years, begun to be much attended to. In 
 several modern productions of very small value, I should find it diffi- 
 cult to point out many errors in language. The words might probably 
 be all proper words, correctly and clearly arranged ; and the turn of 
 the sentence sonorous and musical ; whilst yet the style, upon the 
 whole, might deserve no praise. The fault often lies in what may be 
 called the general cast or complexion of the style ; which a person, 
 of a good taste discerns to be vicious ; to be feeble, for instance, and 
 diffuse ; flimsy or affected ; petulant or ostentatious ; though the faults 
 cannot be so easily pointed out and particularized, as when they lie in 
 some erroneous or negligent construction of a sentence. Whereas 
 such writers as Addison and Swift, carry always those general charac- 
 ters of good style, which in the midst of their occasional negligence, 
 every person of good taste must discern and approve. We see their 
 faults overbalanced by higher beauties. We see a writer of sense and 
 reflection expressing his sentiments without affectation, attentive to 
 thoughts as well as to words ; and, in the main current of his language, 
 elegant and beautiful ; and, therefore, the only proper use to be made 
 of the blemishes which occur in the writings of such authors, is to point 
 out to those who apply themselves to the study of composition, some 
 of the rules which they ought to observe for avoiding such errors ; and 
 to render them sensible of the necessity of strict attention to language 
 and to style. Let them imitate the ease and simplicity of those great 
 authors ; let them study to be always natural, and, as far as they can, 
 always correct in their expressions : let them endeavour to be, at some 
 times, lively and striking ; but carefully avoid being at any time osten- 
 tatious and affected. 
 
^o4 
 
 LECTURE XXV 
 
 ELOQUENCE, OR PUBLIC SPEAKING— HISTORY OF ELOQUENCE— 
 GRECIAN ELOQUENCE—DEMOSTHENES. 
 
 Having finished that part of the course which relates to language and 
 style, we are now to ascend a step higher, and to examine the subjects 
 upon which style is employed. I begin with what is properly called 
 eloquence, or public speaking. In treating of this, 1 am to consider the 
 different kinds and subjects of public speaking; the manner suited to 
 each ; the proper distribution and management of all the parts of a 
 discourse ; and the proper pronunciation or delivery of it. But before 
 I enter on any of these heads, it may be proper to take a view of the 
 nature of eloquence in general, and of the state in which it has subsist- 
 ed in different ages and countries. This will lead into some detail ; but 
 I hope a useful one ; as in every art it is of great consequence to have 
 a just idea of the perfection of that art, of the end at which it aims, and 
 of the progress which it has made among mankind. 
 
 Of eloquence, in particular, it is the more necessary to ascertain the 
 proper notion, because there is not any thing concerning which false 
 notions have been more prevalent. Hence, it has been so often, and is 
 still at this day, in disrepute with many. When you speak to a plain man 5 
 of eloquence, or in praise of it, he is apt to hear you with very little 
 attention. He conceives eloquence to signify a certain trick of speech ; 
 the art of varnishing weak arguments plausibly ; or of speaking, so as to 
 please and tickle the ear. " Give me good sense," says he, " and keep 
 your eloquence for boys." He is in the right, if eloquence were what 
 he conceives it to be. It would be then a very contemptible art indeed, 
 below the study of any wise or good man. But nothing can be more 
 remote from truth. To be truly eloquent, is to speak to the purpose. 
 For the best definition which, I think, can be given of eloquence, is the 
 art of speaking in such a manner as to attain the end for which we speak. 
 Whenever a man speaks or writes, he is supposed, as a rational being, 
 to have some end in view ; either to inform, or to amuse, or to persuade, 
 or, in some way or other, to act upon his fellow-creatures. He who 
 speaks or writes, in such a manner as to adapt all his words most effec- 
 tually to that end, is the most eloquent man. Whatever then the subject 
 be, there is room for eloquence ; in history, or even in philosophy, as 
 well as in orations. The definition which I have given of eloquence, 
 comprehends all the different kinds of it ; whether calculated to in- 
 struct, to persuade, or to please. But, as the most important subject of 
 discourse is action, or conduct, the power of eloquence chiefly appears 
 when it is employed to influence conduct, and persuade to action. As it 
 is principally, with reference to this end, that it becomes the object of 
 art, eloquence may, under this view of it, be defined, the art of per- 
 suasion. 
 
 This being once established, certain consequences immediately follow, 
 which point out the fundamental maxims of the art. It follows clearly, 
 that in order to persuade,, the most essential requisites are, solid argu- 
 
LECT. XXV.] ELOQUENCE. OR PUBLtC SPEAivLXG. 235 
 
 ment, clear method, a character of probity appearing in the speaker, 
 joined with such graces of style and utterance, as shall draw our atten- 
 tion to what he says. Good sense is the foundation of all. No man can 
 be truly eloquent without it ; for fools can persuade none but fools. In 
 order to persuade a man of sense you must first convince him ; which 
 is only to be done by satisfying his understanding of the reasonableness 
 of what you propose to him. 
 
 This leads me to observe, that convincing and persuading, though 
 they are sometimes confounded, import, notwithstanding, different things, 
 which it is necessary for us, at present, to distinguish from each other. 
 Conviction affects the understanding only ; persuasion, the will and the 
 practice. It is the business of the philosopher to convince me of truth ; 
 it is the business of the orator to persuade me to act agreeably to it, by 
 engaging my affections on its side. Conviction and persuasion do not 
 always go together. They ought, indeed, to go together ; and would do 
 so, if our inclination regularly followed the dictates of our understanding. 
 But as our nature is constituted, I may be convinced, that virtue, justice, 
 or public spirit, are laudable, while, at the same time, I am not persuaded 
 to act according to them. The inclination may revolt, though the un- 
 derstanding be satisfied : the passions may prevail against the judgment. 
 Conviction is, however, always one avenue to the inclination or heart ; 
 and it is that which an orator must first bend his strength to gain ; for 
 no persuasion is likely to be stable, which is not founded upon convic- 
 tion. But, in order to persuade, the orator must go farther than merely 
 producing conviction ; he must consider man as a creature moved by 
 many different springs, and must act upon them all. He must address 
 himself to the passions ; he must paint to the fancy, and touch the heart ; 
 and, hence, besides solid argument, and clear method, all the concilia- 
 ting and interesting arts, both of composition and pronunciation, enter 
 into the idea of eloquence. 
 
 An objection may, perhaps, hence he formed against eloquence ; as 
 an art which may be employed for persuading to ill, as well as to good. 
 There is no doubt that it may ; and so reasoning may also be, and too 
 often is employed, for leading men into error. But who would think of 
 forming an argument from this against the cultivation of our reasoning 
 powers ? reason, eloquence, and every art which ever has been studied 
 among mankind, may be abused, and may prove dangerous in the hands 
 of bad men ; but it were perfectly childish to contend, that upon this ac- 
 count, they ought to be abolished. Give truth and virtue the same arms 
 which you give to vice and falsehood, and the former are likely to prevail. 
 Eloquence is no invention of the schools. Nature teaches every man to 
 be eloquent, when he is much in earnest. Place him in some critical 
 situation ; let him have some great interest at stake, and you will see him 
 lay hold of the most effectual means of persuasion. The art of oratory 
 proposes nothing more than to follow out that track which nature has first 
 pointed out to men. And the more exactly that this track is pursued, the 
 more that eloquence is properly studied, the more shall we be guarded 
 against the abuse which bad men make of it, and enable the better to 
 distinguish between true eloquence and the tricks of sophistry. 
 
 We may distinguish three kinds, or degrees of eloquence. The first, - 
 and lowest, is that which aims only at pleasing the hearers. Such, gene- 
 rally, is the eloquence of panegyrics, inaugural orations, addresses to 
 great men, and other harangues of this sort. This ornamental sort of 
 
a 36 ELOQUENCE, OR [LECT. XX¥ 
 
 composition is not altogether to be rejected. It may innocently amuse 
 and entertain the mind : and it may be mixed, at the same time, with 
 very useful sentiments. But it must be confessed, that where the 
 speaker has no farther aim than merely to shine and to please, there is 
 great danger of art being strained into ostentation, and of the composi- 
 tion becoming tiresome and languid. 
 
 A second and a higher degree of eloquence is, when the speaker 
 aims not merely to please, but also to inform, to instruct, to convince : 
 when his art is exerted, in removing prejudices against himself and his 
 cause : in choosing the most proper arguments, stating them with the 
 greatest force, arranging them in the best order, expressing and delivering 
 them with propriety and beauty ; and thereby disposing us to pass that 
 judgment or embrace that side of the cause, to which he seeks to bring 
 us. Within this compass, chiefly is employed the eloquence of the bar. 
 
 But there is a third, and still higher degree of eloquence, wherein a 
 greater power is exerted over the human mind ; by which we are not 
 only convinced, but are interested, agitated, and carried along with the 
 speaker ; our passions are made to rise together with his ; we enter 
 into all his emotions ; we love, we detest, we resent, according as he 
 inspires us ; and are prompted to resolve, or to act, with vigour and 
 warmth. Debate in popular assemblies, opens the most illustrious field 
 fo this species of eloquence ; and the pulpit also admits it. 
 
 I am here to observe, and the observation is of consequence, that the 
 high eloquence which I have last mentioned, is always the offspring of 
 passion. By passion, I mean that state of the mind in which it is agita- 
 ted, and fired by some object it has in view. A man may convince, and 
 even persuade others to act by mere reason and argument. But that 
 degree of eloquence which gains the admiration of mankind, and properly 
 denominates one an orator, is never found without warmth or passion. 
 Passion, when in such a degree as to rouse and kindle the mind, without 
 throwing it out of the possession of itself, is universally found to exalt 
 all the human powers. It renders the mind infinitely more enlightened, 
 more penetrating, more vigorous and masterly, than it is in its calm mo- 
 ments. A man, actuated by a strong passion, becomes much greater 
 than he is at other times. He is conscious of more strength and force ; 
 he utters greater sentiments, conceives higher designs, and executes 
 them with a boldness and felicity, of which, on other occasions, he 
 could not think himself capable. But chiefly, with respect to persuasion, 
 Is the power of passion felt. Almost every man, in passion, is eloquent. 
 Then he is at no loss for words and arguments. He transmits to others, 
 by a sort of contagious sympathy, the warm sentiments which he feels : 
 his looks and gestures are all persuasive ; and nature here shows herself 
 infinitely more powerful than art. This is the foundation of that just 
 and noted rule : " Si vis me flere, dolendum estprimum ipsi tibi." 
 
 This principle being once admitted, that all high eloquence flows from 
 passion, several consequences follow, which deserve to be attended to ; 
 and the mention of which will serve to confirm the principle itself. For 
 hence the universally acknowledged effect of enthusiasm, or warmth of 
 any kind, in public speakers, for affecting their audience. Hence all 
 laboured declamation, and affected ornaments of style, which show the 
 mind to be cool and unmoved, are so inconsistent with persuasive elo- 
 quence. Hence all studied prettinesses, in gesture or pronunciation, 
 detract so greatly from the weight of a speaker. Hence a discourse 
 
LECT. XXV.] PUBLIC SPEAKING, 237 
 
 that is read, moves us less than one that is spoken, as having less the 
 appearance of coming warm from the heart. Hence, to call a man cold, 
 is the same thing as to say, that he is not eloquent. Hence, a skeptical 
 man, who is always in suspense, and feels nothing strongly ; or a cunning 
 mercenary man, who is suspected rather to assume the appearance of 
 passion than to feel it ; have so little power over men in public speaking. 
 Hence, in fine, the necessity of being, and being believed to be, disinter- 
 ested, and in earnest, in order to persuade. 
 
 These are some of the capital ideas which have occurred to me, con- 
 cerning eloquence in general ; and with which 1 have thought proper to 
 begin, as the foundation of much of what I am afterward to suggest. 
 From what I have already said, it is evident that eloquence is a high 
 talent and of great importance in society ; and that it requires both 
 natural genius, and much improvement from art. Viewed as the art of 
 persuasion, it requires, in its lowest state, soundness of understanding, 
 and considerable acquaintance with human nature ; and, in its higher 
 degrees, it requires, moreover, strong sensibility of mind, a warm and 
 lively imagination, joined with correctness of judgment, and an extensive 
 command of the power of language ; to which must also be added, the 
 graces of pronunciation and delivery. Let us next proceed to consider 
 in what state eloquence has subsisted in different ages and nations. 
 
 It is an observation made by several writers, that eloquence is to be 
 looked for only in free states. Longinus, in particular, at the end of 
 his treatise on the sublime, when assigning the reason why so little sub- 
 limity of genius appeared in the age wherein he lived, illustrates this 
 observation with a great deal of beauty. Liberty, he remarks, is the 
 nurse of true genius ; it animates the spirit, and invigorates the hopes 
 of men ; excites honourable emulation, and a desire of excelling in every 
 art. All other qualifications, he says, you may find among those who 
 are deprived of liberty ; but never did a slave become an orator ; he 
 can only be a pompous flatterer. Now, though this reasoning be, in 
 the main, true ; it must, however, be understood with some limitations. 
 For, under arbitrary governments, if they be of the civilized kind, and 
 give encouragement to the arts, ornamented eloquence may flourish 
 remarkably. Witness France at this day, where, ever since the reign 
 of Louis XIV. more of what may be justly called eloquence, within a 
 certain sphere, is to be found, than, perhaps, in any other nation in 
 Europe ; though freedom be enjoyed by some nations in a much greater 
 degree. Their sermons, and orations pronounced on public occasions, 
 are not only polite and elegant harangues, but several of them are un- 
 commonly spirited, are animated with bold figures, and rise to a degree of 
 the sublime. Their eloquence, however, in general, must be confessed 
 to be of the flowery, rather than the vigorous kind ; calculated more to 
 please and sooth, than to convince and persuade. High, manly, and 
 forcible eloquence is, indeed, to be looked for only, or chiefly, in the 
 regions of freedom. Under arbitrary governments, besides the general 
 turn of softness and effeminacy which such governments may be justly 
 supposed to give to the spirit of a nation, the art of speaking cannot be 
 such an instrument of ambition, business, and power, as it is in de- 
 mocratical states. It is confined within a narrower range ; it can be ex- 
 erted only in the pulpit, or at the bar ; but is excluded from those great 
 scenes of public business, where the spirits of men have the freest play ; 
 where important affairs are transacted, and persuasion, of course, is 
 
2 3 a GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. [LECT. XXV; 
 
 more seriously studied. Wherever man can acquire most power over 
 man by means of reason and discourse, which certainly is under a free 
 state of government, there we may naturally expect that true eloquence 
 will be best understood, and carried to the greatest height. 
 
 Hence, in tracing the rise of oratory, we need not attempt to go far 
 back into the early ages of the world, or search for it among the monu- 
 ments of Eastern or Egyptian antiquity. In those ages, there was, 
 indeed, an eloquence of a certain kind; but it approached nearer to 
 poetry than to what we properly call oratory. There is reason to be- 
 lieve, as I formerly showed, that the language of the first ages was pas- 
 sionate and metaphorical ; owing partly to the scanty stock of words, of 
 which speech then consisted ; and partly to the tincture which language 
 naturally takes from the savage and uncultivated state of men, agitated 
 by unrestrained passions, and struck by events, which to them are 
 strange and surprising. In this state, rapture and enthusiasm, the parents 
 of poetry, had an ample field. But while the intercourse of men was 
 as yet unfrequent, and force and strength were the chief means employed 
 in deciding controversies, the arts of oratory and persuasion, of reasoning 
 and debate, could be but little known. The first empires that arose, the 
 Assyrian and Egyptian, were of the despotic kind. The whole power 
 was in the bands of one, or at most of a few. The multitude were 
 accustomed to a blind reverence ; they were led, not persuaded ; and 
 none of those refinements of society, which make public speaking an 
 object of importance, were as yet introduced. 
 
 It is not till the rise of the Grecian republics, that we find any re- 
 markable appearances of eloquence as the art of persuasion ; and these 
 gave it such a field as it never had before, and, perhaps, has never had 
 again since that time. And, therefore, as the Grecian eloquence has 
 ever been the object of admiration to those who have studied the powers 
 of speech, it is necessary, that we fix our attention, for a little, on this 
 period. 
 
 Greece was divided into a multitude of petty states. These were 
 governed, at first by kings, who were called tyrants, and who being, in suc- 
 cession, expelled from all these states, there sprung up a great number 
 of democratical governments, founded nearly on the same plan, animated 
 by the"same high spirit of freedom, mutually jealous, and rivals of one 
 another. We may compute the flourishing period of those Grecian states, 
 to have lasted from the battle of Marathon, till the time of Alexan- 
 der the Great, who subdued the liberties of Greece ; a period which 
 comprehends about 150 years, and within which are to be found most of 
 their celebrated poets and philosophers, but chiefly their orators : for 
 though poetry and philosophy were not extinct among them after that 
 period, yet eloquence hardly made any figure. 
 
 Of these Grecian republics, the most noted, by far, for eloquence, and, 
 indeed, for arts of every kind, was that of Athens. The Athenians were 
 an ingenious, quick, sprightly people ; practised in business, and sharpen- 
 ed by frequent and sudden revolutions, which happened in their govern- 
 ment. The genius of their government was entirely democratical ; their 
 legislature consisted of the whole body of the people. They bad 
 indeed a senate of five hundred ; but in the general convention of the 
 citizens was placed the last resort ; and affairs were conducted there, 
 altogether, by reasoning, speaking, and a skilful application to the pas- 
 sions and interests of a popular assembly. There, laws were made, 
 
LECT. XXV.j GRECIAN ELOQUENCE, 33$ 
 
 peace and war decreed, and thence the magistrates were chosen, For 
 the highest honours of the state were alike open to all ; nor was the 
 meanest tradesman excluded from a seat in their supreme courts. In 
 such a state, eloquence, it is obvious, would be much studied as the 
 surest means of rising to influence and power ; and what sort of elo- 
 quence ? Not that which was brilliant merely, and showy, but that 
 which was found upon trial to be most effectual for convincing, inter= 
 esting, and persuading the hearers. For there, public speaking was not 
 a mere competition for empty applause, but a serious contention for that 
 public leading, which was the great object both of the men of ambition,, 
 and the men of virtue. 
 
 Among a nation so enlightened and acute, where the highest attention 
 was paid to every thing elegant in the arts, we may naturally expect to 
 find the public taste refined and judicious. Accordingly, it was improv- 
 ed to such a degree, that the Attic taste and Attic manner have passed 
 into a proverb. It is true, that ambitious demagogues, and corrupt ora- 
 tors, did sometimes dazzle and mislead the people, by a showy but 
 false eloquence : for the Athenians, with all their acuteness, were 
 factious and giddy, and great admirers of every novelty. But when 
 some important interest drew their attention, when any great danger 
 roused them, and put their judgment to a serious trial, they commonly 
 distinguished, very justly, between genuine and spurious eloquence ; 
 and hence Demosthenes triumphed over all his opponents ; because he 
 spoke always to the purpose, affected no insignificant parade of words ? 
 used weighty arguments, and showed them clearly where their interest 
 lay. In critical conjunctures of the state, when the public were alarmed 
 with some pressing danger, when the people were assembled, and pro- 
 clamation was made by the crier, for any one to rise and deliver his 
 opinion upon the present situation of affairs, empty declamation and 
 sophistical reasoning would not only have been hissed, but resented and 
 punished by an assembly so intelligent and accustomed to business. 
 Their greatest orators trembled on such occasions, when they rose to 
 address the people, as they knew they were to be held answerable for 
 the issue of the counsel which they gave. The most liberal endow- 
 ments of the greatest princes never could found such a school for true 
 oratory, as was formed by the nature of the Athenian republic. Elo- 
 quence there sprung, native and vigorous, from amidst the contentions 
 of faction and freedom, of public business and of active life ; and not 
 from that retirement and speculation, which we are apt sometimes to 
 fancy more favourable to eloquence than they are found to be. 
 
 Pisistratus,who was contemporary with Solon, and subverted his plan 
 of government, is mentioned by Plutarch, as the first who distinguished 
 himself among the Athenians by application to the arts of speech. His 
 ability in these arts he employed for raising himself to the sovereign 
 power ; which, however, when he had attained it, he exercised with 
 moderation. Of the orators who flourished between his time and the 
 Peloponnesian war, no particular mention is made in history. Pericles 3 
 who died about the beginning of that war, was properly the first who 
 carried eloquence to a great height ; to such a height indeed, that it 
 does not appear he was ever afterward surpassed. He was more than 
 an orator ; he was also a statesman and a general ; expert in business, 
 and of consummate address. For forty years he governed Athens 
 with absolute sway ; and historians ascribe his influence, not more to 
 
^40 GRECIAN ELOQUENCE, [LECT. XXV, 
 
 his political talents than to his eloquence, which was of that forcible and 
 vehement kind, that bore every thing before it, and triumphed over the 
 passions and affections of the people. Hence he had the surname of 
 Olympias given him ; and it was said, that, like Jupiter, he thundered 
 when he spoke. Though his ambition be liable to censure, yet great 
 virtues certainly he had ; and it was the confidence which the people 
 reposed in his integrity, that gave such a power to his eloquence ; a cir- 
 cumstance, without which the influence of public speaking in a papular 
 state can seldom go far. He appears to have been generous, magnani- 
 mous, and public spirited ; he raised no fortune to himself; he expend- 
 ed indeed great sums of the public money, but chiefly on public works ; 
 and at his death is said to have valued himself principally on havingnever 
 obliged any citizen to wear mourning on his account, during his long 
 administration. It is a remarkable particular recorded of Pericles by 
 Suidas, that he was the first Athenian who composed, and put into wri- 
 ting, a discourse designed for the public. 
 
 Posterior to Pericles, in the course of the Peloponnesian war, arose 
 Cleon, Alcibiades, Critias, and Theramenas, eminent citizens of Athens, 
 who were all distinguished for their eloquence. They were not orators 
 by profession ; they were not formed by schools, but by a much more 
 powerful education, that of business and debate ; where man sharpened 
 man, and civil affairs carried on by public speaking, called forth every 
 exertion of the mind. The manner or style of oratory which then pre- 
 vailed, we learn from the orations in the history of Thucydides, who also 
 nourished in the same age. It was manly, vehement, and concise, even 
 to some degree of obscurity. " Grandes erant verbis," says Cicero, 
 " crebri sententiis, compressione rerum breves, et, ob earn ipsam causam, 
 interdum sub obscuri."* A manner very riifferent from what, in modern 
 times, we would conceive to be the style of popular oratory ; and which 
 tends to give a high idea of the acuteness of those audiences to which 
 they spoke. 
 
 The power of eloquence having, after the days of Pericles, become 
 an object of greater consequence than ever, this gave birth to a set 
 of men till then unknown, called rhetoricians, and sometimes sophists, 
 who arose in multitudes during the Peloponnesian war ; such as Prota- 
 goras, Prodicas, Thrasymus, and one who was more eminent than all 
 the rest, Gorgias of Leontium. These sophists joined to their art of 
 rhetoric a subtile logic, and were generally a sort of metaphysical skep- 
 tics. Gorgias however, was a professed master of eloquence only. 
 His reputation was prodigious. He was highly venerated in Leontium 
 of Sicily, his native city ; and money was coined with his name upon it. 
 In the latter part of his life, he established himself at Athens, and lived 
 till he had attained^the age of 105 years. Mermogenes (de Ideis, 1. if. 
 cap. 9.) has preserved a fragment of his, from which we see his style 
 and manner. It is extremely quaint and artificial : full of antithesis and 
 pointed expression ; and shows how far the Grecian subtilty had already 
 carried the study of language. These rhetoricians did not content them- 
 selves with delivering general instructions concerning eloquence to their 
 pupils, and endeavouring to form their taste ; but they professed the art 
 of giving them receipts for making all sorts of orations ; and of teaching 
 
 * " They were magnificent in their expressions ; they abounded in thought ; they 
 compressed their matter into few words, and, by their brevity, were sometimes 
 
 obscure." 
 
t£CT. XXV, j GRECIAN ELOQUENCE, ^4! 
 
 them how to speak for and against every cause whatever. Upon this 
 plan, they were the first who treated of common places, and the artificial 
 invention of arguments and topics for every subject. .In the hands of 
 such men, we may easily believe that oratory would degenerate from the 
 masculine strain it had hitherto held, and become a trifling and sophistical 
 art ; and we may justly deem them the first corrupters of true eloquence. 
 To them the great Socrates opposed himself. By a profound, but sim- 
 ple reasoning peculiar to himself, he exploded their sophistry ; and 
 endeavoured to recall men's attention from that abuse of reasoning and 
 discourse which began to be in vogue, to natural laqguage, and sound and 
 useful thought. 
 
 In the same age, though somewhat later than the philosopher above 
 mentioned, flourished Isocrates, whose writings are still extant. He 
 was a professed rhetorician, and by teaching eloquence, he acquired both 
 a great fortune, and higher fame than any of his rivals in that profes- 
 sion. No contemptible orator he was. His orations are full of morali- 
 ty and good sentiments ; they are flowing and smooth ; but too destitute 
 of vigour. He never engaged in public affairs, nor pleaded causes ; 
 and accordingly his orations are calculated only for the shade ; " Pompse,'' 
 Cicero allows, " magis quam pugnae aptior ; ad voluptatem aurium ac- 
 commodates potius quam ad judiciorum certamen."* The style of Gor- 
 gias of Leontium was formed into short sentences, composed generally 
 of two members balanced against each other. The style of Isocrates, 
 on the contrary, is swelling and full ; and he is said to be the first 
 who introduced the method of composing in regular periods, which 
 had a studied music and harmonious cadence ; a manner which he 
 has carried to a vicious excess. What shall we think of an orator, 
 ■who employed ten years in composing one discourse, still extant, en- 
 titled the Panegyric ? How much frivolous care must have been be- 
 stowed on all the minute elegance of words and sentences ? Dionysius 
 of Halicarnassus has given us upon the orations of Isocrates, as also upon 
 those of some other Greek orators, a full and regular treatise, which is, 
 in my opinion, one of the most judicious pieces of ancient criticism extant, 
 and very worthy of being consulted. He commends the splendour of 
 Isocrates's style, and the morality of his sentiments ; but severely cen- 
 sures his affectation, and the uniform regular cadence of all his sen- 
 tences. He holds him to be a florid declaimer ; not a natural persua- 
 sive speaker. Cicero, in his critical works, though he admits his fail- 
 ings, yet discovers a propensity to be very favourable to that " plena 
 ac numerosa oratio," that swelling and musical style which Isocrates in- 
 troduced, and with the love of which, Cicero himself was, perhaps, 
 somewhat infected. In one of his treatises (Orat. ad. M. Brut) he in- 
 forms us, that his friend Brutus and he differed in this particular, and 
 that Brutus found fault with his partiality to Isocrates. The manner of 
 Isocrates generally catches young people, when they begin to attend to 
 composition ; and it is very natural that it should do so. It gives them 
 an idea of that regularity, cadence, and magnificence of style, which 
 fills the ear : but when they come to write or speak for the world, they 
 will find this ostentatious manner unfit, either for carrying on business s 
 or commanding attention. It is said, that the high reputation of Iso» 
 
 * " More fitted for show than for debate ; better calculated for the amusement of 
 a public audience, than for judicial contests." 
 
 H h 
 
DEMOSTHENES. '. LECT. XXV. 
 
 crates, prompted Aristotle, who was nearly his contemporary, or lived 
 but a little after him, to write his institutions of rhetoric ; which are 
 indeed formed upon a plan of eloquence very different from that of 
 Isocrates, and the rhetoricians of that time. He seems to have had it 
 in view to direct the attention of orators much more towards convincing 
 and affecting their hearers, than towards the musical cadence of periods. 
 
 Isceus and Lysias, some of whose orations are preserved, belong also 
 to this period. Lysias was somewhat earlier than Isocrates, and is the 
 model of that manner which the ancients call the " Tenuis vel Subtilis." 
 He has none of Isocrates's pomp. He is every where pure and attic in 
 the highest degree ; simple and unaffected ; but wants force, and is 
 sometimes frigid in his compositions.* Isseus is chiefly remarkable for 
 being the master of the great Demosthenes, in whom, it must be ac- 
 knowledged, eloquence shone forth with higher splendour, than perhaps 
 in any that ever bore the name of an orator, and whose manner and cha- 
 racter, therefore, must deserve our particular attention. 
 
 I shall not spend anytime upon the circumstances of Demosthenes's 
 life ; they are well known. The strong ambition which he discovered 
 to excel in the art of speaking ; the unsuccessfulness of his first attempts ; 
 his unwearied perseverance in surmounting all the disadvantages that 
 arose from his person and address ; his shutting himself up in a cave, 
 that he might study with less distraction : his declaiming by the sea shore, 
 that he might accustom himself to the noise of a tumultuous assembly, 
 and with pebbles in his mouth, that he might correct a defect in his 
 speech ; his practising at home with a naked sword hanging over his 
 shoulder that he might check an ungraceful motion, to which he was 
 subject : all those circumstances, which we learn from Plutarch, are 
 
 * In the judicious comparison, which Dionysius of Halicarnassus makes of the 
 merits of Lysias and Isocrates, he ascribes to Lysias, as the distinguishing character 
 of his manner, a certain grace or elegance arising from simplicity ; " ris^cxe yag w 
 Avtis hifyc e%uv to Xagitv h J' Is-acgaTus fixAtrat." " The style^of Lysias has graceful- 
 ness for its nature ; that of Isocrates seeks to have it." In the art of narration, a? 
 distinct, probable, and persuasive, he holds Lysias to be superior to all orators •, at 
 the same time, he admits that his composition is more adapted to private litigation 
 than to great subjects. He convinces, but he does not elevate nor animate. The 
 magnificence and splendour of Isocrates is more suited to great occasions. He is 
 more agreeable than Lysias ; and, in dignity of sentiment, far excels him. With 
 regard to the affectation which is visible in Isocrates's manner, he concludes what 
 he says of it with the following excellent observations, which should never be for- 
 gotten by any who aspire to be true orators : " T«s (aivtoi dymxvis tw ntetoSw to 
 kvxkiov ml tm <7%i)/LiaTi<rfAu>v t«? teniae to ^s^skwN.c, ax iScKifAA^ov fyxtvu yag » fiavcia 
 ■xoKhaKis too gvBy.cc t;/s Mfs»s, kou th ko/u-^h htnriTcti <ra ahuSivoy. KgaTirov t i7riT»fev/ua. £V 
 
 dlah.iU.TU> TTOAfTlKih X*l SyZyWlV, TO OfAOlOTOlTCV TC6 KXTCt, <$V!TIV. (ZxKVTlil St « <pV<rfg TO/ff VOM/UCl- 
 
 <rtv nri<rBzi thv xs?w, a t» xt^u to. von ( uaTA au/^CaKo) it cT» 7rsgi -xoxtfjui Kctiugwus Aeyovlixai iS'ttoTH 
 
 Toy TTSgl -^W%»? TgtyjJVTl KtvfvVCV iV eT/HSlS"**?, TO. K0y.'\>&, HAi QiATgiX.*., KAl (AllgS. KtOodn TaVTl bK, 
 
 ot'Ja HTlvct 6uva.iT cty nctg&a-ofiiv ce^iKwxv' f/.ctWoy S'ciSa. oti zai /3asJ/3»s gv otiTtx ytvoiro. yetgttv- 
 T/F/U.0S yog rasev o-srsox, xxi Kihcos yivopivcs, awgw Trgayy.a kai Trotepuna. tov thin." .Judic. 
 de Isocrat. p. 558. '' His studied circumflexion of periods, and juvenile affectation 
 of the flowei's of speech, [ do not approve. The thought is frequently made subser- 
 vient to the music of the sentence ; and elegance is preferred to reason. Whereas, 
 in every discourse where business and affairs are concerned, nature ought to be fol- 
 lowed, and nature certainly dictates that the expression should be an object subor- 
 dinate to the sense ; not the sense to the expression. When one rises to give public 
 counsel concerning war and peace, or takes the charge of a private man, who is 
 standing at the bar to be tried for li is life, those studied decorations, those theatrical 
 graces and juveuile flowers are out of place. Instead of being of service they are 
 detrimental to the cause we espouse. When the contest is of a serious kind, orna- 
 ments, which at another time would have beauty, then lose their effect, and prove- 
 hostile to the -affections which we wish to raise in our hearers." 
 
VT. XXV.] DEMOSTHENES. 343 
 
 very encouraging to such as study eloquence, as they show how tap art 
 and application may avail, for acquiring an excellence which nature 
 seemed unwilling to grant us. 
 
 Despising the affected and florid manner which the rhetoricians of 
 that age followed, Demosthenes returned to the forcible and manly elo- 
 quence of Pericles ; and strength and vehemence form the principal 
 characteristics of his style. Never had orator a finer field than 
 Demosthenes in his Olynthiacs and Philippics, which are his capital 
 orations ; and, no doubt, to the nobleness of the subject, and to that 
 integrity and public spirit which eminently breathe in them, they are 
 indebted for much of their merit. The subject is to rouse the indigna- 
 tion of his countrymen against Philip of Macedon, the public enemy of 
 the liberties of Greece ; and to guard them against the insidious mea- 
 sures, by which that crafty prince endeavoured to lay them asleep to 
 danger. In the prosecution of this end, we see him taking every 
 proper method to animate a people, renowned for justice, humanit}*-, and 
 valour, but in many instances become corrupt and degenerate. He 
 boldly taxes them with their venality, their indolence, and indifference 
 to the public cause; while, at the same time, with all the art of an 
 orator, he recalls the glory of their ancestors to their thoughts, shows 
 them that they are still a flourishing and a powerful people, the natural 
 protectors of the liberty of Greece, and who wanted only the inclination to 
 exert themselves, in order to make Philip tremble. With his contem- 
 porary orators, who were in Philip's interest, and who persuaded the 
 people to peace, he keeps no measures, but plainly reproaches them as 
 the betrayers of their country. He not only prompts to vigorous con- 
 duct, but he lays down the plan of that conduct ; he enters into par- 
 ticulars ; and points out, with great exactness, the measures of execu- 
 tion. This is the strain of these orations. They are strongly ani- 
 mated, and full of the impetuosity and fire of public spirit. They 
 proceed in a continued train of inductions, consequences, and demon- 
 strations, founded on sound reason. The figures which he uses, are 
 never sought after ; but always rise from the subject. He employs 
 them sparingly indeed ; for splendour and ornament are not the dis- 
 tinctions of this orator's composition. It is an energy of thought peculiar 
 to himself, which forms his character, and sets him above all others. 
 He appears to attend much more to things than to words. We forget 
 the orator, and think of the business. He warms the mind, and impels 
 to action. He has no parade and ostentation ; no method of insinua- 
 tion ; no laboured introductions ; but is like a man full of his subject, 
 who, after preparing his audience by a sentence or two for hearing plain 
 truths, enters directly on business. 
 
 Demosthenes appears to great advantage, when contrasted with 
 iEschines in the celebrated oration " pro Corona." JEschines was 
 his rival in business, and personal enemy ; and one of the most dis- 
 tinguished orators of that age. But when we read the two orations, 
 iEschines is feeble in comparison of Demosthenes, and makes much less 
 impressiomon the mind. His reasonings concerning the law that wasin 
 question, are indeed very subtile : but his invective against Demosthenes 
 is general and ill supported. Whereas, Demosthenes is a torrent, that 
 nothing can resist. He bears down his antagonist with violence ; he < 
 draws his character in the strongest colours ; and the particular merit 
 of that oration is, that all the descriptions in it are highly picturesque. 
 There runs through it a strain of magnanimity and high honour : the 
 
244 HISTORY OF ELOQUENCE. [LECT. XXVI. 
 
 orator speaks with that strength and conscious dignity which great ac- 
 tions and public spirit alone inspire. Both orators use great liberties 
 with one another ; and, in general, that unrestrained license which 
 ancient manners permitted, even to the length of abusive names and 
 downright scurrility, as appears both here and in Cicero's Philippics, 
 hurts and offends a modern ear. What those ancient orators gained by 
 such a manner in point of freedom and boldness, is more than compen- 
 sated by want of dignity ; which seems to give an advantage, in this 
 respect, to the greater decency of modern speaking. 
 
 The style of Demosthenes is strong and concise, though sometimes, 
 it must not be dissembled, harsh and abrupt. His words are very 
 expressive ; his arrangement is firm and manly ; and though far from 
 being unmusical, yet it seems difficult to find in him that studied, but 
 concealed number, and rhythmus, which some of the ancient critics are 
 fond of attributing to him. Negligent of these lesser graces, one would 
 rather conceive him to have aimed at that sublime which lies in senti- 
 ment. His action and pronunciation are recorded to have been uncom- 
 monly vehement and ardent ; which, from the manner of his composition, 
 we are naturally led to believe. The character which one forms of 
 him, from reading his works, is of the austere, rather than the gentle 
 kind. He is on every occasion grave, serious, passionate ; takes every 
 thing on a high tone ; never lets himself down, nor attempts any thing 
 like pleasantry. If any fault can be found with his admirable eloquence, 
 it is, that he sometimes borders on the hard and dry. He may be 
 thought to want smoothness and grace ; which Dionysius of Halicarnassus 
 attributes to his imitating too closely the manner of Thucydides, who 
 was his great model for style, and whose history he is said to have 
 written eight times over with his own hand. But these defects are far 
 more than compensated, by that admirable and masterly force of mas- 
 culine eloquence, which, as it overpowered all who heard it, cannot, 
 at this day, be read without emotion. 
 
 After the days of Demosthenes, Greece lost her liberty, eloquence of 
 course languished, and relapsed again into the feeble manner introduced 
 by the rhetoricians and sophists. Demetrius Phalerius, who livedin the 
 next age to Demosthenes, attained indeed some character, but he is 
 represented to us as a flowery, rather than a persuasive speaker, who 
 aimed at grace rather than substance. " Delectabat Athenienses," says 
 Cicero, " magis quam inflammabat." " He amused the Athenians, rather 
 than warmed them." And after his time, we hear of no more Grecian 
 orators of any note. 
 
 LECTURE XXVI. 
 
 HISTORY OF ELOQUENCE CONTTNUED....ROMAN ELOQUENCE.... 
 CICERO....MODERN ELOQUENCE. 
 
 Having treated of the rise of eloquence, and of its state among the 
 Greeks, we now proceed to consider its progress among the Romans, 
 where we shall find one model, at least, of eloquence, in its most splendid 
 
L'ECT. XXVI.] HISTORY OF ELOQUENCE, ^4'$ 
 
 and illustrious form. The Romans were long a martial nation, altogether 
 Fude and unskilled in arts of any kind. Arts were of late introduced 
 among them : they were not known till after the conquest of Greece ; 
 and the Romans always acknowledged the Grecians as their masters in 
 every part of learning: 
 
 Grecia capta ferum victorem cepit, et artes 
 
 Intulit agresti Latio.* Hor. Epist. ad. Aug. 
 
 As the Romans derived their eloquence, poetry, and learning from the 
 Greeks, so they must be confessed to be far inferior to them in genius 
 for all these accomplishments. They were a more grave and magnifi- 
 cent, but a less acute and sprightly people. They had neither the viva- 
 city nor the sensibility of the Greeks : their passions were not so easily 
 moved, nor their conceptions so lively ; in comparison of them, they 
 were a phlegmatic nation. Their language resembled their character ; 
 it was regular, firm, and stately ; but wanted that simple and expressive 
 naivete, and, in particular, that flexibility to suit every different mode 
 and species of composition, for which the Greek tongue is distinguished 
 above that of every other country. 
 
 Graiis ingenium, Graiis dedit ore rotundo 
 
 Musa loquit Ars. Poet. 
 
 And hence, when we compare together the various rival productions 
 of Greece and Rome, we shall always find this distinction obtain, that in 
 the Greek productions there is more native genius ; in the Roman 
 more regularity and art. What the Greeks invented, the Romans po- 
 lished ; the one was the original, rough sometimes, and incorrect ; the 
 other, a finished copy. 
 
 As the Roman government, during the republic, was of the popular 
 kind, there is no doubt but that, in the hands of the leading men, public 
 speaking became early an engine of government, and was employed 
 for gaining distinction and power. But in the rude unpolished times of 
 the state, their speaking was hardly of that sort that could be called 
 eloquence. Though Cicero, in his Treatise, " De Claris Oratoribus," 
 endeavours to give some reputation to the elder Cato, and those who 
 were his contemporaries, yet he acknowledges it to have been " Asperum 
 et horridum genus dicendi," a rude and harsh strain of speech. It was 
 not till a short time preceding Cicero's age, that the Roman orators rose 
 into any note. Crassus and Antonius, two of the speakers in the 
 dialogue De Oratore, appeared to have been the most eminent, whose 
 different manners Cicero describes with great beauty in that dialogue, 
 and in his other rhetorical works. But as none of their productions 
 are extant, nor any of Hortensius's, who was Cicero's contemporary and 
 rival at the bar, it is needless to transcribe from Cicero's writings the 
 account which he gives of those great men, and of the character of their 
 eloquence.^ 
 
 * When conquer'd Greece brought in her captive arts, 
 She triumph'd o'er her savage conquerors' hearts ; 
 Taught our rough .verse its numbers to refine, 
 And our rude style with elegance to shine. Francis. 
 
 t To her lov'd Greeks the muse indulgent gave, 
 To her lov'd Greeks with greatness to conceive ; 
 And in sublimer tone their language raise : 
 Her Greeks were only covetous of praise. Francis. 
 
 4 : Such as are desirous of particular information on this head, had better have 
 
2 46 CICERO, jl.XXVi 
 
 The object in this period, most worthy to draw our attention, is Cicero 
 himself ; whose name alone suggests every thing that is splendid in 
 oratory. With the history of his life, and with his character, as a man 
 and a politician, we have not at present any direct concern. We con- 
 sider him only as an eloquent speaker ; and in this view it is our business 
 to remark both his virtues and his defects, if he has any. His virtues 
 are, beyond controversy, eminently great. In all his orations there is 
 high art. He begins, generally, with a regular exordium ; and with 
 much preparation and insinuation prepossesses the hearers, and studies 
 to gain their affections. His method is clear and his arguments are 
 arranged with great propriety. His method is indeed more clear than 
 that of Demosthenes ; and this is one advantage which he has over him. 
 We find every thing in its proper place ; he never attempts to move, 
 till he has endeavoured to convince : and in moving, especially the 
 softer passions, he is very successful. No man that ever wrote, knew 
 the power and force of words better than Cicero. He rolls them along 
 with the greatest beauty and pomp ; and, in the structure of his senten- 
 ces, is curious and exact to the highest degree. He is always full and 
 flowing, never abrupt. He is a great amplifier of every subject : mag- 
 nificent, and in his sentiments highly moral. His manner is on the whole 
 diffuse, yet it often happily varied, and suited to the subject. In his 
 four orations, for instance, against Catiline, the tone and style of each 
 of them, particularly the first and last, is very different, and accommo- 
 dated with a great deal of judgment to the occasion, and the situation 
 in which they were spoken. When a great public object roused his 
 mind, and demanded indignation and force, he departs considerably from 
 that loose and declamatory manner to which he leans at other times, and 
 becomes exceedingly cogent and vehement. This is the case in his 
 orations against Anthony, and in those two against Verres and Catiline. 
 
 Together with those high qualities which Cicero possesses, he is not 
 exempt from certain defects, of which it is necessary to take notice. 
 For the Ciceronian eloquence is a pattern so dazzling by its beauties, 
 that if not examined with accuracy and judgment, it is apt to betray the 
 unwary into a faulty imitation ; and I am of opinion, that it has some- 
 times produced this effect. In most of his orations, especially those 
 composed in the earlier part of his life, there is too much art ; even 
 carried the length of ostentation. There is too visible a parade of elo- 
 quence. He seems often io aim at obtaining admiration, rather than at 
 operating conviction, by what he says. Hence, on some occasions, he is 
 showy rather than solid ; and diffuse, where he ought to have been 
 pressing. His sentences are, at all times, round and sonorous; they cannot 
 be accused of monotony, for they possess variety of cadence ; but, 
 from too great a study of magnificence, he is sometimes deficient in 
 strength. On all occasions, where there is the least room for it, he is 
 full of himself. His great actions, and the real services which he had 
 performed to his country, apologized for this in part ; ancient manners, 
 too, imposed fewer restraints from the side of decorum ; but, evenaiter 
 these allowances made, Cicero's ostentation of himself cannot be wholly 
 palliated ; and his orations, indeed all his works, leave on our minds the 
 impression of a good man, but withal, of a vain man. 
 
 recourse to the original, by reading Cicero's three books De Oratore, and his other 
 two treatises entitled, the one Brutus, Sive de Claris Oratoribus.; the other, Orator 
 ad M. Brutum ; wbich, on several accounts? well deserve perusal. 
 
I 
 
 LECT. XXVI.] CICERO AND DEMOSTHEM.:;. 047 
 
 The defects which we have now taken notice of in Cicero's elo- 
 quence, were not unobserved by his own contemporaries. This we 
 learn from Quintilian, and from the author of the dialogue, " de Causis 
 Corrupts Eloquential." Brutus, we are informed, called him," fractum, 
 et elumbem," broken and enervated. " Suorum temporem homines," 
 says Quintilian, '" incessere audebant eum ut tumidiorem et Asianum, et 
 redundantem, et in repetitionibus nimium, et in salibus aliquando frigi- 
 dum, et in compositione fractum et exsultantem, et pene viro mollio- 
 rem."* These censures were undoubtedly carried too far ; and savour 
 of malignity and personal enmity. They saw his defects, but they 
 aggravated them ; and the source of tbese aggravations can be traced 
 to the difference which prevailed in Rome, m Cicero's days, between 
 two great parties, with respect to eloquence. The " Attici," and the 
 <s Asiani." The former, who call themselves the Attics, were the patrons 
 of what they conceived to be the chaste, simple, and natural style of 
 eloquence : from which they accused Cicero as having departed, and 
 as leaning to the florid Asiatic manner. In several of his rhetorical 
 works, particularly in his '* Orator id Brutum," Cicero, in his turn, 
 endeavours to expose this sect, as substituting a frigid and jejune man- 
 ner, in place of the true Attic eloquence ; and contends, that his own 
 composition was formed upon the real Attic style. In the 10th chapter 
 of the last book of Quintilian's Institutions, a full account is given of 
 the disputes between these two parties ; and of the Rhodian, or middle 
 manner between the Attics and the Asiatics. Quintilian himself de- 
 clares on Cicero's side : and, whether it be called Attic or Asiatic, pre- 
 fers the full, the copious, and the amplifying style. He concludes with 
 this very just observation ; " Plures sunt eloquentiae tacies ; sed stul- 
 tissimum est quaerere, ad quam recturus se sit orator ; cum ornnis spe- 
 cies, quae modo recta est, habeat usum. Utetur enim, ut res exiget, 
 omnibus ; nee pro causa modo, sed pro partibus ; causae. "t 
 
 On the subject of comparing Cicero and Demosthenes, much has been 
 said by critical writers. The different manners of these two princes of 
 eloquence, and the distinguishing characters of each, are so strongly 
 marked in their writings, that the comparison is in many respects obvi- 
 ous and easy. The character of Demosthenes is vigour and austerity ; 
 that of Cicero is gentleness and insinuation. In the one, you find more 
 manliness ; in the other, more ornament. The one is more harsh, but 
 more spirited and cogent ; the other more agreeable, but withal looser 
 and weaker. 
 
 To account for this difference without any prejudice to Cicero, it 
 has been said that we must look to the nature of their different audito- 
 ries ; that the refined Athenians followed with ease the concise and 
 convincing eloquence of Demosthenes : but that a manner more popu- 
 lar, more flowery, and declamatory, was requisite in speaking to the 
 Romans, a people less acute, and less acquainted with the arts of speech. 
 But this is not satisfactory. For we must observe, that the Greek ora- 
 
 * "His contemporaries ventured to reproach him as swelling, redundant, and 
 Asiatic ; too frequent in repetitions ; in his attempts towards wit sometimes cold ; 
 and in the strain of his composition, feeble, desultory, and more effeminate than 
 became a man." 
 
 i " Eloquence admits of many different forms : and nothing can be more foolish 
 than to inquire, by which of them an orator is to regulate his composition ; since 
 every form, which is in itself just, has its own place and use The orator, according 
 as circumstances require, will employ them all ; suiting them not only to the cause 
 ' • subject of which he treats, but to the different parts of that subjecf." 
 
c?48 CICERO AND DEMOSTHENES [LECT. XXvf 
 
 tor spoke much oftener before a mixed multitude, than the Romans. Al- 
 most all the public business of Athens was transacted in popular assem- 
 blies. The common people were his hearers and his judges. Whereas 
 Cicero generally addressed himself to the " Patres Conscripti," or in 
 criminal trials to the Praetor, and the select judges ; and it cannot be 
 imagined, that the persons of highest rank, and best education in Rome, 
 required a more diffuse manner of pleading than the common citizens 
 of Athens, in order to make them understand the cause, or relish the 
 speaker. Perhaps-we shall come nearer the truth, by observing, that 
 to unite together all the qualities, without the least exception, that form 
 a perfect orator, and to excel equally in each of those qualities is not 
 to be expected from the limited powers of human genius. The highest 
 degree of strength is, I suspect, never found united with the highest de- 
 gree of smoothness and ornament ; equal attentions to both are incom- 
 patible ; and the genius that carries ornament to its utmost length, is not 
 of such a kind, as can excel as much in vigour. For there plainly lies 
 the characteristical difference between these two celebrated orators. 
 
 It is a disadvantage to Demosthenes, that besides his conciseness, 
 which sometimes produces obscurity, the language, in which he writes . 
 is less familiar to most of us than the Latin, and that we are less 
 acquainted with the Greek antiquities than we are with the Ptoman. 
 We read Cicero with more ease, and of course with more pleasure. 
 Independent of this circumstance too, he is, no doubt, in himself, a more 
 agreeable writer than the other. But notwithstanding this advantage, 
 I am of opinion, that were the state in danger, or some great national in- 
 terest at stake, which drew the serious attention of men, an oration in 
 the spirit and strain of Demosthenes, would have more weight, and 
 produce greater effects than one in the Ciceronian manner. Were 
 Demosthenes's Philippics spoken in a British assembly, in a similar con- 
 juncture of affairs, they would convince and persuade at this day. The 
 rapid style, the vehement reasoning, the disdain, anger, boldness, free- 
 dom, which perpetually animate them, would render their success infal- 
 lible over any modern assembly. I question whether the same can be 
 said of Cicero's orations ; whose eloquence, however beautiful, and 
 however well suited to the Roman taste, yet borders oftener on decla- 
 mation, and is more remote from the manner in which we now expect 
 to hear real business and causes of importance treated.* 
 
 In comparing Demosthenes and Cicero, most of the French critics 
 incline to give the preference to the latter. P. Rapin the Jesuit, in the 
 parallels which he has drawn between some of the most eminent 
 Greek and Roman writers, uniformly decides in favour of the Roman. 
 For the preference which he gives to Cicero, he assigns, and lays stress 
 on one reason of a pretty extraordinary nature ; viz. that Demos- 
 thenes could not possibly have so complete an insight as Cicero into the 
 manners and passions of men : W r hy ? — Because he had not the advan- 
 tage of perusing Aristotle's Treatise of Rhetoric; wherein, says our 
 critic, he has fully laid open that mystery ; and, to support this weighty 
 arguraent, he enters into a controversy with A. Gellius, in order to 
 prove that Aristotle's Rhetoric was not published till after Demosthenes 
 
 * In this judgment I concur with Mr. David Hume, in his Essay upon Eloquence, 
 He gives it as his opinion that of all human productions, the orations of Demos- 
 thenes present to us the models which approach the nearest to perfection. 
 
 mi 
 
1 
 
 LECT. XXVI.] DECAY OF ROMAN ELOQUENCE. 343 
 
 had spoken, at least, his most considerable orations. Nothing can be 
 more childish. Such orators as Cicero and Demosthenes, derived their 
 knowledge of the human passions, and their power of moving them, from 
 higher sources than any treatise of rhetoric. One French critic has in- 
 deed departed from the common track ; and, after bestowing on Cicero 
 those just praises to which the consent of so many ages shows him to 
 be entitled, concludes, however, with giving the palm to Demosthenes. 
 This is Fenelon, the famous archbishop of Cambray, and author of 
 Telemachus ; himself surely no enemy to all the graces and flowers of 
 composition. It is in his Reflections on Rhetoric and Poetry, that he 
 gives this judgment ; a small tract, commonly published along with his 
 Dialogues on Eloquence.* These dialogues and reflections are particu- 
 larly worthy of perusal, as containing, I think, the justest ideas on the 
 subject, that are to be met with in any modern critical writer. 
 
 The reign of eloquence, among the Romans, was very short. After 
 the age of Cicero, it languished, or rather expired ; and we have no 
 reason to wonder at this being the case. For not only was liberty 
 entirely extinguished, but arbitrary power felt in its heaviest and most 
 oppressive weight ; Providence having, in its wrath, delivered over the 
 Roman empire to a succession of some of the most execrable tyrants 
 that ever disgraced and scourged the human race. Under their go- 
 vernment, it was naturally to be expected that taste would be corrupted, 
 and genius discouraged. Some of the ornamental arts, less intimately 
 connected with liberty, continued for a while to prevail ; but for that 
 masculine eloquence, which had exercised itself in the senate, and in 
 the public affairs, there was no longer any place. The change that was 
 produced on eloquence, by the nature of the government, and the state 
 of the public manners, is beautifully described in the Dialogue de Causis, 
 corruptae Eloquentas, which is attributed, by some, to Tacitus, by others, 
 to Quintilian. Luxury, effeminacy, and flattery, overwhelmed all. 
 The forum, where so many great affairs had been transacted, was now 
 become a desert. Private causes were still pleaded ; but the public 
 was no longer interested ; nor any general attention drawn to what pass- 
 ed there : " Unus inter haec, et alter, dicenti, assistit; et res velut in 
 solitudine agitur. Oratori autem clamore plausuque opus est, et velut 
 quodam theatro, qualia quotidie antiquis oratoribus contingebant ; cum 
 tot ac tam nobiles forum coarctarent ; cum clientele, et tribus, et muni- 
 
 * As his expressions are remarkably happy and beautiful, the passage nere refer- 
 red to deserves to be inserted. " Je ne crains pas dire, que Demosthene me paroit 
 superieur a. CicerOn. Je proteste que personne n'admire plus Ciceron, que je fais. 
 II embellit tout ce qu'il touche. II fait honneur a la parole. II fait des mots ce 
 qu'un autre n'en sauroit faire. II a je ne sai combien de sortis d'esprits. II est meme 
 court, et vehement, toutes les fois qu'il veut I'etre ; contre Catiline, eontre Verres, 
 contre Antoine. Mais on remarque quelque parure dans sons diseours. L'art y est 
 merveil leux ; mats on l'entrevoit. L'orateur en pensant au salut de la republique, 
 ne s'oublie pas et ne se laisse pas oublier. Demosthene paroit sortir de soi, et ne 
 voir que la patrie. II ne cherche point le beau ; II le fait, sans y penser. II est au- 
 dessus de l'admiration. II se sert de !a parole, comme un homme modeste de son 
 habit, pour se couvrir. II tonne ; il foudroye. C'est un torrent qui entraine tout. 
 On ne peut le critiquer, parcequ'on est saisi. On pense aux choses qu'il dit, et non 
 a-ses paroles. On le perd de vue. On n'est occupe que de Philippe qui envahit 
 tout. Je suis charme de ces deux orateurs : mais j'avoue que je suis moins touche 
 de l'art infini, et de la magnifique eloquence de Ciceron que de la rapide simplicity 
 jde Demosthene." 
 
 It 
 
2^0 DjSCAY OF ROMAN ELOQUENCE. \lMt% XXV< 
 
 cipiorum legationes, periclitantibus assisterent ; cum in plerisque juch 
 ciis crederet populus Romanus sua interesse quid judicaretur."* 
 
 In the schools of the declaimers, the corruption of eloquence was com- 
 pleted. Imaginary and fantastic subjects, such as had no reference to real 
 life, or business, were made the themes of declamation ; and all manner of 
 false and affected ornaments were brought into vogue ; " Pace vestrali- 
 ceat dixisse," says Petronius Arbiter, to the declaimers of his time, "pri- 
 mi omnem eloquentiam perdidistis. Levibus enim ac inanibus sonis lu- 
 dibria quaedam excitando, effecistis ut corpus orationis enervaretur atque 
 caderet. Et ideo ego existioio adolescentulos in scholis stultissimos fie- 
 ri, quia nihil ex iis, quae in usu habemus, aut audiunt, aut vident ; sed pi- 
 ratas cum catenis in littore stantes ; et tyrannos edicta scribentes quibus 
 imperent filiis ut patrum suorum capita praecidant ; sed responsa, in pes- 
 tilentia data, ut virgines tres aut plures immolentur ; sed mellitos verbo- 
 rum globulos, et omnia quasi papavere, et sesamo sparsa. Qui inter haec 
 nutriuntur, non magis sapere possunt, quam bene olere qui in culina habi- 
 tant."f In the hands of the Greek rhetoricians, the manly and sensible 
 eloquence of their first noted speakers, degenerated, as I formerly show- 
 ed, into subtilty and sophistry ; in the hands of the Roman declaimers. 
 it passed into the quaint and affected ; into point and antithesis. This 
 corrupt manner begins to appear in the writings of Seneca : and shows 
 itself, also, in the famous panegyric of Pliny the Younger on Trajan, 
 which may be considered as the last effort of Roman oratory. Though 
 the author was a man of genius, yet it is deficient in nature and ease. 
 We see throughout the whole, a perpetual attempt to depart from the 
 ordinary way of thinking, and to support a forced elevation. 
 
 In the decline of the Roman empire, the introduction of Christianity 
 gave rise to a new species of eloquence, in the apologies, sermons, and 
 pastoral writings of the fathers of the church. Among the Latin 
 Fathers, Lactantius and Minutius Felix are the most remarkable for 
 purity of style ; and in a later age, the famous St. Augustine possesses 
 a considerable share of sprightliness and strength. But none of the 
 Fathers afford any just models of eloquence. Their language, as soon 
 as we descend to the third or fourth century, becomes harsh ; and they 
 are, in general, infected with the taste of that age, a love of swoln and 
 strained thoughts, and of the play of words. Among the Greek Fathers 
 the most distinguished, by far, for his oratorial merit, is St. Chrysostom. 
 
 * " The courts of judicature are, at present, so unfrequented that the orator seem s 
 to stand alone, and talk to bare walls. But eloquence rejoices in the bursts of loud 
 applause, and exults in a full audience ; such as used to press round the ancient 
 orators, when the forum stood crowded with nobles ; when a numerous retinue of 
 clients, when foreign ambassadors, when tribes, and whole cities assisted at the 
 debate ; and when, in many trials, the Roman people understood themselves to be 
 concerned in the event." 
 
 -r " With your permission, T must be allowed to say, that you have been the first 
 destroyers of all true eloquence. For, by those mock subjects on which you employ 
 your empty and unmeaning compositions, you have enervated and overthrown all 
 that is manly and substantial in oratory. I cannot but conclude, that the youth 
 whom you educate, must be totally perverted in your schools, by hearing anr! 
 seeing nothing which has any affinity to real life, or human affairs ; but stories of 
 pirates standing on the shore provided with chains for loading their captives, and of 
 tyrants issuing their edicts, by which children are commanded to cut off the heads 
 of their parents ; but responses given by oracles in the time of pestilence, that 
 several virgins must be sacrificed ; but glittering ornaments of phrase, and a style 
 highly spiced, if we may say so, with affected conceits. They who are educated in 
 the midst of such studies, can no more acquire a good taste, than they can smell 
 weet who dwell perpetually in a kitchen." 
 
 am 
 
2T.XXVI.J MODERN ELOQUENCE 351 
 
 His language is pare ; bis style highly figured. He is copious, smooth, 
 and sometimes pathetic. But he retains, at the same time, much of that 
 character which has been always attributed to the Asiatic eloquence, dif- 
 fuse and redundant to a great degree, and often overwrought and tumid. 
 He may be read, however, with advantage, for the eloquence of the 
 pulpit, as being freer from false ornaments than the Latin Fathers. 
 
 As there is nothing more that occurs to me, deserving particular 
 attention in the middle age, I pass now to the state of eloquence in 
 modern times. Here it must be confessed, that, in no European na- 
 tion, public speaking has been considered as so great an object, or been 
 cultivated with so much care, as in Greece or Rome. Its reputation has 
 never been so high ; its effects have never been so considerable : nor 
 has that high and sublime kind of it, which prevailed in those ancient 
 states, been so much as aimed at : notwithstanding too, that a new pro- 
 fession has been established, which gives peculiar advantages to oratory, 
 and affords it the noblest field ; I mean that of the church. The genius 
 of the world seems, in this respect, to have undergone some alteration. 
 The two countries where we might expect to find most of the spirit of 
 eloquence, are France and Great Britain : France on account of the 
 distinguished turn of the nation towards all the liberal arts, and of the 
 encouragement which, for this century past, these arts have received 
 from the public ; Great Britain, on account both of the public capacity 
 and genius, and of the free government which it enjoys. Yet so it is, 
 that in neither of those countries, has the talent of public speaking- 
 risen near to the degree of its ancient splendour ; while in other produc- 
 tions of genius, both in prose and in poetry, they have contended for the 
 prize with Greece and Rome ; nay, in some compositions, may be 
 thought to have surpassed them : the names of Demosthenes and Cicero 
 stand, at this day, unrivalled in fame ; and it would be held presumptu- 
 ous and absurd to pretend to place any modern whatever in the same, or 
 even in a nearly equal rank. 
 
 It seems particularly surprising, that Great Britain should not have 
 made a more conspicuous figure in eloquence than it has hitherto 
 attained ; when we consider the enlightened, and, at the same time, the 
 free and bold genius of the country, which seems not a little to favour 
 oratory ; and when we consider that, of all the polite nations, it alone 
 possesses a popular government, or admits into the legislature, such nu- 
 merous assemblies as can be supposed to lie under the dominion if 
 eloquence.* Notwithstanding this advantage, it must be confessed that 
 in most parts of eloquence, we are undoubtedly inferior, not only to the 
 Greeks and Romans by many degrees, but also to the French. We 
 have philosophers, eminent and conspicuous, perhaps, beyond any 
 nation, in every branch of science. We have both taste and erudition, 
 in a high degree. We have historians, we have poets of the greatest 
 name ; but of orators, or public speakers, how little have we to boast ! 
 And where are the monuments of their genius to be found ? In every 
 period we have had some who made a figure, by managing the debates 
 
 * Mr. Hume, in his Essay on Eloquence, makes this observation, and illustrates 
 it with his usual elegance. He, indeed, supposes, that no satisfactory reasons can 
 be given to account for the inferiority of modern to ancient eloquence. In this, I 
 differ from him, and shall endeavour, before the conclusion of this lecture, to point 
 out some causes to which, 1 think, it may in a great measure be ascribed, in the 
 ♦hree great scenes of public speaking. 
 
MODERN ELOQUENCE. LECT. XXVI. 
 
 » \j ■- • I- 
 
 in parliament : but that figure was commonly owing to their wisdom, or 
 their experience in business, more than to their talents for oratory ; and 
 unless in some few instances, wherein the power of oratory has appear- 
 ed, indeed, with much lustre, the art of parliamentary speaking rather 
 obtained to several, a temporary applause, than conferred upon any a 
 lasting renown. At the bar, though questionless we have many able 
 pleaders, yet few or none of their pleadings have been thought worthy 
 to be transmitted to posterity ; or have commanded attention, any 
 longer than the cause which was the subject of them interested the 
 public ; while in France, the pleadings of Patru, in the former age, 
 and those of Couching and D'Aguesseau, in later times, are read with 
 pleasure, and are often quoted as examples of eloquence by the French 
 critics. In the same manner, in the pulpit, the British divines have dis- 
 tinguished themselves by the most accurate and rational compositions 
 which, perhaps, any nation can boast of. Many printed sermons we 
 have, full of good sense, and of sound divinity and morality ; but the 
 eloquence to be found in them, the power of persuasion, of interesting 
 and engaging the heart, which is, or ought to be, the great object of 
 the pulpit, is far from bearing a suitable proportion to the excellence 
 of the matter. There are few arts, in my opinion, farther from per- 
 fection, than that of preaching is among us ; the reasons of which, I 
 shall afterward have occasion to discuss : in proof of the fact, it i? 
 sufficient to observe, that an English sermon, instead of being a persua- 
 sive animated oration, seldom rises beyond the strain of correct and dry 
 reasoning. Whereas, in the sermons of Bossuet, Massillon, Bourdaloue, 
 and Flechier, among the French, we see a much higher species of elo- 
 quence aimed at, and in a great measure attained, than the British 
 preachers have in view. 
 
 In general, the characteristical difference between the state of elo- 
 quence in France and in Great Britain is, that the French have adopted 
 higher ideas both of pleasing and persuading by means of oratory, though, 
 sometimes, in the execution, they fail. In Great Britain, we have taken 
 up eloquence on a lower key ; but in our execution, as was naturally to 
 be expected, have been more correct. In France, the style of their 
 orators is ornamented with bolder figures ; and their discourse carried 
 on with more amplification, more warmth and elevation. The composi- 
 tion is often very beautiful ; but sometimes, also, too diffuse, and deficient 
 in that strength and cogency which renders eloquence powerful ; a de- 
 fect owing, perhaps, in part, to the genius of the people, which leads 
 them to attend fully as much to ornament as to substance ; and, in part, 
 to the nature of their government, which by excluding public speaking 
 from having much influence on the conduct of public affairs, deprives 
 eloquence of its best opportunity for acquiring nerves and strength. 
 Hence the pulpit is the principal field which is ieft for their eloquence. 
 The members, too, of the French academy give harangues at their 
 admission, in which genius often appears ; but labouring under the 
 misfortune of having no subject to discourse upon, they run commonly 
 into flattery and panegyric, the most barren and insipid of all topics. 
 
 I observed before, that the Greeks and Romans aspired to a more 
 sublime species of eloquence, than is aimed at by the moderns. Theirs 
 was of the vehement and passionate kind, by which they endeavoured 
 to inflame the minds of their hearers, and hurry their imaginations 
 away ; and suitable to this vehemence of thought was their vehemence 
 
LECT. XXVI,] MODERN ELOQUENCE. 253 
 
 of gesture and action ; the " supplosio pedis, "* the " percussio frontis 
 et femoris,"* were, as we learn from Cicero's writings, usual gestures 
 among them at the bar ; though now they would be reckoned extrava- 
 gant any where, except upon the stage. Modern eloquence is much 
 more cool and temperate ; and in Great Britain especially, has confined 
 itself almost wholly to the argumentative and rational. It is much of 
 that species which the ancient critics called the ** Tenuis," or " Subtilis ; ,s 
 which aims at convincing and instructing, rather than affecting the pas- 
 sions, and assumes a tone not much higher than common argument and 
 discourse. 
 
 Several reasons may be given, why modern eloquence has been so 
 limited and humble in its efforts. In the first place, I am of opinion, 
 that this change must, in part, be ascribed to that correct turn of 
 thinking, which has been so much studied in modern times. It can 
 hardly be doubted, that, in many efforts of mere genius, the ancient 
 Greeks and Romans excelled us ; but, on the other hand, that, in accu- 
 racy and closeness of reasoning on many subjects, we have some advan- 
 tage over them, ought, I think, to be admitted also. In proportion as 
 the world has advanced, philosophy has made greater progress. A 
 certain strictness of good sense has, in this island particularly, been cul- 
 tivated, and introduced into every subject. Hence we are more on our 
 guard against the flowers of elocution ; we are now on the watch ; 
 we are jealous of being deceived by oratory. Our public speakers are 
 obliged to be more reserved than the ancients, in their attempts to 
 elevate the imagination, and warm the passions ; and by the influence 
 of prevailing taste, their own genius is sobered and chastened, perhaps, 
 in too great a degree. It is likely too, I «onfess, that what we fondly 
 ascribe to our correctness and good sense, is owing in a great measure, 
 to our phlegm and natural coldness. For the vivacity and sensibility of 
 the Greeks and Romans, more especially of the former, seem to have 
 been much greater than ours, and to have given them a higher relish 
 of all the beauties of oratory. 
 
 Besides these national considerations, we must, in the next place, attend 
 to peculiar circumstances in the three great scenes of public speaking, 
 which have proved disadvantageous to the growth of eloquence among 
 us. Though the parliament of Great Britain be the noblest field which 
 Europe, at this day, affords to a public speak er, yet eloquence has never 
 been so powerful an instrument there, as it was in the popular assem- 
 blies of Greece and Rome. Under some former reigns, the high hand 
 of arbitrary power bore a violent sway ; and in later times, ministerial 
 influence has generally prevailed. The power of speaking, though 
 always considerable, yet has been often found too feeble to counterba- 
 lance either of these ; and, of course, has not been studied with so 
 much zeal and fervour, as where its effect on business was irresistible 
 and certain. 
 
 At the bar, our disadvantage, in comparison of the ancients, is great. 
 Among them, the judges were generally numerous ; the laws were few 
 and simple ; the decision of causes was left, in a great measure, to 
 equity and the sense of mankind. Here was an ample field for what 
 they termed judicial eloquence. But among the moderns, the case is 
 quite altered. The system of law is become much more complicated, 
 
 * Vide De Clar. Orator, 
 
2o± MODERN ELOQUENCE. [LEOT. XXVi. 
 
 The knowledge of it is thereby rendered so laborious an attainment, 
 as to be the chief object of a lawyer's education, and in a manner, the 
 study of his life. The art of speaking is but a secondary accomplish- 
 ment, to which he can afford to devote much less of his time and labour, 
 The bounds of eloquence, besides, are now much circumscribed at the 
 bar ; and, except in a few cases, reduced to arguing from strict law, 
 statute, or precedent, by which means knowledge, much more than 
 oratory, is become the principal requisite. 
 
 With regard to the pulpit, it has certainly been a great disadvantage, 
 that the practice of reading sermons, instead of repeating them from 
 memory, has prevailed so universally in England. This may, indeed, 
 have introduced accuracy ; but it has done great prejudice to eloquence ; 
 for a discourse read is far inferior to an oration spoken. It leads to a 
 different sort of composition, as well as of delivery ; and can never have 
 an equal effect upon any audience. Another circumstance, too, has been 
 unfortunate. The sectaries and fanatics, before the Restoration, adopt- 
 ed a warm, zealous, and popular manner of preaching ; and those who 
 adhered to them, in after times, continued to distinguish themselves by 
 somewhat of the same manner. The odium of these sects drove the 
 established church from that warmth which they were judge'd to have 
 carried too far, into the opposite extreme of a studied coolness, and com- 
 posure of manner. Hence, from that of persuasion, which preaching 
 ought always to be, it has passed, in England, into mere reasoning and 
 instruction ; which not only has brought down the eloquence of the pulpit 
 to a lower tone than it might justly assume ; but has produced this far- 
 ther effect, that, by accustoming the public ear to such cool and dispas- 
 sionate discourses, it has tended to fashion other kinds of public speaking 
 upon the same model. 
 
 Thus I have given some view of the state of eloquence in modern 
 times, and endeavoured to account for it. It has, as we have seen, 
 fallen below that splendour which it maintained in ancient ages ; and from 
 being sublime and vehement, has come down to be temperate and cool. 
 Yet, still, in that region which it occupies, it admits great scope ; and, 
 to the defect of zeal and application, more than to the want of capa- 
 city and genius, we may ascribe its not having hitherto risen higher. 
 It is a field where there is much honour yet to be reaped ; it is an in- 
 strument which may be employed for purposes of the highest importance. 
 The ancient models may still, with much advantage, be set before us 
 for imitation : though in that imitation, we must, doubtless, have some 
 regard to what modern taste and modern manners will bear : of which I 
 shah afterward have occasion to say more. , 
 
( 265 ) 
 
 LECTURE XXVII 
 
 DIFFERENT KINDS OF PUBLIC SPEAKING— ELOQUENCE OF POPULAE 
 ASSEMBLIES— EXTRACTS FROM DEMOSTHENES. 
 
 After the preliminary views which have been given of the nature of 
 eloquence in general, and of the state in which it has subsisted in differ- 
 ent ages and countries, I am now to enter on the consideration of the 
 different kinds of public speaking, the distinguishing characters of each, 
 and the rules which relate to them. The ancients divided all orations 
 into three kinds ; the demonstrative, the deliberative, and the judicial. 
 The scope of the demonstrative, was to praise or to blame ; that of 
 the deliberative, to advise or to dissuade ; that of the judicial, to accuse 
 or to defend. The chief subjects of demonstrative eloquence, were 
 panegyrics, invectives, gratulatory and funeral orations. The deli- 
 berative was employed in matters of public concern, agitated in the senate 
 or before the assemblies of the people. The judicial is the same with 
 the eloquence of the bar, employed in addressing judges, who have 
 power to absolve or to condemn. This division runs through all the 
 ancient treatises on rhetoric ; and is followed by the moderns who copy 
 them. It is a division not inartificial ; and comprehends most, or all of 
 the matters which can be the subject of public discourse. It will, how- 
 ever, suit our purpose better, and be found, I imagine, more useful, to 
 follow that division which the train of modern speaking naturally points 
 out to us, taken from the three great scenes of eloquence, popular 
 assemblies, the bar, and the pulpit ; each of which has a distinct charac- 
 ter that particularly suits it. This division coincides in part with the 
 ancient one. The eloquence of the bar is precisely the same with 
 what the ancients called the judicial. The eloquence of popular assem- 
 blies, though mostly of what they term the deliberative species, yet 
 admits also of the demonstrative. The eloquence of the pulpit is alto- 
 gether of a distinct nature, and cannot be properly reduced under any 
 of the heads of the ancient rhetoricians. 
 
 To all the three, pulpit, bar, and popular assemblies, belong in com- 
 mon the rules concerning the conduct of a discourse in all its parts. 
 Of these rules I purpose afterward to treat at large. But before pro- 
 ceeding to them, I intend to show, first, what is peculiar to each of these 
 three kinds of oratory, in their spirit, character, or manner. For every 
 species of public speaking has a manner or character peculiarly suited 
 to it : of which it is highly material to have a just idea, in order to direct 
 the application of general rules. The eloquence of a lawyer is funda- 
 mentally different from that of a divine, or a speaker in parliament : and 
 to have a precise and proper idea of the distinguishing character which 
 any kind of public speaking requires, is the foundation of what is called 
 a just taste in that kind of speaking. 
 
 Laying aside any question concerning the pre-eminence in point of 
 rank, which is due to any one of the three kinds before mentioned, I 
 snail begin with that which tends to throw most light upon the rest- viz 
 
256 ELOQUENCE OF [LECT. XXVIL 
 
 the eloquence of popular assemblies. The most august theatre for this 
 kind of eloquence, to be found in any nation of Europe, is, beyond 
 doubt, the parliament of Great Britain. In meetings too, of less dignity, 
 it may display itself. Wherever there is a popular court, or wherever 
 any number of men are assembled for debate or consultation, there, in 
 different forms, this species of eloquence may take place. 
 
 Its object is, or ought always to be, persuasion. There must be 
 some end proposed ; some point, most commonly of public utility or 
 good, in favour of which we seek to determine the hearers. Now, in 
 all attempts to persuade men, we must proceed upon this principle, that 
 it is necessary to convince their understanding. Nothing can be more 
 erroneous, than to imagine, that, because speeches to popular assem- 
 blies admit more of a declamatory style than some other discourses, 
 they therefore stand less in need of being supported by sound reasoning. 
 When modelled upon this false idea, they may have the show, but 
 never can produce the effect, of real eloquence. Even the show of 
 eloquence which they make, will please only the trifling and superficial* 
 For, with all tolerable judges, indeed almost with all men, mere decla- 
 mation soon becomes insipid. Of whatever rank the hearers be, a 
 speaker is never to presume, that by a frothy and ostentatious harangue, 
 without solid sense, and argument, he can either make impression on 
 them, or acquire fame to himself. It is, at least, a dangerous experi- 
 ment ; for, where such an artifice succeeds once, it will fail ten times* 
 Even the common people are better judges of argument and good sense, 
 than we sometimes think them ; and upon any question of business, a 
 plain man, who speaks to the point without art, will generally prevail 
 over the most artful speaker, who deals in flowers and ornament, rather 
 than in reasoning. Much more, when public speakers address them- 
 selves to any assembly where there are persons of education and im- 
 proved understanding, they ought to be careful not to trifle with their 
 hearers. 
 
 Let it be ever kept in view, that the foundation of all that can be 
 called eloquence, is good sense and solid thought. As popular as the 
 orations of Demosthenes were, spoken to all the citizens of Athens, 
 every one who looks into them, must see how fraught they are with 
 argument ; and how important it appeared to him, to convince the 
 understanding, in order to persuade, or to work on the principles of ac- 
 tion. Such a pattern as this, public speakers ought to set before them 
 for imitation, rather than follow the track of those loose and frothy 
 declaimers, who have brought discredit on eloquence. Let it be their 
 first study, in addressing any popular assembly, to be previously masters 
 of the business on which they are to speak ; to be well provided 
 with matter and argument ; and to rest upon these as the chief stress. 
 This will always give to their discourse an air of manliness and strength, 
 which is a powerful instrument of persuasion. Ornament, if they have 
 genius for it, will follow of course : at any rate, it demands only their 
 secondary study : " Cura sit verborum ; solicitudo rerum." " To your 
 expression be attentive, but about your matter be solicitous, " is an ad- 
 viceof Quintilian, which cannot be too often recollected by all who study 
 oratory. 
 
 In the next place, in order to be persuasive speakers in a popular 
 assembly, it is, in my opinion, a capital rule, that we be ourselves per 
 

 LECT. XXV1T.] POPULAR ASSEMBLIES, g£g 
 
 suaded of whatever we recommend to others. Never, when it ean be* 
 avoided, ought we to espouse any side of the argument, but what 
 we believe to be the true and the right one. Seldom or never will a 
 man be eloquent, but when he is in earnest, and uttering his own senti- 
 mentSi They are only the " veroe voces ab imo pectore," the unas- 
 sumed language of the heart or head, that carry the force of convic- 
 tion. In a former lecture, when entering on this subject I observed, 
 that all high eloquence must be the offspring of passion, or warm emo- 
 tion. It is this which makes every man persuasive ; and gives a force 
 to his genius, which it possesses at no other time. Under what disad- 
 vantage then is he placed^ who, not feeling what he utters, must counter- 
 feit a warmth to which he is a stranger. 
 
 I know, that young people, on purpose to train themselves to the art 
 of speaking, imagine it useful to adopt that side of the question under 
 debate, which, to themselves, appears the weakest, and to try what 
 figure they can make upon iU But, I am afraid, this is not the most 
 improving education for public speaking ; and that it tends to form them 
 to a habit of flimsy and trivial discourse. Such a liberty they should, at 
 no time, allow themselves, unless in meetings where no real business 
 is carried on, but where declamation and improvement in speech is the 
 sole aim. Nor even in such meetings, would I recommend it as the 
 most useful exercise. They will improve themselves to more advan- 
 tage, and acquit themselves with more honour, by choosing always that 
 side of the debate to which in their own judgment, they are most in- 
 clined, and supporting it by what seems to themselves most solid and 
 persuasive. They will acquire the habit of reasoning closely, and 
 expressing themselves with warmth and force, much more when they 
 are adhering to their own sentiments, than when they are speaking in 
 contradiction to them. In assemblies where any real business is carried 
 on, whether that business be of much importance or not, it is always of 
 dangerous consequence for young practitioners to make trial of this sort 
 of play of speech. It may fix an imputation on their characters before 
 they are aware ; and what they intend merely as amusement, may be 
 turned to the discredit, either of their principles or their understanding. 
 Debate in popular courts* seldom allows the speaker that full and 
 accurate preparation beforehand, which the pulpit always, and the bar 
 sometimes, admits. The arguments must be suited to the course which 
 the debate takes : and as no man can exactly foresee this, one who 
 trusts to a set speech, composed in his closet, will, on many occasions, 
 be thrown out of the ground which he had taken. He will find it 
 preoccupied by others, or his reasonings superseded by some new turn 
 of the business ; and, if he ventures to use his prepared speech, it will 
 be frequently at the hazard of making an awkward figure. There is a 
 general prejudice with us, and not wholly an unjust one, against set 
 speeches in public-meetings. The only occasion, when they have any 
 propriety, is at the opening of a debate, when the speaker has it in his 
 power to choose his field. But as the debate advances, and parties 
 warm, discourses of this kind become more unsuitable. They want the 
 native air; the appearance of being suggested by the business that is 
 going on ; study and ostentation are apt to be visible ; and, of course, 
 though applauded as elegant, they are seldom so persuasive as more free 
 and unconstrained discourses. 
 
 This, however, does not by any means conclude against prenaedita* 
 
 K k 
 
atm ELOQUENCE OF- [LECT. XXVI! 
 
 tion of what we are to say : the neglect of which, and the trusting 
 wholly to extemporaneous efforts, will unavoidably produce the habit 
 of speaking in a loose and undigested manner. But the premeditation 
 which is of most advantage, in the case which we now consider, is of 
 the subject or argument in general, rather than of nice composition 
 in any particular branch of it. With regard to the matter, we cannot 
 be too accurate in our preparation, so as to be fully masters of the busi- 
 ness under consideration ; but with regard to words and expression, it 
 is very possible so far to overdo, as to render our speech stiff and pre- 
 cise. Indeed, till once persons acquire that firmness, that presence of 
 mind, and command of expression, in a public meeting, which nothing 
 but habit and practice can bestow, it may be proper for a young speaker 
 to commit to memory the whole of what he is to say. But, after some 
 performances of this kind have given him boldness, he will find it the 
 better method not to confine himself so strictly : but only to write, 
 beforehand, some sentences with which he intends to set out, in order 
 to put himself fairly in the train : and, for the rest, to set down short 
 notes of the topics, or principal thoughts upon which he is to insist, in 
 their order, leaving the words to be suggested by the warmth of dis- 
 course. Such short notes of the substance of the discourse, will be 
 found of considerable service, to those, especially, who are beginning 
 to speak in public. They will accustom them to some degree of ac- 
 curacy, which if they speak frequently, they are in danger too soon of 
 losing. They will even accustom them to think more closely on the 
 subject in question ; and will assist them greatly in arranging their 
 thoughts with method and order. 
 
 This leads me next to observe, that in all kinds of public speaking, 
 nothing is of greater consequence than a proper and clear method. I 
 mean not that formal method of laying clown heads and subdivisions, 
 which is commonly practised in the pulpit ; and which, in popular as- 
 semblies, unless the speaker be a man of great authority and character, 
 and the subject of great importance, and the preparation, too, very accu- 
 rate, is rather in hazard of disgusting the hearers ; such an introduc- 
 tion is presenting always the melancholy prospect of a long discourse. 
 But though the method be not laid down in form, no discourse, of any 
 length, should be without method ; that is, every thing should be found 
 in its proper place. Every one who speaks, will find it of the greatest 
 advantage to himself to have previously arranged his thoughts, and class- 
 ed under proper heads, in his own mind, what he is to deliver. This 
 will assist his memory, and carry him through his discourse, without 
 that confusion to which one is every moment subject, who has fixed no 
 distinct plan of what he is to say. And with respect to the hearers, 
 order in discourse is absolutely necessary for making any proper im- 
 pression. It adds both force and light to what is said. It makes them 
 accompany the speaker easily and readily, as he goes along ; and makes 
 thern feel the full effect of every argument which he employs. Few 
 things, therefore, deserve more to be attended to than distinct arrange- 
 ment : for eloquence, however great, can never produce entire convic- 
 tion without it. Of the rules of method, and the proper distribution of 
 the several parts of a discourse, I am hereafter to treat. 
 
 Let us now consider of the style and expression suited to the . 
 eloquence of popular assemblies. Beyond doubt, these give scope for 
 the most animated manner of public speaking. The very aspect of a 
 large assembly, engaged in some debate of moment, and attentive to the 
 
LEOT. XXVl/j POPULAR ASSEMBLIES; ggg 
 
 discourse of one man, is sufficient to inspire that man with such eleva- 
 tion and warmth, as both give rise to strong expressions, and give 
 them propriety. Passion easily rises in a great assembly, where the 
 movements are communicated by mutual sympathy between the orator 
 and the audience. Those bold figures, of which I treated formerly as 
 the native language of passion, have then their proper place. That 
 ardour of speech, that vehemence and glow of sentiment, which arise 
 from a mind animated and inspired by some great and public object, 
 form the peculiar characteristics of popular eloquence, in its highest 
 degree of perfection. 
 
 The liberty, however, which we are now giving of the strong and 
 passionate manner to this kind of oratory, must be always understood 
 with certain limitations and restraints, which, it will be necessary to 
 point out distinctly, in order to guard against dangerous mistakes on 
 this subject. 
 
 As, first, the warmth which we express must be suited to the occasion 
 and the subject ; for nothing can be more preposterous, than an attempt 
 to introduce great vehemence into a subject, which is either of slight 
 importance, or which, by its nature, requires to be treated of calmly. 
 A temperate tone of speech, is that for which there is most frequent 
 occasion ; and he who is, on every subject, passionate and vehement, 
 will be considered as a blusterer, and meet with little regard. 
 
 In the second place, we must take care never to counterfeit warmth 
 without feeling it. This always betrays persons into an unnatural man- 
 ner, which exposes them to ridicule. For, as I have often suggested, 
 to support the appearance, without the real feeling of passion, is one 
 of the most difficult things in nature. The disguise can almost never 
 be so perfect, but it is discovered. The heart can only answer to the 
 heart. The great rule here, as indeed in every other case, is, to fol- 
 low nature ; never to attempt a strain of eloquence which is not second- 
 ed by our own genius. One may be a speaker, both of much re- 
 putation and much influence, in the calm argumentative manner. To 
 attain the pathetic, and the sublime of oratory, requires those strong 
 sensibilities of mind, and that high power of expression which are 
 given to few. 
 
 In the third place, even when the subject justifies the vehement man- 
 ner, and when genius prompts it ; when warmth is felt, not counter- 
 feited ; we must, however, set a guard on ourselves, not to allow 
 impetuosity to transport us too far. Without emotion in the speaker, 
 eloquence, as was before observed, will never produce its highest 
 effects ; but at the same time, if the speaker lose command of himself, 
 he will soon lose command of his audience too. He must never kin- 
 dle too soon ; he must begin with moderation : and study to carry 
 his hearers along with him, as he warms in the progress of his dis- 
 course. For, if he runs before in the course of passion, and leaves 
 them behind ; if they are not turned, if we may speak so, in unison to 
 him, the discord will presently be felt, and be very grating. Let a 
 speaker have ever so good reason to be animated and fired by his sub- 
 ject, it is always expected of him, that the awe and regard due to his 
 audience should lay a decent restraint upon his warmth, and prevent it 
 from carrying him beyond certain bounds. If, when most heated by 
 the subject, he can be so far master of himself as to preserve close at- 
 tention to argument, and even to some degree of correct expression, 
 
!60 
 
 ELOQUENCE OF [LECT. XXVII. 
 
 this self-command, this exertion of reason, in the midst of passion, has 
 a wonderful effect both to please and to persuade. It is indeed the mas- 
 terpiece, the highest attainment of eloquence ; uniting the strength of 
 reason with the vehemence of passion ; affording all the advantages of 
 passion for the purpose of persuasion, without the confusion and disor- 
 der which are apt to accompany it. 
 
 In the fourth place, in the highest and most animated strain of popu- 
 lar speaking, we must always preserve regard to what the pulic ear 
 will bear. This direction I give, in order to guard against an injudicious 
 imitation of ancient orators, who, both in their pronunciation and ges- 
 ture, and in their figures of expression, used a bolder manner than what 
 the greater coolness of modern taste will readily suffer. This may 
 perhaps, as I formerly observed, be a disadvantage to modern eloquence. 
 It is no reason why we should be too severe in checking the impulse of 
 genius, and continue always creeping on the ground : but it is a reason, 
 however, wtvy we should avoid carrying the tone of declamation to a 
 height that would now be reckoned extravagant. Demosthenes, to justify 
 the unsuccessful action of Cheroncea, calls up the names of those heroes 
 who fell in the battle of Marathon and Plataea, and swears by them, that 
 their fellow-citizens had done well, in their endeavours to support the 
 game cause. Cicero, in his oration for Milo, implores and obtests the Al- 
 ban hills and groves, and makes a long address to them : and both pas- 
 sages, in these orators, have a fine effect." But how few modern orators 
 could venture on such apostrophes ? and what a power of genius would 
 it require to give such figures now their proper grace, or make them pro- 
 duce a due effect upon the hearers ? 
 
 In the fifth and last place, in all kinds of public speaking, but espe- 
 cially in popular assemblies, it is a capital rule to attend to all the decorums 
 of time, place, and character. No warmth of eloquence can atone for 
 the neglect of these. That vehemence, which is becoming in a person 
 of character and authority, may be unsuitable to the modesty expected 
 from a young speaker. That sportive and witty manner which may suit 
 one'subject and one assembly, is altogether out ol place in a grave cause, 
 and a solemn meeting. " Caput artis est," says Quintilian, " decere." 
 ** The first principle of art, is to observe decorum. " No one should 
 ever rise to speak in public, without forming to himself a just andatrict 
 idea of what suits his own age and character ; w 7 hat suits the subject, 
 the hearers, the place, the occasion : and adjusting the whole train and 
 manner of his speaking on this idea. All the ancients insist much on 
 this. Consult the first chapter of the eleventh book of Quintilian, which 
 is employed wholly on this point, and is full of good sense. Cicero's 
 admonitions in his Orator and Brutum, I shall give in his own words, which 
 should never be forgotten by any who speak in public. " Est eloquential 
 
 * The passage in Cicero is very beautiful, and adorned with the highest colouring 
 of his eloquence. " ]N T on est huinano consilio, ne mediocri quidem, judices, deorum 
 immortalium eura, res ilia perfecta. Religiones, mehercule, ipsa? araeque cum illara, 
 belluam cadere viderunt. commovisse se videntur, et jus in ilio suum relinuisse. 
 Vosenim jam Albani tumuli, atque luci, vos inquam imploro atque obtestor, vosque 
 Albanorum obrutae aree, saerorum populi Romani social et cequales, quas iile prae- 
 ceps amentia, caesis prostratisque,sanctissimislucis, substructionum insanis molibus 
 oppresserat ; vestrae turn arae, vestrae religiones viguerunt, vestra vis valuit, quam 
 ille omni scelere polluerat. Tuque ex tuo edito monte Latiali, sancte Jupiter, 
 eujus ille lacus, nemora, finesque, saepe omni nefario strupro, scelere macularat 3 
 ialiquando ad eura puniendum, oculos aperuisti : vobis iliae, vobis vestro in con* 
 *pectu sera?, sed justae taraen. et debitee poenaj solutee sunt." 
 
LECT. XXVII.] POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 26 j 
 
 sicut reliquarum reruin, fundamentum, sapientia ; ut enim in vita, sic in 
 oratione nihil est difficilius quam quod deceat videre ; hujus ignoratione 
 soepissime peccatur ; non enim omnis fortuna, non omnis auctoritas, non 
 omnis aetas, nee vero locus, aut tempus, aut auditor omnis, eodem aut 
 verborum genere tractandus est, aut sententiarum. Semperque in omni 
 parti orationis, ut vitas, quid deceat considerandum ; quod et in re de 
 qua agitur positum est, et in personis et eorum qui dicunt, et eorum qui 
 audiunt."* So much for the considerations that require to be attended 
 to, with respect to the vehemence and warmth which is allowed in popu- 
 lar eloquence. 
 
 The current of style should in general be full, free, and natural. 
 Quaint and artificial expressions are out of place here ; and always de- 
 rogate from persuasion. It is a strong and manly style which should 
 chiefly be studied ; and metaphorical language, when properly introdu- 
 ced, produces often a happy effect. When the metaphors are warm, 
 glowing, and descriptive, some inaccuracy in them will be overlooked, 
 which, in a written composition, would be remarked and censured. 
 Amidst the torrent of declamation, the strength of the figure makes 
 impression ; the inaccuracy of it escapes. 
 
 With regard to the degree of conciseness or diffuseness suited to po- 
 pular eloquence, it is not easy to fix any exact bounds. 1 know that it is 
 common to recommend a diffuse manner as the most proper. I am in- 
 clined, however, to think, that there is danger of erring in this respect ; 
 and that by indulging too much in the diffuse style, public speakers oftera 
 lose more in point of strength, than they gain by the fulness of their 
 illustration. There is no doubt, that in speaking;to a multitude, we must 
 not speak in sentences and apophthegms : care must be taken to explain 
 and to inculcate ; but this care may be, and frequently is, carried too far. 
 We ought always to remember that how much soever we may be pleased 
 with hearing ourselves speak, every audience is very ready to be tired ; 
 and the moment they begin to tire, all our eloquence goes for nothing. 
 A loose and verbose manner never fails to create disgust; and, on most 
 occasions, we had better run the risk of saying too little than too much. 
 Better place our thought in one strong point of view, and rest it there, 
 than by turning it into every light, and pouring forth a profusion of words 
 upon it, exhaust the attention of our hearers, and leave them flat and 
 languid. 
 
 Of pronunciation and delivery, I am hereafter to treat apart. It is 
 sufficient now to observe, that in speaking to mixed assemblies, the best 
 manner of delivery is the firm and the determined. An arrogant and 
 overbearing manner is indeed always disagreeable; and the least ap- 
 pearance of it ought to be shunned : but there is a certain decisive tone, 
 which may be assumed even by a modest man, who is thoroughly per- 
 suaded of the sentiments he utters ; and which is best calculated for 
 making a general impression. A feeble and hesitating manner bespeaks 
 
 * " Good sense is the foundation of eloquence, as it is of all other things that are 
 valuable. It happens in oratory exactly as it does in life, that frequently nothing is 
 more difficult than to discern what is proper and becoming. In consequence of 
 mistaking this, the grossest faults are often committed. For to the different degrees 
 of rank, fortune, and age among men, to all the varieties of time, place, and audi* 
 tory, the same style of language, and the same strain of thought, cannot agree. In 
 every part of a discourse, just as in every part of life, we must attend to what is 
 suitable and decent; whether that be determined by the nature of the subject oi* 
 rhich we treat, or by the Characters of those who speak, or of those who hear." 
 
|62 EXTRACTS FROM [f.KCT. XXVII. 
 
 always some distrust of a man's own opinion ; which is, by no means, a 
 favourable circumstance for his inducing others to embrace it. 
 
 These are the chief thoughts which have occurred to me from reflec- 
 tion and observation, concerning the peculiar distinguishing characters of 
 the eloquence proper for popular assemblies. The sum of what has 
 been said is this : the end of popular speaking is persuasion ; and this 
 must be founded on conviction. Argument and reasoning must be the 
 basis, if we would be speakers of business, and not mere declaimers. 
 We should be engaged in earnest on the side which we espouse ; and 
 utter, as much as possible, our own, and not counterfeited sentiments. 
 The premeditation should be of things, rather than of words. Clear 
 order and method should be studied ; the manner and expression warm 
 and animated : though still, in the midst of that vehemence, which may 
 at times be suitable, carried on under proper restraints, which regard 
 to the audience, and to the decorum of character, ought to lay on every 
 public speaker : the style free and easy ; strong and descriptive, rather 
 than diffuse ; and the delivery determined and firm. To conclude this 
 head, let every orator remember, that the impression made by fine and 
 artful speaking is momentary ; that made by argument and good sense, 
 is solid and lasting. 
 
 I shall now, that I may afford an exemplification of that species of ora- 
 tory of which I have been treating, insert some extracts from Demos- 
 thenes. Even under the great disadvantage of an English translation, 
 they will exhibit a small specimen of that vigorous and spirited eloquence 
 which I have so often praised. I shall take my extracts mostly from 
 the Philippics and Olynthiacs, which were entirely popular orations, spo- 
 ken to the general convention of the citizens of Athens : and, as the sub- 
 ject of both the Philippics and the Olynthiacs is the same, I shall not 
 confine myself to one oration, but shall join together passages taken from 
 two or three of them ; such as may show his general strain of speaking, 
 on some of the chief branches of the subject. The subject in general is, 
 to rouse the Athenians to guard against Philip of Macedon, whose grow- 
 ing power and crafty policy, had by that time endangered, and soon after 
 overwhelmed the liberties of Greece. The Athenians began to be 
 alarmed ; but their deliberations were slow, and their measures feeble ; 
 several of their favourite orators having been gained by Philip's 
 bribes to favour his cause. In this critical conjuncture of affairs, De- 
 mosthenes arose. In the following manner he begins his first Philip- 
 pic ; which, like the exordiums of all his orations, is simple and artless.* 
 
 " Had we been convened, Athenians ! on some new subject of debate. 
 I had waited till most of your usual counsellors had declared their opi- 
 nions. If I had approved of what was proposed by them, I should have 
 continued silent ; if not, I should then have attempted to speak my sen- 
 timents. But since those very points on which these speakers have 
 oftentimes been heard already, are at this time to be considered ; 
 though I have arisen first, I presume I may expect your pardon : for if 
 they on former occasions had advised the proper measures, you would 
 not have found it needful to consult at present. 
 
 " First then, Athenians ! however wretched the situation of our affairs 
 at present seems, it must not by any means be thought desperate. What 
 I am now going to advance may possibly appear a paradox ; yet it is a 
 
 7 In the following extracts Leland's translation is mostly followed. 
 
LECT, XXVII.] DEMOSTHENIC £'63 
 
 certain truth that our past misfortunes afford a circumstance most fa- 
 vourable of all others to our future hopes.* And what is this ? even 
 that our present difficulties are owing entirely to our total indolence, and 
 utter disregard of our own interest. For were we thus situated, in spite 
 of every effort which our duty demanded, then indeed we might regard 
 our fortunes as absolutely desperate. But now, Philip hath only con- 
 quered your supineness and inactivity ; the state he hath not conquered. 
 You cannot be said to be defeated ; your force hath never been exerted. 
 " If there is a man in this assembly who thinks that we mast find a for- 
 midable enemy in Philip, while he views on one hand the numerous ar- 
 mies which surround him, and on the other the weakness of our state, 
 despoiled of so much of its dominions, I cannot deny that he thinks justly . 
 Yet let him reflect on this : there was a time, Athenians ! when we pos- 
 sessed Pydna, Poticea, and Melthone, and all that country round : when 
 many of the states, now subjected to him, were free and independent, 
 and more inclined to our alliance than to his. If Philip, at that time 
 weak in himself, and without allies, had desponded of success against you, 
 he would never have engaged in those enterprises which are now 
 crowned with success, nor could have raised himself to that pitch of 
 grandeur at which you now behold him. But he knew well that the 
 strongest places are only prizes laid between the combatants, and ready 
 for the conqueror. He knew that the dominions of the absent devolve 
 naturally to those who are in the field ; the possessions of the supine, to 
 the active and intrepid; Animated by these sentiments, he overturns 
 whole nations. He either rules universally as a conqueror, or governs 
 as a protector. For mankind naturally seek confederacy with such, as 
 they see resolved, and preparing not to be wanting to themselves. 
 
 " If you, my countrymen ! will now at length be persuaded to enter- 
 tain the like sentiments ; if each of you will be disposed to approve him- 
 self a useful citizen, to the utmost that his station and abilities enable 
 him ; if the rich will be ready to contribute, and the young to take the 
 field ; in one word, if you will be yourselves, and banish these vain hopes 
 which every single person entertains, that the active part of public busi- 
 ness may lie upon others, and he remain at his ease ; you may then, by 
 the assistance of the gods, recall those opportunities which your supine- 
 ness hath neglected, regain your dominions, and chastise the insolence of 
 this man. 
 
 " But when, Omy countrymen ! will you begin to exertyour vigour ? 
 Do you wait till roused by some dire event? till forced by some necessity ? 
 What then are we to think of our present condition ? To freemen, the 
 disgrace attending on misconduct is, in my opinion, the most urgent 
 necessity. Or say, is it your sole ambition to wander through the pub- 
 lic places, each inquiring of the other, " what new advices ?" Can any 
 thing be more new, than that a man of Macedon should conquer the 
 Athenians, and give law to Greece ? " Is Philip dead ?" — " No — but he 
 is sick." Pray, what is it to you whether Philip is sick or not? sup- 
 posing he should die, you would raise up another Philip, if you continue 
 thus regardless of your interest. 
 
 " Many, I know, delight more in nothing than in circulating all the 
 rumours they hear as articles of intelligence. Some cry, Philip hath 
 
 * This thought is only hinted at in the first Philippic, but brought out more fully in 
 Hie third ; as the same thoughts, occasioned by similar situations of affairs, some- 
 •itnes occur in the different orations on this subject, 
 
264 EXTRACTS FROM [LEGT. XXVJJ. 
 
 joined with the Lacedaemonians, and they are concerting the destruction 
 of Thebes. Others assure us, he hath sent an embassy to the King of 
 Persia; others, that he is fortifying places in Ulyria. Thus we all go 
 about framing our several tales. I do believe indeed, Athenians ! that 
 he is intoxicated with his greatness, and does entertain his imagination 
 with many such visionary projects, as he sees no power rising to oppose 
 him. But I cannot be persuaded that he hath so taken his measures, 
 that the weakest among us (for the weakest they are who spread such 
 rumours) know what he is next to do. Let us disregard these tales. Let 
 us only be persuaded of this, that he is our enemy ; that w r e have long 
 been subject to his insolence ; that whatever we expected to have been 
 done for us by others, hath turned against us ; that all the resource left, 
 is in ourselves ; and that if we are not inclined to carry our arms abroad, 
 we should be forced to engage him at home. Let us be persuaded of 
 these things, and then we shall come to a proper determination, and be 
 no longer guided by rumours. We need not be solicitous to know what 
 particular events are to happen. We may be well assured that nothing 
 good can happen, unless we give due attention to our own affairs, and act 
 as becomes Athenians. 
 
 "Were it a point generally acknowledged,* that Philip is now at actual 
 war with the state, the only thing under deliberation would then be, how 
 to oppose him with most safety. But since there are persons so strangely 
 infatuated, that although he has already possessed himself of a consider- 
 able part of our dominions ; although he is still extending his conquests ; 
 although all Greece has suffered by his injustice ; yet they can hear it re- 
 peated in this assembly, that it is some of us who seek to embroil the state 
 in war : this suggestion must first be guarded against. I readily admit, 
 that were it in our power to determine whether we should be at peace 
 or war, peace, if it depended on our option, is most desirable to be em- 
 braced. But if the other party hath drawn the sword, and gathered his 
 armies round him ; if he amuses us with the name of peace, while, in 
 fact, he is proceeding to the greatest hostilities, what is left for us but to 
 oppose him ? If any man takes that for a peace, which is only a prepa- 
 ration for his leading his forces directly upon us, after his other conquests, 
 I hold that man's mind to be disordered. At least, it is only our conduct 
 towards Philip, not Philip's conduct towards us, that is to be termed a 
 peace ; and this is the peace for which Philip's treasures are expended, 
 for which his gold is so liberally scattered among our venal orators, that 
 he may be at liberty to carry on the war against you, while you make no 
 war on him. 
 
 " Heavens! is there any man of a right mind who would judge of peace 
 or war by words, and not by actions ? Is there any man so weak as to ima- 
 gine that it is for the sake of those paltry villages of Thrace, Dronguylus, 
 and Cabyle, and Mastira, that Philip i3 now braving the utmost dangers, 
 and enduring the severity of toils and seasons ; and that he has no de- 
 signs upon the arsenals, and the navies, and the silver mines of Athens ? 
 or that he will take up his winter quarters among the cells and dungeons 
 of Thrace, and leave you to enjoy all your revenues in peace ? But 
 you wait, perhaps, till he declare war against you. He will never do so : 
 no, though he were at your gates. He will still be assuring you that he 
 is not at war. Such were his professions to the people of Oreum, when 
 
 * Phil. iii. 
 
LECT. XXVIl.j DEMOSTHENES. 265 
 
 liis forces were in the heart of their country ; such his professions to 
 those of Pherae, until the moment he attacked their wall : and thus he 
 amused the Olynthians till he came within a few miles of them, and 
 then he sent them a message, that either they must quit their city, or 
 he his kingdom. He would indeed be the absurdest of mankind, if, 
 while you suffer his outrages to pass unnoticed, and are wholly engaged 
 in accusing and prosecuting one another, he should, by declaring war, 
 put an end to your private contests, warn you to direct all your zeal 
 against him, and deprive his pensioners of their most specious pretence 
 for suspending your resolutions, that of his not being at war with the 
 state. I, for my part, hold and declare, that by his attack of the 
 Megaraeans, by his attempts upon the liberty of Euboea, by his late 
 incursions in Thrace, by his practices in Peloponnesus, Philip has 
 violated the treaty ; he is in a state of hostility with you ; unless you 
 shall affirm, that he who prepares to besiege a city, is still at peace, 
 until the walls be actually invested. The man whose designs, whose 
 whole conduct tends to reduce me to subjection, that man is at war with 
 me, though not a blow hath yet been given, nor a sword drawn. 
 
 " All Greece, all the barbarian world, is too narrow for this man's am- 
 bition. And though we Greeks see and hear all this, we send no 
 embassies to each other ; we express no resentment ; but into such 
 wretchedness are we sunk, that even to this day, we neglect what our 
 interest and duty demand. Without engaging in associations, or forming 
 confederacies, we look with unconcern upon Philip's growing power ; 
 each fondly imagining, that the time in which another is destroyed, is 
 so much time gained to him; although no man can be ignorant, that, 
 like the regular periodic return of a fever, he is coming upon those who 
 think themselves the most remote from danger. And what is the cause 
 of our present passive disposition ? For some cause sure there must 
 be, why the Greeks, who have been so zealous heretofore in defence 
 of liberty, are now so prone to slavery. The cause, Athenians ! is, 
 that a principle, which was formerly fixed in the minds of all, now ex- 
 ists no more ; a principle which conquered the opulence of Persia ; 
 maintained the freedom of Greece, and triumphed over the powers of 
 sea and land. That principle was, an unanimous abhorrence of all 
 those who accepted bribes from princes, that were enemies to the liber- 
 ties of Greece. To be convicted of bribery, was then a crime alto- 
 gether unpardonable. Neither orators nor generals would then sell 
 for gold, the favourable conjunctures which fortune put into their hands. 
 No gold could impair our firm concord at home, our hatred and diffi- 
 dence of tyrants and barbarians. But now all things are exposed to 
 sale, as in a public market. Corruption has introduced such manners, 
 as have proved the bane and destruction of our country. Is a man 
 known to have received foreign money ? People envy him. Does he 
 own it? They laugh. Is he convicted in form? They forgive him : 
 so universally has this contagion diffused itself among us. 
 
 " If there be any who, though not carried away by bribes, yet are 
 struck with terror, as if Philip was something more than human, they 
 may see, upon a little consideration, that he hath exhausted all those 
 artifices to which he owes his present elevation ; and that his affairs are 
 now ready to decline. For I myself, Athenians! should think Philip 
 really to be dreaded, if I saw him raised by honourable means. When 
 forces join in harmony and affection, and one common interest unites 
 
 LI 
 
26G EXTRACTS FROM DEMOSTHENES. [LECT. XXVII. 
 
 confederating powers, then they share the toils with alacrity, and endure 
 distresses with perseverance. But when extravagant ambition and law- 
 less power, as in the case of Philip, have aggrandized a single person, 
 the first pretence, the slightest accident overthrows him, and dashes 
 his greatness to the ground. For, it is not possible, Athenians ! it is not 
 possible, to found a lasting power upon injustice, perjury, and treach- 
 ery. These may perhaps succeed for once, and borrow for a while, 
 from hope, a gay and flourishing appearance. But time betrays their 
 weakness, and they fall of themselves to ruin. For, as in structures of 
 every kind, the lower parts should have the firmest stability, so the 
 grounds and principles of great enterprises should be justice and truth. 
 Bvit this solid foundation is wanting to all the enterprises of Philip. 
 
 " Hence, among his confederates, there are many who hate, who dis- 
 trust, who envy him. If you will exert yourselves as your honour and 
 your interest require, you will not only discover the weakness and insin- 
 cerity of his confederates, but the ruinous condition also of his own king- 
 dom. For you are not to imagine, that the inclinations of his subjects 
 are the same with those of their prince. He thirsts for glory ; but they 
 have no part in this ambition. Harassed by^ those various excursions 
 he is ever making, they groan under perpetual calamity ; torn from their 
 business and their families ; and beholding commerce excluded from their 
 coasts. All those glaring exploits, which have given him his apparent 
 greatness, have wasted his natural strength, his own kingdom, and render- 
 ed it much weaker than it originally was. Besides, his profligacy and 
 baseness, and those troops of buffoons, and dissolute persons, whom he 
 caresses and keeps constantly about him, are, to men of just discernment, 
 great indications of the weakness of his mind. At present his successes 
 cast a shade over these things ; but let his arms meet with the least dis- 
 grace, his feebleness will appear and his character be exposed. For, as 
 in our bodies, while a man is in apparent health, the effect of some in- 
 ward debility, which has been growing upon him, may, for a time, be 
 concealed ; but as soon as it comes the length of disease, all his secret 
 infirmities show themselves, in whatever part of his frame the disorder is 
 lodged : so, in states and monarchies, while they carry on a war abroad, 
 many defects escape the general eye ; but, as soon as war reaches their 
 own territory, their infirmities come forth to general observation. 
 
 " Fortune has great influence on all human affairs ; but I, for my part, 
 should prefer the fortune of Athens with the least degree of vigour in as- 
 serting your cause, to this man's fortune. For we have many better rea- 
 sons to depend upon the favour of Heaven than this man. But, indeed, 
 he who will not exert his own strength, hath no title to depend either on 
 his friends, or on the gods. Is it at all surprising that he who is himself ever 
 amidst the labours and dangers of the field ; who is every where ; whom 
 no opportunity escapes ; to whom no season is unfavourable ; should be 
 superior to you, who are wholly engaged in contriving delays, and fram- 
 ing decrees, and inquiring after news ? The contrary would be much 
 more surprising, if we, who have never hitherto acted as became a state 
 engaged in war, should conquer one who acts, in every instance, with in- 
 defatigable vigilance. It is this, Athenians ! it is this which gives him all 
 his advantage against you. Philip, constantly surrounded by his troops, 
 and perpetually engaged in projecting his designs, can in a moment strike 
 the blow where he pleases. But we, when any accident alarms us, first 
 appoint onr Trierarchs : then we allow them to exchange by substitu- 
 
LECT; XXVIII. j ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 267 
 
 tioa : then the supplies are considered ; next, we resolve to man our 
 fleet with strangers and foreigners ; then find it necessary to supply their 
 place ourselves. In the midst of these delays, what we are sailing to 
 defend, the enemy is already master of; for the time of action is spent 
 by us in preparing ; and the issues of war will not wait for our slow and 
 irresolute measures. 
 
 " Consider then your present situation, and make such provision as 
 the urgent danger requires. Talk not of your ten thousands, or your 
 twenty thousand foreigners ; of those armies which appear so magnifi- 
 cent on paper only ; great and terrible in your decrees, in execution 
 weak and contemptible. But let your army be made up chiefly of the 
 native forces of the state ; let it be an Athenian strength to which you 
 are to trust ; and whomsoever you appoint as general, let them be 
 entirely under his guidance and authority. For ever since our armies 
 have been formed of foreigners alone, their victories have been gained 
 over our allies and confederates only, while our enemies have risen to 
 an extravagance of power." 
 
 The orator goes on to point out the number of forces which should be 
 raised, and the places of their destination ; the season of the year in 
 which they should set out ; and then proposes in form his motion, as we 
 would call it, or his decree, for the necessary supply of money, and for 
 ascertaihing the funds from which it should be raised. Having finished 
 all that relates to the business under deliberation, he concludes these ora- 
 tions on public affairs, commonly with no longer peroration than the fol- 
 lowing, which terminates the first Philippic ; " I, for my part, have never, 
 upon any occasion, chosen to court your favour by speaking any thing but 
 what I was convinced would serve you. And on this occasion, you have 
 heard my sentiments freely declared, without art, and without reserve. 
 I should have been pleased, indeed, that, as it is for your advantage to 
 have your true interest laid before you, so I might have been assured, 
 that he who layeth it before you should share the same advantage. But, 
 uncertain as I know the consequence to be with respect to myself, I yet 
 determined to speak, because I was convinced that these measures, if 
 pursued, would prove beneficial to the public. And, of all those opi- 
 nions which shall be offered to your acceptance, may the gods determine 
 that to be chosen which will best advance the general welfare !" 
 
