^%. 
 
 
 ^ ,-.^- 
 
 <- '"-^'a^os,, '=^*'..^^*o> 
 
 
 .^^^ ^ 
 
 
 V , N , V, 
 
 0^ .V 
 
 
 o ^;;.. ...^ ^ <.^ ^ 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 .^^ ^c. 
 
 --V^-^?v-'-:^^^ 
 
 
 ^^% 
 
 •^^ r^^H^^ 
 
 i^%'r> '^. 
 
 z: 
 
 
 .• .. 
 
 
 
 
 .^' r 
 
 - o ^ . f^. 
 
 \^ T- ,, f? & 
 
 
 vX^-'. 
 
 
 ■^ '^.'w' ^x^"^ . V -< "^r ' 
 
 ^ ^ . ■* /\ 
 
/- 
 
 
 ^^ \ 
 
 ^^ 
 
 OO 
 
 -p^ y 
 
 ^ o i? °^ 
 
 %.<.^' 
 
 
 
 %, .-^^ ,^:.^^^^- 
 
 '-A V 
 
 
 '<?'^ * 
 
 N 
 
 :. ^0■ 
 
 >^' 
 
 
 ^ /\ 
 
 
 c. V , - 
 
 
 ^oo^ 
 
 \; 
 
 
 ,0 c 
 
 ?#■ 
 
 .^^ "^. 
 
 
 ^y 
 
 ■i-, '. 
 
 ^ -^^ 
 
 
fiU«KECO.,N,c. ' 
 
THE WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 JAMES BEATTIE, LL. D, 
 VOLUME III. 
 
 /?^f. 
 
.\U 
 
 a3> 
 
 \^0 
 
DISSERTATIONS 
 
 MORAL AND CRITICAL. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 On Memory and Imagina- 
 tion. 
 On Dreaming, ' 
 The Theory of Language. 
 
 On Fable and Romance. 
 On the Attachments of Kin- 
 
 dred. 
 Illustrations oii Sublimity. 
 
 BY JAMES BEATTIE, LL.D. 
 
 Professor of Moral Philosophy and Logick in the Marischal 
 
 College and University of Aberdeen; and Member of 
 
 the Zealand Society of Arts and Sciences. 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HOPKINS AND EARLE- 
 
 Fry and Kani merer, Pi'inters. 
 
 1809. 
 
In Exchange 
 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 ON FABLE AND ROMANCE 1 
 
 ON THE ATTACHMENTS OF KINDRED. . . 117 
 ILLUSTRATIONS ON SUBLIMITY , . 167 
 
ON 
 
 FABLE 
 
 AND 
 
 ROMANCE. 
 
General Remarks on Ancient and Oriental Prose Fable. 
 Modern Prose Fable, divided into, I. The Historical 
 Allegory. Argenis. John Bull. II. The Religious and 
 Moral Allegory. Pilgrim's Progress. Gulliver's Tra- 
 vels. Tale of a Tub. III. The Poetical Frose Fable, or 
 Romance. Character of the Nations who introduced 
 the Feudal Government and Manners. Crusades. Chi- 
 valry. Alterations in the Feudal System. Rise of Mo- 
 dern Literature. Knight Errantry proscribed by Law; 
 and finally extirpated by the pubUcation of Don Quix- 
 ote. Importance of that Work. Death and Character 
 of the Old Romaiice. The Nevi Romance: 1. Serious, 
 and Historically arranged. Robinson Crusoe. 2. Seri- 
 ousf and Foetically arranged. Sir Charles Grandison. 
 Clrtrissa. 3. Comick, a7id Historically arranged. Gil 
 Bias. Roderick Random, &c. 4. Comick, and Foetically 
 arranged. Joseph Andrews. Tom Jones. Amelia. 
 Conclusion. 
 
FABLE AND ROMANCE. 
 
 1 HE love of truth is natural to man; and 
 adherence to it, his indispensable duty. But to 
 frame a fabulous narrative, for the purpose of 
 instruction or of harmless amusement, is no 
 breach of veracity, unless one were to obtrude 
 it on the world for truth. The fabulist and the 
 novel writer deceive nobody; because, though 
 they study to make their inventions probable, 
 they do not even pretend that they are true; at 
 least, what they may pretend in this way is con- 
 sidered only as words of course, to which nobody 
 pays any regard. Fabulous narrative has accord- 
 ingly been common in all ages of the world, and 
 practised by teachers of the most respectable 
 character. 
 
 It is owing, no doubt, to the weakness of hu- 
 man nature, that fable should ever have been 
 found a necessary, or a convenient, vehicle for 
 
 Vol.. TIT. A 
 
2 ON FABLE 
 
 truth. But we must take human nature as it is: 
 and, if a rude multitude cannot readily compre- 
 hend a moral or political doctrine, which they 
 need to be instructed in, it may be as allowable 
 to illustrate that doctrine by a fable, in order to 
 make them attend, and understand it, as it is for 
 a physician to strengthen a weak stomach with 
 cordials, in order to prepare it for the business 
 of digestion. Such was the design of Jotham's 
 parable of the trees choosing a king, in the ninth 
 chapter of the book of Judges: and such that 
 famous apologue, of a contention between the 
 parts of the human body, by which Menenius 
 Agrippa satisfied the people of Rome, that the 
 welfare of the state depended on the union and 
 good agreement of the several members of it. 
 In fact, the common people are not well quali- 
 fied for argument. A short and pithy proverb, 
 which is easily remembered; or little tales, that 
 appeal as it were to their senses, weigh more 
 with them than demonstration. 
 
 We need not wonder, then, to find, that, in 
 ancient times, moral precepts were often deli- 
 vered in the way of proverb or aphorism, and 
 enforced and exemplified by fictitious narrative. 
 Of those fables that are ascribed to Esop, some 
 are no doubt modern, but others bear the stamp 
 Y^of antiquity. And nothing can be better con- 
 
AND ROMANCE. 3 
 
 trived, than many of them are, for the purpose 
 of impressmg moral truth upon the memory, as 
 well as the understanding. The disappointment, 
 that frequently attends an excessive desire of 
 accumulation, is finely exemplified in the fable 
 of the dog and his shadow; and the ruinous and 
 ridiculous nature of ambition is with equal 
 energy illustrated in that of the frog and the ox. 
 These little allegories we are apt to undervalue, 
 because we learned them at school; but they are 
 not for that reason the less valuable. We ought 
 to prize them as monuments of ancient wisdom, 
 which have long contributed to the amusement 
 and instruction of mankind, and are entitled to 
 applause, on account of the propriety of the 
 invention. 
 
 The Greek apologues ascribed to Esop, and 
 the Latin ones of Phedrus, are masterpieces in 
 this way of writing; and have hardly been equal- 
 led by the best of our modern fabulists. They 
 are (at least many of them are, for some are 
 trifling) remarkable for the simplicity of the 
 style; and for the attention, which their authors 
 have generally given, to the nature of the ani- 
 mals, and other things that are introduced as 
 agents and speakers. For in most of the modern 
 fables, invented by Gay, La Fontaine, L'Es- 
 trange, Poggio, and others, the contrivance is 
 
4 ON FAIJLE 
 
 less natural; and the language, though simple, 
 is quaint, and full of witticism. That a dog 
 should snap at the shadow of a dog, and by so 
 doing lose the piece of flesh that was in his own 
 mouth, is suitable to the character of the animal, 
 and is indeed a very probable story: but that an 
 elephant should converse with a bookseller 
 about Greek authors, or a hare entreat a calf to 
 carry her off on his back, and save her from the 
 hounds, is a fiction wherein no regard is had to 
 the nature of thmgs. In this, as in the higher 
 sorts of fable, it is right to adhere, as much as 
 may be, to probability. Brute animals, and vege- 
 tables too, may be allowed to speak and think: 
 this indulgence is granted, from the necessity 
 of the case; for, without it, their adventures 
 could neither improve nor entertain us: but, 
 with this exception, nature should not be vio- 
 lated; nor the properties of one animal or vege- 
 table ascribed to a different one. Frogs have been 
 seen inflated with air, at least, if not with pride; 
 dogs may swim rivers; a man might take a fro- 
 zen viper into his bosom, and be bit to death 
 for his imprudence; a fox might play with a 
 tragedian's headpiece; a lamb and a wolf might 
 drink of the same brook, and the former lose 
 Ills life on the occasion: but who ever heard of 
 
AND ROMANCE. 5 
 
 an elephant reading Greek, or a hare riding on 
 the back of a calf? 
 
 The wisdom of antiquity was not satisfied 
 with conveying short lessons of morality in 
 these apologues, or little tales. The poets en- 
 tered upon a more extensive field of fable; in 
 order to convey a more refined species of in- 
 struction, and to please by a more exquisite in- 
 vention, and a higher probability. But I confine 
 myself at present to prose fable. 
 
 One of the first specimens of fabulous history, 
 that appeared in these western parts of the 
 world, is the Cyropedia of Xenophon. This work, 
 however, we are not to consider as of the na- 
 ture of romance; for the outlines of the story 
 are true. But the author takes the liberty to 
 feign many incidents; that he may set in a va- 
 riety of lights the character of Cyrus, whom he 
 meant to exhibit as the model of a great and 
 good prince. The work is very elegant and en- 
 tertaining, and abounds in moral, political, and 
 military knowledge. It is, nevertheless, to be 
 regretted, that we have no certain rule for dis- 
 tinguishing what is historical in it, from what is 
 fabulous. The history of Cyrus the gre?.t, the 
 founder of the Persian empire, who has the 
 honour to be mentioned by name in the Old 
 Testament, is surely worth knowing. Yet vre are 
 
 A 2 
 
6 OX FABLE 
 
 much in the dark in regard to it. The account 
 given of him by Herodotus differs greatly from 
 Xenophon's; and in many instances we know 
 not which to prefer. It is observable however, 
 that Xenophon's description of the manner in 
 which Cyrus took Babylon, by turning aside the 
 course of the Euphrates, and entering, through 
 the empty channel, under the walls of the city, 
 agrees very well with several intimations of 
 that event, which we find in the prophecies of 
 Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Daniel. 
 
 Allegorical fables were not unknown in the 
 days of Xenophon. The table, or picture, of Ce- 
 bes the Theban was written about this time; as 
 well as the story of Hercules conversing with 
 Virtue and Vice, and preferring the honours pro- 
 mised by the former to the pleasures offered by 
 the latter. Cebes's picture of human life excels 
 in accuracy of description, justness of allegory, 
 and a sweet simplicity of style. The fable of 
 Hercules, as originally written by Prodicus, is 
 lost, and seems not to have been extant in the 
 time of Cicero;* but Xenophon gives a full and 
 elegant abstract of it, in the beginning of his 
 second book of Memorabilia. 
 
 Excepting some allegorical fables scattered 
 
 * Cicero de Officiis. lib. i. cap. 32. 
 
AND ROMANCE. 7 
 
 up and down in Plato, I do not recollect, among 
 the classick productions of Greece and Rome, 
 any other remarkable specimen of prose fable: 
 for the heathen mythology, though full of alle- 
 gories, I am not to touch upon in this place, on 
 account of its connection with poetry; and be- 
 cause my chi^f purpose is, to inquire into the 
 origin and nature of the modern romance. 
 
 But, first, it may be proper to observe, that 
 the oriental nations have long been famous for 
 fabulous narrative. The indolence peculiar to 
 the genial climates of Asia, and the luxurious 
 life which the kings and other great men, of 
 those countries, lead in their seraglios, have 
 made them seek for this sort of amusement, 
 and set a high value upon it. When an eastern 
 prince happens to be idle, as he commonly is, 
 and at a loss for expedients to kill the time, he 
 commands his grand vizier, or his favourite, to 
 tell him stories. Being ignorant, and conse- 
 quently credulous; having no passion for moral ^ 
 improvement, and little knowledge of nature; he 
 does not desire, that they should be probable, or ^ 
 of an instructive tendency: it is enough if they^ 
 be astonishing. And hence it is, no doubt, that 
 those oriental tales are so extravagant. Every 
 thing is carried on by enchantment and prodigy; 
 by fairies, genii, and demons, and wooden horses,^ 
 
8 OX FABLE 
 
 which, on turnmg a peg, fly through the air with 
 inconceivable swiftness. 
 
 Another thing remarkable in these eastern 
 tales, is, that their authors expatiate, with pecu- 
 liar delight, in the description of magnificence; 
 rich robes, gaudy furniture, sumptuous enter- 
 tainments, and palaces shining in gold, or spark- 
 ling with diamonds. This too is conformable to 
 the character and circumstances of the people. 
 Their great men, whose taste has never been 
 improved by studying the simfilicity of nature 
 and art, pique themselves chiefly on the sfileri' 
 dour of their equipage, and the vast quantities 
 of gold, jewels, and curious things, which they 
 can heap together in their repositories. 
 
 The greatest, indeed the only collection, that 
 I am acquainted with, of oriental fables, is the 
 thousand and one tales^ commonly called The 
 Arabian JVights^ Entertainment. This book, as 
 we have it, is the work of Mons. Galland of the 
 French academy, who is said to have translated 
 it from the Arabick original. But whether the 
 tales be really Arabick, or invented by Mons'. 
 Galland, I have never been able to learn with 
 certainty. If they be oriental, they are translated 
 with unwarrantable latitude; for the whole tenour 
 of the style is in the French mode: and the Ca- 
 lif of Bagdat, and the emperour of China, are 
 
AND ROMANCE. 9 
 
 addressed in the same terms of ceremony, 
 which are usual at the court of France. But 
 this, though in my opinion it takes away from 
 the value of the book, because I wish to see 
 eastern manners in an eastern tale, is no proof, 
 that the Avhole work is by M. Galland: for the 
 French are so devoted to their own ceremonies, 
 that they cannot endure any other; and seldom 
 fail to season their translations, even of the 
 gravest and most ancient authors, with the 
 fashionable forms of Parisian civility. 
 
 As the Arabian Nights' Entertainment is a 
 book which most young people in this country 
 are acquainted with, I need not draw any cha- 
 racter of it, or remark that it exactly answers 
 the account already given of oriental fable. 
 There is in it great luxury of description, with- 
 out any elegance; and great variety of invention, 
 but nothing that elevates the mind, or touches 
 the heart. All is wonderful and incredible; and 
 the astonishment of the reader is more aimed 
 at, than his improvement either in morality, or 
 in the knowledge of nature. Two things, how- 
 ever, there are, which deserve commendation, 
 and may entitle it to one perusal. It conveys a 
 pretty just idea of the government, and of some 
 of the customs, of those eastern nations; and 
 there is somewhere in it a story of a barber and 
 
10 ON FABLE 
 
 his six brothers, that contains many good strokes 
 of satire and comick description. I may add, 
 that the charvacter of the calif Haroun Ah^as- 
 chid is well drawn; and that the story of forty 
 thieves destroyed by a slave is interesting, and 
 artfully conducted. Thevoyagesof Sindbad claim 
 attention: they were certainly attended to, by 
 the author of Gulliver's Travels. 
 
 Tales in imitation of the oriental have oft 
 been attempted by English, and other European, 
 authors: who, together with the figurative style, 
 and wild invention of the Asiaticks, (which, 
 being extravagant, are easily imitated) endeav- 
 our also to paint the customs and manners of 
 tliat people. They give us good store of gold 
 and jewels; and eunuchs, slaves, and necroman- 
 cers in abundance: their personages are all ma- 
 hometan, or pagan, and subject to the despotick 
 government of califs, viziers, bashaws, and 
 emperours; they drink sherbet, rest on sofas, 
 and ride on dromedaries. We have Chinese 
 tales, Tartarian tales, Persian tales, and Mogul 
 tales; not to mention the tales of the fairies and 
 genii; some of which I read in my younger days: 
 but, as they have left no trace in the memory, I 
 cannot give any account of them. 
 
 In the Spectator^ Rambler.^ and Adventurevy 
 there are many fables in the eastern manner; 
 
AND ROMANCE. 1 1 
 
 most of them very pleasing, and of a moral ten- 
 dency. RasseiaSy by Johnson, and Almoraii and 
 Hamet, by Hawkesworth, are celebrated per- 
 formances in this way. The former is admirable 
 in description, and in that exquisite strain of 
 sublime morality by which the writings of this 
 great and good man are so eminently distin- 
 guished: of the latter, the style is rhetorical and 
 solemn, and the sentiments are in general good, 
 but the plan is obscure, and so contrived as to 
 infuse perplexing notions of the divine provi- 
 dence; a subject, which the elegant writer seems 
 to have considered very superficially, and very 
 confusedly.* Addison excels in this sort of fable. 
 His vision of Mirzah, in the second volume of 
 the Spectator, is the finest piece of the kind I 
 have ever seen; uniting the utmost propriety of 
 invention with a simplicity and melody of lan- 
 guage, that melts the heart, while it charms and 
 sooths the imagination. 
 
 Modern prose fable (if we omit those sorts of 
 it that have been already hinted at) may be di- 
 vided into two kinds; which, for the sake of dis- 
 tinction, I shall call the allegorical and the 
 POETICAL. The allegorical part of modern prose 
 fable may be subdivided into two species, the 
 
 * See the preface to liis Voyages. 
 
12 ON FABLE 
 
 historical^ and the moral; and the poetical parlt I 
 shall also subdivide into two sorts, the serious^ 
 and the comick. Thus the prose fable of the mo- 
 derns may be distributed into four species; 
 whereof I shall speak in their order: 1 . The his- 
 torical allegory; 2. The moral allegory; 3. The 
 poetical and serious fable; 4. The poetical and 
 comick fable. These two last I comprehend 
 under the general term romance. 
 
 I. The FABULOUS HISTORICAL ALLEGORY ex- 
 hibits real history disguised by feigned names, 
 and embellished with fictitious adventures. This 
 sort of fable may also be subdivided into the 
 serious and the comick. 
 
 1. Of the former, the best specimen I know is 
 the Argenis; written in Latin, about the begin- 
 ning of the last century, by John Barclay, a 
 Scotchman: and supposed to contain an allego- 
 rical account of the civil wars of France during 
 the reign of Henry the third. I have read only 
 part of the work: and what I read I never took 
 the trouble to decipher, by means of the key 
 which in some editions is subjoined to it, or to 
 compare the fictitious adventures of Meleander 
 and Lycogenes with the real adventures that are 
 alluded to. I therefore am not qualified to criti- 
 cise the performance: but can freely recom- 
 mend it, as in some places very entertaining, as 
 
AND ROMANCE. 1 3 
 
 abounding in lively description, and remarkable 
 for the most part, though not uniformly, for the 
 elegance of the language. 
 
 2. We have a comic k specimen of the histori- 
 cal allegory, in the History of John Bull; a pam- 
 phlet written by the learned and witty Dr. Ar- 
 buthnot,and commonly printed among the works 
 of Swift. It was published in queen Ann's time: 
 and intended as a satire on the duke of Marlbo- 
 rough, and the rest of the whig ministry, who 
 were averse to the treaty of peace that was soon 
 after concluded at Utrecht. The war, which the 
 queen carried on against the French and Span- 
 iards, is described under the form of a law suit, 
 that John Bull, or England, is said to have been 
 engaged in with some litigious neighbours. A 
 candid account of facts is not to be expected in 
 an allegorical tale, written with the express 
 design to make a party ridiculous. The work, 
 however, has been much read, and frequently 
 imitated. It is full of low humour, which in this 
 piece the author affected; but which he could 
 have avoided if he had thought proper; as he 
 undoubtedly possessed more wit and learning, as 
 well as virtue, than any other writer of his time, 
 Addison excepted. In John Bull, great things 
 are represented as mean; the style is conse- 
 quently burlesque, and the phraseology, and 
 Vol. III. B 
 
14 ON FABLE 
 
 most of the allusions, are taken from low life. 
 There is a key printed, in the late editions, at 
 the foot of each page, to mark the coincidence 
 of the fable with the history of that period. 
 
 II. The second species of modern fabulous 
 prose I distinguished by the name of the moral 
 allegory. Moral and religious allegories were 
 frequent in Europe about two hundred and fifty 
 years ago. Almost all the dramatick exhibitions 
 of that time were of this character. In them, 
 not only human virtues and vices personified, 
 but also angels both good and evil, and beings 
 more exalted than angels, were introduced, 
 acting and speaking, as persons of the drama. 
 Those plays, however, notwithstanding their 
 incongruity, were written for the most part with 
 the laudable design of exemplifying religious or 
 moral truth; and hence were called moralities. 
 The publick exhibition of them in England ceased 
 about the time of Shakspcare, or in the end of 
 the sixteenth century: but several of the En- 
 glish moralities are extant, and may be seen in 
 some late collections of old plays. In Spain and 
 Italy they continued longer in fashion. When 
 Milton w^as on his travels, he happened to wit- 
 ness a representation of this kind, written by 
 one Andrienoj and called Original Sin; from 
 
AND ROMANCE. 15 
 
 ivhich, rude as it was, he is said to have formed 
 the first draught of the plan of Paradise Lost. 
 
 Those were poetical allegories: but I confine 
 myself to such as are in prose, and assume 
 something of the historical form. John Bunyan, 
 an unlettered, but ingenious man, .of the last 
 century, was much given to this way of writing. 
 His chief work is the Pilgrim^ s Progress; where- 
 in the commencement, procedure, and comple- 
 tion of the christian life, are represented alle- 
 gorically, under the similitude of a journey. 
 Few books have gone through so many editions, 
 in so short a time, as the Pilgrim's Progress. It 
 has been read by people of all ranks and capaci- 
 ties. The learned have not thought it below their 
 notice: and among the vulgar it is an universal 
 favourite. I grant, the style is rude, and even 
 indelicate sometimes; that the invention is fre- 
 quently extravagant; and that in more than 
 one place it tends to convey erroneous notions 
 in theology. But the tale is amusing, though 
 the dialogue be often low; and some of the alle- 
 gories are well contrived, and prove the author 
 to have possessed powers of invention, which, if 
 they had been refined by learning, might have 
 produced something very noble. This work has 
 been imitated, but with little success. The 
 learned bishop Patrick wrote the Parable of the 
 
16 ON FABLE 
 
 Pilgrim: but I am not satisfied, that he borrowed 
 the hint, as it is generally thought he did, from 
 John Bunyan. There is no resemblance in the 
 plan; nor does the bishop speak a word of the 
 Pilgrim's Progress, which I think he would 
 have done, if he had seen it. Besides, Bunyan's 
 fable is full of incident: Patrick*s is dry, didac- 
 tick, verbose, and exceedingly barren in the 
 invention.* 
 
 Gulliver's Travels are a sort of allegory; but 
 rather satirical and political, than moral. The 
 work is in every body's hands: and has been 
 criticised by many eminent writers. As far as 
 the satire is levelled at human pride and folly; 
 at the abuses of human learning; at the absur- 
 dity of speculative projectors; at those criminal 
 or blundering expedients in policy, which we 
 are apt to overlook, or even to applaud, because 
 custom has made them familiar; so far the au- 
 thor deserves our warmest approbation, and his 
 satire will be allowed to be perfectly just, as well 
 as exquisitely severe. His fable is well conduct- 
 ed, and, for the most part consistent with itself, 
 
 * The imprimatur prefixed to Patrick's Pilgrim is 
 dated April 11, 1665. Bunyan's Progress was written, 
 while he was in Bedford prison, where he lay twelve 
 years, from 1660 to 1672; but I cannot find in what year 
 it was first printed. 
 
AND ROMANCE. 1 f 
 
 and connected with probable circumstances. He 
 personates a seafaring man; and with wonderful 
 propriety supports the plainness and simplicity 
 of the character. And this gives to the whole 
 narrative an air of truth; which forms an enter- 
 taining contrast, when we compare it with the 
 wildness of the fiction. The style too deserves 
 particular notice. It is not free from inaccuracy: 
 but, as a model of easy and graceful simplicity, 
 it has not been exceeded by any thing in our 
 language; and well deserves to be studied by 
 eveiy person, who wishes to write pure English. 
 These, I think, are the chief merits of this cele- 
 brated work; which has been more read, than 
 any other publication of the present century. 
 Gulliver has something in him to hit every taste. 
 The statesman, the philosopher, and the critick, 
 will admire his keenness of satire, energy of 
 description, and vivacity of language; the vul- 
 gar, and even children, who cannot enter into 
 these refinements, will find their account in the 
 story, and be highly amused with it. 
 
 But I must not be understood to praise the 
 whole indiscriminately. The last of the four- 
 voyages, though the author has exerted himself 
 in it to the utmost, is an absurd, and an abomi- / 
 nable fiction. It is absurd: because, in present- 
 ing U8 with rational beasts, and irrational men, 
 
 B2 
 
18 Oy FABLE 
 
 it proceeds upon a direct contradiction to the 
 most obvious laws of nature, without deriving 
 any support from either the dreams of the cre- 
 dulous, or the prejudices of the ignorant. And it 
 is abominable: because it abounds in filthy and 
 indecent images; because the general tenour 
 of the satire is exaggerated into absolute false- 
 hood; and because there must be something of 
 an irreligious tendency in a work, which, like 
 this, ascribes the perfection of reason, and of 
 happiness, to a race of beings, who are said to 
 be destitute of every religious idea. But, what 
 is yet worse, if any thing can be worse, this tale 
 s^ represents human nature itself as the object of 
 contempt and abhorrence. Let the ridicule of 
 wit be pointed at the follies, and let the scourge 
 of satire be brandished at the crimes, of man- 
 kind: all this is both pardonable, and praise- 
 worthy; because it may be done with a good in- 
 tention, and produce good effects. But when a 
 writer endeavours to make us dislike and des- 
 pise, every one his neighbour, and be dissatisfied 
 Avith that providence, who has made us what 
 we are, and whose dispensations towards the 
 
 , human race are so peculiarly, and so divinely 
 beneficent; such a writer, in so doing, proves 
 himself the enemy, not of man only, but of 
 
 '^ j^oodness itself; and his work can never be al- 
 
AND ROMANCE 19 
 
 lowed to be innocent, till impiety, malevolence, 
 and misery, cease to be evils. 
 
 The Tale of a Tub, at least, the narrative part 
 of it, is another allegorical fable, by the same 
 masterly hand; and, like the former, supplies no 
 little matter, both of admiration, and of blame. 
 As a piece of humorous writing, it is unequal- 
 led. It was the author's first performance, and 
 is, in the opinion of many, his best. ♦The style 
 may be less correct, than that of some of his 
 latter works; but in no other part of his writ- 
 ings has he displayed so rich a fund of wit, hu- 
 mour, and ironical satire, as in the Tale of a 
 Tub. The subject is religion: but the allegory, 
 imder v/hich he typifies the reformation, is too 
 mean for an argument of so great dignity; and 
 tends to produce, in the mind of the reader, 
 some very disagreeabje associations, of the most 
 solemn truths with ludicrous ideas. Professed 
 wits may say what they please; and the fashion, 
 as well as the laugh, may be for a time on their 
 side: but it is a dangerous thing, and the sign 
 of an intemperate mind, to acquire a habit of 
 making every thing matter of merriment and 
 sarcasm. We dare not take such liberty with 
 our neighbour, as to represent whatever he does 
 or says in a ridiculous light; and yet some men 
 ri wish I could not say, clergymen) think them- 
 
20 ON FABLE 
 
 selves privileged to take liberties of this sort 
 with the most awful, and most benign dispensa- 
 tions of providence. That this author has re- 
 peatedly done so, in the work before us, and 
 elsewhere, is too plain to require proof.* The 
 
 * I know not whether this author is not the only- 
 human being, who ever presumed to speak in ludicrous 
 terms of the last judgment. His profane verses on that 
 tremendous subject were not published, so far as I 
 know, till after his death: for Chesterfield's letter to 
 Voltaire, in which they are inserted, and spoken of 
 with approbation (which is no more than one would ex- 
 pect from such a critick), and said to be copied from 
 the original in Swift's handwriting, is dated in the year 
 one thousand seven hundred and fifty two. But this is 
 no excuse for the author. We may guess at what was 
 in his mind, when he wrote them; and at what remained 
 in his mind, while he could have destroyed them, and 
 would not. Nor is it any excuse to say, that he makes 
 Jupiter the agent: a christian, granting the utmost pos- 
 sible favour to poctick license, cannot conceive a heathen 
 idol to do that, of w^hich the only information we have is 
 from the word of God, and in regard to which we cer- 
 tainly know, that it will be done by the Deity himself 
 That humorous and instructive allegory of Addison, 
 {Spectator, 558, 559) in w^hich Jupiter is supposed to put 
 it in every person's power to choose his own condition, 
 is not only conformable to ancient philosophy, but is 
 actually founded on ;: passage of Horace. 
 
 I mean not to insinnate, that Swift was favourable to 
 
AND ROMANCE. 21 
 
 compliments he pays the church of England I 
 allow to be very well founded, as well as part of 
 the satire which he levels at the church of 
 Rome; though I wish he had expressed both 
 the one and the other with a little more decency 
 of language. But, as to his abuse of the presby- 
 terians, whom he represents as more absurd 
 and frantick, than perhaps any rational beings 
 ever were since the world began, every person 
 of sense and candour, whether presbyterian or 
 not, will acknowledge it, if he know any thing 
 of their histoiy, to be founded in gross misre- 
 presentation. There are other faults in this 
 work, besides those already specified; many 
 vile images, and obscene allusions; such as no 
 well bred man could read, or endure to hear 
 read, in polite company. 
 
 III. I come now to the second species of mo- 
 
 Infidelity. There is good reason to believe he was not; 
 and that, though too many of his levities are inexcusa- 
 ble, he could occasionally be both serious and pious. In 
 fact, an infidel clergyman would be such a compound of 
 execrable impiety and contemptible meanness, that I 
 am unwilling to suppose there can be such a monster. 
 The profaneness of this author I impute to bis passion 
 for ridicule, and rage of witticism; which, when they 
 settle into a habit, and venture on Ubertics with wliat is 
 sacred, never fail to pervert the mind, and harden the 
 heart. 
 
22 OX FABLE 
 
 dern prose fable, to which I gave the appella- 
 tion oi poetical^ to distinguish it from the former 
 allegorical species. In reading the allegorical 
 firose fable^ we attend not only to the fictitious 
 events that occur in the narrative, but also to 
 those real events that are typified by the allego- 
 ry: whereas in the poetical prose fable we attend 
 only to the events that are before us. Thus, in 
 the Tale of a Tub, I not only mind what is re- 
 lated of three brothers, Peter, Martin, and Jack, 
 but also keep it constantly in view, that those 
 three brothers are by the author meant to be the 
 representatives of the Romish, English, and 
 presbyterian churches: whereas, when I read 
 Robinson Crusoe, or Tom Jones, I attend singly 
 to the narrative; and no key is necessary to make 
 me comprehend the author's meaning. 
 
 Considering this as the chief part of my sub- 
 ject, I despatched the former parts as briefly as 
 I could, that I might have the more time to 
 employ upon it. The rise and progress of the 
 
 MODERN ROMANCE, Or POETICAL PROSE FABLE, 
 
 is connected with many topicks of importance, 
 which would throw (if fully illustrated) great 
 light upon the history and politicks, the man- 
 ners, and the literature, of these latter ages. 
 Observe, that I call this soil of fable poetical, 
 ffom the nature of the invention; and prose, be- 
 
AXD ROMANCE. 23 
 
 cause it is not in verse. Prose and verse are op- 
 posite, but prose and poetry may be consistent. 
 Tom Jones^ and Tttemachus^ are epick, or narra- 
 tive poems, though written in prose; the one 
 comick, the other serious and heroick. 
 
 The subversion of the Roman empire, by the 
 Goths, Huns, Vandals, and other northern na- 
 tions, was followed or rather accompanied, with 
 an universal neglect of learning, which continued 
 for some centuries. During this long night of 
 intellectual darkness, the classick writers of 
 Greece and Rome were quite forgotten in these 
 western parts of Europe; and many ancient au- 
 thors perished irrecoverably. To read and write 
 was then a rare accomplishment. Even the 
 clergy, who performed the service in Latin, 
 according to tlie usage of the church of Rome, 
 seldom understood the words they pronounced. 
 Nay, it was no uncommon thing for persons of 
 rank, when they had occasion to sign papers of 
 business, to employ a notary to subscribe for 
 them, because they themselves had not learned 
 to write. The very phrase of signing a paper 
 came from the practice of putting a mark to it, 
 instead of a name; and this mark was commonly 
 the sign of the cross. Alfred the great, king of 
 England, a prince of excellent parts, and who 
 afterwards made considerable attainments in 
 
24 ON FABLE 
 
 learning, was twelve years old, before a master 
 could be found to teach him the alphabet. The 
 very implements of writing were so rare in 
 those days, that the monks would often oblite- 
 rate valuable manuscripts, by erasing the let- 
 ters, that they might have the parchment to write 
 upon. Of this a remarkable evidence appeared a 
 few years ago. A scrap of parchment was found, 
 on which part of the book of Tobit had been 
 written, but which, on being narrowly inspected, 
 seemed to have been originally inscribed with 
 something else; and this was at length discovered 
 to be a fragment of Livy. The fragment is now 
 published. 
 
 Men are generally credulous, in proportion as 
 they are ignorant. But Avant of books, and of the 
 knowledge of letters, was not the sole cause of 
 the ignorance that prevailed in the period of 
 which I now speak. There was little, or no com- 
 merce in Europe; navigation and industry were 
 neglected; and, except on pilgrimage to the 
 shrines of saints, people seldom travelled beyond 
 the bounds of their native country, or native pro- 
 vince. The consequence may easily be guessed 
 at. Not having the means of knowing what had 
 happened in other ages, and being equally un- 
 informed of what was now happening in other 
 countries, they would without scruple give ere- 
 
AND ROMANCE. 25 
 
 dit to any fabulous reports that might be told 
 them, concerning what was to be seen in foreign 
 parts. Hence arose a thousand wild ideas, of 
 giants, and dwarfs, dragons, and enchantments, 
 of fairies, ghosts, witches, and hobgoblins. And 
 when once people were satisfied, that such 
 things were common in other lands, it was 
 natural for them to believe, that they were not 
 uncommon in their own. And the same extra 
 vagance of fancy, and love of superstition, may 
 always be expected in times of ignorance; espe- 
 cially in countries, where traditions remain 
 concerning ancient history and fable; and where 
 the priests, deluded themselves with visionary 
 legends, not wholly destitute of knowledge, and 
 living retired in gloomy and lonely habitations, 
 find it their interest to deceive, amuse, and ter- 
 rify the vulgar. 
 
 The credulity of mankind in those dark ages 
 is now matter of astonishment. As late as the 
 thirteenth century, when modern literature had 
 made some progress, Dante, a famous Italian 
 poet, published a work in verse, which he called 
 Inferno; wherein he gave a description of the in- 
 fernal regions, which he says, in the poem, that 
 he had passed through, in company with Virgil; 
 and this poem the common people of thai time 
 took for a real history, and seriouslv believed ihm 
 
 Vol. III. ' r 
 
26 ON FABLE 
 
 Dante went down to hell from time to time. Sir 
 John Mandeville, an Englishman of learning, set 
 out on his travels in the year one thousand three 
 hundred and twenty; employed thirty years in 
 visiting foreign countries; and, at his return to 
 Europe, published the history of his adventures 
 in three languages, Latin, English, and Italian. 
 His book, before publication, was presented to 
 the pope, who, after comparing it with the 
 mafitia mundi^ was pleased to give it the sanc- 
 tion of his authority: a proof, that it not only was 
 believed by the author, and by his holiness, but 
 was also thought credible enough according to 
 the notions of those times. Yet this book, though 
 Mandeville seems to have been an honest, and 
 by no means an ignorant man, contains the most 
 absurd fables. The author gravely tells us, that 
 he saw the rock to which Andromeda was 
 chained, when they delivered her to the sea 
 monster; and adds, that Andromeda lived before 
 the flood. With equal gravity he speaks of a 
 lady, who had been transformed into a serpent, 
 or dragon, by a goddess called Diana, and was 
 then confined in a dungeon, in the island of Cy- 
 prus, if I mistake not.* He does not say, that he 
 saw this lady; but he mentions it as a fact, which 
 
 * I write from memory; not having the book at hand, 
 nor knowing at present where to find it. 
 
AND ROMANCE. 27 
 
 he had heard; and he seems not to disbelieve it. 
 He speaks too of a nation of men fifty feet high, 
 who inhabited an island in the East Indies, and 
 of another race of mortals, who had their eyes 
 in their shoulders: and all this, and much more, 
 of the same kind, he appears to have credited, 
 merely because he had been so informed. There 
 is reason to think, that Caxton, one of the first 
 English printers, mistook a French translation 
 of Virgil's Eneid for a true history; if he did not 
 use the word history in a sense different from 
 what it now bears. Nay, a Swedish navigator, 
 who lived not two hundred years ago, has af- 
 firmed, that in the islands of Nicobar, in the 
 gulf of Bengal, he discovered a race of men, 
 with long tails, like those of cats. The islands of 
 Nicobar, and their inhabitants, are now well 
 known to Europeans; but the cats' tails are no 
 where to be found. 
 
 While the ignorance and credulity of this 
 western world were so great, we may well sup- 
 pose, that, in their histories (if they had any) 
 little regard would be paid to truth; and none at 
 all to probability, or even to possibility, in their 
 fables. In fact, the first productions in the way 
 T)f romance, that appeared in Europe, were in 
 the highest degree extravagant. 
 
28 ON FABLE 
 
 But other causes, besides the credulity and 
 ignorance of the times, conspired to give a pe- 
 culiar cast of Avildness to those performances, 
 and make them totally unlike every thing of 
 the kind, which had hitherto occurred to human 
 fancy. To explain these causes, it will be proper 
 to give a brief account of that form of policy, 
 which was introduced by the northern nations, 
 who overran the Roman empire; and which is 
 commonly called the feudal government. It has 
 been described at large by many eminent wri- 
 ters. I shall enter into the subject no further, 
 than is necessary to connect and illustrate my 
 reasoning. This government it was, that, among 
 many other strange institutions, gave rise to 
 chivalry; and it was chivalry, which gave birth 
 and form to that sort of fabulous writing, which 
 we term romance. 
 
 The Avord is Spanish, and signifies the Spanish 
 tongue: and the name is suitable enough to the 
 nature of a language, whereof the greater part 
 is derived from the ancient Latin or Roman. It 
 seems, the first Spanish books were fabulous: 
 and, being called Romance, on account of the 
 tongue in which they were written, the same 
 name was afterwards given, by the other nations 
 of Europe, not to Spanish books, which is the 
 
AND ROMANCE. 29 
 
 proper application of the term, but to a certain 
 class of fabulous writings. 
 
 Some have thought, that the nations, who 
 destroyed the Roman empire, were obliged to 
 leave their own country, and establish them- 
 selves by force elsewhere; because at home 
 their numbers were so great, that the soil \^as 
 insufficient to support them. But this, I pre- 
 sume, is a mistake. Those northern regions, 
 where the climate is inhospitable, may produce 
 a hardy race of men, but cannot be supposed to 
 produce them in very great numbers. In fact, 
 the population in such countries has generally 
 been found rather deficient, than excessive. I 
 therefore think, that they left their native land, 
 because it was uncomfortable; and because they 
 had heard, that the conveniences of life were 
 more easily obtained in the southern parts of 
 the world. Accordingly, there is no evidence, 
 that they sent out colonies, or that one part of 
 the nation went in quest of settlements, while 
 the other remained at home: it rather appears, 
 that a whole people emigrated at once, men, 
 women, and children; without any purpose to 
 return. 
 
 One of their first expeditions that we read of, 
 happened about the six hundred and fiftieth year 
 of Rome; when the Cimbri and Teutones Twho 
 
so ON FABLE 
 
 are supposed to have come from Denmark, and 
 the northern parts of Germany) invaded the 
 Roman provmce with an army of three hundred 
 thousand men, besides women and children, and 
 were overthrown by Caius Marius, with prodi- 
 gious slaughter. Their countrymen were more 
 successful in the decline of the empire: and at 
 length they wrested a great part of Europe out 
 of the hands of the Romans; establishing them- 
 selves in the conquered provinces; the Franks 
 and Normans in Gaul, the Goths and Vandals in 
 Spain, and the Lombards in Italy. 
 
 There are, in the character of this extraordi- 
 nary people, several particulars that deserve at- 
 tention. We may call them one people, because 
 a great similarity in manners, opinions, and go- 
 vernment, prevailed among them; though they 
 occupied many wide regions in the northern part 
 of the continent of Europe. 
 
 First: They were a strong, hardy, and active 
 race of men. This character they must have de- 
 rived, in a great measure, from their climate 
 and needy circumstances. Want is the parent of 
 industry. To obtain even the necessaries of life, 
 where the climate is cold, and the soil untract- 
 able, requires continual exertion; which at once 
 inures the mind to vigilance, and the body to 
 labour. The Germans, in Cesar's time, made it 
 
AND ROMANCE, 31 
 
 their beast, that they had not been under a roof 
 for fourteen years:* which conveyed such an 
 idea of their ferocity and strength to the neigh- 
 bouring Gauls, that they thought them invinci- 
 ble; and even Cesar found it difficult to per- 
 suade his Romans to march against them. 
 Warm and fruitful countries generally produce 
 (unless where a spirit of commerce and manu- 
 facture prevails) effeminacy and indolence: for 
 there, neither art nor labour is necessary to 
 procure what is requisite to life; and there, of 
 course, both the mind and the body are apt to 
 grow languid for want of exercise. 
 
 Secondly: They were fierce and courageous. 
 This was owing, not only to their activity and 
 necessitous life, but also, in part, to their reli- 
 gion; which taught them to undervalue life, and 
 to wish rather to die in battle, or by violence, 
 than in the common course of nature. For they 
 believed, that the souls of those who fell in war 
 or were put to death, had a better right than 
 others to happiness in a future life; and passed 
 immediately into the hall of Odin (so in latter 
 times they called heaven), where they were to 
 be regaled with feasting and festivity through 
 innumerable ages. Agreeably to which ophiion, 
 
 * C?esar. Bell. Gall. i. 36. 
 
32 ON FABLE 
 
 in some of the nations adjoining to Hudson 't> 
 bay, who are thought to be of the same race, it 
 is still customary, for the old men, when they 
 become unfit for labour, to desire to be stran- 
 gled; a service, which they demand as an act of 
 duty from their children; or, if they have no 
 children, request, as a favour, of their friends.* 
 
 * " Are there not places," (says Mr. Locke, in the 
 first book of his Essay on Hwinan Understanding) " where 
 " at a certain ag-e men kill, or expose, their parents, 
 " without remorse?" Taking- for granted, that there 
 are; his intention is, from this and other supposed facts 
 of a like nature, to draw these inferences First, that 
 there is no instinctive afiection towards parents in the 
 human constitution; that, independently on habits con- 
 tracted by education, we should be as indifferent to the 
 person whom we knew to be our father, or mother, as 
 we are to any other man or woman; and that, if our 
 teachers were to adopt a contrary plan of education, it 
 would be not more difficult to make us hate our parents, 
 because they are our parents, than it is to make us love 
 them on that account. Secondly, and in general, that 
 the same thing is true of every first principle, both moral 
 and speculative, even of the %oivxi tswiaty that is, of the 
 axioms of geometry, for so Euclid calls them: in other 
 ■words, that all our ideas of duty, and of truth, would be 
 just tlie reverse of what they are, if we were from the 
 first told, that compassion (for example) and justice are 
 criminal, and cruelty and treachery meritorious; that 
 bodies are not as our senses represent them} and thai 
 
AND ROMANCE. Jo 
 
 A third peculiarity in the character of these 
 people is, their attention to their women. Witli 
 
 things equal to one and the same thing are not equal to 
 one another. If this is not the intention of Locke's first 
 bock, his words and arguments are without meaning. It 
 is true, he is there very full of words; and so inaccurate 
 in the use of them, as well as superficial in examining 
 the facts brought to confirm his theory, that we can 
 readily believe, what he himself insinuates, that he sat 
 down to write his book, before he had any distinct idea 
 of what was to be in it. 
 
 But, passing this; let us consider, how far the fact 
 hinted at in the quotation tends to prove, or to disprove, 
 his general doctrine. 
 
 The tact is thus stated by a judicious traveller, Mr. 
 Ellis, in his voyage for the discovery of a nortkvjest pas- 
 sage. In some of the countries adjoining to Hudson's 
 bay, " they have one custom, which is very extraordi- 
 *' nary: that when their parents grow so old, as to be 
 " incapable to support themselves by their labour, they 
 " require their children to strangle them; and this is 
 " esteemed an act of obedience in the children to perform. 
 *• The manner of dischai-ging this last duty is thus. The 
 *' grave of the old person being dug, he goes into it; 
 " and, after having conversed, and smoked a pipe, or 
 ** perhaps drunk a dram or two with his children; the 
 *' old person signifies he is ready: upon which, two of 
 " tlie children put a thong about his neck, one standing 
 *' on the one side, and the other opposite, and pull vio- 
 " lently, till he is strangled; then cover him with earth, 
 *' and over that erect a kind of rough monument of 
 
34. ON FABLE 
 
 US, the two sexes associate together, and mu- 
 tually improve and polish one another: but in 
 
 *' stones. As for such old persons as have no children, 
 *' they request this office from their friends,- though in this 
 ** last case it is not always complied with. These In- 
 *' dians" (we are told by the same author) "believe in 
 *' a Supreme Being- infinitely good, and the author of 
 ** all their blessings,- they believe also in an evil being, 
 ** of whom they are much afraid." 
 
 From this account we leam several things. 1. The 
 parents are strangled by their own command, because 
 they choose, it seems, to die in this manner: for old 
 persons, when childless, solicit from others, as a favour, 
 what they would have exacted from their children,, as a 
 duty. 2. Children would be thought undutifal to their 
 parent, if they did not comply with his command in this 
 particular. 3. This lost duty is not performed without 
 reluctance; for they, who do not think themselves bound 
 by the ties of blood, are unwilling, and sometimes re- 
 fuse, to perform it. 4. The old person dies with compo- 
 sure, and even with festivity, as well as of choice: 
 which is a proof, that by such a death he hopes to 
 escape some great evil, or secure some important good. 
 To which I may add, that such a practice could not be- 
 come general, and continue from age to age, unless 
 with the consent of the persons who suffer. Young peo- 
 ple there, as in other countries, have the view of be- 
 coming parents, and of growing old, in their turn; and 
 would never set the example, if they were under any 
 apprehension in regard to its consequences. 
 
 Decs this fact, then, prove, that those poor barbarians 
 
AND ROMANCE. 35 
 
 Rome and Greece they lived separate; and the 
 condition of the female was little better than 
 
 are destitute of filial affection? It proves just the con- 
 trary. The children comply with tlie parent's command, 
 because they love him, and think it their duty to obey 
 him: and they do nothing to him, but what, if in his cir- 
 cumstances, they would wish to be done to themselves. 
 
 If a teacher were to say, " Ye children, afflict and 
 ** torment your parents, and, when they are old, put 
 " them to death; for to them ye owe your life, and 
 " many of its most important blessings:" he would 
 hardly obtain a second hearing: the absurdity of the 
 speech would be evident to every rational creature. But 
 if his address were in these terms; '* Children owe gra- 
 " titude and obedience to their parents: let them, there- 
 " fore, when a parent grows old, wishes to be at rest, 
 *' and requires them to put an end to his sufferings, do 
 '• as they are commanded: for thus shall they recom- 
 ** mend him to the favour of the good deity, and satiate 
 ** all the malevolence of the evil one:" such an address 
 to credulous and pagan barbarians might not perhaps 
 appear absurd. AikI j et their acquiescence in it would 
 not prove tliem destitute of natural affection, or of mo- 
 ral sei\timent; nay it would prove that they were pos- 
 sessed of both: for otherwise, how could they receive 
 the one doctrine, and reject the other? 
 
 This note is ah-eady too long: and yet I think I shall 
 not be blamed for subjoining, in honour of human na- 
 ture, another extract from Mr. Ellis's book: that inge- 
 nious work being now (I know not for what reason) 
 very rare. 
 
36 ON FABLE 
 
 slaveiy ; as it still is, and has been from very- 
 early times, in many parts of Asia, and in Eii- 
 
 *' The Indians adjoining" to Hudson's bay, except 
 ** when intoxicated with brandy, are very courteous 
 ** and compassionate, even to those who are absolute 
 *• strangers, as well as to their owai family: and their 
 ** affection for their children is singularly great. An 
 ** extraordinary instance of this happened lately at York 
 " fort. Two small canoes, passing Hayes's river, when 
 " they had got to the middle of it, one of them, which 
 ** was made of the bark of a birch tree, sunk, in which 
 *' was an Indian, his wife, and child. The other canoe, 
 *' being small, and incapable of receiving more than one 
 ** of the parents and the child, produced an extraordi- 
 " nary contest between the man and his wife: not but 
 " that both of them were willing to devote themselves 
 ** to save the other; but the difficulty lay in determining 
 " which would be the greatest loss to the child. The 
 ** man used arguments to prove it more reasonable that 
 ** he should be drowned, than the woman. But she al- 
 ** leged that it was more for the child's advantage, that 
 ** she should perish; because he, as a man, was better 
 *• able to hunt, and consequently to provide for it. The 
 "little time there was still remaining was spent in 
 " mutual expressions of tenderness; the woman strongly 
 " recommending, as for the last time, to her husband, 
 " the care of her child. This being done, they took 
 "leave in the water; the woman, quitting the canoe, 
 ** was drowned; and the man with the child got safe 
 '* ashore; and is now taken much notice of by tlte peo- 
 ** pie thereabouts. It appears upon the whole, that the 
 
AXD ROMANCE. 37 
 
 ropean and African Turkey. But the Gothick 
 warriours were in all their expeditions attended 
 by their wives; whom they regarded as friends 
 and faithful counsellors, and frequently as sacred 
 persons, by whom the gods were pleased to 
 communicate their will to mankind. This in 
 part accounts for the reverence wherewith the 
 female sex were always treated by those con- 
 querors: and, as Europe still retains many of 
 their customs, and much of their policy, this 
 may be given as one reason of that polite gal- 
 lantry, which distinguishes our manners, and 
 has extended itself through every part of the 
 world that is subject to European government.* 
 Another thing remarkable in the Gothick na- 
 tions, was an invincible spirit of liberty. Warm 
 and fruitful countries, by promoting indolence 
 and luxury, are favourable to the views of tyran- 
 nical princes; and commonly were in ancient, 
 as many of them are in modern times, the 
 abode of despotism. But the natives of the 
 
 " sing-le object in view was tlie preservation of the 
 *' child." Parental love and filial regard are not always 
 proportioned to each other: yet, where the former is so 
 strong-, it cannot be supposed that the latter will be 
 preternaturally weak. 
 
 * See essay on laughter and ludicrous competition, 
 chap. iv. 
 
 Vol. III. D 
 
C8 ON FABLE 
 
 north, more active and valiant, are for the most' 
 part more jealous of their privileges. Excep- 
 tions may be found to all general theories con- 
 cerning the influence of climate in forming the 
 human character: but this w^ill be allowed to 
 have been true of the ancient Germans, and 
 those other nations, whereof I now speak. All 
 the Gothick institutions were, in their purest 
 form, favourable to liberty. The kings, or ge- 
 nerals, were at first chosen by those who were to 
 obey them: and though they acknowledged, and 
 indeed introduced, the distinction of superiour 
 and vassal, they were careful to secure the inde- 
 pendence, and respective rights of both, as far 
 as the common safety would permit. To them 
 there is reason to believe that we are indebted 
 for those two great establishments, which form 
 the basis of British freedom, a parliament for 
 making laws, and juries for trying criminals, 
 and deciding differences. 
 
 These four peculiarities, in the character of 
 the northern conquerors, it will be proper to 
 keep in mind; that we may the better under- 
 stand some things that are to follow. They were 
 bold and hardy: they despised death, or rather, 
 they thought it honoiu'able and advantageous to 
 fall in battle: they were indulgent and respect- 
 
AND ROMANCE. 39 
 
 ful to their women: and they were animated 
 with a spirit of liberty and independence. 
 
 When they left their own country to go in 
 qftest of a better, it is probable they made choice 
 of the general and other officers who were to 
 command them. They were volunteers in the 
 service; and they served without pay, or at least 
 without any pecuniary acknowledgment. All the 
 recompense they looked for, was to have a 
 share in the lands of such countries as they 
 might conquer. No other indeed could have 
 been given them, as their commander had no 
 money to bestow; nor can we conceive, how he 
 could have forced them into the service, if they 
 had been unwilling. 
 
 Suppose them now to have conquered a coun- 
 try. To exterminate the natives, seems not to 
 have been their intention:* they only wished to 
 
 * That no instance of extermination took place, dur- 
 ing the period of Gothick conquest, cannot he affirmed, 
 if we admit the testimony of contemporary historians. 
 Several instances mig'ht have liappened; an.', other hor- 
 rid deeds, whereof there is no record, must have been 
 perpetrated, while so many violent and extensive revo- 
 lutions were going- on. In regard to the character of the 
 northern invaders, authors are not agreed: some look 
 upon them as barbarians of the worst kind; many judge 
 more favourably, both of their policy, and of their man- 
 uers. It was natiu*al enough for the ^vTiter8 of that time 
 
40 ON FABLE 
 
 settle among them, to introduce tlieir own cus- 
 toms and form of government, and to have the 
 
 to think and speak of them with the utmost abhorrenCt, 
 and rather to mag-nify the calamities that were before 
 their eyes, than to describe tilings impai'tially. Several 
 circumstances incline me to believe, that the sufferings 
 of the vanquished, though they must have been great, 
 were not so di-eadful, as some learned writers imagine, 
 I confine myself to one particulai-, which is connected 
 with a subject that I have elsewhere touched upon. 
 
 If we were to be exterminated by a race of men, 
 whose language was totally different from ours, would 
 not our language be exterminated too? Can it be sup- 
 posed, that the speech of our conquerors would under- 
 go any material alteration from the English, which, 
 without understanding it, they might have heard dur- 
 ing the war, or which might still be muttered in ob- 
 scure corners by a few of our surviving countrymen, 
 who had escaped from the general massacre, and were 
 suffered to remain in their own land, because too incon- 
 siderable to provoke expulsion? In such a case, it seems 
 probable, that the language of the country would be al- 
 together changed, and that in this, as in every thing 
 else, the conquerors would give the law. But if Britain 
 were now to be subdued by a people of a strange 
 tongue; and if, after the lapse of a thousand years, the 
 British language should bear such a resemblance to the 
 Enghsh now spoken, as the Italian and Spanish bear to 
 the Latin; would it not be reasonable for our successours 
 of that remote period to conclude, that the invaders of 
 the eighteenth century must have been but few in pro- 
 
AND ROMANCE. 41 
 
 territory, or as much of it as they might have 
 occasion for, at their disposal. The land they 
 
 portion to the number of those among whom they estab- 
 lished themselves; and that, therefore, though they be- 
 came masters of the country, they did not extirpr^te the 
 people r 
 
 In Gaul, in Spain, and in Italy, the Roman tongue was 
 generally spoken at the time of the Gothick invasions; 
 not pure, we may well imagine, in the remoter parts 
 especirJly, but with such debasements, as it is natiu*al 
 for provinces, at a considerable distance from the seat 
 of empire, to adopt in the course of two or three hun- 
 dred years. And yet, notwithstanding these debase- 
 ments with those additional barbarisms introduced by 
 the Franks, Vandals, Lombards, Seethe languages now 
 spoken in France, Spain, and Italy, are so like the an- 
 cient Latin, and one another, that any person who un- 
 derstands one of them may guess at the meaning of 
 hundreds and thousands of words in each of the rest. In 
 fact, though many changes have been made with regard 
 to s}Titax, inflection, articles, and other things of less 
 moment, these languages may all be said to be com- 
 posed of the same materials. Of the Italian, in particu- 
 lar, an author, wlio must be allowed to be a competent 
 judge, declares, that, though very many barbarous and 
 northern words have been brought into it, one might 
 form, not a discourse only, but an entire and large 
 volume of good Italian, wherein not a single word 
 or phrase should be admitted, that did not derive its 
 origin from the Latin %\Titers. Tutto che non si possa 
 negarc, che sianvisi aggiunte moltissime voci barbare, 
 
 D2 
 
42 ON FxVBLE 
 
 considered as their property; and presented, as a 
 voluntary gift, to their sovereign or commander, 
 
 ed oltramorxtani, io sono certisslmo altresi, che potrebbe 
 formai'e, non dico un discorso, ma un intero e grosso 
 volume in buon Italiano, senza che vi entrasse pure una 
 sola parola, o frase, di cui non s'l trovasse Torig-ine 
 negli scrittori Latini. Le vicende della Letteratura. 
 Cap. 4. 
 
 Next to the Italian, the Spanish and Portuguese beai* 
 the g-reatest resemblance to the Latin; although they 
 suiFered alteration, not only from the northern invaders, 
 but also from the Moors, who conquered Spain in the 
 eighth century, and were not finally driven out of it, till 
 the fifteenth. If these languages, after all, lost so little 
 of their primitive form, how inconsiderable must have 
 been the number of the victorious Goths iind V'andals, 
 when compared to that of the people whom they sub- 
 dued, and among whom they settled! 
 
 The Saxons, -wdio established themselves in England, 
 seem to have been more intent upon extermination, than 
 any other of those adventurers. The British language 
 they extirpated from all the provinces that fell into 
 their hands, and planted their own in its stead; whicli 
 they could hardly hav done if they had not destroyed 
 the greater ]iart of the people. And to this day, the En- 
 glish and lowland Scotch dialects are called Sasso/tick 
 or Saxon, by the highbinders of North Britain, and do 
 indeed partake more of that tongue, than of any other. 
 By tlie Norman conquest many French words were 
 brought in, but the foundation and fabrick of the lan- 
 guage were not materially alfectcd. 
 
AND ROMAXCE. 43 
 
 on condition of his dividing it among them, on 
 certain terms, and according to a plan, which, 
 though perhaps not well refined in the beginning, 
 came at last to be what I am going to describe. 
 
 JJe first appropriated a part of the conquered 
 territory to his own use; for the maintenance of 
 his household, and the support of his dignity. 
 This was afterwards called the crown lands, and 
 the royal demesnes. The rest he divided among 
 his great officers, allotting to each a part. The 
 officer held this property, on condition of pro- 
 fessing loyal attachment to his sovereign, and 
 serving him in war, at his own charges. He 
 who conferred the property was called the supe- 
 riour; and, he who received it, the vassal: who, 
 on being invested, swore fealty or allegiance to 
 his superiour, and on his bended knees did him 
 homage, by declaring himself his mauy homo; 
 whence came the barbarous Latin word homa- 
 gium^ and the English term homage. If after- 
 wards he proved unfaithful, or abandoned his 
 lord in battle, or refused to serve him in war 
 when regularly summoned he forfeited his land, 
 and the superiour might either retain it, or give 
 it to another. The land thus granted was called 
 ^fi'f^ i" Latin, beneficium; and this sort of tenure 
 was termed a fcud^ or yj"Oi/, from two Norse 
 
44 ON FABLE 
 
 words, j^e signifying renvard^ and odh^ firo^ierty:'^ 
 an appellation, which implied, that the land was 
 indeed the property of the vassal, but that he 
 derived it from the superiour, and held it,, on 
 condition of rendering personal service, by \fray 
 of reward or recompense. And hence, the form 
 of government introduced by these northern na- 
 tions is called the feudal government, and the laws 
 peculiar to that form are called the feudal laws. 
 
 Be careful not to confound this with another 
 English term of the same sound and letters, 
 feud, which denotes contention, or quarrel: the 
 one is a simple term of Saxon original; the other 
 is compounded, and derived, as above, from an- 
 other language. 
 
 As the vassal's property wasy(?«</a/, that of the 
 sovereign, who held of no superiour, was called 
 allodial, from all, totum, and odh, firofierty; to 
 intimate, that it was wholly his own, and that 
 he owed no reward nor acknowledgment to any 
 person for it. A sovereign might indeed be feu- 
 datory to another sovereign for certain lands or 
 provinces; but, in regard to these, the feudatory 
 was a vassal, and obliged to do homage to his 
 superiour: as we find that the kings of Scotland 
 
 * Blackstone's Commentaries on the Laws of En- 
 gland. Book ii. c. 4. 
 
 m 
 
AND ROMANCE. 45 
 
 often did, for some of their southern territories, 
 lo the kings of England; and the kings of En- 
 gland to the kings of France for some of their 
 foreign dominions. 
 
 In conformity to the feudal institutions and 
 languajj^e, our law still supposes every tenure in 
 land, pertaining to a subject, to be derived either 
 from another subject, or from the sovereign. 
 But, in this last case, the tenure is really allodial; 
 for those lands are said to hold of the crown, 
 which do not hold of any subject. 
 
 They who derived their tenures immediately 
 from the sovereign, came, in process of time, to 
 be the barons, thanes, lords, or nobility, of a 
 feudal kingdom. They had, all of them, castles, 
 and kept a court, and a retinue, resembling that 
 of the monarch: and each of them within his own 
 territory, had great power, and possessed many 
 of the privileges of royalty; as the right of con- 
 ferring certain dignities, of coining money, and 
 of pardoning criminals. 
 
 The state of a feudal lord resembled that of his 
 sovereign in other respects. He retained part of 
 his territory in his own hands, for the support of 
 his dignity and household; and the rest, with con- 
 sent of tlie king, he divided among his own vas- 
 sals, according to the same feudal tenure, by 
 which he himself held his lands of the sovereign. 
 
46 ON FABLE 
 
 The secondary vassals were afterwards known, in 
 some countries, by the name of armigeri, or 
 esquires; which in the orignal signification de- 
 noted armourbearers, or bearers of shields. 
 On being invested with their respective fiefs, 
 they did homage to their immediate superiour, 
 swore allegiance to him, and promised at their 
 own charges' to attend him in war, when sum- 
 moned for that purpose. They, like their supe- 
 riours, the great barons, had jurisdiction within 
 their own territories; and, in the economy of 
 their household, would no doubt imitate them, 
 as far as they were able. 
 
 The secondary barons, like the primary, had 
 their vassals, to whom they gave lands on the 
 same feudal conditions: and by whom they were 
 served and attended in war, even as they them- 
 selves served and attended the nobility, and the 
 nobility the king. In times of peace, and when 
 military attendance was not required, the lov^^est 
 order of vassals would sometimes make a pay- 
 ment of corn, cattle, or money, in return for 
 their lands; and this in time became general, 
 and was the origin of rents. 
 
 A feudal kingdom, thus established, resem- 
 bled, as an elegant author observes,* the encamp- 
 
 * Robertson's History of Scotland. Book, i 
 
AND ROMANCE. 47 
 
 ment of a great army: and no form of policy 
 could be better contrived, for securing a con- 
 quest. Military service being the chief part of 
 the duty which the vassal owed his lord, and be- 
 ing equally the business of men of all ranks, we 
 may conclude, that the whole nation must have 
 been trained to arms: which would thus come 
 to be considered as the most honourable, and, 
 for a man of any rank, the only honourable pro- 
 fession. If to this we add the natural ferocity of 
 the people, and their high spirit of independence, 
 we shall be at no loss to account for that pas- 
 sionate love of warlike enterprise, which difiiis- 
 ed itself throughout all the members of the 
 feudal system. A people, thus arranged, prepar- 
 ed, and animated, was at all times ready to ap- 
 pear in arms, when summoned by the sovereign; 
 who would instantly be attended by the greater 
 barons his vassals, and they by their vassals, and 
 so downward. 
 
 I hinted, that the whole nation was trained to 
 the use of arms. In the beginning it would pro- 
 bably be so: but, when the Gothick system had 
 been for some time established, this was not the 
 case. All the free men, indeed, were warriours; 
 but the lower sort of people, who supplied their 
 betters with food, clothes, armour, and other 
 necessaries, had not that honour, and were in 
 
48 ON FABLE 
 
 fact no better than slaves, though all were not 
 equally servile. 
 
 For a nation, when once conquered, and sub- 
 jected to this form of policy, it was scarce pos- 
 sible to throw off the yoke, or even attempt to 
 regain their freedom. The truth is, that the van- 
 quished soon came to incorporate with the vic- 
 tors; who seemed, when they made their first 
 appearance in the southern parts of Europe, to 
 found their political ideas on the natural equality 
 of mankind. 
 
 What passes for the history of those dark ages 
 is in many particulars little better than conjec- 
 ture. It is however certain, that the feudal plan 
 of subordination became at length almost uni- 
 versal in Europe. Those islands and provinces, 
 that had not been conquered, or invaded, by the 
 northern warriours, found their account in adopt- 
 ing it: partly, no doubt, from a desire to imitate 
 the rest of the world; and partly too, that they 
 might, by establishing the same military arrange- 
 ments, acquire the same military vigour, and be 
 able to maintain independency in the midst of 
 their warlike neighbours. The feudal system, 
 in its full extent, was not brought into England, 
 till the conquest by William duke of Normandy; 
 who imported it from his own country, where it 
 had been long established; and introduced it into 
 
AND ROMANCE. 49 
 
 ifie southern part of this island, with the consent 
 of the great council of the nation. At what time 
 it came into Scotland, is not yet, so far as I know, 
 determined among antiquaries. But that it vrsis 
 adopted by the Scots, and maintained its influ- 
 ence longer in North, than in South Britain, 
 is well known."* 
 
 Every human institution is liable to change. 
 And no form of government has hitherto been 
 devised, that is not obnoxious to alteration from 
 a thousand causes, which human laws cannot 
 prevent, because human jivisdoni cannot foresee. 
 The feudal system soon became different from 
 what it had originally been. While people are 
 in needy circumstances, they have not the same 
 views of things which they afterwards come to 
 have, when settled in the secure enjoyment of 
 riches and honour. The feudal king or com- 
 mander was at first elective; and the fiefs granted 
 by the superiour to his vassal were but for life, or 
 during pleasure. But both the sovereign power, 
 and the right of the feudatory, were in time made 
 perpetual in the same family, and descended from 
 the father to the son, or to the nearest relation. 
 The nobles grew proud and ambitious, in pro- 
 portion as they became independent. In some 
 
 * See Robertson's History of Scotland. Book. i. 
 Vol. III. E 
 
50 OX FABLE 
 
 cases, their fiefs were still secured by entails; 
 which put it in the power of their posterity to 
 enlarge, but not diminish the inheritance. Nay, 
 at last, the son, whether worthy or unworthy, 
 was allowed to possess those titles of honour, 
 which the merit of his father had obtained from 
 the sovereign: and thus the dignities, as well as 
 lands, of the feudal baron, became hereditary. 
 And, what is still more singular, though great 
 abilities are requisite to qualify one for the great 
 offices of state, and though nothing can be more 
 absurd, than to bestow an office of difficulty upon 
 a person who is unfit for it; yet many of the 
 feudal nobles, by force of importunity, or as a re- 
 ward for particular services, obtained the high 
 privilege of having certain great and lucrative 
 posts annexed to their respective families. 
 
 These corruptions of the old feudal system 
 were gradually introduced, in consequence of 
 the aspiring genius of the nobles, and want of 
 power in the kings. The lands of the former were 
 honoured with privileges, that allowed an exten- 
 sive, and something even of royal, authority, to 
 the proprietor. Before him, or judges appointed 
 by him, all causes, civil or criminal, were tried, 
 which concerned any of his vassals: and if the 
 vassal of a baron was summoned before any of 
 the king's courts, the lord of that vassal might 
 
AND ROMANCE. 51 
 
 refuse to give him up, reserving to himself the 
 right of trying him; and might even punish his 
 vassal, if he submitted to any other jurisdiction, 
 than that of his immediate superiour. Thus, it is 
 easy to see, that the influence of the crown would 
 be very weak, except within the king's own terri- 
 tory: and that contests would take place between 
 him and his nobles, wherein the latter might have 
 the advantage. And hence, a wealthy baron, v/ho 
 had a great number of dependants, might vie, in 
 the splendour of his economy, even with the 
 sovereign himself, and learn to set him, and his 
 power, at defiance: whence would arise insolent 
 demands from the nobles, and meanspirited con- 
 cessions on the part of the king. In fact, the his- 
 tory of modern Europe contains, for several ages, 
 little more, than a detail of dissensions between 
 the kings and their nobility. For, in process of 
 time, the power of the feudal barons, increased 
 by legacies, lucrative marriages, and imprudent 
 concessions from the crown, became offensive, 
 and even intolerable, to their sovereigns: who 
 were thus obliged, in self-defence, to devise ex- 
 pedients for checking that ambition, which gave 
 them so much uneasiness. Some think, that the 
 crusades took their rise from this principle. 
 
 The crusades were military expeditions into 
 Palestine, undertaken by the christian princes 
 
52 ON FABLE 
 
 of Europe, with a view to exterminate, as they 
 pretended, from the Holy Land, those Turks 
 and Saracens, who were then in possession of 
 it. For they gave out, that it was a reproach to 
 Christendom, to permit infidels to live and reign 
 in a country, which in ancient times, belonged 
 to the posterity of Abraham, and had been hon- 
 oured with the presence of our Saviour, while 
 he sojourned among men. These warlike enter- 
 prises, warranted and encouraged by the pope, 
 were well suited to the enthusiastick valour of 
 the feudal times, as well as to the religious opin- 
 ions that prevailed while popery and ignorance 
 were universal in the western world. The nobility 
 and people, therefore, engaged in them with ea- 
 gerness. They believed, that they should per- 
 form an acceptable service to God, by destroy- 
 ing, or at least by conquering, the enemies of 
 the christian faith; and that the reward of their 
 labour would be military renown in this life, and 
 a crown of glory in the next. The pope claimed, 
 and was allowed to have, power to remit the sins 
 of the whole world: and a general remission of 
 sin, together with many advantages of a secular 
 nature,* was offered to all who would inlist in 
 those armaments. 
 
 ^ See Robertson's History of Charles V. vol. i . pag-e ?^^' 
 
AND ROMANCE. 53 
 
 But whatever the opinions might be of those 
 Avho were to serve in the holy wars, as they were 
 called, we may, without breach of charity, con- 
 clude, that the princes, who planned them, were 
 actuated no less by political, than by religious mo- 
 tives. They found their nobility turbulent at 
 home; and were happy to engage them in fo- 
 reign expeditions, from which it was probable, 
 that the greater part would never return. The 
 expedition was called a crusade, or croisade,from 
 a Latin, or from a French, word signifying a cross; 
 which has in every age been an emblem of Chris- 
 tianity, and which these adventurers, as the cham- 
 pions of the faith, bore in their standard, and im- 
 pressed upon their armour. 
 
 The honours acquired by the heroes of the 
 crusade were not inconsiderable: though attend- 
 ed with great expense, both of treasure, and of 
 blood. They conquered Palestine, and drove 
 the Saracens out of it: and Godfrey of Bologne, 
 or Bouillon, was actually crowned king of Jeru- 
 salem, about the year eleven hundred. Those who 
 had distinguished themselves in these wars, ex- 
 pressed their achievements by some emblemati- 
 cal device, engraven, or painted, on their shield: 
 and this is said to have been the origin of armo- 
 rial ensigns; which, though they may now be 
 purchased with money, were anciently attainable 
 
 E2 
 
54 ON FABLE 
 
 by valour only. For the defensive armour then hi 
 use was of a particular kind, and quite different 
 from that of the Greeks and Romans. The feu- 
 dal baron cased his whole body in steel or brass: 
 and the helmet was so contrived, as to cover upon 
 occasion every part of his face, except the eyes; 
 so that in the field he could not be known, but 
 by the figures on his target, or by the make or 
 colour of his arms. And by these the warriours of 
 that time were often distinguished. Edward the 
 black prince, a name famous in the English his- 
 tory, was so called from the colour of his armour, 
 which is still preserved in the tower of London. 
 
 I said, that the figures, which the crusader 
 displayed on his shield, were the origin of ensigns 
 armorial. And this is the opinion of many authors: 
 but it can be true of such figures only, as were 
 according to the system of modern heraldry. For 
 devices on shields are more ancient: witness the 
 shield of Hercules by Hesiod; that of Achilles 
 by Homer; and those of the seven chiefs at Thebes 
 particularly described by Eschylus. Some fancy, 
 that they are of still higher antiquity, and were 
 known to Noah, Abraham, and Jacob; and that 
 the twelves tribes of Israel were distinguished 
 by their respective ensigns. But this is foreign 
 from the present purpose. 
 
 That spirit of valour and religion, and that pa- 
 
AND ROMANCE. 55 
 
 sion for tiavellmg and strange adventures, to 
 ■which the crusades were so favourable, gave rise 
 to chivalry; which now began to appear in the 
 world, and in time produced very important con- 
 sequences, in politicks, in manners, and in li- 
 terature. I am not ignorant, that some authors 
 assign it an earlier date; and are rather inclined 
 to derive the crusades from chivalry, than chi- 
 valry from the crusades. The dispute is not very 
 material. Certain it is, that chivalry was first 
 known about the time of the crusades; and that 
 the romantick enthusiasm, wild fancy, and despe- 
 rate valour, which characterized the knights who 
 professed it, were much inflamed, and partly pro- 
 duced, by the reports then circulating through a 
 credulous world, concerning the adventures that 
 were believed to have befallen the heroes of the 
 holy war. 
 
 The word chivalry is derived from the French 
 chevalier; which, like the Latin eques^ properly 
 signifies a man who serves in war on horseback. 
 As the poorer sort served on foot, equcs in La- 
 tin, and chevalier in French, became titles of 
 honour, corresponding nearly, but not perfectly, 
 with the English term knight. 
 
 Chivalry was a military profession. The man, 
 who wished to be distinguished in this way, dres- 
 =;ed himself in a suit of the armour of that time; 
 
56 ON FABLE 
 
 and, girding on a sword, and grasping a spear, 
 mounted his horse, and set out on some warlike 
 enterprise. He could not, however, be considered 
 as a complete cavalier, till he had received the 
 honour of knighthood. This none can now confer, 
 but a sovereign prince; but any man, who was 
 himself a knight, could then confer it; and a sove- 
 reign would condescend to accept of it from the 
 hands of a subject. The person, who was invested 
 with this honour, received it on his knees; and 
 many ceremonies, both warlike and religious, 
 were performed on the occasion. There are seve- 
 ral things remarkable in the character of the 
 knights of chivalry; which may be partly account- 
 ed for, from the preceding observations. 
 
 I. The first is, their religious character. The 
 authority of the church of Rome was then un- 
 bounded and universal in Europe; and the wars 
 undertaken to rescue the Holy Land infused a re- 
 ligious enthusiasm into all who took part in those 
 expeditions, that is, into every European, who 
 aspired to military fame. Hence piety, as well 
 as valour, was considered as indispensably requi- 
 site to form a gallant soldier. Some parts, too, 
 of Europe, particularly Spain, had suffered from 
 the invasion of Saracens and other infidel nations, 
 who by their cruelty had rendered themselves, 
 and their religion, objects of horrour to all chris- 
 
AND ROMANCE. oT 
 
 tendom. Wlien a knight, made captive by those 
 unbelievers, was prevailed on, by threats, punish- 
 ment, or exhortation, to abandon the true faith, 
 he was branded among christians with the name 
 of a recreant, that is, of an apostate knight: a 
 term of the bitterest reproach. For every knight, 
 at his installation, swore to maintain the catho- 
 lick faith, in opposition to every danger. And 
 therefore this term implied, in the language of 
 chivalry, nothing less than an impious, perjured, 
 and profligate coirard.* 
 
 2. The second thing remarkable in the sons of 
 chivalry, is their valour; and, I may add, their 
 love of fighting. This they might have derived, 
 as we have seen, from their Gothick progenitors; 
 and this every feudal institution tended to encou- 
 rage. This, by their expeditions against the infi- 
 dels, was raised to a pitch of extravagance bor- 
 dering on phrensy; and was further cherished by 
 those private broils, wherein the feudal nobility 
 were, from the nature of the government, and 
 the ineffectual authority of the law, almost con- 
 tinually engaged. The very sports of those war- 
 like barons were attended with bloodshed: for 
 then, on solemn festivals, and when people met 
 together to be merry, tilts and tournaments, and 
 
 * Hurd's Letters on Chivalry and Romance. 
 
58 ON FABLE 
 
 Other forms of single combat, were exhibited, 
 for the entertainment of kings, and lords, and even 
 of ladies, f And these encounters were by no 
 means mock battles. The knights, fixing their 
 lances, with the points advanced, made their 
 horses run violently together; and both knight 
 and horse were often overturned by the shock, 
 and sometimes killed. If they survived the first 
 assault, which was generally the case, they attack- 
 ed each other with their swords, till one of them 
 fell, or owned himself vanquished, or till they 
 
 f Tilts and tournaments, however, ought not to be 
 looked upon, as unnatural expedients of a barbarous and 
 bloody policy. In their first institution, they were not 
 only rational, but wise: " because of singular use to in- 
 *' struct the nobility and gentry, who formed the cavalry 
 " of those days, in the dexterous management of their 
 " horses and arms." So says the great historian, upon 
 the authority of writers who lived in the age of toui-na- 
 ments. And he subjoins the following pertinent remark. 
 " Indeed, all nations, desirous to excel in war, have en- 
 " deavoured to render their publick diversions condu- 
 *' cive to that purpose," (that is, to military discipline;) 
 *' a policy, which seems to be too much forgotten at 
 ** this time, in this kingdom." Lord Littleton's Notes on 
 the fifth book of his History of the age of Henry the Second, 
 That single combat was an amusement of heroes in the 
 days of Homer, we learn from the funeral games in hon- 
 our of PatrocliTs. 
 