 These extracts may serve to give some imperfect idea of the manner 
 of Demosthenes. For a juster and more complete one, recourse must 
 be had to the excellent original. 
 
 LECTURE XXVIII. 
 
 ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR— ANALYSIS OF CICERO'S ORATION 
 FOR CLUENTIUS. 
 
 I treated in the last lecture of what is peculiar to the eloquence of 
 popular assemblies. Much of what was said on that head is applicable 
 to the eloquence of the bar, the next great scene of public speaking, to 
 which 1 now proceed, and my observations upon which will therefore be 
 
268 ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. [LEOT-. XXV11, 
 
 the shorter. All, however, that was said in the former lecture must 
 not be applied to it ; and it is of importance, that I begin with showing 
 where the distinction lies. 
 
 In the first place, the ends of speaking at the bar, and in popular assem- 
 blies, are commonly different. In popular assemblies, the great object 
 is persuasion ; the orator aims at determining the hearers to some choice 
 or conduct, as good, fit, or useful. For accomplishing this end, it is in- 
 cumbent on him to apply himself to all the principles of action in our na- 
 ture : to the passions and to the heart, as well as to the understanding. 
 But, at the bar, conviction is the great object. There, it is not the speak- 
 er's business to persuade the judges to what is good or useful, but to 
 show them what is just and true ; and of course, it is chiefly or solely, to 
 the understanding that his eloquence is addressed. This is a character- 
 istical difference which onght ever to be kept in view. 
 
 In the next place, speakers at the bar address themselves to one or to 
 a few judges, and these, too, persons generally of age, gravity, and au- 
 thority of character. There they have not those advantages which a 
 mixed and numerous assembly affords for employing all the arts of speech, 
 even supposing their subject to admit them. Passion does not rise so 
 easily ; the speaker is heard more coolly ; he is watched over more 
 severely, and would expose himself to ridicule, by attempting that high 
 vehement tone, which is only proper in speaking to a multitude. 
 
 In the last place, the nature and management of the subjects which be- 
 long to the bar, require a very different species of oratory from that of 
 popular assemblies. In the latter, the speaker has a much wider range. 
 He is seldom confined to any precise rule ; he can fetch his topics from 
 a great variety of quarters ; and employ every illustration which his 
 fancy or imagination suggests. But, at the bar, the field of speaking is 
 limited to precise law and statute. Imagination is not allowed to take 
 its scope. The advocate was always laying before him the line, the 
 square, and the compass. These, it is his principal business to be con- 
 tinually applying to the subjects under debate. 
 
 For these reasons, it is clear, that the eloquence of the bar is of a 
 much more limited, more sober and chastened kind, than that of popular 
 assemblies ; and for similar reasons, we must beware of considering even 
 the judicial orations of Cicero or Demosthenes, as exact models of the 
 manner of speaking which is adapted to the present state of the bar. It 
 is necessary to warn young lawyers of this ; because, though these were 
 pleadings spoken in civil or criminal causes, yet, in fact, the nature of 
 the bar. anciently, both in Greece and Rome, allowed as much nearer 
 approach to popular eloquence, than what it now does. This was owing 
 chiefly to two causes : 
 
 First, Because in the ancient judicial orations, strict law was much less 
 an object of attention than it is become among us. In the days of De- 
 mosthenes and Cicero, the municipal statutes were few, simple, and ge- 
 neral ; and the decision of causes was trusted, iu a great measure, to the 
 equity and common sense of the judges. Eloquence, much more than ju- 
 risprudence, was the study of those who were to plead causes. Cicero 
 somewhere says, that three months study was sufficient to make any man 
 a complete civilian ; nay, it was thought that one might be a good pleader 
 at the bar, who had never studied law at all. For there were among the 
 Romans a set of men called pragmatici, whose office it was to give the 
 orator all the law knowledge which the cause he was to plead requi- 
 
LECT. XXVIII.] ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. ggg| 
 
 red, and which he put into that popular form, and dressed up with those 
 colours of eloquence, that were best fitted for influencing the judges 
 before whom he spoke. 
 
 We may observe next, that the civil and criminal judges, both in 
 Greece and Rome, were commonly much more numerous than they are 
 with us, and formed a sort ©f popular assembly. The renowned tribunal 
 of the Areopagus at Athens consisted of fifty judges at the least.* Some 
 make it to consist of a great many more. When Socrates was condemned, 
 by what court it is uncertain, we are informed that no fewer than 280 
 voted against him. In Rome, the Praetor, who was the proper judge 
 both in civil and criminal causes, named, for every cause of moment, 
 the Judices Selecti, as they were called, who were always numerous, and 
 had the office and power of both judge and jury. In the famous cause of 
 Milo, Cicero spoke to fifty-one Judices Selecti. and so had the advantage 
 of addressing his whole pleading, not to one or a few learned judges of 
 the point of law, as is the case with us, but to an assembly of Roman 
 citizens. Hence all those arts of popular eloquence, which we find the 
 Roman orator so frequently employing, and probably with much success. 
 Hence tears and commiseration are so often made use of as the instru- 
 ments of gaining a cause. Hence certain practices, which would be reck- 
 oned theatrical among us, were common at the Roman bar ; such as in- 
 troducing not only the accused person dressed in deep mourning, but 
 presenting to the judges his family, and his young children, endeavouring 
 to move them by their cries and tears. 
 
 For these reasons, on account of the wide difference between the 
 ancient and modern state of the bar, to which we may add also the differ- 
 ence in the turn of ancient and modern eloquence, which I formerly 
 took notice of, too strict an imitation of Cicero's manner of pleading 
 would now be extremely injudicious. To great advantage he may still be 
 studied by every speaker at the bar. In the address with which he opens 
 his subject, and the insinuation he employs for gaining the favour of the 
 judges ; in the distinct arrangement of his facts ; in the gracefulness of 
 his narration ; in the conduct and exposition of his arguments, he may 
 and he ought to be imitated. A higher pattern cannot be set before us ; 
 but one who should imitate him also in his exaggeration and amplifications, 
 in his diffuse and pompous declamation, and in his attempts to raise pas- 
 sion, would now make himself almost as ridiculous at the bar, as if he 
 should appear there in the Toga of a Roman lawyer. 
 
 Before I descend to more particular directions concerning the elo- 
 quence of the bar, I must be allowed to take notice, that the foundation 
 of a lawyer's reputation and success, must always be laid in a profound 
 knowledge of his own profession. Nothing is of such consequence to 
 him, or deserves more of his deep and serious study. For whatever his 
 abilities as a speaker may be, if his knowledge of the law be reckoned 
 superficial, few will choose to commit their cause to him. Resides pre- 
 vious study, and a proper stock of knowledge attained, another thing 
 highly material to the success of every pleader, is, a diligent and painful 
 attention to every cause with which he is intrusted, so as to be thoroughly 
 master of all the facts and circumstances relating to it. On this, the 
 ancient rhetoricians insist with great earnestness, and justly represent it 
 as a necessary basis to all the eloquence that can be exerted in pleading. 
 
 ■ Vide Potter., Antiq. vol. i. p. 102. 
 
27Q ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. [LECT. XXV11I, 
 
 Cicero tells us (under the character of Antonius, in the second book 
 De Oratore) that he always conversed at full length with every client 
 who came to consult him ; that he took care there should be no witness 
 to their conversation, in order that his client might explain himself more 
 freely ; that he was wont to start every objection, and to plead the cause 
 of the adverse party with him, that he might come at the whole truth, 
 an \ be fully prepared on every point of the business ; and that, after the 
 client had retired, he used to balance all the facts with himself, under 
 three different characters, his own, that of the judge, and that of the 
 advocate on the opposite side. He censures very severely those of the 
 profession who decline taking so much trouble ; taxing them not only 
 with shameful negligence, but with dishonesty and breach of trust.* 
 To the same purpose Quintilian, in the eighth chapter of his last book, 
 delivers a great many excellent rules concerning all the methods which 
 a lawyer should employ for obtaining the most thorough knowledge of 
 the cause he is to plead ; again and again recommending patience and 
 attention in conversation with clients, and observing very sensibly, 
 " Non tarn obest audire supervacua, quam ignorare necessaria. Fre- 
 quenter enim et vulnus, et remedium, in iis orator inveniet quae litigatori 
 in neutram partem, habere momentum videbantur."t 
 
 Supposing an advocate to be thus prepared, with all the knowledge 
 which the study of the law in general, and of that cause which he is to 
 plead in particular, can furnish him, I must next observe, that eloquence 
 in pleading is of the highest moment for giving support to a cause. It 
 were altogether wrong to infer, that because the ancient popular and 
 vehement manner of pleading is now in a great measure superseded, 
 there is therefore no room for eloquence at the bar, and that the study of 
 it is become superfluous. Though the manner of speaking be changed, 
 yet still there is a right and proper manner which deserves to be studied 
 as much as ever. Perhaps there is no scene of public speaking where 
 eloquence is more necessary. For, on other occasions, the subject on 
 which men speak in public, is- frequently sufficient, by itself, to interest 
 the hearers. But the dryness and subtilty of the subjects generally agi- 
 tated at the bar, require more than any other, a certain kind of eloquence 
 in order to command attention ; in order to give proper weight to the 
 arguments that are employed, and to prevent any thing which the pleader 
 advances from passing unregarded. The effect of good speaking is 
 always very great. There is as much difference in the impression made 
 upon the hearers, by a cold, dry, and confused speaker, and that made by 
 one who pleads the same cause with elegance, order, and strength, as 
 there is between our conception of an object, when it is presented to us 
 in a dim light, and when we behold it in a full and clear one. 
 
 It is no small encouragement to eloquence at the bar, that of all 
 
 * " Equidem soleo dare operam, ut de sua quisque re me ipse doceat ; et nequis 
 alius adsit, quo liberius loquatur et agere adversarii causam, ut ille agat suam ; et 
 quicquid de sua re cogitaret, in medium proferat. Itaque cum ille decessit, tres 
 personas unus sustineo, summa animi equitate ; meam, adversarii, judices. — Non- 
 nulli dum operam suam multam existimari volunt, uttotoforovolitare, eta causa ad 
 causam ire videantur, causas dicunt incognitas. In quo est ilia quidem magna of- 
 fensio, vel negligentise susceptis rebus, vel perfidiae receptis; sed etiam ilia, major 
 opinione, quod nemo potest de ea re quam non novit, non turpissime decere." 
 
 t tl To listen to something that is superfluous can do no hurt ; whereas to be igno- 
 rant of something that is material, may be highly prejudicial. The advocate will 
 frequently discover the weak side of a cause, and learn at the same time, what is 
 the proper defence, from circumstances which, to the party himself, appeared to be 
 of little or no moment." 
 
 ■H 
 
I 
 
 LECT. XXVIII. j. ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR, 271 
 
 liberal professions, none gives fairer play to genius and abilities than that 
 of the advocate. He is less exposed than some others to suffer by the 
 arts of rivalry, by popular prejudices, or secret intrigues. He is sure 
 of coming forward according to his merit ; for he stands forth every day 
 to view ; he enters the list boldly with his competitors ; every appearance 
 which he makes is an appeal to the public, whose decision seldom fails of 
 being just, because it is impartial. Interest and friends may set forward 
 a young pleader with peculiar advantages beyond others, at the begin- 
 ning ; but they can do no more than open the field to him. A reputa- 
 tion resting on these assistances will soon fall. Spectators remark, 
 judges decide, parties watch ; and to him will the multitude of clients 
 never fail to resort, who gives the most approved specimens of his 
 knowledge, eloquence, and industry. 
 
 It must be laid down for a first principle, that the eloquence suited to 
 the bar, whether in speaking, or in writing law papers, is of the calm 
 and temperate kind, and connected with close reasoning. Sometimes a 
 little play maybe allowed to the imagination, in order to enliven a dry 
 subject, and to give relief to the fatigue of attention ; but this liberty 
 must be taken with a sparing hand. For a florid style, and a sparkling 
 manner, never fail to make the speaker be heard with a jealous ear, by 
 the judge. They detract from his weight, and always produce a suspi- 
 cion of his failing in soundness and strength of argument. It is purity 
 and neatness of expression which is chiefly to be studied ; a style per- 
 spicuous and proper, which shall not be needlessly overcharged with the 
 pedantry of law terms, and where, at the same time, no affectation shall 
 appear of avoiding these, when they are suitable and necessary. 
 
 Verbosity is a common fault, of which the gentlemen of this profession 
 are accused ; and into which the habit of speaking and writing so hastily, 
 and with so little preparation, as they are often obliged to do, almost una- 
 voidably betrays them. It cannot, therefore, be too much recommended 
 to those who are beginning to practise at the bar, that they should early 
 study to guard against this, while as yet they have full leisure for prepa- 
 ration. Let them form themselves, especially in the papers which they 
 write, to the habit of a strong and a correct style ; which expresses the 
 same thing much better in a few words, than is done by the accumulation 
 of intricate and endlessjperiods. If this habit once be acquired, it will 
 become natural to them afterward, when the multiplicity of business 
 shall force them to compose in a more precipitant manner. Whereas, if 
 the practice of a loose and negligent style has been suffered to become 
 familiar, it will not be in their power, even upon occasions when they 
 wish to make an unusual effort, to express themselves with energy and 
 grace. 
 
 Distinctness is a capital property in speaking at the bar. This should 
 be shown chiefly in two things ; first, in stating the question ; in showing 
 clearly what is the point in debate ; what we admit ; what we deny ; and 
 where the line of division begins between us and the adverse party. 
 Next, it should be shown in the order and arrangement of all the parts of 
 the pleading. In every sort of oration, a clear method is of the utmost 
 consequence ; but in those embroiled and difficult cases which belong to 
 the bar, it is almost all in all. Too much pains, therefore, cannot be 
 taken in previously studying the plan and method. If there be indistinct- 
 ness and disorder there, we can have no success in convincing : we leave 
 the whole cause in darkness, 
 
072 ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. {LECT. XXVIIL 
 
 With respect to the conduct of narration and argumentation, I shall, 
 hereafter make several remarks, when I come to treat of the component 
 parts of a regular oration. I shall at present only observe, that the nar- 
 ration of facts at the bar should always be as concise as the nature of 
 them will admit. Facts are always of the greatest consequence to be re- 
 membered during the course of the pleading ; but, if the pleader be te- 
 dious in his manner of relating them, and needlessly circumstantial, he lays 
 too great a load upon the memory. Whereas, by cutting off all superfluous 
 circumstances in his recital, he adds strength to the material facts ; he 
 both gives a clearer view of what he relates, and makes the impression 
 of it more lasting. In argumentation, again, I would incline to give scope 
 to a more diffuse manner at the bar, than on some other occasions. For 
 in popular assemblies, where the subject of debate is often a plain ques- 
 tion, arguments, taken from known topics, gain strength by their concise- 
 ness. But the obscurity of law-points frequently requires the arguments 
 to be spread out, and placed in different lights, in order to be fully ap- 
 prehended. 
 
 When the pleader comes to refute the arguments employed by his 
 adversary, he should be on his guard not to do them injustice, by dis- 
 guising, or placing them in a false light. The deceit is soon discovered ; 
 it will not fail of being exposed ; and tends to impress the judge and the 
 hearers with distrust of the speaker, as one who either wants discern- 
 ment to perceive, or wants fairness to admit, the strength of the reasoning 
 on the other side. Whereas, when they see that he states, with accuracy 
 and candour, the arguments which have been used against him, before 
 he proceeds to combat them, a strong prejudice is created in his favour. 
 They are naturally led to think, that he has a clear and full conception 
 of all that can be said on both sides of the argument ; that he has en- 
 tire confidence in the goodness of his own cause ; and does not attempt 
 to support it by any artifice or concealment. The judge is thereby in- 
 clined to receive much more readily, the impressions which are given him 
 by a speaker, who appears both so fair and so penetrating. There is no 
 part of the discourse, in which the orator has greater opportunity of 
 showing a masterly address, than when he sets himself to represent the 
 reasonings of his antagonists, in order to refute them. 
 
 Wit may sometimes be of service at the bar, especially in a lively re- 
 ply, by which we may throw ridicule on something that has been said on 
 the other side. But though the reputation of wit be dazzling to a young 
 pleader, I would never advise him to rest his strength upon this talent. 
 It is not his business to make an audience laugh, but to convince the 
 judge ; and seldom or never did any one rise to eminence in his profes- 
 sion by being a witty lawyer. 
 
 A proper degree of warmth in pleading a cause is always of use. 
 Though, in speaking to a multitude, greater vehemence be natural ; yet 
 in addressing ourselves even to a single man, the warmth which arises 
 from seriousness and earnestness, is one of the most powerful means of 
 persuading him. An advocate personates his client ; he has taken upon 
 him the whole charge of his interests ; he stands in his place. It is im- 
 proper, therefore, and has a bad effect upon the cause, if he appears 
 indifferent and unmoved ; and few clients will be fond of trusting their 
 interests in the hands of a cold speaker. 
 
 At the same time, he must beware of prostituting his earnestness and 
 sensibility so much as to enter with equal warmth into every cause that is 
 
LECT. XXVHI/j ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS. 273 
 
 committed to him, whether it can be supposed really to excite his zeal or 
 not. There is a dignity of character, which it is of the utmost impor- 
 tance for every one. in this profession to support. For it must never be 
 forgotten, that there is no instrument of persuasion more powerful, than 
 an opinion of probity and honour in the person who undertakes to per- 
 suade.* It is scarcely possible for any hearer to separate altogether the 
 impression made by the character of him that speaks, from the things that 
 he says. However secretly and imperceptibly, it will be always lending 
 its weight to one side or other ; either detracting from, or adding to, the 
 authority and influence of his speech. This opinion of honour and pro- 
 bity must therefore be carefully preserved, both by some degree of deli- 
 cacy in the choice of causes, and by the manner of conducting them. 
 And though, perhaps, the nature of the profession may render it ex- 
 tremely difficult to carry this delicacy its utmost length, yet there are 
 attentions to this point, which, as every good man for virtue's sake, so 
 every prudent man for reputation's sake, will find to be necessary. He 
 will always decline embarking in causes that are odious and manifestly 
 unjust; and, when he supports a doubtful cause, he will lay the chief 
 stress upon such arguments as appear to his own judgment the most tena- 
 ble ; reserving his zeal and his indignation for cases where injustice and 
 iniquity are flagrant. But of the personal qualities and virtues requisite 
 in public speakers, I shall afterward have occasion to discourse. 
 
 These are the chief directions which have occurred to me concern- 
 ing the peculiar strain of speaking at the bar. In order to illustrate the 
 subject farther, I shall give a short analysis of one of Cicero's pleadings, 
 or judicial orations. I have chosen that, pro Cluentio. The celebrated 
 one, pro Milone, is more laboured and showy ; but it is too declamatory. 
 That, pro Cluentio, comes nearer the strain of a modern pleading ; and 
 though it has the disadvantage of being very long, and complicated too in 
 the subject, yet it is one of the most chaste, correct, and forcible of all 
 Cicero's judicial orations, and well deserves attention for it conduct. 
 
 Avitus Cluentius, a Roman knight of splendid family and fortunes, had 
 accused his stepfather Oppianicus of an attempt to poison him. He 
 prevailed in the prosecution ; Oppianicus was condemned and banished. 
 But as rumours arose of the judges having been corrupted by money in 
 this cause, these gave occasion to much popular clamour, and had thrown 
 a heavy odium on Cluentius. Eight years afterward Oppianicus died. 
 An accusation was brought against Cluentius of having poisoned him, 
 together with a charge also of having bribed the judges in the former 
 trial to condemn him. In this action Cicero defends him. The accusers 
 were Sassia, the mother of Cluentius, and widow of Oppianicus, and 
 young Oppianicus, the son. Q,. Naso, the Praetor, was judge, together 
 with a considerable number of Judices Selecti. 
 
 The introduction of the oration is simple and proper, taken from no 
 common-place topic, but from the nature ^ the cause. It begins with 
 taking notice, that the whole oration of the accuser was divided into two 
 parts.! These two parts were, the charge of having poisoned Oppia- 
 
 * " Pluritnura ad omnia moment! est in hoc positum, si vir bonus creditur. Sic 
 enim contingit, ut non studium advocati, videatur afferre, sed pene testis fidem." 
 
 Qujnct. 1. iv. c i. 
 t " Aniuiadverte. judices, oinnera accusatoris orationem in duas divisam esse par- 
 tes : quarum altera mihi niti et magnopere confidere videbatur, invidia jam invete 
 rata judicii Juniani, altera tantummodo consuetudinis causa, timido pi diffidentev 
 
 M ra 
 
274 ANALYSES OF CiCEBO S [LECT. XXVM. 
 
 nicus ; on which the accuser, conscious of having no proof, did not lay 
 the stress of his cause ; but rested it chiefly on the other charge of 
 formerly corrupting the judges, which was capital in certain cases, by 
 the Roman law. Cicero purposes to follow him in this method, and to 
 apply himself chiefly to the vindication of his client from the latter 
 charge. He makes several proper observations on the danger of judges 
 suffering themselves to be swayed by a popular cry, which often is raised 
 by faction, and directed against the innocent. He acknowledges that 
 Cluentius had suffered much and long by reproach, on account of what 
 had passed at the former trial ; but begs only a patient and attentive 
 hearing, and assures the judges, that he will state every thing relating to 
 that matter so fairly and so clearly, as shall give them entire satisfaction. 
 A great appearance of candour reigns throughout this introduction. 
 
 The crimes with which Cluentius was charged, were heinous. A 
 mother accusing her son, and accusing him of such actions, as having 
 first bribed judges to condemn her husband, and having afterward poi- 
 soned him, were circumstances that naturally raised strong prejudices 
 against Cicero's client. The first step, therefore, necessary for the 
 orator, was to remove these prejudices ; by showing what sort of persons 
 Cluentius's mother, and her husband Oppianicus, were ; and thereby 
 turning the edge of public indignation against them. The nature of the 
 cause rendered this plan altogether proper, and insimilar situations it is fit 
 to be imitated. Me executes his plan with much eloquence and force ; 
 and in doing it, lays open such a scene of infamy and complicated guilt, 
 as gives a shocking picture of the manners of that age ; and such as 
 would seem incredible, did not Cicero refer to the proof that was taken 
 in the former trial, of the facts which he alleges. 
 
 Sassia, the mother, appears to have been altogether of an abandoned 
 character. Soon after the death of her first husband, the father of 
 Cluentius, she fell in love with Aurius Melinus, a young man of illustrious 
 birth and great fortune, who was married to her own daughter. She 
 prevailed with him to divorce her daughter, and then she married him 
 herself.* This Melinus being afterward, by the means of Oppianicus, 
 involved in Sylla's proscription, and put to death ; and Sassia being left, 
 for the second time, a widow, and in a very opulent situation, Oppianicus 
 himself made his addresses to her. She, not startled at the impudence of 
 the proposal, nor at the thoughts of marrying one, whose hands had been 
 imbrued in her former husband's blood, objected only, as Cicero says, to 
 Oppianicus having two sons by his present wife. Oppianicus removed 
 the objection by having his sons privately despatched ; and then divorcing 
 his wife, the infamous match was concluded between him and Sassia. 
 These flagrant deeds are painted, as we may well believe, with the 
 
 attingere rationem veneficii crlminum ; qua\ de re lege est hsec questio constituta. 
 Itaque mihi certum est hane eandem distributionem invidiam et crirainum sic in 
 defensione servare, ut omnes intelligant, nihil me nee subterfugere voluisse reticen- 
 do, nee obscurare dicendo." 
 
 * " Lectum ilium genialem quem biennio ante filiae suaenubenti straverat.in eadem 
 domo sibi ornari et sterni, expulsa atque exturbata filia, jubet. Nubit genero socrus, 
 nullis auspieibus funestis omnibus omnium. O mulieris scelus incredibile, et prseter 
 hanc unam, in omni vita inauditum ! O audaciam singularem ! non timuisse, si minus 
 vim deorum,homiuumque famam,at illam ipsam noctem, facesque illas nuptiales? 
 non limen cubiculi ? non cubile filiae ? non parietes denique ipsos superiorum teste 
 nuptiarum ? perfregit ac prostravit omnia cupiditate et furore ? vicit pudorem libido ; 
 timorem audacia ; rationem amentia." The warmth of Cicero's eloquence, which 
 thi<? passage beautifully exemplifies, is here fully justified by the subject. 
 
XECT. XXVIH.J ORATION FOR CITJENTIUS. 273 
 
 highest colours of Cicero's eloquence, which here has a very proper 
 field. Cluentius, as a man of honour, could no longer live on any tole- 
 rable terms with a woman, a mother only in the name, who had loaded 
 herself and all her family with so much dishonour ; and hence the feud 
 which had ever since subsisted between them, and had involved her 
 unfortunate son in so much trouble and persecution. As for Oppianicus, 
 Cicero gives a short history of his life, and a full detail of his crimes ; 
 and by what he relates, Oppianicus appears to have been a man daring, 
 fierce, and cruel, insatiable in avarice and ambition ; trained and hard- 
 ened in all the crimes which those turbulent times of Marius and Sylla's 
 proscriptions produced : " Such a man," says our orator, " as, in place of 
 being surprised that he was condemned, you ought rather to wonder that 
 he had escaped so long." 
 
 And now, having prepared the way by all this narration, which is 
 clear and elegant, he enters on the history of that famous trial in which 
 his client was charged with corrupting the judges. Both Cluentius and 
 Oppianicus were of the city of Larinum. In a public contest about the 
 rights of the freemen of that city, they had taken opposite sides, which 
 embittered the misunderstanding already subsisting between them. 
 Sassia, now the wife of Oppianicus, pushed him on to the destruction of 
 her son, whom she had long hated, as one who was conscious of her 
 crimes ; and as Cluentius was known to have made no will, they ex- 
 pected, upon his death, to succeed to his fortune. The plan was 
 formed, therefore, to despatch him by poison ; which, considering their 
 former conduct, is no incredible part of the story. Cluentius was at 
 that time indisposed : the servant of his physician was to be bribed to 
 give him poison, and one Fabricius, an intimate friend of Oppianicus, 
 was employed in the negotiation. The servant having made the dis- 
 covery, Cluentius first prosecuted Scamander, a freedman of Fabricius, 
 in whose custody the poison was found ; and afterward Fabricius, for 
 this attempt upon his life. He prevailed in both actions : and both 
 these persons were condemned by the voices, almost unanimous, of the 
 judges. 
 
 Of both these prejudicial as our author calls them, or previous trials, 
 he gives a very particular account : and rests upon them a great part 
 of his argument, as, in neither of them, there was the least charge or 
 suspicion of any attempt to corrupt the judges. But in both these 
 trials, Oppianicus was pointed at plainly ; in both, Scamander and 
 Fabricius were prosecuted as only the instruments and ministers of 
 his cruel designs. As a natural consequence, therefore, Cluentius im- 
 mediately afterward raised a third prosecution against Oppianicus 
 himself, the contriver and author of the whole. It was in this prose- 
 cution, that money was said to have been given to the judges ; all Rome 
 was filled with the report of it, and the alarm loudly raised that no man's 
 life or liberty was safe, if such dangerous practices were not checked. 
 By the following arguments, Cicero defends his client against this heavy 
 charge of the Crimen corrupti Judicii. 
 
 He reasons first, that there was not the least reason to suspect it ; 
 seeing the condemnation of Oppianicus was a direct and necessary 
 consequence of the judgments given against Scamander and Fabricius, 
 in the two former trials ; trials that were fair and uncorrupted, to the 
 satisfaction of the whole world. Yet by these, the road was laid clearly 
 open to the detection of Oppianicus's guilt. His instruments and minis- 
 
276 
 
 ANALYSIS OF CICERO'S 
 
 ters being once condemned, and by the very same judges too, nothing 
 could be more absurd than to raise a cry about an innocent person being 
 circumvented by bribery, when it was evident, on the contrary, that a 
 guilty person was now brought into judgment, under such circumstances, 
 that unless the judges were altogether inconsistent with themselves, it 
 was impossible for him to be acquitted. 
 
 He reasons next, that, if in this trial there were any corruption of 
 the judges by money, it was infinitely more probable, that corruption 
 should have" proceeded from Oppianicus than from Cluentius. For 
 setting aside the difference of character between the two men, the one 
 fair, the other flagitious ; what motive had Cluentius to try so odious and 
 dangerous an experiment, as that of bribing judges ? Was it not much 
 more likely that he should have had recourse to this last remedy, who 
 saw and knew himself and his cause to be in the utmost danger, than 
 the other, who had a cause clear in itself, and of the issue of which, 
 in consequence of the two previous sentences given by the same judges, 
 he had full reason to be confident? Was it not much more likely that 
 he should bribe, who had every thing to fear ; whose life, and liberty, 
 and fortune, were at stake ; than he who had already prevailed in a ma- 
 terial part of his charge, and who had no further interest in the issue of 
 the prosecution than as justice was concerned ? 
 
 In the third place, he asserts it as a certain fact, that Oppianicus did 
 attempt to bribe the judges ; that the corruption in this trial, so much 
 complained of, was employed, not by Cluentius, but against him. He 
 calls on Titus Attius, the orator on the opposite side ; he challenges 
 him to deny, if he can, or if he dare, that Stalenus, one of the thirty -two 
 Judices Selectiy did receive money from Oppianicus ; he names the sum 
 that was given ; he names the persons that were present, when, after 
 the trial was over, Stalenus was obliged to refund the bribe. This is 
 a strong fact, and would seem quite decisive. But, unluckily, a very 
 cross circumstance occurs here. For this very Stalenus gave his voice 
 to condemn Oppianicus. For this strange incident, Cicero accounts in 
 the following manner : Stalenus, says he, known to be a worthless- man, 
 and accustomed before to the like practices, entered into a treaty with 
 Oppianicus to bring him off, and demanded for that purpose a certain 
 sum, which he undertook to distribute among a competent number of 
 the other judges. When he was once in possession of the money : 
 when he found a greater treasure than ever he had been master of, 
 deposited in his empty and wretched habitation, he became very un- 
 willing to part with any of it to his colleagues ; and bethought himself 
 of some means by which he could contrive to keep it all to himself. 
 The scheme which he devised for this purpose was, to promote the 
 condemnation, instead of the acquittal of Oppianicus ; as, from a con- 
 demned person, he did not apprehend much danger of being called 
 to account, or being obliged to make restitution. Instead, therefore, 
 of endeavouring to gain any of his colleagues, he irritated such as he 
 had influence with against Oppianicus, by first promising them money 
 in his name, and afterward telling them, that Oppianicus had cheated 
 him.* When sentence was to be pronounced, he had taken measures 
 
 * " Cum esset egens, sumptuosus, audax, callidus, perfidiosus, et cum domi sua?, 
 miserrimis in locis, et inanissimis, tantum nummorum positum viderit, ad oranem 
 malitiam etfraudem versare mentem suam ccepit. Demue judicibus ? mihi igitur, ipsi 
 pra»tep periculum et infamiam quid quseretur ? Siquis eum forte casus es pericuto err- 
 
LECT. XXVIIf.j ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS. 277 
 
 for being absent himself ; but being brought by Oppianicus's lawyers, 
 from another court, and obliged to give his voice, he found it necessary 
 to lead the way, in condemning the man whose money he had taken, 
 without fulfilling the bargain which he had made with him. 
 
 By these plausible facts and reasonings, the character of Cluentius 
 seems in a great measure cleared ; and, what Cicero chiefly intended, 
 the odium thrown upon the adverse party. But a difficult part of the ora- 
 tor's business still remained. There were several subsequent decisions 
 of the prastor, the censors, and the senate, against the judges in this 
 cause ; which all proceeded, or seemed to proceed, upon this ground of 
 bribery and corruption : for it is plain the suspicion prevailed, that if 
 Oppianicus had given money to Stalenus, Cluentius had out-bribed him. 
 To all these decisions, however, Cicero replies with much distinctness 
 and subtilty of argument ; though it might be tedious to follow him 
 through all his reasonings on these heads. He shows, that the facts were, 
 at that time, very indistinctly known ; that the decisions appealed to 
 were hastily given ; that not one of them concluded directly against his 
 client ; and that such as they were, they were entirely brought about by 
 the inflammatory and factious harangues of Quinctius, the tribune of the 
 people, who had been the agent and advocate of Oppianicus ; and who, 
 enraged at the defeat he had sustained, had employed all his tribuni- 
 tial influence to raise a storm against the judges who condemned his 
 client. 
 
 At length, Cicero comes to reason concerning the point of law. The 
 Crimen Corrupti Judicii, or the bribing of judges, was capital. In the 
 famous Lex Cornelia de Sicariis, was contained this clause (which we find 
 still extant, Pandect, lib. xlviii. tit. 10, § 1.) " Qui judicem corruperit, 
 vel corrumpendum curaverit, hac lege teneatur." This clause, however, 
 we learn from Cicero, was restricted to magistrates and senators ; and 
 as Cluentius was only of the equestrian order, he was not, even suppo- 
 sing him guilty, within the law. Of this, Cicero avails himself doubly ; 
 and as he shows here the most masterly address, I shall give a summary 
 of his pleading on this part of the cause : " You," says he to the advo- 
 cate for the prosecutor, " You, T. Attius, I know, had every where given 
 it out, that I was to defend my client, not from facts, not upon the footing 
 of innocence, but by taking advantage merely of the law in his behalf 
 Have I done so ? I appeal to yourself. Have I sought to cover him be- 
 hind a legal defence only ? On the contrary, have I not pleaded his 
 cause as if he had been a senator, liable, by the Cornelian law, to be 
 capitally convicted : and shown, that neither proof nor probable pre- 
 sumption lies against his innocence ? In doing so, I must acquaint you, 
 that I have complied with the desire of Cluentius himself. For when 
 he first consulted me in this cause, and when I informed him that it was 
 clear no action could be brought against him from the Cornelian law, 
 he instantly besought and obtested me, that I would not rest his defence 
 upon that ground ; saying, with tears in his eyes, that his reputation was as 
 dear to him as his life ; and that what he sought, as an innocent man, 
 was not only to be absolved from any penalty, but to be acquitted in the 
 opinion of all his fellow-citizens. 
 
 puerit nonne reddendum est ? praecipitantem igitur impellamus, inquit, et perditum 
 proaternamus. Capit hoc consilium et pecuniamquibus dam judicious ievissimis pol- 
 liceatur, deinde earn postea supprimat ; ut quoniam graves homines sua3ponte severe 
 .iudicaHtros putabat, bos qui leviores erant, destitutions iratos Oppianico redderet 
 
:i78 ANALYSIS OF CICERO'S [LECT. XXVIII. 
 
 u , Hitherto, then, I have pleaded this cause upon his plan. But my client 
 must forgive me, if now I shall plead it upon my own. For I should be 
 wanting to myself, and to that regard which my character and station re- 
 quire me to bear to the laws of the state, if I should allow any person 
 to be judged of by a law which does not bind him. You, Attius, indeed, 
 have told us, that it was a scandal and reproach, that a Roman knight 
 should be exempted from those penalties to which a senator for corrupt- 
 ing judges, is liable. But I must tell you, that it would be a much greater 
 reproach in a state that is regulated by law, to depart from the law. 
 What safety have any of us in our persons, what security for our rights, 
 if the law shall be set aside ? By what title do you, Q,. Naso, sit in that 
 chair, and preside in this judgment 1 By what right, T. Attius, do you 
 accuse, or do I defend ? Whence all the solemnity and pomp of judges, 
 and clerks, and officers, of which this house is full? Does not all pro- 
 ceed from the law, which regulates the whole departments of the state : 
 which, as a common bond, holds its members together ; and, like the 
 soul within the body, actuates and directs all the public functions ?* On 
 what ground, then, dare you speak lightly of the law, or move that, in 
 a criminal trial, judges should advance one step beyond what it permits 
 them to go ? The wisdom of our ancestors has found, that, as senators 
 and magistrates enjoy higher dignities, and greater advantages than other 
 members of the state, the law should also, with regard to them, be more 
 strict, and the purity and uncorruptedness of their morals be guarded by 
 more severe sanctions. But if it be your pleasure that this institution 
 should be altered, if you wish to have the Cornelian law, concerning bri- 
 bery, extended to all ranks, then let us join, not in violating the law, but 
 in proposing to have this alteration made by a new law. My client, 
 Cluentius, will be the foremost in this measure, who now, while the old 
 law subsists, rejected its defence, and required his cause to be pleaded, 
 as if he had been bound by it. But, though he would not avail himself 
 of the law, you are bound injustice not to stretch it beyond its proper 
 limits." 
 
 Such is the reasoning of Cicero on this head ; eloquent, surely, and 
 strong. As his manner is diffuse, I have greatly abridged it from the 
 original, but have endeavoured to retain its force. 
 
 In the latter part of the oration, Cicero treats of the other accusa- 
 tion that was brought against Cluentius, of having poisoned Oppianicus. 
 On this, it appears, his accusers themselves laid small stress ; having 
 placed their chief hope in overwhelming Cluentius with the odium of 
 bribery in the former trial ; and therefore, on this part of the cause, Cicero 
 does not dwell long. He shows the improbability of the whole tale, 
 which they related concerning this pretended poisoning, and makes it ap- 
 pear to be altogether destitute of any shadow of proof. 
 
 Nothing, therefore, remains but the peroration or conclusion of the 
 whole. In this, as indeed throughout the whole of this oration, Cicero 
 
 * " Ait Attius, indignum esse facinus, si senator Judicio quemquam circumvenerit 
 eum legibus teneri ; si Eques Romanus hoc idem fecerit, eum non teneri. Ut tibi, 
 concedam hoc indignum esse tu mihiconcedas necesse est multo esse indignius, in 
 ea civitate quae legibus contineatur, discedi a legibus. Hoc nam vinculum est hujus 
 dignitatis qua fruimur in republica Hoc fundamentum libertatis ; hie sons equitatis , 
 mens et animus, et consilium, et sententia civitatis posita est in legibus. Ut corpora 
 nostra sine mente, sic civitatis sine lege, suis partibus, ut nervis ac sanguine et mem- 
 bris, uti non potest. Legum ministri, magistrates ; legum interpretes, judices, 
 legum denique idcicro omnes siraus servi,ut liber esse possimus : Quid est, Q. Naso, 
 cur tu in hoc loco sedeas ?" &c. 
 
LECT. XXVIII.] ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS. 279 
 
 is uncommonly chaste, and, in the midst of much warmth and earnestness, 
 keeps clear of turgid declamation. The peroration turns on two points ; 
 the indignation which the character and conduct of Sassia ought to ex- 
 cite, and the compassion due to a son, persecuted through his whole life 
 by such a mother. He recapitulates the crimes of Sassia ; her lewdness, 
 her violation of every decorum, her incestuous marriages, her violence 
 and cruelty. He places, in the most odious light, the eagerness and fury 
 which she had shown in the suit she was carrying on against her son : 
 describes her journey from Larinum to Rome, with a train of attend- 
 ants, and a great store of money, that she might employ every method 
 for circumventing and oppressing him in this trial : while, in the whole 
 course of her journey, she was so detested, as to make a solitude where- 
 ver she lodged ; she was shunned and avoided by all ; her company 
 and her very looks, were reckoned contagious ; the house was deem- 
 ed polluted which was entered into by so abandoned a woman.* To 
 this he opposes the character of Cluentius, fair, unspotted, and re- 
 spectable. He produces the testimonies of the magistrates of Larinum 
 in his favour, given in the most ample and honourable manner by a 
 public decree, and supported by a great concourse of the most noted in- 
 habitants, who were now present, to second every thing that Cicero 
 should say in favour of Cluentius. 
 
 " Wherefore, judges," he concludes, " if you abominate crimes, stop 
 the triumph of this impious woman, prevent this most unnatural mother 
 from rejoicing in her son's blood. If you love virtue and worth, relieve 
 this unfortunate man, who, for so many years, has been exposed to most 
 unjust reproach, through the calumnies raised against him by Sassia, 
 Oppianicus, and all their adherents. Better far had it been for him 
 to have ended his days at once by the poison which Oppianicus had 
 prepared for him, than to have escaped those snares, if he must still 
 be oppressed by an odium which I have shown to be so unjust. But 
 in you he trusts, in your clemency, and your equity, that now, on a 
 full and fair hearing of his cause, you will restore him to his honour ; 
 you will restore him to his friends and fellow-citizens, of whose zeal 
 and high estimation of him you have seen such strong proofs ; and 
 will show, by your decision, that though faction and calumny may reign 
 for a while in popular meetings and harangues, in trial and judgment, 
 regard is paid to the truth only." 
 
 I have given only a skeleton of this oration of Cicero, What I have 
 principally aimed at, was to show his disposition and method : his arrange- 
 ment of facts, and the conduct and force of some of his main arguments. 
 But, in order to have a full view of the subject, and of the art with 
 which the orator manages it, recourse must be had to the original. Few 
 
 * " Cum appropinquare hujus judicium ei nuntiatum est, confestim hie advolavit ; 
 ne aut accusatoribus diligentia, aut pecunia, testibus deessit ; aut ne forte mater hoc 
 sibi optatissimum spectaculum hujus sordium atque luctus, et tand squaloris amit- 
 teret. Jam vero quod iter Romam hujus mulieris fuisse existimatis ? Quod ego 
 propter vi anitatem Aquinatium et Venafranorum ex multis compel : quos concur- 
 sus in his oppidis ? Qmntos et virorum etinulierum gemitus ess^ factos ? Muiierem 
 quandem Larino, atque illam usque a mari supero Romam proficisci cum magno 
 comitatu et pecunia. quo facilius circumvenire judicio capitis, atque opprimere 
 filium possit Nemo erat illorum, pcene dicam, quin expiandum ilium locum esse 
 arbitraretur quacunque ilia inter iecisset ; nemo, quin terram ipsam violari, quae 
 mater est omuium, vestigiis consceleratae matris putaret. Itaque nullo in oppido 
 consistendi ei potestas fuit; nemo ex tot hospitibus inventus est qui non conta- 
 gioneiu aspectus fugeret," 
 
280 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. {XECT. XXIX, 
 
 of Cicero's orations contain a greater variety of facts and argumenta- 
 tions, which renders it difficult to analyze it fully. But for this reason 
 I chose it as an excellent example of managing at the bar, a complex 
 and intricate cause, with order, elegance, and force. 
 
 LECTURE XXIX. 
 
 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 
 
 Before treating of the structure and component parts of a regular 
 oration, I propose making some observations on the peculiar strain, the 
 distinguishing characters, of each of the three kinds of public speaking. 
 I have already treated of the eloquence of popular assemblies, and of 
 the eloquence of the bar. The subject which remains for this lectur e 
 is, the strain and spirit of that eloquence which is suited to the pulpit. 
 
 Let us begin with considering the advantages, and disadvantages, 
 which belong to this field of public speaking. The pulpit has plainly 
 several advantages peculiar to itself. The dignity and importance of 
 its subjects must be acknowledged superior to any other. They are 
 such as ought to interest every one, and can be brought heme to every 
 man's heart ; and such as admit, at the same time, both the highest em- 
 bellishment in describing, and the greatest vehemence and warmth in 
 enforcing them. The preacher has also great advantages in treating 
 his subjects. He speaks not to one or a few judges, but to a large 
 assembly. He is secure from all interruption. He is obliged to no 
 replies, or extemporaneous efforts. He chooses his theme at leisure ; 
 and comes to the public with all the assistance which the most accurate 
 premeditation can give him. 
 
 But, together with these advantages, there are also peculiar difficul- 
 ties that attend the eloquence of the pulpit. The preacher, it is true, 
 has no trouble in contending with an adversary ; but then, debate and 
 contention enliven the genius of men, and procure attention. The 
 pulpit orator is, perhaps, in too quiet possession of his field. His sub- 
 jects of discourse are, in themselves, noble and important ; but they 
 are subjects trite and familiar. They have, for ages, employed so 
 many speakers, and so many pens ; the public ear is so much accus- 
 tomed to them, that it requires more than an ordinary power of genius 
 to fix attention. Nothing within the reach of art is more difficult, than 
 to bestow, on what is common, the grace of novelty. No sort of com- 
 position whatever is such a trial of skill, as where the merit of it lies 
 wholly in the execution ; not in giving any information that is new, 
 not in convincing men of what they did not believe ; but in dressing 
 truths which they knew, and of which they were before convinced, in such 
 colours as may most forcibly affect their imagination and heart.* It 
 
 * What I have said on this snbject coincides very much with the observations 
 made by the famous M. Bruyere, in his Mteurs de Siecle, when he is comparing the 
 eloquence of the pulpit to that of the bar. " L'Eloquence de la chaire, en ce qui y 
 entre d'humain, et du talent de l'orateur, est cachee, connue de peu de personnes, et 
 d'une difficile execution. 11 faut marcher par des chemins battus, dire ce qui a ete dit . 
 
LEfcf. XXJX.] ELOQUENCE OF THE I'tfLPlT. ,231 
 
 is to be considered too, that the subject of the preacher generally 
 confines him to abstract qualities, to virtues and vices : whereas, that 
 of other popular speakers leads them to treat of persons, which is a 
 subject that commonly interests the hearers more, and takes faster hold 
 of the imagination. The preacher's business is solely to make you de- 
 test the crime. The pleader's to make you detest the criminal. He 
 describes a living person ; and with more facility rouses your indigna- 
 tion. From these causes it comes to pass, that though we have a great 
 number of moderately good preachers, we have, however, so few that 
 are singularly eminent. We are still far from perfection in the art of 
 preaching ; and perhaps there are few things in which it is more diffi- 
 cult to excel.* The object, however, is noble, and worthy, upon many 
 accounts, of being pursued with zeal. 
 
 It may perhaps occur to some, that preaching is no proper subject 
 of the art of eloquence. This, it may be said, belongs only to human 
 studies and inventions ; but the truths of religion, with the greater sim- 
 plicity, and the less mixture of art they are set forth, are likely to 
 prove the more successful. This objection would have weight, if elo- 
 quence were, as the persons who make such an objection commonly 
 take it to be, an ostentatious and deceitful art, the study of words and 
 of plausibility only, calculated to please, and to tickle the ear. But 
 against this idea of eloquence I have all along guarded. True elo- 
 quence is the art of placing truth in the most advantageous light for 
 conviction and persuasion. This is what every good man who preaches 
 the Gospel not only may, but ought to have at heart. It is most inti- 
 mately connected with the success of his ministry ; and were it needful, 
 as assuredly it is not, to'reason any further on this head, we might refer 
 to the discourses of the Prophets and Apostles, as models of the most 
 sublime and persuasive eloquence, adapted both to the imagination and 
 the passions of men. 
 
 An essential requisite, in order to preach well, is to have a just, 
 and, at the same time, a fixed and habitual view of the end of preaching. 
 
 et ce qui 1'ou prevoit que vous allez dire : les matieres sont grandes, mait usees et 
 Vriviales : les principes surs, mais dont ies auditeurs penetrent les conclusions d'une 
 senile vue : il y entre des sujets qui sont sublimes, mais qui peut traiter le sublime ? 
 Le Predicateur n'est point soutenucomme l'avocat par des fails to u jours nouveaux, 
 pardedifferens evenernens, par des nvantures inouies : ii ne s'exerce point 3ur les 
 questions douteuses ; il ne fait point valor les violentes conjectures, et les presomp- 
 tions: toutes choses, neanmoins, qui 61 event le genie, lui donnent de la force, etrte 
 retendue, et qui contraignent bien moins l'eloquence, qu'eiles ne le fixent, et le di- 
 rigent. II doitau contraire, lirer son discours d'une source commune, et ou tout le 
 monde puise ; et s'il s'ecarte de ces lieux eommuns, il n'est, plus populaire ; il est ab- 
 stract ou declamateur." The inference which he draws from these reflections is very 
 just : " il est plus aise de precher que de plaider ; mais plus difficile de bien precher 
 que de bien plaider." Les Caracteres, ou Mosurs de ce Siecle, p. 601. 
 
 * What I say here, and in other passages, of our being far from perfection, in the 
 art of preaching, and of there being few who are so singularly eminent in it, is to be 
 always understood as referring to an ideal view of the perfection of this art, which 
 none perhaps, since the days of the Apostles, ever did, or ever will reach. But in 
 that degree of the eloquence of the pulpit, which promotes, in a considerable mea- 
 sure, the great end of edification, and gives a just title to high reputation and es- 
 teem, there are many who hold a very honourable rank. I agree entirely in opinion 
 with a candid judge (Dr. Campbell on Rhetoric, b. i. ch. 10) who observes, that 
 considering how rare the talent of eloquence is among men, and considering all the 
 disadvantages under which preachers labour, particularly from the frequency of 
 this exercise, joined with the other duties of their office, to which fixed pastors are 
 obliged, there is more reason to wonder that we hear so many instructive, and even 
 eloquent sermons, thau that we bear so few. 
 
 N n 
 
282 
 
 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. [LEC'f . XXIX' 
 
 For in no -art can any man execute well, who has not a just idea 
 of the end and object of that art. The end of all preaching is, to per- 
 suade men to become good. Every sermon, therefore, should be a per- 
 suasive oration. Not but that the preacher is to instruct and to teach, to 
 reason and argue. All persuasion, as I showed formerly, is to be found- 
 ed on conviction. The understanding must always be applied to in 
 the first place, in order to make a lasting impression on the heart ; and 
 he who would work on men's passions, or influence their practice, with- 
 out first giving them just principles, and enlightening their minds, is no 
 better than a mere declaimer. He may raise transient emotions, or 
 kindle a passing ardour ; but can produce no solid or lasting effect. At 
 the same time, it must be remembered, that all the preacher's instructions 
 are to be of the practical kind ; and that persuasion must ever be his 
 ultimate object. It is not to discuss some abstruse point, that he ascends 
 the pulpit. It is not to illustrate some metaphysical truth, or to inform 
 men of something which they never heard before ; but it is to make them 
 better men ; it is to give them, at once, clear views, and persuasive im- 
 pressions of religious truth. The eloquence of the pulpit, then, must 
 be popular eloquence. One of the first qualities of preaching is to be 
 popular ; not in the sense of accommodation to the humours and preju- 
 dices of the people (which tends only to make a preacher contemptible,) 
 but, in the true sense of the word, calculated to make impression on 
 the people ; to strike and to seize their hearts. I scruple not therefore 
 to assert, that the abstract and philosophical manner of preaching, how- 
 ever it may have sometimes been admired, is formed upon a very faulty 
 idea, and deviates widely from the just plan of pulpit eloquence. Ra- 
 tional, indeed, a preacher ought always to be : he must give his audience 
 clear ideas on every subject, and entertain them with sense, not with 
 sound ; but to be an accurate reasoner will be small praise, if he be not 
 a persuasive speaker also. 
 
 Now, if this be the proper idea of a sermon, a persuasive oration „ 
 one very material consequence follo\v3, that the preacher himself, in 
 order to be successful, must be a good man. In a preceding Lecture, 
 I endeavoured to show, that on no subject can any man be truly elo- 
 quent, who does not utter the " verse voces ab imo pectore," who 
 does not speak the language of his own conviction, and his own feel- 
 ings. If this holds, as, in my opinion, it does in other kinds of public 
 speaking, it certainly holds in the highest degree in preaching. There, 
 it is of the utmost consequence that the speaker firmly believe both the 
 truth and the importance of those principles which he inculcates upon 
 others : and, not only that he believe them speculatively, but have a 
 lively and serious feeiiiig cf them. This will always give an earnest- 
 ness and strength, a fervour of piety to his exhortations, superior in 
 its effects to ali the arts of studied eloquence ; and without it, the as- 
 sistance of art will seldom be able to conceal the mere declaimer. A 
 spirit of true piety would prove the most effectual guard against those 
 errors which preachers are apt to commit. It would make their dis- 
 courses solid, cogent, and useful: it would prevent those frivolous and 
 ostentatious harangues, which have no other aim than merely to make 
 a parade of speech, or amuse an audience ; and perhaps the difficulty 
 of attaining that pitch of habitual piety and goodness, which the per- 
 fection of pulpit eloquence would require, and of uniting it with that 
 thorough knowledge of the world, and those other talents which are 
 
LECT. XXLX] ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 203 
 
 requisite for excelling in the pulpit, as one of the great causes why so 
 few Ririve at very high eminence in this sphere. 
 
 The chief characteristics of the eloquence suited to the pulpit, as 
 distinguished from the other kinds of public speaking, appear to me 
 to be these two, gravity and warmth. The serious nature of the sub- 
 jects belonging to the pulpit, requires gravity ; their importance to 
 mankind, requires warmth. It is far from being either easy or com- 
 mon to unite these characters of eloquence. The grave, when it is 
 predominant, is apt to run into a dull uniform solemnity. The warm, 
 when it wants gravity, borders on the theatrical and light. The union 
 of the two must be studied by all preachers as of the utmost conse- 
 quence, both in the composition of their discourses, and in their man- 
 ner of delivery. Gravity and warmth united, form that character of 
 preaching which the French call Onction ; the affecting, penetrating, 
 interesting manner, flowing from a strong sensibility of heart in the 
 preacher to the importance of those truths which he delivers, and an 
 earnest desire that they may make full impression on the hearts of his 
 hearers. tuA <* 
 
 Next to a just idea of the nature and object of pulpit eloquence, the 
 point of greatest importance to a preacher, is a proper choice of the 
 subjects on which he preaches. To give rules for the choice of sub- 
 jects for sermons, belongs to the theological more than to the rhetorical 
 chair ; only in general, they should be such as appear to the preacher 
 to be the most useful, and the best accommodated to the circumstances 
 of his audience. No man can be called eloquent, who speaks to an as- 
 sembly on subjects, or in a strain which none or few of them compre- 
 hend. The unmeaning applause which the ignorant give to what is 
 above their capacity, common sense and common probity must teach 
 every man to despise. Usefulness and true eloquence always go to- 
 gether ; and no man can long be reputed a good preacher who is not 
 acknowledged to be a useful one. 
 
 The rules which relate to the conduct of the different parts of a 
 sermon, the introduction, division, argumentative and pathetic parts, 
 I reserve till I come to treat of the conduct of a discourse in ge- 
 neral ; but some rules and observations, which respect a sermon as 
 a particular species of composition, I shall now give, and I hope they 
 may be of some use. 
 
 The first which I shall mention is, to attend to the unity of a sermon. 
 Unity indeed is of great consequence in every composition ; but in other 
 discourses, where the choice and direction of the subject are not 
 left to the speaker, it may be less in his power to preserve it. In a 
 sermon, it must be always the preacher's own fault if he transgress it. 
 What. I mean by unity is, that there should be some one main point to 
 which the whole strain of the sermon should refer. It must not be a 
 bundle of different subjects strung together, but one object must predo- 
 minate throughout. This rule is founded on what we call experience, 
 that the mind can fully attend only to one capital object at a time. By 
 dividing, you always weaken the impression. Now this unity, with- 
 out which no sermon can either have much beauty, or much force, 
 does not require that there should be no divisions or separate heads in 
 the discourse, or that one single thought only should be, again and again 
 turned up to the hearers in different lights. It is not to be understood 
 in so narrow a sense : it admits of some variety ; it admits of adder- 
 parts and appendages, provided always that so much union and con- 
 
5)34 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT, [LECT. XXIX 
 
 nexion be observed, as to make the whole concur in some one impres- 
 sion upon the mind. I may emplo}', for instance, several different 
 arguments to enforce the love of God ; I may also inquire, perhaps, 
 into the causes of the decay of this virtue ; still one great object is pre- 
 sented to the mind ; but if, because my text says, " He that loveth God, 
 must love his brother also," I should, therefore, mingle in one dis- 
 course arguments for the love of God and for the love of our neighbour, 
 I should offend unpardonably against unity, and leave a very loose and 
 confused impression on the hearers' minds. 
 
 In the second place, sermons are always the more striking, and com- 
 monly the more useful, the more precise and particular the subject of 
 them is. This follows, in a great measure, from what I was just now 
 illustrating. Though a general subject is capable of being conducted 
 with a considerable degree of unity, yet that unity can never be so com- 
 plete as in a particular one. The impression made must always be more 
 undeterminate ; and the instruction conveyed will commonly, too, be 
 less direct and convincing. General subjects, indeed, such as the ex- 
 cellency of the pleasures of religion, are often chosen by young preach- 
 ers, as the most showy, and the easiest to be handled ; and, doubtless, 
 general views of religion are not to be neglected, as on several occasions 
 they have great propriety. But these are not the subjects most favoura- 
 ble for producing the high effects of preaching. They fall in almost 
 unavoidably with the beaten track of common-place thought. Attention 
 is much more commanded by seizing some particular view of a great 
 subject, some single interesting topic, and directing to that point the 
 whole force of argument and eloquence. To recommend some one 
 grace or virtue, or to inveigh against a particular vice, furnishes a sub- 
 ject not deficient in unity or precision ; but if we confine ourselves to 
 that virtue or vice as assuming a particular aspect, and consider it as it 
 appears in certain characters, or affects certain situations in life, the 
 subject becomes still more interesting. The execution is, I admit, more 
 difficult, but the merit and the effect are higher. 
 
 In the third place, never study to say all that can be said upon a 
 subject ; no error is greater than this. Select the most useful, the most 
 striking and persuasive topics which the text suggests, and rest the dis- 
 course upon these. If the doctrines which ministers of the Gospel 
 preach were altogether new to their hearers, it might be requisite for 
 them to be exceedingly full on every particular, lest there should be any 
 hazard of their not affording complete information. But it i3 much less 
 for the sake of information than of persuasion, that discourses are deli- 
 vered from the pulpit : and nothing is more opposite to persuasion, than 
 an unnecessary and tedious fulness. There are always some things 
 which the preacher may suppose to be known, and some things which 
 he may only slightly touch. If he seek to omit nothing which his subject 
 suggests, it will unavoidably happen that he will encumber it, and weak- 
 en its force. 
 
 In studying a sermon, he ought to place himself in the situation of a 
 serious hearer. Let him suppose the subject addressed to himself : let 
 him consider what views of it would strike him most ; what arguments 
 would be most likely to persuade him ; what parts of it would dwell most 
 upon his mind. Let these be employed as his principal materials ; and 
 in these it is most likely his genius will exert itself with the greatest 
 vigour. .The spinning and viredrawinsr mode, which is not uncommon 
 
LECT. XXIX.] ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT, 0^3 
 
 among preachers, enervates the noblest truths. It may indeed be a 
 consequence of observing the rule which I am now giving, that fewer 
 sermons will be preached upon one text than is sometimes done ; but 
 this will, in my opinion, be attended with no disadvantage. I know no 
 benefit that arises from introducing a whole system of religious truth 
 under every text. The simplest and most natural method by far, is to 
 choose that view of a subject to which the text principally leads, and to 
 dwell no longer on the text, than is sufficient for discussing the subject in 
 view, which can commonly be done, with sufficient profoundness and 
 distinctness, in one or a few discourses : for it is a very false notion to 
 imagine, that they always preach the most profoundly, or go the deepest 
 into a subject, who dwell on it the longest. On the contrary, that tedious 
 circuit, which some are ready to take in all their illustrations, is very 
 frequently owing, either to their want of discernment for perceiving 
 what is most important in the subject ; or to their want of ability for 
 placing it in the most proper point of view. 
 
 In the fourth place, study above all things to render your instructions 
 interesting to the hearers. This is the great trial and mark of true 
 genius for the eloquence of the pulpit : for nothing is so fatal to success 
 in preaching, as a dry manner. A dry sermon can never be a good one, 
 In order to preach in an interesting manner, much will depend upon the 
 delivery of a discourse ; for the manner in which a man speaks, is of the 
 utmost consequence for affecting his audience ; but much will also depend 
 on the composition of the discourse. Correct language, and elegant 
 description, are but the secondary instruments of preaching in an inter- 
 esting manner. The great secret lies, in bringing home all that is spoken 
 to the hearts of the hearers, so as to make every man think that the 
 preacher is addressing him in particular. For this end, let him avoid all 
 intricate reasonings ; avoid expressing himself in general speculative 
 propositions, or laying down practical truths in an abstract metaphysical 
 manner. As much as possible, the discourse ought to be carried on in 
 the strain of direct address to the audience ; not in the strain of one 
 writing an essay, but of one speaking to a multitude, and studying to 
 mix what is called application, or what has an immediate reference to 
 practice, with the doctrinal and didactic parts of the sermon. 
 
 It will be of much advantage to keep always in view the different ages> 
 characters, and conditions of men, and to accommodate directions 
 and exhortations to these different classes of hearers. Whenever you 
 bring forth what a man feels to touch his own character, or to suit his 
 own circumstances, you are sure of interesting him. No study is more 
 necessary for this purpose, than the study of human life, and the hu- 
 man heart. To be able to unfold the heart, and to discover a man to 
 himself, in a light in which he never saw his own character before, pro- 
 duces a wonderful effect. As long as the preacher hovers in a cloud of 
 general observations, and descends not to trace the particular lines and 
 features of manners, the audience are apt to- think themselves uncon- 
 cerned in the description. It is the striking accuracy of moral charac- 
 ters that gives the chief power and effect to a preacher's discourse. 
 Hence, examples founded on historical facts, and drawn from real life, 
 of which kind the Scriptures afford many, always, when they are well 
 chosen, command high attention. No favourable opportunity of intro- 
 ducing these should be omitted. They correct, in some degree, that 
 disadvantage to which I before observed preaching is subject, of being; 
 
286 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. [LECT. XXIX. 
 
 confined to treat of qualities in the abstract, not of persons, and place 
 the weight and reality of religious truths in the most convincing light. 
 Perhaps the most beautiful, and among the most useful sermons of 
 i\ny, though, indeed, the most difficult in composition, are such as are 
 wholly characteristical, or founded on the illustration of some peculiar 
 character, or remarkable piece of history, in the sacred writings ; by 
 pursuing which, one can trace, and lay open, some of the most secret 
 windings of man's heart. Other topics of preaching have been much 
 beaten ; but this is a field, which, wide in itself, has hitherto been little 
 explored by the composers of sermons, and possesses all the advantages 
 of being curious, new, and highly useful. Bishop Butler's sermon on 
 the Character of Balaam, will give an idea of that sort of preaching 
 which I have in my eye. 
 
 In the fifth and last place, let me add a caution against taking the 
 model of preaching from particular fashions that chance to have the 
 vogue. These are torrents that swell to-day, and will have spent them- 
 selves by to-morrow. Sometimes it is the taste of poetical preaching, 
 sometimes of philosophical, that has the fashion on its side ; at one time 
 it must be all pathetic, at another time all argumentative, according as 
 some celebrated preacher has set the example. Each of these modes, 
 in the extreme, is very faulty ; and he who conforms himself to it, will 
 both cramp genius, and corrupt it. It is the universal taste of mankind 
 which is subject to no such changing modes, that alone is entitled to pos- 
 sess any authority ; and this will never give its sanction to any strain of 
 preaching, but what is founded on human nature, connected with use- 
 fulness, adapted to the proper idea of a sermon, as a serious persuasive 
 oration delivered to a multitude, in order to make them better men. 
 Let a preacher form himself upon this standard, and keep it close in his 
 eye, and he will be in a much surer road to reputation, and success at 
 last, than by a servile compliance with any popular taste, or transient 
 humour of his hearers. Truth and good sense are firm, and will 
 establish themselves ; mode and humour are feeble and fluctuating. 
 Let him never follow, implicitly, any one example ; or become a servile 
 imitator of any preacher, however much admired. From various ex- 
 amples, he may pick up much for his improvement ; some he may 
 prefer to the rest ; but the servility of imitation extinguishes all genius, 
 or rather is a proof of the entire want of genius. 
 
 With respect to style, that which the pulpit requires, must certainly, 
 in the first place, be very perspicuous. As discourses spoken there, 
 are calculated for the instruction of all sort3 of hearers, plainness and 
 simplicity should reign in them. All unusual, swoln, or high-sounding 
 words, should be avoided ; especially all words that are merely poetical, 
 or merely philosophical. Young preachers are apt to be caught with 
 the glare of these ; and in young composers the error may be excusa- 
 ble ; but they may be assured that it is an error, and proceeds from 
 their not having yet acquired a correct taste. Dignity of expression, 
 indeed, the pulpit requires in a high degree ; nothing that is mean or 
 grovelling, no low or vulgar phrases, ought on any account to be admit- 
 ted. But this dignity is perfectly consistent with simplicity. The 
 words employed may be all plain words, easily understood, and in com- 
 mon use : and yet the style may be abundantly dignified, and at the 
 same time very lively and animated. For a lively and animated style, is 
 extremely suitedtothepulpif. The earnestness which a preacher ought to 
 
LECT. XXIX. j ELOyOEiSCE OF THE Pl/LPiT. 207 
 
 feel, and the grandeur and importance of his subjects justify, and often 
 require warm and glowing expressions. He not only may employ meta- 
 phors and comparisons, but on proper occasions, may apostrophise the 
 saint or the sinner ; may personify inanimate objects, break out into bold 
 exclamations, and, in general, has the command of the most passionate 
 figures of speech. But on this subject, of the proper use and manage- 
 ment of figures, I have insisted so fully in former lectures, that 1 have no 
 occasion now to give particular directions ; unless it be only to recall to 
 mind that most capital rule, never to employ strong figures, or a pathetic 
 style, except in cases where the subject leads to them, and where the 
 speaker is impelled to the use of them by native unaffected warmth. 
 
 The language of Sacred Scripture, properly employed, is a great 
 ornament to sermons. It may be employed, either in the way of quo- 
 tation, or allusion. Direct quotations, brought from Scripture, in order 
 to support what the preacher inculcates, both give authority to his doc- 
 trine, and render his discourse more solemn and venerable. Allusions 
 to remarkable passages, or expressions of Scripture, when introduced 
 with propriety, have generally a pleasing effect. They afford the 
 preacher a fund of metaphorical expressions, which no other com- 
 position enjoys, and by means of which he can vary and enliven 
 his style. But he must take care that all such allusions be natural and 
 easy ; for if they seem forced, they approach to the nature of con- 
 ceits.* 
 
 In a sermon, no points or conceits should appear, no affected smartness 
 and quaintness of expression. These derogate much from the dignity 
 of the pulpit ; and give to a preacher that air of foppishness, which he 
 ought, above all things, to shun. It is rather a strong expressive style, 
 than a sparkling one, that is to be studied. But we must be aware of 
 imagining, that we render style strong Or expressive, by a constant and 
 multiplied use of epithets. This is a great error. Epithets have often 
 great beauty and force. But if we introduce them into every sentence, 
 and string many of them together to one object, in place of strengthen- 
 ing, we clog and enfeeble style ; in place of illustrating the image, we 
 render it confused and indistinct. He that tells me, " of this perishing, 
 mutable, and transitory world ;" by all these three epithets, does not give 
 me so strong an idea of what he would convey, as if he had used one of 
 them with propriety. I conclude this head with an advice, never to have 
 what may be called a favourite expression ; for it shows affectation, and 
 becomes disgusting. Let not any expression, which is remarkable for its 
 lustre or beauty, occur twice in the same discourse. The repetition of it 
 
 ' Bishop Sherlock, when showing, that ilie views of reason have been enlarged, 
 and the principles of natural religion illustrated, by the discoveries of Christianity, 
 attacks unbelievers for the abuse they make of these advantages, in the following 
 manner : " What a return do we make for those blessings we have received ? How 
 disrespectfully do we treat the Gospel of Christ, to which we owe that clear light, 
 both of reason andnature, which we now enjoy, when we endeavour to set upreason 
 and nature in opposition to it ? Ought the withered hand, which Christ has restored 
 and made whole to be lifted up against him ?" Vol. i. Disc. i. This allusion to a 
 noted miracle of our Lord's, appears to me happy and elegant. Dr. Seed is remark- 
 ably fond of allusions to Scripture, style ; but he sometimes employs such as are too 
 fanciful and strained. As when he Seys (Semi, iv.) " No one great virtue will 
 come single ; the virtue s that be her fellows will bear her company with joy and glad- 
 vieM;" alluding to a passage in the XLVth Psalm, which relates to the virgins, the 
 companions of the king's daughter. And (Serin, xiii.) having said, that the univer- 
 sities have justly been called the eyes of the nation, he adds, ({ and if the eyes of 
 Ire nation be evi-!, the vfhok body of it must be f-ull of darkness." 1 
 
288 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. [LEOl. XXIX. 
 
 betrays a fondness to shine, and, at the same time, carries the appear 
 snce .of a barren invention. 
 
 As to the question, whether it be most proper to write sermons fully, 
 and commit them accurately to memory, or to study only the matter and 
 thoughts, and trust the expression, in part at least, to the delivery ? I am 
 of opinion, that no universal rule can here be given. The choice of 
 either of these methods must be left to preachers, according to their 
 different genius. The expressions which come warm and glowing from 
 the mind, during the fervour of pronunciation, will often have a superior 
 grace and energy, to those which are studied in the retirement of the 
 closet. But then, this fluency and power of expression cannot, at all 
 times, be depended upon, even by those of the readiest genius ; and by 
 many can at no time be commanded, when overawed by the presence of 
 an audience. It is proper therefore to begin, at least, the practice of 
 preaching, with writing as accurately as possible. This is absolutely- 
 necessary in the beginning, in order to acquire the power and habit of 
 correct speaking, nay, also of correct thinking, upon religious subjects. 
 I am inclined to go further, and to say, that it is proper not only to 
 begin thus, but also to continue, as long as the habits of industry last, in 
 the practice both of writing, and committing to memory. Relaxation in 
 this particular is so common, and so ready to grow upon most speakers 
 in the pulpit, that there is little occasion for giving any cautions against 
 the extreme of overdoing in accuracy. 
 
 Of pronunciation or delivery, I am hereafter to treat apart. All that 
 I shall now say upon this head is, that the practice of reading sermons, 
 is one of the greatest obstacles to the eloquence of the pulpit in Great 
 Britain, where alone this practice prevails. No discourse, which is 
 designed to be persuasive, can have the same force when read, as when 
 spoken. The common people all feel this, and their prejudice against 
 this practice is not without foundation in nature. What is gained hereby 
 in point of correctness, is not equal, I apprehend, to what is lost in point 
 of persuasion and force. They, whose memories are not able to re- 
 tain the whole of a discourse, might aid themselves considerably b}^ 
 short notes lying before them, which would allow them to preserve, in 
 a great measure, the freedom and ease of one who speaks. 
 
 The French and English writers of sermons proceed upon very dif- 
 ferent ideas of the eloquence of the pulpit ; and seem indeed to have 
 split it betwixt them. A French sermon is, for most part, a warm ani- 
 mated exhortation ; an English one, is apiece of cool instructive reason- 
 ing. The French preachers address themselves chiefly to the imagi- 
 nation and the passions ; the English, almost solely to the understand- 
 ing. It is the union of these two kinds of composition, of the French 
 earnestness and warmth with the English accuracy and reason, that 
 would form, according to my idea, the model of a perfect sermon. A 
 French sermon would sound in our ears as a florid, and, often, as an 
 enthusiastic, harangue. The censure which, in fact, the French critics 
 pass on the English preachers is, that they are philosophers and logi- 
 cians, but not orators.* The defects of most of the French sermons 
 
 * " Les Sermons sont suivant not re methode, de vrais discours oratoires ; et non 
 
 pas, com me chez les Anglois, des discussions metaphysiques plus convenables k une 
 
 Academie, qu'aux Assemblies populaires qui se torment dans nos temples, et qu'il 
 
 s'agit d'instruire des devoirs du Chrelianisme, d'encourager, de consoler, d'edifier." 
 
 Rheloricn.it Franco is c^par M. Crcvier, torn. i. p. I'M- 
 
LECT. XXIX.] ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 289 
 
 are these : from a mode that prevails among them of taking their texts 
 from the lesson of the day, the connexion of the text with the subject 
 is often unnatural and forced ;* their applications of Scripture are fan- 
 ciful rather than instructive ; their method is stiff, and cramped, by 
 their practice of dividing their subject always either into three, or two 
 main points ; and their composition is in general too diffuse, and con- 
 sists rather of a very few thoughts spread out, and highly wrought up. 
 than of a rich variety of sentiments. Admitting, however, all these 
 defects, it cannot be denied, that their sermons are formed upon the 
 idea of a persuasive popular oration ; and therefore I am of opinion, 
 they may be read with benefit. 
 
 Among the French protestant divines, Saurin is the most distinguish- 
 ed ; he is copious, eloquent, and devout, though too ostentatious in his 
 manner. Among the Roman Catholics, the two most eminent are 
 Bourdaloue and Massillon. It is a subject of dispute among the French 
 critics, to which of these the preference is due, and each of them has 
 his several partizans. To Bourdaloue, they attribute more solidity 
 and close reasoning ; to Massillon, a more pleasing and engaging manner. 
 Bourdaloue is indeed a great reasoner, and inculcates his doctrines with 
 much zeal, piety, and earnestness ; but his style is verbose, he is disa- 
 greeably full of quotations from the fathers, and he wants imagination. 
 Blassillon has more grace, more sentiment, and, in my opinion, every 
 way more genius. He discovers much knowledge both of the world 
 and of the human heart ; he is pathetic and persuasive ; and, upon the 
 whole, is perhaps the most eloquent writer of sermons which modern 
 times have produced.! 
 
 * One of Masslllon's best sermons, that on the coldness and languor with which 
 Christians perform the duties of religion, is preached from Luke iv. 18. And he 
 arost out of the synagogue^ and entered into Simon's house ; and Simon's wife's mother 
 was taken ill with a great fever. 
 
 t In order to give an idea of that kind of eloquence which is employed by the 
 French preachers, 1 shall insert a passage from Massillon, which, in the Encyclope- 
 dic, (Article, Eloquence,) is extolled by Voltaire, who was the author of that article, 
 as a chef d'ceuvre, equal to any thing of which either ancient or modern times can 
 boast. The subject of the sermon is, the small number of those who shall be saved. 
 The strain of the whole discourse is extremely serious and animated ; but when the 
 orator came to the passage which follows, Voltaire informs us, that the whole as- 
 sembly were moved; that by a sort of involuntary motion, they started up from 
 their seats, and that such murmurs of surprise and acclamations arose as disconcert- 
 ed the speaker, though they increased the effect of his discourse. 
 
 " Je m'arrete k vous, mes freres, qui etes ici assembles. Je ne parle plus du resie 
 des hommes ; je vous regarde comme si vous ctiez seuls sur la terre ; void la pensee 
 qui m'occupe et qui m'epouvante. Je suppose que c'est ici votre derniere heure, et 
 la fin de I'univers ; que les cieux vonts'ouvrir sur vostetes, Jesus Christ parcitre dan s 
 sa gloire au milieu de ce temple, et que vous n'y etes assembles que pour i'attendrc, 
 comme des criminels tremblans, a qui Ton va prononcer ou un sentence de grace, on 
 un arret du mort eternelle. Car vous avez beau vous fiater ; vous mouriez tels que 
 vous etes aujourd'hui. Tous ces desirs de changement que vous arausent, vous amu- 
 seront jusqu'au lit de la mort : c'est Texperience de tous les siecles. Tout ce que 
 vous trouverez alors en vous de nouveau, sera peut-etre un compte un peu plus 
 grand que celui que vous auriez aujourd'hui a rendre; et sur ce que vous seriez, si 
 1'on venoit vous juger dans ce moment, vous pouvez presque decider ce que vous 
 arrivera au sortir de la vie." 
 
 " Or, je vous le demande, et je vous le demande frappe de terreur, ne separant pas 
 en ce point mon sort du votre, et me mettant dans la tnome disposition ou je sou- 
 haitque vous entriez ; je vous demande, done, si Jesus Christ paroissoit dans ce tem- 
 ple, au milieu be cette assemblee ; la plus auguste de I'univers, pour nous juger, 
 pour faire le terrible discernement des boucs et des brebis, croyez vous que le plus 
 grand nombre de tout ce cue now- *ommesici,fut placeala dr'olte * Crfrvev: rflfrs "rn 
 
 O * 
 
290 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. [LECT. XXIX 
 
 During the period that preceded the restoration of king Charles II. 
 the sermons of the English divines abounded with scholastic casuistical 
 theology. They were full of minute divisions and subdivisions, and 
 scraps of learning in the didactic part ; but to these were joined very 
 warm pathetic addresses to the consciences of the hearers, in the ap- 
 plicatory part of the sermon. Upon the restoration, preaching assumed 
 a more correct and polished form. It became disencumbered from 
 the pedantry and scholastic divisions of the sectaries ; but it threw out 
 also their warm and pathetic addresses, and established itself wholly 
 upon the model of cool reasoning, and rational instruction. As the dis- 
 senters from the church continued to preserve somewhat of the old 
 strain of preaching, this led the established clergy to depart the farther 
 from it. Whatever was earnest and passionate, either in the composi- 
 tion or delivery of sermons, was reckoned enthusiastic and fanatical ; 
 and hence that argumentative manner, bordering on the dry and unper- 
 suasive, which is too generally the character of English sermons. No- 
 thingcan be more correct upon that model than many of them are ; but the 
 model itself upon which they are formed is a confined and imperfect one. 
 Dr. Clark, for instance, every where abounds in good sense, and the 
 most clear and accurate reasoning; his applications of Scripture are 
 pertinent ; his style is always perspicuous, and often elegant ; he in- 
 structs and he convinces ; in what then is he deficient? In nothing, 
 except in the power of interesting and seizing the heart. He shows 
 you what you ought to do ; but he excites not the desire of doing it : he 
 treats man as if he were a being of pure intellect without imagination or 
 passions. Archbishop Tillotson's manner is more free and warm, and he 
 approaches nearer than most of the English divines to the character of 
 popular speaking. Hence he is, to this day, one of the best models we 
 have for preaching. We must not indeed consider him in the light of a 
 perfect orator ; his composition is too loose and remiss ; his style too feeble, 
 and frequently too flat, to deserve that high character ; but there is in 
 some of his sermons so much warmth and earnestness, and through them 
 
 les choses du moins fussent egales ? croyez vous qu'il s'y trouvat settlement dix 
 justes que le Seigneur ne peut trouver autrefois en cinq villes toutes entieres ? Je vous 
 le demande ; vous l'ignorez, et je 1'ignore moi-meme. Vous seul, O mon Dieu ! con- 
 noissez que vous appartiennent. — Mes freres, notre perte est presque assuree, et nous 
 n'y pensons pas. Quand meme dans cette terrible separation qui se fera un jour, ii 
 no devroit y avoir qu'un seul p£cheur de cette assemblee du c6te des reprouves, et 
 qu'dne voix du ciel vien droit nous en assurer dans ce temple, sans le designer; qui 
 de nous ne craindroit d'etre de malheureux ? qui de nous ne retomberoit d'abord, 
 sur la conscience, pour examiner si ses crimes n'ont pas meritez ce chatiment ? qui 
 de nous saisi de frayeur, ne demanderoit pas a. Jesus Christ comme autrefois les 
 apdtres j Seigneur, ne seroit-ce pas moi ? Soratnes nous sages, mes chers auditeurs ? 
 peut-etre que parmi tous ceux qui m'entendent, il ne se trouvera pas dix justes ; 
 peut-£tre sen tronvera-t-il encore moins. Que sais-je ? O mon Dieu ! je n'6se regarder 
 dun ceil fixe les abismesde vos jugemens. et de votre justice ; peut-etre ne s'en trou- 
 vera-t-il qu'un seul ; et ce danger ne vous touche point, mon cher auditeurs ? et vous 
 croyez etre ce seul heureux dans la grand nombre qui perira ? vous qui avez moins 
 sujet de le croire que tout autre ; vous snr qui seul la sentence de mort devroit toraber. 
 Grand Dieu ! qui Ton connoit peu dans la monde les terreurs de votre loi," &c. — 
 After this awakening and alarming exhortation, the orator comes with propriety to 
 this practical improvement : " Mais que conclure des ces grands verites ? qu'il faut 
 desesperer de son salut ? a Dieu ne plaise ; il n'y a que l'impie, qui pourse calmer sur 
 s-os desordres, tacheici de conclure en secret que tous les hommes periront comme 
 lui ; ce ne doit pas etre la le fruits de ce discours. Mais de vous detromper de cette 
 erreur si universelle, qu'on peut faire ce que tous les autresfont ; et que I'usage est 
 une voie sure ; mais de vous convaincre que pour se sauver, il faut de distinguer des 
 autres ;. etre singulier. vivre a. part a/i milieu du monde, et ne pas ressembler & la 
 fbvtles Sermons de Massillon, xol; tf 
 
LECT. XXIX,] ELOQUENCE OP THE PULPIT. 251 
 
 all, there runs so much ease and perspicuity, such a vein of good sense 
 and sincere piety, as justly entitle him to be held as eminent a preacher 
 as England has produced. 
 
 In Dr. Barrow, one admires more the prodigious fecundity of his 
 invention, and the uncommon strength and force of his conceptions, 
 than the felicity of his execution, or his talent in composition. We 
 see a genius far surpassing the common, peculiar indeed almost to him- 
 self; but that genius often shooting wild and unchastised by any disci- 
 pline or study of eloquence. 
 
 I cannot attempt to give particular characters of that great number of 
 writers of sermons which this, and the former age, have produced, 
 among whom we meet with a variety of most respectable names We 
 find in their composition much that deserves praise ; a great display of 
 abilities of different kinds, much good sense and piety, strong reason- 
 ing, sound divinity, and useful instruction ; though in general the de- 
 gree of eloquence bears not, perhaps, equal proportion to the good- 
 ness of the matter. Bishop Atterbury deserves being particularly men- 
 tioned as a model of correct and beautiful style, besides having the 
 merit of a warmer and more eloquent strain of writing, in some of his 
 sermons, than is commonly met with. Had Bishop Butler, in place of 
 abstract philosophical essays, given us more sermons in the strain of 
 those two excellent ones, which he has composed upon self-deceit and upon 
 the character of Balaam, we should then have pointed him out as dis- 
 tinguished for that species of characteristical sermons which I before 
 recommended. 
 
 Though the writings of the English divines are very proper to be 
 read by such as are designed for the church, I must caution them 
 against making too much use of them, or transcribing large passages 
 from them into the sermons they compose. Such as once indulge them- 
 selves in this practice, will never have any fund of their own. Infi- 
 nitely better it is, to venture into the pulpit with thoughts and expres- 
 sions which have occurred to themselves, though of inferior beauty, 
 than to disfigure their compositions, by borrowed and ill-sorted orna- 
 ments, which to a judicious eye, will be always in hazard of discover- 
 ing their own poverty. When a preacher sits down to write on any 
 subject, never let him begin with seeking to consult all who have writ- 
 ten on the same text, or subject. This, if he consult many, will throw 
 perplexity and confusion into his ideas ; and, if he consults only one, 
 will often warp him insensibly into his method, whether it be right or 
 not. But let him begin with pondering the subject in his own thoughts ; 
 let him endeavour to fetch materials from within ; to collect and ar- 
 range his ideas; and form some sort of a plan to himself; which it is 
 always proper to put down in writing. Then, and not till then, he 
 may inquire how others have treated the same subject. By this means, 
 the method and the leading thoughts in the sermon are likely to be his 
 own. These thoughts he may improve, by comparing them with the 
 track of sentiments which others have pursued ; some of their sense 
 he may, without blame, incorporate into his compositions ; retaining 
 always his own words and style. This is fair assistance : all be} 7 ond is 
 plagiarism. 
 
 On the whole, never let the principle with which we set out at first, 
 be forgotten, to keep close in view, the great end for which a preacher 
 mounts the pulpit ; even to infuse good dispositions into his hearers, 
 
292 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A jLECT. XXX . 
 
 to persuade them to serve God, and to become better men. Let this 
 always dwell on bis mind when he is composing, and it will diffuse through 
 his compositions that spirit which will render them at once esteemed 
 and useful. The most useful preacher is always the best, and will not 
 fail of being esteemed so. Embellish truth only, with a view to gain it 
 the more full and free admission into your hearers' minds ; and your orna- 
 ments will, in that case, be simple, masculine, natural. The best ap- 
 plause by far, which a preacher can receive, arises from the serious and 
 deep impressions which his discourse leaves on those who hear it. The 
 finest encomium, perhaps, ever bestowed on a preacher, was given by 
 Louis XIV. to the eloquent Bishop of Clermont, Father Massillon, whom 
 I before mentioned with so much praise. After hearing him preach at 
 Versailles, he said to him, "Father, I have heard many great orators 
 in this chapel ; I have been highly pleased with them ; but for you, when- 
 ever I hear you, I go away displeased with myself; for I see more of 
 my own character?' 
 
 LECTURE XXX, 
 
 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A SERMON OF BISHOP 
 ATTERBURY'S. 
 
 The last lecture was employed in observations on the peculiar and 
 distinguishing characters of the eloquence proper for the pulpit. But 
 as rules and directions, when delivered in the abstract, are never so 
 useful as when they are illustrated by particular instances, it may, per- 
 haps, be of some benefit to those who are designed for the church, 
 that I should analyze an English sermon, and consider the matter of it, 
 together with the manner. For this purpose, I have chosen Bishop 
 Atterbury as my example, who is deservedly accounted one of our 
 most eloquent writers of sermons, and whom I mentioned as such in 
 the last lecture. At the same time, he is more distinguished for ele- 
 gance and purity of expression, than for profoundness of thought. His 
 style, though sometimes careless, is, upon the whole, neat and chaste ; 
 and more beautiful than that of most writers of sermons. In his senti- 
 ments he is not only rational, but pious and devotional, which is a great 
 excellency. The sermon which I have singled out, is that upon praise 
 and thanksgiving, the first sermon of the first volume, which is reckoned 
 one of his best. In examining it, it is necessary that I should use 
 full liberty, and together with the beauties, point out any defects that 
 occur to me in the matter as well as in the style. 
 
 Psalm 1. 14. Offer unto God Thanksgiving. 
 
 :t Among the many excellencies of this pious collection of hymns, for 
 which so particular a value hath been set upon it by the church of God 
 in all ages, this is not the least, that the true price of duties is there 
 justly stated ; men are called off from resting in the outward show of 
 religion, in ceremonies and ritual observances ; and taught, rather to 
 practise (that which was shadowed out by these rites, and to which 
 they are designed to lead) sound inward piety and virtue. 
 
LECT. XXX.j SERMON OP BISHOP ATT ERBURTS. 29S 
 
 c; The several composers of these hymns were Prophets; persons, 
 whose business it was not only to foretell events for the benefit of the 
 church in succeeding times, but to correct and reform also what was 
 amiss among that race of men with whom they lived and conversed ; 
 to preserve a foolish people from idolatry and false worship ; to rescue 
 the law from corrupt glosses, and superstitious abuses ; and to put men 
 in mind of (what they are so willing to forget) that eternal and invariable 
 rule, which was before these positive duties, would continue after them, 
 and was to be observed, even then, in preference to them. 
 
 " The discharge, I say, of this part of the prophetic office taking up 
 so much room in the book of Psalms ; this hath been one reason, among 
 many others, why they have always been so highly esteemed ; because 
 we are from hence furnished with a proper reply to an argument com- 
 monly made use of by unbelievers, who look upon all revealed religions 
 as pious frauds and impostures, on the account of the prejudices they 
 have entertained in relation to that of the Jews ; the whole of which 
 they first suppose to lie in external performances, and then easily per- 
 suade themselves, that God could never be the author of such a mere 
 piece of pageantry and empty formality ; nor delight in a worship which 
 consisted purely in a number of odd unaccountable ceremonies. Which 
 objection of theirs, we should not be able thoroughly to answer, unless 
 we could prove (chiefly out of the Psalms, and other parts of the pro- 
 phetic writings) that the Jewish religion was somewhat more than bare 
 outside show ; and that inward purity, and the devotion of the heart, was 
 a duty then, as well as now." 
 
 This appears to me an excellent introduction. The thought on 
 which it rests is solid and judicious : that in the book of Psalms, the 
 attention of men is called to the moral and spiritual part of religion '; 
 and the Jewish dispensation is thereby vindicated from the suspicion of 
 requiring nothing more from its votaries, than the observance of the 
 external rites and ceremonies of the law. Such views of religion are 
 proper to be often displayed ; and deserve to be insisted on, by all who 
 wish to render preaching conducive to the great purpose of promoting 
 righteousness and virtue. The style, as far as we have gone, is not only 
 free from faults, but elegant and happy. 
 
 It is a great beauty in an introduction, when it can be made to turn 
 on some one thought, fully brought out and illustrated ; especially, if 
 that thought has a close connexion with the following discourse, and 3 
 at the same time, does not anticipate any thing that is afterward to be 
 introduced in a more proper place. This introduction of Atterbury's 
 has all these advantages. The encomium which he makes on the strain 
 of David's Psalms is not such as might as well have been prefixed to 
 any other discourse, the text of which was taken from any of the 
 Psalms. Had this been the case, the introduction would have lost much 
 of its beauty. We shall see from what follows how naturally the 
 introductory thought connects with his text, and how happily it ushers 
 it in. 
 
 " One great instance of this proof, we have in the words now before 
 us : which are taken from a Psalm of Asaph, written on purpose to set 
 out the weakness and worthlessness of external performances, when 
 compared with more substantial and vital duties. To enforce which 
 doctrine, God himself is brought in as delivering it. Hear, O my people, 
 
29.fr » CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A [LECT. XXX. 
 
 e?id I will speak; O Israel, and I will testify against thee : / am God, even 
 thy God. The preface is very^ solemn, and therefore what it ushers 
 in, we may be sure, is of no common importance ; I will not reprove thee 
 for thy sacrifices or thy burnt- offerings, to have been continually before me. 
 That is, I will not so reprove thee for any failures in thy sacrifices and 
 burnt-offerings, as if these were the only, or the chief things I required 
 of thee. / will take no bullock out of thy house, nor he-goat out of thy 
 folds; I prescribed not sacrifices to thee for my own sake, because I 
 needed them ; For every beast of the forest is mine, and the cattle on a 
 thousand hills. Mine they are, and were, before I commanded thee to 
 offer them to me ; so that, as it follows, If I were hungry, yet would I not 
 tell thee ; for the world is mine, and the fulness thereof But can ye be so 
 gross and senseless, as to think me liable to hunger and thirst ? as to ima- 
 gine that wants of tnat kind can touch me ? Will I eat the flesh of bulls 
 or drink the blood of goats? — Thus doth he expostulate severely with 
 them, after the most graceful manner of the eastern poetry. The issue 
 of which is a plain and full resolution of the case, in those few words of 
 the text — Offer unto God thanksgiving. Would you do your homage the 
 most agreeable way ? would you render the most acceptable of services ? 
 Offer unto God thanksgiving." 
 
 It is often a difficult matter to illustrate gracefully the text of a ser- 
 mon from the context, and to. point out the connexion between them. 
 This is a part of the discourse which is apt to become dry and tedious, 
 especially when pursued into a minute commentary. And therefore, 
 except as far as such illustration from the context is necessary for ex- 
 plaining the meaning, or in cases where it serves to give dignity and 
 force to the text, I would advise that it be always treated with brevity. 
 Sometimes it may even be wholly omitted, and the text assumed merely 
 as an independent proposition, if the connexion with the context be 
 obscure, and would require a laborious explanation. In the present 
 case, the illustration from the context is singularly happy. The pas- 
 sage of the Psalm on which it is founded is noble and spirited, and con- 
 nected in such a manner with the text, as to introduce it with a very 
 striking emphasis. On the language I have little to observe, except 
 that the phrase, one great instance of this proof , is a clumsy expression. 
 It was sufficient to have said^ one great proof, or one great instance m of 
 this. In the same sentence, when he speaks of setting out the zveakness 
 and worthlessness of external performances, we may observe, that the 
 word worthlessness, as it is now commonly used, signifies more than the 
 deficiency of worth, which is all that the author means. It generally 
 imports, a considerable degree of badness or blame. It would be more 
 proper, therefore, to say, the imperfection, or the insignificancy, of 
 external performances. 
 
 " The use I intend to make of these words, is from hesce to raise 
 some thoughts about that very excellent and important duty of praise and 
 thanksgiving, a subject not unfit to be discoursed of at this time : whether 
 we consider, either the more than ordinary coldness that appears of late 
 in men's tempers towards the practice of this (or any other) part of a 
 warm and affecting devotion ; the great occasion of setting aside this 
 particular day in the calendar, some years ago ; or the new instances of 
 mercy and goodness, which God hath lately been pleased to bestow upon 
 us ; answering at last the many prayers -and fastings, by which we have 
 besought him so long for the establishment of their Majesties' throne, and 
 
LECT. XXX.] SE'BMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURYg. 29$ 
 
 for the success of their arms ; and giving us in his good time, an oppor- 
 tunity of appearing before him in the more delightful part of our duty, 
 with the voice of joy and praise, with a multitude that keep holydays." 
 
 In this paragraph there is nothing remarkable : no particular beauty 
 or neatness of expression ; and the sentence which it forms is long and 
 tiresome. — To raise some thoughts about that very excellent, #c. is rather 
 loose and awkward ; — better — to recommend that very excellent, fyc. and 
 when he mentions setting aside a particular day in the calendar, one 
 would imagine that setting apart would have been more proper, as to 
 set aside, seems rather to suggest a different idea. 
 
 " Offer unto God thanksgiving. — Which that we may do, let us inquire 
 first, how we are to understand this command of offering praise and 
 thanksgiving unto God ; and then, how reasonable it is that we should 
 comply with it." 
 
 This is the general division of the discourse. An excellent one it is, 
 and corresponds to many subjects of this kind, where particular duties 
 are to be treated of ; first to explain, and then to recommend or enforce 
 them. A divison should always be simple and natural ; and much de- 
 pends on the proper view which it gives of the subject. 
 
 " Our inquiry into what is meant here, will be very short ; for who is 
 there, that understands any thing of religion, but knows, that the offering 
 praise and thanks to God, implies, our having a lively and devout sense of 
 his excellencies, and of his benefits ; our recollecting them with humility 
 and thankfulness of heart ; and our expressing these inward affections 
 by suitable outward signs, by reverend and lowly postures of body, by 
 songs and hymns, and spiritual ejaculations ; either publicly or private- 
 ly ; either in the customary and daily service of the church, or in its 
 more solemn assemblies, convened upon extraordinary occasions ? This 
 is the account which every Christian easily gives himself of it ; and 
 which, therefore, it would be needless to enlarge upon. I shall only 
 take notice upon this head, that praise and thanksgiving do, in strictness 
 of speech, signify things somewhat different. Our praise properly ter- 
 minates in God, on account of his natural excellencies and perfections ; 
 and is that act of devotion, by which we confess and admire his several 
 attributes : but thanksgiving is a narrower duty, and imports only a grate- 
 ful sense and acknowledgment of past mercies. We praise God for all 
 his glorious acts of every kind, that regard either us or other men ; for 
 his very vengeance, and those judgments which he sometimes sends 
 abroad in the earth ; but we thank him, properly speaking, for the in- 
 stances of his goodness alone ; and for such only of these, as we ourselves 
 are some way concerned in. This, I say, is what the two words strict- 
 ly imply ; but since the language of Scripture is generally less exact, 
 and useth either of them often to express the other by, I shall not 
 think my self obliged, in what follows, thus nicely always to distinguish 
 them." 
 
 There was room here for insisting more fully on the nature of the duty } 
 than the author has done under this head ; in particular, this was the 
 place for correcting the mistake, to which men are always prone, of 
 making thanksgiving to consist merely in outward expressions ; and for 
 showing them, that the essence of the duty lies in the inward feelings of 
 the heart. In general, it is of much use to give full and distinct expli- 
 cations of religious duties. But as our author intended only one discourse 
 on the subject, he could not enlarge with equal fulness on every part of 
 it : and he has chosen to dwell on that paFt, on which indeed it is most 
 
296 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A [LECT. XXX 
 
 necessary to enlarge, the motives enforcing the duty. For, as it is an 
 easier matter to know, than to practise duty, the persuasive part of the 
 discourse is that to which the speaker should always bend his chief 
 strength. The account given in this head, of the nature of praise and 
 thanksgiving, though short, is yet comprehensive and distinct, and the 
 language is smooth and elegant. 
 
 " Now the great reasonableness of this duty of praise or thanksgiving 
 and our several obligations to it, will appear if we either consider it 
 absolutely in itself, as the debt of our natures ; or compare it with other 
 duties, and show the rank it bears among them ; or set out, in the last 
 place, some of its peculiar and proper advantages, with regard to the 
 devout performer of it. J ' 
 
 The author here enters upon the main part of his subject, the rea- 
 sonableness of the duty, and mentions three arguments for proving it. 
 These are well stated, and are in themselves proper and weighty con- 
 siderations. How far he has handled each of them to advantage, will 
 appear as we proceed. I cannot, however, but think that he has omitted 
 one very material part of the argument, which was to have shown the 
 obligations we are under to this duty, from the various subjects of thanks- 
 giving afforded us by the Divine goodness. This would have led him to 
 review the chief benefits of creation, providence, and redemption ; and 
 certainly, they are these which lay the foundation of the whole argument 
 for thanksgiving. The heart must first be affected with a suitable sense 
 of the Divine benefits, before one can be excited to praise God. If you 
 would persuade me to be thankful to a benefactor, you must not employ 
 such considerations merely as those upon which the author here rests, 
 taken from gratitude's being the law of my nature, or bearing a high rank 
 among moral duties, or being attended with peculiar advantages. These 
 are considerations but of a secondary nature. You must begin with setting 
 before me all that my friend has done for me, if you mean to touch my 
 heart, and to call forth the emotions of gratitude. The case is perfectly 
 similar, when we are exhorted to give thanks to God ; and, therefore, in 
 giving a full view of the subject, the blessings conferred on us by divine 
 goodness should have been taken into the argument. 
 
 It may be said, however, in apology for our author, that this would 
 have led him into too wide a field for one discourse, and into a field also, 
 which is difficulty because so beaten, the enumeration of the Divine bene- 
 fits. He, therefore, seems to take it for granted, that we have upon our 
 minds a just sense of these benefits. He assumes them as known and 
 acknowledged ; and setting aside what may be called the pathetic part of 
 the subject, or what was calculated to warm the heart, he goes on to the 
 reasoning part. In this management, I cannot altogether blame him. I 
 do not by an}' means say that it is necessary in every discourse to take in 
 all that belongs to the doctrine of which we treat. Many a discourse is 
 spoiled, by attempting to render it too copious and comprehensive. The 
 preacher may, without reprehension, take up any part of a great subject 
 to which his genius at the time leads him, and make, that his theme. But 
 when he omits any thing which may be thought essential, he ought to 
 give notice, that this is a part, which for the time he lays aside. Some- 
 thing of this sort, would perhaps have been proper here. Our author 
 might have begun, by saying, that the reasonableness of this duty must 
 appear to every thinking being, who reflects upon the infinite obligations 
 which are laid upon us. by creating, preserving, and redeeming love; and. 
 
LECT. XXX.] SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURY'S. 297 
 
 after taking notice that the field which these open, was too wide for him 
 to enter upon at that time, have proceeded to his other heads. Let us 
 now consider these separately. 
 
 " The duty of praise and thanksgiving, considered absolutely in itself, 
 is, I say, the debt and law of our nature. We had such faculties bestow- 
 ed on us by our Creator, as made us capable of satisfying this debt, and 
 obeying this law ; and they never, therefore, work more naturally and 
 freely, than when they are thus employed. 
 
 " 'Tis one of the earliest instructions given us by philosophy, and which 
 hath ever since been approved and inculcated by the wisest men of all 
 ages, that the original design of making man was, that he might praise 
 and honour him who made him. When God had finished this goodly frame 
 of things we call the world, and put together the several parts of it, 
 according to his infinite wisdom, in exact number, weight, and measure ; 
 there was still wanting a creature, in these lower regions, that could 
 apprehend the beauty, order, and exquisite contrivance of it ; that from 
 contemplating the gift, might be able to raise itself to the great Giver, and 
 do honour to all his attributes. Every thing, indeed, that God made, did, 
 in some sense, glorify its Author, inasmuch as it carried upon it the plain 
 mark and impress of the Deily, and was an effect worthy of that first 
 cause from whence it flowed; and thus might the heavens be said, at the 
 first moment in which they stood forth, to declare his glory, and the firma- 
 ment to show his handy work : But this was an imperfect and defective 
 glory ; the sign was of no signification here below, whilst there was no 
 one here as yet to take notice of it. Man, therefore, was formed to 
 supply this want, endowed with powers fit to find out, and to acknowledge 
 these unlimited perfections ; and then put into this temple of God, this 
 lower world, as the priest of nature, to offer up the incense of thanks 
 and praise for the mute and insensible part of the creation. 
 
 " This, I say, hath been the opinion all along of the most thoughtful 
 men down from the most ancient times : and though it be not demonstra- 
 tive, yet it is what we cannot but judge highly reasonable, if we do but 
 allow, that man was made for some end or other ; and that he is capable 
 of perceiving that end. For, then, let us search and inquire never so 
 much, we shall find no other account of him that we can rest upon so 
 well. If we say, that he was made purely for the good pleasure of God ; 
 this is, in effect, to say that he was made for no determinate end, or for 
 none, at least, that we can discern. If we say, that he was designed as 
 an instance of the wisdom, and power, and goodness of God ; this, in 
 deed, may be the reason of his being in general ; for 'tis the common 
 reason of the being of every thing besides. But it gives no account 
 why he was made such a being as he is, a reflecting, thoughtful, inquisi- 
 tive being. The particular reason of this, seems most aptly to be drawn 
 from the praise and honour that was (not only to redound to God from 
 him, but) to be given to God by him." 
 
 The thought which runs through all this passage, of man's being the 
 priest of nature, and of his existence being calculated chiefly for this 
 end, that he might offer up the praises of the mute part of the creation, 
 is an ingenious thought and well illustrated. It was a favourite idea 
 among some of the ancient philosophers ; and it is not the worse on that 
 account, as it thereby appears to have been a natural sentiment of the 
 human mind. In composing a sermon, however, it might have been 
 better to have introduced it as a sort of collateral argument, or an inci- 
 
29 g CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A [LECT. XXX, 
 
 dental illustration, than to have displayed it with so much pomp, and to 
 have placed it in the front of the arguments for this duty. It does not 
 seem to me, when placed in this station, to bear all the stress which the 
 author lays upon it. When the divine goodness brought man into ex- 
 istence, we cannot well conceive that its chief purpose was, to form a 
 being who might sing praises to his Maker. Prompted by infinite bene- 
 volence, the supreme Creator formed the human race, that they might 
 rise to happiness, and to the enjoyment of himself, through a course of 
 virtue, or proper action. The sentiment on which our Author dwells, 
 however beautiful, appears too loose and rhetorical, to be a principal 
 head of discourse. 
 
 " This duty, therefore, is the debt and law of our nature. And it 
 will more distinctly appear to be such, if we consider the two ruling 
 faculties of our mind, the understanding and the will apart, in both 
 which it is deeply founded : in the understanding, as in the principle 
 of reason, which owns and acknowledges it ; in the will as in the foun- 
 tain of gratitude and return, which. prompts, and even constrains us to 
 pay it. 
 
 " Reason was given us as a rule and measure, by the help of which we 
 were to proportion our esteem of every thing, according to the degrees 
 of perfection and goodness which we found therein. It cannot, there- 
 fore, if it doth its office at all, but apprehend God as the best and most 
 perfect being ; it must needs see, and own, and admire his infinite per- 
 fections. And this is what is strictly meant by praise ; which, therefore, 
 is expressed in Scripture, by confessing to God, and acknowledging him ; 
 by ascribing to him what is his due ; and as far as this sense of the 
 words reaches, 'tis impossible to think of God without praising him ; 
 for it depends not on the understanding, how it shall apprehend things, 
 any more than it doth on the eye, how visible objects shall appear to it 
 
 " The duty takes the further and surer hold of us, by the means of 
 the will, and that strong bent towards gratitude, which the Author of 
 our nature hath implanted in it. There is not a more active principle 
 than this in the mind of man : and surely that which deserves its utmost 
 force, and should set all its springs a-work, is God ; the great and 
 universal Benefactor, from whom alone we receive whatever we 
 either have, or are, and to whom we can possibly repay nothing but 
 our praises, or (to speak more properly on this head, and according to 
 the strict import of the word) our thanksgiving. Who hath first given to 
 God, (saith the great apostle, in his usual figure) and it shall be recom- 
 pensed unto him again ? A gift, it seems, always requires a recompense : 
 nay, but of him, and through him, and to him are all things : of him, 
 as the Author ; through him, as the Preserver and Governor: to him, as 
 the end and perfection of all things : to whom, therefore, (as it follows,) 
 be glory for ever, Amen VI 
 
 I cannot much approve of the light in which our author places his 
 argument in these paragraphs. There is something too metaphysical 
 and refined, in his deducing, in this manner, the obligation to thanks- 
 giving, from the two faculties of the mind, understanding and will. 
 Though what he says be in itself just, yet the argument is not sufficient- 
 ly plain and striking. . Arguments in sermons, especially on subjects 
 that so naturally and easily suggest them, should be palpable and popu- 
 lar ; should not be brought from topics, that appear far sought, but 
 should directly address the heart and feelings. The preacher ought 
 
LECT. XXX.J SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURTTS. 3Q9 
 
 never to depart too far from the common ways of thinking, and express- 
 ing himself. I am inclined to think, that this whole head might have 
 been improved, if the author had taken up more obvious ground ; had 
 stated gratitude as one of the most natural principles of the human heart ; 
 had illustrated this, by showing how odious the opposite disposition is, 
 and with what general consent men, in all ages, have agreed in hating 
 and condemning the ungrateful ; and then applying these reasonings to 
 the present case, had placed in a strong view, that entire corruption of 
 moral sentiment which it discovers, to be destitute of thankful emotions 
 towards the supreme Benefactor of mankind. As the most natural 
 method of giving vent to grateful sentiments is, by external expressions 
 of thanksgiving, he might then have answered the objection that is apt to 
 occur, of the expression of our praise being insignificant to the Almighty. 
 But, by seeking to be too refined in his argument, he has omitted some 
 of the most striking and obvious considerations, and which, properly 
 displayed, would have afforded as great a field for eloquence, as the 
 topics which he has chosen. He goes on, 
 
 " Gratitude consists in an equal return of benefits, if we are able ; of 
 thanks, if we are not : which thanks, therefore, must rise always in pro- 
 portion as the favours received are great, and the receiver incapable of 
 making any other sort of requital. Now, since no man hath benefited 
 God at any time, and yet every man, in each moment of his life, is con- 
 tinually benefited by him, what strong obligations must we needs be 
 under to thank him ? It is true, our thanks are really as insignificant to 
 him, as any other kind of return would be ; in themselves, indeed, they 
 are worthless ; but his goodness hath put a value upon them : he hath 
 declared, he will accept them in lieu of the vast debt we owe ; and after 
 that, which is fittest for us, to dispute how they came to be taken as an 
 equivalent, or to pay them 1 
 
 " It is, therefore, the voice of nature, (as far as gratitude itself is so,) 
 that the good things we receive from above should be sent back again 
 thither in thanks and praises : as the rivers run into the sea, to the place 
 (the ocean of beneficence) from whence the rivers come, thither should 
 they return again.'' " 
 
 In these paragraphs, he has, indeed, touched some of the considera- 
 tions which I mentioned. But he has only touched them ; whereas, 
 with advantage, they might have formed the main body of his argument. 
 
 " We have considered the duty absolutely ; we are now to compare it 
 with others, and to see what rank it bears among them. And here we 
 shall find, that, among all the acts of religion immediately addressed to 
 God, this is much the noblest and most excellent ; as it must needs be, 
 if what hath been laid down be allowed, that the end of man's creation 
 was to praise and glorify God. For that cannot but be the most noble 
 and excellent act of any being, which best answers the end and design 
 of it. Other parts of devotion, such as confession and prayer, seem not 
 originally to have been designed for man, nor man for them. They 
 imply guilt and want, with which the state of innocence was not ac- 
 quainted. Had man continued in that estate, his worship (like the de- 
 votions of angels) had been paid to Heaven in pure acts of thanksgiving ; 
 and nothing had been left for him to do, beyond the enjoying the good 
 things of life, as nature directed, and praising the God of nature who 
 bestowed them. But being fallen from innocence and abundance ; having 
 contracted guilt, and forfeited his right to all sorts of mercies ; prayer 
 
300 CRITICAL EXAMINATION 0£ A [LECT. XXX 
 
 and confession became necessary, for a time, to retrieve the loss, and to 
 restore him to that state wherein he should be able to live without them. 
 These are fitted, therefore, for a lower dispensation ; before which, in 
 paradise, there was nothing but praise, and after which, there shall be 
 nothing but that in heaven. Our perfect state did at first, and will at 
 last, consist in the performance of this duty ; and herein, therefore, lies 
 the excellence, and the honour of our nature. 
 
 " 'Tis the same way of reasoning, by which the Apostle hath given 
 the preference to charity, beyond faith, and hope, and every spiritual 
 gift. Charity never faileth, saith he ; meaning that it is not a virtue 
 useful only in this life ; but will accompany us also into the next : but 
 whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they 
 shall cease ; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. These 
 are gifts of a temporary advantage, and shall all perish in the using. For 
 we know in part, and we prophesy in part ; our present state is imper- 
 fect, and, therefore, what belongs to that, and only that, must be imper- 
 fect too. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in 
 part shall be done away. The argument of St. Paul, we see, which sets 
 charity above the rest of Christian graces, will give praise also the pre- 
 eminence over all the parts of Christian worship ; and we may conclude 
 our reasoning, therefore, as he doth his : And now abideth confession, 
 prayer, andjpraise, these three ; but the greatest of these is praise." 
 
 The author, here, enters on the second part of his argument, the 
 high rank which thanksgiving holds, when compared with other duties 
 of religion. This he handles with much eloquence and beauty. His 
 idea, that this was the original worship of man, before his fall ren- 
 dered other duties requisite, and shall continue to be his worship in 
 heaven, when the duties which are occasioned by a consciousness of 
 guilt shall have no place, is solid and just ; his illustration of it is very 
 happy ; and the style extremely flowing and sweet. Seldom do we 
 meet with any piece of composition in sermons, that has more merit than 
 this head. 
 
 " It is so, certainly, on other accounts, as well as this ; particularly, 
 as it is the most disinterested branch of our religious service ; such as 
 hath the most of God, and the least of ourselves in it, of any we pay ; 
 and therefore approaches the nearest of any to a pure, and free, and 
 perfect act of homage. For though a good action doth not grow imme- 
 diately worthless by being done with the prospect of advantage, as some 
 have strangely imagined ; yet it will be allowed, I suppose, that its being 
 done, without the mixture of that end, or with as little of it as possible, 
 recommends it so much the more, and raises the price of it. Doth Job 
 fear God for nought ? was an objection of Satan ; which implied that 
 those duties were most valuable, where our own interest was the least 
 aimed at : and God seems, by the commission he then gave Satan to try 
 experiments upon Job, thus far to have allowed his plea. Now, our re- 
 quests for future, and even our acknowledgments of past mercies, centre 
 purely in ourselves ; our own interest is the direct aim of them. But 
 praise is a generous and unmercenary principle, which purposes no 
 other end to itself, but to do, as is fit for a creature endowed with such 
 faculties to do towards the most perfect and beneficent of beings, and 
 to pay the willing tribute of honour there, where the voice of reason di- 
 rects us to pay it. God hath, indeed, annexed a blessing to the duty, and 
 wben we know this, we cannot choose, while we are performing the 
 
LECT. XXX.] SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURY'S. 30i 
 
 duty, but have some regard to the blessings which belongs to it. How- 
 ever, that is not the direct aim of our devotions, nor was it the first mo- 
 tive that stirred us up to them. Had it been so, we should naturally 
 have betaken ourselves to prayer, and breathed out our desires in that 
 form wherein they are most properly conveyed. 
 