AND ROMANCE. 59 
 
 were parted by the officer, who presided at the 
 ceremony. Audemar de Valentia, earl of Pem- 
 broke, was killed in one of those encounters, on 
 the very day of his marriage. The mode of fight- 
 ing at that time, as well as in ancient Greece and 
 Italy, had, no doubt, some influence upon the 
 valour of the combatants, or made them at least 
 more eager to display it. With us, by means of 
 fire-arms, the weakest man is a match for the 
 strongest: and all that our soldiers have to do, is 
 to show their contempt of danger, presence of 
 mind, and regard to discipline. But, before the 
 invention of gunpowder, a warriour who slew his 
 enemy, gave proof, not of valour only, but also 
 of strength, and of address in the use of his wea- 
 pons 
 
 3. Their passion for strange adventures is ano- 
 ther trait in the character of the knights of chiv- 
 alry. The world was then little known, and men 
 (as I observed before) were ignorant and credu- 
 lous. Strange sights were expected in strange 
 countries; dragons to be destroyed, giants to be 
 humbled, and enchanted castles to be overthrown. 
 The caverns of the mountains were believed to 
 be inhabited by magicians; and th« depth of the 
 forest gave shelter to the holy hermit, who, as the 
 reward of his piety, was supposed to have the 
 gift of working miracles. The demon yelled in 
 
60 ON FABLE 
 
 the storm, the spectre walked in darkness, and 
 even the rushing of water in the night was mis- 
 taken for the voice of a goblin. The castles of 
 the greater barons, reared in a rude but grand 
 style of architecture; full of dark and winding 
 passages, of secret apartments, of long uninhab- 
 ited galleries, and of chambers supposed to be 
 haunted with spirits; and undermined by subter- 
 raneous labyrinths as places of retreat in extreme 
 danger; the howling of winds through the crevi- 
 ces of old walls, and other dreary vacuities; the 
 grating of heavy doors on rusty hinges of iron; 
 the shrieking of bats, and the screaming of owls, 
 and other creatures, that resort to desolate or 
 half-inhabited buildings: these, and the like cir- 
 cumstances, in the domestick life of the people 
 I speak of, would multiply their superstitions, 
 and increase their credulity; and, among war- 
 riours, who set all danger at defiance, would en- 
 courage a passion for wild adventure, and difficult 
 enterprise. 
 
 Consider, too, the political circumstances of the 
 feudal barons. They lived apart, in their respec- 
 tive territories, where their power was like that 
 of petty kings; and in their own fortified castles, 
 where they kept a train of valiant friends and fol- 
 lowers: and, in the economy and splendour of their 
 household, they imitated royal magnificence. An 
 
AND ROMANCE. 61 
 
 oflender, who had made his escape, cither from 
 the publick justice of his country, or from the 
 vengeance of some angry chief, was sure of a 
 place of refuge, if he could find admittance into 
 the castle of any other lord. Hence public justice 
 was eluded, and the authority of the law despised: 
 and a wicked and powerful baron, secure within 
 his own castle, would even defy the power of the 
 sovereign himself, or perhaps with hostile inten- 
 tion meet him in the field at the head of an army 
 of determined followers. William earl of Douglas 
 was generally attended, on solemn occasions, by 
 a body of two thousand horse. Such a man it 
 might be unsafe, even for a king, to provoke. 
 As late as the reign of Mary queen of Scots, we 
 read of a court of law held near the border of 
 England; and are told, that the inhabitants of 
 eleven counties were summoned by royal procla- 
 mation, to defend the persons of the judges, and 
 enforce their decrees.* 
 
 Hence a conjecture may be formed of the dis- 
 tracted state of those feudal governments, in 
 which the nobility had acquired great power, and 
 high privileges. The most daring enormities 
 were daily committed, to .gratify the resentment, 
 or the rapacity, of those chieftains: castles were 
 
 * Robertson's History of Scotland. 
 Vol. hi. F 
 
62 ON FABLE 
 
 invaded, and plundered, and burned: depredations 
 by the vassals of one lord were made upon the 
 grounds and cattle of another; and horrid mur- 
 ders and other cruelties perpetrated. Rich heir- 
 esses, and women of distinguished beauty, were 
 often seized upon, and compelled to marry the 
 ravisher. Royalty itself was not secure from these 
 outrages. When Eleanor queen of P'rance was 
 divorced from her husband Louis VII. she was, 
 in her journey to her own hereditary dominions, 
 waylaid by three princes, at three different places, 
 each of whom intended to force her to marry him: 
 but she escaped them all; and afterwards gave 
 her hand to Henry the second, king of Eng- 
 land.* Nay, in those days, there were outlaws 
 and robbers, who, possessing themselves of 
 mountains and forests, got together a little army 
 of followers, and lived by rapine; while the power 
 of the kingdom was employed in vain to dislodge, 
 and bring them to justice. Such, in England, 
 were the famous Adam Bell, and Robin Hood, 
 and others who are still celebrated in ballads: 
 and, even in the memory of persons now alive, 
 there were some of the same profession remain- 
 ing in the highlands of Scotland; but the race at 
 last is happily extinct. In a word, the western 
 
 * Lord Littleton's Age of Henry II. 
 
AND ROMANCE. 63 
 
 world was in those feudal times full of extraor- 
 dinary events, and strange vicissitudes of fortune. 
 And therefore we need not wonder, that a pas- 
 sion for adventures and warlike enterprise should 
 have been universal among the knights of chi- 
 valry. 
 
 4. They were also distinguished by a zeal for 
 justice; and, as the laws were so ineffectual pro- 
 fessed to take up arms in vindication of the rights 
 of mankind; to punish the oppressor; to set at 
 liberty the captive; to succour the distressed 
 damsel; and to rid the world of those false 
 knights, who wandered about in armour, to ac- 
 complish wicked purposes. These were noble 
 designs; and, while society was so insecure, and 
 the law so openly violated, must have been at- 
 tended with good effects. If you ask, how this 
 heroick part of their character is to be accounted 
 for; I answer, that they seem to have derived it, 
 partly from their northern ancestors, who were 
 lovers of liberty, and generous in their behaviour 
 to the weaker sex; and partly from their attach- 
 ment to the christian religion, whereof they were 
 the declared champions, and which disfigured as 
 it then was by superstition, would still be a re- 
 straint upon the passions of those who were wil- 
 ling to attend to its dictates. 
 
 Besides, the disorders of the tinie were so great, 
 
64 ON FABLE 
 
 that soberminded men, who were at all enlight- 
 ened by knowledge, or capable of reflection, 
 would see, that such an institution might be be- 
 neficial, and was become almost necessary to the 
 existence of society. At first, perhaps, their views 
 might reach no further than to defend the per- 
 sons, and redress the grievances of their friends.* 
 But the habit of doing this, and the honour ac- 
 quired by it, would determine them to enlarge 
 their plan, and form the generous resolution of 
 patronizing mankind, by going through the world, 
 to signalize their valour, in protecting the weak, 
 and punishing the haughty. Their courage, their 
 passion for adventures, their desire of seeing 
 what was wonderful in foreign parts, and those 
 hopes of future happiness, which religion taught 
 them to entertain, conspired with their military 
 genius, and with their sense of the evils to which 
 they saw their fellow creatures exposed, to pro- 
 duce that extraordinary personage, a knight 
 errant, or wandering knight: asCharacter, which 
 they who have read Don, Quixote are apt to smile 
 when they hear mentioned; but which, in its ori- 
 gin, was honourable to the warriours who bore it, 
 and of no small advantage to the publick. 
 
 5. The fifth and last characteristick of chivalry, 
 
 * Kurd's Letters on Chivalry and Romanc^^ 
 
AND ROMANCE. 65 
 
 is the courtesy of the knig-hts who professed it. 
 I remarked, that the founders of the feudal system 
 were distinguished, among all the nations then 
 known in Europe or Asia, by the peculiarity of 
 their behaviour to their women; whom they re- 
 garded and loved, as their friends, and faithful 
 counsellors, and as invested with something of a 
 sacred character. Accordingly we are told by 
 some authors, that in all their conquests they 
 were never guilty of violence where the female 
 sex was concerned. This delicacy they transmit- 
 ted to their descendants; among the greater part 
 of whom, whatever outrages might now and then 
 be committed by individuals, it seems to have 
 been a point of honour, to be generous and res- 
 pectful in their attentions to women. This was at 
 least an indispensable part of the duty of a knight 
 errant. By the statutes of chivalry, the love of 
 God was the first virtue, and devotion to the 
 ladies the second.* But that devotion had nothing 
 licentious in it; being delicate to a degree that 
 bordered on extravagance, if not on impiety. 
 For the true knight did not expect condescension 
 on the part of his mistress, till he had proved 
 himself worthy of her, by deeds of arms, and 
 performed many acts of heroism as her cham- 
 
 * Kurd's Letters. 
 
 F2 
 
66 ON FABLE 
 
 pion and admirer. And, when he was going to 
 attack his enemy, we are told it was customary 
 for him, first, to implore the help of God, and 
 then to invoke, or at least to mention, the name 
 of his mistress. 
 
 The gallant behaviour of these knights may 
 further be accounted for, from that religious ar- 
 dour, which prompted them to signalize them- 
 selves as the champions of the faith, and to fulfil 
 those duties of benevolence and kindness, which 
 are^o where so earnestly recommended as in the 
 gospel, and which form the most substantial, and 
 indeed the only substantial, part of true politeness. 
 
 The domestick life of the feudal baron must 
 also have had considerable influence, in refining 
 the manners of men and women in the higher 
 ranks. He lived, as already observed, in his castle, 
 with a numerous train of friends and vassals, who 
 formed a court, similar in its economy to that of 
 the sovereign. Luxury was little known at that 
 time, even in palaces. The kings of England had 
 their chambers littered with rushes; and their 
 beds were laid on straw or hay. Every person of 
 fashion in a great family has now a separate apart- 
 ment; but then it was not so. The hall of the cas- 
 tle was a place of constant and universal resort. * 
 
 * " After having- attended your lady in the morning-," 
 says troubadour Amanicu des Escus in his advice to a 
 
AND ROMANCE. 67 
 
 There appeared the baron himself, with his lady 
 and children, and those noble guests who might 
 occasionallj' reside with him; there too were often 
 seen his vassals, ranked according to their dig- 
 nity; and there, in a lower situation, the chief ser- 
 vants of the family would sometimes assemble. 
 Were so many persons of mean and of equal 
 rank to meet together, every man would indulge 
 his own humour, and politeness would not be 
 much minded. But the very great diversity of 
 ranks in a feudal castle would introduce courte- 
 ous behaviour; while the great found it their in- 
 terest, to be affable; and those of the lower sort, to 
 be respectful. Think with what reverence the in- 
 feriour vassals would look up to the baron, who 
 had so many men, and so much wealth, at his 
 command; and who, within his own jurisdiction, 
 could pardon, or put to death, and enjoyed many 
 other privileges of royalty. The ladies of the fa- 
 mily, conscious of their high rank, restrained by 
 
 gentlevioman, " you may walk in the great hall, and sa- 
 *' lute with civility those who pass there; answering; 
 *' them in a courteous manner, but without exceeding in 
 '• talk. Be ^-ave in your step, and modest in your look." 
 Mrs. Dobsoji's History of the Troubadours ^ pa^e 444. In 
 those days, the upper servants in great houses were ge- 
 nerally persons of family. By the common people in Scot- 
 land they are still called, the gentlcnvomaii and tJ-.e gentle- 
 man. 
 
68 ON FAHLE 
 
 native modesty, and intimidated by the presence 
 of their relations, would, in the midst of this great 
 domestick assembly, maintain a reserve, suffi- 
 cient to discourage all familiarity on the part of 
 the other sex. Ladies of lower rank would imitate 
 them: and thus it is reasonable to think, that there 
 must have prevailed, and we have positive evi- 
 dence, that there actually did prevail, among the 
 women of fashion in those days, a dignity and even 
 a stateliness, of m.anner, tending to inspire the 
 enamoured beholder with a passion compounded 
 of love and veneration. Hence the origin of ro- 
 mantick love: which, regarding its object as 
 something more than human, forms extrava- 
 gant ideas of perfection and happiness; a passion 
 almost peculiar to latter times; and which, in 
 ancient Greece and Rome, as well as in Asia, 
 v/here the sexes lived separate, and where the 
 condition of the female w^as little better than 
 servitude, could have noplace. For, if it be true, 
 that a prudent reserve commands some degree 
 of reverence; and that the best of humankind 
 have blemishes, which at a distance are not seen, 
 and which when near cannot be concealed; we 
 need not wonder at the effects, said to have been 
 produced, in courteous knights, by the sublime 
 prudery of accomplished ladies; nor at the oppo- 
 site tendency of these modes of life, by which 
 men are emboldened to consider w^omen as a 
 
AND ROMANCE. 09 
 
 sort of propei'ty, and as rather under the stan- 
 dard of human excellence, than above it. 
 
 Politeness and courtesy take their rise among 
 those -who stand in awe of one another. For this 
 reason, monarchy, where different ranks of men 
 are established, has always been thought more 
 favourable to elegant manners, than any of the 
 republican forms of government, in which all the 
 citizens are supposed to be equal, or nearly so. 
 In his own court, that is, in his castle, the feudal 
 baron was a monarch in miniature; and polite 
 manners, like those that take place where kings 
 have their residence, would naturally be diffused 
 through his whole household. You easily know 
 by one's behaviour, whether one has been much 
 in the company of one's superiours. A man of 
 spirit contracts no servility from that circum- 
 stance: but he acquires the habit of attending to 
 the wants and wishes of those with whom he con- 
 verses, of complying with their innocent hu- 
 mours, of adapting himself to their views of 
 things, and their peculiar ways of thinking; and 
 he also acquires the habits of unassuming speech, 
 elegant phraseology, and easy motion. It has been 
 remarked by several writers, that the true Scotch 
 highlander is distinguished by a gentility of be- 
 haviour, which does not generally display itself 
 in the lower ranks of mankind. The fact, I be- 
 
70 ON FABLE 
 
 lieve, is true; and may be accounted for, if not 
 from the feudal, at least from the patriarchal^ 
 policy of the people; from the relation of clan- 
 ship subsisting between the lord and his vassal, 
 which entitles the latter to the company of the 
 former, and occasions a more familiar inter- 
 course, than is elsewhere met with, between the 
 gentry and the commonalty. And therefore it is 
 not surprising, that there should have been, not- 
 withstanding the rudeness of the times, so much 
 courtesy in the castle of a feudal baron; especial- 
 ly among those who appeared there in a milita- 
 ry character, and still more especially among 
 the knights of chivalry. 
 
 Besides, the character of a true knight w.as 
 very delicate: and single combat was a thing so 
 familiar to him, and withal accounted so ho- 
 nourable, that he never failed to resent in a hos- 
 tile manner any reproachful word that might be 
 thrown out against his virtue, particularly against 
 his faith, or his courage. Hence reproachful 
 words would in general be avoided; which would 
 promote courtesy, by refining conversation. And 
 hence the origin of duelling: a practice, un- 
 known to Greece and Rome; which took its rise 
 in the feudal times, and probably among the sons 
 of chivalry; and which, though in many respects 
 absurd and wicked, is allowed to have prpmoted 
 
AND ROMANCE, 71 
 
 jxiliteness, by making men cautious of offending 
 one another. 
 
 The knight errant was the declared enemy of 
 the oppressor, the punisher of the injurious, and 
 the patron of the weak. And as women were 
 more exposed to injury, than men; and as ladies 
 of rank and merit were, for reasons already 
 given, the objects of veneration to all men of 
 breeding; the true knight was ambitious, above 
 all things, to appear the champion of the fair 
 sex. To qualify himself for this honour, he was 
 careful to acquire every accomplishment that 
 could entitle him to their confidence: he was 
 courteous, gentle, temperate and chaste. He 
 bound himself, by solemn vows, to the per- 
 formance of those virtues: so that, while he act- 
 ed with honour in his profession, a lady might 
 commit herself to his care, without detriment 
 to her character; he being, in regard to those 
 virtues, as far above suspicion, as a clergyman is 
 now. And, that women of fashion might con 
 fide in him with the more security, he commonly 
 attached himself to some one lady, whom he de- 
 ('lared to be the sole mistress of his affections, 
 and to whom he swore inviolable constancy. 
 Nothing is more ridiculous than Don Quixote's 
 passion for Dulcinea del Toboso, as Cervantes 
 lias descri])cd it: and yet, it was in some sort 
 
Y2 o:n fable 
 
 necessary for every knight errant to have a no- 
 minal mistress: because, if he had not acknow- 
 ledged any particular attachment, nor made any 
 vows in consequence of it, his conduct, where 
 women were concerned might have been sus- 
 pected; which would alone have disqualified 
 him for what he justly thought the most honour- 
 able duty annexed to his profession. In a word, 
 the chastity of a knight errant was to be no less 
 unimpeachable, than the credit of a merchant 
 now is, or the courage of a soldier. 
 
 I have endeavoured to trace out the distin- 
 guishing features of that extraordinary character, 
 a knight errant; and to account for each of them, 
 from the nature of the institution, and the man- 
 ners of the times. The true knight was religi- 
 ous, valiant, passionately fond of strange adven- 
 tures, a lover of justice, a protector of the weak, 
 a punisher of the injurious; temperate, courteous, 
 and chaste; and zealous, and respectful, in his 
 attentions to the fair sex. And this is the charac- 
 ter assigned him in all those old romances and 
 poems, that describe the adventures of chivalry. 
 
 Knight errantry, however respectable in its 
 first institution, soon became dangerous. The 
 Gothick armour was a complete covering to the 
 whole person: and under that disguise many 
 irarriours went through the world as knights er- 
 
AND ROMANCE. J'S 
 
 rant, who were really nothing better than rob- 
 bers; and who, instead of being patrons of man- 
 kind, were pests of society. The true knight, 
 therefore, thought himself bound in honour to 
 inquire into the character of those who might 
 appear in the same garb; so that two knights, 
 who were strangers to each other, could hardly 
 meet without fighting. And we may warrant- 
 ably suppose, that even the better sort of these 
 wanderers would sometimes attack an innocent 
 man, without necessity, in order to signalize their 
 valour, and do honour to the lady of their af- 
 fections. Nay, in time it came to be a sufficient 
 cause for combat, if the strange knight refused 
 to acknowledge the beauty of his adversary's 
 mistress superiour to that of his own. The law, 
 therefore, would find it necessary to interpose; 
 first, in subjecting chivalry to certain restraints, 
 to which a knight would not willingly submit; 
 and, at last, in declaring the profession itself un- 
 lawful. Before the publication of Don Quixote, 
 knight errantry had been prohibited in several 
 countries; and was indeed become unnecessary, 
 from the alterations, that (as will appear in the 
 next paragraph) had been gradually introduced 
 into the feudal system; as well as inconvenient, 
 from the absurd conduct of the knights them- 
 selves. 
 
 Vol. III. O 
 
74 ON FABLE 
 
 Of all those, who repined at the encroach- 
 ments of the feudal barons, the kings of Eu- 
 rope were the most impatient, and indeed the 
 greatest sufferers. They could summon their 
 subjects in arms to the field; but having little to 
 give them, could not easily keep them together 
 for more than a few weeks. And, in time of 
 peace, the royal power being almost confined to 
 the royal territory, the greater barons were con- 
 tinually opposing the views of the sovereign, 
 despising his authority, extorting from him new 
 privileges, and counteracting the influence of 
 the law. This was more or less the state of every 
 feudal kingdom. The fashion of crusading was 
 now over. And a feudal prince, unable to devise 
 employment in foreign parts, for his turbu- 
 lent nobility, was obliged, in self-defence, to 
 exert all his power and policy, in controlling 
 them at home; with a view to resume, if pos- 
 sible, some of those privileges that had been 
 wrested from him. Many years were passed in 
 struggles of this kind, between the kings and 
 the nobles; to which nothing could put a pe- 
 riod, but a change in the form of government. 
 That happened in some countries sooner, and 
 in others later: but the kings at length prevailed, 
 and the feudal system was broken in pieces. Its 
 
AND ROMANCE. 75 
 
 laws, however, and its manners, are still ob- 
 servable in every European kingdom. 
 
 As the power of the nobles was contracted, 
 that of the kings became more extensive. This 
 might be unfavourable to the independence, or 
 rather to the licentiousness, of the grandees: but 
 it promoted peace, and reestablished the authori- 
 ty of law. Society became more regular, and 
 more secure. The knight errant was no longer 
 of any use. He was even found troublesome; 
 and the law considered him as a vagrant. 
 
 But the old spirit of chivalry was not extin- 
 guished: and what remained of it was inflamed 
 by the books called romances, which were now 
 common in Europe; and, being written in the 
 vulgar tongues, and filled with marvellous ad- 
 ventures, could not fail to be eagerly sought af- 
 ter and read, at a time when books were rare, 
 and men credulous. 
 
 To investigate all the causes that brought 
 about the revival of letters, is now impossible. 
 The ages immediately preceding this great 
 event were profoundly ignorant; and few memo- 
 rials of them remain. The crusades, bloody and 
 unnatural as they were, seem to have given a 
 new^, and a favourable, impulse to the human soul. 
 For the heroes of those wars, who lived to re- 
 turn home, brought along with them marvellous 
 
7Q ON FABLE 
 
 accounts of Asia, and of the misfortunes, tri- 
 umphs, and other adventures that had there be- 
 fallen them. Thus, it may be supposed, that the 
 imagination of Europeans would be elevated, 
 their memory stored with new ideas, and their 
 curiosity awakened. The human mind, thus pre- 
 pared, naturally betakes itself to invention. Or 
 if we believe the dawn of modern literature to 
 have been previous to, or coeval with, the first 
 crusade, it is not absurd to imagine, that the 
 same spirit of activity, however raised, which 
 made men think of signalizing themselves in 
 feats of arms at home, or in quest of adventures 
 abroad, might also stimulate the mental powers, 
 and cause genius to exert itself in new ways of 
 thinking, as well as of acting. The wars of 
 Thebes and of Troy are undo\iblediy to be 
 reckoned among the Cciusesthat gave rise to the 
 literature of Greece.* 
 
 * The crusades were in many other respects benefi.- 
 eial to Europe. They enlarg-ed men's ideas of commerce, 
 improved their taste, loid refined their manners; and 
 occasioned new distributions of property; whereby the ; 
 sovereigns acquired greater power, the laws became '| 
 more effectual, the aristocracy grew less formidable, 
 und the people by degrees emerged into liberty. These 
 causes, by a slow and almost imperceptible energy Con- 
 tinued through several ages, brought on at last a totat 
 reformation of the feudal svstcm. 
 
AND ROMANCE. 77 
 
 Be this however as it will, certain it is, that, 
 about the beginning of the twelfth century, or 
 perhaps a little earlier, there appeared, in the 
 country of Provence, a set of men, called trou- 
 badours, who are to be considered as the fa- 
 thers of modern learning. That country, known 
 of old by the name of the Roman province^ is 
 situated in a genial climate: and, from its vici- 
 nity to Marseilles, which was a Greek colony, 
 and from having so long enjoyed the benefit of 
 Roman arts and manners, we need not wonder, 
 that, when all the rest of Europe was in a rude 
 slate, it should retain some traces of ancient dis- 
 cipline. An obvious advantage it must have had, 
 in this respect, over Rome; owing to its distance 
 from the seat of papal despotism: which in those 
 days was friendly to ignorance; though in a later 
 period, under Leo, it favoured the cultivation of 
 arts and sciences. 
 
 The word troubadour^ in its etymological 
 sense, differs not much from the Greek word/^of/; 
 the one denoting an inventor^ and the other a 
 maker. In Italian, trovare signifies to Jind^ or to 
 invent; trovatore is d^Jlnder., inventor^ or composer 
 (■if poetry: and trovatore and troubadour are plainly 
 of the same origin. The troubadoui's made ver- 
 ses in the Provencal tongue; which (as might be 
 coniecturcd from the situation of the countrv'} 
 
 G 2 
 
78 ON FABLE 
 
 resembled partly the Italian, and partly the 
 French, and is said to have had in it many Greek 
 words and idioms, which it owed, no doubt, to 
 the neig'hbourini^ city of Marseilles. It seems to 
 have been the first modern tongue that was put 
 in writing, or employed in composition. And 
 the rank of some of those who composed in it 
 (for many of the troubadours were princes*) and 
 the wandering life which others of them led, 
 made it quickly circulate through the western 
 world. 
 
 The first poets of Greece sung their own ver- 
 ses: but the first Provencal bards only composed 
 poems; leaving it to an inferiour order of men, 
 called jongleurs^ to sing them. This at least was 
 the general practice: though occasionally, no 
 doubt, the former might sing, and the latter com- 
 pose. Both were inclined to a wandering life; 
 but the singer more professedly than the poet; 
 though they sometimes went in company. The 
 
 * Richard the fir.st, king of England, and count of 
 Poitou, was a generous patron of the troubadours, and 
 at length came to imitate them with no bad success. 
 Two of his poems, with some other Proven^alpieces, are 
 very well versified in a volume intitled rimes, printed for 
 Mr. Dilly 1781; in which volume there is great store of 
 poetical ideas, expressed with strength, elegance and 
 harmony. 
 
AND ROMANCE. 79 
 
 jongleur studied to recommend himself by vari- 
 ous arts; by playing on musical instruments, by 
 imitating the songs of birds, by jumping through 
 hoops, and by all sorts of legerdemain. Hence, 
 prob'ably, our v^'ovd jtiggler. 
 
 No poets were ever held in higher esteem, 
 than the troubadours. Raimond the fifth, count 
 of Provence, exempted them from taxes. They 
 went through many nations; and, wherever they 
 went, they found patrons and pratronesses. The 
 ladies were particularly ambitious of being cele- 
 brated by them; and would rather submit to be 
 teased with the importunities of their love, than 
 venture by rejecting them to incur their hatred: 
 for as the troubadour was extravagant in pane- 
 gyrick, he could be equally so in satire, when 
 he thought himself affronted or despised. This 
 passion for that sort of renown, which poets pre- 
 tend to give, may be accounted for, perhaps, 
 from the ignorance of letters, which then pre- 
 vailed in all ranks, and especially among the 
 fair sex. Bernard de Vantadour mentions it as 
 one of the accomplishments of queen Eleanor, 
 who was married first to Louis the seventh, of 
 Fnmce, and afterwards to Henry the second, of 
 England, that she could read.* 
 
 • Literary History of the Troubadrurs, pag-c 12 
 
80 OX FAULli 
 
 Contsideriiig- the gallantry of the times, and the 
 attention paid to these poets by the ladies, it is 
 natural to suppose, that love would be a chief 
 theme in their compositions. And so in fact it 
 was. But this love, though in some instances it 
 might be genuine, had so much formality in it, 
 tliat I can hardly Ijelieve it to have been any 
 thing else, for the most part, than a verbal pa- 
 rade of admiration and attachment, in which the 
 heart had little concern, and which aimed at no- 
 thing further, than to secure the protection of 
 the fair and the noble. The Provencal poet went 
 to the court of some prince or lord; where he 
 Avas no sooner established, than he began to com- 
 j)ose sonnets in praise of his patron's wife, and 
 to feign, or to fancy, himself in love with her. 
 This happened, not to one only, or to a few, but 
 almost to the Avhole species of these adventurers; 
 so that it would seem to have been the mode, and 
 a thing of course. To unmarried ladies it does 
 not appear, that much devotion was paid: I sup- 
 pose, because they had little to bestow, in the 
 Avay either of pecuniary, or of honorary, favour. 
 
 Petrarch's passion for Laura, though disinte- 
 rested, seems to have been in some degree ficti- 
 tious, or at least, not quite so serious a matter as 
 many people imagine. " He was wretched to show 
 be had v/it," as the song says: he loved after the 
 
ANDROMANCF.. 81 
 
 Provencal fashion: he wanted to make passionate 
 verses; and Laura, being a beautiful lady, and a 
 married one too, with a pretty romantic name, 
 suited his poetical purposes as well as Dulcinea 
 del Toboso did the heroick views of Don Quix- 
 ote. Had his heart been really engaged, he could 
 not have gone on, from day to day, in the same 
 strain of elegant and elaborate whining: a sincere 
 passion would have allowed him neither time 
 nor tranquillity for such amusement. What is ob- 
 served, in the old aphorism, of violent grief, that 
 it is silent, and of slight sorrow, that it vents it- 
 self in words, will be found to hold true of many 
 of our affections. Hammond was not in love, when 
 he wrote his elegies; as I have been informed 
 on good authority: and Young, while composing 
 the most pathetick parts of the Night Thoughts, 
 was as cheerful as at other times. These are not 
 the only instances that might be mentioned.* 
 
 * That Petrarch's passion was sincere, or such at least 
 as {^ave him uneasiness for a considerable time, appears 
 from a passag-e in an account of his life and character, 
 written by himself in Latin prose and prefixed to an edi- 
 tion of his works printed at Basil, apiid Hen. Pctr. 1544. 
 But that it was of that permament and overwhelming 
 nature, which is generally supposed, may justly be 
 doubted, upon the same authority. He was, he says, 
 once violently in love, when a young' man; but it was 
 
82 ON FABLE 
 
 The cicisbcUm^ as it is called, of modern Italy, 
 (a sort of romantick attention paid to married 
 Avomen by those v/ho should not pay itj I do not 
 pretend to understand; though I believe it to be 
 
 auwy honestus, an lionoiirable, or a virtuous passion. 
 Granting", that Laura (or Lauretta) the wife of Hug'ucs 
 de Sade was the object of it; and that the lover called 
 it honourable, because it detached him from criminal 
 connections; yet what evidence have we, that it con- 
 tinued with him (as some authors are pleased to affirm) 
 to the end of his life? There is presumptive, nay there 
 is positive, evidence of the contrary: and that he was 
 less subject perhaps, than most men can pretend to be, 
 to the tyranny of the xoinged boy. 
 
 Th.e presuonptive evidence is founded on the laborious 
 life which he must have led in the pursuits of literature. 
 His youth was employed in study, at a time when study 
 was very difficult, from the want of books and of mas- 
 ters. He became the most learned man of his time. To 
 him we are indebted for the preservation of some an- 
 cient authors, whom he is said to have transcribed with 
 liis own hand. His works, in my edition of them, fill one 
 thousand four hundred and fifty folio pages closel}' print- 
 ed; whereof the Italian sonnets are not much more than 
 a twentieth part; the rest being- in Latin; and one of his 
 Latin pieces an epick poem csA\c& Africa, almost as long 
 as the Eneid. Is it credible, that a man of extreme sen- 
 sibility, pining in hopeless love for thirty, forty, oy fifty 
 years, could be so zealous a student, and so voluminous a 
 composer? His retirement at Vaucluse was by no means 
 
AND ROMANCE. 83 
 
 a disgrace to the country, not only as it tends to 
 the utter corruption of manners; but also because 
 it supplies a pretence for idleness, eflcminacy, 
 sauntering, gossiping, and insignificant prattle. 
 
 devoted to love and Laura. There, says he, almost all the 
 works I have published, were completed, or be^n, or 
 planned; and so many they were,that even at these years 
 they employ and fatigue me. Diverticulum aliquod quasi 
 portum quxrens, repperi vallem perexiguam, sed soli- 
 tariam atque amoenam, qux Clausa dicitur, quindecim 
 millibus ab Avinione distantem, ubi fontium rex omnium, 
 Sorga oritur. Captus loci dulcedinc, libellos meos, etme- 
 ipsum illuc transtuli. Longaerit historia, si pergam exe- 
 qui quid ibi multos ac multos egerim per annos. H<ec est 
 summa, quod quicquid fere opusculorum mihi excidit 
 ibi vel actum, vel cccptum, vel conceptum est: qiix tani 
 midta fuerunt, ut usque ad banc aetutcm me cxerceant 
 ac fatigent. Fr. Pttrarcha; de origine sua, vita, et conversa- 
 tloiie. 
 
 • The positive evidence we have in the following quo- 
 tation from the same treatise ; in the third sentence of 
 which quotation, for a reason that will occur to the learn- 
 ed reader, I take the liberty to expunge two words, and 
 put one in their pbice. Amore acerrimo, sed unico, et 
 honesto, in adolescentia laboravi; et diutius laborassem, 
 nisi jum tepescentem ignem mors accrba, sed utilis, 
 extinxisset. Libidinum me prorsus expertcm dicere 
 posse optarem quidem, sed si die am mentiar; hoc se- 
 cure dixerim, me, quanquam fervore aetatis et complex- 
 lonis ad id raptum, vilitatem illam tamen semper am- 
 
84 ON FABLE 
 
 I 
 But if this fashion arose from the bewitching in- 
 fluence of Petrarch's poetry, which lias been af- 
 firmed by some writers, and is not improbable, 
 there may be reason to think, that at first it ^vas 
 rather a foolish, or at most a selfish, than a cri- 
 minal, connection. Adelaide, viscountess of Baux, 
 w^as extremely indulgent to the troubadour Pe- 
 ter Vidal, as long as his passion was merely po- 
 etical: but when he had the presumption to kiss 
 
 mo execratum. Mox vero ad quadragesitnutn annum ad- 
 propinquans, dum adhuc et caloris satis esset, et virium, 
 non solum amorem, sed ejus memoriam omnem sic 
 abjeci, quasi nunquam foeminam aspexissem. Qiiod inter 
 primas felicitates memoror, Deo gratias agens, qui me 
 adhuc integrum et vigentem, tam vili et mihi semper 
 odioso servitio liberavit. Sed ad alia procedo. 
 
 Hieronymo Squarzafi^lu, in a life of Petrarch pre- 
 fixed to the same collection of his writings, informs us, 
 that the lady's real name was Lauretta, and that the 
 poet made it Laura. Thus altered, it supplies liim with 
 numberless allusions to tlie laurel, and to the story of 
 Apollo and Daphne. Might he not, in many of his son- 
 nets, have had allegorical references to the poetical 
 laurel; which, was offered him at one and the same 
 time by deputies from France and Italy, and with which 
 he was actually crowned at Rome? In this \aew, his 
 love of fame and of poetry would happily coincide with 
 his tenderness for Laura, and give peculiar warmth and 
 elevation to such of his thoughts as might relate to any 
 one of the three passions. 
 
AND ROMANCE. 85 
 
 her one day in her sleep, she drove him from 
 her presence, and would never after, even at the 
 request of her husband, be reconciled to him. 
 Peter, finding her inexorable, went and fell in 
 love with another lady, whose name happened to 
 be WolJ\ and, dressing himself in a skin of the 
 animal so called, submitted to the danger of being 
 hunted for her sake. In this garb he was discov- 
 ered by the dogs; who, entering with great alac- 
 rity into the frolick, gave chase, pursued him to 
 the mountains, and were actually worrying him, 
 when he was with difficulty rescued by the shep- 
 herds. 
 
 Vidal, hov/ever, though fantastick in love, was 
 not in every thing ridiculous. His advice to a 
 jongleur is curious; and shows, that, though in 
 those days there might be little learning in Eu- 
 rope, the principles of good breeding, and of ele- 
 gant behaviour, were in some parts of it very well 
 understood.* 
 
 * I beg- leave to subjoin the concluding- paragraph as 
 a specimen of this excellent piece. '* Never condemn 
 ** other jong-leurs: those, who are severe on persons of 
 ** their own profession, show a base and envious mind, 
 ** and expose their own jealousy much more than the 
 ** faults of their brethren. If you are asked to relate what 
 "you have seen and heard in the world, be not too diffu- 
 " sive, but proceed by degrees; sound the disposition of 
 
 Vol. III. ' II 
 
86 ON FABLE 
 
 Love was not the only theme of the Provencal 
 poets. They occasionally joined their voices to 
 those of the pope, and the monks, and the kings 
 of Europe, to rouse the spirit of crusading. Sa- 
 
 *' your hearers, till you observe they relish your di.s 
 *' course: then speak of the brave lords you have met 
 *' with, and of the ladies in the highest esteem: anden- 
 " deavour to inspire those, who listen to you, with tlic 
 *' love of virtue. If the company are persons of high rank, 
 " and of elevated minds, displa}^, both in your counte- 
 " nance and voice, the eloquence which your subject 
 *' inspires. Be distinct and grave in your manners; let 
 *' your carriage be firm and graceful; and abstain fron) 
 *' all mean and low expressions. Some jongleurs find 
 ** fault with every thing-, but take care to extol them- 
 *' selves highly: and such is their vanity and ignorance, 
 " that were they in the presence of the king himself, 
 *' tliey would affect the free and familiar tone of men of 
 " importance. Do not imitate those; the more they arc 
 " known, the less they are esteemed. For your part, 
 " whatever is your genius, your knowledge, or your 
 *' wit, do not make a boast of it: be modest, and you 
 " will find persons enough who will set forth your merit 
 ♦' and abilities. Avoid all excess: flee all bad company; 
 *' but do not appear to despise anyone; for the meanest 
 *' and the worst person is most able to become your 
 «' enemy; and they sometimes pursue those they hate, 
 " with such inveterate malice, as to injure them in the 
 ** opinion of the worthy and the judicious. While you 
 ** are young and vigorous recommend in your writings, 
 
AND ROMANCE. 87 
 
 tire, religious and political, as well as personal, 
 and little tales or novels, with portions of real his- 
 tory, and even theological controversy, were also 
 interwoven in their compositions. But in every 
 form their poetry pleased; and, by the industry 
 of those who composed, and of those who sung 
 it, obtained a very extensive circulation. 
 
 A book, or a poem, in a living language, was 
 at this period an extraordinary appearance. All 
 Europe attended to it. The Provencal tongue, 
 and mode of writing, became fashionable: and the 
 neighbouring nations wished to know, whether 
 their languages could not also be applied to the 
 same, or to similar purposes. 
 
 This was first attempted with success in Italy; 
 where several men of great genius happened 
 about this time to arise, whose practice and au- 
 thority fixed the Italian tongue in a state not very 
 different from its present. Among these were 
 Dante, Petrarch, and Boccacio: who all flourish- 
 ed in the end of the thirteenth century, or in the 
 beginning of the fourteenth. Dante distinguished 
 
 *' and impress by your behaviour, the respect due to old 
 " ag-e: And maintain continually this truth, that those, 
 *' who frequent the company of persons, whose lives 
 " have been spent in virtue, will derive to tliemselves 
 ** a lasting- blessing" and reward." See Mrs. Dobson's 
 Literary Hist(n'y of the Troubadours, pag-e 338 — 349. 
 
88 ON FABLE 
 
 himself in poetry: and wrote his Inferno^ Para- 
 dzsoy and Piirgatorio, in a bold, but extravagant 
 style of fable: intermixing satire with his poeti- 
 cal descriptions and allegories; whereof many are 
 highly finished, and in particular passages enfor- 
 ced with singular energy and simplicity of ex- 
 pression. Petrarch composed many poems, let- 
 ters, essays, and dialogues, in Latin, which he 
 thought the only durable tongue: for as to his 
 Italian verses, he did not believe they could last, 
 or be intelligible for a century. But in this he 
 was mistaken greatly: his Latin works being now 
 almost forgotten; while his Italian sonnets are 
 still the admiration of Europe, for delicacy of 
 sentiment, and elegance of style. Their merit 
 was indeed thought to be so transcendent, that 
 he alone was attended to, and his masters the 
 troubadours were neglected and forgotten. Boc- 
 cacio's chief performance is called the DecameV' 
 on. It is a series of novels; whereof some are 
 grave, others comical, and many indecent. He 
 supposes a number of men and women met to- 
 gether, at the time when a pestilence was rava- 
 ging Florence, and telling those stories for their 
 mutual amusement. His imagination must have 
 been unbounded: and so highly is his prose es- 
 teemed in Italv to this dav,,that a late author of 
 
 
AND ROMANCE. 89 
 
 that country* declares it to be impossible, for 
 the man who has not read Boccacio, to form an 
 idea of the extent or energy of the Italian tongue. 
 The fourteenth century produced also the il- 
 lustrious Geoffry Chaucer; who, though not the 
 first who wrote in English, is the first of our 
 great authors, and may be truly called the father 
 of our language and literature. His writings are 
 chiefly translations, or imitations, of the Pro- 
 vencal and Italian writers then known. But he 
 has imitated and translated with the greatest la- 
 titude, and added many fine strokes of character, 
 humour and description: so that we ought to con- 
 sider him as an original; since he does in fact ex- 
 hibit, especially in his Canterbury Tales, a more 
 natural picture of the English manners of that 
 age, than is to be met with in any other writer. 
 Ke did not, however, fix the English tongue, as 
 his contemporaries Petrarch and Boccacio had 
 fixed the Italian. Many of his words soon fell 
 into disuse: and his language at present is not 
 Avell understood, except by those who have taken 
 some pains to study it. He died in the year four- 
 teen hundred. Some of his poems, particularly 
 his Kfu'g/it's Tak^ which is well modernized by 
 Diyden, are written in the taste of chivalry; but 
 
 * Vi«;J^n(!o (k-lla Littcrutura, del C. Denliia. 
 
 H 2 
 
90 ON FABLE 
 
 not in that extravagant mode of invention, which 
 now began to display itself in the Spanish and 
 French romances; and which was afterwards 
 adopted, and adorned with every grace of lan- 
 guage and of harmony, by Ariosto in Italy, and 
 by Spenser in England. 
 
 The origin of the old romance, which, after this 
 long historical deduction, we are now arrived at, 
 has been already accounted for. It was one of the 
 consequences of chivalry. The first writers in 
 this way exhibited a species of fable, different 
 from all that had hitherto appeared. They un- 
 dertook to describe the adventures of those he- 
 roes who professed knight errantry. The world 
 was then ignorant and credulous, and passion- 
 ately fond of wonderful adventures, and deeds of 
 valour. They believed in giants, dwarfs, dragons, 
 enchanted castles, and every imaginable species 
 of necromancy. These form the materials of tlie 
 old romance. The knight errant was described 
 as courteous, religious, valiant, adventurous, and 
 temperate. Some enchanters befriended, and 
 others opposed him. To do his mistress honour, 
 and to prove himself worthy of her, he was made 
 to encounter the warriour, hew down the giant, 
 cut the dragon in pieces, break the spell of the 
 necromancer, demolish the enchanted castle, fly 
 through the air on wooden or winged horses; or. 
 
AND ROMANCE. 91 
 
 with some magician for his guide, to descend 
 unhurt through the opening earth, and traverse 
 the caves in the bottom of the ocean. He de- 
 tected and punished the false knight, overthrew 
 or converted the infidel, restored the exiled 
 monarch to his dominions, and the captive dam- 
 sel to her parents: he fought at the tournament, 
 feasted in the hall, and bore a part in the war- 
 like procession: or, when the enchanter who 
 befriended his enemy prevailed, he did penance 
 in the desert, or groaned in the dungeon; or, per- 
 haps, in the shape of a horse or hart, grazed in 
 the valley, till some other valiant knight broke 
 the spell, and restored to him his form, his arms, 
 and his freedom. At last, after innumerable toils, 
 disasters, and victories, he married his mistress, 
 and became a great lord, a prince or perhaps an 
 emperor. 
 
 It will appear, from this account, that nature, 
 probability, and even possibility, Avere not much 
 attended to, in those compositions. Yet with them 
 all Europe was intoxicated: and in every nation 
 that had pretensions to a literary character, mul- 
 titudes of them were written, some in verse, and 
 others in prose. To give a list is unnecessary, and 
 would be tedious. Amadis de Gaul was one of the 
 first; and is, in the opinion of Cervantes, one of 
 the best. Several others are mentioned, and char* 
 
92 ON FABLE 
 
 acterized, by that excellent author, in his account 
 of the purgation of Don Quixote's library. 
 
 While the taste continued for every thing that 
 was incredible and monstrous, we may suppose, 
 that true learning, and the natural simplicity of 
 the classicks, would not be held in general esti- 
 mation. Accordingly, though the knowledge of 
 Greek and Latin was now advancing apace in the 
 western world. Homer, Virgil, Cicero, and all 
 the most elegant authors, were much neglected. 
 The first accounts, that circulated among us, 
 concerning the siege of Troy, seem to have been 
 taken, not from Homer, but from Dares Phry- 
 gius and Dictys Cretensis, two writers in prose, 
 who have given a fabulous and marvellous history 
 of it: and, as late as the age of George Buchanan, 
 our modern Latin poets, Vida excepted, were, 
 if I mistake not, more ambitious to imitate Clau- 
 dian, than Virgil, in their hexameters. Ovid, too, 
 was a favourite author; partly on account of the 
 astonishing fables of the Metamorfihoses^ and 
 partly, no doubt, for the sake of his love verses, 
 so well adapted to the gallantry of this period.* 
 
 * *' To avoid the raillery of those who inoclc my iise- 
 " less constancy, a thought occurs: I may feign, that I 
 *' am fiivourably received, I shall be believed: for women 
 " arc easily softened. So says Ovid, and all the g-allnnr 
 
AND ROMANCE. 93^ 
 
 The passion for romance was attended with 
 other bad consequences. Men of warlike genius 
 and warm fancy, charmed to infatuation with the 
 supposed achievements of knights errant, were 
 tempted to appear in that character; though the 
 profession was now considered as a nuisance, and 
 proscribed by law, in some parts of Europe. This 
 folly seems to have been most prevalent in Spain; 
 which may be thus accounted for. The first ro- 
 mances were written in the language of that 
 kingdom. The Spaniards were then, as they are 
 now, a valiant and enterprising people. And they 
 had long been enslaved by the moors from Africa, 
 whom, after a seven hundred years' war (accord- 
 ing to the historians), and after, fighting three 
 thousand and seven hundred battles, they at last 
 drove out of Spain. This produced many wonder- 
 ful adventures; made them fierce, rom^mtick, 
 and haughty; and confirmed their attachment 
 to their own religion, and their abhorrence of that 
 of their enemies. 
 
 But the final extirpation of chivalry and all its 
 chimeras was now approaching. What laws and 
 force could not accomplish, was brought about 
 by the humour and satire of one writer. This was 
 
 " poets." This passag-e is found in Arnaud Daniel, a 
 ^rovibadourof the twelfth century. Hist nfTroub. p. 215. 
 
94 ON FABLE 
 
 the illustrious Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. 
 He was born at Madrid in the year one thousand 
 five hundred and forty-nine. He seems to have 
 had every advantage of education, and to have 
 been a master in polite learning. But in other re- 
 spects fortune was not very indulgent. He serv- 
 ed many years in the armies of Spain, in no high- 
 er station than that of a private soldier. In that 
 capacity he fought at the battle of Lepanto, under 
 Don John of Austria, and had the misfortune, 
 or, as he rather thought, the honour, to lose his 
 left hand. Being now disqualified for military 
 service, he commenced author; and wrote many 
 dramatick pieces, which were acted with ap- 
 plause on the Spanish theatre, and acquired him 
 both money and reputation. But want of econo- 
 my and unbounded generosity dissipated the 
 former: and he was actually confined in prison 
 for debt, when he composed the first part of 
 The History of Don Quixote; a work, which eve- 
 ry body admires for its humour; but whith 
 ought also to be considered as a most useful per- 
 formance, that brought about a great revolution 
 in the manners and literature of Europe, by ban- 
 ishing the wild dreams of chivalry, and reviving 
 a taste for the simplicity of nature. In this view, 
 the publication of Don Quixote forms an import- 
 ant era in the history of mankind. 
 
A^D ROMANCE. . 93' 
 
 Don Quixote is represented as a man, whom 
 it is impossible not to esteem for his cultivated 
 understanding, and the goodness of his heart: 
 but who, by poring night and day upon the old 
 romances, had impaired his reason to such a de- 
 gree, as to mistake them for histoiy, and form 
 the design of going through the world, in the 
 character, and with the accoutrements, of a 
 knight errant. His distempered fancy takes the 
 most common occurrences for adventures simi- 
 lar to those he had read in his books of chivalry. 
 And thus, the extravagance of those books being 
 placed, as it were, in the same group with the 
 appearances of nature and the real business of 
 life, the hideous disproportiqn of the former be- 
 comes so glaring by the contrast, that the most 
 inattentive observer cannot fail to be struck with 
 it. The person, the pretensions, and the exploits, 
 of the errant knight, are held up to view in a thou- 
 sand ridiculous attitudes. In a word, the humour 
 and satire are irresistible; and their effects were 
 instantaneous. 
 
 This work no sooner appeared, than chivalry 
 vanished, as snow melts before the sun. Mankind 
 awoke as from a dream. They laughed at them- 
 selves for having been so long imposed cyi by ab- 
 surdity; and wondered they had not made the 
 discovery sooner. It astonished them to find, that 
 
96 ^ OX FABLE 
 
 nature and good sense could yield a more exqui- 
 site entertainment, than they had ever derived 
 from the most sublime phrensies of chivalry. 
 For, that this was indeed the case, that Don 
 Quixote was more read, and more relished, than 
 any other romance had ever been, we may infer, 
 from the sudden and powerful effect it produced 
 on the sentiments of mankind; as well as from 
 the declaration of the author himself; who tells 
 us, that upwards of twelve thousand copies of the 
 first p-art were sold, before the second could be 
 got ready for the press: an amazing rapidity of 
 sale, at a time when the readers and purchasers 
 of books were but an inconsiderable number com- 
 pared to what they are in our days. " The very 
 children," says he,*" handle it, boys read it, men 
 " understand, and old people applaud, the per- 
 " formance. It is no sooner laid down by one, 
 " than another takes it up: some struggling, and 
 " some entreating, for a sight of it. In fine," con- 
 tinues he, " this history is the most delightful, 
 " and the least prejudicial, entertainment, that 
 " ever was seen; for, in the whole book, there is 
 " not the least shadow of a dishonourable word, 
 " nor one thought unworthy of a goodcatholick."* 
 Don Quixote occasioned the death of the old 
 roman(*e, and gave birth to the new. Fiction 
 
 ' Third volume of Don Quixote, near the end. 
 
AND ROMANCE. 97 
 
 hencelbrth divested herself of her gigantick size, 
 tremendous aspect, and frantick demeanour; 
 and, descending to the level of common life, 
 conversed with man as his equal, and as a polite 
 and cheerful companion. Not that every sub- 
 sequent romance writer adopted the plan, or 
 the manner, of Cervantes: but it was from him 
 they learned to avoid extravagance, and to imi- 
 tate nature. And now probability was as much 
 studied, as it had been formerly neglected. 
 
 But before I proceed to the new romance, on 
 which I shall be very brief, it is proper just to 
 mention a species of romantick narrative, which 
 cannot be called either old or new, but is a 
 strange mixture of both. Of this kind are the 
 Grand Cyrus^ Clelia^ and Clcofiatra; each con- 
 sisting of ten or a dozen large volumes, and pre- 
 tending to have a foundation in ancient his- 
 tory. In them, all facts and characters, real 
 and fabulous; and all systems of policy and man- 
 ners, the Greek, the Roman, the feudal and 
 the modern, are jumbled together and con- 
 founded: as if a painter should represent Julius 
 Cesar drinking tea with queen Elizabeth, Jupiter, 
 and Dulcinea del Toboso, and having on his 
 head the laurel wreath of ancient Rome, a 
 suit of Gothick armour on his shoulders, laced 
 ruffles at his wrist, a pipe of tobacco in his mouth, 
 and a pistol and tomahawk stuck in his belt. 
 
 Vol, III. I 
 
98 ON FABLE 
 
 But I should go beyond my depth, if I were to 
 criticise any of those enormous compositions. 
 For, to confess the truth, I never had patience 
 to read one half of one of the volumes; nor met 
 with a person, who could give me any other ac- 
 count of them, than that they are intolerably 
 tedious, and unspeakably absurd. 
 
 The new romance may be divided into the 
 serious and the comick: and each of these kinds 
 may be variously subdivided. 
 
 I. 1. Of serious romances, some follow the 
 historical arrangement; and, instead of beginning, 
 like Homer and Virgil, in the middle of the sub- 
 ject,* give a continued narrative of the life of 
 some one person, from his birth to his establish- 
 ment in the world, or till his adventures may be 
 supposed to have come to an endj Of this sort is 
 Robinson Crusoe. The account commonly given 
 of that well known work is as follows. - 
 
 Alexander Selkirk, a Scotch mariner, hap- 
 pened, by some accident which I forget, to be 
 left in the uninhabited island of Juan Fernandes 
 in the south seas. Here he continued four years 
 alon^, without any other means of supporting 
 life, than by running down goats, and killing 
 such other animals as he could come at. To de- 
 
 * Essay on Poetry and Musick. Ptirt i. chap. 5. 
 
AND ROMANCE. 99 
 
 fend himself from danger during the night, he 
 built a house of stones, rudely put together, 
 ■which a gentleman, who had been in it, (for it 
 was extant when Anson arrived there) described 
 to me as so very small, that one person could 
 with difficulty crawl in, and stretch himself at 
 length. Selkirk was delivered by an English 
 vessel, and returned home. A late French writer 
 says, he had become so fond of the savage 
 state, that he was unwilling to quit it. But that 
 is not true. The French writer either con- 
 founds the real story of Selkirk with a fabu- 
 lous account of one Philip Quarl, written after 
 Robinson Crusoe, of which it is a paltry imita- 
 tion; or wilfully misrepresents the fact, in order 
 to justify, as far as he is able, an idle conceit, 
 which, since the time of Rousseau, has been in 
 fashion amongst infidel and affected theorists on 
 the continent, that a savage life is most natural 
 to us, and that the more a man resembles a brute 
 in his mind, body, and behaviour, the happier 
 he becomes and the more perfect. Selkirk 
 was advised to get his story put in writing, and 
 published. Being illiterate himself, he told every 
 thing he could remember to Daniel Defoe, a 
 professed author, of considerable note; who, 
 instead of doing justice to the poor man, is said 
 to have applied these materials to his own use, 
 
100 ON FABLE 
 
 by making them the groundwork of Robinson 
 Crusoe; which lie soon after published, and 
 which being very popular, brought him a good 
 deal of money. 
 
 Some have thought, that a love tale is necessary 
 to make a romance interesting. But Robinson 
 Crusoe, though there is nothing of love in it, is 
 one of the most interesting narratives that ever 
 was written; at least in all that part which relates 
 to the desert island: being founded on a passion 
 still more prevalent than love, the desire of self- 
 preservation; and therefore likely to engage the 
 curiosity of every class of readers, both old and 
 young, both learned and unlearned. 
 
 I am willing to believe, that Defoe shared the 
 profits of this publication with the poor seaman: 
 for there is an air of humanity in it, which one 
 would not expect from an author who is an ar- 
 rant cheat. In the preface to his second vo- 
 lume, he speaks feelingly enough of the harm 
 done him by those who had abridged the first, 
 in order to reduce the price. " The injury," says 
 he, " which these men do to the proprietors of 
 " works, is a practice all honest men abhor: and 
 " they believe they may challenge them to 
 " show the difference between that, and robbing 
 " on the highway, or breaking open a house. 
 ^' If they cannot show any difference in the 
 
AND ROMAxXCE. 101 
 
 ^* dime, tliey \vill find it hard to show, y/l^- 
 *' there should be any difference in the puiHsh- 
 " ment." Is it to be imagined, that any man of 
 common prudence would talk in this way, if he 
 were conscious, that he himself might be proved 
 guilty of that very dishonesty which he so 
 severely condemns? 
 
 Be this however as it may, for I have no au- 
 thority to affirm any thing on either side, Ro- 
 binson Crusoe must be allowed, by the most 
 rigid moralist, to be one of those novels, which 
 one may read, not only with pleasure, but 
 also with profit. It breathes throughout a spirit 
 of piety and benevolence: it sets in a very strik- 
 ing light, as I have elsewhere observed, the im- 
 portance of the mechanick arts, which they, 
 who know not what it is to be without them, 
 are so apt to unden^alue: it fixes in the mind a 
 lively idea of the horrours of solitude, and conse- 
 fjuently, of the sweets of social life, and of the 
 blessings we derive from conversation, and nm- 
 tual aid: and it shows, how, by labouring with 
 one's own hands, one may secure independence, 
 and open for one's self many sources of health 
 and amusement. I agree, therefore, with Rous- 
 seau, that this is one of the best books that can 
 be put in the hands of children. The style is plain, 
 
 I 2 
 
102 ON FABLE 
 
 but not elegant, nor perfectly grammatical: and 
 the second part of the story is tiresome. 
 
 2. A second species of the modern serious 
 romance is that, which follows the poetical ar- 
 7'angement; and, in order to shorten the time 
 of the action, begins in the middle of the story. 
 Such, partly, are Sir Charles Grandison, and Cla- 
 rissa Harlowe-f by Mr. Richardson. That author 
 has adopted a plan of narrative of a peculiar 
 kind: the persons, who bear a part in the 
 action, are themselves the relaters of it. This 
 is done by means of letters, or epistles; wherein 
 the story is continued from time to time, and 
 the passions freely expressed, as they arise from 
 every change of fortune, and while the per- 
 sons concerned are supposed to be ignorant of 
 the events that are to follow. And thus the se- 
 veral agents are introduced in their turns, 
 speaking, or, which is the same thing in this 
 case, writing, suitably to their respective feel- 
 ings, and characters: so that the fable is partly 
 epick, and partly dramatick. There are some 
 advantages in this form of narrative. It prevents 
 all anticipation of the catastrophe; and keeps the 
 reader in the same suspense, in v/hich the per- 
 sons themselves are supposed to be: and it 
 pleases further, by the varieties of style, suited 
 to the different tempers and sentiments of those 
 
AND ROMANCE. 103 
 
 who write the letters. But it has also its inconve- 
 niences. For, unless the fable be short and sim- 
 ple, this mode of narration can hardly fail to run 
 out into an extravagant length, and to be incum- 
 bered with repetitions. And indeed, Richardson 
 himself, with all his powers of invention, is apt 
 to be tedious, and to fall into a minuteness of de- 
 tail, which is often unnecessar5^ His pathetick 
 scenes, too, are overcharged, and so long conti- 
 nued, as to wear out the spirits of the reader. 
 Nor can it be denied, that he has given too much 
 prudery to his favourite women, and something 
 of pedantry or finicalness to his favourite men. 
 Clementina was, no doubt, intended as a pattern 
 of female excellence: but, though she may 
 claim veneration as a saint, it is impossible to 
 love her as a woman. And Grandison, though 
 both a good and a great character, is in every 
 thing so perfect, as in many things to discou- 
 rage imitation; and so distant, and so formal, 
 as to forbid all familiarity, and, of course, all 
 cordial attachment. Alworthy is as good a man 
 as he: but liis virtue is purely human; and, hav- 
 ing a little of our own weakness in it, and assum- 
 ing no aiis of superiority, invites our acquaintance, 
 and engages our love. 
 
 For all this, however, Richardson is an author 
 of uncommon merit. His characters are well 
 
104 ON FABLE 
 
 drawn and distinctly marked; and he delineates 
 the operation of the passions with a picturesque 
 accuracy, which discovers great knowledge of 
 human nature. His moral sentiments are pro- 
 found and judicious; in wit and humour he is 
 not wanting; his dialogue is sometimes formal; 
 but many of his conversation pieces are executed 
 with elegance and vivacity. For the good ten- 
 dency of his writings he deserves still higher 
 praise; for he was a man of unaffected piety, and 
 had the improvement of his fellow creatures 
 very much at heart. 
 
 Yet, like most other novel writers, he repre- 
 sents some of his wicked characters as more 
 agreeable than was necessary to his plan; which 
 may make the example dangerous. I do not think, 
 that an author of fable, in either prose or verse, 
 should make his bad characters completely bad: 
 for, in the first place, that w^ould not be natu- 
 ral, as the worst of men have generally some 
 good in them: and, secondly, that would hurt 
 his design, by making the tale less captivating; 
 as the history of a person, so very worthless as 
 to have not one good quality, would give disgust 
 or horrour, instead of pleasure. But, on the 
 other hand, when a character, like Richardson's 
 
 Lovelace^ whom the reader ought to abominate 
 for his crimes, is adorned with youth,' beauty, 
 
AXD ROMANCE. 105 
 
 eloquence, Avit, and every other intellectual 
 and bodily accomplishment, it is to be leared, 
 that thoughtless young men may be tempted to 
 imitate, even while they disapprove, him. Nor 
 is it a sufficient apology to say, that he is pun- 
 ished in the end. The reader knows, that the 
 story is a fiction: but he knows toe, that such 
 talents and qualities, if they were to appear in 
 real life, would be irresistibly engaging; and he 
 may even fancy, that a character so highly orna- 
 mented must have been a favourite of the author. 
 Is there not, then, reason to apprehend, that 
 some readers will be more inclined to admire 
 the gay profligate than to fear his punishment? 
 Achilles in Homer, and Macbeth in Shakspeare, 
 arc not without great and good qualities, to 
 raise our admiration, and make us take concern 
 in what befals them. But no person is in any dan- 
 ger of being perverted by their example: their 
 crinntinal conduct being described and directed 
 in such a manner, by the art of the poet, as to 
 show, that it is hateful in itself, and necessarily 
 productive of misery, both to themselves, and to 
 mankind. 
 
 I may add, that the punishment of I^ovelace is 
 a death, not of infamy, according to our no- 
 tions, but rather of honour; which surely he did 
 not deserve: and that the immediate cause of it 
 
106 ON FABLi: 
 
 is, not his wickedness, but some inferiority to 
 his antagonist in the use of the. small sword. 
 With a little more skill in that exercise, he might, 
 for any thing that appears in the story, have tri- 
 umphed over Clarissa's avenger, as he had done 
 over herself, and over the censure of the world. 
 Had his crime been represented as the necessary 
 cause pf a series of mortifications, leading him 
 gradually down to infamy, ruin, and despair, or 
 producing by probable means an exemplary re- 
 pentance, the fable would have been more use- 
 ful in a mxoral view, and perhaps more interest- 
 i;ig. And for the execution of such a plan, the 
 genius of Richardson seems to me to have been 
 extremely well formed. These remarks are of- 
 fered, with a view rather to explain my own 
 ideas of fable, than to detract from an author, 
 who was an honour to his country, and of whose 
 talents and virtues I am a sincere admirer. 
 
 His epistolary manner has been imitated by 
 many novel writers; particularly by Rousseau m 
 his jVew Eloisa; a work, not more remarkable for 
 its eloquence, which is truly great, than for its 
 glaring and manifold inconsistencies. For it is 
 full of nature and extravagance, of sound philo- 
 sophy and wild theory, of useful instruction and 
 dangerous doctrine. 
 
 H. 1. The second kind of the new romance is 
 the coTTiick; which, like the first, may> with re- 
 
AND ROMANCE. lO; 
 
 spect to the arrangement of events, be subdivi- 
 ded into the historical and the iioetical. 
 
 Of the historical form are the novels of Mari- 
 vaux, and Gil Bias by M. le Sage. These au- 
 thors abound in wit and humour; and give natu- 
 ral descriptions of present manners, in a simple, 
 and very agreeable, style: and their works may 
 be read ^yithout danger; being for the most 
 part of a moral tendency. Only Le Sage ap- 
 pears to have had a partiality for cheats and 
 sharpers: for these are people whom he intro- 
 duces often; nor does he always paint them in 
 the odious colours, that properly belong to all 
 such pests of society. Even his hero Gil Bias he 
 has made too much a rogue: which, as he is 
 the relater of his own story, has this disagreeable 
 effect, that it conveys to us, all the while we 
 read him, an idea that we are in bad company, 
 and deriving entertainment from the conversa- 
 tion of a man whom we cannot esteem. 
 
 Smollet follows the same historical arrangement 
 in Roderick Random and Peregrine Pickle: two 
 performances, of which I am sorry to say, 
 that I can hardly allow them any other praise, 
 than that they are humourous and entertaining. 
 He excels, however, in drawing the characters 
 of seamen; with whom in his younger days he had 
 the best opportunities of being acquainted. He 
 
108 ON 1' ABLE 
 
 seems to have collected a vast number of merry' 
 stories; and he tells them with much vivacity 
 and energy of expression. But his style often 
 approaches to bombast; and many of his humour- 
 ous pictures are exaggerated beyond all bounds 
 of probability. And it does not appear that he 
 knew how to contrive a regular fable, by making 
 his events mutually dependent, and all coopera- 
 ting to one and the same final purpose. On the 
 morality of these novels I cannot compliment 
 him at all. He is often inexcusably licentious. 
 Profligates, bullies, and misanthropes, are among 
 his favourite characters. A duel he seems to 
 have thought one of the highest efforts of human 
 virtue; and playing dexterously at billiards a very 
 genteel accomplishment. Two of his pieces, 
 however, deserve to be mentioned v/ith more 
 respect. Count P'athom, though an improbable 
 tale, is pleasing, and upon the whole not im- 
 moral, though in some passages very indelicate. 
 And Sir Launcelot Greaves, though still more 
 improbable, has great merit; and is truly original 
 in the execution, notwithstanding that the hint 
 is borrowed from Don Quixote. 
 
 2. The second species of the new comick 
 romance is that, which, in the arrangement of 
 events, follows the poetical order; and which 
 may properly enough be called the epick comedy. 
 
AND ROMANCE. 109 
 
 or rather tlie comick epick poem: ejiick, be- 
 cause it is narrative; and comick ^ because it is 
 employed on the business of co^nmon life, and 
 takes its persons from the middle and lower 
 ranks of mankind. 
 
 This form of the comiick romance has been 
 brought to perfection in England by Henry 
 Fielding, who seems to have possessed more wit 
 and humour,* and more knowledge of mankind, 
 than any other person of modern times, Shak- 
 speare excepted; and whose great natural abili- 
 ties were refined by a classical taste, wliich he 
 had acquired by studying the best authors of an- 
 tiquity: though it cannot be denied, that he ap- 
 pears on some occasions to have been rather too 
 ostentatious, both of his learning, and of his wit. 
 
 Some have said, that Joseph Andrews is the 
 best performance of Fielding. But its chief 
 merit is parson Adams; who is indeed a charac- 
 
 * The great lord I.yttlcton, after mentioning several 
 particulars of Pope, Swift, and otlicr wits of that time, 
 when I asked some question relating to the author of 
 Tom Jones, began his answer with these words, " Henry 
 ** Fielding, 1 assure you, had more wit and more hu- 
 " mour that all the persons we have been speaking of 
 " put togetlier." This testimony of his lordship, who 
 was intimately acquainted with Fielding, ought not to 
 be forgotten. 
 
 VoL.IIL K 
 
110 ONIABU: 
 
 ter of masterly invention, and, next to Do; 
 Quixote, the most ludicrous personage that eve; 
 appeared in i;omance. This work, though full 
 of exquisite humour, is blamable in many re- 
 spects. Several passages offend by their indeli- 
 cacy. And it is not easy to imagine, what could 
 induce the author to add to the other faults of 
 his hero's father,. Wilson, the infamy of lying 
 and cowardice; and then to dismiss him, by very 
 improbable means, to a life of virtuous tran- 
 quillity, and endeavour to render him upon 
 the whole a respectable character. Some youth- 
 ful irregularities, rather hinted at than described, 
 owing more to imprudence and unlucky acci- 
 dent than to confirmed habits of sensuality, and 
 , followed by inconvenience, perplexity, and re- 
 morse, their natural consequences, may, in a 
 comick tale, be assigned even to a favourite 
 personage, and,, by proper management, form a 
 very instructive part of the narration: but 
 crimes, that bring dishonour, or that betray a 
 hard heart, or an injurious disposition, should 
 never be fixed on a character whom the poet or 
 novel writer means to recommend to our esteem. 
 On this principle. Fielding might be vindicated 
 in regard to all the censurable conduct of Tom 
 .Tones, provided he had been less particular in de- 
 jxribing it: and, by the same rule, Smollet's sys- 
 
AND ROMAXCE. Ill 
 
 tern of youthful profligacy, as exemplified in 
 some of his libertines, is altogether without ex- 
 cuse. 
 
 Tom Jones and Amelia are Fielding's best per- 
 formances; and the. most perfect, perhaps, of 
 their kind in the world. The fable of the latter 
 is entirely poetical, and of the true epick species; 
 beginning in the middle of the action, or rather 
 as near the end as possible, and introducing the 
 previous occurrences, in the form of a narrative 
 episode. Of the former, the introductory part 
 follows the historical arrangement; but the fable 
 becomes strictly poetical, as soon as the great ac- 
 tion of the piece commences, that is, if I mistake 
 not, immediately after the sickness of Alworthy; 
 for, from that period, the incidents proceed in 
 an uninterrupted series to the final event, which 
 happens about two months after. 
 
 Since the days of Homer, the world has not 
 seen a more artful epick fable. The characters 
 and adventures are wonderfully diversified: yet 
 the circumstances are all so natural, and rise so 
 easily from one another, and cooperate with so 
 much regularity in bringing on, even while they 
 seem to retard, tiie catastrophe, that the curio- 
 sity of the reader is kept always awake, and, in- 
 stead of flagging, grows more and more impati- 
 ent as the story advances, till at last it becomes 
 downright anxiety. And when we get to the 
 
112 ON FABLE 
 
 end, and look back on the whole contrivance, we 
 are amazed to ^d, that of so many incidents 
 there should be so few superfluous; that in such 
 variety of fiction there should be so great proba- 
 bility; and that so complex a tale should be so 
 perspicuously conducted, and with perfect unity 
 of design. These remarks may be applied either 
 to To7n Jones or to Amelia: but they are made 
 with a view to the former chiefly; which might 
 give scope to a great deal of criticism, if I were 
 not in haste to conclude the subject. Since the 
 time of Fielding, who died in the year one thou- 
 sand seven" hvmdred and fifty-four, the comick 
 romance, as far as I am acquainted with it, seems 
 to have been declining apace from simplicity and 
 nature, into improbability and affectation. 
 
 Let not the usefulness of romance writing be 
 estimated by the length of my discourse upon it. 
 Romances are a dangerous recreatijon. A few, 
 no doubt, of the best may be friendly to good 
 taste and good morals; but far the greater part 
 are unskilfully written, and tend to corrupt the 
 heart, and stimulafe the passions. A habit of 
 reading them breeds a dislike to histoiy, and all 
 the substantial parts of knowledge; withdraws the 
 attention from nature, and truth; and fills the 
 mind with extravagant thoughts, and too often 
 \vith criminal propensities. I would therefore cau- 
 
AND ROMANCE. 113 
 
 tion my young reader against them: or, if he 
 must, for the sake of amusement, and that he 
 may have somethihg to say on the subject, in- 
 dulge himself in this way now and then, let it be 
 sparingly, and seldom. 
 
 K2 
 
ON THE 
 
 ATTACHMENTS 
 
 f, OF 
 
 KINDRED. 
 
ON THE 
 
 ATTACHMENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 KINDRED* 
 
 JVl ARRIAGE might be proved to be natural 
 from its universality: for no nation has yet been 
 discovered, where, under one form or other, it 
 does not take place. Whether this be the effect of 
 
 * There are modern authors, who, from an excessive 
 admiration of the Greek policy, seem to have formed 
 erroneous opinions in regard to some of the points 
 touched on in this discourse. With a view to those 
 opinions, the discourse was written several years 
 ago. Afterwards, when a book called Thelyphthora ap- 
 peared, I had thoughts of enlarging these remarks, so 
 as to make them comprehend an examination of it. This 
 the authors of the Monthly Rcviev} rendered unneces- 
 sary, by giving a very ingenious, learned, and decisive 
 confutation of that profligate system. I therefore publish 
 
118 ON I'HE ATTACHMENTS 
 
 a law prescribed in the beginning- by the Creator? 
 and circulated by tradition through all the tribes 
 of mankind: or, which amounts to the same thing, 
 whether this be the result of natural passions co- 
 operating with human reason: certain it is, that, 
 even among savages, and where there was hard- 
 ly any trace of government or art, and none at all 
 of literature, men and wQ^ien have been found, 
 living together in domestick union, and providing 
 necessaries for their children, and for each other. 
 In the lower world of animals, the union of 
 sexes is temporary: the passions that prompt to 
 it being periodical, and the young soon in a con- 
 dition to live independent. While this union lasts, 
 the male and female, of certain tribes, are direc- 
 
 iny essay, as it was at first written: satisfied, that Mr. 
 Madan's book, whatever private immoralities it may 
 promote among- the licentious and ignorant, will have 
 no weiglit with the publick; nor deserve further ani- 
 madversion, unless he should subjoin to it, as an appen- 
 dix, or premise, by way of introduction, (what indeed 
 seems wanting to complete his plan) an argument to 
 prove, that the orJy true relig-ion is tlie Turkish, and that 
 of all forms of policy a free government is the worst. For, 
 as the .world is now constituted, the scheme of tliis reve- 
 rend projector (reverend! it is, it seems, even so!) 
 is not compatible with any other political esta))li.';hmcnt . 
 than tliat gf mahomctan despotism. 
 
OFKrXDliED. .119 
 
 ted, by the instinct of their nature, to be mutu- 
 ally assistant to their young, and to one another. 
 But, when the young are able to take care of 
 themselves, it happens for the most part, that the 
 family breaks up; and parents and offspring know 
 each other no more: and, till the return of the 
 season appointed by the Author of nature for its 
 commencement, the passion founded on diversity 
 of sex is entirely over. Nor, even when that sea- 
 son returns, do those that were formerly connec- 
 ted seek to renew the connection; and the follow- 
 ing attachment is, like the preceding, fortuitous. 
 This, wuth a few exceptions, appears to be the 
 ordinary course of things among those creatures, 
 whose union most resembles that which prevails 
 in the human species. In some other tribes, the 
 connection is still more temporary, and the young 
 are left to the care of the mother; the male being 
 equally, and totally, inattentive, both to his mate, 
 and to her offspring. 
 
 But with man the case is very different. Hu- 
 man infants are of all animals the most helpless. 
 The tenderest care is necessary to prevent their 
 l>erishing; and that must be long continued, be- 
 fore they can preserve themselves from danger; 
 nay, years must pass away, before they have ac- 
 quired such knowledge, or dexterity, as enables 
 them to provide for themselves. A savage, not- 
 
120 ON THE ATTACHMENTS 
 
 witlistanding his hardy frame, and the fewness of 
 his wants, can hardly be supposed capable of sup- 
 porting himself by his own industry, for the first 
 eight or ten years of his life: and in civil society, 
 the term of education ought to be, and the period 
 of helplessness must be, considerably longer. And 
 if, before this period is oyer, children be left des- 
 titute of those friends, who were connected with 
 them by the ties of blood, they will be indebted 
 for their preservation to the humanity of the 
 stranger. 
 
 Now man, being endowed with reflection and 
 foresight, must be sensible of all this. Being, 
 moreover, compassionate in his nature, and hav- 
 ing that aifection to his offspring, whereof many 
 brutes are not destitute, he cannot but consider 
 himself as under an obligation to take care of 
 that helpless infant, whom he has been the means 
 of bringing into the world. And this, together 
 with the tenderness, wherewith it is natural for 
 him to regard the mother of his child, would in- 
 cline him, even of his own accord, and previously 
 to the restraints of human law, to live for some 
 time with his child and its mother, and give them 
 that aid, whereof they now stand so much in 
 need. 
 
 We naturally contract a liking to those, who 
 have long been the objects of our beneficence, 
 
OFKlNDiREI). 121 
 
 especially when we consider tiiem as dependent 
 on us: and it is further natural, for persons who 
 have lived long together, to be unwilling to part. 
 There is -something too, a§ Lucretius well ob- 
 serves, * in the looks and smiles of children, that 
 has a peculiar efficacy in softening the heart of 
 inan. The father, therefore, even though a sav- 
 age, v/ho had once taken up his abode with his 
 infant and its mother, would probably become 
 more and more attached to both: and the woman 
 and he, being mutually serviceable to each other, 
 would contract a mutual liking, more durable 
 than that which arises from mere difference of 
 sex; and look upon themselves as united by ties 
 of friendship and of gratitude. That their con- 
 nection would continue is, therefore, more pro- 
 bable, than that it would be dissolved: and, long 
 before the first child was in a condition to shift 
 for itself, a second, and a third, perhaps, would 
 have a claim to. their parental care, and give ad- 
 ditional weight to every one of those motives, 
 which had hitherto determined them to live to- 
 gether. 
 
 From this view of things; and if it be consi- 
 dered further, that, the more we advance in 
 
 * Puerique piirentum 
 
 Blanditiis facile ingeniiim frcgerc superbiun. 
 
 I.ib. v. vers. 1016. 
 Vol. III. L • 
 
122 ON THE ATTACH .MEXTS 
 
 years, the more we become inclined to a station- 
 ary life; it seems not unreasonable to infer, that, 
 even among savages, if they were not utterly bru- .; 
 tal, the miion of tli§ sexes, however *slight the 
 cause that first gave rise to it, might have a ten- 
 dency to last, not merely for a day, or a year, 
 but for many years, and perhaps till death. And 
 thus the idea of marriage w^ould become preva- 
 lent; that is, of an union for life of one man with 
 one woman, for their mutual benefit, and for that 
 of their children. And, as soon as government 
 was formed, the salutary effects, both publick 
 and private, of such an institution, would be too 
 conspicuous, not to procure for it the sanction of 
 positive laws. 
 
 This deduction, though it may seem to be in- 
 ferred c priori from the nature of man, is not 
 wholly conjectural. Many facts might be quoted 
 to confirm it, from the history of unpolished na- 
 tions, and from the sentiment^ of the vulgar 
 throughout the w^orld. Among the Germans of 
 old, and all those northern tribes who destroyed 
 the Roman empire; 'among the ancient Egypti- 
 ans, Greeks, * and Romans, and among the ori- 
 
 * If it be true, that, on certain emergencies, when 
 many of their people had been destroyed by war or other 
 calamities, some of the Grecian states granted a tolc- { 
 ration to the men to marry more than one wife each, it 
 
OF KINDRED. 123 
 
 ginal natives of America, marriage was establish- 
 ed, polygamy unknown, and adultery considered 
 as a crime. The love of children and kindred is 
 every where, among the vulgar, a most powerful 
 principle: and in all the nations we have heard 
 of, that were not sunk in the grossest barbarity, 
 genealogy is a matter of general concern. But a 
 regard to genealogy, the love of kindred, natural 
 affections to children, and punishments denoun- 
 ced by law on polygamy and adultery, could nev- 
 er take place, except among those, who have 
 both an idea of marriage, and a respect for it. 
 