 " In short, praise is our most excellent work, a work common to the 
 church triumphant and militant, and which lifts us up into communion 
 and fellowship with angels. The matter about which it is conversant, 
 is always the perfection of God's nature ; and the act itself, is the per- 
 fection of ours." 
 
 Our author's second illustration, is taken from praise being the most 
 disinterested act of homage. This he explains justly and elegantly ; 
 though, perhaps, the consideration is rather too thin and refined for 
 enforcing religious duties : as creatures, such as we, in approaching to 
 the Diviue presence, can never be supposed to lay aside all considera- 
 tions of our own wants and necessities ; and certainly are not required 
 (as the author admits) to divest ourselves of such regards. The con- 
 cluding sentence of this head is elegant and happily expressed. 
 
 " I come now, in the last place, to set out some of its peculiar proper- 
 ties and advantages, which recommend it to the devout performer. 
 And, 
 
 " 1. It is the most pleasing part of our devotions : it proceeds always 
 from a lively cheerful temper of mind, and it cherishes and improves 
 what it proceeds from. For it is good to sing praises unto our God, 
 (says one, whose experience, in this case, we may rely upon) for it 
 is pleasant, and praise is comely. Petition and confession are the lan- 
 guage of the indigent and the guilty, the breathings of a sad and contrite 
 spirit ; Is any afflicted. 9 let him pray ; but, is any merry ? let him sing 
 psalms. The most usual and natural way of men's expressing the 
 mirth of their hearts is in a song, and songs are the very language of 
 praise ; to the expressing of which they are in a peculiar manner ap- 
 propriated, and are scarce of any other use in religion. Indeed, the 
 whole composition of this duty is such, as throughout speaks ease and 
 delight to the mind. It proceeds from love and from thankfulness ; from 
 love, the fountain of pleasure, the passion which gives every thing 
 we do, or enjoy, its relish or agreeableness. From thankfulness, which 
 involves in it the memory of past benefits, the actual presence of them 
 to the mind, and the repeated enjoyment of them. And as is its princi- 
 ple, such is its end also : for it procureth quiet and ease to the mind, by 
 doing somewhat towards satisfying that debt which it labours under ; 
 by delivering it of those thoughts of praise and gratitude, those exulta- 
 tions it is so full of: and which would grow uneasy and troublesome 
 to it, if they were kept in. If the thankful refrained, it would be pain 
 and grief to them : but then, then is their soul satisfied as with marrozv 
 and fatness, when their mouth praiseth God with joyful lips." 
 
 In beginning this head of discourse, the expression which the author 
 uses, to set out some of its peculiar properties and advantages, would 
 now be reckoned not so proper an expression, as to point out, or to 
 show. The first subdivision concerning praise being the most pleasant 
 part of devotion, is very just and well expressed, as far as it goes ; but 
 seems to me rather defective. Much more might have been said, upon 
 the pleasure that accompanies such exalted acts of devotion. It was 
 a cold thought, to dwell upon its disburdening the mind of a debt, The 
 
302 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A [LECT. XXX. 
 
 author should have insisted more upon the influence of praise and 
 thanksgiving, in warming, gladdening, soothing the mind ; lifting it 
 above the world, to dwell among divine and eternal objects. He should 
 have described the peace and joy which then expand the heart ; the 
 relief which this exercise procures from the cares and agitations of life ; 
 the encouraging views of providence to which it leads our attention ; 
 and the trust which it promotes in the Divine mercy for the future, by 
 the commemoration of benefits past. In short, this was the place for 
 his pouring out a greater flow of devotional sentiments than what we 
 here find. 
 
 V 2. It is another distinguishing property of divine praise, that it en- 
 largeth the powers and capacities of our souls, turning them from low 
 and little things upon their greatest and noblest object, the divine na- 
 ture, and employing them in the discovery and admiration of those seve- 
 ral perfections that adorn it. We see what difference there is between 
 man and man, such as there is hardly greater between man and beast : 
 and this proceeds chiefly from the different sphere of thought which they 
 act in, and the different objects they converse with. The mind is essen- 
 tially the same, in the peasant and the prince ; the force of it naturally 
 equal, in the untaught man, and the philosopher ; only the one of these 
 is busied in mean affairs, and within narrower bounds ; the other exer- 
 cises himself in things of weight and moment ; and this it is, that puts 
 the wide distance between them. Noble objects are to the mind, what 
 the sunbeams are to a bud or flower, they open and unfold, as it were, 
 the leaves of it ; put it upon exerting and spreading itself every way : 
 and call forth all those powers that lie hid and locked up in it. The 
 praise and admiration of God, therefore, brings this advantage along 
 with it, that it sets our faculties upon their full stretch, and improves 
 them to all the degrees of perfection of which they are capable." 
 
 This head is just, well expressed, and to censure it, might appear 
 hypercritical. Some of the expressions, however, one would think, 
 might be amended. The simile, for instance, about the effects of the 
 sunbeams upon the bud or flower, is pretty, but not correctly express- 
 ed. They open and unfold, as it were, the leaves of it. If this is to be 
 literally applied to the flower, the phrase, as St were, is needless ; if it 
 is to be metaphorically understood, (which appears to be the case) the 
 leaves of the mind, is harsh language ; besides that put it upon exerting 
 itself, is rather a low expression. Nothing is more nice than to manage 
 properly such similes and allusions, so as to preserve them perfect!}' 
 correct, and at the same time to render the image lively : it might per- 
 haps be amended in some such way as this : " As the sunbeams open 
 the bud, and unfold the leaves of a flower, noble objects have a like effect 
 upon the mind : they expand and spread it, and call forth those powers 
 that before lay hid and locked up in the soul." 
 
 " 3. It farther promotes in us an exquisite sense of God's honour, and 
 an high indignation of mind at every thing that openly profanes it. For 
 what we value and delight in, we cannot with patience hear slighted 
 or abused. Our own praises, which we are constantly putting up, will 
 be a spur to us towards procuring and promoting the Divine glory 
 in every other instance ; and will make us set our faces against all open 
 and avowed impieties ; which, methinks, should be considered a little 
 by such as would be thought not to be wanting in this duty, and yet 
 are often silent under the foulest dishonours done to religion, and its 
 
CECT. XXX.] SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURYS, 3Q3 
 
 great Author ; fqr tamely to hear God's name and worship vilified by- 
 others, is no very good argument that we have been used to honour and 
 reverence him, in good earnest, ourselves." 
 
 The thought here is well founded, though it is carelessly and loosely 
 brought out. The sentence, our own praises which we are constantly 
 putting up, will be a spur to us towards procuring and promoting the 
 Divine glory in every other instance, is both negligent in language, and 
 ambiguous in meaning; for our own praises, properly signifies the 
 praises of ourselves. Much better if he had said, " Those devout 
 praises which we constantly offer up to the Almighty, will naturally 
 prompt us to promote the Divineglory in every other instance." 
 
 "4. It will, beyond all this, work in us a deep humility and con- 
 sciousness of our own imperfections. Upon a frequent attention to God 
 and his attributes, we shall easily discover our own weakness and emp- 
 tiness ; our swelling thoughts of ourselves will abate, and we shall see 
 and feel that we are altogether lighter to he laid in the balance than 
 vanity ; and this is a lesson which to the greatest part of mankind, is, I 
 think, very well worth learning. We are naturally presumptuous and 
 vain ; full of ourselves, and regardless of every thing besides, especially 
 when some little outward privileges distinguish us from the rest of 
 mankind ; then, 'tis odds, but we look into ourselves with great degrees 
 of complacency, and are wiser (and better every way) in our own 
 conceit, than seven men that can render a reason. Now, nothing will con- 
 tribute so much to the cure of this vanity, as a due attention to God's 
 excellencies and perfections. By comparing these with those which we 
 imagine belong to us, we shall learn, not to think more highly of our- 
 selves than we ought to think of ourselves, but to think soberly ; we shall 
 find more satisfaction in looking upwards, and humbling ourselves 
 before our common Creator, than in casting our eyes downward with 
 scorn upon our fellow-creatures, and setting at nought any part of the 
 work of his hands. The vast distance we are at from real and infinite 
 worth, will astonish us so much, that we shall not be tempted to value 
 ourselves upon these lesser degrees of pre-eminence, which custom or 
 opinion, or some little accidental advantages, have given us over other 
 men." 
 
 Though the thought here also be just, yet a like deficiency in ele- 
 gance and beauty appears. The phrase, 'tis odds but we look into our- 
 selves with great degrees of complacency, is much too low and colloquial 
 for a sermon — he might have said, we are likely, or we are prone to 
 look into ourselves, — Comparing these with those which we imagine belong 
 to us, — is also very careless style.— By comparing these with the virtues 
 and abilities which we ascribe to ourselves, we shall learn — would have 
 been purer and more correct. 
 
 " 5. I shall mention but one use of it more, and 'tis this ; that a con- 
 scientious praise of God will keep us back from all false and mean praise, 
 all fulsome and servile flatteries, such as are in use among men. Prai- 
 sing, as 'tis commonly managed, is nothing else but a trial of skill upon 
 a man, how many good things we can possibly say of him. All the 
 treasures of oratory are ransacked, and all the fine things that ever were 
 said, are heaped together for his sake : and no matter whether it belongs 
 to him or not ; so there be but enough on't. Which is one deplorable 
 instance, among a thousand, of the baseness of human nature, of its small 
 regard to truth and justice ; to right or wrong : to what is. or is not to 
 
304 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OP A [LECT. XXX. 
 
 be praised. But he who hath a deep sense of the excellencies of God 
 upon his heart, will make a god of nothing besides. He will give every 
 one his just encomium, honour where honour is due, and as much as is 
 due, because it is his duty to do so ; but the honour of God will suffer 
 him to go no further. Which rule, if it had been observed, a neighbour- 
 ing prince (who now, God be thanked, needs flattery a great deal more 
 than ever he did) would have wanted a great deal of that incense which 
 hath been offered up to him by his adorers." 
 
 This head appears scarcely to deserve any place among the more 
 important topics that naturally presented themselves on this subject ; at 
 least, it had much better have wanted the application which the author 
 makes of his reasoning to the flatterers of Louis XIV. ; and the thanks 
 which he offers to God, for the affairs of that prince being in so low a 
 state, that he now needed flattery more than ever. This political satire 
 is altogether out of place, and unworthy of the subject. 
 
 One would be inclined to think, upon reviewing our author's argu- 
 ments, that he has overlooked some topics, respecting the happy con- 
 sequences of this duty, of fully as much importance as any that he has 
 inserted . Particularly, he ought not to have omitted the happy tendency 
 of praise and thanksgiving, to strengthen good dispositions in the heart ; 
 to promote love to God, and imitation of those perfections which we 
 adore ; and to infuse a spirit of ardour and zeal into the whole of reli- 
 gion, as the service of our benefactor. These are consequences 
 which naturally follow from the proper performance of this duty ; and 
 which ought not to have been omitted ; as no opportunity should be lost, 
 of showing the good effect of devotion on practical religion and moral 
 virtue ; and pointing out the necessary connexion of the one with the 
 other. For certainly the great end of preaching is, to make men better 
 in all the relations of life, and to promote that complete reformation of 
 heart and conduct, in which true Christianity consists. Our author, 
 however, upon the whole, is not deficient in such views of religion ; for, 
 in his general strain of preaching, as he is extremely pious, so he is, at 
 the same time, practical and moral. 
 
 His summing up of the whole argument, in the next paragraph, is 
 elegant and beautiful ; and such concluding views of the subject are 
 frequently very proper and useful : " Upon these grounds doth the duty 
 of praise stand, and these are the obligations that bind us to the perfor- 
 mance of it. 'Tis the end of our being, and the very rule and law of 
 our nature ; flowing from the two great fountains of human action, the 
 understanding, and the will, naturally, and almost necessarily. It is the 
 most excellent part of our religious worship ; enduring to eternity, after 
 the rest shall be done away ; and paid, even now in the frankest manner, 
 with the least regard to our own interest. It recommends itself to 
 us by several peculiar properties and advantages ; as it carries more 
 pleasure in it, than all other kinds of devotion ; as it enlarges and exalts 
 the several powers of the mind ; as it breeds in us an exquisite sense 
 of God's honour, and a willingness to promote it in the world ; as it 
 teaches us to be humble and lowly ourselves, and yet preserves us from 
 base and sordid flattery, from bestowing mean and undue praises upon 
 others." 
 
 After this, our author addresses himself to two classes of men, the 
 careless and the profane. His address to the careless is beautiful and 
 pathetic ; that to the profane is not so well executed, and is liable to 
 
LECT. XXXI.'J INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE. 305 
 
 some objection. Such addresses appear to me to be, on several occasions, 
 very useful parts of a discourse. They prevailed much in the strain 
 of preaching before the restoration ; and perhaps, since that period, 
 have been too much neglected. They afford an opportunity of bring- 
 ing home to the consciences of the audience, many things, which, in the 
 course of the sermon, were perhaps delivered in the abstract. 
 
 I shall not dwell on the conclusion of the sermon, which is chiefly 
 employed in observations on the posture of public affairs at that time. 
 Considered upon the whole, this discourse of Bishop Atterbury's is both 
 useful and beautiful ; though I have ventured to point out some defects 
 in it. Seldom, or never, can we expect to meet with a composition of 
 any kind, which is absolutely perfect in ail its parts ; and when we take 
 into account the difficulties which I before showed to attend the elo- 
 quence of the pulpit, we have, perhaps, less reason to look for perfec- 
 tion in a sermon, than in any other composition. 
 
 LECTURE XXXL 
 
 CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE IN ALL ITS PARTS.— INTRODUCTION, 
 DIVISION, NARRATION AND EXPLICATION. 
 
 I have, in the four preceding lectures, considered what is peculiar to 
 each of the three great fields of public speaking, popular assemblies, the 
 bar, and the pulpit. I am now to treat of what is common to them 
 all ; of the conduct of a discourse or oration, in general. The previous 
 view which I have given of the distinguishing spirit and character of 
 different kinds of public speaking, was necessary for the proper appli- 
 cation of the rules which I am about to deliver ; and as I proceed, I 
 shall further point out, how far any of these rules may have a particular 
 respect to the bar, to the pulpit, or to popular courts. 
 
 On whatever subject any one intends to discourse, he will most com- 
 monly begin with some introduction, in order to prepare the minds of 
 his hearers ; he will then state his subject, and explain the facts connect- 
 ed with it ; he will employ arguments for establishing his own opinion, 
 and overthrowing that of his antagonist ; he may, perhaps, if there be 
 room for it, endeavour to touch the passions of his audience ; and after 
 having said all he thinks proper, he will bring his discourse to a close, 
 by some peroration or conclusion. This being the natural train of speak- 
 ing, the parts that compose a regular formal oration, are these six ; first, 
 the exordium or introduction ; secondly , the state, and the division of the 
 subject ; thirdly, narration or explication ; fourthly, the reasoning or 
 •arguments ; fifthly, the pathetic part ; and lastly, the conclusion. I do 
 not mean that each of these must enter into every public discourse, or 
 that they must enter always in this order. There is no reason for being 
 so formal on every occasion ; nay, it would often be a fault, and would 
 render a discourse pedantic and stiff. There may be many excellent 
 discourses in public, where several of these parts are altogether wanting ; 
 where the speaker, for instance, uses no introduction, but enters directly 
 on his subject ; where he has no occasion either to divrde or explain ; 
 
306 LYiRODUCTJOA OF A DISCOURSE. |_LECT. XXXI. 
 
 but simply reasons on one side of the question, and then finishes. But 
 as the parts, which I have mentioned, are the natural constituent parts 
 of a regular oration ; and as in every discourse whatever, some of them 
 must be found, it is necessary to our present purpose, that I should treat 
 of each of them distinctly. 
 
 I begin, of course, with the exordium or introduction. This is mani- 
 festly common to all the three kinds of public speaking. It is not a 
 rhetorical invention. It is founded upon nature, and suggested by com- 
 mon sense. When one is going to counsel another, when he takes upon 
 him to instruct, or to reprove, prudence will generally direct him not to 
 do it abruptly, but to use some preparation ; to begin with somewhat 
 that may incline the persons, to whom he addresses himself, to judge 
 favourably of what he is about to say ; and may dispose them to such a 
 train of thought, as will forward and assist the purpose which he has in 
 view. This is, or ought to be, the main scope of an introduction. Ac- 
 cordingly Cicero and Quintilian mention three ends, to one or other of 
 which it should be subservient, " Reddere auditores benevolos, attentos, 
 dociles." 
 
 First, to conciliate the good will of the hearers ; to render them be- 
 nevolent, or well-affected to the speaker and to the subject. Topics foF 
 this purpose may, in causes at the bar, be sometimes taken from the par- 
 ticular situation of the speaker himself, or of his client, or from the 
 character or behaviour of his antagonists contrasted with his own ; on 
 other occasions, from the nature of the subject, as closely connected with 
 the interest of the hearers : and, in general, from the modesty and good 
 intention, with which the speaker enters upon his subject. The second 
 end of an introduction, is to raise the attention of the hearers ; which 
 may be effected, by giving them some hints of the importance, dignity, or 
 novelty of the subject ; or some favourable view of the clearness and 
 precision with which we are to treat it ; and of the brevity with which 
 we are to discourse. The third end, is to render the hearers docile, or 
 open to persuasion ; for which end, we must begin with studying to 
 remove any particular prepossessions they may have contracted against 
 the cause, or side of the argument which we espouse. 
 
 Some one of these ends should be proposed by every introduction. 
 When there is no occasion for aiming at any of them ; when we are 
 already secure of the good will, the attention, and the docility of the 
 audience, as may often be the case, formal introductions may, without 
 any prejudice, be omitted. And, indeed, when they serve for no purpose 
 but mere ostentation, they had, for the most part, better be omitted ; 
 unless as far as respect to the audience makes it decent, that a speaker 
 should not break in upon them too abruptly, but by a short exordium 
 prepare them for what he is going to say. Demosthenes's introductions 
 are always short and simple ; Cicero's are fuller and more artful. 
 
 The ancient critics distinguished two kinds of introductions, which 
 they call Principium, and Insinuatio. Principium is, where the 
 orator plainly and directly professes his aim in speaking. Insinuatio 
 is, where a larger compass must be taken ; and where, presuming the 
 disposition of the audience to be much against the orator, he must gra- 
 dually reconcile them to hearing him, before he plainly discovers the 
 point which he has in view. 
 
 Of this latter sort of introduction, we have an admirable instance in 
 Cicero's second oration against Rulhis, This Rullus was tribune of 
 
LECT. XXXI.] INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE 307 
 
 the people, and had proposed an Agrarian Law ; the purpose of which 
 was to create a Decemvirate, or ten commissioners, with absolute power 
 for five years over all the lands conquered by the republic, in o rder 
 to divide them among the citizens. Such laws had often been proposed 
 by factious magistrates, and were always greedily received by the peo- 
 ple. Cicero is speaking to the people ; he had lately been made consul 
 by their interest ; and his first attempt is to make them reject this law. 
 The subject was extremely delicate, and required much art. He begins 
 with acknowledging all the favours which he had received from the peo- 
 ple, in preference to the nobility. He professes himself the creature 
 of their power, and of all men the most engaged to promote their in- 
 terest. He declares, that he held himself to be the consul of the people ; 
 and that he would always glory in preserving the character of a popu- 
 lar magistrate. But to be popular, he observes, is an ambiguous word. 
 He understood it to import, a steady attachment to the real interest of 
 the people, to their liberty, their ease, and their peace ; but by some, 
 he saw, it was abused, and made a cover to their own selfish and 
 ambitious designs. In this manner, he begins to draw gradually nearer 
 to his purpose of attacking the proposal of Rullus ; but still with great 
 management and reserve. He protests, that he is far from being an 
 enemy to Agrarian Laws ; he gives the highest praises to the Gracchi, 
 those zealous patrons of the people ; and assures them, that when he 
 first heard of Rullus's law, he had resolved to support it if he found it 
 for their interest ; but that, upon examining it, he found it calculated 
 to establish a dominion that was inconsistent with liberty, and to aggran- 
 dize a few men at the expense of the public ; and then terminates his 
 exordium, with telling them that he is going to give his reasons for being 
 of this opinion ; but that if his reasons shall not satisfy them, he will 
 give up his own opinion and embrace theirs. In all this, there was 
 great art. His eloquence produced the intended effect ; and the peo- 
 ple, with one voice, rejected this Agrarian Law. 
 
 Having these general views of the nature and end of an intro- 
 duction, I proceed to lay down some rules for the proper composition 
 of it. These are the more necessary, as this is a part of the discourse 
 which requires no small care. It is always of importance to begin 
 well ; to make a favourable impression at first setting out ; when the 
 minds of the hearers, vacant as yet and free, are most disposed to re- 
 ceive any impression easily. I must add, too, that a good introduction 
 is often found to be extremely difficult. Few parts of the discourse 
 give the composer more trouble, or are attended with more nicety in 
 the execution. 
 
 The first rule is, that the introduction should be easy and natural. 
 The subject must always suggest it. It must appear as Cicero beauti- 
 fully expresses it, " Effloruisse penitus ex re de qua turn agitur."* It is 
 too common a fault in introductions, that they are taken from some com- 
 mon-place topic, which has no peculiar relation to the subject in hand : 
 by which means they stand apart, like pieces detached from the rest 
 of the discourse. Of this kind are Sallust's introductions prefixed to 
 his Catilinarian and Jugurthine wars. They might as well have been 
 introductions to any other history, or to any other treatise whatever 3 
 
 1 " To have sprung up, of its own accord, from (he matter which is under con- 
 sideration. " 
 
308 DSTJEtOBTTCTiON OF A ©ISCGUBSE. [LECT. XXXI. 
 
 and therefore, though elegant in themselves, they must be considered 
 a- blemishes in the work, for want of due connexion with it. Cicero, 
 though abundantly correct in this particular in his orations, yet is not 
 so in his other works. It appears from a letter of his to Atticus, 
 (L. xvi. 6.) that it was his custom to prepare, at his leisure, a collection 
 of different introductions or prefaces, ready to be prefixed to any work 
 that he might afterward publish. In consequence of this strange 
 method of composing, it happened to him to employ the same intro- 
 duction twice, without remembering it ; prefixing it to two different 
 works. Upon Atticus informing him of this, he acknowledges the mis- 
 take, and sends him a new introduction. 
 
 In order to render introductions natural and easy, it is, in my opinion, 
 a good rule, that they should not be planned, till after one has meditated 
 in his own mind the substance of his discourse. Then, and not till then, 
 he should begin to think of some proper and natural introduction. By 
 taking a contrary course, and labouring in the first place on an intro- 
 duction, every one who is accustomed to composition will often find, 
 that either he is led to lay hold of some common-place topic, or that, 
 instead of the introduction being accommodated to the discourse, he is 
 obliged to accommodate the whole discourse to the introduction which 
 he had previously written. Cicero makes this remark ; though, as we 
 have seen, his practice was not always conformable to his own rule. 
 " Omnibus rebus consideratis, turn denique id quod primum est dicen- 
 dum, postremum soleo cogitare, quo utar exordio. Nam si quando id 
 primum invenire volui, nullum mini occurrit, nisi aut exile, aut nugato- 
 rium, aut vulgare."* After the mind has been once warmed and put in 
 train, by close meditation on the subject, materials for the preface will 
 then suggest themselves much more readily. 
 
 In the second place, in an introduction, correctness should be care- 
 fully studied in the expression. This is requisite on account of the 
 situation of the hearers. They are then more disposed to criticise than 
 at any other period ; they are, as yet, unoccupied with the subject or 
 the arguments ; their attention is wholly directed to the speaker's style 
 and manner. Something must be done, therefore, to prepossess them 
 in his favour ; though, for the same reasons, too much art must be 
 avoided ; for it will be more easily detected at that time, than after- 
 ward ; and will derogate from persuasion in all that follows. A cor- 
 rect plainness, and elegant simplicity, is the proper character of an 
 introduction : " ut videamur," says Quintilian, " accurate non callide 
 dicere." 
 
 In the third place, modesty is another character which it must carry. 
 All appearances of modesty are favourable and prepossessing. If the 
 orator set out with an air of arrogance and ostentation, the self-love and 
 pride of the hearers will be presently awakened, and will follow him 
 with a very suspicious eye throughout all his progress. His modesty 
 should discover itself not only in his expressions at the beginning, but in 
 his whole manner : in his looks, in his gestures, in the tone of his voice. 
 Every auditory take in good part those marks of respect and awe, which 
 are paid to them by one who addresses them. Indeed the modesty of 
 
 * ll When I have planned and digested all the materials of my discourse, it is my 
 custom to think, in tbe last place, of the introduction with which J am to begin. For 
 if at any time, I have endeavoured to invent an introduction at first, nothing has 
 ever occurred to me for that purpose^, but what was trifling, nugatory, and v-algnr." 
 
LECT, XXXI.] INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE', 309 
 
 an introduction should never betray any thing mean or abject. It is 
 always of great use to an orator, that together with modesty and defe- 
 rence to his hearers, he should show a certain sense of dignity, arising 
 from a persuasion of the justice or importance of the subject on which 
 he is to speak. 
 
 The modesty of an introduction requires, that it promise not too 
 much. " Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem."* This cer- 
 tainly is the general rule, that an orator should not put forth al! his 
 strength at the heginning, but should rise and grow upon us,* as his dis- 
 course advances. There are cases, however, in which it is allowable 
 for him to set out from the. first in a high and bold tone ; as. for instance, 
 when he rises to defend some cause which has been much run down, 
 and decried by the public. Too modest a beginning might be then like 
 a confession of guilt. By the boldness and strength of his exordium, he 
 must endeavour to stem the tide that is against him, and to remove pre- 
 judices, by encountering them without fear. In subjects too of a de- 
 clamatory nature, and in sermons, where the subject is striking, a mag- 
 nificent introduction has sometimes a good effect, if it be properly sup- 
 ported in the sequel. Thus Bishop Atterbury, in beginning an eloquent 
 sermon, preached on the 30th of January, the anniversary of what is call- 
 ed King Charles's Martyrdom, sets out in this pompous manner : " This 
 is a day of trouble, of rebuke, and of blasphemy ; distinguished in the 
 calendar of our church, and the annals of our nation, by the sufferings 
 of an excellent prince, who fell a sacrifice to the rage of his rebel- 
 lious subjects ; and, by his fall, derived infamy, misery, and guilt on 
 them, and their sinful posterity." Bossuet, Flechier, and the other 
 celebrated French preachers, very often begin their discourses with 
 laboured and sublime introductions. These raise attention, and throw a 
 lustre on the subject ; but let every speaker be much on his guard 
 against striking a higher note at the beginning, than he is able to keep 
 up in his progress. 
 
 In the fourth place, an introduction should usually be carried on in the 
 calm manner. This is seldom the place for vehemence and passion. 
 Emotion must rise as the discourse advances. The minds of the hear- 
 ers must be gradually prepared, before the speaker can venture on 
 strongand passionate sentiments. The exceptions to this rule are, when 
 the subject is such, that the very mention of it naturally awakens some 
 passionate emotion ; or when the unexpected presence of some person 
 or object, in a popular assembly, inflames the speaker, and makes him 
 break forth with unusual warmth. Either of these will justify what is 
 called the Exordium ab abrupto. Thus the appearance of Catiline in the 
 senate renders the vehement beginning of Cicero's first oration against 
 him very natural and proper : " Quousque tandem, Catilina, abutere 
 patientia nostra ?" And thus Bishop Atterbury, in preaching from this 
 text, " Blessed is he, whosoever shall not be offended in me," ventures 
 on breaking forth with this bold exordium : " And can any man then be 
 offended in thee, blessed Jesus ?" which address to our Saviour he con- 
 tinues for a page or two, till he enters on the division of his subject. 
 But such introductions as these should be hazarded by very few, as they 
 
 - He does not lavish at a blaze his fire, 
 Sudden to glare, and then in smoke expire; 
 But rises from a cloud of smoke to light, 
 And pours his specious miracles to sight. 
 
 Hop., Ars Pokt. Ffunctp 
 
10 INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE, [LECT, XXXJ : 
 
 promise so much vehemence and unction through the rest of the dis- 
 course, that it is very difficult to fulfil the expectations of the hearers. 
 
 At the same time, though the introduction is not the place in which 
 warm emotions are usually to be attempted, yet I must take notice, that 
 it ought to prepare the way for such as are designed to be raised in sub- 
 sequent parts of the discourse. The orator should, in the beginning, 
 turn the minds of his hearers towards those sentiments and feelings, 
 which he seeks to awaken in the course of his speech. According, for 
 instance, as it is compassion, or indignation, or contempt, on which his 
 discourse is to rest, he ought to sow the seeds of these in his introduc- 
 tion ; he ought to begin with breathing that spirit which he means to 
 inspire. Much of the orator's art and ability is shown, in thus striking 
 properly at the commencement, the key note, if we may so express it. 
 of the rest of his oration. 
 
 In the fifth place, it is a rule in introductions, not to anticipate any 
 material part of the subject. When topics, or arguments, which are 
 afterward to be enlarged upon, are hinted at, and, in part, brought 
 forth in the introduction, they lose the grace of novelty upon their second 
 appearance. The impression intended to be made by any capital 
 thought, is always made with the greatest advantage, when it is made en- 
 tire, and in its proper place. 
 
 In the last place, the introduction ought to be proportioned, both in 
 length and in kind, to the discourse that is to follow : in length, as 
 nothing can be more absurd than to erect a very great portico before a 
 small building ; and in kind, as it is no less absurd to overcharge, with 
 superb ornaments, the portico of a plain dwelling-house, or to make 
 the entrance to a monument as gay as that to an arbour. Common sense 
 directs, that every part of a discourse should be suited to the strain and 
 spirit of the whole. 
 
 These are the principal rules that relate to introductions. They are 
 adapted, in a great measure, equally to discourses of all kinds. In 
 pleadings at the bar, or speeches in public assemblies, particular care 
 must be taken not to employ any introduction of that kind, which the ad- 
 verse party may lay hold of, and turn to his advantage. To this inconve- 
 nience, all those introductions are exposed, which are taken from general 
 and common-place topics ? and it never fails to give an adversary a con- 
 siderable triumph, if, by giving a small turn to something we had said in 
 our exordium, he can appear to convert, to his own favour, the prin- 
 ciples with which we had set out, in beginning our attack upon him. In 
 the case of replies, Quintilian makes an observation which is very worthy 
 of notice ; that introductions, drawn from something that has been said in 
 the course of the debate, have always a peculiar grace ; and the reason 
 he gives for it is just and sensible : " Multum gratiae exordio est, quod ab 
 actione diversse partis materiam trahit ; hoc ipso, quod non compositum 
 domi,sed ibiatquee re natum ; et facilitate faraatn ingenii auget ; et facie 
 simplicis, sumptiquee proximo sermonis, fidem quoque acquirit ; adeo, 
 ut etiamsi reliqua scripta atque elaborata sint, tamen videatur tota es- 
 temporalis oratio. cujus initium nihil preparatum habuisse, manifestum 
 est.*'* 
 
 * "An introduction, which is founded upon the pleading of the opposite party, is 
 extremely graceful ; for this reason, that it appears not to have been meditated at 
 home, but to have taken rise from the business, and to have been composed on the 
 spot. " Hence, it gives to the speaker the reputation of a quick invention, and adds 
 weight likewise to his discourse, as artless and unlaboured ; insomuch, that, though 
 
LECT. XXXI.] DIVISION OF A DISCOURSE, SI 1 
 
 In sermons, such a practice as this cannot take place ; and, indeed, in 
 composing sermons, few things are more difficult than to remove an 
 appearance of stiffness from an introduction, when a formal one is used. 
 The French preachers, as I before observed, are often very splendid 
 and lively in their introductions ; but, among us, attempts of this kind 
 are not always so successful, When long introductions are formed upon 
 some common-place topic, as the desire of happiness being natural to 
 man, or the like, they never fail of being tedious. Variety should be 
 studied in this part of composition as much as possible ; often it may be 
 proper to begin without any introduction at all, unless, perhaps, one or 
 two sentences. Explanatory introductions from the context, are the most 
 simple of any, and frequently the best that can be used ; but as they are 
 in hazard of becoming dry, they should never be long. A historical 
 introduction has, generally, a happy effect to rouse attention ; when one 
 can lay hold upon some noted fact that is connected with the text or the 
 discourse, and, by a proper illustration of it, open the way to the subject 
 that is to be treated of. 
 
 After the introduction, what commonly comes next in order, is the 
 proposition, or enunciation of the subject ; concerning which there is 
 nothing-to be said, but that it should be as clear and distinct as possible, 
 and expressed in few and plain words, without the least affectation. To 
 this generally succeeds the division, or the laying down the method of 
 the discourse ; on which it is necessary to make some observations. I 
 do not mean that in every discourse, a formal division or distribution of 
 it into parts, is requisite. There are many occasions of public speaking 
 when this is neither requisite nor would be proper ; when the discourse, 
 perhaps, is to be short, or only one point is to be treated of; or when 
 the speaker does not choose to warn his hearers of the method he is to 
 follow, or of the conclusion to which he seeks to bring them. Order of 
 one kind or other is, indeed, essential to every good discourse ; that is, 
 every thing should be so arranged, as that what goes before may give 
 light and force to what follows. But this may be accomplished by means 
 of a concealed method. What we call division is, when the method is 
 propounded in form to the hearers. 
 
 The discourse in which this sort of division most commonly takes place, 
 is a sermon ; and a question has been moved, whether this method of 
 laying down heads, as it is called, be the best method of preaching. A 
 very able judge, the Archbishop of Cambray, in his Dialogues on Elo- 
 quence, declares strongly against it. He observes, that it is a modern 
 invention ; that it was never practised by the Fathers of the church ; and, 
 what is certainly true, that it took its rise from the schoolmen, when 
 metaphysics began to be introduced into preaching. He is of opinion, 
 that it renders a sermon stiff; that it breaks the unity of the discourse ; 
 and that, by the natural connexion of one part with another, the attention 
 of the hearers would be carried along the whole with more advantage. 
 
 But notwithstanding his authority and his arguments, i cannot help 
 being of opinion, that the present method of dividing a sermon into heads, 
 ought not to be laid aside. Established practice has now given it so 
 much weight, that, were there nothing more in its favour, it would be 
 dangerous for any preacher to deviate so far from the common track. 
 
 all the rest of his orations should be studied and written, yet the whole discourse 
 has the appearance of being extemporary, as it is evident that the introduction to it 
 was unpremeditated " 
 
312 DIVISION OF A DISCOURSE. [LECT. XXX£ 
 
 But the practice itself has also, in my judgment, much reason on its side. 
 If formal partitions give a sermon less of the oratoria! appearance, they 
 render it, however, more clear, more easily apprehended, and, of course, 
 more instructive to the bulk of hearers, which is always the main object 
 to be kept in view. The heads of a sermon are great assistances to the 
 memory and recollection of a hearer. They serve also to fix his atten- 
 tion. They enable him more easily to keep pace with the progress of 
 the discourse ; they give him pauses and resting-places, where he can 
 reflect on what has been said, and look forward to what is to follow. 
 They are attended with this advantage too, that they give the audience 
 the opportunity of knowing, beforehand, when they are to be released 
 from the fatigue of attention, and thereby make them follow the speaker 
 more patiently ; " Reficit audientem," says Quintilian, taking notice of 
 this very advantage of divisions in other discourses, " Reficit audientem 
 certo singularum partium fine ; non aliter quam facientibus iter, multum 
 detrahunt fatigationes notata spatia inscriptis lapidibus : nam et exhausti 
 laboris nosse mensuram voluptati est ; et hortatur ad reliqua fortius 
 exequenda, scire quantum supersit."* With regard to breaking the unity 
 of a discourse, I cannot be of opinion that there arises, from that quarter, 
 anj' argument against the method I am defending. If the unity be feroken, 
 it is to the nature of the heads, or topics of which the speaker treats, 
 that this is to be imputed ; not to his laying them down in form. On the 
 contrary, if his heads be well chosen, his marking them out, and distin- 
 guishing them, in place of impairing the unity of the whole, renders it 
 more conspicuous and complete ; by showing how all the parts of a dis- 
 course hang upon one another, and tend to one point. 
 
 In a sermon, or in a pleading, or any discourse, where division is 
 proper to be used, the most material rules are, 
 
 First, That the several parts into which the subject is divided be really 
 distinct from one another ; that is, that no one include another. It were 
 a very absurd division, for instance, if one should propose to treat first, 
 of the advantages of virtue, and next., of those of justice ortemperance ; 
 because the first head evidently comprehends the second, as a genus does 
 the species ; which method of proceeding involves the subject in indis- 
 tinctness and disorder. 
 
 Secondly, In division, we must take care to follow the order of nature ; 
 beginning with the simplest points, such as are easiest apprehended, and 
 necessary to be first discussed ; and proceeding thence to those which 
 are built upon the former, and which suppose them to be known. We 
 must divide the subject into those parts, into which most easily and 
 naturally it is resolved ; that the subject may seem to split itself, and 
 not to be violently torn asunder : " Dividere," as is commonly said, 
 " nonfrangere." 
 
 Thirdly, The several members of a division ought to exhaust the 
 subject ; otherwise we do not make a complete division ; we exhibit the 
 subject by pieces and corners only, without giving any such plan as 
 displays the whole. 
 
 Fourthly, The terms in which our partitions are expressed, should 
 be as concise as possible. Avoid all circumlocution here. Admit not a 
 
 >; " The conclusion of each head is a relief to the hearers; just as, upon a journey, 
 the mile-stones, which are set upon the road, serve to diminish the traveller's fatigue, 
 For we are always pleased with seeing our labour begin to lessen ; and, by calcu 
 feting how much remains., are stirred up to finish oar task more cheerfully," 
 

 LECT. XXXI.] NARRATION AND EXPLICATE. 3J3 
 
 single word but what is necessary. Precision is to be studied, above all 
 things, in laying down a method. It is this which chiefly makes a divi- 
 sion appear neat and elegant ; when the several heads are propounded 
 in the clearest, most expressive, and, at the same time, the fewest 
 words possible. This never fails to strike the hearers agreeably ; and 
 is, at the same time, of great consequence towards making the divisions 
 be more easily remembered. 
 
 Fifthly, Avoid an unnecessary multiplication of heads. To split a 
 subject into a great many minute parts, by divisions and subdivisions 
 without end, has always a bad effect in speaking. It may be proper in 
 a logical treatise ; but it makes an oration appear hard and dry, and un- 
 necessarily fatigues the memory. In a sermon, there may be from 
 three to five, or six heads, including subdivisions ; seldom should there 
 be more. 
 
 In a sermon, or in a pleading at the bar, few things are of greater 
 consequence, than a proper or happy division. It should be studied 
 with much accuracy and care ; for if one take a wrong method at first 
 setting out, it will lead him astray in all that follows. It will render the 
 whole discourse either perplexed or languid ; and though the hearers 
 may not be able U tell where the fault or disorder lies, they will be 
 sensible there is a disorder somewhere, and find themselves little affected 
 by what is spoken. The French writers of sermons study neatness 
 and elegance in the division of their subjects, much more than the English 
 do ; whose distributions, though sensible and just, yet are often inarti- 
 ficial and verbose. Among the French, however, too much quaintness 
 appears in their divisions, with an affection of always setting out either 
 with two, or with three general heads of discourse. A division of 
 Massillon's on this text, " It is finished," has been much extolled by the 
 French critics : " This imports," says the preacher, " the consumma- 
 tion, first, Of justice on the part of God ; secondly, Of wickedness on the 
 part of men ; thirdly, Of love on the part of Christ." This also of 
 Bourdaloue's has been much praised, from these words, " My peace I 
 give unto you :" " Peace," says he, " first, To the understanding by 
 submission to faith ; secondly, To the heart, by submission to the law." 
 
 The next constituent part of a discourse, which I mentioned, was 
 narration or explication. I put these together, both because they 
 fall nearly under the same rules, and because they commonly answer 
 the same purpose ; serving to illustrate the cause or the subject of 
 which the orator treats, before he.proceeds to argue either on one side 
 or other ; or to make any attempt for interesting the passions of the 
 hearers. 
 
 In pleadings at the bar, narration is often a very important part of 
 the discourse, and requires to be particularly attended to. Besides its 
 being in any case no easy matter to relate with grace and propriety, 
 there is in narrations at the bar, a peculiar difficulty. The pleader 
 must say nothing but what is true ; and, at the same time, he must avoid 
 saying any thing that will hurt his cause. The facts which he relates 
 are to be the groundwork of all his future reasoning. To recount 
 them so as to keep strictly within the bounds of truth, and yet to pre- 
 sent them under the colours most favourable to his cause ; to place, in 
 the most striking light, every circumstance which is to his advantage, 
 and to soften and weaken such as make against him, demand no small 
 exertion of skill and dexterity. He must always remember, that if he 
 
 R r 
 
314 NARRATION AND EXPLICATION. [LECT. XXXI 
 
 discovers too much art, he defeats his own purpose, and creates a dis- 
 trust of his sincerity. Quintilian very properly directs, " Effugienda 
 in hacpraecipue parte, omnis calliditatis suspicio ; neque enim se usquam 
 magis custodit judex, quam cum narrat orator ; nihil turn videatur ac- 
 tum ; nihil sollicitum ; omnia potius a causa, quam ab oratore, profecta 
 videantur."* 
 
 To be clear and distinct, to be probable, and to be concise, are the 
 qualities which critics chiefly require in narration ; each of which car- 
 ries, sufficiently, the evidence of its importance. Distinctness belongs 
 to the whole train of the discourse, but is especially requisite in narra- 
 tion, which ought to throw light on all that follows. A fact, or a single 
 circumstance left in obscurity, and misapprehended by the judge, may 
 destroy the effect of all the argument and reasoning which the speaker 
 employs. If his narration be improbable, the judge will not regard it ; 
 and if it be tedious and diffuse, he will be tired of it, and forget it. In 
 order to produce distinctness, besides the study of the general rules of 
 perspicuity which were formerly given, narration requires particular 
 attention to ascertain clearly the names, the dates, the places, and every 
 other material circumstance of the facts recounted. In order to be 
 probable in narration, it is material to enter into the characters of the 
 persons of whom we speak, and to show, that, their actions proceeded 
 from such motives as are natural, and likely to gain belief. In order 
 to be as concise as the subject will admit, it is necessary to throw out 
 all superfluous circumstances ; the rejection of which will likewise tend 
 to make our narration more forcible, and more clear. 
 
 Cicero is very remarkable for his talent of narration ; and from the 
 examples in his orations much may be learned. The narration, for in- 
 stance, in the celebrated oration pro Milone, has been often and justly 
 admired. His scope is to show, that though in fact Clodius was killed 
 by Milo or his servants, yet that it was only in self-defence ; and that 
 the design had been laid, not by Milo against Clodius, but by Clodius 
 against Milo's life. Ail the circumstances for rendering this probable 
 are painted with wonderful art. In relating the manner of Milo's set- 
 ting out from Rome, he gives the most natural description of a family 
 excursion to the country, under which it was impossible that any bloody 
 design could be concealed. " He remained," says he, " in the Senate 
 house that day, till all the business was over. He came home, changed 
 his clothes deliberately, and waited for some time, till his wife had got 
 all her things ready for going with .him in his carriage to the country. 
 He did not set out, till such time as Clodius might easily have been in 
 Rome, if he had not been lying in wait for Milo by the way. By and by, 
 Clodius met him on the road, on horseback, like a man prepared for 
 action, no carriage, nor his wife, as was usual, nor any family equipage 
 along with him : whilst Milo, who is supposed to be meditating slaughter 
 and assassination, is travelling in a carriage with his wife, wrapped up 
 in his cloak, embarrassed with baggage, and attended by a great train of 
 women servants, and boys." He goes on describing the rencounter that 
 followed ; Clodius's servants attacking those of Milo, and killing the 
 
 * " In this part of discourse, the speaker must be very careful to shun every ap- 
 pearance of art and cunning. For there is no time at which the judge is more upon 
 his guard, than when the pleader is relating facts. Let nothing then seem feigned : 
 nothing anxiously concealed. Let all that is said appear to arise from the cause 
 ftself. and not to be the work of the orator," 
 
LECT. XXXI.] NARRATION AND EXPLICATION. 315 
 
 driver of his carriage ; Milo jumping out, throwing off his cloak, and 
 making the best defence he could while Clodius's servants endeavoured 
 to surround him ; and then concludes his narration with a very delicate 
 and happy stroke. He does not say in plain words, that Milo's servants 
 killed Clodius, but that, " in the midst of the tumult, Milo's servants, 
 without the orders, without the knowledge, without the presence of their 
 master, did what every master would have wished his servants, in a like 
 conjuncture, to have done."* 
 
 In sermons, where there is seldom any occasion for narration, expli- 
 cation of the subject to be discoursed on, comes in the place of narra- 
 tion at the bar, and is to be taken up much on the same tone ; that \£, 
 it must be concise, clear, and distinct : and in a style correct and ele- 
 gant, rather than highly adorned. To explain the doctrine of the text 
 with propriety ; to give a full and perspicuous account of the nature 
 of that virtue or duty which forms the subject of the discourse, is pro- 
 perly the didactic part of preaching ; on the right execution of which 
 much depends for all that comes afterward in the way of persuasion. 
 The great art in succeeding in it is, to meditate profoundly on the sub- 
 ject, so as to be able to place it in a clear and strong point of view. 
 Consider what light other passages of Scripture throw upon it ; consider 
 whether i.t be a subject nearly related to some other from which it is 
 proper to distinguish it ; consider whether it can be illustrated to advan- 
 tage by comparing it with, or opposing it to, some other thing; by 
 inquiring into causes, or tracing effects : by pointing out examples, or 
 appealing to the feelings of the hearers ; that thus, a definite, precise, 
 circumstantial view may be afforded of the doctrine to be inculcated. 
 Let the preacher be persuaded, that, by such distinct and apt illustra- 
 tions of the known truths of religion, it may both display great merit in 
 the way of composition, and, what he ought to consider as far more 
 valuable, render his discourses weighty, instructive, and useful. 
 
 * " Milo, cum in senatu fuisset eo die ; quod senalus dimissus est, domurr. venit, 
 Calceos et vestimenta mutavit ; paulisper, dum se uxor (ut fit) comparat, commo- 
 ratus est ; deinde profectus est, id teraporis cum jam Clodius, si quidem eo die 
 Romam venturus erat, redire potuisset. Obviem fit ei Clodius expeditus, in equo, 
 nulla rheda, nullis impedimentis, nullis Graecis comitibus, ut solebat ; sine uxore, 
 quod nunquam fere. Cum hie insidiator, qui iter illud ad caedem faciendam appa- 
 r&sset, cum uxore veheretur in'rheda, penulatus, vulgi magno impedimento, ac 
 muliebri et delicato ancillarum puerorumque comitatu. Fit obviam Clodio ante 
 fundum ejus, hora fere undecima, aut non multo secus. Statim complures cum 
 telis in hunc faciunt de loco superiore impetum : adversi rhedarium occidunt cum 
 autem hie de rheda, rejecta penula desiluisset, sequi acri animo defenderet, III i qui 
 erant cum Clodio, gladiis eductis, partim recurrere ad rhedam, ut a tergo Milonem 
 adorirentur ; partim, quod hunc jam interfectum putarent, credere incipiunt ejus 
 servos qui post erant; ex quibus qui animo fideli in dominum et praesenti fuerunt, 
 partim occisi sunt ; partim cum ad rhedam pugnare viderunt, et dorainio succurrere 
 prohiberentur, Miloner»que occisum etiam ex ipso Clodio audirent, et ita esse pu- 
 tarent, fecerunt id servi Milonis (dicam enim non derivandi criminis causa\, sed ut 
 factum est) neque imperante, neque sciente, neque prasente domino, quod suos 
 quisque servos in tali re facere voluisset." 
 
316 - 
 
 LECTURE XXXII. 
 
 CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE— THE ARGUMEMTATIVE PART— 
 THE PATHETIC PART— THE PERORATION. 
 
 In treating of the constituent parts of a regular discourse, or oration, 
 I have already considered the introduction, the division, and the narra- 
 tion or explication. I proceed next to treat of the argumentative or 
 reasoning part of a discourse. In whatever place, or on whatever 
 subject one speaks, this, beyond doubt, is of the greatest consequence. 
 For the great end for which men speak on any serious occasion, is to 
 convince their hearers of something being either true, or right, or good ; 
 and, by means of this conviction, to influence their practice. Reason 
 and argument make the foundation, as I have often inculcated, of all 
 manly and persuasive eloquence. 
 
 Now, with respect to arguments, three things are requisite. First, 
 the invention of them ; secondly, the proper disposition and arrange- 
 ment of them ; and thirdly, the expressing of them in such a style and 
 manner, as to give them their full force. 
 
 The first of these, invention, is, without doubt, the most material, 
 and the groundwork of the rest. But with respect to this, I am 
 afraid it is beyond the power of art to give any real assistance. Art 
 cannot go so far, as to supply a speaker with arguments on every cause, 
 and every subject ; though it may be of considerable use in assisting 
 him to arrange and express those, which his knowledge of the subject 
 has discovered. For it is one thing to discover the reasons that are 
 most proper to convince men, and another to manage these reasons with 
 the most advantage. The latter is all that rhetoric can pretend to. 
 
 The ancient rhetoricians did indeed attempt to go much farther than 
 this. They attempted to form rhetoric into a more complete system ; 
 and professed not only to assist public speakers in setting off their argu- 
 ments to most advantage ; but to supply the defect of their invention, 
 and to teach them where to find arguments on every subject and cause. 
 Hence their doctrine of topics, or " Loci Communes," and " Sedes 
 Argumentorum," which makes so great a figure in the writings of Aris- 
 totle, Cicero, and Quintilian. These topics, or loci, were no other 
 than general ideas applicable to a great many different subjects, which 
 the orator was directed to consult, in order to find out materials for 
 his speech. They had their intrinsic and extrinsic loci ; some loci, that 
 were common to all the different kinds of public speaking, and some 
 that were peculiar to each. The common or general loci, were such 
 as genius and species, cause and effect, antecedents and consequents, 
 likeness and contrariety, definition, circumstances of time and place ; 
 and a great many more of the same kinds. For each of the different 
 kinds of public speaking, they had their " Loci Personarum," and " Loci 
 Rerutn:" As in demonstrative orations, for instance, the heads from 
 
LK.CT. XXXII.} CONDUCT t)F A DlSCOUttSfc. 317 
 
 which any one could be decried or praised ; his birth, his country, his 
 education, his kindred, the qualities of his body, the qualities of his 
 mind, the fortune he enjoyed, the stations he had filled, &c. ; and in de- 
 liberative orations, the topics that might be used in recommending any 
 public measure, or dissuading from it ; such as, honesty, justice, facility, 
 profit, pleasure, glory, assistance from friends, mortification to enemies 3 
 and the like. 
 
 The Grecian sophists were the first inventors of this artificial system 
 of oratory ; and they showed a prodigious subtilty and fertility in the 
 contrivance of these loci. Succeeding rhetoricians, dazzled by the 
 plan, wrought them up into so regular a system, that one would think 
 they meant to teach how a person might mechanically become an orator, 
 without any genius at all. They gave him receipts for making speeches 
 on all manner of subjects. At the same time, it is evident, that though 
 this study of common-places might produce very showy academical de- 
 clamations, it could never produce useful discourses on real business. 
 The loci indeed supplied a most exuberant fecundity of matter. One 
 who had^no other aim, but to talk copiously and plausibly, by consulting 
 them on every subject, and laying hold of all that they suggested, might 
 discourse without end ; and that too, though he had none but the most 
 superficial knowledge of his subject. But such discourse could be no 
 other than trivial. What is truly solid and persuasive, must be drawn 
 11 ex visceribus causae," from a thorough knowledge of the subject, and 
 profound meditation on it. They who would direct students of oratory 
 to any other sources of argumentation, only delude them : and by at- 
 tempting to render rhetoric too perfect an art, they render it, in truth, 
 a trifling and childish study. 
 
 On this doctrine, therefore, of the rhetorical loci, or topics, I thiuk 
 it superfluous to insist. If any think that the knowledge of them may 
 contribute to improve their invention, and extend their views, they must 
 consult Aristotle and Quintilian, or what Cicero has written on this 
 head, in his Treatise de Inventione, his Topica, and second book De 
 Oratore. But when they are to prepare a discourse, by which they 
 purpose to convince a judge, or to produce any considerable effect upon 
 an assembly, I would advise them to lay aside their common places, 
 and to think closely of their subject. Demosthenes, I dare sa} r , consult- 
 ed none of the loci, when he was inciting the Athenians to take arms 
 against Philip*: and where Cicero has had recourse to them, his orations 
 are so much the worse on that account. 
 
 I proceed to what is of more real use, to point out the assistance that 
 can be given, not with respect to the invention, but with respect to the 
 disposition and conduct of arguments. 
 
 Two different methods. may be used by orators in the conduct of their 
 reasoning ; the terms of art for which are, the analytic, and the synthetic 
 method. The analytic is, when the orator conceals his intention con- 
 cerning the point he is to prove, till he has gradually brought his hear- 
 ers to the designed conclusion. They are led on step by step, from one 
 known truth to another, till the conclusion be stolen upon them, as the 
 natural consequence of a chain of propositions. As, for instance, when 
 one intending to prove the being of a God, sets out with observing that 
 every thing which we see in the world has had a beginning ; that what- 
 ever has had a beginning must have had a prior cause ; that in human pro- 
 ductions, art shown in the effect, necessarily infers design in the cause ; 
 
318 THE ARGUMENTATIVE' FART [LECT. XXXU 
 
 and proceeds leading you on from one cause to another, till you arrive 
 at one supreme first cause, from whom is derived all the order and 
 design visible in his works. This is much the same with the Socratic 
 method, by which that philosopher silenced the sophists of his age. It 
 is a very artful method of reasoning ; may be carried on with much 
 beauty, and is proper to be used when the hearers are much preju- 
 diced against any truth, and by imperceptible steps must be led to 
 conviction. 
 
 But there are few subjects that will admit this method, and not many 
 occasions on which it is proper to be employed. The mode of reasoning 
 most generally used, and most suited to the train of popular speaking, is 
 what is called the synthetic ; when the point to be proved is fairly laid 
 down, and one argument after another is made to bear upon it, till the 
 hearers be fully convinced. 
 
 Now in all arguing, one of the first things to be attended to is, among 
 the various arguments which may occur upon a cause, to make a proper 
 selection of such as appear to one's self the most solid ; and to employ 
 these as the chief means of persuasion. Every speaker should place 
 himself in the situation of a hearer, and think how he would be affected 
 by those reasons which he purposes to employ for persuading others. 
 For he must not expect to impose on mankind by mere arts of speech. 
 They are not so easily imposed on, as public speakers are sometimes apt 
 to think. Shrewdness and sagacity are found among all ranks ; and the 
 speaker may be praised for his fine discourse, while yet the hearers are 
 not persuaded of the truth of any one thing he has uttered. 
 
 Supposing the arguments properly chosen, it is evident that their 
 effect will, in some measure, depend on the right arrangement of them ; 
 so as they shall not justle and embarrass one another, but give mutual 
 aid ; and bear with the fairest and fullest direction on the point in view. 
 Concerning this, the following rules may be taken : * 
 
 In the first place, avoid blending arguments confusedly together, that 
 are of a separate nature. AH arguments whatever are directed to prove 
 one or other of these three things ; that something is true ; that it is 
 morally right or fit ; or that it is profitable and good. These make the 
 three great subjects of discussion among mankind ; truth, duty, and 
 interest. But the arguments directed towards any one of them are 
 generically distinct ; and he who blends them all under one topic, which 
 he calls his argument, as in sermons, especially, is too often done, will 
 render his reasoning indistinct and inelegant. Suppose, for instance, 
 that I am recommending to an audience benevolence or the love of our 
 neighbour, and that I take my first argument, from the inward satisfaction 
 which a benevolent temper affords : my second, from the obligation 
 which the example of Christ lays upon us to this duty ; and my third, 
 from its tendency to procure us the good will "of all around us ; my ar- 
 guments are good, but I have arranged them wrong ; for, my first and 
 third arguments are taken from considerations of interest, internal 
 peace, and external advantages ; and between these, I have introduced 
 one which rests wholly upon duty. I should have kept those classes of 
 arguments, which are addressed to different principles in human nature, 
 separate and distinct. 
 
 In the second place, With regard to the different degrees of strength 
 in arguments, the general rule is, to advance in the way of climax, " utau- 
 geatur semper, et inrrescat oratio." This especially is to be the course, 
 
LECT. XXXII.] OF A DISCOURSE. 31 9 
 
 when the speaker has a clear cause, and is confident that he can prove it 
 fully. He may then adventure to begin with feebler arguments ; rising 
 gradually, and not putting forth his whole strength till the last, when he 
 can trust to his making a successful impression on the minds ot hearers, 
 prepared by what has gone before. But this rule is not to be always 
 followed. For if be distrusts his cause, and has but one material argu- 
 ment on which to lay the stress, putting less confidence in the rest, in this 
 case, it is often proper for him to place this material argument in the 
 front ; to preoccupy the hearers early, and make the strongest effort at 
 first ; that, having removed prejudices, and disposed them to be favour- 
 able, the rest of his reasoning may be listened to witri more candour. 
 When it happens, that amidst a variety of arguments, there are one or 
 two which we are sensible are more inconclusive than the rest, and yet 
 proper to be used, Cicero advises to place these in the middle, as a station 
 less conspicuous than either the beginning, or the end, of the train of 
 reasoning. 
 
 In the third place, when our arguments are strong and satisfactory, the 
 more they are distinguished and treated apart from each other, the better, 
 Each can then bear to be brought out by itself, placed in its full light, 
 amplified and rested upon. But when our arguments are doubtful, and 
 only of the presumptive kind, it is safer to throw them together in a 
 crowd, and to run them into one another : •• ut quae sunt natura imbecilla," 
 as Quintilian speaks, " mutuo auxilio sustineantur ;" though infirm of 
 themselves, they may serve mutually to prop each other. He gives a 
 good example, in the case of one who was accused of murdering a re- 
 lation, to whom he was heir. Direct proof was wanting : but, ' you ex- 
 pected asuccession, and a great succession ; you were in distrest circum- 
 stances ; you were pushed to the utmost by your creditors : you hadof- 
 fended your relation, who had made you his heir ; you knew that he was 
 just then intending to alter his will ; no time was to be lost. Each of 
 these particulars, by itself, says the author, " is inconclusive ; but when 
 they were assembled in one groupe, they have effect." 
 
 Of the distinct amplification of one persuasive argument, we have a 
 most beautiful example in Cicero's oration for Milo. The argument is 
 taken from a circumstance of time. Miio was candidate for the consul- 
 ship ; and Clodius was killed a few days before the election. He asks, 
 if any one could believe that Milo would be mad enough at such a criti- 
 cal time, by a most odious assassination, to alienate from himself the 
 favour of people, whose suffrages he was so anxiously courting ? This 
 argument, the moment it is suggested, appears to have considerable 
 weight. But it was not enough, simply to suggest it ; it could bear to be 
 dwelt upon, and brought out into full light. The orator, therefore, draws 
 a just and striking picture of that solicitous attention with which candi- 
 dates, at such a season, always found it necessary to cultivate the goorf 
 opinion of the people. " Quo tempore," says he, ( ; 'Scio enim quam ti- 
 mida sit ambitio,quantaque et quam sollicita, cupiditasconsolatus) omnia, 
 non modo quae reprehendi palam, sed etiam quse obscure cogitari pos- 
 sunt, timemus. Rumorem, fabulam fictam et falsarn, perhorrescimus - 7 
 ora omnium atque oculos intuemur. Nihil enim est tarn tenerum, tarn 
 aut fragile aUt flexibile, quam voluntas ergo nos sensusque civium, qui 
 non modo improbitati irascuntur candidatorum, sed etiam in recte factis 
 saepe fastidiunt." From all which he most justly concludes, " Huncdiem 
 igitur Campi, speratum atque exoptatum, sibi proponens Milo, cruentis 
 
320 THE PATHETIC PAM OF A DISCOURSE. [LECT. XXXU. 
 
 manibus, scelus atque facinus prge se ferens, ad illacenturiarum auspicia 
 veniebat ? Quam hoc in illo minimum credibile !"* But though such 
 amplification as this be extremely beautiful, I must add a caution. 
 
 In the fourth place, against extending arguments too far, and multiplex- 
 ing them too much. This serves rather to render a cause suspected, 
 than to give it weight. An unnecessary multiplicity of arguments both 
 burdens the memory, and detracts from the weight of that conviction 
 which a few well-chosen arguments carry. It is to be observed too, that 
 in the amplification of arguments, a diffuse and spreading method, be- 
 yond the bounds, of reasonable illustration, is always enfeebling. It takes 
 off greatly from that " vis et acumen," which should be the distinguish- 
 ing character of the argumentative part of a discourse. When a speaker 
 dwells long on a favourite argument, and seeks to turn it into every pos- 
 sible light, it almost always happens, that, fatigued with the effort, he 
 loses the spirit with which he set out ; and concludes with feebleness 
 what he began with force. There is a proper temperance in reasoning, 
 as there is in other parts of a discourse. 
 
 After due attention given to the proper arrangement of arguments, 
 what is next requisite for their success, is to express them in such a style, 
 and to deliver them in such a manner, as shall give them full force. On 
 these heads I must refer the reader to the directions I have given in 
 treating of style, in former lectures ; and to the directions I am after- 
 ward to give concerning pronunciation and delivery. 
 
 I proceed, therefore, next, to another essential part of discourse 
 which I mentioned as the fifth in order, that is, the pathetic ; in which, 
 if any where, eloquence reigns, and exerts its power. I shall not, in 
 beginning this head, take up time in. combating the scruples of those 
 who have moved a question, whether it be consistent with fairness and 
 candour in a public speaker, to address the passions of his audience ? 
 This is a question about words alone, and which common sense easily 
 determines. In inquiries after mere truth, in matters of simple infor- 
 mation and instruction, there is no question that the passions have no 
 concern, and that all attempts to move them are absurd. Wherever 
 conviction is the object, it is the understanding alone that is to be applied 
 to. It is by argument and reasoning, that one man attempts to satisfy 
 another of what is true, or right, or just ; but if persuasion be the ob- 
 ject, the case is changed. In all that relates to practice, there is no man 
 who seriously means to persuade another, but addresses himself to his 
 passions more or less ; for this plain reason, that passions are the great 
 springs of human action. The most virtuous man, in treating of the 
 most virtuous subject, seeks to touch the heart of him to whom he 
 speaks ; and makes no scruple to raise his indignation at injustice, or 
 ^iis pity to the distressed, though pity and indignation be passions. 
 
 * " Well do I know to what length the timidity goes of such as are candidates for 
 public offices, and how many anxious cares and attentions, a canvass for the consul- 
 ship necessarily carries along with it.'* On such an occasion, we are afraid not only 
 of what we may openly be reproached with, but of what others may think of us in 
 secret. The slightest rumour, the most improbable tale that can be devised to our 
 prejudice, alarms and disconcerts us. We study the countenance, and the looks, 
 of all around us. For nothing is so delicate, so frail and uncertain, as the public 
 favour. Our fellow-citizens not only are justly offended with the vices of candidates, 
 but even, on occasion of meritorious actions, are apt to conceive capricious disgusts. 
 Is there then the least credibility that Milo, after having so lcmg fixed his attention 
 on the important and wished-for day of election, would dare to have any thoughts 
 of presenting himself before the august assembly of the people, as a murderer am? 
 assassin. " r ith hi? hpjids JoabiHTed in blood:" , 
 
LECT. XXXII.] THE PATHETIC PART OF A DISCOURSE. 321 
 
 In treating of this part of eloquence, the ancients made the same sort 
 of attempt as they employed with respect to the argumentative part, 
 in order to bring rhetoric into a more perfect system. They inquired 
 metaphysically into the nature of every passion ; they gave a delinition 
 and a description of it ; they treated of its causes, its effects, and its 
 concomitants : and thence deduced rules for working upon it. Aristotle 
 in particular has, in his Treatise upon Rhetoric, discussed the nature of 
 the passions with much profoundness and subtilty ; and what he has 
 written on that head, may be read with no small profit, as a valuable piece 
 of moral philosophy ; but whether it will have any effect in rendering 
 an orator more pathetic, is to me doubtful. It is not, I am afraid, any 
 philosophical knowledge of the passions, that can confer this talent. We 
 must be indebted for it to nature, a certain strong and happy sensibility 
 of mind ; and one may be a most thoroHgh adept in all the speculative 
 knowledge that can be acquired concerning the passions, and remain at 
 the same time a cold and dry speaker. The use of rules and instructions 
 on this or any other part of oratory, is not to supply the want of genius, 
 but to direct it where it is found, into its proper channel ; to assist it in 
 exerting itself with most advantage, and to prevent the errors and extra- 
 vagancies into which it is sometimes apt to run. On the head of the pa- 
 thetic, the following directions appear to me to be useful. 
 
 The first is to consider carefully, whether the subject admits the pa- 
 thetic, and render it proper : and if it does, what part of the discourse is 
 the most proper for attempting it. To determine these points belongs 
 to good sense ; for it is evident, that there are many subjects which admit 
 not the pathetic at all, and that even in those that are susceptible of it, 
 an attempt to excite the passions in the wrong place, may expose ant 
 orator to ridicule. All that can be said in general is, that if we expect 
 any emotion which we raise to have a lasting effect, we must be careful to 
 bring over to our side, in the first place, the understanding and judgment. 
 The hearers must be convinced that there are good and sufficient grounds 
 for their entering with warmth into the cause. They must be able to 
 justify to themselves the passions which they feel ; and remain satisfied 
 that they are not carried away by mere delusion. Unless their minds 
 be brought into this state, although they may have been heated by the 
 orator's discourse, yet, as soon as he ceases to speak, they will resume 
 their ordinary tone of thought ; and the emotion which he has raised 
 will die entirely away. Hence most writers assign the pathetic to the 
 peroration or conclusion, as its natural place; and, no doubt, all other 
 things being equal, this is the impression that one would choose to make 
 last, leaving the minds of the hearers warmed with the subject, after 
 argument and reasoning had produced their full effect : but wherever it 
 is introduced, I must advise, 
 
 In the second place, Never to set apart a head of a discourse in form, 
 for raising any passion ; never give warning that you are about to be 
 pathetic ; and call upon your hearers, as is sometimes done, to follow 
 you in the attempt. This almost never fails to prove a refrigerant to 
 passion. It puts the hearers immediately on their guard, and disposes 
 them for criticising, much more than for being moved. The indirect 
 method of making an impression is likely to be more successful, when 
 you seize the critical moment that is favourable to emotion, in whatever 
 part of the discourse it occurs, and then, after due preparation, throw 
 in such circumstances, and present such glowing images, as may kindle 
 
 S s 
 
322 THE PATHETIC PART OF A DISCOURSE. £LECT. XXXH, 
 
 their passions before they are aware. This can often be done more 
 happily in a few sentences inspired by natural warmth, than in a long and 
 studied address. 
 
 In the third place, It is necessary to observe, that there is a great 
 difference between showing the hearers that they ought to be moved, 
 and actually moving them. This distinction is not sufficiently attended 
 to, especially by preachers, who, if they have a head in their sermon 
 to show how much we are bound to be grateful to God, or to be com- 
 passionate to the distrest, are apt to imagine this to be a pathetic part. 
 Now, all the arguments you produce to show me, why it is my duty, 
 why it is reasonable and tit, that I should be moved in a certain way, go 
 no farther than to dispose or prepare me for entering into such an emo- 
 tion ; but they do not actually excite it. To every emotion or passion, 
 nature has adapted a set of corresponding objects ; and, without setting 
 these before the mind, it is not in the power of any orator to raise that 
 emotion. I am warmed with gratitude, I am touched with compassion, 
 not when a speaker shows me that these are noble dispositions, and 
 that it is my duty to feel them ; or when he exclaims against me for my 
 indifference and coldness. All this time, he is speaking only to my 
 reason or conscience. He must describe the kindness and tenderness 
 of my friend ; he must set before me the distress suffered by the person 
 for whom he would interest me ; then, and not till then, my heart begins 
 to be touched, my gratitude or my compassion begins to flow. The 
 foundation, therefore, of all successful execution in the way of pathetic 
 oratory is, to paint the object of that passion which we wish to raise, 
 in the most natural and striking manner ; to describe it with such 
 circumstances as are likely to awaken it in the minds of others. Every 
 passion is most strongly excited by sensation ; as anger by the feeling 
 of an injury, or the presence of the injurer. Next to the influence of 
 sense, is that of memory ; and next to memory, is the influence of 
 the imagination. Of this power, therefore, the orator must avail him- 
 self, so as to strike the imagination of the hearers with circumstances 
 which, in lustre and steadiness, resemble those of sensation and remem- 
 brance. In order to accomplish this, 
 
 In the fourth place, the only effectual method is, to be moved your- 
 selves. There are a thousand interesting circumstances suggested by 
 real passion, which no art can imitate, and no refinement can supply. 
 There is obviously a contagion among the passions. 
 
 Ut ridentibus arrident, sic flentibus adflent, 
 Humani vultus. 
 
 The internal emotion of the speaker adds a pathos to his words, his 
 looks, his gestures, and his whole manner, which exerts a power almost 
 irresistible over those who hear him.* But on this point, though the 
 most material of all, I shall not now insist, as I have often had occasion 
 before to show, that all attempts towards becoming pathetic, when we 
 are not moved ourselves, expose us to certain ridicule. 
 
 * u Quid enim aliud est causes ut lugentes, in recenti dolore, dis^-rtissime quas- 
 dam exclaraare videantur ; et ira nonunquam in indoctis quoque eloquentiam facial ; 
 quam quod illis inest vis mentis, et Veritas ipsa morura ? quare in iis qua? verisimilia 
 esse volumus, simus ipsi similes eorum qui vere patiuntur, affeetibus ; et a tali animo 
 proficiscatur oratio qualem facere judicem volet ^ffieiamur antequam afficere 
 conemur," Quinct. lib. 6. 
 
1ECT. XXXII.] THE PATHETIC PART OF A DISCOURSE. 323 
 
 Quintilian, who discourses upon this subject with much good sense, 
 takes pains to inform us of the method which he used, when he was a 
 public speaker, for entering into those passions which he wanted to 
 excite in others ; setting before his own imagination what he calls 
 Phantasice, or Visiones, strong pictures of the distress or indigni- 
 ties which they had suffered, whose cause he was to plead, and for 
 whom he was to interest his hearers ; dwelling upon these, and putting 
 himself in their situation, till he was affected by a passion, similar to 
 that which the persons themselves had felt.* To this method he attri- 
 butes all the success he ever had in public speaking ; and there can be 
 no doubt, that whatever tends to increase an orator's sensibility, will 
 add greatly to his pathetic powers. 
 
 In the fifth place, It is necessary to attend to the proper language of 
 the passions. We should observe in what manner any one expresses 
 himself who is under the power of a real and strong passion ; and we 
 shall always find his language unaffected and simple. It may be ani- 
 mated, indeed, with bold and strong figures, but it will have no ornament 
 or finery. He is not at leisure to follow out the play of imagination. 
 His mind being wholly seized by one object which has heated it, he has 
 no other aim, but to represent that, in all its circumstances, as strongly 
 as he feels it. This must be the style of the orator, when he would be 
 pathetic ; and this will be his style, if he speaks from real feeling ; bold, 
 ardent, simple. No sort of description will then succeed, but what is 
 written " fervente calamo." If he stay till he can work up his style, 
 and polish and adorn it, he will infallibly cool his own ardour ; and then 
 he will touch the heart no more. His composition will become frigid ; 
 it will be the language of one who describes, but who does not feel. We 
 must take notice, that there is a great difference between painting to the 
 imagination, and painting to the heart. The one may be done coolly, 
 and at leisure ; the other must always be rapid and ardent. In the 
 former, art and labour may be suffered to appear ; in the latter, no 
 effect can follow, unless it seem to be the work of nature only. 
 
 In the sixth place, Avoid interweaving any thing of a foreign nature 
 with the pathetic part of a discourse. Beware of all digressions, which 
 may interrupt or turn aside the natural course of the passions, when 
 once it begins to rise and swell. Sacrifice all beauties, however bright 
 and showy, which would divert the mind from the principal object, and 
 which would amv.se the imagination, rather than touch the heart. Hence 
 comparisons are always dangerous, and generally quite improper, in the 
 midst of passion. Beware even of reasoning unseasonably ; or, at least, 
 of carrying on a long and subtile train of reasoning, on occasions when 
 the principal aim is to excite warm emotions. 
 
 In the last place, Never attempt prolonging the pathetic too much. 
 Warm emotions are too violent to be lasting.! Study the proper time of 
 
 * t{ Ut hominem occissum querar , non omnia quas in re presenti accidisse credibile 
 est, in oculis habebo ? Non percussor ille subituserumpet ? non expavescet circum- 
 vent'-'! ? exclamabit, vel rogabit, vel fugiet ? non ferientem, non concidentem vi- 
 debo ? non animo sanguis, et pallor, et gemitus, extremus denique expirantis hiatus, 
 insidet ? — Ubi ero miseratione opus erit, nobis ea de quibus querimur accidisse cre- 
 daraus atque id animo nostra persuadeamus. Nos 111* simus, quos gravia, indignia, 
 tristia, passos queiamur. JNec agamus,rem quasi alienam ; sed assumamus parum- 
 per ilium dolorem. Ita dicemus qua? in simili nostro casu dicturi essemus." Lib. 6. 
 
 t " Nunquam debet esse longa miseratio ; nam cum veros dolores mitiget tern- 
 pus, citius evanescat, necesse est ilia, quam dicendo effinximus, imago : in qua, si 
 raoramur, lacrymrs fatigatur auditor, et requiescit et ab i!lo quern ceperatimpetu, in 
 
324 XH£ PATHETIC PART OF A DISCOURSE. LECT. XXXII, 
 
 making a retreat ; of making a transition from the passionate to the calm 
 tone ; in such a manner, however, as to descend without failing, by keep- 
 ing up the same strain of sentiment that was carried on before, though 
 now expressing it with much moderation. Above all things, beware of 
 straining passion too far ; of attempting to raise it to unnatural heights. 
 Preserve always a due regard to what the hearers will bear ; and re- 
 member, that be who stops not at the proper point ; who attempts to 
 carry them farther, in passion, than they will follow him, destroys his 
 whole design. By endeavouring to warm them too much, he takes the 
 most effectual method of freezing them completely. 
 
 Having given these rules concerning the pathetic, I shall give one ex- 
 ample from Cicero, which will serve to illustrate several of them, par- 
 ticularly the last. It shall be taken from his last oration against Verres, 
 wherein he describes the cruelty exercised by Verres, when governor 
 of Sicily, against one Gavius, a Roman citizen. This Gavius had made 
 his escape from prison, into which he had been thrown by the governor : 
 and when just embarking at Messina, thinking himself now safe, had 
 uttered some threats, that when he had once arrived at Rome, Verres 
 should hear of him, and be brought to account for having put a Roman 
 citizen in chains. The chief magistrate of Messina, a creature of 
 Verres's, instantly apprehends him, and gives information of his threat- 
 enings. The behaviour of Verres, on this occasion, is described in the 
 most picturesque manner, and with all the colours which were proper, in 
 order to excite against him the public indignation. He thanks the magis- 
 trate of Messina for his diligence. Filled with rage, he comes into the 
 forum ; orders Gavius to be brought forth, the executioners to attend, 
 and against the laws, and contrary to the well-known privileges of a 
 Roman citizen, commands him to be stripped naked, bound, and scourged 
 publicly in a cruel manner. Cicero then proceeds thus ; " Caedebatur 
 virgis, in medio foro Messanae, civis Romanus, Judices !" every word 
 rises above another in describing this flagrant enormity ; and, " Judices," 
 is brought out at the end with the greatest propriety ; " Caedebatur virgis, 
 in medio foro Messanas, civis Rornanus, Judices ? cum interea, nullus 
 gemitus, nulla vox alia istius miseri, inter dolorem crepitumque plaga- 
 rum audiebatur, nisi haec, civis Romanus sum. Hac se commemoratione 
 civitatis, omnia verbera depulsurum a corpore arbitrabatur. Is non 
 modo hoc non perfecit, ut virgarum vim dcprecaretur, sed cum implora- 
 ret ssepius usurparetque nomen civis, crux, cruxinquam, infelici isto et 
 asrumnoso, qui nunquam, istam potestatem viderat,comparabatur. O no- 
 men dulce libertatis ! O jus eximium nostra? civitatis ! O lex Porcia, le- 
 gesque Sempronias ! — Huccine omnia tandem reciderunt, ut civis Ro- 
 manus, in provincia populi Romani, in oppido fcederatorum, ab eo qui 
 beneficio populi Romani fasces et secures haberet, delegatus, in foro, 
 virgis crederetuiv 5 * 
 
 rationem redif. Non patiamur igitur frigescere hoc opus ; et effectual, cum ad sum- 
 mum perduxerimus, relinquamus ; nee speremus fore, ut aliena mala quisquam diu 
 ploret." Qcinct. lib. 6. 
 
 * " In the midst of the market-place of Messina, a Roman citizen, O Judges ! was 
 cruelly scoured with rods ; when, in the mean time, amidst the noise of the blows 
 which he suffered, no voice, no complaint of this unhappy man was heard, except 
 this exclamation, Remember that I am a Roman citizen ! By pleading this privilege 
 of bis birthright, he hoped to have stopped the strokes of the executioner. But his 
 hopes were vain ; for so far was he from being able to obtain thereby any mitigation 
 of his torture, that when he continued to repeat this exclamation, and to plead the 
 rights of a citizen, a cross, a cross, I say, was preparing to be set up for the execu- 
 
IJEm. XXXII.j THE PATHETIC PART OF A DISCOURSE. i 335 
 
 Nothing can be finer, nor better conducted than this passage. The 
 circumstances are well chosen for exciting both the compassion of his 
 hearers for Gavius, and their indignation against Verres. The style 
 is simple : and the passionate exclamation, the address to liberty and the 
 laws, is well timed, and in the proper style of passion. The orator goes 
 on to exaggerate Verres's cruelty still farther, by another very striking 
 circumstance. He ordered a gibbet to be erected for Gavius, not in the 
 common place of execution, but just by the sea-shore, over against the 
 coast of Italy. " Let him," s:iid he, " who boasts so much of his being a 
 Roman citizen, take a view from his gibbet of his own country. — This 
 base insult over a dying man is the least part of his guilt. It was not Ga- 
 vius alone that Verres meant to insult ; but it was you, O Romans! it 
 was every citizen who now hears me ; in the person of Gavius, he scoffed 
 at your rights, and showed in what contempt he held the Roman name, 
 and Roman liberties." 
 
 Hitherto all is beautiful, animated, pathetic; and the model would 
 have been perfect, if Cicero had stopped at this point. But his redun- 
 dant and florid genius carried him farther. He must needs interest, not 
 his hearers only, but the beasts, the mountains, and the stones, against 
 Verres ; " Si hgec non ad cives Romanos, non ad amicos nostras civitatis, 
 non ad eos qui populi Romani nomen audissent ; denique si non ad homi- 
 nes, veruna ad bestias ; atque ut longius progrediar, si in aliqua desertis- 
 sima solitudine, adsaxaet ad scopulos haec conqueri et deplorare vellem, 
 tamen omnia muta atque inanima, tanta et tarn indigna rerum atrocitate 
 comrnoverentur."* This, with all the deference due to so eloquent an 
 orator, we must pronounce to be declamatory, not pathetic. This is 
 straining the language of passion too far. Every hearer sees this imme- 
 diately to be a studied figure of rhetoric ; it may amuse him, but in- 
 stead of inflaming him more, it, in truth, cools his passion. So danger- 
 ous it is to give scope to a flowery imagination, when one intends to 
 make a strong and passionate impression. 
 
 No other part of discourse remains now to be treated of, except the 
 peroration, or conclusion. Concerning this, it is needless to say much, 
 because it must vary considerably, according to the strain of the prece- 
 ding discourse. Sometimes, the whole pathetic part comes in most pro- 
 perly at the peroration. Sometimes, when the discourse has been en- 
 tirely argumentative, it is fit to conclude with summing up the arguments, 
 placing them in one view, and leaving the impression of them, full and 
 strong, on the mind of the audience. For the great rule of a conclu- 
 sion, and what nature obviously suggests, is, to place that last on which 
 we choose that the strength of our cause should rest. 
 
 In sermons, inferences from what has been said, make a common con- 
 
 tion of this unfortunate person, who never before had beheld that instrument of cruel 
 death. O sacred and honoured name of liberty ! boasted and revered privilege 
 of a Roman citizen ! O ye Porcian and Sempronian laws ! to this issue have ye all 
 come, that a citizen of Rome, in a province of the Roman empire, w ithin an allied 
 city, should publicly in a market-place, be loaded with chains, and beaten with rods, 
 at the command of one who, from the favour of the Roman people alone, derived 
 all his authority and ensigns of power !" 
 
 * " Were I employed in lamenting those instances of an atrocious oppression and 
 cruelty, not among an assembly of Roman citizens, not among the allies of our 
 state, not among those who had ever heard the name of the Roman people, not 
 even among human creatures, but in the midst of the brute creation ; and to go 
 farther, were I pouring forth my lamentations to the stones, and to the rocks, in 
 some remote and desert wilderness, even those mute and inanimate beings would- 
 at the recital of such shocking indignities, be thrown into commotion." 
 
326 PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY [LECT. XXXI1L 
 
 elusion. With regard to these, care should be taken not only that they 
 rise naturally, but, (what is less commonly attended to) that they should 
 so much agree with the strain of sentiment throughout the discourse, as 
 not to break the unity of the sermon. For inferences, how justly soever 
 they may be deduced from the doctrine of the text, yet have a bad 
 effect, if at the conclusion of a discourse, they introduce some subject 
 altogether new, and turn off our attention from the main object to which 
 the preacher had directed our thoughts. They appear, in this case, like 
 excrescences jutting out from the body, which had better have been 
 wanted ; and tend to enfeeble the impression which the composition, 
 as a whole, is calculated to make. 
 
 The most eloquent, of the French, perhaps, indeed, of all modern 
 orators, Bossuet, bishop of Meaux, terminates in a very moving manner, 
 his funeral oration on the great prince of Conde", with this return upon 
 himself, and his old age : " Accept, O prince ! these last efforts of a 
 voice which you once well knew. With you, all my funeral discourses 
 are now to end. Instead of deploring the death of others, henceforth, 
 it shall be my study to learn from you, how my own may be blessed. 
 Happy, if warned by those gray hairs, of the account which I must 
 soon give of my ministry, 1 reserve, solely, for that flock whom I ought 
 to feed with the word of life, the feeble remains of a voice which now 
 trembles, and of an ardour, which is now on the point of being extinct."* 
 
 In all discourses it is a matter of importance to hit the precise time 
 of concluding so as to bring our discourse just to a point; neither end- 
 ing abruptly and unexpectedly ; nor disappointing the expectation of 
 the hearers, when they look for our being done ; and continuing to hover 
 round and round the conclusion till they become heartily tired of us. 
 We should endeavour to go off with a good grace ; not to end with a 
 languishing and drawling sentence ; but to close with dignity and spirit, 
 that we may leave the minds of the hearers warm ; and dismiss them 
 with a favourable impression of the subject, and of the speaker. 
 
 LECTURE XXXIII. 
 
 PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY. 
 
 Having treated of several general heads relating to eloquence, or 
 public speaking, I now proceed to another very important part of the 
 subject yet remaining, that is, the pronunciation or delivery of a dis- 
 course. How much stress was laid upon this by the most eloquent of 
 all orators, Demosthenes, appears from a noted saying of his, related both 
 by Cicero and Quintilian ; when being asked what was the first point 
 
 * " Agreez ces derniers efforts d'une voix que vous fut connue. Vous mettrez fin 
 a tous ces discours. Au lieu de deplorer la mort des autres, Grand Prince ! dorena- 
 vant je veux apprendre de vous, arendre la inienne sainte. Heureux, si averti par 
 ces cheveux blancs, du compte que je dois rendre de mon administration, je reserve 
 au troupeau que je dois nourrir de la parole de vie, les restes d'une voix que tombe, 
 et d'une ardeur qui s'eteint." — These are the last sentences of that oration : but the 
 whole.of the peroration from that passage, " Venez, peuples, venez maintenant," fee* 
 though it is too long for insertion, is a great masterpiece of pathetic eloquence. 
 
LECT. XXXIiL] OF A DISCOURSE. 3^7 
 
 in oratory ? he answered, dilivery ; and being asked what was the 
 second ? and afterward, what was the third ? he still answered, deli- 
 very. There is no wonder, that he should have rated this so high, and 
 that for improving himself in it, he should have employed those assidu- 
 ous and painful labours, which all the ancients take so much notice of; 
 for, beyond doubt, nothing there is of more importance. To super- 
 ficial thinkers, the management of the voice and gesture, in public 
 speaking, may appear to relate to decoration only, and to be one of the 
 inferior arts of catching an audience. But this is far from being the 
 case. It is intimately connected with what is, or ought to be, the end 
 of all public speaking, persuasion ; and therefore deserves the study of 
 the most grave and serious speakers as much as of those, whose only 
 'aim it is to please. 
 
 For, let it be considered, whenever we address ourselves to others 
 by words, our intention certainly is to make some impression on those 
 to whom we speak : it is to convey to them our own ideas and emotions. 
 Now the tone of our voice, our looks and gestures, interpret our ideas 
 and emotions no less than words do ; nay, the impression they make on 
 others, is frequently much stronger than any that words can make, 
 We often see that an expressive look, or a passionate cry, unaccom- 
 panied by words, conveys to others more forcible ideas, and rouses 
 within them stronger passions, than can be communicated by the most 
 eloquent discourse. The signification of our sentiments, made by 
 tones and gestures, has this advantage above that made by words, that 
 it is the language of nature. It is that method of interpreting our 
 mind, which nature has dictated to all, and which is understood by all ; 
 whereas words are only arbitrary, conventional symbols of our ideas, 
 and, by consequence, must make a more feeble impression. So true 
 is this, that to render words fully significant, they must, almost in every 
 case, receive some aid from the manner of pronunciation and delivery ; 
 and he who, in speaking, should employ bare words, without enforcing 
 them by proper tones and accents, would leave us with a faint and in- 
 distinct impression, often with a doubtful and ambiguous conception, of 
 what he had delivered. Nay, so close is the connexion between cer- 
 tain sentiments and the proper manner of pronouncing them, that he 
 who does not pronounce them after that manner, can never persuade 
 us, that he believes, or feels, the sentiments themselves. His delivery 
 may be such, as to give the lie to all that he asserts. When Marcus 
 Callidus accused one of an attempt to poison him, but enforced his 
 accusation in a languid manner, and without any warmth or earnestness 
 of delivery, Cicero, who pleaded for the accused person, improved this 
 into an argument of the falsity of the charge, " An tu, M. Callidi, nisi 
 fingeres, sic ageres ?'•' In Shakspeare's Richard II. the Dutchess of 
 York thus impeaches the sincerity of her husband : 
 
 Pleads he in earnest ? — Look upon his face, 
 
 His eyes do drop no tears ; his prayers are jest ; 
 
 His words come from his mouth ; ours, from our breast ; 
 
 He prays but faintly, and would be denied ; 
 
 We pray with heart and soul. 
 
 But, I believe it is needless to say any more, in order to show the high 
 importance of a good delivery. 1 proceed, therefore, to such observa- 
 tions as appear to me most useful to be made on this head. 
 
 The great, object?- which every public speaker will naturally have 
 
328 PRONUNCIATION OR DELIVERY [LECT. XXXI1L 
 
 in his eye in forming his delivery, are, first, to speak so as to be fully 
 and easily understood by all who hear him : and next, to speak with 
 grace and force so as to please and move his audience. Let us consider 
 what is most important with respect to each of these. * 
 
 In order to be fully and easily understood, the four chief requisites 
 are, a due degree of loudness of voice ; distinctness ; slowness ; and pro- 
 priety of pronunciation. 
 
 The first attention of every public speaker, doubtless, must be to 
 make himself be heard by all those to whom he speaks. He must en- 
 deavour to fill with his voice the space occupied by the assembly. This 
 power of voice, it may be thought, is wholly a natural talent. It is 
 so in a good measure ; but, however, may receive considerable assist- 
 ance from art. Much depends for this purpose on the proper pitch, 
 and management of the voice. Every man has three pitches in his 
 voice ; the high, middle, and the low one. The high, is that which 
 he uses in calling aloud to some one at a distance. The low is, when 
 he approaches to a whisper. The middle is, that which he employs 
 in common conversation, and which he should generally use in public 
 discourse. For it is a great mistake to imagine that one must take the 
 highest pitch of his voice, in order to be well heard by a great assembly. 
 This is confounding two things which are different, loudness, or strength 
 of sound, with the key or note on which we speak. A speaker 
 may render his voice louder, without altering the key ; and we shall 
 always be able to give most body, most persevering force of sound, to 
 that pitch of voice, to which in conversation we are accustomed. 
 Whereas, by setting out on our highest pitch or key, we certainly allow 
 ourselves less compass, and are likely to strain our voice before we 
 have done. We shall fatigue ourselves, and speak with pain ; and 
 whenever a man speaks with pain to himself, he is always heard with 
 pain by his audience. Give the voice therefore full strength and swell 
 of sound ; but always pitch it on your ordinary speaking key. Make it 
 a constant rule never to utter a greater quantity of voice than you can 
 afford without pain to yourselves, and without any extraordinary effort. 
 As long as you keep within these bounds, the other organs of speech 
 will be at liberty to discharge their several offices with ease ; aud } r ou 
 will always have your voice under command. But whenever you 
 transgress these bounds, you give up the reins, and have no longer any 
 management of it. It is a useful rule too, in order to be well heard, 
 to fix our eye on some of the most distant persons in the assembly, and 
 to consider ourselves as speaking to them. We naturally and mechani- 
 cally utter our words with such a degree of strength, as to make ourselves 
 be heard by one to whom we address ourselves, provided he be within 
 the reach of our voice. As this is the case in common conversation, it 
 will hold also in public speaking. But remember, that in public as well 
 as in conversation, it is possible to offend by speaking too loud. This 
 extreme hurts the ear, by making the voice come upon it in rumbling, 
 indistinct masses ; besides its giving the speaker the disagreeable appear- 
 ance of one who endeavours to compel assent, by mere vehemence and 
 force of sound. 
 
 In the next place, to being well heard, and clearly understood, distinct- 
 
 * On this whole subject, Mr. Sheridan's Lectures on Elocution are very worthy 
 of being consulted ; and several hints are here taken from them. 
 
LEC1\ XXXIli] OP A DISCOURSE, 32$ 
 
 ness of articulation contributes more, perhaps, than mere loudness of 
 sound. The quantity of sound necessary to fill even a large space, is 
 smaller than is commonly imagined ; and with distinct articulation, a man 
 of a weak voice will make it reach farther, than the strongest voice can 
 reach without it. To this* therefore, every public speaker ought to pay 
 great attention. He must give every sound which he utters its due pro- 
 portion, and make every syllable, and even every letter in the word 
 which he pronounces, be heard distinctly ; without slurring, whispering, 
 or suppressing any of the proper sounds. 
 
 In the third place, in order to articulate distinctly, moderation is requi- 
 site with regard to the speed of pronouncing. Precipitancy of speech 
 confounds all articulation, and all meaning. I need scarcely observe, 
 that there may be also an extreme on the opposite side. It is obvious 
 that a lifeless, drawling pronunciation, which allows the minds of the 
 hearers to be always outrunning the speaker, must render every discourse 
 insipid and fatiguing. But the extreme of speaking too fast is much 
 more common, and requires the more to be guarded against, because, 
 when it has grown up into a habit, few errors are more difficult to be 
 corrected. To pronounce with a proper degree of slowness, and with 
 full and clear articulation, is the first thing to be studied by all who begin 
 to speak in public : and cannot be too much recommended to them. Such 
 a pronunciation gives weight and dignity to their discourse. It is a great 
 assistance to the voice, by the pauses and rests which it allows it more 
 easily to make ; and it enables the speaker to swell all his sounds both 
 with more force and more music. It assists him also in preserving a due 
 command of himself; whereas a rapid and hurried manner is apt to 
 excite that flutter of spirits, which is the greatest enemy to all right 
 execution in the way of oratory. " Promptum sit os," says Quintilian, 
 " non praeceps, moreratum, non lentum." 
 
 After these fundamental attentions to the pitch and management of the 
 voice, to distinct articulation, and to a proper degree of slowness of speech, 
 what a public speaker must, in the fourth place, study, is, propriety of 
 pronunciation ; or the giving to every word which he utters, that sound 
 which the most polite usage of the language appropriates to it ; in oppo- 
 sition to broad, vulgar, or provincial pronunciation. This is requisite, 
 both for speaking intelligibly, and for speaking with grace or beauty. 
 Instructions concerning this article, can be given by the living voice 
 only. But there is one observation, which it may not be improper here 
 to make. In the English language, every word which consists of more 
 syllables than one, has one accented syllable. The accent rests some- 
 times on the vowel, sometimes on the consonant. Seldom, or never, is 
 there more than one accented syllable in any English word, however 
 long ; and the genius of the language requires the voice to mark that 
 syllable by a stronger percussion, and to pass more slightly over the rest. 
 Now, having once learned the proper seats of these accents, it is an im- 
 portant rule to give every word just the same accent in public speaking, 
 as in common discourse. Many persons err in this respect. When they 
 speak in public, and with solemnity, they pronounce the syllables in a 
 different manner from what they do at other times. They dwell upon 
 them, and protract them ; they multiply accents on the same word : from 
 a mistaken notion, that it gives gravity and force to their discourse, and 
 adds to the pomp of public declamation. Whereas, this is one of the 
 greatest faults that can be committed iu pronunciation : it makes what is 
 
 T t 
 
330 PKOiYtiNCiATiOrs. OK ffiELlVE&f [LECT. XXXI1L 
 
 called, a theatrical or mouthing manner ; and gives an artificial affected 
 air to speech, which detracts greatly both from its agreeableness and its 
 impression. 
 
 I proceed to treat next of those higher parts of delivery, by studying 
 which, a speaker has something farther in view than merely to render 
 himself intelligible, and seeks to give grace and force to what be utters. 
 These may be comprised under four heads, emphasis, pauses, tones, 
 and gestures. Let me only premise, in general, to what I am to say 
 concerningthem, that attention to these articles of delivery is by no means 
 to be confined, as some might be apt to imagine, to the more elaborate 
 and pathetic parts of a discourse. There is, perhaps, as great attention 
 requisite, and as much skill displayed, in adapting emphasis, pauses, 
 tones, and gestures, properly to calm and plain speaking ; and the effect 
 of a just and graceful delivery will, in every part of a subject, be found 
 of high importance for commanding attention, and enforcing what is 
 spoken. 
 
 First, Let us consider emphasis ; by this, is meant a stronger and 
 fuller sound of voice, by which we distinguish the accented syllable of 
 some word, on which we design to lay particular stress, and to show how 
 it affects the rest of the sentence. Sometimes the emphatic word must 
 be distinguished by a particular tone of voice, as well as by a stronger 
 accent. On the right management of the emphasis, depend the whole 
 life and spirit of every discourse. If no emphasis be placed on any 
 words, not only is discourse rendered heavy and lifeless, but the 
 meaning left often ambiguous. If the emphasis be placed wrong, we 
 per /ert and confound the meaning wholly. To give a common instance ; 
 such a simple question as this : " Do you ride to town to-day ?" is ca- 
 pable of no fewer than four different acceptations, according as the em- 
 phasis is differently placed on the words. If it be pronounced thus : 
 Do you ride to town to-day ? the answer may naturally be, No ; I send 
 my servant in my stead. If thus ; Do you ride to town to-day ? Answer, 
 No ; I intend to walk. Do you ride to town to-day ? No ; I ride out into 
 the fields. Do you ride to town to-day ? No ; but I shall to-morrow. 
 In like manner, in solemn discourse, the whole force and beauty of an 
 expression often depend on the accented word ; and we may present to 
 the hearers quite different views of the same sentiment, by placing the 
 emphasis differently. In the following words of our Saviour, observe 
 in what different lights the thought is placed, according as the words are 
 pronounced, Judas, betrayest thou the Son of man with a kiss ?" betray- 
 est thou — makes the reproach turn on the infamy of treachery. Be- 
 trayest thou — makes it rest upon Judas's connexion with his master. 
 Betrayest thou the Son of man — rests it upon our Saviour's personal 
 character and eminence. Betrayest thou the Son of man with a kiss ? 
 turns it, upon his prostituting the signal of peace and friendship, to the 
 purpose of a mark of destruction. 
 
 In order to acquire the proper management of the emphasis, the great 
 rule, and indeed the only rule possible to be given is, that the speaker study 
 to attain a just conception of the force and spirit of those sentiments 
 which he is to pronounce. For to lay the emphasis with exact propri- 
 ety, is a constant exercise of good sense and attention. It is far from 
 being an inconsiderable attainment. It is one of the greatest trials of 
 a true and just taste ; and must arise from feeling delicately ourselves, 
 and from judging accurately, of what is fittest to strike the feelings of 
 others. There is as great a clifference between a chapter of the Bible. 
 
TJECT. XXXIIL] OF A DISCOURSE; 33I 
 
 or any other piece of plain prose, read by one who places the several 
 emphases every where with taste and judgment, and by one who neglects 
 or mistakes them, as there is between the same tune played by the most 
 masterly hand, or by the most bungling performer. 
 
 In all prepared discourses, it would be of great use, if they were read 
 over or rehearsed in private, with this particular view, to search for the 
 proper emphasis before they were pronounced in public ; marking, at 
 the same time, with a pen, the emphatical words in every sentence, or at 
 least in the most weighty and affecting parts of the discourse, and fixing 
 them well in memory. Were this attention oilener bestowed, were this 
 part of pronunciation studied with more exactness, and not left to the 
 moment of delivery, as is commonly done, public speakers would find 
 their care abundantly repaid, by the remarkable effects which it would 
 produce upon their audience. Let me caution, at the same time, against 
 one error, that of multiplying emphatical words too much. It is only by 
 a prudent reserve in the use of them, that we can give them any weight. 
 If they recur too often ; if a speaker attempts to render every thing 
 which he says of high importance, by a multitude of strong emphases, 
 we soon learn to pay little regard to them. To crowd every sentence 
 with emphatical words, is like crowding all the pages of a book with 
 italic characters, which, as to the effect, is just the same with using no 
 distinctions at all. 
 
 Next to emphasis, the pauses in speaking demand attention. These 
 are of two kinds ; first, emphatical pauses ; and next, such as mark the 
 distinctions of sense. An emphatical pause is made, after something 
 has been said of peculiar moment, and on which we want to fix the 
 hearer's attention. Sometimes, before such a thing is said, we usher it 
 in with a pause of this nature. Such pauses have the same effect, as a 
 strong emphasis, and are subject to the same rules ; especially to the 
 caution just now given, of not repeating them too frequently. For as 
 they excite uncommon attention, and of course raise expectation, if the 
 importance of the matter be not fully answerable to such expectation, 
 they occasion disappointment and disgust. 
 
 But the most frequent and the principal use of pauses, is to mark the 
 divisions of the sense, and at the same time to allow the speaker to draw 
 his breath ; and the proper and graceful adjustment of such pauses, is 
 one of the most nice and difficult articles in delivery. In all public 
 speaking the management of the breath requires a good deal of care, so 
 as not to be obliged to divide words from one another, which have so 
 intimate a connexion that they ought to be pronounced with the same 
 breath and without the least separation. Many a sentence is miserably 
 mangled, and the force of the emphasis totally lost, by divisions being 
 made in the wrong place. To avoid this, every one while he is speak- 
 ing, should be very careful to provide a full supply of breath for what 
 he is to utter. It is a great mistake to imagine, that the breath must be 
 drawn, only at the end of a period, when the voice is allowed to fall. 
 It may easily be gathered at the intervals of the period, when the voice 
 is only suspended for a moment ; and by this management, one may 
 have always a sufficient stock for carrying on the longest sentence, with- 
 out improper interruptions. 
 
 If any one, in public speaking, shall have formed to himself a cer- 
 tain melody or tone, which requires rest and pauses of its own, distinct 
 from those of the sense, he has, undoubtedly, contracted one of the 
 
332 PftONIJNCl^TieflSi, OR f)HLWEHt [LECT. XXXItf- 
 
 worst habits into which a public speaker can fall. It is the sense which 
 should always rule the pauses of the voice ; for wherever there is any 
 sensible suspension of the voice, the hearer is always led to expect 
 somewhat corresponding in the meaning. Pauses in public discourse, 
 must be formed upon the manner in which we utter ourselves in ordi- 
 nary, sensible conversation ; and not upon the stiff, artificial manner 
 which we acquire, from reading books according to the common punc-* 
 illation. The general run of punctuation is very arbitrary ; often capri- 
 cious and false ; and dictates a uniformity of tone in the pauses, which 
 is extremely disagreeable ; for we are to observe, that to render pauses 
 graceful and expressive, they must not only be made in the right place, 
 but also be accompanied with a proper tone of voice, by which the 
 nature of these pauses is intimated ; much more than by the length of 
 them, which can never be exactly measured. Sometimes, it is only a 
 slight and simple suspension of voice that is proper ; sometimes a 
 degree of cadence in the voice is required ; and sometimes that peculiar 
 tone and cadence, which denotes the sentence finished. In all these 
 cases, we are to regulate ourselves, by attending to the manner in which 
 nature teaches us to speak, when engaged in real and earnest discourse 
 with others. 
 
 When we are reading or reciting verse, there is a peculiar difficulty 
 In making the pauses justly. The difficulty arises from the melody of 
 verse, which dictates to the ear pauses or rests of its own, and to adjust 
 and compound these properly with the pauses of the sense, so as neither 
 to hurt the ear, nor offend the understanding, is so very nice a matter, 
 that it is no wonder we so seldom meet with good readers of poetry. 
 There are two kinds of pauses that belong to the music of verse ; one 
 is, the pause at the end of the line ; and the other, the caesural pause 
 in the middle of it. With regard to the pause at the end of the line, 
 which marks that strain or verse to be finished, rhyme renders this 
 always sensible, and in some measure compels us to observe it in our 
 pronunciation. In blank verse, where there is a greater liberty per- 
 mitted of running the lines into one another, sometimes without any 
 suspension in the sense, it has been made a question, whether in read- 
 ing such verse with propriety, any regard at all should be paid to the 
 close of a line ? On the stage, where the appearance of speaking in 
 verse should always be avoided, there can, I think, he no doubt, that 
 the close of such lines as make no pause in the sense, should not be 
 rendered perceptible to the ear. But on other occasions, this were 
 improper : for what is the use of melody, or for what end has the poet 
 composed in verse, if in reading his lines, we suppress his numbers : 
 and degrade them, by our pronunciation, into mere prose ? We ought, 
 therefore, certainly to read blank verse so as to make every line sensi- 
 ble to the ear. At the same time, in doing so, every appearance of 
 sing-song and tone must be carefully guarded against. The close of the 
 line, where it makes no pause in the meaning, ought to be marked* not 
 by snch atone as is used in finishing a sentence : but without either let- 
 ting the voice fall, or elevating it, it should be marked only by such a 
 slight suspension of sound, as may distinguish the passage from one line 
 to another, without injuring the meaning. 
 
 The other kind of musical pause, is that which falls somewhere 
 about the middle of the verse, and divides it into two hemistichs ; a 
 pause, not so great as that which belongs to the close of the Irne, but 
 
LEeT. XXXHL] OF A DISCOURSE: 333 
 
 still sensible to an ordinary ear. This, which is called the coesural 
 pause, in the French heroic verse, falls uniformly in the middle of the 
 line. In the English, it may fall after the 4th, 5th, 6lh, or 7th sylla- 
 bles in the line, and no other. Where the verse is so constructed, that 
 this caesural pause coincides with the slightest pause or division in the 
 sense, the line can be read easily ; as in the two first vers es of Mr. 
 Pope's Messiah, 
 
 Ye nymphs of Solyma ! begin the song ; 
 To heavenly themes, sublimer strains belong. 
 
 But if it should happen that words, which have such a strict and inti- 
 mate connexion, as not to bear even a momentary separation, are di- 
 vided from one another by this caesural pause, we then feel a sort of 
 struggle between the sense and the sound, which renders it difficult to 
 read such lines gracefully. The rule of proper pronunciation in such 
 cases is, to regard only the pause which the sense forms ; and to read 
 the line accordingly. The neglect of the caesural pause, may make the 
 lines sound somewhat unharmoniously : but the effect would be much 
 worse, if the sense were sacrificed to the sound. For instance, in the 
 following line of Milton, 
 
 -What in me is dark, 
 
 Illumine ; what is low, raise and support. 
 
 The sense clearly dictates the pause after " illumine," at the end of 
 the third syllable, which, in reading, ought to be made accordingly : 
 though, if the melody only were to be regarded, " illumine" should be 
 connected with what follows, and the pause not made till the fourth or 
 sixth syllable. So, in the following line of Mr. Pope's (Epistle to Dr. 
 Arbuthnot:) 
 
 I sit, with sad civility I read — 
 The ear plainly points out the caesural pause as falling after " sad,'* 
 the 4th syllable. But it would be very bad reading to make any pause 
 there, so as to separate " sad" and " civility." The sense admits of no 
 other pause than after the second syllable " sit," which therefore must 
 be the only pause made in the reading. 
 
 I proceed to treat next of tones in pronunciation, which are different 
 both from emphasis and pauses ; consisting in the modulation of the 
 voice, the notes or variations of sound which we employ in public speak- 
 ing. How much of the propriety, the force and grace of discourse, 
 must depend on these, will appear from this single consideration ; that 
 to almost every sentiment we utter, more especially to every strong emo- 
 tion, nature hath adapted some peculiar tone of voice ; insomuch, that 
 he who should tell another that he was very angry, or much grieved, 
 in a tone which did not suit such emotions, instead of being believed, 
 would be laughed at. Sympathy is one of the most powerful principles 
 by which persuasive discourse works its effect. The speaker endea- 
 vours to transfuse into his hearers his own sentiments and emotions ; 
 which he can never be successful in doing, unless he utters them in 
 such a manner as to convince the hearers that he feels them.* The 
 
 * * All that passes in the mind of man may be reduced to two classes, which I 
 call ideas and emotions. By ideas, I mean all thoughts which rise and pass in suc- 
 cession in the mind. By emotions, all exertions of the mind in arranging, combining^ 
 and separating its ideas ; as well as all the effects produced on the nrind itself by those 
 
334 PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY [LECT. XXXIII, 
 
 proper expression of tones, therefore, deserves to be attentively studied 
 by every one who would be a successful orator. 
 
 The greatest and most material instruction which can be given for 
 this purpose is, to form tone* of public speaking upon the tones of sensi- 
 ble and animated conversation. We may observe that every man, when 
 he is much in earnest in common discourse, when he is engaged in speak- 
 ing on some subject which interests him nearly, has an eloquent or 
 persuasive tone and manner. What is the reason of our being often so 
 frigid and unpersuasive in public discourse, but our departing from the 
 natural tone of speaking, and delivering ourselves in an affected artificial 
 manner ? Nothing can be more absurd than to imagine, that as soon as 
 one mounts a pulpit, or rises in a public assembly, he is instantly to lay 
 aside the voice with which he expresses himself in private ; to assume a 
 new, studied tone, and cadence altogether foreign to his natural manner, 
 This has vitiated all delivery ; this has given rise to cant and tedious 
 monotony, in the different kinds of modern public speaking, especially in 
 the pulpit. Men departed from nature ; and sought to give a beauty or 
 force, as they imagined, to their discourse, by substituting certain studied 
 musical tones, in the room of the genuine expressions of sentiment, 
 which the voice carries in natural discourse. Let every public speaker 
 guard against this error. Whether he speak in a private room, or in a 
 great assembly, let him remember that he still speaks. Follow nature : 
 consider how she teaches you to utter any sentiment or feeling of your 
 heart. Imagine a subject of debate started in conversation among grave 
 and wise men, and yourself bearing a share in it. Think after what man- 
 ner, with what tones and inflexions of voice, you would on such an 
 occasion express yourself, when you were most in earnest, and sought 
 most to be listened to. Carry these with you to the bar, to the pulpit, 
 or to any public assembijr : let these be the foundation of your manner 
 of pronouncing there ; and you will take the surest method of rendering 
 your delivery both agreeable and persuasive. 
 
 1 have said, let these conversation tone? be the foundation of public 
 pronunciation ; for, on some occasions, solemn public speaking requires 
 them to be exalted beyond the strain of common discourse. In a formal 
 studied oration, the elevation of the style, and the harmony of the sen- 
 tences, prompt, almost necessarily, a modulation of voice more rounded, 
 and bordering more upon music, than conversation admits. This gives 
 rise to what is called the declaiming manner. But though this mode of 
 pronunciation runs considerably beyond ordinary discourse, yet still it 
 must have for its basis, the natural tones of grave and dignified conver- 
 sation. I must observe, at the same time, that the constant indulgence of 
 a declamatory manner, is not favourable either to good composition, or 
 good delivery ; and is in hazard of betraying public speakers into that 
 monotony of tone and cadence, which is so generally complained of. 
 Whereas, he who forms the general run of his delivery upon a speaking 
 manner, is not likely ever to become disagreeable through monotony. 
 He will have the same natural variety in his tones, which a person has in 
 
 ideas from the more violent agitation of the passions, to the calmer feelings preduced 
 by the operation of the intellect and the fancy. In short, thought is the object of the 
 one, internal feeling of the other. That which serves to express the former, I call 
 the language of ideas ; and the latter, the language of emotions. Words are the 
 signs of theone, tones of the other. Without the use of these two sorts of language, 
 it is impossible *o communicate through the ear all tlyU passes in the mind of man.'" 
 
 Shfktpaiv on the Art, of Reading. 
 
le<-;t. xxxui.j of a DiricouKsL. 33^ 
 
 conversation. Indeed the perfection of delivery requires both these 
 different manners, that of speaking with liveliness and ease, and that of 
 declaiming with stateliness and dignity to be possessed by one man ; and 
 to be employed by him, according as the different parts of his discourse 
 require either the one or the other. This is a perfection which not many 
 attain ; the greatest part of public speakers allowing their delivery to be 
 formed together accidentally ;. according as some turn of voice appears 
 to them most beautiful, or some artificial model has caught their fancy ; 
 and acquiring, by this means, a habit of pronunciation, which they can 
 never vary. But the capital direction, which ought never to be forgotten, 
 is, to copy the proper tones for expressing every sentiment from those 
 which nature dictates to us, in conversation with others ; to speak always 
 with her voice ; and not to form to ourselves a fantastic public manner^ 
 from an absurd fancy of its being more beautiful than a natural one.* 
 
 It now remains to treat of gesture, or what is called action in public 
 discourse. Some nations animate their words in common. conversation, 
 with many more motions of the body than others do- The French and 
 the Italians are, in this respect, much more sprightly than we. But there 
 is no nation, hardly any person, so phlegmatic, as not to accompany their 
 words with some actions and gesticulations, on all occasions, when they 
 are much in earnest. It is therefore unnatural in a public speaker, it is 
 inconsistent with that earnestness and seriousness which he ought to 
 show in all affairs of moment, to remain quite unmoved in his outward 
 appearance ; and to let the words drop from his mouth, without any ex- 
 pression of meaning, or warmth in his gesture. 
 
 The fundamental rule, as to propriety of action, is undoubtedly the 
 same with what I gave as to propriety of tone. Attend to the looks 
 and gestures, in which earnestness, indignation, compassion, or any other 
 emotion, discovers itself to most advantage in the common intercourse 
 of men ; and let these be your model. Some of these looks and ges- 
 tures are common to all men ; and there are also certain peculiarities 
 of manner which distinguish every individual. A public speaker must 
 take that manner which is most natural to himself. For it is here just 
 as in tones. It is not the business of a speaker to form to himself a 
 certain set of motions and gestures, which he thinks most becoming and 
 agreeable, and to practise these in public, without their having any cor- 
 respondence to the manner which is natural to him in private. His 
 gestures and motions ought all to carry that kind of expression which 
 nature has dictated to him ; and, unless this be the case, it is impossible, 
 by means of any study, to avoid their appearing stiff and forced. 
 