 In fact, that perversioi^ of cowduct and princi- 
 ple, which bids defiance to every thing that is sa- 
 cred in the matrimonial contract, and hardens 
 the heart against the endearments of natural af- 
 fection, is seldom known either in savage, or in 
 common life; but is more apt to take its rise 
 among those of the higher ranks, whom luxury, 
 inattention, and flattery have corrupted. If the ex- 
 ample that is set by such persons were to be fol- 
 
 cannot be said, that polygamy was unhwian to them. But- 
 this was never a general practice among that people. 
 .Marriage they considered as an union of one man witli 
 one woman. When Herodotus says, that Anaxandrida.s 
 the Lacedtmonian had two wives, he remarks, that it 
 was contrai-y to the custom of tlie Lacedemonians. See 
 Patterns Antiquities of Greece, book 4. chap. 11. 
 
1 24 ON THE ATTACIIMENl^ 
 
 lowed by the body of a people, friendship and 
 love would be at an end; s^lf-interest and sensu- 
 ality would detach individuals from their coun- 
 try, and from one another; every house would be 
 divided against itself, and every man against his 
 neighbour; the very idea of publick good would 
 be lost, because a man would see nothing in the 
 world, but himself, that was worth contending 
 for: and all the charities of domestick life, the 
 great humanizers of the heart of man, and the 
 purest sources of sublunary joy, would be despi- 
 sed and forgotten. . 
 
 For suppose inarria'ge abolished: or suppose, 
 for it is the same thing, that its laws are to be 
 universally disregarded: is it not self-evident, 
 that the forming of families, and the attachments 
 of consanguinity, together with all decency and 
 order, would be abolished, or disregarded, at the 
 same time? Nay, industry would be abolished 
 too: for what is a greater, or more honourable, 
 incitement to industry, than the desire of doing 
 good to friends and kindred? But in the case sup- 
 posed, there would be no such thing as kindred; ^ 
 and the condition of mankind would resemble ^ 
 that of wild beasts: with this difference, howev- 
 er, that our genius for contrivance, our sensibili- 
 ty, and our capacity for wickedness, would ren- | 
 der us a thousand times more wretched, and more 
 detestable. 
 
OF KINDRED. 125 
 
 1 have endeavoured to account for the general 
 prevalence of the matrimonial union, by proving 
 it to be the result of human passions cooperating 
 with human reason. It promotes the happiness 
 of the individual, by means the most friendly to 
 the social and sympathetick nature of mian. It 
 must, therefore, promote the publick weal; both 
 because the publick is made up of individuals; 
 and also, because, by this institution, the race of 
 men is continued from age to age, in a way, not 
 only consistent with social affection, decency, in- 
 dustry, and patriotism, but tending iri an eminent 
 degree to encourage all these virtues. 'Without 
 it, a few gloomy and beastly savages might exist: 
 but of all government and goo^ order, and of 
 every thing that is elegant, praiseworthy, or com- 
 fortable in life, it is to be considered as the foun- 
 dation. 
 
 • Will it be objected, that* marriage mviy have 
 been the cause of misery to some individuals? 
 Granting that it has; and that, when it was so, 
 the persons concerned were never themselves to 
 blame, (which is p^ranting more than any rational 
 opponent would require) this is only one evi- 
 dence, of what is too plain to need any, that in 
 the present world nothing can be completely 
 good which is tainted with human imperfection. 
 Medicine, philosophy, liberty, and religion, are* 
 
 L2 
 
126 ON THE ATTACHMENTS 
 
 good things: yet medicine has killed, as well as 
 cured; and by philosophy men have been led into 
 projects that ended in ruin: free governments 
 have fallen into anarchy, and moderate monar- 
 chies into despotism: religion itself may be lost 
 in superstition, and uncharitableness and cruelty 
 are the consequences. Nay, to come to more fa- 
 miliar instances, the ax may wound the hand of 
 the most skilful mechanick; ships, guided by the 
 best pilot, may be wrecked; bodily exercise may 
 produce fever, and bodily rest may bring on more 
 fatal maladies; tares spring up with the corn; 
 and menvhave been poisoned, while they thought 
 only of allaying their hunger and thirst. But does 
 it follow, that gating, and drinking, and agricul- 
 ture, are pernicious; that bodily exercise and 
 bodily rest are both to be avoided; that art, and 
 science, and government, and religion', are de- 
 trimental to human happiness? If nothing is va- 
 luable, but what has no mixture of evil, then 
 there is nothing in this world of any value; and 
 life itself, and all the comforts of life, are insigni- 
 ficant things. 
 
 Nor let it be supposed, that I mean by these 
 reasonings to insinuate, that it is every man's du- 
 ty to enter Into this union. By evincing its im- 
 portance to publick and private good, we do in- , 
 deed prove, that every man ought to reverence 
 
OF KINDRED. 127 
 
 the institution and its laws, and that it is the 
 duty of all persons in authority to give the great- 
 est encouragement to it, an'd to disallow every 
 practice that tends to bring it into disrepute. But 
 it cannot be the duty of any person to enter into 
 this state, whose circunistances or way of life 
 WQpld render it imprudent to do so; or who is 
 disqualified for it, either by v, ant of inclination, 
 or by such perversities of mind or infirmities of 
 body, as might makfe it impossible for him to be 
 an agreeable associate. In regard to a connection, 
 whereon the happiness of life so essentially de- 
 pends, we should be permitted to judge for our- 
 selves, and be determined by our own free will. 
 We have heard indeed of law$ in some countries, 
 commanding all the citizens to marry; but it 
 seems to have been bad policy: for neither hap- 
 piness to the parties, nor good education to their 
 children, could ever be expected from forced al- 
 liances. In matters of this kind, it is better to 
 allure, than to compel. And that might be done 
 with good success, if licentious behaviour were 
 always the object of legal animadversion, and al- 
 ways followed by sensible inconvenience; and if 
 particular advantages were annexed to the condi- 
 tion of those who had quitted the state of celibacy. 
 In either of these respects, I cannot pay great 
 f-ompliments to the virtue, or to the wisdom, o( 
 
128 OX THE ATTACHMENTS 
 
 latter times. Indeed, as to the first, it may be 
 said, Quid leges sine moribus? What avail good 
 laws, when the mariners are evil? And, as to the 
 second, I know not, whether any modern people 
 have ever thought it worth their M'hile to imitate 
 that part of the Roman policy, which allotted 
 certain privileges to the ptirent of three children, 
 and determined, not by their age, but by the 
 number of their children, the precedency of con- 
 suls and senators; or that similar institution of 
 the Athenian commonwealth, which required, 
 that a citizen should, by being married, be sup- 
 posed to have given security for his good beha- 
 viour, before he could be honoured with the com- 
 mand of an army, or any other publick trust. 
 
 While the manners of a people are tolerably 
 pure; while industry is encouraged, and no un- 
 reasonable taxes are laid upon the necessaries of 
 life, matrimony is generally found to flourish*, 
 even though no peculiar advantages are annexed 
 to it by the legislature. For the motives to this 
 union are both natural, and -strong. They may be 
 reduced to the following. 1 . That instinct, which 
 tends to the continuation of the species; and 
 which, being common to all animals, has nothing 
 in it characteristical of human nature. 2. A pre- 
 ference of one person to another, founded on a 
 real or fancied superiority in mind, or body, or 
 
OF KINDRED. 129 
 
 both; which, as it implies comparison, and a taste 
 for beauty, as well as the admiration of intellec- 
 tual and moral excellence, must be supposed to 
 be peculiar to rational minds. The passion, thus 
 arising from the view of agreeable qualities in 
 another, is commonly called love. To the in- 
 stinct formerly mentioned it imparts a delicacvj 
 whereof inferiour natures are not susceptible; 
 and from the same instinct it derives a vivacity, 
 whereby it is distinguished from all the 'forms 
 and degrees of friendship, that may take place 
 between persons of the same sex. 3. Benevo- 
 lence, goodwill, or a desire to make the beloved 
 person happy, is a third motive to this union. 
 This may seem to be the same with the love 
 just now mentioned: but we must distinguish 
 them in science, because they are not always 
 united in nature. Wli^en, for example, the pas- 
 sion that springs from diversity of sex, and is re- 
 fined and heightened by the admiration of agree- 
 able qualities, aims at its own gratification, al- 
 though with ruin to the admired object; or when, 
 by success, it is transformed into indifference or 
 hatred; such a passion, though it may be called 
 love, has surely nothing of goodwill in it: for 
 if it [iartook of this affection, the circumstance 
 alluded to, by blending it with gratitude, pity- 
 and other tender emotions, would make it more 
 
1 30 ON THE ATTACHMENTS 
 
 benevolent, and more generous, than it was 
 before. 4. The love of oftspriiig may be consi- 
 dered as a fourth motive: and a regard to one's 
 own happiness as a fifth. All these principles of 
 conduct are natural to man; and, \rlien united, 
 form a passion which does him honour, and 
 seems to promise him happiness. But if one or 
 more of them be wanting, an alliance founded on 
 the others will be more or less unnatural, ac- 
 cording as the generous and rational principles 
 are less or more predominant. 
 
 Now, these propensities being natural to man, 
 and tending to produce the relation we speak of, 
 it follows, that this relation must be natural to 
 him; or, in other words, that providence, in giv- 
 ing him these propensities, intended, that Ixe 
 should form the connection to which they lead. 
 And for this, human beingjs are still further qua- 
 lified, by the peculiar characters of the two sex- 
 es. The one being of a more delicate make, and 
 withal particularly inclined and adapted to what 
 may be called the internal administration of a fa- 
 mily; and the other of a hardier frame, and more 
 enterprising genius, and fit for defending a fami- 
 ly from external injury: their respective abilities 
 form, when united, a complete system of the 
 powers essential to domestick policy. There are 
 many household duties, for wiiich nature has not 
 
OF KINDRED. 131 
 
 qualified the man:- and many offices, both domes- 
 tick and civil, whereof the woman is not capable. 
 In a word, the two sexes are natural associates; 
 feminine weakness being compensated by mas- 
 culine strength, and what is harsh in the male 
 character by the delicacy of the female: and, in 
 general, the peculiar talents o|'the one sex being 
 a supplement to the peculiar imperfections of the 
 other. It is true, we sometimes meet with a wo- 
 manish man, and with a niiannish woman. But 
 both are awkward to a degree that proves them 
 to be unnatural: and the words, whereby we de- 
 note those characftrs, are terms of scorn and dis- 
 like. The name I'irago conveys the idea of a dis- 
 agreeable woman; and effeminate^ applied to one 
 of the other sex, 'denotes a contemptible man. I 
 might add, that the very dress of the one does 
 not become the other; and that nature has estab- 
 lished a great difference in their voices, that of 
 a man being eight notes deeper or graver than 
 that of a woman. Cicero distinguishes feminine 
 from manly lleauty, calling the former venustas, 
 and tha latter dignitas: and indeed, at Rome, as 
 the men were almost continually in the open air, 
 and exposed, with their heads uncovered, to the 
 sun of a warm climate, their complexion, and 
 cast of features, must have differed very much 
 from that of the women, who were for the most 
 
132 ON THE ATTACHMENTS 
 
 part within doors. * And with us, and in eveiy 
 other civilized country, many of those outward 
 accomplishments, that become a woman, would 
 not be graceful in a man; and those defects that 
 are pardonable, and sometimes pleasing, in the 
 one, would in the other be intolerable. That vi- 
 vacity, for exampje, which is not blamed in a 
 man, might be impudence in a woman; and that 
 timidity, which detracts nothing from the female 
 character, would make a man not only ridiculous, 
 but infamous. 
 
 I will not enlarge further on this topick. It is 
 sufficiently manifest, that a n^an and a woman 
 are different characters, and formed for different 
 employments; and are, each of them, when uni- 
 ted, miore complete animals, (if I may so speak) 
 and have the means of happiness more in their 
 power, than when separate. Nothing more needs 
 be said to prove, that the matrimonial union is 
 natural and beneficial. 
 
 By this union,' providence seems to have in- 
 tended the accomplishment of theie very impor- 
 tant purposes. First, the continuation of the 
 human race in a way consistent with virtue, 
 decency, and good government. Secondly, the 
 training up of human creatures for the several 
 
 * See Essay on Imagination. Chap. II. Sect. iv. §, 1. 
 
OF KINDRED. 133 
 
 duties incumbent upon them as rational and 
 moral beings. And thirdly, the happiness of the 
 persons M'ho form this connection. 
 
 Some questions here occur, on which mankind 
 are not unanimous, and which, therefore, it may 
 be proper to examine. I. It maybe asked, whether 
 it is according to nature, that the married per- 
 sons should be only two, one man and one won'ian? 
 II. Whether the matrimonial union should last 
 through the whole of life? III. Whether the 
 rearing and educating of children should be left 
 to the parents, or provided for by the publick? 
 
 I. The first question may beothei'wise express- 
 ed thus: Is polygamy lawful? W^e may imagine 
 two sorts of polygamy; the firsti when one wo- 
 man has at one time two or more husbands; the 
 second, when one man has at one time two or 
 more wives. The former is said to prevail in the 
 kingdom of Thibet in the East Indies; but is so 
 very uncommon, that we need not take particular 
 •notice of it; especially, as to both sorts the same 
 arguments may be applied, which I am now go- 
 ing to apply to the latter. The former is indeed 
 liable to other objections of a peculiar nature: but 
 I do not care to specify them; and besides, they 
 are obvious. 
 
 Is it then right, that one man should at one 
 
 Vol. III. M 
 
134 . ON THE ATTACHMENTS 
 
 time have more than one wife? I answer. No: 
 and these are my reasons. 
 
 1. All 'men have a right to happiness; and it 
 has been shown, that providence intended, by the 
 union of the sexes, to promote the happiness of 
 mankind, as well as some other important pur- 
 poses. Further, those propensities, that prompt 
 to this union, are common to all men; so that 
 nature does not seem to have intended it for one 
 man rather than another. All therefore have an 
 equal right to it. Consequefitly, it is not lawful to 
 deprive an innocent person of this privilege: 
 which, however, would necessarily be the case, 
 if polygamy were to prevail. For the number of 
 males that are. born is found to be so nearly equal 
 to that of females, being as twenty to nineteen, 
 according to some computations, or as fourteen 
 to thirteen, according to others, that, if all men 
 and all women were to be married, there could 
 not be more than one wife to one husband, and 
 one husband to one wife. 
 
 If it be objected, that, according to these com- 
 putations, one woman in thirteen, or in nineteen, 
 might have two husbands, the answer is, that men 
 are, by their strength and spirit of enterprise, e:^- 
 posed to many dangers, in war, for example, and 
 by sea, to which the other sex is not liable; and 
 that, therefore, to keep the two sexes equal in 
 
OF KINDRED. 133 
 
 respect of number, a small surplus of males must 
 be necessary. This equality is a decisive intima- 
 tion, that polygamy is not according to nature. 
 If it ^were natural, some provision would have 
 been made for it. But the economy of nature is 
 plainly against it. And let me add, that this exact 
 proportion of tl\e sexes, continued through so 
 many ages, an4 in all countries, (for we have no 
 good reason to think, that it was ever otherwise 
 in any country) it is a striking proof of the care 
 of a wise providence, for the preservation of the 
 human race; and is, moreover, a perpetual mi- 
 racle, (if I may so speak) to declare, both that 
 the union of the sexes is natural, and that polyg- 
 amy is not. 
 
 It is true, that, either from disinclination, or 
 from unfavourable circumstances, many men 
 never marry at all. But the same thing may be 
 said with equal truth of many women. So that 
 still, the balance of the sexes may be presumed 
 to be even^ and one man cannot marry more than 
 one wife, without contradicting the views of pro- 
 vidence, and violating the rights of his fellow 
 creatures. 
 
 , 2. Polygamy is inconsistent with that affection, 
 which married persons ought to bear to one an- 
 other. To love one more than any other, is natu- 
 ral, and common: but to love two or more in pre- 
 
1 36 OX THE AT I'ACHMENTS 
 
 fcrencc to all others, and yet to love them equallj-. 
 is so uncommon, that we may venture to call it 
 unnatural," and impossible. Such a passion, at 
 least, would not be tolerated in poetry or romance; 
 for every reader would say, that it was incredible 
 in fiction, because it never happens in fact. In 
 comedy sometimes, indeed, wg find a profligate 
 man making love to two women, or a lady at a 
 loss which of two lovers to prefer: but this can- 
 not be without dishonesty; for if the passion for 
 the one be sincere, that for the other must be 
 hypocritical. Even where polygamy prevails, it 
 is generally found, that, whatever be the number 
 of his wives, the husband has but one favourite. 
 The consequence is, that she is hated by all the 
 rest, and he on her account. 
 
 And this leads me to remark, 3. that polygamy 
 destroys the peace of families; and therefore 
 stands in direct opposition to one of the chief 
 ends of the matrimonial union. The wives hate 
 one another as rivals, and bear a particular dislike 
 to her who happens for the time to be most in 
 favour with the husband. The children naturally 
 take part with their respective mothers; and in- 
 stead of fraternal affection, are animated with 
 mutual jealousy and envy. And thus a family 
 becomes the seat of continual strife; and the hus- 
 band must exercise a tvrannical authority ovc 
 
OF KINDRED. . 137' 
 
 the whole, and make tliose obey him through 
 fear, whojire not attached to him by love. This 
 observation is warranted by fact. In countries, 
 Avhere polygamy prevails, the wives are the slaves 
 of the husband, and the enemies of one another; 
 they are confined in a prison called a seraglio; 
 and are attended by eunuchs, who serve at once 
 for guards, and for spies, and who it seems, form a 
 necessary part of this detestable system of policy; 
 the children are dissatisfied with the father, on 
 account of his partialities, and with one another, 
 because of their interfering interests: and conspi- 
 racies, poisoning, and assassination, are frequently 
 the consequence. Surely, an economy cannot be 
 rational, which for its very being depends upon 
 practices that are a disgrace to human nature; 
 and, a family thus divided against itself can never 
 be happy. And in a nation made up of such fami- 
 lies, though there may be that dark and silent 
 tranquillity, which proceeds from fear, there can- 
 not be cheerfulness, industry, liberty, or kind af- 
 fection; there cannot be that politeness, and sense 
 of honour, which accompany the free and decent 
 intercourse of the sexes; nor can there be that 
 circulation of sentiments, whereby literature, free 
 inquiry, and the knowledge and the love of truth, 
 are promoted in the more enlightened parts of 
 the world. This too is accoVding to fact. The. 
 
138 ^ OX THE ATTACHMENTS 
 
 Turks, who allow polygamy, are the idle, the 
 ignorant, and the devoted slaves of a tyrant, and 
 of a most absurd superstition: within their own 
 families they are tormented with apprehension 
 and jealousy: honour is so little known among 
 them, that they are said to have no word in their 
 language to express the idea: and it is the prin- 
 ciple of fear alone, that supports their govern- 
 ment. When a despotick prince is no longer 
 feared by his people, he is undone; and when he 
 ceases to be afraid of them, his tyranny is intole- 
 rable. 
 
 4. After what has been said, it is unnecessary 
 to add, in the fourth place, that polygamy, being 
 subversive of filial and parental affection, must 
 be inconsistent with the right educ'ation of chil- 
 dren, and so counteract another chief end of mar- 
 riage. The father will probably be partial to the 
 children of his favourites. Certain it is, that, if he 
 have many children by several wives, he cannot 
 love them all equally; nor can his love fail to be 
 alienated by those dissatisfactions which he sees 
 prevailing among them, and whereof he knows 
 himseft'to be in a great measure the cause. Some 
 of Jiis children, therefore, he will look upon in 
 the light of conspirators; and for his own security 
 will be glad to form a party among the rest: 
 which will widen the dissensions that divide hh 
 
OF KINDRED. 139 
 
 household, by givhig them the sanction of his 
 own example. How is it possible, that, in such a 
 family, children should be well educated, or that 
 virtue should be a matter of general concern? 
 Even with us, when the husband and the wife 
 happen to disagree in regard to the management 
 of their children, education is commonly neglec- 
 ted; the mother has one favourite, and the father 
 another: and the children, following the example 
 of their parents, adopt their humours and preju- 
 dices, and become licentious, disobedient, and 
 regardless of instruction. Among the Turks, in- 
 deed, education cannot be considered as a matter 
 of any great importance. In governments so ty- 
 rannical, the man who distinguishes himself by 
 his genius, by his industry, or even by his virtue, 
 becomes the object of jealousy to some person in 
 power; so that the only way to live unmolested 
 is to remain obscure and contemptible. 
 
 Enough has been said to prove that polygamy 
 is unnatural, and destructive of virtue and happi- 
 ness. But that it is in all possible cases criminal, 
 I luive no authority to affirm. Among christians, 
 indeed, it must always be so, because forbidden 
 ])y our religion; and in all christian countries it 
 is punished, and in some capitally. But to the 
 ancient Jevv^s and patriarchs it was not forbidden; 
 and seems in some cases to have been permitted 
 
140 ON THE ATTACHMENTS 
 
 as a punishment for their intemperance in desi- 
 ring it. The greatest calamities that befel David 
 would not have taUen place, if he had been con- 
 tented with one wife; and the sensuality of Solo- 
 mon in this particular has fixed an indelible 
 blemish on one of the brightest characters that 
 ever appeared among men. 
 
 II. The second question to be considered is, 
 Whether the matrimonial union ought to last 
 through the whole of life? 
 
 Marriage is dissolved in two ways, by death 
 and by divorce. Of divorce there are two sorts; 
 the one partial, or a toro et mensa, as the lawyers 
 say, by which the parties are separated, but the 
 marriage is not annulled: and when this happens, 
 the wife, according to the law of England, is, in 
 most cases, though not in all, entitled to an ali- 
 monij; that is, to a certain provision from the hus- 
 band; the amount of which is determined by the 
 ecclesiastical court, according to the circumstan- 
 ces of the case, and the qualities of the parties. 
 The other sort of divorce, which is called divor- 
 Hum a vinculo matrimonii^ annuls the marriage al- 
 together,, and leaves the parties as free as if they 
 had never been united. 
 
 This final divorce the New Testament alloAvs 
 in the case of adultery only: but does not say, 
 that, upon conviction of that crime, it ought to 
 
OF KINDRED. 141 
 
 take place; and therefore, a christian legisla- 
 ture may warrantably establish, in regard to this 
 matter, such limitations, as human wisdom may 
 think most conducive to publick good. For if, on 
 proof of adultery, the marriage were always to 
 be dissolved, there is too much reason to fear, 
 that, when a husband and wife were dissatisfied 
 with each other, a desire of being disunited might 
 tempt them to the commission of that wicked- 
 ness. But so sacred is the nuptial tie accounted 
 in most christian nations, that, by the canon 
 law, ■ and* by the conmion law of England, this 
 crime is not a sufficient ground for a final divorce, 
 but only, for a sepa1*fttion a toro et mensa: it may 
 only be pleaded by the parties, as a reason for 
 their being disengaged a vinculo matrimonii; but 
 the legislature may either admit that plea, or re- 
 ject it. * The only thing which, according to the 
 common law of England, can nullify a marriage, 
 is, its having been from the beginning null, be- 
 cause unlawful; as in the case of too near a de- 
 gree of consanguinity. However, in England, up- 
 on a charge of adultery, marriage is sometimes 
 annulled; not indeed by an action at common 
 
 * 111 Scotland, the sentence of the commissaries, prp- 
 ceeding-on tlie charge of adultery, if there be mo appeal 
 from it, annuls the; mari-iage totally; so that there is no 
 occasion for recourse to the le^islaUirc. 
 
142 OX THE ATTACHMENTS 
 
 law, but by an act of parliament made ibr the 
 purpose. 
 
 I mention these particulars, to show the opin- 
 ion of mankind concerning the dissolution of the 
 nuptial tie during the life of the parties. For the 
 laws of enlightened nations, especially those laws 
 that are of long standing, are to be considered as 
 the result of reason and experience united: and 
 therefore, in every inquiry that relates to the ex- 
 pediency of human conduct, deserve very great 
 attention. It is plainly a doctrine of Christianity, 
 as well as a principle of the British law*, that the 
 matrimonial union ought to be for life. And that 
 the same conclusion may be drawn frqm philo- 
 sophical considerations, that is, from the nature 
 of man, and the end of the institution, it will not 
 be difficult to prove. 
 
 The only scheme of temporary marriage, that 
 has any shadow of plausibility, is that of those 
 who contend, for argument's sake perhaps, that 
 the man and woman should agree to be faithful 
 to each other for a certain time; and then, if they 
 found they were not happy, to separate, and be 
 at liberty either to remain single, or to choose 
 other partners. Now I have so good an opinion of 
 human nature, as to believe, that, even if laws 
 were made to this purpose, many men and wo- 
 men would be averse to a separation, from a re~ 
 
OF KINDRED. 143 
 
 t^aixl to their cliildreii, and to one another. But, 
 in framing laws, we are not so much to presume 
 upon the possible virtues of individuals, as to 
 guard against the probable evils that may be ap- 
 prehended from the general depravity of the hu- 
 man heart. And it is easy to foresee, that the 
 scheme in question would give license to the 
 profligate, expose the sober to temptation, destroy 
 those sentiments of delicacy and esteem which 
 the sexes ought to bear towards each other, poi- 
 son the happiness of families, introduce disorder 
 into the state, and prove ruinous to the education 
 of children. 
 
 1 . It cannot be denied, that rash marriages arc 
 more likely to prove unhappy, than such as are 
 founded upon deliberate choice. And if this is 
 true, whatever tends to make men and women 
 considerate, in choosing partners for life, must 
 tend eventually to the happiness of families. But 
 if even the alarming thought, that the matrimo- 
 nial union cannot be dissolved but by death, does 
 not always prevent a rash choice; what, may we 
 think, would be the consequence, if it were in 
 the power of the parties to put an end to their 
 union, and engage in a new one, whenever they 
 pleased? The consequence would be, such pre- 
 cipitancy and caprice in forming this relation, as 
 might preclude all hopes of conjugal felicity. 
 
144 ON THE ATTACH.MENT.S 
 
 2. It will also be allowed, that persons, who 
 are united by a sincere friendship, have a better 
 chance to be happy, than those who come to- 
 gether without friendship. Now it is the nature 
 of true friendship, to desire a permanent union: 
 nay, good men hope to enjoy the society of their 
 friends in another world for ever. Men may for a 
 limited time enter into partnership in trade; and 
 servants and masters may mutually become bound 
 to each other for a certain number of months or 
 years: gain, or convenience, is the foundation of 
 such contracts; and, if friendship be superadded, 
 that will continue when the contract is dissoWed. 
 But whoever thought of forming temporary 
 friendship! Should we choose that person for our 
 friend, who would tell us, that he was willing to 
 be so for a year or two; but that thenceforth he 
 and we were to be mutually indifferent, to each 
 other: Would it be possible for us to think his 
 affection sincere, or indeed that he had for us any 
 affection at all? 
 
 Besides, when a man tells a woman, that he 
 wishes to employ his life in making her happy, 
 (and this must be a sentiment in every marriage 
 that is founded on esteem) is it not more likely, 
 that she will love him as a husband, and as a 
 friend, than if he were to say, or to be supposed 
 to say, that lie would be glad to live with he! 
 
OF KINDRED. 145 
 
 two or three years, or perhaps for a longer time, 
 if he found her agreeable, and did not change 
 his mind? To a proposal of this sort, every wo- 
 man, who had any pretensions to delicacy, to 
 sense, or to virtue, Avould surely return a very 
 contemptuous answer. Were matters to come 
 to this pass, ail esteem and confidence between 
 man and woman v/ould be at an end: and both 
 to the one sex, and to the other, the love of gain, 
 or of convenience, or a more shameful principle, 
 would be, or (which is the same thing in this case) 
 "would seem to be, the sole motive to such tem- 
 porary attachments. It follows, that they v/ould 
 be mutually suspicious, and mutually disgusted; 
 and each inclined to pursue a private and sepa- 
 rate interest at the other's expense. Whereas, 
 when a man and a woman are united for life, 
 from a principle of mutual esteem, (without 
 which no marriage can be lawful) it is hardly 
 possible, that they should have separate interests; 
 or if, in consequence of some previous bargain 
 on the subject of money, either party could l)e- 
 come rich at the expense of the other, a regard 
 to their children would, if they were not lost to 
 all natural aflection, inspire them with more ge- 
 nerous sentiments. 
 
 3. It deserves to be considered, whether the 
 scheme proposed would not debase those ideas of 
 
 Vol. III. N 
 
146 ^>^" '1 itl^ ATTACHMENTS 
 
 delicacy, wherewith the intercourse of the sexes 
 ought always to be accompanied. By delicacy, 
 I here mean, a peculiar warmth and purity of af- 
 fection, which can only be gratified by a con- 
 sciousness of possessing, without a rival, the en- 
 tire esteem of the person beloved. The natural 
 effect of it is, a desire to please, not merely by a 
 generous and respectful behaviour, but also by 
 entertaining no thoughts or wishes, but such 
 as the object of the passion would approve. It 
 is this, that distinguishes the union of cultivated 
 minds from the brutal inclinations of a sensualist 
 or savage: and, as it promotes modesty of speech 
 and of manners, and lays a restraint on every ir- 
 regular desire, it must be of importance both to 
 publick order, and to private happiness. But 
 how is it possible, that this delicacy should form 
 any part of the attachment of those, who have 
 no other view than to be together for a stipu- 
 lated time; and who perhaps, during their term 
 of cohabitation, had their thoughts fixed on 
 other partners, and were listening to proposals, 
 or contriving plans, for a new connection! Per- 
 sons, thus united, would in these respects be sus- 
 fdcious at least of one another; which would de- 
 stroy all delicacy of affection, and could hardly 
 fail to end in mutual abhorrence. 
 
 4. This scheme would be fatal to the educa- 
 
OF KINDRED. 147 
 
 lion of children. By it, they are, or they may 
 be, even in their infancy, abandoned to the care 
 of one of the parents, who, having lost all es- 
 teem for the other, and being now, probably, 
 engrossed by a new attachment, cannot be sup- 
 posed to retain any warmth of parental affection 
 towards them. The other parent may also be en- 
 gaged in a new alliance; and have little incli- 
 nation to look back, except with disgust, upon 
 the former, or any person connected with it. 
 Thus the children are neglected by one parent, 
 or perhaps by both. Or a second, or a third 
 succession of brothers and sisters may be ob- 
 truded upon them; for whom they, detached 
 from the present family, and deriving their origin 
 from a family that no longer exists, cannot en- 
 tertain any particular kindness. And thus, the 
 ties of blood would be overlooked or forgotten; 
 kindred would become too complex a thing to 
 be comprehended by ordinary understandings; 
 the parental, filial, and fraternal charities would 
 of course be extinguished, the human heart har- 
 dened, and society transformed into a scene of 
 confusion. Nor does it seem possible for human 
 policy to contrive a cure for these evils, without 
 removing their cause, by the establishment of 
 regular matrimony. 
 
 If it were worth while to enlarge on a topick, 
 which is too plain to require further illustration, 
 
148 OX THE ATTACHMENTS 
 
 we might consider, how the particular interests 
 of men and of women, the rich and the poor, 
 the young and the old, the strong and the sickly, 
 would be affected by the scheme of temporary 
 marriages. And I think it might be made ap- 
 pear, that to the young, the healthy, and the 
 rich, it would afford the means of unbounded 
 profligacy; while to the poor, the old, and the 
 infirm^ it must prove injurious and comfortless. 
 In a word, marriage must be for life. If, at the 
 will of the parties, it might be limited to a 
 shorter term, it would give rise to as many evils 
 as polygamy itself; and overturn all delicacy, 
 decency, morality, good order, and kind af- 
 fection. Grant, that a regular institution of ma- 
 trimony may sometimes be attended with incon- 
 venience, when persons must remain united for 
 life, who yet, while united, cannot be hc-.ppy. 
 Whut then? Must the best rights of society be 
 sacrificed to the humour of a few individuals, 
 who perhaps, if they had it in their power to 
 break loose from the present engagement, and 
 to form another, would stiil be as unhappy as 
 before? The evils complained of are to be re- 
 medied, not by unhinging society, but by re- 
 forming the education, and regulating the pas- 
 sions, of young people of both sexes. When 
 this^s done, let mutual affection> deliberately 
 
OF KINDRED. 149 
 
 formed, be the motive to the matrimonial union; 
 let the persons united be careful, from a sense of 
 their own infirmities, to cultivate mutual for- 
 bearance; let them repress intemperate thoughts, 
 and apply diligently to the duties of their sta- 
 tion: and there will be no reason to complain, 
 that the sexes are made unhappy by being united 
 for life. 
 
 I know not, whether temporary marriages, de- 
 pending, for their duration, upon the will of the 
 parties, ever took place in regular society: which 
 may be considered as a proof, that they are not 
 consistent with good order, or with the ends 
 of the matrimonial union. It is true, that in 
 some countries divorces have been more fre- 
 quent, and permitted for slighter causes, than in 
 others. But, for the most part, they have been 
 subject to the cognisance of law, and not left to 
 the determination of the parties. Among the 
 Jews, indeed, before the promulgation of the gos- 
 pel, the husband might dismiss his wife, on giv- 
 ing her, what scripture calls, a bill of divorce- 
 ment. But we are told, from the highest authority, 
 that in the earlier ages of the world, when man- 
 kind were less corrupt, it was not so; and that 
 Moses allowed it, not because it was good, but in 
 order to prevent greater evils, which he had rea- 
 son to apprehend, from the known perverscncss 
 
 N 2 
 
150 ON THE ATTACFIMENTS 
 
 of the Jewish nation. Romulus, too, permitted 
 husbands on some occasions to put away their 
 wives; for a Roman father had a sort of judicial 
 authority over his household: but, if it be true, 
 that there was no instance of a divorce at Rome, 
 till the five hundred and twenty-fifth year of the 
 city, may we not infer, that this law of Romulus 
 was rashly made, and not conformable to the 
 sentiments of the people; and that it remained 
 in force, merely because it was overlooked; as 
 many old laws do in all nations? Marriages of 
 certain sorts were by the laws of Romulus de- 
 clared perpetual: which Dionysius the historian 
 greatly approves of; because he thinks, that it 
 must have been, both to the husband and to the 
 wife, a motive to discreet behaviour, and mutual 
 forbearance. " This law," says he, " engaged 
 " the wives, who had no other resource, to yield 
 " a ready compliance to the temper of their 
 " husbands; and it obliged the husbands, on the 
 " other hand, to treat their wives as a necessary 
 '' possession, which they could not on any ac- 
 " count relinquish.'* And it cannot be doubted, 
 that when married persons know that their 
 union is to be for life, they will be more inclin- 
 ed to adapt themselves to the tempers of one 
 another, and to reform what is amiss in their 
 own disposition, than if they had it in their power 
 
OF KINDRED. 151 
 
 to be divorced as soon as they became mutually 
 dissatisfied. So that the perpetuity of this con- 
 tract has a manifest tendency to promote the 
 happiness of the parties, as well as to purify 
 their manners. 
 
 III. Whether the rearing and education of 
 children should be left to the parents, or pro- 
 vided for by the publick, is the third question 
 wliich I propose to examine. 
 
 And it is readily allowed, that there must be 
 an egrec^ious fault in the policy of a nation, 
 where the law does not provide a remedy, and 
 a punishment, for the negligence of parents in 
 this particular. And too many parents there are, 
 who seem very inattentive to the right education 
 of their children: nay it is to be feared, that 
 not a few are chargeable, not with inattention 
 only, but even with the guilt of corrupting the 
 morals and the principles of their children, by 
 indulgence and bad example. Do we not meet 
 with young creatures, who seem to have learned 
 to swear, and to lie, as soon as to speak? And 
 can we suppose, that such a thing would have 
 happened under the tuition of a good parent? I 
 grant, that some natures may be more untract- 
 able than others: but there are certain vices, and 
 swearing is one of them, to which there is no 
 temptation in any of our natural appetites, whicli. 
 
152 ON THE ATTACHMENTS 
 
 therefore, children can never acquire of them- 
 selves, and which the admonitions of an atten- 
 tive parent could hardly fail to prevent, or to 
 cure. 
 
 But, if the state were to abolish the ties of 
 parental duty, by training up the young ones 
 from their birth in seminaries, under the eye of 
 teachers appointed by publick authority, it is to 
 be feared, that tiie teachers might be still more 
 negligent, because less affectionate, than parents; 
 and that the influence of bad example would not 
 be less fatal -in those large societies, than in fami- 
 lies. Publick institutions there are among us, 
 for training up children at a distance from their 
 parents: but domestick discipline is founjd to be 
 as friendly to virtue, and is certainly more agree- 
 able to nature. Boarding schools for young wo- 
 men have been accounted so dangerous to virtue, 
 that intelligent parents, who send their infant 
 daughters to those seminaries, are generally 
 careful to take them home before they cease to 
 be children. 
 
 While, therefore, I regret the inattention of 
 many parents to one of the most indispensable of 
 all human duties, I cannot adopt the sentiments 
 of those, who maintain, that parents in general are 
 not to be intrusted with the care of their young 
 
OF KINDRED. 153 
 
 ones.* For if children and their parents were 
 forced to live separate, the attachments of kind- 
 dred would be greatly weakened, if not entirely 
 lost. Now this must be unsuitable to the views 
 
 * Of the proper methods of education, the generality 
 of the common people are move ig-norant, than of any 
 other part of duty. They imitate one another In this res- 
 pect; and a person who has no opportunities of observ- 
 ing- their conduct, would hardly believe what absurd 
 practices prevail among them. The books that have been 
 written on education, many of which are very useful, 
 come not into their hands, and are not level to their 
 capacit}-. Indeed they are ratlier unwilling to receive 
 advice on this head. *' I breed my children," say they, 
 *' as I was bred myself:" to v/hich some complaisant 
 neighbour subjoins, '* And if they do as you have done, 
 ** they will act their part very well." While matters go 
 on thus, improvements are not to be looked for in educa- 
 tion, or in any thing else. 
 
 How is the evil to be remedied? by separating the 
 children from their parents, and committing the former 
 to the cure of strangers? No: such a remedy would be 
 worse than the evil. How then? by instructing parents 
 in tlieir duty? Yes; that would be the easier, the more 
 natural, and the more effectual way. 
 
 I have therefore often wished, that tlie teachers of 
 religion would, in their publick cUscourses and private 
 admonitions, not only recommend the riglit education 
 of children in general terms, which in fact Xhey do, but 
 also lay down, and enforce the method of it, with some 
 degree of minuteness; exposing at the same time the. 
 