 However, although nature must be the groundwork, I admit, that 
 there is room in this matter for some study and art. For many persons 
 are naturally ungraceful in the motions which they make ; and this un- 
 gracefulness might, in part at least, be reformed by application and 
 care. The study of action in public speaking, consists chiefly in guard- 
 ing against awkward and disagreeable motions, and in learning to per- 
 
 * " Loquere," (says an author of the last century, who has written a treatise in 
 verse, de Gestu et Voce Oratoris,) 
 
 " Loquere ; hoc vitium commune, loquatur 
 
 Ut nemo ; at tens&declamitet omnia voce. 
 Tu loquere, ut mos est hominum ; boat et latrat ille ; 
 Ille ululat ; rudit hie : (fari si talia dignum est) 
 Non hominem vox ulla sonat ratione ioquentem." 
 
 Joannes Lucas, de Gestu et Voce, Lib. ii. Paris, 1675. 
 
$gg PBONUNCiATION, OR DELIVERY £LECT. XXXLIL 
 
 from such as are natural to the speaker, in the most becoming manner. 
 For this end, it has been advised by writers on this subject, to practise 
 before a mirror, where one may see and judge of his own gestures. But 
 I am afraid, persons are not always the best judges of the gracefulness of 
 their own motions ; and one may declaim long enough before a mirror, 
 without correcting any of his faults. The judgment of a friend, whose 
 good taste they can trust, will be found of much greater advantage to 
 beginners, than any mirror they can use. With regard to particular rules 
 concerning action and gesticulation, Quintilian has delivered a great many, 
 in the last chapter of the 1 1th book of his institutions ; and all the modern 
 writers on this subject have done little else but translate them. I am not 
 of opinion that such rules, delivered either by the voice or on paper, can 
 be of much use, unless persons saw them exemplified before their eyes.* 
 
 1 shall only add further on this head, that in order to succeed well in 
 delivery, nothing is more necessary than for a speaker to guard against 
 a certain flutter of spirits, which is peculiarly incident to those who 
 begin to speak in public. He must endeavour above all things to be 
 recollected and master of himself. For this end, he will find nothing of 
 more use to him, than to study to become wholly engaged in his subject ; 
 to be possessed with a sense of its importance or seriousness ; to be 
 concerned much more to persuade, than to please. He will generally 
 please most, when pleasing is not his sole nor chief aim. This is the 
 only rational and proper method of raising one's self above that timid 
 and bashful regard to an audience, which is so ready to disconcert a 
 speaker both as to what he is to say, and as to his manner of saying it. 
 
 I cannot conclude, without an earnest admonition to guard against all 
 affectation, which is the certain ruin of good delivery. Let your man- 
 ner, whatever it is, be your own ; neither imitated from another, nor 
 assumed upon some imaginary model, which is unnatural to you. What- 
 ever is native, even though accompanied with several defects, yet is 
 likely to please ; because it shows us a man ; because it has the 
 appearance of coming from the heart. Whereas, a delivery, attended 
 with several acquired graces and beauties, if it be not easy and free, if 
 it betray the marks of art and affectation, never fails to disgust. To 
 
 * The few following hints only I shall adventure to throw out, in case they may 
 be of any service. When speaking in public, one should study to preserve as much 
 dignity as possible in the whole attitude of the body. An erect posture is generally 
 lo be chosen ; standing firm, so as to have the fullest and freest command of all his 
 motions; any inclination which is used should be forwards towards the hearers, 
 which is a natural expression of earnestness. As for the countenance, the chief 
 rule is, that it should correspond with the nature of the discourse, and when no 
 particular emotion is expressed, a serious and manly look is always the best. The 
 eyes should never be fixed close on any one object, but move easily round the au- 
 dience. In the motions made with the hands, consists the chief part of gesture in 
 speaking. The ancients condemned all motions performed by the left hand alone ; 
 but I am not sensible that these are always offensive, though it is natural for the 
 right hand to be more frequently employed. Warm emotions demand the motion 
 of both hands corresponding together. But whether one gesticulates with one or 
 with both hands, it is an important rule, that all his motions should be free and easy. 
 Karrow and straitened movements are generally ungraceful ; for which reason, 
 motions made with the hands are directed to proceed from the shoulder rather 
 than from the elbow. Perpendicular movements too with the hands, that is, in 
 the straight line up and down, which Shakspeare in Hamlet, calls lt sawing the air 
 with the hand," are seldom good. Oblique motions are, in general, the most 
 graceful. Too sudden and nimble motions should be likewise avoided. Earnest- 
 ness can be fully expressed without them. Shakspeare's directions on this head are 
 full of good sense ; * use all gently," says he, il and in the very torrent and tempest 
 of passion- acquire ateajoerance that roav srive it smoothness." 
 
LECT. XXXIV.] MEANS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. 337 
 
 attain any extremely correct, and perfectly graceful delivery, is what 
 few can expect ; so many natural talents being requisite to concur in 
 forming it. But to attain, what as to the effect i6 very little inferior, a 
 forcible and persuasive manner, is within the power of most persons ; 
 if they will only unlearn false and corrupt habits ; if they will allow 
 themselves to follow nature, and will speak in public as they do in pri- 
 vate, when they speak in earnest, and from the heart. If one has natu- 
 rally any gross defects in his voice or gestures, he begins at the 
 wrong end, if he attempts at reforming them only when he is to speak in 
 public. He should begin with rectifying them in his private manner 
 of speaking ; and then carry to the public the right habit he has formed, 
 For when a speaker is engaged in a public discourse, he should not be 
 then employing his attention about his manner, or thinking of his 
 tones and his gestures. If he be so employed, study and affectation 
 will appear. He ought to be then quite in earnest ; wholly occu- 
 pied with his subject and his sentiments ; leaving nature, and pre- 
 viously formed habits, to prompt and suggest his manner of delivery. 
 
 LECURE XXXIV 
 
 MEANS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE, 
 
 I have now treated fully of the different kinds of public speaking, 
 of the composition, and of the delivery of a discourse. Before finish- 
 ing this subject, it may be of use, that I suggest some things con- 
 cerning the properest means of improvement in the art of public 
 speaking, and the most necessary studies for that purpose. 
 
 To be an eloquent speaker, in the proper sense of the word, is 
 far from beiDg either a common or an easy attainment. Indeed, to 
 compose a florid harangue on some popular topic, and to deliver it so as 
 to amuse an audience, is a matter not very difficult. But though some 
 praise be due to this, yet the idea, which I have endeavoured to give of 
 eloquence, is much higher. It is a great exertion of the human powers. 
 It is the art of being persuasive and commanding ; the art, not of pleas- 
 ing the fancy merely, but of speaking both to the understanding and to 
 the heart ; of interesting the hearers in such a degree, as to seize and 
 carry them along with us ; and to leave th£m with a deep and strong 
 impression of what they have heard. How many talents, natural and 
 acquired, must concur for carrying this to perfection ? A strong, lively, 
 and warm imagination ; quick sensibility of heart, joined with solid 
 judgment, good sense, and presence of mind ; all improved by great 
 and long attention to style and composition ; and supported also by the 
 exterior, yet important qualifications of a graceful manner, a presence 
 not ungainly , and a full and tunable voice. How little reason to wonder, 
 that a perfect and accomplished orator, should be one of the characters 
 that is most rarely to be found ? 
 
 Let us not despair, however. Between mediocrity and perfection 
 there is a very wide interval. There are many intermediate spaces* 
 whish mav be filled up with honour ; and the mof e rare and difficult that 
 
 « 
 
33S MEANS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. [LEGT. XXXIV. 
 
 complete perfection is, the greater is the honour of approaching to it, 
 though we do not fully attain it. The number of orators who stand in 
 the highest class is, perhaps, smaller than the number of poets who are 
 foremost in poetic fame ; but the study of oratory has this advantage 
 above that of poetry, that, in poetry, one must be an eminently good per- 
 former, or he is not supportable : 
 
 Mediocribus esse Poetis 
 
 Non homines, non Di, non concessere columnse." 
 
 In eloquence this does not hold. There, one may possess a moderate 
 station with dignity. Eloquence admits of a great many different forms ; 
 plain and simple, as well as high and pathetic ; and a genius that cannot 
 reach the latter, may shine with much reputation and usefulness in the 
 former. 
 
 Whether nature or art contribute most to form an orator, is a trifling 
 inquiry. In all attainments whatever, nature must be the prime agent. 
 She must bestow the original talents. She must sow the seeds ; but 
 culture is requisite for bringing these seeds to perfection. Nature must 
 alwa} r s have done somewhat ; but a great deal will always be left to be 
 done by art. This is certain, that study and discipline are more neces- 
 sary for the improvement of natural genius, in oratory, than they are in 
 poetry. What I mean is, that though poetry be capable of receiving as- 
 sistance from critical art, yet a poet, without any aid from art, by the 
 force of genius alone, can rise higher than a public speaker can do, who 
 has never given attention to the rules of style, composition, and delivery. 
 Homer formed himself; Demosthenes and Cicero were formed by the 
 help of much labour, and of many assistances derived from the labour 
 of others. After these preliminary observations, let us proceed to the 
 main design of this lecture ; to consider of the means to be used for 
 improvement in eloquence. 
 
 In the first place, what stands highest in the order of means, is per- 
 sonal character and disposition. In order to be a truly eloquent or per- 
 suasive speaker, nothing is more necessary than to be a virtuous man. 
 This was a favourite position among the ancient rhetoricians : " Non 
 posse oratorem esse nisi virum bonum." To find any such connexion 
 between virtue and one of the highest liberal arts, must give pleasure ; 
 and it can, I think, be clearly shown, that this is not a mere topic of de- 
 clamation, but that the connexion here alleged, is undoubtedly founded 
 in truth and reason. 
 
 For, consider first, whether any thing contributes more to persuasion, 
 than the opinion which we entertain of the probity, disinterestedness, 
 candour, and other good meral qualities of the person who endeavours 
 to persuade ? These give weight and force to every thing which he 
 utters ; nay, they add a beauty to it ; they dispose us to listen with atten- 
 tion and pleasure ; and create a secret partiality in favour of that side 
 which he espouses. Whereas, if we entertain a suspicion of craft and 
 disingenuity, of a corrupt, or a base mind, in the speaker, his eloquence 
 loses all its real effect. It may entertain and amuse ; but it is viewed 
 as artifice, as trick, as the play only of speech ; and viewed in this 
 light, whom can it persuade ? We even read a book with more 
 pleasure, when we think favourably of its author ; but when we have 
 
 * For God and man, and letter'd post denies, 
 
 Th'at Poets ever are of middling stee. Ffancib. 
 
LECT. XXXIV] MEANS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. 339 
 
 the living speaker before our eyes, addressing us personally on some 
 subject of importance, the opinion we entertain of his character must 
 have a much more powerful effect. 
 
 But, lest it should be said, that this relates only to the character of 
 virtue, which one may maintain, without being at the bottom a truly 
 worthy man, I must observe farther, that besides the weight which it 
 adds to character, real virtue operates also, in other ways, to the advan- 
 tage of eloquence. 
 
 First, nothing is so favourable as virtue to the prosecution of honour- 
 able studies. It prompts a generous emulation to excel ; it inures to 
 industry ; it leaves the mind vacant and free, master of itself, disencum- 
 bered of those bad passions, and disengaged from those mean pursuits, 
 which have ever been found the greatest enemies to true proficiency. 
 
 Quintilian has touched this consideration very properly ; " Quod si 
 agrorum niraia cura, et sollicitior rei familiaris diligentia, et venandi vo- 
 luptas, et dati spectaculis dies, multum studiis auferunt, quid putamus 
 facturas cupiditatem, avaritiam, invidiam ? Nihil enim est tam occupatum, 
 tam multiforme, tot ac tam variis affectibus concisum, atque laceratum, 
 quam mala ac improba mens. Quis inter haec, literis, aut ulli bonae 
 arti, locus ? Non hercle magis quam frugibus, in terra sentibus ac rubis 
 occupata ?"* 
 
 But, besides this consideration, there is another of still higher im- 
 portance, though I am not sure of its being attended to as much as it 
 deserves ; namely, that from the fountain of real and genuine virtue, 
 are drawn those sentiments which will ever be most powerful in affect- 
 ing the hearts of others. Bad as the world is, nothing has so great and 
 universal a command over the minds of men as virtue. No kind of lan- 
 guage is so generally understood, and so powerfully felt, as the native 
 language of worthy and virtuous feelings. He only, therefore, who 
 possesses these full and strong, can speak properly, and in its own lan- 
 guage, to the heart. On all great subjects and occasions, there is a 
 dignity, there is an energy in noble sentiments, which is overcoming and 
 irresistible. They give an ardour and a flame to one's discourse, which 
 seldom fails to kindle a like flame in those who hear ; and which, more 
 than any other cause, bestows on eloquence that power, for which it is 
 famed, of seizing and transporting an audience. Here, art and imita- 
 tion will never avail. An assumed character conveys nothing of this 
 powerful warmth. It is only a native and unaffected glow of feeling, 
 which can transmit the emotion to others. Hence, the most renowned 
 orators, such as Cicero and Demosthenes, were no less distinguished 
 for some of the high virtues, as public spirit and zeal for their country, 
 than for eloquence. Beyond doubt, to these virtues their eloquence 
 owed much of its effect ; and those orations of theirs, in which there 
 breathes most of the virtuous and magnanimous spirit, are those which 
 have most attracted the admiration of ages. 
 
 * V If the management of an estate, if anxious attention to domestic economy, a 
 passion for hunting, or whole days given up to public places of amusements, consume 
 so much time that is due to study,how much greater waste must be occasioned by 
 licentious desires, avarice, or envy ? Nothing is so much hurried and agitated, so 
 contradictory to itself, or so violently torn and shattered by conflicting passions, as 
 a bad heart, \midst the distractions which it produces, what room is left for the 
 cultivation of letters, or the pursuit of any honourable art ? No more, assuredly, than 
 there is for the growth of corn in a field that is overrun with fhornsand brambtest" 
 
^40 ME ASS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. [LEO*. XXXLV. 
 
 Nothing, therefore, is more necessary for those who would excel in 
 any of the higher kinds of oratory, than to cultivate habits of the seve- 
 ral virtues, and to refine and improve all their moral feelings. Whenever 
 these become dead, or callous, they may be assured, that, on every great 
 occasion, they will speak with less power, and less success. The sen- 
 timents and dispositions, particularly requisite for them to cultivate, are 
 the following : The love of justice and order, and indignation at inso- 
 lence and oppression ; the love of honesty and truth, and detestation of 
 fraud, meanness, and corruption ; magnanimity of spirit; the love of 
 liberty, of their country, and the public ; zeal for all great and noble 
 designs, and reverence for all worthy and heroic characters. A cold 
 and sceptical turn of mind, is extremely adverse to eloquence ; and no 
 less so, is that cavilling disposition which takes pleasure in depreciating 
 what is great, and ridiculing what is generally admired. Such a disposi- 
 tion bespeaks one not very likely to excel in any thing : but least of all 
 in oratory. A true orator should be a person of generous sentiments, 
 of warm feelings, and of a mind turned towards the admiration of all 
 those great and high objects, which mankind are naturally formed to 
 admire. Joined with the manly virtues, he should, at the same time^ 
 possess strong and tender sensibilhy to all the injuries, distresses, and 
 sorrows of his fellow-creatures : a heart that can easily relent ; that 
 can readily enter into the circumstances of others, and can make their case 
 his own. A proper mixture of courage, and of modesty, must also be 
 studied by every public speaker. JModesty is essential ; it is always and 
 justly supposed to be a concomitant of merit ; and every appearance of 
 it is winning and prepossessing. But modesty ought not to run into ex- 
 cessive timidity. Every public speaker should be able to rest some- 
 what on himself, and to assume that air, not of self-complacency, but 
 of firmness, which bespeaks a consciousness of his being thoroughly 
 persuaded of the truth or justice of what he delivers ; a circumstance 
 of no small consequence for making an impression on those who hear. 
 
 Next to moral qualifications, what in the second place, is most neces- 
 sary to an orator, is a fund of knowledge. Much is this inculcated by 
 Cicero and Qiiintilian : " Quod omnibus, disciplinis et artibus debet esse 
 instructus orator." By which they mean, that he ought to have what 
 we call a liberal education ; and to be formed by a regular study of 
 philosophy, and the polite arts. We must never forget, that 
 
 Scribendi recte, sapere est et principium et fons. 
 
 Good sense and knowledge are the foundation of all good speaking, 
 There is no art that can teach one to be eloquent, in any sphere, with- 
 out a sufficient acquaintance with what belongs to that sphere, or if there 
 were any art that made such pretensions, it would be mere quackery, 
 like the pretensions of the sophists of old, to teach their disciples to 
 speak for and against every subject ; and would be deservedly exploded 
 by all wise men. Attention to style, to composition, and all the arts of 
 speech, can only assist an orator in setting off to advantage the stock 
 of materials which he possesses ; but the stock, the materials themselves, 
 must be brought from other quarters than from rhetoric. He who is to 
 plead at the bar, must make himself thoroughly master of the know- 
 ledge of tlie law ; of the learning and experience that can be useful 
 in his profession, for supporting a cause or convincing a judge. He who 
 is to speak from the pulpit, must apply himself closely to the study of 
 
LECT. XXXIV.] MEANS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE 34 1 
 
 divinity, of practical religion, of morals, of human nature ; that he may- 
 be rich in all the topics, both of instruction and persuasion. He who 
 would fit himself for being a member of the supreme council of the 
 nation, or of any public assembly, must be thoroughly acquainted with 
 the business that belongs to such assembly ; he must study the forms of 
 court, the course of procedure ; and must attend minutely to all the facts 
 that may be the subject of question or deliberation. 
 
 Besides the knowledge that properly belongs to that profession to which 
 he addicts himself, a public speaker, if ever he expects to be eminent, 
 must make himself acquainted, as far as his necessary occupations allow, 
 with the general circle of polite literature. The study of poetry may be 
 useful to him, on many occasions, for embellishing his style, for suggest- 
 ing lively images, or agreeable allusions. The study of history may be 
 still more useful to him ; as the knowledge of facts, of eminent charac- 
 ters, and of the course of human affairs, finds place on many occasions.* 
 There are few great occasions of public speaking, in which one may not 
 derive assistance from cultivated taste, and extensive knowledge. They 
 will often yield him materials for proper ornameot ; sometimes for argu- 
 ment and real use. A deficiency of knowledge, even in subjects that 
 belong not directly to his own profession, will expose him to many 
 disadvantages, and give better qualified rivals a great superiority over 
 him. 
 
 Allow me to recommend, in the third place, not only the attainment 
 of useful knowledge, but a habit of application and industry. Without 
 this, it is impossible to excel in any thing. We must not imagine, that it 
 is by a sort of mushroom growth, that one can rise to be a distinguished 
 pleader, or preacher, or speaker in any assembly. It is not by starts of 
 application, or by a few years preparation of study afterward discon- 
 tinued, that eminence can be attained. No ; it can be attained only by 
 means of regular industry, grown up into a habit, and ready to be exerted 
 on every occasion that calls for industry. This is the fixed law of our 
 nature ; and he must have a very high opinion of his own genius indeed, 
 that can believe himself an exception to it. A very wise law of our 
 nature it is ; for industry is, in truth, the great " condimentum," the 
 seasoning of every pleasure ; without which life is doomed to languish. 
 Nothing is so great an enemy both to honourable attainments, and to the 
 real, to the brisk, and spirited enjoyment of life, as that relaxed state of 
 mind which arises from indolence and dissipation. One that is destined 
 to excel in any art, especially in the arts of speaking and writing, will 
 be known by this more than by any other mark whatever, an enthusiasm 
 for that art ; an enthusiasm, which firing his mind with the object he 
 has in view, will dispose him to relish every labour which the means 
 require. It was this that characterized the great men of antiquity ; 
 it is this, which must distinguish the moderns who could tread in their 
 steps. This honourable enthusiasm, it is highly necessary for such as 
 are studying oratory to cultivate. If youth wants it, manhood will flag 
 miserably. 
 
 In the fourth place, attention to the best models will contribute greatly 
 towards improvement. Every one who speaks, or writes, should, 
 
 * " Imprimis ver6, abundare debet orator exeraplorum copia, cum veterum, turn 
 etiam novorum ; adeo ut non modo qua? couscripta sunt historiis, ant sermonibus 
 velut per manus tradila, quaeque quotidie aguntur, debeat nOsse ; verum ne ea qui- 
 dem quae a clarioribus poetis sunt ficta negligere.' Quint. I. xii. cap. 4. 
 
342 MEANS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. [LECT. XXXIV. 
 
 indeed, endeavour to have somewhat that is his own, that is peculiar to 
 himself, and that characterizes his composition and style. Slavish imi- 
 tation depresses genius, or rather betrays the want of it. But withal, 
 there is no genius so original, but may be profited and assisted by the 
 aid of proper examples, in style, composition, and delivery. They 
 always open some new ideas ; they serve to enlarge and correct our 
 own. They quicken the current of thought, and excite emulation. 
 
 Much, indeed, will depend upon the right choice of models which we 
 purpose to imitate ; and supposing them rightly chosen, a farther care 
 is requisite, of not being seduced by a blind universal admiration. For, 
 " decipit exemplar, vitiis imitabile." Even in the most finished models 
 we can select, it must not be forgotten, that there are always some things 
 improper for imitation. We should study to acquire a just conception 
 of the peculiar characteristic heauties of any writer, or public speaker, 
 and imitate these only. One ought never to attach himself too closely 
 to any single model ; for he who does so, is almost sure of being seduced 
 into a faulty and affected imitation. His business should be, to draw 
 from several the proper ideas of perfection. Living examples of public 
 speaking, in any kind, it will not be expected that 1 should here point out. 
 As to the writers, ancient and modern, from whom benefit may be derived 
 in forming composition and style, 1 have spoken so much of them in former 
 lectures, that it is needless to repeat what I have said of their virtues 
 and defects. I own it is to be regretted, that the English language, in 
 which there is much good writing, furnishes us, however, with but very 
 few recorded examples of eloquent public speaking. Among the French 
 there are more. Saurin, Bourdaloue, Flechier, Massillon, particularly 
 the last, are eminent for the eloquence of the pulpit. But the most 
 nervous and sublime of all their orators is Bossuet, the famous Bishop of 
 Meaux : in whose Oraisons Funebres, there is a very high spirit of 
 oratory * Some of Fontenelle's harangues to the French Academy, are 
 elegant and agreeable, And at the bar, the printed pleadings of Cochin 
 and D'Aguesseau, are highly extolled by the late French critics. 
 
 There is one observation which it is of importance to make, con- 
 cerning imitation of the style of any favourite author, when we would 
 carry his style into public speaking. We must attend to a very material 
 distinction, between written and spoken language. These are, in truth, 
 two different manners of communicating ideas. A book that is to be 
 read, requires one sort of style : a man that is to speak, must use an- 
 other. In books, we look for correctness, precision, all redundancies 
 pruned, all repetitions avoided, language completely polished. Speak- 
 ing admits a more easy, copious style, and less fettered by rule; repe- 
 titions may often be necessary, parentheses may sometimes be graceful, 
 the same thought must often be placed in different views ; as the hearers 
 can catch it only from the mouth of the speaker, and have not the advan- 
 tage, as in reading a book, of turning back again, and of dwelling 
 on what they do not fully comprehend. Hence the style of many good 
 
 * The criticism which M. Crevier, author of Rhetorique Francoise, passes upon 
 these writers whom 1 have above named, is, " Bossuet est grande, mais inegal ; Fle- 
 chier est plus egal mais moins eleve, et souvent trop fleuri : Bourdaloue estsolide et 
 judicieux, mais, il neglige les graces legeres : Massillon est plus riche en images, 
 mais moins fort en raisonnement. Je souhaite done, que I'orateur ne se contente dans 
 1'imitation d'un seul de ces modeles, mais qu'il tache de reunir en lui toutes leurs 
 differentes vertus." Vol. II. chap, derniere. 
 
LECT. XXXI V.J MEANS OF IiMPROVING li\ ELOQUENCE,. 343 
 
 authors, would appear stiff, affected, and even obscure, if, by too close 
 an imitation, we should transfer it to a popular oration. How awkward, 
 for example, would Lord Shaftesbury's sentences sound in the mouth of 
 a public speaker ? Some kinds of public discourse, it is true, such as 
 that of the pulpit, where more exact preparation, and more studied 
 style are admitted, would bear such a manner better than others, which 
 are expected to approach more to extemporaneous speaking. But still 
 there is, in general, so much difference between speaking, and compo- 
 sition designed only to be read, as should guard us against a close and 
 injudicious imitation. 
 
 Some authors there are, whose manner of writing approaches near- 
 er to the style of speaking than others ; and who, therefore, can be 
 imitated with more safety. In this class, among the English authors, 
 are Dean Swift and Lord Bolingbroke. The Dean, throughout all his 
 writings, in the midst of much correctness, maintains the easy, natural 
 manner of an unaffected speaker ; and this is one of his chief excellen- 
 cies. Lord Bolingbroke's style is more splendid, and more declama- 
 tory than Dean Swift's ; but still it is the style of one who speaks, or 
 rather who harangues. Indeed, all his political writings (for it is to 
 them only, and not to his philosophical ones, that this observation can 
 be applied,) carry much more the appearance of one declaiming with 
 warmth in a great assembly, than of one writing in a closet, in order to 
 he read by others. They have all the copiousness, the fervour, the 
 inculcating method that is allowable and graceful in an orator ; perhaps 
 too much of it for a writer ; and it is to be regretted, as I have former- 
 ly observed, that the matter contained in them, should have been so 
 trivial or so false ; for, from the manner and style, considerable advan- 
 tage might be reaped. 
 
 In the fifth place, Besides attention to the best models, frequent exer- 
 cise both in composing and speaking, will be admitted to be a necessary 
 mean of improvement. That sort of composition is, doubtless, most 
 useful, which relates to the profession, or kind of public speaking, to 
 which persons addict themselves. This they should keep ever in their 
 eye, and be gradually inuring themselves to it. But let me also advise 
 them, not to allow themselves in negligent composition of any kind. 
 He who has it for his aim to write or to speak correctly, should, in 
 the most trivial kind of composition, in writing a letter, nay, even in 
 common discourse, study to acquit himself with propriety. I do not at 
 all mean, that he is never to write, or to speak a word, but in elaborate 
 and artificial language. This would form him to a stiffness and affecta- 
 tion, worse, by ten thousand degrees, than the greatest negligence. But 
 it is to be observed, that there is, in every thing, a manner which is 
 becoming, and has propriety ; and opposite to it, there is a clumsy and 
 faulty performance of the same thing. The becoming manner is very 
 often the most light, and seemingly careless manner; but it requires 
 taste and attention to seize the just idea of it. That idea, when acqui- 
 red, we should keep in our eye, and form upon it whatever we write 
 or say. 
 
 Exercises of speaking have always been recommended to students, 
 in order that they may prepare themselves for speaking in public, and 
 on real business. The meetings, or societies, into which they some- 
 times form themselves for this purpose, are laudable institutions ; and, 
 under proper conduct, may serve valuable many purposes, They are 
 
344 MEANS' OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. [LECT. XXXIV. 
 
 favourable to knowledge and study, by giving occasion to inquiries con- 
 cerning those subjects which are made the ground of discussion. They 
 produce emulation ; and gradually inure those who are concerned in 
 them, to somewhat that resembles a public assembly. They accustom 
 them to know their own powers, and to acquire a command of themselves 
 in speaking ; and what is, perhaps, the greatest advantage of all, they 
 give them" a facility and fluency of expression, and assist them in procu- 
 ring that " Copia verborum," which can be acquired by no other means 
 but frequent exercise in speaking. 
 
 But the meetings which I have now in my eye, are to be understood 
 of those academical associations, where a moderate number of young 
 gentlemen, who are carrying on their studies, and are connected by 
 some affinity in the future pursuits which they have in view, assemble 
 privately, in order to improve one another, and to prepare themselves 
 for those public exhibitions which may afterward fall to their lot. As 
 for those public and promiscuous societies, in which multitudes are 
 brought together, who are often of low stations and occupations, who 
 are joined by no common bond of union, except an absurd rage for pub- 
 lic speaking, and have no other object in view, but to make a show of 
 their supposed talents, they are institutions not merely of a useless, 
 but of a hurtful nature. They are in great hazard of proving semina- 
 ries of licentiousness, petulance, faction, and folly. They mislead those 
 who, in their own callings, might be useful members of society, into 
 phantastic plans of making a figure on subjects, which divert their atten- 
 tion from their proper b'usiness, and are widely remote from their sphere 
 in life. 
 
 Even the allowable meetings into which students of oratory form 
 themselves, stand in need of direction, in order to render them useful. 
 If their subjects of discourse be improperly chosen : if they maintain 
 extravagant or indecent topics ; if they indulge themselves in loose 
 and flimsj r declamation, which has no foundation in good sense ; or accus- 
 tom themselves to speak pertly on all subjects without due preparation, 
 they may improve one another in petulance, but in no other thing ; and 
 will infallibly form themselves to a very faulty and vicious taste in 
 speaking. I would, thorefore, advise all who are members of such so- 
 cieties, in the first place, to attend to the choice of their subjects ; that 
 they be useful and manly, either formed on the course of their studies, 
 or on something that has relation to morals and taste, to action and life. 
 In the second place, 1 would advise them to be temperate in the practice 
 of speaking ; not to speak too often, nor on subjects where they are 
 ignorant or unripe ; but only, when they have proper materials for a 
 discourse, and have digested and thought of the subject beforehand. In 
 the third place, when they do speak, they should study always to keep 
 good sense and persuasion in view, rather than an ostentation of elo- 
 quence ; and for this end I would, in the fourth place, repeat the ad- 
 vice which I gave in a former lecture, that they should always choose 
 that side of the question to which, in their own judgment, they are 
 most inclined, as the right and the true side ; and defend it by such argu- 
 ments as seem to them most solid. By these means, they will take the 
 best method of forming themselves gradually to a manly, correct, and 
 persuasive manner of speaking. 
 
 It now only remains to inquire, of what use may the study of critical 
 and rhetorical writers be. for improving one in the practice of elo- 
 
LECT. XXXIV.] MEANS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. 345 
 
 quence ? These are certainly not to be neglected ; and yet I dare not 
 say that much is to be expected from them. For professed writers on 
 public speaking, we must look chiefly among the ancients. In modern 
 times, for reasons which were before given, popular eloquence, as an 
 art, has never been very much the object of study ; it has not the same 
 powerful effects among us that it had in more democratical states ; and there- 
 fore has not been cultivated with the same care. Among the moderns, 
 though there has been a great deal of good criticism on the different 
 kinds of writing, yet much has not been attempted on the subject of 
 eloquence, or public discourse ; and what has been given us of that 
 kind, has been drawn mostly from the ancients. Such a writer as Joan- 
 nes Gerardus Vossius, who has gathered into one heap of ponderous 
 lumber, all the trifling, as well as the useful things, that are to be found 
 in the Greek and Roman writers, is enough to disgust one with the study 
 of eloquence. Among the French there has been more attempted, on 
 this subject, than among the English, The Bishop of Cambray's wri- 
 tings on eloquence, I before mentioned with honour. Rollin, Batteux, 
 Crevier, Gibert, and several other French critics, have also written on 
 oratory ; but though some of them may be useful, none of them are so 
 considerable as to deserve particular recommendation. 
 
 It is to the original ancient writers that we must chiefly have recourse; 
 and it is a reproach to any one, whose profession calls him to speak in 
 public, to be unacquainted with them. In ail the ancient rhetorical 
 writers, there is, indeed, this defect, that they are too systematical, as I 
 formerly showed ; they aim at doing too much ; at reducing rhetoric to 
 a complete and perfect art, which may even supply invention with ma- 
 terials on every subject ; insomuch, that one would imagine they expect- 
 ed to form an orator by rule, in as mechanical a manner as one would 
 form a carpenter. Whereas, all that can, in truth, be done, is to give 
 openings for assisting and enlightening taste, and for pointing out to ge- 
 nius the course it ought to hold. 
 
 Aristotle laid the foundation for all that was afterward written on the 
 subject. That amazing and comprehensive genius, which does honour 
 to human nature, and which gave light into so many different sciences, 
 has investigated the principles of rhetoric with great penetration. Aris- 
 totle appears to have been the first who took rhetoric out of the hands 
 of the sophists, and introduced reasoning and good sense into the art. 
 Some of the profoundest things which have been written on the passions 
 and manners of men, are to be found in his Treatise on Rhetoric ; 
 though in this, as in all his writings, his great brevity often renders him 
 obscure. Succeeding Greek rhetoricians, most of whom are now lost, 
 improved on the foundation which Aristotle had laid. Two of them 
 still remain, Demetrius Phalereus, and Dionysius of Halicarnassus ; both 
 write on the construction of sentences, and deserve to be perused ; es- 
 pecially Dionysius, who is a very accurate and judicious critic. 
 
 I need scarcely recommend the rhetorical writings of Cicero. What- 
 ever, on the subject of eloquence, comes from so great an orator, must 
 be worthy of attention. His most considerable work on this subject is 
 that De Oratore, in three books. None of Cicero's writings are more 
 highly finished than this treatise. The dialogue is polite ; the charac- 
 ters are well supported, and the conduct of the whole is beautiful and 
 agreeable. It is, indeed, full of digressions, and his rules and observa- 
 tions may be thought sometimes too vague and general. Useful things 
 
346 COMPARATIVE MERIT OF jLECT. XXXV, 
 
 however, may be learned from it ; and it is no small benefit to be made 
 acquainted with Cicero's own idea of eloquence. The % ' Orator ad M. 
 Brutum," is also a considerable treatise ; and, in general, throughout all 
 Cicero's rhetorical works, there run those high and sublime ideas of 
 eloquence, which are fitted both for forming a just taste, and for creating 
 that enthusiasm for the art, which is of the greatest consequence for ex- 
 celling in it. 
 
 But of all the ancient writers on the subject of oratory, the most in- 
 structive, and most useful, is Quintilian. I know few books which abound 
 more with good sense, and discover a greater degree of just and accu- 
 rate taste, than Quinlilian's institutions. Almost all the principles of 
 good criticism are to be found in them. He has digested into excellent 
 order all the ancient ideas concerning rhetoric, and is, at the same time, 
 himself an eloquent writer. Though some parts of his work contain 
 too much of the technical and artificial system then in vogue, and for 
 that reason may be thought dry and tedious, yet I would not advise the 
 omitting to read any part of his institutions. To pleaders at the bar, 
 even these technical parts may prove of some use. Seldom has any 
 person, of more sound and distinct judgment than Quintilian, applied 
 himself to the study of the art of oratory. 
 
 LECTURE XXXV 
 
 COMPARATIVE MERIT OF THE ANCIENTS AND THE MODERNS.— 
 HISTORICAL WRITING. 
 
 I have now finished that part of the course which respected oratory 
 or public speaking, and which, as far as the subject allowed, I have en- 
 deavoured to form into some sort of system. It remains, that I enter 
 on the consideration of the most distinguished kinds of composition, 
 both in prose and verse, and point out the principles of criticism relating 
 to them. This part of the work might easily be drawn out to a great 
 length ; but I am sensible, that critical discussions, when they are pur- 
 sued too far, become both trifling and tedious. I shall study, therefore, 
 to avoid unnecessary prolixity ; and hope, at the same time, to omit 
 nothing that is very material under the several heads. 
 
 I shall follow the same method here which I have all along pursued, 
 and without which, these lectures could not be entitled to any attention ; 
 that is, I shall freely deliver rny own opinion on every subject ; regard- 
 ing authority no farther, than as it appears to me founded on good sense 
 and reason. In former lectures, as I have often quoted several of the 
 ancient classics for their beauties, so I have also, sometimes, pointed 
 out their defects. Hereafter, I shall have occasion to do the same, when 
 treating of their writings under more general heads. It may be fit. 
 therefore, that before I proceed farther, I make some observations on 
 the comparative merit of the ancients and the moderns : in order that 
 we may be able to ascertain rationally, upon what foundation that de- 
 ference rests, which has so generally been paid to the ancients. 
 These observations are the more necessary, as this subject has given 
 
LECT. XXXV.} THE ANCIENTS AND THE MODERNS. 347 
 
 rise to no small controversy in the republic of letters ; and they may 5 
 with propriety, be made now, as they will serve to throw light on some 
 things I have afterward to deliver, concerning different kinds of com- 
 position. 
 
 It is a remarkable phenomenon, and one which has often employed 
 the speculations of curious men, that writers and artists, most distin- 
 guished for their parts and genius, have generally appeared in consider- 
 able numbers at a time. Some ages have been remarkably barren in 
 them ; while, at other periods, nature seems to have exerted herself 
 with more than ordinary effort, and to have poured them forth with a 
 profuse fertility. Various reasons have been assigned for this. Some 
 of the moral causes lie obvious ; such as favourable circumstances of 
 government and of manners ; encouragement from great men ; emula- 
 tion excited among the men of genius. But as these have been thought 
 inadequate to the whole effect, physical causes have been also assigned; 
 and the Abbe du Bos, in his reflections on poetry and painting, has col- 
 lected a great many observations on the influence which the air, the 
 climate, and other such natural causes, may be supposed to have upon 
 genius. But whatever the causes be, the fact is certain, that there 
 have been certain periods or ages of the world much more distinguish- 
 ed than others, for the extraordinary productions of genius. 
 
 Learned men have marked out four of these happy ages. The first 
 is the Grecian age, which commenced near the time of the Peloponne- 
 sian war, and extended till the time of Alexander the Great ; within 
 which period, we have Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, Socrates, 
 Plato, Aristotle, Demosthenes, JEschines, Lysias, Isocrates, Pindar, 
 JEschylus, Euripides, Sophocles, Aristophanes, Menander, Anacreon, 
 Theocritus, Lysippus, Appelles, Phidias, Praxiteles. The second, is 
 the Roman age, included nearly within the days of Julius Caesar and 
 Augustus ; affording us Catullus, Lucretius, Terence, Virgil, Horace, 
 Tibullus, Propertius, Ovid, Phsedrus, Caesar, Cicero, Livy, Sallust, 
 Varro, and Vitruvius. The third age is, that of the restoration of 
 learning, under the Popes Julius II. and Leo X ; when flourished Arios- 
 to, Tasso, Sannazarius, Vida, Machiavel, Guicciardini, Davila, Eras- 
 mus, Paul Jovius, Michael Angelo, Raphael, Titian. The fourth com- 
 prehends the age of Louis the XIV. and Queen Anne, when flourished 
 in France, Corneille, Racine, De Retz, Moliere, Boileau, Fontaine, 
 Baptiste, Rousseau, Bossuet, Fenelon, Bourdaloue, Pascal, Male- 
 branche, Massillon, Bruyere, Bayle, Fontenelle, Vertot : and in Eng- 
 land, Dryden, Pope, Addison, Prior, Swift, Parnell, Arbuthnot, Con- 
 greve, Otway, Young, Rowe, Atterbury, Shaftesbury, Bolingbroke, 
 Tillotson, Temple, Boyle, Locke, Newton, Clarke. 
 
 When we speak compartively of the ancients and the moderns, we 
 generally mean by the ancients, such as lived in the two first of these 
 periods, including also one or two who lived more early, as Homer in 
 particular; and by the moderns, those who flourished in the two last 
 of these ages, including also the eminent writers down to our own times. 
 Any comparison between these two classes of writers, must necessarily 
 be vague and loose, as they comprehend so many, and of such differ- 
 ent kinds and degrees of genius. But the comparison is generally made 
 to turn, by those w.ho are fond of making it, upon two or three of the 
 most distinguished in each class. With much heat it was agitated in 
 France, between Boileau and Mad. Dacier, on the one hand, for the an- 
 
348 COMPARATIVE MERIT OF [£ECt. XXXV , 
 
 cients, and PeFauIt and La Motte, on the other, for the moderns ; and 
 it was carried to extremes on both sides. To this day, among men of 
 taste and letters, we find a leaning to one or other side. A few reflec- 
 tions may throw light upon the subject, and enable us to discern upon 
 what grounds we are to rest our judgment in this controversy. 
 
 If any one, at this day, in the eighteenth century, takes upon him to 
 decry the ancient classics ; if he pretends to have discovered that Homer 
 and Virgil are poets of inconsiderable merit, and that Demosthenes and 
 Cicero are not great orators, we may boldly venture to tell such a man, 
 that he is come too late with his discovery. The reputation of such 
 writers is established upon a foundation too solid to be now shaken by 
 any arguments whatever ; for it is established upon that almost universal 
 taste of mankind, proved and tried throughout the succession of so many 
 ages. Imperfections in their works he may indeed point out ; passages 
 that are faulty he may show : for where is the human work that is per- 
 fect ? But if he attempts to discredit their works in general, or to prove 
 that the reputation which they gained is, on the whole, unjust, there 
 is an argument against him, which is equal to full demonstration. He 
 must be in the wrong, for human nature is against him. In matters of 
 taste, such as poetry and oratory, to whom does the appeal lie ? where 
 is the standard ? and where the authority of the last decision ? where is 
 it to be looked for, but, as I formerly showed, in those feelings and sen- 
 timents that are found, on the most extensive examination, to be the com- 
 mon sentiments and feelings of men ? These have been fully consulted 
 on this head. The public, the unprejudiced public, has been tried and 
 appealed to for many centuries, and throughout almost all civilized 
 nations. It has pronounced its verdict ; it has given its sanction to those 
 writers ; and from this tribunal there lies no farther appeal. 
 
 In matters of mere reasoning, the world may be long in an error ; and 
 maybe convinced of the error by stronger reasonings, when produced. 
 Positions that depend upon science, upon knowledge, and matters of 
 fact, may be overturned according as science and knowledge are enlar- 
 ged, and new matters of fact are brought to light. For this reason, a 
 system of philosophy receives no sufficient sanction from its antiquity, 
 or long currency. The world, as it grows older, may be justly expected 
 to become, if not wiser, at least more knowing ; and supposing it doubt- 
 ful, whether Aristotle or Newton were the greater genius, yet Newton's 
 philosophy may prevail over Aristotle's by means of later discoveries, to 
 which Aristotle was a stranger. But nothing of this kind holds as to 
 matters of taste ; which depend not on the progress of knowledge 
 and science, but upon sentiment and feeling. It is in vain to think of 
 undeceiving mankind, with respect to errors committed here, as in philo- 
 sophy. For the universal feeling of mankind is the natural feeling ; and 
 because it is the natural, it is, for that reason, the right feeling. The 
 reputation of the Iliad and the iEneid must therefore stand upon sure 
 ground, because it has stood so long ; though that of the Aristotelian or 
 Platonic philosophy, every one is at liberty to call in question. 
 
 It is in vain also to allege, that the reputation of the ancient poets, 
 and orators, is owing to authority, to pedantry, and to the prejudices of 
 education transmitted from age to age. These, it is true, are the au- 
 thors put into our hands at schools and colleges, and by that means we 
 have now an early prepossession in their favour ; but how came they to 
 gain the possession of colleges and schools ? Plainly, by the high fame 
 
LECT. XXXV.] THE ANCIENTS AND THE MODERNS. 349 
 
 which these authors had among their own contemporaries. For the 
 Greek and Latin were not always dead languages. There was a time 
 when Homer, and Virgil, and Horace, were viewed in the same light as 
 we now view Dryden, Pope, and Addison. It is not to commentators and 
 universities, that the classics are indebted for their fame. They became 
 classics and school-books, in consequence of the high admiration which 
 was paid them by the best judges in their own country and nation. As 
 early as the days of Juvenal, who wrote under the reign of Domitian, 
 we find Virgil and Horace become the standard books in the education 
 of youth. 
 
 Quot stabant pueri, cum totos decolor esset 
 
 Flaccus, et haereret nigro fuligo Maroni." Sat. 7. 
 
 From this general principle, then, of the reputation of the great an- 
 cient classics being so early, so lasting, so extensive among all the most 
 polished nations, we may justly and boldly infer that their reputation 
 cannot be wholly unjust, but must have a solid foundation in the merit of 
 their writings. 
 
 Let us guard, however, against a blind and implicit veneration for the 
 ancients in every thing. I have opened the general principle, which 
 must go far in instituting a fair comparison between them and the 
 moderns. Whatever superiority the ancients may have had in point 
 of genius, yet in all arts, where the natural progress of knowledge has 
 had room to produce any considerable effects, the moderns cannot but 
 have some advantage. The world may, in certain respects, be consi- 
 dered as a person, who must needs gain somewhat by advancing in years, 
 Its improvements have not, I confess, been always in proportion to the 
 centuries that have passed over it ; for, during the course of some ages, 
 it has sunk as into a total lethargy. Yet, when roused from that 
 lethargy, it has generally been able to avail itself more or less, of former 
 discoveries. At intervals, there arose some happy genius, who could 
 both improve on what had gone before, and invent something new. 
 With the advantage of a proper stock of materials, an inferior genius 
 can make greater progress, than a much superior one, to whom these 
 materials are wanting. 
 
 Hence, in natural philosophy, astronomy, chemistry, and other sciences 
 that depend on an extensive knowledge and observation of facts, modern 
 philosophers have an unquestionable superiority over the ancient. I am 
 inclined also to think, that in matters of pure reasoning, there is more 
 precision among the moderns, than in some instances there was among 
 the ancients ; owing perhaps to a more extensive literary intercourse, 
 which has improved and sharpened the faculties of men. In some studies 
 too, that relate to taste and fine writing, which is our object, the progress 
 of society must, in equity, be admitted to have given us some advantages. 
 For instance, in history, there is certainly more political knowledge in 
 several European nations at present than there was in ancient Greece and 
 Rome. We are better acquainted with the nature of government, be- 
 cause we have seen it under a greater variety of forms and revolutions. 
 The world is more laid open than it was in former times ; commerce is 
 greatly enlarged ; more countries are civilized ; posts are every where 
 
 * " Then thou art bound to smell, on either hand. 
 As many stinking lamps, as schoolboys stand, 
 When Horace could not read in his own sullied book, 
 And Virgil's sacred page was all besmear'd with smoke," Dryden; 
 
350 COMPARATIVE MERIT OF [LECT. XXXV. 
 
 established ; intercourse is become more easy ; and the knowledge of 
 facts, by consequence, more attainable. All these are great advantages 
 to historians ; of which, in some measure, as I shall afterward show, 
 they have availed themselves. In the more complex kinds of poetry, 
 likewise, we may have gained somewhat, perhaps, in point of regularity 
 and accuracy. In dramatic performances, having the advantage of the 
 ancient models, we may be allowed to have made some improvements in 
 the variety of the characters, the conduct of the plot, attentions to pro- 
 bability, and to decorums. 
 
 These seem to me the chief points of superiority we can pleao above 
 the ancients. Neither do they extend as far as might be imagined at 
 first view. For if the strength of genius be on one side, it will go far, 
 in works of taste at least, to counterbalance all the artificial improve- 
 ments which can be made by greater knowledge and correctness. To 
 return to our comparison of the age of the world with that of a man ; 
 it may be said, not altogether without reason, that if the advancing age 
 of the world bring along with it more science and more refinement, there 
 belong, however, to its earlier periods, more vigour, more fire, more 
 enthusiasm of genius. This appears indeed to form the characteristical 
 difference between the ancient poets, orators, and historians, compared 
 with the modern. Among the ancients, we find higher conceptions, 
 greater simplicity, more original fancy. Among the moderns, sometimes 
 more art and correctness, but feebler exertions ot genius. But, though 
 this be in general a mark of distinction between the ancients and moderns, 
 yet, like all general observations, it must be understood with some 
 exceptions ; for in point of poetical fire and original genius, Milton and 
 Shakspeare are inferior to no poets in any age. 
 
 It is proper to observe, that there were some circumstances in ancient 
 times, very favourable to those uncommon efforts of genius which were 
 then exerted. Learning was a much more rare and singular attainment 
 in the earlier ages, than it is at present. It was not to schools and uni- 
 versities that the persons applied, who sought to distinguish themselves. 
 They had not this easy recourse. They travelled for their improvement 
 into distant countries, to Egypt, and to the East. They inquired after 
 all the monuments of learning there. They conversed with priests, 
 philosophers, poets, with all who had acquired any distinguished fame. 
 They returned to their own country full of the discoveries which they 
 had made, and fired by the new and uncommon objects which they had 
 seen. Their knowledge and improvements cost them more labour, 
 raised in them more enthusiasm, were attended with higher rewards 
 and honours, than in modern days. Fewer had the means and 
 opportunities of distinguishing themselves than now ; but such as did 
 distinguish themselves, were sure of acquiring that fame, and even ve- 
 neration, which is, of nil rewards the greatest incentive to genius. He- 
 rodotus read his hiscory to ail Greece assembled at the Olympic 
 games, and was publicly crowned. In the Peloponnesian war, when 
 the Athenian army was defeated in Sicily, and the prisoners were order- 
 ed to be put to death, such of them as could repeat any verses of 
 Euripides were saved, from honour to that poet, who w T as a citizen of 
 Athens. These w r ere testimonies of public regard, far beyond what 
 modern manners confer upon genius. 
 
 In our times, good writing is considered as an attainment neither so 
 difficult, nor so high and meritorious. 
 
LECT. XXXV.j THE ANCIENTS AN© THE MODERNS. 351 
 
 Scribimus indocti, doctique, Poemata passim.- 
 
 We write much more supinely, and at our ease, than the ancients. To 
 excel, is become a much less considerable object. Less effort, less ex- 
 ertion is required, because we have many more assistances than they. 
 Printing has rendered all books common, and easy to be had. Educa- 
 tion for any of the learned professions can be carried on without much 
 trouble. Hence a mediocrity of genius is spread over all. But to rise 
 beyond that, and to overtop the crowd, is given to few. The multitude of 
 assistances which we have for all kinds of composition, in the opinion 
 of Sir William Temple, a very competent judge, rather depresses, than 
 favours, the exertions of native genius. " It is very possible," says that 
 ingenious author, in his Essay on the Ancients and Moderns, " that 
 men may lose rather than gain by these ; may lessen the force of their 
 own genius, by forming it upon that of others ; may have less know- 
 ledge of their own, for contenting themselves with that of those before 
 them. So a man that only translates, shall never be a poet ; so people 
 that trust to others' charity, rather than their own industry, will always 
 be poor. " Who can tell," he adds, u whether learning may not even 
 weaken invention, in a man that has great advantages from nature ? 
 Whether the weight and number of so many other men's thoughts and 
 notions may not suppress his own ; as heaping on wood sometimes sup- 
 presses a little spark, that would otherwise have grown into a flame ? 
 The strength of mind, as well as of body, grows more from the warmth 
 of exercise, than of clothes ; nay, too much of this foreign heat, rather 
 makes men faint, and their constitutions weaker than they would be 
 without them." 
 
 From whatever cause it happens, so it is, that among some of the 
 ancient writers, we must look for the highest models in most of the kinds 
 of elegant composition. For accurate thinking and enlarged ideas, in 
 several parts of philosophy, to the moderns we ought chiefly to have 
 recourse. Of correct and flnished writing in some works of taste, they 
 may afford useful patterns ; but for all that belongs to original genius 3 
 to spirited, masterly, and high execution, our best and most happy 
 ideas are, generally speaking, drawn from the ancients. In epic poetry, 
 for instance, Homer and Virgil, to this day, stand not within many de- 
 grees of any rival. Orators, such as Cicero and Demosthenes, we have 
 none. In history, notwithstanding some defects,, which 1 am afterward 
 to mention in the ancient historical plans, it may be safely asserted, that 
 we have no such historical narration, so elegant, so picturesque, so 
 animated, and interesting as that of Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, 
 Livy, Tacitus, and Sallust. Although the conduct of the drama may be 
 admitted to have received some improvements, yet for poetry and sen- 
 timent we have nothing to equal Sophocles and Euripides ; nor any dia- 
 logue in comedy, that comes up to the correct, graceful, and elegant sim- 
 plicity of Terence. We have no such love elegies as those of Tibul- 
 lus ; no such pastorals as some of Theocritus's ; and for lyric poetry, 
 Horace stands quite unrivalled. The name of Horace cannot be men- 
 tioned without a particular encomium. That " Curiosa Felicitas," which 
 Petronius has remarked in his expression ; the sweetness, elegance> 
 
 " Now every desp'rate blockhead dares to write ; 
 
 Verse is the trade of every living wight" Francis. 
 
352 HISTORICAL WRITING. [LECT. XXX VV 
 
 and spirit of many of his odes, the thorough knowledge of the world, 
 the excellent sentiments, and natural easy manner which distinguish 
 his satires and epistles, all contribute to render him one of those very 
 few authors whom one never tires of reading ; and from whom alone, 
 were every other monument destroyed, we should be led to forma very 
 high idea of the taste and genius of the Augustan age. 
 
 To all such then, as wish to form their taste and nourish their genius, 
 let me warmly recommend the assiduous study of the ancient classics, 
 both Greek and £oman. 
 
 Nocturn& versate manu, versate diurna.* 
 
 Without a considerable acquaintance with them, no man can be reck- 
 oned a polite scholar ; and he will want many assistances for writing 
 and speaking well, which the knowledge of such authors would afford 
 him. Any one has great reason to suspect his own taste, who receives 
 little or no pleasure from the perusal of writings, which so many ages 
 and nations have consented in holding up as objects of admiration. And 
 I am persuaded, it will be found, that in proportion as the ancients are 
 generally studied and admired, or are unknown and disregarded in any 
 country, good taste and good composition will flourish, or decline. They 
 are commonly none but the ignorant or superficial, who undervalue 
 them. 
 
 At the same time, a just and high regard for the prime writers of an- 
 tiquity is to be always distinguished, from that contempt of every thing 
 that is modern, and that blind veneration for all that has been written in 
 Greek or Latin, which belongs only to pedants. Among the Greek and 
 Roman authors, some assuredly deserve much higher regard than others ; 
 nay, some are of no great value. Even the best of them lie open occa- 
 sionally to just censure ; for to no human performace is it given to be 
 absolutely perfect. We may, we ought, therefore, to read them with a 
 distinguishing eye, so as to propose for imitation their beauties only ; 
 and it is perfectly consistent with just and candid criticism, to find fault 
 with parts, while, at the same time, it admires the whole. 
 
 After these reflections on the ancients and moderns, I proceed to a 
 critical examination of the most distinguished kinds of composition, and 
 the characters of those writers who have excelled in them, whether 
 modern or ancient. 
 
 The most general division of the different kinds of composition is, 
 into those written in prose, and those written in verse ; which certainly 
 require to be separately considered, because subject to separate laws. 
 I begin, as is most natural, with writings in prose. Of orations, or pub- 
 lic discourses of all kinds, I have already treated fully. The remaining 
 species of prose compositions, which assume any such regular form, as 
 to fall under the cognizance of criticism, seem to be chiefly these : his- 
 torical writing, philosophical writing, epistolary writing, and fictitious 
 history. Historical composition shall be first considered ; and, as it is 
 an object of dignity, I purpose to treat of it at some length. 
 
 As it is the office of an orator to persuade, it is that of an historian to 
 record truth for the instruction of mankind. This is the proper object 
 and end of history, from which may be deduced many of the laws rela- 
 ting to it ; and if this object were always kept in view, it would prevent 
 
 * " Read them by day, and study them by night.'' Francis. 
 
LECT. XXX'V.J JtllSTORlC AL WRITING 353 
 
 many of the errors into which persons are apt to fall concerning thi3 
 species of composition. As the primary end of history is to record 
 truth, impartiality, fidelity, and accuracy, are the fundamental qualities 
 of an historian. He must neither be a panegyrist nor a satirist. He 
 must not enter into faction, nor give scope to affection : but, contem- 
 plating past events and characters with a cool and dispassionate eye, must 
 present to his readers a faithful copy of human nature. 
 
 At the same time, it is not every record of facts, however true, that 
 is entitled to the name of history ; but such a record as enables us to 
 apply the transactions of former ages for our Own instruction. The facts 
 ought to be momentous and important : represented in connexion with 
 their causes, traced to their effects ; and unfolded in clear and distinct 
 order. For wisdom is the great end of history. It is designed to sup- 
 ply the want of experience. Though it enforce not its instructions, with 
 the same authority, yet it furnishes us with a greater variety of instruc- 
 tions, than it is possible for experience to afford, in the course of the 
 longest life. Its object is to enlarge our views of the human character, 
 and to give full exercise to our judgment on human affairs. It must not 
 therefore be a tale, calculated to please only, and addressed to the fancy. 
 Gravit}' and dignity are essential characteristics of history ; no light or- 
 naments are to be employed, no flippancy of style, no quaintness of wit. 
 But the writer must sustain the character of a wise man, writing for the 
 instruction of posterity ; one who has studied to inform himself well, who 
 has pondered his subject with care, and addresses himself to our judg- 
 ment, rather than to our imagination. Not that this is inconsistent with 
 ornamented and spirited narration. History admits of much high orna- 
 ment and elegance ; but the ornaments must be always consistent with 
 dignity ; they should not appear to be sought after ; but to rise naturally 
 from a mind animated by the events which it records. 
 
 Historical composition is understood to comprehend under it, annals, 
 memoirs, lives. But these are its inferior subordinate species ; on 
 which I shall hereafter make some reflections, when I shall have first 
 considered What belongs to a regular and legitimate work of history. 
 Such a work is chiefly of two kinds, either the entire history of some 
 state or kingdom through its different revolutions, such as Livy's Roman 
 history; or the history of some one great event, or some portion or 
 period of time which may be considered as making a whole by itself; 
 such as, Thucydides's History of the Peloponnesian War, Davila-s 
 History of the Civil Wars of France, or Clarendon's of those of Eng 
 land. 
 
 In the conduct and management of his subject, the first attention 
 requisite in an historian, is to give it as much unity as possible ; that is, 
 his history should not consist of separate unconnected parts merely, but 
 should be bound together by some connecting principle, which shall 
 make the impression on the mind of something that is one, whole and 
 entire. It is inconceivable how great an effect this, when happily exe- 
 cuted, has upon a reader, and it is surprising that some able writers of 
 history have not attended to it more. Whether pleasure or instruction 
 be the end sought by the study of history, either of them is enjoyed 
 to much greater advantage, when the mind has always before it the pro- 
 gress of some one great plan or system of actions ; when there is some 
 point or centre, to which we can refer the various facts related by tha 
 historian 
 
 Y v 
 
354 HISTORICAL WRITING; [LEC1\ XXXV. 
 
 In general histories, which record the affairs of a whole nation or 
 empire throughout several ages, this unity, I confess, must be more 
 imperfect. Yet even there, some degree of it can be preserved by a 
 skilful writer. For though the whole, taken together, be very complex, 
 yet the great constituent parts of it form so many subordinate wholes, 
 when taken by themselves ; each of which can be treated both as com- 
 plete within itself, and as connected with what goes before and follows, 
 in the history of a monarchy, for instance, every reign should have its 
 own unity ; a beginning, a middle, and an end, to the system of affairs ; 
 while, at the same time, we are taught to discern how that system of 
 affairs rose from the preceding, and how it is inserted into what follows. 
 We should be able to trace all the secret links of the chain, which binds 
 together remote, and seemingly unconnected events. In some king- 
 doms of Europe, it was the plan of many successive princes to reduce 
 the power of their nobles •; and during several reigns, most of the lead- 
 ing actions had a reference to this end. In other states, the rising power 
 of the commons, influenced for a tract of time, the course and connex- 
 ion of public affairs. Among the Romans, the leading principle was a 
 gradual extension of conquest and the attainment of universal empire. 
 The continual increase of their power, advancing towards this end from 
 small beginnings, and by a sort of regular progressive plan, furnished 
 to Livy a happy subject for historical unity, in the midst of a great va- 
 riety of transactions. 
 
 Of all the ancient general historians, the one who had the most exact 
 idea of this quality of historical composition, though, in other respects, 
 not an elegant writer, is Polybius. This appears from the account he 
 gives of his own plan in the beginning of his third book ; observing that 
 the subject of which he had undertaken to write, is, throughout the 
 whole of it, one action, one great spectacle ; how, and by what causes, 
 all the parts of the habitable world became subject to the Roman em- 
 pire. " This action," says he, " is distinct in its beginning, determined 
 in its duration, and clear in its final accomplishment ; therefore, I think 
 it of use, to give a general view beforehand, of the chief constituent 
 parts which make up this whole." In another place he congratulates 
 himself on his good fortune, in having a subject for history, which al- 
 lowed such variety of parts to be united under one view ; remarking, 
 that before this period, the affairs of the world were scattered, and 
 without connexion ; whereas, in the times of which he writes, all the 
 great transactions of the world tended and verged to one point, and were 
 capable of being considered as parts of one system. Whereupon he 
 adds several very judicious observations, concerning the usefulness of 
 writing history upon such a comprehensive and connected plan ; com- 
 paring the imperfect degree of knowledge, which is afforded by particu- 
 lar facts without general views, to the imperfect idea which one would 
 entertain of an animal, who had beheld its separate parts only, without 
 having ever seen its entire form and structure.* 
 
 * Ka&uku /u.sv ya% epioeye JoKovrtv ot ifttfHvyfaoi J/i ths Kara /uego? tVog/4; /uergiees avvo-^itrBou 
 <ra ohd, ■KX.g'U.irKyio-iov rt 7raQ-%jsiVy ^ av et rtvH sju^v^y kcli KsthS a-JjfAarcg Juppo/uzva tol fjagu <&&{> 
 pivot, vofAi^otzy ixAiZc dLUTOirrc/.i ytyveo-Qat t»; hzpytiac uvrov rtt £wqu nat Kcth\ovns- zt ydg t/c 
 Scurixa y.ab.0. o-vvBi'h x.at rzxuov auQts (nrigya.cray.zvo( to ^Zev, ra> tz ttS~ii £z <r» w«? ^X/is zv7rg$- 
 
 TU*) KcbrltTA TtCLktV iTrlSiiwVM TQlQ aJVTO/f ZHilVOlS, TCtyZCOC OlV OljUAl TTuVTaC O.VTCVS oy.o\oymzv) 
 
 ifre Ti zxt yiav rfoxu ti t»; ahtftiifi: d^.srrcm •gd&wi'j v.%t Tat^cc-xhwrn rots oYit^/rloovtv fociy. 
 
LECT. XXXV. J HISTORICAL WRITING. 3$$ 
 
 Such as write the history of some particular great transaction, as con- 
 fine themselves to one era, or one portion of the history of a nation, 
 have so great advantages for preserving historical unity, that they are 
 inexcusable if they fail in it. Sallust's histories of the Catilinarian and 
 Jugurthine wars, Xenophon's Cyropaedia, and his retreat of the ten 
 thousand, are instances of particular histories, where the unity of histo- 
 rical object is perfectly well maintained. Thucydides, otherwise a writer 
 of great strength and dignity, has failed much, in this article, in his his- 
 tory of the Peloponnesian war. No one great object is properly pursued, 
 and kept in view ; but his narration is cut down into small pieces ; his 
 history is divided by summers and winters, and we are every now and 
 then leaving transactions unfinished, and are hurried from place to place, 
 from Athens to Sicily, from thence to Peloponnesus, to Corcyra, to Mity- 
 lene, that we may be told of what is going on in all these places. We 
 have a great many disjointed parts, and scattered limbs, which with 
 difficulty we collect into one body ; and through this faulty distribution 
 and management of his subject, that judicious historian becomes more 
 tiresome, and less agreeable than he would otherwise be. For these 
 reasons he is severely censured by one of the best critics of antiquity, 
 Dyonysius of Haiicarnassus.* 
 
 The historian must not indeed neglect chronological order, with a 
 view to render his narration agreeable. He must give a distinct account 
 of the dates, and of the coincidence of facts. But he is not under the 
 necessity of breaking off always in the middle of transactions, in order 
 to inform us of what was happening elsewhere at the same time. He 
 discovers no art, if he cannot form some connexion among the affairs 
 which he relates, so as to introduce them in a proper train. He will 
 
 spiaiav (*h yd% KctSuv cL7ro {jt-igHi ?Zv o\a>v fuvarov. km?»fJi>)V cTs nai yvJj/utnv aTgai« z%tiv aJi/vst-Toy. 
 tfto T:!tvle\u>>; @%z<x? ri vo/ittsiov o-v/yt,Cx.fa.zo-Qxi t»'v x,zrd y.igo$ ig-c^iu.v 7tqc; t«v tZv ohcev z//.T:ttpi(iv 
 Kai Ttt^lv, \k (j.h TOiye tjk airavrov irgog aWiDXa ervuTrhoKng x.ai ira^ABzo-eaig^ ffrt (T o/ucoiowrog kai 
 fiaqogag fxova; av Tig zty'tKoflo xu) S"vvnBun K&TQ7rliv<rug ay.a. x.a) to WHO-tfAW Kat to TZPTrvov, ac 
 t»5 <Vogw? yaCuv. Polyb. Histor. Prim. 
 
 • ; The censure which Dionysius passes upon Thucydides, is, in several articles, car- 
 ried too far He blames him for the choice of his subject, as not sufficiently splendid 
 and agreeable, and as abounding too much in crimes and melancholy events, on 
 which he observes that Thucydides loves to dwell. He is partial to Herodotus, 
 whom, both for the choice and the conduct of his subject, lie prefers to the other 
 historian. It is true, that the subject of Thucydides wants the gayety and splendour 
 of that of Herodotus ; but it is not deficient in dignity. The Peloponnesian war 
 was the contest between two great rival powers, the Athenian and Lacedemonian 
 states, for the empire of Greece. Herodotus loves to dwell on prosperous incidents, 
 and retains somewhat of the amusing manner of the ancient poetical historians, but 
 Herodotus wrote to the imagination. Thucydides writes to the understanding. He 
 was a grave reflecting man, well acquainted with human life ; and the melancholy 
 events and catastrophes which he records, are often both the most interesting parts 
 of history, and the most improving (o the heart. 
 
 The critic's observations on the faulty distribution which Thucydides makes of 
 his subject, are better founded, and his preference of Herodotus, in this respect, is 
 not unjust— 0«xi/Ji(T»c juzv toic %govois oxokhQcov, 'HgcJWo? Si Tcttg iriPio^aug toov 7rgayfs.aTa>v f 
 ytyviral QtsKuSiSiig ao-a<t»ig «M Suo-Tr^aicoKuSiiTog' TroXKcev yxg x.'at& to auto 3"Sgo? nctt ft-i/nav* 
 yiyva/uMuv zv S l*.<$opatg T07roig. hyATihilg tag Tr^TAg aga^zig xaTctMirw , ztzpocv cnrTZTat <rw 
 KAT'-t ro ajiTO &t£og itat ^zi/ueeva yiyvo/uzvuv. TTXavafxzBa. Syi zzQunzp zatog, xcli Su<tko\u>s rag 
 
 SuKHfAiViig 7r4.QUK0Ab8tty.iV- 2,»{a£z£»KZ QnKvSlStt /UtZV UTToQiQ-tV KuCoVTt TtOK\Ct ir0i»roU fXZPYt TO fy 
 
 ercefASL. 'HgciSoTCo Si Tag iroh\a.g km tsozv zvoKuiag UTToBzTiig rretztKo/uzvce, o-v/uqwov iv <ra/ua xiirct' 
 /naval. With regard to style, Dionysius gives Thucydides the just praise of energy 
 and brevity, but censures him on many occasions, not without reason, for harsh and 
 obscure expression, deficient in smoothness and easie* 
 
iyt j HISTORICAL WRITING L LECT. XXXYL 
 
 soon lice the reader, if he goes on recording, in strict chronological 
 order, a multitude of separate transactions, connected by nothing else, 
 but their happening at the same time. 
 
 Though the history of Herodotus be of greater compass than that of 
 Thucydides, and comprehend a much greater variety of dissimilar parts, 
 he has been more fortunate in joining them together ; and digesting them 
 into order. Hence he is a more pleasing writer, and gives a stronger 
 impression of his subject ; though, in judgment and accuracy, much in- 
 ferior to Thucydides. With digressions, and episodes he abounds ; but 
 when these have any connexion with the main subject, and are inserted 
 professedly as episodes, the unity of the whole is less violated by them, 
 than by a broken and scattered narration of the principal story. Among 
 the moderns, the President Thuanushas, by attempting to make the his- 
 tory of his own times too comprehensive, fallen into the same error, of 
 loading the reader with a great variety of unconnected facts, going on 
 together in different parts of the world: an historian otherwise of 
 great probity, candour, and excellent understanding ; but through this 
 want of unity, more tedious, and less interesting than he would other= 
 wise have been. 
 
 LECTURE XXXVI. 
 
 HISTORICAL WRITING. 
 
 After making some observations on the controversy which has been 
 often carried on concerning the comparative merit of the ancients and 
 the moderns, I entered, in the last lecture, on the consideration of his- 
 torical writing. The general idea of history is, a record of truth for 
 the instruction of mankind. Hence arise the primary qualities required 
 in a good historian, impartiality, fidelitj^, gravity, and dignity. What I 
 principally considered, was the unity which belongs to this sort of com- 
 position ; the nature of which I have endeavoured to explain. 
 
 I proceed nest to observe, that in order to fulfil the end of history, 
 the author must study to trace to their springs the actions and events 
 which he records. Two things are especially necessary for his doing 
 this successfully ; a thorough acquaintance with human nature, and po- 
 litical knowledge, or acquaintaince with government. The former is 
 necessary to account for the conduct of individuals, and to give just 
 views of their character ; the latter, to account for the revolutions of 
 government, and the operation of political causes on public affairs. — 
 Both must concur, in order to form a completely instructive historian. 
 
 With regard to the latter article, political knowledge, the ancient wri- 
 ters wanted some advantages which the moderns enjoy ; from whom, 
 upon that account, we have a title to expect more accurate and precise 
 information. The world, as I formerly hinted, was more shut up in an- 
 cient times, than it is now ; there was then less communication among 
 neighbouringstates,and by consequence, less knowledge of one another's 
 nfiairg ; no intercourse by established posts, or by ambassadors resident 
 
LE-CT. XXXVI. j HISTORICAL WRITING. 357 
 
 at distant courts. The knowledge, and materials of the ancient histo- 
 rians, were thereby more limited and circumscribed ; and it is to be ob- 
 served too, that they wrote for their own countrymen only ; they had 
 no idea of writing for the instruction of foreigners, whom they despised, 
 or of the world in general ; and hence, they are less attentive to convey 
 all that knowledge with regard to domestic policy, which we, in distant 
 times, would desire to have learned from them. Perhaps also, though 
 in ancient ages men were abundantly animated with the love of liberty, 
 yet the full extent of the influence of government, and of political 
 causes, was not then so thoroughly scrutinized, as it has been in modern 
 times; when a long experience of all the different modes of govern- 
 ment, has rendered men more enlightened and intelligent, with respect 
 to public affairs. 
 
 To these reasons it is owing, that though the ancient historians set be- 
 fore us the particular facts which they relate, in a very distinct and 
 beautiful manner, yet sometimes they do not give us a clear view of all 
 the political causes, which affected the situation of affairs of which they 
 treat. From the Greek historians, we are able to form but an imper- 
 fect notion of the strength, the wealth, and the revenues of the differ- 
 ent Grecian states ; of several of those revolutions that happened in 
 their government ; or of their separate connexions and interfering inter- 
 ests. In writing the history of the Romans, Livy had surely the most 
 ample field for displaying political knowledge concerning the rise of their 
 greatness, and the advantages or defects of their government. Yet the 
 instruction in these important articles, which he affords, is not consider- 
 able. An elegant writer he is, and a beautiful relator of facts, if ever 
 there was one ; but by no means distinguished for profoundness of pene- 
 tration. Sallust, when writing the history of a conspiracy against the 
 government, which ought to have been altogether a political history, 
 has evidently attended more to the elegance of narration, and the paint- 
 ing of characters, than to the unfolding of secret causes and springs, 
 Instead of that complete information, which we would naturally have 
 expected from him of the state of parties in Rome, and of that particu- 
 lar conjuncture of affairs, which enabled so desperate a profligate as 
 Catiline to become so formidable to government, he has given us little 
 more than a general declamatory account of the luxury and corruption 
 of manners in that age, compared with the simplicity of former times. 
 
 I by no means, however, mean to censure all the ancient historians 
 as defective in political information. No historians can be more instruc- 
 tive than Thucydides, Polybius, and Tacitus. Thucydides is grave, in- 
 telligent, and judicious : always attentive to give very exact informa- 
 tion concerning every operation which he relates ; and to show the ad- 
 vantages or disadvantages of every plan that was proposed, and every mea- 
 sure that was pursued. Polybius excels in comprehensive political 
 views, in penetration into great systems, and in his profound and dis- 
 tinct knowledge of all military affairs. Tacitus is eminent for his know- 
 ledge of the human heart ; is sentimental and refined in a high degree ; 
 conveys much instruction with respect to political matters, but more 
 with respect to human nature. 
 
 But when we demand from the historian profound and instructive 
 views of his subject, it is not meant that he should be frequently inter- 
 rupting the course of his history, with his own reflections and specula- 
 tions. He should give us all the information that is necessary for our 
 
358 HISTORICAL WRITING. [LECT. XXXVX 
 
 fully understanding the affairs which he records. He should make us 
 acquainted with the political constitution, the force, the revenues, the 
 internal state of the country of which he writes; and with its interests 
 and connexions in respect of neighbouring countries. He should place 
 us, as on an elevated station, whence we may have an extensive pros- 
 pect of all the causes that co-operate in bringing forward the events 
 which are related. But having put into our hands all the proper mate- 
 rials for judgment, he should not be too prodigal of his own opinions and 
 reasonings. When an historian is much given to dissertation, and is 
 ready to philosophize, and speculate on all that he records, a suspicion 
 naturally arises, that he will be in hazard of adapting his narrative of 
 facts to favour some system which he has formed to himself. It is rather 
 by fair and judicious narration that history should instruct us, than by 
 delivering instruction in an avowed and direct manner. On some occa- 
 sions, when doubtful points require to be scrutinized, or when some 
 great event is in agitation, concerning the causes or circumstances of 
 which mankind have been much divided, the narrative may be allowed 
 to stand still for a little ; the historian may appear, and may with pro- 
 priety enter into some weighty discussion. But he must take care not 
 to cloy his readers with such discussions, by repeating them too often. 
 
 When observations are to be made concerning human nature in gene- 
 ral, or the peculiarities of certain characters, if the historian can art- 
 fully incorporate such observations with his narrative, they will have 
 a better effect than when they are delivered as formal detached reflec- 
 tions. For instance : in the life of Agricola, Tacitus, speaking of Do- 
 mitian's treatment of Agricola, makes this observation : 'Proprium hu- 
 mani ingenii est, odisse quern lasseris."* The observation is just and 
 well applied ; but the form, in which it stands, is abstract and philo- 
 sophical. A thought of the same kind has a finer effect elsewhere in 
 the same historian, when speaking of the jealousies which Germanicus 
 knew to be entertained against him by Livia and Tiberius : " Anxius," 
 says he, " occultis in se patrui aviaeque odiis, quorum causae acriores 
 quia iniquae."t Here a profound moral observation is made ; but it is 
 made without the appearance of making it in form ; it is introduced as 
 a part of the narration, in assigning a reason for the anxiety of Germani- 
 cus. We have another instance of the same kind, in the account which 
 he gives of a mutiny raised against Rufus, who was a " Praefectus Cas- 
 torum," on account of the severe labour which he imposed on the sol- 
 diers. " Quippe Rufus, diu manipularis, dein centurio, mox castris 
 praefectu?, antiquam duramque militiam revocabat, vetus operis et la- 
 boris, et eo immitior quia toieraverat."| There was room for turning 
 this into a general observation, that they who had been educated and 
 hardened in toils, are commonly found to be the most severe in requir- 
 ing the like toils from others. But the manner in which Tacitus intro- 
 duces this sentiment as a stroke in the character of Rufus, gives it much 
 more life and spirit. This historian has a particular talent of intermix- 
 
 • + tl It belongs to human nature to hate the man whom you have injured. " 
 
 f a Uneasy in his mind, on account of the concealed hatred entertained against 
 
 him by his uncle and grandmother, which was the more bitter because the cause of 
 
 it was unjust." 
 
 % " For Rufus, who had long been a common soldier, afterward a centurion, and 
 
 at length a general officer, restored the severe military discipline of ancient times. 
 
 Grown old amidst toils and labours, he was the more rigid in imposing them, because 
 
 he bad been accustomed to bear them." 
 
LECT. XXXVI. j HISTORICAL WAITING. g^g 
 
 irig after this manner, with the course of his narrative, many striking 
 sentiments and useful observations. 
 
 Let us next proceed to consider the proper qualities of historical 
 narration. It is obvious, that on the manner of narration, much must 
 depend, as the first notion of history is the recital of past facts ; and 
 how much one mode of recital may be preferable to another, we shall 
 soon be convinced, by thinking of the different effects, which the same 
 story, when told by two different persons, is found to produce. 
 
 The first virtue of historical narration, is clearness, order, and due 
 connexion. To attain this, the historian must be completely master of 
 his subject ; he must see the whole as at one view ; and comprehend the 
 chain and dependence of all its parts, that he may introduce every thing 
 in its proper place ; that he may lead us smoothly along the track of 
 affairs which are recorded, and may always give us the satisfaction of 
 seeing' how one event arises out of another. Without this, there can 
 be neither pleasure nor instruction, in reading history. Much for this 
 end will depend on the observance of that unity in the general plan and 
 conduct, which, in the preceding lecture, I recommended. Much too will 
 depend on (he proper management of transitions, which forms one of the 
 chief ornaments of this kind of writing, and is one of the most difficult 
 in execution. Nothing tries an historian's abilities more, than so to lay his 
 train beforehand, as to make us pass naturally and agreeably from one 
 part of his subject to another ; to employ no clumsy and awkward junc- 
 tures ; and to contrive ways and means of forming some union among 
 transactions, which seem to be ?nost widely separated from one another. 
 
 In the next place, as history is a very dignified species of composition, 
 gravity must always be maintained in the narration. There must be no 
 meanness nor vulgarity in the style ; no quaint nor colloquial phrases ; 
 no affectation of pertness, or of wit. The smart, or the sneering man- 
 ner of telling a story, is inconsistent with the historical character. I do 
 not say, that an historian is never to let himself down. He may some- 
 times do it with propriety, in order to diversify the strain of his narra- 
 tion, which, if it be perfectly uniform, is apt to become tiresome. But 
 he should be careful never to descend too far ; and, on occasions where 
 a light or ludicrous anecdote is proper to be recorded, it is generally 
 better to throw it into a note, than to hazard becoming too familiar, by 
 introducing it into the body of the work. 
 
 But an historian may profess these qualities of being perspicuous, 
 distinct, and grave, and may notwithstanding be a dull writer ; in which 
 case, we shall reap little benefit from his labours. We shall read him 
 without pleasure; or, most probably, we shall soon give over reading 
 him at all. He must therefore study to render his narration interesting ; 
 which is the quality that chiefly distinguishes a writer of genius and 
 eloquence. 
 
 Two things are especially conducive to this; the first is, a just medium 
 in the conduct of narration, between a rapid or crowded recital of facts, 
 and a prolix detail. The former embarrasses, and the latter tires us. 
 An historian that would interest us,'raust know when to be concise, and 
 where he ought to enlarge ; passing concisely over slight and unimpor- 
 tant events, but dwelling on such as are striking and considerable in their 
 nature, or pregnant with consequences ; preparing beforehand our at- 
 tention to them, and bringing them forth into the most full and conspicuous 
 light. The next thing he must attend to is a proper selection of the 
 
360 HISTORICAL WRITING. jLECT. XXXVf 
 
 circumstances belonging to those events which he chooses to relate fully. 
 General facts make a slight impression on the mind. It is by means of 
 circumstances and particulars properly chosen, that a narration becomes 
 interesting and affecting to the reader. These give life, body, and co- 
 louring to the recital of facts, and enable us to behold them as present, 
 and passing before our eyes. It is this employment of circumstances, 
 in narration, that is properly termed historical painting. 
 
 In all these virtues of narration, particularly in this last, of picturesque 
 descriptive narration, several of the ancient historians eminently excel. 
 Hence, the pleasure that is found in reading Herodotus, Thucydides, 
 Xenophon, Livy, Sallust, and Tacitus. They are all conspicuous for the 
 art of narration. Herodotus is, at all times, an agreeable writer, and 
 relates every thing with that naivete and simplicity of manner, which 
 never fails to interest the reader. Though the manner of Thucydides 
 be more dry and harsh, yet, on great occasions, as when he is giving an 
 account of the plague of Athens, the siege of Platasa, the seditions in 
 Corcyra, the defeat of the Athenians in Sicily, he displays a very strong 
 and masterly power of description. Xenophon's Cyropaedia, and his 
 Anabasis, or Retreat of the Ten Thousand, are extremely beautiful. 
 The circumstances are fineiy selected, and the narration is easy and en- 
 gaging ; but his Hellenics, or Continuation of the history of Thucydides, 
 is a much inferior work. Sallust's Art of Historical Painting in his Cati- 
 linarian, but more especially in his Jugurthine War, is well known ; 
 though his style is liable to censure as too studied and affected. 
 
 Livy is more unexceptionable in his manner : and is excelled by no 
 historian whatever in the art of narration ; several remarkable ex- 
 amples might be given from him. His account, for instance, of the 
 famous defeat of the Roman army by the Samnites, at the Furcas Can- 
 dinse, in the beginning of the ninth book, affords one of the most beau- 
 tiful exemplifications of historical painting, that is any where to be met 
 with. We have first, an exact description of the narrow pass between 
 two mountains, into which the enemy had decoyed the Romans. When 
 they find themselves caught, and no hope of escape left, we are made 
 to see, first, their astonishment, next their indignation, and then, their 
 dejection, painted in the most lively manner, by such circumstances and 
 actions as were natural to persons in their situation. The restless and 
 unquiet manner in which they pass the night ; the consultations of the 
 Samnites; the various measures proposed to be taken ; the messages 
 between the two armies, all heighten the scene. At length, in the 
 morning, the consuls return to the camp, and inform them they could 
 receive no other terms but that of surrendering their arms, and pass- 
 ing under the yoke, which was considered as the last mark of ignominy 
 for a conquered army. Part of what then follows, I shall give in the 
 author's own word?. " Redintegravit luctum in castris consulum ad- 
 ventus ; ut vix ab iis abstinerent manus, quorum temeritate in eum 
 locum deducti essent. Alii alios intueri, contemplari arma mox tradenda, 
 et inermes futuras dextras ; proponere sibimet ipsi ante oculos, jugum 
 hostile, et ludibria victoris, et vultus superbos, et per armatos-in- 
 ermium iter. Inde faedi agminis miserabilem viam ; per sociorum ur- 
 bes reditum in patriam ac parentes quo ssepe ipsi triumphantes venissent. 
 Se solos sine vulnere, sine ferro, sine acie victos ; sibi non stringere 
 licuisse gladios, non manum cum hoste conserere ; sibi nequicquam ar- 
 ifia, nequicquam vires, nequicquam animos datos. Hsec frementibus 
 
LECT. XXXVl] HISTORICAL WRITING S8I 
 
 hora fatalis ignominiae advenit. Jamprimum cum singulis vestimentis, 
 inermes extra vallum abire jussi. Turn a consulibus abire lictores jussi, 
 paludamentaque detracta. Tantam hoc inter ipsos, qui paulo ante eos 
 dedendos, lacerandosque censuerant, miseratkmem fecit, ut suae quisque 
 conditionis oblitus, ab ilia deformatione tantae majestatis, velut ab nefand© 
 spectaculo, averteret oculos. Primi consules, prope seminudi, sub 
 jugum missi," &c* The rest of the story, which it would be too long 
 to insert, is carried on with the same beauty, and full of picturesque 
 circumstances.! 
 
 Tacitus is another author eminent for historical painting, though in 
 a manner altogether different from that of Livy. Livy's descriptions 
 are more full, more plain, and natural j those of Tacitus consist in a 
 few bold strokes. He selects one or two remarkable circumstances, and 
 sets them before us in a strong, and, generally, in a new and uncommon 
 light. Such is the following picture of the situation of Rome, and of 
 the emperor Galba, when Otho was advancing against him : " Agebatur 
 buc illuc Galba, vario turbas fluctuantis impulsu, completis undiqueba- 
 silicis et templis lugubri prospectn. Neque populi aut plebis ulla 
 vox ; sed attoniti vultus, el converse ad omnia aures. Non tumultus* 
 
 * (i The arrival of the consols in the cainp, wrought up their passions to such a de- 
 gree, that they could scarcely abstain from laying violent hands on them, as by their 
 rashness they had been brought into this situation. They began to look on one an* 
 other j to cast a melancholy eye on their arms, which were now to be surrendered, 
 and on their right hands, which were to become defenceless. The yoke under which 
 they were to pass ; the scoffs of the conquerors : and their haughty looks, when dis- 
 armed and stripped, they should be led through the hostile lines : all rose before their 
 eyes. They then looked forward to the sad journey which awaited them, when 
 they were to pass as a vanquished and disgraced army through the territories of their 
 allies, by whom they had often been beheld returning in triumph to their families 
 and native land. They alone, they muttered to one another, without an engagement, 
 without a single blow, had been conquered. To their hard fate it fell, never to 
 have had it in their power to draw a sword, or to look an enemy in the face ; to 
 them only, arms, strength, and courage, had been given in vain. While they were 
 thus giving vent to their indignation, the fatal moment of their ignominy arrived* 
 First, they were all commanded to come forth from the camp, without armour, and 
 in a single garment. Next, orders are given, that, the consuls should be left 
 without their lictors, and that they should be stripped of their robes. Such com- 
 miseration did this affront excite among them, who, but a little before, had been for 
 delivering up those very consuls to the enemy, and for putting them to death, that 
 every one forgot his own condition, and turned his eyes aside from this infamous 
 disgrace, suffered by the consular dignity, as from a spectacle which was too detest- 
 able to be beheld. The consuls, almost half naked, were first made to pass unde'r 
 the yoke," &c. 
 
 t The description which Cassar gives of the consternation occasioned in his camp, 
 by the accounts which were spread among his troops, of the ferocity, the size, and 
 the courage of the Germans, affords an instance of historical painting, executed in a 
 simple manner; and, at the same time, exhibiting a natural and lively scene. " Dum 
 paucosdiesad Vesontionem moratur, ex percunctatione nostrorum,voscibusque Gaf- 
 lorum ac mercatorum, qui ingenti magnitudine corporum Germanos, incredibili vir- 
 tute, atque exercitatione in armis esse preedicabant ; saepe numero sese cum iis con- 
 gressos, ne vultum quidem atque aciem oculorura ferre potuisse > tantus subito terror 
 omnem exercitum occupavit, ut non mediocriter omnium mentes animosque pertur- 
 baret. Hie primum ortus est a tribur.is miiitum, ac praefectis, reliquisque qui ex urbe, 
 amicitia? causa, Caesarem secuti, suum periculum miserabantur, quod non magnum 
 in. re militari irsum habebant quorum alius, alia causa illata quam sibi ad proficiscen- 
 dum necessariam esse diceret, petebat ut ejus voluntate discedere liceret. Nonnulli 
 pudore adducti, ut timoris suspicionem vitarent ; remanebant. Hi neque vultum fin* 
 gere. neque interdum lacrymas tenere poterant. Abditi in tabernaculis aut suum 
 fatum querebantur, aut cum familiaribus suis, commune periculum miserabantur. 
 Vulgo, totis castris testamenta obsignabantur." De Bell. Gall, h I. 
 
 Z z 
 
302 HISTORICAL WRITING, ' [LECT. XXXVT 
 
 non quies ; sed quale magni metus, et magnse irae, silentium est."* No 
 image, in any poet, is more strong and expressive than this last stroke of 
 the description: " Non tumultus, non quies, sed quale," &.c. This is a 
 conception of the sublime kind, and discovers high genius. Indeed, 
 throughout all his work, Tacitus shows the hand of a master. As he is 
 profound in reflection, so he is striking in description, and pathetic in 
 sentiment. The philosopher, the poet, and the historian, all meet in 
 him. Though the period of which he writes may be reckoned unfor- 
 tunate for an historian, he has made it afford us many interesting exhi- 
 bitions of human nature. The relations which he gives of the deaths of 
 several eminent personages, are as affecting as the deepest tragedies. 
 He paints with a glowing pencil ; and possesses, beyond all writers, the 
 talent of painting, not to the imagination merely, but to the heart. With 
 many of the most distinguished beauties, he is, at the same time, not a 
 perfect model for history ; and such as have formed themselves upon 
 him, have seldom been successful. He is to be admired, rather than 
 imitated. In bis reflections, he is too refined; in his style, too concise, 
 sometimes quaint and affected, often abrupt and obscure. History seems 
 to require a more natural, flowing, and popular manner. 
 
 The ancients employed one embellishment of history which the mo- 
 derns have laid aside, I mean orations, which on weighty occasions, they 
 put into the mouths of some of their chief personages. By means of these, 
 they diversified their history ; they conveyed both moral and political 
 instruction ; and, by the opposite*arguments which were employed, they 
 gave us a view of the sentiments of different parties. Thucydides was 
 the first who introduced this method. ' The orations with which his 
 history abounds, and those too of some other Greek and Latin historians, 
 are among the most valuable remains which we have of ancient elo- 
 quence. How beautiful soever they are, it may be much questioned, I 
 think, whether they find a proper place in history. I am rather inclined 
 to think, that they are unsuitable to it. For they form a mixture which 
 is unnatural in history, of fiction with truth. We know that these ora- 
 tions are entirely of the author's own composition, and that he has intro- 
 duced some celebrated persons haranguing in a public place, purely that 
 he might have an opportunity of showing his own eloquence, or deli- 
 vering his own sentiments, under the name of that person. This is a 
 sort of poetical liberty which does not suit the gravity of history, through- 
 out which, an air of the strictest truth should always reign. Orations may 
 be an embellishment to history ; such might also poetical compositions 
 be, introduced under the name of some of the personages mentioned in 
 the narration, who were known to have possessed poetical talents. But 
 neither the one nor the other, finds a proper place in history. Instead 
 of inserting formal orations, the method adopted by later writers, seems 
 better and more natural; that of the historian, on some great occasion, 
 delivering, in his own person, the sentiments and reasonings of the op- 
 posite parties, or the substance of what was understood to be spoken in 
 some public assembly ; which he may do without the liberty of fiction. 
 
 The drawing of characters is one of the most splendid, and at the 
 
 ft M Galba was driven to and fro by the tide of the multitude, shoving him from 
 place to place. The temples and the public buildings were filled with crowds of a 
 dismal appearance. No clamours were heard, either from the citizens, or from the 
 rabble. Their countenances were filled with consternation : their ears were em- 
 ployed in listening with anxiety. It was not a tumult ; it was not quietness : it 
 was the sitemre of terror, and cf wrath*" 
 
£ECT. XXXVI] HISTORICAL WRTTINa ,36'3 
 
 same time, one of the most difficult ornaments of historical composition. 
 For characters are generally considered, as professed exhibitions of fine 
 writing ; and an historian, who seeks to shine in them, is frequently in 
 danger of carrying refinement to excess, from a desire of appearing very 
 profound and penetrating. He brings together so many contrasts, and 
 subtile oppositions of qualities, that we are rather dazzled with sparkling 
 expressions, than entertained with any clear conception of a human cha- 
 racter. A writer who would characterize in an instructive and masterly 
 manner, should be simple in his style, and should avoid all quaintness 
 and affectation ; at the same time, not contenting himself with giving us 
 general outlines only, but descending into those peculiarities which mark 
 a character, in its most strong and distinctive features. The Greek his- 
 torians sometimes give eulogiums, but rarely draw full and professed 
 characters. The two ancient authors who have laboured this part of 
 historical composition most, are Sallust and Tacitus. 
 
 As history is a species of writing designed for the instruction of man- 
 kind, sound morality should always reign in it. Both in describing cha- 
 racters, and in relating transactions, the author should always show him- 
 self to be on the side of virtue. To deliver moral instructions in a 
 formal manner, falls not within his province ; but both as a good man, 
 and as a good writer, we expect that he should discover sentiments of res- 
 pect for virtue, and an indignation at flagrant vice. To appear neutral 
 and indifferent with respect to good and bad characters, and to affect a 
 crafty and political, rather than a moral turn of thought,will, besides other 
 bad effects, derogate greatly from the weight of historical composition, 
 and will render the strain of it much more cold and uninteresting. We are 
 always most interested in the transactions which are going on, when our 
 sympathy is awakened by the story, and when we become engaged in 
 the fate of the actors. But this effect can never be produced by a wri- 
 ter, who is deficient in sensibility and moral feeling. 
 
 As the observations which I have hitherto made, have mostly respected 
 the ancient historians, it may naturally be expected that I should also take 
 some notice of the moderns who have excelled in this kind of writing. 
 
 The country in Europe, where the historical genius has, in later ages, 
 shone forth with most lustre, beyond doubt, is Italy. The national cha- 
 racter of the Italians seems favourable to it. They were always distin- 
 guished as an acute, penetrating, reflecting people, remarkable for politi- 
 cal sagacity and wisdom, and who early addicted themselves to the arts of 
 writing. Accordingly, soon after the restoration of letters, Machiavel, 
 Guicciardin, Davila, Bentivoglio, Father Paul,became highly conspicuous 
 for historical merit. They all appear to have conceived very just ideas 
 of history ; and are agreeable, instructive, and interesting writers. In 
 their manner of narration, they are much formed upon the ancients ; 
 some of them, as Bentivoglio and Guicciardin, have, in imitation of 
 them, introduced orations into their history. In the profoundness and 
 distinctness of their political views, they may, perhaps, be esteemed to 
 have surpassed the ancients. Critics have, at the same time, observed 
 some imperfections in each of them. Machiavel, in his history of 
 Florence, is not altogether so interesting as one would expect an au- 
 thor of his abilities to be ; either through his own defect, or through 
 some unhappiness in his subject, which led him into a very minute 
 detail of the intrigues of one city. Guicciardin, at all times sensible 
 and profound, is taxed for dwelling so long on the Tuscan affairs as to 
 be sometimes tedious : a defect which is also .imputed occasionally 
 
3&| HISTORICAL WKlXISe. rLEC3t\ XXXVf 
 
 to the judieious Father Paul. Bentivoglio, in his excellent history of the 
 wars of Flanders, is accused of approaching to the florid and pompous 
 manner : and Davila, though one of the most agreeable and entertain- 
 ing relaters, has manifestly this defect of spreading a sort of uniformity 
 over all his characters, by representing them as guided too regularly by 
 political interest. But, although some such objections may be made to 
 these authors, they deserve, upon the whole, to be placed in the first 
 rank of modern historical writers. The wars of Flanders, written in 
 Latin by Famianus Strada, is a book of some note ; but is not entitled to 
 the same reputation as the works of the other historians 1 have named. 
 Strada is too violently partial to the Spanish cause ; and too open a pa- 
 negyrist of the Prince of Parma. He is florid, diffuse, and an affected 
 imitator of the manner and style of Livy. 
 
 Among the French, as there has been much good writing in many 
 kinds, so also in the historical. That ingenious nation who have done 
 so much honour to modern literature, possesses, in an eminent degree, 
 the talent of narration. Many of their later historical writers are spirit- 
 ed, lively, and agreeable ; and some of them not deficient in profound- 
 ness and penetration. They have not, however, produced any such 
 capital historians as the Italians, whom I mentioned above. 
 
 Our island, till within these few years, was not eminent for its his- 
 torical productions. Early, indeed, Scotland made some figure by means 
 of the celebrated Buchanan. He is an elegant writer, classical in his 
 Latinity, and agreeable both in narration and description. But one can- 
 not but suspect him to be more attentive to elegance than to accuracy. 
 Accustomed to form his political notions wholly upon the plans of an- 
 cient governments, the feudal system seems never to have entered into 
 his thoughts ; and as this was the basis of the Scottish constitution, his 
 political views are of course inaccurate and imperfect. When he 
 comes to the transactions of his own times, there is such a change in 
 his manner of writing, and such an asperity in his style, that, on what 
 side soever the truth lies with regard to those dubious and long contro- 
 verted facts which make the subject of that part of his work, it is im- 
 possible to clear him from being deeply tinctured w.Hh the spirit of 
 party. 
 
 Amongthe older English historians, the most considerable is Lord Cla- 
 rendon. Though he writes as the professed apologist of one side, yet 
 there appears more impartiality in his relation of facts, than might at 
 first be expected. A great spirit of virtue and probity runs through 
 his work. He maintains all the dignity of an historian. His sentences, 
 indeed, are often too long, and his general manner is prolix ; but his 
 style, on the whole, is manry ; and his merit, as an historian, is much 
 beyond mediocrity. Bishop Burnet is lively and perspicuous ; but he 
 has hardly any other historical merit His style is too careless and fa- 
 miliar for history ; his characters are, indeed, marked with a bold and 
 strong hand ; but they are generally light and satirical ; and he abounds 
 so much in little stories concerning himself, that he resembles more a 
 writer of memoirs than of history. During a long period, English his- 
 torical authors were little more than dull compilers ; till of late the dis- 
 tinguished names of Hume, Robertson, and Gibbon, have raised the 
 British character, in this species of writing, to high reputation and dig- 
 nity. 
 
 I observed in the preceding lecture, that annals, memoirs, and lives, 
 are the inferior kinds of historical composition. It will be proper, be- 
 
LECT. XXXVl.j &ISTORIOAL WRITING, gg* 
 
 fore dismissing this subject, to make a few observations upon them, 
 Annals are commonly understood to signify a collection of facts, digest- 
 ed according to chronological order ; rather serving for the materials 
 of history, than aspiring to the name of history themselves. All that 
 is required, therefore, in a writer of such annals, is to be faithful, dis- 
 tinct, and complete. 
 
 Memoirs denote a sort of composition, in which an author does not 
 pretend to give full information of all the facts respecting the period of 
 which he writes, but only to relate what he himself had access to know, 
 or what he was concerned in, or what illustrates the conduct of some 
 person, or the circumstances of some transaction, which he chooses for 
 his subject. From a writer of memoirs, therefore, is not expected the 
 same profound research, or enlarged information, as from a writer of 
 history. He is not subject to the same laws of unvarying dignity and 
 gravity. He may talk freely of himself; he may descend into the most 
 familiar anecdotes. What is chiefly required of him is, that he be 
 sprightly and interesting ; and especially, that he inform us of things 
 that are useful and curious ; that he Convey to us some sort of know- 
 ledge worth the acquiring. This is a species of writing very bewitch- 
 ing to such as love to write concerning themselves, and conceive every 
 transaction, in which they had a share, to be of singular importance. 
 There is no wonder, therefore, that a nation so sprightly as the French, 
 should, for two centuries past, have been pouring forth a whole flood 
 of memoirs ; the greatest part of which are little more than agreeable 
 trifles. 
 
 Some, however, must be excepted from this general character : two 
 in particular ; the memoirs of the Cardinal de Retz, and those of the 
 Duke of Sully. From Retz's Memoirs, besides the pleasure of agree- 
 able and lively narration, we may derive also much instruction, and 
 much knowledge of human nature. Though his politics be often too 
 fine spun, yet the memoirs of a professed factious leader, such as 
 the Cardinal was, wherein he draws both his own character, and that 
 of several great personages, of his time, so fully, cannot be read by any 
 person of good sense without benefit. The Memoirs of the Duke of 
 Sully, in the state in which they are now given to the public, have great 
 merit, and deserve to be mentioned with particular praise. No memoirs 
 approach more nearly to the usefulness and the dignity of a full legiti- 
 mate history. They have this peculiar advantage, of giving us a beau- 
 tiful display of two of the most illustrious characters which history pre- 
 sents ; Sully himself, one of the ablest and most incorrupt ministers, and 
 Henry IV. one of the greatest and most amiable princes of modern times. 
 I know few books more full of virtue, and of good sense, than Sully's 
 Memoirs ; few, therefore, more proper to form both the heads and the 
 hearts of such as are designed for publicbusiness, and action in the world. 
 
 Biography, or the writing of lives, is a very useful kind of compo- 
 sition ; less formal and stately than history : but to the bulk of readers, 
 perhaps, no less instructive, as it affords them the opportunity of seeing 
 the characters and tempers, the virtues and failings of eminent men 
 fully displayed ; and admits them into a more thorough and intimate ac- 
 quaintance with such persons, than history generally allows. For a 
 writer of lives may descend, with propriety, to minute circumstances, 
 and familiar incidents. It is expected of him. that he is to give the pri- 
 vate, as well as the public life, of the person whose actions he records ; 
 nay, it is from private life, from familiar, domestic, and seemingly tri- 
 
366 PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING. jXECT. XXXVIt, 
 
 vial occurrences, that we often receive most light into the real character, 
 In this species of writing, Plutarch has no small merit ; and to him we 
 stand indebted for much of the knowledge that we possess, concerning 
 several of the most eminent personages of antiquity. His matter is, 
 indeed, better than his manner ; as he cannot lay claim to any peculiar 
 beauty or elegance. His judgment too, and his accuracy, have some- 
 times been taxed ; but whatever defects of this kind he may be liable to, 
 his lives of eminent men will always be considered as a valuable trea- 
 sure of instruction. He is remarkable for being one of the most humane 
 writers of all antiquity ; less dazzled than many of them are, with the 
 exploits of valour and ambition ; and fond of displaying his great men 
 to us, in the more gentle lights of retirement and private life. 
 
 1 cannot conclude the subject of history, without taking notice of a 
 very great improvement which has, of late years, begun to be introdu- 
 ced into historical composition ; 1 mean, a more particular attention than 
 was formerly given to laws, customs, commerce, religion, literature, 
 and every other thing that tends to show the spirit and genius of nations. 
 It is now understood to be the business of an able historian to exhibit 
 manners, as well as facts and events ; and assuredly, whatever displays 
 the state and life of mankind, in different periods, and illustrates the 
 progress of the human mind, is more useful and interesting than the de- 
 tail of sieges and battles. The person, to whom we are most indebted 
 for the introduction of this improvement into history, is the celebrated 
 M. Voltaire, whose genius has shone with such surprising lustre, in so 
 many different parts of literature. His age of Louis XIV. was one of 
 the first great productions in this taste ; and soon drew throughout all 
 Europe, that general attention, and received that high approbation, which 
 so ingenious and eloquent a production merited. His essay on fhe ge- 
 neral history of Europe, since the days of Charlemagne, is not to be 
 considered either as a history, or the proper plan of an historical work ; 
 but only as a series of observations on the chief events that have hap- 
 pened throughout several centuries, and on the changes that succes- 
 sively took place in the spirit and manners of different nations. Though-, 
 in some dates and facts, it may, perhaps, be inaccurate, and is tinged 
 with those particularities which unhappily distinguish Voltaire's manner 
 of thinking on religious subjects, yet it contains so many enlarged and 
 instructive views as justly to merit the attention of all who either read 
 or write the history of those ages. 
 
 LECTURE XXXVII. 
 
 PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING— DIALOGUE— EPISTOLARY WRITING- 
 FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 
 
 As history is both a very dignified species of composition, and, by 
 the regular form which it assumes, falls directly under the laws of criti- 
 cism, I discoursed of it fully in the two preceding lectures. The re- 
 maining species of composition, in prose, afford less room for critical 
 observation. 
 
LkCT. ^XXVII.] PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING. 3^7 
 
 Philosophical writing, for instance, will not lead us into any long 
 discussion. As the professed object of philosophy is to convey instruc- 
 tion, and as they who study it are supposed to do so for instruction, not 
 for entertainment, the style, the form and dress of such writings, are 
 less material objects. They are objects, however, that must not be 
 wholly neglected. He who attempts to instruct mankind, without study- 
 ing, at the same time, to engage their attention, and to interest them in 
 his subject by his manner of exhibiting it, is not likely to prove success- 
 ful. The same truths and reasonings delivered in a dry and cold man- 
 ner, or with a proper measure of elegance and beauty, will make very 
 different impressions on the minds of men. 
 
 It is manifest, that every philosophical writer must study the utmost 
 perspicuity; and, by reflecting on what was formerly delivered on the 
 subject of perspicuity, with respect both to single words, and the con- 
 struction of sentences, we may be convinced that this is a study which 
 demands considerable attention to the rules of style and good writing. 
 Beyond mere perspicuity, strict accuracy and precision are required in 
 a philosophical writer. He must employ no words of uncertain mean- 
 ing, no loose or indeterminate expressions; and should avoid using words 
 which are seemingly synonymous, without carefully attending to the va- 
 riation which they make upon the idea. 
 
 To be clear and then precise, is one requisite which we have a title 
 to demand from every philosophical writer. He may possess this qua- 
 lity, and be, at the same time, a very dry writer. He should therefore 
 study some degree of embellishment, in order to render his composition 
 pleasiug and graceful. One of the most agreeable, and one of the most 
 useful embellishments which a philosopher can employ, consists in 
 illustrations taken from historical facts, and the characters of men. 
 All moral and political subjects naturally afford scope for these ; and 
 wherever there is room for employing them, they seldom fail of pro- 
 ducing a happy effect. They diversify the composition ; they relieve 
 the mind from the fatigue of mere reasoning, and at the same time raise 
 more full conviction than any reasonings produce : for they take phi- 
 losophy out of the abstract, and give weight to speculation, by showing 
 its connexion with real life, and the actions of mankind. 
 
 Philosophical writing admits, besides a polished, a neat and elegant 
 style. It admits of metaphors, comparisons, and all the calm figures 
 of speech, by which an author may convey his sense to the under- 
 standing with clearness and force, at the same time that he entertains 
 the imagination. He must take great care, however, that all his orna- 
 ments be of the chastest kind, never partaking of the florid or the tumid ; 
 which is so unpardonable in a professed philosopher, that it is much bet- 
 ter for him to err on the side of naked simplicity, than on that of too 
 much ornament. Some of the ancients, as Plato and Cicero, have left 
 us philosophical treatises composed with much elegance and beauty. 
 Seneca has been long and justly censured for the affectation that appears 
 in his style. He is too fond of a certain brilliant and sparkling manner; 
 of antithesis and quaint sentences. It cannot be denied, at the same 
 time, that he often expresses himself with much liveliness and force ; 
 though his style, upon the whole, is far from deserving imitation. In 
 English, Mr. Locke's celebrated Treatise on Human Understanding, may 
 be pointed out as a model, on the one hand, of the greatest clearness 
 and distinctness of philosophical style, with very little approach to or 
 
3Q& DIALOGUE. [LECT. XXXVih 
 
 nament ; Lord Shaftesbury's writings, on the other hand, exhibit philo- 
 sophy dressed up with all the ornament which it can admit ; perhaps 
 with more than is perfectly suited to it. 
 
 Philosophical composition sometimes assumes a form under which it 
 mingles more with works of taste, when carried on in the way of dia- 
 logue and conversation. Under this form the ancients have given us 
 some of their chief philosophical works ; and several of the moderns 
 have endeavoured to imitate them. Dialogue writing may be executed 
 in two ways, either as direct conversation, where none but the speakers 
 appear, which is the method that Plato uses, or as the recital of a con- 
 versation, where the author himself appears, and gives an account of 
 what passed in discourse ; which is the method that Cicero generally 
 follows. But though those different methods make some variation in 
 the form, yet the nature of the compositions is at bottom the same in 
 both, and subject to the same laws. 
 
 A dialogue, in one or other of these forms, on some philosophical, 
 moral, or critical subject, when it is well conducted, stands in a high 
 rank among the works of taste ; but it is much more difficult in the exe- 
 cution than is commonly imagined. For it requires more than merely 
 the introduction of different persons speaktngin succession. It ought to 
 be a natural and spirited representation of real conversation ; exhibit- 
 ing the character and manners of the several speakers, and suiting to 
 the character of each, that peculiarity of thought and expression which 
 distinguishes him from another. A dialogue, thus conducted, gives the 
 reader a very agreeable entertainment ; as by means of the debate go- 
 ing on among the personages, he receives a fair and full view of both 
 sides of the argument ; and is at the same time amused with polite con- 
 versation, and with a display of consistentand well-supported characters. 
 An author, therefore, who has genius for executing such a composition 
 after this manner, has it in his power both to instruct and to please. 
 
 But the greatest part of modern dialogue writers have no idea of any 
 composition of this sort ; and bating the outward forms of conversa- 
 tions, and that one speaks and another answers, it is quite the same, as 
 if the author spoke in person throughout the whole. He sets up a Phi- 
 lotheus, perhaps, and a Philatheos, or an A and a B; who, after mutual 
 compliments, and after admiring the fineness of the morning or even- 
 ing, and the beauty of the prospects around them, enter into conference 
 concerning some great matter ; and all that we know farther of them 
 is, that the one personates the author, a man of learning, no doubt, and 
 of good principles ; and the other is a man of straw, set up to propose 
 some trivial objections; over which the first gains a most entire triumph; 
 and leaves his sceptical antogonist at the end much humbled, and 
 generally, convinced of his error. This is a very frigid and insipid 
 manner of writing ; the more so, as it is an attempt toward some- 
 thing, which we see the author cannot support. It is the form, without 
 the spirit of conversation. The dialogue serves no purpose, but to 
 make awkward interruptions ; and we should with more patience hear 
 the author continuing always to reason himself, and to remove the ob- 
 jections that are made to his principles, than be troubled with the un- 
 meaning appearance of two persons, whom we see to be in reality no 
 more than one. 
 
 Among the ancients, Plato is eminent for the beauty of his dialogues. 
 The scenery, aad the circumstances of many of them, are beautifully 
 
LECT. XXXV1L] ^EPISTOLARY WRITING. 3^9 
 
 painted. The characters of the sophists, with whom Socrates disputed, 
 are well drawn : a variety of personages are exhibited to us ; we are 
 introduced into a real conversation, often supported with much life and 
 spirit, after the Socratic manner. For richness and beauty of imagina- 
 tion, no philosophical writer, ancient or modern, is comparable to Plato. 
 The only fault of his imagination is, such an excess of fertility as allows 
 it sometimes to obscure his judgment. It frequently carries him into 
 allegory, fiction, enthusiasm, and the airy regions of mystical theology. 
 The philosopher is, at times, lost in the poet. But whether we be edi- 
 fied with the matter or not, (and much edification he often affords) we 
 are always entertained with the manner ; and left with a strong impres- 
 sion of the sublimity of the author's genius. 
 
 Cicero's dialogues, or those recitals of conversations, which he has 
 introduced into several of his philosophical and critical works, are not 
 so spirited, nor so characteristical, as those of Plato. Yet some, as that 
 " De Oratore" especially, are agreeable and well supported. They 
 show us conversation carried on among some of the principal persons of 
 ancient Rome, with freedom, good breeding, and dignity. The author 
 of the elegant dialogue, Ci De Causis Corruptae Eloquential," which is 
 annexed sometimes to the works of Quintilian, and sometimes to those 
 of Tacitus, has happily imitated, perhaps has excelled, Cicero, in this 
 manner of writing. 
 
 Lucian is a dialogue writer of much eminence ; though his subjects 
 are seldom such as can entitle him to be ranked among philosophical 
 authors. He has given the model of the light and humorous dialogue, 
 and has carried it to great perfection. A character of levity, and at the 
 same time of wit and penetration, distinguishes all his writings. His 
 great object was, to expose the follies of superstition, and the pedantry 
 of philosophy, which prevailed in his age ; and he could not have taken 
 any more successful method for this end, than what he has employed 
 in his dialogues, especially in those of the gods and of the dead, which 
 are full of pleasantry and satire. In this invention of dialogues of the 
 dead, he has been followed by several modern authors. Fontenelle, 
 in particular, has given us dialogues of this sort, which are sprightly 
 and agreeable ; but as for characters, whoever his personages be, they 
 all become Frenchmen in his hands. Indeed, few things in composition 
 are more difficult, than in the course of a moral dialogue, to exhibit 
 characters properly distinguished ; as calm conversation furnishes none 
 of those assistances for bringing characters into light, which the active 
 scenes, and interesting situations of the drama afford. Hence, few au- 
 thors are eminent for characteristical dialogue on grave subjects. One 
 of the most remarkable in the English language, is a writer of the last 
 age, Dr. Henry More, in his divine dialogues, relating to the foundation 
 of natural religion. Though his style be now in some measure obsolete, 
 and his speakers be marked with the academic stiffness of those times, 
 yet the dialogue is animated by a variety of character, and a sprightli- 
 ness of conversation, beyond what are commonly met with in writings 
 of this kind. Bishop Berkeley's dialogues concerning the existence of 
 matter, do not attempt any display of characters ; but furnish an instance 
 of a very abstract subject, rendered clear and intelligible by means of 
 conversation properly managed. 
 