1 54 ON THE ATTACHMENTS 
 
 of providence; who would not have made tiu 
 ties of natural ajBfection so strong in every animal, 
 and especially in man, if it had been for the ad- 
 vantage of animal life, or of human society, that 
 they should be dissolved or disregarded. That 
 nature intended the mother to be the nurse of her 
 own infant, and that the worst consequences arc 
 to be apprehended when we wilfully contradict 
 this intention of nature, is too plain to require 
 any proof. And when the mother has, with the 
 father's aid, discharged that part of her duty, in 
 
 improprieties of the prevailing" practice. The subject, 
 it may be said, is too copious to b.e discussed in a ser- 
 mon, and too familiar to be delivered from the pulpit. 
 I answer, that, if expressed in proper languag-e, it 
 would derive dig-nity from its importance; and that its 
 relation to common life would render it intelligible and 
 interesting. And sm*ely education is not a more copious 
 theme, than many of those are, on which it is the 
 preacher's duty to expatiate. It would not be necessary 
 for him to enter into it with the nicety of a Locke, or a 
 Rousseau. If he could only reform a few of the grosser 
 improprieties of domestick discipline, he would be a 
 blessing to his people, and an honour to his profession. 
 Nor would parents only be improved by discourses of 
 this nature. He who instructs the teacher may convey 
 useful hints to those who are to be taught. By hearing 
 a parent's duty explained, a child could hardly fail to 
 learn his own. 
 
OF KINDRED. 155 
 
 which, in ordinary cases, every mother finds the 
 greatest delight; and when thus the attachment 
 of both parents to their child is heightened by 
 long acquaintance, and by those thrillings of in- 
 effable satisfaction, wherewith every exercise of 
 parental affections are thus wound up to the high- 
 est pitch, ivherc is the child likely to meet with 
 so much tenderness, and so zealous a concern 
 for his temporal and eternal welfare, as in the 
 house of those who gave him birth? 
 
 An interchange of the parental and filial duties 
 is, moreover, friendly to the happiness, and to the 
 virtue of all concerned. It gives a peculiar sensi- 
 bility to the heart of man; infusing a spirit of ge- 
 nerosity and a sense of honour, which have a most 
 benign influence on publick good, as well as on 
 private manners. When we read, that Epami- 
 iiondas, after the battle of Leuctra, declared that 
 one chief cause of his joy was the consideration 
 of the pleasure which his victory would give his 
 father and mother; is it possible for us to think, 
 that this man, the greatest, perhaps, and the best 
 that Greece ever saw,* would have been so gene- 
 rous, or so amiable, if he had not known who his 
 parents were? In fact, there arc not many virtues 
 
 * Epaminondas princops, ut opinor, Gra-ri:^. Cicero. 
 I'uscul. 
 
156 ON THE ATTACHMENTS 
 
 that reflect greater honour upon our nature, than 
 the parental and the filiaL When any uncommon 
 examples of them occur in history, or in poetry, 
 they make their way to the heart at once, and the 
 reader's melting eye bears testimony to their 
 loveliness. 
 
 Amidst the triumphs of heroism, Hector never 
 appears so great, as in a domestick scene, when 
 he invokes the blessing of heaven upon his child: 
 nor does Priam, on any other occasion, engage 
 our esteem so efFectualiy, or our pity, as when, 
 at the hazard of his life, he goes into the enemy's 
 camp, and into the presence of his fiercest ene- 
 my, to beg the dead body of his son. Achilles's 
 love to his parents forms a distinguishing part 
 of his character; and that single circumstance 
 throws an amiable softness into the most terri- 
 fick human personage that ever was described in 
 poetry. The interview between Ulysses and his 
 father, after an absence of twenty years, it is im- 
 possible to read without such emotion, as will 
 convince every reader of sensibility, that Homer 
 judged welL in making parental and filial virtue 
 the subject of his song, when he meant to show 
 his power over the tender passions. 
 
 Virgil was too wise not to imitate his master 
 in this particular. He expatiates on the same 
 virtue with peculiar complacency; and loves to 
 
OFKIXDKED. 137 
 
 set it oft' in the most charming colours. His hero 
 is an illustrious excimple. When Anchises re- 
 fuses to leave Troy, and signifies his resolution 
 to perish in its flames, Eneas, that he may not 
 survive his father, or Avitness the massacre of 
 his household, is on the point of rushing to cer- 
 tain death; and nothing less than a miracle pre- 
 vents him. He then bears on his shoulders the 
 infirm old man to a place of safety, and ever after 
 behaves towards him as becomes a son and a sub- 
 ject; * and speaks of his death in terms of the 
 utmost tenderness and veneration. As a father 
 he is equally affectionate: and his son is not de- 
 ficient in filial duty. Turnus, when vanquished, 
 condescends to ask his life, for the sake of his 
 aged parent, who, he knew, would be inconsolable 
 for his loss. The young, the gentle, the beautiful 
 Lausus dies in defence of his father; and the 
 father provokes his own destiniction, because he 
 cannot live without his son, and wishes to be laid 
 with him in the same grave. The lamentations 
 of Evander over his Pallas transcend all praise of 
 
 * On tlic death of Priam and his sons, Anchises be- 
 came king of the Trojuns, and accordingly is repre- 
 sented by Virgil as commander in chief in Eneas's 
 e^ixidition. After lus death, Eneas is called king by 
 kis followers. See Eneid. i. 548. 557. 
 
 Vol. HL O 
 
158 ON THE ATTACHMENTS 
 
 criticism. And nothing, even in this poem, the 
 most pathetick of all human compositions, is 
 more moving, than what is related of the gallant . 
 youth Euryalus; when, on undertaking that night 
 adventure which proved fatal to him, he recom- 
 mends his helpless parent to the Trojan prince. 
 " She knows not," says he, " of this enterprise; 
 " and I go without bidding her farewel : for I 
 " call the gods to witness that I cannot support 
 " the sight of a weeping mother." Let a man 
 read Virgil with attention, and with taste; and 
 then be a cruel parent, or an undutiful child, 
 if he can. And let him ask his own heart this 
 question, Whether human nature would not be 
 deprived of many of its best affections, and human 
 society of its best comforts, if the ideas of those 
 projectors were to be realized, who propose to 
 improve the political art, by annihilating the at- 
 tachm.ents of consanguinity. 
 
 Mankind have in all ages paid respect to high 
 birth, and entertained a partiality tOAvards those 
 who are descended of virtuous ancestors. And of 
 several good reasons, that have been given for it, 
 this is one; that we may have more confidence 
 in the honour of such persons, than in those who 
 have no illustrious, or honest, kindred to disgrace 
 by their unworthiness, or to adorn by their vir- 
 tue. Is not this a proof, that the ties of kindred 
 are understood to be friendly to our nature; and, 
 
OFKINDRRn. 159 
 
 that the policy, which tends to loosen them, by 
 keeping parents and children separate, or mutu- 
 ally unknown to each other, must be detrimental 
 to publick good, as well as to private happiness? 
 Bacon has an excellent remark on this subject. 
 " Unmarried men," says he, " are best friends, 
 " best masters, best servants: biit not always best 
 " subjects; for they are light to run away; and 
 " almost all fugitives are of that condition. For 
 " soldiers," continues he, a little after, " I find 
 " that the generals in their hortatives commonly 
 ^* put men in mind of their wives and children: 
 " and I think the despising of marriage among 
 " the Turks maketh the vulgar soldier more 
 " base. Certainly, v/ife and children are a kind of 
 " discipline of humanity: and single men, though 
 " they be many times more charitable, because 
 *^* their means are less exhaust, yet, on the other 
 " side, they are more cruel and hardhearted, be- 
 " cause their tenderness is not so oft called 
 " upon."* 
 
 My principal view in this argument is, to over- 
 turn one of Plato's theories. That philosopher 
 is of opinion, that parents ought not to be intrus- 
 ted with their children, because they are apt to 
 ruin them by immoderate fondness. His plan, 
 
 * EsSHV vlii. 
 
160 ON THE ATTACHMENTS 
 
 therefore, is, that inftints, as soon as bom, should 
 be conveyed to places set apart for them,and taken 
 care of by nurses and teachers appointed by the 
 publick; that parents may never know their own 
 offspring; and that from their earliest years the 
 rising generation may be taught to consider 
 themselves as the children of the commonwealth. 
 He thinks too, that the father and mother should 
 not live in domestick union; nor ever meet, but 
 on certain solemn festivals; and that even this 
 indulgence should be denied to all, who are not 
 in the prime of life, and of a healthy constitution. 
 In a word, his plan tends to abolish families, to 
 efface every idea of kindred, and to render the 
 intercourse of the sexes in the rational world 
 similar to that of brutes: which would make men 
 worse than savages; destroy all the delicacies of 
 modesty, and conjugal friendship; and deprive 
 society of those most important means of im- 
 provement, which men and women derive from 
 the company and conversation of each other. It 
 would also divest us of those habits of mutual 
 kindness that take their rise in a family, and are, 
 as we have seen, so effectual in refining and 
 adorning our nature; * and it would extinguish 
 
 * In that magnificent institution of tlie empress ol' 
 Russia, for educatin,^ her young- nobility, the children 
 
OF KINDRED. 161 
 
 7iiany of the noblest incentives to activity and 
 patriotism. If we had been sent into the world 
 for no other purpose, but to act a part, like pup- 
 pets or players, in the farcfe of democratical gov- 
 ernment; and had no private interest to contend 
 for, while here, and no need to prepare our 
 minds, by habits of piety and benevolence, for 
 happiness hereafter: in a word, if we were crea- 
 tures quite different from what we are, this plan 
 might be allov/ed to have some meaning. But, 
 taking man as he is, and paying a due regard to 
 his inherent rights, and final destination, we can- 
 not hesitate to pronounce it imnatural and absurd, 
 and alike unfriendly to happiness and to virtue. 
 
 And what, you will ask, are the advantages 
 supposed by the fanciful philosopher to result 
 from it? He thinks, it would free the common- 
 are visited from time to time by their parents, and may 
 correspond with tliem by letter; and none mider the 
 age of five yeai's are sent to the academies. Thus that 
 great and wise princess secures the continuance of pa- 
 rental and filial love, at the same time that she promotes, 
 by the most effectual means, the civiUzation of her em- 
 pire. For in this way, her nobles must soon equal those 
 of the politest nations in elegance of manners; and the 
 improvement of tlie common people will follow as a 
 necessary consequence. Her nobility, indeed, are not 
 in this respect her only care. To the interests of educa- 
 tion in the middle ranks of life she is not less attentive. 
 
 02 
 
162 ON THE ATTACHMENTS 
 
 wealth from the evils of avarice, the chief mo- 
 tive to which he imagines to be one's attachment 
 to a family. But in this he is widely mistaken. 
 Attachment to a family gives rise to industry, 
 and prudent economy, which ought always to be 
 encouraged, because productive of private happi- 
 ness, as well as of publick good; but has nothing- 
 to do with avarice; which is known to be subver- 
 sive of benevolence, and to prevail more in hearts 
 that are hardened against the claims of consan- 
 guinity, and the calls of nature, than among those 
 who love their children and kindred. He thinks, 
 that in this way the state would be supplied with 
 healthy citizens: and in this too he is mistaken. 
 For the constitution of the child may be bad, 
 when that of the parent is good, and weakly pa- 
 rents have often strong children. Nor is bodily 
 strength the only thing desirable in a good citi- 
 zen; wisdom and virtue, which are often united 
 with an infirm body, are much more important: 
 Demosthenes, Cicero, and, in the latter part of 
 his life, Julius Cesar, were valetudinarians; and 
 one of the greatest men that Sparta ever produ- 
 ced, I mean Agesilaus, was lame of a leg. And 
 it is found by experience, that, Avithcut being 
 subject to the restraints proposed by this unnat- 
 ural plan of policy, most men enjoy as much 
 .health, as is reqirisite to all the ordinary business 
 
OF KINDRED, 163 
 
 of life. Plato imagines further, that by his scheme 
 rebellion and sedition would be prevented; which, 
 he seems to think, do commonly take their rise 
 among persons united by the ties of blood. But 
 neither is this true. In civil commotions, we 
 often see parents and children attach themselves 
 to opposite parties; and one of the most shock- 
 ing calamities attending civil war, is, that it pro- 
 motes contention among kindred, and sets bro- 
 ther against brother, and the father against the 
 son. 
 
 As to that indiscreet fondness wherewith some 
 parents treat their children; it is an evil, no doubt, 
 and tends to produce evil; but it hurts a few in- 
 dividuals only, and its bad consequences are of- 
 ten successfully counteracted by a little knowl- 
 edge of the world: whereas the proposed remedy 
 would affect the whole commonwealth with evils 
 incomparably greater, and withal incurable. Be- 
 sides, teachers, as well as parents, have been 
 partial to favourites; but nobody ever thought of 
 abolishing education, to get rid of this inconve- 
 nience. It would be like cutting off the legs, in 
 order to keep the gout out of the great toe; or 
 like knocking out all the teeth, for the purpose 
 of preventing the toothach. The best security 
 against the evils of parental fondness is parental 
 love; and, where parents have good sense, that 
 will always be security sufficient. 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 ON 
 
 SUBLIMITY. 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 SUBLIMITY. 
 
 JLONGINUS, the secretary of Zenobia queen 
 of Palmyra, who was conquered by the empe- 
 rour Aurclian, about the middle of the third cen- 
 tury, composed many books of philosophy and 
 criticism, and among others a discourse on sub- 
 limity, which is the only part of his writings that 
 has been preserved to our time. He is an author, 
 not more remarkable for accuracy of judgment, 
 than for the energy of his style, and a peculiar 
 boldness and elevation of thought. And men 
 of learning have vied with each other, in cele- 
 brating and expounding that work; which is in- 
 deed one of the best specimens that remain of 
 ancient criticism, and well deserves the attention 
 of every scholar. 
 
 But he has used the word *Hu/isos in a more 
 general sense, than is commonly annexed to the 
 term sublimity} not always distinguishing what is 
 sublime from what is elegant or beautiful. The 
 
168 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 distinction, however, ought to be made. Both in 
 ^ /^deed give delight; but the gratification we derive 
 from the one is different from that which accom- 
 panies the other. It is pleasing to behold a fine 
 face, or an apartment elegantly furnished and of 
 • exact proportion; it is also pleasing to contem- 
 plate a craggy mountain, a vast cathedral, or a 
 magnificent palace: but surely, the one sort of 
 pleasure differs as much from the other, as com- 
 V placency differs from admiration, or the soft 
 melody of a flute from the overpowering tones 
 of a full organ. 
 
 Grammarians are not agreed about the etymo- 
 logy of the word sublime. The most probable 
 opinion is, that it may be derived from sufira 
 ^xiAlimus; and so denotes literally the circum- 
 stance of being raised above the slime^ the mud^ or 
 the mould., of this world. Be that as it may, it 
 uniformly signifies in the Latin, whence we have 
 taken it, elevation., or loftiness. And because 
 whatever is much elevated, as a high building, 
 i or a high mountain, infuses into the beholder a 
 ^sort of pleasing astonishment; hence those things 
 in art or nature, which have the same effect on 
 f.f. the mind, are with a view to that effect, called by 
 the same name. Great depth, being the correla- 
 tive of great height, and being indeed implied 
 in it, (for whatever is high from below is deep 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 169 
 
 iiom above) and because it astonishes and pleases 
 the imagination, is also to be considered as sub- 
 lime. For, if we be ourselves secure, every one 
 must have observed, that it is agreeable to look 
 down, from a mountain, upon the plain, or from 
 the top of a high building, upon the various ob- 
 jects below. Cotton says, with the energy and 
 enthusiasm of Dryden: 
 
 O my beloved rocks, that rise 
 
 To awe the cartK, and brave the skies! 
 
 From some aspiring mountain's crown. 
 
 How dearly do I love, 
 
 Giddy witli pleasure, to look down: 
 
 And from the vales ^o view the noble heights above!* 
 
 " It is pleasant," says Lucretius, " to behold 
 '' from the land the labours of the mariner in a 
 " tempestuous ocean; but nothing is more de- 
 " lightful, than from the heights of science to 
 " look down on those who wander in the mazes 
 " of error: not," says he, " because we are grati- 
 " fied with another's distress; but because there 
 " is a pleasure in seeing evils from which we 
 " ourselves are free." The fact is partly so; but 
 the poet entirely mistakes the cause. It is plea- 
 sant to behold the sea in a storm, on account of ^ 
 its Astonishing greatness and impetuosity; and it 
 
 * See Walton's Angler, Partii. 
 Vol. III. P 
 
170 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 is pleasant to look down from an elevated situa- 
 tion, because here too there is greatness and de- 
 lightful astonishment. But to see others in dan- 
 ger, or unhappy in their ignorance, must always 
 
 /^ give pain to a considerate mind, however consci- 
 ^ ous it may be of its own security, and wisdom. 
 Such a sentiment we need not wonder to find in 
 an Epicurean poet; as all the views of his master 
 terminated in self But it is somewhat strange, 
 that Creech, in a note upon the passage, should 
 vindicate his author in these terms: Id asserit 
 
 * poeta, quod omnes sentiunt; qui dolore aut 
 morbo laborantem videt, protinus, O me feli- 
 cem: " The poet asserts nothing, but what is 
 " warranted by universal experience; when we 
 " see a man diseased, or in pain, we immediately 
 " exclaim, or think. How happy are wel'* Every 
 generous mind Jeels the falsehood of this doc- 
 trine. It was, however, a favourite topick of 
 Swift; as appears from those verses on his own 
 death, in which he comments upon a silly and 
 ambiguous maxim of Rochefoucault.* Accord- 
 
 * The maxim is, Dans l*adversite de nos tneilleiirs amis 
 nous trouvons ioujours quelque chosen qui ne nous deplaist pas: 
 In the adversity of our best friends we find always 
 something that does not displease us. This may mean, 
 / either, that while our best friends are in adversity wi 
 1^ always meet with some gratification; or, that the ad 
 versity of our best friends is always to us the source 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 171 
 
 iiig to this theory, the most desirable of all 
 human conditions would be that of the superin- 
 
 of some gratification. The former remark is true: 
 for while our friend is, or even while ourselves are, 
 in trouble, we may no doubt have the comfort, of 
 eating when we are hungry, drinking when thirst)', 
 resting when weary; to say nothing of the higher en- 
 joyments of science, and of virtue. But this is a childisli 
 observation; and has no particular reference to Roche - 
 foucault's system. I therefore suppose the meaning 
 to be, that the calamities which overtake our best 
 friends always give us some degree of pleasure: and 
 this, though no childisii observation, every man, who is 
 not corrupted by extreme selfishness, knows to be ut- 
 terly false. It is natural to wish for that which we know- 
 to bring pleasure along with it: but what sort of person 
 would he be, who for his own gratification could wish 
 his best friends to be in adversity? 
 
 To this notable aphorism Swift makes a little addi- 
 tion, by his paraphrase. "In all distresses of our friends. 
 We first consult our private ends,* &c. What can this 
 mean? A child who is playing neai' me gets a danger- 
 ous fall: a friend who is riding with me is thrown from 
 his horse, and has his leg broken. In this case, what do 
 I do? I first of alii says Swift, (what! before I either aid, 
 or pity him? Yes; I first) consult some private end of my 
 own; that is (if it be any thing) I consider, how I may 
 make this accident turn to my own advantage. What 
 might pass in the mind of Swift on an occasion like tliis, 
 I know not: but in me, and in most other beings of hu- 
 man form, I am certain there would be no such idea. 
 "Witliout thinking of oiu'selvcs at all, we should instantly 
 
1 72 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 tendent of an hospital, the keeper of bedlam, or' 
 the commander of galley slaves: who would 
 
 give every assistance in our power: or, if we did not, 
 we should deserve to b'e driven out of society. But per- 
 haps, by the word Jirst the author here means chiefly: 
 " Wlien our friend is in distress, our chief desire is, 
 ** not that he may be relieved, but that we may from 
 " his suffering' reap some benefit.'* This will not 
 mend the matter. For, at this rate, love is hatred; and 
 Ji-ietid a.nd enetny are synonymous terms. The truth may 
 be, that Swift, knowing- the couplet would not be com- 
 plete without a second line, and a rhyme to friends, took. 
 the liberty, on this one occasion, — to make The one verse 
 for the other's sake; For one for sense, and one for rhyme. 
 He thought siifjicient at this ti^ne. But he brings examples 
 to confirm his doctrine. He does. In order to prove, 
 from reason and experience, that in all dist?esses of our 
 friends we first consult our private ends, he argues, 
 that, when our friend is not indistress, but in an 
 advantageous situation, we wish to be in as good a place 
 as he, or perhaps in a better; that when Ned is in the 
 gout, we patiently hear him groan, and are glad that we 
 are not in it; that one poet wishes all his rival poets in 
 hell, rather than that they should write better than he: 
 and he urges other considerations, humourously ex- 
 pressed indeed, but not more to the purpose. In a word," 
 his arguments amoimt to this: " Emulation is natural: 
 •* Some men, particularly poets and wits, are prone to 
 " envy; And we think it a good thing to be in health. 
 '* Argal, There is no such thing in this world as sincere 
 
 i 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 1 73: 
 
 every moment be rejoicing in the thought, that 
 he was free from the miseries which he beheld 
 around him. 
 
 What we admire, or consider as great, we are 
 apt to speak, of in such terms, as if we conceived 
 it to be high in place: and what we look upon 
 as less important, we express in words that pro- 
 perly denote low situation. We go up to Lon- 
 don; and thence doivn into the country. The 
 Jews spoke in the same manner of their me- 
 tropolis, which was to them the object of religi- 
 ous veneration. " Jerusalem," says the psalmist, 
 " is a city, to which the tribes go up:" and the 
 parable of the good Samaritan begins thus, " A 
 " certain man went down from Jerusalem to 
 " Jericho.'* Conformably to the same idiom, 
 heaven is supposed to be above, and hell to be 
 beneath; and we say, that generous minds en- 
 deavour to reach the summit of excellence, and 
 
 " friendship, or disinterested compassion." This may 
 be wit; but it is not sense. 
 
 Let not this note be deemed a digression. Of the 
 sublimities of art and nature the human soul would be a 
 very incompetent judg-e, if it were so mean, so con- 
 temptible, and s^o hateful a thing, as some writers 
 would have us believe. Our tuste for the sublime is con- 
 sidered by two great authors (who will be quoted in 
 the secpicl) as aproof of tlie dignity of our nature. 
 
 P2 
 
174 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 think it beneath them to do, or design, any thing 
 that is base. The terms base^ groveling^ /ow. Sec. 
 and those of opposite import, elevated^ asiiiring^ 
 lofty^ as applied in a jFigurative sense to the 
 energies of mind, do all take their rise from the 
 same modes of thinking. The Latins expressed 
 admiration by a verb Avhich properly signifies, to 
 look up. {susjiicerey, and contempt by another 
 {despicere') whose original meaning is, to look 
 down. A high seat is erected for a king, or a 
 chief magistrate, and a lofty pedestal for the 
 statue of a hero; partly, no doubt, that they may 
 be seen at the greater distance, and partly, also, 
 out of respect to their dignity. 
 
 But mere local elevation is not the only source 
 of sublimity. Things that surpass in magnitude ; 
 "as a spacious building, a great city, a large river, 
 a vast mountain, a AVide prospect, the ocean, the 
 expanse of heaven, fill the mind of the beholder 
 with the same agreeable astonishment. And ob- 
 serve, that it is rather the relative magnitude of 
 things, as compared with others of the same 
 kind, that raises this emotion, than their abso- 
 lute quantity of matter. That may be a sublime 
 edifice, which in real magnitude falls far short of 
 a small hill that is not sublime: and a river two 
 furlongs in breadth is a majestick appearance 
 
ONSUBUMITY. 175 
 
 t 
 
 ^ I'hough in extent of water it is as nothing when 
 compared with the ocean. 
 
 Great number, too, when it gives rise to ad- 
 miration, may be referred to the same class of 
 things. Hence an army, or navy, a long succes- 
 sion of years, eternity, and the like, are sublime, 
 because they at once please and astonish. In 
 contemplating- such ideas or objects, we are con- 
 scious of something like an expansion of our fa- y 
 cullies, as if we were exerting our whole capa- 
 city to comprehend the vastncss of that which 
 commands our attention.* This energy of the 
 mind is pleasing, as all mental energies are, when 
 unaccompanied with pain: and the pleasure is 
 heightened by our admiration of the object itself; 
 for admiration is always agreeable. 
 
 In many cases, great number is connected with 
 other grand ideas, which add to its own gran- 
 deur. A fleet, or army, makes us think of 
 power, and courage, and danger, and presents 
 a variety of brilliant images. Along succession 
 of years brings to view the vicissitude of human 
 things, and the uncertainty of life, which sooner 
 or later must yield to death, the irresistible de- 
 stroyer. And eternity reminds us of that awful 
 
 '• consideration, our own immortality; and is con- 
 
 * Spcrtntor, Numb. 412. Gerard on Taste . 
 
176 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 nected with an idea still more sublime, and in- 
 deed the most sublime of all, namely, with the 
 
 y idea of Him, who fills immensity with his pre- 
 sence; creates, preserves, and governs all things; 
 and is from everlasting to everlasting. 
 
 In general, whatever awakens in us this plea- 
 surable astonishment is accounted sublime, whe- 
 ther it be connected with quantity and number, 
 or not. The harmony of a loud and full organ 
 conveys, no doubt, an idea of expansion and of 
 pov/er; but, independently on this, it overpow- 
 ers with so sweet a violence, as charms and as- 
 tonishes at tiie same time; and we are generally 
 conscious of an elevation of mind when we hear 
 it, even though the ear be not sensible of 
 any melody. Thunder and ten) pest are still more 
 elevating, when one hears them without fear; 
 because the sound is still more stupendous; and 
 because they fill the imagination ^with the magni- 
 ficent idea of the expanse of heaven and earth, 
 through which they direct their terrible career, 
 and of that Almighty Being, whose will con- 
 trols all nature. The roar of cannon, in like 
 manner, when considered as harmless, gives 
 a dreadful delight; partly by the overwhelming 
 
 ' sensation v/herewith it affects the ear, and partly 
 by the ideas of power and danger, triumph and 
 
 / fortitude, which it conveys to the fancy. 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 1 11 
 
 Those passions of the soul yield a pleasing as- 
 tonishment, which djscover.a high degree of mo- 
 ral excellence, or are in any way coniiected with 
 great number, or great quantity. Benevolence 
 and piety are sublime affections; for the object 
 of the one is the Deity himself, the greatest, and 
 the best; and that of the other is the whole hu- 
 man race, or the whole system of percipient be- 
 ings. Fortitude and generosity are sublime emo- 
 tions: because they discover a degree of virtue, 
 which is not every where to be met with; and 
 exert themselves in actions, that are at once dif- 
 ficult, and beneficial to mankind.* Great intellec- 
 tual abilities, as the genius of Homer, or of 
 Newton, we cannot contemplate without wonder 
 and delight, and must therefore refer to that class 
 of things whereof I now speak. Nay, great bodily 
 strength is a sublime object; for we are agreeably 
 astonished, when we see it exerted, or hear of 
 its effects. There is even a sublime beauty, which 
 both astonishes and charms: but this will be found 
 in those persons only, or chiefly, who unite fine 
 features with a majestic form; such as we may 
 
 * This idea of fortitude is admitted by the stoicks, 
 and all the best moralists. That courag-e, says Tulh', 
 whicli aims only at self-interest, and is not regulated 
 by equity and benevolence, is to be called atidacitf 
 ratlier \\vAn fnrtitudff. 
 
1 78 ILLUSTRATIONS t 
 
 suppose an ancient statuary would have repre 
 sented Juno, or Minerva, Achilles, or Apollo. 
 
 When great qualities prevail in any person, 
 they form what is called a sublime character.* 
 n/ Every good man is a personage of this order: 
 but a cnaracter may be sublime, which is not 
 , completely good, nay, which is upon the whole 
 ' very bad. For the test of sublimity is not moral 
 approbation, but that pleasurable astonishment 
 wherewith certain things strike the beholder. 
 •Sarpedon, in the Iliad, is a sublime character, and \ 
 at the same time a good one: to the valour of 
 tjife hero he joins the benignity of a gracious 
 prince, and the moderation of a wise man, Achil- a 
 les, though in many respects not virtuous, is yet | 
 a most sublime character. We hate his cruelty, | 
 passionate temper, and love of vengeance: but 
 we admire him for his valour, strength, swiftness, 
 generosity, beauty, and intellectual accomplish- 
 ments; for the warmth of his friendship, and for 
 his filial tenderness. t In a word, notwithstanding 
 his violent nature, there is in his generid conduct . 
 a mixture of goodness and of greatness, with 
 which we are both pleased and astonished. Julius 
 Cesar was never considered as a man of strict 
 
 * Gerard on Taste. 
 I Essay on Poetry and Musick. Part i. chap. 4, 
 
ox SUBLIMITY. 1 79 
 
 rirtue. But, in reading his jncmoirs^ it is impos- 
 sible not to be struck with the sublimity of his 
 character: that strength of mind, which nothing 
 can bear down; that self-command, which is 
 never discomposed; that intrepidity in danger; 
 that address in negotiation; that coolness and re- 
 collection in the midst of perplexity; and that un- 
 wearied activity, which crowds together in every 
 one of his campaigns as many great actions as 
 •would make a hero. Nay even in Satan, as Mil- 
 ton has represented him in Paradise Lost, though 
 there are no qualities that can be called good in 
 a moral view; nay, though every purpose of that 
 wicked spirit is bent to evil, and to that only; yet 
 there is the grandeur of a ruined archangel: there 
 is force able to contend with the most boisterous 
 elements; and there is boldness, which no power, 
 but what is almighty, can intimidate. These 
 qualities are astonishing: and, though we always 
 detest his malignity, we arc often compelled to 
 admire that very greatness by which we are con- 
 founded and terrified. 
 
 And be not surprised, that we sometimes ad- 
 mire what wecannotapprove. These two emotions 
 may, and frequently do, conicide: Sarpedon and 
 Hector, Epaminondas and Aristides, David and 
 Jonathan, w^c both approve and admire. But they 
 do not necessarily coincide: for goodness call"^ 
 
180 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 fortli the one, and greatness the other; and that 
 tvhich is great is not always good, and that may 
 be good M'hich is not great. Troy in ilames. 
 Palmyra in ruins, the ocean in a storm, and 
 Etna in thunder and conflagration, are magni- 
 licent appearances, but do not immediately im- 
 press our minds with the idea of good: and a 
 clear- fountain is not a grand object, though in 
 many parts of the world it would be valued above 
 all treasures. So in the qualities of the mind and 
 body: we admire the strong, the brave, the elo- 
 quent, the beautiful, the ingenious, the learned; 
 but the virtuous only we approve. There have 
 been authors, indeed, one at least there has been, 
 who, by confounding admiration with approba- 
 tion, laboured to confound intellectual accom- 
 pJishments with moral virtues; but it is shame- 
 ful inaccuracy, and vile sophistry: one miglit as 
 well endeavour to confound crimes with misfor- 
 tunes, and strength of body with purity of mind; 
 and say, that to be a knave and to lose a leg are 
 equally worthy of punishment, and that one man 
 deserves as much praise for being born with a 
 healthy constitution, as another does for leading 
 a good life. 
 
 But if sublime ideas are known by their power 
 of inspiring agreeable astonishment, and if Satan 
 in Paradise Lost is a sublime idea, does it not 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 181 
 
 follow, that we must be both astonished at his 
 character, and pleased with it? And is it possible 
 to take pleasure in a being, who is the author of 
 evil, and the adversaiy of God and man? 
 
 I answer; that, though we know there is an evil 
 spirit of this name, we know also, that Milton's 
 Satan is partly imaginary; and we believe, that 
 those qualities are so in particular, which we ad- 
 mire in him as great: for we have no reason to 
 think that he has really that boldness, irresistible 
 strength, or dignity of form, which the poet as- 
 cribes to him. So far, therefore, as we admire, 
 him for sublimity of character, we consider him, 
 not as the great enemy of our souls, but as a fic- 
 titious being, and a mere poetical hero. Now the 
 human imagination can easily combine ideas in 
 an assemblage, which are not combined in nature; 
 and make the same person the object of admira- 
 tion intone respect, who in another is detestable: 
 and such inventions are in poetry the more pro- 
 bable, because such persons are to be met Vvith 
 in real life. Achilles and Alexander, for example, 
 we admire for their magnanimity, but abhor for 
 their cruelty. And the poet, whose aim is to 
 please, finds it necessary to give some good qua- 
 lities to his bud characters; for, if he did not, the 
 
 Vol. III. Q 
 
1 82 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 reader would not be interested in their fortune, 
 nor, consequently, pleased with the story of it.* 
 
 In the picture of a burning city, we may admire 
 the splendour of the colours, the undulation of 
 the flames, the arrangements of light and shade, 
 and the other proofs of the painter's skill; and 
 nothing gives a more exquisite delight of the ' 
 melancholy kind, than Virgil's account of the 
 burning of Troy. But this does not imply, that 
 we should, like Nero, take any pleasure in such 
 an event, if it were real and present. Indeed, few 
 appearances are more beautiful, or more sublime, 
 than a mass of flame, rolling in the wind, and 
 blazing to heaven: whence illuminations, bon- 
 fires, and fireworks make part of a modern tri- 
 umph. Yet destruction by fire is of all earthly 
 things the most terrible. 
 
 An object more astonishing both to the eye, and 
 to the ear, there is hardly in nature, than (what is 
 sometimes to be seen in the West Indies) a plan- 
 tation of sugarcanes on fire, flaming to a vast 
 height, sweeping the whole country, and every 
 moment sending forth a thousand explosions^ 
 like those of artillery. A good description of 
 such a scene we should admire as sublime: for 
 a description can neither burn nor destroy. But 
 
 * See Essay on Poetry and Musick- Piart. i. chap. 3. 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 183 
 
 the planter, who sees it desolating his fields, and 
 ruining all his hopes, can feel no other emotions 
 than horrour and sorrow. In a word, the sublime, 
 in order to give pleasing astonishment, must be 
 either imaginary, or not inimediately pernicious. 
 
 There is a kind of horrour, which may be infu- 
 sed into the mind both by natural appearances, and 
 by verbal description; and which, though it make 
 the blood seem to run cold, and produce a mo- 
 mentary fear, is not unpleasing, but miy be even 
 agreeable: and therefore, the objects that produce 
 it are justly denominated sublime. Of natural ap- 
 pearances that affect the mind in this manner, are 
 vast caverns, deep and dark woods, overhanging 
 precipices, the agitation of the sea in a storm: 
 and some of the sounds above mentioned have the 
 same effect, as those of cannon and thunder. 
 Verbal descriptions infusing sublime horrour are 
 such as convey lively ideas of the objects of 
 superstition, as ghosts and enchantments; or of 
 the thoughts that haunt the imaginations of the 
 guilty; or of those external things, which are 
 pleasingly terrible, as storms, conflagrations, and 
 the like. 
 
 It may seem strange, that horrour of any kind 
 should give pleasure. But the fact is certain. 
 Why do people run to see battles, executions, 
 and shipwrecks? Is it, as an Epicurean would say. 
 
184 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 to compare themselves with others, and exult 
 in their own security while they see the distress 
 of those who suffer? No, surely: good minds arc 
 swayed by different motives. It is, that they may 
 be at hand, to give every assistance in their power 
 to their unhappy brethren? This would draw the 
 benevolent, and even the tenderhearted, to a 
 shipwreck; „but to a battle, or to an execution, 
 could not bring spectators, because there the 
 humanity of individuals is of no use. It must be, 
 because a sort of gloomy sft.tisfaction, or terrifick 
 pleasure, accompanies the gratification of that 
 curiosity, which events of this nature are apt to 
 raise in minds of a certain frame. 
 
 No parts of Tasso are read with greater relish, 
 than where he describes the darkness, silence, 
 and other horrours, of the enchanted forest: and 
 the poet himself is so sensible of the captivating 
 influence of such ideas over the human imagina- 
 tion, that he makes the catastrophe of the poem 
 in some measure depend upon them. Milton is 
 not less enamoured "of forests and enchantments 
 " drear:" as appears from the use to which he ap- 
 plies them in Comus: the scenery whereof charms 
 us the more, because it affects our minds, as it 
 did the bewildered lady, and causes " a thousand 
 fantasies" — 
 
6n SUBLIiVnTY. 185 
 
 to throng into the memoiy, 
 
 Of calling shapes, and beckoning' shadows dire, 
 And aery tongues, tluit syllable meii's names 
 On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses. 
 
 Forests in every age must have had attractive 
 horrours: otherwise so many nations would not 
 have resorted thither, to celebrate the rites of su- 
 perstition. And the inventors of what is called 
 the Gothick, but perhaps should rather be called 
 the Saracen, architecture, must have been enrap- 
 tured with the same imagery, when, in forming 
 and arranging the pillars and aisles of their 
 churches, they were so careful to imilate the 
 rows of lofty trees in a deep grove. 
 
 Observe a few children assembled about a fire, 
 and listening to tales of apparitions and witch- 
 craft. You may see them grow pale, and crowd 
 closer and closer through fear: while he who is 
 snug in the chimney corner, and at the greatest 
 distance from the door, considers himself as pe- 
 culiarly fortunate; because he thinks that, if the 
 ghost should enter, he has a better chance to es- 
 cape, than if he were in a more exposed situation. 
 And yet, notwithstanding their present, and their 
 apprehension of future, fears, you could not per- 
 haps propose any amusement that would at this 
 time be more acceptable. The same love of such 
 horrours as are not attended with sensible incon- 
 
 Q2 
 
18^ ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 venience continues with us through life: and 
 Aristotle has affirmed, that the end of tragedy is 
 to purify the soul by the operations of pity and 
 terrour. 
 
 The mind and body of man are so constituted, 
 ':^ f. that without action, neither can the one be heal- 
 thy,.nor the other happy. And as bodily exercises, 
 though attended with fatigue, as dancing, or with 
 some degree of danger, as hunting, are not on 
 that account the less agreeable; so those things 
 give delight, which rouse the soul, even when 
 they bring along with them horrour, anxiety, or 
 sorrow, provided these passions be transient, and 
 their causes rather imaginary than real. 
 
 The most perfect models of sublimity are seen 
 in the works of nature. Pyramids, palaces, fire- 
 works, temples, artificial lakes and canals, ships 
 of war, fortifications, hills levelled and caves hol- 
 lowed by human industry, are mighty efforts, no 
 doubt, and awaken in every beholder a pleasing- 
 admiration; but appear as nothing, when we com- 
 pare them,in respect of magnificence, with moun- 
 tains, volcanoes, rivers, cataracts, oceans, the ex- 
 panse of heaven, clouds and storms, thunder and , 
 lightning, the sun, moon, and stars. So that, with- , 
 out the study of nature, a true taste in the sub- ' 
 lime is absolutely unattainable. And we need not 
 wonder at what is related of Thomson, the author 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 187 
 
 of The Seasons; who, on hearing that a certain 
 learned gentleman of London was writing an ep- 
 ick poern, exclaimed, " He write an epick poem I 
 " it is impossible: he never saw a momitain in 
 " his life." This at least is certain, that if we were 
 to strike out of Homer, Virgil, and Milton, those 
 descriptions and sentiments that allude to the 
 grand phenomena of nature, we should deprive 
 these poets of the best part of their sublimity. 
 
 And yet, the true sublime may be attained by 
 human art. Musick is sublime, when it inspires 
 devotion, courage, or other elevated affections: or 
 when by its mellow and sonorous harmonies it 
 overwhelmsthe mind with sweet astonishment: or 
 when it infuses that pleasing horrour above men- 
 tioned; which, when joined to words descriptive 
 of terrible ideas, it sometimes does very effec- 
 tually. 
 
 Architecture is sublime, when it is large and 
 durable, and withal so simple and well propor- 
 tioned as that the eye can take in all its greatness 
 at once. For when an edifice is loaded with orna- 
 ments, our attention to them prevents our atten- 
 ding to the whole; and the mind, though it may 
 be amused with the beauty or the variety of the 
 little parts, is not struck with that sudden aston- 
 ishment, which accompanies the contemplation of 
 sublimity. Hence the Gothick style of building, 
 
188 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 f where it abounds in minute decorations, and 
 where greater pains are employed on the parts, 
 than in adjusting the general harmony of the fa- 
 brick, is less, sublime than the Grecian, in which 
 proporlion, simplicity, and usefulness, are more 
 studied than ornament. It is true, that Gothick 
 buildings may be very sublime: witness the old 
 cathedral churches. But this is owing, rather to 
 their vast magnitude, to the stamp of antiquity 
 that is ibipressed on them, and to their having 
 been so long appropriated to religious service, 
 than to those peculiarities that distinguish their 
 architecture from the Grecian. 
 
 The Chinese mode of building has no preten- 
 sions to sublimity; its decorations being still more 
 trivial than the Gothick; and because it derives 
 no dignity from associated ideas, and has no vast- 
 ness of magnitude to raise admiration. Yet is it 
 not without its charms. There is an air of neat- 
 ness in it, and of novelty, which to many is plea- 
 sing, and which of late it has been much the 
 fashion to imitate. 
 
 Painting is sublime, when it displays men in- 
 
 > vested with great qualities, as bodily strength, or 
 actuated by sublime passions, as courage, devo- 
 tion, benevolence. That picture by Guido Rhcni, 
 wliich represents Michael triumphing over the 
 evil spirit, I have always admired for its sublimity, 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 189 
 
 though some criticks are not pleased with it. The 
 attitude of the angel, who holds a sword in his 
 right hand in a threatening posture, conveys to 
 me the idea of dignity and grace, as well as of 
 irresistible strength. Nor is the majestick beauty 
 of his person less admirable: and his countenance, 
 though in a slight degree expressive of contempt 
 or indignation, retains that sweet composure, 
 which we think essential to the angelick charac- 
 ter. His limbs and wings are, it is true, contras- 
 ted: but the contrast is so far from being finical, 
 that, if we consider the action, and the situa- 
 tion, we must allow it to be not only natural, but 
 unavoidable, and such as a winged being might 
 continue in for some time without inconveni- 
 ence.* Guido is not equally fortunate in his deli- 
 neation of the adversary; who is too mean, and too 
 ludicrous, a figure, to cope with an archangel, or 
 to require, for his overthrow, the twentieth part 
 of that force which appears to be exerted against 
 him. Painting is also sublime, when it imitates 
 grand natural appearances, as mountains, preci- 
 pices, storms, huge heaps of rocks and ruins, and 
 the like. 
 
 At the time when Raphael began to distinguish 
 himself, two styles of painting were cultivated in 
 
 '* Essay on Imaginatien, Chap. II. Sect. iv. § 3. 
 
190 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Italy. His master Pietro Periigino copied nature 
 with an exactness bordering upon servility; so 
 that his figures had less dignity and grace than 
 their originals. Michael Angelo ran into the op- 
 posite extreme; and, with an imagination fraught 
 with great ideas, and continually aspiring to sub- 
 limity, so enlarged the proportions of nature, as 
 to raise his men to giants, and stretch out every 
 form into an extension that might almost be 
 called monstrous. To the penetration of Raphael 
 both styles seemed to be faulty, and both in an 
 equal degree. The one appeared insipid in its 
 accuracy, and the other almost ridiculous in its 
 extravagance.* He therefore pursued a middle 
 course; tempering the fire of Angelo with the 
 caution of Perugino: and thus exhibited the true 
 sublime of painting; wherein the graces of na- 
 ture are heightened, but nothing is gigantick, 
 
 * I find thiit sir Joshua Reynolds, from whose judg- 
 ment there is no appeal, thinks more favourably of the 
 sublime of Michael Ang-elo. I therefore retract part of 
 what is said above: but I am sure my indulgent friend 
 will not be offended to see this remark, as I had written 
 it before I met with his admirable discourse deliver- 
 ed in the royal academy, in December, one thousand 
 seven hundi-ed and se\:en:ty:,two. The few pieces I have 
 seen of Michael An<j-elo must have been in his worst 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 191 
 
 cUsproportioned, or improbable. While we stiidy 
 his cartoons, we seem to be conversing with a 
 species of men, like ourselves indeed, but of 
 heroick dignity and size. 
 
 This great artist is in painting, what Homer 
 is in poetry. Homer magnifies in like manner; 
 and transforms men into heroes and demigods; 
 and, to give the more grandeur to his narrative, 
 sets it off with marvellous events, which, in his 
 time, though not improbable, were however as- 
 tonishing. But Ariosto, and the authors of the 
 old romance, resemble Michael Angelo in ex- 
 alting their champions, not into heroes, but into 
 giants and monsters. Achilles, though supeiiour 
 to all men in A^alour, would not venture to battle 
 without his arms: but a warriour of romance, 
 whether armed or not, could fell a troop of horse 
 to the earth at one blow, tear up trees by the 
 root, and now and then throw a piece of a moun- 
 tain at the enemy. The true sublime is always 
 jiatural and credible: but unbounded exaggera- 
 tions, that surpass all proportion and all belief, 
 are more apt to provoke laughter than astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 Poetry becomes sublime in many ways: and 
 as this is the only fine art, which can at present 
 supply us with examples, I shall from it select a 
 specimen or two of the different sorts of sub- 
 limity. 
 
192 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 1. Poetry is sublime, when it elevates the 
 mind. This indeed is a general character of great- 
 ness. But I speak here of sentiments so happily 
 conceived and expressed, as to raise our affec- 
 tions above the low pursuits of sensuality and av- 
 arice, and animate us with the love of virtue and 
 of honour. As a specimen, let me recommend 
 the account, which Virgil gives in his eighth 
 book, of the person, family, and kingdom of 
 Evander, an Arcadian prince, who, after being 
 trained up in all the discipline of Greece, estab- 
 lished himself and his people in that part of Ita- 
 ly, where a few centuries after, was built the 
 great metropolis of the Roman empire. In the 
 midst of poverty, that good old man retains a 
 philosophical and a royal dignity. " This habi- 
 *' tation,'* says he, to Eneas, who had rnade him 
 a visit, " has been honoured with the presence 
 " of Hercules himself. Dsire, my guest, to de- 
 " spise riches; and do thou also fashion thyself 
 " into a likeness of God:" or, as some render it, 
 " do thou also make thyself worthy of immor- 
 " tality." 
 
 Aude, hospes, contemnere opes; ette quoque dignum 
 Fing: Deo. 
 
 There is a strength in the expression, whereof 
 our language is not capable. " I despise the 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 193 
 
 " world," says Dryden, *' when I read it, and 
 " myself when I attempt to translate it." 
 
 2. Poetry is sublime, when it conveys a lively 
 idea of any grand appearance in art or nature. A 
 nobler description of this sort I do not at present 
 remember, than that which Virgil gives, in the 
 first' book of the Georgick, of a dark night, with 
 wind, rain, and lightning: where Jupiter ap- 
 pears, encompassed with clouds and stornns, dart- 
 ing his thunderbolts, and overturning the moun- 
 tains, while the ocean is roaring, the earth trem- 
 bling, the wild beasts fled away, the rain pouring 
 down in torrents, the woods resounding to the 
 tempest, and all mankind overwhelmed ^yith con- 
 sternation.* 
 
 * The following is a more literal translation; but I 
 know not how to imitate, in modern language, the aw- 
 ful, (I had almost said, the dreadful) simpUcity of the 
 original. 
 
 High in the midnight storm enthron'd, heav'n's sire 
 
 Hurls from his blazing arm the bolt of fire. 
 
 Earth feels with trembling; every beast is fled; 
 
 And nations prostrate fall, o'erwhelm'd with dread, 
 
 Athos rolls headlong, where his lightnings fly 
 
 The rocks of Rhodope in ruin lie. 
 
 Or huge Keraunia. With redoubled rage 
 
 The torrent, rain and bellowing wind engage; 
 
 Loud in the woods afar the tempests roar. 
 
 And mountain billowy burst in thunder on the shore 
 
 Vol. til. R 
 
194 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Ipse pater, media nimborum in nocte, conisca 
 Fiilmina molitur dextrri; quo maxima motu 
 Terra tremit, fugere fer?e, et mortalia corda 
 Per g-entes humilis stravit pavor. Ille flagranti 
 Aiit Atho, aut Rhodopen, aut alta Keraunia telo 
 Dejicit; ing-eminant austri, et densissimus" imber; 
 Nunc nemora ingenti vento, nunc littora plangunt.* 
 
 This description astonishes, both by the grandeur, 
 and by the horrour of the scene, which is either 
 wrapt in total darkness, or made visible by the 
 glare of lightning. And the poet has expressed 
 it with the happiest solemnity of style, and a so- 
 norous harmony of numbers. As examples of the 
 same sort of sublimity, namely of great images 
 with a mixture of horrour, I might call the read- 
 er's attention to the storm in the beginning of the 
 Eneid, the death of Cacus in the eighth book, 
 to the account of tartarus in the sixth, and that 
 of the burning of Troy in the second. But in the 
 style of dreadful magnificence, nothing is supe- 
 riour, and scarce any thing equal, to Milton's 
 representation of hell and chaos, in the first and 
 second book of Paradise Lost. 
 
 In the concluding paragraph of the same work, 
 there is brought together, with uncommon 
 strength of fancy, and rapidity of narrative, a 
 
 * Georg. i. S28. 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 195 
 
 number of circumstances, wonderfully adapted to 
 the purpose of filling the mind with ideas of ter- >c 
 rifick grandeur: the descent of the cherubim; the 
 flaming sword; the archangel leading in haste 
 our first parents down from the heights of para- 
 dise, and then disappearing; and, above all, the 
 scene that presents itself on their looking behind 
 them: 
 
 They, looking back, all th' eastern cliff beheld 
 Of paradise, so late their happy seat, 
 Wav'd over by that flaming- bri;nd; the gate 
 With dreadful faces throng'd and fiery arms. 
 
 To which the last verses form the most striking- 
 contrast that can be imagined: 
 
 Some natural tears they dropp'd, but wip'd them soon. 
 The world was all before them, where to choose 
 Their place of rest, and providence their guide. 
 They, hand in hraid, with wandering steps and slow. 
 Through Eden took their solitary way. 
 
 The final couplet renews our sorrows, by exhibit- 
 ing, with picturesque accuracy, the most mourn- 
 ful scene in nature; which yet is so prepared, as 
 to raise comfort, and dispose to resignation. And 
 thus, while we are at once m»elling in tenderness, ' 
 elevated with pious hope, and overwhelmed with 
 the grandeur of description, the divine poem con- 
 cludes. What luxury of mental gratification is 
 
196 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 here! Who would exchange this frame of mind 
 (if nature could support it) for any other! How 
 exquisitely does the faith of a christian accord 
 with the noblest feelings of humanity! 
 
 3. Poetry is sublime, when, without any great 
 pomp of images or of words, it infuses horrour by 
 a happy choice of circumstances. When Macbeth 
 (in Shakspeare) goes to consult the witches, he 
 finds them performing rites in a cave; and upon 
 asking what they were employed about, receives 
 no other answer than this short one, " A deed 
 " without a name." One's blood runs cold at the 
 thought, that their work was of so accursed a na- ' 
 lure, that they themselves had no name to ex- 
 press it by, or were afraid to speak of it by any 
 name. Here is no solemnity of style, nor any ac- 
 cumulation of great ideas; yet here is the true 
 sublime, because here is something that aston- 
 ishes the mind, and fills it, without producing any 
 real inconvenience. > 
 
 Among other omens, which preceded the death '.; 
 of Dido, Virgil relates, that, when she was mak- 
 ing an oblation of wine, milk and incense upon 
 the altar, she observed the milk grow black, and J 
 found that the wine was changed into blood. This 
 the poet improves into a circumstance of the ut- 
 most horrour, when he adds, that she never men- 
 tioned it to any person, not even to her sister, 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 197 
 
 who was her confidant on all other occasions: 
 insinuating, that it filled her with so dreadful ap- 
 prehension, that she had not courage even to 
 attempt to speak of it. Perhaps I may be more 
 struck with this, than many others are; as I once 
 knew a young man, who was in the same state 
 of mind, after having been frighted in his sleep, 
 or, as he imagined, by a vision, which he had 
 seen about two years before he told me of it. 
 With much entreaty I prevailed on him to give 
 me some account of his dream: but there was 
 one particular, which he said that he would not, 
 nay that he durst not, mention; and, while he was 
 saying so, his haggard eyes, pale countenance, 
 quivering lips, and faltering voice, presented to 
 me such a picture of horrour, as I never saw be- 
 fore or since. I ought to add, that he was, in all 
 other respects, in his perfect mind, cheerful, and 
 active, and not more than twenty years of age. 
 
 Horrour has long been a powerful, and a fa- 
 vourite engine in the hands of the tragick poet. 
 Eschylus employed it more than any other an- 
 cient artist. In his play called The Furies,, he in- 
 troduced Orestes haunted by a company of those 
 frightful beings; intending thereby an allegorical 
 representation of the torment which that hero 
 suffered in bis mind, in consequence of having 
 slain his mother Clytemnestra, for the part she 
 
 R2 
 
198 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 had taken in the murder of his father. But tp 
 raise the greater horrour in the spectators, the 
 poet was at pains to describe, with amazing 
 forceof expression, the appearance of the furies; 
 and he brought upon the stage no fewer than 
 fifty of them; whose infernal looks, hideous ges- 
 tures, and horrible screams, had such effects bn 
 the women and children, that in the subsequent 
 exhibitions of the play, the number of furies was 
 by an express law limited, first, to fifteen, and 
 afterwards to twelve. There are, no doubt, sub- 
 lime strokes in the poet'§ account of these furies; 
 and there is something very great in the idea of 
 a person haunted by his own thoughts, in the 
 form of such terrifick beings. Yet horrour of this 
 kind I would hardly call sublime, because it is 
 addressed rather to the eyes, than to the mind: 
 and because it is easier to disfigure a man, so as 
 to make him have the appearance of an ugly 
 woman, than, by a brief description, or well 
 chosen sentiment, to alarm and astonish the 
 fancy. Shakspeare has, in my opinion, excited 
 horrour of more genuine sublimity, and withal 
 more useful in a moral view, when he makes 
 Macbeth, in short and broken starts of exclama- 
 tion, and without any pomp of images or of words, 
 give an utterance half suppressed to«those dread- 
 ful thoughts that were passing in his mind im- 
 
ON SUBLIMH Y. 199 
 
 mediately before and after the murder of Duncan, 
 his guest, kinsman, sovereign, and benefactor. 
 The agonies of a guilty conscience were never 
 more forcibly represented, than in this tragedy; 
 which may indeed be said, in the language of 
 Aristotle, to purify the jnind by the operation of 
 terrour and pity; and which abounds more in that 
 species of the sublime whereof I now speak, than 
 any other performance in the English tongue. 
 See its merits examined and explained, with the 
 utmost correctness of judgment, beauty of lan- 
 guage, and vivacity of imagination, in Mrs. Mon- 
 tagu's essay on the ivritings and genius of Shak- 
 sf leave. 
 
 4. Poetry is sublime, when it awakens in the 
 mind any great and good affection, as piety, or 
 patriotism. This is one of the noblest effects of 
 the art. The psalms are remarkable, beyond all 
 other writings, for their power of inspiring devout 
 emotions. But it is not in this respect only that 
 they are sublime. Of the divine nature they con- 
 tain the most magnificent descriptions that the 
 soul of man can comprehend. The hundred and 
 fourth psalm, in particular, displays the power 
 and goodness of providence, in creating and pre- 
 serving the world, and the various tribes of ani- 
 mals in it, with "ruch majestick brevity and beauty, 
 as it is vain to look for in any human composi- 
 
200 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 tion. The morning song of Adam and Eve,* and 
 many other parts of Paradise Lost, are noble ef- 
 fusions of piety, breathed in the most captivating 
 strains: and Thomson's hymn on the seasons, if 
 Ave overlook an unguarded word or two, is not 
 inferiour. 
 
 Of that sublimity which results from the strong 
 expression of patriotick sentiments, many exam- 
 ples might be quoted from the Latin poets, par- 
 ticularly Virgil, Horace, and Lucan: but there is 
 a passage in Homer that suits the present purpose 
 better than any other that now occurs. While 
 Hector is advancing to attack the Greek intrench- 
 ments, an eagle lets fall a wounded serpent in 
 the middle of his army. This Polydamas con- 
 siders as a bad omen, and advises him to order 
 a retreat. Hector rejects the advice with indigna- 
 tion. " Shall I be deterred from my duty," says 
 he, " and from executing the commands of Ju- 
 " piter, by the flight of birds? Let them fly on my 
 " right hand or on my left, towards the setting, 
 " or towards the rising sun, I will obey the co\m- 
 " sel of Jove, who is the king of gods and of 
 " men." And then he adds that memorable apho- 
 rism, " To defend our country is the best of all 
 
 * P.ir. Lost, book v. 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 201 
 
 "auguries:"* or, as Pope has very well express- 
 edit, 
 
 Without a sign, his sword the brave man draws. 
 And asks no omen, but his country's cause. 
 
 If we attend to all the circumstances, and reflect 
 that both Hector and Homer believed in augu- 
 ries, we must own that the sentiment is wonder- 
 fully great. 
 
 I might also quote, from the same book of the 
 Iliad, Sarpcdon's speech to Glaucus; which con- 
 tains the noblest lesson of political wisdom, and 
 the most enlivening motives to magnanimity. I 
 shall not translate it literally, but confine myself 
 to the general scope of the argument; and I shall 
 give it in prose, that it may not seem to derive 
 any part of its dignity from the charm of poetical 
 numbers. " Why, O Glaucus, do we receive 
 " from our people in Lycia the honours of so- 
 " vereignty, and so liberal a provision? Is it not 
 " in the hope, that we are to distinguish ourselves 
 " by our virtue, as much as we are distinguished 
 " by our rank? Let us act accordingly: that, when 
 " they sec us encountering the greatest perils of 
 " war, they may say, we deserve the honours and 
 '' the dignity which we possess. If indeed" con- 
 
 * ET? oji'vof (xpti-Qf d/u.vvia'^ai mpl TarpHf. Iliad, xii. 24a. 
 
202 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 tinues he, " by declining danger we could se- 
 " cure ourselves against old age, and the grave, 
 " I should neither fight myself in the front of the 
 " battle, nor exhort you to do so. But since death 
 " is unavoidable, and may assail us from so many 
 " thousand quarters, let us advance, and either 
 " gain renown by victory, or by our fall give glory 
 " to the conqueror." The whole is excellent: but 
 the grandeur and generosity of the conclusion 
 can never be too highly applauded. 
 
 5. Poetry is also sublime, when it describes in 
 a lively manner the visible effects of any of those 
 passions that give elevation to the character. Such 
 is that passage, in the conclusion of the same 
 twelfth book of the Iliad, which paints the im- 
 petuosity and terrible appearance of Hector, 
 storming the intrenchments, and pursuing the 
 enemy to their ships. Extraordinary efforts of 
 magnanimity, valour, or any other virtue, and 
 extraordinary exertions of strength or power, are 
 grand objects, and give sublimity to those pic- 
 tures or poems, in which they are well repi'esen- 
 ted. All the great poets abound in examples. 
 
 Yet in great strength, for example, there may 
 be unwieldiness, or awkwardness, or some other 
 contemptible quality, whereby the sublime is 
 destroyed. Polyphemus is a match for five hun- 
 dred Greeks; but he is not a grand object. We 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 203 
 
 hate his barbarity, and despise his folly, too much, 
 to allow him a single grain of admiration. Ulys- 
 ses, who in the nands of Polyphemus was nothing, 
 is incomparably more sublime, when, in walking to 
 his palace, disguised like a beggar, he is insulted, 
 and even kicked by one of his own slaves, who 
 was in the service of those rebels that were temp- 
 ting his queen, plundering his household, and 
 alienating the affections of his people. Homer 
 tells us, that the hero stood firm, without being 
 moved from his place by the stroke; that he de- 
 liberated for a moment, whether he should at one 
 blow fell the traitor to the earth; but that patience 
 and prudential thoughts restrained him. The bru- 
 tal force of the cyclops is not near so strking as this 
 picture; which displays bodily strength and mag- 
 nanimity united. For what we despise we never 
 admire; and therefore despicable greatness can- 
 not be sublime. 
 
 Homer and Virgil have, each of them, given 
 a description of a horse, which is very much 
 and justly celebrated. But they dwell rather up- 
 on the swiftness and beauty of the animal, or on 
 such of his passions as have little or no dignity; 
 and therefore their descriptions, though most el- 
 egant and harmonious, cannot properly be term- 
 ed sublime. In the book of Job, v/e have the pic- 
 ture of a war-horse in the most magnificent style. 
 
204 ILLUSTUATIOXS 
 
 The inspired poet expatiates upon the nobler 
 qualities of that animal, his strength, impetuos- 
 ity, and contempt of danger: and several of the 
 words made use of, being figurative, and in their 
 proper meaning expressive of human emotions, 
 convey uncommon vivacity and elevation to the 
 whole passage. 
 
 " Hast thou given the horse strength? Hast 
 '* thou clothed his neck with thunder?" alluding, 
 perhaps, either to the noise of cavalry advancing; 
 or to their speed, which the poet insinuates may 
 be compared to that of lightning. " Canst thou 
 " make him afraid, as a grasshopper? The glory of 
 " his nostrils is terrible:" that is, the breath com- 
 ing from his nostrils, which appear red with dis- 
 tention, makes him look as if fire and smoke 
 were issuing from them; an idea, which Virgil 
 has finely expressed in that line, 
 
 Collectumque premens volvit sub narlbus ig-nem. 
 
 " He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his 
 " strength; he goeth on to meet the armed men. 
 " He mocketh at fear, and is not affrighted, nei- 
 " ther turneth he back from the sword. The 
 " quiver rattleth against him, the glittering spear 
 " and the shield. He swalloweth the ground with 
 " fierceness and rage;" which probably signifies, 
 according to some translations, He looks as if 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 205 
 
 he would swallow the ground;* " neither believ- 
 " cth he that it is the sound of the trumpet. He 
 " saith among the trumpets, /;a, //«;*' despises 
 their alarm as much as we do that of a threaten- 
 ing which only provokes our laughter: " and he 
 " smelleth the battle afar oif, the thunder of the 
 " captains, and the shouting." Besides the gran- 
 deur of the animal, as here painted, the sublimi- 
 ty of the passage is heightened exceedingly by 
 the landscape; which presents to our view an ar- 
 my in order of battle, and makes us think we 
 hear the crashing of armour, and the shouts of 
 encountering multitudes. 
 
 In describing what is great, poets often em- 
 ploy sonorous language. This is suitable to the 
 nature of human speech: for while we give ut- 
 terance to that which elevates our imagination, 
 we are apt to speak louder, and with greater so- 
 lemnity, than at other times, f It must not how- 
 ever be thought, that highsounding words are 
 essential to the sublime. Without a correspondent 
 dignity of thought, or grandeur of images, a so- 
 norous style is ridiculous; and puts one in mind 
 of those persons, who raise great expectation, and 
 
 * In a very ing-enious criticism on this passage in the 
 Guardian^ these words are differently understood, 
 t Essay on Poetiy and Musick: last chapter. 
 Vol. III. S 
 
206 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 assume a look of vast importance, when they have 
 either nothing at all to say, or nothing that is 
 ■worth notice. That style is sublime, which makes 
 us conceive a great object, or a great effort, in a 
 lively manner; and this may be done, when the 
 words are very plain and simple. Nay, the plain- 
 est and simplest words have sometimes a happy 
 effect in setting off what is intrinsically great; as 
 an act of vast bodily strength is the more aston- 
 ishing, when performed by a slight effort. This 
 sort of sublimity we have in perfection in many 
 of those passages of holy writ, that describe 
 the operation of omnipotence: as, " God said, 
 " Let there be light, and there was light: He 
 " spoke, and it was done; he commanded, and it 
 " stood fast: Thou openest thy hand, they are 
 " filled with good; thou hidest thy face, and they 
 " are troubled." 
 
 It was observed, that the description of the 
 horse in Job derives not a liule of its dignity 
 from those words, that properly signify human 
 sentiments, and cannot be applied to an irrational 
 animal, unless with a figurative meaning: " he 
 " rejoiceth in his atrength; he mocketh at fear; he 
 " bdieveth not that it is the sound of the trumpet; 
 " he saith among the trumpets, //a, ha.^' It may 
 now be remarked in general, that the sublime is 
 often heightened, when, by means of figurative 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 207 
 
 language, the qualities of a superiour nature are 
 judiciously applied to what is inferiour. Hence 
 we see in poetry, and in more familiar language, 
 the passions and feelings of rationality ascribed to 
 that which is without reason and without life, or 
 even to abstract ideas. On Adam's eating the 
 forbidden fruit. 
 
 Earth trembled from her entrails, as again 
 
 In pangs, and nature gave a second groan; 
 
 Sky lower'd, and, muttering thunder, some sad drops 
 
 Wept, at completing of the mortal sin 
 
 Original. 
 
 Who is not sensible of the greatness of the 
 thought conveyed in these words; which repre- 
 sent the earth and heaven affected with horrour at 
 the sin then committed, and nature, or the uni- 
 verse, uttering in low thunder a groan of anguish? 
 Had the poet simply said, that there was an 
 earthquake, that the sky grew dark, and that 
 some drops of rain fell, the account would no 
 doubt have been sublime, as he would have given 
 it. But is it not much more so, when we are in- 
 formed, that this convulsion of nature was the 
 effect of a sort of sensation diffused at that in- 
 stant through the whole inanimate world? How 
 dreadful must be the enormity of that guilt, which 
 could produce an event so great, and withal so 
 preternatural! Here are two sources of the sub«- 
 
208 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 lime: the prodigy strikes with horrour; the vast- 
 ness of the idea overwhelms with astonishment. 
 
 In this place an unskilful poet would probably 
 have brought on such a storm of thunder and 
 lightning, and so violent an earthquake, as must 
 have overturned the mountains, and set the woods 
 on fire. But Milton, with better judgment, makes 
 the alarm of that deep and awful kind, which 
 cannot express itself in any other way, than by 
 an inward and universal trembling: a sensation 
 more affecting to the fancy, than those passions 
 are, which vent themselves in outrageous beha- 
 viour; even as that sorrow is the most pathetick, 
 which deprives one of the power of- lamentation, 
 and discovers itself only by fainting and groans. 
 Besides, if this convulsion of the universe had 
 been more violent, the unhappy offenders must 
 have been confounded and terrified; which would 
 not have suited the poet's purpose. For he tells 
 us, and indeed the circumstances that follow the 
 narrative (which, by the by, are exquisitely con- 
 trived) do all suppose, that our first parents were 
 so intent on gratifying their impious appetite, 
 that they took no notice of the prodigies, which 
 accompanied the transgression. 
 
 Writers of weak judgment, when they attempt 
 the sublime, are apt to exaggerate description, 
 till they make it ridiculous. And to Milton's pru- 
 
ON SUBLT]VnTY. 209 
 
 dent reserve on this occasion I cannot quote a 
 better contrast, than that passage in Ovid, where 
 the earth, as a person, lifts up her head, and, 
 holding her hand before her face, complains to 
 Jupiter, in a voice almost inarticulate with thirst, 
 of the torments she was suffering from the con- 
 flagration brought upon her by the rashness of 
 Phaeton;'and, at the end of her speech, half suffo- 
 cated with fire and smoke, draws back her head 
 into the centre of her body. This is mere bur- 
 lesque. Our fancy cannot be reconciled to so ex- 
 travagant a fiction, nor conceive the earth to be 
 an animal of so hideous and so ridiculous a form. 
 But no art is necessary to reconcile us to the 
 idea of the earth trembling with preternatural 
 honour at such a lamentable catastrophe as the 
 fall of Adam and Eve — the first crime by which 
 the sublunary creation was polluted, and a crime, 
 that 
 
 Broug-ht death into the world, and all our woe. 
 
 In the poetical parts of scripture, animation 
 and sentiment are often, with the happiest effect, 
 applied to things inanimate. '< Let the floods clap 
 " their hands, and let the hills rejoice together 
 " before the Lord; for he coineth to judge the 
 " earth. Canst thou send lightnings, that they 
 " may go, and say unto thee. Here we are? — God 
 
 S2 
 
2 1 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 " sendeth forth light, and it goeth; he calleth it 
 " again, and it obeyeth with fear." These and the 
 like figures convey a lively and lofty idea of di- 
 vine power, to which the inanimate parts of na- 
 ture are as obsequious, as if they had intelligence 
 and activity. 
 
 A common sentiment may be made sublime, 
 when it is illustrated by an allusion to a grand 
 object. " There is not," says Addison, " a sight 
 " in nature so mortifying, as that of a distracted 
 " person, when his imagination is troubled, and 
 " his whole soul disordered and confused." This 
 is true; but there is nothing very striking in it. 
 But when the author adcls, " Babylon in ruins is 
 " not so melancholy a spectacle," he gives great 
 dignity to the thought, by setting before us one 
 of the most hideous pictures of desolation that 
 ever was seen by mortal eyes; and at the same 
 time declaring, what is no more than the truth, 
 that even this is not so mournful a sight as the 
 other. " The evils of life seem more terrible when 
 " anticipated than they are found to be in reality," 
 is no uncommon observation: but the same ele- 
 gant author improves it into a sublime allegory, 
 when he says, " The evils of this life appear, like 
 '' rocks and precipices, rugged and barren at a 
 ^' distance; but, at our nearer approach, we find 
 " little fruiifiil spots and refreshing springs mix- 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 211 
 
 " ed with the harshness and deformities of na- 
 " ture." This happy illustration pleases, not only 
 by giving perspicuity to the thought, but also by 
 suggesting the magnificent idea of a ridge of 
 rocky precipices, as they appear at a distance to 
 the traveller, and as he finds them to be on coming 
 up to them. And it pleases yet further when we 
 compare the object alluded to with the idea sig 
 nified, and find so perfect a coincidence. 
 
 Things, as well as sentiments, may be niade 
 sublime by the same artifice. Bees are animals 
 of wonderful sagacity, but of too diminutive a 
 form to captivate our imagination. But Virgil 
 describes their economy with so many fine allu- 
 sions to the more elevated parts of nature, as 
 raise our astonishment both at the skill of the 
 poet, and at the genius of his favourite insect; 
 whose little size becomes matter of admiration, 
 when we consider those noble instincts where- 
 with the Creator has endowed it. 
 
 It may seem strange, and yet it is true, that 
 the sublime is sometimes attained by a total 
 want of expression: and this may happen, when 
 by silence, or by hiding the face, we are made to 
 understand, that there is in the mind sometiiing 
 too great for utterance. In a picture representinij: 
 
212 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 the sacrifice of Iphigenia, a Grecian painter* dis- 
 played varieties of sorrow in the faces of the other 
 persons present; but, despairing to give any ade- 
 quate expression to tlie countenance of her father 
 Agamemnon, he made him cover it with his 
 hands: an idea much admired by the ancient 
 artists, and often imitated by the modern; as 
 what was likely to raise in the spectator a more 
 exquisite horrour, than any positive expression 
 that could have been given to the face of the 
 parent. Indeed, on such an occasion, it would be 
 natural for a father to hide his face, as unable to 
 endure so dreadful a sight; so that this contri- 
 vance was not only the most affecting to the be- 
 holder, but also the most proper in itself. 
 
 When Ulysses, in Homer, pays his compli- 
 ments to the Grecian ghosts whom he had called 
 up by incantation, we are told that, on seeing 
 their old acquaintance and fellow soldier, they 
 all conversed with him, Ajax only excepted; 
 who, still resenting the affront he had received 
 at Troy, when Ulysses in opposition to his claim 
 obtained the arms of Achilles, stood aloof, dis- 
 daining to take notice of his rival, or to return 
 any unswer to his kind expostulations. It is cer- 
 
 r 
 
 * Timanthcs. See Plin. Hist. Nat. xxxv. 36.Val. Max 
 viii. 11. Qiiintil. ii. 14. 
 
GN SUBLIMITY. 213 
 
 lain, that no less a person than Virgil admired 
 this incident; for he copies it in his account of 
 the infernal world: where Eneas, meeting Dido, 
 endeavours to excuse his desertion of her, urging 
 liis unwillingness, and the command of Jupiter: 
 but she, says the poet, turned her eyes another 
 way, and minded no more what he said, than if 
 she had been flint or marble. 
 
 This silence of Dido has been blamed by a very 
 learned critick: who seems to think, that, though 
 it was becoming in Ajax not to speak, because he 
 was a hero, it would be natural for an injured 
 woman to upbraid a faithless lover with the keen- 
 est reproaches. But I take the remark, rather as 
 a joke upon that volubility of tongue, which 
 satirists have imputed to the female sex, than as 
 a serious criticism. Dido, as described by Vir- 
 gil, is a more dignified character, than Homer*s 
 Ajax; and therefore, if the silence was majes- 
 tick in him, on account of his greatness of mind, 
 it must be equally so in her. If he, as a hero, 
 was superiour to other men, she, as a heroine, 
 was superiour to other women. 
 
 Some writers (and the same thing is too often 
 attempted in the pulpit) have endeavoured to ex- 
 press, by an elaborate soliloquy, what they sup- 
 pose might pass in the mind of Abraham, on be- 
 ing commanded to offer up his son. This I cai>- 
 
:214 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 not but think injudicious. It seems to detract 
 not a little from the father of the faithful, to re- 
 present him as deliberating whether or not he 
 should obey God's command, or conjecturing for 
 what purpose so hard a task had been enjoined 
 him. Let a man of sensibility, after hearing one 
 of those rhetorical flourishes, read the narrative 
 in the words of Moses, and he will feel^ how 
 much more affecting the one is in its simple ma- 
 jesty, than the other in its gaudy ornaments; and 
 what inexpressible sublimity the character of the 
 great patriarch derives from his emphatick silence 
 and prompt obedience. He knew the command 
 was divine, and consequently good; and that, 
 whatever his paternal emotions might be, his 
 duty was, instantly to obey. He therefore " rose 
 " up early in the morning," and began that jour- 
 ney, which he then thought would have so me- 
 lancholy a termination. I may add, that there is 
 something almost equally great in the silent sub- 
 mission of Isaac; who, being at this time about 
 thirty years of age, might have attempted resist- 
 ance or escape, if his faith and his piety had not 
 been worthy the son of such a father. 
 
 Things in themselves great may become more 
 or less sublime, according to the nature of the 
 allusions, whereby the description of them is il- 
 lustrated. Longinus, who seems to have thought 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 215 
 
 not so favourably of the Odyssey as it. deserves, 
 represents the genius of the author as m the de- 
 clme when he wrote that poem; but charac- 
 terizes that decline by two noble similitudes. 
 " In the Odyssey,*' says he, " Homer may be 
 " likened to the setting sun, whose grandeur 
 " still remains, though his beams have lost their 
 " meridian heat." What a beautiful idea! Does 
 it not even adorn the object which it is intended 
 in some degree to depreciate? And a little after, 
 he has this remark. " Like the ocean, whose 
 '' shores, when deserted by the tide, marks out 
 " the extent to which it sometimes flows, so 
 <' Homer's genius, when ebbing into the fables 
 " of the Odyssey, plainly discovers, how vast it 
 " once must have been.'* To be extolled by 
 ordinary writers is not so flattering, as to be 
 censured by a critick like Longinus, who tem- 
 pers his blame with so much politeness and 
 dignity. Indeed, it has been remarked of him, 
 that he exemplifies every kind of good writing, 
 so as in grandeur of thought, and beauty of ex- 
 pression, to vie with the author whom he cele- 
 brates. 
 
 Instances of ideas or images intrinsically great, 
 rendered more so by the allusions employed in 
 describing them, are common in Homer, Virgil, 
 Milton, and all the sublime poets. So many ex- 
 
216 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 amples crowd on one's memory, that one knows 
 not which to prefer. Achilles in arms is a grand 
 idea: but Homer throws upon it additional splen- 
 dour, when he compares him to the moon, to the 
 blaze of a beacon seen at a distance in a night of 
 tempest, to a star or comet, and to the sun. Mil- 
 ton magnifies the strength and intrepidity of Sa- 
 tan, when he says, 
 
 Satan ularm'd. 
 Collecting all his might, dilated stood 
 Like Teneriflf or Atlas, unremoved; 
 His stature reach'd the sky, and on his crest 
 Sat horrour. 
 
 The fires lighted up in the Grecian camp, and 
 scattered over the plains of Troy, would be a 
 beautiful appearance: but Homer makes it rise 
 upon us in glory, by comparing them to the 
 moon and stars illuminating the sky, when the 
 clouds separate, and the pure ether shines forth 
 in all the magnificence of midnight. 
 
 But observe, that great ideas are not always 
 alluded to, in the description of great objects. 
 For of two things, different in nature, that 
 which is upon the whole inferiour may possess a 
 quality or two in a more exquisite degree, than 
 that which is in all other respects more elevated. 
 How superiour is a man, especially ^ wise man? 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 217 
 
 and still more especially, the wisest, and one of 
 the greatest of men, to a vegetable! And yet 
 we are warranted, on the best authority, to say 
 tliat Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed 
 like one of the lilies of the field. 
 