 I proceed next to make some observations on epistolary writing which 
 possesses a kind of middle place between the serious and amusing spe- 
 
 A a a 
 
370 irPiSTOIiARY WAITING. [LECT. XXXVIL 
 
 cies of composition. Epistolary writing appears, at first view, to stretch 
 into a very wide field. For there is no subject whatever, on which one 
 may not convey his thoughts to the public in the form of a letter. Lord 
 Shaftesbury, for instance, Mr. Harris, and several other writers, have 
 chosen to give this form to philosophical treatises. But this is not suffi- 
 cient to class such treatises under the head of epistolary composition. 
 Though they hear, in the title page, a letter to a friend, after the first 
 address, the friend disappears, and we see, that it is, in truth, the public 
 with whom the author corresponds. Seneca's epistles are of this sort. 
 There is no probability that they ever passed in correspondence, as 
 real letters. They are no other than miscellaneous dissertations on 
 moral subjects ; which the author, for his convenience, chose to put into 
 the epistolary form. Even where one writes a real letter on some for- 
 mal topic, as of moral or religious consolation to a person under distress, 
 such as Sir William Temple has written to the countess of Essex on the 
 death of her daughter, he is at liberty, on such occasions, to write wholly 
 as a divine or as a philosopher, and to assume the style and manner of 
 one, without reprehension. We consider the author not as writing a 
 letter, but as composing a discourse, suited particularly to the circum- 
 stances of some one person. 
 
 Epistolary writing becomes a distinct species of composition, subject 
 to the cognizance of criticism only, or chiefly, when it is of the easy 
 and familiar kind ; when it is conversation carried on upon paper, be- 
 tween two friends at a distance. Such an intercourse, when well con- 
 ducted, may be rendered very agreeable to readers of taste. If the 
 subject of the letters be important, they will be the more valuable. Even 
 though there should be nothing very considerable in the subject, yet, 
 if the spirit and turn of the correspondence be agreeable ; if they be 
 written in a sprightly manner, and with native grace and ease, they may 
 still be entertaining ; more especially if there be any thing to interest 
 us, in the characters of those who write them. Hence the curiosity 
 which the public has always discovered, concerning the letters of emi- 
 nent persons. We expect in them to discover somewhat of their real 
 character. It is childish indeed to expect, that in letters we are to 
 find the whole heart of the author unveiled. Concealment and disguise 
 take place, more or less, in all human intercourse. But still, as letters 
 from one friend to another make the nearest approach to conversation, 
 we may expect to see more of a character displayed in these than in 
 other productions, which are studied for public view. We please our- 
 selves with beholding the writer in a situation which allows him to be 
 at his ease, and to give vent occasionally to the overflowings of his heart. 
 
 Much, therefore, of the merit, and the agreeableness of epistolary 
 writing, will depend on its introducing us into some acquaintance with 
 the writer. There, if any where, we look for the man, not for the 
 author. Its first and fundamental requisite is, to be natural and simple ; 
 for a stiff and laboured manner is as bad in a letter, as it is in conversa- 
 tion. This does not banish sprightliness and wit. These are graceful 
 in letters, just as they are in conversation : when they flow easily, and 
 without being studied ; when employed so as to season, not to cloy. One 
 who, either in conversation or in letters, affects to shine and to sparkle 
 always, will not please long. The style of letters should not be too 
 highly polished. It ought to be neat and correct, but no more. All 
 mcety about words, betrays study : and hence musical periods, and ap- 
 
' 
 
 LECT. XXXVIL] EPISTOLARY WRITING. £71 
 
 „ pearances of number and harmony in arrangement, should be carefully 
 avoided in letters. The best letters are commonly such as the authors 
 have written with most facility. What the heart or the imagination dic- 
 tates, always flows readily; but where there is no subject to warm or in- 
 terest these, constraint appears ; and hence, those letters of mere com- 
 pliment, congratulation, or affected condolence, which have cost the 
 authors most labour in composing, and which, for that reason, they per- 
 haps consider as their master-pieces, never fail of being the most disa- 
 greeable and insipid to the readers. 
 
 It ought, at the same time, to be remembered, that the ease and sim- 
 plicity which I have recommended in epistolary correspondence, are 
 not to be understood as importing entire carelessness. In writing to the 
 most intimate friend, a certain degree of attention, both to the subject 
 and the style, is requisite and becoming. It is no more than what we 
 owe both to ourselves, and to the friend with whom we correspond. A 
 slovenly and negligent manner of writing, is a disobliging mark of want 
 of respect. The liberty, besides, of writing letters with too careless 
 a hand, is apt to betray persons into imprudence in what they write. 
 The first requisite both in conversation and correspondence, is to attend 
 to all the proper decorums which our own character, and that of others 
 demand. An imprudent expression in conversation may be forgotten 
 and pass away ; but when we take the pen into our hand, we must re- 
 member, that " Litera scripta manet." 
 
 Pliny's letters are one of the most celebrated collections which the 
 ancients have given us, in the epistolary way. They are elegant and 
 polite ; and exhibit a very pleasing and amiable view of the author. 
 But, according to the vulgar phrase, they smell too much of the lamp. 
 They are too elegant and fine ; and it is not easy to avoid thinking, that 
 the author is casting an eye towards the public, when he is appearing to 
 write only for his friends. Nothing indeed is more difficult than for an 
 author who publishes his own letters, to divest himself altogether of 
 attention to the opinion of the world in what he says ; by which means 
 he becomes much less agreeable than a man of parts would be, if without 
 any constraint of this sort he were writing to his intimate friend. 
 
 Cicero's epistles, though not so showy as those of Pliny, are on several 
 accounts, a far more valuable collection ; indeed, the most valuable col- 
 lection of letters extant in any language. They are letters of real busi- 
 ness, written to the greatest men of the age, composed with purity and 
 elegance, but without the least affectation; and, what adds greatly to their 
 merit, written without any intention of being published to the world. 
 For it appears, that Cicero never kept copies of his own letters ; and we 
 are wholly indebted to the care of his freed-man Tyro, for the large 
 collection that was made after his death, of those which are now extant, 
 amounting to near a thousand.* They contain the most authentic mate- 
 rials of the history of that age : and are the last monuments which remain 
 of Rome in its free state ; the greatest part of them being written during 
 that important crisis, when the republic was on the point of ruin ; the 
 most interesting situation, perhaps, whichis to be found in the affairs of 
 mankind. To his intimate friends, especially to Atticus, Cicero lays open 
 
 * See his letter to Atticus, which was written a year or two before his death, in 
 which he tells him, in answer to some inquiries concerning his epistles, that he had 
 no collection of them, and that Tvro had only about seventy of them. 
 
 Ad, Att 16. 5. 
 
37£ EPISTOLARY WRJTijSG. JXECT. XXXVI! 
 
 himself and his heart, with entire freedom. In the course of his corres- 
 pondence with others, we are introduced into acquaintance with several 
 of the principal personages of Rome ; and it is remarkable that most of 
 Cicero's correspondents, as well as himself, are elegant and polite 
 writers : which serves to heighten our idea of the taste and manners of 
 that age. 
 
 The most distinguished collection of letters in the English language, is 
 that of Mr. Pope, Dean Swift, and their friends ; partly published in 
 Mr. Pope's works, and parly in those of Dean Swift. This collection 
 is, on the whole, an entertaining and agreeable one ; and contains much 
 wit and ingenuity. It is not, however, altogether free from the fault 
 which 1 imputed to Pliny's epistles, of too much study and refinement. 
 In the variety of letters from different persons, contained in that collec- 
 tion, we find many that are written with ease, and a beautiful simplicity. 
 Those of Dr. Arbuthnot, in particular, always deserve that praise. 
 Dean Swift's also are unaffected ; and as a proof of their being so, they 
 exhibit his character fully, with all its defects ; though it were to be 
 wished, for the honour of his memory, that his epistolary correspondence 
 had not been drained to the dregs, by so many successive publications, 
 as have been given to the world. Several of Lord Bolingbroke's and of 
 Bishop Atterbury's letters, are masterly. The censure of writing letters 
 in too artificial a manner, falls heaviest on Mr. Pope himself. There is 
 visibly more study, and less of nature and the heart in his letters, than 
 in those of some of his correspondents. He had formed himself on the 
 manner of Voiture, and is too fond of writing like a wit. His letters to 
 ladies are full of affectation. Even in writing to his friends, how forced 
 an introduction is the following of a letter to Mr. Addison ; " I am more 
 joyed at your return, than I should be at that of the sun, as much as I 
 wish for him in this melancholy wet season ; but it is his fate too, like 
 yours, to be displeasing to owls and obscene animals, who cannot bear 
 his lustre." How stiff a compliment it is which he pays to Bishop Atter- 
 bury ! " Though the noise and daily bustle for the public be now over, 
 I dare say, you are still tendering its welfare ; as the sun in winter, when 
 seeming to retire from the world, is preparing warmth and benedictions 
 for a better season." This sentence might be tolerated in a harangue ; 
 but is very unsuitable to the style of one friend corresponding with 
 another. 
 
 The gayety and vivacity of the French genius appear to much advantage 
 in their letters, and have given birth to several agreeable publications. 
 In the last age, Balzac and Voiture were the two most celebrated episto- 
 lary writers. Balzac's reputation indeed soon declined, on account of 
 his swelling periods and pompous style. But Voiture continued long a 
 favourite author. His composition is extremely sparkling ; he shows a 
 great deal of wit, and can trifle in the most entertaining manner. His 
 only fault is, that he is too open and professed a wit to be thoroughly 
 agreeable as a letter writer. The letters of Madame de Sevigne are now 
 esteemed the most accomplished model of a familiar correspondence. 
 They turn indeed very much upon trifles, the incidents of the day, and 
 the news of the town, and they are overloaded with extravagant compli- 
 ments, and expressions of fondness to her favourite daughter ; but withal 
 they show such perpetual sprightliness, they contain such easy and varied 
 narration, and so many strokes of the most lively and beautiful painting, 
 perfectly free from any affectation, that they are justly entitled to high 
 
LECX. XXXVII.j FICTITIOUS HISTORY, 373 
 
 praise. The letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montague are not unworthy 
 of being named after those of Mad. de Sevigue. They have much of 
 the French ease and vivacity ; and retain more the character of agree- 
 able epistolary style, than perhaps any letters which have appeared in 
 the English language. 
 
 There remains to be treated of, another species of composition in - 
 prose, which comprehends a very numerous, though in general, a very 
 insignificant class of writings, known by the name of romances and 
 novels. These may, at first view, seem too insignificant to deserve 
 that any particular notice should be taken of them. But I cannot be of 
 this opinion. Mr. Fletcher of Salton, in one of his tracts, quotes it as 
 the saying of a wise man, that give him the making of all the ballads of 
 a nation, he would allow any one that pleased to make their laws. The 
 saying was founded on reflection and good sense, and applies to the sub- 
 ject now before us. For any kind of writing, how trifling soever in ap- 
 pearance, that obtains a general currency, and especially that early pre- 
 occupies the imagination of the youth of both sexes, must demand par- 
 ticular attention. Its influence is likely to be considerable, both on the 
 morals and taste of a nation. 
 
 In fact, fictitious histories might be employed for very useful purpo- 
 ses. They furnish one of the best channels for conveying instruction, 
 for painting human life and manners, for showing the errors into which 
 we are betrayed by our passions, for rendering virtue amiable and vice 
 odious. The effect of well-contrived stories, towards accomplishing 
 these purposes, is stronger than any effect that can be produced by sim- 
 ple and naked instruction ; and hence we find, that the wisest men in all 
 ages, have more or less employed fables and fictions, as the vehicles of 
 knowledge. These have ever been the basis of both epic and dramatic 
 poetry. It is not, therefore, the nature of this sort of writing consider- 
 ed in itself, but the faulty manner of its execution, that can expose it to 
 any contempt. Lord Bacon takes notice of our taste for fictitious histo- 
 ry, as a proof of the greatness and dignity of the human mind. He ob- 
 serves very ingeniously, that the objects of this world, and the common 
 train of affairs which we behold going on in it, do not fill the mind, nor 
 give it entire satisfaction. We seek for something that shall expand the 
 mind in a greater degree : we seek for more heroic and illustrious 
 deeds, for more diversified and surprising events, for a more 
 splendid order of things, a more regular and just distribution of rewards 
 and punishments than what we find here ; because we meet not with 
 these in true history, we have recourse to fictitious. We create worlds 
 according to our fancy, in order to gratify our capacious desires : 
 " Accommodando," says that great philosopher, " rerun) simulachra ad 
 animi desideria, non submittendo animum rebus, quod ratio, et his- 
 toria."* Let us then, since the subject wants neither dignity nor use, 
 make a few observations on the rise and progress of fictitious history, 
 and the different forms it has assumed in different countries. 
 
 In all countries we find its origin very ancient. The genius of the 
 eastern nations, in particular, was from the earliest times much turned 
 towards invention, and the love of fiction. Their divinity, their philo- 
 sophy, and their politics, were clothed in tables and parables. The 
 Indians, the Persians, and Arabians, were all famous for their tales. 
 
 * " Accommodating the appearances of things to the desires of the mind, not- 
 bringing down the mind, as history and philosophy do, to the course of event?" 
 
,374 FICTITIOUS HISTORY, [LECT. XXXVNL 
 
 The " Arabian Night's Entertainments" are the production of a roman- 
 tic invention, but of a rich and amusing imagination ; exhibiting a singu- 
 lar and curious display of manners and characters, and beautified with 
 a very humane morality. Among the ancient Greeks, we hear of the 
 Ionian and Milesian Tales ; but they have now perished, and, from any 
 account that we have of them, appear to have been of the loose and 
 wanton kind. Some fictitious histories yet remain, that were composed 
 during the decline of the Roman Empire, by Apuleius, Achilles Tatius, 
 and Heliodorus, bishop of Trica, in the fourth century ; but none of 
 them are considerable enough to merit particular criticism. 
 
 During the dark ages, this sort of writing assumed a new and very 
 singular form, and for a long while made a great figure in the world. 
 The martial spirit of those nations, among whom the feudal government 
 prevailed ; the establishment of single combat, as an allowed method 
 of deciding causes both of justice and honour ; the appointment of 
 champions in the cause of women, who could not maintain their own 
 rights by the sword ; together with the institution of military tourna- 
 ments, in which different kingdoms vied with one another, gave rise, in 
 those times, to that marvellous system of chivalry, which is one of the 
 most singular appearances in the history of mankind. Upon this were 
 founded those romances of knight-errantry, which carried an ideal 
 chivalry to a still more extravagant height than it had risen in fact. 
 There was displayed in them a new and very wonderful sort of world, 
 hardly bearing any resemblance to the world in which we dwell. Not 
 only knights setting forth to redress all manner of wrongs, but in every 
 page, magicians, dragons, and giants, invulnerable men, winged horses, 
 enchanted armour, and enchanted castles ; adventures absolutely incre- 
 dible, yet suited to the gross ignorance of these ages, and to the legends, 
 and superstitious notions concerning magic and necromancy, which then 
 prevailed. This merit they had, of being writings of the highly moral 
 and heroic kind. Their knights were patterns, not of courage merely, but 
 of religion, generosity, courtesy, and fidelity ; and the heroines were no 
 less distinguished for modesty, delicacy, and the utmost dignity of man- 
 ners. 
 
 These were the first compositions that received the name of roman- 
 ces. The origin of this name is traced by Mr. Huet, the learned Bishop 
 of Avranche, to the Provencal Troubacloures, a sort of story-tellers 
 and bards in the county of Provence, where there subsisted some remains 
 of literature and poetry. The language which prevailed in that coun- 
 try was a mixture of Latin and Gallic, called the Roman or Romance 
 language ; and their stories being written in that language, hence, it is 
 £aid, the name of Romance, which we now apply to all fictitious com- 
 position. 
 
 The earliest of those romances is that which goes under the name of 
 Turpin, the archbishop of Rheims, written in the 11th century. The 
 subject is, the achievements of Charlemagne and his Peers, or Paladins, 
 in driving the Saracens out of France and part of Spain ; the same sub- 
 ject which Ariosto has taken for his celebrated poem of Orlando Furioso, 
 which is truly a chivalry romance, as extravagant as any of the rest, 
 but partly heroic, and partly comic, embellished with the highest graces 
 of poetry. The Romance of Turpin was followed by Amadis de Gaul, 
 and many more of the same stamp. The Crusades both furnished new 
 matter, and increased the spirit for such writings ; the Christians against 
 

 LECP. XXXVII.] FICTITIOUS HISTORY, 375 
 
 the Saracens made the common groundwork of them ; and from the 1 1th 
 to the 16th century, they continued to bewitch all Europe. In Spain, 
 where the taste for this sort of writing had been most greedily caught, 
 the ingenious Cervantes, in the beginning of the 16th century, con- 
 tributed greatly to explode it ; and the abolition of tournaments, the 
 prohibition of single combat, the disbelief of magic and enchantments, 
 and the change in general of manners throughout all Europe, began to 
 give a new turn to fictitious composition. 
 
 Then appeared the Astraea of D'urfc, the Grand Cyrus, the Clelia 
 and Cleopatra of Mad. Scuderi, the Arcadia of Sir Philip Sidney, and 
 other grave and stately compositions in the same style. These may be 
 considered as forming the second stage of romance writing. The hero- 
 ism and the gallantry, the moral and virtuous turn of the chivalry ro- 
 mance, was still preserved ; but the dragons, the necromancers, and 
 the enchanted castles, were banished, and some small resemblance to 
 human nature was introduced. Still, however, there was too much of 
 the marvellous in them to please an age which now aspired to refinement. 
 The characters were discerned to be strained ; the style to be swoln ; 
 the adventures incredible ; the books themselves were voluminous and 
 tedious. 
 
 Hence, this sort of composition soon assumed a third form, and from 
 magnificent heroic romance, dwindled down to the familiar novel. These 
 novels, both in France and England, during the age of Lewis XIV. and 
 King Charles II. were in general of a trifling nature, without the ap- 
 pearance of moral tendency, or useful instruction. Since that time, 
 however, somewhat better has been attempted, and a degree of reforma- 
 tion introduced into the spirit of novel writing. Imitations of life and 
 character have been made their principal object. Relations have been 
 professed to be given of the behaviour of persons in particular interest- 
 ing situations, such as may actually occur in life ; by means of which, 
 what is laudable or defective in character and conduct, may be pointed 
 out, and be placed in a useful light. Upon this plan, the French have 
 produced some compositions of considerable merit. Gil Bias, by Le Sage, 
 is a book full of good sense, and instructive knowledge of the world. 
 The works of Maurivaux, especially his Marianne, discover great re- 
 finement of thought, great penetration into human nature, and paint, 
 with a very delicate pencil, some of the nicest shades and features in 
 the distinction of characters. The Nouvelle Heloise of Rousseau is a 
 production of a very singular kind ; in many of the events which are 
 related, improbable and unnatural ; in some of the details tedious, and 
 for some of the scenes w hich are described justly blameable ; but withal, 
 for the power of eloquence, for tenderness of sentiment, for ardour 
 of passion, entitled to rank among the highest productions of fictitious 
 history. 
 
 In this kind of writing we are, it must be confessed, in Great Britain, 
 inferior to the French. We neither relate so agreeably nor draw cha- 
 racters with so much delicacy ; yet we are not without some perform- 
 ances which discover the strength of the British genius. No fiction, in 
 any language, was ever better supported than the adventures of Robin- 
 son Crusoe. While it is carried on with that appearance of truth and 
 simplicity, which takes a strong hold of the imagination of all readers, 
 it suggests, at the same time, very useful instruction ; by showing how 
 much the native powers of man may be exerted for surmounting the 
 
37$ ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF POETRY. [LECT. XXXVI II, 
 
 difficulties of any external situation. Mr. Fielding's novels are highly 
 distinguished for their humour ; a humour which, if not of the most re- 
 fined and delicate kind, is original, and peculiar to himself. The cha- 
 racters which he draws are lively and natural, and marked with the 
 strokes of a bold pencil. The general scope of his stories is favourable 
 to humanity and goodness of heart ; and in Tom Jones, his greatest 
 work, the artful conduct of the fable, and the subserviency of all the 
 incidents to the windiug up of the whole, deserve much praise. The 
 most moral of all our novel writers, is Richardson, the author of Cla- 
 rissa, a writer of excellent intentions, and of very considerable capacity 
 and genius ; did he not possess the unfortunate talent of spinning out 
 pieces of amusement into an immeasurable length. The trivial per- 
 formances which daily appear in public under the title of Lives, Adven- 
 tures, and Histories, by anonymous authors, if they be often innocent, 
 yet are most commonly insipid ; and though in the general it ought to be 
 admitted that characleristical novels, formed upon nature and upon life, 
 without extravagance, and without licentiousness, might furnish an agree- 
 able and useful entertainment to the mind ; yet according as these wri- 
 tings have been, for the most part conducted, it must also be confess- 
 ed that they oftener tend to dissipation and idleness, than to any good pur- 
 pose. Let us now, therefore, make our retreat from theee regions of 
 fiction. 
 
 LECTURE XXXVIII. 
 
 NATURE OF POETRY— ITS ORIGIN AND PROGRESS- 
 VERSIFICATION. 
 
 I have now finished my observations on the different kinds of wri- 
 ting in prose. What remains is, to treat of poetical composition. Be- 
 fore entering on the consideration of any of its particular kinds, I de- 
 sign this lecture as an introduction to the subject of poetry in general .; 
 wherein I shall treat of its nature, give an account of its rise and origin, 
 and make some observations on versification, or poetical numbers. 
 
 Our first inquiry must be, what is poetry ? and wherein does it dif- 
 fer from prose ? The answer to this question is not so easy as might 
 at first be imagined ; and critics have differed and disputed much, con- 
 cerning the proper definition of poetry. Some have made its essence 
 to consist in fiction, and support their opinion by the authority of Aris- 
 totle and Plato. But this is certainly too limited a definition ; for though 
 fiction may have a great share in many poetical compositions, yet many 
 subjects of poetry may not be feigned ; as where the poet describes objects 
 which actually exist, or pours forth the real sentiments of his own heart. 
 Others have made the characteristic of poetry to lie in imitation. But 
 this is altogether loose : for several other arts imitate as well as poetry ; 
 and an imitation of human manners and characters, may be carried on in 
 the humblest prose, no less than in the more lofty poetic strain. 
 
 The most just and comprehensive definition which, I think, can be 
 
'LECT. XXXVIH] ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF POETRY. 37; 
 
 given of poetry, is, " That it is the language of passion, or of enliven- 
 ed imagination, formed, most commonly, into regular numbers." The 
 historian, the orator, the philosopher, address themselves, for the most 
 part, primarily to the understanding : their direct aim is to inform, to 
 persuade, or to instruct. But the primary aim of a poet is to please 
 and to move ; and, therefore, it is to the imagination, and the passions, 
 that he speaks. He may, and he ought to have it in his view, to in- 
 struct, and to reform ; but it is indirectly, and by pleasing and moving, 
 that he accomplishes this end. His mind is supposed to be animated by 
 some interesting object which fires his imagination, or engages his pas* 
 sions ; and which, of course, communicates to his style a peculiar ele- 
 vation suited to his ideas ; very different from that mode of expression, 
 which is natural to the mind in its calm, ordinary state. I have added 
 to my definition, that this language ofpassion, or imagination, is formed, 
 most commonly, into regular numbers ; because, though versification be, 
 in general, the exterior distinction of poetry, yet there are someforms 
 of verse so loose and familiar, as to be hardly distinguishable from prose; 
 such as the verse of Terence's comedies ; and there is also a species of 
 prose so measured in its cadence, and so much raised in its tone, as 
 to approach very near poetical numbers ; such as the Telemachus of 
 Fenelon ; and the English translation of Ossiam The truth is, verse 
 and prose, on some occasions, run into one another, like light and shade. 
 It is hardly possible to determine the exact limit where eloquence ends, 
 and poetry begins ; nor is there any occasion for being very precise 
 about the boundaries, as long as the nature of each is understood. These 
 are the minutise of criticism, concerning which frivolous writers are al- 
 ways disposed to squabble ; but which deserve not any particular dis- 
 cussion. The truth and justness of the definition, which T have given 
 of poetry, will appear more fully from the account which I am now 
 to give of its origin ; and which will tend to throw light on much of what 
 I am afterward to deliver, concerning its various kinds. 
 
 The Greeks, ever fond of attributing to their own nation the inven- 
 tion of all sciences and arts* have ascribed the origin of poetry to Or- 
 pheus, Linus, and Musoeus. There were, perhaps, such persons as 
 these, who were the first distinguished bards in the Grecian countries, 
 But Ions; before such names were heard of, and among nations where 
 they were never known, poetry existed. It is a great error to imagine, 
 that poetry and music are arts whicli belong only to polished nations. 
 They have their foundation in the nature of man, and belong to all na- 
 tions, and to all ages ; though, like other arts founded in nature, they 
 have been more cultivated, and from a concurrence of favourable cir- 
 cumstances, carried to a greater perfection in some countries than in 
 , others. In order to explore the rise of poetry, we must have recourse 
 to the deserts and the wilds ; we must go back to the age of hunters and 
 of shepherds ; to the highest antiquity ; and to the simplest form of 
 manners among mankind. 
 
 It has been often said, and the concurring voice of all antiquity affirms, 
 that poetry is older than prose. But in what sense this seemingly 
 strange paradox holds true, has not always been well understood. 
 There never certainly, was any period of society* in which men con- 
 versed together in poetical numbers. It was in very humble and scanty 
 prose, as we may easily believe, that the first tribes carried on inter- 
 course among themselves, relating to the wants and necessities of lifa 
 
 B h b 
 
U1UGLN AND PROGRESS OF POETRY. [LECT. XXXVRf, 
 
 But from the very beginning of society, there were occasions on which 
 they met together for feasts, sacrifices, and public assemblies ; and on 
 all such occasions, it is well known, that music, song, and dance, made 
 their principal entertainment. It is chiefly in America, that we have had 
 the opportunit}' of being made acquainted with men in their savage state. 
 We learn from the particular and concurring accounts of travellers, that 
 among all the nations of that vast continent, especially among the north- 
 ern tribes, with whom we have had most intercourse, music and song 
 are, at all their meetings, carried on with an incredible degree of enthu- 
 siasm ; that the chiefs of the tribe are those who signalize themselves 
 most on such occasions ; that it is in songs they celebrate their religious 
 rites ; that, by these they lament their public and private calamities, the 
 death of friends, or the loss of warriors 5 express their joy on their 
 victories ; celebrate the great actions of their nation, and their heroes ; 
 excite each other to perform great exploits in war, or to suffer death and 
 torments with unshaken constancy. 
 
 Here then we see the first beginnings of poetic composition, in those 
 rude effusions, which the enthusiasm of fancy or passion suggested to 
 untaught men, when roused by interesting events, and by their meeting 
 together in public assemblies. Two particulars would early distinguish 
 this language of song, from that in which they conversed on the common 
 occurrences of life ; namely, an unusual arrangement of words, and the 
 employment of bold figures of speech. It would invert words or change 
 them from that order in which they are commonly placed, to that which 
 most suited the train in which they rose in the speaker's imagination : or 
 which was most accommodated to the cadence of the passion by which 
 he was moved. Under the influence too of any strong emotion, objects 
 do not appear to us such as they really are, but such as passion makes us 
 see them. We magnify and exaggerate ; we seek to interest all others 
 in what causes our emotion ; we compare the least things to the greatest ; 
 we call upon the absent as well as the present, and even address our- 
 selves to things inanimate. Hence, in congruity with those various move 
 rnents of the mind, arise those turns of expression, which we now dis- 
 tinguish by the learned names of hyperbole, prosopopoeia, simile, &lc, 
 but which are no other than the native original language of poetry, among 
 the most barbarous nations. 
 
 Man is both a poet and a musician by nature. The same impulse which 
 prompted the enthusiastic poetic style, prompted a certain melody, or 
 modulation of sound, suited to the emotions of joy or grief, of admiration, 
 love, or anger. There is a power in sound, which partly from nature, 
 partly from habit and association, makes such pathetic impressions on the 
 fancy, as delight even the most wild barbarians. Music and poetry, 
 therefore, had the same rise ; they were prompted by the same occa- 
 sions ; they were united in song ; and, as long as they continued united, 
 they tended, without doubt, mutually to heighten and exalt each other's 
 power. The first poets sung their own verses ; and hence the begin- 
 ning of what we call versification, or words arranged in a more artful 
 order than prose, so as to be suited to some tune or melody. The 
 liberty of transposition, or inversion, which the poetic style, as I observ- 
 ed, would naturally assume, made it easier to form the words into some 
 *ortof numbers that fell in with the music of the song. Very harsh and 
 uncouth, we may easily believe, these numbers would be at first But 
 
T. XXXVIII.] ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF POETRV. 379 
 
 the pleasure was felt ; it was studied : and versification, by degrees. 
 passed into an art. 
 
 It appears from what has been said, that the first compositions which 
 were either recorded by writing, or transmitted by tradition, could be no 
 other than poetical compositions. No other but these, could draw the 
 attention of men in their rude uncivilized state. Indeed, they knew no 
 other. Cool reasoning and plain discourse, had no power to attract 
 savage tribes, addicted only to hunting and war. There was nothing that 
 could either rouse the speaker to pour himself forth, or draw the crowd 
 to listen, but the high powers of passion, of music, and of song. This 
 vehicle, therefore, and no other, could be employed by chiefs and legis- 
 lators, when they meant to instruct or to animate their tribes. There is, 
 likewise, a farther reason why such compositions only could be trans- 
 mitted to posterity ; because, before writing was invented, songs only 
 could last, and be remembered. The ear gave assistance to the momory, 
 by the help of numbers ; fathers repeated and sung them to their chil- 
 dren ; and by this oral tradition of national ballads, were conyeyed all the 
 historical knowledge, and all the instruction of the first ages. 
 
 The earliest accounts which history gives us concerning all nations, 
 bear testimon3 r to these facts. In the first ages of Greece, priests, phi- 
 losophers, and statesmen, all delivered their instructions in poetry. 
 Apollo, Orpheus, and Amphion, their most ancient bards, are represented 
 as the first tamers of mankind, the first founders of laws and civilization. 
 Minos and Thales sung to the lyre the laws which they composed ;"* 
 and till the age immediately preceding that of Herodotus, history had 
 appeared in no other form than that of poetical tales. 
 
 In the same manner among ail other nations, poems and songs are the 
 first objects that make their appearance. Among the Scythian or Gothic 
 nations, many of their kings and leaders were scalders,or poets ; and it 
 is from their runic songs, that the most early writers of their history, 
 such as Saxo-Grammaticus, acknowledged, that they had derived their 
 chief information. Among the Celtic tribes in Gaul, Britain, and Ireland, 
 we know in what admiration their bards were held, and how great influ- 
 ence they possessed over the people. They were both poets and musi- 
 cians, as all the first pGets in every country were. They were always 
 near the person of the chief or sovereign ; they recorded all his great 
 exploits ; they were employed as the ambassadors between contending 
 tribes, and their persons were held sacred. 
 
 From this deduction it follows, that as we have reason to look for 
 poems and songs among the antiquities of all countries, so we may expect, 
 that in the strain of these there will be a remarkable resemblance, during 
 the primitive periods of every country. The occasions of their being 
 composed, are every where nearly the same. The praises of gods and 
 heroes, the celebration of famed ancestors, the recital of martial deeds, 
 songs of victory, and songs of lamentation over the misfortunes and death 
 of their countrymen, occur among all nations ; and the same enthusiasm 
 and fire, the same wild and irregular, but animated composition, concise 
 and glowing style, bold and extravagant figures of speech, are the gene- 
 ral distinguishing characters of all the most ancient original poetry. That 
 strong hyperbolical manner, which we have been long accustomed to call 
 Hie oriental manner of poetry, (because some of the earliest poetical 
 
 Straboil, 1" 
 
38Q ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF POETRY, j LECT. XXXViK 
 
 productions came to us from the east) is in truth no more oriental than 
 occidental ; it is characteristlcal of an age rather than of a country ; and 
 belongs, in some measure, to all nations at that period which first gives 
 rise to music and to song. Mankind never resemble each other so much 
 as they do in the beginnings of society. Its subsequent revolutions give 
 birth to the principal distinctions of character among nations, and divert 
 into channels widely separated, that current of human genius aucl man- 
 ners, which descends originally from one spring. 
 
 Diversity of climate, and of manner of living, wil), however, occa- 
 sion some diversity in the strain of the first poetry of nations ; chiefly 
 according as those nations are of a more ferocious, or of a more gentle 
 spirit; and according as they advance faster or slower in the arts of 
 civilization. Thus we find all the remains of the ancient Gothic poetry re- 
 markably fierce, and breathing nothing but slaughter and blood ; while 
 the Peruvian and the Chinese songs turned, from the earliest times, 
 upon milder subjects. The Celtic poetry, in the days of Ossian, though 
 chiefly of the martial kind, yet had attained a considerable mixture of 
 tenderness and refinement ; in consequence of the long cultivation of 
 poetry among the Celtse, by means of a series and succession of bards 
 which had been established for ages. So Lucan informs us : 
 
 Vos quoque qui fortes animos, belioque peremptos 
 Laudibusin iongum vates diftunditis Eevum, 
 Plarima securi fudistis carraina bardi* L. 41. 
 
 Among the Grecian nations, their early poetry appears to have soon 
 received a philosophical cast, from what we are informed concerning 
 the subjects of Orpheus, Linus, and Musaeus, who treated of creation 
 and of chaos, of the generation of the world, and of the rise of things ; 
 and we know that the Greeks advanced sooner to philosophy, and pro- 
 ceeded with a quicker pace in all the arts of refinement, than most 
 other nations. 
 
 The Arabians and the Persians have always been the greatest poets 
 of the east ; and among them, as among other nations, poetry was the 
 earliest vehicle of all their learning and instruction.! The ancient 
 Arabs, we are informed, + valued themselves much on their metrical com- 
 positions, which were of two sorts ; the one they compared to loose 
 pearls, and the other txTpearls strung. In the former, the sentences or 
 verses were without connexion ; and their beauty arose from the ele- 
 gance of the expression, and the acuteness of the sentiment. The moral 
 doctrines of the Persians were generally comprehended in such inde- 
 pendent proverbial apophthegms, formed into verse. In this respect they 
 bear a considerable resemblance to the Proverbs of Solomon ; a great 
 part of which book consists of unconnected poetrj*, like the loose pearls 
 of the Arabians, The same form of composition appears also in the 
 book of Job. The Greeks seem to have been the first who introduced 
 a more regular structure, and closer connexion of parts, into their poe- 
 tical writings. 
 
 ■ You too, ye bards, whom sacred raptures fire, 
 To chant your heroes to your country's lyre, 
 Who consecrate in your immortal strain, 
 Brave patriot souls in righteous battle slain ; 
 Securely now the useful task renew, 
 And noblest themes in deathless songs pursue. Rowr. 
 
 t Vid. Voyages de Chardin, chap, de la Poesie des Persans. 
 
 I Yid, Preliminarv Discourse to Sale's Translation of the Koran. 
 
UXT. XXXVIil.] ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF POETRY. 3gj 
 
 During the infancy of poetry, all the different kinds of it lay confused, 
 and were mingled in the same composition, according as inclination, 
 enthusiasm, or casual incidents, directed the poet's strain. In ihe pro- 
 gress of society and arts, they began to assume those different regular 
 forms, and to be distinguished by those different names under which we 
 now know them. But in the first rude state of poetical effusions, we 
 can easily discern the seeds and beginnings of all the kinds of regular 
 poetry. Odes and hymns of every sort, would naturally be among the 
 first compositions ; according as the bards were moved by religious feel- 
 ings, by exultation, resentment, love, or any other warm sentiment, to 
 pour themselves forth in song. Plaintive or elegiac poetry, would as 
 naturally arise from lamentations over their deceased friends. The re- 
 cital of the achievements of their heroes, and their ancestors, gave 
 birth to what we cow call epic poetry ; and as not content with simply 
 reciting these, they would infallibly be led, at some of their public meet- 
 ings, to represent them, by introducing different bards, speaking in the 
 character of their heroes, and answering each other, we find in this 
 the first outlines of tragedy, or dramatic writing. 
 
 None of these kinds of poetry, however, were in the first ages of 
 society properly distinguished or separated, as they are now, from each 
 other. Indeed, not only were the different kinds of poetry then mixed 
 together, but all that we now call letters, or composition of any kind, 
 was then blended in one mass. At first, history, eloquence, and poetry, 
 were all the same. Whoever wanted to move or to persuade, to 
 inform or to entertain his countrymen and neighbours, whatever was the 
 subject, accompanied his sentiment and tales with the melody of song. 
 This was the case in that period of society, when the character and oc- 
 cupations of the husbandman and the builder, the warrior and the states- 
 man, were united in one person. When the progress of society brought 
 on a separation of the different arts and professions of civil life, it led 
 also by degrees to a separation of the different literary provinces from 
 each other. 
 
 The art of writing was in process of time invented ; records of past 
 transactions began to be kept : men, occupied with the subjects of policy 
 and useful arts, wished now to be instructed and informed, as well as 
 moved. They reasoned and reflected upon the affairs of life ; and were 
 interested by what was real, not fabulous, in past transactions. The 
 historian, therefore, now laid aside the buskins of poetry ; he wrote 
 in prose, and attempted to give a faithful and judicious relation of for- 
 mer events. The philosopher addressed himself chiefly to the under- 
 standing. The orator studied to persuade by reasoning, and retained 
 more or less of the ancient passionate and glowing style, according as 
 it was conducive to his purpose. Poetry became now a separate art, 
 calculated chiefly to please, and confined generally to such subjects as 
 related to the imagination and passions. Even its earliest companion, 
 music, was in a great measure divided from it. 
 
 These separations brought all the literary arts into a more regular 
 form, and contributed to the exact and accurate cultivation of each. 
 Poetry, however, in its ancient original condition, was perhaps more 
 vigorous than it is in its modern state. It included then, the whole burst 
 of the human mind ; the whole exertion of its imaginative faculties. It 
 spoke then the language of passion, and no other ; for to passion, it 
 owed its birth. Prompted and inspired by objects, which to him seem- 
 
38 {> VERSIFICATION. [LECT. XXXVI! I 
 
 ed great, by events, which interested his country or his friends, the. 
 early bard arose and sung. He sung indeed in wild and disorderly 
 strains, but they were the native effusions of his heart ; they were the 
 ardent conceptions of admiration or resentment, of sorrow or friendship, 
 which he poured forth. It is no wonder, therefore, that in the rude and 
 artless strain of the first poetry of all nations, we should often find 
 somewhat that captivates and transports the mind. In after ages, when 
 poetry became a regular art, studied for reputation and for gain, authors 
 began to affect what they did not feel. Composing coolty in their clo- 
 sets, they endeavoured to imitate passion, rather than to express it ; 
 they tried to force their imagination into raptures, or to supply the de- 
 fect of native warmth, by those artificial ornaments which might give 
 composition a splendid appearance. 
 
 The separation of music from poetry, produced consequences not fa- 
 vourable in some respects to poetry, and in many respects hurtful to 
 music* As long as they remained united, music enlivened and animated 
 poetry, and poetry gave force and expression to musical sound. The 
 music of that early period was, beyond doubt, extremely simple ; and 
 must have consisted chiefly of such pathetic notes, as the voice could 
 adapt to the w 7 ords of the song. Musical instruments, such as flutes, 
 and pipes, and a lyre with a very few strings, appear to have been early 
 invented among some nations ; but no more was intended by these in- 
 struments, than simply to accompany the voice, and to heighten the 
 melody of song. The poet' s strain was always heard ; and from many cir- 
 cumstances, it appears, that among the ancient Greeks, as well as among 
 other nations, the bard sung his verses, and played upon his harp or 
 lyre at the same time. In this state, the art of music was, when it pro- 
 duced all those great effects, of which we read so much in ancient 
 history. And certain it is, that from simple music only, and from music 
 accompanied with verse or song, we are to look for strong expression, 
 and powerful influence over the human mind. When instrumental mu- 
 sic came to be studied as a separate art, divested of the poet's song, and 
 formed into the artificial and intricate combinations of harmony, it lost 
 all its ancient power of inflaming the hearers with strong emotions ; 
 and sunk into an art of mere amusement, among polished and luxurious 
 nations. 
 
 Still, however, poetry preserves, in all countries, some remains of 
 its first and original connexion with music. By being uttered in song, 
 it was formed into numbers, or into an artificial arrangement of words 
 and syllables, very different in different countries ; but such, as to the 
 inhabitants of each, seemed most melodious and agreeable in sound. 
 Whence arises that great characteristic of poetry which we now call 
 verse ; a subject which comes next to be treated of. 
 
 It is a subject of a curious nature ; but as 1 am sensible, that were I 
 to pursue it as far as my inclination leads, it would give rise to discus- 
 sions, which the greater part of readers would consider as minute, I 
 >hall confine myself to a few observations upon English versification. 
 
 Nations, whose language and pronunciation were of a musical kind, 
 rested their versification chiefly upon the quantities, that is, the length 
 or shortness of their syllables. Others, who did not make the quanti- 
 se Dr. Brown's Dissertation on the Rise, Utyxoa, and Separation of Poetry and 
 
tJECT. XXXVIIL] VERSIFICATION. 333 
 
 ties of their syllables be so distinctly perceived in pronouncing them, 
 rested the melody of their verse upon the number of syllables it con- 
 tained, upon the proper disposition of accents and pauses in it, and fre- 
 quently upon that return of corresponding sounds, which we call rhyme. 
 The former was the case with the Greeks and Romans ; the latter is 
 the case with us, and with most modern nations. Among the Greeks and 
 Romans, every syllable, or the far greatest number at least, was known 
 to have a fixed and determined quantity ; and their manner of pronoun- 
 cing rendered this so sensible to the ear, that a long syllable was count- 
 ed precisely equal in time to two short ones. Upon this principle, the 
 number of syllables contained in their hexameter verse was allowed to 
 vary. It may extend to 17 ; it can contain, when regular, no fewer than 
 13 ; but the musical time was, notwithstanding, precisely the same in 
 every hexameter verse, and was always equal to that of 12 long sylla- 
 bles. In order to ascertain the regular time of every verse, and the 
 proper mixture and succession of long and short syllables, which ought 
 to compose it, were invented, what the grammarians call metrical feet, 
 dactyles, spondees, iambus, &c. By these measures was tried the ac- 
 curacy of composition in every line, and whether it was so constructed 
 as to complete its proper melody. It was requisite, for instance, that the 
 hexameter verse should have the quantity of its syllables so disposed, 
 that it could be scanned or measured by six metrical feet, which might 
 be either dactyles or spondees (as the musical time of both these is the 
 same) with this restriction only, that the fifth foot was regularly to be a 
 dactyle, and the last a spondee.* 
 
 The introduction of these feet into English verse, would be altogether 
 out of place ; for the genius of our language corresponds not in this 
 respect to the Greek or Latin. I say not, that we have no regard to 
 quantity, or to long and short, in pronouncing. Many words we have, 
 especially our words consisting of several syllables, where the quantity, 
 or the long and short syllables, are invariably fixed ; but great numbers 
 we have also, where the quantity is left altogether loose. This is the 
 case with a great part of our words consisting of two syllables, and 
 with almost all of our monosyllables. In general, the difference made be- 
 tween long and short syllables, in our manner of pronouncing them, is 
 so very inconsiderable, and so much liberty is left us for making them 
 either long or short at pleasure, that mere quantity is of very little 
 
 * Some writers imagine, that the feet in Latin verse were intended to correspond 
 to bars in music, and to form musical intervals or distinctions, sensible to' the ear in. 
 the pronunciation of the line. Had this been the case, every kind of verse must have 
 had a peculiar order of feet appropriated to it. Bat the common prosodies show, 
 that there are several forms of Latin verse which are capable of being measured in- 
 differently, by a series of feet of very different kinds. For instance, what is called the 
 Asclepedaean verse (in which the first Ode of Horace is written) may be scanned 
 either by a Spondeus, two Choriambus's, and'a Pyrrichius ; or by a Spondeus, a Dae- 
 tylus succeeded by a Caesura, and two Dactylus's. The common Pentameter, and 
 some other forms of verse, admit the like varieties ; and yet the melody of the verse, 
 remains always the same, though it be scanned by different feet. This proves, that 
 the metrical feet were not sensible in the pronunciation of the line, but were intend- 
 ed only to regulate its construction; or applied as measures, to try whether the 
 succession of long and short syllables was such as suited the melody of the verse : 
 and as feet of different kinds could sometimes be applied for this purpose, hence it 
 happened, that some forms of verse were capable of being scanned in different way?, 
 lor measuring the hexameter line, no other feet were found so proper as Dactyles and 
 Spondees,, and therefore by these it is uniformly scanned. But no ear is sensible of 
 the termination of each foot, in reading an hexameter line. From a misapprehen- 
 sion of this matter, I apprehend that confusion has sometimes arisen among writer?, 
 in treating of the prosody both of Latin and of English verse. 
 
584 VERSIFICATION [LfcCT. XXXYII/ 
 
 effect in English versification. The only perceptible difference among 
 our syllables, arises from some of them being uttered with that stronger 
 percussion of voice, which we call accent. This accent does not always 
 make the syllable longer, but gives it more force of sound only ; and it 
 is upon a certain order and succession of accented and unaccented sylla- 
 bles, infinitely more than upon their being long or short, that the melody 
 of our verse depends. If we take any of Mr. Pope's lines, and in re- 
 citing them alter the quantity of the syllables, as far as our quantities 
 are sensible, the music of the verse will not be much injured : whereas 
 if we do not accent the syllables according as the verse dictates, its me- 
 lody will be totally destroyed.* 
 
 Our English heroic verse is of what may be culled an iambac struc- 
 ture ; that is, composed of a succession nearly alternate of syllables, 
 not short and long, but unaccented and accented. With regard to the 
 place of these accents, however, some liberty is admitted, for the sake 
 of variety. Very often, though not always, the line begins with an un- 
 accented syllable ; and sometimes in the course of it, two unaccented 
 syllables follow each other. But in general, there are either five or 
 ibur, accented syllables in each line. The number of syllables is ten, 
 unless when an Alexandrian verse is occasionally admitted. In verses 
 not Alexandrian, instances occur where the line appears to have more 
 than the limited number. But in such instances, I apprehend it will be 
 found, that some of the liquid syllables are so slurred in pronouncing, 
 as to bring the verse, with respect to its effect upon the ear, within the 
 usual bounds. 
 
 Another essential circumstance in the constitution of our verse, is 
 the csesural pause, which falls towards the middle of each line. Some 
 pause of this kind, dictated by the melody, is found in the verse of most 
 nations. It is found, as might be shown, in the Latin hexameter. In 
 the French heroic verse it is very sensible. That is a verse of twelve 
 syllables ; and in every line, just after the sixth syllable, there foils 
 regularly and indispensably, a csesural pause, dividing the line into two 
 equal hemistichs. For example, in the first lines of Boileau's Epistle 
 to the king : 
 
 Jeune et vaillant heros j dont la haute sagesse 
 N'est point le fruit tardif | d'une lente vieillesse, 
 Qui seul sans Ministre | a I'exaraple desDieux 
 Soutiens tout par toi meme | et vois tous par ses veux. 
 
 In this train all their verses proceed ; the one half of the line always 
 answering to the other, and the same chime returning incessantly on the 
 ear without intermission or change ; which is certainly a defect in their 
 verse, and unfits it so very much for the freedom and dignity of heroic 
 poetry. On the other hand, it is a distinguishing advantage of our Eng- 
 lish verse, that it allows the pause to be varied through four different 
 syllables in the line. The pause may fall after the 4th, the 5th, the 6th, 
 or the 7th syllable ; and according as the pause is placed after one or 
 
 * See this well illustrated in Lord Monboddo's Treatise of the Origin and Progress 
 of Language, Vol. II. under the head of the Prosody of Language. He shows that 
 this is not the only constitution of our own verse, but that by our manner of reading 
 Latin verse, we make its music nearly the same. For we certainly do not pro- 
 nounce it according to the ancient quantities, so as to make the musical time of one 
 lung syllable equal to two short ones ; but according to a succession of accented and 
 unaccented syllables, only mixed in a ratio different from that of our own verse- 
 No Roman could possibly understand our pronunciation. 
 
fcECT. XXXVIII.] VERSIFICATION 30^ 
 
 other of the syllables, the melody of the verse is* much changed, its air 
 and cadence are diversified. By this means, uncommon richness and 
 variety are added to English versification. 
 
 When the pause falls earliest, that is, after the 4th syllable, the brisk- 
 est melody is thereby formed* and the most spirited air given to the 
 line. In the following lines of the Rape of the Lock, Mr. Pope ha3j 
 with exquisite propriety, suited the construction of the verse to the 
 subject. 
 
 On her white breast | a sparkling cross she wove, 
 Which Jews might kiss | and infidels adore; 
 Her lively looks j a sprightly tnind disclose, 
 Quick as her eyes | and as unfiVd as those. 
 
 • Favours to none | to all she smiles extends, 
 
 Oft she reject | but never once offends. 
 
 When the pause falls after the 5th syllable, which divides the line into 
 two equal portions, the melody is sensibly altered. The verse loses 
 that brisk and sprightly air, which it had with the former pause, and 
 becomes more smooth, gentle, and flowing. 
 
 Eternal sunshine [ of the spotless mind, 
 Each prayer accepted j and each wish resign'd. 
 
 When the pause proceeds to follow the 6th syllable, the tenor of thft 
 music becomes solemn and grave. The verse marches now with a more 
 slow and measured pace, than in either of the two former cases. 
 
 The wrath of Peleus' son | the direful spring 
 Of all the Grecian Woes | 6 goddess, sing ! 
 
 But the grave, solemn cadence becomes still more sensible, when the 
 pause falls after the 7th syllable, which is the nearest place to the eod of 
 the line that it can occupy. This kind of verse occurs the seldomest, 
 but has a happy effect in diversifying the melody. It produces that slow 
 Alexandrian air which is finely suited to a close ; and for this reason* 
 such lines almost never occur together, but are used in finishing the 
 couplet. 
 
 And in the smooth description j murmur still. 
 Long lov'd ador'd ideas ! j all adieu. 
 
 I have taken my examples from verses in rhyme; because in these, out 
 versification is subjected to the strictest law. As blank verse is of a freer 
 kind, and naturally is read with less cadence or tone, the pauses in it, 
 and the effect of them, are not always so sensible to the ear. It is con- 
 structed, however, entirely upon the same principles with respect to the 
 place of the pause. There are some, who, in order to exalt the variety 
 and the power of our heroic verse, have maintained that it admits of 
 musical pauses, not only after those four syllables, where I assigned their 
 place, hut after any one syllable in the verse indifferently, where the 
 sense directs it to be placed. This, in my opinion, is the same thing as to 
 maintain that there is no pause at all belonging to the natural melody of 
 the verse ; since, according to this notion, the pause is formed entirely to 
 the meaning, not by the music. But this I apprehend to be contrary both 
 to the nature of versification, and to the experience of every good ear.*" 
 
 * In the Italian heroic verse employed by Tasso in his Gierusalemme, and Arioste* 
 in his Orlando, the pauses are of the same varied nature with those which I have 
 shown to belong to English versification j and fall after the same four syllables in the! 
 line. Marmontel, in his Poetique Francoi'se, Vol. I. p. 269, takes notice that this con-, 
 st ruction of verse is common to the Italians and the English ; and defends the unifor- 
 mity of the French caesura! pause upon this ground, that the alternation of masculine 
 
 Ccc 
 
gg£ VERSIFICATION LECT. XXXI 
 
 Those certainly are the happiest lines, wherein the pause, prompted by 
 the melody, coincides in some degree with that of the sense, or at least 
 does not tend to spoil or interrupt the meaning. Wherever any opposi- 
 tion between the music and the sense chances to take place, I observed 
 before, in treating of pronunciation or delivery, that the proper method 
 of reading these lines, is to read them according as the sense dictates, 
 liCglecting or slurring the caesural pause j which renders the line less 
 graceful indeed, bat, however, does not entirely destroy its sound. 
 
 Our blank verse possesses great advantages, and is indeed a noble 
 bold, and disencumbered species of versification. The principal defect 
 in rhyme, is the full close which it forces upon the ear, at the end of 
 every couplet. Blank verse is freed from this ; and allows the lines to 
 run into each other with as great liberty as the Latin hexameter permits, 
 perhaps with greater. Hence it is particularly suited to subjects of 
 dignity and force, which demand more free and manly numbers than 
 rh} ? me. The constraint and strict regularity of rhyme are unfavourable 
 to the sublime, or to the highly pathetic strain. An epic poem, or a 
 tragedy, would be fettered and degraded by it. It is best adapted to com- 
 positions of a temperate strain, 'where no particular vehemence is requi- 
 red in the sentiments, nor great sublimity in the style ; such as pastorals, 
 elegies, epistles, satires, &c. To these it communicates that degree of 
 elevation which is proper for them ; and without any other assistance 
 sufficiently distinguishes the style from prose. He who should write such 
 poems in blank verse, would render his work harsh and unpleasing. In 
 order to support a poetical style, he would be obliged to affect a pomp 
 of language unsuitable to the subject. 
 
 Though I join in opinion with those, who think that rhyme finds its 
 proper place in the middle, but not in the higher regions of poetry, I 
 can by no means join in the invectives which some have poured out 
 against it, as if it were a mere barbarous jingling of sounds, fit only for 
 children, and owing to nothing but the corruption of taste in the monkish 
 ages. Rhyme might indeed be barbarous in Latin or Greek verse, be- 
 cause these languages, by the sonorousness of their words, by their liberty 
 of transposition and iuversion, by their fixed quantities and musical pro- 
 nunciation, could carry on the melody of verse without its aid. But it 
 does not follow, that therefore it must be barbarous in the English lan- 
 guage, which is destitute of these advantages. Every language has 
 powers and graces, and music peculiar to itself; and what is becoming 
 }u one, would be ridiculous in another. Rhyme was barbarous in Latin ; 
 and an attempt to construct English verses, after the form of hexameters, 
 and pentameters, and sapphics, is as barbarous among us. It is not true, 
 that rhyme is merely a monkish invention. On the contrary, it has 
 obtained under different forms, in the versification of most known nations. 
 It is found in the ancient poetry of the northern nations of Europe ; it is 
 said to be found among the Arabs, the Persians, the Indians, and the 
 Americans. This shows that there is something in the return of similar 
 sounds, which is grateful to the ears of most part of mankind. And if 
 any one, after reading Mr. Pope's Rape of the Lock, or Eloisa to Abelard, 
 shall not admit our rhyme, with all its varieties of pauses, to carry both 
 
 and feminine rhymes, furnishes sufficient variety to the French poetry ; whereas 
 the change of movement, occasioned by the four different pauses in English and 
 Italian verse, produces, according to him, too great diversity. On the head of 
 pauses in English versification, see the Elements of Criticism, chap. 18. sect. 4, 
 
 
MBCT. XXXIX.] PASTORAL POETRY. 337 
 
 elegance and sweetness of sound, his ear must be pronounced to be of 
 a very peculiar kind. 
 
 The present form of our English heroic rhyme in couplets, is a modern 
 species of versification. The measure generally used in the days of 
 Queen Elizabeth, King James, and King Charles J. was the stanza 01 
 eight lines, such as Spencer employs, borrowed from the Italian ; a mea- 
 sure very constrained and artificial. Waller was the first who brought 
 couplets into vogue ; and Dryden afterward established the usage. 
 Waller first smoothed our verse ; Dryden perfected it. Mr. Pope's veri- 
 fication has a peculiar character, it is flowing and smooth in the highest 
 degree : far more laboured and correct than that of any who went 
 before him. He introduced one considerable change into heroic verse, 
 by totally throwing aside the triplets, or three lines rhyming together, in 
 which Mr. D^den abounded. Dryden's versification, however, has 
 very great merit ; and, like all his productions, has much spirit, mixed 
 with carelessness. If not so smooth and correct as Pope's, it is however 
 more varied and easy. He subjects himself less to the rule of closing 
 the sense with the couplet; and frequently takes the liberty of making 
 his couplets run into one another, with so'mew hat of the freedom of 
 blank verse. 
 
 LECTURE XXXIX 
 
 PASTORAL POETRY— LYRIC POETRY. 
 
 In the last lecture, 1 gave an account of the rise and progress of 
 poetry, and made some observations on the nature of English versifica- 
 tion. I now proceed to treat of the chief kinds of poetical composition ; 
 and of the critical rules that relate to them. I shall follow that order 
 which is most simple and natural ; beginning with the lesser forms of 
 poetry, and ascending from them to the epic and dramatic, as the most 
 dignified. This lecture shall be employed on pastoral and lyric poetry. 
 
 Though I begin with the consideration of pastoral poetry, it is not 
 because I consider it as one of the earliest forms of poetical composi- 
 tion. On the contrary, 1 am of opinion that it was not cultivated as a 
 distinct species, or subject of writing, until society had advanced in re- 
 finement. Most authors have indeed indulged the fancy, that becausetha 
 life which mankind at first led was rural, therefore, their first poetry 
 was pastoral, or employed in the celebration of rural scenes and objects. 
 I make no doubt, that it would borrow many of its images and allusions 
 from those natural objects with which men were best acquainted; but [ 
 am persuaded that the calm and tranquil scenes of rural felicity 
 were not, by any means, the first objects which inspired that strain of 
 composition, which we now call poetry. It was inspired,* in the first 
 periods of every nation, by events and objects which roused men's pas- 
 sions ; or, at least, awakened their wonder and admiration. Theactions 
 of their gods and heroes, their own exploits in war, the successes or 
 misfortunes of their countrymen and friends, furnished the first themes 
 to the bards of every country. What was of a pastoral kind in their 
 compositions, was incidental only. They did not think of choosing for 
 
3 ftft PASTORAL POETRY. [LFX'T. XXXIX. 
 
 their theme the tranquillity and the pleasures of the country, as long as 
 these weFe daily and familiar objects to them. It was not till men had 
 "begun to be assembled in great cities, after the distinctions of rank and 
 stations were formed, and the bustle of courts and large societies was 
 known, that pastoral poetry assumed its present form. Men then began 
 to look back upon the more simple and innocent life which their fore- 
 fathers led, or which, at least, they fancied them to have led : they 
 looked back upon it with pleasure, and in those rural scenes, and pas- 
 toral occupations, imagining a degree of felicity to take place, superior to 
 what they now enjoyed, conceived the idea of celebrating it in poetr} r . 
 It was in the court of King Ptolemy, that Theocritus wrote the first pas- 
 torals with which we are acquainted ; and, in the court of Augustus, he 
 was imitated by Virgil. 
 
 But whatever ma}' have been the origin of pastoral poetry, it is un- 
 doubtedly a natural and very agreeable form of poetical composition. 
 It recalls to our imagination those gay scenes, and pleasing views of na- 
 ture, which commonly are the delight of our childhood and youth ; and 
 to which, in more advanced years, the greatest part of men recur with 
 pleasure. It exhibits to us a life with which we are accustomed to 
 associate the ideas of peace, of leisure, and of innocence ; and, there- 
 fore, we readily set open our heart to such representations as promise 
 to banish from our thoughts the cares of the world ; and to transport 
 vis into calm elysian regions. At the same time, no subject seems to be 
 more favourable to poetr} r . Amidst rural objects, nature presents on 
 all hands the finest field for description ; and nothing appears to flow 
 more, of its own accord, into poetical numbers, than rivers and moun- 
 tains, meadows and bills, flocks and trees, and shepherds void of care. 
 Hence, this species of poetry has, at all times, allured many readers, 
 and excited many writers. But, notwithstanding the advantages it pos- 
 sesses, it will appear from what I have farther to observe upon it, that 
 there is hardly any species of poetr}' which is more difficult to be car- 
 ried to perfection, or in which fewer writers have excelled. 
 
 Pastoral life may be considered in three different views ; either such 
 as it now actually is, when the state of shepherds is reduced to be a 
 mean, servile, and laborious state ; when their employments are be- 
 come disagreeable, and their ideas gross and low : or such as we may 
 suppose it once to have been, in the more early and simple ages, when 
 it was a life of ease and abundance ; when the wealth of men consisted 
 chiefly in flocks and herds, and the shepherd, though unrefined in his 
 manners, was respectable in his state ; or lastly, such as it never was, 
 and never can in reality be, when, to the ease, innocence, and simpli- 
 city of the early ages, we attempt to add the polished taste, and culti- 
 vated manners, of modern times. Of these three states, the first is too 
 gross and mean, the last too refined and unnatural, to be made the 
 groundwork of pastoral poetry. Either of these extremes is a rock 
 upon which the poet will split, if he approach too near it. We shall 
 be disgusted if he gives us too much of the servile employments, and 
 low ideas of actual peasants, as Theocritus is censured for having some- 
 times done : and if, like some of the French and Italian writers of pas- 
 torals, he makes his shepherds discourse as if they were courtiers and 
 scholars, he then retains the name only, but wants the spirit of pastoral 
 poetry. 
 
 Me must, therefore, keen in the middle station between these. He 
 
KECT. XXXIX.] PASTORAL POETRY. 339 
 
 tnust form to himself the idea of a rural state, such as in certain periods 
 of society may have actually taken place, whefle there was ease, equa- 
 lity, and innocence ; where shepherds were gay and agreeable, without 
 being learned or refined ; and plain and artless, without being gross 
 and wretched. The great charm of pastoral poetry arises, from the 
 view which it exhibits of the tranquillity aud happiness of a rural life. 
 This pleasing allusion, therefore, the poet must carefully maintain. He 
 must display to us all that is agreeable in that state, but hide whatever 
 is displeasing.* Let him paint its simplicity and innocence to the full ; 
 but cover its rudeness and misery. Distresses, indeed, and anxieties he 
 may attribute to it ; for it would be perfectly unnatural to suppose any 
 condition of human life to be without them ; but they must be of such a 
 nature, as not to shock the fancy with any thing peculiarly disgusting 
 in the pastoral life. The shepherd may well be afflicted for the displea- 
 sure of his mistress, or for the loss of a favourite lamb. It is a sufficient 
 recommendation of any state, to have only such evils as these to deplore. 
 in short, it is the pastoral life somewhat embellished and beautified, at 
 least, seen on its fairest side only, that the poet ought to present to us. 
 But let him take care, that, in embellishing nature, he do not altogether 
 disguise her ; or pretend to join with rural simplicity and happiness, 
 such improvements as are unnatural and foreign to it. If it be not ex- 
 actly real life which he presents to us, it must, however, be somewhat 
 that resembles it. This, in my opinion, is the general idea of pastoral 
 poetry. But, in order to examine it more particularly, let us consider, 
 iirst, the scenery ; next, the characters ; and, lastly, the subjects and 
 actions, which this sort of composition should exhibit. 
 
 As to ihe scene, it is clear, that it must always be laid in the country, 
 and much of the poet's merit depends on describing it beautifully . Virgil 
 Is, in this respect, excelled by Theocritus, whose descriptions of natural 
 beauties are richer, and more picturesque than those of the other.! In 
 every pastoral, a scene, or rural prospect, should be distinctly drawn, 
 
 * In the following beautiful lines of the first Eclogue. Virgil has, in the true 
 spirit of a pastoral poet, brought together as agreeable an assemblage of images of 
 raral pleasure as can any where be found : 
 
 Fortunate senex ! hie inter flumina nota, 
 
 Et fontes sacros, frigus captabis opacuia. 
 
 Hinc tibi, quae semper vicino ab limite sepes, 
 
 Hyblaeis apibus, florem depasta salicti. 
 
 Saepe tevi somnum suadebit inire susurro, 
 
 Hinc alta sub rupe, canet frondatcrad auras ; 
 
 Nee tamen interea, raucas, tua cura, palumbes, 
 
 Nee getnere aeria cessabit turtur ab ulmo. 
 
 Happy old man ! here mid th' accustom'd streams 
 And sacred springs, you'll shun the scorching beams ; 
 While from yon willow fence, thy pasture's bound, 
 The bees that suck their flowery stores around, 
 Shall sweetly mingle, with the whispering boughs, 
 Their lulling murmurs, and invite repose. 
 While from steep rocks the pruner's song is heard 5 
 Nor the soft cooing dove, thy fav'rite bird 5 
 Meanwhile shall cease to breathe her melting strain, 
 Nor turtles from th J aerial elms to 'plain. Wartox. 
 
 f What rural scenery, for instance, can be painted, in more lively colours, than 
 tie following description exhibits ? 
 
 
 AlhlUS <7<%IV010 c/afAVJViJlV tKXuBn/UH 
 Ei> n viorfAaroiTi yey aborts citv*geoi%t. 
 Tlcykat Faulty vn?Qi Kara x^sitos efowov 
 
390 PASTORAL POETRY. [LECT. XXXIX, 
 
 and set before us. It is not enough, that we have those unmeaning 
 groups of violets and mes, of birds, and brooks, and breezes, which our 
 common pastoral-mongers throw together, and which are perpetually re- 
 curring upon us without variation. A good poet ought to give us such 
 a landscape, as a painter could copy after. His objects must be particu- 
 larized ; the stream, the rock, or the tree, must each of them stand forth, 
 so as to make a figure in the imagination, and to give us a pleasing con- 
 ception of the place where we are. A single object, happily introduced, 
 will sometimes distinguish and characterize a whole scene ; such as the 
 antique rustic sepulchre, a very beautiful object in a landscape, which 
 Virgil has set before us, and which he has taken from Theocritus. 
 
 Hinc adeo media est nobis via ; jamque sepulchrum 
 
 Incipit apparere Bianoris ; hie ubi densas 
 
 Agricolse stringunt frondes Eel. IX.* 
 
 Not only in professed descriptions of the scenery, but in the frequent 
 allusions to natural objects, which occur, of course, in pastorals, the poet 
 must, above all things, study variety. He must diversify his face of 
 nature, by presenting to us new images ; or otherwise he will soon be- 
 come insipid with those known topics of description, which were original, 
 it is true, in the first poets, who copied them from nature, but which are 
 now worn threadbare by incessant imitation. It is also incumbent on him, 
 to suit the scenery to the subject of the pastoral ; and, according as 
 it is of a gay or a melancholy kind, to exhibit nature under such 
 
 kiyUQoi vrzxiai ri' <to eT' eyytBtv iegoy oSmg 
 ^ivju<pav s? cly-TQoto KU.ru 06/uavov Kixd^vcrfev. 
 Tot cTg TTirt OKiiQAt; opza'difAVuriv avBxXiavze 
 TiTriyt; XaXayearns t%ov -ovov. a eP' hxaMyitv 
 
 TllXoQ&V iV TlViLCVCAicri 0drC6V <TgV^ZTX.ZV OLKStySxi!. 
 
 Aufov KOguhiKal axatBiiz;, essvt rgvym' 
 Ylctnwro guBctt nt^i Tri6a.x.as ay.qt /uzxirtriu. 
 n*t"r' wS-cTsv &e£ios (jlolXcl 7nwoc \ ZoS't /' w7rwgtf? 
 "0%yai/uh nag 7ro>T7i, izu^st TrXzvgxtTt «Ta (AaXat 
 Aa^tXices cty.jut.lv ZMXivfero' <roi <T mi^vvro 
 "O^XKis figct fiuxouri KurceC^iBovrii sg&g-Je. 
 
 -on soft beds recline 
 
 Theocrit. Idyll, vii. 132. 
 
 Of lentisk, and young branches of the vine ; 
 
 Poplars and elms above, their foliage spread, 
 
 Lent a cool shade, and wav'd the breezy head ; 
 
 Below, a stream, from the nymph's sacred cave, 
 
 In free meanders led its murm'ring wave. 
 
 In the warm sunbeams, verdant shades among, 
 
 Shrill grasshoppers renewed their plaintive song : 
 
 At distance far, conceal'd in shades, alone, 
 
 Sweet Philomela poured her tuneful moan ; 
 
 The lark, the goldfinch, warbled lays of love, 
 
 And sweetly pensive coo'd the turtle dove ; 
 
 While honey bees, for ever on the wing, 
 
 Humm'd round the flowers, or sipt the silver spring, 
 
 The rich, ripe season, gratified the sense 
 
 With summer's sweets, and autumn's redolence. 
 
 Apples and pears lay strew'd in heaps around, 
 
 And the plum's loaded branches kiss'd the ground. Fawke-. 
 
 To our mid journey are we come, 
 
 1 see the top of Old Bianor's tomb ; 
 
 Here, Mseris, where the swains thick branches prune, 
 
 And strew their leaves, our voices let us tune WaKTON, 
 
LECT. XXXIX.] PASTORAL POJETRV". 39 1 
 
 forms as may correspond with the emotions or sentiments which he 
 describes. Thus Virgil, in his second eclogue, which contains the la- 
 mentation of a despairing lover, gives, with propriety, a gloomy appear- 
 ance to the scene : 
 
 Tantum inter densas, umbrosa cacumina, fagos, 
 Assidue veniebat ; ibi hsec incondita solus 
 Montibus et sylvis studio jactabat inani,* 
 
 With regard to the characters, or persons, which are proper to be 
 introduced into pastorals, it is not enough that they be persons residing 
 in the country. The adventures or the discourses of courtiers, or 
 citizens, in the country, are not what we look for in such writings ; we 
 expect to be entertained by shepherds, or persons wholly engaged in 
 rural occupations ; whose innocence and freedom from the cares of the 
 world may, in'our imagination, form an agreeable contrast with the manners 
 and characters of those who are engaged in the bustle of life. 
 
 One of the principal difficulties which here occurs has been already 
 hinted ; that of keeping the exact medium between too much rusticity 
 on the one hand, and too much refinement on the other. The shep- 
 herd, assuredly, must be plain and unaffected in his manner of thinking, 
 on all subjects. An amiable simplicity must be the groundwprk of his 
 character. At the same time, there is no necessity for his being dull 
 and insipid. He may have good sense and reflection ; he may have 
 sprightliness and vivacity ; he may have very tender and delicate feel- 
 ings ; since these are, more or less, the portion of men in all ranks of 
 life ; and since, undoubtedly, there was much genius in the world, be- 
 fore there were learning or arts to refine it. But then he must not subtil* 
 ize ; he must not deal in general reflections and abstract reasoning ; and 
 still less in the points and conceits of an affected gallantry, which surely 
 belong not to his character and situation. Some of these conceits are 
 the chief blemishes of the Italian pastorals, which are otherwise beau- 
 tiful. When Aminta, in Tasso, is disentangling his mistress's hair from 
 the tree to which a savage had bound it, he is represented as saying, 
 *' Cruel tree ! how couidstthou injure that lovely hair which did thee so 
 much honour ? thy rugged trunk was not worthy of such lovely knots. 
 What advantage have the servants of love, if those precious chains are 
 common to them, and to the trees ?"t Such strained sentiments as these 
 ill benefit the woods. Rural personages are supposed to speak the lan- 
 guage of plain sense, and natural feelings. When they describe or re- 
 late, they do it with simplicity, and naturally allude to rural circumstan- 
 ces ; as in these beautiful lines of one of Virgil's eclogues. 
 
 Sepibus in nostris parvam te roscida mala 
 
 (Dux ego vester eram) vidi cum matre legentcm : 
 
 Alter ab undecimo turn me jam ceperat annus, 
 
 * Mid shades of thickest beech he pin'd alone, 
 
 To the wild woods and mountains made his moan : 
 
 Still day by day, in incoherent strains, 
 
 'Twas all he could, despairing told his pains. Wartow. 
 
 f Gia di nodo si bei non era degno 
 Cosi rovido tronco ; or che vantaggio 
 Ulnano i servi d' amor, se lor commune 
 E'con le piante il pretioso laccio ? 
 Pianta crudel ! potesti quel bei crine 
 Offender, tu, ch'a te seo tanto onore ? Atto lit. Sc, I, 
 
32& PASTORAL POETRY. [LECT. XXXlX 
 
 Jam fragiles poteram a terra contingere ramos. 
 Ut vidi, ut perii, ut me malus abstulit error.* 
 
 In another passage, he makes a shepherdess throw an apple at her 
 lover : 
 
 Turn fugit ad salices, ct se cupit ante videri.t 
 
 This is naive, as the French express it, and perfectly suited to pasto- 
 ral manners. Mr. Pope wanted to imitate this passage, and, as he 
 thought to improve upon it. He does it thus : 
 
 The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green, 
 She runs ; but hopes she does not run unseen ; 
 AVhile a kind glance at her pursuer flies, 
 How much at variance are her feet and eyes ! 
 
 This falls far short of Virgil ; the natural and pleasing simplicity of 
 the description is destroyed, by the quaint and affected turn in the last 
 line : " How much at variance are her feet and eyes." 
 
 Supposing the poet to have formed correct ideas concerning his pasto- 
 ral characters and personages : the next inquiry is, about what is he 
 to employ them ? and what are to be the subjects of his eclogues ? For 
 it is not enough, that he gives us shepherds discoursing together. 
 Every good poem, of every kind, ought to have a subject which should, 
 in some way, interest us. Now here, I apprehend, lies the chief diffi- 
 culty of pastoral writing. The active scenes of country life either are, 
 or to most describers appear to be, too barren of incidents. The state 
 of a shepherd, or a person occupied in rural employments only, is ex- 
 posed to few of those accidents and revolutions which render his situ- 
 ation interesting, or produce curiosity or surprise. The tenor of his 
 life is uniform. His ambition is conceived to be without policy, and his 
 love without intrigue. Hence it is, that, of all poems, the most meagre 
 commonly in the subject, and the least diversified in the strain, is the 
 pastoral. From the first lines, we can, generally, guess at all that is 
 to follow. It is either a shepherd who sits down solitary by a brook, 
 to lament the absence or cruelty of his mistress, and to tell us how 
 the trees wither, and the flowers droop, now that she is gone ; or we have 
 two shepherds who challenge one another to sing, rehearsing alternate 
 verses, which have little either of meaning or subject, till the judge 
 rewards one with a studded crook, and another with a beechen bowl. 
 To the frequent repetition of common-place topics, of this sort, which 
 have been thrummed over by all eclogue writers since the days of The- 
 ocritus and Virgil, is owing much of that insipidity which prevails in pas- 
 toral compositions. 
 
 I much question, however, whether this insipidity be not owing to the 
 fault of the poets, and to their barren and slavish imitation of the ancient 
 
 * Once with your mother to our fields you came 
 For dewy apples ; thence I date my flame ; 
 The choicest fruit 1 pointed to your view, 
 Though young, my raptur'd soul was fix'donyou ; 
 The boughs I just could reach with little arms ; 
 But then, even then, could feel thy powerful charms. 
 O, how I gaz'd, in pleasing transport tost : 
 How glow'd my heart in sweet delusion lost ! Wartox- 
 
 + My Phillis me with pelted apples plies ; 
 Then, tripping to the wood, the wan Urn hies, 
 And wishes to he seen before she flies. Dryl>l> 
 
LECT. XXXIX.j PASTORAL POE'JKV 3^3 
 
 pastoral topics, rather than to the confined nature of the subject. For 
 why may not pastoral poetry take a wider range ? Human nature and 
 human passions, are much the same in every rank oflife ; and wherever 
 these passions operate on objects that are within the rural sphere, there 
 may be a proper subject for pastoral. One indeed would choose to re- 
 move from this sort of composition the operations of violent and direful 
 passions, and to present such only as are consistent with innocence, sim- 
 plicity, and virtue. But under this limitation, there will still be abundant 
 scope for a careful observer of nature to exert his genius. The various 
 adventures which give occasion to those engaged in country life to display 
 their disposition and temper ; the scenes of domestic felicity Or disquiet ; 
 the attachment of friends and of brothers ; the rivalshipand competitions 
 of lovers : the unexpected successes or misfortunes of families, might 
 give occasion to many a pleasing and tender incident ; and were more of 
 the narrative and sentimental intermixed with the descriptive in this 
 kind of poetry, it would become much more interesting than it now 
 generally is, to the bulk of readers.* 
 
 The two great fathers of pastoral poetry are Theocritus and VirgiL 
 Theocritus was a Sicilian ; and as he has laid the scene of his eclogues 
 in his own country, Sicily became ever afterward a sort or consecrated 
 ground for pastoral poetry. His Idyllia, as he has entitled them, are not 
 all of equal merit ; nor indeed are they ail postorals ; but some of them 
 poems of a quite different nature. In such, however, as are properly 
 pastorals, there are many and great beauties. He is distinguished for the 
 simplicity of his sentiments ; for the great sweetness and harmony of his 
 numbers, and for the richness of his scenery and description. He is the. 
 original, of which Virgil is the imitator. For most of Virgil's highest 
 beauties in his eclogues are copied from Theocritus ; in many places he 
 has done nothing more than translate him. He must be allowed, how- 
 ever, to have imitated him with great judgment, and in some respects 
 to have improved upon him. For Theocritus, it cannot be denied, 
 descends sometimes into ideas that are gross and mean, and makes his 
 shepherds abusive and immodest ; whereas Virgil is free from offensive 
 rusticity, and at the same time preserves the character of pastoral 
 simplicity. The same distinction obtains between Theocritus and Virgil* 
 as between many other of the Greek and Roman writers. The Greek 
 led the way, followed nature more closely, and showed more original 
 genius. The Roman discovered more of the polish and correctness of 
 art. We have a few remains of other two Greek poets in the pastoral style, 
 Moschus and Bion, which have very considerable merit ; and if they 
 want the simplicity of Theocritus, excel him in tenderness and delicacy. 
 • The modern writers of pastorals have, generally, contented themselves 
 with copying, or imitating the descriptions and sentiments of the ancient 
 poets. Sannazarius, indeed, a famous Latin poet, in the age of Leo Xi 
 attempted a bold innovation. He composed Piscatory Eclogues, 
 changing the scene from woods to the sea, and from the life of shepherds' 
 to that of fishermen. But the innovation was so unhappy, that he hag 
 gained no followers. For the life of fishermen is, obviously, much more 
 hard and toilsome than that of shepherds^ and presents to the fancy much 
 less agreeable images. Flocks, and trees, and flowers, are objects of 
 
 * The above observations on the barrenness of the common eclogues were written 
 before any translation from the German had made us acquainted in this country with 
 Gesner's Idylls, in which the ideas that had occurred to me for the improvement of 
 fttstoral poetry, are fully realized. 
 
 D'dd 
 
394 PASTORAL POETRY. [LECT. XXXIX, 
 
 greater beauty, and more generally relished by men, than fishes and 
 marine productions. Of all the moderns, M. Gesner, a poet of Switzer- 
 land, has been the most successful in his pastoral compositions. He has 
 introduced into his Idylls (as he entitles them) many new ideas. His 
 rural scenery is often striking, and his descriptions are lively. He pre- 
 sents pastoral life to us, with all the embellishments of which it is suscep- 
 tible ; but without any excess of refinement. What forms the chief 
 merit of this poet is, that he writes to the heart ; and has enriched the 
 subject of his Idylls with incidents which give rise to much tender senti- 
 ment. Scenes of domestic felicity are beautifully painted. The mutual 
 affection of husbands and wives, of parents and children, of brothers and 
 sisters, as well as of lovers, are displayed in a pleasing and touching man- 
 ner. From not understanding the language in which M. Gesner writes. 
 I can be no judge of the poetry of his style ; but, in the subject and con- 
 duct of his pastorals, he appears to me to have outdone all the moderns. 
 
 Neither Mr. Pope's nor Mr. Philips's pastorals do any great honour 
 to the English poetry. Mr. Pope's were composed in his youth ; which 
 may be an apology for other faults, but cannot well excuse the barren- 
 ness that appears in them. They are written in remarkably smooth 
 and flowing numbers : and this is their chief merit ; for there is scarcely 
 any thought in them that can be called his own ; scarcely any descrip- 
 tion, or any image of nature, which has the marks of being original, or 
 copied from nature herself; but a repetition of the common images that 
 are to be found in Virgil, and in all poets who write of rural themes, 
 Philips attempted to be more simple and natural than Pope ; but he 
 wanted genius to support his attempt, or to write agreeably. He, too, 
 runs on the common and beaten topics ; and endeavouring to be simple, 
 lie becomes flat and insipid. There was no small competition between 
 these two authors, at the time when their pastorals were published * 
 Id some papers of the Guardian, great partiality was shown to Philips, 
 and high praise bestowed upon him. Mr. Pope, resenting this prefer- 
 ence, under a feigned name, procured a paper to be inserted in the 
 Guardian, wherein he seemingly carries on the plan of extolling Philips ; 
 but in realit}' satirizes him most severely with ironical praises ; and in 
 an artful covered manner, gives the palm to himself.* About the same 
 time, Mr. Gay published his Shepherd's Week, in six pastorals, which 
 are designed to ridicule that sort of simplicity which Philips and his 
 partisans extolled, and are, indeed, an ingenious burlesque of pastoral 
 writing, when it rises no higher than the manners of modern clowns and 
 rustics. Mr. Shenstone's pastoral ballad, in four parts, may justly be 
 reckoned, I think, one of the most elegant poems of this kind, which we 
 have in English. 
 
 1 have not yet mentioned one form in which pastoral writing has 
 appeared in later ages, that is, when extended into a play, or regular 
 drama, where plot, characters, and passions, are joined with the sim- 
 plicity and innocence of rural manners. This is the chief improvement 
 which the moderns have made on this species of composition ; and of 
 this nature, we have two Italian pieces which are much celebrated. 
 Guarini's Pastor Fido, and Tasso's Aminta. Both of these possess great 
 beauties, and are entitled to the reputation they have gained. To the 
 latter,, the preference seems due, as being less intricate in the plot and 
 conduct, and less strained and affected in the sentiments ; and though 
 
 See Guardian. No. 4<' _• 
 
V.ECT. XXXIX] PASTORAL POETRY 39$ 
 
 not wholly free from Italian refinement (of which I already gave one 
 instance, the worst, indeed, that occurs in all the poem) it is, on the 
 whole, a performance of high merit. The strain of the poetry is gentle 
 and pleasing; and the Italian language contributes to add much of that 
 softness, which is peculiarly suited to pastoral.* 
 
 * It may be proper to take notice here, that the charge against Tasso for his points 
 and conceits, has sometimes been carried too far. Mr. Addison, for instance, in a 
 paper of the Guardian, censuring his Aminta, gives this example, " That Sylvia enters 
 adorned with a garland of flowers, and after viewing herself in a fountain, breaks out 
 in a speech to the flow r ers on her head, and tells them, that she did not wear them to 
 adorn herself, but to make them ashamed." u Whoever can bear this," he adds, " may 
 be assured, that he has no taste for pastoral." Guard. No. 38. But Tasso's Sylvia, in 
 truth, makes no such ridiculous figure, and we are obliged to suspect that Mr. Addison 
 bad not read the Aminta. Daphne, a companion of Sylvia, appears in conversation 
 with Thyrsis, the confidant of Aminta, Sylvia's lover, and in order to show him that 
 Sylvia was not so simple, or insensible to her own charms, as she affected to be, gives 
 him this instance ; that she had caught her one day adjusting her dress by a fountain, 
 and applying now one flower, and now another to her neck; and after comparing 
 their colours with her own, she broke into a smile, as if she had seemed to say, I will- 
 wear you, not for my ornaments, but to show how much you yield to me , and when 
 caught thus admiring herself, she threw away her flowers, and blushed for shame. — 
 This description of the vanity of a rural coquette, is no more than what is natural, 
 and very different from what the author of the Guardian represents it. 
 
 This censure on Tasso was not originally Mr. Addison's. Bouhours. in his MavA&'e 
 de bienpenser dans lesouvrages d' esprit, appears to have been the first who gave this 
 misrepresentation of Sylvia's speech, and founded a criticism on it. Fontenelie, in 
 his Discourse on Pastoral Poetry, followed him in this criticism. Mr. Addison ; or 
 whoever was the author of that paper in the Guardian, copied from them both. Mr. 
 Warton, in the prefatory discourse to his translation of Virgil's Eclogues, repeats the 
 observation. Sylvia's speech to the flowers, with which she was adorned, is always 
 quoted as a flagrant instance of the false taste of the Italian poets. Whereas, Tasso 
 gives us no such speech of Sylvia's, but only informs us of what her companion sup- 
 posed her to be thinking, or saying to herself, when she was privately admiring 
 her own beauty. After charging so many eminent critics, for having fallen into this 
 strange inaccuracy, from copying one another, without looking into the author 
 3 rvhom they censure, it is necessary for me to insert the passage which has occa- 
 sioned this remark. Daphne speaks thus to Thyrsis : 
 
 Hora per dirti il ver, non mi resolvo 
 Si Silvia e semplieetta, come pare 
 A le parole, a gli atti. Ilier vidi un segno 
 Che me ne mette in dubbio. lo la trovai 
 La presso la cittade in quei gran prati, 
 Ove fra stagni grace un isoletta ; 
 Sovra essa un lago limpido e tranquillo. 
 Tutta pendente in atto, che parea 
 Vegheggiar fe medesma, e'nsieme insieme 
 Chieder consiglio a 1'acque, in qua! inaniera 
 Dispor dovesse in su la front e i crini, 
 E sovra i crini il velo, e sovral velo 
 I fior, che tenea in grembo : e spesso spe^so 
 Hor prendeva un ligustro, hois una rosa, 
 IS Paccostava a! bel candido collo, 
 A le guancie vermiglie,e de coloii 
 Fea paragone ; e poi, licome lieU 
 De la vittoria; lampeggiava un riso 
 Che parea che dicesse : io pur vi vinco 
 Ni porto voiper ornamento mio, 
 Ma porto voi sol per vergogna vostra. 
 Perche si veggia quanto mi cedete. 
 Ma mentre el!a s'ornava, e vagheggiava 
 Rivobi gli oechi a caso, e si fu accorta 
 Ch'io di la m'era accorta, e vergognanuo., 
 Kizzosi tosto, e i fior lascio cadere ; 
 In tanto io piu ridea del suo rossore, 
 Ella phi s'arrossid del riso mio. Aminta. Atto II. Sc. 2. 
 
396 LYRIC POETRY. ;LECT. XXXIX 
 
 I must not omit the mention of another pastoral drama, which will 
 bear being brought into comparison with any composition of this kind, in 
 any language ; that is, Allan Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd. It is a great 
 disadvantage to this beautiful poem, that it is written in the old rustic 
 dialect of Scotland, which, in a short time, will probably be entirely 
 obsolete, and not intelligible ; and it is a farther disadvantage that it is 
 so entirely formed on the rural manners of Scotland, that none but a 
 native of that country can thoroughly understand, or relish it. But, 
 though subject to these local disadvantages, which confine its reputation 
 within narrow limits, it is full of so much natural description, and tender 
 sentiment, as would do honour to any poet. The characters are well 
 drawn, the incidents affecting ; the scenery and manners lively and just= 
 It affords a strong proof, both of the power which nature and simplicity 
 possess, to reach the heart in every §ort of writing ; and of the variety 
 of pleasing characters and subjects, with which pastoral poetry, when 
 properly managed, is capable of being enlivened. 
 
 I proceed next to treat of lyric poetry, or the ode ; a species of po- 
 etical composition which possesses much dignity, and in which many 
 writers have distinguished themselves, in every age. Its peculiar cha- 
 racter is, that it is intended to be sung, or accompanied with music. Its 
 designation implies this. Ode is, in Greek, the same with song or hymn ; 
 and lyric poetry imports, that the verses are accompanied with a lyre, 
 or musical instrument. This distinction was not, at first, peculiar to any 
 one species of poetry. For, as I observed in the last Lecture, music and 
 poetry were coeval, and were, original!}', always joined together. But 
 after their separation took place, after bards had begun to make verse 
 compositions, which were to be recited or read, not to be sung, such 
 poems as were designed to be still joined with music or song, were, by 
 way of distinction, called Odes. 
 
 In the ode, therefore, poetry retains its first and most ancient form ; 
 that form, under which the original bards poured forth their enthusiastic 
 strains, praised their gods and their heroes, celebrated their victories, 
 and lamented their misfortunes. It is from this circumstance, of the 
 ode's being supposed to retain its original union with music, that we are 
 to deduce the proper idea, and the peculiar qualities of this kind of poetry. 
 It is not distinguished from other kinds, by the subjects on which it is 
 employed ; for these may be extremely various. I know no distinction 
 of subject that belongs to it, except that other poems are often employed 
 in the recital of actions, whereas sentiments, of one kind or other, form, 
 almost always, the subject of the ode. But it is chiefly the spirit, the 
 manner of its execution, that marks and characterizes it. Music and 
 song naturally add to the warmth of poetry. They tend to transport, in 
 a higher degree, both the person who sings and the persons who hear. 
 They justify, therefore, a bolder and more passionate strain, than can be 
 supported in simple recitation. On this is formed the peculiar character 
 of the ode. Hence, the enthusiasm that belongs to it, and the liberties 
 it is allowed to take, beyond any other species of poetry. Hence, that 
 neglect of regularity, those digressions, and that disorder which it is 
 supposed to admit ; and which, indeed, most lyric poets have not failed 
 sufliciently to exemplify in their practice. 
 
 The effects of music upon the mind are chiefly two : to raise it above 
 its ordinary state, and rill it with high enthusiastic emotions ; or to soothe, 
 find melt it into the gentle pleasurable feelings. Hence, the one may 
 
i.ECT. XXXIX.] LYRIC POETRY. 397 
 
 either aspire to the former character of the sublime and noble, or it may 
 descend to the latter of the pleasant and the gay ; and between these, 
 there is also a middle region of the mild and temperate emotions, 
 which the ode may often occupy to advantage. 
 
 All odes may be comprised under four denominations. First, sacred 
 odes ; hymns addressed to God, or composed on religious subjects. Of 
 this nature are the Psalms of David, which exhibit to us this species of 
 lyric poetry, in its highest degree of perfection. Secondly, heroic odes, 
 which are employed in the praise of heroes, and in the celebration of 
 martial exploits and great actions. Of this kind are all Pindar's odes, 
 and some few of Horace's. These two kinds ought to have sublimity 
 and elevation for their reigning character. 
 
 Thirdly, moral and philosophical odes, where the sentiments are chief- 
 ly inspired by virtue, friendship, and humanity. Of this kind, are many 
 of Horace's odes, and several of our best modern lyric productions ; and 
 here the ode possesses that middle region, which, as I observed, it some- 
 times occupies. Fourthly, festive and amorous odes, calculated merely 
 for pleasure and amusement. Of this nature, are all Anacreon's, some 
 that claim to be of the lyric species. The reigning character of these, 
 (Ought to be elegance, smoothness, and gayety. 
 
 One of the chief difficulties in composing odes, arises from that enthu- 
 siasm which is understood to be a characteristic of lyric poetry. A 
 professed ode, even of the moral kind, but more especially if it attempt 
 the sublime, is expected to be enlivened and animated, in an uncommon 
 degree. Full of this idea, the poet, when he begins to write an ode, if 
 he has any real warmth of genius, is apt to deliver himself up to it, 
 without control or restraint ; if he has it not, he strains after it, and 
 thinks himself bound to assume the appearance of being all fervour, and 
 all flame. In either case, he is in great hazard of becoming extravagant. 
 The licentiousness of writing without order, method, or connexion, has 
 infected the ode more than any other species of poetry. Hence in the 
 class of heroic odes, we find so few that one can read with pleasure. 
 The poet is out of sight in a moment. He gets up into the clouds ; be- 
 comes so abrupt in his transitions ; so eccentric and irregular in his 
 motions, and of course so obscure, that we essay in vain to follow him, 
 or to partake of his raptures. I do not require, that an ode should be 
 as regular in the structure of its parts, as a didactic or an epic poem. 
 But still in every composition, there ought to be a subject ; there ought to 
 be parts which make up a whole ; there should be a connexion of those 
 parts with one another. The transitions from thought to thought may be 
 light and. delicate, such as are prompted by a lively fancy ; but still they 
 should be such as preserve the connexion of ideas, and show the author 
 to be one who thinks, and not one who raves. Whatever authority may 
 be pleaded for the incoherence and disorder of lyric poetry, nothing can 
 be more certain, than that any composition which is so irregular in its 
 method, as to become obscure to the bulk of readers, is so much worse 
 upon that account.* 
 
 The extravagant liberty which several of the modern lyric writers 
 assume to themselves in their versification increases the disorder of 
 
 * " La pi u part des ceux qui parlent de 1'entbusiasme ae l'ode, en parlent comme 
 s'ils etoient aux-raetnes dans le trouble qu'its veulcnt dcfinir. Ce ne sont que grands 
 
39S -LYRIC POETRY. [LECT. XXXIX. 
 
 this species of poetry. They prolong their periods to such a degree, 
 they wander through so many different measures, and employ such u 
 variety of long and short lines, corresponding'^in rhyme at so great a dis- 
 tance from each other, that all sense of melody is utterly lost. Whereas 
 lyric composition ought, beyond every other species of poetry, to 
 pay attention to melody and beauty of sound ; and the versification of 
 those odes may be justly accounted the best, which renders the harmo- 
 ny of the measure most sensible to every common ear. 
 
 Pindar, the great father of lyric poetry, has been the occasion of 
 leading his imitators into some of the defects I have now mentioned. 
 His genius was sublime ; his expressions are beautiful and happy ; his 
 descriptions picturesque. But finding it a very barren subject to sing 
 the praises of those who had gained the prize in the public games, he 
 is perpetually digressive, and fills up his poems with fables of the gods 
 and heroes, that have little connexion either with his subject, or with 
 one another. The ancients admired him greatly ; but as many of the 
 histories of particular families and cities, to which he alludes, are now 
 unknown to us, he is so obscure, partly from his subjects, and partly 
 from his rapid, abrupt manner of treating them, that, notwithstanding the 
 beauty of his expression, our pleasure in reading him is much diminish- 
 ed. One would imagine, that many of his modern imitators thought the 
 best way to catch his spirit, was to imitate his disorder and obscurity. 
 In several of the choruses of Euripides and Sophocles, we have the 
 same kind of lyric poetry as in Pindar, carried on with more clearness 
 and connexion, and at the same time, with much sublimity. 
 
 Of all the writers of odes, ancient or modern, there is none that 
 in point of correctness, harmony, and happy expression, can vie with 
 Horace. He has descended from the Pindaric rapture to a more mode- 
 rate degree of elevation : and joins connected thought, and good sense, 
 with the highest beauties of poetry. He does not often aspire beyond 
 that middle region, which I mentioned as belonging to the ode ; and 
 those odes, in which he attempts the sublime, are perhaps not always 
 his best.* The peculiar character, in which he excels, is grace and 
 elegance ; and in this style of composition, no poet has ever attained to 
 a greater perfection than Horace. No poet supports a moral sentiment 
 
 mots de fureur divine, de transports de Tame, de mouvemens, de lumieres, qui mis 
 bout-a-bout dans des phrases pompeuses, ne produisent pourtant aucune idee dis- 
 tincte. Si on les en croit, I'essence de l'enthusiasme est de ne pouvoir elre compris 
 que par ies esprits du premiere ordre, k la tete desquels iis se supposent, et dont ils 
 excluent tous ceux que osent ne les pas etendre. — Le beau desordre de l'ode est ua 
 effet de l'art ; mais ilfaut prendre garde de donner trop d'etendue a ce ternie. On 
 autoriseroit par la tous les 6carts imaginables. Un poete n'auroit plus qu'a exprimer 
 avec force toutes les pensees qui lui viendroient successivement ; il se tiendroit 
 dispense d'en examiner le rapport, et de se faire un plan, dont toutes les parties se 
 pretassent mutuellement des beautes. II n'y auroitni commencement, ni milieu, ni 
 fin, dans son ouvrage ; et cependant l'auteur se croiroit d'autantplus sublime, qu'il 
 seroit moins raisonable. Mais qui produiroit une pareille composition dans l'esprit 
 du lecteur ? Elle ne laisseroit qu'un etourdissement, cause par la magnificence et 
 Tharmonie des paroles-, sans y faire naitre que des idees confuses, qui cbasseroient 
 1'une ou l'autre, au lieu de concourir ensemble a fixer et a eclairer l'esprit.'' 
 Oeuvres de M. De la Motte, tome 1. Discours sur l'Ode. 
 
 * There is no ode whatever of Horace's, without great beauties. But though I 
 may be singular in my opinion, I cannot help thinking that in some of those odes 
 which have been much admired for sublimity, (such as Ode iv. Lib. 4. " Qualem 
 ministrum fulminis alitem," &x.) there appears somewhat of a strained and forced 
 effort to be lofty. The genius of this amiable poet shows itself, according to my 
 judgment, to greater advantage in themes of a more temperate kind. 
 
kECT.XL.] DIDACTIC POETRY, 399 
 
 with more dignity, touches a gay one more happily, or possesses the 
 art of trifling more agreeably, when he choses to trifle. His language 
 is so fortunate, that with a single word or epithet, he often conveys a 
 whole description to the fancy. Hence he ever has been, and ever will 
 continue to be, a favourite author with all persons of taste. 
 
 Among the Latin poets of later ages, there have been many imitators 
 of Horace. One of the most distinguished is Casimir, a Polish poet 
 of the last century, who wrote four books of odes. In graceful ease 
 of expression he is far inferior to the Roman. He oftener affects the 
 sublime ; and in the attempt, like other lyric writers, frequently becomes 
 harsh and unnatural. But, on several occasions, he discovers a consi- 
 derable degree of original genius, and poetical fire. Buchanan, in some 
 of his lyric compositions, is very elegant and classical. 
 
 Among the French, the odes of Jean Baptiste Rousseau, have been 
 much and justly celebrated. They possess great beauty, both of sen- 
 timent and expression. They are animated, without being rhapsodical ; 
 and are not inferior to any poetical productions in the French language. 
 
 In our own language we have several lyric compositions of consider- 
 able merit. Dryden's ode on St. Cecilia is well known. Mr. Gray is 
 distinguished in some of his odes, both for tenderness and sublimity ; 
 and in Dodsley's Miscellanies, several very beautiful lyric poems are to 
 be found. As to professed Pindaric odes, they are, with a few excep- 
 tions, so incoherent, as seldom to be intelligible. Cowley, at all times 
 harsh, is doubly so in his Pindaric compositions. In his Anacreonic 
 odes, he is much happier. They are smooth and elegant ; and indeed 
 the most agreeable and the most perfect in their kind, of all Mr. Cow- 
 ley's poems. 
 
 LECTURE XL. 
 
 DIDACTIC POETRY— DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 
 
 Having treated of pastoral and lyric poetry, I proceed next to didac- 
 tic poetry ; under which is included a numorous class of writings. The 
 ultimate end of all poetry, indeed, of every composition, should be to 
 make some useful impression on the mind. This useful impression is 
 most commonly made in poetry, by indirect methods ; as by fable, by 
 narration, by representation of characters ; but didactic poetry openly 
 professes its intention of conveying knowledge and instruction. It dif- 
 fers, therefore, in the form only, not in the scope and substance, from 
 a philosophical, a moral, or a critical treatise in prose. At the same 
 time, by means of its form, it has several advantages over prose instruc- 
 tion. By the charm of versification and numbers, it renders instruction 
 more agreeable ; by the descriptions, episodes, and other embellish- 
 ments, which it may interweave, it detains, and engages the fancy ; it 
 fixes also useful circumstances more deeply in the memory. Hence, it 
 is afield, wherein a poet may gain great honour, may display both much 
 genius, and much knowledge and judgment. 
 
400 DIDACTIC POETRY. [LECT. XL, 
 
 It may be executed in different manners. The poet may choo:_ 
 some instructive subj ^ • I he may treat it regularly, and in form ; 
 or, without intending a great or regular work, he may only inveigh 
 against particular vices, or make some moral observations on human life 
 and characters, as is commonly done in satires and epistles. All these 
 come under the denomination of didactic poetry. 
 
 The highest species of it, is a regular treatise on some philosophical, 
 grave, or useful subject. Of this nature we have several, both ancient 
 and modern, of great merit and character : such as Lucretius's six books 
 De Rerum Natura, Virgil's Georgics, Pope's Essay on Criticism, Aken- 
 side's Pleasures of the Imagination, Armstrong on Health, Horace's, 
 Vida's, and Boileau's Art of Poetry. 
 
 In all such works, as instruction is the professed object, the funda- 
 mental merit consists in sound thought, just principles, clear and apt 
 illustrations. The poet must instruct ; but he must study, at the same 
 time, to enliven his instructions, by the introduction of such figures, 
 and such circumstances, as may amuse the imagination, may conceal the 
 dryness of his subject, and embellish it with poetical painting. Virgil, 
 in his Georgics, presents us here with a perfect model. He has the art 
 of raising and beautifying the most trivial circumstances in rural life. 
 When he is going to say, that the labour of the country must begin in 
 spring, he expresses himself thus : 
 
 Vere novo, gelidus canis cum montibus humor 
 Liquitur, et Zephyro putris se glebaresolvit ; 
 Depresso incipiat jam turn mibi Taurus aratro 
 Ingemere,et sulco attritus splendescere vomer* 
 
 Instead of telling his husbandman in plain language, that kis crops will 
 fail through bad management, his language is, 
 
 Heu magnum alterius frustra spectabis acervum. 
 Concussaque famem insylvis solabere quercu.t 
 
 Instead of ordering him to water his grounds, he presents us with a 
 beautiful landscape : 
 
 Ecce supercilie clivosi tramitis undam 
 Elicit; ilia cadens, raucum per laevia murmur 
 Saxa ciet ; scatebrisque arentia temperat arva4 
 
 In all didactic works, method and order are essentially requisite ; not 
 £o strict and formal as in a prose treatise ; yet such as may exhibit clears 
 
 * While yet the spring is young, while earth unbinds 
 Her frozen bosom to the western winds ; 
 While mountain snows dissolve against the sun, 
 And streams yet new from precipices run ; 
 Ev'n in this early dawning of the year, 
 Produce the plough and yoke the sturdy steer, 
 And goad him till he groans beneath his toil, 
 Till the bright share is buried in the soil. Dryden 
 
 i On other crops you may with envy look, 
 And shake for food the long abandoned oak. Dryden. 
 
 | Behold when burning suns, or Syrius' beams 
 Strike fiercely on the field and withering stems, 
 Down from the summit of the neighbouring hills, 
 O'er the smooth stones he calls the bubbling rills : 
 Soon as he clears whate'er their passage stay'd, 
 And marks their future current with his spade, 
 Before him scattering they prevent his pains, 
 And roll with hollow murmurs o'er the plain? Warto* 
 
1ECT. XL] DIDACTIC POETRY. 40 j 
 
 ly to the reader a connected train of instruction.— Of the didactic poets, 
 whom I before mentioned, Horace, in his Art of Poetry, is the one most 
 censured for want of method. Indeed, if Horace be deficient in any 
 thing throughout many of his writings, it is in this, of not being suffi- 
 ciently attentive to juncture and connexion of parts. He writes always 
 with ease and gracefulness ; but often in a manner somewhat loose and 
 rambling. There is, however, in that work much good sense, and ex- 
 cellent criticism ; and, if it be considered as intended for the regulation 
 of the Roman drama, which seems to have been the author's chief pur- 
 pose, it will be found to be a more complete and regular treatise, than 
 under the common notion, of its being a system of the whole poetical art 
 
 With regard to episodes and embellishments, great liberty is allowed 
 to writers of didactic poetry. We soon tire of a continued series of 
 instructions, especially in a poetical work, where we look for entertain- 
 ment. The great art of rendering a didactic poem interesting, is to 
 relieve and amuse the reader, by connecting some agreeable episodes 
 with the principal subject. These are always the parts of the work 
 which are best known, and which contribute most to support the repu- 
 tation of the poet. The principal beauties of Virgil's Georgics lie in 
 digressions of this kind, in which the author has exerted all the force 
 of his genius ; such as the prodigies that attended the death of Julius 
 Caesar, the praises of Italy, the happiness of a country life, the fable 
 of Aristeus, and the moving tale of Orpheus and Eurydice. In like manner, 
 the favourite passages in Lucretius's work, and which alone could ren- 
 der such a dry and abstract subject tolerable in poetry, are the digres- 
 sions on the evils of superstition, the praise of Epicurus and his phi- 
 losophy, the description of the plague, and several other incidental 
 illustrations, which are remarkably elegant, and adorned with a sweet- 
 ness and harmony of versification peculiar to that poet. There is, 
 indeed, nothing in poetry, so entertaining or descriptive, but what a 
 didactic writer of genius may be allowed to introduce in some part of 
 his work ; provided always, that such episodes arise naturally from the 
 main subject ; that they be not disproportioned in length to it ; and that 
 the author know how to descend with propriety to the plain, as well as 
 how to rise to the bold and figured style. 
 
 Much art may be shown by a didactic poet in connecting his episodes 
 happily with his subject. Virgil is also distinguished for his address in 
 this point. After seeming to have left his husbandmen, he again returns 
 to them very naturally by laying hold of some rural circumstance, to 
 terminate his digression. Thus, having spoken of the battle of Pharsa- 
 lia, he subjoins immediately, with much art, 
 
 Scilicet et tempus veniet, cum finibus illis, 
 Agricolo, incurve terram molitus aratro. 
 Exesa inveniet scabra rubigine pila : 
 Aut gravibus rastris galeas pulsabit inanes, 
 Grandiaque effossis mirabitur ossa sepulchris.* 
 
 In English, Dr. Akenside has attempted the most rich and poetical 
 form of didactic writing in his Pleasures of the Imagination ; and though , 
 
 * Then, after length of time, the lab'ring swains 
 Who turn the turf of these unhappy plains, 
 Shall rusty arms from the plough'd furrows take. 
 And over empty helmets pass the rake ; 
 Amus'd at antique titles on the stones, 
 
 And mighty relics of gigantic bone? I'ryden, 
 
 E e e 
 
402 DIDACTIC POETRY [LECT. XL 
 
 in the execution of the whole, he is not equal, he has, in several parts, 
 succeeded happily, and displayed much genius. Dr. Armstrong, in his 
 Art of Preserving Health, has not aimed at so high a strain as the other. 
 But he is more equal ; and maintains throughout a chaste and correct 
 elegance. 
 
 Satires and epistles naturally run into a more familiar style, than solemn 
 philosophical poetry. As the manners and characters, which occur in 
 ordinary life, are their subject, they require being treated with somewhat 
 of the ease and freedom of conversation, and hence it is commonly the 
 " musa pedestris," which reigns in such compositions. 
 
 Satire, in its first state among the Romans, had a form different from 
 what it afterward assumed. Its origin is obscure, and has given occasion 
 to altercation among critics. It seems to have been at first a relic of 
 the ancient comedy, written partly in prose, partly in verse, and abound- 
 ing with scurrility. Ennius and Luciiius corrected its grossness ; and 
 at last, Horace brought it into that form, which now gives the denomi- 
 nation to satirical writing. Reformation of manners, is the end which 
 it professes to have in view ; and in order to this end, it assumes the 
 liberty of boldly censuring vice and vicious characters. It has been 
 carried on in three different manners, by the three great ancient satir- 
 ists, Horace, Juvenal, and Persius. Horace's style has not much eleva- 
 tion. He entitles his satire " Sermones," and seems not to have in- 
 tended rising much higher than prose put into numbers. His manner is 
 easy and graceful. They are rather the follies and weakness of man- 
 kind, than their enormous vices, which he chooses for the object ©f his 
 satire. He reproves with a smiling aspect ; and while he moralizes like 
 a sound philosopher, discovers, at the same time, the politeness of a 
 courtier. Juvenal is much more serious and declamatory. He has 
 more strength and fire, and more elevation of style, than Horace ; but 
 is greatly inferior to him in gracefulness and ease. His satire is more 
 zealous, more sharp and pointed, as being generally directed against 
 more flagitious characters. As Scaliger says of him, " ardet, instat, 
 jugulat;" whereas Horace's character is, " admissus circum praecordia 
 ludit." Persius has a greater resemblance of the force and fire of 
 Juvenal, than of the politeness of Horace. He is distinguished for sen- 
 timents of noble and sublime morality. He is a nervous and lively 
 writer ; but withal, often harsh and obscure. 
 
 Poetical epistles, when employed on moral or critical subjects, seldom 
 rise into a higher strain of poetry than satires. In the form of an epis- 
 tle, indeed, many other subjects may be handled, and either love poetry, 
 or elegiac, may be carried on ; as in Ovid's Epistolae Herodium, and 
 his Epistolae de Ponto. Such works as these are designed to be merely 
 sentimental ; and as their merit consists in being proper expressions 
 of the passion or sentiment which forms the subject, they may assume 
 any tone of poetry that is suited to it. But didactic epistles, of which 
 I now speak, seldom admit of much elevation. They are commonly 
 intended as observations on authors, or on life and characters ; in de- 
 livering which, the poet does not purpose to compose a formal treatise, 
 or to confine himself strictly to regular method ; but gives scope 
 to his genius on some particular theme, which, at the time, has 
 prompted him to write. In all didactic poetry of this kind, it is an 
 important rule, " quicquid precipes, esto brevis." Much of the grace, 
 both of satirical and epistolary writing, consists in a spirited conciseness, 
 
IECT, XL.] DIDACTIC POETRY. 443. 
 
 This gives to such composition an edge and a liveliness, which strike the 
 fancy, and keep attention awake. Much of their merit depends also on 
 just and happy representations of characters. As they are not supported 
 by those high beauties of descriptive and poetical language which adorn 
 other compositions, we expect, in return, to be entertained with lively 
 paintings of men and manners, which are always pleasing ; and in these, a 
 certain sprightliness and turn of wit finds its proper place. The higher 
 species of poetry seldom admit it ; but here it is seasonable and beautiful. 
 In all these respects, Mr. Pope's Ethical Epistles deserve to be men- 
 tioned with signal honour, as a model, next to perfect, of this kind of 
 poetry. Here, perhaps, the strength of his genius appeared. In the 
 more sublime parts of poetry, he is not so distinguished. In the enthu- 
 siasm, the fire, the force and copiousness of poetic genius, Dryden, 
 though a much less correct writer, appears to have been superior to him. 
 One can scarce think that he was capable of epic or tragic poetry ; but 
 within a certain limited region, he has been outdone by no poet. His 
 translation of the Iliad will remain a lasting monument to his honour, as 
 the most elegant and highly finished translation, that, perhaps, ever was 
 given of any poetical work. That he was not incapable of tender 
 poetry, appears from the epistle of Eloisa to Abelard, and from the verses 
 to the memory of an unfortunate lady, which are almost his only senti- 
 mental productions ; and which indeed are excellent in their kind. But 
 the qualities for which he is chiefly distinguished, are, judgment and wit, 
 with a concise and happy expression, and a melodious versification. Few 
 poets ever had more wit, and at the same time more judgment, to direct 
 the proper employment of that wit. This renders his Rape of the Lock 
 the greatest masterpiece that perhaps ever was composed, in the gay 
 and sprightly style ; and in his serious works, such as his Essay on Man, 
 and his Ethic Epistles, his wit just discovers itself as much, as to give a 
 proper seasoning to grave reflections. His imitations of Horace are so 
 peculiarly happy, that one is at a loss, whether most to admire the original 
 or the copy ; and they are among the few imitations extant, that have all 
 the grace and ease of an original. His paintings of characters are na- 
 tural and lively in a high degree ; and never was any writer so happy 
 in that concise spirited style, which gives animation to satires and epistles. 
 We are never so sensible of the good effects of rhyme in English verse, 
 as in reading these parts of his works. We see it adding to the style, an 
 elevation which otherwise it could not have possessed ; while at the same 
 time he manages it so artfully, that it never appears in the least to encumber 
 him ; but, on the contrary, serves to increase the liveliness of his manner. 
 He tells us himself, that he could express moral observations more con- 
 cisely, and therefore more forcibly, in rhyme, than he could do in prose. 
 Among moral and didactic poets, Dr. Young is of too great eminence to 
 be passed over without notice. In all his works the marks of strong 
 genius appear. His Universal Passion possesses the full merit of that 
 animated conciseness of style, and lively description of characters, which 
 I mentioned as particularly requisite in satirical and didactic compositions. 
 Though his wit may often be thought too sparkling, and his sentences 
 too pointed, yet the vivacity of his fancy is so great, as to entertain every 
 reader. In his Night Thoughts, there is much energy of expression : in 
 the three first, there are several pathetic passages ; and scattered through 
 them all, happy images and allusions, as well as pious reflections, occur. 
 But the sentiments are frequently over-strained and turgid ; and the style 
 
404 - DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. [LECT. XL. 
 
 is too harsh and obscure to be pleasing. Among French authors, Boileau 
 has undoubtedly much merit in didactic poetry. Their later critics are 
 unwilling to allow him any great share of original genius, or poetic fire.* 
 But his Art of Poetry, his Satires and Epistles, must ever be esteemed 
 eminent, not only for solid and judicious thought, but for correct and ele- 
 gant poetical expression, and fortunate imitation of the ancients. 
 