 We must, therefore, in all cases, attend to that 
 circumstance of likeness, upon which an allusion 
 is founded. Homer compares Hector to a rock 
 tumbling from the top of a mountain. Were 
 we to hear nothing more of this simihtude, it 
 might appear even ridiculous: for one might 
 imagine it was intended to paint the particular 
 manner, in which that hero descended from a 
 high to a lower ground: and surely, a man roll- 
 ing headlong, like a stone, down a steep place, 
 is an image of neither dignity nor elegance; nor 
 can it raise any person in our esteem, to say of 
 him that he is like a stone. But when we learn, 
 that the poet means by this comparison to inform 
 us, that Hector was irresistible while he advanc- 
 ed, and immoveable when he stopt, we are struck 
 with the propriety, and at the same time with 
 the greatness, of the allusion; for it heightens 
 what we had before conceived of the warriour's 
 impetuosity. If a huge fragment of a rock, 
 torn from the top of a mountain by a winter 
 torrent, were rolling and thundering down to the 
 plain, no human power would be able to op- 
 
 VoL. HI. T 
 
218 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 pose it; and when it stopt, very great power 
 would be necessary to move it. 
 
 *' I will make Babylon a possession for the bit™ 
 " tern, and pools of water: and I will siveeji it 
 " nvith the besom of destruction."'^ The instru- 
 ment alluded to is one of the meanest; and yet 
 the idea conveyed by the allusion is exceed-* 
 ingly great. For it is not the manner, but the 
 consequences, of the destruction, that are here 
 painted: it will be so complete, that not the least 
 memorial of that city shall remain: even as on a 
 floor that is swept, no trace is to be seen of the 
 dust that was there formerly, or of the figures 
 that might have been drawn in it. The allusion 
 has also this emphatical meaning, that the peo- 
 ple of Babylon are a nuisance, and that the earth 
 will be purified by their being driven away; and 
 it implies further, that all the efforts of human 
 power are but dust, when the arm of the Al- 
 mighty is lifted up against them. 
 
 " Ruin fiercely drives her ploughshare o'er 
 " creation," says Young, speaking of the end of 
 the world. The driving of a plough over a field 
 is not a grand object. Yet the figure conveys a 
 sublime idea to those who know, that some an- 
 cient nations, when they meant to destroy a citv. 
 
 * Isaiah, chap. xiv. 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 219 
 
 not only rased the liuildings, but ploughed up the 
 foundation; to intimate, that it \vas never to be 
 rebuilt any more. The poet's allegory, there- 
 fore, typifies a destruction that is to be total, 
 and final. If I were to criticise it further, I 
 would say, that it is pity it should be above the 
 apprehension of common readers: for the sub- 
 lime is generally the worse for being- wrapt up 
 in learning, or in any other disguise. What we 
 do not clearly perceive, we cannot rationally ad- 
 mire. It is true, that, where sublimity with 
 horrour is intended, a certain degree of darkness 
 may have a good eifect; as unknown objects, 
 viewed through mist or in the twilight, appear 
 of greater size than the reality, and of more 
 hideous proportion. But the example before us 
 is rather ambiguous, than obscure: the learned 
 reader knows that it comprehends a grand allu- 
 sion; but to the unlearned it may seem inade- 
 quate to the subject, by reason of its meanness. 
 
 Out of many that occur I quote a few exam- 
 ples to show, according to what has been al- 
 ready observed, that the sublime is not always 
 accompanied with sonorous expression, or a 
 pomp of images. These, when too anxiously 
 sought after, or when they are not supported 
 with a correspondent majesty of thought, are 
 culled bombast or false sublime; an unpardon* 
 
220 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 able impropriety; which has in serious writing 
 as bad an effect, as ignorance united with im- 
 pudence, or a solemn behaviour with a mean 
 understanding, would have in conversation. Most 
 people, who are in earnest in what they say, na- 
 turally elevate their voice and style, when they 
 speak of what is great; but, if they be of polite 
 manners, that elevation is tempered with modes- 
 ty: and they rather lay restraint on their feelings, 
 than express them with the most emphatical 
 utterance. Good writers, in like manner, rise in 
 sound and solemnity of phrase, when their 
 thoughts aspire to sublimity; but their style is 
 always simple, and their ornaments natural: and 
 they often throw out noble ideas in the plainest 
 words, and without any ornament. 
 
 Yet he, who aims at the sublime, must not 
 trust so implicitly to the grandeur of his thoughts, 
 as to be careless about his expression. Well cho- 
 sen words, and an elegant arrangement of them, 
 are justly reckoned by Longinus among the 
 sources of sublimity. Even when the thought 
 is both good and great, the greatness, or the 
 elegance, may be lost or lessened by an unskilful 
 writer: and that in several ways. 
 
 First, by too minute description, and too many 
 words. For, when we are engrossed by admi- 
 ration or astonishment, it is not natural for us 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 221 
 
 to speak much, or attend to the more diminu- 
 tive qualities of that which we contemplate. On 
 seeing a lofty edifice, if the first thing we did 
 were to count the windows, or the panes of 
 glass in each, it would be a sign of bad taste, 
 and a proof, that we wanted either imagination 
 to comprehend, or sensibility to take pleasure 
 in, the grandeur of the whole. Were a hero to 
 appear in arms before us, we should not think of 
 looking at his teeth, or observing whether his 
 beard were close shaved, or his nails nicely cut; 
 at first, it is likely, that we should take notice 
 of little besides his general appearance, and more 
 striking features; or, if those other small mat- 
 ters were to engage our whole attention, might 
 it not justly be said, that we had no true sen^e of 
 the dignity of the person, nor any curiosity to 
 know those particulars concerning him, which 
 alone were worthy to be known? Writers, there- 
 fore, who describe too nicely the minute parts 
 of a grand object, must both have disengaged 
 their own minds, and must also withdraw ours, 
 from the admiration of what is sublime in it. A 
 few examples will make this plain. 
 
 Had Homer or had Milton been to describe 
 the chariot of the sun, he would probably have 
 confined himself to its dazzling appearance, or . 
 vast magnitude, or some of those other qualities 
 
 T2 
 
222 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 of It, which at the first glance might be suppos- 
 ed to fill the imagination, and raise the asto- 
 nishment of the beholder. But when Ovid tells . 
 us, that the axle was of gold, the pole of gold, 1 
 the outward circumference of the wheels of gold, ' 
 but that the spokes were silver,* we are not asto- 
 nished at all; and are apt to think, from the 
 minuteness of the account, that the author had 
 examined this chariot, rather with the curiosity 
 of a coachmaker or silversmith, than with the 
 eye of a poet or painter. Such a detail resem- 
 bles an inventory more than a description: as if , 
 it were material, in order to form a right idea \ 
 of Phaeton's unlucky expedition, that we should 
 know the value of the chariot in which he rode. 
 We read, in a certain author, of a giant, who 
 in his wrath tore off the top of a promontory, 
 and flung it at the enemy; and so huge was the 
 mass, that you might, says he, have seen goats 
 browsing on it as it flew through the air. This 
 is unnatural and ridiculous. A spectator would 
 have been too much confounded at the force, 
 that could wield it, and at the astonishing ap- 
 pearance of such a ruin, hurled through the 
 >ky, to attend to any circumstance so minute 
 
 * Aureus axis crat, temo aureus, aurea summse 
 Curvaturarotre, radiorum argenteus ordo. 
 
 Metam. ii. 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 223 
 
 as what is here specified. Besides, the motion of 
 such a fragment must have been too rapid, to al- 
 low the goats to keep their ground, or to admit 
 the possibility of seeing them in the act of feeding. 
 So that, whatever this idea may add to the mag- 
 nitude, it must take away from the swiftness; and 
 make the vast body seem to our imagination, as 
 if it had loitered, or stopt, in its course, to give 
 the beholder time to examine its curiosities, and 
 that the poor goats might be in no danger of 
 losing their hold. 
 
 In sublime description, though the circum- 
 stances that are specified be few, yet, if they be V 
 well chosen and great, the reader's fancy will 
 complete the picture: and often, as already hint- 
 ed, the image will not be less astonishing, if in 
 its general appearance there be something indefi- 
 nite. When Hector forces the Greek intrench- 
 ments, the poet (^escribes him by several grand 
 allusions, and by this in particular, 
 
 Now rushing in the furious chief appears, 
 Glootny as night, and shakes two shining spears.* 
 
 In what respect he resembled night. Homer 
 leaves to be determined by the reader's fancy. 
 This conveys no positive ideaj but we are hence 
 
 * Pope's Homer. Book 12. near the end. 
 
224 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 led to imagine, that there must have been some- 
 thing peculiarly dark and dreadful in his look, as 
 it appeared to the enemy: and thus we make the 
 picture stronger perhaps than it would have been, 
 if the author had drawn it more minutely. * A 
 
 * Speculative men often err, from an immoderate at- 
 tachment to some one principle; of which, because it 
 holds in many cases, they think it must hold in all. Gil- 
 bert, in the course of his observations on the magnet, 
 grew so fond of magnetism, as to fancy, that the phe- 
 nomena of the universe might be solved by it. And elec- 
 tricity seems now to have become almost as great a 
 favourite of many ingenious philosophers. 
 
 That poetical description ought to be distinct and 
 lively, and such as might both assist the fancy, and 
 direct the hand, of the painter, is an acknowledged truth 
 in criticism. The best poets are the most picturesque. 
 Homer is in this respect so admirable, that he has been 
 justly called the prince of painters, as well as of poets. 
 And one cause of the insipidity of the Henriade is, that 
 its scenery and imag-es are described in too general 
 terms, and want those distinguishing peculiarities that 
 captivate the i^mcy, and interest the passions. 
 
 But should every thing in poetry be picturesque? No. 
 To the right imitation of nature, shade is necessary, as 
 well as light. We may be powerfully affected by that 
 whicii is not visible at all; and of visible things some 
 cannot be, and many ought not to be, painted: and the 
 mind is often better pleased Math images of its own 
 forming, or finishing, than with those that are set before 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 225 
 
 genius like Cowley would have interrupted the 
 narrative, in order to enumerate all those parti- 
 culars in which Hector resembled night; compa- 
 ring his shield to the full moon; his eyes to stars; 
 
 it complete in all tlieir coloui-s and proportions. From 
 the passage referred to in the text, and from many others 
 that mig-ht be quoted, it appears that in description Ho- 
 mer himself is not always definite; and that he knows 
 how to affect his readers by leaving occasionally a part 
 of his picture to be supplied by tlieir imagination. Of 
 Helen's person he gives no minute account: but, when 
 he tells us, that her lovchness was such as to extort the 
 admiration of the oldest Trojan senators, who, had, 
 and who owned they had, so good reason to dislike her, 
 he gives a higher idea of the power of her charms, than 
 could have been conveyed by any description of her eyes, 
 mouth, shape, and other distinguishing beauties. 
 
 Algiirotti is of opinion, that the poetry of the northern 
 nations is, in general, less picturesque than that of Italy. 
 Virgil, says he, gives so exact a representation of Dido's 
 dress when she goes a hunting, that a painter might 
 follow it in every particular: 
 
 Tandem progreditur, magna stipante caterva, 
 Sidoniam picto chlamydem circumdata limbo; 
 Cui pharetra ex auro, crines nodantur inaurum, 
 Aureapiu-puream subnectit fibula vestem. 
 
 Whereas Milton describes the inula hellezza of Eve by 
 general terms and abstract ideas, that present no image 
 to tlie mind: 
 
226 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 the flashing of his armour to comets and mete- 
 ors; the dust that flew about him, to clouds and 
 darkness; the clangour of his weapons, to the 
 scream of the owl; the terrour he struck into the 
 
 Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, 
 In every gestui-e dignity and love. 
 
 Of this criticism I would observe, that the censure 
 here passed on the poetry of the north, as compared with 
 that of the inodern Italians at least, will harclly be ad- 
 mitted by those wlio understand and have read our great 
 poets, Chaucer, Spensei*, Shakspe.ire, and Thomson; 
 from whom instances without number might be brought 
 of imagery as vivid and particular, as it is in the power 
 of language to convey. Milton, where his subject re- 
 quires that he should be exactly descriptive, as in his 
 fourth, seventh, ninth, and eleventh books, is in this res- 
 pect not inferiour to Homer himself. Indeed, when his 
 scene of action lies beyond the visible diurtial sphere^ 
 wben, with a view to raise astonishment or horrour, he 
 paints what was never seen by mortal eye, it is impos- 
 sible for him to be strictly picturesque. Figures so deeply 
 shaded cannot present a definite outline: forms of such 
 terrifick grandeur must be to a certain degree invested 
 with darkness. 
 
 As to the description objected to by the critick: I 
 think it would not have been improved by being' made 
 more particular. Nor is the example at all parallel to 
 that of Dido. The varieties of dress are innumerable: 
 and if the poet meant that we should have a distinct 
 idea of Dido's attire, it was necessary for him to de- 
 scribe it as minutely as he has done. But no minute de- 
 
ox SUBLIMITY. 227 
 
 enemy, to the fear occasioned by apparitions; 
 "with perhaps a great deal more to the same pur- 
 pose: which would have taken off our attention 
 from the hero, and set us a wondering at the sin- 
 gularity of the author's wit. It ought to be con- 
 scription is necessary to present the nuda belle zza of 
 Eve to our Imagination, or to improve the idea which in a ' 
 case of this kind every imagination would form for itself. 
 Algarotti has overlooked a very material circum- 
 stance; namely, that this account of Adam's first inter- 
 view with Eve is given by Adam himself to an angel, 
 w^ho needed no information on the subjectof her beauty, 
 because he had seen her; and to whom it would have 
 been highly indecent to particularize her bodily perfec- 
 tions. Adam therefore is brief in this part of the narrative; 
 and insinuates, that, at her first appearance, his attention 
 was chiefly engaged by the delicacy and the dignity of her 
 'niind, as they displayed themselves externally in her 
 looks and demeanour. In a word, the sanctity of the state 
 of innocence, the purity of the loves of paradise, the sub- 
 lime character of the speaker, the veneration due to 
 the hearer, and that majesty of thought and of style 
 which so peculiarly characterizes the divine poem, 
 would all have been violated, if the poet's ideas had in 
 this place been conformable to those of the critick. Al- 
 garotti was probably thinking of the luscious pictures of _\^| 
 Tasso, and the sensualities of Rinaldo and Armida: 
 but Milton was conversing with gods, breathing ** em- 
 pyreal air," and describing ** immortal fruits of joy and 
 love." I know not whether any part of the poem doc>^ 
 more honour to his judgment. 
 
228 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 sidered, that the rapidity of Hector's motion re- 
 quires a correspondent rapidity in the narrative, 
 and leaves no time for long description; and it 
 may be supposed, that the persons who saw him 
 would not stand gazing, and making similes, but 
 would fly before him, if they were Greeks, or 
 rush on along with him, if they were his own 
 people. 
 
 When an author, in exhibiting what he thinks 
 great, says every thing that can be said, he con- 
 founds his readers with the multitude of circum- 
 stances; and, instead of rousing their imagina- 
 tion, leaves it in a state of indolence, by giving 
 it nothing to do; making them at the same time 
 suspect, that as he has but few great ideas to 
 offer, he is determined to make the most of what 
 he has. Besides, long details incumber the nar- 
 rative, and lengthen the poem without necessity. 
 Brief description, therefore, and concise expres- 
 sion, may be considered as essential to the sub- 
 lime. 
 
 And nowhere do they promote it so effectu- 
 ally, as in the poetical and historical parts of 
 scripture; which, however, more than any other 
 compositions, have had their grandeur impaired 
 by the verbosity of paraphrase. Castalio, in his 
 Sacred Dialogues is so imprudent in this respect, 
 that, if his character, as a man of learning anrf 
 
ox SUBLIMITY. 229 
 
 piety, were not thoroughly established, we should 
 be tempted to think he had meant to burlesque 
 some passages of the Old Testament. He makes 
 Abraham (for example), while preparing enter- 
 tainment for the angels, bustle about with the 
 officiousness and prattle of one of Fielding's land- 
 ladies. Indeed these dialogues are so frequently 
 farcical, not to say indecent, that I wonder the 
 reading of them is not discontinued in our schools. 
 I know it has been said, in their behalf, that the 
 language is good, being formed on the model of 
 Terence. But what idea of propriety in writing 
 can he have, who applies the style of comedy to 
 the illustration of sacred history? What would 
 be tliought of an English divine, who should in 
 his sermons imiitate the phraseology of Mercutio, 
 Benedict, or Will Honeycomb? Nor is Castalio 
 correct, even in this sense of the word. He is 
 often harsh: he admits modes of expression, that 
 are not in Terence, or in any good writer: and 
 his desire of diffusing a classical air through his 
 \vork makes him give a new and ambiguous 
 meaning to Roman words, * where, if he had 
 adopted the common, and what may be called 
 the technical, terms of theology, he would have 
 
 As when he uses adventitius ^ov proselyte, getiiiis foi" 
 <ingei, Fejupher for diaboius, 8tc. 
 
 Vol. HI. U 
 
230 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 expressed himself more clearly, and without ui 
 real impropriety. 
 
 Our poetical paraphrases of the psalms are not: 
 less injurious to the original. Sternhold and Hop- 
 kins are confessedly beneath criticism; yet to 
 those, who would rather see in the pulpit a thread- 
 bare coat than a laced one, are not in their rustick 
 guise more offensive, than Brady and Tate in 
 their finical ornaments. If we look into Buch- 
 anan, what can we say, but that the learned au- 
 thor, with great command of Latin expression, 
 had no true relish for the emphatick conciseness, 
 and unadorned simplicity, of the inspired poets? 
 Arthur Johnston is not so verbose, and has of 
 course more vigour: but his choice of a couplet, 
 which keeps the reader always in mind of the 
 puerile epistles of Ovid, was singularly injudi- 
 cious. As psalms may, in prose, as easily, as in 
 verse, be adapted to musick, why should we 
 seek to force those divine strains into the measures 
 of Roman or of modern song? He who transform- i 
 ed Livy into iambicks, and Virgil into monkish J 
 rhyme, did not in my opinion act more absurdly. 
 In fact, sentiments of devotion are rather depres- 
 sed than elevated by the arts of the European 
 versifier. 
 
 Secondly: Though an author's ideas be great, 
 they may yet fall short of sublimity by excessive 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 231 
 
 amplification. Hyperbolical phrases, for reasons 
 assigned in another place,* are often natural, and 
 may therefore promote the sublime; but if they 
 are not used with discretion and a due regard to 
 the proportions of nature, they become ridicu- 
 lous. 
 
 A translator of Virgil concludes that elegant 
 description (in the second Eneid) of the felling 
 of a mountain ash, with this enormous exaggera- 
 tion. The tree, he says, 
 
 Headlong- with half the shatter'd mountain flies, 
 And stretch'd out, huge in length, th* unmcasiu-ed 
 ruin lies. 
 
 Before we can admit this hyperbole to be in any 
 degree tolerable, we must suppose, either that 
 the mountain was a hillock, or that the tree must 
 have been at least a thousand yards high and fifty 
 in diameter. Virgil only says, with his usual pro- 
 priety, 
 
 ■ traxitque jugis avolsa ruinam. 
 And drugs a ruin from the mountain's brow. 
 
 When a certain poet speaks of one of his cham- 
 pions destroying a troop of horse with a single 
 blow; and of another, whose impetuosity was 
 
 * Essay on Poetry and Muslck. Part ii. chap. 1. sect 3. 
 
232 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 such, that he fought for a considerable time after 
 his head was cut off; he conveys to us the idea, 
 not of strength or courage in the warriours, but 
 of folly in himself To magnify in this manner is 
 as easy, as to multiply by a thousand; which only 
 requires, that three ciphers be subjoined to the 
 sum. At this rate, every child may be a sublime 
 writer; the only qualifications necessary to con- 
 trive such things being, ignorance of nature, and 
 a total disregard both to probability and to possi- 
 bility. But nothing is sublime, that does not cre- 
 ate in the mind a pleasing astonishment; and no- 
 thing can please a rational being, but what is con- 
 sistent with itself, and regulated by the standard 
 of nature. 
 
 When Cowley attempts to be great, he fre- 
 quently becomes monstrous.* A true poet exhi- 
 bits the most magnificent ideas without any ap- 
 parent effort; as if they were familiar to him, and 
 such as he can mould and manage at his pleasure. 
 The one labours ineffectually, and awkwardly, to 
 do what is above his strength; and makes himself 
 ridiculous, by shoAving at once his vanity, and his 
 weakness: of the other, after he has, with ease 
 and with grace, performed the greatest exertions, 
 
 * See the Davideis/ia^ww, particularly the account of 
 Goliah. 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 233 
 
 we say, that " half his strength he put not forth." 
 The former reminds one of the Asteropeus in the 
 Iliad, straining with all his might, and distorting 
 his body in vain, to wrench the spear of Achilles 
 from the bank, into which, when flung by the 
 hero's arm, it had penetrated to the middle: the 
 latter may be compared to Achilles himself, who 
 laying his hand upon it draws it forth at once.* 
 
 Thirdly: Mean words and mean circumstan- 
 ces, introduced in the description of what is great 
 or elegant, will destroy the sublimity, and debase 
 the beauty. The duke of Buckingham, in some 
 complimental verses addressed to Pope, has this 
 couplet, 
 
 And yet so wonderful sublime a thing 
 
 As the great Iliad scarce could make me sing. 
 
 The passage is not much elevated, it is true; yet 
 who does not see, that the liltle dignity it has is 
 debased by the word things; which is chosen 
 merely because it happens to make a rhyme? 
 " Homer's Iliad is a sublime thing:" the phrase 
 would be despicable even in prose. 
 
 Take an example of a mean circumstance from 
 Blackmore's Paraphrase of Job, a work in which 
 one may find specimens of every sort of bad wri- 
 ting. 
 
 * Iliad xvi. 170, 200. 
 
 U2 
 
234 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 I solemnly pronounce, that I believe 
 My blest Redeemer does for ever live. 
 When future ages shall their circuit end. 
 And bankrupt time shall his last minute spend, 
 Then he from heaven in triumph shall descend. 
 
 How groveling must be the imagination of a wri- 
 ter, who, in meditating on a passage so sublime, 
 and a subject so awful, can bring himself to think 
 and speak of bankruptcy! Such an idea, in such 
 a place, is contemptible beyond expression: and 
 its absurdity is equal to its meanness. A bankrupt 
 is a person, who is either pitied for having lost, 
 or blamed for having squandered, the money with 
 which he ought to have paid his debts. But who 
 can imagine, that, at the end of the world, time 
 will be either blamed or pitied, for having squan- 
 dered, or lost his minutes! 
 
 Before I conclude, I must be a little more par- 
 ticular in describing the nature of what I call 
 mean expressions: for against them I am anxious 
 that we be more especially on our guard; first, 
 because they are a grievous blemish in every sort 
 of elegant writing; and, secondly, because in the 
 provincial dialects they abound to such a degree, 
 that without great attention, or much good ad- 
 vice, it is not easy for us to avoid them. 
 
 And first: Those words are not mean, which are 
 so necessary at all times, that it is impossible ' 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 235 
 
 speak without them on any subject. And most 
 of the classical words in every tongue are of this 
 character. Words are not mean, because they 
 are plain; nor elegant, because none but men of 
 learning understand them: on the contrary, every 
 thing in style is blamable, which is obscure or 
 ambiguous to an attentive reader. We may have 
 heard some persons celebrated for a Jine style, 
 because they were on every occasion dragging 
 in strange words, to show their learning. But this 
 is contrary to every rule of sound criticism, and 
 to the practice of all good writers. " Let there 
 be light, and there was light," is a much more 
 elegant sentence than, " Let light irradiate the 
 " universe, and instantly light flashed into exist- 
 " ence:" the former consists of words, that no 
 person who knows English can misunderstand; 
 the latter has more words than are necessary, 
 and those are affected and ill chosen, and such 
 as he only can understand, who knows something 
 of Latin, as well as of English. It is said of the 
 style of Demosthenes, that, though the most art- 
 ful that had ever appeared in Greece, there was 
 not a phrase in it, which the meanest Athenian 
 citizen did not understand. And in fact, the most 
 elegant authors are in every language the most 
 perspicuous; as Addison and Swift, in English; 
 Cesar and Cicero, in Latin; Metastasio, Tasso, 
 
236 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 and Ariosto, in Italian; and Veitot, Boileau, and 
 the archbishop of Cambray, in French. Uncom- 
 mon expressions are in general to be avoided, 
 where they can be avoided. It is pedantry to af- 
 fect them. And therefore, we must not imagine, 
 that words are mean, or not elegant, merely be- 
 cause they are common. 
 
 But secondly: Many words there are in every 
 tongue, which are not used, except by illiterate 
 persons, or on very familiar occasions, at in or- 
 der to express what the decorum of polite socie- 
 ty requires that we conceal: and these may be 
 called mean words; and are never to be introduced 
 in sublime description, in elegant writing, or on 
 any solemn or serious topick. 
 
 Such, in the first place, are vulgar proverbs. 
 These, though they may have a good meaning, 
 are too familiar to find a place in good style. We 
 have heard common proverbs, particularly those 
 of this country, celebrated for their force and 
 truth: and some may perhaps wonder to see 
 them proscribed as inelegant. I allow them to be 
 emphatical, both in this and in other countries; 
 for otherwise, nobody would think it worth while 
 to remember them. But still they form a part of 
 the vulgar dialect, and are therefore themselves 
 vulgar. One of the common people may be a per- 
 son of great worth and sense: but place him in 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 237 
 
 fashionable company, and both you and he will 
 perceive, that there is something awkward in 
 his appearance; you may esteem him for his vir- 
 tue, but cannot reconcile yourself to his air and 
 manner: and you must be sensible that he and 
 his present associates are not well suited to one 
 another. Sancho Panca is in many things ridicu- 
 lous, but in nothing more than in his style, 
 which is almost entirely made up of proverbs. In 
 prayers and sermons, and on every solemn occa- 
 sion, one must feel that these aphorisms would 
 have a bad effect, and give a ludicrous turn both 
 to the subject and to the speaker. Even in con- 
 versation they are rarely used by persons of po- 
 lite manners, as they not only savour of vulgari- 
 ty, but also breed suspicion of a barren fancy; 
 for he who retails proverbs, gives only what ho 
 has borrowed; that is, what he has heard from 
 others: and borrowing generally implies pov- 
 erty. 
 
 Common forms of compliment, though inno- 
 cent in themselves, and though in society agree- 
 able, because customary, must not appear in ele- 
 gant writing: first, because they are too familiar 
 to the ear, being used on every trivial occasion; 
 and secondly, because they derive their meaning 
 from the manners of particular times and places. 
 How ridiculous would it be, if a translator of Vir- 
 
238 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 gil were to make Eneas introduce himself to 
 Didoj with these words, 
 
 Madam, your majesty beholds in me 
 
 Your most obhged, obedient, humble servant, 
 
 Eneas, prince of Troy! 
 
 A painter, who would represent the interview, 
 might with equal propriety dress the Trojan in 
 a full-bottomed wig, with a hat and feather under 
 his arm, and make him bend his body to the 
 ground in all the formality of a minuet bow. 
 There is great dignity in the complimental ex- 
 pressions of Homer. Priam addresses the most 
 dreadful of all his enemies, by the appellation of 
 " godlike Achilles."* Achilles begins a speech 
 to Ulysses with these words, " () wise Ulysses, 
 " descended from Jove;'* And calls Ajax (who, by 
 the by, had spoken to him with provoking bitter- 
 ness) " divine Ajax, son of Telamon, prince of 
 " the people."* Milton is perhaps still more at- 
 tentive to this decorum; as his persons are of 
 greater dignity than heroes. Adam addresses Eve 
 in these exalted terms. 
 
 Daughter of God and man, accomplish'd Eve — 
 Best image of myself, and dearer half— 
 My fairest, my espoused, my latest found, 
 Heaven's last best gift, my ever nev^r delight — 
 
 * Iliad, xxiv. * Iliad, ix. 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 239 
 
 and Eve's complaisance to her husband is equally- 
 sublime; 
 
 Offspring" of heaven and earth, and all eartli's lord — 
 O thou, ill whom my thoug-hts find all repose. 
 My g-lory, my perfection. 
 
 Such compliments are not made vulgar by com- 
 mon use; and have, besides, a significancy, wliich 
 all the world would acknowledge to be solemn 
 and majestick. 
 
 A third class of expressions, that by their 
 meanness would debase every sort of good wri- 
 tings are those idioms, commoftly called cant; a 
 jargon introduced by ignorant or aficcted persons, 
 and which the most perfect acquaintance with 
 every good author in a language would not en- 
 able one to understand. Their nature may be 
 better known from a few examples, than from a 
 general definition. To say, of a person, whose 
 conversation is tedious, that he is a bore; of a 
 drunk man, that he is inliquor^ that he is*disgmsed, 
 that he is half seas over, that he /las his load, or 
 that he clijis the knig^s English; of one who plays 
 with an intention to lose, that he plays booty; of 
 one, who has nothing to reply, that he is dumb- 
 founded; of a transaction committed to writing, 
 that it is taken down in black and ivhite; of a per- 
 son baffled in any enterprise, that he is beat hoU 
 
240 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 loiv^ that he has received check-mate^ or that he is 
 routed^ horse-) foot^ and dragoons; of one who 
 arrives on the very point of being too late, that he 
 has saved his distance; of one, who has enriched 
 himself by any business, that he has feathered his 
 nest: these, and the like idioms, are all cant: they 
 derive no aiithorily from the analogy or grammar 
 of a language; and polite writers and speakers, 
 unless when they mean to speak or write ludi- 
 crously, avoid them as vulgarities of the lowest 
 order. 
 
 There are some professions, that have a pecu- 
 liar dialect; or certain phrases at least, which are 
 not understood by people of other professions. 
 Thus seamen make use of terms, which none but 
 seamen are acquainted with: and the same thing- 
 is true of architects, painters, musicians, and 
 many other artists. Now, in sublime writings such 
 words are to be avoided; partly, because, being 
 technical, they have something of a vulgar ap- 
 pearance; and chiefly, because to the great part 
 of readers they are unintelligible. That passage 
 of Dryden's Virgil, in which he absurdly imitates 
 the sea dialect, has often been repeated and cen- 
 sured: 
 
 Tack to the larboard, and stand out to sea, 
 Veer starboard sea and land: 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 241 
 
 and is chargeable with something worse than af- 
 fectation; for I am assured by an experienced 
 mariner, that it has no meaning. Milton some- 
 times errs in this way; especially when he alludes 
 to architecture and astronomy. He speaks of cor- 
 nice, freeze, and architra-ve, and of rays culmina- 
 ting from the equator; which is very unsuitable 
 to the heroick style. For, as Addison well ob- 
 serves, " it is one of the greatest beauties of po- 
 '' etry to make hard things intelligible, and to 
 " deliver what is abstruse of itself in such easy 
 " language, as may be understood by ordinary 
 ^' readers. Besides," continues he, " the know- 
 " ledge of a poet should rather seem born with 
 " him, or inspired, than drawn from books and 
 " systems.'* True poetry is addressed to all man- 
 kind; and therefore its ideas are general; and its 
 language ought to be so plain, as that every 
 person acquainted with the poetical dialect may 
 understand it. 
 
 It is scarce necessary to add, that all phrases 
 are mean, which come under the denomination 
 of barbarism, or provincial idiom; because they 
 suggest the ideas of vulgar things, and illiterate 
 persons. Meanness, blended with dignity, is one 
 of those incongruities that provoke laughter. 
 And therefore provincial idioms introduced in a 
 solemn subject would make it, or the author at 
 
 Vol. III. X 
 
24-2 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 least, ridiculous. The speeches, in Ovid, of Ajas 
 and Ulysses contending for the armour of Achil- 
 les, cannot be called sublime; but artful they are, 
 and elegant, in a high degree. That of Ajax has 
 been translated with tolerable exactness into one 
 of the vulgar dialects of North Britain. When 
 we read the original, we are seriously affected: 
 but when we look into the Scotch version, we 
 immediately fall a laughing. I was struck with 
 this, when a schoolboy, but could not at that time 
 account for it. The thoughts were nearly the 
 same in both: what then could make the one 
 solemn, and the other ridiculous? It is the mix- 
 ture of mean words and serious sentiments, and 
 of clownish and heroick manners, contrasted with 
 what we remember of the original, that produces 
 a jumble of discordant ideas; and such a jumble, 
 as may be found in most ludicrous appearances 
 when we analyse them.* 
 
 The last thing I shall mention upon this head, 
 is, that turns of wit have a bad effect in sublime 
 writing: for one does not naturally think of witti- 
 cism, when one is engrossed by any of those 
 grand ideas that raise pleasing astonishment. In 
 fact, sublime poets are seldom, what we call, 
 
 * See an Essay on Laughter and Ludicrous Compo- 
 sition, chap. ii. 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 243 
 
 men of wit: Shakspeare is an exception; but he 
 is a singular one. For wit arises from the disco- 
 very of minute relations and likenesses that had 
 escaped the notice of others; and therefore a 
 talent for it implies a habit of minute attention 
 to circumstances and words: whereas a sublime 
 genius directs his view chiefly to the great and 
 more important phenomena of art and nature. 
 They who excel in epigram have not often pro- 
 duced sublime verses: and lord Chesterfield, who 
 was a man of wit, and an epigrammatist, appears, 
 from his letters, to have had no relish for the 
 sublime poets. 
 
 Let it not be thought, because sublimity is one 
 of the hip;hest virtues of fine writing, that there- 
 fore no composition is excellent but what is sub- 
 lime. A book, that partakes not of this quality at 
 all, may please by its elegance, instruct by its 
 doctrines, or amuse by its wit and humour, and 
 in all, or in any of these respects, be truly valu- 
 able. Rivulets and meadows have their charms, as 
 well as mountains and the ocean. Though Hor- 
 ace had never written any thing but his epistles, 
 in which there is no attempt at sublimity, he 
 must always have been considered as an elegant 
 and instructive poet. 
 
 Nor think, because most of the preceding ex- 
 amples are taken from poetry, that the sublime is 
 
244 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 peculiar to that art. In the orations of Cicero 
 and Demosthenes; in the histories of Herodotus, 
 Thucydides, and Livy; in the moral writings of 
 Addison and Johnson, of Seneca, Plato, and An- 
 toninus; and especially in the doctrinal and histo- 
 rical parts of holy writ, are many instances of 
 the true sublime, both in sentiment and descrip- 
 tion. The same thing may be said of almost 
 every serious author, who composes with ele- 
 gance. 
 
 Most of the writers on this subject have consi- 
 dered our passion for what is great and elevated, 
 as a proof of the dignity of the soul, and of the 
 glorious ends for which it was made. The words 
 of Longinus to this purpose are well translated by 
 Dr. Akenside. " God has not intended man for 
 " an ignoble being; but, bringing us into life, and 
 " the midst of this wide universe, as before a mul- 
 << titude assembled at some heroick solemnity, 
 " that we might be spectators of all his magnifi- 
 " cence and candidates high in emulation for the 
 << prize of glory, has therefore implanted in our 
 " souls an inextinguishable love of every thing 
 <* great and exalted, of every thing which appears 
 " divine beyond our comprehension. Whence it 
 " comes to pass, that even the whole world is not 
 " an object sufficient for the depth and rapidity of 
 " human imagination, which often sallies forth 
 
ON SUBLIMITY. 245 
 
 '• beyond the limits of all that surrounds us. Let 
 '^ any man cast his eye through the ^vhole circle 
 " of our existence, and consider how especially it 
 " abounds with excellent and grand objects, and 
 *' he will soon acknowledge for what enjoyments 
 " and pursuits we are destined." 
 
 These are the sentiments of a pagan philoso- 
 pher. And how noble, (I had almost said, how^^i. 
 divine) must they appear, when compared with 
 the selfish, sensual, and groveling ideas of the 
 Epicurean, or with the narrow views and brutal 
 insensibility of the ancient and modern Pyrrhonist! 
 I must not omit, that Addison has adopted the 
 same turn of thinking: and, enlightened with the 
 knowledge, and warmed with the piety, of a 
 christian, has greatly improved it. " The Su- 
 " preme Being,'* says he, " has so formed the 
 " soul of man, that nothing but Himself can be 
 « its last, adequate, and proper happiness. Be- 
 " cause 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 natu- 
 " rally delight in the apprehension of what is 
 " great and unlimited. Our admiration, which is 
 " a very pleasing emotion of the mind, immedi- 
 " ately rises at the consideration of any object that 
 '♦' takes up a great deal of room in the fancy j and, 
 
246 ILLUSTRATIONS, &c. 
 
 " by consequence, will improve into the highest 
 " pitch of astonishment and devotion, when we 
 " contemplate his nature, who is neither circum- 
 " scribed by time or place, nor to be compre- 
 " hended by the largest capacity of a created 
 <' being.'* 
 
 I shall only add, that our taste for the sublime, 
 cherished into a habit, and directed to proper 
 objects, may, by preserving us from vice, which 
 is the vilest of all things, and by recommending 
 virtue for its intrinsick dignity, be useful in pro- 
 motmg our moral improvement. The same taste 
 will also lead to the study of nature, which every 
 where displays the sublimest appearances. And 
 no study has a better effect upon the heart. For 
 it keeps men at a distance from criminal pur- 
 suits, yields a variety of inoffensive and profita- 
 ble amusement, and gives full demonstration of 
 the infinite goodness and greatness of the ado- 
 rable Creator. 
 
 END OF THE DISSERTATIONS. 
 

 V 
 
 * . H ^ i SV- 
 
 <• V ^ 
 
 
 
 'c^ d- 
 ^<^^ 
 
 .0^: 
 
 
 ..i^-^4* 
 
 J'' •^^. 
 
 ^ 
 
 .O 
 
 
 
 .?<^ 
 
 x^^^. 
 
 
 ^0■ 
 
 %^^ 
 
 A^ ^ 
 
 
 ) M 
 
 oo^ 
 v^^ -^^ 
 
 
 
 'cP .^V 
 
 aV - ^' 
 
 
 -l '7^ 
 
 Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 % '/, ■''■i^" --~ '^ Treatment Date: March 2009 
 
 %' '^''' '^of° PreservationTechnologies 
 
 A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 
 
 111 Thomson Park Drive 
 Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
 (721)779-2111 
 
 
 ^^^"- 
 
 •^^W^ 
 
V -^^ 
 ^ •?=• 
 
 %' 
 
 
 
 'C'^ * 8 I 
 
 \0' 
 
 
 
 "^<.. 
 
 ' -^^ 
 
 ■*"■ > 
 
 
 if-: 
 
 »<!> ^''^ 
 
 ^ ,0- 
 
 %.'* 
 
 '/ C' 
 
 V .\^^.^€^^.._, V 
 
 V^ ^^ 
 
 
 
 
 '>*^' 
 
 -cC 
 
 
 ?• .0 
 
 J,^--^. 
 
 *o5 
 
 
 .V- 
 
 f. 
 
 
 
 
 ♦ %; 
 
 •*b 
 
 0^ 
 
 
 
 
 
 -n^ 
 
 i» (^ 
 
 
 
 
 *^,' 
 
 
 o^ 
 
 '- v''^^'^"- 
 
 
 
 ^'^^ - 
 
 ..V .^^^ 
 
 .^, 
 
 
 
 A*- .% 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 012 609 856 A