 From didactic, I proceed next to treat of descriptive poetry, where 
 the highest exertions of genius may be displayed. By descriptive poetry 
 I do not mean any one particular species or form of composition. There 
 are few compositions of any length, that can be called purely descriptive, 
 or wherein the poet proposes to himself no other object, but merely to 
 describe, without employing narration, action, or moral sentiment, as the 
 groundwork of his piece. Description is generally introduced as an 
 embellishment, rather than made the subject of a regular work. But 
 though it seldom forms a separate species of writing, yet into every 
 species of poetical composition, pastoral, lyric, didactic, epic, and dra- 
 matic, it both enters and possesses in each of them a very considerable 
 place ; so that in treating of poetry, it demands no small attention. 
 
 Description is the great test of a poet's imagination ; and always 
 distinguishes an original from a second-rate genius. To a writer of the 
 inferior class, nature, when at any time he attempts to describe it, appears 
 exhausted by those who have gone before him in the same track. He 
 sees nothing new, or peculiar, in the object which he would paint ; his 
 conceptions of it are loose and vague ; and his expressions, of course, 
 feeble and general. He gives us words rather than ideas ; we meet with 
 the language indeed of poetical description, but we apprehend the object 
 described very indistinctly. Whereas, a true poet makes us to imagine 
 that we see it before our eyes ; he catches the distinguishing features ; 
 he gives it the colours of life and reality : he places it in such a light that 
 a painter could copy after him. This happy talent is chiefly owing to a 
 strong imagination, which first receives a lively impression of the object; 
 and then, by employing a proper selection of circumstances in describing 
 it, transmits that impression in its full force to the imagination of others. 
 
 In this selection of circumstances lies the great art of picturesque 
 description. In the first place, they ought not to be vulgar and common 
 ones, such as are apt to pass by without remark ; but, as much as possible 
 new and original, which may catch the fancy anddraw the attention. In the 
 next place, they ought to be such as particularize the object described, 
 and mark it strongly. No description, that rests in generals, can be good. 
 For we can conceive nothing clearly in the abstract ; all distinct ideas 
 are formed upon particulars. In the third place, all the circumstances 
 employed ought to be uniform, and of a piece ; that is, when describing 
 a great object, every circumstance brought into view should tend to ag- 
 grandize ; or, when describing a gay and pleasant one, should tend to 
 beautify, that by this means, the impression may rest upon the imagination 
 complete and entire : and lastly, the circumstances in description should 
 be expressed with conciseness and with simplicity ; for, when either too 
 much exaggerated, or too long dwelt upon and extended, they never fail 
 to enfeeble the impression that is designed to be made. Brevity, almost 
 always contributes to vivacity. These general rules will be best under- 
 stood by illustrations, founded on particular instances. 
 
 s Vid. Poetique Francoise de MarmonteK 
 
LECT. XL.] DESCRIPTIVE FOETRY' 40i 
 
 Of all professed descriptive compositions, the largest and fullest that I 
 am acquainted with, in any language, is Mr. Thomson's Seasons ; a 
 work which possesses very uncommon merit. The style, in the midst of 
 much splendour and strength, is sometimes harsh, and may be censured 
 as deficient in ease and distinctness. But notwithstanding this defect, 
 Thomson is a strong and a beautiful describer ; for he had a feeling heart, 
 and a warm imagination. He had studied and copied nature with care. 
 Enamoured of her beauties, he not only described them properly, but 
 felt their impression with strong sensibility. The impression which he 
 felt, he transmits to his readers ; and no person of taste can peruse any 
 one of his Seasons, without having the ideas and feelings, which belong 
 to that season, recalled and rendered present to his mind. Several in- 
 stances of most beautiful description might be given from him ; such as, 
 the shower in spring, the morning in summer, and the man perishing in 
 snow in winter. But, at present, 1 shall produce a passage of another 
 kind, to show the power of a single well-chosen circumstance to heighten 
 a description. In his summer, relating the effects of heat in the torrid 
 zone, he is led to take notice of the pestilence that destroyed the 
 English fleet, at Carthagena, under Admiral Vernon ; when he has 
 the following lines : 
 
 you j gallant Vernon, saw 
 
 The miserable scene ; you pitying saw 
 
 To infant weakness sunk the warrior's arms ; 
 
 Saw the deep-racking pang ; the ghastly form ; 
 
 The lip pale quiv'ring ; and the beamless eye 
 
 No more with ardour bright ; you heard the groans 
 
 Of agonizing ships from shore to shore ; 
 
 Heard nightly plung'd, amid the sullen waves, 
 
 The frequent corse. L. 1050, 
 
 All the circumstances here are properly chosen, for setting this dismal 
 scene in a strong light before our eyes. But what is most striking in the 
 picture is the last image. We are conducted through all the scenes of 
 distress, till we come to the mortality prevailing in the fleet, which a 
 vulgar poet would have described by exaggerated expressions, concern- 
 ing the multiplied trophies and victories of death. But, how much 
 more is the imagination impressed, by this single circumstance of dead 
 bodies thrown overboard every night ; of the constant sound of their 
 falling into the waters, and of the Admiral listening to this melancholy 
 sound, so often striking his ear! 
 
 Heard nightly plung'd, amid the sullen waves, 
 The frequent corse* 
 
 * The eulogium which Dr. Johnson, in his Lives of the Poets, gives of Thomson, is 
 high, and, in my opinion, very just : "Asa writer, he is entitled to one praise of 
 the highest kind : his mode of thinking, and of expressing his thoughts, is original. 
 His blank verse is no more the blank verse of Milton, or of any other poet, than the 
 rhymes of Prior are the rhymes of Cowley. His numbers, his pauses, his diction, are 
 of his own growth, without transcription, without imitation. He thinks in a peculiar 
 train, and he thinks always as a man of genius. He looks round on nature and life, 
 with the eye which nature bestows only on a poet ; the eye that distinguishes in every 
 thing presented to its view, whatever there is on which imagination can delight to 
 be detained ; and with a mind that at once comprehends the vast and attends to the 
 minute. The reader of the Seasons wonders that he never saw before what Thomson 
 shows him, and that he never yet has felt what Thomson impresses. His descriptions 
 of extended scenes, and general effects, bring before us the whole magnificence of 
 nature, whether pleasing or dreadful. The gayety of Spring, the splendour of Sum- 
 mer, the tranquillity of Autumn, and the horror of Winter, take, in their turn, pos- 
 session of the raind. The poet leads us through the appearances of things, as they 
 
4 0e DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. [LECT. XL, 
 
 Mr. Parnell's Tale of the Hermit is conspicuous throughout the whole 
 of it, for beautiful descriptive narration. The manner of the Hermit's 
 setting forth to visit the world ; his meeting with a companion, and the 
 houses in which they are successively entertained, of the vain man, the 
 covetous man, and the good man, are pieces of very fine painting, touched 
 with a light and delicate pencil, overcharged with no superfluous colouring 
 and conveying to us a lively idea of the objects. But, of all the English 
 poems in the descriptive style, the richest and most remarkable are, 
 Milton's Allegro and Penseroso. The collection of gay images on the 
 one hand, and of melancholy ones on the other, exhibited in these two 
 small, but inimitably fine poems, are as exquisite as can be conceived. 
 They are, indeed, the storehouse whence many succeeding poets have 
 enriched their descriptions of similar subjects ; and they alone are suf- 
 ficient for illustrating the observations which I made, concerning the 
 proper selection of circumstances in descriptive writing. Take, for in- 
 stance, the following passage from the Penseroso : 
 
 -I walk unseen 
 
 On the dry, smooth-shaven green, 
 
 To behold the wandering moon, 
 
 Riding near her highest noon, 
 
 Like one that had been led astray, 
 
 Through the Heaven's wide pathless way. 
 
 And oft as if her head she bow'd, 
 
 Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
 
 Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 
 
 I hear the far-off curfew sound, 
 
 Over some wide watered shore, 
 
 Swinging slow with solemn roar; 
 
 Or, if the air will not permit, 
 
 Some still removed place will fit, 
 
 Where glowing embers through the room 
 
 Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; 
 
 Far from all resort of mirth 
 
 Save the cricket on the hearth, 
 
 Or the bellman's drowsy charm, 
 
 To bless the doors from nightly harm \ 
 
 Or let my lamp, at midnight hour, 
 
 Re seen in some high lonely tower, 
 
 Where I may outwatch the Rear 
 
 With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere 
 
 The spirit of Plato to unfold 
 
 What worlds or what vast regions hold 
 
 Th' immortal mind, that hath forsook 
 
 Her mansion in this fleshy nook ; 
 
 And of those daemons that are found 
 
 In fire, air, flood, or under ground. 
 
 Here there are no unmeaning general expressions ; all is particular ; 
 all is picturesque ; nothing forced or exaggerated ; but a simple style 
 and a collection of strong expressive images, which are all of one class, 
 and recall a number of similar ideas of the melancholy kind ; particularly 
 the walk by moonlight ; the sound of the curfew bell heard distant ; the 
 dying embers in the chamber ; the bellman's call ; and the lamp seen 
 at midnight in the high lonely tower. We may observe, too, the 
 conciseness of the poet's manner. He does not rest long on one cir- 
 
 are successively varied by the vicissitudes of the year, and imparts to us so much of 
 his own enthusiasm that our thoughts expand with his imagery, and kindle with his 
 sentiments." The censure which the same eminent critic passes upon Thomson's 
 diction, is no less just and well founded, that " it is too exuberant, and may some- 
 times be charged with filling the ear more than the mind. 
 
LECT. XL.j DESCRIPTIVE POETRY, 4^ 
 
 cumstance, or employ a great many words to describe it ; which always 
 makes the impression faint and languid ; but placing it in one strong point 
 of view, full and clear before the reader, he there leaves it. 
 
 " From his shield and his helmet," says Homer, describing one of his 
 heroes in battle, '.' From his shield and his helmet, there sparkled an 
 incessant blaze ; like the autumnal star, when it appears in its brightness 
 from the waters of the ocean." This is short and lively ; but when it 
 comes into Mr. Pope's hand, it evaporates in three pompous lines, each 
 of which repeats the same image in different words : 
 
 High on his helm celestial lightnings play, 
 His beamy shield emits a living ray ; 
 Th' unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies, 
 Like the red star that fires th' autumnal skies. 
 
 It is to be observed, in general, that, in describing solemn or great 
 objects, the concise manner is, almost always, proper. Descriptions of 
 gay and smiling scenes can bear to be more amplified and prolonged ; as 
 strength is not the predominant quality expected in these. But where a 
 sublime, or a pathetic impression is intended to be made, energy is above 
 all things required. The imagination ought then to be seized at once ; 
 and it is far more deeply impressed by one strong and ardent image, than 
 by the anxious minuteness of laboured illustration. " His face was 
 without form, and dark," says Ossian, describing a ghost, " the stars dim 
 twinkling through his form ; thrice he sighed over the hero ; and thrice 
 the winds of the night roared around." 
 
 It deserves attention too, that in describing inanimate natural objects, 
 the poet, in order to enliven his description, ought always to mix living 
 beings with them. The scenes of dead and still life are apt to pall upon 
 us, if the poet do not suggest sentiments and introduce life and action into 
 his description. This is well known to every painter who is a master of 
 his art. Seldom has any beautiful landscape been drawn, without some 
 human being represented on the canvass, as beholding it, or on some ac- 
 count concerned in it : 
 
 Hie gelidi fontes, hie mollia prata Lycori, 
 Hie nemus; hie ipso tecum consumerer aevo.* 
 
 The touching part of these fine lines of Virgil's is the last, which sets 
 before us the interest of two lovers in this rural scene. A long description 
 of the "fontes" the " nemus" and the "prata,' 1 '' in the most poetical 
 modern manner, would have been insipid without this stroke, which, in 
 a few words, brings home to the heart all the beauties of the place ; " hie 
 ipso tecum consumerer asvo." It is a great beauty in Milton's Allegro, 
 that it is all alive, and full of persons. 
 
 Every thing, as I before said, in description, should be as marked 
 and particular as possible, in order to imprint on the mind a distinct and 
 complete image. A hill, a river, or a lake, rises up more conspicuous 
 to the fancy, when some particular lake, or river, or hill, is specified, 
 than when the terms are left general. Most of the ancient writers have 
 been sensible of the advantage which this gives to description. Thus, 
 in that beautiful pastoral compositien, the Song of Solomon, the images 
 
 * Here cooling fountains roll through flow'ry meads, 
 Here woods, Lycoris, lift their verdant heads, 
 Here could I wear my careless life away, 
 And in thy arms insensibly decay. Virg. Ecl. X. Wartoj?, 
 
40S DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. [LECT. XL. 
 
 are commonly particularized by the objects to which they allude. " It 
 is the rose of Sharon ; the lily of the valleys ; the flock which feeds on 
 Mount Gilead ; the stream which comes from Mount Lebanon, Come 
 with me, from Lebanon, my spouse ; look from the top of Amana, from 
 the top of Shenir and Hermon, from the lions' dens, from the mountains 
 of the leopards," ch. iv. 8. So Horace : 
 
 Quid dedicatum poscit Apollinem 
 Vates ? quid orat de patera novum 
 
 Fundens liquorem ? non opimas 
 Sardinee segetes feracis ; 
 Non sestuosae grata Calabriae 
 Armenta ; non aurum aut ebur Indicum } 
 
 Non rura, quae Liris quiet& 
 Mordet aqua, taciturnus amnis .* Lib. I. Ode 3L 
 
 Both Homer and Virgil are remarkable for the talent of poetica 
 description. In Virgil's second iEneid, where he describes the burning 
 and sacking of Troy, the particulars are so well selected and represented, 
 that the reader finds himself in the midst of that scene of horror. The 
 death of Priam, especially, may be singled out as a masterpiece of 
 description. All the circumstances of the aged monarch arraying him- 
 self in armour, when he finds the enemy making themselves masters of 
 the city ; his meeting with his family, who are taking shelter at an altar 
 in the court of the palace, and their placing him in the midst of them ; 
 his indignation when he beholds Pyrrhus slaughtering one of his sons ; 
 the feeble dart which he throws ; with Pyrrhus's brutal behaviour, and 
 his manner of putting the old man to death, are painted in the most 
 affecting manner, and with a masterly hand. All Homer's battles, and 
 Milton's account, both of paradise and of the infernal regions, furnish 
 many beautiful instances of poetical description. Ossian, too, paints 
 in strong and lively colours, though he employs few circumstances ; and 
 his chief excellency lies in painting to the heart. One of his fullest 
 descriptions is the following of the ruins of Balclutha ; I have seen 
 the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. The fire had resounded 
 within the halls ; and the voice of the people is now 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 at the window ; the rank grass waved 
 round his head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina. Silence is in the 
 house of her fathers." Shakspeare cannot be omitted on this occasion, 
 as singularly eminent for painting with the pencil of nature. Though 
 it be in manners and characters that his chief excellency lies, yet 
 his scenery also is often exquisite, and happily described by a single 
 stroke ; as in that fine line of the " Merchant of Venice," which con- 
 
 * When at Apollo's hallowed shrine 
 The poet hails the power divine, 
 And here his first libation pours, 
 What is the blessing he implores ? 
 He nor desires the swelling grain, 
 That yellows o'er Sardinia's plain/ 
 Nor the fair herds that lowing feed 
 On warm Calabria's flowery mead ; 
 Nor ivory of spotless shine ; 
 Nor gold forth flaming from the mine , 
 Nor the rich fields that Liris laves, 
 And eats away with silent waves. Francis 
 
'LEUT. XI,.] DESCRIPTIVE FOETUS 409 
 
 veys to the fancy as natural and beautiful an image as can possibly be 
 exhibited in so few words ? 
 
 How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 
 Here will we sit, &c. 
 
 Much of the beauty of descriptive poetry depends upon a right choice 
 of epithets. Many poets, it must be confessed, are too careless in this 
 particular. Epithets are frequently brought in merely to complete the 
 verse, or make the rhyme answer ; and hence they are so unmeaning and 
 redundant ; expletive words only, which in place of adding anj' thing to 
 the description, clog and enervate it. Virgil's " Liquidi fontes," and 
 Horace's " Prata canis albicant pruinis," must, I am afraid, be assigned 
 to this class : for, to denote by an epithet that water is liquid, or that 
 snow is white, is no better than mere tautology. Every epithet should 
 either add a new idea to the word which it qualifies, or at least serve to 
 raise and heighten its known signification. So in Milton. 
 
 Who shall tempt with wand'ring feet 
 
 The dark, unbottom'd, infinite abyss, 
 
 And through the palpable obscure, find out 
 
 His uncouth way ? or spread his airy flight, 
 
 Upborn with indefatigable wings, 
 
 Over the vast abrupt ? U. jl. 
 
 The epithets employed here plainly add strength to the description, and 
 assist the fancy in conceiving it ; — the wandering feet — the unbottomed 
 abyss — the palpable obscure — the uncouth way — the indefatigable wing 
 — serve to render the images more complete and distinct. But there are 
 many general epithets, which though they appear to raise the significa- 
 tion of the word to which they are joined, yet leave it so undetermined, 
 and are now become so trite and beaten in poetical language as to be 
 perfectly insipid. Of this kind are " barbarous discord— hateful envy — • 
 mighty chiefs — bloody war — gloomy shades — direful scenes," and a thou- 
 sand more of the same kind which we meet with occasionally in good 
 poets ; but with which poets of inferior genius abound every where, as 
 the great props of their affected sublimity. They give a sort of swell 
 to the language, and raise it above the tone of prose ; but they serve 
 not in the least to illustrate the object described ; on the contrary, they 
 load the style with a languid verbosity. 
 
 Sometimes it is in the power of a poet of genius, by one well-chosen 
 epithet, to accomplish a»description, and by means of a single word, to 
 paint a whole scene to the fancy. We may remark this effect of an 
 epithet in the following fine lines of Milton's Lycidas : 
 
 Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 
 
 Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas ? 
 
 For neither were ye playing on the steep, 
 
 Where. your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, 
 
 JNor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 
 
 Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. 
 
 Among these wild scenes, "Deva's wizard stream" is admirably 
 imaged ; by this one word presenting to the fancy all the romantic ideas 
 of a river flowing through a desolate country, with banks haunted by 
 wizards and enchanters. Akin to this is an epithet which Horace gives 
 to the river Hydaspes. A good man, says he, stands in need of no arms : 
 Sive per Syrtes iter sestuosas, 
 Sive facturus per inhospitafero 
 F f f 
 
4| 9 THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS, [LECT. XLI, 
 
 Caucasum ; vel qua? loca fabulosus 
 LambiJ Hydaspes.* 
 
 This epithet ' ; fabulosus," one of the commentators on Horace has 
 changed into " sabulosus," or sandy ; substituting, by a strange want of 
 taste, the common and trivial epithet of the sandy river, in place of that 
 beautiful picture which the poet gives us, by calling Hydaspes the 
 romantic river, or the scene of adventurers and poetic tales. 
 
 Virgil has employed an epithet with great beauty and propriety, 
 when accounting for Deedalus not having engraved the fortune of his son 
 Icarus : 
 
 Bis conatus erat - casus effingere in auro, 
 
 Bis patriae cecidere manus.l JEa. VI. 
 
 These instances, and observations, may give some just idea of true 
 poetical description. We have reason always to distrust an author's 
 descriptive talents, when we find him laborious and turgid, amassing 
 commonplace epithets and general expressions, to work up a higher 
 conception of some object, of which, after all, we can form but an 
 indistinct idea. The best describers are simple and concise. They set 
 before us such features of an object, as, on the first view, strike and 
 warm the fancy ; they give us ideas which a statuary or a painter could 
 lay hold of, and work after them ; which is one of the strongest and most 
 decisive trials of the real merit of description. 
 
 LECTURE XLI. 
 
 THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS, 
 
 Among the various kinds of poetry, which we are, at present, employed 
 in examining, the ancient Hebrew poetry, or that of the Scriptures, 
 justly deserves a place. Viewing these sacred books in no higher light, 
 than as they present to us the most ancient monuments of poetry extant, 
 at this day, in the world, they afford a curious object of criticism. They 
 display the taste of a remote age and country. 4 They exhibit a species 
 of composition, very different from any other with which we are acquaint- 
 ed, and, at the same time, beautiful. Considered as inspired writings, 
 they give rise to discussions of another kind. But it is our business, at 
 present, to consider them not in a theological, but in a critical view : 
 and it must needs give pleasure, if we shall find the beauty and dignity 
 of the composition adequate to the weight and importance of the matter, 
 Dr. Lowth's learned treatise, " De Sacra Poesi Hebraeorum," ought to 
 
 " Whether through Libia's burning sands 
 Our journey leads, or Scythia's lands, 
 Amidst th' unhospilable waste of snows, 
 Or where the fabulous Hydaspes flows. Francis. 
 
 t Here hapless Icarus had found his part, 
 Had not the father's grief restrain ; d his art 
 He twice essayed to cast his son in gold, 
 
 Twice from his hand he dropp'd the forming mould. Dryden. 
 In this translation the thought is justly given; but the beauty of the expression " pa- 
 triae manus," which in tl ;', -■ s the thought with so much fenderaess- i c 
 
LECT. XU.] THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 4H 
 
 be perused |)y all who desire to become thoroughly acquainted with this 
 subject. It is a work exceedingly valuable, both for the elegance of its 
 composition and for the justness of the criticism which it contains. In 
 this Lecture, as I cannot illustate the subject with more benefit to the 
 reader, than by following the track of that ingenious author, I shall make 
 much use of his observations. 
 
 I need not spend many words in showing, that among the books of the 
 Old Testament there is such an apparent diversity in style, as sufficiently 
 discovers, which of them are to be considered as poetical, and which 
 as prose compositions. While the historical books, and legislative wri- 
 tings of Moses, are evidently prosaic in the composition, the book of 
 Job, the Psalms of David, the Song of Solomon, the Lamentations of 
 Jeremiah, a great part of the prophetical writings, and several passages 
 scattered occasionally through the historical books, carry the most plain 
 and distinguishing marks of poetical writing. 
 
 There is not the least reason for doubting, that originally these were 
 written in verse, or some kind of measured numbers ; though, as the 
 ancient pronunciation of the Hebrew language is now lost, we are not 
 able to ascertain the nature of the Hebrew verse, or at most can ascer- 
 tain it but imperfectly. Concerning this point there have been great 
 controversies among learned men, which it is unnecessary to our present 
 purpose to discuss. Taking the Old Testament in our own translation, 
 which is extremely literal, we find plain marks of many parts of the 
 original being written in a measured style ; and the " disjecta membra 
 poetae," often show themselves. Let any person read the historical 
 introduction to the book of Job, contained in. the first and second chap- 
 ters, and then go on to Job's speech in the beginning of the third chap- 
 ter, and he cannot avoid being sensible, that he passes all at once from 
 the region of prose to that of poetry. Not only the poetical sentiments 
 and the figured style, warn him of the change ; but the cadence of the 
 sentence, and the arrangement of the words are sensibly altered ; the 
 change is as great as when he passes from reading Csesar's Commenta- 
 ries, to read Virgil's iEneid. This is sufficient to show that the sacred 
 Scriptures contain, what must be called poetry in the strictest sense of 
 that word ; and I shall afterward show that they contain instances of 
 most of the different forms of poetical writing. It may be proper to 
 remark in passing, that hence arises a most invincible argument in honour 
 of poetry. No person can imagine that to be a frivolous and contempti- 
 ble art, which has been employed by writers under divine inspiration ; 
 and has been chosen as a proper channel, for conveying to the world 
 the knowledge of divine truth. 
 
 From the earliest times, music and poetry were cultivated among the 
 Hebrews. In the days of the Judges, mention is made of the schools or 
 colleges of the prophets ; where one part of the employment of the 
 persons trained in such schools was, to sing the praises of God, accom- 
 panied with various instruments. In the first Book of Samuel, (chap. x. 
 7,) we find, on a public occasion, a company of these prophets coming 
 down from the hill where their school was, " prophesying," it is said, 
 " with the psaltery, tabret, and harp before them." But in the days of 
 king David, music and poetry were carried to their greatest height. For 
 the service of the tabernacle, he appointed four thousand Levites, di- 
 vided into twenty-four courses, and marshalled under several leader?, 
 whose sole business it was to sing hymns, and to perform the instrument 
 
4I& THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. [LECT. XLI. 
 
 tal music in the public worship. Asaph, Heman, and Jeduthun, were 
 the chief directors of the music ; and from the titles of some psalms, 
 it would appear that they were also eminent composers of hymns or 
 sacred poems. In chapter xxv. of the first Book of Chronicles, an ac- 
 count is given of David's institutions, relating to the sacred music and 
 poetry ; which were certainly more costly, more splendid and magnifi- 
 cent, than ever obtained in the public service of any other nation. 
 
 The general construction of the Hebrew poetry is of a singular na- 
 ture, and peculiar to itself. It consists in dividing every period into 
 correspondent, for the most part into equal numbers, which answer to 
 one another, both in sense and sound. In the first member of the period 
 a sentiment is expressed ; and in the second member, the same sentiment 
 is amplified, or is repeated in different terms, or sometimes contrasted 
 with its opposite ; but in such a manner that the same structure, and 
 nearly the same number of words is preserved. This is the general 
 strain of all the Hebrew poetry. Instances of it occur every where on 
 opening the Old Testament. Thus, in Psalm xcvi. " Sing unto the Lord 
 a new song — sing unto the Lord all the earth. Sing unto the Lord, and 
 bless his name — show forth his salvation from day to day. Declare his 
 glory among the heathen — his wonders among all the people. For the 
 Lord is great, and greatly to be praised — he is to be feared above all the 
 gods. Honour and majesty are before him — strength and beauty are 
 in his sanctuary." It is owing, in a great measure, to this form of 
 composition, that our version, though in prose, retains so much of a 
 poetical cast. For the version being strictly word for word after the 
 original, the form and order of the original sentence are preserved ; 
 which, by this artificial structure, this regular alternation and corres 
 pondence of parts, makes the ear sensible of a departure from the com- 
 mon style and tone of prose. 
 
 The origin of this form of poetical composition among the Hebrews, 
 is clearly to be deduced from the manner in which their sacred hymns 
 were wont to be sung. They were accompanied with music, and they 
 were performed by choirs or bands of singers and musicians, who 
 answered alternately to each other. When, for instance, one band be- 
 gan the hymn thus : " The Lord reigneth, let the earth rejoice ;" the 
 chorus, or semichorus, took up the corresponding versicle ; " Let the 
 multitude of the isles be glad thereof." — " Clouds and darkness are round 
 about him," sung the one ; the other replied, "Judgment and righte- 
 ousness are the habitation of his throne." And in this manner their 
 poetry, when set to music, naturally divided itself into a succession of 
 strophes and antistrophes correspondent to each other ; whence, it is 
 probable, the antiphon, or responsory, in the public religious service of 
 so many Christian churches, derived its origin. 
 
 We are expressly told, in the book of Ezra, that the Levites sung in 
 this manner ; " Alternatim, or by course ; (Ezra iii. 11.) and some of 
 David's Psalms bear plain marks of their being composed in order to be 
 thus performed. The 24th Psalm, in particular, which is thought to 
 have been composed on the great and solemn occasion of the ark of the 
 covenant being brought back to Mount Zion, must have had a noble 
 effect when performed after this manner, as Dr. Lowth has illustrated 
 it. The whole people are supposed to be attending the procession. 
 Tfre Levites and singers, divided into their several courses, and ac- 
 companied with all their musical instruments, led the way. After the 
 
LECT. XLLj THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS- 4I3 
 
 introduction to the Psalm, in the two first verses, when the procession 
 begins to ascend the sacred mount, the question is put, as by a semi-cho- 
 rus, " Who shall ascend unto the hill of the Lord, and who shall stand in 
 his holy place?" The response is made by the full chorus with the 
 greatest dignity :" He that hath clean hands and a pure heart ; who hath 
 not lifted up his soul to vanity, nor sworn deceitfully." As the procession 
 approaches to the doors of the Tabernacle, the chorus, with all their 
 instruments, join in this exclamation : " Lift up your heads, ye gates, and 
 be ye lifted up, ye everlasting doors ; and the King of Glory shall come 
 in." Here the semichorus plainly breaks in, as with a lower voice, 
 "Who is the King of Glory ?" and at the moment when the ark is 
 introduced into the Tabernacle, the response is made by the burst of the 
 whole chorus : " The Lord, strong and mighty ; the Lord, mighty in 
 battle." I take notice of this instance, the rather, as it serves to show 
 how much of the grace and magnificence of the sacred poems, as indeed 
 of all poems, depends upon our knowing the particular occasions for 
 wlrich they were composed, and the particular circumstances to which 
 they were adapted ; and how much of this beauty must now be lost to us, 
 through our imperfect acquaintance with many particulars of the Hebrew 
 history, and Hebrew rites. 
 
 The method of composition which has been explained, by corespond- 
 ent versicles being universally introduced into the hymns or musical 
 poetry of the Jews, easily spread itself through their other poetical 
 writings, which were not designed to be sung in alternate portions, and 
 which therefore did not so much require this mode of composition. But 
 the mode became familiar to their ears, and carried with it a certain 
 solemn majesty of style, particularly suited to sacred subjects. Hence, 
 throughout the prophetical writings, we find it prevailing as much as 
 in the Psalms of David ; as, for instance, in the Prophet Isaiah ? 
 (chap. xl. 1.) "Arise, shine, for thy light is come, and the glory of 
 the Lord is risen upon thee : For, lo ! darkness shall cover the earth, 
 and gross darkness the people. But the Lord shall rise upon thee, and 
 his glory shall be seen upon thee, and the Gentiles shall come to thy 
 light, and kings to the brightness of thy rising." This form of writing 
 is one of the great characteristics of the ancient Hebrew poetry ; very 
 different from, and even opposite to, the style of the Greek and Roman 
 poets. 
 
 Independently of this peculiar mode of construction, the sacred poetry 
 is distinguished by the highest beauties of strong, concise, bold, and figu- 
 rative expression. 
 
 Conciseness and strength, are two of its most remarkable characters. 
 One might indeed at first imagine, that the practice of the Hebrew poets, 
 of always amplifying the same thought, by repetition or contrast, might 
 tend to enfeeble their style. But they conduct themselves so as not to 
 produce this effect. Their sentences are always short. Few superflu- 
 ous words are used. The same thought is never dwelt upon long. 
 To their conciseness and sobriety of expression, their poetry is indebted 
 for much of its sublimity ; and all writers who attempt the sublime, might 
 profit much, by imitating, in this respect, the style of the Old Testa- 
 ment. For, as I have formerly had occasion to show, nothing is so great 
 an enemy to the sublime, as prolixity or diffuseness. The mind is never 
 so much affected by any great idea that is presented to it, as when it is 
 struck all at once ; by attempting tG prolong the impression, we at the 
 
414 THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. [LECT. XLL 
 
 same time weaken it. Most of the ancient original poets of all nations 
 are simple and concise. The superfluities and excrescences of style 
 were the result of imitation in after-times ; when composition passed 
 into inferior hands, and flowed from art and study, more than from 
 native genius. 
 
 No writings whatever abound so much with the most bold and anima- 
 ted figures, as the sacred books. It is proper to dwell a little upon this 
 article ; as, through our early familiarity with these books, a familiarity 
 too often with the sound of the words, rather than with their sense and 
 meaning, beauties of style escape us in the Scripture, which, in any 
 other book, would draw particular attention. Metaphors, comparisons, 
 allegories, and personifications, are there particularly frequent. In order 
 to do justice to these, it is necessary that we transport ourselves as much 
 as we can into the land of Judea ; and place before our eyes that scenery, 
 and those objects with which the Hebrew writers were conversant. 
 Some attention of this kind is requisite, in order to relish the writings of 
 any poet of a foreign country, and a different age. For the imagery of 
 every good poet is copied from nature and real life ; if it were not so, it 
 could not be lively ; and therefore, in order to enter into the propriety 
 of his images, we must endeavour to place ourselves in his situation* 
 Now we shall find, that the metaphors and comparisons of the Hebrew 
 poets present to us a very beautiful view of the natural objects of their 
 own country, and of the arts and employments of their common life. 
 
 Natural objects are in some measure common to them with poets of 
 all ages and countries. Light and darkness, trees and flowers, the forest 
 and the cultivated field, suggest to them many beautiful figures. But, in 
 order to relish their figures of this kind, we must take notice, that 
 several of them arise from the particular circumstances of the land of 
 Judea. During the summer months, little or no rain falls throughout 
 all that region. While the heats continued, the country was intolerably 
 parched ; want of water was a great distress ; and a plentiful shower 
 falling, or a rivulet breaking forth, altered the whole face of nature, and 
 introduced much higher ideas of refreshment and pleasure, than the like 
 causes can suggest to us. Hence, to represent distress, such frequent 
 allusions among them, "to a dry and thirsty land where no water is ;" 
 and hence, to describe a change from distress to prosperity, their meta- 
 phors are founded on the falling of showers, and the bursting out of 
 springs in the desert. Thus in Isaiah, " The wilderness and the solitary 
 place shall be glad, and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose. 
 For in the wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in the desert : 
 and the parched ground shall become a pool, and the thirsty land springs 
 of water ; in the habitation of dragons there shall be grass, with rushes 
 and reeds." Chap, xxxv. 1, 6, 7. Images of this nature are very fami- 
 liar to Isaiah, and occur in many parts of his book. 
 
 Again, as Judea was a hilly country, it was during the rainy months, 
 exposed to frequent inundations by the rushing of torrents, which came 
 down suddenly from the mountains, and carried every thing before them ; 
 and Jordan, their only great river, annually overflowed its banks, 
 Hence the frequent allusions to " the noise, and to the rushings of many 
 waters ;" and hence great calamities so pften compared to the*overflow~ 
 ing torrent, which, in such a country, must have been images particularly 
 striking ; " Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts : aU 
 fhv wave« ^nd thy billows are gone over me." Psalm xlii. 7, 
 
LKCT. XLI.j THE POETRY OF THE HEBREW®. 4|.j 
 
 The two most remarkable mountains of the country, were Lebanon 
 and Carmel ; the former noted for its height, and the woods of lofty 
 cedars that covered it ; the latter for its beauty and fertility, the richness 
 of its vines and olives. Hence, with the greatest propriety, Lebanon is 
 employed as an image of whatever is great, strong, or magnificent; Car- 
 mel, of what is smiling and beautiful. " The glory of Lebanon," says 
 Isaiah, " shall be given to it, and the excellency of Carmel." (xxxv. $.) 
 Lebanon is often put metaphorically for the whole state or people of 
 Israel, for the temple, for the king of Assyria; Carmel, for the blessings 
 of peace and prosperity. "His countenance is as Lebanon," says Solo 
 mon, speaking of the dignity of a man's appearance; but when he de- 
 scribes female beauty, "Thine head is like Mount Carmel." Songv, 
 15, and vii. 5. 
 
 It is farther to be remarked under this head, that in the images of the 
 awful and terrible kind, with which the sacred poets abound, they plainly 
 draw their descriptions from that violence of the elements, and those 
 concussions of nature, with which their climate rendered them acquaint- 
 ed. Earthquakes were not unfrequent ; and the tempest of hail, thun- 
 der, and lightning, in Judea and Arabia, accompanied with whirlwinds 
 and darkness, far exceed any thing of that sort which happens in more 
 temperate regions. Isaiah describes, with great majesty, the earth 
 "reeling to and fro like a drunkard, and removed like a cottage." (xxiv, 
 20.) And in those circumstances of terror, with which an appearance 
 of the Almighty is described in the 18th Psalm, when his "pavilion round 
 about him was darkness ; when hailstones and coals of fire were his 
 voice ; and when, at his rebuke, the channels of the waters are said to 
 "be seen, and the foundations of the hills discovered ;" though there may 
 be some reference, as Dr. Lowth thinks, to the history of God's descent 
 upon Mount Sinai, yet it seems more probable, that the figures were 
 taken directly from those commotions of nature with which the author 
 was acquainted, and which suggested stronger and nobler images than 
 what now occur to us. 
 
 Besides the natural objects of their own country, we find the rights of 
 their religion, and the arts and employments of their common life, fre- 
 quently employed as grounds of imagery among the Hebrews. They 
 were a people chiefly occupied with agriculture and pasturage. These 
 were arts held in high honour among them ; not disdained by their 
 patriarchs, kings, and prophets. Little addicted to commerce ; sepa- 
 rated from the rest of the world by their laws and their religion ; they 
 were, during the better days of their state, strangers in a great measure 
 to the refinements of luxury. Hence flowed, of course, the many allu- 
 sions to pastoral life, to the "green pastures and the still waters," and 
 to the care and watchfulness of a shepherd over his flock, which carry 
 to this day so much beauty and tenderness in them, in the 23d Psalm, and 
 in many other passages of the poetical writings of Scripture. Hence, 
 all the images founded upon rural employments, upon the winepress, 
 the thrashing-floor, the stubble and the chaff. To disrelish all such 
 images, is the effect of false delicacy. Homer is at least as frequent, 
 and much more minute and particular in his similes, founded on what 
 we now call low life, but in his management of them, far inferior to 
 the sacred writers, who generally mix with their comparisons of this 
 kind somewhat of dignity and grandeur, to ennoble them. What inex- 
 pressible grandeur does the following rural image in Isaiah, for instance. 
 
4it) THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWo. jLECT. XLI. 
 
 receive from the intervention of the Deity : " The nations shall rush 
 like the rushings of many waters ; but God shall rebuke them, and they 
 shall fly far off; and they shall be chased as the chaff of the mountain 
 before the wind, and like the down of the thistle before the whirlwind.'" 
 
 Figurative allusions, too, we frequently 6nd, to the rites and ceremo- 
 nies of their religion ; to the legal distinctions of things clean and un- 
 clean ; to the mode of their temple service ; to the dress of their 
 priests ; and to the most noted incidents recorded in their sacred history; 
 as to the destruction of Sodom, the descent of God upon Mount Sinai, 
 and the miraculous passage of the Israelites through the Red Sea. The 
 religion of the Hebrews included the whole of their laws and civil con- 
 stitution. It was full of splendid external rites that occupied their 
 senses; it was connected with every part of their national history and es- 
 tablishment ; and hence, all ideas founded on religion, possessed in this 
 nation a dignity and importance peculiar to themselves, and were un- 
 commonly fitted to impress the imagination. 
 
 From all this it results, that the imagery of the sacred poets is, in a 
 high degree, expressive and natural ; it is copied directly from real ob- 
 jects that were before their eyes ; it has this advantage, of being more 
 complete within itself, more entirely founded on national ideas and 
 manners, than that of most other poets. In reading their works we find 
 ourselves continually in the land of Judea. The palm-trees, and the 
 cedars of Lebanon, are ever rising in our view. The face of their ter- 
 ritory, the circumstances of their climate, the manners of the people, 
 and the august ceremonies of their religion, constantly pass under dif- 
 ferent forms before us. 
 
 The comparisons employed by the sacred poets are generally short, 
 touching on one point only of resemblance, rather than branching out 
 into little episodes. In this respect, they have perhaps an advantage 
 over the Greek and Roman authors ; whose comparisons, by the length 
 to which they are extended, sometimes interrupt the narration too much, 
 and carry too visible marks of study and labour. Whereas, in the He- 
 brew poets, they appear more like the glowings of a lively fancy, just 
 glancing aside to some resembling object, and presently returning to its 
 track. Such is the following fine comparison, introduced to describe 
 the happy influence of good government upon a people, in what are 
 called the last words of David, recorded in the 2d Book of Samuel : 
 (xxiii. 3.) "He that ruleth over men must be just, ruling in the fear of 
 God ; and he shall be as the light of the morning, when the sun riseth ; 
 even a morning without clouds ; as the tender grass springing out of the 
 earth, by clear shining after rain." This is one of the most regular and 
 formal comparisons in the sacred books. 
 
 Allegory, likewise, is a figure frequently found in them. When for- 
 merly treating of this figure, I gave, for an instance of it, that remarka- 
 bly fine and well-supported allegory, which occurs in the tfOth Psalm, 
 wherein the people of Israel are compared to a vine. Of parables, 
 which form a species of allegory, the prophetical writings are full, and 
 if to us they sometimes appear obscure, we must remember, that in those 
 early times, it was universally the mode throughout all the eastern na- 
 tions, to convey sacred truths under mysterious figures and representa- 
 tions. 
 
 But the poetical figure, which, beyond all others, elevates the style of 
 Scripture, and gives it a peculiar boldness and sublimity, is prosopopoeia 
 
,1. XLI.] THE POETRr OF THE HEBREWS. 4 f? 
 
 or personification. No personifications employed by any poets, are so 
 magnificent and striking as those of the inspired writers. On great 
 occasions, they animate every part of nature ; especially, when any 
 appearance or operation of the Almighty is concerned. " Before him 
 went the pestilence — the waters saw thee, O God, and were afraid — the 
 mountains saw thee, and they trembled. — The overflowing of the water 
 passed by ; — the deep uttered his voice, and lifted up his hands on high." 
 When inquiry is made about the place of wisdom, Job introduces the 
 " Deep, saying, It is not in me ; and the sea saith, It is not in me. — 
 Destruction and death say, We have heard the fame thereof with our 
 ears." That noted sublime passage in the book of Isaiah, which 
 describes the fall of the king of Assyria, is full of personified objects ; 
 the fir-trees and cedars of Lebanon breaking forth into exultation on the 
 fall of the tyrant ; hell from beneath, stirring up all the dead to meet 
 him at his coming ; and the dead kings introduced as speaking, and join- 
 ing in the triumph. In the same strain, are these many lively and pas- 
 sionate apostrophes to cities and countries, to persons and things, with 
 which the prophetical writings every where abound. " O thou sword of 
 the Lord ! how long will it be ere thou be quiet ? put thyself up into the 
 scabbard ; rest and be still. How can it be quiet," (as the reply is in- 
 stantly made) " seeing the Lord hath given it a charge against Askelon; 
 and the sea-shore ; there hath he appointed it." Jerern. xlvii. 6. 
 
 In general, for it would carry us too far to enlarge upon all the instan- 
 ces, the style of the poetical books of the Old Testament is, beyond the 
 style of all other poetical works, fervid, bold, and animated. It is ex- 
 tremely different from that regular correct expression, to which our 
 ears are accustomed in modern poetrj'. It is the burst of inspiration. 
 The scenes are not coolly described, but represented as passing before 
 our eyes. Every object, and every person, is addressed and spoken to, 
 as if present. The transition is often abrupt ; the connexion often 
 obscure ; the persons are often changed ; figures crowded, and heaped 
 upon one another. Bold sublimity, not correct elegance, is its charac- 
 ter. We see the spirit of the writer raised beyond himself, and labour- 
 ing to find vent for ideas too mighty for his utterance. 
 
 After these remarks on the poetry of the Scripture in general, I shall 
 conclude this dissertation, with a short account of the different kinds of 
 poetical composition in the sacred books ; and of the distinguishing 
 characters of some of the chief writers. 
 
 The several kinds of poetical composition which we find in Scripture, 
 are chiefly the didactic, elegiac, pastoral, and lyric. Of the didactic 
 species of poetry, the book of Proverbs is the principal instance. The 
 nine first chapters of that book are highly poetical, adorned with many 
 distinguished graces, and figures of expression. At the 10th chapter 
 the style is sensibly altered, and descends into a lower strain, which is 
 continued to the end : retaining, however, that sententious pointed man- 
 ner, and that artful construction of period, which distinguish all the 
 Hebrew poetry. The book of Ecclesiastes comes likewise under this 
 head : and some of the Psalms, as the 119th in particular. 
 
 Of elegiac poetry, many very beautiful specimens occur in^cripture ; 
 such as the lamentation of David over his friend Jonathan ; several pas- 
 sages in the prophetical books ; and several of David's Psalms, com- 
 posed on occasions of distress and mourning. The 42d psalm, in parti- 
 cular, is, in the highest degree, tender and plaintive, But the most regu- 
 
413 THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. [LECT. XLT, 
 
 lar and perfect elegiac composition in the Scripture, perhaps in the whole 
 world, is the book entitled the Lamentations of Jeremiah. As the 
 prophet mourns in that book over the destruction of the temple, and 
 the holy city, and the overthrow of the whole state, he assembles all the 
 affecting images which a subject so melancholy could suggest. The 
 composition is uncommonly artificial. By turns, the prophet, and the 
 city of Jerusalem, are introduced, as pouring forth their sorrows ; and 
 in the end, a chorus of the people send up the most earnest and plaintive 
 supplications to God. The lines of the original too, as may, in part, 
 appear from our translation, are longer than is usual in the other kinds 
 of Hebrew poetry : and the melody is rendered thereby more flowing 
 and better adapted to the querimonious strain of elegy. 
 
 The Song of Solomon affords us a high exemplification of pastoral 
 poetry. Considered with respect to its spiritual meaning, it is undoubt- 
 edty a mystical allegory ; in its form, it is a dramatic pastoral, or a 
 perpetual dialogue between personages in the character of shepherds ; 
 and suitably to that form, it is full of rural and pastoral images from 
 beginning to end. 
 
 Of lyric poetry, or that which is intended to be accompanied with 
 music, the Okl Testament is full. Besides a great number of hymns 
 and songs, which we find scattered in the historical and prophetical books, 
 such as the Song of Moses, the Song of Deborah, and many others 
 of like nature, the whole book of Psalms is to be considered as a col- 
 lection of sacred odes. In these, we find the ode exhibited in all the 
 varieties of its form, and, supported with the highest spirit of lyric 
 poetr}' ; sometimes sprightly, cheerful, and triumphant; sometimes so- 
 lemn and magnificent; sometimes tender and soft. From these instances, 
 it clearly appears, that there are contained in the Holy Scriptures full 
 exemplifications of several of the chief kinds of poetical writing. 
 
 Among the different composers of the sacred books, there is an evident 
 diversity of style and manner ; and to trace their different characters 
 in this view, will contribute not a little towards our reading their wri- 
 tings with greater advantage. The most eminent of the sacred poets 
 are, the Author of the book of Job, David, and Isaiah. As the compo- 
 sitions of David are of the lyric kind, there is a greater variety of style 
 and manner in his works, than in those of the other two. The manner 
 in which, considered merely as a poet, David chiefly excels, is the 
 pleasing, the soft, and the tender. In his Psalms there are many lofty 
 and sublime passages ; but, in strength of description, he yields to Job ; 
 in sublimity, he yields to Isaiah. It is a sort of temperate grandeur, for 
 which David is chiefly distinguished ; and to this he always soon returns, 
 when, upon some occasions, he rises above it. The psalms in which 
 he touches us most, are those in which he describes the happiness of 
 the righteous, or the goodness of God ; expresses the tender breathings 
 of a devout mind, or sends up moving and affectionate supplications to 
 Heaven. Isaiah is, without exception, the most sublime of all poets. 
 This is abundantly visible in our translation ; and, what is a material 
 circumstance, none of the books of Scripture appear to have been 
 more happily translated than the writings of this prophet. Majesty 
 is his reigning character ; a majesty more commanding, and more uni- 
 formly supported, than is to be found among the rest of the Old Testa- 
 ment poets. He possesses, indeed, a dignity and grandeur, both in his 
 conceptions and expressions, which is altogether unparalleled, and 
 
MBCT. XLI.] 
 
 THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS, 
 
 419 
 
 peculiar to himself. There is more clearness and order too, and a 
 more visible distribution of parts, in his book, than in any other of the 
 prophetical writings. 
 
 When we compare him with the rest of the poetical prophets, we im- 
 mediately see in Jeremiah a very different genius. Isaiah employs him- 
 self generally on magnificent subjects. Jeremiah seldom discovers any 
 disposition to be sublime, and inclines always to the tender and elegiac. 
 Ezekiel, in poetical grace and elegance, is much inferior to them both ; 
 but he is distinguished by a character of uncommon force and ardour. 
 To use the elegant expressions of Bishop Lowth, with regard to this 
 prophet : " Est attrox, vehemens, tragicus ; in sensibus, fervidus, acer- 
 bus, indignabundus ; in imaginibus fecundus, tmculentus,et nonnunquam 
 pene deformis ; in dictione grandiloquus, gravis, austerus, et interdum 
 Incultus ; frequens in repetitionibus, non decoris aut gratise causa, sed 
 ex indignatione et vioientia. Quicquid susceperit tractandum in sedulo 
 persequitur : in eo unice haeret defixus ; a proposito raro deiiectens. In 
 caeteris, a plerisque vatibus fortasse superattis ; sed in eo genere, ad 
 quod videtur a natura unice comparatus, nimirum, vi, pondere, impetu, 
 granditate, nemo unquam earn superavit." The same learned writer 
 compares Isaiah to Homer, Jeremiah to Simonides, and Ezekiel to 
 iEschylus. Most of the book of Isaiah is strictly poetical ; of Jeremiah 
 and Ezekiel not above one half can be held to belong to poetry. Among 
 the minor Prophets, Hosea, Joel, Micah, Habakkuk, and especially 
 Nahum, are distinguished for poetical spirit. In the prophecies of Daniel 
 and Jonah, there is no poetrj". 
 
 It only now remains to speak of the Book of Job, with which I shall 
 conclude. It is known to be extremely ancient ; generally reputed the 
 most mcient of all the poetical books ; the author uncertain. It is re- 
 markable that this book has no connexion with the affairs or manners 
 of the Jews, or Hebrews. The scene is laid in the land of Uz, or 
 Idumasa, which is a part of Arabia ; and the imagery employed is gene- 
 rally of a different kind from what I before showed to be peculiar to the 
 Hebrew poets. We meet with no allusions to the great events of sacred 
 history, to the religious rites of the Jews, to Lebanon or to Carmel, or 
 any of the peculiarities of the climate of Judea. We find few comparisons 
 founded on rivers or torrents ; these were not familiar objects in Arabia. 
 Butthe longest comparison that occurs in the book, is to an object frequent 
 and well known in that region, a brook that fails in the season of heat, 
 and disappoints the expectation of the traveller. 
 
 The poetry, however, of the book of Job is not only equal to that of 
 any other of the sacred writings, but is superior to them all, except 
 those of Isaiah alone. As Isaiah is the most sublime, David the most 
 pleasing and tender, so Job is the most descriptive of all the inspired 
 poets. A peculiar glow of fancy, and strength of description, charac- 
 terize the author. No writer whatever abounds so much in metaphors. 
 He may be said not to describe, but to render visible, whatever he treats 
 of. A variety of instances might be given. Let us remark only those 
 strong and lively colours, with which, in the following passages taken 
 from the 18th and 20th chapters of his book, he paints the condition of 
 the wicked ; observe how rapidly his figures rise before us j and what 
 a deep impression, at the same time, they leave on the imagination. 
 " Knowest thou not this of old, since man was placed upon the earth, 
 that the triumphing of the wicked is short, and the joy of the hypocrite 
 
420 EPIC fOETRT. [LECT. XUL 
 
 but for a moment ? Though his excellency mount up to the heavens, and 
 his head reach the clouds, yet he shall perish for ever. He shall fly 
 away as a dream, and shall not be found ; yea, he shall be chased away 
 as a vision of the night. The eye also which saw him, shall see him 
 no more ; they which have seen him shall say, Where is he ? He shall 
 s uck the poison of asps ; the viper's tongue shall slay him. In the ful- 
 ness of his sufficiency, he shall be in straits ; every hand shall come 
 upon him. He shall flee from the iron weapon, and the bow of steel 
 shall strike him through. All darkness shall be hid in his secret places. 
 A fire not blown shall consume him. The Heaven shall reveal his 
 iniquity, and the earth shall rise up against him. The increase of his 
 house shall depart. His goods shall flow away in the day of wrath. The 
 light of the wicked shall be put out ; the light shall be dark in his taber- 
 nacle. The steps of his strength shall be straitened, and his own counsel 
 shall cast him down. For he is cast into a net by his own feet. He 
 walketh upon a snare. Terrors shall make him afraid on every side ; 
 and the robber shall prevail against him. Brimstone shall be scattered 
 upon his habitation. His remembrance shall perish from the earth, and 
 he shall have no name in the street. He shall be driven from light into 
 darkness. They that come after him shall be astonished at his day, 
 He shall drink oil' the wrath of the Almighty/- 
 
 LECTURE XLH. 
 
 EPIC POETRY. 
 
 It now remains to treat of the two highest kinds of poetical writing,. 
 the epic and the dramatic. I begin with the epic. The Lecture shall 
 be employed upon the general principles of that species of composition : 
 after which, I shall take a view of the character and genius of the most 
 celebrated epic poets. 
 
 The epic poem is universally allowed to be, of all poetical works, the 
 most dignified, and, at the same time, the most difficult in execution. 
 To contrive a story which shall please and interest all readers, by being 
 at once entertaining, important, and instructive ; to rill it with suitable 
 incidents ; to enliven it with a variety of characters, and of descriptions ; 
 and throughout a long work, to maintain that propriety of sentiment, 
 and that elevation of style, which the epic character requires, is unques- 
 tionably the highest effort of poetical genius. Hence so very few have 
 succeeded in the attempt, that strict critics will hardly allow any other 
 poems to bear the name of epic, except the Iliad and the iEneid. 
 
 There is no subject, it must be confessed, on which critics have dis- 
 played more pedantry, than on this. By tedious disquisitions, founded 
 on a servile submission to authority, they have given such an air of 
 mystery to a plain subject, as to render it difficult for an ordinary reader 
 to conceive what an epic poem is. By Bossu's definition, it is a dis- 
 course invented by art, purely to form the manners of men, by means 
 of instructions disguised under the allegory of some important action, 
 which is related in verse. This definition would suit several of ^Bsop's 
 
LECT. XLII.j EPIC POETRY, 421 
 
 Fables, if they were somewhat extended, and put into verse : and ac~ 
 cordingly, to illustrate his definition, the critic draws a parallel, in form, 
 between the construction of one of JEsop's Fables and the plan of Ho- 
 mer's Iliad. The first thing, says he, which either a writer of fables, 
 or of heroic poems, does, is, to choose some maxim or point of mora- 
 lity ; to inculcate which, is to be the design of his work. Next, he 
 invents a general story, or a series of facts, without any names, such 
 as he judges will be most proper for illustrating his intended moral. 
 Lastly, he particularizes his story ; that is, if he be a fabulist, he intro- 
 duces his dog, his sheep, and his wolf ; or if he be an epic poet, he looks 
 out in ancient history for some proper names of heroes to give to his 
 actors ; and then his plan is completed. 
 
 This is one of the most frigid and absurd ideas that ever entered into 
 the mind of a critic. Homer, he says, saw the Grecians divided into a 
 great number of independent states ; but very often obliged to unite 
 into one body against their common enemies. The most useful instruc- 
 tion which he could give them in this situation, was that a misunder- 
 standing between princes is the ruin of the common cause. In order to 
 enforce this instruction, he contrived, in his own mind, such a general 
 story as this. Several princes join in a confederacy against their enemy. 
 The prince who was chosen as the leader of the rest, affronts one of 
 the most valiant of the confederates, who thereupon withdraws himself, 
 and refuses to take part in the common enterprise. Great misfortunes 
 are the consequence of this division ; till at length, both parties having 
 suffered by the quarrel, the offended prince forgets his displeasure, and 
 is reconciled to the leader ; and union being once restored, there ensues 
 complete victory over their enemies. Upon this general plan of his 
 fable, adds Bossu, it was of no great consequence, whether, in filling 
 it up, Homer had employed the name of beasts, like iEsop, or of men. 
 He would have been equally instructive either way. But as he rather 
 fancied to write of heroes, he pitched upon the wall of Troy for the 
 scene of his fable ; he feigned such an action to happen there ; he gave 
 the name of Agamemnon to the common leader ; that of Achilles, to the 
 offended prince : and so the Iliad arose. 
 
 He that can believe Homer to have proceeded in this manner, may 
 believe any thing. One may pronounce with great certainty, that an 
 author who should compose according to such a plan ; who should ar- 
 range all the subject in his own mind, with a view to the moral, before 
 he had ever thought of the personages who were to be actors, might 
 write, perhaps, useless fables for children; but as to an epic poem, if 
 he adventured to think of one, it would be such as would find few read- 
 ers-. No person of any taste can entertain a doubt, that the first objects 
 which strike an epic poet are, the hero whom he is to celebrate, and 
 the action, or story, which is to be the groundwork of his poem. He 
 does not sit down, like a philosopher, to form the plan of a treatise of 
 morality. His genius is fired by some great enterprise, which to him 
 appears noble and interesting ; and which, therefore, he pitches upon 
 as worthy of being celebrated in the highest strain of poetry. There is 
 no subject of this kind, but will always afford some general moral instruc- 
 tion, arising from it naturally. The instruction which Bossu points out, 
 is certainly suggested by the Iliad ; and there is another which arises as 
 naturally, and may just as well be assigned for the moral of that poem ; 
 namely, that providence avenges those who have suffered injustice ; but 
 
422 E^C POETRY. [LECT. XLIL 
 
 that when they allow their resentment to carry them too far, it brings 
 misfortunes on themselves. The subject of the poem is the wrath o£ 
 Achilles, caused by the injustice of Agamemnon. Jupiter avenges Achil- 
 les by giving success to the Trojans against Agamemnon ; but by con- 
 tinuing obstinate in his resentment, Achilles loses his beloved friend Pa- 
 troclus. 
 
 The plain account of the nature of an epic poem, is, the recital of 
 some illustrious enterprise in a poetical form. This is as exact a defi- 
 nition, as there is any occasion for on this subject. It comprehends several 
 other poems besides the Iliad of Homer, the iEneid of Virgil, and the 
 Jerusalem of Tasso ; which are, perhaps, the three most regular and 
 complete epic works that ever were composed. But to exclude all 
 poems from the epic class, which are not formed exactly upon the same 
 model as these, is the pedantry of criticism. We can give exact defi- 
 nitions and descriptions of minerals, plants, and animals ; and can arrange 
 them with precision, under the different classes to which they belong, 
 because nature affords a visible unvarying standard, to which we refer 
 them. But with regard to works of taste and imagination, where nature 
 has fixed no standard, but leaves scope for beauties of many different 
 kinds, it is absurd to attempt defining, and limiting them with the same 
 precision. Criticism, when employed in such attempts, degenerates 
 into trifling questions about words and names only. I therefore have no 
 scruple to class such poems, as Milton's Paradise Lost, Lucan's Pharsalia. 
 Statius's Thebiad, Ossian's Fingal and Temora, Camoen's Lusiad, Vol- 
 taire's Henriade, Cambray's Telemachus, Glover's Leonidas, Wilkie's 
 Epigoniad, under the same species of composition with the Iliad and the 
 jEneid ; though some of them approach much nearer than others to the 
 perfection of these celebrated works. They are, undoubtedly, all epic: 
 that is, poetical recitals of great adventures ; which is all that is meant 
 by this denomination of poetry. 
 
 Though I cannot, by any means, allow, that it is the essence of an 
 epic poem to be wholly an allegory, or a fable contrived to illustrate 
 some moral truth, yet it is certain, that no poetry is of a more moral 
 nature than this. Its effect in promoting virtue, is not to be measured 
 by any one maxim, or instruction, which results from the whole history, 
 like the moral of one of iEsop's fables. This is a poor and trivial view of 
 the advautage to be derived from perusing along epic work, that at the 
 end we shall be able to gather from it some commonplace morality. Its 
 effect arises from the impression which the parts of the poem separately, 
 as well as the whole taken together, make upon the mind of the reader ; 
 from the great examples which it sets before us, and the high sentiments 
 with which it warms our hearts. The end which it proposes is to extend 
 our ideas of human perfection : or, in other words, to excite admiration. 
 Now this can be accomplished only by proper representations of heroic 
 deeds and virtuous characters. For high virtue is the object, which all 
 mankind are formed to admire ; and, therefore, epic poems are, and 
 must be, favourable to the cause of virtue. Valour, truth, justice, 
 fidelity, friendship, piety, magnanimity, are the objects which, in the 
 course of such compositions, are presented to our minds, under the most 
 splendid and honourable colours. In behalf of virtuous personages, 
 our affections are engaged ; in their designs, and their distresses, we 
 are interested ; the generous and public affections are awakened ; the 
 mind is purified from sensual and mean pursuits, and accustomed to take 
 
LECT. XLIL] EPIC POETRY, , 433 
 
 part in great heroic enterprises. It is indeed no small testimony in 
 honour of virtue, that several of the most refined and elegant entertain- 
 ments of mankind, such as that species of poetical composition which 
 we now consider, must be grounded on moral sentiments and impressions. 
 This is a testimony of such weight that, ivere it in the power of scep- 
 tical philosophers, to weaken the force of those reasonings which 
 establish the essential distinctions between vice and virtue, the writings 
 of epic poets alone were sufficient to refute their false philosophy ; 
 showing by that appeal which they constantly make to the feelings of 
 mankind in favour of virtue, that the foundations of it are laid deep and 
 strong in human nature. 
 
 The general strain and spirit of epic composition, sufficiently mark its 
 distinction from the other kinds of poetry. In pastoral writing, the 
 reigning idea is, innocence and tranquillity. Compassion is the great 
 object of tragedy ; ridicule, the province of conedy . The predominant 
 character of the epic is, admiration excited by heroic actions. It is 
 sufficiently distinguished from history, both by its poetical form, and the 
 liberty of fiction which it assumes. It is a more calm composition than 
 tragedy. It admits, nay requires, the pathetic and the violent, on par- 
 ticular occasions ; but the pathetic is not expected to be its general 
 character. It requires more than an}' other species of poetry, a grave, 
 equal, and supported dignity. It takes in a greater compass of time and 
 action, than dramatic writing admits ; and thereby allows a more full 
 display of characters. Dramatic writings display characters chiefly by 
 means of sentiments and passions ; epic poetry, chiefly by means of 
 actions. The emotions, therefore, which it raises, are not so violent, 
 but they are more prolonged. These are the general characteristics of 
 this species of composition. But, in order to give a more particular and 
 critical view of it, let us consider the epic poem under three heads ; 
 first, with respect to the subject, or action ; secondly, with respect to 
 the actors or characters ; and lastly, with respect to the narration of 
 the poet. 
 
 The action, or subject of the epic poem, must have three properties : 
 it must be one ; it must be great ; it must be interesting. 
 
 First, It must be one action, or enterprise, which the poet chooses for 
 his subject. I have frequently had occasion to remark the importance 
 of unity, in many kinds of composition in order to make a full and strong 
 impression upon the mind. With the highest reason, Aristotle insists 
 upon this, as essential to epic poetry ; and it is, indeed, the most material 
 of all his rules respecting it. For it is certain, that, in the recital of 
 heroic adventures, several scattered and independent facts can never 
 affect a reader so deeply, nor engage his attention so strongly, as a tale 
 that is one and connected, where the several incidents hang upon one 
 another, and are all made to conspire for the accomplishment of one 
 end. In a regular epic, the more this unity is rendered sensible to the 
 imagination, the effect will be the better ; and, for this reason, as Aris- 
 totle has observed, it is not sufficient for the poet to confine himself to 
 the actions of one man, or to those which happened during a certain 
 period of time ; but the unity must lie in the subject itself; and arise 
 from all the parts combining into one whole. 
 
 In all the great epic poems, unity of action is sufficiently apparent. 
 Virgil, for instance, has chosen for his subject, the establishment of 
 HSneas in Italy, From the beginning to the end of the poem, this object. 
 
424 £HC POETRY, [LECT. XLIL 
 
 is ever in our view, and links all the parts of it together with full con- 
 nexion. The unity of the Odyssey is of the same nature ; the return 
 and re-establishment of Ulysses in his own country. The subject of 
 Tasso, is the recovery of Jerusalem from the infidels ; that of Milton, 
 the expulsion of our first parents from Paradise ; and both of them are 
 unexceptionable in the unity of the story. The professed subject of the 
 Iliad, is the anger of Achilles, with the consequences which it produced. 
 The Greeks carry on many unsuccessful engagements against the Trojans, 
 as long as they are deprived of the assistance of Achilles. Upon his 
 being appeased and reconciled to Agamemnon, victory follows, and the 
 poem closes. It must be owned, however, that the unity, or connecting 
 principle, is not quite so sensible to the imagination here, as in the iEneid. 
 For, throughout many books of the Iliad, Achilles is out of sight ; he is 
 lost in inaction, and the fancy terminates on no other object, than the 
 success of the two armies whom we see contending in war. 
 
 The unity of the epic action is not to be so strictly interpreted, as if 
 it excluded all episodes, or subordinate actions. It is necessary to ob- 
 serve here, that the term episode is employed by Aristotle, in a different 
 sense from what we now give to it. It was a term originally applied to 
 dramatic poetry, and thence transferred to epic ; and by episodes, in an 
 epic poem, it should seem that Aristotle understood the extension of the 
 general fable, or plan of the poem, into all its circumstances. What his 
 meaning was, is indeed not very clear ; and this obscurity has occasioned 
 much altercation among critical writers. Bossu, in particular, is so 
 perplexed upon this subject, as to be almost unintelligible. But, dis- 
 missing so fruitless a controversy, what we now understand by episodes, 
 are certain actions, or incidents, introduced into the narration, connected 
 with the principal action, yet not so essential to it, as to destroy, if 
 they had been omitted, the main subject of the poem. Of this nature 
 are the interview of Hector with Andromache, in the Iliad : the story 
 of Cacus, and that of Nisus and Euryalus, in the iEneid ; the adventures 
 of Tancred with Erminia and Clorinda, in the Jerusalem ; and the 
 prospect of his descendants exhibited to Adam, in the last books of 
 Paradise Lost. 
 
 Such episodes as these, are not only permitted to an epic poet, but, 
 provided they be properly executed, are great ornaments to his work, 
 The rules regarding them are the following : 
 
 First, They must be naturally introduced ; they must have a sufficient 
 connexion with the subject of the Poem ; they must seem inferior parts 
 that belong to it ; not mere appendages stuck to it. The episode of 
 Olinda and Sophronia, in the second book of Tasso's Jerusalem, is faulty, 
 by transgressing this rule. It is too detached from the rest of the work : 
 and, being introduced so near the opening of the poem, misleads the 
 reader into an expectation, that it is to be of some future consequence ; 
 \vhereas, it proves to be connected with nothing that follows. In pro- 
 portion as any episode is slightly related to the main subject, it should 
 always be the shorter. The passion of Dido in the ^Eneid, and the 
 snares of Armida in the Jerusalem, which are expanded so fully in these 
 poems, cannot with propriety be called episodes. They are constituent 
 parts of the work, and form a considerable share of the intrigue of the 
 poem. 
 
 In the next place, episodes ought to present to us objects of a differ- 
 ent kind from those which go before, and those, which follow in the 
 
LECT. XULj LPIC POETKV 4^. 
 
 course of the poem. For it is principally for the sake of variety, that 
 episodes are introduced into an epic composition. In so long a work, 
 they tend to diversify the subject, and to relieve the reader, by shifting 
 the scene. In the midst of combats, therefore, an episode of the mar- 
 tial kind would be out of place ; whereas, Hector's visit to Andromache 
 in the Iliad, and Erminia's adventure with the shepherd in the seventh 
 book of the Jerusalem, affords us a well-judged and pleasing retreat 
 from camps and battles. 
 
 Lastly, as an episode is a professed embellishment, it ought to be par- 
 iicularly elegant and well finished ; and accordingly, it is, for the most 
 part, in pieces of this kind, that poets put forth their strength. The 
 episodes of Teribazus and Ariana, in Leonidas, and of the death of Her- 
 cules, in the Epigoniad, are the two greatest beauties in these poems. 
 
 The unity of the epic action necessarily supposes, that the action be 
 entire and complete : that is, as Aristotle well expresses it, that it have 
 a beginning, a middle, and an end. Either by relating the whole, in 
 his own person, or by introducing some of his actors to relate what had 
 passed before the opening of the poem, the author must always contrive 
 to give us full information of every thing that belongs to his subject ; he 
 must not leave our curiosity, in any article, ungratified ; he must bring 
 us precisely to the accomplishment of his plan ; and then conclude. 
 
 The second property of the epic action is, that it be great; that it 
 have sufficient splendour and importance, both to fix our attention, and 
 to justify the magnificent apparatus which the poet bestows upon it. 
 This is so evidently requisite as not to require illustration ; and, indeed, 
 hardly any who have attempted epic poetry, have failed in choosing 
 some subject sufficiently important, either by the nature of the action, 
 or by the fame of the personages concerned in it. 
 
 It contributes to the grandeur of the epic subject, that it be not of a 
 modern date, nor fall within any period of history with which we are 
 intimately acquainted. Both Lucan and Voltaire have, in the choice of 
 their subjects, transgressed this rule, and they have, upon that account, 
 succeeded worse. Antiquity is favourable to those high and august 
 ideas, which epic poetry is designed to raise. It tends to aggrandize, 
 in our imagination, both persons and events : and what is still more 
 material, it allows the poet the liberty of adorning his subject by means 
 of fiction. Whereas, as soon as he comes within the verge of real and 
 authenticated history, this liberty is abridged. He must either confine 
 himself wholly, as Lucan has done, to strict historical truth, at the 
 expense of rendering his story jejune ; or if he goes beyond it, like 
 Voltaire in his Henriade* this disadvantage follows, that, in well- 
 known events, the true and the fictitious parts of the plan do not natu- 
 rally mingle, and incorporate with each other. These observations 
 cannot be applied to dramatic writing ; where the personages are exhi- 
 bited to us, notso much that we may admire, as that we may love or pity 
 them. Such passions are much more consistent with the familiar his- 
 torical knowledge of the persons who are to be the objects of them ; 
 and even require them to be displayed in the light, and with the failings 
 of ordinary men. Modern and well-known history, therefore, may fur- 
 nish very proper materials for tragedy. But for epic poetry, where 
 heroism is the groundwork, and where the object in view is to excite 
 admiration, ancient or traditionary history, is assuredly the safest region. 
 There, the author may lay hold on names, and characters, and event? 
 
 Hh h 
 
426 EHC.F0ETR1\, [LECT.XLI? 
 
 not wholly unknown, on which to build his story, while, at the same 
 time, by reason of the distance pf the period, or of the remoteness of the 
 scene, sufficient is left him for fiction and invention. 
 
 The third property required in the epic poem is, that it be interest- 
 ing. It is not sufficient for this purpose that it be great. For deeds of 
 mere valour, how heroic soever, may prove cold and tiresome. Much 
 will depend on the happy choice of some subject, which shall, by its 
 nature, interest the public ; as when the poet selects for his hero, one 
 who is the founder, or the deliverer, or the favourite of his nation ; or 
 when he writes of achievements that have been highly celebrated, or 
 have been connected with important consequences to any public cause. 
 Most of the great epic poems are abundantly fortunate in this respect, 
 and must have been very interesting to those ages and countries in which 
 they were composed. 
 
 But the chief circumstance which renders an epic poem interesting, 
 and which tends to interest, not one age or country alone, but all readers, 
 is the skilful conduct of the author in the management of his subject, 
 He must so contrive his plan, as that it shall comprehend many affecting 
 incidents. He must not dazzle us perpetually with valiant achievements ; 
 for all readers tire of constant fighting and battles ; but he must study 
 to touch our hearts. He may sometimes be awful and august ; he must 
 often be tender and pathetic ; he must give us gentle and pleasing scenes 
 of love, friendship, and affection. The more an epic poem abounds 
 with situations which awaken the feelings of humanity, it is the more 
 interesting ; and these form always the favourite passages of the work. 
 I know no epic poets so happy in this respect as Virgil and Tasso. 
 
 Much, too, depends on the characters of the heroes, for rendering 
 the poem interesting ; that they be such, as shall strongly attach the 
 readers, and make them take part in the dangers which the heroes en- 
 counter. These dangers, or obstacles form w T hat is called the nodus, 
 or the intrigue of the epic poem; in the judicious conduct of which, 
 consists much of the poet's art. He must rouse our attention, by a 
 prospect of the difficulties which seem to threaten disappointment to the 
 enterprise of his favourite personages ; he must make these difficulties 
 grow and thicken upon us by degrees ; till, after having kept us, for 
 some time in a state of agitation and suspense, he paves the way, by a 
 proper preparation of incidents, for the winding up of the plot in a natu- 
 ral and probable manner. It is plain, that every tale which is designed 
 to engage attention, must be conducted on apian of this sort. 
 
 A question has been moved, whether the nature of the epic poem 
 does not require that it should always end successfully ? Most critics 
 are inclined to think, that a successful issue is the most proper ; and they 
 appear to have reason on their side. An unhappy conclusion depresses 
 the mind, and is opposite to the elevating emotions which belong to 
 this species of poetry. Terror and compassion are the proper subjects 
 of tragedy ; but as the epic poem is of larger compass and extent, it 
 were too much, if, after the difficulties and troubles which commonly 
 abound in the progress of the poem, the author should bring them ail 
 at last to an unfortunate issue. Accordingly, the general practice of epic 
 poets is on the side of a prosperous conclusion ; not, however, without 
 some exceptions. For two authors of great name, Lucan and Milton, 
 have held a contrary course ; the one concluding with the subversion of 
 the' Roman liberty ; the other, with the expulsion of man from Paradise* 
 
LECT.'XLll.] EFrc POETRi . 437 
 
 With regard to the time or duration of the epic action, no precise 
 boundaries can be ascertained. A considerable extent is always allow- 
 ed to it, as it does not necessarily depend on those violent passions which 
 can be supposed to have only a short continuance. The Iliad, which is 
 formed upon the anger of Achilles, has, with propriety, the shortest du- 
 ration of any of the great epic poems. According to Bossu, the action 
 lasts no longer than forty-seven days. The action of the Odyssey, com- 
 puted from the taking of Troy to the peace of Ithaca, extends to eight 
 years and a half; and the action of the iEneid, computed in the same 
 way from the taking of Troy to the death of Turnus, includes about six 
 years. But if we measure the period only of the poet's own narration, 
 or compute from the time in which the hero makes his first appearance 
 till the conclusion, the duration of both these last poems is brought with- 
 in a much smaller compass. The Odyssey, beginning with Ulysses in 
 the island of Calypso, comprehends fifty-eight days only ; and the 
 iEneid beginning with the storm, which throws iEneas upon the coast 
 of Africa, is reckoned to include, at the most, a year and some months. 
 
 Having thus treated of the epic action, or the subject of the poem, I 
 proceed next to make some observations on the actors or personages. 
 
 As it is the business of an epic poet to copy after nature, and to form 
 a probable interesting tale, he must study to give all his personages pro- 
 per and well-supported characters, such as display the features of human 
 nature. This is what Aristotle calls giving manners to the poem. It is 
 by no means necessary, that all his actors be morally good ; imperfect, 
 nay, vicious characters may find a proper place ; though the nature of 
 epic poetry seems to require, that the principal figures exhibited should 
 be such as tend to raise admiration and love, rather than hatred or con- 
 tempt But whatever the character be which a poet gives to any of his 
 actors, he must take care to preserve it uniform and consistent with 
 itself. Every thing which that person says, or does, must be suited to 
 it, and must serve to distinguish him from any other. 
 
 Poetic characters may be divided into two kinds, general and particu- 
 lar. General characters are, such as wise, brave, virtuous, without any 
 farther distinction. Particular characters express the species of brave- 
 ry, of wisdom, of virtue, for which any one is eminent. They exhibit 
 the peculiar features which distinguish one individual from another, 
 which mark the difference of the same moral quality in different men, 
 according as it is combined with other dispositions in their temper. In 
 drawing such particular characters, genius is chiefly exerted. How 
 far each of the three great epic poets have distinguished themselves in 
 this part of composition, I shall have occasion afterward to show, when 
 I come to make remarks upon their works. It is sufficient now to men- 
 tion, that it is in this part Homer has principally excelled ; Tasso has 
 come the nearest to Homer ; and Virgil has been the most deficient. 
 
 It has been the practice of all epic poets, to select some one person- 
 age, whom they distinguish above all the rest, and make the hero of the 
 tale. This is considered as essential to epic composition, and is attended 
 with several advantages. It renders the unity of the subject more sen- 
 sible, when there is one principal figure, to which, as to a centre, all 
 the rest refer. It tends to interest us more in the enterprise which is 
 carried on ; and it gives the poet an opportunity of exerting his talents 
 for adorning, and displaying one character, with peculiar splendour. It 
 has been asked, Who then is the hero of Paradise Lost? The devil, 
 
428 EPIC POETRY. £LECT. XML 
 
 it has been answered by some critics : and, in consequence of this idea, 
 much ridicule and censure has been thrown upon Milton. But they 
 have mistaken that author's intention by proceeding upon a supposition, 
 that, in the conclusion of his poem, the hero must needs be triumphant. 
 Whereas Milton followed a different plan, and has given a tragic con- 
 clusion to a poem, otherwise epic in its form. For Adam is undoubtedly 
 his hero ; that is, the capital and most interesting figure in his poem. 
 
 Besides human actors, there are personages of another kind, that 
 usually occupy no small place in Epic Poetry ; I mean the gods, or 
 supernatural beings. This brings us to the consideration of what is 
 called the Machinery of the Epic Poem ; the most nice and difficult part 
 of the subject. Critics appear to me to have gone to extremes on both 
 sides. Almost all the French critics decide in favour of machinery, as 
 essential to the constitution of an epic poem. They quote that sen- 
 tence of Petronius Arbiter, as if it were an oracle, " per ambages, 
 Deorumque ministeria, precipitandus est liber spiritus," and hold, that 
 though a poem had every other requisite that could be demanded, yet it 
 could not be ranked in the epic class, unless the main action was carried 
 on by the intervention of the gods. This decision seems to be founded 
 on no principle or reason whatever, unless a superstitious reverence for 
 the practice of Homer and Virgil. These poets very properly embel- 
 lished their story by the traditional tales and popular legends of their 
 own country ; according to which all the great transactions of the heroic 
 times were intermixed with the fables of their deities. But does it 
 thence follow, that in other countries, and other ages, where there is not 
 the like advantage of current superstition, and popular credulity, epic 
 poetry must be wholly confined to antiquated fictions and fairy tales ? 
 Lucan has composed a very spirited poem, certainly of the epic kind, 
 where neither gods nor supernatural beings are at all employed. The 
 author of Leonidas has made an attempt of the same kind, not without 
 success ; and beyond doubt, wherever a poet gives us a regular heroic 
 story, well connected in its parts, adorned with characters, and support- 
 ed with proper dignity and elevation, though his agents be every one of 
 them human, he has fulfilled the chief requisites of this sort of compo- 
 sition, and has a just title to be classed with epic writers. 
 
 But though I cannot admit that machinery is necessary or essential to 
 the epic plan, neither can 1 agree with some late critics of considerable 
 name, who are for excluding it totally , as inconsistent with that probability 
 and impression of reality which they think should reign in this kind of 
 writing.* Mankind do not consider poetical writings with so philosophi- 
 cal an eye. They seek entertainment from them ; and for the bulk of 
 readers, indeed for almost all men, the marvellous has a great charm. 
 It gratifies and fills the imagination ; and gives room for many a striking 
 and sublime description. In epic poetry, in particular, where admiration 
 and lofty ideas are supposed to reign, the marvellous and supernatural 
 find, if any where, their proper place. They both enable the poet to 
 aggrandize his subject, by means of those august and solemn objects 
 which religion introduces into it ; and they allow him to enlarge and di- 
 versify his plan, by comprehending within it heaven, and earth, and hell, 
 men, and invisible beings, and the whole circle of the universe. 
 
 * See Elements of Criticism? ch, 22. 
 
LECT. XLI1.] EPIC POETRY. 439 
 
 At the same time, in the use of this supernatural machinery, it becomes 
 a poet to be temperate and prudent. He is not at liberty to invent what 
 system of the marvellous he pleases. It must always have some foun- 
 dation in popular belief. He must avail himself, in a decent manner, either 
 of the religious faith, or the superstitious credulity of the country 
 wherein he lives, or of which he writes, so as to give an air of proba- 
 bility to events which are most contrary to the common course of nature. 
 Whatever machinery he employs, he must take care not to overload us 
 with it ; not to withdraw human actions and manners too much from 
 view, not to obscure them under a cloud of incredible fictions. He must 
 always remember, that his chief business is to relate to men, the actions 
 and the exploits of men ; that it is by these principally he is to interest 
 us, and to touch our hearts ; and that if probability be altogether banish- 
 ed from his work, it can never make a deep or a lasting impression. 
 Indeed, I know nothing more difficult in epic poetry, than to adjust pro- 
 perly the mixture of the marvellous with the probable ; so as to gratify 
 and amuse us with the one, without sacrificing the other. I need hardly 
 observe, that these observations affect not the conduct of Milton's work; 
 whose plan being altogether theological, his supernatural beings form 
 not the machinery, but are the principal actors in the poem. 
 
 With regard to allegorical personages, fame, discord, love, and the like,, 
 it may be safely pronounced, that they form the worst machinery of any, 
 In description they are sometimes allowable, and may serve for embel- 
 lishment ; but they should never be permitted to bear any share in the 
 action of the poem. For being plain and declared fictions, mere names 
 of general ideas, to which even fancy cannot attribute any existence as 
 persons, if they are introduced as mingling with human actors, an into- 
 lerable confusion of shadows and realities arises, and all consistency of 
 action is utterly destroyed. 
 
 In the narration of the poet, which is the last head that remains to be 
 considered, it is not material, whether he relate the whole story in his 
 own character, or introduce some of his personages to relate any part of 
 the action that had passed before the poem opens. Homer follows the 
 one method in his Iliad, and the other in his Odyssey. Virgil has, in 
 this respect, imitated the conduct of the Odyssey ; Tasso that of the Iliad. 
 The chief advantage which arises from any of the actors being employed 
 to relate part of the story, is, that it allows the poet, if he chooses it, to 
 open with some interesting situation of affairs, informing us afterward of 
 what had passed before that period ; and gives him the greater liberty of 
 spreading out such parts of the subject as he is inclined to dwell upon in 
 person, and of comprehending the rest within a short recital. Where 
 the subject is of great extent, and comprehends the transactions of seve- 
 ral years, as in the Odyssey and the iEneid, this method therefore seems 
 preferable. When the subject is of smaller compass, and shorter dura- 
 tion, as in the Iliad and the Jerusalem, the poet may, without disadvan- 
 tage, relate the whole in his own person, according as is done in both 
 these poems. 
 
 In the proposition of the subject, the invocation of the muse, and other 
 ceremonies of the introduction, poets may vary at their pleasure. It is 
 perfectly trifling to make these little formalities the object of precise rule, 
 any farther, than that the subject of the work should always be clearly 
 proposed, and without affected or unsuitable pomp. For, according to 
 Horace's noted rule, no introduction should ever set out too high, or pr©- 
 
430 raE ILIAD OF HOMER. £LECT. XLIIJ, 
 
 inise too much, lest the author should not fulfil the expectations he has 
 raised. 
 
 What is of most importance in the tenor of the narration is, that it 
 be perspicuous, animated, and enriched with all the beauties of poetry. 
 No sort of composition requires more strength, dignity, and fire, than 
 the epic poem. It is the region within which we look for every thing 
 that is sublime in description, tender in sentiment, and bold and lively 
 in expression ; and, therefore, though an author's plan should be fault- 
 less, and his story ever so well conducted, yet if he be feeble, or flat in 
 style, destitute of affecting scenes, and deficient in poetical colouring, 
 he can have no success. The ornaments which epic poetry admits, must 
 all be of the grave and chaste kind. Nothing that is loose, ludicrous, or 
 affected, finds any place there. All the objects which it presents ought 
 to be either great, or tender, or pleasing. Descriptions of disgusting 
 or shocking objects, should as much as possible be avoided ; and there- 
 fore, the fable of the Harpies, in the third book of the iEneid, and the 
 allegory of Sin and Death, in the second book of Paradise Lost, had 
 been better omitted in these celebrated poems. 
 
 LECTURE XLIII. 
 
 HOMER'S ILIAD AND ODYSSEY— VIRGIL'S JENEID. 
 
 As the epic poem is universally allowed to possess the highest rank 
 among poetical works, it merits a particular discussion. Having treated 
 of the nature of this composition, and the principal rules relating to it, 
 I proceed to make some observations on the most distinguished epic 
 poems, ancient and modern. 
 
 Homer claims, on every account, our first attention, as the father not 
 only of epic poetry, but in some measure, of poetry in general. Who- 
 ever sits down to read Homer, must consider that he is going to read the 
 most ancient book in the world, next to the Bible. Without making 
 this reflection, he cannot enter into the spirit, nor relish the composi- 
 tion of the author. He is not to look for the correctness and elegance 
 of the Augustan age. He must divest himself of our modern ideas of 
 dignity and refinement ; and transport his imagination almost three thou- 
 sand years back in the history of mankind. What he is to expect, is a 
 picture of the ancient world. He must reckon upon finding characters 
 and manners, that retain a considerable tincture of the savage state ; 
 moral ideas, as yet imperfectly formed ; and the appetites and passions 
 of men brought under none of those restraints, to which, in a more ad- 
 vanced state of society, they are accustomed ; but bodily strength, 
 prized as one of the chief heroic endowments ; the preparing of a meal, 
 and the appeasing of hunger, described as very interesting objects ; 
 and the heroes boasting of themselves openly, scolding one another 
 outrageously, and glorying, as we should now think very indecently, over 
 their fallen enemies. 
 
 The opening of the Iliad possesses none of that sort of dignity which 
 a modem looks for in a great epic poem. It turns on no higher subject. 
 
LECT. XLIII.3 1H£ ILIAD OF HOMEK, 4^ 
 
 than the quarrel of two chieftains about a female slave. The priest of 
 Apollo beseeches Agamemnon to restore his daughter, who, in the plun- 
 der of a city, had fallen to Agamemnon's share of booty. He refuses. 
 Apollo, at the prayer of his priest, sends a plague into the Grecian 
 camp. The augur, when consulted, declares that there is no way of 
 appeasing Apollo, but by restoring the daughter of his priest. Aga- 
 memnon is enraged at the augur : professes that he likes his slave better 
 than his wife Clytemnestra ; but since he must restore her in order to 
 save the army, insists to have another in her place ; and pitches upon 
 Briseis, the slave of Achilles. Achilles, as wag to be expected, kindles 
 into a rage at this demand; reproaches him for his rapacity and insolence, 
 and, after giving him many hard names, solemnly swears, that if he is 
 to be thus treated by the general, he will withdraw his troops, and assist 
 the Grecians no more against the Trojans. He withdraws accordingly. 
 His mother, the goddess Thetis, interests Jupiter in his cause ; who, 
 to revenge the wrong which Achilles had suffered, takes part against 
 the Greeks, and suffers them to fall into great and long distress ; until 
 Achilles is pacified, and reconciliation brought about between him and 
 Agamemnon. 
 
 Such is the basis of the whole action of the Iliad. Hence rise all 
 those " speciosamiracula," as Horace terms them, which fill that extra- 
 ordinary poem ; and which have had the power of interesting almost all 
 the nations of Europe, during every age, since the days of Homer. 
 The general admiration commanded by a poetical plan, so very differ- 
 ent from what any one would have formed in our times, ought not, 
 upon reflection, to be matter of surprise. For, besides that a fertile 
 genius can enrich and beautify any subject on which it is employed, it 
 is to be observed, that ancient manners, how much soever they contra- 
 dict our present notions of dignity and refinement, afford, nevertheless, 
 materials for poetry, superior in some respects, to those which are fur- 
 nished by a more polished state of society. They discover human na- 
 ture more open and undisguised, without any of those studied forms of 
 behaviour which now conceal men from one another. They give free 
 scope to the strongest and most impetuous emotions of the mind, which 
 make a better figure in description, than calm and temperate feelings. 
 They show us our native prejudices, appetites, and desires, exerting 
 themselves without control. From this state of manners, joined with 
 the advantage of that strong and expressive style, which, as I formerly 
 observed, commonly distinguishes the compositions of early ages, we 
 have ground to look for more of the boldness, ease, and freedom of native 
 genius, in compositions of such a period, than in those of more civilized 
 times. And, accordingly, the two great characters of the Homeric poe- 
 try are, fire and simplicity. Let us now proceed to make some more 
 particular observations on the Iliad, under the three heads of the sub- 
 ject and action, the characters, and narration of the poet. 
 
 The subject of the Iliad must unquestionably be admitted to be, in 
 the main, happily chosen. In the days of Homer, no object could be 
 more splendid and dignified than the Trojan war. So great a confede- 
 racy of the Grecian states, under one leader ; and the ten years' siege 
 which they carried on against Troy, must have spread far abroad the 
 renown of many military exploits, and interested ail Greece in the tra- 
 ditions concerning the heroes who had most eminently signalized them- 
 selves. Upon these traditions. Homer grounded his poem ; and though 
 
432 *WAD OF HOMER. [LECT. XLUI. 
 
 he lived, as is generally believed, only two or three centuries after the 
 Trojan war, yet, through the want of written records, tradition must, 
 by his time, have fallen into the degree of obscurity most proper for 
 poetry ; and have left him at full liberty to mix as much fable as he 
 pleased, with the remains of true history. He has not chosen, for 
 his subject, the whole Trojan war; but, with great judgment, he has 
 selected one part of it, the quarrel betwixt Aehilles and Agamemnon, 
 and the events to which that quarrel gave rise ; which, though they take 
 up forty-seven days only, jet included the most interesting, and most 
 critical period of the war. By this management, he has given greater 
 unity to what would have otherwise been an unconnected history of 
 battles. He has gained one hero, or principal character, Achilles, who 
 reigns throughout the work ; and he has shown the pernicious effect of 
 discord among confederated princes. At the same time, I admit that 
 Homer is less fortunate in his subject than Virgil. The plan of the 
 iEneid includes a greater compass, and a more agreeable diversity of 
 events ; whereas the Iliad is almost entirely filled with battles. 
 
 The praise of high invention has in every age been given to Homer, 
 with the greatest reason. The prodigious number of incidents, of 
 speeches, of characters, divine and human, with which he abounds; the 
 surprising variety with which he has diversified his battles, in the wounds 
 and deaths, and little history pieces of almost all the persons slain, dis- 
 cover an invention next to boundless. But the praise of judgment is, in 
 my opinion, no less due to Homer, than that of invention. His story is 
 all along conducted with great art. He rises upon us gradually ; his 
 heroes are brought out, one after another, to be objects of our attention. 
 The distress thickens, as the poem advances ; and every thing is so con- 
 trived, as to aggrandize Achilles, and to render him, as the poet intend- 
 ed he should be, the capital figure. 
 
 But that wherein Homer excels all writers, is the characteristical 
 part. Here he is without a rival. His lively and spirited exhibition of 
 characters^ is, in a great measure, owing to his being so dramatic a 
 writer, abounding every where with dialogue and conversation. There 
 is much more dialogue in Homer than in Virgil ; or, indeed, than in any 
 other poet. What Virgil informs us of by two words of narration, Ho- 
 mer brings about by a speech. We may observe here, that this method 
 of writing is more ancient than the narrative manner. Of this we have a 
 clear proof in the books of the Old Testament, which, instead of narra- 
 tion, abound with speeches, with answers and replies, upon the most fa- 
 miliar subjects. Thus, in the book of Genesis : " Joseph said unto his 
 brethren, Whence come ye? and they answered,From the land of Canaan 
 we come to buy food. And Joseph said, Ye are spies ; to see the na- 
 kedness of the land ye are come. And they said unto him, Nay, my 
 lord, but to buy food are thy servants come; we are all one man's sons, 
 we are true men, thy servants are no spies. And he said unto them, 
 Nay, but to see the nakedness of the land ye are come. And they said. 
 Thy servants are twelve brethren, the sons of one man in the land of 
 Canaan ; and behold, the youngest is this day with our father ; and one 
 is not. And Joseph said unto them, This is it that I spake unto you, 
 saying, ye are spies. Hereby ye shall be proved ; by the life of Pha- 
 raoh, ye shall not go forth hence, except your youngest brother come 
 hither, &c." Genesis xlii. 7 — 15. Such a style as this, is the most sim- 
 ple and artless form of writing ; and must, therefore, undoubtedly have 
 
LECT XLIII.] THE ILIAD OF HOMER. 433 
 
 been the most ancient. It is copying directly from nature ; giving a 
 plain rehearsal of what passed, or was supposed to pass, in conversation 
 between the persons of whom the author treats. In progress of time, 
 when the art of writing was more studied, it was thought more elegant 
 to compress the substance of conversation into short distinct narrative, 
 made by the poet or historian in his own person : and to reserve direct 
 speeches for solemn occasions only. 
 
 The ancient dramatic method which Homer practised, has some ad- 
 vantages, balanced with some defects. It renders composition more 
 natural and animated, and more expressive of manners and characters ; 
 but withal less grave and majestic, and sometimes tiresome. Homer, it 
 must be admitted, has carried his propensity to the making of speeches 
 too far ; and if he be tedious any where, it is in these ; some of them 
 trifling, and some of them plainly unseasonable. Together with the 
 Greek vivacity, he leaves upon our minds some impression of the Greek 
 loquacity also. His speeches, however, are, upon the whole, character- 
 istic and lively ; and to them we owe, in a great measure, that admir- 
 able display which he has given of human nature. Every one who reads 
 him, becomes familiarly and intimately acquainted with his heroes. We 
 seem to have lived among them, and to have conversed with them. Not 
 only has he pursued the single virtue of courage, through all its different 
 forms and features, in his different warriors ; but some more delicate 
 characters, into which courage either enters not at all, or but for an 
 inconsiderable part, he has drawn with singular art. 
 
 How finely, for instance, has he painted the character of Helen, so 
 as, notwithstanding her frailty and her crimes, to prevent her from being 
 an odious object ! The admiration with which the old generals behold 
 her, in the third book, when she is coming towards them, presents her 
 to us with much dignity. Her veiling herself and shedding tears, her 
 confusion in the presence of Priam, her grief and self-accusations at the 
 sight of Menelaus, her upbraiding Paris for his cowardice, and, at the 
 same time, her returning fondness for him, exhibit the most striking 
 features of that mixed female character, which we partly condemn, and 
 partly pity. Homer never introduces her without making her say some- 
 thing to move our compassion : while, at the same time, he takes care 
 to contrast her character with that of a virtuous matron, in the chaste 
 and tender Andromache. 
 
 Paris himself, the author of all the mischief, is characterized with the 
 utmost propriety. He is, as we should expect him, a mixture of gal- 
 lantry and effeminacy. He retreats from Menelaus, on his first appear- 
 ance ; but, immediately afterward, enters into single combat with him. 
 He is a great master of civility, remarkably courteous in his speeches, 
 and receives all the reproofs of his brother Hector with modesty and 
 deference. He is described as a person of elegance and taste. He 
 was the architect of his own palace. He is, in the sixth book, found 
 by Hector, burnishing and dressing up his armour ; and issues forth to 
 battle with a peculiar gayety and ostentation of appearance, which is il- 
 lustrated by one of the finest comparisons in all the Iliad, that of the 
 horse prancing to the river. 
 
 Homer has been blamed for making his hero Achilles of too brutal 
 and unamiable a character. But I am inclined to think, that injustice is 
 commonly done to Achilles upon the credit of two lines of Horace, who 
 has certainly overloaded his character. 
 
 I i i 
 
434 THE ILIAD OF HOMER. [LECT. XLIII. 
 
 Impiger, Iracundus, inexorabilis, acer, 
 
 Jura negat sibi nata ; nihil non arrogat armis. 
 
 Achilles is passionate, indeed, to a great degree ; but he is far from 
 being a contemner of laws and justice. In the contest with Agamem- 
 non, though he carries it on with too much heat, yet he has reason on 
 his side. He was notoriously wronged ; but he submits, and resigns 
 Briseis peaceably, when the heralds come to demand her ; only, he will 
 fight no longer under the command of a leader who has affronted him. 
 Besides his wonderful bravery and contempt of death, he has several 
 other qualities of a hero. He is open and sincere. He loves his sub- 
 jects, and respects the gods. He is distinguished by strong friendships 
 and attachments ; he is throughout, high spirited, gallant, and honour- 
 able ; and allowing for a degree of ferocity which belonged to the 
 times, and enters into the characters of most of Homer's heroes, he is, 
 upon the whole abundantly fitted to raise high admiration, though not 
 pure esteem. 
 
 Under the head of characters, Homer's gods, or his machinery, ac- 
 cording to the critical term, come under consideration. The gods make 
 a great figure in the Iliad : much greater indeed than they do in the 
 iEneid, or in any other epic poem ; and hence, Homer has become the 
 standard of poetic theology. Concerning machinery in general, 1 de- 
 livered my sentiments in the former lecture. Concerning Homer's 
 machinery, in particular, we must observe, that it was not his own inven- 
 tion. Like every other good poet, he unquestionably followed the 
 traditions of his country. The age of the Trojan war approached to the 
 age of the gods and demi-gods in Greece. Several of the heroes con- 
 cerned in that war were reputed to be the children of these gods. Of 
 course, the traditionary tales relating to them, and to the exploits of that 
 age, were blended with the fables of the deities. These popular le- 
 gends, Homer very properly adopted • though it is perfectly absurd to 
 /infer from this, that therefore poets arising in succeeding ages, and 
 writing on quite different subjects, are obliged to foUow the same system 
 of machinery. 
 
 In the hands of Homer, it produces, on the whole, a noble effect ; 
 it is always gay and amusing ; often lofty and magnificent. It introduces 
 into his poe'm a great number of personages, almost as much distin- 
 guished by characters as his human actors. It diversifies his battles 
 greatly, by the intervention of the gods ; and by frequently shifting the 
 scene from earth to heaven, it gives an agreeable relief to the mind, in 
 the midst of so much blood and slaughter. Homer's gods, it must be 
 confessed, though they be always lively and animated figures, yet some- 
 times want dignity. The conjugal contentions between Juno and Jupi- 
 ter, with which he entertains us, and the indecent squabbles he describes 
 among the inferior deities, according as they take different sides with the 
 contending parties, would be very improper models for any modern poet 
 to imitate. In apology for Homer, however, it must be remembered, 
 that according to the fables of those days, the gods are but one remove 
 above the condition of men. They have all the human passions. They 
 drink and feast, and are vulnerable like men ; they have children and 
 kinsmen in the opposite armies ; and except that they are immortal, that 
 they have houses on the top of Olympus, and winged chariots, in which 
 they are often flying down to earth, and then reaseending, in order to 
 feast on nectar and ambrosia ; they are in truth no higher beings than 
 
LECT. XL1II.J THE ILIAD OF HOMER. 435 
 
 the human heroes, and therefore very fit to take part in their contentions. 
 At the same time, though Homer so frequently degrades his divinities, 
 yet he knows how to make them appear, in some conjunctures, with the 
 most awful majesty. Jupiter, the father of gods and men, is, for the 
 most part, introduced with great dignity ; and several of the most sub- 
 lime conceptions in the Iliad, are founded on the appearances of Neptune, 
 Minerva, and Apollo, on great occasions. 
 
 With regard to Homer's style and manner of writing, it is easy, natu- 
 ral, and, in the highest degree animated. It will be admired by such 
 only as relish ancient simplicity, and can make allowance for certain 
 negligences and repetitions, which greater refinement in the art of 
 writing has taught succeeding, though far inferior, poets to avoid. For 
 Homer is the most simple in his style of all the great poets, and resem- 
 bles most the style of the poetical parts of the Old Testament. They 
 can have no conception of his manner, who are acquainted with him in 
 Mr. Pope's translation only. An excellent poetical performance that 
 translation is, and faithful in the main to the original. In some places, 
 it may be thought to have even improved Homer. It has certainly sof- 
 tened some of his rudenesses, and added delicacy and grace to some of 
 his sentiments. But withal, it is no other than Homer modernized. In 
 the midst of the elegance and luxuriancy of Mr. Pope's language, we 
 lose sight of the old bard's simplicity. I know indeed no author, to 
 whom it is more difficult to do justice in a translation, than Homer. As 
 the plainness of his diction, were it literally rendered, would often ap- 
 pear flat in any modern language ; so, in the midst of that plainness, and 
 not a little heightened by it, there are every where breaking forth upon 
 us flashes of native fire, of sublimity and beauty, which hardly any lan- 
 guage, except his own, could preserve. His versification has been uni- 
 versally acknowledged to be uncommonly melodious; and to carry, 
 beyond that of any poet, a resemblance in the sound to the sense and 
 meaning. 
 
 In narration, Homer is, at all times, remarkably concise, which ren- 
 ders him lively and agreeable ; though in his speeches, as I have before 
 admitted, sometimes tedious. He is every where descriptive ; and de- 
 scriptive by means of those welJ.-chosen particulars, which form the 
 excellency of description. Virgil gives us the nod of Jupiter with great 
 magnificence : 
 
 Annuit; et totutn nutu tremefecit Olympum. 
 
 But Homer, in describing the same thing, gives us the Sable eyebrows 
 of Jupiter bent, and his ambrosial curls shaken, at the moment when he 
 gives the nod ; and thereby renders the figure more natural and lively. 
 Whenever he seeks to draw our attention to some interesting object, he 
 particularizes it so happily, as to paint it in a manner to our sight. The 
 shot of Pandarus's arrow, which broke the truce between the two 
 armies, as related in the fourth book, may be given for an instance : and 
 above all, the admirable interview of Hector with Andromache, in the 
 sixth book ; where are all the circumstances of conjugal and parental ten- 
 derness, the child affrighted with the view of his father's helmet and crest, 
 and clinging to the nurse ; Hector putting off his helmet, taking the 
 child into his arms, and offering up a prayer for him to the gods ; Andro- 
 mache receiving back the child with a smile of pleasure, and at the same 
 instant bursting into tears, tefwv ysheKrovW} as it is finely expressed in 
 
436 THE 0D1TSSEY OF HOMER. 
 
 the original, form the most natural and affecting picture that can possibly 
 be imagined. 
 
 In the description of battles, Homer particularly excels. He works 
 up the hurry, the terror, and confusion of them in so masterly a manner, 
 as to place the reader in the very midst of the engagement. It is here, 
 that the fire of his genius is most highly displayed ; insomuch, that Vir- 
 gil's battles, and indeed those of most other poets, are cold and inanimated 
 in comparison of Homer's. 
 
 With regard to similes, no poet abounds so much with them. Several 
 of them are beyond doubt extremely beautiful : such as those of the 
 fires in the Trojan camp compared to the moon and stars by night ; 
 Paris going forth to battle, to the war-horse prancing to the river ; and 
 Euphorbus slain, to the flowering shrub cut down by a sudden blast ; 
 all which are among the finest poetical passages that are any where to be 
 found. I am not, however, of opinion, that Homer's comparisons, taken 
 in general, are his greatest beauties. They come too thick upon us ; 
 and often interrupt the train of his narration or description. The 
 resemblance on which they are founded, is sometimes not clear; and 
 the objects whence they are taken, are too uniform. His lions, bulls, 
 eagles, and herds of sheep, recur too frequently ; and the allusions in 
 some of his similes, even after the allowances that are to be made for 
 ancient manners, must be admitted to be debasing.* 
 
 My observations, hitherto, have been made upon the Iliad only. It 
 is necessary to take some notice of the Odyssey also. Longinus's criti- 
 cism upon it is not without foundation, that Homer may in this poem be 
 compared to the setting sun, whose grandeur still remains without the 
 heat of his meridian beams. It wants the vigour and sublimity of the 
 Iliad ; yet, at the same time, possesses so many beauties, as to be justly 
 entitled to high praise. It is a very amusing poem, and has much greater 
 variety than the Iliad ; it contains many interesting stories, and beautiful 
 descriptions. We see every where the same descriptive and dramatic 
 genius, and the same fertility of invention that appears in the other work. 
 It descends indeed from the dignity of gods, and heroes, and warlike 
 achievements ; but in recompense, we have more pleasing pictures of 
 ancient manners. Instead of that ferocity which reigns in the Iliad, the 
 Odyssey presents us with the most amiable images of hospitality and 
 humanity ; entertains us with many a wonderful adventure, and many a 
 
 * The severest critic upon Homer in modern times, M. la Motte, admits all that 
 his admirers urge for the superiority of his genius and talents as a poet : " C'etoit 
 un genie naturellement poetique, ami des fables et des merveilleux, et porte en ge- 
 neral a l'imitatien, soit des objets de la nature, soit des sentimens et des actions des 
 hommes. II avoit l'esprit vaste et fecond ; plus eleve que delicat, plus naturel qu'in- 
 genieux, et plus amoureux de l'abondance que du choix. — II a saisi, par une supe- 
 riorite de gout, les premieres idees de l'eloquence dans toutes les genres ; il a parle la 
 langage des toutes les passions ; et il a du moins ouvertaux ecrivains qui doivent le 
 suivre une infinite de routes, qu'il ne restoit plus qu'a applanir. II y a apparence que 
 en quelques temps qu' Homere eut vecu, ileut ete du moins, le plus grand Poete de 
 son pais ; et a ne le prendre que dans ce sens, on peut dire, qu'il est le maitre de 
 ceux memes qui 1'oht surpasse." — Discours sur Homere. Oeuvres de la Motte, Tome 
 2de. After these high praises of the author, he indeed endeavours to bring the merit 
 of the Iliad very low. But his principal objections turn on the debasing ideas which 
 are there given of the gods, the gross characters and manners of the heroes, and the 
 imperfect morality of the sentiments ; which, as Voltaire observes, is like accusing 
 a painter for having drawn his figures in the dress of the times. Homer painted his 
 gods, such as popular tradition then represented them ; and described such charac- 
 ters and sentiments, as he found among those with whom he lived. 
 
LECT. XLIIL] THE JENEID OF VIRGIL. 437 
 
 landscape of nature ; and instructs us by a constant vein of morality and 
 virtue,twhich runs through the poem. 
 
 At the same time, there are some defects which must be acknowledged 
 in the Odyssey. Many scenes in it fall below the majesty which we 
 naturally expect in an epic poem. The last twelve books, after Ulysses 
 is landed in Ithaca, are, in several parts, tedious and languid ; and though 
 the discovery which Ulysses makes of himself to his nurse, Euryclea, 
 and his interview with Penelope before she knows him, in the nine- 
 teenth book, are tender and affecting, yet the poet does not seem happy 
 in the great anagnorisis, or the discovery of Ulysses to Penelope. She 
 is too cautious and distrustful, and we are disappointed of the surprise 
 of joy, which we expected on that high occesion. 
 
 After having said so much of the father of epic poetry, it is now time 
 to proceed to Virgil, who has a very marked character, quite distinct 
 from that of Homer. As the distinguishing excellencies of the Iliad are 
 simplicity and fire ; those of the iEneid are elegance and tenderness. 
 Virgil is, beyond doubt, less animated and less sublime than Homer ; 
 but to counterbalance this, he has fewer negligences, greater variety, 
 and supports more of a correct and regular dignity, throughout his work. 
 
 When we begin to read the Iliad, we find ourselves in'the region of 
 the most remote, and even unrefined antiquity. When we open the 
 iEneid, we discover all the correctness, and the improvements of the 
 Augustan age. We meet with no contentions of heroes about a female 
 slave ; no violent scolding, nor abusive language ; but the poem opens 
 with the utmost magnificence ; with Juno, forming designs for prevent- 
 ing iEneas's establishment in Italy, and iEneas himself, presented to us 
 with all his fleet in the middle of a storm, which is described in the 
 highest style of poetry. 
 
 The subject of the iEneid is extremely happy ; still more so, in my 
 opinion, than either of Homer's poems. As nothing could be more no- 
 ble ; nor carry more of epic dignity, so nothing could be more flattering 
 and interesting to the Roman people, than Virgil's deriving the origin of 
 their state from so famous a hero as iEneas. The object was splendid 
 in itself; it gave the poet a theme, taken from the ancient traditionary 
 history of his own country ; it allowed him to connect his subject with 
 Homer's stories, and to adopt all his mythology ; it afforded him the 
 opportunity of frequently glancing at all the future great exploits of the 
 Romans, and of describing Italy, and the very territory of Rome, in its 
 ancient and fabulous state. The establishment of iEneas constantly 
 traversed by Juno, leads to a great diversity of events, of voyages, and 
 wars ; and furnishes a proper intermixture of the incidents of peace with 
 martial exploits. Upon the whole, I believe, there is nowhere to be 
 found so complete a model of an epic fable, or story, as Virgil's iEneid. 
 I see no foundation for the opinion entertained by some critics, that the 
 iEneid is to be considered as an allegorical poem, which carries a con- 
 stant reference to the character and reign of Augustus Caesar ; or, that 
 Virgil's main design in composing the iEneid, was to reconcile the Ro- 
 mans to the government of that prince, who is supposed to be shadowed 
 out under the character of iEneas. Virgil,* indeed, like the other poets 
 of that age, takes ever J opportunity which his subject affords him, of 
 
 * As particularly in that noted passage of the 6th book, 1. 791. 
 Hie vir, hie est, tibi quern promitti seepius audis, &c. 
 
43S THE iENEID OF VIRGIL/ [LECT. XLIIL 
 
 paying court to Augustus. But, to imagine that he carried a p&litical 
 plan in his view, through the whole poem, appears to me no moie than 
 a fanciful refinement. He had sufficient motives, as a poet, to determine 
 him to the choice of his subject, from its being, in itself, both great and 
 pleasing : from its being suited to his genius, and its being attended with 
 the peculiar advantages which I mentioned above, for the full display of 
 poetical talents. 
 
 Unity of action is perfectly preserved ; as, from beginning to end, one 
 main object is always kept in view,- the settlement of iEneas in Italy 
 by the order of the gods. As the story comprehends the transactions 
 of several years, part of the transactions are very properly thrown into 
 a recital made by the hero. The episodes are linked with sufficient 
 connexion to the main subject ; and the nodus, or intrigue of the poem, 
 is, according to the plan of ancient machinery, happily formed. The 
 wrath of Juno, who opposes herself to the Trojan settlement in Italy, 
 gives rise to all the difficulties which obstruct iEneas's undertaking, and 
 connects the human with the celestial operations, throughout the whole 
 work. Hence arises the tempest which throws iEneas upon the shore 
 of Africa ; the passion of Dido, who endeavours to detain him at Car- 
 thage ; and the efforts of Turnus, who opposes him in war. Till, at 
 last, upon a composition made with Jupiter, that the Trojan name shall 
 be for ever sunk in the Latin, Juno foregoes her resentment, and the 
 hero becomes victorious. 
 
 In these main points, Virgil has conducted his work with great pro- 
 priety, and shown his art and judgment But the admiration due to so 
 eminent a poet, must not prevent us from remarking some other parti- 
 culars in which he has failed. First, there are scarce any characters 
 marked in the iEneid. In this respect it is insipid, when compared to 
 the Iliad, which is full of characters and life. Achates, and Cloanthus, 
 and Gyas, and the rest of the Trojan heroes, who accompanied iEneas 
 into Italy, are so many undistinguished figures, who are in no way made 
 known to us, either by any sentiments which they utter, or any memora- 
 ble exploits which they perform. Even iEneas himself is not a very 
 interesting hero. He is described, indeed, as pious and brave ; but his 
 character is not marked with any of those strokes that touch the heart ; 
 it is a sort of cold and tame character ; and throughout his behaviour to 
 Dido, in the fourth book, especially in the speech which he makes after 
 she suspected his intention of leaving her, there appears a certain hard- 
 ness and want of relenting, which is far from rendering him amiable.* 
 Dido's own character is by much the best supported in the whole iEneid. 
 The warmth of her passions, the keenness of her indignation and re- 
 sentment, and the violence of her own character, exhibit a figure greatly 
 more animated than any other which Virgil has drawn. 
 
 Besides this defect of character in the iEneid, the distribution and 
 management of the subject are, in some respects, exceptionable. The 
 iEneid, it is true, must be considered with the indulgence due to a work 
 not thoroughly completed. The six last books are said not to have re- 
 ceived the finishing hand of the author ; and for this reason, he ordered, 
 by his will, the iEneid to be committed to the flames. But though this 
 may account for incorrectness of execution, i^dces not apologize for a 
 falling off in the subject, which seems to take place in the latter part 
 
 * JNum fletu ingemuit nostro ? Num lumina flexit ? 
 Num lachrymas victus dedit ? Aut rniseratus amantera est ? i£n. iv. 368. 
 
LECT. XLIIL] THE ^NEID OF VIRGIL, 43^} 
 
 of the work. The wars with the Latins are inferior in point of dignity, 
 to the more interesting objects which had before been presented to us, 
 in the destruction of Troy, the intrigue with Dido, and the descent into 
 hell. And in those Italian wars, there is, perhaps, a more material fault 
 still, in the conduct of the story. The reader, as Voltaire has observed, 
 is tempted to take part with Turnus against iEneas. Turnus, a brave 
 young prince, in love with Lavinia, his near relation, is destined for her 
 by general consent, and highly favoured by her mother. Lavinia herself 
 discovers no reluctance to the match : when there arrives a stranger, a 
 fugitive, from a distant region, who had never seen her, and who, 
 founding a claim to an establishment in Italy upon oracles and prophecies, 
 embroils the country in war, kills the lover of Livinia, and proves the 
 occasion of her mother's death. Such a plan is not fortunately laid, 
 for disposing us to be favourable to the hero of the poem ; and the 
 defect might have been easily remedied, by the poet's making iEneas, 
 instead of distressing Lavinia, deliver her from the persecution of- some 
 rival who was odious to her, and to the whole country. 
 
 But, notwithstanding these defects, which it was necessary to remark, 
 Virgil possesses beauties which have justly drawn the admiration of 
 ages, and which, to this day, hold the balance in equilibrium between 
 his fame, and that of Homer. The principal and distinguishing excel- 
 lency of Virgil, and which, in my opinion, he possesses beyond all poets, 
 is tendernesss. Nature had endowed him with exquisite sensibility ; he 
 felt every affecting circumstance in the scenes he describes ; and, by a 
 single stroke, he knows how to reach the heart. This, in an epic poem, 
 is the merit next to sublimity ; and puts it in an author's power to render 
 his composition extremely interesting to all readers. 
 
 The chief beauty of this kind, in the Iliad, is, the interview of Hector 
 and Andromache. But, in the iEneid, there are many such. The se- 
 cond book is one of-the greatest masterpieces that ever was executed by 
 any hand ; and Virgil seems to have put forth there the whole strength 
 of his genius, as the subject afforded a variety of scenes, both of the 
 awful and tender kind. The images of horror, presented by a city 
 burned and sacked in the night, are finely mixed with pathetic and affect- 
 ing incidents. Nothing, in any poet, is more beautifully described than 
 the death of old Priam ; and the family-pieces of iEneas, Anchises, and 
 Creusa, are as tender as can be conceived. In many passages of the 
 ^neid, the same pathetic spirit shines ; and they have been always the 
 favourite passages in that work. The fourth book, for instance, relating 
 the unhappy passion and death of Dido, has been always most justly 
 admired, and abounds with beauties of the highest kind. The interview 
 of iEneas with Andromache and Helenus, in the third book j the episodes 
 of Pallas and Evander, of Nisus and Euryalus, of Lausus and Mezentius, 
 in the Italian wars, are all striking instances of the poet's power of 
 raising the tender emotions. For we must observe, that though the 
 iEneid be an unequal poem, and, in some places, languid, yet there are 
 beauties scattered through it all ; and not a few y even in the last six books. 
 The best and most finished books, upon the whole, are, the first, the 
 second, the fourth, the sixth, the seventh, the eighth, and the twelfth. 
 
 Virgil's battles are far inferior to Homer's in point of fire and subli- 
 mity : but there is one important episode, the descent into hell, in which 
 he has outdone Homer in the Odyssey, by many degrees. There is 
 nothing in all antiquity equal, in its kind, to the sixth book of the 
 
440 THE PHAESALIA OF LLCAX [LLCT. XLIV 
 
 JEneid. The scenery, and the objects, are great and striking ; and fill 
 the mind with that solemn awe, which was to be expected from a view 
 of the invisible world. There runs through the whole description, a 
 certain philosophical sublime ; which Virgil's Platonic genius, and the 
 enlarged ideas of the Augustan age, enabled him to support with a de- 
 gree of majesty, far beyond what the rude ideas of Homer's age suffered 
 him to attain. With regard to the sweetness and beauty of Virgil's 
 numbers, throughout his whole works, they are so well known, that it 
 were needless to enlarge in the praise of them. 
 
 Upon the whole, as to the comparative merit of these two great 
 princes of epic poetry, Homer and Virgil, the former must, undoubtedly, 
 be admitted to be the greater genius ; the latter to be the more correct 
 writer. Homer was an original in his art, and discovers both the 
 beauties and the defects which are to be expected in an original au- 
 thor, compared with those who succeed him ; more boldness, more 
 nature and ease, more sublimity and force ; but greater irregularities 
 and negligences in composition. Virgil has, all along, kept his eye upon 
 Homer ; in many places, he has not so much imitated, as he has literally 
 translated him. The description of the storm, for instance, in the first 
 jEneid, and JEneas's speech upon that occasion, are translations from the 
 fifth book of the Odyssey ; not to mention almost all the similes of 
 Virgil, which are no other than copies of those of Homer. The pre- 
 eminence in invention, therefore, must, beyond doubt, be ascribed to 
 Homer. As to the pre-eminence in judgment, though many critics 
 incline to give it to Virgil, yet in my opinion, it hangs doubtful. In 
 Homer, we discern all the Greek vivacity ; in Virgil, all the Roman 
 stateliness. Homer's imagination is by much the most rich and copious ; 
 Virgil's the most chaste and correct. The strength of the former lies, 
 in his power of warming the fancy ; that of the latter, in his power of 
 touching the heart. Homer's style is more simple and animated ; Virgil's 
 more elegant and uniform. The first has, on many occasions, a sublimity 
 to which the latter never attains ; but the latter, in return, never sinks 
 below a certain degree of epic dignity, which cannot so clearly be pro- 
 nounced of the former. Not, however, to detract from the admiration 
 due to both these great poets, most of Homer's defects may reasonably 
 be imputed, not to his genius, but to the manners of the age in which he 
 lived ; and for the feeble passages of the iEneid, this excuse ought to be 
 admitted, that the iEneid was left an unfinished work. 
 
 LECTURE XLIV. 
 
 LUCAN'S PHAR3AL1A— TASSO'S JERUSALEM— CAMOENS'S LUSIAD— 
 FENELON'S TELEMACHUS— VOLTAIRE'S HENRIADE— MILTON'S PA- 
 RADISE LOST, 
 
 After Homer and Virgil, the next great epic poet of ancient times, 
 who presents himself, is Lucan. He is a poet who deserves our atten- 
 tion, on account of a very peculiar mixture of great beauties with great 
 
LECT. XLlV.j THE PHARSALIA OF LUCA*. 444 
 
 faults. Though his Pharsalia discover too little invention, and be 
 conducted in too historical a manner, to be accounted a perfect regular 
 epic poem, yet it were the mere squeamishness of criticism to exclude 
 it from the epic class. The boundaries, as I formerly remarked, are 
 far from being ascertained by any such precise limit, that we must refuse 
 the epic name to a poem, which treats of great and heroic adventures, 
 because it is not exactly conformable to the plans of Homer and VirgiL 
 The subject of the Pharsalia carries, undoubtedly, all the epic gran- 
 deur and dignity ; neither does it want unity of object, viz. the 
 triumph of Caesar over the Roman liberty. As it stands at present, it is* 
 indeed, brought to no proper close. But either time has deprived us 
 of the last books, or it has been left by the author an incomplete work. 
 Though Lucan's subject be abundantly heroic, yet I cannot reckon 
 him happy in the choice of it. It has two defects. The one is, that 
 civil wars, especially when as fierce and cruel as those of the Romans, 
 present too many shocking objects to be tit for epic poetry, and give 
 odious and disgusting views of human nature. Gallant and honourable 
 achievements furnish a more proper theme for the epic muse. But 
 Lucan's genius, it must be confessed, seems to delight in savage scenes ; 
 he dwells upon them too much ; and not content with those which his 
 subject naturally furnished, he goes out of his way to introduce a long 
 episode of Marius and Sylla's proscriptions, which abounds with all the 
 forms of atrocious cruelty. 
 
 The other defect of Lucan's subject is, its being too near the times in 
 which he lived. This is a circumstance, as I observed in a former lec- 
 ture, always unfortunate for a poet ; as it deprives him of the assistance 
 of fiction and machinery ; and thereby renders his work less splendid and 
 amusing. Lucan has submitted to this disadvantage of his subject ; and 
 in doing so, he has acted with more propriety, than if he had made an 
 unseasonable attempt to embellish it with machinery ; for the fables of 
 the gods would have made a very unnatural mixture with the exploits 
 of Caesar and Pompey ; and instead of raising, would have diminished 
 the dignity of such recent, and well-known facts. 
 
 With regard to characters, Lucan draws them with spirit, and with 
 force. But though Pompey be his professed hero, he does not succeed 
 in interesting us much in his favour. Pompey is not made to possess 
 any high distinction, either for magnanimity in sentiment, or bravery in 
 action ; but on the contrary, is always eclipsed by the superior abilities 
 of Caesar. Cato is, in truth, Lucan's favourite character ; and where- 
 ver he introduces him, he appears to rise above himself. Some of the 
 noblest and most conspicuous passages in the work, are such as relate to 
 Cato ; either speeches put into his mouth, or descriptions of his beha- 
 viour. His speech, in particular, to Labienus, who urged him to inquire 
 at the oracle of Jupiter Ammon, concerning the issue of the war [book 
 ix. 564,] deserves to be remarked, as equal, for moral sublimity, to any 
 thing that is to be found in all antiquity. 
 
 In the conduct of the story, our author has attached himself too 
 much to chronological order. This renders the thread of his narration 
 broken and interrupted, and makes him hurry us too often from place 
 to place. He is too digressive also ; frequently turning aside from his 
 subject, to give us, sometimes, geographical descriptions of a country 3 
 sometimes philosophical disquisitions concerning natural objects 5 as 
 
 K k k 
 
£46 THE PHARSALIA OF MJCAN. ; LECT. XLiV 
 
 concerning the African serpents in the ninth book, and the sources of the 
 Nile in the tenth. 
 
 There are, in the Pharsalia, several very poetical and spirited de- 
 scriptions. But the author's chief strength does not lie either in narra- 
 tion or description. His narration is often dry and harsh ; his descrip- 
 tions are often over-wrought, and employed too upon disagreeable objects. 
 His principal merit consists iu his sentiments, which are generally noble 
 and striking, and expressed in that glowing and ardent manner, which* 
 peculiarly distinguishes him. Lucan is the most philosophical and the 
 most public-spirited poet of all antiquity. He was the nephew of the 
 famous Seneca, the philosopher : was himself a stoic ; and the spirit 
 of that philosophy breathes throughout his poem. We must observe 
 too, that he is the only ancient epic poet whom the subject of his poem 
 really and deeply interested. Lucan recounted no fiction. He was a 
 Roman, aud had felt all the direful effects of the Roman civil wars, and 
 of that severe despotism which succeeded the loss of liberty. His high 
 and bold spirit made him enter deeply into his subject, and kindle, on 
 many occasions, into the most real warmth. Hence he abounds in excla- 
 mations and apostrophes, which are, almost always, well-timed, and 
 supported with a vivacity and fire that do him no small honour. 
 
 But it is the fate of this poet, that his beauties can never be mentioned 
 without their suggesting his blemishes also. As his principal excellency 
 is a lively and glowing genius, which appears, sometimes in his descrip- 
 tions, and very often in his sentiments, his great defect in both is, wan t 
 of moderation. He carries every thing to an extreme. He knows not 
 where to stop. From an effort to aggrandize his objects, he becomes 
 tumid and unnatural ; and it frequently happens, that where the second 
 line of one of his descriptions is sublime, the third, in which he meant to 
 rise still higher, is perfectly bombast. Lucan lived in an age when the 
 schools of the declaimers had begun to corrupt the eloquence and taste 
 of Rome. He was not free from the infection ; and too often, instead of 
 showing the genius of the poet, betrays the spirit of the declaimer. 
 
 On the whole, however, he is an author of lively and original genius. 
 His sentiments are so high, and his fire, on occasions, so great, as to atone 
 for many of his defects ; and passages may be produced from him, 
 which are inferior to none in any poet whatever. The characters, for 
 instance, which he draws of Pompey and Cassar in the first book, are 
 masterly ; and the comparison of Pompey to the aged decaying oak, is 
 highly pGetical : 
 
 ■lotus popularibus auris 
 
 Impelli, plausuque, sui gaudere theatri ; 
 
 JNec reparare novas vires, multumque priori 
 
 Credere fortuna?; stat magni nominis umbra?, 
 
 Qualis frugifero quercus sublimis in agro, 
 
 Exuvias veteres populi, sacrataque gestans 
 
 Dona dncura ; nee jam validis radicibus barrens, 
 
 Ponde-re fisa suo est ; nudosque per aera ramos 
 
 Etfundens, trunco, non frondibus, efficit umbram. 
 
 At quamvis primo nutet casura sub Euro, 
 
 Et cireum sylvae firmo se rpbore tol'ant, 
 
 Sola tamen colitur. Sed non in Caesare tantum 
 
 Jsomen erat, nee fama ducis ; sed neseia virtus' 
 
 Stare loco ; solusque pudor non vincere bello ; 
 
 Aceret indomitus. s L. '. &2. 
 
 "With gifts and liberal bounty sought for fame, 
 And lov'd to hear the vulgar shout his name J 
 
SECT. XLIV.j TASSO'S JERUSALEM. 
 
 But when we consider the whole execution of his poem, we are obliged 
 to pronounce, that his poetical lire was not under the government of 
 either sound judgment or correct taste. His genius had strength, but 
 not tenderness ; nothing of what might be called amoenity, or sweetness. 
 In his style • there is abundance of force ; but a mixture of harshness, 
 and frequently of obscurity, occasioned by his desire of expressing him- 
 self in a pointed and unusual manner. Compared with Virgil, he may 
 be allowed to have more fire and higher sentiments, but in every thing 
 else, falls infinitely below him, particularly in purity, elegance, and 
 tenderness. 
 
 As Statius, and Silius Italicus, though they be poets of the epic class, 
 are too inconsiderable for particular criticism, I proceed next to Tasso, 
 the most distinguished epic poet in modern ages. 
 
 His Jerusalem Delivered, was published in the year 1574. It is a 
 poem regularly and strictly epic in its whole construction ; and adorned 
 with all the beauties that belong to that species of composition. The 
 subject is, the Recovery of Jerusalem from the Infidels, by the united 
 powers of Christendom ; which, in itself, and more especially according 
 to the ideas of Tasso's age, was a splendid, venerable, and heroic en- 
 terprise. The opposition of the Christians to the Saracens forms an 
 interesting contrast. The subject produces none of those fierce and 
 shocking scenes of civil discord, which hurt the mind in Lucan, but 
 exhibits the efforts of zeal and bravery, inspired by an honourable 
 object. The share which religion possesses in the enterprise both tends 
 io render it more august, and opens a natural field for machinery and 
 sublime description. The action too lies in a country r and at a period of 
 time, sufficiently remote to allow an intermixture of fabuious tradition 
 and fiction with true history. 
 
 In the conduct of the story, Tasso has shown a rich and fertile 
 invention, which, in a poet, is a capital quality. He is full of events ; 
 
 In his own theatre rejoic'd to sit, 
 Amidst the noisy praises of the pit. 
 Careless of future ills that might betide, 
 No aid he sought to prop his falling side, 
 But on his former fortune much relied. 
 Still seem'd he to possess, and fill his place ; 
 But stood the shadow of what once he was. 
 So, in the field with Ceres' bounty spread, 
 Uprears some ancient oak his rev'rend head 
 Chaplets, and sacred gifts his boughs adorn, 
 And spoils of war by mighty heroes worn ; 
 But the first vigour of his root now gone, 
 He stands dependent on his weight alone ; 
 All bare his naked branches are displayed, 
 And with his leafless trunk he forms a shade. 
 Yet though the winds his ruin daily threat, 
 As every blast would heave him from his seat ; 
 Though thousand fairer trees the field supplies, 
 That rich in youthful verdure round him rise, 
 Fix'd in his ancient seat, he yields to none, 
 And wears the honours of the grove alone. 
 But Cajsar's greatness, and his strength was more , 
 Than past renown and antiquatedpower ; 
 'Twas not the fame of what he once had been, 
 Or tales in old records or annals seen ; 
 But 'twas a valour, restless, unconfin'd, 
 Which no success could state, nor limits bind : 
 Twas shame, a soldier's shame, untaught to yield, 
 That blush'd for nothing but an ill-fought field. Row*:. 
 
444 TASSO'S JERUSALEM, [LECT. XLIV. 
 
 and those too, abundantly various, and diversified in their kind. He 
 never allows us to be tired by mere war and righting. He frequently 
 shifts the scene ; and, from camps and battles, transports ns to more 
 pleasing objects. Sometimes the solemnities of religion ; sometimes 
 the intrigues of love ; at other times, the adventures of a journey, or 
 even the incidents of pastoral life, relieve and entertain the reader. At 
 the same time, the whole work is artfully connected, and while there is 
 much variety in the parts, there is perfect unity in the plan. The re- 
 covery of Jerusalem is the object kept in view through the whole, and 
 with it the poem closes. All the episodes, if w r e except that of Olinda 
 and Sophronia, in the second book, on which I formerly passed a censure, 
 are sufficiently related to the main subject of the poem. 
 
 The poem is enlivened with a variety of characters, and those too 
 both clearly marked and well supported: Godfre}', the leader of the 
 enterprise, prudent, moderate, brave ; Tancred, amorous, generous, 
 and gallant, and well contrasted with the fierce and brutal Argantes ; 
 Rinaldo, (who is properly the hero of the poem, and is in part copied 
 after Homer's Achilles) passionate and resentful, seduced by the allure- 
 ments of Armida ; but a personage, on the whole, of much zeal, honour, 
 and heroism. The brave and high minded Solyman, the tender Erminia, 
 the artful and violent Armida, the masculine Clorinda — are all of them 
 well drawn and animated figures. In the characteristical part, Tasso is 
 indeed remarkably distinguished ; he is, in this respect, superior to 
 Virgil ; and yields to no poet, except Homer. 
 
 He abounds very much with machinery ; and in this part of the work 
 bis merit is more dubious. Wherever celestial beings are made to 
 interpose, his machinery is noble. God looking down upon the hosts, 
 and, on different occasions, sending an angel to check the Pagans, and 
 to rebuke the evil spirits, produces a sublime effect. The description 
 of hell too, with the appearance and speech of Satan, in the beginning 
 of the 4th book, is extremely striking ; and plainly has been imitated 
 by JVIilton, though he must be allowed to have improved upon it. But 
 the devils, the enchanters, and the conjurors, act too great a part through- 
 out Tasso's poem ; and form a sort of dark and gloomy machinery, not 
 pleasing to the imagination. The enchanted wood, on which the nodus, 
 or intrigue of the poem, is made in a great measure to depend ; the 
 messengers sent in quest of Rinaldo, in order that he may break the 
 charm ; their being conducted by a hermit to a cave in the centre of 
 the earth ; the wonderful voyage which they make to the fortunate 
 islands, and their recovering Rinaldo from the charms of Armida and 
 voluptuousness ; are scenes which, though very amusing, and described 
 with the highest beauty of poetry, yet must be confessed to carry the 
 marvellous to a degree of extravagance. 
 
 In general, that for which Tasso is most liable to censure, is a certain 
 romantic vein, which runs through many of the adventures and incidents 
 of his poem. The objects which he presents to us are always great ; 
 but, sometimes, too remote from probability. He retains somewhat of 
 the taste of his age, which was not reclaimed from an extravagant admi- 
 ration of the stories of knight-errantry ; stories, which the wild, but 
 rich and agreeable imagination of Ariosto, had raised into fresh reputation. 
 In apology, however, for Tasso, it may be said, that he is not more 
 marvellous and romantic than either Homer or Virgil. All the differ- 
 ence is, that in the one we find the romance of paganism, in the other, 
 that of chivalry. 
 
1LECT,XLIV.J ORLANDO FURIOSO OF ARIOSTO, 445 
 
 With all the beauties of description, and of poetical style, Tasso re- 
 markably abounds. Both his descriptions, and his style, are much 
 diversified, and well suited to each other. In describing magnificent ob- 
 jects, his style is firm and majestic ; when he descends to gay and pleas- 
 ing ones, such as Erminia's pastoral retreat in the seventh book, and 
 the arts and beauty of Armida in the fourth book, it is soft and insinuat- 
 ing. Both those descriptions, which 1 have mentioned, are exquisite in 
 their kind. His battles are animated, and very properly varied in the 
 incidents, inferior however to Homer's in point of spirit and fire. 
 
 In his sentiments, Tasso is not so happy as in his descriptions. It is 
 indeed rather by actions, characters, and descriptions, that he interests 
 us, than by the sentimental part of the work. He is far inferior to Vir- 
 gil in tenderness. When he aims at being pathetic and sentimental in 
 his speeches, he is apt to become artificial and strained. 
 
 With regard to points and conceits, with which he has often been re- 
 proached, the censure has been carried too far. Affectation is by no 
 means the general character of Tasso's manner, which, upon the whole, 
 is masculine, strong, and correct. On some occasions, indeed, especially 
 as I just now observed, when he seeks to be tender, he degenerates into 
 forced and unnatural ideas ; but these are far from being so frequent or 
 common as has been supposed. Threescore or fourscore lines re^ 
 trenched from the poem, would fully clear it, I am persuaded, of all such 
 exceptionable passages. 
 
 With Boileau, Dacier, and the other French critics, of the last age, 
 the humour prevailed of decrying Tasso ; and passed from them to 
 some of the English writers. But one would be apt to imagine, they 
 were not much acquainted with Tasso ; or at least they must have read 
 him under the influence of strong prejudices. For to me it appears 
 clear, that the Jerusalem is, in rank and dignity, the third regular epic 
 poem in the world ; and comes next to the Iliad and iEneid. 
 
 Tasso may be justly held inferior to Homer, in simplicity and in fire ; 
 to Virgil, in tenderness ; to Milton, in daring sublimity of genius ; but 
 to no other he yields in any poetical talents ; and for fertility of inven- 
 tion, variety of incidents, expression of characters, richness of descrip- 
 tion, and beauty of style, I know no poet, except the three just named, 
 that can be compared to him, 
 
 Ariosto, the great rival of Tasso in Italian poetry, cannot, with any 
 propriety, be classed among the epic writers. The fundamental rule 
 of epic composition is, to recount a heroic enterprise, and to form it 
 into a regular story. Though there is a sort of unity and connexion in 
 the plan of Orlando Furioso, yet instead of rendering this apparent to 
 the reader, it seems to have been the author's intention to keep it out of 
 view, by the desultory manner in which the poem is carried on, and the 
 perpetual interruptions of the several stories before they are finished. 
 Ariosto appears to have despised all regularity of plan, and to have cho- 
 sen to give loose reins to a copious and rich, but extravagant fancy. At 
 the same time, there is so much epic matter in the Orlando Furioso, that 
 it would be improper to pass it by without some notice. It unites indeed 
 all sorts of poetry ; sometimes comic and satiric ; sometimes light and 
 licentious ; at other times, highly heroic, descriptive, and tender. What- 
 ever strain the poet assumes, he excels in it. He is always master of 
 his subject ; seems to play himself with it ; and leaves us sometimes 
 at a loss to know whether he be serious, or in iest. He is seldom 
 
446 CASIGENS' LUSlAD. [LECT. XLIV. 
 
 dramatic ; sometimes, but not often, sentimental ; but in narration 
 and description, perhaps no poet ever went beyond him. He makes 
 every scene which he describes, and every event which he relates, pass 
 before our eyes ; and in his selection of circumstances, is eminently 
 picturesque. His style is much varied, always suited to the subject, 
 and adorned with a remarkably smooth and melodious versification. 
 
 As the Italians make their boast of Tasso, so do the Portuguese of Ca- 
 moens ; who was nearly cotemporary with Tasso, but whose poem was 
 published before the Jerusalem. The subject of it is the first discove- 
 ry of the East Indies by Vasco de Gama ; an enterprise splendid in its 
 nature, and extremely interesting to the countrymen of Camoens, as it laid 
 the foundation of their future wealth and consideration in Europe. The 
 poem opens with V 7 asco and his fleet appearing on the ocean, between 
 the island of Madagascar, and the coast of ^Ethiopia. After various 
 attempts to land on that coast, they are at last hospitably received in the 
 kingdom of Melinda. Vasco, at the desire of the king, gives him an ac- 
 count of Europe, recites a poetical history of Portugal, and relates all the 
 adventures of the voyage, which had preceded the opening of the 
 poem. This recital takes up three cantos or books. It is well ima- 
 gined ; contains a great many poetical beauties ; and has no defect, ex- 
 cept that Vasco makes an unseasonable display of learning to the African 
 Prince, in frequent allusions to the Greek and Roman histories. Vasco 
 and his countrymen afterward set forth to pursue their voyage. The 
 storms and distresses which they encounter ; their arrival at Calecut on 
 the Malabar coast ; their reception and adventures in that country, and 
 at last their return homewards, fill up the rest of the poem. 
 
 The whole work is conducted according to the epic plan. Both the 
 subject and the incidents are magnificent ; and, joined with some wild- 
 ness and irregularity, there appear intbe execution much poetic spirit, 
 strong fancy, and bold description ; as far as I can judge from transla- 
 tions, without any knowledge of the original. There is no attempt to- 
 wards painting characters in the poem ; Vasco is the hero, and the only 
 f ersonage indeed that makes any figure. 
 
 The machinery of the Lusiad is perfectly extravagant ; not only is 
 it formed of a singular mixture of Christian ideas, and Pagan mytholo- 
 gy ; but it is so conducted, that the Pagan gods appear to be the true 
 deities, and Christ and the Blessed Virgin, to be subordinate agents. 
 One great scope of the Portuguese expedition, our author informs us, 
 is to propagate the Christian faith, and to extirpate Mahometanism. 
 In this religious undertaking, the great protector of the Portuguese is 
 Venus, and their great adversary is Bacchus, whose displeasure is ex- 
 cited by Vasco's attempting to rival his fame in the Indies. Councils 
 of the gods are held, in which Jupiter is introduced as foretelling the 
 downfall of Mahometanism, and the propagation of the gospel. Vasco, 
 in great distress from a storm, prays most seriously to God ; implores 
 the aid of Christ and the Virgin, and begs for such assistance as 
 was given to the Israelites, when they were passing through the Red 
 Sea, and to the Apostle Paul, when he was in hazard of shipwreck. In 
 return to this prayer, Venus appears, who discerning the storm to 
 be the work of Bacchus, complains to Jupiter, and procures the 
 winds to be calmed. Such strange and preposterous machinery shows 
 how much authors have been misled by the absurd opinion that there 
 could be no epic poetry without the gods of Homer. Towards the end 
 
LECT. XLlV'.j FENELON'S TELEMACHUS. 447 
 
 of the work, indeed, the author gives us an awkward salvo for his whole 
 mythology ; making the goddess Thetis inform Vasco, that she, and 
 the rest of the heathen deities, are no more than names to describe the 
 operations of Providence. 
 
 There is, however, some fine machinery, of a different kind, in the 
 Lusiad. The genius of the river Ganges appearing to Emanuel, King 
 of Portugal, in a dream, inviting that Prince to discover his secret 
 springs, and acquainting him, that he was the destined monarchfor whom 
 the treasures of the East were reserved, is a happy idea. But the no- 
 blest conception of this sort, is in the fifth Canto, where Vasco is re- 
 counting to the King of Melinda, ail the wonders which he met with 
 in his navigation. He tells him, that when the fleet arrived at the 
 Cape of Good Hope, which never before had been doubled by any navi- 
 gator, there appeared to them on a sudden, a huge and monstrous phan- 
 tom rising out of the sea, in the midst of tempests and thunders, with a 
 head that reached the clouds, and a countenance that filled them with ter- 
 ror. This was the genius, or guardian, of that hitherto unknown ocean. 
 It spoke to them with a voice like thunder ; menacing them, for invad- 
 ing those seas which he had so long possessed undisturbed : and for 
 daring to explore those secrets of the deep, which never had been 
 revealed to the eye of mortals ; required them to proceed no farther ; if 
 they should proceed, foretold all the successive calamities that were to 
 befall them ; and then, with a mighty noise, disappeared. This is one 
 of the most solemn and striking pieces of machinery that ever was em- 
 ployed ; and is sufficient to show that Camoens is a poet, though of an 
 irregular, yet of a bold and lofty imagination.* 
 
 In reviewing the epic poets, it were unjust to make no mention of the 
 amiable author of the Adventures of Telemachus. His work, though 
 not composed in verse, is justly entitled to be held a poem. The mea- 
 sured poetical prose, in which it is written, is remarkably harmonious; 
 and gives the style nearly as much elevation as the French language is 
 capable of supporting, even in regular verse. 
 
 The plan of the work is, in general, well contrived ; and is defi- 
 cient neither in epic grandeur, nor unity of object. The author has 
 entered with much felicity into the spirit and ideas of the ancient poets, 
 particularly into the ancient mythology, which retains more dignity, and 
 makes a better figure in his hands, than in those of any other modem 
 poet. His descriptions are rich and beautiful ; especially of the softer 
 and calmer scenes, for which the genius of Fenelon was best suited ; such 
 as the incidents of pastoral life, the pleasures of virtue, or a country 
 flourishing in peace. There is an inimitable sweetness and tenderness 
 in several of the pictures of this kind which he has given. 
 
 The best executed part of the work, is the first six books, in which 
 Telemachus recounts his adventures to Calypso. The narration, . 
 throughout them, is lively and interesting. Afterward, especially in 
 the last twelve books, it becomes more tedious and languid ; and in 
 the warlike adventures which are attempted, there is a great defect of 
 vigour. The chief objection against this work being classed with epic 
 poems, arises from the minute details of $irtuous policy, into which 
 
 * I have made no mention of the Araucana, an epic poem, in Spanish, compo- 
 sed by Alonzo d'Ercilla, because I am unacquainted with the original language, and 
 have not seen any translation of it. A full account of it is given by Mr. Hayley in 
 
 the Notes upon his Essay on Epic Foetry. * 
 
448 VOLTAIRE'S HENRIADE. J LECT. XLiV, 
 
 the author in some places enters ; and from the discourses and instruct 
 tions of Mentor, which recur upon us too often, and too much in the 
 strain of common-place morality. Though these were well suited to 
 the main design of the author, which was to form the mind of a young 
 prince, yet they seem not congruous to the nature of epic poetry ; the 
 object of which is to improve us by means of actions, characters, and 
 sentiments, rather than by delivering professed and formal instruction. 
 
 Several of the epic poets have described a descent into hell ; and in 
 the prospects they have given us of the invisible world, we may observe 
 the gradual refinement of men's notions concerning a state of future 
 rewards and punishments. The descent of Ulysses into hell, in Homer's 
 Odyssey, presents to us a very indistinct and dreary sort of object.— 
 The scene is laid in the country of the Cimmerians, which is always 
 covered with clouds and darkness, at the extremity of the ocean. When 
 the spirits of the dead begin to appear, we scarcely know whether Ulysses 
 is above ground, or below it. None of the ghosts, even of the heroes, 
 appear satisfied with their condition in the other world ; and when Ulys- 
 ses endeavours to comfort Achilles, by reminding him of the illustrious 
 figure which he must make in those regions, Achilles roundly tells him 
 that all such speeches are idle ; for he would rather be a day-labourer 
 on earth, than have the command of all the dead. 
 
 In the sixth book of the iEneid, we discern a much greater refine- 
 ment of ideas, corresponding to the progress which the world had then 
 made in philosophy. The objects there delineated, are both more clear 
 and distinct, and more grand and awful. The separate mansions of 
 good and of bad spirits, with the punishments of the one, and the employ- 
 ments and happiness of the other, are finely described ; and in consis- 
 tency with the most pure morality. But the visit which Fenelon makes 
 Telemachus pay to the shades is much more philosophical still than 
 Virgil's. He employs the same fables and the same mythology ; but 
 we find the ancient mythology, refined by the knowledge of the true 
 religion, and adorned with that beautiful enthusiasm, for which Fenelon 
 was so distinguished. His account of the happiness of the just is an 
 excellent description in the mystic strain ; and very expressive of the 
 genius and spirit of the author. 
 
 Voltaire has given us in his Henriade, a regular epic poem, in French 
 verse. In every performance of that celebrated writer, we may expect 
 to find marks of genius ; and, accordingly, that work discovers, in seve- 
 ral places, that boldness in the conceptions, and that liveliness and feli- 
 city in the expression, for which the author is so remarkably distinguish- 
 ed. Several of the comparisons, in particular, which occur in it, are 
 both new and happy. But, considered upon the whole, I cannot esteem 
 it one of his chief productions ; and I am of opinion, that he has suc- 
 ceeded infinitely better in tragic than in epic composition. French 
 versification seems ill adapted to epic poetry. Besides its being always 
 fettered by rhyme, the language never assumes a sufficient degree of 
 elevation or majesty ; and appears to be more capable of expressing the 
 tender in tragedy, than of supporting the sublime iu epic. Hence a 
 feebleness, and sometimes a prosaic flatness, in the style of the Henriade ; 
 and whether from this, or from some other cause, the poem often lan- 
 guishes. It does not seize the imagination : nor interest and carry the 
 reader along, with that ardour which ought to be inspired by a sublime 
 and spirited epic poem 
 
I. XLIV.j VOLTAIRE'S HENKIADK. g$g 
 
 The subject of the Henriade is the triumph of Henry the Fourth 
 over the arms of the League. The action of the poem, properly in- 
 cludes only the siege of Paris. It is an action perfectly epic in its na- 
 ture ; great, interestiug, and conducted with a sufficient regard to unity, 
 smd all the other critical rules. But it is liable to both the defects which 
 1 before remarked in Lucan's Pharsalia. It is founded wholly on civil 
 • wars ; and presents to us those odious and detestable objects of massa- 
 cres and assassinations, which throw a gloom over the poem. It is also, 
 like Lucan's, of too recent a date, and comes too much within the bounds 
 of well-known history. To remedy this last defect, and to remove the 
 - appearance of being a mere historian, Voltaire has chosen to mix tiction 
 with truth. The poem, for instance, opens with a voyage of Henrys 
 to England, and an interview between him and Queen Elizabeth ; though 
 every one knows that Henry never was in England, and that these two 
 illustrious personages never met. In facts of such public notoriety, a 
 fiction like this, shocks the reader, and forms an unnatural and ill-sorted 
 mixture with historical truth. The episode was contrived, in order to 
 give Henry an opportunity of recounting the former transactions of the 
 civil wars, in imitation of the recital which iEneas makes to Dido in the 
 iEneid. But the imitation was injudicious. iEneas might with proprie- 
 v ty, relate to Dido, transactions of which she was either entirely igno- 
 rant, or had acquired only an imperfect knowledge by flying reports. 
 But Queen Elizabeth could not but be supposed to be perfectly apprised 
 of all the facts, which the poet makes Henry recite to her. 
 
 In order to embellish his subject, Voltaire has chosen to employ a 
 great deal of machinery. But here also, I am obliged to censure his 
 conduct ; for the machinery which he chiefly employs, is of the worst 
 kind, and the least suited to an epic poem, that of allegorical beings. 
 Discord, Cunning, and Love, appear as personages, mix with the human 
 actors, and make a considerable figure in the intrigue of the poem. 
 This is contrary to every rule of rational criticism. Ghosts, angels, and 
 devils have popular belief on their side, and may be conceived as exist- 
 ing. But every one knows, that allegorical beings are no more than 
 representations of human dispositions and passions. They may be em- 
 ployed like other personifications and figures of speech ; or in a poem, 
 that is wholly allegorical, they may occupy the chief place. They are 
 there in their native and proper region : but in a poem which relates, to 
 human transactions, as I had occasion before to remark, when such 
 beings are described as acting along with men, the imagination is con- 
 founded ; it is divided between phantasms and realities, and knows not 
 on what to rest. 1^/ _. j/L 
 
 In justice, however, to our author, I must observe, that the machinery 
 of St. Louis, which he also employs, is of a better kind, and possesses 
 real dignity. The finest passage in the Henriade, indeed one of the 
 finest that occurs in any poem, is the prospect of the invisible world, 
 which St. Louis gives to Henry in a dream in the seventh canto.-— 
 Death bringing the souls of the departed in succession before God ; 
 their astonishment when, arriving from all different countries and reli- 
 gious sects, they are brought into the Divine presence ; when they find 
 their superstitions to be false, and have the truth unveiled to them ; 
 the palace of the destinies opened to Henry, and the prospect of his 
 successors which is there given him ; are striking and magnificent ob 
 iects, and do honour to the genius of Voltaire. 
 
 L 11 
 
450 MILTOJS'S TARADiSE LOST. [LECT. XLIV. 
 
 Though some of the episodes in this poem are properly extended, 
 yet the narration is, on the whole, too general ; the events are too much 
 crowded, and superficially related ; which is doubtless one cause of 
 the poem making a faint impression. The strain of sentiment which 
 runs through it, is high and noble. Religion appears on every occasion 
 with great and proper lustre : and the author breathes that spirit of hu- 
 manity and toleration, which is conspicuous in all his works. 
 
 Milton, of whom it remains now to speak, has chalked out for him- 
 self a new and very extraordinary road in poetry. As soon as we open 
 his Paradise Lost, we find ourselves introduced all at once into an invi- 
 sible world, and surrounded with celestial and infernal beings. An- 
 gels and devils are not the machinery, but principal actors in the poem j 
 and what, in any other composition, would be the marvellous, is here 
 only the natural course of events. A subject so remote from the affairs 
 of this world, may furnish ground to those who think such discussions 
 material, to bring it into doubt, whether Paradise Lost can properly be 
 classed among epic poems. By whatever name it is to be called, it is, 
 undoubtedly, one of the highest efforts of poetical genius ; and in one 
 great characteristic of the epic poem, majesty and sublimity, it is fully 
 equal to any that bear that name. 
 
 How far the author was altogether happy in the choice of his subject,, 
 may be questioned. It has led him into very difficult ground. Had he 
 taken a subject that was more* human, and less theological ; that was 
 more connected with the occurrences of life, and afforded a greater dis- 
 play of the characters and passions of men, his poem would, perhaps, 
 have to the bulk of readers, been more pleasing and attractive. But 
 the subject which he has chosen, suited the daring sublimity of his ge- 
 nius.* It is a subject for which Milton alone was fitted ; and in the 
 conduct of it, he has shown a stretch both of imagination and invention, 
 which is perfectly wonderful. It is astonishing how, from the few hints 
 given us in the Sacred Scriptures, he was able to raise so complete and 
 regular a structure ; and to fill his poem with such a variety of incidents. 
 Dry and harsh passages sometimes occur. The author appears, upon 
 some occasions, a metaphysician and a divine, rather than a poet. But 
 the general tenor of his work is interesting ; he seizes and fixes the 
 imagination ; engages, elevates, and affects us as we proceed ; which is 
 always a sure test of merit in an epic composition. The artful change 
 of his objects ; the scene laid now in earth, now in hell, and now ira 
 heaven, affords a sufficient diversity ; while unity of plan is, at the same 
 time, perfectly supported. We have still life, and calm scenes, in the 
 employments of Adam and Eve in Paradise ; and we have busy scenes 
 and great actions, in the enterprise of Satan, and the wars of the angels. 
 The innocence, purity, and amiableness of our first parents, opposed to 
 the pride and ambition of Satan, furnishes a happy contrast that reigns 
 throughout the whole poem ; only the conclusion as I before observed, 
 is too tragic for epic poetry. 
 
 The nature of the subject did not admit any great display of charac- 
 
 • ll He seems to have been well acquainted with his own genius, and to know 
 ay hat it was that nature had bestowed upon him more bountifully than upon others : 
 the power of displaying the vast, illuminating the splendid, enforcing the awful, dark- 
 ening the gloomy, and aggravating the dreadful. He therefore chose a subject, on 
 which too much could not be said ; on which he might tire his fancy without the 
 censure of extravagance/' Dr. Johnson's Life of Milton. 
 
LECT. XLlV/j MILTON'S. PARADISE LOST. 4 g} 
 
 ters ; but such as could be introduced, are supported with much pro- 
 priety. Satan, in particular, makes a striking figure, and is, indeed, the 
 best drawn character in the poem. Milton has not described him, such 
 as we'suppose an infernal spirit to be. He has, more suitably, to his 
 own purpose, given him a human, that is, a mixed character, not alto- 
 gether void of some good qualities. He is brave and faithful to his 
 troops. In the midst of his impiety, he is not without remorse. He is 
 even touched with pity for our first parents ; and justifies himself in his 
 desigtf against them, from the necessity of his situation. He is actuated 
 by ambition and resentment, rather than by pure malice. In short, 
 Milton's Satan is no worse than many a conspirator or factious chief, that 
 makes a figure in history. The different characters of Belzebub, Mo- 
 loch, and Belial, are exceedingly well painted in those eloquent speeches 
 which they make, in the second book. The good angels, though always 
 . described with dignity and propriety, have more uniformity than the in- 
 fernal spirits in their appearance ; though among them too, the dignity 
 of Michael, the mild condescension of Raphael, and the tried fidelity of 
 Abdiel, form proper characteristical distinctions. The attempt io de- 
 scribe God Almighty himself, and to recount dialogues between the Fa- 
 t ther and the Son, was too bold and arduous, and is that wherein our poet, 
 i '^as was to have been expected, has been most unsuccessful. With 
 regard to his human characters, the innocence of our first parents, and 
 their love, are finely and delicately painted. In some of his speeches 
 to Raphael and to Eve, Adam is perhaps too knowing and refined for 
 his situation:* £ve is more distinctly characterized. Her gentleness, 
 modesty, and frailty, mark very expressively a female character 
 
 Milton's great and distinguished excellence is, his sublimity. In this, 
 perhaps, he excels Homer ; as there is no doubt of his leaving Virgil, 
 and every other poet, far behind him. Almost the whole of the first 
 and second books of Paradise Lost, are continued instances of the 
 sublime. The prospect of hell and of the fallen host, the appear- 
 ance and behaviour of Satan, the consultation of the infernal chiefs, and 
 Satan's flight through chaos to the borders of this world, discover the 
 most lofty ideas that ever entered into the conception of any poet. In 
 the sixth book also, there is much grandeur, particularly in the appear- 
 ance of the Messiah ; though some parts of that book are censurable ; 
 and the witticisms of the devils upon the effect of their artillery, form 
 an intolerable blemish. Milton's sublimity is of a different kind from 
 that of Homer. Homer's is generally accompanied with fire and im- 
 petuosity ; Milton's possesses more of a calm and amazing grandeur. 
 Homer warms and hurries us along ; Milton fixes us in a state of asto- 
 nishment and elevation. Homer's sublimity appears most in the descrip- 
 tion of actions ; Milton's in that of wonderful and stupendous objects. 
 
 But though Milton is most distinguished for his sublimity, yet there 
 13 also much of the beautiful, the tender, and the pleasing, in many 
 parts of his work. When the scene is laid in Paradise, the imagery is 
 always of the most gay and smiling kind. His descriptions show an un- 
 commonly fertile imagination ; and in his similes, he is, for the most 
 part, remarkably happy. They are seldom improperly introduced ; 
 seldom either low or trite. They generally present to us images taken 
 from the sublime or the beautiful class of objects ; if they have any 
 faults, it is their alluding too frequently to matters of learning, and to 
 fables of antiquity. In the latter part of Paradise Lost, there must be 
 
DRAMATIC POETRY— TRAGEDY. 
 
 Dramatic poetry has, among all civilized nations, been considered 
 as a rational and useful entertainment, and judged worthy of careful and 
 serious discussion. According as it is employed upon the light and the 
 gay, or upon the grave and affecting incidents of human life, it divides 
 itself into the two forms, of comedy or tragedy. But as great and serious 
 objects command more attention than little and ludicrous ones ; as the 
 fall of a hero interests the public more than the marriage of a private 
 person ; tragedy has been always held a more dignified entertainment 
 than comedy. The one rests upon the high passions, the virtues, crimes, 
 and sufferings of mankind. The other on their humours, follies, and 
 pleasures. Terror and pity are the great instruments of the former ; 
 ridicule is the sole instrument of the latter. Tragedy shall therefore 
 be the object of our fullest discussion. This and the following lecture 
 shall be employed on it : after which I shall treat of what is peculiar to 
 romedv. 
 
 452 TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLV, 
 
 confessed to be a falling off. With the fall of our first parents, Blilton's 
 genius seems to decline. Beauties, however, there are in the concluding 
 books, of the tragic kind. The remorse and contrition of the guilty 
 pair, and their lamentations over Paradise, when they are obliged to 
 leave ft, are very moving. The last episode of the angel's showing 
 Adam the fate of his posterity, is happily imagined : but in many places, 
 the execution is languid. 
 
 Milton's language and versification have high merit. His style is full 
 of majesty, and wonderfully adapted to his subject. His blank verse is 
 harmonious and diversified, and affords the most complete example of 
 the elevation, which our language is capable of attaining by the force 
 of numbers. It does not flow like the French verse, in tame, regular, 
 uniform melody, which soon tires the ear : but is sometimes smooth and 
 flowing, sometimes rough ; varied in its cadence, and intermixed 
 with discords, so as to suit the strength and freedom of epic composi- 
 tion. Neglected and prosaic lines, indeed, we sometimes meet with : 
 but, in a work so long, and in the main sol harmonious, these may be 
 forgiven. 
 
 On the whole, Paradise Lost is a poem that abounds with beauties of 
 every kind, and that justly entitles its author to a degree of fame not in- 
 ferior to any poet ; though it must be also admitted to have many ine- 
 qualities. It is the lot of almost every high and daring genius, not to 
 be uniform and correct. Milton is too frequently theological and meta- 
 physical ; sometimes harsh in his language ; often too technical in his 
 words, and affectedly ostentatious of his learning. Many of his faults 
 must be attributed to the pedantry of the age in which he lived. He 
 discovers a vigour, a grasp of genius, equal to every thing that is great ; 
 if at sometimes he falls much below himself, at other times he rises above 
 every poet, of the ancient or modern world. 
 
 LECTURE XLV. 
 
HECT.XLV.j TRAGEDY. 
 
 458 
 
 Tragedy, considered as an exhibition of the characters and behaviour 
 of men, in some of the most trying and critical situations of life, is a 
 noble idea of poetry. It is a direct imitation of human manners and 
 actions. For it does not, like the epic poem, exhibit characters by the 
 narration and description of the poet ; but the poet disappears ; and the 
 
 i personages themselves are set before us, acting and speaking what is 
 'suitable'to their characters. Hence, no kind of writing is so great a 
 trial of the author's profound knowledge of the human heart. No kind 
 of writing has so much power, when happily executed, to raise the 
 strongest emotions. It is, or ought to be, a mirror in which we behold 
 ourselves, and the evils to which we are exposed ; a faithful copy of the 
 human passions, with all their direful effects, when they are suffered to 
 become extravagant. 
 
 As tragedy is a high and distinguished species of composition, so also, 
 in its general strain and spirit, it is favourable to virtue. Such power 
 hath virtue happily over the human mind, by the wise and gracious 
 
 ■constitution of our nature, that as admiration cannot be raised in epic 
 poetry, so neither in tragic poetry can our passions be strongly moved, 
 
 $ unless virtuous emotions be awakened within us. Every poet finds, that 
 it is impossible to interest us in any character without representing that 
 character as worthy and honourable, though it may not be perfect ; and 
 that the great secret for raising indignation, is to paint the person who is 
 to be the object of it, in the colours of vice and depravity. He may, 
 indeed, nay, he must, represent the virtuous as sometimes unfortunate, 
 because this is often the case in real life ; but he will always study 
 
 ptb engage our hearts in their behalf; and though they may be descri- 
 
 l bed as unprosperous,yet there is no instance of a tragic poet represent- 
 ing vice as fully triumphant and happy in the catastrophe of the piece. 
 Even when bad men succeed in their designs, punishment is made al- 
 ways to attend them ; and misery of one kind or other, is shown to be 
 unavoidably connected with guilt. Love and admiration of virtuous 
 
 , characters, compassion for the injured and the distressed, and indigna- 
 tion against the authors of their sufferings, are the sentiments most gene- 
 rally excited by tragedy. • And therefore, though dramatic writers may 
 sometimes, like other writers, be guilty of improprieties, though they 
 may fail of placing virtue precisely in the due point of light, yet no 
 reasonable person can deny tragedy to be a moral species of composi- 
 tion. Taking tragedies complexly, I am fully persuaded, that the im- 
 pressions left by them upon the mind are, on the whole, favourable to 
 virtue and good dispositions. And, therefore, the zeal which some pious 
 men have shown against the entertainments of the theatre, must rest 
 only upon the abuse of comedy ; which, indeed, has frequently been 
 so great as to justify very severe censures against it. 
 
 The account which Aristotle gives of the design of tragedy is, that 
 it is intended to purge our passions by means of pity and terror. This 
 is somewhat obscure. Various senses have been put upon his words, 
 and much altercation has followed among his commentators. With- 
 out entering into any controversy upon this head, the intention of 
 tragedy may, 1, think, be more shortly and clearly defined, to im- 
 prove our virtuous sensibility. If an author interests us in behalf of 
 virtue, forms us to compassion for the distressed, inspires us with 
 proper sentiments, on beholding the vicissitudes of life, and, by means 
 of the concern which he raises for the misfortunes of others, leads us 
 
454 TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLV. 
 
 to guard ' against errors in our own conduct, he accomplishes all the 
 moral purposes of tragedy. 
 
 In order to this end, the first requisite is, that he choose some moving 
 and interesting story, and that he conduct it in a natural and probable 
 manner. For we must observe, that the natural and the probable must 
 always be the basis of tragedy ; and are infinitely more important there, I 
 than in epic poetry. The object of the epic poet, is to excite our ad- 
 miration by the recital of heroic adventures ; and a much slighter degree 
 of probability is required when admiration is concerned, than when the 
 tender passions are intended to be moved. The imagination, in the 
 former case, is exalted, accommodates itself to the poet's idea, and can 
 admit the marvellous, without being shocked. But tragedy demands a 
 stricter imagination of the life and actions of men. For the end which it 
 pursues is, not so much to elevate the imagination, as to affect the heart ; 
 and the heart always judges more nicely than the imagination, of what 
 is probable. Passion can be raised only by making the impressions 
 of nature, and,of truth upon the mind. By introducing, therefore, any 
 wild or romantic circumstances into his story, the poet never fails to 
 check passion in its growth, and, of course, disappoints the main effect 
 of tragedy. 
 
 This principle, which is founded on the clearest reason, excludes 
 from tragedy all machinery, or fabulous intervention of the gods. 
 Ghosts have, indeed, maintained their place; as being strongly found- 
 ed on popular belief, and peculiarly suited to heighten the terror of 
 tragic scenes. But all unravellings of the plot which turn upon the 
 interposition of deities, such as Euripides emploj^s in several of his 
 plays, are much to be condemned : both as clumsy and inartificial, and 
 as destroying the probability of the story. This mixture of ma- 
 chinery, with the tragic action, is undoubtedly a blemish in the ancient 
 theatre. 
 
 In order to promote that impression of probability which is so ne- 
 cessary to the success of tragedy, some critics have required, that 
 the subject should never be a pure fiction invented by the poet, 
 but built on real history or known facts. Such, indeed, were generally, 
 if not always, the subjects of the Greek tragedians. But I cannot 
 hold this to be a matter of any great consequence. It is proved by 
 experience, that a fictitious tale, if properly conducted, will melt the 
 heart as much as any real history. In order to our being moved, it , 
 is not necessary, that the events related did actually happen, provided 
 they be such, as might easily have happened in the ordinary course of 
 nature. Even when tragedy borrows its materials from history, it mixes 
 many a fictitious circumstance. The greatest part of readers neither 
 know, nor inquire, what is fabulous or what is historical, in the subject. 
 They attend only to what is probable, and are touched by events which 
 resemble nature. Accordingly, some of the most pathetic tragedies are 
 entirely fictitious in the subject : such as Voltaire's Zaire and Alzire, 
 the Orphan, Douglas, the Fair Penitent, and several others. 
 
 Whether the subject be of the real or feigned kind, that on which 
 most depends for rendering the incidents in a tragedy probable, and 
 by means of their probability affecting, is the conduct, or manage- 
 ment of the story, and the connexion of its several parts. To regu- 
 late this conduct, critics have laid down the famous rule of the three 
 unities, the importance of which, it will be necessary to discuss. But 
 
 m 
 
LECT. XLV.'J TRAGEDY, 4^5 
 
 in order to do this with more advantage, it will be necessary, that we 
 first look backwards, and trace the rise and origin of tragedy, which will 
 give light to several things relating to the subject. 
 
 Tragedy, like other arts, was, in its beginning, rude and imperfect. 
 Among the Greeks, from whom our dramatic entertainments are derived r 
 the origin of tragedy was no other than the song which was wont to be 
 sung at the festival of Bacchus. A goat was the sacrifice offered to that 
 god ; after the sacrifice, the priests, with the company that joined them, 
 sung hymns in honour of Bacchus ; and from the name of the victim, 
 rgcvyos a goat, joined with afo a song, undoubtedly arose the word tragedy. 
 These hymns, or lyric poems, were sung sometimes by the whole 
 company, sometimes by separate bands, answering alternately to each 
 other ; making what we call a chorus, with its strophes and antistrophes. 
 In order to throw some variety into this entertainment, and to relieve the 
 singers, it was thought proper to introduce a person who, between the 
 songs, should make a recitation in verse. Thespis, who lived about 
 536 years before the Christian era, made this innovation ; and, as it was 
 relished, iEschylus, who came 50 years after him, and who is properly 
 the father of tragedy, went a step farther, introduced a dialogue between 
 two persons, or actors, in which he contrived to interweave some inter- 
 esting story, and brought his actors on a stage, adorned with proper 
 scenery and decorations. AH that these actors recited, was called 
 episode, or additional song ; and the songs of the chorus were made to 
 relate no longer to Bacchus, their original subject, but to the story in 
 which the actors were concerned. This began to give the drama a 
 regular form, which was soon after brought to perfection by Sophocles 
 and Euripides. It is remarkable in how short a space of time tragedy 
 grew up among the Greeks, from the rudest beginnings to its most perfect 
 state. For Sophocles, the greatest and most correct of all the tragic 
 poets, flourished only 22 years after JEschylus, and was little more than 
 70 years posterior to Thespis. 
 
 From the account which I have now given, it appears, that the chorus 
 was the basis or foundation of the ancient, tragedy. It was not an 
 .ornament added to it ; or a contrivance designed to render it more 
 perfect ; but, in truth, the dramatic dialogue was an addition to the 
 chorus, which was the original entertainment. In process of time, the 
 chorus, from being the principal, became only the accessory in tragedy j 
 till at last, in modern tragedy, it has disappeared" altogether ; which forms 
 the chief distinction between the ancient and the modern stage. 
 
 This has given rise to a question, much agitated between the parti- 
 sans of the ancients and the moderns, whether the drama has gained, 
 or has suffered, by the abolition of the chorus. It must be admitted, 
 that the chorus tended to render tragedy both more magnificent, and 
 more instructive and moral. It was always the most sublime and poetical 
 part of the work ; and being carried on by singing, and accompanied with 
 music, it must, no doubt, have diversified the entertainment greatly, and 
 added to its splendour. The chorus, at the same time, conveyed 
 constant lessons of virtue. It was composed of such persons as might 
 most naturally be supposed present on the occasion; inhabitants of 
 the place where the scene was laid, often the companions of some 
 of the principal actors, and, therefore, in some degree, interested in 
 the issue of the action. This company, which in the days of Sophocles 
 
ii 
 
 ■Jjb 
 
 TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLY 
 
 was restricted to the number of fifteen persons, was constantly on the 
 stage during the whole performance, mingled in discourse with the actors, 
 entered into their concerns, suggested counsel and advice to them, mo- 
 ralized on all the incidents that were going on, and during the intervals of 
 the action, sung their odes, or songs, in which they addressed the gods, 
 prayed for success to the virtuous, lamented their misfortunes, and 
 delivered many religious and moral sentiments.* 
 
 But notwithstanding the advantages which were obtained by means 
 of the chorus, the inconveniences on the other side are so great as to 
 render the modern practice of excluding the chorus, far more eligible 
 upon the whole. For if a natural and probable imitation of human 
 actions be the chief end of the drama, no other persons ought to be 
 brought on the stage, than those who are necessary to the dramatic 
 action. The introduction of an adventitious company of persons, who 
 have but a slight concern in the business of the play, is unnatural in 
 itself, embarrassing to the poet, and, though it may render the spectacle 
 splendid, tends, undoubtedly, to render it more cold and uninteresting, 
 because more unlike a real trasaction. The mixture of music, or song, 
 on the part of the chorus, with the dialogue carried on by the actors, is 
 another unnatural circumstance, removing the representation still farther 
 from the resemblance of life. The poet, besides, is subjected to innu- 
 merable difficulties, in so contriving his plan, that the, presence of the 
 chorus during all the incidents of the play, shall consist with any proba- 
 bility. The scene must be constantly, and often absurdly, laid in some 
 public place, that the chorus may be supposed to have free access to it 
 To many things that ought to be transacted in private, the chorus must 
 ever be witness ; they must be the confederates of both parties, who 
 come successively upon the stage, and who are, perhaps, conspiring 
 against each other. In short, the management of a chorus is an 
 unnatural confinement to a poet ; it requires too great a sacrifice of 
 probability in the conduct of the action ; it has too much the air of a 
 theatrical decoration, to be consistent with that appearance of reality, 
 which a poet must ever preserve, in order to move our passions, 
 
 * The office of the cborus is thus described by Horace : 
 
 Actoris partes chorus, officiumque virile 
 
 Defendat ; neu quid raedios intercinat actus, 
 
 Quod non p>oposito conducat, et basreat apte, 
 
 Ille bonis faveatque, et concilietur amicis, 
 
 Et regat iratos, et amet peccare timentes : 
 
 Hie dapes laudet mensae brevis ; ille salubrem 
 
 Justitiam, legesque,et apertis otia portis. 
 
 Ille tegat commissa ; deosque precetur, et oret 
 
 Ut redeatmiseris,abeatfortunasuperbis. De Arte Poet. 193, 
 
 The chorus must support an actor's part, 
 Defend the virtuous, and advise with art : 
 
 1*? 
 
 Govern the choleric, and the proud appease 
 
 And the short feasts of frugal tables praise 
 Applaud the justice of well-govern 'd states, 
 And peace triumphant with her open gates. 
 Intrusted secrets let them ne'er betray, 
 But to the righteous gods with ardour pray, 
 That fortune, with returning smiles, may bless 
 Afflicted worth, and impious pride depress 
 
 
 •,*?" 
 *•*< 
 
 Yet let their songs with apt coherence join, 
 
 Promote the plot, and aid the just design. Fjra v < is 
 
LECT. XLV.j TRAGEDY, 457 
 
 The origin of tragedy among the Greeks, we have seen, was a choral 
 song, or hymn, to the gods. There is no wonder, therefore, that on 
 the Greek stage it so long maintained possession. But it may confi- 
 dently, I think, be asserted, that if, instead of the dramatic dialogue 
 having been superadded to the chorus, the dialogue itself had been 
 the first invention, the chorus would, in that case, never have been 
 thought of. 
 
 One use, I am of opinion, might still be made of the ancient cho- 
 rus, and would be a considerable improvement of the modern theatre ; 
 if, instead of that unmeaning, and often improperly chosen music, with 
 which the audience is entertained in the intervals between the acts, a 
 chorus were then to be introduced, whose music and songs, though 
 forming no part of the play, should have a relation to the incidents of 
 the preceding act, and to tBe dispositions which those incidents are 
 presumed to have awakened in the spectators. By this means the tone 
 of passion would be kept up without interruption ; and all the good 
 effects of the ancient chorus might be preserved, for inspiring proper 
 sentiments, and for increasing the morality of the performance, without 
 those inconveniences which arose from the chorus forming a constituent 
 part of the play, and mingling unseasonably, and unnaturally, with the 
 personages of the drama. 
 
 After the view which we have taken of the rise of tragedy, and of the 
 nature of the ancient chorus, with the advantages and inconveniences 
 attending it, our way is cleared for examining, with more advantage, 
 the three unities of action, place, and time, which have generally been 
 considered as essential to the proper conduct of the dramatic fable. 
 
 Of these three, the first, unity of action, is, beyond doubt, far the 
 most important. In treating of epic poetry, I have already explained 
 the nature of it ; as consisting in a relation which all the incidents intro- 
 duced bear to some design or effect, so as to combine naturally into one 
 whole. This unity of subject is still more essential to tragedy, than it 
 is to epic poetry. For a multiplicity of plots, or actions, crowded into 
 so short a space as tragedy allows, must, of necessity, distract the atten- 
 tion, and prevent passion from rising to any height. Nothing, there- 
 fore, is worse conduct in a tragic poet, than to carry on two independent 
 actions in the same play ; the effect of which is, that the mind being 
 suspended and divided between them, cannot give itself up entirely either 
 to the one or the other. There may, indeed, be under-plots ; that is, 
 the persons introduced may have different pursuits and designs ; but 
 the poet's art must be shown in managing these so as to render them 
 subservient to the main action. They ought to be connected with the 
 catastrophe of the play, and to conspire in bringing it forward. If there 
 be any intrigues which stand separate and independent, and which may 
 be left out without affecting the unravelling of the plot, we may always 
 conclude this to be a faulty violation of unity. Such episodes are not 
 permitted here as in epic poetry. 
 
 We have a clear example of this defect in Mr. Addison's Cato. The 
 subject of this tragedy is the death of Cato ; and a very noble person- 
 age Cato is, and supported by the author with much dignity. But all the 
 love scenes in the play, the passion of Cato's two sons for Lucia, and 
 that of Juba for Cato's daughter, are mere episodes ; have no connex- 
 ion with the principal action, and no effect upon it. The author thought 
 his subject too barren in incidents, and in order to diversify it, he has 
 
 M m m 
 
458 1'RAGEDT. [LECT. XL\\ 
 
 given us, as it were, by the by, a history of the amours that were going 
 on in Cato's family ; by which he hath both broken the unity of his 
 subject, and formed a very unseasonable junction of gallantry, with the 
 high sentiments, and public spirited passions which predominate in other 
 parts, and which the play was chiefly designed to display. 
 
 We must take care not to confound the unity of the action with the 
 simplicity of the plot. Unity and simplicity import different things in 
 dramatic composition. The plot is said to be simple, when a small num- 
 ber of incidents are introduced into it. But it may be implex, as the 
 critics term it, that is, it may include a considerable number of persons 
 and events, and yet not be deficient in unity ; provided all the incidents 
 be made to tend towards the principal object of the play, and be pro- 
 perly connected with it. All the Greek tragedies not only maintain unity 
 in the action, but are remarkably simple in the plot ; to such a degree^ 
 indeed, as sometimes to appear to us too naked, and destitute of inter- 
 esting events. In the CEdipus Coloneus, for instance, of Sophocles, the 
 whole subject is no more than this : (Edipus, blind and miserable, wan 
 ders to Athens, and wishes to die there : Creon, and his son Polynices, 
 arrive at the same time, and endeavour separately to persuade the old 
 man to return to Thebes, each with a view to his own interest ; he will 
 not go : Theseus, the king of Athens, protects him ; and the play ends 
 with his death. In the Philoctetes of the same author, the plot or fable 
 is nothing more than Ulysses, and the son of Achilles, studying to per- 
 suade the diseased Philoctetes to leave his uninhabited island, and go with 
 them to Troy ; which he refuses to do, till Hercules, whose arrows he 
 
 (possessed, descends from heaven, and commands him. Yet these simple 
 and seemingly barren subjects, are wrought up with so much art by 
 Sophocles, as to become very tender and affecting. 
 
 Among the moderns, much greater variety of events has been admitted 
 into tragedy. It has become more the theatre of passion, than it was 
 among the ancients. A greater display of characters is attempted ; more 
 intrigue and action are carried on ; our curiosity is more awakened, and 
 more interesting situations arise. This variety is, upon the whole, an 
 improvement on tragedy ; it renders the entertainment both more ani- 
 mated, and more instructive ; and when kept within due bounds, may 
 be perfectly consistent with unity of subject. But the poet must, at the 
 same time, beware of not deviating too far from simplicity, in the con- 
 struction of his fable. For if he overcharges it with action and intrigue, 
 it becomes perplexed and embarrassed ; and, by consequence, loses 
 much of its effect. Congreve's " Mourning Bride," a tragedy, other- 
 wise far from being void of merit, fails in this respect ; and may be given 
 as an instance of one standing in perfect opposition to the simplicity of 
 the ancient plots. The incidents succeed one another too rapidly. 
 The play is too full of business. It is difficult for the mind to follow 
 and comprehend the whole series of events ; and, what is the greatest 
 fault of all, the catastrophe, which ought always to be plain and simple, 
 is brought about in a manner too artificial and intricate. 
 
 Unity of action must not only be studied in the general construction 
 of the fable or plot, but must regulate the several acts and scenes, into 
 which the play is divided. 
 
 The division of every play into five acts, has no other foundation than 
 common practice, and the authority of Horace • 
 
LECT XL TRAGEDY. 459 
 
 Neve minor, neu sit quinto productior actu 
 
 Fabula. — - De Arte Poet.*- 
 
 It is a division purely arbitrary* There is nothing in the nature of the 
 composition which fixes this number rather than any other ; and it had 
 been much better if no such number had been ascertained, but every 
 play had been allowed to divide itself into as many parts, or intervals, 
 as the subject naturally pointed out. On the Greek stage, whatever 
 may have been the case on the Roman, the division by acts was totally 
 unknown. The word act never once occurs in Aristotle's Poetics, in 
 which he defines exactly every part of the drama, and divides it into the 
 beginning, the middle, and the end ; or in his own words, into the pro- 
 logue, the episode, and the exode. The Greek tragedy was, indeed, 
 one continued representation, from beginning to end. The stage was 
 never empty, nor the curtain let fall. But, at certain intervals, when 
 the actors retired, the chorus continued and sung. Neither do these 
 songs of the chorus divide the Greek tragedies into five portions, similar 
 to our acts ; though some of the commentators have endeavoured to 
 force them into this office. But it is plain, that the intervals at which the 
 chorus sung, are extremely unequal and irregular, suited to the occasion 
 and the subject ; and would divide the play, sometimes into three, some- 
 times into seven or eight acts.j 
 
 As practice has now established a different plan on the modern stage d 
 has divided every play into five acts, and made a total pause in the re- 
 presentation at the end of each act, the poet must be careful that this 
 pause shall fall in a proper place ; where there is a natural pause in the 
 action ; and where, if the imagination has any thing to supply, that is not 
 represented on the stage, it may be supposed to have been transacted 
 during the interval. 
 
 The first act ought to contain a clear exposition of the subject. It 
 ought to be so managed as to awaken the curiosity of the spectators 5 
 and at the same time, to furnish them with materials for understanding 
 the sequeh It should make them acquainted with the personages who 
 are to appear, with their several views and interests, and with the situ- 
 ation of affairs at the time when the play commences. A striking intro- 
 duction, such as the first speech of Almeria, in the Mourning Bride, 
 and that of Lady Randolph, in Douglas, produces a happy effect ; but 
 this is what the subject will not always admit. In the ruder times of 
 dramatic writing, the exposition of the subject was wont to be made by a 
 prologue, or by a single actor appearing, and giving full and direct infor- 
 mation to the spectators. Some of JEschylus's and Euripides's plays are 
 opened in this manner. But such an introduction is extremely inartificial., 
 and therefore, is now totally abolished, and the subject made to open itself 
 by conversation, among the first actors who are brought upon the stage. 
 
 During the course of the drama, in the second, third, and fourth acts 3 
 the plot should gradually thicken. The great object which the poet 
 ought here to have in view, is, by interesting us in his story, to keep 
 our passions always awake. As soon as he allows us to languish, there 
 is no more tragic merit. He should, therefore, introduce no personages, 
 but such as are necessary for carrying on the action. He should con= 
 
 If you would have your play deserve success, 
 
 Give it five acts complete, nor more, nor less. Frakgi& 
 
 i ?:ee the dissertation prefixed, to Franklin's translation of Sophocles, 
 
460 
 
 TRAGEDY, fLfcCT. XLV, 
 
 trive to place those whom he finds it proper to introduce, in the most 
 interesting situations. He should have no scenes of idle conversation, 
 or mere declamation. The action of the play ought to be always ad- 
 vancing ; and as it advances, the suspense, and the concern of the spec- 
 tators, to be raised more and more. This is the great excellency of 
 Shakspeare, that his scenes are full of sentiment and action, never of 
 mere discourse ; whereas, it is often a fault of the best French tragedi- 
 ans, that they allow the action to languish for the sake of along and art- 
 ful dialogue. Sentiment, passion, pity, and terror, should reign through- 
 out a tragedy. Every thing should be full of movements. A useless 
 incident, or an unnecessary conversation, weakens the interest which we 
 take in the action, and renders us cold and inattentive. 
 
 The fifth act is the seat of the catastrophe, or the unravelling of the 
 plot, in which we always expect the art and genius of the poet to be 
 most fully displayed. The first rule concerning it is, that it be brought 
 about by probable and natural means. Hence all unravellings which 
 turn upon disguised habits, rencounters by night, mistakes of one person 
 for another, and other such theatrical and romantic circumstances, are 
 to be condemned as faulty. In the next place, the catastrophe ought 
 always to be simple ; to depend on few events, and to include but few 
 persons. Passion never rises so high when it is divided among many 
 objects, as when it is directed towards one or a few. And it is still more 
 checked, if the incidents be so complex and intricate, that the under- 
 standing is put on the stretch to trace them, when the heart should be 
 wholly delivered up to emotion. The catastrophe of the Mourning Bride? 
 as I formerly hinted, offends against both these rules. In the last place, 
 the catastrophe of a tragedy ought to be the reign of pure sentiment 
 and passion. In proportion as it approaches, every thing should warm 
 and glow. No long discourses ; no cold reasonings ; no parade of ge- 
 nius, in the midst of those solemn and awful events, that close some of the 
 great revolutions of human fortune. There, if any where, the poet 
 must be simple, serious, pathetic ; and speak no language but that of 
 nature. 
 
 The ancients were fond of unravellings, which turned upon what is- 
 called an " Anagnorisis," or a discovery of some person to be different 
 from what he was taken to be. When such discoveries are artfully Con- 
 ducted, and produced in critical situations, they are extremely striking ; 
 such as that famous one in Sophocles, which makes the whole subject 
 of his (Edipus Tyrannus, and which is, undoubtedly, the fullest of sus- 
 pense, agitation, and terror, that ever was exhibited on any stage. 
 Among the moderns, two of the most distinguished Anagnorisis, are 
 those contained in Voltaire's Merope, and Mr. Home's Douglas ; both 
 of which, are great masterpieces of the kind. 
 
 It is not essential to the catastrophe of a tragedy, that it should end 
 unhappily. In the course of the play, there may be sufficient agitation 
 and distress, and many tender emotions raised by the sufferings and 
 dangers of the virtuous, though in the end, good men are rendered sue- 
 cessful. The tragic spirit, therefore, does not want scope upon this 
 system ; and, accordingly, the Athalie of Racine, and some of Voltaire's 
 finest plays, such as Alzire, Merope, and the Orphan of China, with 
 some few- English tragedies likewise, had a fortunate conclusion. But, 
 in general, the spirit of tragedy, especially of English tragedy,, lepras 
 
LECT. XLV.J TRAGEDY, . £$| 
 
 more to the side of leaving the impression of virtuous sorrow full and 
 strong upon the heart. 
 
 A question intimately connected with this subject, and which has em- 
 ployed the speculations of several philosophical critics, naturally occurs 
 here ; how it comes to pass that those emotions of sorrow which tragedy 
 excites, afford any gratitication to the mind ? For, is not sorrow, in its 
 nature, a painful passion ? Is not real distress often occasioned to the 
 spectators, by the dramatic representations at which they assist ? Do 
 we not see their tears flow ? and yet, while the impression of what they 
 have suffered remains upon their minds, they again assemble in crowds 
 to renew the same distresses. The question is not without difficulty, 
 and various solutions of it have been proposed by ingenious men.* The 
 most plain and satisfactory account of the matter appears to me to be 
 the following. By the wise and gracious constitution of our nature, the 
 exercise of all the social passions is attended with pleasure. Nothing 
 is more pleasing and grateful, than love and friendship. Whenever man 
 takes a strong interest in the concerns of his fellow-creatures, an inter- 
 nal satisfaction is made to accompany the feeling. Pity, or compassion , 
 in particular, is, for wise ends, appointed to be one of the strongest in- 
 stincts of our frame, and is attended with a peculiar attractive power. 
 It is an affection which cannot but be productive of some distress, on 
 account of the sympathy with the sufferers, which it necessarily involves. 
 But as it includes benevolence and friendship, it partakes, at the same 
 time, of the agreeable and pleasing nature of those reflections. The 
 heart is warmed by kindness and humanity, at the same time at which 
 it is afflicted by the distresses of those with whom it sympathizes, and 
 the pleasure arising from those kind emotions, prevails so much in the 
 mixture, and so far counterbalances the pain, as to render the state of 
 the mind, upon the whole, agreeable. At the same time, the immediate 
 pleasure, which always goes along with the operation of the benevolent 
 and sympathetic affections, derives an addition from the approbation of 
 our own minds. We are pleased with ourselves, for feeling as we ought, 
 and for entering with proper sorrow into the concerns of the afflicted. 
 In tragedy, besides, other adventitious circumstances concur to diminish 
 the painful part of sympathy, and to increase the satisfaction attending 
 it. We are, in some measure, relieved, by thinking that the cause of our 
 distress is feigned, not real ; and we are also gratified by the charms 
 of poetry, the propriety of sentiment and language, and the beauty of 
 action. From the concurrence of these causes, the pleasure which we 
 receive from tragedy, notwithstanding the distress it occasions, seems to 
 me to be accounted for in a satisfactory manner. At the same time, 
 it is to be observed, that, as there is always a mixture of pain in the 
 pleasure, that pain is capable of being so much heightened, by the repre- 
 sentation of incidents extremely direful, as to shock our feelings, and to 
 render us averse, either to the reading of such tragedies, or to the be- 
 holding of them upon the stage. 
 
 Having now spoken of the conduct of the subject throughout the acts> 
 it is also necessary to take notice of the conduct of the several scenes 
 which make up the acts of a play. 
 
 : See Dr. Campbell's Philosophy of Rhetoric, Book 1. ch. xi. where an account is 
 given of the hypotheses of different critics on this subject; and where one is pro- 
 posed, with which,' in the main, I agree. — See also Lord Kaime/s Essays on the 
 Principles of Morality, Essay r. And Mr- David Hume's Essay on Tragedy. 
 
TRAGEDY, [LECT. XLY, 
 
 The entrance of a new personage upon the stage, forms what is call 
 ed a new scene. These scenes, or successive conversations, should 
 be closely linked and connected with each other ; and much of the art 
 of dramatic composition is shown in maintaining this connexion. Two 
 rules are necessary to be observed for this purpose. 
 
 The first is, that, during the course of one act, the stage should 
 never be left vacant, though but for a single moment ; that is, all the 
 persons who have appeared in one scene, or conversation, should never 
 go off together and be succeeded by a new set of persons appearing in 
 the next scene, independent of the former. This makes a gap, or total 
 interruption in the representation, which, in effect, puts an end to that 
 act. For, whenever the stage is evacuated, the act is closed. This 
 rule is, very generally, observed by the French tragedians ; but the 
 English writers, both of comedy and tragedy, seldom pay any regard 
 to it. Their personages succeed one another upon the stage with so 
 little connexion ; the union of their scenes is so much broken, that, 
 with equal propriety, their plays might be divided into ten or twelve 
 acts, as into five. 
 
 The second rule which the English writers also observe little better 
 than the former, is, that no person shall come upon the stage, or leave 
 it, without a reason appearing to us ; both for the one and the other- 
 Nothing is more awkward, and contrary to art, than for an actor to enter ? 
 without our seeing any cause for his appearing in that scene, except that 
 it was for the poet's purpose he should enter precisely at such a moment ; 
 as for an actor to go away, without any reason for his retiring, farther 
 than that the poet had no more speeches to put into his mouth. This is 
 managing the personae dramatis exactly like so many puppets, who are 
 moved by wires, tc answer the call of the master of the show. Where- 
 as the perfection of dramatic writing requires that every thing should 
 be conducted in imitation, as near as possible, of some real transaction ; 
 where we are let into the secret of all that is passing ; where we behold 
 persons before us, always busy ;v see them coming and going ; and know 
 perfectly whence they come, and whither they go, and about what they 
 are employed. 
 
 All that I have hitherto said, relates to the unity of the dramatic 
 action. In order to render the unity of action more complete, critics 
 have added the other two unities of time and place. The strict obser- 
 vance of these is more difficult, and, perhaps, not so necessary. The 
 unity of place requires, that the scene should never be shifted ; but that 
 the action of the play should be continued to the end, in the same place 
 where it is supposed to begin. The unity of time, strictly taken, re- 
 quires, that the time of the action be no longer than the time that is 
 allowed for the representation of the play ; though Aristotle seems to 
 have given the poet a little more liberty, and permitted the action to 
 comprehend the whole time of one day. 
 
 The intention of both these rules is, to overcharge as little as possi- 
 ble, the imagination of the spectators with improbable circumstances in 
 the acting' of the play, and to bring the imitation more close to reality. 
 We must observe, that the nature of dramatic exhibitions upon the 
 Grreek stage, subjected the ancient tragedians to a more strict observance 
 of these unities than is necessary in modern theatres. I showed that a 
 Greek tragedy was one uninterrupted representation, from beginning to 
 <*r\f\. There was no division of acts : no pauses or interval between 
 
LECT. XL V/j TRAGEDY, 463 
 
 them ; but the stage was continually full ; occupied either by the actors , 
 or the chorus. Hence, no room was left for the imagination to go be- 
 yond the precise time and place of the representation ; any more than is 
 allowed during the continuance of one act, on the modern theatre. 
 
 But the practice of suspending the spectacle totally for some little 
 time between the acts, has made a great and material change ; gives 
 more latitude to the imagination, and renders the ancient strict confine- 
 ment to time and place less necessary. While the acting of the play is 
 interrupted, the spectator can, without any great or violent effort, 
 suppose a few hours to pass between every act ; or can suppose himseli 
 moved from one apartment of a palace, or one part of a city to another : 
 and, therefore, too strict an observance of these unities ought not to be 
 preferred to higher beauties of execution, nor to the introduction of 
 more pathetic situations, which sometimes cannot be accomplished in any 
 other way, than by the transgression of these rules, 
 
 On the ancient stage, we plainly see the poets struggling with many 
 an inconvenience, in order to preserve those unities which were then so 
 necessary. As the scene could never be shifted, they were obliged to 
 make it always lie in some court of a palace, or some public area, to 
 which all the persons concerned in the action might have equal ac- 
 cess. This led to frequent improbabilities, by representing things as 
 transacted there, which naturally ought to have been transacted before 
 few witnesses, and in private apartments. The like improbabilities arose, 
 from limiting themselves so much in point of time. Incidents were un- 
 naturally crowded ; and it is easy to point out several instances in the 
 Greek tragedies, where events are supposed to pass during a song of the 
 chorus which must necessarily have employed many hours. 
 
 But though it seems necessary to set modern poets free from a strict 
 observance of these dramatic unities, yet we must remember there are 
 certain bounds to this liberty. Frequent and wild changes of time and 
 place ; hurrying the spectator from one distant city, or country, to an- 
 other; or making several days or weeks to pass during the course of 
 the representation, are liberties which shock the imagination, which give 
 to the performance a romantic and unnatural appearance, and, therefore, 
 cannot be allowed in any dramatic writer who aspires to correctness, 
 In particular, we must remember, that it is only between the acts, that 
 any liberty can be given for going beyond the unities of time and place. 
 During the course of each act, they ought to be strictly observed ; that 
 is, during each act the scene should continue the same, and no more 
 time should be supposed to pass, than i& employed in the representation 
 of that act. This is a rule which the French tragedians regularly ob- 
 serve. To violate this rule, as is too often done by the English ; to 
 change the place, and shift the scene in the midst of one act, shows great 
 incorrectness, and destroys the whole intention of the division of a play 
 into acts. Mr. Addison's Cato, is remarkable beyond most English tra- 
 gedies, for regularity of conduct. The author has limited himself, in 
 time, to a single day ; and in place, has maintained the most rigorous 
 unity. The scene is never changed ; and the whole action passes in 
 the hall of Cato's house, at Utica. 
 
 In general, the nearer a poet can bring the dramatic represen- 
 tation, in all its circumstances, to an imitation of nature and real life, 
 the impression which he makes on us will always be the more perfect. 
 Probability, as I observed at the beginning of the lecture, is highly es- 
 
464 ' TRAGEDY. L LEOX. XLVL 
 
 sential to the conduct of the tragic action, and we are always hurt by 
 the want of it. It is this that makes the observance of the dramatic uni- 
 ties to be of consequence, as far as they can be observed without sacri- 
 ficing more material beauties. It is not, as has been sometimes said, 
 that by the preservation of the unities of time and place, spectators, 
 when they assist at the theatre, are deceived into a belief of the reality 
 of the objects which are there set before them ; and that, when those 
 unities are violated, the charm is broken, and they discover the whole 
 to be a fiction. No such deception as this can ever be accomplished. 
 No one ever imagines himself to be at Athens, or Rome, when a ( Greek 
 or Roman subject is presented on the stage. He knows the whole to 
 be an imitation only ; but he requires that imitation to be conducted with 
 skill and verisimilitude. His pleasure, the entertainment which he ex- 
 pects, the interest which he is to take in the story, all depend on its being 
 go conducted. His imagination, therefore, seeks to aid the imitation, 
 and to rest on the probability ; and the poet, who shocks him by impro- 
 bable circumstances, and by awkward unskilful imitation, deprives him 
 of his pleasure, and leaves him hurt and displeased.— This the whole 
 mvstery of the theatrical allusion. 
 
 LECTURE XLVL 
 
 TRAGEDY— GREEK, FRENCH, ENGLISH TRAGEDY, 
 
 Having treated of the dramatic action in tragedy, I proceed now to 
 treat of the characters most proper to be exhibited. It has been 
 thought, by several critics, that the nature of tragedy requires the prin- 
 cipal personages to be always of illustrious character, and of high, or 
 princely rank ; whose misfortunes and sufferings, it is said, take faster 
 hold of the imagination, and impress the heart more forcibly, than simi- 
 lar events happening to persons in private life. But this is more spe- 
 cious than solid. It is refuted by facts. For the distresses of Desde- 
 mona, Monimia, and Belvidera, interest us as deeply as if they had been 
 princesses or queens. The dignity of tragedy does, indeed, require, 
 that there should be nothing degrading, or mean, in the circumstances 
 of the persons which it exhibits ; but it requires nothing more. Their 
 high rank may render the spectacle more splendid, and the subject 
 seemingly of more importance, but conduces very little to its being in- 
 teresting or pathetic ; which depends entirely on the nature of the tale, 
 on the art of the poet in conducting it, and on the sentiments to which 
 it gives occasion. In every rank of life, the relations of father, hus- 
 band, son, brother, lover, or friend, lay the foundation of those affecting 
 situations, which make man's heart feel for man. 
 
 The moral characters of the persons represented, are of much greater 
 consequence than the external circumstances in which the poet places 
 them. Nothing, indeed, in the conduct of tragedy, demands a poet's 
 attention more than so to describe his personages, and so to order the 
 incidents which relate to them, as shall leave upon the spectators, im- 
 pressions favourable to virtue, and to the administration of Providence* 
 
LECT. XLV'I/j TKAGEBY. 4^ 
 
 It is not necessary for this end, that poetical justice, as it is called, should 
 be observed in the catastrophe of the piece. This has been long ex- 
 ploded from tragedy^ ; the end of which is, to affect us with pity for the 
 virtuous in distress, and to afford a probable representation of the state 
 of human life, where calamities often befall the best, and a mixed por- 
 tion of good and evil is appointed for all. But, withal, the author must 
 beware of shocking our minds with such representations of life as tend 
 to raise horror, or to render virtue an object of aversion. Though 
 innocent persons suffer, their sufferings ought to be attended with such 
 circumstances as shall make virtue appear amiable and venerable ; and 
 shall render their condition, on the whole, preferable to that of bad 
 men, who have prevailed against them. The stings and the remorse 
 of guilt must ever be represented as productive of greater miseries than 
 any that the bad can bring upon the good. 
 
 Aristotle's observations on the characters proper for tragedy, are 
 very judicious. He is of opinion that perfect unmixed- characters, 
 either of good or ill men, are not the fittest to be introduced. The 
 distresses of the one beiDg wholly unmerited, hurt and shock us; and 
 the sufferings of the other, occasion no pity. Mixed characters, such as 
 in fact we meet with in the world, afford the most proper field for dis- 
 playing, without any bad effect on morals, the vicissitudes of life ; and 
 they interest us the more deeply, as they display emotions and passions 
 which we have all been conscious of. When such persons fall into 
 distress through the vices of others, the subject may be very pathetic ; 
 but it is always more instructive, when a person has been himself the 
 cause of his misfortune, and when his misfortune is occasioned by the 
 violence of passion, or by some weakness incident to human nature. 
 Such subjects both dispose us to the deepest sympathy, and administer 
 useful warnings to us for our own conduct. 
 
 Upon these principles, it surprises me that the story of (Edipus should 
 have been so much celebrated by all the critics, as one of the fittest 
 subjects for tragedy : and so often brought upon the stage, not by So- 
 phocles only, but by Corneille also, and Voltaire. An innocent person, 
 one in the main, of a virtuous character, through no crime of his own, 
 nay, not by the vices of others, but through mere fatality, and blind 
 chance, is involved in the greatest of all human miseries. In a casual 
 rencounter, he kills his father, without knowing him ; he afterward is 
 married to his own mother ; and, discovering himself in the end to have 
 committed both paricide and incest, he becomes frantic, and dies in the 
 utmost misery. Such a subject excites horror rather than pity. As it 
 is conducted by Sophocles, it is indeed extremely affecting ; but it con- 
 veys no instruction ; it awakens in the mind no tender sympathy ; it 
 leaves no impression favourable to virtue or humanity. 
 
 It must be acknowledged, that the subjects of the ancient Greek trage- 
 dies were too often founded on mere destiny, and inevitable misfortunes. 
 They were too much mixed with their tales about oracles, and the ven- 
 geance of the gods, which led to many an incident sufficiently melancholy 
 and tragical ; but rather purely tragical than useful or moral. Hence 
 both the (Edipus's of Sophocles, the Iphigenia in Aulis, the Hecuba of 
 Euripides, and several of the like kind. In the course of the drama-, 
 many moral sentiments occured. But the instruction which the fable 
 of the play conveyed, seldom was; any more than that reverence was 
 owing to the gods, and submission due to the decrees of destiny. Mo- 
 
 N n n 
 
4 6b tkagedy: l lect. xlvl 
 
 dern tragedy has aimed at a higher object, by becoming more the thea- 
 tre of passion ; pointing out to men the consequences of their own mis- 
 conduct ; showing the direful effects which ambition, jealousy, love, re- 
 sentment, and other such strong emotions, when misguided, or left unre- 
 strained, produce upon human life. An Othello, hurried by jealousy to 
 murder his innocent wife ; a Jaffier, ensnared by resentment and want, 
 to engage in a conspiracy, and then stung with remorse, and involved in 
 ruin ; a Siffredi, through the deceit which he employs for public spirited 
 ends, bringing destruction on all whom he loved ; a Calista, seduced 
 into a criminal intrigue, which overwhelms herself, her father, and all 
 her friends, in misery ; these, and such as these, are the examples which 
 tragedy now displays to public view ; and by means of which it in- 
 culcates on men the proper government of their passions. 
 
 Of all the passions which furnish matter to tragedy, that which has 
 most occupied the modern stage, is love. To the ancient theatre, it 
 was in a manner wholly unknown. In few of their tragedies is it ever 
 mentioned ; and I remember no more than one which turns upon it, the 
 Hippolitus of Euripides. This was owing to the national manners of 
 the Greeks, and to that greater separation of the two sexes from one 
 another, than has taken place in modern times ; aided too, perhaps, by 
 this circumstance, that no female actress ever appeared on the ancient 
 stage. But though no reason appears for the total exclusion of love from 
 the theatre, yet with what justice or propriety it has usurped so much 
 place, as to be in a manner the sole hinge of modern tragedy, may be 
 much questioned. Voltaire, who is no less eminent as a critic than as a 
 poet, declares loudly and strongly against this predominancy of love, as 
 both degrading the majesty, and confining the natural limits of tragedy. 
 And assuredly, the mixing of it perpetually with all the great and 
 solemn revolutions of human fortune which belong to the tragic stage, 
 tends to give tragedy too much the air of gallantry, and juvenile 
 entertainment. The Athalie of Racine, the JMerope of Voltaire, the 
 Douglas of Mr. Home, are sufficient proofs, that without any assistance 
 from love, the drama is capable of producing its highest effects upon the 
 mind. 
 
 This seems to be clear, that wherever love is introduced into tragedy, 
 it ought to reign in it, and to give rise to the principal action. It ought 
 to be that sort of love which possesses all the force and majesty of pas- 
 sion ; and which occasions great and important consequences. For 
 nothing can have a worse effect, or be more debasing to tragedy, than, 
 together with the manly and heroic passions, to mingle a trifling love 
 intrigue, as a sort of seasoning to the play. The bad effects of this are 
 sufficiently conspicuous both in the Cato of Mr. Addison, as. I had occa- 
 sion before to remark, and in the Iphigenie of Racine. 
 
 After a tragic poet has arranged his subject, and chosen his personages, 
 the next thing he must attend to, is the propriety of sentiments ; that 
 they be perfectly suited to the characters of those persons to whom 
 they are attributed, and to the situations in which they are placed. The 
 necessity of observing this general rule is so obvious, that I need not in- 
 sist upon it. It is principally in the pathetic parts, that both the difficul- 
 ty &nd the importance of it are the greatest. Tragedy is the region of 
 passion. We come to it expecting to be moved ; and let the poet be ever 
 so judicious in his conduct, moral in his intentions, and elegant in his 
 style, yet ; if he fails in the pathetic., he has no tragic merit : we return 
 
LECT. XLVI.<] XRAGEDI- 467 
 
 cold and disappointed from the performance ; and never desire to meet 
 with it more. 
 
 To paint passion so truly and justly as to strike the hearts of the 
 hearers with full sympathy, is a prerogative of genius given to few. It 
 requires strong and ardent sensibility of mind. It requires the author to 
 have the power of entering deeply into the characters which he draws ; 
 of becoming for a moment the very person whom he exhibits, and of 
 assuming all his feelings. For, as I have often had occasion to observe., 
 there is no possibility of speaking properly the language of any passion, 
 without feeling it ; and it is to the absence or deadness of real emotion, 
 that we must ascribe the want of success in so many tragic writers, when 
 they attempt being pathetic. 
 
 No man, for instance, when he is under the strong agitations of anger, 
 of grief, or any such violent passion, ever thinks of describing to another 
 what his feelings at that time are ; or of telling them what he resembles. 
 This never was, and never will be, the language of any person, when 
 he is deeply moved. It is the language of one who describes coolly 
 the condition of that person to another ; or it is the language of the 
 passionate person himself, after his emotion has subsided, relating what 
 his situation was in the moments of passion. Yet this sort of secondary 
 description, is what tragic poets too often give us instead of the native 
 and primary language of passion. Thus, in Mr. Addison's Cato, when 
 Lucia confesses to Portius her love for him, but, at the same time, 
 swears with the greatest solemnity, that in the present situation of their 
 country she will never marry him ; Portius receives this unexpected 
 sentence with the utmost astonishment and grief; at least the poet wants 
 to make us believe that he so received it. How does he express these 
 feelings ? 
 
 Fix'd in astonishment, I gaze upon tbee, 
 Like one just blasted by a stroke from heav'n, 
 Who pants for breath, and stiffens yet alive 
 In dreadful looks ; a monument of wrath. 
 
 • This makes his whole reply to Lucia. Nor did any person, who was 
 of a sudden astonished and overwhelmed with sorrow, ever, since the 
 creation of the world, express himself in this manner ? This is indeed an 
 excellent description to be given us by another, of a person who was in 
 such a situation. Nothing would have been more proper for a by-standei\ 
 recounting this conference, than to have said, 
 
 Fix'd in astonishment, he gaz'd upon her, 
 Like one just blasted by a stroke from heav'n, 
 WJio pants for breath, &c. 
 
 But the person, who is himself concerned, speaks on such an occasion 
 in a very different manner. He gives vent to his feelings ; he pleads 
 for pity ; he dwells upon the cause of his grief and astonishment ; but 
 never thinks of describing his own person and looks, and showing us, by 
 a simile, what he resembles. Such representations of passions are no 
 better in poetry, than it would be in painting, to make a label issue from 
 the mouth of a figure, bidding us remark, that this figure represents an 
 astonished, or a grieved person. 
 
 On some other occasions, when poets do not employ this sort of de- 
 scriptive language in passion, they are too apt to run into forced and 
 unnatural thoughts, in order to exaggerate the feelings of persons, whom 
 they would paint as very strongly moved. When Osinyn, in the Mourn- 
 ing Bride, after parting with Almeria, regrets, in a long soliloquy, that 
 
463 TRAGEDY. [LTSCT. XLVI 
 
 his eyes only sec objects that are present, and cannot see Almeria after 
 she is gone ; when Jane Shore, in Mr. Rowe's tragedy, on meeting 
 with her husband in her extreme distress, and finding that he had forgiven 
 her, calls on the rains to give her their drops, and the springs to give 
 her their streams, that she may never want a supply of tears ; in such 
 passages, we see very plainly, that it is neither Osinyn, nor Jane Shore, 
 that speak ; but the poet himself in his own person, who, instead of 
 assuming the feelings of those whom he means to exhibit, and speaking 
 as they would have done in such situations, is straining his fancy, and 
 spurring up his genius, to say something that shall be uncommonly strong 
 and lively. 
 
 If we attend to the language that is spoken by persons under the influ- 
 ence of real passion, we shall find it always plain and simple ; abounding 
 indeed with those figures which express a disturbed and impetuous state 
 of mind, such as interrogations, exclamations, and apostrophes ; but 
 never employing those which belong to the mere embellishment and 
 parade of speech. We never meet with any subtilty or refinement, in 
 the sentiments of real passion. The thoughts which passion suggests, are 
 always plain and obvious ones, arising directly from its object. Passion 
 never reasons nor speculates, till its ardour begins to cool. It never 
 leads to long discourse or declamation. On the contrary, it expresses 
 itself most commonly in short, broken, and interrupted speeches ; cor- 
 responding to the violent and desultory emotions of the mind. 
 
 When we examine the French tragedians by these principles which 
 seem clearly founded in nature, we find them often deficient. Though 
 in many parts of tragic composition, they have great merit ; though in 
 exciting soft and tender emotions, some of them are very successful : 
 yet, in the high and strong pathetic, they generally fail. Their pas- 
 sionate speeches too often run into long declamation. There is too 
 much reasoning and refinement ; too much pomp and studied beauty in 
 them. They rather convey a feeble impression of passion, than awaken 
 any strong sympatlry in the reader's mind. 
 
 Sophocles and Euripides are much more successful in this part of 
 composition. In their pathetic scenes, we find no unnatural refinement ; 
 no exaggerated thoughts. They set before us the plain and direct feel- 
 ings of nature, in simple expressive language ; and therefore, on great 
 occasions, they seldom fail of touching the heart.* This too is Shak- 
 speare's great excellency ; and to this it is principally owing, that his 
 dramatic productions, notwithstanding their many imperfections, have 
 been so long the favourites of the public. He is more faithful to the 
 true language of nature, in the midst of passion, than any writer. He 
 gives us this language, unadulterated by art ; and more instances of it 
 can be quoted from him, than from all other tragic poets taken together. 
 I shall refer only to that admirable scene in Macbeth, where Macduff re- 
 
 * Nothing, for instance, can be more touching and pathetic than the address which 
 Medea, in Euripides, makes to her children, when she had formed the resolution 
 of putting them to death ; and nothing more natural, than the conflict which she i? 
 described as suffering within herself on that occasion. 
 
 <biu, $fy, <ri ir£(xrJigx.ijBs [a o/m/ucteiy -rsxva : * 
 It TteooyzXcL'rz toy TiZvvg'arov yi\av ; 
 'A/, at' ti S^zcrao ; ysgSta yag oi%srur 
 Twoukss, hfA/uct <j>AftTgov a? ufov rwcev 
 '■O'j'A. av JVva/ww, -/tttg^TOi) 2tsytv v. «t a, &c. 
 
 Eitr. Miri). 1. 10.40. 
 
LECT. XLVI.j TRAGEDY, 469 
 
 ceives the account of his wife, and all his children being slaughtered in 
 his absence. The emotions, first of grief, and then of the most fierce 
 resentment rising against Macbeth, are painted in such a manner, that 
 there is no heart but must feel them, and no fancy can conceive anything 
 more expressive of nature. 
 
 With regard to moral sentiments and reflections in tragedies, it is 
 clear that they must not recur too often. They lose their effect, when 
 unseasonably crowded. They render the play pedantic and declama- 
 tory. This is remarkably the case with those Latin tragedies which go 
 under the name of Seneca, which are little more than a collection of 
 declamations and moral sentences, wrought up with a quaint brilliancy^ 
 which suited the prevailing taste of that age. 
 
 I am not however, of opinion, that moral reflections ought to be 
 altogether omitted in tragedies. When properly introduced, they give 
 dignity to the composition, and, on many occasions, they are extremely 
 natural. When persons are under any uncommon distress ; when they 
 are beholding in others, or experiencing in themselves, the vicissitudes 
 of human fortune ; indeed, when they are placed in any of the great 
 and trying situations of life, serious and moral reflections naturally oc- 
 cur to them, whether they be persons of much virtue or not. Hardly is 
 there any person, but who, on such occasions, is disposed to be serious. 
 It is then the natural tone of the mind ; and therefore no tragic poet 
 should omit such proper opportunities, when they occur, for favouring 
 the interests of virtue. Cardinal Wolsey's soliloquy upon his fall, for 
 instance, in Shakspeare, when he bids a long farewell to all his great- 
 ness, and the advices which he afterward gives to Cromwell, are, in his 
 situation, extremely natural ; touch and please all readers ; and are at 
 once instructive and affecting. Much of the merit of Mr. Addison's 
 Cato depends upon that moral turn of thought which distinguishes it. I 
 have had occasion, both in this lecture, and in the preceding one to 
 to take notice of some of its defects ; and certainly neither for warmth of 
 passion, nor proper conduct of the plot, is it at all eminent. It does 
 not, however, follow, that it is destitute of merit. For, by the purity 
 and beauty of the language, by the dignity of Cato's character, by 
 that ardour of public spirit, and those virtuous sentiments of which it 
 is full, it has always commanded high regard ; and has, both in our own 
 country and among foreigners, acquired no small reputation. 
 
 The style and versification of tragedy ought to be free, easy, and va- 
 ried. Our blank verse is happily suited to this purpose. It has suffi- 
 cient majesty for raising the style ; it can descend to the simple and 
 familiar ; it is susceptible of great variety of cadence ; and is quite 
 free from the constraint and monotony of rhyme. For monotony is, 
 above all things, to be avoided by a tragic poet. If he maintains every 
 where the same stateliness of style, if he uniformly keeps up the same 
 run of measure and harmony in his verse, he cannot fail of becoming 
 insipid. He should not indeed sink into flat and careless lines ; his 
 style should always have force and dignity ; but not the uniform dignity 
 of epic poetry. It should assume that briskness and ease, which is suit- 
 ed to the freedom of dialogue, and the fluctuations of passion. 
 
 One of the greatest misfortunes of the French tragedy is, its being 
 always written in rhyme. The nature of the French language, indeed, 
 requires this in order to distinguish the style from mere prose. But 
 it fetters the freedom of the tragic dialogue, fills it with a languid mo- 
 
470 GREEK TRAGEDY. £LECT. XLVI. 
 
 notony, and is, in a manner, fatal to the high strength and power of pas- 
 sion. Voltaire maintains that the difficulty of composing in French 
 rhyme, is one great cause of the pleasure which the audience receives 
 from the composition. Tragedy would be ruined, says he, if we were 
 to write it in blank verse ; take away the difficulty, and you take away 
 the whole merit. A strange idea ! as if the entertainment of the audi- 
 ence arose, not from the emotions which the poet is successful in awak- 
 ening, but from a reflection on the toil which he endured in his closet, 
 from assorting male and female rhymes. With regard to those splendid 
 comparisons in rhyme and strings of couplets, with which it was, some 
 time ago, fashionable for our English poets to conclude, not only everj' 
 act of a tragedy, but sometimes also, the most interesting scenes, nothing 
 need be said, but that they were the most perfect barbarisms ; childish 
 ornaments, introduced to please a false taste in the audience ; and now 
 universally laid aside. 
 
 Having thus treated of all the different parts of tragedy, I shall con- 
 clude the subject with a short view of the Greek, the French, and the 
 English stage, and with observations on the principal writers. 
 
 Most of the distinguished characters of the Greek tragedy have been 
 already occasionally mentioned. It was embellished with the lyric poetry 
 of the chorus, of the origin of which, and of the advantages and disad- 
 vantages attending it, I treated fully in the preceding lecture. The 
 plot was always exceedingly simple. It admitted of few incidents It 
 was conducted, for most part, with a very exact regard to the unities 
 of action, time and place. Machinery, or the intervention of the gods, 
 was employed ; and, which is very faulty, the final unravelling some- 
 times made to turn upon it. Love, except, in one or two instances, was 
 never admitted into the Greek tragedy. Their subjects were often 
 founded on destiny, or inevitable misfortunes. A vein of religious and 
 moral sentiment always runs through them ; but they made less use than 
 the moderns of the combat of the passions, and of the distresses which 
 our passions bring upon us. Their plots were all taken from the ancient 
 traditionary stories of their own nation. Hercules furnishes matter for 
 two tragedies. The history of (Epidus, king of Thebes, and his unfor- 
 tunate family, for six. The war of Troy, with its consequences, for no 
 fewer than seventeen. There is only one of later date than this ; which 
 is the Persas, or expedition of Xerxes, by jEschylus. 
 
 iEschylus is the father of Greek tragedy, and exhibits both the beau- 
 ties and the defects, of an early original writer. He is bold, nervous, 
 and animated, but very obscure, and difficult to be understood ; partly 
 by reason of the incorrect state in which we have his works (they 
 having suffered more by time, than any of the ancient tragedians,) and 
 partly, on account of the nature of his style, which is crowded with 
 metaphors, often harsh and tumid. He abounds with martial ideas and 
 descriptions. He has much fire and elevation ; less of tenderness than 
 of 'force. He delights in the marvellous. The ghost of Darius in the 
 Persae, the inspiration of Cassandra in Agamemnon, and the songs of the 
 furies in the Eumenides, are beautiful in their kind, and strongly ex- 
 pressive of his genius. 
 
 Sophocles is the most masterly of the three Greek tragedians ; the 
 most correct in the conduct of his subjects ; the most just and sublime 
 in his sentiments. He is eminent for his descriptive talent. The rela- 
 tion of <"he death of GSmdus. in his CEpidus Coloneus, and of the death 
 
LECT. XLVI.j GREEK TRAGEDY, 47I 
 
 of Haemon and Antigone, in his Antigone, are perfect patterns of 
 description to tragic poets. Euripides is esteemed more tender than 
 Sophocles, and he is fuller of moral sentiments. But, in the conduct of 
 his plaj's, he is more incorrect and negligent ; his expositions, or openings 
 of the subject, are made in a less artful manner ; and the songs of his 
 chorus, though remarkably poetical, have, commonly, less connexion 
 with the main action, than those of Sophocles. Both Euripides and 
 Sophocles, however, have very high merit as tragic poets. They are 
 elegant and beautiful in their style : just, for the most part, in their 
 thoughts ; they speak with the voice of nature ; and, making allowance 
 for the difference of ancient and modern ideas, in the midst of all their 
 simplicity, they are touching and interesting. 
 
 The circumstances of theatrical representation on the stages of Greece 
 and Rome, were, in several respects, very singular, and widely different 
 from what obtains among us. Not only were the songs of the chorus 
 accompanied with instrumental music, but as the Abbe du Bos, in his 
 reflections on Poetry and Painting, has proved, with much curious 
 erudition; the dialogue part had also a modulation of its own, which 
 was capable of its being set to notes ; it was carried on in a sort of 
 recitative between the actors, and was supported by instruments. He 
 has farther attempted to prove, but the proof seems more incomplete, 
 that, on some occasions, on the Roman stage, the pronouncing and 
 gesticulating parts were divided ; that one actor spoke, and another 
 performed the gestures and motions corresponding to what the first said. 
 The actors in tragedy wore a long robe, called Syrma, which flowed 
 upon the stage. They were raised upon Cothurni, which rendered their 
 stature uncommonly high ; and they always played in masques. These 
 masques were like helmets, which covered the whole head ; the mouths 
 of them were so contrived as to give an artificial sound to the voice, in 
 order to make it be heard over their vast theatres ; and the visage was 
 so formed and painted, as to suit the age, characters, or dispositions of 
 the persons represented. When, during the course of one scene, dif • 
 ferent emotions were to appear in the same person, the masque is said 
 to have been so painted, that the actor, by turning one or other profile 
 of his face to the spectators, expressed the change of the situation. 
 This, however, was a contrivance attended with many disadvantages. 
 The masque must have deprived the spectators of all the pleasure 
 which arises from the natural animated expression of the eye and the 
 countenance ; and joined with the other circumstances which I have 
 mentioned, is apt to give us but an unfavourable idea of the dramatic 
 representations of the ancients. In defence of them, it must, at the 
 same time, be remembered, that their theatres were vastly more ex- 
 tensive in the area than ours, and filled with immense crowds. They 
 were always uncovered, and exposed to the open air. The actors 
 were beheld at a much greater distance, and of course much more im- 
 perfectly by the bulk of the spectators, which both rendered their 
 looks of less consequence, and might make it in some degree necessary 
 that their features should be exaggerated, the sound of their voices 
 enlarged, and their whole appearance magnified beyond the life, in order 
 to make the stronger impression. It is certain, that as dramatic spec- 
 tacles were the favourite entertainments of the Greeks and Romans, 
 the attention given to their proper exhibition, and the magnificence of 
 
472 FRENCH TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLVH 
 
 the apparatus bestowed on their theatres, far exceeded any thing that 
 has been attempted in modern ages. 
 
 In the compositions of some of the French dramatic writers, particu- 
 larly Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire, tragedy has appeared with much 
 lustre and dignity. They must be allowed to have improved upon the 
 ancients in introducing more incidents, a greater variety of passions, a 
 fuller display of characters, and in rendering the subject thereby more 
 interesting. They have studied to imitate the ancient models in regu- 
 larity of conduct. They are attentive to all the unities, and to all the 
 decorums of sentiment and morality ; and their style is, generally, very 
 poetical and elegant. What an English taste is most apt to censure in 
 them, is the want of fervour, strength, and the natural language of pas- 
 sion. There is often too much conversation in their pieces, instead of 
 action. They are too declamatory, as was before observed, when they 
 should be passionate ; too refined, when they should be simple. Vol- 
 taire freely acknowledges those defects of the French theatre. He 
 admits, that their best tragedies do not make a sufficient impression on 
 the heart ; that the gallantry which reigns in them, and the long fine 
 spun dialogue with which they over-abound, frequently spread alangour 
 ever them ; that the authors seemed to be afraid of being too tragic ; 
 and very candidly gives it as his judgment, that an union of the vehe- 
 mence and the action, which characterize the English theatre, with the 
 correctness and decorum of the French theatre, would be necessary to 
 form a perfect tragedy. 
 
 Corneille, who is properly the father of French tragedy, is distin- 
 guished by the majesty and grandeur of his sentiments, and the fruitful- 
 ness of his imagination. His genius was unquestionably very rich, but 
 seemed more turned towards the epic than the tragic vein; for, in 
 general, he is magnificent and splendid, rather than tender and touching. 
 He is the most declamatory of all the French tragedians. He united 
 the copiousness of Drj'den with the fire of Lucan, and he resembles 
 them also in their faults, in their extravagance and impetuosity. He has 
 composed a great number of tragedies, very unequal in ther merit. 
 His best and most esteemed pieces, are the Cid, Horace, Polyeucte, 
 and Cinna. 
 
 Racine, as a tragic poet, is much superior to Corneille. He wanted 
 the copiousness and grandeur of Corneille's imagination ; but is free 
 from his bombast, and excels him greatly in tenderness. Few poets, 
 indeed, are more tender and moving than Racine. His Phaedra, his 
 Andromaque, his Athalie, and his Mithridate, are excellent dramatic 
 performances, and do no small honour to the French stage. His lan- 
 guage and versification are uncommonly beautiful. Of all the French 
 authors, he appears to me to have most excelled in poetical style ; to 
 have managed their rhyme with the greatest advantage and facility, and 
 to have given it the most complete harmony. Voltaire has, again and 
 again, pronounced Racine's Athalie to be the " Chef d'Oeuvre" of the 
 French stage. It is altogether a sacred drama, and owes much of its 
 elevation to the majesty of religion ; but it is less tender and interesting 
 than Andromaque. 
 
 R-acine has formed two of his plays upon plans of Euripides. In the 
 Phsedra he is extremely successful, but not so, in my opinion, in the 
 Iphigenie ; where he has degraded the ancient characters by unseason- 
 
LECT.XLVI.J FRENCH TRAGEDY , 433 
 
 able gallantry. Achilles is a French lover; and Eriphile, a modern 
 lady.* 
 
 Voltaire, in several of his tragedies, is inferior to none of his prede- 
 cessors. In one great article, he has outdone them all, in the delicate 
 and interesting situations which he has contrived to introduce. In these 
 lies his chief strength. ( He is not, indeed, exempt from the defects of 
 the other French tragedians, of wanting force, and of being sometimes 
 too long and declamatory in his speeches ; but his characters are drawn 
 with spirit, his events are striking, and in his sentiments there is much 
 elevation. His Zayre, Alzire, Merope, and Orphan of China, are four 
 capital tragedies, and deserve the highest praise. What one might per- 
 haps not expect, Voltaire is, in the strain of his sentiments, the most 
 religious, and the most moral of all tragic poets. 
 
 Though the musical dramas of Metastasio fulfil not the character of 
 just and regular tragedies, they approach however £0 near to it, and 
 possess so much merit, that it would be unjust to pass them over with- 
 out notice. For the elegance of style, the charms of lyric poetry, and 
 the beauties of sentiment, they are eminent They abound in well-con- 
 trived and interesting situations. The dialogue, by its closeness and 
 
 * The characters of Corneille and Racine are happily contrasted with each other, 
 ?n the following beautiful lines of a French poet, which will gratify several readers J 
 
 Corneille. 
 
 Ilium nobilibus raajestas evehit alis 
 Vertice tangentem nubes ; slant ordine longo 
 Magnanimi circum heroes, fulgentibas omnes 
 Induti trabeis ; Polyeuctus, China, Seleucus, 
 Et Cidus, et rugis signatus Horatius ora. 
 
 Racine. 
 
 Hunc circumvolitat penna alludente Cupido; 
 Vincla triumphatis insternens floreascenis ; 
 Colligit haec mollis genius, levibusque catenis 
 HerOas stringit dociles, Pyrrhosque, Titosque, 
 Pedilasque, ac Hyppolytos, qui sponte sequuntiu* 
 Servitiuin, facilesque ferunt in vincula palmas. 
 Ingentes nimirum animos Cornelius ingens, 
 Et quales habet ipse, suis hcroibus attlat 
 Sublimes sensus ; vox olli mascula, magnum os, 
 Nee mortale sonans. Rapido fluit impetu vena, 
 Vena Sophocleis non inficianda fluentis. 
 Racinius Gallis baud visos ante theatris 
 Mollior ingenio teneros indusit amores. 
 Magnanimosquamvis sensus sub pectore verset 
 Agrippina, licet Romano robore Burrhus 
 Polleat, et magni generosa superbia Pori 
 Non semel eniteat, tamen esse ad mollia natum 
 Credideris vatem ; vox olli mellea, lenis 
 Spiritusest ; non ille animis vim concitus infert, 
 At caecos animorum aditus rimatur, et imis 
 Mentibus occultos, syren penetrabilis, ictus 
 Insinuans, palpando ferit, laiditque placendo. 
 Vena fluit facili non intermissa nitore, 
 Nee rapidos semper volvit cum murmure fluctus, 
 Agmine sed leni fluitat. Seu gramina lambit 
 Rivulus, et cseco per prata virentia lapsu 
 Aufugiens, tacita fluit indeprensus arena ; 
 Flore micant ripae illimes 5 hue vulgus amantum 
 Convolat, et lacrymis auget rivalibus undas ; 
 Singultus undas referunt, gemitusque sonoros 
 Ingeminant, molli gemitus imitante susurro. 
 
 Templuna Tragoediae, per Fr. Marsy, e Societate Jesu 
 O o 
 
474 ENGLISH TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLVL 
 
 rapidity, carries a considerable resemblance to that of the ancient Greek 
 tragedies ; and is both more animated and more natural, than the long 
 declamation of the French theatre. But the shortness of the several 
 dramas, and the intermixture of so much lyric poetry asbelongs to this sort 
 of composition, often occasions the course of the incidents to be hurried 
 on too quickly, and prevents that consistent display of characters, and that 
 fall preparation of events, which are necessary to give a proper verisimili- 
 tude to tragedy. 
 
 It only now remains to speak of the state of tragedy in Great Britain ; 
 the general character of which is, that it is more animated and passionate 
 than French tragedy, but more irregular and incorrect, and less attentive 
 to decorum and to elegance. The pathetic, it must always be remembered , 
 is the soul of tragedy. The English, therefore, must be allowed to 
 Lave aimed at the highest species of excellence ; though, in the execu- 
 tion, they have not alwaj's joined the other beauties that ought to accom- 
 pany the pathetic. 
 
 The first object which presents itself to us on the English theatre, is 
 the great Shakspeare. Great he may be justly called, as the extent and 
 force of his natural genius, both for tragedy and comedy, are altogether 
 unrivalled.* But, at the same time, it is genius shooting wild ; deficient 
 in just taste, and altogether unassisted by knowledge or art. — Long has 
 he been idolized by the British nation ; much has been said, and much 
 has been written concerning him ; criticism has been drawn to the 
 very dregs, in commentaries upon his words and witticisms ; and yet 
 it remains, to this day, in doubt, whether his beauties, or his faults, be 
 greatest. Admirable scenes, and passages without number, there 
 are in his plays ; passages beyond what are -to be found in any other 
 dramatic writer ; but there is hardly any one of his plays which can be 
 called altogether a good one, or which can be read with uninterrupted 
 pleasure from beginning to end. Besides extreme irregularities in 
 conduct, and grotesque mixtures of serious and comic in one piece, we 
 are every now and then interrupted by unnatural thoughts and harsh 
 expressions, a certain obscure bombast, and a play upon words, which 
 he is fond of pursuing ; and these interruptions to our pleasure too fre- 
 quently occur, on occasions, when we would least wish to meet with 
 them. All these faults, however, Shakspeare redeems, by two of the 
 greatest excellencies which any tragic poet can possess ; his lively and 
 diversified paintings of character ; his strong and natural expressions of 
 passion. These are his two chief virtues ; on these his merit rests. Not- 
 withstanding his many absurdities, all the while we are reading his plays, 
 we find ourselves in the midst of our fellows ; we meet with men, vulgar 
 perhaps in their manners, coarse or harsh in their sentiments, but 
 still they are men ; they speak with human voices, and are actuated by 
 
 * The character which Dryden has drawn of Shakspeare is not only just, but 
 uncommonly elegant and happy. " He was the man, who of all modern, and per- 
 haps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of 
 nature were still present to him, and he drew them not laboriously but luckily. 
 When be descrihes any thing, you more than see it; you feel it too. They who 
 accuse him of wanting learning, give him the greatest commendation. He was 
 naturally learned. He needed not the spectacles of books to read nature. He 
 looked inward, and found her there. I cannot say he is every where alike. Were 
 he so, I should do him injury to compare him to the greatest of mankind. He is 
 many times flat and insipid ; bis comic wit degenerating into clenches ; his serious 
 swelling into bombast But he is always great when some great occasion is pre- 
 sented to hinV JDkvden's Essav of Dramatic Poetry. 
 
LECT. XIAL3 i ENGLISH TRAGEDY, 475 
 
 human passions ; we are interested in what they say or do, because we 
 feel that they are of the same nature with ourselves. It is therefore 
 no matter of wonder, that from the more polished and regular, but more 
 eold and artificial performances of other poets, the public should return 
 with pleasure to such warm and genuine representations of human na- 
 ture. Shakspeare possesses likewise the merit of having created, for 
 himself, a sort of world of praeternatural beings. His witches, ghosts, 
 fairies, and spirits of all kinds, are described with such circumstances of 
 awful and mysterious solemnity, and speak a language so peculiar to 
 themselves, as strongly to affect the imagination. His two master- pieces, 
 and in which, in my opinion, the strength of his genius chiefly appears, 
 are, Othello and Macbeth. With regard to his historical plays, they 
 are, properly speaking, neither tragedies nor comedies : but a peculiar 
 species of dramatic entertainment, calculated to describe the manners of 
 the times of which he treats, to exhibit the principal characters, and to 
 fix our imagination on the most interesting events and revolutions of our 
 own country.* 
 
 After the age of Shakspeare, we can produce in the English lan- 
 guage several detached tragedies of considerable merit. But we have 
 not many dramatic writers whose whole works are entitled either to par- 
 ticular criticism, or very high praise. In the tragedies of Dryden and 
 Lee, there is much fire, but mixed with much fustian and rant. Lee's 
 Theodosius, or the " Force of Love," is the best of his pieces, and, i» 
 some of the scenes, does not want tenderness and warmth, though roman- 
 tic in the plan, and extravagant in the sentiments. Otway was endowed 
 with a high portion of the tragic spirit : which appears to great advan- 
 tage in his two principal tragedies, " The Orphan," and " Venice Pre- 
 served." In these, he is perhaps too tragic ; the distresses being so deep 
 as to tear and overwhelm the mind. He is a writer, doubtless, of genius 
 and strong passion ; but, at the same time, exceedingly gross and indeli- 
 cate. No tragedies are less moral than those of Otway. There are 
 no generous or noble sentiments in them ; but a licentious spirit often 
 discovers itself. He is the very opposite of the French decorum ; and 
 has contrived to introduce obscenity and indecent allusions, into the midst 
 of deep tragedy. 
 
 Rowe's tragedies make a contrast to those of Otway. He is full of 
 elevated and moral sentiments. The poetry is often good, and the lan- 
 guage always pure and elegant ; but in most of his plays, he is too cold 
 and uninteresting ; and flowery rather than tragic. Two, however, he 
 has produced, which deserve to be exempted from this censure, Jane 
 Shore and the Fair Penitent ; in both of which there are so many ten- 
 der and truly pathetic scenes, as to render them justly favourites of the 
 public. 
 
 Dr. Young's Revenge, is a play which discovers genius and fire ; but 
 wants tenderness, and turns too much upon the shocking and direful pas- 
 sions. In Congreve's Mourning Bride, there are some fine situations, 
 and much good poetry. The two first acts are admirable. The meet- 
 ing of Almeria with her husband Osmyn, in the tomb of Anselmo, is one 
 of the most solemn and striking situations to be found in any tragedy, 
 
 _> See an excellent defence of Shakspeare's Historical Plays, and several just 
 observations on his peculiar excellencies as a tragic poet, in Mrs, Montague's Essay 
 on the Writings and Genius of Shakspeare, 
 
47o COMEDJu L LECT. XLVIX. 
 
 The defects in the catastrophe, I pointed out in the last lecture. Mr. 
 Thompson's tragedies are too full of a stiff morality, which renders them 
 dull and formal. Tancred and Sigismunda, far excels the rest ; and for 
 the plot, the characters, and sentiments, justly deserves a place among 
 the best English tragedies. Of later pieces, and of living authors, it is 
 not my purpose to treat. 
 
 Upon the whole, reviewing the tragic compositions of different 
 nations, the following conclusions arise. A Greek tragedy is the relation 
 of any distressful or melancholy incident; sometimes the effect of 
 passion or crime, oftener of the decree of the gods, simply exposed ; 
 without much variety of parts or events, but naturally and beautifully 
 set before us ; heightened by the poetry of the chorus. A French tragedy 
 is a series of artful and refined conversations, founded upon a variety 
 of tragical and interesting situations ; carried on with little action and 
 vehemence ; but with much poetical beauty, and high propriety and de- 
 corum. An English tragedy is the combat of strong passions, set before 
 us in all their violence ; producing deep disasters ; often irregularly 
 conducted ; abounding in action ; and filling the spectators with grief. 
 The ancient tragedies were more natural and simple ; the modern are 
 more artful and complex. Among the French, there is more correct- 
 ness ; among the English, more fire. Andromaque and Zayre soften 3 
 Othello and Venice. Preserved rend, the heart. It deserves remark, 
 that three of the greatest masterpieces of the French tragic theatre., 
 turn wholly upon religious subjects : the Athalie of Racine, the Po- 
 lyeucte of Corneille, and the Zayre of Voltaire. The first is founded 
 upon a historical passage of the Old Testament ; in the other two, the 
 distress arises from the zeal and attachment of the principal personages 
 to the Christian faith ; and in all the three, the authors have, with much 
 propriety, availed themselves of the majesty which may be derived from 
 religious ideas. 
 
 LECTURE XLVII. 
 
 COMEDY— GREEK AND ROMAN. FRENCH, ENGLISH CCAIEDT, 
 
 Comedy is sufficiently discriminated from tragedy, by its general 
 spirit and strain. While pity and terror, and the other strong passions, 
 form the province of the latter, the chief, or rather sole instrument of 
 the former, is ridicule. Comedy proposes for its object, neither the 
 great sufferings, nor the great crimes of men ; but their follies and 
 slighter vices, those parts of their character, which raise in beholders 
 a sense of impropriety, which expose them to be censured, and laughed 
 at by others, or which render them troublesome in civil society. 
 
 This general idea of comedy, as a satirical exhibition of the impro- 
 prieties and follies of mankind, is an idea very moral and useful. There 
 is nothing in the nature, or general plan of this kind of composition, 
 that renders it liable to censure. To polish the manners of men, to 
 ■nromote attention to the proper decorums of social behaviour, and above 
 
LECT. XLVIL] COMEDT, 4 7 j 
 
 all, to render vice ridiculous, is doing a real service to the world. Many 
 vices might be more successfully exploded, by employing ridicule against 
 them, than by serious attacks and arguments. At the same time, it 
 must be confessed, that ridicule is an instrument of such a nature, that 
 when managed by unskilful, or improper hands, there is hazard of its 
 doing mischief, instead of good, to society. For ridicule is far from 
 being, as some have maintained it to be, a proper test of truth. On the 
 contrary, it is apt to mislead and seduce, by the colours ivhich it throws 
 upon its objects, and it is often more difficult to judge, whether these 
 colours be natural and proper, than it is to distinguish between simple 
 truth and error. Licentious writers, therefore, of the comic class, have 
 too often had it in their power to cast a ridicule upon characters and 
 objects which did not deserve it. But this is a fault, not owing to the 
 nature of comedy, but to the genius and turn of the writers of it. In the 
 hands of a loose, immoral author, comedy will mislead and corrupt 5 - 
 while, in those of a virtuous and well-intentioned one, it will be not only 
 a gay and innocent, but a laudable and useful entertainment. French 
 comedy is an excellent school of manners ; while English comedy has 
 been too often the school of vice. 
 
 The rules respecting the dramatic action, which I delivered in the 
 first Lecture upon tragedy, belong equally to comedy ; and hence, of 
 course, our disquisitions concerning it are shortened. It is equally 
 necessary to both these forms of dramatic composition, that there be a 
 proper unity of action and subject ; that the unities of time and place 
 be, as much as possible, preserved ; that is, that the time of the action 
 be brought within reasonable bounds ; and the place of the action never 
 changed, at least, not during the course of each act ; that the several 
 Scenes or successive conversations be properly linked together ; that 
 the stage be never totally evacuated till the act closes ; and that the 
 reason should appear to us, why the personages who fill up the different 
 scenes, enter and go off the stage, at the time when they are made to 
 do so. The scope of all these rules, I showed, was to bring the imita- 
 tion as near as possible to probability ; which is always necessary, in 
 order to any imitation giving us pleasure. This reason require?, 
 perhaps, a stricter observance oY the dramatic rules in comedy, than in 
 tragedy. For the action of comedy being more familiar to us than that 
 of tragedy, more like what we are accustomed to see in common life,, 
 we judge more easily of what is probable, and are more hurt by the 
 want of it. The probable and the natural, both in the conduct of the 
 story, and in the characters and sentiments of the persons who are in- 
 troduced, are the great foundation, it must always be remembered, of 
 the whole beauty of comedy. 
 
 The subjects of tragedy are not limited to any country, or to any 
 age. The tragic poet may lay his scene in whatever region he pleases. 
 He may form his subject upon the history, either of his own, or of a 
 foreign country ; and he may take it from any period that is agreeable 
 to him, however remote in time. The reverse of this holds in comedy, 
 for a clear and obvious reason. In the great vices, great virtues, and 
 high passions, men of all countries and ages resemble one another ; and 
 are, therefore, equally subjects for the tragic muse. But those deco- 
 rums of behaviour, those lesser discriminations of character, which 
 afford subject for comedy, change with the differences of countries, and 
 times ; and can never be so well understood by foreigners, as by natives. 
 
4Y0 COMEDY. [LECT. XLV1I, 
 
 We weep for the heroes of Greece and Rome, as freely as we do for 
 those of our own country : but we are touched with the ridicule of 
 such manners and such characters only, as we see and know ; and there- 
 fore the scene and subject of comedy should always be laid in our own 
 country, and in our own times. The comic poet, who aims at correcting 
 improprieties and follies of behaviour, should study " to catch the 
 manners living as they rise." It is not his business to amuse us with a 
 tale of the last age, or with a Spanish or a French intrigue ; but to give 
 us pictures taken from among ourselves ; to satirize reigning and pre- 
 sent vices ; to exhibit to the age a faithful copy of itself, with its hu- 
 mours, its follies, and its extravagancies. It is only by laying his plan 
 in this manner, that he can add weight and dignity to the entertainment 
 which he gives us. Plautus, it is true, and Terence, did not follow this 
 rule. They laid the scene of their comedies in Greece, and adopted 
 the Greek laws and customs. Eut it must be remembered, that comedy 
 was, in their age, but a new entertainment in Rome ; and that then they 
 contented themselves with imitating, often with translating merely, the 
 comedies of Menander, and other Greek writers. In after-times, it is 
 known that the Romans had the " Comoedia Togata," or what was 
 founded on their own manners, as well as the " Comoedia Palliata," or 
 what was taken from the Greeks. 
 
 Comedy may be divided into two kinds ; comedy of character, and 
 comedy of intrigue. In the latter, the plot, or the action of the play, is 
 made the principal object. In the former, the display of some peculiar 
 character is chiefly aimed at ; the action is contrived altogether with a 
 view to this end, and is treated as subordinate to it. The French abound 
 most in comedies of character. All Moliere's capital pieces are of this 
 sort ; his Avare, for instance, Misanthrope, Tartuffe ; and such are 
 Destouche's also, and those ©f the other chief French comedians. The 
 English abound more in comedies of intrigue. In the plays of Congreve, 
 and, in general, in all our comedies, there is much more story, more 
 bustle, and action, than on the French theatre. 
 
 In order to give this sort of composition its proper advantage, these 
 two kinds should be properly mixed together. Without some interesting 
 and well-conducted story, mere conversation is apt to become insipid. 
 There should be always as much intrigue, as to give us something to 
 wish, and something to fear. The incidents should so succeed one 
 another, as to produce striking situations, and to fix our attention ; 
 while they afford at the same time a proper field for the exhibition of 
 character. For the poet must never forget, that to exhibit characters 
 and manners, is his principal object. The action in comedy, though it 
 demands his care, in order to render it animated and natural, is a less 
 significant and important part of the performance, than the action in 
 tragedy : as in comedy, it is what men say, and how they behave, that 
 draws our attention, rather than what they perform, or what they suffer. 
 Hence it is a great fault to overcharge it with too much intrigue ; and 
 those intricate Spanish plots that were fashionable for a while, carried 
 on by perplexed apartments, dark entries, and disguised habits, are now 
 justly condemned and laid aside : for by such conduct, the main use 
 of comedy was lost. The attention of the spectators, instead of being 
 directed towards any display of characters, was fixed upon the surpris- 
 ing turns and revolutions of the intrigue, and comedy was changed into 
 a mere novel. 
 
LECT. XLV1I-3 COMEDY. 47$ 
 
 In the management of characters, one of the most common faults of 
 comic writers, is the carrying of them too far beyond life. Wherever 
 ridicule is concerned, it is indeed extremely difficult to hit the precise 
 point where true wit ends, and buffoonery begins. When the miser for 
 instance, in Plautus, searching the person whom he suspects for having 
 stolen his casket, after examining; first his right hand, and then his left, 
 cries out " ostendeetiamtertiam," " show me your third hand," (a stroke 
 too which Moliere has copied from him,) there is no one but must be 
 sensible of the extravagance. Certain degrees of exaggeration are al- 
 lowed to the comedian ; but there are limits set to it by nature and good 
 taste ; and supposing the miser to be ever so much engrossed by his 
 jealousy and his suspicions, it is impossible to conceive any man in his 
 wits suspecting another of having more than two hands. 
 
 Characters in comedy ought to be clearly distinguished from one 
 another ; but the artificial contrasting of characters, and the introducing 
 them always in pairs, and by opposites, gives too theatrical and affected 
 an air to the piece. This is become too common a resource of comic 
 writers, in order to heighten their characters, and display them to more 
 advantage. As soon as the violent and impatient person arrives upon the 
 stage, the spectator knows that, in the next scene, he is to be contrasted 
 with the mild and good-natured man ; or if one of the lovers introduced 
 be remarkably gay and airy, we are sure that his companion is to be a 
 grave and serious lover; like Frankly and Bellamy, Clarinda and Ja- 
 cintha, in Dr. Hoadley's Suspicious Husband. Such production of 
 characters, by pairs, is like the employment of the figure antithesis in 
 discourse, which, as I formerly observed, gives brilliancy indeed upon 
 occasions, but is too apparently a rhetorical artifice. In every sort of 
 composition, the perfection of art is to conceal art. A masterly writer 
 will, therefore, give us his characters, distinguished rather by such shades 
 of diversity as are commonly found in society, than marked with such 
 strong oppositions, as are rarely brought into actual contrast, in any of 
 the circumstances of life. 
 
 The style of comedy ought to be pure, elegant, and lively, very 
 seldom rising higher than the ordinary tone of polite conversation ; and, 
 upon no occasion, descending into vulgar, mean, and gross expressions. 
 Here the French rhyme, which in many of their comedies they have 
 preserved, occurs as an unnatural bondage. Certainly, if prose belongs 
 to any composition whatever, it is to that which imitates the conversation 
 of men in ordinary life. One of the most difficult circumstances in 
 writing comedy, and one too, upon which the success of it very much 
 depends, is to maintain, throughout, a current of easy, genteel, unaffected 
 dialogue, without pertness and flippancy ; without too much studied and 
 unseasonable wit ; without dulness and formality. Too few of bur 
 English comedies are distinguished for this happy turn of conversation ; 
 most of them are liable to one or other of the exceptions I have men- 
 tioned. The Careless Husband, and perhaps, we may add the Provoked 
 Husband, and the Suspicious Husband, seem to have more merit than 
 most of them, for easy and natural dialogue. 
 
 These are the chief observations that occur to me, concerning the 
 general principles of this species of dramatic writing, as distinguished 
 from tragedy. But its nature and spirit will be still better understood, 
 by a short history of its progress ; and a view of the manner in which 
 it has been carried on by authors of different nations. 
 
4$G CIENT COMEDY. [LECT. XLVIL 
 
 Tragedy is generally supposed to have been more ancient among the 
 Greeks than comedy. We have fewer lights concerning the origin and 
 progress of the latter. What is most propable, is, that like the other, 
 it took its rise accidentally from the diversions peculiar to the feast of 
 Bacchus, and from Thespis and his cart ; till hy degrees, it diverged into 
 an entertainment of a quite different nature from solemn and heroic 
 tragedy. Critics distinguish three stages of comedy among the Greeks ; 
 which they call the ancient, the middle and the new. 
 
 The ancient comedy consisted in direct and avowed satire against 
 particular known, persons, who were brought upon the stage by name. 
 Of this nature are the plays of Aristophanes, eleven of which are still 
 extant ; plays of a very singular nature, and wholly different from all 
 compositions which have, since that age, borne the name of comedy. 
 They show what a turbulent and licentious republic that of Athens was, 
 and what unrestrained scope the Athenians gave to ridicule, when they 
 could suffer the most illustrious personages of their state, their generals, 
 and their magistrates, Cleon, Lamachus, Nicias, Alcibiades, not to men- 
 tion Socrates the philosopher, and Euripides the poet, to be publicly 
 made the subject of comedy. Several of Aristophanes's plays are wholly 
 political satires upon public management, and the conduct of generals 
 and statesmen, during the Pelopounesian war. They are so full of 
 political allegories and allusions, that it is impossible to understand them 
 without a considerable knowledge of the history of those. times. They 
 abound, too, with parodies of the great tragic poets, particularly of 
 Euripides ; to whom the author was a great enemy, and has written two 
 comedies, almost wholly in order to ridicule him. 
 
 Vivacity, satire, and buffoonery, are the characteristics of Aristophanes. 
 Genius and force he displays upon many occasions ; but his perform- 
 ances, upon the whole, are not calculated to give us any high opinion 
 of the Attic taste of wit, in his age. They seem, indeed, to have been 
 composed for the mob. The ridicule employed in them is extravagant ; 
 the wit, for the most part, buffoonish and farcical ; the personal raillery, 
 biting and cruel; and the obscenity that reigns in them, is gross and 
 intolerable. The treatment given by this comedian, to Socrates the 
 philosopher, in his play of "The Clouds," is well known ; but 
 however it might tend to disparage Socrates in the public esteem, P. 
 Brumoy, in his Theatre Grec, makes it appear, that it could not have 
 been, as is commonly supposed, the cause of decreeing the death of 
 that philosopher, which did not happen till twenty-three years after 
 the representation of Aristophanes's Clouds. There is a chorus in 
 Aristophanes's plays ; but altogether of an irregular kind. It is partly 
 serious, partly comic : sometimes mingles in the action, sometimes 
 addresses the spectators, defends the author, and attacks his enemies. 
 
 Scon after the days of Aristophanes, the liberty of attacking persons 
 on the stage by name, being found of dangerous consequence to the 
 public peace, was prohibited by law. The chorus also was, at this 
 period, banished from the comic theatre, as having been an instrument 
 of too much license and abuse. Then, what is called the middle come- 
 dy took rise ; which was no other than an elusion of the law. Fictitious 
 names, indeed, were employed ; but living persons were still attack- 
 ed ; and described in such a manner as to be sufficiently known. Of 
 these comic pieces, we have no remains. To them succeeded the new 
 comedy; when the stage being obliged to desist wholly from personal 
 
LECT. XLVIZ.J SPANISH COMEDY. 481' 
 
 ridicule, became, what it is now, the picture of manners and characters, 
 but not of particular persons. Menander was the most distinguished 
 author of this kind, among the Greeks ; and both from the imitations 
 of him by Terence, and the account given of him by Plutarch, we have 
 much reason to regret that his writings have perished ; as he appears 
 to have reformed in a very high degree the public taste, and to have set 
 the model of correct, elegant, and moral comedy. 
 
 The only remains which we now have of the new comedy, among the 
 ancients, are the plays of Plautus and Terence ; both of whom were 
 formed upon the Greek writers. Plantus is distinguished for very ex- 
 pressive language, and a great degree of the vis comica. As he wrote 
 in an early period, he bears several marks of the rudeness of the dra- 
 matic art among the Romans, in his time. He opens his plays with 
 prologues, which sometimes pre-occupy the subject of the whole piece. 
 The representation, too, and the action of the comedy, are sometimes 
 confounded ; the actor departing from his character, and addressing the 
 audience. There is too much low wit and scurrility in Plautus ; too 
 much of quamt conceit, and play upon words. But withal, he displays 
 more variety, and more force than Terence. His characters are always 
 strongly marked, though sometimes coarsely. His Amphytrion has been 
 copied both by Moliere and by Dryden ; and his Miser also (in the Au- 
 lularia,) is the foundation of a capital play of Moliere's, which has 
 been once and again imitated on the English stage. Than Terence, 
 nothing can be more delicate, more polished, and elegant. His style is 
 a model of the purest and most graceful Latinity. His dialogue is 
 always decent and correct ; and he possesses, beyond most writers, the 
 art of relating with that beautiful and picturesque simplicity, which 
 never fails to please. His morality is, in general, unexceptionable. The 
 situations which he introduces, are often tender and interesting ; and 
 many of his sentiments touch the heart. Hence, he may be considered as 
 the founder of that serious comedy, which has, oflate years, been revived, 
 and of which I shall have occasion afterward to speak. If he fails irt 
 any thing, it is in sprightliness and strength. Both in his characters., 
 and in his plots, there is too much sameness and uniformity throughout all 
 his plays ; he copied Menander, and is said not to have equalled him.* 
 In order to form a perfect comic author, an union would be requisite of 
 the spirit and fire of Plautus, with the grace and correctness of Terence, 
 
 When we enter on the view of modern comedy, one of the first; 
 objects which presents itself, is, the Spanish theatre, which has been 
 remarkably fertile in dramatic productions. Lopez de Vega, Guillin, 
 and Calderon, are the chief Spanish comedians. Lopez de Vega, who 
 is by much the most famous of them, is said to have written above a 
 thousand plays ; but our surprise at the number of his productions will be 
 diminished, by being informed of their nature. From the account which 
 M. Perron de Gastera, a French writer, gives of them, it would seem that 
 
 * Julius Caesar has given us his opinion of Terence, in the following lines, which 
 are preserved in the life of Terence, ascribed to Suetonius : 
 
 Tuquoque,tu in summis, dimidiate Menander^ 
 Poneris et merito puri sermonis amator; 
 Lenibus atque utinam scriptis adjuncta foret vis 
 Comica, Ut asquato virtus polleret honore 
 Cum Graecis, neque in hac despectus parte jaeeres J 
 TJnu.m hoc maceror, et doleo tibi deesse 3 TerentL 
 
 ppp 
 
4g£ * FKENCH COMEDJT. [LECT. XLY1L 
 
 our Shakspeare is perfectly a regular and methodical author, in com- 
 parison of Lopez. He throws aside all regard to the three unities, or 
 to any of the established forms of dramatic writing. One play often 
 includes many years, nay, the whole life of a man. The scene, during 
 the first act, is laid in Spain, the next in Italy, and the third in Africa, 
 His plays are mostly of the historical kind, founded on the annals of the 
 country ; and they are generally, a sort of tragi-comedies ; or a mix- 
 ture of heroic speeches, serious incidents, war and slaughter, with much 
 ridicule and buffoonery. Angels and gods, virtues and vices, Christian 
 religion and Pagan mythology, are all frequently jumbled together. In 
 short, they are plays like no other dramatic compositions ; full of the ro- 
 mantic and extravagant. At the same time, it is generally admitted, that 
 in the works of Lopez de Vega, there are frequent marks of genius, 
 and much force of imagination ; many well-drawn characters ; many 
 happy situations ; many striking and interesting surprises ; and from 
 the source of his rich invention, the dramatic writers of other countries 
 are said to have frequently drawn their materials. He himself apologizes 
 for the extreme irregularity of his composition, from the prevailing taste 
 of his countrymen, who delighted in a variety of events, in strange and 
 surprising adventures, and a labyrinth of intrigues, much more than in a 
 natural and regularly conducted story. 
 
 The general characters of the French comic theatre are, that it is 
 correct, chaste, and decent. Several writers of considerable note it 
 has produced, such as Regnard, Dufresny, Dancourt, and Marivaux j 
 but the dramatic author, in whom the French glory most, and whom 
 they justly place at the head of all their comedians, is the famous 
 Moliere. There is, indeed, no author in all the fruitful and distinguished 
 age of Louis XIV. who has attained a higher reputation than Moliere, 
 -or who has more nearly reached the summit of perfection in his own 
 art, according to the judgment of all the French critics, Voltaire 
 boldly pronounces him to be the most eminent comic poet of any age or 
 country ; nor, perhaps, is this the decision of mere partiality ; for taking 
 him, upon the whole, I know none who deserves to be preferred to 
 him. Moliere is always the satirist only of vice or folly. He has 
 selected a great variety of ridiculous characters peculiar to the times m 
 which he lived, and he has generally placed the ridicule justly. He 
 possessed strong comic powers ; he is full of mirth and pleasantry ; and 
 his pleasantry is always innocent. His comedies in verse, such as the 
 Misanthrope and Tartuffe, are a kind of dignified comedy, in which vice 
 is exposed in the style of elegant and polite satire. In his prose come- 
 dies, though there is abundance of ridicule, yet there is never any thing 
 found to offend a modest ear, or to throw contempt on sobriety and 
 virtue. Together with those high qualities, Moliere has also some 
 defects which Voltaire, though his professed panegyrist, candidly admits. 
 He is acknowledged not to be happy in the unravelling of his plots. 
 Attentive more to the strong exhibition of characters, than to the con-* 
 duct of the intrigue, his unravelling is frequently brought on with too* 
 little preparation, and in an improbable manner. In his verse come- 
 dies, he is sometimes not sufficiently interesting, and too full of long 
 speeches ; and in his more risible pieces in prose, he is censured for 
 being too farcical. Few writers, however, if any, ever possessed the 
 spirit, or attained the true end of comedy so perfectly, upon the whole r 
 
JE.ECT. XL VII. j ENGLISH COMEDY. 4 g 3 
 
 as Moliere. His Tartufe, in the style of grave comedy, and his Avarc. % 
 in the gay, are accounted his two capital productions. 
 
 From the English theatre, we are naturally led to expect a greater 
 variety of original characters in comedy, and bolder strokes of wit and 
 humour, than are to be found on any other modern stage. Humour is, 
 in a great measure, the peculiar province of the English nation. The 
 nature of such a free government as ours ; and that unrestrained liberty 
 which our manners allow to every man, of living entirely after his own 
 taste, afford full scope to the display of singularity of character, and 
 to the indulgence of humour in all its forms. Whereas, in France, the 
 influence of a despotic court, the more established subordination of 
 ranks, and the universal observance of the forms of politeness and deco- 
 rum, spread a much greater uniformity over the outward behaviour and 
 characters of men. Hence comedy has a more ample field, and can 
 flow with a much freer vein in Britain than in France. But it is ex- 
 tremely unfortunate, that, together with the freedom and boldness of 
 the comic spirit in Britain, there should have been joined such a spirit of 
 indecency and licentiousness, as has disgraced English comedy beyond 
 that of any nation, since the days of Aristophanes* 
 
 The first age, however, of English comedy, was not infected by this 
 spirit. Neither the plays of Shakspeare, nor those of Ben Jon3on, can 
 be accused of immoral tendency. Shakspeare's general character, 
 which I gave in the last lecture, appears with as great advantage in his 
 comedies as in his tragedies ; a strong, fertile, and creative genius, irre- 
 gular in conduct, employed too often in amusing the mob, but singularly 
 rich and happy in the description of characters and manners. Jonson 
 is more regular in the conduct of his pieces, but stiff and pedantic ; 
 though not destitute of dramatic genius. In the plays of Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, much fancy and invention appear, and several beautiful pas- 
 sages may be found. But, in general, they abound with romantic and 
 improbable incidents, with overcharged and unnatural characters, and 
 with coarse and gross allusions. Those comedies of the last age, by the 
 change of public manners, and of the turn of conversation, since their 
 time, are now become too obsolete to be very agreeable. For we must, 
 observe, that comedy, depending much on the prevailing modes of 
 external behaviour, becomes sooner antiquated than any other species 
 of writing ; and, when antiquated, it seems harsh to us, and loses its 
 power of pleasing. This is especially the case with respect to the 
 comedies of our own country, where the change of manners is more 
 sensible and striking, than in any foreign production. In our own coun- 
 try, the present mode of behaviour is always the standard of politeness ; 
 and whatever departs from it appears uncouth : whereas, in the writ- 
 ings of foreigners, we are less acquainted with any standard of this kind, 
 and, of course, are less hurt by the want of it. Flautus appeared more 
 antiquated to the Romans, in the age of Augustus, than he does now to 
 us. It is a high proof of Shakspeare's uncommon genius, that, notwith- 
 standing these disadvantages, his character of Falstaff is to this day ad- 
 mired, and his " Merry Wives of Windsor" read with pleasure 
 
 It was not until the era of the restoration of king Charles II. that the 
 licentiousness which was observed, at that period, to infect the court, 
 and the nation in general, seized, in a peculiar manner, upon comedy as 
 its province, and, for almost a whole century, retained possession of it. 
 ft was then first, that the rake became the predominant character, and, 
 
484 ENGLISH COMEDY. [JJECT. XLVU; 
 
 with some exceptions, the hero of every comedy. The ridicule was 
 thrown, not upon vice and folly, but much more commonly upon chastity 
 and sobriety. At the end of the play, indeed, the rake is commonly, in. 
 appearance, reformed, and professes that he is to become a sober man : 
 but throughout the play, he is set up as the model of a fine gentleman ; 
 and the agreeable impression made by a sort of sprightly licentiousness, 
 is left upon the imagination, as a picture of the pleasurable enjoyment 
 of life ; while the reformation passes slightly away, as a matter of mere 
 form. To what sort of moral conduct such public entertainments as 
 these tend to form the youth of both sexes, may be easily imagined. 
 Yet this has been the spirit which has prevailed upon the comic stage 
 of Great Britain, not only during the reign of Charles II. but through- 
 out the reigns of king William and queen Anne, and down to the days 
 of king George II. 
 
 Dryden was the first considerable dramatic writer after the restora- 
 tion ; in whose comedies, as in all his works, there are found many 
 strokes of genius, mixed with great carelessness, and visible marks of 
 hasty composition. As he sought to please only, he went along with the 
 manners of the times ; and has carried through all his comedies, that 
 vein of dissolute licentiousness, which was then fashionable. In some 
 of them, the indecency was so gross, as to occasion, even in that age, a 
 prohibition of being brought upon the stage.* 
 
 Since his time, the writers of comedy, of greatest note, have been 
 .Gibber, Vanburgh, Farquhar, and Congreve. Gibber has written a 
 great many comedies ; and though in several of them, there be much 
 sprightliness, and a certain pert vivacity peculiar to him, yet they are so 
 forced and unnatural in the incidents, as to have generally sunk into 
 obscurity, except two which have always continued in high favour with 
 the public, " The Careless Husband," and " The Provoked Husband." 
 The former is remarkable for the polite and easy turn of the dialogue ; 
 and, with the exception of one indelicate scene, is tolerably moral too in 
 the conduct, and in the tendency. The latter, w The Provoked Hus- 
 band," (which was the joint production of Vanburgh and Gibber) is, 
 perhaps, on the whole, the best comedy in the English language. It is 
 liable, indeed, to one critical objection, of having a double plot ; as the 
 incidents of the Wronghead family, and those of Lord Townley's, are 
 separate, and independent of each other. But this irregularity is com- 
 pensated by the natural characters, the fine painting, and the happy 
 strokes of humour with which it abounds. We are, indeed, surprised 
 to find so unexceptionable a comedy proceeding from two such loose 
 authors ; for, in its general strain, it is calculated to expose licentious- 
 ness and folly ; and would do honour to any stage. 
 
 Sir John Vanburgh has spirit, wit, and ease; but he is, to the last 
 <!egree, gross and indelicate. He is one of the most immoral of all our 
 comedians. His " Provoked Wife" is full of such indecent sentiments 
 and allusions, as ought to explode it out of all reputable society. His 
 ** Relapse" is equally censurable ; and these are his only two conside- 
 
 * " The mirth which be excites in comedy will, perhaps, be found not so much 
 to arise from any original humour, or peculiarity of character, nicely distinguished 
 and diligently pursued, as from incidents and circumstances, artifices and surprises,^ 
 from jests of action rather than sentiment. What he had of humorous or passionate, 
 he seems to have had, not from nature, but from other poets : if not always a pla- 
 giary, yet, at least, an imitator, John-son's Life of Dryrltv,-, 
 
LECT. XLVIl.] ENGLISH COMEDY, 43^ 
 
 rable pieces. Congreve is unquestionably a writer of genius. He is 
 lively, witty, and sparkling ; full of character, and full of action. His 
 chief fault as a comic writer is, that he overflows with wit. It is often 
 introduced unseasonably ; and, almost every where, there is too great 
 a proportion of it for natural well-bred conversation.* Farquhar is a 
 light and gay writer ; less correct and less sparkling than Congreve 1 
 but he has more ease ; and, perhaps fully as great a share of the vis 
 comica. The two best and least exceptionable of his plays, are the 
 " Recruiting Officer," and the " Beaux's Stratagem." I say, the least 
 exceptionable; for, in general, the tendency of both Congreve and 
 Farquhar's plays is immoral. Throughout them all, the rake, the loose 
 intrigue, and the life of licentiousness, are the objects continually held 
 up to view ; as if the assemblies of a great and polished nation could 
 be amused with none but vicious objects. The indelicacy of these 
 writers, in the female characters which they introduce, is particularly 
 remarkable. Nothing can be more awkward than their representations 
 of a woman of virtue and honour. Indeed, there are hardly any 
 female characters in their plays except two ; women of loose principles, 
 or when a virtuous character is attempted to be drawn, women of 
 affected manners. 
 
 The censure which I have now passed upon these celebrated come- 
 dians, is far from being over-strained or severe. Accustomed to the 
 indelicacy of our own comedy, and amused with the wit and humour of 
 it, its immorality too easily escapes our observation. But all foreigners, 
 the French especially, who are accustomed to a better regulated and 
 more decent stage, speak of it with surprise and astonishment. Vol- 
 taire, who is assuredly none of the most austere moralists, plumes 
 himself not a little upon the superior bienseance of the French theatre ; 
 and says, that the language of English comedy is the language of de- 
 bauchery, not of politeness. M. Moralt, in his letters upon the French 
 and English nations, ascribes the corruption of manners in London to 
 comedy, as its chief cause. Their comedy, he says, is like that of no 
 other country ; it is the school in which the youth of both sexes fami- 
 liarize themselves with vice, which is never represented there as vice a 
 "but as mere gaiety. As for comedies, says the ingenious M. Diderot, in, 
 bis observations upon dramatic poetry, the English have none ; they 
 have, in their place, satires, full indeed of gaiety and force, but without 
 morals, and without taste ; sans mceurs, et sans govt. There is no 
 wonder, therefore, that Lord Kaimes, in his Elements of Criticism, 
 should have expressed himself upon this subject, of the indelicacy of 
 English comedy, in terms much stronger than any that I have used ; 
 concluding his invective against it in these words : " How odious ought 
 those writers to be, who thus spread infection through their native 
 country ; employing the talents which they have received from their 
 Maker most traitorously against himself, by endeavouring to corrupt and 
 disfigure his creatures. If the comedies of Congreve did not rack him 
 with remorse, in his last moments, he must have been lost to all sense of 
 virtue." Vol. 11. 479. 
 
 I am happy, however, to have it in my power to observe, that of late 
 
 * Dr. Johnson says of him in his life, that " his personages are a kind of intelleo 
 tual gladiators ; every sentence is to ward, or to strike ; the contest of smartness is 
 never intermitted ; his wit is ?>. meteor, playing to and fro, with alternate corrus^a« 
 ?JOBS." 
 
480 ENGLISH COMEDY. [LECT. XLVIL 
 
 years, a sensible reforantion has begun to take place in English comedy. 
 We have, at last, become ashamed of making our public entertainments 
 Fest wholly upon profligate characters and scenes ; and our later come- 
 dies, of any reputation, are much purified from the licentiousness of 
 former times. If they have not the spirit, the ease, and the wit of 
 Congreve and Farquahar, in which respect they must be confessed to be 
 somewhat deficient : this praise, however, they justly merit, of being 
 innocent and moral. 
 
 For this reformation, we are, questionless, much indebted to the 
 French theatre, which has not only been, at all times, more chaste and 
 inoffensive than ours, but has, within these few years, produced a spe- 
 cies of comedy, of a still graver turn than any that I have yet mentioned. 
 This which is called the serious, or tender comedy, and was termed by 
 its opposers, La Comedia Larmoyante, is not altogether a modern in- 
 vention. Several of Terence's plays, as the Andria, in particular, par- 
 take of this character ; and as we know that Terence copied Menander, 
 we have sufficient reason to believe that his comedies also, were of the 
 same kind. The nature of this composition does not, by any means, 
 exclude gayety and ridicule ; but it lays the chief stress upon tender 
 and interesting situations ; it aims at being sentimental, and touching the 
 heart by means of the capital incidents ; it makes our pleasure arise> 
 not so much from the laughter which it excites, as from the tears of 
 affection and joy which it draws forth. 
 
 In English, Steele's Conscious Lover3 is a comedy which approaches 
 to this character, and it has always been favourably received by the 
 public. In French, there are several dramatic compositions of this kind, 
 which possess considerable merit and reputation ; such as the " Mela- 
 mde," and " Prejuge a la Mode," of La Chaussee ; the Pere de Fa- 
 mille," of Diderot; the " Cenie," of Mad. Graffigny ; and the " Na- 
 nine," and " L'Enfant Prodigue," of Voltaire. 
 
 When this form of comedy first appeared in France, it excited a great 
 controversy among the critics. It was objected to, as a dangerous and 
 unjustifiable innovation in composition. It is not comedy, said they, for 
 it is not founded on laughter and ridicule. It is not tragedy, for it does 
 not involve us in sorrow. By what name then can it be called ? or what 
 pretensions hath it to be comprehended under dramatic writing ? But 
 this was trifling, in the most egregious manner, with critical names and 
 distinctions, as if these had invariably fixed the essence, and ascertained 
 the limits, of every sort of composition. Assuredly, it is not necessary 
 that all comedies should be formed on one precise model. Some may 
 be entirely light and gay ; others may incline more to the serious ; some 
 may partake of both ; and all of them, properly executed, may furnish 
 sgreeable and useful entertainment to the public, by suiting the different 
 tastes of men.* Serious and tender comedy has no title to claim to 
 itself the possession of the stage, to the exclusion of ridicule and gayety. 
 But when it retains only its proper place, without usurping the province 
 of any other ; when it is carried on with resemblance to real life, and 
 without introducing romantic and unnatural situations, it may certainly 
 prove both an interesting and an agreeable species of dramatic writing. 
 
 * " II y a beaucoup de tres bonnes pieces ou il ne regne que de la gayete : d'autres 
 routes serieuses ; d'autres melaugees ; d'autres ou Pattendrissement va jusq'aux 
 7armes. 11 ne faut donner exclusion k aucune genre ; et si Ton me demandoit, que! 
 genre est le meillem* ? Je repondrofs celniqui est le mien* fraite-," Voltaire*. 
 
XECT.XLVIt] ENGLISH COMEDY. 437 
 
 If it become insipid and drawling, this must be imputed to the fault of 
 the author, not to the nature of the composition, which may admit much 
 liveliness and vivacity. 
 
 In general, whatever form comedy assumes, whether gay or serious, 
 it may always be esteemed a mark of society advancing in true politeness, 
 when those theatrical exhibitions, which are designed for public amuse- 
 ment, are cleared from indelicate sentiment or immoral tendency. 
 Though the licentious buffoonery of Aristophanes amused the Greeks 
 for a while, they advanced, by degrees, to a chaster and juster taste : 
 and the like progress of refinement maybe concluded to take place- 
 among us, when the public receive with favour, dramatic compositions of 
 such a strain and spirit, as entertained the Greeks and Romans, in the 
 days of Menander and Terence, 
 
LNDEX. 
 
 Atctnts, thrown farther back from the ter- 
 mination in the English than in any other 
 language, 89. Seldom more than one in 
 English words, 329. Govern the mea- 
 sure of English verse, 383. 
 
 Achilles, his character in the Iliad examin- 
 ed, 433. 
 
 Action, much used to assist language in an 
 imperfect state, 57. And by ancient ora- 
 tors and players, 58. Fundamental rule 
 of propriety in, 335. Caution with res- 
 pect to, 336. In epic poetry, the requi- 
 sites of, 423. 
 
 Acts, the division of a play into five, an 
 arbitrary limitation, 458. These pauses 
 in representations ought to fall proper- 
 ly, 459. 
 
 Adam, his character in Milton's Paradise 
 Lost, 451. 
 
 Addison, general view of his Essay on the 
 Pleasures of the Imagination, 28. His 
 invocation of the muse in his Campaign, 
 censured, 44. Blemishes in his style, 103, 
 104, 111. Ease and perspicuity of, 114, 
 115. 117. His beautiful description of 
 light and colours, 139. Instance of his 
 use of metaphor, 148. Improper use of 
 similes, 165. His general character as a 
 writer, 187. Character of the Spectator, 
 193. Critical examination of some of those 
 papers, 194. Remarks on his criticism 
 of Tasso's Aminta, 395, note. His tra- 
 gedy of Cato critically examined, 457. 
 463. 467. 469. 
 
 Adjectives, common to all languages, 80. 
 How they came to be classed with nouns, 
 ibid. 
 
 Adverbs, their nature and use defined, 84. 
 Importance of their position in a sentence 
 illustrated, 103. 
 
 Mneid of Virgil, critical examination of that 
 poem, 437. The subjects, ibid. Action, 
 438. Is deficient in characters, ibid. 
 Distribution and management of the sub- 
 ject, ibid. Abounds with awful and ten- 
 der scenes, 439. The descent of JEneas 
 into he\\, ibid. The poem left unfinished 
 by Virgil, 440. 
 
 Mschines, a comparison between him and 
 Demosthenes, 243. 
 
 Mschylus, his character as a tragic writer, 
 470. 
 
 Mtna, remarks on Virgil's description of 
 that mountain, 42. And on that by Sir 
 Richard Blackmore, 43. 
 
 Affectation, the disadvantages of, in public 
 speaking, 336. 
 
 Ages, four, peculiarly fruitful in learned 
 
 men, pointed out, 347. 
 Akenside, his comparison between sublimity 
 in natural and moral objects, 33. note. 
 Instance of his happy allusion to figures, 
 
 Q<iq 
 
 139. Character of his Pleasures of the 
 Imagination, 401. 
 
 Alphabet of letters, the consideration which 
 led to the invention of, 68. Remote ob- 
 scurity of this invention, 69. The alpha- 
 bets of different nations derived from one 
 common source, ibid. 
 
 Allegory, explained, 150. Anciently a fa- 
 vourite method of conveying instructions, 
 151. Allegorical personages improper 
 agents in epic poetry, 429. 449. 
 
 Ambiguity in style, from whence it pro- 
 ceeds, 103. 
 
 Amplification in speech, what, 171. Its 
 principal instrument, ibid. 
 
 American languages, the figurative style of, 
 60. 137. 
 
 Anagnorisis, in ancient tragedy explained, 
 460. 
 
 Annals, and history, the distinction between, 
 365. 
 
 Ancients and moderns distinguished, 347. 
 The merits of ancient writers are now 
 finally ascertained, 348. The progress of 
 knowledge favourable to the moderns, in 
 forming a comparison between them, 349. 
 In philosophy and history, ibid. The ef- 
 forts of genius greater among the ancients, 
 350. A mediocrity of genius now mora 
 diffused, 351. 
 
 Antithesis, in language explained, 167. 
 The too frequent use of, censured, 168. 
 
 Apostrophe, the nature of this figure explain- 
 ed, 161. Fine one from Cicero, 260, note, 
 
 Arabian Nights entertainment, a character 
 of those tales, 373. 
 
 Arabian poetry, its character, 380. 
 
 Arbuthnot, character of his epistolary wri- 
 ting, 372. 
 
 Architecture, sublimity in, whence it arises^ 
 32. The sources of beauty in, 49. 
 
 Arguments, the proper management of, in 
 a discourse, 316. Analytic and synthe- 
 tic methods, 317. Arrangement of, 313, 
 Are not to be too much multiplied, 320. 
 
 Ariosto, character of his Orlando Furioso, 
 374. 445. 
 
 Aristotle, his rules for dramatic and epic 
 composition, whence derived, 25. His 
 definition of a sentence, 101. His extend- 
 ed sense of the term metaphor. 142. 
 Character of his style, 177. 180. His in- 
 stitutions of rhetoric, 242. 345. His de- 
 finition of tragedy considered, 453. His 
 observations on tragic characters, 465. 
 
 Aristophanes, character of his comedies, 480. 
 
 Arithmetical figures, universal characters, 68. 
 
 Ark of the covenant, choral service per- 
 formed in the procession of bringing it 
 back to Mount Zion, 412. 
 
 Armstrong, character of his Art of FreserT- 
 ing Health, 402. 
 
490 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Art, works of, considered as a source of 
 beauty, 49. 
 
 Articles, in language, the use of, 73. Their 
 importance in the English language illus- 
 trated, 74. 
 
 Articulation, clearness of, necessary in pub- 
 lic speaking, 329. 
 
 Associations, academical, recommended, 
 343. Instructions for the regulation of, 
 344. 
 
 Athenians, ancient, character of, 238. Elo- 
 quence of, 239. 
 
 Alterbury, a more harmonious writer than 
 Tillotson, 128. Critical examination of 
 one of his sermons, 292. His exordium 
 to a 30th of January sermon, 309. 
 
 Attici and Asiani, parties at Rome, account 
 of, 247. 
 
 Authors, petty, why no friends to criticism, 
 
 26. Why the most ancient afford the most 
 
 striking instances of sublimity, 36. Must 
 
 write with purity to gain esteem, 90, 91. 
 
 B. 
 
 Bacon, his observations on romances, 373. 
 
 Ballads, have great influence over the man- 
 ners of a people, 373. Were the first ve- 
 hicles of historical knowledge and instruc- 
 tion, 379. 
 
 Bar, the eloquence of, defined, 236. Why 
 more confined than the pleadings before 
 ancient tribunals, 253. Distinction be- 
 tween the motives of pleading at the bar, 
 and speaking in popular assemblies, 268. 
 Tn what respects ancient pleadings differ 
 from those of modern times, ibid. In- 
 structions for pleaders, 269. 313. 
 
 Bards, ancient, the first founders of law and 
 civilization, 379. 
 
 Barrow, Dr. character of his style, 178. 
 Character of his sermons, 291. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, their characters as 
 dramatic poets, 483. 
 
 Beauty, the emotion raised by, distinguish- 
 ed from that of sublimity, 45. Is a term 
 of vague application, ibid. Colours, 46. 
 Figures, ibid. Hogarth's line of beauty, 
 and line of grace considered, 47. Motion, 
 ibid. A landscape the most complete 
 assemblage of beautiful otyec\s,ibid. The 
 human countenance, 48. Works of art, 
 49. The influence of fitness and design 
 in our ideas of beauty, ibid. Beauty in 
 literary composition, 50. Imitation, 51. 
 
 Bergerus, a German critic, writes a trea- 
 tise on the sublimity of Caesar's Com- 
 mentaries, 35. 
 
 Berkeley, bishop, character of his Dialogues 
 on the Existence of Matter, 369. 
 
 Biography, as a class of historical com- 
 position, characterized, 365. 
 
 Blacktnore, Sir Richard, remarks on his 
 
 description of Mount JEtna, 43. 
 Blackwell, his character as a writer, 1S8. 
 Boileau, his character as a didactic poet, 
 
 404. 
 Bolingbroke, instances of inaccuracy in his 
 style, 109. 119. A beautiful climax from, 
 116. A beautiful metaphor from, H& 
 
 His general character as a politician and 
 philosopher,ikU His general character 
 as a writer, 189. 343. 
 
 Bombast in writing described, 44. 
 
 Bossu, his definition of an epic poem, 420. 
 His account of the composition of the 
 Iliad, 421. 
 
 Bossuet, M. instances of apostrophes to 
 personified objects, in his funeral orations, 
 160, note. Conclusion of his funeral ora- 
 tion on the Prince of Conde, 326. 
 
 Britain, Great, not eminent for the study of 
 eloquence, 251. Compared with France 
 in this respect, 252, 
 
 Bruyere, bis parallel between the eloquence 
 of the pulpit and the bar, 280, note. 
 
 Buchanan, his character as an historian, 
 364. 
 
 Building, how rendered sublime, 32. 
 C. 
 
 Cadmus, account of his alphabet, 69. 
 
 Ccesar's Commentaries, the style of cha- 
 racterized, 35. Is considered by Bergenia 
 as a standard of sublime writing, ibid. In- 
 stance of his happy talent in historical 
 painting, 361, note. His character of 
 Terence the dramatist, 481, note. 
 
 Camoens, critical examination of hisLusiad, 
 446. Confused machinery of, ibid. 46. 
 
 Campbell, Dr. his observations on English 
 particles, J9f note. 
 
 Carmel, Mount, metaphorical allusions to 
 in Hebrew poetry, 415. 
 
 Casimir, his character as a lyric poet, 399. 
 
 Catastrophe, the proper conduct of, in dra- 
 matic representations, 460. 
 
 Caudince Furcae, Livy's happy description of 
 the disgrace of the Roman army there. 
 360. 
 
 Celtic language, its antiquity and character, 
 
 85. The remains of it where to be founds 
 
 86. Poetry its character, 380. 
 Characters, the dangers of labouring them 
 
 too much in historical works, 363. The 
 due requisites of, in tragedy, 464. 
 
 Chinese language, character of, 68. And 
 writing, 67. 
 
 Chivalry, origin of, 374. 
 
 Chorus, ancient, described, 455. Was the 
 origin of tragedy, ibid. Inconveniences 
 of, ibid. How it might properly be intro- 
 duced on the mydern theatre, 457. 
 
 Chronology, a due attention to, necessary in 
 historical compositions, 355. 
 
 Chrysostome, St., his oratorical character, 
 250. 
 
 Cibber, his character as a dramatic writer, 
 484. 
 
 Cicero, his ideas of taste, 16, note. His dis- 
 tinction between amare and diligere, 97, 
 His observations on style, 102. Very at- 
 tentive to the beauties of climax, 116. Is 
 the most harmonious of all writers, 121. 
 His remarks on the power of music in 
 orations, 123. His attentien to harmony 
 too visible, 127. Instance of his happy 
 talent of adapting sound to sense, 128, 
 
INDEX, 
 
 491 
 
 His account of the origin of figurative 
 language, 136. His observations on suit- 
 ing language to the subject, 144. His 
 rule for the use of metaphor, 145. In- 
 stance of antithesis in, 168. The figure 
 of speech called vision, 171. His caution 
 against bestowing profuse ornaments on 
 an oration, 174. His distinction of style, 
 176. His own character as a writer, 177. 
 His character of the Grecian orators, 240. 
 His own character as an orator, 246. 
 Compared with Demosthenes, 247. Mas- 
 terly apostrophe in, 260, note. His me- 
 thod of studying the judicial causes he 
 undertook to plead, 270. State of the 
 prosecution of Avitus Cluentius, 273. 
 Analysis of Cicero's oration for him, ibid. 
 The exordium of his second oration 
 against Rullus, 306. His method of pre- 
 paring introductions to his orations, 308. 
 Excelled in narration, 314. His defence 
 of Milo, ibid. 319. Instance of the pa- 
 thetic in his last oration against Verres, 
 324. Character of his treatise de Oralore, 
 345. Character of his dialogues, 369. 
 His epistles, 371. 
 
 Clarendon, lord, remarks on his style, 108. 
 His character as an historian, 364. 
 
 Clarke, Dr. the style of his sermons charac- 
 terized, 290. 
 
 Classics, ancient, their merits now finally 
 settled beyond controversy, 348. The 
 study of them recommended, 352. 
 
 Climax, a great beauty in composition, 116. 
 In what it consists, 171. 
 
 Cluentius, Avitus, history of his prosecution, 
 273. His cause undertaken by Cicero, 
 ibid. Analysis of Cicero's oration for him, 
 ibid. 
 
 Colours, considered as the foundation of 
 beauty, 46. 
 
 Comedy, how distinguished from tragedy, 
 452, 476. Rules for the conduct of, 477. 
 The characters in, ought to be of our own 
 country, and our own time, ibid. Two 
 kinds of, 478. Characters ought to be 
 distinguished, 479. Style, ibid. Rise and 
 progress to comedy, ibid. Spanish come- 
 dy, 481. French comedy, 482. English 
 comedy, 483. Licentiousness of, from the 
 era of the restoration, ibid. The restora- 
 tion of, to what owing, 486. General re- 
 marks, 487. 
 
 Comparison, distinguished from metaphor, 
 141 . The nature of this figure explained, 163. 
 
 Composition. See Literary composition. 
 
 Congreve, the plot of his Mourning Bride 
 embarrassed, 458. General character of 
 this tragedy, 475. His comedies, 485. 
 
 Conjugation of verbs, the varieties of, 81. 
 
 6'oni?tdion,distinguishedfrompersuasion,235. 
 
 Copulatives, caution for the use of them, 1 11. 
 
 Corntille, his character as a tragic writer, 
 472. 
 
 Couplets, the first introduction of, into 
 English poetry, 387. 
 
 Cowley, instances of forced metaphors in" 
 
 his poems, 145. His use of similes censu- 
 red, 166. His general character as a poet, 
 399. 
 
 Crevier, his character of several eminent, 
 French writers, 342, note. 
 
 Criticism, true and pedantic distinguished, 
 12. Its object, 25. Its origin, ibid. Why 
 complained of by petty authors, 26. Ma; 
 sometimes decide against the voice of th< 
 public, ibid. 
 
 Cyphers, or arithmetical figures, a kind of; 
 universal character, 68. 
 D. 
 
 David, King, his magnificent institutions 
 for the cultivation of sacred music and 
 poetry, 411. His character as a poet, 
 418. 
 
 Debate in popular assemblies, the eloquence 
 of defined, 234. More particularly con- 
 sidered, 256. Rules for, 257. 
 
 Declamation, unsupported by sound reason- 
 ing, false eloquence, 256. 
 
 Declension of nouns considered in variouf 
 languages, 76. Whether cases or pre 
 positions were most anciently used, 77 
 Which of them are most useful and beau 
 tiful, 78. 
 
 Deities, heathen, probable cause of th( 
 number of, 155. 
 
 Deliberative orations, what, 255. 
 
 Delivery, the importance of in public speak 
 ing, 261. 326. The four chief requisite 
 in, 328. The powers of voice, ibid. Ar; 
 ticulation,z7nV. Pronunciation, 329. Em 
 phasis,330. Pauses, 331. Declamatorv 
 delivery, 334. Action, 335. Affectation 
 336. 
 
 Demetrius Phalerus % the rhetorician, hi 
 character, 244. 
 
 Demonstrative orations, what, 255. 
 
 Demosthenes, his eloquence characterize( 
 239. His expedients to surmount the di 
 advantages of his person and address, 24$ 
 His opposition to Philip of Macedon, 24; 
 His rivalship with JEschines, ibid. Hi 
 style and action, 244. Compared wit 
 Cicero, 247. Why his orations still pleas 
 in perusal, 256. Extracts from his Philif 
 pics, 262. His definition of the seven 
 points of oratory, 326. 
 
 Description, the great test of a poet's irmi 
 gination, 404. Selection of circumstar 
 ces, ibid. Inanimate objects should b 
 enlivened, 407. Choice of Epithets, 40! 
 
 Description and imitation, the distinctio 
 between, 51. 
 
 Des Brosses, his speculations on the er 
 pressive power of radical letters and sy 
 lables, 56, note. 
 
 Dialogue writing, the properties of, 36 
 Is very difficult to execute, ibid. Moder 
 dialogues characterized, ibid. 
 
 Didactic poetry, its nature explained, 39 
 The most celebrated productions in th 
 class, specified, 400. Rules for compos 
 tions of this kind, ibid. Proper ernbe 
 lishments of, 401. 
 
4i>: 
 
 :sDEX. 
 
 Diderot, M. his character of English co- 
 
 . medy, 543. 
 
 Dido, her character in the iEneid examined, 
 438. 
 
 Dicn^ius of Halicarnassus, his ideas of ex- 
 cellency in a sentence. 122. His distinc- 
 tion of style, 176. Character of his trea- 
 tise on Grecian oratory, 241. His conl- 
 parison between Lysias and Isocrates, 242, 
 note. His criticism on Thucydides, 355. 
 
 Discourse. See Oration. 
 
 Dramatic Poety, the origin of, 381. Dis- 
 tinguished by its objects, 452. See Tra- 
 gedy and Comedy. 
 
 Dryden, one of the first reformers of our 
 style, 180. Johnson's character of his 
 prose style, ibid. note. His character as 
 a poet, 387. His character of Shaks- 
 peare, 474, note. His own character as a 
 dramatic writer, 475. 4S4. 
 
 Du Bos, Abbe, his remark on the theatri- 
 cal compositions of the ancients, 123. 
 E. 
 
 Education, liberal and essential requisite for 
 eloquence, 340. 
 
 Egypt* tue style of the hieroglyphical writ- 
 ing of, 66. This an early stage of the art 
 of writing, ibid. The alphabet probably 
 invented in that country, 69. 
 
 Emphasis, its importance in public speaking, 
 330. Rule for, ibid. 
 
 Eloquence, the several objects of considera- 
 tion under this head, 234. Definition of 
 the term, ibid. 337. Fundamental max- 
 ims of the art, 234. Defended against the 
 objection of the abuse of the art of persua- 
 sion, ibid. Three kinds of eloquence dis- 
 tinguished, 235. Oratory, the highest de- 
 gree of, the offspring of passion, 236. Re- 
 quisites for eloquence, 237. French elo- 
 quence, ibid. Grecian, 238. Rise and 
 character of the rhetoricians of Greece, 
 240. Roman, 245. The Attici and Asiani, 
 247. Comparison between Cicero and 
 Demosthenes, ibid. The schools of the 
 declaimers, 250. The eloquence of the 
 primitive fathers of the church, ibid. Ge- 
 neral remarks on modern eloquence, 251. 
 Parliament, 253. The bar and pulpit, ibid. 
 254. The three kinds of orations distin- 
 guished by the ancients, 255. These dis- 
 tinctions how far correspondent with those 
 made at present, ibid. Eloquence of po- 
 pular assemblies considered, ibid. The 
 foundation of eloquence, 256. The dan- 
 ger of trusting to prepared speeches at 
 public meetings, 257. Necessary preme- 
 ditation pointed out, ibid. Method, 258. 
 Style and expression, ibid. Impetuosity, 
 259. Attention to decorum, 260. Deli- 
 very, 261. 326. Summary, 261. See Ci- 
 cero, Demosthenes, Oration, and Pulpit. 
 English language, the arrangement of words 
 in more refined than that of ancient lan- 
 guages, 64. But more limited, ibid. The 
 principles of general grammar seldom 
 applied to it, 71. The important use of 
 
 articles in, 73. Ail substantive nou, 
 inanimate objects of the neuter gender,74. 
 The place of declension in, supplied by 
 prepositions, 76. The various tenses of 
 English verbs, 82. Historical view of the 
 English language, 85. The Celtic, the 
 primitive language of Britain, ibid. The 
 Teutonic tongue the basis of our present 
 speech, 86. Its irregularities accounted 
 for, 87. Its copiousness, ibid. Compa- 
 red with the French language, ibid. Its 
 style characterized, 88. Its flexibility, ibid. 
 Is more harmonious than is generally al- 
 lowed, 89. Is rather strong than graceful, 
 ibid. Accent thrown farther back in Eng- 
 lish words, than in those of any other 
 language, ibid. General properties of the 
 English tongue, ibid. Why so loosely and 
 inaccurately written, 90. The fundamen- 
 tal rules of syntax, common both to the 
 English and Latin, ibid. No author can 
 gain esteem if he does not write with puri- 
 ty, 91 . Grammatical authors recommend- 
 ed, ibid, note. 
 
 £/nc poetry, the standards of, 361. Is the 
 highest effort of poetical genius, 420. — 
 The characters of, obscured by critics, 
 ibid. Examination of Bossu's account of 
 the formation of the Iliad, ibid. Epic poe- 
 try considered as to its moral tendency, 
 422. Predominant character of, 423. 
 Action of, ibid. Episodes, 424. The sub- 
 ject should be of remote date, 425. Modern 
 history more proper for dramatic writing 
 than for epic poetry, ibid. The story 
 must be interesting and skilfully mana- 
 ged, 426. Tbe intrigue, ibid. The. ques- 
 tion considered whether it ought to end 
 successfully, ibid. Duration for the ac- 
 tion, 427. Characters of the personages, 
 ibid. The principal hero, ibid. The 
 machinery, 428. Narration, 429. Loose 
 observations, 430. 
 
 Episode, defined with reference to epic poe- 
 try, 424. Rules for the conduct of, ibid. 
 
 Epistolary writing, general remarks on, 369. 
 
 Eve, her character in Milton's Paradise Lost, 
 451. 
 
 Euripides, instance of his excellence in the 
 pathetic, 468. note. His character as a 
 tragic writer, 471. 
 
 Exclamations, the proper use of, 169. Mode 
 of their operation, 170. Rule for the 
 employment of, ibid. 
 
 Exercise "improves both bodi/y and mental 
 powers, 17. 
 
 Exordium of a discourse, the objects of, 306. 
 Rules for the composition of, 307. 
 
 Explication of the subject of a sermon, ob- 
 servation on, 315. 
 F 
 
 Face, human, the beauty of, complex, 48. 
 
 Farquhar, his character as a dramatic wri- 
 ter, 542. . 
 
 Fathers, Latin, character of their style ot 
 eloquence, 250. 
 
 Fenelon, archbishop, his parallel between 
 
INDEX 
 
 493 
 
 Demosthenes and Cicero, 249. His re- 
 marks on the composition of a sermon, 
 311. Critical examination of his adven- 
 tures of Telemachus, 447. 
 
 Fielding, a character of his novels, 376. 
 
 Figurative style of language denned, 131. 
 Is not a scholastic invention, but a natural 
 effusion of imagination, 132. How describ- 
 ed by rhetoricians, ibid. Will not render 
 a cold or empty composition interesting, 
 134. The pathetic and sublime reject 
 figures of speech, ibid. Origin of, ibid. 
 How they contribute to the beauty of 
 style, 137. Illustrate description, 138. 
 Heightened emotion, 139. The rhetorical 
 names and classes of figures frivolous, 
 140. The beauties of composition not 
 dependent on tropes and figures, 173. 
 Figures must always rise naturally from 
 the subject,ibid. Are not to be profuse- 
 ly used, ibid. The talent of using deri- 
 ved from nature, and not to be created, 
 174. If improperly introduced, are a de- 
 formity, ibid, note. See Metaphor. 
 
 Figure considered as a source of beauty, 
 46. 
 
 Figures of speech, the origin of, 60. 
 
 Figures of thought among rhetoricians, de- 
 fined, 133. 
 
 Fitness and design, considered as sources of 
 beauty, 49. 
 
 Fleece, a poem, harmonious passage from, 
 130. 
 
 Fontenelle, character of his dialogues, 369. 
 
 French Norman, when introduced into Eng- 
 land, 86. 
 
 French writers, general remarks on their 
 style, 178. Eloquence, 237, 251. French 
 and English oratory compared, 252. 
 
 Frigidity in writing characterized, 44. 
 G 
 
 Gay, a character of his pastorals, 394. 
 
 Gender of nouns, foundation of, 74. 
 
 Genius distinguished from taste, 27. Its im- 
 port, ibid. Includes taste, ibid. The 
 pleasures of the imagination, a striking 
 testimony of divinebenevolence,29. True, 
 is nursed by liberty, 237. In arts and wri- 
 ting why displayed more in one age than 
 another, 347. Was more vigorous in the 
 Ancients than in the moderns, 350. A 
 general mediocrity of now diffused, 351. 
 
 Gesner a character of his Idylls, 394. 
 
 Gestures in public oratory. See Jiction. 
 
 Gil Bias of Le Sage, character of that no- 
 vel, 375. 
 
 Girard abbe, character of his Synonymes 
 Francois, 100, note. 
 
 Gordon, instances of his unnatural disposi- 
 tion of words, 114. 
 
 Gorgius of Leontium, the rhetorician, his 
 character, 240. 
 
 Gothic poetry, its character, 380. 
 
 Gracchus, C. his declamations regulated by 
 musical rules, 123. 
 
 Grammar, general, the principles of, titles 
 attended to by writers, 71. The division 
 
 of the several parts of speech, ibid. Nouns 
 substantive, 72. Articles, 73. Number, 
 gender, and case of nouns, 74. Preposi- 
 tions, 77. Pronouns, 79. Adjectives, 80. 
 Verbs, 81. Verbs the most artificial com- 
 plex of all the parts of speech, 83. Ad- 
 verbs, 84. Prepositions and conjunc- 
 tions, ibid. Importance of the study of 
 grammar, 85. 
 
 Grandeur. See Sublimity. 
 
 Greece, short account of the ancient repub- 
 lics of, 238. Eloquence carefully studied 
 there, 239. Characters of the distinguish- 
 ed orators of, ibid. Rise and character 
 of the rhetoricians, 240. 
 
 Greek, a musical language, 58. 122. Its 
 flexibility, 88. Writers ditsinguished for 
 simplicity, 186. 
 
 Guarini, character of his Pastor Fido, 394. ' 
 
 Guicciardini, his character as an historian, 
 363. 
 
 H. 
 
 Habakkuk, sublime representation of the 
 Deity in, 36. 
 
 Harris, explanatory simile cited from, 164. 
 
 Hebrew poetry, in what points of view to 
 be considered, 410. The ancient pronun- 
 ciaton of, lost, 411. Music and poetry, 
 early cultivated among the Hebrews, ibid. 
 Construction of Hebrew poetry, 412. Is 
 distinguished by a concise, strong, figu- 
 rative expression, 413. The metaphors 
 employed in, suggested by the climate 
 and nature of the land of Judea, 414. 416. 
 Bold and sublime instances of personifi- 
 cation in, ibid. Book of Proverbs, 417. 
 Lamentations of Jeremiah, ibid. Book 
 of Job, 418. 
 
 Helen, her character in the Iliad examined, 
 433. 
 
 Hell, the various descents into, given by epic 
 poets, show the gradual improvement of 
 notions concerning a future state, 44S. 
 
 Henriade. See Voltaire. 
 
 Herodotus, his character as an historian, 
 356. 
 
 Heroism, sublime instances of pointed out, 
 32. 
 
 Hervey, character of his style, 183. 
 
 Hieroglyphics, the second stage of writing, 
 66. Of Egypt, ibid. 
 
 Historians, modern, their advantages over 
 the ancient, 349. Ancient models of, 351. 
 The objects of their duty, 352. Character 
 of Polybius, 354. Of Thucydides, 355. 
 Of Herodotus and Tbuanus, 356. Primary 
 qualities necessary in an historian, ibid. 
 Character of Livy and Sallust, 357. Of 
 Tacitus, ibid. Instructions and cautions 
 to historians, ibid, How to preserve the 
 dignity of narration, 350. How to render 
 it interesting, ibid. Danger of refining too 
 much in drawing characters, 362. Charac- 
 ter of the Italian historians, 363, The 
 French and English, 364. 
 
 History, the proper objects and end of, 352, 
 True, the characters of, 353. The differ- 
 
494 
 
 IXDEX. 
 
 ent classes of, ibid. General history, the 
 proper conduct of, 354. The necessary 
 qualities of historical narration, 359. The 
 propriety of introducing orations in histo- 
 ry examined, 362. And characters, ibid. 
 The Italians the best modern historians, 
 363. See Annals* Biography, Memoirs, 
 and Novels. 
 
 Hogarth, his analysis of beauty considered, 
 47. 
 
 Homer, not acquainted with poetry as a 
 systematic art, 25. Did not possess a re- 
 fined taste, 28. Instauces of sublimity in, 
 37. Is remarkable for the use of personi- 
 fication, 157. Story of the Iliad, 430. 
 Remarks on, 431. His invention and 
 judgment in the conduct of the poem, 432. 
 Advantages and defects arising from his 
 narrative speeches, ibid. His character, 
 433. His machinery, 434. His style, 435. 
 His skill in narrative description, ibid. 
 His similes, 436. General character of 
 his Odyssey, ibid. Defects of the Odyssey, 
 437. Compared with Virgil, ibid. 
 
 Hooker, a specimen of his style, 179. 
 j Horace, figurative passages cited from, 138. 
 Instance of mixed metaphor in, 148. 
 Crowded metaphors, 149. His charac- 
 ter as a poet, 351. 398. Was the reform- 
 1 er of satire, 402. 
 
 Humour, why the English possess this qua- 
 » lity more eminently than other nations, 
 4S3. 
 
 Hyperbole, an explanation of that figure, 
 152. Cautions for the use of, ibid. Two 
 kinds of, 153. 
 
 I. 
 
 Ideas, abstract, entered into the first form- 
 ation of language, 73. 
 
 Jeremiah, his poetical character, 418. See 
 Lamentations. 
 
 Iliad, story of, 430. Remarks on, 431. The 
 principal characters, 433. Machinery of, 
 434. 
 
 Imagination, the Pleasures of, as specified 
 by Mr. Addison, 28. The powers of, to 
 enlarge the sphere of our pleasure, a stri- 
 king instance of divine benevolence, 29. 
 Is the source of figurative language, 132. 
 135. 
 
 Imitation, considered as a source of pleasure 
 to taste, 51. And description distinguish- 
 ed, 52. 
 
 Inferences from a sermon, the proper ma- 
 nagement of, 325. 
 
 Infinity of space, numbers, or duration, af- 
 fect the mind with sublime ideas, 30. 
 
 Interjections, the first elements of speech, 
 55. 
 
 Interrogation, instances of the happy use 
 and effect of, 169. Mode of their opera- 
 tion, 170, Rule for using, ibid. 
 - Job, exemplification of the sublimity of ob- 
 scurity in the book of, 31. Remarks on the 
 style of, 411. The subject and poety of, 
 419. Fine passage from, ibid. 
 
 Johnson, his character of Dryden's prose 
 
 style, 180, note. His remarks oa the style- 
 of Swift, 224, note. His character of 
 Thompson, 405, note. His character of 
 Dryden's comedies, 484, note. His cha- 
 racter of Congreve, 485, note. 
 
 Jonson, Ben, his character as a dramatic 
 poet, 483. 
 
 Isceus, the rhetorician, his character, 242. 
 
 Isaiah, sublime representation of the Deity 
 in, 37. His description of the fall of the 
 Assyrian empire, 162. His metaphors 
 suited to the climate of Judea, 414, 415, 
 His character as a poet, 418. 
 
 Isocrates, the rhetorician, his character, 241. 
 
 Judea, remarks on the climate and natural 
 circumstances of that country, 414. 
 
 Judicial orations, what, 255. 
 
 Juvenal, a character of his satires, 402. 
 K. 
 
 Kaims, lord, his severe censures of English, 
 comedies, 485. 
 
 Knight errantry, foundation of the roman- 
 ces concerning, 374. 
 
 Knowledge, an essential requisite for Elo- 
 quence, 340. The progress of, in favour 
 of the moderns upon a comparison with 
 the ancients, 350. The acquisition of, 
 difficult in former ages, ibid. 
 L. 
 
 Lamentations of Jeremiah, the most perfect 
 elegiac composition in the sacred Scrip- 
 tures, 417. 
 
 Landscape, considered as an assemblage of 
 beautiful objects, 48. 
 
 Language, the improvement of, studied 
 even by rude nations, 9. In what the true 
 improvement of language consists, 10. 
 Importance of the study of language, ibid. 
 Defined, 53. The present refinements 
 oi,ibid. Origin and progress of, 54. The 
 first elements of, 55. Analogy between 
 words and things, ibid. The great assist- 
 ance afforded by gestures, 57. The Chi- 
 nese language, 58. The Greek and ^Ro- 
 man languages, ibid. Action much used 
 by ancient orators, ibid. Roman panto- 
 mimes, 59. Great difference between an- 
 cient and modern pronunciation, ibid. 
 Figures of speech, the origin of, 60. Fi- 
 gurative style of American languages, ibid. 
 Cause of the decline of figurative language, 
 61. The natural and original arrange- 
 ment of words in speech, 62. The arrange- 
 ment of words in modern languages, dif- 
 ferent from that of the ancients, 63. An 
 exemplification, ibid. Summary of the 
 foregoing observations, 65. Its wonderful 
 powers, 139. All language strongly tinc- 
 tured with metaphor, 142. In modem 
 productions, often better than the subjects 
 of them, 233. Written and oral, distinc- 
 tion between, 342. See Grammar, Style, 
 and Writing. 
 
 Latin language, the pronunciation of, musi- 
 cal and gesticulating, 58. 122. The natu- 
 ral arrangement of words in, 62. The 
 want of articles a defect in, 73. Remarks 
 
INDEX, 
 
 49, 
 
 ©a words deemed synonymous in, 97. 
 learning, an essential requisite for elo- 
 quence, 340. 
 Lebanon, metaphorical allusions to, in He- 
 brew poetry, 415. 
 Lee, extravagant hyperbole quoted from, 
 153. His character as a tragic poet, 475. 
 Liberty, the nurse of true genius, 237. 
 Literary composition, importance of the 
 study of language, preparatory to, 11. 
 The beauties of, indefinite, 50. To what 
 class the pleasures received from elo- 
 quence, poetry, and fine writing, are to be 
 referred, 51 . The beauties of, not depend- 
 ent on tropes and figures, 173. The dif- 
 ferent kinds of, distinguished, 352. See 
 History, Poetry, &c. 
 Livy, his character as an historian, 357, 360. 
 Locke, general character of his style, 181. — 
 The style of his Treatise on Human Un- 
 derstanding, compared with the writings 
 of Lord Shaftesbury, 367. 
 Longinus, strictures on his Treatise on the 
 Sublime, 35. His account of the conse- 
 quences of liberty, 237. His sententious 
 opinion of Homer's Odyssey, 436. 
 Lopes de la Vega, his character as a dramatic 
 
 poet, 481. 
 Love, too much importance and frequency 
 
 allowed to, on the modern stage, 466. 
 Lowth's English Grammar recommended, 
 91, note, 112, note. His character of the 
 prophet Ezekiel, 419. 
 Lucan, instance of his destroying a sublime 
 expression of Caesar, by amplification, 39. 
 Extravagant hyperbole from, 154. Criti- 
 cal examination of his Phnrsalia, 440. 
 The subj ect, 441 . Characters and conduct 
 of the story, ibid. 
 Lucian, character of his dialogues, 369. 
 Lucretius, his sublime representation of the 
 dominion of superstition over mankind, 
 32, note. The most admired passages in 
 his Treatise, De Rerum Natura, 401. 
 Lusiad. See Camoens. 
 Lyric poetry, the peculiar character of, 396. 
 
 Memoirs, their class in historical composition* 
 assigned, 365. Why the French are fond 
 of this kind of writing, ibid. 
 
 Metalepsis, in figurative language explained,, 
 141. 
 
 Metaphor, in figurative style, explained, 141, 
 
 142. All language strongly tinctured 
 with, ibid. Approaches the nearest to 
 painting of all the figures of speech, ibid. 
 Rules to be observed in the conduct of, 
 
 143. See Allegory. 
 
 Metastasio, his character as a dramatic wri- 
 ter, 473. 
 Metonymy, in figurative style, explained, 
 
 142. 
 Mexico, historical pictures the records of that 
 
 empire, 66. 
 Milo, narrative of the rencounter between 
 
 him and Clodius, by Cicero, 31 4. 
 Milton, instances of sublimity in, 31,40,42. 
 Of harmony, 121, 129. Hyperbolical 
 sentiments of Satan in, 153. Striking in- 
 stances of personification in, 157, 158, 
 159. Excellence of his descriptive poe- 
 try, 406. Who the proper hero of his 
 Paradise Lost, 428. Critical examination 
 of this poem, 450. His sublimity charac- 
 terized, 451. His language and versifi- 
 cation, 452. 
 
 Moderns. See Ancients. 
 
 Moliere, his character as a dramatic poet, 
 482. 
 
 Monboddo, lord, his observations on English 
 and Latin verse, 384, note. 
 
 Monotony, in language, often the result of 
 too great attention to musical arrange- 
 ment, 126. 
 
 Montague, Lady Mary Wortley, a character 
 of her epistolary style, 373. 
 
 Montesquieu, character of his style, 177. 
 
 Monumental inscriptions, the numbers suited 
 to the style, 130. 
 
 Moralt, M. his severe censure of English 
 comedy, 485. 
 
 More, Dr. Henry, character of his divine 
 dialogues, 369. 
 
 Four classes of odes, 397. Characters of Motion, considered as a source of beauty. 
 
 the most eminent lyric poets, 398. 
 
 Lvsias, the rhetorician, his character, 242. 
 * M 
 
 Machiavel, his character as an historian, 363. 
 
 Machinery, the great use of, in epic poetry, 
 428. Cautions for the use of, 429, 434. 
 
 Mackensie, Sir George, instance of regular 
 climax in his pleadings, 172. 
 
 Man, by nature, both a poet and musician, 
 378. 
 
 Marivaux, a character of his novels, 375. 
 
 Marmontel, his comparative remarks on 
 French, English, and Italian poetry, 385, 
 note. 
 
 Marsy, Fr. his contrast between the charac- 
 ters of Corneille and Racine, 473, note. 
 
 Massillon, extracts from a celebrated sermon 
 of his, 289, note. Encomium on, by Louis 
 XIV. 292. His artful division of a text, 
 313. 
 
 47. 
 
 Motte, M. de la, his observations on lyric 
 poetry, 397, note. Remarks on his criti- 
 cism on Homer, 436, note. 
 
 Music, its influence on the passions, 378. 
 Its union with poetry, ibid. Their sepa- 
 ration injurious to each, 382. 
 N 
 
 Naivete, import of that French term, 185. 
 
 Narration, an important point in pleadings 
 at the bar, 313. 
 
 Night scenes commonly sublime, 30. 
 
 Nomic melody of the Athenians, what, 123. 
 
 Novels, a species of writing, not so insignifi- 
 cant as may be imagined, 373. Might be 
 employed for very useful purposes, ibid, 
 Rise and progress of fictitious history", 
 ibid. Characters of the most celebrated 
 romances and novels, 374. 
 
 Novelty, considered as a source of beauty ,50, 
 
496 
 
 TXDEX: 
 
 JVbwns, substantive, the foundation of all 
 grammar, 72. Number, gender, and ca- 
 ses of, 74. 
 
 O. 
 
 Obscurity, not unfavourable tosublimity,31. 
 Of style, owing to indistinct conceptions, 
 93. 
 
 Ode, the nature of defined, 396. Four dis- 
 tinctions of, 397. Obscurity and irregu- 
 larity, the great faults in, ibid. 
 
 Odyssey, general character of, 436. Defects 
 of, 437. 
 
 GZdipus, an improper character for the stage, 
 465. 
 
 Orators ancient, declaimed in recitative, 
 58. 
 
 Orations, the three kinds of, distinguished 
 by the ancients, 255. The present dis- 
 tinctions of, ibid. Those in popular as- 
 semblies considered, ibid. Prepared 
 speeches not to be trusted to, 257. Ne- 
 cessary degrees of premeditation, ibid. 
 Method, 258. Style and expression, ibid. 
 Impetuosity, 259. Attention to decorums, 
 260. Delivery, 261, 326. The several 
 parts of a regular oration, 305. Introduc- 
 tion, 306. Introduction to replies, 310. 
 Introduction to sermons, 311. Division 
 of a discourse, ibid. Rules for dividing 
 it, 312. Explication, 313. The argu- 
 mentative part, 316. The pathetic, 320. 
 The peroration, 325. Virtue necessary 
 to the perfection of eloquence, 338. De- 
 scription of a true orator, 340. Qualifi- 
 cations for, ibid. The best ancient wri- 
 ters on oratory, 345, 351. The use made 
 of orations by the ancient historians, 362. 
 See Eloquence. 
 
 Oriental poetry, more characteristical of an 
 age than of a country, 379. Style of 
 Scripture language, 61. 
 
 Orlando Furioso. See Ariosto. 
 
 Ossian, instances of sublimity in his works, 
 38. Correct metaphors, 147. Confused 
 mixture of metaphorical and plain lan- 
 guage in, ibid. Fine apostrophe, 161. 
 Delicate simile, 164. Lively descriptions 
 in, 408. 
 
 Otway, his character as a tragic poet, 475. 
 
 Pantomime, an entertainment of Roman 
 
 origin, 59. 
 Parables, Eastern, their general vehicle for 
 
 the conveyance of truth, 416. 
 Paradise Lost, critical review of that poem, 
 
 450. The characters in, ibid. Sublimity 
 
 of, 45 1 . Language and versification, 452 . 
 Parentheses, cautions for the use of them, 
 
 109. 
 Paris, his character in the Iliad, examined, 
 
 433. 
 Parliament of Great Britain, why eloquence 
 
 has never been so powerful an instrument 
 
 in as in the ancient popular assemblies of 
 
 Greece and Rome, 253. 
 Parnel, his character aa a descriptive poet, 
 
 406. 
 
 Particles, cautions for the use of them, t\%, 
 Ought never to close sentences, 117. 
 
 Passioji, the source of oratory, 236. 
 
 Passiojis, when and how to be addressed by 
 orators, 321. The orator must feel emo- 
 tions before he can communicate them to 
 others, 322. The language of, 323. Poets 
 address themselves to the passions, 378. 
 
 Pastoral poetry, inquiry into its origin, 387. 
 A threefold view of pastoral life, 338. 
 Rules for pastoral writing, ibid. Its sce- 
 nery, 389. Characters, 391. Subjects, 
 392. Comparative merit of ancient pas- 
 toral writers, 393. And of moderns, ibid. 
 
 Pathetic, the proper management of, in a 
 discourse, 321. Fine instance of, from 
 Cicero, 324. 
 
 Pauses, the due uses of, in public speaking, 
 331. In poetry, 332, 384. 
 
 Pericles, the first who brought eloquence to 
 any degree of perfection, 239. His gene- 
 ral character, ibid. 
 
 Period. See Sentence. 
 
 Personification, the peculiar advantages of 
 the English language in, 75. Limitations 
 of gender in, 76. Objections against the 
 practice of, answered, 155. The disposi- 
 tion to animate the objects about us natu- 
 ral to mankind, ibid. . This disposition 
 may account for the number of heathen 
 divinities, ibid. Three degrees of this fi- 
 gure, 156. Rules for the management of 
 the highest degree of, 158. Cautions for 
 the use of, in prose compositions, 160. 
 See Apostrophe. 
 
 Persius, a character of his satires, 402. 
 
 Perspicuity, ©eeential to a good style, 92s 
 
 Not merely a negative virtue, 93. The 
 
 three qualities of, ibid. 
 Persuasion, distinguished from conviction, 
 
 235. Objection brought from the abuse 
 
 of this art, answered, ibid. Rules for, 256. 
 Peruvians, their method of transmitting their 
 
 thoughts to each other, 67. 
 Petronius Arbiter, his address to the declaim- 
 
 ers of his time, 250. 
 Pharsalia. See Lucan. 
 Pherecydes of Sycros, the first prose writer, 
 
 61. 
 Philips, character of his pastorals, 394. 
 Philosophers, modern, their superiority over 
 
 the ancient, unquestionable, 349. 
 Philosophy, the proper style of writing 
 
 adapted to, 367. Proper embellishment 
 
 for, ibid. 
 Pictures, the first essay toward writing, 66. 
 Pindar, his character as a lyric poet, 398. 
 Pitcairn, Dr. extravagant hyperbole cited 
 
 from, 154. 
 Plato, character of his dialogues, 368. 
 Plaulus, his character as a dramatic poet> 
 
 481. 
 Pleaders at the bar, instructions to, 269, 313. 
 Pliny's Letters, general character of, 371. 
 Plutarch, his character as a biographer, 366. 
 Poetry, in what sense descriptive, and in 
 
 what imitative, 52. Is more ancient than 
 
INDEX, 
 
 497 
 
 jimse, 61. Source of the pleasure we re- 
 ceive from the figurative style of, 158. 
 Test of the merit of, 166. Whence the 
 difficulty of reading poetry arises, 332. 
 Compared with oratory. 338. Epic, the 
 standards of, 351. Definition of poetry, 
 376. Is addressed to the imagination and 
 the passions, 377. Its origin, ibid. In 
 what sense older than prose, ibid. Its 
 union with music, 378. Ancient history 
 and instruction first, conveyed in poetry, 
 379. Oriental, more characteristical of an 
 age than of a country, ibid. Gothic, Cel- 
 tic, and Grecian, 380. Origin of the dif- 
 ferent kinds of, 381. Was more vigorous 
 in its first rude essays than under refine- 
 ment, ibid. Was injured by the separa- 
 tion of music from it, 382. Metrical feet, 
 invention of, 383. These measures not 
 applicable to English poetry, ibid. Eng- 
 lish heroic verse, the structure of, 334. 
 French poetry, ibid. Rhyme and blank 
 verse compared, 386. Progress of Eng- 
 lish versification, 387. Pastorals, ibid. 
 Lyrics, 396. Didactic poetry, 399. De- 
 scriptive poetry. 404. Hebrew poetry, 
 410. Epic poetry, 420. Poetic charac- 
 ters, two kinds of, 427. Dramatic poetry, 
 452. 
 
 Pointing, cannot correct a confused sen- 
 tence, 109. 
 
 Politics, the science of, why ill understood 
 among the ancients, 356. 
 
 Polybius, his character as an historian, 
 357. 
 
 Pope, criticism on a passage in his Homer, 
 40. Prose specimen from, consisting of 
 short sentences, 102. Other specimens 
 of his style, 1 14, 1 19. Confused mixtures 
 of metaphorical and plain language in, 
 146. Mixed metaphor in, 149. Confused 
 personification, 160. Instance of his fond- 
 ness for antithesis, 169. Character of his 
 epistolary writings, 372. Criticism on ? 
 ibid. Construction of his verse, 385. Pe- 
 culiar character of his versification, 387. 
 His pastorals, 392, 394. His ethic epistles, 
 403. The merits of his various poems ex- 
 amined, ibid. Character of his translation 
 of Homer, 435. 
 
 Precision in language, in what it consists, 
 94. The importance of, ibid. 103. Re- 
 quisites to, 100. 
 
 Prepositions, whether more ancientthan the 
 declensions of nouns by cases, 77. Whe- 
 ther more useful and beautiful, 78. Dr. 
 Campbell's observations on, 79, note. 
 Their great use in speech, 84. 
 
 Prior, allegory cited from, 151. 
 
 Pronouns, their use, varieties, and cases, 79. 
 Relative instances illustrating the impor- 
 tance of their proper position In a sen- 
 tence, 104. 
 
 Pronunciation, distinctness of, necessary in 
 public speaking, 328. Tones of, 333. 
 
 Proverbs, book of. a didactic Poem, 417. 
 
 Rrr 
 
 Psalm xviii, sublime representation of the 
 Deily in, 36. lxxxth,afiae allegor) 7 from, 
 151. Remarks on the poetic construc- 
 tion of the Psalms, 412, 415. 
 Pulpit, eloquence of the, defined, 236. Eng- 
 lish and French sermons compared, 252 
 The practice of reading sermons in Eng- 
 land, disadvantageous to oratory, 254 
 The art of persuasion resigned to the Pu- 
 ritans, ibid. Advantages and disadvanta- 
 ges of pulpit eloquence, 280. Rules for 
 preaching, 281. The chief characteris- 
 tics of pulpit eloquence, 283. Whether 
 it is best to read sermons, or deliver them 
 extempore, 288. Pronunciation, ibid. Re- 
 marks on French sermons, ibid. Cause 
 of the dry argumentative style of Eng- 
 lish sermons, 290. General observations 
 291. 
 
 Pisistralus, the first who cultivated the arts 
 of speech, 239. 
 
 Q. 
 
 Quint Man, his ideas of taste, 16, note. His 
 account of the ancient division of the 
 several parts of speech, 72, noie. His re- 
 marks on the importance of the study of 
 grammar, 85. On perspicuity of style,' 92. 
 97. On climax, 1 16. On the structure of 
 sentences, 118. Which ought not to of- 
 fend the ear, 120. 125. His caution a- 
 gainst too great an attention to harmony, 
 127. His caution against uixed metaphor, 
 147. His fine apostrophe on the death of 
 his son, 161. His rule for the use of simi- 
 les, 167. His direction for the use of 
 figures of style, 174. His distinctions of 
 style, 176, 182. His instructions for good 
 writing, 191. His character of Cicero's 1 
 oratory, 247. His instructions to public 
 speakers for preserving decorum, 260. 
 His instructions to judicial pleaders, 270. 
 His observations on exordiums to replies 
 in debate, 310. On the proper division of 
 an oration, 312. His mode of addressing 
 the passions, 323. His lively representa- 
 tion of the effects of depravity, 339. Is 
 the best ancient writer on oratory, 346. 
 R. 
 
 Racine, his character as a tragic poet, 472. 
 
 Ramsay, Allan, character of his Gentle 
 Shepherd, 396. 
 
 Rapin, P. Remarks on his parallels be- 
 tween Greek and Roman writers, 248. 
 
 Rets, Cardinal de, character of his Me- 
 moirs, 365. 
 
 Rhetoricians, Grecian, rise and character 
 of, 240. 
 
 Rhyme, in English verse, unfavourable to 
 sublimity, 39. And blank verse compar- 
 ed, 386. The former, why improper in 
 the Greek and Latin languages, ibid. 
 The first introduction of couplets in Eng- 
 lish poetry, 387. 
 
 Richardson, a character of his novels, 376. 
 
 Ridicule, an instrument often misapplied; 
 477. 
 
i y 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Robinson Crusoe, a character of that novel, 
 375. 
 
 Romance, derivation of the term, 374. See 
 Novels. 
 
 Rpmans, derived their learning from Greece, 
 245. Comparison between them and the 
 Greeks, ibid. Historical view of their 
 eloquence, ibid. Oratorical character of 
 Cicero, 246. ^-Era of the decline of elo- 
 quence among, 249. 
 
 Rousseau, Jean Baptiste, his character as a 
 lyric poet, 399. 
 
 Rowe, his character as a tragic poet, 475. 
 S. 
 
 Sallust, his character as an historian, 357. 
 
 Sanasarius, his piscatory eclogues, 393. 
 
 Satan, examination of his character in Mil- 
 ton's Paradise Lost, 450. 
 
 Satire, poetical, general remarks on the 
 style of, 402. 
 
 Saxon language, how established in Eng- 
 land, 86. 
 
 Scenes, dramatic, what, and the propercon- 
 duct of, 462. 
 
 Scriptures, sacred, the figurative style of, 
 remarked, 61. The translators of, happy 
 in suiting their numbers to the subject, 
 123. Fine apostrophe in, l-v2. Present 
 ns with the mo?t ancient monuments of 
 poetry extant, 410. The diversity of 
 .style in the several books of, 411. The 
 Psalms of David, 412. IN'o other writings 
 abound with such bold and animated 
 figures, 414. Parables, 416. Bold and 
 sublime instances of personification in, 
 ■ibid. Book of Proverbs, 417. Lamen- 
 tations of Jeremiah , ibid. 
 
 Scuderij Madam, her romances, 375. 
 
 Seneca, his frequent antithesis censured, 
 168. Character of his general style, 17S. 
 His epistolary writings, 370. 
 
 Sentence, in language, definition of, 101. 
 Distinguished into long and short, ibid. A 
 variety in, to be studied, 102. The proper- 
 ties essential to a perfect sentence, 103. 
 A principal rule for arranging the mem- 
 bers of, ibid. Position of adverbs, 'ibid. 
 And relative pronouns, 104. Unity of a 
 sentence, rules for preserving, 107- Point- 
 ing, 109. Parenthesis, ibid. Should al- 
 ways be brought to a perfect close, ibid. 
 Strength,110. Should be cleared of redun- 
 dancies, 111. Due attention to particles 
 recommended, ibid. The omission of 
 particles sometimes connects objects clo- 
 ser together, 113. Directions for placing 
 the important words, 114. Climax, 116. 
 A like order necessary to be observed in ail 
 assertions of propositions, ibid. Sentence 
 ought not to conclude with a feeble word, 
 117. Fundamental rule in the construc- 
 tion of, 120. Sound not to be disregarded, 
 ibid. Two circumstances 1o be attended 
 to for producing harmony in, 121, 125. 
 Rules of the ancient rhetoftcialw for this 
 
 purpose, 122. Why harmony much less 
 studied now than formerly, ibid. English 
 words cannot be so exactly measured by 
 metrical feet, as those* of Greek and Latin, 
 124. What required for the musical close 
 of a sentence, 126. Unmeaning words in- 
 troduced merely to round a sentence, a 
 great blemish, 127. Sounds ought to be 
 adapted to sense, 128. 
 
 Sermons, English compared with French, 
 252. Unity an indispensable requisite in, 
 283. The subject ought to be precise and 
 particular, 284. The subject ought not to 
 be exhausted, ibid. Cautions against dry- 
 ness, 285. And against conforming to 
 fashionable modes of preaching, 286. 
 Style, ibid. Quaint expressions, 287. 
 Whether best written or delivered ex- 
 tempore, 288. Delivery, ibid. Remarks 
 on French Sermons, ibid. Cause of the 
 dry argumentative style of English ser- 
 mons, 290. General observations, 291. 
 Remarks on the proper division of, 311. 
 Conclusion, 325. Delivery, 326. 
 
 Sevigne", Madam de, character of her let- 
 ters, 372. 
 
 Shaftesbury, lord, observations on his style, 
 96, 103, 108, 115, 127, 150. His general 
 character as a writer, 188. 
 
 Shakspeare, the merit of his plays examined, 
 26. Was not possessed of refined taste, 2S. 
 Instance of his improperuse of metaphors, 
 145, 14S. Exhibits passions in the lan- 
 guage of nature, 468. His character as a 
 tragic poet, 474. As a comic poet, 433. 
 
 Shenstone, his pastoral ballad, 394. 
 
 S.hepherd, the proper character of, in pasto- 
 ral description, 391. 
 
 Sheridan, his distinction between ideas and 
 emotions, 333, note. 
 
 Sherlock, bishop, fine instance of personifi- 
 cation cited from his sermons, 156. A 
 happy allusion cited from his sermons, 
 287, note. 
 
 Silius flalicus, his sublime representation of 
 Hannibal, 33, vote. 
 
 Simile, distinguished from metaphor, 141. 
 163. Sources of the pleasure they af- 
 ford, ibid. Two kinds of, 164. Requisites 
 in, 165. Rules for, 166. Local propriety 
 to be adhered to in, 167. 
 
 Simplicity applied to style, different senses 
 of the term, 184. 
 
 Smollett, improper use of figurative style, 
 cited from him, 144, note. 
 
 Solomon's song, descriptive beauties of, 407. 
 
 Songs, Runic, the origin of Gothic history, 
 379. 
 
 Sophists of Greece, rise and character of,240, 
 
 Sophocles, the plots of his tragedies remark- 
 ably simple, 458. Excelled in the pathe- 
 tic, 468. His character as a tragic, poet, 
 470. 
 
 Sorrow, why the emotions of, excited by 
 tragedy, communivate pleasure, 461. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 49< 
 
 bounds, of an awful nature, affect us with 
 sublimity, 30. Influence of, in the forma- 
 tion of words, 55. 
 
 Speaker, public, must be directed inore by 
 his ear than by rules, 124. 
 
 Spectator, general character of thatpublica- 
 tion, 193. Critical examination of those 
 papers that treat of the pleasures of the 
 imagination, 194. 
 
 Speech, the power of, the distinguishing 
 privilege of mankind, 9. The grammat- 
 ical division of, into eight parts, not logi- 
 cal, 72. Of the ancients, regulated by mu- 
 sical rules, 122. 
 
 Strada, his character as an historian, 364. 
 
 Style, in language defined, 91. The differ- 
 ence of, in different countries, 92. The 
 qualities of a good style, ibid. Perspicui- 
 ty, ibid. Obscurity, owing to indistinct 
 conceptions, 93. Three requisite quali- 
 ties in perspicuity, ibid. Precision, 94. 
 A loose style, from what it proceeds, 95. 
 Too great an attention to precision ren- 
 ders a style dry and barren, 100. French 
 distinction of style, 102. The characters 
 of, flow from peculiar modes of thinking, 
 175. Different subjects require a different 
 style, ibid. Ancient distinctions of, 176. 
 The different kinds of, ibid. Concise and 
 diffusive, on what occasions proper, 177. 
 Nervous and feeble, 178. A harsh style, 
 from what it proceeds, 179. Era of the 
 formation of our present style, 180. Dry- 
 manner described, ibid. A plain style, 
 ibid. Neat style, 181. Elegant style, 
 182. Florid style, ibid. Natural style, 
 184. Different senses of the term simplici- 
 ty, ibid. T be Greek writers distinguish- 
 ed for simplicity, 185. Vehement style, 
 189. General directions how to attain a 
 good style, 190. Imitation dangerous, 
 192. Style not to be studied to the neg- 
 lect of thoughts, 193. Critical examina- 
 tion of those papers in the Spectator th»t 
 treat of the pleasures of imagination, 194. 
 Critical examination of a passage in Swift's 
 writings, 224. General observations, 233. 
 See Eloquence. 
 
 Sublimit]/ of external objects, and sublimity 
 in writing distinguished, 29. Its impres- 
 sions, ibid. Of space, 30. Of sounds, ibid. 
 Violence of the elements, ibid. Solemnity, 
 bordering on the terrible, ibid. Obscuri- 
 ty, not unfavourable to, 31. In buildings, 
 32. Heroism, ibid. Great virtue, 33. 
 Whether there is any one fundamental 
 quality in the sources of sublime, ibid. 
 
 Sublimity in writing, 34. Errors in Longi- 
 nus pointed out, ibid. The most ancient 
 writers afford the most striking instances 
 of sublimity, 36. Sublime representation 
 of the Deity in Psalm xviii. ibid. And in 
 the prophet Habakkuk, ibid. In Moses, 
 ibid. And in Isaiah, 37. Instances of sub- 
 limity in Homer, ibid. In Ossian, 38. 
 
 Amplification injurious to sublimity, 391 
 Rhyme in English verse unfavourable to[ 
 ibid. Strength essential to sublime wril 
 ting, 41. A proper choice of circumstan I 
 ces essential to sublime description, ibidt 
 Strictures on Virgil's description of Mount 
 yEtna, 42. The proper sources of th€| 
 sublime, 43. Sublimity consists in tin 
 thought, not in the words, ibid. Tht 
 faults opposed to the sublime, 44. 
 
 Sully, Duke de, character of his memoirs 
 365. 
 
 Superstition, sublime representation of it| 
 dominion over mankind, from Lucretius 
 32, note. 
 
 Swift, observations on his style, 94. 10(1 
 108.118. 128. General character of hi| 
 style, 181. Critical examination of the bt 
 ginning of his proposal for correcting, &.( 
 the English tongue, 224. Concludin| 
 observations, 233. His language, 34< 
 Character of his epistolary writing, 372. 
 
 Syllables, English, cannot be exactly meas 
 ured by metrical feet, as those of Greej 
 and Latin, 124. 
 
 Synedoche, in figurative stvle, explainec 
 141. 
 
 Synonymous words, observations on, 97. 
 T. 
 
 Tacitus, character of his style, 177. HI 
 character as a historian, 357. His liappl 
 manner of introducing incidental obseif 
 vations, 358. Instance of his successfi 
 talent in historical painting, 361. H| 
 defects as a writer, 362. 
 
 Taaso, a passage from his Gierusalemme di| 
 tinguished by the harmony of number 
 129. Strained sentiments in his pastoral 
 391. Character of his Aminta, 394. Ci 
 tical examination of his poem, 443. 
 
 Taste, true, the uses of, in common lit 
 13. Definition of, 15. Is more or lei 
 common to all men, 16. Is an improb| 
 ble faculty, 17. How to be refined, 18. 
 assisted by reason, ibid. A good heart ri 
 quisite to a just taste, 19. Delicacy ai| 
 correctness the characters of perfect tas^ 
 ibid. Whether there be any standard 
 taste, 20. The diversity of, in differel 
 men, no evidence of their tastes beiif 
 corrupted, 21. The test of, referred 
 the concurring voice of the polished pj 
 of mankind, 23. Distinguished from 
 nius, 27. The sources of pleasure i| 
 28 The powers of, enlarge the spin 
 of our pleasures, 29. Imitation, as| 
 source of pleasure, 51. Music, ibid. 
 what class the pleasures received fro| 
 eloquence, poetry, and fine writing, 
 to be referred, ibid. 
 
 Telemachus. See Fenelon. 
 
 Temple sir William, observations on 
 style, 95. Specimens, 102, 108, 110, 1 
 125. His general character as a writer, 15 
 
 Terence, beautiful instance of simplicil 
 
4 500 
 
 I INDEX, 
 
 j from, 186. His character as a dramatic 
 writer, 48 i 
 
 j } Terminations of words, the variation of, in 
 the Greek and Latin languages, favourable 
 
 ft to the liberty of transposition, 64. 
 Theocritus, the earliest known writer of pas- 
 torals, 388. His talents in painting rural 
 scenery, 389. Character of his pastorals, 
 393. 
 Thomson, fine passage from, where he ani- 
 
 jl mates all nature, 158. Character of his 
 seasons, 405. His eulogiumby Dr. John- 
 
 jtj son, ibid. note. 
 Thuanus, his character as an historian, 356. 
 
 gThucydides, his character as an historian, 
 
 g 355. Was the first who introduced ora- 
 
 S tions in historical narration, 362. 
 Tillotson, archbishop, observations on his 
 
 5 style, 95, 106, 125, 145. General charac- 
 ter of,' as a writer, 186. 
 
 ^Tories, the due management of, in public 
 speaking, 333. 
 
 ^Topics, among the ancient rhetoricians, ex- 
 plained, 316. 
 
 ^Tragedy, how distinguished from comedy, 
 452. More particular definition of, 453. 
 Subject and conduct of, 454. Rise and 
 progress of, 455. The three dramatic 
 unities, 457. Division of the representa- 
 tion into acts, 458. The catastrophe, 460. 
 Why the sorrow excited by tragedy com- 
 municates pleasure, 467. The proper idea 
 of scenes, and how to be conducted, 
 462. Characters, 464 Higher degrees of 
 morality inculcated by modern than by 
 ancient tragedy, 465. Too great use made 
 of the passion of love on the modern 
 
 ,q, stages, 466. All tragedies expected to be 
 
 g, pathetic, ibid. The proper use of moral 
 reflections in, 469. The proper style and 
 versification, ibid. Brief view of the 
 
 ,5, Greek stage, 470. French tragedy, 472. 
 English tragedy, 474. Concluding obser- 
 vations, 476. 
 
 'ropes, a definition of, 132. Origin of, 134. 
 The rhetorical distinctions among, frivo- 
 lous, 140. 
 
 'urnus, the character of, not favourably 
 treated in the yEneid, 439. 
 \irpin, archbishop of Rheims, a romance 
 writer, 374. 
 typographical figures of speech, what, 170. 
 
 anburgh, his character as a dramatic wri- 
 ter, 484. 
 
 erbs, their nature and office explained, 81. 
 No sentence complete without a verb, ex- 
 pressed or implied, ibid. The tenses, 82. 
 The advantage of English over the Latin, 
 in the variety of tenses, ibid. Active and 
 passive, ibid. Are the most artificial and 
 complex of all the parts of speech, 83. 
 irse, blank, more favourable to sublimity 
 
 than rhyme, 39. Instructions tor the 
 reading of, 332. Construction of, 385. 
 
 Virgil, instances of sublimity in, 31,41, 42. 
 Of harmony, 130, 131. Simplicity of lan- 
 guage, 134. Figurative language, 141, 156, 
 161. Specimens of his pastoral descrip- 
 tions. 389, note, 391. Character of his 
 pastorals, 393. His Georgics, a perfect 
 model of didactic poetry, 400. Beautiful 
 descriptions in his yEneid, 407. Critical 
 examination of that poem, 437. Compared 
 with Homer, 440. 
 
 Virtue, high degrees of, a source of the sub- 
 lime, 33. A necessary ingredient to form 
 an eloquent orator, 338. 
 
 Vision, the figure of speech so termed, in 
 what it consists. 171. 
 
 Unities, dramatic, the advantages of adher- 
 ing to, 457. W 7 hy the moderns are less 
 restricted to the unities of time and place 
 than the ancients, 463. 
 
 Voice, the powers of, to be studied in public 
 speaking, 328. 
 
 Voiture, character of Lis epistolary writings, 
 372. 
 
 Voltaire, his character as an historian, 366. 
 Critical examination of his Henriade, 448. 
 His argument for the use of rhyme in dra- 
 matic composition, 470. His character 
 as a tragic poet, 473. 
 
 Vossius, Joannes Gerardus, character of his 
 writings on eloquence, 345. 
 W. 
 
 Waller, the first English poet who brought 
 couplets into vogue, 387. 
 
 Wit, is to be very sparingly used at the bar, 
 272. 
 
 Words, obsolete, and new coined, incongru- 
 ous with purity of stle, 93. Bad conse- 
 quences of their being ill chosen, ibid. 
 Observations on those termed synony- 
 mous, 97- Considered with reference to 
 sound, 121. 
 
 Words, and things, instances of the analogy 
 between, 55. 
 
 Writers of genius, why they have been more 
 numerous in one age than another, 347- 
 Four happy ages of, pointed out, ibid. 
 
 Writing, two kinds of, distinguished, 65. 
 Pictures, the first essay in, 66. Hierogly- 
 phic, the second, ibid. Chinese charac- 
 ters, 67. Arithmetical figures, 68. The 
 considerations which led to the invention 
 of an alphabet, ibid. Cadmus's alphabet 
 the origin of that now used, 69. Historical 
 account of the materials used to receive 
 writing, 70. General remarks, ibid. See 
 Grammar. 
 
 Y. 
 
 Young, Dr. his poetical character, 150. Too 
 fond of antithesis, 168. The merit of bis 
 works examined, 403. His character as* 
 a tragic poet, 475. 
 
 "■^ 
 
 
 THE END 
 
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